Love Worth Fire, Part 2

Camille (Cannon) Eide

Up at the main house, Maggie had the kitchen table prepared for tea, just as she said. {It was a little uncanny how she always seemed to know when a letter was coming.} [I’d put this in earlier. It doesn’t have anything to do with the tea.]

Settled at the table with her tea and a plate piled with odd-shaped bannocks, she demanded, “Let’s have it, mon. Read it aloud.”

Ian heaved a sigh. He always read them out loud.

As he unfolded the letter, he smiled at the neat, elegant handwriting belonging to Grace’s niece, Emily. There was something uplifting about the kind, gracious tone in her letters.

“May 4

Dear Maggie and Ian,

Thank you for another charming and insightful letter. Grace is very relieved to hear that her sister is still so fit and managing the farm so well. Her homemade pies sound wonderful.

Grace worries that Ian will soon tire of farm life and she wants him to know how much she appreciates him being there with Maggie.

Your letter reminded Grace of a story, and she wants to know if Maggie remembers the time when, after butchering some chickens, Maggie saved a chicken head and put it in Grace’s porridge when she wasn’t looking. Grace wonders if Maggie still has her charming sense of humor, and if Ian is enjoying it as much as Grace did.

Your last letter didn’t mention Claire and her husband David, and we’re curious to know how the “fishing” has been going. We’ve been praying, so please let us know more when you can.

Grace would like you to know that her doctor is very pleased with her progress. He’s nicknamed her “Amazing Grace” because of how well she’s doing, and he thinks it’s a miracle. We know it’s a miracle! We thank God for it and for giving the doctor such a precious glimpse of Himself through this. Isn’t it amazing how God can use any situation to reveal Himself to us! Isn’t He wonderful! I’m also amazed at Aunt Grace. I’ve seen how hard she’s worked and how much patience she’s had. She should be proud of herself; I know I am!

With that said, it seems we are considering the possibility of making a trip to Scotland after all, inspired by your many kind invitations. When is a good time to come? School is out for me from early June until the end of August; how does a visit toward the end of summer sound? And when are you busiest with berry season? Please let us know what would be the best time for you.

It’s hard to believe the school year is coming to an end, with only 4 weeks left. Our students are showing symptoms of “summer fever”, even the kindergarteners. Most of the high-schoolers have already begun working in the alfalfa fields. Grace is even looking forward to summer and the projects we’ve been planning, including teaching me the fine art of canning. She taught my mother too, since she took mom under her wing as well. I’m not sure how I’ve managed to slip through the cracks. I’ve lived in a farming community for 3 years and still don’t know such a basic task. Even my first grade girls know how to can (well, maybe). I’m very sorry, Maggie, if it pains you to hear it. But Aunt Grace has kindly agreed to remedy all my shortcomings as soon as possible.

We will look forward to hearing from you soon, and to knowing when a visit from us would best suit you both. We would also love to meet Claire and her family, if it would be convenient for them.

With Love,

Grace & Emily”

[I don’t think the reader needs to see all of this letter. Highlight the important things—only you know what’s important to the rest of the story—and summarize the rest.]

Maggie insisted Ian read it several times, which he expected.

With a final sigh, Maggie drained the dregs of her teacup and propped her elbows on the table, her round face resting in her hands.

“I don’t know where she gets such rubbish—chicken heads! Humph!” But Maggie was smiling to herself.

{Ian looked at the letter again. The mention of fishing with David reminded him that he needed to phone him.} [The reader doesn’t need to know this until you actually have a scene of Ian calling David.] {He was glad to know Grace and Emily had been praying. Then he smiled at Emily’s raptures about the goodness of God.} [I think it would be better to have his reaction break into the letter than to see it here. But all in all, this paragraph isn’t really needed.]

“Well? What do you think? They sound like a wild pair—should we let them come?”

“Och! What’re ye saying laddie! ‘Tis about time they come!” Maggie’s smile pushed her jowly cheeks up into rosy mounds on either side of her round nose. “They can come anytime! Berryin’ or no! And mind ye start a letter back to Grace this minute! We’ve loads to do!”

Ian’s sigh was nearly a low growl as reached for pen and paper, tossing up a silent prayer for patience. Then the old woman, turning away to tidy up, said with unusual softness, “Ye’re a good mon, Ian. Thank ye… for everything ye do around here.”

Ian’s jaw fell open. Maggie chuckled heartily as she carried cups and saucers to the bunker next to the sink. “I’m old and blind, not deaf and dumb, laddie.”

“Alright then,” he said, shaking his head. He began to write, wondering how her words could gratify and terrify him at the same time. “What would you like me to say?”

Maggie wanted him to say she does remember the chicken head porridge and knows where she can get some more if they’d fancy a pot when they come. She also wanted him to make for certain they know about his upcoming trip to Oregon, tell them that he will come to see them, no matter what it takes … because if he’s that close to her sister and doesn’t bring back a first-hand report, she’ll have his head.

[Present tense words don’t belong in past tense narrative. The above could either be straight dialog, or smoothed out like this:

Maggie wanted him to say she did remember the chicken head porridge and knew where she could get more if they’d fancy a pot when they came. And to make for certain they knew about his upcoming trip to Oregon, and that he would go see them, no matter what it took. Because if he was that close to his sister and didn’t bring back a first-hand report, she’d have his head.]

Ian had seen Maggie with an axe and didn’t doubt that a wee bit.

***

Camille tells me she’s pretty new at writing. Don’t you think she’s off to a good start? Again, her blog is Extreme Keyboarding.

