New Beginnings

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On a cold summers evening Chris stood on a dank, dimly lit station platform. Tall for his age at six foot with a slim build, his dark brown hair hung as curtains over his youthfully handsome face. His piercing bright blue eyes surveyed his surroundings.

The platform was dirty and grimy. The chilly summer breeze blew rubbish across the platform into the tunnels. Graffiti adorned the walls in various colours and styles, while the drunk and the homeless littered the tube station. The smell of alcohol and rotten food offended his nose. Tightly clutching the straps of the large rucksack on his back he cautiously gazed from tunnel to tunnel hoping for a glimpse of an oncoming train.

Fear beat a steady rhythm in his chest as he consciously tried to avoid the gaze of the stations other inhabitants. Although capable of defending himself he didn’t want to catch the wrong person’s eye and end up in trouble. His surroundings had only added to the almost overwhelming anxiety he felt about his situation as he stood stoically waiting for his train that would take him to live with his estranged father.

After a few minutes of apprehensive waiting a rundown old train, pulled up at the platform. As the doors opened he pulled the straps of his bag tighter and stepped on, grateful to leave behind the unnerving company he had shared the station with.

As the doors closed behind him he removed his rucksack and threw it on the nearest seat before collapsing beside it. Briefly looking around he noticed that he was alone in the carriage; this filled him half with relief and half with dread. While he felt safer alone he was also aware that should something happen to him, there would be no help.

The carriage itself was just as unpleasant as the platform had been. Newspapers and food wrappings littered the floor; graffiti was scribbled all over the doors and walls. Some of the seat coverings had been ripped or slashed and some of the seats were missing completely. Advertising posters hung from the wall and ceiling and a sticky residue seemed to be dripping over the walls and windows. Having no room in his rucksack for reading material, he scrambled around looking for a newspaper in decent enough condition to read. But after a fruitless search of the carriage he slumped back into his chair and gazed vacantly into the oncoming darkness.

How did it come to this? He thought to himself as the train flashed through the never ending tunnel. His parents had long since divorced and the idea, let alone the fact, of being sent to live with his father filled him with trepidation and disbelief. His mind wondered over the alternatives to his current situation, his mother could have sent him to live with his grandmother and uncle whom he adored, but instead she had chosen to send him into exile.

His mother had decided she could no longer continue her guardianship of him as he put her under too much stress. At least that had been her claim at the time of his departure.

Chris didn’t consider himself a bad kid. He accepted that he had clashed with several authority figures, which had caused him to move twice to other schools. But he wasn’t a member of a violent gang, nor had he been in trouble with the police or been involved with any kind of drug taking. The only thing he felt he may have been guilty of was letting the new found freedom he was given run away from him. Since his father’s departure from the family home life had been less strict and less suffocating.

So Chris felt he was being unfairly banished by his mother and was in no way inclined to believe her reasons for his departure. She had long since remarried and was expecting her third child but despite his best efforts to blend into the new family unit it had become painfully clear that he was neither welcome nor wanted. His mother had continually taken the side of the teacher when he was involved in a dispute at school and after their latest round of arguments she had finally succeeded in her wish to expel him from her house.

Much to his annoyance the prejudice towards Chris seemed to run through his entire family and everyone saw him as the black sheep of the family, the rebellious teenager who refused to tow the line the family had set out for him.

But he had always thought differently, why should I tow the family line? Isn’t it my life after all? Why shouldn’t I do what I feel’s right?

He had always seen himself as a strong minded individual maybe too strong for his family to identify with. He believed in himself, which is more than could be said for his family. Although sometimes naive and often wayward, he was proud of having his own opinions and despite what others may have thought a very large moral compass.

Being the size he was and despite not carrying much weight on his frame, he possessed a loud, booming voice that carried like a microphone plugged into an amplifier. So when it came to Chris voicing his opinion about something unfair or unjust, everyone in the local vicinity would hear about it. His voice was often used in arguments against him and was often a tool by which his teachers would identify him regardless of whether he was involved in any wrong doing or not.

Although a mere fourteen years of age Chris believed, more often than not, that he was right about most things. So being of such strong mind and will, was another reason for his dismissal. It certainly didn’t bode well for Chris when it came to living with his father.

Derek, Chris’ father, was an ill-tempered workaholic who had also long remarried to a much younger woman by the name of Jane.

She was a woman who appeared to have no real personality to speak of and was the deciding factor in his parent’s divorce. So she was hardly the type of person to neither stand up to nor protect Chris from his abusive and violent father.

Chris had watched from a young age as Derek had ruled the family home with a dominant will and iron fist, beating his mother and sister into quivering wrecks and turning them into shadows of their former selves.

