# A Ghost Story (4492 words) (WIP)



## polaroidcaesar (Aug 3, 2017)

*I should note that this is incomplete and very much WIP. However, I wanted to get some feedback about whether the shifting perspective works, and if the premise itself is compelling. 

**I*​[FONT=&Verdana]It is raining today, like it has been every day for the past weeks. I am watching the rain hit the dirty glass. It is only three o’clock, but it is dark out already. Suddenly there is thunder. I am afraid. I run from the window to the kitchen, where Mother is starting dinner. The odors of frying onions and roasting meat and herbs fill my nose. I cling to her leg. She looks down, not understanding, asks—
[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]
“Are you hungry, baby?”
 [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]
and ruffles my hair. I shake my head. Then, she puts down the stirring spoon, picks me up, and wraps her arms around me—[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]    
[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]
“Thunder is only noise. My father always told me, ‘It’s what people do, not what they say, that you should worry about.’ Remember, it’s lighting you should be afraid of,” she whispers into my ear.

 I do not entirely understand what she means, but it comforts me. [/FONT]The rain picks up. It sounds like someone is playing our roof for drums. Mother puts me down and makes a roaring noise. She sounds just like the thunder. I giggle with delight. She looks out the window at the rain and says to no one in particular—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Where...?” 

[/FONT]Then, she shakes her head, smiles again, and goes back to her work. Suddenly, the power goes out. I am afraid again. [FONT=&Verdana] 

  Mother and I eat alone by the light of a single candle. The candlelight and the darkness and the rain reminds me of the time we went to the cathedral in the City on Easter. Mother puts me to bed shortly after dinner. When she kisses me on the forehead she leaves tears that run down my nose and fall on my lips. They are salty.

[/FONT] I wake up in the middle of the night and creep out of my room. Mother is sitting on the floor in the hallway. The front door is open to the night. The rain is so loud that even if I called out to her she could not hear me. Then, I go back to bed. [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]Some days I see Father leave the house, though only when I wake up very early in the morning. I think that he is a very good father. He picks me up and spins me around in the air. He tickles me and wrestles with me. When he can, he brings me gifts—balls, toys, candies. He tells me that I am his favorite and only son. Then, Mother comes out of the bedroom. Sometimes she smiles at him and kisses him and scratches his beard; other times she will not even look at him. Then, Father kisses me goodbye. He gets into the car and drives away. Father works in the City. Mother does not like the City. I tell Mother sometimes—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]“I want to see Father more.” [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]Father usually comes home very late, and sometimes not at all. Sometimes he says that he is working overtime for Mother; sometimes that the drive from the City is very long; sometimes that his bosses invited him out for drinks. Sometimes Mother is furious. She breaks plates and threatens Father with the shards and calls him “bastard”. Sometimes she is sad. She cries and says that she will go crazy if he keeps on like this. And sometimes she says nothing at all. When she does that, Father is most afraid. She does not smile at Father anymore. One night she says—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]“If you ever turn out like him, son, I’ll kill you.” [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]One day Father says that he is moving to the City. He packs the few things he has left and puts them in the car. He asks me—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Do you want to come with me to the City?” 

[/FONT]I shake my head and say—[FONT=&Verdana]  

[/FONT]“If I went with you, who would stay here with Mother?” [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]He smiles and starts to cry. He picks me up and wraps me in his arms and kisses me and says—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“You’re a good boy, son.” 

[/FONT]Then, he drives away. Mother says, to no one in particular—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]“Tell me...tell me...” [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]Tonight I sleep with Mother. Her bed is very big, but she holds me close to her and does not let go all night. She whispers—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“I’m still not used to sleeping alone after all this time.” 

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]For once it is not raining. The sky is clear. Through the open window I can see the moon and the stars. I can hear the screaming of the frogs from the fields. A breeze creeps in. It smells like mud. It is silent for a while. Then, Mother says—

[/FONT]“You’re a good boy, son.” 