Love Worth Fire, Part 1

Camille (Cannon) Eide

Chapter 3

A fine Scottish fog, rising from the twisting burn below, blanketed the hills beyond the little cottage and settled over the glen. From the window, Ian barely noticed the spreading mist as bits of the last phone call still echoed in his ear. When he’d heard himself say the words out loud, it finally sunk in: he was going to the United States.

So long as everything went according to plan.

He had first phoned his travel agent, confirming his flight plans, and last, his editor at The Master’s Call magazine, confirming the deadline for his special feature article. It finally felt real and now, he was eager to make the trip. But even though traveling to Portland, Oregon would give him the material he needed to write the article, what he looked forward to most about this trip was seeing Janet Anderson again.

Janet would be in her mid-sixties now, Ian guessed. He couldn’t believe that it had been more than five years since he last saw the woman whose biography he had written. When he phoned to ask her for an interview, she agreed, as long as he came in person. And not some ‘Q and A’ kind of interview, but a hands-on experience of her ministry. He agreed to spend a week following her, journaling her remarkable life on the street.

Everything was settled now [I notice repeated words, and that’s the third “now” in as many paragraphs.]: the contract signed, the deadline set, the travel arrangements made. But for a while, one glaring issue had remained unresolved, leaving Ian to wonder if he’d be able to make the trip at all.

[I’d rather see this chapter only moving forward. Make the obstacle a current one instead of something he's already overcome. That way it doesn't sound like backstory.]

Maggie.

The day his half-blind grannie discovered where he’d hidden the keys to the truck was the day Ian knew he had a serious problem. The minute he had the keys safely in hand, he dashed to the cottage to phone the only other person he knew who could handle her.

[A different form of repetition… “The day his” and “The minute he” is a repetition of style in the same paragraph.]

“Sorry, little brother,” Claire said in answer to his plea, “but David and I are taking the kids on a bit of a holiday at that time. [One of the benefits of his being unemployed, I suppose.]” [The part in red brackets reads like an info dump to me.]

“Where are you going? Can’t you take her with you then?”

Claire laughed. “Nice try. We’re going to Loch Lomond for some water-skiing. Can’t you just see her tearing off across the Loch like an angry goose? Besides, we’re staying with a friend. I can’t just show up with my grannie, now can I?”

Ian ran his fingers through his hair, expelling a long, hissing breath.

“Why don’t you take her along on your trip?” Claire asked. “She’d fancy that.”

“Too expensive. I’m covering my own costs on this one.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Well … she’ll probably be fine on her own, Ian.”

“She found the keys to the truck, Claire. While I was home. I can only imagine what she’ll do with more time on her hands. No doubt she plans to hunt down everything else I’ve hidden from her the minute I’m gone.”

“Why don’t you ask a neighbor, or someone from the kirk to come and check on her every day?”

“What poor soul do you suggest I send over? You know how she is. Nobody sets foot in that door, not if she thinks they’re coming to check up on her. She’d likely run them off with a butcher knife.”

Her muffled giggle told him that Claire didn’t see that as much of a problem.

“So, what’re you going to do?”

Ian heaved another sigh. “I don’t know. Either I leave for ten days and pray to God that she doesn’t do any serious damage, or I cancel my trip.”

“I am sorry, Ian. I don’t know what else to tell you. I wish I could help, but this holiday with the kids, with Davey … it’s long overdue and we need to spend some time together, as a family.”

A week later, Ian still had no idea what he was going to do about the trip and the obstinate old woman. He sat in the cottage kitchen, staring at the telephone, racking his brain. But all he could think of was their new minister running down the drive as fast as his bony legs would carry him, with Maggie on his heels, glinting blade in hand. [I like his grannie already.]

God, tell me again why I’m here?

Ian stared at the phone as though it would ring and God would give him an answer. He felt like pounding his head against the wall, his mind spinning with doubts about moving back to the farm, and his efforts to help a mule-headed old woman who battled his help every step of the way. But deep down, Ian knew better than to ask why. This was where God wanted him, and only God knew all the reasons. So, he found himself praying, again, for more patience. He didn’t know what God had in mind, but he relinquished control, ready to accept whatever came.

And what came, when the phone rang less than a minute later, was the solution to his problem.

When Ian heard Claire’s voice telling him that David got the job that they’d been praying for, postponing their vacation, Ian laughed, long and loud, ignoring the slightly affronted silence on the other end of the line. She and the girls would be able to come and stay with Maggie after all. Maggie would be pleased to have her great-granddaughters come for a visit, and even more pleased that Claire had taken a sudden interest in making jam with her for the Summer Festival.

So the trip was finally settled with Ian in his sister’s debt. Claire would have her hands full, without a doubt. He laughed to himself now as he pictured feisty little Claire trying to wrestle the axe away from their eighty-year-old grannie. [good characterization]

It would be a nearly even match.

Staring out the cottage window, Ian could see the postal truck ambling up the road through the fog. It came to a stop at their mailbox.

Maybe there would be a letter from Grace and Emily today. [Present tense word—doesn’t belong.] In spite of Maggie’s insistence, he still wasn’t sure if his trip to Oregon would put him near enough to visit them, and if there would be enough time. He needed to find out how far it was from Portland to Juniper Valley. [I can’t explain why I don’t like that sentence. It just doesn’t flow.]

Ian quickly gathered up the notes he had jotted down with phone numbers and flight details, and dashed out to get the mail.

Maggie must have heard the mail truck coming from a distance, since the farmhouse sat up higher on the brae, [I like the word brae. However, I don’t think you need to explain how Maggie could have heard the mail truck first.] because she was already halfway down the drive by the time Ian came out of the cottage. He joined her as she trudged past the cottage, her knobby walking stick in hand.

“Well Maggie? Do you think there’s a letter today?” He fell into step beside her.

