Sea of sun - short story

[third_eye]

A short story that I recently finished. I've reluctantly split it into two parts as the whole thing is about 1800 words, probably too much to read at once. I say reluctantly because it's mostly the story as a whole I'd like critiqued, but of course any other comments are greatly appreciated. I actually removed about a fifth of the story as I felt it left too little to the reader's imagination. This might have rendered it confusing, hard to tell for myself but this is my main concern. Thanks anyone who gives it a read!



Sea of sun - part 1 of 2


The first thing I see when I open my eyes are pale clouds slowly being dissolved by bright, piercing sunrays. I realize that I lie in sand, for I can feel its rough surface under my fingertips. My entire body aches from a soreness so bad I can hardly move. The air is dense and my head feels heavy.

Not until the sun reaches my eyes and sting them do I sit up. I do not recognize my surroundings; it looks like a cell, on three sides enclosed by coarse sandstone walls about twice the height of a man and the fourth one by thick iron bars. On the opposite side is a narrow passage and then a cell much like my own, though empty. Above me more bars and beyond that the grey sky turning blue.

Using both hands I feel my face. It is rough and wrinkled, covered in a short beard full of sand. I am dressed in a ragged grey shirt and matching trousers. One foot wearing a broken shoe, the other bare. I find myself wishing for a mirror, as I have no memory of who I am.

I wait.


The sun rises quickly above me. I remove my shirt and wrap it around my head to escape the heat, but the pitiless sun scorches my shoulders. Like an insect strayed into a fire, my wings have melted and I lay waiting for the embers to engulf me. A single tear finds its way down my face. Is there still water left in me? I spread it across my lips and smile. The light swallows me. Heat turns to cold. I lie down in the sand and do no longer feel any pain. How soft it is, almost like a bed.


Someone speaks. The sun has crawled its way across the sky and I am covered in shadow. A cool breeze gently touches me; my skin feels singed and sore. How mush time has passed? As I lift my head I see a man dressed in white standing outside the bars. He is offering me something.

“Water” he tells me.

Afraid to miss my chance I crawl over and wrench the bottle from his hands.

“Do not drink it all” he continues. “The sun will return tomorrow.”

I fumble with the bottle, managing to remove the cork. The coolness meets my throat and for a moment nothing else is important. I pour some of it into my face and hair, dripping down across my back and chest, the sensation almost overwhelming. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and then turn to my visitor. He is an old man with a broad and tanned face, wearing a bright uniform and a wide hat to protect him from the sun.

“Do not drink it all” he repeats.

I heed his advice.

“What is my crime?” I ask as he turns to leave me.

He shakes his head. “It matters not. You are here.”

“How can you be certain of my guilt?”

Indifference. “You are here.”

“Why can I not remember?”

“I will return”, he tells me before disappearing around the corner. Alone again.


Night is falling and it is getting colder. Shivering, I do not understand how the sun could have been torturing me so. The sand is still warm and I lie down flat on my back. Above me stars appearing. How strange that I remember some of their names though not my own. I close my eyes and silent lips say a prayer, to the God I have made my own or any that grants me mercy.

[third_eye]

hehe I don't seem to have much to lose so I'll go ahead and post the second part as well...

Critique is very welcome, if it's too boring to read through just let me know

/Anders


Sea of sun - part 2 of 2

* * *

“There is a river nearby, the source of your water. It is called the Crane in these parts, but it is long and knows many other names. It runs through the desert, from the mountains in the east to the ocean in the west. A very long time ago – several hundred years – a man and a woman lived at its source. They were simple folk, peasants, that lived from what could be grown.

They were happy, but missing in their lives was a child to love. Every day the woman prayed to God to give her a strong and healthy son. When she after many years felt a child growing inside her, she found it a great blessing and went into the field to tell her husband. He, who long ago had abandoned all hope of a son, was enraged, certain that she had gone to another man. Blinded by wrath and shame he lifted a stone and struck his wife to the ground.

She died instantly, and when the man realised what he had done, grief struck him and he threw himself in the river. But God did not wish to take a third life that day, and so he was swept up on the shore with no memory of his dead wife and unborn son. Changed was not only the fate of this one man but the very essence of the water. From that day on, this is the gift of the Crane."


