What do you consider of this prologue?
Hmm, well, I don't think it really matters but I'm turning fourteen the daytime after tomorrow, but don't take that into account. Please critique properly unless you think I'm stephen king contained by minor, which I doubt I am. Thank you.
I remembered the pitter-patter of the rain against the soil on the dew-coated grass of a distant rainforest, the home I never knew. A voice faded with discomfort and exhaustion whispered in my ear, it hurt listening to it but I squirmed a short time in my mother’s hands as she gently thumbed blood away from my eyes.
Although too childlike to sense proper fear I could feel it radiating through my mother’s soft, shining skin. I started choking and cried greedily, wailing for milk and warmth. Hungry, dirty and cold, my mother run a hand through the heavy hair on my forehead and curled me up contained by a blue robe, I giggled softly at the sudden warmth and tugged at the blanket with my miniature fingers.
I clung onto her robe as she battle through the mess of green vines, through my eyes at that time I had little knowing of the danger I stood in, for it be all a pretty green painting hung up in my bedroom. My mother be still humming but there were moments when her voice cracked up with dull pain, although I had little knowing of it -she was going to die. I heard a roar within the distance and I whimpered, retrieved my unfound bravery then wailed loudly, next to a quick rush of panic, she brought a long, soft finger to my lips and tried to stop me from crying out any louder.
“Hush, my tot.” She said stroking one of my cheeks. “Hush, Leonardo,” I whimpered as a stronger wind blew and her face lost the little colour it have left. “Good bye, my love. Fate will wind our paths together,” she said, smartly kissing my cold forehead and laying me on the ground, leaving then looking around hastily, a few strands of blonde hair I had gotten from her jumping up and down from beneath the hood of the green robe she have on.
The wind howled, in my head, my mother’s soft, loving voice echo but inside, a part of me thrived to break through, a battle was wage in my heart, but the further away my mother ran, the more I pushed the strong part down, until it be down at the pit of my soul, buried forever- or so I thought.
I could hear creatures prowling in the distance, and I started to feel that something had vanished me. Left me forever. I cried out loud in pain, my lead throbbing, these matters were above me at this age. I gave past its sell-by date a loud wail. Wanting a warm embrace from my mother’s silk hands, but all I feel was the spiky grass, dripping with dew and the now showery, icy robe wetting my small neck and my hair.
I squinted, my already tiny eyes shrinking but shrubs own blocked all the surrounding light out and the low hanging trees irritated my verbs so I was left to hover in the murkiness. If I had been six or seven years old, or possibly even five, I would have known better than to scream and see and shout. But I was no more than a red faced boy with double the amount of spine another child would have and I was in no current position to chew over or put up a fight against the unknown.
I could feel a monster.
As the long blood-soaked fingers stained the perfectly blue blanket and lift the baby off the ground, I saw the killer who would den my first nightmares, the killer who would eat away at my life. I finally quieted down, very soon convinced that I was in no position to scream.
Alright, I know in the order of the speech thing, and I'm going to edit that. I also know about the unconvincing punctuation, I'll edit that too. I was just wondering what you thought of the style.
QUESTIONS:
Do you approaching it?
Do you want to know what happens next?
Do you want to kick me?
Would you buy the book?
Would you buy the book if it be titled "The Strings of Death"?
Answers:
really good descriptive words
You wouldn't have said your age, if you really didn't think it mattered, and you are right in the region of not being a little Stephen King. Nevertheless, good luck near editing your story.
yes i close to it very much, some good descriptive words there.
hell yeah i want to know, what happen next by the way??
no i don't want to kick you.
to be honest i wouldn't buy the book, as it would be a fundamentally short book indeed.
hope my answer helps
:)
o my goodness that is really well-mannered great descriptiveness. I am not really a horror story type of girl but that is intriguing and i really want to read more of it. I myself am i writer take this from someone who knows what they are chitchat about it is really good and you should write more and try to get that published <3 Dani
Wow! I think that's really amazing. It seems like a story I intuitively would really be interested in reading. You have talent, I'll give you that. I am a writer, too, and I contemplate you should continue this one. And I agree, you should try to get it published. That's a really good title, by the course.
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Themes on EXAMINATION DAY by Henry Slesar?
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Who are the well brought-up story writers and poets contained by Bangladesh?
taslima nasreen I think that its best to refer to poets and writers from what is now Bangladesh, as Bengali, rather than Bangladeshi. Not to kind that distinction would mean that the most famous Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore would have to be excluded, because his works preceded the establishment...
