Its not the whole of the first chapter. I like my writing to flow, and not carry on about the same surrounding for a whole page. What do you think.
Running up the porch of our new family home, I circled the new stainless steal appliances and fake marbled floors of our kitchen. A new home, a delight in my honer. My old house was haunted and after years of complaining to my harris mother, she finally gave in and bought a new house. It was also a downfall of mortgage payments. So we sold our modern home to settle for this place. It was cheap, and not to far from family and friends.
The town was three times smaller then our previous starvation of boredom; but it’s a nice quiet community. We already met a few people while stopping at the only restaurant in town. Every one carried a smile followed by a welcoming greeting. I really miss that fat bold man out the front of the restaurant, checking out my cleavage.
I ran up stairs to my new freshly painted bed room. A sea of yellow; my favourite colour. The room was larger then my old one. Furniture was kindly left from the woman who once walked these halls. I heard she died peacefully in a hospital bed. She won’t be haunting these walls.
I raced over to the full length mirror placed gently over one of the four encloses.
A gift from the dead. I thought as I smiled gracefully to my self and wiping of a clutter of dust from the glass with my sleeve.
A plane happy Jane you wonder. Wrong; I was miserable, and this is how it really happened.
Mope-ing up the three wooden stairs of our shit hole of a home. Groaning new swear words every step I took. We couldn’t afford any thing new. Every thing was old - our fridge had no seal, our toaster only cooked one slice and our oven devoured in rust. Thats our kitchen, moving on.
My bed room. A fucking yellow colour. What was that old bag thinking. Tomorrow I will chuck every piece of useless furniture out to the curb - including that mirror leaning against one of the yellow coated walls.
Slumping down on to my late fathers recliner, I watched as my mother madly sorted through pots and pans. She hissed a swear here and there until she found our spaghetti bowl. I guess I know whats for dinner. My sister Georgina sat down on our two piece flower couch. She stared at me with a grin on her thin orange lips, becuase she knows this annoys me. But at this time I already felt a red heat of anger. I sorted through my iPod for various new aged grooves until I found the perfect mix of loud base. The kitchen door was wide open, the wind making loud random thuds. A cold sensation made my hairs stand up like thin needles.
6 Responses to “What do you think of my book. (470 words.).”
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Haha, I think you mean incredibly short story–not book.
This sounds good to me, but I think it would make a better short story and not a book.
Watch your grammar and use of tenses.
I fixed it up a little.
Running up onto the porch of our new family home, I go inside to the kitchen and circle the new stainless steal appliances and fake marbled floors. A new home, a delight in my honor. My old house was haunted (explain the haunting a little bit more) and after years of complaining to my harris mother, she finally gave in and bought a new house. We moved because of the downpour of mortgage payments we still had to pay, also. Having no way to do so, we sold our modern home to settle for this place. It was cheap but not too far from family and friends.
Okay the main thing I could tell from this is that you’re going too fast. You should have showed her going into the kitchen and told more about the haunting. That’s interesting so the reader wants a little more info on that. What kind of ghost. Was the main character harmed or scared by it.
Just work on that I guess. I’m not really good with judging horror, so I won’t even try. Good luck.
It isn’t terrible.
I like it.
it is a little confusing though.
Oh well.
It’s ok, to be blunt. My biggest problem is that your telling me a load of facts, without moving me through the story at a steady pace. Talking about guys staring at her cleavage, then liking yellow, then, a woman who died in the house.
There seems to be no pace. If I were you, I would carefully consider slowing things down, and moving at the speed of your character.
“The kitchen door was wide open, the wind making loud random thuds. A cold sensation made my hairs stand up like thin needles.”
I would start here and work in back story little by little. These sentences are compelling and speak of conflict to come. Everything before this is set up. It’s not bad except for some spelling and grammatical errors, it’s just that you should start out with something compelling first. State the story goal, put the POV character in some kind of danger (doesn’t have to be death, but dire consequences) so we care what happens next.