GCJ
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2017
- Messages
- 64
Hi there,
I have multiple reasons to ask for a critique, but as a relatively new writer I'd like to know above all else whether, in the eyes of those who do this, my writing is of any standard.
This is a story I initially became stuck on, changed, and never really finished. As such, I adapted it to a (very) short story of just over 1000 words. It has never been published, as per forum rules, and isn't part of any other published work of mine or anybody else's.
Constructive criticism is very much appreciated.
Cheers,
G
---
August 23rd 2054
Monday morning early shift was a killer for Thomas. It didn't matter whether he'd had good intentions of getting himself a restful sleep or not, it just never happened the night before he went back to work.
As he passed from the shop floor through double glass doors and into the atrium, the din of the factory floor softened behind him. Starting upstairs towards the canteen, he removed his silver-grey bump-cap and wiped the sweat off his brow with an out-turned palm. It was eleven, and Thomas had another three hours to go before he knocked off and drove the sixty minute commute back to his home town just outside Houston. The lunch hour always brought it firmly home to him just how much he detested factory life; clock in, work to the schedule of a holo-pad that threw breakdown alerts at him for most of the day, get to noon, have a break, and then almost feel the clock tick second-by-second until it flicked over to the magical fourteen-hundred hours. Even the queasy horn that marked the end of his shift, a thing that sounded like a 2020's relic, grated at him.
Factory work in that day and age was increasingly rare, but some of the new-world commodities were so difficult to make that technology hadn't quite managed to make the technicians that repaired the robots redundant. Yet, anyway.
Time, Thomas often thought as he gained in years, was precious above all of those commodities; valued above all else, and to be cherished. More precious than silver, gold, platinum, or the holo-pads they were churning out at a rate of fifteen thousand an hour.
He arrived in the canteen to the sight of Trevor already tucking into what would best be described as a nose bag. Trevor, Thomas thought to himself with an inner chuckle, was a great hand on the factory floor but could quite possibly injure one of those extinct Rhinos if his path to the canteen was ever blocked by an unlikely herd grazing at the foot of the stairs.
Ordering a cheese, tomato, and chopped onion baguette and picking out a bottle of Coke from the open refrigerator, he threw down a fifty dollar note to the girl behind the checkout and muttered genuinely, "Keep the change Donna."
"Gee, thanks Tom. So kind," she replied in a tone buttered with a sarcasm that had been spread far too thinly over the years.
Thomas glanced at her expressionlessly before drawing his look away, a pallid gesture that said far more than words could've, and then wandered over to their table being careful to avoid any supervisors that were grabbing a quick bite before heading back out to chase their targets.
"How did the Dynamo fare at the weekend Trev?" Thomas asked as he scraped out a chair.
It was one of those loaded questions intended to open the conversation lightly, primarily with the aim of avoiding the prospect of work coming up on his lunch break. Knowing just fine that the local pro-soccer team Houston Dynamo had gotten right royally humped at the weekend, evident by the highlights playing on the various televisions mounted around the canteen, Thomas waited on the answer he knew he'd get while he distractedly inspected the quality of his baguette before committing to it.
Trevor, hunched over his plate with food in both hands and a dark brown sauce of some description leaking from the edge of his mouth, looked up at the television drooling, "S**t, dude."
His eyes shifted in the direction of a screen mounted just above and to the right of where Thomas had sat down, wordlessly pointing him to the replays that he couldn't bear to watch again.
"Thought so," Thomas replied before sinking his teeth into his lunch and making a mental note to himself to swing past the hypermarket on the way home for some beer for the baseball game.
"Dude," Trevor slobbered, "did you see the news earlier? Those Middle-Easterns are kicking up a major s***-storm with the Africans. Just about every country down there has kicked out every African on the first flight home. Damned holy war going on. Christians and Muslims are going crazy at each other. Are those Africans nuclear?"
Thomas, a perpetual under-achiever, had never put his education to much use other than a brief sabbatical from factory life to work on oil refinery construction projects before the new energy revolution arrived; before the dust brought back from various dwarf planets and asteroids changed the energy paradigm and spawned the mega-corporations.
