What's Broken -- How to Critique

Are you ready to help 10 authors fix what's broken?  Here are some tips:

• Read the entire excerpt for continuity, and to help ground you (since most, though not all, of the excerpts drop us into the middle of the story).
• Then go back and critique as normal, focusing on what isn't working.
• If you can, explain why it isn't working.
• And, of course, if yours is one of the 10 entries, please take the time to critique a minimum of 3 others.

This should be an interesting exercise for everyone, and will hopefully be helpful to the 10 participants. Time to sparkle, everyone!

What's Broken? #10

TITLE: THREE WISHES
GENRE: YA Contemporary Fantasy

Eugénie (Genie) Lowry's body changed from Kate-Hudson-flat to Katy-Perry-curvy the instant she turned 17 1/2. Her grandmother (Mamère) is trying to explain to her why this happened. (I've been told that Genie accepts this new information too readily.)

“Are you being deliberately dense, my dearest girl? Haven’t you ever heard of genies?”

“What?” I gasp, floored. Can she actually be implying what I think she’s implying? I couldn’t, in my wildest dreams, ever have imagined that this is what my grandmother was going to say. “No. What are you talking about? You’re trying to tell me, I mean, I’m a . . . real . . . genie?”

“Yes,” she says with a breathy gush, nodding in relief that I understand her.

“That’s crazy. You’re crazy. There is no way.” I breathe for a couple of beats, trying to get my bearings. This is a ridiculous conversation.

“How—how can this be? Mamère, I don’t understand,” I whisper.

She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She won’t meet my eyes. “Eugénie, today you have begun the six-month process of becoming a genie. As with all genies, you reached your physical maturity on your 17 ½ birthday, and you will reach your full wish power between now and the day you turn 18. I don’t know much more about it, unfortunately, just the little your mother told me before we lost her.” She glances at me quickly. “Thank goodness I knew this much, so Papa and I could be prepared for this change, if it were going to happen.”

“Are you saying that my mother was a genie? I thought they lived in bottles, or something like that. Am I supposed to grant you wishes now?!” I pause, wide-eyed. “How can this possibly be true? I don’t understand. I mean, I get it, but I still don’t get it. What does this mean?” Mamère is struggling to answer me as I’m babbling out questions, and moves to put her arms around me. I hold up my hand to stop her, and drop my face into my arms. This is too much to take right now, and I don’t want to be touched.

I sit back, nearly rocking the papasan out of its base, suddenly thinking about strange occurrences from throughout my life: the lunches forgotten at home that seemed to magically appear in my backpack when I wanted them; the perennial green lights I get when I drive around town—it’s always been a joke between Leia and me.

My heart is racing, and I blink slowly. I look at her and start to ask a question but stop myself, instead nodding silently at her. With my world turned upside-down in a single day, there’s a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach that can only be helped with more chocolate. My grandmother swallows, and opens her mouth, as if to say more. I shake my head for her to stop. Choking on more questions rising inside of me for which I’m just not ready for answers, I am floored, and I need to be alone. Immediately.

“Good night, Mamère,” I manage to get out, and flee up the stairs to my attic room—my sanctuary--only stopping in the kitchen long enough to grab some peanut butter cups on the way up.

What's Broken? #9

TITLE: Tree of Many Colors
GENRE: MG Historical

In the 1930's ten-year-old Jamie struggles through the WV Coalfileds in search of love and a home.

(Does first person pov work for this? Am I using age/era appropriate slang? Should I drop the slang?)

For the tenth time my metal hoop clanged to the ground, and I could almost hear Pa saying, “It’s okay, Jimmy, hoop rolling's an art. I rolled mine to school and back every day when I was your age.”

I wanted to roll the hoop like Pa, but it kept going sideways and flopping on the ground. Each time it hit the ground, I grabbed it and tried again – rolling my tree limb around the inside while trying to keep it upright. I had to learn how for Pa’s sake so I kept picking up and whacking that hoop until it kept rolling.

That was almost a year ago -- one day after Christmas. Pa didn’t come home on time, and we learned he’d been killed in a coal mine accident. Everything changed overnight. Ma disappeared. I was sent to a state home to live with strangers. The people at the home tried to comfort me, I didn’t want their help, I just wanted Ma and Pa. I kept hearing Pa’s last words in my head so I practiced rolling my hoop every day just like he had taught me, but Pa doesn’t know that. He can’t watch me anymore, and the emptiness won’t go away. If I can’t have Pa, I don’t need anyone. I can take care of myself -- I have this whole year.

What's Broken? #8

TITLE: Love and Cupcakes
GENRE: Women's Fiction Magical Realism

This is the opening of my novel about Jack Pace, the owner of a cupcake bakery whose ability to sense other people's desires threatens to ruin her business and the possibility of a romantic relationship with her business partner, Graham.

Jaclyn Pace could smell desire. Not in the a-wild-bear-can-smell-fear kind of way, but in the physical, literal sense. When she came within two feet of people desperate for something sweet to eat, she could tell with one inhaled breath exactly what they craved.

With some people, it was a subtle whiff of chocolate that tickled her nose. With others the sensation was so strong Jack had to hold on to the smooth counter to keep from being knocked over by the scent of strawberry shortcake or rocky road.

It didn’t help that the town of Sugar, Georgia, was shrouded in a faint scent of spun sugar year round. It clung to clothes and wove into hair so the townspeople smelled like they’d just come from a circus, though the last one of those to come to Sugar was more than ten years before.

