Love, Lies and War (Ch 1. 1400 words)

[December88]

Hello,

I had posted up the original version of this in November of last year. I've changed most of it since then, hopefully for the better. Is this an effective opener? I fear that it might be a little confusing and the reader might not fully understand what is going on (especially first two paras).

Its a little long, at about 1400 words, but any feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks!


Chapter One


This whole revolution has been one big farce if you ask me. Democracy? Hah! More like democrazy.

Now don't get me wrong. Democracy might work wonderfully well wherever you're from, but over here, in the kingdom of Tyr? Its no different than two wolves and a sheep voting on what's for dinner. Why just look at the latest polls – a whooping 99.9% of Capitol city in favor of lobbing off king Karrad's head, and the other 0.1% not available for comment. Of course, they can't really comment when they're swinging from the branches of trees now can they?

Poor fools. Loyal to the king till the end. I'm loyal too, but I know better than to go around airing my opinion in public. I know to be careful. I know keep my head down. Like I'm doing now - quite literally - crouching by my bedroom window, breath held, peering out over the red tiled roofs and white picket fences of our little suburban community. Its quiet. Nothing moves in the faint morning light.

But I'd heard something, I could have sworn I did. I lean forward, listening close, and there, just over the knock of my heart beat, there's the sound. Its a rumble. The rumble of an engine in the distance - a rumble that gets louder and louder and has my fingers digging deeper and deeper into the window sill. The neighbor's dog starts to bark, the walls of my house start to shake, and I clench my jaw, knowing what's coming. But it can't be! Not today -

A bus swerves around the bend of our street, Mr. Halbert's big yellow bus, driven as if its a beast - sounding like one – snorting and screeching as it grinds to a halt in front of my house. The doors open with a hiss and Mr. Halbert blares the horn.

THUNK THUNK THUNK. A dozen figures, all wearing dark sweatshirts with hoods pulled down, file out. I catch the glint of metal. They twirl knives between their gloved fingers. Chains hang out from their pockets. The tallest and broadest of them comes out last and I take a careful step back into the darkness of my room so he won't be able to see me. He cracks his neck, side to side, and then without pause or even the slightest bit of hesitation, points right up at me as if i'm sitting across a table from him.

I jump back from the window, hands on the carpet, heart slamming. They'd found out. But how? Who could've told them?

The doorbell rings.

Crap.

I scramble to my dresser and sweep away the formation of royal soldiers with my hand. Tiny red painted infantry with their bayoneted rifles, and cavalry men on rearing steeds, sabers held aloft. They tumble into my clothes drawer and I slam it shut.

I hear my mum exclaim in surprise and then I hear Jorge, my stepdad, his voice muffled, but loud with excitement.

“He's upstairs – no, no, please, go right up!”

It was Jorge! The ******* had done me in! How many times had he wagged his fat finger in my face and threatened to snitch on me if I didn't get rid of all this stuff? He's actually done it! He's gone and told Prinicpal Vladoff that I'm a kingsman! Doesn't he know the consequences? Doesn't he know what they'll do to me -

THUD. THUD. THUD. Heavy boots climb the stairs.

I snatch the crimson and black royal flag from the wall and toss it behind the bed, and push the quilt over too because its embroidered with the same colors. The snowglobe of the royal palace, an arm patch of the 5th battalion and a rusted saber which I'd picked up from the royal fair last year. I dive around the room, sliding and snatching and throwing like a fielder in a ball game until everything is hidden.

There's a loud rap on the door.

“Coming!” I call out.

Its just the poster left. The revolutionary guard who stands tall and proud, a titan of a man clad in an amalgamation of black kevlar and blazing gold plate. Its always been my dream to be a revolutionary guard, a peerless warrior sworn to the throne. Its why I belt out fifty pushups and twenty five knobby kneed squats under his steely gaze every morning. But now I pull out the pins, careful not to tear the paper, even though my hands are shaking and my heart is slamming away in my chest. I carry it with reverence.

