looking beyond

James, a foster child from china has a lucid dream about when he ran away from his parents.

James is not faced with painful memories all that much. There’s not a lot of things he regrets doing in life, so dreams don’t often plague him in the night. Most of the time sleep is dark and peaceful and he falls asleep content and wakes up happy. But there are a few things that can make him have nightmares. Certainly not a lot of memories are like that, but the very few can hurt him. This one in particular seems to haunt him sometimes when he’s not in the best state of mind.

It’s the night of James' eighteenth birthday, one of his most traumatic memories. He remembers that night like the back of his hand, and he knows everything that happened like his left hand, even if he wouldn’t dare tell a soul. He can tell it’s a dream because he isn’t in his own body, but he can see himself laying in bed, waiting for some time to pass, waiting for the right time for everything. The clock strikes midnight and it resonates throughout the house, and James watches dream James stir and get up. As he gets up from the bed he is sleeping in, he looks around the familiar bedroom layout memories come flashing back. He’s in another dream.

Down the hall, James hears yelling, shouting, and aggression. He watches as his silhouette dumps all of his schoolwork out, onto the floor, and starts taking several clothes out of his drawers. The yelling becomes like a background noise, and James fills his bag with clothes and gets out another bag  �" this time a duffel sports bag �" and fills it with other things he might need. He picks up his phone, and sends a few texts. They are messages of goodbye, but considering there’s not a lot of people he wants to send them too, paired with the fact that it’s midnight he doubts anyone will even answer fast enough for him to read or care. He finishes typing out a few responses before tossing it back onto the bedspread. The backpack goes over his shoulder and his duffel in his hand, and from where James' non-dream self stands he watches as he takes one last look around the room. Real James knows that Dream James is leaving this place, and he’s never coming back. He knows how it ends.

Dream James walks over to where the two small windows on his wall are, and drops down his backpack and duffel bag. They are adorned with dark blue and gold cloth, something he had always found pretty, but hopefully after today he’d never see the likes of them again. The windows are closed shut, but James is pretty strong and he’s opened them before. This is a dream after all. With a few pushes upwards, he loosens them enough to get his slim body and bags through. He leans down and stuffs his duffel, and then his backpack through the hole and watches them drop down below with a soft and quiet plop. It feels good to hear it. 

Dream James looks around the area below his window and sees no one is around at this time of night. He would hope, since it would make his escape much harder if someone saw him. He slides his body out quickly, and leaves the window open because he can’t reach the opening. When he hits the ground, real James watches his pained expression and remembers how his feet had burned at the impact, reminding himself that he isn’t a cat. 

James walks around to the front of the house where he can see the living room lights on and hear faint shouting. It’s his foster parents. The two people who were supposed to love him, but severely failed at their job. Right now, they’re arguing about whether they should kick him out of the house and leave him on the streets or tell him he has to live with one of  his friends. Thankfully neither of those things will happen in the near future or at the end of the year. Dream James hopes, and real James knows this. Suddenly, the sound of feet hitting the pavement comes closer and closer, and Real James feels the reality crashing in on him. This is exactly what he doesn’t want to remember.

"James Lee!” The person runs up to him yells. It’s Donghai , his next door neighbor, who taught him Chinese when he didn’t know how to speak the language because he didn’t grow up speaking it and wasn’t allowed to take lessons. Donghai, who let him crash at his house when his abusive foster parents were being too much. Donghai, who was his first kiss, Donghai who he still loves, Donghai who helped him through everything and practically his life saver. 

Donghai stops a few paces away from him, tears running down his face. Dream James' eyes prickle, and he grits his teeth while Real James falls to the ground in anguish.

“No, Donghai, No, go back, No!” He screams, but it’s a dream, they can’t see him, they can’t hear him, they don’t even know he’s here. It f*****g hurts him on the inside. Sobs are making his way through real James' body, and he doesn’t know why he’s so emotional. But he does. Donghai was everything, and he hates that he has to relive this dream so much. But it’s fruitless. This will always come back to haunt him. He knows it.

