Young Writers Society

Missa Nautica is the Catholic mass for storms at sea. "Bright Eyes" was not merely the work of Conor Oberst--Bright Eyes was an Omaha Indian (Susan LaFlesche Picotte's little sister, both daughters of Chief Iron Eyes, for the Nebraska-savvy). I've merely stolen her name; the girl in the story is Pawnee, who occupied most of south-central Nebraska. More Pawnee nerdiness and translations follow.

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[17: Cheek]

(I)

When he kissed her, she tasted like salt. It was as though she had been plucked from the sea; a brown mermaid in a borrowed gown.

It had been six months since his blistered feet had last touched blistering sand. He brought his thumb to her cheek, waiting for the ocean to pour from her eyes. When the levees broke, the waves stained his fingers and left streaks upon his wrists.

[II]

She had been born a child of this earth, with bare legs and elbows stained with dirt. Sometimes, when the sky was too big to carry, she pressed her ear to the ground and listened to the heartbeat she knew lay beneath.

When the hoofbeats of buffalo shook her bones, she knew it was not man who set the world to spinning.

[III]

He’d gone west as a spindly boy in rags; a fiddle on one shoulder and a gun on the other. The trees gave way to sky in every direction but down, and he’d never felt so small as when he lied in the grass and let the wind wash over him.

He found her fingers when he reached up. They were small and starved and had cakes of dirt in between nail and flesh; brown crescent-moons that shone in the sky above his head.

[IV]

When he cried, he cried from wood on his shoulder. She crept to his place on the crest of a hill and watched him pull that stick into song.

'Horsehair, he whispered to her when she came closer. It ain’t real nice, been broke on the way here.

But when horsetails cried, it was the strangest song she had ever heard. The bow looped up and around, dancing. It reflected in his eyes—blue as the sky, blue as water, brightness that put Bright Eyes herself to shame.

[V]

There was a word for him in her language: íriruutacikstiìhuru.

But what he could not say in hers, he sang in his.

Mary, Mary, will you marry me?

[VI]

There was a woman in the brick village who possessed what the cloth village did not have—a corset and skirts that reached her toes. Solomon brought Bright Eyes to her the Sunday before they were wed, and he leaned against the wall outside and waited with his lips pursed, whistling.

Bright Eyes watched herself solemnly in the mirror as the woman pulled at strings behind her back, until she was laced up like cakíra’ in a cage. She wrapped her hair tight at the back of her neck, round like a little rock when she arched her neck.

You’re real pretty, Solomon said when the woman beckoned him.

But in that smudged mirror, Bright Eyes had never seen anything so ugly.

[VII]

Her dowry was beads and buffalo skins, and when he brought them to his house upon the hill, she told him her real name. It came out garbled and choked, but Mary rolled through her ears like bullets, hot and clumsy.

She made him cornmeal with bacon, stirring dough with her fingers when he wasn’t looking and smiling when he was. There was still flour on her palms when she folded his clothes and put them in the corner, as though a ghost had done the laundry.

[VIII]

A storm rolled through during the night. He woke up to a clap of thunder and an empty bed, her imprint left in cornhusks and feathers.

She stood in the doorway with the wind pulling at her nightgown and the hair she had let loose. Rain dripped in through the windows, licking at his feet as he kissed her cold cheeks and whispered, Bright Eyes, Bright Eyes, why ain’t you shinin’ no more?

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íriruutacikstiìhuru- (IH-rih-roo-ta-chikstEE-hoo-roo) the one who has her on his mind all of the time.

cakíra’ - (cha-KIH-ra') a kingbird.

During the 1800s, the Nebraskan territorial (and later, state) government went on a huge campaign of Native American assimilation. Lakota, Omaha, Ponca, Pawnee, and Sioux were brought in from reservations and their native lands and forced to learn English, and, in many girls' cases, to marry white men. The real Bright Eyes married the lawyer who testified for Chief Standing Bear at his trial. I've simply taken her name, but her family is one to look up if you're interested.

Sam,

This is beautiful. I don't know what it is about it. It's just so different and awesome and superb and *goes on and on* There was only one sentence that messed with my smallish brain.

But what he could not say in hers, he sang in his.

This took me a minute to read. XF (Fangs!) Anyway, yeah. It was wonderful! You'll for sure win the contest with this piece. It was so beautiful, and you've certainly done your research. I'm proud of you, Sam!

*glugs*

-Jared

As I said, I am going to analyze much more than critique. ^_^ but, I'll try to find something to pick at.

