Hi, i posted a year ago with a story i wasn't very happy with so i went back to the drawing board and came up with a new idea. It has been difficult to judge whether what i've written is up to a good enough standard as the people i know aren't particuarly interested in reading fantasy novels and don't give me very good feedback (or any feedback at all). I'm 17 years old and know very little of the writing business, i have learnt what i can through the internet and through reading forums like this. I have the writers yearbook and i'm thinking of sending my work off as the novel is complete, but i would really like to know whether i should wait until i am able to write in a professional manner and also whether the story intrigues the reader to want to know more.
Thank you for your time and here's an extract of my novel Elemental Discovery:
Fitzgerald the tall fellow sat up and frowned. Silence save the ticking of something unseen amongst the clutter. The shop may have been empty of customers but it was full of junk, from shelves, to pots, to drawers, to baskets and cupboards there was not a single piece of space spared.
Now this was because Fitzgerald had been quite an avid collector back in his youth. Anything magical and he would get all giddy inside and fumble for his purse. He had everything you could possibly imagine, rings, armour, swords, books, staffs, crowns, shields, medallions, wands, mirrors and maps, there was nothing he hadn’t haggled, plundered or found that wasn’t a sought after magical artefact.
Except....
There was something unique about the items the tall fellow had acquired, something that set them apart, something that had persuaded him to open his own shop in the middle of nowhere and sit for hours on end waiting for somebody to turn up.
They were all broken.
Yes that’s right, when Fitzgerald had thought he was getting a bargain he was actually being ripped off. It was not until he returned to his home, rummaged in his rucksack and pulled out whatever he’d bought that he realised he’d been done. Sometimes when this happened he’d make a mental note to get it repaired, unfortunately he would always misplace that note.
“Let me see now,” said Fitzgerald. He licked the tip of his quill and began to scratch on the parchment laid out on his messy desk. “One hand of glory does not light on the fifth finger, sell for one gold piece. One fairy’s tail guaranteed unhappy endings, sell for three gold pieces.”
He paused and brushed several scrolls aside, they fluttered to the floor and sent a cloud of dust billowing into the air. He coughed impatiently waving the airborne dirt away and opened the drawers. He moved aside several smudged runes until he found a dull reddish stone.
“Ah yes one philosopher’s stone, hmm better make sure.” he pressed the stone against his lead paperweight, it turned brown and crumpled into dirt. Fitzgerald gave a satisfied nod. “Turns substances to muck and causes untimely deaths, sell for five pieces of gold.”
A tinkle behind him made Fitzgerald pause once more and look about feeling paranoid. He was certain somebody else was in the room but he couldn’t be sure if it was one of his long forgotten magical creatures that had escaped and looking for revenge.
He got up and acting like nothing had happened continued to search through his rather dusty collection. Shooing away an enchanted pen (which only wrote how it felt about the owner using it) he picked up the mirror of truths and stared at the reflection. A somewhat angry old man, surrounded by a mass of bushy white beard squinted through chipped spectacles back at him. It took him a moment of glancing around to realise that it was his reflection.
“My goodness I look old.” he grumbled.
“I am indeed a mass of wrinkles, with hairs growing out of my nose and ears, I have a hunchback forming on my left shoulder and several teeth missing.” the mirror agreed.
Fitzgerald scowled. Now that he thought about it, the mirror of truths was one of the few artefacts not broken. In fact it worked only too well. Fitzgerald wondered why it had never sold.
“Three pieces of gold I think.” he said making a note on the blank price tag next to it.
“Three pieces too much.” replied the mirror gravely.
“Oh shut up.” snapped Fitzgerald.
SMASH!
A crystal ball landed on the floor and shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. Fitzgerald jumped a foot in the air and clutched his chest. His heart had almost made it out of his throat when he whipped around scanning the clutter for the source of noise.
“I knew it!” he roared. “I knew it was you, come out there’s no use in pretending.”
A black feathered wing suddenly appeared where the crystal ball had fallen. The temperature dropped dramatically, frost crawled over the surfaces leaving everything sparkling in a fine white powder including Fitzgerald who ended up with icicles dripping off his nose.
Your time has come.
“Sod off!”
