Submissions Needed. None in queue for next week. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Betty sends the first chapter of a medical thriller, Washington Pyre. The rest of the submission follows the break.

Flashing lights of the approaching ambulance pulsed into a nocturnal fog dimming the Seattle skyline below Harbor Medical Center. The piercing siren echoed off buildings near the University of Washington training hospital. My heart rate increased as I waited with a nurse outside the emergency room door to meet the medics carrying a stabbing victim in cardiac arrest.

Exhaust fumes engulfed us as we pulled a stretcher from the Medic 1 unit. Nate continued chest compressions and his partner secured an oxygen mask to the lifeless body. The hyperventilating medics spewed reports as the four of us dragged the stretcher inside to the waiting trauma team. “Dr. McKay, she has a single left chest wound.” Nate’s face sweaty, expression grim. “Must have hit the heart or a large vessel. Little external bleeding.”

“She’s a young druggie with gnarly veins.” Julie, Nate’s partner, guided the stretcher into a trauma room. “Couldn’t get an I-V started. Found her on James just around the corner from the hospital.”

Beneath bright lights, team members protected by gowns, masks and gloved hands listened to my orders. “She’s in hemorrhagic shock from a single stab wound in the left chest.” They lifted her to the ER bed. “Airway and intravenous access, labs, high volume fluid, O-negative blood. We have to open her chest right away to stop the bleeding.”

Nurses scrambled, attaching monitors and setting up I-V fluids. A medical student took over (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Good, solid writing in an immediate scene with plenty of action. There is a good story question—will the girl survive? Will the doctor succeed? There is a little clarity issue, but there’s another concern with this chapter. It’s pretty much all setup that establishes the doc. It does later get her into conflict with another doctor and there’s some good, nasty conflict there. If that conflict was what the story is about, I’d look for a way to start there. But I suspect it isn’t the actual story starting point, and I’m guessing the real story kicks in later, perhaps in the following chapter. Notes:

Flashing lights of the approaching ambulance pulsed into a nocturnal fog dimming the Seattle skyline below Harbor Medical Center. The piercing siren echoed off buildings near the University of Washington training hospital. My heart rate increased as I waited with a nurse outside the emergency room door to meet the medics carrying a stabbing victim in cardiac arrest.

Exhaust fumes engulfed us as we pulled a stretcher from the Medic 1 unit. Nate continued chest compressions and his partner secured an oxygen mask to the lifeless body. The hyperventilating medics spewed reports as the four of us dragged the stretcher inside to the waiting trauma team. “Dr. McKay, she has a single left chest wound.” Nate’s face sweaty, expression grim. “Must have hit the heart or a large vessel. Little external bleeding.” Clarity issue: To me, “lifeless” means no life. Dead. So why are they working on a dead person? I found the detail of “hyperventilating” distracting. I suspect it’s normal for a doctor to describe heavy breathing this way, but it interfered with the flow. And it doesn’t impact the story.

“She’s a young druggie with gnarly veins.” Julie, Nate’s partner, guided the stretcher into a trauma room. “Couldn’t get an I-V started. Found her on James just around the corner from the hospital.”

Beneath bright lights, team members protected by gowns, masks and gloved hands listened to my orders. “She’s in hemorrhagic shock from a single stab wound in the left chest.” They lifted her to the ER bed. “Airway and intravenous access, labs, high volume fluid, O-negative blood. We have to open her chest right away to stop the bleeding.”

Nurses scrambled, attaching monitors and setting up I-V fluids. A medical student took over (snip)

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . chest compressions from Nate, while Julie placed a lighted scope into a gaping mouth with lips painted black. She slid a tube into the girl’s trachea and delivered 100% oxygen to her lungs.

Annie’s scissors chomped through the T-shirt and ragged blue jeans of a thin female. The persona of Broadway area druggies, her short black hair spiked on top grew from blonde roots. Two nurses peeled back clothing exposing an adolescent body with tarnished rings hanging from pubescent nipples. Shaved pubic hair. A clitoral ring.

Experienced stone-faced team members scanned the deathly mosaic of mottled skin before proceeding. Nurses slapped on monitoring leads. A medical student drew blood from a femoral artery in the victim’s groin for key lab tests. Nate searched scarred arm veins of a hard-core I-V drug user for a site to place an intravenous life line for blood, fluids and medication.

As senior ER Resident in charge, the term used for trainee doctors, I quickly examined the patient and ran the show like our brilliant director, Dr. Jackson Hunter. Two and a half years of his drill-sergeant orders rang in my ears. Like him, I called out, “Be careful. Protect yourselves. Wear gowns, gloves, and eye protection. Anyone not assigned here, leave!”

Anesthesiology resident, Dr. Milt Flora, elbowed his way to the head of the bed. “Hand me a god damned tube.”

“You’re late.” I pointed at Julie connecting the ET tube to a ventilator. “Julie already placed a tube.”

Milt glared at me. He detested taking orders from women. His attitude and whiny voice made me want to tube him just to stop his insults. He blocked students and non-physicians from performing procedures. His surly behavior tonight reminded me of Annie’s comment after one of his fits during a prior code. “What do you expect, Kelly? His father’s a cop and his mother’s a psychiatrist. The poor guy was probably potty-trained at gunpoint.” That might explain his behavior.

When I lifted a wad of Vaseline gauze medics used to seal the stab wound, the half-inch opening sprayed red droplets with each ventilator breath. I replaced the sticky gauze and continued my examination.

Nate’s adrenalin-junkie hands wasted no movement searching for an I-V site. He excelled in a crisis and, like Nate, I talked too fast, internalizing stress, remaining calm no matter what the circumstances. I was happy to have his and Julie’s help for a few minutes before they returned to service until we began fluid resuscitation. “I’ll place a central line in an internal jugular, but keep looking for a peripheral site.”

“She’s a tough stick, Doc.” Nate found needle-tracked arm veins, worthless for an IV but his initial grim expression vanished when he found a pristine vein in her upper arm. He wiped his sweaty forehead on a sleeve. “She’d have trouble using this one herself.” An RN cleansed the site with alcohol. Nate threaded an intracath needle into the patient’s vein. Blood flashed into the clear tube. RNs connected blood and saline via rapid infusers to both Nate’s line and the line I’d placed in the victim’s neck vein.

“Pump in six units of blood and get six more units of O-negative while we’re waiting for type-specific blood. Back it up with warm saline.” Annie opened a thoracotomy surgical tray and placed it on a high stand next to me on the patient’s left side. My gut hurt. My hands shook has I pulled on sterile gloves.

Milt smirked. “Are you a one-man show, McKay? Where’s the surgeon?”

My redhead temper flared, but I clenched my teeth to hold back words I might regret. I would have preferred doing a vasectomy on him without anesthetic, but the asshole did have a point. “Where the hell is Dr. Warren? Page him again! Get me a surgeon, anyone.”

The girl’s only hope for survival was opening her chest and stopping the bleeding, but proceeding without surgical help was not standard procedure. I’d have to answer to Dr. Hunter. If I didn’t act in time, she’d lose her chance. If I proceeded alone, I wasn’t following protocol. There’d be hell to pay either way. “Stop chest compressions. Check vital signs.”

All heads turned to a monitor. Milt announced, “Heart rate 130. Weak carotid pulse. So far, she’s had five units of packed red cells and four liters of saline.”

Annie removed the Vaseline gauze from the stab wound and sloshed the victim’s skin with an iodine solution. Each breath from the ventilator spewed droplets from the stab wound onto the girl’s chest in an abstract painting. Red spray mixed with smelly brown Betadine forming glistening copper streaks against ghastly white skin. Annie handed me a pair of sterile gloves and some to a tall male med student who had been doing chest compressions. She donned some herself.

With the student’s help, I placed sterile sheets over the patient to drape the surgical area. “Get ready with suction.” I poised my scalpel over her chest. “Milt, we’ll have torrential bleeding when I open the chest.”

“I’m ready. I have two units up and two more ready to hang. I’ll do fine, but you should wait.”

“There’s no time.”

I sliced into her chest with one swift strike in the rib interspace below the stab wound, extending it from her sternum, beneath her left breast to her underarm. A geyser of blood erupted from the incision spilling warm sticky fluid over my unprotected arms. The red gush sloshed on my scrub top. I’d reminded everyone else, but failed to wear a protective gown myself.

Clear plastic suction hoses turned crimson and filled wall-mounted canisters. I couldn’t stop to cover myself.

I slid rib-spreaders into the incision and spun a small crank to spread the blades apart opening the chest like a clam shell.

Someone pushed in beside me. I hoped it was Brett Warren and cringed when I heard her voice. “Kelly, I’ll help you. What’s the history?” Mona Maddox, another senior ER resident, peered into the chest.

“Young addict with a left chest stab wound near her sternum.” I suctioned, trying to clear the blood from my view inside the chest.

Mona yelled, “Size 7.” Her shrill voice raised the anxiety level in the room, as her presence always did. She dived into a gown and gloves. Mona held out her hand and demanded, “Scalpel. I’m going to extend the incision to give us more visibility.”

Annie carefully passed a scalpel to Mona.

I continued cranking open the chest and suddenly felt sharp pain. A bloody slice across the back of my hand ran red. My blood mixed with the patient’s and pooled inside my glove. “Mona, you cut me. How could you be so careless? This is an addict!”

“I told you I was extending the wound. It’s your fault for getting in the way.” Mona snarled, “Get a new glove and give me some damn help.”

I flexed my fingers to be sure I could still grip an instrument. Blood dripped off my gloved fingertips to the floor. My stomach clenched at the horror of a major blood contamination from an addict at risk for dread diseases.

An RN tapped my shoulder. I held my hand toward her. She removed my bloody glove and sloshed iodine over my hand. Annie held a new sterile glove open. I plunged my hand inside. She offered a second glove to double the barrier. The sterile gloves kept my blood from contaminating the surgical wound, but the splash of iodine did little to reduce my risk of disease. Prolonged contact between the addict’s blood and my cut increased my risk, but I couldn’t take time to scrub my wound.

HIV? Hepatitis-C? The thought of my cut awash with an addict’s blood sent a stab of fear to my core.

“Set up the re-infuser!” Milt screamed. “I need it, stat! We’re losing ground! Her pressure’s 60.” A nurse moved to the head of the table to help pump fluids into the patient faster. “Get more blood. I need help.”

Mona grabbed the suction apparatus from the med student’s hand and thrust it deep into a red pool. Profuse bleeding made it impossible to see the bleeding source. With cupped hands, I scooped out red liquid mixed with fist-sized clots that slithered off the gurney and onto the floor. Blood soaked my shirt and the legs of my scrubs. Warm globs struck my feet and squished inside my shoes. When I strained on my toes for a better view, my feet slipped on the bloody floor.

“We can’t see!” Mona ordered, “Somebody adjust the damn light.”

A bright beam swung around and aimed directly into the red cavern. I pushed soft gray lung out of the way and felt the staccato hammering of her heart. In the depths of the chest, a small area of rhythmic bursts burbled up like water from an artesian well. I blindly squeezed the submerged vessel with my left hand.

Mona moved closer, pushing me aside, and pushed on my lacerated hand. I gasped with pain. “Let me see.” She elbowed me.

“Mona, move your head. You’re in my way.” I held out my injured hand to Annie. “Vascular clamp!”

A clamp slapped my hand before I finished the request.

“Mona, suction by my left hand, so I can see what I’m clamping.”

She suctioned, but blocked my view again. I nudged her with my hip, “I can’t get a clamp around the vessel if I can’t see it. Please move over a little.”

Mona held up her hand, “I see a gusher. Clamp! Give me a clamp!” her shrill voice demanded.

A long vascular clamp slapped Mona’s palm. This time from an OR scrub-tech who had shown up to help. Mona struggled inside the chest forcing me aside, but I held firm to the bleeding vessel and dropped my clamp to suction and check her clamp placement.

She missed.

I would have done better without her.

Milt barked orders to two nurses, each one helping him pump in IV fluids.

Still controlling a bleeding site with my left hand, I suctioned with my right. Mona took the suction to clear the area while I snapped a clamp securely over the vessel.

I let go and for a joyous instant, the bleeding stopped.

The warm muscle quivered in my hand. No rhythmic contractions.

I squeezed the empty heart. There was no blood to pump.

“Stop resuscitation. She’s bled out.” I looked at the large wall clock. “Time of death, zero-zero-thirty.”

My foot slipped on the bloody floor sending me off balance. I grabbed the bed to keep from falling. My blood-soaked pant leg clung to my thigh like a hand, a phantom grip of the dead girl. A voice cried out in my mind. “Don’t stop, doc. Help me.”

I felt sweaty, but gooseflesh sprinkled my arms. Perspiration moistened my face and underarms. Rivulets of sweat ran down the sides of my chest and joined the blood staining my scrub shirt. The wordless trauma team in their long-sleeved gowns, sweltered under hot lights. They removed gloves and gowns in slow motion, as they backed away from the dead girl, ready to run from the grisly scene. Their eyes drifted to my chest.

My scrub top stuck to my skin like in a wet T-shirt contest. Milt met my eyes and then fixated on my breasts.

The cardiac monitor undulated a useless electrical cadence as the victim’s heart activity faded.

Someone turned off the monitor.

The sound of oxygen flow stopped.

My voice sounded loud in the silent room. “Thanks for your help. We didn’t get to her in time.”

Milt turned off the ventilator and fluid pumps. “What we needed was a real surgeon.”

The staff filed out, leaving me with Mona, Annie, and the body.

Mona disconnected bloody suction tubing from a red-filled canister. She stared at the dead girl and slowly coiled the tubing like a lasso. Her detrimental presence was worse than no help. I tried to sound grateful instead of the anger I felt. “Thanks, Mona. You sure came in at the right time.”

“Milt’s an ass, but I knew we couldn’t save her. I wouldn’t have tried if I’d been in charge!” Mona threw the coil into a metal bucket with a loud clang, like an exclamation point at the end of her statement. “You really did it, getting that laceration, Kelly. I’ll stitch it for you.” She removed her gloves and gown. “Get your baseline labs drawn and start HIV prophylaxis tonight. That loser’s blood could kill you.”

“I haven’t forgotten, and won’t forget you did this to me.” I walked to the sink and removed my gloves to start cleaning the wound. “I’ll have someone else stitch it.”

Mona scowled and walked out.

Add a Comment

Sorry I missed yesterday, it was swallowed by house-painting.

Submissions Invited. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Margie wrote that her critique group preferred one chapter as the opening in The Sybil’s Books, and she another. The openings follow. Which, if any, works best for you? The rest of the submission follows the break.

First there will be the usual page-turn vote for each, then an additional poll for which you prefer.

Opening 1: February 219 BC - Helen

Dying worlds don’t slowly crumble into the earth or slide into the ocean. They writhe and scream, flames devouring buildings. My city, Issa, was dying. Fire gnawed at wood, until creaking and weak, the rafters groaned and crashed, belching up dust as they hit the ground. Like any living thing, my home cried out as the Roman legions killed it.

I stood safely onboard a Roman trireme. At my side was Kronos, the monster who had saved me.

Adding to the crashing buildings and the crackling inferno were screams of men being butchered, women raped, children led to slave enclosures. Smoke drifted across the sea, its black tendrils burning my eyes. Destruction enveloped my soul and I began to shake like the buildings opposite the ship.

A hand grasped my elbow to steady me.

“Stand erect, woman,” Kronos growled. “Tamp down your feelings. Oracles do not possess human emotions.”

As if he would know any oracles personally so as to attest to their character - whether they would be so stoic as to witness the death of family and home without a word or gesture. But I couldn’t argue the point of what oracles should or shouldn’t be.

My eyes darted back to Kronos. Even in the chaos he looked the part of a renowned (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Opening 2: March 218 BC – Plautus

Plautus never ignored the advice of a dead man. But tonight, the dead were silent.

A cold dawn was emerging over the streets of Rome. Night’s mist coated the surfaces of the Forum – buildings and street. The terra-cotta statue of Jupiter Maximus driving his chariot looked down from the roof of his temple onto the slick road running past its entry. At the rear of the building, Plautus gripped the rough stone wall dripping with his own urine.

Bent over, legs shaking even in his thickest woolen tunic and leggings, he panted as though he’d run a great distance. A red sticky substance dripped down between his fingers, fingers splayed against the wall to support his weight. He reached out with his other hand, smearing the scarlet trail pooling in his palm. His finger traced the viscous blob. It was too thin to be blood – just paint, red paint defiling Jupiter’s holy ground.

No longer a soldier - yet those years had conditioned his body, toughened his muscles into Adonis’ body. An unintentional mocking of the gods who had given him the face of their ugliest member - Vulcan. His pock-marked face with its sad hound-like eyes turned toward the approaching sound of a soldier’s hobnailed boots.

He was not surprised at this turn of events. His bad luck began hours earlier. All night long he had been herded by an unseen shepherd from bad dice to bad wine and finally into this inescapable trap. Then the Master Manipulator positioned a soldier at the door. There would be (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

The writing and voice in both are strong, and we’re introduced to interesting characters in the midst of trouble. I liked both openings from a storytelling point of view, and I think I preferred opening 1, though I’d be fine with whichever serves the story best. Nice work.

Your thoughts? Here’s the last poll:

Which opening die you prefer?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . Greek physician. Wind-blown detritus of Issa only added to his distinction. The grey curls atop his tonsured head and the silvery beard framing his strong, square jaw trapped glittering obsidian-like flakes floating through the air. An aura thus formed around his head. He was Vulcan amid the fires of the earth. A demigod, unafraid of anything.

My rash agreement last night was a mistake. An agreement that saved my life but at such a price that made it unliveable. Over the edge of the ship, brown brackish water shimmered. I knew of people who had drowned in a basin’s depth of water. If you were inclined to death there were always opportunities. If you were determined to die, you created your opportunities.

Kronos’s grasp tightened on my forearm and he pulled me close. “Philip may not be dead,” he continued in a low menacing voice. “If he lives, he will be shipped to Rome after us. Alive, you stand a chance of finding him.”

He dragged me with him over to a pile of his medical supplies, extracted a wineskin and placed it to my lips. “Drink this,” he hissed, tilting my head back with one hand and pouring a draught into me with the other hand.

I parted my lips willingly. I’d need wine-induced courage if I was to do what I’d decided. Because I’d never find Philip. He was dead or as good as. Even if he survived, he’d be sold as a slave.

I’d never find him.

The wine was strong, much stronger than usual and there was a mustiness to it. Or was it just the smoke permeating our clothes, the ship, the very air we breathed – the wine?

Thoughts churned through my head as I gulped down the strong drink. The only reason to keep my life going was to extend Kronos’s. He couldn’t bring off this pretense without me. He knew this. I knew this. This wasn’t reason enough for me to stay alive.

Reflexively, I realized that there was something too resolute in his single-minded action of sluicing wine into me. The flavor of the wine, that strange flavor was affecting my equilibrium. Though it was not the sole reason for the disruption of the ship’s rhythm in the water.

“Ho, Helmsman,” a shout ascended over the noise of chaos, “cast off for Rome.”

Kronos dropped me to the ground, stoppering the wineskin and turning to our new owner. General Marcus and his entourage of perhaps twelve officers were crowding across the deck.

Yells from the helmsman activating the sailors hit my ears through a fog. Rolling my head to the side I struggled to focus my sight on my new partner, a man I’d not known until last night. A man who, used to cunning schemes, could read his prey so well that he’d foreseen my suicidal course and been prepared with drugged wine to forestall it.

I gasped, wanting to inhale enough briny air to revive my sodden limbs long enough to launch my body over the side of the vessel. But it was too late.

Instead I leaned forward and opened my mouth, catching an air-born cinder onto my tongue. I crunched down hard on the bitter morsel, grinding it to dust, swallowing it, absorbing this small piece of the city into my own body. This fragment of a structure, perhaps my own home, would nourish the tight ball of revenge forming in my belly. A seed of revenge embedded in that harsh crumb of Issa’s buildings began to grow.

Chapter One

March 218 BC - Plautus

Plautus never ignored the advice of a dead man. But tonight, the dead were silent.

A cold dawn was emerging over the streets of Rome. Night’s mist coated the surfaces of the Forum – buildings and street. The terra-cotta statue of Jupiter Maximus driving his chariot looked down from the roof of his temple onto the slick road running past its entry. At the rear of the building, Plautus gripped the rough stone wall dripping with his own urine.

Bent over, legs shaking even in his thickest woolen tunic and leggings, he panted as though he’d run a great distance. A red sticky substance dripped down between his fingers, fingers splayed against the wall to support his weight. He reached out with his other hand, smearing the scarlet trail pooling in his palm. His finger traced the viscous blob. It was too thin to be blood – just paint, red paint defiling Jupiter’s holy ground.

No longer a soldier - yet those years had conditioned his body, toughened his muscles into Adonis’ body. An unintentional mocking of the gods who had given him the face of their ugliest member - Vulcan. His pock-marked face with its sad hound-like eyes turned toward the approaching sound of a soldier’s hobnailed boots.

He was not surprised at this turn of events. His bad luck began hours earlier. All night long he had been herded by an unseen shepherd from bad dice to bad wine and finally into this inescapable trap. Then the Master Manipulator positioned a soldier at the door. There would be no escape.

Try as he might to conjure advice from the eternal sages, none of the dead Greek playwrights or philosophers he’d studied offered any words of wisdom. He leaned onto the wall of the temple he’d been urinating against and wondered which god he could pray to.

Which gods have I not offended? Only Bacchus. Jupiter’s temple – defiled with my urine because I worshipped Bacchus too long tonight – last night, since the sun is even now rising.

He stared down at his tunic. It was stained red from the paint on the wall’s graffitied exterior just above his eye level. Letters were splashed raggedly onto that solid surface as though tossed there hurriedly and in anger. He read the words, cursing his fortune.

			D
S	U	B	O	C	U	L	A
			M
		L	I	B	R	I
			N
			A

He’d thrown someone else’s dice all night then drank to soften his bad luck. Dimitri, the Greek owner of a Roman winebar, let him sleep off part of his stupor. But Plautus had a performance this day and before dawn the innkeeper shook him awake, sending him stumbling through the grey-lined streets of the Forum toward the dingy neighborhood housing his dormitory. He made a quick decision to divert into an alleyway sure it would bring him out to the broad street leading to his dormitory. Instead he found himself on the grounds of the Temple of Jupiter when his bladder dictated his next action.

A bladder smaller than his brain, but fuller of content, insisted on using the public portico for a privy. However, he was just sober enough to seek privacy and scrambled down a pathway leading to the back of the grand Temple. Relief came to his bladder. Stone cold sobriety following closely as he pulled his hand away from what seemed to be blood on the wall. The staccato pace of what was surely a soldier closed in on him. Hobnails accommodated soldier’s marches. He looked back at the inscription on the wall. Not blood but simulated blood. The bravery he displayed in past battles fled him. A man he could fight. This was the writing of Zeus. Or someone publicly cursing Zeus.

A burly soldier with a square brown face like a mastiff’s rounded the corner with a small torch, its light encompassing only the circumference of his own body. His short black hair stood up on end, like an angry dog’s fur. He barked a command. “Come forward and speak your name.”

“I’m Plautus, Titus Plautus.”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he approached. “I know you. You’re one of Andronicus’ boys. Shouldn’t you be prancing around the stage at his school,” his eyes moved to the puddle at Plautus’ feet, “instead of pissing on Jupiter’s Temple? The Roman gods aren’t culus like your Greek ones.”

Plautus was neither a Greek, nor a boy. He knew the soldier, too. Acteon. The man had beaten another of Andronicus’ students so severely he’d ended up in Apollos’ hospital on Tiber Island. And Acteon ? He was the subaltern for Andronicus’ patron, General Marcus – now Consul Marcus - and under his protection.

Acteon planted his feet as if setting up for a sparring match and leaned into Plautus’ face.

“We Romans don’t tolerate blasphemers. We need the gods on our side against Hannibal. The magistrates aren’t going to go easy on you.”

Plautus recognized manufactured drama. It was his job to manufacture drama.

The Senate hasn’t even declared war, yet, Dog Man, Plautus thought, and if they do, you won’t need the gods to defeat Hannibal. His family lives under a curse.

However, regardless of war or peace with Carthage, he knew that his sin of blasphemy was serious enough.

The scene played out in his imagination. Magistrates pronouncing sentence upon him, hurling him from the top of the Tarpeian Rock. His body dropping like a heavy stone down a cliff the height of a four story tenement, landing in a heap at the bottom and left on public display in the middle of Rome’s Capitoline Hill.

This would be his fate unless he could persuade this soldier to see the wall as something other than the desecration of a temple.

Finally, the advice of a dead man flooded into Plautus. Aristotle, wise Aristotle, whispered – “A common danger unites even the bitterest enemies.” With this direction, he created a scenario designed to unite himself - the playwright - and the soldier.

“Acteon, I thank the gods you’ve come. They led me here. I need to get a message to the magistrates.”

He flicked his eyes toward the writing. The soldier’s eyes followed and widened in fear. The dog-faced soldier waved the torch from one side of the diagram to the other, as though puzzling out the words. Plautus doubted that he could read and soon would require them to be read to him and then explained.

“And what does that mean, oh prophet?” Acteon’s face contorted into a mask of suspicion.

Plautus’ pointed finger traced the path of the main stem of the acrostic . “Domina.” Lady. He gazed placidly at the other man, as though the plainness of its meaning should be clear even to a soldier. Acteon shrugged and pointed to the cross piece of the puzzle.

“Subocula,” Plautus solemnly intoned. Beneath the eye.

“Beneath the eye of the Lady?”

“Libri,” Plautus waved his hand across the last word with a flourish. The word had faded into a pale outline, as though the artist had run out of paint when that word was inscribed.

“Beneath the eye of the Lady lies the books,” Dog Man concluded. “Do you think I’m stupid? That’s not a prophecy. Just a statement of fact. Of course the Sibyl’s Books lie here beneath Jupiter’s Temple. Why would the gods have written that on the wall?”

“I don’t know. Who else would have done this?” The words left his mouth, unchecked. They hit his ears and he knew he’d given Acteon his cue.

The soldier pointed from the urine to the graffiti.

“If I did this, where is the paint? Where is the brush?”

“ I’ll let my betters figure that out. Come on.”

“Where?”

“I’m taking you to see Consul Marcus.”

Plautus’ skin chilled. This was not a good idea. “Perhaps we should see the chief augur. It’s his job to interpret omens.” The chief augur, Senator Fabius, nicknamed Lambkins for his meek demeanor, had no stake in protecting this soldier from the consequences of injuring Plautus.

Acteon snorted his opinion of this suggestion. “I don’t see an omen. What I see is that, in addition to pissing on Jupiter, you’ve graffitied his home. Consul Marcus is meeting with your teacher right now. Surely your mentor can see to your defense, if that’s what worries you. If you’re innocent, you’ve got no reason to fear. Come on.”

Acteon jerked Plautus’ arm, and fastened his fist on it like an iron manacle, pulling the erstwhile playwright along in his wake.

Plautus had no choice. His only hope lay in blurting out his story when he first laid eyes on Marcus and his teacher, Andronicus.

If that’s where they were really going. It had finally occurred to him to wonder what Acteon was doing at the temple at this time of the morning.

Add a Comment

Submissions Invited. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Shifu sends the first chapter for Cupid Proof. The rest of the submission follows the break.

“Mom, I can’t do this.”

I looked up at Mom and pouted.

“No, Eve. You’ve never been out of the house since graduation. You need to get out.”

“I do get out.”

“Morning jog doesn’t count. You’re nineteen, and you need a ‘friend’.”

My eyebrow twitched.

“Because this is so relevant to the original problem.”

Mom took a second to shoot me a glare before tossing the pancake into a plate.

“It may or may not be relevant.”

I felt my stomach churning.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Mom cleared her throat while spreading a layer of strawberry jam on her bread.

"You see, Arthur Bryan has a son too. And he's your age."

No way.

"Nonononono..." I gripped the edge of the table, and then gripped my head, "Can't I travel straight to office from here?!"

"Nope, it's too far away. Besides, Granny is sick, so we've already made arrangements to (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

The writing is clean, but for me the narrative is far too spare, and there are story question issues. It’s not until halfway down the page that we can deduce where this conversation is taking place—sort of. It could be a kitchen, it could be a dining room, it could be in a restaurant . . . Thus showing the helpfulness of setting the scene just a little bit. Seeing these characters in context helps us visualize and understand what’s happening.

There’s a couple of unhelpful “information” questions that I’ll point out, but there is no story question. Nor do we get a sense of what this conversation—or the story—is about. For example, after reading more I think the conversation is about the character living with a family and babysitting a child. But we don’t get that here. There is no trouble or complication ahead for the character that I can see, even after reading the chapter. I think the story starts later, and all this setup can be either skipped or woven in once something starts happening. In this page, all that happens is that a teenage person has breakfast and doesn’t like what’s going on (whatever that is). Notes:

“Mom, I can’t do this.” Where are they?

I looked up at Mom and pouted.

“No, Eve. You’ve never been out of the house since graduation. You need to get out.” Essentially meaningless since we don’t know how long it has been since graduation. It could be years, months, days, we have no clue.

“I do get out.”

“Morning jog doesn’t count. You’re nineteen, and you need a ‘friend’.”

My eyebrow twitched.

“Because this is so relevant to the original problem.” Information question/problem: we have no clue what the original problem is. And I don’t think I learned it in the rest of the chapter. Since this doesn’t meaning anything, why have it here?

Mom took a second to shoot me a glare before tossing the pancake into a plate.

“It may or may not be relevant.”

I felt my stomach churning.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Mom cleared her throat while spreading a layer of strawberry jam on her bread.

"You see, Arthur Bryan has a son too. And he's your age."

No way.

"Nonononono..." I gripped the edge of the table, and then gripped my head, "Can't I travel straight to office from here?!" Another information question: what does “to office” mean? I have no idea. So why is this here?

"Nope, it's too far away. Besides, Granny is sick, so we've already made arrangements to (snip) Defining in context in terms of distance or time would help “too far away” have some meaning to the reader.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . leave to Japan next week."

NO WAY.

"Why Mom, why!" I cried, unable to hide the despair in my voice. Mom slid my plate towards me and raised an eyebrow.

"You're overreacting, Eve."

"She's always overreacting. Remember when she actually applied for the internship?" Dad plopped on the seat right next to me. I could smell his strong minty toothpaste when he spoke. "Even with A grades, she was complaining about what a bad idea it was."

"It was a bad idea! My instincts don't lie! Oh, I should have listened to them!"

"Hmm, is there something I don't know?" Dad plopped a pancake slice in his mouth and chewed as he looked at me intently.

I glanced at Mom and shook my head slightly. She shook her head in reply and glanced at Dad.

"She's overreacting about having to live with Mia and Ian."

Dad let out a hearty chuckle. "That's my shy girl for you." Then, he turned to me. "Eve, just go with the flow. Concentrate on the internship and nothing else. Besides you don't have to babysit Mia alone. Ian will help too. And Mia is four. She won't be as much trouble as Uncle Troy's... What was his name again?" Dad scratched his head.

"Timothy." I chuckled, remembering last summer when I had to babysit him. I’d rather not talk about how troublesome he was. ‘Troublesome’ isn’t enough to describe how much that kid irritated me. He was pure evil; the devil himself.

“You’re not recalling those days, are you?” Dad said, chuckling. This was why I liked Dad more than Mom. He always seemed to read my mind and know exactly what to say to make me feel better.

"Still, I can't believe you're telling me this today."

Mom smirked while Dad laughed, laying a hand on my shoulder. "It'll be okay, hon. Just go with the flow."

*****

After breakfast, I went up to my room to get my luggage. It was dreadful, but I had no choice. Even with all the studying I did, I only managed second place in the high school finals. I lost the scholarship. If I refuse to turn up to the internship, I don’t think I can land myself a job as a successful lawyer, ever. I most certainly could not risk this opportunity just because I had to live with complete strangers.

“Eve, are you coming or what?” I heard Mom’s faint voice. Darn, she may be cold, but I was going to miss her. They probably wouldn’t come back from Granny’s if I wasn’t going to be here.

“Eve!”

“I’m coming, dammit!” I said, dragging my suitcase out the door. I slid the suitcase down the slide Dad built next to the stairs before I walked down.

“Let’s go.” I said, walking straight out the front door.

“Aww, Eve. It’s okay to be sentimental, you know?” Mom giggled, closing the door behind her.

“That’s childish. I’ve stopped that now.” I said, putting on my best straight face.

“Liar.” Dad said, putting my suitcase in the trunk and closing it.

I said nothing and got inside.

“You know love; you won’t get any guys if you’re acting indifferent all the time.” Dad chuckled clicking his seatbelt and turning on the ignition.

“Not the least bit interested. I’m going to sleep.” I said, laying down fully on the back seat into fetal position.

“She didn’t get any sleep last night; I’m a thousand percent sure.” Dad’s faraway voice ringed in my ears along with Mom’s laugh as I drifted off.

****

Eve…

Go away. I’m sleeping.

“Eve…”

Dammit, can’t this asshole see?

“Eve, we’ve reached the Bryans, wake up.”

Oh fudge!

I shot up so suddenly and so fast that my head hit the car’s ceiling. I felt birds and butterflies flying over my head for a while.

“Damn me and my grace…” I mumbled, as I clutched my head in my palms and moaned.

“We’ve got no time for that, Eve. Arthur is coming. Fix yourself and get out.” Mom said, looking at herself in the rearview mirror.

“Them? Coming?” I asked her which earned me a glare. It meant that I wasn’t supposed to ask questions.

“Okay, okay, fine, dammit.” I loosely combed my fingers through my hair and put on my backpack before getting out alongside Mom. Dad was unloading my suitcase. Just then, the gate opened and just as I expected, the three Bryans stepped out.

It wasn’t hard to identify Mia. She was clutching onto one of the men with one hand, the other wrapped around her baby blue teddy bear.

That was sad. I honestly thought there would be red carpets and a row of butlers and maids waiting for us.

The older dude walked ahead and shook Dad's hand. "Nice to meet you, I'm Arthur Bryan. Welcome to my household. Shall we go inside? The summer heat's too intense, isn't it? Come on." He gestured inside and turned around.

I, Mom and Dad exchanged weird looks and followed him.

I dug my hands into my jean pockets and let my finger caress my phone. I couldn’t dare to take it out within the radar of Mom; especially during a formal setting. The fear of being called to introduce myself to the Bryans was growing with each step I took.

“Hey.”

A masculine sound made me jerk; I almost dropped my phone in the process of pulling my hands out of my pockets. I pushed it inside properly before facing him.

“Hi.”

