Spirited 0.1

0.1

"All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil." -- Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound.


Deep down, like everything, beauty is mechanical.

There is nothing spontaneous about it. It is easy to gaze upon a pink sunset, a calming waterfall, a quiet orchard, and whisper our pleasure. There is no admittance that behind it all, there are hidden cogs; there are silent hands forming the future landscapes; there are workers with no names.

There would be some that say beauty is just a lucky offshoot of chaos (all the dice land on sixes). It is easy to think so when one does not understand the procedure behind the scenes. It is something to be worked at and shaped. If beauty was arbitrary, there would be no real satisfaction. The spoken words wasted; admiring nothing but chance. But through the industry of beauty, we have something to savour. Something to appreciate.

Time will pass, but the final result will always be worth the plaudits.

Seventh floor. C Block. Salamis Flats. One more step towards beauty. A cog has begun to turn, and the wheels of fortune start spinning the right way.

She is still like the winter air. Her eyes, piercing blue, watch through the misty windows of the apartment. She is waiting. The food is boiling, perhaps for too long, because the hot water seeps through the small crack between the pot and the lid, bubbling onto the hot surface. There is nothing for her to worry about anymore. The food is not her problem, nor is the dark stains on the carpet, nor the open front door, nor the broken table.

The first fuel burns.

The knife is perched without grace in her jugular. It has barely slipped since it first plunged into her throat. The fall slightly dislodged it, but it stands almost vertical. Her body is in perfect condition, except for the extreme blood loss. Somehow her clothes are untouched, the threads as faultless as always. Yet only the wristwatch on her left arm ticks, her last pulse, her last testament to sound.

It is the only sound that permeates the silence previously achieved. Minus the rising rattling of the lid, and the fizz of evaporation.

The machine starts (it is ready).

On a cold morning, someone has lost their mother. Despite that, or because of that, far away, a man is smiling.

In the hidden corners of the world, the engines slip into their habitual run, fulfilling their purposes. They are the soldiers of beauty, though the grease of their dirty art is far from the aesthetics of their production. One woman’s life refreshes their power, and they churn with a more contended hum.

The first lines of the poem are written in blood.

"All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil." -- Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound.

Love the quote.

Deep down, like everything, beauty is mechanical.

There is nothing spontaneous about it. It is easy to gaze upon a pink sunset, a calming waterfall, a quiet orchard, and whisper our pleasure. There is no admittance that behind it all, there are hidden cogs; there are silent hands forming the future landscapes; there are workers with no names.

Intrigued. I've been sucked in in the first paragraph.

There would be some that say beauty is just a lucky offshoot of chaos (all the dice land on sixes). It is easy to think so when one does not understand the procedure behind the scenes. It is something to be worked at and shaped. If beauty was arbitrary, there would be no real satisfaction. The spoken words wasted; admiring nothing but chance. But through the industry of beauty, we have something to savour. Something to appreciate.

I liked the comparison to beuaty and chance. And the rolling all sixes helped me understand what was being said.

Time will pass, but the final result will always be worth the plaudits.

Ok, I feel dumb but I dont know what plaudits are.

Seventh floor. C Block. Salamis Flats. One more step towards beauty. A cog has begun to turn, and the wheels of fortune start spinning the right way.

Interesting as well

She is still like the winter air. Her eyes, piercing blue, watch through the misty windows of the apartment. She is waiting. The food is boiling, perhaps for too long, because the hot water seeps through the small crack between the pot and the lid, bubbling onto the hot surface. There is nothing for her to worry about anymore. The food is not her problem, nor is the dark stains on the carpet, nor the open front door, nor the broken table.

Not 100% sure if there should be a comma there. It makes the reading kind of awkward to me.

That was frightfully descriptive. Very very good though. I think i might have a nightmare it was so good.

The whole concept amazing. I hope there is more. I'm guessing this is kinda like a prolouge since it's kinda short.

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Ahoy there, Jack!

