Jump to content

Chosen One Ephant Mon

Members
  • Posts

    454
  • Joined

  • Last visited

Everything posted by Chosen One Ephant Mon

  1. Hi, all. This is an introductory passage I wrote recently. I'm curious how it functions as the beginning of a story. Does it intrigue? Does it fall flat? Any feedback is welcome. Thanks. -COEM ======= I am rarely now stirred to take up my pen; the wear of years and many battles, few won, has wound me down, and though my dreams bear me nightly back into that vital fray, my days are something different. After fourteen years I have grown used to my retirement. When I started on that last retreat, not quite chosen, I saw my end before me as a body in an armchair. It was no surprise, following as it did on the nature of our cause and the enemies it raised; but it was a blow. Quiet is a dreadful thing. It is no balm for my soul, and I think it never shall be; though perhaps I may find something in it yet. The seasons do something to us all and today this old controversialist has little left to say. I should go on turning over my own thoughts in safe solitude till the end, were it not for the painful news that has lately come to my ear. I mean the recent string of calumnies leveled in the press against a noble man, a friend dearer to me than life. Thomas Rane needs no defense, as if a mouse could defend a lion. His true deeds are known to all, though they now meet the public in a muddy admixture, contending with these fresh libels concerning his private motives and relations. To the last they are false; nothing could be more false; yet what could be more expected? No prophet is accepted in his own country. When he died springtime last I mourned him dearly, though in our mutual grief I remember telling Henry Rowe it was a miracle it had not happened sooner. In the final months there was a sense unspoken among us that, despite his vigor, Thomas was not long for the world. His fall struck us like a thunderbolt; our adversaries seized the moment and drove off his lieutenants into obscurity. The tide pushed me with them and I had sense enough to follow. I profess no wish to reclaim the mantle of our movement, nor any hope that it might revive in the hearts of my readers. Our cause ended with Thomas; he gave it life. I cannot vindicate him before his detractors: his life is his alibi, known to his friends if even the world should skew or forget it. Honor is not man’s final measure. I wish others to love him because I loved him, but his virtue is solid marble of the soul—no earthly thing could budge it for better or worse, least of all the success or failure of my letters. I write now only to fulfill the solemn duty of a friend and to offer the truth for any who still care to hear it. If even a few come to learn what passed between us in the years I knew him, I shall consider that duty discharged.
  2. Thanks, guys. I appreciate your responses and welcome any further impressions, comments, or critiques you might have, either in partular spots or (as I post the last and longest part now) on the story as a whole (I'm trying to whip it into publishable shape). Thanks again for reading. -COEM ========== The sea of nothing enveloped him again but Paul would not stay for an instant. The same haunting image that chilled his blood now steeled him with abandon. Hell-bent, the window closing fast, and forgetting all about the subtle dance, he lurched with all his might and hurled himself back in. Paul landed. He was… somewhere else. The feel was different. His legs already carried him down a dark and narrow corridor with no regard for his say. His body, used, already worn, like a hand-me-down suit, moved rigidly in the static air. The tugging sensation of the previous world now pulled lightly but continuously—like an inverse hourglass drawing him up grain by grain. Paul knew that time was short. He followed his feet to the corridor’s end and found another to his left. At the second hall two thoughts occurred to him at once. The first was that he had been here before. This hall, much longer and wider than the last, seemed the center of some kind of labyrinth. He now remembered being here, recalling the walls lined with closed doors and segmented by numerous crossing halls, some dimmer, some brighter. The second, which made his heart leap, was that she was here. He had known it the first time, standing in that very spot, without knowing how; but this time he remembered because he had seen it and seen her here. Last time something had told him to follow the light… Paul made out a pocket far ahead that shone just brighter than the rest and hurried down the hall. On the right a new section of the maze opened up with new doors and new halls, all cast in a mild glow. Paul went for a door on his left but it would not budge, and that was all he needed to tell him that every door was locked except one. The tug pulled and pulled... Paul scrambled to the next brightest spot. Another hall, more doors, more light. Right, left, left, right… replaying beat for beat like a record in its groove. The light, the door, the turns… In a far recess of his mind Paul knew how it ended. He ran faster. With every gain a golden dawn arose, and soon navigation became more difficult as the brighter path washed with the general daylight. Paul made several wrong turns and had to retrace his steps—the same turns and same steps—but he was getting close and he felt it: his eyes throbbed; he felt he was coming up on the sun. Paul rounded a corner and… there it is! Not a side door (in this hall there were none), but a main one, directly ahead against the far wall. Rays of unearthly radiance burst from the razor-thin cracks on all four sides, the hidden glory too abundant to contain. His spirit leaped with excitement. Yes, yes, this is it!! he thought. Paul ran on air. Before the door a shadow knocked at his consciousness but he brushed it away and flung it open. The room was enormous, if it was even a room. He saw no wall, ceiling or floor: just a vast chamber of blinding brilliance. It overwhelmed his senses, yet, amazingly, he looked without harm: this was light of a different species. It seemed to have no dimensions or all of them, and Paul only perceived anything like depth at all because in the distance one figure stood out from the light, shining with celestial splendor. She was far, but right then he knew that he was standing with her and all his joy rose to life. He had returned and found her again. Here, if nowhere else, was perfect peace, and he was happy. He inhaled, ready to call out and run to her, but before he could step or even speak his secret fear arrived: all at once, with a silent flicker, the entire luminous chamber went out. NO! he cried. The voice was distant, muffled, not his own. Darkness reigned. Was she still here? He heaved, groped, scrambled; panic set in, and again despair; but he felt it, and knew it from before. Everything had scattered. She was gone. A wave of sorrow rolled over him, his battered will buckling under the current. What had he expected? Ripped away just like before, found and lost in a single breath. Had she even known he was there? He had barely seen her face. Defeated and alone, Paul broke down. He felt himself sinking… Not sinking. Rising. The tug remained, and this was