I have been going through some of my old fiction. Below are three sentences from "Fortune," which I wrote for Scott Eliott's class at Whitman: at 25 pages, it was too long for an undergraduate workshop, tried to do too much, but didn't give enough time or effort to it. The piece can use a lot of editing, and I think I will do just that--write more into it if that seems necessary, but definitely excise a bunch of stuff out of it
The rains are coming. More precisely, April and May are parching the soil to prepare it for June, so I thought these sentences would be timely.
"May scorched the ground and raised it in billows behind large trucks plowing through the village. June came and settled monsoon clouds over the mountains’ brows. The first threats of rain electrified the afternoons and stifled the earth and sweated the plants; periodically a storm whipped up the hills to bury the sky..."
more from same:
"Lok Nath had the house to himself, and he still had the cactus hedges where sparrows nested, the jackfruit trees with their dusk choruses of birds, a cold spring tucked away in the mountains where Navaraj kept fish, and a house plastered with past, the smell of which was the ghostly cold covering memories of the dead; the soft slough of morning draped around the roof was his call to awake each morning away from dreams, and above all, the rasping coughing drooling heaving chest was only recollection of his love for Saypatri and Sudha; his arms were the memory of playing with youthful friends and having in the sunny afternoon of youth a sense of invincibility and incorruptible righteousness; in his mornings under the sooty ceiling was a remembered something and a remembered someplace where all beloveds are eternally preserved."