Ah, I'd almost forgotten that your fantasy was pretty awesome, too. Mmm. The description in this seemed to incorporate more of your poetry- the line was blurred, this time. Usually, your prose is sharp and angular, and your poetry, the opposite.

Trying new things is always nice, especially when the results are grand.

FLOW AND CLARITY: This piece was a bit like me on a skateboard- I've got it, going strong...and then I fall and break my leg.

You've got pretty words, Jack, but they need to make sense.

Where did it begin to get fuzzy?

Seventh floor. C Block. Salamis Flats. One more step towards beauty. A cog has begun to turn, and the wheels of fortune start spinning the right way.

A-hah! Now...why?

The way the first few paragraphs were written- a sort of neutral commentary- is a sharp contrast from following a single person around. Unconsciously, you make lots of changes in the way you say things when you're writing for an idea and when you're writing for a person, and readers are all the more sensitive to that change.

They're expecting a chapter break between that line and the line before it.

Now, if that's getting the skateboard wheel stuck in gum on the sidewalk, the throwing-you-off-by-your-own-inertia-and-breaking-your-arm part occurs here:

Her eyes, piercing blue, watch through the misty windows of the apartment. She is waiting. The food is boiling, perhaps for too long, because the hot water seeps through the small crack between the pot and the lid, bubbling onto the hot surface.

There's nothing wrong with non-sequitur. Heck, here, it's positively beautiful- but you've changed the style. Now, not only have you gone from neutral narration to an omniscent third person POV, you've gone on some sort of drug and you're not coming back.

How to fix it?

The line about the food boiling is really interesting, so you're going to want to keep that. However, you want a transition between the line before that and the thing about the food- which most writing rule books will clearly state. No doubt you knew that, but trying something new and exciting is much more fun, right?

(The thing is thus: you can experiment. Feel free to throw out the rule book and eat your English teacher, but you've got to be ready for people to come with the wrecking ball and tear it all down.)

But ah! Again, even though inertia's bringing your readers down on their own extremities, it is so darn pretty. You've got quite a way with words, Jack- it's rather hard to rip this apart. That's why there's only one area of concern for me here.

This critique would be longer, you know, but I'm not the type to go on and on about how excellent it was. You can probably figure that one out for yourself.

'Lo Jack.

I realise now Sam has hit points I meant to go over, but I suppose all approaches bring a different light to a thing.

I'll reiterate that it was lovely. But I know from my own meandering, the lovely tends to lose its grounding and float free of concrete connection. For a musing, journal entry, sketch? Well, I suppose connection may come with thought and revision.

This though, seems to have a point - poetic prose and all - a keen point, no pun to its character's demise.

What was it?

You go, I think, for perhaps two things - two things that seem plain from start. Or are there more? The use of ensouled things for mechanical means, for beauty tied to grinding gears, to [unwilling?] sacrifice of life for an end - evil, yes? Or perhaps, by finish, we know that beauty is inextricably entwined with sweat, and blood and work. A good?

The fact that a piece can say more than one thing is brilliant.

The fact that this, approaching beauty, seemed to have two notes not quite connected by a full melody may be less than so.

Like the prose, it seems to split here:

Time will pass, but the final result will always be worth the plaudits.

Seventh floor. C Block. Salamis Flats. One more step towards beauty. A cog has begun to turn, and the wheels of fortune start spinning the right way.

I wonder if the two (seeming) ideas would weave more neatly were that transition to be made rather than jumped? As it is, it feels like a physical break - 'always be worth the plaudits' to third-person narration and the woman with her dinner boiling away while she lies dead.

You see, I can even see a bitter edge that might be aimed at an Orderer (capital, if I'm to imply one and omnipotent). But that may be my own reading into it.

All ideas aside, if the opening and finish can link, you have a full piece.

:...:...:

Brief notes on sentences and such:

If beauty was arbitrary,

Subjunctive, don't you think? 'were' rather than 'was'?

There is no admittance that behind it all, there are hidden cogs; there are silent hands forming the future landscapes; there are workers with no names.

