Question on long metaphors

[Trick]

This is a tiny excerpt that I need some feedback on. I'd ask that no one brutalize this too viciously but I don't think I need to because I have yet to get that kind of feedback from any here on Mythic Scribes. Both positive and negative reinforcement are welcome along with suggestions and comments.

Basically,I have a long, possibly over-extended metaphor in this scene and I need to know if it works but you can comment on writing mechanics too. I'm definitely not above the help.

~ My feet slapped and banged a hop-scotch beat down the stairs, causing creaks and groans from the rough, worn wood. The corners of my mouth were in danger of touching my ears and I was even humming a tune that Mama sang to Daria at bed time. Once outside, the cool night air soothed my flushed cheeks; or at least it would have if there wasn't suddenly a bag over my head and a fist in my gut. I gasped for breath but got rough canvas between my lips instead. My outcry sounded more like an animal grunt than anything human. My memory cuts off at that point, like I fell asleep while Mama told a story, and when I wake, I just can't remember what the bad guy was doing before I drifted off.

In this case I was reminded without wasted time. What was the bad guy doing when I came to? Well, staring me in the face, that's what. And I knew Mama's bad guys would be afraid of this man. They'd have been shaking in their fictional boots. I still don't feel embarrassed about pissing myself. Shit, I was only nine. ~


Thanks all

 

[A. E. Lowan]

I'm like your imagery here, but I'm a little confused about what is happening. Is your character coming out of a dream into a bad reality? If he is, I quite like it, especially

And I knew Mama's bad guys would be afraid of this man.

. That's a very good line.

 

[Trick]

Actually, he is awake for all of it except when his memory cuts out (because he's knocked unconscious) and the part about sleeping and Mama's stories is all metaphor. That's clearer when you can read the prior section.

I'm glad you like that line, I do too.

 

[Svrtnsse]

It's a cool idea, but I think you're pulling it a little too far.

My memory cuts off at that point, like I fell asleep while Mama told a story, and when I wake, I just can't remember what the bad guy was doing before I drifted off.

Getting knocked unconscious and falling asleep to Mama's stories are very different sides to the same coin and I don't feel the metaphor holds here. Your POV is suddenly and unexpectedly attacked. He doesn't drift away peacefully.

You can come back to the metaphor like you do in the second paragraph, but I'm thinking you could probably work the transition a bit differently.

 

[Trick]

I'm trying to equate the haziness of waking with an incomplete memory but I see your point. Any suggestions in how I can clear up the same metaphor? I'd hate to lose it.

 

[Svrtnsse]

Aye, the waking up part is good. It's the passing out that's the issue.
Maybe something about turning off a light or blowing out a candle, and then something about waking up in the morning remembering the story or a dream or something.

 

[Trick]

How about this edit:

My feet slapped and banged a hop-scotch beat down the stairs, causing creaks and groans from the rough, worn wood. The corners of my mouth were in danger of touching my ears and I was even humming a tune that Mama sang to Daria at bed time. Once outside, the cool night air soothed my flushed cheeks; or at least it would have if there wasn't suddenly a bag over my head and a fist in my gut. I gasped for breath but got rough canvas between my lips instead. My outcry sounded more like an animal grunt than anything human. My memory cuts out at that point, like waking after a bad night's sleep with a hazy recollection of one of Mama's stories but I just can't remember what the bad guy was doing before the lights went out.

In this case I was reminded without wasted time. What was the bad guy doing when I came to? Well, staring me in the face, that's what. And I knew Mama's bad guys would be afraid of this man. They'd have been shaking in their fictional boots. I still don't feel embarrassed about pissing myself. Shit, I was only nine. ~

 

[Jamber]

Hi Trick,

I feel the comparison is too much of a stretch. You're using a metaphor that's one of nurturing and pleasantness (despite the fictional baddie) to describe a situation of great unpleasantness and drama. As well, there's a sense where using fiction as a metaphor troubles the suspension of disbelief that the outer story isn't fiction.

Of course, you may be writing comedy -- in that case, stretch away. There's a place for tongue-in-cheek writing that plays with and subverts convention. (Check out Jacques the Fatalist by Diderot.)

Still, I would think about changing metaphors, as Svrtnsse says.

Cheers,
Jennie

 

[Svrtnsse]

My memory cuts out at that point, like the light when blowing out the candle by the bedside. When I come to again my recollection of what happened is as muddled as the memory of the night before. I can no more remember what happened to me than what the bad guys did in Mama's story.

The above is probably a bit long, but maybe you can see where I'm coming from - or get a nudge in the right direction.

 

[Trick]

I've edited again; thoughts and comments are appreciated.

My feet slapped and banged a hop-scotch beat down the stairs, causing creaks and groans from the rough, worn wood. The corners of my mouth were in danger of touching my ears and I was even humming a tune that Mama sang to Daria at bed time. Once outside, the cool night air soothed my flushed cheeks; or at least it would have if there wasn't suddenly a bag over my head and a fist in my gut. I gasped for breath but got rough canvas between my lips instead. My outcry sounded more like an animal grunt than anything human. My memory cuts out at that point, like the shoddy electric lamp at my bedside switching off and bathing me in darkness. The next feeling I had was of waking as if after a bad night's sleep. A hazy recollection of one of Mama's stories was sneaking around in my fuddled mind. I just couldn't quite remember what the bad guy was doing before the lights went out.

In this case I was reminded without wasted time. What was the bad guy doing when I came to? Well, staring me in the face, that's what. And I knew Mama's bad guys would be afraid of this man. They'd have been shaking in their fictional boots. I still don't feel embarrassed about pissing myself. Shit, I was only nine. ~.

Basically, I made the bedtime story memory literal upon waking from unconsciousness and used it to shift into metaphor. Hopefully it's an improvement.

 

[Trick]

Ignore post #10, I made a few more small changes.

My feet slapped and banged a hop-scotch beat down the stairs, causing creaks and groans from the rough, worn wood. The corners of my mouth were in danger of touching my ears and I was even humming a tune that Mama sang to Daria at bed time. Once outside, the cool night air soothed my flushed cheeks; or at least it would have if there wasn't suddenly a bag over my head and a fist in my gut. I gasped for breath but got rough canvas between my lips instead. My outcry sounded more like an animal grunt than anything human. My memory cuts out at that point, like the shoddy electric lamp at my bedside switching off, enclosing me in darkness. The next feeling I recall was of waking as if after a bad night's sleep. A hazy dream about one of Mama's stories still sneaked around in my fuddled mind. I just couldn't quite remember what the bad guy was doing before the lights went out.

In this case I was reminded without wasted time. What was the bad guy doing when I came to? Well, staring me in the face, that's what. And I knew Mama's bad guys would be afraid of this man. They'd have been shaking in their fictional boots. I still don't feel embarrassed about pissing myself. Shit, I was only nine