Young Writers Society

They were doomsday. There'd been a man on the main square by the store I used to manage, years ago, that used to shout at passerbys. Doomsday and apocalypse and the end is nigh: that kinda bullshit. Turned out, despite his scraggly beard and the grayed, torn clothing he wore, he was right. Fuckin' doomsday, right here in Arizona.

When they walked, the ground quite literally shook. They'd been designed for flight intially-- that's what all the news reports said, anyway, but I didn't see how anything as heavy as these things must be could ever get a fucking inch off the ground. When they took a step, it was louder than the gunfire that followed them. Louder than the bombs the military dropped on them. Louder than the lasers that they shot at you. Louder than the screams of men as the dick-targeted lasers quickly castrated them.

I watched them through the window, lights off and curtains drawn. They marched down the street, probably about a dozen of 'em, twenty feet tall. I peeked out just in time to see one of them step on my neighbor's Porsche. I always hated that douche. He used to let his juniper grow over my fence, and then, when I complained, had the balls to tell me to cut them back myself. Fuck him. And his beautiful Porsche. When the robot lifted it's foot back up, a long block of crushed metal stood in the car's wake. I couldn't help but smile-- forgetting myself for a second, I put my full face in front of the window and the robot almost got an eyeglimpse before I jumped back into place with an "Oh shit!"

Cement lay broken and gravelled where the street used to be, crunching under their huge feet. They continued their march, methodical almost, though they were all spread up and down the street. A couple of houses down the way had suffered under their steps, barely standing up anymore. They passed mine easily, big groaning steps fuckin' up the other side of the street. I was nice and safe in here. I tugged open a bit more of the curtain and watched another robot step on a neighbor's house. Most people by now had cleared out, driven off in their mini vans and their fucking Porsches. I was made of tougher stuff. And didn't have a car. And, looking at the shit-struck streets, it didn't exactly look too safe to walk. I DID, however, have a cat, though I hadn't had much luck in finding him in the past couple of days.

The robots were almost past my house now-- another stepped on the Porsche and brought their foot away leaving it almost flat as the concrete that hadn't yet met its end under their feet. Big fuckin' feet. From what I could see, they were steel like the rest of 'em, with a prominent tread just made for smashing things. Well, more realistically, made for take offs and touch downs if the military really made them for flight, but they looked much better for smashing shit. I watched them march, and wondered if there was anyone else left on my street, my neighborhood, this whole goddamned city. It didn't take long for my wondering to be answered.

A man burst out of the house a bit down the street, with a rifle, apparently one those crazy gun nut fuckeries, wife beater on and all, screaming, "I'll get you, you motherfucking aliens!" He took a couple of shots at the robots, which glanced off like rain, a huge fucking storm of bullets. The closest one picked him up and tossed him down the street, still shooting in whatever direction he could, screaming obscenities. Good way to go down, especially for a fuckwad like him. A robot, oblivious to the whole situation that had happened behind him, casually stepped on the now-still body. He snapped, and I cringed.

Fucking gross.

They continued to lumber down the street and I didn't know what to do, caught up in horror of his death and a strange fascination with the robots. What the fuck kinda military designs shit like this? One of them stopped at a house just barely in view from my hideout from the corner of the window, and bent down. I didn't even fucking know they could move their knees like that. Crazy shit. And then, it started charging it's dick-shooting beam, bright lights shining from its hand like it were the hand of God. Dick-killing, military made God. I couldn't take it anymore, not after seeing that man die and not doing jack shit about it. I snatched up the bat I'd kept close and burst through the front door, yelling and making as much noise as I could. I was greeted by bright lights shining from metal hands all around me, and sprinted across the street to the person being attacked, trying to move too quickly for them.

One of them caught me, straight in the crotch and THERE. An explosion of pain, of no-more-dick-ness. I fell to my knees and felt myself blacking out when I saw the robot lean away from it's prey and my cat sitting there, legs splayed up in the air, licking his balls.

By the time I finished the first paragraph, my first thought was "My god...another one of these? But as I continued to read....I started to love it. The main character's narration is freaking hilarious, and I could visualize the young Mad max esque Mel gibson/clint eastwood post apocalyptic character you (I assume) were trying to create. That simple fact makes your story original, even though it uses themes seen in many movies and books. Again, I enjoyed reading this, and I can't wait to see what you post next.

So, I guess I should start by saying that this is one of the funnier things I've read on YWS in a while, and its nice to see some short fiction that isn't really a novel that the author never plans on finishing. You're story was short, and it was complete. It wasn't bogged down with unnecessary exposition, and the one character was likable and funny enough that his language was acceptable. You kept it fast and you kept us interested by not giving us too much information. You wrote a short story and by all accounts you did it well.

But, I can't tell you how much I liked it without trying to tell you ways you could improve.

