#1
This is a short story/poem (I can't really discern which). It uses an unreliable narrator which should be pretty easy to see. All helpful crits will be returned in the next day or two.


She (I shan’t disclose her name) brought me bread on a silver platter made of straw and shit. I stared at the “peace” offering (“offering&rdquo in disgust, before moving my gaze to her face. There was a glow, nothing more. I moved away from her and once again – as I mostly do – discerned the patterns and valleys in the wall carved by my own eyes. As I raced those roadways, I heard her heartbeat slow, her voice of exasperation, and her slowly receding footsteps along a tiled floor; not a clean floor, I could hear the dust collect in the air. I fell asleep, dreaming of colour, of green trees in armistice fields under azure skies, cooled by a golden breeze. I dreamed of a girl in a red dress camouflaged with the flowers. Her hair was hay-coloured, off-yellow.

(With this new paragraph of the dream, a paragraph here will surely start) and I thought I was woken by the bark of a dog, a wolf, a man-wolf. The moon was blade-silver through the granite bars and it sliced through woolen clouds. Again, the cry of the wolf. I sat up straight and clapped my hands together. I don’t know why, it just felt like the right thing to do. I could smell sweat, not my own, not another man’s sweat, an animal. I could feel the slimy hairs crawling across my bare foot, a blackness. Sickly breath choked me, the smell of flesh ripe. I never saw it before my sight went black and the feeling of blood traversing the lines of my back was strong, oh so strong.

I woke up definitely then – right smell – and the bread was in pieces over the floor. They came during the night and gave me my eyes back. Like a man on rum, I stood up on a weary leg, resting against the slippery wall. They gave me my eyes back. Now I can’t see anything; no fantastic colours or shapes immeasurably sweet. They left me with my ears, useless things they are. I can’t see aquamarine or tourmaline or turquoise with them. “Take them away!” Laughter, and I curse every breath of it, seeping through these walls I can’t see but feel. My energy drained, I fell asleep. I dreamed of darkness, the all-encompassing, the devourer of light, the scourge of me.
#2
Quote by Dæmönika


Seeing as it will be hard to break down, I'll just comment here and there adn explain at the end of each section.

She (I shan’t disclose her name) brought me bread on a silver platter made of straw and shit. I stared at the “peace” offering (“offering&rdquo in disgust, before moving my gaze to her face. There was a glow, nothing more. I moved away from her and once again – as I mostly do – discerned the patterns and valleys in the wall carved by my own eyes. <- the 'by my own eyes' seemed terribly forced. Lost the descriptive feel and wandered into the artsy field... just didn't like the change of idea... and it doesn't connect to the next part either.
As I raced those roadways, I heard her heartbeat slow, her voice of exasperation, and her slowly receding footsteps along a tiled floor; not a clean floor, I could hear the dust collect in the air. I fell asleep, dreaming of colour, of green trees in armistice fields under azure skies, cooled by a golden breeze. I dreamed of a girl in a red dress camouflaged with the flowers. Her hair was hay-coloured, off-yellow.

Loved this for the most part... some of the wording seemed a bit archaic... but I think that was the feel you were going for. Not a lot to add here. Sets the scene well.

(With this new paragraph of the dream, a paragraph here will surely start) and I thought I was woken by the bark of a dog, a wolf, a man-wolf. The moon was blade-silver through the granite bars and it sliced through woolen clouds. Again, the cry of the wolf. I sat up straight and clapped my hands together. I don’t know why, it just felt like the right thing to do. I could smell sweat, not my own, not another man’s sweat, an animal. I could feel the slimy hairs crawling across my bare foot, a blackness. Sickly breath choked me, the smell of flesh ripe. <- why this wording? I never saw it before my sight went black and the feeling of blood traversing the lines of my back was strong, oh so strong.

Eh, this seemed like it could have been reduced down and made the same point wihtin the story, without having to be so wordy and over the top. About mid-way through this stanza (the first time I read) I was getting bored and just waiting for something to happen. You writing is ace, as always, and the descriptions are good... but it just seemed to be dragging on and on. I have no idea how I would go about condensing it, I just get the feel that I would if I were the author. As to the wording comment, 'ripe flesh' just reads better to me.

I woke up definitely then – right smell – and the bread was in pieces over the floor. They came during the night and gave me my eyes back. Like a man on rum, I stood up on a weary leg, resting against the slippery wall. They gave me my eyes back. <- didn't like the repetition, though I realize it sets up the next line.
Now I can’t see anything; no fantastic colours or shapes immeasurably sweet. They left me with my ears, useless things (that?) they are. I can’t see aquamarine or tourmaline or turquoise with them. “Take them away!” Laughter, and I curse every breath of it, seeping through these walls I can’t see but feel. My energy drained, I fell asleep. I dreamed of darkness, the all-encompassing, the devourer of light, the scourge of me.

Liked this again.


I don't have a lot to add as far as individual ideas or anything, so I'll just give you an overall take on this piece:

It felt overdone to me. Like, it just seemed like you were trying so hard to make it work. And it did, to an extent, but I couldn't help but feel like everything was a struggle in writing this. It didn't have the same bounce and quick-pace that one would hope for in a short tale. Instead, it read like molasses flows... slow and steady, but at one velocity and very monotone. This was almost emotionless to me... there was no rise and fall, no rooting for the character or against him, nothing to drive me, as the reader, to want to become interested in the story. Instead, I found myself fairly bored and just wondering when it would come to a close. As far as writing, it was all stellar... your techniques and wording (though obviously not what I would choose) all worked well, but I still felt like it needed something else to make it really pop out as a solid piece.

I hope that all makes sense.

I know this wasn't too much of a crit, but any comments on my Sunburnt Penguin piece (in sig) would be appreciated.

-zC