Welcome to Paradise.

[anthorn]

first half of chapter one. Basically just character introductions at this time. First draft written in one sitting.
Probably filled with mistakes.
(most likely)

Rain, rain, and more rain.


It was a great start to the holidays, but then this was England, so he couldn’t be too mad. What he was mad about was the fact he was spending it with his family in some crappy resort. Fun Land they called it, and by the leaflet he’d seen he knew it to be a place best suited to the old and the morons believing McDonalds qualified as a restaurant.



Fun Land stood in some remote part of the countryside with plastic palm trees decorating the roadside and sand pits imitating a beach by the pool. As the coach lumbered up the winding road Greg Tanner poked his head into the isle of the bus to get a better look at the place. It was hideous, at least by his standards, and the building seemed as though it was trying to look like a hotel but not quite succeeding. His impressions didn’t improve as they pulled into the driveway, and he smirked at the security guard standing by the door. As if anyone would steal from this place.


“Welcome to Paradise,” said the man not at all sarcastically.


Inside the lobby the manager of the resort, a short woman with blue eyes and blond hair, stopped them and grinned. “Welcome to Fun Land, the premier family holiday destination in the northeast of England. I hope you enjoy your stay, and please if you have any queries, do ask. Oh, and before you go, please let me tell you about our entertainment. For the old folks we have world-renowned crooner, Sammy Devlin and he is here for one week only. For the younger generation we have X-Factor finalist David Romero. Any questions?”


“Yeah I have one. How do we get the hell out of here,” said Greg, or he would have done had his father’s meaty hand not clamped down on his shoulder at that point. Glumly he followed the resort staff leading them to their rooms.

#​

“Are you just going to lie there all day?” asked his dad.


“Yep, and to your next question I answer yep again.”


“You can’t stay here all day, love,” said his mother, turning away to count how many clothes hangers there were in the wardrobe. “David Romero is singing tonight, you love him don’t you?”


Greg rolled his eyes, then continued to stare at the cream coloured roof. “No, I like proper music; good music.”


“Well I like him,” said dad.


“My point exactly. I didn’t even want to come here anyways!”


The dynamic of the bed shifted slightly as his dad sat beside him. “I know son, but times are hard these days. I would’ve liked to have gone to Spain again too. Life isn’t fair Greg and for that I am sorry. Now, don’t leave this room until me and your mother gets back, we are going to explore.”


“Fine.”


Hours passed, or maybe just one hour, as he was never that good at telling time. Greg sat up, reaching for the television remote and turning it to channel one. “Welcome to BBC news,” said the newswoman, shifting her papers nervously. “Our headlines are; now with the manager of Manchester United stepping down, England’s chances in the world cup are thrown into doubt; and two months on; the world after the vaccine.”


He switched it off, yawned, stood, and stretched his limbs out. He pulled the curtains back and gazed on an empty pool before a noise from outside drew his attention. Poking his head out the door he looked left and right. As he turned his head a door swung open and a woman with ebony black skin stormed out of the room. “f*ck off you ****!” she said loudly. “I’m your bodyguard not your whore!”


He waited until she had passed before he whistled. The woman turned, her face a block of stone. “Some men are idiots aren’t they?” he said, trying his luck. “Don’t know how to treat a lady.”


“And you do?” she replied, walking slowly toward him.



“I have been known to treat a lady right, got no complaints.”



“Tell me more,” she said, coming even closer, until she was close enough that he could smell her perfume.


“Well, you got to treat them nicely, don’t ya. You have to treat them like a…a…Like a fine wine!”


She leaned in close and now her breasts were inches from his face, her lips brushing his ear. “Even in your wildest dreams you could not have a girl like me,” she said, scornfully. “f*ck off and go play in the sandbox kid.”



And like that she was gone, sauntering off down the hall and vanishing around the corner. Red faced, Greg slammed the door shut and tried not to cry.


This was the worst holiday ever.

#​

She had probably been too mean with the kid but she was too angry to care. Making her way to the bar, she quickly ordered a vodka and tonic and sat at the far corner away from everyone. Holidays were the worst kind of days, especially when she was forced to accompany her clients to areas filled with tourists. Abeke tried to hide the grimace across her face but failed as she watched a man swaying back and forth around the bar. He was dressed in garish jewellery and white shorts and skintight top to show his muscles.



“Hey I know you,” called a slightly slurred voice from behind her.


She ignored him.


“Hey! I said I know you. You’re Abeke aren’t ya? Abeke the killer.”


Now she did turn her head. The man peering over the booth had a poorly kept Mohawk and a goatee that was just as scraggly. “Wrong Abeke, but then I hear we all look the same to you white folk.”


“Nah, I’m right. You’re the Abeke alright.”


“If I tell you yes will you leave me be?”


