#7 - Post-Apocalyptic Urban Science Fiction Fantasy Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

I'm all for playing around with genre a bit. It's fun, and necessary. Genres sometimes cause us, as writers, to get stagnant, to stop exploring even as we write. However, your story still needs an identity. It needs to know what it is--and so do you. And so do I. This next one, I don't know what it is. It lacks any real identity and is poorly written to boot. Though you've probably figured that second part out already:

The day I learnt I was a demon was the worst day of my life. I won’t lie. I spent most of the day terrified of dying, or losing a limb.

Just one small, itty bitty question: What the hell does learning you’re a demon have to do with dying or losing a limb? Are all demons in this world dead and/or limbless?

The first thing I heard and thought about when I woke that morning was of demons.

Scratch the ‘of’. The sentence is unwieldy as it is, and rather more tell than show.

A were-cat scream echoed for a beat before an answering scream, higher in pitch called in the distance. It sounded like the packs were fighting; a territorial dispute most likely, there was a Pride not too far from the Temple.

Is it a pack? Is it a pride? Is it a Pride? Are they were-cats or are they were-lions? Because if it’s a Pride, they should be were-lions. Just sayin’

A muffled shriek drifted up through the floorboards and rolled my eyes when it happened on the next scream.

…I. What?

I buried my head under the pillow and pulled my blanket up. New Disciple’s thought the world was ending every time a demon passed nearby.

New Disciple’s what thought the world was ending every time a demon passed nearby?

It took them long to understand if the Wall was breached, the klaxon went off to warn us.

I can see why they maybe don’t get it, since this is apparently the land of explaining abso-fraggin-lutely nothing. All these capitalized things—New Disciple, Pride, Wall—just thrown at the reader. Though considering you haven’t shown us a damn thing, telling you to explain more would probably just cause massive infodumping, wouldn’t it?

I rolled out of bed, tripped over a mountain of fabric and crushed cans that littered the floor of my room, and head butted the wardrobe door.

…I. Why?

It bounced back, clothes flung over the top and spilling out the bottom stopped it from clicking shut.

Another quick question: Does anyone have the faintest clue what’s even going on here? ‘Cause I don’t. Also, who bloody cares about the clothing spilling out of the character’s wardrobe? Once again: I don’t.

I was not a dirty person, but a messy one.

Isn’t that a bit like saying “I don’t roll around in the mud, but I never clean my clothes”?

I was the kind of person who could make mess in an empty four by ten box.

Reread that sentence closely and just try to tell me she didn’t say she could go potty in an oversized litter box. I dare you.

Stood in my fraying bra and panties, I groggily scratched at my knee, trying to pull myself together.

Start by pulling your writing together. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say you were looking for the word “standing”. So…wait, does Main Character Who Has No Name Yet have really long arms or something? Or is she kinda leaning over more than standing?

It took a lot of rummaging around before I pulled on my ragged jeans and faded tee shirt, some pre Rupture band on the front.

T-shirt. And pre-Rupture, although really, Rupture? I’ve seen a lot of words for before the apocalypse, but that’s new. It makes it sound like the earth had an eruption somewhere in its digestive system.

Not the best gear for running, but I was going to have to go straight to class afterwards. I put my boots on and headed outside.

It was dark. Dawn was hours away and the grounds were eerily quiet. Fire drums set alongside the pathway flickered and weak flames cast a sick flush over the cold ground. Electricity was hard to generate and the Sect cut corners where it could. Resources during the day and after dark focused on Wall hotspots, places difficult for the Clerics to easily defend, like steep ravines and cliff faces.

This is my sad face ;.; because I honestly have no clue what’s going on here or why I should care. This is just a nameless character telling the audience about a lot of stuff with no context or meaning. Show us this world. Introduce us to these Clerics. And if you must tell, tell me who the bleeding f*** this Sect even is!

These were the places demons too often breached. [ My eyes skipped over the Temple grounds and every graffiti wall and battered trashcan was colored fondly in my mind’s eye.

See my little buddy [ up there? Your new paragraph starts there, because that has nothing whatsoever to do with what you were just talking about. Also, graffiti and battered trashcans? Isn’t that the stuff one, you know, tends to block out after a time?

The Temple was an army base, before the Rupture, but now it was the stomping ground of the Sect Clerics and their Disciples. It was home. Safety. My eyes settled on the Wall in the near distance, peeking out from the forest bordering the region. Past that electric fence was Outside. Past that fence roamed the demons.

So this is The Forest of Hands and Teeth with no writing skills and way less depression? IDK. Also: what Sect? Temple of what (or whom)? Or is this the world has ended everything is Christianity now mm’kay?

I started at a jog and in no time was at the main gate, whistling to the security guard who barely looked up from his book.

This is the place she calls safe? A place where a security guard doesn’t even pay a damn shred of attention to what’s wandering around? Why can’t they interact with each other at the very least?

I do like the irony that he’s not doing his job and lo, a demon waltzes by. But I can’t help thinking that would be more tasty if the reader doesn’t know until after and can look back and go “Oh sh*t, bet that security guard has egg on his face.”

I wondered where he’d gotten that. Books made purely for entertainment were as rare as plain paper. The Sect had a library of course, right here at the Temple, but you had to have serious pull with the Priests to be able to rent one.

