Overhaulin'

Please offer an honest opinion of the prologue for my novel...?

The sky always cries when a good man is buried. At least, that's what Grandpa whispered close to Momma's ear as the first drops of rain hit the tent we were seated under in the tiny cemetery. Momma just closed her eyes, nodding her head like she did when the preacher spoke some profound truth on Sunday mornings. I'd heard Grandpa say these words before, on that day last year as we watched President John F. Kennedy buried on the little television set Momma kept in the kitchen. I wondered if it had rained when they buried my father eight years ago, only hours before I was born. I thought about whispering the question to Momma, but the preacher started praying, so I bowed my head with the rest of them and tried to concentrate on the prayer. I once asked Grandpa if God wouldn't like it better if we talked to him with regular words instead of all those fancy ones the preacher used from the Bible. Grandpa said he reckoned God must like the fancy ones just fine since he put them in his Holy Word, but Momma said God liked plain talk just as much and long as I talked to God, she didn't think he minded that I wasn't so fancy as the Bible. This made me feel a little better, since I couldn't remember how to do all the "thee's" and "thou's". A few minutes after the preacher finished his prayer, it was time to walk past Uncle Lester's coffin and say goodbye one last time. I was glad none of the women were bawling and throwing themselves across the dead man, as I'd seen one of them do when we buried Grandpa's other brother, Mervin, two years ago. The sky hadn't cried that day, I thought to myself as Momma tugged me out of the tent. Wonder what Grandpa would say about that? I decided not to bring it up as the three of us walked to the car, with Grandpa's jacket held over our heads to protect us from the rain coming down harder and harder. In the distance, I heard the first rumblings of thunder, and I felt Momma speed up just a little. Momma hated storms for as long as I could remember, often locking herself in her bedroom and hiding under the blanket until it was over. On these days, Grandpa told me to leave her alone since storms brought bad things to Momma's mind. We'd play checkers at the big table in the dining room until Momma reemerged from the room, smiling in a sad way through swollen eyes that told us she'd been crying. I didn't know what kinds of bad things came to Momma when the sky turned dark with rain, but anything bad enough to make my Momma cry that long was too scary to ask about. We made it home from Uncle Lester's funeral just moments before the storm really broke, but this time Momma didn't go to bed to hide from the weather. She went straight into the kitchen and started putting cheese on crackers. When I looked at her questioningly, she said, "Lord knows everybody will still show up here, bringing their casseroles and tears for Uncle Lester, even though the wind's now blowing so hard I can hear the windows shake. No, not even this weather would keep them away, though I wish it would." I hated the way her hands shook everytime the sky rumbled, and I hated the people who would show up at our home and keep Momma from hiding herself from the storm she was so afraid of. I wanted to go to her, like I saw Grandpa do sometimes when that sad look would come into her eyes, and hold her and tell her in a soft voice that it would pass. I don't know why I didn't, except I wasn't sure my little eight year old arms would be enough to comfort a fear as big as the one I could see etched in every part of her face. She must have sensed something in me, because she smiled and put her arms around me. I buried my face in her blouse that smelled like the vanilla perfume I'd bought for her birthday. Knowing she was wearing it made me smile. "That's better," she said, lifting my face to look into hers. The fear had relaxed some, and I marveled at how beautiful she was. Momma was what Grandpa called a classic beauty, never needing any of the other makeup other women wore. Though sometimes, like today, she wore a bit of pink on her lips and cheeks. "Momma, did the sky cry when you buried Daddy?" I regretted asking at once, as I saw the tears come up in her brown eyes and felt her whole body stiffen again. She let go of me and turned back to the cheese and crackers. I reached out to touch her hair, the same color as her eyes, but drew my hand short. I'd hurt her with my question, and I didn't want to do anything to make that wound deeper. "I'm sorry, Momma. I just thought... because Grandpa said at Uncle Lester's funeral... " I turned to leave the kitchen, wanting to repair the damage I'd done and bring back the woman who'd held me so tight only seconds before. "Bishop," she said, and I spun quickly to look at her. "Go paint me a sky, Bishop Ryder. Paint me a blue sky to look at when I can't hide from the dark one outside. Paint sunshine to help me forget about all the dark skies I've ever seen." At that moment, the doorbell rung. Momma was right, the weather hadn't kept the mourners away. I could hear Grandpa walking down the hallway from the little room he and I shared. I heard him greet the people at the door, and I heard them murmmering all the words people say when somebody dies. I heard all this, but I was looking into Momma's eyes. She'd not looked away since she'd spoken, and I realized she was begging me. Pleading with her eyes to do as she'd asked, and make her memories of dark skies go away. "Paint me a sky, Bishop," she whispered softly one last time. Putting a soft smile on her face, she walked past me to help Grandpa greet our company. In my bedroom later that evening, after the storm had finished and all the people had left and Grandpa and Momma were outside smoking their cigarettes, I pulled out the watercolors I'd gotten for Christmas the year before. Momma told me she was tired of looking at my dark pencil drawings, so she'd bought me a whole set of paint with a little book showing how to mix and blend to get any color I wanted. It wasn't long before I began creating full canvases of landscapes that Momma insisted we hang in the living room. That night, I began to mix colors to paint Momma's sky. I knew just the blue I wanted to create, it was the same color as my eyes. Momma told me once she loved my eyes because they were blue like my Daddy's had been, and not dark like hers. It was one of those rare times when she talked about my father, and I sat quietly beside her, hoping she'd say more. She didn't, though, instead getting very still until Grandpa changed the subject. As I painted, I made the sky the same light blue as my eyes, as the eyes of a Daddy I'd never seen. I painted for hours, finishing just as Grandpa came in and began dressing for bed. When he saw the picture, he told me to take it to Momma's room right then instead of waiting until morning. "If anything will cheer her up, Bishop, it'll be that painting," he said, crawling under the blankets of his twin bed. I wanted to ask him so many questions, like why does Momma need cheering up when it was his brother we'd just buried and he seemed to be doing fine. I wanted to ask him why the sky hadn't cried when we buried Uncle Mervin, and why Momma hated storms so much. So many things I needed answers for, but he was already snoring softly, so I left him to his dreams and took Momma her blue sky. Of course, she loved the painting, declaring it the best I'd done so far and giving it a place of honor on the wall opposite her bed. "That way, there will always be a blue sky when I wake up in the mornings, "she said, hugging me to her. I smelled the vanilla again, mixed with cigarette smoke. It was the best thing I'd ever smelled, and I wanted to lay there with my head against her chest all night. It wasn't long, however, before she let go and told me to go on back to my own room with Grandpa. She looked again at the sky I'd painted for her, and smiled. I felt good inside knowing I made that smile happen. Momma's Sky hung in the same spot for several years, and I'd often see her looking at it when the clouds would roll over outside, threatening us with the storms she despised. I like to think my painting kept the sky blue for Momma no matter what, and perhaps it did for a while. Then a storm rolled in that changed our lives forever. The dark skies Momma always hid from finally found her, and no amount of blue paint would make them leave, though God knows I tried.

