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Thread: Chapter 1

  1. #1
    junel ;-)
    Guest

    Chapter 1

    Most of the first chapter of my WIP (minus the final two paragraphs, as I didn’t want to exceed the prescribed word-limit by too much).

    Let me know what ya’all-kind-folks think?


    ================================================== ===================================


    >>‘Please Richard,’ she pleaded, ‘let’s just get away and call the police.’

    >>But Sarah found herself alone, arms gripped around her trembling body, her face pale. And mumbling Ten Green Bottles.

    >>She pushed back her hair, and squinted into the heavy dawn winds. The Sun giving some clouds an orange glow.

    >>Sarah inched in stilettos to edge of the riverbank. But saw no sign of Richard below.

    >>‘Be careful.’ she mouthed.

    >>The tide of the vociferous Thames had gone out, and it had left one of it’s secrets - sprawled over sharp black rocks - behind. They knew what it must be, but Richard said they had to be sure: went down the algae-infested-steps.

    >>‘Just wait there.’ he shouted back. But felt the words forced back down his oesophagus.

    >>Richard was drowning in darkness under the pier; seeming the dull light at it’s end to be a supernova. There the inconspicuous bloated white island lay, amid a sea of dirty sodden soil, and licked by foamy water. He waded towards it.

    >>Slime from pillars coated his palms, and smart shoes sank into mud. Broken bottles winked in the growing bright, and giant earthworms wriggled: elongated sheaths. He heard the susurrus cries of carrier bags caught on rocks.

    >>A putrid smell wafted and Richard almost puked. He took off his suit jacket and held it to his nose. Before fearing nearer.

    >>Three more steps: he saw limbs; haphazardly strewn; as though had lazed the night sunbathing to the moon.

    >>Two more: saw a clown face.

    >>‘Richard,’ came the call from Sarah above, ‘are you okay?’

    >>‘@!#$,’ cried out Richard, ‘it’s her… I’ve seen her before… I’ve seen her in the newspapers.’ Richard was never a religious man, but he found himself whispering to the wind ‘God have mercy.’

    >>He puked.


    >>Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Waite arrived on the scene amid the silent blue flashing lights of Squad cars, parked to create a makeshift cordon.

    >>He closed his eyes, summoning the will to exit his car into the bitter morning. The chill snapping at his toes. The Sun like him: holding back as though it had drunk too much the night before.

    >>Two clinks and he opened his eyes again; saw Rhodes pressing his opened notepad on his window. He pointed to the passenger seat, thinking ‘this can’t be good for my ticker’

    >>’G-’ stopped Detective Constable Timothy Rhodes, ’morning Sir.’ said instead, as he slammed the door of Waite’s Ford Mondeo, and flicked through his notes. Good: there was nothing good about it. How does he do it? thought Waite; 06.17am and Rhodes must have been up a couples hours already to be here before him: big eyed and tail-wagging. His designer suit pristine, clean shaven and smelling of moisturiser. Waite smelt of cigarette smoke and whiskey, and his camel-trench-coat had seen better days. But then he imagined he was once like Rhodes too: when he first joined Murder Squad. Waite stared at Rhodes handling his notes like first prize won at Crufts, before turning to the drops of rain multiplying on his windscreen. He envied and pitied Rhodes at the same time.

    >>‘What we got?’

    >>‘Forensics just arrived…’ replied Rhodes, but Waite already knew that from the two unmarked cars in the mix of marked vehicles, one an estate. ‘The couple who found her, well, the gentleman thinks it’s our girl. Says he recognised her from the newspapers, if he‘s right, she can‘t have been dead for long-’

    >>‘That them?’ Waite nodded to the distance. A couple sat on the tailgate of an ambulance. An auburn haired woman held an arm around a blonde man with no shoes on his feet, and looking sheepish. They held polystyrene cups. A female uniform stood scribbling their statements.

    >>‘A Sarah and Richard Sanders from Southend,’ continued Rhodes, ‘young couple, married six months ago-’

    >>‘Still on their honeymoon.’

