Young Writers Society

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm Knight Hardy here on a mission to ensure that all works on YWS has at least two reviews. You will probably never see this but....Imma do this anyway.

First Impression: So this one was actually a significant improvement over the previous one. The difference that a bit of punctuation and formatting can make is truly exceptional. So now I can actually figure what this is about and I have it is quite a saddening take on the final moments of this man.

Anyway let's get right to it,

“You can never be a psychic if your such a defensive pessimist Charlie”

Fuck that.

All his life Charlie worked to disprove his mum’s psychic visions. Now, with every pessimistic bone in his body, he saw into the swirling orange-yellows of the future. He could see he was going to die.

Crawling on all fours, through the virus filled darkness of his apartment, Charlie couldn’t help but hallucinate. The purple fuzz crowded the corners of his eyes. The light reflecting off water, bleeding with the smell of Indian incense sticks. It mock rainbows as it lay floating dead with oil.

No church bells rang for Charlie’s tears. The band began to play their favourite tunes. 1, 2. 1, 2, 3, 4. Charlie had been off the wagon. He convinced himself he was. IT was his mother’s dying wish. And if he did drink, he knew she would know. But the large eyes on the streets and the intrusive lights of the night seem to scream to tell a love story when the smelt beer in his breath.

Charlie couldn’t take it anymore. His brain had become mush and his lungs groaned in pain. Charlie pleaded with the captain. ”hey, man. Come on now. Ask them stop marching will you. I’m dying. Give me a light will you. Come on man.”

The motel next door had finally got their lights working. The white-blue neon seemed to fill the room. Charlie looked around to see that he had become part of fabric of the dark purple tiles of his floor. He had finally conceded defeat. And tonight he was too dumbstruck to thank his lucky stars. His comrades where there to exasperate his passing. Tonight, they sang a song of everything he didn’t want to know. Captain chemo had begun to laugh.

This was a little hard to understand. I didn't really see a main plot line, aside from the fact that he wanted a cigarette. It was hard to understand the point.

I think the german, while meaningful, makes the whole piece hard to put together. Theres something there, and I don't know what it is. I can barely pronounce most of it, how am I supposed to know what it's for? Ending on it especially leaves me with a confused feeling.

This could be much more interesting if I knew some more about it. Right now it looks like a lot of random happenings. While that type of randomness can work (Kurt Vonnegut, Terry Pratchet, ect.) We need more information before we can submit to the randomness of it, and reason for the randomness (A dream, different plots in different settings, random time travel in the case of Slaughter House Five, ect.) I dont know what is happening, where this is set, what the plot is, or who the other characters are. I just know this one guy, Charlie.

Charlie, while it is a good, understandable, familiar name, may not be the best choice if your going to mention Vietnam, especially if he was in Vietnam during the war, because it is fairly common knowledge that slang for the viet cong was VC, or Victor Charlie, or for short, just Charlie, and this leads to some confusion.

What I can understand is that he's a prisoner of some kind, but that's all. I don't know where he is, either in vietnam or in germany, and I can't understand the link between these two.