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I will have to say "opps".

*Bows his head in shame*

I got slightly mixed up my mistake. I will change it straight away.

Gaian Literary Elitist's Alliance

Official Prose Evaluation Form

Triken - Prologue


It all started with the meteor shower� It was a clear starry night, but that didn�t matter to anyone. Tonight they were all gathered to watch a meteor shower. Supposedly one of the meteors had the mass to survive for ten minutes with out burning up. We had no idea the pain and suffering would occur just a week afterwards. We were just watching the sky.

The predictions were right the final meteorite lasted for ten minutes before it disappeared. That night is when most people believe he landed. The carnage didn�t start for a week. I guess he needed time to adapt to our world, while he tested the limits of his immense power in the new environment. His main power was mind over matter, meaning that if he thought about something hard enough it would become reality. From this power sprung hundreds more each as wild as his mind. He seemed quite invincible, so there was nothing we could do when he started demolishing things. Most people would think that being thought out of existence wouldn�t hurt. This would seem true, but he, enjoying the anguished sobs and screams, would get rid of only necessary parts such as their heart. His victims would slowly suffocate even though they could still fill their lungs with air to scream. This was his way, he would go around taking hearts, veins, eyes, and worst of all the minds of his victims. With buildings and other such inanimate objects he might remove the first floor or set a hellish fire on them that could never be put out, unless its job was finished.

Language:
Ooooh! Some complex words mixed with some more colloquial ones. That gives a very satisfying effect, although does read a little disjointedly. May I suggest filling it out with a few more longer sentences to enhance the effect of the shorter ones. 6.9/10

Punctuation:
No problems here really, perhaps one or two semi-colons could introduce items better. Other than that there is not an issue here. 7.5/10

Style:
Hmmm...
Interesting, a little disjointed - I do not know why though. Is it building tension for some reason? Please say if you want us to evaluate another piece of the novel so we can find out! 6.9/10

Rating:7.1/10

Additional Comments:
A good solid piece Triken! Perhaps a little more variety in sentence and a little added depth could boost this piece. As Andy said, ideas could be conveyed a little better...

Gaian Literary Elitist's Alliance

Official Prose Evaluation Form


Solo - "And the Lord Taketh Away"

The pirate stooped low over his charge, and rammed the infernal blade into the deck beside her. Scurvy dregs poured down like the rain, filling the holds with their poisonous pasture. His sleek, shining hair was drenched to the roots, falling in long, dark ringlets; like the trails of blood that coursed down his midnight countenance, black as the man who spilt them. The wind tousled and took them, another harsh kiss, betrayed by soft silk. It had been given to him, by the very man to its demise, the silk scarf. Both of them, waist and weary visage alike. It was not a mistake to reminisce, a besotted weakness, which in passing, leaves only grave men.
The long nines ran out through the darkness, sparked in sulphurous shatter. And it was all gone, the final spur, and no cavalry astride a resplendent selkie. Only harpies and men of the murky depths to herald the cause and break the cycle that becomes all and brings no new cause to any man. Rattling through the peace of death, with none left to dispute the final requiem and the only brass a severe blunder to lament the drudgery of all neighbours. Gargantuan moths to flee by the dawn, for such was the pitch light, hurling black of charred steel and a new flame set aburn as new passage breached old safety.
The pirate stooped low over his charge and laughed with a bitter madness. Maiden's kiss and more sting than a narwhal's advance, cursed and mutinied and ne'er a sail o'er horizon's clasp of frail dusk. To bite is only to admit a hand feeds, and recoiled service long denied an executioner's severance service. Salt cleared the wounds and seared the seeping saturation. Preserved pain with an impertinence so pertained, washed o'er light housing's foundations. Dug ditches and malevolent pits, with no excitement in the smooth passage. All in the bow, pull the limbs taught and the arrow shall remove, balls of box-locks need no deference for a slighted difference.
Cold silence in the new day's calling. Strong wind to the cove's clasp, refuge to a loyal house passed in the roaring depths of the showered embers. Black once more, as the red rose and fell anew. The young whore wept, as one already askew the infernal blade's charms. Soft allure of one so refined, stolid by good temper, and to fling lead at the poison's grip. Gilt regality, balanced poise, and hars invective rising through the dawn's fragrance. So clear in night's malice, a prelude to predesigned fates. An overture to a noted exeunt and a testament, to the only child.
The pirate stooped low over his charge, and pulled the infernal blade from the deck's grip. He spun to a heel and cocked it in the dank slather.

