Thank you to everyone who has shared their work for us to critique! We hope that our feedback is useful.
Also, please note that we still have spots open. Submit your first 500 words to Critiques@Saboviec.com for inclusion in this week’s blog posts. We need it by tonight at 8 p.m. if you want to be included tomorrow and spots are still open.
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http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/6928ae2/
Entry #8
*Author: Kim Johnson*
*Website:* http://kimcjohnson.wordpress.com/
*Title: Her Only Escape*
*Genre: YA Suspense*
The last place a senior wants to be cooped up is the career counseling office. But I like the quiet. I like the college posters filled with smiling faces. The stacks of possibilities filed in the cabinets. Even the obsolete typewriter. But most of all, hearing the tick, tick, tick, of the clock. A sound to drift to if I can stay undetected in the far corner.
Hunched over, my long hair drapes my face on my desk and I let my glasses dangle at the tip of my fingers.
*My legs flutter above ground, whipping high in the sky. I land. Move my feet sharply like scissors to complete an arabesque, dangerously close to the edge of the stage. With my feet perfectly on pointe, I arch my back, keeping the length of my arms straight. I’m dancing like my life is on the line – reckless chances. Maybe it’s because I know he’s watching me from the back corner. I dance faster so he doesn’t disappear, but my body is tiring. I stumble glancing in the shadows. He is gone. *
The bell rings and I jolt my head up. It takes a second to place myself. I wipe the drool from my mouth, and throw my bag over my shoulder. Adrenaline charges up my body, raising my energy beyond containment. I refuse to let anything stop me from dancing again. I swallow the pain choking up to my neck thinking about Michael. About his warnings. About him being gone.
I practically skip to the doors adjacent to the indoor weight facility at Eugene Highland high school. We use it as our makeshift studio. The first time I found out it, I stalked the dance practice through the window for weeks before I brought the subject up at home.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Mom said after I mentioned wanting to take up dance again. I did a double take, to make sure I heard her right. She repeated once more. Hearing it a second time, it stung like she slapped my face. Dad left the room to refrain from yelling at the top of his lungs.
I wanted him to. Just once lose it, in front of me. But he didn’t.
Mom continued, “I only mean, you should try something new, Samantha.”
My mouth still hung open a bit. What she won’t say is, *do something else*. *Anything else.* As long as it doesn’t remind her of Michael.
Mom is all about forgetting.
Shoving it down.
Burying it.
Dad usually gives in to Mom, but this was one thing he wouldn’t let be taken away from me. I found him upstairs, unpacking my dance boxes.
“For when you’re ready,” he said, before kissing my forehead goodnight.
And dance began burning in my heart again. Calling me to the floor. Gripping me until I couldn’t breathe. Till the only thing left for me to do was dance.
There’s more to critique!
After leaving your comments, you can head over to one or more of these blogs to see some more great entries:
- Before Ink Dries
- Magic & Mayhem Book Reviews
- MM Jaye Writes
- Official Blog of Brian Basham
- Quanie Talks Writing
Thank you to the entrants and the participants!
Brian grew up and still lives in Va Beach, VA where he spends his time playing with his black lab, Saie, a.k.a. Inspector Puppy. In his spare time he plays softball, poker, and the occasional video game. Oh, and he writes too. You can read some of his stories for free at 
