Hi there!
While I really enjoyed this story, I think it may be more of an action/adventure type story than other fiction. That said, I'll leave that up to the mods
Normally I don't critique this way, but there are quite a few grammatical and mechanical errors that I'd like to point out, since this piece would be much stronger without them.
Corrections are in bold red.
Jean Pierre was standing#FF0000 ">, hands #FF0000 ">deep in his expensive French coat. He was staring down at the latest murder victim in in a string of prolific killings in the ghettos of LA. A grim faced inspector walked into the small dark room at an abandoned eatery #FF0000 ">What? I thought you just said he was in the ghettos? just out of town. The inspector whose name was Clive Daily #FF0000 ">you could just say, "Inspector Clive Daily" you know.and who was on the verge of a nervous breakdown,#FF0000 ">this is pure telling. Why do we need to know this? SHOW us that he's on the verge of a nervous breakdown using his body language. said in a deep voice “this is the#FF0000 ">no paragraph break here.fifth killing we’ve had in the space of two weeks#FF0000 ">.” Jean Pierre didn’t answer#FF0000 ">run-on sentence here. This should be two sentences, as in, "Pierre didn't answer, staring at the body of the young woman lying at his feet. he just stood staring at the body of a young woman who had been identified as Margaret O’ Dells.
Her once beautiful dress was ripped and dirty with own blood, #FF0000 ">run-on again here. I've noticed this a lot. Try reading the entire sentence out-loud without pausing. It's quite a mouthful, isn't it?he moved his stone blue eyes from her dress to her hands. He noted that no jewellery was stolen. This wasn’t about money. He then looked at her neck there were a series of neat stabs wounds situated around her jugular. Finally he raised his eyes to her face to see a look of surprise and horror on her once pretty face. There was a small cut on her left eye lid, #FF0000 ">and consequently her eye was obliterated#FF0000 ">. #FF0000 ">White fluid from the burst eyed had trickled down her cheek#FF0000 ">, making it look as if she was shedding a very peculiar tear. The fluid had then congealed on her chin.
Upon further study he noticed a scrap of rolled up paper stuck up Margaret’s nose. #FF0000 ">Reaching down, (this isn't necessary--I was just trying to avoid starting all sentences with "He" or "Pierre")Pierre carefully removed the scrap of paper and rolled it open. He raised the small paper to his face #FF0000 ">to read the small neat script #FF0000 ">written there“117 Hemingford way LA” below this it read: “Hive up Pierre#FF0000 ">, I’m like a black cat in the dark invisible to all#FF0000 ">. [run-on again] #FF0000 ">Dapple in further in my affairs and I WILL come after YOU. Oh#FF0000 ">, by the way#FF0000 ">, once you have picked up this note from dear old Margaret’s nose#FF0000 ">, I shall no doubt have killed again. Better get on the phone to the cops and get some officers over to the address. Happy hunting and #FF0000 ">bon voyage”
Jean read and re read the note. He came to a quick conclusion that he wasn’t getting anywhere by reading the note. Only a headache.
“#FF0000 ">Get on the phone to the police department immediately!” Pierre screamed #FF0000 ">[Is he really screaming? Consider your word choice. “ Tell em’ to get to 117 Hemingford way#FF0000 ">. There may be another murder victim there” Pierre added. The portly#FF0000 ">, yet well mannered inspector agreed#FF0000 ">, and was on the phone as quick as a bolt of lightning.#FF0000 ">[I doubt it was THAT fast. Another metaphor would be better, methinks.
“Ok” Clive said. And he walked out the front door not before having a precognition of Pierre being stabbed to death.#FF0000 ">[Don't like this at all. Makes it waaay too obvious.] He shook the idea away and continued to his car. Pierre watched Clive into#FF0000 ">[Until?] he was swallowed by the darkness where #FF0000 ">no doubt the killer known as “the Scribe” because of the notes he leaves at all of the crime scenes#FF0000 ">, would be waiting for his next victim to mutilate. #FF0000 ">[this seems almost like an afterthought. Maybe have Pierre say something like, "The scribe again!" early on, so as not to surprise the reader with the title?]
Pierre trudged around the body#FF0000 ">, his well-trained eyes searching for any detail. In seconds he spied the bloody footprints, leading into the kitchen of the eatery. He followed the prints to a cupboard. He #FF0000 ">had already concluded #FF0000 ">that the killer wanted him#FF0000 ">, and only him#FF0000 ">, to find this#FF0000 ">. It hadn't been simple carelessness.The Scribe was a neat freak, #FF0000 ">and not one likely to leave any evidence other than what he wanted Pierre to find. Pierre #BF0000 ">took a few moments to draw in his composure . He opened the door to reveal a message written in blood#FF0000 ">. [run-on again] Pierre had made the sudden assumption that the message had been spayed on using a spray painter but it was definitely not red paint. The message read “Respecter l’ honneur du courage” Pierre’s eyes widened to the size of billiard balls as he read the message on the wall. Blood had dripped down and made the words that more sinister#FF0000 ">.
For the first time in maybe ten years he thought about his police academy years and the school’s motto#FF0000 ">: “respecter l’honneur du courage#FF0000 ">.”
#FF0000 ">His phone sprang into life#FF0000 ">, playing “oh what a wonderful world#FF0000 ">." Quickly pressing the call button, he brought the phone to his ear. "Hello?" he whispered. The shadows seemed to creep in closer as if to eavesdrop of the conversation. "Listen, Jean, we've got a double homicide here at 117 Hemingford way." Sounding flustered, Clive continued, "There's blood everywhere. Man, I don't know what to do... Oh crap Jean, get the hell out of there right now! There's a message..." Clive was cut off as a beep resounded through the silence. Looking down at the phone, Pierre saw the small "low battery" light flashing.
