Short Story - God's Playground

[Savage Idealist]

Please critique, review, and share your thoughts on this new story that I am writing. Thank you.

God's Playground


Chapter 1 - My Name Is Crow Reynolds​

On a cold November night, I was stabbed several times to death by means of a broken beer bottle. I bled to death slowly, my corpse wasn't discovered until the next morning. It's a fucking pity, thought I'd always die heroically saving people from a fire, or a bank robbery, or a shoot out with the police, or some shit like that. I thought to myself dying in that cold alley outside the bar, 'shit, shit what do I tell all the others in heaven?'. I don't want to tell them I got killed in a drunken scuffle, although maybe I could lie? Nah, wouldn't work, God isn't the only one watching me up there, all my dead friends probably knew, or would know, what killed me. Ah well. Didn't matter then, and won't matter ever anyway. On that cold November night, in the year of 2044, Crow Reynolds died from serve blood loss, he was twenty-four years old.​

Once when my grandfather spoke with me as a kid, he said that when he was young he thought he would die and fade into nothingness. He lived in a world where there was no God, or rather God wasn't there yet. He feared for his life of that dark and meaningless fate that await so many who thought there wasn't any heaven or hell. Foolish bastards, I don't blame them. Lucky for him he lived to be eighty-something and knew of God's domain, that God was here, watching us. I mean why else would there be cameras (obvious and secret) every in the world? Or maybe it was someone else watching through those cold lenses? I couldn't say for sure at the time. I thought as well that God wasn't really here, that the building as large as a Australia was nothing more than a joke, that I would die, and fade away I would go into nothingness.​

I live in that large building as large as Australia, the building that no one can break into, that grows in size each and every day. There's buildings in this building, and it really shouldn't surprise anyone that I live in one of those inner cans, as we call them. My inner can is a second story apartment. It's simple, kitchen, bedroom, toilet, the essentials. I live with my super sexy wife. She's like something out of an anime: huge breasts, a magnificent ass, big puppy-dog eyes, and pink and green hair down to her shoulders. Damn. She cooks for me every night, sometimes in nothing but an apron, or in a maid outfit. Damn. And she will do anything for me, she's my own personal little servant, me loyal pet, who I fuck each and every night and morning. Damn. She died at the age of nineteen. She loved to cook and one day she tried clams for the first time in her life in one of her new recipes. Later she found out that she was allergic to clams. This was some time after her throat had closed shut completely. She was all alone in heaven, until she found me.​

Here in heaven I work as one of God's many guardian angels. And no, not the soft hearted pansies who look over people and bless them with smiles. Fuck that shit. I'm more something of a security officer, detective, gun slinging, badass motherfucker. Every day I put on a suit, contemplate some shit, shoot someone, fuck my wife, then sleep if I have the time. All the while driving a sweet ass car. Yeah heaven ain't all clouds and bullshit sunlight with harps and peace. No. It's more like the inside of a huge department store, except that the ceiling is as high as the sky, and instead of shelves of items there are houses and buildings and stuff. And all those in heaven aren't winged idiots in white. We all got physical bodies, albeit there much better built than what you would find on earth. No wings, no haloes, but you do get some badass irremovable tattoo somewhere on your body. Each one is different for each person, a reflection of who that person was in life. Mine looks like a fancy mediaeval crossbow on the center of my head. It would be perfect if it hadn't also got me the nickname potter. Fuck.​

In the real world God judges you, and then you die. When you die, all you thoughts, memories, identity, are brought back to life here. And even a piece of shit knows that either you go to heaven or hell. God sees everything through cameras, they record not just your physical actions, but you psychological interaction in your brain as well. Scientists have taken the cameras apart before despite breaking the rules (steal God's almighty sight, burn in eternal light). They couldn't track where the record signal was from. All their worthless efforts gave them was eternity in a hell of light. Hell also ain't a raging pit of flames and darkness (how can it be dark if everything is enveloped on fire anyway?). It's something worse. But since I, nor anybody except God and the highest knows what it looks like, I can't say for sure. Oh yeah, God is never seen by anyone, except for the highest. And the highest are rarely seen themselves.​

