"We're all crumbling to the shore," the General said, "but I fear that I'm closest to the waves."
Below in the cobblestone plaza, illuminated by sagging strings of Christmas lights, clusters of norteamericano backpackers dashed for the cover of café umbrellas as a dark and heavy summer sky that had threatened for so many hours now made good on its warnings, fat stinging raindrops soaking any who remained beneath its roiling clouds.
"Very poetic," the reporter said. "Mind if I quote you?"
"I did learn something in Dr. Terry's class," the General said with a tired smile, slapping the reporter across the cheek with a soft open hand.
"So you're letting me quote you, then?" the reporter asked, knowing the slap was the only display of affection the General ever showed toward other men.
"Look, Harry, if I thought there was any chance your article would get published and it'd do me any good I'd gladly let you quote me. But I think there are better ways for my story to be told."
The reporter consulted his notes. “I never could make sense of poetry, anyway,” he said. "Crumbling to the shore—what does that mean? I could see how the shore might crumble if the waves were really big, like a tsunami or something, but how do you crumble to something? Doesn’t make sense. And are you crumbling to the shore from the sea or from the land? And if you’re crumbling to the shore, isn’t it good to be closest to the waves? Like, they’d --”
The General pulled out his pistol and shot Harry dead. He looked at his former friend, slumped over the table, his blood mingling with the falling rain. “Everyone’s a damn critic,” he sighed.
Opening: Anthony P. Steerpike .....Continuation: Nancy Conner
10 comments:
I ran out of breath in the second paragraph.
Holy Cow. Is that second paragraph one sentence! That's insane. You lost me at 'below'. The second sentence the general says seems to have no connection to what the reporter said and it lost me. I would have closed the book by now.
I think that the second paragraph should be the words of the General. It's his kind of description.
As a location for the conversation, it doesn't help the story, but as part of the exchange between the two me, it makes sense.
he could say: "Look below at the cobblestone plaza illuminated by sagging strings of Christmas lights. Watch the clusters of norteamericano backpackers dash for cover under café umbrellas that are as dark and heavy as the gray summer sky. It's threatened for so many hours and now it made good on its warnings - fat stinging raindrops soaking any who remains beneath its roiling clouds."
After that, I can see the reporter saying "very poetic" ... as sarcasm.
Something this surreal has to be literary -- reminding me very vividly of why I avoid stuff marked "literary".
I actually think that the second, descriptive paragraph is a good attempt to set the scene. We get the time of year (summer) and a sense of where we are (some country south of the U.S. border). It's overdone, yes, but that can be cleaned up. Break it into two or three sentences and keep the law of cause-and-effect in mind: it starts raining and then the backpackers run for cover.
This kind of description usually works best if you sprinkle it throughout the dialog rather than plunking it down in one big block. Maybe the clouds are dark and heavy as they begin to speak, then a few lines later the first drops fall, then a bit later the backpackers run. If the General sits there and continues his conversation unperturbed, we learn about his character as well as the weather.
As for their conversation, I'd like to have a clearer sense of what they're talking about.
I'm having trouble with a slap on the cheek as a sign of masculine affection. It seems more... catty. On the shoulder, maybe?
Funny continuation!
When do the two of them break out into the Fish Slapping Dance?
I love poetic prose more than anyone, but in poetry there is room for breath. There are pauses, and imagery is fresh and distinct. The difficulty when presenting a sentence of run-on description is that the images often get tangled. Like "fat stinging raindrops." A stinging raindrop isn't 'fat.' A stinging raindrop is sharp and fast. So cut it down into breatheable bits, especially if you like doing this sort of thing. What you're describing is a deluge, onslaught, thunderous flood. So make it feel like on by choosing the right words.
I'd highly recommend reading Mary Oliver's Rules of the Dance, if you're going to take a foray into poetic prose.
Thanks for tossing this up there. Good luck!
The second paragraph is too thick to get your teeth into. Cutting it into bite size pieces would be appreciated.
I liked "crumbing to the shore." I didn't understand it, but I liked it.
PicAxe
That general needs to pay a visit Keith Olberman. -JTC
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