Nathan Bransford - The Forums

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.

Shanaz could expose the pharmacist’s biggest fear in less than a minute.

No one would notice, of course. Men, women, and children crowded the bazaar, purchasing steaming pita bread from shouting vendors and frowning at overpriced dates. Wedged between an airboat equipment store and a winery, the healery was nothing but a small reception window, and Shanaz an unnoticeable customer.

“One bottle of thyme elixir, please,” she said.

The pharmacist twirled his handlebar mustache and pushed the spiked goggles up his nose. He stood up and disappeared inside the dark shop. Shanaz craned her neck and glimpsed fist-size parcels hanging from the ceiling. Shelves upon shelves of vials covered the opposite wall. The man returned after a short while carrying a wooden plaque that bore two words: No Moabians. He placed it on the windowsill right by the sign that said No Dogs Allowed and slunk back into the shop.

Pocketing the insult, Shanaz rang the bronze bell glued to the mud-brick wall. “Come on! I really need it!” Her nostrils tickled from the strong onion odor as she leaned through the window.

The pharmacist’s basil turban slipped down over his nose. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out! Can't you read?”

“I’m sorry.” She raised her hands in surrender. “Look, I have money.” She put a hand into her pant pocket, whipped out a small leather bag, and pulled at the laces. The shekels shone silver in New Babylonia’s blistering October sun, and sweat trickled down her spine as she organized the money in front of him.

Dad’s old truck sputters and coughs when I kill the engine. Here it is, my future home with boarded windows, faded siding, and an overgrown landscape. My dream is to own a bed and breakfast, and this old Victorian house is perfect. After some paint and fixes here and there it will be beautiful again.

It’s a big chance to take and I do worry about what will happen if I can’t pull it off. I’d lose everything and end up being a waitress for the rest of my life. Just the thought causes my insides to twist like a snake wrapping and squeezing the air out of me. But, despite the risks, I’m excited.

My cell phone interrupts, and my friend’s name lights up the screen.

“Jenna, what’s up, girl?”

“Kaitlyn, what are you doing today, slopping barbeque at your uncle’s cafe?”

Of course, she starts by giving me a hard time. It wouldn’t be Jenna if she didn’t.
“You’ll never guess in a million years. I’m standing in front of my new home and future business.” Before I can say anything else a flurry of questions bombard me.

“What? I didn’t know you were moving. Where is it? When did you buy it? What new business are you talking about?”

“Quit yapping and I’ll tell you. I bought the old Victorian house on the hill just outside of town.”

“You bought the haunted house? No way! What were you thinking?”

“I’m going to turn it into a Bed and Breakfast.”

No response from Jenna at first, then hysterical laughter on the other end assaults my ears.