Story Excerpt from a story I am writing what do you think, after reading this would you continue reading or move on?

[xxfreak187xx]

The blacked-out windows offer me little comfort as I know a new day has surfaced bringing with it all its endless misery. Cigarette smoke heavy enough to fill in the chipped paint on the walls. I light another exhaling slowly in hopes of catching cancer quicker and pour another shot then 4 more. Shadows from my candles still flicker, danceing on the walls like an uncoordinated drunk stumbling down the street, I imagine like I will be doing as soon.

This cycle I repeat religiously keeping what little sanity I can grab onto. The movies got one thing wrong, one major fucking detail that if foreseen would have prevented so many deaths. So many. See, most monsters in the movies hid in the shadows and only came out at night, hunted under the cover of darkness illuminated by the stars and what bit of moonlight escaped between the clouds. Allowing us disadvantaged humans a small respite. Not these fucking monsters. Go figure. No, these crafty bastards, continuously hunt and are extremely smart. So fucking smart.

After the initial warnings were finally believed by the online community it was way too late for humanity to prepare. Shit, I don’t think most even had the time to shit their pants before it came crashing down upon them. I know I didn’t, neither did my family. Although my best friend did, Hank. He was the one who alerted me as to what the fuck was making its way through my backyard right for my open sliding glass door. Just a screen was not going to stop that thing.

I was flipping through the news, social media, all my text windows, and a porn video sent from my dad, exclaiming about its quality was amazing (I hadn’t yet to see any quality) when all the hair on Hank’s neck stood and he let out a growl that compared very much to a lion. That alone freaked me out, but I quickly brushed it away thinking my meth addicted neighbor was sweeping his lawn again but then Hank went berserk. I then saw the blood soaked figure ambling in my direction. Kind of like a toddler getting its footing but with the purpose of a rabid animal. Luckily I’ve had many drunken nights where I confused my neighbors pot garden for my toilet and had constructed a makeshift baby gate between our yards and it fell face first into a piss fertilized hemp mound. Now I’ve seen enough movies to know what the fuck NOT to do, that didn’t stop me from doing it though and I grabbed my keys, my dog, my bong, and my phone and bolted out the front door. Right into the end of the world…….

 

[BK38]

In all honesty, probably move on. To me, it kind of comes across as try-hard, in kind of a melodramatic and tacky way. There are also some issues with punctuation, spelling and grammar/tense too. I see what you're trying to do with the sort of mundane stuff leading up to the heavy hitting line "Right into the end of the world" but I'm not sold. There is one line I really like though: "Cigarette smoke heavy enough to fill in the chipped paint on the walls." Keep working at it and be sure to proof your writing, it's the only way to get better.

 

[neversickanymore]

You have potential. Try rewriting this without starting sentences with pronouns. Rewrite taking out all the "I". How does it read with this done compared to how it did?

 

[Jabberwocky]

I agree with @neversickanymore about writing in the first person. It is very difficult to write convincing first person drug escapades. First person works better for characters with a very rich and detailed inner life and who approach the world with uncertainty. Maybe invent a character who represents you and re-write - the general story sounds interesting so far.

 

[F.U.B.A.R.]

The blacked-out windows offer me little comfort as I know a new day has surfaced bringing with it all its endless misery. Cigarette smoke heavy enough to fill in the chipped paint on the walls. I light another exhaling slowly in hopes of catching cancer quicker and pour another shot then 4 more. Shadows from my candles still flicker, danceing on the walls like an uncoordinated drunk stumbling down the street, I imagine like I will be doing as soon.

This cycle I repeat religiously keeping what little sanity I can grab onto. The movies got one thing wrong, one major fucking detail that if foreseen would have prevented so many deaths. So many. See, most monsters in the movies hid in the shadows and only came out at night, hunted under the cover of darkness illuminated by the stars and what bit of moonlight escaped between the clouds. Allowing us disadvantaged humans a small respite. Not these fucking monsters. Go figure. No, these crafty bastards, continuously hunt and are extremely smart. So fucking smart.

After the initial warnings were finally believed by the online community it was way too late for humanity to prepare. Shit, I don’t think most even had the time to shit their pants before it came crashing down upon them. I know I didn’t, neither did my family. Although my best friend did, Hank. He was the one who alerted me as to what the fuck was making its way through my backyard right for my open sliding glass door. Just a screen was not going to stop that thing.

I was flipping through the news, social media, all my text windows, and a porn video sent from my dad, exclaiming about its quality was amazing (I hadn’t yet to see any quality) when all the hair on Hank’s neck stood and he let out a growl that compared very much to a lion. That alone freaked me out, but I quickly brushed it away thinking my meth addicted neighbor was sweeping his lawn again but then Hank went berserk. I then saw the blood soaked figure ambling in my direction. Kind of like a toddler getting its footing but with the purpose of a rabid animal. Luckily I’ve had many drunken nights where I confused my neighbors pot garden for my toilet and had constructed a makeshift baby gate between our yards and it fell face first into a piss fertilized hemp mound. Now I’ve seen enough movies to know what the fuck NOT to do, that didn’t stop me from doing it though and I grabbed my keys, my dog, my bong, and my phone and bolted out the front door. Right into the end of the world…….

You've just described my life.

 

[Snafu in the Void]

Really nice, bro. This seems like some stuff I could have written myself.

Although, like others have said, it's a little too verbose. You could probably cut 25% of the words and it would sound the same, if not better.

My favorite writer is Bukowski. Fuck that man is a genius... could get his point across with very few words.


how to be a great writer by Charles Bukowski

you've got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.
and don't worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.
just drink more beer
more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a
week
and win
if possible
learning to win is hard -
any slob can be a good loser.
and don't forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.
don't overexercise.
sleep until noon.
avoid paying credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.
remember that there isn't a piece of ass
in this world over $50
(in 1977).
and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong -
an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.
stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient -
time is everybody's cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery
all that dross.
stay with the beer.
beer is continuous blood.
a continuous lover.
get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window
hit that thing
hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
If you think they didn't go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you're doing now
without women
without food
without hope
then you're not ready.
drink more beer.
there's time.
and if there's not
that's all right
too.

 

[neversickanymore]

Really nice, bro. This seems like some stuff I could have written myself.

Although, like others have said, it's a little too verbose. You could probably cut 25% of the words and it would sound the same, if not better.

My favorite writer is Bukowski. Fuck that man is a genius... could get his point across with very few words.

Papa you mean..