"James Lee!” Donghai screams from a few feet away, falling to his feet in the middle of the suburban street. “I thought-I thought-I thought you were going to kill yourself.”Dream Donghai stutters with a sniffle, sounding hysterical as his anxiety creeps in. Real James wants to comfort him, and he runs directly through him, because this is a dream and not in fact real.

“Donghai, I told you. I-I have to leave. I’m eighteen. I can do what I desire.” Dream James says, with a firmness that Real James could never come up with nowadays, crying within his own dreams. “I can leave."

“B-but, this is worse!” Donghai says with a raised voice before mumbling. “This is worse.” He tries to slightly back away, as if to get away, but Donghai looks up with scared eyes. "Please, I have to leave this place.”

James looks around, hoping no one can hear them and he can still have a safe and soundless departure, but it’s really just a fruitless situation, and immense dread sets into James as the door to the hell hole of a home he was deliberately trying to escape creaked open from across the street. Donghai's eyes widened, and the tears stopped falling. From where James was he could see the fear, dread, and guilt on his face. 

“Leave what place.” The man who James was supposed to call father yells, and it makes him want to cower in fear, but he knows he can’t do that now. There’s really know turning back at this point. “Leave what place boy!”

Dream James locks eyes with Donghai, and sees his falling figure. “I’m gonna find you, I know your number by heart already- I’ll find you!”

"James Lee!” Donghai screams at him in chinese, falling to the ground as he clutches himself and looks up at him, looking so helpless and destroyed. Real James crawls over to him, clawing at him and falling into his illusion, trying to get to him. He knows this has already happened, and that he’s already lived through this day but the other darker side of his brain makes him relive through it so much that he suffers like this. "James, No!"

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere!” The man yells, night gown fluttering in the slight night wind and showing unpleansent parts of him as he runs down the steps of his house, but he’s slow and Real James knows that Dream James has the upper hand. He will get away. “Get back here you b*****d nobody!”

James gives one last look at Donghai, swiping at the tears running down his face before he sets off down the street as fast as he possibly could. He feels himself yell out a sorry, but there is so much going on that James' sound cuts out and he watches in horror as Dream James runs away from where he sits on the ground with Donghai. Dream James' teeth grit together as he runs down the pathway and Real James watches him go, wishing there was some way he could have made sure Donghai was okay. 

James wishes there could have been some way he saved Donghai himself, despite knowing he has to get out of here or he’ll never be able to leave this place. It’s too late to turn back now, they both know this and when Donghai is in the right head space he’ll understand. Real James watches as the man runs after him �" tripping over his own feet �" but James is faster. Real James watches as his dream version sprints down the road, and watches as everything fades black.

--

James sits up in bed with a start, looking around the room with eyes as wide as saucers as fear courses through his body. He’s still high off of the adrenaline of so many emotions from his startling clear dream, and when James brings a hand up to his face he finds it wet with tears. He’s about to get up and go to one of his roommates for comfort when he registers someone’s hands curling around his side and laying with him in bed. It’s Christopher Thomas, blonde hair messy and eyes dreary as he looks up at him questioning. He's tall at 6'1 but has had a bit of a soft spot for him ever since they moved in together in their college dorm. James had hoped he wasn’t loud with crying or talking in his sleep, but with the way he looks he probably shouldn’t get his hopes up. 

James glances at the clock in the corner which reads 4.30 in the morning. James feels himself sag into his arms, tears silently spilling out of him as he softly whimpers against his chest. Chris holds him, rocking him back and forth slightly as he cries. Holds him till he’s ready to talk, like he’s got all the time in the world. It only makes him more emotional. Eventually, the tears stop coming and James feels like he’s regained control again, forcing his tears to stop. Chris's hand comes up to his face with a tissue from his bedside from when he was sick, and James takes it, wiping his nose and eyes (not in that order.) Before looking Chris in the eyes as a sign that he’s done crying for the most part and sits up in bed. 

“It was about that night. The night I left home.” James admits, and Chris;s quick to press a kiss to his head and pull him into a hug again.

He hums. “You were pretty brave, not everyone can leave the only thing they’ve ever known like that."

“I just-I left him.” James feels tears welling up in his eyes at the thought of him. At the thought of Donghai. “I left him back there."

