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Glass: The Invisible Mirror (Novel; excerpt from Chapter One)



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Taokitty

A Chagrined Fool.
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~Hello!~

I recently got an excerpt from my novel published a few months ago. It is rated PG 13 for mild swearing and mild violence. As it is, I have been working on the novel, however, the first chapter bothers me now, and I am curious how most people take to it. The excerpt is below here, hopefully in the blue:

He cast a final glance at the ruins, pomegranate eyes meeting the desecrated building. It wasn’t that the building itself was holy. (Really, Jack found such comfort fit for fools). Nor was it how it had been left abandoned… it was the ‘care’ it was receiving. He fashioned buildings to textbooks and fictional novels he read about proud empires or captains of ships. He thought of the waves that crashed down on deck, and crew members fleeing, captains would stay with their ships. Images of captains standing alone as their death soon met them filled his mind. He considered emperors to hold a dignity, a grace of certainty through troubled times, and if their castle fell, so did they. These brave men don’t ask to be saved. Such things should be left as they are, and not to be ‘helped’ by some idiot. These buildings like the men deserve respect.


Of course, this was the pride of his viral tribe Terra speaking. His people gave the appearance of being weak, a simple stem blowing in the breeze. However, inside ran blood as thick and as hot as lava. From years of mining, and years of fighting, he could liken them to a mountain. Docile in its place, yet strong and sturdy, and if aggravated, fire would rain to the ground.



Jack considered that being from the Terra tribe to form a large part of him, and why he chose the career he did. With the strong sense of smell gifted to him, strength he could call on if he so wished, and slow, but steady perseverance was perfect for being an aecheologist. As a child, he had lived in a small tribe. Although their living was simple, they were always strong and durable; calling on their blood when times were trying. In the entirety of Azra, they were known as one of the strongest groups alive because of their raw powers. Their abilities were general and blunt, but so were their weaknesses.



So, at pubescence he was sent on his first journey to call on the demon his people shared so that gifts would be blessed upon him. And it was on the day of his seventh season, were trees oozed magma and the wind sharpened grass his pilgramage began. His legs were sturdy, albeit awkward, his feet tender, but tough, his mind sharp and cunning, full of aspirations. Into the distance he travelled, and seeing buildings cryptic with age and isolation, he knew he wanted to exploit their deepest secrets.



The musing man threw his gaze to the night sky. His eyes softened, things from childhood streaming. He had fashioned the celestial sphere to glittering curtains woven to a ballroom. The radiant fabric would shift and sway, painting the room with oranges, reds, pinks, yellows; the colours that blossomed on the night sky. Spread throughout the dance floor were stars moving as delicately as ballet figures, dancing with their mating partner. This place was only possible with the moon, the overseer to these activities. The partner of the sun was translucent, casting a darkened glow on the sky. It was the moon that gave depth and shadows to the figures, for if there was no darkness, how could light be appreciated? The moon itself was dark and hollow, its insides seen along with its fiery struggles. A common scene in the night that still put sages in awe, and tonight… the sky was blazing. Normally, any other day he would have enjoyed this special night... if the 'dancing figures' did not remind him of the klutzes at work.



Six months… seven days… that’s how long he’d work on this perilous site with those half-brained imbeciles. They couldn’t even think for themselves! They’d ask him, ”Jack! How do I dig? Jack! How do I use a brush?” Of course, his impatience never simmered to the surface, and instead used a gentle hand to guide his... less-than capable comrades. In normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have minded acting as a father to children. If he wasn't in a hurry, he would have spent even more time explaining trivial knowledge to them about their field.



Yet now... well, he fantasized punching one of them in the face. To feel bones cracking, and gashes of blood running down his hands… was a mere dream to calm him down. Jack would never do that; he was aware of the consequences, and would never let his body do something without his control. If he at least had someone competent enough to help him... Well, that would make a world's difference for Azra he thought, barbs of humour attached to the wire. These ruins had answers, and only two were able to decipher the text. One had a cracked back and a caved in head. And how could he when he was always lagged?



Here wasn’t a bumbling man who mistook a fallen leader for a begger, he was the one that saw the Emperor and Captain for who they are, and wished to delve into their secrets. With his gray blouse hanging loosely on his frame, his pockets softened from books and scrolls, a rusted clockwatch, and hunched as a tree may sway in a breeze, he was the scholar craving answers. And these buildings were the ones with answers.