*II*​One day, quite suddenly, the Town and everyone in it disappeared. Every man, woman and child, every goat, ass and chicken, every cat, dog and bird, every nail, board and pane of glass of every house and every office, every stalk of corn, every potato, every melon, every blade of grass, every leaf, every flower. They say that a certain Mr. P— (a name I still don’t recognize) had gone to the City the previous evening and returned the next morning to find that his house, his wife and daughter, and even his beloved rooster, were nowhere to be seen. Indeed, there was nothing to indicate that there had ever been a town in the ripe, boulder-strewn, grass-choked field that Mr. P— stumbled upon that morning. [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]By noon, an assembly of constables, magistrates, newspapermen, bankers (with pertinent interests in the Town’s salt mines), and the merely curious rode over from the neighboring village over the hills to investigate P—’s seemingly far-fetched claim. Upon recognizing that the Town had, in fact, vanished without a trace, the newspapermen realized that they had chanced upon a story of national dimension, though the bankers accepted the news with rather more consternation. Provincial officials arrived hardly an hour later, and at the toll of three o’clock the train from the City finally pulled in, jostling with government functionaries and bureaucrats. By evening, as if it were carried on the wind, word of the Town’s disappearance had reached even the farthest-flung corners of the nation. The following morning, the Prime Minister himself had surveyed the site, and subsequently vowed to mount a government inquest into the affair  [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]The sole subject of debate was, of course—what had happened? Some proposed that the Town had been carried off in a storm—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“You know how the winds are in those parts. I suspect the Town simply is up on the mountain, and no one has thought to look yet. The inhabitants are probably flummoxed themselves. I tell you, they’re up on that mountain.” 

[/FONT]Others asserted that a shaman, rejected by the townspeople, had put a hex upon them—[FONT=&Verdana]   

 [/FONT]“They say that the magic in those parts is quite potent, and there are many witches, bone women, elves, and sorcerers who live in the hills. Perhaps the townspeople did not procure the proper offerings—there’s been so much rain, after all, I don’t doubt that they can’t get a thing to grow besides the weeds. Or maybe they stopped believing in the whole thing. It’s a shame in either case.” [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]An endless variety of such fabulous conjectures proliferated. They were hotly debated in the coffeehouses and taverns, bartered and bandied over glasses of rum and mugs of chocolate, perfumed with cigar smoke and frying eggs. For some weeks, even the papers were not exempt from the sensationalism—an opinion column titled “Chronicles Of The Uplands” publicized them and offered speculations of their own. Some said a soothsayer had been visited by the mayor of the Town in her dreams. An investigator claimed to have found nails and roof-tiles in the hills to the east of the erstwhile Town, evidence that purportedly gave credence to the so-called “storm hypothesis”. The Monarchists, the Anarchists, and the Communists (a peculiar alliance) were united in their denouncement of the incident as a government conspiracy. Agents of the Church announced that, indeed, there [/FONT]_had _[FONT=&Verdana]been demonic interference (supposedly the remains of a sacrificed goat were discovered, and a witch’s cave dwelling, too) in the Town’s vanishing. The Archbishop noted that—[FONT=&Verdana] 

    “...It is certainly the most extraordinary case of demonic ‘banishment’—as it is known—of this century, and doubtlessly the most remarkable to have occurred on this side of the Atlantic since the incident at La Alberca.” 

[/FONT]Women’s clubs were established in the City for the debate and discussion of the latest “reports” of the Town. Books were published. Rumor even had it that a motion picture was in the works.[FONT=&Verdana] 

The mania continued for some months, before dissipating entirely when the War broke out to the north. The discourse turned to notions of morality and ethics and the ebullience of violence, and all thought of the Town evaporated like a dry season rain. Interest was revived a year or so afterwards, when the results of the government inquest were finally released. Predictably, however, the investigation was terminated inconclusively, due to a lack of not only pertinent evidence, but of evidence at all. 

Thenceforth, the Town was more or less forgotten. From time to time, in hushed tones, its name was invoked like a talisman, as mythic and benighted as the Tower of Babel. The abandoned field which the now infamous Mr. P— had chanced upon that distant morning was cordoned off, and the place was said to be cursed. Some years later, a young woman died there after tumbling into a ravine, which was thought to be a telling omen of its damnation. 

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]I despaired. I agonized. I wept. But I did not believe it, not for a single moment. I read the papers and I did not believe it. I went to the coffeehouses and I did not believe it. I read the government reports, those outright lies, and I did not believe it. I went to the cursed field itself, and still I did not believe it. 

[/FONT]Because one day I called out, and a voice answered. 
*[FONT=&Verdana]
III[/FONT]*​[FONT=&Verdana]One day the Town disappeared. There was a big sound, and I woke up and went out into the hallway. Mother ran from her bedroom to the front door. She opened up the front door, then, with a scream, she closed it. She came to me and picked me up and kissed me all over my face and said—

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“It’s okay...it’s okay...it’s okay...it’s okay.” 

