Archive for July, 2012
Bring on the stripes, my enemies!
I’ll call it ecstasy.
Just give me some more,
So long as my girls
Live in ease, forevermore.
Bring on the hate, my enemies!
The Lord will work me free.
I’ll drink up your gall,
So long as my girls
Overcome, despite it all.
Every morning, we open our eyes
To an important invitation—
Where is here;
When is now;
What is you;
Why is love;
Who is God—
Sleeping, they are unaware,
If he feels concern or care,
Or, if he is even there.
We just awaken to know
Our hearts, which he cut and sewed,
Hurt, whether he meant it so.
The weather’s heat makes our skin burn,
Robbing us of comfort in turn.
Our tempers ignite with a word,
Or a wayward glance that’s untoward.
Sweat wets clothes into a worn mess.
We seek shelter or shade to rest.
It doesn’t abate or turn cool
No matter what we try to do.
Instead, we all say together:
Man! How ‘bout this weather,
And somehow that makes it better.
Once again, I’m looking for your input on, what is now, my 3rd hook for my young adult novel. I toned it down some, which I think makes it a little more palatable for younger audiences. Still, I’m looking for input, so please comment. I’m taking votes until Friday, the 13.
Thanks for taking the time to read.
“Frank pestered me about my drinking, too, before I stabbed him with the butter knife.” Mama’s eyes narrowed at Ramon, standing in her doorway. Her lips quivered as if she was barely able to restrain her hatred for him.
Then, a wave of fatigue overwhelmed her, and her eyes lazily closed. Her head lolled on her shoulders a few rotations, then snapped back with a start. She snorted as if she had suddenly awoken, or Ramon was simply beneath her.
Ramon wasn’t sure if it was one, or both.
She slurred: “Whatta you care anyways?” She raised the tequila bottle to her lips and took a deep gulp. Ramon opened his mouth to protest, and she slammed her bedroom door shut in his face.
Ramon blinked with surprise and jumped back. He quietly mouthed the words: “I didn’t mean to make you mad, Mama. I just . . .”
The memory of the hatred on her red face burned in his mind and gave him pause. Its frightening intensity steadily worked its way through his battered defenses, rekindling all his former shock and terror, and then . . . his baffled uncertainty: What should I do?
He leaped across the living room on his tiptoes and fled inside his room. Breathless, he locked the door behind him. He leaned against the door for support and paused to catch his breath. Then, he began his routine when Mama was violently drunk. He picked up his Louisville Slugger bat and withdrew to his Serta mattress pitched in the corner of his room. He clinched the bat to his chest and buried his head into his pillow.
“Please, Mama, wake up sober tomorrow.”
The leaves on the tree outside my window
Are crying for joy on the grass below.
The grass catches their tears with arms outstretched,
Celebrating life and just how far-fetched
It is when you imagine: tears for joy
When a child is born, whether girl or boy;
Breathless wonder at the sun’s light rising,
Dying on the lap of the horizon:
Nature’s magnificent Pieta,
Multi-colored in life and variety.
And that’s just man, the trees, grass, rain, and sun.
What of the rest God’s created and done?
Why don’t we give credit, where it’s due?
I didn’t create all of this. Did you?
Just wanted to get your input on my second hook; I think it’s better, but if you don’t, please comment. I’m determined to get it “right.” It’s the most important part, and literary agents and publishers will send novels to the slush pile if you don’t capture their attention right away.
Thank you in advance for your help.
“Frank asked about my drinking, too, before I stabbed him and buried him under the house.” Mama glared at Ramon and then slammed her bedroom door shut in his face.
Ramon jumped and quietly mouthed the words: “I didn’t mean to make you mad.” But the hatred in her pinched, red face registered more than her harsh words. The look rekindled shock and terror, and then . . . uncertainty: What should I do?
He leaped across the living room on his tiptoes and fled inside his room. Breathless, he locked the door behind him. Then, he did what he always did when she’d had too much to drink: he picked up his Louisville Slugger bat and gripped it until the next morning once she’d sobered up.
I’m trying to create a more compelling hook for my novel. That said: if you have any suggestions or changes you think I should make to the one below, please comment. You have until Friday, the 13th, to post.
NOTE: I will cite the poster of the best hook in the “Acknowledgements” section of my novel.
Thanks for your help.
“Frank asked about my drinking, too, before I stabbed him and buried him under the house,” Mama said with a straight face.
Startled, Ramon jumped. Is she joking? The 12-year-old wondered. But there was no expression on her face: only her glowering eyes. Flooded with fear, Ramon ran to his room, locking the door behind him. He got out his bat and held onto it all night until the early morning light lit up his room.
We grow weary digging wells
To have them filled up
By our enemies,
While those who are full and holy
Gather in the echo chamber:
“It is well. It is well with my soul;”
“You cannot dwell, just do well.”
Still, my lips are parched,
And my heart is a stone
Without a trace of living water.
Dig there then, you fool!
You’ve been digging in the wrong place,
All this time.
What? That means . . . my life!
Aren’t I in charge of what happens to me?
How’s that working out for you?
You beat to the time of death.
He grants life, so He will help you dig.
Now are you going to pick up a shovel or what?
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