#1
This is going to be really pretentious. Enjoy. Oh, and Jamie's going to hate this, so most of you guys are probably going to hate this as well. it's fairly long. c4c. I didnt have any audience in mind so tear it apart if you please.


What Sarah was up to about a month ago in the desert, if you ever wondered.


I am eighteen years old, my name is Charlie,
I was born on Coyote Butte, I sit on Coyote Butte,
and I watch the people shoot through here
like American Coot in Illinois,
sitting in my soil, in my rivers, bathing,
taking in an ineffable compass
of which way the wind is blowing,
and then spreading their wings to catch it.
Through my left eye I watch Sarah.
My right watches what she watches off in the distance.

Sarah.
She has a young earth-worn face spinning around wildly
on a dirty cotton body, with an average sized heart
that pumps like a long dark marsh.
In a cool wind-worn cave on the Malheur reservation
she stutters and talks and stumbles through stories.
Alone with her sunburnt legs she watches out
towards the Black Bear mountain range,
where a thunderstorm is tearing the silence apart
and she pieces wisps of memory together
to take her back to that calm hot farm,
the calm hot touch of his bruised and calloused hand.
Counting between each thunderclap, on her fingers,
to see if the seconds matched up with the amount of mistakes
she may have made, after she waded into his strong oak paws,
made love on his field, and kissed him afterward,
sort of softly.
The air has gotten heavier by the time she is done
and part of her hair is damper.
The sage brush is smelling stronger, and the cracks in the parched ground
are filling.

I stand, keeping my eyes where they were,
I raise my arms up like I was going to give a sermon or
deliver a new Simba to the world. I blow a kiss across the plains.
The tall grass three feet in front of me bows slightly.
She stands out in the rain and her clothes glue, and
she watches the Turkey Vultures out in the distance,
drying on the telephone lines.
And, like every Coot whose ever lost their way in Illinois,
she blows a kiss back, lifts her arms too, holds them in understanding
for a fraction of a second, and runs back to her campsite.

I am a young boy, my name is Charlie,
I sit on Coyote Butte and I watch the people shoot through here
like American Coot in Illinois:
sitting in my soil, in my rivers, bathing,
taking in an ineffable compass
of which way the wind is blowing,
and then spreading their wings to catch it.
#2
Your imagery was brilliant and intoxicating in places, most notably the second stanza, which was some of the nicest writings I've read from you.

Much similar to your other piece of late the structure felt far too prosey in places; it didn't read like poetry too much in my opinion.

Some awkward phrasing (three foot in front, keeping my eyes where they were, that calm hot farm) aside, I quite liked this. But you seem too unsure of your structure atm, Dylan. The mix of long and one-word sentences, multiple clauses, enjambment that does nothing, odd line breaks just seems like you're not aware enough of how it's reading. It seems shaky in it's foundations. The house is all really quite nice but it's wobbling, if you will.

I'm hoping it doesn't sink or topple over.

'Cos it's a really great house.
#4
This is going to be really pretentious. Enjoy. Oh, and Jamie's going to hate this, so most of you guys are probably going to hate this as well. it's fairly long. c4c. I didnt have any audience in mind so tear it apart if you please.
I'll do my best, Dylan.
But I really wasn't taken by it, so my heart really isn't in the dissection.



What Sarah was up to about a month ago in the desert, if you ever wondered.


I am eighteen years old, my name is Charlie,
I was born on Coyote Butte, I sit on Coyote Butte,
the end of that line was just too obvious.
you could end at sit, full stop, and let the reader's mind go there.

and I watch the people shoot through here
like American Coot in Illinois,
sitting in my soil, in my rivers, bathing,
taking in an ineffable compass
ineffable? meh. something more ethereal seems needed.
of which way the wind is blowing,
and then spreading their wings to catch it.
Through my left eye I watch Sarah.
My right watches what she watches off in the distance.
watches became tedious without direct repetition.

