Young Writers Society

The illuminating sun began to rise above the remaining trees, creating crowns of light on the houses and smears of orange along the foot-tall grasses and abandoned yards. Dew on the grasses turned the smears of orange into tiny crescents in each droplet. Dew on the seeds turned the smears of orange into a twinkling sea. The air softly moved; a think but not piercing chill was in the air. Sunlight beamed through neglected broken windows. Ivy grew around the window and threatened to climb into the rotting, rain-soaked room. Only the shells of houses still existed. The emptiness hung around the street as fog; it crept into the houses as ivy; it ate the houses as mold.

The warming sun was higher now, and the dew had gone. The soft rains would come later in the day. The chill began to dissolve with the trickling sun-rays. The grass began to dry and grow, and the seeds gave over their last drops of moisture to the new, unsaturated air. The dead corpse of the asphalt street had weeds in the cracks crossing and recrossing its belly. The once-black surface had worn down and deteriorated to a natural light grey, reminiscent of the original stone components of the asphalt.

The drying sun reached its highest point. The shadows of the houses diminished and the air began to lap up the ground moisture. The new air now began to have weight. The soft rains were going to come. Cotton clouds began to pop up in the sky. The houses were drying out; the ground was drying out, giving its moisture to the air, to pass to the sky.

The missing sun was obscured by the mass of cotton-top clouds. The soft rains returned the rain to the ground. The clouds filtered the light and diffused a pleasant, soft grey to the world on the street. The grass twitched as raindrops fell. The trees swayed a little in the wind, as if the wind was a small child tugging at her parent's arm to no avail. The rain smattered into the houses when the wind blew, which fed the mold on the wood. The soft rains gave the water back to the ground and the plants.

The falling sun shot the last traces of orange sunlight through the clouds and onto the trees. The grasses swayed like an ocean of light green. Empty abandoned houses exhaled the damp air. The sun fell below the horizon. The darkness came out of hiding and crept over the houses and the grasses and the street. The houses began to wait for the next day's beams of light.

*****

Sleep. Bleary eyes, heavy eyelids. Blink blink blink, rub eyes. Cold feet, cold hands. Even though I'm in the sleeping bag. Must have been cold. Sit up. Blink blink. Fog. Barely morning. Fire, gotta make a fire. Monty's out. Out running, I guess. Respectable guy. Discipline like none other. Fire needs wood. To find some wood, if Monty hasn't yet. Ashes, are they hot? Tinder possibly. Fire, a fire and dry heat would be nice. Monty will be back soon. Always is.

Step, dew on the grass. It's wet and cold. NIce, though, it's clear water. The grass will look pretty when the sun gets higher. On to the next town, but gathering wood first. Fire will be nice and dry. The dew will make everything wet, so it's tough to gather wood. I wonder where we'll go today. Today will be good.

Crackle, fire, bright. Something's nice about making a fire, it's entrancing. It's like art. Fire is art. Just don't let it get out of hand. It's a great servant, but a terrible master. Fire red heat fire bright warm dry happy.

Crunch pause crunch crunch pause crunch pause pause crunch. It's Monty. Disciplined man. He greets and looks at the fire. Well-built man, devoted. Grey eyes that reflect the fire and the fog. Tough nose. A strong face but quick to laugh. Hair's gotta be short, he says. At least for him. Flat ears.

He's a monk. He's an odd dude. But a cool dude. Take you out in five seconds flat if you threaten him. But he warns you, all right. Gives you warnings and warning and warnings. And then takes you out so fast you don't know what hit you. He carries you to the next inn and pays for you like the Good Samaritan. Great man, lots of discipline. He looks at the fire.

Off to the next town, he says. Where? Some place named Granston. They've got salt we need. Travelers, fugitives, to escape. But no one notices. It's like the middle ages again. Everyone left to escape the heat. Higher temperatures, man's raping the earth big time. But they would be surprised, there is no heat under Budyko's Blanket. But blankets should hold in the heat, no?

Pack up camp, the fog will be lifting. The fog's not so bad once you wake up. It's cold. But it's mysterious and it's quite exciting. I like any weather. Windy makes the day feel important. Sunny is happy. Rain is to be enjoyed. Cold when you aren't bundled up is the only weather I don't like. Monty says it's a good thing that I like the weather so much. Says I see the good in everything. I know there's good in everything. If there isn't, you've got some bad in you. On to Granston!

