This is my first book. I am trying best I can to write a decent story, but I do make mistakes. If I do, please put them in the comments below. Any mistakes. Grammar, spelling. Also suggestions if the pace of the story is a little slow or fast, or the plot has holes, etc. It would be much apperciated. THANK YOU!
Death. Not something you hear of a ton around here. Did you know that it is illlegal to even think about death? The Peacefuls around this place actually have machines that can make sure you aren't thinking about it. Of course, that is near impossible when you are attending a funeral for your mother. I know I should be sad. I know I should be crying. I know I should be wishing she were here. Is it bad that I don't? I feel happy for her, longing to join her. I don't envy how she went, of course. Murder is a horrible way to go. I do my best to at least look a bit sad as the priest, dressed in his funny white robes, gives whatever service he thinks is going to comfort us and help us remember her. "Tahara Parker," he begins. "Was a wonderful person. She filled all our hearts with warmth and our souls with joy with only a smile. In Paradisium, though- in our paradise- not a tear shall be shed, for that is not what our dear.." he trails off, looking back at his notes for a second, his long, white sleeves bumping his notes off the stand. "Busted," I yell. I cannot believe he thinks he can just waltz up on the podium, say the same words he does about everyone, and the get away with it! Honestly!
"Excuse me?" he asks, his fat eyebrows raised. He was still picking up his notes. "Excuse me? Excuse me?" I say in total disbelief. I just can't fathom being so stupid. Really. People these days. I stand up on my pew in the back, drawing everyone's attention. "Excuse you! You act like everything is okay, la-dee-da, when it's not! First off, let's get the story straight. You never told us the wonderful story of how Ms. Parker died. Care to enlighten us?" I explode. No, like I said before, I am happy for my mother for dying. This priest guy is geting on my nerves, though. Paradise? Ha! This prision was anything but. Ask anyone; they'll tell you it's perfect here. They don't see it though. They can't see through the web of lies our government has created. The priest hesitates, looking for the right words. "That's what I thought," I stage-whisper. Louder, I proclaim, "Tahara Parker was murdered!" There are gasps throughout the church where we were being held. One killing another? That was something unheard of here. "That's right. I heard her scream in the dead of night. I saw the blood, I saw the pain written so clearly on her face as she died. I heard her last words, barely a whisper as she drew her final breath." I act as if I am overwhelmed with grief. Act. My whole life was an act. I don't need, nor do I want, another person trying to sympathize. I just want the truth. I say that like I am going to get it. If our government tells the truth, I'll eat my hand. "Two. You call this a paradise? We have a flipping murder on the loose. But we're going ignore that and go to the beach, aren't we?" I used my prissiest rich person voice. "Assuming all is normal, though, we still aren't even near a paradise. Sure, we can have everything we want. Everything but freedom. We have Peacefuls- which in my opinion is just a fancy word for jailers- everywhere, even now. At a funeral! A funeral. We are bound by one rule, a rule to do what the Peacefuls say. We are their slaves, don't you see?" I say, trying to convince the poor idiots. The Peacefuls in their crisp gray suits and threatening black glasses take a step toward me. "And the Clocks," I say, ignoring the Peacefuls. "Don't get me started on those." I wear a glove covering my Right Clock, just like everyone else, even though mine is nonexistant. My glove is black with gold roses. Mom's was velvet. "Who's to say when we die? Why should some stupid Clock dictate when we meet our soulmate or who it is?" I half-whisper.
Everyone's Clock is diffrent. My best friend, Lucy, has two pink stopwatches in her wrists. My mother had a very unique one. A rose tattoed into her wrist that a petal fell of of every miniute she was closer to meeting her soulmate. Or death. Me? I have a fancy 16th-century pocketwatch tattoed in my left wrist. I think the tattos are a family thing. I hold up my left wrist. "Why should these dumb clocks dictate who we love and when we leave them?" That earned a murmer of agreement from the crowd. It also merited death glares from a few Peacefuls. Then all hell breaks loose. First the Peacefuls start to run after me, guns drawn. Then people scream and run at such a display of violence, even if it is only the drawing of the weapons. I weave through the masses of people and manage to squeaze out an exit. Outside I hear an older man, who was probably drunk, tell me in a slurred sarcastic voice, "Well, this is one hell of a paradise." Isn't that the truth, though? Does he know something? I see the Peacefuls in the crowd, easily distinguised in their glasses and suits. In a dry tone, I reply, "One hell of a paradise for sure."
I am sort of proud of my first chapter. I think it is pretty good. If you people could give me feedback that would be AWESOME!
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The Clocks
RandomEveryone here is born with a clock on each wrist. Each counts down to something. The one on the left wrist counts down to when you meet your soulmate. The one on your right is kept covered for your own protection. People have gone mad by looking at...