“Aye, ye daftie, o’ course there’s a letter.” Maggie’s bearing was steady and sure, in spite of her poor eyesight. She could walk this path with her eyes closed. She’d prove it too, if you dared her. [Rephrase: She could walk the path with her eyes closed, and would prove it on a dare. (sounds less like you’re talking directly to the reader)]

Ian laughed. “Is this a race?”

“No, laddie; I don’t have the heart to beat ye.” She frowned and pressed her lips tight as she concentrated on the path ahead.

They hiked down the sloped drive that started from the paddock on the west side of the main house and curved down past the cottage before it joined Lower Craig’s Hill road, which ran long the lower march of the farm. When they reached the mailbox, Ian stood by and let Maggie check it. The envelope she drew out was marked with airmail stamps and Emily’s familiar handwriting. She brought it to her nose and sniffed.

“Aye, honeysuckle. That’s it.” She turned to Ian. “What’re ye doing footerin about here, laddie? Didn’t I tell ye there’d be a letter? Away ye go, mon; I’ve got our tea ready and waitin’.” She poked at him with her stick.

Ian sidestepped the jab and shook his head with a twisted [this raises a POV alarm for me, but it might be okay] smile, setting out for the house as commanded. Nothing would delay the reading of the Letter; nothing would dare.

***

Wednesday I’ll post the rest of chapter 3. If you want to back up and see what happened in chapter one, it’s posted on her new blog, Extreme Keyboarding. Be sure to read her 8 random facts, too. She’s got a quirky sense of humor.

Suspense with medical drama element

Richard Mabry is a retired physician, so I wasn't surprised to see that the main character in chapter one is a surgeon. This one grabbed me from the start and didn't let go.

CAUGHT IN THE TORRENT
Richard L. Mabry

Prologue

He watched her stride purposefully toward her car. She thumbed the remote, threw her purse and a backpack onto the passenger seat, and climbed in.

[The second sentence shows good writing instincts. “She thumbed the remote.” Thumbed is concise. One word versus “pushed the button on”. And there’s no need to elaborate because the type of remote is made clear in the rest of the sentence.]

She pulled out of the parking garage. He followed, keeping a couple of cars between them.

He gradually closed the gap until he was directly behind her. He watched her head, alert for any movement toward the rearview mirror. No, she seemed oblivious to his presence.

[Normally, you want to simply show what the other person is doing instead of saying “he watched” what she was doing. In this case, he is following the woman and watching her, so it’s more acceptable. But it’s not great. The first sentence of the book would be stronger with some sort of action on his part. And the second sentence in the paragraph above could be stronger, too.]

Now her hand beat time on the steering wheel, her head bobbed rhythmically. He hoped she wasn’t listening to some of that awful heavy metal stuff. He liked to have music playing when the time came. But it didn’t matter what she preferred, did it? He always got to make the choice.

[Creepy (and by that I mean great) foreshadowing.]

She rolled through a stop sign with only a tap of her brakes. He came to a full stop before following. Two blocks further, she put on her blinker and turned onto a quiet residential street. He stayed a cautious hundred feet behind her.

Her brake lights came on. She wheeled into a driveway and stopped. He drove well past before easing to the curb.

He slumped down in the seat, silently cursing the loose spring that jabbed him, and adjusted the rearview mirror until it captured her image. He watched her until she disappeared through the front door. Then he eased upward in the seat, started the pickup, and pulled away.

He knew he’d be back. [He knew is another thing to avoid. We’re in his head, so he’s the only one who could know it. Cutting straight to the point is much stronger.]

Chapter One

"Okay, get him on the table and prepped. Move it, people!" Dr. Ben Merrick’s voice echoed back at him from the green tile walls of Operating Room One.

He strode to the table in the rear of the room, broke open a gown pack, and shoved his arms into one of the sterile garments. While the circulating nurse tied the strings of his gown, he snapped on a pair of latex surgical gloves.

Ben turned his head to look at the boy who lay on the gurney like a blood-spattered rag doll, his face almost as white as the sheet that covered him. Intravenous lines snaked into both arms. A small green tank between his knees fed oxygen into his nostrils via a plastic cannula.

Ben knew every second was precious. He barked, "Rick, John, move him over—now!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the anesthesiologist and the surgical resident lift the patient onto the operating table and use blunt-nosed scissors to cut away the last of his clothing.

Ben pivoted toward his scrub nurse, Kathy, who was rummaging through a jumble of surgical instruments from an opened sterile pack. She pointed to the ones she had selected as essential, now lined up on the Mayo tray and ready. He nodded his approval.

"John, pour some Betadine on his belly," [Since every second is precious, maybe his order should be cut to “Betadine.” And if anyone doesn’t know what John is supposed to do with Betadine, it’s explained in the next paragraph.] Ben said. "We don't have time for the niceties here."

John picked up a plastic bottle and doused the boy’s abdomen with antiseptic solution, turning its fish-belly pallor to a coppery red. Before the last drops had run down the patient’s flanks, Ben grabbed the edge of the gray-green draping sheet Kathy was holding. With practiced efficiency, they spread it over the boy’s abdomen, centering the opening in the sheet on his navel, leaving only an impersonal rectangle of skin exposed. [Impersonal rectangle. Great description.]

“Is that it?” Ben asked. There were affirmative responses all around. He stepped to the operating table. "Give us some light here.”

Willing hands adjusted the ceiling-mounted, high intensity lights to focus their glare on the boy’s bare belly. “Better,” Ben said.

Ben turned to his right. Kathy nodded and held up a scalpel, handle first.

He saw that John, now gowned and gloved, was in place across the table from him.

