Humanity Lost

[nates1984]

By: Nathaniel L Pillow

            And gray was his color.

            His body was thin and weak; it looked as though a thin layer of skin had been pulled over a skeleton and they were the only two ingredients used in his creation. His complexion was pale and his eyes protruded in a way that looked like they were going to fall out of his eye sockets at any moment; eyes held in place by only the deep-seeded urge to fix, to restore, to find, to live.

            Desperation was his motive.

            He sat on the edge of his bed observing his feline friend. The cat's disposition did not change as a white mouse scurried mere inches away; it's eyes were half open and no part of it's body perked up in the usual manner one might expect. Moments after the rodent had vanished the feline slithered to it's silver food bowl and started to consume. This angered and frustrated him in a way he could neither convey nor understand.

            Something within his being clicked at the sight of the cat's actions. It was the truth buried under the falsehoods and promises of a life not worth living pressing itself into his will. This caused a change in his eyes; they glossed over and all but the simplest conscious parts of his awareness was stripped away. More accurately they were burning to ashes by the blinding truth of what he was.

            He moved from his bedroom to his kitchen. His steps were lazy; his legs and feet were dragging moments behind the rest of his body; the momentum his forward-leaning body created was all that propelled him. They were half-steps in a half-life.

            He picked up a dull strip of steel, but scarcely seemed aware of it. It bounced around in his loose grip, it was but an unneeded accessory. This was no kitchen utensil, but he used it as such. Something about the unorthodox approach of using it to slice food was appealing to him; many times it took the place of his forks as well, which were hardly used at all. When company came he had always hidden this steel-strip, but he could not figure out why he felt the need to do such a thing.

            He opened his apartment door and slowly made his way down the stairs to the first floor exit. On his way he passed a fellow tenet who seemed unaware of the change that had a grip on him. He wandered into the street; plastic-metal beasts, not sufficient for hunt or companionship, raced by. There were some yells originating from both the beasts and beast-occupants as he crossed, but no swerves and no slowing of movement.

            He was surrounded by his color; he felt saturated by it, as if it was forcing itself upon him; even the sky brought the color. The rare patches of greens and browns in his city had been dulled by the overpowering grays, which sapped the energy from any available target. The survival of the remaining original trees in this place was testament to their strength; even when mixed with the fake greenery unnaturally implanted into the earth the originals stood out and beckoned to him; he was not fooled by superficial appearances.

            He finished crossing the street and paused for a moment at one of these original trees. He contemplated carving his name into it. How he longed to take his steel and imbed his name in the trunk. Eventually he suppressed his urge to defile this survivor and moved on, but the urge would again bubble up to the surface soon enough.

            He continued in the same direction, cutting a straight path through the city. He knew not of his destination, only that he had one. Above him a confused Black Vulture circled; this young bird had left it's wake to stalk. Every couple of city blocks it would swoop down as if feeding, but would always return to the high skies after coming within inches; upon this return it would always let out a curious squawk. This cycle repeated itself all the way to city's edge.
           
            And green was her color.

            Her body was healthy and plump, reminiscent of the central figure in Botticelli's The Birth of Venus. Her long golden locks were restrained by a ribbon at the back of her neck. The sunlight was out in full force and bounced off her hair with an angelic aura. The tank top she usually wore while working outside revealed a single word tattooed across her upper back: Verticordia.

            Peace was her motive.

            She was on her knees in their garden pulling the moist dirt up from it's seclusion to replace the dry, dulled dirt that occupied the surface. The earthy smell filled her nostrils and she enjoyed the scent. The perspiration on her exposed arms, legs, and face turned the dirt accumulated on these places to mud. Sweat rolled off her nose and into the ground beneath her. The dirt swallowed up her offering and a piece of herself went with it. She was not concerned about losing a part of herself to this place, for it always returned to her in due time.

            She felt at home here more than anywhere else she had been in her life. A quaint cottage sat on top of a slight hill squashed between an untouched forest and an untouched mesic prairie. Just inside the forest was a brook barely six feet wide.

            She heard rustling in the grass nearby and turned to investigate. A feline approached her with a gray mass in it's mouth, she knew it immediately to be dead mouse. The cat stopped a foot away from her and dropped it's catch, then proceeded to purr affectionately and rub up against her leg. She responded with a smile and affection of her own. The cat returned to it's catch, picked it back up and turned to her as if offering to share. After no response from it's owner the cat hopped back into the secluded grass to feast.

