Since teasers for stories are the new thing:

Yeah, since everyone's posting snippets or drafts or whatever of stories, I figured I'd post the rough draft of the first paragraph of the story I'm working on now. It follows directly after the story I posted ( http://www.guitartricks.com/forum/showthread.php?t=20832 ), though this one will be significantly longer. Same guy, same day, here's what happens next.

A Subway Ride

Pounding the doors open, Thomas left the museum. Lions, stony, lay couchant at the gates, suffering none to pass unheeded under their granite stare. Immutable rock: dull, rough, and eternal. The sun blazed out from behind a cloud, golden-dancing on his shoulders, and the hollow anger that slept in him stirred again to waking—yawning, vacuous—unmitigated rage pulling and twisting his organs together and apart. The saliva turned to bitter acid on his palate, and his stomach bubbled and churned and wrapped in on itself, slowsucked into the surrounding vacuum of loathing. There it was, laughing in the sky: the greater orb by day. Sun, moon, stars—false idols. But nonetheless extant. He would escape it. Yes. There, the entrance to the subway. Go South, young man.

Thomas descended the stairs to the subway, steam-wisps dissipating up out of the yawning cavern in smoky-whispered silence, incense of the underground. A formless, grey-suited sea of faceless, colorless men and women flowed and ebbed with the train schedule, shadows in the fluorescent light, and Thomas dissolved into the currents. Awash in grey tides, he tossed and waited. Waited. On a bench by a pillar, an old woman sat, crying into her hands, her face contorted. Weep on, frailty. From the flow, Thomas—waiting, tossing, wondering—watched her, the sliver of wonder spurred on by imagination, that tiny fragment of another life seen from afar, gone after the briefest second—a breath of the unknown—one shining, microscopic shard, seen through a fogged, foreign lens, fleshflashed and forgotten. Thomas observed her still, wondered, imagined, decided, knew. Her sons had abandoned her. No. Never. Husband? Perhaps. No, I have it! Another man. Well! Not old, actually—probably no more than forty. Another man. Probably used her. Left her pregnant, alone, afraid, so long ago. Immaculate. Did Mary weep for her son? This woman did, her tears Vanessa’s tears. Another man. Used, seduced, left to womb-rotting loneliness. False smiles and liewhitened teeth mollify the weaker sex again and again. Cyclical.

Trainscreech. Begin the flow. The grey sea oozed and wavered, quivering as the cars emptied, trickled, a funnel effect slowing the osmotes at the doors. One last droplet, and then. And then. The torrent, the flood, Thomas lost himself in it, scrambling to stay with the tide, scrambling scrambling. Bodies pressed against him, crushing him, and yet he was alone. So many people. A mass. A furious swarm of locusts. Greengrey now, the sea became a cloud of buzzing, gnawing, hunger-maddened plague-bugs. Greengreylocustplague humhowling around him, peaking, crashing, tornadoswirling updownaroundeverywhere, Thomas staggered, mad, blinded, surely God plagues the unholy caverns of man. Humhowling still, the swarm carried him—Thomas—towards the gaping, deepinhaling mouth of the train. Swallowed. To be swallowed alive! Oh, Jesus. And then if it digests me? And then. No! People. Just people. Slowly, tediously slowly, the swarm disintegrated, the greengrey air, once thick with beating locust-wings, fled on phantom winds. The sweat beaded on Thomas’ forehead. He shook in the spasmodic shivers of panic, adrenaline freezing through his veins, a cold mercury icing any pain until only alertness remained. Just people. Grey amblers traveled un-swarm toward the doors, the metal, inanimate doors. Thomas, now calm and lucid, walked with the crowd into the car and sat, gripping a pole for support, on a poorly cushioned seat, watching the tide fill the space around him. And waited.