Nowadays, firmly back in the monotony of a regular job following the collapse of the hydrocarbon industry, he listened to the news closely. With a sceptical mind set on what was behind the blinding white of the news anchor's practiced smiles, Thomas was acutely aware of the narrative that underpinned every bulletin and most of the mainstream television programmes from soaps to documentaries. It was, to him, a false narrative that had been spelled out word for word as he travelled the world talking to different cultures from Nepal to Venezuela.
It was a narrative that told him starkly that the tinned food and bottled water he'd been hoarding in his out-house, along with a hunting rifle and six hundred-odd rounds, would be put to good use before too long.
"Yep, they're most definitely nucl..."
The Global News Network sports channel mutedly bleating out breaking news about the transfer of a Brazilian soccer player to the MLS froze, twisted into interference, and then blackened completely. Trevor, now focussing intently on a well-ravaged husk of roast chicken, paused mid-bite and shifted his eyes up to the screen inquisitively as silence interjected the ordinarily bustling ambience of the canteen.
Just as he was about to break the hush and begin explicitly cursing their employers for making a hash of installing the GNN cable network with the lowest bidder, five white words filled the screen - all twelve screens in the canteen - against a black background.
Thomas' mouth fell open, matching the descent of Trevor's lunch as it dropped to the table from his slimy fingertips and landed with a damp thud. A siren, far distant, began whining out a drone that set both of their brows sweating. Panic, then disbelief, gripped them as the realisation that factory life wasn't all that bad flashed through them in a cruel instant.
"NUCLEAR ATTACK IMMINENT. FOLLOW PROTOCOLS."
A tear leaked from Thomas' eye, borne of regret, of the end of his time, and rolled over the bulge of his cheek before racing down to follow the contours of his shocked gape.
Salt was the last thing Thomas tasted when the flash arrived six seconds later; when the bricks and blocks pulsed through him, tearing him to his constituent parts.
Salt.
I have multiple reasons to ask for a critique, but as a relatively new writer I'd like to know above all else whether, in the eyes of those who do this, my writing is of any standard.
This is a story I initially became stuck on, changed, and never really finished. As such, I adapted it to a (very) short story of just over 1000 words. It has never been published, as per forum rules, and isn't part of any other published work of mine or anybody else's.
Constructive criticism is very much appreciated.
Cheers,
G
---
August 23rd 2054
Monday morning early shift was a killer for Thomas. It didn't matter whether he'd had good intentions of getting himself a restful sleep or not, it just never happened the night before he went back to work.
As he passed from the shop floor through double glass doors and into the atrium, the din of the factory floor softened behind him. Starting upstairs towards the canteen, he removed his silver-grey bump-cap and wiped the sweat off his brow with an out-turned palm. It was eleven, and Thomas had another three hours to go before he knocked off and drove the sixty minute commute back to his home town just outside Houston. The lunch hour always brought it firmly home to him just how much he detested factory life; clock in, work to the schedule of a holo-pad that threw breakdown alerts at him for most of the day, get to noon, have a break, and then almost feel the clock tick second-by-second until it flicked over to the magical fourteen-hundred hours. Even the queasy horn that marked the end of his shift, a thing that sounded like a 2020's relic, grated at him.
Factory work in that day and age was increasingly rare, but some of the new-world commodities were so difficult to make that technology hadn't quite managed to make the technicians that repaired the robots redundant. Yet, anyway.
Time, Thomas often thought as he gained in years, was precious above all of those commodities; valued above all else, and to be cherished. More precious than silver, gold, platinum, or the holo-pads they were churning out at a rate of fifteen thousand an hour.
He arrived in the canteen to the sight of Trevor already tucking into what would best be described as a nose bag. Trevor, Thomas thought to himself with an inner chuckle, was a great hand on the factory floor but could quite possibly injure one of those extinct Rhinos if his path to the canteen was ever blocked by an unlikely herd grazing at the foot of the stairs.
