FROM BOOFY
With almost three quarters of my first draft written down I returned to my opening chapter and was horror stricken to discover that it no longer pertained to the rest of my story. Having realised, I've been working on a rewrite of sorts for the first four chapters as a welcome break from the hard schedule I've set myself to (finally!) and I was wondering what your thoughts were. In particular, I'd like to know what you think of the flow, though comments on any aspect of the piece are welcome, it being the first and often most important chapter in securing readers ^^;
Thanks so much in advance!
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The white haired girl wanted to go back to sleep. She dragged the covers over her face as light began to bleed in through hairline seams in the walls. With eyes squeezed shut she writhed around on the piecemetal floor. Goose pimples sprang up on her skin in waves, uncovered bits of her making contact with cold patches of floor as she tried to get comfortable. Only as the day finally pierced her roughspun and began work on her eyelids did Parthursa concede defeat.
She wriggled from underneath the sheets and manoeuvred herself carefully into a sitting position, eyes firmly closed to the invasive white heat now flooding the small room. She fumbled about for her goggles, frowning when she didn’t find them immediately. Her hands traced the scarred floor, the memory of a thousand repairs apparent in the countless bumps and dents. Frustrated, she got onto her knees and moved an arm in clumsy sweeping motions across the room. The whole place was thrumming beneath her fingertips, tiny reverberation shooting up her arm as the city came to life.
“Gah…Where are my damned goggles?” she muttered, a growl embellishing the last word.
There was a snort of derision from somewhere near the thin Hessian curtain she’d fashioned into a door, before a male voice called out, “Put your hand on your head, Parth.”
“Urgh…” Parthursa pushed pale bangs away from her forehead and jerked the rust dappled goggles down, fumbling with the catches. Only when she was certain that the protective lenses were secure did she open her eyes. Her brother looked smug enough to punch.
“How long have you been standing there, Dire?”
“Long enough to know you’d rather look like a feeble old woman than use your mutation for two measly minutes.”
“It only takes one person to notice and I’d be-”
“Nobody was around,” her sibling said, wiggling his clawed fingers for emphasis.
“You were around! And for Calder’s sake put those away!” she whispered frantically.
When Endire’s only response was to grin and disappear down the hall, she shook her head and set about packing. There was a lot she needed to do, most of which she’d been putting off in much the way her Father had before he died.
Her older brother had always demonstrated a prideful disregard for the laws surrounding mutation. Bedecked in claws and sporting larger than average canines, he ought to be doing more to conceal them from The Guard. The law was specific. Mutations that could be utilised to any effect were to be declared at birth. When declared, the child in question would be judged. If it were deemed benign, such as an odd pigmentation, the child would be permitted to stay and work within the bounds of the Sky City. However, should it be deemed dangerous or useful, they were whisked away to join the Army or sold off to slavers. Failure to declare would get you and your children a long fall. Folk on the lowest level called it the scenic route.
She spread her roughspun out on the floor and dragged a box from beneath a wooden chair, the only furnishing in the room. She pried open the lid with her fingers. Inside was a metal canteen, a parcel filled with fried insect and rat meat, her Fathers compass and the small carving knife those at the bottom of the tower were permitted to carry. She placed all but the knife, which she slotted into a small sheath on her belt, on top of the material before bundling it up and fashioning a knot in the excess. She shook the makeshift bag fiercely. Nothing came loose. Satisfied, she clipped it to her belt.
CRITIQUE
I thought it pretty darn solid. There were just a few patches where the wording was kind of cumbersome, but overall, great writing. Suggestions in red below.
Parthursa dragged the covers over her face to reclaim sleep as light began to bleed through hairline seams in the walls. With eyes squeezed shut, she squirmed on the piecemetal floor. Goose pimples sprang up on her skin in waves as uncovered bits of her touched cold patches of floor in her effort to get comfortable. Only as the day finally pierced her roughspun and began work on her eyelids did she concede defeat.
She wriggled from underneath the sheets and sat up carefully, eyes firmly closed to the invasive white heat now flooding the small room. She fumbled about for her goggles, frowning when she didn’t find them immediately. Her hands traced the scarred floor, finding only the memory of a thousand repairs in the countless bumps and dents. Frustrated, she got onto her knees and moved an arm in clumsy sweeping motions across the room. The whole place thrummed beneath her fingertips, and tiny reverberation shot up her arm as the city came to life.
“Gah…Where are my damned goggles?” she muttered, a growl embellishing the last word.
A snort of derision came from somewhere near the thin Hessian curtain she fashioned into a door, before a male voice called out, “Put your hand on your head, Parth.”
“Urgh…” Parthursa pushed white bangs away from her forehead and jerked the rust dappled goggles down, fumbling with the catches. Only when she was certain the protective lenses were secure did she open her eyes. Her brother looked smug enough to punch.
“How long have you been standing there, Dire?”
“Long enough to know you’d rather look like a feeble old woman than use your mutation for two measly minutes.”
“It only takes one person to notice and I’d be-”
“Nobody was around,” her sibling said, wiggling his clawed fingers for emphasis.
“You were around! And for Calder’s sake put those away!” she hissed.
Endire simply grinned and disappeared down the hall. She shook her head and set about packing. There was a lot she needed to do, mostly due to procrastination…like her Father before he died.
Her older brother always demonstrated a prideful disregard for laws governing mutation. Sporting claws and larger than average canines, he ought to do more to conceal them from The Guard. The law was specific. Mutations that could be utilised to any effect were to be declared at birth. When declared, the child in question was judged. If it were deemed benign, such as an odd pigmentation, the child was permitted to stay and work within Sky City. But if it were deemed dangerous or useful, they were whisked away to the Army or sold to slavers. Failure to declare earned you and your children a long fall. Folk on the lowest level called it the “scenic route”.
She spread her roughspun on the floor and dragged a box from beneath a wooden chair, the only furnishing in the room, and pried open the lid with her fingers. Inside was a metal canteen, a parcel filled with fried insect and rat meat, her Father’s compass, and a small carving knife those at the bottom of the tower were permitted to carry. She placed all but the knife, which she slotted into a small sheath on her belt, on top of the material before bundling it up and knotting the excess. She shook the makeshift bag fiercely. Nothing came loose. Satisfied, she clipped it to her belt.