[ WP ] The Writer : A War of Words

Honestly I do n't think I'm a good writer so I've been trying to improve myself by writing at least 750 words of something daily. I decided to write for this prompt today. Some constructive criticism would be appreciated. 
 
 *There's one thing most people do n't understand about writing. Writing is n't just an art, it's a power that parallels the omnipotence of God. A skilled writer dreams up worlds where there is none, and turns them into a reality at will. * 
 
 `` I've got nothing,'' the writer thought as he placed his pen aside and crumpled up his sheet of paper. Kicking his chair backwards, he eyed the trashcan across the room that had crumpled papers scattered around it. He gently flung the piece of paper across and with a rustling sound, it fell into the trashcan. He let out a sigh and stretched his arms. `` That's seven out of thirteen,'' he whispered to himself. The room was silent and dark, with only a soft light emanating from the lamp on the writer's desk. He closed his eyes and searched for a place to create a world in the darkness of the void. Then an idea struck him like lightning. He rushed across the room and grabbed a piece of paper on the floor. `` This is n't it,'' he thought, flinging the crumpled paper aside. Tossing each wrong piece of paper aside, his eyes gleamed as he finally found the one he was looking for. He read the first sentence out loud. `` We were n't God fearing people, but now it's too late to ask for forgiveness.'' 
 
 He sat back in his chair with his paper and gripped his pen. He started writing, `` We were struck down by the wrath of God and violently thrown out of Eden. World peace became world war, happiness became suffering, and haves became needs.'' 
 
 The world swirled around the writer and suddenly he was standing in the middle of a dirty, desaturated city street. It was silent, except for the sound of machines whirring off in the distance. The homeless littering the street almost looked like ragdolls; it was impossible to tell who was still living and who was n't. A baby's cry startled the writer. He turned around and saw the baby held lightly in the mother's arm. He looked at the mother. The mother was lying against the decaying brick wall, her eyes were open wide with the blacks of her eye missing. The writer stared at the mother for a moment. Seeing no movement, he turned and looked down the street. Dark brown smog covered most of his vision and he was able to see no more than the burning trashcan several meters away from him. A large truck came into his view. Almost all its colors were faded, and rust covered its chassis. As it moved closer to him, he noticed the smell of death. With a clanking sound, a large claw extended from its side and grabbed a man off the sidewalk and tossed him into the back of the truck with a thud. Again, the claw grabbed another man. No signs of struggle. `` They must be dead,'' he thought. The claw then started moving towards him. Frantically, he jumped off to the side. The claw moved past him and grabbed the mother. As the claw retracted, the mothers arm relaxed and dropped the baby on the floor. Slowly, the truck drove off, leaving the writer behind with the baby's weak cries. He walked over to the baby, who was wrapped in a dirty, torn brown rag. He took the baby and gently rested him against the wall and walked down the street. 
 
 He approached a group of three men huddled together around a man on the floor. One of the men, who was dressed in a black sweater, grabbed the skinny man on the floor and slammed him against the brick wall of a building. The skinny man fell to the floor and the other two men started kicking him. The skinny man curled up into a fetal position and the soft sound of his cry could barely be heard over the sound of his bones breaking. As the three men walked away, the man on the floor was left remaining there, lifeless. The man's eyes were open, his shirt was torn and his body was bruised all over. The blood from mouth and nose mixed with the tears from his eyes. 
 
 As he walked down the street, he saw a scrawny woman crawling towards him on all fours. He stood there, staring at her, fascinated. The woman grasped his leg, looking up at him, begging him for forgiveness. He tried to move but the woman strengthened her grip on his leg. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her off and she easily flew off. He walked beside her and looked at her desperate face. With her remaining strength, she kneeled, facing him and clasped her hands. She prayed to God, to him. He looked at her, and said one word. `` Die.'' Her face filled with fear as she collapsed on the floor. He stood over her lifeless body. `` Pathetic,'' he thought to himself. 
 
 Looking around himself, he smiled, satisfied at his own creation.
