Winter is a pain. John wakes up at six for his commute (walk) to work and the dark would only be fading to dawn by the time he was at his desk filing paperwork. He starts at 8, Going over spreadsheets. Calling debtors. Arranging payments. Signing documents. Meetings with “the brass”. ‘They can shove their goddamn progress reports up their asses,’ he thought, as he sat and stewed and picked up the phone and made calls. 10 hours pass – you can’t live in Douliu on an eight-hour shift. John was again thinking that moving to Taiwan had been a mistake.
When he left, the sun was already setting. He felt nocturnal, even if he spent the whole day awake. It didn’t help that it was always so foggy, which gave the world a dreamlike feeling. Like a painting. Little sidewalks with an expanse of empty road on the right, and each shopfront he passed had a sign hanging above the path like you’d see in medieval fantasy. All in Taiwanese or Mandarin – and he couldn’t read any of it. He’d moved in a hurry, and learning to read the language was secondary – his workplace used English, and he didn’t need to talk much. But that just made him feel more isolated. He’d be lucky to see someone else at all, let alone gossip.
Because John didn’t talk much, he didn’t know about the disappearance.
He ducks left into nightstand alley, as he usually does. He couldn’t read the actual name, but one of the characters looked a bit like a nightstand (白), so that’s what he calls it. He isn’t paying enough attention. The alleys were one of the few things that seemed the same no matter where you are, or so he thought. From above, the alley looked like a spine that ran down the backs of all the buildings; an uneven corridor for the shops to put their bins, with offshoots to the streets either side (some shops just put the bin there instead, nearly blocking the path in). The ground was uneven. Food wrappers and tissues and plastic pots and bottles were slovenly discarded, kicked up against the walls.
He was nearly halfway down the alley when he noticed a man walking slowly away from him. He was thin built, wearing a reed conical hat, and silhouetted by a light from in front of him – a phone, maybe. Then he looked again, and stopped walking. The man towered over the bulky shop bins – he must’ve been 9 feet tall at least. His legs and arms were thin and bony, and his half-rotten clothes were clinging tightly, like they were soaked. John turned left down the main corridor of the alley, deciding that the scenic route home was suddenly more appealing. He didn’t really want to meet a tall, wiry, damp fisherman, and the fog was probably making him paranoid. Paranoid, yes? or delirious from a lack of sleep. He’d maybe just misinterpreted a few things, and been incredibly rude. He felt he could forgive himself.
His shadow cast forward in front of him, a bright light from behind making it seem harsh and opaque. John turned to see a glow (it was the one he figured was a phone). It looked like a paper lantern being dangled from something high above. A fishing rod? The lantern… it was beautiful. It didn’t have any fancy design or inlays; it even had a few small holes ringed with black from where the fire had burned through. But it was beyond words. A masterpiece – and the way the candle fire danced inside, and how it melted into the fog, and the wind tickled it through the holes; it was impossible to ignore. It slowly moved across the end of the alley, gliding jerkily like it was walking with invisible feet, and as it moved out of sight John ran forward. He couldn’t lose it now! He reached the end of the alley, turned and saw up close this blissful lantern.
He fell in step behind it, transfixed. Every time they moved; he would feel the faint heat of the candle like a footprint it had left in the air. The rest of him was cold, the air biting his exposed hands, and every now and then a frigid wave would wash the back of his neck like breath. The small crackling of the candle was music that couldn’t be ignored. Not the shifting of damp clothes from behind him nor the echoes of two sets of footsteps could distract or detract from it. His eyes were getting sore, and the light was brighter than any regular candle. It was a beacon in the night, enchanted and ethereal. He hadn’t blinked since he saw it. But he had to eventually.
He blinked.
John had felt, though he hadn’t realised it, like he was underwater. And for the shortest moment, he broke the surface. Cold back. Heavy breathing. There was someone behind him. He saw the lantern again. And followed – how could he not. No job, or home, or bed, nor anything was more important or more worth his time than this. His vision was getting a little blurry. Sensations began to leak in. his back wasn’t cold anymore – it was burning. A faint tingle like pain that’s mostly numbed. Dripping. There was a faint sensation like… peeling? It didn’t matter. He blinked again; his breathing stopped in surprise. Pain. Someone was pulling the skin off his back. He saw the lantern. Why was he worried when the lantern was here? Was he worried because of the lantern? Or about the lantern? Definitely about the lantern; what if it began to rain, and the water ruined its fickle paper shell, or quenched the candle inside? Where would he be were it not for this ray of hope that had entered his life.
