Submitted for your approval
Frost
Dance of The Harlequin
by
Jeffrey A. Stadt
Harley wandered along the riverbank, hands tucked into his jeans pockets.
The decaying city of Little Rock stood just to the south, jutting
mountain-tops of glass and steel, crumbling brick facades, the stench of
chemicals and waste rising from the dark water. The warm breeze did little
to dilute the fetid aroma, so Harley tried not to breathe too deeply. Even
though the temperatures reached into the low eighties, the teen still wore
his denim jacket; an Army-style duffle bag weighed down his shoulders,
spine, but he was reluctant to store it at the bus station. How could he
trust flimsy metal lockers with his only belongings?
The fact of the matter was that Harley trusted no one, not even himself.
As he gazed across the surging Arkansas river, Harley barely noticed the
color of the sky, cloudless and blue, or the insects that swarmed around
him. He was lost within his own thoughts, his own past actions, memories
that danced with his soul. His forehead was slick with sweat, as was his
neck under his shoulder-length raven hair. His sight was locked onto the
currents of the filthy river.
Harley felt nothing, nothing except for a seething emotional pain; the
throbbing intermixed with a tingling numbness in his shoulders, arms and
weary legs. A dull stitching where old bruises tried to heal. Those had
been deep bruises, marks in the shape of fisted, bony knuckles, the loving
touch of his father. It was a visual pain, cold but searing, dull yet
stabbing. And always he'd kept his own rage in check. Always... until two
weeks ago. The last time his pale-skinned father hammered into him, Harley
struck back, a jackhammer assault. He'd rushed the intoxicated old man, his
eyes coals of fury, his thoughts full of flashing images -- no thoughts or
feelings -- only images of cruelty. He envisioned his dismembered corpse,
bloated and purple-blue floating on a scum-slick pond, his father laughing
and pointing at him, voicing condescending taunts at poor, dead Injun
Harley. Harley thought he smelled his rotting corpse, vapors mixing with
swamp gasses, his father lighting a cigarette...
He tore into the man like a beast, some rabid bear caught in a berserker
rage, relentless, inexhaustible. Harley had reveled in each thunderous blow
as welts and blood-filled bruises rose, darkened, on the man's pale skin.
As he heard the snap of the old toad's bones, he'd felt [pleasure] in
returning the torment, the pain, back onto the infliction.
Splintered ribs had punctured the man's tar-brown lungs, gurgling sounds of
coughed up blood, fearful eyes hidden under swollen lids.
Harley rushed up the stairs to his closet of a bedroom, grabbed his
pre-packed bag, and had stormed from his "happy" home before his mother
returned from work.
He still didn't know if his father had lived or died. He had walked away,
never a backward glance, leaving the prick to suffer alone in the shadows of
the past.
Harley knew only pain: an emptiness, a void needing to be filled: a longing
of desire that has no known name or voice; a rage needing to be fed,
satiated, stroked.
He halted in his stroll, took notice of the shadows cast from the rusting
belly of the steel bridge that spanned the river. There was something....
something beautiful about decaying infrastructures. Time eroded unseen
psychic pain caught in the metal and brick, concrete and pavement. Harley
gazed under the bridge, squinting to block out the sunlight, hoping to
discern the shadows, that reflection of his thoughts, soul. He stepped
forward, heard the grinding of rocks and debris under the heels of his
boots, his sight still fixed on the shadows. He was drawn to something
below the stretching metal, something lost between the cracks of the
crumbling walkway above.
It was in the stony foundation, a flash of light, a sliver of color.
A troll's heart.
As he drew into the shadows, the sounds of rushing water and cars speeding
overhead stunned his ears unto deafness. Dust particles like clouds rained
down on him, unknown micro-particles catching in his eyes. Harley winced,
rubbed his burning eyes with the back of his hands until saline tears
flushed his vision. Bleary, clearing though. He scanned the ground around
him, took notice of the fishy smell that overwhelmed him, nauseating him.
"Damn -- but that's rank!"
Shifting the duffle bag to his left shoulder, Harley moved slowly forward,
eyes forever searching for that which beckoned him -- the flashing of color,
that fluttering resonance that rushed into his ears, a voice -- a chorus of
voices, angelic, hollow, metallic, singing to his conflagrated soul.
Broken bottles, some clear, some beer brown and green, were scattered
about. A nest of used and discarded hypodermic needles, the housings
spotted in dried blood and evaporated traces of junk, fast food wrappers and
crushed soda pop cans interlaced the myriad debris.
Then Harley squatted on his haunches, arms resting on his thighs. A stoic
expression painted his chiseled features. Only his eyes seemed to react, to
reflect a glimmer of emotion or interest, as he studied that which had lured
him to a troll's bed: those blazing colors of harlequin.
A slight smile played over his lips as he took in the image of the
tarnished figurine, the diamond-patterned clothes of sliver, red and green
rust-water bleached, the porcelain white face cracked, chipped at the chin.
The arms were limp, right hand missing. Its torso was buried in dirt, as if
a cat had caught this harlequin mouse and after chewing on the disagreeable
matter, covered it like so much waste. Yet the doll had crawled from its
grave, breathing again, waiting for Harley to find it.
For he heard the doll singing to him, a song of brilliant green and red
light, diamond shadows waltzing over his mind's eye. He reached out to grab
the dirty doll which reminded him of his mother, who had collected
harlequins. They were her personal kachina. Those painted smiles and
diamond outlined eyes always made his mother smile, bringing calm to her
nervous disposition.
