TitaniumTi
Well-Known Member
I posted some early excerpts of The Strangers when I first joined Chrons. I stopped writing this book at around 10000 words, due to other commitments. Since then, I've been working on some shorter narratives, but this is the story that calls to me. I need to totally re-write what I've done so far, starting with this new first scene.
I'm open to any and all criticisms, but I particularly want to know:
Do I clearly show what happens?
Is Zac believable? I've tried to make him a teenager, but not a brat, with the sort of situational competence that waivers when he's outside his comfort zone -- hence the uncertainty about first aid.
Can I finish the scene here, or do I need to describe his unsuccessful attempts at resuscitation? The man's death is made clear in the next scene, when the police are called in, and I thought it might be better to describe the resuscitation attempt in the context of a police interview or discussions with friends.
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He’d stuffed up. Zac huddled low over the handlebars of his trailbike as he gunned it up the long ridgeline towards the crest of Shadow Mountain. He should have noticed the baldy-faced heifer when he’d brought the cattle down to the home paddock yesterday. He should have realised that she’d left her calf behind.
But Australia had been playing the poms at the MCG. The poms had set 370 to beat and he’d settled down with a packet of chips to watch the home team shred the visitors. He’d been pissed off when Dad had turned off the TV and told him to bring the cattle in from the high paddock. He’d been irritated when three steers played hide-and-seek in a patch of blackberry. He’d been infuriated when the blackberry had snagged and ripped his new jeans.
He hadn’t been paying attention.
Now there was a cold, hungry, thirsty calf on the mountain – if the dingos hadn’t killed it overnight – and he needed to find it.
A flap of wings caught his eye and he scowled. He hated crows. Sure, they were part of that ecosystem that old Mr Fitch was always rabbiting on about, but they were vicious. They wanted their bite to eat – or peck, or whatever – and they weren’t too fussy about waiting until their victims were dead.
They were worth watching though, because they often gave the first sign of trouble. A flock of crows was clustered in a dead eucalypt and their greedy calls made Zac’s stomach churn. They’d found something. A patch of white shone against the dusty ground beneath the tree, but he couldn’t make out any details. Whatever it was, it was still alive, and big and strong enough to put up a fight, or the crows would already be feasting.
Zac accelerated towards the crows. He almost came off the bike when he swerved around a sandstone outcrop. A shrubby wattle snatched at him, ripping his jeans further and adding more scratches to his shins. He ignored it all. No way was he going to let those crows have the calf.
The crows cawed their protests and flew to higher branches as Zac got his first clear view of their find. What the hell? How did he get here? This wasn’t the calf – in some distant part of his mind, Zac noted that he still needed to find the calf. This was a man, lying limply in the dirt with his head kilted back, twisting his neck awkwardly. His blank eyes did not focus when Zac knelt beside him, but his lips moved in a soundless mutter.
Sitting back on his heels, Zac forced himself to breath slowly. There was no obvious reason why the man was just lying there. His skin was bleached white but, judging by his snowy hair and pale blue eyes, that might be due to albinism. His arms and legs were scratched – unsurprisingly, given the rugged country and the weird dress-like garment he was wearing – but Zac couldn’t see much blood or any sign of serious injury. Despite that, there had to be something wrong with him. What is it? Zac wondered. What’s wrong? And what am I going to do about it?
Confused memories of a school first-aid course flicked through his mind. The man should be lying in the recovery position, but he wasn’t supposed to move the victim, was he? If the man had a spinal injury, movement might paralyse or even kill him. Still, it couldn’t be easy to breath in that position, all skew-whiff with his feet uphill and his head downhill.
Zac fumbled in his pocket. At least he had his phone and – yes – reception, this high on the mountain. He was halfway through dialling when the man coughed, hard and rough, with his body spasming. Dropping his phone, Zac knelt. The man coughed again. Bright, red flecks flew from his lips and Zac winced, throwing his hands up to shield his face.
