Last one hit its bump limit. Post your writing, receive a critique.
Have fun!
I open my eyes. I'm in my living room. But this doesn't feel like my couch. Too soft. Too much room. It's a bed. A bed with black sheets. The lights are on. Everything else in the room is the same as it was when I last saw it. Except the man standing in the middle of the room. He is wearing yellow. A yellow jacket. A yellow hat. Yellow pants. Yellow shoes. He smiles.
"Have you accepted IT?"
"The job offer? How do you know about this? And no, I told her I needed time to think it over."
He looks confused. "Is it not a better job than your current one?"
"It is. But it's still a job. I'd still have bosses. People to answer to, a set schedule, customers. I don't like the job I have now, but I might just not like jobs. Who are you?"
He ignores my question and starts to take off the fingers of his left hand. It's not as gruesome as I would have thought. They come off with a slight tug. Tiny drops of blood drip from the wounds, as he tosses his fingers on the floor.
I jump from the bed, and scramble to the fingers on the floor, black sheet in hand. I gently pick up the fingers and start wrapping them in the sheet. I look up and ask, "Should I? Should I accept it? The job?".
His voice is almost sad. "Does it matter? Keep the old job. Take the new. Will you accept it?", he asks, quietly, almost as if he's talking to himself. He walks to the door and lets himself out.
I open my eyes. I'm in my living room. On my old familiar couch. There are no black sheets. Everything else in the room is the same as it was when I last saw it. Except there is no man standing in the middle of the room.
>>7450566
when picasso trained himself how to unlearn his art, i shall take the whimsy of madness and curl it to my whispy dreams, and kiss the starlight with my eyemouths.
what is the point of sublimation when there isnt a caboose to rifle through in the calumnious lessee, praddling with their tails swinging in the clockheaded breeze.
King Solomon poked his head out of the room with a rope around his neck, and the crowds looked with wonder as he mysteriously turned purple. Eventually his father came about and commanded him to be well, and all was well. Lethargic coriander seeds languished in the heat of the small jar in the cupboard, and there was no hope for them to be spread into the foamy languid tonsil soups of the crabtree brilliances.
Importune offerings left only the leveed scallions of orbital squarings in the clamp of tripoli.
those who murmur in the mud of sin, waiting for the whirlwind to come,
beg others to join in their fun,
as misery loves company.
creeds torn over on the rest of the plan, prostituting to the clapping of the crowd, the dollar, measly as it is potently portentous, blissfully unaware as the brass tacks stab into their trenchfeet, just as the spaldrings before them, they too felt as the rampant orchids blossomed, and the tuberculous stab of barnacles and whelks, prodding wastrel voices in their gullets, raping their peace.
Luring in the stamina of the campaign, the willows only sifted through a small percentage of the stench of the open sewer main upwind of the conference hall. Many of the staunch citizens approached their seats with a grimace of disgust and a gush of vomit splashing against the back of their throats, wondering what they'll have to agree to that day just to keep their fingers inside. Little did they realize that their hair cuts were in vain, and it was simply an execution of an aboriginal at the expense of the high royal society of Lieught Scleoupo. There was much revulsion at the sight of the blood of the native, which always served to titillate the impressionable revolutionaries, who had so much to prove with so little power to do it, they typically backed down from dissenting parties on a rate of 30% after that, which is tweaked magnificently later on in life when stocks are established to their social security numbers.
Palindromic allowances only bring gestures of noncommittal confirmation, and the bill passes, no new taxies without prostitution becoming a state ratified constitutional institution, where loans are distributed to the purloined homes of those who were in the unions before the civil war... well i'm getting ahead of myself, it's all on account of the newest release of the websters dictionary on the 30th of April, 1972, when the clearing house publishers awarded gretta jones her 48,396$ in small unmarked bills.
>>7450566
I feel uncomfortable criticizing English texts because I have a bad knowledge and instinct aesthetic response to the language. I can translate my own texts, but ussualy only literary, with no attention to sound and other effects. My criticism of the works here would be far from commendable.
>This is from the tragedy I am writing. The original is in Portuguese. It is a war speech (a piece of propaganda by the tyrant that is the main character of the work). Apologies for the bad English.
Make every drop of blood in your veins roar,
And that every single gland in your bodies boil in tigers:
War now grunts to you all the avail
- The assent that society and peace deny -
To unlock the deep wells of your instincts
And allow the darkness to climb them.
From the cavers of the mind unless the wolves,
Might the steel armor-plate your hearts and your brains
So that the prays of pity and the cold cheep
Of fear do not penetrate in your spirits:
That both this knots, of veins and of thoughts,
Disentangle their skeins of contradictions
And only the furious famine for victory sing on them.
Oh gods of war, that sculpt with blood
The labyrinths of human destiny,
Honor the sap with which our
Cuts do honor you, and that your records
Embroider tales of glory with the scarlet
Lines of our scars.
Our sacred texts speak of angels,
Well, to me angels are our own young lads
When in the wars they dew blood from their muscles
And drip sweat that smells of cholera.
Yes, this are my angels, the genies in front of whom
My faith knells and my deeply moved
Heart sing hymns, yes, this are my angels,
And not the storks of heaven, greasy
With butter of light and oil of stars,
Effeminate harp players
That dilute the golden eternity
Of their flaccid afternoons drinking champagne
Of ambrosia and eating bonbons of nectar,
Pinky and obese cherubs,
Raspberries that have swollen by eating to much manna bread.
We man have naked, wingless backs,
And only ambition, the fierce hunger
Allow us to fly to the heavens of the eternal.
"Ohhhhh, I love Tiffany!"
"She's awesome, she's always smiling and doing her hoola hoop thing."
"Tiffany? Good kid, I love her little southern accent."
The mob surrounding the monster were all in agreement it seemed. Everyone liked Tiffany.
"Yeah, yeah, everyone loves Tiffany," the monster sighed, "Do any of you even hang out with her?"
"We'd rather hang out with her than some half goat, half jellyfish monster man like you any day."
The man was harsh, but his description was accurate enough. This monster, who we originally thought came here to kill us, had told us that he was sent here to save us. Not kill us. He seemed exasperated trying to explain once again.
"Look humans, Tiffany has problems. Big ones she hides from you, and from herself most of the time. She broke my heart last year, and she has the potential to break the heart of the very city."
"Look here monstrosity," Bill was red in the face as he continued yelling, "even if she did break your heart, how could she break the heart of the city? What does that even mean?"
The jelly goat man was becoming agitated. His tentacles writhed in fury while responding.
"Tiffany was born with a special gift. Or curse. She can date monsters. She can date cities. She can date ideas. Dreams, pop culture, music, anything or anyone, no matter how abstract. And when she's done with them she breaks their heart, and they die a little inside. If, no when! When she breaks the city's heart, it will crumble. And you people will die. We have to stop-
BOOM
The shotgun blast silenced the monster. Jelly, blood, and brains rained down upon us. Tiffany pumped the shotgun, ready to shoot again if the monster weren't dead. But it's body didn't move.
"Sorry y'all. That was Steve. We were talking for like a week. I would have never talked to him if I knew what a psycho he was. I was even gonna file a restraining order against him sometime soon."
There was no way I was going to speak up while she had the shotgun in her hand. But her story wasn't right. A week? I had seen them flirting in the restaurant for months. I saw them at the hookah bar, tentacle and hands joined, smiling. I saw them at the art festival a few weeks back. It's hard to forget a guy like that. But again, I wasn't about to speak up now. I was much better looking than the monster, but I had a feeling the mob would act very similar to my suspicions as they did the jelly goat man.
Oh no. Tiffany's walking up to me. Did she see me see them those times? Is she going to get rid of me? She walks up and stares into my chest?
"Hey Suspicion. You wanna, I don't know, hang out sometime?"
Somehow my suspicion speaks allowed, "Yeah that'd be cool. What's your number?"
>posting writing on /lit/
>getting critique from /lit/
ISHYGDDT
>>7450672
What does that mean?
>>7450582
I know you're going for the short choppy sentences but it's not working.