A ghostly chuckle echoed around the shop. No need to be rude, you are the one after all who’s making this harder than necessary.
“Why have you come Azra?”
Azra did not reply, he was known in the world as the angel of death due to the two black wings growing out of his back, they spanned across the room giving him the appearance of a giant crow, most preferred to see Azra as the ferryman of souls who sailed the dead to the otherworld (though he required a fee and rumours had it death didn’t come cheap). He was tall and thin dressed in a dusty black suit; bandages covered him from head to foot decorated in red markings shaped like eyes, a golden pocket watch hung from his waist on a golden chain with skulls replacing the numbers.
“Now see here.” spluttered Fitzgerald backing away.
It seemed wherever he went at least one of those eyes stared at him. Azra pulled out a roll of parchment from his jacket and tapped it impatiently.
You are one hundred and fifty years old Fitz, fifty years overdue the date you should have come with me. Now I’m tired of playing around, come with me and I can finally stop chasing you.
The tall fellow picked up a continuously whistling kettle and threw it as hard as he could. The ferryman knocked it aside and started towards him. Fitzgerald grabbed whatever was in reach hurling them in every direction, Azra brought his wing across and the items bounced off shattering on the floor.
“You’ll never get me!” he shouted defiantly.
The ferryman was only inches away now and he could feel the icy breath coiling off his cheeks. The tattered cloth hand reached out, Fitzgerald fumbled with his robe and brought out a walking stick sticky with a blue slime. He thrust it forward into the thin chest and Azra grunted backing away, knocking over what little magical implements were left.
You coward, don’t think that’ll keep me away.
A dull ring came from the ferryman’s pocket. Fitzgerald waited cautiously his walking stick smoking slightly. Azra pulled a small black object out of his pocket and put it to his ear.
Yes? What? Oh ok I’ll go and see to it. No I was about to get him when you called me, fine I will deal with the plague first. Goodbye.
The ferryman put the object away and looked up, Fitzgerald could’ve sworn he was scowling behind all those bandages.
The ‘boss’ called, I suppose I’ll have to leave you for now but mark my words I’ll be back and when I am I will get you. You have to sleep sometime after all.
The frost started to thaw as the ferryman backed out of the shop. Fitzgerald could feel the warmth returning and immense relief flooded through his body. That had been too close. When he was sure he was alone he replaced the walking stick back in his robe and looked around at the mess he’d caused.
Thank you for your time and here's an extract of my novel Elemental Discovery:
Lightning
Fitzgerald the tall fellow sat up and frowned. Silence save the ticking of something unseen amongst the clutter. The shop may have been empty of customers but it was full of junk, from shelves, to pots, to drawers, to baskets and cupboards there was not a single piece of space spared.
Now this was because Fitzgerald had been quite an avid collector back in his youth. Anything magical and he would get all giddy inside and fumble for his purse. He had everything you could possibly imagine, rings, armour, swords, books, staffs, crowns, shields, medallions, wands, mirrors and maps, there was nothing he hadn’t haggled, plundered or found that wasn’t a sought after magical artefact.
Except....
There was something unique about the items the tall fellow had acquired, something that set them apart, something that had persuaded him to open his own shop in the middle of nowhere and sit for hours on end waiting for somebody to turn up.
They were all broken.
Yes that’s right, when Fitzgerald had thought he was getting a bargain he was actually being ripped off. It was not until he returned to his home, rummaged in his rucksack and pulled out whatever he’d bought that he realised he’d been done. Sometimes when this happened he’d make a mental note to get it repaired, unfortunately he would always misplace that note.
“Let me see now,” said Fitzgerald. He licked the tip of his quill and began to scratch on the parchment laid out on his messy desk. “One hand of glory does not light on the fifth finger, sell for one gold piece. One fairy’s tail guaranteed unhappy endings, sell for three gold pieces.”
He paused and brushed several scrolls aside, they fluttered to the floor and sent a cloud of dust billowing into the air. He coughed impatiently waving the airborne dirt away and opened the drawers. He moved aside several smudged runes until he found a dull reddish stone.
“Ah yes one philosopher’s stone, hmm better make sure.” he pressed the stone against his lead paperweight, it turned brown and crumpled into dirt. Fitzgerald gave a satisfied nod. “Turns substances to muck and causes untimely deaths, sell for five pieces of gold.”