            It was midday and she was expecting her feathered friend to show up soon. A small pile of bird seed sat on top of a post that was part of the fence that surrounded her home. Sure enough the Turtle Dove appeared and flew right to it's lunch. She stopped her gardening and focused the whole of her attention on this visitor. A complacent smile overtook her soft lips when the bird chirped thankfully at her. She often wondered if this friend knew when she was happy or sad, tired or energetic. She knew when it had a good day or a bad one. Sometimes it's feathers were ruffled from a daring escape from danger. Sometimes they were smooth from a comfortable day of lounging. Always they radiated life.

            Her male, human companion emerged from the forest with fish and vegetation in tow. It was not lack of monetary wealth that made them eat such things, simply the preference of their taste buds. He briefly went inside their home and reemerged without the various items he was carrying with him. He spoke something to her about a quick trip into the nearby city and she responded with the typical pleasantries exchanged between lovers. Their last interaction was of the sort every pair of lovers hope for: Calm, peaceful, happy. The coming incidents happened so fast these were the last feelings he had a chance to experience.
           
            And his color changed from gray to red.

            He did not notice the commotion at city's edge until he was right on top of it. A plastic-metal beast had struck the male companion and splattered a deep shade of red all over the immediate area. The man did not feel sad or mournful, in fact he felt nothing at all. The motionless body was occupying the attention of everyone nearby, so they did not notice his static face or steel-accessory. The Black Vulture who had been following the man perched itself upon the murderous beast. It saw the feast down below and it's stalking ended there. If it could have conversed in language it surely would have thanked the man for leading it to this treasure.

            "Another dead luddite," he mumbled, and where there was once one lifeless body, there was now two.

            He continued down the path laid out before him. Shortly outside the city he was exposed to the warmth of the sun for the first time in his life. His whole existence felt like a waking limb and this brought him considerable pain. Suddenly emotion crept into him again; he was afraid, confused, and lost. These feelings sank into his bones and he felt distant panic from somewhere within himself, yet he continued onward.

            He came to the mesic prairie and crossed it. Shortly afterwards he was face-to-face with her. In that moment he was the creature in his hovel, looking through the chink upon the cottagers, forever longing to join their group but ultimately barred from doing so. His grip on the steel-strip tightened and the urge returned.

            "Another dead luddite," he mumbled, and where there was once two lifeless bodies, there was now three.

[Asmo X]

You have too much rambling description before anything actually happens. Your metaphors and "imagery" are labored and stale. The skin-over-a-skeleton, for instance, is uninteresting. The moment he has some bizarre epiphany when he sees his cat is hilariously forced.

"His complexion was pale and his eyes protruded in a way that looked like they were going to fall out of his eye sockets at any moment"

To

"His protruding eyes looked as though they would fall out of their sockets"

You use too many garbage words. Empty calories.

I know you tried something interesting with the structure but learn to walk before you try to run.

And it's "deep-seated".

[nates1984]

Ever the critic.

You have too much rambling description before anything actually happens.

Oh Asmo, there was no plot in the story, nor was there meant to be. It's called characterization, and you can tell a story through only characterization if you wish; it is a legitimate literary technique. The fact you missed this important point makes it difficult for me to take your criticisms to heart.

Thus I will give you a chance to redeem yourself. Answer this question correctly (at least in the same ballpark) and I will take your response seriously: What was the message? Careful and patient readers will know the answer, and I am only interested in what these types of readers think. Harry Potter and Twilight fans can go fuck themselves.

FYI: The calories are only empty if they fail to bring another piece of the puzzle into the light. Admittedly my style is verbose (you nailed it in this respect), but not empty. Each paragraph carries with it importance to the overall message.

Considering that three-fourths of college students hate the literary staples they have to read in their LIT general education courses, I must weed out the useless criticism I might receive. Disliking The Great Gatsby or Frankenstein is understandable, but too many quickly dismiss it as a useless story and attempt attacks on style, pace, ect to justify their attitudes, so I must weed out improper criticism before I accept anything.

Regardless, I thank you for your feedback.

[Vanya]

I liked it.
I thought it was an interesting piece with a good amount of "imagery".
Your phasing at times does have an aroma of the cliche, but not enough for it to be a substantial complaint.

[Asmo X]

If it's nothing but characterisation, it's not a story. Thankfully something eventually happens. You need to lose this idea that florid descriptions amount to something profound. It is a rank amateur thing to think.

I'm going to go with the denaturing power of cities and the contradiction of their self-serving growth and the pretentious longing for nature. But if you don't like that answer, you can get the fuck off your high horse. Artistic statements don't work like this, where the receiver decodes the author's message and that's the end of it. Once you put your statement out there it is subject to a range of personal responses and interpretations. There are no "correct" answers and your insistence that the authors message is the "right" one is naive bullshit.