    >>‘They came for the weekend, saw Les Mis in Westend and ate at Amaya. Thought it would be romantic to walk along the embankment back to their hotel,’ he looked up and pointed with a biro towards Tower Bridge, ‘the Thistle. That’s when they spotted her, two hundred yards before they reached the hotel. For some reason, he decided to take a better look, went down there himself. Maybe he was trying to be macho in front of his new pretty wife? Forensics aren’t too pleased, taken his shoes,’ he paused, looked out, ‘to think, if they had taken a cab, they would be in their hotel bed now instead of seeing her face every time they close their eyes for the next few months.’

    >>‘If it weren’t them it would have been someone else,’ said Waite. He was sure Rhodes was pleased this was no longer a missing persons investigation. Sensing Rhodes was about to flick another page and continue, Waite spoke: ‘Let’s hope she jumped, huh?’ Rhodes looked puzzled, not sure if Waite wanted an answer.

    >>‘Listen,’ said Waite, leaned towards Rhodes, ‘find out for me where those cups of tea came from and get me one. Six sugars.’ Rhodes frowned, but tapped his notepad with the biro twice and placed them in the inside pocket of his jacket, before saying, ‘Sir.’ and exiting.

    >>Waite closed his eyes again. Counted to ten. Opened them. Took a Dunhill out from the pack on the dashboard, thought better of it, replaced it and heaved out of his car instead. Rain was still slow, and traffic, sporadic. He lifted his trousers up his bulging waistline, and sniffed the air. He smelt work.

    >>The early joggers, dog walkers and first commuters of the morning rush hour would soon start appearing, and Waite knew that could mean journalists and TV crews too. He wanted to work fast.

    >>The street sweepers were already out, collecting the remnants of another sinners night in London town. Waite was one too: a street sweeper. Three of them peered from in front of the Mayor‘s Office on the opposite side. A street sweeper: his wife would say.

    >>A homeless drank straggled on a bench flapped his arms about as Waite passed, as though this was all premeditated to inconvenience his sleep.

    >>He entered the cordon, uniforms nodding grimly, and a handful of sombre Sir‘s. A rookie was pale.

    >>‘Dismiss yourself son. Go let it out somewhere.’ Waite said.

    >>He stood at the top of the steps and saw on the black shore, the white paper bodies of forensics; looking like ghosts in the dull light of morning. Ghosts of the night milling to hide the horror before the world woke. The horrors of what we’re capable of inflicting on one-another. So that we could carry on our lives and not know. There was the news. But that was sanitised.

    >>And Waite knew it. He knew it too well. It slept and drank with him. Until his wife had left him, and his daughter: a stranger. A tent had already been erected. That always made it worse. Claustrophobic. And like a seedy-strippers-booth.



  2. #2
    Finnley Wren
    Guest

    Re: Chapter 1

    You're obviously having some fun with us.

    Hilarious.

  3. #3
    junel ;-)
    Guest

    Re: Chapter 1

    What's funny about it?

  4. #4
    Lea Zalas
    Guest

    Re: Chapter 1

    Is English a second language for you? You've misused a lot of words, and used a lot of words as gibberish descriptions.

  5. #5
    junel ;-)
    Guest

    Re: Chapter 1

    Well, it's minimalist writing.

    Move past the first section, just after 'He puked', when the first scene ends, and you should find a writing style more to your comfort. But I don't think you got that far, right?

    Point out the gibberish descriptions? it would be off help. But im assuming it's easy enough too figure whats going on?

  6. #6
    junel ;-)
    Guest

    Re: Chapter 1

    I didn't like the recommended layout of spaces inbetween lines. So I've posted again without spaces with a few minor changes that should have been there from the begining.

    ================================================== ===================================

