SHTF fiction: Final Hour

[Caimlas]

Here's a little story I've been working on. I've got about 12k words (10 chapters) written so far; I intend to post one every couple days, as I finish one, so that when I hit a dry spot I'll still have something to post.

Any criticism and/or feedback would be greatly appreciated, as it keeps me writing.

I'll start it off with the prologue and first chapter...

Prologue

Hamid de Moreau walked slowly down the darkened side streets of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Even though the town was the largest in the state it was as quiet as a tomb, but for the wind. Despite his excitement over the coming events of the evening, the eerie stillness calmed him.

It was still mid-summer, but the evening air was unusually cool. The Midwestern winds blew against him, driving a chill into his flesh, but he hardly minded the discomfort.

He'd lived in this part of America long enough now that he was used to the wind, he mused. It hardly seemed like 5 years had passed since he'd visited back home and seen his brother, Khalid. Yet, a lot had changed in both of their lives in that time; it sure was peculiar how the human mind recollects the past. Oh, how he was looking forward to seeing him tonight!

He started walking more quickly, motivated by his latent excitement more than any sort of time constraints or the chill. He and Khalid hadn't parted on the best of terms, though Hamid had the suspicion that their past disagreements had been swept away by the recent changes both of their lives.

Hamid passed back to the last time they'd seen each other. It'd been back home in Europe – an arranged meeting in Parisian bistro to see Khalid off to America. Things had not gone well, not at all. Khalid had been fresh into new religious teachings and had very passionately pressured his younger brother to pursue the same thing, to cleanse his life of vile influences. Hamid hadn't been receptive – he had been happy living his life and didn't feel like he'd needed to shake things up.

Things had changed since then, of course. He'd had a series of short relationships where women had treated him poorly and had quickly left him for someone else. It became much worse when he came to America for school – the women all seemed receptive at first, but after only a matter of days they would leave in apparent (and to him, inexplicable) disgust.

It was heart-rending, and in the aftermath, Hamid had sought for answers. Not knowing where to turn, he'd called his brother in Chicago. Over a series of months Hamid would call his brother almost daily, having long discussions into the night instructing and supporting him. As time went on, the conversations became less instructional, picking up the tone of camaraderie.

And now, after years of just talking, they were going to see each other again. It has been too long – but not so long that gifting his brother with a surprise visit during one of his speaking engagements would be too out of place. Hamid had driven all the way from Oklahoma to make this meeting.

He doubled his pace; he was close to the masjid now - what the Americans crudely called a 'mosque', as if Allah's people were little mosquitos buzzing around - and he could see dim lights on through the drawn blinds.

He approached the stoop, noticing that there was nobody there to greet him. That was peculiar for a public meeting, but this had been the name of the mosque Khalid had given him. He cracked the door to look in; it was indeed the right place: there were a dozen pairs of shoes neatly lined against the wall.

There was nobody in the front room. After walking in and softly shutting the door behind him, he too slipped his shoes off and placed them by the shoes of the others. Looking in past the ablution fountain he did not notice anyone in the prayer room; it was dark, and the light was apparently coming from deeper within the building. There was also a peculiar odor in the air that reminded him of the bars back in Paris – cigarette smoke?

He walked around the prayer room and towards the lit hall. He could now hear voices. They sounded like they were in discussion, not prayer or lecture, Hamid wondered.

The door was open. Hamid walked into it's frame and everyone in the room became instantly silent. Hamid stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do or say, until he saw his brother sitting at one end of the table.

“Brother, I thought I would drive here and surprise you!” There was still silence at the table, with Khalid's eyes on Hamid and the eyes of everyone else at the table on Khalid. Hamid stood there awkwardly.

“Khalid, it's me, Hamid.” With that, Khalid's face lit up in a wide grin as he stood and walked quickly towards Hamid.

“Little brother! I am greatly pleased to see you, and you honor me by coming tonight, of all nights!” The two embraced. Hamid was overjoyed; the loss of not seeing his brother, and the long-running tension of his disapproval, had been intense – and now it was all gone.

Khalid backed away from their hug to look Hamid in the eye, only to surprise Hamid with the pained look on his face. Kalid spoke slowly.

“Hamid, I am pleased to see you and honored by this visit. But you have picked a very bad night to come and see me, very bad indeed. You have interrupted a very important meeting which can not be delayed. I'm sorry.” Khalid quickly turned from his brother and walked to stand in the back of the room.

Hamid tried to find the words to speak – he was confused. One of the men sitting at the table nearest to him stood. He was still trying to figure out why his brother would shun him so – and what could be so important?

Hamid suddenly felt a sharp jolt to his chest. Looking down, there was blood everywhere. What just happened? He suddenly felt very light-headed, maybe a little nauseated, and felt an intense need to sit down.

He crumpled to the floor before he could move towards a chair. Suddenly, the pain in his chest hit him, and he realized what had happened. His brother had betrayed him, and had him shot. Why? What had he done to deserve this? Their relationship had grown so much!

Khalid walked back over to his brother and cradled his head. “As Allah is my witness, I want you to understand that this was for Allah, brother. We could not take a risk.”

Between the sputtering, wheezing breathes, Hamid tried to speak – to say anything. What could be said? Finally, the only thing he could bring to mind came out.

“Why?”

As Hamid felt his heat leaving his body and the last bits of life and blood spilled from him, Khalid spoke – but this time, with a bit of disdain in his voice.

“Because you are not one of us.”

 

[SundownRider]

Alright, I'm interested. Possible criticism: Offer a little explanation of some of the words your readers might not be familiar with. It's great you're writing about what you know, but as a writer you have to assume your audience does not share your experiences and might not know what you are saying.

 

[Caimlas]

Chapter 1: Closing Shop

Jason Kreign slid into the driver's seat of his trusty Jeep and started her up. He threw the Jeep into gear and pulled from the parking lot onto the quiet street of his neighborhood. The July afternoon was hot and unusually muggy, and the open top of the Jeep allowed the breeze to cool him off. It would be appreciated on the drive to the gas station, he thought.

Jason managed the Johnson Siding Oil Co-op, located in a small satellite town just outside Rapid City, South Dakota. The job wasn't ideal for him, but it was a job, and it paid his bills for the time being while allowing him to persue other interests and live near family.

The station had a dozen large above-ground tanks for gasoline and diesel, a couple filling stations for commercial trucks and passenger vehicles, and a small general store. With several small tables thrown in the corner of the store, the place usually doubled as a convenient place for the ranchers to hang out when they had no convincing reason to go home.

As he nosed his frankenstein Jeep into the store lot, Jason saw that the usual suspects had already arrived for their afternoon coffee and bull**** session. While the fuel co-op was established for financial reasons by several area ranchers and was primary their domain, there were many others who showed up occasionally. Complimenting the usual array of coffee dispensers and wrapped food were several tables with ash trays, an old juke box with classic country songs. The back room sported a pool table and dead animals on the walls - which spouses no longer wanted in their living rooms.