"You found me even here, eh, little kachina. And I guess these dead
catfish are my spirit guides, eh?"
He began to tremble as his hand drew closer to the doll; all other sounds
were muffled unto extinction. All other images, movement went unnoticed by
the teen who hovered between the shadows of memory and reality. The
harlequin song warbled in his skull, kaleidoscopic colors beaming into his
retinas, lids fluttering as cold sweat drenched him. Harley felt the pull
of the doll like a field of static electricity hovering before him,
expanding to almost touch him. The cast of silvery fabric quicksilver flowed
towards him in serpentine quickness.
[It calls to me,] he silently cried. [Weird.] Harley grasped the doll
just under its arms, slowly lifting it from the pile of dirt. He stared at
it dully, lips quivering. [Cold yet flowing, silver liquid flowing up my
arm, a liquid heat, diamond-light flashing, it hurts -- damn but it hurts! ]
Harley fell on his ass, the doll rattling in his grip. That thing's voice
was in his mind, that silver fabric in his blood. He stared at its face,
studied those eyes that seemed to wink at him -- timeless eyes, old eyes,
the soul of the soil. The burning red and green boiled his mind as he drank
in those sad, harlequin eyes that studied him.
"Come on then -- talk to me. Say something, damn it!" Harley pleaded with
the figurine. He watched as the doll's dress flowed over his skin, slipping
under the cuffs of his denim jacket. It tickled, this liquid magic that ran
slick over his flesh, wrapping around the breadth of his muscular arms,
snaking towards his chest, abdomen, lower. Tendrils snaked around his neck,
under his long hair, up into his skull, down to his sweaty toes.
"Kachina -- what-are-you-doing? Why?"
Fever gripped him then, smothering his thoughts and draining his strength
as the afternoon sun grew dim. And Harley fell into the fire of flickering
harlequin light.
#######
[Sweet grass is burning, the smoke billowing towards me. I fan it over my
face, breathing deeply as I move the smoke over my head. Ravens soared
silently overhead, circling. Sweat drenches my naked flesh as I sit, legs
crossed and tingling towards numb, a fire blazing before me in a man-dug
pit. I gaze around me, notice Coyote to my left, Bear to my right. Coyote
smiles his sly smile, an amber gleam shows from his eyes, eyes directed at
me. Bear smokes a pipe, the acrid tobacco reaches my nose. He is jovial,
Bear is. He sweats as I do in this sweat lodge, the shadows playing over
Bear's girth and light brown fur.]
[As I continue to move the smoke around me, I notice my skin. It is
silver. A wet silver like paint. I touch my left arm with right hand, but
it is not paint, it is flesh -- and it is cold. The muscles are shaded in
black. That song I once heard, that metallic warbling of harlequin chorus
rings true to my ears now. It is not metallic, but it is hollow, this flute.
No voices, only music, the music of my soul. Coyote nods in agreement,
takes notice of my fearful expression, for I am shuddering in this vision,
as I am cold.]
["Why do you fear, Harley?" Coyote asks before licking his chest in a
cleaning ritual.]
["Why am I here? Where am I? Why am I silver?"]
[Coyote laughs that insidious laugh of his. "Why not ask the clown?" he
says, nodding beyond the fire across from me.]
[I gaze into the flames, straighten my spine to glimpse over the tall
flames of slow moving fire. And there, under the bleary glow of heat, was a
shape, a female shape with diamond-outlined eyes shaded blue. She smiles
back at me with full red lips, lips of blood. She is thin, like that doll I
had found under the troll bridge by the dead river. "Clown!" I shout over
the dancing flames as the wooden flute-song grows louder, nearer. "Who are
you? Why am I here? Tell me!"]
["You do not know?"]
["If I knew, I wouldn't be asking."]
[Coyote and Bear laugh in unison. I shoot them both a contemptuous look,
then I hear the clown chuckle softly. Coyote turns to me, speaks: "That is
no way to address your elders, boy. She is worse than me, I'm sad to say.
Her wickedness surpasses my trickster heart, so you are warned."]
["You would be wise to listen to Coyote," Bear remarks. "She is a dancer
through the shadows, and she waits for you. Do not upset her. Or she will
abandon you."]
["Why do I need you?" I ask of the clown. "Why am I silver?"]
[She licks those blood-red lips, brilliant green-jeweled eyes beaming into
my soul, thin arms snaking into the air. She makes her arms dance. She
only laughs, laughs anew as that fire crackles and grow s, eclipsing me. The
silver of my flesh burns cold. My vision fades, fading into shadows.]
[As the shadows envelope me, I hear her singular voice embedded within the
soaring flute-song: "We are all mad -- we all rage -- reality is but a
dream."]
[As my silver skin bubbles and boils, I scream. That harlequin clown dances
over my chest, my body supine, my limbs writhing in agony as the sweet grass
odor began to stink of rotting fish. Yet the harlequin still danced, dancing
over my muted silver skin.]
######
The doll's dancing felt like a man's callused hand gliding over his exposed
chest, T-shirt pulled up under his arms. Another hand patted down his jeans
as Harley shook off the feverish dream. "Kachina?" he groggily asked, lids
fluttering as he opened his bleary eyes, that image before him taking shape.
