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A song is God’s voice, a painting His face, a dance His movement. Just as a drop of water adds a portion, a stroke, to the composition of a river, a lake, a sea, so these things reflect upon the nature of our Father, so these things are part and parcel of His glory, His power, His Beauty.
Art is divine.
……………………..
My name is Joshua Stanton. I am a young man twenty-five years old. I call the Cowichan Valley, on Vancouver Island, my home. And what a beautiful home it is………
The opening lines feel like meaningless ‘feats of prose,’ if that makes sense. If Joshua is really the speaker of these words, his voice is not genuine/sappy or he’s high on something. While the language may seem beautiful, this section does little more than spin the wheels and give us the speaker’s name and where he lives. The sentence formation is affected and awkward, as though Joshua were a gentleman from 19th century london.
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Alana was a young woman pure and passionate. Hair tinted lusty red; eyes colored rich brown; body buxom; nails delicately sharp; but for her very human fragility I’d have called her a goddess and meant it most literally. To say her name now puts on me a lightness and a weight, a regret and satisfaction, a loss and a joy. I miss her but I miss also those who came after. The sweet time we shared was just that – a time, a unit bounded, not forever, a thing fated to be born and destined to die. And it did. Gone but for these few paltry droplets I lick now from the bottom of memory’s deep well. I loved her. I loved them all but each was special and thus was she. Those eyes, that hair, like a bonfire on the bank of a river of liquid chocolate. Saccharine memory!
This section starts off great, with a description of something that might actually have bearing on some semblance of a story. But it quickly devolves into the preoccupation of the narrative; trying to sound beautiful and coming off as completely heavy handed. Beauty is more organic than that in this reader’s opinion. The affected speech is still there and is immensely offputting. And the overruse of metaphor as well.
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Corrine’s black hair was a flag raised to alert my passion and desire, my masculine inner fire. A babe. A lass. Wow. Just recalling her, thinking of her, dreaming of her now as I write this brings bad vividly that startlingly dark-braided mass of subtle beauty. I love all women’s hair but hers was special, more special than most. When I asked her to let it down it was a curtain opening unto a tenebrous vision both resplendent and terrifying. Her hair terrified me for it had such power. She let it down and I was owned. Utterly owned. Still am. Owned by all of them but by her a great deal. Corrine the jazzy babe.
The device of devoting a section to each of the narrator’s women is actually really interesting and seems fruitful. The voice especially seems disingenuous when reading such lines as ‘A babe. A lass. Wow.’ But even still, there is nothing going on in these sections so far but fancy footwork and you being unkind to your readers in that regard. All flash, no substance.
Quote:
Fred sat on the bench outside the Greyhound station.
He rolled a cigarette meditatively with his dark-stained carpenter’s hands. His eyes were full of calm intensity. Lividly low, subtly strong, his thin frame a mellow wire seated in the dim evening light.
Brent was a bright-faced young man conservative in speech, outlook and dress. Sure of himself, peninsular, of the herd but at its head. Pious, happy, set smooth and strong upon his path. He did not smoke. A Baptist. Judged, but like a good Christian kept his judgments to himself. He was righteous in the realistic sense of the word. The true sense. He looked at me like I was some dangerous novelty, a big wave threatening to send his way a little salty spray.
The bus was empty but for us three. A cavern black except for the lights, the lamps and neons and moonbeams, the yellows and reds and jades and whites all flickering and flashing organic electric.
We talked. On the bus, at the ferry station, on the boat, afterwards back on the bus, all the way to my destination – the glorious and grisly down-town of Vancouver. Sitting on the blue ferry seats, not like the strangers we were but instead like best friends. Myself dipping plain whole wheat bread into a jar of peanut butter, Fred eating his grandmother’s homemade rooster stew, and Brent chowing down on a chicken burger and fries from the onboard White Spot. His burger looked so good I went and got one for myself once the jar of peanut butter had been reduced to the point where each dip I made resulted with my fingers surfacing mucky with the brown stuff.
This section is much, much better. Finally, the narrator’s style seems in line. Finally something is actually happening that feels like it either meant something or could mean something to the narrator, or the order of events in the story. This reader would encourage you to keep doing your thing here, maybe flesh more of this part out. Right now it reads like a very brief travel record, which might have been what you were aiming for. But you could do a lot with this section if you wanted to.
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Corrine and me walking down 9th street during rush hour. A pink lily lying lonely on the wet grey concrete. It was out of place amidst the general minutiae of ground litter, the butts and wrappers and the rest. I picked it up, got down on one knee and offered it to her. She blushed. “What are you doing?” She said angrily, embarrassed a great deal by the scene I had just stuck her in. A young man on one knee on the town’s main street offering a pink flower to a beautiful young woman. I thought nothing was wrong with it. I see now how crazy it was. But, you know what? I’d do it again. The exact same way.
Afterwards we stuck that lily in a hedge and took a picture. I still have it. I look at it from time to time and remember Corrine. Corrine who I love and miss.
