Young Writers Society

[pre]Germany, May 10th 1933[/pre]

“Säuberung!”

The massive crowd roared deeply, a titanic, subterranean monster, marching around the bonfire which casted deep, rutted shadows across the university square. Moving and shifting like demons; flickering and darting. Fighting with the angry yellow-red light - honey colored - for supremacy. Punching their fists in the air, the crowd roared again.

“Säuberung!”

Cleansing. Cleanse the world! Cleanse Germany! Let the muck and dirt of Semitism and Marxism and everything that those American bastards stand for be stripped away from us. Scrubbed from us. As God as our witness – everyone as our witness – we will not stand for corruption! The crowd punched the air again, fists balled up and choleric. They wanted blood and they wanted it fast. Burning pages and hardbound spines could only stave off thirst and hunger for so long. The public needed the enemies of the state, whoever they were, mounted on proverbial crosses and crucified. A long and painful and public crucifixion.

Christ would have had it easy.

Jason McKinley marched around the bonfire, grinning at the blooming flowers of sparks stabbing the air as books were tossed into the fire two at a time, three at a time, four at a time by university students screaming with lust and happiness. The books soared through the air like wounded birds, wings flapping, broken and twisted by the shotgun of patriotic mania. They fell into the fire like rocks. They didn't scream, they didn't move. The flames ate their pages – doused with liberal helpings of gasoline – easily, hungrily.

Jason carried his sign with a straight back and a twisted face, a black spider swastika tied around his upper arm. The swastikas were ubiquitous. On flags and arms and helmets and banners. Black and charcoal, they had spun their webs into the minds of the university students and higher-echelon politicians sitting in the makeshift grandstands to Jason's left. Like some sort of Charlotte, the spiders were spinning words in the corners. Words of a hate and disgust and murder. Words like –

“Säuberung!” Jason McKinley screamed.

Knees up, feet flat, Jason continued to march to the beat of the big band by the grandstands. Hell, he should've been actor. He blended directly into the crowd, directly into the titanic monster of cleansing. He was one of them now. A student. An angry student, no less, plagued by bleeding-heart nationalism. He was their brother. Their comrade.

But, then again, they didn't see the semi-automatic Beretta tucked in his belt or the wiring strung throughout his body. They most definitely did not see that his clothing was twenty percent polyester and hecho en Mexico. He was there, but he wasn't. He wasn't there to scream at the Jews and Americans. He was there that night because his target was in the crowd.

The noble wolf-Shepard.

As he roared again he caught sight of him. In the grandstands, by the pulpit. He would speak tonight. Adolf Hitler would set fire to those bleeding hearts of the students and incite more unquenchable blood-lust. The hate emanating from the bonfire and the students and the speakers sitting quietly in their seats was making Jason feel sick. He couldn't understand how people could so easily cross the bridge from human to animal. These people were disgusting. Feral. And he hated everyone of them. People were people, for God's sake! Did wars have to decide that?

Regardless, his target had to die today.

Laughing manically, a drunk student backed into Jason and knocked him over, sending them both toppling out of the marching crowd. With a grunt, he landed on the gritty pavement, the student sprawled across him; his breath rancid and sickly-sweet. Bastard. Jason's eyes dialated - artificial hormones streaming into his body through the intravenous wires strung throughout his body - and he was immediately on top of the man, straddling him, wrenching on of his arms behind his back and the pinning down the other with his knee. He had to consciously control his hand from reaching for the silenced Beretta in his belt. The desire to see a bullet through this man's skull was overwhelming. Not now. It was neither the time nor the place...

The man was yelling something. The crowd was looking. “Es tut mir leid!” the man sobbed.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Jason sneered and stood up, letting the man scramble to his feet. The student twisted his face, flipped Jason off, and darted into the crowd, swearing at him over his shoulder. The crowd was still staring. Jason backed away with both palms up, his face hot and red. He had almost compromised the mission solely because of pain-in-the-ass fine-tuned reflexes. He should have just shrugged it off and walked away. Like he was doing now, after the fact. No doubt the inebriated student was running to the police to report him for assault and soon they'd be searching the crowd, searching for him.

He swore and backed against a pillar on the outskirts of the university square.

The crowd roared again; the loudest cry yet. Hitler had gotten to his feet and was advancing towards the podium a half smile on his face accented by his characteristic mustache. The swastika on his arm seemed bigger than anyone else's, darker, angrier.

The wolf Shepard and the spider.

Jason slowly withdrew his gun, checked the silencer and the ammunition. His country depended on this, his friends, his wife, his children. Hitler would die tonight. History would be changed, sure, years and years of it, but that was the point wasn't it?. Jason may not exist anymore, but the world would be better off in a hundred years. He was committing trans fourth-dimensional suicide. Suicide like al-Queda car bombers and Saudi Arabian airplane hijackers.

But at least the future would be a better place.

