New Dawn

this is just something I am working on right now and would like people's opinions. Apologies for any spelling or grammar errors, Open Office's spellchecker is pretty shoddy at best

Rain.

Rain pounded hard against his hat, dripping out over the brim and down to the ground. It felt like it had been like this for as long as he could remember. Noah had it easy, he thought to himself with a grin.

He could barely remember when he had last seen the sun through the clouds – definately not since the Event. Everything had seemed so normal and easy back then. It was now just a distant memory though; as if it had happened to somebody else somewhere else.

A begloved hand shuffled in his pocket and withdrew a hip flask; it's silver reflecting against the dimmed streetlamps that cast a faint orange glow against the partially ruined street. He twisted the cap open and drank back the liqour, feeling its warmth radiate through his body as it passed down his throat. He shivered and coughed, pulling out a handkerchief from an inside pocket and bringing it up to his mouth as he coughed once more. He lifted the handkerchief closer to the streetlamp and examined the contents; there were droplets of blood. A sigh escaped his lips as he tucked it back into his overcoat's inside pocket, pulled up the collar, hunched his neck further into it and walked down the street.

Lightning flashed at the far end, illuminating his surroundings; ruined cars litered the once busy Main Street. Some were still occupied by those who were not lucky enough to get out in time; their now-decomposed bodies still hunched at the steering wheel, with others occupied by whole families. At least they died easy, he thought to himself grudengly, and they died together. They're the lucky ones. He counted under his breath until the thunder rolled in; somebody had once told him that the number of seconds between lightning flashes and the roar of the thunder determines how far away the lightning had been – 5 seconds had passed, meaning it had only been a mile away. It had been getting closer and closer with each passing week.

Somewhere, in the midst of this dying and wretched city, a large group of dogs started to bark and growl and howl – the sound of the thunder had obviously startled them and roused them from whatever slumber they had been in. He felt pangs of regret and hatrid for not leaving the city right after the Event, like most seemed to have. This was his home though; the only one he ever knew and nothing was going to make him leave; not the Event, not the crisis, not even the death of his loved ones.

He stopped in midthought and midstep. His loved ones. That had been the first time in what felt like an age that they had even passed through mind. He had children once, a long time ago. He watched them die. He held them both as their faces turned pale, their lips went blue, and their life's golden blood poured into the gutter, as the world went to Hell around them. He buried them in a shallow grave at the roadside, leaving a stone marked with an X as the only way to identify that they were there whatsoever.

For weeks afterwards he walked the streets like the living dead; everything seemed like a blur now as he tried to recall those first few months. A vague recollection of the ensuing crisis flashed through his mind like a camera flare; the panic, the looting, the food shortages and, eventually, the exodus out of the city. As far as he knew, he was the only one left in this Godforesaken place. Godforesaken. Such a term never sounded so apt. For how could there be a God if He let this happen? What sort of God would just sit back and just watch all this death and destruction and misery and pain? There was obviously nobody left in Heaven.

He tried to remember who the last person he had seen was. It was probably that woman – the pretty, young one – what was her name? Carolyn? Cathy? Katie? He couldn't remember, not that it mattered; she had been a waitress, that much he could remember, as she had been still wearing her uniform when they met. Even though her face had been caked in grime and blood and grease, her features still shone through – her dimpled cheeks, her blue eyes and her straight, shoulder-length blonde hair. They got on well and she stayed for two weeks until the Exodus.

She had pleaded and pleaded and pleaded with him to join her, saying that they could find a better life somewhere in the country, where there was rumoured to be still grass! And animals! And clean water! She made it sound like the Garden of Eden and her eyes sparkled each time she mentioned it. Yet, like the fool he was and still is, he said no, that this was his home, that he was tied here, and that he couldn't leave. Eventually she just gave up and left early one morning without waking him. He really hoped she had found that Garden of Eden and that she was living a better life now. This was just a fantasy, he somewhat realised; while there had still been electricity, the news reports on the television had shown fires stretching across the whole nation. But fantasy or not, the thought of her lounging by a fresh water river somewhere made him feel partially better.