God saw the evilness abundant in the world and did something to change all that. He built heaven and hell, he looked into the world, and he judged everyone. The good go to heaven, and if your badass enough you get to be an angel. If you suck, then you're just another common soul, or same shit sheep as we call them. The evil go to hell, and if you suck then it's all misery and suffering for you. If you're a badass, then you get to be a demon. Now it's suppose to work that way, except for one renegade angel, named Satan, but everyone calls him Rak. It sounds cooler that's why. Rak recently began a rebellion with God, unleashing as many demons as he possibly could (they couldn't all come out at once for some reason). The door to hell was still closed though. Why? No one was sure where the demons where coming from, but I guess it doesn't matter now. All that's important is hunting them down and killing them. Demons are also made of flesh, just like us angels and other people in the afterlife. Anyway its where my job comes in, I work with a team that tracks and kills these demons once and for all. We travel back and forth between heaven and earth, finding data, and kicking ass.​

So that's life for me. I go from a broke as hell badass who helps out others out while picking fights, with an associate's degree in philosophy, to a badass angel who murders demons, with an associate's degree in philosophy. I love it. I know I do. And you would to. Because, don't kid yourself, this is what it's all about. It's all it will ever be about. It's God's will. God made it this way, and thus it will be. So enjoy it while it lasts. I'm driving one the most bitching sports cars in existence, my wife is a dream come true, I wear a suit while shooting guns, and I'm in heaven. My name is Crow Reynolds, I'm perpetually twenty-four years old, and I'm a guardian angel. What more could I fucking ask for?​

- - - - -​

Heading into my office, up in this inner can on the thirtieth floor. Walking like I was Jesus himself, too cool for this shit. I step in the room, computers, desks, and paper work everywhere. The usual dudes are busy away at their shit. Frank Smith sits there not saying a word as usual, why's his tie a red color today? Usually it's blue. Must be some trouble with the wife or some shit like that, cause I've never seen him wear red. Otherwise he's the coordinator of the team, he keeps all the shit held together. Then there's Alfred Jive, one of the lead detectives and head of our department. He spends all his time in the adjacent room, never says that much, I guess sorta like Frank. Only Frank usually looks like a mess, and Alfred looks dressed as though he were the president. The loud guy in the center of the room is Charles Thompson, he's the weapons expert and arms dealer of the team. Sitting in the corner to my right is Lewis N. Masterson, another lead detective. One of the best when it comes to discovering what no one else can, but again spends most of his time to himself. Sitting in the far back in the room, no standing proudly like an ass-hole is Li 'Tiger' Hans, the support beam of the group. Without him this department would collapse completely. He also maintains our political relations with the leaders of our organization and sees to it that we don't get a bad reputation. In the adjacent room to my right, across from Alfred's, is the administrator of our department, Leo Nietzsche. He dreams of one day being the greatest being who ever live, overcoming God and Rak. Until that day actually comes he just tells us what to do. And I'm jealous of his name. Seriously what kind of badass name is Leo Nietzsche? It sounds too cool to be real. I wish I had a badass name like that. Oh wait, my name is Crow Reynolds, I already have a badass fucking name! Anyway the room above Alfred's on the left wall is the office of another lead detective, Jermaine Williams. He's a rather crazy motherfucking, no one else like him. Straight across from his room, above Leo's room on the right wall is my office (and it's the most awesome detective office in the universe simply cause its mine). And the back office room, bigger than all the other adjacent office room is the break room, cause you know, break rooms are always the most important. Hanging out in that room are the remaining members, the machinegun musketeers. They're pretty much the muscle of the group, we use them mostly for when we need to kill or browbeat someone or something. The three go by the names of Kevin Sky, John Turner, and Luke Murkowski. And then there's me Crow Reynolds, greatest person ever. And together we are department SJK90876, better known as the Sausage Party, for obvious reason due to the absence of any females.​