Sarah.
She has a young earth-worn face spinning around wildly
on a dirty cotton body, with an average sized heart
that pumps like a long dark marsh.
In a cool wind-worn cave on the Malheur reservation
she stutters and talks and stumbles through stories.
Alone with her sunburnt legs she watches out
towards the Black Bear mountain range,
you could do without the.
where a thunderstorm is tearing the silence apart
and she pieces wisps of memory together
to take her back to that calm hot farm,
the calm hot touch of his bruised and calloused hand.
Counting between each thunderclap, on her fingers,
to see if the seconds matched up with the amount of mistakes
maybe number rather than amount,
and mistakes moved to the next line seems a good move.
and/or drop up with.

she may have made, after she waded into his strong oak paws,
made love on his field, and kissed him afterward,
sort of softly.
The air has gotten heavier by the time she is done
and part of her hair is damper.
The sage brush is smelling stronger, and the cracks in the parched ground
sagebrush looks better as one word, imho.
are filling.

I stand, keeping my eyes where they were,
I raise my arms up like I was going to give a sermon or
deliver a new Simba to the world. I blow a kiss across the plains.
The tall grass three feet in front of me bows slightly.
She stands out in the rain and her clothes glue, and
she watches the Turkey Vultures out in the distance,
drying on the telephone lines.
And, like every Coot whose ever lost their way in Illinois,
she blows a kiss back, lifts her arms too, holds them in understanding
for a fraction of a second, and runs back to her campsite.

I am a young boy, my name is Charlie,
I sit on Coyote Butte and I watch the people shoot through here
like American Coot in Illinois:
sitting in my soil, in my rivers, bathing,
taking in an ineffable compass
of which way the wind is blowing,
and then spreading their wings to catch it.
the reprise was slightly better than the first delivery.
sorry i couldn't give you more. i just never got a feel for this one.
Meadows
Quote by Jackal58
I release my inner liberal every morning when I take a shit.
Quote by SK8RDUDE411
I wont be like those jerks who dedicate their beliefs to logic and reaosn.
Last edited by SomeoneYouKnew at Jun 17, 2008,
#5
Thanks you three alot. And Syk, I can easily see possible reasons why werent taken with this one, but if you would elaborate why it didnt tickle your fancy that would really help me out.

A few things:

"you could end at sit, full stop, and let the reader's mind go there." Yes, but I wished to tell the reader where I was, not allow them imagine. And I didnt want to give specifics (though maybe I should have). And besides, Jamie hates it when I use silly blunt statements with a pronoun and a verb, and I kind of agree with him.

Ineffable I used because that was the word that meant what I wanted to say, I tried others, but I think ineffable is plenty mystical enough.

I used sage brush as two words because the stress in the line is different if I had it as one and I preferred the flow with two better.

Thanks a lot though, helpful, thanks for checking it out (all three of you). Syk, you have a link you want me to return?
#6
check your pms if you haven't. And no, I don't mean your menstrual cycle is acting up again.
I owe a ton of people critiques.

If you're one of them, please PM me.

I have trouble keeping track.
#7
There's really nothing to critique here. Like I said in someone else's piece. This is more of an exercise of description than fluid storytelling. This isn't suited at all for the format you've done for it. It takes away from the intense details and all-in-all undermines the fact this is beautifully imagined. This format is hurting the piece, in my honest opinion.

If you were to turn this into a straight prose piece, no line breaks and just a giant paragraph it would read more like it should, a descriptive flash short story (250-1000 words.)

So what you have here is just description, there's no descernable plot or climax, or real action. It's just like a bunch of salt that has settled in a crack, it's not moving or going or anything, it's just salt in a crack. There are things that happen, but again it's just a description of things happening. There's no outcome or effect on the story.

It's great for what it is, an exercise in descriptive imagery, but it fails on a story-telling point, and it's fine because it's almost as if you did it on purpose.

Good stuff, Dylan.
www.facebook.com/longlostcomic