Young Writers Society

Gabe
Once long ago Mogadishu, Somalia was a hub for fine commerce. Those days had long since passed, leaving the


city in a chaotic mess of violent rival militias and medieval style politics.


An old white pickup pulls up on a dusty side street facing the Bakaaraha market; the closest thing to functioning


commercial space in Somalia. A Western man, face submerged in a mess of hair winding into tangled brown


beard steps out. He is dressed strangely for the summer heat, wearing a thick black fleece, heavy brown work


pants and a pair of tough looking leather boots. Shutting the car door, he walks across the dusty street until he


comes to the busy market. Taking once glance at the swarm of glistening, cloaked bodies scampering here and


there, the man proceeds to sternly push his way through the swarm. The thick crowd gives way, failing to notice


the white mans presence.



DeWitt wasn’t some snot nosed, suite-wearing rookie straight off a plane from Saint Petersburg anymore. He had


been deflowered; he had seen the abandoned mothers, the thirsty children, fighting for water from a hose that


would only make them sick. And most importantly DeWitt had seen the violence, the total disregard for the


value of a human life. As many a gun dealer had said to him as casually a possible, valuing human life was a


“Silly Westerner” thing to do. Stepping out of the sunny smog lingering in the afternoon air, DeWitt entered the


small yellow building that veterans of the trade grimly referred to as “The Pond.” This was the other organized


market in Somalia, far away from pregnant teen mothers and hungry, rotting children. The pond is the weapons


market, the dark space where the wealthiest Somalis, below an intoxicating plume of cigar smoke, would


purchase weapons from Westerners. With the newly acquired weapons, the Somali gun dealers would then sell


for greater value to Somali Militias who, now armed with fresh machine guns, could litter the streets with each


others bodies as they so pleased. The interior of the building was bland; fold out tables for the arms dealers to


inspect weapons lined the cracked walls. A filthy coffee machine stood in one corner and an elegant, hand carved


wooden coat rack, contrasting aesthetically somewhat with the rest of the room, stood in the other. DeWitt was


recognized immediately upon entering the desolate room, this was his fifth trip the Somalia, thus making him a


veteran. It was rare for a dealer to risk making three trips, maybe four at most. DeWitt took off his dark


sunglasses, exposing grim, bloodshot eyes. Slinging the U.S military issued duffle bag off his shoulder, Dewitt


exposed a line of polished new machine guns, which seemed to twinkle even in the scarcely lit room. Crowding


around the weapons the Somali dealers murmured among themselves, finally beginning to hand DeWitt neat


stacks of Somali money in exchange for the weapons. Nodding in approval the dealers packaged up their newly


acquired weapons, some dispersed out into the bright light and some hid in the corner, whispering amongst


themselves. DeWitt centered his glasses back over his eyes. Hastily he slung the U.S army bag over his shoulder


and proceeded towards beam of light flowing in from the busy street. As DeWitt stepped outside the market


erupted in gunfire, on cue a scattering of civilians, arms flailing, crumpled to the dusty floor. Stumbling back into


the pond, DeWitt approached one of the Somali weapon dealers, tossing a wad of Somali money onto the dealers


lap DeWitt snatched up one of his rifles in exchange. As DeWitt reproached the door it was apparent that the


gunfire had increased, although he could not see where it was coming from. The mass of people in the market


had been riled into a frenzy, running and pushing in every direction preventing anyone from actually escaping.


Below the jungle of scrambling feet law twisted, barefoot bodies; clothes stained deep crimson red. DeWitt had


really started to sweat now. Taking a step into the street, DeWitt stumbled, firing off a dozen shots into the


crowd, which absorbed the bullets, keeping its perfect rhythm in panicked dance. From where DeWitt stood he


still make out no armed Militia. Forgetting about who was shooting who, DeWitt, lowering his shoulder rushed


through the crowd, sending the underweight bodies flying like a linebacker smashing into a quarterback. Making it


through between volleys of gunfire, DeWitt caught site of his car, a man lay face down, arms outstretched on the


vehicles hood. As he approached the car, DeWitt grabbed the body by the back of its shirt, exposing the man’s


heaving bloody chest. Tossing the hardly consciences man to the floor with one hand, DeWitt violently pulled


open his driver door with the other. The man rolled limply to the side, mouth ajar, head dangling over the side of


the curb. DeWitt and the Militiaman spotted each other at the same time, the skinny Somali who was running


across the street stopped dead five yards in front of DeWitt’s car, oversized machine gun balanced low on his



bony hip. DeWitt, fumbling for his gun; grabbing it off the passenger seat he let out a round of bullets through


the windshield just as the Somali, knees bent in some sort of athletic stance, fired right back in the opposite


direction. The windshield shattered sending an explosion of heavy glass raining down on DeWitt, who, was


clutching three quarter sized holes in his chest let out a angry scream. Face sliced into fleshy flaps from the


broken windshield and hands trying the contain the spurting blood from his chest, DeWitt jammed his foot down


on the gas. The white pickup lurched forward driving right through the Somali man, sending him limply head over


heals through the air until he crashed down hard like a rag doll, rolling loosely to a fractured standstill. The white


pickup plowed onwards, clearing the adjacent curb it lodged itself with a terrific crash of crunching metal in an


unfortunate brick house. The crowd who had watched this unfold had fallen silent now, the chaos of the afternoon


dulled to a silence by the car which sat smoking through an avalanche of yellow brick which the broken vehicle


lay submerged beneath.

Hey Gabe! The title of this piece caught my eye and I thought I’d add a little of my input. I hope you don’t mind.

An old white pickup pulls up on a dusty side street facing the Bakaaraha market; the closest thing to functioning commercial space in Somalia.

I absolutely love this line. It really sets off the story well. I actually think the story can start off right here, instead of the two sentences prior.

A Western man, face submerged in a mess of hair winding into tangled brown beard steps out.

The description should be completely offset, so add a comma after ‘beard’.

The thick crowd gives way, failing to notice the white mans presence.

‘Mans’ should be ‘man’s’ here, since it should indicate possession.

DeWitt wasn’t some snot nosed,[u] [u]suite-wearing rookie straight off a plane from Saint Petersburg anymore.
‘Snot nosed’ should have a dash in between, so it’s ‘snot-nosed’. I think you mean ‘suit’ here, not ‘suite’, as a suite is not a type of clothing. Also, the ‘wasn’t’ confuses me. For the past few sentences, things were written in the present tense. Then it suddenly switches to past tense.

[s]And[/s] most importantly DeWitt had seen the violence, the total disregard for the value of a human life. As many a gun dealer had said to him as casually [s]a possible[/s], valuing human life was a “Silly Westerner” thing to do.

The ‘and’ and ‘as possible’ feel unnecessary here.

The pond is the weapons market, the dark space where the wealthiest Somalis, below an intoxicating plume of cigar smoke, would purchase weapons from Westerners.

‘Pond’ should be capitalized, since it’s a name. I find this sentence just a little too telling though. I do love the description ‘intoxicating plume of cigar smoke’, but perhaps there is a more descriptive way to say that the Somalis purchase weapons from Westerners at the Pond.

With the newly acquired weapons, the Somali gun dealers would then sell for greater value to Somali Militias who, now armed with fresh machine guns, could litter the streets with each others bodies as they so pleased.

Here, ‘militias’ shouldn’t be capitalized, since it is not the name of a specific militia. ‘Others’ should be ‘other’s’.

DeWitt was recognized immediately upon entering the desolate room, this was his fifth trip the Somalia, thus making him a veteran.

This is a comma splice. It would be best to use a period after ‘room’. A small typo, I’m sure, but ‘the’ should be ‘to’.

Slinging the U.S military issued duffle bag off his shoulder, Dewitt exposed a line of polished new machine guns, which seemed to twinkle even in the scarcely lit room.

‘Military issued’ should have a dash in between. I feel like ‘twinkle’ doesn’t really fit the mood here. The guns are serious and deadly weapons, and ‘twinkle’ makes me think of little children’s songs. Perhaps ‘glint’ or ‘flash’ would work better.

As DeWitt stepped outside the market erupted in gunfire, on cue a scattering of civilians, arms flailing, crumpled to the dusty floor.

Again, this is a comma splice. A period after ‘gunfire’ would probably fix that easily.

Stumbling back into the pond, DeWitt approached one of the Somali weapon dealers, tossing a wad of Somali money onto the dealers lap DeWitt snatched up one of his rifles in exchange.

Run-on sentence here, I think removing the second ‘Dewitt’ and replacing it with a comma with the word ‘and’ would work well.

Below the jungle of scrambling feet law twisted, barefoot bodies;

I think you mean ‘lay’ here?

Taking a step into the street, DeWitt stumbled, firing off a dozen shots into the crowd, which absorbed the bullets, keeping its perfect rhythm in panicked dance.

The underlined is very difficult to understand and I got lost trying to decipher exactly what it all meant. I understand that the crowd absorbed the bullets, but the part after just makes me dizzy.

From where DeWitt stood he still make out no armed Militia.

I think you want the word ‘make’ here.

Making it through between volleys of gunfire, DeWitt caught site of his car, a man lay face down, arms outstretched on the vehicles hood.

‘Site’ refers to place, location. Here the correct word is ‘sight’. Again, this is a comma splice. A different type of punctuation after the word ‘car’ is needed.

