I reached my 3k post the other day but with things being what they are with my aunt, I didn't post here, and I feel a bit guilty since no one's badgered me into it as they usually do when people are fine. Tbh I'm not sure I should post anything until I've completed and polished my story, but since it seems to be a tradition to post every thousandth post...
WARNING: I'm still writing this novel, so there will be plenty chopped and changed, especially once I write more than my ideal word count. I'm thinking I may have to prune this drastically one day.
Anyway, I'm not sure what I'm looking for in a critique. I don't think I want the basics checked, since I'm annoyingly stubborn about grammar (if there's anything you REALLY hate, though, point it out; I'm willing to be swayed... except on my comma splice), but anything else is fine.
However, I just read the piece over and feel nothing. It's a bit lifeless. Dunno whether that's just my state of mind at the moment. If others hate this too, I'll know to fix it when I feel better. It's had a few passes for niggles, though the major overhaul will come at the end of writing my novel.
Don't be afraid to say anything. I'm used to giving and getting critiques (I used to be a serial critiquer here), though this is my first time posting in Critiques.
A slap on the cheek. Chloe blinked, coming to; the day was glaring on her eyes. Urgh, feel like I’ve been head-butting walls all night.
What—?
Something rough and bitter was keeping her mouth open, tied tightly as a noose around her head. She was slapped again, harder, and gripped on the chin until she focused on the stocky man ahead. It took a moment before she realised a gang of guards crowded her. Memories of the last two days slammed home – a man with dead eyes, a snowy wasteland, a crowd surging at her. The nightmare was real. She struggled and mumbled protests – her voice sounded slurred even without the gag. The men laughed and spoke to one another, eyes hard. There was a cacophony of shouts and chattering in the distance.
She shook her head, wriggled in the man’s grasp to discover that her hands were manacled and she was wearing a long, thin rag on her upper half and her muddy jeans above bare feet.
Her screech was muffled in the thick layers of the gag. Wide awake now, she screamed and struggled, much to the guards’ amusement. Through the snow they began hauling her by the arms like a murderer, and she thrashed wildly. Where were they taking her? What would they do?
There was a sharp smell in the air – smoke and something unrecognisable.
The commotion grew louder and cheers erupted. The words were lost to her. Chloe fell silent, gaze darting to the open square around her, to the tall buildings that seemed to close in, to the weird stage ahead, surrounded by a vast crowd. The guards pulled her toward a pole in the centre of the raised platform, with wide upside-down Vs nailed down its bottom half.
As she was dragged into view, the horde went wild, screaming and stabbing the air. She thrashed and screamed anew. The shouts were deafening, all around. Hands forced her onto the platform. On a large metallic plate to her right, a cauldron of black gloop bubbled over a fire. Her captors slammed her against the pole, then bound her to the wood.
She couldn’t turn to see what was happening, she could only stare at the crowd’s shadowed faces underneath their cloaks.
‘Please!’ she tried to say. ‘Please! I’m innocent!’ Her muffled speech drowned in the sea of calls.
Each of her hands was roped to the arm of one of the upside-down-V planks, palms flat against the wood. Other guards held everyone back. A pompous man in a green cloak announced something, which garnered nods and growls.
Chloe couldn’t breathe. She was going to die. She heaved against the bonds, her effort futile against the pole behind her.
‘Please!’ she screamed at the rabid crowd.
The man laughed and said something to the mob. They began screeching words and pointing at her. With obvious glee the man ripped away Chloe’s upper clothing to reveal her naked breasts and arms. She gasped, wriggling to free herself, but her efforts only encouraged the crowd. Their shouting became a chant of one word that sounded like “aabwelayba”.
Blood pounded in her ears. Her chest tightened further.
The man seized her upper arm and the crowd went wild. He seized the same place on her other arm, shouting, and stabbed fingers into her skin. Laughter and yells rang out.
More people had gathered to watch. Three more guards appeared, one wearing a taller helmet than the others, richly detailed and gleaming. With no hindrance they moved to the front of the crowd, and as the leader took his place on stage, he paused, glanced at Chloe, then nodded.
The noise died. The crowd’s gaze turned to the cauldron. She strained against her head bond to see what was happening, but her head wouldn’t turn. Beside her she heard a loud hiss.
