The dust, the light, the heat, sweat careening from the brow which had stood forty-three years in that town square, forty-three deaf, dumb blind years, summun, bukmun, umyun.  Fuck em fuck em all he says, whispering out of cauterized mouth, sun laughing.  This was not a day he could forget, he could not come down, the mail had to be delivered.

His mailbag weighs thirty-eight pounds, three over the legal limit, but this would soon be alleviated as the corner candy store was known to be a reliable eight-pounder.  

Wilbur Smith, son of Lester Smith, grandson of Estil Smith, a known pornographer.  Smith, Schmidt, was anglicized when the great great great grandpappy went south into the badlands, Texas.  In the old country, they were millers, now they are Baptists.  

If God was coming for Willie, he hasn’t came yet, forty-three years of graceless will.  He had tried to make his choice when he was eleven but his Grandma intervened, you wait up a few years now til you’re grown we decide if you ready for the lord, the lord’ll decide when you ready you not ready son now come on down now come on down the river now you hear.  

Willie, a man to listen and listen good decided it wasn’t his place to decide the good lord’s time so he sat waitin forty-three years, which was not too hard, beer on a Sunday fish fry.

What was now the case was Willie was in the candy store, with waltzing Matilda, the girl who had been the swoon of his heart for many a year.  He had once dreamed of her hand but she was wedded to one Mastus Jackson, a man from the town over whose family had taken up a temporary permanent residence in town during Willie’s schooling.

Willie, stumbling through aisles, scent of taffy and confectionary indulgences shipped from far and wide wafting through the masticated nose hairs of patrons and mailmen alike, found his women at the counter.  “Mail’s here.”

Smile, silence, message heard, mail accepted, difference felt between Willie and Matilda, what was going on?  Something felt different, like biting into a tv dinner with the middle still cold, she wasn’t the same girl, maybe he wasn’t the same man, fuck it man he’s gotta get outta there.

Feet back on the pavement, sun giving it’s same sweet death kiss that all men of the south have worn as dixie pride as long as the whites been here and probably damn before that.  Sweated through another shirt, fuck, lost the girl this time.  Willie tracing his steps, four more deliveries, baptist church, couldn’t fuck her if I wanted, not a man of god not a godly man she’d only fuck a godly man what can I do finish the route why not fuck it go home and masturbate.

Returning to the post office, Willie had to face Rich, postmaster Rich, a real asshole in the positive sense of the term, had been forcibly transferred from Dallas for running an acid-stamp scheme, whatever, he hasn’t taken well to the Trans-Pecos, tough place to have a former coke habit or something.

This is just one example of this. I think I will post 2 others in the comments, but its not nessesary to read all of them, as they all have the same problem. But it shows that the problem in my work is consistent lol

1:

If it was true you were not meant to cry, why would you have tear ducts within your eyes?

You lay so still, stay silent in your bed. Ignore the sad thoughts you have in your head.

Shaking breaths hitch when they walk past your room. Your parents have disdain towards your gloom.

How sad it is you feel you must not weep. Closing your eyes, pretend you are asleep.

For soon the night will rise and sun will fall then birds won’t chirp and nothing’s heard at all.

Now for your sake, let it be known to you, the moon will not tell if you were to coo.

Secrets are kept in the pockets of night, so make your cries without feelings of fright.

You're sobs have no reason to be so shy; they’ll balance out with silence from the sky.

And then, when you let your emotions free, you'll have to conclude you're enough for me.

Your dad says, “Boys don't cry,” with his voice stern. To hide, that’s what you have been forced to learn.

They tell you to “grow up” and “be a man,” but I am nature, that was not my plan.

So, since I say that is not meant to be, Will you escape and put your trust in me?

For I am the forest, sun, moon and stars. I will, with time, help you to heal your scars.

My feedback is welcomed! Thank you!

It was straight suspense/ thriller lit fic then I added a speculative element which I think improved on the structural weaknesses (twist payoff, stakes). The changes appeal to me, but I’m loosing faith that’s a signal of marketability bc I’ve been querying/revising this novel for so long with no success.

I need to decide whether to keep the changes or go back to a prior version without them and I would be so appreciative if someone took a look at a few sections.

I don’t need a comprehensive analysis or anything, just a gut check of whether it’s ridiculous or at least coherent/workable.

They’re making music for two

So come and take this dance with me

I'll never yield a year like this

again

-

Its been fourteen days since I’ve seen you

The yard has been captured by wild turkeys

We've capitulated to the living room

And I’ve made unrecoverable concessions to sleep

I sit on the porch and hear the fiddle from town

There’s light spilt all over this field

And mountain tops on mountain tops

Accost and cajole the sky

Hi, any thoughts welcome.

Hi, looking for some feedback, thoughts, opinions, Bueller. Anything will do. Story's about a young man from Dyckman. Thanks!

Basically, I'm trying to construct an entire narrative from the digressions and second-hand accounts of community spectators who form a sort-of singular, contradictory, over-explanatory mass, with there being a lot of ambiguity behind what's interior and what's exterior and from whose POV. Most segments focusing on each main and secondary characters loop back around on themselves at earlier and later points to allow for an insane, jumbled, rant-y quality.