Mia snuggled closer to her brother as we fell into step with each other. I inwardly hoped that my smile wasn’t the reason. I heard a chuckle.

“My name’s Ian, nice to meet you.”

I gave up on Mia after she walked over to the other side of Ian. “Nice to meet you too,” I said, looking up to the sky.

“You’re gonna burn your face in this heat; or are you a huge fan of sunbathing?” I felt him inching closer to me.

“No, and I don’t care.” I increased my pace.

However, my attempt failed.

Our parents walked ahead and I tried to listen to whatever it was they were talking about, but I couldn’t hear anything. Mia seemed scared of me, and her brother wasn’t helping.

“I heard you’re 19 too.”

I nodded. Dad turned around and gave me a toothy smile. Oh, how I wanted this day to end.

I pretended to observe the scenery. From the corner of my eye I found Mia looking at me, as if she wanted me to approach her and tickle her playful side out of her. But how could I do that, when her brother was staring at me so intently? An urge to punch him stirred up inside me.

Now that I had found out a bit about the Bryans, by the time we had reached the door, I had the schedule for the rest of the day planned out well.

*****

And to my dismay, all my plans had to be dumped in the trash can.

As soon as we got in, a butler came in with three glasses of fresh orange juice. We were escorted to my new room while we sipped on the drinks.

Mom and Dad simultaneously asked if I enjoyed Ian’s company to which I replied, “She was cool.” This earned laughs from them and I saw that the butler stifled a giggle. I wasn’t bothered anymore because the room was stationed pretty close to the entrance.

Apart from that, I honestly didn’t enjoy a single thing about my new room.

It was huge, in the sense, huge.

“What is that, a chandelier? And why are curtains hanging around a… a KING-SIZED bed, oh my God,” I covered my face in my hands and sighed heavily. “I can’t stay here, Mom, take me home.” I clung into Mom’s elbow.

“For God’s sake, Eve, grow up!” Mom pried me off her and laughed. She was stiffer that a pole; but she cared deeply and didn’t brush off her dramatic antics either.

“You’ll get used to it, Ms. Winters,” the butler said, and for some weird reason, I felt reassured. “Please, rest. You must be tired. We will call you when dinner’s ready.”

I couldn’t believe myself; those words kind of made me feel at home.

“You are so kind, sir. How may we address you?”

Whoa, Dad sure knew how to speak to people.

“Please, don’t be so formal with me. My name is Anderson. Mostly I’m called Andy.”

“Andy, it is!” Dad gave him a warm handshake. “Please take care of her for us.” Mom too, shook his hand. I would admit; I felt out of place. But I’m not supposed to shake his hand too, am I?

“The pleasure is mine.” With a warm smile, he was out of sight.

A full minute passed with the three of us frozen in spot, without so much of moving a limb.

“Uh… guys? Is it time for you to leave already or what?”

Dad flinched. “Goddammit, Eve. How cold are you?” He chuckled nervously.

“I was thinking of how to say goodbye.” Mom walked closer to me and enveloped me in a warm hug.

“Be strong; don’t ever waver in the face of obstacles. Look ahead at you dream and nothing can beat you. Don’t ever change yourself, no matter how many criticisms come your way. There are people who love you for who you are, and they are the only people that matter.” Normally, I would consider those words cheesy, but today, I felt really good. I hugged Mom back. “Yes, and I will call you both every frigging day.”

At that, Mom and Dad let out a hearty laugh.

“Of course, you will.” Mom let go of me and cupped my face. Her eyes were trembling and tears were threatening to come out. I felt my eyes sting, so I said, “You know, if you feel like crying, just do it.”

Mom lightly slapped my cheek. “Idiot child, I will miss you so much.” She rubbed her eyes and sniffed, and Dad wrapped and arm around her and extended an arm to me.

“Eve, I will miss you, hon. Do miss me too,” Dad chuckled as he planted a kiss on my forehead and let go of both of us. “And be cold.” He pinched my cheek.

I think a tear rolled down my cheek, because as soon as I vigorously nodded my head, Mom and Dad both wrapped their arms around me. “Our baby…” they cooed. It was then that it dawned on me that although I was giggling, I was sniffling. There was a huge grin on my face, but my cheeks were wet with tears.

They let go and leaned over, planting a kiss on either side of my cheeks. When they moved back, I giggled, gently turning them round and pushing them out the door. “Get going already, dammit.”

“Call us every day!” They called as they walked down the hall, laughing.

Shaking my head, I closed the door and dropped my backpack on the ground.

Placing my hands on my waist, I let my gaze wander around the room. Everything was so organised; it appeared that all I needed to do was transferring my clothes to the dresser.

And then, it occured to me.

I ran for the bathroom door and swung it open. A small smile spread across my face as I let my criticizing stare peer into every possible corner of the bathroom. "Mmm... Neat," I said, closing the door and walking towards my suitcase.

Back at home, my room was one-third the size of this room. Since my Mom was half Japanese, our house had a traditional Japanese ring to it. As a result, making the most of small spaces and simplicity had become a lifestyle for me, unlike most girls my age.

There was a knock on the door. I folded the last sock and closed the drawer, before neatly placing the suitcase in the corner of the dresser. There was another knock. "Goddammit," I mumbled, momentarily gritting my teeth. I hardly locked my door, so if I did, it was when I desperately needed privacy. "Coming!" I called.

All my hunches were proved right when I opened the door.

In front of me, stood none other than Ian Bryan.

"Hey, you already done settling everything? Man, you really are different."

I didn't give a response. I just stood there, my mouth slightly agape.

What in the world was happening? What was he doing here?

"Come. I wanna show you around." He said, leaning against the door frame, a warm smile on his face.

Though I didn't feel warm at all.

'No, thanks.' I wanted to say. But that would be rude. I already had enough thinking to do.

"Sorry, I'm really tired."

"Oh, um... Okay then. Rest well." Oh so casually, he ruffled my hair and disappeared.

What?

Closing the door behind me, I leaned back against it. I didn't understand it. Why was he being nice to me? Why was he talking to me? He was supposed to act like I didn't exist. So why?

But that wasn't any more important than the cloud of thoughts over my head. I needed to assess these feelings of discomfort right away.

Digging into my backpack and pulling out my journal, I plopped on the bed lazily. I didn't know when night fell, or if I was even called for dinner.

Add a Comment

Submissions Invited. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

E.G. sends the prologue and first chapter for The Tchaikovsky. The rest of the submission follows the break.

Prologue:

Mary Ferguson was upset. She did not like driving at night alone. Perhaps that’s why she did something uncharacteristic, and picked up the stranded stranger. She was on Hwy 195 headed for Tallahassee and her family home. She should have spent the evening at her sister’s in Campbell but they got into an all too familiar brouhaha over the raising of children in a modern society and Mary stormed out into the night. Mary is a middle school teacher and considers herself a progressive thinker while she regards her sister as a foaming-at-the-mouth conservative when it came to the education of the young. The argument centered on something to do with ‘Common Core’, though Mary could not recall any of the specifics.

Now Mary was in her late model car, miles from home, and it was pitch black ahead. She was grateful for the nearly full moon low now on the horizon shining through the trees. Driving at night always made Mary nervous but the moon’s silver light somehow added a sense of warmth to the blackness. She turned on the player on her dash and forwarded the CD to Cohen’s song, ‘The Future’. Cohn whispered the song with a voice filled with gravel. But the quiet rhythm made the drive easier – ‘love’s the only engine of survival’.

The lyrics are weird and shocking; wonder what they really mean, Mary thought with a smile. She beat the steering wheel in time to the chorus and tried to relax.

‘Thank God the weather is mild,’ she said out loud as she stared down the dark road (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the prologue's first page?

Chapter 1:

Susan Wei was a very sound sleeper. Her husband John constantly teased her about it. ‘If a huge quake struck Dover, Mass. you would roll over and sleep right through it’, he would say to her with a laugh. That’s why it was so unusual that something very faint and far away, barely audible, had awakened her.

Suddenly Susan blinked several times in the dark and opened her eyes wide. She lay still in her super King bed and tried to identify what had disturbed her sleep. She lay in the dark and listened to the sounds of her large dark house. There was nothing. Except for some moonlight slipping through her heavy curtains leaving streaks of pale light on the floor, the master suite was black and silent.

Perhaps it was just a dream or a sound from outside. Not likely, she thought. She could not recall any dreams that disturbed her and the house was very well insulated. Even the gardeners with their blowers only sounded like a distant hum in the late morning when they did their work. Although she was still groggy, she was certain the weird sound had originated inside the house. Susan sat up in the bed and strained to hear any noises. There was nothing.

The house was an elegant fourteen room mansion with several adjacent buildings on a large estate. It was a matter of pride for the Wei family, a visible sight of John’s success in America. The estate was well protected with motion sensors along the perimeter brick wall, and (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the chapter's first page?

The writing is sound, though it does need a little editorial help on punctuation. And there are little hints of overwriting ahead in phrases such as “her late model car.” But it’s good enough to generate page turns if viable story questions are raised.

But are they? The prologue tries to draw us in with a woman alone picking up a stranger at night—but it doesn’t show us that, it just tells us that and then the narrative wanders off into backstory and setup. Ultimately, what happens in the prologue’s first page is that a woman is driving and listens to music.

In the first chapter, the only hint of something unusual is that a woman is wakened by a faint noise even though she’s a sound sleeper. That’s it. What happens is that a woman wakes up. Then we learn all about the mansion she lives in. Much later, at the end of the chapter, is something that would get me to turn the page—the woman finds her pre-teen daughter, naked in the solarium, playing a violin and dancing. But will a reader ever get there? I’m thinking that’s the place to start this story.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . ahead. The air was not typically heavy as was expected in Florida, even in early spring, and there was a chill in the night air tonight - but the sky was clear.

Mary had put on her high beams in case a deer or some other animal came onto the road. There was no sign of approaching traffic for miles. It was the long shaft of light from her headlights that allowed her to see the man walking on the lonely country road well ahead.

2

He was slowly walking just to the right of center on the asphalt as if he were out for an evening stroll without a care. As she slowed to a crawl and passed him, she glanced over to see if he was a hitchhiker but he gave no signal of acknowledgement.

He was tall, well dressed, clean and fit. He was not at all an unkempt homeless, or a drifter, not like some lost collegiate looking for a ride, or even a stranded motorist with a gas can looking for service. She considered just going on. After all, he had a nice warm trench coat and did not appear in any distress. But Mary knew this part of the road well; she had driven it many times, and there was nothing for miles in both directions.

“What is he doing out here so late at night?” she whispered to herself.

Mary never picked up hitchhikers and rarely stopped for stranded motorists. It simply was too dangerous for a woman alone, especially late at night. But for reasons not clear, Mary slowed her car and pulled over. She watched in her side mirror as the tall man approach in no particular hurry.

‘He certainly seems sure that I won’t just take off, the way he’s walking,’ she thought as she studied him in her rear view mirror.

Finally he approached the passenger window, “You seem to be stranded out here. Do you want a ride to the next town? Did your car break down?” Mary prattled on a bit nervous as he leaned forward at her open window.

“I would like to ride with you, thank you,” answered the tall man. Only a pleasant smile showed through the darkness.

He spoke softly and made no move to enter without invitation; it quieted Mary. The smile was disarming and he waited as she pushed the button to unlock the door. He saw the large overnight bag and purse on her front seat. Mary had originally planned to stay with her sister but hadn’t bothered to bring her things in from the car. It provided her a fast exit after the latest argument. The tall man pushed the front seat forward without disturbing the bag and climbed into the back behind the passenger seat.

Mary considered this for a moment and then somehow rationalized that she was safe since he was in full view in the rear view mirror.

“You’re fortunate. I don’t usually pick up strangers, especially at night. What are you doing out here so late?

“Quite right, I am fortunate you came by. We are both far from home. As for me, I received a message that I will meet with someone soon and that meeting will lead me to difficulties. Walking in the night air clears my mind on what I must do.”

“If it leads to difficulties, why not just avoid the meeting,” asked Mary with a frown?

“Some dangers are unavoidable. In any event, I must have lost track of time and found myself out too far. I had turned back when you came by. I would have had an all-night journey if you hadn’t stopped.”

The man was pleasant and made small talk easily. But Mary sensed he really did not need to chat, so there were moments of uncomfortable silence. He sat in the shadows in the back seat and studied the moonlit landscape during the silence. Then there would be a flurry of comments and questions and a few entertaining anecdotes laced with humor and pop culture. Mary found the man amiable and pleasant.

She remembered the music CD and asked, “What type of music do you like? I prefer country myself but I have a lot of different discs here. Do you like the modern singers?”

“I enjoy various modern age poets – Stewart, Charles, Andrews, Collins and Cohen, though too much of what we hear today is variations on rhythmic chants.”

Mary was about to mention that she had Cohen - but he spoke up.

“The moderns are lyrists reciting words to a beat, not like the classical singers. Mindful of when we sang around fires thousands of years ago. That’s why my favorites are full orchestral instrumentals written by dead composers. I believe that music should be mathematical, exact and visceral. The old masters were much more in tune with our higher spirit – more challenging than a simple beat.”

Mary was not sure what he meant so she fell to silence again.

Nearly an hour passed quickly and Mary had learned little more about the man. He was obviously well educated and comfortable talking about many subjects. Mary guessed he was a professional man but she never got an opportunity to press him about his background; he deflected all such talk back to the driver. Mary on the other hand found herself talking at length about herself, her irritating sister and her views of current events; the tall man was a good listener. As they were approaching a major intersection on the country road, Mary offered to turn. Then something strange happened. The tall man asked Mary a personal question.

3

“Tell me Mary, do you believe in a second coming?”

The question was so unexpected, so casual and inappropriate with the conversation to this point that Mary was not sure she had heard it correctly.

When he repeated the question, she cleared her throat and answered while watching him in the shadows behind her, “Well, if we’re talking religion here, I must confess, I am not a very religious person. I really don’t think about such things.”

Mary came to a stop at the intersection and turned her head to the back seat to ask if he wanted her to turn. The tall man had vanished.

It took quite some time for Mary to recover. She screamed and cried out, sat with the doors locked, and continuously looked inside the car. Finally, she calmed herself and gathered her courage and exited. There was a chill in the air and Mary shivered as she walked around the car and looked up and down the roads in all directions. She even called out and checked under the car. Certain that she was all alone, she finally resumed her drive to Tallahassee. She glanced at the CD player on the dash but Cohen’s guttural whispers and apocalyptic rants would only heightened her anxiety; she decided to drive in silence, constantly checking the rear mirror.

The incident had so affected the woman, she repeated accounts of her road adventure to her friends and relatives - anyone really who would listen and possibly give her some answers. A few days later, a reporter from a local newspaper called to interview Mary for a human interest piece to appear in a local paper. It wasn’t clear how the reporter got wind of the story; the local pastor who had listened to her story may have called the reporter, or maybe a friend. But the reporter was very nice and did not question Mary’s veracity. She wrote a reasonably concise and accurate article about Mary. This prompted more people to contact Mary. Some people even claimed similar encounters and wanted to share their own experiences. Mary was surprised how many times strange occurrences happened to random people. Within a month, a young neighbor helped her connect to social media and Mary was suddenly a ‘friend’ of people all around the country. Mary regarded almost everything that had happened as a result of the incident on the road as very positive. But it wasn’t all good. Some people wrote nasty notes, accused her of being a drunk, or tried to contact her with complaints about why she had an experience for which she was clearly not worthy.

There were some unexpected changes that came to Mary as a result of the incident. First, she began to attend the local church regularly. She was uncomfortable to participate in the singing and ceremony. But sitting in the church and reading passages from the Bible gave her some undefined solace. She also enjoyed the pastor’s sermons.

Then there was that psychologist from Boston with the strange name. He called her after reading about her and introduced himself as a researcher of strange phenomena; trying to apply science to unexplained occurrences. He asked her if she would be willing to take some tests. After a long telephone conversation, Mary agreed to take the tests.

Chapter 1 – Susan Wei, March 3

Susan Wei was a very sound sleeper. Her husband John constantly teased her about it. ‘If a huge quake struck Dover, Mass. you would roll over and sleep right through it’, he would say to her with a laugh. That’s why it was so unusual that something very faint and far away, barely audible, had awakened her.

Suddenly Susan blinked several times in the dark and opened her eyes wide. She lay still in her super King bed and tried to identify what had disturbed her sleep. She lay in the dark and listened to the sounds of her large dark house. There was nothing. Except for some moonlight slipping through her heavy curtains leaving streaks of pale light on the floor, the master suite was black and silent.

Perhaps it was just a dream or a sound from outside. Not likely, she thought. She could not recall any dreams that disturbed her and the house was very well insulated. Even the gardeners with their blowers only sounded like a distant hum in the late morning when they did their work. Although she was still groggy, she was certain the weird sound had originated inside the house. Susan sat up in the bed and strained to hear any noises. There was nothing.

The house was an elegant fourteen room mansion with several adjacent buildings on a large estate. It was a matter of pride for the Wei family, a visible sight of John’s success in America. The estate was well protected with motion sensors along the perimeter brick wall, and a state-of-the-art security system designed to prevent unexpected entry. One of the security panels had been installed in the master bedroom on the opposite wall near the door. Susan was fully awake now and could see a faint red dot that indicated the security system was on with no alarm.

She quickly reviewed who was in the house possibly wandering around in the dark downstairs. John, her husband was away on a trip to Asia. He was due to return late in the week. She was alone in the master bedroom suite.

Grandfather was at the other end of the hall. He never left his room during the night. There was no need. He had everything he might need in his own suite of rooms: a sitting area with a desk, his wall shelves filled with books; there was even a small refrigerator in the corner for late night snacks and drinks, and his own toilet and bath. He would not hobble about the house in the dark banging his cane on all the furniture. She was sure it was not grandfather that she heard.

Camille and Fernando, the elderly couple who had been the family housekeepers for years lived in their own small cottage behind the main house. They served as cook, housekeeper, chauffeur and major domo. Both knew the security codes to enter the house after dark in case of an emergency. But why would they come in and not rouse her immediately? Neither one would wander about in the dark.

This was early March in Massachusetts; no house guests were visiting at this time of the year. Her extended family and John’s friends only came in the summer.

The only other person in the big house was her daughter, Jin, down the hall. But Jin suffered from narcolepsy and would not waken without a lot of effort. In the past few months the sleep disorder had gotten so bad, the family hired a child psychiatrist to help the girl. Each morning Susan often would shake Jin violently to get her out of bed to go to school. Susan couldn’t remember the last time her eleven year old got up in the middle of the night on her own.

Susan slipped on her embroidered Chinese silken robe and checked the nightstand clock. It was 2:17 AM. She opened her bedroom door to the hallway with apprehension. Susan decided not to turn on the lights since this would dazzle her vision. With her night vision and the moonlight, she could easily see her way. She looked along the banister down the hall.

The house was a classic Georgian with all sleeping quarters on the second floor wrapped around the outer wall and all living and utilitarian areas were on the first floor. She tiptoed down the hall clinging to the oversized banister trying to control her breathing. She glanced over the railing to the large entry area below. There was nothing moving. At the end of the hall, even in the dark she could see that grandfather’s door was closed but her daughter’s door was open. Susan pushed the girl’s door open and put on the light. When her eyes adjusted, she could see that her daughter was not in bed.

A terrible fear gripped Susan Wei. Her daughter had been so erratic lately; it was almost as if she was undergoing a transformation. The narcolepsy was the latest medical problem in a series of bizarre episodes. Now Susan feared that the daughter was wandering the house in the dark, perhaps sleepwalking.

She forced herself to wait until her night vision returned and Susan now worked her way down the curved broad staircase to the spacious entrance hall of the house. From here one could go in all compass directions. She checked the huge front double doors to the entry. They were locked. The woman listened and now could hear something ephemeral but melodic coming from the back of the house. It was music – someone was softly playing music in the middle of the night.

Susan proceeded through the salon and then on to the large solarium which took up the opposite corner of the house. The music was obvious now, still not very loud, and still not clear. Someone was playing a violin at the far corner of the house. The stringed instrument made a faint, solemn and fearfully melancholy sound in the darkness. A bright moon was out and all the shadows seemed to move with the woman as she carefully made her way. This section of the house was completely isolated from the rest once the heavy French doors were close. The solarium was where the family entertained summer guests. It opened onto the gardens in the back for barbeque parties and cocktails at sunset. Paneled windows along two walls faced the gardens and the skylight took up half the sloped roof that intersected with one wall. When one stood in the solarium, ornate glass and large windows surrounded guests on all sides.

Susan was filled with trepidation but still did not turn on any lights. She continued in the dark, extending her hands to avoid furniture. When she came to the cut glass doors leading to the solarium, she could see a moving figure spackled in the glass and moving rhythmically around the center of the room. The violin music was soft and mellow now. The music was coming clearly from within, the melody now easy to identify. It was something Jin played often. She was a prodigy on most string instruments and had talent well beyond her years.

Susan carefully turned the knob and slowly opened the door. It was the Tchaikovsky, the second movement of Tchaikovsky’s only violin concerto. It was the movement always labeled the quiet movement; the soft and nostalgic melody that was the so-called melancholy theme of the famous concerto. Susan had heard her daughter practice it a thousand times.

There in the middle of the solarium she could make out in the moonlight that was streaming in from above, a slender pale lanky figure twirling with a violin at her chin, drawing across the strings with a bow and playing the melody, softly, precisely. It was Jin, her daughter, naked, twirling, bending, straightening and playing - her pale skin glowing in the light of the three-quarter moon that was sending daggers of light through the oversized skylight. The uncomfortable pale light that illuminated the huge room, the wall to floor glass windows and the music added to the eeriness of the scene.

The young girl would intermittently twirl, stop, bend, and straightened as she played the melody. There was no orchestral background, no recording as accompaniment, only the violin. But she played the violin with such skill and control; it seemed more than just a single instrument. She was playing the movement flawlessly, beautifully, as she spun in the soft light on small bare feet. She looked like some exotic, gossamer covered fairy brought out of hiding by a magic musical spell, dancing in the pale moon light. Her slender underdeveloped young body was marble white. It was a scene from some ancient bizarre fantasy tale with Susan’s daughter cast as the principal.

Susan stepped forward, wide eyed and terrified. Her daughter, eyes shut tight, had a bizarre twisted smile fixed on her face disturbed only when she would grimace as she stroked the violin. It was as if she was performing for an unseen critic and the possibility of any flaws would bring pain and suffering.

Susan glanced back and forth fully expecting another presence. Despite the fact that there was no one else in the solarium other than mother and daughter, Susan could not shake a sudden feeling of malevolence, a free-flowing hostility there, moving along the glass room. She dared not speak aloud her worst fear but the fear was real, ‘The ghost is stronger now and my Jin has become a willing partner.’

Add a Comment

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Anne sends a revised opening for a story now titled Mountain Man. The original version is here. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

Monday morning, Elizabeth Logan looked in the powder room mirror to check her hair and makeup. She applied more lip gloss. She could never have too much lip gloss. Her eyes looked fine. So did her hair.

She walked through the narrow hallway to her office in the Washington D.C. 1860’s row house, which was the Logan Foundation’s place of business. Her charitable foundation, founded and lovingly nurtured solely by her. She perched on the padded window seat under the bay window and anxiously watched the street traffic. She felt sick to her stomach.

There was nothing she could do now but wait. In a few minutes someone from the FBI would be ringing the bell. Yes, government person, she was guilty. Her reason for embezzling her charity’s donations? She needed the money. It appeared that her husband, Declan, was searching for wife number three. Eventually, he was going to leave her. High and dry. And when that happened, Elizabeth Logan would become an actual charity case.

It started four years ago when her salon colorist persuaded her to add highlights and low lights to her blonde hair. It had been a definite improvement. However, her husband’s tastes ran toward attractive, scantily dressed women with ‘trashy blonde’ hair. She’d looked like that once. After she’d changed her hair, she tried to convince him that wealthy women in their mid-thirties shouldn’t look like twenty-five year old sluts. Declan’s answer had been, “Then I guess it’s (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

This opening is interesting in that it introduces a sympathetic character who is an admitted criminal, and there’s jeopardy ahead in the arrival of an FBI agent. I think there’s enough of a story question to turn the page, but I hesitated when the story slipped into backstory mode. I think the flashback isn’t needed at this point—it’s important that her husband is going to leave her, but the history of when she began to believe that isn’t really needed. A lot of this chapter is devoted to setup—look for ways to shorten those parts and to increase the tension and jeopardy for her. Notes:

Monday morning, Elizabeth Logan looked in the powder room mirror to check her hair and makeup. She applied more lip gloss. She could never have too much lip gloss. Her eyes looked fine. So did her hair.

She walked through the narrow hallway to her office in the Washington D.C. 1860’s row house, which was the Logan Foundation’s place of business. Her charitable foundation, founded and lovingly nurtured solely by her. She perched on the padded window seat under the bay window and anxiously watched the street traffic. She felt sick to her stomach.

There was nothing she could do now but wait. In a few minutes someone from the FBI would be ringing the bell. Yes, government person, she was guilty. Her reason for embezzling her charity’s donations? She needed the money. It appeared that her Her husband, Declan, was searching for wife number three. Eventually, he was going to leave her. High and dry. And when that happened, Elizabeth Logan would become an actual charity case. I’d avoid clichés such as “high and dry.”

It had started four years ago when her salon colorist persuaded her to add highlights and low lights to her blonde hair. It had been a definite improvement. However, her husband’s tastes ran toward attractive, scantily dressed women with ‘trashy blonde’ hair. She’d looked like that once. After she’d changed her hair, she tried to convince him that wealthy women in their mid-thirties shouldn’t look like twenty-five year old sluts. Declan’s answer had been, “Then I guess it’s (snip) The beginning of this paragraph signals a flashback, not a good idea on the first page where I believe we need to be in the “now” of the story. The flashback is brief and it does characterize her husband as a creep, but it wasn’t really needed.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . about time I traded you in.” Afterwards he’d laughed and hugged her and told her she looked great. She’d never felt secure after that.

It was cold in the office. It made her nipples hard. She thought about stepping out on the small front porch to warm up. Although it was the first week in June, it had to be close to eighty degrees outside. Instead she got up and went into the small conference room next to her office. She rubbed both arms to make the goosebumps go away and re-adjusted her short-sleeved mohair sweater across her chest.

She’d just turned on the lights in the conference room when the doorbell rang. She glanced at her vintage Lady Rolex. Ten o’clock precisely. She should have known. Government people, always on time, always following the rules. What kind of terrible news did they bring? Should she open the door and present her wrists for the inevitable handcuffs? No. That wasn’t her style. She always fought hard before admitting defeat.

She looked through the door peephole and her jaw dropped. Male. Mid-thirties, several inches over six feet tall, slim build, dressed in a perfectly fitted navy blue suit. He had longish dark brown hair and a few days beard growth that was the fashion these days. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes because he was looking down as he pulled a black wallet from his inside coat pocket. His eyelashes were annoyingly thick and long. Such a waste on a man. She opened the door halfway. Large soulful brown eyes gazed down at her from a serious face.

“Elizabeth Logan?”

“Government person?”

He opened an identification wallet that showed his picture and a gold badge. “FBI Special Agent Thomas Clay Atkins, District of Columbia White Collar Division.”

Elizabeth spent another few moments verifying his credentials, hoping it would make him nervous. She always liked to have the upper hand in encounters with people. Not that she was a ball-buster, she just wanted to be taken seriously from the get-go. She’d spent her childhood as a non-entity who wore her siblings’ hand-me-down clothes, and played with their broken, cast-off toys. She vowed she wouldn’t go unnoticed as an adult. Finally she stepped back and opened the door all the way. “Come in. Let’s talk in the conference room.”

***

Elizabeth Logan’s pale pink fluffy sweater immediately distracted Thomas Clay—TC to his friends. He felt the urge to touch that fluffiness with his index finger. Her high-heeled sandals tapped rapidly on the hardwood floor as she led him to the second doorway on the left. Her backside filled her tight white slacks beautifully. No panty line. Not a good way to start, he warned himself. He hadn’t done well the first time he saw her either.

Last Saturday night the Logan Foundation held a charity gala at the Capitol Hotel. He’d walked into the Roosevelt Ballroom at the end of the evening to get a look at Elizabeth Logan in her natural surroundings.

He’d joined the hundred or so guests gathered around a staircase that led up to a balcony-level lounge. A woman clothed in a glittery blue cocktail dress stood on a step high enough to position her above the crowd. The DJ introduced her and then handed her his microphone.

Elizabeth Logan had been stunning. Impeccably dressed—obviously—but beyond that, she radiated an unusual charm. He was instantly drawn to her. Even her voice captivated him. It was pitched low for such a petite woman. He heard a hint of a southern upbringing. She drew out certain words and softened her vowels. After her short speech, he’d noticed how she enjoyed the clearly evident affection of her guests.

Now he sat inches away from her. They studied each other for a long moment. He didn’t know what she was thinking during that time, but he spent it acting like a school boy. Her eyes—hazel with flecks of gold. Nose—long, thin, with a cute bump at the bridge. Lips—wetly pink from some kind of lipstick. And he detected a slight lavender scent. Probably her shampoo. His heart skipped a few beats. Elizabeth began fiddling with the pen and yellow pad laying in front of her. She cleared her throat with emphasis. Obviously, she was waiting for him to begin.

Say something, you fool. He opened a blue folder and removed some paperwork. “Gerald Flanagan contacted us last March regarding a discrepancy between the amount he and his wife donated last year versus the amount stated in the Logan Foundation’s annual contribution letter. He said he asked you to send him a corrected letter so he could finish his income taxes.”

Elizabeth thought a minute and nodded, “Yes, I remember talking to Mr. Flanagan and couldn’t find the amount he said he donated in our records. The amount stated in our letter was the amount recorded in our books. I told him I was sorry but I had to report what we received.”

“I have a copy of Mr. Flanagan’s cancelled check and a copy of the Foundation’s letter.” TC handed Elizabeth the copy of the front and back of Mr. Flanagan’s check. “Do you recognize the endorsement on his check? It isn’t the Foundation’s name or bank account number.”

She looked at the paper and handed it back to him.

“If you could explain that endorsement, maybe we can clear this whole thing up today without putting you through an audit,” TC said.

Elizabeth wrote Gerald Flanagan’s name on her pad and slowly underlined it three times. “I told Mr. Flanagan that sometimes when we receive a lot of checks at one time, they might go through a holding company account, and then be transferred to the Foundation’s bank account. That’s why the endorsement is different on his check. As for the amount discrepancy, I think I suggested that maybe there could have been an error on the bank’s part when deposits were posted and transferred. That’s something I’m not privy to.”

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “At the time, Declan and I were getting ready to go out of town for a month. I told Mr. Flanagan I’d given him all the information I had and if he couldn’t get things resolved, I would look into it further when we got back.”

“Out of town for a month. Sounds nice. Where did you go?” TC asked.

“We went to our house in Telluride with a group of friends. It’s an annual thing.”

“I’ve never skied in Colorado. I hear it’s fantastic.” TC gushed.

Elizabeth gave him an irritated look like she had no desire to talk about her personal life. He had no idea why he’d even asked. It just popped out.

He smiled crookedly, “Sorry, not on subject. Please continue.”

“Well, I forgot about it and never heard from Mr. Flanagan again. I thought he’d resolved it on his end with his bank.”

TC shook his head, “No. Mr. Flanagan filed for a six month extension on his tax return to give you time to clear this up. When he didn’t hear from you, he called us.” He added, “More likely the problem is between you and your bank. You might want to contact them.”

There. He’d given Mrs. Logan all the facts. He relaxed in his chair and stretched his legs under the table. He gazed at her, waiting for her response. Her face was pinched with tension, or anger…or something. It felt wrong to accuse this seemingly nice lady of misappropriating funds. But he knew looks could be deceiving. Incidents like this happened all the time. It only took one person to blow the whistle to get the ball rolling. When the auditors started digging, they’d probably find more inaccurate contribution letters. He studied the range of emotions that crossed her face.

***

Elizabeth’s head spun. An audit? By the FBI? She hadn’t expected that. What had she gotten herself into? It appeared Agent Ring around the White Collar had it all figured out. Her method of skimming donor money hadn’t been clever enough. Although Agent Atkins was the bearer of bad news, the whole time he talked, she was strangely soothed by his voice. If he ever whispered sweet words into her ear, she could see herself falling helplessly into his arms.

She felt a frown beginning so she raised her eyebrows and forced a tiny smile. She could wring Gerald Flanagan’s neck. The little twerp. Rich people didn’t prepare their own taxes. Her scheme had worked fine for more than three years, after Declan mentioned it might be time for a new wife. If they divorced, the damned pre-nuptial agreement gave her nothing but her personal property. So, bit by bit, she’d accumulated a nest egg, preparing for the inevitable. The Foundation would never miss it and it was her salvation.

She took a deep breath and laid one hand on top of the other on her lap in an attempt to appear calm. She remembered one of her husband’s drunken lectures on getting out of a tight spot. “No matter how bad things get, it’s always possible to rearrange the facts so you look good. Never admit mistakes or reveal how you run your business. People may try to bring you down, but if you say as little as possible, the odds are in your favor they’ll never be able to prove anything. It’s all smoke and mirrors sweetheart.” She hadn’t really understood him until now.

She chewed on the inside of her lip. This audit would ruin everything. Agent Atkins was smart. He hadn’t fallen for her ‘It must be the bank’s fault’ explanation. That line had stalled Gerald Flanagan for a while. But company records didn’t lie. No smoke and mirrors there unless you’d been cooking the books from the beginning. She hadn’t started the Foundation with the intent to steal. Time passed, she fell into a routine and forgot what she was doing was wrong.

All she could do at this point was let the auditors do their job. Whatever they found, she’d deal with on a case by case basis. As far as Mr. Flanagan, she’d offer to resolve the misunderstanding by returning the difference. It was only fifteen thousand dollars. The foundation could well afford it.

Elizabeth glanced at Agent Atkins. He was staring at her. She felt like he was examining her soul. If she met his gaze, she feared he would see her guilt. His eyes were watchful, but kind, and a little bit sad. For a fleeting moment she considered telling him the truth.

TC broke into Elizabeth’s thoughts, “Look, I’m not trying to destroy your Foundation. You should be proud of your philanthropy. I researched your organization. You’ve come a long way in less than ten years. And all that during the recession as well.”

Elizabeth’s face brightened. “Yes, we’ve done a lot of good work and don’t plan to stop. I can’t imagine what might have happened with Mr. Flanagan, however I assure you I will get to the bottom of this.”

TC grabbed his pen, “Great. What’s your business manager’s name? I’d like to set the audit schedule.”

