The Writer's Café

I want to start a book. I have like 2 1/2 chapters but the beginning seems like it's missing something or too random. Any ideas on helping?
 
(The Real Deal)

Prolouge:

He crept through the hall, feet not making a sound. He kept looking into each of the rooms he passed, each one revealing another member of the royal family. The rooms were identical in some ways. They had curved roofs with a blue and white tiled floor. The lace curtains in each room were billowing softly as if they were in a small breeze, occasionally leaking in moonlight at times, making it seem almost like a dream. But the ninja had only one member of the royla family in mind. Prince Jarod was only fifteen, but next in line for the crown.

He crept into Prince Jarod's room, where he slept upon a velvet couch, clothes strewn about. Prince Jarod was young, but definitely handsome. He had sharp brown eyes with well-defined features, and brown hair. He was sleeping in his night clothes, which the ninja found pathetic, because on the right shoulder sleeve, a small crown was embroidered. The ninja drew his shruiken, making a small sound.

Prince Jarod awoke immidiately, and upon seeing the ninja, drew his seord from his back where a leather sheath was concealed. The ninja threw his shruiken at the prince, but with the grace and ease of a well-seasoned warrior, he deflected it by tilting his sword to an angle. The ninja threw another. Each shruiken was only about a split-second apart, but the second shruiken found it's mark, and Jarod collapsed, his brown eyes now dull with death.

The ninja slipped through an open window and took off through an alley, littered with trash and dumpsters with flickering streetlights with bugs flying around them. The ninja ran into the forest, leaving no indication anything had ever happened in that beautiful city of Harlan.
 
Alright, I just edited my spelling mistakes. Sorry for all these prolouges >.<


(The Real Deal)

Prolouge:

He crept through the hall, feet not making a sound. He kept looking into each of the rooms he passed, each one revealing another member of the royal family. The rooms were identical in some ways. They had curved roofs with a blue and white tiled floor. The lace curtains in each room were billowing softly as if they were in a small breeze, occasionally leaking in moonlight at times, making it seem almost like a dream. But the ninja had only one member of the royal family in mind. Prince Jarod was only fifteen, but next in line for the crown.

He crept into Prince Jarod's room, where he slept upon a velvet couch, clothes strewn about. Prince Jarod was young, but definitely handsome. He had sharp brown eyes with well-defined features, and brown hair. He was sleeping in his night clothes, which the ninja found pathetic, because on the right shoulder sleeve, a small crown was embroidered. The ninja drew his shruiken, making a small sound.

Prince Jarod awoke immidiately, and upon seeing the ninja, drew his sword from his back where a leather sheath was concealed. The ninja threw his shruiken at the prince, but with the grace and ease of a well-seasoned warrior, he deflected it by tilting his sword to an angle. The ninja threw another. Each shruiken was only about a split-second apart, but the second shruiken found it's mark, and Jarod collapsed, his brown eyes now dull with death.

The ninja slipped through an open window and took off through an alley, littered with trash and dumpsters with flickering streetlights with bugs flying around them. The ninja ran into the forest, leaving no indication anything had ever happened in that beautiful city of Harlan.
 
I'm making a hunger games story. :3 No katniss nor peeta, this is for the 5th hunger games.

It's based off a dream a had of Collin's book.


Here's the very beginning:

I rolled out of bed, barely managing to stay awake with each move. Ugh, I thought, yet another day to watch the world pass by and another day to waste. Of course, that hadn't been the way always. We used to be a proud people, a strong people with little fear. We were so close to space travel again, to escaping this decaying surface and reexploring what lies beyond.

Then the Dark Days. We all cowarded under our beds, praying that the Capitol would forgive us and continue on with life. We rebelled, and the Capitol punished us all. District Six was lucky, we were considered drug addicts and they quickly squished our small militia without much damage to buildings or factories. But district 13 was diminshed to rubble, eradicating life and leaving a painful reminder of what happens when you go against the Capitol.

