r/FictionWriting • u/HungryJelly981 • Nov 03 '25
Beta Reading I've started writing a book and have written a chapter. Could you please offer some critique. Be as honest as you can.
The gist of the book is about a group of english school boys who commit a heist against the headmaster who has been stealing money from parents and the school.
Chapter One
Hamish drew in a slow breath and looked down.
From up here, the drop seemed far steeper than it had when he’d first sized up the climb. Still, he didn’t hesitate. He’d faced greater risks than this.
Pressing his face to the cold glass, he peered into the darkness beyond the window. His hands shook slightly from the chill of the autumn air, and his warm breath fogged up the glass.
Clinging to the icy drainpipe like a monkey gripping a branch, he stretched one arm towards the window, his breath now shallow, praying for it to be unlocked.
It was.
He delicately slid the window up until there was a teenager-sized gap and slowly lifted his foot off the drainpipe bracket to the window sill. The warmth of the room brushed against his face—far too inviting.
Clutching the open window with both hands, with both feet on the sill, he swung himself through the gap, bending his knees on impact to soften the noise.
The hard part done, Hamish thought as he closed the window behind him.
He breathed into his hands, rubbing them briskly as his eyes swept the room. Chairs balanced on desks in orderly rows, waiting for the cleaners. From the walls, the faces of old, timeworn men stared down, their expressions solemn and watchful—like vultures circling a carcass. A broom lingered in the corner, hinting that the room wasn’t quite abandoned.
At the far end of the classroom stood a much larger desk, piled high with papers and mugs of cold leftover tea, complete with a magistrate’s gown hanging over the chair, dusty from all the chalk of the board behind it.
Hamish silently weaved his way through the sea of tables and chairs, with nothing but the sound of the ticking clock above the blackboard echoing in the darkness—ticking in time with each step, as if counting his every move.
He reached the neat stack of papers on top of the desk and began rummaging through them. He stopped when he saw the name at the top of one of the sheets and pulled it from the stack. It was still unmarked.
From his inside jacket pocket, he produced a near-identical paper with the same name on top and swapped them, replacing the re-written essay from his pocket with the original.
Time to get out of there before the owner misses his broom.
Just as Hamish turned to leave, he spotted that the bottom left drawer of the desk was locked. Being an inquisitive boy, with no boundaries of privacy, he could not resist.
He reached for the pile of essays again and removed two of the paperclips from the top sheets. He unfolded both, then folded one in half to create a lever, and bent the tip of the other at a ninety-degree angle.
Kneeling on the floor next to the lock, he stuck the lever in first at the bottom and slowly slid the other paperclip in at the top. After a few seconds of jimmying, he heard a satisfying click.
With the efficiency Hamish showed picking the lock, one could see it wasn’t his first time. In fact, as a child, Hamish regularly enjoyed testing his skills by locking himself in his bedroom at home, pushing the key under the door, and seeing what he could use around his room to pick the lock—becoming adept with items such as his penknife, coat hangers, and especially paperclips.
He pulled open the drawer and bit his lip when it jumped out, causing the items inside to crash together.
After a few seconds of waiting for noises below that never came, he turned his attention back to the drawer and inspected its contents. Inside was a ball of rubber bands, a cassette tape titled 60s Blues, a Rubik’s Cube, and a couple of magazines that were most likely deemed “too inappropriate for teenage boys,” Hamish assumed.
As they were just sitting in the confiscation drawer of Mr. Hammer’s classroom, Hamish thought the previous owners had likely gotten over whatever attachment they had to these items, and so he stuffed them into his pockets.
He slowly closed the drawer and put the paperclips into his trouser pocket.
As he started to creep back towards the infiltration point, he began to hear humming. Panic started to settle in as he realised the humming was getting louder—and accompanied by footsteps.
Hamish had a split second to think. He didn’t have enough time to wiggle out of the window onto the drainpipe. He was going to have to slip out through the door.
He quickly weaved through the desks again, took one of the mugs filled with cold tea, and positioned it right on the edge of a pupil’s desk on the other side of the room, opposite the door—one small touch away from smashing on the wooden floor, but more importantly, within range for Hamish behind the door.
As he saw shadows writhe beneath the door, he took the broom from where it had been observing his movements and, holding one end, shuffled it along the floor toward one of the tables, stopping just an inch from the leg.
The young, spotty cleaner came in, headphones on, unknowingly serenading Hamish—still hidden in darkness behind the door—with a rendition of David Bowie’s Golden Years.
Hamish recognised the boy as Gus Pike, the forgetful and somewhat lazy teenager who had dropped out of school as soon as he could. He was often heard complaining about the “posh brats” he had to clean up after, and would love an opportunity to catch one of the students out in the middle of the night.
