[Critique Group 1] Leonard's comments re. Martia's sub

[Leonard Tuchyner]

The opening is really a catcher. 

As someone who has been reading theprogress of this book 

I’m surprised that it is Claudia whois killed. 

All the  while I thought it was Veronica who was the target for assault.  

The opening does not reveal theidentity of the victim, 

but everything leads to theconclusion that it is the reporter who is killed.  

The rest of the prologue is clear 

and gives a full account of the main things we need to know about theprotagonist. 

The fact that she has trouble withher sight.  

Her snappy critique of the ruralMichigan mores. 

Her ignorance of small towncloisterism. 

Her attraction to Brown. 

Her troubled beginnings. 

In a way she has the personality ofa counter ego, Veronica, 

with whom she later    develops a mixedrelationship

 

 

Martia sub for Jan 23

 

My submission is early this monthbecause I’m going out of town next week. Also, you’ve seen this before…I’mresending the prologue and first chapter of my book. It’s seen some heavyrevision, and I’m back to the beginning in order to revise the sequence ofchapters…thanks for taking a second look.

 

2051 words

 

Prologue 

Lights Out

 

Why was she alone at work on a Saturday,stuck inside pounding the keys? The work could wait. Warm weather Memorialweekend promised the approach of summer in the small lakeside Michigan town.She couldn’t concentrate. She wasn’t accomplishing much. If she ducked outsoon, she’d have time for an afternoon bike ride around Doe Lake with her bestfriend. 

 

She stood and locked her 1978 daytimer in her desk. Already, the year embossed in gold was beginning to fade. 

 

She strode down the hallway. Threesteps from the exit, she was grabbed from behind. Her neck was clamped in thecrook of an elbow. She stared at a hunting knife inches in front of her face.The exit door beyond reach stood like an immovable boulder. 

 

She couldn’t move.

 

She couldn’t breathe.

 

She couldn’t scream.

 

As if viewing a movie, she watchedherself claw at the arm restraining her. Her relentless attacker pressed hisweight on her, jarring her back to the harsh here and now. Frantic and forcedoff balance, she collapsed into the push bar. Brought down like a doe, couldthe young woman escape the grip of her hunter? A fierce battle for survivalerupted.

 

The heel of a boot landed one, two,three, four kicks to her head. “Fuck you, fuck you” echoed like a jackhammerinside her skull. 

 

The woman struggled to stand. Herheel caught on the top step. With a final shove from her assailant, shetoppled. The back of her head struck the concrete staircase and cracked. Theacrid smell of fresh blood mingled with the stench of her loosened bowels. 

 

Before her vision dimmed, sherecognized her hunter staring down in disgust. 

 

# # #

 

“As an outsider moving to a small town, yourbiggest problem will be that everyone knows who you are and why you are thereright away, but it will take you some time to sort all of them out.” - Allan and Rosemary Young

 

Claudia

Nine Months Earlier

 

Why was Idriving a thousand mindless miles in my ’68 Chevy to a small Midwest town stuckin the middle of nowhere? The simple answer, I was desperate for a job. I was aliberated woman in the 70s fresh out of college with a journalism degree inhand. Despite investing in textured stationery and hand-addressing 100 matchingenvelopes to mail out my resume, I had received only a handful of standardrejection letters in reply. 

 

Through anunlikely twist of fate, an unsolicited opportunity landed in my lap. Myuniversity advisor had met an editor at a newspaper convention who was lookingto hire his first full-time reporter.  The editor’s family owned a weeklyin a rural town west of Grand Rapids. My advisor put in a plug for me. Thanksto him, I got the job, but I didn’t brag about it. 

 

Most of myfellow graduates – guys with names like Mike, Tim, and Brandon - had landedassignments on big city dailies with names ending in Herald, Tribune, or Star,while I, Claudia Krump, would earn my first professional byline reporting for“The Doe Lake Messenger.” 

 

I wrestled with my conflictingemotions. I was abandoning the colorful Colorado Rockies for a dead-end town inthe rolling hills of Michigan. At the same time, reporting for a weekly paperwith a funky name like The Messenger was a thousand times better than movingback home with my suffocating parents. Twenty-two years of suffering throughtheir antagonistic marriage had been enough for me. I never wanted to liveunder their roof again – not over my dead body. 