He saw a stranger leering down at him, thin lips wet with saliva.
"What?" Harley cursed, feet kicking out. His heels dug into the dirt as he
scrambled free from the stranger's grip. "Perv!" he said, quickly pulling
down his T-shirt. He felt the man's sticky spit drying on his chest; it
smelled like fish.
"Back to the land of the living, I see," said the man as he straightened
his tie.
He was well dressed in a blue suit. His hair was short and neat, face clean
shaven. It was a haggard face painting a portrait of a salesman, complete
with twitching left eye, a nervous tick. "Just thought I'd help you out,
that's all."
"More like, help yourself. Always go trolling under bridges?" Harley spat.
He searched for that harlequin doll, but he couldn't see it. It was gone.
Then he brought up his hands, studied the color of his flesh. Bronze,
native American pallor. Not scaly fish silver. "Stay away from me."
"You need money, don't you?" asked the man who rose from his knees. He
brushed the dirt from his trousers. "I can give it to you... in
exchange..."
Harley screwed up his face, eyes blazing with bit back rage.
"You do need money, don't you?"
"Maybe."
The boy dropped his defensive shield, looked down at his worn out boots.
He grimaced with indecision, his body damp in sweat, his thoughts fuzzy from
the vision. That flute-song was still locked in his mind, however distant it
sounded. He believed that he could smell his own pungent body odor under
that cloud of decomposing fish, and he felt the grime between his blistered
toes. His stomach growled, his throat was constricted, dry. His misery was
tangible. Hands curled into tight fists at his side as he glared across the
way at the well-dressed man. He pulled a wad of money his trouser pockets.
Harley panned the ground at the stranger's feet, again searching for his
kachina. Nothing.
"I... I don't know..."
"What? Don't know that you stink; that you're hungry and need a shower;
don't know those clothes are soaked through and filthy?" The man's deep
voice reminded Harley of his father's as it oozed with bitter contempt. The
man glanced at his watch, then back at the boy. "Time's running out." He
sighed, spoke again, his tone one of caring concern. "Tell you what..."
"Harley," the teen replied.
"Harley. I'll get you a room. I know this transient hotel. And I'll get
you some fresh clothes, and a meal. Then we'll discuss business." The man
walked a few paces forward.
"And... what would I... like, have to do?" Harley gulped hard.
The man walked fully up to Harley then, knowing that he had the upper hand.
He slung his arm across the boy's tense shoulders, and smiled lasciviously.
"I won't hurt you."
"That's not what I asked," Harley said through gritted teeth, that flute
song roaring in his ears.
"Oh, you're a feisty one. I'll make this as clear as possible, Harley.
I'll get you all set up, and you'll do exactly as I say. It's just money,
after all. Either you want some -- and you earn it the easy way -- or you
don't. There's worse people than me waiting for a scared, homeless boy like
you."
"How long you been trailing me?"
"From the moment you stepped from the bus," the man said. He gripped the
boy's shoulder tightly, leading him towards his waiting car.
"Then you want me pretty bad, man. Make it a good price." Harley tasted
the sour paste in his mouth as he was led away. With a backward glance, he
looked for that harlequin, but the clown was no where to be seen.
He shuddered then, hearing Coyote's chuckling mirth rip through the shadows
of the bridge's underbelly. The sunlight stung his eyes. The stranger
released his grip, dug his hands into his pockets, searching for his car
keys. Harley pulled away from the man. He bolted back towards the bridge
and away from the darkly tinted windows of the sports car.
"Come back here!" the man said, running after the boy.
"Forgot my bag," Harley cried over his shoulder.
He reached the shadows, slowed his pace. He stopped to stare at the
harlequin sitting atop of his drab olive duffle bag. It stared at him with
ageless eyes, the eyes of an old soul, eyes of jeweled-green. That hollow
flute-song rushed into his thoughts, images of his father's broken and
bloody body played before his mind's eye. A cold quicksilver coursed
through his veins. Harley gritted his teeth as the harlequin began to
dance, as the fish began to flop around on the river banks, alive. Harley
swiveled around, faced the stranger who gasped, stepping back a pace or two,
jaw slacking as he gasped: "Your.... skin.... What's happened to your
skin?"
Harley smiled a vulpine grin that made his lips look like wet blood. He
stormed towards the man. He clasped the business man's struggling hands in
his steel grip. "Dance with me," he said.
Firelight flared in the shadows as Bear played a wooden flute. Coyote
danced on his hind legs around Harley's bag. The tiny harlequin twirled
about, its feminine voice rising in a chorus with the flute-song. "It is
but a dream, reality -- and we are all mad beasts."
As the fire burned around their feet, the well-dressed man cried out in
fear, locked in the boy's embrace. Harley glanced above him. He saw the
ravens circling overhead as the thunderous beat of cars raced across the
dead river's bridge. He laughed, smiled, silver skin cold and moist. He
knew that his mother dreamed of him.
The car doors slammed shut. The engine roared. And sad-faced Harley
watched his silver-scaled spirit dancing in the firelight of the troll's
belly. The driver squeezed Harley's thigh, then shifted gears. As the car
squealed away, Harley clenched his jaw. He prayed that his tears wouldn't
fall.
[You didn't listen, Coyote said. They never do.]
end
Jeffrey A. Stadt mrfr...@swbell.net
FoolsView Studios: http://members.xoom.com/foolsview/
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
There is no escape
Erica Alison
now can I rip it to shreds?
