Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-35711173-20180531153309/@comment-5101683-20180531232228

All in all, I don't think this is a bad story. The grammar is pretty good, and I think the reason its deletion may have been due to the use of weird words in the beginning, like narcobeaner and nine (drug term). I guess this might be the best thing to do for now. Maybe someone will come and see that it's good. I think what you could do is define the drug terms (narcobeaner, nine, moises) above the actual story.

Things

The dumpster reeked of rotten meat and she (maybe you should change this to "the lady" or something, as "she" implies that you mentioned her before) was late, but I could afford to wait.

It was too dark to see it, but I knew it was there. MS13.

Finally, a blinged Chrysler 300 pulled up and killed its motor, rolling a window down. I leaned over. "You Papa John's?"

"Oh yeah, I am the hook." She was black, fat and ugly. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that nine (I don't think this is obvious from context) I could see peeking out from between her seat and the center console.

"Let's see."

"You ain't gonna run off on this plug. Give me the cash."

I fanned out thirty $100 bills in front of her. She tried to take them, but I pulled it back. "Show me the stuff."

I looked all around, but nobody was looking back. I sat her back up, took the money and her coke and silently crept down the alley.

"What took so long?" he asked with concern.

"Mayate was on dealer minutes."

He shrugged understandingly, knowing how "''just one minute" became an hour. "Business done?"

I began to feel that wonderful euphoria, but it didn't go the way I thought.

I tried to get out, but Fat Tony held my arm and said, "Sorry, little brother."

I wasn't where I was before. I knew that much. My eyes couldn't focus. Everything was too bright. This was the weirdest trip I had ever had. "Come this way, Mr. Camacho," said a voice behind me, not quite a man and not quite a woman(or the other way around).

His (you could use "their", considering you just said the angel was neither masculine nor feminine) face shined like the sun, how my mother always described angels.

Even though their robes were spotless, they seemed dirty compared to their glowing escorts.

I closed my eyes, but then the faint sound of beautiful music and a gentle garden scent overcame me.

I thought about all the times my mother and Padre Rojas warned me where I was going to, but there were no lava pits or pitchforks here.

As we followed the crowd forward, beautiful music filled the air.

I couldn't help see ("but see" or "seeing", probably the former) my whole life in front of me.

I knew I had to be here by mistake','' but I couldn't let on.

Because of God's promise to abolish death, you had to be raised, but He judged you as unredeemable and a danger to Heaven.

... everything I had ever done and just how many people it had hurt.

I've completely lost count of how many times I have seen my life over and over in my head. Tens, hundreds, thousands?

I tried to plug my ears, but that harp rings through me.

I bit my lip as hard as I could, but there was no pain and no blood.

I couldn't (I would use "can't" here, because you imply that he's still stuck there) even see my hands in front of my face, it was so bright.

I tried gouging my eyes out with my fingers, yet I still saw the light.

I tried singing "Cuerno de Chivo" but nobody could hear me, not even myself.

I forget myself, even what it felt like to do something as simple as eat or breathe.

I became one giant ball of hurt, and each time they show me my life, the pain grows worse.