She shrank against the pole.
Another man waddled into view, plump and greasy. He held a poker with a shaped end covered in steaming, bubbling black slime. It resembled a branding iron.
‘Please!’ she said, the gag strangling her words. ‘Please! This is a mistake! A mistake!’
The man yanked her gag free, grinning in a way that froze Chloe’s tongue. He spoke, but all she heard was the bubbles popping on the iron’s tip. He stood back, held up the iron to delighted, silent eagerness—
‘No! Please, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’
The end was thrust toward her forehead. Before it crackled against her skin, the man lurched and his poker clattered to the floor. The head guard had knocked him aside. A commotion began then, with the mob looking as confused as Chloe felt. The head guard stared at her, all hard lines and weathered skin. She dared not move, didn’t have time to feel embarrassed about her nakedness. He spoke in that same foreign tongue, face expectant.
Chloe released the breath she’d been holding. It sounded monolithic in the silence. She was supposed to speak, but if she said the wrong thing, what would happen? She wanted to hide, not talk. Her words stalled a few times.
‘Please… Please, I’m innocent.’
He gasped and shook her shoulders, looming over her.
‘Please!’ she screamed. ‘I’m innocent! I was scared. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have used the knife!’
The nearby guards drew breaths. Chloe jolted. ‘You speak English?’
‘Ing-lish,’ said the head guard.
‘Yes!’ Tears began cooling her cheeks. ‘I came here for help, that’s all. I don’t know how I got here. This has all been a mistake—’
‘Ing-lish,’ he repeated, rolling the word over his tongue as though tasting it. He punched the pole above Chloe’s head, then shouted something – it could have been a swear word – before he shoved the chubby man off the platform so he fell onto the crowd.
Chloe expected to be struck. The guards looked nervous, too, shuffling their feet and looking between each other. Suddenly she was untied and tossed her rag, then as she held it around her, the head guard dragged her back the way she had come. They left behind an uproar from the spectators, who were whispering and staring at Chloe with a newfound gleam in their eyes.
She couldn’t stop shaking. What had just happened?
WARNING: I'm still writing this novel, so there will be plenty chopped and changed, especially once I write more than my ideal word count. I'm thinking I may have to prune this drastically one day.
Anyway, I'm not sure what I'm looking for in a critique. I don't think I want the basics checked, since I'm annoyingly stubborn about grammar (if there's anything you REALLY hate, though, point it out; I'm willing to be swayed... except on my comma splice), but anything else is fine.
However, I just read the piece over and feel nothing. It's a bit lifeless. Dunno whether that's just my state of mind at the moment. If others hate this too, I'll know to fix it when I feel better. It's had a few passes for niggles, though the major overhaul will come at the end of writing my novel.
Don't be afraid to say anything. I'm used to giving and getting critiques (I used to be a serial critiquer here), though this is my first time posting in Critiques.
Chapter Two, Scene Three:
A slap on the cheek. Chloe blinked, coming to; the day was glaring on her eyes. Urgh, feel like I’ve been head-butting walls all night.
What—?
Something rough and bitter was keeping her mouth open, tied tightly as a noose around her head. She was slapped again, harder, and gripped on the chin until she focused on the stocky man ahead. It took a moment before she realised a gang of guards crowded her. Memories of the last two days slammed home – a man with dead eyes, a snowy wasteland, a crowd surging at her. The nightmare was real. She struggled and mumbled protests – her voice sounded slurred even without the gag. The men laughed and spoke to one another, eyes hard. There was a cacophony of shouts and chattering in the distance.
She shook her head, wriggled in the man’s grasp to discover that her hands were manacled and she was wearing a long, thin rag on her upper half and her muddy jeans above bare feet.
Her screech was muffled in the thick layers of the gag. Wide awake now, she screamed and struggled, much to the guards’ amusement. Through the snow they began hauling her by the arms like a murderer, and she thrashed wildly. Where were they taking her? What would they do?
There was a sharp smell in the air – smoke and something unrecognisable.
The commotion grew louder and cheers erupted. The words were lost to her. Chloe fell silent, gaze darting to the open square around her, to the tall buildings that seemed to close in, to the weird stage ahead, surrounded by a vast crowd. The guards pulled her toward a pole in the centre of the raised platform, with wide upside-down Vs nailed down its bottom half.