>>7450595
>kiss the starlight with my eyemouths
>as misery loves company
yikes
also,
>inserting 'big' words for the sake of having them
Don't do that
>>7450603
Is this directed at teenage girls?
It's bad regardless I was just wondering
>>7450686
Costanza.jpg
>>7450805
critics can be so cruel
>>7450603
Rough break up recently, m8?
>>7450822
errrrr, lol
>>7450805
Why Aren't the sentences working?
>>7450805
Maybe is a translation thing? eyemouths sound kinda Lovecraft?
>>7450805
It was just kinda directed to anyone reading. Does it come off as young adult?
>>7450582
This works for me because it is not trying to be anything but what it is. The vocabulary is no more nor less than what is required, and there is no telegraphed effort to impersonate either Hemingway or Carver. There is sufficient incongruity to invoke "dream" and sufficient menace to suggest the stakes are higher than accepting a new position. If this came up in the slush pile, I would give it another page, then one more, until I either got to the end of the sample, or it finally tripped over its own goal line, whichever comes first.
>women
>want to
>create stuff
>>7451164
Thanks for the input. I appreciate the time you took
>>7450805
>yikes
is that a criticism?
The little boy had not shit before, but knew that it was expected of him before the elders considered him a man. He had spent his entire life up to this point, 17 name days, excreting his feces the way most children did. Through his sweat glands. But the easy days of shit tinted skin gloss would soon be over. He was about to become a man. He had to shit the way a man was expected to. Through his arsehole.
He understood the mechanics of the whole thing. He knew logically, that all he had to do was keep the waste together in one spot, in his stomach and bowels. Eventually enough would gather so that he would be able to shit it out of his arsehole as a solid piece, or pieces if some of the stories were true, of shit.
"Please let it be solid." he prayed to the old gods and the new. Although a liquid shit from the arsehole wasn't strictly speaking against the rules, it was never considered a manly shit. Especially not as one's first adult shit.
It was now or never. And the elders were growing impatient. The boy climbed the 33 steps to the top of the toilet cathedral. In 200 years, the design hadn't changed much. 33 steps leading to the top of an enormous glass cube. On top of the cube was a toilet. The cube itself was filled with a clear liquid gel, sensors, and current controls. These would all work together, so that when the shit was released from the arsehole, it would be positioned by the currents to the center of the liquid, so the elders could examine it from all sides.
He climbed the 33 steps and slowly walked to the toilet. He tried to ignore the stern looks from the elders. The high priest, his father and mother, the sineater, the butcher, and the accountant were all there, and were all wearing very serious faces at this moment.
He pulled down his britches and underpants and sat on the toilet. He had made sure to eat a hearty breakfast. Blood sausage, hashbrowns, hotcakes, and just a bit of coffee to help the shit flow through. He had even swallowed a shotglass full of corn, just to add a little flare to what he hoped would be his first adult shit. And he had eggs. Although they were queer eggs now that he thought of it. They tasted funny.
But now he was ready. He felt the shit build inside him, and it came out feeling like a fart at first. "Oh no, " he thought, "is that it? Just a fart?". But the fear was brief, because after another fart he could feel matter exit his arsehole. Solid matter. His first adult shit had not even finished, but he was grinning with pride and looked down at the elders. They were all smiles, and his log was not even completely out yet. But then their faces started to change.
His mother shrieked, and looked away her face in her hands. His father yelled, "No, no, noooooooo!!". The high priest looked utterly confused, and the sineater was clawing at his own face, tears mixed with blood. The boy had a sick feeling, but he had to know what was wrong with his shite.
>>7451337
cont...
He looked below the glass top of the cube. He saw what had horrified the elders. SPiders. Thousands and thousands of spiders. They were bursting through his shit log, filling the tank. There were more spiders than fecal matter. Like a legion of spiders, with just a mist of shit to mark that there had ever been a shit in the first place.
The queer eggs! They were spider eggs! The boy had eaten spider eggs, and in turn the spiders had hatched and were eating his shit.
And the boy? The boy did not become a man that day.
>>7451175DRA-AhhHhhmAAA! Amirite!?
>>7450603
mental m8. like the creativity
anyway wtf does this mean:
>Somehow my suspicion speaks allowed,
>>7451342
>>7451337
I saw a compilation of four-panel comics with "cute" guys talking about how they may not have the strongest muscles, or the best hair, or the cutest clothes, but they do have heart. the latino kid's comic was smaller than the rest, as if he was floating away from the space station of fags—soon to be lost in a limitless nothingness
I wanted to reach out to him; I wanted to rescue him. He was so much more innocent than the other guys. He wasn't shirtless, or arrogant. He had a genuine smile. Best of all, he didn't talk about himself. Instead of saying that he had heart, or that other guys belonged in the kitchen, he talked about the girls. He said that they were all beautiful.
I wanted to reach out and rescue him from the crowd—but he was already lost; he already belonged to the stars
>>7451614
pls do not sully the name of Herr Kafka with your empty words & cheap misconceptions
>>7451614
actually, is this post b8? are you trying to ruse me? do you really misunderstand the czech jew so thoroughly that he's been debased to "lol randum poo jokes" in your eyes?
>>7451616
that was wicked gay
>>7451623
your stupid
>>7451626
I see what you mean. tips on improvement?
a work in progress; the square bracketed part isn't metafiction, it's a genuine note to myself
critiquing others momentarily
I stopped myself from measuring out the coffee grounds. Why was I making the coffee? The imitation, the simile, the parody, the thief, the copy, the pirate: He sat ignorantly on my bed waiting for me to prove my difference, my superiority, my power, to cleave from him the implicit smugness, the inspiration for my unrequited hatred. Me is a dress. Me in a better body, with a better brain, me but so effortless and so… shit fuck fuck shit. Fuck him and fuck me. Fuck him to death. I grazed every item in the drawer until I found my sacred object. The revolver was as heavy as it had always been. My hands were steady as I raised it in practice. There was a sickness inside of me; a poison in my stomach that could only be purged by the execution of the act. I could feel the weapon’s powerful shape against my hip as I went; I stepped forward, back through the doorway and into the bedroom, unready. It didn’t matter. This was jumping off the diving board, ripping off the band-aid. This was acting best done without thinking. I exhaled and loosened my grip, poised to draw the firearm up to face level. His phone buzzed quietly in his pocket and I immediately exploded his skull.
With the power of the shot my hands flew back almost into my face. Blood stained, painted the wall. A big mass of sticky fluid, dripping in folds over onto itself. Pieces of brain sat lopsided and scattered on the floor, like an overturned plate, a bottle of wine on its side, a mess of dead tissue and person-less human substance. [ADD MORE DESCRIPTION HERE]
Simple and short, he was a person, and then he was a thing. It was instant and easy. I ended him, not dramatically, not beautifully or passionately, but surgically. He folded over onto the ground, and I was finished. Neighbours looked around the corners anxiously to attend to the sound. I appeared in the hallway, bloodied and armed, and was met with screams. The thing still lay in the room behind me; the inanimate deadweight, heavy and useless.
>>7451582
She had decided to date his suspicion.
>>7451652
>posting a work in progress
Why?
>>7451637
isn't it stereotypical to say the latin kid was still able to sexually harass women freely without shame in the way the kucked whitebois can't?
>>7451652
contextlessness of ocean flotsam without the romanticism that its mystery past carries with it
your prose is fine, but it's devoid of a world... in other words, it's not long enough, we know nothing about anybody, flung into the world in media res and drawn out just as quickly, before anything can even happen to us or the character. so he shoots some guy. so what? we don't even know who that guy is. work on that, make it longer, post to gdocs or whatever.
>>7451674
well I just thought he was nicer than everyone else, and I felt sorry for him. he seemed like the least twinkiest guy there, and he was getting lumped in with the shirtless guys with puka shell necklaces who wore their hats high
>>7451677
the two or three sentences i skimmed of it seemed ok but obviously it didnt get me to read it so... yeah....
