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tapwrites · 1 year ago

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Breaking Paragraphs & Splitting Sentences

a.k.a. "How not to ramble"

When speaking day to day, we don't think about where a sentence begins and ends. Or when a paragraph begins and ends. We don't even put punctuation in!

We can just ramble on and on about whatever's on our mind, like toasters, and walruses, and love, and chicken costumes. About that crazy thing that happened to us last night when you went out for a walk on the beach, and then watched the sunset, and then picked up a beer can, but then you were carrying it for what seemed like hours, searching for a bin to put it in, they should really put more bins on the beach, the place is a mess at the end of every day, what is sand anyway?

A stream of consciousness like that can work in prose... But if you want to make it easy to parse out the story itself, some structure is required to give the reader hints as to how to structure it in their own minds.

How does all that work? And how can you break up sentences and paragraphs in a way that affects your readers the way you want them to?

This isn't a case of making them "the right length" or having "enough" sentences/words so you can move on to the next one.

This is art, baby! And as such there are no easy rules to follow like that. You can do what you want, and go by feel.

Though if you just can't seem to get it right, and need more to go on... this article dives into "what's up with these paragraphs things anyway"? And "how sentence"? So you can build up an intuition for how they work, and how you can use them to affect your readers.

And we'll do so by you reading bits of prose, and watching out for your reactions to them...

You've already read the first example, in fact! What did you think of that stream-of-consciousness paragraph up there? How easy was it to read? Could you pick out a thread of story from it? It was a bit of a mess, right?

It was more difficult to read because its basic structures—paragraphs and sentences—were not used in a way that helps the reader out.

A paragraph keeps going until it ends with a new line, and a new paragraph. That new line is called a "paragraph break." Paragraph breaks are used to break the prose down into chunks the reader can file away into their brains, slotting it into the picture they've got of the story so far.

That doesn't mean they're memorizing all the words of the paragraph, though. They're memorizing a condensed form of what they think the paragraph means. Like a summary.

So what do you think the paragraph above means? When I read it it just comes off as gobbledygook, as rambling "stuff" that doesn't really have any point it's trying to make. And doesn't have any meaning it's trying to get us to file away. It's pretty much impossible to summarise.

This is why we have the term "wall of text." When a piece of text has few structures to chunk up information, it can be daunting to even start reading it.

First, we'd have to chunk it up ourselves--which is just annoying. But also it'll either be rambly nonsense with no real information so we can't understand it well enough to file away... or in theory it could have so much real information all in one go that we'll get overloaded and can't hold onto all of it when we summarise it.

Ever seen a scientific paper like that? They can get away with that because it's meant to be packed with information. And they're largely intended to be read by people who already understand all the terms, so they have a better chance of understanding it in the first place!

But with stories, with prose, the goal is for most people to be able to understand your writing. Not just specialists that already know what you're talking about.

So, we know we need to put in paragraph breaks to "break up that wall." But where? How do you tell what should be grouped up into a paragraph and when it should just keep going?

As with all art stuff, it's more intuition than anything. So as you read the following examples, think about how it "feels like" to read them. Why do they have that effect? And how can we use our understanding of what's going on to our advantage?

Jeff leaped into the air.

A paragraph could be just a single sentence, focused in on a single moment.

Remember, our brain condenses it down into what the point was for that paragraph, like a summary. What would the summary be for this? Probably just "Jeff leaped into the air."

This seems a little pointless to point out... but think about what this is doing for the reader's experience. How much effort do they have to put in to summarising the paragraph? 0%. And how much of the paragraph's text made it into the chunk they filed away? 100%. How many words were lost? None. And how many words had important meaning that you locked in to your brain? All of them.

One action holds all of our attention.

This is why a very short paragraph can have a big impact. In this example, it's probably not worth that impact—unless that leap has a big dramatic meaning.

Perhaps Jeff is leaping down into a gorge to fight a Balrog, sacrificing himself so his friends can escape. This short paragraph by itself holds on that moment in the reader's mind. Lets them ruminate on that moment and all that it means. The implications, the dramatic weight it carries from what came before in the story!

We can use paragraph length to have things stand out in different ways like this. Flip through your favourite novel sometime and look out for the lengths of paragraphs. Why did they choose to make it shorter or longer?

But anyway... this one doesn't have such impact, but it's cool to think about. 😅 It should probably have some more going on in the paragraph.

Jeff leaped into the air. He landed hard on a shipping container, with a clang.

Here, the paragraph as a whole has a little less impact. What happened to the impact of that first sentence? Did it go up or down? The main thrust is "Jeff gets on the shipping container." That's all that will matter for whatever comes next.

So the leap doesn't really matter now. And therefore those words didn't contribute much to the "summary" we automatically formulate in our heads. Instead of all the words being important, only maybe half of them are.

That isn't to say you need to cut out the less important words. It just highlights the extra impact a short paragraph can have with its contents.

If you wanted to, you could try combining sentences.

Jeff leaped into the air and landed hard on a shipping container, with a clang.

Now it feels like one smooth action, a long moment that blends together. That actually feels better to me. Instead of a series of separate sentences, only one of which having any impact on the story that comes after it... it's one sentence that impacts the story as a whole.

Think of it like a comic panel. You can have just 1 thing happening in the panel with extra impact. Or multiple moments of action joined together with motion lines.

Or I prefer thinking of it as an animated gif, joining multiple independent photos--multiple moments in time.

You can't just join everything together into a single sentence though.

Jeff leaped into the air, and landed hard on a shipping container, with a clang, and thought he heard a noise, and ran over to investigate, and said "Who goes there?"

Ick. Right? I mean, you can probably understand what's going on. But it's a bit of a blurry mess.

Why don't run-on sentences like this work, though? Why does it feel rambly even though the paragraph isn't overly long?

Well, what is the point of this sentence? Like we did with paragraphs... think about what the summary is.

Because it's all crammed into one sentence, it's very difficult to summarise. It could be "Jeff gets onto the shipping container." Or "Jeff hears a noise."