As she was dragged into view, the horde went wild, screaming and stabbing the air. She thrashed and screamed anew. The shouts were deafening, all around. Hands forced her onto the platform. On a large metallic plate to her right, a cauldron of black gloop bubbled over a fire. Her captors slammed her against the pole, then bound her to the wood.
She couldn’t turn to see what was happening, she could only stare at the crowd’s shadowed faces underneath their cloaks.
‘Please!’ she tried to say. ‘Please! I’m innocent!’ Her muffled speech drowned in the sea of calls.
Each of her hands was roped to the arm of one of the upside-down-V planks, palms flat against the wood. Other guards held everyone back. A pompous man in a green cloak announced something, which garnered nods and growls.
Chloe couldn’t breathe. She was going to die. She heaved against the bonds, her effort futile against the pole behind her.
‘Please!’ she screamed at the rabid crowd.
The man laughed and said something to the mob. They began screeching words and pointing at her. With obvious glee the man ripped away Chloe’s upper clothing to reveal her naked breasts and arms. She gasped, wriggling to free herself, but her efforts only encouraged the crowd. Their shouting became a chant of one word that sounded like “aabwelayba”.
Blood pounded in her ears. Her chest tightened further.
The man seized her upper arm and the crowd went wild. He seized the same place on her other arm, shouting, and stabbed fingers into her skin. Laughter and yells rang out.
More people had gathered to watch. Three more guards appeared, one wearing a taller helmet than the others, richly detailed and gleaming. With no hindrance they moved to the front of the crowd, and as the leader took his place on stage, he paused, glanced at Chloe, then nodded.
The noise died. The crowd’s gaze turned to the cauldron. She strained against her head bond to see what was happening, but her head wouldn’t turn. Beside her she heard a loud hiss.
She shrank against the pole.
Another man waddled into view, plump and greasy. He held a poker with a shaped end covered in steaming, bubbling black slime. It resembled a branding iron.
‘Please!’ she said, the gag strangling her words. ‘Please! This is a mistake! A mistake!’
The man yanked her gag free, grinning in a way that froze Chloe’s tongue. He spoke, but all she heard was the bubbles popping on the iron’s tip. He stood back, held up the iron to delighted, silent eagerness—
‘No! Please, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’
The end was thrust toward her forehead. Before it crackled against her skin, the man lurched and his poker clattered to the floor. The head guard had knocked him aside. A commotion began then, with the mob looking as confused as Chloe felt. The head guard stared at her, all hard lines and weathered skin. She dared not move, didn’t have time to feel embarrassed about her nakedness. He spoke in that same foreign tongue, face expectant.
Chloe released the breath she’d been holding. It sounded monolithic in the silence. She was supposed to speak, but if she said the wrong thing, what would happen? She wanted to hide, not talk. Her words stalled a few times.
‘Please… Please, I’m innocent.’
He gasped and shook her shoulders, looming over her.
‘Please!’ she screamed. ‘I’m innocent! I was scared. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have used the knife!’
The nearby guards drew breaths. Chloe jolted. ‘You speak English?’
‘Ing-lish,’ said the head guard.
‘Yes!’ Tears began cooling her cheeks. ‘I came here for help, that’s all. I don’t know how I got here. This has all been a mistake—’
‘Ing-lish,’ he repeated, rolling the word over his tongue as though tasting it. He punched the pole above Chloe’s head, then shouted something – it could have been a swear word – before he shoved the chubby man off the platform so he fell onto the crowd.
Chloe expected to be struck. The guards looked nervous, too, shuffling their feet and looking between each other. Suddenly she was untied and tossed her rag, then as she held it around her, the head guard dragged her back the way she had come. They left behind an uproar from the spectators, who were whispering and staring at Chloe with a newfound gleam in their eyes.
She couldn’t stop shaking. What had just happened?
There are a couple of sentences, but they feel ... inserted because they are mandatory, rather than a unique perspective to this character. And she does an awful lot of noting what's happening around her, but expresses her feelings most via speech (how I read it, anyway). I appreciate we're missing context here, but except for a line early on about remembering, she doesn't put anything into context here. For example, does she know this crowd? Then she knows what to fear; does she not know this crowd? Then the fear will be of the unknown they represent.