"Death is only the beginning of lif...But not yours"

And it was not damp.

Language:
Complex, coherent vocabulary use here. Some words are a little misplaced and do not entirely make for comfortable reading. 8/10

Punctuation:
No faults with punctation, and I think that perhaps a few semi-colons could help with the flow of it. No errors as such... 7.8/10

Style:
Hmmm... this is the biggest problem I think. The style is a little confusing with many complex words used in succession. Perhaps a few more coherent sentences could explain actions clearer. 7.9/10

Rating:7.9/10

Additional Comments:
Good attempt, perhaps a little more coherent construction of the complex words to give more action to the piece. Flowery words sometimes do not fit over blunt words...

Gaian Literary Elitist's Alliance

Official Prose Evaluation Form

Invictus - Village.

A small dry village entrenched by mile upon mile of green forest and stony mountain rests in silent slumber, away from the worries of the world, detached from the high-speed high-risk high-tech troubles of a modern world in turmoil. The village gazed upon by millennia-old hills and the centuries-old castle, gnarled by wind and rain stared out mournfully over the small community. The white buildings peppered about with their vegetable gardens squared into tidy ranks and the grey stone spired church nestled near the centre with small headstones sitting contentedly behind.
Out from the front of the church's wide oak doors leads the main street of the village, houses bleach-white and baking, wood and reed shutters closed against the sun's burning onslaught, beaded threads sway as a slight breeze leans into a doorway. An old man sits on the step of his home with a smouldering pipe. The houses themselves are dropped casually along a grey cobbled street their orange roofs juxtaposing the deep green forest and the dark grey castle on the hill. The French sun keeps everyone indoors, a lone dog wanders from the street into the shade of a swaying willow and a group of old men play boule in the park with the sun lancing off the orbital spheres.
One of the white baked houses catches the eye, a white plume of smoke rises like flour above the village bakery, a shimmering mirage glimmers above the roofless, the small creamy bakery is nestled beside a shallow brook with the silvered water laughing over the marbled pebbles. An array of cakes and confectionery lies spread out cheerfully behind the wood-framed window, within the bakery the ovens smoulder, the heart of the building roars orange with the fiery coals and black metal.
Outside the bakery stands the baker himself, he belongs here, like a part of the landscape he seems perpetual, his ancestors fought the English from the castle on the hill, they lived, loved and died in this village in the hills, he smiles out over the top of his round spectacles, and brown glinting eyes tell of a soul which has seen much, stormy memories of the great war rumble in his soul but that was long ago but now, like legions disbanded the terror has dissipated and the memories fade. He has returned to his home and his trade, his apron specked with flour and his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows his staunch rounded figure and his red glowing cheeks radiate merrily through the lined and dark-worn skin tell of a life well-lived. A dark-mottled cat reclines regally on the doorstep with the bright burn of the sun cast bright white on its fur, it's lazy eyes ease open and it's head lolls regally to regard the postman wheeling down the sloped road on his blue rusted bicycle.
The postman's uniform once dark has since washed pale to match the open blue sky, it's frayed seams, patched elbows and tarnished buttons speak of age greater than the owner, the owner is only twenty and his young blue eye's youthful sparkle shines through the uniform of his predecessor and father. The yellow cornet on his tatty hat flies down the hill riding upon his head and gliding to a halt at the bakery as the postman hands the baker a letter with a cheery nod. Then with a smile he pedals past to the rest of the waiting village.
The baker removes his glasses happily to wipe dust from the crystalline discs, he replaces them swiftly upon his nose and sees the crest of the French army; all at once the sun baking on his back seems icy and a black wash of fear sweeps his world from under him, the memories explode within him. The war, the trenches, the snow and blood and loss and gas and death. The worries and stress return to him, a crushing burden on him. Before even opening the letter he knows what it tells, his son, soon to return and take over baking has died fighting for France. His worn fingers slide shaking over the sealed brown paper before breaking apart the continued line. It seems his son, so full of promise and eagerness to return to his father had been killed defending France in the north against Germany's panzer divisions, great tanks which tear up the earth and breathe fiery death. The baker, broken and burned in his coldness turns slowly and walks into the darkness of the bakery.
Winter has come to the small village, snow sits on the streets and rime tints the coarse tree trunks into a spectral silver. Large clumped flakes fall from a grey sky, the bakery no longer gleaming white but gloomy grey in the dusk light. Thorns of ice reach from the banks of the brook spear the mourning water that once laughed. The shutters are shut-fast, the sign has fallen and the door is barred while atop the same road the postman arrived. A huddle of black-robed villagers and a clergyman commit the bakers' body to the frozen earth, line broken, continuity ended. A fat flake of white snow falls from the heavens twisting carelessly down into the grave to settle on the wood of the coffin. Held momentarily by the cold smooth varnish it stands fast for a moment, an instant in time it holds before collapsing and dying in a single moment.

