A short story

Recently I’ve felt inspired to try and write something. This is my first fully formed attempt. There’s nothing at all original about it but I’d really appreciate comments on writing style. Oh and if anyone is interested in what this is actually about its part of a bigger piece I hope to write.

A Man Inchoate

With a sudden jolt he rises out of a solid metal bed. Feet finding their place on a hard floor. For a brief time sitting on the bed, almost motionless, eyes fixed on the floor at his feet. Now striding into a bathroom. Taps on, hands almost involuntarily splashing cold water into his face. No pause to look in the small cracked mirror above the discoloured white sink before moving back into the bedroom, picking up the drab items of clothing piled neatly on a chair next to the bed and struggling into them. One fleeting, nervous, survey of the room and he is moving into the hallway, putting on shoes tidily placed in front of a door, quietly turning the door handle and without a backward glance exiting the flat. Now out into a dark damp concrete hallway his door just one in a line of identical pale white doorways. Shuffling towards the stairway not glancing at any of the other men making their own way towards the steps. Together they move down, the only sounds being the quiet breathing of each and the dull clatter of shoes against the hard ground. And so the procession continues down one floor then another with no discernible change in appearance. On each floor more shuffling men joining the stream steadily descending towards the ground floor where the feeble morning light peers through an open front door. In turn he moves through the door into the light where men now form a line in single-file together moving forward him only one among many, nobody turning to look at the imposing concrete tower block from which they came. And this just one such tower among many, a convoluted concrete landscape with towers placed seemingly at random, roads weaving between them, and a great mass of men walking on these roads in lines all silent all heading in the same direction towards a distant hazy clamour. Yet there were no signs, no men asking for directions, a collective of men all with a common unknown destination. Men indistinguishable from each other; the same scruffy ankle-high black boots and faded but clean grey overalls with pale white shirts underneath. Hair of varying length but always uncombed and unwashed. Him moving on these roads amongst this mass paying no attention to anything surrounding him. After a time the men begin to part, different lines going off in different directions following different roads, each man knowing which line to follow. Now his line marching through a changing landscape. No more tower blocks, no new men joining. The silence replaced by a steadily increasing insistent clatter of metallic noise. The smell of stale sweat replaced by the acrid burn of smoke. The line marching on towards an imperious concrete structure now coming into view, as they approach it seeming to rise up from the ground like an ancient citadel pulled up from some vast underground cavern. The landscape now consisting entirely of such buildings, all roughly rectangular, all concrete, all billowing out smoke from clusters of towers and each with a line of men entering. A deafening noise and unbearable stench. Above the thick blanket of smoke a single pale sun could be seen, but no man was looking. Each had his eyes concentrated on the neck of the man in front yet seemed under no compulsion to do so like men unwilling to alter the position in which they have been cast. His line now moving slowly as each man entered the building individually. He waiting his turn slowly shifting his feet forward. Reaching the front he automatically placing his hand into a machine. A short stocky guard letting him through. Now passing into a large room, hand held over his eyes guarding against the sudden imposition of bright light. Inside the insistent metallic thuds less audible, replaced by something resembling music and the first tentative sounds of human voices. On the right a wall with two doors one red the other white. In the centre regularly arranged dining tables with men sitting eating and speaking. On the left stacks of grubby white trays and plates containing a greenish brown slush.

Suddenly all the previous direction was gone, leaving him with the look of a man who has woken and taken himself to be in his own room then suddenly realises he is in an unfamiliar place. A brief confused look around and then suddenly acting on instinct he was drawn over to the plates, snatching at one; as if afraid it would disappear the instant his eyes turned away. His hands fumbling he managed to place it on a tray before slowly turning towards the busy room. Men all unaccountably comfortable, all in conversation with one another, him a solitary trespasser given no heed. His neck craning he caught sight of an empty table in the corner of the room. Collecting himself he began to weave in and out of the inter-connected rabble of people chairs and tables all now acting as constantly shifting obstacles to the safe place in the corner. Men bumping into him wordlessly apologised as they went on their way, constant movements battering at the walls of his beleaguered senses. Eventually he forced his way through the crowd only to find his sanctuary breached, a massive grey-haired man sitting at his table staring through him as if silently passing judgement. With no other choice he motioned to sit next to the man, who shifted his chair aside to make room. Settling into his seat he felt an overwhelming sense of relief, as if the mere act of sitting there made him one with the rest of them, a part and not different. Recovering himself he risked a glance at the man beside him, the man now eating with a dirty right hand while dispassionately gazing at the distant wall with the doors. The man showed no sign of recognition, continuing to eat while evincing a feeling of utter disdain for the entire room. Giving up he began to poke at his plate, gingerly tasting it with a finger like a man testing for poison. Finding the taste to his liking he began to ape the man, taking larger and larger mouthfuls as an insatiable appetite took possession of him.

