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Please give me an opinion/criticism on my story

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posted on Oct, 16 2005 @ 05:32 AM
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Two O’clock Tuesday

She was a bombshell. He was definitely shell-shocked: hardly aware that his feet were already moving him toward ground zero.

A quick right-turn of his chin brought the little girl into view, then as quickly out again as his eyes honed back in on his target, who was gazing dreamily at the lingerie display in the Victoria"s Secret window.

He had no doubt in a few years the little girl would be as volatile as her mother; but for now she was just a regular kid, with one finger trolling in the water of the standard issue suburban mall pond the perimeter of which she was tirelessly patrolling. It was a typical midweek afternoon, and he had not detected anyone else but the three of them, each lazily doing duty to their respective daydreams in the quiet intersection of the mall.

Despite lack of prior acquaintance, there was no fear coming from either female, although he was sure he was emitting pheromone radiation in dangerous amounts. The little girl had come to expect the reaction her mother drew from men, and the bombshell had long forgotten that not all women stayed high on the scent of horny males as she did. She was an addict for the euphoria that aroma always triggered. It made her want to eat raspberry pushups.

His thoughts were conforming to her vibrations, which he felt pulling him across the sweet distance of inevitability between them. He was nearly there: so near that he could taste her. She tasted like raspberries.

She turned, appraising him for a second, and with a slow blink of her eyes turned to enter the store. Her invitation had him at the ready to follow her anywhere, but his feet reassigned his agenda with a right face toward the long narrow hallway that led to the bathrooms.

His eyes processed what his feet already knew just as the little girl screamed. His thoughts also began to scream. In them, he heard the Marine he had once been, awakening that inner machine he thought long dead and put to rest in that distant jungle, near the place he had also once buried his last remnant of innocence.

His head filled with rage, its urgency pushing his eyeballs out toward the deviant who was dragging the little girl backward on her heels. The deviant"s right arm was crooked around her neck leaving the left to flutter nervously in the folds of his sweat pants around his crotch. The marine"s eyes probed into the shadows of the sweatshirt hood, which the deviant had pulled up, concealing his face. As their eyes met, repulsion overwhelmed him, but he cast it aside and sought the eyes of the little girl. In them, he saw dead shock, which rang through his bones, turning them to red-hot ice. What he had seen was the little girl seeing her own doom.

This atrocity enabled him to span the 15 feet remaining between them in two leaps. He landed behind her with his back to her abductor, on feet ready to spring again. With both he and the girl facing toward escape, he was unable to see as the doom left her face.

With an efficiency honed by survival, his left arm took over the crook to her neck as his right elbow jabbed backward into the hooded face, caving it in with one spongy crunch. The deviant now discarded, his momentum was leading the escape, and he made the 15 feet back to the hall"s entry in three steps. Mission nearly completed, he glanced to the right toward the store her mother had entered, and felt someone pry the little girl from his grasp on the left. His face swung to the left to meet, with perfect choreography, a massive amount of propulsion concentrated in the butt-end of a red fire extinguisher.

Immediately, his legs began to turn liquid, yet slowly enough to give him time to marvel at the precision of the blow that indicated he should probably rethink the questionable prudence of disarming bombs.

The indiscriminate darkness overcame him just as his bombshell was making her exit out the mall"s main doors at a full run, clutching the hand of the little girl, who was nearly airborne behind her. In her wake, she left the unknown hero rumpled in the entrance of the service hall, just 15 feet away from the villain she had never even seen, dying in a pool of his own blood.

The End




posted on Oct, 16 2005 @ 11:47 AM
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Originally posted by queenannie38
Two O’clock Tuesday

She was a bombshell. He was definitely shell-shocked: hardly aware that his feet were already moving him toward ground zero.

A quick right-turn of his chin brought the little girl into view, then as quickly out again as his eyes honed back in on his target, who was gazing dreamily at the lingerie display in the Victoria"s Secret window.

He had no doubt in a few years the little girl would be as volatile as her mother; but for now she was just a regular kid, with one finger trolling in the water of the standard issue suburban mall pond the perimeter of which she was tirelessly patrolling. It was a typical midweek afternoon, and he had not detected anyone else but the three of them, each lazily doing duty to their respective daydreams in the quiet intersection of the mall.

Despite lack of prior acquaintance, there was no fear coming from either female, although he was sure he was emitting pheromone radiation in dangerous amounts. The little girl had come to expect the reaction her mother drew from men, and the bombshell had long forgotten that not all women stayed high on the scent of horny males as she did. She was an addict for the euphoria that aroma always triggered. It made her want to eat raspberry pushups.

His thoughts were conforming to her vibrations, which he felt pulling him across the sweet distance of inevitability between them. He was nearly there: so near that he could taste her. She tasted like raspberries.


So far, the story is well written with lots of visuals coming out of the words.
What I don't see in my minds eye is how the marine looks, nor the bombshell. What are they wearing, how does their hair look, how do they move? What I am getting is two characters who seem to be moving according to rasberry flavoured pheremones. I guess what I'm getting at is the 'mechanical' actions of the two peripheral people. The antagonist perv is not yet in the picture and the little girl has only been seen dawdling her finger in the water.




She turned, appraising him for a second, and with a slow blink of her eyes turned to enter the store. Her invitation had him at the ready to follow her anywhere, but his feet reassigned his agenda with a right face toward the long narrow hallway that led to the bathrooms.