If you want to stretch it, you could say "Jeff does some stuff." But if that's all you remember about the sentence, how impactful can that be on the your experience? Little to none. And maybe only a quarter of the words had any impact at all, if we're being generous!

That "with a clang" sensory detail was a nice little tidbit before. Now it gets lost in the noise of actions and dialogue. It kinda feels out of place. There's no longer any room for experiential stuff that grounds the reader in the scene.

So you could cut it all down and remove whole parts of what happened from that sentence. Or you could split the sentence.

Splitting Sentences

How do we do that? First, think about what separate pieces of information we're getting from that sentence. I tend to use slashes for this.

Jeff leaped into the air / and landed hard on a shipping container, with a clang / and thought he heard a noise / and ran over to investigate / and said "Who goes there?"

Now, why is each of them there? What are they contributing to the paragraph? I'll bullet these out so it's easier to label each of them.

Jeff leaped into the air --movement

and landed hard on a shipping container, with a clang --(continues moving) more movement (with sensory detail)

and thought he heard a noise --(stops moving) hears something

and ran over to investigate --movement (because he heard something)

and said "Who goes there?" --dialogue (because he heard something)

Now, you could split each of those parts into their own sentence. But that isn't always necessary. As we saw earlier, the "long moment" of the leap and landing works fine joined up. In terms of the above notes, he moves, then continues moving into the landing. It has one through-line, getting from A to B.

But then Jeff stops moving. That through-line ends, and a new one begins. That makes the perfect opportunity to split the sentence here. The sentence ending hints to the reader's brain that a new through-line is beginning, making it easier to comprehend.

Then he resumes movement, but in a new trajectory--with a new reason, a new goal. It's also implied he stops at wherever he ran to. As this action is caused directly from Jeff hearing something, you could tag it onto that previous part.

And then Jeff speaks. This is separate text that is marked as being different from normal narration. Which is why it should also be its own sentence.

That gives us:

Jeff leaped into the air, and landed hard on a shipping container with a clang. He thought he heard a noise, and ran over to investigate. "Who goes there?" Jeff said.

Just as each paragraph has 1 summary, each sentence has 1 meaning... showing 1 specific thing. One action, one moment, one linked thread of actions. One through-line.

It all has a knock on effect, up the chain of structures...

The clearer the meaning of each sentence is, the easier it is to grab the meaning. The clearer all the sentences are in a paragraph, the clearer the paragraph. And the easier it is to condense it into a summary and file it away.

Splitting a sentence into parts like this also gives us another advantage. Each sentence now has room to breathe, and to grow. We can add more detail, more description, to each sentence. We can be more specific about our meanings within those sentences.

For example, we can describe the noise he heard.

Jeff leaped into the air, and landed hard on a shipping container with a clang. A skittering sounded to his right, and he ran to the edge of the container. "Who goes there?" he called into the night, breath fog lit by the flickering floodlights.

Of course, we could strengthen the impact of certain "meanings" by giving them their own sentences, even multiple sentences. Give more time to the skittering, maybe a worried thought.

This works similarly to paragraphs:

The more focus a sentence has, the more meaningful it is.

So let's put some of that in.

Jeff leaped into the air, and landed hard on a shipping container with a clang. Skittering! To the right! If it was a Fat-Roach, this night was gonna suck. Jeff ran to the edge of the container, and peered into the dark. "Who goes there?" he called, breath fog lit by the flickering floodlights.

Okay cool. I took the liberty of throwing in narrated thoughts from Jeff, and expanding quite a bit on the "Jeff hears skittering" moment. And moving the "night" part into a different sentence where it felt more at home. Oh yeah, and introducing the idea of monstrous giant cockroaches that roam the night, just for kicks.

The sentences are clear, and have a good amount of detail to them. Though we've still got an unwieldy paragraph that's hard for the reader to condense down into a simple summary. There's just too much going on--same problem we had before.

Breaking Paragraphs

Paragraph mode! Engage!

I'll quickly split the paragraph up into threads, using double-slashes. Things I want to stand alone as something new the reader should file away. See if you can figure out what summaries I'm aiming for.

Jeff leaped into the air, and landed hard on a shipping container with a clang. // Skittering! To the right! If it was a Fat-Roach, this night was gonna suck. // Jeff ran to the edge of the container, and peered into the dark. "Who goes there?" he called, breath fog lit by the flickering floodlights.

Why did I choose those spots to split? Here's my thoughts on each part:

Moving onto the container.

(Stops moving.) Notices the skittering and Jeff's internal reaction to it.

(Stops thinking about it.) Jeff acts on what he was thinking.

Hey, those almost look like summaries, don't they? If you're not sure how to split the paragraph up, think about what summaries--what points--you want the reader to come away with after reading these new paragraphs. And break them up or group them up accordingly. Maybe even move things around so you can get a better grouping you want to stick in their mind.

Let's try splitting things up based on the summaries we want the reader to take away from it.

Now, you might choose to separate them a little differently. Perhaps break before the dialogue too. Or join the physical reaction onto the mental reaction. This is art; it's all loosey goosey. And it's your art. It's up to what you what feel is best.

That said, there is one aspect every paragraph has, or should have, for it to read well.

Character Focus

Take a look at this:

Jeff ran to the edge of the container, and peered into the dark. "Who goes there?" he called, breath fog lit by the flickering floodlights. Arnold stumbled out from behind a pile of tires. "It's just me sir," he said, gasping for breath. Jeff rolled his eyes. "Well get over here would you? And stop wheezing like a demon in the night. You'll attract the Roaches." "Right you are sir."

Now we have 2 characters doing and saying things in the same paragraph. And it starts getting a bit rambly again. It's hard to follow who is saying what because it's all said as part of one stream, one paragraph, one chunk. We can't file away the previous part of the conversation before the next one barrels into our brains.

You could say this paragraph is about... "A conversation between Jeff and Arnold." But...

It's better to have a paragraph be about one person rather than multiple.

Any sentence has one subject, as in one thing that is performing an action. Even if it's implicit as to what is acting, and what they are doing. A narrated thought is one character performing the action known as "thinking." A description is one character (or perhaps narrator) performing the action known as "observing." And so on.

