Rate the Excerpt Above You

Copperfox said:
Somebody had to be awarded a ten eventually.

YOU'RE IT!!! YOU GET A TEN!!!

I leave it to someone else to take the suicidal step of trying to follow this!
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Aww, thankees Copperfox sir.

Since no-one's commenting, Guess I'll have to follow with a bit from my story about two kids growing up in a rather poor area in England

(The kid's name is Paul, but he's no relation to Paul McCartney):

We were now alone in the quiet dark. It was strange to be in bed and not to have Mummy singing. Was she singing now when I was away? Did she miss me? Was she angry?

“I want to go home. I miss me Mummy,” I whispered.

“It’s only for the night, Paulie.”

There was a long silence.

“Can you sing, Martha?”

“Never tried.”

“Mummy can. She’s good. But she don’t want no-one to know.”
There was another silence.

“Don’t stop talking, Paulie.”

“Why?”

“Quiet scares me.”

But I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Death is quiet, you know. And if I’m quiet too long….” She shuddered. “I’m scared, Paul.”

“Then come down here, and I’ll protect you.”

Martha slipped onto the blankets beside me. She was so close I could hear her breathing. She put an arm around me and laid her head on my chest.

“Your heart’s beating awful loud. That’ll be enough noise for me.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just hugged her. It was a strange feeling. I’d never been so **** content in my life, but I wanted to cry.
“Martha, you still awake?”

“Yeah,” she murmured.

I thought for a moment, trying to think of something to say. Her breathing became slow and heavy.

“Martha?”

No answer. So I just leaned my head against hers, hoping she’d understand what I couldn’t say.
 
9.

Duncan Fletcher glanced both ways before stepping out into the busy Chicago street, even though the WALK light was on. A person could never be too careful. Especially in Chicago. And especially if that person didn't belong there.

He walked across the street calmly, his strides comfortable. In the eyes of passersby, he was just another young man in casual clothing, enjoying his Saturday. In Duncan's eyes--

His cell phone buzzed just as he reached the curb. Duncan opened it and glanced at the number of the person who had called. 897- His lips grew tight, but he loosened them, remembering that he was in public, as he opened the phone. "Hello? This is David Clanahan."

Luke's voice came high and tense through the phone. "I think the USF is on to me."

Duncan drew a quick breath. "You think?"

"Somebody's been following me."

Duncan's alarm increased several levels. If a fairly inexperienced agent such as Luke noticed someone following him, then very likely he had been followed for months without realizing it. Either the agent had wanted Luke to see him, or the agent had been as inexperienced as Luke himself. In either case, Luke was potentially in grave danger. The boy was barely out of his teens: a fairly good agent for his age and relative inexperience, but young enough that Duncan, at only twenty-six himself, felt compelled to protect him. After all, Luke had a family back Texas, waiting for him. Duncan had no one. Not since his father had died, and he and Tara had fought and broken up.

"Luke, listen to me. Get out of there. Now."

"There's loose ends, though--"

"I'll tie them up. You've got to leave town before you're arrested." He spoke the last two words softly, not wanting any nearby pedestrians to overhear.

A moment's silence. "You think things are that serious."

"I know things are that serious."

"But a contact of mine is supposed to get me some really good information--Monday."

"Forget about it, Luke. Is it the same one as before?"

"Yes."

"Then I can meet him. He's seen me with you before."

"We were goin' to meet in the hardware store down the street. At 9:37."

"Fine. I'll be there then. But you've got to get out immediately."

"I will, I will! I'll be gone in an hour."

"Thirty minutes," Duncan corrected. "Be careful, Luke. God watch over you."

"Yeah," Luke said, quietly. "Bye."

"Bye." Duncan closed the cell phone. Great. As if he didn't have enough problems already.

The thought occurred to him as he walked back to his apartment that, if the USF was on to Luke, they might be on to him as well. But he was a senior agent. He couldn't just run off at a shadow, leaving things undone. No. He'd meet Luke's contact, tie up a few loose ends of his own, and leave town. For good.
 
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Numbers don't say much, so here's my constructive criticism. After a point, it becomes too dialog-y. Imagine what a viewer would see on the screen if this was a movie. What would they hear? And, moreover, what would they feel and smell and experience if they were the character. But, I applaud you on making the situation immediately clear and understandable.

