[Nate]

This may be a bit dry, I don't know. For some reason, I just felt like writing the beginning to a story-of-sorts the other night. This is what I came up with. There's obviously not much of a plot yet (not on paper or in my head, really), but I want comments on the style (such as it is) more than the content... though content critique is obviously good as well. I was just bored, and wanted some input on the results.

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Broken

Chapter 1, I guess.

It could have happened to any unsuspecting person in any unassuming smalltown in the American countryside, but it didn't. It happened to one particular young boy right here in the township of Brokedown, Mississippi, so named, of course, because it was inevitably the only town within a fifty-mile radius whenever an otherwise well-to-do traveler's automobile broke down on the long stretch of I-10 that connects the social hotbed of Florida to the more mundane parts of the South.

Interestingly enough, save for a few old folks who had been around since the town was known as Township 17 (they claimed that town-naming got in the way of the city-building process back in those days, and no one ever questioned that explanation), the township of Brokedown was entirely populated by motorists who had broken down on the westbound side of the highway, usually on their way home from one of those famous Florida vacations. No one who broke down on the eastbound side ever stayed for long in Brokedown; they were always in a hurry to make it to their next hotel reservation or theme park before their vacation time ran out or the discount admission deal expired.

Those returning from such roadtrips, however, seemed to be more relaxed, perhaps on account of their vacation, but more likely on account of its completion, and thus more inclined to take in all that Brokedown had to offer. This made sense, of course. Everyone knows that the return trip is the best part of any vacation; no "are we there yet"s or "how much longer"s, no missed exits or botched reentrances, no all-night drive-a-thons to make sure you reach your destination on time, nothing but an open road and an open sky.

It was under one of those open skies that this one particular young boy and his family broke down on their way home from their annual family vacation. The boy's name was Obadiah, but nobody, not even his parents or the boy himself, knew that. Everyone just called him Ben.

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In His love,
Nate

[guitarczar]

Originally Posted by Nate

This may be a bit dry, I don't know. For some reason, I just felt like writing the beginning to a story-of-sorts the other night. This is what I came up with. There's obviously not much of a plot yet (not on paper or in my head, really), but I want comments on the style (such as it is) more than the content... though content critique is obviously good as well. I was just bored, and wanted some input on the results.

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Broken

Chapter 1, I guess.

It could have happened to any unsuspecting person in any unassuming smalltown in the American countryside, but it didn't. It happened to one particular young boy right here in the township of Brokedown, Mississippi, so named, of course, because it was inevitably the only town within a fifty-mile radius whenever an otherwise well-to-do traveler's automobile broke down on the long stretch of I-10 that connects the social hotbed of Florida to the more mundane parts of the South.

Interestingly enough, save for a few old folks who had been around since the town was known as Township 17 (they claimed that town-naming got in the way of the city-building process back in those days, and no one ever questioned that explanation), the township of Brokedown was entirely populated by motorists who had broken down on the westbound side of the highway, usually on their way home from one of those famous Florida vacations. No one who broke down on the eastbound side ever stayed for long in Brokedown; they were always in a hurry to make it to their next hotel reservation or theme park before their vacation time ran out or the discount admission deal expired.

Those returning from such roadtrips, however, seemed to be more relaxed, perhaps on account of their vacation, but more likely on account of its completion, and thus more inclined to take in all that Brokedown had to offer. This made sense, of course. Everyone knows that the return trip is the best part of any vacation; no "are we there yet"s or "how much longer"s, no missed exits or botched reentrances, no all-night drive-a-thons to make sure you reach your destination on time, nothing but an open road and an open sky.

It was under one of those open skies that this one particular young boy and his family broke down on their way home from their annual family vacation. The boy's name was Obadiah, but nobody, not even his parents or the boy himself, knew that. Everyone just called him Ben.

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In His love,
Nate

Hmm...
Well you've given the setup, now I want to see the product! j/k I know these things take time, but seriously, I'm interested in the explaining of the different events you set there. It seems obvious that you have certain ideas you want to develop. The writing isn't spectacular, but not bad either. It's pleasant, and easy to read. Actually, I'm more interested to see if you have a good story than a good writing style. So, show me more!

[poorprince87]

I'm on the edge of my seat already, dude. The idea behind naming the town Brokedown seemed a bit obvious at first, but I think its subtle hint is going to work in more later. I like how you explain the nature of human personality and motivation (return trip from vacations, or the hurry to go from one theme park to the next). Like czar said, very easy to read. You've got something good. Keep developing it!

me,
Daniel

[ImOnFire]

Hah, I don't usually post in this forum. But...this has got me posting. I really like it. I cocked my head to the left...that only happens...sometimes.

[bobthecockroach]

If my English professor--who claimed that the first paragraph, or even the first sentence, is the most important part of a book--was right, then this is great.