Ben looked toward the head of the table where the anesthesiologist was holding a black rubber mask tightly against the boy’s face and rhythmically squeezing the bag of the anesthetic machine. "Rick, keep giving him oxygen, but no anesthetic unless he starts moving. I don't think he's feeling anything right now."

Ben took one deep breath, then held out his hand for the scalpel. Without hesitation, he plunged the razor-sharp blade in a single motion through skin and fat. He dropped the scalpel on the instrument tray and made a snipping motion with his first two fingers. Kathy slapped a pair of heavy scissors into his palm, and he began to separate the muscles of the boy’s abdomen.

Ben threw a quick glance at his assistant. "Keep up with me, John. Just clamp the skin bleeders, we'll tie 'em off later. We’ve got to get to the source of this bleeding."

Ben moved back as a gush of dark blood spilled over the side of the incision. “I’m through the peritoneum now. John, get that suction in there. Lap pads, Kathy.” Ben stuffed the large absorbent pads into the depths of the incision. "It's dark in there. More light. John, put in a self-retaining retractor."

The resident inserted the device, and brilliant cones from two portable spotlights illuminated the depths of the wound. "Okay, Dr. Merrick?" John asked.

Ben nodded once. He held out his hand and made a pinching motion with his thumb and forefinger, signaling for a surgical clamp.

Come on, Ben. Don't think about who this is. This is surgery 101. You can do it in your sleep. Open the belly, find the bleeding point, clamp it off. Steady. [I like that it isn't revealed until now that he knows the boy. And it's left as a hint. Mystery is what keeps me reading. No need to tell everything up front.]

He struggled to keep his focus, barely hearing the standard question: “I’ve got surgery starting at 0135. Right?” He kept working.

“John, suction there. Kathy, I’ll need more lap pads to soak up some of that blood.” Ben felt motion beneath the drapes. He looked up toward the head of the table. “He’s moving, Rick.”

"I've been giving him just a whiff of nitrous,” the anesthesiologist replied. “I’ll paralyze him with some Sux, then breathe for him."

The boy’s inert body jumped momentarily [unnecessary adverb, since we see the body relax in the next sentence.] when the curare-like drug hit his muscles. Then it relaxed and lay still.

Ben fidgeted while the anesthesiologist inserted a tube into the patient's windpipe and connected it to an automatic respirator.

"That’s good, Rick. Just enough nitrous to keep him still," Ben said, anxious to resume his search for the source of the bleeding that threatened the boy’s life.

"Doctor, the blood bank sent up two of the units you ordered. They're cross-matching more." [I’d like to see a new paragraph here. Then Ben’s dialog (below) can stay with his action and avoid a speaker attribution.] Ben glanced up and saw the night supervisor in the doorway holding two plastic blood bags.

"Give 'em," Ben said. “And get the rest up here as soon as they’re ready.”

Too many interruptions. Concentrate. Ben narrowed his focus to the area bounded by the self-retaining surgical retractor. He squinted, straining to see the pulsations of blood that would lead him to their source.

"Ben, he's losing blood faster than I can pump it in." Rick’s voice sounded calm, but his meaning was clear. "His pressure’s almost nonexistent."

Ben’s eyes remained riveted on the operating field. He pointed with the hemostat in his hand. "John, put a ribbon retractor right there and suction next to it. I think we’re getting close.”

The lights felt hot, and Ben sensed sweat trickling down his back, his chest, his neck. Someone dabbed his brow, but he couldn’t tolerate the distraction. “Not now,” he snapped.

"Ben, did you hear me?” Rick’s voice had lost any pretense of calmness. “I said, he has almost no pressure and his pulse is irregular. He's almost bled out."

"Keep him oxygenated, Rick. We’re close to finding the bleeding point.”

The flood of bleeding into the abdominal cavity had slowed to a trickle now. "Here it is," John said, pointing with the tip of the suction tube. Ben felt his throat tighten when he realized what he was seeing.

"There's a tear in the aorta.” Ben held out his hand. “Aortic clamps, Kathy. Rick, try to—"

Ben’s words were swallowed by a high-pitched scream from the cardiac monitor, followed by Rick’s cry, “He’s arrested.”

Excellent writing. Very few rough spots to interrupt my enjoyment. I wouldn’t be surprised to see this in print in the near future.

Check out Richard’s blog, Random Jottings, which is full of great writing resources, and thoughts on writing.

Women's Fiction

This critique is different from the others. I summarized the main problems at the very end.

FORTY DAYS HATH SEPTEMBER
Mary Catherine Aucoin

(beginning of) Chapter One

“Well, here we go then. I said I wouldn’t go and I didn’t. I finally did what I wanted for a change, instead of the ‘proper’ thing to do.”

Angela stood in the doorway, taking in the room with one long sweeping gaze. As she made her way through the vacant room, she slowed in front of a picture that sat on the Baby Grande. The picture was oddly placed behind a large bowl of dying roses. The scarf that lay under it had slid, hanging softly to the floor. She was alone in the room. Odd, there were so many people in and out of the house earlier. The quietness seemed strange, lonely, and eternal.

The picture spoke without words. She wanted to touch it; but not the picture, the love. The love that was so evident in the picture. She wanted to touch the love, again. Off in the distance a movement caught her attention. She moved to a corner of the room where her presence would go unnoticed. She thought, “I don’t know why I think anyone would notice they hadn’t before.”

She felt that most of her life had gone unnoticed. There had been no great deeds in her life to make anyone stand up and take notice. She was certainly no Joyce Meyer. Her ministry had never reached that level and she was not sure that she ever wanted it to get that large. Small intimate gatherings were more her style. Her comfort zone was with a few people and one on one ministering. Until now there was nothing that would make her memorable to anyone that did not know her personally. She questioned God constantly, never quite sure if she was fulfilling the plan He had set out for her. If she could start over what would she do differently? Well, there was no sense in looking back. “It’s the present that needs to be dealt with,” she thought to herself. She always thought too much. She had kept her thoughts to herself and put them down in her manuscripts. Writing had been a good outlet for her throughout the years. She enjoyed the opportunities to speak to women’s groups and organizations. But she found that in writing her deepest thoughts were somehow transparent.