She didn’t have to concentrate or chant magic words to make it happen. It was simply there. Like a hint of flavor in the air. As the owner of a cupcake bakery, she normally didn’t mind the constant attack on her senses—it was good for business.

But business could always be better.

Jack removed the special order cupcakes from the cooler. The metal tray numbed her fingertips. She transferred the pink cupcakes topped with vibrant lemony icing into boxes, fitting each one into a hole in the cardboard tray. Then she stacked the boxes and inched them off the table until she could get both hands underneath them. Halfway to the front counter, she froze.

The pang of desire hit fast. It was strong, almost deliberate, like whomever it belonged to wanted her to feel them. She shook her head to dislodge the scent. The air in the room grew hot. She leaned into the door jamb and forced herself to breathe. The air burned her throat. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the flavors that assaulted her. The sharp bite of salt mixed with the sugary flavor of milk chocolate and caramel made the glands in the back of her throat clench.

Her vision blurred when she opened her eyes. Dark figures moved on the sidewalk and across the street, but she couldn’t make out their faces. She lost feeling in her fingers. Her arms trembled with the weight of the boxes. They slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a crunch. The top two boxes slid off the bottom. One tipped, hitting on its side before landing upside down.

She crouched, hanging her head between her legs as she forced air in and out. The sensation subsided just as quickly as it started. The scent of lemon emanated from the mess on the floor. She lifted the lid of one box. Icing clung to the top in thick, yellow globs. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

“S***,” she said.

She picked up both of the mashed boxes and dumped them in the garbage.

What's Broken? #7

TITLE: Little Things
GENRE: Middle Grade

Ellie is thirteen and has recently discovered miniature toy-like people perfect down to the last detail on a nearby sidewalk. She doesn't know who puts them there or why, but she is the only one who can see them. After she discovers an old woman placing them, Ellie begins to have dreams. She is an independent, strong girl. I want to be sure these dream sequences fit her voice and/or age.

CHAPTER SIX

Everything was black. Not just the color, but the feel and smell. Amidst musty, dense, dark clouds, billions of small white particles streamed from her fingertips. They flowed away from her like she had always imagined electrons and protons behaving. She experimented wiggling her fingers up and down and they formed into rippling waves of motion streaming off into the blackness. She looked down where her body might be, but there was nothing to see. She just was .

It didn't feel like a dream exactly. It was too real. There was newness to it. More like she was in an untouched place that felt somehow familiar. All of her focus was on the particles coming from the edges of her. She concentrated on following the streams. At first it was overwhelming. All of her, her entire self, whatever that meant was just flowing outward. Then she found if she focused on one finger, she could jump on board as if on a river and follow it outwards. That was the only way she could categorize it--a goal--something somehow worth seeking. Then she was pulled forward quickly into the other "place."

Then she was sitting up in her bed, disoriented, staring at her poster of the Seattle Sounders soccer team, and trying to make sense of what had just happened.

She got a glass of water to shake off the weird feeling. On the way to the kitchen, she noticed her dad asleep on the couch. A scene from Josey Wales bathed him in creepy, glowing flashes of light. She turned off the television, covered her dad with a blanket, and went back to bed.

* * *

It was Sunday and Ellie had the streets to herself. Last night's experience left her unsettled. After waking up that morning she realized she had forgotten her language arts at school. They had a big root word project next week and a ride to school sounded good after her strange dreams. The wind blew newly fallen yellow and red leaves around the tires of her bike. She hoped the school was unlocked on the weekend.

A couple of men rummaged around a dumpster as she whisked by a 9th Street alley. A garbage truck beeped its warning, its yellow flashers lighting up the street.

* * *

Ellie pulled up to a red light at the next intersection. Flamingo. The woman from the park with a scarf over her hair, stood next to a pretty woman in a form-fitting green dress. Both were waiting to cross the street. Ellie smelled a mix of expensive-smelling perfume with a faint odor of mothballs. Seconds later a mini-van pulled up next to Ellie's bike and idled, adding exhaust to the air. The cab driver tapped the steering wheel to the beat of some Reggae, and a cigarette dangled from his lip.

What's Broken? #6

TITLE: Null City
GENRE: NA Fantasy

Intro: Super powers suck. If you just want to live a normal life, Null City is only a Metro ride away. But when forces try to destroy Null City, Gaby, a (technically) dead accountant, teams up with the teenage daughter of the Prince of Hell to protect the City. It just would have been nice if someone told them the only one who can help is Gaby’s ex — the angel she killed.

Gaby glared at the double doors barring entrance to the Presidential Suite. Over the past hour, she'd knocked, called, tried the house phone, and automatically straightened the paintings lining the elegant hallway. Despite muffled voices inside, the brass-bound doors remained closed.

Her brand new employee handbook was clear: missing a client appointment was an excellent way to get fired. But it never mentioned breaking and entering. She'd checked.

Her foot tapped as she weighed options. She could go back and try to explain to the agency. Or give up and take the twins back to Null City. After twenty-four hours there, hellhounds become poodles, demons join the PTA, and a harmonia like Gaby would become... what? She'd promised Dad: no more B&E despite the advantage of her harmonia gifts. But that was before he and Mom died in a war nobody outside Null City ever heard of. Her foot slowed. Sorry, Dad. She pulled out her father's torque wrench and favorite hook pick. Moments later the lock's tumblers hit the shearline with a subtle click.

Didn't break a friggin thing, Dad: I'm just entering. She eased the door ajar a careful half-inch. “Hello?”