"How's it going potter, running late again I see!" shouts Charles. Why can't he ever be quiet?
"You know it. And stop calling potter damn it." I walk towards my office.
"Crow, you've got a report for the new mission on your desk, read through it then meet with Leo on details for what you'll be doing. And post haste you lazy bastard we're busy today and I can't afford your slacking!" says Frank as I walk into my office.
I sift through the report. Oh an interesting case, a pile of blood and bones outside an unearthed grave, an unopened letter, and a skin thief, all somehow related. Good, I love it when cases are all bizarre like this, makes it so much more fun. I leave my office, but first a snack and chat with the machinegun musketeers.
"What's up crazy fuckers?" I say entering the room.
"Wearing black sunglasses in addition to a leather jacket? Someone thinks he's king of the world. So Potter are you going to start growing wings next while you bask in your ego?" says John while the other laugh.
"Awe, what's the matter, are you fuckers jealous of my awesomeness?" I say laughing back.
"Sorry Potter, but as mature adults we're not jealous of walking cock-bags" says Luke as I grab several donuts to eat.
"Since when do guys who get paid to shoot guns and dick around in a break room qualify as adults?" I say as I munch into the donuts.
Before anyone else responds Frank bursts in, that same impatient face he always has burning right at me.
"Stop chatting with your boyfriends and get your ass in Leo's office now!!!" Then he slams the door as he heads back to his desk.
I head over to Leo's office. I mean as much as I'd love to shoot the shit with the usual guys there was shit to get done. And weird cases like this come, well all the time. But I never get tired of them. I walk into Leo's office and close the door behind myself.
"Crow Reynolds has arrived, let's get to fucking business." I say with a sly grin on my face. Hell yeah.

 

[Haphazard]

...And?

 

[Savage Idealist]

^And what? I said please and thank you, otherwise I'm looking for advice and feedback on this first chapter.

 

[Haphazard]

You know, there's only one true rule of writing, and that rule is: Write Interesting. I'll be brutally honest here: I think you've broken that rule.

 

[Totenkindly]

You know, there's only one true rule of writing, and that rule is: Write Interesting. I'll be brutally honest here: I think you've broken that rule.

You know, one of the true rules of helpful critiques is "Explain why you don't like something," so that they can actually fix it.
Why didn't you find it interesting?

 

[Savage Idealist]

Please be more precise, what about this particular writing isn't interesting?

 

[Haphazard]

I think you're trying too hard. The MC doesn't seem to have much emotional response beyond "what's cool". He seems very flat, and, to be honest, uninteresting, though I'm probably not your target audience. You may say that he gets better later, but if there's nothing to grab me in the first chapter, I'll put it down. Also, the language seems, err, forced, for some reason. I usually don't mind swearing but in this case it seems gratuitous even though I know I've read and liked stories with even more swearing than this.

Shouldn't God know everything that's going on with the demons because of all the cameras, anyway? Why does he need angels to investigate? If anything, in such a situation, they seem like they would be soldiers, not cop-like at all.

 

[Savage Idealist]

Well, my target audience would be more be around the late teen to early twenty male demographic / sci-fi action genre. I didn't think I was trying to hard, more like I was putting myself into the shoes of Crow ans speaking as though I were him. And while God does judge everyone there is a physical reason as to why he can't stop the demons, which will be touched upon sometime later in the book.

 

[Haphazard]

It seems bizarre that if God has all these cameras everywhere, watching everyone's deeds that the angels would have to investigate a murder.

I'm in my late teens and love sci-fi/action.

There are a lot of little things too: I mean, why call Satan Rak? "It's cooler that way"? We all know Satan as Satan, and Satan is a plenty badass name because it IS known, and why would they want to make his name sound cool if they were working against him? You don't try to build up your enemies. In that case, they would probably want to give him a non-threatening name or give him some kind of unusual euphemism. I'd go for Mr. Goatfooties myself, or something to that effect. Why describe your wife like something out of an anime? etc.