A hint of terror crept into Pierre’s mind#FF0000 ">, and his heart #FF0000 ">seemed to double its speed as if he had run a mile. He suddenly had the urge to run out of the eatery into the night screaming like a mad man. The urge passed#FF0000 ">, [I love this bit.] but the terror did not. It pounded into his head like a wooden stake#FF0000 ">Ease off on the metaphors here. They aren't really needed. In this part I would go for punchy action.. He made to leave quickly but trying to remain composed. Pierre then heard a eerily familiar chuckle coming from the front door. The#FF0000 ">n boots on wooden floor#FF0000 "> coming towards him. “#FF0000 ">S-s-stop right there#FF0000 ">,” Pierre stammered. But he couldn’t conceal the tremor or desperation which was in his voice. He had his weapon drawn but it was like a dead weight in his hand. he terrible trouble just keeping it up. Never mind keeping steady. #FF0000 ">Isn't he a police officer? Why so scared? He's probably seen some pretty scary stuff in his time.
A dark shape was now at the door to the kitchen, the shadows concealed his face. But Pierre could see raggedy clothes. This man has been living rough for some time he concluded. Pierre stood on legs that could hardly support him. The silence was broken by even more familiar voice to go with the chuckle. A memory flashed over his mind. The memory was of him and his best mate Marcel le’ Flores, playing a game of pool back at the police academy in France. He was brought back to reality by the man speaking in a French accent. “Jean Pierre my it has been a long time, too long indeed, Jeez the last time I saw you-you were cheating with my own wife!!” spittle flew from his mouth and landed on the floor. “You took the credit for my hard work on “The Poet#FF0000 ">.” I brought him to justice not you! We were friends Jean#FF0000 ">, but now that’s all changed” Marcel shouted and a solitary finger shot out of the darkness and pointed at Jean in the accusing gesture.
“Hey listen Marcel we can talk, we can talk, we can forget about our differences mate#FF0000 ">,” Pierre said in his persuasive tone. “No, no and no#FF0000 ">. It's too late now, Jean." As he stpped out of the shadows, Pierre made out his eyes for the first time. Bloodshot and full of crazed anger and hatred, they had sunk deep into his pallid face.Pierre tried to gulp. When he did there was a dry click in his throat. Pierre now staring into his former friends eyes deduced that he wasn’t getting out here alive.
Marcel le’ Flores brought a knife out of his pocket. He noticed with some dread that the transcript: Respecter l’ Honnuer du courage” “No please” Jean said and those were last words he ever uttered. “I will have my revenge finally” Marcel screeched and charged with the knife firmly gripped in his left hand. In a matter of seconds the distance between the two foes had been closed. Marcel drove the knife deep and hard into Jean’s fragile eye. Blood spurted over Marcel’s face. It looked like some kind of exotic war paint. Marcel#BF0000 ">, now fully enraged#FF0000 ">, stabbed Jean in the other eye and finally the heart. That one killed him but Marcel was not finished yet. He gracefully cut off Jean’s nose as if it was a soft butter. It landed with a dull thud on the kitchen floor.
Jean Pierre lay dead on the grubby kitchen floor. His murderer Marcel sat slumped over Jean. A few tears slid down Marcel’s cheek and landed Pierre’s chest. The rage now had disappeared into nothingness and now Marcel was just another man going into his fifties. Contemplating suicide Marcel got the knife had with much effort etched “Honour” into Jean’s forehead. Marcel now got up dusted him self off. He spied the gun the death giver as he said back at the academy in better and easier times.
He now lifted the muzzle to his eye and stared into another eye. The eye of death. Now we leave this small dark eatery. As we walk out the front door we hear a loud gunshot then a splat sound, as no doubt Marcel’s brains collide with the kitchen walls.#FF0000 ">[Not sure I like this sudden, abrupt change to second person. I think this would be much more powerful if you kept it in third.Also, the whole thing has a very somber mood, which is slightly spoiled when you mention brains splatting on a wall, which feels almost humorous to me.
We hear police sirens in the distance. We sigh, a we know what they shall find in the kitchen.
The next day Clive Daily quit police work. He couldn’t get the word “Honour” out of his head. Poor old ex detective Jean Pierre couldn’t get the word out of his forehead.
The end.
Ok, that's done. Here are my overall comments:
1: Proofread, proofread, proofread. This is full of unnecessary, easy-to-catch errors. I say this a lot, but try reading it aloud. It helps to catch things, especially run-on sentences,which I saw a lot of.
2: Avoid starting every sentence with "Pierre" or "He." This DOES NOT mean to do the opposite, contorting sentences to avoid this, ending up sounding like Yoda.
3: I really, really, like this story. It needs polishing, but so does everything. It feels very Sherlock-Holmesy, despite being set in the U.S. at a much later date. This is both a good and a bad thing, since the style works well but I didn't get much feel for the surroundings.
4: Character. There is very little of this in this piece, which is definitely something for you to work on, especially since there aren't very many characters.
That said, this is getting to be a very very long review, so I'll stop now. I wish you good luck with your writing and would also like to say again how much I liked this piece.
If you need a review, PM me! I like your writing style.
See you around,
Lupis
Points: 7715
Reviews: 522
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