Elizabeth straightened up in her chair, flicked her hair behind one shoulder, and stuck out her chest hoping that her nipples still showed. Game on government person. May the best man win. She peeked up at him coquettishly. “Well, I guess that would be me.”

TC looked confused. “No business manager? But this is such a large organization…”

“I believe in keeping administration costs low. It’s not rocket science to deposit checks. If I get a lot in at one time, my accountant takes care of them.”

“Is that where the holding company, LF Heritage, comes in?” TC asked.

Elizabeth pretended to appear bewildered. “You would have to ask the accountant. I’m not sure what all they do.” She clicked open her pen and held it over her pad of paper. “You just tell me what you need, and when, and I’ll arrange to provide it.”

***

TC was glad the meeting was over. Mrs. Logan had taken lots of notes. They agreed upon the daily schedule and the records needed. Two auditors would work in the Foundation’s conference room beginning next Monday at one o’clock. He told her the entire process should take about two weeks, if there were no problems.

He laid his business card on top of her pad. “My stomach is rolling. How about I take you to lunch?” As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. The invitation came out so easily. He never asked anyone he investigated to a meal. Not even to go have drinks. It wasn’t an agency rule—or maybe it was—he couldn’t think straight right now. He thought it was his own rule because he never wanted anything to influence his investigations. Not that he’d ever worked with such an attractive Person of Interest before. He had no idea why he wanted to get to know Elizabeth Logan better. On top of that, she was married and he wasn’t on the market either.

***

“Lunch?” Elizabeth looked at her watch. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late. Sorry, I don’t eat lunch, only a good breakfast and dinner.” She ran her tongue slowly back and forth along the inside of her upper lip, still considering his request. “Anyway, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. It could jeopardize your audit and besides, my husband might object to me being seen in public with such an attractive man.”

Elizabeth slid TC’s business card under the top page of her pad. Her fund-raising events were finished until October. Declan wouldn’t be home much and she’d be lonely. A little flirting couldn’t hurt. The lunch invitation looked like Secret Agent Man might be open to some fun. Maybe for the next few months, she could trade a forty-nine year old cheater for a thirty-something hunk. She wouldn’t let anything happen, of course, but it might help her forget that her marriage was on the rocks and her security fund was about to go up in smoke. God forbid there be any talk about going to jail.

She extended her hand to shake TC’s hand and seal the deal. “Let the games begin, she challenged with a smile. “Till next Monday then.”

TC’s hand engulfed hers. It was warm and firm. Her whole body shivered at his touch. Yes, if she played her cards right, this could definitely be an interesting summer.

Add a Comment

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Isaac sends a short story, The Boy Who Dared to Speak . The rest follows the break.

The boy ran for his life. He ran as if all the demons, monsters and inmates from all the circles of Hell were after him. Close on his heels were at least a dozen well-armed city guards. The guards brandished swords, spears, maces, axes, and other tools of ill will. Ahead of them ran at least two dozen commoners, laborers, craft’s men, farmers, all of them thirsted for the boy’s blood, with looks on their faces like wolves hot on the trail of a fat stag. The commoners were coming closer to catching up with the boy because they were not encumbered by heavy armor, yet they still could not gain on him enough to make the kill. As the boy ran, he franticly tried speaking words and phrases in an archaic language which would give him the advantage he needed to escape, but he kept losing his focus to obstacles he had to jump over or side step, as well as the random objects constantly flung at him by his assailants. As he continued his mad dash for the city gates, the boy bemoaned his situation. Eight years of age! The boy was only eight years of age and he was a fugitive from the law, wanted dead not alive. He had done nothing wrong; he was no thief, no bandit, and he had never broken a single law or statute until today. At the mob behind him, without looking back, he barked furiously “I was just trying to help!” If they heard him, they did not respond with words but with more violence. The boy was alone in his struggle.

The closest thing to help he received from the other town’s people was either their (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

I think this is a good effort by a new writer. There’s plenty of conflict, story questions are raised, and there’s imagination at play. But the craft needs work, in particular learning the art of paragraphing. Long blocks of text like this are not only hard to read, they slow the pace. In my notes I’ll separate this into paragraphs. The rest of the story needs the same treatment. Notes:

The boy ran for his life. He ran as if all the demons, monsters and inmates from all the circles of Hell were after him. Close on his heels were at least a dozen well-armed city guards. The guards brandished swords, spears, maces, axes, and other tools of ill will. This is all about “the boy.” I think giving characters names makes them people rather than objects to observe.

Ahead of them ran at least two dozen commoners, laborers, craft’s men craftsmen, farmers, all of them thirsted thirsting for the boy’s blood with looks on their faces like wolves hot on the trail of a fat stag. The commoners were coming closer to catching up with the boy because they were not encumbered by heavy armor, yet they still could not gain on him enough to make the kill.

As the boy ran, he franticly tried speaking words and phrases in an archaic language, magical words which that would give him the advantage he needed to escape, but he kept losing his focus to obstacles he had to jump over or side step sidestep, as well as the random objects constantly flung at him by his assailants.

As he continued his mad dash for the city gates, the boy bemoaned his situation. Eight years of age! The boy was only eight years of age and he was a fugitive from the law, wanted dead not alive. He had done nothing wrong; he was no thief, no bandit, and he had never broken a single law or statute until today. He yelled at the mob behind him, without looking back, he barked furiously “I was just trying to help!” If they heard him, they They did not respond with words but with more violence. The boy was alone in his struggle. I don’t think someone running for their life would pause in their thinking to bemoan their situation.

The closest thing to help he received from the other town’s people townspeople was either their (snip)

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . refraining from joining the angry mob or they simply got out of his way. When he finally came within sight of the city gates, his worst fears were realized. The gates were locked shut. He knew there were words he could use to bust them open, but he had no clue as to what they were, or if he had the strength to use them without dire consequences. Not knowing what to do he reached the city wall; he pressed his back up against it, panting and wheezing from seemingly running over a dozen leagues. His rest however, was short lived as the now massive confederation of armed guards and seething town’s people closed in on him. They had cut off every conceivable route of escape. As he began making his peace with Adoni, an idea spontaneously combusted inside his mind. He didn’t know if it would work, or how safe it was, but he had no choice. If he hesitated, he would die anyway, he had to take a risk. The boy opened his mouth and bellowed three words in the dead language, then turned his back on his attackers and jumped.

This jump was no higher or faster than the jump of any other human being, but what he did next broke the laws of physics. Much to the disgust of the bloodthirsty crowd, the boy climbed the wall like a spider. He did not use gouges or grooves in the wall for support. He simply scaled the vertical surface of the wall as easily as an infant would crawl across the floor. Some of his would-be killers tried in vain to imitate him, but he was beyond their reach. When he made it to the top of the wall another guard ran to intercept him. Before the guard could bring the hilt of his sword down on top of the boy’s head, the boy uttered three more words in that mysterious language and jumped off the top of the wall. Instead of falling to his death he slowly floated through the air and landed on the ground below, then took off running with renewed vigor. The boy ran west. He ran and ran and ran until he reached Filoni Forest, and kept running among the trees until nightfall.

The setting of the sun and subsequent darkness served to reassure the boy he had covered enough ground so he wouldn’t have to worry about any search parties sent to capture or kill him for one night at least. He started a quick camp fire and began to sing. This was not a song any bard would recognize. It was an ancient song composed long ago as a method of foraging for fruit and other natural materials from the plants and trees in the wilderness. The lyrics were of that long forgotten language which had saved the boy’s life twice that day. As a response to the sound of his voice, the bushes around him bore berries which he plucked, gleefully. He then altered the lyrics of his song and repeated it until a large grizzly bear dropped a dead rabbit at his feet, and left without so much as a snarl. He then slaughtered the rabbit with his scalpel and roasted it on a makeshift spit.

As he silently ate his modest meal around the campfire, the boy finally had time to reflect on the whirlwind of events that had been the past twenty four hours. An old woman, she could not have been any younger than eighty. She wasn’t the only beggar he saw on the streets, she was one of countless thousands who lived on the streets of the city he lived in. The boy saw this elderly woman coughing up blood, and took pity on her. He was not yet as adept at the medical arts as his mentor but the boy could tell this poor woman was not long for this world even as he saw her unnaturally thin body convulse with every bloody coughing fit. The boy carefully and quietly ushered the dying old lady into a nearby space between two buildings. It didn’t take much effort on his part to get her to come with him, she was seemingly oblivious to her surroundings. The boy thought she would have followed him even if he were some sort of serpent offering her fruit. Once they had some privacy the boy began chanting words quietly in that special language. She was hard of hearing and so she scarcely heard these words much less understood them, but none the less as a response to his voice the color in her gray pasty skin returned like a cloudy sky giving way to the sun. Her coughing yielded less and less blood until she stopped coughing all together.

As the boy saw the change in his patient in both her symptoms and her demeanor, he became overwhelmed with joy. He knew he could not save this old woman from death outright, but he also knew he was helping an unfortunate soul pass into the next life in a peaceful manner, as opposed to the terrifying process death would be for her otherwise. As these pleasant thoughts filled his head he continued his chanting and that chanting turned into a song. His voice steadily grew louder and louder and without him realizing his voice began to echo through the streets. This went on and on until he heard the voice of another boy who yelled, “The tongue! He uses the tongue! Guards come! Come quick he uses the tongue!” and both boys ran.

As he finished his meal of rabbit and fruit in the woods, the boy was fairly confident he knew the way to the nearest city which was not full of people who wanted to kill him, Green Maiden. He was also confident that if he was fast enough he could get to the port city of Green Maiden and stow away on a ship and then maybe, just maybe he could find himself in a faraway land where someone like him could be accepted, or at least tolerated.

The boy slept until the crack of dawn, traveling north toward Green Maiden by day. He sang food and shelter out of the plants and animals and slept by night. On the third day, he reached the gates of Green Maiden. The boy could not remember a time when he felt more hopeful and optimistic for the future. As he walked up to the gates, out of nowhere sprang a multitude of armored guards’ with sharpened spears. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “How could they have possibly known I was coming”? He asked himself angrily. This crew of warriors dwarfed the conglomeration of guards and commoners he had escaped from three days ago. They surrounded him on all sides, and before he could think of a word to utter in the legendary language, he heard a man’s voice. It was deep, clear and, projected like that of a minstrel or bard. The boy did not recognize his words but they sounded strangely familiar to him. “It sounds like the…” Flash! Boom! The entire world flashed white. He could not see a single thing, colors, shapes, images of any kind were all gone. All he could see was white. He was as good as blind. At the same time his ears rang, it was as if his brain was a giant bell that had just been rang by the whipping tail of an Elder Dragon.

As his vision began to return and his ears continued to ring, he noticed a huge sweaty hand clasping the small of his back as well as something firmly pressed up against his stomach. It took about a minute but the boy realized he was being carried on somebody’s shoulder. Not knowing what to think the boy started pounding the man’s back as a feeble attempt to break free. Noticing this the man uttered a phrase in the language they both evidently knew. The boy recognized one of the words in his phrase but it was of little consequence because that word meant sleep.

The boy woke up at dusk. He found himself in a tent. He didn’t know how long he had been out for sure. For all he knew it might have been dusk of the same day he arrived at Green Maiden, or dusk of the day after. Nor did he have any idea who kidnapped him and put him to sleep. He rose from the hay mattress he had been placed on, of which there were two. He then cast off the blankets that he had been tucked in under with care, and began to rethink his assessment that he had been kidnapped. For one thing, neither his hands nor his feet were bound with chains or ropes. There was also the fact that he was not in any dungeon or torture chamber, and the possibility that he was dead didn’t seem likely either since his surroundings didn’t exactly scream Heaven or Hell. He was in a two man tent presumably in the wilderness again. As he stood there trying to get a grip on his situation. He herd the voice of the man again, except this time he spoke in Common Tongue. The boy had been through a lot during his run for his life

The prospect that a random stranger would rescue him thereby angering the highest authority in the land without an ulterior motive seemed far too good to be true. The man was arguing with a woman, about what sounded like the logistics of a dangerous journey. Getting frustrated the man said, “I know you’re not helpless! Far from it, but the children are! If something happens to him this entire venture will have been for nothing, but as I said before if something happens to our child I…. She cut him off saying, “nothing will happen! We both know the words to use to protect our child, and mark my words that boy is not to be underestimated. You forget he escaped a force of over a hundred men with only his wits and his knowledge of The Tongue!” Before the man could press his argument, the boy showed himself, steeping through the entry flaps of the tent. When she saw him the exotically beautiful woman in the red dress smiled and put a finger to her husband’s lips to silence him, then pointed at the boy. The man turned to the boy and arose from the tree stump he was sitting on and in a suddenly jovial tone of voice said, “Well hello my young friend. I’m sorry we couldn’t properly introduce our self’s sooner. My name is Caaseye (Cass-I) son of Mitty the Pious. This is my wife, Raya daughter of Emperor Shinskay, ruler of the western realms. And this,” he continued with a smile as he placed a large but gentle hand on his wife’s belly “This is our first born child, who has yet to join us.“

Their names and the fact that they were parents did not work to quell the boy’s suspicions. With a frown he said, “Congratulations, Caaseye, Raya.” Caaseye wore a chain mail shirt under a leather jerkin and a cloak around his back. To the boy the two of them formed an odd if not seemingly honest couple. A thought then occurred to him which only deepened his frown. Pointing a finger at Caaseye he exclaimed, “How can you allow your pregnant wife to accompany you when you’re running about rescuing fugitives from the law? Dose she not obey your commands?” Raya’s smile abruptly morphed into a stern frown not of anger so much as a matter of fact correction of the boy’s outburst and pointed a finger of her own at him. Caaseye simply burst out into deep, long, wheezing laughter. Inadvertently cutting off Raya he said between fits of laughter, “Son if you remember nothing else throughout the years of your life, remember only this: A meek woman who holds her tongue will not challenge you and she will most likely do as you command, you will live an easy and quiet home life, but if you want an exciting life, if you want to feel truly alive as long as you live, than find you a woman who pumps fire from her heart and casts forth ice from her tongue!” He then motioned towards Raya with a thumb saying, “Of course, consequently, sometimes getting your way can be about as easy as slaying a lion with both hands tied behind your back.”

Caaseye’s proverb smoothed over his wife’s objections to the boy’s question. Caaseye than stopped laughing and adopted a more serious tone. “Now then, I know you must have numerous questions and I know how hard the past few days have been for you. First things first however, do you have a name young man?” The boy hesitated, he looked at Caaseye and stared up into his eyes, then similarly looked Raya dead in the eyes. Satisfied he could trust them he answered, “Umbara, it’s just Umbara.”

They spent the rest of the evening and well into the night talking around the fire, but most of the conversation consisted of answering Umbara’s questions. Most of his questions were about the language, where did it come from? What else could it do? How does it actually work? Most of these were easy for his new friends to answer though some of them were simplified because as they pointed out to him, “to fully understand the nature of this subject takes years of study.” Umbara revealed that he never knew that the language which he now knew was simply called The Tongue, was known to anyone other than him and his mentor, who was a professional healer who adopted him from an orphanage and made him his apprentice. The healer also secretly taught him the words of The Tongue which applied to healing the human body as well as some basic self-preservation such as the song he used to feed himself in the wilderness. Caaseye and Raya told him of how they were the heads of an order of warriors who used The Tongue both as a weapon as well as a tool for peace and called themselves The Hands God. “We founded this organization with two goals in mind. One, to keep the peace among the nations by recruiting our members from all ethnic groups across all borders,” said Caaseye. Then Raya added, “Sadly the High King of your land not only wants nothing to do with us and will not allow any of his subjects to join our ranks, but what’s worse is he has declared himself and by extension this entire country to be our sworn enemy.” “So that’s why what I did was unlawful,” Umbara realized.

“Yes” answered Caaseye, “The Tongue has long been outlawed in these lands but none have so aggressively enforced this as the mad King Zambore.” “But why?” Barked Umbara. “It’s simple,” said Caaseye. “He wants to reestablish the hegemony of his forefathers over the land and he believes we are a threat to his ambitions, in that he is not wrong, is he my love,” he added with a smile and a kiss to Raya.

Umbara sat on a blanket next to the fire. On the opposite side sat Raya on the tree stump, and next to her sat Caaseye on a log, which was just big enough to support his weight. Umbara for the time being was out of questions for his new friends. He stared into the crackling fire and thought. He thought about his mentor who had been kind enough to take him under his wing and into his home to teach him both his profession and The Tongue. He saw the cheap grave his mentor had been buried in after losing his life in a fire. He remembered the old woman whose pain and suffering he relieved, and finally he recalled the deep, dark, primal, fear he felt as he ran from the combined might of the city guards and the angry mob as they fell upon him like an avalanche of hate. The combination of all the events of the past few days became too much for him to process, and Umbara wept.

As if on que, Raya rose to her feet. She slowly sat back down next to Umbara and with deceptively strong arms she embraced the sobbing boy, stroking his hair and encouraging him to let it all out. Caaseye stayed where he was, fighting to keep his own emotions from spilling out. Umbara cried into Raya’s shoulder unmitigated for the better part of an hour, holding on to his new mother figure as if for dear life. When the worst of Umbara’s sobs were over, Caaseye joined his wife kneeling down next to the two of them he set a hand on Umbara’s shoulder gaining his attention and said in a serious yet quietly calming voice. “You are the bravest child I have ever met. I have gone into battle with many brave men and women and yet never have I seen an individual who would act as you acted in such a situation. You may not comprehend the full extent of your actions now, but know this, what you have done will inspire others in ways even I cannot foresee. What I do foresee however is an opportunity which you have provided us with. I intended to capitalize on it but we cannot hope to do so without your help. What say you?”

“Under one condition,” Said Umbara between sniffs. “Name it,” answered both Caaseye and Raya simultaneously. “Take me with you.” I never want to see Eastland again!” I don’t care if this is where I was born, you can burn this entire region to ground if you like,” said Umbara with a spiteful turn in his voice to emphasize Eastland and his new found hate for the land he was born in. Releasing him from her embrace, Raya stood him on his feet and shifted to her knees so she and the boy were at eye level. She than cupped either side of his face with her hands and chose her words carefully. “When all of this is over and you have settled into your new home in the city of Highsentinel where our order is based, you will not be required to return to this land if that is what you wish. But hear me and hear me well young man, never condemn an entire nation full of innocent people to death or even to abandonment just because you have a quarrel with the system that governs it.” When she saw that the boy did not understand, she sighed and held his hands in hers trying to think of a way to get through to him.

Caaseye came to her aid and translated her words into layman's terms. “What she is trying to say is just because Eastland has been cruel to you does not mean you should never return. Nor that we should burn it all to the ground. When High King Zambore is deposed so will be his laws as well as his cruelty. When that happens this land will not be the same place you are about to leave. Never again will a healer or those of any other profession have to worry about using The Tongue and being killed for it. A place is effected by the people in it but it is not defined by them. Do you understand?” Umbara inclined his head, saying “Yes sir, please forgive me” Caaseye simply ruffled his hair. “Not to worry, stick with us and in time you will be a man of great wisdom.” Then raising a finger he added, “But only in time.”

“The hour grows late, we all must bed if we are to stay on schedule tomorrow,” said Raya. “Is there anything you need before my wife and I retire? Asked Caaseye. “Yes actually one thing” said Umbara, “May I?” He asked, motioning towards Raya. “Of course,” said Caaseye. “Yes of course, “said Raya. Umbara approached Raya and gently placed his hand on her belly. With a smile Raya moved his hand to the spot on her belly where the baby most often kicked. As she did Umbara rejoiced as he felt the child kicking. “She likes you” said Raya. Confused Umbara asked, she? “Yes she, you see there are words in The Tongue one can use to see things the eye cannot ordinarily see.” Answering Umbara’s next question before it left his mouth Caaseye said, “Yes I will teach you these words someday.” Then the four of them retired to their tent for the night.

Just before the first light of the day Umbara and Caaseye rose and set about packing up the tent and loading it in the covered wagon which he and Raya had been using to travel. While the men were packing, Raya fed the horses. After the men ate a small breakfast of half a loaf of bread each and Raya had eaten the rest of the stew left over from the night before since she was eating for two, they took off heading west toward Highsentinel. Caaseye and Umbara sat at the front of the wagon. Caaseye held the reins and Raya sat inside the wagon singing to her child rubbing her belly all the while. “Just think, by sun down we will have crossed the border into Midgard and you can put your past behind you,” said Caaseye. “Will you tell me about Highsentinel?” Asked Umbara. “Yes, it is a wonderful place. It has been the seat of power for all of New Pangea as long as it has sat upon the ground. In fact no empire in recorded history has ever been able to rule without gaining control of Highsentinel.” “Where did it get its name?” Umbara asked. “Does the city itself watch over the land?” “No, but good question,” answered Caaseye. “It gets its name from the faces of the four Great Stone Sentinels. They are set high upon the face of the mountain which overlooks the plateau that the city was built on. They were carved into the rock by an ancient civilization long before any of our earliest historical records can recall, which means their origins must date back before the great scorch.”

They talked like this for hours and hours, about history and what the land of Midgard was like. This went on until well into the afternoon. Their conversation abruptly ground to a halt, when seemingly out of nowhere, Caaseye caught with his bare finger and thumb an arrow which came no closer than an inch from his forehead. Umbara stared at him with genuine disbelief. Without wasting a single moment Caaseye pointed a finger at the road ahead of the horses and roared a phrase in The Tongue. As an instant response to his command a nine by nine foot wall rose from the ground like a plant and shielded them from the subsequent volley of arrows. “They’ve been tracking us!” Raya said furiously as she stepped out of the wagon. “The decoy must have been caught!” “What are we going to do?” Umbara asked, fear evident in his voice. As a response Caaseye pulled a latch on the floor of the wagon which uncovered a weapons cache. It consisted of long bow, a quiver of arrows, and a chain with the head of a scythe on the end. What caught Umbara’s attention immediately, was the sword. The blade of this sword was five and three quarter feet long and wider than Umbara’s body.

Caaseye passed the bow and arrows and the chain to Raya which she took after strapping a heavy iron plate to her belly. Then to the boy’s further disbelief Caaseye lifted the monster of a sword with some effort but not the effort Umbara thought would be needed to lift it. Umbara then managed to find the words to ask Caaseye. “wa-where was your s-sword forged?” Caaseye just smiled and said, “In the bowels of Hell, if you ask my enemies.” Umbara was not willing to rule that possibility out. Then Caaseye and Raya ripped the cover off the wagon so she would be able to see where she was aiming her arrows. Umbara asked what he could do and Raya replied, “Get on the floor of the wagon and keep your head down” He was relieved to hear her orders because despite his bravery, Umbara had no desire to spill blood and doubted he would be of much help when all he knew how to cut with was a scalpel. Before he could share this information with Raya, Caaseye called out to them, “Here they come!” and Umbara watched as Caaseye swung his behemoth sword cutting through helmet, skin, and bone bisecting the other man from head to toe. “Now!” Yelled Raya when she caught Umbara staring dumbstruck at the spray of blood where the enemy combatant once was. Not needing anymore convincing he did as he was told and curled himself up on the floor of the wagon. Gaining a better vantage point to make her kills she stood above Umbara, drawing an arrow as the on slot of warriors began.

Nothing but the death and/or capture of the three of them would turn their enemies back. They came from either side of the earthen wall Caaseye had erected. On the left he slew dozens of warriors in quick succession, and on the right Raya with deadly accuracy picked off each and every enemy she saw, wasting not a single arrow. Like ocean waves striking a mighty cliff the solders fell to Caaseye’s sword and Raya’s bow, until her arrows ran out. She then unfurled her chain and swung it round and round, each swing taking a life with it. The battle raged on in this fashion until the best and worst thing that possibly could have happened, happened. Raya swore a foul curse that only sounded fouler when coming out of a mouth as beautiful as hers. Umbara soon realized what the problem was as well and repeated her vulgarity. Now covered in blood from head to toe Caaseye without turning his back on his opponents inched closer to the wagon and his wife and asked what was wrong. Dispatching another warrior she answered her husband with a mixture of frustration and excitement. “She’s coming!”

Seemingly without thinking, Caaseye spoke four words in The Tongue and without any initial spark, a ring of fire sprang up around the wagon and himself, three of the warriors were cooked alive in their armor. He then handed his sword to Raya and took the reins of the frightened horses and ran them through the fire which disappeared as soon as the horses made contact with the flames, doing them no harm. As he raced to find a more defensible position, he asked Umbara, “Have you ever delivered a child before?” “Yes twice actually but I had help both times” he replied tentatively. “Well this time you’re going to do it yourself!” Before Umbara could protest for a plethora of reasons, Caaseye interrupted him saying, “I trust you and I’m putting the life of my wife and daughter in your hands! Now can you do this?” Feeling like crying again Umbara said, “I will not fail you” “I know you won’t” replied Caaseye.

When Raya’s contractions started, Caaseye realized there was no place he could find without traveling too far and he could not travel too far on a bumpy road while his child was being delivered so he halted the horses. On the bright side he had a few minutes before the soldiers caught up with them on foot, so he took this time to comfort his wife who was in the middle of her birth pains. She still clutched the handle of his sword as pain wracked her body. Umbara spoke a word in The Tongue which temporarily eased her pain. Caaseye than took his sword from her grasp and replaced it with his hand. Neither one of them spoke. They simply shared a deep moment of intimacy in the form of eye contact. Finally he said “Umbara will take care of you and of her.” “I know,” she said quietly, then kissed him and added also in a quiet tone, “Now go fertilize the ground with the blood of your enemies.” Her talk of violence only made him want to stay with her more, but instead he kissed her and did as he was told.

Like a man possessed, Caaseye cut down man after man after man. He swung his sword so hard in fact that when it passed through an enemy it became embedded in a huge rock just beneath the surface of the ground, and he could no longer use it since it would take too long to dislodge. It was only then when he stopped killing for one second that he noticed his arms were in excruciating pain so much that he couldn’t believe they were still attached to his body, and the pain only doubled with ever move he made with them. Because his sword was so large wilding it required a slow and methodical style of fighting in order to endure a long battle, he had over exerted himself by ignoring that fact and despite the fact that he was fighting for as good a cause as any could fight for he still cursed himself for being so reckless. To make matters worse, there were still a dozen more warriors left alive. Thankfully, there were only a dozen of them left alive, so he spoke a word which numbed himself to all the pain in his body.

Before the next warrior could bring his axe down on Caaseye’s neck, he grabbed the man’s throat and crushed his windpipe like an egg shell, then dropped him. With a smile he addressed the remaining eleven men who were sent to kill him saying in The Tongue, “Don’t you gentlemen have anything to live for?” He was skilled in the art of The Tongue, and so was able to use it to force his question into his enemy’s subconscious minds. At this all eleven of them paused and thought for a moment then dropped their weapons and ran back toward the fortress they had been sent from. Relieved he fell to his knees and leaned his head on his sword which was still stuck in the ground, giving thanks to the one true God. He almost fell asleep in that position, when he heard the ear piercing screams of his wife and suddenly getting a third wind, he ran one hundred yards back to the wagon where his daughter was about to be born.

Just before Caaseye arrived at the wagon he heard the high pitched cry of his new born daughter. At the sound of her cry the new father tripped over his own feet, then started picking himself up, then stopped. Satisfied with the knowledge that his family was safe, he decided to rest his aching body for just a minute Umbara cut the umbilical cord and cleaned the child as best he could, then wrapped her up in a blanket. Once she had calmed down and he had said a few more words in The Tongue to make sure she stayed calm, he handed the newborn daughter over to the new mother. Raya looked into her eyes and then wasting no more time, began breast feeding. Satisfied with a job well done Umbara turned around and saw Caaseye about five yards away from the wagon. Taken aback, he sprinted over to Caaseye and tried helping him up to no avail. “No I’m fine, it’s ok,” said Caaseye as he struggled to one knee. “Now tell me, is she healthy? Is she whole?” Umbara replied with a smile, “I’m happy to inform you that you are now the first time father of one healthy baby girl.” Caaseye replied in a slurred yet still audible voice. “A father yes, but a father of one, no. She is not my only child. You want to know why?” Umbara gave him an inquisitive frown. Caaseye laughed his trademark deep wheezing laugh. “Because as far as I am concerned you are my son now! You my son will forever be known as the boy who dared to speak.” And so the family of four; the battered and bloody father, the tired but blissful mother, the beautiful new born daughter, and the eldest son, all mounted their wagon and continued home.

Add a Comment

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Daniel sends the first chapter of Homesick. The rest follows the break.

Alabaster McKenzie

Blue cigarette smoke lingered between me and my opponent—a miner with scattered patches of dark hair. A rowdy crowd took bets on who was going to win. I glimpsed at the odds table and saw my name in the lead. As it should be.

Frown all you want, soon you’ll be crying.

I glanced at the cards: three Crosses—close to an unbeatable combination. I’d been toying with the guy all night, now was the time to finish the charade. I pushed my chips in. All or nothing.

He licked his lips and showed me his cards—two Crowns and a Sceptre. A combo that happened once. In. A. Million. He grabbed the chips with a smirk.

I dragged myself from the chair, pushed my way through the crowd, and stumbled out of the Gambling Room in a haze. I rubbed my tired eyes.

Someone from inside shouted, “Franklin has beaten the Bass. Congratulations!”

I followed the lava tube’s amber lights to The Tharsis, one of a few canteens in the colony that served my favourite drink. I needed something strong to wash away the bad taste from my mouth. Patrons in grey jumpsuits sat next to a jukebox in the corner. Bionics. I slouched on the nearest barstool and raised a finger.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

The voice and writing are clear and strong, and we’re opening with an immediate scene. There’s conflict, too—unfortunately, it’s soon over and the tension is gone. A character we don’t know loses at a gambling game. For this reader, not a compelling scenario. What are the consequences of losing all his chips? What’s his desire, other than to win? What changes in his life does this loss cause? No hints about those things.

It turns out that this takes place on Mars—it would have been good to establish that when setting the scene. Plenty of setup follows before we get to something happening for this character, and the same goes for the next one. I suggest that you try to get your characters into trouble sooner.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

“Watcha havin’?” asked the barman.

“A Skevie on the rocks.” I removed my jacket and folded it on my knees. The scent of old sweat and defeat wafted up and stung me. That dark spot on the sleeve looks like someone’s rubbed their nose on it.

The barman dropped a pair of ice cubes in a glass, poured the purple liquid, and handed it over. I swallowed the drink—the lemon and liquorice taste scorching my throat.

A screen behind the counter displayed a slideshow of Martian landscapes—endless red dunes, a close-up of miners showing thumbs up to the camera, and the old Curiosity rover tomb.

Who in their right mind would visit that monument? I need to get off this rock.

One tall man kicked the jukebox and soft piano music started playing.

A voice from behind interrupted my thoughts. “Hey, why the stoneface, Alabaster?”

Only one person dares pulling that joke …

I sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to cheer me up?”

My agent, Rence Parkell, a short man in a black suit, smiled and sat on the stool next to me.

“You’re wanted by the Bionics in the next event. It’ll feature hot-shot politicians from Earth who want to play with our Poccarat celebrity. We need their support.”

“I’d have more fun poking a rat.” I emptied my glass and motioned the bartender for a refill.

“Regardless, you’d need to be in top form.” He stared at me intently.

I arched my eyebrows.

“You lost tonight, didn’t you?” he said.

“Temporary lapse of judgment.”

“Bass, nothing’s temporary here. You don’t lose games, that’s why you’re employed to represent them.”

The jukebox switched to a classic song by Frank Sinatra.

“I know you’d rather do things your way,” continued Rence, “but Kápros wants to see you tomorrow morning.”

I sighed. “What’s the rush?”

He moved in a bit too close, his peppermint breath slapping me across the face. “This is your chance, Bass. These politicians are powerful. Influential. Rich.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“This is different.” He shook his head. “Besides, some people say you’re losing your touch.”

“Who?”

“Some people.”

“You’re an arsehole, Rence.”

The barman served a second Skevie.

“Don’t you see? This is an opportunity, Bass.”

“Their events are a waste of time. The Bionics can handle their own damn PR.”

The idea of another year of fake smiling and playing cards didn’t thrill my bones. My family waited for me on Earth, and I’d already been here far too long. “I’m going home.” I clapped Rence on the shoulder.

“Aren’t you finishing your drink at least?”

“You can have it. Pick up the tab too.”

He tried to protest but I ignored him and walked out.

***

The air vents were closing for the night. It had something to do with the Bionics not wanting oxygen circulation in the corridors during the evening. My theory was that rebels from the Darsis colony would hesitate to attack in a vacuum. The lights had been dimmed too. Long volcanic stalactites glistened above me, reflecting the gloomy light ahead. I inhaled deeply before stumbling into the hallway.

The sliding doors of my quarters were ajar. I entered. Paper had been scattered on the floor and my sofa torn apart.

What were they looking for?

I peered behind my wardrobe. Kylia’s locket was gone! My head started to spin and I felt queasy. The oxygen had escaped the room when the doors had been left open.

The room danced in circles round me. Faster and faster. Until it stopped.

***

Amaryllis Cayne

The implant inside my left wrist itched. I scratched until my skin turned red. I’d asked my parents for a pair of earrings before we arrived a few weeks ago, but they thought jewellery wasn’t suitable for a fourteen-year-old girl. I would probably not be allowed to wear nail polish or lipstick until I turned 50.

Mum gave me my bag outside the school and said, “Remember what we’ve talked about.”

I sighed. “Mars is our opportunity for a better life. I get it. Dad’s been saying that a lot lately.”

“That’s right. And we’re grateful, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” I muttered.

“Please don’t scratch your wrist, Ammie. Dad and I are going back to the mines, but we’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Why isn’t he here, mum?”

“I don’t know, honey, something came up. But we love you very much. Don’t forget to think happy thoughts, okay?”

“Promise.”

The portable display on my desk lit up. “Name three steps to glory.”

I didn’t have to think, my chip already knew. I typed in the answers, making sure they were spelled correctly. A humming sound inside the classroom grew louder. A large display at the front of the classroom lit up, revealing a bald man with piercing white pupils. “Children of Bionics,” he said. “Next week you will join the ranks of our glorious community.”

His smooth voice sickened me. I made a gagging motion to my neighbour, a short boy with a lot of hair. He replied with a stern look. Spoilsport.

The bald man droned on about human glory, fortunes, and blah blah blah. My parents were slaving in the mines beneath Mars’ surface. Where was the glory in that?

I accessed my desk panel, skimming through photos of Earth. Children playing in the sand underneath a blue sky. I’d love to be on a beach. I rubbed my wrist again.

“Amaryllis, pay attention,” whispered Spoilsport.

