The Last Cowboy

Thanks a lot for all the feedback here. I thought this bit of writing, which is the most experimental I've ever done, was just going to bow out with one review and not a lot else but then suddenly two more come along

I'll take everything you guys have written into account.
Thanks,
Babs

I disagree with Nate on the fact that you should focus on one or two scenes. Yes, it is a bit tricky to follow, so maybe make the transitions more clear, but I like the feel of this piece and how it felt like a continuous train of thought. For obviously, it seems like this is a man about to through himself into the gorge and kill himself, and if you were going to go and kill yourself, then surely you wouldn't be thinking about just one or two scenes. You would think back on your life or in this case dwell on one aspect, the people.

It is the continuous train of thought which made this piece, I believe. The continuity of it, the flowing of the words just seemed easy for me to understand. It was the thoughts of a man who was alone in the world.

Though there is some things you should fix up. I agree with Nate and Daydreamer when they said the poeticness of it, just didn't fit. It is beautiful writing, you can do it well, but when you imagine cowboys and those western times, you think more of brusque beings; men who are strong and confident in themselves, men who believe they are strong. The poetic side of this made it lose that brusqueness, that manliness to it, and made it seem more dulled down, broken, almost as if it was the train of thought of a scholar of some sort.

And then also you should make sure the transitions are clear. You can do this simply by making sure the readers know that the character is looking back, remembering. I can't really give a good example of what I am trying to say with this, but I shall try. Like in this case;

Saturday the preacher, with his cruel mouth and his vicious sermons, standing at average height on his stage but seeming to grow and grow during his sermons, until he towered above his mob with his prayerbook in one hand, a fist as the other and condemnation on his lips. The cowboy hadn't stayed in that town for long. The last cowboy had left his prayerbook behind in that town, he hadn't needed it any longer.

This somewhat reminds me of Louis L'Amour, a Western author. If you like Western themes and you haven't read L'Amour, I really suggest him.

As Daydreamer stated, this has a poetic feel to it, but I don't think it works. I appreciate the experimentation with form and style, and I hope you continue with it. Given time and honing, I think you could develop this into a good style.

For now, work on trying to capture just a scene or two. I think the big problem here wasn't the poetry of it necessarily, but rather that it's a jumble of scenes; you move from one to another so quickly that it leaves the reader gasping for breath. L'Amour does a really good job of capturing this kind of stuff well, so again, I suggest you look him up.

Baboon wrote:He stands, tall and rugged, with hard features and easy eyes. The skin on his face is as weatherbeaten and well-worn as his boots, his faithful boots. Try just saying ''his faithful boots'' instead. Both Both what? His boots? will be with him till the very end. This is the very end, he thinks.

No gunfight, no frantic action though. This is a different end to than most of his friends.

His friends. Their faces come tumbling out of his memory like water tumbling from the hands of a lone figure in the desert to his parched mouth.

The desert, he thinks, oh the desert. A foe, a friend, a teacher, a preacher. The desert hones and sharpens everything, your face, your senses, your purpose and your direction. This sounds, so, jerky, you see, what I, mean? I like both sentences but you have to make them sound more coherent and composed. If you can't do that it'd be better just to leave one of them out.
His mind is overflowing with the faces of his friends. Not just his friends, even, just people. Anyone. Again way too choppy. The lone rider he saw when he was 13 (or was it 14) Try to write your words out such as ''thirteen'' for example. a lone blot of humanity on the horizon, highlighted and silhouetted against the darkening sky, a sun like fire hanging above it all. Another picture, another story. The last two sentences didn't really make any sense. After the first one I felt like saying........''and?'' Also, ''A sun like fire hanging above it all?'' It doesn't really fit.Because that's what they were, these crowds of faces spilling happily around inside his head. Corningstone, the owner of the first ranch where he really felt at home. Corningstone, You don't need to say his name again. big and broad and brash with his mousy wife in the background and always with a meal and a drink nearby, and a slap on the back right here, right now. What do you mean by ''a slap on the back right here, right now.'' Gone peacefully in his sleep, a near-perfect death.

Saturday the preacher, His name is Saturday? I would clarify that a bit more. with his cruel mouth and his vicious sermons, standing at average height on his stage but seeming to grow and grow during his sermons, until he towered above his mob. Stop here and start a new sentence, it's dragging. with his prayerbook in one hand, a fist as the other and condemnation on his lips. The cowboy hadn't stayed in that town for long. The last cowboy had left his prayerbook behind in that town, he hadn't needed it any longer.

His prayerbook, handed to him by his mother. His mother Cut out ''his mother'' it's not necessary, you're just repeating yourself. with her large sad eyes, and sagging features and tightly drawn-back hair. Her face could transform with a smile, No comma. though, No comma. and he loved her for it, and for everything she did.

His father sitting sat across the room from her, strong, Use a comma instead. brooding and alone. His dark brows knitted tightly over fiery eyes. No whore rolling lazily across his bed, no drink standing cold on a nearby desk, no support for him other than his wife, the last cowboy's mother, standing opposite him across the room. His father was not a simple man but he aimed for a simple life. The best kind there is.

A simple death was what Morgan got, Who is Morgan? His father? His friend? Morgan with his hard black face and his jeans and his glittering eyes. What town had he met Morgan at? He couldn't remember, but he remembered Morgan spurring every night on, shouting the revellers on until his voice was hoarse, slamming drink after drink in front of anyone, spinning his revolver around his hand in trick after trick after trick. Morgan always called himself a gunslinger, and it was true that he was quick. Not the quickest though, the albino was the quickest.

Morgan spinning backwards into the mud, a red hole tore in his chest and those glittering eyes looking up into the moon one last time as the rain lashed down and the albino stood opposite him with the gun still smoking in his hand like the Reaper himself, the gasps from the crowd a chorus of the damned.

Morgan hadn't even managed to get his gun out. A simple death.

Hundreds of other faces tumbled through his mind like a soothing stream, women, lovers, enemies. All of them together at last, pure and good and perfect. It's all perfect. You don't need that last bit in my opinion.
The sun is setting, bathing the last cowboy one last time. The gorge below him is almost a warm red, the few trees around almost sparkle with the sunlight, with the magic. Somewhere a wolf calls out, not mournfully, not longingly but resolutely. His memories rise alongside the landscape in a crescendo, he can feel Nature reaching out to him as he stands there above the gorge with his life all around and in front of him and Nature is reaching out and She, for it is a She, it is definitely a She, The last part of that sentence is just too much. I understand what you're trying to say! is saying it's all good. Everything's fine. The world has moved on, yes, but you and I will be here till the end. She reaches out to him and he reaches back one final time and this time, this one final time, their fingers brush against each other and she says

We are one. We are one and this shall never truly end.

A simple life. A simple death. The best kind there is.