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[Little]

After using Googe-Fu, you mean the Outsiders.

Thank you, Seal. I was aiming for poor bums in over their heads. I was briefly flirting with the idea of the main character going back to his shitty apartment and then the Mob kicks in his door and shoots him because they killed Patrick, whose behind the counter betting operation paid half it's money to the Mob.

[Heron TSG]

The part about Derek whizzing on his computer made me laugh for some reason. 

[Awayfarer]

Seems more polished than the last one. I'm about halfway through it but I've got a pretty decent amount of work to finish before I can focus on the rest of the story.

I stared at the unfinished story, grimacing. I looked up and around my small cluttered apartment, noting that the walls needed cleaning and that the table’s leg was still propped up by a book.

I’d suggest a semicolon after “apartment”. As in “I looked up and around my small cluttered apartment: the walls needed cleaning and the table leg was still propped up by a book.”

Is this a kitchen table or a coffee table? I know it seems like a minor detail, but it gives a better frame of reference. I get the impression that it’s probably the only table in the place.

The book is a great place to add detail. Let your reader know what it is. Whether it’s “William Shatner’s Erotic Adventures” or the holy bible, you can use it to say something about your character.

The light bulb hanging from a string off the ceiling, which was the apartment’s only source of light, flickered almost constantly at night, and occasionally turned itself on during the day.

Find a synonym for “light”, or maybe just cut down “light bulb” to “bulb”, or say something like “40 watt bulb”. Prose flows better when the same words don’t get used too often. Great detail though.

The grey carpet was stained and dirty, heaped with pizza boxes and dirty clothes, swarming flies, and crumpled up balls of paper that should be my income but instead were my greatest source of misery.

Nitpick: I’d change “should” to “could”. If this guy is a frustrated writer, he knows that he isn’t likely to make much money off of it barring some serious luck. “Should” suggests that he expects success. “Could” suggests that he’s hoping, rather than anticipating.

Which I only say because I’ve just gotten into writing, and I get the impression that it’s widely acknowledged just what a bitch it is to make any money with it. 

The broken husk of a thing that used to be a shower lingered on in the apartment’s other room, spraying water that was as cold as Death itself when it worked at all.

Ditch “husk”. It suggests something papery, thin and weak. I’d dial back the prose a bit too. Since I’m guessing the shower isn’t a terribly important detail, you can just say “…spraying icy cold water when it worked at all.”, or something similar.

The only thing that worked in the place was the toilet, which somehow remained clean and efficient. That always confused me. I stared down at the paper again, breaking off my train of thought. The story I was currently attempting to re-write was about a man who kills his best friend after finding the friend and his girlfriend having sex in a parked car. A cop sees the murder, and he freaks out and shoots the cop, too. The story goes on as the protagonist is painted by the media as a ruthless killer.

Nice.

...more to follow...

[Awayfarer]

He then has to evade the authorities and attempts to flee the country. He fails, is arrested, and sentenced to death after a long trial, and is killed through lethal injection.

First sentence is awkward. Try something like, “He attempts to evade the authorities by fleeing the country.” It unifies the two actions.

Little too much in that second sentence. I’d try breaking it up into a couple of smaller ones. Maybe something like “He fails to escape and is arrested. After a long trial he’s sentenced to death by lethal injection”

I had the whole story finished, and then Derek went out, got drunk and ended up pissing on my laptop, shorting it out and erasing all the files. Stupid son of a bitch ruined me. I beat the shit out of him afterwards, but he was as drunk as a post, so he said he hardly remembered it, let alone felt it.

"Drunk as a post" doesn't really make sense. At least, I've never heard the phrase and the thought of a post drinking doesn't really lend itself well to the imagination.

Tell us who Derek is. If he’s important to the plot this would be a good spot to describe him in detail. If he’s relatively minor, or if you plan on detailing him later, just a title (friend, roommate, etc) or one sentence description is fine.

I desperately tried to remember the details of the story, and scribbled the occasional word down, the pieces of paper filling slowly. I couldn’t remember it all, and a few sentences later, I gave up. What’s the use? It’s gone.

You can chop out “I couldn’t remember it all.” The preceding material implies that.

I stacked what little progress I had on the table, pinned down by my dead laptop. It’s become a large, shiny paperweight, a reminder of when I could afford a few expensive luxuries.

Ah! You’ve got a pretty seamless transition from a physical object (the laptop) into a memory. This might be a good spot for a flashback if there’s anything you want to let readers know about your protagonist. At this point they’ll probably be wondering just what happened that he’s in such reduced circumstances.

