Wip

[smerdyakov]

This is something I'm working on. I would gladly appreciate any sort of feedback.




The two men had advanced quite far into the woods now. It was an early, spring morning but not much light penetrated the dense trees, which made it hard to see.

"Ya think this is the spot Paddy?" Eamon shouted.

"Could be...," said Paddy, stone-faced.

"Put them there so.”

Eamon laid the flowers down.

The two men kneeled down and each gave a sign of the cross.
Paddy removed a pair of rosary beads from his pocket and gripped them tightly in his left hand. Eamon then clasped his brother's hand and the two began to mumble in prayer.

There was the orange skeleton of a burnt out Volkswagen Golf to the left of where the men were praying.

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Thomas and his friend sat in the car drinking flagons of cider and playing music. The two boys did this until approximately 11 pm, when a police car approached the area.
Garda Des O'Sullivan and Garda Eoin Walsh flashed their torches as they rolled up beside the Volkswagen, which had now turned off its lights and radio. The two boys inside were ducked under the seats.
The Volkswagen had been reported stolen; though the two Garda were aware there was someone in the car, having seen the lights and heard the radio on approach.
Garda O'Sullivan got out of the car, leaving Garda Walsh inside.

O'Sullivan opened the driver's door of the Volkswagen, grabbed Thomas by the hair and pulled him from the car.
There was the noise of another door opening, but the young lad was out of the car and gone before O'Sullivan realized.

"Eoin," screamed Garda O'Sullivan.

"Eoin!”

O'Sullivan walked up to the car and kicked the door. Garda Walsh got out.

"What the hell are you draggin' him by the head for?" Walsh roared.

"You bloody wake up, gobsh1te!” screamed O'Sullivan putting his face up to Garda Walsh. He dropped the boy to the ground heavily.

“Put him in the car and let’s get out of here,” Walsh said, throwing his eyes to the heavens.

”There were two of them in the bloody car! Watch that!“ he said, pointing to Thomas, who was on the ground, covering his head.

“I’ll go after the other one.” O’Sullivan ran off in the direction facing the Volkswagen’s passenger side, his boots making a squishy sound in the damp foliage.

“Look Thomas, we’ll get you down the station shortly…I know your family well. And I know you’re not a bad lad…but jaysus, you can’t be doin this sh1t. This is very serious here…”

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In court Adam gave this report to the Judge. He could give no further testimony because at this point, he said, he fled back to the town, which is one mile away.

[hillwalker]

I’m not sure what you’re attempting to do with this. Is it a record of an actual event (because most of it reads like an official police report)? Or is it intended to be a short story (the opening paragraphs suggest we have arrived at a point following some tragic event but there’s no evidence later to support this assumption).

As it stands these are the bare bones of something longer. I’m not particularly fond of the reportage style you use in the longer, middle section – it's a little too officious for a piece of fiction. The narrative seems to be focussed on who did what and who said what. There’s no characterisation whatsoever so I was unable to engage with either of the two lads inside the car or indeed invest any emotional response to the implied police brutality because we’re just dealing with names not people.
The final section also seems out of place – an unresolved addendum that leaves everything suspended in the air when one is expecting more given the emotive opening.

I can appreciate the unconventional plot cycle – present to distant past to near past presumably – preparing the reader for the events that follow. But the 3 sections could easily refer to 3 quite separate, unconnected events. We never get to know what happens (one can only assume the two men at the start are grieving for a family member rather than the burnt-out VW). It needs fleshing out and the stylistic issues need to be looked at more closely, but it does show promise nevertheless.

H

[smerdyakov]

Thanks, H. I'm grateful for your impressions on it.

I was going with a reportage style to begin with, then shifting back to a narrative. It was my plan to reveal the story through eyewitness/ testimony, intermixed with passages of descriptive narrative (the two officers, the two men praying, the affect the tragedy had on the town, etc), shifting back and forth.
I will scrap that idea (as it's a bit ambitious really :D), and write a narrative on what happened etc, colouring everything in.

I knew where I was going but I took a funny direction, if you get me :p

[hillwalker]

For a longer piece you can afford to alternate styles perhaps - add in eyewitness accounts and newspaper articles as the story unfolds - but in a short story the leap from one to the other and back might be a little too abrupt to be effective.

There's nothing wrong with heading off in 'funny directions' - often the story takes you where it wants to go even when you thought you were the one in control so sometimes you have to trust it and see where it leads.

H

[cafolini]

For a longer piece you can afford to alternate styles perhaps - add in eyewitness accounts and newspaper articles as the story unfolds - but in a short story the leap from one to the other and back might be a little too abrupt to be effective.