something new: he was back in darkness, yes, but he had not been flushed out. The sands slipped ever faster but at least there was time to lose. The ticking clock was his life vest from despair, only Paul did not have the first idea where to go or what to do. The night was lonelier than ever. I just want to see her again, he pleaded. Just to see her. Suddenly the ground shifted under his feet. Paul felt a lateral movement and heard a sound like a shutter. What—? Soft rain fell outside the window. Paul stood with his hands in his pockets and a briefcase slung over his shoulder, staring mindlessly at the taxis and passersby, and every so often a blooming umbrella. Ah yes, the big storm. There would be more umbrellas soon. Or fewer people. Through the glass he listened to the bustle of the street and its rising staccato of honks and shouts. He let his thoughts drift off… “Paul?” He turned. “Order for ‘Paul’?” said the woman at the register, setting a paper carton holding half a dozen lattes on the counter. Paul went to pay. He did it without thinking. Everything felt normal and familiar, and only after several seconds did he recover any sense of where he was or or where he had been. The coffee shop downtown, and it was full today: hipsters and young professionals sat at the small round tables chatting, working on laptops, reading their books. But… he didn’t drink coffee… No… what? Of course he did… but not then… This was for the office… Paul did not have time to think as his body seemed to have decided it was time to go. With the carton in hand he turned and took a step toward the exit. “Hi, Tina,” he heard from behind. Paul looked back. He did not move, could not move, but was rooted there stunned. He knew the instant he heard; how could he ever forget? It was her voice he had first noticed. She stood not more than ten feet away. As beautiful as the day… no, this was the day he met her. He had replayed it a thousand times. Could he really be here, hearing her, seeing her again? He wanted to do a million things and nothing—to say something, do something, say or do anything, yet at the same time stay locked in that moment and keep it forever. He welled up and drew quivered breaths, or would have if his body had allowed it, but he was so overcome that he could only stay fixed and watch her with amazement as he had that first day. She had not yet looked in his direction but exchanged quick words with Tina before the latter clocked out and she assumed the counter. At last she turned and caught him staring, as Paul remembered so well. “Can I help you?” she asked with a wry half-smile. That voice again. Gorgeous timbre, perfect pitch. And my God, that smile. Even after the thousandth time it lit up his soul like it did in the beginning. From steps away he saw her face and she saw his, but only one of them knew just what it meant. Seeing her up close held him mesmerized. He could paint every curve and contour from memory. He prayed that time would slow. At last he stirred, blushed, and looked down. But that wasn’t what he wanted. What are you doing?! he told himself. Look up! He had not agreed to move his head… why was his body working against him? He was ashamed of nothing. He could watch her forever. How had he ever looked away, even for an instant? After a half-second that felt like half a century, Paul rose up and cocked a half-smile back. “Forgot the cream,” he said. The voice was not his. It came from his body and was speaking for him, but again was muffled, distant, foreign; it was not Paul’s—not the Paul who knew. There were a thousand things he had to tell her, and not this. Why could he not say what was most important? His head moved again, this time to steal a subtle glance to her left hand. Ringless. He already knew that. He knew every gesture, every word. “Ah, right,” she mocked, nodding to the station near the door where a small container held the tiny cream cups and her eyes falling to his carton. “I imagine after number four it’s tough to drink it black.” His voice laughed. “Don’t even drink it. Coffee run,” it added, lifting his necktie between his middle and index fingers and flashing another smile. Enough of this, Paul thought. I’m in here! He wanted to rush to her, throw his arms around her, change even one detail and make it new. But it was every bit the same, and though he strained with all his effort to wrest control from his body, it obeyed none of his commands. He was a prisoner inside himself. “Ah, shame,” she said. “But just think: when you move up the ranks you won’t have to come back here.” Paul paused his struggling to stare fully into her eyes. An unsettling feeling crept over him: she could not see him. And he could not see her either. She was stunning: every detail flawlessly rendered, her voice melodious, her eyes full of life—but there was nothing behind them. She was a living mannequin and he a spectator to his own life. The emptiness bore into him. Was this really all there was? Losing her was unbearable, but here she was, right in front of him—and yet she wasn’t. What was this new torment? He tried moving again. If he could just reach out and touch her, let her know that he was there… Maybe he could wake her, bring her spirit to life and even for a moment pull out the person from behind the mask. If their eyes met truly for a single instant they might even communicate everything without saying a word. Long forgotten, like a rope adding hands, the tug now had at him with renewed force. It was close to stealing him. If I could just feel her… he longed with all his being. Again the ground shifted, accompanied by the same movement and sound—something sliding in and out. His voice laughed again. “Well, I—” Paul slipped on the ice and only avoided falling by throwing his arm around the rail. “Careful!” she shouted and burst out laughing. “What did I tell you?” She continued on without him, climbed every step unassisted and turned around at the top of the porch, still laughing as she waited for him to join. He met her with a smile. At the mat they stomped the snow off their boots before heading inside. How nice to get out of the freezing cold! They made their way up the stairs, and only after reaching the apartment door and Paul began rummaging through his coat for the key did he come to his senses again. Winter… the apartment… together… Chris’s party. That’s right, Chris’s party—they had just come back. Paul began to separate from his body again. Things felt lighter than in the coffee shop. He was losing his tether. Once inside they threw off their coats. The place was nothing special, just in what they made of it. Boy, she dazzled in that dress. Her perfume set his senses wild. Finally some time alone. Perfect way to get warm. They sat down on the faded green couch together. Chris’s party—of course! They did not speak for nearly a minute, more than content to smile and stare. Her brown eyes gleamed beautifully but Paul saw only the vacant abyss. It’s okay, he thought. It’s going to happen. She broke the silence when his smile grew mischievous. “What?” she laughed. “Oh, nothing, just… taking a picture,” his voice said. His index finger tapped against his head. “Don’t want to forget.” Paul readied himself. They drew closer and, slowly, Paul’s hand moved over—here it comes!