“Locke!” booms a voice.

I tuck it away between my clothes and replace it with a poster of the General – the revolution's leader – sticking in the pins, and spinning away, hands innocent by my sides just as the door pushes open and the punk barges in.

He towers over me, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled back, but a black ski mask covering his face. It doesn't matter. Not many of my classmates are that size.

“Hey Oskar.” I say, my voice betraying me and coming out high and hoarse.

Oskar doesn't reply. He doesn't even look at me. Instead he looks at the room. He searches the room, head slowly turning. Then he comes forward, black hobnailed boots pushing the carpet in under his weight. I scoot out of the way as he draws up by me and turns to face the poster of the General.

I wait obediently, still in my boxers and undershirt, skinny limbs shivering in the morning cold. There's a poster of the General in every room in every building in Capitol city – hell, Jorge has one up in the tool shed out back as well. It became the norm soon after the General defected from the king's side and sparked off the revolution. There's no rule about it or anything – but get caught without a poster on your wall and you're bound to be damned a king's man and end up in deep trouble.

The caption at the bottom of the poster, printed in big red words reads, 'DEMOCRACY OR DEATH!'

The General points at me. His hard, grey eyes stare into mine. Its done in a way that no matter what angle you look at the poster, the general's eyes are always on you. His jaws are clenched, his forehead is creased, and his brutish face is TORN AND PEPPERED WITH HOLES!?

My eyes pop open and I stiffen. CRAP.

The General's face is ruined. Ruined because my favorite pastime, when I'm lying in bed is to use his face as a bloody dartboard!

My fists clench. I can't take Oskar! But there's no choice. I have to strike now - before he can react - kick him between the legs, grab the knife he's twirling in his fingers - and then what? What about the other punks waiting down by the bus?

“You dare desecrate the General's visage?” growls Oskar, “Do you not know the punishment Locke!?”

“I -” I open my mouth to stammer out a lame excuse – any excuse! That termites got at it – or that the pipes behind the wall leak water which made the paper porous. But there are a bunch of darts sitting right there on the dresser, in plain sight!

Oskar doesn't let me stammer out anything. He brings his knife up, a sharp and cruel thing that makes me step back. This is it. I'm sixteen years old and I'm going to be gutted in my own bedroom. I'm not going to let him do it so easily. Even though I'm about to wet myself, I get ready, muscles tensing, ready to spring and -

In a whirlwind of a second, Oskar spins around, knife hand shooting out straight. The knife whips forward and slams into the poster – smack in the middle of the General's forehead. It wobbles there and I stare, mouth agape not knowing what the hell is going. Oskar walks over and yanks the knife out of the wood.

The poster falls away, cloven in two and Oskar turns to me – and pulls of his mask – and holy hell! It isn't Oskar at all but Flannigan freaking Daley!!

“Flan!” I gasp, nearly bounding forward and hugging him in relief, “Oh my God!”


END

 

[VinceK]

I enjoyed the humorous voice and the descriptive writing, but there is a lot of back story. I did also wonder why Oskar did what he did instead of just revealing himself.

 

[Brian G Turner]

I think this is much better and more engaging than your last version. The opening has a sharp sense of humour that pushed me forward, even though it felt like a cheeky infodump.

Actually, if you're writing a straight story, I'd actually cut everything above this bit:

just over the knock of my heart beat, there's the sound. Its a rumble. The rumble of an engine in the distance - a rumble that gets louder and louder and has my fingers digging deeper and deeper into the window sill. The neighbor's dog starts to bark, the walls of my house start to shake, and I clench my jaw, knowing what's coming. But it can't be! Not today -

because that starts us in action, it raises questions, and it sets a wonderful sense of tension. You don't need to explain anything - the prose explains itself, and raises the right sort of the questions. But if you've answered them all in the first three paragraphs, you're diluting the strength of your own conflict.

