z

Young Writers Society


First Paragraph Feedback



User avatar
210 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 6040
Reviews: 210
Tue Apr 10, 2007 12:23 am
Meep says...



It's sort of rambeling and really confusing. It's difficult to even fully grasp what's going on. I doubt I'd read it. (I like the reference to the number 42, however. Classy.)

Ian jerked awake. He didn't dare to move. It was difficult for him to see by only the dim light of the streetlamp outside filtering through his curtains. He broke out in a cold sweat and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Over the sound of his racing heart, he caught the faint sounds of someone rustling through his things. Without his glasses, Ian could only see a vague outline of the intruder. He lay perfectly still, praying that he was dreaming. A pinch on his arm proved otherwise. The stranger came closer and Ian squinted, trying to get a better look. It took him several moments to realize what he was seeing: his wallpaper was clearly visible through the torso of the small young man standing in over his bed. Ian relaxed. Just a ghost, he told himself. Why do they always have to come at three in the morning? Don't they know that my whole life is not dedicated to helping the dead move on? Why can't I have normal visitors, at normal hours?
✖ I'm sick, you're tired. Let's dance.
  





Random avatar


Gender: Female
Points: 890
Reviews: 61
Sat Apr 14, 2007 3:13 am
BrokenSword says...



Sounds very interesting. I want to know more about the ghostly visitors that Ian seems to have often. I would probably put descriptions of the bedroom in, though. Maybe the stuffiness or the smallness of it, to help create a greater sense of panic and claustrophobia.


“Good morning, Mr. Braxton…I hope your trip was pleasant. The weather has been quite dreadful as of late, I'm afraid.”
With a smile on her pale, rounded face, the maid stood back in the doorway to let the caller into the Hartwell residence. The visitor's cloak was spattered with rain, the fur collar glistening and shivering with crystal droplets. He removed his hat, brushing his hand over smooth ebony hair to ensure that it was not mussed. His dry lips rose in a grin.
“My trip was quite pleasant, Madame," he replied in a voice of cool, dark silk. You needn’t worry about that. If you don’t mind my asking, is Mr. Hartwell home?”
“Indeed, yes he is, sir,” the maid replied quickly, taking Mr. Braxton’s hat and cloak from him, tucking the items under her arm. “He’s in the drawing room with Miss Madeline. I’ll take you to him.”
  





User avatar
2058 Reviews



Gender: Male
Points: 32885
Reviews: 2058
Sat Apr 14, 2007 3:36 am
Emerson says...



Well, I'll say, I loved the voice, perfect. But it felt like the middle of the story, rather than a beginning. No real conflict, just pulling you into a scene. I think if you brought in conflict, or interest, rather than a scene it would be better. But it was well written =D

Vadoma tried to ignore that they were staring at her.

"You have gone mad, haven't you?" An actor from the far left spoke up. "We aren't letting a
freak take the stage in our theatre."

She blushed. Of course she wasn't the well trained contortionist; she was the freak, the side show act. Not on actress. A freak.
“It's necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo
  





Random avatar


Gender: Female
Points: 890
Reviews: 61
Fri Apr 27, 2007 3:58 am
BrokenSword says...



It's good; but for some reason, it sounds a little empty, and I feel somewhat lost when I read it, like something else happened right before that that I needed to know. Nevertheless, it sounds really interesting.

"Where are you going?”

Caullen’s cold, suspicious voice came slithering around the corner and into the bedroom, rudely invading Laura’s small moment of privacy. Only half in her dress, she pressed the bodice to her thinly veiled breasts, as if she were afraid Caullen’s voice was peering through the keyhole at her.
  





User avatar
1176 Reviews

Supporter


Gender: Female
Points: 1979
Reviews: 1176
Fri Apr 27, 2007 3:16 pm
Twit says...



It sounds like it's going to be a story about abuse, all sorts of nasty things happening. Not my kind of thing, sorry.

The garden was so bright, full of splashes of colour, as though a mad artist had been let loose with his paints and slapped his brush on everything in sight. Soft-winged butterflies in pastel shades of blue and yellow fluttered about the plants like delicate ladies in ballroom finery, engaged in an whirling, airy dance of their own; a few midges wended their annoying way across the garden, and hoverflies darted from one bright spot of colour to another, undecided where to land. The majority of the insect population in the garden, however, was made up of bees. Honey bees with soft thoraxes and transparent, veined wings, busily working, carrying their burdens of pollen on their legs to and fro about the flowers.
"TV makes sense. It has logic, structure, rules, and likeable leading men. In life, we have this."


#TNT
  





User avatar
701 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 10087
Reviews: 701
Mon Apr 30, 2007 4:32 am
bubblewrapped says...



I like it - lovely descriptions. But ... I dont know. By this point, I'm skipping lines, wondering why I should be interested and when it's going to get to the good part.

She saw him first as a shadow between buildings, like a ghost. Returning home from a visit to her sisters’, she caught the movement of his feet out of the corner of her eye as he shifted his weight from side to side. It was late. She was alone. The sight of someone lingering in an alley should have inspired fear, but Jenny nevertheless slowed her footsteps and peered into the passageway, straining for a glimpse of the stranger.
Got a poem or short story you want me to critique?

There is only one success: to be able to spend your life in your own way, and not to give others absurd maddening claims upon it. (C D Morley)
  





Random avatar


Gender: Female
Points: 890
Reviews: 61
Sun May 20, 2007 6:39 am
BrokenSword says...



It's tense, and I like it, but it's also a little too much info at once. I would prefer having her just watching the stranger at that very moment, rather than looking back at what had just happened before that (you could put that a little later, perhaps.)

Where is he?

Nasser let out an exasperated sigh between his lips and shut his eyes, passing his hand over his bronzed face and toying with his waxed mustache. The Trapdoor Lover was scheduled to be here at precisely two o' clock, but it was already one and a half minutes past the hour with no sign of the entertainer. Nasser shifted his eyes over to the exasperated princess sitting on the daybed to his left and gave her a hopeful smile.

"Trust me, my dear...the wait is worth it."
  





User avatar
1176 Reviews

Supporter


Gender: Female
Points: 1979
Reviews: 1176
Mon Jul 09, 2007 7:48 pm
Twit says...



Sounds good, and I'd read on to read find out about the princess and this entertainer and Nasser.

And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? John 9:2

The day the elephants paraded in the streets of Leicester, a new page was written in the medical and history books. Over a hundred years after one elephant lifted one massive foot and set it down on the street, men would remember what happened in that moment - or what was thought to have happened in that moment.
"TV makes sense. It has logic, structure, rules, and likeable leading men. In life, we have this."


#TNT
  





User avatar
11 Reviews



Gender: Male
Points: 890
Reviews: 11
Fri Jul 27, 2007 11:52 am
norm91 says...



It's interesting, I don't really have a clue what's going on... I'd read on to find out. Good work.

Here goes mine, it's a paragraph and a half.

In the crowded, yet apprehensively quiet, room, two figures emerged from the murky shadows of the, dimly lit, narrow, hallway. Simultaneously, the entire room, which stood to attention as a mark of respect for their superiors, began to give them rapturous applause and chanting ‘Zareos for life’. The tallest of the pair gave acknowledgement to the huddled masses by raising his emaciated arms high into the air. Quiet washed over the room once again as everyone returned to their seats. Then, the smaller more dignified man dressed in splendid red, silk, robes spoke.

“Today,” he cleared his throat, ensuring he had the attention of everyone in the room, he need not have worried - they were all engrossed, awaiting his words with baited breath. “We, of the Zareos army, have claimed victory against the impure, putrid scum, which has long mocked our proud race. They shall pay for their insolence!"
My upcoming novel/short story...

"Regrets" (Working title)

A man who keeps one eye on the past may learn from his mistakes, but a man who keeps both eyes directed to the past is blind.
  





User avatar
2058 Reviews



Gender: Male
Points: 32885
Reviews: 2058
Tue Jul 31, 2007 10:49 pm
Emerson says...



Oh, I expect some loud roaring and giant men in loin clothes to be screaming while hacking people up. In other words, I am reminded of 300, haha. I probably wouldn't read more, it wasn't very captivating really. It put you in the scene, but I didn't care very much... It seemed like a lot all it once, in some way.

Lyov Ippolitovich disliked his shackles, he disliked the way the cart smelled like animals, and he especially disliked that, upon walking into the cart, he had stepped into animal droppings.

“I didn’t do it,” Lyov mumbled to the driver, who could be seen through the slates of the window.

“Of course you didn’t, but I’m just the driver. You should tell that to the man at the scaffold.”
“It's necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo
  





User avatar
1258 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 6090
Reviews: 1258
Tue Jul 31, 2007 10:57 pm
Sam says...



ZOMG, Russians and hangings. I personally think it should be a listing of three unrelated unpleasant things at the beginning; but that's a trifle compared to how yummy the rest of it is. I'd read it. Though I think the name is Lvov? Lyov's more English-friendly, though.

They had been doing watercolors in class the day Mr. Gibbons had tapped her shoulder, holding up her last painting- a still life. Flowers. Purples and blues, reds and yellows, blended in what she thought to be an aesthetically pleasing way.

She had been standing at the sink, actually, washing her brushes, feeling her fingers begin to go numb under the hot water. And in his horribly cocky, annoying way, he had tapped his foot and held the picture up like someone else’s Kleenex and uttered the simple line:
Shock me.
Graffiti is the most passionate form of literature there is.

- Demetri Martin
  





User avatar
459 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 10092
Reviews: 459
Tue Jul 31, 2007 11:07 pm
Poor Imp says...



Ah, I like it Sam - it's final two words are enough to make one want to keep on. The length of the sentences, in the final bit, where one ends on the fullstop, yet keeps going through the conjunction and gives it an understated tone. It feels like the character, you know. ^_^


(And to Clau: Er, yes - Lvov? But Russian and hanging - brilliant, naturally. ^_^)

--



He wandered the beach, searching or waiting, wandered and listened to the mourning breeze off the sea. Words, he sometimes thought, mingled in the air. A coursing rill of chattering laughter with the rasp of the sea; song – oh, only a moment. With his hands, he fingered the air, striking silent strings and he thought the twang between the surf a sunken lyre and long-dead melody.
ex umbris et imaginibus in veritatem

"There is adventure in simply being among those we love, and among the things we love -- and beauty, too."
-Lloyd Alexander
  





User avatar
1258 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 6090
Reviews: 1258
Sat Aug 11, 2007 9:12 pm
Sam says...



Very melancholy- which is something I absolutely adore, paired with the dreamlike way it's told. Even if it turned out to be no more than a person dithering about on a beach for the rest of the book, I'd read it merely for the mystery and the poetry.

It was a Tuesday when he pulled the body from Widow Rotham’s hearth, laying it to rest in the corner of her kitchen, next to the stove.

“Oh, dear,” she’d said, covering her lips with a handkerchief. “It’s a shame."
Graffiti is the most passionate form of literature there is.

- Demetri Martin
  





User avatar
447 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 2340
Reviews: 447
Sat Aug 11, 2007 9:20 pm
Duskglimmer says...



Well, my curiousity has been peaked. Who's body is it and who are "he" and "she"? I'd read on.


She was quiet when Danic pulled her aboard, staring wide-eyed and fearful into the faces of the waiting seamen. Barely a year old, she clung to the boy’s chest even as waiting hands offered to take her. She’d known the boy scant minutes longer than the others, but he had been the one to pull her out of the flat-bottomed lifeboat that had kept her safe so far and so he became the next raft that she depended on.
The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief. ~William Shakespeare, Othello
Boo. SPEW is watching.
  





User avatar
20 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 890
Reviews: 20
Sun Aug 12, 2007 1:31 pm
Samara says...



its very good, it made me curious. but the last sentence was a bit of a run-on.


I was fifteen again, and Dad and I were bouncing along the back roads to the beach in our puke-green Suburban. He was yawning beside me in the passenger seat, blinking furiously and running his fingers through mocha-colored hair. My loose ponytail was a few shades darker, shot through with bold streaks of blond and red. I liked bold colors back then. Black and navy and maroon – hardcore colors; full of vitality and mystery and a kick like a spoonful of Tabasco. Things had changed.
"I can't stand him. His ego is splattered all over that screen and it's making me nauseous."
~Me referring to Ashton Kutcher.

"I think the dragon should eat him."
~My boyfriend referring to Eragon
  








Meatball, meatball, spaghetti underneath; ravioli, ravioli, great barrier reef!
— Spongebob