Novel Treatments / American Blues - Prologue
American Blues – Prologue
Will peered through the porch screen mesh, searching for the slightest movement or smudge of brightness in the inky woods. A tremor of excitement fluttered in his stomach, tinged with just enough fear to make him slightly nauseous. He tried to tell himself it’d be better if Dory didn’t show up—would be a relief. But the reaction of his fifteen-year-old body to the thought of her told him it was a lie.
He gripped the boxy guitar by the neck and sat back, propped his bare feet on the porch railing, and tilted his chair back on two legs. Then he slid the broken-off neck of a beer bottle onto his index finger and started working on “My Black Mama,” trying to remember exactly how Son House played it that time his Uncle Luther took him to Yazoo. He decided to practice it until either Dory showed or his older brother PJ came home from his date.
A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead and landed on the strings. He rested the guitar on his lap and lifted the edge of his white sleeveless tee-shirt to wipe his brow. A flash of light to the south made him raise his eyes to scan the pine woods beyond the clearing, but the grumbling that followed told him it was nothing but heat lightning. Sure would be nice to have some rain. He listened for a minute to the chirping tree frogs. Definitely getting louder. Wouldn’t be long before the sky opened up. He could stand some relief from the heavy Mississippi night air. And yet, a storm might keep Dory away.
Another rumble. This one turned into the growl of a pickup accelerating out of the turn from the blacktop onto the dirt drive. Will frowned, brought his chair forward with a thunk, and rested his guitar against the house, the flutter he’d felt moments ago now a gnawing cramp in his belly. No good reason for company this time of night.
The pickup barreled toward him and then, breaks and shocks squeaking, made a circle in the dirt turn-around and pulled up parallel to and thirty feet in front of the house. The truck’s beams swept across the porch and landed on his mama’s vegetable patch, spotlighting a rabbit caught snacking on a row of radish leaves.
What the hell was this? Will stayed in his chair close to the dark house. Wondered if whoever was out there had seen him.
Men’s voices, loud and rough, came from the pickup, but Will couldn’t make out the words. Dim shapes moved about in the truck bed, but he couldn’t tell who they were, or how many. What he could see, even in the dark, was a pale arm jutting out the passenger side window—a white man’s arm.
Fear tore a bite from his stomach. Muttering “Shit,” he stood and, bare feet landing soundlessly on the boards of the porch, tore through the front door and into the house, repeating the steps they had all practiced many times. Get daddy. Get the guns. Take your post.
He pulled open the closet door across from his parents’ bedroom, grabbed his rifle, called out “Daddy! Posts!” in a tight whispered shout, and headed back toward the front of the house. He could hear daddy coming up behind him, and mama climbing the stairs to where the little kids slept.
Will stood just to the side of the front room window and pulled the delicate white lace curtain out of his way. He sighted down the rifle barrel and waited for a figure to jump down from the truck bed or a door to open.
Two shapes in the back of the pickup bent, then straightened and moved back and forth with a rhythmic swing. An object like a sack of potatoes sailed in an arc and landed with a flat thud in his mama’s flower bed in front of the porch. The truck wheels spun, raising a plume of dust. The pickup lurched forward with a pop of the clutch, turned away from the house, and sat there. Dried mud spattered the dark paint—black or maybe dark blue or green—on the tail of the pickup and covered most of the Mississippi plate. Not that he could have read it in the dark at that distance. Only occasional moonlight between the gathering clouds lit the yard.
“How many?” Will’s daddy stood at the kitchen window overlooking the porch, rifle poised.
“Four, I think,” Will said, “Two in front, two in back.”
“What are they waiting for?”
“I don’t know.”
“They do anything?”
“Threw something out the truck,” Will said. What did these white men want? What had they thrown out of the truck?
The big engine revved several times and just like that the truck threw dirt and gravel as it roared out to the road.
Closer to the front door than his daddy, Will took three quick strides out to the porch, rested his gun against the house, and pushed on the screen door, the hinge-squeak loud in his ears. He placed his foot down on the first wooden step, then the second. A horrible suspicion came to him and he stopped there momentarily. A light went on in the house behind him.
With dread souring his stomach, Will finished his descent and approached the package, which he now saw was larger than a potato sack and wrapped in an old tarp. A cold sweat popped on his skin. His heart drummed in his ears.
The tarp reeked of pine tar and a disturbing metallic smell, sharp discordant notes against the ripe fullness of lilac from the garden. Will didn’t want to touch the thing—wanted to run into the house and up the stairs into his mama’s arms. He reached out anyway and pulled on the tarp just as the deep boom of his daddy’s voice called out “Don’t!” Will kept moving.
The stiff fabric wrapped its contents tightly in several layers forcing Will to use both hands to unroll the bundle. A buzzing noise filled his ears even before he peeled back the final coarse fold. He knew what he was about to find. Only one member of the Jones family wasn’t already home.
Dark blotches, colorless in the dim light from the house, patterned the torn and crumpled fabric. Will remembered how it looked only hours earlier as his mama ironed it—crisp with starch and creases and as luminescent white as a full country moon—while he teased his brother about wearing his Sunday shirt to impress a new girlfriend.
Will touched a dark spot, pulled back in horror, wiped his fingers on the leg of his overalls, then realized what he’d done and shuddered. When his eyes locked on what used to be his older brother’s face, the world froze around him. Darkness started at the outside edges of his vision and closed down as if he’d fallen into a well and looked back up at the vanishing circle of light. Just before the circle disappeared, he heard a noise like the howl of a wounded animal and, in the background, the soft patter of raindrops on packed dirt.
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The best thing about this prologue is that it really makes me want to read the rest of the book.
Extremely well written, captivating, and accomplishes the goal of a prologue.