[Elizabeth]

Definitely want to read the rest.

[Nate]

I sort of wrote another part to it last night... but it didn't come as easily as this first part did, so I may still work on it some. I'm not sure whether it would be another "chapter" (I guess that would depend on the length of the overall work), but it's more introductory stuff (more in-depth, though)... no real plot development just yet. I may post it later.

In His love,
Nate

[Nate]

As promised...

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Ben's father (Mr. Damascus, as he was known) had the kind of hands that betray a man's line of work to anyone he happens to exchange pleasantries with. It wasn't that they were calloused or covered in grime or possessed any of the other tell-tale physical traits that usually imply one profession or another. In fact, it wasn't really the hands themselves so much as what Mr. Damascus could do with them.

When one first met Mr. Damascus, there was the customary handshake, but then there was something else, something usually unexpected. Instead of looking into your eyes, Mr. Damascus would only bring his hands up to your face and gingerly trace the shape of your cheeks and your jaw. It was not the type of grandmotherly pulling and tugging that most people anticipated when it first happened to them, but more like the caress of a lover, but with a seemingly deeper emotional expression.

This was how Mr. Damascus got to know a person, how he learned what sort of life they led and what sort of pain they felt. Nobody could explain it, but everyone knew that Mr. Damascus' strange ritual of face-tracing somehow eased whatever burden each one of his new-found friends was under at the time. It was as though his hands were wiping away invisible tears that had yet to be cried for pains that were all too often yet to be felt. There was little doubt in anyone's mind that Mr. Damascus' chosen profession was that of a healer (albeit an unorthodox one), but only the old man himself knew that it was not he that had chosen this profession, but rather the profession that had chosen him.

As a child, finding that his sense of smell and sense of sound were not enough to encapsulate the vastness of his environment, Mr. Damascus had begun to develop other faculties. He discovered early on that he could tell whether his mother was in the kitchen or on the couch beside him simply by being still and "feeling" for her presence with his mind (at least that was how he described it). Perhaps it was a slight change in the barometric pressure or in the room temperature as a result of there being one fewer or one more body in the room, but Mr. Damascus believed that it was something greater than that, as if it were an extraordinarily developed added sense to make up for one that was not so lucky.

Whatever it was, it eventually got to the point where, as an adolescent, Mr. Damascus' "feelings" were rarely, if ever, wrong. After that, it did not take him long to discover that the effect was strengthened when channelled through his sense of touch. Excited about this new discovery, he had rushed into his mother's sitting room one winter day and begged her to let him demonstrate what he had learned. Begrudgingly, she agreed, thinking that this was just another one of his far-fetched stories. As he gently touched her arm, he felt something he had never felt before, guilt. Afraid, but wanting to know still more, he moved his hands to his mother's face, thinking that that would be a better place from which to receive these feelings. The moment that his hands met her cheeks, he felt a surge of something indescribable, yet terrible, and quickly jerked his hand away. "What is it?" asked his mother. "Oh, mother, no... not with him... not with Jack." His mother was taken aback by this comment, but had no questions as to its origin; Jack was a co-worker of Mr. Damascus' father, who often had come over to share dinner with their family, but had recently begun sharing other things as well. His mother ordered him to his room and he sheepishly obeyed, not wanting to discuss the issue further anyway.

Later that night, as he tucked his head between his seemingly miraculous hands, Mr. Damascus prayed, "If this is my life, and these are my gifts, teach me to live it wisely, and teach me to use them rightly."

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(yes, I realize this was an awfully long flashback scene... oh well)

I like the name Mr. Damascus, but now I'm not so sure about the name Obadiah from earlier... I really just had thrown it in as a plug-in type of name, anyway. I'd like to use the name Timothy instead of Obadiah, but I'm afraid I might get bogged down in allusions.

Anyway... thoughts?

In His love,
Nate

[Elizabeth]

Very good so far. I personally would stick with Obadiah. Unique, but still fun.

I also wonder how this relates to Ben, since he was the first character we were introduced to. I realize you haven't finished writing it, though. Anyways, I love it!

[Nate]

Originally Posted by Elizabeth

Very good so far. I personally would stick with Obadiah. Unique, but still fun.

But I have ideas for a plot that would Timothy a much better choice (though there might be too many allusions, as I said).

I also wonder how this relates to Ben, since he was the first character we were introduced to. I realize you haven't finished writing it, though. Anyways, I love it!

Mr. Damascus is Ben's father. He's another major character. I needed to introduce his "gift." I know it's a long flashback.

[j2_da_k]

You are doing a good job. I like a book with good characters who have depth. So far, you have put depth and detail into everything. Even the town, and I can even get a picture of the mothers attitude. Good job.

Shalom