Well, I haven't written in my novel, Bound for Glory: Our Brethren, for about three weeks; a small vacation if you will. So, I was looking over chapter three, and this paragraph caught my attention. I'm curious as to what everyone thinks about it - image wise, and well, if there's grammar mistakes feel free to point out those too.
But really, I'm more along the lines wondering what these few paragraphs do to you. What image was created, if any? And if you 'saw' something, anything, what did you see?
The answers might help me to determine if the paragraphs are decent or if I need to alter words or sentences because really my goal was to suck the reader in by showing them something terriable.
Here it is:
"Weren't you afraid of being tried?" I asked uncertainly.
"Frightened is the word," father muttered. "Anything could have happened, depending on who was to lead the trial. The very least, my fate would more than likely have been stripped of my uniform and discharged, but certainly imprisonment was not out of question either. Whilst in the war, my ears heard the horrendous stories of the prison ships from my comrades. The stories were told by skilled storytellers, who could wield webs of painted portraits in our memory, as we sat around in a circle, listening. Whether it be propaganda or truth, the crackling flames illuminated fright in its purest form with the darting of the storyteller's pupils and grief-stricken expressions, as each of their hushed voices took turns. One such story described loathsome dungeons. Good, honest people were denied the light and air of Heaven. Scantily fed on poor, putrid, and sometimes uncooked food; obliged to endure companionship of the most abandoned, and those ill with infectious disease, worn out by groans and complaints of their suffering fellows, men would supposedly endure the ultimate sacrifice for treason, and being prisoners of war."
I watched Father clutch his shoulders tightly, and shivered. Afterwards, he crossed his arms against his stomach, glaring intently in my direction. I said nothing, and I was amazed mum hadn't either. Instead, I mimicked Father, in hopes that the mild pressure against my chest, would shield me from my own picture starting to emerge.
After a few seconds, Father unbuttoned his black waistcoat, slipped his arms out, and dropped it by his left foot. Beads of sweat had formed by his thick brows, and he immediately reached, and wiped them away.
"I believed I had a minor charge brought against me, but the absolute fear of sitting below the bowls of a ship, in the darkness, sitting among disease, starvation, and filth; it would have been a glorious hell, and death in that situation would be a blessing," he continued. "If such prisons existed or they still dwell, may the Lord protect His children in their darkest hour of need."
He gulped, and then swallowed. Thanks to him, the image fully presented itself now. I pictured fifty men below a ship, their heads jerking from one side to the next, with the rhythm of the waves. I saw pale, ghostly white faces. The men in my mind were frail, and bones protruded from under their flesh by their ribcages and jowls. As the image became more realistic, I hunched over, cupping my mouth, and heaved some salvia. I imagined all fifty gnarled fingers were pointing, as I stood watching the half-circle of men. Flies buzzed about, and some covered portions of the prisoner's face as well as the deceased.
A tiny weight was perched on my right shoulder. I rubbed my eyes, and wiped away globs of salvia from the corners of my lips. Afterwards, I swallowed also, attempting to force the image away.
Thank you for your time.
fishr
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