Sighing sadly, I brushed my long brown hair out of my face.

You can ditch the “sadly”. Adverbs are generally not needed if you can imply a state of mind through action, which you have with the sigh and the preceding material.

Sickly grey light filtered through the apartment’s one window, illuminating the room. It was mid-afternoon, and a cloudy day. I’d predict rain, but I don’t have the Weather Channel (let alone a TV) to back up my prediction.

Find a synonym for “predict” or “prediction”.

...more to follow...

[Awayfarer]

I began to doze when there was a rap on my door. I jerked to awareness, shaking my head rapidly, and looking around. I absorbed my grim surroundings and sighed. I was never motivated to clean up these days and whoever my guest was; he or she probably wouldn’t care. I yelled, “Come in, whoever the hell you are! Door’s unlocked!”

There are a few too many sentences starting with “I” here. Remember to spread out agency between your character, other characters and the surroundings. Varied sentence structure makes things easier to read. You had it down pretty well in the first couple of paragraphs.

The door opened, and Derek walked in, dirty blonde hair as long as mine, eyes rimmed red. He was wearing one of his white t-shirts that seemed to specialize in showing dirt and pizza stains. His jeans were tattered and had a few rips in the knees.

The word “specialize” makes the description of the shirt is a bit awkward. It’s an active verb applied to an inanimate object. Try rewriting the description. The details are mostly fine; just find a different way to note their presence.

He was grinning, that goddamn smug grin so easily appearing on his pale skin.

Awkward. What does it mean for a grin to easily appear? Do you mean he smiles a lot?

Taking a few more steps inside, his shoes crunched a pizza box. He looked around and said, “Nice place you got here.”

There’s a tense disagreement in the first sentence between “Taking”, which suggests an action that is currently happening, and “crunched” which is past tense. You might want to try something other than “crunched” in that sentence. I get what you’re going for, the idea that he steps on a pizza box and crushes it down, but it just doesn’t feel like a natural way of speaking.

I replied, voice laced with sarcasm, “Thanks.”

You can get away with “I replied, sarcastically” I think this is a spot where an adverb would be fine. Off the top of my head I can’t think of any verb that suggests speech in a sarcastic tone.

Chuckling, he replied, “No problem. I’m guessing you need cash by the look of the place?”

You can cut it down to “He chuckled.” It does the same work as another dialogue tag (he said, he implied, he replied, etc) would.

I nodded vigorously, “Got fired from my shitty little job at Smith’s Restaurant.” 

I used to have a part time job at a little, family oriented restaurant. I waited the tables in the Family Section with all the yelling, snot-nosed brats and their mothers. Their fathers sat in the bar section of the place (which was a lot cleaner and less irritating) and nursed their beers, watching football games with their friends. The cook in the back called the place the ‘Couples-Near-Divorce-Restaurant’. I found that hilarious. I got fired for stubbing my toe against a table and yelling ‘Fuck!’ during the middle of a kid’s birthday party.

Bunch of little prose nitpicks here.
I’d drop “oriented” and just say “family restaurant”.
You don’t need to capitalize “family section”
I’d drop the first “their” in the sentence that begins “their fathers”. There are just too many instances of the word too close to one another.
You can cut down “bar section of the place” to just “bar area”. Conveys the same info but is shorter.

The toe stubbing detail is nice but the sentence needs a rewrite. As written it suggests that stubbing his toe was part of why the main character was fired. Try “I got fired when I stubbed my toe against a table and yelled ‘Fuck!’ …”

...more to follow...

[Awayfarer]

Derek smiled faintly, “Needles and I are going to rob Patrick’s Bar. You wanna help?”

I ran through some basics. I had forty dollars in my bank, twenty in cash, and about a dollar in change around the room. I could last until the end of the month with cheap food, but rent would bankrupt my ass. A robbery could get me anywhere from two-hundred to three-hundred bucks. It would be just enough to cover rent, but if I got caught…

I was out of cash. Better to be in jail then on the streets, I guess.

I nodded, “I’m in.”

Alrighty then.

Derek filled me in on the plan the next day. Patrick had been running a behind-the-counter betting operation, and had racked up about six grand, according to Derek. My share would be around two grand, an even third of the cut. It’d cover expenses and rent nicely for a few months. That might even be enough time to think of something new to write. All I had to bring was a metal crowbar stolen from the construction site down the street. Needles even provided the ski masks.

Minor language detail: cut the “around” from in front of “two grand”. If he’s getting exactly a third, then it’s exactly a third.