Pack up camp, roll up sleeping bag. Fire, sad to go out. On to Granston! We've got salt to get and stories to tell. Northward! Walking! Discussing things, whatever happens to cross my mind. Or just walking in peace and silence. It makes no difference to Monty.

Step, step, step, on a road as old as any. What does that mean? I don't know. After everyone left, most of the roads slowly became unused and decrepit. This one seems to be taken care of. That's why we're walking on it. On to Granston! And whatever happens beyond!

Hey SuperSquirrel, here to review.
Basically, I think your story has a captivating feel to it and I encourage you to do more. I like the exciting post-Apocalyptic feel to it, and while everything seems destroyed, there's still beauty in nature.
I think you're very good at descriptions, like in the prologue. But A) You repeated my eyeballs out, and, B) I think a thesaurus would work really well for you. You repeated words that could be used in so many different ways. Grass, for example. Prairie, meadow, lawn, pasture...etc. I know you're limited on some words. Yeah I know--it's frustrating. But shake up your words as much as you can without confusing the reader.
And third. You're style of writing in the prologue section was good. But then in the second half, I don't know what happened. It sounds more like poetry than something you'd find in a regular book and it was very hard to understand. It sounded as if a five year old was talking because the sentences were so choppy.


[quote="SuperSquirrel"]The illuminating sun began to rise above the remaining trees, creating crowns of light on the houses and smears of orange along the foot-tall grasses and abandoned yards. Dew on the grasses there's a repeat turned the smears of orange again, that's been used in the previous sentence into tiny crescents in each droplet. Dew on the seeds turned the smears of orange Third time into a twinkling sea. The air softly moved; a think but not piercing chill was in the air. Sunlight beamed through neglected broken windows. Ivy grew around the window and threatened to climb into the rotting, rain-soaked room. Only the shells of houses still existed. The emptiness hung around the street as fog; it crept into the houses as ivy; it ate the houses as mold. There. You could leave the entire prologue alone right there. Through the next four paragraphs, you're repeating the exact same thing. Yes, the dew is beautiful. Yes, there's plenty of sunlight. Yes, it's chilly. There's so many you need to go through and cut out anything that somewhat repeats and put all the remainder stuff into one descriptive paragraph.

The warming sun was higher now, and the dew had gone. The soft rains would come later in the day. The chill began to dissolve with the trickling sun-rays. The grass began to dry and grow, and the seeds gave over their last drops of moisture to the new, unsaturated air. The dead corpse of the asphalt street had weeds in the cracks crossing and recrossing its belly. The once-black surface had worn down and deteriorated to a natural light grey, reminiscent of the original stone components of the asphalt.

The drying sun reached its highest point. The shadows of the houses diminished and the air began to lap up the ground moisture. The new air now began to have weight. The soft rains were going to come. Cotton clouds began to pop up in the sky. The houses were drying out; the ground was drying out, giving its moisture to the air, to pass to the sky.

The missing sun was obscured by the mass of cotton-top clouds. The soft rains returned the rain to the ground. The clouds filtered the light and diffused a pleasant, soft grey to the world on the street. The grass twitched as raindrops fell. The trees swayed a little in the wind, as if the wind was a small child tugging at her parent's arm to no avail. The rain smattered into the houses when the wind blew, which fed the mold on the wood. The soft rains gave the water back to the ground and the plants.

The falling sun shot the last traces of orange sunlight through the clouds and onto the trees. The grasses swayed like an ocean of light green. Empty abandoned houses exhaled the damp air. The sun fell below the horizon. The darkness came out of hiding and crept over the houses and the grasses and the street. The houses began to wait for the next day's beams of light.
Again, what I said in the first paragraph.

*****

Sleep. Bleary eyes, heavy eyelids. Blink blink blink, rub eyes. Cold feet, cold hands. Even though I'm in the sleeping bag. Must have been cold. Sit up. Blink blink. Fog. Barely morning. Fire, gotta make a fire. Monty's out. Out running, I guess. Respectable guy. Discipline like none other. Fire needs wood. To find some wood, if Monty hasn't yet. Ashes, are they hot? Tinder possibly. Fire, a fire and dry heat would be nice. Monty will be back soon. Always is.