It works similarly for a paragraph. A paragraph is "about" one character (or narrator). Which character it's about is indicated by who acts first.

(If more than one character is involved in an action, go ahead and show that. But the paragraph as a whole should still be about one character or the other.)

Jeff heaved Arnold up onto the shipping container. "What are you even doing, man?"

In the above example, Jeff is the subject of the paragraph because he's the one performing the action. Which means we can just throw in some dialogue and it's implied that it was spoken by Jeff also.

Arnold clambered up onto the shipping container, with a helping hand from Jeff. "What are you even doing, man?"

If Arnold was the one acting at the start, we intuit that the paragraph is about him. And we'd assume the dialogue is his, too.

Let's try putting this idea into practise with our conversation from earlier, and see how it feels. When we change to a different character acting (speaking), we break into a new paragraph.

As you read this, pay attention to who is acting, and how that sets up who you assume is being referred to in the rest of that paragraph.

Jeff ran to the edge of the container, and peered into the dark. "Who goes there?" he called, breath fog lit by the flickery floodlights. Arnold stumbled out from behind a pile of tires. "It's just me sir," he said, gasping for breath. Jeff rolled his eyes. "Well get over here would you? And stop wheezing like a demon in the night. You'll attract the Roaches." "Right you are sir."

How does that feel? Better? Clearer? Now each paragraph features one character, and what they say has its own spotlight.

You probably didn't think twice as to who each pronoun was referring to, even though both characters in the scene use the same pronoun.

How did you know that? Because the paragraph was set up earlier to be about one specific character. So using their pronoun automatically refers to that same character.

And who said "Well get over here would you"? Did you guess it was Jeff?

How did you know that? There is no dialogue tag to tell you, after all. You know because Jeff is that paragraph's character. And why is that? Because Jeff is the one acting.

See...

You know these rules implicitly as a reader.

That's how you guessed correctly. But hopefully seeing these ideas spelled out and demonstrated will let you lean on those rules. Make them work for you!

And note that last paragraph, which has no character mentioned at all... Who did you think is saying that dialogue? Arnold, right?

How did you know that? This is a conversation between 2 people. Each paragraph is a different person speaking, bouncing back and forth between Jeff and Arnold. Jeff just spoke, so it's Arnold's turn. If the next paragraph has dialogue, it stands to reason it will be Arnold's dialogue! Simple as that!

So how did the reader know who was speaking? Because a pattern was established by the writer. The way it was written set up an expectation in the reader, which let the writer use that expectation to write the scene a little easier.

(Just don't rely on such a pattern for too long. If they forget whose turn it is, that'll get real confusing. 😅)

When you next read a novel, have a look out for things like this. What patterns and expectations is the writer creating, even at the prose level? How are they relying on those expectations to tell the story?

Some paragraphs have no action though. Think back to this paragraph:

Skittering! To the right! If it was a Fat-Roach, this night was gonna suck.

This doesn't mention any character at all. It looks like plain ol' narration. But we have a viewpoint character: Jeff. So any narration is more like "what Jeff sees," "what Jeff thinks," etc.

Jeff is acting here. What is he doing? He is thinking. This paragraph is narrating thoughts what Jeff thinks in this moment. So he is the character of this paragraph, kind of by default.

But then, how do we know Jeff is the viewpoint character, and not Arnold? The same way we know which character is the focus for a paragraph, but one level higher. They were the first one to act in our story. We started with "Jeff leaped into the air." So he became our viewpoint character—for this scene at least.

That's because I'm writing in "3rd person limited," where I'm limited to only what one character experiences and their internal thoughts—known as the "viewpoint character." If you're not writing with a viewpoint character, the reader will assume it's the narrator commenting on what's going on instead.

This is why when some stories start with a description of the kingdom or some backstory of the world, readers can feel a bit lost until a character is introduced. "Who cares about the lore if there aren't any characters in this story?"

And why it's more engaging to be introduced to a character doing something instead of just being mentioned as existing. "Okay, so there exists a princess in this world. But they're not doing anything, so this is just data. Skip to the story!"

Your mileage may vary on this. Tastes differ after all. But it's something to think about for your own stories.

In summary...

Paragraphs have 1 character doing 1 or more closely related things. (Even if those actions are no physical: observing, thinking, talking, etc.) This then condenses into a summary that will have some amount of impact on what happens in the rest of the story.

Sentences have 1 character doing 1 thing, possibly with added super duper closely related things of the same kind.

Though when I put it like that, it seems way over-simplified, and comes off as sentences being pretty much the same thing as paragraphs. And maybe chapters? And stories?

The advice "focus on the story being told" applies to all parts of the text, great or small.

And it's a fair guiding principle for writing good prose and good stories. But also not necessarily that helpful when you're "on the ground," and "in the trenches," writing the prose day-to-day.

That's because it's a lot more about intuition. About heuristics. About where it feels like you should end a paragraph, etc. Hopefully the intuition you've absorbed through these exercises will be a lot more useful than trying to enforce these "rules" for every piece of text in your story.

Perhaps you'll develop these ideas and have your own way of thinking about them. But hopefully this will give you a solid place to start from and you can get to ripping and stitching sentences and paragraphs whenever you want to! 🫶

#paragraph #sentence #splitting #breaks #writing #article #character #focus #dialogue #action #narration #thoughts #reading #active reading

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vivwrite · 4 years ago

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With the Ghost of You(When the Sun Goes Down We All Get Lonely)

Maybe he’s just imagining, maybe its just another fantasy he pictures, but Luke seems semitransparent, a halo casting around his figure, holy, angelic.

“The night was very long but it didn’t seem long to the Snow Man; he stood lost in his own pleasant thoughts, and they froze until they crackled.”

or: Ashton meets Luke in a library, and the story tells itself. (AO3 link👇)

ooookay so my first fic for lashton and 5sos . Thanks for reading it. And tbh I'm extremely nervous because English's not my first language. So sorry for the mistakes lol.