Arbitrary compulsory number rating: 7

As for mine, just a little piece of descriptive freewriting...

Dark never used to fall so soon. It came suddenly, swallowing up what little light trespassed the cloud-poxed skies; drowning the land in darkness. There used to be sunsets, the sun painting the canvass of the sky in an elaborate rainbow of hues before finally- graciously- retiring for the night, allowing the moon to take its silent vigil.

But that was then. That was when the earth was still green, the soil rich, the air full of fragrances and sounds and feelings that tickled and enchanted the senses. But now, all the harsh wind brought was the scent of destruction. This place had become a wasteland. Truly, it was a waste. Such verdant land... spoiled.

Perhaps when the land could be traversed again safely, humans would return to this place and right what they did wrong. Perhaps it was a futile gesture. But as one of the ones who had brought such destruction and chaos to this place, he felt it was his duty to see it restored.

With a sigh, he pulled tighter his cloak, doing what little he could to protect himself from nature's retribution. And then he turned, and he left his homeland.

No, dark never used to fall so soon.
 
6. You have some odd conventions in there-- for instance, the dashes are really strange. I might restructure that sentence as: “Help!” Ness shrieked as she was pulled farther out. At least it sounded like “help”, but not by much--the scream nearly drowned out the word.

Just as an idea off the top of my head, of course. Play with it.

Besides the odd grammar, we know that it's a scream because you say she shrieked so repeating that it's a scream doesn't give us new information.

The little piece at the end is an odd mixture of detail (the direct quote) and summary. I'd work on it some to make it flow better.

I don't know your story but I like the name Ness in relation to water. Very cute. :)

Here's just a little freewrite piece about a crazy chick:

I lie awake because the refrigerator is humming and the washing machine is off-kilter—every whir interrupted in perfect time: kalunk-kud-struggle. Kalunk-kud, whir-huff. Kalunk-kud, hum. My purse settles in a crinkle. It sounds like mice skittering through my clothes. They’re coming closer. Behind my lids I can see one crawling up my computer cords, onto my desk, my pillow, my mouth. I can see him crawling down the hollow of my throat and then I swallow and he drowns. He is lodged right over my heart, a dead rotting thing.

I have decided the origin of madness is love.
 
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Simetra said:
Here's just a little freewrite piece about a crazy chick:

I lie awake because the refrigerator is humming and the washing machine is off-kilter—every whir interrupted in perfect time: kalunk-kud-struggle. Kalunk-kud, whir-huff. Kalunk-kud, hum. My purse settles in a crinkle. It sounds like mice skittering through my clothes. They’re coming closer. Behind my lids I can see one crawling up my computer cords, onto my desk, my pillow, my mouth. I can see him crawling down the hollow of my throat and then I swallow and he drowns. He is lodged right over my heart, a dead rotting thing.

I have decided the origin of madness is love.
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8. That last line--nice!


This definately needs some tweaking, so please feel free to give some criticism back with the rating!!


It was in that moment, Madgi knew she didn't belong. She felt like all the other teenagers around her blurred out, and she stood there shimmering, so that every random passerby knew that Madgi was the new kid in school. That even though she was friendly with the other kids, she was not friends with the other kids.
She had a picture in her mind, of a person coming along. His eyes would scan the crowd and zero in on Madgi, even though she was standing on the opposite side of the group from him. His eyes would be able to pick out her face and reconstruct it--like on that one Star Trek. Then a list of information would appear beside her face. Name: Madgi Cooper.
Age: 18
Height: 5 feet, 3 inches.
Weight: 120lbs.
Date of Birth: May 12, 1991.
Other Relevent Information: This girl does not belong here!!
(That last bit would appear in flashing red letters.) No, Madgi didn't belong.
 
Actually, Rhyannid, this was very good. Check the grammar and spelling; "felt like" should be "felt as if," and "relevent" should be "relevant." But the scene is poignant and evocative; it makes me wish to be IN the situation, so I could befriend Madgi and make her feel better.