He had been following the lantern for a few hours; he hadn’t noticed the sidewalk under his feet change to dirt and grass, he hadn’t noticed how faint he was feeling. He was happily passive like a cow at a ranch. His sight got blurrier and he walked on and his sight got blurrier. The light was so bright it made them go funny, and eventually his eyes failed altogether. A lot of things happened in that moment. First, his legs gave out, and he began to collapse. The volumes of pain from his back hit his brain all at once, and he tried to scream. He felt anaemic, and sick, and soaked in something. Pain. He landed down in the mud, so when the scream reached his mouth it was muffled. Pain. It sounded like someone was stepping over him. He tried to get up. His legs wouldn’t move. His mind could barely process anything that wasn’t pain. His back – what was wrong with his back? He turned his head to the side, opened his eyes but he couldn’t see anything. Why couldn’t he see anything? His mind, his eyes, what was he soaked in? The taste of dirt and copper. Tears down his face.
And here's my notes and earlier drafts.
Culture Clash
That lantern, the heavenly glow that had appeared before her, was slowly drifting away. She had to follow it. No, there was nowhere else in the world to be, then in the hue of this light. Every time it slipped a little forward, she would take a step and have her face lean inches from its paper cover, her eyes glazed over like a moth. Then it would move again, and again would she. It was overwhelmingly calming and captivating and… inescapable.
Winter was a pain. John would wake up at 6AM for his commute (walk) in the darkness and the night would only be fading to dawn by the time he’d be at his desk filing paperwork. Starts at 8. Pour over spreadsheets. Call debtors. Arrange payments. Sign documents. Meetings with “the brass”. ‘They can shove their goddamn progress reports up their asses,’ He’d think, and sit and stew and pick up the phone and make calls. 10 hours pass – you can’t live in Douliu on an eight-hour shift. John was again thinking that moving to Taiwan had been a mistake.
When he left, the sun had already set. He felt nocturnal, even if he spent the whole day awake. It didn’t help that it was always so foggy, which gave the world a dreamlike feeling to him. Like a painting. Little sidewalks with an expanse of empty road on the right, and each shopfront he passed had a sign hanging above the path like you’d see in medieval fantasy. All in Taiwanese or Mandarin – and John thought maybe he could read some of it. He’d moved in a hurry, and learning to read the language was secondary – his workplace used English, and he didn’t need to talk much. But that just made him feel more isolated. Each day he’d commute home passed the shops all closed for the night, cut through a few alleys and reach his house; he’d be lucky to see someone else at all, let alone gossip.
Because John wasn’t able to talk with the locals, he didn’t know about the disappearance.
John ducked left into an alley, as he usually does. He wasn’t paying too much attention, so he was nearly halfway down the alley when he noticed a man walking down away from him. He was thin built, wearing a reed conical hat, and silhouetted by a light from in front of him. He thought it was a phone, and that the man should turn his brightness down. Then he looked again, and stopped walking. The man was near to 9 feet tall, his legs and arms were thin and bony, and his half-rotten clothes were clinging tightly, like they were soaked. John ducked left into an adjoining alley, deciding that the scenic route home was suddenly more appealing. He wasn’t too eager to meet a tall, wiry, damp fisherman, and the fog was making him paranoid. Paranoid, yes, or delirious from a lack of sleep. He’d probably just misinterpreted a few things, and been rude to a local in the process. He felt he could forgive himself.
His shadow cast forward in front of him, light skating past his sides to drift up the walls of the alley in front. John turned to see that glow he figured was a phone. It looked like a paper lantern being dangled from something high above. The lantern… it was beautiful. It didn’t have any fancy design or inlays; it even had a few small holes ringed with black from where the fire had burned through. But it was beyond words. A masterpiece – and the way the candle fire danced inside, and how it melted into the fog, and the wind tickled it through the holes; it was impossible to ignore. It slowly glided across the end of the alley, and as it moved out of sight John ran forward. He couldn’t lose it now! He had only just laid eyes on it. And his eyes never left it, as he reached the end of the alley, turned right and saw up close this blissful lantern.
He fell in step behind it, transfixed. Every time they moved; he would feel the faint heat of the candle like a footprint it had left in the air. The rest of him was cold, the air biting his exposed hands, and every now and then a cold wave would wash the back of his neck like breath. The small crackling of the candle was music that couldn’t be ignored. Not the shifting of damp clothes nor the echoes of footsteps could distract or detract from it. His eyes were getting sore, and the light was brighter than any regular candle. It was a beacon in the night, enchanted and ethereal. He hadn’t blinked since he saw it. But he had to eventually.
He blinked.