Let us know who Needles is. Again, just a title or a short description if he’s coming later.

I lounged around for three days, crowbar sitting by the door. I wrote a few pages of a outline for a new story. It was about a guy who smuggles dope across the border, and gets busted. He gets sent back to his gang by the feds but they figure it out and get him to be a double agent.

Last bit is a little unclear as written. Maybe it could be “The feds send him back to his gang as a spy, but they figure…” and so forth

He balances things for a bit, and then the government starts cracking down on the gang using the information he gives to them. The gang tries to kill him so the protagonist starts running for it. The government finds out, thinks he’s running from them, and starts to pursue him. The media finds out, and blows him out of proportion as a major player in the drug business. He has to try to make it to Mexico.

Good enough premise, I guess.

Nice. I’d only switch “the protagonist” to just “he”.

Needles knocked on my door the day after.

Not perfectly clear. This is two days after Derek visited, right? The description of the story your character is writing throws off timing a bit. Not saying you should get rid of it, you just need to specify when Needles shows up.

...and that's all I got for now.

[Little]

I'll add that all in.

It explains who Needles is.

Another story, one that wrote in one sitting! I don't have a title yet! 

Untitled
By Little

The room was dim, and all Aahil Bari could see was dim shapes. He was terrified, and he felt dizzy. He was certain he had been drugged with something. God, he had been so stupid! A passport problem was obviously a setup in retrospect, but he had fallen for it like an ignorant fool. He opened his mouth and let out a long, tired, sigh. He had been taken to Custom, and had been sat down in a room across from two stern-looking Customs Officers. Then one had said, “It’s him.” And he had been smashed on the head with something. Then he had woken up in the trunk of a car, and they thudded across a pot-hole riddled road, each hole slamming Aahil against the hard metal of the trunk. When light had come at long last, he only saw the daylight for a moment before being stabbed in the forearm by a syringe. Now he was sitting in a shitty little room with light filtering across the cracked, grimy, floor from under a battered door. He was bound tight against something hard, most likely a chair, but moving his head made him feel terribly light-headed. The wisps of greying hair at the back of his head felt heavy, probably matted with his blood from the head injury. Aahil sighed again, idly beginning to wonder what they were going to do to him. Torture seemed likely, and he felt even more tired when he realised hours of agonizing punishment was ahead of him. The last time he had been tortured, he had been in much better shape for it, too. This time, it might send his heart teetering into oblivion. Twenty years ago, he had even managed to keep his mouth shut while the revolutionaries shocked him with their damning probes, now he would burst into tears and spill his nation’s most treasured secrets at the sight of those small metal teeth.

Abruptly, the door was thrown open, slamming against the wall. A moment ago, Aahil had been lamenting the lack of light. Now he just wished for the gloom again. He shut his eyes tightly, but the light still felt too bright. After a moment that seemed far too long, he cautiously slid open his eyes amidst scraping noises. A chair had been brought into the room, and a bald man dressed in a simple that had no mercy in his eyes sat in the small wooden chair. Aahil turned his head from side to side, feeling woozy as he did so, but he established he was in what looked like a refurbished closet. Racks of sharp-looking instruments lined wooden shelves, and Aahil’s heart sank. As he began to lament his fate, the bald man slapped his across one wrinkled cheek and screamed, “LOOK AT ME! NOW!” Aahil quickly shifted his head back to face the bald man, fighting a wave of nausea as he did.  The bald man smiled wickedly and said, “Cooperate with your next visitor. If you don’t, life will become much less pleasant, and much more painful.” Aahil nodded rapidly, feeling sick as the bald man stood up and walked into the well-light corridor. Aahil rapidly ran over his limited options; it was bleak. A short while later, a well-dressed man with what looked like groomed hair walked into the closet. The black business suit looked incredibly out of place, as well as the man’s friendly smile and jolly eyes. The man looked like someone Aahil would’ve gone out for a drink to discuss work, sports, and politics back when his home country wasn’t turning into the sequel to the war in Iraq. Aahil cautiously watched as the business man sit down in the rickety chair. Aahil smiled weakly and asks with the accent of someone who isn’t quite accustomed to English, “Am I back in Iran?” The man seemed to find this immensely funny, and burst out laughing. After the business man had calmed down, he chuckled softly and replied, “Good God, no! If you were back in Iran, you would’ve been snapped like a twig and your body would’ve been thrown into a crematorium already. Now, I just need to ask you a few simple questions.”

