FROM MARIKAGUTHRIE
To head off the slew of grammar corrections that are coming my way I will say that I have a friend of mine (a newspaper editor) reading and correcting for me. I haven't gotten it back yet so this is the raw version. Also a quick heads up that my background is mainly in poetry so keep that in mind and somethings such as fragment sentences are intentional. I am going to post two threads to keep under the requested 1000 work limit and you can also get a feel for my dialogue. Thanks in advance.
Grand Junction, Colorado
The bitch was ugly. No two ways about it. Around a wide mouth with a protruding lower chin was a pushed up face like a smashed beer can. Jowly. One eye was swollen shut with a tear of pussy yellow sorrow holding fast on the outer corner. The other eye clear and gold. Confusingly long knobby legs welded to a round short torso. She was sitting spread eagle against the green dumpster in the late morning heat. Smiling and panting. Her eight exaggerated nipples ropy and flat against her exposed brindled belly. Yep she was one ugly bitch. I watched her for a while then headed through the glass door of the Exxon gas station.
"You know anything about the dog out by the dumpster?" I asked the girl at the register as I headed toward the soda fountain.
She shrugged her shoulder at me and went back to stocking cigarettes behind the counter. I selected a 64 ounce mega cup and filled it to the brim with water before grabbing a bag of smoked beef jerky. At the counter as I paid $5.10 for my goods I noticed that her black dye job was showing a good inch of dirty blond and that the edges of her Cleopatra eyeliner was smudged but, the hand that dropped ninety cents into my palm was perfectly manicured without so much as a chip in the shining plum nail polish. My own nails were rimmed dark with dirt.
Outside I approached the bitch slowly. Her tongue rolled around itself gently like a speckled and glistening squid; a fluid motion of thirst and sweat. I didn't seem to worry her as I spoke in low tones and knelt down along side the dumpster. She lapped up the offered water from the cup, making waves that rode over the lip and onto my hand. A length of frayed rope was twisted around her bullish neck, but no tags. Mixed in with the brindle of her hide where raw pink licks of skin. It looked to me as if she had fallen from the bed of a truck. I tilted the cup so that she could continue to drink and when she was finished I offered her a bit of jerky. The bitch took the bit of dry twisted meat in a polite, almost dainty fashion. She looked like a tired old prostitute with her little pinky held up from her cocktail. While she worked the bit of beef over I reached my fingers between her ears and scratched at the soft patch of down there. Her tail thumped against the dumpster making a big hollow sound.
No one was coming back for her. I untied the bandana that I was wearing, the one that Humble found for me after the snow in Leadville had finally thawed to release a season's worth of potato chip bags and Bud Light cans. He had noticed the edge of it flapping as if it were the loosened wing of a bird half frozen to the sidewalk and had dropped my hand to lean down pulling it free. How clearly I remember clapping my gloved hands together when we discovered that it was a bandana printed with Our Lady Guadeloupe in all her haloed, meek, tilted head glory. Later after washing the winter out of it's linen and drying it on our indoor clothes line Humble carefully folded it into a triangle and tied it over my hair. Then he kissed each of my knuckles. Laughing.
I fixed the bandana around the meaty neck of the smiling bitch then ran a hand over my greasy walnut mane. I was on a pilgrimage of sorts, driving myself into the west under a heavy gray and orange pack of substance, hiking boots hot on my feet, and the breath of Humble sharp in my lungs as a broken and splintered rib. Who better to watch over me as I crawled on my knees toward a uncertain forgiveness then the Mother of us all.
Slipping another strip of tough beef from the package I stood up and offered it to Our Lady Guadalupe, "Come along your Exaltedness. We'll see if we can't thumb our way to Utah.
Her Grace rose to her feet and shook off a clinging stiffness in her joints as I shouldered my pack. Together we walked toward Interstate 70 with the Bookcliffs dusty in the horizon under an unclouded sky.
