A piece of writing I'd like crits on

[Rui 'Trovatore' Pires]

Hya. I'd like some crits on a little piece of wrote. Mind you, the crits won't change the actual piece, because it's my already-submitted entry for my writing comp. But I'd like crits, which I can't reasonably ask in the comp's thread (it's simply not the place for it), just so I can keep them in mind for next time I write something. It's pretty short, so I'll also include my last month's entry. For the purposes of crits, it should do well, methinks. Thanks in advance.

Oh - I'm looking for crits as regards the style, the effectiveness of whichever methods I use, the sentence's construction (not being native English), typos (though "tygers" is on purpose), and anything else you can opine on.

THis months:
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   THEY WALK ON - A FANTASY

   They walk on. Like herds of sheep, they walk on.
   Hello, goodbye. Coffee, please. Here's your change. Thank you. Next. We need this. We need that. Do. Don't. Words, words, words, to quote the bard. But there is no bard. There is nothing but the sheep, the ones which walk on and on and on.
   There is peace, and on they walk. They trust their neighbour, because he will never hurt them, so on and on they walk. There are no terrorists. There is no terror. There are no bombs. On they walk, safely and purposefully. Every day is has a purpose, every day a destination, and on they walk.
   There is no hate, so there is no love. They drink, they eat, they walk, they shit, they fuck, they walk, they breathe, they talk - sometimes - and they walk on. They don't write books, because they don't read them. They don't make music because no one listens to them. They have no maps - they know where to go and when to do it, so they do. Here there be no tygers, mister, no lions and no tigers and no bears, oh my, and they never will leave Kansas, no matter how much they walk.
   On and on and on they walk. On and on. The black and the white and the red and the blue made alike by suits and ties. Thieves are no threat, muggers, assassins, they don't exists. The machine revolution is a joke - no machine should want to rule mindless peaceful businessmen such as these. In their towers of steel their plotting is tasteless and neither losing nor winning are options, only shades of achievement. They take the achievement home, walking on and on, in forms of dollar signs which they will not spend, for there is no bard, no tyger.
   On and on they walk. On and on, and on and on.
   No law, for there is no one to break it.
   No passion, for there is no despair.
   Peace rules over all, world without end, amen, can you say Hallelujah, as you walk, walk, walk on.

****

Last month:
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   The father stared at his son, eating slowly. The son stared at his food, eating slowly. The mother, sensing the storm in the air, tried to stare at both and disguise it by picking at her food.
   It was the father who spoke first.
   "So, how are things?"
   Scott mumbled some response, which amid the gravy and the unwillingness to speak seemed to mean "good, good."
   "Good", said the father, and picked at his own plate.
   The nanoseconds wore on, then the milliseconds. When only two actual seconds had passed it seemed like an eternity already.
   "So," spoke the father again, "you are you running away from?"
   "Ralph!"
   "He's obviously running away from someone, Martha," he explained, unmoved by his wife's shock. "Look at him. Doesn't talk, doesn't move. Heck, he came to have dinner with us. WHen was the last time he did that?"
   Scott just stared at him, blankly. His lips didn't move, but his eyes did. Rapidly, moving between his father and his mother, but coming to rest more and more on his father. But he didn't say who he was running away from, nor attempted to explain why he had decided to come for dinner.
   Ralph seemed unperturbed by the silence. To accentuate this appearance he picked at his food again. "Not talking? Ok. Want *I* should tell *you* instead?"
   His son's eyes seemed to say, no, don't do this, not here, not in front of mother. They also seemed to say go on, I dare you, I dare you to do this. And it seemed to him there was a challenge there. It was the challenge that he answered.
   "You're running away from those pricks - " Martha reacted at this. "I'm sorry, Martha, but I have to call it as I see it. You're running away because you owe them. Do you want me to tell you just what is it you owe them?"
   His son still stared at him, in challenge and accusation. It started to bother Ralph. It started to bother him immensely.
   "That bloody powder. Right? That's how you've been making what you call a living."
   A flicker of anger in his son's eyes, but still silence. The silent restlessness of Martha. The food in his plate, going cold. And on and on time passed again, and what seemed like an eternity before one of them spoke again was in reality just three very, very long seconds.
   "I knew this was going to happen," said the father. "Ever since I found that blasted thing on your drawers what, seven, eight years ago? I knew how it was going to end."
   And so you gave up on me, said his son's eyes. Or did they? Was he imagining it, addresing himself, accusing himself? He shaked it off, and held his gaze.
   "I never knew why God saw fit to curse me with you. You are not my child. You can't possibly be. You're a mistake, in every sense of the word." The mother was restless and nervous and afraid, trying to get a word in, trying to placate, much as she had done in the past. And, much as he had done in the past, the father wouldn't let her. "You're a parasite, you've always been a parasite. This is just so much more proof." Still he spoke in a maddeningly reasonable tone, despite the angry content of his speech. "Do you think you can just come here and sit and eat with us just because that's what you always did? Do you assume that whatever you do you'll be welcome here? Is that what you think of us? That we'd welcome our good-for-nothing, worthless parasite of a mistake?"
   The son spoke up now. And kept on speaking. After a somewhat loud and brief outburst which surprised the words out his his father, he kept on in a low (but increasingly high), jagged (but increasingly speeding), flat (but increasingly accusatorial) voice.
   The mother was confused, and tried to stop him.
   "No, leave him, Martha", said the father. A dangerous smile on his lips, a dangerous amusement in his whole posture, said he meant to rise to this challenge. He even chuckled. "My fault, is it? Just how is it my fault, pray tell? Let him finish, Martha, I want to hear this. It's interesting."
   So the son went up, picking up speed. The father didn't know where he was going with this, but he started to recognize. When the son talked about his study, he just stared blankly. When he talked about his desk, he got restless himself. When he talked about the drawer, and about the key he'd stolen from him, and opened it and found inside the very same substance he was now shunned for having used and sold, the father stood up in a rage, hit the table, ordered the pup to shut up, shut UP, he knew NOTHING about it, he knew NOTHING of ANYTHING, and how dared HE -
   Martha's eyes were on him, he felt. Shocked, wide, unbelieving. He sat down, composed himself. Her eyes remained on him, and now he couldn't give a damn about his son. Those eyes seemed to fill the world.
   "Martha, it's not what it seems. It... it was a bad time, remember it? You remember it. We went through a bad patch." He made light of it, having some more steak. The lightness did not find his way to his throat, and he coughed as the piece of steak caught in his narrowing throat before going on its way. "Well, how did you think I got that money?" he said, now looking straight at her. "Did you think I'd just grown it out of a tree?"
   She said nothing, but stared at her husband and her son, and again in turn to her husband. She stood up and tried to leave the room, but in fact fled it. Father and son stared at one another. The food grew colder still; the mother's sobs were clearly audible; and still they stared.

