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A collection of snippets of the books I write and, occasionally, my life and the things that inspire my writing...

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

First Page Review Blog-hop


This post is part of the First Page Review bloghop. The idea is simple. On your own blog, post your first 1,000 words of something you're writing or have written then sign up on this page,linking your 1,000 word post. Visit other people on the list and read theirs, then leave a comment to let them know if you liked it, what worked, what didn't, and if you'd keep reading.

Chapter 1 Journal entry  May 18

   

     Two years is a long time to not exist. At least to not exist on Earth.  Technically, I was missing, but I may as well have not existed since I have no memories to explain where I went, or where I was.  I’ll get right to the nuts and bolts of it. I was one of those “vanished without a trace” stories. The rub is, I returned without a trace, too. One minute, I was in a park playing hide and seek with my two year old, and the next I was in the desert alone. I’d just given birth. 
     I’m not a liar. And that’s exactly what I told the police when they found me.  For all the good that did. They focused on me. On me! Instead of trying to find the person who took my newborn.

     I could cry, but there aren’t any tears left. Just confusion, and anger.  Oh, and the dreams that pretend to be memories.

     Are you sure about this—I mean, are you really sure you know what you’re getting yourself into Rayanne? I’ll never be right until I find that baby. I’ll never be right until Ted lets me see Gavin. I need to get my life back.

***
Marissa closed the journal Rayanne had given her, then slid it into her backpack. The late-afternoon sun reflected on the water as she picked her way along the riverbank toward the crumbling, red-brick factory she called home. She didn’t know how long she’d have it—her pauper’s refuge. They were vanishing faster than age and neglect could replace them. City revitalization—a blessing and a curse.
Turning away from the river, she followed the sidewalk toward busy streets full of women in high heels and men in business suits. Where did they go? To dinner, on dates, to gyms? “Home.” The word caught in her throat, cutting through her the whole way to her heart. She wondered how many people treasured it the way she knew she would if she ever had a real home.
A bus pulled up next to her, its brakes puffing and hissing as it came to a stop. The doors folded open like floodgates, spilling passengers onto the sidewalk; they zigged and zagged, avoiding the herd of people rushing into the bus. It was a crazy sort of dance these commuters did every day. She was on track to be one of them, a lifetime ago. The bus lumbered away, swallowing her in  a cloud of smoke and stink.
As she meandered  from Allegheny Center toward the stadiums, an endless stream of people avoided her. Just as well. Clearing the crowd made it easier to slip behind the hot dog shop and rifle through their garbage.
It was a good day; she had a lucky find. Must have been slow sales, and they’d tossed out a dozen over-cooked hot dogs. No buns, but food was food. She wished she had the nerve to go inside and grab a couple packets of mustard. Just the thought made her mouth water. But it also made her cringe—thinking about the looks she’d get, no doubt meant to discourage her from being inside.
She tucked her bounty—all twelve of the hot dogs, into a scavenged shopping bag and put them in her backpack. Her stomach growled, but there’d be a better place than this to eat them. In this world—the world of the homeless and the desperately hungry, a food squabble might not get anyone killed. But too often, someone ended up bleeding and bruised.
An hour later, in her home—the third floor office of the dilapidated factory, she sat on the sill of the open window watching the river laze by. Somewhere upstream a train whistled, shattering her darkening world with a sound so lonesome she thought of the dead bell in the  church at Somerset. Moments later, the powerful diesels roared past, shaking her where she perched.
The first hot dog evaporated in her mouth. She didn’t slow down until she was on her third. As she chewed the fourth, she felt sort of queasy, unsure if it would stay down if she swallowed it. But it made no sense to not eat them as quickly as possible. It wasn’t as if she had a fridge to put them in. After twisting the shopping bag around the rest, she placed them in an old rusted file drawer. It wasn’t mouse-proof, but it’d at least keep the rats out of her breakfast.
Her bed, no more than a pile of dirty rags, old coats, and a tattered blanket felt welcoming as her tired bones relaxed into it. Survival was hard work. She rolled onto her side and gazed out the window, her eyes adjusting to the deepening night. The few brightest stars appeared. Looking at them, she was overcome with hope.
Maybe this time. Maybe Rayanne was right. Gavin, her missing baby, a job, looking in a mirror without shame staring back. Her life. “Please…if there is a god--and you’re  listening, help me find my way back to the world of the sane.”
Her eyes grew heavy. Her fists were curled tightly beneath her chin when her breaths came even and deep. Sleep took her.