>>7450582
I like what you're getting at, but it's very 1950s, and not in a good way
>>7450595
I like this especially, but I wonder if you're trying too hard to create the effect you seem to be going for. With heavy editing, this could be immaculate.
>>7450603
>>7451337
>>7451616
Are these comedy? I don't have the specific expertise to really say anything, but I certainly didn't laugh.
>>7451660
the opportunity presented itself?
>>7451677
well, this thread is almost all excerpts... this is the middle of my novel. should i post more/something else?
>>7451680
but guys with puka shell necklaces and high hats always get tons of pussy, so this doesn't seem to make sense? besides latin macho men are beta in their own way, always got a bunch of excuses about how their life was too hard to ever finish school and not be an illiterate douche, etc. sure, it works at first but five years and two kids into the marriage the chick finds out the dude is just a lazy dumbass
>>7451684
>Are these comedy? I don't have the specific expertise to really say anything, but I certainly didn't laugh.
>it had poops in it, must be comedy!
c'mon son lets not be too pleb now
>>7451652
doesn't fix the problem of context-less-ness, but cont'd
Half of all murders go unsolved. It’s easy to plan, to be meticulous, careful, to kill and suffer no consequences, none but the burden of secret. I killed in broad daylight. I killed and walked out of the front door of my own home and left the mess behind. Imagine walking the streets a murderer: The prestige and the reverence. The recognition and the fear. Who are you? What have you done? The night was clear and cool and still hung in the sky with all its black weight. It was only midnight. People stared while two police officers escorted me out of the building. I looked in no direction except forward. One might have expected the police to look around the room and sigh with familiar disdain, to make some offhanded comments about having seen this shit too many times before, to tell everyone that there was nothing to see, yawn and sigh, to look grumpy and irritated. They came, and eyed the scene, fresh-faced and confused, intrigued, curious. I spoke to them calmly and walked out willingly. I didn’t wail and cry or apologize, nor did I attack or shout abuses at them. Who was I? They saw the body and expected a psychopath, a dysfunctional idiot, a maniac who would spray bullets and had a swastika carved into his forehead. I handed them my gun and washed my hands in my own sink, littered with a few dirty dishes and a wet sponge. I sat in an armchair that had been in my bedroom since I was a child and offered them coffee. As they interviewed me, a corpse with no face was carried out the door. They were stunned.
Homicide as aesthetic:
Profound, powerful, beautiful, immense, impressive, enviable, expressive, individualistic, competetive, assertive, rebelilous, punk, brutal, insensitive, drastic, offensive, desirable, perfect, monstrous, scary, evil, threatening, illegal, unapologetic, unforgivable, unacceptable, monstrous, insane, psychopathic, edgy, antisocial, unconventional, unique, fashionable, sacreligious, reprehensible, inhuman, unsympathetic, violent, excessive, saturated, sudden, uncontrollable, chaotic, tempestic, arbitrary, random, undeserved, unforgivable, terrible, disgusting.
I'm attempting to write a short story about the adventures of your every day autist. The dialogue needs a little work, but I hope it's acceptable
Red corollas bloomed in the sky, each one eliciting ooh's and ahh's from the crowd that gathered, just like last year--the year before that, too--to celebrate the Fourth of July. Riding the ferris wheel, which was a new addition--the first new addition--to the festivities, he watched pyrotechnicians launch the fireworks, whistling as they climbed upward, against the force of gravity, and popping as they exploded in a blaze of triumph and glory. He piped in:
"You know--" He paused to think of something that would, he hoped, be good conversation.
"Yeah?" She stared at him, expecting good conversation.
"You know," he started, immediately regretting his attempt to talk to her, "where fireworks come from?"
"No, not really."
"They're from China, I think; created to ward off enemies," he said unconfidently. "I don't think they work, though."
"Why's that?"
"There are Mongols here!" he attempted to say as a loud crack sounded. But, unfortunately, she heard "there are mongoloids here," which, concerning and offending her, effectively ended the conversation.
>>7451688
You're right. I guess I should pity them all. Or none of them!
I've since taken it out of my evernote folder. Sorry to spend your time. I'll try to be more thoughtful in the future. Thanks for talking.
>>7451684
wow.. thank you. no one has ever complimented my stuff before. i'm the eyemouths guy. yeah, i was just coming down off of ulysses and trying to write whatever came to my mind, all of that is part of about twice that size of just odd paragraphs, each written at a different time, some of it when i go back i can see what i really intended to write, i never felt like it was all just gibberish. i have a more conventional story, i might as well post it here.
>>7451697
this is fantastic, i'm being totally sincere, 10/10/10/10
Anton Antoevsky the ant ambled through the forest of grass. His shabby hat leaned perpetually, his legs were covered in a grubby muslin, and his boots were floppy and nearly disintegrating. In short, he was a very low ranked ant. His life was one that no ant envied. He knew it, they all knew it. All of the other clerks in the office hated him. He was neurotic, groaning to himself as he hunched over his desk, copying, copying, copying. He was headed to the tavern, the lush that he was. He was going there to attempt to drink away the embarassing scene that was still fresh in his mind. His face spasmed in pain when recalling the event, recoiling from the memory, he hastened his gait, following the familiar scent path, reeking of booze. His mind, however, would not be foiled in its memories, and returned to the thought of her.
"But you cannot be serious, Anton, I could not imagine being with such a lowly clerk as yourself. You must know this as well as I do." Said Antonina Antinovich with a look that nearly destroyed him. "But, Antonina Antinovich, you must know my passions for you, I am not a coward, I cannot take it any longer, you must love me!" shrieked Anton Antoevsky, growing more and more shrill with desperation. "You must calm yourself, Anton, I will not let you bully me into loving you, yes, we were young once, you wrote me love poems endlessly, I once had affections for you. But now that we are older, you must know how ridiculous you are to me, how foolish you are! You have no prospects, no passion for your work, you are constantly besotted, and you are viciously poor and shabby. I cannot take you seriously any longer, nor can I tolerate your presence, I have given you attentions out of pity, but no more. You must go, Anton." With that, the poor ant stifled a cry of sorrow as his protestations were ignored, and he was hurried away by her servants.
(1/2)
>>7451707
lol
whoops, posted the other half on another thread, sorry...
This scene assaulted him to the point of tears nearing his destination, he bit them back as he came under the familiar broad leaf that covered the tiny tavern, and stumbled into the hole, a small cavern crowded to the brim and loud with the chatter of drunken ants. As he tripped over a rock lodged in the entrance, he reached out and grabbed the nearest steady object, which, in this instance was an ant. A very quick tempered and rich ant, in fact. The ant in question was Konstantin Rumyantsev, a Captain in the Queen's army. "You over-segmented fool! You spined master of mistakes! You have ripped my cape!" fumed Konstantin Rumyantsev, his face growing red with palsied rage. "I am so sorry, Konstantin Rumyantsev! Forgive me, I am so clumsy, I did not see where i was going and.." blustered out Anton Antoevsky, already recognizing Konstantin Rumyantsev and in fear for his life of the commanding armyant in front of him, "You will have to pay for this! Clearly you are a poor ant, so I must force you to pay in the only way you can, with your life! Find your seconds, and meet me in -- Valley at dawn!" after this outburst, Konstantin Rumyantsev stormed out of the tavern, tattered cloak hanging from his magnificent attire. "My god, what have I done, I am doomed, I will be killed! I cannot go, but if I refuse I am a coward, I must go into hiding!" cried Anton Antoevsky to himself, not even seeing the crowd gazing at him with amusement. He slumped at a mound and begged for a drink. After it had soaked his tiny ant brain, he was stricken with an idea. "If I were to take this challenge, and kill him somehow, I may gain Antonina Antinovich's attentions once more, oh god, perhaps this is my only chance," he mused, "but how could I defeat this monster? I can barely aim a pistol and I am already shaking from fear, oh what can I do?"