 

[BlueScreen]

Also, the language seems, err, forced, for some reason. I usually don't mind swearing but in this case it seems gratuitous even though I know I've read and liked stories with even more swearing than this.

I was going to defend savage but I agreed on this point. It's quite easily fixed though. Pretend you are playing the game where you keep asking why to annoy the hell out of your parents. I'll start with the first sentence...

On a cold November night, I was stabbed several times to death by means of a broken beer bottle.

Why cold? Why November? Why night? Why stabbed? Why "several times"? Why "broken bottle"? Why "beer bottle"?

. I know it is completely silly, but that is what your reader subconsciously steps through. Or that is the domain you are playing in. If there is no why, it is noise. The reader's subconscious is spending time considering the irrelevant never to be rewarded. The reader's subconscious won't pin down the subtle or even clear messages you want to send with words because the majority aren't messages.

One starting trick is never use an adjective unless it is needed for meaning. I know the majority of novels you read fill the space with adjectives to seem arty or sophisticated or something, but don't. The better ones use them well, even if they use a lot. Instead start by filling the space with content: interesting stories from/about characters, mysterious connections between things... never spell it out for them... the mind of the reader can create so much more than you could ever communicate directly. Think I will put them there, rather than I will tell them about it.

On the swearing part. Swearing is perfectly fine, but use it well. Using without impact can seem forced or coarse as haphazard said.

 

[Haphazard]

Actually, I have no issue with his first sentence except perhaps the fact that there have recently been too many stories that start with the viewpoint being brutally murdered in such a way.

The swearing, though, yeah, is really, really distracting. Most of the times I've seen really copious amounts of swearing working is in movies or in more distant narratives where it's not infiltrating your narrator's thoughts. The word "fuck" is like any other word, if you use it too much in writing, it gets repetitive. Sure, the guy may use fuck like a comma, but people even get annoyed by commas if you use them too much.

 

[Sniffles]

And I foolishly thought this was going to be about Norman Davies's book. :redface:

 

[rav3n]

You've got interesting characters and storyline. I'm now curious about what's going to happen.

Your protaganist isn't tough or irreverent enough. As an example:

"Awe, what's the matter, are you fuckers jealous of my awesomeness?"

"Aww....whatza' matter? You ladies got PMS? Cramps?"

You might want to consider the banter that soldiers indulge in.

 

[Savage Idealist]

Originally posted by Haphazard
It seems bizarre that if God has all these cameras everywhere, watching everyone's deeds that the angels would have to investigate a murder.

Well, there is a reason for such, and eventually the truth of why it occurs this way will be later revealed. Until then I will have the characters engage in conversation where they question why an all knowing the god would allow evil to exist in the first place (the problem of evil).

There are a lot of little things too: I mean, why call Satan Rak? "It's cooler that way"? We all know Satan as Satan, and Satan is a plenty badass name because it IS known, and why would they want to make his name sound cool if they were working against him? You don't try to build up your enemies. In that case, they would probably want to give him a non-threatening name or give him some kind of unusual euphemism. I'd go for Mr. Goatfooties myself, or something to that effect. Why describe your wife like something out of an anime? etc.

As for Rak, it's more of an easter egg: http://www.wizards.com/magic/images/cardart/DIS/Rakdos_the_Defiler_640.jpg

The wife is like something out of an anime in that she is unrealistically beatiful and perfect in her looks. She's also subservant, cute, and innocent.

The swearing, though, yeah, is really, really distracting. Most of the times I've seen really copious amounts of swearing working is in movies or in more distant narratives where it's not infiltrating your narrator's thoughts. The word "fuck" is like any other word, if you use it too much in writing, it gets repetitive. Sure, the guy may use fuck like a comma, but people even get annoyed by commas if you use them too much.

Yeah, the foul language is slightly unneccesary, I can limit a few parts of it.

