Before - Writers Forum

Nevermore · 04-12-2008, 05:46 AM

I have written this piece to read out at a school compition, so the more criticism I get now the better! It is a somewhat deep I know, but it is directed at a panel of professional judges, so I don't have to consider a younger audience at too much length. Even if you only read the first line, please comment. Thank you.

Before

For six months I have lived in the third house along in a street of eight buildings which ends in an abrupt valley of wasteland. For six months it has been wasteland; when asked where I intended to walk my mongrel dog, I would refer to the ‘bit of …wasteland down the road.’ I can still recall ploughing through the long grass and struggling on the loose weeds, and the aimless pacing along the valley’s far summit. I see now that - in any meaningful sense – it was then that I recognised Before.
Now there is a beaten track through the grass that is shallow enough to be unseen, a track walked only at night. A cashmere rain glides across the beams of righteous orange streetlight, silently walking the pavements in convulsions of turned heads and quickened strides. I follow at a calm and melancholy pace; take my place within the crowd, as we stream towards the shadow of the wasteland, where the rain will disperse into mere sensation, and where a thin black jacket will vanish in the dark.
Every night there is a bittersweet fear which continues to delight. The quiet eerily branches out into sub-sounds, and the dead spirits of trees and bushes, the summoned demons of my own will, follow in a taunting parade. The pressure of paranoia pushes at my back, and forces me into a paradox that is both sadistic and sublime. In this way I am lead to the special clearing I have come to know. My noble friend continues on to roam for scents beneath the bushes, for I must stop to acknowledge the view.

This city is defined by streetlights. Its confined constellations describe the winding river, the guiding edifice of the cemetery hill, and the ruling tyrant of the great Bridge.
His flanks of lights are sentinels for the population, their gleaming spears armed against the solemn senators that are the stars, guarding against them. Wrapped in the thin robes of light clouds they are indifferent to the culture beneath them and converse instead about the dim light cast by the chaste half-moon. In my modest darkness I can see them, but I know that in the city they are obscured by the musty amber light.
I look to my other surroundings and find again my own sentinel, a lone pine tree. It is tall and sprawling outwards, upwards, downwards, so much so it is impossible to get near. I keep a respectful distance as I listen to the wind whisper to it lovingly, a sound I heard often six months ago, in the time Before. Then, the birches danced in frolicking courtship, as the grass waved triumphantly to the little roads and villages it passed. For six years I was among it, a part of it and now I long for it again, finding it only in this one remaining veteran, who tells his tale of the old days to the world that happens by.
And now I pay the price for my wanderings. The cold is seeping through my jacket, and the drizzle makes my hair flat and itchy. I do not belong here, I know. But nor do I belong from whence I came. I cannot go along with the grain of soft-wood fences, marshalled by streetlights, washed with the cars every Sunday morning at 10.30 without exception. I am not against habitation though. I remember a little cottage with a fire and coal bunker, I remember the long car journeys to the nearest shop. I remember birch-wood, Before.

The restless shimmering of the lights make the view seem as liquid ink, vivid and synthetic, which conveys not the power of the light but rather the distance between myself and them. My heart revels in this distance, absorbs it, until the sense of that immense distance is trapped within my chest and my soul is let loose within it, to roam the invisible reaches of the sky; wild.
But the gritty orange of my own street is never out of sight and even in my clearing they have made their marks. The fields are pierced with fence stakes and barbed wire. A spool of plastic blue thread contains no quaint reassurance, nor does the spade that must act as its needle. Plastic tape slithers in and out of the earth like spittle on its face, but it cannot taint the serene dignity earth possesses. That mankind should think that it could ever have any effect on the world only shows how ignorant it has become, so much so that it must hide from the almighty stars themselves with the light that is the modern Promethean flame, the close-minded arrogance of human nature. Perhaps I have grown too used to my solitude in the time Before and that it the root of my disdain, but none the less my prayer remains the same. It is, even if there is only one more field in the world because of it, let us return to Before. Let the glare of orange militia fade and let the birches grow great and valiant again, so that we may all greet the Stars once more.

Fossy · 04-13-2008, 08:54 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Nevermore

I have written this piece to read out at a school compition, so the more criticism I get now the better! It is a somewhat deep I know, but it is directed at a panel of professional judges, so I don't have to consider a younger audience at too much length. Even if you only read the first line, please comment. Thank you.