Horrid images of hands, riddled with scars and warts, flashed on the front display. “These damaged limbs will need replacement to continue the required hard labour,” said a voice-over. “We always need large, strong limbs for the necessary duties in the mines.”

I closed my eyes. I’d seen them every night since we arrived—every time Dad hugged me. He never complained though. He seemed to believe it was a necessary sacrifice, but I couldn’t help feeling heartbroken.

“The Bionic upgrade program starts tomorrow. Tell your parents to play it like Bass and they could become the chosen ones. Until then: pure thoughts and healthy minds.” The voice faded out.

A siren blared and the displays went blank—the signal I’d been longing for. Everyone rose in unison and recited the last stanzas from Unity Through Wisdom in the Bionic Bible:

We’re unified in peace.

Together against Darsis.

Kápros, our benevolent leader.

Leading to glory.

I took my display and stuffed it inside my rucksack. The other students shuffled out of the classroom and into the hallway, where the machines scanned them for Earth objects. Spoilsport approached me, his breath stinking of tuna.

“You’ll get into trouble,” he said. “What’s with the Earth photos anyway?”

“They remind me of home.” I shrugged. “I don’t want to stay here.”

Spoilsport shook his head, revealing small ears behind his mane of hair. “The Bionics are heroes, y’know. The first humans on Mars. Take a leaf out of their book if you want to survive.”

I rubbed my wrist. “The implant’s driving me crazy. Do you think there’s a way of … removing …?”

His eyes widened. “Don’t say that!” He backed away with quick steps and joined the departing crowd.

I left the classroom and passed through a series of machines that perform a Bionics check. I’d been told anyone caught by them was “caned”—punished. I didn’t own any Earth items, and they hadn’t said anything about photos not being allowed, so I didn’t worry about getting caught.

The machinery scanned me: two lights, one red, one blue, shone into my eyes. I blinked. It stopped for a moment, and a mechanical voice said, “Insert chip into slot.”

I slotted my hand into a small opening. The device made a series of high-pitched tones. “Impure thoughts recorded.” Something sharp caught my hand.

“Let go,” I shouted.

The cold metal gripped my wrist tighter. “Beginning assessment,” said the voice. “Assessment concluded. Impure thoughts detected. Severe correctional measures initiated.”

My knees shook and my heart leapt up into my throat. I tried pulling my hand out. Excruciating pain blasted my shoulder. I shrieked and twisted my wrist in panic, but it wouldn’t budge. Several bursts of agonising electric shocks surged along my arm. I convulsed.

I fell to my knees, tears flowing. The metal grip round my hand released and I collapsed onto the floor in spasms. Shaking, I clung to the wall and got to my feet. I couldn’t feel my left arm.

A bald man wearing a grey jumpsuit approached me. He had a tiny display round his chest showing his heartbeat. He put his hands on my shoulders, white pupils staring straight through me. “Dear child, we cannot tolerate impure longings.” He shook his head. “This is your home now.”

Tears flowed, clouding my vision. Keeping my head down, I tucked a few red strips of hair behind my ears. Through hiccups of sobs I stuttered, “Yes, sir.”

The Bionic placed a finger under my chin, tilting my head back. “Hush now, child. Let us not mention this again. Remember what the Bionic Bible says about impurities.”

I wiped away my tears with a sleeve, and picked up my rucksack. “Impurities … are like salt in our drinking water, sir.” My cheeks burned.

The Bionic caressed my hand with his cold touch. “And too much salt is harmful. Now go.”

With hunched shoulders I hurried home.

***

I retreated through the lava tubes to our yard, glancing behind me in case a Bionic followed. The colony was a metallic jungle inside the Tharsis Montes volcano, connected by narrow corridors. The Bionics patrolled most of them.

Our quarters were cramped and stuffy. We only had a coffee table, a chair, and three bunks. With aching limbs, I threw myself onto the worn chair. I sat with my head buried in my palms, still shaking from shock and humiliation. Why’s this happening to me? I hate this place. I just want to go home.

I wept again.

Add a Comment

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Jim sends the prologue and first chapter of Zombies Don’t Skate. The rest follows the break.

Prologue:

This morning, I found myself lying in bed, awake, but with my eyes still closed. Dreading the day ahead. If I could keep my eyes closed, maybe I could put it off indefinitely. This was gonna be one of those days. Today was the day I had decided I would ventured out into the world for the first time in seven months. I’m not a shut-in, nor agoraphobic, I was however afraid of zombies, and they were waiting for me outside.

My situation was getting serious. My Supplies were running low and as much as I hated the thought of leaving my safe little hidden shelter, I knew my time down there was limited.

The situation in Austin was also not good. But to be fair, the situation worldwide was pretty screwed up. About nine months ago America watched a report on Television of an outbreak in western Africa. It was a particularly nasty outbreak. A virus was sweeping across the continent, something the world had never seen before. A hellish rendition of all things evil — ripped right off the screen of a horror movie.

At first they resisted using the term “Zombie” to describe the infected.

The first reporter to witness the infected horde in Sierra Leon didn’t sugarcoat it. His was the first report we saw, it was Pulitzer Prize worthy and terrifying at the same time.

The reporter was running hunkered down talking over his shoulder into the big black ball of his mic. “Things are bad here!” he said through the camera.

Were you compelled to turn the prologue's first page?

Chapter 1:

The bomb shelter was built by my late father. It was the product of his paranoid genius. He had been a manic conspiracy theorist with what could only be described as a severe dis-associative disorder. He never sought help for it and no one ever forced him to. Maybe someone should have.

Dad had always felt like the end of society was right around the corner. So, he collected guns, canned food and all manner of gadgets he thought might come in handy someday. He never worked at any one place for long. That is until he found a job as a night watchman at a warehouse near the airport. Personal relationships were tough for him. The watchman gig was a solitary job. It was perfect.

When I was in school he would come home every morning and make me breakfast. We would sit at the table where he would share the most recent plot he had discovered. The one that would inevitably end the world as we knew it.

As a little kid, his theories terrified me. By high school, I realized he was not altogether right. The time we spent together was tough, but I excepted him and just tried to enjoy what time he gave me. Once I graduated, I was gone, happy to be free of him and his craziness. I loved him, but as a kid with a crazy dad. I just had to leave.

We never talked much after I moved away. I got a call on my birthday once in a while and I went home for holidays now and again. But, we lived separate lives.

He died of a heart attack three years ago. It had to be the two packs he smoked every day. He (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the chapter's first page?

Good first-person voice and a gripping situation right off the bat drew me in. By the way, I wouldn’t label this the prologue—since it starts in the present of the story and continues right on in the first chapter, I think this is chapter 1. Yes, there’s a considerable info dump, but it’s interesting stuff. In an edit, I’d have to think hard about what to cut. Or whether or not to start with an action scene and weave in the information here.

Without the running start that the prologue gave it, chapter one doesn’t open all that successfully—it’s all backstory. I’ll add that I don’t really think all the stuff about his father is needed at this time (if ever—I don’t see how his father’s paranoia will affect the story ahead). I think an editor’s hand could strengthen the pace and involvement of the story in this chapter.

But the chapter does continue the story and gets him out of the shelter to discover what has become of the world, and I was interested in going along with him to find out. Note to Jim: you will definitely need an editor at some time; there were grammatical errors that will hurt you with readers. If it were me, I’d also look at where to start the story and how to include the world setup stuff. But it’s richly imagined, and your zombies are different enough to make me want to read more. Luck.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued from the prologue:

“Whatever this sickness is, there seems to be no stopping it! Once infected, the patient loses all self-control and will rampage on a mindless killing spree… I’ve never seen anything like it! They look sick… deathly sick, but seem to have an abundance of energy!”

He stopped for a moment and address the camera before something startled him. At which point he and whoever was behind the camera took off again. I remember seeing him weaving in and out of the crowd, bumping into the rest of the throng running with him, away from something else.

“These infected are destroying everything in their path. They feed only on living flesh! It is the most gruesome and violent thing I have ever witness.”

He stopped, took two steps into the shot and spoke through the camera. “And you know the kind of shit I’ve seen.”

It was then that the camera jerked, spun to a wide shot of sky and clouds and then turned to static snow. His report played over and over almost non-stop for days.

Once his report came back, what do you think the American government did? They went straight over there to “fix” the problem. The first team to go was with the CDC; they didn’t fare so well. It seems their standard humanitarian approach to this health crisis was the wrong approach. They headed to Africa wearing their proverbial “We need to help these poor souls” arm bands. Only the poor souls they wanted to help, didn’t want help, they wanted flesh… fresh living flesh. The ghouls saw the CDC as a new flavor of the month. The team was wiped out as soon as they reached the “Hot Zone”. None of the video footage made it to TV, but apparently it was pretty gruesome. When someone leaked the footage on the Internet, people went ape shit. From then on, there was no hope of the “Z” word not being used to describe the infected. The government tried desperately to shut down every website that leaked the video footage. It still got out, but that’s when people really started to panic. If the government was willing to violate the first amendment because of something happening on another continent, everyone knew this situation must be serious.

Zombies were taking over in West Africa, and spreading fast. Everyone hoped the deep deserts of North Africa would contain them. But, they didn’t. So, here in the states the Army got involved as the next “aid givers”. They sent USAMRIID, (U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases) with a platoon of support troops to try and get a handle on things. They actually figured out some of the virus’s unpleasant details, like how it was spread and what it did once it got inside a victim. We weren’t told anything about their findings until it was too late to do any good.

When their findings were released, we found out exactly how bad things were. The infected were not so much infected as they were transformed. Once the virus got into your system it took about four to seven hours to kill the host. The blood thinned down to a viscosity like rubbing alcohol which caused the organs to shut down. Complete organ failure was ultimately the cause of death. The virus migrates to the brain just before the heart stops beating. The heart stops beating entirely within a few minutes of brain infestation. Like a parasite the virus takes control of the victim. The brain, then converted into a non-sentient nerve center, is doing only one thing, controlling the host’s body to find and consume flesh and blood. The only requirement for this new creature is nutritional Iron. This is absorbed through all the soft tissues of the human feeding system- such as the stomach, intestines, mouth and esophagus. The iron is then carried to the brain by the now super thinned blood being weakly pumped throughout the zombie simply by its movements. Zombies are always on the move. No movement means no circulation. Apparently this is a less than efficient system of getting the much needed iron to the brain. So, zombies are super feeders. They devour every living thing in their path. They will eat animals, if they can catch them; however people are much easier to catch than a terrified critter, so we are at the top of their menu.

USAMRIID realized there was no cure from this transformation — there’s no coming back from death. They euthanized as many as possible to get back home alive. But guess what they brought back with them? ZOMBIES! They wanted to study them and research a vaccine. That, as it turns out wasn’t a great idea. Apparently someone on the research team became infected and they infected a friend who infected a friend and so on. Some of them got out of their little lab and now we have zombies in America.

These are not the slow, arms out, sleepwalkers Hollywood often showed us. Real zombies are spry. They’re not very coordinated, and they are certainly not deep thinkers, but they carry a fear factor which seemed to turn folks into blithering idiots when being chased. Mind you, that’s all just what I’d seen and heard on TV, while there was still TV. I had never actually seen a zombie in person. And really had only seen a few televised glimpses of them. The government did a pretty good job controlling the media, and keeping the images we did get to see as PG as they could.

About seven months ago all the TV networks went to snow. National, local, all of them. Not to test pattern, not warnings, just snow. That’s when I knew the shit had truly hit the fan. I packed everything that would fit into my shelter’s storage area and tucked myself in for the long haul.

I have been in my Dad’s bomb shelter locked safely away from the zombie infected world outside for just over seven months now. For all I know the crisis is over. Today I will find out. I need to resupply, empty my trash and bury three of my hamsters.

Chapter One

The bomb shelter was built by my late father. It was the product of his paranoid genius. He had been a manic conspiracy theorist with what could only be described as a severe dis-associative disorder. He never sought help for it and no one ever forced him to. Maybe someone should have.

Dad had always felt like the end of society was right around the corner. So, he collected guns, canned food and all manner of gadgets he thought might come in handy someday. He never worked at any one place for long. That is until he found a job as a night watchman at a warehouse near the airport. Personal relationships were tough for him. The watchman gig was a solitary job. It was perfect.

When I was in school he would come home every morning and make me breakfast. We would sit at the table where he would share the most recent plot he had discovered. The one that would inevitably end the world as we knew it.

As a little kid, his theories terrified me. By high school, I realized he was not altogether right. The time we spent together was tough, but I excepted him and just tried to enjoy what time he gave me. Once I graduated, I was gone, happy to be free of him and his craziness. I loved him, but as a kid with a crazy dad. I just had to leave.

We never talked much after I moved away. I got a call on my birthday once in a while and I went home for holidays now and again. But, we lived separate lives.

He died of a heart attack three years ago. It had to be the two packs he smoked every day. He lasted a while in the hospital. But he never woke up. I remember hoping he wouldn’t. I was sure if he did he would have some wild theory of a government conspiracy to kill him. I just wanted him to be at piece. And quiet.

My mom was stranger to me. She died before I turned three. I have a couple of pictures of her and my dad together and one of them with me. My dad never talked much about her. The few people who knew him before she died said it wasn’t until she was gone that he got, strange.

When he died, I inherited his house and his land. I was surprised to discover, a bomb shelter in the back yard. I would have never found it if the property surveyor the court assigned for probate didn’t find it weird there was a manhole cover in the back yard that said “Septic Tank” on it.

The house was hooked up to the city sewer system.

Hidden below the manhole cover was a small vestibule and a sealed hatch protected by a combination lock. I spent days searching through dad’s records for the combination before I gave up and called a safe specialist to open it.

The bomb shelter he built was simple and state of the art at the same time. Inside, I found everything a person would need to live comfortably for quite a while.

The place is big enough for one person. It had a desk, a work bench and a full sized bed.

I’d like to think that if he was still alive when the zombies came, he would have made a place for me in his shelter, and his life.

I never had to find out. It’s probably best.

If my dad had been the one to occupy the shelter, I’m sure the supplies would have lasted a long time. I’ve never had his willpower or his ability to sacrifice. As it turns out, I was only able to get about seven months out of the stores he had packed away.

My life had been pretty nice in the shelter, for the most part. I had my computer, my music and hundreds of DVDs. It all ran off of a bunch of batteries charged by the exercise wheels my hamsters ran in.

The hamsters had been my contribution to the shelter. Dad put an exercise bike in to charge the batteries, but I decided I needed some company. I did jump on the bike from time to time, but “The Gladiators” did most of the work. I’d named them after the old American Gladiators from the show in the early nineties. Three of the little guys, Cyclone, Havoc and Tank had died. But, with twenty four hamsters left they kept my laptop, mp3 player and wireless speakers charged with no help from the exorcise bike. And because I had planned to start a breeding program, the colony was safe.

That is of course, if I survived. I thought my chances were better than average. I have been planning an expedition outside for a while. When I took to the shelter, I cleaned out the old house of all usable items. The storage area was huge just not very livable with all the stuff piled in there.

My old man stocked the shelter with every weapon he thought might come in handy during the apocalypse. As a result, I had several hand guns, a shotgun, a semi-automatic rifle and a compound bow. I also had four machetes, two hand grenades, yep, I had hand grenades, and enough ammo to occupy a small country.

I downloaded as much info as I could from the Internet before it went down with the TV signal. Between my digital library and some help from a guy at a local gun shop, I knew just about enough to be a danger to myself. That fact became obvious after accidentally shotting one of my water tanks while practicing quick draws with my forty five. After that, my guns stayed — unloaded — during training. I had spent a lot of time since then “playing” with each of the weapons. I cleaned them, took them apart, reassembled them and I posed in the mirror, trying to see if I look like I knew what I was doing. As a result, I was confident handling them and loading on the fly. And the duct tape and epoxy held the patch on the tank, and my hearing had pretty much recovered.

“Good morning Gladiators! Who’s hungry?” As always I started my day by feeding my pint sized power plants. They were my only companions. They had become very important to me. It was amazing to me how dependent people were on social interaction, even if it’s just from a hamster. I would never have guessed when I got these little fuzzy frenzies of power I would grow so attached to them. It’s weird. Sometimes I talked to them -- and answered for them. I often wondered if I might actually have been losing my mind. Oh well, like father like son.

Each cage got two Short Bread cookies and a rodent vitamin. Sure it wasn’t the unhealthiest diet for the little guys, but I found if they had a lot of calories they naturally tried to work them off, hence more electrons went into my batteries. So it worked out for us all. They got extra yummy grub and I got to use all my gadgets.

My battery charger was state of the art. It actually told me how many amps were being produced from each hamster wheel. So, keeping track of the little guys energy output was easy. They were fairly happy with their lives, at least I hoped so.

Eating my bowl of instant oatmeal we enjoyed our morning in silence.

With the morning feedings out of the way, it was time to start preparing myself for the expedition outside. I really had no idea what to expect. Would I open my hatch to an endless throng of zombies.

That thought caused me to shudder.

Or, would I pop the hatch and find the zombie crisis had ended. Had I been hunkered down there for seven months for no reason at all?

And if that was the case there would be other problems. My father’s house could have been sold off by the city because they thought I was eaten and the house was available. That would suck.

Back when the living things walking around outnumbered the dead, I managed a used record store. Not a thrilling job. I made OK money, but the place was failing fast. Damn digital music. I shouldn’t bitch though, I converted from vinyl to digital years ago. I guess I got lucky the zombies came before I lost my job.

A few months ago, my biggest problem was choosing between Taco Bell and Burger King for lunch. Now I had to figure out how to deal with the devastation outside, or even how to handle the lack thereof. It was a lot for a simple guy like me to deal with.

Three bottles of water went into my army surplus rucksack along with three MREs. I found a ton of MRE’s in the shelter. My dad must have loved them, cause I have hundreds. Their only redeeming factor is they wouldn’t ever go bad. They were already bad the day he bought them. Luckily I hadn’t had to depend on them as a primary food source yet. I had eaten a few of them, just to try. When I thought about having to eating the rest. Facing the zombies out side didn’t seem like a bad idea.

I packed my portable radio, my cell phone (just in case things are back to normal) and my handbook of edible Texas plants. Wild edibles wouldn’t have been my first choice, but packed it just in case.

I strapped on my holster and my colt .45 semi automatic, four extra mags of ammo fit in pouches on the belt. The holster was the kind the SWAT guys used, it rode on my thigh not hip. It looked cool and it was the one I had practiced with the most.

A camouflage shirt and pants with a black ball cap topped off my costume. Checking my appearance one last time in the mirror, I looked like a bad ass. According to my DVD collection, that’s all that mattered.

The little box, decorated to serve as a casket for my three tiny pals came out of the freezer and got tucked it into one of the pockets in my camouflage cargo pants. They would get buried together, so they’d have company. It was silly, but it was important to me they always be together.

Climbing the ladder, my hands were shaking. It was a scary thing leaving my safe place. I had gotten used to the safety of my shelter. If I could only put this trip off one more day. The only problem was I had been putting it off for weeks. Time was running out. No, food was running out. I couldn’t keep stalling. It was now or never.

At the top of the ladder I paused. Needing moment to steel myself to the inevitable reality. The world outside would be much different now.

The hatch opened with a slight squeal as hinges moved again for the first time in months. I climbed through the hatch and into the vestibule. I stood beneath the manhole cover.

Closing the inner hatch, I didn’t lock it. I might need to get back in quickly.

The manhole cover was heavier than I remembered, but I got it to move with a bit of extra force. By moving slow I got it free, careful not to make a sound. If there was a gaggle of zombies in the backyard waiting for me, I didn’t want to ring the dinner bell for them.

I opened it just enough to see out.

-----------------------------------------------------

Looking in a 360 degree ark around the backyard. I saw my house; it looked to be intact, for the most part. My yard shed was still standing, the door was open, that was weird. My yard had a wooden privacy fence around it. The fence was intact with one exception, a section of boards looked as though they had been kicked out by someone or something to gain access. That got my attention, had someone been trying to get in, or out, I couldn’t know.

My garden was doing great. I could believe it! It was fully over grown. My corn was standing well over seven feet high and there were ears visible on every stock. The tomatoes covering the ground were ripe and there were hundreds still hanging on the vines.

A farmer I am not. But, I had this huge back yard and back in the spring, before all hell broke lose, a garden seemed like a good idea. I had always heard that any fool with a plot of dirt and some seeds could grow tomatoes, corn, carrots or lettuce. I planted all four. I hadn’t held out much hope for it when I descended into the earth. I had actually not even really thought about it much. Don’t gardens have to be tended? I guess not. But holy crap… Food! There was fresh food back on the menu!

The most encouraging thing though, was a complete lack of zombies. I slid the cover the rest of the way off.

Carefully and quietly I ascend the rest of the ladder and stood silently in my back yard. The heat was powerful. Sweat immediately began to drip from everywhere. Being in the cool confines of the shelter I forgot how oppressive Texas was in the summer.

The heat was rough, the dead calm was worse. Not just the regular ‘nothing going on calm’ but an absolutely eerie silence. You don’t always notice it, but it’s never completely silent in a city like Austin. Out here on the outskirts east of the city, it wasn’t necessarily noisy, but there was always a background hum of distant cars on the highway, the far away roar of a jetliner overhead, the rattle of a train miles away. These were the sounds made by a world full of life, and with them gone, it was a terrifying thing.

It reminded me of walking out of a night club where the music was too loud, or the parking lot of the race track I went to as a kid where cars flew around the track with a deafening scream. It almost felt like my ears had gone numb. The silence made me wonder if my hearing was permanently damaged from my misfire down in the shelter. brining hand slowly up to my ear I snapped my fingers. My hearing was fine; the world around me was not.

There was also a smell hanging in the air that told me all was not well. It was so pungent, it seemed like it should have been visible, like a green mist staining the air. Something had clearly died nearby, or more likely many things had died. My distant hope that the crisis was over months ago was shattered by that funky stench.

“let’s find a nice spot for you guys before this heat has its way with ya’.” I whispered patting the wee tiny casket in my pocket.

Making my way toward my shed, about twenty five yards from my hatch. It occurred to me, this little walk constituted the furthest I’d walked in a long time.

Then I froze. Not only was the door standing open, my Little John Deere tractor was gone. Someone had been in there. What if they hadn’t left? Creeping closer, my eyes tried to pierce the shadowy interior. That’s my my ankle turned on the small rock I hadn’t noticed.

“SON OF A BITCH…” my hand clapped over my mouth. I instantly regretted my expletive and made a mental note to shut the hell up. Without looking away I tested my ankle by rotating it a few times. It was fine. The rest of me was shaking.

My hand dropped to my gun. The strap on my holster popped open with a little click under my thumb. Causing me to wince. Could I make any more noise?

Slowly, and quietly I drew my pistol. It then occurred to me, I had yet to chamber a round. If I didn’t stop making stupid mistakes it would be the end of me.

As quietly as I could, I eased the slide back and slowly let it forward. As the chamber closed, it bit the meaty part of my hand. It pinched me hard.

I let out a tiny, panicked yelp.

Jerking the chamber open to release myself from its grip, ejected a live round to the ground. I let the action slam closed, to hell with stealth. That ship had sailed.

The shed had to be empty. If anything had been in there, it would have come after me thanks to my failed attempt at sneaking.

Closing the gap and going in, I stood still for a moment and waited for my eyes to adjust. My gun up and at the ready.

The shed was indeed empty. I mean really empty. My tractor was gone, as well as just about everything I had left behind. It would seem, looters had taken anything and everything they saw. I couldn’t really blame them. Actually, I hoped my stuff came in handy. The thought of a guy on my lawn tractor, being chased by zombies, leaving a swath of freshly cut grass in his wake, made me chuckle. I only wished they had left me a shovel. With out a shovel I’d have to figure out another way to bury my hamsters.

Leaving the shed it was time to check out my garden. If I was going to have to dig with my hands my garden would probably have the softest ground. I was thinking out loud about where I want to put my little buddies; “Do I bury you guys with the lettuce or would you rather spend eternity under the tomatoes. I’d bury you with the carrots, but I hate to temp you with such yummy underground snacks.”

There was something sticking out from the rows of corn. Bloody legs. No. Not legs. It couldn’t have been legs. Not here. But they were here. They were two broken looking legs sticking out of my garden.

Then all hell broke lose. A gun shot reported. Instinctively I jumped. Then I freaked out. Before I knew what had happened, I found myself in the dirt.

Someone was shooting and it sounded really close. Sprawled out flat on the ground there was a tendril of smoke rising out of the barrel of my own gun. There was a tightness in my wrist. My finger was still held back hard against the trigger.

“IDIOT!” The shot came from my own gun.

Standing up, I switched the safety on, and re-holstered my gun. Apparently my practice was worthless. It’s one thing to be well practiced in the safety of a shelter and another entirely to apply it to the real world. Out here panic and nerves clearly had control of my actions. My self-taught training was taking a back seat. Just as well I suppose, when it came to fight or flight, my flight reflexes had been always been legendary, why waste ‘em?

Turning my attention back to the cause of my freak out. The legs of a body were clearly visible sticking out from my rows of corn. One of the legs was turned the wrong way. Blood crusted jeans covered what was left of them.

It would seem this was, at least in part, the source of the funky smell.

Frozen in place I was not sure what I should do next. I didn’t want to see the whole body. But at the same time, I hoped there was still a body attached to those legs.

I didn’t want to go over to it and realize I recognized who it was.

But mostly, I didn’t want it to be a zombie. It could have been a living dead thing, sleeping or something.

I didn’t think zombies slept, but I had a hard time convincing myself while I was staring at what I thought might be a sleeping zombie.

The only thing I knew for sure, I couldn’t leave it lying in my garden contaminating what little food I had. I wasn’t even sure if any of those veggies could still be eaten. I wondered if a dead body lying in a garden would have any effect on the veggies themselves. I didn’t know.

It took a concerted effort for me to go over and check it out. Standing over the body, it looked like it had been “gnawed” on. No, actually, he‘d been eaten. Not completely, but enough to notice he was not all there. The most unnerving thing was what he was clutching, a half eaten ear of corn. He had come into my garden because he was hungry, and ended up as a meal himself.

The guy was probably ambushed from inside the garden. As back yard gardens go, mine was huge. Unable to see more than a few feet into the thick rows of corn. He must have been standing there picking corn, eating it raw, when zombies grabbed him. Pulled him down and killed him.

The thought of it all had me backing away from the wall of corn stalks. Calm down, I told myself. The gun shot would have attracted any zombies lurking around. They would have been on me by now.

There was corn in his hand. attack that took his life wasn’t long ago. It happened right over my head. The thought sent a chill down my spine — and a shiver.

Grabbing its legs I pulled. It resisted. The thought of it pulling apart in my hands was disturbing to say the least. Decomposition had glued it to the ground.

Pulling bit harder, it started to give way. It released from the ground with a sickening squishy sound. Parts of it gave way. It caused me to gag. The newly exposed bits gave off an even stronger stench. My senses burned. What little was in my stomach emptied itself into the crotch of the thing. Instant oatmeal and bile washed over the body’s torso. “Sorry” I croaked.

Dragging it to my back yard gate at the side of my house was not easy. The gate was closed and the padlock was still there, which explained the break in my fence.

looking through the cracks of my gate for any signs of danger, or life. None of either seemed to be present; there were signs of violence though. There were burned-out cars, broken windows, my neighbor’s door across the street was gone, but there wasn’t anything to indicate any immediate danger.

Having a terrible memory for things like combinations and pin numbers I always wrote them down in hidden places near where I needed them. In this case the combo to the lock on my gate was written in black magic marker on a board right next to the house. The combination worked and the lock popped open.

Opening the gate and walking out Felt weird. The world was being revealed to me in strange little pieces.

Leaving the corpse behind. A survey of my neighborhood was next. Its emptiness looked strange. I had known the people who lived in each house on my block. We had been a close knit neighborhood. We picnicked together and had street parties. We rooted for the local high school Football team.

A knot grew and tightened in my stomach, it may have been left over from my recent barfing, but I knew it came more from a feeling of loss than nausea. Standing in my front yard I struggled to take it all in.

The world would never be the same.

I went back and dragged the zombie victim the rest of the way out of my backyard. Unsure what exactly to I should do with it, I drug it clear of the gate and off to the side.

Walking the perimeter of my house, there were Several windows were broken. My door was no longer on its hinges. It was lying in the foyer. The hinges were twisted and the door jam had splinters where it had been wrenched from its frame.

Curiosity Forced me inside. Having taken everything useful when I evacuated, and remembering the emptiness of my shed. The void of usable supplies didn’t surprise me.

The looters had been thorough. The inside of the places was trashed. They even tore up the upholstery on the furniture. What could they have been looking for inside the couch? It was sad seeing my father’s home ransacked. It looked like the sight of one of those over-the-top parties from high school movies. The sight depressed me. It should have been me to do this to his house when I was in school.

Outside I was again struck by the silence of the neighborhood. My house was within ten miles of Bergstrom Airport, planes were often overhead. But now, the calm was deafening. I couldn’t help but wonder if I should have expected the total dead calm to have such an impact on me. I have never really liked silence. Even in the shelter, I almost always had some kind of noise day and night. When I wasn’t listening to music or watching a movie, there was the constant squeaking of the Gladiators and their little exercise wheels. As a result, this level of quiet left me rattled. I did my best to ignore the eerie silence and pressed on with the task of finding supplies.

Wanting to find someplace to bury Tank, Havoc and Cyclone, the search was back on. I decided my garden of death was not a fitting place for them. Mrs. Nathan’s house was two doors down and across the street. She always had the most spectacular flower boxes. I headed over to check it out, and figured I’d have a look inside her house at the same time.

The once well-manicured window boxes were now completely overgrown. They were once a marvel of symmetry and complementary colors, and now looked more like a wild experiment gone beautiful. The color was thick, it saturated the front of her house. Flowering vines that used to be trimmed back to neat little bunches of purple, yellow, orange and blue were now climbing like wild serpents suddenly released from a cage. I decided it would make the perfect place for my hamsters to spend eternity. The search was over. I imagined them running all over the vines and flower stems eating all the colorful foliage like the frosting on a cake. I worked my way into the tangle of flowering stuff, dug a little hole in the dirt and gently placed the box in and covered it. I felt good about their place here and didn’t feel like there was anything else to say.

The state of my own home didn’t give me much hope of finding anything substantial in my neighbor’s houses, but it was worth a look. I kept wondering where everybody else ended up, the street was deserted.

Searching from house to house, if a door was closed I would knock and yell to see if anyone was inside. I figured if anyone was home they would probably be happy to respond to a non-zombie at the door. That was my thinking anyway. I was concerned they might be freaked out after having been through so much up here they might be a little jumpy. Proceeding with caution seemed to be a good idea.

As it turned out, it was a non issue. Most of the doors were busted down like mine. Having a look inside several homes I didn’t find much, other than a lot of blood.

It was obvious, lots of people had died here. There were several houses I couldn’t bring myself to enter. The stench was so bad I knew there would be bodies inside. I needed food, but I didn’t think I could eat anything found in a place that putrid.

The only food I found was a box of Mac and cheese. It had a corner eaten off by rodents, but the internal wrapper was intact. There were two beers in Tom O’Malley’s garage. “Thanks, Tom” I said as I stuffed them in my pack for later. The rest of the houses on my street had proved to be a waste of time.

My most interesting find was made in the street. It looked like graffiti, fresh graffiti. A mix of confusion and excitement rush through me. It looked like it wasn’t put there for decoration or just vandalism sake. It looked like it may have been a message. Someone had painted a roller-skate with a simple looking flower growing out of it, on either side of the stem there was the letter “D”, and beneath the wheels of the skate was the word “CLEAR” and was dated, three and a half weeks ago. I had no idea what it meant. It could have meant there were no people left in this neighborhood. It could have meant there were no zombies here. Or, it could have been left by my last neighbored to clear out. I had no idea. It certainly had me wondering. Why a roller-skate?

I did find something else of interest in O’Malley’s garage; his daughter’s bike. It was a small mountain bike with a pink and purple frame. It said “Daisy Rocket” on the frame. It also had a white wicker basket attached to the handlebars. She used to ride it around the neighborhood with her little dog in the basket. I hoped she and her dog were somewhere safe. But, finders keepers, the bike belonged to me now. The basket would come in handy for carrying any supplies I found.

I was mobile.

Roding through other neighborhoods, they were in the same condition mine had been. All the homes were abandoned, broken windows and doors were the norm. The streets were littered with burned-out cars. The remains of violence were everywhere. I didn’t see any bodies, but there was plenty of blood and gore. There were a few places where it looked like a pile of bodies had been burned. I had no way of telling if the bodies were those of zombies or not, but I hoped they were. Every street had at least one home burned to the ground.

There were also more of the painted messages on the streets. They didn’t all have the same skate symbol as the one on my street, but they were similar. One I saw was a stick figure skeleton wearing skates and holding a big mug and a sword. It was dated within a few days of the one on my street. I saw several others with different images but the same basic message, “Clear” as of a certain date. Clear, seemed like a good message to leave. Clear of anything had to be a good thing. A few had a number with a line through it beneath the word clear. I just wasn’t sure what to make of them, but it did give me some hope. Maybe, I wasn’t the only person left in the world.

I rode my bike in the direction of the local grocery store and shopping center. I hoped there might be some food left on the shelves. I was getting worried. If I didn’t find a source of food, I would have to take my chances with my garden. And, even with that, my days would be numbered, there just wasn’t enough there to feed me for long. My dad’s MRE supply would last me for a few months. But, if I had to relocate to survive, I would need those on the road.

The lack of zombies had me feeling optimistic. Maybe they were all gone and the challenge now, would be to simply to survive the Zombie aftermath. The corpse in my garden made me doubt this, but hope is a great motivator, I wanted to believe it however unlikely.

“It's time to go shopping.” Talking to myself, I picked up the pace.

Add a Comment

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Trin sends the first chapter of Oh Brother. The rest follows the break.

“Grab my force ball plunger,” my Dad said. “No, that’s the suction cup one. Damn, damn, damn.” Water began gushing from the toilet. Dad started plunging until he came to the cause of the clog. My brother Maxwell’s infamous red ball. He must have dropped it in there by mistake. Although Dad was a salesman in the plumbing department, he seemed to know very little about plumbing itself. He was beet red and looked mystified. The water spread across the floor like a small flood. “Amelia, you’re going to clean this up.”

“Me?” I said, while making a new companion with the ground, my stare impenetrable as if this would get me out of the predicament.

“Yeah you," he said. He could have added the word dummy and I wouldn’t have been surprised, just heavily weighed down by the sopping mess and the amount of rags my mother would have to wash. I took on the project though, and rolled up my overalls and began the job. My mother, Roseann, wouldn’t be home till later in the evening, she was a homemaker and enjoyed filling her time by running errands for my brother’s boy scout troop.

