#1
For dyl, because I tried to do what you said in my first piece of prose and I may have failed miserably. I scoured for typos but I probably missed some.




The thing that surprised me about Argentina and more specifically Buenos Aires was the amount of amazing looking women that walked down the street. Everywhere I looked I seemed to be surrounded by legs as tall as my full body and sexy swaying hips tempting me as I idled along the streets aimlessly. I wouldn’t cry for you Argentina, your women are just too beautiful. I realized I was almost down the end of Callao and I wasn’t really sure where my feet were taking me. My eyes followed different people, different cafes and different clothes. The hot summer sun was burning the back of my pale European neck. I must have stuck out like a sore thumb back then. A sore thumb swollen up to the size of a black pudding.

I as I continued to walk down the cuadras, what they would call blocks in South America, the scenery around me started to change. It was constantly in a process of metamorphosis. The only thing that remained were the beautiful women. They were dressed differently, they were doing different things, but they were all so beautiful. The cafes had turned into scutty bars with drunks lingering outside. Bags of rubbish were piled outside full bins and containers. A rat, was slipping around them cautiously. I had stopped to look at the rat, it’s small body, it’s pitch black eyes, the pitch black bags, the pitch black buildings. Everything was pitch black.

One of the drunks stood up and looked at me as he drew a 9mm as his eyes were fixed upon mine. The emotionless eyes did not move as he was raising his arm. I feared the worst as I looked over at the gun. A tremendous bang filled the street and several old women shouted from their balconies. I looked at the man and wondered how he had missed firing at point blank range. Then I heard the squeals behind me. I turned around and there was the rat, lying on the floor, writhing in pain. I looked back at the drunk, who had become extremely sober all of a sudden, horrified at what he had just done. “Viste, boludo, la rata voló cinco o seis metros en el aire.” He was right; the remains of the rat had flown several meters away from the containers.

I lit a cigarette and walked back to where the rat was and picked it up. My eyes crossed with the murderer’s as I put it in the lower pocket of my jeans and walked away. I heard the sniggers and could feel the sneers burning more than the sun on the back of my neck. I walked with my head high in the air, passed the hookers who didn’t even approach me with their offers. I continued without stopping, until I reached el Cementerio de Recoletos. The huge graves and mausoleums stood up from above the walls. A young woman, so beautiful, handed me a flyer and offered me a guided toor. I asked her if she had a strong stomach. She shrugged, sending her fair hair flying in the summer breeze. I quivered inside. She was gorgeous. Her red blouse, slightly tight against her chest marking her womanly figure and the even tighter jeans, wrapped around her ten feet legs. I was in love from that moment. I took her arm and asked her to take me to the oldest tomb.

As we walked passed the different mausoleums, she didn’t say anything, sometimes pointing at one I may find interesting. Out of the thirty or thirty five she showed me I was only amused by the one of an Irishman. It’s tall sculpture of the man on top is what grabbed my attention. I’d never seen a protestant minister with a moustache before. I realized this was due to the fact that the only protestant minister I’d ever seen was Ian Paisley on TV. I chuckled and she smiled at me. It seemed eternal, but when we arrived at the grave I started to understand why. The whole graveyard had been built around and away from the place we were at. I didn’t bother to look at the name, I just took out the remains of the dead rat from my pocket and put it in one of the flower pots. I turned around to meet her disbelieving stare and chuckled.
“¿Si te tomás un café conmigo, yo te cuento mi historia, ok?”

And she took my hand…
#2
good!
I'm argentinian, from Buenos Aires
our women are truly beautiful, that's true!
Nice prose
#3
Haha, I probably have the general direction of where the character is heading is wrong because I can't remember all the street names too well. I only remember we were on Callao at some point in time before going towards Recoletos, so I just twisted the thing to my favour.
#4
I thought the story was great, the way you presented it though could use some work. What I mean is just getting rid of unnecessary words to make it as natural a read as possible - things like it was constantly in a process of metamorphosis and and picked it up (which is implied in the next sentence) just encumber the piece. Omitting these things just serves to make it read like the reader thinks. I really enjoyed it, but I believe I could enjoy it much more if you went through and just made a few such touch-ups.

