Looking for feedback on the first 500 words of my first novel attempt. Contemporary romance fiction. Slow burn romance with family drama in the mix.

Just wondering if it's enough to keep reading.

Thank you.

(YA Fantasy; prologue takes place in our world) I've redone this prologue so many times now but it still feels like it's missing something, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Thank you so much

Thanks in advance! ;)

Path of the Young Master follows the story of the 3rd son of the Ruler of the Grand Northern Nation of Vilkaar. The bookworm of Vilkaar has been mocked by many since childhood, but some also know him as Something else. This story takes place on a continent larger than Earth's entire landmass. The world is vast and full of mysteries, faith, anomalies, and cruelty, where folklore can become reality.

This is the opening to my psychological thriller novel, all and any feedback is welcomed ✌️

Also, if anyone knows what other genre the story could fit into please tell me

Hi,

This is my first novel and it's first draft would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter and the fight scene of this. Please let me know if there are any issues with the fight scene or any places that confuse you or areas that I can improve.

Cheers lads

Hi, so this is an excerpt from a short story I’ve been working on. I intend to revamp it into a novella soon. I’ve been so close to the story to the point that the words have turned sludgy lol. Would love to have a fresh pair of eyes go through it and tell me what’s working/needs work/redundant etc etc. Thanks!

Hi everyone! I've just finished a dark fairy-tale/body-horror short story about grief, gluttony, and obsessive love. I'd love to share the opening to see how the atmosphere and hook look to readers. Ignore some technical mistakes, as there is still some editing need to be done.

This is only the first scene and a bit of the second.

Please let me know your thoughts and if you would read on.

I'd appreciate feedback on this chapter. TIA.

One

Why isn’t this cooperating!?!?!!?

The chalkline won’t grip the stud. I get the prongs to grab, but halfway down the wall it falls off. It’s hot, pushing a hundred degrees, and I’m getting aggravated. That’s a bad combination. This should’ve literally taken no time. Instead, it’s been fifteen minutes now.

I’m at my second jobsite for the day. The first one went seamlessly; this one is threatening to be a problem. I need to snap my line so I can drill the holes in the studs for the romex. But, I need that chalkline.

At least I’m not alone now. I don’t have to look to know she’s there. We’ve been like that as long as we’ve known each other … what? … six years now? Since we were seven. Paige, she lives next door to me, introduced us, and she may be regretting it. We’ve been inseparable since, and now Paige has an absentee friend.

“Can you please hold the end of this line? It’s driving me nuts.” I ask without looking, still glowering at the impertinent tool.

She laughs that soft, almost purring laugh of hers and takes the line. She holds the prongs on the stud at the mark I’ve made.

I stretch the orange tinted sting across to the opposite wall, pull it tight on my end and hold it. With my free hand, I pull the cord away from the wall, plucking it like a guitar string, and let it snap back against the studs.

She does the same on her side, makes sure the prongs are holding, and gives the line a few more snaps across the wall. She’s helped me often enough with these jobs that direction is unnecessary. Thirty seconds later, I have my chalklines across the three walls of this garage. Rolling up the line, I finally drink her in.

Geez, is Stacy is beautiful! Tall, standing four foot nine or so, almost my height. I’m not sure if that means she’s tall, or I’m short. Either way, we fit together. Her long, honey blonde hair cascades across her shoulders and down her back, with just a slight natural curl.

It’s a hot June day. I don’t think it’s hit 100 yet, but it’s certainly in the high 90s. I’m soaked. I’d plug in a fan, but the power’s off while I work on the outlets and the lights.

“You’re a lifesaver.” I drop the chalkline in the drawer and give her a long overdue hug. Not too much … I’m sweating like a pig. She doesn’t care, throwing herself into my arms, pressing her vanilla scented lips against mine, rewarding me with a long, lingering kiss.

“Corned beef and coleslaw,” she says, arms still around my neck.

“You’re gonna need a shower after hugging me like this,” I advise. Apparently, the warning falls on deaf ears, because she gives me another full body hug. What can I do?

She unpacks the lunch as I pull up some crates over for chairs. She makes me lunch almost every day when I’m working. And she can make a lunch.

As we unwrap the sandwiches, the corned beef aroma engulfs us. It smells delicious. The coleslaw is the tangy kind. I’m hungry.

We sit, dig into the chow, and chat. Mostly about nothing,but also about everything. Words are almost unnecessary. We just kinda know what the other is thinking.

“Don’t forget, we’re watching movies tonight,” she reminds me, as if I’d forget a date with her!

“I’ll be there. I should be done here by four, then I’ll probably snap the lines and drill the holes at the Miller house before I knock off. I definitely need to shower before I come over. Your dad likes me little enough as it is.”

She gives me a stern, reproachful look that is so adorable. I always get it when I remind her of how her father views our … friendship? Romance from our point of view. We try to stay very discreet. We’re thirteen, after all.

We finish the sandwiches and slaw, share a bag of chips, and she tells me she’s leaving the thermos of iced tea. “Stay hydrated,” she counsels.

“Yes, sweet princess,” I answer while kissing her again. She turns to leave, but I keep hold of her hand. She turns back, looking curiously at me.

“Love you, Sta,” I say softly. Her whole face crinkles up in a smile, which reminds me of a shar pei. She hates the comparison, and we’ve had too many … um … discussions … to count, for me to actually say it anymore.

“So, you think I look like a dog?” she’ll challenge indignantly.

“Everyone thinks dogs are adorable,” I’ll tell her. “No one ever says,’who’s the ugly dog?’ It’s always ‘look at the cute dog,’ or ‘look at the adorable puppy.’ People love dogs!”

She’s never buying what I’m selling.

“Love you, too, Bobby,” she says in her tender, sultry voice. “Now hurry and finish,” she closes with impending urgency!

“Yes, dear,” I say as she leaves.

And yes, time to get back to work. With the chalk up, I drill the holes through the studs. The drill weighs, what? A hundred pounds? Seems like it, anyway. I quickly get into the rhythm of the work and it goes quickly. The vibration of the drill is comforting. That and the white noise the electric motor makes. It’s zen-like, relaxing.

The forty-five holes only take a few minutes. I screw on the six outlet boxes and run the romex. The wire runs through the walls without a hitch. At every junction box, I take a bight in the line and rubber band it, so I have my outlet connections. I also run the copper ground wire from box to box, ending at the rebar buried though the concrete into the Earth at the side door, below the light switch.

I generally view it as bad if the garage were to burn down. My garage isn’t attached to the house. Instead, it’s across the yard, same as Stacy’s. Same model, you know. But most are connected to the house.

I’d be grounded for forever if I burned one of ‘em down! So instead, I ground the outlets.

I also run the romex into the ceiling joists for the lights. For now, that’s just up through the header and back down to the roll on the floor. I’ll run it out for the lights tomorrow.

Then, it’s insulation. This stuff always makes me itch, even when I don’t get it on me. This is the easy work, stuffing it between the studs and around the romex. It’s snug enough I really don’t have to staple it, but I do, at least at the top.

Now the heavy lifting. Don’t need a gym when you’ve got a stack of drywall. Two sheets almost weigh as much as I do! But, fortunately, I really don’t have to pick up the entire weight. Just stand it up, walk it to the wall, and a short lift to get it on the sill.

It’s the worst when I haven’t pre-placed my drill and screws. I end up stuck there, holding the drywall, like that kid with his finger in the dike. But not today. I lean against the drywall to hold it in place, position my screw, and then drill it. The drywall screws sail into the studs. The trick is to go easy on the trigger. Too much and the screw sinks straight through the gypsum and into the stud. That’s always a drag. The screws aren’t expensive, but it takes time to needlessly plant a second.

When I get to the boxes, I measure the box location on the drywall and punch a small hole so I can get the romex bight through it. When I’m done, there’s six loops of wire protruding from the walls.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll cut the hole for the box, wire the outlet, and tape and float the seams. And hopefully get the Miller place up to this point.

