Possibly the first chapter.

[Pentagathus]

I'm not sure if this will be the first length of writing in my story or not, it doesn't seem very interesting to me so I might add a prolouge.
Either way this is still the first chapter from this character's point of view and is my very first draft. I don't realy like the description of the family, to be honest I don't like any of it much (but I never like my own writing so I hope it isn't as bad as I feel.)

I spellchecked this on Word.

Is New Roman an accpetable font?


“I reckon nine be plenty old enough for a spot of hunting with you’re father” the words of that pale, crippled corpse which lay before him came crashing back to Jeck as he stared blankly into the grave.

He shivered as he stooped and clenched a handful of earth in his fist, remembering that day more than six years past. He remembered blood gushing from a wrist missing a hand, his father’s cry of pain as his many years of poaching were finally punished by cruel men with iron shirts. Worse, he remembered what must have been a nightmare, the hands of a corpse colder and paler than the one before him now, pawing at his face, grabbing at his throat.

Jeck shivered once more as he let the earth fall, it struck his father in the chest, soiling his family’s finest but still rough grey tunic. More earth fell as his brother Jerem dropped his load, then the grave began to fill as men with shovels set to work, grim faced and dark clothed.

The Growle family made a sorrowful sight as they watched on. Tall, lean Jeck with his ragged brown hair blown gently around his face by the wind. The mother, her head only reaching Jeck’s shoulder standing stiff and rigid, long dark hair contrasting with her thin pale face and cold blue eyes red and puffy from weeping, occasional sobs racking her body. Little brown haired Lucy, just six years old with teary eyes held her mother’s left hand. Jerem held his mothers other hand, his eyes also puffy and weeping, but his hair was a mop of tight golden curls.

His mother said something, and Jeck managed to make the word “heir” out of her sobs. He nodded and turned towards her as she drew his family’s only expensive possession from the folds of her cloak.

And what a possession it was, a complete oddity for such a destitute family to own. It was a sword, a falchion and it could make the Growle’s the most wealthy family around if they were to sell it. The blade was quite thin, single edged, about 2.5’ long and ended in a wicked looking point. The handle was bound in black leather and although no ornament adorned the hilt or pommel the sword had a beautiful elegance.

Jeck took the blade from his mother, held out his left hand and lightly sliced his palm. He let a few drops of blood fall onto the grave before intoning “this blood is your blood, and this blade is my blade.”

This inheritance ritual was not a native one; it came from the North as did the Growles. Some of the local people didn’t seem to care, some looked on with curiosity, a few frowned and one more devout man had a grimace of disgust etched on his face.

The Growle family’s gods were not local either, but there was one Varse priest here who worshipped what the southerners had dubbed “the old gods” and he said a few words about the dead man; his deeds, his greatness, his tragedies, his family and his tales. Growle’s widow had to interrupt and remind the priest that her late husband’s name was actually Anomandyre Growle and not Jyck as all new him. After that the priest said prayers to the Hard Father, the Rash Warrior (Jyck had once been a soldier after all) the Calm Judge and last of all the Grim Dead.

Later, the mourners gathered around the Growles and spoke words and offered sympathy that Jeck did not hear. From somewhere the idea to deal with his palm came floating through the fog in his mind. The Growles went home, Jeck did just that and Anomandyre Jyck Growle lay cold and dead in his grave.

And four days later men in mail rode in to change the fate of his family once more.

 

[Michael01]

As far as manuscript format, the corrrect font is usually Courier New, either 11 or 12 points. However, it's always a good idea to check an agent's/editor's guidelines first, because sometimes they might have different requirements.

As for the forum, I suppose it's all right, although I should defer to a mod. I've seen others use different fonts when they've posted.

Since this is such a short piece, I'll try to be of some help. But I should let you know: As I have learned, most critters prefer if you do not post your "very first draft." Yes, the idea is to help you improve, but we would still like to see that you've put some care into your work before posting.

Also, while the spelling/grammar checkers of word processing software are handy tools, you can't rely on them completely. You should still proofread the work yourself.

While I do hope you'll consider what I have to say, keep in mind that it's only my opinion. Ultimately, this is your story.

[Blue text in brackets]=my comments.
Blue=changes I made in your text.
Red=things you might want to think about.
Purple=adverbs.

“I reckon nine be plenty old enough for a spot of hunting with you’re father.” [<--At first I thought "comma," since it looked as if you meant to tag the dialogue, but after reading the rest I thought a separarte sentence might be better.] The words of that pale, crippled corpse which ["That."] lay before him came crashing back to Jeck as he stared blankly into the grave.

He shivered as he stooped and clenched a handful of earth in his fist, remembering that day more than six years past. He remembered blood gushing from a wrist missing a hand, his father’s cry of pain as his many years of poaching were finally punished by cruel men with iron shirts. Worse, he remembered what must have been a nightmare, the hands of a corpse [Repetition.] colder and paler than the one before him now, pawing at his face, grabbing at his throat.

[I like the imagery.]

Jeck shivered once more as he let the earth fall, which struck his father in the chest and soiled his family’s finest but still rough grey tunic. [The way you had it, it might have been better to start a new sentence with "It struck his father..." "Jeck" and "it" both began independent clauses, which can stand alone as individual sentences. You could also have connected them with a semi-colon, but the comma doesn't work. However, I've been advised to be careful about starting sentences with "it."] More earth fell as his brother Jerem dropped his load, then the grave began to fill as men with shovels set to work, grim faced and dark clothed. [Two "as" clauses in the same sentence. You might want to be careful about how often you use them anywhere.]

The Growle family made a sorrowful sight as they watched on. Tall, lean Jeck with his ragged brown hair blown gently around his face by the wind. The mother, her head only reaching Jeck’s shoulder standing stiff and rigid, long dark hair contrasting with her thin pale face and cold blue eyes red and puffy from weeping, occasional sobs racking her body. [This reads awkwardly, as if fragmented. instead of a complete sentence. Fragments are sometimes useful in fiction, but this looks like a string of them without a single independent clause.] Little brown haired, six-year-old Lucy, [<--Maybe. ] with teary eyes held her mother’s left hand. Jerem held his mother's other hand, his eyes also puffy and weeping, [<--Repetition.] but his hair was a mop of tight golden curls.

His mother said something, and Jeck managed to make the word “heir” out of her sobs. He nodded and turned towards her as she drew his family’s only expensive possession from the folds of her cloak.

And what a possession it was; [I think either a semi-colon or start a new sentence.] a complete oddity for such a destitute family to own. It was a sword, a falchion, [Comma, I think.] and it could make the Growle’s the most wealthy family around if they were to sell it. The blade was quite thin, single edged, about 2.5’ [I think maybe "two and a half feet..."] long and ended in a wicked looking [Seems awkward.] point. The handle was bound [Passive. Passive voice tends to slow down the narrative, which can sometimes be useful but should be used sparingly.] in black leather and, [Comma.] although no ornament adorned the hilt or pommel, [And another comma here.] the sword had a beautiful elegance. [Telling. But ... I don't know. It might be okay. You might still want to consider "showing" us its "beautiful elegance."]

Jeck took the blade from his mother, held out his left hand and lightly sliced his palm. He let a few drops of blood fall onto the grave before intoning, “This blood is your blood, and this blade is my blade.” ["Intoning" is a saidism. "Saying" is probably good enough. BUT ... I like what he says. Interesting.]

This inheritance ritual was not a native one; it came from the North as did the Growles. [Technically exposition, but very short so it might be okay.] Some of the local people didn’t seem to care, [<--Telling.] some looked on with curiosity, [<--Telling.] a few frowned [This "shows" a little better.] and one more devout man [Telling. How is he devout?] had a grimace of disgust [This "shows" a little too, but it seems awkward.] etched on his face.

The Growle family’s gods were not local either, but there was one Varse priest here who worshipped what the southerners had dubbed “the old gods” and he said a few words about the dead man; his deeds, his greatness, his tragedies, his family and his tales. Growle’s widow had to interrupt and remind the priest that her late husband’s name was actually Anomandyre Growle and not Jyck as all knew him. [Awkward, I think.] After that the priest said prayers to the Hard Father, the Rash Warrior (Jyck had once been a soldier, [Comma. But, while some writers do it, you might want to reconsider the parentheses.] after all) the Calm Judge and [I feel like there should be some punctauation around "last of all." Dashes, maybe?] last of all the Grim Dead.

Later, the mourners gathered around the Growles and spoke words and offered sympathy that Jeck did not hear. From somewhere the idea to deal with his palm came floating through the fog in his mind. The Growles went home, Jeck did just that and Anomandyre Jyck Growle lay cold and dead in his grave.

And four days later men in mail rode in to change the fate of his family once more.

Basically, there's nothing happening here and it's mostly telling. Maybe you should reconsider where your story will begin. It looks like you're writing in omnisicent as well, which is fine but you might want to consider third person limited.

You don't have a lot of adverbs and, while they probably won't hurt anyway (as long as you've done everything else well), that's a good thing. But ... they can sometimes be dropped without hurting the narrative, and sometimes replacing them with more descriptive language might be more effective.

Otherwise, it looks like you have a good idea brewing. I like that Jyck was a poacher! Nice touch.

Oh, you might want to check out The Toolbox. I think you might find it very useful.

Keep writing and good luck!

 

[chrispenycate]

[/quote]

I'm not sure if this will be the first length of writing in my story or not, it doesn't seem very interesting to me so I might add a prolouge.

prologue

Either way this is still the first chapter from this character's point of view and is my very first draft. I don't realy like the description of the family, to be honest I don't like any of it much (but I never like my own writing so I hope it isn't as bad as I feel.)

I spellchecked this on Word.

(but not the beginning )

Is New Roman an accpetable

acceptable

font?


“I reckon nine be plenty old enough for a spot of hunting with you’re

your

father

full stop

” the words of that pale, crippled corpse which lay before him came crashing back to Jeck as he stared blankly into the grave.

He shivered as he stooped and clenched a handful of earth in his fist, remembering that day more than six years past. He remembered blood gushing from a wrist missing a hand, his father’s cry of pain as his many years of poaching were finally punished by cruel men with iron shirts. Worse, he remembered what must have been a nightmare, the hands of a corpse colder and paler than the one before him now, pawing at his face, grabbing at his throat.

Jeck shivered once more as he let the earth fall,

full stop

it struck his father in the chest, soiling his family’s finest but still rough grey tunic. More earth fell as his brother Jerem dropped his load, then the grave began to fill as men with shovels set to work, grim faced and dark clothed.

The Growle family made a sorrowful sight as they watched on

"looked on", or just "watched"

. Tall, lean Jeck with his ragged brown hair blown gently around his face by the wind. The mother, her head only reaching Jeck’s shoulder

comma

standing stiff and rigid, long dark hair contrasting with her thin pale face and cold blue eyes red and puffy from weeping, occasional sobs racking her body. Little brown haired Lucy, just six years old with teary eyes

comma

held her mother’s left hand. Jerem held his mothers

mother's

other hand, his eyes also puffy and weeping, but his hair was

no "was"

a mop of tight golden curls.

His mother said something, and Jeck managed to make the word “heir” out of her sobs. He nodded and turned towards her as she drew his family’s only expensive possession from the folds of her cloak.

And what a possession it was, a complete oddity for such a destitute family to own. It was a sword, a falchion

comma

and it could make

could have made?

the Growle’s

no apostrophe

the most wealthy family around if they were to sell it. The blade was quite thin, single edged, about 2.5’

two and a half feet? Two foot six? You'd never use the decimal point with Imperial measures.

long and ended in a wicked looking point. The handle was bound in black leather and

comma

although no ornament adorned the hilt or pommel

comma

the sword had a beautiful elegance.

Jeck took the blade from his mother, held out his left hand and lightly sliced his palm. He let a few drops of blood fall onto the grave before intoning “

Capital "This"

this blood is your blood, and this blade is my blade.”

This inheritance ritual was not a native one; it came from the North

comma

as did the Growles. Some of the local people didn’t seem to care, some looked on with curiosity, a few frowned and one more devout man had a grimace of disgust etched on his face.

The Growle family’s gods were not local either, but there was one Varse priest here who worshipped what the southerners had dubbed “the old gods” and he said a few words about the dead man;

probably a colon for a list

his deeds, his greatness, his tragedies, his family and his tales. Growle’s widow had to interrupt and remind the priest that her late husband’s name was actually Anomandyre Growle and not Jyck as all new

knew

him. After that the priest said prayers to the Hard Father, the Rash Warrior (Jyck had once been a soldier after all) the Calm Judge and last of all the Grim Dead.

Later, the mourners gathered around the Growles and spoke words and offered sympathy that Jeck did not hear. From somewhere the idea to deal with his palm came floating through the fog in his mind. The Growles went home, Jeck did just that and Anomandyre Jyck Growle lay cold and dead in his grave.

And four days later men in mail rode in to change the fate of his family once more.

 

[Michael01]

Seems I missed a couple things that should have glared at me, eh, Chris?

 

[Pentagathus]

Thanks, both of you.
Yeah I probably shouldn't have posted that draph (I did proof read it before I posted it but I was not in much of a clear headed state yesterday) since I'm pretty sure I'll either scrap it or completely re-write it.
I'm pretty much awake now, and pretty much drug free (no alcahol or caffiene anyway) so I should probably get to writing.

 

[Pentagathus]

Sorry for double post, I can't seem to edit my last one (are we not able to do that after a certain time?)
I've made a lot of changes so hopefully its better. It is still pretty much the same thing though. Should I post my changes?

 

[Michael01]

Yes, I think the time limit is about 15 minutes for editing posts. But definitely post your revision if you want. That's why we're here.

