FROM SAM DOUTHIT
I wonder if you would be kind enough to have a look at a piece of my writing and let me know what you think?
It is the opening to a story about a man called Samuel who begins to realise that his life is a little different to most people. He has no family or friends and very little understanding of the world he is blundering through. (Story is quite dark, not a comedy)
Sam to his friends
A moment of stillness; a snapshot of calm. It had been raining and the air in the alley was still damp, a myriad of shimmering neon lights from the main street reflected in shallow puddles.
At the mouth of the alley a man silhouetted against the bright lights stood motionless over the lifeless body of a woman.
Standing in the shadows where the smell of fried onions, burgers and doughnuts from the main street began to merge with the more unsavoury aroma of rotting vegetable peelings and urine of the alley, Samuel Clarke stared in horror at the man in the blood stained shirt. He knew that he should run; knew that there was a good chance that he could be next but fear coursed inexorably through him.
The man looked up from the woman on the ground, raised bloody hands before him and let loose a primal scream, his eyes bulging with an insane fury. Heavy footfalls reverberated from the high alley walls as he stormed forward. Samuel Clarke, Sam to his friends, finally found his feet and raced blindly into the darkness of the alley. Overflowing bins raced by either side as Sam frantically willed his legs to pump faster. Deeper into the alley and the dim light gradually faded to almost complete darkness so that soon every step he took was a gamble, the result of which was only revealed each time his foot landed safely onto solid ground.
From the look of his silhouette the man had appeared to be very powerful. Sam didn’t reckon much to his chances of being able to fight him off and by the sounds of it those heavy footsteps were getting closer by the second. Fear was threatening to paralyze him but somehow he managed to press on, his eyes searching desperately for an escape.
Suddenly a stream of light slashed through the darkness as a cat burst from a doorway up ahead and to the right, leaving the door ajar. Sam pressed on for the door, grasped the rusted handle and yanked it towards him. The rotten wood protested as the chain securing it to the doorway became suddenly taut. Sam cursed but the pounding footsteps so close behind told him that this had been an all or nothing gamble. He thrust himself into the slim gap of the doorway, splintering wood piercing his belly as he wriggled through. With a guttural cry of rage the man threw his immense weight against the door, crushing Sam between door and frame and forcing the air from his lungs. Thick, powerful fingers raked Sam’s back and gripped his jacket. There were tears in his eyes and Sam shrieked, wriggling more forcefully through the tiny gap and out of his jacket.
Sam tumbled to the cold concrete floor of what seemed to be some sort of store room. The pale yellow light, in contrast with the darkness of the alley stung his unaccustomed eyes. Behind him the man was repeatedly snapping open the door against the chain trying to force his way in. Before him, Sam could see several paint tins each spattered with various shades of either eggshell or magnolia. Panic replacing reason, Sam selected one of the tins and rushed back to the door. As the door snapped ajar again he could see from this side that the ring that held the chain to the door was now hanging on by only two of the four iron screws which had originally secured it.
The door slammed shut and then instantly burst open again, the screws squeaking in protest. Sam swung the paint tin over his head and sent it arcing through the slim gap in the door where it collided solidly with the man’s head. The man grunted and his huge form crashed to the ground. Sam backed away from the door, the paint tin swinging idly by his side. He became suddenly aware that he was shaking and his breath was coming in sharp gasps. Questions filled his mind.
“Why?” he thought “Why was this man so full of hate?”
Sam was positive that he had not harmed this man before now, had not even seen him before tonight. He was equally positive though that had the man caught him, Sam would very quickly have joined the woman, like her lying in a scarlet pool of his own blood.
Sam was dragged abruptly from his thoughts as the door snapped open again. The brute was back on his feet!
Sam let the paint tin fall to the ground and rushed further into the room. On the opposite wall was a staircase leading to the floor above, he sprinted for it as the door behind him finally burst open. The man let out a cry of triumph as he surged through the doorway.
Sam threw himself up the wooden staircase, the first three steps creaking dangerously and the fourth giving way beneath his weight. His leg crashed through the broken step up to his thigh, his chin striking painfully on the step above. His head swam and Sam fought desperately to stay conscious. His hands scrabbled above him, finally finding purchase on a flimsy wooden hand rail and hauled himself back to his feet as the man sent several of the paint tins tumbling across the storeroom floor. Sam leaped over the broken step and steadied himself against the dizziness in his head. The man reached the bottom of the staircase and Sam bolted to the top.
CRITIQUE
So Sam is the real killer and the man chasing him is the husband of the dead woman in the alley.
That is totally unbelievable. Tell me how a grown man squeezes through a chained door. Have you ever seen how narrow the opening is on a chained door? And don't entry doors typically swing in, not out, particularly chained ones? This storeroom place is so old and dilapidated that men break through steps and floors just by walking on them, but there's electricity, there's a light in the place? Sam the heartless killer momentarily knocks his assailant senseless, and he doesn't press that advantage? Instead, he spends those precious seconds wondering why the husband of the woman he just killed is after him?
Sorry...made my nonsense-o-meter spike. Re-think the story, then we can talk about the writing.