Thomas Clayton Booher says:

To all – admittedly exactly how does the snowing and Gem fit together is not clear at this point. Perhaps a line like, ‘Gem stepped off the curb; the office was just across the street;” or, ‘Gem dropped the curtain. It was going to be a long night.” Would that have resolved all the unknown elements? Hardly.

Is it really necessary to say anything about the snow just yet, or give a sense of where Gem is, or how she’s travelling. Do you really need to place Gem in a specific locale, yet? Doesn’t a black, oily, smelly box that is somehow the botched hope of the world provide enough intrigue to keep the reader because he wants to see what in the world that is all about. A malodorous box, a monocled guy, and an attractive office mate load the story with potential and intrigue. Isn’t that all we are tryting to do right now? It’s a hook.

How about these? Instant intrigue and mood (without any dialogue to boot).

———-

The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each other’s chests; then, recognizing each other, they stowed their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking briskly in the same direction.

———-

Special Agent Nathan Donovan lifted his tray table and peered down at the small plastic case wedged between his feet, just as he had done a hundred times before. It was a beverage cooler, really, nothing more, the kind he might have smuggled into a Mets game or taken to the Jersey shore. The simple red lid was unceremoniously duct-taped to the chalky white body, giving it an altogether unassuming appearance–as though it might contain nothing more than a frigid six-pack or a picnic lunch for two.

———-

The last drops of the thundershower had hardly ceased falling when the Pedestrian stuffed his map into his pocket, settled his pack more comfortably on his tired shoulders, and stepped out from the shelter of a large chestnut-tree into the middle of the road. A violent yellow sunset was pouring through a rift in the clouds to westward, but straight ahead over the hills the sky was the colour of dark slate. Every tree and blade of grass was dripping, and the road shone like a river. The Pedestiran wasted no time on the landscape but set out at once with the determined stirde of a good walker who has lately realized that he will have to walk farther than he intended…

———-

“On a post. In a pond”
Delaney said the words aloud, not becaue anyone could hear him but because the words needed saying. He wished his small declaration could create a bit of sympahty from a crewmate, or a native, or even one of the cutthroats who had left him here. But he was alone.

———-

Janner Igiby lay trembling in his bed with his eyes shut tight, listening to the dreadful sound of the Black Carriage rattling along in the moonlight. His younger brother Tink was snoring in the bunk above him, and he could tell from his little sister Leeli’s breathing that she was asleep too. Janner dared to open his eyes and saw the moon, as white as a skull, grinning down on him through the window. As hard as he tried not to think about it, the nursery rhyme that had terrified children in the land of Skree for years sang in his head, and he lay there in the pale moonlight, his lips barely moving.

———-

Mr. and Mrs. dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.

———-

It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting aloine in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before him, the more clearly the Primer Minister could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents…

———-

Mark was eleven and had been smoking off and on for two years, never trying to quit but being careful not to get hooked. He preferred Kools, his ex-father’s brand, but his mother smoked Virginia Slims at the rate of two packs a day, and he could in an average week pilfer ten or twelve from her. She was a busy woman with many problems, perhaps a little naive when it came to her boys, and she never dreamed her eldest would be smoking at the age of eleven.

Mirtika says:

I upthumbed this because I liked the imagery given, and because the writing flowed. Yes, there is confusion, BUT, I wanted to read more. And that’s key. I felt like this could be a steampunky thing. I could envision it in 19th century somewhere. Monocles and boxes and desks and streetlamps and outhouses and fish markets and snow and capes and dark doings and magic. Good job.

Kristen Stieffel says:

Wow — there’s a rich storyworld here, but it’s almost two much in a short space. I think if it were expanded it would read better. The problems of a word count constraint. I like the conflict with the major, but the niece’s motivation seems artificial. Again, that’s a problem of the constraint. The writing is very strong. Good job!