John had felt, though he hadn’t realised it, like he was underwater. And for the shortest moment, he broke the surface. Cold back. Heavy breathing. He saw the lantern again. And followed – how could he not. No job, or home, or bed, nor anything was more important or more worth his time than this. His vision was getting a little blurry. Sensations began to leak in. his back wasn’t cold anymore – it was burning. Dripping. There was a faint sensation like… peeling? It didn’t matter. He blinked again; his breathing stopped in surprise. Pain. He saw the lantern. Why was he worried when the lantern was here? Was he worried because of the lantern? Or about the lantern? Definitely about the lantern; what if it began to rain, and the water ruined its fickle paper shell, or quenched the candle inside? Where would he be were it not for this ray of hope that had entered his life. Heaven had descended.
John’s moments of lucidity were furtive, and even if his eyes were blurry, he could not escape the influence, the captivation. He had been following the lantern for a few hours; he hadn’t noticed the sidewalk under his feet change to dirt and grass, he hadn’t noticed how faint he was feeling. He was happily passive like a cow at a ranch. His eyes got blurrier and he walked on and his eyes got blurrier. The light was so bright it made them go funny, and at the final moment of his ecstasy, his eyes failed altogether. A lot of things happened in that moment. First, his legs gave out, and he began to collapse. The volumes of pain from his back hit his brain all at once, and he tried to scream. He felt anaemic, and sick, and soaked in something. Pain. He landed down in the mud, so when the scream reached his mouth it was muffled. Pain. He tried to get up. His legs wouldn’t move. His mind couldn’t process anything except pain. His back – what was wrong with his back? He turned his head to the side, opened his eyes but he couldn’t see anything. Why couldn’t he see anything? His back, his eyes, what was he soaked in? The taste of dirt and copper. Tears down his face.
The man should be led out into the country. They find a place with dolls hanging from the trees, as well as the woman what got kidnapped. He’ll get hung up as well, and once the lantern leaves his sight, he’ll be able to comprehend his situation.
Nah, he’ll eventually go blind due to how little he blinks and how bright the light is.
Feedback on Culture Clash –
The late-night encounter was quite fitting to the genre – its good to follow conventions sometimes.
Intriguing
Tenses – please, I need to keep on my tenses. I should experiment by converting to present tense.
Words such as ‘shadow’ or ‘fog’ are good because they’re highlighted by the sentences.
The idea of the MC being a foreigner is solid.
Colette thinks the rest of the story is better than the opening.
It wasn’t entirely clear that the man was carrying the lantern.
The alleyways were difficult to visualise. It’s a great setting, so adding some more description or physicality to it.
The fact that they can’t understand
Keith liked the first paragraph and how it contrasts with the second paragraph. It’s very clearly a clash of the eastern and western between these first two paragraphs.
I don’t need to convey the genre in the first paragraph.
Colette thinks I should remove the first paragraph.
It would benefit me to be goddamn clear about what’s happening in the story. No reading between the lines, let me be open with my ideas!!!!
Culture Clash
Winter is a pain. John wakes up at six for his commute (walk) to work and the dark would only be fading to dawn by the time he was at his desk filing paperwork. He starts at 8, Going over spreadsheets. Calling debtors. Arranging payments. Signing documents. Meetings with “the brass”. ‘They can shove their goddamn progress reports up their asses,’ he thought, as he sat and stewed and picked up the phone and made calls. 10 hours pass – you can’t live in Douliu on an eight-hour shift. John was again thinking that moving to Taiwan had been a mistake.
When he left, the sun was already setting. He felt nocturnal, even if he spent the whole day awake. It didn’t help that it was always so foggy, which gave the world a dreamlike feeling. Like a painting. Little sidewalks with an expanse of empty road on the right, and each shopfront he passed had a sign hanging above the path like you’d see in medieval fantasy. All in Taiwanese or Mandarin – and he couldn’t read any of it. He’d moved in a hurry, and learning to read the language was secondary – his workplace used English, and he didn’t need to talk much. But that just made him feel more isolated. He’d be lucky to see someone else at all, let alone gossip.
Because John didn’t talk much, he didn’t know about the disappearance.
He ducks left into nightstand alley, as he usually does. He couldn’t read the actual name, but one of the characters looked a bit like a nightstand (白), so that’s what he calls it. He isn’t paying enough attention. The alleys were one of the few things that seemed the same no matter where you are, or so he thought. From above, the alley looked like a spine that ran down the backs of all the buildings; an uneven corridor for the shops to put their bins, with offshoots to the streets either side (some shops just put the bin there instead, nearly blocking the path in). The ground was uneven. Food wrappers and tissues and plastic pots and bottles were slovenly discarded and kicked up against the walls.