“I’ll take that as a yes then shall I? You can call me Michael. Michael Tarver.”


“I shall call you dickhead.”


There came a pause, then, he said. “You’re not a friendly person are you? Fine, I am sorry for being sociable.”


Abeke sighed. “I’m sorry. I am just having one of those days, Michael Tarver.”


“Oh I understand that,” he said sympathetically as he clambered over to sit beside her. “These days you’re lucky to have a good day; but then they invented alcohol for that.”


“Hmm.”


“So are you her?” he asked.


She looked down at her drink. “Yes I am her.”


He slapped her on the back, grinning. “Then why so sad? You killed a paedophile and in this country you’d have the Daily Mail calling you a hero, y’know, if you weren’t black, n’all.”


She took a deep breath, for even after all these years it was still hard to talk about. “Because,” she began. “That man was my father.”

 

[Grimbear]

first half of chapter one. Basically just character introductions at this time. First draft written in one sitting.
Probably filled with mistakes.
(most likely)

Rain, rain, and more rain.


It was a great start to the holidays, but then this was England, so he couldn’t be too mad. What he was mad about was the fact he was spending it with his family in some crappy resort. Fun Land they called it, and by the leaflet he’d seen he knew it to be a place best suited to the old and the morons believing McDonalds qualified as a restaurant. ...suited to the old, and to morons who thought McDonalds was a restaurant? imo the sentence is a bit clunky as it is.


Fun Land stood in some remote part of the countryside with plastic palm trees decorating the roadside and sand pits imitating a beach by the pool. As the coach lumbered up the winding road Greg Tanner poked his head into the isle (aisle?) of the bus to get a better look at the place. It was hideous, at least by his standards, (remove 'at least by his standards'?) and the building seemed as though it was trying to look like a hotel but not quite succeeding. His impressions didn’t improve as they pulled into the driveway, and he smirked at the security guard standing by the door. As if anyone would steal from this place.


“Welcome to Paradise,” said the man , not at all sarcastically.


Inside the lobby the manager of the resort, a short woman with blue eyes and blond hair, stopped them and grinned. “Welcome to Fun Land, the premier family holiday destination in the northeast of England. I hope you enjoy your stay, and please if you have any queries, do ask. Oh, and before you go, please let me tell you about our entertainment. For the old folks Would she say 'old folks'? Maybe leave that part out - although 'younger generation' is fine we have world-renowned crooner, Sammy Devlin and he is here for one week only. For the younger generation we have X-Factor finalist David Romero. Any questions?”


“Yeah I have one. How do we get the hell out of here,” said Greg, or he would have done had his father’s meaty hand not clamped down on his shoulder at that point. Glumly he followed the resort staff leading them to their rooms.

#​

“Are you just going to lie there all day?” asked his dad.


“Yep, and to your next question I answer yep again.”


“You can’t stay here all day, love,” said his mother, turning away to count how many clothes hangers there were in the wardrobe. “David Romero is singing tonight, you love him don’t you?”


Greg rolled his eyes, then continued to stare at the cream coloured roof. “No, I like proper music; good music.”


“Well I like him,” said dad. When using 'Dad' as a name it should have a capital letter


“My point exactly. I didn’t even want to come here anyways!”


The dynamic of the bed shifted slightly as his dad sat beside him. “I know son, but times are hard these days. I would’ve liked to have gone to Spain again too. Life isn’t fair Greg, and for that I am sorry. Now, don’t leave this room until me and your mother gets get? back, we are going to explore.”


“Fine.”


Hours passed, or maybe just one hour, as he was never that good at telling time. I like thatGreg sat up, reaching for the television remote and turning it to channel one. “Welcome to BBC news,” said the newswoman, shifting her papers nervously. “Our headlines are; now with the manager of Manchester United stepping down, England’s chances in the world cup are thrown into doubt; and two months on; the world after the vaccine.”


He switched it off, yawned, stood, and stretched his limbs out (this reads a bit weird - just say 'stretched'?). He pulled the curtains back and gazed on an empty pool before a noise from outside drew his attention. Poking his head out the door he looked left and right. As he turned his head a door swung open and a woman with ebony black skin stormed out of the room. “f*ck off you ****!” she said loudly. “I’m your bodyguard not your whore!”


He waited until she had passed before he whistled. The woman turned, her face a block of stone. “Some men are idiots aren’t they?” he said, trying his luck. “Don’t know how to treat a lady.”


“And you do?” she replied, walking slowly toward him.



“I have been known to treat a lady right, got no complaints.”



“Tell me more,” she said, coming even closer, until she was close enough that he could smell her perfume.


“Well, you got to treat them nicely, don’t ya. You have to treat them like a…a…Like a fine wine!”


