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Discussion Starter #1
In my last question, a few things pointed out by some people frustrated me.
First of all, I am only thirteen and do not know everything there is to know about literature, please be understanding and DO NOT expect me to automatically know everything.
Secondly, the girl in my story is annoyed by the flattering compliments because of how she looks at herself, if you were to read the whole story, you would understand.
And lastly, I know the title sounds a lot like "True Blood", and I know that, I will work on it.

For more comprehension of my novel, here is a bit more, just for the people who want to hear it:

Sometimes I felt like this, like I was ambushed in a cage built by my own thoughts....

I'd put up a lethal barrier between me and the rest of the world for quite sometime. Now that death stared me blankly in the eye, I had nowhere else to turn. Michael could always protect me, yet I felt dependent on my mind as well.

Suddenly, he was there, his hands comfortably in his pockets and his eyes locked on mine. He stuttered. “You ready?”

I knew it was my round to speak, but instead I bobbed my head, pretending everything was okay, even though we both wasn't.

I suppose there was a bit of hope left, but the fear and despiration overwhelmed it. My whole life had become foreign and the motivation I'd had to impress his parents was almost entirely drained.

The gathering darkness of my mind took total control, yet here I sat, fifteen shallow minutes away from his house. His mustang no longer entertained me, and was an ancient thrill.

His hand collapsed over mine, forming a personified mold. It comforted me. “We're almost there.”

Is this how it had become, fragments of the sentences we used to share? I'd lost count of how many anxious looks he'd given me, the mass of them being over-bearing.

When I could see the mellow stream crossing the front of the house, the bridge that entitled it, and the pearl mansion, I knew this was it. The day I'd meet his parents used to excite me, the feeling so elacious I couldn't resist, but with the entangling promise of a visitor, someone who was watching me, it had become partially perilous.

It took some examining, but from the debilitated roof, and the inactive feel, I could tell this house was somewhat aboriginal. The fresh coat of paint, however, left me thinking that they had been recently remodeling, trying for a permanant revitalization of the home. I fit in with them already.

The minute I stepped out from the car, I could smell the admiration in the air.

They stood there, all seven of them, perfect in every way, and waiting for me. I could feel the pounds piling on to my shoulders instantly. But, I had to keep moving.

His arm snaked around my waist as he whispered, “They like you already.” Pssh, I wish.

It's strange how everything around us was destructive and malignant, yet we all pretended to be untouched. They all stole smiles, yet I knew how they felt. Just like I did. There was no dodging that, and I hadn't even tried. Once I was with them, I was in automatic peril, and I knew it.

Madison's arms reached for me immediately, just like expected. Her warm hug was appreciated, yet I couldn't help remind myself of the danger I was in.

The tallest man, who I'd assumed was Michael's father, had intriguing black hair that was as smooth as a rock; his silver eyes were no rarity, considering genes had to go somewhere, and he looked ready for almost anything; his body was thick and bulky. Michael looked nothing like him, but I saw a bit of him in his father, whether it was the silverness in his pupils or the rampaging look that showed he could pull a move any second.

The woman beside him was petite, and she looked much more similiar to Michael. Her eyes weren't quite silver, but metallic, almost black, yet beautiful and aesthetic. She looked about my height, and her body was perfectly aligned, straight. She seemed bendable and fragile, but I knew deep down, she wasn't close. If she was a Werecat like Michael had told me, she could break my arm easily and with common force. Her brown, child-like hair hung loosely around her arms, and her face was well defined. I could guess she was his mother.

The next person that caught my eyes was a lithe red-haired girl. She was tall, but only an inch or two above me. Her eyes frightened me, their gold shine completely discrepant from the mass of the family. She narrowed her eyes once she realized I was looking at her, not in disgust, nor admiration, but from concern and curiousity. I turned my head.

Next to Blair stood a very handsome boy, although not better looking than Michael. His face was strong and filled with laugh lines. I could tell he would be the fun one, if everyone else failed to be. The gleam in his eyes was, in fact, silver. His hair looked a bit blonde, but the shading of it was brown. In my mind, I'd put a frame around his

38 Posts
Well written.
What is this story about?
I don't know if I'd like the topic of the book, but you have good writing talent. Stick with description over dialogue. Too much dialogue, and you ruin the brilliance of your ability of writing very descriptively.
Good though.
Keep in mind not to make the reader confused when trying to be over-descriptive. I'm not saying you did that, but keep it in mind! :)
I hope answers are positive and they give you motivation to keep up with your story. Well Done.
Good luck in the future!
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