When the guard’s story is over I feel instantly nauseous, my belly filled with this strange water. He eyes me silently in the faint light of the torch, shadows dancing across him, ever changing his face. Pity or malice? I cannot tell.

“Why not shoot us or hang us?” I ask him. “Why keep us here like animals and torment us with sand and sun?”

The guard smiles at me, neither scornful nor friendly.

“Perhaps your crime has left you unworthy of compassion.”

To that I do not have an answer.

“If you wish to end your life it is not difficult” he adds a moment later. “One man filled his stomach with sand before falling asleep and never woke. But it is a rare thing. The first day there is always hope.”

I almost ask him how long I have been here, but the thought of an answer frightens me. I lift the bottle and look at it as were it poison.

“The water is a gift,” he tells me, “as is oblivion.”

I feel an emptiness growing inside me. Despair, or worse: the lack thereof. A void in place of a heart.

“If you do not wish for us to remember, why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs. “It amuses me.”

“Can we speak again in the morning?” I ask him.

A moment’s silence, doubt perhaps?

“No” he answers at last. “You asked me for the same thing yesterday.”

* * *

I wake up with my face in sand. The sun is hot on my back and I am very thirsty. Beside me there is a bottle with some water in it; I empty it quickly. Though warm it relieves me of the worst agony. I am inside some kind of cell but I cannot remember how I got here. Look around. Something is written in the sand. The wind has tried to erase it but I can still make out the letters: Innocent!

I freeze for an instant, almost choking on the hot air. Certain that the words are meant for me alone I destroy them quickly. Only moments later a man appears. He gives me a bottle of water and takes with him the old one.

“Do not drink it all” he tells me before moving on. When I speak to him he does not answer.

I empty the bottle and instantly wish I had more. Still, thirst it not what occupies my mind.

Cloaked in darkness I leave my cell. Killing the guard was easier than I would have thought. His body and the stone that cracked his skull are buried behind me. I feel no remorse; only he who has been wrongfully imprisoned can judge me. I quench his torch in sand and fumble along in moonlight.

Further on I find a latter leading me onto the walls that separate the cells. Long rows of them sprawl out before me like a city in captivity. How many hold innocent men? The keys I stole are still in my pocket and I could possibly free some of them. There are scattered torches but I cannot make out any guards. Despite the stillness I am not willing not risk my own freedom and I continue along the wall. Some of the cells below me are occupied, many are not. The prisoners I see all appear to be sleeping but they could be dead, I cannot tell for sure.

When my feet touch the free sand I run until my head throbs and my lungs burn. Then I walk. When I fall I crawl. Never do I look back.

* * *

I wake up in sand. It is everywhere, in my clothes, my hair, my mouth. I try to look around but the sun blinds me. Slowly my eyes adjust to the brightness. Reflections on a water surface. A river. With great effort I drag myself towards it to quench my thirst and cool my boiling body. It tastes sweet.

After a long while I climb the shore. The current has carried me with it but it does not matter for I do not know my destination. I swallow a few last mouthfuls of water and then ascend one of the dunes. Sand and sun as far as my eyes reach. The air around me quivers from the heat and I feel wrapped in a yellow fog. The river finds its way through the sand and out of sight. I turn around many times, fall to my knees and rub my stinging eyes. Something else. There, far away, behind several towering dunes, I see the dark contours of a city spread out over the depths of a great hollow.

A newfound hope stirs within me; suddenly the desert feels less threatening. I do not know who I am nor why I was brought to such a place, but in this town, this sole oasis in a sea of sun, surely I must find aid. I tie my shirt around my head and walk.

Behind me the river runs slowly through the desert on its desolate journey west. It takes with it all the memories of the world and in the vast sea they dissolve into nothingness.

Tomorrow a new day shall rise and give hope to restless hearts, but the sand and the sun are forever the same.

[netghost]

This would be my second post on this site, so hold your stones and pitchforks at bay if I make some sinful error, and give compassion unto me...

