Thanks ,I originally wrote the story with a male protagonist, but it didn't sell so I changed genders. It's got a little ghost story, a little mystery, and hopefully some suspense.
I heard you were chased by a bully at school today, but I can see by your smile that he didn't catch you. Well, come here and sit down on the front porch swing by Grandma and I’ll tell you about the meanest bully there ever was. George, be a good grandpa and get us girls some lemonade, and be sure to put some additive in mine.
I heard you were chased by a bully at school today, but I can see by your smile that he didn't catch you. Well, come here and sit down on the front porch swing by Grandma and I’ll tell you about the meanest bully there ever was. George, be a good grandpa and get us girls some lemonade, and be sure to put some additive in mine.
Short-
Sam opened his eyes, blinking away the brightness. The room around him came into focus, revealing the interior of a quaint country cottage, the kind you’d see perfectly manicured for a magazine still. He did not recognize it.
I’m having a hard time picturing the kind of perfectly manicured cottage normally seen in a magazine still, so that type of description doesn’t do anything to draw me into the story or paint a scene of where your PoV is.
Maybe the story should start somewhere a little more intriguing? Right now, the three lines, one in which the PoV opens his eyes, the second of a nondescript image, the third of a recognition, isn’t enough to draw me in as a reader.
Short-
Sam opened his eyes, blinking away the brightness. The room around him came into focus, revealing the interior of a quaint country cottage, the kind you’d see perfectly manicured for a magazine still. He did not recognize it.
Here's the first three lines of a short story I'm editing right now. Thank you for reading!
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I am on a small luxury spacecraft orbiting my home world, Tenaris, surrounded by my family, a couple of officiants, and some members of the press. I clutch a flute of Nyrondian bubble wine with one hand while the other rests atop the control panel that has just activated my best and final art installation. My life’s work.
Tickled my curiosity enough to make me want to read more to see where this is going, like has Sam been kidnapped, has he injured himself and been brought here by a rescuer, or what. Curiosity is good.Sam opened his eyes, blinking away the brightness. The room around him came into focus, revealing the interior of a quaint country cottage, the kind you’d see perfectly manicured for a magazine still. He did not recognize it.
I'm also curious about this one, what can his life's achievement be? And who is this person, who has attracted such attention. I'd read on to find out.I am on a small luxury spacecraft orbiting my home world, Tenaris, surrounded by my family, a couple of officiants, and some members of the press. I clutch a flute of Nyrondian bubble wine with one hand while the other rests atop the control panel that has just activated my best and final art installation. My life’s work.
I liked that, would read on.The day Merlin first saw Nyneve, he saw his own end. Her gaze felt like a blast of frigid wind, piercing through him. In her eyes, he watched vines of lilac and foxglove wrap around his sleeping form and drag him into the earth.
The day Merlin first saw Nyneve, he saw his own end. Her gaze felt like a blast of frigid wind, piercing through him. In her eyes, he watched vines of lilac and foxglove wrap around his sleeping form and drag him into the earth.
I might read on a bit, although this feels just a bit overwritten to me and every sentence is about seeing or gazes or eyes. I wonder if there's any way to break up that monotony.
My other issue is that neither lilac nor foxglove produce vines (one's a shrub and the other's a biennial plant), so that error pulled me out of the narrative just as I was being caught up in it.
The day Merlin first saw Nyneve, he saw his own end. Her gaze felt like a blast of frigid wind, piercing through him. In her eyes, he watched vines of lilac and foxglove wrap around his sleeping form and drag him into the earth.
The day Merlin first saw Nyneve, he saw his own end. Her gaze felt like a blast of frigid wind, piercing through him. In her eyes, he watched vines of lilac and foxglove wrap around his sleeping form and drag him into the earth.
If you'd ask meforhow long I've been here, my best guess would be around fourteen days. I tried to keep track in the beginning, but it was hard to know whether I started counting at day one or day three or day 255, since I didn't knowforhow long I had been unconscious. I just decided to start at one.
The knife, ever so swift to deliver such a clean cut, dripped warm with the blood of the man and woman who were parents to the now orphaned child. This particular night was cold, the kind of night where one would walk down an empty street filled with broken glass and shadows cast by the buzzing light above as it flickered towards death's precipice, as if to reflect the night itself. These distinct shadows homed the reverence of the reaper himself, siphoning the calamitous souls in a Caulfieldian essence.
If you'd ask me for how long I've been here, my best guess would be around fourteen days. I tried to keep track in the beginning, but it was hard to know whether I started counting at day one or day three or day 255, since I didn't know for how long I had been unconscious. I just decided to start at one.
The knife, ever so swift to deliver such a clean cut, dripped warm with the blood of the man and woman who were parents to the now orphaned child. This particular night was cold, the kind of night where one would walk down an empty street filled with broken glass and shadows cast by the buzzing light above as it flickered towards deaths precipice, as if to reflect the night itself. These distinct shadows homed the reverence of the reaper himself, siphoning the calamitous souls in a Caulfieldian essence.
The knife, ever so swift to deliver such a clean cut, dripped warm with the blood of the man and woman who were parents to the now orphaned child. This particular night was cold, the kind of night where one would walk down an empty street filled with broken glass and shadows cast by the buzzing light above as it flickered towards deaths precipice, as if to reflect the night itself. These distinct shadows homed the reverence of the reaper himself, siphoning the calamitous souls in a Caulfieldian essence.