How the hell could one man take up so much history?

Hitler held up his hands – a patient father – and looked out into the crowd. Jason attached the scope to the barrel of the gun and centered it on the Chancellor's face which was smug and cold. Smiling yet unemotional. These were his people. This was his place.

Bleeding heart bonfires.

Hitler opened his mouth and Jason squeezed the trigger.

The massive crowd roared deeply, a titanic, subterranean monster, marching around the bonfire which casted deep, rutted shadows across the university square.

Woohoo, that took a couple reads. I think the overabundance of commas kind of detracts from the metaphor you're trying to pull off here. I suggest the insertion of a semicolon or colon after "roared deeply."

Although I do love your introduction. ^-^

Cleansing. Cleanse the world! Cleanse Germany! Let the muck and dirt of Semitism and Marxism and everything that those American bastards stand for be stripped away from us. Scrubbed from us. As God as our witness – everyone as our witness – we will not stand for corruption!

The change of perspective here is a tad confusing- is someone speaking? Is this the collective mindset of the crowd?

but that was the point wasn't it?.

Typo! Get rid of the period.

Bleeding heart bonfires.

I freaking love this line.

Blah! Whathappenedwhathappenedwhathappened? Cursed cliffhangers!

Fantastic as always, lovely. I wanna know what happens next!

-St. Razorblade
The Official YWS Pirate

the blooming flowers of sparks

I love this imagery.

Hell, he should've been an actor.

The hate emanating from the bonfire and the students and the speakers sitting quietly in their seats was making Jason feel sick. He couldn't understand how people could so easily cross the bridge from human to animal. These people were disgusting. Feral. And he hated everyone of them. People were people, for God's sake! Did wars have to decide that?

I think I would rather see how Jason felt, rather than hear about it from the narrator. From what I've read of yours, you tend to do this a lot. You explain your characters in the narration, rather than allow for character development to happen naturally. This makes all of your writing seem the same, which isn't always good...

...to report him for assault and soon they'd be searching the crowd, [s]searching for him[/s].

This is obvious. I think you would be best off saying searching the crowd for him. The repetition of searching is only annoying, it doesn't really do anything.

Hitler had gotten to his feet and was advancing towards the podium[comma] a half smile on his face accented by his characteristic mustache.

You seem to really like assassinations. This is interesting, so I'll have to see where you go with it before I can really make any comments. You'll have to think of a lot of things whilst slaying Hitler, because I highly doubt there weren't back up plans in the face of his death. You have to think of all the people that were only slightly below him. It would take really, really large revolt to stop everything from going... like, killing Hitler at birth, perhaps. I don't know much about who was there to take his place; that isn't something I needed to research for my novel, but it is something you might want to look into, depending on where you go with this.

I really wish Jason didn't have such a horribly American (though really, Mc, Irish) name.

EDIT: ah, I forgot something else...

artificial hormones streaming into his body through the intravenous wires strung throughout his body

this makes no sense. I believe you mentioned the wires previously... it didn't make sense then either. Wires? What wires? I'm not sure what you are talking about here, it really ruins it for me.

Ach, and then I recalled other things... Characterization again, my friend. Your stories thrive more on plot, action, suspense, and perhaps that is your thing, but you have to keep in mind. Your characters have to be alive, living people. I'm not sure what I'm getting at here; Jason did exist, he was really, and he was living, but perhaps it's just how your stories are... Bah, ignore me.

Thanks for the crits you guys!

Suzanne>> Several things you commented on will be explained later in the story (ie: the wires/ why they didn't kill Hitler earlier). I agree with you completely about the name. However, I wanted it implicitly apparent that Jason was 100% not from Europe and 100% not from the 1930s. But I suppose I could do that differently.

While writing this, I felt the same thing your talking about. My character really wasn't three dimensional. Kinda watered down. He felt different than the characters in my novel... He felt aloof. Like he didn't give a darn about the reader. In my writing, a character is given true life unexpectedly. His personality just drops out of the sky, but usually drops out in the first chapter. Maybe Jason will morph into a better character soon.

Eh. I guess I am into assassinations...

Anyways, thanks you two. Suzanne, I'll probably come to you for some more help with this in the future. Maybe we could even co-write it...

-Kylan

Ever read Harry Turtledove?

Well, I really enjoy your ideas, and your writing, and your story.
But On first read, you lost me utterly and totally. What you need to make much more clear is... well... you need to give more concrete information. I know I'm on Mount Sinai, around 2000, with Nazi soldiers scaling the mountain to attack my position. I know that they're neo-nazis. I know that, somehow, the world has been more or less overrun by these guys. But It took me 5 read-throughs to arrive at these facts.

I'd really like you to let the reader get his footing first. You allude to every single one of these facts. A "Mount Sinai, 2000" would suffice really nicely.

They’ve got control of every god-awful satellite in the eastern hemisphere.