A growling sound brought him back down to Earth; at the end of the street stood a wild dog – the lightning flashes illuminating its features; the yellow if its eyes, the sharpness of its fangs and its drool dripping to the ground. As it stalked slowly forward, he could see it's fur tight against its ribcage – the animal was incredibly thin and obviously crazy with hunger and blood lust. His hands rummaged in all his pockets searching for anything that could be used as a weapon, anything that could be used to protect himself, but came up with nothing. In a panic he scanned the street trying to find anything, even just a pointy stick, but the lightning flashes were too brief to turn up anything useful.

The animal lurched ever closer- its wretched and putrid breath visible against the cold of the night, the growls echoing off the metal coffins that the cars had become and its eyes piercing into his very soul. It barked; a gutteral, primeval and beastial sound that sent shivers through his skin. He roared and hollered at the dog to go, to be gone, but its hunger had taken over. The creature leaped on to the bonnet of the nearest car, its lips curled back into a snarl – it was close enough for him to see the glistening of its snout.

It pounced.

Everything unfolded in slow motion: the dogs legs stretched out as it hurled through the air, its rain-streaked and tattered fur blowing in the breeze and its sharp fangs glistening in the lightning flashes.

A sound muffled by the thunder rang out as the animal was thrown across the street, landing on its side with a howl and a squeal. For a fraction of a second both he and the animal stood stock still in shock, before it got back up to it's feet slowly and lurched forward with a limp. Another sound rang out as the dog landed in a heap with a final squeal. He approaced the corpse slowly, examining it; there was a gaping wound on its side and its face. He wretched suddenly, pulling the handkerchief from his pocket and placing it over his mouth and nose. He prodded it tentatively with his foot and stepped back, expecting it to attack.

“Hey!”

He stopped in a shocked panic. Had he actually heard that? Or had the lonliness finally driven him insane?

“Hey, you!”

This time he definately had heard it. He shouted back. From behind one of the ruined cars emerged a figure; a man, naked from the waist up – as thin as the dog had been, his skin tight against his ribs, his eyes sunken into their sockets and his hair falling out. In his hands he held a revolver. His fingers were still squeazed at the trigger.

He raised his hands in the air, telling he meant him no harm, that he was unarmed and that he just wanted to talk.

“Talk? Talk? Ha. You're just like everybody else! The ones that remained any way. You steal my food, you attack me in the middle of the night and you haunt my dreams. I thought I had killed the last of you, but obviously not.”

He spoke slowly and repeated that he meant no harm, that he was a friend and not an enemy and that they should stick together. His hand reached slowly into his pocket.

“Woah there, buddy! Keep your hands where I can see them. I will have no problem with ending you and your miserable existance!”

He smiled and assured him that it was OK, that he was unarmed and that he just wanted to get something from his pocket. The begloved hand slipped in.

The shot rang out, cracking him in the chest. He placed his hand against where he was hit and was alarmed to see the blood pouring out between his fingers. There was no pain. He always assumed that if you got shot, you would feel something. He looked from his hands back to the man. The muzzle flash illuminated the street as the second shot knocked him to his knees and pulling his hand from his pocket; in it he held his silver hip flask. He unscrewed the cap, brought it to his lips and felt the warmth radiate, before collapsing on to his back. His vision was blurring, his heart beat slowing, and his blood poured into the rainwashed gutter. Somewhere, far above him, he could see the clouds parting and the sun shining through. A new day had dawned. And, at last, he closed his eyes and left this dying and wretched city.

Flojo

Loved it...moar...moar!!

Orion101

I like it. You've set the scene nicely and captured my attention.

This may just be me, but I wouldn't want to be to read too much more backstory, either the character's or about the event, at this point - keep the reader guessing about the big picture. I'd like to read about what perils the character is in as a result of the event in the present. But it's your baby!