Despite the tourist activity going on nearby, the Co-op's store remained off the beaten path and an exclusively local gathering place. While the chaos of the summer months surged in the nearby towns, not much at all happened there. Aside from the occasional wayward travelers and their fuel-starved vehicles, Johnson's Siding stayed quiet and unknown to all but those who lived there. If you weren't born there, you left - and even most of those who were born there left too.

The area was populated mostly by ranchers, though there was a loose smathering of cultural immigrants from the East and West Coasts, elderly retirees, and a sizeable population of seasonal tourists. Like it or leave it, tourism was vital to the economy, with many people making their entire lifelyhoods during the summer months alone.

And for the locals, they mostly preferred their seclusion and the appearance of self-reliance.

Jason parked his Jeep in the shade of a large pine tree and walked towards the front door of the store. He glanced in the large windows and noticed his suspicions were correct: both the co-op president, Dan Sutton, and his brother, Mike, were sitting silently, sipping on coffee mugs.

“Afternoon, Dan, Mike,” Jason said as he came in the door. The two regulars had unlocked the door with their own keys; Jason had locked up while leaving for lunch. “Enjoying the coffee?”

Dan replied as he stiffly stood from his chair and walked towards the counter. “Just fine, Jay. Just fine. Say - has that package I had ordered come in yet?” His speech was slow as he reached up and scratched under his worn baseball cap, but it was no indication of his intellect - though it had fooled many who didn't know him.

“Let me check for you. A couple packages came in this morning, but I didn’t look to see who they were from,” Jason said as the three walked towards the back storeroom.

Jason started to look through the pile of boxes sitting on the backroom table. Some of them were from that week's shipment of goods for the small store, but most were for co-op members who would have purchases shipped there. While Jason didn't know what was in most of them, he had his suspicions: they were heavy, Dan spent a lot of time shooting, and there was hardly a prarie dog or coyote on his land remaining to lay witness to that fact.

Jason found Dan's box, slid it out from underneath several boxes with the names of others' in the coop, and placed it on a small metal cart. It wasn't a very large box for it's weight - about the same size as the computer tower in the room, but weighing easily 150lb.

Dan and Jason just stood there a moment, then exchanged glances, with Dan hesitantly speaking. "I s'pose I'll just wheel that box out, then. Thank you much."

---
As usual, the afternoon passed quickly. The job at the co-op wasn't terribly demanding of his time, freeing him up for side projects and extra jobs. Several high school kids would come by during the evenings and weekends to fill shifts, and summer months only required maybe 15 hours of his time, per week.

Even with the compliment of self-burdened tasks, he still had a fairly relaxed routine for how much money he made. Several times a year he would do some contractual engineering work for the smaller surrounding cities and counties, resulting in a fairly ready flow of work – if he wanted it. In general, it was more than he wanted – or needed – to burden himself with. He was young and single; he had plans.

Out of habit, Jason reached over and turned on the radio, already set for the local talk channel, 1340AM. Not much usually happened around Rapid City, South Dakota – outside of the annual migration of bikers to nearby Sturgis and the myriad of Summer tourists to see Mt. Rushmore – but just the same, Jason would keep the radio tuned to the local talk radio station as background noise. At the very least, it would keep his mind busy while he did the books.

He'd already performed the weekly tasks – tank volume measurements, routine maintenance, and a surprise visit from the EPA to determine safety compliance – and all that needed to be done was for Jason to lock up the facility's gates for the night on his way out. If any of the area ranchers needed to fill up their trucks or tractors before the next morning, many of them had their own gate keys. In 20 minutes - about 2:30pm - he would be heading for a weekend at Mom and Dad's.

Mom and Dad still lived on the family "farm" - which was more of a homestead, really. The plot of land had been in his family, through one relative or another, since the 1890s, and stretched over a 400 acre area on the edge of a national forest. Most of it was forested, and much of that was under one land government land management program or another - largely to cover property taxes.

For the last year or so, Jason had been gradually building a house of his own several hundred yards from his parents' house. They'd His father and brother had helped with the initial foundation over Thanksgiving, but for the most part he'd built the entire 40' diameter monolithic dome structure on his own. Some day, he hoped to call it "home" - maybe even with a wife and kids.

Jason went through the small store, closing doors and turning off lights on a once-over before he left. As he adjusted the thermostat up, the radio caught his attention. He ran over and turned it up.

“...bolah has claimed responsibility for the attacks, but any further information on the attackers is yet unknown, says top White House officials. The President has declared martial law in New York City, Chicago, and San Diego, and Kansas City. FEMA has advised citizens to remain calm, and has started notifying top governmental and state officials of emergency recovery efforts. Stay tuned for further updates.”

Jason's face went cold. His mind was clouded in confusion and he wasn't even sure what he'd just heard. Could this be something like War of the Worlds – just a radio play? No. What kind of attacks? Maybe this is a hypothetical FEMA test? No, that didn't make sense!

He quickly abandoned his leasure speed and went into overdrive. He locked the door on his way out in one swift movement, and ran over to his Jeep, flipping the radio on even before starting the ignition.

The situation flashed into instant 180-proof clarity.

Intellectually, he was aware of what was transpiring, but something in the back of his mind was struggling to prevent his realization. The words of his conspiracy-theorist college roommate and good friend, Andrew, rang through his head from all the long nights they'd spent up talking. It – whatever it was – was finally transpiring. It was certain that Andrew had mentioned a similar situation at one point.

Regardless of which hypothetical disaster template this event took, it probably wasn't going to be pretty, Jason thought.

The radio was still droning, and Jason realized the personality of the hour was back on talking about the ongoing court battles – obviously a prerecorded studio session broadcast in delay.

Anger and confusion were flooding Jason's his body as he turned the ignition and threw the vehicle into a full reverse towards the idle fuel pumps; he needed to do something to feel in control. He started pumping gas into the Jeep and ran over to the side of the store building, where several additional Jerry cans sat.

As the Jeep's tank and the additional cans were filled, Jason's mind continued to race. He had to settle his thoughts. I need to call Dad, he thought. He'll know what to do.

After what seemed like an eternity, the slow gas pump finished filling all of Jason's containers. He again threw his body into action, quickly jumping into the driver's seat and spinning the vehicle out as he moved towards the front of the facility.

Arriving at the gate, he jumped out and closed the security fence behind him, pulling the chains tight and slamming the lock in place. The outdoor lighting would come on automatically at dark. He stood outside the gate for a moment, trying to recapture the thought he'd had moments before while pumping gas.

Grabbing his phone, he punched in his Dad's cellular number. It rang for what seemed an eternity. As the phone rang, he fished into his pocket and fished out a battered pack of cigarettes; he'd promised himself he was quitting, but at that moment he couldn't convince himself to care. On the 5th ring, his dad's deep voice came over the line.

“Son. Jason. You've heard?” The older man's voice sounded labored.

“Yes. Dad, have you talked to Frank yet?” referring to his older brother. There was the hint of concern in his voice, but for the sake of keeping the situation calm, Jason maintained composure. Frank was Jason's older brother. Jason did not immediately worry about his brother when hearing the broadcast, as Frank lived in Minneapolis, working his way up the legal ladder as an assistant district attorney.