[Gord10]

I liked both of the stories I just want to ask some moral things in the first story.

There is no hate, so there is no love.
No law, for there is no one to break it.
No passion, for there is no despair.
Peace rules over all, world without end, amen, can you say Hallelujah, as you walk, walk, walk on.

I had been thinking about these sentences since I read the story first time. Do you think that kind of world wouldn't be good? In my opinion, Love could exist without Hate. (My thoughts may be wrong, though. Because while playing Silent Hill 3, I was taking the side of the Cult who wants to destroy the universe with a new god, to destroy the pain. I hope it isn't something pathetic with me.)

[Rui 'Trovatore' Pires]

Ah, that's where we differ, and I'm very happy that it made you think on that. The very motivation was the whole "There can't be good without bad" idea, which I quite agree on - I think that the first piece is an accurate rendition of what I believe would happen if there were no bad things that'd make us treasure the good things (or even bother to create some!). Not 100% perfect and justifiable, but if it made you wonder, that's more than I could have asked for.

EDIT - In retrospect, though, I may have focused too much and too early on decidedly tender subjects - bombs, terrorism, war. Was that bad?

EDIT 2 - For the record, I do adore the idea of peace. When I heard about the IRA putting down their weapons, it cheered me up the whole day.

[Gord10]

Ah, that's where we differ, and I'm very happy that it made you think on that. Not 100% perfect and justifiable, but if it made you wonder, that's more than I could have asked for.

Yes, I can imagine how you felt. I would feel happy if somebody would think about the moral dilemmas in Lost In The Nightmare (btw, you will need to wait for the full version for that dilemmas). This is really encouraging for the art; if art serves for expressing our opinions. 

The very motivation was the whole "There can't be good without bad" idea, which I quite agree on - I think that the first piece is an accurate rendition of what I believe would happen if there were no bad things that'd make us treasure the good things (or even bother to create some!).

Yes, I had gotten this message. This was what I was just thought yesterday morning: The evil exists for the comprehension of the treasure of good.
But I still think that we could be happy without the evil. Comprehension isn't necessary for happiness (like sheeps in a horde.).

[LilBlueSmurf]

This is turning into something that should probably be in another forum, but I had to comment.  The idea that sheep, or any animal, don't comprehend the idea of evil is just ludicris.  You think they just mozy on up to wolves and let themselves be eaten?  I am sure animals comprehend safety and happiness as well as fear and evil.  But beyond that, how can is be possible to experience happiness without comprehension?  Happiness is a state of mind.  The very idea of happiness is subjective which means you have to comprehend what is going on, otherwise it is just indifference.

As far as needing war to know peace, I don't think that is the case.  Nor would you need sadness to know happiness.  You just need NOT peace, or NOT happiness to understand them.  In the case of peace, civil unrest would do, and for happiness feeling mundan, bored, or pretty much any other feeling that is not happiness would make happiness distinguishable.

[Rui 'Trovatore' Pires]

Well, that sheep thing you might have read too much into. I just used sheep in order to show a rather mindless pacing to and fro, a herd of animals who all look alike and are classicaly viewed as peaceful and usually move in herds - nothing more.

And I really won't discuss the whole love/hate peace/war thing anymore, but just for one simple reason - it's very subjective. None of us are right, because this is highly hypothetical, but we all have our own views, and I already expressed mine - it wouldn't be right to keep at it.

[Dave Gilbert]

Very involving and very evocative, as per usual.  Is this something you're continuing?  Or is it a one-shot deal?

[Nikolas]

. Every day is has a purpose,

I don't understand the is has thing.

And I think that Cansas is with a C and not with a K (I'm not sure, though) .

Are these two on purpose?

I really liked the first story though I strongly believe that thru actions we make a better world (of course not by killing, don't get me wrong)

[Rui 'Trovatore' Pires]

Dave - one shot, I have trouble with larger things. They're too daunting. Thanks for the "evocative" - does that mean I retain that "visual" quality you've commented on at other times? Or is there some other reason?

Nikolas - the "is" shouldn't be there. Once again I forgot to proof-read, and submitted to the comp as you see it. For fairness, I let it be in this example. And no, "Kansas" is with a K. But thanks for the watchful eye.

[Andail]

This is turning into something that should probably be in another forum, but I had to comment.  The idea that sheep, or any animal, don't comprehend the idea of evil is just ludicris. 

I beg to differ violently. The idea of evil is purely a human invention. Saying that wolves are evil because they eat sheep - or whatever that simile was intended to express - is just puerile.

But that's not really important, Rui need only answer to criticism aimed at the story itself, which I for one find very original and interesting.
It's not often I see writing this good at the critics lounge. Good work.