And now I think I'll go there one day and see these women you speak of
On the eight day we spoke back...

let there be sound.
#5
The thing that surprised me about Argentina and more specifically Buenos Aires was the amount of amazing looking women that walked down the street. This sentence seems to go on a bit too long and manages to put the stress on the fact that they walked down the street, as opposed to them being beautiful (because It goes on too long, so it sounds a tad clumbsy). What about something like 'The thing that surprised me Buenos Aires was the amount of amazing looking women walking down the street. In fact, I think it's that 'that' that you've put in front of walked that puts the emphasis there. Everywhere I looked I seemed to be surrounded by legs as tall as my full body (bit cliched with the long leg thing, but ok) and sexy (describe them as sexy, don't tell us they're sexy) swaying hips tempting me as I idled along the streets aimlessly. (Kind of unnecesary saying both 'idled' and 'aimlessly' how else would you idle? ) I wouldn’t cry for you Argentina (This made me cringe a *tiny* bit partly because it seems forced. It obviously relates to the song 'don't cry for me, Argentina' but that's a song about Argentina not mourning, not Evita not mourning) , your women are just too beautiful. ( again I don't particuarlyl like being told that they're beautiful, describe it or leave it at that) I realized I was almost down the end of Callao and I wasn’t really sure where my feet were taking me. My eyes followed different people, different cafes and different clothes. The hot summer (Argentinean?) sun was burning the back of my pale European (Irish? ) neck. I must have stuck out like a sore thumb back then. A sore thumb swollen up to the size of a black pudding. (It's quite nice, but is black pudding really what you want to go with? They're black, after all...


I as I (?) continued to walk down the cuadras, what they would call blocks in South America (What they 'would' call them? They do call them that, so I don't see why 'would' is neccesary) , the scenery around me started to change. It was constantly in a process of metamorphosis. (perhaps a semi-colon here, to link the ideas?) The only thing that remained were the beautiful women. They were dressed differently, they were doing different things, but they were all so beautiful. (stop repeating beautiful now, if you've already adequaltey described them you don't need to keep telling us how beautiful they are. And if you are, tell us more about them, make it interesting) The cafes had turned into scutty bars with drunks lingering outside. Bags of rubbish were piled outside full bins and containers. A rat, was slipping around them cautiously. I had stopped to look at the rat, it’s small body, it’s pitch black eyes, the pitch black bags, the pitch black buildings. (Why is 'had' there? It makes it seem like you're going to say 'I had stopped....when something happened') Everything was pitch black.

One of the drunks stood up and looked at me as he drew a 9mm as his eyes were fixed upon mine. (repetition of 'as' is clunky/wrong, try something like "One of the drunks stood up and looked at me. As he drew his 9mm, his eyes were fixed upon mine. ) The emotionless eyes did not move as he was raising his arm. I feared the worst as I looked over at the gun. (you do seem to be putting 'unnecesary' words in, why are you looking 'over' at the gun? did you only put it in to make the sentence slightly more complex? 'I feared the worst and I looked/stared at the gun' is fine) A tremendous bang filled the street and several old women shouted from their balconies. I looked at the man and wondered how he had missed firing at point blank range. Then I heard the squeals behind me. I turned around and there was the rat, lying on the floor, writhing in pain. I looked back at the drunk, who had become extremely sober all of a sudden, horrified at what he had just done. “Viste, boludo, la rata voló cinco o seis metros en el aire.” He was right; the remains of the rat had flown several meters away from the containers.

