Young Writers Society

When I think of Italy, I picture Tuscan cobblestones sweeping through bustling streets, delicate violin music gracing the air. I can almost smell bread baking, tomatoes roasting, can almost hear the warm Italian drawl of locals.

Today, Italy is a mess. A complete mess.

There is none of that. Restaurant windows are shattered, streets are stained with fresh blood, and the only sounds I hear are abandoned car alarms and, occasionally, footsteps. Locals? Terrorists? It's hard to tell.

The terrorists know we're here. They sense us, feel our presence. My new Italian perfume might be to blame, too – Hayden told me not to buy it, but I couldn't resist. She was probably right, as usual. But it may have been a fatal mistake on my part. If they find us, we'll have to fend for ourselves. Our help is gone. And that Valastro man, that one that tried to help us, what was his first name?

A gunshot fires suddenly at dangerously close range, and Hayden and I slink back into the alley, leaning on the shaded brick wall. I breathe in the air in quick spurts, and it smells of rust and smoke. I look her way. Her dark green eyes pierce the space between us, hard and determined as ever. My violet eyes brim with fear. The question hangs there, so heavy I can almost feel it.

What do we do?

Before either of us can take another breath, a terrorist leaps to the entrance of the alley, purposely blocking our only way out. He raises a menacing black gun level to his nose and swings it back and forth between Hayden and I, as casually as if he were choosing which dessert to eat.

“Look, man, can't we reason here? We've got cash and--”

“I don't care whatcha got, sweetcheeks. Not this time,” replies the terrorist to Hayden's brave request. She's always the rational one. I stand with a look of disgust on my face.

“No, not this time,” he mutters, almost to himself. I scan his face for any sign of fear, any weak spot I can pinpoint. All I see is hate. Hate, hate, hate. The word crawls over his body like a bunch of red ants.

I pull the gold tube out of my back pocket as the terrorist barks something into a walkie-talkie gripped in his gun-free hand. His eyes dart immediately to the device I'm holding, then back to my face, which I've arranged to look as innocent and sweet as possible.

“Like my lipstick? It's that new Maybelline one, Fire and Brimstone,” I say casually. My heart races in my chest, even though I know we'll win this one. The terrorist looks completely caught off guard.

“Hm, wonder why it's called that, Ashton?” asks Hayden, a smirk playing at her lips.

“Oh, I'll show you!” I respond just as I whip the tube to a few inches beyond where the terrorist stands. He raises his gun, but can't help but take his eyes off of us as he examines the strange item.

“What are you trying to--” he begins to say, but is interrupted by the massive boom the mini bomb makes as it explodes. Hayden and I jump through the fresh opening in the brick alley wall, thankfully unharmed.

Nothing like lipstick grenades, I think to myself as we make our way back into the deserted streets. Men shouting, that's all I hear. And a the static of our terrorist friend's walkie-talkie, abandoned nearby. Then, a sound that's way too familiar for two fifteen-year-old girls to hear.

The bullet flies, hard, into Hayden's chest, and she collapses to the ground as a bout of manly snickering ensues just a few feet away. I whip out my second lipstick tube as the wind's knocked out of me, but it's no use – about six guns are pointed in my direction. My hand doesn't move. It can't. I'm terrified.

“ Qualsiasi ultime parole, sweetcheeks?” are the last words I hear. My mind goes into translation autopilot. Any last words, sweetcheeks? That's what he said. I hear that along with Hayden's struggling breath before I feel something sharp and awful sink deep into my body, causing the worst pain I've felt in awhile, and the world turns the blackest I've ever seen.

Hello, Fearless I'm here to review.

I'm not generally a fan of prologues, but this is well-written and it makes me want to read more, so kudos. I guess we'll have to wait and see how it fits with the rest of the story, though. Moving on.

There were a few nitpicks I'd like to point out:

Our help is gone. And that Valastro man, that one that tried to help us, what was his first name?