Trainscreech. The subway tram jolted forward, slowed, then jolted again, shakystarting to again cycle the stops of the circling tracks. Thomas sat perfectly still, watching the lighted tunnel stream by outside the car windows. Stillmoving, Thomas waited for his stop, idly watching the other passengers. Legless beggar. Toothless, drooling, blackgaping hole wetting his beard. Incoherent babble-moaning sirened from his mouth, the halfworded sputterings of an age-made mute. Long, knotted, grey hair fell about the man’s misshapen face, and his head wobbling from side to side as he made his horrible, drycracking wail of a moan. Waking once again from its fitful, uneasy sleep, the vacuous anger returned, and bubbling, sour snake-venom stung Thomas’ mouth, like beggar like sun. Disgust and horror lumped cancerous in his throat—malignant—and his intestines shriveled into dusty nausea. Legless, rolling himself around on a four-wheeled, plywood board, the beggar made his way up the car. Made his way toward Thomas, who was looking at the back of the car, wishing beyond wanting, beyond even needing, to escape before the filth-ridden man could reach him. This stop comes before mine. I’ll make it. Determine next by last, always. Still-looking back towards the beggar, Thomas began sweating again, wringing his hands in nervous terror.

Perhaps that beggar managed to reach him. Perhaps they even spoke. No matter. There’s no sense in a dialogue, it slows the motion, and one does not wish to go in reverse. Yes, seeing him crucified by his infirmity will suffice. No. Thomas saw the man crucified—a sacrilege mockery. That which is unholy could not be made whole, and, like the beggar, Thomas knew himself wholly unholy. Knew. A crumbling, grey steeple, festering with mold. Holy. He spat.

Trainscreech. Sideways scuffleshuffling, Thomas trickled with the faceless grey out into the station, still spitting the sour sting from his mouth. Pressing, crushing, the beggar! Out! Bending over, he vomited. Again. His body seized and shook as he regurgitated everything within him, and a crowd gathered greymass around him, keeping their distance—amazed, concerned, horrified, enthralled. Again. Again. At last a retch whipcracked his body so violently that he dropped to the ground, dry heaving. Blood oozed from the corners of his twisting mouth as he lay convulsing in puddled putrescence. Purgation. The beggar was gone from Thomas’s mind, though hunger had taken his place. Ravenous and violent, it tore at him. So it is. Expulsion, replacement. Statue of David. Defecation, regurgitation. Whichever. Whole. Ingestions and digestions to be released to the world in the manner we see fit.

Great opening paragraph!! realy cool stuff :cool:

Originally Posted by: silentmusicGreat opening paragraph!! realy cool stuff :cool:

Glad you liked it! Hopefully my writing will improve steadily now that I've really started again. I feel like this could be even better than the last one.

A most excellent paragraph! A tip of the hat to you! I am not sure if this is correct, but as the kids would say 'you've got mad skills.' :)

Originally Posted by: hunter60A most excellent paragraph! A tip of the hat to you! I am not sure if this is correct, but as the kids would say 'you've got mad skills.' :)

HA! Glad you liked it. I expect you to email me the final version of your story, your style reminds me of that dry wit made famous by the likes of P.J. O'Rourke, Dave Barry, Terry Pratchett, Hunter S. Thompson, and H.L. Mencken.

Originally Posted by: Jolly McJollysonHA! Glad you liked it. I expect you to email me the final version of your story, your style reminds me of that dry wit made famous by the likes of P.J. O'Rourke, Dave Barry, Terry Pratchett, Hunter S. Thompson, and H.L. Mencken.

I'm flattered to be mentioned in the same universe with those power-houses. I thank you. I will gladly email you the final draft. It might be a while but it will get done.

I find your style to be very literary - filled with powerful imagery and emotion. That's quite a skill, one that has always eluded me. And I am always awed when I see it in someone else. Especially someone at the very start of their career. I suspect that we'll be seeing you pop up in the New York Times Best Seller list in the not too distant future.

Oh how cool will it be to say 'I knew him back when...'? :)

Originally Posted by: hunter60I'm flattered to be mentioned in the same universe with those power-houses. I thank you. I will gladly email you the final draft. It might be a while but it will get done.

I find your style to be very literary - filled with powerful imagery and emotion. That's quite a skill, one that has always eluded me. And I am always awed when I see it in someone else. Especially someone at the very start of their career. I suspect that we'll be seeing you pop up in the New York Times Best Seller list in the not too distant future.

Oh how cool will it be to say 'I knew him back when...'? :)

Wow, that's pretty high praise, I really appreciate it! To be honest, the style eludes most people for a while, it's only just now that I've begun to figure it out, I think eventually you'll snag it as well. I'd love to be on the bestseller list, but I think the first book I release will be called "The James Joyce Reader" or something like that, rather than a novel.