 

[Pentagathus]

Ok I've checked it. I still don't like it, there are too few actions. I'll write a prologue and probably completely scrap this scene. Or try to whip my imagination into action and make this piece more interesting.

“Quick lad, run and hide, whatever happens stay hidden.” The words of the pale, crippled corpse that lay before him came crashing back to Jeck as he stared into the grave. He knew what he saw there, yet his mind wouldn’t seem to recognise it.

“It’s just a dead man” he thought, as he stooped and clenched a handful of earth in his fist. But the dead man couldn’t help but make him remember that day more than six years past. He remembered blood gushing from a wrist missing a hand, his father’s cry of pain as his many years of poaching were punished by cruel men in mail. Worse, he remembered what must have been a nightmare, the hands of a corpse colder and paler than the one before him now, pawing at his face, grabbing at his throat.

The shiver that flowed down Jeck’s body had nothing to do with the angry wind or the creeping cold of that dim morning. When the shiver reached his hand Jeck let the earth fall into the grave. It hung there for a time; like Jeck’s vague thoughts it seemed reluctant to accept the proof of death. More earth fell as his brother Jerem dropped his load, then the grave began to fill when men with shovels set to work, grim faced and dark clothed. Slowly, gaunt Growle in his best roughspuns began to fade as the earth that had birthed him reclaimed its own.

The Growle family made a sorrowful sight as they watched on, huddling together beneath the cruel grey sky. The funeral was being held on Growle’s favourite spot, the top of a bare hill with thick trees to the east and south, with wide rolling plains and fields elsewhere. There at the head of the grave was tall Jeck, the almost ever smiling Jerem, fierce little Lucy and their sombre mother Lysha.

“No” thought Jeck, “she’s not my mother, and she has never forgotten it. Neither should I.”

She muttered something then, and Jeck just about heard the word heir. He nodded and turned towards her as she drew his family’s only expensive possession from the folds of her cloak.

And what a possession it was; a complete oddity for such a destitute family to own. It was a sword, a falchion, and it could make the Growles the wealthiest family around if they were to sell it. The blade was quite thin, about two and a half feet long and ended in a brutally sharp point. The back edge was blunt up until about four fifths of the blade where it widened and then curved down towards the point. Although no ornament adorned the hilt or pommel it was still beautiful. It was long and slender, shiny steel and shiny black leather with lightly curling quillions and curves towards the end. All that could mar the elegance of such a thing was the true nature of its purpose, and the horrors of battles it had seen.

But thoughts of battle never struck Jeck as Lysha Growle held out the sword. She did this sullenly, no doubt wishing that her son Jerem would be the one to take it. But it was Jeck who took it and Jeck who held out his left hand and gently sliced his palm. It was Jeck who let a few drops of blood fall onto the grave before saying “this blood is your blood, and this blade is my blade.”

This inheritance ritual was not a native one; it came from the North as did the Growles. Some of the local people took little notice, some peered on with curiosity, a few frowned and Rolph had the flaming phoenix sewn over his chest and a grimace etched on his face.

The Growle family’s gods were not local either, but there was one Varse priest here who worshipped what the southerners had dubbed “the old gods” and he said a few words about the dead man; his deeds, his greatness, his tragedies, his family and his tales. Growle’s widow had to interrupt and remind the priest that her late husband’s name was Anomandyre Growle and not Jyck as they new him. After that the priest said prayers to the high Father, to Strakos (Jyck had once been a soldier after all) to Myre and last of all, the Dead One.

Later, the mourners gathered around the Growles and spoke words and offered sympathies that Jeck did not hear. Even Rolph lingered for a short while to give condolences, although he then muttered something about false gods and threw a venomous, snarling glare at the Varse priest before stalking off.

Lysha accepted all this with nods, and even managed a wan smile for drunken Karl who had made the effort to stay sober for today. It may have been better if he hadn’t since his constant wincing at the none too bright light did little to make him appear respectable.

If the family seemed distant it was not surprising, and none could blame them. It had after all been just a day since Jyck had died. He had been trying to patch the roof when he fell and broke his neck. It had been a foolish thing for a one handed man to attempt, but no one had been around and Jyck had no doubt been sick of feeling useless.

Eventually the Growles excused themselves and left for home where Jeck saw to his hand and did little else that day. Whether Growle now dwelt in the Glorious Lands or the Phoenix children’s frozen hell Jeck did not know, but he did know that his father would never wake to find himself crippled and sour again, just as he would never again wake to find joy in his wife or children.

“Life is heaven, and life is hell and now my Father has one or the other but no life” Jeck thought as Anomandyre Growle lay cold and dead in a freshly dug grave.
And a week later men in mail came to change the fate of his family once more.