Step, dew on the grass. It's wet and cold. NIce, though, it's clear water. The grass will look pretty when the sun gets higher. On to the next town, but gathering wood first. Fire will be nice and dry. The dew will make everything wet, so it's tough to gather wood. I wonder where we'll go today. Today will be good.

Crackle, fire, bright. Something's nice about making a fire, it's entrancing. It's like art. Fire is art. Just don't let it get out of hand. It's a great servant, but a terrible master. Fire red heat fire bright warm dry happy.

Crunch pause crunch crunch pause crunch pause pause crunch. It's Monty. Disciplined man. He greets and looks at the fire. Well-built man, devoted. Grey eyes that reflect the fire and the fog. Tough nose. A strong face but quick to laugh. Hair's gotta be short, he says. At least for him. Flat ears.

He's a monk. He's an odd dude. But a cool dude. Take you out in five seconds flat if you threaten him. But he warns you, all right. Gives you warnings and warning and warnings. And then takes you out so fast you don't know what hit you. He carries you to the next inn and pays for you like the Good Samaritan. Great man, lots of discipline. He looks at the fire.

Off to the next town, he says. Where? Some place named Granston. They've got salt we need. Travelers, fugitives, to escape. But no one notices. It's like the middle ages again. Everyone left to escape the heat. Higher temperatures, man's raping the earth big time. But they would be surprised, there is no heat under Budyko's Blanket. But blankets should hold in the heat, no?

Pack up camp, the fog will be lifting. The fog's not so bad once you wake up. It's cold. But it's mysterious and it's quite exciting. I like any weather. Windy makes the day feel important. Sunny is happy. Rain is to be enjoyed. Cold when you aren't bundled up is the only weather I don't like. Monty says it's a good thing that I like the weather so much. Says I see the good in everything. I know there's good in everything. If there isn't, you've got some bad in you. On to Granston!

Pack up camp, roll up sleeping bag. Fire, sad to go out. On to Granston! We've got salt to get and stories to tell. Northward! Walking! Discussing things, whatever happens to cross my mind. Or just walking in peace and silence. It makes no difference to Monty.

Step, step, step, on a road as old as any. What does that mean? I don't know. After everyone left, most of the roads slowly became unused and decrepit. This one seems to be taken care of. That's why we're walking on it. On to Granston! And whatever happens beyond!
This entire section is the part that seemed like poetry. Very nice poetry, might I add...but this isn't in poetry. I would suggest changing it to help the readers confusion, and for the fact this would take a long time to read. Unless that's your style of writing, that's like telling you to learn a different language. Yeah, don't do that! Or if it's just the character, then leave it, but the character would drive me nuts. But you proved in the first section that you have a clearer style of writing that was really quite good.[/quote]

I really do like this piece! Those were just the things that in my eyes needed help, and it's just an opinion.
Hope that helps and just ask if you ever need a review!

--Lollipopper

Sorry, but yes. i'm the evil person whos going to critisize you're work THEN write compliments.

The illuminating sun began to rise above the remaining trees, creating crowns of light on the houses and smears of orange along the foot-tall grasses <-- You can probably change that to "foot-tall grass" and abandoned yards. {ALSO, it's a run on sentence. I have the EXACT same problem hahah. It's easier to catch it in anothers work.} Dew on the grasses turned the smears of orangeMaybe use something different than smears of orange since you already said that? heheh. An example would be like... hmm, golden (you can pick the rest cause i have noooo idea) into tiny crescents in each droplet. Dew on the seeds turned the smears of orange<-- once more into a twinkling sea. The air softly moved; a think but not piercing chill was in the air. What'd you mean by a think? (misspelled maybe) Sunlight beamed through neglected, broken windows. Ivy grew around the window and threatened to climb into the rotting, rain-soaked room. Only the shells of houses still existed. The emptiness hung around the street as fog;Maybe put "in the shape of fog?" you can keep it if you want. it crept into the houses as ivy; instead of ;, maybe put and?it ate the houses as mold.


The warming sun was higher now, and the dew had gone. The soft rains would come later in the day. The chill began to dissolve with the trickling sun-rays. The grass began to dry and grow. The seeds were forced to give over their last drops of moisture to the new, unsaturated air. <-- I edited the sentence- see if you like it? The dead corpse of the asphalt street had weeds in the cracks crossing put crack crossings? and recrossing its belly. The once-black surface had worn down and deteriorated to a natural light grey, reminiscent of the original stone components of the asphalt.