Somehow, 'no names' strikes me as a connection, forward or inverse, that might be made to the woman and following narrative. It's more subconscious catch though; I can't say why.

The knife is perched without grace in her jugular.

Can a knife be perched in something? It strikes me as a slightly off use of 'perch'.

It has barely slipped since it first plunged into her throat. The fall slightly dislodged it, but it stands almost vertical. Her body is in perfect condition, except for the extreme blood loss. Somehow her clothes are untouched, the threads as faultless as always. Yet only the wristwatch on her left arm ticks, her last pulse, her last testament to sound.

The sentence lengths here come off in list-like lack of variety. Is it intentional? Most of it is varied by fragment - and they're rather deft all around at keeping the tension.

nd they churn with a more contended hum.

--'Contented', yes?

--

Keep the final line, whatever else this ends as. It serves dually, if not trebly, in finishing an idea, and image, and a feeling.



IMP

To respond to all the lovely commenting!

Ok, I feel dumb but I dont know what plaudits are.

Plaudits is just an expression of approval -- it's usually used in description of media -- "The film won the plaudits of the critics", for example. In fact, I want to change that word anyway, it doesn't fit.

The whole concept amazing. I hope there is more. I'm guessing this is kinda like a prolouge since it's kinda short.

It is indeed a prologue to a much less abstract story. This was just an experimental introduction I'm working on. But thanks for the positive comments!

There's nothing wrong with non-sequitur. Heck, here, it's positively beautiful- but you've changed the style. Now, not only have you gone from neutral narration to an omniscent third person POV, you've gone on some sort of drug and you're not coming back.

Yeah, I realised this when looking over it. I think the problem is the narrative is strange because it's actually supposed to be from a certain POV, but it didn't work out right. I switched style/tense or whatnot and it kind of skewed in the middle. There was a few collection of ideas I was trying to bring together, and they haven't quite fitted right. I'll work on that.

The line about the food boiling is really interesting, so you're going to want to keep that. However, you want a transition between the line before that and the thing about the food- which most writing rule books will clearly state. No doubt you knew that, but trying something new and exciting is much more fun, right?

Thanks Sam for the insight. I'll definitely be working on changing that around so it works and flows better.

You go, I think, for perhaps two things - two things that seem plain from start. Or are there more? The use of ensouled things for mechanical means, for beauty tied to grinding gears, to [unwilling?] sacrifice of life for an end - evil, yes? Or perhaps, by finish, we know that beauty is inextricably entwined with sweat, and blood and work. A good?

That is essentially it -- the perception of the narrator/narrative and their ideas of beauty. IThis doesn't stand up so well on its own right now, because it is a companion to the later story, and hopefully will make a lot more sense later on. Of course, that doesn't help much now! But, yes, in essence, that was it -- is it evil or good? Are the machines grinding toward this beauty - something the narrator has defined -- for a reason? What is it? It was supposed to ask questions, to get the reader interested, so they can be answered in the story later on.

I wonder if the two (seeming) ideas would weave more neatly were that transition to be made rather than jumped? As it is, it feels like a physical break - 'always be worth the plaudits' to third-person narration and the woman with her dinner boiling away while she lies dead.

Yep! It doesn't work right now, and you and Sam have reinforced my fears. It's going to get me thinking of how to combine the two slightly different styles so they match one another, but I'll try that.

Thanks for the observations of the different lines, you make some good points that I'll need to work on.

I like the last line too! I'm glad someone else this.

So, anyway, just to reiterate -- this a prologue to a story. I'm not expecting this to stand up totally on its own, but obviously its legs need to be strengthened. "Spirited" is a working title for a story I'm currently just writing with no real outline except one in my head. It's something to do with Gods, a mixture of modern life and ancient religion, sacrifice, perception, faith ... I hope. Characters will ineivtably appear in the first chapter to follow this.

Thanks again!

I will do the gushing from which Sam and Imp somehow managed to refrain.

OMG!