Why thankyou.
> Dance of The Harlequin. About 3K words in length. [*]=
italics
This piece is bizarre. It reminds me somewhat of Peter Straub,
though all I have read of his is an introduction to an anthology
of Poppy Z. Brite's short stories. I didn't like his
introduction, but for some reason, I do like this.
>
> Harley wandered along the riverbank, hands tucked into his
jeans pockets.
> The decaying city of Little Rock stood just to the south,
jutting
> mountain-tops of glass and steel, crumbling brick facades, the
stench of
> chemicals and waste rising from the dark water. The warm
breeze did little
> to dilute the fetid aroma, so Harley tried not to breathe too
deeply.
I like this beginning. It sets the scene adequately without
waffling on in the irrelevant and boring way I tend to do when
starting stories. "jutting mountain-tops of glass and steel,
crumbling brick facades" is a nice image.
Even
> though the temperatures reached into the low eighties, the
teen still wore
> his denim jacket; an Army-style duffle bag weighed down his
shoulders,
> spine, but he was reluctant to store it at the bus station.
How could he
> trust flimsy metal lockers with his only belongings?
My first complaint - where you say "weighed down his shoulders,
spine, but he was reluctant", I think it would be better off
'shoulders and spine', since as it is, I was expecting another
noun, and the rest of the sentence didn't fit.
This is effective in allowing the reader to believe that Harley
could tear into his father with such force - under normal
circumstances, the brain just won't let you cause that much
damage, exert that much force because of a mental block which is
only overridden when you are in such a rage as depicted here.
It's also a very nice slip into split-second thoughts before
returning to real-time real-life.
> He tore into the man like a beast, some rabid bear caught in
a berserker
> rage, relentless, inexhaustible. Harley had reveled in each
thunderous blow
> as welts and blood-filled bruises rose, darkened, on the man's
pale skin.
> As he heard the snap of the old toad's bones, he'd felt
[pleasure] in
> returning the torment, the pain, back onto the infliction.
I'm not sure about that last word - 'infliction'. If he was
returning pain to the person who previously inflicted it upon
him, you want to make that clear. Infliction is the pain and
bruises previously caused - ie, on Harley. He's not hitting
~them~.
I also don't think the italics are necessary, but that's more of
a personal view.
> Splintered ribs had punctured the man's tar-brown lungs,
gurgling sounds of
> coughed up blood, fearful eyes hidden under swollen lids.
This may be a silly thing to mention, but that wasn't a
sentence. If your intention was a slightly delirious list of
sensations and images, then fine... it is a nice one, but
linking it with the first clause loses some of its
effectiveness. Perhaps in keeping with the flashes of almost
slide-show-like images, you could lose the 'had' at the
begining, and change 'punctured' to 'puncture' or 'puncturing'.
Probably the former.
> Harley rushed up the stairs to his closet of a bedroom,
grabbed his
> pre-packed bag, and had stormed from his "happy" home before
his mother
> returned from work.
'Harley had' may put across the timeshift more consistently.
'and had stormed' could then become 'and stormed' and flow...
better.
> He still didn't know if his father had lived or died. He had
walked away,
> never a backward glance, leaving the prick to suffer alone in
the shadows of
> the past.
I would guess he'd died, since his lungs were pungtured by
numerous shattered ribs, and tdhat he was choking on his blood.
He'll have drowned before or shortly after Harley left the
house.
And I don't think your choice of the word 'prick' is quite
right - the word to me means something much more simple and
..nice than an abusive father - someone who stands on your
stomach as they get into bed for instance. Or who forgets to set
the alarm in the morning, or something equally trivial. It's a
trivial word I think, and you need a much stronger one.
> Harley knew only pain: an emptiness, a void needing to be
filled: a longing
> of desire that has no known name or voice; a rage needing to
be fed,
> satiated, stroked.
'a longing for desire' perhaps.
>
> He halted in his stroll, took notice of the shadows cast from
the rusting
> belly of the steel bridge that spanned the river. There was
something....
> something beautiful about decaying infrastructures.
Something about 'steel' makes me think of shiny metal... or at
least not rusty metal. Perhaps because I'm thinking of stainless
steel (of course), but still...
Time eroded unseen
> psychic pain caught in the metal and brick, concrete and
pavement.
This sentence confuses me. It doesn't seem very clear.
If I grasped the meaning correctly (which I doubt), a clearer
way to put it across would be to hyphenate 'time-eroded', put a
comma before 'unseen', and add a 'was' before 'caught'.
Of course that's only a vague suggestion, but I do think you
need to consider the sentence structure.
Harley
> gazed under the bridge, squinting to block out the sunlight,
hoping to
> discern the shadows, that reflection of his thoughts, soul.
This is also unclear - "hoping to discern the shadows, that
reflection of his thoughts, soul." doesn't appear to make much
sense to me.
Maybe you're trying to be too dramatic.
Or maybe I'm slightly dense.
He stepped
> forward, heard the grinding of rocks and debris under the
heels of his
> boots, his sight still fixed on the shadows. He was drawn to
something
> below the stretching metal, something lost between the cracks
of the
> crumbling walkway above.
>
> It was in the stony foundation, a flash of light, a sliver of
color.
Is the foundation of steel bridges made of stone?
This is not a criticism or correction, as I have no experience
of steel bridges.
It's just a naive thought.