“You had to baby, you had to get away from them. I saw what they did to you, I've seen your scars more than enough times.” Chris tries to comfort him, and while James wants to disregard what they did to him, he knows it’s a futile situation. He knows what they did to him is a far worse situation than leaving Donghai back there. Donghai had his own loving parents and family, and they wouldn’t have let his foster parents do anything. Foster parents. The word that might give other people joy made him want to retch. 

James had been a boy born in a small town in China before his parents had given him up for adoption, adopted by a young couple from America who later took him back to live in the states. James lived a peaceful suburban life, till they started becoming harsh with their words, just like some of his past bullies. It was slow, but soon their true colors showed to a teenage James. It hurt, because these were the people who were supposed to care for him. Even so, the only people who were supposed to have no soulmate were ones who had met their soulmate but haven't kissed them to seal the deal. But, being born without one, it seemed a medical anomaly �" physically impossible �" but James knew it was possible because of his blank wrist. He had no timer counting down till his fateful day, only his pale skin to mockingly stare back at him.

He never knew the real reason why his real parents gave him up, because while the agency just tried to tell him they weren’t expecting him and just couldn’t care for him �" according to his foster parents it was because he was born without a soulmate, born without a timer on his wrist. But to give up on a child because of something they couldn’t control, to have two sets of people do that to him, it certainly left scars on his mental health. He tried going on with life at first, ignoring the words and abuse, but as you can tell at one point it boiled over so much James had to get out. Out of the house and to a better life.

He never knew the real reason why they gave him up, because while the agency just tried to tell him they weren’t expecting him and just couldn’t care for him �" according to his foster parents it was because he was born without a soulmate, born without a timer on his wrist. He closes his eyes and tries to calm down, trying to push out the thoughts of how other people are looking down on him for something he couldn’t control. It almost felt childish, caring about someone’s opinion so deeply and feeling like s**t because of someone he isn’t associated with. But the feeling still stays. “I’m sorry for waking you."

“Don’t be sorry.” Chris holds his hand, squeezing tightly before James scoots back down onto his pillow and under blankets, facing the opposite direction. “Are you gonna go back to sleep or do you want me to do anything?”

“Back to sleep.” James sighs, scooting down with Chris's arms around him. “Don’t go though, stay with me. I-i’m on edge, I need to calm down."

He hears a soft sigh of comfort as Chris rests his head against James' back as he pulls him closer to provide him more comfort. James curls up his hands to his chest like he’s holding something, trying to relax in the rams of the older male. His thoughts were still messy and unorganized, but it was early in the morning and James needed to calm down. “Take a deep breath for me, we wanna calm you down baby. Start thinking about the warmth of me on your back, the softness of your mattress, and the way your head molds into your pillow. What do you feel, what’s around you? Think about that, and what other things you feel."

James lets his words fall over him like a warm hot chocolate at the perfect temperature, and focuses on all of the feelings around him like he said. It’s all too easy to calm down with the silky smooth voice of Chris, and James feels less afraid with the knowledge that Chris is here, that Chris will be there for him, that Chris will protect him. Maybe not from the demons that wallow in his head, but from everything else. James feels his heart stops beating so fast, and He starts to focus on the feelings around him. Donghai slowly fades from sight, as does the rest of the world, and James falls asleep to the sounds of Chris's soft breathing on his neck.

Author's Note

ignore of it doesn't make sense it's apart of something bigger. and yes this is delving into the soulmate trope.

Reviews

[JayG]

• ignore of it doesn't make sense it's apart of something bigger.

Seriously? Do you think a reader will turn to page 2 if page one doesn't make sense? Readers are volunteers, not conscripts.

You forget that Fiction-Writing is a profession. And professional techniques and knowledge are acquired IN ADDITION to the skills we're given in school. Did any of your teachers, in any class, in all of your school years, spend even a minute on how to use tags to best effect? No. Did any of them explain the three issues we must address on entering any scene. Again no. Nor did they explain what a scene on the page is. And if you don't know that, how in the hell can you write one?

In this piece you're transcribing yourself telling the story to an audience. But verbal storytelling is a performance art. Because you have no actors or props, how you tell the story matters as much as what you say. But the reader can neither see not hear your performance. So for them, a dead voice talks TO them about things for which they have no context.

