#1
Someone reminded me about my prose, I haven't written good prose in awhile. Here we go. If anyone reads and critiques this behemoth, you'll get whatever you want in 10 fold. I deleted the last one from existance because I didn't like the anger. So here's this.

Please, enjoy

Some Stylistic Prose By Something_Vague Pt. 1 of 3
Part 1: The Gun Metal Factory

I sit alone in a window, third floor to my mother’s apartment. The way the wind blows up here is lovely; a draped echo of life and death, blowing through my fingers. The way it hits your eyes, the way it makes you want to close them so badly, but the sight of dawn up here would make anyone tear up and turn away. But from up here, I can see all the way across the world, all the way past london, all the way to Calcutta, and then back through America. I can see every single living thing; every bird that is caught a storm of correspondes, they walk, they fly, and they live. They trudge on through the city streets, city streets made of paper mache and orgami heartache, to the cold stare of a passing polite winter. A stiff sidewalk crumbles with the a faded love, of a beautiful girl contemplating suicide; I can see her heart from up here. I’ll never talk to her, I’ll never see her again, but I hope I will, I hope I can hold her body and tell her the world is beautiful...

A young crow perches on a linden tree, bursting from the soil beneath my apartment window, and caws with a horror only the likes of Poe would know, but Poe listened to ravens, so who knows. I see a tiny child walk by. I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl, but it throws a rock at the crow and it flies away. Something else I’ll never see again. This is all I do; I sit, wait and watch the lives of other people. I’m a voyeur, but I don’t enjoy it. I’m an unenthusiastic voyeur. I guess that makes it more acceptable, to not enjoy this, because if I did I’d be a pervert.

The day crawls through my mind, each hour passes with a slow tremble, felt between the buildings that reside between myself and everyone else.. I watch a particularly unique scene which apparently happens each day. A group of factory workers switching shifts, it’s across the street maybe half a mile away. I can’t make out their faces but the way they walk, half asleep, half alive, lets me know they’re exactly where they didn’t want to be after high school. These are the men that peaked there, captain of the football team, the best arm in Ohio. He drops out of college after 5 months because his grades are in the toilet and his girlfriend is fifteen hundred miles away screwing an art student with the creative mind of a genius, but the emotional capacity of a four year old. He moves to the city and works at the gun metal factories that percolate filigree fog clouds, igniting the sky with the color of pesticide, neon green. There aren’t any flies in this city; just rats, and rats, and rats.

A truck parks near the side of the factory, blowing grey carbon monoxide from its rusty exhaust. The orange tint makes the sparks from inside the building light up like fireflies. The driver and a worker begin exchanging words, probably business or maybe they’re asking about how their life is going. They might be asking about how the wife is doing and how the pain killers are working. They might be talking about quitting because the benefits aren’t worth the iron lung, the iron breath, and the iron heart. If only they read more books in school. If only they didn’t hide how they felt about the world and worked towards something they really wanted instead of something forced on them. Their hands are now torn and dirty from bending the steel pipes and their faces are creased and wrinkled from the nights they stay up at night wishing they had a better life. It’s sad that, in high school, they thought that it would hurt to take away the pain, so they kept with it, the only thing that stuck with them. The day closes with the workers crawling from the factory, I close the curtains, everyone gets a standing ovation, I go to sleep, and when I wake up. I'll watch tomorrow's play.
www.facebook.com/longlostcomic
Last edited by Something_Vague at Jan 29, 2007,
#2
Quote by Something_Vague
Someone reminded me about my prose, I haven't written good prose in awhile. Here we go. If anyone reads and critiques this behemoth, you'll get whatever you want in 10 fold. I deleted the last one from existance because I didn't like the anger. So here's this.