There's just one thing of real substance to point out: your use of the word "person" in the opening of Madgi's imaginary encounter. The growth of political correctness over the past three decades has resulted in everybody using the genderless (and therefore less informative) word "person" even when gender is known and there is no cause to hide it. Madgi here is imagining meeting a BOY, not an "it;" so go ahead and SAY from the start that she's imagining meeting a boy.
 
Since Copperfox didn't provide an excerpt...


Bren-Cárr stood tall just outside the front door of his small wood-and-stone house--a nadell in the language of the old ones--and raised his bearded face to the red-streaked horizon.

The Cián of Orrinshad, his people, had long said that there was thunder in the dawn. Quiet as the sky appeared now, Bren-Cárr did not dispute the saying.

Inside he could hear his daughter Sulwen beginning to cook breakfast for the two of them. Since his wife, Ansa, had died of illness several years before, he and Sulwen had lived nearly alone, their nadell buried deep in the forest. But Bren-Cárr hardly felt alone. With Sulwen, their occasional visitors, and the life of the wood itself, who could feel alienated in a place like this?

He stepped out into the grass, enjoying the wetness of the dew against his feet. Though he knew that the drenched grass would almost certainly stick between his toes, he didn't mind, and neither would Sulwen, even when his feet made a mess of her clean floor. They were close, the two of them.

She was cooking pig this morning, with apples and potatoes. One of his favorite breakfasts. He could smell the simmering meat already. He wondered whether Sulwen--

A horse's whinny broke him from his reverie, and he turned his head quickly, trying to discern from where the sound came. No one ever traveled into the deep forest this early in the morning. As the heavy hooves tramped nearer, Bren-Cárr noticed that the horse was coming from the opposite direction of the nearest town. The rider must either be a hunter returning from a long jaunt in the forest, or--or what? No one from the Blackstone clan would take the hard route through the forest to reach the Kainons along the river.

Sulwen had heard the noises, too, and peeked her small nose out the door, despite the cooking spoon still clutched in her palm. "Who--"

In that moment, the horse, a light bay, broke out of the underbrush and stumbled into the clearing. He was heavily lathered, and his rider looked little better--a boy about Sulwen's age, slumped over his animal's neck.

"Dhuind!" called Bren-Cárr. The traditional greeting of the Cián was commonly used in Orrinshad, even with those who did not share the ancient blood. "Are you all right, lad?"

The boy grasped at the horse's neck, struggling for balance. A shudder seemed to run through him; and then he slipped off the animal's back and collapsed into the grass, leaving a streak of blood in his wake.
 
8. me likes.

EDIT: I like this one better... The ending of a very short story I did. About 1 and a half pages...

But it is in a picture of you with your mates, that all of this came back to me, as I page through the photos of our yearbook. I laugh at the outdated clothing and blurry quality. But I see you quickly enough.

Our daughter, predictably, makes a face as I point you out. A second later she’s in giggles, hysterical giggles, “That looks nothing like Daddy.”

I hear your laugh and look up. You’re on a different couch, pretending not to listen to the conversation. You have the same build you did in high school, tall and rather muscular, like a player of american-football. You kept your hair short back then, so I truly don’t care at all about it’s lacking now.

And your eyes, as you tease our sweet daughter, laugh and joke with new and old friends, and me, they are the same all the years. Cheerful, beautiful, laughing and loving. That was the first thing I loved about you, and it is what I always will love.

As I meet those eyes, you wink at me. Smiling the same foolish, loving, grin you gave me in the memory. I laugh a little and, without looking away, reply gently to our young girl,

“Really? I think Daddy looks exactly the same.”
 
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an eight.


here's one from coraline

Coraline sat down at her dad's computer and wrote a story,

CORALINE'S STORY
THERE WAS A GIRL,HER NAME WAS APPLE.
SHE USED TO DANCE A LOT.
ONE DAY SHE DANCED AND DANCED UNTIL HER FEET TURNED INTO SASUAGES.
THE END​
 
I'll call the sausage-foot story a cute five.

And now for a sample of what may be my most peculiar piece of fiction seen on TDL: "Emmett and Queenie at Narnia's End." It is a story which, like "Alipang Havens," is rooted in old roleplays.