—and interlocked fingers with hers. No… no, no… Paul reeled. He held her hand, and she tenderly rubbed her thumb over his… but he felt none of it. He watched their hands caress but to his horror all was numb, as if plate glass stood between them, invisible but impenetrable, painted on her in the thinnest coat. His arm wrapped around her slender back and pulled her in, his body having a marvelous time—he remembered—but Paul could not crack the barrier. Just press, press down harder! he ordered. His stomach twisted. In all their amours she and his counterpart were just as empty to him as before. Paul tried to will control, threw one more fitful attempt to break free of himself, but fate held him powerless. He watched from far inside as they leaned in and their lips joined. This was agony. The tug reared high; the edges of his vision began to fade. Was there nothing he could do? His mind spun in fifty ways but came up empty. I just want to be happy, he wished. Happy together. Shift, rumble, click. His finger slid under the strap of her dress— Paul’s parents beamed up at him from the front pew. He smiled back and surveyed the room. He wanted to soak in every detail, preserve every part in his memory. David, Chris, Sean, and Jeremy to his left; Grace, Amy, Cayla, and Danni to his right. And two hundred witnesses, all wonderfully dressed. Paul snapped out of himself, saw where he was, and panicked. Of course he had come to a happy moment: the happy moment. But he could not be here. He would give his whole life to stay there frozen, but this time he knew it was impossible. Not because of the tug, now raring in its intensity; he did not trust himself. If he stayed he would only end up somewhere else, and he could not go there. One followed the other, an eternal domino. He could never keep the dark thoughts from intruding. Already they began creeping in… His eyes fixed on the broad open doors at the back of the nave—his heart beat rapidly, though for reasons different from his body’s. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go, he urged himself. He did not know where, just away from here. By now the scene was teetering, creaking, fading fast. He clung to his foothold as the world seemed ready to tear. He would find her somewhere else, meet her in any other moment. What he would not give to relive it. In another world, perhaps. He could not untie the joy from the pain. Please, he begged, not here and not there. The floor groaned. What was taking so long? Go!! The transition’s gears appeared to be breaking down with everything else. Come on, come on… To the organ’s cue a woman stepped out into view at the back of the aisle. She sparkled in white. I’m sorry, he cried silently. Here came the sound. He could think of only one thing. He tried to suppress it but it came raging forth. Fear gripped him tighter and his heart convulsed with dread. Anything but that! His eyes met hers beneath the veil— Paul was lifted. <…Must be in the shower…> The tug had won, the world had crumbled and Paul was tumbling skyward. <…Table. Keycard. Where's the second?…> The scene skipped; it was broken, discontinuous—a series of patchwork images. Not hitched together but floating, disembodied—and Paul colliding through them. <…Dressed already? “Where you going?”…> He was too late: he was there. <…“A surprise, babe.” Winking, grinning, mischievous. “It’s for you, you’ll like it, I promise…” Smiling…> It was happening. He could not stop it, not even close his eyes. <…Smiles, curiosity. But the time. Packing. “Oh, I’ll be real quick.” More smiles. “You print the tickets?”…> Every fear, pain, and panic converged into colossal terror. With monstrous force it deposed Paul’s soul, strapping him down and forcing him to watch. There was no way to fight, nothing he could do, except hope and pray that against all odds, against all reason, it would be different. <…“Caymans, baby. Can’t wait.”…> No, stay. We’ll stay, baby, just don’t go… <…“Love you, hun.” The kiss…> Stop, don’t go! Not yet, baby…please don’t go!! <…She turned to leave…> Please…please… <…and grabbed the keys.> No images now: he had left that limbo. He kept soaring, spiraling, into a stratum of sound. The voice from the phone call. “You need to get down here…” Oh, God. Sirens. And what they found: shredded gift-wrap and porcelain shards. “A coffee mug, best we can tell.” Up and out, he shed his last senses and all that remained was the feeling—the unutterable, unshakable, deathly feeling. Night. Paul hung in oblivion. In that boundless black tundra the stillness screamed. He couldn’t be done. It couldn’t be over. Go back. Nothing. Go back. But he couldn’t. The window had closed; the time had passed. He tried to slip in, then to dive. It was impossible now, and the longer he tried the more it was so. But it did not stop him. Over and over, with all his concentration, he repeated: Go back. Go back. Whether minutes passed or hours, Paul did not know. Time had no measure in this place. Only after countless repetitions did he resign to the truth. There was no going back. He had seen her the once: in that first pure moment, before it rushed away. That was real, or as “real” as he could hope for. He had tried to get back, had attempted what he hardly thought possible, had poured his soul into that flickering hope. But all in vain. Gone and empty. What could he have done differently? Yes, that old question. And now something else to apply it to. Something else, but the same pain. Double the burden. Was there no escape? Not anywhere? What to do now? There was one other way out of the void. He had known from the beginning, and every time he came to it. But it was unthinkable. He would rather die than take it. He waited. Maybe death would take him first? But no. He had to go. He had no choice. And she would want it. Paul opened his eyes. The ceiling fan wobbled overhead. He lay on his back and stared up without the slightest move or tilt. He hurried them shut again. Dreams? Memories? Tortures both: lost in one, trapped in the other. But even in their horrors they preserved something. Neither compared to this. Living was toxic to him. Each breath brought in a million tiny shards of glass; incurable sickness penetrated to his bones. Yet despite his suffering, despite his pleas, it would not take him. It lingered, as did he. He could stay in night just a little bit longer. Return, he knew, was hopeless: he could not sleep now. And how could he ever get that moment back? Lightning in a bottle. That’s what it was, and that’s what she was. It doesn’t come twice. But maybe… Paul thought, seeking one last hope, Maybe the real dream was… Eyes firmly shut, Paul rolled onto his left side. He knew the answer but he had to do it anyway. Just maybe. He would rather be crazy than right. Paul stretched out his arm and lowered it to the bed’s other half. When it came to rest on the empty pillow where her fragrance still camped, he loosed a painful sob. He pressed it down softly. What cruelty? Still turned, he reopened his eyes and this time they met the far bedside table. On it lay, right where he had set it… Paul reached for it and rolled again on his back. Once more he shut his eyes, now only to weep. And he brought his arm to rest on his heart, where his clenched fist held her silver band only one day worn.