“No, I haven't. I tried contacting him just before you called - as soon as I heard on the radio. His work number kicked me to his answering machine, and when I tried calling his cell phone it didn't even ring.”

There was a moment of silence on the line as they both thought about how potentially ****ed up their coming lives could be. Jason's dad, Marcus, took an audible deep breath before speaking again. His voice was now straining against his emotions; there was an upbeat canter to his voice.

“Jason, I'm sure he's OK. It's just the panic – everyone is calling family and friends right now. When the lines open up again, I'm sure he'll call. I left a message on his phone at work telling him to come back home and get out of the city for a while.” He paused, just long enough to form another thought. “Are you still planning to come out to the house this weekend?”

“I am. I just have to stop by my apartment first and pick up some more building supplies I got earlier today from the garage.” They were both trying to maintain an air of normalcy in their conversation, despite the shared knowledge that things
were, most certainly not, normal.

“Mom says she wants you to stop by Sam's before coming out and pick up an order for us,” Marcus said, referring to the proprietor of the family's favorite grocery store. “Make sure you bring your trailer.”

“Will do. Please listen to the radio and TV, and keep me updated. I love you, Dad.” He closed his phone and climbed back into his idling Jeep and headed back for his apartment.

Jason rented a 1-room hole-in-the-wall apartment on the edge of town. It wasn't much, basically just a single room in an early 20th century boarding house, just barely large enough for queen-sized bed, a kitchenette, and bathroom. Even though he had free room and board available through his parents at the farm 40 miles out of town, he preferred living on his own. He still had space to store his things and his own room back on the farm, anyway. Besides, having a bed to sleep in, only a short two miles from downtown, had distinct advantages at bar closing time.

Arriving at his apartment, he pulled around back to the garage, parking by the long exterior stairway that ran up to his apartment. He bounded up the steps 2 at a time and deftly unlocked the door. He grabbed his Remington 870 shotgun from the corner, his jacket, the Springfield MilSpec 1911 from underneath his mattress, the groceries he had in the fridge, and put them and in the front of the Jeep. He didn't think he'd need the guns for protection, but felt safer having them with him - or out at the farm - than leaving them in a fairly insecure building over the weekend, especially given what had just happened.

From the garage Jason took the lumber and various other building supplies he'd purchased earlier that day and loaded them into the small horse trailer he'd been using to ferry supplies out to his house-in-progress. During a quick final survey of the garage, he saw a 20 gallon portable gas tank he'd left from the previous winter near the back.

As he reached down to pick up the container, he thought he heard a female voice calling his name. He knew who it was without being able to distinguish the voice. His shoulders slumped and he trudged from the garage.

"Hi Amy, what do you want?" He tried to be civil with this girl, he really did, but she tried his patience.

Amy was standing at the top of the steps to her apartment, leaning over the railing. She was wearing form-fitting jeans and a tight-fitting wife beater which accentuated her long, slender abdomen and perky breasts. The orange glow of the setting sun made her blonde hair look fire red. By any objective measure, she was a very attractive woman. Jason had to admit, she was enticing. But she was also as dumb as a box of crushed rocks, and made some of the dumbest non-criminal life decisions Jason had ever seen.

"I'm just going to out clubbing in a little bit and was wondering if you'd like to come," she said.

Christ, she never gives up, Jason thought. This girl was only a couple of years out of high school and didn't do much of anything with her time. Jason often thought that she made it a daily goal to seduce him.

"Sorry Amy, I've got a lot to do this weekend." Taking another glance at her, he absent-mindedly added, "Call me tomorrow afternoon, though."

Amy beamed. "Oh, OK. I'll do that. You have fun tonight!" she said, as she pranced back into her apartment lythely.

Why did I say that?! Jason thought to himself. Sure, he'd entertained her in the past, and he'd mostly enjoyed it himself, but Jason had never indicated any interest beyond that - however minor - in her before. Stress, it must be stress, he thought.

The sun was already passing near the trees, and Jason's shadow was beginning to stretch. He threw the gas can in the back, climbed into his Jeep and settled in for the drive. The radio remained off. His mind needed a chance to catch up with the day's events - the crazy happenings that did not yet impact him directly - before he packed more into his already-swarming brain.

 

[Caimlas]

Please excuse the asterisks. I have no freaking clue why they're showing up.

SundownRider - which words, specifically? Masjid? That's the 'islamic' word for mosque. You're right, I should clarify that with some character extrapolation. Bistro? Russian for "faster" or similar, or at least that's it's origins; a bistro is an Italian/Belgian/French coffee/cookie shop or something like that, I believe. one of the holdovers from Prussian conquests, as I understand things... also, a word which, again as I understand things, should be fairly colloquial in English by now.

 

[D94R]

Very catchy. You use the character Aaron whilst the Dad is on the phone with Jason. Is Aaron supposed to be Marcus? If not its awkward as its a character who hasn't been introduced yet?

 

[Caimlas]

Oops, yeah - Aaron is supposed to be Marcus, Jason's dad. Apparently that didn't make it into the draft I posted. :-.

I'll post another chapter tomorrow to get the ball rolling, as nothing really so much as happens in these first two chapters.

 

[funkerbunny]

looks good so far! I can't wait to read more.

 

[JCMAG]

I'll post another chapter tomorrow to get the ball rolling, as nothing really so much as happens in these first two chapters.

Not to be a nit-picker, but it is my experience that the first two paragraphs is when something definitely has to happen, or at least introduce a premise for things that have/will happen that is as engaging as something actually happening.

I'm not saying that you don't do that, but that is something to bear in mind when writing.

 

[Sato Ord]

I'll post another chapter tomorrow to get the ball rolling, as nothing really so much as happens in these first two chapters.

Well then, I hate to tell you this, but you did ask for critique.

If nothing is happening in the first two chapters then you aren't going to sell this book.

The average person, and the publishers are painfully aware of this, isn't going to do more than read the first few paragraphs to see if they want to invest any more time in the book. Then, if the first couple of paragraphs grab them, they will read the first two, maybe three (but that's a stretch), pages. If you haven't grabbed them by the short hairs by the middle of the second page you ain't gonna get this published.

Look at "The Stand" by Stephen King. The first chapter does very little to develop the characters but does development a real emotional attachment for the husband, wife, and little girl who die by the end of the chapter. It also sets the stage for the coming plague, and introduces at least one main character who later becomes the pivotal character in the story.

The first chapter of that book grabs the reader and makes him want to buy the book. In this day and age, with hard cover book prices averaging about thirty bucks, this is more important than ever.

I don't say this to discourage you. Believe me, you'll get plenty of discouragement from other people. I am telling you this because it is the simple truth.

Writing a book, for some reason, is one of the hardest things in the world to do.

There are six rules of writing. If You take 100 people who say they want to write a book you will eliminate half of the group with each rule.

1. Sit down and start writing.
You've already done more than 50 people in your group can say. It sounds obvious, but half won't do it.