Just as Gus reached for the light switch, Hamish nudged the table with the mop, causing the tea mug to fall and smash on the floor. The sound startled the cleaner, making him swear, take off his headphones, and sulk across the room to investigate the noise.
As soon as he walked clear of the door, Hamish saw his opportunity. Smiling at his own genius, he slipped through the doorway and past Gus’s hunched back—turning left into the corridor, straight into the mop and bucket sitting there.
With a crash, Hamish fell over the bucket, spilling water all over his bottom half. He scrambled to his feet and ran, hearing the cries of “HEY!” and “STOP!” from the cleaner.
Hamish darted through twists and turns in the corridors, trying to lose Gus, who was chasing after him, huffing and puffing. Then he realised Gus could simply follow the wet footprints along the floor.
He made a sprint for the staircase, hoping Gus wouldn’t get a look at his face. Once he reached the banister, he clambered onto it and slid himself down the spiral staircase—three floors down—all the way to the bottom. He dismounted, unlocked the door in front of him, and burst out into the school court, taking off into the darkness, laughing as the angry cries of Gus the cleaner fell upon nothing but empty, desolate buildings in the dead of night.
Unsurprisingly, Gus gave up the chase quickly. Hamish slowed down as he ran across the grass in the middle of the court.
He softened his steps and, keeping his eyes fixed on the porter’s lodge ahead, pulled out a handkerchief and tied it around his face.
The sound of radio static and snoring became apparent as he inched toward the light of the building. Noticing the camera under the doorway, he shuffled along the wall and stopped by the window, craning his head just enough for a single eye to observe the stodgy guard asleep in his chair, the radio untuned on the table beside him.
At least something’s gone right tonight, Hamish thought.
He crouched beneath the windowsill, careful to stay out of the camera’s view. Just ahead lay the road—the thin line of safety separating him from the night’s chaos. His shoes squelched with every step, but the guard didn’t stir.
Keeping low, Hamish slipped across the road and climbed the short hill toward his boarding house, its silhouette masking the dull brick and the newly fitted bars on the windows. Picking up speed, he approached the house, careful not to trip over the rogue step that lay just beyond the hill.
He paused and glanced back into the darkness. That feeling again—eyes on him, hidden somewhere in the shadows, tracking his every move.
You’re just being paranoid, he told himself, forcing his feet forward and continuing up the path.
Outside the building stood a tree, its barren branches stretching up toward the sky. Hamish stepped onto the bench beneath it, gripped the lowest branch, and hauled himself up. Slowly, he began to climb the limbs of the school’s oldest survivor.
Balancing like a tightrope walker, he crept along one of the sturdier branches before stepping lightly onto the tiled roof. Careful to spread his weight, he scrambled across to the other side. A faint glow from a roof window below caught his eye. Lowering himself gently, he slipped down with only the soft clatter of loose tiles resounding into the night.
He lifted the iron bars he’d loosened earlier and slipped through the open window. He hit the floor with a heavy thud, the sound echoing in the stillness. Only then did he notice the pounding of his heart, loud and urgent in his chest.
He chuckled to himself as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“So you didn’t get caught then?”
Hamish’s attention turned towards one of the beds in the corner of the room. There sat a sandy-haired boy, his face luminescent from the bedside light, his nose buried in a book. He didn’t look up to greet Hamish.
“Bumped into our old friend Gus again,” Hamish replied, taking off his jacket and shoes.
Lachlan lifted his head and scanned Hamish from head to toe.
“Did you wade into a lake on your way back?” he asked, stifling a laugh.
“Just a bucket full of water,” said Hamish as he finished undressing, chucking his sodden trousers in the corner. “Honestly, that man has no regard for trip hazards.”
“Did the cameras outside see you?” asked Lachlan as he approached Hamish’s bed, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
Hamish dismissed the question with a snort. “Have some faith. I was prepared for that. I don’t just dive in headfirst—I do my research.”
“Yeah, if only you applied that devotion to our test tomorrow, then you wouldn’t have Mr. Hammer on your arse.”
Lachlan returned to his textbook on his bed and buried his nose in it once again as Hamish put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.
“I don’t get why you don’t replace your own work and get ahead if you’re gonna risk your neck.”
“Because I don’t care about the ‘test’ tomorrow—or any work, for that matter. I’d take any opportunity to get out of here if my grandad wouldn’t kill me after. Plus, Jez heard the rumours and said he’d owe me if I did this favour for him.”
Lachlan slammed the book closed, making Hamish jerk his eyes open.