Please, enjoy

Some Stylistic Prose By Something_Vague Pt. 1 of 3
Part 1: The Gun Metal Factory

I sit alone in a window, third floor to my mother’s apartment. I'll give you an ambiguity license, since you're you and all, but this first sentence is very ambiguous. The way the wind blows up here is lovely; nice establishing voice early on. a draped echo of life and death this phrase does nothing for me , blowing through my fingers. The way it hits your eyes, the way it makes you want to close them so badly, but the sight of dawn up here would make anyone tear up and turn away. Personally I'd appreciate proper sentence structure. But that's just me. But from up here clunky phrasing, I can see all the way across the world, all the way past London, all the way to Calcutta, and then back through America. I can see every single living thing; every bird that is caught a storm of correspondences, they walk, they fly, and they live. Means nothing. They trudge on through the city streets, city streets made of paper mache and orgami heartache If you want...but I kind of loathe metaphors right now., to the cold stare of a passing polite winter I like that much more. Just adjectives, breh . A stiff sidewalk crumbles with the a faded love Huh?Also unnecesary comma ->, of a beautiful girl contemplating suicide; I can see her heart from up here. Great I’ll never talk to her, I’ll never see her again, but I hope I will, I hope I can hold her body and tell her the world is beautiful... This is as abstract as I would like you to go. I think this end would be more effective if it were led into with concrete imagery.

A young crow perches on a linden tree I don't know what a linden tree is, but what great phonetic intensives! You might not know what those are. We're even., bursting from the soil beneath my apartment window This is a dangling participle--its object could be the tree or the bird. That's not a choice, that's bad grammar. Re-arrange please, and caws with a horror only the likes of Poe would know, but Poe listened to ravens, so who knows. Funny, but necessary? Eh, yeah it is. I see a tiny child walk by. I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl, but it throws a rock at the crow and it ambiguous pronoun. but this one you might have meant. flies away. Something else I’ll never see again. This is all I do; I sit, wait and watch the lives of other people. I’m a voyeur, but I don’t enjoy it. I’m an unenthusiastic voyeur. I love this structure, when you phrased a thought in a normal voice, then rephrased it with a bigger word, as an afterthought. I love it. It's very Salinger. The italics make it perfect. I guess that makes it more acceptable, to not enjoy this, because if I did I’d be a pervert. Awesome stream of consciousness stuff.

The day crawls through my mind, each hour passes with a slow tremble paradoxical? in a good way, felt between the buildings that reside between myself and everyone else.. I watch a particularly unique scene which apparently happens each day. another good paradox A group of factory workers switching shifts, it’s across the street maybe half a mile away. I can’t make out their faces but the way they walk, half asleep, half alive, lets me know they’re exactly where they didn’t want to be after high school. These are the men that peaked there, tom from gatsby...there's an almost identical line in there... captain of the football team, the best arm in Ohio. He drops out of college after 5 months because his grades are in the toilet and his girlfriend is fifteen hundred miles away screwing an art student with the creative mind of a genius, but the emotional capacity of a four year old. idealized self-portrait? He moves to the city and works at the gun metal factories that percolate filigree fog clouds wtf., igniting the sky with the color of pesticide, neon green. There aren’t any flies in this city; just rats, and rats, and rats. Weird ending. Not in a good way...

A truck parks near the side of the factory, blowing grey carbon monoxide from its rusty exhaust. The orange tint makes the sparks from inside the building light up like fireflies. The driver and a worker begin exchanging words, probably business or maybe they’re asking about how their life is going. They might be asking about how the wife is doing and how the pain killers are working. They might be talking about quitting because the benefits aren’t worth the iron lung, the iron breath, and the iron heart. If only they read more books in school. If only they didn’t hide how they felt about the world and worked towards something they really wanted instead of something forced on them. Their hands are now torn and dirty from bending the steel pipes and their faces are creased and wrinkled from the nights they stay up at night wishing they had a better life. It’s sad that, in high school, they thought that it would hurt to take away the pain, so they kept with it, the only thing that stuck with them. I don't understand you here. The day closes with the workers crawling from the factory, I close the curtains, everyone gets a standing ovation, I go to sleep, and when I wake up. I'll watch tomorrow's play. Good ending. tied it together well...


2 characters
#5
orgami heartache
don't ever say that again.