All too soon his thoughts crashed into the ground.



“Hey Jack! Is that you buddy?” As the chirpy voice drew closer, Jack's body grew tense before he let out a long, drawn out sigh. Speaking of incompetents… He lumbered closer. And, surprise, surprise, a hand smacked his back.



“Hey! Who knew the little rascal had the guts to wander at night! What were you up to, hmmm? Hmmm? “An elbow nudged against his shoulder. Dakaz and Farrow . Internally a vein was bulging in his head. The race they came from was... strange to say the least. Their lips were considered 'fruit' in the East, for they had a coating of nectar and sweet juices excreting from their mouth. Strawberry and cherries scents emanated from pores dappled along their cheeks, insects hovered by. Their race was known for its goodwill and festivity, and Dakaz and Farrow were no exception. They always exchanged little jokes and giggles when no one was looking, and their ears were the first to perk at the word "party." Ohhhhh, he knew them well. The two greatest slackers known to the team.



He broke from his reverie, noting the moonlight glinting in their eyes and their ears extended towards him. They hung onto his every word, and always treated him like a master. He couldn’t leave them hanging…“I just left the ruins.”



Dakaz whooted, Farrow look at him in astonishment. He could tell which was which because Farrow always seemed surprised, and Dakaz always cheered. Otherwise, it was a challenge of deduction. After all, they always wore their hair the same way, dressed the same way, and even spoke the same way. If one was wearing pink, the other was wearing the same exuberant colour down to the very pigment. If Farrow had his hair an afro, Dakaz was sure to follow. In the end, people at work resigned to calling them the ”Dream Team,” since no one could tell them apart and everyone dreamed to be a carefree as them.



“Man! Only you would stay at the ruins this late old man!” his blood hiked up … he was. Not. Old. He. Was. ONLY. TWENTY. EIGHT in his TIME. He wasn’t some hunched man with thinning hair! Although if he counted the number of seasons he’d seen, there were, well… he’d seen… … forty-five. He grabbed a piece of his hair to be sure it was there.



Farrow snapped his fingers “Awww! We should have been there Dakaz! The sky would look so nice from there!”



“No kidding! Especially with this bright night! It’s so unusual, eh?”



“No kidding! Sure, the night sky is usually glinting, but it’s rocking tonight man! A good day for a good time considering… “ the words seem to freeze, suspended in air. Words Farrow didn’t want to finish, words that no one wanted to speak, words that had to be spoken. Jack observed their drooping hair, and their slumping heads. He couldn’t leave the silence.



“The war?” funny how it should be so cloying towards them, for what could be more fun than bloodshed and flares of guns, spells of death, corpses littering a field? Now there was excitement. They always made conflict and drama, so what better step than to learn from a master of nations? Maybe they’d even learn to sharpen flowers for darts and destroy the world with hair products and shirts.



The two shuffled their feet,”… Yeah… ,” Dakaz responded. Farrow shot his comrade a glance. For Jack? A scowl.



“Jack… you shouldn’t say that!” his voice broke. The two of them were teeter-tottering on denial and acceptance, and if they couldn’t handle it…

“There will be soon,” with that, Jack walked alone.


--------------------

It wasn’t often he had the chance to enjoy enjoyed the comforts of his own home. He walked through the door, passing by a table. A straw rug decorated the floor, low lights hung from the ceiling, swatted away by his hand. The walls were made of hard clay, with a few lumps here and there. The floor was bumpy, as if the clay was alive and still molded, forming little hills and valleys in his mind. Straw mats were layered on top of the ground, making the rise in hills less distinct. He gave a content sigh. In all honesty, he had a soft spot for nature, whether it was in a field of grass, or in an orchard with plush fruit. The way the world was developing with its sterile work environments with no personality and no sign of life… Well, he’d take a chaotic setting any day. He’d miss this place… even if it was a year later he’d be gone.



… Only a year to figure out the labyrinth. The reason why he couldn’t enjoy this home wasn’t because it was unpleasant; it was because the clock was ticking, and each tick meant one less second….



He didn’t get a chance to burrow further in his mind. A draft of wind coaxed his back; his body tensed. The scowling mentor should have known he’d have one visitor.