The rest I read through fine, though it might do with a little tightening. I'd caution against using upper case and stick with italics. I'd also query the use of the name Locke for a main character, because there's already a somewhat famous rogue by that name in fantasy literature.

Wasn't so keen on the "twist" at the end - it felt more like the reader being tricked than the character. And you'll carry the story stronger if you keep up the tension, rather than relax it. Without it you'll also push the reader into sympathising with Locke because he's an underdog, facing a terrible pressure and also danger (especially if it continues similar to what you had before, with them going out on a rampage).

Hope that helps.

 

[tinkerdan]

This reads fairly well and I agree it is much better than the last; if I remember that one correctly.
One caution about over usage of commas.

I lean forward, listening close, and there, just over the knock of my heart beat, there's the sound.

Sometimes we over do the pauses that we hear in our head when we write and it clutters the sentence.

Take my advice with a grain of salt because I often break too many rules.
I see the sentence as two independent clauses.

I lean forward, listening close.

And there over the knock of my heartbeat is the sound.

Put together it might be.

I lean forward, listening close; and there over the knock of my heartbeat is the sound.

And to take it further by using a suggestion from Strunk & White (and yes quite a bit of liberty).

I lean forward listening close; and there over the knock of my heartbeat is the sound.

The reader will put the pauses in and I'm fairly certain the lack of commas doesn't change the sentence; however it wouldn't be the first time I was wrong.

 

[Stuart Suffel]

Yes, I like this December. But you need to remove a few bits which is slowing the action down.And the first paragraph is a dangerous luxury. Pink means delete, green add, and blue is commentary.

Chapter One




Now don't get me wrong. Democracy might work wonderfully well wherever you're from, but over here, in the kingdom of Tyr? Its no different than two wolves and a sheep voting on what's for dinner. Why just look at the latest polls – a whooping 99.9% of Capitol city in favor of lobbing off king Karrad's head, and the other 0.1% not available for comment. Of course, they can't really comment when they're swinging from the branches of trees now can they? [nope. backstory in disguise]

Poor fools. Loyal to the king till the end. I'm loyal too, but I know better than to go around airing my opinion in public. [as before. no need for this backstory at all]I know to be careful. I know keep my head down. Like I'm doing now - quite literally - crouching by my bedroom window, breath held, peering out over the red tiled roofs and white picket fences of our little suburban community. Its quiet. Nothing moves in the faint morning light.

But I'd heard something, I could have sworn I did. I lean forward, listening close, and there, just over the knock of my heart beat, there's the sound. Its a rumble. The rumble of an engine in the distance - a rumble that gets louder and louder and has my fingers digging deeper and deeper into the window sill. The neighbor's dog starts to bark, the walls of my house start to shake, and I clench my jaw, knowing what's coming. But it can't be! Not today -

A bus swerves around the bend of our street, Mr. Halbert's big yellow bus, driven as if its a beast - sounding like one – snorting and screeching as it grinds to a halt in front of my house. The doors open with a hiss and Mr. Halbert blares the horn.

THUNK THUNK THUNK. A dozen figures, all wearing dark sweatshirts with hoods pulled down, file out. I catch the glint of metal. They twirl knives between their gloved fingers. Chains hang out from their pockets. The tallest and broadest of them comes out last and I take a careful step back into the darkness of my room so he won't be able to see me. He cracks his neck, side to side, and then without pause or even the slightest bit of hesitation, points right up at me as if i'm sitting across a table from him.

I jump back from the window, hands on the carpet, heart slamming. They'd found out. But how? Who could've told them?

The doorbell rings.

Crap.

I scramble to my dresser and sweep away the formation of royal soldiers with my hand. Tiny red painted infantry with their bayoneted rifles, and cavalry men on rearing steeds, sabers held aloft. They tumble into my clothes drawer and I slam it shut. [This threw me, quite a bit. You got big thuding boots on the way, and your hiding toy soldiers? hide incriminating evidence, for sure, but does it have to be toy soldiers? If they have to exist couldn't they exist later? It's such a strange juxtaposition.]