The next day, at dawn, Anton Antoevsky had arrived at -- Valley, a massive dip in a sidewalk. With his seconds, a pair of gossips, he was sure that they would spread either his defeat or success against Konstantin Rumyantsev, and it would soon reach the ears of Antonina Antinovich. When Konstantin Rumyantsev arrived with his seconds and a pair of elegant pistols, Anton Antoevsky began to tremble miserably. "Are you prepared to die? That cloak you mangled was worth more than a thousand of you, filthy worm." with these words, Konstantin Rumyantsev shook with wrath and took aim at Anton Antoevsky, fired, and missed. Anton Antoevsky had heard the shot, his eyes shut tight, he was certain he was now dead, and when he opened his eyes, he would be gazing into ant God's face. He opened his eyes hesitantly, to be shocked to find that he was still alive, and looking at a crestfallen, but still wrathful armyant standing several paces away. "My chance! My time has come, my--" Suddenly, they were all crushed by a man strolling to work.
>>7451698
it was ok, but why make the one non-faggy kid latino? is this some kind of crypto-catholic call for traditionalism or some shit? or are you on a mission to further kukify the image of white bois? or what? i mean clearly he was latin for some reason...
>>7451697
come on dude, don't have colors and "sky" in the fucking first sentence, no on want to read more about a colored fucking sky
>>7451700
R-really?
>>7451716
I just noticed that he was latino, too. I guess I imagined him in a favela trying to be like all his cool internet friends with a shitty webcam and in the end his superior humanistic 4panel is dragged in the mud and given low billing to basity & barbarism
>>7451707
>office clerks
>bugs
>ethnic names
this is not how u do kafka, want to do kafka? read the story about the spider shit up the thread
>>7451729
>>7451729
it's a play on russian translations bro.
>>7451732
how dare you name this file that
>>7451697
>he watched pyrotechnicians launch the fireworks, whistling as they climbed upward, against the force of gravity
the pyrotechnicians whistled as they climbed upward? this shit just gets worse with every sentence
>>7451738
"feel the purpose of my life is to cum in as many pussies as possible"
—thy exalted walrus
>>7451727
oh, i see, i was picturing one of those kind of awkward creepy latino kids that try to kiss and hug every chick they meet, and no one is ever happy to see
>>7450599
please, some critic...I even got a dubs on the post
>>7451740
You don't understand English grammar, do you?
>>7451749
lmfao
>>7451751
you posted this one on the last thread if i remember correctly, and got quite a lot of praise for it if i'm not mistaken. it's good stuff, no question, anything now is just polish.
>>7451757
using an appositive comma against the object is fucking bad and you suck, have a nice day
>>7451777
Nowhere in that sentence was there an appositive. What are you even talking about?
>>7451796
lets put it this way friendo, if u have to argue about it on the internet, it's not a fucking good sentence
>>7451824
I'm more than willing to accept that it is a bad sentence if you provide a reason that isn't an asspull.
>>7451871
i'm not following your fucking evernote link bro that shit could be like an ascii goatse man or some shit
Ashamed, numb with nostalgia and anxiety, reluctant to enter the crowded bar, though equally reluctant to have the taxidriver go in for her, Yvonne, her consciousness so lashed by wind and air and voyage she still seemed to be traveling, still sailing into Acapulco harbour yesterday evening through a hurricane of immense and gorgeous butterflies swooping seaward to greet the Pennsylvania--at first it was though fountains of multicolored stationery were being swept out of the saloon lounge--glanced defensively round the square, really tranquil in the midst of this commotion, of the butterflies still zigzagging overhead or past the heavy open ports, endlessly vanishing astern, their square, motionless, and brilliant in the seven o'clock morning sunlight, silent yet somehow poised, expectant, with one eye half open already, the merry-go-rounds, the Ferris wheel, lightly dreaming, looking forward to the fiesta later--the ranged rugged taxis too that were looking to something else, a taxi strike that afternoon, she's been confidently informed.
"Veiled hopes and hidden fears define a man in far more precise terms than anything so plain as the length of his stride of the company he seeks. Exploit what a man wishes to hide, for if he has let you know something without consequence he does not truly care about it."
-Quote taken from Ichabod Payne, lecturer at Coddseway University, on the subject of the Practice
Sluggish thoughts crawled through his mind, pounding on the inside of his skull to worsen the already debilitating headache. Perhaps spending that much of his meager stipend on gin had been a mistake, each coin going down the sink along with the sick. A single shaft of light fell across his face from the window, left ajar in hopes of a breeze. No breeze had come, but morning had.
Turning over on his cot Gregor sat up. Snores emanated by the other sleeping occupants of the bunks, several having been too intoxicated to clamor into theirs instead nominated to lay on their sides against the floor. One unfortunate man in the corner having pooled his face in drying sick softly gurgled.
Padding between bodies Ichabod made his way to the basin in the corner and looked out the window. In the street below a wickman reached with his pole to snuff out the street lamps before the approaching dawn. From a pip set into the wall a tickle of grey water drained into the basin, leaving in it's wake a dried line of ashy residue. Wincing, he inspected his face, a large bruise blossoming just below his eye. No memories remained of how it had gotten there. Sleep tugged from his eyes he set off downstairs.
An hour later sweat shown across how brow and shoulders, heat rising through the glory hole to scorch his face. Fingers winding he turned the blower's flute before pulling it from the heat. A blob of molten glass pooled at the end. From behind the foreman hobbled over from his rounds.
Elman was an enormous man, having previously been well muscled but allowing the ease of a managerial position let him go soft in the arm and wide of waist. Now, with a coarse brown bear and small eyes hidden behind mottled red cheeks, he squinted at Ichabod's work.
"You let it in too long, again. Back in the crucible for it, maybe someone with half a head can reuse it." A lopsided cigarette wobbled between his lips, a dull ember glowing at it's end.
Well, that's the first time I've tried to write fiction. Christ it looks bad.
>>7450599
i think you have talent but it's not my style (don't care for epic poetry) and it has obviously suffered in translation. You have good imagery but the form makes it a chore to read for me.
>>7451684
what do you mean 1950s?
>>7451659
oh so like "aloud" not "allowed".
>>7451936
huh, I switched to calling the character Ichabod from Gregor. Christ.
"Veiled hopes and hidden fears define a man in far more precise terms than anything so plain as the length of his stride of the company he seeks. Exploit what a man wishes to hide, for if he has let you know something without consequence he does not truly care about it."
-Quote taken from Ichabod Payne, lecturer at Coddseway University, on the subject of the Practice
Sluggish thoughts crawled through his mind, pounding on the inside of his skull to worsen the already debilitating headache. Perhaps spending that much of his meager stipend on gin had been a mistake, each coin going down the sink along with the sick. A single shaft of light fell across his face from the window, left ajar in hopes of a breeze. No breeze had come, but morning had.
Turning over on his cot Gregor sat up. Snores emanated by the other sleeping occupants of the bunks, several having been too intoxicated to clamor into theirs instead nominated to lay on their sides against the floor. One unfortunate man in the corner having pooled his face in drying sick softly gurgled.
Padding between bodies Gregor made his way to the basin in the corner and looked out the window. In the street below a wickman reached with his pole to snuff out the street lamps before the approaching dawn. From a pip set into the wall a tickle of grey water drained into the basin, leaving in it's wake a dried line of ashy residue. Wincing, he inspected his face, a large bruise blossoming just below his eye. No memories remained of how it had gotten there. Sleep tugged from his eyes he set off downstairs.
An hour later sweat shown across how brow and shoulders, heat rising through the glory hole to scorch his face. Fingers winding he turned the blower's flute before pulling it from the heat. A blob of molten glass pooled at the end. From behind the foreman hobbled over from his rounds.
Elman was an enormous man, having previously been well muscled but allowing the ease of a managerial position let him go soft in the arm and wide of waist. Now, with a coarse brown bear and small eyes hidden behind mottled red cheeks, he squinted at Gregor's work.
"You let it in too long, again. Back in the crucible for it, maybe someone with half a head can reuse it." A lopsided cigarette wobbled between his lips, a dull ember glowing at it's end.
There, fixed. Fuck.