Before

For six months I have lived in the third house along in a street of eight buildings which ends in an abrupt valley of wasteland. For six months it has been wasteland;full stop here when asked where I intended to walk my mongrel dog, I would refer to the ‘bit of …wasteland down the road.’ new para I can still recall ploughing through the long grass and struggling on the loose weeds, and the aimless pacing along the valley’s far summit. I see now that - in any meaningful sense – it was then that I recognised Before. new para
Now there is a beaten track through the grass (comma here) that is shallow enough to be unseen, a track but only walked at night. A cashmere rain glides across the beams of righteous (I'm just wondering how beams of light can be righteous?) orange streetlight, silently walking the pavements in convulsions of turned heads and quickened strides. I follow at a calm and melancholy pace; and take my place within the crowd, as we stream towards the shadow of the wasteland, where the rain will disperse into mere sensation, and where a thin black jacket will vanish in the dark.
Every night there is a bittersweet fear which continues to delight. The quiet eerily I don't get what a quiet eerily actually is? branches out into sub-sounds, and the dead spirits of trees and bushes, the summoned demons of my own will, follow in a taunting parade. The pressure of paranoia pushes at my back, and forces me into a paradox that is both sadistic and sublime. In this way I am lead to the special clearing I have come to know. My noble friend continues on to roam for scents beneath the bushes, for I must stop to acknowledge the view.

This city is defined by streetlights. Its confined constellations describe the winding river, the guiding edifice of the cemetery hill, and the ruling tyrant of the great Bridge.
His flanks of lights are sentinels for the population, their gleaming spears armed against the solemn senators that are the stars, guarding against them. Wrapped in the thin robes of light clouds they are indifferent to the culture beneath them and converse instead about the dim light cast by the chaste I'm not sure about the use of chaste here. When I think of chaste I think of a virgin, who is free from ever having unlawful sex. Okay, the moon's never had sex, but the moon is just the moon, not something I associate with chasteness. half-moon. In my modest darkness I can see them, but I know that in the city they are obscured by the musty amber light.
I look to my other surroundings and find again my own sentinel, a lone pine tree. It is tall and sprawling outwards, upwards, downwards, so much so it is impossible to get near. I keep a respectful distance as I listen to the wind whisper to it lovingly, a sound I heard often six months ago, in the time Before. Then, the birches danced in frolicking courtship, as the grass waved triumphantly to the little roads and villages it passed. For six years I was among it, a part of it and now I long for it again, finding it only in this one remaining veteran, who tells his tale of the old days to the world that happens by.
And now I pay the price for my wanderings. The cold is seeping through my jacket, and the drizzle makes my hair flat and itchy. I do not belong here, I know. But nor do I belong from whence I came. I cannot go along with the grain of soft-wood fences, marshalled by streetlights, washed with the cars every Sunday morning at 10.30 without exception. I am not against habitation though. I remember a little cottage with a fire and coal bunker, I remember the long car journeys to the nearest shop. I remember birch-wood, Before.

The restless shimmering of the lights make the view seem as liquid ink, vivid and synthetic, which conveys not the power of the light but rather the distance between myself and them. My heart revels in this distance, absorbs it, until the sense of that immense distance is trapped within my chest and my soul is let loose within it, to roam the invisible reaches of the sky; wild.
But the gritty orange of my own street is never out of sight and even in my clearing they have made their marks. new para The fields are pierced with fence stakes and barbed wire. A spool of plastic blue thread contains no quaint reassurance, nor does the spade that must act as its needle. Plastic tape slithers in and out of the earth like spittle on its face, but it cannot taint the serene dignity earth possesses. That mankind should think that it could ever have any effect on the world only shows how ignorant it has become, so much so that it must hide from the almighty stars themselves with the light that is the modern Promethean flame, the close-minded arrogance of human nature. (thats an awfully long sentence)Perhaps I have grown too used to my solitude in the time Before and that it the root of my disdain, but none the less my prayer remains the same. It is, even if there is only one more field in the world because of it, let us return to Before. Let the glare of orange militia fade and let the birches grow great and valiant again, so that we may all greet the Stars once more.

Your descriptions are strong and vivid, so well done with that. I just don't get what the story is about, if there even is a story. I don't know the sex of the person, and I'm also not sure if the person is real or a ghost. Is that person watching a grave being dug? I'm maybe a bit thick, perhaps the clue is in the blue tape. We don't, as far as I'm aware, use blue tape where I live, but as I'm not sure, maybe others won't be either.

Hope that helps a little.

Ungood · 04-13-2008, 02:59 PM

I do not do Grammar... I leave that to people that are better then myself.. I will look at your mechanics of your work... hope you don't mind...

