Under the Microscope: Reset

Reset is a dystopian drama by reader James Linton. Read the full critique in our May issue.

Original version

Cooper tried his best to ignore the revolution that was happening outside of his tin shack. It was the latest in a long line that had begun with Chloe O’Hara in Ireland. Some of them had failed, a lot more had succeeded, as civillian populations had overturned order in their refugee camps. He laid back on his bed and closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. It didn’t help that the sheets prickled his skin or that the mattress dug into his back. The water dripping from the roof onto his face and the shouting voices and gunfire didn’t make the process any easier. Cooper sighed and sat up. He guessed he would see what all the fuss was about. He poked his head outside of his hut and saw three men exchange shots across the muddy path with two soldiers who had taken shelter in one of the shacks.
“Not thinking of joining them, are you?”
Cooper jumped, as he was addressed by a red-faced man in army fatigues. He was bald with a rough stubble.
“Me sir? No sir. Never sir. I do my duty, sir, keep my head down, sir, don’t get involved in things that don’t concern me, sir.”
“Good to know, I wouldn’t want you scarring your face again now, would I? Stay here.” The soldier ran off, as his comrades called for help.
Cooper sneered at his back. He knew that the soldier had been referring to his Glasgow smile that he had received years ago and had never healed. He had tried growing a beard to cover it up, but hadn’t done a good job. Cooper weighed up his options as he surveyed his tin shack. The scarred chest of drawers, the broken bed, the splintered mirror. Cooper knew there was nothing keeping him here.

McCredited version

Cooper tried his best to ignore the revolution that was literally happening outside his tin shack. It was the latest in a long line that had begun with Chloe O'Hara in Ireland. Some of them had failed; a lot more had succeeded as civilian populations had overturned order in their refugee camps. 
He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. Attempting sleep was useless. The sheets prickled his skin and the mattress dug into his back. Water dripped from the roof onto his face. The shouting and gunfire continued.
He sighed and sat up. He should probably see what all the fuss was about. He peered out of his shack and saw three men taking cover further down the muddy path. They were exchanging shots with another shack that presumably contained soldiers.
“Not thinking of joining them, are you?”
Cooper jumped. A red-faced man in army fatigues was taking cover just around the edge of the shack. He was bald with rough stubble.
“Me, sir? No, sir. Never, sir. I do my duty, sir, keep my head down, sir, don't get involved in things that don't concern me, sir.”
“Good to know. We wouldn't want your face to be even less pretty, would we? Stay here.”
The soldier ran towards his comrades, who were now calling for help.
Cooper scowled at his back. The soldier had been referring to the ‘Glasgow smile’ he had received years ago and which had left an ugly scar. He had tried growing a beard to cover it, but hadn't done a good job.
He went back inside and stood looking at the scarred chest of drawers, the broken bed, the cracked mirror. There was nothing keeping him here.

Read the full critique and commentary in the May issue of Writing Magazine