There was only one person other than Jesus that she thought understood her insecurities. Joe always listened and at least pretended to understand what she was talking about. But he was gone. Even when he was alive he had never belonged to her. Their timing had never been right. When she was single he was not and vice-versa. But their friendship was stronger than any marriage she had ever known. Angela always attributed that to the lack of an intimate relationship between them. She had learned over the years that relationships somehow became all ‘muddled up’ as she called it when sex came into play. Joe had been a stabilizing force in her life of mountains and valleys, and deserts, and had always had a way of making her think straight. His six-foot plus frame carried him well. He was a striking man that exuded strength in character as well as having an almost Moses on the mountain persona when he entered a room. A powerful, no holds barred preacher that could and would be brutally honest when it came to where he saw a person in regards to salvation. At times that honesty made Angela cringe as though God himself had pointed his finger at an area in her life that had been hidden from her, but she welcomed it. “I wish he were here now,” she thought. “It would be good if he were here now.” There she went, thinking again.

Two elderly women had wandered through the door, coming in from the hall on the other side of the room. The long span of hallway that ran past the great room allowed for two entrances into the room. The builders had sly little remarks about that. “Too good to walk the forty paces to the first door, I reckon,” she had overheard one of them say during the building.

The two women were speaking quietly and looking at the pictures of the family that Angela had on the far wall. She called it her family gallery. Angela tried to hear what they were saying but it was very faint.

“I really didn’t know her that well.” The one woman whispered to the other.

“Then why did you come?” the other replied. It was more of a reprimand than a question.

“My thought exactly,” Angela thought shaking her head and grinning.

There was no response from the lady for a minute or two while she seemed to question her motive herself. As they walked around the room it finally slipped out without her even realizing it.

“How beautiful this place is; I’ve always wondered what it looked like inside.”

Angela’s jaw set as she stared at the woman. That was enough for her. She really couldn’t deal with more tears, more feigned sadness. Ok, maybe there were some that were not pretending to be sad. How interesting it is to listen to people talk about the deceased. All day they had floated in and out of the house, making small conversation. They all had such nice things to say. But isn’t that the way we all are at funerals? No one would dare say what they really felt until they were at home. Angela had never met a person that had gone through life without ruffling some feathers. She had always thought how nice it would be if one could go through life and have nothing bad ever said about them. ‘Well, I had a few things I wanted to say too, but no one would hear,’ she thought. They were all too caught up in their own thoughts to hear hers. She had always hated funerals, not just because of the loss of someone but it always seemed that funerals were used for reunions, for lack of a better word. At funerals you always see people that you haven’t talked to in years even though they live in the same town. Angela thought funerals were a waste of time and a total farce. Meanwhile the deceased is lying in the box totally ignored except for those that really loved him or her. She had told many people that she would not go to this one, and she meant it.

The house was full of people coming and going all afternoon. Angela was surprised to see the ones that were truly upset. She knew that the children and the grandchildren would take it hard. Nancy of course was devastated but tried to be strong for the children's sake. Angela had overheard her tell someone that she always thought that she would go first. There were so many people that Angela didn’t recognize, telling stories of their relationship with the family. Others that clearly had no use for the deceased before were ever so concerned for the children now. Of course there were the few that tried to lighten the air with a little humor. At times Angela could hear laughter wafting in from the kitchen. She thought how funny it was that the kitchen always seemed to be the informal room where the heaviness of the day could be expelled and people could be themselves.

She heard one of the children say that at the cemetery many had dropped out of the procession, leaving the faithful to carry on. The pastor of Angela’s church did a wonderful job giving the salvation message and assuring everyone that the deceased was surely in the presence of the Lord. Then it was off to the house for food and fellowship. Nancy of course stayed in the kitchen doing what Angela always considered to be her ministry. She was such a wonderful cook and could plan meals for hundreds if need be. Angela smiled as she watched her best friend moving around the kitchen making sure everything was laid out properly. Angela had always admired Nancy, and the two women could not have been more different. But from the beginning their friendship had been one of total acceptance. She often thought of the movie “Beaches” that Bette Midler had made years ago when she thought of their relationship.

Nancy sent the girls in to be with the visitors. Jerry was off in another room upstairs, on the phone with his dad. He told Nancy to call him if he were needed. He was very much like his mother. He hated the social aspect of funerals and some of the conversations angered him. After securing the dogs before everyone arrived, he had made a hasty retreat. His father’s health was not good and he was unable to make the trip from Utah; he had called and left a message asking Jerry to return his call. Jerry used this as an excuse to be away from the entourage that was making their way through the house. The house was large and there were people in every room. This angered Angela, she considered it an invasion of her privacy but there was nothing she could do about it.

She decided to go upstairs to her room and hide. As she made her way up the stairs, the grandchildren were running down and almost fell over Harley, her big black dog, as he was following Angela. Someone must have let him in by accident and he was intent on being with her. Christopher stopped to hug Harley and apologize for running into him, giving him a hug around his big chest. Harley was receptive and continued to go up the stairs, catching up with Angela at the top. No one seemed to notice that the dog was in the house except the kids.

When she got to her room, Harley rushed in and stood dead aim and began barking and growling so loud that it brought Jerry in. Angela could not believe her eyes. Her sister-in-law was going through her things. Jerry asked what she thought she was doing and told her to leave his mother’s room immediately. She made some excuse about looking for something she thought that she had left years before.