That wasn't enough though. At the end, five years ago, when we could all leave our houses safely, they came up with a cruel idea to reopen the wounds every year. The Hunger Games. It was only the fifth year, but we all knew what would happen. District 1, the closest related to the Capitol by acted as a pet, would manage to win from having the 'luxury' of training their children to be killers. All the other districts watched their children go to battle, doomed to be slaughtered after hearing their name at reaping. All districts hoped their tributes could manage to score a victory for the home team, but the only upset was the very first game when district four won because the tribute had war experience.

District 2 just set up an academy to train their children also, so the competition was going to be heated this year. It's funny, how you can treat it like an actual game, almost like Trains and Lanes the board game. When someone loses, everyone says 'Nice try, but you just weren't mean enough to win.' And the game continues without a second pause. The Hunger Games were like that, but it would never happen to me. It was a one in a hundred thousand chance, if that to get picked.

"Isaac! Hurry up and make me breakfast!" I heard a voice yell. My mother wasn't the most poliet person there was. After my father died, she began to use morphling. That was when I was twelve, and my older brother Andrew first took charge of the house. The war changed my brother. After he came back from district three a week before the Dark Days, he started to talk about rebellion himself and started to read his books.

My older brother called out, "Isaac, it's okay. I'm cooking this morning." And I stood up. He stole books from district 3, all about how to make explosives, weapons, radios, all sorts of things you'd need in case of a war broke out. No one saw it coming, at least not in our district. A few days before the initial lauch, district Thirteen threatened the Capitol to try and get freedom. The turn out was their district being leveled and a distinct model of what happens to districts that act against the regime.

I rubbed my eyes, and called back, "Thanks." It was the same routine every morning, I would get up and wonder what has become of the world and merely continue without a second thought of it. I reached for my dresser and opened the drawer. I glanced around, deciding on what shirt to wear that day. There was a crash from the kitchen, and yelling soon followed. Again, a daily routine of my mother bickering on how not everything was perfect with her meal.

"This isn't good, this is garbage! Your father could have..." I ignored the conversation, knowing where it would head. The morphling had done a number of things to her. Make her skin yellow, as skinny as a bean pole, give her hallucinations. I picked uo the first shirt, it was a bright plain red shirt with no letters on it. Our district was a middle class, as middle as it got in Panem. We weren't very rich, but we weren't district 12 either. The people here were average, except for the drugs, and wore tshirts and shorts most of the time to show that we were 'average'.

"Mom, please sit down." My brother ordered her sternly, and I heard a thunk. My mother must have hit him again, I thought and continued to get changed. I pulled off my shirt, and placed a new one on. The shirt was loose because I had recently bought it from the clothing store that had a sale going on.

There was another crash, this one louder. Worried, I quickly changed my shorts and hurried down stairs. I entered the dining room to find my mom sitting in the corner, rocking back and forth. I sighed and found my brother in the kitchen, still cooking. "You're cut!" I told him, suprised. I reached toward a drawer to pull out some gauss.

"It's nothing." Andrew replied, and I shook my head. He had to be some strong figure head for my sibiligs and myself, but it wasn't working. He couldn't continue to be the super man he thought he was. My brother stopped stiring whatever was in the pot and looked at me. "This has to stop. We can't keep her like this. Maybe those correctional facilities aren't as horrible as they sound Isaac."

I held the gauss in my hand, and reached over his head to the other side. I began to rap the gauss around my brother's head while I talked, "No. We can't just abandon her like that."

He raised his voice, "Look at her. She's in a corner, curled in a ball. Is that what you-"

I interupted him, "And how do they even fix them? The second a person leaves they are back being a morphling. We can do a bett-"

He countered with, "A better job how? Is this the family you want for our siblings?"

"No never. We need to save mom, I get that. But I'm saying that those places aren't-"

My brother raised his voice more, "Aren't what? As good as home? If you haven't noticed, our home is falling apart after Dad died."