>
> A troll's heart.
This threw me off the later storyline. I was expecting...
something more troll's heart related. Maybe I got it... but
whatever ;o)
>
> As he drew into the shadows, the sounds of rushing water and
cars speeding
> overhead stunned his ears unto deafness.
Unto? do you mean into?
Dust particles like clouds rained
> down on him, unknown micro-particles catching in his eyes.
Harley winced,
> rubbed his burning eyes with the back of his hands until
saline tears
> flushed his vision. Bleary, clearing though.
The last two sentences might flow better if you run them
together. The last one is a bit... one-legged otherwise.
He scanned the ground around
> him, took notice of the fishy smell that overwhelmed him,
nauseating him.
>
> "Damn -- but that's rank!"
>
> Shifting the duffle bag to his left shoulder, Harley moved
slowly forward,
> eyes forever searching for that which beckoned him -- the
flashing of color,
> that fluttering resonance that rushed into his ears, a
voice -- a chorus of
> voices, angelic, hollow, metallic, singing to his conflagrated
soul.
I don't think 'forever' is appropriate here. He's not here
forever. 'Constantly' may work better.
> Broken bottles, some clear, some beer brown and green, were
scattered
> about. A nest of used and discarded hypodermic needles, the
housings
> spotted in dried blood and evaporated traces of junk, fast
food wrappers and
> crushed soda pop cans interlaced the myriad debris.
This is a nice image. Well, it's not ~nice~ but you know what I
mean.
Two things to pick at though - if the junk is evaporated, would
it leave traces on the hypos?
also, it seems like 'junk, fast food wrappers and crushed soda
pop cans' is a list of evaporated traces inside the syringe.
Otherwise, a good atmosphere-inducing paragraph.
>
> Then Harley squatted on his haunches, arms resting on his
thighs. A stoic
> expression painted his chiseled features. Only his eyes seemed
to react, to
> reflect a glimmer of emotion or interest, as he studied that
which had lured
> him to a troll's bed: those blazing colors of harlequin.
>
> A slight smile played over his lips as he took in the image
of the
> tarnished figurine, the diamond-patterned clothes of sliver,
red and green
> rust-water bleached, the porcelain white face cracked, chipped
at the chin.
> The arms were limp, right hand missing. Its torso was buried
in dirt, as if
> a cat had caught this harlequin mouse and after chewing on the
disagreeable
> matter, covered it like so much waste. Yet the doll had
crawled from its
> grave, breathing again, waiting for Harley to find it.
Nice thought. (Again, my use of 'nice' is wildly wrong, but for
want of a better word...)
One minor thing to ask - put a comma between 'green' and
'rust-water'.
>
> For he heard the doll singing to him, a song of brilliant
green and red
> light, diamond shadows waltzing over his mind's eye. He
reached out to grab
> the dirty doll which reminded him of his mother, who had
collected
> harlequins. They were her personal kachina. Those painted
smiles and
> diamond outlined eyes always made his mother smile, bringing
calm to her
> nervous disposition.
I don't think the paragraph should begin with the word 'for' -
for requires something in front of it. A simple 'He had heard'
is fine.
I like your description of what Harley had heard.
>
> "You found me even here, eh, little kachina. And I guess
these dead
> catfish are my spirit guides, eh?"
>
> He began to tremble as his hand drew closer to the doll; all
other sounds
> were muffled unto extinction.
you meant 'into', right? 'Unto' conjures images of shaven monks
in sweaty brown robes.
All other images, movement went unnoticed by
'images and movement' - otherwise something seems missing.
> the teen who hovered between the shadows of memory and
reality. The
> harlequin song warbled in his skull, kaleidoscopic colors
beaming into his
> retinas, lids fluttering as cold sweat drenched him. Harley
felt the pull
> of the doll like a field of static electricity hovering before
him,
> expanding to almost touch him. The cast of silvery fabric
quicksilver flowed
> towards him in serpentine quickness.
>
> [It calls to me,] he silently cried. [Weird.]
'weird' barely covers the... the.. weirdness...
Harley grasped the doll
> just under its arms, slowly lifting it from the pile of dirt.
He stared at
> it dully, lips quivering. [Cold yet flowing, silver liquid
flowing up my
> arm, a liquid heat, diamond-light flashing, it hurts -- damn
but it hurts! ]
>
> Harley fell on his ass, the doll rattling in his grip. That
thing's voice
> was in his mind, that silver fabric in his blood. He stared
at its face,
> studied those eyes that seemed to wink at him -- timeless
eyes, old eyes,
> the soul of the soil. The burning red and green boiled his
mind as he drank
> in those sad, harlequin eyes that studied him.
>
This is nice. Dream-like. Surreal.
> "Come on then -- talk to me. Say something, damn it!"
Harley pleaded with
He's crazy, right? He wouldn't ask it to talk otherwise.
> the figurine. He watched as the doll's dress flowed over his
skin, slipping
> under the cuffs of his denim jacket. It tickled, this liquid
magic that ran
> slick over his flesh, wrapping around the breadth of his
muscular arms,
> snaking towards his chest, abdomen, lower. Tendrils snaked
around his neck,
> under his long hair, up into his skull, down to his sweaty
toes.
> "Kachina -- what-are-you-doing? Why?"
>
Okay fair enough. Maybe he would.