Speaking of compassion, that was a fascinating and wonderful twist:

...“Why not shoot us or hang us?” I ask him. “Why keep us here like animals and torment us with sand and sun?”

The guard smiles at me, neither scornful nor friendly.

“Perhaps your crime has left you unworthy of compassion.”

To that I do not have an answer.

and then

...A moment’s silence, doubt perhaps?

“No” he answers at last. “You asked me for the same thing yesterday.”

It was beautifully drawn out, staggeringly vivid. A truly wonderful snapshot of his situation. Much pathos, much empathy. Something I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy (well... maybe...), and is it justified?

An inspiring and breathtaking portrayal of Hell.

Your crafting is strong - you have a wonderful sense of direction and purpose. Your phrasing is smooth and flows well with the mood of the story.

Using both hands I feel my face. It is rough and wrinkled, covered in a short beard full of sand. I am dressed in a ragged grey shirt and matching trousers. One foot wearing a broken shoe, the other bare. I find myself wishing for a mirror, as I have no memory of who I am.

I'm not so keen on the idea of colour in this passage. He is windswept, soiled, demented in many ways, I don't think the colour is important. I like the broken shoe. Throughout the piece I felt he was naked, exposed to the elements in every other way but for the clothes on his body. Besides, the colour of his garment doesn't affect the progression of the story significantly, and I wouldn't give it the opportunity to take over the paragraph. It's as though suddenly I'm left facing a ragged old man in grey, rather than letting my mind wander as his is. It doesn't matter what he's wearing - the idea is thirst. I'm not getting a need for shelter and protection from the elements from him. I'd find some way to remove that from the piece. If he's wearing clothes, the reader can figure it out in your next paragraph. It's not unnatural to be wearing clothes.

The sun rises quickly above me. I remove my shirt and wrap it around my head to escape the heat, but the pitiless sun scorches my shoulders. Like an insect strayed into a fire, my wings have melted and I lay waiting for the embers to engulf me. A single tear finds its way down my face. Is there still water left in me? I spread it across my lips and smile. The light swallows me. Heat turns to cold. I lie down in the sand and do no longer feel any pain. How soft it is, almost like a bed.

I really liked this paragraph, how you incorporated bliss and pain into the same sentences. I love the imagery, about the insect - I really feel it.

However, I wonder if it's necessary. Throughout the rest of the story, he yearns for water, having none of his own. Maybe removing the possibility of weeping and crying would strengthen that need. That his tears are like a sludge under his eyes, thick as the gummy saliva under his tongue, that they won't squeeze through the crusty ducts - that kind of idea, but more poetical (and not quite as revolting).

His praying and conferencing with God smacks of human, even animal: that when hopeless and dejected we turn to a power greater than ourselves, whether in the past we believed in it or not.

She died instantly, and when the man realised what he had done, grief struck him and he threw himself in the river. But God did not wish to take a third life that day, and so he was swept up on the shore with no memory of his dead wife and unborn son.

Again, water and purity, to wash away sin and anger. I liked the way you incorporated this.

“There is a river nearby, the source of your water. It is called the Crane in these parts, but it is long and knows many other names. It runs through the desert, from the mountains in the east to the ocean in the west. A very long time ago – several hundred years – a man and a woman lived at its source. They were simple folk, peasants, that lived from what could be grown.

They were happy, but missing in their lives was a child to love. Every day the woman prayed to God to give her a strong and healthy son. When she after many years felt a child growing inside her, she found it a great blessing and went into the field to tell her husband. He, who long ago had abandoned all hope of a son, was enraged, certain that she had gone to another man. Blinded by wrath and shame he lifted a stone and struck his wife to the ground.

She died instantly, and when the man realised what he had done, grief struck him and he threw himself in the river. But God did not wish to take a third life that day, and so he was swept up on the shore with no memory of his dead wife and unborn son. Changed was not only the fate of this one man but the very essence of the water. From that day on, this is the gift of the Crane."

I found this section a bit choppy, not quite knowing why it was directed in the third person. I see the connections you're making, but I don't think they flow as well as they could. At first, one imagines that the guard is speaking about our main character, but is stopped: "Hey, what? hundreds of years ago?"

