Thursday, March 24, 2011

Ashes--Favorite Scene

My favorite scene in Ashes? It wouldn’t have been possible without opening paragraph.
 Raw thirst dominated Lyle’s fantasy. Cracked ribs, battered leg, ankle bruised by the shackle, three broken fingers, deep slashes along inner thighs, and bone jutting through muscle in the left arm—it all lay crushed under the need for water. Images of shimmering droplets danced behind his crusted eyelids.
I couldn’t believe I’d written that, and one question dominated the others. Who was this dead guy, and, did anyone care he’d been murdered?
           Lyle stepped up, giving me little choice. Either I made things right, or he’d join his murdered brother and the story would end by page two.
          I had to fight to for every word, each paragraph.
          Because I remained clueless how to fix the problem I created on page one, the saddest scene for me ended with Myles’ lover putting an exhausted Lyle down to sleep.
His chest lifted, slow and deadened—a soft burst of scent filled his lungs.
Oh MyMy. The aroma of almond-vanilla sent an arrow straight into his heart. His spine arched upward, and Lyle’s eyes rocketed open.
Renold handed him a blue T-shirt.
Lyle shoved his face into it, eased over onto his side, and curled into a ball.

           I suppose you’re wondering what a horrible opening paragraph, and the saddest scene have to do with this blog’s theme of favorite.
           Sorry. Cooperation is out of character. Lyle has problems with authority in general.

            Lyle cleared the dust from his throat. “We gonna sit here forever? You must need a sugar fix, Sheriff Dickwad. Get your hands out of your pants and onto the wheel. I’ve rights, right? Lawyer. Phone call to Dad. He’ll love knowing I’m to be buggered in a Vegas lockdown.”
             He shifted against Renold, staring at dark curly arm hairs. “Sorry, Renold. I know you wanted a go. But you have a badge. Maybe you can get a conjugal before I’m toasted.”

             Of course, there’s always exceptions. The following lady manages to get a straight answer out of Lyle. Here’s a clip where he’s trying to pull off pretending he’s Myles, so he can get away from his brother’s lover and off himself.

              Lyle unstuck his wet cheek from Renold’s shirt. An ancient woman wearing that white collar and black hooded habit peered up at Renold. She lowered her chin and stared at Lyle. “A brush in your hand, could you create beauty?”
Tears slid, thick and hot. “No. Myles paints…painted, not me.” Goddamn, who could lie to a four foot nun?
            “He’s dead. Murdered?” she asked.
“Yes.”
So, unless you’re an ancient religious figurehead, I’m taking the fifth regarding my favorite scene, it's too interwoven with the plot.
Sincerely,
Arlene
video












No comments: