380ish words - opening.

Phyrebrat said:

I've just seen TJ's comments in purple text! I didn't get the quote box on my phone, so now will have to redraft a third one to take the ford into account :/

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I dunno. I do all that work and he doesn't even read it...


I'm going to be the odd one out here. I much preferred the original and the slightly detached viewpoint.

Trying to analyse why, I think it's because with the first I could implant my own ideas of what he was, ie his character and why he was doing this** etc, and to me he was somewhat driven and cold and I was intrigued by him. In the second you've told me so much more about him and he doesn't interest me in nearly the same way. Analysing further, I think there are two reasons for that. The first is because instead of everything being mysterious it's (apparently) all there on the page, so I'm being fed rather than having to think -- it's the difference between Greta Garbo at the end of Queen Christina (this explains what I mean) and almost any over-the-top actress in a modern emotion-in-yer-face film.*** The second reason is less to my credit, as it's pure personal prejudice and a dislike of the weak man/overbearing mother trope, and even though that may well not be the case here, or no matter how cleverly it may be subverted later on, I'm immediately turned off at even the thought of it.

I'm also acutely conscious of women being the inevitable victims in horror and drama, so the nail varnish rather put me off, too, even if that will also be later subverted -- again I'm not going to stick around long enough to find out how clever your take on it is.

Sorry! Told you I didn't like horror! But since this is just my prejudice and others like the way it's unfolding in the second version, you know how to proceed.



** and I see I got it completely wrong, which would have pleased me no end as I'd read on, as I like it when the writer can fool me!


*** I was actually going to say Kate Winslet in Titanic, but since (confession alert) I've not actually seen the film I'm not sure how emoting-all-over-the-place she actually is in that.

In some ways I agree with @The Judge. But what I would like to see is the closeness of the second piece and perhaps the retention of the outer or inner voice or whatever it is as a slight mystery.

As it is the second version confused me more than the first. (They both confused me.)

In the second at first I thought as The Judge did--overbearing mother and weak man.

But then near or at the end it sounds like his mother died at his birth so then I'm really confuse about the finger and thumb and who they might belong to and for that matter just where that overbearing mother's voice comes from if his mother died during childbirth.

But it does raise questions, such as if he comes here every anniversary and fishes does that mean he uses grotesque bait all of the time.

My head!!!

I'm going to try and tweak it again to keep some character PoV but reintroduce some of the mystery. Initially I had intended for the mystery of it to be overt as it's horror. You can't expose your McGubbins straight off with horror, it's a slow boil so I want to find that balance. It's important now as it sets the tone for the short.

I was in two minds about the nail varnish. I put it in because there seemed some possible confusion as to if it was human flesh being used as bait and I thought the nail varnish would make it clearer. But I also felt it took the atmosphere into a gender stereotype direction I wasn't comfortable with.

The comments about the mother are concerning and I'll need to tweak 'her' voice as she's meant to be chatty and loving to him, not overbearing. She's a construct of his mind. She died giving birth to him so he thinks it's his mind conjuring her up (it's not, but it's not his mother, either - that's the story, really; finding out his heritage, his legacy and who the imagined voice actually is).

pH

Following on from conflicting opinions, and trying balance what I liked from both sides of the argument, I've tried to get back more to the mystery element and less close POV. The section I had posted above leads into this bit and I wonder if it makes a difference to the element of mystery.

I'm not happy revealing there are two voices in his head; he needs to think it is his mother so I am going to have to jostle the above more cannily. However, I wanted to share the end of the scene with you to see if it contextualises what has happened before. (not looking for line edit-y stuff, more coherence, mystery and thrust)

...

If you hadn’t killed her coming out, you could ask her, couldn’t you?

Hours later he came out of a lost reverie realising there'd been no sign of interest in his bait. Momentarily he felt a sense of displacement and lost time seeing the sun had moved across half of the sky. Although the sun was much higher, the mist still clung to the lake and a light fog had rolled in over the banks. He wound in his tackle and caught the heavy bung. The two trebles joggled at the end of the trace, empty. Bare hooks. No wonder he'd had no bites. How long had he wasted watching a baitless rig?

As he considered whether to return to the hotel he heard a clinking and chiming coming from his left, somewhere around the ford. It was the only sound - even the few birds that’d haunted him had either vanished or fallen silent. He stood and tilted his head in the sound's direction; he couldn't see the ford but the tinkling was coming from near it, clear and bright. May as well have a look; he only had scraps left - nothing substantial enough to catch a specimen fish - so he set the rod back in the rests and walked towards the sound.

