First Page Critiques

[K.S.]

I actually thought this was a bit of a send-up of modern SF. There seems to be a sharp shift to gender neutral pronouns in most of what I'm reading. In some cases, introductions between characters who are strangers include not only the name, but also the preferred pronoun as part of the greeting.

I've had managers like Egg. I don't want to be emotionally attached unless it's to hate the little slug. I want to see a comeuppance come for this insect. I would definitely keep reading to see how it happened and don't feel like you need to change anything. I would advise against authorial intrusion to explain.

[Jonathan]

K.S. wrote:... Just between you and me, Egg is munburd chow.

[Angelica]

My name is Angelica Grace Allen and my self-help book is titled "Unscripted: Finding Your True Self Amidst Celebrity Obsession. A Guide to Personal Empowerment in a Star-Struck World." It is for ages ranging from 18-40. Here are the first 400 words:

Chapter 1: Life After Clippergate
In 2007, someone I loved and in some ways still love went through something traumatic, which affected me deeply.
Before getting too carried away, I should probably mention that this was someone who didn’t necessarily feel the same way I felt.
You could say it was a bit of a one-sided relationship.
Ok, let me be real. It was someone I’d never met. But although this traumatic event happened to someone who had no idea that I even existed, I don’t know if it could possibly have left more of a mark on me, if she was my sister.
It was an event that shook my belief system to its very core and turned my world upside down.
After it happened, I knew nothing would ever be the same.
In 2007, Britney Spears shaved her hair.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let’s go back a bit more and picture a girl standing in front of a mirror, lip-synching along with Hit Me Baby One More Time.
Since I was young, I’ve always been obsessed with celebrities, and like many girls growing up in the late 90s, my obsession began with Britney.
Not only was she one of my favorite singers back then, she seemed to rule the world. She was there every time I turned on the TV, and her voice seemed to blare out of every radio. She was a superstar, and everybody loved her. Of course, as a ten-year-old, I decided right then that I also wanted to be a superstar, so everybody would love me too.
And so, I did what most ten-year-olds who want to be famous do. I daydreamed. I pictured myself beneath flashing stadium lights, performing in front of thousands of screaming fans. I saw myself on the cover of magazines and imagined just how perfect my life would be after selling millions of records.
Like so many other young people before me, I dreamed of being a celebrity because celebrities seemed to have it all – all the money, all the fame, and most importantly, all the love.
It was a nice dream while it lasted, I guess, but I had to let it go, just like Britney let go of her hair and sanity that fateful night in 2007. Just like the famous follicles that piled up on the floor of that salon in Tarzana, Los Angeles, my dreams of celebrity superstardom would end up in the trash.

If you are interested in reading the rest, please email me at angelicagraceallen@gmail.com and I will be happy to send you a free copy. Thanks!

[Kathleen]

Hi all. It's been a long time. Just wondering if any of the other oldtimers would mind giving a bit of feedback on a new story. And no, I still haven't finished the ill-fated pirate tale. One day. Maybe.



It was all due to the cat. Really. It was.

The whole thing would never have happened if I had followed the dog, because ultimately the dog would have ended up following me, and we would have arrived home safe and sound just like after every other walk.

But no; I had to follow the cat. It wasn’t even my cat, or to put it in cat terms, I wasn’t even its person. It was a neighborhood cat, unrestrained by houses, rules, or even regular mealtimes.

A black-and-white beauty, for weeks now she had slipped through yards and between fences, taunting slow dogs and tantalizing old ladies longing to hold her on their lap, and marvel at her beauty; especially the tiny black spot set like a beauty mark on her mostly white face.

I was as bad as the worst of them. Held in thrall by her elegance and charm, I set out twice daily bowls of the fanciest of feasts. Sampling at her leisure, she would approve or reject the flavor du jour, then slowly sashay away, the casual lift of her tail signaling more interesting appointments.

She never let me near her. Not that I tried. I knew better. Great beauty requires admiration, not familiarity. No, I was her distant, if not-so-secret admirer; content to play the courtier to her queen.
The dog was the jester, of course. Snuffling around the nearly empty bowl, lapping up the leftovers, overturning the small water bowl filled daily, and trying without success to entice the cat to play.

Rather than being irritated by her jester’s clownish antics, her majesty appeared amused. Watching from a regal distance, long black tail crooked like the slightest of question marks, she was always an appreciative audience. For a short while, anyway.

Eventually, ennui ensued, and she’d saunter off, always returning the next day. Until she didn’t.

The dog and I put on our nightly show, but there was no audience there to appreciate it. It was then I realized what a gaping hole can be left in a familiar landscape by the absence of a small black-and-white body.

I tried not to worry, to tell myself that she was detained somewhere much more interesting and would soon return, but the next morning her bowl of food remained untouched. Until the dog ate it. This went on for days that seemed an eternity.

One evening I set the bowl of food on the window ledge, out of the dog’s reach, and waited on the front step, the dog leashed beside me, for our queen to grace us with her presence.

The sun had not yet set, but like an old man headed for his recliner, it was moving that way. I had almost given up hope of her arrival, when in the distance I saw a small body emerge from the overgrown bushes and knee-high weeds filling an abandoned lot at the far end of our short street. I watched, not realizing at first that I was holding my breath, as she waited for a car to pass before crossing the street. A limp marred her graceful gait, proud tail still lifted, but barely.

Weary, yet patient, she waited at the curb for the dog and I to vacate the steps, then carefully made her way to the bowl of water beneath the window. She drank, head lifting at every sound.
I’d moved the food bowl from the ledge, setting it beside the water, concerned by that painful limp for her welfare and dignity.

The cat ate sparingly, lapping the juices, and picking out the choicest bits of fish.

Beside me, the dog whined his concern. Startled, the cat lifted her head but realizing it was only the dog, returned to her meal.

“Sssh, Louis. Let her eat in peace.”

Although the tension in his leash spoke louder than any bark could have of his desire to greet and encourage the cat, and maybe chase her just a little, Louis remained at my side. I was impressed. Sadly, he knew too well the fickle nature of my admiration.

A long-suffering sigh and an upward glance of his soulful brown eyes was enough to reproach the most hardened sinner.

Fortunately for him, there was nothing hard about me. I was soft in resolution, self-discipline, and body. The Pillsbury doughboy has nothing on me.

It took longer for me to break up one of the jerky treats fragrancing the deep pockets of my baggy joggers than it did for him to snap up the four pieces I flipped his way. Ever hopeful, he looked for more, then pretended contentment with a rough ear rub and a kiss on his forehead.

Once satisfied, the black and white beauty looked up from her meal, pale green eyes enormous in her small face. Blinking once, she slowly, painfully, descended the front steps of my townhouse, down the sidewalk to the street. Stopping only at the curb to glance over her shoulder with a look that plainly said, “Follow me, stupid,” before resuming her journey.

Louis jumped to his feet. He was quick that way, more like Joe Louis than his namesake, Louis Armstrong. He leaned against the leash, eager to follow the feline. I held firm, reluctant to move.

Turning his head,, Louis barked once, as if to say, “Follow her, stupid.”

Although tempted to look behind me, I knew I was last in line.