  3. Thanks, Ami. I appreciate the read and kind words. I suppose you're right that this is only a small snippet so I'll go ahead and post the second part now (the third is by far the longest). As always, any thoughts, impressions, critiques are encouraged. ========== Paul took off in pursuit of the jogger. Certainty told him the man was going where he needed to follow and would lead him right to her. As he came upon the crossing he shot a glance left and right but there were no cars on the road. The houses charmed with their cropped lawns and tidy landscapes but an eerie quiet hung over the neighborhood. He turned right as the jogger had and spotted him far up ahead . . . very far . . . farther than seemed possible in the seconds since Paul had watched him turn the same corner. The man kept his healthy jog but the road already split them by a vast expanse. Afraid of losing him, Paul rose to a sprint. The new velocity brought on a strange sensation. It crept up in a whisper, but Paul felt that his speed tugged at the frays of some conspiracy. He sensed the world was following him and now he ran so fast that it constantly shifted to keep up—that he crossed a bridge being laid right under him, the tireless builder always snatching up the treaded planks and throwing them down mere steps ahead. Paul thought if he spun around fast enough he might even catch him in the act, but he did not have time to test his theory and as he brought his mind back to the chase he fell into dismay. The jogger bobbed in casual rhythm while Paul tore with full frantic strides, but the distance between them had only grown. Baffled, Paul knew that if the man accelerated by the slightest degree he would disappear with ease and be lost completely. He tried to yell out but did not have the breath to reach him; sweating fear and fatigue, he pushed his legs to go faster, but fed with such meager gains they soon tired. Far ahead the man reached the street’s end at another intersection and stopped. Paul’s racing heart jumped; seeing his window, without hesitation, he reached deep for a final burst. To his surprise he not only gained but gained rapidly. His legs excelled under familiar physics, reinvigorated as if shedding a great weight. The houses flew past and he now felt sure that he would catch him. As he cut through the air he even caught a welcome breeze, and on it floating a sweet, sensual aroma . . . Hers. Paul stopped dead in the street. In the same moment a tremor shook the earth—not just the earth, but the fabric of the world. The man, the street, the houses . . . everything warped and dissolved like a broken signal. With a flash all things fled from Paul’s vision and something tugged at his insides so that he felt himself rising while his feet still clung to the ground. He blinked . . . And everything fell back into place: sifting, slowing, settling. Stunned, he regathered his senses. Her scent still hung in the air, and looking up he saw the jogger with his back still turned, standing unmoved at the nexus of roads. From fifty yards back Paul heaved bewildered breaths and watched him closely. The man stood still as if knowing and waiting. Paul detected something sinister in his stance. An alarming thought seized him: Had he taken her? Was this not a guide, but a villain? Paul’s mind churned, and he had just decided to end their standoff in a furious dash when the statue finally stirred. Paul froze as the man twisted his neck over his left shoulder, and like a sideways sunrise turned his head in a slow, glacial taunt. Paul strained his eyes for the instant they would meet his face. But with a snap like a gunshot the man darted away, and before Paul could react he had vanished down a side street. HEY! he yelled after him. Paul chased the runner around the corner but the man was nowhere to be found. The new road ran straight without end: no branching outlets and bare as far as the eye could see. He guessed his fugitive had veered off the road and now hid among the houses. He slowed and stopped. Keeping still, he tried picking up the faintest sound, but silence blanketed all directions. Beginning with slow, cautious steps, with all senses alert, he started down the road. His steps landed with a feeble crunch but in the quiet their echoes resounded. Measured breaths accompanied his strides while inside his chest his heart rebelled against its walls. He kept a steady line down the middle of the road, leaned at odd angles to the right and the left—peering into backyards and side yards, behind play sets and garages—and every few minutes stopped again to listen. All was still. In his anxiety, without realizing it, Paul silently repeated the same mantra. Find him, find her. Find him, find her. How? The road and its houses stretched to the horizon. The man could be anywhere, could play hide-and-seek forever. But that would mean . . . would he really never see . . . ? Paul began to despair . . . A flutter breached the corner of his eye. He spun around and locked eyes on the second floor of the adjacent house, and in the moment of his turning the two panes flew open with a terrible crash as a violent gust lifted a violet billow. Paul knew those curtains. A shock wave, stronger than before. His vision grayed, the world rippled and collapsed again, and something pulled him up and away without lifting him an inch. But he would not go. After several long seconds of desperate concentration the tide slowed, halted, and reversed; and he came rushing back. The scene restored. The wind had passed; Paul stood just as before, neck craned toward the open window where inside the violet curtains hung. The house belonged to strangers but their curtains were their curtains—his and hers. They had picked them out together. A new thought came to him: It’s a trail. Racing footsteps bellowed from behind. Paul turned just in time to see his man far back at the crossing, dashing down the last street and out of sight. Their patter called in mocking sport, daring him to follow. Paul took off. A burst of adrenaline carried him faster than ever before and doubling back the way they came he vowed never to lose him again. He cut the corner lawn and sprinted round. The jester ran ahead but this time Paul closed fast. Any second he would overtake him . . . Suddenly the man ahead planted and sprang down a leftward pass. Paul skidded to redirect, and when he turned to face the new direction his face dropped all its color. He recoiled as if from a physical blow and forgot all about the runner as his eyes set on the gruesome display in the middle of the alley: a menacing heap of black paint and twisted metal, grotesquely mangled—once a car, now the devil’s artwork. Horror rose from the depths of his soul and flooded its every crevice, while his body shook and staggered backward. No, Paul insisted. No, no . . . this is wrong! This is not supposed to be here!! A thunderous quake rocked ground and sky, and at last the invisible hand had him in its grip. Paul tossed and thrashed but it was too late. He was swept up—not off the ground, because there was no ground, but to whatever up there was. He had nothing to grab on to, nothing to grab on with, and still screaming as he was carried away—Not supposed to be here! No! Not here!!—Paul arrived back where he started, wrapped in silence and throttled by night.