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]I asked Mother what was happening and she said she did not know. I asked her what she had seen and she said she did not know. She took me into her bedroom and we lay beneath the covers and she clung to me and held my hand and would not let go. We stayed up all night listening to the booming and the howling and the small feet that were running all over the roof. We did not speak. Mother shushed me when I tried to talk, put a finger to my lips. We heard our neighbors crying out, then going quiet. We could hear their whispering. There were some gunshots further off. Glass broke. Cocks crowed like it was the morning. Somewhere a gramophone was playing. I was very scared. Mother was very scared. 

The night went on for what seemed like forever. Sometimes it was very quiet, so that we could only hear our own breathing. Other times it was so loud that I thought the stars were falling down, or that someone was knocking on the door, or that the whole ocean was falling out of the sky. Mother screamed, cried, and prayed.

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]Then, it was morning, and it all ended. The sun shone, and there were clouds in the sky. Mother and I went into the hallway. The front door was open, and the birds were singing. There were other townspeople walking around, so we decided that it would be safe for us to leave the house. Mother took my hand, and we crossed the threshold together. She said—

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Stay close to me.” 

[/FONT]But there were no more dangers to be found—no more big sounds, no more pounding, no more howling. [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]The Town is very different now. The sea has come to us. The eastern road that Father used to take to go to the City is drowned, and the water stretches out as far as we can see. Some townspeople put together some logs to make a raft and went out as far as they could, but they did not find any end to the water. They tried using a sail they sewed together from bedsheets, but it made no difference. They spent two days sailing without seeing any sign of land or any other boat. But the townspeople gather fish and clams and crabs from the water, and we children play on the shore. I had never seen the sea before it came to us. I have even learned to swim, so it is not all bad. [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]However, that is not the only way the Town has changed. To the north, where the big mountain once was, is a big salt flat instead. It is just as big as the sea. Some townspeople rode horses out beyond the horizon with food for two weeks, but returned in just two days. [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“We found the end of it, one day’s ride away. The world comes to an end,” they said. 

[/FONT]No one understood, so half the town took their carriages and automobiles and bicycles out onto the flats to see what they were talking about. It was just like a carnival. There was food and drinks, music, and games. The whole town went on a picnic. And it really is the end of the world. The sky keeps going, but the ground stops. It looks like it has been cut off with a knife. You can look down and all you see is sky. It goes on forever. One man even got very drunk during the picnic and fell off the edge. He never stopped falling. [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]To the south is a forest full of mist, vines, giant snakes, poisoned fruits, and quicksand. It is just like the stories Mother read to me about the northern jungles. Some townsmen went to explore it, but they never came back. The mayor said that no one is allowed to go in there, and he built a fence to keep everybody out. Some people went in anyway, though, young boys just like me. Just like the townsmen, they never came back. Their mothers and fathers cried all day and night, and they were very loud. One of the mothers tried to go into the jungle to find her son, but everybody held her back. She cut one woman with a knife, and now she is in jail. [FONT=&Verdana]   

[/FONT]I do not know how much time has passed since the Town disappeared. Mother is very sad. She wants to talk to Grandma and Auntie, but we cannot reach  anyone outside of the Town. The telephones do not work anymore, nor do the telegraphs. The radios do not pick up any stations, and of course we cannot send any letters. The only place in the world now is the Town. But there is plenty of food and water, and it has not been raining so much, so it is not all that bad. I still must go to school every day, and I have made many new friends. [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]I do not tell Mother this, but I miss Father. Before the Town disappeared, he used to telephone me from the City and talk to me. Sometimes I could not understand him, because his words sounded very funny, like he had burnt his tongue and could not speak properly. Sometimes he cried and said that he was very sorry for living in the City and not at home with me and Mother. I asked him if it was alright if I could come visit him in the City. He said that Mother would disapprove, but he would try his best. But now the Town has disappeared, and there is no way to go to the City, and no way to talk to Father. [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]But one day something strange happened. I was walking home from school along the seashore. It was very late, because the teacher said that he would not let us go until one of us solved the math problem that he had given us. It had taken us a long time, but finally one of us had done it. The sun was about to set, and I could see the moon in the sky even though it was still daytime. I knew that Mother would be worried about me, but I wanted to look for shells on the beach. I very much like shells, and one time I even found a pretty conch shell that Mother put on the mantelpiece. But more than anything I wanted to find a big clam shell. [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]While I was on the beach searching for shells, I heard a voice. At first it was very quiet, and I could not understand what it was saying. It was coming from out over the water. The sea was very calm. I took off my shoes and trousers and went out towards the voice. It was cold, and night was falling very fast. The sun was already setting, and I could see the stars in the sky. The voice was getting louder, but it was still further out. I kept going, until the water was at my chest. I was shivering, but I wanted to know what the voice was saying. I thought that it was someone who could not swim and needed help, but I saw no one. I began to swim. 

I went further and further from the shore, past the break and into the deep water, where Mother had forbid me to go. But if she knew that someone was drowning, wouldn’t she do the same? The wind rose, and the sea became rougher. It was more difficult to stay afloat, but I am a strong swimmer, and I could almost understand what the voice was saying, so I kept going. [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]Finally, when I was struggling to keep my head above the water and the waves were carrying me out to sea, I could hear it. It was a man’s voice that was full of sadness and longing. It said—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Tell me...tell me…” 

[/FONT]But never anything more. It sounded like it had something else on its mind, but could not say it, because it was too sad. No one was there, but I knew that it was a real person somewhere far away. I asked—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“What’s wrong? What’s the matter? Are you alright?” 

[/FONT]The voice gasped, and replied like it was choking on a fishbone—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Why?” 

[/FONT]Suddenly I knew that it was Father’s voice that I was hearing, and that he was trying to find me. I called out—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]“Father! Father!” [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]But the waves were pulling me under, and my mouth was filling with seawater, and my legs were giving out. I wanted to talk to Father more. I kept yelling—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Father! Father!” 

[/FONT]But there was no reply. The voice was gone, or I could not hear it above the sound of the waves. I began to scream. I struggled against the current, but it was no use. I was being dragged away from the shore. It was dark then, and all I could see was the moon, the stars, and the black water. I knew that I was drowning. I called out for help but I knew that none would come. I began to cry. I did not want to die. I wanted to see Father and Mother again, and find a big clamshell. I was very cold. I could not keep my head above the waves. Water flooded my nose. My arms were tired, and I could hardly kick my legs anymore. The water filled up my lungs bit by bit. I could not breathe. I do not know how much time passed, but I could no longer scream. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep. [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT]When I woke up I was on the beach, and Mother was looking down at me. She was crying and calling out to God and stroking my face and my hair. It was hard to hear her. It felt like there were cotton balls in my ears. Suddenly I saw a doctor, and men with lamps, and other women who were crying and calling out to God. I sat up and vomited. The doctor turned me on my side and the seawater came out of my ears. I heard many people crying, and men talking in serious tones, and horses whinnying. Mother ran to the doctor and fell into his arms, pounding his chest, saying—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Oh Jesus lord, oh Jesus.” 

[/FONT]He looked at me strangely, as if I had done something bad. Men picked me up, wrapped me in a wool blanket, and put me on a stretcher. The doctor pushed Mother off of him, and told her that he needed to take me to the clinic to run some tests. Mother wailed and fell to her knees, saying—[FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“My only son...my only son…” 

[/FONT]The other women came and comforted her, whispering in her ear and forcing her to drink some rum and wrapping her in a blanket. The men lifted me up and began to take me away. Mother ran after me screaming, but the women held her back. The men began to make their way along the shore and to the doctor’s office. It was late at night. The men had not brought any lamps with them, and cursed because they could not see in the dark. The moon and stars were bright above us. The doctor lit a cigarillo and looked down at me. He had very big round glasses. I thought that he looked like an owl, and that he had a very funny face, but he frightened me. [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]He looked me in my eyes and said— [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“You should not be alive, boy.” 

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]And it was funny, because that night we found out that no one in the Town can die anymore. 
[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]
I do not remember anything else after that. When I woke again, it was late in the afternoon of the next day, and I was in my bed. Mother sat at my bedside, and as soon as she saw that I had opened my eyes, she grasped my hand and wept. She kissed me all over my face and cried into my chest. She said—[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“I was so afraid.” 

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]I did not leave my bed for three days, but now I am much better. Mother forbid me to go to the sea ever again, but I do anyway with my friends on the way back from school. I am not afraid of the sea. I still have not found a big clamshell, and I want to talk to Father again. I could not tell Mother that I heard Father’s voice because I did not want to make her cry anymore. But I know that it was him. I know it. And I will keep going to the sea even if I drown, so long as I can talk to him again. But it has been a long time now, and I have not heard his voice. 

[/FONT]I wonder if he is still out there waiting for me. 
*[FONT=&Verdana]
IV[/FONT]*​“Aren’t you going to say anything to him?” “What’s he done that’s so wrong? He’s just having a bit of fun.” “Do you hear what you’re saying? A bit of fun? That’s somebody else’s property that he’s [/FONT]_defiling_[/FONT].” “It’s an abandoned building, dear. The city owns it—” “Yes, that’s it, that’s the golden word right there: [/FONT]_owns_[/FONT]. Someone [/FONT]_owns _[/FONT]that building, therefore, it’s someone else’s property, and whether it’s the goddamn city’s or not—” “I hardly see how shooting a BB gun at the side of a brick building is defiling someone’s property. For God’s sake they were built to withstand earthquakes, do you seriously think that—” “No, no, no, you listen to me. If he can shoot at an abandoned building without a single word of reproach, then what’s to stop him from thinking that he can shoot at a building that people live in? Or from shooting out a window? Or from shooting at a person?” “Well, honey, of course I can talk to him about that, and you know that he knows that’s wrong. But when I was a boy—” “That’s right, you don’t [/FONT]_see_[FONT=&Verdana]. Look, I know you were raised in the middle of God-knows-where with more donkeys than people and I know that he’s not [FONT=&Verdana]_yours_[FONT=&Verdana] but—” “That was uncalled for and you know it. How in the hell can you say that to me with a straight face? You don’t know where the hell I was raised, you have no goddamn right—” “Well I sure as hell know that it wasn’t in a place where civilized people live! I know [FONT=&Verdana]_that_[FONT=&Verdana]!” “You don’t know shit.” “I know where you go late at night.” “Oh, really now, do you? And where would that be?” “Do I really need to say it? Does it really need to be said?” “Oh for God’s sake…” “What’s her name, eh? Do you have to pay her, or does she do it for free? Is she better at it than I am? I bet she’s really good. I know that I was a widow but I didn’t think—” “Oh shove it. You don’t have a clue.” “You’re not denying it then? You’re not denying that you have a little whore—” “I [FONT=&Verdana]_am _[FONT=&Verdana]denying that.” “Oh? Then what’s your alibi? Please, regale me. Let me know your pathetic little excuse.” “I can’t tell you. You have to trust me..” “Oh, come on, I thought you were more creative than that! You can’t tell me? You can’t tell your own wife? The person you should trust above all others?” “Please. I’m begging you.” “Tell me, then. Tell me. Tell me what you’re doing when you going out at night.” “Please...I’ve told you that I can’t. You know it, you know that I would never betray you. You know that I love you.” “Liar! All you ever do is lie! You pathetic liar!” “Please, I swear to you that I’m telling the truth.” “You won’t even lie to make me happy!” [FONT=&Verdana]    

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]This is ground upon which I have already tread, words I speak without cognizance, a pageant perennially performed and out of style, like a Holy Week procession, a relic of times long elapsed—the lying husband and jealous wife, mantles we wear quite against our will and reckoning. 

[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]But how can I tell her that I am chasing after a mirage? 

[/FONT]Did the Town ever exist? Sometimes I doubt it. [FONT=&Verdana]
[/FONT]


----------



## Pluralized (Aug 4, 2017)

Hey there, glad to have read this story - I think it's engaging and very imaginative. Really enjoyed it and hope you'll refine and post updates. Might recommend using the Prose Workshop if you intend to have it published since that area is visible to members of the forum only and therefore won't foul up your attempts to get work published. 

Pretty high quality storytelling. The prose is a bit choppy here and there, and there are issues with the mechanics of the dialogue punctuation, but none of those things affected my enjoyment of the piece. The main things I would say are to consider the POV of the little boy. When we get into the chapters about the town disappearing, the voice gets very erudite and uses a lot of nice mature vocabulary that would not come out of this kid presumably - and the narration borders on omniscient anyway so maybe there's some utility in clarifying.

Other thing I had a problem with was the last big block of dialogue. It's jumbled together, needs to be organized so each new speaker starts on a new paragraph, though I suspect maybe it's jumbled together on purpose. I was looking for a good resolution to the story, was interested in the town's weird predicament with the edge of the earth right there, the drowning scene, the evocative emotional stuff with the father, but then felt the last part of this piece didn't really deliver on the narrative promises. 

I would read more of this story - quite enjoyed and commend you on this draft. Hope to see more!


----------



## Sebald (Aug 4, 2017)

Sorry, I couldn't get past the third section. Your prose-style is fine, but the way you've told the story is weird.