I stopped with the gauss the second I heard Dad. Even after five years... It was too soon. Andrew sensed why I stopped, "Isaac, I didn't mean to go that far. I'm sorry." I dropped the gauss and started toward the door when my brother put his hand on me.

"Get off me. I'm going for a walk." I told him, pushing his hand off my shoulder. Andrew stood there, stuned. It wasn't the first time this had happened, but it hurt him more every time. I opened the door, and slammed it behind me after I stepped outside.






~~~~~~~~~~~

What do you think? By the way, I in no way created anything of the Hunger Games Universe.
 
Chapter 1: Just Your Typical Day...

I ran, the small chicken starting to slip and smear grease over my already ruined little orphan "uniform." Psh. I don't even think uniform describes it. More like trash. But that's just me. Anyways, back to my problem at hand: The butcher was quite angry. He was swinging his butcher knife in a maddened frenzy, his face going all sorts of colors. "I left money!" I yelled back. It was a lie, but better than getting sliced in half.

At least, before he found out it was a lie. Then I'd have to run away to ANOTHER orphange. I shivered at the thought, but kept running, seeing Julia Darcey's Home For Orphaned Children. Though behind her back, we all just call it "The Dumpster." The place was a wreck, in more generous terms. It had a dusty rug, just blatant gray. We had a red couch, but it too was dusty and had lost a peg. We all suspect a dust bunny family has been growing up under it.

The kitchen. Don't even get me started on the kitchen. The food tastes like stuff from a real Dumpster, not kidding. We eat on newspaper. I know, she can't even afford a paper plate. The forks. Wow. We didn't have any. Or spoons. It just came down to flat-out hands. And no running water. There was a small freshwater spring outside which was where we washed and cleaned the "plates" and our hands.

And any food we could get, which by orphan standards was considered "luxorious," it was an all out free-for-all. Though I'm usually the winner. I just sneak out, steal a little piece of sausage from the butcher, maybe sneak a few apples from the town market stall, the usual. There were two people from the orphanage I did share with though, because they're practically my best friends. Ty, who's clothing is barely more than a lioncloth and a shirt made out of fibers, which even then had scratches and tears. He was definitely flamboyant (You perverted minds. Not the gay kind, just loud and show-offish.) So he liked to impress the few girls of our orphanage.

Latamer, my other best friend, happened to be rich, also by orphan standards. Meaning his clothes weren't rags, but that's kind of obvious, because me him and Ty are older than the rest of the orphans. Meaning we we're all fifteen, this trio. Well, enough about me and my friends. I still had the problem of the butcher. Apparently my lie of money hadn't taken him off. He was yelling as we ran through the "market," or town square, "YOU STOLE MY CHICKEN! THAT WAS A PRIZED CHICKEN!" I silently kept laughing. I mean, yelling about a chicken in the middle of a market. That's just stereotypical of this butcher. His name's Rob, so I was simply living up to his name. So technically, he couldn't yell at me, which I yelled at him in my defense, still weaving through the crowd of people.

He snorted indignantly, then charged, looking like a mad man with that swinging butcher knife. People scattered before him like a fly from a flyswatter. Again, typical. Nobody liked him, but his food was good, so they grudgingly bought it. C'mon, I silently urged myself. The orphanage is right ahead. I put on a burst of speed, but almost lost my precious chicken, and those few seconds let the butcher catch up, and he tackled me, holding his butcher knife to my neck, and in a deadly calm voice, "Give. Me. The. Chicken." "No," I said. "It's my chicken. I left money." The butcher sneered. "You don't have any money." "Miss Julia gave me some, the orphanage "manager." I smiled slyly, a natural at lying. Sadly, the butcher didn't take his leave. "Don't lie to me, Marcus. I know you took it." I sighed, punched him right on his ugly, little twisted face, then got up and ran into the orphanage, looking worse than I had left.



Author's Note: How you guys like this so far? If good enough feedback, I'll get a story going.
 
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