Edited and added the completed story - comments greatly appreciated.

pickarooney

I'm not sure how you're using the spell-checker in OpenOffice, but assuming you have at least version 3, doing the following should show up quite a few spelling errors in the text:

Hit Ctrl-A to highlight the whole block of text.
At the very bottom of the screen you should see something like English (United States). Click on that and change it to English (United Kingdom).
If you don't have that option, you'll need to install the dictionary plugin for UK English.

Hit F7 to cycle through all the underlined words and see correction suggestions.

I found the start of the piece dragged a bit and you might be better off bringing the action forward a little. There was a lot of repetition and a fair few misused words. That aside, it was quite an interesting piece and I would like to know a little more about the Event in question. Please try take the following criticism as well-meaning (and obviously just one person's opinion).

Rain pounded hard against his hat, dripping out over the brim and down to the ground. It felt like it had been like this for as long as he could remember. Noah had it easy, he thought to himself with a grin.

Decent opening, setting the scene. For some reason 'against' seems wrong, as though the rain is falling horizontally but the rest of the sentence has it very much vertical.
I wasn't convinced that this guy would be grinning about anything, least of all his own private joke. The protagonist could do with a name, if for no other reason than making it easier for the reader to understand who the pronouns refer to in the latter part of the story.

He could barely remember when he had last seen the sun through the clouds – definately not since the Event. Everything had seemed so normal and easy back then. It was now just a distant memory though; as if it had happened to somebody else somewhere else.

I have to say I hate this practice of referring obliquely to something called an Event in capital letters. You never give any more clue as to what this Event was which leads me as a reader to believe you don't actually know yourself. It's not really clear what the 'it' refers to in the last line.

A begloved hand shuffled in his pocket and withdrew a hip flask; it's silver reflecting against the dimmed streetlamps that cast a faint orange glow against the partially ruined street.

I don't think 'begloved' is really a word. 'Gloved' means what I think you want to say. You're obviously talking about his own hand here, so why not explicity state that he put his hand in his pocket instead of making it sound like a mysterious hand is rooting in his pocket? Be careful of its/it's.
The silver wouldn't really reflect against anything as such, nor would the streetlights cast a glow against the street. The sentence trips up with too many adjectives. I didn't like 'partially ruined' for some reason.

He twisted the cap open and drank back the liqour, feeling its warmth radiate through his body as it passed down his throat. He shivered and coughed, pulling out a handkerchief from an inside pocket and bringing it up to his mouth as he coughed once more. He lifted the handkerchief closer to the streetlamp and examined the contents; there were droplets of blood. A sigh escaped his lips as he tucked it back into his overcoat's inside pocket, pulled up the collar, hunched his neck further into it and walked down the street.

This bit is good, but you go into too much minute, ultimately irrelevant, detail, describe each action and every part of each action.

Lightning flashed at the far end, illuminating his surroundings; ruined cars litere'd the once busy Main Street. Some were still occupied by those who were not lucky enough to get out in time; their now-decomposed bodies still hunched at the steering wheel, with others occupied by whole families. At least they died easy, he thought to himself grudengly, and they died together. They're the lucky ones. He counted under his breath until the thunder rolled in; somebody had once told him that the number of seconds between lightning flashes and the roar of the thunder determines how far away the lightning had been – 5 seconds had passed, meaning it had only been a mile away. It had been getting closer and closer with each passing week.

Another good paragraph. You could thin it out a little, e.g. let us assume that lightning illuminates the street. The punctuation in the next sentence makes it a little difficult to link the 'others' back to 'cars'.

'grudengly' - I guess this is supposed to be 'grudgingly' but I don't really udnerstand why he would be unwilling to think to himself that the people died easily. 'Begrudgingly' might be more suitable.

The storm is moving pretty damn slowly if it's taking weeks to get there. I presume you're trying to build a sense of foreboding but if it's just thunder and lightning, what's the big deal?

Somewhere, in the midst of this dying and wretched city, a large group of dogs started to bark and growl and howl – the sound of the thunder had obviously startled them and roused them from whatever slumber they had been in. He felt pangs of regret and hatrid for not leaving the city right after the Event, like most seemed to have. This was his home though; the only one he ever knew and nothing was going to make him leave; not the Event, not the crisis, not even the death of his loved ones.

You labour your point a little here. 'Whatever slumber they'd been in' - just how mayn kinds of slumber are there? What does a pang of hatred feel like? Who does he hate exactly?

He stopped in midthought and midstep. His loved ones. That had been the first time in what felt like an age that they had even passed through mind. He had children once, a long time ago. He watched them die. He held them both as their faces turned pale, their lips went blue, and their life's golden blood poured into the gutter, as the world went to Hell around them. He buried them in a shallow grave at the roadside, leaving a stone marked with an X as the only way to identify that they were there whatsoever.

'He stopped in midthought and midstep' He stopped what - thinking? walking? both? Try imagine it and ask yourself does it really make sense. 'Through mind' is missing a word.
Try maintain the same tense (pluperfect would suit best) throughout.
'Golden blood'? Intriguing... so we're dealing with some alien race?
The last line runs on too long and takes from the impact of the short, punchy clauses that appear prior.

For weeks afterwards he walked the streets like the living dead; everything seemed like a blur now as he tried to recall those first few months. A vague recollection of the ensuing crisis flashed through his mind like a camera flare; the panic, the looting, the food shortages and, eventually, the exodus out of the city. As far as he knew, he was the only one left in this Godforesaken place. Godforesaken. Such a term never sounded so apt. For how could there be a God if He let this happen? What sort of God would just sit back and just watch all this death and destruction and misery and pain? There was obviously nobody left in Heaven.

Good, solid paragraph. You could probably tighten it a little. His 'vague recollection' seems fairly detailed and I'm still wondering not only what happened but how long ago it happened and over what period of time, how this guy survived and what has affected his memory.

He tried to remember who the last person he had seen was. It was probably that woman – the pretty, young one – what was her name? Carolyn? Cathy? Katie? He couldn't remember, not that it mattered; she had been a waitress, that much he could remember, as she had been still wearing her uniform when they met. Even though her face had been caked in grime and blood and grease, her features still shone through – her dimpled cheeks, her blue eyes and her straight, shoulder-length blonde hair. They got on well and she stayed for two weeks until the Exodus.

The last line seems a bit tacked on and as a result the who paragraph seems a bit throwaway. You give a detailed description and then just discard her.

She had pleaded and pleaded and pleaded with him to join her, saying that they could find a better life somewhere in the country, where there was rumoured to be still grass! And animals! And clean water! She made it sound like the Garden of Eden and her eyes sparkled each time she mentioned it. Yet, like the fool he was and still is, he said no, that this was his home, that he was tied here, and that he couldn't leave. Eventually she just gave up and left early one morning without waking him. He really hoped she had found that Garden of Eden and that she was living a better life now. This was just a fantasy, he somewhat realised; while there had still been electricity, the news reports on the television had shown fires stretching across the whole nation. But fantasy or not, the thought of her lounging by a fresh water river somewhere made him feel partially better.

But wait, she's back! She fell for him hard and they spent two weeks doing... whatever, yet he still refers to her as 'that woman', what was her name, who cares? I'm sort of losing any empathy I had with the character at this point!

'somewhat realised' and 'partially better' are awkward turns of phrase. You seem to like 'partially' almost as much as you like 'illuminated'.

A growling sound brought him back down to Earth; at the end of the street stood a wild dog – the lightning flashes illuminating its features; the yellow if its eyes, the sharpness of its fangs and its drool dripping to the ground. As it stalked slowly forward, he could see it's fur tight against its ribcage – the animal was incredibly thin and obviously crazy with hunger and blood lust. His hands rummaged in all his pockets searching for anything that could be used as a weapon, anything that could be used to protect himself, but came up with nothing. In a panic he scanned the street trying to find anything, even just a pointy stick, but the lightning flashes were too brief to turn up anything useful.

His searching for a weapon (to fight a dog who's dying of hunger) is a bit drawn out; otherwise a good passage. Action and conflict at last.