The drying sun reached its highest point. The shadows of the houses diminished and the air began to lap up the ground moisture. The new air now began to have weight. The soft rains were going to come. Cotton clouds began to pop up in the sky. The houses were drying out; the ground was drying out, giving its moisture to the air, unneeded comma? ahh! to pass to the sky.

The missing sun was obscured by the mass of cotton-top clouds. The soft rains returned the rain to the ground. The clouds filtered the light and diffused a pleasant, soft grey to the world on the street. The grass twitched as raindrops fell. The trees swayed a little in the wind, as if the wind was a small child tugging at her parent's arm to no avail. The rain smattered into the houses when the wind blew, which fed the mold on the wood. The soft rains gave the water back to the ground and the plants.

The falling sun shot the last traces of orange sunlight through the clouds and onto the trees. The grasses swayed like an ocean of light green. Empty abandoned houses exhaled the damp air. The sun fell below the horizon. The darkness came out of hiding and crept over the houses and(put it as a comma instead? (run on sentence)) the grasses(comma) and the street. The houses began to wait for the next day's beams of light.

*****

Sleep. Bleary eyes, heavy eyelids. Blink blink blink, rub eyes. Cold feet, cold hands. Even though I'm in the sleeping bag. Must have been cold. Sit up. Blink blink. Fog. Barely morning. Fire, gotta make a fire. Monty's out. Out running, I guess. Respectable guy. Discipline like none other. Fire needs wood. To find some wood, if Monty hasn't yet. Ashes, are they hot? Tinder possibly. Fire, a fire and dry heat would be nice. Monty will be back soon. Always is.

Step, dew on the grass. It's wet and cold. NIce, though, it's clear water. The grass will look pretty when the sun gets higher. On to the next town, but gathering wood first. Fire will be nice and dry. The dew will make everything wet, so it's tough to gather wood. I wonder where we'll go today. Today will be good.

Crackle, fire, bright. Something's nice about making a fire, it's entrancing. It's like art. Fire is art. Just don't let it get out of hand. It's a great servant, but a terrible master. Fire(Fiery?) red heat fire bright warm dry happy.

Crunch pause crunch crunch pause crunch pause pause crunch. It's Monty. Disciplined man. He greets and looks at the fire. Well-built man, devoted. Grey eyes that reflect the fire and the fog. Tough nose. A strong face but quick to laugh. Hair's gotta be short, he says. At least for him. Flat ears.

He's a monk. He's an odd dude. But a cool dude. Take you out in five seconds flat if you threaten him. But he warns you, all right. Gives you warnings and warning and warnings. And then takes you out so fast you don't know what hit you. He carries you to the next inn and pays for you like the Good Samaritan. Great man, lots of discipline. He looks at the fire.

Off to the next town, he says. Where? Some place named Granston. They've got salt we need. Travelers, fugitives, to escape. But no one notices. It's like the middle ages again. Everyone left to escape the heat. Higher temperatures, man's raping the earth big time. But they would be surprised, there is no heat under Budyko's Blanket. But blankets should hold in the heat, no?

Pack up camp, the fog will be lifting. The fog's not so bad once you wake up. It's cold. But it's mysterious and it's quite exciting. I like any weather. Windy makes the day feel important. Sunny is happy. Rain is to be enjoyed. Cold when you aren't bundled up is the only weather I don't like. Monty says it's a good thing that I like the weather so much. Says I see the good in everything. I know there's good in everything. If there isn't, you've got some bad in you. On to Granston!

Pack up camp, roll up sleeping bag. Fire, sad to go out. On to Granston! We've got salt to get and stories to tell. Northward! Walking! Discussing things, whatever happens to cross my mind. Or just walking in peace and silence. It makes no difference to Monty.

Step, step, step, on a road as old as any. What does that mean? I don't know. After everyone left, most of the roads slowly became unused and decrepit. This one seems to be taken care of. That's why we're walking on it. On to Granston! And whatever happens beyond!

NOW the compliments! I really like you're strategy of writing, its unique. I like how you had at the beginning, you described the sunset & sunrise. It was incredibly captivating! Now, heres some things I liked in it:

It's a great servant, but a terrible master.

For some reason I found this funny.^^^

The missing sun was obscured by the mass of cotton-top clouds.

And then, i just love the rest heheh. Can't wait to read more!
-cookEmonster