She leaned in close and now her breasts were inches from his face, her lips brushing his ear. “Even in your wildest dreams you could not have a girl like me,” she said, scornfully. “f*ck off and go play in the sandbox , kid.”



And like that she was gone, sauntering off down the hall and vanishing around the corner. Red faced, Greg slammed the door shut and tried not to cry.


This was the worst holiday ever.

#​

She had probably been too mean with the kid but she was too angry to care. Making her way to the bar, she quickly you don't need 'quickly' ordered a vodka and tonic and sat at the far corner away from everyone. Holidays were the worst kind of days, especially when she was forced to accompany her clients to areas filled with tourists. Abeke tried to hide the grimace across her face but failed as she watched a man swaying back and forth around the bar. He was dressed in garish jewellery and (comma here not 'and') white shorts and skintight top to show his muscles.



“Hey I know you,” called a slightly slurred voice from behind her.


She ignored him.


“Hey! I said I know you. You’re Abeke aren’t ya? Abeke the killer.”


Now she did turn her head. The man peering over the booth had a poorly kept Mohawk and a goatee that was just as scraggly. “Wrong Abeke, but then I hear we all look the same to you white folk.”


“Nah, I’m right. You’re the Abeke alright.”


“If I tell you yes will you leave me be?”


“I’ll take that as a yes then shall I? You can call me Michael. Michael Tarver.”


“I shall call you dickhead.”


There came a pause, then, he said. “You’re not a friendly person are you? Fine, I am sorry for being sociable.”


Abeke sighed. “I’m sorry. I am just having one of those days, Michael Tarver.”


“Oh I understand that,” he said sympathetically as he clambered over to sit beside her. “These days you’re lucky to have a good day; but then they invented alcohol for that.”


“Hmm.”


“So are you her?” he asked.


She looked down at her drink. “Yes I am her.”


He slapped her on the back, grinning. “Then why so sad? You killed a paedophile and in this country you’d have the Daily Mail calling you a hero, y’know, if you weren’t black, n’all.”


She took a deep breath, for even after all these years it was still hard to talk about. “Because,” she began. “That man was my father.”

Great ending - I didn't expect that I think it works. Both characters esp the kid come across v well.

 

[Jo Zebedee]

Rain, rain, and more rain.


It was a great start to the holidays, but then this was England, so he couldn’t be too mad. What he was mad about was the fact he was spending it with his family in some crappy resort. Fun Land they called it, and by the leaflet he’d seen he knew it to be a place best suited to the old and the morons believing McDonalds qualified as a restaurant. last sentence was a bit clunky, I thought.

Fun Land stood in some remote part of the countryside with plastic palm trees decorating the roadside and sand pits imitating a beach by the pool. As the coach lumbered up the winding road Greg Tanner poked his head into the isleaisle of the bus to get a better look at the place. It was hideous, at least by his standards, and the building seemed as though it was trying to look like a hotel but not quite succeeding. His impressions didn’t improve as they pulled into the driveway, and he smirked at the security guard standing by the door. As if anyone would steal from this place.
​

“Welcome to Paradise,” said the man not at all sarcastically.


Inside the lobby the manager of the resort, a short woman with blue eyes and blond hair, stopped them and grinned. “Welcome to Fun Land, the premier family holiday destination in the northeast of England. I hope you enjoy your stay, and please if you have any queries, do ask. Oh, and before you go, please let me tell you about our entertainment. For the old folks we have world-renowned crooner, Sammy Devlin and he is here for one week only. For the younger generation we have X-Factor finalist David Romero. Any questions?”


“Yeah I have one. How do we get the hell out of here,” said Greg, or he would have done had his father’s meaty hand not clamped down on his shoulder at that point. Glumly he followed the resort staff leading them to their rooms.

#​

“Are you just going to lie there all day?” asked his dad.


“Yep, and to your next question I answer yep again.”


“You can’t stay here all day, love,” said his mother, turning away to count how many clothes hangers there were in the wardrobe. “David Romero is singing tonight, you love him don’t you?”


Greg rolled his eyes, then continued to stare at the cream coloured roof. “No, I like proper music; good music.”


“Well I like him,” said dad.


“My point exactly. I didn’t even want to come here anyways!”


The dynamic of the bed shifted slightly as his dad sat beside him. “I know son, but times are hard these days. I would’ve liked to have gone to Spain again too. Life isn’t fair Greg and for that I am sorry. Now, don’t leave this room until me and your mother gets back, we are going to explore.”a bit info dumpish.


“Fine.”


Hours passed, or maybe just one hour, as he was never that good at telling time. Greg sat up, reaching for the television remote and turningturned it to channel one. “Welcome to BBC news,” said the newswoman, shifting her papers nervously. “Our headlines are; now with the manager of Manchester United stepping down, England’s chances in the world cup are thrown into doubti dont' know a lot about football but why would a club team manager make a diffence to national hopes?; and two months on; the world after the vaccine.”