Once finished the man turned to face him, head held rigidly still and eyes darting from plate to mouth as if synchronised. There had been no change in the man’s facial expression, attentively watching but still utterly impassive. Like this the man sat waiting for him to finish, him eating and clearly aware but unwilling to give any indication. When he finished he could ignore the man no more, with great reluctance turning to face him, their eyes meeting yet communicating nothing. Yet there seemed the slightest change in the man’s eyes, something ineffable, the merest hint. Possibly some sort of recognition. Suddenly, the man spoke.
“Do you know where you go now?”
He sat, taking in the words, their still locked eyes imparting them with some hidden meaning that he could not grasp.
“No…” he started, his mouth fighting to form words. “I’m not really sure. I think I’ve just woken. I just sort of got ‘here’. I don’t think I know where here is. I just started moving. Then I ended up in this room, these people, and those doors. What is it all?”
He looked at the man as if inquiring whether he had spoken properly. The man just sat motionless, their eyes now averted. Time passed. He worried that any bond between them had been irreparably broken. Then turning back to look straight in his face the man reached out a large arm and placed a gnarled hand on his shoulder.
“You know, I don’t think I know either. Look around you, do you think they know? No, they don’t know nothing. But I know where I’m going.” With the free arm the man indicated the red door.
“But that’s just me,” the man continued. “I don’t reckon on you following me. I don’t think I’m a man to give advice but I’d try that one there,” the man now indicating the white door. “But that’s just me. What door a man takes, well that’s up to that man to make up for his own self.” The man said this with an air of finality, as if all that was to be said on the matter had been said. Now the man rose, using the hand placed on his shoulder for support. Rising their eyes met again, searching for anything further but getting nothing. Wordlessly the man shuffled away head bowed pushing other men out of his way forging a remorseless path towards the two doors.

He sat his eyes following the man on his journey, the man now almost at the two doors, the man now at the red door, the man now turning the handle and rushing inside, the door now closing on the man. And when he turned his eyes from the door he saw that the whole room had been watching, their voices fallen silent. Now the eyes of all were turned upon him, a roomful of eyes staring at him with the same indifferent intensity he had seen in the man’s eyes earlier. Slowly he rose, pushing the chair back and creeping away from the table his head not bowed and his eyes returning the stares of the men around him. He had no need to force his way through as all men stood aside to let him pass as he made his way towards the doors. And now he no longer returned the stares of those around him with his eyes now focused on first the red then the white door. Striding towards the doors his field of vision now reduced to just these two objects, his mind blank and his movements left up to instinct or chance, him knowing only that whatever decision was to be made he would not consciously make it. Without a backward glance he grasped at a door handle and fled through the door.

The men in the room had sat as if fixated upon both men as they entered the red door. Once it closed for the final time upon the second man entering they began to move again. Conversations were rekindled and the men began to get up from the tables. They took the plates on the trays back from where they had come and one of them opened the white door and walked through the others forming a line and all proceeding through with not one of them giving the red door the slightest glance or thought. Once the last man had gone through the door was shut leaving an empty room with the two plates still on the table at which the two men had sat being the only evidence that they had been there at all.

I disagree with you, Irving, I think it is original. You’ve painted a vivid picture of a situation, and the way you “raise more questions than you give answers” makes me want to know more.

Well it is intended to be mysterious. But then I think short stories almost need to be a bit like that. If you can describe a situation in full in a short story then what you have is quite a dull situation.

I’ve got a whole load of ideas right now for what the answers to those questions are, or should be. Really I started with the very vivid mental image of the 1st paragraph and tried to create a story from there. The original idea was a man who has had his memory wiped leaving him with only the most essential skills like speaking. It was meant to be that all other men were the same as him but he was incapable of realising that. The ‘larger piece’ is (hopefully) a development from this scene where he goes through in a day all of the essential parts of a ‘normal’ life, the man he meets being a father figure, entering the room being the start of self-consciousness etc.

Anyway what I was really interested in was some comments on the writing style. Thanks for that.

I’m no critic, keep in mind, but I know what I like when I see it, and I liked this.

