Spirited 0.1

It's pretty good, just go a bit easy on the descriptions next time. I found them way too long, and they didn't leave much for my imagination.

Of course, this is just my opinion. Also, this is already quite good. You don't really need to change anything.

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.

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

The machine starts (it is ready).

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

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.

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

The machine starts (it is ready).

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*

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*

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.

'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.

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.

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.

To respond to all the lovely commenting!

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

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

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.

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?

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?

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.

'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.

If beauty was arbitrary,

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.

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.

nd they churn with a more contended hum.

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.

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.

"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.