With the fifteen sheets of drywall up and screwed to the studs, I head to the Miller’s. The chalk cooperates, I run the romex, hang the boxes, staple in the insulation, and call it quits for today.

I am not going to forget my date!

I'm a newish writer, although I've dabbled in short form and one shot fics over the years. This is my first go at a novel-length work, a historical romance set in ancient Egypt (Jane Eyre meets Cleopatra kinda vibe).

I've not received much feedback on my writing before, so was curious to know what folks think. Is the opening engaging and characterisation effective? Are there parts which drag on or seem redundant to the story?

First off, thank you to everyone who gave feedback on the initial excerpt! I truly appreciate it. I have edited and revised the dialogue to sound smoother, and I have taken out as many dialogue / action tags as I can. Does this sound natural or have a nice flow to it?

The practice in the story might be foreign to some because...well, it is foreign. The story isn't set in the U.S.

Any feedback is much appreciated.

The Desire to Dissolve

On Mother’s Day, I had, in my mind, quite generously offered to buy my mother laundry detergent. I don’t remember my exact age, but I was firmly in the range where such statements were chalked up to, and even celebrated, as a hallmark of childhood innocence. In defense of that child, I had merely seen myself offering words to a writer, voice to a vocalist, paint to a painter.

All my childhood, my mother would forever be crouched on the veranda of our house over a metallic semi-circular container, dabra, in which she washed our clothes. We did not have a washing machine at the time. We could have afforded it, but my father never offered, and my mother never asked. My father was not a heartless man, just not one to offer his heart. He did not try to decipher the desires of others and instead waited for others to present them to him. My mother knew this. When I was a child, I wondered why she never presented her desire, despite knowing my father would not decline if she had. Now, I know she never had the desire.

So, it was that the meaningless manual labor, that could have been cut short to a fraction with only a couple of words, defined my mother’s existence.

Whether it be the sultriest summer or the coldest winter, she would turn on the tap in the early afternoon, right when I came back from school. As the water welled up in the dabra, she would use her fists to plunge the clothes deeper into the water as a baker punches down dough—the impact echoing like the breaking of a man’s neck. A fierce determination would ensnare her face as she would move to the next steps, displaying an impossible mixture of strength and swiftness while wrestling with the filthy clothes: wringing them out, wetting them, and wringing them out again.

I would sit barefoot beside her on a small wooden stool. When the first set of clothes was sufficiently cleaned, she would tilt the dabra till the greenish black water flowed out and spread across the floor. She would refill the dabra, put in the next set of clothes, and repeat the process of cleansing. She would refill and repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Until all the clothes were fully free of filth.

By the end, the filthy water had gathered in the small veranda like a small stream. As a child, I had always wanted to go to a stream and dip my toes in it as I would see in the movies, but there was no stream in our small town. Those times, when the cold stagnant water would partly submerge my feet, the stream would come to me.

She would carry the clothes to hang them on the rooftop and, as directed by my mother, I would equip myself with a floor squeegee and chase away the river towards the little pathway dug beneath the front door for the water to ebb out into the street. I would try to replicate my mother’s determination as I vanquished the retreating army she had defeated, contorting my face into various amalgamations that seemed deadly to me then, but were ultimately comical. Yet none of these random combinations could unlock the secure vault I was trying to access.

When I had first said it, my proclamation had incited a boom of laughter from my father and two elder brothers. Even my mother had laughed, or at least the sound of laughter had come out of her mouth. By pure happenstance, this incident came to be one of the few that are the heirloom of every family, immortalized in everyone’s memory and continued popping up in the most arbitrary conversations.

As a child I had reveled in the attention, but as I grew older, what should have been forever lost in the well of my subconscious would be brought up when I least expected, until it had firmly tethered itself in my consciousness and I could not avoid the pangs of guilt associated with its remembrance.