There's nothing wrong with heading off in 'funny directions' - often the story takes you where it wants to go even when you thought you were the one in control so sometimes you have to trust it and see where it leads.

H

I think the story will always lead. Write for example a one word story to start. Say "orange." It immediately leads to a grove, Florida or So. California, sweet acid, juice, etc., etc., etc. The leader is always the story. The products of the leader then lead further and so on.
That's how Faulkner felt about being a writer and I agree.
Try to force a leader into a story and you kill transitions.

[smerdyakov]

This is some background on the the story I posted earlier. Let me know if you think it is worth persevering with this. :smile5:



He hated working with O’Sullivan. If he was honest, he hated being a Garda. His father was a Garda. And so was his brother. His uncle as well. Most of his family actually. They were ignorant arseholes, the lot of them. The way they went on would do your head in. Like they were something. Gods, they thought they were. When in reality, when you really looked at them, in the context of life and everything else, they were puffed up, insecure little men. If something went against their plain way of thinking – it was wrong. There was only black and white in their world. Most of the Gardai he worked with or met over the years were sociopathic b@stards, psychopaths even. But Eoin Walsh always managed to fit in -- his real sensibilities never came out when he was with them. So he managed to go unnoticed rather than fit in, you could say.
O ‘Sullivan, though, was every bit a Garda. All six feet four of him. He had all the classic symptoms: racist, intolerant, aggressive, short tempered, uneducated, stubborn, manipulative.
The uniform imbued this little peasant with some power, and he wielded it around like a horseman of the apocalypse would wield a scythe.

“I’m just going in to collect a few quid. Pull up here would you…” Des got out and went into the bookmakers. After ten minutes or so he came out and got back into the car, slapping his hands together noisily and grinning in delight.

“You’ll never guess who I bumped into in there?”

“No. Who?” Eoin answered

“Mr. Phelan. And do you know what?’”

“No.”

“I’m only shagging his wife.” Des burst into laughter as he said this.

“Don’t want to know, Des.” Eoin said, pulling the gear hard as the car tore away down the road.

The two officers had just started their shift. As was the norm, they drove around the town center for a while, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The village itself was like any village in the west of Ireland really: there was a post office, a bank, a few newsagents, a supermarket, some nice restaurants and eateries, various shops, hotels, a church, and about six or seven pubs. Nothing peculiar ever happened in the town though. When anything did happen, the officers usually made a big song and dance about it. Around three thousand people lived there and in surrounding environs. Tourism was the main employer, and more or less kept the town going. The village prided itself on its musicians, and music could be heard in any of the pubs on any given night. People often said the village of Amadan had the finest musicians and composers in Ireland.

Young Thomas Phelan was once such musician. He could play any instrument you could name, and had the musical intuition of a young Mozart. It took him weeks to master a musical instrument. People came from far and wide to hear him play the mandolin. With a violin, he could rouse a room into joyous dance and song. And just as soon, he could make them sit solemn with tight throats and misty eyes, as he teased out the most beautifully melancholic tones you were ever likely to hear.

Thomas had been offered many scholarships, to develop his god-given talent, but hadn’t made a decision yet on what he wanted to do. He was in his final year of school, and his leaving exams were soon. In the past year or so, his grades had dropped through the floor. His mother and father were at their wits end with worry and couldn’t think of what to do. Thomas always respected his parents - he still did - and was never really in trouble as such. What bothered them was his complete loss of interest in everything. Recently he had started smoking, and his mother often found the ends of cannabis joints up in his bedroom. This year also ushered in his first drinking binge. Seventeen is a normal age for teenagers to start drinking, but not the way he drank. Some weekends he would return home in terrible states, unable to stand, the worse for drink. His mother had even arranged counseling for him, but Thomas refused to go. Neither his Mam nor his Dad knew what to do. They had tried talking to him, had tried everything. They felt like they were losing their only son. They also suspected his new friend Adam had something to do with it.

[hillwalker]

Well, it's better than the original posting because we get some insight into the characters - what makes them tick.

You can do a lot with this I'm sure. As it stands the focus swings from Eoin to Des to Thomas rather too suddenly. The reader is left wondering whose story this is - who is the lead player. But given more fleshing out or some structure to the story this has potential.

H

[smerdyakov]

Thanks, H. I appreciate your feedback.
I'm not convinced a story always needs a MC though. Different POVs make for a more interesting read in some cases.

[hillwalker]

Agreed, but how you intertwine those different POVs is critical to the structure of the plot. If you flit from one to the other just to keep the pot boiling then your story can end up like some TV soap - reaching several climaxes but never entirely rewarding.

H

[Buh4Bee]

You should keep it up- you're getting good feedback and you are responsive to it. I personally like what you have posted, but I'm not one to critique.