Authors, Writers, Publishers, and Book Readers

Critiques Please

I am looking for critiques of my writings. I am prepared for strong criticism and guidance and thoughts on work.
I need to know if what I am writing are short stories with a beginning, middle and end, or are they a portion of something larger, which needs me to flesh out to accomplish this.

The house sat quiet, awaiting its family to awaken, outside in trees, birds conversed among themselves hours

before the sunlight slivers in the woodlands thrust warmth and light to earth and daytime to the front yard.

Squirrels hop from ground to trees and underbrush foraging for cracked corn and sunflower seed thrown off by greedy birds on hanging bird feeders. Woodpeckers confiscate hunks of greasy suet from a metal trap to carry off to their nests and poke into the noisy hungry mouths of their fledglings.

A large winged dark shadow drifts cross the ground, scattering birds, pinning squirrels frozen onto trees awaiting fate of life or death. A hawk, talons first, assaults the bird feeder, downs its victim, and cloaks it with wings but for a moment before the feather filled claws lift airborne— food for a brood.

Tommy watches the performance of life unfold from his bedroom window, his paralyzed hand, a forever clenched

fists, does nothing as he forces himself up and out of his chair to prop open the window. Fresh air sweep into the

room, fragrances of beach roses tickle his nose with scent, and he hears Grammie talking to her Golden Retriever,

the dog she says…is older than dirt itself, yet she is unaware of the death at her doorstep.

Tommy thinks about the raid, the prey crushed by talons, a victim of something larger than itself, and never knowing the next moment of life, the same way he felt when that large dark shadow, a dump truck, drifted over the center line. Yet Tommy senses the next moment, next second, next minute and day; he sees it in his hands and chair, a chair with wheels that propels him yet hinders his right to walk.

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Comment by michael r. oconnor on March 17, 2010 at 3:24pm: I like where you are going with this.However, I believe if you continue with such detailed revelation in each sentence, the reader may get caught up in trying to swallow the detail and end up losing interest in the story line. I think if you tone down the wording just a little, it will read better. A very good start to something that could be very good.

Comment by Sandra Hyatt Bausch on March 17, 2010 at 8:27pm: Thank you Michael for taking the time to comment on my piece. I was going for a stand alone, a flash fiction sort of piece, but it looks like I missed the mark. I not have a whole story story just a beginning. Is that right?

Comment by michael r. oconnor on March 17, 2010 at 10:58pm: Your welcome Sandra. I believe it is a beginning. One that you should go through again and re-think. There is a lot to be said about where this might go, but its up to you as the creative force to put it all together and have It make sense

Comment by Sandra Hyatt Bausch on March 17, 2010 at 11:58pm: Updated version for consideration before moving on to an expanded idea:

The house sat quiet, awaiting the family to awaken. Outside birds conversed among themselves hours before the sunlight warmed the earth and shoved morning to the front yard.

Squirrels hop from ground to tree to underbrush foraging for seeds thrown off by greedy birds on a bird feeder. Woodpeckers confiscate hunks of greasy suet from a metal trap eager to poke into the hungry mouths of their noisy fledglings.

A dark winged shadow drifts across the landscape, birds’ scatter, squirrels pin frozen onto trees awaiting fate of life or death. A hawk, talons first, assaults the bird feeder. He downs a bird, his wings cloak the victim, but for a moment, before feather filled claws lift airborne again— food for his brood.

Tommy watched the performance unfold from his bedroom window. His paralyzed hand, a forever clenched fist, can do nothing. He forces himself up, lean out of his chair, props the window open. Fresh air sweep into the room, fragrances of beach roses tickle his nose with scent. He hears Grammie talking to her dog Ginger, unaware of the death at her doorstep.

Tommy thinks about the hawk’s raid. Prey crushed by talons, a victim of something larger than itself. He felt the same when that large dark shadow, a dump truck, drifted over the center line. Yet Tommy knows the next moment, second, minute and day. He sees it in his hand and chair, a chair with wheels that propels him yet hinders his right to walk.