Overhaulin' - I posted this last week, but I'd like some more opinions. This is the prologue for my first novel...?

I posted this last week, but I'd like some more opinions. This is the prologue for my first 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. The working title is "Paint Me A Sky, Bishop Ryder" It might change later, but for now that one works for me.

Public Comments

You have a way with words. Watch your run-on sentences in some places. And try to limit some of your wordiness. At times, you can convey the same picture with fewer words. That way, when you do paint a broad picture with your words it will be more meaningful. Your story has captured my interest. Very well done so far.
Ok, Im hooked. This is very good. Please let me know when you finish and it is published(which I believe it will be). I would love to read it. Feel free to email me. good luck
Overly sentimental for my taste.
please finish it and get it published it totally rox
This is very nice indeed. You have a courtship with your words and know how to make them dance. I only noticed two spots that need work: And with just two, you can imagine, that is amazing considering I read entire novels and can find the *one* mistake that even the editor missed. Here they are: "But Momma said God liked plain talk, just as much and long as I talked to God." That should be: "But Momma said God liked plain talk just as much, as long as I talked to God." The second one: "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." You use the verb "hear" in four areas and in different tenses within the same 3 sentences which is how a child would talk, but it can be hard to sort out as a reader. "I could hear Grandpa walking down the hallway from the little room he and I shared and then listened as he greeted the people at the door. I then heard the murmurring of all the words people say when someone dies, but my attention was drawn to the look in Momma's eyes."
this story is amazing!!!! so when is the book coming out? I would love to own a copy!
I loved it! I love a read that can make me feel like i was there or i was the one experiencing the feeling. I could imagine the rain and the hurt from losing a family member. I could see a woman with pink lips and cheeks holding back years full of tears from past hurts and disappointments! I can't wait til it comes out?! What is the title?
this is actually very good. i think the a few of words don't really suit the character though. but i think for the most part it is surprisingly good for something on yahoo answeres! its very John Steinbeck. edit: also, i think it gets a bit too gothic for an eight years olds narration at points. I think that while writing about when s/he was eight it would be best to use words and imagry suitable to a child of that age. Just to make the characterisation feel more natural. But this is just nitpicking.
Excellent. It had me hooked from the first line, which is the way a book should get you. I too agree that you used the word "heard" one time too many in that paragraph. But a little dab of thesaurus will clear that right up. Good luck on getting published, I look forward to the book!
I think you created an interesting story and you sure did captivate your readers with dynamitic characters. From what I read so far I felt like this story should be a Short Story and not a Novel. But remember this is my opinion only. A prologue is an introduction to the events that are to follow in your novel, if this is what you wrote for your prologue than you wrote it with too much detail. It again felt like a compressed short story. You wrote beautifully with the analogies of the storm and blue skies. Obviously as a writer you have to focus your attention on editing your work this takes time so read books on grammar or get someone who can proof read your work. There are elements of your writing that need better structure and style. The tone of your story is interesting and I believe you developed a wonderful “hook” for readers to want to read more. My favourite part is the opening sentence which I think you wrote brilliantly: “The sky always cries when a good man is buried.” My only suggestion is to transform this story into a Short Story unless you have a profound plot for your characters to live through. *Link below on how to write a short story* Good Luck.
I like it its compelling and I was sure the narrator was a girl you should make a few adjustments to make Bishop seem slightly more masculine.
I loved it, can't wait for the next instalment! You have talent, can you post some tips from one budding writer to another, ( I have written several poems and short stories) the poems have been published in the BIG ISSUE!! I can email you (privately) some of my work if you would like to read it and give me some feedback ?)