His eyes processed what his feet already knew just as the little girl screamed. His thoughts also began to scream. In them, he heard the Marine he had once been, awakening that inner machine he thought long dead and put to rest in that distant jungle, near the place he had also once buried his last remnant of innocence.

His head filled with rage, its urgency pushing his eyeballs out toward the deviant who was dragging the little girl backward on her heels. The deviant"s right arm was crooked around her neck leaving the left to flutter nervously in the folds of his sweat pants around his crotch. The marine"s eyes probed into the shadows of the sweatshirt hood, which the deviant had pulled up, concealing his face. As their eyes met, repulsion overwhelmed him, but he cast it aside and sought the eyes of the little girl. In them, he saw dead shock, which rang through his bones, turning them to red-hot ice. What he had seen was the little girl seeing her own doom.


At this point it would have been good to add 'voice', like "hey, you ****, let that kid go, or I'm gonna"...etc. So far, all the characters have been silent. Also, the 'deviant' kind of appears on the scene rather suddenly. I'm thinking he could have been seen in the story as lurking, observing the actions of the marine and the mother, seeing his opportunity present itself in his mind.




This atrocity enabled him to span the 15 feet remaining between them in two leaps. He landed behind her with his back to her abductor, on feet ready to spring again. With both he and the girl facing toward escape, he was unable to see as the doom left her face.

With an efficiency honed by survival, his left arm took over the crook to her neck as his right elbow jabbed backward into the hooded face, caving it in with one spongy crunch. The deviant now discarded, his momentum was leading the escape, and he made the 15 feet back to the hall"s entry in three steps. Mission nearly completed, he glanced to the right toward the store her mother had entered, and felt someone pry the little girl from his grasp on the left. His face swung to the left to meet, with perfect choreography, a massive amount of propulsion concentrated in the butt-end of a red fire extinguisher.


I'm not so sure, at this point, exactly who caught the fire extinguisher in the head. I haven't seen the little girl moved from the deviants grasp into the marine's, so I'm left a little confused. I know what the intent is in your writing...I just can't see it in your words.




Immediately, his legs began to turn liquid, yet slowly enough to give him time to marvel at the precision of the blow that indicated he should probably rethink the questionable prudence of disarming bombs.

The indiscriminate darkness overcame him just as his bombshell was making her exit out the mall"s main doors at a full run, clutching the hand of the little girl, who was nearly airborne behind her. In her wake, she left the unknown hero rumpled in the entrance of the service hall, just 15 feet away from the villain she had never even seen, dying in a pool of his own blood.


And here it all becomes clear what happened (to the marine), but, what seems to be left hanging are the fate of the deviant, the person that took the girl out of his arms and the reason why the mother made the erroneous decision to attack the marine.

This is a good story, queenannie38 and with a bit of 'filling out' it could turn into a great chapter in a book detailing the life of a veteran.

I hope you'll forgive me if I seemed harsh in my criticism...

m





The End


..or is it?



[edit on 16-10-2005 by masqua]

[edit on 16-10-2005 by masqua]



posted on Oct, 16 2005 @ 02:37 PM
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I read the story. I'm not a fictional writer myself but with such good feedback as Masqua gave to this story, I might give it a try.

I thought it needed more fleshing out of the particulars of the story and cut back a bit on the adjectives. But I sure do admire your ability to write fiction. I'm a straight-to-the-mark journalist style writer.

In my opinion here's some things you could also do to fix some of the details to your story.

The pervert is too stereotypical. Usually they can wait until they get their victim to an abandoned place before they get involved with the sex. So I'd try to flesh out the pervert a bit more. In fact I'd zero in on his mindset, try to give us some inkling as to WHAT could possibly be going through his mind. How could he be finding himself in this position of committing a crime that if he's caught could send him to death row. What is DRIVING him? What kind of a person IS he (besides the fact that he's a kidnapper, child molester/pervert and probably murderer). How did he come to pick this victim? What made him do it? These are questions that are intrigueing that would capture people's attention. (and also make your story too long probably also)

I would focus the story around the pervert (it is a scary Halloween story). Who is this creep, and how did he get to be such a creep? What drives him? How much mayhem has he caused in his lifetime? How old is he? Is he a genius IQ like we hear a lot of them are? Does he read porn like we hear a lot of them do? Is there the cunning flicker of evil in his eye or is he passing himself off as a nice guy like Ted Bundy did?



posted on Oct, 16 2005 @ 02:51 PM
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I enjoyed your story. Great concept,but add a little more detail on the perp and the hero. maybe some more remembrances from the hero and give us some insight into the mind of the perp. i think the story could climax better,if there were more character detail.



posted on Oct, 16 2005 @ 03:18 PM
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Thank you, guys! You've all given me a good place to start at--this story was originally written for one of those contests for very short stories. The word count seemed impossible when I started it--and the process of pruning it taught me a whole lot about the use and abuse of words. And I added a few little bits of detail before I posted it here, but didn't want to take any certain direction until I got some input.

But I have wanted to expand on it--I really was pleased with the plot I had devised, but wasn't sure which way to go with it. I consider myself a poet and an aspiring short story writer, but I'd like to write more stories.

All your suggestions are along the same lines, so I know they are sound and valuable criticisms--and I appreciate the help so much.


When I get some rewriting done, I'll post it again, and




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