One thing: I read Marquez's work in my first language, and I can't find the English version of it, so I translated the title and first sentence to English. There might be a mistake so sorry again lol

Ashton has always loved the library.

It isn't the school library, which is always so grand, demure, solemn, much like a robot- no, too cold and inhuman.

What he prefers, rather, is a smaller one run by a group of retired professors. It seems determined to hide itself in the northeastern corner of the campus, made up of three small but never crowded reading rooms. No matter when he walks through the doors be can find lamps shading yellowish circles on wooden tables, rows and rows of bookshelves up to the ceiling, and seats, beside small windows where the sunlight outside leaks in just perfectly on sunny afternoons.

To him it's always a getaway, a secret hiding place from the stressed and sometimes too fast school life, the only friend he can turn to when he isn't that enthusiastic about life, a comfort when facing another rock bottom. He's already studying a too rational subject; he'd love spending some time being just sensitive in here.

He'd spend hours and hours wandering among the bookshelves, picking one when he feels like it, skimming a few pages before deciding to read on or not. By doing this he feels just like a boy on the beach, amazed by an emerald or sapphire brought on shore by waves from time to time- what matters isn't just the book he gets. It's more of the communicating, the chore he gets to strike.

Unsatisfactory experiment result, loads of homework, a long and tiresome discussion with the professor about his research orientation- which he thinks is too early for him to consider, but she insists that as he has already got postgraduate recommendation he needs to consider it fully right now- and Ashton finds himself wandering in the library again, walking aimlessly, not for finding books, just to feel the connection.

It is a strange feeling, really, to be connected with books. Most of them on the shelves just seem to be books as they are, silent, quiet, lifeless. But, well, maybe it’s just his imagination- but some particular ones seem to be staring back- especially that one.

His hand automatically moves to pick that book out of the column.

It is quite delicate, a hard back small enough to be held on one hand, the title shimmering under the dim lights.

Ann’s Diary.

He remembers reading it in his teen years.

“Sorry, but that's mine.”

Ashton springs from the bookshelf. The book slips straight from his hand, hitting the wooden floor with a thud, as a boy rounds up from the other side.

He's tall- even taller than Ashton. And quite young, a freshman or sophomore, maybe. He is staring at Ashton from behind those strands of blonde, messy curls falling off to his face, piercing pale blue eyes met with his hazel ones, and that made his breath hitch for a second- although those eyes are definitely showing dismay.

"I... I don't really understand." He tries his best to cover all the confusion and fear- dealing with strangers always makes him uncomfortable (although he can manage it by acting cheerful and shit), especially with a pissed one.

But the boy seems determined to stay silent and on edge. He just flips the first page open, gesturing to a mark on it.

It's a two-word initial. Must have written quite a long time ago, as the lines are a bit blurry and the ink has faded into light gray. But he still recognizes the word, written in Italic, reading "L.H.".

Wait. The librarians never said that there is a place for personal collections.

Before he can ask about it the boy swirls around and walks off, leaving alone a dumbfounded Ashton.

He goes to ask the librarians, then the curator(because the librarians know nothing), about books with a L. H. written on it.

"This is a long story, darling, but it's late." Mrs. Hemmings' voice is collected and calm as always, but Ashton can tell that there is something as her eyes are a bit dull, "Maybe the other day."

His favorite spot in the library is a small table tucked behind seven rows of bookshelves of English literature(yes, he counts how many bookshelves are there), just besides a small window. Others rarely find it- unless they're crazy for novels by Adeline Virginia Woolf or they're just too bored to do anything else.

That's why he chooses here- There's no disruption, no noise, only the random shuffle for a person searching for books and pages being turned. Being alone.It suits him.

The sound of a chair pulling broke the silence,ripping him from the novel plot- someone has slipped into the chair opposite of him.

Well, fuck.

Ashton lifts his head from the pages, slight agitation rising from his chest, which shifted to utter surprise as his eyes meet a strangely familiar shade of blue.

Before he could say anything the boy blurts out , "Please... I want to explain."

For a moment Ashton just sits there, staring. Thoughts cloud his mind, tangling messily, laying conflicted- He was so senseless but now he seems so sincere! He won't trust his own voice right now, afraid that something stupid pops up all of a sudden. So he decides to just nod, a silent permit for the stranger to go on.

The boy clears his throat, looking a little nervous, "About the incident yesterday... I'm sorry. Got into something stupid and was shouted at all day long- but, I mean, fuck, even that isn't the reason I became such a jerk to you. I'm not trying to defend myself, but please don't be angry... Oh my fucking god, I don't know what I'm saying." He groans, pushing a hand through his curls, messing it up a bit.

Well, isn't that adorable.

Ashton hears himself chuckling, "I understand, no worries. Everyone has a bad day, don't we?"

He watches as the boy visibly relaxes with the reassuring words, a smile slipping on on his face, "Yeah, I guess. Thanks... Um, what's your name, by the way?"

Oh, right.

"Ashton."

"Thanks, Ashton." the boy's smile widens, "I'm Luke."

So the initial does belong to him. The L. H..

It's not until silence falls that Ashton realizes he may have stared at those sea- blue, sincere eyes for a bit too long. Hastily he ducked his head into his novel, flushed, trying to pick up the stream of Woolf's consciousness again.

"Virginia Woolf?" Luke's voice cuts in, and to Ashton's surprise- filled with pure interest.

Everyone else just thinks he's crazy and nerdy fancying Woolf's works.

"You like her?" He can't help but feel hope lighting up.

"One of my favorite!" Luke's literally buzzing with excitement, like a puppy finally getting some fresh air after a long lockdown in the house, "Never found another person to discuss, though. Everyone just say it's too hard to understand and shits."

And with that their conversation swiftly shifts into a heated discussion about stream of consciousness novels, to Woolf, then Proust, Faulkner, all way up the history, even to Freud- and Ashton finds, surprisingly, that they can strike a chord in every part of it- and the way Luke talks relentlessly, smiling so broad, eyes shining and hands waving- tells him he holds the same feelings, same thought, same passion.