“Jaaaaack!” the sing-song voice was the only warning he got. The next moment, he tumbled on the floor, pink hair –not his!- flowing down his shoulders, crystallized flowers fitted in the strands, rubbing against his face. He knew from experience that the hair was contained by a braid in the centre of this person’s hair, and the lithe arms holding his chest could only be a certain 21-year-old apprentice. The scowling mentor should have known he’d have one visitor.



“Enziruuuuu,” he growled. Next thing he knew, he was staring at a cheeky grin. That pink hair looked smoothed and neat down her back, as if a soft little blanket she could lay on. Her carnation lips were a shade too pale, the skin on her body looked frozen from too many years in an empty room. The only thing that seemed vibrant were here maple eyes dappled with black specks, swirling with mischief. Really, her body cried ‘innocence’ all about her, whether it was the skin, or the pair of jean a size too big on her, to the ruffled blouse and flimsy coat she wore. Jack took one glance at the smirk on her lips. Boy, was that ever wrong.



Enziru’s expression didn’t change, her lips curving in a smug expression, her arms crossed. The hackles of his hair began to raise. Her finger swept through the air, brushing his chest and touching that spot she had before… and there was a blue mark he never noticed before. His eyes raised. “You didn’t.



“I diiiiid, smile!” with that she kept her hand on that spot, and electricity shot to his mouth. This wasn’t electricity the body produced, but a forced, foreign energy cutting into his nerves. A smile jerked on his lips. The energy felt like fingers were pulling his cheek muscles up from the inside, bloating them while the skin constricted. His tongue was lolling out, his canines protruding. Really, he looked like a balloon with incisors. He growled, his hand shoving at her hand that wouldn’t… budge. The smile kept its forced look… and began to widen.



“Enziruuuuuu,” he growled. He paused to breath, looking at her with narrow eyes… and that goofy smile. Pictures of certain shopkeeper from memory came, who had wrinkly skin, and greed that would overflow an empty ocean”You visited that old man, didn’t you?”



“Maybe.” It made sense now. Enziru was a frequent customer of that man’s wares, and often bought… eccentric gifts from there. Food that swam in your intestines, clothing that turned your skin green, little worms trained to trip you in the sand… of course, she never did this to anyone else because she was a ‘good girl’ and it would be so such a horrendous and immoral act. Except him that is. It really wasn’t fun having people ask if he was sick when she dyed him green, and even worse to have Farrow and Dakaz cheering that he was, ”a party animaaaal!” As if that was a good thing.



His thoughts were drawn away from his fuming. The smile continued to enlarge, stretching the cheek muscles beneath, more rows of his sharp teeth exposed. “Enziru, stop!”



“Na-ah Jack, say it like, ’Oh wonderful, magnificient Enziru, may you please stop?’’”



He glared at her. She gave a dramatic sigh, as if she was helping an idiot.



“Tut tut Jack, was that really necessary?” her finger burrowed deeper into his chest, widening the smile. The skin on his face had reached its breaking point. His epidermis would rip.



Looking at the pale skin and frail body… he almost felt pity for anyone who’d fall for her. “… Fine! May you please stop Enziru?”



“Okaay,” that singer’s melody never left her throat. The force left, the stress gone. He rubbed his cheeks. The skin felt normal, the same smooth endless flesh. Just the cheeks themselves felt slightly… loose. He glared at her, rubbing off the blue pigment.



He knew her methods. While she had been hugging him, she transferred this powder on his chest, and by her tapping it, she turned its powers on; whether the powder just made the victim smile, or if it could make the victim do other things... he didn’t know. One thing he did know was that there was mischievous magic in it. He tapped his cheeks again. Finding that his cheeks were no longer felt like they stretched like a hide around a drum, he put his hands on his hips.

“Why are you here?”



“To prank you, of course!” Came her easy reply, a little hum in her voice.



“Why must you prank me?” it was hard not throw his arms up in the sky, and beg a god for a reason.



“Because you’re a sour puss! Although my main reason” she lifted a plastic bag from the ground,”was that I brought some supper.”



He was going to refuse… but it was at that moment it decided to growl, anxious for food. It had been 7 AM since he last ate, and now that it was 9 PM… He sniffed the contents. Chocolate, Caesar salad and snif... meat. The wimper of his stomach grew. Reluctantly, Jack swiped the bag.


He poked its insides. “… Is it poisoned?”



“Nooo.”