My Dad’s six foot, fifty-year old frame maneuvered around the toilet. While, I began taking rags and wiping up the mess. It smelled like rotten eggs in the bathroom, and I pushed back strands of brown wavy hair, doing my best not to shake off any barrettes.

“Where’s Maxwell-Amelia?” My Dad asked as an afterthought, fumbling with the float (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

For me, this narrative starts at the wrong place unless, that it, it’s really a story about unclogging toilets. All of this action, as it turns out, has no bearing on the rest of the story. While it serves to characterize, why not characterize while giving us what the story is actually about. What does the protagonist need or want? What is preventing her from getting it? What goes wrong in her life that forces her to take action? That’s where to begin the story, and I didn’t see that in this chapter. Look for the real start later--there was a hint of something interesting, perhaps paranormal, at the very end, but far too late to engage this reader--and it wasn't about the protagonist. Some craft notes:

“Grab my force ball plunger,” my Dad dad said. “No, that’s the suction cup one. Damn, damn, damn.” Water began gushing from the toilet. Dad started plunging until he came to the cause of the clog. My brother Maxwell’s infamous red ball. He must have dropped it in there by mistake. Although Dad was a salesman in the plumbing department, he seemed to know very little about plumbing itself. He was beet red and looked mystified. The water spread across the floor like a small flood. “Amelia, you’re going to clean this up.” I’ve plunged my share of toilets, and it doesn’t match my experience that he would “come to” the ball. Plunging forces clogs down and out of the toilet, so I don’t see how he could come to the ball.

“Me?” I said, while making a new companion with the ground, my stare impenetrable as if this would get me out of the predicament. “making a new companion with the ground” didn’t make much sense to me at first and pulled me out of the story. Also, it’s a floor, not ground. This tries a little too hard for me.

“Yeah, you," he said. He could have added the word dummy and I wouldn’t have been surprised, just heavily weighed down by the sopping mess and the amount of rags my mother would have to wash. I took on the project though, and rolled up my overalls and began the job. My mother, Roseann, wouldn’t be home till later in the evening, she was a homemaker and enjoyed filling her time by running errands for my brother’s boy scout troop.

My Dad’s six foot, fifty-year old frame maneuvered around the toilet. While, while I began taking rags and wiping up the mess. It smelled like rotten eggs in the bathroom, and I pushed back strands of brown wavy hair, doing my best not to shake off any barrettes. Mentioning her hair color is a small break in point of view—she would not ordinarily think of that. Unless his size and age are important here, they are excess detail.

“Where’s Maxwell-Amelia?” My Dad asked as an afterthought, fumbling with the float (snip)

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . ball and trip lever.

Fortunately, Maxwell was with the other eight-year-olds in a game of cops and robbers on his bike.

“He’s outside, Dad.”

“And your brother Zion?” Dad asked, while wiping sweat off his half-bald head and tossing used tools in a large white bucket.

Before I could answer, there was insistent knocking at the door and my father shouted, “Someone get the damn door. We’re expecting a new foster kid.”

Another foster kid? I thought to myself. Three foster kids had already came and left this year alone-all of which were bad behaved. When no one in the house responded to my father, I took it as a sign to depart, leaving him to his own devices- glad to be relieved of the tension in the bathroom.

When I opened the door, a teenage boy stood there, while a woman in a station wagon was waving from the street, shouting, “This is the new foster kid. There’s an emergency at the office, your parents have already met him. I’ve got to go.” She waved one last time before driving off in mad-hurry.

The teenager had grayish black shaggy dog-like hair. He looked to be around fifteen and and wore jeans that said in bold letters: Marithe Francois Girbaud. They fit tightly on his husky, plump body.

I thought I would joke with him a bit. “Are you Husky?” I asked, because my parents didn't like the term fat and insisted that we call-kids over a hundred pounds Husky.

“No I’m not Husky, my name is Sam Burns.” He had with him a huge black chest fastened down with a big Masterson lock.

Looking back on it, his name alone suggested his ruthless risk taking abilities like an arsonist who plans to burn down a house but doesn't plan on burning those who live in it. I told myself from that day forward I’d call him “Burns” for short.

“Dad, there’s a kid here!” I shouted.

“Oh, that must be the new foster kid. Show him upstairs, would ya? And close the damn door before you let the cold air out.”

The air conditioner blasted frigid air in the living room. Blue sheets were used as separators on four doorways of the main floor, blocking air from going room-to-room, and upstairs into the attic bedrooms. I decided to give Burns a tour of the house and inform him of important rules.

“This is the living room,” I said pointing to a couch and Dad’s lazy-boy. A tall entertainment center was propped against the left wall with family photos scattered across it. I couldn't tell if Burns was listening because his head barely nodded or seem to acknowledge what I said.

“So where’s the kitchen?” He asked. I pointed to a hallway that led into a room from the main door.

We walked into the kitchen while I explained, “Everything needs to be eaten at the table, unless you’ve been given permission to do otherwise. Mealtimes are at nine, twelve and six. “You don’t get snacks without asking for them.”

We walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, and I pointed to the door to the left “Mom’s room, and to the right is Dad’s. Don't ever step foot in our parents’ bedrooms without being invited. And if you’re invited, you’ll know because it's probably for something bad you’ve done. There are rules here, okay?”

As we made our way upstairs to the attic, Burns paused to hang his jacket on a brass hook held on a wall on the stairway. “You don't use what's not yours in this household.” I removed his coat from one hook and placed it on another. When we reached upstairs, he began messing with the functions of a radio that sat on a cedar chest. “This radio is not yours,” I pushed a dial to shut it off.

“That's fine,” he said, taking out a walkman from inside a hoody, “I've got my own radio.” He turned the radio on high blast-Led Zeppelin, from the sounds of it. I couldn't make out the words. I was twelve, I enjoyed music from groups like Backstreet Boys and Destiny’s Child but I thought Led Zeppelin sounded like non-stop head banging music. I also couldn’t get the hang of the beat.

Walking into the room, Zion was standing at a tall drafting table putting together what looked like a space station with his Legos. Without introducing himself, Burns claimed an unoccupied bed by shoving his god-awful trunk at the end of it.

I bit my lip before explaining, “Zion-this is a new foster kid.” Zion looked up from his Legos with an eye roll.

Burns tossed his backpack on the bed revealing his bad habits by going over to where Zion stood and tousling his hair. Zion didn't like it one bit. Zion had heavy sandy hair and the looks of Steve Urkel: big heavy glasses he constantly pushed up his nose and pants he wore above the navel.

“Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Would ya?” Zion exclaimed.

Burns looked away from Zion, he seemed caught up in what he saw on the wall, a big poster of baseball star, Kirby Puckett.

“Did he really sign this?” He stared at the poster's signature.

Zion took this opportunity to gain some leverage over Burns. “Ah yeah, he signed it. And if you touch it, you die, because Mom said only adoptive kids can touch these posters. Our brother got it signed by Puckett himself after seeing him at the airport.”

The truth was, the signature was one of those copied ones they slap on every poster. But hell, Burns didn't know the difference and besides it gave us leverage over him and let him know his place in the foster home. He was the foster kid and we were the ones to stay. The chosen ones.

“Oh, they didn't tell you?” Burns exclaimed., “After a few months of staying here, I plan on getting adopted too.”

Good luck, I thought sarcastically.

“Oh, no you don’t!” exclaimed Zion.

“Yes, I do. All, I have to do is tie your parents around my finger and they’ll adopt me faster than a rabbit in a hat. And my first line of business is to call your mother and father, my Mom and Dad. And if you had any sense at all, you'd respect your newest and handsomest brother.” Burns placed his hand over Zion's face as Zion struggled to hit him.

“How dare you!” I said, my eyes squinting up at him. Zion and I were twelve years old. It took us ten years to accept the rules of the house and our parents as our own after coming to live with the Radtke’s when we were both only two years old And Burns planned on calling our parents-his own- on the first day? Who’s to say, my parents would even like him, and who knows what sort of mischief this kid would cause my parents.

“First of all,” I said. “You aren’t the oldest, Rich is. When he gets a wiff of you, you’ll be begging on your hands and knees to get the hell outta here. Second of all, you aren’t handsome. I’ve seen dogs that look better than you.”

Burns ignored me and continued teasing Zion, before deciding to get himself settled in.

***

If independence had a smell, it was campfire s'mores and cinder blocks, anything and everything barbecued and planted grass. I really enjoyed Independence Day unlike most holidays where you sat around all day waiting to eat. The little freedom the Radtke’s got we cherished- like lighting off firecrackers and standing in front of sprinklers with our play clothes on.

Independence Day was a tribute to the summer, like a big birthday candle lit once a year.So it came as no surprise that two days after Burns arrived, my parents took the liberty of driving all the way to Wisconsin to buy firecrackers. It was still illegal to buy fireworks in Minnesota in 1997- whether big or small. Therefore, Mom hid all the firecrackers in the back of her closet when we came home. Zion kept dipping his head in there all day making dibs on which ones thought he'd light.

By nightfall, we took turns lighting them off. It was humid as the night was black. We weren’t the only ones who had the idea of setting off firecrackers. Our next door neighbors were shooting them off, although we could barely see them because of the huge Lilac bushes that separated our yard from theirs. We heard countless booms and bangs-and screams of delights.

Zion was up next to light a firecracker that resembled an Army tank. He said he wanted to keep the tank for himself after it went off. Zion seemed to be on cloud nine seeing how the tank was similar to a toy in his toy chest. He examined it thoroughly before planting it evenly on the sidewalk and took an electronic lighter to its wick. Its wick was on top of its periscope. The tank seemed to be a dud, standing still as a stump of a tree.

Burns went over to the tank and stomped on it, shouting out, "Stomp the dud, stomp the dud."

Zion's excitement seemed to turn to complete sadness as he rounded his shoulder blades and stared at the trampled tank. I ran to where Zion sat. I tried to shake him out of his stupor.

“Zion, Zion, it's okay, there will be more firecrackers.”

“Not any more this year.” He said, staring at the tank as if it was his most prized possession.

We looked at the almost empty paper bag that held the firecrackers. Mom said there were a few more but what was left was sparklers and glow worms, baby stuff in comparison to the ones we lit. The sparklers were still pretty to me though; I could light a pink sparkler and dance all night to the flashes of light.

Burns said he was going for a walk. Zion stared at the tank before moving.The tank was similar to the one our brother, Rich, drove in Iraq. I pictured my brother driving the tank through sandy and rocky terrain, covered with the help of the sahara. Zion said he was on a mission to find Burns. He began marching out of the backyard as if he was going into combat.

After he left, I spent the better part of an hour picking up the leftover firecrackers and putting them in a pile and then ripping them to shreds.

Butch, our next door neighbor came by. From far away, he could easily be mistaken for a ten year-old. At 5’1” he was as thin as a rail and wore a flannel shirt tucked into a brown, leather belt. Butch was in fact forty-years old and balding but that didn’t stop him from acting like a kid. Butch had a large rope swing that propelled from a thirty foot tree limb. Every kid in the neighborhood spent time jumping off his deck railing, swinging themselves to an adjacent garage roof calling out any amount of rants and cheers of good will; proclamations like “watch-out below!” His backyard could be compared to a Swiss Family Robinson movie.

Butch was also friends with my father and the two of them would spend hours in the basement drinking and talking politics in manic loud voices that we kids didn’t concern ourselves with. We had enough day-to-day lectures from our father to know better than go down there.

Butch fumbled for a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He took out a match from his matchbook and lit the cigarette, letting it sit loosely on his lips.

“What’s up Amelia” he says finally.

“Nothing much.” I respond.

“Where’s Zion,I want to talk to him about throwing trash in my yard.”

Zion turned the corner into the yard, just then-huffing and puffing real loud. He began pacing in circles. I wondered where he just came from. Did he find Burns? And if so, did Zion and Burns have a fight over the ruined tank?

“Hey turbo slow down,” said Butch watching Zion pace and not making any motion to stop him. “What happened?”

“Wait till that bastard shows up.” Zion kicked out his left leg to show what he would do to when Burns got home. “Do you know what he did to me? He put his hands around my esophagus.” Zion squeezed his own throat by demonstration.

Burns strangled Zion, I thought to myself. That’s the worst thing you could do to my brother. Sure- I’ve gotten into plenty of fights with Zion, but I would never try to strangle my own brother.

In his rage, Zion kicked Butch’s fence.

“Hey-slow down” Butch exclaimed, “We got enough holes in this-here wooden fence,” motioning to the fence while trying to hold it up straight.

Zion kicked a loose rock around instead. He had his chest puffed out as if he was going to fight someone- massaging his neck as well.

“Hey, why don’t you just sit down and take a break?” Butch offered him a lawn chair but Zion pushed it away.

“Hey, what hurts the worst?” Butch asked, pleading with him to express himself thoroughly.

“My esophagus hurts.” He showed Butch a place on his throat where red marks showed signs of Burns squeezing his throat.

“He’s doing illegal things to me.” Zion insisted, his eyes huge and bloodshot.

“Are you going to fight Burns when he gets home?” Butch asked.

Maxwell cut the banter short by saying “Hey-you shouldn't taunt Zion, “He's got powers.”

“Powers huh?” said Butch. “Are you going to turn into a Power Ranger little man? You got some moves?”

Butch didn’t get to see the powers Zion was said to have that night. But Zion and every kid that knew him believed in his powers. His powers, it seemed, extended to whenever he was mad or someone else provoked him. Dad's hand would slap a wall instead of someone’s face. A play toy hit the bed instead of breaking into a million pieces.

Add a Comment

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Ellie sends the prologue and first chapter of “Absurdist/ Speculative / Philosophical Science fiction “ story, Ephemeral. The rest follows the break.

Prologue:

There was once a child; for simplicity and anonymity sake let's name this child Cas. Cas was like a lot of people, but was also unlike others at the same time. They were a quiet individual, but also quite social in some instances. Like everyone else, Cas strived to be different; they wanted to stand out and be seen as more than just another person in the vast universe. They wanted to inspire and motivate others and make an impact on life. Cas wanted to mean something.

Now you as a reader may be thinking that yes everyone thinks this at some point and everyone wants to be something; and this thought is correct. All people are amazing. All people are different. Everyone IS somebody. It is simply the fact that people often cannot see the truth in the blistering speed in that life goes by. The people who fight through the hardest fights will most often get the largest reward; seeming to everyone else the reward being small. But they know what they went through to get there. We can all be great; we can all leave our mark no matter how big or small. This is hoped to be soon understood.

Cas was quite sarcastic in conversations when they did talk; mostly because they loved to make others laugh. Cas loved making people laugh; it gave them a sort of feeling of accomplishment. That they, although a minuscule part of a vast world were able to make someone happy; to make someone exert a positive emotion just because of something they (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the prologue's first page?

Chapter 1:

The sun was shining vividly on the brisk fall evening of September 23, 2015, in Cas' hometown of Birch Falls. A very telling name since it states the towns odd abundance of birch trees. Cas liked to take walks on days like these because it made them feel quite calm; something their mind was more often than not... not. The streets were to Cas' benefit, quiet. It helped them clear their mind and to feel free from the mayhem of the world around.

"This is nice", Cas thought silently. But they couldn't get rid of the utter feeling of emptiness; the feeling of dissatisfaction with the path their life has been affixed to. I want to do something exciting and new, I want to do something that isn't of the daily cycle; I always find myself walking the streets and thinking about what I could do or thinking what can be done but I never actually get around to actually doing such actions. What's the point of living if I don't experience it myself. So many possibilities, so many paths to take yet I walk this lonely road of casualty.

Yes, life is beautiful. The world is pretty alright. Seasons, smells, people, senses, the unknown; all of these things are so beautiful and brilliant in so many ways that I cannot fathom being able to express it in a way that could describe such beauty. Technology. Science. Knowledge. Art. So many concepts and realities that can all be learnt, but simply cannot be grasped by my feeble mind. The possibilities are infinite. We could do anything (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the chapter's first page?

The writing and voice are strong in these opening pages, but these narratives aren’t meant for me. While understanding that there are experimental elements to this tale, I stumbled over and over again at the use of plural pronouns for Cas instead of singular. I could see no reason in what is here for doing that other than, perhaps, to conceal the gender of the character. But every use of “they” instead of “him” or “her” jarred me right out of the narrative because it never stopped feeling, well, wrong. And, grammatically speaking, it is wrong.

The other issue for me is that in neither the prologue or the chapter opening pages did much of anything happen and there were no story questions raised. In the prologue, we have some authorial musing and a description of a character, but nothing happens.

In the chapter opening, we soon dip into a lot more musing. For me, long introspections such as this don’t count as something happening. The character seems to want something in the chapter opening, to do something exciting and new, but that is not a pressing desire to me. There are no consequences suggested for doing something different, either positive or negative. I think it takes a different kind of reader than I am to get into this narrative approach.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

The whole thing:

exposition / prologue

There was once a child; for simplicity and anonymity sake let's name this child Cas. Cas was like a lot of people, but was also unlike others at the same time. They were a quiet individual, but also quite social in some instances. Like everyone else, Cas strived to be different; they wanted to stand out and be seen as more than just another person in the vast universe. They wanted to inspire and motivate others and make an impact on life. Cas wanted to mean something.

Now you as a reader may be thinking that yes everyone thinks this at some point and everyone wants to be something; and this thought is correct. All people are amazing. All people are different. Everyone IS somebody. It is simply the fact that people often cannot see the truth in the blistering speed in that life goes by. The people who fight through the hardest fights will most often get the largest reward; seeming to everyone else the reward being small. But they know what they went through to get there. We can all be great; we can all leave our mark no matter how big or small. This is hoped to be soon understood.

Cas was quite sarcastic in conversations when they did talk; mostly because they loved to make others laugh. Cas loved making people laugh; it gave them a sort of feeling of accomplishment. That they, although a minuscule part of a vast world were able to make someone happy; to make someone exert a positive emotion just because of something they did. This feeling gave them a purpose to continue. They wanted to create things, help people, speak out and be a motivation but they simply were incapable of forming the phrases to paragraphs to explain these feelings and emotions; Cas wanted to do more than make people laugh.

Cas' thought process was sporadic; emotions and feelings would change in a flash, so many personalities; so much imagination. There was so much they wanted to learn and do in the short life that they were handed and they wanted to make the most of it. Little did Cas know, they already had been making an impact with every action they make; changing an infinite number of outcomes, realities and disillusions.

But Cas was more than just what was seen in reality. Their mind beginning to get corrupted with darkness; they were unknowingly included in a war that was not of reality. There was a power they held that made them able to connect their conscious into the warped realities; their mind a bridge between life and darkness. Cas is slowly beginning to be unable to distinguish which they are in anymore; the darkness seeping into their veins; beginning to take over.

CHAPTER 1 - From Humble Beginnings

The sun was shining vividly on the brisk fall evening of September 23, 2015, in Cas' hometown of Birch Falls. A very telling name since it states the towns odd abundance of birch trees. Cas liked to take walks on days like these because it made them feel quite calm; something their mind was more often than not... not. The streets were to Cas' benefit, quiet. It helped them clear their mind and to feel free from the mayhem of the world around.

"This is nice", Cas thought silently. But they couldn't get rid of the utter feeling of emptiness; the feeling of dissatisfaction with the path their life has been affixed to. I want to do something exciting and new, I want to do something that isn't of the daily cycle; I always find myself walking the streets and thinking about what I could do or thinking what can be done but I never actually get around to actually doing such actions. What's the point of living if I don't experience it myself. So many possibilities, so many paths to take yet I walk this lonely road of casualty.

Yes, life is beautiful. The world is pretty alright. Seasons, smells, people, senses, the unknown; all of these things are so beautiful and brilliant in so many ways that I cannot fathom being able to express it in a way that could describe such beauty. Technology. Science. Knowledge. Art. So many concepts and realities that can all be learnt, but simply cannot be grasped by my feeble mind. The possibilities are infinite. We could do anything with this life that has been given. I do not know how I came to be. How is it that I exist; my own mind; the ability to change what may and might happen in this world. But why now? How did I come to be now? This brain and this body, what is the possibilities of me being ME, how is it possible. This is the one thing I can never understand.

I can hardly figure myself out. One moment I feel one way and another moment is something completely different. Throughout the years of my life I have changed with blurred lines to when and how something changed. What moments of life have impacted me; and more so what have I done to make this loud life a better place. Change is certain and there is nothing that may stop it. It's not predetermined, but fluid; it can be changed based on the actions and events that happen around each and every individual. I find that beautiful. No one can predetermine what may or may not happen in the next illumination of our orbit around the sun. The sun is beautiful. How could something of such complexity exist? This uncertainty is what makes life worth living. It's what makes life beautiful. I am sure that I sound extremely philosophical and most certainly kind of weird, and that would be an accurate assumption. I am very weird, but at least, I'm not wired because that would mean that I be connected to a highly deadly amount of electricity and that would probably kill me. Good to note for future possibilities. You never know when you may get attacked by wires. With all these things I find beautiful, why am I unable to find reasons to see myself as important? why does my mind leave my grasp of control and become to torture itself like a roller coaster that has fallen off its rails? my mind has a second face; a phantom pain that I bare day in and out, asleep and awake.

My mind is the world that I am trapped in; the world inside a reality where I am numb to my surroundings. I need to regain control or I need to get out; I need to get out of this darkness. I'm starting to believe that my thoughts are turning against me; this philosophical shit is an excuse to waiver my focus on how I am feeling; the predicament I am in. I believe the world is beautiful and complex yet I can't analyse myself, my emotions, what I am doing, why I do what I do; will I pass through this time as a ghost or will I begin to live. This universe in my mind is clouded and blurred to me. what am I. this I must discover.

Cas snapped out of their deep thoughts as it started to become night; how long they had spent walking around was lost in time. It's probably about time I stopped stressing my mind too much before my head just explodes. They thought.

Cas decided to walk back home with the feeling of utter dissatisfaction. As if the walk was not enough to make them feel good - partly due to the fact that they once again had gone into deep thought and when they snapped back time had once again left the grasp of their internal clock; which they had left in the deep recesses of their mind. Cas listened to the sound of the leaves being unsettled by the wind, the cars travelling on the distant highway. They walked and inferred making their way home as the sun started to bow under the treeline, the darkness seeping through the light onto the ground and into the sky.

Cas woke up the next morning in their small apartment. it was quaint and had everything they needed. Looking around their room they saw all their posters of shows and bands they loved; covering up most of what was a blue painted wall that consumed the room. Their desktop PC they built 4 years ago sat on a wooden desk in the corner; while on another table lay a bundle of laptops that they owned and played around with. The most notable laptop they owned was their Favourite Aluminum finished laptop that laid alone nice and clean; besides the "MightyCarMods" Sticker they put on it.

"why the fuck did I put it on a computer, it's a car mod sticker and I have a truck. yet I put it on a computer." they thought.

Looking out the window beside their bed Cas looked out into the sky that was priorly dark and illuminated only by the distant stars of the universe. The light that had travelled millions of light years just to be seen for the first time; a photograph of what that star used to be and never will be again. More so than what was seen outside, Cas could see their reflection in the glass. Cas could see their hair, that went down to their shoulders, Glimmering in the sunlight they could see the lavender hue reflect in the suns rays. It reminded and made Cas think more so of space, of all the eclectic colours and facades seen in the infinite region of darkness.

What is out there, What is to be found that has not yet been uncovered.

Where is everyone. We are not alone; yet so very secluded. The time will come that we as a species will have to co-exist and will do amazing things. this planet is but starting point to where we will one day be. I just wish I could stay alive long enough to see it; but I'll merely be able to go and see what is to be seen here on this planet. oh and is there much to be seen here still. Why can't I be more than what I am? why can I not have the power to find what is truly out there? where is everyone?

Cas spent the rest of the morning looking out the window.

Oh gosh, it's 11:00 AM, Cas resonated in their head 5 times until they finally overcame the inability to move. Cas walked to the washroom the clean their face. In the mirror, they saw the body they were genetically given at birth, mystified on how they came to look the way they did. their body slender, Sort of short - but not really; depending on who was asked. Their skin was soft, their face sculpted gingerly revealing soft features.

and I wonder why people think I'm 14... it's probably due to the fact I'm 5'3".

Satisfied that their face didn't feel like complete trash, Cas walked back to their room and put on some new clothes. Disregarding what clothes went together they put on a pair of black ripped jeans, a loose, baggy Rise Against band shirt that dulled down the curves of Cas' upper torso, and a long flowery / colourful cardigan that Cas just couldn't get enough of.

Well, I have no clue what to do. All I ever do is sit in that chair staring reminiscently into that computer chair like a drugged horse that is about to be put down. I need at least some social interaction ever once in awhile, I have friends so-be-it that I neglect to have the motivation to ever go see them or make plans. I constantly am lonely and I refuse to see anyone but then I feel worse and when I do see people I end up feeling like I am annoying them; it's a vicious circle that keeps on happening. might as well continue that circle so it's not dormant in one position for too long that it becomes seized in a sense that I just begin to crumble.

Cas picked up their phone, and opened up squanch chat.

what a weird name for a texting app, how do you even make that name up, Cas thought for a moment.

They scrolled back and forth through their friends list seeing who was on and intently thinking about who they could talk to who wouldn't get totally annoyed - BZZ, “What the heck,” Cas said out loud as their phone vibrated in their hand unexpectedly, startling them. a message..? from Nate.

"I'm at your front door you goat", Nate texted. "What", Cas replied.

"I'M AT THE FRONT DOOR TO YOUR APARTMENT, WHAT IS THERE TO NOT UNDERSTAND!", Nate spammed into their inbox multiple times.

Jesus, he's getting more sassy each and every passing day, Cas thought walking to their door.

They opened their door; a large figure towered in the opening. "Hey Lil one", Nate said as he picked Cas up off their feet and carried them into their house. "Dammit, Nate!", screeched Cas protesting against the demeaning belittling that they felt from being carried around. "Fine, fine" Nate exhaled, putting Cas back down on their couch. "What's been new with you Cas? it's been awhile since we've talked; anything new and exciting in your life? have you done something that's not play on your computer or go on walks?". "I'm honestly not sure Nate, life has sort of been a blur as of late. I've been following the same mindless routine for a while now; time seems to have flowed around me like a tsunami molding around a magnetic field.", Cas echoed.

Cas closed their eyes, darkness consuming their optical nerves. They felt a large rumble under their feet; their eyes snapped back open a moment later from the shock.

A mist had engulfed their house, a dark purple glow casting in from the windows now consumed their house.

What the..? what is going on?

Cas got up and ran to the window, all they could see was a thick purple mist that unraveled into the distance. They turned, ran to the door and opened it.

What is this noise; this gritty screech - these voices in my head? am I going crazy?

The ground starts to reverberate like an elastic band that had pulled far past its limit and snapped; making it nearly impossible for Cas to stand. That's when they started to see a figure. “Hello? Can you hear me? “, Cas yelled. multiple figures darker than the horizon Cas could see, large and overbearing in the distance fading into view through the mist. The air began to pulse as if a drum was disturbing the pressure. Their ears began to ring until they heard the thunderous screech "OPEN IT" --

what is going on? open what? what are they talki---

A thunderous blow connected with their head, the force sending shock waves down throughout their skeleton - everything then fading into black.

Cas’ brain started to spark, a show of dots started to swirl behind Cas’ eyelids. They began to regain consciousness,

what happened… why am I back in my room?

“Nate?”, Cas yelled, hoping he was still there to explain what had happened.

No response… well that's just cheery. my head feels like it just got smashed with a cinder block.. what the hell.

Cas stumbled back onto their feet and looked around. Their room looking as it did when Nate had come over. Looking out the window Cas saw the heavy rain. the sky exploded with the sound of the clouds fighting, startling Cas.

oh god, why did that scare me? what day is it today, the forecast never said anything about a storm tomorrow.

Cas stumbled over to their bed and shuffled around for their phone.

where the hell is the bloody thing, why is it always such a struggle to find I---- oh there it is.

Cas picked up their phone and tossed it into the air, making it twirl a few times before gravity pulled it back down to their hand. “IT's the 26th?! “, Cas screamed internally when they saw the date on their phone.

but it just was the 24th, I was hanging out with Nate, closed my eyes then - then I was asleep? I think? how is it the 26th, how do I just sleep for two days randomly; how do I randomly black out while hanging out with someone? why not text him, the easiest way to find ou---

Cas glanced on the top bar of their phone and saw the signal indicator.

no service, nevermind. well isn't it just my lucky day today. a ton of unexplainable occurrences and no answers. in what unorthodoxy way is this even fair to happen to someone.

Regaining their composure, Cas groggily walked to the washroom to splash some water on their face - hoping it would help with the pain that was being felt. They turned on the water and eased their head down, splashing the cold water onto their face, the feeling almost refres----

OW, my arm!

Suddenly Cas’ forearm started to throb. Cas twisted their arm a bit and began to massage it, but it felt different. Looking at it cas saw what was wrong; what they could not explain.

What is this? how did I get this scar? I definitely did not drink any alcohol so I'm sure I didn't go get a drunken tattoo - so how did I get this? it's shaped like some weird symbol? could this be connected to my dream in some way. but if so, how? , Cas pondered.

Cas studied the weird scar formation on their arm for many minutes. It was shaped almost like a galaxy, and it was thicker than a normal scar. The scar was Flush white was the ends faded with bumps as if the galaxy tails were being blown away like sand on a windy day. Suddenly, the scar began to discharge pain once more, but this time, it was different - it had a slight glow that was in sync with the throbbing of pain. It was time to move on, There was nothing Cas could do about it at this point in time so it's best that it be dealt with later.

I’m going to go for a drive, not like there's anything better to do and it honestly seems like the best way to get my mind off of all this craziness Cas thought to themself.

Cas always loved to drive. Cas loved cars, and with their love for making things themselves; they had built their own car. Cas’ had a 1952 Ford Truck, Painted green and black with rather large mud tires, making it look as if it had a lift kit. It had a Standard transmission because Cas hated the thought of driving an automatic; it’s just so boring. They grabbed a coat and their keys and stormed outside into the heavy rain, making their way towards their truck which was parked on the side of the road. Cas opened the door and heaved themselves into the truck, hastily closing the door to get out of the rain.

They put the key in the ignition and turned it 2 clicks; they then moved their hand to the real ignition which was a button.

A touch of modern irony and small touches to make it my own was a great idea.

they pressed the button; the thunderous beat of the engine jolting into motion; drowning down quickly to a soft beat that continuously repeated as if it were a marching band running two groups of opposite synchronizations.

Know what, I sort of feel like going to the library. Maybe I can find out something about my dream. Or vision. Or whatever that was. Who knows maybe it's some epiphany of a coming event. Or a past event… wow, look at me getting all superstitious jeez.

They eased their foot off of the clutch and put the truck into gear; then they were off. They drove their way into town; listening to the eccentric drumbeat of the rain hitting the cab of their truck.

Wow the town's quiet, even if it's stormy out there's usually, at least, some people walking about. Almost all of the lights are off too. Gosh, why is everything have to be so dark and gloomy?

They made their way down the streets of the town, stopping at every sign to admire the old buildings that made up most of Birch Falls, blending in with nature around it like it was always meant to be there.

The finally made their way to the library, and to Cas’ luck, the lights were on, a decent sign that it was indeed open. finally, at least, one thing decides to go my way today. They turned the key of the truck and put the parking brake of the truck on; then proceeded to jump out of the truck and back into the pouring rain. “AHH WET RAIN, NOT FUN, ITS COLD, RUN NOW”, Cas yelled as they ran up the steps and into the library.

Add a Comment

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Peter sends the first chapter of The Belles of Nolichucky. The rest follows the break.

A spear flew through the air towards his chest as Rabaad slammed down hard onto the contraption. He had carved smooth sticks flat and curved up at the front, greased with animal fat and strung together through slots in the wood with ropes made from twisted vines. A loop of vine attached to the front to help him steer. A slippery seat to slide on and he moved away, heading downhill on the snow covered ground. High up on the mountain, untouched, smooth unbroken whiteness spread out before him into the distance, as he picked up speed. The four angry men, who had moments before believed they had caught him, disappeared into the distance behind him.

Far down below the snow line lay a green valley, and in the distance, strips of grassland between forests. He angled across the slope, controlling the pace, and the wind whipped in his face, blowing his dark hair back. A childish desire to yell "weeeee" overtook him. How strange to be so near death and then suddenly free, using this simple device. His invention. His conception that meant so much to him, and nothing yet to anyone else.

It had started so simply. Slipping over on his behind and sliding down an icy slope. Then he wondered if he could use this slide, without the soggy pants and pain in his rear end. Many months of fiddling lead him to his first attempt. This was his tenth version, and although he used it many times as a plaything, this was the first time he used it for anything useful. He needed it this time, and it worked. An excited buzz ran through his mind.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Good writing and voice, and dramatic action starts this opening page—someone having spears thrown at them certainly faces jeopardy. However—for me there were a couple of clarity issues in the opening paragraph, not the least of which is what happened to that spear coming at his chest. Still, it was involving until the last paragraph veered off from something happening to an info dump. So I stopped reading there. Peter, save these little tidbits of information until they’re needed for story purposes or leave them out altogether. I appreciate the depth of your knowledge of this character, but it’s not good to include asides such as this. Notes:

A spear flew through the air towards his chest as Rabaad slammed down hard onto the contraption. He had carved smooth sticks flat and curved up at the front, greased with animal fat and strung together through slots in the wood with ropes made from twisted vines. A loop of vine attached to the front to help him steer. A slippery seat to slide on and he moved away, heading downhill on the snow covered ground. High up on the mountain, untouched, smooth unbroken whiteness spread out before him into the distance, as he picked up speed. The four angry men, who had moments before believed they had caught him, disappeared into the distance behind him. Clarity issues: The spear comes at his chest as he slams down, but it isn’t clear as to whether or not it missed him. Also I didn’t really understand what the part about a slippery seat meant. I would just delete it.

Far down below the snow line lay a green valley, and in the distance, strips of grassland between forests. He angled across the slope, controlling the pace, and the wind whipped in his face, blowing his dark hair back. A childish desire to yell "weeeee" overtook him. How strange to be so near death and then suddenly free, using this simple device. His invention. His conception that meant so much to him, and nothing yet to anyone else. I think it should be “wheeeee.”