  4. All: This is a story I wrote a couple of years ago and have lately resolved to work into the best shape possible. After a flurry of revisions I have gotten it to what I believe is a decent "second" draft. There are three parts. Below is the first. If there's any interest I will follow up with the second and third parts. Critiques are encouraged, even technical and pointedly specific ones, as I'm trying to go through it with a fine-toothed comb. For reference, here's the original draft (though some of the text was lost in the board transfer, it seems): viewtopic.php?f=37&t=43745 Thanks, all. -COEM ========== For a moment’s fraction Paul saw the sole object of his life’s happiness; the blissful image seared into his mind as if pressed from an eternity—but before the moment even passed, all he saw flickered and was suddenly snuffed by darkness, and it was gone. NO! he cried. Pitched in lonely isolation, cut off from the world of sight and sound, he saw nothing but the black, heard nothing but the race of his own heart. He heaved, groped, scrambled; his mind reeled in paralyzing panic; panic rolled into despair, and with each passing second, though the memory still burned, the reality escaped. He could not move, at least not in the way he wanted, and though half-aware of what was happening, he refused to accept it. It left him destitute. What cruelty had whisked it all away so quickly? These thoughts and their half-conscious meanings darted and turned in his head all at once, and in no time, with whatever awareness he possessed, he resolved: I have to get back. How he could or if he could he did not know, nor even consider. He knew without knowing that it wasn’t about thinking at all. It was the feel, the fluidity; he had to slip back into the stream. A gentle dip or a violent plunge—either way he must find the river and take the dive. Anything less, or anything more—too heavy a thought, too firm an intent—would break the spell, and if it did . . . he would not even think it. Suspended in the formless void, with the urgent calm he sensed was required, Paul gave himself to purposed instinct. He walked the wobbly tightrope of control and release, and by this indelicate balance the walls of night thinned and tore, and in rushed figures that flew at him like specters. Some were large, some small; some thin, some wide; some beautiful, some terrible. But they were all chatty. They spoke, screeched, and whispered as the ghosts circled round him, rising in discordant chorus. Each he recognized, but only as it crossed his vision—when it passed he kept no memory of the last and knew only the next. Apart from that fleeting moment—as they soared past, fluttered by, and twinkled in and out—the individuals vied for his attention while ever eluding it. But Paul heard in full the swell of the swirling symphony. Suddenly the figures gathered speed and the swirl became a cyclone. He no longer perceived their definite forms—the orbits flew too fast and were all swept up in a rushing blur. With acceleration the choral garble melted into one roaring pitch. From the eye of the storm Paul felt dazed, both heavy and light. One corner of his mind witnessed everything with curiosity; a larger pocket held unsteady focus on his dire mission; but the broadest part fell sedated under the siren’s spell. As the whirlwind grew, roaring to the brink of silence, Paul’s awareness dimmed; he began slipping, teetering on the edge of consciousness, and then— His feet were on solid ground. It was a quiet suburban neighborhood. Paul knew where he was now. He stood on his porch that wasn’t his porch of his house that wasn’t his house and looked across the street. A rusty pickup sat in the driveway opposite while sprinklers ran on the owner’s lawn. With steps muffled by distance, a jogger turned down the end of the street and passed out of sight behind the next row of houses. Further past, the sky dressed in warm summer orange as afternoon merged with twilight. Taking in the scene, Paul noticed that everything was very nearly finished, but not quite. If he stared in one place long enough he could just make out the broken contours and tiny spots of missing color. If he stared longer they would even begin to connect and solidify, as if by an invisible painter’s hand still applying the final brush strokes. Paul sensed he had glimpsed behind something he was not supposed to see but he did not dwell on it. The scenery had this strange fluxing residue but inwardly everything was firm again. His hypnotic swoon, the subtle dance of force and feel—these were gone. When Paul hit the ground his sense had come flooding back: he could think and reason without worry, direct his faculties fully to his purpose. He had made it, and without knowing how, he knew where to go. Paul stepped off the porch, turned into the street and began to run.
  5. [18 months later...] Thanks, Brendo. I've recently been making some edits trying to whip this thing into shape so I will post a revised version in the general Library forum soon, I think (if that's okay). It's not a rewrite from scratch, so it's not radically different (a lot of passages have been left untouched), but I have tried to reduce length wherever I could by cutting out needless repetitions and self-indulgent descriptions — a general tightening all around. I have been on a long hiatus from any creative writing but in reading back over this story I liked it more than I thought I would, which gave me the push to bring this story to the best place it can go and maybe even to finish some other projects I have lying around.
  6. Thanks for the read, Brendo. It's been fun to write and certainly off the beaten track. It's funny how writing works: I stumbled on my notes for this project the other day, not having thought much about it in months (when I had ideas going forward but got stuck), and then cranked out a new installment in an afternoon. Interesting what coming to something with fresh eyes can do. I'll probably do one more installment of this to wrap it up as a short trilogy of parts. Unless I get inspired again—who know.
  7. Score! I'm glad it helped. I also could not recommend The Brothers Karamazov enough, especially for any Christian. It's my favorite novel and a gem of world literature. Thanks also for your kind words about the language and flow. I'm glad it sounded pretty.
  8. Ah man, I thought I might have done better this time. I wasn't trying to be as deliberately obscure as before (I admit I had some fun playing it up a little last time) but I guess it makes sense if you don't know the story. It's a poetic rendering of the beginning of this parable: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Grand_Inquisitor In brief, Jesus reappears on earth in 16th-century Spain during the height of the Inquisition, not as the Second Coming but merely to visit the suffering people for a brief moment in time. The people recognize him but are amazed and can hardly believe it. He performs a series of miracles (healing the blind, etc.) and a throng of people are shouting praises and following him in a frenzy as he walks through the city streets. At the foot of the great cathedral ("On steps below the heaven-piercing spires") he comes upon a funeral procession for a young girl and raises her to life. But catching the scene from a distance is the Grand Inquisitor, a ninety-year-old cardinal lifer in the Church institution. He sees Jesus has returned and has, well, other thoughts ("I will inquire," i.e., inquisit, i.e., Inquisition). But you have to read it if you haven't before (https://www.mtholyoke.edu/acad/intrel/pol116/grand.htm). The whole book, really, but this episode is the highlight (along with the chapter before it) and a powerful, powerful story. My poem merely sets up the action, but Jesus's kiss to the girl in the final line is my own inventive prefigurement of the real kiss that appears in the story at the climax of Christ's encounter with the Inquisitor. Do the the lines make any more sense in that light?