****
Dead Horse Point, Canyonlands Utah
I laid down. My back in a bed of red sand fine as talcum powder and over me a tattered blanket of purple shade cast by a gnarled arthritic fist of a tree. Dusty cobalt berries clustered on her branches, fruitful old woman. Our Lady of Mercies stood, or more accurately sat, over me watching ravens. Her gold eyelashes flashing with bits of sunlight. I squinted my eyes until the huge block of her head blurred into a dark shape... until it could have been anyone leaning over me. Until it was Humble.
My head in his lap. The two of us sitting beneath the towering sunflowers of his mother's garden as they dipped just slightly in a breeze that could not be felt down near the well composted earth. My first visit to his parent's homestead just outside of Taos in early September. Closer to the house the bright snip of Georgia's gardening scissors severing herbs. Inside the sprawling adobe Humble's father was brewing coffee and making sticky buns that would cause me to bring sweetened fingertips to my mouth all day. A large Siamese dominated the bottom step to the guest tree house where Humble and I were spending uninterrupted nights. Built around a solitary cottonwood it was straight out of Sunset magazine with huge ponderous windows, honey colored wood floors, and a hand built bed covered in white linens, soft and luminous. In the tender autumn light Humble was tracing my cheekbones with his fingertips. We talked about nothing, the hum of our voices small and lazy. The words totally lost to me almost as soon as they were spoken. His hands found their way into my hair and I shut my eyes to the sky. I could hear the buzz of paper winged bees busy in the lavender as Humble leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. We kissed slowly upside down with his chin murmuring against my nose. When he began to pull away I gently took his upper lip between my teeth and held it until he leaned back into my mouth.
A cool drip into my collarbone and I opened my eyes. Another bead of saliva descended from Her Holiness's extended tongue and broke against the hot skin of my throat. I sat up and reached to rub it away, but the desert heat had already taken possession of that glimmer of holy water. I took my upper lip between my fingers and squeezed. Below the floating ravens the shadows of darkening canyons dipped and rolled into each other and I watched until every wayward detail was reduced in the night.
CRITIQUE
I like your tone, your verbs, and the pictures you paint with words. However, I think it's adjective-laden and loaded with unnecessary detail. The overwriting kind of clogs the works. Sometimes, you seem so concerned with the words and their sound that you disregard their affect on meaning. You also weaken your verbs with past perfect ("had") and participles ("ing" verbs). You could stand to prune "that" from your writing. Take this paragraph for example. Look what happens when I address those concerns:
No one was coming back for her. I untied the bandana that I was wearing, the one that Humble found for me after the snow in Leadville had finally thawed to release a season's worth of potato chip bags and Bud Light cans. He had noticed the edge of it flapping as if it were the loosened wing of a bird half frozen to the sidewalk and had dropped my hand to lean down pulling it free. How clearly I remember clapping my gloved hands together when we discovered that it was a bandana printed with Our Lady Guadeloupe in all her haloed, meek, tilted head glory. Later after washing the winter out of it's linen and drying it on our indoor clothes line Humble carefully folded it into a triangle and tied it over my hair. Then he kissed each of my knuckles. Laughing.
No one was coming back for her. I untied the linen bandanna I wore, the one Humble found after the snow in Leadville finally thawed to release a season's worth of potato chip bags and Bud Light cans. He noticed the edge of it flapping, half frozen to the sidewalk, and let go of my hand to pull it free. I clapped when we discovered Our Lady Guadeloupe in all her haloed glory printed on it. After I washed the winter out of it and let it dry, Humble carefully folded it into a triangle, tied it over my hair, and laughed as he kissed each of my knuckles.
You need to move the story along. To me, this was very heavy to read, weighted with too much "poetry" and unnecessary detail. Do you really need to compare that bandanna to a dead bird? Nope. Kinda gross actually, and Humble would've avoided the bandanna if the comparison were valid. Do you really need to inform us your hands were gloved, or to expound on Our Lady Guadeloupe, or to say where you dried the bandanna? Nope.
So I vote you read your prose with a ruthless eye. Leave enough poetry for enjoyment, but don't let it bog down the story. Cut those adjectives and unnecessary details. Use simple past tense. I removed 25% of your words with no loss of meaning. You ought to take that as a sign to prune vigorously...but try to keep your voice intact. Turn a good phrase for a good purpose and where it's appropriate, not just because you can or because you like it.