“Luic leMuir.” Leaning against the jamb with one arm blocking the doorway, he ignored her outstretched hand.

Don't say it, she admonished her squealing inner-Gaby. He doesn't need to know you have every song he's ever done. Or that you take your showers to the sound of that voice…

Her own voice was an octave higher than normal. “Gabrielle Parker, CPA."

Under her spellbound gaze, one of his eyebrows lifted. “Well, Gabrielle CPA, I wasn’t expecting you to be so …” He deliberately eyed her, from the pale hair pulled back into what she hoped was a sophisticated chignon but suspected was a lot closer to a granny-bun, down her mother's suit which her sister Carey insisted made her look much older, finishing up at her sensible low-heeled pumps.

Her brown eyes narrowed, starry-eyed adulation shriveling before the cooly amused glint in his blue eyes.

“You're an accountant? You look...” His beautiful voice trailed off.

Like someone dressed up in her dead mother's ten-year-old conservative librarian suit, she silently finished for him.

“Are you any good?” Another beat. “At accounting?”

Her chin came up. You think an angel's face and some gold records gives you a be-mean pass?

“Are you any good?” She tilted her head, taking in the long dark hair, mustache and beard, tie-dyed vest over a shirtless chest, and leather pants. “At singing? I couldn’t carry a tune in a paper bag, but I’m the best accountant you’ll ever find.” Shut up, Gaby! She mentally groaned at the vision of the $52.79 balance in her checking account. At this rate, breakfast and lunch weren't the only meals she'd be missing.

What's Broken? #5

TITLE: Professor Payne's Intrepid Time Travelers
GENRE: Young Adult Science Fiction

The following is the first few sentences of my manuscript. The book is about a group of students who can time travel and their adventures in Egypt.

Fourteen years old, and he held in his hand an object that would allow him to time travel. He glanced at his dad. His father had aged drastically over the past several years, his body was frail and failing. They had just arrived at the assisted living facility, his dad’s new home.

“Dad, are you sure?”

His dad nodded. “I’m sure, Finn, it’s yours. I doubt I’ll ever be able to travel again.” His once strong voice was now a whisper.

Finn knew the value of the silver comb in his hand. The design was intricate with the etching of a young woman holding a jeweled sword. He glanced around the small bedroom and felt regret that he had to leave his wonderful father there. But they had agreed that Finn could no longer take care of him and must return to school.

“Try it, son. Just a quick trip. I always found the travels of Lewis and Clark fascinating.”

Finn looked into his dad’s eyes that mirrored his own, brought the comb up to his hair and gave a quick swipe. A bright light engulfed him. His dad, the small room and the nursing home vanished.

Two letters in one day… a little odd since the professor had just moved into the dingy one bedroom apartment the day before. He glanced at the larger envelope. The paper was thick and rich with texture. It was addressed to Dr. Payne Johnson. He looked at the return address embossed with raised letters: University of Southern California. He sliced open the envelope and was greeted with an invitation to join the excellent Trojan teaching tradition.

He paused for a moment and then picked up the other letter. The paper was thin and inexpensive. It was addressed to Professor Payne. Someone must feel familiar with me to address me in such a manner, he thought. The return address was stamped and inferior.

The faded letters announced the sender as Whispering Pines Prep School for the Fine Arts.

Whispering Pines. She had spoken those two words to him in another country, in another era.

He caught his breath and with a shaking hand opened the envelope as he remembered her screams.

Dear Professor Payne,

Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Evy

Whitehouse and I’m the Headmistress at Whispering Pines

Prep School, a fine institution that focuses on the Fine Arts.

We pride ourselves in developing young actors and actresses

for the motion picture and stage industry, along with those

who wish to advance their talents in set and costume design.



Over the years we have developed a unique approach to

teaching these young, talented students. We have assembled

a staff of teachers and professors who are considered experts

in their historical fields and are able to teach all aspects of

certain eras to our students.



Our staff has traveled the world extensively, and many

are as widely traveled as you. THEY TOO have seen the

world at its brightest and dimmest. They CAN account for

many of the greatest moments in time when man’s classic

creations were made.

What's Broken? #4

TITLE: The Bridge Maker
GENRE: MG Fantasy

Linh, an eleven-year-old protagonist, is home alone because her mother is at work. She hears unusual sounds in the living room.

My question: can you can visualize the setting and where she's going?

Eeek! Eeek! Strange sounds came from the living room.

Probably mice. No surprise there. Linh had grown used to hearing those horrible little rodents scuttling inside the clogged drainpipes at school.

Maybe they had come here. Her house had a clogged drain. She shrugged, sat at the bottom stairs, and fiddled with the phoenix talisman on a golden chain around her neck, given to her by her father. It was the only moment she recalled sharing with him before he died in a car accident.

That was eight years ago when she was three. Other memories had left her.

Thumps echoed through the walls. Bam, bam, bam.

She jerked upright. That couldn’t be mice—unless their tiny feet had grown. She had never heard such bamming noises. She tiptoed past the hallway and stopped in front of the long, velvet curtains in the living room, trying to pinpoint its sound.

One minute. Three. The sound stopped. Linh’s heart pounded.

She hoped whatever it was hadn’t broken into the house through some secret pathway. Some underground tunnel like she had learned about in history class that could be connected to the entrance of a bomb shelter used during World War II, hidden in Merrion Square Park. Her mother had taken her to the park a few times on Sunday afternoons. Linh ran around with other kids on the lawn, not bothered by the naked statues staring at the ground or the Oscar Wilde statue slouching against a rock, smirking, pondering, its color faded.