It had started so simply. Slipping over on his behind and sliding down an icy slope. Then he wondered if he could use this slide, without the soggy pants and pain in his rear end. Many months of fiddling lead him to his first attempt. This was his tenth version, and although he used it many times as a plaything, this was the first time he used it for anything useful. He needed it this time, and it worked. An excited buzz ran through his mind. This is a bit of an info dump to give us backstory, and it takes us totally out of the “now” of the story. Fill this stuff in later after you’ve got us firmly hooked. It does not contribute to story here.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

Without this device, he would still be hiding in the forest. Kirak's warrior's might have caught him. He would not have been flying free as a bird down the snowy hill away from them. If only he could see the look on their faces.

Hunting kept the tribe alive. Only a large range provided security, for if the herds thinned out too much, there would be no food.

The men of Kirak's tribe closely guarded their territory, and killed anyone they caught trespassing.

In the old days, no one would deny him from hunting in these hills, but now Chief Kirak sought to exclude his tribe. He resented it. The challenge of eluding warrior's excited him, and he had the right.

It had been easy to elude them in the previous days, for he mastered hiding in plain sight, and without snow he could slip away unseen. But in the night it snowed, and the tree branches now hung low, laden with white crystals. A beautiful sight, but dangerous in a subtle way. Snowshoes allowed him to walk on top of it, but even those oafs could follow the tracks. Branches could be used to mask tracks, but that was slow going, and not always effective. So, after a breakfast of cold cooked venison, he had headed out onto the long sloping ground that headed down into the valley far below.

Two men waited nearby and were soon on his path, and when two other men appeared from a group of trees in front of him, they had a spring in their step, as if they would soon catch him. The thrill of the game drove him, and he loved to go where the enemy resented his trespass. The long toboggan ride led him deep into Kirak's territory and who knew what he might find there. The speed exhilarated him.

The sled steered with a simple lean and pull of the rope, left or right. With the weight of all his equipment, he maintained only tenuous control. He reduced the speed by carving across the slope. The perilous descent took him far around the mountain into enemy territory, away from his pursuers.

As trees approached he guessed the wrong path and wiped out with a spectacular flight that buried him in a snow drift. After checking for anything broken he found and packed the sled. Light and flexible, it fitted neatly on his back and did not obstruct his movement. With his snowshoes on, he proceeded into the trees. The path would be easy to follow, but they were far behind, and while they followed, he knew where they were.

The trip through the forest led over to a longer sloping run. As he walked, his mind wandered. Five summer seasons ago he had passed the rites of manhood. In the intervening years he mastered the hunting craft, and now liked to hunt alone. He enjoyed the silence, to think and plan, free from the chatter of others. The quietness offered opportunities for silent ambush, not available to those in a group.

A buck's head appeared in the quiet morning air and made him shiver with intensity, every nerve on edge. The pristine beauty of the forest caught him in the moment, as if nothing else existed. He took his sling from his pocket and a stone from his bag.

But the long slow approach could not succeed. As he took a step the snow crunched under his feet. The buck pranced away, and he walked on.

Coming to the other side of the forest, he saw another wide open slope created by a previous landslide, which led, with a gradual slope, down into the valley below. He stopped to consider his options. Moving fast took him away from danger, but it might lead him towards it. His followers would not catch up with him if he just continued walking, but in the folly of youth is any man sensible? Fun versus safety, and Rabaad was inclined towards fun.

He took to sledding again and the long run took him deep into the valley to the snow line. There he took off his snowshoes and packed his sled again. He trekked across the slope, but still descending, continuing his path away from the pursuers, and then over rocky ground which he hoped would break his trail.

Yet he knew it would not, for an experience tracker can follow trails over rocky ground. His sledding had given him a comfortable break from his pursuers. He enjoyed playing this little game with the warriors of Kirak's tribe, but the time had come to break the trail, or risk compounding his problems by some combination of unforeseen events.

Never the sole disaster or the expected mishap brought the careful hunter down. Combinations of events conspired to create the unexpected situation. He had seen a man escape a bear attack, to be skewered by the tusks of a wild boar. In the long term, chance and misfortune conspire to bring you down.

The sun shone on his back, warming him and making him happy. His pursuers would take many hours to follow the path that he had tobogganed down.

He dreamed of hunting. A patch of good throwing stones lay nestled against a rock on the ground off to the side of his path. His stone pouch hung on his belt, already full, but he could use them for practice. He aimed to be the perfect hunter, to hone his craft to the same sharpness of precision as the tip of his spear.

Selecting the base of a tree as a target, he practiced the quick silent throw, which released the stone to fly, without any warning sound to set the quarry on the run. Today, he felt the sling work with him in harmony. At the target he found all the stones within easy reach.

He continued on his path, still heading across the slope, but descending towards the valley floor. This land, so deep in enemy territory, was unknown to him. As he continued down a fast flowing river came into view. The pleasant surprise put a spring in his step. The strong flow stood in standing waves that rippled, lines written in the unmoving movement.

As he approached, the power scared him. Rabaad wanted to cross the water without getting wet, to break the trail and get him well away from his pursuers. A raft would do the job but that would take time, and time ticked with each step of the warriors feet, tracking him through the snow. He sat for a moment contemplating the risks. He needed to be well clear by the time the warrior's arrived, but that would not be till after midday. He had time.

But the crossing carried risks. The strong flow of the water could carry him under, and the cold water would suck the heat from his bones. Death came to the unwary person who did not respect the power of the flow. He could head upstream and construct a blind, making himself invisible from the pursuers, or any passing prey. This option seemed less obvious, and perhaps Kirak's warriors might believe he had crossed the river when he had not.

Ylgu, an elder of his tribe, had showed him how to construct a blind using a leather hide, and Rabaad believed that he perfected it. Markings on the hide broke the outline, and appeared as branches in dim light. Rabaad used the blind many times to elude his pursuers and catch game.

The leather had been worked supple and thin. He carried it folded up, underneath the sticks that formed the sled. He had crafted the sticks so that they fitted together, with a tongue and groove. A slot through each of the sticks allowed vines to hold them together, making a ridged sled when in use. When not in use he loosened them off so that the sticks wrapped around his body.

This day, curiosity pulled him on, to brave the crossing and see the other side of the river. Some slight nervousness twinged his mind. He had played hide and seek many times with Kirak's warriors, and the fear crept up on him that someday the oafs would get a lucky break and discover him. Or someone with true tracking skill and cunning would be in the party. They would kill him if they could. He decided to make the crossing.

The raft needed five small trees, each with width that he could fit his thumbs around, finders locked to build the upper platform. Using a stone axe he chopped one down. As he cut into the second tree, the axe broke where the stone blade fitted into the handle. He cursed. Time ticked away with the trot of warrior's feet. Still four more trees to go.

Using the blade as a hand axe he attacked the second tree and brought it down. It took time and now his hand gave him pain every time he swung the axe. Then he noticed that a corner of the hand axe had chipped away. His plan headed towards disaster.

A large wedge shaped stone with a jagged edge caught his eye. With some touching up it would make an excellent saw stone. He set it up on a level platform against the third tree. He pushed the saw stone back and forth as the jagged blade bit into the wood, relieved that this motion did not jar his hand. The remaining three trees went down, but time had passed. He imagined soldiers running through the trees towards him. How much time did he have to build this stupid raft?

Using the saw stone he cut the five trees half way along the length, and cleaned up the branches using his hand axe, to make ten poles. Then he lashed them together using vines, supple and easy to bend, now that the snow-line lay above him.

The build had taken too long.

He grouped five bundles of sticks and bound each one with vine. In his haste a bundle flopped loose and he re-tied it. Then he attached the bundles to the base, and launched the craft, tethering it to the earth by a small vine, pegged to the ground. He tied his gear, the blind, sled and oiled waterproof pack, to the raft.

He paused listening for any sound. He could hear nothing. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

A tree back up the path had the right thick bark to make an oar and he walked back to it, step by quiet step. He tore a long and wide section off it use as an oar.

He paused at the tree. A pigeon took to the sky, making the distinctive whir, whir sound.

He stopped. There was no sound except the trees bending in the wind.

Something was wrong. Without hearing them, he knew they were out there.

The crack of a broken stick sounded like an explosion, and he ducked, as a spear buried into the tree behind where he had been a moment before.

Without looking he grabbed the strip of thick bark and sprinted for his raft. He kicked the peg securing the raft to the shore free, and in one motion pushed the raft clear and leaped onto it, his momentum carrying it away from the shore. A warrior raced down the hill and hurled his spear. Rabaad ducked, and the spear sailed into the water beyond him. He paddled further out into the river, as another spear missed him by a hands width.

Rabaad paddled on, the current now grabbing the ungainly craft.

The flow took him quickly, surprising him with its ferocity, as the standing waves threw him. Still he paddled further out into the middle, struggling for balance.

Rapids appeared in front of him and his fragile raft poured through a narrow opening. He laid down flat, gripping the raft with his arms as it rose and fell as the current took it over a series of standing waves. He rose to his knees, but had no time to find his balance as rapid after rapid bounced him around and propelled his fragile craft forward. The river poured through a narrow gap and turned sharply to the right in front of a rock wall. He staggered for balance as the current threw him around, flushing him out into a long line of standing waves.

Clear now, the water's force raced around a long curve, then though a narrow gap and out into a shallow wide pool. The raging water disappeared into nothing. Mist obscured his view, and a moment later, the water fell from beneath him and he sailed through the air over a waterfall.

Smashing down hard he found himself deep underwater tumbling around end over end. Releasing the broken raft, he kicked free and paddled with his arms, seeking the surface. His lungs burned, and, desperate to breath, he kicked and pulled, hauling himself up.

Gasping for air, he exploded onto the surface of a clear pool. Above him rained the tall waterfall he had flown over and around him wet rock surrounded a large pool. Mist filled the air. With his head above the water, he peered out looking around for signs of people.

Crawling out, he saw a well-used path to follow. It led up, out of the canyon. His wet clothes sucked the warmth from his body.

His raft had been broken up by the fall, showing what had happened, but there was no time to hide the evidence of what had happened. His gear had come free from the raft, and he retrieved it from the water. The oiled waterproof backpack had dry furs and he put them on.

Then he packed his gear, strapped it on, and followed the track that led up. A shout from the trees behind him told him that he had been spotted. Hurrying now, the steep climb tested his muscles, and the slippery path with rocks and mud made the climb difficult. At the top he found himself in open grassy land. In the distance a forest spread out and he made for it at a run.

Add a Comment

Apologies for the belated post, had a business trip to Portland yesterday.

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Catherine sends the first chapter of The Belles of Nolichucky. The rest follows the break.

Friday, June 2, 1967

MacBeth woke up. Something didn't smell right. The half-wolf half-pitbull rose, alert, ready, the thick fur of his neck fluffing out. He slunk in predator crouch out of the kitchen pantry into the dining room.

The man packed the pieces of silverware one at a time into his duffel bag. He was careful not to make a sound. Not a clink, not a tinkle. He'd spotted this mansion on his trip through Nolichucky last week and knew it had to hold treasures untold. Silver and gold. For the taking.

MacBeth issued one short, sharp growl. The burglar turned around. MacBeth launched straight for his balls. The man didn't move as quick as the dog. MacBeth's fangs pierced the burglar's jeans at the tip of the zipper and latched onto his dick. The man screamed. MacBeth, jaws locked began a slow backstep. The man screamed, his fists pounding the dog's head. MacBeth had the thick skull of his pitbull mama and the long well-muscled neck of his wolf daddy.

***

Deputy Beau Marsh climbed out of his Chevy cruiser. The thin red-head pulled his belt out of his pants, held his cap over his precious area and belted it down tight. He been advised of the nature of MacBeth's action. The burglar had to be an outsider. No one in Nolichucky - no one in his right mind - would venture uninvited into the Gregg mansion in the dead of night for any reason whatsoever. If MacBeth didn't get you, sixty-eight year old Aunt NayNay, legally Naomi (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Well, this certainly opens in media res—there is definitely something going on. But the opening section with the dog doesn’t, it seems to me, relate to whatever the story is about. What happens here? A burglary is foiled by a dog, a cop arrives afterward. The page—and, I think, the chapter—boils down to setup. I suspect, thought I don’t know, that this story is not about the burglar with the troubled penis. He doesn’t even have a name.

It could be about the officer, but there doesn’t seem to be anything current or looming that could trouble him. So what’s this story about? I dunno. While the writing is good, there are still some things to look at in the narrative. Notes:

Friday, June 2, 1967

MacBeth woke up. Something didn't smell right. The half-wolf half-pitbull pit bull rose, alert, ready, the thick fur of his neck fluffing out. He slunk in predator crouch out of the kitchen pantry into the dining room. I think “slunk” pictures the dog’s movements just fine.

The man packed the pieces of silverware one at a time into his duffel bag. He was careful not to make a sound. Not a clink, not a tinkle. He'd spotted this mansion on his trip through Nolichucky last week and knew it had to hold treasures untold. Silver and gold. For the taking.

MacBeth issued one short, sharp growl. The burglar turned around. MacBeth launched straight for his balls. The man didn't move as quick quickly as the dog. MacBeth's fangs pierced the burglar's jeans at the tip of the zipper and latched onto his dick. The man screamed. MacBeth, jaws locked began a slow backstep. The man screamed, his fists pounding pounded the dog's head. MacBeth had the thick skull of his pitbull pit bull mama and the long, well-muscled neck of his wolf daddy. This is a little nitpicky, but accuracy affects credibility. The narrative says the dog’s fangs latch onto the man’s penis at the “tip” of the zipper. Doesn’t that mean the top? If not, where is the tip of a zipper? The bottom doesn’t seem logical. Both a man’s penis and testicles are at the bottom of the crotch in a pair of pants, not at the top of the zipper. Think through either the nature of this staging or the description. Also, no need for the repetition of "the man screamed"

***

Deputy Beau Marsh climbed out of his Chevy cruiser. The thin red-head pulled his belt out of his pants, held his cap over his precious area and belted it down tight. He been advised of the nature of MacBeth's action. The burglar had to be an outsider. No one in Nolichucky - no one in his right mind - would venture uninvited into the Gregg mansion in the dead of night for any reason whatsoever. If MacBeth didn't get you, sixty-eight year old Aunt NayNay, legally Naomi (snip) I found the detailed description of the action with the cap confusing, especially holding his cap over his parts as he belted it down tight. First, that seems difficult to do—putting a belt around your hips requires two hands, so how is he holding the cap in place? I do think it’s a funny thought. I also think this could be solved with a simple summary that doesn’t go into detail—I think the reader could buy it. For example: He used his belt to strap his cap in place over his precious area. All the detail is a bit of overwriting and lent itself to confusion rather than clarity, IMO.

Add a Comment

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Ashleigh sends the first chapter of a science fiction novel, When We Was A Child . The rest follows the break.

Flesh.

My leg slices through the air and slams into flesh. His flesh. Right in his umbilical hole, right where the shade sneaks through generation after generation. My foot goes numb from the force and he gasps and begs me to stop. But I can't.

Don’t! I scream at her.

But she does. My leg, an identical leg to my right and three more to my left pull back and shoot forward, in his thigh, in his arm, in his face. His third Vice President, a clone like I am, collapses on the ground in front of me. Each blow makes me dread her more.

"No more. Please!" he says.

He doesn’t fight back; it doesn’t seem to occur to him to even try. The corners of my mouth sag, and a tear slides down my cheek. Cold anger, and hot sadness swirl and bang inside me, they team together against the emotion that is truly mine. Fear. My arm tenses.

Calm down, President Prodida.

She can’t hear me, I’m trapped in my own mind. My sinuses burn and tears push at the sides of my eyeballs, but she won't let another tear fall. Soggy grass mixed with dark red gore lounges on the cliff of meat that used to be his brow and slides down when he looks up at me. One of his eyes squint, and the other is swollen shut. His lip trembles.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

This opening page starts out with a bang, good writing, and strong voice. There’s conflict, and a character that seems troubled. But troubled by what? For this reader, there were clarity issues. I had to read it more than once to figure out what was going on. Same went for the rest of the chapter. I understand the motive to not reveal too much, to keep mystery going, but if the narrative is too terse and lacking in clues and concrete images, there are readers you will leave behind. For me, there were too many clarity and staging issues to want to continue. That does not mean that there isn’t a compelling story here—in fact, the world interests me quite a lot. But being unable to see or understand it adequately stopped me here. Notes:

Flesh. I would delete this for a single reason—it takes up a line of next without contributing much, and it keeps what I think is a very valuable line off the first page. I’ll show that at the end.

My leg slices through the air and slams into flesh. His flesh. Right in his umbilical hole, right where the shade sneaks through generation after generation. My foot goes numb from the force and he gasps and begs me to stop. But I can't. No need for repetition that slows the narrative, the next sentence identifies the male nature of the victim. The “shade” line refers to something I don’t know and raises an information question (as opposed to a story question), but I’m willing, as a reader, to let that go for moment if it’s clarified soon—but it isn’t, not in the rest of the chapter.

Don’t! I scream at her. I assume that this is thought. Problem: I don’t know who “here” is. A later paragraph seems to identify “her” as President Prodida. I would use the name here. More than that, this is an opportunity, especially with the previous line telling us that the kicker can’t stop. If I would you, I would expand this line to include the fact that the kicker is being controlled. Thoughstarter: Don’t! I scream at President Prodida. Stop! I scream at her to stop controlling me.

But she does. My leg, an identical leg to my right and three more to my left pull back and shoot forward, in his thigh, in his arm, in his face. His third Vice President, a clone like I am, collapses on the ground in front of me. Each blow makes me dread her more. I found this confusing and difficult to parse. Expanding it would help. If there are four clones of her also kicking, please show us enough to see it. I wonder about the kicks landing “in” his thigh, arm, etc. Wouldn’t they hit, instead? How to they go into his body parts? The reference to “His” was also confusing because the reference to the controller so far has been to a female, and the later narrative also seems to say that the President is female. So who is this “his” referred to here?

"No more. Please!" he says.

He doesn’t fight back; it doesn’t seem to occur to him to even try. The corners of my mouth sag, and a tear slides down my cheek. Cold anger, and hot sadness swirl and bang inside me, they team together against the emotion that is truly mine. Fear. My arm tenses.

Calm down, President Prodida.

She can’t hear me, I’m trapped in my own mind. My sinuses burn and tears push at the sides of my eyeballs, but she won't let another tear fall. Soggy grass mixed with dark red gore lounges on the cliff of meat that used to be his brow and slides down when he looks up at me. One of his eyes squints, and the other is swollen shut. His lip trembles. How did grass get on his brow? He falls, and it seems that it must be on his back. He speaks to her, and she sees the grass on his brow, which must face up. The grass also has to be cut, otherwise it can’t slide down when he lifts his head. The staging here is not clear at all to me.

Here’s the line from the next page that I would include because it helped me understand that the character is being controlled. It was a separate paragraph of thought: Don't look at me like that. I'm not doing this, it's not me. It’s not me.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . Don't look at me like that. I'm not doing this, it's not me. It’s not me.

Those three words repeat in my head, but I don’t feel any less responsible. I wanted him to hurt. So much. Maybe I’m just like her. My fist, aching and red with his blood – or my blood – rams into his ear, and his head snaps to the side. The grass splats on the sidewalk, crimson pooling from under it and nausea roils in my stomach.

"You deserve this. Abomination." my voice says.

He deserves something, but not this. He looks at me again, his face distorted in patterns of shadow, light, and abuse. My eyes glare at his that plead for mercy, and I’m relieved when his neck muscles give out and his head clunks to the ground. I stare at him, ashamed that I’m glad to be rid of his accusing gaze.

That’s enough, leave him alone!

Blood trickles out of his mouth, and he doesn't move. My heart pounds so loud it wobbles my eyeballs, but I move forward in the fuzzy morning, because whether I see or not doesn't matter. President Prodida controls me; she controls all four of us. My foot nudges him. Nothing. My foot nudges him harder, and his flesh moves willingly, like it fell off the bone. But still, he doesn't move.

"Gods." My voice says. "Oh, Gods."

Try again. Try. Again.

My fingers clench in and out of fists, trying to slow the adrenaline that races up and down my body.

My foot pushes him so hard he rolls on his side. Moments pass, then he coughs and groans, and tugs his over-wear up. His beneath-wear is blue with a transparent circle of fabric in the middle of his stomach. My senses freeze as I gape at the skin that has no hole.

Oh, no.

My feet trip over one another and my back crashes into a Reuse bin behind me.

"I won't tell anyone." he gasps out, crying and drooling like a liveborn. His sobbing pierces into my brain, and clouds the world until only my arm, feeling for the edge of the bin, exists.

My body moves to the left, and the world comes crashing back when I see the girl peeking out from a window.

Hurry, President Prodida!

Though it’s no use, the girl’s probably been there the entire time.

My fingers find the smooth seam of the massive bin, and as my body turns away, my eyes glance back. Into the darkness, not at him. But I see him anyway, he’s still. I feel hollow, as my hip sockets churn, and run me far away.

She'll report you.

Add a Comment

Sorry I wasn't here yesterday, I got wrapped up in doing my taxes and it slipped my mind. This is an interesting one, but could be stronger, I think.

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Rebecca sends the first chapter of a paranormal fantasy, Snake Safety 101. The rest follows the break.

The dreaded polygraph test. My last obstacle to becoming a police officer. I sat in the waiting room, plain tile on the floor, posters meant to educate participants displayed on the plain walls. The air conditioning blasted at me but couldn’t cool my nerves. I’d barely passed the background check. A drug dealer’s kid had a hard time joining the police force, but that’s all I’d wanted since I was sixteen and freshly rescued from my own stupidity.

I’d disclosed my drug use on the pretest. If only I hadn’t been an idiot as a teenager. I’d tried to fit in with my friends. It didn’t work. They got high. I didn’t, but not for lack of trying. I’d stagger, or laugh at the stupidest things along with my friends, but it was all an act on my part. A great big lie. Yup, and here I was lined up for a polygraph test.

“Sarah?” A middle aged man with laugh lines at the corners of his eyes called my name.

I jumped up. “Here, sir.”

He tugged at his collar as if his tie was too tight and waved me through a door, down a hall, and into a small room. The officer who monitored the proceedings sat behind a window in an adjacent room.

“Sit there.” He pointed to a chair that looked similar to one used by clinics to draw blood.

“Okay,” I said. “This is my first polygraph…”

“Then you’ll be happy to know it only bites first timers.” He winked. “Next time you’ll (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

There’s a lot to like about this opening page. Good writing, clear and likable voice, and a definitely interesting character. There is a story question—will she pass—and consequences—if she doesn’t, she won’t be a cop. But is that enough to make it compelling. I’ll confess to being ambivalent about it. Interested? Yes. Compelled?

What follows in the chapter uses the questions in the interview to give us some good backstory . . . but still, I wonder if the first page couldn’t be stronger. I’m going to cobble together narrative from later in the story to see if you think it’s stronger, but first a brief note—I wouldn’t include the man tugging at his collar. It seems to be a touch of overwriting, detail that just doesn’t matter to the story.

So here’s an alternative opening. As you’ll see, I think it should start with the polygraph test already in progress. A second poll follows.

The dreaded polygraph test. My last obstacle to becoming a police officer. A drug dealer’s kid had a hard time joining the police force, but that’s all I’d wanted since I was sixteen.

Just tell the truth. That’s what the officers I’d talked to said. Lots of them had done drugs as teenagers and passed. And I’d disclosed my drug use on the pretest. Now here I was, wired to a machine, an officer watching through a window to a room next door.

The technician finally popped the big question. “Have you ever used drugs?”

My pulse shot up. “Yes.”

“When was the last time you used anything?”

“I quit when I was sixteen. But a year ago, I was at a party and someone spiked the punch with synthetic THC. If I’d known, I would have dumped the stuff out.”

He looked at me. “The party where a dozen people were hospitalized and several died?”

“Yes.” I prayed they wouldn’t count that time against me.

He frowned at his screen. “Did you become ill?”

“No.”

His eyebrows rose. “How much punch did you drink?”

“A Solo cup.”

He shook his head. “No way. Three others drank that much and they’re dead.” He fiddled (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page with this as the opening?

For me, this opening raises stronger questions and clearly puts her in jeopardy of failing the test. I had to wonder why she didn’t die. Instead of telling the reader about not being affected by drugs up front as the original opening does, let us discover it through the grilling she’s going through.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . be safe.”

I smiled to let him know his attempt at making me relax was appreciated.

He handed me a set of wires. “Connect these around your chest.”

I did, the pressure reminding me of Gerald and his snake. I held my breath, freezing in place like I used to. Like he’d demanded me to. They’re dead. They’re both dead. It’s only wires. I breathed deep and forced the memories from my mind, but not before a trickle of sweat dripped between my breasts.

The technician didn’t seemed to notice my almost panic. I’d been working for years to abolish them, and when one did creep up on me, I was better at hiding them.

He wrapped sensors to my fingers, and put a blood pressure cuff on my arm. I rubbed my free clammy palm on my dress slacks.

He looked at his screen and must have been satisfied. “Here we go. What is your name?”

“Sarah Anne Tierney.”

“What is your address?”

“614 Mountain View, Denver, Colorado, 80216.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

He watched his screen. “Very good. We’re all set for the important questions. Remember, answer as fully and truthfully as possible.

I nodded.

“Have you ever stolen from an employer?” All business, he looked at me through the bottom of his bifocals. The list of questions I’d answered on the pre-test lay beside him.

“No.” Employees had stolen from Mom’s restaurant. It always left me steaming mad and sometimes cost us a lot of money.

After a dozen questions relating to workplace honesty, he asked about sexual abuse and pornography. No, I’d never raped anyone. I was lucky Gerald had had a ‘favorite’, so I hadn’t been raped. Some of the older gang members had sold dirty pictures, but I didn’t. And I’d never traded sex for drugs. The pretest had given me a heads-up about the questions. So far I’d been able to keep steady.

He asked, “Have you ever used drugs?”

My pulse shot up. “Yes.” Just tell the truth. That’s what the officers I’d talked to said. Lots of them had done drugs as teenagers and passed.

“Which drugs have you taken?”

“I used marijuana lots. Cocaine, once. LSD, once. Mushrooms, once. Heroin five times.”

“When was the last time you used anything?”

“The last time I deliberately used a drug was when I was sixteen. But then, a year ago, I was at a party and someone secretly spiked the punch with synthetic THC. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have had any. If I’d known, I would have dumped the stuff out.”

The technician looked at me for the first time since he sat down. “The party where a dozen people were taken to the hospital and several died?”

“Yes.” I prayed they wouldn’t count that time against me.

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yes.” I fidgeted, aware of the mild untruth of that particular answer. It wasn’t even a question. Why did I say anything.

He peered at his screen with a puzzled frown.

I should have kept my mouth shut. Damn, it must have registered as a lie, since I wasn’t in danger when I drank the punch.

“Did you become ill?”

“No.”

“How much punch did you drink?” he asked.

I shrugged. “A cup.”

“An eight ounce cup?”

“A Solo cup.”

He coughed. “No way. Three others drank that much and they’re dead.” His eyes widened. He fiddled with a setting, and exchanged a glance with the frowning officer behind the glass.

“I know,” I said. “It was terrible. I’d love to find the person who did it and send them to jail for a long time.”

He shifted sideways, pulled a green bandana from his pocket, and dabbed it on his forehead. “How did you survive?”

My stomach roiled. If I told the truth, he wouldn’t believe me no matter what his machine says. If I lied, he’d know that too. “Uhh…” I swallowed hard. “Drugs don’t affect me. Neither does alcohol. I don’t know why.”

“Hmmm.” He checked the wires connecting me to the machine. After re-sticking one with more gel, he said, “Please remove your shoes and socks”

“My… why?”

“Sometimes people wear tacks in their shoes to create pain and give abnormal readings.”

Not good. I slipped off my sandals and knee-length hose.

He patted the soles of my feet then sat again. “Keep both hands where I can see them.”

My right had been tied to his wires, my left on my lap—in plain sight.

“How did you use heroin?”

“Injected it.” I rubbed my forehead. Why was I so stupid back then?

“Are you completely recovered from your addiction?”

“I…I wasn’t addicted.”

His lips flattened. “Did you attend a rehabilitation facility?”

“No. I took heroin five times and it never affected me once. I know it sounds strange, but…”

“No one only takes it five times.”

His tone scraped my nerves. I wanted to slap him, but kept my hands folded nicely in my lap.

“How did you recover from the use of heroin?” He looked at me down his nose with a scowl on his face.

“I just stopped. I tried to get my friends to stop too. It was horrible how it took their minds so that all they wanted was more. It’s scary stuff.” Memories of Gerald’s gang that I was forced to become a member of flooded back and I clenched my fist to keep it from shaking. Stay in control. He’s dead.

The technician frowned. “You quit heroin without help?”

“Yes.”

“So neither heroin nor synthetic THC affect you?”

“That’s correct. But all that was before I was sixteen. I’ve straightened out since then.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’ve never taken a polygraph test before?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

He asked a variation of the same questions dozens of times.

My hopes cascaded to the bottom of a pit. “Is it saying I’m telling the truth?”

“Yes.” He shrugged with a jerk. He didn’t look at me and his face seemed tight and pinched.

A knock sounded at the door. The officer from the window poked his head in. “That’s enough. We have what we need.”

The technician nodded.

The officer retreated and the door slammed closed.

“Disconnect yourself, Miss Tierney,” the technician said.

I took the wires off, and pulled on my nylon socks and sandals. “Did I pass?”

He glanced at his screen, then at me. “I don’t appreciate being played with. And this…” He waved at the screen. “Was a farce.”

“You’re failing me?”

“Yes.” He stared at me. His eyebrows almost met in the middle.

“Why? Everything I told you was the truth.” I’d spent too much time working toward this goal. Besides, I’d promised. And the person I’d promised to was also dead. There wasn’t any other option. “If it’s about my nonexistant reactions to drugs or alcohol, I can prove it.”

“Impossible. No one has a complete immunity to drugs.” He wiped his forehead again. “You’re a pathological liar. It’s the only explanation.”

No way I’d show him my tears. I spun and marched to the door with my chin held high. We’d see about this.

Add a Comment

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Deborah sends the prologue of Vision. The rest follows the break.

Jackhammer heavy rain was pounding the concrete moat surrounding our normally safe Brooklyn brownstone when Lara shook me out of a deep sleep.

”Jack, did you hear that? Is Shelby sleepwalking again?” As I stumbled out of bed and hurried down the hall in her wake, I tried to remember if I’d locked the gate we’d put at the top of the stairs when we first found Shelby sleepwalking.

We tiptoed into our daughter’s room and saw her in her bed, her long lashes dusting the cheeks of her cherubic face.

“Must’ve been the storm,” I said through a yawn.

I took my wife’s hand and started back to our room when a floorboard creaked downstairs. Panic tore through me as I realized an intruder was in the house.

We scrambled back into Shelby’s room to hide. As I scooped my daughter up her eyes opened wide with fear. I covered her mouth and Lara held a finger to her lips. When Shelby nodded understanding I pulled my hand back and placed her on the floor behind her canopy bed where we were huddled.

“Stay here, I’m getting my gun,” I whispered. My Glock 17 sidearm was locked in the biometric safe in the master bedroom-like always when I was off the clock.

“Jack, don’t,” Lara said grabbing my sleeve. “What if they hear you? Let them take what (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

This must be my lucky week—here’s another prologue that worked for me. Good action, strong story question, likable characters, all work. However, there are things that could make it stronger. In particular, it would have been much stronger if a paragraph or two from the next page could have been included—and it could have. I’ll show you an alternate created with judicious editing below, after my notes.

Jackhammer heavy rain was pounding the concrete moat surrounding our normally safe Brooklyn brownstone when Lara shook me out of a deep sleep. “Jackhammer” does a fine job of describing heavy, intense, loud rain, no need for “heavy.”

”Jack, did you hear that? Is Shelby sleepwalking again?” As I stumbled out of bed and hurried down the hall in her wake, I tried to remember if I’d locked the gate we’d put at the top of the stairs when we first found Shelby sleepwalking.

We tiptoed into our daughter’s room and saw her in her bed, her long lashes dusting the cheeks of her cherubic face. “Saw her” is a filter that distances the reader. Give the direct experience. Eg. We tiptoed into our daughter’s room. She slept in her bed, her long lashes etc.

“Must’ve been the storm,” I said through a yawn.

I took my wife’s hand and started back to our room when a floorboard creaked downstairs. Panic tore through me as I realized an intruder was in the house. Credibility issue here. I don’t believe you could hear a creak through “jackhammer” rain. In addition, why have the heavy rain at all? As it turns out, the rain doesn’t impact the story in any way, so it’s a waste of words, IMO. And it’s not credible. Also, I don’t know that panic tearing through him is needed, especially when it turns out that he’s a cop. Just having the reader learn that there’s an intruder will give them the fright emotion needed.

We scrambled back into Shelby’s room to hide. As I scooped my daughter up her eyes opened wide with fear. I covered her mouth and Lara held a finger to her lips. When Shelby nodded, understanding I pulled my hand back and placed her on the floor behind her canopy bed where we were huddled. Why would they go there with the intention of hiding in that particular room. It turns out there are better options. Have them go back to get the child, yes, but hide there? Why? The attic, it turns out, is very close. The highlighted "her" could be read as Shelby's lips, not the mother's--a clarity issue that should be fixed. And there’s a staging problem. You need to show them going behind the bed, not tell us after the fact. For example. When Shelby nodded understanding, we huddled behind her canopy bed and I placed her on the floor.

“Stay here, I’m getting my gun,” I whispered. My Glock 17 sidearm was locked in the biometric safe in the master bedroom-like always when I was off the clock. A bit of an info dump not needed here. Getting the gun is important, the rest is not.

“Jack, don’t,” Lara said grabbing my sleeve. “What if they hear you? Let them take what (snip) I’m against participle (“ing”) construction when simple past tense is stronger, eg. Lara whispered, “Jack, don’t.” She grabbed my sleeve. “What if they hear you . . .etc.

Here’s a reconstructed first page that includes the paragraphs from the next page that I’d like to see here. A poll follows:

Lara shook me out of a deep sleep. ”Jack, did you hear that? Is Shelby sleepwalking again?” As I stumbled out of bed and hurried down the hall in her wake, I tried to remember if I’d locked the gate we’d put at the top of the stairs when we first found Shelby sleepwalking.

We tiptoed into our daughter’s room. She slept in her bed, her long lashes dusting the cheeks of her cherubic face.

I took my wife’s hand and started back to our room when a floorboard creaked downstairs. An intruder was in the house.

We scrambled back into Shelby’s room. As I scooped my daughter up, her eyes opened wide with fear. I covered her mouth and Lara signaled silence with a finger to her lips. When Shelby nodded, I placed her on the floor behind her canopy bed.