“I hardly think anything of yours would be in my mother’s bedroom.” Jerry said as he held Harley by the collar. “I think you should leave.” Jerry said with authority.

She tried to respond but knew it would do no good. She mumbled something and haughtily left the room, heading for the stairs. He followed her down to the front door, opened and closed it behind her. He stood there for a moment leaning against the door on both hands as though holding it closed. The muscles in his jaw twitched noticeably. He caught sight of someone out of the corner of his eye watching him. Quickly gaining his composure, he mumbled something to them as he angled his way through the curious onlookers.

***

I liked the emotion when Angela is looking at the picture, wanting to touch the love. I could feel her longing. I’m privileged with more information than you have, so I see the potential for an intriguing story. Unfortunately, the beginning doesn’t do it justice.

There are some small issues throughout the piece, but I’m only going to mention the major ones. First, there are really only two paragraphs of story before it gets into lengthy backstory. Most of you probably know why backstory is a problem, but for those of you who don’t: The story isn’t moving forward, it’s stalling. So backstory had better be vital. And if it comes too soon, the reader doesn’t have the chance to care about your character before they’re asked to care about what your character did in the past.

Next, there’s the problem of speaker attributes for thoughts. It’s just not done anymore. Most of the thoughts should blend right in with the narrative, and the thoughts that are strong enough to justify being set apart should simply be in italics.

And third, POV issues. Angela seems to know what people are thinking and feeling at times. We should be firmly in one character’s head, so we shouldn’t be told anything that the character can’t see, feel, hear, etc.

What are your feelings about his piece? Your reactions and observations?

You can read a summary of the plot, and learn more about Cathey on her Shoutlife page: www.shoutlife.com/aucoin.

Was it a good camping trip if...

• I had a twenty-minute warning to pack?
• We spent over two hours waiting for our brakes to be repaired?
• I had pie at Baker's Square while waiting?
  
• Our campsite had a view of the St. Croix River and while we were dipping our feet in, we saw a doe and twin fawns on the small island across from us?
• Due to the short notice, I didn't pack towels and we had to use our shirts to dry off after our showers?
• I came face to face with a man in the ladies bathroom in the middle of the night--in my jammies, thank you very much? (I think his wife was afraid to go alone. Boy did that mess with my head for a second. And normally while camping I'd sleep in shorts and a T-shirt. This time I packed my pj's and it's a good thing I had the extra clothes, for the reason stated above.)
  
• I had to blow up our air bed three times during the night? That's blow it up with lung power, instead of the pump we used the first time. (Too loud for the middle of the night, and it runs off a car battery, so we'd have had to drag it outside.) Apparently there's a small hole in the mattress and the inflation lasted 2 and 1/2 hours, 2 hours, 1:10 and finally, 45 minutes. And since my hubby has poor lung capacity, it was up to me, the lady who can inflate a 12-inch balloon in one blow, to save the night.
  
• We heard owls and coyotes during the night? (Hint...I enjoyed it.)
  
• We got to marvel at God's creation during a great hike by the river, where we saw some neat glacial potholes? (see picture)

All in all, it was a mixed bag of good and bad. But as the Helmuth clan is fond of saying, nothing bad happens on trips, only things to make it memorable.

Romantic Suspense

Today's critique is short and sweet. First, because it's a prologue. Second, because it's well written and I didn't have many comments to make.

PERFECT WITNESS
Tammy Bowers

Prologue

Amanda Rodderick’s bottom lip quivered as she tightened her grip on the phone. I can’t believe this is happening. She glanced around the small terminal and squinted at the busy shadow-people scurrying past the sun-streaked windows. [good description] Her gaze rested on her daughter and Ashley, coloring together in the chairs across the walkway.

Amanda lowered her voice. “I know, I don’t believe in love at first sight. But, Lacey, I not only kissed him the first day we met, I crawled in his lap [That image is a bit odd—makes me think of a little girl.] and gave him my heart.” She fought the lump forming in her throat as she waited for her sister to speak.

“What’s his name?”

“Michael Houston. FBI Special Agent Michael Houston.” Her hand trembled as she raised it to her hair. [Probably not necessary with the sentence that follows.] On instinct, she spread her fingers wide and ran them through her tangled curls—a soothing motion which usually calmed her. It didn’t work.

“And you ran away with him the next day?”

“I didn’t run, I was forced. I had no choice. It was a matter of life and death.” [Maybe skip “I was forced.” Makes it sound like he abducted her. But it also hints at a complicated reason for Amanda being where she is. If it was purposeful, leave it.] Amanda squeezed her eyes shut and tried to forget the black smoke, shattered glass, and hideous smell.

“Life and death? You’ve got to be kidding me. He told you that?”

“Yes.”

“And you believed him?”

“Yes.” Oh, Lord, what have I done?

“Where are you now?”

Amanda shook her head and whispered, “I can’t tell you.”

“Are you really my smarter sister?”

“Not anymore.” She froze at the sight of a security officer approaching, then jerked around to face the payphone.

“Amanda, are you there?”

“Ssh,” she whispered. Breathe normal. She peered over her shoulder as the looming figure strolled past. “Thank the Lord.” Her voice cracked. [I think it’s great that she’s shushing her, even though no one would hear Lacey. Shows how nervous Amanda is.]

“Okay, you’re scaring me,” Lacey said. “I don’t care what he said, start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

Amanda inhaled a long breath and [You have her taking a deep breath below.] locked eyes with her daughter across the tiny concourse. April giggled and waved, her golden curls bouncing up and down. Amanda smiled back. “I should probably start with Michael’s first day in court.”

“When was that?”