This bothered me, because satellites obit the earth. They don't... they can't remain fixed.

I spin around, throw the binoculars against the wall as hard as I can – which shatter into a million shards of plastic Made-in-China casing and broken lens, falling to the ground like manufactured hail.

Really fantastic imagery but..... why is this necessary?

And then he had been resurrected. Brought to life.

Well, this is interesting. I imagine you'll elaborate on this. But it feels so lonely sitting around here without clarification. I'm not going to wait around for you to explain this. Give the reader enough information to placate them.

Look to the future, kids. You can make the world a better place. One voice makes all the difference.

I laugh.

What a strange thought.

I'd like the ending better if you cut this.

This seems like a very interesting story. Again, Harry Turtledove. Good Luck!

...

[spoiler]EDIT: I love history, and alternative history is interesting to debate...
Here's where I thought you were going with this. Hitler is killed. Taking his place is Himmler, who immediately blames the communists, (hey it worked with the Reichstag) and manages to keep the Nazi party from collapsing. In the end, the second world war still takes place, however, Himmler does not make the mistakes that Hitler does. Moscow is captured, Stalin is killed and Germany starves England into submission. In the end, Nazi philosophy takes the place that Soviet Communism did during the cold war. Except that, it wins. The United States falls, and eventually a ragtag band of soldiers find themselves under siege at Mount Sinai...[/spoiler]

Thanks Smorg! Great help.

But, you know, I'm not feeling this story. I think I'm gonna bag it. It doens't...resonate. One day, eventually, I might ressurect this and use your spoiler idea, but for now, this is going into the bin of half-baked projects.

Besides, I've got a novel to attend to...

Thanks again!

(PS: If you want the premise, keep it.)

-Kylan

Gesundheit anyone? Wow you have a kind of anarchic thinking based on this story. Are you somehow a revolutionist?

Cleansing. Cleanse the world! Cleanse Germany! Let the muck and dirt of Semitism and Marxism and everything that those American bastards stand for be stripped away from us. Scrubbed from us. As God as our witness – everyone as our witness – we will not stand for corruption! The crowd punched the air again, fists balled up and choleric. They wanted blood and they wanted it fast. Burning pages and hardbound spines could only stave off thirst and hunger for so long. The public needed the enemies of the state, whoever they were, mounted on proverbial crosses and crucified. A long and painful and public crucifixion.

Christ would have had it easy.

This is my favorite part. I like your imagination and how you show scenes in your story. Well I'm sorry to all of the Catholics here but really Christ would have had it easy. Also there's a saying that there are more people who died for Christ than any war in the whole human history. Well anyway, great story.

Wow. The hardest decision that I have to make is which to comment on first. Both parts are superb, truly superb.

I love the imagery of the first section, especially when describing the crowd. It feels so realistic!

You mention intravenous wires, and other paraphernalia. I assume that you are trying to insert small references to the nature of Jason, and the fact that he is out of the ordinary, but it comes off as slightly clumsy. I'm not sure what you could do with this, I'm afraid.

As for the second part, well what to say? It's slightly unclear as to where they actually are, situation-wise, but apart from that there is little fault. Well done!

It's a pity that you are dropping this; I would have loved to see where it got to. Especially the nature of Hitler's 'resurrection'.

It is a solid opening. Diverse diction and syntax. The writing is engaging. You may note, however, that the general pattern insofar is:

[long paragraph]

[one or two separated, short, witty sentences]

While it is effective in this small bit and is appropriate for an opening, it may not hold up throughout the novel.

I read the first part, but not the second, so this only pertains to that, alright? My eyes hurt from staring at the computer screen so I can't really concentrate hard enough to read the second one without giving myself a headache.

ANYWAYS. The first thing I have to say is that your imagery is AMAZING. I can almost see it, in my head, and it takes a lot for me to be able to imagine something this well. Your writing is vivid and I can feel the crowd pulsing with anger and rebellion all around him. Although, one similie I didn't get was this sentence:

Like some sort of Charlotte, the spiders were spinning words in the corners. Words of a hate and disgust and murder.

Am I missing something? What is a Charlotte?

So, when I was reading about the wires and stuff, I kind of got this idea that they were pumping hormones in him to make him look like one of the madmen in the crowd. Was I correct in that assumption?

I hope to keep reading, unless you decide to bag the story, of course, but I really liked it. I'll have to read some of your other things because this was AWESOME.

Just skipping through...I might get back a critique: I read the first, like, tenth, and the last fifth, the last fifth being read before the first tenth, no idea why.

Hitler, or Germany in general, would never call Americans bastards. They actually didn't want them as enemies, and America was actually never against Germany until late in the war, when it would probably have been too late for that person to kill Hitler.

And--by the way--how is it possible for him to commit suicide by killing Hitler and diminishing his future self if he's already there? Just letting you know...the story, make sense it does not.