1. It wouldn't hurt to give a little description of the setting. We know its in Arizona, and we can assume that its a fairly wealthy neighborhood because the narrator implies that there are multiple people with porches, but then why doesn't he have a car?

2. Why does the narrator cuss so much? I have no problem with dropping an f-bomb, but doing it too much makes it loose its power. I wouldn't say that your character cusses too much, I mean he is in a pretty stressful situation, but its just something to look out for in the future.

3. "Fuck him. And his beautiful Porsche."
I would make this into one phrase, but thats just me being a nitpick. There are a couple of other times where I would change wording, but its insignificant so I won't really bring it up. Try reading your work aloud. Make sure it flows. If you find you're using the word street a lot then find a synonym, or cut that sentence (you can always take shit out). You're telling a story with your words, and storys are in their truest form when they're told mouth to mouth. Make sure it sounds good when you say it because reading is done with both the eyes and the ears.

To end, I really did enjoy the story, and I'll be checking back on you occasionally to see if you have anything else up. Keep writing.

I didn't.. I didn't like this. I guess it was well written but the narrator's tone seemed too much for me.

He also said the word "fuck" and any of its variations way too much. It distracted me from the story and seemed too unrealistic for me.

Lastly, the sudden gruff, angry, pissed off character is suddenly replaced by an idiot who tries to attack a robot with a baseball bat. I didn't like that either.

So yeah. It just didn't do much for me.

I'm supposed to be studying, but I took the time to sneak out and review. ;D

So Perse, let's get started, yes?

They were doomsday. This sentence is weird, but I bet you know why and you meant for it to sound that way. o0 Still, it's pretty weird anyway. There'd been a man on the main square by the store I used to manage, years ago, that used to shout at passerbys. Doomsday and apocalypse and the end is nigh: that kinda bullshit. Turned out, despite his scraggly beard and the grayed, torn clothing he wore, he was right. Fuckin' doomsday, right here in Arizona. There's a sharp contrast between the last two sentences. The first one is less harsh, more soft, plenty more lyrical. The next one is raw and angry. It's not a good contrast, I think, because it indicates a wobbly voice.

When they walked, the ground quite literally shook. They'd been designed for flight intially-- that's what all the news reports said, anyway, but I didn't see how anything as heavy as these things must be I'd remove that bit because it made me stumble. could ever get a fucking inch off the ground. When they took a step, it was louder than the gunfire that followed them. Louder than the bombs the military dropped on them. Louder than the lasers that they shot at you. Louder than the screams of men as the dick-targeted lasers quickly castrated them. That made me snicker. It's just too funny for a piece like this, I think. ^^" Not quite on the same tone, you know?

I watched them through the window, lights off and curtains drawn. They marched down the street, probably about a dozen of 'em, twenty feet tall. I peeked out just in time to see one of them step on my neighbor's Porsche. I always hated that douche. He used to let his juniper grow over my fence, and then, when I complained, had the balls to tell me to cut them back myself. Fuck him. And his beautiful Porsche. When the robot lifted it's foot back up, a long block of crushed metal stood in the car's wake. I couldn't help but smile-- forgetting myself for a second, I put my full face in front of the window and the robot almost got an eyeglimpse before I jumped back into place with an "Oh shit!" This last sentence is super clunky. Also, the "Oh shit!" bit seems tacked on for the sake of swearing.

Cement lay broken and gravelled where the street used to be, crunching under their huge feet. They continued their march, methodical almostIt's little phrases like these that contribute to the downfall of this piece's voice. It's the poet in you, Perse. oo", though they were all spread up and down the street. A couple of houses down the way had suffered under their steps, barely standing up anymore. They passed mine easily, big groaning steps fuckin' up the other side of the street. I was nice and safe in here. I tugged open a bit more of the curtain and watched another robot step on a neighbor's house. Most people had cleared out by now, driven off in their mini vans and their fucking I'm seriously getting tired of that word. oo Porsches. I was made of tougher stuff. And didn't have a car. Haha? Honestly sounds like an attempt at humor, which, again, seems anachronistic. And, looking at the shit-struck streets, it didn't exactly look too safe to walk. I DID, however, have a cat, though I hadn't had much luck in finding him in the past couple of days.

The robots were almost past my house now-- another stepped on the Porsche and brought its foot away, leaving it almost flat as the concrete that hadn't yet met its end under their feet. Big fuckin' I used to disagree with Margaret Atwood when she said that people used "fuck" too much these days, and that we should advocate a return to showing the severity instead of simply using "fuck" to make everything powerful. I'm now beginning to agree with her. >> It loses its touch when it's used too often. feet. From what I could see, they were steel like the rest of 'em, with a prominent tread just made for smashing things. Well, more realistically, made for take offs and touch downs if the military really Really ~ Realistically sounds kind of alike and makes the sentence flow weird. made them for flight, but they looked much better for smashing shit. I watched them march, and wondered if there was anyone else left on my street, my neighborhood, this whole goddamned city. It didn't take long for my wondering to be answered. Awkward. Also makes it seem like he knows what's going to happen next.

