Mateo walked out of the library with his heart flopping like a baby bird too stupid to know its wings were clipped. The whole thing with Chari was pointless, yet a stubborn splinter of hope had lodged somewhere inside him.
What if? What if they won?
He’d be no worse off, and he’d have helped her. Her photo-art was beautiful. At least one of them would have a chance to chase a dream.
It wasn’t winning the contest for Chari that propelled him but the promise of Orange Mocha. Now that he had the taste for it, nothing was going to stop him from having more.
Mateo’s newly awakened hunger scared the hell out of him.
that's mine...now for the
two cents portion of our show.

Did I tell you in my critique group we call ourselves Cudas? (that would be for barracudas since we shred each other alive?)
Now that I "know" you all so well..I think you are ready for the Cuda treatment.

muahhhha!
You first, A-wise:
Some thirty minutes later, we are
now closing in on our intended descent,
albeit as a rattled bunch of hopefuls caught in
a confluence of aeronautic bummers: the surly swirl of the springtime Santa Ana's, and landing gear which may or may not have been properly locked into place. The pilot's not sure about this last bit because the aforementioned thud fouled up his gauges. Still, he
underlines takes a stab at levity over the loudspeaker when
ever we get that rare
serene tranquil moment. “You may think this is bad,†he says, “but at least you won’t be filling out three hours worth of paperwork when you land.â€
Landing. This was supposed to happen several minutes ago, but we're still up here spinning circles over Southern California in an effort to burn off fuel. We've been told that this won’t just lighten the load on the uncertain landing gear, but the less fuel we have, the less explosive our jet.
Believe it or not, we are in such a panic that the plan actually comforts
us.
And you, Dan the Man:
London was a painting, the rain blurring its colors and smudging its streets with gray. The concrete shimmered, hues of red and white playing upon the water
y streets.
The Images
that began to form
ed in the pools of water
and faded, like paints smearing into the back
ground. The
sky was gray
sky, daubed in
splotches of whites and blacks (note ink is not daubed),
and seemed to frown
ed upon him,
flaunting a grimace that saddened the streets and cast dark colors upon the city.
ahhh!
this line seems very forced to me. leave it at that.Oh..thanks, too, A-wise for your edit. Point well taken. I have a critique-mate who slices me to bits. She calls it "corseting" and I am always amazed how much better my writing sounds after she blitzes through. So..call me Cuda.