A tinkle behind him made Fitzgerald pause once more and look about feeling paranoid. He was certain somebody else was in the room but he couldn’t be sure if it was one of his long forgotten magical creatures that had escaped and looking for revenge.
He got up and acting like nothing had happened continued to search through his rather dusty collection. Shooing away an enchanted pen (which only wrote how it felt about the owner using it) he picked up the mirror of truths and stared at the reflection. A somewhat angry old man, surrounded by a mass of bushy white beard squinted through chipped spectacles back at him. It took him a moment of glancing around to realise that it was his reflection.
“My goodness I look old.” he grumbled.
“I am indeed a mass of wrinkles, with hairs growing out of my nose and ears, I have a hunchback forming on my left shoulder and several teeth missing.” the mirror agreed.
Fitzgerald scowled. Now that he thought about it, the mirror of truths was one of the few artefacts not broken. In fact it worked only too well. Fitzgerald wondered why it had never sold.
“Three pieces of gold I think.” he said making a note on the blank price tag next to it.
“Three pieces too much.” replied the mirror gravely.
“Oh shut up.” snapped Fitzgerald.
SMASH!
A crystal ball landed on the floor and shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. Fitzgerald jumped a foot in the air and clutched his chest. His heart had almost made it out of his throat when he whipped around scanning the clutter for the source of noise.
“I knew it!” he roared. “I knew it was you, come out there’s no use in pretending.”
A black feathered wing suddenly appeared where the crystal ball had fallen. The temperature dropped dramatically, frost crawled over the surfaces leaving everything sparkling in a fine white powder including Fitzgerald who ended up with icicles dripping off his nose.
Your time has come.
“Sod off!”
A ghostly chuckle echoed around the shop. No need to be rude, you are the one after all who’s making this harder than necessary.
“Why have you come Azra?”
Azra did not reply, he was known in the world as the angel of death due to the two black wings growing out of his back, they spanned across the room giving him the appearance of a giant crow, most preferred to see Azra as the ferryman of souls who sailed the dead to the otherworld (though he required a fee and rumours had it death didn’t come cheap). He was tall and thin dressed in a dusty black suit; bandages covered him from head to foot decorated in red markings shaped like eyes, a golden pocket watch hung from his waist on a golden chain with skulls replacing the numbers.
“Now see here.” spluttered Fitzgerald backing away.
It seemed wherever he went at least one of those eyes stared at him. Azra pulled out a roll of parchment from his jacket and tapped it impatiently.
You are one hundred and fifty years old Fitz, fifty years overdue the date you should have come with me. Now I’m tired of playing around, come with me and I can finally stop chasing you.
The tall fellow picked up a continuously whistling kettle and threw it as hard as he could. The ferryman knocked it aside and started towards him. Fitzgerald grabbed whatever was in reach hurling them in every direction, Azra brought his wing across and the items bounced off shattering on the floor.
“You’ll never get me!” he shouted defiantly.
The ferryman was only inches away now and he could feel the icy breath coiling off his cheeks. The tattered cloth hand reached out, Fitzgerald fumbled with his robe and brought out a walking stick sticky with a blue slime. He thrust it forward into the thin chest and Azra grunted backing away, knocking over what little magical implements were left.
You coward, don’t think that’ll keep me away.
A dull ring came from the ferryman’s pocket. Fitzgerald waited cautiously his walking stick smoking slightly. Azra pulled a small black object out of his pocket and put it to his ear.
Yes? What? Oh ok I’ll go and see to it. No I was about to get him when you called me, fine I will deal with the plague first. Goodbye.
The ferryman put the object away and looked up, Fitzgerald could’ve sworn he was scowling behind all those bandages.
The ‘boss’ called, I suppose I’ll have to leave you for now but mark my words I’ll be back and when I am I will get you. You have to sleep sometime after all.
The frost started to thaw as the ferryman backed out of the shop. Fitzgerald could feel the warmth returning and immense relief flooded through his body. That had been too close. When he was sure he was alone he replaced the walking stick back in his robe and looked around at the mess he’d caused.
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