>>7451697
a little sad-sacky but def readable and geniune. would read more.
>>7452012
oh god stop this folksy british bullshit, don't nobody wanna read that shit
>>7452040
>folksy british
I do not understand. How is it british?
>>7452011
fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck
>>7451768
>you posted this one on the last thread if i remember correctly, and got quite a lot of praise for it if i'm not mistaken.
Yes, I posted on the last thread, but nobody read it. Thank you for your time and critic. I like /lit/ because the criticism is always raw and unforgivable.
I used to post here a lot, but I was absent from critic threads from 3 or 4 months now (was working on new material).
Thank you for your review. And yes, it definitely needs polishing: I need to learn concision (that’s the hardest thing for me).
>>7451965
You know, my style of writing is so old-fashioned that most anons don’t pay attention, and I am afraid that, when I finish the play I will hardly find a director. I am really afraid that I might simply be just too boring for an audience.
>>7452053
Pay him no heed: he's "pretending" to be retarded.
>>7452096
Then I am confused. How bad is the writing?
>>7450599
some of the sentences are properly translated (I think) while others aren't. For example,
"Might the steel armor-plate your hearts and your brains"
is ok but
"So that the prays of pity and the cold cheep Of fear do not penetrate in your spirits"
is not.
guys, when someone criticizes your work, accept it and move on- you came here for critique, not praise.
>>7451740
>>7451684
>>7450805
these are all good posts, yet people seemed confused and angry at their smallest suggestions. grow up, your work is far from perfect.
>>7451616
top kek, I like this a lot.
>>7452151
>good posts
>one of the "critiques" is based off of a basic misunderstanding of English grammar.
Okay, friend.
>>7451348
>she will never sit on my face
just end my life
Lookslike its a hollering for freedom a the time of the ball no doubt its a pooping sandwich of guilt in your house lurking in the back door seeking freedom from its never ending cycle of crisp and pop. Jelly donuts wither into the atmosphere as some kind of orangutan dances his jig into the outdoor sphere his feels it inside his heart his little heart withering in the cosmos no oxygen for Doctor Nimbus he fades off into existence. Johny hoopla sits and watches his two sick friends roll and smoke cigarettes containing a poisonous combination of toabacco datura snake venom clown dust and something not identifiable to the human spirit.. Johnny Hooplar sits watching the two goobos he wonders...nope....time for a shot thinks Monsieur Hooplar and he loads up his Super Syringe 6000 with the latest synthetic opioid from Bumboranbopor Industries-the number one experimental pharmaceutical company in the realm-he has a large hemorrhoid at the base of his throat but Johnny Hooplar cares not. He shoves the massive needle down his throat precisely hitting his cool throat vein with the precision and strength of Lebron Goopadoop in the latest sports off. They all enjoy their lovely little chairs dancing in a chorus of delights as the Glandorfks enter their from from the adjacent realm. No time We must make haste from these being says someone. I guess so. They all sit as the Glandorfks devour their very being.
>>7451740
>>7451834
>>7452196
I'm not that guy, but I also dislike the sentence for my own reason. Why do you gotta conflate things by introducing the pyrotechnicians? The dude's vision immediately switches back to the fireworks going up, whistling, popping. Are the pyrotechnicians relevant? I don't think so. And dude, anything going up is obviously going "against the force of gravity." And also, "popping" and "exploded" are two verbs where you only need one. Don't be wordy, you don't need it. And also, the beginning of that sentence foes on quite a bit. Why do we care that the ferris wheel is--the first new addition--to the festivities? All these clauses are just slowing your sentences down, and for not much gain (if any).
I would recast the sentence: "From the top of the ferris wheel, he watched the fireworks whistle as they climbed into the sky and exploded triumphantly." And even then, I'd reconsider that word "climbed," which is too slow to describe a firework, which made me think at first that the pyrotechnicians were the ones climbing.
My revision is by no means a great sentence, but I feel it conveys the same information yours does in far fewer words.
Madeleine in the Morning
is a rare sight—the morning
reveals
the bags under her eyes,
the ashes on her sleeve,
the stagger in her walk—
mornings
are not kind.
and Madeleine alone
is a rarer sight, like still light.
her gaze cuts through
the viscousness of mornings
grazing each passerby,
only resting for instants at a time
on that which
seems familiar
but isn’t.
Madeleine, sober,
sits at her café in the morning,
cigar held knee-height, weapons lowered
cognac untouched yet
'c’est de la politesse
enfin c’est ce qu’on dit'
she taps the table
and waits.
>>7451337
>>7451342
I found myself smiling while reading this.
I would also be excited to place this scene in the broader context of an actual story, I find myself curious about the absurd bit of worldbuilding you've introduced here.
I know a lot of the critics here are bitter and hyper agressive but you sound like you're genuinely having fun writing. And that's hugely important, because it makes reading the work more enjoyable.
I won't pretend to know enough to criticize your actual technique or anything, but I do know that I enjoyed reading this and would read more.
Keep having fun man.
>>7453557
viscousness - an unpleasant mouthful:
>viscosity
It is always a pleasant surprise to be allowed to follow along from start to finish. She begins somewhat more interesting than she ends, and though there may be some dog-whistling here that I cannot hear, the mystery of what she is waiting for fails to compel speculation.
Poems about women are almost always interesting, so the appetite whetted but not sated, I would like to know why she is remarkable enough to deserve her own poem, by way of another draft less coy about her intentions in the cafe.
>>7450566
The humming perforated the room, with the drips being the only other noise making it through. As the smell of the fresh coffee spreads throughout, I flick the switch to quiet the old, beaten beast.
Pouring a cup, I notice the television finally voices itself in the living room, across the counter. A documentary was on, apparently having to do with mating rituals. Extreme mating rituals, at that. This would be a fun morning.
Taking a seat on the sofa and hoping to enjoy myself, a sudden buzz manages to make me twitch and spill a few unlucky drops of bitter happiness. A black slide appears on the screen, notifying me that this unwelcome surprise is the Emergency Alert System. After a few moments of confusion, which might have been cured if I paid attention, the President appears and I increase the volume.
"Hello. Moments ago, I received confirmation of a very horrific discovery. Three weeks ago, researchers affiliated with CERN came across strange results appearing to result from missing atoms in very precise experiments. The scientific community has been pointing fingers, claiming that individuals or groups conducted the experiment poorly. As the media caught wind of it, many conspiracy theorists claimed that aliens were somehow destroying individual atoms to produce energy. They weren't far from the truth.
"Scientists working with larger samples for their experiments have reported similar incidents, and some of our very own bright minds hypothesized about why it was happening. We've known for a while that the universe is expanding more and more quickly. We didn't know where the energy came from, accelerating the expansion, and called it 'dark energy'. It appears that dark energy is a debt. A debt that has grown more than it should. Researchers around the world are now trying to solve why, however we've discovered that the universe was borrowing energy, and is now paying it back. Energy as a whole is disappearing from the universe, most notably as matter. Atoms are disappearing.
1/2
>>7453891
"The researchers believe it's related to some effects in quantum physics, but it's too complicated to go into here. What matters is that the world is disappearing, and it's disappearing quickly. They calculated that the rate is highly exponential. We have dealt with many catastrophes on Earth, and we have triumphed again and again. We have sent men to the sky, and sent them beyond the sky to the moon. We have used our technology to explore distant planets and learn about them and their histories, hoping to one day improve them. Terraform them, for our own needs. We have studied the Universe as a whole the entire time, and now, we know that the Universe is facing a catastrophe itself. And it's one fitting for it.
"We may not be able to save her. I've been told that, without all of us working together, and finding a way to slow it down or reverse it, all matter will be gone in less than a year. Nothing will exist. As they don't have enough data, it's possible for it to be as little as four months. The brightest minds from around the world have come together. Nations have stopped warring so that they may focus on this pressing issue. If this will be our final stand, we will tackle it as we have every other catastrophe we've faced. We've poured some of our resources into the police, as well, and our military personnel are all returning to help maintain order during these stressful times. Please stay calm and contribute to our survival in any way you can. Thank you."
