And The Skies Are Not Cloudy All Day (1)

Hey! You gave me a review for something terrible some time back, and I never repaid you for it.

Nitpicks have been done to death, but for a reason--you need to proofread a little more. That's it for the grammar. Right, onto the piece:

I find that you mix a lot of the things together. The style comes across to me, as a formal twist of imagery, but with little substance. Allow me to elaborate. A lot of the descriptions here - no matter how wonderful - detract from the main purpose of the story, and I find myself too lost to actually understand and interpret what's happening. I personally think that if you get rid of the entire first paragraph, we are sent into a more interesting opening. Think about he purpose of the section you already use to start it. All I gather from it, is that there's a long (a very long) railway. You tell us that later on, and thus, it does nothing for me.

Similes: you seem to be a fan of them, no? Now, that's not a problem at all. But I find that a lot of them just drag on. Take the following as an example:

They make things glow a little, like embers in a fire [s]you use to roast marshmallows over[/s].

The desert around him is washed and naked, like ladies in their underwear.

like a broken car on the side of the highway with its hood propped up.

Kylan, I swear you exist just to make the rest of us look inadequate. *glare*

This was beautiful, as usual. Nothing to report beyond the fact that I'm jealous and I'm going to murder you and steal your stories.

Grudgingly,
~Sunny

Kylan! I love getting PMs from you, though it may take me a while to get to them.

The ground is chapped. It is all cracked up and rough, like crocodile skin made into fancy lady's boots and the dying sun paints it red. Railroad tracks run through it.

Dented up like the front of an old Ford pick-up.

As the train passes by, slowing and snorting, wheezing, a kid jumps out of one of the boxcars and is dragged down into the dust and the hard, mud-bed ground.

“High-ho, Silver!” says the radio

When JFK got shot in Houston, my mother locked herself in her room and cried for a long time.
She cried because a man with a split-level smile and prairie-grass hair had all his brains leaked out of the back of his head. Had this hole put right through the side of his head so that gray matter and a bunch of skull fragments hit Mrs. Kennedy in the face like a cream pie.

“Died like every politician should,” she said.
The thing I like most about Maria is her skin.
It feels like Navajo ponchos knitted out of mountain goat hair and sunsets.
The thing I hate most about Maria is her helplessness.
She is only a poor Mexican woman. She is made out of copper pesos and beans. Nothing more.
And so I blame her for everything, even when I know that everything bad that happens to me is because of my father and mother. I guess I do that because Maria is all that my parents aren't.

Hi Ky! I decided to stop by and give you a review! Yay! Thanks for sending me the PM, by the way. I've been busy so I might not have noticed this on its own.

The sound of him unfolding the map sounds amplified a million time he holds it up to the sickly, feverish light of the moon.

She says that horses are made up of kisses deposited on the foreheads of women by lovers and that when you cry, you're tears are actually sequins stolen from the dresses of pretty ladies.

Thanks, all.

The story is set in the 1960s just for everyone's information.

Jiggity >> I will be trying my best to keep things lean, I really will.

-Kylan

Hola.

I actually liked the rail-road description. I would keep it.

They sky is dented.
[s]Dented up like the front of an old Ford pick-up.[/s]

But he shrugs it off pretty quick though

He folds the map up again, takes a cigarette from his pocket and sticks it unlit between his teeth.
The desert around him is washed and naked[s], like ladies in their underwear[/s].
He smiles.
Out of his backpack, he takes a radio and clicks it on and waits as it makes pigeon dropping static.
He tunes it.
He tunes it to an old Lone Ranger program.
And then he walks off, walks off toward nowhere, the sound of the radio trailing behind him and the night yawning at him, like a broke car on the side of the highway with its hood propped up.
“High-ho, Silver!” says the radio.

Hey, Kylan! I'm glad you finally posted this! I've been waiting eagerly all week.

Railroad tracks run through it.

They sky is dented.

Sometimes, they shine a little light on the majesty of of the desert.

The desert around him is washed and naked, like ladies in their underwear.

He tunes it.

He tunes it to an old Lone Ranger program.

She is only a poor Mexican woman. She is made out of copper pesos and beans. Nothing more.

quote]It is like crocodile skin made into fancy ladies' boots.[/quote]

Love the imagery here.

But you gotta look for it.

He tunes it.
He tunes it to an old Lone Ranger program.

Welp Kylan, looks like another masterpiece is walking around in these parts.

I enjoyed this! Though I miss TEB, I can see myself growing to love this too. There were a couple of things that I spotted:

Railroad tracks run through it.

The stars are measly excuses for light; a bunch of foolish virgins with no oil in their lamps sitting up there, sitting on their heels and rocking back and forth. Sometimes, they shine a little light on the majesty of of the desert. They make things glow a little, like embers in a fire you use to roast marshmallows over. But you gotta look for it. Otherwise, the hugeness – the vastness – of the desert overwhelms those locust-eyed candlelights in the sky.

The moon shines its owl eye on the train, lining it with silver.

As the train passes by, slowing and snorting, wheezing, a kid jumps out of one of the boxcars and is dragged down into the dust and the hard, mud-bed ground.

But he shrugs it off pretty quick though and takes a road-map out of his pocket, whistling. Around him, the night creaks, like stirrups and fresh morning leather. The sound of him unfolding the map sounds amplified a million time he holds it up to the sickly, feverish light of the moon.

I look down the hall. At the end is my mother's room. The door is dark and hunched over and gives way to a darkness that is as cold and black as a whaling ship. Inside, my mother sleeps. She sleeps with heavy eyelids and a heavy tongue. Her lips are purple. She is like some great, slumbering poppy with petals that are made out of glitzy pimp suit-jackets.
The whole hallway reeks of incense and drunkenness.
I know that she is in a world right now where things are soft and round and slow. Where she can draw the sky around her shoulders like some kind of woven blanket. The sleep is good, probably. As peaceful and stately as whippoorwills humming in trees plum colored by the dark.
One of these days, I'm going to open her medicine and dump every last bottle down the toilet. All her life-blood flushed into the sewer system. She would, of course, beat me until she drew enough of my blood to fill up each and every one of her bottles again.
I hate her.
I hate her for how lacy and gnat-winged her hair has become. I hate her for the way she smells. I hate her for how her eyes are stained and knobby, like old crayons. I hate her for her tears for JFK, a dumb president with buttery corn-on-the-cob words.
Sometimes she smiles at me.
But her smiles are stitched.
They are sewn into her face.