2. Finish the book.
My first book took me two and half months, but that put me ahead of 75 other people.

3.Quit tinkering with it. Once you've written it, you will go back through and make changes to the original. Refrain from rewriting except to editorial order. If your latest changes bring it back to what it was last week, you are done: quit fooling around with it and move on to rule 4. That was a tough one, but my wife helped me by editing for grammar and such. This one leaves you ahead of 87 - 88 people who say they want to write a book.

4. Send it out. It will never get published if you don't send it to a publisher.
These days it can be hard to find a publisher who will take an unsolicited manuscript. Look around on the web, they are out there. You might even want to think about finding a reputable literary agent. Once you send it to the publisher, you have left 94 - 95 in the original group of would-be writers behind.

5. Keep it on the market until it is sold.
If it is rejected today, it should be in the mail to another publisher tomorrow.

Remember, "A Wrinkle in Time" by Madeleine L'Engle (If you haven't at least heard of it, where have you been hiding?) was rejected 27 times before it was accepted and became a classic.

6. Start something else as soon as you put one manuscript in the mail.
Don't sit around waiting to start another book until the first one is sold. Very few writers make enough off of their first book to set themselves up for life. Once the first one sells, you will want to get more out there to pay the mortgage. Also, if you have something to write, the chances are good that you have more than one book in you.

The first five rules were penned by Robert A. Heinlein. The last rule was added to the list by Robert J. Sawyer, a Hugo and Nebula award winner. Sawyer also had one story rejected 18 times before it was finally accepted.

 

[ShunZu]

+1 on Sato's post. Absolutely nailed it. Here are some other facts:

* 75% of people who sit down to write a book never finish it.

* If you spend 6 hours a day, at least 2 of it should be spent trying to get 1) it published, or 2) marketing if it's already in print.

* Editing (properly, professionally) can be as difficult and nearly as time consuming as writing the original work.

* Again, what Sata said regarding hooking your readers EARLY... One of my readers sent me an email (who was a retired English/Lit professor at the U of I) and said she reads only the FIRST PARAGRAPH of a novel, and can tell by the end of IT whether it's going to be worth a read or not. (I was flattered when she said she'd put down a Patterson novel to read mine instead).

And you've gotta be tenacious. Both in setting your schedule to write, AND in getting it in print for you readers.

Good luck. Be strong. Be positive. And stay at it.

 

[ArfinGreebly]

Asterisks

THR has a language filter.

Certain words not suitable for a family-friendly site get "asterisk filtered" when they appear.

Don't worry too much about it. Stuff that would be said in normal dialog may trip the filter, so there are a couple of things you can do about that:

1) use only language suitable for family presentation; this will keep the asterisks from breaking up the story's flow;

2) "bleep" those words yourself before posting.

Of course, you can just leave them as is, and the filter will paint over them.

I enjoy a challenge when writing, and finding phrases and words that communicate the emotion and state of mind of the characters while providing no traction for someone to take offense is one such challenge.

Good luck with it.

 

[LWGN]

Listen to Sato Ord and ShunZu. They know what they are talking about.

A few additional thoughts:

As a writer, words are the only means you have to create a complete world for your readers. Well-chosen words generate vivid, dynamic, and engaging scenes that draw your readers inexorably forward into your story, letting them effortlessly live out events through your characters in the world you have created. Poorly chosen words leave them flat, unable to share your vision, and perhaps even unwilling to make an effort to do so. Therefore, as a writer, it makes sense to choose your words carefully, re-reading what you have written to ensure not only that your words make sense, but that they create the full and precise effect that you want them to exert on the reader. Reading aloud what you have written can often help refine and clarify your writing. You may want to try making this a regular practice, because in several places in your writing, it does not appear that you chose your words with great care.

For example, in the first section you posted, the paragraph where you discuss Hamid and Khalid's phone relationship is very confusing:

"It was heart-rending, and in the aftermath, Hamid had sought for answers. Not knowing where to turn, he'd called his brother in Chicago. Over a series of months Hamid would call his brother almost daily, having long discussions into the night instructing and supporting him. As time went on, the conversations became less instructional, picking up the tone of camaraderie.
And now, after years of just talking, they were going to see each other again. It has been too long – but not so long that gifting his brother with a surprise visit during one of his speaking engagements would be too out of place. Hamid had driven all the way from Oklahoma to make this meeting."

Is Hamid in fact instructing and supporting Khalid, which is how I read what you wrote, but which doesn't make sense in the larger context, or has Khalid been doing the instructing and supporting?

In the second section you posted, you indicate twice in the span of three sentences that Frank is Jason's older brother. Reading that section aloud to yourself (or to someone else) would likely have allowed you to catch that redundancy.

You may also want to make an effort to show rather than tell. Create mood and let the reader decide what motivates the characters by your descriptions and by the characters actions, instead of baldly stating "This character is motivated by XYZ." Instead of generic words like "said" or "walked", try using verbs that communicate more about your characters and suggest more detailed images. Precise nouns and verbs sharpen and focus images and actions better than sentences loaded up with adjectives.

By just sitting down and writing something, you are way ahead of most people who claim that they want to be writers. Don't waste the work you have already done. Take the next step and put in the time and effort to really polish it. Be heartless with yourself. Cut out anything that doesn't advance the story. If there is a line you like, but it is distracting, irrelevant, or detracts from the mood at that point, save it in another document, or put it in your idea file. When you are done with your book, there shouldn't be anything left that you could cut without harming the story. Go back through your first two sections and see what stands up to that criterion. In the process, you might be surprised to find that the story often gets longer as you go through to cut things out: by thinking about whether a given line is truly essential, you will examine exactly what it is that you are trying to convey, and you may add, amplify, or extend a great deal to be certain of accomplishing your goals.

Best of luck in all your literary endeavors!

L.W.G.N.

 

[roastpuff]

A quick note on the paragraph spacing: please add an extra line break after each paragraph. It really does help to break up the paragraphs and make it more readable, as your paragraphs are not indented.

I'm getting a headache trying to separate the paragraphs.

Also, try not using the quote formatting, and just posting normally. Mark notes/comments by using "Note: ____ " or "A/N: ____" or "OC: ____" instead of quoting the story. It makes things harder to read.

+1 on the other constructive criticism up there.

 

[Leanwolf]

Speaking of writing, here's some advice from Elmore Leonard, who is what you might call a "very successful" writer, both novels and screenplays.


New York Times (c)

Elmore Leonard’s Ten Rules of Writing

Easy on the Adverbs, Exclamation Points and Especially Hooptedoodle

from the New York Times, Writers on Writing Series.

Being a good author is a disappearing act.

By ELMORE LEONARD

These are rules I’ve picked up along the way to help me remain invisible when I’m writing a book, to help me show rather than tell what’s taking place in the story. If you have a facility for language and imagery and the sound of your voice pleases you, invisibility is not what you are after, and you can skip the rules. Still, you might look them over.