Emmett is none other than the gunslinger played by Scott Glenn in the film "Silverado." Queenie is none other than The Snow Queen from the Hans Christian Andersen fairytale--but in a roleplay, she was stripped of her magic powers by Aslan, and then converted from evil to good. Now she and Emmett are married, with a home in our modern real world. In my novel in progress, Aslan has sent the couple to Narnia at the time Narnia is nearing its end. Their mission is not to prevent this end, because this end is Aslan's will, but rather to give a last chance for repentance to unfaithful Narnians even in the midst of the short-lived Calormene takeover. Assorted beings native to the Narnian world are enlisted to aid Emmett and Queenie in their mission.

In this scene, Emmett enters the Narnian village of Redmoss, where a Calormene contingent has gained control not merely by armed force, but also by using weird and confusing philosophy to weaken the Narnians' will to resist. (Puktor and Shuff are two of Emmett's friends, a Talking Koala and Horse.)


Emmett unslung his pistol belt, and hung it slantwise over Puktor's body, like a swordsman's baldric. He had carefully explained the workings of a revolver to the Koalas during the wagon trip. "Listen, Puktor, it looks to me like the rooftops an' trees here can give you a road to the town square from any of three or four directions. I want you to back up Shuff an' me. I plan to call out this dude Sabkazul in the open, mano-a-mano. But if I have to, I'll use the shotgun; and you'll be layin' for 'em with my handgun. Try not to lose it, by the way."

"How will I know if you want me to shoot someone?" asked the Koala, looking dubiously at the otherworldly weapon.

"Simple. I'll only want you to shoot AT anybody if, one, the critter's very plainly threatenin' me or Shuff or yourself with bodily harm, an' two, if you got a clear shot with no fear of hittin' anybody friendly. But you could shoot in the air just to put a scare into 'em. I expect to have let off at least one shotgun round early on, so they'll have already gotten the hint to be feared of gunfire. Basic rule is, let me try to handle things, with you pokin' into it only if I fumble the job." Now he addressed the Stallion: "If worst comes to worst, you try to escape, an' let Puktor hop a ride on you, back to Queenie, in which case I'll ask you to bring her my love. Puktor, get climbin' along, and may Aslan be with us."

After giving the Koala some time to cover distance, Emmett rode Shuff into the town square. There were about eight armed men with turbans in a loose ring around a broader variety of reasoning beings than Emmett had yet seen in the Narnian world, or for that matter in Wonderland. Some were as small as rabbits--some indeed WERE Talking Rabbits; others were larger, including Narnian humans; but all seemed intimidated. One of the turbaned Calormenes had a fancy embroidered cape and otherwise ornate attire, so Emmett assumed this one must be Lord Sabkazul.

Sabkazul was in the middle of a bellowed speech: "....is reserved to the Tisroc, and to those whom he may entrust with judgment; for any of YOU to make distinctions is to be guilty of hatred and bigotry! Now tell me, what is the truth Tashlan gives to you lesser beings?"

Like harassed schoolchildren, the diverse Narnian beings timidly chorused: "The only truth is that there is no truth, for in reality nothing is real, so that the only offense is to complain of an offense."

Sabkazul wore a dissatisfied expression. "You say it, but do you mean it? That is, do you mean the meaning of the meaningless?"

A Faun cried pleadingly, "My lord, we are trying to be meaningless enough; but how can we know that we have rid ourselves of the hatefulness of claiming truth, if there is no truth to TELL us whether we have sufficiently discarded all desire for truth?"

At a sign from Sabkazul, one of the Calormene soldiers uncoiled a bullwhip and struck a stinging stroke into the Faun's face. As the small horned humanoid fell to the ground crying with pain and begging for mercy, the whip man made ready to strike harder. "Shuff, stay back on the fringe, try not to attract attention," Emmett ordered, sliding to the ground and unslinging his pump gun.

The Calormene with the whip gave the grovelling Faun a second lash, but did not live to strike a third time. Emmett's shotgun roared; a solid slug flew to its mark; and the whip man flew backwards with a hole in his breastplate, never to stand up again. Working the slide, Emmett chambered another round. "Everyone stop everything," he shouted, "or I'll give y'all some more of THAT reality!"
 
7.5. Emmet's comment at the end made me smile, although sometimes his (Western? Southern?) accent seems overdone.


"Arran."

