Submissions wanted—only one 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--new: I've added a request to post the rest of the chapter.
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.
Storytelling Checklist
Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this list of 6 vital storytelling ingredients from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. 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.
Evaluate the submission—and your own first page—in terms of whether or not it includes each of these ingredients, and how well it executes them. The one vital ingredient not listed is professional-caliber writing because that is a must for every page, a given.
- Story questions
- Tension (in the reader, not just the characters)
- Voice
- Clarity
- Scene-setting
- Character
Jach sends the first chapter for The Pit of Gods.
The sounds of the slave market seemed to terify the small, delicate black girl on the platform. She was trembling, yet somehow able to stand on her own. Her lips were arched in an uneasy smile. It was the only thing Sikalis could see clearly on her face, for her features were disjointed by fear. Her eyes were restless, never stopping to see anything for more than a moment.
"5 liri!" shouted a thin, old man, his harsh voice loud enough to reach the two slave merchants. One was an impoverished Taurian merchant called Ganoblis, whose pox-marked face was now widening into an evil smile. The other was Svafa, a barbarian from the northern lands of Jangria. He towered over everyone in the market. Everyone near him was uneasy, startled by the long blond hair and shaggy beard, and the uneasyness would turn into shivers if he looked at them with his sea-blue eyes. Ganoblis introduced him to everyone as his 'partner'. From what Sikalis has seen, better words were 'his slave bodyguard'.
After a nod from from Ganoblis, who must have already imagined the silver coins in his pouch, Svafa called out: "Sold!".
Without an expression, Sikalis watched the girl go down the platform to the thin man in his blue and red tunic as the next slave, a white-haired Lotan, moved to spot where she stood but a moment ago. This was the twenty-first city in which he was waiting to be sold on wooden platforms such as these, hastly built on a small stretch of ground in a market room, elevated enough for the (snip)
Definitely an interesting world, but there are issues, too. Some of what I feel is overwriting, I had a clarity issue, and there are no stakes or jeopardy regarding the sale of the protagonist. This is just another ho-hum day after twenty-one cities. Gets an almost. Increase the tension and crisp up the narrative and it could be a turn. Notes:
The sounds of the slave market seemed to terify the small, delicate black girl on the platform. She was trembling, yet somehow able to stand on her own. Her lips were arched in an uneasy smile. It was the only thing Sikalis could see clearly on her face, for her features were disjointed by fear. Her eyes were restless, never stopping to see anything for more than a moment. Cut the sentence for two reasons—it didn't make real sense to me (why could he not see her features even if twisted) and it slows things.
"5 liri!" shouted a thin, old man, his harsh voice loud enough to reach the two slave merchants. One was an impoverished Taurian merchant called Ganoblis, whose pox-marked face was now widening into an evil smile. The other was Svafa, a barbarian from the northern lands of Jangria. He towered over everyone in the market. Everyone near him was uneasy, startled by the long blond hair and shaggy beard, and the uneasyness would turn into shivers if he looked at them with his sea-blue eyes. Ganoblis introduced him to everyone as his 'partner'. From what Sikalis has seen, better words were 'his slave bodyguard'. Repetition of “everyone". POV glitch here—Sikalis can't know what everyone is feeling or what motivates behavior. How could he see shivers in a crowded market?
After a nod from from Ganoblis, who must have already imagined the silver coins in his pouch, Svafa called out: "Sold!".
Without an expression, Sikalis watched the The girl went go down the platform to the thin man in his blue and red tunic as the next slave, a white-haired Lotan, moved to spot where she stood but a moment ago. This was the twenty-first city in which he Sikalis waited was waiting to be sold on wooden platforms such as these, hastly hastily built on a small stretch of ground in a market room, elevated enough for the (snip) Sikalis watched is a filter that distances the reader from the character's experience. The extra detail about the platform is a bit of overwriting. While it adds nice detail, the detail doesn't move the story forward. I suspect you could delete this paragraph and get back to what's happening to Sikalis.
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. Note: I’m adding a copyright notice for the writer at the end of the post. I’ll use just the first name unless I’m told I can use the full name.
- 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.
Flogging the Quill © 2014 Ray Rhamey, story © 2014 Jach
(continued)
buyers to get a good look on their future slaves. He was taken as a slave several months ago, and yet, not one man bid for him.
He remembered how Ganoblis's dark eyes widened underneath his joined eyebrows when Sikalis was captured. He resembled a prize, or so Ganoblis said back then, when he first saw Sikalis. His face had the smile of a man whom Bato had just blessed. A tough Hadritti, taller than anyone except for the Jangrian. Years of hard work on the fields of Delar, his home, formed his muscles and calloused his hands. His face was angular with a crooked nose and green-blue eyes. His hair was the colour of the earth, his skin only a lighter shade. “An ideal slave to sell, oh yes. I will sell you as soon as Poecarte, oh, I am sure I will, and you will bring me much wealth” Ganoblis spoke in Hadrittian, his accent barely understandable.