I hear my mum exclaim in surprise and then I hear Jorge, my stepdad, his voice muffled, but loud with excitement.

“He's upstairs – no, no, please, go right up!”

It was Jorge! The ******* had done me in! How many times had he wagged his fat finger in my face and threatened to snitch on me if I didn't get rid of all this stuff? He's actually done it! He's gone and told Prinicpal Vladoff that I'm a kingsman! Doesn't he know the consequences? Doesn't he know what they'll do to me -

THUD. THUD. THUD. Heavy boots climb the stairs.

I snatch the crimson and black royal flag from the wall and toss it behind the bed, and push the quilt over too because its embroidered with the same colors. The snowglobe of the royal palace, an arm patch of the 5th battalion and a rusted saber which I'd picked up from the royal fair last year. I dive around the room, sliding and snatching and throwing like a fielder in a ball game until everything is hidden.

There's a loud rap on the door.

“Coming!” I call out. [Maybe change this to 'Hold on a moment', or something. I read it as Come in, the subsequent paragraph therefore confusing me mightily. So I had to re-read. no fun. ]

Its just the poster left. The revolutionary guard who stands tall and proud, a titan of a man clad in an amalgamation of black kevlar and blazing gold plate. Its always been my dream to be a revolutionary guard, a peerless warrior sworn to the throne. Its why I belt out fifty pushups and twenty five knobby kneed squats under his steely gaze every morning. But now [now is not the time for that stuff] I pull out the pins, careful not to tear the paper, even though my hands are shaking and my heart is slamming away in my chest. I carry it with reverence.

“Locke!” booms a voice.

I tuck it away between my clothes and replace it with a poster of the General – the revolution's leader – sticking in the pins, and spinning away, hands innocent by my sides just as the door pushes open and the punk barges in.

He towers over me, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled back, but a black ski mask covering his face. It doesn't matter. Not many of my classmates are that size.[You're justifying a revelation yet to come here. no need, we'll buy the surprise without a pace slowing foreshadowing device]

“Hey Oskar.” I say, my voice betraying me and coming out high and hoarse. [the 'innocent' earlier and this is telling, and no need, as you're effectively showing ]

Oskar doesn't reply. He doesn't even look at me. Instead he looks at the room. He searches the room, head slowly turning. Then he comes forward, black hobnailed boots pushing the carpet in under his weight. I scoot out of the way as he draws [drew up or similar. present tense is showing through, very tricky to maintain, although probably suited to this chapter. I wouldn't continue with it though.] up by [beside] me [maybe full stop here and new sentence, as this action is important, and in stages of rising tension] and turns He turned to face the poster of the General.

I wait obediently, still in my boxers and undershirt, skinny limbs shivering in the morning cold. There's a poster of the General in every room in every building in Capitol city – hell, Jorge has one up in the tool shed out back as well.{ It became the norm soon after the General defected from the king's side and sparked off the revolution.} [personally I'd take out the whole preceding sentence. this is an action scene, any backstory is a risk]There's no rule about it or anything – but get caught without a poster on your wall and you're bound to be damned a king's man and end up in deep trouble.

The caption at the bottom of the poster, printed in big red words reads, 'DEMOCRACY OR DEATH!'

The General stars down from the poster [This also threw me. I thought the kid was nicknamed the general or something, but its the poster image]and points at me. His hard, grey eyes stare into mine. Its done in a way that no matter what angle you look at the poster, the general's eyes are always on you. [nope. you're already getting away with a long pause between action , i wouldn't push it] His jaws are clenched, his forehead is creased, and his brutish face is TORN AND PEPPERED WITH HOLES!?

My eyes pop open and I stiffen. CRAP.