    >>‘Please Richard,’ she pleaded, ‘let’s just get away and call the police.’
    >>But Sarah found herself alone, arms gripped around her trembling body, her face pale. And mumbling Ten Green Bottles.
    >>She pushed back her hair, and squinted into the heavy dawn winds. The Sun giving some clouds an orange glow.
    >>Sarah inched in stilettos to edge of the riverbank. But saw no sign of Richard below.
    >>‘Be careful.’ she mouthed.
    >>The tide of the vociferous Thames had gone out, and it had left one of it’s secrets - sprawled over sharp black rocks - behind. They knew what it must be, but Richard said they had to be sure: went down the algae-infested-steps.
    >>‘Just wait there.’ he shouted back. But felt the words forced back down his oesophagus.
    >>Richard was drowning in darkness under the pier; seeming the dull light at it’s end to be a supernova. There the inconspicuous bloated white island lay, amid a sea of dirty sodden soil, and licked by foamy water. He waded towards it.
    >>Slime from pillars coated his palms, and smart shoes sank into mud. Broken bottles winked in the growing bright, and giant earthworms - elongated sheaths - wriggled. He heard the susurrus cries of carrier bags caught on rocks.
    >>A putrid smell wafted and Richard almost puked. He took off his suit jacket and held it to his nose. Before fearing nearer.
    >>Three more steps: he saw limbs; haphazardly strewn; as though had lazed the night sunbathing to the moon.
    >>Two more: saw a clown face.
    >>‘Richard,’ came the call from Sarah above, ‘are you okay?’
    >>‘@!#$,’ cried out Richard, ‘it’s her… I’ve seen her before… I’ve seen her in the newspapers.’ Richard was never a religious man, but he found himself whispering to the wind ‘God have mercy.’
    >>He puked.

    >>Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Waite arrived on the scene amid the silent blue flashing lights of Squad cars, parked to create a makeshift cordon.
    >>He closed his eyes, summoning the will to exit his car and into the bitter morning. The chill snapping at his toes. The Sun like him: holding back as though it had drunk too much the night before.
    >>Two clinks and he opened his eyes again; saw Rhodes pressing his opened notepad on his window. He pointed to the passenger seat, thinking ‘this can’t be good for my ticker’
    >>’G-’ stopped Detective Constable Timothy Rhodes, ’morning Sir.’ said instead, as he slammed the door of Waite’s Ford Mondeo, and flicked through his notes. Good: there was nothing good about it. How does he do it? thought Waite; 06.17am and Rhodes must have been up a couples hours already to be here before him: big eyed and tail-wagging. His designer suit pristine, clean shaven and smelling of moisturiser. Waite smelt of cigarette smoke and whiskey, and his camel-trench-coat had seen better days. But then he imagined he was once like Rhodes too: when he first joined Murder Squad. Waite stared at Rhodes handling his notes like first prize won at Crufts, before turning to the drops of rain multiplying on his windscreen. He envied and pitied Rhodes at the same time.
    >>‘What we got?’
    >>‘Forensics just arrived…’ replied Rhodes, but Waite already knew that from the two unmarked cars in the mix of marked vehicles, one an estate. ‘The couple who found her, well, the gentleman thinks it’s our girl. Says he recognised her from the newspapers, if he‘s right, she can‘t have been dead for long-’
    >>‘That them?’ Waite nodded to the distance. A couple sat on the tailgate of an ambulance. An auburn haired woman held an arm around a blonde man with no shoes on his feet. He was looking sheepish. They held polystyrene cups. A female uniform stood scribbling their statements.
    >>‘A Sarah and Richard Sanders from Southend,’ continued Rhodes, ‘young couple, married six months ago-’
    >>‘Still on their honeymoon.’
    >>‘They came for the weekend, saw Les Mis in Westend and ate at Amaya. Thought it would be romantic to walk along the embankment back to their hotel,’ he looked up and pointed with a biro towards Tower Bridge, ‘the Thistle. That’s when they spotted her, two hundred yards before they reached the hotel. For some reason, he decided to take a better look, went down there himself. Maybe he was trying to be macho in front of his new pretty wife? Forensics aren’t too pleased, taken his shoes,’ he paused, looked out, ‘to think, if they had taken a cab, they would be in their hotel bed now instead of seeing her face every time they close their eyes for the next few months.’
    >>‘If it weren’t them it would have been someone else,’ said Waite. He was sure Rhodes was pleased this was no longer a missing persons investigation. Sensing Rhodes was about to flick another page and continue, Waite spoke: ‘Let’s hope she jumped, huh?’ Rhodes looked puzzled, not sure if Waite wanted an answer.
    >>‘Listen,’ said Waite, leaned towards Rhodes, ‘find out for me where those cups of tea came from and get me one. Six sugars.’ Rhodes frowned, but tapped his notepad with the biro twice and placed them in the inside pocket of his jacket, before saying, ‘Sir.’ and exiting.
    >>Waite closed his eyes again. Counted to ten. Opened them. Took a Dunhill out from the pack on the dashboard, thought better of it, replaced it and heaved out of his car instead. Rain was still slow, and traffic, sporadic. He lifted his trousers up his bulging waistline, and sniffed the air. He smelt work.
    >>The early joggers, dog walkers and first commuters of the morning rush hour would soon start appearing, and Waite knew that could mean journalists and TV crews too. He wanted to work fast.
    >>The street sweepers were already out, collecting the remnants of another sinners night in London town. Waite was one too: a street sweeper. Three of them peered from in front of the Mayor‘s Office on the opposite side. A street sweeper: his wife would say.
    >>A homeless drank straggled on a bench flapped his arms about as Waite passed, as though this was all premeditated to inconvenience his sleep.
    >>Waite entered the cordon, uniforms nodding grimly, and a handful of sombre Sir‘s. A rookie was pale.
    >>‘Dismiss yourself and go let it out somewhere.’ Waite said.
    >>He stood at the top of the steps, and saw on the black shore, the white paper bodies of forensics; looking like ghosts in the dull light of morning. Ghosts of the night milling to hide the horror before the world woke. The horrors of what we’re capable of inflicting on one-another. So that we could carry on our lives and not know. There was the news. But that was sanitised.
    >>And Waite knew it. He knew it too well. It slept and drank with him. Until his wife had left him, and his daughter: a stranger. A tent had already been erected. That always made it worse. Claustrophobic. And like a seedy-strippers-booth.