First, you don't start a sentence with "and." Second, I don't really like how the entire second sentence of this quote is within the narrative, rather than inside the narrator's head. However, it's technically correct and it's your choice for what you want to do with it.

Her emerald green eyes pierce the space between us,

Describing green eyes with the word "emerald" is one of my pet peeves because it's cliche'd and slightly inaccurate. Emeralds come in a variety of colors, including blue. People tend to use "sapphire" for the blue eye cliche'. Sapphires also come in a variety of colors, including green. /end rant

He raises a menacing black gun to his nose-level and swings it back and forth between Hayden and I,

I think it sounds better if you say "He raises a menacing black gun level to his nose and swings..."

“Hm, wonder why it's called that, Ash?” asks Hay,

Before you called her Hayden. I understand the concept of nicknames, but they should only be used within dialogue. Unless you plan on calling her Hay for the rest of the book, just say Hayden. You have to stay consistent.

...I respond just as I whip the tube at about twenty miles an hour to a few inches beyond where the terrorist stands.

The "twenty miles an hour" is irrelevent here for two reasons: 1.) it's not that fast [professional baseball players can throw a fastball up to more than 100 mph, and average around 85ish mph] 2.) most people can't visualize that speed anyway.

I hear that along with Hayden's struggling breath before I feel something hard and cool sink deep into my body,

I'm pretty sure Ash (short for Ashley, I can assume?) just got shot here, but that description doesn't fit how I picture getting shot at all. I imagine a sudden, acute pain originating from wherever it is I'm shot; and, unless this is going to be one of those weird journal entries from after she's already dead, we can assume that this Ashley character has not just been shot through any vital organs. Why? Because it's in the first-person, obviously.

Overall: I quite enjoyed this, and I'm excited to read the rest of your book, provided you post the chapters

Keep writing! Feel free to PM me if you have any questions or whatever. That is all.

Hey! I really like this. =) I don't really have time to do a full-fledged review right now (I'm at my sister's) but I'll get to this tomorrow. (If there's any specific things you want me to look at, post on my wall.) So I guess I'll be back here then.

loveness, ultraviolet <3

Here as requested! (Just a side note, if you want another review please post it on my will review for food board. That way I can organise my reviws better.)

I'm going to quote the whole thing so that I don't have to repeatedly scroll up and down.

fearlessalways13 wrote:

Prologue

When I think of Italy, I picture Tuscan cobblestones sweeping through bustling streets, delicate violin music gracing the air. I can almost smell bread baking, tomatoes roasting, can almost hear the warm Italian drawl of locals.
I reall love this imagery

Today however, Italy is a mess. A complete mess.

There is none of that. Restaurant windows are shattered, streets are stained with fresh blood, and the only sounds I hear are abandoned car alarms and, occasionally, footsteps. Locals? There is a big jump between these two groups of people; perhaps you need to insert another group inbetween themTerrorists? It's hard to tell.

The terrorists know we're here. In Italky or somewhere else?They sense us, feel our presence. My new Italian perfume might be to blame, too – Hayden told me not to buy it, but I couldn't resist. She was probably right, as usual. But it may have been a fatal mistake on my part. If they find us, we'll have to fend for ourselves. Our help is gone. And that Valastro man, that one that tried to help us, what was his first name?

A gunshot fires suddenly at dangerously close range, and Hayden and I slink I don't think that they would 'slink' into the alley if the've just been fired at. The word you have chosen suggests they merely slide slowly away from the bullet whereas in reality if most people were shot at they would flee a lot more quickly.back into the alley, leaning on the shaded brick wall. I breathe in the air in quick spurts, and it smells of rust and smoke. I look her way. Her dark green eyes pierce the space between us, hard and determined as ever. My violet eyes brim with fear. The way you have described their eyes is good yet it almost seems like you trying to force some form of description of them into the prologue.The question hangs there, so heavy I can almost feel it.

What do we do?