Arran turned almost too quickly at the sound of his master's voice. "Aye, sir?" he said automatically. His time in the mines had taught him not to visibly resist, even with a decent owner. Senath of Lonar wasn't a rough man, but he expected obedience. Arran had served him well so far and earned some respect for his knowledge of horses, but he had no desire to push his luck.

Senath came closer. He had exchanged his more ornate tunic for a fairly simple green one that highlighted the green tints in his hazel eyes. The tunic was still of better quality than Arran's, but it showed that Senath was feeling relaxed.

And he wanted to know something. Arran could see it in the man's eyes, and his stomach clenched. Blindly, he stretched his hand backward and gripped the railed fence.

Senath stopped just in front of him. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Did he mind? Arran shook his head. As if he could refuse.

There was curiosity in those hazel eyes. "What did you do for them to brand you a traitor?"

Brand. Literally. Prisoners sent to the mines were branded on the chest with their crime so that the guards could tell who had done what. Arran's brand, now hidden by his rough tunic, read traitor and had nearly been the death of him. He was always the one that the guards blamed for everything. A traitor to the mighty nation of Axelarre deserved no better.

Arran didn't want to answer the question. But Senath was waiting, and Arran had no choice. "I disagreed with the war on Orrinshad."

Senath quirked a dark eyebrow. "They arrested you for that?"

"Not exactly--I--disagreed enough to do something about it." He wanted desperately to look at the ground, but he had done nothing wrong. To look down would be to admit guilt. He met his master's eyes.

"You joined the rebels." Senath seemed to be looking him over. Arran squirmed inside. "Were you captured in battle?"

"Kind of." Arran realized the second after he spoke that he had made a serious mistake. He should have said yes and thus ended Senath's questions. Idiot, he snapped silently.

"Kind of?" Senath stood there, waiting for an explanation. He looked like stack of bricks.

Arran ducked his head. "We were surrounded by a regiment from Axelarre. Outnumbered at least three to one. Leader said they'd let the others go if I gave myself up. They kept their word."

"How would their leader know you weren't one of them? Were you dressed differently?"

Arran shook his head, wishing could disappear.

"Then how in the Council's name did he know?"

"He--" Arran tried to keep his composure but failed miserably. "He's my brother."
 
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9. very interesting!

He began to push through the crowd and move toward me.

Dear God, please make him go away. It was the first time I'd prayed since the Calculus test I'd neglected to study for. It was about as effective, too.

Realizing that avoiding him was impossible, I dived under the pew, ignoring the strange glances from my parents, and began army-crawling toward the back.

"'Scuse me. Coming through." I squeezed my way past people's legs. Unfortunately, this would not even much damage my reputation. They'd already known I was strange.

At last I reached the end of the sanctuary. Ok, I told myself, get up, run to the lady's room. Even he won't follow you there. I already knew it was too late, though, I could smell that nauseating cologne he always wore.

"Alice, what are you doing down there?"
 
I give that one a ten! Post the rest of the story! I want to read more!
This is a piece about Caspian's mom....


"You can't keep him Emily,he's a cross breed,must be with his father."
Aslan had been pestering Emily for months after his birth.
Emily was the fairy queen or Azalae,the land of the fairy people called Elven. She'd had a son born of a human man and now Aslan requested him to be returned to his father.
"Please Emily," he cried. "the baby can't stay with you,you know the rules about cross-breeds with human fathers."