I told Lara, “Stay here, I’m getting my gun,”

Lara whispered, “Jack, don’t.” She grabbed my sleeve. “What if they hear you? Let them take what they want and leave.”

Shelby said, “Daddy please stay here. Don’t you remember what happened when I was your mommy and you were my little boy?”

“When do you mean?” Her timing sucked, but when my gifted daughter remembered something from a past life I needed to hear it before she forgot.

Is this a stronger opening?

Your thoughts? See where this story goes after the fold.

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . they want and leave.”

Why the hell didn’t I grab my gun before I ran in here? Someone who’d break into an occupied house in the middle of the night would have no problem killing. I should’ve gone for it as soon as I realized someone was in the house.

“Daddy please stay here. Don’t you remember what happened when I was your mommy and you were my little boy?” my daughter asked.

“Shelby, not now,” Lara hissed, too scared to hide her irritation. She released my shirt and leaned back against the bed, dropping her face into her hands. A blink of lightning followed by a deafening clap of thunder made us flinch. Lara shivered in her gauzy nightgown.

“When do you mean?” Her timing sucked, but when my gifted daughter remembered something from a past life I needed to hear it before she forgot.

“It was in that big hurricane. A lady crashed into a tree along the river and her car was flooding fast. You were so brave, but while you were helping a big branch fell on your head and you got swept down the river. When we found you, you weren’t moving. Your face was all blue and your head was bleeding. They hadn’t invented CPR yet Daddy. You died.”

“This is totally different Shelby. The person downstairs is gonna hurt us if I don’t do something.”

“It’s not different. You’re a courageous soul Daddy, but you always die young. Please don’t go, I want you to live a long life this time,” A chill snaked its way up my spine.

“Shelby, what’re you talking about? Daddy fights bad guys every day and he’s never gotten hurt,” Lara said massaging her temples. As usual, she chose to ignore that Shelby wasn’t talking about who I was now, but who I was in former life.

“Okay, that’s enough. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Go through the closet into the attic. Close the door and don’t make a sound. I’m getting the gun,” I said.

“No Jack, you come too.” Lara said clutching my bicep.

“You know I can’t do that. Whoever’s downstairs expects someone to be here—both cars are out front. He’ll keep looking until he finds us. Plus, if this is work-related he’ll expect to see me. You two get to safety. Don’t make a sound and don’t open the door no matter what you hear. I’ll get the gun and we’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.”

The first step on the staircase squeaked. Lara’s terror-filled eyes met mine and I pointed to the closet. As I squeezed them together in a quick hug that I hoped wasn’t a final goodbye, I could feel Shelby’s small body trembling.

As they made it through the closet and closed the attic door I heard the first step give again. So, there were at least two. Dammit. There was no way I’d make it to my gun.

I scanned the room looking for another weapon. There wasn’t much to choose from. Shelby wasn’t exactly an athlete, no baseball bats or lacrosse sticks here. The best I could find was a baton. I grabbed Shelby’s bedazzled phone from her desk and texted my partner Sam to send help. With no other option, I snatched up the parade baton, streamers and all seconds before the intruder came into the room with his gun drawn.

I came from behind the door and smashed him on the side of his fleshy shaved head. He howled, grabbing his temples with his meaty hands and dropping his pistol onto the shaggy fuchsia carpet. I lunged for it. Baldy grunted, and dove for it too with all the grace of an elephant tipping over.

We collided, rolling across the floor, and crashed against the dresser. Toys and awards rained down. He avoided the downpour, landing a punch to my chin that made my vision blur and I fell backwards unfortunately just missing a pillow and landing on top of a Rubix’s Cube. As I rolled off the sharp toy digging into my back a glint of metal under the bed caught my eye. It was the gun. I reached for it but Baldy grabbed my ankles and pulled me back just as my fingertips grazed the cool metal.

I picked up a trophy from the debris on the floor as I slid away from the gun and hit him hard on his ear. Blood trickled down his flabby jawline. He punched me in the gut and bounced across the bed and onto the floor where he snagged the gun. I sprang up and came at him low, my head impacting his gut.

We struggled for control and fell, rolling around until I found myself straddled on top of his hulking form, the commandeered gun in my hands. I took aim at my adversary who was bucking like a bronco, and fired, hitting him right between the eyes.

The loud crack behind me a second later sounded too close for thunder. I was confused, until I coughed and saw blood spurting from my mouth. As I tumbled forward and rolled off my victim onto my back, I looked up at the second assailant, his unmasked face familiar. His blond hair was greasy and his jeans were filthy. He smiled and kicked me. As I groaned in pain, staring into his eyes, crazed with passion, I knew I wasn’t going to see tomorrow.

“I know I’ll find you again someday,” I thought of my family, and as my assassin pulled the trigger again, it went dark.

Add a Comment

Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Shifu sends the first chapter of Cupid Proof. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

“You’re snoring.”

I ignored the words, rolled on my stomach and continued to listen to ‘Girl on Fire’.

“Eve, you can sleep until ten o’clock, but you have to move today.”

“I domnt wamma muv…” I reached out and searched the bed for my blanket. As soon as I could grab it, Mom pulled it away.

I shot a sleepy glare at her and rolled my eyes. I pulled myself off the bed and slumped backwards.

“This comfy bed… Can’t leave…” I pushed a hand under the pile of pillows I abandoned while I was asleep and moaned.

“Eve, this isn’t easy for us either.”

My eyes opened involuntarily and with such suddenness that I felt dizzy. I looked at Mom who had a solemn look on her face.

“I’ll get ready and then we’ll talk okay?” I pulled myself off the bed for a second time. Rubbing my eyes, I walked to the dresser and stared at myself in the mirror.

“Okay.” Mom walked out, closing the door behind her. I continued to stare at myself through the mirror.

“Well, Eve… This is gonna be fun…” I yawned and dragged my groggy feet towards the (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

This opening introduces a teenage girl doing what they do when a parent tries to waken them in a realistic way—though I’m not a girl, I recognize her behavior. My mother used to use a cold wash cloth to shock me out of slumber.

But that’s about it. What’s happening here? A girl gets out of bed. No notion of why, no notion of any problems ahead . . . no hint of a story question. Basically, this chapter is setup and didn’t get around to story questions until the end of the chapter. And, even then, Eve didn’t have any problems to deal with. I think the story starts later.

There were craft issues, too—clarity and overwriting, and those things showed up later in the chapter, too. Notes:

“You’re snoring.” Why not “Wake up?” Telling her she’s snoring isn’t exactly a move to get her out of bed.

I ignored the words, rolled on my stomach and continued to listen to ‘Girl on Fire’.

“Eve, you can sleep until ten o’clock, but you have to move today.” If she can sleep until ten, why is the mother insisting she get out of bed now?

“I domnt wamma muv…” I reached out and searched the bed for my blanket. As soon as I could grab it, Mom pulled it away.

I shot a sleepy glare at her and rolled my eyes. I pulled myself off the bed and slumped backwards. I didn’t understand this action. Is she off the bed or not? To make it clear, something such as . . . and then slumped backwards, back onto the bed.

“This comfy bed… Can’t leave…” I pushed a hand under the pile of pillows I had abandoned while I was asleep and moaned.

“Eve, this isn’t easy for us either.”

My eyes opened involuntarily and with such suddenness that I felt dizzy. I looked at Mom’s who had a solemn expression look on her face. All that about opening her eyes is a bit of overwriting for me—excess detail that doesn’t move story or characterization forward. Just have her open her eyes. Actually, you don't have to have her open her eyes, just saying that she looked at her mom takes care of that.

“I’ll get ready and then we’ll talk okay?” I pulled myself off the bed for a second time. Rubbing my eyes, I walked to the dresser and stared at myself in the mirror. The first time I read this I thought to myself that she hadn’t gotten out of bed—that was due to the lack of clarity in the earlier paragraph.

“Okay.” Mom walked out, closing the door behind her. I continued to stare at myself through in the mirror. No need to repeat the reference to the mirror, we already know she's staring at it.

“Well, Eve… This is gonna be fun…” I yawned and dragged my groggy feet towards the (snip)

Continued:

. . . bathroom.

“I got the freaking internship… with amazing bonuses…” I waved my almost lifeless arms in the air as I said the word “amazing”. I put some toothpaste on my brush and brought it to my mouth.

“Bbyshitta tshree yar olds gonbe fun. Shoomush… foon…”

I was a zombie weirdo in the mornings until I splashed cold water on my face. And I did just that, shuddering as I did.

I walked into the wardrobe, thinking to myself. Am I being too stingy? I was going to be away for a month or two; I should be more generous with my packing. But I was generous! Three huge suitcases were placed by the door. The only things in my dresser were all the black dresses and two gowns Mom bought for me. I stuffed them in a corner of the top cupboard yesterday, so that she wouldn’t know I didn’t bring them along.

If I was going to do this, I will be doing it my way. Woohoo!

I scanned the room, my shoulders slumped. The four blue walls, the white curtains, my comfy bed and my spongy pillows; they still looked welcoming. Nothing much, I thought, since I owned so little compared to most girls I’ve met. But I was still going to miss them. Closing the door behind me, I wiped an imaginary tear from my eyes. Goodbye room. I’ll miss you.

I grabbed a suitcase and pushed it down the staircase, a smug look on my face as the sound of it landing grabbed Mom and Dad’s attention.

“Eve!” Mom looked at me with a horrified look on her face while Dad picked up the suitcase and sighed.

“Why do you hate boys so much?” The seriousness in his voice startled both me and Mom. “I or your brothers haven’t done anything to hurt you.”

Mom sighed and looked at me, and something told me this was a topic frequently discussed between them.

“I dunno, I just don’t.” I shrugged, picking up the suitcase with ‘FRAGILE’ written on it and holding it out for Dad which he grabbed. I took the other suitcase and slid it down the stairs. Dad grabbed it before it landed properly and hoisted it up while I reached downstairs.

“Ready? Is everything set?” Dad patted his jean pockets while I watched Mom put on her designer cross body bag.

“Don’t look at me, Eve. You rejected your gift and gave it to some school kid on your own.”

“I wasn’t adoring your bag Mom. I’m glad I rejected such an expensive, but downright useless thing.” I pointed at my Nike backpack for emphasis.

“It was a gift, for God’s sake!” Mom turned away from us but there was a slight hint of red on her cheeks.

Dad ruffled my hair and chuckled. “She’ll inherit your passion for fashion someday, Hon.”

“God forbid.”

Mom ‘hmphed’, crossing her arms acros her chest and Dad laughed.

“We’ll miss you Eve.”

“I know I will.”

Edinburgh was only an hour’s drive from where we lived. And thankfully, Mom and Dad gave me time to ponder about the world and its existence while I stared outside the window.

Just kidding.

The three of us put on some exotic music and made up senseless lyrics while we sang. At one point, Dad sang something along the lines of ‘Ian and Eve are made for each other’. I decided to ignore it since fighting back would make them think of more absurd ideas.

“Dad, do you really feel that bad about me not being social with guys?”

I felt the car slowing down but an hour was not over yet.

“Not really. Eve, you’re nineteen, and I’d like to see you at least be friends with some guys. You downright reject and shame guys. I feel them, as a man, you know.”

I shrugged. “Sorry Dad.” At least, I apologized. Frankly, I didn’t bother to know why I was so antisocial around boys.

“Don’t think about it. Maybe the time hasn’t come yet.”

Mom giggled.

“Dreeeeeeeeeaam ooooonnnnn!” I sang. Dad laughed before turning up the volume and speeding up.

Whitney Houston’s ‘I will always love you’ was on the radio. I put my hands on my ears. Houston sounded so desperate, it was sickening me.

The sound of the car screeching to a halt rang in my ears as I opened my eyes. As soon as I did, my jaw dropped.

“Is this Birmingham Palace?” I stuck my face to the window glass, hoping to see more.

“Ha-ha, no, it’s the Bryans’ Mansion.”

No way. “Only three people live here?!”

“And a butler and a maid.”

“Next joke please, Dad.”

“He’s not joking.”

I gave Mom a horrified look.

“Don’t worry, love. You won’t get lost. You’ll stay with Mia, in a room close to the entrance.”

Whew.

“There you are, Arthur! Welcome!”

I turned towards the sound and saw a smiling, middle aged man opening the gates and walking towards our car. He was followed by a boy that looked my age and a small girl who clutched a teddy bear in her arms.

Dad got out of the car and the men greeted each other in a warm embrace. Mom got out and walked over to them as well, so I got out too.

“Rina! How nice to meet you!” the man said as he hugged Mom.

“And this is Eve, I presume! You look just like your mother!” He reached out to hug me as well, when I instinctively took a step backwards, putting my hands in front of me. From the corner of my eye, I saw that boy and girl gasp a little and when I looked at Mom and Dad, they were shaking their heads.

“I mean, uh,” I straightened my posture and held out a hand, “Yes, I’m Eve, and thank you, nice to meet you,” He looked slightly baffled but shook my hand anyway.

“Sorry about that, Eddy” Dad whispered to the man, but I heard it faintly. “Eve, this is Mr. Edward Bryan, CEO of BryCO Group of Companies.”

I smiled a bit and nodded my head in acknowledgment. “It’s an honour to be an intern here, Mr. Bryan.”

“Please, call me Eddy.” He smiled, which looked creepy to me.

Sweeping a bead of sweat off his forehead, he said. “Hot weather isn’t it? Jimmy!” A man in his forties rushed out the front door towards Mr. Bryan. “Get Eve’s luggage to her room! And tell Maya to prepare tea for the guests!” Then, he motioned to us. “Let’s go inside.”

As we all followed Mr. Bryan inside the building, I wondered if my time on Earth was coming to an end because something told me it was.

I felt a tug at the edge of my sweater.

It was the kid who was clutching a teddy bear in her hands. “I’m Mia. Nice to meet you.”

Ohh God of the Seven Heavens! She sounded just like little Anna from Frozen.

“Aww, I’m Eve. Nice to meet you too.” I crouched down to her level. “Are you, um, the one I’m going to babysit?”

She giggled, sending a wave of happiness inside me. Her eyes were closed as she grinned. “Mm!”

Kids were so adorable.

“You’re so pretty, Eva!” she reached out to touch my hair and giggled.

“Oh, you’re so cute Mia!” I caught her in a hug, despite my thoughts disagreeing with my statement. Cute she was, right now. Cute she won’t be, later. Kids had little devils inside them. I could already see myself chasing her around the house with a spoon, begging her to take a bite. Or with a diaper, begging her to put them on before she pooped or peed all over the house, which I’d have to clean. I don’t mind cleaning, but I hated begging. What if-

“Are you both going to stand there or are you both coming in? We need to lock the door.”

I shot an instinctive glare at the boy called Ian. He interrupted my thoughts. And he didn’t look pleased either.

“Ian!” Mia slid out of my embrace and ran towards the boy.

I rose to my feet and strode towards them.

“Ian, Eva’s gonna be the prettiest nanny I’ve ever had!” Mia jumped, her loud giggle threatening to burst my eardrums.

“Haa-haa Mia,” I blurted.

Ian shot me a glare to which I responded similarly.

What the hell was wrong with this kid?

“Ian, bring Eva in already! You have all summer to talk and bond with each other!”

I gagged. Ian had a disgusted look on his face. But the people inside were laughing heartily.

“Coming, Daddy!” I watched Mia run inside and I was going to go inside when Ian spoke.

“You’re weird and I don’t like you.”

Ha-ha! What a funny dude!

“Nobody asked for your opinion, Bryan!” I chuckled again as I walked past him into the house.

Add a Comment

Submissions Needed—None Left in the Queue. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Kate sends the first chapter of her science fiction novel, Rust. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

The body lay in the undergrowth as if flung there. Ben’s breath rasped in his throat and his heart pumped faster. His temperature spiked again in reaction. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down into his eyes. He blinked, cursing the sting of it, but it was just sweat this time. Not tears. No more tears. He’d seen too many bodies for that. Shamballah. The joker who named this hellhole of a planet ought to be laser lashed.

‘Got something, Jon,’ he said into his comm unit. ‘Looks like another dead runner.’

Jonathan Milton, in charge since acting captain Sam Chang went down with the Rust fevers, replied after the slightest of pauses. ‘Confirm, Ben. Run a commentary, if you please.’

‘Yessir. Approaching body from the south east. Body is facing north, just … laid out on the ground, face down. Low scrub, scattered trees in this quadrant. There’s a – there’s a cloud of insects of some sort, hovering over it, but nothing’s on the body itself. Body is naked. Female.’ Ben swallowed and stopped for a moment, his laser heavy in his arms. Sweat slid down his neck. The rusting disease was unrelenting. He crept closer, sweeping the nose of his laser in steady arcs around the clearing.

‘Ben? What’s going on?’ Jonathan’s anxiety came clearly across the comm. His voice was taut, strung with the tension that gripped the survivor’s camp.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Strong writing and a confident voice, and we’re immediately immersed in the now of the story. Kate manages to set the scene and begin building the world of her story without slowing the pace to deliver gobs of description, weaving it through the action, unnoticed. Nice job. And there are definite story questions raised. I turned the page. But it could have been just a little bit crisper. Notes:

The body lay in the undergrowth as if flung there. Ben’s breath rasped in his throat and his heart pumped faster. His temperature spiked again in reaction. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down into his eyes. He blinked, cursing cursed the sting of it, but it was just sweat this time. Not tears. No more tears. He’d seen too many bodies for that. Shamballah. The joker who named this hellhole of a planet ought to be laser lashed. Too many words spent on description for me. Not needed, I think.

‘Got something, Jon,’ he said into his comm unit. ‘Looks like another dead runner.’

Jonathan Milton, in charge since acting the captain Sam Chang went had gone down with the Rust fevers, replied, after the slightest of pauses. ‘Confirm, Ben. Run a commentary, if you please.’ Avoid having too many names right up front.

‘Yessir. Approaching body from the southeast south east. Body is facing north, just … laid out on the ground, face down. Low scrub, scattered trees in this quadrant. There’s a – there’s a cloud of insects of some sort, hovering over it, but nothing’s on the body itself. Body is naked. Female.’ Ben swallowed and stopped for a moment, his laser heavy in his arms. Sweat slid down his neck. The rusting disease was unrelenting. He crept closer, sweeping the nose of his laser in steady arcs around the clearing. Unfortunate echo of facing/face. Maybe “on her belly” or something else?

‘Ben? What’s going on?’ Jonathan’s anxiety came clearly across the comm. His voice was taut, strung with the tension that gripped the survivor’s survivors' camp.

‘Uh, sorry sir, just making sure the coast is clear, sir. Approaching body now. It, uh – (snip)

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

. . . she – is not moving that I can see. Pretty sure she’s dead but sir, she looks unharmed. I mean, she’s not – she’s not Rusted, sir.’

‘Explain, Ben.’ Jon’s voice vibrated with impatience and a sort of … hope?

Ben felt a similar stirring. His arms began to tremble. ‘Sir, I – I don’t immediately recognise this, uh, person.’

The comm hissed emptily.

‘Are you able to conduct a close quarter examination of the body? Is the immediate environment clear of threats? No, wait – I’ll send Stanton to cover you. Take guard position, wait for Stanton before you go in.’

‘Yessir. ‘ Ben said again. Habit. Jon was a Contractor, not a Federation officer, but those distinctions had lost their meaning since the crash. He looked around the clearing once more, hearing Jonathan on the open channel order Stanton across to his coordinates. He was half a click away, five minutes or so in these conditions. Cautiously, half an ear out for any sound or movement in the clearing around him, he returned his gaze to the body.

The girl looked like she was asleep. Her skin was smooth and unmarred by the horror of the weeping rust scabs. She gleamed in the low light of the open forest. Almost metallic, Ben thought. Maybe copper, or – or bronze. He tried to bring back long ago lessons in world civilisations. An image of a fierce, hawk-faced man with black hair and red skin flickered across his thoughts, but that wasn’t quite right. He shook his head, and his eyes travelled the length of the woman’s body. Who the hell was she? Her arms were thrown forward, as if begging aid. He could only just see the curve of the left side of her face, her smooth, bald head tucked down between her arms. She looked tall, and strong. Well, anyone would, compared to a camp full of Rusted cripples. Ben snorted and gripped his laser more tightly. What’s taking Stanton so long?

The flying insects weren’t bothering the body but they’d quickly discovered Ben. He swatted at them with his free arm, trying to keep his vision clear. He could feel his own scabs tearing and catching with the awkward movements. Why they bothered with full combat uniform at this stage he didn’t know. It wasn’t going to help them fight the real enemy. A quick death by some ugly beastie sure seemed preferable some nights. Nights when he writhed with white- hot lightning fizzing through his veins and bones and muscles. Nights when his brain lit up with phantom lights and sounds like a goddam vid game. He hadn’t even hit the killing stage of the fevers yet, and still the pain was insane. Mornings he’d wake to a sweat-soaked sleep bag and his god-awful collection of rust scabs. Almost his whole body now. Even his prick. He emitted a mournful note of disbelief as he thought of his crusted penis, the shock he felt every time he released it from his pants for a piss.

‘Ben! That you? You okay, man? I’m just about on you – what’s going on?’ Stanton’s heavy breathing sounded through the comm and snapped Ben back to attention.

‘Nothin’ man, just … this place is creepy. Gotta dead body here even the flies don’t wanna touch, but not a mark on her that I can see.’ Ben heard crashing in the brush to his left and saw Stanton push through at a trot. He swiped bushes out of his way and held his laser steady as he came.

‘Right,’ Stanton huffed. ‘Where is she?’

Ben nodded to where the girl lay.

‘I’ll keep watch, Ben. You go on and have a look,’ Stanton said, his head already swivelling as he scanned the clearing.

‘Keep me in the loop back here,’ Jon snapped, losing patience with being at a distance. ‘Doesn’t either one of you have an operating cam?’

‘Uh, yeah, sorry Jon.’ Ben toggled his cam on, knowing he must be tired, and getting weak, to forget basic procedure like that.

He took the few short steps over to the girl and bent over her, grasped her left shoulder and flipped her onto her back. Her eyes were closed. The bones of her skull and her face were fiercely prominent, elegant. Her expression was blank but she was familiar. I know her ... It’s ... His gaze travelled down and he lost his train of thought. Her breasts were very, very nice. Ben jerked his gaze back up to her face, reddening, knowing Jonathan back at base was noticing him notice what he was noticing. He glanced down again at the length of her body. No marks. Lean, well-muscled build. Long legs. He looked away.

‘I don’t know what got her,’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He was still a soldier, goddammit. ‘She’s unmarked. No puncture wounds I can see, no open wounds, no obvious breaks to limbs or spine, in fact I’d say – ’ The girl twitched and Ben stumbled back with a yell and almost fell on his ass.

Stanton swung his laser to her but Ben was in the way. ‘What! What!’ he screamed. ‘Ben! You okay?’ He rushed to Ben, his laser glowing with charge and Ben smashed the barrel of it away.

‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! She’s alive!’

‘Stand down! I repeat, stand down!’ Jonathan shouted through the coms, almost deafening Ben. ‘DO NOT SHOOT TO KILL! Wherever she came from she may have answers for us!’

Stanton stood wide legged, quivering, his laser pointed at the girl, his face white with strain.

Ben scrambled back to the girl’s side, cautiously placing a hand against her throat. ‘She has a pulse, I can feel a pulse!’ Ben said, turning his head to look at Stanton. They both yelled when the girl’s right hand snapped out and grasped Ben’s wrist. He pulled away instinctively but her grasp was steel. She opened her eyes.

‘Holy shit,’ he breathed.

Add a Comment

Submissions Needed—None Left in the Queue for Next Week. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Ilena sends the prologue and first chapter of Exhonerated. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

Prologue:

The Homestead Herald

13 Years Earlier

CONVICTED MURDERER GETS THE DEATH PENALTY

By Cindy Margolin

A double murder shocked the sleepy town of Homestead last fall, when two young girls disappeared after last seen walking home from their bus stop. Today, Thomas Wilkes, 43, has been sentenced to death row for the murder of those two young girls.

In the week after they went missing, Donald and Marie Walcott, the parents of the two girls, held a press conference seeking the public's help in solving the mystery over their disappearance. Banners and newsletters with their photographs were distributed.

Homestead's Chief of Police Glenn Frye said that the scene was "gruesome." The bodies of Melanie and Daisy Walcott, ages 13 and 7, respectively, were discovered nude and floating face up in a canal located a quarter mile from their home. An autopsy revealed that the causes of death resulted from blunt-force trauma to the side and back of their heads.

Almost a week passed after their disappearance before two eyewitnesses came forward, stating that both had witnessed Wilkes driving near the bus stop around the time the girls vanished.

Were you compelled to turn the prologue's first page?

Chapter 1:

Georgia Wilkes heartbeat rises in tandem with the needle of her truck's speedometer –already pushing past 90 m.p.h. Her hair flies around in all directions from the wind blowing through the window. It's as if a mini tornado is passing through, leaving nothing in its wake. Any rogue receipts or other little pieces of paper, remnants of a truck requiring an overdue cleaning, are pushed out by the violent gusts. The clock reads 10:32 a.m. Because she was driving south, the sunlight shines from the east and exposes only the left side of her body to the UV rays. If someone paid close attention, they'd notice that her arms were unevenly tan. A result of time spent in her truck. It was her preferred method of relaxation.

The road was mostly empty, allowing her to stay on the lane designated for faster traffic. Once in a while, she came upon a driver oblivious to the unspoken rules of the road and she'd have to switch lanes to pass them. She's about to slow down, bored of this game she was only playing with herself, when she notices a man beside her, speeding and keeping up right next to her. He smiles at her and she waves at him, placing both hands on the wheel, affirming her acceptance to race. The cat-and-mouse game continues for a couple of miles. Georgia feels the adrenaline course through her as she manages to stay ahead by employing clever driving maneuvers. A skill she possessed but one she had no use for listing on a resume. The man somehow ends up behind her, which allows her to check him out more closely. He is 24-years (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the chapter's first page?

Once again we have strong writing and a good voice. The prologue reporting a crime was good at raising story questions—I wanted to know more about the crime and the story behind it:

As for the first chapter, though, for me the only possible reason to read on was that the girl has the same last name of the accused murderer. But nothing that happens in this page—she drives fast in a truck is about it—did anything to provoke a desire to know more. The chapter is pretty much setup to give us an idea of this girl’s character, but nothing in terms of a story comes along to create real story questions. I think the real story starts later and I urge Ilena to consider starting the story at that point, the place where Georgia’s life is thrown out of whack by something that threatens her and causes her to take action. I suspect that the information in the prologue could be woven in later, thus eliminating the need, but I can’t be sure.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued

Wilkes trial was broken into two parts since Florida recognizes the death penalty. In the first phase of trial, the penalty phase, Wilkes was found guilty of first-degree murder. The trial lasted five weeks, with the jury's deliberation coming in just under four hours. Judge Ross McNeil ordered Wilkes to serve concurrent life sentences at its conclusion. "The murders of these innocent young girls was carried out in the most cold and horrifying manner," said Judge McNeil, when he announced Wilkes punishment.

It is unknown the exact date Wilkes will be executed. "Even though this doesn't bring back our girls, we're happy that justice has been served," said the Walcotts.

Chapter 1

Georgia Wilkes heartbeat rises in tandem with the needle of her truck's speedometer –already pushing past 90 m.p.h. Her hair flies around in all directions from the wind blowing through the window. It's as if a mini tornado is passing through, leaving nothing in its wake. Any rogue receipts or other little pieces of paper, remnants of a truck requiring an overdue cleaning, are pushed out by the violent gusts. The clock reads 10:32 a.m. Because she was driving south, the sunlight shines from the east and exposes only the left side of her body to the UV rays. If someone paid close attention, they'd notice that her arms were unevenly tan. A result of time spent in her truck. It was her preferred method of relaxation.

The road was mostly empty, allowing her to stay on the lane designated for faster traffic. Once in a while, she came upon a driver oblivious to the unspoken rules of the road and she'd have to switch lanes to pass them. She's about to slow down, bored of this game she was only playing with herself, when she notices a man beside her, speeding and keeping up right next to her. He smiles at her and she waves at him, placing both hands on the wheel, affirming her acceptance to race. The cat-and-mouse game continues for a couple of miles. Georgia feels the adrenaline course through her as she manages to stay ahead by employing clever driving maneuvers. A skill she possessed but one she had no use for listing on a resume. The man somehow ends up behind her, which allows her to check him out more closely. He is 24-years old. She knows this because of an uncanny ability to accurately guess a person's age. An innate talent she's had since a young age. She always thought it was because she could see right through people, past the physical and into their souls.

His eyes are dark. She can't tell if they are brown or gray but they definitely don't shine or sparkle. And she is attracted to him. Not only because his face is symmetrical and he has a nice smile, no, the real charm stems from his proclivity to challenge a stranger on the open road. She sees him smiling through the rearview mirror, indicating he is enjoying this as much as she is. Her speed is now clocking in at 101 and looking up ahead, she contemplates her next move because weaving through traffic was going to get tricky. The cars up ahead were playing some kind of vehicular red rover.

One of the cars slows down and she spots an opening she can jet through. In these moments, her brain shuts off and she goes on auto-pilot, allowing her instincts to take over. She peeks at the man behind her and his smile is now replaced with a tight lip and lines appear on his forehead, signaling that he too was contemplating his next chess move. A gray Acura up ahead is about a car's length ahead of the little red Fiat to its right. She manages to slip in the space created by the two cars, almost clipping the Fiat. The Fiat driver blasts his horn at her. Her truck's reckless presence causes the driver's around her to slow down, in an effort to avoid an accident. This allows Georgia to get back on the passing lane but she sees that her racing partner has somehow managed to come out in front. She curses but the wind drowns out any sound. The man sticks out his hand and gives her a thumbs up sign. Georgia returns the favor but doesn't display her thumb – she uses the finger generally reserved for a stronger, and more negative connotation.

He slows down. Georgia is able to catch up to him – the game now at an impasse. Smiling at her, he points up. Georgia looks out her window and sees a sign indicating an exit 2 miles ahead. She looks at him, holds up two fingers and mouths the word "exit" in the form of a question. He nods and she gives him her best attempt at a sultry smile, hunching her shoulders and then bringing them back down, releasing the tension she'd been carrying.

They move over to the far right, and she follows him, exiting off the highway. They pull up into a gas station. This is when her fight or flight instinct would kick in but there was something about this guy that made her feel like she had nothing to worry about. Yeah, he could be a serial killer. Yeah, he could beat her up to a pulp and leave her for dead at this gas station – her mother finding out from the nightly news that a girl her daughter's age was found dead about 30 miles from her home. But her intuition left her unconcerned. She decided she would be fine whether he asked her for her phone number or whether they copulated in the station's restroom. The man gets out of his truck, a newer Ford model.

"You're crazy," he says. "And I think that was called beating you."

"Maybe for a little. But eventually I would have won."

His eyes momentarily squint. "How old are you?"

"I'm nineteen." The man looks at her but doesn't say anything. "I can show you my driver's license."

"Not necessary. Follow me." Georgia follows the man to the side of the gas station, an area next to an ice machine. Two doors stand side by side, a sign over each indicating the designated gender. The man tries to open the door but it is locked.

"Wait here" he says. She contemplates leaving right now. But the electric energy from the race is still coursing through her and she knows that this is part of the fun. He comes back, holding a long wooden stick with a key attached. She grabs it from his hand, and unlocks the door, making sure to hold onto it in case she needed to defend herself. As soon as they are inside, the man thrusts her against the bathroom's white, ceramic sink and kisses her, his hands moving in mismatched directions. He unbuckles his belt and she does the same with hers, both frantic. He pulls out a condom from his pocket. Georgia notices the glossy wrapper has a bright orange sticker that says $.99. He rolls it on and this is not a moment which requires foreplay or the whispering of sweet nothings. The moment is over in 4 minutes, flat.

Afterwards, the man kisses her, gentle this time.

"It's been fun," he says and looks directly into her eyes, confirming their brown color. He leaves her standing there, dizzy and physically satisfied. Turning around, she looks at herself in the mirror. Her bright, hazel eyes staring back at her. She smiles. A gesture which betrays her emptiness. Georgia splashes water on her face and dries it with her shirt since there are no napkins available. She walks inside the gas station to return the key and pay for gas. Waiting for change, she notices the open box of condoms on the counter, all displaying the familiar orange sticker. As the teller hands her the change, he asks if she needs anything else.

"No, no I don't," she says. Because it was true.

Add a Comment

Submissions Needed—None Left in the Queue for Next Week. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Samantha sends the prologue and first chapter of her current untitled WIP. The last submission is here. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

Prologue:

As a young boy, Albert never slept when it snowed. Even without the wind, Albert imagined he heard the crystals whispering against the old shingles of the house. They murmured change. Transformation.

The windows of the attic sat low to the floor and Albert would turn onto his belly, position his elbows in the hollows of the bedsprings, and watch his backyard morph into a silver dream. Mostly, Albert watched his father’s barn, the way snow gathered on the eaves, piled in soft heaps, tumbled to the ground, piled up again. (His father built the barn long before Albert was born, felled the trees himself and painted it canary yellow—“ghastly” yellow, his mother called it. Every few years his father repainted the barn, brought it back to its original stunning glow, amid much of the family’s teasing. Some things you do only because they make you happy, his father told him with a wink.) In the night snows, the barn turned silver with the rest of the world and Albert lay for hours, watching the snow pile up and tumble down. Pile up. Tumble down.

Albert wondered about that single snowflake, the flake that brought it all down. It would have floated so gently from the blackened sky, light as air, unaware.

It shook Albert, caused a deep shudder somewhere in the regions of his maturing mind, to think that such a thing could happen. That something so small and insignificant, so ignorant of its own power could, without warning or provocation, bring the whole world crashing down.

Were you compelled to turn the prologue's first page?

Chapter 1:

At eighty-three, Albert Henry Hallam was prepared to go to jail. He thought it preferable to a nursing home where the bars were made of bingo nights and tapioca pudding. He worried, though, that his age would land him in a minimum-security facility with some soft-bellied roommate named Montgomery or Chase and with whom he might still be forced to play bingo and eat tapioca pudding. His skin color, however, could mitigate the situation. Over the slow decay of dementia, Albert thought he might happily choose a good shanking. Or was the verb form shiving? Does one shiv with a shank? Or shank with a shiv?

“You worry too much. I didn’t forget.”

Turning away from the mirror, Albert opened the drawer of the table beneath it, rummaged through the loose papers, stacks of mail, dried up pens, muttered under his breath, winced when he banged his bandaged hand against the wood—“didn’t forget, with a piddle-paddle pet, the cat got wet, and he lost his bet.” Blood seeped, unnoticed, beneath the poorly-wrapped gauze.