Public Comments

1. That's amazing very descriptive I love it Keep Up the good work =]
2. It's very good, actually. I couldn't offer much criticism. It's definitely better than most other peoples' stuff that's posted up here. If you haven't heard of fictionpress.com, it's a writers' website where you can post stories, chapter by chapter and get reviews from people who do and don't have an account on the website. So you get a wider audience and their thoughts. People will come and give you actual criticism, as well, when you need it. So if you wanted, you could go and post your story there and get reviews throughout the whole story.
3. OMG. That was a GREAT prologue! It makes me hunger for more! If you finish it, PLZ email me via Yahoo the rest of the story! PLZ? : ) FANTASTIC JOB!
4. Wow. That was truly a wonderful prologue. Very descriptive and symbolic. Keep up the good work!
5. Nice! Very descriptive without being monotonous. I'd recommend finding a beta reader to help you polish your writing as you go along--you can try looking for one at perfectimagination.co.uk to help you out. It's better than waiting ages for an editor to get back to you, and they really can help keep your story from running off in directions you weren't planning for.
6. WOW
7. omg! that was really good. i sually close the book if i get bored in the first page... but this is one book that will keep me reading. i want more! lol
8. WOW!! you are amazing. I can't wait to hear what happens next! Have you written more? PLEASE send it my way when it's finished, or even as you go... You are definitely very talented and this will be one for the publishers!!!