1. Never open a book with weather.

If it’s only to create atmosphere, and not a character’s reaction to the weather, you don’t want to go on too long. The reader is apt to leaf ahead looking for people. There are exceptions. If you happen to be Barry Lopez, who has more ways to describe ice and snow than an Eskimo, you can do all the weather reporting you want.

2. Avoid prologues.

They can be annoying, especially a prologue following an introduction that comes after a foreword. But these are ordinarily found in nonfiction. A prologue in a novel is backstory, and you can drop it in anywhere you want.
There is a prologue in John Steinbeck’s “Sweet Thursday,” but it’s O.K. because a character in the book makes the point of what my rules are all about. He says: “I like a lot of talk in a book and I don’t like to have nobody tell me what the guy that’s talking looks like. I want to figure out what he looks like from the way he talks. . . . figure out what the guy’s thinking from what he says. I like some description but not too much of that. . . . Sometimes I want a book to break loose with a bunch of hooptedoodle. . . . Spin up some pretty words maybe or sing a little song with language. That’s nice. But I wish it was set aside so I don’t have to read it. I don’t want hooptedoodle to get mixed up with the story.”

3. Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.

The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in. But said is far less intrusive than grumbled, gasped, cautioned, lied. I once noticed Mary McCarthy ending a line of dialogue with “she asseverated,” and had to stop reading to get the dictionary.

4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said” . . .

. . . he admonished gravely. To use an adverb this way (or almost any way) is a mortal sin. The writer is now exposing himself in earnest, using a word that distracts and can interrupt the rhythm of the exchange. I have a character in one of my books tell how she used to write historical romances “full of rape and adverbs.”

5. Keep your exclamation points under control.

You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose. If you have the knack of playing with exclaimers the way Tom Wolfe does, you can throw them in by the handful.

6. Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose.”

This rule doesn’t require an explanation. I have noticed that writers who use “suddenly” tend to exercise less control in the application of exclamation points.

7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.

Once you start spelling words in dialogue phonetically and loading the page with apostrophes, you won’t be able to stop. Notice the way Annie Proulx captures the flavor of Wyoming voices in her book of short stories “Close Range.”

8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.

Which Steinbeck covered. In Ernest Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants” what do the “American and the girl with him” look like? “She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.” That’s the only reference to a physical description in the story, and yet we see the couple and know them by their tones of voice, with not one adverb in sight.

9. Don’t go into great detail describing places and things.

Unless you’re Margaret Atwood and can paint scenes with language or write landscapes in the style of Jim Harrison. But even if you’re good at it, you don’t want descriptions that bring the action, the flow of the story, to a standstill.
And finally:

10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

A rule that came to mind in 1983. Think of what you skip reading a novel: thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them. What the writer is doing, he’s writing, perpetrating hooptedoodle, perhaps taking another shot at the weather, or has gone into the character’s head, and the reader either knows what the guy’s thinking or doesn’t care. I’ll bet you don’t skip dialogue.

My most important rule is one that sums up the 10.

If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.

Or, if proper usage gets in the way, it may have to go. I can’t allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative. It’s my attempt to remain invisible, not distract the reader from the story with obvious writing. (Joseph Conrad said something about words getting in the way of what you want to say.)

If I write in scenes and always from the point of view of a particular character—the one whose view best brings the scene to life—I’m able to concentrate on the voices of the characters telling you who they are and how they feel about what they see and what’s going on, and I’m nowhere in sight.

What Steinbeck did in “Sweet Thursday” was title his chapters as an indication, though obscure, of what they cover. “Whom the Gods Love They Drive Nuts” is one, “Lousy Wednesday” another. The third chapter is titled “Hooptedoodle 1” and the 38th chapter “Hooptedoodle 2” as warnings to the reader, as if Steinbeck is saying: “Here’s where you’ll see me taking flights of fancy with my writing, and it won’t get in the way of the story. Skip them if you want.”

“Sweet Thursday” came out in 1954, when I was just beginning to be published, and I’ve never forgotten that prologue.

Did I read the hooptedoodle chapters? Every word.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Best of luck with your novel.

L.W.

 

[Sato Ord]

Funny thing about avoiding prologues.

I used a prologue in my first book. Everyone who has read it, with and without, says it adds a lot to the story and the prologue really grabs the reader and sucks him into the book.

Prologue
The old man knelt by the sticks he had arranged for his fire. His hair had once been nearly black: now even the gray had gone, and it was entirely white. He looked to be in his mid-seventies, but in fact, he was far older. He carried no flint, but he didn’t need it. He concentrated on the sticks. At first they smoked a little, and then a small flame burst into view. Soon the little fire was crackling merrily. He placed the small kettle close enough to heat the water inside.
Suddenly there was a voice in his head that was nearly a scream, “You’re surrounded, Love; I don’t know how they got so close, but I am coming!”
The old man stood and drew his saber. The blade looked like it was made of some type of ceramic, and gleamed dully in the late afternoon sun. He heard the noise of a bowstring behind him. He started to turn to face the threat, while trying to get a magical shield up, but he was too late. He felt a searing pain in his low back as a small, wicked, rough-fletched arrow pierced him just above the hip, and he fell to his knees. He could feel the poison on the arrow already beginning to work its way through his body.
At the same instant four Roracks, or beast-men, charged out from the trees. Their hide was nearly black, and rough like tree bark. They blended with their surroundings well. Their faces were vaguely man-like but distorted. Their noses were broad, flat, and crooked. Their thin lips were pulled back in fierce snarls showing their jagged teeth. Two of them carried swords, but those were old, worn, and rusted nearly beyond use. The others simply carried clubs. The one who had shot him appeared and made some noises in their strange guttural language. They all looked to that one and made a quick sort of bark before turning back and charging.
As all of that was happening, there was a deafening roar, and a huge dragon landed, crushing two of the beast-men outright. The dragon turned quickly and killed the beast-man closest to the old man and then turned on the one with the small bow still clutched in its hands. The leader of the beast-men tried to fire an arrow at the dragon but never got the chance; she simply grabbed him by the head, and squeezed so hard that the skull breaking was clearly audible. The last of them tried to run, but the dragon jumped and closed the distance before he got three steps.
The dragon turned to the old man and said, “Quickly, Love, there are more of them coming. We must go. Now!”
The old man shook his head and said, “I’m too far gone already, Love. So cold… that arrow was poisoned… can’t feel my hands or feet.”
“You have to get up. We can’t stay. There are a score of beast-men coming. They will be here very soon. Please, Love, come with me!” The dragon was crying and the tears were falling on the old man’s face.
“No, Love. We both knew this would happen eventually, one way or the other. We can’t live forever.”
“No!” she roared as if she could use the sheer volume of her voice to stop the inevitable. “I won’t leave you!”
“You have to. You carry hope. Everything we do is for the next generation. You have to go… protect the eggs you are carrying.”
His breath was rapid and shallow, and he couldn’t last. The dragon wanted to deny that he would actually die, but knew it was happening, and there was nothing she could do. She tried to call enough magic to stop the poison, but it had spread so fast that it was no use.
“Your kind… believe we come back again… always wanted to believe that, too… maybe… see you again…” He closed his eyes and was quiet so long she thought that perhaps he had passed, but he opened his eyes again and said, “Go… now… before more come… you must live for the young… always love you…”
This time he closed his eyes for the last time. She knew he was gone and that she could do nothing for him. Just as more beast-men broke into the clearing, she launched herself skyward and roared so loud that the creatures in the lead fell on the ground holding their ears. She flew high, and then, unable to think past her grief, she headed north over the mountains.

