Dieselpunks

Dieselpunk + Steampunk Culture

Just a prototype. Not really any serious ideas, just getting back into it.

There is nothing for me here. I should leave. I should leave right now, just up and go. No, I shall not do any such thing. Then again, what's to stop me? Of course, his mind exhausted itself running in circles for what seemed like the tenth time today. His decrepit excuse for a home did little for his ever-shortening list of reasons not to destroy all remnants of his current life and begin anew in some other back alley  five blocks away. No one would know me, he reassured himself for the hypothetical act he would hypothetically attempt and hopefully, (hypothetically), succeed. The stained rags that may have at one time been sheets clung unpleasantly to his chilly carcass. He threw them off in a flourish of stupidity as he promptly knocked over everything that once lay peacefully upon his nightstand, only to be rudely awakened by their less-than-agile roommate. Goddamnit, he muttered to himself, irked only enough so that he could become displeased by the event while still too lazy to actually attempt to clean. He stumbled groggily to his bathroom and proceeded to remove anything he might have been wearing to commence the daily bathing ritual referred to as showering. The cold February air seeped in through his window, only to be thrust out into the early morning stench once more by the steam of his shower head. As he gazed into the water damage upon his wall, he contemplated the shape and color of the spot. Almost looks like India, he half-mumbled, half-thought to himself. Perhaps if the southern peninsula were a little slanted to the right. He found a curious attraction to this spot, like he could talk to it. Perhaps it was that certain quaint charm that water damage spots have. They don't appear particularly malicious, like fire damage does. Fire damage is angry, and doesn't have any feelings whatsoever besides hate. No, that wasn't true. Not true at all. He began to re-evaluate the emotions of fire. Well, it comes into the world very suddenly, and typically leaves very slowly. Maybe it's confused , and is trying to communicate with the world by touching it. That certainly doesn't work out well for anybody. On the other hand, water damage seeps in, and is removed much faster than it came about. Water damage is like a friendly reminder. 'Hi!' it says. 'I'm just going to move in right over here, if that's okay?'. He just realized that the water pounding upon his back had become scalding hot. He jumped out of the shower and turned off the water. He almost got dressed for his job. He chuckled quietly to himself, Ha ha, I used to have a job. And so the blunt hatchet of reality fell upon his brain. He needed money, and badly. It was almost the first, and three consecutive late rent checks were no good at all. Hell, smoke another cigarette. That'll solve it all. Sometimes that was exactly the thing he needed to gather up the strength of will to try to find a job so he could keep living in the greatest hell-hole the grand city of Chicago could offer. This was not exactly he thing he needed. He began to get dressed in whatever clothing he could see that was relatively clean. He began to feel the unmistakable pangs of hunger that pointed to the fact that he was about to become desperate. He knew he had no food. He had checked yesterday. How much money do I have? Sum total: eight dollars. That was enough for a sandwich or two at that little Jewish deli down the street. I'll do that later. For now, I've better things to do. No I don't, what was that about? He staggered to his coat rack, still weary from the sleep he did not deserve. Shrouding himself in the thick pelt of his Army fatigues (obtained from a succesfull dumpster-diving trip) he walked down the three flights of stairs in his apartment building and out into the piercing chill of Chicago's early-morning frost. Leon Guenther has left the building, he chuckled to himself.

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Interesting start. Could go somewhere with this.
Not a bad start.... desperately needs paragraphs though.
I didn't comment about the paragraph thing because I figured that was from transferring it from a doc, which does weird stuff to the edit.

Jonny B. Goode said:
Not a bad start.... desperately needs paragraphs though.
The chilly February air stung at his nose and eyes. It was at least negative twenty, he was sure of it, yet he sweat profusely, as if held just above an open flame. He wiped the sweat from his brow, lest it burn his eyes or worse, freeze upon his face like a walking, mourning gargoyle, completely reanimated but for his tears. The walk to the deli was only four blocks, but the sights and sounds made the trek seem eternal. Even at ten o'clock in the morning, the junkies and drunks of the neighborhood could still be found passed out in a stupor. The lucky ones froze, he thought. The lucky ones die peacefully in their sleep, as high a bluebird, without a care in the world. He hoped one day he, too, would die peacefully amongst his dreams. As the steam of the sewers crept eerily from the grates beneath his feet, he was reminded of last Saturday's oath to stop smoking, and drinking while he was at it. Who the hell promises a thing like that? he thought, as he pulled another cancer stick from his bag of tricks. A good person does, you asshole, he retorted to himself. Fine. Be a good person. If you need me to look down upon, I'll be in the smoking area. He enjoyed the moral debates he put himself through just so he could keep his mind off of...anything, really. He particularly enjoyed the fact that his stubborn, selfish half always won. Maybe one day the good bit will win in me, he dreamily considered. He arrived at the deli, with the heat buffeting his face like an aerial assault led by tiny mice. He could almost see them flying about his head, like a crown of...he ran out of adjectives and similes. They were mice, that's it, no more metaphors. He would have gone on, but the cashier called out to him.

"Hey, you're letting out the heat. Buy something or get the hell out."
Leon looked up, surprised by the human voice that was not his own.
"Well? What the hell do you want?"
"Uh,...a, uh,...sandwich. Please."