I lit a cigarette and walked back to where the rat was and picked it up. (perhaps you should reference how it's changed? It's no longer just a rat, it's a dead/mangled/blown up rat, haha) My eyes crossed with the murderer’s (I don't think 'with' is necessary) as I put it in the lower pocket of my jeans and walked away. (lower pocket?) I heard the s******s and could feel the sneers burning more than the sun on the back of my neck. (it's pitch black, remember? Unless you were just calling all the surrounding black, in which case I misesd that. The resounding 'everything was pitch black' makes it sound like the it's dark as well) I walked with my head high in the air, passed the hookers who didn’t even approach me with their offers. I continued without stopping, until I reached el Cementerio de Recoletos. The huge graves and mausoleums stood up from above the walls. A young woman, so beautiful, handed me a flyer and offered me a guided toor. I asked her if she had a strong stomach. She shrugged, sending her fair hair flying in the summer breeze. I quivered inside. She was gorgeous. Her red blouse, slightly tight against her chest marking her womanly figure and the even tighter jeans, wrapped around her ten feet legs. (the exaggeration makes it feel like i'm reading a script from a film noire Private detective film ) I was in love from that moment. I took her arm and asked her to take me to the oldest tomb.

As we walked passed the different mausoleums, she didn’t say anything, sometimes pointing at one I may find interesting. Out of the thirty or thirty five she showed me I was only amused by the one of an Irishman. It’s tall sculpture of the man on top is what grabbed my attention. I’d never seen a protestant minister with a moustache before. I realized this was due to the fact that the only protestant minister I’d ever seen was Ian Paisley on TV. I chuckled and she smiled at me. It seemed eternal, but when we arrived at the grave I started to understand why. The whole graveyard had been built around and away from the place we were at. I didn’t bother to look at the name, I just took out the remains of the dead rat from my pocket and put it in one of the flower pots. I turned around to meet her disbelieving stare and chuckled.
“¿Si te tomás un café conmigo, yo te cuento mi historia, ok?”

And she took my hand…

Last paragraph is the best one. I think it's because all of a sudden you've included something you know and i honestly think it's very hard to write about things that you don't know, or you've only researched. It's all enjoyable and i was being very nit picky, but the last paragraph is definitely the one with 'warmth' for me.

Quote by ZanasCross
Told you I'd get to it, prick.

Anyways, here are my thoughts:

You had a nice little story here, and you told it with relative confidence and all in all, it was a nice little read. Things to watch out for:

1) telling to much. Just like in poetry, if you are constantly using declarative sentences... constantly using definite images, it can start to drag on. You were close here.

2) Erroneous sentences and over-wordy thoughts. Ex: I as I continued to walk down the cuadras, what they would call blocks in South America, the scenery around me started to change. It was constantly in a process of metamorphosis. <- that whole section could have been cut down and streamlined. Let's be honest, telling me what 'they' call them added nothing save for making you seem a bit arrogant. Then, you go to wordy with metamorphosis. You can save poetic images here... don't give me the huge word, use 'changing' I mean, you're talking about a rat being shot... make it dirty, give it a quick paced atmosphere, give me a no bullshit approach.

3) The thing that I thought this lacked the most was emotion. I mean, you thought you were going to get shot, and you approached it with all the emotion of watching someone take out the garbage. You picked up a dead rat with all the enthusiasm of a dying dog. Give me something here, let me into what was going on. You weren't a statue and I'm not an idiot... so I need something from you to make it feel human.


Otherwise, this was an enjoyable little read Kyrl, and a good starting point.


1. is exactly my main problem with this, I don't think I was adamant enough in my first post. You constantaly tell us how beautiful they are, how hot it is but you rarely if ever show us.

I sound like i' getting on, but I think i'ts important to look out for!
On vacation from modding = don't pm me with your pish
Last edited by meh! at Aug 24, 2008,
#6
Quote by confusius
For dyl, because I tried to do what you said in my first piece of prose and I may have failed miserably. I scoured for typos but I probably missed some.




The thing that surprised me about Argentina and more specifically Buenos Aires was the amount of amazing looking women that walked down the street. Everywhere I looked I seemed to be surrounded by legs as tall as my full body and sexy swaying hips tempting me as I idled along the streets aimlessly. I wouldn’t cry for you Argentina, your women are just too beautiful. I realized I was almost down the end of Callao and I wasn’t really sure where my feet were taking me. My eyes followed different people, different cafes and different clothes. The hot summer sun was burning the back of my pale European neck. I must have stuck out like a sore thumb back then. A sore thumb swollen up to the size of a black pudding.

I as I continued to walk down the cuadras, what they would call blocks in South America, the scenery around me started to change. It was constantly in a process of metamorphosis. The only thing that remained were the beautiful women. They were dressed differently, they were doing different things, but they were all so beautiful. The cafes had turned into scutty bars with drunks lingering outside. Bags of rubbish were piled outside full bins and containers. A rat, was slipping around them cautiously. I had stopped to look at the rat, it’s small body, it’s pitch black eyes, the pitch black bags, the pitch black buildings. Everything was pitch black.

One of the drunks stood up and looked at me as he drew a 9mm as his eyes were fixed upon mine. The emotionless eyes did not move as he was raising his arm. I feared the worst as I looked over at the gun. A tremendous bang filled the street and several old women shouted from their balconies. I looked at the man and wondered how he had missed firing at point blank range. Then I heard the squeals behind me. I turned around and there was the rat, lying on the floor, writhing in pain. I looked back at the drunk, who had become extremely sober all of a sudden, horrified at what he had just done. “Viste, boludo, la rata voló cinco o seis metros en el aire.” He was right; the remains of the rat had flown several meters away from the containers.

I lit a cigarette and walked back to where the rat was and picked it up. My eyes crossed with the murderer’s as I put it in the lower pocket of my jeans and walked away. I heard the sniggers and could feel the sneers burning more than the sun on the back of my neck. I walked with my head high in the air, passed the hookers who didn’t even approach me with their offers. I continued without stopping, until I reached el Cementerio de Recoletos. The huge graves and mausoleums stood up from above the walls. A young woman, so beautiful, handed me a flyer I thoguht this was kind of awkward and understating, since there is this beautiful woman and what do you describe her as? she's beautiful. It's kind of undescriptive IMHO. and offered me a guided toor. I asked her if she had a strong stomach. She shrugged, sending her fair hair flying in the summer breeze. I quivered inside. She was gorgeous. Her red blouse, slightly tight against her chest marking her womanly figure and the even tighter jeans, wrapped around her ten feet legs. I was in love from that moment. I took her arm and asked her to take me to the oldest tomb.

As we walked passed the different mausoleums, she didn’t say anything, sometimes pointing at one I may find interesting. Out of the thirty or thirty five she showed me I was only amused by the one of an Irishman. It’s tall sculpture of the man on top is what grabbed my attention. I’d never seen a protestant minister with a moustache before. I realized this was due to the fact that the only protestant minister I’d ever seen was Ian Paisley on TV. I chuckled and she smiled at me. It seemed eternal, but when we arrived at the grave I started to understand why. The whole graveyard had been built around and away from the place we were at. I didn’t bother to look at the name, I just took out the remains of the dead rat from my pocket and put it in one of the flower pots. I turned around to meet her disbelieving stare and chuckled.
“¿Si te tomás un café conmigo, yo te cuento mi historia, ok?”

And she took my hand…


I really like it though. T'was very descriptive and real.

here's mine if you could please crit it: https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?t=943145

edit: It sounded like I just contradicted myself...
Quote by icaneatcatfood
On second thought, **** tuning forks. You best be carrying around a grand piano that was tuned by an Italian
#7
Told you I'd get to it, prick.

Anyways, here are my thoughts:

You had a nice little story here, and you told it with relative confidence and all in all, it was a nice little read. Things to watch out for:

1) telling to much. Just like in poetry, if you are constantly using declarative sentences... constantly using definite images, it can start to drag on. You were close here.

2) Erroneous sentences and over-wordy thoughts. Ex: I as I continued to walk down the cuadras, what they would call blocks in South America, the scenery around me started to change. It was constantly in a process of metamorphosis. <- that whole section could have been cut down and streamlined. Let's be honest, telling me what 'they' call them added nothing save for making you seem a bit arrogant. Then, you go to wordy with metamorphosis. You can save poetic images here... don't give me the huge word, use 'changing' I mean, you're talking about a rat being shot... make it dirty, give it a quick paced atmosphere, give me a no bullshit approach.