  9. Seville “Señor,” he sputtered, kneeling, daring, “Fall Your hand upon this wretched soul you see Before you.” Passing bearers of the pall, The crowd pushed in to learn if it could be: The one who married prophet and the law, Who tore through Hell and blazed above it free, Again upon the streets of earth and straw. Soft amber clothed the hushes and the cries And limbs were under spell as if in yaw Had it been any other, yet the wise Would hold all wisdom folly but be wild The day the Lord descended from the skies. “Arise,” he said, and ever softly smiled, Embracing all Creation in his eyes; With tender love the Spirit Undefiled Released more power than evil can devise: The peasant stood, his body unbeguiled, And blindness followed death in its demise. This train of grace with riches over-piled Wrought hallelujahs ringing in the square, Entwining with the rose-scent of a child Whose coffin men of strength could hardly bear; On steps below the heaven-piercing spires The women soaked their rolling tears in prayer. Then to the one whose mercy never tires The mother, crowd in shouting, came to plead: “If you are Him, a word she just requires; “Restore her life: your lips attend the deed!” Across the way a man who dreamed of fire Was squinting ancient eyes with special heed, And finding not a tittle to admire Knew deeply all the world was now amiss; With heavy note he said, “I will inquire,” Then witnessed sorrow swallowed up in bliss. As life prevailed he even saw the healer Lean in to seal her saving with a kiss.
  10. ========== Well, the cat is out of the bag. She’s still alive, thank God. But she was really shaken up. Makes me dizzy just thinking about it. Roger was shocked, of course. I guess he deserved it, pulling a stunt like that (I think he may have mental problems). But the screams were hard to listen to. And now sweet Lily is down an owner. Poor kitty. In other news, the thing I’ve been keeping secret is now known by everyone. The other day when that fellow came to visit, Trilby I think the name was, with the scrunched-up hat (I don’t remember what it’s called), he told me something that knocked my socks off. Something about Mom and Pop’s estate, claiming the inheritance, yada yada. To be honest his ears were so pointy I could hardly pay attention to the little guy. Anyway, he mentioned something about proving “mental stability” and some tests or other, and having “no choice” and being “forced” to do all this if I want to see any money. First of all, I may be red-green colorblind, but I see money just fine. And second, if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s seeing someone trapped and bossed around, even a loon like him. I don’t know who he’s taking orders from but I have a soft spot for his kind (their work on Christmas is exquisite). So naturally I stopped him right there, dropped my boots and gave him my wooly gold-toes. “You’re free,” I told him. He didn’t say much but I think he was grateful. Oh, and Stuart has been bugging me lately. Micro-recorders in my cereal and whatnot. I told him to eat it but he said I already had. It’ll come out one way or another. But I think that’s how everyone found out. And since then it’s been nothing but hullabaloo. Yeah, it’s true: There is mucho dinero in the cutlery biz if you know how to slice it. And for a while my family was raking in the pounds. But I don’t need people staring at my largess. We did Atkins. It’s those damn saturated fats. I’m still working on it, for God’s sake. You can’t please everyone. So I’ve been thinking of moving. Stuart says the only way out of here is through a wormhole, but that’s nonsense. We’d never fit. People can be so irrational. And now I get called in twice a week to have doctors ask me questions. It hasn’t gone smoothly. Every time I end up giving them the bird (I found him making a nest beside my window bars—name’s Jeremy). But they’ll have none of it. I’m no Avian supremacist, but geez. Guess a show of good will is a thankless gesture. Their loss. Mainly I just wish they wouldn’t treat me like I child. I’m loads better at coloring. And they always hedge around things like they’re hiding some secret I’m too delicate to know. “Oh, he can’t find out about Santa!” Give me a break. I’m a grown man. I know Claus outsources. He’s a capitalist, just like me. But worst is when they talk to me like I don’t know who I am. I’m sick of it. That’s why I’m putting all my affairs in order to take my leave and reclaim the family business. It’s time to move on. And if they try to stop me they’re going to have to go through me (and me).
  11. Ha, thanks, Travis. I suppose I could be the arch-(post-)modern poet and say the obscurantism is exactly the point and you should decide on your own interpretation, but I won't. It's inspired by Plato's tripartite theory of the soul with examples of men ruled by passion, appetite, and reason, with the twist in the last being that Christ is both fulfillment of a soul well ordered by reason, and innovator by locating that reason in abundant love. The coda comes from Christianity having often been considered the intersection of Greek and Jewish thought.
  12. Tripart Observe ye, sons, the vivisected soul: What passions by synapses psychic fly Around the feckless kingly absent pole, Poor syllogisms rimming at his eye, And checkless currents rearing swiftly down A frightful breeze between the head and crown. A bitter subject. Wheel round the gurney next, a heavier case Where spirit meets a gastronomic end, Constructive aims left dusting at the base Or ground to spice another soothing blend— No sight or will for anything to forge And appetite unknowing but to gorge. One more, the last. The stethoscopic steps announce a man Who is no patient, yet is that and kind; Though stigmatized, he wields a steady hand To stitch the maws of death where once he dined; In men as these he sees beyond the Fall Whose heart contains the best of both and all. Now Grecian wisdom runs into the sea To meet the weary-wending desert tribes— Well-ordered veins, whose limbs upon the tree The Doctor grafts and history inscribes— A world with no imaginings above The dint of reason superfused with love.
  13. Many thanks, V and Ami. I really appreciate your readership and the nice feedback. And no, Ami, I really haven't looked into it much but recently had just begun thinking about it and running some shallow Google searches. Not that I have any more experience in fiction, but I have done more reading up on that process and hearing how it goes from other people, whereas with poetry I have no idea where even to begin looking or what are considered solid publishers. I'm having a lot of fun writing these though and it's encouraging to hear they may be worth something.
