Under the Microscope extra: The Sensitives

Read our suggested rewrite of a reader's first 300 words and for the full critique, see the February issue of Writing Magazine.

The Sensitives, by Sarah Larkham - original version

Willow was trying to move the feather with her mind.

So far, it hadn’t gone well. She’d spent the best part of the morning staring at it and now, not only did she have a headache, but the feather hadn’t budged. The most exciting thing to happen over the last couple of hours was when the window had blown open and the feather moved, and it had taken her a couple of seconds to realise that it was down to the wind and not the power of her mind. Telekinesis was not coming naturally to her. She narrowed her eyes and concentrated, hard.

‘Give up, for the love of god. I’m bored.’ Jordan had been sitting on the top of her dresser for the whole time, watching and waiting, silently. Now, he stretched and yawned, his skinny frame silhouetted by the light coming in from the window. His fuzzy hair was outlined in white, and his features were obscured; even more than usual.

‘Leave, if you’re bored.’

She knew it was only a matter of time – time and focus. She’d already put out a match flame by staring at it. It stood to reason that since a feather was heavier than fire, it would be harder to control.

‘You’ll be late,’ Jordan said.

He was idly kicking the dresser now – thump, thump, thump.

‘Stop it! Someone will hear you! Anyway, I don’t want to go.’

Was she imagining it, or did the feather just move a fraction of an inch?

‘You have to go. It’s your birthday. It’s your party. They’ll notice if you’re not there.’

She made a face at him. ‘I don’t like people.’

‘You like me.’

‘You’re not people.’

‘Thanks.’

But Jordan was right. Her party dress was hanging on the back of the door; a shiny, pink thing with a ra-ra skirt and layers of net.

The Sensitives - McCredited version

Willow was trying to move the feather with her mind.

It hadn’t gone well so far. She’d spent most of the morning since breakfast staring at it. Not only had it not budged, but she also now had a headache as a result. The most exciting thing to happen was when a draught from the window had ruffled the very filament edges of the feather – a considerable disappointment when she realised.

Telekinesis was not easy.

She narrowed her eyes and concentrated hard.

‘Give up for the love of god. I’m bored.’ Jordan had been sitting on the top of her dresser for much of the last thirty minutes, watching and waiting. He stretched and yawned, his skinny frame silhouetted against the window. His fuzzy hair was an irregular halo, his features obscured.

‘Leave, if you’re bored,’ said Willow.

She knew it was only a matter of time – time and focus. She’d already put out a match flame by staring at it. It stood to reason that she’d succeed with the feather sooner or later.

‘You’ll be late,’ Jordan said.

He was idly kicking the dresser with his heels – thump, thump, thump.

‘Stop that! Anyway, I don’t want to go.’

Was she imagining it, or had the feather just moved a fraction of an inch in response to her flash of irritation?

‘You have to go. It’s your birthday. It’s your party. They’ll notice if you’re not there.’

She made a face at him. ‘I don’t like people.’

‘You like me.’

‘You’re not people.’

‘Thanks.’

But Jordan was right. Her party dress was hanging on the back of the door – a shiny, pink thing with a ra-ra skirt and layers of net.

For the full critique, see the February issue of Writing Magazine