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where reviews are posted for the Novel Review Group |
David’s caveat: I promise to always be polite and respectful while giving honest reviews. This is one person’s opinion. Dealing w/ me is akin to shopping at the store: take what you want and leave the rest. Please don’t take my direct style as being brutal or rude. Keep writing and always have fun! Title: Wayfaring Stranger Chapter:Prologue Author: Ms. J Plot: N/A Characters: A gang of Union soldiers; two brothers Grammar:Good Style/Voice: Narrative at first; then 3rd person, probably via Asa Setting: End of US Civil War; riverboat. Era and setting is important to me as a reader; I'm very glad you establish it right away ! ! ! Overall: Presuming your intent is to be published, Have you done any research on the modern desires of agents and publishers over the use of poetry, especially of some length, in modern writing? Poetry is attractive to a certain percentage of readers; i'm not one of them. I suspect you will turn off more readers than you attract. Prologs are old style; no longer in vogue. Is there a reason you are using it, vs. incorporating it as first chapter? I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger I'm traveling through this world of woe Yet there's no sickness, toil nor danger In that bright land to which I go I'm going there to see my mother I'm going there no more to roam I'm only going over Jordan I'm only going over home I know dark clouds will gather 'round me I know my way is rough and steep Yet golden fields lie just before me Where God's redeemed shall ever sleep I'm going there to see my father He said he'd meet me when I come I'm only going over Jordan I'm only going over home - Early 19th Century American Folk Song Prologue August 1865 The shrill sound of a whistle sliced the moist August morning u have 3 modifiers here: need commas? air. A steamboat coming to dock was nothing unusual; rather the inhabitants of the Mississippi river town of Keokuk, Iowa expected it. Still, in the early morning, the impact of the sound could jolt even the soundest of sleeper from his or her respite. This morning's whistle—a distinct one short, two long, and two shorts—informed the waking town at the bottom of the Des Moines rapids of the Abigail Foster's arrival. Some in the village knew of her cargo and made for the docks. Most just went about their business. The Abigail was not the first boat carrying soldiers home from the war, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Shortly after the war ended, citizens massed at the landing to cheer on the brave boys. Sometimes a brass brand played as the men marched into town. As the months passed, the novelty wore off until only friends or relatives greeted the boats if they knew a loved one was coming. Most times they didn't. The Abigail's crew took its time docking her in the French style with the stern pointed up stream. On the landside of the boat, men in blue uniforms lined the rails, anxious to disembark, and the boat took a noticeable lean. Some would stay in Keokuk, some would disperse throughout Lee County, and for others, Keokuk served as a way station. Despite their various destinations, the Abigail carried all the men closer to home. On the deck below the pilothouse, a soldier leaned against a stanchion, his eyes taking in the spectacle. Men rushed for the lower deck, the roustabouts on the wharf below scurried to secure the boat. To the man's right, a colored deckhand cursed under his breath, something about the soldiers. I realize this is a prologue, but it's all telling to here. When his brother, a private, passed, Asa reached out and grabbed him by the collar, yanking him to a halt. Nodding toward the gangplank he explained, "Addison, look. There'll be a rush for that gangway. Just wait." I presume we're now in Asa's POV. "Did ya have to snap my neck off, Asa?" The private scowled. Asa shrugged. "Trying to help is all. Crowding in down there isn't gonna get you off this boat any faster." Addison shook his head. "I don't know about you, but I'm not waiting. I'm gonna get myself up to Davis' farm, see Jeannie. Those other men can just get out of my way." "What are you gonna do, push them out of your way? I can just see it... Addison Thatcher trampled his brothers in arms. They survived the war, but they stood between him and his girl." "Are you saying you don't want off this boat, get to Rachel and your farm?" "Well, yes, but there's no sense in goin’ down there to scramble and claw my way down the plank and up the bluff. I'll get home just the same, maybe before some of them boys, and I'm gonna stop at Bailey’s Tavern on the way." Asa leaned on the rail and peered down below. "Tavern, huh?" Addison joined him. "I suppose you're gettin' in one last good drink before Rachel gets her claws on ya." "Something like." Addison stood and stretched his arms above his head. He was a half a head shorter than his brother, but their eyes were the same—blue with flecks of green. I've never heard of such eyes. Are they real? All the Thatcher children inherited their eye color from their father. "Suit yourself. I'm leaving." Asa chuckled. "Alright, Addi, but try not to marry that girl tonight. Eli would want to be there to witness you shackled to a woman." "Eli isn't home?" "Nah, his band of coloreds didn't get mustered out just yet. Should be soon." "It's just as well." Addison grinned. "Our dear older brother would just try to pull rank on me anyway." He turned and headed away from his brother. "I'll see you on Sunday. I hear tell Peter's turned into quite a fine preacher." "Count on it." Asa gave him a halfhearted wave. Asa watched Addison mingle in among the other men, rush down the gangway, and start up the bluff. While Addison headed to the Davis farm on the Sandusky bluff, Asa intended to make his way to Bailey’s Tavern. |
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