3) The thing that I thought this lacked the most was emotion. I mean, you thought you were going to get shot, and you approached it with all the emotion of watching someone take out the garbage. You picked up a dead rat with all the enthusiasm of a dying dog. Give me something here, let me into what was going on. You weren't a statue and I'm not an idiot... so I need something from you to make it feel human.


Otherwise, this was an enjoyable little read Kyrl, and a good starting point.
#8
I don't have the time at the moment to do a full pick-apart crit and you've had a few already. If you feel I could add anything, just ask and I'll expand.

So, the spelling error you missed out and a tense problem, for the lighter things.
toor
sometimes pointing at one I may find interesting.

Okay, I agree with what I've read of everybody elses thoughts. It's a good place to be in for your first piece of prose. There are problems which are workable on. You have the idea and the story sorted, when the execution is a ever so slightly off. I'm the opposite.

In the first paragraph the short sentences add nothing but making the ideas feel cut away from the writer, where it could benefit greatly from a generous helping of imagery and (not exactly run-on) long, flowing sentences. The repetition of beautiful takes away from the idea of them being oh so beautiful. If they were, you'd have a million different ways of describing them staggering over and around you and you'd be falling over yourself trying to phrase them, would you not? A bit of a funny way of phrasing this would do a lot for it. Beautiful isn't very descriptive, go in to exactly what makes them beautiful. How the lines on their faces join up perfectly & curve in to their lip stickked lips. Things like that.

And after that is where everyone else comes in. Detatchment & honestly mostly school-structured text. It's a nice story & the problems it has will stop as soon as you've settled in to prose writing and started developing your style in it.
There's only one thing we can do to thwart the plot of these albino shape-shifting lizard BITCHES!
#9
Thank you.


I'll get to the pieces. I actually have been in Buenos Aires recently Stu, so I'm not just making it up! The statue and all does exist.
#10
Quote by confusius
Thank you.


I'll get to the pieces. I actually have been in Buenos Aires recently Stu, so I'm not just making it up! The statue and all does exist.


my point stands.
On vacation from modding = don't pm me with your pish
#12
Sense. You appealed to one, mainly, sight, but even then that was mostly narrating the action. You delved into sound a couple of times but not with any great love for it.

The other three senses were pretty much neglected.

Dialouge would be good to see, see what you do with that. You skip over where you could have some, and it breaks up paragraphs nicely.

Sometimes you get too forced into this "prose" mindset (must write prose must write prose must write prose) that you forget that most stuff you read it prose, yes all novels are prose, prose doesn't mean paragraphs of description and narration. That's what many people do when they say "I'm going to post prose on thee boards", and it's like they don't realise that basically ever written word except poetry and songwriting is in prose. Tats why some of this came off forced, because you felt like you had this prosaic mindset that you just had to fulfill, when really you should be about character and story. That's the two fundamentals of decent writing with this, give us a character/characters that we can care about, and then lets see them develop as they are chucked into a story.

A lot of this felt flat of emotion because it was this flowery description that got tedious kinda quickly.

Story structure, too, especially in very short peices like this. You really need to get some tension going, something to get the pace moving. The beginning is lacklustre because you start with these girls, then talk about them some more when really you should have moved on. Use some sentence variation to get the pace picking up, use some short sentences, get the flow quicker. Like I said, dialouge would help, I love dialouge here, couuld've given us readers something more.

"I was in love from that moment" eh. Cheesy declaration. Also, check harder for typos

Keep it up.
#13
A lot of people have already posted useful advice for you, so this is a bit redundant as pretty much all the points I was gonna say, they've already said. So I'm basically seconding/thirding/whatevering what came before. The problems, though visible, were less glaring to me though. Admittedly, I only read it once through, and that was without a critical eye.

Anyway, I just wanted to drop by though and say it was a fun read and that you had my attention throughout. Very much enjoyed the ending.