Originally posted by noigmn
Why cold? Why November? Why night? Why stabbed? Why "several times"? Why "broken bottle"? Why "beer bottle"?

I suppose I could try this, although the whole "cold november night" was meant to give the reader an idea of the environment.

Originally posted by Peguy
And I foolishly thought this was going to be about Norman Davies's book.

Oops. Guess I need to change the title. :redface:

Originally posted by Metaphor
"Aww....whatza' matter? You ladies got PMS? Cramps?"

You might want to consider the banter that soldiers indulge in.

Yeah, I was never too good with comebacks and insults, I really got work on that.

 

[BlueScreen]

I suppose I could try this, although the whole "cold november night" was meant to give the reader an idea of the environment.

Sorry, that wasn't meant to attack that sentence. I just used it because it was first and had lots of why points for the example. I think you did a lot of that well. It is just a good mindset to start in, especially if you are going to put swear words in there and really get the impact. Don't be scared to make things really hit home.

Why is the environment important to the reader? ...

Keep asking why and eventually you'll see the problem in a really clear form. You'll notice what should and shouldn't be there. This is going on the assumption that we think in a similar way as the same type. It is filling out the big picture.

For the first sentence I would've gone something simpler like, "On a cold November night, I was stabbed." The frills kill the complete waste and pointlessness that you are trying to put across. I'd want it to start uncomfortably simple, unjustified and whatever. Then for the rest of the paragraph you try to justify the unjustifiable. It might start better with something that sets the scene more than the month and the temperature. Like "As I turned to punch, I was stabbed." or something. I like that you kill the protagonist in the first sentence though. It's brilliant.

 

[Savage Idealist]

^Ah I see, so your saying I need to contsantly analyze every sentence I write in order to build more congruity and meaning, see what should be and what shouldn't be, just like how an artist steps back and looks for certain details?

And yeah, most people wouldn't expect something like the main character dying in the first sentence, but it's definitely a good way to draw the reader in.

 

[BlueScreen]

^Ah I see, so your saying I need to contsantly analyze every sentence I write in order to build more congruity and meaning, see what should be and what shouldn't be, just like how an artist steps back and looks for certain details?

Yeh, I like to step back and analyse it at the start. It helps you understand how you work as a writer too. Then you start doing it subconsciously after a while and it starts to feel like an entity which you are adding parts to. Some parts feel right, some feel Picasso .

I'm not really trained in writing or anything, but the elements I seem to notice are:

The psychology: getting into the readers head and playing with it. The great film maker's are known for this too. Priming the audience to have certain reactions, really putting them there, or making them put themselves there.

The flow: communicating the mood with the flow of the writing, stopping and starting the reader, making them pause after certain things, or read quick sentences.

Communication: Getting the message across. What words you choose matter. At school we were told to find stranger words because people get bored of reading the same word, but you want the word that gets the message to the reader the best and the way you want. If you choose something too standard it might not have the literary or romantic feel of something more unusual; if you choose something too unusual the reader might stop and reach for the dictionary or ignore it and miss the message completely. You don't really want their brain wandering off thinking "did that make sense?" or anything. My sister always told me "say it". Like get rid of the conscious part that thinks "how should I say this if I am writing a book" or whatever, and just say what you want to say. If what comes out doesn't look quite right, make a few adjustments or try again.

tone: I'm not sure if tone is the right word, but you want to use direct and active tenses in some places and passive ones in others. I just play that by feel, but I'm sure there is some theory to it.

I figure the more things you are aware of as you write the more you can draw on. Just have fun with it and try things.

 

[rav3n]

To add to the part about word usage, it sounds like most of your main characters are tough guys. Use strong words and phrases in dialogue, even if you end up using cliches. These guys aren't supposed to be creative literary geniuses. You want them rough around the edges where swearing isn't the only defining factor.

 

[Savage Idealist]

I should also probably mention now that I mistyped the title of this thread: it's not a short story, but a whole novel I'm working on.

Oh, and thanks for the additional advice guys