Chapter 2: To Dream or Not to Dream?
Marissa didn’t dare chance the movement that taking a breath would cause. Huddling in a cloak of motionless and soundless fear, she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to vanish. If only willing it were enough. She needed to wake up, right away. But she couldn’t. Maybe it was really happening?  Please let it be a dream.She opened her eyes when she felt something nudge her. Tucked in next to her, an old woman in tattered clothing turned green eyes her way. The wrinkled face softened as she whispered, “It is a dream, Rissa. But you must know these things; you must remember."
             Marissa turned her head toward the sound of steps. Before her, rage burned in a woman’s eyes where she paced mere inches from Marissa’s hiding place. The woman’s boots made a trail where she shuffled dust and grit on the worn, wood floor. Her voice, a screeching complaint, made the hair on Marissa’s neck stand on end. “ Her fists clenched at her sides when she said, "A king must be of untainted blood.”

26 comments:

  1. Wow! Very intense and vivid opening. I sense something weird going on, especially with that cryptic utterance at the end of this piece.

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  2. Thanks, Ian! I think I've rewritten it a hundred times. :-) I'm absolutely blind to it at this point. Are you going to give it a try? :-)

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  3. Wow is truly the reaction to reading this piece. You grabbed me in right away and I felt as if I were sitting next to her as she gobbled the hot dogs. I am still shivering about the old lady - was it a dream or was it real? Yes, I definitely would keep reading.

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    1. Thanks, Chelle. That's the big thing. I want the reader to question her version of reality. ;-)

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  4. Plot is definitely one of my own personal weaknesses, and since that is your primary question, I don't know how helpful this will be :$ I thought this was interesting. You set up an interesting situation where the reader only knows a bit of what is going on, but there's enough so that it isn't confusing. Although I will say that knowing the genre would lead to a different interpretation of events. If this was literature I would think Marissa turned to drugs after a traumatic experience (including and perhaps more than losing her baby), and she has PTSD. If it were fantasy, then I would make different assumptions. There were a few lines I would rephrase or delete, but overall it was well written :)

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    1. Thanks, Paper Butterfly. After rewriting so many times, I've lost perspective. At the end of October I'm going to do a rewrite and not look at it until January then. :-) Perhaps some distance will help. :-)

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  5. Captivated and appalled at the situation, I read this heartbroken for the main character. You enrich the story with all the senses. Yes, I want to read on. Already she's in my prayers, this orphan of the world.

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    1. Thanks, Charmaine. I'm so glad it resonated with you. ;-)

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  6. Here is the hook for me:" in her home—the third floor office of the dilapidated factory, she sat on the sill of the open window watching the river laze by. Somewhere upstream a train whistled, shattering her darkening world with a sound so lonesome she thought of the dead bell in the church at Somerset. Moments later, the powerful diesels roared past, shaking her where she perched.
    The first hot dog evaporated in her mouth. She didn’t slow down until she was on her third. As she chewed the fourth, she felt sort of queasy, unsure if it would stay down if she swallowed it."

    Maybe this could be closer to the top rather than starting a book with a journal entry? Just a thought. First read through, I didn't make it to the hot dogs. Then I read some of the comments and tried it again.

    I like the story. How she got into this state and what happens to her is the plot?

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    1. Excellent observation, Chip. The original draft--which family and friends loved, started right in the action. I will have to rethink this. Again. :-) Thank you!