I’ll give you that the plain paper (by which I assume you mean unmarked, without text of some sort already on it) thing is a nice touch, even if I’ve seen it before. But it kind of smashes your believability to then have special rare book in the hands of Security Guard Bob who does not appear to even do his job properly.

We lucky Disciples got to feel the smooth pages of a book on a regular basis, even if they were educational, and my envy was brief. The guard caught me eyeing up the pages and placed it on his lap. He waved me on as the gate cracked to let me out.

Leaving Temple, I was soon on a wide and flat lane gravitating toward the forest.

My friend Mr. Dictionary has kindly agreed to join us again this evening. He has something new to share about himself, too. It’s a little entry he’s got lying around on the word “gravitate”:

verb (used without object), -tat·ed, -tat·ing.

1.

to move or tend to move under the influence of gravitational force.

2.

to tend toward the lowest level; sink; fall.

3.

to have a natural tendency or be strongly attracted (usually fol. by to or toward ): Musicians gravitate toward one another.

Unless it’s a moving sidewalk, I think not.

I reached the Wall and stared at it. Each time I came here I asked myself the same question; was defying Sect Doctrine and stepping past this point worth it? The excited thump of my heart told me the answer.

Uh. No? I thought the walls kept her safe? I thought…oh for crying out loud, why do I keep applying thought to these things, anyway?

I glanced behind to scan the roadside and check I was not in sight. Confident I was alone; I slid through the sliver of space between the charged wires then held my breath for a beat.

*facepalm* You let Word tell you where to put your semi-colons, don’t you? Word is a useful tool, but it’s not smart enough to help you with semi-colons.

There was nothing but silence. I had no idea how I’d done it, but one morning I was tired of plodding the same ground and I’d looked out into the forest with its thick tree trunks, jutting roots, and seen a thrilling new route to push myself harder and faster.

So she doesn’t know how she looked out into the forest? How many times do I need to say the word sequence before the universe absorbs it and pings it back into author brains? Also, that sentence is so awkward and padded. Things like “thick tree trunks” are just unnecessary. I mean, it’s a forest. Unless they’re especially large, we get it.

I had stood and stared at the webbing of steel, then wished for a hole to climb through. The wires had unraveled without setting off the klaxon, and there was a hole for me to pass through. I remembered thinking with a horrible kind of panic that I had somehow done witchcraft, and was convinced I was the blackest kind of evil.

“The blackest kind of evil” huh? I think I might need to recalibrate my Cliché O’Meter, give it a whole new level.

Then I realized how ridiculous I was being and figured it was a coincidental gift from the universe, or something.

Wow. So the only thing we’ve actually been shown so far is that our heroine is really frackin’ stupid.

I don’t understand why the book couldn’t have opened on this event. On the moment the fence parts and her heart starts thundering at the idea that she worked some kind of horrible, evil magic. Consider the impact all this would have had if you’d shown it to us instead.

Now every morning I had a new obstacle course to enjoy.

The trees were tall and the air was fresh and clean and free.

So, just in case y’all missed it, the forest is exactly like a forest. But I don’t get this at all. There are demons in there, right? You said so. Demons that are kept out by a fence. Why is the character leaving her safety? To have a “new obstacle course”? That’s so stupid it hurts.

I ran and ran, racing the beat of my own footfalls.

Good luck with that.

Cold wind whipped past pushing hair into my face.

It’s called a ponytail. Or a braid. Something. Also, I’m not entirely sure that’s completely physically possible. At the least, it would be difficult, when one is running and there are trees and undergrowth for wind to contend with.

Gods, how I loved to run, and revel in the illusion of freedom it gave.

So, not Christianity then. Gods of what?

I was the fastest Disciple at the Temple and the best at cross-country; it took a lot to tire me out.

…the Gods of Athletics, I guess?

I ran until the forest became too dense for me to sprint without tripping over roots. My chest rising and falling was a pleasant feeling I rarely got to experience, and only could experience when I ran Outside.

So does that mean she doesn’t breathe unless she’s outside—excuse me, Outside the Wall, where the demons are? And no one noticed this?

Actually, considering their gate guard, I guess that’s not shocking.

Pushing at the long and dark tangle of my hair, I wished there was less of it. I snapped off a knobby twig from a shrub at my heel and pulled it back into a messy bun, using the twig to pin it there.

She couldn’t have done this before running? Also, how in the blazes did she do that with one stick? I’ve tried it with two and let me tell you, that’s no joke right there. She is the blackest kind of evil!

I was distracted, and only because a raven boldly cutting past drew my attention from the task of managing my hair, did I see a movement at the corner of my eye.

A raven. In dense woods. Flying by at…Oh god, I should just stop shouldn’t I? That sentence is awkward and labored and is never going to make sense anyway AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SHOW DON’T TELL.

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Okay, I think my blood pressure is back to normal now. I can tell you easily why you had to self-publish this. After two pages full of absurdly long paragraphs, I know nothing about your character or your world. I have no reason to care, and you kept throwing shit like Disciple and Temple and Sect at me without the faintest clue as to Disciple or Temple or Sect of what. To top it off, nothing happened.

This story should have started either when she opened the gate the first time or when the raven flew past and something exciting (like hopefully a face gnawing demon to kill this stupid twit!) was maybe going to happen.

Oh, and lay off Mrs. Thesaurus. Mr. Dictionary hates it when folks get frisky with his wife.