Page critique 6/15/23

[Nathan Bransford]

Below is the page up for critique on the blog on Thursday. Feel free to chime in with comments, create your own redline (please note the "font colour" button above the posting box, which looks like a drop of ink), and otherwise offer feedback. When offering your feedback, please please remember to be polite and constructive. In order to leave a comment you will need to register an account in the Forums, which should be self-explanatory.

I'll be back later with my own post on the blog and we'll literally be able to compare notes.

If you'd like to enter a page for a future Page Critique, please do so here.

TItile: THE HOUR OF THE SNAKETHE STORM[/b]

THE STORM
Summer 2017

Digging. Mary rummaged through the glove compartment of the 1973 Mercedes-Benz. Delving. She tossed out an expired registration, two empty pill bottles, and a deck of tarot cards before noticing eyes glaring at her. The homemade voodoo doll resembled somebody she once knew, and she did not dare look back, opting to pocket a Trojan condom instead. Finally, she spotted an open pack of Marlboro Reds. “Oh, thank, God,” she gasped, snatching the cigarettes. “I thought I was gonna have to wait till after the funeral to buy more smokes.”

Dwelling. Mary deflated into the passenger seat and lit the lone germ. She cracked the window and took a drag. Exhaling, she polluted the parking lot of Brooklyn’s Holy Cross Cemetery. For a second, then two, she observed the mist of smoke depart. It seemed to dance up, up, up into the heavens. Mary almost waved goodbye, but before she got the chance, an eerie, chilling breeze swept through the lot, robbing any existing cheerfulness. Flinching, goosebumps crawled onto Mary’s skin like bloodthirsty spiders from Hell itself on this dark and cold … summer’s day.

Mary set the thought aside while setting the cigarette on a 7-Up can. Pulling off her shirt and Levi’s cut-off denim shorts, she replaced them with a black slip-dress. Simple. Sexy. In an attempt to brighten the mood, Mary smiled at the driver, her childhood bestie, Valentina Sahira. “Thanks again, Valentina, for letting me borrow this dress, ‘cause it’s like … perfect!” she exclaimed.

Valentina didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Instead, drool dripped from her mouth as her eyes fluttered like a butterfly with two broken wings trapped in a mason jar. Her head nodded down, down, down, bobbling off her neck. Glimpsing Valentina’s flask on the dashboard sitting next to a handful of A.A. sobriety chips, Mary swayed her head, quipping, “That’s a fold.” It was.