Now she was curious to return there—just for the tunnel. If such thing existed, she could explore it instead of staying stuck at home. But there could be dirty rats and stinking skeletons and fungus-covered paths. Yuck!

She pulled the curtains. Whoa. A narrow door about three feet high stood beneath the large window. There'd been no door there before. Why would she never have noticed it, right beside the back door?
She bent down and placed a hand on the doorknob, hesitating for a moment. She wondered if a different world awaited her on the other side. Then she could explore it and wouldn’t have to stay at home alone. Her fear melted away, and she opened the mystery door and ducked through it.

Her breath hitched. The sun beamed down on a spacious backyard with colorful flowers—so unlike the usual gray summer days of Ireland. How could the bleak backyard with yellow grass and dead flowers have transformed into one full of vividness and light?

She blinked; the same high walls enclosing the bright yard remained on either side with the low wooden gate ahead of her. She looked behind. The narrow door to the living room still stood there, next to the locked back door.

She could go back if she wanted to, but the warm sunshine lured her into the different landscape. Lush green shrubs grew around her. A field of flowers carpeted the ground ahead, their sweet scent calming her.

What's Broken? #3

TITLE: Bazza'Jo
GENRE: Upper MG Fantasy

The MC has just discovered that a war is about to erupt between the people of her town and the people who live in the forest surrounding the town. Her uncle and father are deeply involved in the conflict on both sides, and are trying to keep the girls "safe" by locking them down and restricting their activities, unaware that the MC is key to keeping the peace. The difficulty I am having with this sequence is how to "infodump" a lot of information without actually doing an infodump. I have revised many times but it still sounds like exposition to me!

Raina collapsed on her bed with fatigue, despite her seething anger and frustration. Ibli crawled into bed with her.

"Raina,"she said in a low voice, "I think there's something very wrong."

You think? Raina thought sarcastically, but she hugged her sister anyway and tried to be reassuring. "I know, Ibli. But Kal is going to do something about it. And I am going to help him, I don't care what Septimus and Lalia say."

"I know a lot of things." Ibli said after a few minutes of silence. Raina waited for a clarification, but Ibli just seemed to be thinking.

"Um, I know a lot of things too, honey. But what are you talking about?"

"I know where you and Kal went last night. I know why you are mad at Uncle Septimus. I know why Nana Lalia is mad at you. I know about Mr. Widestock's Negators, and why father is afraid of them. I know all these things but I don't understand any of them."

Raina nodded sympathetically. "It's the Seeing Baz that you Cast, right?" Ibli nodded. Raina cringed. She had no idea that Baz could be that strong. It made all her plans feel weak in comparison. If Septimus knew everything she and Kal had been doing, then he would always be one step ahead of them.

"I know more than Uncle Septimus does." Ibli seemed to answer her. "He is too angry to See anything he doesn't want to find."

"Excuse me?" Raina considered what her sister was telling her carefully. "How can you know that? Part of Seeing is blocking it, right? Maybe he just-"

Inappropriately, Ibli started giggling. "I Saw it when I started Casting. I'm a Seer, Raina." Ibli paused as Raina tried to get her mind around the idea of her tiny sister being able to out-Cast her famous Bazza'Casting uncle. "Raina," she continued, "If I tell you things, will you decide what to do?"

"What a weird question, Ibli! Of course I will. That's what I do."

Ibli looked relieved. "I feel bad that I know all these things but don't know what to do about them. I don't think doing is what I am good at. And I don't like what father is doing, or what Uncle Septimus is doing, or what Nana Lalia is doing. I think what you do will probably be fine."

Coming from Ibli, that was a great relief to Raina. "So what do you know?" she asked.

"It's very confusing if I think like that, Raina." Ibli bit her lip. "I See most clearly when I look for it. When I know everything at one time it just makes me feel sick. Maybe you should just ask me questions. It's easier to tell you what you want to know." Raina had to say that part in her head slowly twice before she understood it. Then she nodded enthusiastically - anything to avoid the confusion and distress of the first time she tried to use Ibli as a Seeing glass.

What's Broken? #2

TITLE: VITILIGO
GENRE: Literary Thriller

After the Sheriff of small-town Balmer accuses him of killing his adoptive father, James flees. He comes back sixteen years later as a different man, insinuating himself into Balmer society to get revenge. But like most plans, he can't account for the unexpected. This is the opening.

Sixteen years ago I left Balmer, Alabama as a black boy. I return today as a white man.

Not a stick of the town has changed. Not even the weight in the air, the hot, dusty wind, or the mottled blue sky overhead that threatens equally distasteful sunlight or thunderstorms.

I approach on foot from the outskirts, and a well of trembling—what, I don't know exactly, fear? rage?-- fills me at the very sight of it. I expected something else. I don't really know what I expected, but after the calm of the years past, coming back here with a purpose feels . . .different.

A sharpness pierces me as McPherson's General Store, the first building on the left, looms up out of the dusty morning shadows. Sixteen years ago a boy stood there, next to the bottom step. The other boys surrounding him called him a freak, along with other names I won't repeat in dignified company. They didn't understand a black boy. They understood a black boy covered in white patches even less.

The memories of that day bubble up inside me, causing the trembling to intensify as I walk down Main Street, looking for any hints of change in the buildings or people. But I already know there are none. Main Street is still, like the mindsets of its residents, from another, older time. The general store still hunches over all the other buildings, the upper level sign propped up by lathed porch rails below, giving the building the look of a giant snarled mouth. Fading red letters on a square of white-painted wood in the window advertise separate colored and white bathrooms.