Sikalis was still full of fury then, the chains enraging him but keeping him in place, and the whips...
“If you think that you will get me to stay chained on that sorry-looking ship, even so close as that, I believe you know fucking nothing of my kind. More importantly, you fucking know nothing about me.”
Ganoblis laughed, patting his big round belly with his hand. “I don’t need to know my slaves to know how to deal with them.” Without sparing another look at Sikalis, he ordered two other slaves to bring him in the hull.
The memory of that humiliation made him wince still, filling him with a desire to snap Ganoblis’s thick neck. “Easy, now. Someone will make the mistake of buying me, give me room to escape. Then I can concentrate on Ganoblis. But only after I’m bought.” When, though? There was not a soul who bid for Sikalis, and Ganoblis's mood darkened as market after a market failed to buy his prize until it seemed that, if his temper could summon darkness, he would engulf the whole world.
Even Sikalis was intrigued. Why did nobody seem to want to buy him? Some ideas he dismissed out of hand as soon as they formed. Other ideas he couldn't dismiss, but he didn't think they fit right. There was one he liked most, though. “Maybe they are afraid. Maybe they are all just spineless bastards.”
Somehow, he forgot where he was, and a sudden pain in his back brought his senses back to life. He lingered too much on the steps, hearing neither Ganoblis nor Svafa. The two merchants had already sent guards to force him on to the platform. for Sikalis to show himself, their frown displaying their already great displeasure at him.
Sikalis shook of the guards, and, taking his time, he climbed the squealing steps and walked right to the center of the platform.
The room fell silent as they saw him. Only the last buyer, a portly man with a long mustache, could be heard hurrying out of the market, the old Lotan slave he bought right behind him. Everyone else’s eyes were on Sikalis.
He must have made quite an impression, as the silence seemed ominous under the grey stone ceiling of the market, the slave-owners unsure about Sikalis’s presence. Sikalis looked at each face with the patience of a philosopher, his eyes searching the thin man in the blue and red tunic who bought the girl before. He could not find him.
Dissapointed, he looked towards Ganoblis, savouring the hate he found in his pig eyes. Then, he waited for the signal to step down and go back to the wagon to be caged again.
All of a sudden, the thin man return, walking a bit behind a nobleman. He was wearing a white qata, as the Taurians called the clothing, it's edge the colour of blood. It looked obvious that the old man was the noblemans servant Sikalis knew that nobleman rarely showed up in person at places such as these, amidst people so much beneath them.
It caused a commotion, with cries of: “Massos!” being gasped throughout the room. Even Ganoblis and Svafa were surprised. They tried to quickly reach the pair, but the crowd that gathered could not be pushed through.
He looked at both the nobleman and his companion with a vivid interest. The old man had a short, brown hair peppered with gray, a beaklike nose set in a round face and pure white skin. The nobleman clean-shaven, oval face carried a perfect nose. His wavy brown hair touched his cheeks. The air of authority was natural to him. Both of them looked at Sikalis, the intelligent dark eyes of the elder and the noblemans fiery grey eyes.
“I want this Hadritti for a 1000 lirii.” - said the nobleman.
Every single person in front of the platform started shouting and arguing, even insulting the nobleman. He could have bought hundred slaves for that price. His masters stood shocked, their mouths gaping at the price. Massos’s servant didn’t waste time. He gave the money to the slavers, who were still looking at them with their jaws open, and took the chains from them. They shot out of the market, all three eager to go away. Sikalis found that he could match their pace if he disregard the growing pain in his feet, the chains tugging at him to keep up.
They walked for some time in silence through the crowd-filled streets of Naurentie, pushing through Taurieans in brown or blue togas. He was still surprised at how many people lived in towns such as these. It was mad. Shit filled, stinking streets, beggars sitting at almost every corner of the paved road, and there were side alleys, he saw, that everyone avoided, even in daylight.
At the end of a bridge, when he thought he could not ignore the pain in his legs, they got to a slave wagon. His legs almost gave out as he got into the wagon. He found himself a bit of space for himself even though there were a dozen slaves in it, more than it would normally hold. The iron bars had enough space between them, so he put his legs and arms there. He made himself look at the paved streets, the Taurians, their stone buildings at first, then later at the oak forests, the valleys, that lone mountain in the distance.
The land looked much the same as the one he came from, the land that was his home.