Bottom line. If you want to write fiction you need to learn how. There is no way around it and no shortcuts. In your schooldays, the reports and essays you were assigned made you pretty good at writing reports and essays, but they taught you NOTHING about the skills of writing fiction. And that's what you need to fix.

I know this isn't what you were hoping to hear, but it is what you need to know, because it's not a matter of talent, or how well you write. It's that you're missing the necessary skills that the pros take for granted.

For all your life you've been choosing fiction created by pros, with the tools of the profession. That no more taught you to write fiction than eating teaches us to cook. You can tell, in a paragraph, if a story was written by a pro. Of more importance, your reader will know if you've taken the time to learn the necessary skills.

So hit the books and add the necessary skills to those you now own. In fact, the best book on the basics I've found is free at the site I link to just below. Grab a copy, and read it, then read it again. It won't make a pro of you. That's your job. It will, though, give you the tools to do it with:
https://ru.b-ok2.org/book/2640776/e749ea

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

[beth]

what i mean to say was that the entire thing is about 18k but this is only a excerpt... i understand you're trying to give constructive criticism but this really doesn't help me. i know how to write and haven't been surrounding myself with fiction by pros because i've seen worse and know how to write. i know this isn't the worst thing you've read so take it with a grain of salt next time because if i came on here to publish a book i would have said so.

[JayG]

• i understand you're trying to give constructive criticism but this really doesn't help me.

Hmm...learning that you're using nonfiction techniques in an attempt to write fiction doesn't help?

Learning that you're using the skills of a visual and audible medium in one that reproduces neither sound nor picture is of no help?

Seriously?

You miss the point that while it makes perfect sense to you, because you know the story the characters, and your intent for how the words are to be taken BEFORE you begin reading, the reader has only punctuation to tell them HOW to read it, and what the words suggest to THEM for meaning.

Sure, when you read it, every word acts as a pointer to images, action, ideas, and more, all stored and waiting in your mind, what abut the the reader? For them, every word acts as a pointer to images, action, ideas, and more, all stored and waiting in YOUR mind. And you're not there to explain.

As someone who owned a manuscript critiquing service, and who has taught at workshops, I can tell you that were this a submission on an acquiring editor's desk, it would be rejected at the end of the first sentence.

Why? Because it doesn't move the plot, develop character, meaningfully, or set the scene, and every line must do one of those. If it doesn't, it serves only to slow the narrative and bore the reader.

And, a second rejection reason is that your first line tells the reader what Jim ISN'T faced with. He's also not bothered by cancer, by snails attacking him, by polio, and a few million other things. Who cares what he's not bothered by? Story is about what actually happens, and-his-reaction-to-it. Anything else is irrelevant.

Were they to read on, they'd reject it before the end of the first paragraph.

Why? Forgetting that it's presented in the form of a report, you open with 1500 words describing a dream. Opening with a dream is a guaranteed rejection. What reader cares what the dream of someone they know nothing about is? Are you burning to know what I dreamed of last night? Of course not. And that's exactly how interested the reader is in the dream of someone they have yet to meet.

Open your story, not history, lecture on what you think matters. You're neither in the story nor on the scene. So all you can to is talk ABOUT events. He has to live them as they come.

You're trying to tell the reader ABOUT a story. That's a guaranteed rejection, too. Nonfiction talks about events. Fiction makes the reader feel as if they're living them. As E. L. Doctorow put it do well, is: “to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” You're providing the weather report.

Fail to make the reader feel as if they're living the story and you're writing only for yourself.

• i know how to write

No, you don't. You know how to write nonfiction because that's what you were taught to do in school. The techniques of fiction weren't even mentioned as existing in your school days because it's a profession, and professions are learned in ADDITION to the general skills you were trained in.

And I say that as someone who has signed seven publishing contracts, who taught writing, and who had 28 novels available for sale today. I say it as someone who was paid to tell people why their manuscript was being rejected.

No one says you have to listen to a word I say. No one says you have to read any books, take any classes, or attend workshops or retreats...unless you want readers to ask for more.

Truly, if you're not willing to invest some time in learning HOW to write fiction you can't call yourself serious about writing.