The sheriff's now-old-and-rusty '78 Buick Regal is still parked out in front of the bar—a low, long building full of shadows across the street from the general store—where it appears to have not moved since I left. Old Man Rogers still sits in his rocker, muttering to himself, an empty beer can in his right hand as he sways back and forth. His rocker hasn't moved, either. It's still on the porch of the Chamber of Commerce, a tiny hut at the far end of Main Street, huddled in the middle of a fork in the dirt road.

When I left, he was actually Middle-Aged Rogers, but his face has grizzled and sunk, and there is a stiffness to his rocking that shows the creaking in his bones.

The Chamber of Commerce always seemed a bit pointless to me. No tourists come to Balmer. If they did, they'd be shocked at the real world so gritty under their feet here. At the blood-soaked dirt they walked on. And those who wouldn't be shocked would probably move here. Like attracts like, after all.

There are three old-fashioned and hand-painted wooden signs advertising a notary public, real estate agent, and lawyer on an abandoned and weary two-story building up the street from the general store.

What's Broken? #1

TITLE: The Legacy of the Eye
GENRE: Science Fiction Romance

David and Catrine are leaving the school grounds for the first time since their enrolment at the age of 2. They are both 18, unsupervised for the first time, and on their way to meet the council. Catrine is nervous, David looks ready to conquer the galaxy.

David led her down the footpath closest to them, which started by a simple two-tiered stone pool and bowl adorned solely with the letter W three times around its circumference. They followed the path toward the larger fountain farther ahead. The violet beds on either side were in different shades of blue, dark-colored at first then lighter the deeper into the park they walked. The fragrance of the flowers, on the other hand, intensified toward the middle of the Center Gardens.

The perfume in the air stirred Catrine's empty stomach and she soon regretted their route. She squeezed David's hand for support when her step faltered and he halted.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "You look pale."

"Just a headache. I should have eaten more for lunch." And breakfast.

"Let me help you to the fountain. You can splash some cool water on your face."

He slipped his arm around her waist and her heart rate doubled its pace. Catrine took a deep breath to clear her head, but the cloying smell only made her dizzy. She staggered the next few steps towards the lilies that surrounded the fountain, leaning on David for support. She needed to get away from the perfume of the flowers, so she buried her face in his chest to mask the scent.

He enveloped her in a hug and his hand stroked her back. "Relax, Cat. You're just stressed about the proposal defense. Everything will be fine."

His voice was low and soothing. Aided by the smell and warmth of his body, Catrine could feel her anxiety dispel. When she looked up several minutes later, David’s dark eyes smiled at her. She wanted to thank him for being there, so she rose to her toes to give him a kiss. But instead of the friendly peck on the cheek they had often exchanged, their mouths joined in an embrace that did not let go.

Catrine tasted the sweetness of the lilies on his soft lips. It mingled with the alluring smells around her and the enchanting melody of trickling water coming from the fountains in the park. The kiss that had started as endearing gathered intensity like the scent of the flowers throughout their stroll in the garden. Catrine interlaced her fingers with the hair at the nape of David's neck and pulled him even closer. The hands that held her seemed to burn her skin through her tunic.

Then David broke off the kiss gasping for breath and stepped back. “Why did you do that?”

I did? “You kissed me too.”

He ran his fingers through his hair as he turned his back to her. “You started it.”

“I didn’t mean to.” Or did I?

Catrine needed to sit, but she saw no bench. They had never kissed like that before. And considering how much time she had spent with David in the last eight years, no one else had either.

David grabbed her hand. "We're late."

He dragged her through the violet bed, heading northeast.

Call For Submissions: What's Broken?

In poking through some old stuff to see what I could come up with for you this week, I rediscovered the rounds of What's Broken? that we did back in 2011.

Cool idea!  I don't have the least recollection of this.  (No, really.  This is when my brain starts to scare me.)

Anyway, HERE ARE THE GUIDELINES:

This is a crit round for manuscripts in distress. In other words, you've got a COMPLETED story, you've done a lot of revising, but you've got a scene or a section or an opening or a transition or SOMETHING that just isn't working.

Let me repeat:  COMPLETED stories.  HEAVILY revised.  But with a problem.

I will take 10 submissions of 500 words of whatever's broken.

And then, hopefully, you'll receive enough critique to help you fix it.

This round is open to agented and unagented authors.

PLEASE NOTE: This is the honor system. If your manuscript IS NOT FINISHED, or if you honestly don't have something that isn't working for you no matter how hard you've worked on it, please don't submit.

I want to target folks who are really wringing their hands over something.

Submission guidelines:

• Submissions will open at noon EST today.
• Submit an excerpt of up to 500 words of your COMPLETED MANUSCRIPT.
• Include a few sentences to set up the scene, so we understand what's going on. (I'm adding 50 words to the count to cover your set-up.)
• Please submit via our amazing web form.
• Only 10 will be accepted. Please do not submit if you know you do not qualify.
• I will accept 1 alternate in case one of the 10 for some reason does not qualify.
• This is not a lottery.  The submission window will remain open until all slots have been filled.

The excerpts will post on WEDNESDAY MORNING.

A short note:  Please don't neglect to include a lead-in.  Seems like, whenever I hold a contest that calls for a lead-in, some people don't write one. YOU WANT PEOPLE TO UNDERSTAND WHAT'S GOING ON, RIGHT?  So please make sure you lead us in.

