foreignlump

To folks at Writingforums.com: I am planning to submit this to a short story contest for which the word limit is 1,200. It's at 1,199 right now. Any feedback, even just a sentence, would be of great help.
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Darryl doesn’t know exactly how long he’s been on Route 360, but he thinks he’s seen about five sunsets pass by his window. The foam bus seat has contoured to fit the curvature of his spine and bottom.

What happened about ten sunsets ago: Darryl broke out of prison and sprinted away from the concrete grounds, blistering his feet over two miles of hard barren soil, until he reached a bus stop. It stood alone and erect before the lavender skyline like an L-shaped monument, a dual composition of bench and sign, proclaiming the route number in bold Helvetica: “360.”

Panting and red-cheeked, Darryl checked the other side of the sign for a schedule. It simply reiterated “360.” A schedule wouldn’t have helped him much anyway; he didn’t have a watch.

Night had long since cloaked the scene when Darryl heard the distant hum of the bus’ engine. Then, out of the voided heart of a far-off shadow, rolled the long rectangular capsule of its body, all the way up the road to the singular structure at which Darryl waited. He dipped into his sock for some dollar bills.

“Destination?” the driver asked.

“San Jose,” Darryl said. “What’s the fare?”

“Dollar fifty. You’ll have to transfer to the Sixteen at Brooks and Springfield.”

Darryl handed the driver two dollars. “Keep the change.”

The seats were empty except for those in the very front, where a few passengers who didn’t seem to know each other congregated. Bolted to the wall just beside the double doors was the likely draw: a compact vending machine with “Coca-Cola” lettered in red and white along the vertical side. A matching logo adorned the bathroom door at the back of the bus, as if to glorify not only the drinking of Coke but the urinating of it as well. Darryl might have bought himself a can if his money were in a place less suspicious than his sock.

The trip should take no more than three hours, Darryl thought. He had known all the local routes eleven years ago, before his conviction. Route 360 was certainly new, and, although the empty field and flat unblemished road outside the prison were the same as he remembered them, he couldn’t recall ever seeing a bus stop there.

An automated male voice woke him up: “BROOKS AND SPRINGFIELD.” The light pouring through Darryl’s window was bright, too bright; he hadn’t expected to sleep until morning. But it wasn’t morning: the shadows of telephone poles and street signs stretched onto the sidewalk in the uniquely torpid manner of late afternoon.

“The Sixteen should be here any minute,” the driver told Darryl.

Exhaust fumes warmed Darryl’s legs in the bus’ wake. He surveyed the area for some indication of what city he was in. This bus stop looked just like the other one except that both “16” and “360” were painted on the sign. The surrounding region was half-office-district, half-construction-site -- all geometric and dull like a pile of gray Legos. A few people, mostly construction workers, drifted about the giant blocks and grids. Darryl wanted to ask someone where he was, but he was afraid they’d notice his prison uniform and report him. No, he decided, talking to anyone unless it’s absolutely necessary is a bad idea.

He sat at the stop for an hour or so, poised all the while with ten dollar bills to cover the fare and some food in case the 16 had one of those mobile vending machines. It should be here any minute, he thought; and he thought it again and again like a mantra. He folded and rolled the bills, twisted them and tested the strength of their fibers until they looked as if they’d been through a wash. A woman with a baby carriage stared in passing. It should be here any minute, he thought.

“You’ll have to transfer to the Twenty-one at Bellevue and Second,” the driver of the 16 told Darryl.

“Can I see a schedule?”

The driver laughed. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“Huh?” Three bags of chips and a Coke tumbled to the hand compartment at the bottom of the vending machine.

“Printing schedules for all the chumps who want them could cost thousands a year! Consider the price of paper, ink, graphic designers, boxes for storing the schedules. . . . As it is, we barely get enough funding to fill our bus’ gas tanks.”

“But you have your own copy of the schedule, don’t you?” Darryl stuffed his mouth with Doritos.

“It’s all in here.” The driver pointed to his head and flashed an affected grin.

“You’re kidding,” Darryl said.

“Of course not; can you imagine the premium we’d have to pay just to get schedules for the drivers? We all memorize it.”

“So can you tell me the rest of my route to San Jose, after the Twenty-one?”

“I’m sorry, you misunderstood. I only know the transfers to get from my bus; you’ll have to ask the driver of the Twenty-one what comes next.”

Bellevue and Second was boxy and dull, a fraternal twin of Brooks and Springfield. The two stops could have been on different sides of the same neighborhood -- but here, jets crossed the sky like enormous eels in a black sea. The airport must be nearby, Darryl thought.

