#1
The world slowly decayed as autumn made itself comfortable. The brilliant hues of changing leaves withered, leaving crumples of brown tossed off into masses. The trees stood naked, humiliated bark not yet weathered by the first frost. However, it was time.
Tonight would be first night in months that the world would shiver.
I gazed upon the vineyard, watching lines of grapes rustle in the breeze like black jewels. They were the only vibrant thing in sight; the dank sky turned the wrong shade of twilight and looked dim upon the drying earth. These fruits breathed - their presence sank into the soul as a silent force, life understood in its plump simplicity. My head hung heavy in knowledge of their fate.
Tonight they would lose all substance.


Morning came and I stood outside, body stiff in the cold. It had happened. The grapes hung withered, powdered with frosty crystals. The once proud, busty orb had aged to a grotesque corpse, its wise spirit fleeing into the sky as darker things settled in. The picking began, and these wrinkled sacks of skin were voraciously collected. This death was the greatest joy to some - this was the birth of iced wine.
This was nature's sweetest water.

I watched the celebration of death as the grapes were gathered, excitement running wild through the vineyard. Grapes dehydrate in cold weather and greatly increase their glucose content to keep whatever water is left from freezing and damaging the intricate veins and pathways throughout the fruit. This is their last defense against the cold, the last grasp at life. The struggle provides for a tasty treat to wine drinkers, as the juice of these frosty grapes makes for an especially sweet sip.


And so, the graves had been robbed, and the merry people swept in, hoping for their cheeks to gain some flush. They guzzled the diabetic blood, relishing in the anguish of the dying mother protecting its womb. I wept, nerves jangled by the gluttonous beasts.

Alas, a sigh. I wipe my tears. We are only made to be this way. We are only nature's creatures, as imperfect as the next. This is only the frost, I say to myself. I slip the noose around my neck and let go, hanging as sweet as the finest grape, flesh turning the most brilliant violet and soon to icy white.
Finally, I am celebrated.
Quote by Arthur Curry
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Last edited by vintage x metal at Mar 5, 2009,
#2
Quote by vintage x metal
The world slowly decayed as autumn made itself comfortable. The brilliant hues of changing leaves withered, leaving crumples of brown tossed off into masses. The trees stood naked, humiliated bark not yet weathered by the first frost. However, it was time.

I thought up to hear was terribly dull and slow. It was standard; exactly what I expect to read from someone painting a transfer between autumn and winter. You showed no life or personality and left this so slow I could barely get through it.

Tonight would be first night in months that the world would shiver.
I gazed upon the vineyard, watching lines of grapes rustle in the breeze like black jewels. They were the only vibrant thing in sight; the dank sky turned the wrong shade of twilight and looked dim upon the drying earth. These fruits breathed - their presence sank into the soul as a silent force, life understood in its plump simplicity. My head hung heavy in knowledge of their fate.
Tonight they would lose all substance.

Finally, some personality. I say you start here. Drop that other stuff and start with a straightforward approach that takes me right into the meat and potatoes; and still lets me taste how the narration is going to lead me through. you painted a scene adn then left it; so don't paint the scene and let the action define the environment. Cut it down. Prose is about streamlining the information you feed your narrator so there is enough to get it across, but not so much that its a chore to read.


Morning came and I stood outside, body stiff in the cold. It had happened. The grapes hung withered, powdered with frosty crystals. The once proud, busty orb had aged to a grotesque corpse, its wise spirit fleeing into the sky as darker things settled in. The picking began, and these wrinkled sacks of skin were voraciously collected. This death was the greatest joy to some - this was the birth of iced wine.
This was nature's sweetest water.

stream line, stream line, stream line. "it had happened." So fucking what? Hit me with something that matters, baby. Don't feed me that; or if you are... at least let it carry some personality and voice. That was just useless and drab and filler. You spend the next two lines telling me exactly the same thing, and with a much better tone.

I watched the celebration of death as the grapes were gathered, excitement running wild through the vineyard. Grapes dehydrate in cold weather and greatly increase their glucose content to keep whatever water is left from freezing and damaging the intricate veins and pathways throughout the fruit. This is their last defense against the cold, the last grasp at life. The struggle provides for a tasty treat to wine drinkers, as the juice of these frosty grapes makes for an especially sweet sip.

I get what you went for here, but I don't buy it. Building the contrast to set up the last idea, but it read like wikipedia. And if you don't revise the presentation, I'm afraid its going to read like an out of place herbology lesson. Revise, or cut it. I say cut it; let the last idea strike without building the logical flow.

And so, the graves had been robbed, and the merry people swept in, hoping for their cheeks to gain some flush. They guzzled the diabetic blood, relishing in the anguish of the dying mother protecting its womb. I wept, nerves jangled by the gluttonous beasts.

Alas, a sigh. I wipe my tears. We are only made to be this way. We are only nature's creatures, as imperfect as the next. This is only the frost, I say to myself. I slip the noose around my neck and let go, hanging as sweet as the finest grape, flesh turning the most brilliant violet and soon to icy white.
Finally, I am celebrated.

Really, the last two are good. However, I feel like the rest had a completely different vibe to it. the rest was cool and calculated; and to really make this seem like a justified idea; you need to introduce some more panic. Don't recount logically; relive. Let us feel you getting worked up. Still, the idea was cool.. as was the execution. I really hoped you would have worked in the idea of taking a drink of it and "dying together" or something. But that's my vision, not yours... I liked how you presented it.


Overall, this piece was hot and cold. You set up for a punch and delivered said punch. But to be more livable adn connectable, your diction is going to need to become more controlled. Sometimes you are using extreme adjectives to "paint" other times (i.e. the very next sentence) you are using simple statements with just noun-verb-object, structure... and it makes this feel a bit Frankenstein'd together. Like it doesn't congeal as well as it should. I say let it sit for a bit, then come back and revisit this when its not so fresh in the head... and just look at it from the outside and correct the "feel" of it to make it read down the page instead of piecing itself together bit by bit. You can write, make it happen.


three piece suit in sig, if you would.