Ask questions below!

What's Broken? #5

TITLE: In the Garden of Iron & Glass
GENRE: YA

Two brothers are searching through a hill-top cemetery (of mausoleums) for glass tiles. They live in a desert by the ocean and have never seen plants/flowers/etc before. Are you horribly confused by this description?

"Wow! Look at these tiles!" Hector walked slowly, trailing his hands across the surface until one in particular caught his eye. The tile was made of clear blue-tinted glass, but the flattened object inside was frail, delicate, and would easily fit in his small palm. The center looked like a sun polyp, a tiny yellow disc with dozens of miniature tentacles sprouting from the entire surface. It was nestled in the center of a three-pointed star that was so white, Hector thought it was paper until he noticed the slight ridges of veins across the surface. "Hey, come over here, I think she'll like this one. Do you know what this is inside the glass?"

He stepped back so that Simon, who had been following close behind him, could see.

Simon frowned. "I don't know. It's too fragile to be coral and it's not any kind of algae or seaweed." He wiped a thin film of dust from the tile with his sleeve. "It's not paint, either. I wonder if it's something from far away that the caravans brought."

Hector's eyes roved over the row of coffins. There were hundreds of tiles with mysterious and colorful objects pressed between the layers of clear glass. He wandered to the end of the aisle, intending to check the other side, when he stopped, his heart hammering in his throat like the waves against the shore. "Simon... Simon, what is that?"

Below Hector was something strange. Behind the top row of mausoleums the ground dropped away, rolling down to a lower ridge before a sheer drop to the black, rippling sea. On that barren ridge of sand and stone, something large and green clawed up towards the sky, something wider and taller than any house or factory in the glass city.

Hector shaded his eyes against the sun and squinted at the tallest point, which was vaguely cylindrical, and tried to figure out what he was looking at. It rose from the wide nest of green, too perfect to be natural, but not smooth sided or linear like a building should be. From there, his eyes wandered towards the ground and across the mysterious expanse of green. To him, it looked vaguely like an underwater reef, pitted and twisted from the slowly compounding growth of coral life, death and rebirth. Hector stared, breathless, unable to describe the layers of green overlapped with sun and shadow in a wild and tangled nexus with blue sky tearing through every tattered gap. Then the wind blew, and what Hector took to be solid formations began to move. There was a muted rush as suddenly the air was alive with rustling, like the fluttering of a thousand birds. The snarl of green warped, shook and bucked as it yielding to the wind.

What's Broken? #4

TITLE: The Dragon and the Enchanted Kingdom
GENRE: Children's/pb

I have rewritten/edited several times. It has been short listed with one editor and received good responses from two others. Yet it is still rejected. Timing seems off somewhere and ending kinda lame. Any advice would be wonderful. Thanks.

Horns are trumpeted all around for some heroes to be found.

A call goes out across the land -- Help is needed!

10 -- Ten beautiful fairies fly over …

9 -- Nine guardian dwarves marching in rows of three. Who meet up with …

8 -- Eight ornery elves driving a wagon full of hay. For …

7 -- Seven knights brave and strong riding on armored horses. Who are busy

watching--

6 -- Six lively pixies mounted on squirrels skittering from tree to tree. Trying

to avoid --

5 -- Five gnomes with pointed hats. Who are sidestepping….

4 -- Four white unicorns charging up the hill. In front of …

3 -- Three feisty leprechauns with clovers standing tall. Who have hidden

their pots of gold from--

2 -- Two human children

All have gathered together to defeat--

1 -- One mean, vicious, smoke rolling, fire spitting, soot blackened, red eyed

dragon. She has flown into the kingdom and claimed it as her own.

The dragon takes to the air as the battle begins; her powerful wings whipping up dirt

and debris. The falling dust covering everything with a layer of filth as far as the eye can

see.

The dragon puts up a fierce fight, challenging all who come near. She uses her fire

breath to scorch wings and burn hats; smoke wagons and blacken armor. Shrieks of

surprise and then shouts of joy can be heard.

When the dust settles true heroes can be found in--

10 -- Ten dirty fairies limping off the field.

9 -- Nine guardian dwarfs dragging the--

8 -- Eight ornery elves. In front of--

7 -- Seven knights brave and strong hanging onto armored horses. Who are still

watching --

6 -- Six pixies sitting astride tired squirrels. They are shuffling in front of--

5 -- Five gnomes with hats a smoking. Who are trying to stay out of the way of--

4 -- Four brown unicorns walking down the hill. In front of --

3 -- Three tired leprechauns with clovers bent and wilting. All have cleared a

path for--

2 -- Two human children carrying--

1 -- One large blackened pot on wooden planks, full of the dragon's fire, with

smoke a-drifting.

Battered but not beaten; tired but not trampled the heroes have won. They have

defeated the dragon and have captured her fire.

Cheers can be heard throughout the land for now the kingdom is safe. Without her

fire, the dragon is no longer a mean and vicious beast. She is now a kinder, quieter ~ new

neighbor.

What's Broken? #3

TITLE: PARTITION
GENRE: YA War/Dystopian

No lead-in should be necessary - this is the very beginning.

MAYA

My feet grip the glass in the darkness, and my biceps burn like acid. Can't believe Steven and Elisabeth talked me into this. If I get back without some sorta serious injury, it'll be a goddamn miracle. It's prison at the least if I get caught--and worse, too, if my luck's as shit as usual.