Chris often wondered if part of his mother’s distain for him was that she saw his father in him, something Chris thought unfair as his nature was far kinder and more caring.

Chris had suffered the same fate as his mother and sister, maybe even more so, which added to his disbelief of his mother’s idea that he was capable of his father’s behaviour. He had always wondered how she could not see that being subjected to this abuse would make him determined never to see it repeated.

Unlike the rest of his immediate family, Chris bore the physical scars of his father’s violent rages. On the left side of his body were visible signs of broken ribs, and on his back was a burn scar from when Derek had thrown a kettle of boiling hot water at him.

So Chris knew from experience that he would be best served to keep his sometimes sharp tongue under control while living with his father as it was no match compared to his fury.

Derek had made little to no effort with either of his children following the divorce. Neither child had seen their father in the two years since he had moved across the other side of London.

Eventually the train came to a halt at Chris’ destination, Morden. Gathering himself he launched the rucksack onto his back and departed the train. Following the exit signs, he made his way along another unclean platform and up a large staircase.

It was late evening by the time he appeared at the station exit and the sky was black. The streets were deserted except for a steady flow of black cabs and buses. Derek’s attitude clearly hadn’t change towards his children as he was not waiting for Chris despite knowing what time he would arrive. So after a few minutes in the cold night air Chris gave up and armed with only the name of his father’s place of work he set off.

It wasn’t long before he arrived at the front of the pub and filled with apprehension he pulled the door open and stepped inside. It was a fairly modern pub with very few customers and it wasn’t long before he saw his father standing idle behind the bar.

After a frosty exchange of pleasantries Chris received keys and directions to what would be his new home.

Quickly setting off, Chris followed the loose directions given to him by his father.

It was a large housing estate and it took some time for Chris to navigate his way through but eventually he came to his destination. Tucked away at the very back of the estate in the furthest corner was a small block of purpose built flats surround by a thirty foot white stone wall. Everything appeared to be cramped into this corner and Chris shuddered with dread as he heard a loud rattling and clanging sound come from behind the wall, evidently the flat was situated next to the underground train works yard. Steeling himself he walked forward and found the door with a bronze twenty six on it, turning the key in the lock he pushed the door fearing the worst.

As the door swung open his fears were confirmed. The flat was tiny, a small double bedroom was situated directly opposite the front door and as he followed the narrow passageway through the flat he noticed a rather small bathroom, big enough just to fit everything inside. At the end of the corridor the lounge opened up in front of him, it was no larger than the bedroom he had passed and filled with oversized furniture and bookcases.

He noticed the lounge was separated from a small kitchen by a thin wall as his eyes searched desperately for a second bedroom to appear. But all he could see was all there was so he dropped his rucksack on the floor and flopped onto a rather uncomfortable sofa.

As he struggled to straighten the cushions he discovered a metal sprung bed hidden beneath.

Chris looked around for a place to store his stuff but there was nowhere for his belongings so he tucked his bag away in a vacant corner and laid, feet dangling over the arm rest.

The following morning Derek returned to the flat and made it clear what his expectations were. Chris was ordered to keep the flat spotless and to keep out of the way. Keen to avoid his father’s wrath he quickly did as he was told and settled into a routine of cleaning and polishing. It didn’t take long for him to get everything under his control and he spent his free time watching the small TV in the front room.

He never saw his parent’s due to their demanding job’s and when they were at home he either kept quiet whilst they slept all day or was left behind when they went out.

Over the days and weeks that followed Derek had shown no interest in Chris, he gave no indication that he had any plans for him such as school and Chris felt he had just been left to rot inside the tiny flat. He quite enjoyed having the place to himself but eventually his sense of freedom was replaced with a sense of boredom.

When the tedium of the four walls became too much an insatiable desire to explore grew within him, a desire that had often got him into trouble with his family in the past.

But under his father’s uncaring eye he was free to go where ever he pleased.

Making sure everything was as it should be Chris put on his shoes and headed out the door to see what his surroundings held. He ventured into the local town, consciously avoiding the pub, but there was very little for him to do. Heading back to the flat he stumbled upon a large green area tucked away within the housing estate. It was as big as a football pitch and it seemed to Chris as though someone had strategically planted two large trees to make them appear as goal posts.

Chris was an avid football fan and spent many of his days donning his football boots and charging around the green with his football.

He had long harboured a dream of becoming a professional footballer and ran various drills and exercise in order to hone his skills and improve his fitness. But as time moved on he became lonely, he knew no one in the area and there never seemed to be sign of any people his age whenever he was out playing football.

But eventually young people began to appear.

And it wasn’t long before a few boys of his own age joined him in his exercises and a small group began to form. These new friends never became close to Chris as one of his father’s many rules was that no one else was allowed into the flat.