The man was breathing loudly now, although his lips were still working. I can’t leave him lying like that, Zac thought. He’ll suffocate. He reached forward, but the man said something that sounded like, “Vergluff”, coughed a third time, gurgled and stopped breathing.
I'm open to any and all criticisms, but I particularly want to know:
Do I clearly show what happens?
Is Zac believable? I've tried to make him a teenager, but not a brat, with the sort of situational competence that waivers when he's outside his comfort zone -- hence the uncertainty about first aid.
Can I finish the scene here, or do I need to describe his unsuccessful attempts at resuscitation? The man's death is made clear in the next scene, when the police are called in, and I thought it might be better to describe the resuscitation attempt in the context of a police interview or discussions with friends.
-----------------------------------------
He’d stuffed up. Zac huddled low over the handlebars of his trailbike as he gunned it up the long ridgeline towards the crest of Shadow Mountain. He should have noticed the baldy-faced heifer when he’d brought the cattle down to the home paddock yesterday. He should have realised that she’d left her calf behind.
But Australia had been playing the poms at the MCG. The poms had set 370 to beat and he’d settled down with a packet of chips to watch the home team shred the visitors. He’d been pissed off when Dad had turned off the TV and told him to bring the cattle in from the high paddock. He’d been irritated when three steers played hide-and-seek in a patch of blackberry. He’d been infuriated when the blackberry had snagged and ripped his new jeans.
He hadn’t been paying attention.
Now there was a cold, hungry, thirsty calf on the mountain – if the dingos hadn’t killed it overnight – and he needed to find it.
A flap of wings caught his eye and he scowled. He hated crows. Sure, they were part of that ecosystem that old Mr Fitch was always rabbiting on about, but they were vicious. They wanted their bite to eat – or peck, or whatever – and they weren’t too fussy about waiting until their victims were dead.
They were worth watching though, because they often gave the first sign of trouble. A flock of crows was clustered in a dead eucalypt and their greedy calls made Zac’s stomach churn. They’d found something. A patch of white shone against the dusty ground beneath the tree, but he couldn’t make out any details. Whatever it was, it was still alive, and big and strong enough to put up a fight, or the crows would already be feasting.
Zac accelerated towards the crows. He almost came off the bike when he swerved around a sandstone outcrop. A shrubby wattle snatched at him, ripping his jeans further and adding more scratches to his shins. He ignored it all. No way was he going to let those crows have the calf.
The crows cawed their protests and flew to higher branches as Zac got his first clear view of their find. What the hell? How did he get here? This wasn’t the calf – in some distant part of his mind, Zac noted that he still needed to find the calf. This was a man, lying limply in the dirt with his head kilted back, twisting his neck awkwardly. His blank eyes did not focus when Zac knelt beside him, but his lips moved in a soundless mutter.
Sitting back on his heels, Zac forced himself to breath slowly. There was no obvious reason why the man was just lying there. His skin was bleached white but, judging by his snowy hair and pale blue eyes, that might be due to albinism. His arms and legs were scratched – unsurprisingly, given the rugged country and the weird dress-like garment he was wearing – but Zac couldn’t see much blood or any sign of serious injury. Despite that, there had to be something wrong with him. What is it? Zac wondered. What’s wrong? And what am I going to do about it?
Confused memories of a school first-aid course flicked through his mind. The man should be lying in the recovery position, but he wasn’t supposed to move the victim, was he? If the man had a spinal injury, movement might paralyse or even kill him. Still, it couldn’t be easy to breath in that position, all skew-whiff with his feet uphill and his head downhill.
Zac fumbled in his pocket. At least he had his phone and – yes – reception, this high on the mountain. He was halfway through dialling when the man coughed, hard and rough, with his body spasming. Dropping his phone, Zac knelt. The man coughed again. Bright, red flecks flew from his lips and Zac winced, throwing his hands up to shield his face.
The man was breathing loudly now, although his lips were still working. I can’t leave him lying like that, Zac thought. He’ll suffocate. He reached forward, but the man said something that sounded like, “Vergluff”, coughed a third time, gurgled and stopped breathing.