He coughed. The suddenness of the day's first human contact had startled him. He began to feel queasy. The thought of eating disturbed him, along with the sight of the other diners. They began to metamorphose, to change into disgusting monsters devouring unpleasant-looking slop. Soon, the food itself became the faces of people he had seen on the street. As his eyes trailed over the faces of the daily special, he was perturbed to find his face squashed in between two slices of rye bread. He watched as he was sent into the very mouth of Hell itself, and ground into bits and pieces before the going-away ceremony commenced. "Hey, guy. That'll be 2.50$." The world quickly readjusted itself. Everything was in proper order. He once again felt the pangs of hunger that instructed him to give this stranger a certain amount of cloth and metal so that he may be given a combination of meats, cheeses, sprouts, and bread to consume. He handed the cashier exact change, for though confused, still his mind realized the importance of being just aware enough to survive. Taking the package of wax paper, he walked out of the deli, hoping not to repeat the incident later that day. Leon returned to his home in a dazed state. After his little escapade in the deli, all he wanted to do was to make sure he ate, and to check the paper for job listings.
Nope. Just freehand spontaneity. It's been awhile, and I'm sure I'll be the subject of a flame war for this, but could someone cite another person's writing for this 'paragraph' thing? (Preferably at this site) I actually enjoy the colors of the site, with the dull, matte black and white with just the touch of electric blue. It's a pleasing ascetic for writing.

Larry said:
I didn't comment about the paragraph thing because I figured that was from transferring it from a doc, which does weird stuff to the edit.
Jonny B. Goode said:
Not a bad start.... desperately needs paragraphs though.
I doubt anyone is going to flame you here, Wesley. I've never seen anyone here at Dieslpunks do anything like that on the forum. Plus, I've known Jonny online for a little while now and I've worked with him on projects so I'm sure he was just making an observation as part of his feedback.

I appreciate your participation on the forum and hope to read more of your work.

Wesley R. Mortega said:
Nope. Just freehand spontaneity. It's been awhile, and I'm sure I'll be the subject of a flame war for this, but could someone cite another person's writing for this 'paragraph' thing? (Preferably at this site) I actually enjoy the colors of the site, with the dull, matte black and white with just the touch of electric blue. It's a pleasing ascetic for writing.
Larry said:
I didn't comment about the paragraph thing because I figured that was from transferring it from a doc, which does weird stuff to the edit.
Jonny B. Goode said:
Not a bad start.... desperately needs paragraphs though.
Anyway, does someone have an example of correct use of paragraph-ing? I just wrote based on how the character's mind was moving, but whatever.
Well, the point of paragraphs is to break up a "wall of text" (which leads to "tl;dr") into groups of sentences that form shorter, manageable thoughts. Makes it easier to read and follow, helps with the flow of the story. I wasn't trying to be mean, I was just trying to give some constructive criticism. Something like this might look better:

"There is nothing for me here. I should leave. I should leave right now, just up and go. No, I shall not do any such thing. Then again, what's to stop me?"

Of course, his mind exhausted itself running in circles for what seemed like the tenth time today. His decrepit excuse for a home did little for his ever-shortening list of reasons not to destroy all remnants of his current life and begin anew in some other back alley five blocks away. No one would know me, he reassured himself for the hypothetical act he would hypothetically attempt and hopefully, (hypothetically), succeed.

The stained rags that may have at one time been sheets clung unpleasantly to his chilly carcass. He threw them off in a flourish of stupidity as he promptly knocked over everything that once lay peacefully upon his nightstand, only to be rudely awakened by their less-than-agile roommate. Goddamnit, he muttered to himself, irked only enough so that he could become displeased by the event while still too lazy to actually attempt to clean. He stumbled groggily to his bathroom and proceeded to remove anything he might have been wearing to commence the daily bathing ritual referred to as showering. The cold February air seeped in through his window, only to be thrust out into the early morning stench once more by the steam of his shower head.

As he gazed into the water damage upon his wall, he contemplated the shape and color of the spot. Almost looks like India, he half-mumbled, half-thought to himself. Perhaps if the southern peninsula were a little slanted to the right. He found a curious attraction to this spot, like he could talk to it. Perhaps it was that certain quaint charm that water damage spots have. They don't appear particularly malicious, like fire damage does. Fire damage is angry, and doesn't have any feelings whatsoever besides hate. No, that wasn't true. Not true at all.

He began to re-evaluate the emotions of fire. Well, it comes into the world very suddenly, and typically leaves very slowly. Maybe it's confused, and is trying to communicate with the world by touching it. That certainly doesn't work out well for anybody. On the other hand, water damage seeps in, and is removed much faster than it came about. Water damage is like a friendly reminder. 'Hi!' it says. 'I'm just going to move in right over here, if that's okay?'.

He just realized that the water pounding upon his back had become scalding hot. He jumped out of the shower and turned off the water. He almost got dressed for his job. He chuckled quietly to himself, Ha ha, I used to have a job. And so the blunt hatchet of reality fell upon his brain. He needed money, and badly. It was almost the first, and three consecutive late rent checks were no good at all. Hell, smoke another cigarette. That'll solve it all. Sometimes that was exactly the thing he needed to gather up the strength of will to try to find a job so he could keep living in the greatest hell-hole the grand city of Chicago could offer. This was not exactly he thing he needed.

He began to get dressed in whatever clothing he could see that was relatively clean. He began to feel the unmistakable pangs of hunger that pointed to the fact that he was about to become desperate. He knew he had no food. He had checked yesterday. How much money do I have? Sum total: eight dollars. That was enough for a sandwich or two at that little Jewish deli down the street. I'll do that later. For now, I've better things to do. No I don't, what was that about?

He staggered to his coat rack, still weary from the sleep he did not deserve. Shrouding himself in the thick pelt of his Army fatigues (obtained from a succesfull dumpster-diving trip) he walked down the three flights of stairs in his apartment building and out into the piercing chill of Chicago's early-morning frost. Leon Guenther has left the building, he chuckled to himself.

See what I mean?

Wesley R. Mortega said:
Anyway, does someone have an example of correct use of paragraph-ing? I just wrote based on how the character's mind was moving, but whatever.
I did not receive your input any other way. Thank you for the tip, I shall apply it in good health.

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