 Aahil nodded frantically, shoving the dizziness into the back of his mind as he did so. He knew that the next few minutes could be the difference between life and death. The man smiled happily at seeing the nods, and continued, “Now, we know your Aahil Bari. We know you used to be the head of Iran’s Development of Nuclear Alternatives. We know you stole the bomb from the Russia within the last decade, when there were whispers of your country developing nukes for themselves. We also know that you were in charge of overseeing the contingency plans in the event of an American invasion, and that you did not stay to see your plan in action. There are quite a few angry rebels back in your home country who would like to see you dead, understand?” Aahil cautiously replies, “Yes, I understand.” The man with the well-groomed hair claps his hands happily and grins as he says, “Good! Now, where is Warhead 168B Classified Russian Armament, or as your colleagues and you nicknamed it, Atomic Fire, heading? The contingency plan is activated when your president gives the signal, and he gave it twenty-three minutes ago. We have a little over seventeen hours to go. What road does it travel along to escape the storage facility?” Aahil’s mind races, recalling the details, saying each fragment or location as his fading memory spits it out.
 
 The man’s smile grows wider with each phrase. The plan was to drive it in a small, discreet, convoy to the nearby town of Ajhbah. Once in Ajhbah, the most powerful operational nuclear weapon would be shipped by military plane to a location out of country. Aahil didn’t remember the location, and despite repeated requests from the man in the suit, was not able to disclose it. Aahil curses inwardly at his crumbling memory, he had known it twenty-five years ago, and now he couldn’t remember it to save his skin. He was almost ready to cry as the man in the black suit drew a knife from his pocket, Aahil flinching as he brought it towards his seat. The knife didn’t slash into skin, but rather rope, the discarded bindings falling to the ground in a heap. Mumbling prayers under his breath, Aahil stands up weakly as the man says, “Well, we’re not going to kill you. You’ve been useful. We’re letting you go.”

Aahil smiles, feeling tired as he is escorted out of the building and into a waiting cab by the bald man. The cab winds through the dark night’s streets after Aahil requests it take him to a hotel, and he dozes into the backseat. If he had been paying attention, he might have noticed that the tab meter did not go up, but he was nearly asleep when the driver stopped the car, got out, opened his passenger’s door, and gestured into the dark. Three men wearing body armour step out of the shadows, two holding sub-machine guns with suppressors on the barrels, and the third holding a rusty switchblade that had been stolen off a drunken fool stupid enough to try to mug the men the night before. Aahil wakes up from his doze, blearily looking around as the driver hauls him out of the cab, the engine idling on the deserted street. Aahil says, “What? Where am I?” in a confused voice. The man holding the switchblade steps forward and plants it in the old man’s neck, quickly dispatching him as his companions steal their victims wallet, ID, and few items of value. The taxi driver smiles as the body is dumped in the alley, the three armoured men casually walking back to the cab. They all nod, and the driver says in fractured English, “Another good mugging. Target disposed of, looks like theft. See you if we need you again.” They all nod one last time, then the driver climbs back into his seat and the three men melt back into the shadows.
___

The warm night was still, only disturbed by the rumbling of a powerful motor. Headlights pierced the night as the first guard Jeep drew closer and closer to the firing point.  Jason Clark smiled as the breeze blew across his bare scalp.  After that old scientist had given Jeremy the location, Jason had gotten onto a private plane and flown immediately to Iran. It wasn’t cheap, but he wanted to be there when his taskforce took the greatest weapon on Earth out of its rightful owner’s hands and gave the final piece needed to fulfill Jeremy’s goal. The team was split in two, twelve members prone on a dune overlooking a curve in the road, and the other half split in two, the two halves stationed on opposite sides of the road. The first Jeep now more than a gloomy sight, and Jason puts his eye to his scope. The detail was amazing. He could see the brand of cigarette on the box that the Jeep driver kept in his right pocket. As the Jeep sped down the road, Jason sneaks a glance at the rest of the convoy: a long semi truck cushioned between two pickup trucks filled with guards, and the two Jeeps. He’d seen better protection on normal loads of conventional weapons, but Jason couldn’t blame the Iranians. They were busy fighting each other and the invading American troops, half the guard crew probably having deserted. His thoughts were cut short by the Jeep entering the firing zone, and Jason quickly put his eye back to the scope and refocused on the cigarette package. His finger tightened as he smiled, and the troop next to him screamed, “GO!”