The mood and tone are solid and consistent, and begin very obvious, which is the perfect way to do it in the short story format, and dim brilliantly to and at the point where the reader doesn’t have to acknowledge that which sets the mood and tone to notice their strength and crispness.
The air of mystery is lightly suffused with a feint of what is to come next, which is supreme in building a subtle anticipation throughout, and the restrained subtlety is key.

The focal character’s seemless place within the monotony of the other personae, uniquely bridges theme and character and thusly strengthens both aspects.
How both the environment and the focal character are only unique in that the narrative mentions them, I particularly liked this idea.

As a premise, it is promising. The story tends on ideas and theme, and not character, primarily, which is daring and is the sign of a thoughtful story with presence and engagement that are not sacraficed for popular accessability through character, which I also liked.

I liked it very much across the board, due to it’s combined subtlety and daring.

Is that the kind of response you had in mind?

Yes, thanks a lot :slight_smile:

Please remember these are all editorial opinions based on personal preferences of style and taste. You’re the ultimate writer and judge at the end of the day, but you know that. So let’s begin.

Why do you use Inchoate as a noun? I understand artistic license–probably more for poetry than prose–but immediately I’m perplexed as to the usage. I don’t think the title is more poetic through the inverse.

You start with snappy short images in a succession of quick fire, in Carverian style, which I love, and it works well, and then you make an error I often make: “Now striding into a bathroom.” The now is unnecessary as an indication of a temporal shift when you are firing one image after another. Narrative temporality is probably felt more without that pesky now and the present tense is already a given. It’s useful at certain times, but now isn’t one of them.

“Now out into a dark damp concrete hallway his door just one in a line of identical pale white doorways.” What is the subject of this sentence? Looks like a fragment.

“[…] an open front door.” I want to know from other people if this sentence should use an or the, for I struggle with this usage myself. When is one or the other proper? Stylistically, can the author and someone else please offer reasons as to why one is used rather than the other? My instinct favors the for the present tense, but it may be wrong.

Here it is again. In turn he moves through the door into the light where men now form a line in single-file together moving forward him only one among many […].

and a great mass of men walking on these roads in lines all silent[,] all heading in the same

Now passing into a large room,

the man now eating with a dirty right hand while dispassionately gazing at the distant wall with the doors.

The man just sat motionless[…]. What effect are you striving for with the just?

"Time passed. " There are more artistic ways of showing temporal change.

the man now indicating the white door.

A disinterested third person omniscient narrator begins to suddenly comment: The man said this with an air of finality, as if all that was to be said on the matter had been said. Strange. Also, I was failed to be drawn into the world and landscape you tried to paint due to the narration–there is no sense of realism or even fantastical realism, as this piece seems to strive to create a Kafkaesque effect, because I was never given any information as to who is narrating, how this narrator knows everything and why I should believe in any of it. Now it is a personal prejudice that I have in general against omniscient narrators in literature–I despise them even when great writers such as Dostoevsky employ them, a major flaw in some of his early work–and to be very frank, I don’t like it here.

Wordlessly the man shuffled away (with his head bowed)(,) pushing other men out of his way(,) forging a remorseless path towards the two doors.

Once the last man had gone through(,) the door was shut leaving an empty room with the two plates still on the table at which the two men had sat (either add a comma here or a period. I opt for a period.) being the only evidence that they had been there at all.

Everything written so far seems to be only exposition. You end at the beginning of the conflict but leave it undeveloped. The cafeteria and the opening sentences were the only times I felt a sense of fictional reality and drawn into the story. Reminiscent of Kafkaesque absurdity and Orwell’s 1984. Questions raised are: where are the women? What happened to them? Where is this place? Is it meant to be real or fantastical and by extension universal? I feel like choice is not developed enough to leave me with something I am able to take out of the piece (perhaps due to it being unfinished). The story does create an overall depressing, alienated mood, but this is not enough to have a story. The main character is undeveloped. The narrator seems to be too contrived and artificial to buy into.

Firstly, a great help to take the time and go through your criticisms in such detail. And you always learn a lot more from criticism than over-effusive praise.

The reason why it is all exposition and seems unfinished is that it is. This is a far larger idea that I wanted to get something down on in writing. What I’m doing right now is writing what are really a succession of short stories on the same thing, hopefully one day to be linked. I’ll start at the top.

