[John Riley]

I Am Not A Prince

My presence there was suffered by the men who held me by the arms. The back of their hands were covered with thick, dark hair and I could feel the callouses on their fingers but could not see their faces. They stood a few inches behind and lifted me up and down by the shoulders. My feet were either waving above the soil or resting on the fine dirt inside the corral. My eyes could only sway over the audience seated in bleachers. It was intended that I be proud of the size of the crowd I had drawn and I remembered to do so. The crowd was large but no one seemed happy. I didn't see a smile. I did not know why they were determined to maintain their stoic quiet. I wasn't a spy slipping in from an enemy tribe, or an alien from lands too distant for the audience to know existed. I was chosen for this honor but knew nothing of the honor bestowed. I had lived in this town since birth, only once stepping out of the town's limit to bring back a pet dog that ran away from one of my overseers on the town's council. As I grew older, I noticed the other children in the town had two people who cared for them, but my life was guided by the council of five men who only had numbers for names. I was scolded relentlessly for crossing the city borders but my plea for the safety of the dog eventually worked me back into the council's good graces. It wasn't until I started noticing how the light glowed on the charm of a girl's face, or the loveliness of an elegant neck, that I was quarantined in a windowless room. The men beside me in the corral did not make a sound as they lifted and dropped me as though I was the churner in an old butter maker. Then they lifted me higher than before and began walking toward the opposite side of the corral, my feet dangling foolishly as we moved closer to the spectators who began to rise from their seats and move down from the stands and my eyes, as though they were controlled by a mind I had no knowledge of, focused intently on the worn wood of the corral fence until all I could see were the gathered towns peopled all with a look of precise intent in their eyes.

[John Riley]

Anything? Wondering before submission.

[Carl Copeland]

I don’t know how these things are done, John, but I found myself gasping for the air of a paragraph break or two. Other than that, a few odds and ends:

The back of their hands were > The backs of their hands were

My eyes could only sway over the audience — Swaying eyes? Maybe “survey” or “scan.”

I remembered to do so > I remembered to be (our British colleagues may like “do,” though)

stepping out of the town's limit > stepping beyond the town’s limit

my plea for the safety of the dog — He rescued the dog. When did he plea for its safety?

the light glowed on the charm of a girl's face — Strangely indirect: the light didn’t glow on her face, but on the charm of her face.

the churner in an old butter maker > the plunger in an old butter churn

the stands and my eyes > the stands, and my eyes (you don’t separate independent clauses with commas as I was taught to do, but here you really need one; I’d also recommend a comma after “spectators”)

the gathered towns peopled all with a look — By “gathered towns” you mean people from other towns, so you’re saying those people are peopled with a look.

As an afterthought, it seems to me you could easily cut the first sentence and start with “The backs of the men’s hands …” It’s hard to know why the men “suffered” him if they were paying him “honor.”

I hope some of this is useful. Good luck with the submission!

[W T Clark]

John: I like this very much: but I wonder if the numbered instead of named council five is a detail picked from a kind of pop-dystopia that feels out of place in the prose' continuum of scrupulous ambiguity. I also find the honor sentence spelling out an atmosphere beneath the skin: better to keep it "beneath". In my opinion: you should leave the reader "gasping".

Hope this helps.

[Carl Copeland]

Originally Posted by W T Clark

I wonder if the numbered instead of named council five is a detail picked from a kind of pop-dystopia

“The Prisoner”!

[John Riley]

Thanks. I never would have thought of five being from something else. I don’t think I’ve read “The Prisoner.” Is it current?

The things pointed out could easily change. I am now wondering about the methodology of telling the story this way is right. That perhaps I need to burrow down another level in story making to avoid so much of the pop stuff out there. I haven’t watched so much or read so much of it. I may need to open my eyes more.

Thanks.

[Carl Copeland]

“The Prisoner” is a 1960s British TV series that I loved as a kid. It’s “surreal and Kafkaesque,” as Wikipedia says, and the last episode is beyond bizarre. I see that all 17 episodes are available on Youtube. Maybe I’m due for a “Prisoner” binge.

[John Riley]

Thanks, Carl. I’ll see if I can watch it. Put it on the list.