Edited it and made it an even longer teaser! Hooray!

All I can say is, WOW! :cool:

Cool story, Jolly. I like it much more than the first one, because it's a little more relatable. As much as I enjoy art, I don't know much about it and I only understood a couple references in the first story. I can understand crowds of people, though, and therefore I like this one more.

I'd like to point out my favourite phrases:

"wholly unholy"
"Weep on, frailty."

I would pay money to have the second one put on a shirt. Not a lot of money, but money nonetheless.

Good story. :)

I assume this story isn't finished yet? Or are you going to write another story after this one? Because I've got to say, after all this build up, to leave the conclusion up to the reader would be pretty dissapointing.
One question: is this a typical ride home for Thomas? At first I had been playing with the idea that this was standard fare for him, but towards the end I pretty much gave up the idea. The thing that turned me from it the most was the vomiting. Obviously a person can't vomit until they bleed on a daily basis, and if they did I'm sure that people would start to talk about it. So I assume that is pretty much the worst state that Thomas has ever been in.
I wonder about the second to last paragraph. The story seems to be told in...I don't the technical term for it, but a sort of third person projected stream of conciousness. The sort of style that Stephen King uses a lot, where the story is told by a third party but told in the way that the subject was thinking at the time? For example "Humhowling still, the swarm carried him—Thomas—towards the gaping, deepinhaling mouth of the train. Swallowed. To be swallowed alive! Oh, Jesus. And then if it digests me? And then. No! People. Just people." Anyway, at first that second to last paragraph at first seemed like it was told from a totally detached perspective, almost as if it were being told by an entirely different narrator. But further in the paragraph, the writing returns to the the perspective of someone inside of Thomas' head. What this implied to me is that Thomas himself is unsure of whether he ever actually came into contact with the beggar, and concludes that it does not matter anyway. However this doesn't make sense when I think of the narrator saying that the dialogue is unimporant because the result is the same regardless of what may have been said. This makes it seem more like it's still just a narrator who, for what I believe is the first time, is showing that he/she/it has thoughts and opinions of his/her/it's own. Perhaps you can give me some insight into this, is it one of those two possibilities or something entirely different?
All in all I'm really liking the story. You're doing a lot of good work at giving us insight into the character and his thoughts. I'm very interested to see where this story goes, and as it is I don't think I would change anything.

Originally Posted by: acapellaI assume this story isn't finished yet? Or are you going to write another story after this one? Because I've got to say, after all this build up, to leave the conclusion up to the reader would be pretty dissapointing.
One question: is this a typical ride home for Thomas? At first I had been playing with the idea that this was standard fare for him, but towards the end I pretty much gave up the idea. The thing that turned me from it the most was the vomiting. Obviously a person can't vomit until they bleed on a daily basis, and if they did I'm sure that people would start to talk about it. So I assume that is pretty much the worst state that Thomas has ever been in.
I wonder about the second to last paragraph. The story seems to be told in...I don't the technical term for it, but a sort of third person projected stream of conciousness. The sort of style that Stephen King uses a lot, where the story is told by a third party but told in the way that the subject was thinking at the time? For example "Humhowling still, the swarm carried him—Thomas—towards the gaping, deepinhaling mouth of the train. Swallowed. To be swallowed alive! Oh, Jesus. And then if it digests me? And then. No! People. Just people." Anyway, at first that second to last paragraph at first seemed like it was told from a totally detached perspective, almost as if it were being told by an entirely different narrator. But further in the paragraph, the writing returns to the the perspective of someone inside of Thomas' head. What this implied to me is that Thomas himself is unsure of whether he ever actually came into contact with the beggar, and concludes that it does not matter anyway. However this doesn't make sense when I think of the narrator saying that the dialogue is unimporant because the result is the same regardless of what may have been said. This makes it seem more like it's still just a narrator who, for what I believe is the first time, is showing that he/she/it has thoughts and opinions of his/her/it's own. Perhaps you can give me some insight into this, is it one of those two possibilities or something entirely different?
All in all I'm really liking the story. You're doing a lot of good work at giving us insight into the character and his thoughts. I'm very interested to see where this story goes, and as it is I don't think I would change anything.