He switched it off, yawned, stood, and stretched his limbs out. He pulled the curtains back and gazed on an empty pool before a noise from outside drew his attention. Poking his head out the door he looked left and right. As he turned his head a door swung open and a woman with ebony black skin stormed out of the room. “f*ck off you ****!” she said loudly. “I’m your bodyguard not your whore!”


He waited until she had passed before he whistled. The woman turned, her face a block of stonereally? gosh. like a block of stone?. “Some men are idiots aren’t they?” he said, trying his luck. “Don’t know how to treat a lady.”


“And you do?” she replied, walking slowly toward him.



“I have been known to treat a lady right, got no complaints.”



“Tell me more,” she said, coming even closer, until she was close enough that he could smell her perfume.


“Well, you got to treat them nicely, don’t ya. You have to treat them like a…a…Like a fine wine!”


She leaned in close and now her breasts were inches from his face, her lips brushing his ear. “Even in your wildest dreams you could not have a girl like me,” she said, scornfully. “f*ck off and go play in the sandbox kid.”



And like that she was gone, sauntering off down the hall and vanishing around the corner. Red faced, Greg slammed the door shut and tried not to cry.


This was the worst holiday ever.

#​

Shename? is there any reason we can't be told it at the beginning? had probably been too mean with the kid but she was too angry to care. Making her way to the bar, she quickly ordered a vodka and tonic and sat at the far corner away from everyone. Holidays were the worst kind of days, especially when she was forced to accompany her clients to areas filled with tourists. Abeke tried to hide the grimace across her face but failed as she watched a man swaying back and forth around the bar. He was dressed in garish jewellery and white shorts and skintight top to show his muscles.



“Hey I know you,” called a slightly slurred voice from behind her.you could probably run the next two phases as one paragraph if you wanted.


She ignored him.


“Hey! I said I know you. You’re Abeke aren’t ya? Abeke the killer.”


Now she did turn her head. The man peering over the booth had a poorly kept Mohawk and a goatee that was just as scraggly. “Wrong Abeke, but then I hear we all look the same to you white folk.”


“Nah, I’m right. You’re the Abeke alright.”


“If I tell you yes will you leave me be?”


“I’ll take that as a yes then shall I? You can call me Michael. Michael Tarver.”


“I shall call you dickhead.”the shall seems too formal for her.


There came a pause, then, he said. “You’re not a friendly person are you? Fine, I am sorry for being sociable.”


Abeke sighed. “I’m sorry. I am just having one of those days, Michael Tarver.”again all the I am's sound formal.


“Oh I understand that,” he said sympathetically as he clambered over to sit beside her. “These days you’re lucky to have a good day; but then they invented alcohol for that.”


“Hmm.”


“So are you her?” he asked.


She looked down at her drink. “Yes I am her.”


He slapped her on the back, grinning. “Then why so sad? You killed a paedophile and in this country you’d have the Daily Mail calling you a hero, y’know, if you weren’t black, n’all.”


She took a deep breath, for even after all these years it was still hard to talk about. “Because,” she began. “That man was my father.”[/QUOTE]

Yep, it was an intiguing opening. I thought - gah, me, you're in trouble! - that perhaps a little more description of the rooms and the people would have been a good thing. So, not just her ebony skin but her age, what she's wearing; she seems central to it all. Nice hook at the end.

 

[Xelah]

Xelah sighting omg!

Opinion
Error

Rain, rain, and more rain. This doesn't exactly grab my attention.


It was a great start to the holidays, but then this was England, so he couldn’t be too mad. What he was mad about was the fact he was spending it with his family in some crappy resort. Fun Land they called it, and by the leaflet he’d seen he knew it to be a place best suited to the old and the morons believing McDonalds qualified as a restaurant. You've got a lot of passive voice going on here. This may stem from me being outside the target audience, but I'm still not snared either. If this is intended for teens, you might be on to something, but if it's for adults, you might consider changing from situational description to physical. Example:

Rain drizzled onto Greg's window as the bus rumbled toward Fun Land. He thumped his head into the window murmuring, "Fun Land... right, and McDonald's is fine dining." Meanwhile his family stirred with excitement as they drew nearer to the resort.

This type of opening works since it doesn't immediately drop us into the head of a character we don't know and can't possibly relate to yet... unless we're still teens being drug along on family vacations. Put us in his head later after we've gotten a chance to know him.