(To appreciate the piece it helps to understand the thinking behind it. Although it does tell how a letter changes a baker its main focus is to put everything into perspective.
It shows how time works, it is to say that although the time passed my the bakers family is very long, it is only a moment compared to the time passed by the mountains, which is in turn but the life-span of a snowflake compared to eternity. From this you can surmise that the time spent by mountains is nothing but a moment in eternity, the time passed by an ancient castle is only a fraction of this, in turn the span of a family line is a fraction that of the castle thus a single lifetime is insignificant as regards time. The message of the piece though, being something omitted but that the reader will hopefully arrive at. That though a single lifetime is nothing in time, it nonetheless has power enough to alter all that which follows.
Every one of us has the power to change the future, to make the future better; the things we do in our short lives make waves and repercussions throughout eternity. Be they positive or negative waves they travel just as far. So why do we sit and waste this power? Surely we should spread that little bit more happiness knowing that the little bit more will continue forever, the power of the good deed lasts longer than the mountains.
A moot point though. Considering my stance on subjectivity of good and evil, it may be wiser to say that we can all bend the future to our will, despite the temporal insignificance of human individual existence.)

Language:
Great use of complex vocabulary. My only criticism is that there are some points where complex and 'flowery' words are misplaced - for example in the instability of felt emotions that are being portrayed here. 8.1/10

Punctuation:
No problems here. Even the odd semi-colon!! Hooray!! (Why are they never used?) Nothing to complain about, if anything it would be to perhaps cut some sentences to give a more apathetic tinge to the piece. 8.5/10

Style:
I like the long sentences that describe, quite refreshing to see that. The problem with descriptive pieces is that they usually tend to waffle, and some short sentences could not go amiss. Excellent imagery though, and some good alliteration in prose is always preferable I think. 8.3/10

Rating:8.3/10

Additional Comments:
I think that all prose should come with philosophical reasoning attached. What you suggest there is very true...
Great piece Invi! Looking forward to see your competition entries in the future, and any more prose/poetry you have.
xd

Of course you may.

And that piece was intended to be over-ornate...Though I forget why

Somebody Loves Me


“Remember class, you are all special and somebody loves you.” The matronly kindergarten teacher smiled. “Now what shall we read today?”

The children jumped up from their crayons and swarmed to the bookcases; all except for one little boy. The boy, with dark blond hair and amber eyes remained motionless, a look of quiet awe on his face. Somebody loves me.

A few years older now, the boy sat alone in the park; the rest of the swings stirring in the breeze. His puppy-like cuteness had grown into a child-like beauty, and the only thing that marred it was an eye so blackened it had swollen shut—Daddy had had a bad day yesterday. Sunset was fast approaching, but the boy continued to strain diligently at reading the book that so matched his appearance—tattered, well worn, and a thing to be treasured. The book was about the diverse, and alarmingly real, Greek gods. Heresy to his father, and loved far more by the boy than he was himself. As darkness seeped away the light of the playground, covering the words on the page, the boy stood wearily and began the long trudge home; Daddy would be mad that he was so late, but then again, Daddy was always mad at him for something.

“Jason, please turn to page 219 and begin reading.” The smarmy English teacher resembled something out of a Catholic school nightmare, bar the nun’s habit. She was too old to even remotely remember that her students were actual people; and she even came complete with a ruler.

Jason had been sitting quietly in the corner, battered headphones softly pounding and a book on Greek religious rites propped open in front of him. No, don’t call on me. Please, not today.