The description of the place is important, but I think it should be more evident that the guard is describing this prison as a circle of hell or whatever you call it for wife-beaters and criminals, created by this one man. I was a bit confused until I read it over a few times more.

However, my first time reading it over, I got the idea that this man had done something wrong.

The crime isn't important - I like how you didn't mention it. A lot of others would have, thinking it imperative to the development of the character. But it's not, and I congratulate you on your taste.

I'm not sure I like the ending, but that's totally personal preference. You don't have to listen to this below.

I'm not so convinced that all stories need to have a happy ending, so long as they're wrapped up tightly with no loose ends. I don't think your character needs to find salvation or solace in this prospective city over the hill. I understand the idea of bringing in God's redemption, but I think the hopelessness you've set him in is too deep for him to be able to redeem himself. A higher power only redeems those who feel they themselves deserve to be redeemed. If he kept wandering the desert, you'd still have the same strong finishing note you ended on.

You've got a beautiful piece of writing - the best I've seen in a while. I'm sorry if my criticism did hurt in any way shape or form; if it did, I apologise, it was not my intention. This piece was good enough without my tinkering.

It's my kind of writing. Not everybody likes it, but I adore it. You shouldn't be so self deprecating - one would have to struggle to be bored reading this piece.

Keep it up!

[third_eye]

Thank you so much for taking your time, Netghost. Very helpful comments, and very encouraging as well.

The three paragraphs of long dialog by the guard is what I too feel is most flawed. I think what's in there is important to the story, both to explain tings and as a symbol, but after rewriting it and polishing it forever I still can't seem to get it to not seem out of place. Earlier it was a part of a conversation with the prisoner but I felt I wanted to shorten the story and make this part tighter, that is probably why it is confusing; there's no indication as to who is speaking until it's over.

Concerning the end I agree with you, and my intention wasn't to make a happy ending. My thought was that he was returning to his prison (having no memory of it) only to be locked up again. Also, even if he was indeed innocent the first time, having killed the guard he actually deserves to be there. So, the whole thing kind of goes in a circle. This neatly illustrates how hard it can be to portray something that is very clear and certain in your head to a reader.

Long rows of them sprawl out before me like a city in captivity.

There, far away, behind several towering dunes, I see the dark contours of a city spread out over the depths of a great hollow.

This connection is my attempt to hint that the prison and the city are the same place, though it probably needs to be clarified.


Thanks again for your critique!

[Mandorin Anamor]

I must agree, you have a great grasp of keepign your imagery vivid yet uncomplicated.
Somethign that is difficuilt to do in first person, the urge to go into overdetail whilst righting in that style is almost overwhelming.
I really like it, the dialogue between the guard and your protagonist is great, you've obviously thought a great deal about the words they exchange, rather than throwing in dialogue to keep the story moving.
Really liked. Personally, i'm still an amateur when it coems to grammar, so I'll let others look at that, but from my basic point fo view i could'nt see any flaws at first glance.
Though i'm sure others like Chris might find some.
Awesome work, how logns the entire thing, a short story i think you said?

have you ever read any gene Wolfe by any chance?

Tim

[third_eye]

Thanks Tim!

I've been having doubts about the quality of my writing recently and encouraging comments such as yours are very nice to hear.

Originally, this was supposed to be the entire story, but I've started expanding it, writing a more complex story taking place in the prison/desert where I'm attempting to incorporate this piece as a prologue. The rest will be in past tense though - I couldn't image trying to write more than a couple of pages in present tense. I'm still trying to work out that transition.

I've never read Gene Wolfe but I'll check him out when I get a chance.

Cheers

[Mandorin Anamor]

It is very good.
Myself personally, i find the greatest challenge is my dialogue between characters, it takes me a while to structure a sentence so that is realistically viable.
Sounds good, shifting tenses from present to past are tricky to instigate, but fun to read.

Yah, Gene Wolfe, is stupidly heavy going, but once you get used to his almost poetic style its a good read, odd fantasy with a dark twist. but a warning, heavy going like nothign else at the bgeinning.
Its like reading wordsworth lol.

Tim