Freshly Frozen Grass - Rewritten

i aim to make this a novel sometime in the future, and this is perhaps the beginning or the ending, i do not know yet :)

The night was still as the man in the three-piece suit walked out onto the porch, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. I remember thinking he let off more smoke than a fire. Nothing I had seen was ever so orchestrated, in such paradoxical manner. Life and death were wagered on the same scale as the collection of snowflakes settled on freshly frozen grass. He was young and bright, but held no intention to live in a world where most things were unknown. His facial features respectfully mirrored his emotions, as though they were the only true thing he ever had, and the obscure and lugubrious night had reminded him of how there once was a time in life when nothing ever meant anything, a peaceful childhood of roaming in Nature with no worries or corrigible thoughts. Yet, I have never understood how such a character could be so empty, as flamboyant as he was. His attire was a particular one, whether you had claimed it to be a 1920’s bootlegger chief of operations or a highly ranked member in the local Borgata, he was still the sharply dressed man his reputation preceded him to be. In the end we are ceaselessly beating to the past, but the past is the future. The mysterious dark haired character had abruptly passed the porch and sat down on the last step. I remember the first time I saw his empty eyes, as hollow as the dying trees that were in our midst. The refined circles of constant emotion, yet empty as the abyss of the waters of the sea. His presence was somewhat post apocalyptic to what I perceived as a nihilistic painting of life, the dying trees, the reverberating sound of waves crashing upon past footsteps and the gleaming moon that set the atmosphere of a horror novel. My description of him is to be understood as flawed, in the sense that his paradoxical ontology was so futuristic, that my world had no way of defining it. He was too aware. Too aware of life and its silky pleasures and burning sins and to plunge in the windows of his soul, was to be caressed by the Gods and angelic voices; there was something ineffable about his aura, something I could never understand but understood it nonetheless.

Reviews

[Faith Nicole Lackey]

While plotwise there is not much here, there are few things I really loved. Firstly, you love words. You love them so much, you use them even if they are long and difficult. That can be dangerous, but gutsy. Secondly, you write with emotion and a great deal of imagery. This is very reminiscent of the Great Gatsby. I never liked the story, but Fitzgerald's writing style is brilliant. Finally, you care about people. You don't just look at them and describe their physical appearance. You learn them, inside and out. That's unique. Sadly, this man has no journey. You should tell the world his story.

[Nusquam Esse]

Only real suggestion is near the beginning, drop the 'a' in front of fire, you are comparing quantities, so a seems out of place in this sentence structure. All in all, I like this piece, it has just the titch of melancholy. I my opinion, it is all too easy to be empty, and sometimes I feel like the entirety of this piece, a paradoxical contradiction, two extremes held in juxtapose.

[m.s.early]

Reading this makes me wish I was learned enough to give this peice the critique it deserves. I'm limited to simply describe how it makes me feel, and the feelings are so strong that I can't resist to comment.

So skilfully crafted that I can relate on some unexplainable level and know the character intimately ( especially in such a brief character sketch).

The contradicting personality traits certainly make the character interesting enough to want know him better. Clever for the narrator to contemplate the character from what seems like a distance, but then intimate him from a more defined insight or personal relationship at the end.

Kudos. Admirable