I love this style for you, Jack. Most of your prose that I have read (if I am remembering correctly), was somewhat sharp... what did Sam say...? Angular. That's a good way to put it. I think the last prose piece of yours I read was the one with the guy at the party who meets the girl in the woods, and it was sort of a one-time encounter. I remember that one being very blunt, and almost painful in how honest it was about teenaged awkwardness.

And you know I love your poetry. When I read one of your poems, first it's in my head, then out loud, then in my head again, then as a whisper, then in my head one more time. The great thing about this piece is that it, as Sam and Imp have said, blurs the line between your prose and poetry. This has enough structure and variance in the way you've formed your sentences that I don't feel like I'm reading a poem in pargraphical form, but it has the same flow as your poetry, which makes it delicious.

Plotwise, I'm intrigued because of "Salamis Flats." I remember you talking about The Sky So Deeply Red (where is that project, by the way? or is this a hybrid?) so I was hooked instantly because I love the thought of a historical/fantasy novel. And with your gorgeous prose, I'd probably lock myself away for a day to read the thing too.

So! Enough gushing from Ari; I'm off to read your first chapter and hopefully have something constructive to say when I have. No promises, though.

Quote: [he first lines of the poem are written in blood.] this is great! this provides a wonderful hook which really gets the readers exited about your story, I found very little to be said other than that of others i just wanted to give you a positive post to help you on for later postings of this story.

'Lo Jack! Look who finally got around to it. If there is something unclear or you vague or illegible please pound on my skull, that or ask a question, I promise not be a sphinx, I'm all out of riddles, anyways.

Deep down, like everything, beauty is mechanical.

Good opening line; it made me pay attention, and not skip to another part.

There is nothing spontaneous about it. It is easy to gaze upon a pink sunset, a calming waterfall, a quiet orchard, and whisper our pleasure. There is no admittance that behind it all, there are hidden cogs; there are silent hands forming the future landscapes; there are workers with no names.

I read it, then I read it again, and then I smiled because it just made me want to read the rest.

There would be some that say beauty is just a lucky offshoot of chaos (all the dice land on sixes). It is easy to think so when one does not understand the procedure behind the scenes. It is something to be worked at and shaped. If beauty was arbitrary, there would be no real satisfaction. The spoken words wasted; admiring nothing but chance. But through the industry of beauty, we have something to savour. Something to appreciate.

I don't know if I like the parentheses; to me, the rest of this prologue seems fluid, I think of it like when in the beginning of a movie, there is narration while the camera is flying over a scene. But then there are parentheses, which jumped out at me like an aside, breaking the idea. Though you did begin by comparing beauty to machine, so maybe the stop and go of it works well. If you were to change it, I'd suggest putting a colon after chaos.

Time will pass, but the final result will always be worth the plaudits.

I so had to go and look up plaudits what kind of english geek am I?

Seventh floor. C Block. Salamis Flats. One more step towards beauty. A cog has begun to turn, and the wheels of fortune start spinning the right way.

I liked this part, even though the first three phrases confused me

She is still like the winter air. Her eyes, piercing blue, watch through the misty windows of the apartment. She is waiting. The food is boiling, perhaps for too long, because the hot water seeps through the small crack between the pot and the lid, bubbling onto the hot surface. There is nothing for her to worry about anymore. The food is not her problem, nor is the dark stains on the carpet, nor the open front door, nor the broken table.

I'm not sure what I think about this paragraph. On the one hand, you've zoomed in from the scene around to a person, but the transition seemed choppy: all of a sudden there was this girl and I didn't know what to think of her. The phrase "she is still like the winter air" didn't seem to fit with what's around it, but I'm often wrong about these things.

The first fuel burns.

The knife is perched without grace in her jugular. It has barely slipped since it first plunged into her throat. The fall slightly dislodged it, but it stands almost vertical. Her body is in perfect condition, except for the extreme blood loss. Somehow her clothes are untouched, the threads as faultless as always. Yet only the wristwatch on her left arm ticks, her last pulse, her last testament to sound.