The General's face is ruined. Ruined because my favorite pastime, when I'm lying in bed is to use his face as a bloody dartboard!

My fists clench. I can't take Oskar! But there's no choice. I have to strike now - before he can react - kick him between the legs, grab the knife he's twirling in his fingers - and then what? What about the other punks waiting down by the bus?

“You dare desecrate the General's visage [general's don't have visages, not even revered ones. they have faces]honor/face/image/?” growls Oskar, “Do you not know the punishment, Locke!?”

“I -” I open my mouth to stammer out a lame excuse – any excuse! That termites got at it – or that the pipes behind the wall leak water which made the paper porous. But there are a bunch of darts sitting right there on the dresser, in plain sight!

Oskar doesn't let me stammer out anything. He brings his knife up, a sharp and cruel thing that makes me step back. This is it. I'm sixteen years old and I'm going to be gutted in my own bedroom. I'm not going to let him do it so easily. Even though I'm about to wet myself, I get ready, muscles tensing, ready to spring and -

In a whirlwind of a second, Oskar spins around, knife hand shooting out straight. The knife whips forward and slams into the poster – smack in the middle of the General's forehead. It wobbles there and I stare, mouth agape not knowing what the hell is going. Oskar walks over and yanks the knife out of the wood.

The poster falls away, cloven in two and Oskar turns to me – and pulls of his mask – and holy hell! It isn't Oskar at all but Flannigan freaking Daley!!

“Flan!” I gasp, nearly bounding forward and hugging him in relief, “Oh my God!”


END

 

[allmywires]

I really like this - snappy and engaging, overall nicely done. My 2 comments have already been said but I'll say them anyway because I'm nothing if not a waffler ...

firstly, you can for sure cut the beginning paragraph - I skimmed it but you're in danger of losing people there if they get lost in the politics (or is that just me... always makes me zzzz). Start with the action, it zings along nicely and is a good fishhook in the ol' lip.

Secondly, agree with Brian that the end twist falls a little flat - why would he have gone through all that rigamarole if he's a friendly face? Seems like a scene that would look good in a movie but doesn't quite hold up to scrutiny on the page.

Good work, though.

 

[Toby Frost]

The main thing I'd say is that I think the illusion that the narrator is going to be arrested for subversion is allowed to go on slightly too long. Unless Oskar is a raging psycho who can get away with being such, waving a knife around feels oddly unprofessional. Also, assuming that Flan is a straight-up friend of the narrator, why does he continue to keep up the charade when he could have explained things earlier? Other than that, I think it works well (although I agree that the toy soldiers feel a bit strange).

 

[December88]

Thank you all for the responses! Definitely very encouraging!

I think the consensus is to remove the 1st/2nd para at the beginning. I was originally hoping that it might establish the MC's voice, and help carry it through the piece, but I realize that it is a cop out and definitely reads clumsy.

@tinker: I definitely get the comma thing. The thing is, i'm still very hesitant to use semi colons because I'm convinced Ill end up using them incorrectly. So I just spam commas, even in places where pauses might not be required. I'll take the advice though, and will definitely try and use them more sparingly!

@stuart: Thanks for pointing those little things out. Like Brian said, this needs a bit of tightening, and you've helped me start with your comments!

@everyone else: It seems you all unanimously agree that the 'twist' at the end doesn't work. I don't want to abandon it yet however. Flannigan is basically a 'big brother' character to the MC. He's carefree and is always seeking out a laugh even in the darkest of situations. I didn't want to set a 'very serious' tone to the scene, and ultimately the entire story, so even though its a bit of laughter now, the scene that follows goes back to being (or tries to at least), tense/have a sense of danger.

Actually, I think the way I set up the scene might have actually led you guys to expect something different from what actually follows. I've pasted a small part of the rest of the chapter below. If ya'all could take a look at it and let me know if it throws you off/ If you're not clear about what's happening etc... I'd be very grateful



Continuation...