I shouldn't've even entertained the idea. No one sneaks into the Glass City and gets back unscathed--especially not us Pewts, the lowest of the low. The City is gorgeous--we can see it from below, see it sitting smug on these glass stilts, like it's balanced on a forest of fat crystal straws. Beautiful, especially compared to the filth of the Sprawl.

I grit my teeth and haul myself up further, hugging myself to the glass. I'm strong, yeah, but this's ridiculous. The anchors--the stilts holding up the Glass City--are maybe four hundred feet tall, and the only tool I've got is a wide, flat strip of leather slung around the glass, to grip it better than my sweaty fingers could.

I look down and my throat yanks shut like the neck of a drawstring bag. If I fall, I'll die. There's no way I won't when I'm this high up--it's a dizzying, painful height that makes my head bang.

So I look back up and keep pulling. I'm pretty close. It's been a whole hour of climbing.

I thought the actual climbing part would be harder, to be honest. But it turns out there are scars and gouges in the glass from weather, which make good footholds.

I yank myself up and up, digging my feet into the cracks, cursing Elisabeth and Steven. I shoulda listened to Cory. He always has my best interests at heart--dammit, why didn't I listen?

I reach the top of the anchor. Time for the hard part.

The City is built on a disk of glass that sits on top of the anchors. It's at least as thick as I'm tall, and ten feet of packed dirt lies on top, tight wire mesh trapping it in. But tree roots erupt from the mesh, dangling down about a foot to my right. Up here, a foot's distance feels like half a mile, but I close my eyes and grapple for the closest root. As my fingers find the damp wood, I put weight on it, and it lurches. My eyes pop open. Dirt crumbles out from around the root, I let out a high whimper of fear--doesn't even sound like my voice--and my hands break into an uncontrollable sweat. Then, worst of all, the wind tears the corner of the leather strip outta my other hand. The downdrafts yank it from side to side, the material making a flapping noise. It curls and twists until it's out of sight, like it's waving goodbye.

What's Broken? #2

TITLE: Smoke and Wait
GENRE: Urban Fantasy

Alexandra MacPherson has mixed feelings about being back from the field.


Info dump, telling, or showing? All the above?

I don't know why I'd convinced myself things would be different. Only months, not years, had passed since I'd been in the field office. The building smelled the same; the walls and carpets were infused with a damp and musty odor, courtesy of an inefficient HVAC system that could cool things down -- mostly -- but not dry them out. Someone had burned popcorn in the break room. My desk hadn't changed, either. A single, framed picture of Jack and Sophie sat front and center. Jack, just off the plane and still in uniform, holding Sophie for the first time.

I picked up the photo and dusted the glass with my shirt sleeve. Sophie's right foot was bare, a victim of those worthless baby socks that never stayed on. I used to find them everywhere. In the car seat. Under the car seat. On the floor mat, covered with safety glass from the right rear window. I chewed savagely at my bottom lip before shoving the frame into the corner of my desk and under a shelf where it would be less noticeable.

I was stupid with contradiction. I refused anything stronger than Tylenol in the hospital, trying to prevent a fall off that wagon I worked too hard to find. But then I called Jack, listened to Sophie's voice on a message I should have deleted years ago. Two bad habits that usually led me right to the cliff of Screw-It overlooking the valley of I-Don't-Give-A-S***-Anymore. I hadn't been there in a while, but apparently I was contemplating a visit.

I scrolled through the emails that bred during my absence. Out-of-office must not have meant what I thought it did. I flagged the few that looked important, but right click and delete became the order of the day.

At least a hundred offerings for continuing ed. Right click, delete. Weeks-expired coupons from Borders. Right click, delete. My father's administrative assistant needed to make reservations for Thanksgiving dinner, and was 2:00 p.m. at 1906 Longwood Gardens okay? Right click, delete.

Unbidden, the fingers of my left hand tapped a beaten strip of metal against my mouth. I dropped it when I realized what I was doing, but who was I kidding. Avoidance would never work. The ball chain holding Jack's tags had been around my neck since the day he gave them to me. I wore them on my wedding day instead of pearls. They were as much a part of my uniform as they'd been part of his. And if Sophie had been old enough to have a cell phone when she was killed, I'd call her, too.

I roughly crammed the contents of the case file on my desk into a manilla accordion folder and mashed it all into my messenger bag. "You ready to go?"

What's Broken? #1

TITLE: Voice of Asheva
GENRE: Fantasy

The rogue prince who supports the rebellion of Asheva has been imprisoned, and now no one in the rebellion knows what to do. Enter Evyn Stonecry, a young female magician, who asks the council of Asheva to get permission to rescue the prince.

There was a brief silence. To the surprise of no one, it was broken by Oryin. "A girl?" Some of the council reluctantly took their gaze off of her and turned to him; he looked incredulous. "How can a girl help? Can she win a war for us?"

Evyn stood, revealing two curved daggers at her waist. Dark, fringed bangs fell over her strange eyes, eyes like the edge of a summer sunset, and she rested a hand on her hip. Her gaze was cool as it fixed on Oryin. "I donâ't mean to win a war for you, councilman."

As she stepped away from the table, the room fell further into silence. The calls of merchants and street vendors drifted in from the Tala outside as she crossed the room, past the stone pillars that held up the ceiling, past the tapestry depicting the injustices of Stoyrian royalty. Her voice was soft as she drew closer to Liae's end of the table and said, "But I can give you gift worth more than a thousand fighting men, even magic wielders."