I pause as the documentary resumes. Praying Mantis mating rituals, and how the males feed themselves to the female. I try to process all of it, realizing my mind is going blank. The Universe is dying. The President is crying. I'm sure many other world leaders are, as well. I will not be alive in a year without a miracle, and nobody else will be, either. Surprisingly, apocalyptic movies are actually helping me understand all of this nonsense. Expecting to see people already killing and stealing, I walk towards the door, and open it to see the chaos outside.
Except there is no chaos. It's quiet, and I see numerous people at their own doorways. More are opening their doors as I watch. Seeing this, I realize people are smarter than they're given credit for. They all realize that there's no point in stealing and causing trouble. They all realize they need to either be fine with being miserable, or try to find their happiness sooner instead of later. They all realize they're about to die.
2/2
Wrote for the first time to see what it was like. Figured if I was gonna do it, I might as well learn to be better at it while doing it.
As stream trickled, fickle
Slow like slipping syrup over rock,
Sun rosy and hitting, pumped through
The plastic leaves far and near above.
Crumbling walls of wood, sieged
By all and itself, the dark leaves under-pass,
Squelched like muddy paper, though
the fens and forests. Warm evening.
When hollowed voice, crucked with
The evening drink stands forthwith,
A plowing tallness exumes,
And in it's paleness blooms, in plume.
Kaiserous mountain of the sky,
Milk-shade pass nomore by,
For a writhing treenis, now churling
Cannot be seen any more out-curling,
And in it's wholly grossness be,
Clung in it's bigness, a heart to me.
But little plops of grey iron-bricks,
Through a greeness pricks,
To holes of no more than men,
A hollow home, a muddy den
Among the hillside clenching free:
A story rides on, eternally.
A Dying Trouble
On county hills,
Two struckmen, lie with ploughed heads open,
Both their gazes cut.
On the same,
Two lovers, lie with mouths open,
Tongues out, eyes shut.
Hwaet
Once there was a pudgy farm-man,
whose body, strong and swift-tumbling as a stone Saxon farm-wall,
Had voice reeked with swelled bog-bodies
of other moustached fat men,
their gold bands mud-glisenting;
his eyes forever gazing: his brother blindfolded
and tied up by moustached thin-men, taken
to a ditch and slit throat.
His geity, a country’s.
a slapping white shoe
flicks up mud like tractorous
tyres on a day-close.
Morning frost covers evening ground.
>>7453895
I would slash about half of this, as would any editor worth the cost of his column inches, but the premise does not fail the "where will this go" test, so you have that going for you.
It may not seem obvious, but the technique of working through exposition (explaining things to your reader), by having the news, the TV, or the paper stand in for the author is at this point sufficiently shop worn as to be fully amortized.
Alternatives include dramatizing this by bringing us into CERN's underground liar itself, and introducing us to the scientists as they piece together the discovery; taking us into the Oval and dramatizing the meeting in which the Pres gets this information and has to internalize it himself; or the communications at any level in between which must have taken place for the president to be speaking about it.
Without sacrificing any prestige whatsoever, if you have the interest, see how Crichton did this in any of his. The first introductory tour of Jurassic Park, for example, in which we get the whole "wow, it's dinosaurs," "who are these characters," "how did they do it with genetics," and "what is the conflict," exposition, all while never feeling that we are being bogged down during the info-dump.
>>7453943
Those are all good points. Which is more than I expected, actually. I'll remember all of that, next time. Thanks anon <3
>>7453906
In so slight a vignette, the weight of each note is magnified - heavy rotation radio hits are always short, and it is not for no reason that they succeed for what the industry calls "hooks."
A teacher of mine, wiser by the measure of several published books of poems, once declaimed her disdain, over the better part of an hour, for the gerundal forms, and her strictures came with extreme prejudice - longhand for shoot on sight.
For musicality, or lyricism, take a close listen to slipping, hitting and crumbling. Listen again for the pinched, shrill, back of the throat iinnnggg sound. Now imagine the multitude of alternatives. Evening we accept on non-verb grounds, but even there other candidates vie for our vote, and they have strong arguments.
http://pastebin.com/gjqj0699
My experience was similar; it was the afternoon of my twentieth birthday, and I had spent the day in the library. It had appeared to me that my flatmates had each forgotten the date, and had made plans to otherwise hit the town. Disheartened, I sunk into my studies. At around ten in the evening, I made my way home. Upon arrival, I noticed that the door had been left ajar, and the Oriental rug had been curled up at the corner. At first, my mind had flitted to fancies and notions of societal acceptance; I had finally been thrown the surprise party that I’d always longed for. The night out had simply been a ruse, a ploy, a red herring intended to bamboozle me and fool me into thinking that I had been forgotten, while in truth they had simply been organising and setting up my party.
When I walked through the door, and made my presence known, I was viciously beaten by the men burgling my house. I woke up a few hours later, to find the television, a few of my older books, and a lovely 1959 Bordeaux which I had planned to crack open on the night, to all have been stolen. I went to the kitchen to have a slice of the cake that I had made for myself, make a cup of tea, and have something of a calm down but it seemed as if the burglars had grown rather peckish, and had taken the cake as well. To make matters worse, I was unable to call the police due to the majority of the furniture having been lifted from the back of a lorry.
>>7453966
I don't know what this is, or why you wrote it for me, but thanks duderino.
i guess no one liked the ant. back to writing bullshit then.
>>7450599
very outdated, tons of rhetoric to say very little, it's like Shakespeare without any of the meat
I've seen your work a lot here and I have thought the same for months, I just rarely look at these threads because it's all garbage. Yours isn't garbage, it's just naive, weak, not worth pursuing.
Read some stuff without any rhetoric for a while. Branch outside of reading poetry. Learn to write without some metaphors, or at least how to make each one count without dulling them all. Use Shelley as a model of what NOT to do -- right now it's as if you're Shelley reincarnated. That's not a good thing.
Read something like Ibsen, and then go forward. Modernize (not referring to the movement/era) yourself
>>7454142
I get you now, that's pretty solid advice, and your piece was super well-written; thanks!
I've found that there are only about two things left on this world for me. The first being quality instruments that continue to keep their tune long after use, and the second is lush and firm women. I'd be ashamed to see any resemblance of my name plastered in the marquee, while I do play the true amusement comes from being with you tonight. Sometimes I feel as if we over complicate the things we cherish that should hold a simplistic tone in the way I feel about you.
Let's go to Luckenbach Texas.
>>7454266
I wish I knew the force within me that keeps my mind out of control. I just heard the slamming of the door the way I know I've heard it slam a hundred times before. I had a dream it didn't seem too far to Nashville Tennessee but I busted down somewhere around the old muddy Mississippi.
>>7454364
>>7454221
>it's like Shakespeare without any of the meat
Genuinely interested in what you mean by the "meat"? Shakespeare's work is also a lot of rhetoric that says little. It is inflated as fuck.
I'm not sure if the last sentence here is misplaced. The scenario is that somebody had just committed a mercy killing, and holds the young woman as she dies.
The reason why I'm considering putting this in is because the character had made such an effort to not be rude on any level in front of her, and his panic ruins that. Thoughts? Should I take it out? Is this part too short with too little substance?
"And I tell her, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry. Then I apologise again for swearing, but I don't think that she can tell the difference."
>>7454653
d-did you just diss shakespeare, anon-kun?
>>7454653
In his great works, no, it's hardly inflated. I would not cut a single image in Hamlet, nor in Henry IV 1 or 2, nor in Caesar, and probably not more than a small piece of dialogue in: Tempest, Henry VIII, Henry V, Merchant of Venice. Midsummer is decadent but that's the point. I mean, you could cut half of Troilus and Cressida and it would be better, but that's also one of his less-reads.
>>7453966
you literally could have said all of that in a single sentence of three clauses at most
>>7450566
It's long, but I'm willing to read someone else's long thing.
>>7454787
whoops
http://pastebin.com/ZGMtb5RQ
>>7454771
Go to bed, Junot.