I guess I could have just made that Chapter 1, but, although it has great bearing on the rest of the story, the story isn't about the old man in the prologue. In fact, I simply called him "the old man" and never used his name. You don't learn his name until about the fifth chapter of the book. You don't learn the dragon's name until even later. In this particular work all of that is extremely important and plays well in the story. I guess that's why I always avoid specifics when someone asks me for advice about writing, each story, even though something similar has most likely been told before, is unique, and has its own unique needs.

PS I'm not trying to hijack the thread by posting my own stuff, it was just the first example of a work with a prologue that came to mind, and I know who holds the copyright, and I have his permission to use it.

PSS Putting the prologue in quotes has taken all of the indentations out of the paragraphs, and makes it harder to read. Really, my stuff is in manuscript form with proper indentation, spacing, and page breaks between chapters. It's the script of the board that is removing that when you put it in quotes.

 

[Caimlas]

I'm not saying that you don't do that, but that is something to bear in mind when writing.

I am aware that the first chapter needs a bit work. It does set the stage, but the characters are a bit lacking.

From what I understand, it's not so important to develop what's going to happen in the first paragraphs for a longer story - though that is true for a short story.

 

[Caimlas]

Chapter 2: At Home in the City

Frank loosened his tie and walked out the courthouse doors, the midday heat of downtown initially blowing comfortably over his cool body, but quickly turning to oppressive mugginess. His last case of the day had gotten out earlier than expected; thankfully, the defense hadn't held much water, and he was able to get a swift conviction for the man who had stabbed to death a street-side hotdog vendor. All in a day's work – but just the same, he couldn't wait to get out of the restrictive ape suit he was wearing and put on some comfortable slacks.

Mitch Tschetter, a long-time college friend of both Frank and his younger brother Jason, was standing off to the side of the courthouse stairs smoking a cigarette. Frank walked over.

“Mitch, what're you doing here?”

“Just called your office, the lady there said you might be getting done early for the day, so I decided to bum around here for a while. Plans still on for the weekend?”

The two had been planning a long weekend for months, but Frank kept getting bogged down with cases. His job made it almost impossible to escape the beltway for even short outdoor excursions. Finally, after many calls had been made and favors had been pulled over a period of months, Frank had managed to get a long 4-day weekend. He loved his job; he saw it as his duty to help protect society from villainy so people could live their lives. But sometimes he felt that it prevented him from living a full life of his own.

Thankfully for the coming weekend, Mitch didn't have such time restrictions. He lived a care-free life, being fortunate enough to have both grandparents die and leave him - the only grandchild - with a large sum of money. He didn't need a job, and whittled away his time casually enjoying a permanent bachelor's existence: fishing, camping, movies, and the odd bit of charity work to keep him himself out of trouble.

The coming weekend had kayaking, camping, and beer consumption planned somewhere up in the Minnesota Boundary Waters – Frank didn't know where, as Mitch assured him it was all taken care of.

“Grab a bite to eat then hit the road?” Mitch said as he put out his cigarette, chucking it idly behind him.

“Sure. You drive here, or should we take my car?”

“I parked at your apartment and took the bus up here. Lead the way.”

The two walked south towards the parking garage, just a short ways away. They looked the odd pair: one dressed in a nice charcoal wool suit with slicked back hair, and the other in blue jeans, sneakers and an un-tucked short sleeved button-up shirt, his face wearing half a week's stubble.

“Pizza sound good? I can order it and we'll pick it up on the way back to my apartment.” Frank said as he took out his phone.

“Yeah, that'll hit the spot,” Mitch said, somewhat detatchedly as he scanned the throngs of people walking about.

Frank punched a couple buttons on his phone, navigating to the all-too-familiar entry for the nearby pizzeria and pushed “send” before lifting the phone to his ear. An irritated look crossed Frank's face a moment later. Checking the phone's display, he noticed that the call had been dropped before the phone was able to make a connection to the tower.

Odd, that rarely happens around here, he thought, tapping the “send” button again to redial. This time the same thing happened and a bemused look crossed his face.

Mitch looked over. “You going to call the pizza place or just fiddle with that high-tech doodad?” he chided.

“I would, but this phone is misbehaving. I can't get a connection, but I have full bars and a charged battery. There's a tower right over there, even,” he said, gesturing towards a radio tower on the top of a nearby building.

Frank tried restarting his phone, but that didn't succeed in helping the call go through, either. They were nearing Franks car.

“Mitch, give me your phone for a second.” Mitch retrieved his phone and handed it to Frank, who dialed the pizzeria's number. Still nothing.

“Looks like the phone company is having some problems,” Frank said in frustration as he fished his keys from a pocket and unlocked his BMW which stood several steps ahead. Frank turned the ignition over and classical guitar music started playing from the stereo. “I'll try calling again when we get closer to my place, or just call using Susan's phone when we get to the appartment,” Frank said. Whatever the problem is, they'll probably have it fixed soon, he thought.

Susan was Frank's neighbor from across the hall. She was roughly a decade older than he was and lived with her 17-year-old daughter, Michelle. Frank had been friends for the last several years with the two, and would frequently make time for them in the evenings and weekends – despite having long work hours and rarely being home. They were, in a way, a surrogate family for him; he very rarely made the time for the flight back home. Lately, interactions between the two women and Frank had become physically awkward. He wasn't sure if he was reading the signals sent from either of them – and wasn't sure if he could even trust his own feelings on the matter. He'd been single for entirely too long. As near as he could tell, Susan wanted a relationship and Michelle was flirting with him - neither of which appealed to him, for different reasons.

“Dude, I'm turning this fruity music off,” Mitch said, hitting the eject button on the CD player causing the radio to come in over the speakers. It was contemporary rock of some sort – which was good enough for Mitch; he had simple tastes, if somewhat uncultured.

It was amazing that Frank and Mitch got along so well; a person wouldn't think it to be possible by looking at them. Aside from their dressing preferences, they also looked quite a bit different and had personalities as wrong for friendship as driving the wrong way down a one way street. Frank was over 6' and well built, exercising several times throughout the week and Mitch was barely 5'8” and beginning to show signs of approaching middle age at his forehead and waistline. Frank was as easy to read as an open book, emotionally. Mitch was a stoic slab of granite; Frank could only recall seeing Mitch smile once, during a Queensrÿche concert several years previously.

The radio suddenly stopped playing music in the middle of the song, catching both their attention. Big money commercial radio didn't go off-air like that – and then the emergency warning signal sounded on the radio.