"And what is that?" Fayo asked, not harshly.

"I can give you your prince."

As one, the council twisted in their seats to look at Toreph, confused. Even Oryin's face abandoned its normal sarcastic expression. But it was the councilwoman from Rivertown who spoke first. "What in Asheva's name does the girl mean, Toreph?"

He didn't answer, just switched his blue eyes back to Evyn and nodded at her.

"I mean," Evyn answered, her eyes sharing none of Toreph's amusement, "that I can go to Gaeon, sneak into the dungeons, and rescue Prince Theyrn from the city without any of the royal guard even knowing I was there -- until too late."

Oryin laughed, but he was the only one. The other council members were frowning at Evyn as if they'd never seen a girl before. Liae didn't laugh either, noting the determination in Evyn's face. Knowing the look, she felt a small surge of hope; the casual confidence -- that confidence that lacked arrogance -- was nearly as reassuring as Asheva's prophecy had been.

Our One and Only June Crit, Now Underway!

And here come the What's Broken? excerpts!  Entrants, please critique a minimum of two other entries.  Everyone else, please remember to sign in with a screen name (don't choose "anonymous" when you leave your comment).

I'm trusting that this round will be as helpful to the authors as last month's round.

Allow me to apologize ahead of time for Blogger glitches.  In short, if you find you're having trouble leaving a comment, it's probably not your fault--and it's probably not something I can fix.  It's just that Blogger is fickle, you see.

No, you don't need to have a Blogger account.  Or any other account.  Just choose the "Name/URL" option and type in your screen name.  It's that simple!

Enjoy!

What's Broken: Another Round!

It was a great success earlier this month, so I'm opening submissions for another round of What's Broken? today.


This is a crit round for manuscripts in distress. In other words, you've got a COMPLETED story, you've done a lot of revising, but you've got a scene or a section or an opening or a transition or SOMETHING that just isn't working.

I will take 5 submissions of 500 words of whatever's broken.

And then, hopefully, you'll receive enough critique to help you fix it.

PLEASE NOTE: This is the honor system. If your manuscript IS NOT FINISHED, or if you honestly don't have something that isn't working for you no matter how hard you've worked on it, please don't submit.

I want to target folks who are really wringing their hands over something.

Submission guidelines:

• Submissions will open at 8 pm EDT today.
• Submit an excerpt of up to 500 words of your COMPLETED MANUSCRIPT.
• Include a few sentences to set up the scene, so we understand what's going on. (Yes, the 500 words includes the set-up, so BE BRIEF!)
• Send your submission to authoress.submissions(at)gmail.com
• Only 5 will be accepted. Please do not submit if you know you do not qualify.
• I will accept 1 alternate in case one of the 5 for some reason does not qualify.
• Same format as always:

SCREEN NAME: type it here
TITLE: type it here
GENRE: type it here

Type your brief lead-in here.

Type your excerpt here.

The excerpts will post on THURSDAY MORNING.

A short note:  Last time, some of the entrants did not include a brief lead-in.  If the excerpt is the opening of your novel, that's fine. But if it's not, it REALLY helps to give us an idea of what's going on before you drop us into the scene.

Questions below!

What's Broken? #5

TITLE: SPLINTERED
GENRE: YA Paranormal

After entering the SA contest I revised the beginning of my novel. I've been trying to get the beginning right for YEARS, and it's driving me crazy.

This part of the forest is forbidden, but the smell of fresh cut trees lures me closer. I dart from behind a boulder and reach a large cluster of bushes several feet away. Chopped logs and branches litter the forest floor. Wagon tracks scar the earth. The wood gatherers might return soon. If I'm caught now I'll be searched and chased away.

If I'm caught after I steal, I'll lose my hand.

My heart beats a rapid warning. Run away, run away!

I know I should listen, but a small cut of wood calls to me from a pile of discarded twigs and branches. My practiced whittler's eye sees the figure of a rabbit begging to be released.

Stealing is wrong, I know. I used to buy wood from St. John's store in the village, but my mother has declared whittling to be a waste of time. She thinks it distracts me from Witch training.

The truth is, I don't want to be a Witch. Mother won't accept my decision, and has cut off my meager allowance until I "come to my senses." I'm not going to become a Witch just to get money again. I can't. It will cost me too much.

It's been almost a month since I whittled, and I miss my art.

Temptation's call is louder than common sense.

With my herb basket clutched to my chest, I move toward a large redwood. Something grabs my hair. I stifle a scream and reach behind me, feeling, praying I don't touch skin.

It's only a branch.

A hysterical laugh catches in my throat. I swallow it and untangle myself, leaving a few strands of my long auburn hair behind. My hands shake as I slip the hood of my red cloak over my head. I should have done it sooner.

I lift my skirt and step into the open. The crunching Autumn leaves seem to scream my presence. My heart flutters behind my ribcage. No one rushes out to stop me.

On tiptoes, I hurry to the pile and kneel. Instinct urges me to flee. I snatch the wood and dodge back behind the tree. Guilt nags at me to drop my prize--a block of cedar.

This piece was on the discarded pile, but something tells me it wasn't meant to be there. Zev, the woodcutter, owns rights to every tree on the island. Though twigs and branches are fair game, he demands punishment for taking anything else. I've witnessed Zev's cruelty and don't want to lose my hand.

Drop the wood and leave. Now, my conscience warns.

My fingers curl tighter around my prize as if they have a mind of their own. I want this wood; I need it.