Fun Land stood in some remote part of the countryside with plastic palm trees decorating the roadside and sand pits imitating a beach by the pool.<--- That's very nearly a run on sentence, chop it down a little. As the coach lumbered up the winding road, Greg Tanner poked his head into the aisle of the bus to get a better look at the place (not really needed, it's implied with the rest of your context what he's looking at.. It was hideous, at least by his standards (we're already knee deep in his point of view, no need to tell us), and the building seemed (things are, or they are not. Don't let things "seem" as it makes for weaker story telling. Give everything as matter of fact from the point of view character.as though it was trying to look like a hotel but not quite succeeding. His impressions didn’t improve as they pulled into the driveway,How so? and he smirked at the security guard standing by the door. As if anyone would steal from this place.


“Welcome to Paradise,” said the man, not at all sarcastically.


Inside the lobby, the manager of the resort, a short woman with blue eyes and blond hair, stopped them and grinned. “Welcome to Fun Land, the premier family holiday destination in the northeast of England. I hope you enjoy your stay, and please if you have any queries, do ask. Oh, and before you go, please let me tell you about our entertainment. For the old folks we have world-renowned crooner, Sammy Devlin and he is here for one week only. For the younger generation we have X-Factor finalist David Romero. Any questions?”
This paragraph reads a bit stiffly. The first sentence crams a lot of information and takes a lot of punctuation. Try letting it flow, "Inside the lobby, a smiling blonde woman greeted them, *Dialog here.* Her blue eyes did little to conceal the plastic nature of her smile as she spoke. Somewhere in the course of her words, Greg's gaze drifted to her... nametag. His attention snapped back from "Gloria (or whatever you name her) - Manager" to her face only when she asked, "Any questions?"


“Yeah I have one. How do we get the hell out of here,” said Greg, or he would have done had his father’s meaty hand not clamped down on his shoulder at that point. Glumly he followed the resort staff leading them to their rooms. So, does he say anything? Mutter under his breath?

Still not feeling any connection to the narrator. I get that he's not happy, but unless your target audience is emo kids, you might want to consider putting a bit more of his personality into the opening paragraphs. Is he normally snarky? friendly? What? We've been riding shotgun with the kid for about the first two pages of a standard paperback, and he's not selling himself to the reader.

 

[Bowler1]

Rain, rain, and more rain.
Ok, it’s wet out, tells me little else sadly.

It was a great start to the holidays, but then this was England, so he couldn’t be too mad. What he was mad about was the fact he was spending it with his family in some crappy resort. Fun Land they called it, and by the leaflet he’d seen he knew it to be a place best suited to the old and the morons believing McDonalds qualified as a restaurant.
Felt like opinion this McDonalds comment, for me it ruined what was a good intro.

Fun Land stood in some remote part of the countryside with plastic palm trees decorating the roadside and sand pits imitating a beach by the pool. As the coach lumbered up the winding road Greg Tanner poked his head into the isle of the bus to get a better look at the place. It was hideous, at least by his standards, and the building seemed as though it was trying to look like a hotel but not quite succeeding. His impressions didn’t improve as they pulled into the driveway, and he smirked at the security guard standing by the door. As if anyone would steal from this place.

“Welcome to Paradise,” said the man not at all sarcastically.
Said the security guard, man had me wondering for a little bit trying to figure out who this man was!

Inside the lobby the manager of the resort, a short woman with blue eyes and blond hair, stopped them and grinned. “Welcome to Fun Land, the premier family holiday destination in the northeast of England. I hope you enjoy your stay, and please if you have any queries, do ask. Oh, and before you go, please let me tell you about our entertainment. For the old folks we have world-renowned crooner, Sammy Devlin and he is here for one week only. For the younger generation we have X-Factor finalist David Romero. Any questions?”
A long speech, hello welcome, would your character not say hello back?
It would break up the long speech and allow your character to interact more, allow him to be grumpy earlier?
“Yeah I have one. How do we get the hell out of here,” said Greg, or he would have done had his father’s meaty hand not clamped down on his shoulder at that point. Glumly he followed the resort staff leading them to their rooms.

#​

“Are you just going to lie there all day?” asked his dad.

“Yep, and to your next question I answer yep again.”

“You can’t stay here all day, love,” said his mother, turning away to count how many clothes hangers there were in the wardrobe. “David Romero is singing tonight, you love him don’t you?”

Greg rolled his eyes, then continued to stare at the cream coloured roof. “No, I like proper music; good music.”

“Well I like him,” said dad.

“My point exactly. I didn’t even want to come here anyways!”
Good, you can do speech with well, when compared to the long intro, this interaction reads well.

The dynamic of the bed shifted slightly as his dad sat beside him. “I know son, but times are hard these days. I would’ve liked to have gone to Spain again too. Life isn’t fair Greg and for that I am sorry. Now, don’t leave this room until me and your mother gets back, we are going to explore.”

“Fine.”


