First the comments, then I’ll actually post my 250 words.
@fabienne – I liked this. I could tell it was dystopian right away and I wanted to know what was going on. Plus I could feel the characters voice pretty clearly. There were a few grammtical errors (like the one that downeynl mentioned), but those can be taken care of pretty easily. The only other thing I noticed was when your character told us what a Tele-Wall was. Instead of saying it was a wall of televisions (something she would already know), just say something like “on every building, Tele-walls show the . . . .” and let us figure it out as we go. Things like that help hook a reader into the story because they are trying to figure out the jargon as well as learn what’s going on. Just be careful not to introduce too much world jargon at once or you’ll confuse the reader.
@downeynl – I agree that perhaps you should start off with some piece of action. As much as I love your first sentence (and I really love it 🙂 ) I feel like the mulling things over at the beginning slows the story down a bit. I tend to want to explain stuff to, so I know how hard it can be to just jump right in and let the reader catch up later. Still, over all it was a good 250 words.
Now for my 250. One thing: this is a fantasy story, but it may not seem that way at first. 🙂 Also, I haven’t actually proof read this because I just finished the draft the other day and I’m letting it “breathe”. 🙂
The ring was warmer than usual that day, and had I not been dealing with my mother’s almost-complete meltdown, I probably would have paid more attention.
At first, it was a normal day. I had finished my schoolwork early, so I’d taken up residence on the couch and was reading my latest fantasy novel when I heard the sound of metal crashing onto our hardwood kitchen floor.
“Mom?” I asked, laying my book down, “Everything okay in there?”
“It’s fine Alana,” came her out-of-breath response, “I just dropped the baking sheet.”
I frowned. Most teens I know like when their mom bakes, if she’s as good at it as my mom is, but to me, the sound of my mom baking meant trouble. She almost never bakes just to bake, and there weren’t any church bake sales or fund raisers that I knew of, so she had to be upset about something. Because that’s really the only other time she bakes. She spent two weeks straight baking the year my dad walked out on us. And at least a day every time she talks to him.
With a sigh, I set my book down on the coffee table and hopped off the couch. Walking into the kitchen, I was greeted with the sight of my mother frantically stirring a bowl of what looked to be cookie dough. Oatmeal raisin by the smell.
“Whatcha making?” I asked, sliding onto the cabinet.
“Oatmeal raisin cookies,” she said, throwing me her best I’m-not-upset fake smile.