 

Despite my reservations, I itchedwith anticipation as my destination approached. I squinted road-weary eyes atthe exit sign ahead. 

 

“Doe Lake, Michigan, population7700.” 

 

The end of the road at last. Iveered off the highway, gripping the steering wheel of my monstrous Chevy.Towering trees in full foliage blocked the sun. Lights out. I punched the brakepedal. The two-lane country road darkened like a theater curtain had dropped.The edge of the asphalt disappeared. I ripped off my sunglasses. My car driftedright. I gulped in gratitude; the gravel shoulder was wide enough toaccommodate my full-size-purple-cow-of-a-car. My fingertips prickled withrelief; I hadn’t driven off the edge of a cliff.

 

I gathered my wits at the roadside.If I dreaded one thing, it was darkness. Born with night blindness, I tried toavoid tunnels, caves, basements and secluded spaces that swallowed light. 

 

I cranked down the window and suckedin a nose full of earthy air. The rustling leaves applauded my arrival. My eyesgradually adjusted to the dim light. A fuzzy sign came into focus. 

 

“Doe Lake Park Entrance – 1 Mile.” 

 

I knew Doe Lake was a puddle byMichigan standards. Motorized boats and campers were prohibited. Anxious toexplore, I’d have to postpone my visit to the park for another day. My prioritywas to hunt for a furnished apartment in town. I only had two days beforereporting for my first day on the job. 

 

Like the Oz lion, I screwed up mycourage and edged my retreads back onto the pavement. The winding road curvedaway from the dense woods into welcome sunlight. The rolling hillsides wereablaze. Oak and hickory trees glowed in the sunshine. The glittering goldaspens I cherished in the Colorado Rockies couldn’t hold a candle to the washof red, yellow, and orange shouting autumn in the Michigan hills. 

 

The vibrant landscape resembled aniconic illustration on a child’s jigsaw puzzle. A picturesque village came intoview. A church spire, a clock tower, and a statue of a deer stood tall amongVictorian homes nestled in the valley.

 

I drove around the quaint community,Bug-eyed without direction. It was easy to spot the newspaper office on SouthMain Street. “Doe Lake Messenger” was emblazoned in two-foot tall letteringlike a newspaper masthead across the façade of a two-story building paintedbarn red. Being a Saturday, the office was closed. The Michigan National Bankstood across the street. Convenient. I could open a checking account thereafter securing an address.

 

The storefronts along the six-blockbusiness district reminded me of the 1950s television show Mayberry RFD. A fiveand dime, a ladies dress shop, the stately post office with a pillared entry, acommunity library, the Doe Lake Diner, an upscale country inn, and antiqueshops and galleries flanked Main Street. Venturing north, I discovered a modernhospital, a traditional schoolhouse, and an unfamiliar grocery store calledWrigley’s. The Starz movie marquee on the outskirts of town advertised “Jaws,”last year’s blockbuster. I’d have to drive another hour into Grand Rapids tofind a big shopping mall or Cineplex.

 

At a corner gas station, I picked upa free PennySaver and scanned the ads for furnished apartments. The cuteattendant behind the counter, about my age, had a fresh pack of cigarettes inhis flannel shirt pocket. To be friendly, I asked for a pack of MarlboroLights. Maybe he’d offer me a light? 

 

“That all?” he asked, handing mechange without a second glance.

 

Puffing defiantly alone in my car, Iscoured the classifieds for rentals. Lightheaded, I drove aimlessly. I hadn’tsmoked since my father caught me with cigarettes in high school and threatenedto disown me. Well, what Dad didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, I coughed.

 

That fateful first day in Doe Lake,I assumed no one noticed me driving in circles, looking for “For Rent” signs. Iwasn’t aware yet how conspicuous newcomers were in a small town. Later, I wouldlearn, like hunters concealed in a deer blind stalking their prey, suspiciouseyes behind curtains were watching me. 

 

Despite my numb skull, I found mostof the rentals advertised, but there were some addresses I couldn’t locate. Ispotted a requisite flag pole and pulled into the parking lot. Perhaps I couldask for a local map inside the town hall. 