You need to emphasize that it is dark in the first paragraph. You reference it with “inky woods,” but you emphasize that heat so much that my mind kept imagining a hot sun burning down. So when you did make it clear that it was dark, I had to readjust my mental image.
In one line you reference the garden as mama’s vegetable patch. The point of view is not right to describe it this way. The paragraph is more omnicscient… the author is describing the scene, we aren’t really in will’s mind… so you should say mother’s vegetable patch. Or better yet, just ‘the vegetable patch.’
You need more description for Will, his father, and his brother. Just a couple of lines to make them more solid in the reader’s mind.
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A great intro, the beggining was a bit rough in the set up. But once it’s there the story pulls you in quickly.
This sounds like it’s about ready to jump into the future a couble years or more for the first chapter.
I’ve reached the conclusion that every good book starts with an end, of a life or otherwise. Your intro is no different, and it may well turn out great, it sounds like it will.
This is a good prologue, making me want to know more of the story. You are using four of the five senses, which is good, although there is room for you to use taste, as well. I am not Black, but did grow up below the Mason-Dixon line and am familiar with this sort of scenario. There are some gramatical inconsistancies, not really errors, but there are better ways to say certain things in some places.
Overall, I didn’t feel like it was a Black man’s voice talking, especially if this takes place in the deep south from the sixties or before. There is a way people talk if they are from certain areas, so they think the same way and this gives plenty to work with in his thoughts.
Having lived in a house like this with an enclosed front porch, I understood what you were taling about, but I think you should mention he’s on this porch in the very beginning because it gets confusing as to where he is when you say “he stays close to the dark house.”
The hyphen between Dory showing up and ‘relief’ doesn’t need to be there, just a coma, and then another coma before ‘But’. Try to stay away from starting a sentence with “but.” It’s not neccessary to emphasize a feeling like this we all have had.
As an example of better sentence construction: ‘He gripped the boxy guitar by the neck and sat back, tilting his chair on two legs, and propped his bare feet on the porch railing.’ It’s shorter, smoother, doesn’t use reduntant words, and is in the proper sequencial order. There are many places where you could benefit from this.
You leave out a lot of pronouns that are neccessary for a smooth read, like, (He) wondered who was out there.
A colon before ‘Get Daddy’ instead of a period.
OK, you’ve got this great tension built as we wait for the men to jump from the truck, but they don’t. This is good stuff. So, the next paragraph might be better served by a little reworking and starting with: ‘Instead, two shapes in the back of the pickup bent over, picking something up between them, then moved it back and forth with a rhythmic swing.’ This builds the tension more and is much more concise.
There are many places where you tell the reader what something is, as an aside, like: ‘Not that he could have read it in the dark at that distance.’ Leave these remarks out. Your description of the situation is enough.
Leave out pat phrases: ‘just like that.’ These can be OK if it’s your character’s voice talking or thinking.
You have something about heat lightening which usually means there is no storm coming and there is no sound, but you make it a precurser to the storm.
The paragraph where Will comes out after the truck leaves needs to be clearer as at first he is moving quickly, but then ‘rests’ the gun against the house and is now moving slowly. It’s too abrupt from three fast steps to moving cautiously.
Not sure about your simile of ‘sharp discordant notes’ as related to smell.
The opening of the tar-encrusted shroud around his brother is a good oportunity to use all five senses at once to make this the most agonizing moment of the prologue. We need this because we don’t know who’s actually in there; his brother or his girlfriend. Make this scene torture to read.
The paragraph describing the ironed shirt is very powerful, but needs to be rearranged. It should end with your most powerful imagery: ‘luminescent white as a full country moon.’
The last metaphor is very good, but needs to be reoganized, making it more concise. The ending with the rain in the dirt is perfect.
Congradulations! You’ve got me hooked in. I can’t wait to read more of this. You manage to build tension and then hit us with the horror of this brutality. Good job. Keep up the good work.
This is a very entertaining and intriguing work. You have some very good descriptions that set the mood early on, “Sure would be nice to have some rain. He listened for a minute to the chirping tree frogs. Definitely getting louder. Wouldn’t be long before the sky opened up.” Great description. “pulled up parallel to and thirty feet in front of the house.” a little ackward, unclear of the visual. “Get daddy. Get the guns. Take your post” this definitley spices up the piece, making the reader want to know what’s the danger. “With dread souring his stomach,” again, great description. I also like how you contrast violence with nature, ” disturbing metallic smell, sharp discordant notes against the ripe fullness of lilac from the garden” is that gonna be a theme throughout the novel?
Well, I could quote even more lines, but I don’t want to “bankrupt” you, so I’ll just end by saying that your diction, dialogue, description, and plot are very lively. I rarely find a piece without any major flaws, or rate anything higher than a 7, but this is one of those exceptions. Nice work.
This is good! First, the emotional appeal is very strong and I love the transition from a casual guitar picking on the porch to a living nightmare.
The description of how the dread realization settles in and hits the lead character. The descriptions of the scents and textures and colors really bring the reader into the story and make us glad for the dark unconsciousness that finally takes the lead character.
Amazingly well done.
I thought this was an excellent piece and I really like what you have so far. In some of the other novel treatments that I have read on here there wasn’t a lot of description but a lot of dialog shoe horned together.
This has a the type of balance that I look for and I really am interested in reading more.
One thing that is small that I think I would change is:
“Fear tore a bite from his stomach. Muttering “Shit,” he stood and, bare feet landing soundlessly on the boards of the porch, tore through the front door and into the house, repeating the steps they had all practiced many times. Get daddy. Get the guns. Take your post.”
I would change it to
practiced many times.
Get daddy.
Get the guns.
Take your post.
I think it gives the steps more meaning that way. Just a suggestion.
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