Through the scribbles of bare trees and brambles he saw small white things like scraps of paper in the air, fluttering and turning. What is that? He was reminded of the hopeless papier mâché space ships he'd tried to make as a kid; they lasted a week until they fell from the ceiling, deconstructing themselves piece by piece, until his dad made him sweep up the sad pile of newspaper dandruff on the floor, and remove the fishing wire from the ceiling.
He moved closer, deeper into the woods expecting to be able to identify the floating white things but he still couldn— wait, is that a teacup? He picked up his pace, forging through the tangle until he came to a small clearing. A small dribble - not much more than moving groundwater - led out of the clearing, towards the ford, presumably, and all around him hung small items of broken crockery. He recognised it as the same bland white stuff from the hotel dining room. Some mad tramp must've done this. He turned slowly; more popped out like stars in a dull sky. He banged his head on the teacup as he moved and it set the whole canopy tinkling as the pieces spun and knocked each other. He looked sharply for anyone witnessing his clumsiness, but luckily no one was there.
Why do you care, anyway? his mother asked, soothing his concerns.
He stilled the cup and tilted it to look inside; fading black pen was still just legible at the bottom; knee 11.
'Knee?' he said and grabbed a long shard that was spiraling next to his ear; lower lip 6.
Who would do this? And why had he never noticed it? He'd been coming here for years and some of this stuff looked ancient.
Half a dessert bowl hung over where the water exited the clearing and as he turned it (right hip 12) he heard movement and singing. It was coming from the direction of the lake so he pushed through the undergrowth towards it.

When he finally crossed onto the pathway, he was at the ford. A woman in a dirty homespun cloak or habit was bending down, kneeling at the water, her back to him, and appeared to be washing tatty clothes as she sang. Ah, so this was the crazy crockery artist. He moved around giving her a wide berth and could make no physical details out other than the knotty and gaunt hands that slapped the fabrics in the water.

“I knew a lad of birth maligned
who used to share my room.
And I was glad to leave behind
that laddie in his tomb.”

I liked it. The balance of nearness and thought/emotion was just right for me here, and I also liked how the story progressed (and I love the doggerel at the end!).

However, I got a bit confused with the bits in italics. Since beforehand they showed the internal voice, I wasn't sure if the things like Bare hooks and What is that? were meant to be the voice or him thinking. If the latter, I'd not put them in italics. If you leave them as non-italics, it's plain they're indirect thought, and just as effective.

The If you hadn’t killed her coming out, you could ask her, couldn’t you? confused me in the last version when you made it clear the first voice was his mother (or so he thinks), since that patently isn't something she would say, so I'm glad you confirmed there are two distinct voices in his head. But surely he would realise that if it refers to his mother as "her" not "me"? Perhaps leave that as indirect thought, too -- ie "If he hadn't killed her coming out of her body, he could have asked her." though that's obviously not as strong.

NB If you want the mother voice to appear sympathetic, you perhaps need to be careful how she speaks eg Why do you care, anyway? to me is quite an aggressive choice of words. At the very least it should surely be "Why should you care [what people think]?" but a loving mother would surely say something like "There's no need to worry about what other people think." which is far more soothing.

Anyway, well done. Good luck with it!

I really enjoyed this section.

The second part is very strong, I thought, especially the description of the old woman in homespun and her little ditty with it's slightly ominous last line. Loved that. It seemed much. I feel you've struck a good balance between the styles in the first two offerings, and if you can keep this going, I think it will be a very powerful story. If somewhat yuck (see pink nail varnish earlier!). I hope we'll see more of this.

Thank you for commenting on the new section. I'm happy it's going down better now; I felt I had changed the first part too much and was unhappy with the fact that too much of the creeping mystery a horror's meant to have, had been laid out up front. But otherwise there were great points, especially the redundant hotel scene at the beginning.

The Judge said:

However, I got a bit confused with the bits in italics. Since beforehand they showed the internal voice, I wasn't sure if the things like Bare hooks and What is that? were meant to be the voice or him thinking. If the latter, I'd not put them in italics. If you leave them as non-italics, it's plain they're indirect thought, and just as effective.

The If you hadn’t killed her coming out, you could ask her, couldn’t you? confused me in the last version when you made it clear the first voice was his mother (or so he thinks), since that patently isn't something she would say, so I'm glad you confirmed there are two distinct voices in his head. But surely he would realise that if it refers to his mother as "her" not "me"? Perhaps leave that as indirect thought, too -- ie "If he hadn't killed her coming out of her body, he could have asked her." though that's obviously not as strong.

NB If you want the mother voice to appear sympathetic, you perhaps need to be careful how she speaks eg Why do you care, anyway? to me is quite an aggressive choice of words. At the very least it should surely be "Why should you care [what people think]?" but a loving mother would surely say something like "There's no need to worry about what other people think." which is far more soothing.

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I ummed and ahhed over that. I knew it would cause confusion - if I could do it so that the reader knows they're purposely being confused I'd've been happy, but it's a bit too risky as it is. And I am going to have to completely reword the 'If you hadn't killed her...' line so that you can infer the mother but also later accept that it wasn't. And regarding her, all 'her' lines need a rewrite to make her sound more sympathetic, so I'll take your advice on that.

Kerrybuchanan said:

I really enjoyed this section.

The second part is very strong, I thought, especially the description of the old woman in homespun and her little ditty with it's slightly ominous last line. Loved that. It seemed much. I feel you've struck a good balance between the styles in the first two offerings, and if you can keep this going, I think it will be a very powerful story. If somewhat yuck (see pink nail varnish earlier!). I hope we'll see more of this.

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Thanks Kerry, I appreciate the feedback. I'm probably going to delete the nail varnish line, you'll be happy to know, and make it overt in other ways - TJ thinks it's hidden too much in the surrounding paragraph so I will put the thumb and finger at the end of that part and try not to make it sound too arch. I think the next version will have coarse black hairs as opposed to cliché-ridden chipped pink nail varnish. (Also I'm wary of being typecast as a misogynist if I keep doing this; stories like Gash, Bad Leg and now grindhouse fishing expeditions )

pH

First of all I feel a bit out of my depth here after reading the comments thus far. I only just joined these forums today, so I certainly haven't had time to read all of your previous posts for a context of your writing style. For example, some terms confused me a little:

Teethies- I suppose this relates to how criticism can 'bite'?

Purple- I love Autumn. It is by far my favorite season, and I have fond memories going back decades of wandering through nature. Of enjoying the contrast between the gorgeous reds, greens, yellows, and golds; contrasting against rich shades of brown, purple, grey, and black; and all framed by cerulean skies so bright that it brings tears to your eyes.

But in this context, purple seems to suggest more a mood than a literal color. For myself, I didn't get 'purple mood' out of anything I've read so far. I guess I need to read more... (and more and more).

In the end, I may not have much to offer, but I will at least have a fresh perspective.

Phyrebrat said:

Mark Fontanelle stared out the warped window of his cosy but mellow hotel room, caressing the scar that ran down his belly, hoping for a dry but grey weekend. His summer tan was fading in October’s shorter days and the difference in skin tone between healthy and scar tissue grew subtle. The sun dragged its feeble bulk above the horizon and the room glowed red with the reflected claret of the autumn leaves.

Time to get up, Mark; it’s after five.

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It occurs to me you are probably intending to describe the wavy distorted glass of a hand-made window pane. That has interesting possibilities if conveying a folksy bed and breakfast as opposed to a Motel 6.
As for 'cosy and mellow' hotel room, I understand you were intending to convey cozy and melancholic.

I wouldn't normally think of pairing 'cozy' with 'melancholic' together, but if executed in just the right way, I think you can use that discordant juxtaposition of moods to perhaps convey how, for this character, a normally cozy environment induces a melancholic response due to his past history.

I actually didn't have a problem with him lying in bed (it's just past five in the morning), staring out the window, and caressing his scar - all at the same time. I think the description of the scar could use some tweaking, though. However, if his room is still cozy at 5 AM in October, there must be some sort of heat source (electric? radiator? again with the bed and breakfast vs hotel chain) that was able to provide heat all night and into the morning. Not unexpected in a hotel room, but otherwise he's going to be tucked in up to his neck in bed sheets, and he wouldn't be able to see(or smell) his scar.

'...hoping for a dry but grey weekend.' I was a little confused by this until I remembered my dad used to say the fishing is better if the sky is a bit overcast. As I read through the story, I noticed he didn't catch anything, so maybe the fact that it wasn't overcast was partially responsible. That and the fact that he probably wouldn't have noticed if something was nibbling away at his bait while he was zoned-out and daydreaming.

I wouldn't characterize the Sun as having a 'feeble bulk' to be dragged above the horizon. However, in the early dawn it can certainly have a feeble light piercing through the morning mist. As for the room glowing red with the reflected claret (deep purplish red) of the autumn leaves, I think of the morning light as more thin and yellow - not yet enough to draw out those deep red reflections from the leaves. I could be wrong about this, but in any case it tells me that the stand of maple (or whatever trees have such rich, red leaves), must be to the west of the hotel window in order for their reflection through his window to be claret as described.

I wouldn't presume to rewrite every paragraph, but I'll try this one in an attempt to convey what I'm thinking.

Mark Fontanelle rolled over to stare through the wavy glass of his cozy but melancholic hotel window. He glanced down and caressed the scar running along his belly, noticing how it contrasted less sharply now as his tan faded in the shortening days of autumn. The sun cast its feeble light through the morning mist, and the room began to glow with the reflected claret of the October leaves.

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*******

Phyrebrat said:

An hour later he was clunking and smashing his way through the forest. With each step his fishing seatbox ground into his right hip and the strap tore at his shoulder, and bare branches slapped at him with prehensile skill. But he could smell the rot of the lake, the mulch of the banks and the icy water, with each inhalation - a glorious mix of sh*t and death, life and abandonment - and in a moment the glassy perfection of the lake melted out of the soupy morning haze. He walked a short way around the perimeter, past the oily ford that fed the lake, ignoring the brambles that caught and tugged him, until he came to the spot he fished every year on this anniversary. From this swim, at the thin end of the lake, he had an unobstructed view of the water - and the ford; handy in case of flash floods common this time of year.

You’ll be fine, I promise you.

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I'm not sure about 'clunking and smashing'. Perhaps his gear would be more 'rattling' than 'clunking'. As for the fishing seatbox, I would have thought it would be worn on the back, due to its size and shape, and that it would 'bounce' and 'rub' rather than 'grind'. Still, the heavier it is, the more uncomfortable it would be, and going once a year isn't nearly often enough in and of itself to build up a tolerance to that bouncing and rubbing as he makes his way through the forest.

Now as for 'smashing his way through the forest'. For one thing, it's a hotel by the lake, and it's the fall of the year. I would have thought the vegetation would have died back by now, and in any case there would have been paths and trails blazed by other hotel guests throughout the year. Also, this wouldn't be the first time he's been through these woods.

As for the 'prehensile skill' of that pesky branch, I understand this has been removed in the second version, but I would argue that there is a place for those uncanny branches. On a cold and misty morning, the sharp sting of a whipping branch on your exposed skin is not a sensation you will soon forget. I see where it could help tie in to the general feel of the environment; the crisp autumn air, the icy water, the early morning mist, et cetera.

Now as for the sensation of smell, I'm going to have to say that the crisp freshness of the air, the rich aroma of fruit on the vine, the sharp acrid odor of decay; these together make up a rich olfactory experience that is well worth exploring.

I'm not a big fan of using '*' to substitute letter of swear words, though. Either use the full word, or find something that works in its place. In my opinion, "The glorious mix of sh*t and death, life and abandonment -" could easily be rewritten as "The glorious mix of death and decay, life and abandonment -" without any loss of meaning or impact.

and in a moment the glassy perfection of the lake melted out of the soupy morning haze.

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I love this line! It is probably my favorite passage of the entire piece.

"From this swim..." confused me. Is he swimming out to a place where he goes fishing each year? I rather thought Mark would be fishing from the shore with his clunky fishing seatbox, that he dragged all the way through the forest.

I can appreciate that he chose a spot with a good view, but I question the wisdom of setting up where the water enters a lake if he's worried about flash floods.

*******

Phyrebrat said:

By nine the bait had thawed enough that he could stop using the artificial lure and switch to a more relaxing method of fishing. He settled back and took a swig of scalding coffee straight from an aluminium flask. The smell of the sweet, creamy coffee hung in the golden gloom even after the gulp had stopped burning his stomach. He rigged up his line with two treble hooks and a fluorescent red bung, then removed the heavy bait sack from the seatbox. Thawed blood and viscera swilled in the corners of the bag and a smell like burnt cloves hit him when he opened it. He felt around inside and withdrew a large piece of meat; the thumb and finger were still attached by the webbing, so he pierced it with both trebles, slung the line out, and waited.

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I dunno... How is fishing with creepy body parts a more relaxing method than using artificial bait?

Scalding coffee? When I think of an aluminum flask, I think of sipping whiskey. After 4 hours, I don't know of any aluminum flask that would retain quite that much heat, so I might suggest a thermos of some sort instead. (Maybe it's an American English vs British English thing.)

'golden gloom'? well, it's 9 AM by now and I'm thinking 'gloom' isn't the best word to describe the air that the 'smell of the sweet, creamy coffee' is hanging in. I might have used 'golden glow' or something similar.

Thawed blood and viscera swilled in the corners of the bag

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I understood swilled to mean more like washing or rinsing out. I might have used accumulated or gathered as in 'Thawed blood and viscera accumulated in the corners of the bag...', or 'Thawed blood and viscera gathered in the corners of the bag...'

All in all, I enjoyed the story and the updates that have followed thus far. I definitely found myself wondering what happens next.

Do you want me to do a critique of your 2nd and 3rd draft, or are you already wishing I hadn't found this forum in the first place?