Tossing the hardly consciences man to the floor with one hand, DeWitt violently pulled open his driver door with the other.

‘Consciences’ would be the plural of that little voice in people’s heads. ‘Conscious’ would be how awake a person is. As for ‘violently pulled’, I feel that it’s a little weak in comparison to a verb that would mean the same thing. What about ‘yank’, ‘jerk’, or ‘wrench’?

DeWitt and the Militiaman spotted each other at the same time, the skinny Somali who was running across the street stopped dead five yards in front of DeWitt’s car, oversized machine gun balanced low on his bony hip.

‘Militiaman’ shouldn’t be capitalized. You might want to start a new sentence with ‘The skinny Somali…’ to avoid another comma splice.

The white pickup lurched forward driving right through the Somali man, sending him limply head over heals through the air until he crashed down hard like a rag doll, rolling loosely to a fractured standstill.

‘Heals’ is the plural of ‘heal’, something that’s been mended. If you want the back of the foot, use the word ‘heel’. Otherwise, this description is excellent. I love it.

The crowd [s]who had watched this unfold[/s] had fallen silent now, the chaos of the afternoon dulled to a silence by the car which sat smoking through an avalanche of yellow brick which the broken vehicle lay submerged beneath.

Obviously the crowd had seen it all happen, they’ve been there the whole time. So that bit is unnecessary. The rest of it feels a little jumbled. I think a rewrite is in order to smooth out the image.

I enjoyed the fast pace and descriptions in this piece. It was exciting, and certainly fits the action genre. However, it was difficult to read due to the lack of structure. Perhaps it was an error in adding it onto YWS, but the story needs proper paragraphs. If things are separated properly, then it will be much easier on the eyes. Also, there were many comma splices, and I think I pointed them all out. It might be good to look up comma splices and learn exactly what they are so they can be avoided in the future.

DeWitt was an exciting character, and while I couldn’t exactly like him, I thought he was an imposing main character. I still feel like things were left out though. The appearance of the militiaman caught me off-guard. I guess in general, the sudden fight confused me. Who was DeWitt shooting at, and why? This had conflict, but it lacked motive for the conflict, and that’s where this falls flat. I’d like reasons here. Reasons and motives are what separates scenes from stories.

One more thing: the title is Somalian Guns, which would be politically incorrect, wouldn’t it? As far as a I know, ‘Somali’ is the proper adjective for things or people from Somalia. In the piece the word ‘Somali’ is used. Why is the title different?

Best of luck,
octo

Hey man, I dig this quite a bit so far! Very cool setting, and with an interesting profession to boot. I think your action scenes are really well written and fast paced, and the way you’ve inserted description and back story about Somalia into the story creates a really vivid locale. Props!

General comments:

‘Wear’ in the world
In like, what, the second ‘paragraph’ (more on this later); you mention that he wears a thick fleece, thick pants, and heavy boots. Let’s stop. Wha- What?! I think I get what trying to happen here, you want the reader to see DeWitt’s a tough ass dude, who doesn’t care about the heat.
But you know what else it makes me think about him? He’s an idiot. A rational person would wear appropriate attire, especially if he was the type to deal arms, and especially, especially if he was going to get into gun fights Thick heavy clothing restricts your range of movement and causes you to sweat and succumb quicker to heat factors. Irrational arms dealers probably don’t last long. It makes him look less cool than just like a rookie.

You got a permit for that?
Dewitt’s in Somalia, one of the most lawless places on earth, and he leaves his gun in his car? He SELLS GUNS for a living! Why would he not carry some sort of firearm? It’s not like the Somali police are gonna stop him. It makes for a cool scene as he dives to grab the gun out of the car, but checks another box on the ‘dummy checklist’ in my opinion.

Little things
I really like how you used little things to add oomph to certain scenes and paragraphs. Just stuff like mentioning how many tours he’d done, the bag tagging him as former military, his eyes being bloodshot for some reason, the dichotomy between the coffee machine and the coat rack. Good stuff, all of it.

Hazmat Format
Maybe it’s just my browser but man; this thing was a pain to read at first. Paragraphs don’t start in any coherent fashion. For some reason some lines of text words sit out on their own on the left side of the page. It could really turn off a lot of readers. I actually ended up pasting it into a word doc and formatting it til I could read it better.

As a last unrelated head’s up, Somalian isn’t really a word, it should be Somali. It’s kind of like asking someone if they speak ‘Jewish’. Everyone still gets that you mean ‘Hebrew’ but it’s not really correct terminology.

I did really enjoy reading this though. I think you have a really strong writing style and a cool thing going here so far. Feel free to PM me if you have any questions or get the next part up!

-Pattycakes