Hours passed, or maybe just one hour, as he was never that good at telling time. Greg sat up, reaching for the television remote and turning it to channel one. “Welcome to BBC news,” said the newswoman, shifting her papers nervously. “Our headlines are; now with the manager of Manchester United stepping down, England’s chances in the world cup are thrown into doubt; and two months on; the world after the vaccine.”

He switched it off, yawned, stood, and stretched his limbs out. He pulled the curtains back and gazed on an empty pool before a noise from outside drew his attention. Poking his head out the door he looked left and right. As he turned his head a door swung open and a woman with ebony black skin stormed out of the room. “**** off you ****!” she said loudly. “I’m your bodyguard not your whore!”


He waited until she had passed before he whistled. The woman turned, her face a block of stone. “Some men are idiots aren’t they?” he said, trying his luck. “Don’t know how to treat a lady.”

“And you do?” she replied, walking slowly toward him.

“I have been known to treat a lady right, got no complaints.”
Too confident for me, the character is still a teenager living with his parents, too much when compared to what has come before, or I thought so anyway.

“Tell me more,” she said, coming even closer, until she was close enough that he could smell her perfume.

“Well, you got to treat them nicely, don’t ya. You have to treat them like a…a…Like a fine wine!”

She leaned in close and now her breasts were inches from his face, her lips brushing his ear. “Even in your wildest dreams you could not have a girl like me,” she said, scornfully. “**** off and go play in the sandbox kid.”

And like that she was gone, sauntering off down the hall and vanishing around the corner. Red faced, Greg slammed the door shut and tried not to cry.
This is teenager, clashes with the comments he made above.

This was the worst holiday ever.

#​

She had probably been too mean with the kid but she was too angry to care. Making her way to the bar, she quickly ordered a vodka and tonic and sat at the far corner away from everyone. Holidays were the worst kind of days, especially when she was forced to accompany her clients to areas filled with tourists. Abeke tried to hide the grimace across her face but failed as she watched a man swaying back and forth around the bar. He was dressed in garish jewellery and white shorts and skintight top to show his muscles.
A bit quick this intro, good, just too quick for me.

“Hey I know you,” called a slightly slurred voice from behind her.

She ignored him.

“Hey! I said I know you. You’re Abeke aren’t ya? Abeke the killer.”

Now she did turn her head. The man peering over the booth had a poorly kept Mohawk and a goatee that was just as scraggly. “Wrong Abeke, but then I hear we all look the same to you white folk.”
Reads as racist, I’m sure you don’t mean it, skin colour is not a big issue these days so don’t ruin your story by drawing attention to skin colour.


“Nah, I’m right. You’re the Abeke alright.”

“If I tell you yes will you leave me be?”

“I’ll take that as a yes then shall I? You can call me Michael. Michael Tarver.”
“I shall call you dickhead.”


There came a pause, then, he said. “You’re not a friendly person are you? Fine, I am sorry for being sociable.”

Abeke sighed. “I’m sorry. I am just having one of those days, Michael Tarver.”
Michael, surname is not needed here.

“Oh I understand that,” he said sympathetically as he clambered over to sit beside her. “These days you’re lucky to have a good day; but then they invented alcohol for that.”


“Hmm.”


“So are you her?” he asked.


She looked down at her drink. “Yes I am her.”


He slapped her on the back, grinning. “Then why so sad? You killed a paedophile and in this country you’d have the Daily Mail calling you a hero, y’know, if you weren’t black, n’all.”
Ahhhh, noooo, don’t to that racist stuff….

She took a deep breath, for even after all these years it was still hard to talk about. “Because,” she began. “That man was my father.”

Your intro is clunky, needs work.

However, once you get into dialogue you do it very well. The young character was too confident at one point, not needed and was working very well for me to that point.

Abeke, very abrasive, which is fine but I would personally switch off with heavy use of swearing in a storyline, something to think about. Stay well clear from any negative comments to do with skin colour, it’s a MASSIVE NO, NO, NO.

You’re good with dialogue; the characters do come alive when reading. I feel you need to set the scene better, paint the picture as a back drop for your characters to move around on.

Some areas are very good, some big no’s please avoid, a mixed bag I have to say, but there is a lot of good stuff here.

 

[anthorn]

So I can't mention a racist newspaper is racist?
Or have racisim in the story?
Or have a character having an opinion?

No offense but that's kind of what it sounded like.

 

[Bowler1]

If you want to get published. I maybe wrong, but most publishers I suspect are going to be more very careful around skin colour. I also don't think your story needed skin colour mentioned, not once, but twice. This is only what I think, you don't have to change anything if you don't want to.

 

[anthorn]

I won't change it, and if I don't get published because I mention the colour of somebodies skin, or the truth about a newspaper prefering white people over ethnic minorities, then oh well. y'know.

It's an interesting point though, and would probably make for a good thread or debate.