 

I heaved my car door open and froze,one foot on the pavement, unable to believe my eyes. A dead deer was strappedto the trunk of a passing car. The poor creature’s head hung limp, its throatslit. Ruby ribbons of blood spilled onto the street. I clutched my own throatand gagged. 

 

I was aware hunting was popular inrural Michigan, but I was shocked to see the grisly evidence displayed sobrazenly in the middle of town. A child seeing beloved Bambi that way could betraumatized. 

 

I clomped in my clogs into themunicipal building, desperate to shake off the image.  After entering thedim lobby from the bright outdoors, I stopped short, forced to allow time formy eyes to adjust. 

 

“You must be Claudia, the newreporter.” A gruff voice emerged from the dark.

 

“Yes?” I asked the first compelling questionof my career. 

 

“You’re looking for a place tolive.”

 

For real? How did this shadowy guyknow my business? I hadn’t yet met anyone in town. The gas station guy didn’tcount. I stuffed my hands deep into the pockets of my cargo shorts.

 

“How do you know about me?” Ispouted another brilliant inquiry.

 

“Sue is my cousin. She works in thefront office at The Messenger,” said the silhouette. “She told me you’d bemoving to town this weekend to fill the reporter job at the paper. Thought I’dlet you know, Betty Fox has a nice apartment for rent upstairs in her house onChestnut Street.”

 

“Okay, thanks for the tip,” Isaid.  

 

An office door down the hall opened,shedding light on the subject. A holstered gun on the man’s hip took shape. 

 

“Oh, you’re a cop?”

 

“You betcha,” he said.

 

“Okay, you already know my name. So,what’s yours?” I asked.

 

“Officer Braun, Hank Braun.” 

 

Hank Braun was a solid name for acountry boy, I thought. Then again, who was I, Claudia Krump with a “K,” tojudge a name? 

 

For sure, I had landed on the set ofMayberry RFD. Like Sheriff Andy Taylor, Officer Braun was on the job,acquainting himself with the newcomer in town, but I wasn’t comfortable withhis small town familiarity. 

 

Back in Colorado, I’d been accustomedto no one knowing my business. I had roamed around a college campus twice thesize of Doe Lake like I was invisible. I had come and gone without anyoneprying into my whereabouts. I had moved far away from the snooping eyes of myparents. I had escaped the grip of old friends who had betrayed me. I hadenvisioned anonymity a thousand miles from my painful past. 

 

“All right then, Officer Braun,” Iventured, “since you seem to know so much, tell me, why is a guy driving aroundtown with a bloody deer on display?” 

 

“It’s hunting season,” Officer Braunreplied.

 

“But couldn’t the poor thing beconcealed inside the trunk so that visitors to your pretty village wouldn’t betraumatized?”

 

Braun shifted his weight, assuming acharacteristic cop stance. He fingered the revolver at his side and said, “Youcan’t conceal your kill.”

 

I stiffened involuntarily. DidOfficer Braun notice my knee-jerk reaction?

 

“Conceal your kill? Why, of coursenot.” Would I be more articulate as the town’s reporter?

 

My murky friend explained, “The deertag must be visible at all times to help the game warden prevent poaching. Evereaten fresh venison?”

 

I swallowed the thought. I’d beentoying with a vegetarian diet at college. 

 

“No thanks, Officer, but could I geta map of the local streets here?”

 

The cop ambled down the hall and Ifollowed him into the Clerk’s office. My skimpy eyelashes fluttered under thebright fluorescent fixtures. Officer Braun’s rugged face emerged in starkcontrast to the scruffy, long-haired college boys I’d been dating. 

 

Hank’s dark curly hair was clippedshort. A trim mustache capped a mischievous grin. His green eyes seemed tosignal “go” like a green traffic light. My heart revved into third gear. Thepolice officer’s clean cut country look tingled my fancy.

 

Hank pointed to a street map tapedto the countertop. “Chestnut Street is just down the road. See you aroundtown,” he said with a wink and walked out. 

 

# # #

 

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Leonard I. Tuchyner, Author
 
https://www.dldbooks.com/tuchyner/

 
  
 
 

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