> Fever gripped him then, smothering his thoughts and draining
his strength
> as the afternoon sun grew dim. And Harley fell into the fire
of flickering
> harlequin light.
> #######
i don't think you need the hashes. Just leave this section in
italics and it is seperated sufficiently.
>
> [Sweet grass is burning, the smoke billowing towards me. I
fan it over my
> face, breathing deeply as I move the smoke over my head.
Ravens soared
soar - everything else is present tense.
is a. remember the tense.
'begins to stink', 'still dances' - i dont think you want to
change tenses yet.
This is truly bizarre, but I have no complaints with the way you
wrote it (other than tenses). It's effective... in a severely
weirdshit way.
> ######
>
> The doll's dancing felt like a man's callused hand gliding
over his exposed
> chest, T-shirt pulled up under his arms. Another hand patted
down his jeans
> as Harley shook off the feverish dream. "Kachina?" he
groggily asked, lids
> fluttering as he opened his bleary eyes, that image before him
taking shape.
> He saw a stranger leering down at him, thin lips wet with
saliva.
Nicely and groggily brought about. Effective (another word i
overuse).
'pallor' - doesn't that mean... paleness? or discolouration due
to rot/decay?
Who pulled the wad of money out? I assume the blue-suit guy, but
the way it's written, it sounds like Harley's the guy with the
money.
Why does he have paste in his mouth?
I do like. Very atmospheric, full of great imagery and a lot of
good ideas.
Hope you were looking for what I just gave you - because your
post merely asked for 'approval'.
~Erica
~Erica
James Acton
>Dance of The Harlequin. About 3K words in length. [*]= italics
>
>
>
> Dance of The Harlequin
> by
> Jeffrey A. Stadt
As per my usual approach, I will review at a detailed level as I go
along, so that my initial reactions as a reader are presented, and make
general comments at the end. I am aware that the review may read more
harshly in consequence, but I think it is more productive this way.
>
> Harley wandered along the riverbank, hands tucked into his jeans pockets.
>The decaying city of Little Rock stood just to the south, jutting
>mountain-tops of glass and steel, crumbling brick facades, the stench of
>chemicals and waste rising from the dark water.
The start is very important in a short story so I try to comment on it.
My initial reaction is that the principal character has a really heavy-
gauge steel motorcycle kind of name, which I assume is intended for the
kind of story that is coming. I only mention it to signal how important
such details can be. My second reaction is no wonder Clinton has such
funny-coloured hair. And my third is that this is a nicely descriptive
passage, promising a good story.
> The warm breeze did little
>to dilute the fetid aroma,
I would like to pick up on 'fetid aroma'. The word aroma carries strong
suggestions of fragrance and spiciness - in French it is used to denote
the flavour as much as the smell of something - and I cannot see any
indication that the conflict in the usage here was intentional. So I
think it is the wrong word: odour / stink / smell; even scent or perfume
would be preferable since the contrast would be evidently intentional
and lack the gustative aspect.
> so Harley tried not to breathe too deeply. Even
>though the temperatures reached into the low eighties, the teen still wore
>his denim jacket; an Army-style duffle bag weighed down his shoulders,
is there a word missing here?
>spine, but he was reluctant to store it at the bus station. How could he
>trust flimsy metal lockers with his only belongings?
>
> The fact of the matter was that Harley trusted no one, not even himself.
> As he gazed across the surging Arkansas river, Harley barely noticed the
>color of the sky, cloudless and blue, or the insects that swarmed around
>him. He was lost within his own thoughts, his own past actions, memories
>that danced with his soul.
Do you mean within?
> His forehead was slick with sweat, as was his
>neck under his shoulder-length raven hair. His sight was locked onto the
>currents of the filthy river.
I find this an uncomfortable usage because it is difficult to lock onto
something shifting and flowing.
>
> Harley felt nothing, nothing except for a seething emotional pain; the
>throbbing intermixed with a tingling numbness in his shoulders, arms and
>weary legs. A dull stitching where old bruises tried to heal. Those had
>been deep bruises, marks in the shape of fisted, bony knuckles, the loving
>touch of his father. It was a visual pain, cold but searing, dull yet
>stabbing. And always he'd kept his own rage in check. Always... until two
>weeks ago. The last time his pale-skinned father hammered into him, Harley
>struck back, a jackhammer assault. He'd rushed the intoxicated old man, his
>eyes coals of fury, his thoughts full of flashing images -- no thoughts or
>feelings -- only images of cruelty. He envisioned his dismembered corpse,
>bloated and purple-blue floating on a scum-slick pond, his father laughing
>and pointing at him, voicing condescending taunts at poor, dead Injun
>Harley. Harley thought he smelled his rotting corpse, vapors mixing with
>swamp gasses, his father lighting a cigarette...
>
> He tore into the man like a beast, some rabid bear caught in a berserker
>rage, relentless, inexhaustible. Harley had reveled in each thunderous blow
>as welts and blood-filled bruises rose, darkened, on the man's pale skin.
>As he heard the snap of the old toad's bones, he'd felt [pleasure] in
>returning the torment, the pain, back onto the infliction.
Inflictor? I assume that this is supposed to refer to the father, but I
think it should be reworded for clarity.
>
> Splintered ribs had punctured the man's tar-brown lungs, gurgling sounds of
>coughed up blood, fearful eyes hidden under swollen lids.
>
> Harley rushed up the stairs to his closet of a bedroom, grabbed his
>pre-packed bag, and had stormed from his "happy" home before his mother
>returned from work.