But as the school holidays came to an end he began to see less and less of his friends and it wasn’t long before Chris found himself alone again running aimlessly around after his football.

He had continued to remain on top of his chores and with no friends around he found he had little to do. He had exhausted his small music collection as well as his father’s and TV was growing ever more tiresome.

With his mother quick to abandon him and his father’s blatant disinterest in his existence, a growing desire to be loved and wanted began to add itself to the loneliness. Knowing it would never be filled in his current situation he decided that if he couldn’t move forward then the next best thing was to go back and he began to make plans to visit a few of his old friends.

Knowing he could go anywhere and any when without reprisal, he asked his father for money for travel but after a flat rejection he returned home to try and find an alternative solution.

I can’t get any money from him and I don’t have any of my own so how am I going to get across London? He thought.

The following day Chris was busying himself with his chores and when straightening up the sofa cushions he stumbled across a dirty old twenty pence piece. Suddenly an idea exploded in his mind and he found a solution to his problem. Tearing off the sofa cushions, he searched franticly for any more coins that lay hidden.

This has to be the answer thought Chris as he continued to search for discarded change.

But his search yielded no more results and after straightening the sofa back up he dropped onto it feeling deflated but not yet defeated. He surveyed the room thinking of anywhere else that could hold forgotten money and he searched the book cases as well as lifting the furniture up to see if anything had fallen down behind them.

Eventually he stumbled across his salvation. Buried away in a corner beside the sofa was a very large old vodka bottle, filled to the brim with all manner of coins. Should I take it? He asked himself. This presented a huge moral dilemma for Chris as he had never considered himself a thief. But is it theft? His mind went on. Torn between his desire to remain honourable and to see his friends he wrestled with his conscience for a few days.

But as time wore on his situation became more and more intolerable, so despite his better judgement he took only as much as he needed and began to plan his journey. Having left without picking up any numbers from his friends, his only course of action was to show up unannounced.    

The jar continued to empty as the months went on as Chris journeyed back more and more. While enjoying his time with his old friends immensely, he never paid a visit to any of his family members.

A brief romantic entanglement evolved from his frequent forays back to his old stomping ground but despite sneaking his young lady Kayliegh back and forth, it slowly fizzled out and ended without much fuss. But his failed relationship was to be the least of his problems. During his time travelling Chris had let his choirs slip by the wayside and after returning from a particularly pleasant trip he found his father waiting for him in a very unpleasant mood.

Despite trying to reason with his father, his main point of defence and attack being that as he wasn’t there it was neither his mess nor his responsibility to clean up, Chris found himself on the end of a savage beating and was told in no uncertain terms that he was there to do as his father wished and nothing more. 

Chris gave up his travels and brought his choirs back under control, the fear of another beating had quashed his desire for company and friendship.

It wasn’t long before Derek announced that the only way to keep Chris under his control was to send him to school. This came as a bolt from the blue as it was the last thing he had expected but in his father’s eye’s it was the easiest way to keep Chris occupied.

Despite being surprised by this turn of events Chris was not totally opposed to the idea.

After talking with some of the boys he played football with at the weekends, Chris got the name of the school at which most of them attended and passed it onto his father. Although not being a big fan of school, Chris gradually warmed to the idea.

A few days before Chris was due to start school Derek came home one lunch time to speak to Chris. He quickly explained that the brewery that he worked for had contacted him and informed him that they would be reposting both himself and Jane to another troubled pub in a place called Walton.

Chris needed no further explanation, he knew what was happening. So Chris had to follow like a dog on a lead as his parents were shipped elsewhere.

Chris was no longer heading to school but to yet another new environment. He wasn’t too happy about this change of events as he had finally got excited about going to school with people he knew and making new friends. He had also become quite fond of his surroundings and felt quite aggrieved that he had to start all over again. He did find it quite ironic that he was due to move on the very day that he was to start a new school.

So Chris spent his last few days with his friends before saying his goodbyes and preparing for the unknown once again.

©R.D.Scott 2017

Author's Note

This is completely unedited, so ignore mistakes.

Reviews

[JayG]

The problem is, from start to finish, this is a transcription of you talking to the reader in a voice they can’t hear. So while for you the narrator’s voice is filled with emotion, for the reader the only emotion is what punctuation suggests. It’s not a matter of it being a rough edit, it’s that there are structural problems that are invisible to the author, but need to be addressed. As Mark Twain put it: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

You’re thinking in terms of the visuals you held as you write, so what we hear from the narrator is what you visualize, not what the protagonist is focused on. But whose story is it? What matters to him is what drives his decision-making, and his actions. But we learn none of that. So, not knowing him, and what's driving his decision-making, how can he be our avatar?