And now we revisit the woman Corrine. Some really great parts of the section, but the busybody narrative intrusion is there like a stinky fart ruining things. Trim him out, in this reader’s opinion. Trim out the heavy handedness. This scene isn’t as powerful as it seems that it wants to be because we, the reader, don’t necessarily understand a lot about either character or the relationship they’re in. Either part is interchangeable because we’re not emotionally invested.
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Alana again. I can’t stop the freight-train that is my memory of her from smashing apart the veil of indifference I’ve feebly crafted and drawn up to protect myself from the black hole of hurt that our relationship became. The mere memory of it plays with my tear ducts and shivers my bones. The good times and the bad. Making love to Alana was exhilarating as free-fall and gentle as putting on wool gloves. Our two bodies melted into one during the act, like rivulets of flesh pairing, pooling, sweetly commingling. Eyes captivated, held in place by something stronger than concrete. Her milky freckly body was all mine and I played upon it as a child plays upon a green field. Baseball. Bubble-gum kisses; fingers clasped, deep-fried in sweat; and burgers, two round beefy patties juicy and big as wet inflated inner tubes. Salt. Fat. Sex. Sex. Sex. Human smells invigoratingly fresh and potent. Bathing together in molten gold. Heat and hot heat and hotter heat and hottest heat. Concentrated in crying chaos. Mmmmm. Mmmm. Pressure, such pressure on the cork. Fizzz like a team of horses behind a gate. Waiting. Holding back. Struggling. Grrrrrrr. Mmmmm. Oh. From a whale’s blowhole rockets up into the open air a siren singing an aria for the listening pleasure of all across the world, pole to pole, end to end. I die. I collapse. Lungs, limbs, hands, all. She becomes my coffin. On her and in her I lie, like a hard diamond in its soft case. I belong. Nowhere else. Nowhere. Only here. Only her. Alana.
‘I can’t stop the freight-train that is my memory of her from smashing apart the veil of indifference I’ve feebly crafted and drawn up to protect myself from the black hole of hurt that our relationship became.’ This sentence is a perfect example of this piece’s main problem; it is entirely overwritten. It’s not fair for you to expect a reader to stumble through such verbosity and awkward constructions and suffocating sentimentality. This section is a lowpoint.
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Alana could cook. I mean she could really cook. Almost as good as my grandmother and that is saying a lot. The lasagna she made put any lasagna I’d ever had to shame. The spices she used. Secret recipe. Man oh man how I miss the lasagna she made.
She wasn’t a cook, she was an alchemist. A magician. You can tell how much I loved her. I did not love her for her cooking. I loved her cooking because it was fantastic. I loved her cooking because I loved her.
This section fits nicely into the overally tapestry effect going on in the piece because it reads like a journal entry.
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Drinking straight Weiser’s Deluxe by firelight on the beach. Arm wrapped around Ashley, a girl visiting from Vancouver. My buddy Andy set us up. She was staying with her family in a cabin barely a stone’s throw from this spot, this sizzling spot all dripping with whiskey and simmering with hotly expected sex. “Drink, drink” she orders, reaching with her small white hand to tilt the bottle into my salivating open mouth. Arm, strong arm, weightlifting arm around her. “You lift weights” she purrs. “Oh so you noticed” I reply cockily. “Mmmm. Yeah.” Her eyes encase me. My jeans become tight, uncomfortable. I want her. Every part of me spun by the magnetic pull of her sexy young body. Lust. I drink more. I’m awkward, shy. Allured and afraid, running at full stop with the finish line a step in front of me. We both take a pinch of skoll and I boldly rest my hand on her thigh. I want to take her then and there, by the firelight, on the beach, parents only a stone’s throw away asleep. Or perhaps not asleep. Instead I wake up the next morning, pants still on, beside the fire. My arms is discomfited. I pull off it a blob of what seems like gum but is actually my skin. I blacked out next to the fire and at some point was actually in it. I am burnt. She is gone. I call out her name. “Ashley! Ashley!” I am still drunk. I pass out again. I awaken a time later and wander over to her cabin. It looks deserted though I know they’re inside. I say to hell with it and walk home. Go to the walk in clinic later on, get bandaged up. For a week I am known at school by the noble epithet “burn-victim.”
By far the best section yet. You’ve done a lot good in this passage.
Darcy, this reader had to stop here. This is awfully much. This piece doesn’t show a lot of regard for readership and is very self-indulgent. It’s almost like dressed up versions of a personal diary. It’s fine to keep a diary, but not so good to expect other people to read it and enjoy it. It’s a two way street. Parts of the piece are wildly inconsistent, and this reader doesn’t know what to think. Actually, this reader thinks this; you have an enormous and shining talent that shows itself inspite of everything. This reader bets you have it in you to write some amazing stories or perhaps something much larger, but this piece shows the problems that are getting in the way of that. It’s not a question of skill or lack of skill, it’s a question of posture and how you regard the process. If it’s more ‘here you go readers, deal with my pretty writing’ rather than ‘let’s get through a story together,’ there’s gonna be a problem. Hopefully you don’t take this critique too personally or find it overly cruel, this reader likes sharing the forums with you here and seeing what you’re up to.
J
