NEW - Nominate Your First Page for a Critique on the Blog

Offer up your page (or query) for Nathan's critique on the blog.
metalsatsuma12
Posts: 1
Joined: May 16th, 2017, 4:18 pm
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Re: NEW - Nominate Your First Page for a Critique on the Blog

Post by metalsatsuma12 » May 16th, 2017, 4:35 pm

Title: Pelligri and The Sunflower Master
Genre: Fantasy

First 250 words:

The cliff drew him like a lover. Pelligri whistled; the shrill echo knocked down the chasm causing rocks to crash below into hard stone. His ears rang and his face shone with a grin through wrapping fog. The chittering of night birds gusted back upwards toward him. It felt like home, as if the winds wrapped him in old songs. Warm and inviting him into its depth, desiring to enfold him forever. Part of him wanted to jump in and feel the embrace.

“You act as if you don’t fear the Shadowdeep.” He heard Alastor whisper words, misting the back of his neck.

He startled. Alastor’s stealth no longer shocked him into leaping out of his skin, but it still caught him off guard. Composing himself, he replied, “Afraid? I can’t see anything.”

Alastor released a snort in response, a heady sound as if made from a horse’s nostril. “Blind or not, have sense boy. You know what this place is, rotted darkness on the brightest day.”

“Not that I could tell,” Pelligri sighed. He knew the words were childish, not appropriate for his sixteen years, but with the dejection he felt, they poured out of his mouth like wasted wine.

“That’ll be changed soon and you know it!” Alastor snapped.

Pelligri swallowed. His master’s words stung and he remembered why they’d come. “You don’t have to do this, Master Alastor,” Pelligri pleaded, his voice weighed with guilt.

HMCWrites
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Joined: May 16th, 2017, 4:34 pm
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Re: NEW - Nominate Your First Page for a Critique on the Blog

Post by HMCWrites » May 16th, 2017, 4:44 pm

Title: THE SHAPE OF HER HANDS
Genre: Upper MG Thriller with Magical Realism

First 250:
Rosemary shouldered open the heavy steel door and escaped the dull school hallway, slipping into a lemon bright slice of daylight. Heat shimmered in waves above the crispy green-brown lawn, mingling with exhaust from a line of waiting yellow buses. Rose snatched an elastic off her wrist and twisted her thick hair up into a knot, exhaling as a slight breeze cooled her neck and back. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sky, letting the sun loosen the tight coils of sadness in her chest and smooth out the waxy hardness in her palms.

She scanned the throng of students as they jostled each other, streaming around her out of Loon Lake Middle School. A group of bottle-flippers clogged traffic at the foot of the pitted concrete stairs, earning themselves both complaints and compliments. A heap of coats and sweaters lay at the edge of the sidewalk, their owners throwing a football.
Rosemary couldn’t remember the name of the girl she was supposed to meet, but she recognized her blonde head bobbing down the sidewalk toward the bus line. She pushed through a clump of violin-carrying 8th graders and hollered.

“Hey!”

The girl didn’t respond.

Rose freed herself from the crowd and jogged closer. “I’m here!”

Finally the girl turned around, saw Rose, and smiled. “Oh, hey! I was hoping you wouldn’t forget.”

knowledgeable
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Joined: April 23rd, 2017, 4:49 pm
Location: Lisle, IL
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Re: NEW - Nominate Your First Page for a Critique on the Blog

Post by knowledgeable » May 19th, 2017, 5:55 pm

Title: The Musician
Genre: Literary Fiction
Aaron opened his eyes, but he could only see dark. Small spots of cold—snow—pelted his face. Pain shot though his ribs. He tried to suck in air, but his chest—something pushed on his chest. Huge. Heavy. Immovable.
Am I dying?
How long could I go without breathing before passing out or dying?
A deathly, otherworldly silence enveloped him like an isolation booth.
Where am I?
They had been on the bus, driving through the Berkshire Mountains. The five men were all talking about the gig they had just played in New York when Danny, the driver and their manager, let out a cry. The bus lurched and the next thing Aaron knew, he was tossed in the air, multiple items in the bus flying and hitting him.
He slipped between substance and shadow as recent and older events whirled and tumbled in his mind, just as he and some of the equipment had in the bus. Cele. If only he had known what to do when he realized she wanted an abortion. Maybe he could have gotten there in time to save the baby. If only he had known sooner. Hitching a ride with Danny to get out of Dalhart. bussing tables at the diner. London. Amsterdam.
* * *
On a warm August night in Nashville, 1963, Aaron Cronan arrived at Manchester’s bar. He, Cal, and Cele were the house band until July of that year when Aaron took work at a local studio.

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