----------



## polaroidcaesar (Aug 6, 2017)

Pluralized said:


> Hey there, glad to have read this story - I think it's engaging and very imaginative. Really enjoyed it and hope you'll refine and post updates. Might recommend using the Prose Workshop if you intend to have it published since that area is visible to members of the forum only and therefore won't foul up your attempts to get work published.
> 
> Pretty high quality storytelling. The prose is a bit choppy here and there, and there are issues with the mechanics of the dialogue punctuation, but none of those things affected my enjoyment of the piece. The main things I would say are to consider the POV of the little boy. When we get into the chapters about the town disappearing, the voice gets very erudite and uses a lot of nice mature vocabulary that would not come out of this kid presumably - and the narration borders on omniscient anyway so maybe there's some utility in clarifying.
> 
> ...



Thanks for your comments! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story! 

First I'll say, don't worry, the story definitely doesn't end here. The bit I posted of part IV isn't even complete. I'm going for around 8,000-10,000 words on this, so there is still a lot more left, and I will definitely post more as it comes. 

As for the dialogue portion of part IV...I'm beginning to dislike it in general, and I'm thinking of tossing it out, focusing on the Father's attempts to find the Town, and adding in the information about his second marriage and stepchild in subtler, more elegant ways than a kind of choppy dialogue back-and-forth. I think the dialogue is fine, but it's too jarring compared to the style of the rest of the story. So very much ditto on your comments. This is in line with eliminating the choppiness of the prose that will hopefully occur with subsequent revisions. 

As for part about the Boy's omniscience in part III---thanks for pointing that out. My biggest concern in writing from the perspective of a child was in keeping the childishness up even when events that are happening are very complex. The childishness adds to the mystery of what's happening, because he can't describe events with the same verbosity of an adult. I do definitely think I got a bit carried away since the Town's "disappearance" was where I most wanted to ramp up the mystery. I'll definitely alter the style there in order to keep in line with the rest of the Boy's narration. 

Again, thanks a lot, and I'm glad you enjoyed the story! I'll post updates as they come!

*@Sebald *
No problem, I completely understand that the manner of telling the story is pretty unorthodox. However, do keep in mind that it is incomplete. Hopefully, with more chapters, it'll become clearer what I'm aiming for in portraying the story in this kind of split perspective. I'll just say that it is very much intentional and metaphorical. As the story progresses, the Father and the Boy come closer and closer together, until the point when they, literally and figuratively, meet in the middle. But I totally understand that it is not for everyone. I'm glad you gave it a read anyway! :mrgreen:


----------



## Sebald (Aug 6, 2017)

I admire your ambition.


----------



## Jay Greenstein (Aug 6, 2017)

As presented, this is a transcription of you reporting the events you see playing mentally. And while the images you held in your mind generated the words, will those words, alone, produce the same image in a reader's mind? Will mentioning that the protagonist is watching rain on the window make us know the season, the age of the protagonist, and why they're doing that not something else? Will a few words telling us what someone unknown is doing produce an image as detailed as would result from the thousand words a picture traditionally takes to produce on the page? Of course not. And the reader isn't seeking to know what _you_ see happening, in any case. That sig line at the bottom of my posts says it all.

The short version: You're using the report-writing skills we all learn in our school days in an attempt to write fiction. That cannot work because the goal of the writing skills we learned is to inform, and your reader is seeking to be entertained. Your methodology, as is all nonfiction, is fact-based and author-centric. As a result, you're explaining what's happening to a reader who expects you to entertain them by making them live the events in real-time. That takes writing techniques that are emotion-based and character-centric. It's not a matter of talent, it's that there is a whole body of knowledge for fiction, one just a necessary for those who write it as are the nonfiction skills we learned to nonfiction.

Your reader, like you, was raised reading professionally written fiction. And if you hope to be seen as creating work as readable as that created by the pros, you need to know what the pro knows. There is no way around that.

Not good news, I know, but it is news that all face, so it's not a big deal, other than in that it means you're not going to be rich and famous by Christmas. The fix is to devour a few books on the subject, to get the views of pros in teaching, writing, and publishing. After all, if you don't know what an acquiring editor _wants_ to see, how can you provide it?

So visit the local library system's fiction writing section. Lots of help to he had there. It can help you trade that sturdy commercial pony we're issued in school for Pegasus. And mounted on a winged beast you have to fly a lot further.


----------



## polaroidcaesar (Aug 6, 2017)

Jay Greenstein said:


> As presented, this is a transcription of you reporting the events you see playing mentally. And while the images you held in your mind generated the words, will those words, alone, produce the same image in a reader's mind? Will mentioning that the protagonist is watching rain on the window make us know the season, the age of the protagonist, and why they're doing that not something else? Will a few words telling us what someone unknown is doing produce an image as detailed as would result from the thousand words a picture traditionally takes to produce on the page? Of course not. And the reader isn't seeking to know what _you_ see happening, in any case. That sig line at the bottom of my posts says it all.
> 
> The short version: You're using the report-writing skills we all learn in our school days in an attempt to write fiction. That cannot work because the goal of the writing skills we learned is to inform, and your reader is seeking to be entertained. Your methodology, as is all nonfiction, is fact-based and author-centric. As a result, you're explaining what's happening to a reader who expects you to entertain them by making them live the events in real-time. That takes writing techniques that are emotion-based and character-centric. It's not a matter of talent, it's that there is a whole body of knowledge for fiction, one just a necessary for those who write it as are the nonfiction skills we learned to nonfiction.
> 
> ...



Usually I agree with your advice, but here I don't. For one, the nature of the story is experimental. I'm not trying to write a top-selling hit but rather trying to experiment with structure and perspective. Two, the first and third parts are written from the perspective of a young child. It's not going to read like some top shelf mystery novel because the voice of the character can hardly express itself. And the second part is _intentionally _journalistic. It's meant to be the "what happened". 

In general the advice is good, but mostly if you're trying to write a best-seller. I don't think the goal of all fiction is to be a best-seller and be the apple of every publisher's eye. Some of the greatest works of fiction went against the grain and against what the publishers wanted. Not to mention that this is a fragment and not even half of the intended vision for the story. 

Your advice is well-intentioned, but I don't think that it is or should be a one size fits all definition of what fiction is or tries to do.


----------



## Jay Greenstein (Aug 8, 2017)

> For one, the nature of the story is experimental.


Does that somehow change the reader's perception of the words? Not all experiments succeed.





> I'm not trying to write a top-selling hit but rather trying to experiment with structure and perspective.


That's your intent. But you asked people to react to it. And those people have spent their life reading fiction written by pros. Change the approach to telling a story and you're asking the reader to work harder to make sense of it. But if you don't pay for that with increased reading enjoyment, why should the reader read on?

Believe me, I mean no insult by this, but it's obvious that you've not dug deeply into things like the structure of a scene, presenting character viewpoint, and the rest of the nuts-and-bolts issues. And if you lack an understanding of how the elements of a scene dovetail together, and provide support and context, how can you experiment with improving the existing techniques with any assurance of success?


----------



## Jack of all trades (Aug 8, 2017)

I read your responses to other critiques, so I know this is written from a child's perspective. The problem is -- I had to be told that; it's not clear from the writing. Would a young (preverbal?) child know it's roast meat, onions and herbs? Or just something smelled good? There's other inconsistencies that make the child perspective not there. 

Also, I read that this is experimental. That may be, but how are we supposed to critique it? We don't know what rules are intentionally broken and what you just don't know how it's typically done. Do you see the problem?

My advise, don't try to reinvent the wheel entirely. In other words, keep some things conventional, so there's familiarity along with the experimental.

For example, putting what's being said on its own line. Unusual. Is that intentional? A lot of sentences beginning with "I". As a reader, I found it annoying. Is that also intentional? Is there another way to achieve the same goal?

I'm not telling you that your goals are wrong. But I'm not sure you're achieving them currently. If you want to discuss this in more depth and out of the limelight, send me a PM. You can tell me more about what you are trying to accomplish and I'll see what I can do to help you achieve that goal or goals. 


(At the very least, consider switching off the bolding. That makes it seem like you're yelling at everyone, and I'm pretty sure that's not your intention.)


----------



## old.bull.lee (Aug 8, 2017)

Jay Greenstein said:


> That's your intent. But you asked people to react to it. And those people have spent their life reading fiction written by pros. Change the approach to telling a story and you're asking the reader to work harder to make sense of it. But if you don't pay for that with increased reading enjoyment, why should the reader read on?



Jay

You're my favourite commenter on this forum. Based off my brief time here, I genuinely feel you offer the most insightful critiques I've seen. What I quote above I am largely in agreement with. But is there not something to be said about an experimental writing form that - while not an easy read - is still worthwhile, meaningful, even revolutionary? 

I am not saying that's the case here with the original poster. I'm trying to speak to a broader point. You question why a reader would read on unless the writer grants increased reading enjoyment with a change in form or technique. I hear what you're saying and it rings true. And yet, when I think back to some of the novels that gave me the most satisfaction in my youth, it wasn't necessarily that there was something intrinsically enjoyable about them - they weren't easy reads, they didn't limit themselves to conventional narrative structures, and I largely didn't understand them. But there was something about them I found compelling, that kept me returning to the books, flipping page after page over and over again. Here I think of novels like Ulysses, Naked Lunch, or To the Lighthouse. These weren't easy books to get through for me. They weren't enjoyable reads. It was a slog, but something kept me returning to the pages. 