  7. #7
    Battle Angel
    Guest

    Re: Chapter 1

    "seeming the dull light at it’s end to be a supernova"

    This is one example of why English may be a second language for you.

    As for the rest, try using some pronouns instead of their names over and over again. Sorry, that's all I got.

  8. #8
    junel ;-)
    Guest

    Re: Chapter 1

    "seeming the dull light at it’s end to be a supernova"

    This is one example of why English may be a second language for you.


    Whats wrong with that? It works, makes perfect sense. It's a good strong image i think.

    The sentence in full:

    Richard was drowning in darkness under the pier; seeming the dull light at it’s end to be a supernova.

    It works does it not?

  9. #9
    Lea Zalas
    Guest

    Re: Chapter 1

    * Richard was drowning in darkness under the pier; seeming the dull light at it’s end to be a supernova.

    No, like Battle Angel said, this does not work and it is not a good strong image. Seeming what? Do you mean 'seeing'? Supernova is too strong a description, supernovas are blinding. Besides there is usually light all around the perimeter of a pier.

    * The street sweepers were already out, collecting the remnants of another sinners night in London town. Waite was one too: a street sweeper. Three of them peered from in front of the Mayor‘s Office on the opposite side. A street sweeper: his wife would say.

    Sinner's or sinners'? It might read better to say 'the remnants of another sin-filled night in London town. Why would his wife say, a street sweeper? Doesn't make sense.

    * He stood at the top of the steps, and saw on the black shore, the white paper bodies of forensics; looking like ghosts in the dull light of morning. Ghosts of the night milling to hide the horror before the world woke.

    Again, punctuation is wrong. It shouldn't be the 'paper bodies' it should be 'paper-clad bodies of the forensics team'. Ghosts of the night or the morning? Choose one or the other.

    * Until his wife had left him, and his daughter: a stranger. A tent had already been erected. That always made it worse. Claustrophobic. And like a seedy-strippers-booth.

    Did you mean, 'His wife had left him and it had been so long since he'd seen his daughter she had become a virtual stranger to him?' The sentence you wrote doesn't make sense. And why is a forensics tent like a seedy strippers booth. Not a good comparison, unless the forensics team has a dancer in their tent.

    These are reasons why I believe English is not your first language. Your puntuation and your word order is wrong. You need to study English some more. This may be a good story, but until these problems are fixed it's really hard to concentrate on what you've written. And spacing between paragraphs makes it easier to read. If you're going to continue to make it hard to read, not many people are going to try to work through.

  10. #10
    Joe Zeff
    Guest

    Re: Chapter 1

    In the first four lines, I counted three sentence fragments.

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