Need a critique

Okay so I have this assignment for a creative writing class where I have to chronicle the most profound moment of my life. Personally I think it's kind of retarded to base a fiction writing class in nonfictional subject matter but I'd like some critiques on this story. Some of the older members here have already heard the story's facts before but this time I actually tried to put some feeling and emotion in them. I'd like to know what you people think. Beware, it's long. If you meet someone who's most profound moment can be expressed in a few sentances, they're not worth knowing. :

Turns out the post is 76 characters too long so look in the next post:

Re: Need a critique

Profound Moment
By Rockwulf

My most profound moment is difficult to talk about but that’s the assignment and I’d be harder pressed to make up some bullshit that sounded convincing.
September 11th, 2001 was eight days into my freshman year of college. I had already made lots of friends, won two hundred bucks at the introductory trivia contest and forgotten what it was like to live with a set of parents. Sure my campus, the abandoned psychiatric facility most noted for inventing electro-shock therapy was an utter shithole, but it wasn’t home and it wasn’t high school and I was feeling great.
That morning I got up at 6:30 AM in order to catch the 7:00 shuttle from my school’s campus in Central Islip Long Island to the campus in Old Westbury for my “College Success” class. A class designed solely for the purpose of taking an entire semester to tell you that you weren’t in high school anymore and it’s really important to study. Seeing as how I was already WELL aware of this fact, after nearly getting kicked out of my high school at least twice for various disciplinary situations, I tended to doze off in this class quite a bit. The second class was no exception.
We’d all filed in, grabbed a doughnut from the caff. And sat down, each in our own state of attention. Some of the overachievers were anxiously chomping at the bit to answer every question, no matter how hypothetical, that the teacher asked. These were the people that I held in the most contempt until a few hours later.
In the middle of the teacher’s fifteenth lecture about the dangers of unprotected sex, someone knocked on the door and came in to whisper in the teacher’s ear. She smiled and nodded, thanking the intruder and then turned to the class an announced, “It seems someone has flown a plane into the World Trade Center.” Her constant grin was a reassuring image that this person, flying a tiny, one-passenger personal plane was probably some rich douche who died on impact and hadn’t even left something as significant as a crater to mark their passing. It became quite obvious later that the whisperer hadn’t told the story exactly right….
The class went on for what felt like another hour of inane hypotheticals and “what-ifs” regarding drinking, parties, sex, studying and every other potential nightmare that any kid who’d grown up in the eighties had tired of years ago. When we were finally released from the monotonous hell that was College Success, I headed down once again to the cafeteria to grab a soda for the bus ride back to CI.
“What the fuck?” I thought as I shoved my way through the unmoving crowd of people, in search of an ice cold Coca Cola. Nobody was moving. Nobody was trying to get to class, to get a lunch, to go anywhere. They were all fixated on the lone, seventeen-inch television in the corner, which, from only a week’s experience I knew was constantly tuned to CTV, the “College Television Network,” which, as far as I was concerned should have been called BSTV. But now CNN was on and as I paused and looked up, a live feed of the second plane, just as it hit the tower, the first already smoking and burning.
My jaw dropped, as did my stomach. At the moment I wasn’t sure whether to throw up or shit my pants. The odds were on both.
I sat for an hour, until the next bus came watching them show the same ten seconds of film over and over again. Each time it was slightly less shocking. Slightly less of a surprise until I no longer felt helpless and hopeless, but angry, helpful, and hopeful.
When the bus dropped us back at the CI campus, the dust cloud was already visible to the west, high in the sky. My friends and I joined a crowd of people who were new to the area, looking up and calling Red Cross stations and anyone else we could get a hold of, trying to organize blood drives, clothing drives, whatever we could do to help. We were told that everyone was already out and that nobody was available to collect our blood, even as the talking heads on CNN and other news programs were practically screaming for it. We felt helpless. We were a campus of over a thousand men and women in the prime of their lives, as strong and as able as we’d ever be. And we were being told to sit down, be quiet, and let the grown-ups handle things.

Fuck that!

As it happened, the EMT assigned to my dorm was linked to the volunteer fire department three blocks away from our campus. The station was being inundated with donations of every type and had no manpower to deal with it all. I was told that if I could get a group of ten guys, that we could go down and help out.
I had to turn people away in less than twenty seconds. They seemed to think that ten guys was a minimum that I’d have to fight to achieve…Meanwhile I was only taking the biggest and brightest who were ready to move NOW.
We went down as a group and the beleaguered volunteers couldn’t have been happier to have us. The captain of the station had heard we were coming from my EMT friend and had cold bottles of water ready for each of us as we got there. We were greeted with a simple, “Hi, I’m Tom. Glad you guys are here. Each of you grab a bottle and chug it, you’re gonna need it,” and with that he went back to coordinating the volunteers.
Hours later we had moved several tons of supplies, food, water, clothes, dog food, etc. filling to capacity the 14 trucks they could round up in such short notice. I asked that my boys and I go in with the trucks but was told that there just wasn’t room. We were thanked and offered beers and the captain himself told me that we’d worked harder tonight than he’d seen some of his men work all year. But I took little comfort in this as I was essentially being told that I was too young to play in the big game.

