A new beginning for The Strangers

[Michael M]

The first paragraph offers a clear setting without labouring the point. We have a rural location and a very ordinary scene, a young man (sent by his dad) to find a stray heifer, leaving behind a pack of chips and an Ashes cricket match. You might want to throw in a reference to the heat to help to describe the scene. If they’re playing England at cricket it is sometime between about noon and six, and it will probably be the height of the summer. I agree with other comments that Zac is not obviously a teenager, though he is young enough to be instructed by his father to find the calf. There is nothing here to evoke a dislike of Zac. He’s no brat. There is no need for further exposition. This is the opening scene, so let us find out what we need to know as the plot develops.

 

[TitaniumTi]

Thanks Michael,
That's great feedback.

I'm moving on with the story but I hope to add the edited version to this thread in a few weeks.

Ti.

 

[Infinite Monkey Typing]

I just read this, and will briefly say, I think it painted a good scene. Him finding a dead man instead of a calf is pretty thrilling. My biggest problem was probably the beginning. As has been mentioned, for a non-Australian and non-football enthusiast, I found myself a little confused and detached to the part with the football game, and there were a few words I didn't know at all, but... it could certaintly be kept. Maybe if you make it clear earlier that he is watching TV, it would work as a smoother transition between the first and second paragraph.

Otherwise, it looks interesting and it is well written, as well as clean in the prose.

 

[TitaniumTi]

Thanks, IMT, and welcome to the Chrons. Point taken about the football - particularly as it's cricket! Oops.

I've re-written the scene, now:

*********************************
There was a hungry, thirsty calf on Shadow Mountain – if the dingos hadn’t killed it overnight – and Zac needed to find it.

He huddled low over the handlebars of his trail bike as he gunned it up a long ridgeline. He’d brought the cattle down to the home paddock the previous afternoon, and he should have realised that the baldy-faced heifer had left her calf behind. But he'd been angry because Dad had turned the TV off, so he hadn't been paying attention.

Australia was playing England in three-day cricket. Once again, most of the first day’s action had happened when he was at school. He’d sulked about that, but he had a reprieve from the usual Saturday chores because Mum was in Sydney. He’d turned on the TV and settled down with a packet of chips to watch the second day’s play. He’d been pissed off when Dad sent him up the mountain to muster the cattle. He’d been irritated when three steers played hide-and-seek in a patch of blackberry. He’d been infuriated when the blackberry snagged and ripped his new jeans.

He’d mustered the cattle in a hurry and left the calf behind. Now he had to find it, and he’d miss the third day’s play, if he didn’t find it quickly.

“Where is it, Jess?” He spoke to his dog, who’d fallen into position near the bike's rear wheel. Her tongue lolled as she lifted her head and flicked one ear. Even this early in the morning, the heat was searing.

He whistled, signalling her out to the left. She glanced at him, as if to say “Really?” but arrowed out, kicking up dust. He continued up the mountain, watching her until she was out of sight. She’d bark if she found anything. If not, she’d arc back, homing in on the sound of the bike.

A flap of wings caught his eye and he scowled. He hated crows. 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 he 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.

“Hello. Are you okay?” Zac kicked the bike-stand down and swung off in one movement, running over rough ground to the man.

Pale eyes stared into some appalling distance, not focusing on Zac, even when he knelt and touched the man. White lips moved in a soundless mutter.

“Are you okay?” Zac asked again. The man still didn’t respond.

Sitting back on his heels, Zac forced himself to breath slowly. There was no obvious reason why the man was just lying there. 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. His skin was bleached white but so was his hair; he might be Albino, Zac thought. Judging by the absence of sunburn, the man couldn’t have been out in the bush the day before. That white skin would burn in minutes.

Something rustled and Zac jumped, looking over his shoulder. The bushes swayed and he pushed himself to his feet. Then he breathed out a long sigh. It's only Jess. The dog’s presence was oddly soothing, and he smiled at her. “Lie down,” he said, “Stay there.”

Zac knelt, sorting through confused memories of a school first-aid course. The man should be lying in the recovery position. He put one hand on the man’s shoulder, then paused. 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 punching in the numbers when the man coughed, hard and rough, with his body spasming.

“Are you all right?” Zac asked, dropping his phone. Idiotic question, he thought.

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.

 

[Michael M]

This has a clearer opening, and I feel I have a better sense of the scene, an ordinary morning in rural Australia.

My major criticism is the excessive use of the word he or he'd. I counted more than forty times you use the word, and a large number of your sentences begin with the word. A slight reworking would lessen the use, though it would lengthen your sentences. You may be going for short punchy sentences to create a slightly frantic tone as Zac looks for the calf, worried and annoyed. I do not know if I am breaking a rule, or being rude, by offering a tiny rewrite, but the example below explains what I mean.

"Zac accelerated towards the crows. He almost came off the bike when he swerved around a sandstone outcrop"

"Zac accelerated towards the crows, almost coming off the bike when he swerved around a sandstone outcrop."

This remains an interesting introduction, giving us enough about the stranger to tease our interest without too much revelation in the opening.

Good luck.