small pieces for critique

Marquee Moon

Hey guys, just stumbled onto this forum, seems like a really good community, just thought i'd put something up for critique. two little pieces, no real point to them, just written for the sake of it.


It seemed as though the whole town had turned up to watch the young man hang. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen but looked as though he’d lived several lives already. His dusty blonde hair was matted against his face, thick with grease and dirt. His piercing blue eyes all the more striking set against his sallow skin. ‘This here boy has been tried and found guilty of the mortal sins of rape and murder’, bellowed the sheriff. ’And for that he will hang, may god have mercy on his soul’.

A whore had been raped and murdered the week before. They’d found the boy camped about three miles out of town, said he’d come from Texas. They brought him into town in chains, and even though the whore’s friends said ‘He aint the one you want’, the sheriff maintained that he’d done the deed and was to hang for it. For the three days he’d been kept in the gaol the boy never said a word. The towns kids, like feral packs would stand outside all day signing songs and taunts, running away every time he got up to the bars. The Preacher had asked the Sheriff if he was sure he’d got the right man. ‘Well, this is the way I see it, we got ourselves a dead whore and someone’s gotta hang. This boy mighta done it, he may not, but you can’t let the truth get in the way of justice’.

It hadn’t rained it three weeks. The town creaked and gasped for water, the wooden slats dry as kindling. The dry arid wind blew right through the corridor of ramshackle huts and buildings into the towns centre, covering all in a thick layer of dust, giving one and all a ghostly appearance. Storm clouds had been gathering on the horizon though, and over the course of the last hour had moved right up on top of them. Suddenly the heavens opened up and a torrent of rain came down in big marble sized balls. The wind whipped the grocer’s hat right of his head and carried it up along the trail. He gave chase sloshing about in the quickly forming marsh of mud. A flash of lightning light up the darkening sky followed seconds later by the roar of thunder. The horses nayed and the mules brayed and the wind whipped the rain across the faces of the townsfolk, but none moved. They wanted blood.

‘Any last words’ asked the Sheriff. The boy remained silent, staring out into the mountains. ‘All right boys, let him have it’. The deputy kicked the chair from out under the boy’s feet. His body fell and stopped with a jerk, his neck broken. The crowed all cheered and whooped and then after a few minutes had passed dispersed slowly with a tangible feeling of disappointment. The deputy had cut the boy down and was wrestling his skinny frame into the back of the cart. The Preacher had been to visit the boy at dawn and was one of the few to have heard him speak. His voice was soft but seemed beyond his tender years. ‘Pray with me now, confess your sins to the Lord Almighty, or forever be damned’ the Preacher had said. The boy just looked up at him with his blue angel eyes and said ‘Were all damned, some just don’t know it yet’.

That night the Preacher awoke with a start to the sound of the rain pounding the sheet metal roof and wind flinging the shutters back and forth like a child with a ragdoll. A chorus of drunks, gamblers and whores rang out through the town like a clarion call to the damned. Trade in your soul for a whisky dry. It brought to mind something said by a rancher in confession some years past. ‘Were all going to hell, I knows that much Father, what I been pondering is how we’ll know when we get there’.


and this:


When I cried as a child, my mother would tell me,'if you don't stop crying you'll burst the dam'. I used to imagine a giant, almost infinite reservoir, filled with tears. Birthdays, bah mitzfahs,deaths and divorces, drop by drop, tear by tear, filling up, slowly reaching the high water mark. Watching films, I would stand up on the couch, and shout, 'stop crying, it's almost full' at the grieving war widow or new heavyweight champion, as if one more tear could flood the world. Looking out at the rising water, I couldn't help but think that maybe it could.


I reached for the letter in my pocket, it felt heavy as a stone, a single page weighed down by words. The rain was pelting against the window, rat-a-tating in feverish Morse code. I walked through the hall and opened the front door. The water had risen up over the stoop and spilled in around my feet. I turned the page over in my hand, creases and folds like my grandfather had taught me, until it was transformed into a boat, not seaworthy but fit for purpose. I set it down gently on the water,and watched in silence as it twisted and turned on the surface carried by the wind, until it slowly sank and was washed away like so many little boats on oceans wide. I watched and thought that maybe with no earthly ropes to tether me, my heavy heart might sink me to the bottom of the sea.

cobsie

This is really good. You can definitely write - you are very easy and natural in your style, even when there is a stylized description: "The town creaked and gasped for water, the wooden slats dry as kindling." The voice is clear and understated, a pleasure to read. Do you have something longer you could post? Or maybe you might consider Write Club, where you can post on-going work for critique. Anyhoo - welcome and please post more!

pickarooney

I liked this a lot. The only thing I was unsure of were why the sheriff was so keen on finding a scapegoat for the murder of the prostitute so quickly (I can buy that he didn't want to waste time on an investigation and looked for a quick fix, but why does this guy have to take the fall?). Have you, or are you planning on, expanding on this piece?

IgnatiusJ

I liked the first piece. Couple of initial thoughts:

1. Great first line. It really grabs the attention and makes you want to read on.
2. The dialogue could probably be better incorporated into the narrative. For example, the first quote would work better if it was introduced beforehand (something along the lines of "The Sheriff cast his eyes over the assembled crowd and sealed the boy's fate...") You might consider re-working the style throughout somewhat.
3. This could be a nice introduction to a crime/thriller book if the piece finished with the discovery of another dead woman. The town's people are all out celebrating the hanging of the supposed killer but if you ended with a line like "The following morning they awoke to the news of another dead whore" it would a) confirm that the wrong boy had been hanged, and b) establish that there was a killer on the loose.

Overall though, it's very readable.

godspal

good, but seems like an eerie mix between boardwalk empire and blood meridian.

H. Flashman

you can write - best piece I've seen here in a while - had me wanting to read more, what's the deal with that sherrif? he know something about that murder that he's not saying?:) it reminds me of something I can't quiet put my finger on

The Master of Disaster

godspal wrote: »

good, but seems like an eerie mix between boardwalk empire and blood meridian.

I agree I was actually going to say the same thing. Indeed OP there's something about your style that's very reminiscent of Cormac McCarthy. Overall though very good. Like the other posters I'd be inclined to read more.