“A week ago.”

“Fine, start there. Don’t leave anything out. If—”

Blare from the loud speaker drowned out the last of her sister’s tirade. “Flight twenty-two now boarding at gate B-13.”

“Amma, are you at the airport?” Lacey’s voice leveled.

Tears formed in Amanda’s eyes at the sound of her childhood name. As a toddler, her baby sister could say everyone’s name except hers. Lacey could even say Duke, their dog’s name. It took a week to teach her to say Amma. It stuck for years and only returned when Lacey started to lose it.

“Yes.” Amanda took deep breath. “I need you to tell mom and dad I’m on a comp tour in Europe.”

“Where will you really be?”

Hang up; just hang up on her. That may have been the safest thing to do, but she couldn’t do it. She needed her only sister’s help. “Santa Barbara.”

Great prologue. Lots of mystery to make the reader want more. Just needs minor tweaking.

Visit Tammy's blog, http://writesteps.blogspot.com.

A dragon to slay: Part two

DELETE
David Fry

Mara fumed behind smoky glass. The ebony Suburban with government plates might as well have been a mobile magnet. Outside the beltway, such transport was sure to garner unwanted attention. Nothing screamed Fed louder, except maybe donning a black windbreaker emblazoned with a choice acronym. Mara’s superior insisted on this mode of transport. It was a natural force field, keeping local authorities at bay. That much Mara welcomed. But she needed to stay outside Derek’s shadow. Shades had a way of drawing meddlesome glances.

[The last two sentences don’t seem connected to the rest of the paragraph. I guess by “stay outside Derek’s shadow” you mean she didn’t want to attract Derek’s attention. But then the sentence about shades throws me. Do you mean the tinted windows of the car? Or the sunglasses she’s wearing? If it’s the former, the paragraph already does a good job of setting up the fact that the Suburban will draw attention.]

Mental note. Get a rental.

Her eyes floated to the USPS drop box across the street. It wavered, a mirage on sweltering asphalt, daring to wink out at a moment’s notice. [I really like the image of the mailbox wavering in the heat waves. But I think the second part is carrying the mirage thing out too far.] It wasn’t so much that she didn’t trust the veracity of the postal service motto: through rain, sleet, or snow. It was simply the thrill of watching her production play itself out. Fifteen minutes earlier, Derek’s first class invitation had been deposited for pickup. It absolutely, positively, had to be postmarked today.

Mara played with natural crumples in her dress, smooth fabric to placate a chafing mood. She was engrossed with a particular thread when a loud rap at the driver window snapped her to attention. An egghead kid sporting a watermelon grin pressed his nose against the glass. His hair, shredded licorice, all but obscured brown eyes framed in coke bottle lenses. Tinted windows notwithstanding, Mara guessed the facial topping of the day to be anchovies. [From the rest of the description, I take it you mean his hair was greasy and stringy. But “shredded licorice” made me think dreadlocks. I read that part to my husband and asked him what image came. He said dreadlocks.] His bike must have slipped out from under him as he disappeared briefly. As thin as he was, Mara imagined his torso wedged between the spokes. A muffled yelp was followed by a dull clatter. Several seconds passed. A hand materialized, grasping at air, and then the melon smile reappeared. Rap-rap-rap! [The rest of the paragraph after my last comment might be a little much.]

Oh great. Boy wonder wants to earn a merit badge.

Mara tapped her shades so they dropped to her nose and she sat upright.

Might as well give him the full meal deal.

She cupped a hand to her right cheek, middle finger depressing the ear bud. Then she punched the window button with her left index finger.

A mere inch of daylight spilled in to Mara’s inner sanctum before the air filled with a gatling spray of yap.

“Dude. Check it out. What a setup. That laptop come with biometrics? Whoa, is that a portable RFID scanner? You must be FBI, CIA, or something. You scoping out Cyber Burger? I warned those guys. They’re wide open. Listed on the ‘Net as a free wi-fi hotspot. You gonna close it down? Name’s Keith, but my buds call me K’reith. Cool huh? Sounds like wraith, you know, like in Lord of the Rings. Okay, ok, [since this is repetition, it should be spelled the same way both times.] some say it rhymes with Keith, but anyway. Hey, you’re no dude. You’re a dude-ette! Get it? Heheheh. Dude-ette?”

“Brilliant deduction, Keith. And thanks for the tip on the café but its time to move on. As you can see, I’m pretty involved here. Official business, you understand.”

“Oh man, you are like – wow! I mean. X-files, ya know. Scully. Dana. She’s like a babe. You remember that episode? The one where The Lone Gunmen lure her to Vegas? Oh and the one where she and Mulder go see about the weird weather. That guy. Meteorologist dude. His emotions trigger crazy weather. Freaky. Is that the one where she … Did I mention she’s the bomb? You remind me of her, I mean, can I get your autograph?”

Mara couldn’t help but feel a smidgen of pity for the kid and on a good day she might have humored him. But a good day was yet to come.

“Listen, Keith. You are interfering with a government investigation. You ever hear of obstruction of justice? You are obstructing. It is time to go.”

“Oh that bites. Sorry dude. I mean, lady. Ms. Scully, or whatever. I’m outta here. Oh kewl antennas, you got like a sat link in there or what? Awesome GPS, can I see a map? My best friend lives over on Nantucket Court, got a pool, we could just zero in and …”

Mara turned and faced Keith dead-on. She sliced the air across her throat and held the gesture in dramatic pause.

Keith responded with the standard hands up procedure, for all of six-tenths of a second. He then clamped down on the window’s top edge, with both hands this time. What followed was a fetid cloud of caffeinated reek. Mara coughed. Apparently Keith was under the mistaken notion that a whisper involved heavy breathing. Enough to inflate one of those seasonal yard displays.

