New column, Crit Me!
This month, the Muse Marquee has a new columnist, Mommacrit.
The Crit Me! column features the first 500 words of one writer’s work, accompanied
by a no-holds- barred critique from Mommacrit.
Here are Mommacrit’s guidelines:
Send Mommacrit the first page of your story or novel. It
must be less than 501 words. Label it clearly with its title, your name or a nom-de-plume, and its genre. It should be a damn
good beginning, hooking Mommacrit into wanting to read more. By sending your work
to firstname.lastname@example.org, you are giving permission
for it to be published, and publicly critiqued, in the Crit Me! column of the
Mommacrit is not a literary god, though many worship at her feet. She is not a god’s earthly
representative, sometimes known as an agent or publisher. Mommacrit is a critiquer with very definite ideas. If you’re
tough enough to send your work to her for an opinion, that’s what you’ll get, her honest reactions to your 500
Do you dare?
CRIT ALERT!!! “Because Mommacrit has been inundated with submissions, the Crit Me! Column will close to submissions
until further notice. Mommacrit thanks those writers who sent bribes with their submissions – unfortunately, the chocolate
melted. Mommacrit will continue to post honest critiques on work previously received, with or without chocolate.”
First page by
J.Race, one writer who dared send work to Mommacrit.
CULVER GROVE, OKLAHOMA
pink shoes, Andi,” John Carter snickered.
other men, members of the bowling team, stood with Carter cackling like a gang of teenage girls.
balls rolled down in other lanes and pins collided against one another then dropped to the floor. Aromas of colognes and smells
of sweat permeated inside Thompson’s Bowling Alley.
bowling ball in hand, Amber Lee gritted her teeth. She’d like to swing around to face the redneck idiot and toss the
ball into his freckled face. If it weren’t for the other guys in the team she wouldn’t give it a second thought.
Yeah, Andi is my name. Rub it why don’t’ cha. Sometimes I wonder why I put up
with those creeps. If it wasn’t for the fact that I love bowling I’d finding something else to take pleasure in.
She’d have chosen a gay bowling team if one existed.
I can’t help that I’m not as butch as they are. Seems like they don’t mind hurting anyone’s
feelings. I wonder how they’d feel if other people ridiculed them just because their rednecks. I doubt they’d
be able to handle that. They’d want to use their fist. It would serve them right if they got pounded to the ground.
can’t they accept me for who I am? Oh, I know that hardly anybody doesn’t like someone who is different than they
are, but that’s shows their stupidity. Everyone was made to be different.
Maybe, if those idiots can’t accept someone who is different than them that might mean they’re not comfortable
with their own selves. I wonder how they’d react if someone who wasn’t a redneck alienated them by treating them
just they way they treat me. That just might show them that they’re not any better than anyone else, but they’re
probably the type who wouldn’t be bright enough to understand. They’re just a bunch of rowdy unintelligible deadheads.
Well, as I heard Forest Gump say, stupid is, as stupid does. That may not be an exact
quote, but I could care less right
I’ve always wondered if something inside mama’s womb must have gone haywire before I was born. Well, I don’t feel comfortable having a physical
alteration. Why bother I’m comfortable the way I am. Besides, why fix something that ain’t broken.
swelled in her eyes, she swung her arm backward then forward and released the ball.
taunted as the ball continued to roll down the lane.
pen tilted and dropped to the lane and slid backwards.
Yay! Another strike.
wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and whirled to face the six guys behind her. Each of them wearing their blue short
sleeve shirts with three black bowling pins emblazoned on the material, gawked at her. In spite their ridicule her score was
a perfect three hundred.