The initial bang was ear-shattering, echoing across vast dusty plains. The hard cracks of automatic fire follow seconds later, before the expressions of bewilderment have even left the guard’s faces. Within thirty seconds, the whole convoy has been brought down by a concentrated stream of superheated lead, and the group Jason commanded had converged on the idling vehicles with the other teams, dragging away bodies. Jason runs around the back of the semi-truck, his team already ahead of him. As he turns the corner, he smiles as he sees the truck’s back has been kicked open. Six men were rolling out a dark container with warning signs plastered on it in a dozen languages. Jason smiles as a troop from his squad brings down two coolers, and sets them down on the side of the road. The twenty-four men gather around the cooler, each being passed a glass. They talk of things to come as they drink, and by the time they need to move the bomb, each one is dreaming of a new world, one where America cannot extend its tendrils of military might anywhere on Earth. Everyone clinks their glasses together, and throw them to the ground. Jason already has visions of mushroom clouds behind his eyelids, and he smiles when he closes his eyes, his imagination bleaching San Francisco skies crimson with a mushroom-shaped ball of fire shattering the skyline.
___

Jeremy smiles, custom-tailored business suit stained with oil, but he hardly notices. He stares at the naked atomic warhead that was resting over panels that would simply slide open, the bomb’s cold steel disguising the inferno inside, the inferno that would bring the greedy, self-absorbed country to its knees and open its eyes. Jeremy grimaces, reflecting on the mishaps that had been Iraq, Darfur, Sudan, Afghanistan, and soon to be Iran. Nothing would change, and Jeremy knew he had to make the change. Many months of work, millions of dollars, and many nights had been lost, but his plans had prevailed. Jeremy would devastate his own country to open the country’s eyes. Long masses of urban sprawl would no longer lay abandoned, factories would stop killing cities with the smog, and people would retract the shutters on their minds and see the state the world was in. The new idiot in charge of the place would be brought down, and a new leader erected in his place, someone who knew how to change things, how to make the world a better place. Jeremy smiles, thinking of the numerous Russian blunders, from leaving the bomb unsecured to keeping the theft a secret. If they had informed the United States, it’d be much more difficult to smuggle the thing. The Iranians were forming another insane religious dictatorship, the sane elements fighting the insane elements with the Americans shooting at anyone who looks remotely like a terrorist. No doubt they’d be far too distracted to notice the bomb was gone until the new regime was settled or destroyed. Jeremy smiles and stops leaning past the arm of his chair, settling back in his seat. Jason, his trusted gun nut, was sitting on his right. Brandon, his strategic advisor, was sitting to the far right. Jeremy idly thinks that Brandon choosing San Fran for the blast was a good choice. San Francisco was a mess of drug addicts, foreclosures, and industrial waste. Jeremy chuckles as he thinks that maybe he didn’t need a nuke, he just needed to light a San Fran junkyard on fire and watch the buried chemicals explode! He gradually stops chuckling and looks out his window, seeing the wing and beyond that, the wide expanse of the Pacific. The azure blue beauty was covered with tumors of abandoned rusting ship hulls. Jeremy leans back and sighs, wondering where his country went wrong.

A sudden curse from the cabin and Jeremy curiously glances towards the thin metal door. The same curse, a resounding, “What the fuck are you doing?! Shit, what the hell!?!” comes through the metal door. Jason disengages straps his seat and begins to walk towards the cabin, edging past Brandon. Jason slides open the door and begins to yell, “What is going-” before he’s brutally cut off by a burst of gunshots. The co-pilot screams, “Eat that, you crazy bastard! There’s a missile coming, this is over!” Jason stumbles back, falling back into the aisle as blood begins to leak from his mouth onto the floor. The co-pilot yells back into the cabin, “I’m not James, you piece of shit! Don’t move! I’m Henry Farnden, NSA! There has been-” While the NSa agent had been frantically screaming about how things were under control, Jeremy and Brandon had both removed small pistols from inside their suits, and had both fired at Henry. Henry’s face disintegrated as the captain screams, “Anti-air missile incoming, and we’ve just entered optimum blast range!”
Jeremy sighs and pulls out a remote control form the second pocket in his suit. No time to make sure the bomb’s trajectory was correct, or even to release it. If the missile hit, optimuim effect would not be achieved. As he flipped back the panel that revealed the red button, Brandon turned his attention away from the two corpses that laid in puddles of blood and looked at Jeremy.
“What are you doing? We’re supposed to survive, and I’m supposed to have a position in the government-”

Jeremy sighed as he pressed the button. Brandon had always been too power-obsessed from the start, and he’d be damned if he was going to let another power-crazed bastard take over the government. It was all for the greater good, and Brandon didn’t fit in the plan. Electricity flowed through the wires as the button depressed, and Jeremy’s last hope was that humanity would put this lesson to good use.
___