His throat's sore- he hasn't talked that much in like, forever- but that doesn't stop him from being smug like an idiot when he leaves the library.

He's been alone for a long time, But it seems that he has finally found someone.

He starts to spend more time in the library- first just to do some more leisure reading and writing stuff there, then he starts bring his textbooks and laptop there to finish his homework, then even starts to stay there as long as he neither has classes nor needs to go back to the dorm. Yes, he admits it's kind of strange one's never tired of a library- especially that he has already ploughed through every part since he first stepped into it- but he knows why- a cute boy with ocean blue eyes and a smile is always there now.

It has become a routine. Luke accompanies him every day, sometimes already halfway through a novel when Ashton arrives, while other times Luke shows up merrily when he’s buried in the middle of projects and homework, bringing in a sense of cool breeze and fresh air before peeking over and ushering him to take a break(well sometimes the work has to be done, but Luke’s so sweet that he can’t refuse). Their time spent together is usually quiet, Ashton either typing away on his laptop or on a book, while Luke is immersed in his own novel, just piping up from time to time to discuss the plot or asking about the author. Topic wanders- books, school life, bands, music (seriously, how many same hobbies do they hold?).

They have went through so many fields- Stream of Consciousness to Science Fiction, Agatha Christie to Akudagawa, Shakespeare's Sonnet to Samuel Ullman's prose, but the list still seems far from ending. To Ashton's surprise Luke have read most of the writers not only by representative works but also less- famous chapters- many of which he only knows but has never read. He had thought he's an English Literature student, but Luke amazed him again by saying he studies Math actually- the same amazement occurred again when Luke discovered the chemistry paper Ashton's working on.

He can’t recall the last time he felt this content -Well, he can’t even remember when he has become so silent and depressed, on edge and under pressure.

But seems Luke has already become the solution.

Ashton sighs, recoils back in his chair, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes- He never learns the lesson of not leaving your homework to the deadline, fuck it.

Besides him Luke rises his head, a slight smile tugging at his lips, "You finally done?"

He just groaned, eyes shut."I wonder how the fuck you can even finish your homework. You never seem to be doing anything related to math."

"Maybe that's because all can be done quickly if I want."

Smug idiot.

"Wait till you're a post graduate and you'll know what's torture."

"Will quit right after four years, then."

Ashton scowls, cracks open one eye and spares a hand to flip Luke off, to which he ducks away (he always does) and giggles, "You're of no fucking help."

"What do you want me to do, then?"

"Don't know. Tell me a story. Or just read something. As long as I'm not thinking my head off about the synthesis route of some stupid fucking molecule I'll be fine."

He heard a light chuckle, "Aye- Aye, Captain, here we go."

The sound of pages turning, Luke clearing his throat, then,"'It's so bitterly cold that my whole body crackles!' Said the Snow Man."

Ashton lifts an eyebrow wearily,"Now you're telling me an Andersen's Fairy Tale?"

"Shh. Shut up and be a good boy. It's my favorite one." then, "This wind can really blow life into you! And how that glaring thing up there glares at me!" He meant the sun; it was just setting..."

Luke reads on, and Ashton finds himself relaxing, sinking into the familiar tale he’s read hundreds of times as a toddler, following the thread of the story, recalling the dialogue, how the Snow Man calls the Old Watchdog “my friend”.

Luke's voice fades for a brief second, then returns, slightly changed, softer, “Then the Snow Man looked, and he really saw a brightly polished thing with a brass stomach and fire glowing from the lower part of it. A very strange feeling swept over the Snow Man...”

Here comes the part- tracing the memory he can still feel it, the confusion when toddler him read to this part, then realization and excitement for no reason when he picked it up again, just for one time, before he come to this city.

He thought a new place brings a new life. That he would finally leave that old black and white town. He thought he knew what life was all about, what love was.

So ambitious, so young, so dumb.

Ashton blinks furiously, shaking the thoughts flooding up away from his mind. He’s here, in his favorite place, with an adorable boy who keeps his company, reading a tale to him. He’s fine, they’re fine, it’s fine.

His eyes lands on Luke.

The small lamp on the table is tilted slightly, soft golden light casting gently down on the boy’s right side, splitting a silhouette, leaving the left side of his face in the shadow. Curls falls off his face, dangling. His long, thick eyelashes turns to an almost-silver color under the light, trembling slightly, dancing altogether with the little particles floating in the air, as those blue eyes, clear as the sunny day but still deep as the sea, moves with each line, each word on the page. Maybe he’s just imagining, maybe its just another fantasy he pictures, but Luke seems semitransparent, a halo casting around his figure, holy, angelic.

“The night was very long but it didn’t seem long to the Snow Man; he stood lost in his own pleasant thoughts, and they froze until they crackled.”

The story’s still going, coming to an end, and Luke’s voice, a little raspy now, is merely above a whisper, like if he tells it any louder the fragile, beautiful tragedy will be destroyed.

“Come out, dear sun! Come often, skies of blue!

And nobody thought any more about the Snow Man.”

And with that Silence falls, a sad love story coming to its end.

For a while they just sits, looking into each others eyes.

The atmosphere’s changed, he knows it, can feel it. It’s a brand new feeling, one he has never felt, the rising urge, the need, the want, to get closer to the boy in front of him, to truly know him, to be with him, go through everything with him, feel the same with him, to like him, love him.

Hesitantly, he reaches out, slowly, hand trembling.

For a moment Luke seems to be on the same page with him, eyes fluttering shut and automatically leaning in, but suddenly he gasps, like being reminded of something he has long forgotten, and recoils back sharply, Ashton’s hand touches nothing but air.

Why.

“It’s late, Ash.” Luke whispered, not looking him in the face, “Maybe the other day.”

Something’s changed between them.

Not that the intimacy has changed- no. They still meets at the very table, reading and chatting, Luke still listens to his bickering about homework and fucking lab life- but something’s there, like The Sword of Damocles, hanging dangerously, but both just choose to ignore it.

Luke’s still Luke, sweet and gentle, cute and caring. But he’s somewhat quieter then before- he’s still chatting when it comes to their hobbies, but he always stops abruptly after the topic’s over, cutting the conversation.

It’s only that Ashton’s confused, confused about fucking all of it, confused about why Luke refused his invitation, why Luke takes a step back while he finally decides to step forward. It’s like an invisible barrier is built, all things suddenly turns indefinite without reason.

He hate it. He fucking hate all of it.

It’s only worse that he’s stuck in the library right now- it’s pouring outside, he’s left his umbrella at home, his jacket has no hat, and Luke’s oddly quiet.

He’s reading, more of scanning automatically, mind crowded with uncomfortable thoughts, screaming at him to at least find out what’s wrong with Luke(he don’t know how when they’re in this awkward state), to pluck up his courage and try again(well look what a coward he becomes when it comes to pining), to get this mess sorted (to which he has absolutely no fucking idea).

Fucking shitty day.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed- the sky is darkening, pure black seeping into pale gray, as the window starts to mirror the lighted lamp, making it unable to see the outside.

He hears a sigh, then the sound of book shut.

He can see those clear blue eyes from the corner of his eye, a little dim than usual, like the eyes of a sad puppy, and that almost break his heart. He wants to get close to the boy again, tell him it’s okay, he’s here, no need to keep those shit all alone and stuff- but instead he stares intently at the screen, so hard that his eyes starts to water, cursing himself inwardly.

A pause. Then, “Ash.”

Ashton gives himself a slap in the head, then puts on his most cheery face, “Yeah?”

Luke shakes his head furiously, “Don’t... Don’t act in front of me. I know you’re not well these days, and it’s all because of,” He waves his hand impatiently, then pulls his curls, casting out another deep sigh, “Yes, I... feel there is something I need to explain.”

And again he finds himself lost of words, exactly like the last time Luke made an explanation. But Luke’s acting different- strange. He’s frowning, shifting in his seat, hands tightly clasped together, teeth tugging at his lower lip, eyes filled with... fear.

Luke has never gone frightened in front of him.

“Hey, hey.” He reaches out, trying to grab Luke’s hand, but the boy squealed and pulls away abruptly again- so he just sighs, being as comforting as possible, “It’s okay, Luke. All okay.”

Finally the boy seems to have made the decision. He points to the book he just finished, which is lying on the table now, “The second short story.”

“You’re making me a puzzle through Marquez? Typical.” Ashton picks up the book, checking the writer. He’s trying to make a joke, but it came out weak and not funny at all, as Luke just sighs again and rests his head in his hands.

“I don’t know how to say it, so.” God, he hates how Luke’s voice sounds, all hurt and in pain.

“Luke, I mean, I’m not forcing you, but you know you can tell me everything-” panic’s rising, and he feels the urge, that they’re coming to the crossroads-

“Um, Ashton?”

He’s never hated life- the approaching librarian as well- more than now.

“Yes?”

She comes to stand beside him, a hand on his shoulder, “It’s ten now and we’re closing in five minutes. You need an umbrella?”

“Um, just a minute. We have something to discuss. I promise it’ll be quick.” He gestures to the seat across the table, where he knows Luke’s sitting.

He expects a nod, but her face is puzzled, coated with a layer he can’t read, “We? But Ashton, there’s no one across the table.”

“What?”

His head whips around, so quick that he thinks he must have strained his neck. He closes his eyes, then opens them again- yes, Luke is sitting right there, in the chair, totally frozen besides the nervous act just now- but he’s there.

“But...”

She only shakes her head, “You’re the only one here all day, Ashton. No one else feels like coming on such a stormy weather.”

With that she leaves.

Ashton turns back to Luke frantically, “What the hell-”

He’s met with a stony face and watery blue eyes. Luke seems defeated and in total grief.

“Tell me, Luke. Tell me!” Panic overcomes him, his voice three octaves higher than usual. It can’t be real, it’s just his fantasy, things like this can’t happen in real life...

Luke holds out his trembling hand, and very slowly, reaches over, linking it with Ashton’s.

A wave of icy cold rises up- from his feet up to his spine, overwhelming him, drowning him, making his head dizzy, the world turning, the sense-

The sense of not being touched.

Luke’s hands go straight through his.

“Because they can’t see me.” The silhouette figure whispers, voice barely audible.

“I’m not as real as you see me, Ash.”

The next three days come and go like a blurry scene.

Ashton remembers it just vaguely- he remembers fleeing out of the library, running alone the dark campus path till his chest burns and every breath becomes a burden. He remembers the rain, pouring down and hitting him relentlessly, flowing off his face, mixed with some warm fluid he didn’t dare to think about. He remembers walking back to the dorm, all worn out and broken down, throwing himself on his bed and crying till weariness finally came over. He slept, then woke, then ushered himself into sleep again, like only in dreamland he could forget all of it, until he was really not able to sleep anymore.

He pushes himself up from his bed and stumbles into the bathroom, eyeing himself in the mirror. He looks like shit, even worse than a hangover, purple bags hanging from his eyes and hair sticking in all directions. He sighs, turning to walk from the bathroom, cursing as he nearly trips over something on the ground- but the word died halfway in his throat.

It’s that book. The Collection of Marquez’s Short Stories. He must have thrown it on the floor that night.

Ashton swallows, hesitant- he’s not that sure if he’s ready to face it, that memory, that typical boy- but his hand does it for him, already flipping through the pages.

The second work, what is the second work......

He sees the title.

Someone Messed up the Roses.

He takes in a breath.

Today’s Sunday, the rain’s stopped, and I want to pick some red and white roses to my grave...

His eyes is welling up, but he reads on, about the story of a boy’s ghost and his sister, a wish never coming true, a story of love and regret.

There’s a note, written in Italic, at the corner of the page, end of the story, black ink suggesting it’s freshly written.

You have given me the happiest moments my whole life and beyond life, Ash. It might be like a cheesy novel, but I love you and I’m sorry.

Luke Hemmings

He’s crying before he knows it.

“Fuck, Luke.”

The scenery outside the window’s changing, fading from concrete jungle to fields and woods. On the end of the road, a hill’s approaching.

He’s sitting in the bus, hand clutching at Marquez’s Collection and a piece of paper- a piece of paper Mrs. Hemmings gave him, showing a route to the place he wants to go.

The vehicle stops and Ashton stands, hopping off the bus, going for the iron door just beside the muddy road.

He pushes it open, the rust on it sticking on his hands, the scent of soil coming up to greet him. As he keeps walking stones appears- delicately carved, yet lifeless.

An oak. That’s what she told him- an oak beside him.

He lifts his head, looking around, and found it- an oak, already tall, rising from the soil, pointing straight to the pale-gray sky.

Uncertainty and fear echoes in the back of his mind, trying to stop him, as he just goes on.

He’s already experienced lost once. He doesn’t want to lose it again.

He stops in front of the oak, hesitates before sitting down, cross- legged.

“I don’t know what to say, Luke.”

He stops, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“A part of me is telling me to forget all this, deny it, wave it off as a dream. It’s all just a fantasy, something I pictured, and I’m supposed to, I should...”

“But, Luke, every minute spent with you is so real.”

“They would say I’m crazy, everyone will; I mean, who would believe a person falling in love with someone already gone- and supposed to be in the state of nonexistence? But... you’re like someone I finally found, a person in this world who could understand me... Who I’ve searched for my whole life.”

He sniffs, blinking away the tears welling up, “You know, during my years alone I’ve learned about not to expect, not to hope; but you... you bring the difference, like a light suddenly cracking in. I mean... if you’re there, if you’re really there... please, just please, give me something to hope, to wish for, and don’t just go away like that.”

“Because I’m so lonely,” He finally let it slip, “So lonely, Luke.”

A soft wind picks up, leaves rustling, like an answer. But as he listens on everything just stays silent, like they’ve always been forever. No silhouette, no soft voice belonging to a boy.

The sky’s getting dark, so he just pushes himself up and leaves.

He continues with the life. Attending classes, finishing homework, finally deciding his research orientation. His professor says something about “A big step” and “I know you can do it”, which he just brushes it all off, not truly listen.

He continues to go to the library- but not sitting in that very table anymore, and just stays there for less then an hour each day. He’s read Someone Messed Up the Roses again and again, like all of the other works have suddenly lost their attraction to him.

The pages are all dog-eared and worn out, but he just goes on with it, flipping the pages, ready to read the short story for like the twentieth time.

“I wouldn’t treat a book like that, you know.”

He jumps from his seat, eyes widening, turning around.

Someone turns up from behind the bookshelf.

Messy curls, sea- blue eyes, the lips curling up in a slight smile.

It’s like a dream. He’s in a dream.

Like he can read Ashton’s mind, the blonde walks straight up to him and extends his arms, wrapping him into an embrace.

He feels warmth.

Still no feelings of being touched, the figure still semitransparent, but warmth.

“It’s real. Don’t doubt it.” Luke’s voice is soft, reassuring, barely above a whisper.

Just like he remembers.

The warmth doesn’t fade, like when he’s standing under the afternoon sun, closing his eyes, feeling the hope coming up.

He finally believes it- tears are sliding down his face before he knows it.

“Luke."

#lashton #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #5sosfam #5sos fanart #5sos fandom #5sos slash #first work and I'm nervous as hell

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tanmath3-blog · 7 years ago

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Justin Park aka.. J.R. Park is one of the friendliest people I have ever met. He always has a smile and is willing to help anyone that he can. He also can spin a great horror story. Some of the most suspenseful and chilling stories I have read have been his. If you haven’t read one of his books please make sure that you do. He is extremely talented. He is also part of the Sinister Horror Company where he works with various authors publishing and editing and making beautiful books. If you haven’t met Justin you are missing out on a really amazing friend and writer. Please take the time to read one of his books you won’t regret it!

Please welcome J.R. Park back to Roadie Notes…………

1. It’s been awhile since we talked what new books do you have out now? Latest release? I’ve had a number of new releases. The Offering: An Introduction To The Sinister Horror Company is a short story collection by myself and Daniel Marc Chant, with a fantastic foreword by George Anderson. Death Dreams In A Whorehouse is a short collection of my own. I’ve been selling it at conventions but it hasn’t been ‘properly’ released online yet. I expect I’ll release it before the end of the year, but haven’t firmed up a date yet. Postal was a book co-written with Matt Shaw. This was a great book to write. Matt came up with an initial concept. I threw some ideas at him around it and he went off and wrote his part, whilst at the same time coming up with the structure of the book. He left me a lot of room to play and to add more ideas and concepts to the mythology. It turned out really fun (in a horror sense) and has had a great reaction since its release. Mad Dog is my latest novella, a book that can be summed up as: werewolf in a prison break. It’s told from a series of interviews by survivors of the incident and is full of the spills and thrills of a pulp book/b-movie.

2. If you could pick any author alive or dead to have lunch with who would it be? Why?

So many to choose from…so many. I think I’d go with William Burroughs. I don’t know a lot about the man, but he seems to have been a fascinating, and his voice is strangely hypnotic. I could listen to him tell me strange stories of his life for hours.

3. What is the strangest thing a fan has ever done?

I’ve been sent an embroidered handkerchief once. I’m an advocate of handkerchief use, and I usually add one in every book I write. I won’t say what was on, but if you’ve read Upon Waking you might get an idea…

4. What is the one thing you dread to do when writing?

Unconscious theft. When you’re exposed to so much, it’s okay to be influenced, but sometimes you can rip something off wholesale and you the worst thing is you can be halfway through before you notice. Another pain is if you come up with a great and work on something only for someone else to come up with the same idea. It hasn’t happened to me yet, but I have seen it happen, and it’s an awful position to be in.

5. Did you have imaginary friends growing up? Tell me about them

I did. It was an imaginary dog called Stripe (named after the Gremlin). The dog was small but not a real breed. It had neon fur, big teeth and a silver mohawk. I used to take him on walks with me, and secretly held his lead so others couldn’t see. My imaginary friend was my secret.