When he kissed her, she tasted like salt. It was as though she had been plucked from the sea; a brown mermaid in a borrowed gown.

I've told you before how much I love your diction, so I won't say it again. Plucked is such a nice word, and it gives way to the visuals of it, and the idea of it. Something doesn't get plucked of its own will, really. And borrowed tells so much about her, with only one word. Brilliant, really, how just that adjective does so much.

It had been six months since his blistered feet had last touched blistering sand. He brought his thumb to her cheek, waiting for the ocean to pour from her eyes. When the levees broke, the waves stained his fingers and left streaks upon his wrists.

I love the double use of "blistered"; it's so perfect. Calling it "ocean" rather than tears gives an idea of how vast it all is. And levees, of course, again with the most beautiful metaphor. The only thing: why is she crying? Perhaps I'm missing it. I don't think I thought about it when I read the first verse.

Sometimes, when the sky was too big to carry, she pressed her ear to the ground and listened to the heartbeat she knew lay beneath.

I'm not sure I like the word sometimes, because you could just as well take it out. But at the same time, it may be needed. I love the idea of the earthly heartbeat.

When the hoofbeats of buffalo shook her bones, she knew it was not man who set the world to spinning.

Firefox is telling me hoofbeats isn't a word? Oh well. I love the alliteration of "buffalo" and "bones" and you know how much I love the word bones; points for that. I adore the syntax of "who set the world to spinning". It's so homely - I'm not sure what other word could describe it. It fits the tone of the overall piece. And it's simply beautiful. (I should find a word other than beautiful.)

They were small and starved and had cakes of dirt in between nail and flesh

You make me gleeful with diction. I didn't say it earlier, but starved is such a nice choice. What I adore about these short things you do, is that we only have photographs (as I explained before) but they are photographs that tell so much about their life. The word starved says more than a novel could, I think.

When he cried, he cried from wood on his shoulder.

I don't think I told you how much I loved this earlier because I was focused on making it make sense. I love it. Not only do you avoid saying fiddle again - I always will envy your witty and savory diction - but the way you speak of crying tells us so much about him. Again, it's the amazing way you characterize in just a sentence, and shed so much light onto these people we don't know, and never will.

It reflected in his eyes—blue as the sky, blue as water, brightness that put Bright Eyes herself to shame.

I've told you of your brilliance and your genius. ^_^ I want to push it to the end. You know how I'm a, as you call it, metaphor whore. I try my best to find strange, unusual descriptions for my metaphors that not only bring life to the object being described, but to the speaker or the mood. I think you can do so much better than "sky" and "water". I could see you wanting to use nature - that would make sense - but use it with more grace, as I know very well that you can.

But in that smudged mirror, Bright Eyes had never seen anything so ugly.

It's like the picture of Pocahontas in English Women attire. It's just wrong. I love the cultural clash, and the un-said, "but she's doing it for him" kind of thing. I could babble about this... but I won't. Because I'm babbling a lot.

It came out garbled and choked, but Mary rolled through her ears like bullets, hot and clumsy.

I love the "rolled through her ears like bullets" just because rolled is such a peculiar word with bullets, almost awkward, but nothing else could fit. My complaints, though, is that I am either not trusting myself, or not understanding you. What do you mean by this? My understanding is that she said her real name, being crazy Indian like, so they went with Mary, which was uncomfortable to her Indian ears. Er, yes? Additionally (to steal your word): I could understand bullets being hot, but to my knowledge they aren't often clumsy. I think I could excuse the word, because it still lends an interesting thought, it's just awkward in the wrong way. If you think you can find a better word, do so. If that's the more apt one, then ignore me altogether.

She made him cornmeal with bacon, stirring dough with her fingers when he wasn’t looking and smiling when he was. There was still flour on her palms when she folded his clothes and put them in the corner, as though a ghost had done the laundry.

For some reason this makes me think of My Antonia so in any case, you win.

A storm rolled through during the night. He woke up to a clap of thunder and an empty bed, her imprint left in husks and feathers.

I understand feathers - but not so much husks? I just don't understand why you're using it.

She was standing in the doorway, the wind pulling at her nightgown, the hair she had let loose.

I understand what your saying but it just looks awkward to me for some reason. Perhaps try: She was standing [stood?] in the doorway; the wind pulled at her nightgown, he hair she let loose. But you should probably use stood, either way. Passive voice = epic fail.

Rain dripped in through the windows, licking at his feet as he kissed her cold cheeks and whispered, Bright Eyes, Bright Eyes, why ain’t you shinin’ no more?