>>7450566
Have some of my McDonald's writing:
“But he never did get up!” Asgrim laughed, finishing the story he was telling the group. The men chuckled as they gnawed at the overcooked deer meat. “You can see why some round here think nights are cursed.”
Jorund looked around, trying to see out into the night, but saw no more than a few feet beyond the camp.
“Nights are getting darker,” Runolf nodded, spitting out a bit of gristle.
“At least they’re shorter up here,” Jorund noted.
“Aye, shorter,” Asgrim said with a mischievous grin. “But that just makes things in the dark move faster. They get desperate.”
One of the Wildfolk nudged another next to him, snickering at the suddenly serious look on Jorund’s face. Another threw a bit of bone his way.
But their mirth was short lived, as a howl cut through the cold night air. The group froze. For a long time, silence fell on their camp. Only the sound of the gentle breeze in the trees and the crackle of the fire could be heard. And then another howl, long and drawn out. And another. And another. Soon, the woods were filled with the baleful calls of wolves.
“Put that fire out!” Asgrim hissed, as two of the Wildfolk leapt to their feet and began kicking snow over it. The others jumped to their feet, weapons in hand and facing out from the group. Nobody made a sound, as they waited for the wolves to move on... or find them.
Now that the fire was out, the night gave a little more light to their surroundings than before. Jorund could see the trees around them, though they were fuzzy and unclear. His eyes played tricks on him, making him see things. Tall, faceless creatures watching him from the trees, moving in the corner of his eyes. But every time he focused, there was nothing there.
And then they heard it. A low, deep grumble. From between the trees, they saw the flicker of eyes peering out at them from the dark. They were low and unblinking, reflecting what little light there was, growing closer and closer. Then another pair. And another. They came from all directions. But as they stepped closer, the glowing eyes rose up, taller than a man. Jorund knew the tracks were suspicious. These were no mere wolves.
Out of the shadows stepped a monster, as tall as Asgrim, if not taller, with long arms and bowed legs. It had long claws that curved from each digit, on both its hands and feet. Long hair on its head followed down its back, joining with the short, sparse fur across the rest of its body. Its maw was short and contorted into a bestial snarl, showing its thin, sharp fangs. A short, canine tail flicked from side to side. The werewolf watched them hungrily.
Before seating himself, Adrien wandered over to the provisional office kitchen and prepared himself a cup of cheap coffee. Once the communal mug was filled, Adrien spilled the shoddy bleached creamer into it and ingested the liquid. The sweltering moisture seared his throat, but he savored this. His throat had built up a sort of tolerance after duplicate intakes of the broiling drink. Adrien enjoyed the numbness because he felt that he had overcome an illness. An illness that made him human.
>>7454845
I haven't been here long enough to tell if this is a meme or not...
>>7454854
it's a meme senpai, a meme that made me human
>>7454854
no, is it really that bad?
>>7454867
It's... well memed.
>>7454875
well at least it's good in that sense
I LIVE YET
Yearly,
I receive an envelope,
sometimes left on my table by a stranger at a café
sometimes hidden between the bills a new bank teller hands me
sometimes slipped in between my unfolded laundry
but they always start the same, in penciled cursive
over ripped notebook pages:
I live yet!
Yearly,
when my friends have all left for unknown shores
when winter has overtaken both spring and summer
when my building lies in ruins after a star fall
it’s those eternal words of triumph that rip me
from the torpor:
I live yet!
Yearly,
a man on the side of the planet is shot and dumped in Lake Michigan
a man on the other side of the planet drinks poisoned tea and forgets his life so far
a man on the other side of the planet meets a woman and together
they lose themselves for eternity in an opium den in Xiangzhou
the same man
who sends me those letters promising the world
by saying:
I live yet!
Yearly,
this man in hiding reaches out to me desperately
this man, writing flattery and reckless lies
this man, swearing he would never forget me once more
with the most precious complement of all,
those most loving words:
I live yet!
Yearly,
tristan mails me a letter.
tristan sends me an email.
tristan texts me.
always with
that callous greeting:
I
live
yet.
>>7453979
>>7453979
>>7453979
Please read and critique my writing it's good I promise you and you'll be SUCKED into the story. Just imagine it's in a shiny hardback new release and has "Booker prize winner" written on the front I guar-an-TEE you'll enjoy it more with that in mind. Okay, good luck have fun.
>>7454835
Njal's saga spinoff?
Here are some things I dislike:
>Aye (are they vikings or something?)
>mirth (sounds dated to me)
>gentle
>memed repetition of "and another"
>night gave a little more light to (night lit)
>digit (it's either a finger or a paw so commit to one)
>long hair followed down its back (incorrect verb)
overall there's a lot of suspense and I don't know if you need it, considering the lack of drama and natural description in the section of Njal's Saga that I've read. but then again, this is your piece, so you gotta decide if that's somehing you want to commit to.
>>7454916
It's not from Njal's Saga. It's a separate short story I wrote as an exercise. I just picked an excerpt of it. But in response to a couple of points (ones I don't mention I'm in agreement with):
>they're their world's equivalent of northern Scandinavian tribes
>the repetition was just for tension, it probably didn't work but I felt it necessary
>digits because they're both fingers and toes
>>7454912
I can't fault your writing style. Each to their own and all that, though your style is likely more acceptable than my own. But the content seemed a little stale. Like a less interesting version of the business card scene in American Psycho.
Then again, I'm not exactly a classy reader.
>>7454912
meh
6/10
adequate prose, nothing exhilarating or terrible. there's no story to be sucked into and the character is loathful, like an overgrown teenager. wouldn't want to read his thoughts for long.
>>7454900
Unlike the pantoum, which was over-controlled, this one leans to the over-wrought. See, for inst
eternal words of triumph that rip me from the torpor
promising the world
desperately...reckless lies..most precious...most loving
There is intrigue and promise conveyed by the initial problem of how tristan is managing to get the envelope into those unlikely places, which is never really developed or paid off.
I fear you may be too close on this one. Too fresh from the scene of the crime. Nor is it clear what is gained by revealing his name, which combined with opium dens, in this instance, has the unfortunate effect of linking him in my associative nexus not with Isolde, but with Legends of the Fall.
The most interesting mood remains the disjoint incongruity of how did he manage to get the envelope into the bank's currency drawer, etc. That note of menace, seeming to verge toward a supernatural agency. Which is also similar to the unreliability of 3. a man.....a man.....a man.
If we were working on a chapbook, I would urge you to rework this one extensively, concentrating on where that first stanza conceit comes from, and where it could go if sustained.
>>7454979
>I can't fault your writing style.
Thank you
>the content seemed a little stale
Could you let me know how I could jazz it up? I'd be hard pressed to disagree with you. I don't struggle with prose or themes, but I do struggle with hot & spicy ideas to propel the story
>>7454997
>adequate prose
I can live with that. The character is obviously supposed to be loathsome, but I can see how he'd grate. I'm not hugely invested in either the character or the story myself. There is no story arc to be sucked into I was exaggerating so people would read it and it BLOODY WORKED hahahaha!
>>7455013
>Could you let me know how I could jazz it up?
That's the thing, I don't really know what your aim is. It seems like a sort of 'slice of life' thing, where he's just going about his day thinking mundane thoughts. What was it you were trying to convey?
>>7455023
>What was it you were trying to convey?
Slice of life basically. There is a story arc based around the classic three-stage comedy structure. That is, get your character up a tree, then throw rocks at him, then get him down. But this is largely based around his character: He is a a man in love with his own intelligence and individuality who, ironically, is writing a thesis about the narcissistic personality traits of others in a paper that will never be published, but which he dedicates most of his time to. The actual practical story arc I had in mind is kind of a tacked-on, unrealistic series of events that I'm not really happy with. For me the theme comes first and the story is more difficult.
>>7454912
The use of degenera- twice in the first two paras screams /pol/, and then the moral superiority hammers it into my forehead.
The catalog of customers is transparently fascist, the exact political opposite of Zola's accounts of workers commuting into Paris, and just as boring for that.
By hoisting the banner of partisanship so early, you abandon most of your potential audience before a single name is even checked. If you are going for choir preaching, then, of course, Left Behind sets a low bar.
If you have the slightest ambition of changing anyone's mind, there are many unhappy miles before you. For a catalog of techniques leading to successful political fiction, I recommend McCarry, by far the best conservative writing novels in English - specifically Better Angels, Shelley's Heart, and Lucky Bastard.
>>7455045
dude im writing almost exactly the same book! It's really opened up the comedy side for me
>>7455008
>Unlike the pantoum
How did you know it was me! Freaky. But i see what you mean, I could definitely rewrite two or three stanzas. I will, in fact.
I really want to thank you for these posts you make, they're really helpful! I wanted you to know they're appreciated.
>>7455049
>tfw no matter how many years before you die here you will still be the one and only fan of Charles McCarry on /lit/.
>>7455058
Its a fantasy novel - kind of. The premise of it that fantastical notions like dwarves/goblins etc are real, but lost to history. The whole thing is written from the point of view of a ghost writer, under the implication that the whole thing is an academic document. It's interlaced with little tidbits and idiosyncrasies from the writer, talking about his failing marriage and the terrible job he uses to fund the cost of printing his work :) it's good fun, nearly finished with it
>>7455069
>How did you know it was me! Freaky.
That is how I want this piece to make me feel throughout.
>>7455045
Unfortunately, I can't help you with that style of writing. I've always been more of a fantastical writer, trying to steer away from more mundane elements of regular life (I posted >>7454835).
While I know I can't make a theme such as yours interesting myself, I know it definitely does have a consumer base out there. It's just one I couldn't appease myself.
>>7455045
>He is a a man in love with his own intelligence and individuality...
>... that will never be published, but which he dedicates most of his time to.
Get out of my head, Charles. That feel is too real.
Decided to write a few lines on the spot, let me know what you think plz. I'm under the influence of fatigue, which this is either decent or awful
Jonathan was an abrasive man, short of stature and of temper. He made a habit of attending the Children Of Manic Depressives club after work on Thursdays, a society he had formed alone. The meetings consisted mostly of him sitting cross-legged on a Burger King bathroom floor, quietly sobbing.
Stacey once told the entire office about how, after drinking five White Russians, Jonathan had told her that he secretly wanted to be a woman. Everyone laughed when he came into work that day. There was a change in his face when he walked through that alabaster doorway, welcomed by our muffled hysterics. I am not sure whether the others had seen it, but I had. He had turned his face away from us, as if he was more interested in the trinkets on the grey desks than his our twisted faces. I still saw it though, the convulsion of his jaw muscle, the sinews in his neck contracting, like he was trying to swallow something he could never hope to keep inside him.
>>7455122
The character is based on the part of myself which I hate. The reactionary social conservatism, the unfounded elitism. I'm pretty sure most people on /lit/ could relate.
>>7455128
*which MEANS this is either decent or awful
>>7455128
And there's something terribly sad and banal about that.
>>7455139
About the fatigue thing?
>>7455128
Sounds like https://twitter.com/timmyuk
Dumbledore looked around. There wasn't any around in his chamber, only walls of shelves full of his old tomes. They weren't dusty though, because he had a magically enchanted duster that dusted them for him, and he read them a lot tool. He let out a great big sigh of relief. He was in and out of meetings all day, dealing with faculty complaints and annoying administrative whatever chores with boring people and now he was finally alone in his private chamber. Dumbledore let out a great big fart and the collapsed into his single-seater couch, cracked open a brew, and began reading his favorite muggle periodical (a guilty secret), the Daily Mail.
But around the corner, little did he know, was little Dobby, who had seen and smelt everything.
>>7455150
>... who had seen and smelt everything.
>>7455148
Jesus Christ, this is why I still visit this site. The obscure little nuggets of internet gold, that no one has ever dug up before.
>>7455150
jesus christ that was a hearty laugh.... only thing that kept it from being perfect is that you didn't describe the fart enough... make it wet and rancid, nor merely "great big"
>>7455155
Seriously, it's terrifying and mesmerising all at once. His weird sweaty face. His moose pictures. His documenting of his scar. And those songs. At the beginning of every week, this man's terrible rendition of 'Rainy Days and Mondays' torments me.
I may have to go visit his town, just to let him know he's impacted my life with his weirdness.
>>7455187
I live about an hour's drive from him. I could feasibly visit him if I wanted to.
I mean, I won't, but it's weird how easily I could.
>>7455187
Yeah, I just explored his channel, his upload rate is scary. 23 videos in one day. It's funny, because at first you consider the possibility that it's all self aware until you notice all the other videos. That monotone vibrato when he sings. This is a real human being. Fucking hell.
It's beautiful, thank you anon.
probably a stupid challenge: Write a short version of this animated short.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsOI_5ftUJc
>>7455237
Some dumb cartoon bitch is woken up by her keit-ai but instead of answering it she decides to chug some OJ straight from the carton like a filthy whore. Then she demonstrates just how much of a dumb bitch she is by brushing straight afterward. This not only quickly erodes her enamel but tastes like shit covered in sulfur. She then looks into the mirror and says hello to herself. The end.
>>7455260
nice description
>>7455269
np dude
"Veiled hopes and hidden fears define a man in far more precise terms than anything so plain as the length of his stride of the company he seeks. Exploit what a man wishes to hide, for if he has let you know something without consequence he does not truly care about it."
-Quote taken from Ichabod Payne, lecturer at Coddseway University, on the subject of the Practice
Sluggish thoughts crawled through his mind, pounding on the inside of his skull to worsen the already debilitating headache. Perhaps spending that much of his meager stipend on gin had been a mistake, each coin going down the sink along with the sick. A single shaft of light fell across his face from the window, left ajar in hopes of a breeze. No breeze had come, but morning had.
Turning over on his cot Gregor sat up. Snores emanated by the other sleeping occupants of the bunks, several having been too intoxicated to clamor into theirs instead nominated to lay on their sides against the floor. One unfortunate man in the corner having pooled his face in drying sick softly gurgled.
Padding between bodies Gregor made his way to the basin in the corner and looked out the window. In the street below a wickman reached with his pole to snuff out the street lamps before the approaching dawn. From a pip set into the wall a tickle of grey water drained into the basin, leaving in it's wake a dried line of ashy residue. Wincing, he inspected his face, a large bruise blossoming just below his eye. No memories remained of how it had gotten there. Sleep tugged from his eyes he set off downstairs.
An hour later sweat shown across how brow and shoulders, heat rising through the glory hole to scorch his face. Fingers winding he turned the blower's flute before pulling it from the heat. A blob of molten glass pooled at the end. From behind the foreman hobbled over from his rounds.
Elman was an enormous man, having previously been well muscled but allowing the ease of a managerial position let him go soft in the arm and wide of waist. Now, with a coarse brown bear and small eyes hidden behind mottled red cheeks, he squinted at Gregor's work.
"Again? Gregor do you enjoy costing me money? Put it back in the crucible, maybe someone with half a head can use it." A lopsided cigarette wobbled between his lips, a dull ember glowing at it's end.
Posting again, attempting to understand previous comment of it being too british.
>>7456623
why do you even have to ask
>>7455134
Why am I not surprised..
>>7455082
you're not alone
I'm reading the secret lovers right now
it's good
>>7456626
Well alright then.
>>7454845
What the fuck are you doing with this vocabulary?
>ingested the liquid,
>duplicate intakes,
Fancy words do not an enjoyable read make.
I hope this is at least some poorly executed attempt at characterizing Adrien as some kind of bland dry elitist. Because either way it feels like reading a technical manual.
And yeah, as >>7454856 implies, that ending is cringe worthy, and unclear to boot.
He enjoys that the numbness makes him less human? I can see the angst flavored edginess congealing on the horizon.
>>7455134
>The reactionary social conservatism
get your reactionary ass off to /pol/
>unfounded elitism
>unfounded
pleb alert