As Bryan Elder and Curtis Brady walked to the top of a hill on the outskirts of Sacramento, they were pushing their bikes along with them, and a cloud was descending over their lives, although they didn’t know it. The pair of eleven-year olds had just enjoyed a pleasant day of hanging out together in the woods near Curtis’s house, and were going to bike over to Bryan’s house for supper and then a sleepover. Both boys were excited at the prospect of staying up late and watching horror movies until early morning, but their trains of thought were disrupted by an incredibly bright flash of light. Both boys brought up their arms to shield their eyes, and both said at the same time, “What the hell?” They both hopped on their bikes and began to rode down the hill as a loud crack hit their ears. They both stopped and waited on the sidewalk staring at the people who were staring agape at the crimson cloud. A few moments later and after brief discussion, they decided to ride back and tell Curt’s mom first. As they jumped on their bikes and began to ride, a hot breeze hit their back and ruffled their hair, the breeze carrying the radioactive dust that would slowly circle around the globe.

[Awayfarer]

I'm still working on the second story. I hope this is all helpful. You're definitely a much better sport about it than Moondancer was with her poetry.

I'm doing this mostly for my sake anyway. I'd love to get some editing work and I figure it can't hurt to get a little mental excercise in my free time. 

He was wearing a leather jacket, and patched brown cargo-pants. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Hell’s Angels or some other gang name stitched across the back of the jacket, just for looks.

You can cross out “or some other gang name”, the mention of the Hell’s Angels is enough to carry the idea that this guy seems like a gang member. The specific detail shows that idea better than the generalization that follows.

His long black hair dangled in front of his dark eyes. His skin was tanned from the long months of being out on the street in the summer, either smoking something or begging for change. His hands always skittered around as he talked, making gestures and motions in the air. Needles don’t seem to be aware he’s doing this most of the time.

Once again, specific details bring a story to life better than generalizations. Instead of telling us that he’s smoking “something”, go ahead and get specific. If he’s the kind of guy that would smoke anything you might even want to say something like “…smoking anything from pot to PCP…”

There’s also a tense disagreement in the last sentence. It needs to be rewritten in the past tense.

At this point, you may notice we all have long hair. The explanation for this is, haircuts are a waste of money compared to food, and none of us are quite cheap enough to cut our own hair (except when absolutely necessary). We have a degree of pride, you know. I wouldn’t want to be homeless anymore then you do.

Eh, I’d ditch this. I think most people already see guys with long hair as grungy deadbeats so the explanation seems moot. The direct call to the audience also nudges your reader out of the action.

From personal experience, I will agree that avoiding haircuts is a good way to save money. 

Needles always speaks softly, as in a whisper. He’s spoken like that for as long as I can remember. Even in high school, it’d be hard for you to get Needles to get above normal volume. In a way, his voice kinds of sums him up. Whenever he went to a party, he wouldn’t be the center of attention. He’d be off to the side, doing God only knows what and not getting any attention for it at all.

Tense disagreement again.

Alright, I couldn’t resist rewriting this entirely

Needles always spoke softly, practically in a whisper, for as long as I can remember. Back in high school, it was hard to get Needles above normal volume. His voice sums him up. If he went to a party, he’d be off to the side, doing God only knows what and nobody paying him any attention.

Watch out for excess info. The line, “…he wouldn’t be the center of attention.” says more or less the same thing as, “He’d be off to the side…”. Both indicate that Needles skulks around, always on the edge of things.

Once, when the cops busted into a party he was at, he just hopped the backyard’s fence, strolled out of the neighbour’s yard and walked down the street. While about forty other people were arrested on various kinds of substance possession, Needles walked down the street in one of his pairs of cargo-pants with at least a gram of every kind of imaginable substances stuffed in his pockets, and nobody noticed him (or cared enough to stop him).

You have two sentences that include, “…walked down the street”. The paragraph will work better if you rephrase one of them.

Get specific with the substances. It’s more interesting to say something like. “…with at least a gram of coke, four ounces of weed and a dozen tabs of acid…” or something. The stronger and more direct your details are, the more the reader will have to build their vision of the scene.

He wordlessly handed me a ski mask. I plucked the crowbar (it had acquired a grimy film over the past three days) from the corner and grinned. Needles smiled, and said quietly, “Let’s go.”

You can drop “wordlessly” bit from the first sentence. It’s frequently not necessary to tell your reader what a character didn’t do. Note, that you could technically write that opening as, “Without shuffling his feet he handed me a ski mask.” and while it may be true, there’s no need to call attention to an event that never took place.