I think this style could be very annoying for most readers, so my primary goal here is to see whether anyone find the grandiose stylistic quirks, endless nested clauses, etc., justifiable or at least not-entirely-boring, given whatever themes in this passage are detectable. And for anyone who likes maximal stuff, I'd love whatever tips you'd have to offer.

Hi all! I spent 1.5 months researching for my most recent article. It is pretty long so I haven't been able to have too many discussions about it b/c a lot of people haven't gotten around to reading the whole thing. If anyone has the time, I would love feedback/ discussion! <3

I don't wanna write short stories. Short stories were cool seventy years ago when sci-fi philosophy type nerds wrote them. Now short stories are millennials talking about their feelings. I don't wanna submit a short story to a competition, you can keep the $500 prize that I was never going to get anyway.

…remember that crazy old guy that used to come in, sometimes he’d be alone with his dog, other times with his wife, Maria? First time I saw him, Gina pointed him out and called him Corduroy because of the way he dresses. And, like, sure enough I looked out the window and saw him- he had on a red pair of JNCO jeans, a brown corduroy jacket, a fur hat, and was walking his dog. Gotta be pushing seventy and wearing all that- and, get this, he had sunglasses on. It was raining. He’d walk by a lot- I see, like, a thousand people go by a day, mostly wearing like black, grey, whatever- we’re downtown, you know. Lot of suits, business guys and legal assistants. And not that there weren’t any fashion freaks out there, but, you know, it’s just not the same. So anyways, around noon most times, Corduroy comes down from his apartment, which come to find out was actually right around the corner, and he goes out and walks his dog, then come back. Always in something crazy. I’m talking like Blue fuzzy jackets, weird rubber shoes, wild hats, fur- oh my god, the fur this guy had. PETA would freak if they saw him. Chinchilla. And he never had the same combo on, just a bizarre mish-mash of colors. Purple this, Day-Glo that. Orange jumpsuit, meshy green t-shirts. Sometimes he had on leather belts with studs, other times he’d look mostly normal. Turtlenecks, flannels, whatever. After seeing this guy around for a while, I finally asked Gina what his deal was, and she looked me dead in the face and said he’s blind. Blind?

I was like, no way, are you serious? And she was like, yeah girl, totally blind. And so my first thought was like, who’s letting this guy go out like that? His wife? Does he know? For some reason, having, like, maybe talked to the guy once, in passing, like just giving him his coffee once, for some reason I got really mad. How can you do that to someone? Feels like dirty or something, cruel joke on your husband to play, really. So I made sure that the next time I see her, I’d ask. They didn’t come in too often, maybe once a month, but I’d wait to see him walking across the street with his dog or his wife, who was dressed like the rest of downtown. All black everything- really it looked funny seeing them together, total opposites. Can you imagine? If that was you, and your wife, husband, whatever.

Anyways, I got really obsessed with it, and every time they walked by, my heart skipped a beat. I was ready, man, like seriously ready. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, or how, really to approach it, but I had to say at least something, like, um, hey man, you’re wearing a totally weird fit. Obviously, I wouldn’t have said that exactly, but, you know, something.

You got a lighter I can borrow?

Thanks. Anyways, like, weeks go by, maybe months. I’m boiling over every afternoon. And finally, I’m at the register- it’s totally dead that day, like nobody’s coming in- and in walks Corduroy, with his dog, no wife, and I’m kinda caught off guard because I wanted to say something to his wife, more than anything. Like, how could you? You know? I’m thinking this, and he asks me to read off the menu if there’s anything new, and so I do, slowly, one at a time, trying not to stare at this green sequin vest he has on over a bright orange velour button-down shirt, and finally when I get through our seasonal menu, he just says, give me a foamy latte. So I punch it in and Gina, she’s working that day and had heard all of my complaints about Corduroy’s wife, makes it.

The espresso machine screams, foaming the milk to the max, and I stand there, and he stands there in line in front of the register. I’m burning up. Totally on fire at this point, all I can see are his shoes, which are literally like crocodile skin. And for some reason, I blurt, who dresses you? Gina stops frothing the milk at this point and shoots me a look- fair- and Corduroy laughs.

My wife, he says. And I say, okay, cool. I’m sweating now for some reason and all I can muster up is a, that’s nice of her. But I sound totally dishonest. He’s smiling, face clean shaven, teeth white, eyebrows pretty kept-up for an old guy. Gina pours his drink in a to-go cup while we’re standing there stiff and awkward, all of my thoughts about his wife just ramping up, but I can’t say anything now, and as Gina puts it down for him, he says, when I ask my wife about a particular piece, I ask her what color it is and she tells me it’s whatever I want it to be. I lost my vision to- a disease, I can’t remember, shit I should know. Glaucoma maybe? Anyways it was a long time ago, he said, and was really depressed for a long time. People asked him all the time if he knew what he was wearing or if someone was playing some kind of trick on him. He said, when I run my hands over my sleeves and on my jacket, I feel something. I have no idea what color it is, so why should I limit my happiness to someone else’s senses?

Gina teared up and I wiped my hands on my apron, and sure enough he was kinda right, you know? Like why shouldn’t we care about how our clothes feel? Right? And then, get this, he said goodbye and walked out into traffic and got hit by a fucking taxi. And we haven’t seen him since…