The animal lurched ever closer- its wretched and putrid breath visible against the cold of the night, the growls echoing off the metal coffins that the cars had become and its eyes piercing into his very soul. It barked; a gutteral, primeval and beastial sound that sent shivers through his skin. He roared and hollered at the dog to go, to be gone, but its hunger had taken over. The creature leaped on to the bonnet of the nearest car, its lips curled back into a snarl – it was close enough for him to see the glistening of its snout.

Very good paragraph, just be careful not to use three verbs/adjectives where one will suffice.

Everything unfolded in slow motion: the dogs legs stretched out as it hurled through the air, its rain-streaked and tattered fur blowing in the breeze and its sharp fangs glistening in the lightning flashes.

Is the motion so slow that more than one flash of lightning occurs in the time it takes him to pounce?

A sound muffled by the thunder rang out as the animal was thrown across the street, landing on its side with a howl and a squeal. For a fraction of a second both he and the animal stood stock still in shock, before it got back up to it's feet slowly and lurched forward with a limp. Another sound rang out as the dog landed in a heap with a final squeal. He approaced the corpse slowly, examining it; there was a gaping wound on its side and its face. He wretched suddenly, pulling the handkerchief from his pocket and placing it over his mouth and nose. He prodded it tentatively with his foot and stepped back, expecting it to attack.

Very good. Again just try avoid using two words instead of one (a howl and a squeal, its side and its face, mouth and nose). You want 'retched' rather than 'wretched' here.

He stopped in a shocked panic. Had he actually heard that? Or had the lonliness finally driven him insane?

Shocked panic? Try imagine someone who is shocked and someone who is panicking.

This time he definately had heard it. He shouted back. From behind one of the ruined cars emerged a figure; a man, naked from the waist up – as thin as the dog had been, his skin tight against his ribs, his eyes sunken into their sockets and his hair falling out. In his hands he held a revolver. His fingers were still squeazed at the trigger

.

Nice. 'Squeezed at' is strange though, at least to my ears/eyes.

He raised his hands in the air, telling he meant him no harm, that he was unarmed and that he just wanted to talk.

“Talk? Talk? Ha. You're just like everybody else! The ones that remained any way. You steal my food, you attack me in the middle of the night and you haunt my dreams. I thought I had killed the last of you, but obviously not.”

He spoke slowly and repeated that he meant no harm, that he was a friend and not an enemy and that they should stick together. His hand reached slowly into his pocket.

This is OK, but the dialogue is a little forced and it's sometimes hard to know who 'he' is referring to.

The shot rang out, cracking him in the chest. He placed his hand against where he was hit and was alarmed to see the blood pouring out between his fingers. There was no pain. He always assumed that if you got shot, you would feel something. He looked from his hands back to the man. The muzzle flash illuminated the street as the second shot knocked him to his knees and pulling his hand from his pocket; in it he held his silver hip flask. He unscrewed the cap, brought it to his lips and felt the warmth radiate, before collapsing on to his back. His vision was blurring, his heart beat slowing, and his blood poured into the rainwashed gutter. Somewhere, far above him, he could see the clouds parting and the sun shining through. A new day had dawned. And, at last, he closed his eyes and left this dying and wretched city.

Decent ending, but a little unfulfilling in that we still have no idea what happened.

pickarooney

pickarooney wrote: »

I'm not sure how you're using the spell-checker in OpenOffice, but assuming you have at least version 3, doing the following should show up quite a few spelling errors in the text:

Hit Ctrl-A to highlight the whole block of text.
At the very bottom of the screen you should see something like English (United States). Click on that and change it to English (United Kingdom).
If you don't have that option, you'll need to install the dictionary plugin for UK English.

Hit F7 to cycle through all the underlined words and see correction suggestions.

Cheers for that. I tried updating the dictionary but couldn't do it yet - it's coming up with English (Eire) and when I tried to download the English dictionary, it doesn't appear. There were probably a lot of spelling and/or grammatical errors that initially looked correct to me.