You haven't done anything to answer the empty calories in your writing. It's not just "too much of that awesome characterisation" it's stuff that I described above where you take 30 words to say what could be said in 10. It's sloppy and doesn't contribute anything.

Also, you aren't thankful for the criticism. You threw that in to stop yourself sounding like a huge whinger.

[Archael]

daigo'd

[Kaijyuu]

*note to self*
Never show anything to Asmo.

[Aquablack]

I'd rather let people criticize my work, than post it out there and say that anyone who doesn't like it or says anything besides blind praise just doesn't get it.  Hiding your writing's meaning behind superfluous words doesn't make it any better or deep than the painters who throw buckets at a canvas and expect to be called a genius.

Anyway, I thought your writing was pretty good, though like has been stated before, you're a bit excessive in your word use.

[Archael]

I was going to post alot of what asmo already said

writing is not something you can just pull off by throwing in extra words

especially not good writing

[Kaijyuu]

I'd rather let people criticize my work, than post it out there and say that anyone who doesn't like it or says anything besides blind praise just doesn't get it.

'Course. I prefer people to be brutally honest with feedback on my work. However, there's a fine line between "brutally honest" and "insulting."

Proper feedback includes telling what you think is wrong, and suggestions on how to fix it. All of that's here, but that's not the only thing here...

[Asmo X]

No, it is not necessary for feedback or criticism to offer suggestions. Can Roger Ebert make a movie? It is perfectly acceptable to lay out and criticise what is actually there. What is criticisable doesn't suddenly become irrelevant if the person criticising can't or won't offer "suggestions" about how to improve it. They are not the writer.

And please don't whine about "insults". It's not always up to the person criticising that what they say comes across as insulting. I don't think any of what I said was meant purely as an insult but I guess that won't stop hyper-sensitive criers from taking it that way.

[Asmo X]

PS I know Ebert once wrote for a movie so there's no need for anyone to point that out.

[Vanya]

Yet, criticism without suggestions for improvement is decidedly not inherently "constructive".
It's not like a dislike for something exists in a vacuum apart from the imaginings of how it might appear in a form that you would like.

[Asmo X]

Yes it IS constructive. The writer put something down that was sub par and someone explained how they thought it was sub par. The writer now has some information to go on if they choose to re-write. They have some awareness of plot holes or their dying metaphors or one-dimensional characterisation or at the very least the way their writing comes across to someone who is prepared to unfold it and examine why it is they don't like it. All of this is constructive.

[Nocat]

Asmo's criticism was constructive. I don't agree with it. But it was. When you are describing something think about the need to describe it. If it is important to say that his skin is pale, by all means, say it. If its not important then it is just like Asmo said, empty calories. I cannot tell from the little you have given us if that is need to know information. The best writers write the information they can in the shortest length possible.

The comment of you need to walk before you can run is not needed. I understand where he is going with that. But it just gives off the wrong perception of what he is doing.

[tithin]

Your writing was a pile of shite, describing things of no consequence, with a pish ending.

See? that's not a constructive criticism. It doesn't state what's wrong, or why. It just states.

[Asmo X]

I don't think anyone really understands what I meant by empty calories. I put an example of it in my original reply. He says something that could be conveyed precisely in half the words. He flattens his own sentences by drawing them out too much. The only thing I forgot to add when I shortened the sentence was the bit about him being pale. I'm not suggesting to take that out, I just didn't copy-paste properly.

[mav]

While I think the writing was okay (unnecessarily lengthy, but still decently written), it did have its fair share of other problems. Word choice, awkward syntax, grammatical errors (like using it's instead of its) are all things you need to work on. But above all else, the way you dealt with Asmo's criticism was just plain terrible. You act like he had no idea what characterization meant, you try to boast your own merit by making him "redeem" himself (seriously man, that's just fucked up), and then you blatantly admit that you're only catering to certain readers. Come on, you're a smart guy, don't act like a sore loser when there's nothing to win.

Good luck.

[StaticLynx]

*Blinks* Sorry, semi-irrelavent, but that was an epic post. All but too true, in the long-run anyways. If you have it in you to continue this piece or begin a new one it'd be nice to see those, hopefully this didn't spur your enthusiasm to write, I'd love to see more. AS far as the critcism went I couldn't agree with Mav's post anymore than the 100% conviction that I already do. ^.^

[degrofm]

Careful and patient readers will know the answer, and I am only interested in what these types of readers think. Harry Potter and Twilight fans can go fuck themselves.

I resent the fact that you lump Harry Potter and Twilight fans in the same category. I'm not saying that Harry Potter is on the same level as, say, The Lord of the Rings, but still, it is FAR better than Twilight. Be careful of making sweeping generalisations.