Flannigan doubles over in laughter, staggering around like a cowboy who's been shot in the stomach. “You should have seen your face!” he breathes, “you were -”

“Ass!” I hiss, lunging at him, aiming a kick at where it'll really hurt, but he jumps to the side, chuckling away merrily, his blue eyes twinkling and his blond locks falling over his square face.

“An ass,” he says, knocking me on the chest with a finger, which I try and snatch but which he pulls away too quick and jabs me in the chest with, again, “who's saving your ass.”

“You scared the crap out of -” the bus horn blares cutting me off. It cuts his stupid chuckling off too.

His face gets serious. “Alright, time to move.”

“Wait, what's going on?” I ask, but he's already got my cupboard open, rummaging through it, and tossing me stuff, which I snatch out of the air, and hold stupidly, till he turns to me and motions with his hands to put on.

Torn up blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Just like him. Just like all my other classmates, who I peek out at. They're swinging their clubs around. They're ducking and shadowboxing and cracking their knuckles, like they're getting ready for a fight. By the bus stands principal Vladoff, tall, thin and grey, arms crossed, waiting patiently like a vulture.

“If you'd have attended school the past week you'd know what's going on.” says Flannigan, pulling open my drawers, then whistling when he spots my collection of soldiers. “Man, if they caught wind of this stuff, you'd be dangling from a tree before you could blink.”

I bloody well know what will happen if I'm caught with royal paraphernalia, I don't need Flannigan reminding me. “I didn't attend because I was sick.” I snap at him.

“Pretending to be sick.” Flannigan corrects, over his shoulder.

“Whatever,” I say, hands on my hips, “I wasn't going to help those crazies pull down the king's statue.” They would have done a lot worse too I know – the school library would have been burned because it housed thousands of volumes chronicling the kingdom's history, the trophy room looted because all the cups and plaques were wrought of pure gold, and I don't even want to think about what might have happened to professor Rictor, who's got actual royal blood in him. I can only hope he had some sense and stayed away.

“They pissed on the statue after they pulled it down. The girls too.” Flannigan stops his rummaging, as if he's thinking, then shrugs and adds, “And yeah – before you ask – so did I. I wouldn't have walked away with my balls if I didn't.”

My face twists in disgust. “Then you should have stayed home.”

Flannigan grunts. “What both of us missing? On the day the free students of The Royal Academy rose up and purged their sacred learning grounds of monarchist filth? Nah, if that was case then we'd both be in deep sh*t, instead of only you being in deep sh*t.”

My eyebrows jump. “I'm in deep sh*t?”

“You and Jorak.”, says Flannigan. “He didn't show up for a week either.” This time he turns around all the way to face me instead of calling over his shoulder. His face darkens. “We stopped by his house earlier. He refused to come down. “

Jorak the joker. The third in our secret little trifecta of king's men. When professor Vladoff talked about the atrocities committed by the king, and the class cried in anger, the three of us would too, but then we'd glance at each other and roll our eyes because we knew none of it was true. And when the class broke into cries of, “Democracy! Democracy!”, the three of us would join in too, but we'd wink at each other and snicker, because we'd actually be chanting, “Democrazy! Democrazy!”

“And?” I ask, heart sinking, because I know that Jorak is far too brave for his size.

Flannigan's mouth twitches a little, a sad smile, “And he shouted, long live the king.” He shakes his head.

“Flan?” I whisper, “They didn't -”

“No.” he says. “No.” He clears his throat. “They dragged him out, his family too, and they beat him black and blue. Torched the house and told them to get the hell out of Capitol city.”

I close my eyes. Madness. This revolution has been nothing but madness. We'd grown up together, all of us, from preschool to the tenth grade, and just like that, my classmates had turned on Jorak. And for what? Just because he didn't agree with them!

The bus horn blares, snapping my eyes open again.

“Now, if you don't want to end up like Jo, you'd better ready up pronto.” Says Flannigan.


***