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  7. Wow, Teresa, the opening from the diary grabbed me right away: what happened to her? how could she be separated from her baby? I absolutely love the image "dreams that pretend to be memories." Your opening gives a glimpse into a decaying world and leaves open questions for me to want to keep reading so I can find out more! well done.

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    1. Elena, thank you so much. I changed my first few sentences after reading Chip's comment. Now I wonder about the rest--after the journal entry. Thanks again for visiting and your encouraging words. I'll be by to read yours in a bit. :-)

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  8. Loved the hotdogs bit (and yes, I'm pretty sure plastic-bag bunless, mustardless hotdogs would still make my mouth water) and I'd like to know what's going to go down...

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    1. Thanks for taking the time to read it and to comment, D.R. :-) Going to give it a try?

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  9. You had me from the first line AND the fact that it was a journal entry. I've journaled all my life and I KNOW the amazing things you can find in them. I'm also a scifi/fantasy fan, and you certainly whet both those whistles. Your use of sensory detail was exceptional. I would read this story in a heartbeat. (Calensariel - Impromptu Promptlings)

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    1. Thanks, Calen, for your encouragement. I'm so glad you found this bloghop, and thanks for signing up! :-)

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  10. Teresa, I love sci-fi books, correction, good sci-fi books, and I have to say, yours sounds excellent. I want more, I was hooked just in reading this page and I've looked you up on Amazon, but I can't find your book! Is it under your name? Have you ever read "Parable of the Sower?" It's my favorite book ever. I would put this opening right up there with that book. Can't wait to read more about Marissa and to find out what's going on in her world. Love it!

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    1. Thanks for your encouraging words, Neva. It's a WIP. I really hope to have it published by next spring. Lots of work to do on it yet. :-) Thanks for doing the FPR bloghop! :-)

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    2. No problem. I love it and the bloghop! I mentioned it on a few Goodreads boards and on Twitter, hopefully we'll get a few more people. ;)

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    3. Neva, thanks for mentioning it. :-)

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  11. This is a fantastic opening! First the mysterious journal entry with so much tragedy in so few words, and then Marissa's unconventional and frightening circumstances. There's a real sense of jeopardy here. I definitely want to read more!

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    1. :-) I'm so tickled to read those words, Christina. :-) Thank you!

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  12. Sorry to repost, but for some reason my avatar does not redirect to my Word Press blog where I posted my 1000 words for the blog hop. And the Select Profile option doesn't believe I have a blog called Impromptu Promptlings. Go figure. So here's the link to my entry, Glencara's Bane. I hope you'll stop by. Thanks so much. Calen~

    http://promptlings.wordpress.com/2014/10/15/glencaras-bane/

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    1. Hi, Calen, ;-) Hmm, I see that one blog is "Blogger" and the other is "Wordpress". They are competing and some of the time, they don't play nice together.

      This might work: log out of Blogger and out of anything that Google owns (such as Google+) then make sure that you're logged into Wordpress. Try commenting on a Google (Blogger) blog. Sometimes that works.

      I have a blog with both of them too. If I am signed into both at the same time, when I comment on a Blogger, then that profile is the default. If I comment on a Wordpress blog, then that becomes the default redirect profile. :-)

      I'm glad you're doing the FPR. I have a crazy busy week in the real world, but I'll get back to this first of the week and give your First Page a read!

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  13. "Two years is a long time to not exist" Boom. I find this intro just as engaging now as I did two years ago when you first sent me this section. The threepart structure consorts well with each other, as each layer gives just the right amount of information and pushes the narrative forwards. And it shows off how complex this is! I get the feeling that everything "serves" the story as well, hah, and I dare saying that although I don't know how it ends. I really hope you do publish this story, such great potential shouldn't go unpublished. :)

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    1. It's been such a long road, dearie. The first story I ever wrote. My mom loved it and cheered me on toward trying to get it published. I cringe now, thinking how poorly written it was. Almost 10 years ago... wow. I think I might be getting close to where it needs to be to make it happen. Thank you so much for reading it and sharing encouraging words. :-)

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