I'm in agreement with most of what the first crit said, so I won't just retype it all in order to be redundant. I didn't like the ending though, but of course you plan on writing more, and I would have thought a factory accident involving all of the characters would have been appropriate/interesting. I however understand the idea that they thought it'd hurt to take away the pain, I'm familiar with the feeling. And yes the metaphors were weak at points, you are much better with just adjectives, as the metaphors usually failed to describe adequately.

Stop using the word filigree, I don't care how much you like it.

I'm not sure you were going for a paradox again, but Carbon Monoxide is colorless and odorless.

if you could please crit mine, if you find time: https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?t=515500
Jesse Wants To Die Just As Much As You Want Him Dead
Last edited by Knife2aGunFight at Jan 30, 2007,
#6
Quote by Something_Vague
Someone reminded me about my prose, I haven't written good prose in awhile. Here we go. If anyone reads and critiques this behemoth, you'll get whatever you want in 10 fold. I deleted the last one from existance because I didn't like the anger. So here's this.

Please, enjoy

Some Stylistic Prose By Something_Vague Pt. 1 of 3
Part 1: The Gun Metal Factory

I sit alone in a window, third floor to my mother’s apartment. The way the wind blows up here is lovely; a draped echo of life and death, blowing through my fingers. The way it hits your eyes, the way it makes you want to close them so badly, but the sight of dawn up here would make anyone tear (love the wordplay that I drew from this. Tear, as in cry, or Tear, as in 'rip' It probably wasn't intentional, but it works so well. Now, It's not grammatically correct the latter way, but I think it works.) up and turn away. But from up here, I can see all the way across the world, all the way past london(Capitalize London), all the way to Calcutta, and then back through America. I can see every single living thing; every bird that is caught a storm of correspondes, they walk, they fly, and they live. They trudge on through the city streets, city streets made of paper mache and origami(You were missing an "I" in origami. I like this metaphor, here, but I think you've used it before.) heartache, to the cold stare of a passing polite winter. (This is nitpicky, but I'd either make it "polite, passing Winter" or "Passing politely"... I'm not sure about the gramatical aspect of it, but from a poetic aspect those are my feelings. A stiff sidewalk crumbles with the a (Choose an article. You can't use both. ;-) faded love,(Remove this comma. It doesn't help the flow for me... I know you use commas in interesting ways, but I don't like this one at all.) of a beautiful girl contemplating suicide; I can see her heart from up here. I’ll never talk to her, I’ll never see her again, but I hope I will, I hope I can hold her body and tell her the world is beautiful...Great alliteration and metaphors in here.

A young crow perches on a linden tree, bursting from the soil beneath my apartment window, and caws with a horror only the likes of Poe would know(Excellent.), but Poe listened to ravens, so who knows. (I'm not sure what I think about this line.... it almost detracts from the previous line. I see a tiny child walk by. I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl, but it throws a rock at the crow and it flies away. Something else I’ll never see again. This is all I do; I sit, wait and watch the lives of other people. I’m a voyeur, but I don’t enjoy it. I’m an unenthusiastic voyeur. I guess that makes it more acceptable, to not enjoy this, because if I did I’d be a pervert. (Hahahaha. I love it.)

The day crawls through my mind, each hour passes with a slow tremble, felt between the buildings that reside between myself and everyone else.. I watch a particularly unique scene which apparently happens each day.(A lovely paradox, but I think if he watches these streets everyday, he would have seen this before? No?) A group of factory workers switching shifts, it’s across the street maybe half a mile away. I can’t make out their faces but the way they walk, half asleep, half alive, lets me know they’re exactly where they didn’t want to be after high school. These are the men that peaked there, captain of the football team, the best arm in Ohio. He drops out of college after 5 months because his grades are in the toilet and his girlfriend is fifteen hundred miles away screwing an art student with the creative mind of a genius, but the emotional capacity of a four year old. He moves to the city and works at the gun metal factories that percolate filigree fog clouds, igniting the sky with the color of pesticide, neon green. There aren’t any flies in this city; just rats, and rats, and rats. Wonderful ending to this stanza. I love it.

