FROM EDWARD
I had excerpts of this work published before as mini short stories but this is sort of my prologue / first chapter. Just overall concerned about the "flashback" and was wondering if it is ok as it is, overall too it is a contraversial book (about my previous life as a social worker), I had excerpts published but the overall format of the book is similar.
Chapter the first – Prologue
So another day begins at my new job, Duke is cursing at Tom, Duke always curses at Tom, not a day passes in which Duke fails to curse at Tom. Today is no different; he proceeds to hurl an expletive at Tom. “**** you Tom,” or something equally intelligent. Of course it is my job as a childcare worker to mediate this negative behavior. But how? I am a short, overweight, white 22 year old from suburbia thrusted into a guard position at a prison in the middle of the woods populated by a bunch of inner-city teenage convicts. To make matters worse I am hiding in the corner of the cellblock and am failing to convey any sort of authority whatsoever.
“Minus 10 points due to language,” I sheepishly announce.
“**** you Mr. Dumont,” comes the predictable response.
“Minus 15 points due to insulting staff,” comes my brave reply, “you lost 25 points in an hour,”
Now see, if the kid loses 25 points in an hour bad things happen to the kid, in essence he loses all privileges until the next meal, can’t go to the computer lab (and thus download porn) or even be alone without a staff watching him. In essence the next 6 or so hours will suck. Duke isn’t really the sharpest tool in the shed but he is aware of his point problem, he doesn’t take it really well and proceeds to pick up a desk and throws it against a wall.
“Minus 20 points, destruction of property,” I pipe in. Duke (now infuriated) proceeds to kick Tom in the mouth.
“Minus 50 points starting a fight,”
After filling out the paperwork needed to document the point losses and calling the nurse to treat Tom, my attention jumps to another part of the longhouse (company-speak for cellblock). One of the kids has put a sheet covering the front of his cell, blocking the view, god knows what the hell he is doing inside. I run over and of course catch him masturbating; I feel bad for him and walk away, allowing him to finish his business. Thus begins another wonderful day at my lovely abode, a juvenile “correction,” facility located in the middle of nowhere, New Jersey. My shift began at 7:00 AM and it is now officially 7:15, 7 hours and 45 minutes until I can go home. The kids of Longhouse 3 (the longhouse I am in charge of) have to 7:30 to get dressed and report to the chow hall or I will get the **** chewed out of me by my boss. The kids are aware of this and thus are refusing to put on jackets or complete their pre-breakfast chores (some proceed to go back to sleep). I have been here less than an hour and already want to die.
I should have debated taking this job in the first place. The initial phone call took place on a Sunday afternoon; if a human resources needs to work on Sundays they have a hard time retaining staff, hard time retaining staff equals a crappy job. Further weirdness involved the interview location – in a sweat lodge covered by cow skins. Alarm bells might have rang off when she gave me a cup of coffee (Starbucks no doubt) and a donut during the interview. I might have been disturbed when she inquired if I could show up the following Monday or the fact that I filled out a W-2 before we actually met. It could have also been the fact that she said she was hiring me 5 minutes into the actual interview. Regardless I was too oblivious in delight to inquire further. I drove back to the apartment in delight, glad I finally made something of myself.
Flashing back to reality the kids are failing in their duties to get prepared for breakfast and I am preparing to get the **** chewed out of me by Mitch, a 40-year-old former drill sergeant and my boss. 10 minutes later it is 7:29, the criminals finally caught wind of the gravity of the situation (which would affect them more severely than myself) and proceeded to ignore my idle threats but at the same time quickly get dressed and march outside in single file, marching outside then standing in formation as if reporting for roll-call. They let me sound off like I am supposed too.
“Letter M’s,”
“Letter M’s,” they reply
“Shoes shined,”
“And shirts tucked sir,”
“Ready to roll gentleman?”
“Ready to roll sir,”
“Proceed to roll,”
And with that the kids would proceed to walk to the longhouse singing some Indian spiritual chant that they were forced to sing. Sing they did as their every move to the chow hall was observed by Mitch who was standing on a platform and inspecting us closely, any sneeze, misstep, curse, bite, punch, or buggery would immediately be noticed and responded to in turn, first by a scream at the kid and then a scream at myself in front of the kiddies (in the process destroying any credibility that I had in the first place).
Breakfast is a standard straightforward affair, yet at the same time I hated it. Chow-hall consisted of giant large room with three long tables, each with 10 chairs (one table for each longhouse). The kids would simply march up, grab their food, grab something to drink (in little juice glasses), then sit down and eat. Watching them were the four of us: Pete, a retired marine who ran longhouse 1, Charles, an older gentleman who ran longhouse 2 (previously worked with child molesters for 25 years), Mitch, our fearless leader, and myself. Things started as they always did: the kids would remove hats and jackets then walk up one-by-one and receive the meal that was offered (today it was cheese-eggs ). Generally the food sucked, breakfast consisted of either cheese-eggs or square pancakes, lunch consisted of assorted lunchmeats and rolls; I never worked the evening shift so I have no idea what dinner consisted of. Edible food costs more money, which in turn equals less profit, simple logic to the swine that ran our lovely private ju-vey.
Nothing happened at breakfast not due to the sanctity of the mess hall (it also functioned as a non-religious chapel like place), but solely due to the fact that the drugs that were shoved down the kids’ throats had their maximum potency at this hour (the kids would get them at 6 when they woke up). Before breakfast they would be eager to settle any vendettas they had the previous day but soon the effects of Seroquel would turn them into delightful drooling zombies. This delightful drooling zombie stage would last until around 9:30 ish when they would return to their natural state of being. It was also during breakfast that we received our assignments for the day; normally the kids would go to school and we would go with them but today I had a special assignment, drive Seth (a 6 foot crip, convicted of assault with a deadly weapon) to the local corporate lab place to get his lithium levels checked. Just myself and Seth in the van, alone together for 30 minutes to the lab place, just like a corporate wage slave, garbage in, garbage out
CRITIQUE
I think you have a great story marred by terrible writing. Tense switches, mile-long sentences, unnecessary detail and commentary, empty verbs, and repetition all kill your story. Take a look at your last three paragraphs when I address all those problems:
The kids walk to the chow hall singing a mandatory Indian spiritual chant. Mitch observes from a platform, ready to eat any kid for breakfast who exhibits the slightest break in discipline, then munch on me for dessert.
The chow hall is a large room with a long table and ten chairs for each of the three longhouses. The kids march up, grab their food and drink, then sit down and eat. Four of us watch them: Pete, a retired marine who runs longhouse 1; Charles, an older gentleman who runs longhouse 2 and previously worked with child molesters for 25 years; Mitch, our fearless leader, and myself.
The food sucks. Today is cheese-eggs. Edible food costs more money, which means less profit.
Breakfast is calm and quiet, not due to sanctity (the chow hall doubles as a non-religious chapel), but to the drugs shoved down the kids’ throats first thing in the morning - they reach maximum potency at this hour. Before breakfast, kids look to execute vendettas of the previous day, but soon the Seroquel turns them into delightful drooling zombies until about 9:30 when they start to snap out of it.
At breakfast, we receive our assignments for the day. Normally, we go with the kids to school, but today I have a special assignment: drive Seth, a 6-foot Crip convicted of assault with a deadly weapon, to the local corporate lab to check his lithium levels. Just me and Seth in the van for 30 minutes.
See that? You have a really great story under all that crap. I think you should work with a good writer to get this story written.