Ordering a cheese, tomato, and chopped onion baguette and picking out a bottle of Coke from the open refrigerator, he threw down a fifty dollar note to the girl behind the checkout and muttered genuinely, "Keep the change Donna."
"Gee, thanks Tom. So kind," she replied in a tone buttered with a sarcasm that had been spread far too thinly over the years.
Thomas glanced at her expressionlessly before drawing his look away, a pallid gesture that said far more than words could've, and then wandered over to their table being careful to avoid any supervisors that were grabbing a quick bite before heading back out to chase their targets.
"How did the Dynamo fare at the weekend Trev?" Thomas asked as he scraped out a chair.
It was one of those loaded questions intended to open the conversation lightly, primarily with the aim of avoiding the prospect of work coming up on his lunch break. Knowing just fine that the local pro-soccer team Houston Dynamo had gotten right royally humped at the weekend, evident by the highlights playing on the various televisions mounted around the canteen, Thomas waited on the answer he knew he'd get while he distractedly inspected the quality of his baguette before committing to it.
Trevor, hunched over his plate with food in both hands and a dark brown sauce of some description leaking from the edge of his mouth, looked up at the television drooling, "S**t, dude."
His eyes shifted in the direction of a screen mounted just above and to the right of where Thomas had sat down, wordlessly pointing him to the replays that he couldn't bear to watch again.
"Thought so," Thomas replied before sinking his teeth into his lunch and making a mental note to himself to swing past the hypermarket on the way home for some beer for the baseball game.
"Dude," Trevor slobbered, "did you see the news earlier? Those Middle-Easterns are kicking up a major s***-storm with the Africans. Just about every country down there has kicked out every African on the first flight home. Damned holy war going on. Christians and Muslims are going crazy at each other. Are those Africans nuclear?"
Thomas, a perpetual under-achiever, had never put his education to much use other than a brief sabbatical from factory life to work on oil refinery construction projects before the new energy revolution arrived; before the dust brought back from various dwarf planets and asteroids changed the energy paradigm and spawned the mega-corporations.
Nowadays, firmly back in the monotony of a regular job following the collapse of the hydrocarbon industry, he listened to the news closely. With a sceptical mind set on what was behind the blinding white of the news anchor's practiced smiles, Thomas was acutely aware of the narrative that underpinned every bulletin and most of the mainstream television programmes from soaps to documentaries. It was, to him, a false narrative that had been spelled out word for word as he travelled the world talking to different cultures from Nepal to Venezuela.
It was a narrative that told him starkly that the tinned food and bottled water he'd been hoarding in his out-house, along with a hunting rifle and six hundred-odd rounds, would be put to good use before too long.
"Yep, they're most definitely nucl..."
The Global News Network sports channel mutedly bleating out breaking news about the transfer of a Brazilian soccer player to the MLS froze, twisted into interference, and then blackened completely. Trevor, now focussing intently on a well-ravaged husk of roast chicken, paused mid-bite and shifted his eyes up to the screen inquisitively as silence interjected the ordinarily bustling ambience of the canteen.
Just as he was about to break the hush and begin explicitly cursing their employers for making a hash of installing the GNN cable network with the lowest bidder, five white words filled the screen - all twelve screens in the canteen - against a black background.
Thomas' mouth fell open, matching the descent of Trevor's lunch as it dropped to the table from his slimy fingertips and landed with a damp thud. A siren, far distant, began whining out a drone that set both of their brows sweating. Panic, then disbelief, gripped them as the realisation that factory life wasn't all that bad flashed through them in a cruel instant.
"NUCLEAR ATTACK IMMINENT. FOLLOW PROTOCOLS."
A tear leaked from Thomas' eye, borne of regret, of the end of his time, and rolled over the bulge of his cheek before racing down to follow the contours of his shocked gape.
Salt was the last thing Thomas tasted when the flash arrived six seconds later; when the bricks and blocks pulsed through him, tearing him to his constituent parts.
Salt.