6. Do you go to conventions? If not why?

I really enjoy going to conventions. Because I go as part of a publishing company I don’t get invited as a guest and therefore have to pay for a pitch etc. This means with all the associated costs I never make my money back, but that’s not the point. It’s real fun to meet old fans and make new ones. Meet up with other horror fans and have a laugh. I usually spend more money than I make, but I just can’t help myself. Artifacts from conventions adorn my writing desk – a unicorn, a mask of a nazi zombie of American Werewolf In London… The craziest journey to get to a convention was in Dublin during 2016. Myself and Matt Shaw took a bus and ferry. We travelled all day and night, arriving at the convention an hour before it was due to start. We were so tired and then had to endure the Game Of Thrones theme on loop as we were pitched next to their stand. I think we both left that weekend slightly more deranged.

7. How many times did you have to submit your first story before it was accepted?

I never did! I went into self-publishing with my first book. I decided to let the critics guide me through reviews. So far it’s turned out okay. I’ve only subbed to a few other publishers. I had a rejection this year for a short story, and I was okay with that. They had a vision for their book and my story didn’t fit in with it – no problem. Another publisher moved their submission date without telling me. They brought it forward. It was a real shame as I had set up a writing schedule in date order. I really wanted to sub for the book and was gutted when they suddenly had the book filled. It’s being treated this way that puts me off working with other publishers. But you can’t let one bad experience stop you from working with others; and on the whole they have been pretty good.

8. Ever consider not writing? If so what made you continue?

I enjoy writing, and in some capacity I always will. Sometimes my creative energy will be spent elsewhere; maybe making films or writing music. But I’ve always enjoyed writing and never go anywhere with at least a pen and pad on me.

9. Ever thought about writing in a different category?

Yeah, very much so. I was writing poetry before I started writing horror, and I may go back to that. I love how one line of poetry can disarm you, so much more than a whole passage of prose in a book. It’s like concentrated emotion. Boil everything down. Strip the words back further and further until you’re left with the essence. That’s powerful stuff. I’ve also considered writing a different way. I write horror under the name J. R. Park. Why? Because it’s me, but not all of me. It’s only a part of me. To write under my full name Justin Park, it would have to be a full expression of me; unconfined from any particular genre. I’m currently reading a number of non-horror books and so we’ll see what influence these may have.

10. Any new additions to the family?

Not for me. I live in a shared house, much the same way as I did when I left University. I know at my age most people have settled down with a partner and live with them. Maybe they have a dog or cat. Maybe a child or two. I used to think there was something wrong with me for not living like that. Like I was some kind of failure. Of course that’s nonsense. There’s more than one way to live your life, and this is the way I’m living mine.

11. What is coming up next for you?

All planned book releases are out for the year. I am considering releasing Death Dreams At Christmas – a collection of Christmas horror stories. I love Christmas so it would be nice to get involved in the festive season. The other thing that I have coming up is the production and release of the Sinister Horror Cards. Based on Top Trumps, it’s an idea I had ever since I started writing. We are halfway through the art production at the moment and they are looking beautiful.

12. Do you do release parties? Do you think they work?

I don’t, so I don’t know if they work. I attended one once, and my Facebook feed got so full I couldn’t keep up. So as a reader and horror fan I didn’t like them, so I won’t do them for my own books. I’ve donated some books as prizes for other’s launch parties, but it’s not something I’d interested in. I’m sure it works for other people, and good luck to them. I think I’d rather have a real party. If I could set up an annual horror party that would be fun. Currently there are meet ups like FCON which has a good gathering of authors and readers.

13. Do you have crazy stalker fans? Have you ever had one you wish would go away? You haven’t made it until you’ve got a stalker. Thankfully, I haven’t made it yet.

14. Do you still have a “day job” ? If so what do you do?

I do. I work for the Government. I can’t tell you anymore; if I did, I’d have to kill you…

15. What is your process for writing? Do you have a voice in your head?

I usually start with a scene of two. These make pivotal points in the story. Then a write a paragraph describing the story. I expand it to a page with a beginning and end. Then I brainstorm to work out more detail before writing a chapter by chapter plan. Each chapter have notes that last a page and a half. It’s stream of consciousness so it can veer from notes to lines of dialogue to actual prose that gets used in the book. I do this so when I start writing I don’t accidentally write myself in a corner. I have read many books with unnecessary chapters and events that hold no relevance to the plot and I’m left wondering what was the point other than padding. It’s like an author starting writing a bit because they thought it was cool and then got bored, wrapped it up and carried on in a different direction. I decent editor would take those pages out, and it annoys when plots meander with no purpose. I like my stories to be well thought out from the start. ‘Not a word wasted’ is a comment I’ve received on a couple of times; and that makes me proud. Anyway… once I’ve got the plan I’ll write out chapter by chapter. Things may change and alter in that process, but I make notes as I go. Flow is important to me, and although I don’t have a voice in my head, I actually read a lot of my own work back aloud. This helps to get the feel of the flow, and find out if there are any cumbersome sentences that need re-working.

16. Is there a book you want to make a sequel to you haven’t yet?

I’d be tempted to write sequel to many of my books. Punch would be great to have a follow-up as there is a dangling plot thread no one notices that I’d love to tie up – mainly just to point it out, and then everyone will go ‘oh yeah’. The Exchange has a mighty follow-up swirling around my head. It involves many creatures and weird things. Think occult-style Star Wars. There’s also an idea for a follow-up to Mad Dog. Most likely called Mad Man, it will take the themes and styles of Mad Dog and push them to their inevitable conclusion.

You can connect with Justin Park here:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JRParkAuthor/?fref=ts

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/J.-R.-Park/e/B00OL04SD0/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_3?qid=1504592405&sr=8-3

Website: http://sinisterhorrorcompany.com/

Some of Justin Park’s books:

Getting even more personal with Justin Park Justin Park aka.. J.R. Park is one of the friendliest people I have ever met. He always has a smile and is willing to help anyone that he can.

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