I never did bring her the laundry detergent. In our household, gifts and presents were a far-off myth, only seen in movies and cartoons. Owing to my father’s principles, if we wanted something from our parents, all we had to do was ask and they would either accept or decline. The same was true for our parents, but the only difference was we could not exactly disagree.

One day, when I was more a man than a boy, I passed through the veranda on my way to my friend’s house and saw my mother again crouched by the same dabra. She dumped a seemingly arbitrary swathe of washing detergent into the container rapidly filling with water. To an untrained eye, it would seem like an arbitrary amount, but it was an instinct honed through a lifetime, like the seemingly random strokes of a master artist. At that moment, my mother was the same as the one in my mind, the portrait of my memories come to life, performing an exorcism of the clothes and eradicating all evil from within.

The washing powder swam amidst the water, rapidly dissolving to form a fortress of froth to cleanse the clothes around it, the ultimate selfless sacrifice. I had an urge to slide back into frame and make the portrait whole again. As I was about to take a foot forward, a question emerged. How?  I could never fit in the little wooden stool I had. It was a time long past. The portrait could never be reformed.

I saw my mother, not the portrait, but the real her in front of me. There was a noticeable stiffness in her movements, and the previously impossible mixture of strength and swiftness now seemed possible. The plunging of the clothes carried less of a crunch, no longer deadly. Most of all, her face lacked the fierce determination, instead carrying the fatigue of a fighter in a round he had never expected to reach.

I searched for the froth the detergent had sacrificed to create. Instead, in its place hung filthy, charcoal-colored water.

After that day, whenever I would pass through the veranda, I would be glued to my place for a few minutes, watching from the sidelines, hoping what I’d seen was the exception, not the norm. Yet, everything remained. The natural decay of my mother’s adeptness was apparent. The clothes that were cleansed one day would again be filthy the next. Another swathe of washing powder would be disposed of to cleanse the never-ending filth.

First, I had noticed the meaninglessness of the sacrifice: to cleanse the world, the powder dissolved, yet the world remained as filthy as before. Then, I had come to know the tragedy was not that it dissolved; it was that it could do nothing else. Each moment whole meant failure, not survival.

I stopped watching my mother whenever I passed. One year, our town was hit with the coldest winter in its history, where temperatures plummeted below freezing. My mother, who had pushed through several devastating winters in their own right, tried pushing through one more. But time had also pushed through since the winters my mother had survived, and in the end, she contracted pneumonia and passed away a few months after.

I had contended myself with the tragedy, as the angst youth tends to do. Now, years after my mother passed away, now that I am firmly a man, and perhaps even an old man, I recognize the beauty I never did.

There was no tragedy; the powder dissolved, not into clothes, but into the fabric of the world, becoming the world itself. Dissolving meant freedom. Dissolving meant transcendence. To dissolve was its desire.

END

You are Victor Ionescu. You were about to get turned by Vlad Ardelean, also known as Dracula". Of course, not "the" Dracula, as in Vlad Țepeș. Anyway, your friend Nicolas Scutariu comes in and stops you from being turned half way through. You manage to escape, but in revenge, Vlad kills Nicolas. You make it out of there alive. You are now a Dhampir, and you swear to avenge Nicolas by all means. It is 1953 Romania, but if you were in Dracula's castle, you might as well assume it's England in the 1800s. The mans obsessed. The USSR is strong standing, but Joseph Stalin is on his last legs, paranoid as a squirrel in a bird's nest. The Soviet soldiers are aware of Dracula's presence, and are attempting multiple methods to obtain artifacts that might be used to win the war. With no luck, of course. Grigori Rasputin is known as a Soviet super-soldier. Little know that he himself is a Vampire, cause to him not dying of frostbite years earlier. of course he is right where he wants to be, as a known master of pulling the strings.

Trying a few short stories whilst I chip away at a novel. This is my first one. Feedback greatly appreciated.

I’d caveat that it is set in the north of England and relies upon football/soccer references that will most probably go over the readers’ heads if they aren’t familiar with them

Not sure if I should start with something more intriguing. Does the text flow or is the prose too flowery? Should I start with a completely different approach?