Week 9 Sketches

i.
Revenge was not as sweet as she had hoped. Rather than filling her with the warmth of a good day’s work, her years’ labor had led only to emptiness. So this is what it felt like to be a villain. Never satisfied. Always hunting for the next nemesis.

Elícia ran. She plunged her sword into the new grave, directly into Moldova’s cold, still heart, jumped on his horse and ran without looking back. The smell of blood was left behind in the ashes of the Black Fire, but her dress was still stained with it. Redder than the fine Castillian silk, it haunted her.

ii.

Give me life, she whispers. Give me form and function.

You will have black hair and blue eyes. A thin waist. A sword at your hip.

And?

One eyebrow will be raised in cocky consternation. The sword belt will be wrapped three times around your waist, sitting on your hips. No, the sword is in your hand. And you are wielding it with precision. Red lips that pout when you want your way. Five hundred in your bodice, forty in a purse on your belt. Knife in place of a side-stay, to promote posture and self-defense. You will carry yourself as though you are constantly dueling. The world will lust after you, and you after it.

My name?

Elícia Ramón de Aldana de Castillo.

It suits me.

iii.

Is it sad that I miss ramen while I’m at home? It’s pretty pathetic, right? I mean, it’s instant rice noodles in powdered chicken stock. But something about it is just addictive. Maybe it’s the rush to get your work done and the need to eat something, anything, and you think instantly, “Of course! Ramen!” Because that salty, gushy texture is exactly what you need to help you concentrate on long winter nights when the snow is falling and you have to read two more chapters of Blomberg’s Jesus and the Gospels before you pass out from exhaustion. That’s why I need ramen. It’s my manna. If I were wandering the desert for forty years, you know there’d be ramen falling from the sky every morning.

iv.

Red, red jpeg rose dropped by a man on the street hurrying to give his wife the dozen for the anniversary he nearly missed for the third time. The girl calls to give it back, but it has already pricked her finger and scratched her arm and he doesn’t want it now, he’s late, too late to help her. She holds it and it wants to fall again and she cries at the blood that’s darker than the rose.

v.

A careless collection of books and papers surrounds the computer. No point picking any of them up, she says. She’ll just need them tomorrow, so why change a system that works? Gaming manuals, all 7^th Sea, the game of heroism, topped with colorful dice to the left; a stack of newspapers behind her; tomorrow’s textbooks mixed with today’s handouts in a circle of Bess on the floor of the suite. From above, it looks like an elaborate synchronized swimming routine, each part moving in unison to create excellent results. From the floor, it looks like a mess that will consume her whole one day.

vi.

The arrow flew too fast. One moment, the fletching was between my fingers, and the next it had hit the yellow part of the target. I yelped and Zyr came at me. He was going to hit me again. I was already bruised. He was supposed to hit me every time I screamed.
But my father told him to stop. "Excellent shot, son." I looked through my fingers and saw that the arrow had hit the exact center of the target.
He had called me "son."
"You could learn well from your brother, Sr'Yzr," my father said.
Sr'Yzr stroked the black fur of his left arm and said quietly, with a little smirk, "That is not my brother."
In my mind, I agreed as I nocked the next black-feathered arrow. Brothers didn't hit each other.

vii.

He scratches his beard in the same place every time. Always when he doesn't know how to say something important. The beard is wearing away. One of these days the hair will be gone and he'll scratch away his skin instead.

viii.

She fell hard and fast and cut her hands on the broken hearts she had left strewn on the ground over years of being "who she was."

ix.

Beauty and green flung themselves out into the circle as the Dryad smiled. She threw back the mass of moss that clung to her shapely face and laughed. A bird landed on her ear and sang to us. She interpreted.
"You bring light to this city," the Dryad murmured with a voice like a flute. "When you are ready to leave, the light will stay with us and you will have to begin anew."
"How will we do that?" My own voice sounded harsh following hers. I was surprised by the cut it made through the clearing.
All she did was grin as she leapt into a giant oak and disappeared.

x.

I waited three days to emerge. Lifting the stone carefully, ignoring the rush of stale of air past my ears, I looked on the world again. It was just as ugly as I had remembered it.
Baba was waiting for me. She sat on a burned stump outside my cave and tapped the ground with her cane. I loved making her wait. Patience may be a virtue, but impatience is just so much more exciting.
"Are you coming out this time?" she asked with that voice that asked too much.
"Nope," I said, and went back inside. I left the stone off, though. She could follow me if she liked. I wanted to show her the sanctuary, but she was afraid of the dark and probably wouldn't come.
I skipped down the hall the stream had carved until I heard a tapping behind me. She was coming, with a torch in her hand. I saw the firelight before I saw my grandmother. "I'm not letting you stay in here all week, Sasha," her voice said.
A wicked smile creeped across my face. I started whistling so she could follow the sound to the sanctuary.