I'm pretty sure I heard somebody use begloved once, or even read it in a book, but a look for definitions on Google turned up nothing, so changed to "his gloved hand". I've this habit of putting things like Event and Exodus into capitals, not sure where it's originated from, but I've changed it now. I'm not entirely sure what the event was, but I don't really think it matters? I think I'm echoing things like The Road and Book of Eli where they don't exactly explain what happened, only that .. well .. sh1t went down, to put it bluntly.

What is the difference between begrudgingly and grudgingly?

I have no idea what pluperfect means ...

Well the dogs could've been napping.. or snoozing or .. er .. having 40 winks .. and I realise that they're just different names for slumber, rather than types of, but I've taken that part out.

Don't think you need to feel any empathy for the character, because he has no empathy for himself. One thing I hate doing, and is a general theme throughout a lot of my short stories, is give the protagonist a name. Usually for the long stories/novellas I would go into a lot more detail about the characters. I don't entirely know why I don't for short stories.

pickarooney

brokenlaptop wrote: »

What is the difference between begrudgingly and grudgingly?

Pluperfect or past perfect is "he had done" as opposed to "he has done" (present perfect) or "he did" (simple past).

Maybe try here for a dictionary plugin:
http://extensions.services.openoffice.org/en/project/dict-en-fixed

pickarooney

pickarooney wrote: »

Pluperfect or past perfect is "he had done" as opposed to "he has done" (present perfect) or "he did" (simple past).

Oh. I've never, ever heard of that before. Or maybe I did but just forgot. Yeah, that one seems more likely.

dawvee

brokenlaptop wrote: »

Cheers for that. I tried updating the dictionary but couldn't do it yet - it's coming up with English (Eire) and when I tried to download the English dictionary, it doesn't appear. There were probably a lot of spelling and/or grammatical errors that initially looked correct to me.

OpenOffice is bad for this. There are a lot of language dictionary entries that don't actually have a dictionary (or much of one) to go with the name, meaning you get absolutely rubbish spelling and grammar check. English (Eire) is one of those.

Try looking for the English (UK) one, or even English (United States) would be an improvement, because either would have picked up words like "grudengly" or "begloved".

Also, the difference between grudging and begrudging is that grudging just implies reluctance, whereas begrudging implies reluctant capitulation. That is, grudging means you didn't want to do something, but says nothing about whether or not you actually did it. Begrudging means you definitely did something, even though you didn't want to.

dawvee

dawvee wrote: »

OpenOffice is bad for this. There are a lot of language dictionary entries that don't actually have a dictionary (or much of one) to go with the name, meaning you get absolutely rubbish spelling and grammar check. English (Eire) is one of those.

Try looking for the English (UK) one, or even English (United States) would be an improvement, because either would have picked up words like "grudengly" or "begloved".

Also, the difference between grudging and begrudging is that grudging just implies reluctance, whereas begrudging implies reluctant capitulation. That is, grudging means you didn't want to do something, but says nothing about whether or not you actually did it. Begrudging means you definitely did something, even though you didn't want to.

thanks for that. I always find it amazing how little I actually know of the English language despite my being fluent in it. Though I'm glad I made those mistakes, so I know when I'm doing it wrong.

Will rewrite parts with pickarooney's advice and repost the edited version. Was my first attempt at writing a completed short story in nearly 2 years, so I guess I'm a little rusty

cobsie

There's loads to like about this, but those things are often drowned out by simply too much prose. You need to edit the crap out of this! Cut out a third, at least - not whole big chunks, but word by word, shaving off every unnecessary sentence, until you have a polished little gem - it's in there, but this is quite a rough cut. For instance, the attack by the dog/werewolf take three paragraphs! This should happen in real time, in short, dramatic sentences that convey immediacy and action, no time for contemplation - your hero is being attack by a goddamn werewolf!! The prose should work to raise the heartbeat, switching gears within a single phrase.
Also, beware stock phrases - not quite cliches, but commonplace prose. The drink radiates heat, not once but twice. This is pedestrian, exactly the kind of phrase you need to put a more original stamp on.
Cut out the lost family. It's not believable - either the loss of his family would consume him entirely (I've got kids - they're very all-consuming!), or he's a sociopath, whichi is totally fine if he is, but that's probably a different story. There's so much else going on, you don't need the sob-dead-family-cliche back story.
I only make any comment at all, because this really is good, if rough, so please take my observations in the spirit in which they are offered - a sincere wish to see you write at your best

Updated.