“Jason.” Mrs. Furei stalked over and slammed his precious book down. “Turn those things off and open to page 219. Now.” Teacher’s menace filled her words.

Jason did as he was told, glaring at the Wonder Nun all the while, as he “affectionately” called her. But when she barked at him to read again, all he could do was shake his head and grimace, which Wonder Nun took for a defiant sneer. Mrs. Furei didn’t know how mad Daddy had been last night, or that the bruises his collar hid nearly matched her oh-so-dark burgundy cardigan…

“What?” she snapped; the barest hint of malignant glee in her voice. Detention—oh goody!

Jason attempted to speak in his defense, but only managed a hoarse wheeze and another sneer like grimace. He tried to get out a pen and paper, but Scourge of the Classroom (as he also called her) took it as his packing up.

“Fine then. Out.” She pointed toward the door. “Mr. Arawn’s office, now.” she finished, in that absolutely perfect voice that manages to convey extreme anger and menace without even raising the decibel level.

The boy obediently closed the book on Dionysius’ hedonistic pursuits, and began dolefully packing his bag. The heavy classroom door refused to slam, instead closing slowly with a hiss of air that only fanned Jason’s angry fear. Anger, at the teacher for not understanding, at his father for being forever angry, at himself for being the partial cause of his father’s grief-filled rage. Rage over his mother’s death, at Jason’s birth. Fear, fear of what would happen when he got to the principals office—would they call his father? Would his father repeat last night’s episode at the news of his son’s misbehavior—would it be another lesson in strangulation, or would it be something worse?

As Jason walked the dingy hallways that seemingly grace every high school in America, if not the world, he imagined he was being ferried across the river Styx, on his way to the underworld. All too soon he reached the crossroads that would decide his fate—would the gods be lenient and let him wander in Asphodel (he dared not even hope for the joy of the Elysian Fields), or would they send him to Tartarus? But as fate willed it, Aeacus, Minos, and Rhadamanthus (as he had nick named the principal, the assistant principal, and his counselor) were not understanding either, and sent out a phone call that would seal his fate—a phone call to his father.

As he sat on the front porch, Jason considered taking along walk. A very long walk. It would not be good for him to be here when his father got home. The rest of his day had been uneventful; he had been chastised for being so disobedient, and sent on to his next class. Orchestra, in which he played the violin he had rescued from the garbage can, the violin that had once been his mother’s—much the same as his battered book on the Greek gods—had allowed him to forget the torture awaiting him that night. But as the bus ambled slowly towards his “home” after the final bell, the sense of impending doom increased. Except that it wasn’t a sense—it was a knowledge. The knowledge that what you have done has somehow surpassed all your other misdeeds—or triumphs—and that the reaction this time will be so much more intense…Even as Jason saw his father’s car pull in the driveway, he knew that this time it was different. This time there would be no escape, this time Daddy would finish with him...But Jason had no idea how wrong he was—this time would be his salvation.

The door of the car opened with quiet menace, and Jason fled into his room, running on the animal instinct for survival; the instinct that so often leads people into trapping corners. Such a corner was Jason’s room—there was no escape once Daddy filled that oh-so-small doorway; no more running. This time Jason would have to take his medicine, just as last night; and all the nights of all the long years before it. That medicine included the magical elixir of Daddy’s belt, the poultice of his fists, all bandaged up with whatever words or heavy objects he could find. Tonight Daddy had decided he needed an extra strong helping—he must be so hurt by his shameful trip to the office today. How that shamed Daddy, being called in the middle of a meeting, to be told his ungrateful, worthless son had once again been naughty, disobedient. He was so bad. But Daddy would teach him to be good, because Daddy loved him….

But that was where Jason knew Daddy lied. He could see it in his eyes, the guilt that he did not truly love his son, the guilt that overpowered his rage and caused him to say that he did, even while he picked up the lamp and slammed it over his only child’s head…Somebody loves me, but it’s not you. Never you, Daddy. But somebody loves me.
And then the lamp made contact with the fragile skull of a sixteen year old boy, and his rapidly closing eyes didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.

Warmth surrounded him, and Jason could hear the loud hammering rings of a forge and, beyond that, angry shouts and gleeful laughter. Opening his eyes, Jason was greeted by the sight of the most fantastic room he had ever seen—wrought of every kind of metal, and bathed in a beautiful, flickering red light. He tried to look around and see more of what was surely a dream, but a large, handsome, burly bearded face blocked his view.