  14. Untitled This poem’s past redeeming; Take my word before the verse Accrues a power in its seeming Charm beyond its merit purse. Let fall it to the level Low belonging where it stoops, Impudent writhings of a devil Desecrating nature’s groups. Stop here and now redouble; See, the magic has its hook Already sprucing reed from rubble For a favor-laden look. No devil’s been enlisted Here, much less a rightful muse; The pageantry of rhyme consisted Here is naught but fear to lose. But don’t be swayed by sympathies: A whimper’s won too many alms; So strike it, storm it, stomp it, please: It’s mercy more than pity palms. The gavel goes to history, The verdict, Silence, final foe Of all that scampered blistery For just a word—just a “No.” What time you’ve lost I can’t redeem But if you’ve come so far you must See through the muck the faintest gleam Of something there—Alack! No—dust! Dust in pretty patterns now, If prettiness you’ll grant at least, But to the point I’ll make you vow, When all the tinkling chimes have ceased: To Memory my lifeworks lie So far beyond periphery; So ease them to their long December. You must forget—remember.
  15. Thanks for asking, Brendo. I did a sweep of revisions on this one several weeks ago and then sent it off to a real-life writer friend of mine for comment (we swapped stories), and was hoping to springboard off his feedback to make another set of revisions, but we caught each other at busy times and he had to pretty suddenly move from Maine to Texas, so I've yet to receive his comments and haven't worked on it since. I sort of subtly nudged him about it recently but he's understandably busy, so I just hope to pick it up again whenever I hear back. (And his reaction may determine how drastically [or not] I end up revising for the next wave.)
  16. At The Water Here at the water fateful stuff’s decided. How long can I hold my conscience under? The human heart’s not made amphibian. A flicker’s all my hope for things confided. “Adapt or die,” the serpent says mid-plunder. No wretch could call this soul empyrean. A heart slow-baked in pitch and rolling swinish In seasoned vice and all its fragrant spices Defends the secret tucked inside its throat: That sin, the traitor, promising the finest, Strings loopholes tight as leashes and entices When pleasure’s gone and all transgression's rote. Yet as my world drops out and sinks to bottom A gentle ray lights on me from the surface With whispers of a source I cannot see. I need not clear a path that leads to Sodom While living Hope prepares a higher purpose: “My robe and fatted calf are here for thee.” I cling to yet, my spirit plucked from autumn, Belief that past the circles of this corpus One day with Him in paradise I’ll be.
  17. Anyone want to throw one my way? I'm itching to write but need some inspiration. Also, I think this thread is great and worth reviving.
  18. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to reply to this, but thank you so much, Tiana. This helps more than you know. I'm actually beginning the process of revising this one now, and I appreciate your advice—it is sound, and it's encouraging to have specific focus points for a yet positive overall impression. I'm going to slash a good bit (killing the darlings, as they say), sticking to the plot and characterization being a good rule to follow. You also brought up something that has concerned me slightly the more I have thought about it: the story is pretty back-heavy. It is structured (by design) to culminate in that final punch, where all the threads come together, but I realize that until that point one really has very little understanding of the story, and that's a lot of weight to put on the payoff. Maybe too much, which is why slashing sentences in this case seems doubly wise. I want to find the right balance so that it works, and that may just take a lot of tweaking. Thank you also for the compliment about the prose. To be honest this is probably what I worry about most. Anyone who's read anything I've posted in this forum can probably tell that I enjoy writing in a lofty style. When I read books myself, I love coming across prose that sings with the beauty of the language, and it's something I like to emulate, or at least try to. (It's also rarer in modern writing, I think, which makes me appreciate it more; and I've always simply leaned in preference toward the poetic.) But I feel I'm always on the edge of being overwrought, and often spilling over, which is something I'm want to discipline myself on. There's a quiet beauty in sparse simplicity, which I too often forget. For this story I can kind of get away with my worse tendencies, because it's supposed to be surreal and poetic and taking your mind in turns. But is it too much? I know a proper answer to that probably requires judging on a case-by-case, maybe sentence-by-sentence, basis, but just as a general impression, does the prose work? When or why does it, and when or why does it not? (I'm kind of thinking out loud now so don't feel you need to have an answer. Also, I'm not just fishing for validation; I'm really just trying to get an sense how the prose comes across, because I realize is usually not straightforward, and because what sounded pretty to me, given my taste, at the time of my writing may rightly sound inflated and affected to a normal and much more discerning reader.)
  19. Wow, almost a year since I cranked this out. Doesn't seem that long ago. I intend to do some thorough revisions and/or rewrites on this story in the near future, not because I think it's fundamentally off—I actually think it's one of the better ideas I've had—but because there are a bunch of ways it can be tightened up and I actually want to make it as good as can be. Another writerly friend whom I gave it to said it's a bit long, and I agree (I also cringe little now at some of the linguistic over-indulgences). So this is one where, even though it's technically "completed," any honest feedback (positive or negative) would continue to be very helpful, as I mean to roll up my sleeves and give it serious revisionary treatment till I get it to a point I'd really feel good about.
  20. Thanks, gimpy! I have to confess, there's almost zero chance I am actually going to hit 50,000 words and "win" ”” for one, I'm a terribly slow writer (that's why I'm trying it out, though: to force me to write faster and to get me to break my perfectionistic tendencies and instead just flush out words on the page). And I'm starting nearly a week late to boot. But it'll be motivation for me to at least keep writing, even if I end up falling way short. The novel is an idea I developed over the summer; I have the concept and some basic info about characters worked out, but apart from a few scenes and major places that I want the story to end up, I have basically nothing plotted. So it will be an adventure and will hopefully help me "let go" a little bit so I at least produce something of greater length, even if it proceeds in a very free-flowing manner and I know I will have to revise massively later. I think I also tend to overwrite, so this should (in theory) help me stop scrutinizing over the most minute detail and begin to write more naturally. Even though I have registered I still haven't done much writing yet and am at the very beginning. But I'll post parts/chapters here if/when I finish them. The novel is called THE TROLLEY PROJECT.
  21. So, I know I am a few days late, but I just registered for this. I really want to kick the writing into high gear and this should be some good motivation/accountability. I can't guarantee that I'm going to follow through with it but I'm going to try. I've never done it before so any tips about the event, the site, etc. are more than welcome. Anyone else going for it this year?
  22. Wow, thanks, Ami. That was very kind. I had fun writing it and playing around to make it loose and dreamy. I don't really know what I'm doing, though. I wish I had taken an English poetry class in college, because my exposure to great poetry is woeful and I am pretty clueless about meter (besides iambic pentameter). I feel like I don't have a good enough base under me to know what is good. But I would like to start reading more poetry. I tend to be a sucker for lofty, flowing language (probably to a fault), but that's when I tend to have the most fun writing, and I feel like that sing-song sensibility fits well with poetry (or at least is more permissible). These two are all that I've written but I have enjoyed it so far and would like to keep trying, so I will start posting new poems here if/when they are written.
  23. Less form-driven than the previous, but nevertheless: I Lie Along a Dream I lie along a dream, The truth released, spread thin Across the soporific firmament And grayed by all the fancies of A none-too-meager whim. The daemon reigns, accoutered With the playful art of artifice, Delighting in the idealistic dance Of doll and string. The elemental verities compose A foreign verse, the rightful substance Warped, aberrant creatures rising forth; Thus purity begets exotic issue, Truth the father of a fount Of charmed mendacities cascading, While tangentially I glide and guess The matter far below. The current bears the steward down Along the daemon's airy den; Its shorelines host alchemic feats To conjure up on order As the charmer, merry, calls For dames or diamonds on a ring. A conscious prod unfurls the thought: Who puppeteers the puppeteer? Above the rolling waves a stranger scent Betrays the secret of a sea of wills, Where mind is left to wondering if The steward bankrolls chaos. A signature I seek among the scrawl And in recoil detect familiar hand: Was daemon loosed by one so close, A witness to the throes of fact, Or steward, author, I? Here Nature and Unnature meet With penmanship throughout, Complicity in plots to lose Reality to perfidy. Can faith yet make a final stand, Embattled so by selfish foes, Or have I signed away the truth, that now I lie along a dream?
  24. Thanks for the nice feedback, Ami and gimpy. It is certainly true that I draw from some personal and well-shared writerly feelings, but I will also add that this is fictional so the voice is not entirely my own. Over the next few entries, as the arc and character of the writer start to take shape, that may become more apparent. =========== IV. I have to chuckle a bit at my last entry. In reading back over it, I am more than a little amused at my own expectations, and, perhaps, naïveté. What, I thought, is a more natural sister to writing than reading? They are as paired together as the pen to the page, conjoined in activity and spirit, together infused with the singular magic of the word. I had resolved (I have half a mind to stop recording these forward declarations), now, to a new task: to augment and edify my writer's toolkit by ””what else? ”” reading more. By coming at the latter as training for the former, I would weave seamlessly from one practice to the other, buttressing my current ability with the knowledge and skill that study provides. But what seemed the simplest resolution has delivered its own basket of complications. The task itself is not the problem ”” I am reading more ”” nor that it is any kind of chore (if anything, I am enjoying it too much). No, the difficulty lies in reading as the means to the writer's end. This (I am now finding) is anything but natural. If I had ever given a moment's serious thought to it before it should have been obvious, but my mind glazed over it and was all too happy to recite the conventional wisdom. To be clear, I don't dispute that the two go hand in hand ”” only that they do it quite so easily. The artist, the writer, is a conjurer; the work, creatio ex nihilo. The artist lies in an open field, gazes at the clouds that are very clearly clouds, and, drawing on nothing but the imagination, carves their nebulous amorphies into well-cut figures. Only, as the writer, he must first supply even the clouds. But to read is to give oneself up; or rather, to be caught on a line ”” cast by and from the sea itself ”” tugged, reeled, and plunged into the deep. You swim in the story, immersed in the author's world. It is an invitation to explore, to peer at the exotic flora and fauna ”” otherworldly, without quite being so; undiscovered, but still a part of home ”” though all the while carried along the invisible current to destinations unknown. And that is the trouble, at least for me. To read for the craft (or, at least, to be overly conscious of it) is to be drawn out of the world ”” to pop your head up for air is to break the spell. But am I not to experience the work full, vividly, as it is intended? To be too reflective, too dry and analytic, sapping up one too many motes of technical wisdom ”” in short, a hollow deconstruction ”” threatens a collapse of the world. My project, therefore, rests on a precarious balance. The book is my greatest ally, and it must be. But it is also my slyest tempter. Reading, at bottom, taps a different mode of the mind, burrows itself in and seductively morphs into its own end. How easy it is to forget my notebook entirely! I have already felt it. All of which is to say: I know myself. I can be charmed by a good book, and if I'm not careful, am liable to be swept away and lose sight of my purpose. I must check myself. But all of this is necessary. I suppose I should not even call it a problem. Above all of this, my recent page turning has impressed on me the firm conviction that I am not yet where I need to be. The more I read, the less I find that I am ready to write. Already in drawing up a list of titles I see where the regrettable gaps in my knowledge lie. If I am to write wholeheartedly, I must read the same. And how grateful I am to have discovered this now. I imagine with horror the disasters untold had I begun my own work without these reads under my belt. How ignorant of the tides of literary history, how novel I would have thought my own inventions, blissfully unaware that they had been done a hundred years past. This is a recurring nightmare. Not only to have wasted my time and talents on something unoriginal, but the shame ”” that I could not endure. That is why, for all the traps that reading lays, I must persist. Literature has its own narrative, spanning millennia. I have to know its own story, to be in on the conversation of texts across centuries, if I am ever to contribute something worthwhile. I see now that my ”œtraining”
  25. III. It is said that Michelangelo would spend entire days staring at a marble monolith, sitting, staring, and doing nothing else. For four months he did this without fail, without lifting the chisel. It became the Statue of David. In whose better footsteps to follow? I have my two notebooks splayed open, the one on the left absorbing these letters, and the one on the right still a neat virgin palette. Should I have expected my Muse to serenade me so soon? Even the greatest ”” even did Michelangelo ”” await the idea. I will leap at her first whisper. Until then, my book remains blank. What is my progress, you (I) say? What have I to show for my resolve, burned into the record with this very ink for all (me) to see? You (I, they ”” whoever) miss the point. This is progress: the tortuous internal toil, the sedulous rubbing together the mind's twin sticks, ever on the cusp of the creative spark. To his friend, Michelangelo's routine seemed pointless. To his quizzical prod, ”œWhat are you doing?”
×
×
  • Create New...