___

First off, let me guess this straight: I have nothing against Patrick. I like him. I think he’s a great guy. He’d cut you off at six drinks, but besides from that, he was pretty nice. He let us bums hang around and occasionally give us a free drink or two. Now, me robbing him of six grand does not change my perception of him. I respected him, for raising a bar in the slums, and not having backed down to gangs or the Mob’s protection fees.

The first sentence can be cut down to, “I have nothing against Patrick.”. The opening doesn’t really inform your reader of anything or move the story along. I’d also cut out either “I like him.” Or “I think he’s a great guy.” (and the latter can be cut down to, “He’s a great guy.” because a reader can infer that your character is thinking this.) Both convey the same info: that the protagonist doesn’t think ill of Patrick

Another tense disagreement between, …”does not change my perception…” and “I respected him…”

Hmmm, think I’ll lay off of those. Admittedly they’re pretty easy to make in those moments when you’re really focused on just getting it all down. I found a bunch in a story of my own that I was editing earlier today. Just try and be aware of them if you go back and rewrite.

[Little]

Thanks for all that!

Needles is such a junkie. 

If you ever have the spare time, feel free to do much more of this editing! I find it helps alot, and it allows me to add that extra sparkling layer of polish. 

[Awayfarer]

Okay. Last bit of the second story. Note that I haven't even read the third but I'll likely get around to it at some point.

The day was cloudy, bleak, and damp, with a cold wind howling occasionally. When has it ever been anything else? I accompanied Needles to the point outside the bar, with Derek already leaning against the plaster, staring across the street to the rows of abandoned buildings.

Try rewriting that first sentence without “occasionally”. Feels awkward there.

Also, that second sentence would read better as “…where Derek was already…”

His eyes lit up as we approached, and he grinned as he pulled on a ski mask, and kicked open the door, running in.

This sentence is really busy. Derek changes his expression, grins, pulls on a mask, kicks open a door and runs inside a building. Seems like you’re trying to inform your reader of two things here: Derek’s acknowledgement that the others have arrived, as shown by his body language, and his entry into the bar. Try breaking this up into two sentences: one per each idea. It’s best to limit your sentences to one or two actions each, and the closer related they are, the better.

Of course, we had no choice but to run in after him. Needles, smiling nastily, pulled out a switchblade and put on his ski mask. I followed suit, with the crowbar held tightly in my sweaty palms.

Same as the last comment: Needles’ actions are tough to picture because, since they’re both in the same sentence, (particularly because the word “and” is used, which implies the two actions occur in unison) it tends to lead a reader to think of them as happening at the same time.

I liked the bar, always have and always will. The floor was wooden, the stools were covered, the heater worked, and there was a small TV hanging on the wall.

Good description here. Enough to note the character’s attachment to the place, but it’s short and to the point, because presumably his mind is elsewhere at the moment.

Patrick began, “Hello, mates, what can I-” and then paled, seeing a black handgun clutched in Derek’s hand. How was I supposed to know he had a gun, and was crazy enough to use it?

The direct appeal to the reader there (and at other points) feels out of place. If you want to note your protagonist’s surprise at seeing the gun, try doing so through body language or some kind of exclamation.

Patrick’s hands desperately scrambled beneath the counter as Derek yelled, “Shit!” and fired twice. Patrick brought up the shotgun, and fired into the roof, collapsing from shock as the bullets rammed through him, leaving coin sized holes. Wood splintered down from the roof as Derek yelled, “Needles! Get the shotgun!”

Not bad, but when describing action sequences use shorter sentences. Such as: “Patrick brought up the shotgun, and fired into the roof*. He collapsed as the bullets hit him.”

*Well, ceiling actually.

I paused for a second. Derek was a murderer. How long would it take him for me to be written out of the equation? Three grand as a cut is better then two grand as a cut, after all. I raised the crowbar, held it for a second, and then smashed it into Derek’s head. He crumpled without a sound as Needles darted up from behind the counter.

To be nitpicky, there would be the sound of his body hitting the floor. I’m guessing you meant he fell without saying anything or making a noise. If that’s the case, “He crumpled without a word…” would be more accurate.

He stared at Derek’s corpse, looked back to me, and sighed wearily. He raised the shotgun nervously, then threw it to the ground, and leaped over the bar counter. I stared at him as he ran out of the bar, leaving me alone with a bloody cadaver. Somebody would’ve heard the shots, even if it was a few homeless bums. Patrick would be missed.