I do however agree with your other comments.

I am not sure about publishing it, though, truthfully. It's really something to help with writers block with my steampunk fantasy.

 

[The Judge]

It is wholly appropriate to talk about racism in our books, and if such involves having racist characters, then so be it. I doubt that publishers would reject a book simply because it dealt with such issues. I hope not, anyway, since my fantasy features a black woman as heroine and her skin colour is important and mentioned repeatedly as a visual reminder of her outsider status.

I would also disagree that skin colour is no longer an issue nowadays. Bien-pensants may well express the hope that we are all multi-cultural now and no one gives a fig, but among the vast majority of people prejudice against a person who is different -- not one of us -- will continue for centuries. Skin colour is just one facet of that, but the most obvious one at present.

Whether the story needs this reference to the woman's colour is another point entirely, of course. It very much depends on whether it is an important part of the story or whether it has been done in a lazy, unthinking way as a means of generating shock or simply because the full ramifications have not been considered.

 

[Bowler1]

Fair enough, Anthorn, you're right I suspect, it would make a good thread, where is the boundry for the reader. As writers we should discuss/write these difficult subjects. No easy answer I suspect.

I do however agree with your view of our daily national, why it sells is a mystery.

The power of words Anthorn, we play where gods fear to tread!

 

[anthorn]

I think it sells because it caters to the fears of the uninformed.

As for the racism aspect. I suppose it might shock a few people at first, but I think the racism works both ways. It reads as a casual comment from Abeke, and I suppose it could be, but its more a reflection on the characters experience.

 

[Glitch]

I only skimmed the passage as you've had several comments.

In my opinion you should remove the McDonalds reference. A publisher might fear a lawsuit since McDonalds does market itself as restaurants and your comment is quite degrading. I think changing it to fast-food, drive-through or burger joint would convey the same meaning.

Sammy Devlin and David Romero. These had a hits on search engines, are they real people? Your comment is neutral, unlike the McDonalds one, but you are building a negative atmosphere and then you bring in these plus x-factor.

You bring in BBC, Manchester United and the Daily Mail. So far you have given me several legal headaches as a publisher.

The racist angle isn't a problem for me as that is the tone of the story. But I would expect the characters to change/grow through the story to become less racist.

It's possible people could confuse the characters view points as being that of the authors. If you have other characters who disagree with the racist comments or put the character in his place then I would say you are clear of that.

 

[TheDustyZebra]

Rain, rain, and more rain.


It was a great start to the holidays, but then this was England, so he couldn’t be too mad. What he was mad about was the fact he was spending it with his family in some crappy resort. Fun Land they called it, and by the leaflet he’d seen he knew it to be a place best suited to the old and the morons believing McDonalds qualified as a restaurant.



Fun Land stood in some("a", he knows which one because he's there) remote part of the countryside with plastic palm trees decorating the roadside and sand pits imitating a beach by the pool. As the coach lumbered up the winding road, Greg Tanner poked his head into the isle(aisle) of the bus to get a better look at the place. It was hideous, at least by his standards, and the building seemed as though it was trying to look like a hotel but not quite succeeding.(a building that did not quite succeed in looking like a hotel) His impressions didn’t improve as they pulled into the driveway, and he smirked at the security guard standing by the door. As if anyone would steal from this place.


“Welcome to Paradise,” said the man, not at all sarcastically.


Inside the lobby the manager of the resort, a short woman with blue eyes and blonde (although there is a thread involving all the contention about blond/blonde and I'm not sure what the consensus is, particularly for the UK) hair, stopped them and grinned. “Welcome to Fun Land, the premier family holiday destination in the northeast of England. I hope you enjoy your stay, and please if you have any queries, do ask. Oh, and before you go, please let me tell you about our entertainment. For the old folks we have world-renowned crooner, Sammy Devlin and he is here for one week only. For the younger generation we have X-Factor finalist David Romero. Any questions?” (This paragraph is troublesome. Perhaps some more action breaking it up, as she is presumably checking them in while she's reeling off this spiel.)


“Yeah I have one. How do we get the hell out of here,” said Greg, or he would have done had his father’s meaty hand not clamped down on his shoulder at that point. Glumly, he followed the resort staff leading them to their rooms.

#​

“Are you just going to lie there all day?” asked his dad.


“Yep, and to your next question I answer yep again.”


“You can’t stay here all day, love,” said his mother, turning away to count how many clothes hangers there were in the wardrobe. “David Romero is singing tonight, you love him, don’t you?”


Greg rolled his eyes, then continued to stare at the cream coloured roof. “No, I like proper music; good music.”


“Well, I like him,” said Dad.


“My point exactly. I didn’t even want to come here anyways!”