A truck parks near the side of the factory, blowing grey carbon monoxide from its rusty exhaust.Grey carbon monoxide, eh? The orange tint makes the sparks from inside the building light up like fireflies. (I'd normally hate this imagery, but it's creative here, somehow... The driver and a worker begin exchanging words, probably business or maybe they’re asking about how their life is going. They might be asking about how the wife is doing and how the pain killers are working.(Great.) They might be talking about quitting because the benefits aren’t worth the iron lung, the iron breath, and the iron heart.(Oh, I adore this. If only they read more books in school. If only they didn’t hide how they felt about the world and worked towards something they really wanted instead of something forced on them. Their hands are now torn and dirty from bending the steel pipes and their faces are creased and wrinkled from the nights they stay up at night wishing they had a better life. It’s sad that, in high school, they thought that it would hurt to take away the pain, so they kept with it, the only thing that stuck with them. The day closes with the workers crawling from the factory, I close the curtains, everyone gets a standing ovation, I go to sleep, and when I wake up. I'll watch tomorrow's play(Oh so good. I love how the punctuation here breaks so many rules, and it works so well..


I love this piece. For sure one of your better prose pieces.

If you could read my, much shorter than this, prose in my sig, I'd appreciate it.
#7
Quote by Knife2aGunFight
orgami heartache
don't ever say that again.

I'm in agreement with most of what the first crit said, so I won't just retype it all in order to be redundant. I didn't like the ending though, but of course you plan on writing more, and I would have thought a factory accident involving all of the characters would have been appropriate/interesting. I however understand the idea that they thought it'd hurt to take away the pain, I'm familiar with the feeling. And yes the metaphors were weak at points, you are much better with just adjectives, as the metaphors usually failed to describe adequately.

Stop using the word filigree, I don't care how much you like it.

I'm not sure you were going for a paradox again, but Carbon Monoxide is colorless and odorless.

if you could please crit mine, if you find time: https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?t=515500



Carbon Monoxide is exhaust isn't it, if so, exhaust is completely visible when exiting a car. It's only invisible when it is pouring through vents into your home. So I mean, I think I'm right here, unless it's carbon dioxide, if it's that, I'll change it later.

Filigree is a good word, I'll never stop using it.

A factory incident wouldn't work, because the whole point was to describe something that happens every day, and each day they pour in and out of this factory like robots. I think that through this empty, hollow, action that the Narrator adaquetly describes the monotonous way, I used a lot of past metaphors on purpose, it was kinf of take at myself, to do the same thing over and over again. I'm glad you picked up on that, but I want you to know that it was intentional.

:]

www.facebook.com/longlostcomic
#8
Quote by Something_Vague
Carbon Monoxide is exhaust isn't it, if so, exhaust is completely visible when exiting a car. It's only invisible when it is pouring through vents into your home. So I mean, I think I'm right here, unless it's carbon dioxide, if it's that, I'll change it later.

Filigree is a good word, I'll never stop using it.

A factory incident wouldn't work, because the whole point was to describe something that happens every day, and each day they pour in and out of this factory like robots. I think that through this empty, hollow, action that the Narrator adaquetly describes the monotonous way, I used a lot of past metaphors on purpose, it was kinf of take at myself, to do the same thing over and over again. I'm glad you picked up on that, but I want you to know that it was intentional.

:]



well Carbon Monoxide is IN exhaust but it is not the visible portion of it. Carbon Monoxide is always invisible and odorless. Most of the visible parts of Car Exhaust is water vapor, some of it's carbon dioxide. Either way it certainly wouldn't have the same connotaion, as water and CO2 are totally harmless.

I think it would be an interesting twist to turn the monotone to the sort of cacophony, is what I'm saying, it's probably what I would have done, but you seem to have more parts to write.
Jesse Wants To Die Just As Much As You Want Him Dead
Last edited by Knife2aGunFight at Jan 30, 2007,