“This is Karl Mitzer on KTCZ Cities 97. Please stand by for important emergency information.”

“Well, that's certainly unusual,” Frank said. Feeling a deal of apprehension – particularly after the incident with his phone – he thought it prudent to get to his apartment as soon as possible and pushed his car a couple miles over the speed limit as he turned south onto Wabasha Street.

“FEMA has declared martial law in several major US cities: New York, Chicago, San Diego...”

“What the ****!” Mitch sat bolt upright, waving animatedly and startling Frank. The two shot each other glances and then returned their attention to the radio.

“The Director of Homeland Security says a combination of riots and terror threat levels is the cause of this broad declaration of martial law. Residents of metropolitan areas unaffected by martial law are recommended to keep to their daily schedules.”


Chapter 3: Change of Plans

The two rode on silently, the radio still on, having returned to the channel's regular music playlist. What's going on? Frank thought. It felt like he'd been placed into an alternative universe or a bad dream - the kind of dream where things happen without any apparent cause with results that are just as bizarre.

They'd just reached Frank's apartment building and were climbing out the car when the two heard several distinctly separate percussive blasts – explosions – of varying decibel level and from different directions in several seconds.

The two stood there in the parking lot, again just looking at each other: they shared the same aghast, ashen expression. Neither wanted to state the obvious: someone – probably terrorists – had attacked the United States, again. And this time, it was a much larger attack.

Frank broke the silence. “What now, Mitch?” His voice cracked.

“We've got to get out of town, buddy. Go grab your **** from your apartment, and not just camping gear but extra food and clothes, I think. I'll pull my van around and then come up and help you.” Mitch said as he turned and started around the block towards his vehicle.

“Grab the gas I stowed in my garage,” Frank yelled. He threw a set of keys after Mitch, who scooped them off the ground while still at a jog.

Frank ran up to the building and quickly keyed in his security code. He bounded up the stairs two at a time until he reached the third floor landing and headed down the hall. As he turned the corner, he nearly ran into his neighbor, Bruce Welburn. The two were casual acquaintances, occasionally sharing a beer over grilled meat on a weekend evening, but had never gotten to know each other too well. All Frank knew was that Bruce was retired from the military and spent much of his time racing stock cars.

Bruce was carrying a large duffel bag in each hand and had a military-style pack on his back. “Goodbye, Kreign. Good luck and stay safe.” The graying man scampered down the steps two at a time, his aged-yet-spry body seemingly oblivious to the heavy load he was carrying.

“Bruce, wait!” Frank blurted, unsure of what he was going to say next. The older man stopped on the step's landing and looked up at Frank.

“Frank, it'd be a good idea to get out of the city, at least for a couple days. This looks like it might be bad.” Bruce started back down the steps.

Frank thought quickly. “Bruce, do you want to travel with us?” It was a long shot that they'd be going in the same direction, but Mitch's van had the space, and it couldn't hurt to ask.

Bruce stopped this time instead of simply hesitating and put down his bags. “Which way are you going? I've got an old piece of **** pickup and half a tank of gas, and a couple jerries full of gas – not enough to get me where I'm going. I doubt there'll be gas available today for at least 100 miles from here, so I'd likely be SOL. Going towards Ashby, Nebraska?”

“Where's Ashby?”

“North central part of the western half of the state,” Bruce rattled from memory. He sized Frank up for a second, considering what he knew of the man – he was honest, an assistant DA - before he spoke again. “I have 50 acres of land out there and an old barn, but it'd be better than nothing – you're welcome to join me if you've got nowhere else to go. But we'd need gas.”

“My friend and I have gas, and a van which is probably better than your truck.” Frank stood there thinking about their options, eyes darting back and forth as his brain did the work. So much for the peaceful camping trip, he thought. “Mitch and I were probably heading for Rapid City, South Dakota – my family has a ranch nearby.” He pulled his phone from it's belt clip and started to punch in his parents' number when he noticed the phone's display had “No Service” printed on the screen. ****, things are getting worse by the minute, he thought.

“Bruce, I barely know you, but I figure I can trust you. I was going to see if my mom would mind a little extra company, but given the situation, I don't see how an uninvited visit would hurt. You're welcome to come with us to Rapid.”

“It's a deal. I doubt my truck would've made it all the way to Ashby in this heat anyway,” he picked up his bags again. “Where should I put my bags?”

“Mitch should be outside with a gray utility van shortly, just let him know I said you could travel with us. I need to get my stuff.” Frank ran to his apartment and quickly unlocked it, letting the door slam shut behind him loudly. He ran to the bedroom and looked at what he already had packed: just light camping gear fit for a weekend's hike plus some luxury items, all tightly packed in a new 4500cc backpack.

He threw open his closet doors and grabbed several cardboard boxes he kept around from his last move. He quickly unfolded and set them up, and carried them to the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinets he grabbed all the food which would keep – canned tuna, a lot of pasta and some cereal, a bag of lentils, canned fruits and vegetables, and a small stock of several days' worth of emergency foods he'd rotated since the Katrina hurricane. Setting the boxes aside, he grabbed the cooler he'd set aside for the trip – to hold the beer, of course – and started unloading the meager contents of his fridge and freezer into it: a couple bags of frozen veggies and fruit, frozen steaks, and of course the beer they'd gotten for the trip.

What else should I grab? Frank thought, feeling panicked. He'd never been good at keeping his living space organized. He was never home to do it, and usually ended up just crashing at the end of the day. He was a whiz when it came to things like papers and information, but his apartment just had things laying around randomly, some times in boxes and other times on shelves.

He grabbed another box from his closet and started walking around his apartment throwing a couple random things in. He grabbed most of his casual clothes and some underwear, his hunting clothes and extra boots from the foyer closet, his GPS unit, a first aid kit, and a small box of miscellaneous tools he'd set aside for outdoor activities.

Putting his backpack on, he grabbed up two of the boxes and headed out the door, again letting it slam loudly behind him. As he traveled down the steps, he heard the distinct sound of pistols being shot – the steady 'pip' sound of a small-caliber pistol, followed a second later by the louder popping of two rapid shots from another pistol, a pause, then two more rapid shots. They were close! He paused and turned around to look out the landing's picture window.

He saw Mitch's van, with Mitch standing behind it and the cargo doors open. On the ground were the bodies of two urban thugs – puddles of blood already pooling around them – and a Glock in Mitch's hands. Three more thugs were running away (as best they could in their baggy pants). Mitch took careful aim on one; a single pop and a flash from his pistol and the thug fell face first to the ground.

Frank watched, spellbound by the scene below him, as Bruce came around from the side of the van carrying what looked to Frank like an M1A. Bruce slammed a magazine home and brought the rifle to his shoulder, aiming it at one of the remaining two gang members. Two rapid shots burped loudly from the barrel, and the thug lurched as much as fell to the ground with two red splotches quickly forming in his back. The final gang member was fortunate – he'd managed to escape by running around a building.