Several minutes later Albert found his house keys half-buried in the dirt of his potted peperomia. He never would have found them at all if not for an errant ray of light that flinted off the metal. Albert had no memory of placing the keys in the plant, nor had he reason to do so. He fought a chill, an image (cold fingers creeping over his brain, plucking out items at will); the (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the chapter's first page?

Good writing and voice here but, for me, the prologue ended up being a little too vague for me to understand its importance to the story. While it seems to start out being a scene, nothing but musing and backstory happens. Gets a “no” from me.

The chapter did begin a scene, and there’s a promise of story in the opening paragraph, plus some good writing—I really liked the idea of bars made of bingo nights and tapioca pudding. The characterization of a doddering old man worked as well, although I was confused by the unattributed dialogue in the second paragraph, and I didn’t understand what it referred to—forget what? That could use clarification. And in the third paragraph we were surprised by the fact that he was looking into a mirror—that should have been included in the first paragraph as scene-setting.

Was the narrative enough to be compelling? I ended up with an “almost.” However, later the narrative refers to his “crime spree,” and I would definitely have turned the page if the third paragraph had opened like this:

Ready to continue his crime spree, Albert opened the drawer . . . etc.

Your thoughts?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued

. . . vision was strong, compelling, but Albert had no time. Sunset was coming. He had to hurry.

Albert’s yellow slicker and matching rain hat hung in their usual place on the hook behind the front door—his disguise, or so he called it. All criminals needed a disguise (Albert was raised on radio drama; Orson Wells’ portrayal as The Shadow would unwittingly inform many of his adult predilections)—a mask, glasses, or even just a well-placed hat. Nothing too elaborate, just enough to throw off police and any potential witnesses. A good criminal needed his tools too. And Albert had these handy. He picked up the brown paper bag from the table, hefted it, a loud rattle in the darkened house. A disguise, tools, and a good cover story. Albert had them all. He was learning to lie with ease.

Parting the curtains at the living room window, Albert peered outside. Most days Officer Benjamin Light stopped at the Pathmark after his shift and picked up a frozen dinner or a bag of chicken and rolls for one. Albert had a retirement gig as a product sampler at the Pathmark—little booth set up in the freezer section, tiny plastic cups—and often saw Officer Light pass by, though he never offered the man a sample. Tuesdays, though, Albert knew that Officer Light liked to treat himself to Christie’s Crab Shack’s weekly special—a surf n’ turf burger and a to-go cup of crab bisque. Christie had chuckled at Albert’s questions, passing them off as a bit of old-man silliness, mixed with dementia. (Christie had earned a D- in Albert’s 5^th period American government, as Albert remembered, a pity pass if ever there was one.) He closed at 7:30 on Tuesday nights since Christie never missed an episode of NCIS. Christie’s was seven minutes from Albert’s house, and so that meant…yes, here was Officer Light, cruising down Shalott Drive, right on time.

The police car paused as it passed Albert’s house. Albert leaned away from the window, holding the curtain open with the tip of his finger. A moment later the car was gone, disappearing around a tree-covered bend at the end of his street.

Albert let the curtain drop.

Potting soil clung to the grooves of his keys and he gave them a shake. In fifty-two years, Albert had never locked the door to his house, and it had been fifteen years or more since he’d parked a car in his driveway. Still, Albert never went anywhere without his keys. The keys were his routine, like putting on his watch or brushing his teeth. He found more and more these days that routines kept him focused, safe. They grounded him in the man he’d always been, not this shuffling old guy he was quickly becoming.

Albert winced out of habit as he straightened his spine and slipped the key ring into his pocket. Years of arthritis had taught him to anticipate the searing pain that lit like wildfire when he bent or stretched. His lower back, his left knee…oh, that left knee that could shoot a fireball into his gut with no warning at all.

But now…Albert stood up straight, feeling each vertebrate slide easily into place. Nothing. No pain at all. Albert lifted his foot, testing his old bones. He even bounced a little, working the knee back and forth. He switched to his right foot, bounced high enough to lift his heel from the floor. Albert smiled. He’d had good days in the past, here and there, often enough for him to remain hopeful, but this was different. His recent nocturnal activities had produced an unanticipated side-effect—a cure for arthritis. Who would have thought it? His doctor would never believe him, would just smile that vacant smile and add an anti-psychotic to the stack of prescriptions. So Albert kept this little piece of magic to himself. He hopped again, a little jig in the darkened house. He smiled.

It hadn’t taken much to turn Albert to a life of crime. Less than you’d think. It was something so small, insignificant, (light as a snowflake, you might say), that brought his life crashing down around him. In truth he’d been searching for a while now, a reason, a cause, a hill on which he might die. If someone had asked him just a few weeks ago, Albert would have said his absence would go unnoticed. With the exception of the peperomia—which seemed intent on living if only to spite him—plants and dog had all withered and died in the absence of his wife’s loving care. (Death comes easily in the wake of a broken heart; Albert wondered often why the same had not happened to him.) There were no children. No nieces or nephews, cousins, siblings, in-laws. Even his colleagues at the school had all passed away. Albert had taught history and American government at Kinderkamack High School for 41 years and upon returning to the school 5 years ago (some “meet your elders” senior project his wife had guilted him into) Albert had recognized no one. Not one single soul.

So yes, a few weeks ago, Albert would have said that aside from the paper girl, there was no one to notice if he should suddenly up and disappear.

This was June. By August Albert’s crime-spree would be over and he could vanish—either to jail or more heavenly regions—without incident. This fact bothered Albert very little, the irrelevant nature his life had taken on. He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that it was something of a relief. That the idea was alluring: slipping away, unnoticed.

But that was before.

The house next door was occupied again, and this occurrence had changed everything. In the beginning—was it thirty years ago now?—renters had come and gone, and every so often a garden would appear in the front yard, grow for a season, and die when the house went vacant again. The renters never stayed long, spooked by the rumors, or so Albert had heard. The house next door was something of a suburban legend, neighborhood lore that had grown only darker and more wild with time. But Albert was not one to spread stories, even if the tale Albert could tell was much, much worse.

Painters came every five years to repaint the house—purple, from roof to foundation, shutters to shingles—and the homeowners association would kick up their usual fuss (Bergen county New Jersey had a take-no-prisoners approach to community management, though the older neighborhoods, like Albert’s, had grandfather laws on their side). With the painters came renewed hope. A possibility of return. But for years now, the painters had come and she had not, and Albert had begun to believe he’d lost his chance forever. Then late one night last fall, Albert saw a light go on in the house. There had been no moving van, no truck of any kind. Just that single light. He waited. He watched. Just to be sure. And now he was. Clare Lyndsay had finally come home.

And time was running out.

“I’ll listen to you this time. I promise,” Albert said, his words catching only a stray cobweb in the corner of the darkened room.

Albert lingered a full minute after the police car went around the corner before he opened the front door. He counted the minute out loud, whispering—forty-two, forty-three, forty-four—amazed again at the vigor and force his days had suddenly taken on. It was as if he’d returned to the stage after years of sitting and watching from the wings. So easily he’d slipped back into the leading role of his life. His hero’s journey was not quite over, it seemed. There were still adventures to be had. Dragons to defeat. Maidens to rescue. He might just earn an honorable death yet.

Albert stepped onto the porch, chuckling at himself as he shut the door behind him and started down the sidewalk. Such hubris. Conceit. He knew better. Hadn’t he taught his students better? Didn’t every character in history think he was the protagonist of the story?

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Submissions Needed. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Kelsey sends a revision of her first chapter of This Bitter Cup. The last submission is here. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

I closed the door softly and crept down the hallway. It was dark as the castle’s torches were not lit at this hour. I quickened my pace and just as I checked the hallway behind me I walked straight into a man.

No, a boy. My age. He was not wearing the uniform of the castle guard or a servant’s livery. His clothing was a muted shade of black, as if to hide among the shadows between the lines of moonlight shining through the balistrarias. We locked eyes for a moment before he continued running down the hallway.

I continued in the opposite direction from him and threw myself headlong down the spiral staircase into the bowels of the castle. I exited through the scullery entrance into the cool night. I pulled my hood close to hide my porcelain skin; it would instantly tell any guards I wasn’t the servant I was dressed as.

I followed the narrow river that bisected the city to Madge’s Inn. Upon entering I was startled to find Madge herself sitting behind the counter. No one knew how old Madge was but no one could remember a time before her Inn either. I had assumed she’d died but I was glad she hadn’t.

Madge nodded at me and moved her stool and the rug beneath it to reveal a small trapdoor. I opened it and climbed down the ladder into darkness.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

I do like the voice here and the atmosphere of this opening. It’s clear that the protagonist is up to something she doesn’t want anyone to know about . . . but what? She avoids discovery, but what are the consequences if she is discovered? What is the story about? These aren’t story questions, they are information questions, and it would be stronger if there were answers here. A hint of her mission, the stakes, any consequences to create a little tension. As it is, there wasn’t quite enough to pull me forward. As it turns out, even though we go with her to a secret meeting, we end up not knowing what it’s about, nor what the story concerns. We need more chew on before we can develop a taste here, Kelsey. But keep at it, there’s plenty of potential in these pages, and you've improved on the original. Some notes:

I closed the door softly and crept down the hallway. It was dark as the castle’s torches were not lit at this hour. I quickened my pace and just as I checked the hallway behind me I walked straight into a man.

No, a boy. My age. He was not wearing the uniform of the castle guard or a servant’s livery. His clothing was a muted shade of black, as if to hide among the shadows between the lines of moonlight shining through the balistrarias. We locked eyes for a moment before he continued running down the hallway. It seems to me that black is black and there are no shades of black. Those are called “gray.” And the boy/man wasn’t running when she walked into him, he just seemed to have been there. I would change “continued running” to “ran.” for this to track in a meaningful way.

I continued in the opposite direction from him and threw myself headlong down the spiral staircase into the bowels of the castle. I exited through the scullery entrance into the cool night. I pulled my hood close to hide my porcelain skin; it would instantly tell any guards I wasn’t the servant I was dressed as.

I followed the narrow river that bisected the city to Madge’s Inn. Upon entering I was startled to find Madge herself sitting behind the counter. No one knew how old Madge was but no one could remember a time before her Inn either. I had assumed she’d died but I was glad she hadn’t.

Madge nodded at me and moved her stool and the rug beneath it to reveal a small trapdoor. I opened it and climbed down the ladder into darkness. Here, if not earlier, would be a good place to hint at some aspect of story. For instance: I opened and climbed down the ladder into darkness to join my fellow conspirators.

For what it’s worth.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued

I felt for the door and rapped quickly, hoping I remembered the pattern. I heard the latch click and entered the room. The walls and floor were packed earth but the ceiling was black stone, like a starless night sky.

I sat at a table. “How many are we waiting for?” I asked the large, black bearded man behind the counter. I remembered him vaguely from the last meeting.

“Four,” he replied and continued to stare at the door.

I twiddled my thumbs. My nerves made me feel like a crouched cat, ready to flee at the first whiff of a threat. Four more people trickled through the door over the course of half of an hour. I recognized half of them. One was the town blacksmith’s apprentice. The other worked for the baker.

I sat alone at my table, the only woman in a room full of men.

One of the men I didn’t recognize stood behind the bar and the bearded man sat down at a table. He placed both his palms flat on the well-worn wood and looked out at the room.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve just received word that we have acquired the maps.”

He looked at me. “We have been trying to acquire these for some time but have been unable to ourselves,” he looked back out at the room, “this was accomplished through the use of an outside…contractor.”

The boy I had seen in the hallway?

“You will receive further instructions when we reconvene in a fortnight.”

That was all he had to say? Everyone left except for the black bearded man and the man who had addressed us.

“What the hell has happened since the last meeting?” I demanded. “Why isn’t Samuel running these meetings anymore? Why do I only recognize three people?”

“Such unbecoming language for a lady,” the black bearded man said.

“Introductions are in order,” the other man said more tactfully, “I’m Richard and this is my cousin John, you may remember him from the last weekend.”

“I remember,” I said, crossing my arms and raising my chin.

“We had an incident with Samuel last week,” Richard said, “the guards noticed him asking a lot of questions and they took him in to ask some of their own and he hasn’t been seen since.”

“If you kept a better handle on your castle you would have already known that,” John said to me. “And if you’d gotten the maps a fortnight ago like we’d planned this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Who was this contractor?”

John and Richard looked at each other. “No one you need you need to worry about,” said Richard. “You won’t ever be seeing him.”

“I like to meet everyone involved at least once,” I said. “You know that.”

“I no longer think that’s the wisest policy, plausible deniability and all that. With the guards taking people I’d hate to see your lovely name tortured out of anyone. Best to keep you in the shadows.”

I glared at them. “Fine, I’ll see you in a fortnight.” I stormed out of the room.

When I left Madge’s the river was lit with the silvery light of the moon but there wasn’t any hint of dawn on the horizon. I was on time. In the quiet silver light all I heard was the river lapping against the shore but I swear I felt someone watching me.

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Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.

I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free. I’ve noticed that many of these folks use a prologue—this one does, but it’s so short I’m skipping ahead to the first chapter. Following is the first page and a poll. Then my comments are after the fold along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a second poll concerning the need for an editor.

Should this author have hired an editor? Here’s the the first page from a book by Dick Cluster.

“… too many changes at once,” Alex was saying. He recognized this for a rationalization, and an old, barnacle-encrusted one to boot. He wondered how many other times it had been enunciated, sotto voce, over this same slippery table, by men or women whose fingertips traced, as his did, circles of diluted bourbon on the black Formica top. He envied the piano player, whose dry fingers glided brilliantly over shiny keys.

The pianist, Meredith had said, was playing a song cycle by Franz Peter Schubert. Alex hadn’t been able to identify the composer, though he could have said it was a European who worked after Bach and before Stravinsky. He did happen to know one surprising fact about Schubert— at least it had been surprising to him— which was that he had died even younger than Mozart, at the age of thirty-one. “Hey, listen,” Alex had said more than once since coming upon this fact, “I’ve already outlived Schubert by nine years, and Che Guevara by one.”

Tonight Alex had expected jazz piano, not classical. And why not, when he had watched the pianist amble in from his break: a dapper man, rimless glasses and well-shaped mustache, a sort of older Herbie Hancock, though then Alex had realized that Herbie Hancock himself wasn’t so young anymore. The musician had sat down, flexed his long brown fingers, and conjured these august Germanic rhythms out of the machine.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow.

The writing and voice are good, but, as a little old lady once said in a hamburger commercial, “Where’s the beef?” A man sits at a table in a bar, musing. Then there’s some backstory. Then a piano player plays music. Story questions? None here and, with an opening this languid, I suspected it wouldn’t appear for far too many pages. I passed. You can turn the first page here.

Edit poll

Should this writer have hired an editor?

Your thoughts?

Ray

Add a Comment

Submissions Needed. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

Tamara sends a revision of her first chapter of This Bitter Cup. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

“Cora, get away from the window!” mother shrieks. “Someone will see you.”

I leave the small window with murky glass, allowing the curtain to drift back into place. “Mother, just who is ‘someone’?”

“Them! They will never stop until they have us. They seek us relentlessly and we must not let them win. We must not.”

“Let them win what? Since father died, we’ve lost everything.” My words come out too curt and I hadn’t intended that. So, I pull in a deep breath before trying again. “Exactly who is out there?”

“It doesn’t matter if you know who they are. You could know precisely who they are and still never find them. They are quiet clever, ingenious with disguise. Practically imperceptible. I keep telling you―do not trust anyone. You must listen to me; our lives depend on it and much, much more,” she declares, her agitation growing until she chokes with intensity. She swallows hard to compose herself. And when she speaks again, her voice is soothing, comforting, almost like a real mother. “Cora, I trust you.”

I want to believe her, but I see the manic eyes and crazed expression. They make me want to shout, yank out my hair, or run through the door, but instead I utter, “Then why won’t you tell me something—anything.”

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Good story questions and tension in this opening, enough to make me want to know more. The writing is pretty clean, but you should capitalize Mother and Father when they are used as names as you do here. And I think you meant “quite clever,” not “quiet clever.” Stay with it, there’s promise here.

For what it’s worth.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Continued:

“I don’t want them to have any information they can torture out of you.”

Chills cascade over my body and I shiver.

Mother nods sagely, acknowledging that I’m right to be fearful.

But I push the dark, forbidding feelings away. They’re a temporary weakness. A feral response to her threatening predictions and I refuse to be frightened of something without a name. It could be a person, a thing, or some existential idea—I don’t know. Because living with my mother is like living in a bizarre, tangled-up spy conspiracy. Except, the only true twist to our scenario —we play the game alone.

I glance over at mother; she’s pale and ragged, too thin and unkempt. A mere shadow of her former self. My scrutiny moves to the lank brown hair she’s carelessly chopped short. It’s a chaotic wreck; a hapless, derelict helmet dumped on top her head. Without meaning to my forehead furrows.

Mother senses my gaze and the clickity-clicking of her rapid knitting needles stops. She glances up from the cloister of the shabby, green chair and blinks back at me, resembling a confused, old owl. So, forcing a reassuring smile, I meet her eyes and hold them until she’s content to resume her work.

Meager sunlight seeps by the taut curtains, leaving a single gas lamp to provide illumination. The stale room holds no decorations and only a minimal amount of furniture: mother’s chair, the gas lamp on a short table, a blocky ottoman. Since all mother’s moving has whittled down her existence, she lives like a transient; hence the house resembles its owner, an empty shell.

I wander toward the only other piece of furniture and perch myself on the edge. In unsatisfied silence, I wait for the clock to drag its hands to noon. Until a knock at the door shatters the calm.

Mother’s head whips up, her body rigid, her breathing rapid.

“I’ll get it.”

“No! Go to the kitchen. Do something quiet,” mother flings out her words like silent, whizzing shrapnel.

I purse my lips and roll my eyes, but I obey.

Mother waits until I step around the corner to open the door.

“Mrs. Kent, a grocery delivery for you,” a man states.

“I only receive deliveries on Wednesday.” A pause. “Why are you really here?”

“Ma’am, your delivery date changed. It is now Tuesday. Check the bags, they should hold everything you ordered.”

I hear rustling, then mother says, “It’s all there. But, that doesn’t mean this isn’t odd.”

In my imagination I picture mother staring at him with a hawk-like stare while the man squirms with discomfort.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” the man replies after a brief pause.

“I know who you are and why you’re here, but don’t believe for a moment I will tell you anything. My husband and I made a pact and I don’t intend on breaking it now.”

Feeling sorry for the man, I step out of the kitchen. “It’s fine, mother. Let me carry the bags.” I give the man an apologetic smile, but he stares back at me with a well-arched frown, his long, stretchy neck reaching forward so his eyes can examine me.

Mother looks back at me with horror before she shoves the man backward, steps out after him, and shuts the door behind her, barricading me inside. A muffled exchange of heated words follows and then improbably fast, mother bursts through the door and slams it shut.

“Mother, it was a grocery delivery. You must recognize the grocer. He’s not one of them.”

“You can’t know that,” she snaps.

“It doesn’t matter anyway, Father wasn’t killed by them. You realize where he worked—in the wilds, one of the most hostile, most impossible environments anywhere.”

She huffs back at me before moving to place her ear at the door, listening for some unseen evil that lurks around doorways in broad daylight.

“And that was just the benign landscape. What about the Duroians. Those monsters roam the countryside like a plague and they would have annihilated father and his team in an instant.” I wave my hands in intensity. “But, the Duroians are not them, and they had nothing to do with Father’s death. Ill-fated circumstances caused his end. Father warned us many times of the risks and we both accepted it, always thinking nothing unfortunate would ever happen...,” I let my voice trail off.

“Foolish, naive girl,” is the reply she deigns. For like always, mother remains silent on the subject, refusing to discuss or even acknowledge father’s death and our reality.

But as long as she’s stuck in this black, sucking void of delusion, I’m alone in the world. Mother’s all I have left, so I can’t give up. “Surely you haven’t forgotten everything. Somewhere in your mind you’ve got to remember what father told us. His caution, his concern, his surety that tragedy would disrupt his work. You can’t have lost it all.”

But she gazes back at me with this sad, pathetic face. Almost like she pities me.

Her reaction makes me angry. Angry she can be so weak. That she can wallow, broken and helpless when she should be strong. Strong for me. I was the child. But somewhere our roles got mixed up, and she became the child, insistent and irrational and incapable of caring for me or herself. And this weakness, this inaction makes me want to lash out, shake her, strike her, throw things, and shout. Anything. I would do absolutely anything to make her see reason.

But all the fury in the world, all the force, all the sound arguments could hold no sway over the fantasy. I need proof. Hard facts. I must discover the truth and bring back my mother. I understood long ago real evidence was the only way to right her mind. So, I resign to say no more. Instead of angry, self-righteous, indignant arguments, I will smile, reassure, and play the good daughter. It is the right thing to do, the kind thing. And it is more important to be good.

I’m deciding my course of action while mother sneaks around, listening at every opening for even a whisper of a threat. When she feels satisfied no imminent peril threatens, she moves back to her knitting, resuming a frenetic pace. I slouch on my seat opposite her and stare into the empty air wondering why I haven’t taken her to a therapist.

When the carriage finally arrives for me at noon, we give each other a stiff hug in an unemotional farewell. She gives me her usual somber warnings with a face pale and pinched from anxiety while I dutifully accept her advice. Then she holds out a pair of knobby, woeful socks and nods at me to accept them. Our eyes meet for the briefest moment before I take the socks with a tight smile and scamper out the door towards the waiting carriage. As soon as the door clicks shut, it begins to rumble away and like always, I try to hide the hollow, empty spot in my chest that emerges when I must go.

Sticking my arm out the window, I give mother a quick goodbye wave she doesn’t see, but only because she’s already slammed the door shut. Probably securing all seven heavy-duty, industrial locks too. So, I don’t bother checking to see if she will peek through the curtains to watch me fade into the distance. I know she would never risk such unnecessary exposure. I don’t even turn to watch the elementary shape of mother’s house disappear into the surrounding identical homes. Instead, I lean back and speculate how long it will be before mother moves on because of another threatening notion.

After traveling for five days along lonely, poorly maintained roads through a sea of muted greens and browns, I arrive at the gate to the forward operating base I call home. Bags in hand, I check in with the gate attendant while my carriage rambles away. The man with the too-small eyes and little-to-no neck processes me at a glacial pace, asking an exorbitant number of questions, checking then rechecking my bags, conducting an overly thorough physical inspection and then cross-examining me again. When he finally grants me clearance, I lug my baggage towards the main compound that is dark, institutional, and foreboding.

In the Social Republic, my base is considered quite modern. Although in reality, we operate in antiquity like everyone else. We may have electricity, but it’s for contemporary technologies, not human comfort. The government wants our commander in possession of every tool to war against the Duroians. For a residual amount of energy resources are left and a small amount of power is still in production, but there’s nothing available for average citizens. The Socialist and Duroian governments hold a monopoly on the dwindling energy supply and they wage war for what little remains.

I tell myself that even though I work on a military base, I am not part of the war effort. I’m only a physician here. I heal people. Though sometimes I’m not sure. Sometimes, I think I am part of the problem, mending soldiers that will fight for the government’s self-indulgent greed. I have talked about this with my only real friend on the base, Pasha. She tells me I think too much and to quit over-analyzing every detail— it’s a job; just do my job. I guess she’s probably right.

Pasha is one of the few women who work here. She’s a research scientist, and she’s extravagantly intelligent, but she doesn’t flaunt it to the extent she comes off eccentric and obscure like the other scientists. She has smooth, caramel skin and a slightly hooked nose that’s not so definitive as to make her unattractive. But her best feature by far is her long, glossy black hair. Except she knows this and having a flair for the dramatic, she often tosses it around. Honestly, I believe the only reason she works here is the abundance of single men.

Pasha finds me not long after I arrive and sits on the bed in my small, simply furnished quarters, eager to fill me in on the latest news and gossip. Well, mostly just gossip. She leads in with the most mundane news she deems worthy of repetition, “Matthew McGuffin broke his arm last week. He slipped on a pile of mashed potatoes in the dining hall. And, surprise, surprise, Shannequa Jamison dyed her hair again, blonde. She looks absolutely ridiculous and now she will never catch a man.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she concedes. “But that’s not the best news.” And before she will disclose a single, delicious word, Pasha waits for me to glance up while tapping her foot with impatience.

Catching the hint, I pause my unpacking to look back at her with the most pathetic attempt of showing interest imaginable.

She laughs. “You won’t look so afflicted when I tell you the news.”

My face remains unchanged.

Undeterred, her eyes grow large, her face animated. “A large company of soldiers will arrive, accompanied by a new base commander. His name is Commander Alessio Ferrair and I understand he is a vision to behold.”

I turn back to my unpacking.

“You could try to act interested, Cora. This will matter to you tomorrow.”

I sigh and sit, turning my face towards her with unblinking eyes to show I’m giving her my full attention.

She puckers her face up, disgruntled. “Well, it obviously doesn’t matter to certain people, but I’m tired of weak, ugly men who think having a backbone means shouting, issuing threats, and degrading people. I’m ready for a handsome, young man who understands how to lead and also happens to be single.”

“What does that have to do with the new base commander?”

“You really don’t pay attention to anything that isn’t right in front of your face do you?”

“Then please explain,” I reply, wishing she would get on with it. I have so much to accomplish before my shift in the infirmary tonight.

“I told you that a new commander is arriving. But what I haven’t told you yet,” she pauses for dramatic effect, “is that he’s supposed to be devastatingly handsome, not just a nice-looking guy, but inhumanly gorgeous. He’s tall, powerfully built, and a real muscle man. Absolutely Grecian god-like.” Pasha raises her eyebrows in tantalizing expression.

“My source says he’s young for a commander as well. Maybe only a few years older than us. Kinda makes you wonder how he rose to the top so fast. I bet there’s a good story there and I will find that out, but for now, the incomparable Commander Ferrair leads the only battalion entirely comprised of men and it’s one of the only groups with enough skill and passion to equal their Duroian counterparts. It’s reported that they are so fierce and so brilliant they have never seen defeat. Well that’s what I’ve heard anyway, though I’m sure it’s true, because it came from a very reliable source.

“But I am warning you, there will be many injured, because these men are arriving straight from a bloody engagement with the Duroians in the volcanic mountain range and it’s said they drove the Duroians deep into their own territory. Of course, this success must be credited where it belongs.” Pasha beams. “To Commander Ferrair, obviously.” Her eyes hold a far-away glaze, “He must be so dashing.”

“I wonder how this commander can do anything but fail, with such unrealistic expectations,” I counter.

Although Pasha continues as if I hadn’t spoken, citing an ever-increasing list of mythical qualities the new commander and his soldiers, must certainly possess. Until finally, she concludes with a confident raise of her chin, “Well, now that I know everything about him, it’s obvious we’re fated for each other. I mean he’s so perfect. How could we not fall madly and desperately in love? So, I’m preparing for our wedding. Military style, of course. I mean you never can start these things too early. Military men expect everything to be meticulous.” She pauses to sigh dreamily. Before recovering to add, “Well, I can hardly wait to meet him. I’ve picked out my outfit and make-up combination, but how do you think I should wear my hair?”

Now, I smile at her openly and she grins confidently at me in return, though I can’t help wondering how she found out so much concerning the commander and his battalion. I mean the new battalion is big news and such interesting information spreads fast, but the extent of Pasha’s knowledge is ridiculous. However, within hours of her predictions regarding the state of the arriving men, I find out that Pasha was right. About everything.

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Submissions Desired. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

EJ sends a revision of her first chapter of Called . The rest of the chapter follows the break.

Please vote and comment. It helps the writer.

“How many girls, mom?”

“I only invited a couple dozen girls and their parents, Mackenzie. You will be polite and have a good time.”

Two-dozen girls? Kill me now.

“What made you think I would enjoy this?" I asked.

“Because we’ve been in South Carolina since the middle of May and you need to find some girlfriends." She thought she was helping me, I know, but still. “Mackenzie, you need to branch out.”

I took a deep breath. “Mom, I like my life the way it is—it’s uncomplicated, plain, and simple. My friends live in my iPod, and my therapist within the pages of books."

“You had friends in Lubbock.” My mother let out a sigh. “Here it seems like you’ve retreated into yourself because you’re afraid of getting hurt. School is starting on Monday. Don’t you think it’d be nice to, at least, have a few acquaintances?”

My shoulders slumped. “I had a friend in Lubbock, and she sailed the good ship Brad to Relationship Island never to be heard from again." I looked up. “Plus, you know how I feel about large crowds."

She eyed me closely. “You know, most girls want their 16th birthday party to be huge." My mom turned to grab the tenth batch of cupcakes to frost.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

I like the voice, and the writing is good. Mackenzie says funny things, and I liked the promise of more entertaining prose and thoughts. On the other hand, I suspect that this opening would only be compelling to a seriously introverted teen. The only story question raised is the level of how bummed she will be while attending a party in her honor. The stakes? Not much. What’s the story about? Don’t know. The remainder of the chapter continues in a similar vein, ending with Mackenzie getting ready to dress for the party. As far as I can see, there are no consequences to her attending, and really no desires that can be frustrated other than not going to a party. I suspect the real story starts later, and, considering the fun of the character, I’d like to read that part.

For what it’s worth.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Continued:

“We both know I’m not most girls, mom."

“I know and I know you don’t like crowds, but the invitations have already been sent out. Your father wouldn’t allow the party to be canceled at this point. You know that, right?"

“Yes, I know."

I slipped off my seat, and stood looking at my mom.

“Can I go to my room now? If I’m going to survive tomorrow night, I need some me time."

My mom nodded and I went up the stairs to my room just as the sun started to set. In less than twenty-four hours my house would be so full of estrogen, middle-aged women wouldn’t need their hormone pills for weeks.

East of Eden was in the DVD player, and I snagged the remote before plopping onto my bed. My eyes closed as I crossed my arms behind my head. Hopefully, this would be my one and only birthday party.

The next morning as I descended the stairs, I heard karaoke music filtering out of the living room. If the morning was any indication of how the night was to be, then I was in for a long night. An excruciatingly, long night.

I peeked around the corner of the kitchen into the living room, and sure enough, a small stage was set up. There were pink streamers taped from each corner to the center of the ceiling. The couches had been replaced with uncomfortable metal chairs and they were angled to face a mini-stage.

My dad was the one doing the sound check. He was butchering Girls Just Want to Have Fun. I would have asked God for relief, but at that moment, I’m positive He had his hands over his ears.

My dad was a preacher which makes me a preacher’s kid. He had expectations of me—so did every church member I’ve ever met. My problem was I excelled in never achieving the level of expectations he had of me. It made for a contentious relationship, to say the least.

He was on the chorus when he saw me and stopped. I guess I hadn’t been quick enough to hide the grimace on my face.

His eyes narrowed. “You need to check your attitude. Remember, you have just as much an obligation to the congregation as your mother and I do. Just think of this party as a way to make up for your lack of interest.”

My shoulders drooped, and I hung my head.

Obligation? I don’t remember filling out any job applications before joining this family.

My palms started stinging and I realized I’d dug my fingernails into them. I wanted so badly to say what I was thinking, but I knew it would be pointless.

“Yes, sir,” I said and turned to my mom. “I’m sorry, mom, thanks for the party. I’m sure it will be great." I mustered all the sincerity I could.

“Jack, I’m sure she’s just nervous. She doesn’t know anyone." Then she looked at me. “Mackenzie, get upstairs and get ready to go. I have an appointment for you to get your hair and makeup done. Be ready to leave in an hour.”

Aw, man…makeup? This day should be classified as torture.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be ready." Sadness hung on every word, but my parents were deaf.

I was dressed and waiting for my mom by the car an hour later. Moncks Corner was a small town less than an hour from the coast. It was absolutely beautiful, and I could smell the salt in the air even that far inland. It was just as hot as Lubbock, but the humidity was a completely different experience.

Lubbock was a dry heat…kinda like being roasted. Moncks Corner, on the other hand, was a wet heat; like being steamed. It really didn’t affect me though because I was always cold. The stares I got didn’t lessen in my new town. Those looks, like, who’s the freak in 120-degree weather wearing a long sleeve shirt?

My mom chattered about girl stuff the entire twenty-five minute drive to Northwood’s Mall and continued babbling the entire two hours we were in the salon. My favorite part was the hairdryer. I couldn’t hear a thing.

On the way out of the mall, I caught sight of a clothing store my mom would enjoy. I picked out a pair of jeans that, according to her, actually fit.

When we arrived back home, my guests were already starting to arrive, almost an hour early. I sighed and it must have caught my mom’s attention.

She was quiet and composed when she spoke which meant scary Mom was close to being unleashed. “Mackenzie, I love you, but you will be on your best behavior tonight. These girls are part of your father’s church. Do I make myself clear, young lady?” It wasn’t a request, but a demand.

“Yes,” I said curtly and jumped out of the car.

Inside, there were five girls and their parents. A couple of them were deacons, and the others were members of the choir. That’s when my brain kicked in—it wasn’t about me making friends, this was schmoozing and church politics.

Great.

“Hi,” A deep voice shook me out of my thoughts. “You’re Mackenzie, right?" It was the lead elder, Elijah Garret, and father of Blair and Daphne Garret. From what I’d gathered, they were the two most popular girls at Berkeley High School.

I cleared my throat. “Uh, yea…yes, sir. I’m Mac.”

“Well, Mackenzie,” he said, emphasizing my name, “it’s nice to meet you. My daughters should be here soon or, well, I hope so. Those two girls like to make entrances so they might be late." He eyed me up and down as he shook my hand.

“Um, ok.” I chewed on my lip. “Well, I’d better get upstairs and changed. I don’t really like making entrances. I’m pretty much happy being a wallflower." I turned and ran for the stairs.

I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, and pulled out my new clothes.

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

your title
your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.

Add a Comment

Submissions Desired. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Download a free PDF copy here.

Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.

A First-page Checklist

It begins engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character does something.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
What happens raises a story question.

Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.

Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.

EJ sends a revision of her first chapter of Called . The rest of the chapter follows the break.

Please vote and comment. It helps the writer.

“How many girls, mom?” “I only invited a couple dozen girls and their parents, Mackenzie. You will be polite and have a good time.” Two-dozen girls? Kill me now.

“What made you think I would enjoy this?" I asked.

“Because we’ve been in South Carolina since the middle of May and you need to find some girlfriends." She thought she was helping me, I know, but still. “Mackenzie, you need to branch out.” I took a deep breath. “Mom, I like my life the way it is—it’s uncomplicated, plain, and simple. My friends live in my iPod, and my therapist within the pages of books."