"Yes I know them." said Emily. "If any fairy is caught with misbegotten offspring of human men on their hands,they must be returned to the Land of their fathers."
"You know you can't keep him right?" aslan asked.
Emily glanced down at the smiling little baby she held in her arms.
Her son had been born of King Caspian IX from the Land over the sea.
Caspian IX had come to Azalae with his brother and lords looking for gold,but he had a fling with Emily instead.
Now,this was her son,
"My little prince," sighed Emily as she stroked her fingers through his thick,brown hair.
He had been born a healthy ten pounds with pointed,crooked,ears and curly brown hair. He was chubby and sweet with faint dimples at his cheeks. He smiled at his mother every waking second and laughed when she tickled his little toes.
Emily sighed. "May I have at least a few more months with him?" she pleaded with Aslan.
"No Emily," said Aslan sternly,yet gently. "The child belongs to his father,you must return him tonight."
Emily looked angrily at Aslan with tears in her eyes.
"This is for his own good." said Aslan trying to comfort her.
"I don't want my people to get mixed with yours,cross breeding isn't the best idea."
Aslan disappeared into thin air and left Emily alone with the child.
All day Emily spent with the baby,feeding him and playing with him and
squeezing every last moment out of the day.
That night,she had to return him. She fashioned a good strong basket out of the strong fairy reeds that grew by the glasswater.
She dressed her son in a little white gown and tied a bonnet 'round his head. She placed comfortable cushions in the basket and then in went her son. She wrapped him in a little Fairy quilt she'd sewn.
It pictured scenes of different stories and tales from his father's land.
Emily also pinned a note to the handle of the basket,then she took it up in her arms and ran through the woods to the sun tablet.
As she ran,she sang to her little baby a lullaby she'd made up. It went:
No you'll never be lonely,no you'll always be loved
and maybe
you'll never need more than that
With a surplus of love,what's to become of us
does it even register on your conscience?
Known for one last showdown
from a box in a crowd,air compressed tight to explode
I'm clinching your ticket to the only way out
as you disappear in a puff of smoke
She reached the little white pillar that shone in the moonlight.
Emily placed her son's basket on it and kissed his little dimpled cheek.
"I'm clinching your ticket to the only way out as you disappear in a puff of smoke," she repeated through streams of tears. She kissed him again and then uttered the words of magic that would send
him home.
The basket disappeared with a little cloud of glittering dust.
Emily dropped to the ground and wept bitterly.
"Aslan bless your little soul." she whispered into the earth,
"My little Prince Caspian."
 
Hey there. I feel like that excerpt might have fit better into another world... perhaps one of your own creation? Aslan felt fairly out of character to me, which was somewhat jarring. That's the problem with writing fanfiction; it's always hard to make the character you are borrowing match up to the ones in others' heads.

Completely Arbitrary Number Rating: 5

As for my own, I thought I might put pen to paper, in a sense...

Time passed, unheeded, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock hanging on the wall. There was a fresh sheet of paper open on the desk. A blank page, waiting to be filled with imagination. Perhaps this page would be the one to hold the written creativity of a mind. Its predecessors had failed, finding themselves nothing more than refuges of forsaken ideas and unwanted words.

And, all the while, the inker of the notebook, leaned back in a chair, pen precariously balanced between two fingers. The explorer was lost in thought, searching- examining- a steady stream of consciousness for an idea.

Clear eyes, alight with possibility, opened to survey the blank page. The pen was brought down contemplatively and a string of words was scrawled on the page.

No. No. No.

With a frustrated shake of the head and a decisive stroke of the pen, the idea was beheaded with no second thought, the ink bleeding into what had been a blank canvass. Now it was scarred by the death of one unfortunate thought.

A wry twist of lips. The destroyer tapped the butt of the pen against the unoffending notebook. The tapping noise clashed horribly with the sound of time passing, not that the observer paid any heed to it.

A tentatively scrawled phrase. The arbiter stared at it thoughtfully. The words seemed to cower a bit, afraid of joining their cousin in rejection. But the diviner was not so quick to judge. Bringing the tip of the pen back into contact with the paper, the phrase became a sentence. And, suddenly, filled with confidence, the words seemed to leap off the page, opening a door; a reality.

The creator smiled and stepped through the waiting portal into the world that waited. Soon, the page was filled with the words and ideas and would become the beginning of a fantastic and colossal adventure.

Time ticked by, unheeded.
 
That was a good job of NOT using overused cliche phrases, and of pursuing freshness instead. Six point five. I pass on excerpting this time.
 