There is inconsistency of tense in the last 4 paragraphs. The narrative
switches arbitrarily between the past historic (Harley struck back) and
the past pluperfect (ribs had punctured). It can be a little awkward,
but in this case there seems to be no reason against starting in and
staying in the pluperfect form.
>
> He still didn't know if his father had lived or died. He had walked away,
>never a backward glance, leaving the prick to suffer alone in the shadows of
>the past.
> Harley knew only pain: an emptiness, a void needing to be filled: a longing
>of desire that has no known name or voice; a rage needing to be fed,
>satiated, stroked.
I think this became altogether too portentous through the claim that his
longing had no known name or voice. It undermines the power of the sense
of bitterness that is being evoked by the writing. And there should be a
semi-colon rather than a colon after 'filled'.
>
> He halted in his stroll, took notice of the shadows cast from the rusting
>belly of the steel bridge that spanned the river. There was something....
>something beautiful about decaying infrastructures. Time eroded unseen
>psychic pain caught in the metal and brick, concrete and pavement. Harley
>gazed under the bridge, squinting to block out the sunlight, hoping to
>discern the shadows, that reflection of his thoughts, soul.
I realise that the author favours a certain idiom, whereby he adds a
second noun, a sort of alternative description, separated by a comma, as
he has at the end of this last sentence. He did it further back where I
asked if there was a word missing, but it is arhythmic and it jars. It
is a slightly clever-clever, self-aware technique which I feel is a
grade lower in style than the general standard of his descriptive
writing, and I find that it breaks the spell which his descriptions
begin to create. Anything which does that is to be avoided, because it
cannot be good enough in itself to compensate for wasting much of the
rest.
> He stepped
>forward, heard the grinding of rocks and debris under the heels of his
>boots, his sight still fixed on the shadows. He was drawn to something
>below the stretching metal, something lost between the cracks of the
>crumbling walkway above.
>
> It was in the stony foundation, a flash of light, a sliver of color.
>
> A troll's heart.
I find this interjection unwelcome. It seems to be out of the wrong
story. Yes, trolls haunt river crossings, but this story is in a
completely different vein - or is it another elves and dragons story
masquerading as an exploration of human tragedy?
>
> As he drew into the shadows, the sounds of rushing water and cars speeding
>overhead stunned his ears unto deafness. Dust particles like clouds rained
>down on him, unknown micro-particles catching in his eyes. Harley winced,
>rubbed his burning eyes with the back of his hands until saline tears
>flushed his vision.
It would be odd if they were not saline. The extra word does not improve
the effect.
> Bleary, clearing though. He scanned the ground around
>him, took notice of the fishy smell that overwhelmed him, nauseating him.
took note of, or simply noticed.
>
> "Damn -- but that's rank!"
>
> Shifting the duffle bag to his left shoulder, Harley moved slowly forward,
>eyes forever searching for that which beckoned him -- the flashing of color,
>that fluttering resonance that rushed into his ears, a voice -- a chorus of
>voices, angelic, hollow, metallic, singing to his conflagrated soul.
This is heavily over-written. I do not like the way a simple matter of
searching for the thing under the bridge is built into the neologistic
'conflagrated soul'. It is piling Pelion upon Ossa: preceding paragraphs
built the picture of his troubled spirit, but this paragraph is about
what caught his eye which I am also interested to hear about, and the
way it goes back to add yet another scoop to the spiritual cornet
instead of moving the story forward is irksome.
>
> Broken bottles, some clear, some beer brown and green, were scattered
>about. A nest of used and discarded hypodermic needles, the housings
>spotted in dried blood and evaporated traces of junk, fast food wrappers and
>crushed soda pop cans interlaced the myriad debris.
'Interlaced the myriad debris' translates as 'were scattered amongst the
garbage'. The trouble is that when you are discussing garbage, the use
of eulogistic language is a little out of place! The words are bound to
appear narcissistic. It needs to be toned down.
>
> Then Harley squatted on his haunches, arms resting on his thighs. A stoic
>expression painted his chiseled features. Only his eyes seemed to react, to
>reflect a glimmer of emotion or interest, as he studied that which had lured
>him to a troll's bed: those blazing colors of harlequin.
>
> A slight smile played over his lips as he took in the image of the
>tarnished figurine, the diamond-patterned clothes of sliver, red and green
>rust-water bleached, the porcelain white face cracked, chipped at the chin.
>The arms were limp, right hand missing. Its torso was buried in dirt, as if
>a cat had caught this harlequin mouse and after chewing on the disagreeable
>matter, covered it like so much waste. Yet the doll had crawled from its
>grave, breathing again, waiting for Harley to find it.
>
> For he heard the doll singing to him, a song of brilliant green and red
>light, diamond shadows waltzing over his mind's eye. He reached out to grab
>the dirty doll which reminded him of his mother, who had collected
>harlequins. They were her personal kachina.
Don't know the reference and cannot find the word in the dictionary.
> Those painted smiles and
>diamond outlined eyes always made his mother smile, bringing calm to her
>nervous disposition.
>
> "You found me even here, eh, little kachina. And I guess these dead
>catfish are my spirit guides, eh?"
>
> He began to tremble as his hand drew closer to the doll; all other sounds
>were muffled unto extinction.
Muffled specifically implies that they were NOT extinguished.