The dynamic of (I would cut this) The bed shifted slightly as his dad sat beside him. “I know son, but times are hard these days. I would’ve liked to have gone to Spain again, too. Life isn’t fair, Greg, and for that I am sorry. Now, don’t leave this room until me and your mother gets back; (your mother and I get back, or me and your mother get back if you want him deliberately incorrect in vernacular, but I don't think he would have managed that "would've liked to have gone" if so) we are going to explore.”


“Fine.”


Hours passed, or maybe just one hour, as he was never that good at telling time. Greg sat up, reaching(reached) for the television remote and turning(turned) it to channel one.Channel One. “Welcome to BBC news,” said the newswoman, shifting her papers nervously. “Our headlines are: now with the manager of Manchester United stepping down, England’s chances in the world cup are thrown into doubt; and two months on, the world after the vaccine.”


He switched it off, yawned, stood, and stretched his limbs out. He pulled the curtains back and gazed on an empty pool before a noise from outside (noise from the hall, perhaps, as he's looking out the window and then has to go to the door) drew his attention. Poking his head out the door, he looked left and right. As he turned his head, a door swung open and a woman with ebony black skin stormed out of the room. “**** off you ****!” she said loudly. “I’m your bodyguard, not your whore!”


He waited until she had passed before he whistled. The woman turned, her face a block of stone. “Some men are idiots, aren’t they?” he said, trying his luck. “Don’t know how to treat a lady.”


“And you do?” she replied, walking slowly toward him.



“I have been known to treat a lady right, got no complaints.”



“Tell me more,” she said, coming even closer, until she was close enough that he could smell her perfume.


“Well, you got to treat them nicely, don’t ya. You have to treat them like a…a…Like a fine wine!”


She leaned in close and now her breasts were inches from his face, her lips brushing his ear. “Even in your wildest dreams you could not have a girl like me,” she said, scornfully(she whispered.). “**** off and go play in the sandbox, kid.”



And like that she was gone, sauntering off down the hall and vanishing around the corner. Red faced, Greg slammed the door shut and tried not to cry.

(I don't have the problems mentioned by another poster here -- he's a cocky, smartaleck kid, putting up a front and then getting rejected. It works for me.)
This was the worst holiday ever.

#​

She had probably been too mean with the kid, but she was too angry to care. Making her way to the bar, she quickly ordered a vodka and tonic and sat at the far corner away from everyone.(Here I see her sitting at the end of the bar, not crossing the room to a far corner, then I discover she's in a booth in just a moment and it's jarring.) Holidays were the worst kind of days, especially when she was forced to accompany her clients to areas filled with tourists. Abeke tried to hide the grimace across her face (tried not to grimace) but failed as she watched a man swaying back and forth around the bar. He was dressed in garish jewellery, and white shorts and skintight top to show his muscles. (Is that a British spelling of "jewellery"?)



“Hey I know you,” called a slightly slurred voice from behind her. (I don't see somebody getting behind her -- she is a bodyguard, and she is sitting in the far corner and watching the bar. Her back is to the wall. Besides, if he could be behind her, he wouldn't be able to see and recognize her.)


She ignored him.


“Hey! I said I know you. You’re Abeke aren’t ya? Abeke the killer.”


Now she did turn her head. The man peering over the booth had a poorly kept Mohawk and a goatee that was just as scraggly. “Wrong Abeke, but then I hear we all look the same to you white folk.” (Not sure we need the white folk here, perhaps just "but I hear we all look the same." It depends on whether this is only done here to show that he is white, or if she's likely to keep having a chip on her shoulder about this.)


“Nah, I’m right. You’re the Abeke, alright.”


“If I tell you yes, will you leave me be?”


“I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I? You can call me Michael. Michael Tarver.”


“I shall call you dickhead.”


There came a pause, then, he said. “You’re not a friendly person, are you? Fine, I am sorry for being sociable.”


Abeke sighed. “I’m sorry. I am just having one of those days, Michael Tarver.”(I don't have a problem with this, either. It sounds like her.)


“Oh, I understand that,” he said sympathetically as he clambered over to sit beside her. “These days you’re lucky to have a good day; but then they invented alcohol for that.”


“Hmm.”


“So are you her?” he asked.


She looked down at her drink. “Yes, I am her.”


He slapped her on the back, grinning. “Then why so sad? You killed a paedophile, and in this country you’d have the Daily Mail calling you a hero, y’know, if you weren’t black, 'n’all.”(I don't see him as racist here -- he's saying that the Daily Mail or possibly people in general are racist.)


She took a deep breath, for even after all these years it was still hard to talk about. “Because,” she began. “That man was my father.”

I like the characterization and the story so far. Let's see where it goes!

 

[anthorn]

Thank you for your comments.

Yes, it is the british spelling, or more correctly, the proper spelling.