I remembered the pitter-patter of the rain against the soil on the dew-coated grass of a distant rainforest, the home I never knew. A voice faded with discomfort and exhaustion whispered in my ear, it hurt listening to it but I squirmed a short time in my mother’s hands as she gently thumbed blood away from my eyes.
Although too childlike to sense proper fear I could feel it radiating through my mother’s soft, shining skin. I started choking and cried greedily, wailing for milk and warmth. Hungry, dirty and cold, my mother run a hand through the heavy hair on my forehead and curled me up contained by a blue robe, I giggled softly at the sudden warmth and tugged at the blanket with my miniature fingers.
I clung onto her robe as she battle through the mess of green vines, through my eyes at that time I had little knowing of the danger I stood in, for it be all a pretty green painting hung up in my bedroom. My mother be still humming but there were moments when her voice cracked up with dull pain, although I had little knowing of it -she was going to die. I heard a roar within the distance and I whimpered, retrieved my unfound bravery then wailed loudly, next to a quick rush of panic, she brought a long, soft finger to my lips and tried to stop me from crying out any louder.
“Hush, my tot.” She said stroking one of my cheeks. “Hush, Leonardo,” I whimpered as a stronger wind blew and her face lost the little colour it have left. “Good bye, my love. Fate will wind our paths together,” she said, smartly kissing my cold forehead and laying me on the ground, leaving then looking around hastily, a few strands of blonde hair I had gotten from her jumping up and down from beneath the hood of the green robe she have on.
The wind howled, in my head, my mother’s soft, loving voice echo but inside, a part of me thrived to break through, a battle was wage in my heart, but the further away my mother ran, the more I pushed the strong part down, until it be down at the pit of my soul, buried forever- or so I thought.
I could hear creatures prowling in the distance, and I started to feel that something had vanished me. Left me forever. I cried out loud in pain, my lead throbbing, these matters were above me at this age. I gave past its sell-by date a loud wail. Wanting a warm embrace from my mother’s silk hands, but all I feel was the spiky grass, dripping with dew and the now showery, icy robe wetting my small neck and my hair.
I squinted, my already tiny eyes shrinking but shrubs own blocked all the surrounding light out and the low hanging trees irritated my verbs so I was left to hover in the murkiness. If I had been six or seven years old, or possibly even five, I would have known better than to scream and see and shout. But I was no more than a red faced boy with double the amount of spine another child would have and I was in no current position to chew over or put up a fight against the unknown.
I could feel a monster.
As the long blood-soaked fingers stained the perfectly blue blanket and lift the baby off the ground, I saw the killer who would den my first nightmares, the killer who would eat away at my life. I finally quieted down, very soon convinced that I was in no position to scream.
Alright, I know in the order of the speech thing, and I'm going to edit that. I also know about the unconvincing punctuation, I'll edit that too. I was just wondering what you thought of the style.
QUESTIONS:
Do you approaching it?
Do you want to know what happens next?
Do you want to kick me?
Would you buy the book?
Would you buy the book if it be titled "The Strings of Death"?
Answers:
really good descriptive words
You wouldn't have said your age, if you really didn't think it mattered, and you are right in the region of not being a little Stephen King. Nevertheless, good luck near editing your story.
yes i close to it very much, some good descriptive words there.
hell yeah i want to know, what happen next by the way??
no i don't want to kick you.
to be honest i wouldn't buy the book, as it would be a fundamentally short book indeed.
hope my answer helps
:)
o my goodness that is really well-mannered great descriptiveness. I am not really a horror story type of girl but that is intriguing and i really want to read more of it. I myself am i writer take this from someone who knows what they are chitchat about it is really good and you should write more and try to get that published <3 Dani
Wow! I think that's really amazing. It seems like a story I intuitively would really be interested in reading. You have talent, I'll give you that. I am a writer, too, and I contemplate you should continue this one. And I agree, you should try to get it published. That's a really good title, by the course.
Related Questions:
Themes on EXAMINATION DAY by Henry Slesar?
anything? There are two main themes in nouns day by Henry SlesarThe Government's intense controlie the examination itself shows how much power the government have over its citizens, control of media and education (evidence of which is the government daily Dickie's father was reading and his inability to correctly answer Dickie's questions)Importance of intelligence in societyThis...
Who are the well brought-up story writers and poets contained by Bangladesh?
taslima nasreen I think that its best to refer to poets and writers from what is now Bangladesh, as Bengali, rather than Bangladeshi. Not to kind that distinction would mean that the most famous Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore would have to be excluded, because his works preceded the establishment...