Oh my God, Frank thought. My friend and neighbor just murdered four people! He wasn't sure what to do; there were just too many unknowns being thrown at him at once, too many situations of unfamiliar territory. He was a criminal prosecutor; that was what he knew and did best.

His mind flashed back to the disaster that was New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. There were certainly a lot of people – law abiding citizens – who had killed throughout that whole affair and who had lived to avoid any prosecution. He had the creeping suspicion that this was the same kind of scenario – nobody would even bother looking into the deaths of 4 gang members after it was all done and told. For the sake of his friend and neighbor, he hoped that was the case.

He also realized he'd completely overlooked his guns – he needed to make sure he got them, too! He ran down the remaining steps as fast as he could with his boxes and flew out the door. Bruce was on the curb with his M1A at low ready, looking around carefully, and Mitch was stuck half way underneath his van, using language that would make the gayest Navy submarine crewman blush.

“Mitch, what the hell happened out here?” Frank yelled, setting down the boxes in the back of the van and throwing his bag further towards the front. There was a lot of stuff in Mitch's van, and it was all very well organized: lipped shelves covered the van's rear walls, and aside from the two bucket seats near the front and a small two-buckle bench in the middle, the rest of the van was laid out like a work vehicle with layered cubby holes and latchable boxes.

“Those mother****ing pieces of **** shot my gas tank!” The rest of Mitch's language for several seconds was barely coherent, and his face was red with rage. Meanwhile, Frank noticed that Mitch was sealing up the hole with a small piece of rubber – a rubber bullet? - and an epoxy sealant. Resourceful, Frank thought.

Bruce walked over to Frank and spoke quietly but quickly. “I didn't think it would get this bad this quickly. Those thugs wanted the van, I think – but they started shooting first, they didn't ask for it. We really need to get on the road soon, and by soon, I mean as soon as this hole is patched. I'll stand guard here while you run in and grab the rest of your stuff – but hurry. The roads will be filling up soon.”

This time, Frank sprinted towards the door, and for the first time realized he was still wearing his full suit and that the day's heat was making him quite uncomfortable and sweaty. He pushed it off – other things were more important right now than comfort, especially now that he'd realized the gravity of what might happen when people act desperately.

Thankfully, he hadn't locked his door while leaving, and he ran in and again let the door slam behind him. His neighbors might be getting annoyed with all the door slamming - not to mention scared by the gunfire - but if they were, it was hardly his problem – never mind that it was the middle of the day and most people were at work.

He opened his safe and grabbed all the guns he had ammunition for: a Glock 19, which he slid into a holster and clipped in his waistband, a Rock River Arms CAR-15, and a Romanian AKM. As an afterthought he grabbed the well-worn Remington 121 which his grandfather had given him on his 10th birthday many years ago. There wasn't much to speak of for ammunition – maybe 300 rounds all told between the three firearms. The guns and various boxes of ammunition all got thrown in his “range bag” - a thick padded guitar softcase. He threw the guitar bag over his shoulder and grabbed up the cooler and remaining box, and headed out the door.

As Frank walked down the hall after the door had slammed behind him a final time – this time locked – he thought he heard someone call his name. He stopped and took a couple steps down the hall in the other direction and called out.

“Hello, did someone call me?” He waited for a moment, but heard no response. “Did someone say my name?” he said, this time a little louder.

 

[Caimlas]

Sorry about the formatting in the first two chapters, folks. vBulletin really mangles the pastes from my word processor.

As for you "fellow" writers who have made comment... Jesus, way to rip additional orifices into a person. I think I'll go and cry for a while.

Though: thanks for the feedback, it'll help make the story better, I'm sure. I've been thinking about how I can "fix" the first chapter, and you guys have given me some things that have provoked my thought.

Now, maybe now I could get some of those "m0ar" comments, maybe. So, you know... I don't go and slit my wrists or something silly like that. (Yes, I'm joking.) However: did I say something that provoked the in-depth kind of comments, whereas most of these 'fiction' posts seem to get the "good/bad/moar" posts almost exclusively? Curious.

 

[Kentucky]

I think it has a lot of potential. Looking forward to more!

 

[modifiedbrowning]

Me likey. I refuse to post the silly spelling but, give us MORE.

 

[Sato Ord]

Sorry about the formatting in the first two chapters, folks. vBulletin really mangles the pastes from my word processor.

As for you "fellow" writers who have made comment... Jesus, way to rip additional orifices into a person. I think I'll go and cry for a while.

Though: thanks for the feedback, it'll help make the story better, I'm sure. I've been thinking about how I can "fix" the first chapter, and you guys have given me some things that have provoked my thought.

Now, maybe now I could get some of those "m0ar" comments, maybe. So, you know... I don't go and slit my wrists or something silly like that. (Yes, I'm joking.) However: did I say something that provoked the in-depth kind of comments, whereas most of these 'fiction' posts seem to get the "good/bad/moar" posts almost exclusively? Curious.

Dude, if our comments have made you feel bad, you are in for a rough time in the writing world. I was actually being nice and tried to give you some good pointers. Wait until you actually do get your stuff ripped apart by someone. Especially some critic who has never written anything longer than a scathing review, but who also has a standing in the literary world.

As for your comment about short stories as opposed to long, my novels average 140,000 words. I don't consider that to be short stories and neither do the publishers. However, they still want the reader to be grabbed no farther in than a few sentences, maybe a couple of paragraphs.

As for why so many of us "ripped you some additional orifices", you asked for feed back, and we thought you were serious. If you were just looking for pats on the back, then that's what you should have asked for. If you want it sugar coated, say so up front. No one ripped your writing apart that I noticed, I merely made some constructive criticism that i thought might help a fellow writer.

Oh well, I guess I'll keep my comments to myself in the future.

 

[LWGN]

Additional orifices not included

did I say something that provoked the in-depth kind of comments, whereas most of these 'fiction' posts seem to get the "good/bad/moar" posts almost exclusively? Curious.

Well, I'd say that what "provoked" the in-depth comments was the fact that you asked for feedback on your writing in a community where a number of people appear to be writers, editors, or otherwise knowledgeable about the publishing industry. "Provoked" seems to me to be a somewhat harsh term to use in reference to something that wasn't an attack.

I don't think anyone here tore your writing apart. People pay me $60 an hour to really tear their writing apart in preparation for publication. I gave you a moderate amount of serious feedback at no charge, (not all that I could have, but there is a limit on how much of my time I will donate to strangers) and you want to know what "provoked" it? A fit of irrational altruism on my part, clearly.

I honestly thought that you were looking for specific suggestions on improving your writing and making it saleable. I am sorry that I misunderstood. I won't repeat the same mistake twice.

Again, good luck in your literary endeavors.

LWGN

P.S.
Editor: How many authors does it take to change a light bulb?

Author: Do we really have to change it?

 

[mrsig]

I'll bite. Give me some more!

- Sig

 

[357fan]

Good stuff so far. Any ETA on the next chapter?

 

[toopercentmlk]

I'd sit here and read it, seems very interesting, but I'd go blind. I saved it to a word doc, I'll make a hard copy and read it in natural light some time.