“We’re just outside San Jose,” the driver of the Twenty-one told Darryl, “but this bus doesn’t go there. You’ll need to catch the subway.”

The subway station was like none Darryl had ever seen: it contained a single ticket machine that only printed tickets to San Jose, and there was no text anywhere except above the rail, on a digital marquee that read: “NEXT BUS - SAN JOSE.” Both sides of the tunnel appeared endless, like the black pits of two diabolical nostrils.

Darryl forgot that he was an escaped prisoner and made conversation with an old woman on his subway car.

“I’ve been trying to get to San Jose by bus for nearly two days. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

“Where’d you come from?”

“From –” Darryl halted, realizing that the old woman might connect the town’s name to his prison. “San Francisco.”

“That does sound like a long time.” She looked past him with bored, glassy eyes.

“LAST STOP,” boomed the loudspeaker. “TRANSFER HERE TO SAN JOSE.”

The train shot away from the platform, and the old woman left nearly as fast, bidding no goodbyes. Darryl felt a tremor in his brain, like that of a dreamer who bobs his head up from the dream and realizes he is asleep. The whole scenario became alien, senseless, uncanny: he must have gotten the wrong vehicle at some point, for there was no other reason the trip could take so long.

He eventually reached a station with a bus stop, where he spent his last two dollars to board the 360. Since then, he’s fed himself with the transit system’s exclusive vending machine credit card. Although drivers change, the 360 runs twenty-four seven. Sometimes Darryl considers exiting at the stop by his prison grounds, but the limbo of indecision, by reason of Newton’s first law, keeps him en route.

rumpole40k

I'm not a fan of the ending. There really isn't any sense of a conclusion. While I know what you're getting at with objects in motion ..., do you really think that's the best way to end it. Additionally, I really didn't feel any fear or nervousness from Darryl. He's supposed to be on the run yet, at times he almost seems bored.

Just my random thoughts,

Rumpole40k

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foreignlump

Rumpole: Thank you very much for reading and responding.

I appreciate your comment about the character's mood; it echoes another comment I received. When I wrote the story, I was going for the detached/absurd feel that seems to work for authors like Kafka and Borges—but if several other people agree that the piece needs more emotion, then I guess I'll change it.

Thanks for mentioning the ending, too. I don't think I'll change the content of the ending—nor do I feel the need for a conclusion—but I'm open to presenting the ending in a different way. I've been told it's too much like the conclusion to an essay (partly due to the word "eventually"), so I've already been thinking about changing it. If you have any suggestions about that, please send them forth!

surfacetoday

You possess talent with words... but you are telling too much and not showing enough. The story idea is good, but you should use Daryl's actions and words and thoughts to flush out the plot. Don't just relate by way of the God-narrator. It's important to remember how much is said by being left unsaid. Think Hemingway.
Also, I agree with rumpole, the ending left me a little cold. It's very abrupt, even if it's possible to see it coming, and shifts tenses from past to present, which feels awkward.
I like the story though, and would advise you to pursue it, but you must remember to keep your plot developments close to your chest; let them unfold themselves through the character's actions.

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writeforfun

Hi -- the basic idea has potential -- an escapee on the run -- but you didn't pull it off. Why? There's no tension at all. He doesn't seem to be pursued at all by anyone and takes only the most casual of precautions. Secondly, his motivation MUST have been great to escape prison, yet he loses this and ends up riding around on buses and trains aimlessly. Although you might be trying to make an esoteric point about Newton's laws, it just doesn't jibe with reality and leaves the reader cold -- the previous commenters were correct about the unsatisfying conclusion.
Also, a few other notes: Logical problem with this:

"...he was afraid they’d notice his prison uniform and report him." My goodness, he's running around in his prison stripes! (or orange?!)


how did they NOT notice already?

2) You tend to overwrite and although you're trying to be very descriptive, it ends up ringing false because it's simply not accurate. To write well, simply be truthful -- don't sell out to juicy, overwrought and false descriptions! e.g.:

..."but here, jets crossed the sky like enormous eels in a black sea." What? Jets never strike me in this way, and you require the reader to bend his mind to accept this falsehood.


"Both sides of the tunnel appeared endless, like the black pits of two diabolical nostrils."
This line could be OK, but you ruined it with "diabolical"



She looked past him with bored, glassy eyes.
The encounters your character has seem trivial and so the reader starts to feel like this old lady.


Darryl felt a tremor in his brain, like that of a dreamer who bobs his head up from the dream and realizes he is asleep
Again, I don't think many people would describe it this way...a tremor in your brain???

I hope you're not angry, because your story has potential if you discipline yourself with your writing, write truthfully and ramp up the intensity through action, not by overwriting.

I wish you well in your endeavors.