I didn’t give the title any thought at all, when I posted it here I thought it could do with a name. I am attracted to using it that way but it really isn’t of much account, it certainly isn’t a name I’d use for anything more expanded.

Yes. I think when you overuse a word or phrase sometimes it has to be pointed out to you how pointless it is.

I have a general problem with writing fragments, as in I don’t see the problem with using them.

"[…] an open front door - this is because I don’t want anything in the flat/tower block to ever be identified as something that is his. If I say I go down to the door that implies I have some definite idea that there is a door. Here I want him to have no idea there is a door.

‘the man just sat motionless’. At the time I don’t know. Now I have more of an idea. The older man is in some sort of sense that is still to be worked out the younger man. This is supposed to be some sort of vague realisation of this. He wants to figure out what to say. Time passed, I agree, is awful.

Right, the narrator. Really I started out in one direction then wanted to move in another. At first the narrative was intended to be written in a way reflecting the main character’s mental state. Fractured, a bit lost, focusing on movement. Then once he gets to the cafeteria I wanted the narrative to become a bit less vivid as he became increasingly aware of what was going on around him. But this isn’t practical because being inside the head of such a pale cipher of a character is too uninteresting. Yet the character at this point has to be a pale cipher. Where this is meant to go from here is he is meant to pass through a number of experiences that cumulatively increase his self awareness and makes him into a ‘man in full’. But here I needed a voice outside of anyone in the story. I don’t have a problem with an omniscient narrator as a rule. I agree that it arises here out of utility rather than anything else which cannot be a positive.

Reading Cormac McCarthy has taught me the virtues of ignoring commas. The hard part is deciding where to actually use them. That said I’m not convinced with your changes.

Thanks again for your comments. As I said at the beginning it was the writing style I was interested in getting right. I know the situation is hardly engaging and apart from the air of mystery there isn’t anything to it. One thing I will say - I purposely don’t want to develop the situation but to write anything extended I need to develop the characters. Kafka is a lot closer to the mark I want to hit than 1984. But anybody who sets out to create a kafkaesque story is probably only going to create a pale imitation so why bother.

Fair enough for the commas and fragments (both of which are such personal choices and none of which I have anything against). It’s just I didn’t understand your choices and their desired effects. More so for the fragment, but the commas are certainly debatable. Please post up the work when it’s finished, I’d like to see the end product. But I do hope you get rid of most of the nows.

I enjoyed this, Irving.

Hmm…Cormac McCarthy, eh? You might find this interesting:
theatlantic.com/doc/200107/myers

The whole article is great (Myers points out wonderfully some of the things I hate about 20th century literature), but scroll down to the “Muscular Prose” part for an interesting take on McCarthy.

Edit: I just remembered you were the one greatly praising McCarthy under my 20th century literature thread. Sorry - no offense intended above. I just found the article interesting. I imagine you’ll disagree with it.

Yeah, his examples appear a bit selective. It’s all very well to accuse someone of throwing umpteen images together and hoping that they stick but when you only cite the times that they don’t stick and ignore the times when they do you give a false impression of someone’s work.

When someone praises Melville and Faulkner but castigates McCarthy I’m at a bit of a loss to understand them.

As for the other writers, I’ve been meaning to read a few of them but haven’t got around to them. Let me say that I completely agree that the elevation of ‘literary’ fiction and the castigation of ‘genre’ fiction is a complete sham and I like how he points this out. I’ve never understood the contempt for books that are ‘easy’ to read. But then I have a healthy respect for science fiction, thrillers, fantasy, all that sort of stuff. That said, I still don’t buy his argument that there aren’t any great literary books being produced now.

Out of interest, how is what I’ve written not quite a good example of meaningless 20th century fiction?

I’m not familiar with McCarthy’s work, but considering what he did to Auster I have no trouble believing he misrepresented McCarthy.

Is this something to strive for?

Oh no it isn’t, it was a question for rainey referring back to an old (excellent) thread that he started in the essays forum. Worth a read. I didn’t agree with him but he did make some good points.

Well I said I enjoyed reading it. I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s not meaningless. It may be. That doesn’t, in and of itself, make something uninteresting. That doesn’t, in and of itself, make something not worth writing. Hell, look at some of my crap around here. Not everything written has to have some huge, powerful, timeless theme to it to be interesting. Your story is interesting. But my larger point with the essay (not to rehash the whole thing) was that, in my opinion, something beyond merely “interesting” or “enjoyable” is necessary to stand the test of time. By this I mean a long time – a couple hundred years, for example.