“Sorry, sorry. I get it, Secret Service kinda stuff, you’re like on official business.”

Mara lifted her arm up to the window’s edge hoping to equalize the air with a remnant of her noon hour cologne shower.

“Officially, yes.”

“Keith inhaled. Whoa! Nice bloom lady. What is that?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Keith had that in common with Derek. A weakness for Megan’s perfume. His eyes bugged and Mara detected a reel in his posture but the splay of questions kept flowing.

“Kewl. I’m like okay with that. My buds are gonna wig when they hear I ran into Scully. Can I see your badge? Take a quick pic for proof? WIB—women in black, this monumentally rocks. Hey, you’re wearing a dress, Scully doesn’t wear a dress, blouse and slacks maybe but …”

“I’m not Scully, K’reith. Now beat it kid.”

Mara punched the window button and watched Keith dweeb dance to the last instant before escaping a finger crunch. It was then that she caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. The clock display on the dash showed 4:05 p.m. On the dot, the mail truck rolled into the parking lot.

[She puts up with this kid way too long. I’m surprised she didn’t roll up the window much earlier. Also, I’m assuming this is the only appearance he’ll make in the book, so too much was made of him. Great characterization, but it seems wasted. Unless he’ll be a recurring character. In that case, good setup. J]

She gunned the engine. Keith pedaled away wobbling all over the sidewalk, craning his neck backwards in stupefied adoration.

The computer chimed just as Mara was ready to push the Suburban into gear. She abandoned the gas pedal. A blinking green LED, recessed in the laptop, indicated a solid internet connection.

Thank you, Cyber Burger.

Wireless networking was nearly ubiquitous these days, especially with the proliferation of coffee shops and cafes. And to think, data just floated freely on radio waves. Raw electronic fodder waiting to be pirated, sifted, or gleaned into meaningful information. She tilted the swivel arm in order to type on the keyboard.

The second part of Derek’s surprise hinged on her ability to direct a special delivery. From the estate of Auntie Jen, swapped through Ebay, and packaged for a sappy birthday. All that remained was tracking delivery through the UPS online website. The details of which should be confirmed shortly.

While waiting for the website to load, Mara noticed something else. An email message from Special Agent Dawkins. Not good. She didn’t even have to open it to make that assessment. The 4:00 p.m. deadline had come and gone. Her weekly reports to the operations wonk in Denver were nine minutes past due.

At the outset, the idea of working on a Department of Homeland Security project, seemed a terrific cover. An op within an op. Drew Dawkins had been instrumental in securing her role on this project. And Mara’s credentials had earned her access to data points that many in law enforcement only dreamed about. Instead of a storm chaser, she was a data chaser, even outfitted with a company car. And the Wichita assignment dropped her right into Derek’s backyard.

But then there was Driftwood Drew. Floating above the fray of ops, a harmless red-tape dispenser. Or so it seemed. He was more like an innocuous bug riding atop a river of data. He scavenged. Crawling all over the flotsam and jetsam of the online world, Driftwood floated.

Dawkins’ needle-nosed logistics and penchant for paper chasings were playing havoc with Mara’s surveillance of contestant Farhaun. Her reality show was being preempted by another reality. If only she could flick this bug off her shoulder. She managed to cartwheel Keith away a few moments earlier. It wasn’t so much the workload as it was the timing. Reality shows are all about things dire and timing. [Give this paragraph focus. It goes too many directions.]

Dawkins entertains[ed] dire scenarios 24/7. Seems some concern had been raised about the vulnerability of America’s breadbasket states. Thus, a feasibility study was commissioned to assess the heartland vector. Poison the food-chain, cripple a nation. It was his pet project, unfortunately, Mara was his pet.

Another chime broke her musings. Dawkins again. This time, an amber blinking dot beckoned. He was requesting chat, via secure instant messaging. Mara began typing. She used broken words and gibberish to feign a poor connection. She then turned her attention to UPS online. There it was. The package was en route, having just been scanned in Kansas City an hour previous. It would hit Wichita tomorrow, right on schedule and more importantly, right on target. Mara keyed in a new message to Dawkins that was more coherent.

“Conn sig is weak.” She lied. [already obvious]

“Scoping new site … standby.”

Mara knew Driftwood would harp on her about not using the GSM card in her laptop which allows for roaming internet connections, much like a cellular phone. He would insist that it provided for secure encrypted communications which is what they were all about. She would play the rural card, bemoaning spotty service on the plains. It was a tightrope she was walking and she knew it. Dawkins might be driftwood but he was no dimwit.

Mara lowered her gaze to the recycle bin that glowed on the laptop screen. The pedestrian user’s Plan B. Like the safety on a handgun to protect the inexperienced. How many people using Windows on their computers have been told not to worry if they delete something? Just restore it back from the recycle bin. Professionals require no such backup. Mara clicked on a recent surveillance photo of Derek. It showed him pushing Lydia, his youngest daughter, in a swing. They were playing at one of two parks the family frequented. Her index finger floated over the trigger. The delete key.

Tap.

Derek and Lydia disappeared.

And the question of ballistics? Best left for the authorities.

***

This ending is good. The Department of Homeland Security is investigating the area. She deletes a picture that could prove Derek’s whereabouts. That’s a good setup to make your readers want to see more.

You have a great opening line for the book. You start with this question of ballistics and end the chapter with it. The trouble is, there’s a scene break in between.

When she first thinks this thought, she has her fingers on the keyboard, but she doesn’t actually delete anything at the time, as far as I can see. She’s not working in cyberspace, she’s making a physical invitation.

Sorry to throw a wrench in the works, but that’s something you’ll have to think about.

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