A man burst out of the house a bit down the street, with a rifle, apparently one those crazy gun nut fuckeries, wife beater on and all, screaming, "I'll get you, you motherfucking Yay. Two in one sentence. >> aliens!" He took a couple of shots at the robots, which glanced off like rain Authorial intrusion., a huge fucking .________________________________. storm of bullets. The closest one picked him up and tossed him down the street, still shooting in whatever direction he could, screaming obscenities. Good way to go down, especially for a fuckwad You know what to do. like him. A robot, oblivious to the whole situation that had happenedbehind him, casually stepped on the now-still body. He snapped, and I cringed.

Fucking gross. ._. Show. Please.

They continued to lumber down the street and I didn't know what to do, caught up in horror of his death and a strange fascination with the robots. Show. I doubt anyone goes like that. "I can't move. I'm too fascinated by the robots and the dead guy." I think it'd sound more like continuous thoughts about the robots/dead guy, and moving doesn't cross his mind - or if it does, he thinks he can stay for just a bit longer, just until after he sees the robots ________. What the fuck >> kinda military designs shit On another note, I'm also getting tired of this word. like this? One of them stopped at a house just barely in view from my hideout from the corner of the window, and bent down. I didn't even fucking I'm about to rip my hair out. x.x know they could move their knees like that. Crazy shit. And then, it started charging it's dick-shooting beam Lawl. So this was on purpose. I'll tell you one thing - this voice so doesn't suit a comedy. Or if it does, it'd be much better in third person., bright lights shining from its hand like it were the hand of God. Dick-killing, military made God. I couldn't take it anymore, not after seeing that man die and not doing jack shit about it. I snatched up the bat I'd kept close and burst through the front door, yelling and making as much noise as I could. I was greeted by bright lights shining from metal hands all around me, and sprinted across the street to the person being attacked, trying to move too quickly for them.

One of them caught me, straight in the crotch and THERE. An explosion of pain, of no-more-dick-ness. I will honestly tell you it makes no sense. At ALL. I fell to my knees and felt myself blacking out when I saw the robot lean away from it's prey and my cat sitting there, legs splayed up in the air, licking his balls.

Now that I've finished, I can tell it's a humorous piece. Or it better be. ._. Otherwise I wouldn't know where to begin.

I think you were going for humor in the absurd, what with the over-the-top, potty-mouthed narrator and the ...odd... lasers. I'm going to tell you straight up it didn't work. Not one bit. For me, anyway. Seems others liked it.

Why didn't it work for me?

First of all, your constant breaks in voice made it jarring and the descriptions you did lace throughout the narrative - poetic as they were - lent a heavier feel to this story. It began to feel more serious instead of funny, and so I took it seriously. The first hint it was funny was that laser thing, but it wasn't funny enough because it just seems senseless and kind of stupid. ><"

There's senseless funny, and then there's senseless just-makes-you-raise-your-eyebrows-senseless. Or maybe this just isn't my kind of humor. oo" Probably the second, seeing as the others found it funny.

The overuse of the word "fuck" also annoyed me. A looot. I'm with Loller on this one. Sure, go for an angry narrator in an absurd situation. Do that. But please remove 50% of the swearing. It's okay at first, but it begins to grate on my nerves and then I can't concentrate on the story anymore because whenever I see another one of those words I just want to delete it. Each one made me feel like quitting on the story, to be honest. ><" It's too much in too short a space of time. There are other ways to show how bitter and angry your MC is. (I suggest leaking it through the descriptions, maybe?)

What's also odd is that your characterization is inconsistent. In the beginning, he couldn't care less if the other guys fell into a giant sinkhole. Then, later on, he gets a change of heart - apparently out of nowhere - and decides that he's going to help someone. o0"

I suggest maybe reading something that's so absurd it's funny, and trying to get a feel for the mood and tone it takes. A good example is The House on Awful End. I read that when I was in highschool, and I couldn't stop laughing. The book's tone was technically serious, but it came off really deadpan-ish, which is why it worked so well. It's also centered on absurd ideas I normally couldn't accept, but the author executed it in a way which sustained my suspension of disbelief. The world was consistently absurd, and though it seemed serious, you can almost hear the snark underneath, you know? I'm not really good at telling what exactly made it work, seeing as I'm no good at writing humor. I can, however tell you, that here, it's all just a jumbled mess of poetic descriptions and an angry MC who seems to be supremely erratic.

._. Overall, what I'm really trying to say is that I can't tell exactly what in this piece is wrong (aside from the atomic f-bomb that exploded all over this piece), but I'm pretty sure something is wrong. >>" Sorry for being not too helpful. I gave some suggestions, but I'm about 40% sure they're not the solutions to the piece's lack of humor. I'm sorry.


I hope I helped anyway.


Sincerely,

Jace