“Solan isn't your home anymore, you fool. Everyone fled. And they were right. Damn them to oblivion, they were right.”
His home may not be his anymore, but he could not think of it any other way.
#
The sound of the guards’ talking alerted him. The landscape changed as dusk settled over horizon, giving way to vast fields of wheat and rows of grapes. The change was too sudden not to be noticed, and it was enough for Sikalis to take him out of his stupor. he was relieved to feel only a dull throb in his legs. It was not ideal, but if he had to run, he would be able to do so.
The strange, mechanical tounge of the Taurieans prevented him from learning what they spoke about, until he caught the words “soon” and “estate”, some of the few words he came to understand.
“Soon” he might be able to escape. There was nothing that could stop him now, no heavily guarded wagons or iron chains. It seemed Bato smiled upon him at last.
They continued for some time more, the slave wagons and the guards. The nobleman trotted ahead on his big horse, his servant on another right by him. He did not seem a fool, however much Sikalis thought him as one only because he bought him. The sneers he recevied from the guards earlier, the easy way they were talking, and the man on the horse made Sikalis uneasy. He shook the feeling off. There was nothing he could do now but wait, so he waited.
His eyes wandered of to his wagon. Before, he didn’t even look at the other slaves in the cabin, and he found himself surprised when he spotted the girl he saw sold at the market. She was asleep in the corner of the other side of the wagon. Somehow, he had forgotten they were both bought by the same man. “Maybe...”
The guards suddenly quieted. His thought dismissed as he watched them arranging into formation, a high wooden wall standing a hundred paces away. Two sentries were doing their rounds when they spotted the column. Soon after, the gate started to open, inviting them in.
Everyone seemed to liven up again, even the slaves. They watched ahead with hungry eyes, as if they could devour what they saw.
Sikalis was not impressed, but the uneasy feeling he thought was quelled returned stronger, and now, he could not dismiss it. This did not look like an estate, with the high spiked walls and strong watchtowers. He could hear the clank of weapons inside, sounding almost like the clamor of a battle he heard his father speak of. “Where am I going?”
The question was on his mind during the last, short part of the trek, where supplies were unloaded from the wagon and the slaves waited for their names to be called.
When they called for Sikalis, he was already walking out as the last slave. As he stepped on to the ground, again relieved that he feels almost no pain in the legs, he found himself in front of a fully armored man. The only thing Sikalis could see underneath his helmet was a pair of tired black eyes. "Holy Bato..."
The man gestured Sikalis to follow him into a specially walled off space. The nobleman was already sitting at a nearby porch with a glass of wine in his hand, his servant standing next to him. Several guards were on the ramparts, bows strung.
“We want to see you fight, Solanian” said the nobleman, his voice commanding. Even though he spoke Hadritti, he showed no hint of an accent. “How does this Tauriean know my tribe?”
“I don’t know a better masarior to test my new slaves skills than Neotran. I hope this one won’t be useless, at least. Eh, Neotran?”
“We shall see, Massos. He might look strong, but if he can’t swing a blade, we might as well give him stables to clean.”
Neotran extended his left arm to give Sikalis a short blade. It was a double-edged, sharp weapon, but made of cheap iron. A useful enough weapon until he could get another. “Fucking archers.”
Both took a step back. Sikalis gave his sword a few swings. Neotran stood firm in his stance, the last light of the day giving him an unearthly look.
Without warning, Neotran lunged, intent on stabbing Sikalis through his arm. Sikalis dodged at the last moment instead of parrying, giving him a bit of space, then made an attack of his own. His still wounded legs hamphered his movement. Neotran parried without effort, beginning a series of blows in response. He seemed to see what Sikalis would do before even he knew. He would block, attack, and block again with a perfect timing, enjoying the skill he possessed.
It was a game, an easy game.
The fight didn’t last long. Each Sikalis’s parry was slower, each attack weaker, until his sword was laying at the ground a few paces away and Neotrans’s blade was just under his chin.
“You’ve never truly held a blade in your life, have you?” asked Neotran as he sheated his blade. He took Sikalis' silence as a yes, then turned to the nobleman.
“I think we might turn him into a good masarior, maybe even a great one. Had he been discovered earlier... But, he’ll do. The masar suits him, and he has the fire.”
Massos signaled his servant. The old man walked to Sikalis and took his chains off. He was ready to follow the man, even though he did not understand what just happened. That was his first time holding a real blade, true, but he knew how to kill with it, and that was enough.
The nobleman walked up to them and nodded to Neotran. Sikalis saw a flicker of movement on his right side, the pommel of a blade crashing down on his skull, and the whole world turned black.