Quote:

Originally Posted by Nevermore

I have written this piece to read out at a school compition, so the more criticism I get now the better! It is a somewhat deep I know, but it is directed at a panel of professional judges, so I don't have to consider a younger audience at too much length. Even if you only read the first line, please comment. Thank you.

Before

For six months I have lived in the third house along in a street of eight buildings which ends in an abrupt valley of wasteland. For six months it has been wasteland; when asked where I intended to walk my mongrel dog, I would refer to the ‘bit of …wasteland down the road.’ I can still recall ploughing through the long grass and struggling on the loose weeds, and the aimless pacing along the valley’s far summit. I see now that - in any meaningful sense – it was then that I recognised Before.
Now there is a beaten track through the grass that is shallow enough to be unseen, a track walked only at night. A cashmere rain glides across the beams of righteous orange streetlight, silently walking the pavements in convulsions of turned heads and quickened strides. I follow at a calm and melancholy pace; take my place within the crowd, as we stream towards the shadow of the wasteland, where the rain will disperse into mere sensation, and where a thin black jacket will vanish in the dark.
Every night there is a bittersweet fear which continues to delight. The quiet eerily branches out into sub-sounds, and the dead spirits of trees and bushes, the summoned demons of my own will, follow in a taunting parade. The pressure of paranoia pushes at my back, and forces me into a paradox that is both sadistic and sublime. In this way I am lead to the special clearing I have come to know. My noble friend continues on to roam for scents beneath the bushes, for I must stop to acknowledge the view.

This is sweet... poetic.. and wonderful to imagine... but I have no clue why I should be reading this...

It feels somewhat stagnant... still... dead... and leaves me feeling that there needs to be something happening Before you drop this on me...that this is more reflective then it is progressive...

I mean it is wonderful poise... sweet and succulent... but not gratifying...

Quote:

This city is defined by streetlights. Its confined constellations describe the winding river, the guiding edifice of the cemetery hill, and the ruling tyrant of the great Bridge.

No... now you are killing me... sorry... something needs to happen... I don't care if the dog urinates on his foot is all that happens... but something... anything... needs to happen...

Quote:

His flanks of lights are sentinels for the population, their gleaming spears armed against the solemn senators that are the stars, guarding against them. Wrapped in the thin robes of light clouds they are indifferent to the culture beneath them and converse instead about the dim light cast by the chaste half-moon. In my modest darkness I can see them, but I know that in the city they are obscured by the musty amber light.
I look to my other surroundings and find again my own sentinel, a lone pine tree. It is tall and sprawling outwards, upwards, downwards, so much so it is impossible to get near. I keep a respectful distance as I listen to the wind whisper to it lovingly, a sound I heard often six months ago, in the time Before. Then, the birches danced in frolicking courtship, as the grass waved triumphantly to the little roads and villages it passed. For six years I was among it, a part of it and now I long for it again, finding it only in this one remaining veteran, who tells his tale of the old days to the world that happens by.
And now I pay the price for my wanderings. The cold is seeping through my jacket, and the drizzle makes my hair flat and itchy. I do not belong here, I know. But nor do I belong from whence I came. I cannot go along with the grain of soft-wood fences, marshalled by streetlights, washed with the cars every Sunday morning at 10.30 without exception. I am not against habitation though. I remember a little cottage with a fire and coal bunker, I remember the long car journeys to the nearest shop. I remember birch-wood, Before.

Ummm... reflection is wonderful... lets me imagine things, you are painting with words... which is lovely.. but... you are painting... leaving your story action less.

Quote:

The restless shimmering of the lights make the view seem as liquid ink, vivid and synthetic, which conveys not the power of the light but rather the distance between myself and them. My heart revels in this distance, absorbs it, until the sense of that immense distance is trapped within my chest and my soul is let loose within it, to roam the invisible reaches of the sky; wild.

I stopped here... sorry... I keep waiting for something to hit me... something to "Move" ... and... I can't stand it anymore... Kill someone, have a sex scene, make the dog take a dump... I don't care... just do SOMETHING!

Ungood.

Nevermore · 04-15-2008, 02:36 PM

OK, it seems I need a plot... how did I overlook that?

Never mind, all that I have to do is find the right story to put this into, a bit of tweaking, and it should be interesting. Maybe I'll bury some-one...

Thanks for the help, I knew there was SOMETHING missing...

Nevermore · 04-15-2008, 02:48 PM

btw, i always thought that the moon was personified as female and pure, maybe that's just me. Anyway, I was going for a high-status, religious connotation... maybe something less cryptic is required.

booker41 · 04-15-2008, 03:22 PM

Yes, the description is good, but a bit too much for my liking. It's all too monotonous after a while and too flowery.