> All other images, movement
Same point about the author's favoured technique.
> went unnoticed by
>the teen who hovered between the shadows of memory and reality. The
>harlequin song warbled in his skull, kaleidoscopic colors beaming into his
>retinas, lids fluttering as cold sweat drenched him. Harley felt the pull
>of the doll like a field of static electricity hovering before him,
>expanding to almost touch him. The cast of silvery fabric quicksilver flowed
>towards him in serpentine quickness.
Quicksilver and quickness do not work elegantly together, but in all
sincerity, I do not understand the sentence.
>
> [It calls to me,] he silently cried. [Weird.] Harley grasped the doll
>just under its arms, slowly lifting it from the pile of dirt. He stared at
>it dully, lips quivering. [Cold yet flowing, silver liquid flowing up my
>arm, a liquid heat, diamond-light flashing, it hurts -- damn but it hurts! ]
>
> Harley fell on his ass, the doll rattling in his grip. That thing's voice
>was in his mind, that silver fabric in his blood. He stared at its face,
>studied those eyes that seemed to wink at him -- timeless eyes, old eyes,
>the soul of the soil. The burning red and green boiled his mind as he drank
>in those sad, harlequin eyes that studied him.
>
> "Come on then -- talk to me. Say something, damn it!" Harley pleaded with
>the figurine. He watched as the doll's dress flowed over his skin, slipping
>under the cuffs of his denim jacket. It tickled, this liquid magic that ran
>slick over his flesh, wrapping around the breadth of his muscular arms,
>snaking towards his chest, abdomen, lower. Tendrils snaked around his neck,
>under his long hair, up into his skull, down to his sweaty toes.
> "Kachina -- what-are-you-doing? Why?"
>
> Fever gripped him then, smothering his thoughts and draining his strength
>as the afternoon sun grew dim. And Harley fell into the fire of flickering
>harlequin light.
> #######
At the break point, I would like to repeat that this became very over-
written about two-thirds of the way through, which is disappointing. The
story was building an interesting portrait of a troubled youth and a
tense and foreboding moment in his life, but there was a qualitative
deterioration as the harlequin entered the game. The florid and poetic
use of language is inconsistent with the angst and anti-romance of the
image thus far portrayed. I think if the harlequin requires that sort of
linguistic flight, it needs to be brought together into a single
paragraph in which the stylistic contrast is deliberately engineered as
a compliment to a dramatic climax to this section of the story. It
cannot be introduced gradually because when mingled with the more
clinical descriptive language, both suffer from the incompatibility.
>
> [Sweet grass is burning, the smoke billowing towards me. I fan it over my
>face, breathing deeply as I move the smoke over my head. Ravens soared
>silently overhead, circling.
Past tense? Surely not.
'Shadows' are being a little over-worked.
> [As my silver skin bubbles and boils, I scream. That harlequin clown dances
>over my chest, my body supine, my limbs writhing in agony as the sweet grass
>odor began to stink of rotting fish. Yet the harlequin still danced, dancing
>over my muted silver skin.]
More carelessness with tenses. Either present or past, but stay in it!
> ######
I am not quite sure why you chose to change the narrator for that
section. Perhaps it increases the immediacy to recount the experience in
the first person. But once we revert back in the next section, a sense
of confusion remains as to who is telling the story, not simply because
the narrator has changed but also because what we can expect the
narrator to know is different. So the references to the doll's dancing
which now follow are wrong - we only know about that in the first person
narrator, not in the voice of the original story teller.
>
> The doll's dancing felt like a man's callused hand gliding over his exposed
>chest, T-shirt pulled up under his arms. Another hand patted down his jeans
>as Harley shook off the feverish dream. "Kachina?" he groggily asked, lids
>fluttering as he opened his bleary eyes, that image before him taking shape.
>He saw a stranger leering down at him, thin lips wet with saliva.
>
> "What?" Harley cursed, feet kicking out. His heels dug into the dirt as he
>scrambled free from the stranger's grip. "Perv!" he said, quickly pulling
>down his T-shirt. He felt the man's sticky spit drying on his chest; it
>smelled like fish.
>
> "Back to the land of the living, I see," said the man as he straightened
>his tie.
> He was well dressed in a blue suit. His hair was short and neat, face clean
>shaven. It was a haggard face painting a portrait of a salesman,
Faces don't paint portraits, they are the subject of them!
I am sorry, but I do not know quite what happened at the end. Did the
man see his metamorphosis, but still take him away with him, or was the
change all in his head?
The story seems to me to be highly imaginative and with great potential,
somewhat in the vein of 'The Illustrated Man' but with native American
references. I have already commented that it is over-written, but I
really think that it is unfinished. It needs some heavy editing, not
merely to put tenses and so forth right, but to tighten it up altogther.
At the moment it dissipates its power in a variety of ways, the most
serious being in the unrestrained use of language and imagery. When a
really strong spell is to be created, it is not achieved by adding more
and more quantity to the imagery. It only takes on a self-indulgent
flavour if that is done. It is achieved by careful timing and judicious
choice of metaphor. Here, each mention of the harlequin is used as an
opportunity for another flight of fantastic description, but like a
sodium light seen through a yellow candle flame, each successive
description absorbs and suppresses the light of the preceding one,
rather than reinforcing it.
Having said that, I was captivated by the story, and think that it is
well worth the work to get it into shape.
James Acton
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