The story is still unfinished, yes. I'd say it's about halfway done plus editing.

This IS a typical ride home for Thomas. Until he sees the beggar. Going from seeing one sickening extreme to its opposite forced him to regurgitate
anything he was digesting. It's a parallel to a flawed approach to the writing process, but I'll flesh it out later.

The story is stream of consciousness, but there are two minds at work here, and I may throw in one more. The narrator telling the story is the one who says "Perhaps" about Thomas and the beggar. I usually have the narrative in the third person for things that absolutely require more traditionally formatted descriptions, like entering a subway car and sitting down.

Thomas knows whether or not he actually spoke with the beggar, but we don't, nor will we. The important thing is that he saw the beggar.

All right, well that clears that up. I find this story is a lot more straight forward than the last one. I don't know if that means it's better, but it's an interesting contrast. I really don't have that much to say otherwise, until you write some more anyway.

Originally Posted by: acapellaAll right, well that clears that up. I find this story is a lot more straight forward than the last one. I don't know if that means it's better, but it's an interesting contrast. I really don't have that much to say otherwise, until you write some more anyway.

When you say straightforward, how exactly do you mean it?

Originally Posted by: Jolly McJollysonWhen you say straightforward, how exactly do you mean it?

How to explain this...I mean that, I found that this story more than the last one told the story without a lot of deviation or flashiness. It just put the events down, showed the important thoughts and feelings, and moved along. I understand that everything in the first story was important to the theme, and I'm definitely not saying that there's anything wrong with it being in the story, quite on the contrary. In the first story there was a lot more to pick through and decipher, which makes for more interesting analasys. But in this story the actual reading of the story was easier, because I could just read it and not really have to look back over anything until I was done. I don't know if I'm explaining this very well. I didn't like either story more than it's counterpart, but it was quite a different experience reading each one. It's hard to explain a concept that I don't really have words to explain to myself, but you probably get what I'm talking about anyway. If not I guess I could give it another shot.

Note: I'm not saying there isn't stuff like I mentioned about the first story in the second one, just that it's easier to follow.

Originally Posted by: acapellaHow to explain this...I mean that, I found that this story more than the last one told the story without a lot of deviation or flashiness. It just put the events down, showed the important thoughts and feelings, and moved along. I understand that everything in the first story was important to the theme, and I'm definitely not saying that there's anything wrong with it being in the story, quite on the contrary. In the first story there was a lot more to pick through and decipher, which makes for more interesting analasys. But in this story the actual reading of the story was easier, because I could just read it and not really have to look back over anything until I was done. I don't know if I'm explaining this very well. I didn't like either story more than it's counterpart, but it was quite a different experience reading each one. It's hard to explain a concept that I don't really have words to explain to myself, but you probably get what I'm talking about anyway. If not I guess I could give it another shot.

Note: I'm not saying there isn't stuff like I mentioned about the first story in the second one, just that it's easier to follow.

Ah ok, I see. Maybe it's the setting?

Originally Posted by: Jolly McJollysonAh ok, I see. Maybe it's the setting?

Well actually that could have a lot to do with it. I hadn't really thought of it, but the last story pretty much took place in one room of a building with a person sitting in one place, whereas the new one was in a couple of places, and with a lot of other people, and movement...it had more room for actual events to occur, and less for memories and thought-dialogue or to dwell on certain objects or symbols...so more had to happen...so it would have to be more chronologically linear and practical...do you think I'm getting this right?

Originally Posted by: acapellaWell actually that could have a lot to do with it. I hadn't really thought of it, but the last story pretty much took place in one room of a building with a person sitting in one place, whereas the new one was in a couple of places, and with a lot of other people, and movement...it had more room for actual events to occur, and less for memories and thought-dialogue or to dwell on certain objects or symbols...so more had to happen...so it would have to be more chronologically linear and practical...do you think I'm getting this right?

Yeah, that in combination with the surroundings being something with a lot of classical allusions like an art museum versus something common like a subway.

Originally Posted by: Jolly McJollysonYeah, that in combination with the surroundings being something with a lot of classical allusions like an art museum versus something common like a subway.

Yep. So when are you putting more in there?

Originally Posted by: acapellaYep. So when are you putting more in there?

Eventually, haha.