Rain.

Rain pounded hard against his hat, dripping out over the brim and down to the ground. It felt like it had been like this for as long as he could remember. Noah had it easy, he thought to himself with a grin.

He could barely remember when he had last seen the sun through the clouds – definately not for more than 15 years.. Everything had seemed so normal and easy back then. It was now just a distant memory though; as if it had happened to somebody else somewhere else.

His gloved hand shuffled in his pocket and withdrew a hip flask; it's silver reflecting against the dimmed streetlamps that cast a faint orange glow against the partially ruined street. He twisted the cap open and drank back the liqour, feeling its warmth radiate through his body as it passed down his throat. He shivered and coughed, pulling out a handkerchief from an inside pocket and bringing it up to his mouth as he coughed once more. He lifted the handkerchief closer to the streetlamp and examined the contents; there were droplets of blood. A sigh escaped his lips as he tucked it back into his overcoat's inside pocket, pulled up the collar, hunched his neck further into it and walked down the street.

Lightning flashed at the far end, illuminating his surroundings; ruined cars litered the once busy Main Street. Some were still occupied by those who were not lucky enough to get out in time; their now-decomposed bodies still hunched at the steering wheel, with others occupied by whole families. At least they died easy, he thought to himself, and they died together. They're the lucky ones. He counted under his breath until the thunder rolled in; somebody had once told him that the number of seconds between lightning flashes and the roar of the thunder determines how far away the lightning had been – 5 seconds had passed, meaning it had only been a mile away.

For weeks afterwards he walked the streets like the living dead; everything seemed like a blur now as he tried to recall those first few months. A vague recollection of the ensuing crisis flashed through his mind like a camera flare; the panic, the looting, the food shortages and, eventually, the exodus out of the city. As far as he knew, he was the only one left in this Godforesaken place. Godforesaken. Such a term never sounded so apt. For how could there be a God if He let this happen? What sort of God would just sit back and just watch all this death and destruction and misery and pain? There was obviously nobody left in Heaven.

He tried to remember who the last person he had seen was. It was probably that woman – the pretty, young one – what was her name? Carolyn? Cathy? Katie? He couldn't remember, not that it mattered; she had been a waitress, that much he could remember, as she had been still wearing her uniform when they met. Even though her face had been caked in grime and blood and grease, her features still shone through – her dimpled cheeks, her blue eyes and her straight, shoulder-length blonde hair. They got on well and she stayed for two weeks until the exodus.

She had pleaded and pleaded and pleaded with him to join her, saying that they could find a better life somewhere in the country, where there was rumoured to be still grass! And animals! And clean water! She made it sound like the Garden of Eden and her eyes sparkled each time she mentioned it. Yet, like the fool he was and still is, he said no, that this was his home, that he was tied here, and that he couldn't leave. eventually she just gave up and left early one morning without waking him. He really hoped she had found that Garden of Eden and that she was living a better life now. This was just a fantasy, he somewhat realised; while there had still been electricity, the news reports on the television had shown fires stretching across the whole nation. But fantasy or not, the thought of her lounging by a fresh water river somewhere made him feel partially better.

A growling sound brought him back down to Earth; at the end of the street stood a wild dog – the lightning flashes illuminating its features; the yellow if its eyes, the sharpness of its fangs and its drool dripping to the ground. As it stalked slowly forward, he could see it's fur tight against its ribcage – the animal was incredibly thin and obviously crazy with hunger and blood lust. His hands rummaged in all his pockets searching for anything that could be used as a weapon, anything that could be used to protect himself, but came up with nothing. In a panic he scanned the street trying to find anything, even just a pointy stick, but the lightning flashes were too brief to turn up anything useful.

