Published August 25, 2012
The smell of burnt rubber pollutes the air of downtown Miami. Darkness swims through the sky. Police lights lit up the street like Christmas decorations. In the distance is the faint wine of a siren.
I fling my legs forward, despite my mind telling me to collapse. My heart is slamming against my ribcage. My tongue flops out of my mouth like a stray dog. I reach a corner. I turn so sharply I crash to the ground. Blood pumps through my veins with pressure like a rain tank in a thunderstorm. The air that I breathe is not enough to satisfy my weak struggling lungs.
The sirens became louder. There was no way I could beat a police car on foot, but I still threw myself forward. If I could just get far enough forward to lose them…
I desperately try to brush away the black curtain of hair from my face, now damp with sweat. I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood. I skittered round another bend as I hear the car screech around shortly afterwards. Panic pierces at my stomach. I dare not turn around as I feel it nipping at my heels. Oh god. This can’t be it. It can’t be over. Can it?
I make a rapid decision to dive across the road. I narrowly miss two taxis. The wheezing of my throat is almost louder than the sirens. My legs are now as hard to heave along as led. I see the police car blocked by two colliding trucks. This could be my chance. I scramble up to the gates of an abandoned car yard.
There’s a padlock. My stubby frostbitten fingers fumble at the locks twist. I taste sweat as droplets roll onto my lips. My stomach is twisted tighter than a wrung out towel. I hear a door slam close.
A voice boomed from their mouth,"Put your hands up where I can see them”.
I ignore it. My jumper is now drowned in sweat. I tear at the lock; I kick it with my bare foot. COME ON! I screech. I hear the voices get closer. There's now a tiny crack in the lock. I step backwards and hold up my fist. My teeth grind together. I slam my hand down onto the locks top. My hand instantly starts to swell. I can no longer feel my fingers. The cops are only meters behind me. The padlock hits the ground. Relief comes down on me like fresh rainwater. I propel open the gates and bolt through the peaks of rubble. Panic takes over as tears rim my eyes. I plunge in between two rubbish piles. I dig myself as far as I can into hiding.
Horror burrows into my conscious as I hear an army of footsteps. I grip my eyes close and bit my fist to soften my wheezing. My eyes spring open. A light flickers around the car yard. The harsh shadows outline three men. My heart hammers. I clamp my swelling throat with my hands.
I hear the crumble of debris only a meter away. My body starts to tremble. Please just leave, please just leave. But they don’t. They get closer. I feel the heat of the torch on my skin. I hear their mutters. Their breath tingle’s the back of my neck.
I slowly uncurl myself. I stretch upwards like a puppet on strings. My legs are apart, eyes wide and vigilant. I stare at the cops only a meter away from me. All I see are guns pointing right to my head. Just a tiny finger movement and I would be dead. The start to creep forward…
“Stop right there!” I screech, voice cracking as I seize a gun from my pocket.
They stop but don’t back away.
The main officer lowers his gun and steps forward into the light of the streetlamp. I instantly recognize him. Greasy hair, hundred dollar teeth. Bags under his eye like some sick clown.
“You can’t win this battle. Just put the gun down Vanessa.”
“I’d rather die than listen to you!”
“I’m here to help yo-“
“You killed my father.”
“Your father was a murderer.”
“He was framed.”
“He killed people, Vanessa.”
“So did you.”
The officer showed signs of guilt in his grey sad eyes. But it was all part of an act. I’d seen it before. If only he didn’t have a loaded weapon in his hand. I would have strangled his puny throat.
“Look, Vanessa if you just cooperate we’ll lay off the charges, alright?”
“You should be the one with charges you bloodsucking cold hearted murderer.”
I see one of the backup officers mumble something into his transmitter radio.
“It’s my job.” stated the main officer.
I took a stride towards him and shakily raised my gun to his head. I hear a shot fire from a backup officer. I see them racing towards me. They’re all shouting, more police cars flood the street. I don’t flinch. He has a smirk across his face. He really thought I was bluffing.
Just a tiny finger movement was all it took.
Points:
Time spent:
IP address:
Canary word: Present
Possible AI signals:
Original Text:
Are you sure you want to delete this comment? This cannot be undone.
Mark this comment as a review? Points will be awarded to the poster.
Your comment was posted, but it wasn’t long enough to count as a review. Reviews need about four complete sentences (at least 250 characters). Try writing another review that explains your thoughts in more detail — the author will appreciate it, and you’ll earn points for it.
141,249 Literary Works • 674,329 Reviews
Hey! Nice piece. It was very fast paced without being to fast. But I didn't get the conflict between the police and Vanessa. I think if you added more detail and dialogue between the police officer to explain why she's being chased. What are the charges, and who's her dad and why was the police officer talking about him? The parts about her father and the Vanessa's charges are really unclear. If you would clear it up, it would be really great!
~SB
Good evening.
The first person point of view is a curious thing, did you know? It offers plenty of rewards for the readers, but demands the world of the writer. Yes, it offers more proximity and emotion than the third person point of view could normally provide. Yes, it allows the reader much greater insight into the character's train of thought and has the ability to turn even the most unlikable of characters sympathetic (which, if I'm right, is why you chose to use the first person her?).
However, it's also a tricky thing to handle, and you committed a few common mistakes. The first and most noticeable is the lack of variation in your sentence structures. Your sentences often begin with I, and when they don't, they're essentially the same sentence, only with different words.
(noun) (verb). (noun) (verb). Rinse and repeat.
It's important to remember to vary your sentence structures, and most importantly, the lengths of your sentences. This keeps the story from becoming monotonous. Choppy sentences are well and all for a short action sequence, but once you sustain the style for more than a few paragraphs...Well, it's no longer as fun.
When you find yourself starting a sentence with "I", pause and think of another way to phrase it. Don't strain yourself, though - if you can't find any way to start the sentence with a word other than "I" without making it sound out of character, then by all means start with "I".
That brings me to another point - character. Or rather, the lack of it. This is first person. First person means the character's personality ought to bleed through every single sentence in the entire narrative. It doesn't matter what the character is talking about - her biases, limitations, beliefs, and outlooks should color each word.
Many novels are written in first person. Not all of them are remembered. Only the strongest, most memorable personalities remain with the readers. When someone picks up your novel and reads the first page, sees that it's in first person, show them your character is different from other narrators. Prove to the reader the character is interesting enough to stay with for an entire novel - this is someone the reader is going to devote hours to, the person in whose mind the reader will reside for the duration of the novel. Is your character interesting enough for the reader to want to spend time with her? Yes? Then show me.
Speaking of showing, here's one more thing I found distracting. You're showing - that's a good thing. However, the way you show things is too heavy-handed, much too heavy-handed for a first person narrative. Would your character notice all these things, given she's running for her life? Would she really think the police cars' lights resembled Christmas lights while she ran?
No? I didn't think so either. Remember, the difficulty of first person lies in the way it restricts you, the writer, from using language you'd normally use. In order to effectively use the first person narrative, you'd have to give in to the demands of your character's personality. Use her words; show her thoughts. Not your own. There can be no comments from the author, because no matter how beautifully constructed the imagery the sentence provides, if it doesn't come from the character's own mouth, it's liable to cause the collapse of the reader's suspension of disbelief.
Remember: both you and your reader are locked inside your main character's mind now. Every word you write, everything you see is on her terms.
Your characters also seem paper-thin right now, but that shouldn't be a problem, aside from the main character. After all, most of them only have a brief appearance in this chapter Focus on building her personality from the start. It shouldn't be difficult, if you remember what I pointed out above. All the words are hers. Technically, you're the writer, but in this story, she's supposed to be the one writing. Thus, every single sentence would contribute more to the readers' insight to her personality.
One last thing: it's good to start with conflict, but such a strong conflict almost makes your character feel unrelatable. The stakes are probably high, but the reader cares little for them at this point. We don't particularly care about Vanessa yet. Perhaps start at an earlier point and leave this scene for later, when we have more emotions invested in the story? Just a thought. Others might like this sort of action in the beginning.