You say, for example: “Fear beat a steady rhythm in his chest as he consciously tried to avoid the gaze of the stations other inhabitants.” So what? Given that the reader doesn’t know why, who who he is as a person, why he’s there and what he expects to happen in the immediate future, or the smallest thing about him other than a visual description couched in general terms, why would they care? And because you're editing from the chair of someone who knows the characters, the backstory, and the story BEFORE you begin reading, you're going to leave out what seems obvious t you. When you say his hair forms a curtain OVER his face, for example, lacking the picture the words call to your mind, this person has his entire face covered by hair. It's not what you meant, but it is what you said.

But that aside, what reason have you given the reader to care if he’s frightened? He is our avatar, but can we feel frightened with him if we don't know why he is, as-we-read-the-words?

You’re talking ABOUT him, primarily in overview, which is a nonfiction writing technique. But readers aren’t seeking detail. As E. L. Doctorow put it, “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

My point? Get yourself off stage. How real can the story seem with you on stage acting like the announcer at a prizefight, reporting and explaining? He should be turning to you and asking you who you are and why you’re talking about him. Instead, he politely stops doing anything till you finish with your dissertation. How real can that feel?

The short version: You’re using the skills of verbal storytelling in a medium that reproduces none of your performance. You say you have no formal education in writing, but suppose you had no formal education in wiring a house, but wanted to do it. Would you expect the lights to work when you finish? The thing we pretty much all miss is that professional knowledge and techniques are acquired IN ADDITION to our school-day skills, and in the case of fiction, the only skills we’re given are those that our future employers require, like the ability to write reports and essays—both nonfiction writing applications. So as part of our schooling we learn zero fiction-writing techniques. And given that they offer degrees in commercial fiction writing in the universities, you have to figure that at least some of that knowledge is necessary, right?

In fact, the single most common reason for rejection is that the writing techniques used are 100% nonfiction. So you have a LOT of company. And, it’s not a matter of either talent or how well you write—which makes the problem fixable. In fact, I can help with that. The single best book I’ve found on the nuts-and-bolts issues of creating exciting scenes, and weaving them into a coherent story is available free at the site address below this paragraph. Aside from having over 200 5-star reviews on Amazon, it’s the book that resulted in my first contract offer, after having 6 novels rejected. Maybe it can do that for you, so grab a copy.
https://ru.b-ok2.org/book/2640776/e749ea

For a kind of overview of several of the critical issues you’ll find in that book, you might check a few of the articles in my WordPress writing blog. Many of them are based on that book.

So…I’m pretty certain this isn’t what you were hoping to see. Who would? But on the other hand, it is what you need to know. So dig in. And while you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/

[R.D.Scott]

Thanks for your critique. I was taking your points seriously until you basically used my work to promote your own. So forgive me if I discard your opinions. Maybe next time you might want to just stick to critiquing as opposed to shamelessly plugging yourself. People will listen to your opinion then.

[JayG]

• So forgive me if I discard your opinions

First, they're not my opinions, they're what you'd hear early in any course in writing.

Second, aside from having 29 novels in print, before I retired, I taught at workshops, and owned a manuscript critiquing service. So I'm not guessing.

You don't want to take my advice? Feel free. You certainly don't hurt me if you don't do that, or bother taking the time to learn the basics of the profession. The articles in that blog, in large part, were written for a newsletter sent to hopeful writers of one of my publishers.

But that aside, someone you don't know took the time to try to help you become a better writer. Your response is to lash out because it stings to learn how much you're missing. Over the past thirty years I've seen it more than a few times. But before you do it again over this, here's something to think about:

Since you began to read, every book you've chosen to read was written with the skills of the professional. And before it was accepted for publication it was vetted by some pretty picky editors, who literally reject 999 out of 1000 submissions. But you learn none of those skills the editors expect to see in use in your school days, because they're skills of a profession. And reading work created with them no more teaches you the skills of writing fiction than eating fine food teaches you the skills of the chef.

But you DO recognize the result of using those skills in what you read, and will know if they weren't in a paragraph. Of more importance, your reader will know you're not using them. And if that's not reason enough to acquire a few of the skills the pros take for granted...

“A writer, shy or not, needs a tough skin, for no matter how advanced one’s experience and career, expert criticism cuts to the quick, and one learns to endure and to perfect, if for no other reason than to challenge the pain-maker.”
~ Sol Stein

Pick up that book I suggested and look through it to find all the spots where I'm wrong, so you can say, "Neener neener." The last person who did that mentioned me on the dedication page of his first sale. 😀

But obviously, you're not seeking to do that much work, so having had m say, I'll just bow out.