Untitled piece by Erin Hart

I’ll admit it, I nearly cried at the end of this story. While the subject is potentially cliché, the piece is beautifully put together and makes the reader genuinely concerned for the narrator’s plight. It has everything a first-person narrative should. Watching the narrator talking about Betha so lovingly made me sympathize instantly with her (the narrator’s) emotions. The voice is nearly always consistent, only breaking the respect-for-the-dead tone in small instances like the use of the word “vomit-a-thon.” The piece reads like a eulogy for a truly beloved person. Honestly, other than a change of word-choice in a few areas of the piece, I have no suggestions. Brava, Erin.

“Anchoring” by Micah Riecker

This story was beautifully written. Kudos to Micah. I loved looking at the world through Oley’s eyes. Watching Robby crushing the squirrel from Oley’s perspective was fascinatingly disgusting. He is helpless in this situation, but so strong and comforting when his friend is really in danger. The relationship between Oley and Eric was built very well. Nothing drastic needed to happen in order to understand exactly how far Oley was willing to go to help Eric through his hard time. The present tense is used very powerfully to give immediacy to slow and subtle emotions. I would only suggest that you bring up the reason for Eric’s depression a tiny bit earlier in the piece. Otherwise, awesome stuff.

“Robbie” by Randy Robertson

The voice is fantastic in this piece! I loved the first two pages, got completely hooked. The main character’s description of the girl walking into the library tells the reader tomes about his personality. In fact, just the fact that he works at the library and flirts with anything that walks in the door screams GEEK! PITY FRIEND! It leads so well into the scene in which his two friends, described as Charles Bronson and Steve McQueen, are making out with their dates and he’s only there to make sure nothing bad happens. He’s someone to have along for the ride and have fun with, but he’s just not gonna get the girl. Little touches of flirtation (kisses, touches, whispers) are dabbed throughout the story, leading him on but going nowhere. It’s gorgeous.

The piece about Hunter S. Thompson was excellent as well, but it didn’t seem connected to the first scene. While entertaining and well-written, it didn’t say nearly as much about the main character as the scenes with the women did. You’ve got to keep it in here; it’s awesome, so please try to tie the two halves together!

Max-a-Mia by Michelle Trinque

I was a bit confused by the changes in narrator that happened throughout the piece without warning. This can work, but it’ll take a lot of effort and a whole lot more story to make multiple narrators effective. The affect, on the other hand, is brilliantly accomplished. I feel like I know how Julia and Karen move, speak, act, and think pretty well. However, a lot of this understanding comes from both of them telling the story simultaneously. I half expected to see the story from the waiter’s perspective sometimes. Really, you need to pick one narrator and run with her. This will increase the reader’s understanding of the story and the character you pick to work with.

Also, title? I didn’t understand it… If it’s going to be an instruction, then it ought to be in the language of the story.

“The Greatest Show” by Kathryn Goldthwaite

I was a bit confused by exactly what Seraphina was doing at the carnival until page five, and after that I was still unclear about Seraphina’s relationship with her mother until the narrator switched to Leila. Specifically, the last full paragraph on page 5 was confusing. I didn’t know who was speaking, though it seemed that crucial plot points were being explained to either Seraphina or Blue.

Leila and Seraphina are both such beautiful characters, though. You have done a great job of creating real sympathetic people. The dialogue flows very well between all the characters. I guess all it really needs is a little clarification and a conclusion, and you’ll have an excellent story.

Untitled piece by Jon Crylen

Donald seems like a really interesting and deep character, but I can’t find him in this piece. There’s a whole lot going on that seems to attach to him, but he doesn’t seem particularly attached to any of it. Is this piece about his relationship with his grandparents, or about his friendship with Carlisle and Borgnino, or something else entirely? I understand that it’s not a finished piece, but as of so far I have very little desire to read on. I need a reason to attach to Donald, like I needed a reason to attach to Jeffers in Tom’s first story. Watching him with his grandmother, I understood his childhood emotions but could not get a sense of how he was feeling now. Emotions, I guess, are what the piece needs. Is he hiding them too well for me to notice them, or is he just an unemotional character?