I Hate It When There's Shrapnel In My Face...

We love blogfests! Lucky for us, Brenda Drake is hosting a Guess Your Character's Age Blogfest from Dec 8-10! 

  

We copied the first page of our WIP below. Can you guess our MC's age? We would love critiques as well :) Don't worry about being honest. We are very thick-skinned.

***

I hate it when there's shrapnel in my face.

Most people think that a fiery explosion's killing-potential (or kill-tential, as I like to call it) is in the shock-wave. Or the wall of fire that burns everything in its path to a blackened crisp. Or, if you watch enough Hollywood movies, the ability of the explosion to blow someone out of a fiftieth-story window, where they then plummet to their deaths in slow motion screaming the protagonist's name all the way down.

Wrong. It's all in the shrapnel.

No one ever notices the shrapnel as it's flying through the air. What with the aforementioned big fiery explosion right behind it. It could have been anything, any harmless, ordinary, run-of-the-mill object left lying around, like a pencil or a coffee mug. But in the hands of a fiery explosion, they become white-hot, jagged, out-of-control harbingers of death. You can't dodge them, or hide from them, or outrun them, because they're literally everywhere, and they can tear flesh from bone, limb from limb, head from body.

The shrapnel. That's where the kill-tential is.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a crazy criminal or a terrorist or anything. It's just that when you've died as many times as I have, you start to pick up on these things. I mean, it's just common sense.