He raised an eyebrow,”… Edible?” he got a whack for that.



“Of course it is! Besides the raw meat you seem to love,”Enziru rolled her eyes, ”it’s 100% edible, guaranteed!”



“Well then… “Tentatively he peaked in the bag. Satisfied, he smiled at her. “Thank you.”



“No problem! Heavens knows you don’t eat enough!” another mewl began, but it wasn’t his stomach.



“… You didn’t make yourself anything, did you?”



She scratched the back of her head.“Haha! Of course I did… ahehe.… “



“You’re a bad liar.”



Enziru was a polite speechless.



She jutted out her chin," As it is, you need this meal more than I do, heavens knows I at least have breakfast and lunch -until I drag you for lunch-! Besides, this meal was made for you," Enziru wrinkled her nose,"I would cook a steak, eating it the proper way!" His little apprentice had the air of a regal mistress.



“Okay.”



She smiled. “Eat well, okay?” with that, she headed out the door, leaving a little wave. It was an odd relationship, mentor to student, caretaker to caregiver, and prey to predator. The quirks wove an odd pattern, spreading over fields, those fields signifying time. Each landscape added a different dimension, yet, it wasn’t something he could read… not that he’d want to, it was one of the few things he wished to take for granted.



Her head appeared in the frame again, ”Oh and,” she began turning away, ”I think the factory is still on, byeeeeeee!” that irritating tone was in her voice. Just like her to relinquesh such information before she left. Wait-



Damn! Shoving his food in his fridge, he forced his shoes on, racing down the corridor. How could he forget? He recalled The hollow ruins… him resting on a stone slab… reading one of the texts and a… drink? He frowned. Memories of trivial actions were discarded by the end of the day. Why should he remember himself moving? The information was much more important than what his physical body did… yet, had he forgotten habits he scorched into his body… ?



He burst outside, running down the town. The houses seemed to be ghosts illuminated by the ground and pale sky. His body moved faster, sweat pouring down his temple. Outside the town, the sand began to whirl around him. Grit punctured his skin, wind howled in his ears. He covered his head, curling his eyes, squinting his eyes. There hadn't been a warning for a sandstorm!



It was too late to turn back. A blank white surronded him, smothering his senses, flabs of skin hanging from his frame. Only the wind shrieking could be heard, his skin throbbing from tears. Grains digged into his body. He grimaced, crouching on the ground, covering his face with tattered limbs. Time passed, and the only thing he could do was curse his luck. A little later, all he could do was think about the storm, and somehow keep his head, wondering why it happened and if it correlated with anything instead of thinking about the empty snow colour invading him. It wasn't the first time he had been in a storm like this, and his race perservered through conditions such as these. Not that it was anymore fun. He acted calm, but he worried the next time something like this happened would cost his life.



Soon he felt the ding wind gives its final chimes, giving him corpses of old rhymes and little stories; stories from the past, stories of people it had seen. People who were tall, brunnettes, races with broad faces, clans whose faces were carved with trees and shrubs. The sand had settled, still glinting like glass in the moonlight. The archaeologist wiped his forehead, glancing up.



The ballroom that the sky was had white spill into the scene. Like snow streaming down into the furnished room, it covered and blotted other dancers. He continued walking. The more he travelled, the more it looked like snow captured in a glass or tapestry. Clumps of it clung to the curtain. Soon harsh lights dazzled his sight. If a foreigner was ever in search of the archetects while they were on duty, the nearest resident would tell them to follow the distorted sky. Follow where the sky was cracked; you'll know where. After you follow it a distance, you'll find that the light covered more of the sky, andd you'll find even more lights. Bulbs twinkling on the aged building. The pillar of light began at the factory, and it was there the sky was cut.



It was zealous, but there were reasons. The chalk building consumed light. When humble flames were used, it was devoured before it had the chance to burn. The sun’s gaze turned its eye from the belly of this building, feeling that it would not be worth the effort, or perhaps, afraid of being taken in. For those reasons, lights that blared from the outside only cast a dim overcast inside… The building's texture similar to loose skin...



Many people felt uncomfortable working late at night because it meant turning off those lights. He had his team would prefer to clean excrements with their tongue and hands rather than placing a hand on any stone. Those who were brave to work a shift by themselves reported how they felt watched… flickers of shadow changing in corners, some describing the ground they touched as soft insides. No matter, this never bothered Jack and he worked many times until the moon peaked through its curtains. Another reason for people to adore him, another reason for him to get annoyed.