He was nearly halfway down the alley when he noticed a man walking slowly away from him. He was thin built, wearing a reed conical hat, and silhouetted by a light from in front of him – a phone, maybe. Then he looked again, and stopped walking. The man towered over the bulky shop bins – he must’ve been 9 feet tall at least. His legs and arms were thin and bony, and his half-rotten clothes were clinging tightly, like they were soaked. John turned left down the main corridor of the alley, deciding that the scenic route home was suddenly more appealing. He didn’t really want to meet a tall, wiry, damp fisherman, and the fog was probably making him paranoid. Paranoid, yes, or delirious from a lack of sleep. He’d maybe just misinterpreted a few things, and been incredibly rude. He felt he could forgive himself.
His shadow cast forward in front of him, a bright light from behind making it seem harsh and opaque. John turned to see a glow (it was the one he figured was a phone). It looked like a paper lantern being dangled from something high above. A fishing rod? The lantern… it was beautiful. It didn’t have any fancy design or inlays; it even had a few small holes ringed with black from where the fire had burned through. But it was beyond words. A masterpiece – and the way the candle fire danced inside, and how it melted into the fog, and the wind tickled it through the holes; it was impossible to ignore. It slowly moved across the end of the alley, gliding jerkily like it was walking with invisible feet, and as it moved out of sight John ran forward. He couldn’t lose it now! He reached the end of the alley, turned and saw up close this blissful lantern.
He fell in step behind it, transfixed. Every time they moved; he would feel the faint heat of the candle like a footprint it had left in the air. The rest of him was cold, the air biting his exposed hands, and every now and then a cold wave would wash the back of his neck like breath. The small crackling of the candle was music that couldn’t be ignored. Not the shifting of damp clothes from behind him nor the echoes of two sets of footsteps could distract or detract from it. His eyes were getting sore, and the light was brighter than any regular candle. It was a beacon in the night, enchanted and ethereal. He hadn’t blinked since he saw it. But he had to eventually.
He blinked.
John had felt, though he hadn’t realised it, like he was underwater. And for the shortest moment, he broke the surface. Cold back. Heavy breathing. There was someone behind him. He saw the lantern again. And followed – how could he not. No job, or home, or bed, nor anything was more important or more worth his time than this. His vision was getting a little blurry. Sensations began to leak in. his back wasn’t cold anymore – it was burning. A faint tingle like pain that’s mostly numbed. Dripping. There was a faint sensation like… peeling? It didn’t matter. He blinked again; his breathing stopped in surprise. Pain. Someone was pulling the skin off his back. He saw the lantern. Why was he worried when the lantern was here? Was he worried because of the lantern? Or about the lantern? Definitely about the lantern; what if it began to rain, and the water ruined its fickle paper shell, or quenched the candle inside? Where would he be were it not for this ray of hope that had entered his life.
He had been following the lantern for a few hours; he hadn’t noticed the sidewalk under his feet change to dirt and grass, he hadn’t noticed how faint he was feeling. He was happily passive like a cow at a ranch. His eyes got blurrier and he walked on and his eyes got blurrier. The light was so bright it made them go funny, and eventually his eyes failed altogether. A lot of things happened in that moment. First, his legs gave out, and he began to collapse. The volumes of pain from his back hit his brain all at once, and he tried to scream. He felt anaemic, and sick, and soaked in something. Pain. He landed down in the mud, so when the scream reached his mouth it was muffled. Pain. It sounded like someone was stepping over him. He tried to get up. His legs wouldn’t move. His mind couldn’t process anything except pain. His back – what was wrong with his back? He turned his head to the side, opened his eyes but he couldn’t see anything. Why couldn’t he see anything? His back, his eyes, what was he soaked in? The taste of dirt and copper. Tears down his face.
Notes on second draft –
Rebeca liked the use of the nightstand looking kanji
They’re only kanji if they’re Chinese characters used in Japanese – so they aren’t actually kanji in Japanese. So I removed the mentions of Kanji
The use of the final ‘and’ in the sentence beginning ‘food wrappers and…’ is a bit weird because its not part of the list, or so I’ve been told. But I’m not convinced.
Replaced ‘paranoid, yes, or delirious…’ to ‘Paranoid, yes? Or delirious…’
Merika got killed by a construction steam roller.
The ghost is touching him. But that is a very western understanding of ghost. Or am I wrong.
Eyes don’t get blurry, sight does. So I changed it to sight.
‘His sight got blurrier and he walked on and his sight got blurrier’ – Rebeca thinks that the two instances of blurrier should be moved together to give an effect like an echo. Merika argues that this wording shows more of a progression. Like they got blurry and he kept moving and they got even blurrier.
The word ‘back’ was repeated too much in the last paragraph.
The title ‘culture clash’ is a bit weird. Where is the clash. What does it mean that they’re clashing? Maybe something like ‘Cultural Isolation’. Maybe call it nightstand because of how the not-kanji is prominent apparently.
Merika liked it. Rebeca also liked it. She liked the bit with the character. Merika enjoyed how the reader gets lost with the character with the lantern.
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