Re: Need a critique

The rest of my crew felt the same way so we decided to head over to the nearest, Long Island Rail Road station, 4 blocks behind campus. With only the clothes on our backs and whatever we had in our pockets, we were headed to the big game no matter what.
One of the guys, nicknamed “Starvin’ Marvin” had a portable radio which we listened to as we waited on the platform and heard that civilians were no longer allowed into the “containment zone.” It was supposed to be emergency personnel only.
We jumped on the next train anyway and were lucky enough to meet a group of EMT’s from further east on their way in. We told them of our work with the firehouse and they said that they’d take us with them, posing as their “deputy EMT’s”. At the time I figured that it was a bunch of horseshit and that we’d never be allowed in.
But once we got there I saw that the news reports weren’t as accurate as they made themselves out to be. Looking back now it seems obvious but when you’re a starry eyed kid fresh out of high school, the news is just one of the things you always trusted. We passed three or four checkpoints as a group, the EMT’s flashing their badges and giving our “deputy” story. Every checkpoint guard, to a man, gave us a wink and a nod and let us through.
Once we made it pretty far into the city, we were split up. Only two of my guys were still with me as we made our way into one of the coordinating areas. The dust was nearly solid as I pulled my t-shirt up over my face. Once we got to the first station we were given masks, making it slightly easier.

The coordinating area we were at was a mob scene. There were people on all sorts of radios and walkie-talkies getting information and immediately forming squads to be sent out to the areas that needed them.

“Who knows CPR?” A few dozen people raised their hand, including myself and one of my friends. I wasn’t picked but my friend was. He was taken to a medical camp that had been set up and he spent the entire night trying to save lives. Even though CPR was pretty much useless by the time people were arriving at the medical area, he fought through the whole night doing what he could for whom he could. I wasn’t to share in his glory.

“Who’s an electrician?” Almost nobody raised their hand. I’d seen my father do several projects involving wiring and had done quite a bit of reading and experimenting myself. I raised my hand and was immediately shown to a maroon pick-up where the few who knew wiring were clambering in like spiders. I was the last one in and as soon as I jumped off the rear bumper into the bed, the truck sped off into the city.
The ride was deadly quiet as we sped through the city. I had no idea where I was going and was separated from everyone I knew, including the EMT’s who’d assured our trek into the city would be worthwhile.
The truck made several stops and a few people jumped out of the truck each time. I waited until I was given orders to get out. I jumped out of the truck and was confronted with a charnel house.
I was in front a morgue where the carnage was being dropped for storage like a gift that nobody wanted. There was constant motion of doctors who’s talents would have been better off elsewhere and civilians, like myself, who were utterly unprepared for what they’d face.
I’d never seen a corpse before outside of a TV or movie screen. More importantly, I’d never smelled one…
The stench of burning flesh filled the air like water fills an aquarium. There was no escaping it. I was in a daze from the carnage when I was grabbed by the shoulder from whom I vaguely recognized as the driver of the truck.
“You know wiring? He yelled into my face, shocking me out of my complacency.
“Y-y-yeah” I stuttered, knowing that I knew about 1% of “wiring”
“Those generators need to go up YESTERDAY!” the driver yelled as he shoved me in the direction of a group of gasoline generators, which were already being filled by a group of people with gas cans. The morgue was without power and being staffed by people with flashlights, lanterns, and even crude torches. There was no simple way to just plug the generators into the building and go on our way.
As I spent the next several hours alongside a dedicated team of volunteers, we got the morgue wired up. During that time I saw more bodies and body parts up close and personal than most people see in a lifetime’s worth of movies. There were even times when I had to help ID which part belonged to which body.
That was the night that I was changed from a boy, into a man. And that is the most profound moment of my life.

Re: Need a critique

pretty good.. add pictures if you have some chronilogically with the story. :)
unless your writing class rules say no pics.

Re: Need a critique

Quote:

Originally Posted by VoldtaEngler

pretty good.. add pictures if you have some chronilogically with the story. :)
unless your writing class rules say no pics.

I know you mean well, but seriously, if you read the story, taking pictures was the farthest thing from my mind....