He stepped through the gaping entrance, caressing the side of the building. His eyes became a soft burgundy. Ambling down the hallway, greetings of hello were fashioned from the echoes of his steps. The building was soft and muddled, some pieces breaking off when a person so much as touched it. Another hazard, another reason for fear, but he only saw it as the building resting in peace. The bumps and rifts in the floor were similar to a child pulling blankets around herself. The clumps of mud falling no more than mere snores. One day, this building would sleep, and he’d be the one to tuck it in for the night. That day was far away, and only when he solved its mystery.



Now, he walked through a warped passages that reminded others of a throat, looking at illustrated drawings. Where experience was believed to improve skills, the opposite had happened with his generations. Here were detailed sketches of fallen stars and feathered humans, of horses as blinding as a water’s surface reflecting the sun, cats transparent from light yet solid within shadows, waterfalls streaming toward peaks of mountains. Pictures ornamented from lines, garnished with turquoise blues, green grass, silver bullets, molten cores. That was art. It was always a shame to see it veiled for the night.



It wasn't too far now. He walked through, finding the stone. He placed his hand on for a single breath, the warmth seeping into his skin, the hum of bees resting for the night. Some of the power to light this building came from underground, streaming from various places in the earth. The rock itself came from the mountains in the west, gifted in filtering and collecting any light nearby. This stone was meant to react to react to temperature changes, and seeing how the building always had a constant temperature, it always had its light on. By placing his hand on it, he gave it warmth, in a way, telling the stone it could sleep. Sometimes, he wished to keep the stone awake for a bit longer, in anticipation for something, but he could never figure out what.



He strode out of the building, casting a final glance at all things around him. The darkness didn’t bother him much, as he could see well with the scant drops of radiance. The chilly air seeped into his skin, and it was then he realized he wasn’t the only one at the factory. There in the moonlight was a body of a girl. Brown hair spilled over her face reminding him of burnt Fusilli Bucati. Sand covered her form, and it could be the parmasean cheese! His stomach rumbled again. Raw steak seemed only a few moments away. Although, the prescence of the girl was peculiar. He sniffed the air, and by the smells of it, she was the only recent person. Again, he took a whiff of air and found the scent... lacking the feral quality, of blood clawing within its veins and writhing, palpating beneath the skin, trying to break through the membrane. It smelled clean, something washed in cold water, similar to peppermint, but not quite. It wasn't normal.



Ambling towards her, he cast furtive glances. This was something… that never happened before, and he wondered who this person was. Was it a homeless person, who didn’t fit in well with their clan? Were they banished from their country, forced to work in a hostile place? Someone who plotted to destroy the ruins?



He scoffed at that. If this person liked to ruin ruins, well, they had better shape up. A smart plan would have been to come when no one’s there, or when there’s no indication. Judging by the fact they were laying down and sand covered them, well, they must have been here for awhile, once he had entered the building. Another point: the worst thing you can do is wait in the open! If this homeless bum had a sent vendetta against buildings for whatever reason, she wouldn’t want to be seen by others who could shout,”Heeey! I remember that girl! She was here the other day! You know… the day before the ruins collapsed and went into flames?” There goes that brilliant idea, and they’d end up in legal court. Also, leaving oneself’s so vulnerable… well… that was just… foolish….



Now that the whole “destroyer of the ruins idea” was out of his head, he had to wonder why. Why here? It would have made more sense to go to the village, unless they were hiding, or maybe, they were lost. There was that storm that hit awhile ago, and he knew he could have passed by her when he was intent on turning off the lights. It was still strange; with his enhanced vision and sense of smell, it was only now he found something different? Maybe it was her skin blended in with the sand.



Jack’s eyes widened, he rushed towards her. Her body was cool like rubber, her chest rose slightly, covered by an excuse of a shirt. Holes and tears had made themselves home in her clothing, exposing her white skin and ribcage beneath. Her breasts were nothing to stand out, although developed and her hips bones protruded. Gashes could be found on her legs.Something seemed very strange about her… he couldn’t place it, but something seemed odd indeed…



He used two fingers to pry her mouth open. This unfamiliar scent, dull nails, and no canines… ? Red eyes scrutinized her face. She didn’t seem to have any biological weapons, her body had suggested she hadn’t eaten in a long time, there was no suggestion of anything… special about her, to put it simply, or anything he could work with to classify her. As it was, Jack had travelled to many places in his life, and prided himself on his memories of smells. This was one he never came across. Flashes of news filtered his mind, babbles of people’s voices entering his head.