Most writers will obviously never achieve that. I also don't suspect most folks here are looking to create such works. To even attempt to write something like that requires a dedication to craft not many have. To build a world where everything flows through Leopold Bloom is something that comes along once, maybe twice, in a generation. Still, when writers are trying to experiment, to coquette with different forms, to fail in (hopefully) the right direction, I question whether or not it is helpful to present them with a critique which needs to be given to the writer who is the rule, not necessarily the exception. 

Just my two cents.


----------



## polaroidcaesar (Aug 8, 2017)

Jack of all trades said:


> I read your responses to other critiques, so I know this is written from a child's perspective. The problem is -- I had to be told that; it's not clear from the writing. Would a young (preverbal?) child know it's roast meat, onions and herbs? Or just something smelled good? There's other inconsistencies that make the child perspective not there.
> 
> Also, I read that this is experimental. That may be, but how are we supposed to critique it? We don't know what rules are intentionally broken and what you just don't know how it's typically done. Do you see the problem?
> 
> ...



Fair enough about the issue with the child's POV. I will do my best to fix some of the inconsistencies and "dumb" it down a little to sound a bit more authentic. 

As for the dialogue on its own line, it's a personal choice but not necessarily critical or anything. It can be changed. I just like to put any dialogue in relief. Will look into the "I" starting too many sentences.

In terms of what exactly is experimental, I mean the shifting perspective. The rule that is being broken is that a short story generally has a single, linear POV due to the limitation of the medium. Here the perspective is fragmented, but its fragmentation is fundamental to the narrative. I think of it as a single voice that has been bereaved and split in two; for the rest of the story, these two voices reach back towards each other; the "chapters" become shorter and shorter as they near one another, until, for a brief moment, they are reunited. I want to create momentum not only through the plot, but also through the structure of the story itself. All of this is predicated upon the mystery of the Town, and upon the emotional link between the Father and the Boy. I will consider what the other posters have said and think about how I can restructure what I have so far (especially the very messy part IV) in order to better engross the reader. However, to a degree I think that part of building the mystery lies in disorienting and confusing the reader as to what is actually happening. I think that it will become easier to see the goal of disorientation when it's taken as a whole. I want to keep the reader in the dark through the structure and the deliberately vague description of the Boy's POV. The light in the dark is the yearning for the Boy to see the Father again, and the Father's relentless drive to find out the truth about the Town (hasn't been posted here, but the Father's POV is far more conventionally and realistically written; I am excising the beginning of part IV entirely and writing it more in line with part II). 

The thematic aim is to portray loss and grieving when faced with an illogical and unnatural death (how people are "haunted" by loss, especially in the case of the Father who is denied any semblance of closure). It's also a comment about marginalization, the "invisible" and forgotten people of society that are erased by progress or time or whatever it might be, but who still are striving to be remembered (another kind of haunting).  

That's the experiment that I'm attempting. I think the idea in and of itself is very sound. Obviously, the execution is not where it should be at the moment, but this is a WIP, and a very early draft. Some people enjoy being a little bit challenged with what they're reading, and that's what I'd like to write, though not in a post-modern wankery type of way. I know that I am not some kind of masterpiece writer but I don't think that it's necessarily wrong to try something new. 

Hopefully I will be able to achieve what I set out to do with the suggestions and critiques everyone has given me.


----------



## Jack of all trades (Aug 8, 2017)

polaroidcaesar said:


> Fair enough about the issue with the child's POV. I will do my best to fix some of the inconsistencies and "dumb" it down a little to sound a bit more authentic.
> 
> As for the dialogue on its own line, it's a personal choice but not necessarily critical or anything. It can be changed. I just like to put any dialogue in relief. Will look into the "I" starting too many sentences.
> 
> ...



Nothing wrong with it being a work in progress. We all have those! 

I hope the feedback helps you as you edit. I suggest pretending to be the child. What would you know? What would still be a mystery? I think sentences might be shorter. There would be more starting with "I" if the child is very young, now that I think about it. But with other cues, the I-sentences should be less annoying.

Play with it and post the next attempt, if you'd like more feedback. Maybe just one section at a time, and without being bold. Unless you have a reason for wanting it bold. 

One more thing. This section is visible to guests, so it counts as being published. Anything that you hope to have traditionally published some day should be posted in the members only prose workshop. 

Good luck with this!


----------

