From the /c/writing_critiques community on Chambers

Here's a rough piece of my draft for my post-apocalyptic novel. I'd say it's about 30,000 words in and barely into "act two" - I've never written a novel before, so I'm finally hitting a point where I think I can trickle it to you all as the pace slows down. I'm excited to get some of this out there and get some real feedback - it's been rough going through this slow period. I'm happy to review your work in return. *That being said, I only ask that if you get this far, and still care, please tell me about any weird formatting issues. I have had no luck getting anything I write in word to translate well here. --- Chapter One: The Fall of Civilization The rain wasn’t enough to fill a bucket. Every storm was a reminder: the supply wouldn’t last forever. The mayor had been sending out recyclables to be brought back to the city in water bottles, but there hadn’t been a delivery for a long time now. The convoy had been delayed, some said the army was broken, others said the weather was bad… Jackie thought it was a combination of both. His little soldering kit was a good one, but he’d always been fine at making do without water – it was better to get a little drunk and be able to sleep. If he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat, and he definitely couldn’t work. He could certainly keep himself entertained. As the city burned, Jackie decided it was the last time he’d work on the clock. He couldn’t see himself making anything he didn’t want to make from now on. He didn’t remember the first time he’d ever been drunk, but it was a good thing he didn’t because the times he’d had been wasted always reminded him of how this place sucked. He had always thought that if he was ever able to show anyone outside of this place where he grew up, he’d immediately be asked if he had a good idea of what the world was like before the bombings. That was a good question. He never knew the answer. So he drank. What else could he do? When he was a kid, his parents explained to him that drinking was bad. He got those lectures again from his brother, his mayor, and even his husband. It didn’t matter. If he hadn’t been there to burn the dead, to bury them later, he’d have thought the ashes were the remains of something far more magical. The world died, and Jackie allowed himself to lose the war that night, drinking and watching the city burn. It didn’t matter, the war was lost either way. He felt guiltier than ever. If they were ever rescued, he knew they’d have their questions – how did you allow your own people to die? If they’d have been a little more careful, had they actually put effort into the new-age good neighbor policy, they’d have seen this heading their way. It should have never gotten to this point. They’d had their chances and failed – all of them, from the very beginning. No one even knew a war had started until it was over. Of course they’d have questions, they’d want to know why they hadn’t packed up and moved. Never in his wildest dreams did he think turning back would have the outcome it did – but that was just it. Now, it was just a dream. Now, everyone was dead. He’d killed them all, and he was too drunk to know how to feel about it. Jackie had never felt so alone in his life – his most prized possessions, his secrets, had never felt further away. They were still there, waiting for him when he really needed them. He’d drank enough to know they’d never be needed again. It was a good thing, too, because this was likely the last drink the town would ever see. At least he didn’t have to be drunk through that shit-show. There’s so many different ways to die, he thought. What was his father’s favorite phrase? Life is precious, and death is kind. – C.S. Lewis He couldn’t help but think back on his own time in the military. He missed it. He missed his brother. Death is kind. The fire crackled. Jackie shivered. He was cold and alone, but he wasn’t sad anymore. Death is kind. He stumbled out the door and made it into the street before falling over, his vision blurring enough that he knew he’d never make it back to his own bed. He decided it didn’t matter and turned onto his back. Everything hurt. Death is kind. He decided to never sleep again. Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer under his breath – if there was a heaven, he wanted his brother and the others to be there, waiting. He was tired, and he wanted to see them. He was cold, and he wanted to be warm. He closed his eyes and didn’t wake up.

Cause and Effect (post-apocalyptic novel) - feedback wanted

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