Did he really just stare as Needles left? In the writing courses I’ve taken, I’ve often found that staring is sort of a placeholder action. That is, the writer seems to understand that some reaction on the part of the character is necessary, but isn’t certain just what would be appropriate. Try and think of what else this character might do. Might he yell for Needles to come back, or scream at him for running off?

“Cadaver” is a word often associated with medical jargon. I’d try substituting something else. Also, one point of contention: he’s there with two bodies.

You can get rid of the phrase, “…even if it was a few homeless bums.”. Here, shorter sentences would suggest that the character is nervous and trying to think fast.


...remainder to follow...

[Awayfarer]

I went behind the counter, and quickly found a jar filled with hundreds. I scooped it up and sprinted out, ripping off my ragged mask on the way. I glanced around the gloomy street, empty on a cold day except for a collection of vagrants huddling around a barrel fire. I began to walk.

A few too many “I” sentences in this part. Some of these could stand to be restructured. For example, the third sentence could be “The gloomy street was empty except for a few vagrants huddling around a barrel fire.” The reader will understand that it is your character making this observation.

Four hours later, after a nice walk around town and stashing the cash in my pockets, I arrived at a train station. Walking up to the ticket booth, I had to weave through a thick crowd. The cashier glared at me. In his eyes, I was filth, most likely. I said, “One ticket. Earliest train.”

The sentences, “The cashier glared at me. In his eyes, I was filth, most likely.” More or less tell the same info. Try to condense them into something like, “The cashier glared at me as if I were filth.”

He sullenly handed me a ticket after I handed over a few bills, and I departed. I ripped my ticket in half and walked to the departing station. After throwing the useless halves into the overflowing trash, I waited.

Hmmm. Not sure I like “sullen” in there. In my mind it suggests someone depressed and passive, and it seems like the cashier is actively irritated. Not exactly a bad choice, but make sure that’s really the word you want.

Two hours later, and three trains later, the final train of the day was beginning to race away. Night was falling. I stood up and leaped into an open cargo compartment. The few remaining denizens of the station didn’t blink. It was a common enough sight for a dirty person to jump onto a train.

Ah, so he bought a ticket just to get to the tracks, right? Make this point a little clearer.

I shared the dry compartment with shipping crates and four fellow jumpers. We all looked equally down on our luck. One sitting next to a large container labeled with ‘FISH’ threw an unlit match and a cigarette at me. I accepted both, nodded, and tucked the pair away.

This is another one of the instances where the reader can easily figure the passage out, but it’s awkward as phrased. The sentence that begins, “One sitting next to a large container labeled with ‘FISH’…” could be read as meaning that fish are being used for labels. Again, no reader in their right mind will think that that is actually the case, but that is one way to interpret that sentence. Readers should not be presented with false interpretations, even if they're obviously ridiculous. All you need to do here is remove the “with” in that sentence.

I had lots of time, six grand, and a train heading to an unknown destination. The cops will be looking for me eventually, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. In the compartment, I realized it’d make a decent story, what I just did.

Last sentence is awkward. Try something like “I realized that today would make a decent story.”

I went forward two compartments into the dining room, took a dozen napkins, stole a pen off a fat woman while she was yelling at he children to shut up, and creeped back to the shipping containers. I’d be noticed if I stayed in the nice sections, and be asked for a ticket.

To my knowledge passenger and freight trains are never mixed. I live less than a mile from a station, and I’ve never seen a combined set. The nearby freight yard only has shipping cars, and the Amtrak trains that whiz by only ever carry passenger cars.

I leaned against a container, and cast all thoughts of being caught out of my mind. Nobody would care enough to actively hunt him down within the next two days. As I fished the cigarette out, I splayed the napkins in front of me. I lit the cigarette, wielded the pen and began to write.

In the second sentence, I’m guessing that “him” should be “me”.

The last couple of sentences are busy; try separating out some of those actions.

I’d go for something other than “wielded”, too. A word like “grabbed” or “held” should be fine here.


...and thats all I got. Bear in mind as you read these that I'm still learning how to write myself. I'd like to think that I give solid, useful advice though. I read a lot and I'm very close to graduating from college with a bachelor's degree in English.

[Little]

Is it solid. Thank you 

[LegoLord]

Haven't read the third story, but the first two were pretty good.  I think "Untitled" might actually be a fitting title for the one about the poor writer (already forgot his name, I'm terrible with those).

[Strife26]

So many words . . .

I got through and enjoyed the first two, and haven't started on the second.

[Little]

I think you mean third.

Nut yeah, I really aprreciate everyone taking the time to read them.