Again, your diction amazes me. Licking is such a unique word for rain. Cold will never has as much meaning as it does here - dead, lifeless. It leads to so many other thoughts about what she is feeling. The ending, the final dialogue, if you will, made me want to cry. I'm confused, but at the same time I'm not. I feel like she loved him, but the culture mix was the killer. Although I also could envision the Indian-Nature thing along with the rain causing some depression on BE's part, but I don't know, haha. Either way, it's beautifully depressing. I'm glad you added more - it has a lot more depth than previously, and you're telling a story, rather than only showing us pictures. Before we had pictures and a vague story. Now we have pictures, and so much story. ^_^


I don't think I have anything else to say. You rock! *gives sandwich*

Okay... so... I know I said I was waiting to comment on this, because I didn't know how to comment without just babbling endlessly about how amazing you are, but it looks like time hasn't done anything for me.

So forget the review; this is a rave! Yay raves!

Seriously, Sam... I am extremely impressed. I've always been blown away by the oodles of talent you're hoarding there up north, but this ratchets up your standard to a whole new level.

If I quoted my favorite parts, I'd end up quoting the whole thing. It's heart-rendingly beautiful from start to finish and at every second in between. Your maturity, wit, wisdom, and brilliance has never impressed me more than in this piece. Congratulations, Sam; you're at a place in your writing that most people will never reach.

This is truly magnificent. You had better win this thing, or the world has gone crazy.

I love reading what you write, Sam. Enough said ^_^

Part One: I like how we're just thrown right into the story and it's so chock-full of images. It's very poetic in that sense. I feel like I'm right there in the story, drenched in sea spray (even though the sea itself isn't even in the story, haha).

Part Two: Nice contrast with the earth now, when it was the sea in the first part. It's also a nice juxtaposition between the two very different cultures. [s]I'm just not sure about:

When the hoofbeats of buffalo shook her bones, she knew it was not man who set the world to spinning.

because [/s] Sorry, scratch that. I had initially read it as "... knew it was not a man who set the world..." But still, you might want to take another look at that.

Part Three: loveliness

Part Four: I see all the elemental elements (lol) here, but I think the "cried from wood on his shoulder" etc. might be a little much. It's starting to wander into the realm of not making sense.

Part Five: I'm a big fan of the iriruutacikstiihuru line (w00t for glossaries! ^_^) but the rest seemed too plain in comparison. It seemed a little too obvious when talking about languages. I'd rather read about an expansion of the first line than the other lines.

Part Six: This part is a little alarming; before, everything was very kind of long smudges of paint on a canvas, and this is like a photograph. The style seems different. The actual action fits wonderfully in context, especially Salomon's reaction to everything. And the last line seemed too simple for Bright Eyes, who tasted like salt and was a brown mermaid at the beginning.

Part Seven: I'm confused as to her name. I thought that Bright Eyes was her more traditional, birth name, and Mary was the Englishified (sorry; I'm sure there's a better word; I just can't think of it) nickname Solomon (love his name, by the way ^_^) gave her. Maybe it's the pronouns that are confusing? Who is garbling and choking which of her names? And does she not like the name Mary, so is that why it sounds clumsy? And how does she go from being dissatisfied with a name to being happy cooking and folding laundry as if she just forgot?

Part Eight: In and of itself, VIII suits the story well as a conclusion. But she went suddenly from seeming happy in this new life to standing in the middle of the storm. Loveliness of imagery doesn't even need to be mentioned here. On the other hand, let me contradict myself (again) and say that the sharp contrast between VII and VIII is nice, as if Bright Eyes didn't know she was missing everything until the storm rolled through. Since I am not you, I don't know which you intended to have come across. Then again, it's only important that you, as the author, do ^_^

Cool historical context! Usually I don't read these things, but they were short and sweet and interesting. So kudos ^_^ This was a cool style of short story. You told and withheld the perfect amount of information for the story to function. I kinda wish there had been more about the ocean though. The title comes in at the beginning and at the end, and Bright Eyes reminds Salomon of the ocean, but other than that, the whole seafaring aspect is kind of missing. All in all, just watch out for a few flow-type things near the middle and end and this will be, as you say, awesome sauce.

i really liked this.
i would like to give you an amazing constructive critique like you did for me but the only thing which i would have changed (just in my personal opinion) is the line:

'It had been six months since his blistered feet had last touched blistering sand'

i dont particularly like the repetition of 'blister' i think you need to use it to either describe his feet or the sand and try something else in place?

other than that i loved it. especially: 'a brown mermaid in a borrowed gown' i thought that description was beautiful.