Before either of us can take another breath, a terrorist leaps to the entrance of the alley, purposely blocking our only way out. He raises a menacing black gun level to his nose and swings it back and forth between Hayden and I, as casually as if he were choosing which dessert to eat.

“Look, man, can't we reason here? We've got cash and--”

“I don't care whatcha got, sweetcheeks. Not this time,” replies the terrorist to Hayden's brave request. She's always the rational one. I stand with a look of disgust on my face.

“No, not this time,” he mutters, almost to himself. I scan his face for any sign of fear, any weak spot I can pinpoint. All I see is hate. Hate, hate, hate. The word crawls over his body like a bunch of red ants.

I pull the gold tube out of my back pocket as the terrorist barks something into a walkie-talkie gripped in his gun-free hand. His eyes dart immediately to the device I'm holding, then back to my face, which I've arranged to look as innocent and sweet as possible.

“Like my lipstick? It's that new Maybelline one, Fire and Brimstone,” I say casually. My heart races in my chest, even though I know we'll win this one. The terrorist looks completely caught off guard.

“Hm, wonder why it's called that, Ashton?” asks Hayden, a smirk playing at her lips.

“Oh, I'll show you!” I respond just as I whip the tube to a few inches beyond where the terrorist stands. He raises his gun, but can't help but take his eyes off of us as he examines the strange item.

“What are you trying to--” he begins to say, but is interrupted by the massive boom the mini bomb makes as it explodes. Hayden and I jump through the fresh opening in the brick alley wall, thankfully unharmed.

Nothing like lipstick grenades, I think to myself as we make our way back into the deserted streets. Men shouting, that's all I hear. And a the static of our terrorist friend's walkie-talkie, abandoned nearby. Then, a sound that's way too familiar for two fifteen-year-old girls to hear.

The bullet flies, hard, into Hayden's chest, and she collapses to the ground as a bout of manly snickering ensues just a few feet away. I whip out my second lipstick tube as the wind's knocked out of me, but it's no use – about six guns are pointed in my direction. My hand doesn't move. It can't. I'm terrified.

“ Qualsiasi ultime parole, sweetcheeks?” are the last words I hear. My mind goes into translation autopilot. Any last words, sweetcheeks? That's what he said. I hear that along with Hayden's struggling breath before I feel something sharp and awful sink deep into my body, causing the worst pain I've felt in awhileSurely this would be more oainful than anything she's experienced - physically anyway., and the world turns the blackest I've ever seen.

Here you have seemed to repeated yourself. 'The worst pain I've felt in a while' and 'the blackest I've ever seen'.
I would just leave the last sentence at ' and the world turns black.'


This was a really good beginning, I love the fact that it's set in Italy; a culture i would love to learn about. Make sure you do plenty of research when continuing this book to try and keep the Italy in your novel true to real life.

I loved this! I loved that you set this in Italy; the first paragraph, especially, sounds rather authentic. Also, lipstick bombs? Awesome. XD I thought your character was a civilian at first but then she broke out the lipstick bombs (again, awesome) and made me change my mind. Her inner voice seems a little too casual for whatever she is, though, so maybe you could sharpen up the words?

Okay. When I first heard the name I thought it was going to be supernatural or fantasy. It's still a good title, but I hope it's really relevant to the story. Other than that...well. There are a few stylistic errors the others mentioned, but I'm not a nit-picker, so.

Otherwise, it's really neat and great. I think you've got potential for a novel here; the end definitely left me wanting more. Keep up the good work!

Robyn.

Hahah! Hey there, fearless. You really are fearless, I must say. xD Well, I really love this, and I must admit I'm not a really good fan of this kind of stuff (violence and terrorism). I love how your characters are girly AND brave. It entertain me and I never got distracted while readying it (that's strange), which implies you've done a great job making it catchy. xD I would definitely read more of this. <3

Never stop writing,
Solvy

Hey there! I'm back.