In this bit, the phrase "except for the extreme blood loss" bothered me (no, not because it was about blood), I think mostly because of the word "extreme". It seemed too....general? a term. I liked the wording of "her last testament to sound" mucho. This end part seems like it is dying away, just as the girl is, and because of that, I don't know if you need to state that her watch is on her left arm; I don't know how important the fact is (if, however, she only has a left arm, and no right arm, then you have a vaild point).

It is the only sound that permeates the silence previously achieved. Minus the rising rattling of the lid, and the fizz of evaporation.

very cool bit

The machine starts (it is ready).

Here, I like the parentheses, they seem very forboding to me.

On a cold morning, someone has lost their mother. Despite that, or because of that, far away, a man is smiling.

In the hidden corners of the world, the engines slip into their habitual run, fulfilling their purposes. They are the soldiers of beauty, though the grease of their dirty art is far from the aesthetics of their production. One woman’s life refreshes their power, and they churn with a more contended hum.

Ooh, I liked the phrase, "dirty art", and I've always wondered how someone would use the word "aesthetic" in a sentence . Nice mechanical language in the last sentence.

The first lines of the poem are written in blood.

Confused? I don't know what this refers to; it would be stronger if there were a poem mentioned (or I was totally spacing and missed something)

Overall... I always do these "overall" bits at the end of a review, and they're getting kind of tiring...but overall, at the end of the chapter/section/whathaveyou, I just wanted to read what comes next. And that's really the most important part, no?

Hope this helped,
-Amelia

Wowa, let me just say your voice totally creeps me out. Makes me feel like something is going to jump out of thin are and attack me O.o

I do love the present tense here, you did it really good, usually it annoys the hell out of me. Like I said, I do love your voice, but I feel like I'm reading through mud. I'm not sure if it's the sentences or the words or what.... I don't mind it too much, it's just weird. But your lines are very poetic, and really freaky. It all went together beautifully. And I have nothing else to say! *clap*

I don't know that I could possibly add anything useful, Jack, and as such I feel rather a fool for posting, but I had to tell you how exquisite I found this, how beautifully flawless. If I could take one page of fiction and show it to all my friends and be able to say "This is how a great writer writes" then this would be the page. You have quite blown me away, be assured of further comments from me on this work. *tips hat*

Mm, this is a great start, Jack. I apologize for not getting to it sooner!

Just a few nitpicks:

The food is boiling, perhaps for too long, because the hot water seeps through the small crack between the pot and the lid, bubbling onto the hot surface.

You repeat "hot" here, so my attention is drawn to the repetition rather than to the scene.

The food is not her problem, nor is the dark stains on the carpet, nor the open front door, nor the broken table.

I believe it should be "nor are the dark stains on the carpet."

The machine starts (it is ready).

I'm a huge fan of parentheses in poetry, but not in prose. It just doesn't work for me here.

Other than that, Jackie, I thought this was a brilliant introduction. I had to read it a few times to understand that the girl was dead -- I suppose the description that she was "waiting" threw me off at first -- but after I got that, everything else flowed smoothly. Excellent, as usual.

Firestarter wrote:
though the grease of their dirty art is far from the aesthetics of their production.

What a wonderful string of words! I love this clause.

You write beautifully.Though there were moments when I felt the familiar hum of cliche, you were instantly able to pull back into your own intensely interesting phrase.

I love it. I believe it is because how you write reminds me of how I think (therefore, how I aspire to write!)

Very well done. You seem to be somewhat of a celebrity on this site. I wish I had more critiquing to do for you, and less praising... but I don't, so this will have to do!

"All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil." -- Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound.

Liked this.

The machine starts (it is ready).

Feel like the parentheses takes away from the piece.


This had a really good word flow. I felt like everything came together well, and written in a very pretty way. I also really liked your ending line. Write on.

Haha, this is ooooold!

Anyway! It's a cool beginning and reminds me of "Stranger than Fiction." And you should continue it. Because it's cool like that.