“Have you heard that more humans are appearing?”



Well, that made his jaw drop. Could it be… ?! Well, there was no way he could verify, but after all the places he had travelled, from bustling cities to humble huts, he had never come across a scent like this! And considering how rare humans are and how more were coming into the open, there was no other thing to explain this! But why would they now… ? It didn’t make sense! Now that more of them were within their detection, there were those who wished to take advantage of them. Memories buzzed in his mind of cloaked figures with devilish smiles. A dark alley. Strapped boxes on their back big enough to fit a body… never found, never fought, the government issued orders to stop them, but each time it only ended in blood shed and carcasses… they blended in the environment like snakes, and when provoked, they injected poison in their prey. The bounty hunters. It seemed the wore the skin of any brethren nearby, but only had a rotting mind. They had no fear, because they knew they were fear, and had no qualms fighting someone in their way because they were beyond powerful. The only thing was a smile that split their face, and everyone knew that if you had a human, they would find you.



He stepped back. Only someone stupid would risk their life to save a human. Unless they wanted to be estranged, hunted down, and even killed, no one would go to any lengths to help one, let alone give them directions to the nearest city. Absolute suicide! Yet… he couldn’t just leave her here…



He shook his head, doing his best to battle this thing called a “conscience”. No! I can’t keep her! She’ll end up getting me killed! Not to mention all the years I’ve been trying to figure that out… all those years wasted… Wind passed by, more sand burying her body. Her fate will be worse. “ He felt he lifted a curtain to a bloody scene. An audience member would merely watch the tale unfold; an actor would jump into the role and save the victim. So would he walk away, report it to the police, or would he take matters into his own hands? The young lady rasped.



With that, he scooped the girl in his arms. A folly, but what else could he do? He jogged through the ruins, ignoring her elbows scraping against his flesh, and his own torn body. How long could he keep her?

--------------------------------

It wasn’t long before he reached his hut, the little inhabitant looking meek and small compared to before. The couch was no more comfortable than a sack of bricks, and his dining table could only support one. Not to mention his gnobby floor. He shrugged this off for the mean time. Right now, he had to focus on the girl. With that, he plopped her on his bed.



The girl’s skin reminded too much of wet paper. Bones pressed against this thin layer of flesh; he was half-expecting them tearing free. That was one issue he needed to take care of; there would be no point rescuing her if he couldn't sustain her. The thoughtful archaeologist’s hand felt cold on the girl’s shoulder, and each shake felt like he was jostling her insides. Still, he continued. This girl had to wake up.



A hand pawed at his arm, the bony fingers similar to a spider’s legs crawling on his skin. Her resistance became stronger, her hand clutching around his arm, the spider’s pincers ready to strike not that he was afraid of that.



“Nooo…” whined a voice, the sound raspy and dry, her body hacking dirt.



“Wake up,” he cooed as gently as he could. It was about as comforting as a snake telling a mouse it would be okay.



She mumbled some more, batting weakly, trying to flip over. Eyes inched open, instantly he thought of a vial. A glass case can be a harmless thing, yet it could wield a great poison, and perhaps her eyes held spider’s poison- she just didn’t know it. The vial –the whites of her eyes- widened in fear, her arms cradling her body. “W-w-w-where a-am I?”



“Safe,” was his curt reply. It did little to serve as a balm for her fears.



She continued to stare at him, her eyes wide, and the vial extending to show how little poison there was. Her body was a sculpture- still, with no detail changing except the flicker of her eyes. Brown hair draped over her face, still reminding him of that pasta , except mixed with a strange sauce. The girl didn’t look comfortable, yet she stayed frozen, unwilling to move.



“Girl, what’s your name?”



“…” She flicked her gaze to her knees.



“Giiirl,” he grounded out.



“… ren… “



“Speak louder girl!"



“Karen!” she burst out.



“Good! Now Karen,” he leaned toward her,”you know the rules of this world, and you know what’s after you. Only a drunkard would approach an unknown inhabitant, or someone insane if they’re human. You don’t want that, you don’t want to be caught. Understood?” She nodded,”Good, I’m getting you food. Stay here, don’t move, understood?” She moved her head more vigorously this time.



She seemed obedient enough… now, what to get her… ? Peering in his fridge, he found the dinner Enziru had made him. The frail girl in his room… what would be good for her? The chocolate would be good for energy, while the caesar salad was nutritious, but with how pale she was. That left only… the steak. His stomach made a growl of despair. Yes, he loved steak, but the survival of the girl was more important. He paid little mind to what she would like to eat, and it never crossed his mind she may get nauseated by bloody meat, or how it could affect her.



Carrying the contents of the meal, he grabbed two plates from a cupboard. Raw meat… butchered and pounded, lovely to butchers and customers. The butchers would want flesh already prepared, and the girl was the epitome of this. Her personality maimed, her body weak… the perfect specimen for bounty hunters to have. It seemed funny. After all, this battered, tenderized girl could be brought to the slaughterhouse herself. He walked into the room, handing the plate to her. Blood drenched the glass, the meat oozing gore. Her eyes widened, the small nose on her face wrinkling. She stared at him with a plea, but a moment later, she raised the gory steak to her mouth, and took a bite out of it.


Unfortunately, this will be the only chapter I will post here, more so because I am terrified someone would try to steal my novel if I posted it on here. At least, with the first Chapter, I have solid proof that I did indeed write it, since it was published in 2011.

I have some leading questions below, however, I would prefer who ever plans to review this to say what comes to mind, and answer these questions after the first draft (first initial thoughts? First lay out) of the constructive critism. If you would prefer to just write your own review without looking at the questions, or if you would prefer to only answer the questions, go ahead. Hence, they will be put below:





Was this able to keep your interest? Why or Why not?

Was it too descriptive? Why or Why not?

Was there anything confusing? What was it?


Please do note, I will take most constructive critisms to heart, but some things I do with this story, I do on purpose. So, I will keep an open ear, but I apologize if I do not seem to take all suggestions, since there are certain things I have a firm ground in. For example, anything that has to do with the character (in how they perceive or exagerrate things, along with their thinking process), or something written that affects the plot later on are things I will not change. So, all in all, I will take most constructive critism, provided that it is constructive. Not just,"UR STORY SUCKS1!1!111!" If that is the case, why? If one is out to merely maim, however, then I will have no interest in the constructive critism.

Do call me out on any grammatical, spelling, or annoying errors, that will always be appreciated, and things that do need to be worked on.

To sum it up, please do be honest, but give reasons so I know what to improve, and please do not be a troll because you can.
 
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Annoyance

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On one note, if anyone were to come in and say that your story sucked without saying why I'd seriously go off on them before getting them booted from the site. No one wants that.

I wish the same can be said for people that just come in and say "it's good" and not say why, but, at least feelings aren't being hurt there.
 

Taokitty

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I agree! Well, I suppose, if everyone said that it is good, and nothing else, perhaps that would give the writer confidence to continue writing the way they do? I believe all writers should strive to make their works better, and become more attuned with the emotional value of the words they write. On the other side, though, if everyone said that a story is good, I guess that would mean that the writer is accomplished enough to be able to recognize mistakes within their works and write in a satisfactory way for readers.

Writing is a two way street.

(Although, explanations are a beautiful thing, either way! I get sad if people do not say why they like something I wrote, and that is the reason I always try to list what a writer did good, and why it was effective... the reviews can get long, after awhile. Makes me sad when there is this FANTASTIC writer I have found, and I am feeling lazy, so I only write two paragraphs. It has happened to me once or twice where people have messaged me informing me that it was the best review they ever read... it is frightening to me, no offense to others. xox)

I wonder if anyone will read the towers of text above? XD I can see why it is intimidating.
 

Annoyance

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But what if how they're writing things is wrong? So people saying "it's good" and not mentioning any negativity, will make the writer think he's some writing god and then the second someone like me comes in, it all blows up in their face, their wings melt, and they fall.

And also tell me to go kill myself but eh.
 

Taokitty

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I agree with that. I am talking about in a theoretical situation where everyone, even publishers say it is "good." Although I prefer for people to always state reasons for what they like, it can help build that person's confidence. And, you also make sure to tell them the things they have done well, correct? Their wings can grow again.

If they don't, well... that is a decision they made.
 
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