Re: Need a critique

Good story and nice description. The end, however, seems a bit rushed. Unless you are limited on length I'd spend a little more time on the conclusion: what challenges did you overcome whit the generators, was it a team effort or mostly you...things like that. Everything up untill then is nicely described with analogies and everything, but the end is like "I did this and it was done", it might be a hard thing to explain to the reader, but I think if you add more details to that last part the whole thing will flow better.

...my two cents, hope it helps. :thumb:

Re: Need a critique

Quote:

Originally Posted by Spaceman Spiff

Good story and nice description. The end, however, seems a bit rushed. Unless you are limited on length I'd spend a little more time on the conclusion: what challenges did you overcome whit the generators, was it a team effort or mostly you...things like that. Everything up untill then is nicely described with analogies and everything, but the end is like "I did this and it was done", it might be a hard thing to explain to the reader, but I think if you add more details to that last part the whole thing will flow better.

...my two cents, hope it helps. :thumb:

That's a good thought. Thanks Spiff

Re: Need a critique

I'll echo Spaceman Spiff's comment about pacing by asking you this:

Have you spent the most time in your story describing the most important thing(s)?

(I don't need an answer; it's something for you to think about.)
___________

Double-check your punctuation, too: I saw a lot of misplaced or missing commas and periods.

Many writing teachers throw hissy fits about such things, in my experience. :)
___________

You've got some hackneyed phrases in there, but have left some other things -- possibly highly impactful things -- unexplained. For example:

Quote:

Originally Posted by Rockwulf

I’d never seen a corpse before outside of a TV or movie screen. More importantly, I’d never smelled one…
The stench of burning flesh filled the air like water fills an aquarium. There was no escaping it.

A couple of things here:

How does water fill an aquarium? (I dunno; it strikes me as a strange simile to use.)

You'd never smelled a corpse or burning flesh before, and odds are your readers never have, either. Describe it. Describe what it smelled like (rotting garbage? overcooked steak? I dunno: you were there). Describe how the air tasted (did the back of your throat burn?). Describe how you felt (Nauseous? Small? Impotent? Did you have a strange flash of a childhood memory?). What sounds could you hear? (moans? vomiting? doctors shouting orders?)

You describe being in a daze; see if you can expand this moment in time for your reader. It might be little more than a stream of conciousness list of random observations separated by ellipses.

A quick $0.02 from me. Use it or not as you see fit. :thumb:

Re: Need a critique

Quote:

Originally Posted by Kevin

I'll echo Spaceman Spiff's comment about pacing by asking you this:

Have you spent the most time in your story describing the most important thing(s)?

(I don't need an answer; it's something for you to think about.)
___________

Double-check your punctuation, too: I saw a lot of misplaced or missing commas and periods.

Many writing teachers throw hissy fits about such things, in my experience. :)
___________

You've got some hackneyed phrases in there, but have left some other things -- possibly highly impactful things -- unexplained. For example:

A couple of things here:

How does water fill an aquarium? (I dunno; it strikes me as a strange simile to use.)

You'd never smelled a corpse or burning flesh before, and odds are your readers never have, either. Describe it. Describe what it smelled like (rotting garbage? overcooked steak? I dunno: you were there). Describe how the air tasted (did the back of your throat burn?). Describe how you felt (Nauseous? Small? Impotent? Did you have a strange flash of a childhood memory?). What sounds could you hear? (moans? vomiting? doctors shouting orders?)

You describe being in a daze; see if you can expand this moment in time for your reader. It might be little more than a stream of conciousness list of random observations separated by ellipses.

A quick $0.02 from me. Use it or not as you see fit. :thumb:

Good points. That was worth at least a nicklle.

Re: Need a critique

perhaps i spent too much time in literature classes.. however, depending on the amount of freedom you're allowed in your writing, i'd perhaps reduce the number of instances of "fuck!".

can't remember who said "profanity is the crutch of the inarticulate motherfucker"; i personally believe in reserving that word for apocalyptic crises. i knew someone who used the fuckin; word almost like fuckin' punctuation, and it lost all fuckin' meaning when she fuckin' said it.

Re: Need a critique

Quote:

Originally Posted by sheramil

perhaps i spent too much time in literature classes.. however, depending on the amount of freedom you're allowed in your writing, i'd perhaps reduce the number of instances of "fuck!".

can't remember who said "profanity is the crutch of the inarticulate motherfucker"; i personally believe in reserving that word for apocalyptic crises. i knew someone who used the fuckin; word almost like fuckin' punctuation, and it lost all fuckin' meaning when she fuckin' said it.

A few people have said that to me. I'm planning on revising it for the second draft.