“Oh, good. You’re awake. I’ve been waiting so long. I hope the hammering didn’t wake you up, but Aphrodite’s broken her girdle again. I keep telling her to take it off once she’s snared them, but she thinks it’s exciting to still be partially clothed…”

The man extended a hand to help Jason sit up from the oddly soft metal bench he was lying upon. His clothes felt strange, lax and soft, not ill fitting and uncomfortable. Looking down, he noticed that it was a robe in the loose Greek style, in a soft red color—and that the bench was made of solid gold; his head had left a print to show where it had been.

“Excuse me, I’ve been rude.” the man began. “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Hephaestus, and this is my forge, only a hop, skip, and a winged sandaled jump away from Mount Olympus.”

Jason was perplexed—this was not where you went when you died. Even the most honored only went to the stars!

“Why am I here?” Jason was amazed that he spoke without pain. “Or is this a fantastic dream, something my mind has wandered to while I roam the fields of Asphodel?”

“Because, Jason,” Hephaestus began in his loud blacksmiths voice, “because somebody loves you. When you’re mother died—you’re mother, the beautiful dryad—and yes, the violin was made of her wood—Zeus declared that no other woman, nor any mortal man should love you.” At this point, he drew Jason into his arms, and held him tightly there with the incredible strength of both a blacksmith and a god. I was so hard to believe that any man—be he god or nay—with such strength could be so crippled.

Hephaestus continued. “But I am no mortal.”

At this, Jason had to interrupt with a wry smile. “I should hope you’re not a woman.”

Hephaestus laughed, a great booming laugh, and turned Jason round to face him. “No, I am no woman, either.” His expression grew somber. “I am very much a man, god though I be, and I do love you Jason.”

Once again, Jason interrupted as Hephaestus stood reading to shake the earth. “But I thought you were married to Aphrodite?”

Hephaestus sighed. “I am. But have you never wondered why there are no stories of our children? Only hers? Or why she has just so many affairs? It is because of me—aye, we are married, but not by choice.”

Jason laughed. Hephaestus, however, was still serious.

“I have waited too long to be patient any longer. Now that you are finally here, I will show you just how much I have yearned.” and with that he captured Jason in a fierce, crushing kiss. Startled Jason briefly froze. But the heat of Hephaestus’ long banked fires soon warmed him enough, and he returned it with the passion of the lost soul that has finally found it’s home.

For a dozen years, Jason was Hephaestus’ joyful, willing, lover. But after a dozen years, Daddy decided it had been long enough—he was tired of paying his hard earned money on life support for the only remnant of a painful past that he could finally let go of. He had been comatose for twelve years, what were the chances that he would awaken? So one day—a stuffy humid day in the hospital, bright and clear on Olympus—without much pomp and ceremony, the plugs were pulled. As Jason’s brain activity slowly died away, and with it, the last belief in the old gods; Prometheus laughed.

For so many years, Zeus had plagued him about their end. He would never had believed even if Prometheus had told him. That the end would be the simple death of a 28 year old man who had been beaten into a coma at the age of 16 by his angry father—and then lived among the god’s themselves. Even if Zeus had believed, he would have tired to make the boy immortal—only to find they’re wasn’t enough belief left in the world to give him the power. Or else he would have reigned holy terror upon the Earth to make them believe—not stopping until it was destroyed by his panic, and still they would die.

So ended the life of Jason, lover of Hephaestus, last believer in the gods. And so also ended the gods themselves—for belief is everything, and as their belief died, so did their power to bring it back.

'In the begining people had nothing, thier bodies ached and their hearts held nothing but, hatred. They fought endlessly, but death never came; stuck in a eternal quagmire. One day, a man offered a serpent to the sun and prayed for Salvation, A woman offered a Reed to the sun and prayed for Hope. Feeling pity for the people and the death that has overrun the earth, God was born for those two people. God took endless time away from the people and divided into Day and Night. God created the road to salvation and gave people hope. Then God set out to create Paradise; where people would be happy just by being there. But, in the process her power ran out and she collapsed. The people grieved the unfortunate event, but she breathed her last. Returing to the dust promising to return again.'

It's kinda incomplete as of now, but you guys could PM me the evaluation it would be much appreciated.