First off, is there a reason this is a prologue? Because it seems like the story itself. So unless this is a flashback or peak at the future, I'd say change it to chapter one - there are a lot of people out there that find prologues unnecessary and are put off by them.

When I think of Italy, I picture Tuscan cobblestones sweeping through bustling streets, hear delicate violin music gracing the air. I can almost smell bread baking, tomatoes roasting, can almost hear the warm Italian drawl of locals.

Today, Italy is a mess. A complete mess.

First, you don't picture music. So, change this and I think it'll read smoother.

Second, the second paragraph = win. I love it. A lot. Very hooking. It was what told me you're a good writer and compelled me to keep reading, all without getting bored (which doesn't happen every day when people ask for reviews). So, good job there. Really good job.

My new Italian perfume might be to blame, too – Hayden told me not to buy it, but I couldn't resist.

I don't get what perfume has to do with anything. They could smell it...? So what. There has to be thousands of people with the same scent. And if there's another reason, I'd give it now, because we're left wondering.

And that Valastro man, that one that tried to help us, what was his first name?

Since you don't say what happened to him, we're left hanging. We have no idea how he works into this paragraph except that he tried to help him, but that's not what this paragraph's about; it's about what's gone wrong. And if you don't tell us what went wrong with him, it doesn't belong there.

a terrorist leaps to the entrance of the alley,

Okay, he's a terrorist. I guess this is enough information, but at least later on I want some questions answered; questions like, "Who is he working for", "Was he trying to find them", "How much do they know". There are more, but those are the most basic.

I pull the gold tube out of my back pocket as the terrorist barks something into a walkie-talkie gripped in his gun-free hand.

If I were him, I'd start yelling. Start threatening. You don't drop it in two seconds, I shoot. Obviously their world is hell, and in hell you don't have time to wonder why a girl who should be fear-stricken is showing you her lipstick.

Fire and Brimstone,

Hey, can I just say that I love this name? I'm assuming it's not a real color, but if it were, I would so buy it. xD

The terrorist looks completely caught off guard.

Again, it's kind of hard to catch a terrorist off guard. They're insane, mostly. Twisted logic. No morals. Okay, so this isn't necessarily true of all of them, but still. I doubt a terrorist would hesitate long enough for you to blow him up with lipstick.

“Hm, wonder why it's called that, Ashton?” asks Hayden, a smirk playing at her lips.

And by now, you'd be dead. Just saying. It's pretty obvious something's up, and that mixed with everything else should be enough to clue the guy in.

Nothing like lipstick grenades,

Lipstick grenades. Hard to remember, but I'm pretty sure I rolled my eyes at this. I mean, is this the best you can do? I can name half a dozen movies (some that still play on Disney Channel every so often) that conceal weapons in cosmetics. It used to be creative and original - now, it's not. I don't care who you are, no one wants to read about lipstick grenades (at least no one that doesn't read Meg Cabot and Stephenie Meyer, and I'm guessing that's not your target audience). Give them real grenades. Make them so quick and skilled with them the terrorist didn't have a chance. Don't make them so cocky about the whole thing. It portrays them as junior high girls that get plopped into the situation like they actually have a clue what the heck they're doing. I desperately want these girls to be kick-ass (their personalities can vary) - that's the kind of character I respect in these situations.

Then, a sound that's way too familiar for two fifteen-year-old girls to hear.

They're fifteen - this raises a lot of questions. So you better be prepared to answer them. Questions like: What are they doing in a terrorist-ridden Italty?, Why are the terrorists after them?, How are they accustomed to carrying around grenades?, Why do they not even hesitate when blowing the guy up?, and How do they fit into the grand scheme of things? There are more questions, like above, but these are the most pressing ones. See, you raise a lot of questions. Which is good - people read on to find answers to their questions. Just make sure you answer them, and in ways that make sense and are easy to follow.

So, overall, I really like this. Contact me when there's more. =)

loveness, ultraviolet <3