From the prologue to a new story I'm planning on/am writing thats ajacent to my Warrior Kittens books;


Kuman yawned and lazily stretched out in her bed. Noises of the others had awakened her. That was the problem with living in the orphanage; once one creature awoke the rest were sure to follow.
She stood from her bed and pushed the blanket away from the side of her bed, the blanket which was the only thing that separated her from the rest of the orphans. Slowly she walked through the mass of young creatures to a bed set against the side of one wall. On it sat a young sleek black kitten. She was about four months old and seemingly pure black to those who didn’t know better. But Kuman knew better and she knew that in that black fur there was intertwined spots, blacker than the rest of the she-cat’s fur that were hardly ever seen.
The kitten looked up as Kuman approached.
“Hey Ku,” she said as she gently folded a piece of fabric.
“Hey Diamond.” Said Kuman. Black Diamond was Kuman’s best friend; they were not a week apart in birth and were kindred in purrsonalities. Black Diamond was often called “Diamond” or “Blackie” or just “Dia”.
“You done with ‘em yets?”
“Yep, just finished yours.” Diamond replied.
“Can I see?”
“Mhum.” Diamond unfolded the fabric she had been cradling to reveal a forest-green cloak. Holes were poked in the sides and had threads weaving in and out of them which were unlikely to come undone while walking but easy to undo if needed. This was so that one could remove the top part of one’s cloak while in warm weather and keep oneself warm in cold weather. Of course the cloaks that Diamond made were only blankets sewn together, but they would do for Kuman’s plan.
“This ‘un’s mine.” Said Diamond, proudly picking up a dark purple cloak and fastening it around her neck. Kuman did likewise with her’s.
Just then a young she-cat came up with a tiny kit.
“Well Dia don’t keep us in suspense.” She growled.
“Ok, ok Rosie, don’t let the whole place know whats we’re doin.” Diamond pulled out a soft red-colored cloak and gave it to Rosie who was another of Kuman’s friends.
“And this ‘un’s for you little Sparky!” Diamond handed the kit a pink cloak. The little baby sucked one of her paws and looked at the cloak.
“I comma?” she asked.
“Yes you’ll come too.” Whispered Kuman, draping the blanket-cloak ‘round the kit’s shoulders.
“Should we really take Sparky?” asked Rose, “I mean she’s only a babe and has a life ahead of her.”
“That’s jus’ what grown-ups say an’ its gettin inta your head now Rosie!” Diamond said defensively, “An’ it’s all or nutin, Sparky’s commin.”
“I comma, I comma, I comma!” giggled the tiny kitten who couldn’t be more than three weeks old.
“Its settled then, we leave tonight at midnight.” Said Kuman.
Rosie sighed, “Ok Ku, ok.”
 
7.5. That three-week-old kitten sounds cute. Punctuation is missing in a few places, though.


Shiloh Sutherland slammed the door to his pickup truck a little harder than necessary. "Lige, what is wrong with your mind?"

His battered younger brother slumped rather defiantly in the passenger seat. Lige's left eye was swelling, his jaw badly scraped, and his shirt ripped down the front. The sixteen-year-old's black hair, knocked askew during the fistfight, hung into his eyes. He didn't respond to Shiloh's frustrated demand.

Shiloh buckled his seat belt and started the engine. "What on earth did Jack Davidson do for you to haul off and try to beat him up?"

Lige flushed, but whether from shame or anger, Shiloh couldn't tell.

"Lige, if you don't answer me, then Mama will join me in the interrogation process when we get home."

"He--that dirty rodent--" Lige's eyes suddenly filled with tears, which he gingerly swiped away. "He insulted Da and I'm not gonna--"

"He said what?" Their father had only been killed two months before.

"He was standin' outside the store," Lige muttered. "I was waitin' there for you. I asked what was his name. He told me, and I said I was Lige. He said he'd just moved here and this was a stinkin' little town-in-the-sticks and he could see how an idiot like Drew Sutherland coulda come from here. That this town would make an idiot out of anybody." Lige clenched his fist, despite skinned knuckles. "I told him to take that back--he wouldn't--and so I--"

"I know the rest." Shiloh turned the wheel a bit too quickly, fighting to control the emotions that were now rising within him as well. "Lige, if the kid's new, and if you didn't tell him your last name, then he probably didn't know that it's your father he was trash-talkin' about."

"Our father," Lige gritted between his teeth. "You woulda hit him too."
 
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Eight point nine for Glenburne. I would have given it a nine if not for this:

>> "What on earth did Jack Davidson for you to haul off and try to beat him up?"

The name in this sentence needs to be followed by the word "do" or "say." :eek::D
 
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