So, for an English project (it was an independent project. That is, we got to chose what we got to do and I did this because I'm crazy) I wrote a novel in 30 days with a word count goal of of 40,000 words. Well, I reached my goal and finished the novel and well, I'd like to get some feedback on it.
I'm pretty proud of the way that it came out, so I decided to post it up. What I'm going to be posting is the edited version, so it's not the raw material. I didn't want to "publish" writing that was done in a rush. For now, I'll just post chapter one, but if I do decide to post the rest of it, it'll be spaced out be periods of time or some other sort of wall of text resistant strategy (if that's possible).
Now, I know that there are a lot of funky sentence structures and run-on sentences. Know that those are purposeful, but also let me know if you think I should make them more conventional.
Also, I love constructive criticism.
And yes, disconcertment is a word. Proof (under the related terms) :]
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Chapter 1: "Sunset" - Part 1 of 4
The eyes of a traitor were wide with disconcertment as the South Sector of the Utopian City released its torrents of wind and rain. There was a letter, a simple letter in a white envelope, left taped to the door, soggy and so distressingly plain. And those eyes, those condemned eyes, dyed red and displayed for all of the world to shun, sensed the danger in the simplicity of the thing. It was not a red envelope, not a government seal, not official mail delivered to a house with mandated intolerance for such deliveries. He dragged his feet up the steps that creaked underneath him and tore the paper from its adhesive, wondering if anyone else had seen it, wondering if anyone had reported him for unauthorized communications.
It was damp in his hands, damp but not soaked, white but not right, tempting but discouraging, all at the same time. But the traitor ruffled through a cluster of story concepts and other musings written on wrinkled napkins and pieces of cardboard that he had deposited on a table. He moved them aside, careful not to allow the beads of rain to deface them, and placed the letter in the newly created empty space on his front hallway's wooden depository of clutter. Exhausted, there was no mind given to the puddles that he carried up his steps, only a halfhearted attempt to blot the envelope's white drabness out of his mind. Up, step by step, through the halls, into a musty room, onto a bed in his day clothes he went. When will this day end, he asked himself, why can't I close my eyes and make this day end at last? The only feeling that hung suspended in that room was paranoia, a suspicious fear from a desperate, fallen hero who had lost his powers. If only he could ceases to find meaning in everything, if only he was ignorant, if only he was huddling in the dark with the rest of society, then maybe he could consider himself at rest, then maybe he could find peace of mind...
The world finally went dark for Sol Zukof and sleep came, dreamless at first. It was pleasant and his subconscious reveled in the silence. But, like so many of his other perturbing nights, the images came at last.
The earth, caked in a layer of dust. Or, maybe it's debris. No, it's ash. Ash, black and brown and tan and filthy. Everything found itself caked in it, caked in the residue of burning wood, burning trash, burning gasoline and burning flesh. And then there were the winds, the winds blowing - no, whipping - pieces of singed wood and car parts and sheetrock and fragments of bone that had lost their marrow. The sound of it was a deafening roar of white noise that consumed the ears of all that were still conscious and alive, even those that could almost drown out everything with their own screams of agony. Their voices were just not loud enough. Sol could almost feel his body; he could almost feel the lacerations from the jetting pieces of shattered civilization. It was, however, so distant that he couldn't comprehend it. It was as though his mind was canceling it out, interrupting it, trying to protect him.
The sky was red, red with blood or wine or paint or perhaps just red. It was almost intimidating, but at the same time, it seemed fitting. There was movement in it, the movement of clouds and thunder, and it was all different shades of the same saturated red. That light filtered down and created a crimson ambiance.
Sol stood motionless, watching the events unfold in front of him. People were running. Some of them were aflame, others singed, others seemingly unharmed, but they were all fleeing from something. What were they afraid of and where were they going? Nothing was in enough focus. Everything was blurred, blurred as though the blaring heat was bending the images before him, warping them into obscurity. And then there was light, blinding light, painful light.
"Get out of here," screamed the woman in the black trench coat, the one that had always made the sidewalk her home, "We have to get out!" She was crying, tears streaking down her face in rivers that seemed to bore canyons in her flesh. With hands charred and bleeding, she grabbed hold of Sol's wrists, pulling him and leading him away, but he pushed her aside. Several splotches of blood flung from her arms as she tripped backwards, staring wide-eyed in her delirium. The fluid began to evaporate into droplets before it had even touched the ground and it billowed, sick and surreal, up into the air. The blood on his hands, the blood on her hands and the blood from all around was swept up and twisted, swirled around them.
He ran forwards and at last realized: it was the sun, the exploding sun, and it was nearing home. These people, these terrified people without tact or skill, were all running in vain from a star that was expanding with a power far greater than their own, their efforts extending their lives by mere hours - or perhaps minutes - before they would be inevitably consumed. But despite all of the chaos, the pain and the unbearable heat, the only coherent thought in Sol's mind was the seemingly illogical desire to immerse himself in the light of such a beast. He longed, yearned for it; he needed it.
Sol moved forward, step by agonizing step. The debris and ash and shrapnel and car parts and pieces of human bone that rode upon the wind ripped at his flesh, sending trickles of blood downward with gravity. With every footfall, every forward motion, the winds strengthened themselves and whipped at him, leaving him staggering. One gust thrust him twisting and tumbling into the crumbling cement of the nation's oldest pharmacy. There were white spots in his eyes, then a concussion, then a broken something, but he persisted. He scratched at the ground, grappled for handholds and gritted his teeth against the debris that eroded him.
Then, all of his determination disintegrated. A woman, tall and ebony, phased into view through the ash clouds. His mother was kneeling, bleeding, sobbing. In a hoarse voice she cried out, "Son, come back, come back son." But the traitor turned his head and continued onwards with a drive of desperate dejection. His skin was wearing raw from the ash and the heat, almost as though it was melting away as he dragged his broken form towards the sun. The light, all he wanted was the light, and he refuse to believe the sight behind him of his mother dying on the ground, calling for him to return. Because, all he knew in that moment was that forwards was illuminated, and backwards was a doomed and perpetual darkness that sickened him to his core.
