Beginning of Chapter 1, Untitled

[pseud]

This was a day a man had every reason to pull out a lawn chair.

This was the type of day lemonade was invented for, the type that gave every child in the neighborhood a good lashing of sunburnt shoulders. Especially Maria, who stood almost four feet when her back was straight (more than five with arms reaching), with bright blue eyes and hair nearly to her ankles, had a rash on the back of her neck.

Of course, this recent collar irritation could be blamed on her love for bobby pins and pony tails, which exposed the skin. But that thought never actually occured to her. Even if it had, she would have put her hair up anyway, for this morning in the mirror it looked even more horrendous to her than yesterday. Long, straight hair always dangles funny.

The sun silhouetted each leaf overlapping another. Out in the shadows of the overlapping leaves Maria sat on a branch, busy discovering the blessings to both her curses: first that when wet, a pony tail doubles as a weapon, and second that peeling skin is like fine tissue bubble wrap - all the curiosity of a scab, with none of the pain.

A pale old gentleman's grey eyes laughed as they fixed on his grandaughter in the shade. He recalled one rainy day last summer as Maria was peeling a banana. It was cold and wet; straight from the fridge. She paused with a blank grey stare and took hold of his hand, studying carefully. Then she informed her Papa that he must be too ripe.

He watched from his study with the blinds pulled up and the window cracked. He realized all he had to peel were scabs and brown patches. With that thought the grey eyes twitched and burned.

"It seems summer days bring the worst temptations," he thought to himself, as he looked at his lawn chair, collecting dust in the corner. Deep down he knew he couldn't actually sit in the sun for long.

The house Maria and her grandfather lived in was old and brick. It had been standing close to 110 years now, three floors in all, with the large glass door painted blue, and the back siding painted white. In traditional Victorian-era style it had 14-foot ceilings, and larg thin windows. One thing was missing, though, which every other house in the neighborhood had: a wrap-around porch. It was a shame - the three lonely cement stairs to the front door only had one iron rail to keep them company. There should be some shade.

This was the gentleman's fifth year with a severe skin cancer, and he was growing more and more impatient. The doctor had told him to stay indoors, but he read elsewhere that it took 20 years for skin cancer to actually develop from sunburn.

Wearing layers of clothing had already been tried, and dehydrated him. Of course, an umbrella or tent overhang would have been sufficient. But that thought never actually occured to him. Even if it did, he wouldn't have paid the money. Those home improvement stores are always out to get you.

In the house the man was in a hot debate with the window. "At a ripe old age of 78, what is 20 years? If I wanted a donut, or a cigarette, doc wouldn't object to that." The old man chose to ignore the fact that "doc" was a dermatologist. "Shit, I'm entitled-"

Before he could finish his thought, the door clunked twice.

[pseud]

As is pretty evident, I have no clue what I am doing. Any guidance, feedback, or cries of distaste would be wonderful.

Edit count's at 3...4...5...etc.....can't seem to stop messing with it.

[Adlib]

somehow the beginning of this peice reminds me of the good old childhood days....when i never sat in front of a computer..........and led life more sensibly

[alex69williams]

Caleb

The biggest problem for me is not being able to identify with the characters. There's an attempt at characterisation, and on some level it's successful, but on the other: it's difficult to tell how old Maria is, so it's hard to picture her; she sounds around 8/9, but could be older or younger - it's hard to tell. It's also difficult to suss out the old man (and having no name doesn't help) - one minute he's this doting grandfather smiling at his granddaughter, the next he's cursing and slagging off his doctor. Just a bit extreme without more insight into his character. Is he divorced, widowed, married? Is he usually grumpy but his granddaughter eases that? See where I'm going?

I'm not yet gripped by the story, and I think that's essential in a first chapter. Might also help to have a title. I can appreciate you might not know what it's about yet, but at least a working title would help give an idea of where the story was going.

First line doesn't strike me either. Sorry to be so critical. You can do the same to me if and when I try to write prose.

Just my thoughts...

alex

[pseud]

Sorry to be so critical. You can do the same to me if and when I try to write prose.

I said cries of distaste would be "wonderful," seriously. No hard feelings man. This was the first bit of storytelling I've ever tried. Ever. I didn't expect applause.

hmm...well, the choices are clear. Try again or let it defeat me. Since there are so many good sayings about never giving up and there are also so many about knowing when to give it up...I'm a bit puzzled as to what to do.

Maybe I'll put it away and give some time to it later...

- Caleb

[alex69williams]

I'd only give up on it if you really don't know where it's going. If you have a fiar idea, then by all means put it away and come back to it later.


Maybe try something else in the meantime. Who knows, maybe this was your warm-up.

All the best mate...

alex

[pseud]

I have a fair idea now, as to where it's going. It'll have a better ending than beginning lol. In that sense I know what I'm aiming for.

As for how to guide the reader, and describe things in an interesting way through paragraphs...well, there I'm horrible.

Thanks for feedback man, and I think I'll just stick to poetry.