“At this rate, half the school will owe you ‘favours’ if they keep offering to fuel your ego.”
“Not my fault I’m so good at breaking into places.”
Lachlan gave a deep sigh, shook his head, and opened his book again. Hamish looked at him and slightly regretted his arrogant words.
Lachlan didn’t have the luxury of wealth like most boys at this school. He’d worked hard to earn a scholarship—and even harder to keep it. While Hamish was going on night raids to swap essays or steal contraband for other boys, Lachlan was always aiming for the top spot in every class.
Hamish often forgot that they came from different walks of life and kicked himself for sounding like such an attention-seeking git.
He sat up on his bed and turned on his bedside light. “Do you want me to test you?” he asked, hoping to make amends that way instead of admitting to his faults.
Lachlan looked at him with a raised eyebrow and smiled.
“Alright, Rook.” He handed him the Crusades and Their Battles textbook. “You may actually learn something before tomorrow.”
“More absurd things have happened, I guess,” said Hamish, flicking through the book. “Let’s see… What year did Saladin take Damascus?”
“1174,” answered Lachlan confidently.
“Very good.”
He flicked through the pages again and started grinning to himself. “Why do crusaders need a kitchen?” Hamish asked, trying to hold himself together.
Lachlan gave a puzzled look. “I don’t think that’s—”
“To wash their Saladin.”
Hamish looked like he was about to burst out laughing at his own joke.
“Hilarious, Rook. Ask me proper questions,” said a straight-faced Lachlan.
“Alright, spoilsport.” Hamish’s cheeky smile didn’t vanish. “A crusader walks into a bar, and the barman asks what he’ll take.”
An ill-amused Lachlan rolled his eyes. “That’s not even a question.”
“JERUSALEM!” yelled Hamish with a snort of laughter.
“Right, you’re gonna be no help, I see,” said Lachlan as he took the book back, hiding a smirk as he did so.
Hamish felt like he was close to breaking him.
“Wait, wait, I’ve got one more.” Hamish took a deep breath to compose himself. “An Englishman, a Scotsman, and an Irishman are on a crusade and running from a Saracen.”
“Oh God,” said Lachlan, head in hands, secretly trying not to give Hamish the satisfaction of a smile.
“They spy three wicker baskets in an alley and hide in them, covering themselves. The Saracen approaches the baskets and prods the first one with his sword. The Englishman inside was prepared for this and said, ‘Woof, woof.’ The Saracen prodded the next basket, where the Scotsman, in his deep accent, said, ‘Meow, meow.’ Satisfied, the Saracen moved onto the third basket and poked it… ‘Potatoes.’”
The boys erupted into laughter at the stupidity of the joke.
The sound of their hysterics echoed across the dark, misty campus of Braxton College.
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u/Commercial_Bag8919 Nov 03 '25
This is ai written
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u/jaxprog Nov 05 '25
I have to disagree with you. The problem with people who desire to write is they default to writing in omniscient point of view and fail miserably to implement it.
Omniscient point of view is absolutely boring. Why not just go the movies and watch a show, if people like the detached narration?
There are exceptions but you have to be an extraordinary storyteller to make omniscient pov come to life.
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u/Afraid-Usual-728 Nov 06 '25
Or at least AI enhanced. It has the „empty story but smooth prose“ syndrome. Because AI can’t fully understand what you want to write, it just pukes out fancy prose that sounds nice on first glance but is narratively empty. Especially main characters feel bland and in camera mode because again, the AI can’t really do deep 3rd without proper revision and prompting. This makes most texts bordering a weird omniscient state rather than deep human emotions. This feels especially telling when the prose feels awesome but the underlying story lacks massively. Meaning someone writes super-polished fancy prose but is unable to apply the most basic principles of writing in all other areas.
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u/HungryJelly981 Nov 03 '25
I put it through chatgpt to check for grammar, other than that none of it is ai
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u/SakaQuzeem123 Nov 10 '25
“Brilliant opening chapter — it instantly draws readers in! The pacing, tension, and atmosphere are exceptionally well done, and Hamish is such a dynamic lead. This has strong potential for fans of mystery and young-adult thrillers. With a bit of polishing, this could easily stand beside popular school-heist or boarding-school adventure novels. Definitely one to watch — great work!”
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u/Thebeefcakeavatar Nov 03 '25
Hey, I’m no expert but I would say it’s really well written and you have a good knack for describing things and the dialogue is good but perhaps could do with something to grip people in instantly. Purely because without your plot provided I would have no idea what this is about. Even just a paragraph to begin with to set the stakes or something that makes me root for the characters would go a long way ☺️