The animal lurched ever closer- its wretched and putrid breath visible against the cold of the night, the growls echoing off those metal coffins and its eyes piercing into his very soul. It barked; a gutteral, primeval and beastial sound that sent shivers through his skin. He roared and hollered at the dog to go, to be gone, but its hunger had taken over. The creature leaped on to the bonnet of the nearest car, its lips curled back into a snarl – it pounced. Everything unfolded in slow motion: the dogs legs stretched out as it hurled through the air, its rain-streaked and tattered fur blowing in the breeze and its sharp fangs glistening.

A sound muffled by the thunder rang out as the animal was thrown across the street, landing on its side with a howl and a squeal. For a fraction of a second both he and the animal stood stock still in shock, before it got back up to it's feet slowly and lurched forward with a limp. Another sound rang out as the dog landed in a heap with a final squeal. He approaced the corpse slowly, examining it; there was a gaping wound on its side and its face. He wretched suddenly, pulling the handkerchief from his pocket and placing it over his mouth and nose. He prodded it tentatively with his foot and stepped back, expecting it to attack.

“Hey!”

He stopped in a shocked panic. Had he actually heard that? Or had the lonliness finally driven him insane?

“Hey, you!”

This time he definately had heard it. He shouted back. From behind one of the ruined cars emerged a figure; a man, naked from the waist up – as thin as the dog had been, his skin tight against his ribs, his eyes sunken into their sockets and his hair falling out. Against his naked chest was pinned a badge; barely legible as he moved closer – in large red letters was scrawled the name, “Jack”. In his hands he held a revolver.

He raised his hands in the air, telling Jack that meant he no harm, that he was unarmed and that he just wanted to talk and repeated that he meant no harm; that he was a friend and not an enemy and that they should stick together. His hand reached slowly into his pocket.

Jack was aggitated and vividly anxious, waving the gun from to and fro, hollering and cursing.

He smiled and assured him that it was OK, that he was unarmed and that he just wanted to get something from his pocket. The gloved hand slipped in.

The shot rang out, cracking him in the chest. He placed his hand against where he was hit and was alarmed to see the blood pouring out between his fingers. There was no pain. He always assumed that if you got shot, you would feel something. He looked from his hands back to the man. The muzzle flash illuminated the street as the second shot knocked him to his knees and pulling his hand from his pocket; in it he held his silver hip flask. He unscrewed the cap, brought it to his lips and drank the liquor, before collapsing on to his back. His vision was blurring, his heart beat slowing, and his blood poured into the rainwashed gutter. Somewhere, far above him, he could see the clouds parting and the sun shining through. A new day had dawned. And, at last, he closed his eyes and left this dying and wretched city.

pickarooney

OK, having read the second edit but not re-read the first one, I don't see any massive changes. It's very rare to write a piece and get it anywhere close to perfect the first time. When you review it yourself it can be very hard to make anything but the most minor edits but when you get feedback there's usually a moment when you realise that some of the things you're proudest of don't really work that well. Until you get to that point you'll just keep moving commas and changing the odd word and the piece can ultimtely die the death of a thousand cuts.

Try not to let that happen. Put this version to one side, then take a blank piece of paper and write down exactly what happens at each point in the story. One short line per paragraph should do. Read it back and try shuffling the larger pieces around, removing anything that's not absolutely essential. Then flesh the result out by replacing it with the useful bits from the original text. Don't just copy and paste blindly - weigh up each line, each word even and ask yourself what it brings to the piece.

Try to avoid the following:
- introducing elements with no pay off
- introducing elements and forcing the story to tie them up to give an artificial pay off
- giving too much detail about unimportant things
- repetition and overdescribing

For the last bit, try and pretend you're reading it for the first time. If at any stage you read a piece of descriptive text, and adjective or whatever, that tells you something you already know, it's probably not neeed (sometimes repetition is a useful tool for a specific effect, mostly it just slows down the piece).

There are still a lot of spelling mistakes, by the way. Openoffice with UK English spellchecker shows the first page like this: