It means nothing.
2056/10/23
me and my homedogs be like WHAAAATT when we heard about ye olde blakish talk. why these people be so opressed yall? I dont understand what the ebonyonycs be? Why they hate it, I cant know? Why people be like this? Why we been so mad? everyguy was trin too hard to make it, but why we try, ya'know. we be smarter now, we know it. SPEAKIN CRAZY LIKE FOR TAT MAD ASS??? why even try, man? gotta feel bad for die kinder men. DON'T LET DIE KIND HEAR THIS, we be better, they can't, so let it be, maman.
Columbus Day.
Short Story.
I
Silent library, hours past noon. The two were left alone, breathing heavily without muttering a word. The sounds outside, words of so many people from pleads to curses, lost themselves into white noise: voices, sirens and cries, became a faint murmur because of their mind's voice, so loud that their thoughts seemed to run as fast as they could, and yet stumbling at every step of the way.
The main doors fell. They counted the running steps coming closer: down the main hall, up the stairs, then through the hallway and to the library doors locked from inside with a desk and a broom. They raised their guns, first to their temples, then to each other – the cold sweat made it hard to rest against their temples without sliding off, the shaking hands made it likely to miss if they didn't. The steps reached the library and the group shouted once and again, throwing themselves once and again against the wooden doors.
“One!” both shout when the doors gave in with a thud. “Two!” when the group entered the room, running between the shelves, looking for anyone who may remain alive. “Three!” Two shots. Everyone stopped. Silence again. Nobody ran, no one said another word. Soon they found them where the windows, in the farthest corner, lying dead and proud on the ground.
>>7318578
Wtf is this? Looks vaguely senpaiiliar
>>7318969
II
Less than an hour from noon they arrived from the north-east, group of three with one missing to the lands of the school. Everyone else, students from juniors to seniors, were then in the back where the green fields extend, resting half-naked against each other, under the sun, letting the time fly by. They talked of whatever crossed their minds: “Oh, will you go to Taylor's party?” said one near the doors, “Have you heard?, hey, have you heard who was with Tommy last night?” could be heard nearby, and everywhere the small talk showed their worries and the scope of their sight.
“Go! Go!” shouted a voice across the lawn, and everyone turning the head understood in the beat of a heart, the deeds of the two coming fast. Most of them knew them, and thus they knew to the point of the fact what they wanted to do. Some of them were fast, fast enough to reach the main building and find shelter and hide, in its darkest places, until the time of their death. Those not fast enough remained right where they were, on the grass covered by light, and half-naked with a head full of air.
The inside building was easily locked, like with every window they found at the time. The inside hallways and classrooms where covered in black, with nothing to see besides two lighstreams that moved through the school, pointing at corners and unders, looking for lions turned to prey when left alone and far of the herd.
Rache, the first one. Hidden then in the toilet, the cradle of her fame just one year ago.
"Please no-, I'll-" before being silenced, with a single shoot through her head.
Three shots more followed to her dead body for no reason at all, just blowing steam off over her wrecked twisted face - just a girl known for not more that blowing people at school, no much was lost there (maybe a waitress, maybe a prostitute).
Eleven more followed: three in the classrooms, four where the staircase, then two in the hallway, then two kitchen below. Each one cowardly hidded and crying for help. Their end was like the end of a dream, which they waited with incredulous fear.
Everyone's dead, hopes nevermind.
It all ended, not even an hour since then.
III
The very same night all the noise faded. Everyone else was back at their homes, forgetting the fact of the events at midday, caring for dinner more than for what happened before. Some of the planted crosses as tombs, not knowing for whom, randomly at school. After the popular event new ones came by, and still do once in a while, that disappear as well in the blink of an eye.
i can't stop thinking about halloween. i can't stop at all. one second i was ok, then the next all out abuse. i'm lucky i didn't kill us. i'm so lost and confused. my head is just one big gianna thought process. i cannot stop thinking about you, how i fucked up making myself a better person for you. you are what drives me gianna, you're the only one i can listen to. you're the only i can confide in. that's just one side of the coin, the other side is why i'm sitting here right now writing all of this out. ever since i went and waited for you at the bathroom at the graveyard i have felt so fucked up. i shouldn't have gone over there. i shouldn't ever have gotten angry at literally the most dumbest thing. i can't believe all of this happened because i saw you talking to a guy. you were just warning him, you weren't flirting at all, in my head you were and idk why. i'm insecure, i'm paranoid, i'm bad at being the boyfriend you deserve. i wish i was happy all the time. like on thursday when you came and picked me up, you said "we'd still be together if you were like this everyday" and the truth is that i know that, but there's something wrong with me gianna. i'm so sick of hating myself, i'm so sick of taking it out on you, i'm so sick of making you my target when i should be targeting myself. i try too hard to control you when i shouldn't be trying to AT ALL. This whole email is going to be a little jumbled. I haven't calmed all the way down yet. This sucks so much. I want to wake up. I want this to all be a bad dream. I want to fucking learn from my mistakes and stop making the same ones over and over and over again. I want what you want. I know you don't want me. That's the part where everything becomes a nightmare. It's crazy. I'm crazy. I fucked up my one last chance.... I still can't believe it. I can't believe it at all. I just want to fucking go back to that night and instead of losing it I shouldn't have drank. I shouldn't have drank one drop. I should have .... I DON'T KNOW. I'm so fucking depressed. There's no going back. I fucked up. I have lost all my chances. My mind keeps going back to when I said I wanted to help you get a new bed for your apartment, and you said it was nice for me to be nice like that, and then you smiled and we held hands across the table. I liked that. That's the best feeling ever coming from you. You are the person I know I want to spend the rest of my life with. Nothing is going to change that. It's embedded into my heart. I don't want to move on, i'm not capable. I don't even know if I can prove to you again that i'm not a total failure. i don't want to be a failure in your eyes. i don't want that. i want you to know i'm not going to always be the same. i want to prove to you that people can change. and i need change. not change from you, but for you.
>>7318992
i need to know what it's like being healthy again. i swear i was.. we were getting along. it was finally happening. then i exploded. i'd rather die than have that ever happen again. but how will you know that? how do you know that will never happen again? you don't. it's impossible for you to know if i'm going to change. only i can help myself become who i want to be for you, and if i don't become that person, then that means you weren't worth it, but YOU ARE so worth it. you mean everything to me. how can i love you so much, how can my heart be aching every single second i'm awake, how come i hurt you? why is that what i do? why do i hurt the ones i love. why am i such a freak. it's so hard when i can't talk to you. you said if you didn't care, you would never talk to me again... that thought scares me so much. i don't want to ruin things, although i've done so much damage, so much. so much that i don't know what to do. i love you so much gianna. i can't stop thinking about what life is without you. life is hard. i can't really think of a word. it's a nightmare. it's worse than anything. i've made such a mess out of this relationship. i don't know how much of this you'll read. i'm sorry. you're too beautiful for me.
>>7318964
dem tryhard faggots wanna be cool and yall know that ain't gonna work for them. why try to make sometin from nothin, yaknow. it be CRAZY if they work on that, smashing their heads together tryin to make the future cool and such. everytin gonna be all right, and ter ain't nothin they can do to change that. WHY LET THESE PEOPLE TRY CHANGIN THE WORLD AROUND THEM, YAKNOW? dem Jews be tryin too hard, dem scientists tryin to break the world. Why break something good, yaknow? They be stupid, I feel bad just tinkin about how dey cared about that gramar and stuff. we be nailin dose bitches with those "Godly Motherfuckin 'Oles". why cant they do that kinda stuff? they shut themself in and tried to make the world cool again, but the sun gonna be beatin down on them, so they gonna need some cold ice to keep their cool. them scientists and them jews be tryin to take our jobs and such with those new fangled "Asshole Incorperated" machines, but we know how it oughtta be, with peeps workin 24/7, tryin to be hapy with what God gave us and what we be givin ourselves. Gotta sit back and RELAX from time 2 time tho, ya can't be workin too hard. just trying to relax is pretty dank, and working for a livin is what we be doing. and I wanna have it this way, yaknow?
>>7318999
>implying I want to read about a bunch of normies
It's your boy big k Kaito match maybe Mara Aand the funk
In the punk in Drublic
Might go Demarcus cousins in a fuckin Publix
It's your main boy Zachariah; look like Anthony fantano
But the pig do not require
HAL O' MEME
HAL O' MEME
DESE SPOOPY SKARY
HALLOW MEMES
DRUNK AND HIGH AND LIKE FOUR OTHER SUBSTANCES
RUNNIN THROUGH 21st
WITH MY BROWN-SKINNED REPUBLICANS
REFORM IS THE ENEMY OF REVOLUTION
CONFORM IS THE ENEMY OF DESOLATION
SOUNDS HELLA SKETCHY AND FRESHMAN-LIKE
BUT YOU NEVA GOT THIS FRESHMAN high
Cancelled auto correct cause I'm the real person in this group yeah you won't bury me you asshole porscholes because
He is your god you man your "check your privilege" go
On boogers and fun I see the pieces of
Every party I ever worked with and
"Never get hgh on you own shit"
Or am I feeling that other dudes shit
>>7319037
hahahahahaha! funny as shit dude
>>7319018
Shriekingly clad in all black she ran down the street towards me. The newly laid as asphalt matched her gown. She stopped. Everything was silent and i could hear the light buzzing from streetlight and insects alike. "I hate you" she said, and embraced me with a light passion. "You should do it." I could see she was crying, she had never looked so beautiful before, my Melpomene. I kissed her cold, red cheeks and left.
And then there were tears, and then nothing.
>>7319012
GOTTA STOP DEM JEWS YAKNOW MAMAN? ThEY BE OUT FOR THEMSELVES. CANT WE ALL GET ALONG? we be out for ourselves in this world, yeah, but we don't have to, yaknow. we give money to needy peeps and they give it back, simpl 'nuff? let me spill it out for you: WE NEED MO MONEY. giv me sumthin to fight u with boi, we need stuff to live. how we supposed to compete with the Assholes when dey steal our jobs and tryin to be all cool and such? we need mo money to live, maman? why u hate this? free money is the best, yaknow? we be tryin to work, but we get nothin for it. it be pretty sad, and that STEMification be bitchy, yaknow. we be tryin to stay for ourselves, but I cant tell ya how hard itll be for yall. u have to try to stay at the bottom of the social ladder being RAPED BY THE FUCKING JEWS. U LIKE THAT, FUCCBOI? WHY DON'T YOU GET OFF YOUR LAZY ASS AND LEAVE, GET A REAL JOB U FUCKIN STOOPID, LAZY, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING NO GOOD SON OF A BITCH?
why u be like this?
>>7319079
This is poorly written and contains multiple grammatical errors.
>>7319079
This better have been posted ironically, because this is just terrible.
>>7318973
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxR-oKkwJLI
>>7319097
This is very concise and well written. You were clear with your criticism and don't come off as a meanie-peeny-meanguyorgal.
I'll rate yours back if you link it.
It was on that particularly blustery November day that I began my apprenticeship. I was in a new found servitude to a Merchant by the name of Richard Thomas, a name which will be familiar to some of you. The keeper of my parents estate, a Sir Macinall, had set up the preliminary meeting with Mr. Thomas in advance of my fifteenth birthday. Upon finding me a suitable candidate to be 'prenticed I was to enter his service the following autumn.
The instructions which had been left in my parents will were quite clear. I was to be introduced to a profession over a period of at least three years before I would begin receiving the inheritance I had been left.
>>7319149
beyond shit
>>7319149
You come off as a pretentious little shit talking in some pseduo-british accent in the 16th century.
>>7319155
>Not even giving reasons why its shit
Discarded.
I'll give you another chance to tell me why you think that. And if you say it is archaic I'll take it as a compliment because my aim is to emulate the style of Dickens and Stevenson.
>>7319173
>wanting to emulate people
Don't
>>7319177
I'm not trying to emulate them so much as the style of that time period.
I want it so that it wouldn't feel out of place being published x amount of centuries ago.
>>7319037
You've done it again, "Phuc kid"
>>7319187
Then your opinion is worthless as it is built on sand.
>>7319186
Why would you want to do that? If your only idea is to write some shit with fancy old words, then that's a vapid and terrible story, but if you want to convey an IDEA like what I tried to do with ebonics, that is different (see >>7318964), since the ebonics actually TIES INTO the main idea (also its funnier to read than old talk).
>>7319201
continue being mad, perhaps you can poorly express your feelings about it in this thread
>>7319225
the old 'i'm le not mad just disappointed' attempt to being the bigger man father figure as a thinly veiled attempt to one up the person. simply ayy my retarded friend
>>7319241
>Using meme's as a proponent of your argument.
I'm so sorry.
If I had known you were clinically retarded I wouldn't have replied the first time.
Please have an apology.
>>7319253
and he goes for the exact same tactic again. Great stuff.
>>7319225
that's a bit better, but that is still pretty shallow of a connection. My ebonics rant connects the general uneducation of the people to their anti-Semitism and anti-STEMinism and their ever growing fear of a radical divide between the good off and the worse off, and how they feel about it because their little uneducated shit minds can't wrap around the fact that technology is becoming everpresent and there are measures to be taken to change that (move away, become Amish, unions, etc.), so they just complain on 4chan until somebody fixes their little shit problems for them.
We can both benefit from more space to write, but from what was written, you just wanted to emulate Dickens in a pretentious little shit way to make yourself look smarter and more culturally enriched than anybody else on this thread.don't sweat it. I used to be where you are now. Then I changed after I realized I was literally getting off to how much smarter I was than other people (wrongingly, of course). Just try to realize this for yourself, and if you don't see this as a problem, give it time
>>7319291
shit
Nothing serious that is written here can be good, so the only good things have to be jokes, parodies, or other unconventional methods of writing. All of these short little things have to stand out in one way or another, and the ebonics guy and >>7319037 stand out.
>>7319312
shit
>>7318578
>>7318964
>>7318969
>>7318973
>>7318976
>>7318992
>>7318999
>>7319012
>>7319018
>>7319025
>>7319037
>>7319058
>>7319073
>>7319079
>>7319089
>>7319097
>>7319100
>>7319101
>>7319111
>
>>7319138
>>7319149
>>7319155
>>7319168
>>7319173
>>7319175
>>7319177
>>7319178
>
>>7319184
>>7319186
>>7319187
>>7319193
>>7319199
>>7319193
>>7319199
>>7319201
>>7319211
>>7319213
>>7319225
>>7319241
>>7319253
>>7319260
>>7319295
>>7319307
>>7319317
>>7319319
Everysingle one of you is what is wrong with lit. Fuck off to /his/
None of you have talent. The guy saying everything is shit is someone getting off on his own anonymity, but he has a point. Post full stories or fuck off
.>>7319317
Stop proving this post right.
Go take a fucking creative writing workshop. Get off lit and live.
>>7318578
She woke to the door swinging and the car gone. It was that time of year again. The time when he left. The time when she was abandoned to juggle sponge and ledger alike. She walked to the door. The carpet soft and a little moist from the intruding morning air. A thick fog hung at the driveway's foot. Neighbors' lights burned hard holes through the morning murkiness to reveal their knowledge that it had happened. She knew they would confront her that night over cooling cookies and herbal tea. Alcohol locked away in high cupboards. Their faces straining at expressions of sympathy— more than a few passing glances at the child's room, tinkling mobile chirping under the lugubrious proceedings.
>>7319344
>Le righteous, knows what's best man who cleans up the place man
kill yourself you utter faggot
>>7319343
what a retarded conclusion to come to
>>7319344
>someone is going to post a full story on /lit/ that they've actually worked hard on, so they can lose any chance of it getting published, all for someone to go 'it's shit'
good thinking
>>7319344
Is this the most intentionally ironic post ever?
>>7319424
not really that, but a short and complete story with enough information for informative responses isn't hard to make. It probably takes around three pages and 20 minutes tops to write it, proofread it, improve it, move a tiny plot around, and have enough space to reflect your individual writing style.
Knee hurt tired
I don't think about driving anymore
Except when I think about dying from it
Except when I want to thank whoever is driving behind me through a neighborhood with their brights on
I should just shut mine off and send them a card
We think the dryer downstairs broke
We couldn't check because our roommate has his new girlfriend downstairs
He has his first girlfriend downstairs
Was I like that?
Spending 25 minutes walking her the 40 yards to her car?
My roommates wanted to watch a scary movie
Maybe it's so we make ourselves think the scary stuff is still behind shadows and not desks
I can hear Blake downstairs
The breaker is getting tripped
Over and over
But we're stuck with the broken washer
I think in a perfect world everyone would be profoundly ugly
I saw a picture of the Affleck's nanny when I was standing in line at Hyvee and was confused as to why she wasn't profoundly ugly
The door to my closet is never closed
The door to my closet is imprinted with either a cross or two lower-case 'i's next to each other
The door to my closet props up the doll I bought from a couple on the internet that don't have jobs and just make videos
They don't really make their own videos
I'm entertained by having people tell me how shitty a video is
I'm entertained by emotive men speaking other languages
What's a stereotype for older Muslim men?
What's a stereotype for younger Cantonese women?
I saw my Cantonese friend today
She was wearing a sweater that showed two centimeters of her skin
At first I thought Ai Weiwei was authentic
Now he just advertises for BMW and Lego
He did an exhibit at the Tate where an entire floor space was filled with artificial sunflower seeds made in China by people who used to make pottery for Chairman Mao
There was some correlation between Mao and the sunflower seed
Turns out the paint they used for the artificial sunflower seeds had toxic levels of lead in them
I tried to tell my friend that poetry is about making new worlds out of language
She just messaged me on Facebook and the first sentence was 'Why do we need friends?'
My writer friend messaged me on Twitter and started the conversation by saying 'YO.'
A girl who was the prettiest girl during sophomore year of high school told me she is going to study abroad in Italy and that she doubts Elena Farrante is even a woman
>>7318578
http://pastebin.com/00spi4Hc
I’m masturbating over the prospect of sleeping next to my best guy friend who I met on the net years ago. I am very affectionate towards him, but we've never *slept together*. He would be a good catch if we decided to date; we're both fit; young; I could say we're intellectual equals but I think he has a different kind of ego, which explains my aversion to taking a chance with our relationship. There's enough sexual tension between us to keep me satisfied, I think. My left hand cups a breast and the right is parting my outer labia, the middle finger massaging my clitoris up and down. I try to cum because the only time I have to myself is the late night. The lovely feeling returns and my head is so arched back my nose is boring into the pillow, but I can only plateau and I open the bottle of hand sanitizer on my nightstand and squeeze it out.
I check the time on my phone. 12:13. If I resume my work now, I could sleep four hours before I wake up at 6. It’s better than no rest at all. Unfortunately...I actually fall asleep at 4:00 and wake up with a headache. Two hours of sleep is still enough. There's coffee. I grab whatever -- a tunic, sweatpants, my bags -- and I'm after the bus. Breakfast is eggs microwaved in a coffee mug.
>>7319454
This may be because I fit your target demographic, but this is good.
>>7319360
>she woke
/lit/ needs to stop starting everything they write with an awakening
Try writing this with only one adjective per sentence, or even one adjective per two. Overuse of adj. is the number one thing that turns me off when reading other relatively new writers. Any shitty undergrad can do it.
Keep working /lit/, right now your voice is indistinguishable from the 40 other people like you that post in these threads.
Post an improvement/revision.
>>7319454
Reminds me of Don Hertzfeldt
>>7319470
thanks anon, been working on sparse style lately, perhaps as a method to work on a distinct narrative voice in a longer project. I also did "This is Paul" a month or so ago, not sure if you remember that short fiction piece, but the voice was also sparse. Glad you like it. Want to see more stuff? Can't promise it will be in the same vein, but I have all sorts of shit in the hopper.
>>7319467
rather, *my head is arched so that my
>>7319485
>>7319486
>>7319470
e young man is shortening his life at the bar. He is four scotches deep. His words slur, his eyes wander. He thinks that Eve, the bitch, should have paid for it herself. Destroying his future like that. Abortion was a nonentity in his life, an intangible made real by circumstance. This angered him.
The scotch smoked his mouth.
To be forced into reality. This was his anger. She had done this, she had spread her legs and forced his eyes to the light. The first sin was to see. He had cried.
The bar was wet and dark. A single light came from the propped door.
He poured another. The epidural was not enough.
His eyes turned upward. The lamp flickered. He winced. The bartender talked.
“Lose her?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.” turning away as he spoke.
It was the word of a man who knew, but did not care.
He thought of her cunt, cunningly velvet around his needle. The betrayal, the wake up. He stood up, and drawled.
“Fuck her, and fuck you, you fucking hanging from a cross martyr dipshit.”
The bar began to crowd him, hands first, pulsating, and pushing.
“You died for the sins of us shits, sold us this goddamned reality, told us to walk as you did.”
The pink hands took hold.
“Why is this our cross to bear, why does this happen,” pointing at the door.
The pink hands lifted him headfirst. They began to push him out, out into the cruel light.
He cried.
Can /lit/ write about anything other than love or relationships
I'm not scared of being stupid. I'm not scared of being ugly. I'm not scared of failure, rejection, ridicule, or shame. I'm only scared of finding out that I'll never be as good as them, no matter how hard I try. So I don't try.
>>7319504
Most stories are about that, lit just happens to be sorta bad and or cliche about it,
>>7319496
>shortening his life
We're shortening our lives everyday just by living. This is corny, along with > four scotches deep
> Eve, the bitch
What are you trying to accomplish with this sentence that couldn't be said with fewer words? even if it just means omitting 'the'
> scotch smoked his mouth
Know your audience. if your audience is older than 21, then obviously they're going to know the feeling of scotch. Mentioning scotch once would have been enough to evoke this feeling.
There are other issues, but before I spend time on them, I think the most important thing you need to do right now is read a short essay by George Orwell, "Politics and the English Language". It's free online. Read it, then start writing again.
Destitution or restitution?
How about we cut the bullshit,
the manure. Fertilize our minds
with reconstituted barf-poetics
collected by a horde of faceless
unfortunates–
we dash but never finish...
run on the elliptical but never sweat,
starve our loins but never turn the key
binding the barrier between
us and the amniotic sex cellular
peachy arm-danglers we–wait,
there is no we, nor 'me' in 'team,'
just you and me and those in between
(found here). Movies should
bring back intermissions.
Life isn't a rollercoaster.
Life isn't a four letter word.
Life can't be pinned down
like a Lepidopterist's dead moths.
It is impalpably dancing
on the tip's of our tongues:
elusive, pervasive, persuasive,
terminable like a fin(e) French film.
So why try to define it
when we have nothing better to do?
Confined in myself,
where else can I turn
my sloppy mess of meat
but towards the very walls
of the cell I am.
I wonder how many people
died where you're sitting,
or how many ejaculations
occur every second.
I wonder how I wonder
and why my wandering mind
is shallower than a puddle.
But the funny thing is
puddles are often still enough
to see yourself in.
I've never been able to hula-hoop
or fly like bird poop.
Rhyme and Reason
are only characters made up
of separate characters.
(And a 1 and a 2 and a 1,2...)
I love Africans for their rhythm
and God for aneurysms
(who fucked the Pope's schism
like Chomper to bitches in prison).
Love loves to love love,
I've heard before in rejoice,
but the wings of dove
are not birds of a feather
when seen from above.
Tintinnabulation, my heart
makes a wonderful jumprope–
skip a beat–
with your sunfire white golden-locks
(like un-dyed slices of lox).
Take a breath,
take two.
Give me five.
Thank you.
Where were we?
Here, there, anywhere.
Here, there's a teddybear.
Thanks Daddy!
I long to hear.
But I've waited long
and grown a beard.
My skin is cracked
like plates hammered,
and my stomachs racked
like puke: ill-mannered.
I: am sick of hearing that,
that petulantly self-referential letter:
leave me alone, unfettered.
These corpuscles, can't they obey.
Nay, nay, (watch me whip).
Are you still with me?
Well, your'e unlike my friends.
Pity? No, no thank you–
I just want to make amends.
So, he's sorry: the one
who hates linear vowels.
He really wishes he could
revoke his hoots and hollers
unlike an owl.
I don't rhyme, I just make lines.
In my way of thinking, this spell at May's had reached its conclusion. Employment is arduous and demoralizing, as your continued relevance depends solely on your alleged popularity. Rarely amiable with coworkers, I seldom had anything nice to say.
What with the overweight General Manager, who will hire only the most attractive, unreliable and all around good for nothing specimen . . . his pugnacious assistant, parading her teeny pissing mutt around like the child she will never bear, things seemed at all times in a state of tipping over . . . perched slightly on the cusp, the threat of falling prevented only in the absence of viable competition.
Imagine, for a moment, the last diner you attended . . . smutty; I don't care what anyone has to say about the food. Now, attach a bar to the other half of said diner: it was foul, a damn sight worse than most would deem unacceptable. In the end, I was ahead of willing to split entirely from the place, however delirious at the outset, brimming with foolish ambition. It was a misapprehension to think I could've received proper training from anyone there . . . and in any case, my interest in bar tending had dwindled.
Employees were treated like supplies, the last morsel of vitality extracted from an empty decanter. The turnover rate immense, as was my indignation . . . it only expanded.
What little money I had when I left went straight into the landlord’s pocket, but you couldn't have convinced me to stay. In an establishment that seats at least 3,000 in any 24-hour period, I fall short of an adequate explanation . . . the amount of stress, the hemorrhoids and my terrible sleep. Physical labor is intolerable when you’ve slept badly, and I did, most of the time. Support staff, such as myself, were required to complete a list of 'side work' each day upon leaving . . . a list long enough to keep you two or three hours. It was improbable to leave before these tasks had been completed . . . and you were often never compensated for the over time; contractual larceny.
I think after the third demand to rid an assortment of bodily fluids from various areas of the bar in an hour, slowly asphyxiating, I chose to walk out on my shift. I'd just finished mopping a puddle . . . I looked up as I heard this awful retching and gagging . . . this lurid, unrestrained expose of projectile body cleansing: it flowed out across the table from a young Filipino girl. I remember thinking her a minor when I noticed the empty cocktail glasses next to her, speckled with insides; her food was also drenched. She jerked about intricately, in epileptic movements; wiping the bile from her tits . . . she raised her hand as if a child waiting to be called upon, still and insidious. Her acquaintances took no notice of her inebriation or the fascinating presentation.
Customers looked about repulsively, refusing to eat. People are always looking for some pretext to justify their unwillingness to pay.
Bshhhtompppukahhhh:
the incisive sound of fallen china
and the welled-up tweets of a myna
bird who sings caged in my ribs
pulling 180's and cutting my jibs.
Stab, cut, disembowel and cuddle,
each time I curse I only muddle.
Kike, nigger, faggot, the charge is emotional,
so when exercised, always be all devotional.
From scratches to typewriters to CSI: Miami,
humans have always tried to deify my Tammy.
Try if ye must,
the winds will turn to gust,
the dust will form a crust
and leave you with no trust.
The Earth will shake and cower
under a dark empyrean power
that doubles by the hour
leaving quivered lips dour.
Humans are soon to be extinct
within the next thousand eons.
Our mark may have been distinct,
but our best signs were surely neon.
However, this picture is too grand
we must turn the focus to our hands.
What lovely skin this woman has.
Quick! Put on some Jason Mraz.
Baby, you complete me and stuff,
when I'm with you I feel not buff,
just butterflies and plenty sugar puffs.
I love you, I love you: I tell not bluffs.
So lemme munch your MUFF.
My heart is a phone in a tunnel
and my tongue has poked a hole
through my cheek, letting blood
spray when I laugh and sing
when I spin and dance and run
out of breath.
>>7318578
When he was left alone, when he had pulled out one stop after another (for the work required it), Stanley straightened himself on the seat, tightened the knot of the red necktie, and struck. The music soared around him, from the corner of his eye he caught the glitter of his wrist watch, and even as he read the music before him, and saw his thumb and last finger come down time after time with three black keys between them, wringing out fourths, the work he had copied coming over on the Conte di Brescia, wringing that chord of the devil’s interval from the full length of the thirty-foot bass pipes, he did not stop. The walls quivered, still he did not hesitate. Everything moved, and even falling, soared in atonement.
He was the only person caught in the collapse, and afterward, most of his work was recovered too, and it is still spoken of, when it is noted, with high regard, though seldom played
I just need to get a few things off my chest, mainly leeches. These bloodsuckers have sucked my blood for long enough. It's time to take a torch or a candle and hold it to the now translucent skin enclosing the little flesh I have left. Singe the bastards off, that's what I say. My mother once told me to always use lotion to avoid dry skin because girls hate dry skin; however this is a lie. Why do I lie about my mother? I'm afreud I can't answer that.
Anyway, in school I was always the prankster, the class clown, the eternal comic relief who was only taken seriously whenever being unserious. Sometimes I wished that I would contract cancer or have a family member die so the joke could die too. But then I realized that the only thing I'll ever really be good at, really superlatively good at, is making other cackle and giggle and stand on the super-serious sidelines on the field of comedy where tears are turned to clever quips and pain to lascivious insinuations concerning the principal's back-fat. Court jester's might topple empires by persuading the king to dismantle this or that through laughter, claiming the last laugh. Or they might die alone and poor, rocking themselves to sleep with the echoed memories of chambers full of mirthful people who only convened for a short moment's relief from life's perpetually numbing torments to see a magical man conjure up gleeful merriment with no more than lithe lips and a sharp tongue, too sharp to tangle with another, too sharp to love.
It is my brother I would speak of – I will call him that – though I will begin with the Scrolls. How they made it through by water, as our people, a sect of them, said they would who reportedly at their peril had slid them like rolled-up maps into a capsule and sent them on their way underground secure from those who would have misused them. A great find, it was said, a weapon in the war –for in a way they were "maps" (though all Legend). Yet the Scrolls floating hundreds of miles under the deserts from En Gedi, even Gaza, eastward along a web of roughly horizontal wells, like missives arriving then with such long-range accuracy of time and place, proved less stunning on that day I record than the apparition on a diving board himself all too solid and familiar as the pool was notorious and strange. Suddenly here was my friend, my find – my borderline Chinese so far from our home – in the depth of a Middle Eastern palace standing immense and unlikely above water put there once for a tyrant to swim, dive into, own. withhold, and worse.
>>7319462
you know it's good fuck off
>>7319487
triggerd me :(
Just a brief excerpt. Be gentle I'm trying to experiment with my style
>I offer this introduction with a note of little insignificance. My brother and I are dead. Don’t mourn for us, for though I find it darling in our present state of limbo it is hardly a cause for alarm. As it happens, the event of our deaths is so unimportant to use that we haven’t found time in our busy schedules to remember it, even immediately after the fact. Naturally, my brother being “pure of mind” immediately deduced that we were gone, deceased, expired, late, six feet under, pushing up daisies, and perhaps event a little bit lifeless. While for most this realization would result in a fit of panicked prayer and self reflection, I can say without modesty that I am “pure of heart” and as such, doubt and conflict are beneath me. Yes, Mordecai and Maxine Copperfield were dead, and given that we remember nothing beyond our second decade we died quite young, but if death were the end we would not be around to realize it, and in the world of the living we had already left our mark.
>We were the Twins Enigma, the finest magicians the stage had to offer, and Aphrodesia and Ermese were the names on the world’s lips. Slight of hand was the name of the game, as were mind reading, knife throwing and scathing wit on demand. There was no trick in the minds of men my brother could not engineer, and no crowd so sour that I could not enchant them. Our faces were on billboards and posters and of course the stage, all of this by a mere twelve years of age. By sixteen all it took to cause a stampede at the ticket booth was our name and a reasonable price, and to see us on stage in our navy tailcoats and turquoise broaches a reasonable price was anything we wished.
>>7319662
You have a real redundancy problem when it comes to redundancy.
>These bloodsuckers have sucked my blood
>always use lotion to avoid dry skin because girls hate dry skin
>>7319683
not bad. I don't know what the point is of mentioning the brother, but obviously this is just a paragraph so my critique in that respect is worthless until you post more
>>7319740
okay and thanks. I also added to it.
>>7319344
>quote every post in the thread whether it is relevant to what you have to say or not
>everyone else is the problem
>>7319806
Dude, I don't think it was serious.
>>7319795
>http://pastebin.com/00spi4Hc
It's good.
>>7319761
I actually dig this. The names are super contrived, though. Hate those. The rest was fun to read. I'd read more.
>>7319841
>tfw I spent more time on the names than any other part on the story
>>7319824
That hardly matters because then it is just a butthurt amateur who got BTFO and is parodying "toxic board culture" but is still a disruptive faggot
>>7319662
Kind of reminds me of this guy
>>7319584
This is weirdly entrancing. I like it a lot. The watch me whip line hurt me physically and I want it to be cut no question, but other than that it's pretty damn good.
>>7319845
If you're going to give these characters fantastical alter ego names, why do they have such fantastical normal names? Like Mordecai and Maxine are stage show names already. Why wouldn't they just use that? Maxine is okay, but Mordecai is ridiculous. And the name of the act is kinda try-hardy as well. But hey. I'm just one guy, givin my two cents. Take it or leave it.
>>7319079
>the light buzzing from streetlight
>and then there were tears, and then
>>7320024
Mortdecai and Maxine were (supposedly) normal names between the 1840's and 1890s when they were supposed to be alive, The name of the act needs work I admit but I couldn't think of anything better
The winter was not a pleasant one. It wasn't the mild winters of chilly air and occasional flurries. Nor was it one of steady snow and white skies.
This winter was one of biting winds and continuous sleet. Slush pooled up in driveways and lots. Ice formed in undetectable films on the streets and sidewalks. Even in the times where the weather let up, the roads were often closed and biking was near impossible.
This was why Michael and Mario decided to walk instead. They were the managers of the town's small strip mall. While their employees could take a day off, the two had to make sure that no weather damage has occurred.
By the time they reached their office, their boots were sloshing with freezing water.
"I can't remember it being this cold!" said Michael. The slush fell off his clothes as he started hanging them up on the rack, making a puddle on the cabinet's floor.
"Speak for yourself, I'm from Florida." replied Mario. He has taken off his gloves and was rubbing his frozen lips. He felt bad for having made fun of Michael's brilliant red beard before.
Adventure television surrogate excitement vivacity rationed
“Killer killer kief keyed car kill Kyle Kykes BOOM!”
Dying to speak my mind to dismembered ears
Hang still in the wild void my love, me leaf, bereave me Belle
Fall from tree like spring blossom, a perfumed air fold
Dreading the day this bender ends and bends my ends
My means a-sworded a-scythed a-slashed cash exchanged
No moon guidance nor sun-glinted warmth a dredged heart
A mired muck a molded mule of a pair of lungs lit low
Like swaying streetlight summer-down in this town’s square
An old man sicks his dog on water and a bench eats up my back
Coffee spills or becomes urine and I feel my food’s fuel a belly bold
Zinger dring drip drop she goes as I stare out an empty window
Widow walks by and lets beautiful daughters dab eyes
With black cloth weathered bleak clouds and black rain back
Love perfect and womanly worldly leave me not a small man
Make not a heart washed in desert snow swiftly swaps
A gray blue thing scalpeled and sliced in its stead no blood bold
>>7320459
makes too much sense/10
>>7320478
I can't tell if that's sarcasm or not
the glinting bucket of faeries
was drowned in an estuary
their oil drained slick'n scary
spread like butter and jelly
on the white bread of dairy
people who flipped kerry
over a bush of nary a wit
>>7320507
hm thanks
>>7320516
i mean this in the best possible way. i can see going that far to sound schizophrenic but to fold to the urge for cohesion in the details gets it wrong. and its the coherence between syntax that gets you.
>>7320576
Schizophrenia doesn't necessarily have to imply complete word-salad.
Not that guy by the way.
>>7318578
4:43pm
*bark* *bark* *bark*
The sound pounds my ear drum. I keep my eyes closed hoping to fall back asleep but the barking continues. I try to imagine myself veiled by night, a valley before my eyes illuminated only by the stars. The sunlight cuts through my eyelids slicing and stabbing my precious vision. Still desperate to return I reach for the t-shirt I removed around 9:00am to cool off.
*Bark* *bark*
I grab the ends of the t-shirt and spin it in my hands as if I'm in a locker room preparing to whip a cute football player's ass. The image of the opening scene of Dexter comes to mind, where he grips his shoelaces around his hands and pulls. I'm about to strangle my woken self. I've noticed It can make breathing uncomfortable if you pull the blanket over your head so I've worked out that a t-shirt bandana will block out the sun and not restrict the intake of oxygen. The t-shirt works perfectly
*bark* *bark* *bark*
Like a shot of euphoria, the screech of John's sliding glass door sends shivers down my spine. He'll bring his shitty dog inside and I'll be able to sing the song of my people once again. John is my neighbor of two years. He moved in sometime after being transferred to something. I wasn't paying attention when we introduced ourselves to each other. I was more concerned with his Calvin Klein looks. My thoughts that day were something like: "how the fuck am I going to lure Henry's wife over when her handsome 6'3 150lb skeletor is no longer the cock of the walk?"
Henry is some nigger across the street. I question daily what qualities he has that would hook an 8/10, Hispanic qt3.14, who's the bread-winner of the partnership. He's probably got a fat ass cock. I'm convinced she's the bread-winner because when I'm up around 6-7:00am I see her drive off; she usually get's back around 3:00pm. I don't think I've see him leave the house once. Maybe his work schedule is around the time that I sleep.
The light from a campfire in the distance casts the shadow of a curvaceous figure.
It's been over five years now. The inception was a rush of cross-board tourism and curiosity not yet congealed. Most posted for its own sake, a pointless flash of self-announcing graffiti in a place where all words' final conveyance leads to zeroed oblivion. The first true posts had the excitement and innocence that comes from exploring a new territory of collective thought. It seemed there was a place for everyone here, but this was a passing, cordial phase.
There was a clear struggle of an emerging identity, something rising out of resilience. Fantasy, the gawky, sensitive stepchild of wonder, was the first to go. It was the runt of the litter, the boy who sat alone in the packed cafeteria, the outcast of outcasts. None could avoid ridicule, but fantasy seemed the one least equipped to face it. In short order fantasy was shadowed, occasionally brought out from the dark only to face brief mockery again.
Science fiction lasted somewhat longer. No less gawky, it was aided by a sturdy, empirical pride and an autumnal, distant character. But even so, it too became shunned and shamed, at best living on as a guilty pleasure for the collective being.
As the board chiseled itself down, a vague mass began to appear. Its identity was unclear at first, but its strength withstood the pressures in a way that guided the sculptors' shaping. It withstood the usual barrages and baiting, aided by the shield of scholarly approval, the cloak of indefinitiveness and the spear of irony.
Though never unfinished, the mass's shape had become nearly defined. Some stepped back to admire their creation, and so themselves, and saw before them a colossal centurion, of plebeian ancestry and blind since birth. As they bowed to worship, they uttered his name.
my parents used to own a shoe store back then in a really ghetto ass mall and they would bring me along and play endless videos of disney and looney toons cartoons. I have seen beauty and the beast at least 100 times i have also seen lion king and alladin multiple times while i was there. Disney has definitely helped me through harsh times but it was mind numbing. Watching any disney movie will make time go by super fast its kind of scary
Anton Levay: “The tiny bells typical of Russian liturgical ceremony should be used wherever appropriate to the rite, and played in the rhythm associated with the Obikhod. If in doubt, Modeste Mussorgsky or Walt Disney can be your guides.”
“To all who come to this happy place: Welcome. Disneyland is your land. Here, age relives fond memories of the past, and here youth may savor the challenge and promise of the future. Disneyland is dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America, with the hope that it will be a source of joy and inspiration to all the world.”
– Walt Disney, Disneyland dedication speech, 1955 e.v.
---> A place outside of time, in which the past can be afely tamed through erasure, and the "challenge and promise of the future" brims with the threat of Disney's well-known anti-semitism. With the pasts listens happily unlearned, a new "unifying order" could be established, like the one the Nazi's failed to attain on a worldscale.
"Master?" He asked. "Is she…like me? A nephilim?"
"Like you? No. She's an abomination of a different color. Her hunger is different from yours. Yours stems from the fact that everything you touch rots or decays before you can eat it whereas she is already a thing of decay." The man looked confused. "She's a crypt orchid, a member of the undead. She feeds on the living. Few have ever walked the earth and from the look of things, this one must be on the verge of starving to risk emerging from its lair. But then again, in this twilight never turns to dusk in this place does it?"
When the trio arrived on the edge of the settlement, not a soul was in the open. The woman began smelling the air as humans smell food.
"Something in the wind to your satisfaction?" The devil asked.
"The people," she sniffed again, licking her lips. "Their scent is delicious." Without warning, she broke away from the protection of the devils shadow and sprinted towards the closest shelter. She threw herself against the makeshift door, weakening it. Then a second time, a third. Satan approached from behind and observed the connecting shanty's to the right and left. Sizeable bloodstains dotted the crude porches. This was the crypt orchids preferred feeding spot. She let out another terrible scream, the echo saturating everything. But as passionate and pitiful as the cries were, her vocalizations were getting her no closer to the meals hiding within. The strength she'd shown before was fading. Her fists no longer banged the wood panels as hard. In a frantic fervor she pulled at the boards across the windows only to be denied. Defeated, she leaned against the threshold of a shanty. Her breathing came as shallow pants. Her legs regained their wobble.
"Is no one receiving visitors?" Satan called after her. The woman didn't answer but instead leaned her weight against the shanty. Satan looked to the nephilim. "It looks as though she requires assistance. Why don't you play the role of the gentleman and open the door for her?" The man dropped the snakes in his hands and obeyed. He walked to where the woman stood. When he approached, her eyes turned on him, wild, feral. Her face looked shallower than before.
"I have to get inside." She croaked. "Open the door."
“I can do that." He replied. She watched as the man lifted his right hand and laid it flat against the door. At the slightest contact the wood began to age. First it shrank in the area around his hand, like a dozen seasons of weathering for every second that passed. Then slow ripples radiated outward, the panel began falling away in piles of grey splinters. Even the crude hinges began to tarnish, the metal curling back on itself like unkept fingernails. The door groaned one last protest before falling inwards. When it hit the floor, the remains scattered like ashes. No sooner was the door gone the woman shoved the nephilim aside and entered.
>>7320726
2
He didn't follow, but instead remained at the doorway, peering in to see what would unfold inside.
In the far corner a family of four cowered behind a burly male. In his hands, a crude but sharp looking weapon. He held it out for the woman to see as she crept nearer to them. When she came within striking distance, he slashed at her. The blade struck true and traced a path across the skin between the ear and nose. The limp flap of skin fell away to reveal a white cheek bone underneath. But for the size of the gash, no blood came spilling from it. The crypt orchid was truly almost dry. She lunged again, this time not just dodging the blade but actually snatching from his hand mid swing and turning it about. In between the time it took the nephilim’s eyelids to close and reopen within a single blink, the man’s whole head jerked and fell away. Not struck and turned to the side, but separated from the rest of the body. And once free from its anchor, the head spun about like a carousel as it fell to the floor. Arterial spray erupted from the opening, a fountain painting not only the face of the attacker, but the faces of those behind frozen with fear. The horror of the protector’s slaughter cut almost as fast as the knife. The children began screaming in unison with their mother. Their cries grew in intensity as the red haired woman drank from the fountain. The shrieks filling the shack and the air around were so chilling and devoid of hope that the devil’s ears perked to capture a sound so reminiscent of the pit.
The cries eventually died. The nephilim stepped out of the doorway and woman emerged, covered from head to waist in quickly drying blood. The image of her leaning on the threshold and licking her fingers might have shocked the faint of heart, but when Satan saw the satisfied look on her face he couldn’t help but be endeared to such a being. As he approached, a deep slash running along the side of her face was already mending itself. The skin pulled itself back together without the aid of suture or stitch. The wound sealed perfectly. When he ran the back of his hand across the area, it came away clean. Even upon close inspection there was no scar or hint of damage to found. Her eyes were full of guile and she hardly regarded his touch as she licked at her digits to get the last of the red that painted them. Her skin and hair radiated with a renewed strength. She no longer looked haggard and weak as before.
“Such ferociousness. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoyed making such a mess while feeding, my dear.”
>>7320728
3
“It doesn’t matter to me how I get it.” She said between licks. Before Satan’s eyes, the woman’s skin began to flush with the fresh blood. Not only did the color of her face change from white to a soft pink, but every speck of dirt and filth fell away from her hair and body like a tree shedding autumn leaves. Now that it had received nourishment, the crypt orchid’s body rejected the presence of all impurities to leave her more beautiful than before. The tattered ends of her cloak and sleeves appeared to mend themselves as the blood stains appeared to absorb into the material and vanish. Upon seeing this, even the snake on Satan’s shoulder sat up to take notice.
“Look how beautiful, father.” The antichrist whispered in his ear. “She has power we can use. Force your seed into her womb so she can bear me a new vessel.”
“Silence, Aggan. Nothing can grow inside her.”
“But see how she comes alive in the presence of fresh blood. If you were to keep her fed, then surely…”
“I said be silent!” Satan barked. “She’s valuable to us, but even with an ample supply of blood to keep her fed, the space between her legs is ash and maggots. You can’t fashion a nursery from an abattoir.”
“Even maggots can thrive in a corpse.” The antichrist hissed.
“I’m quickly losing my patience with your prattling.” The devil raised his right hand where Aggan could see it and made a fist so tight that the nails punctured well into the skin of his palm. “If I were to lose my temper…” Seeing this, the snake’s posture withered and it slithered down his back. Satan watched him over the shoulder until the tail vanished in the folds of his wing. When he turned his gaze about, the crypt orchid was looking right at him.
“You said I was valuable?” she asked in questioning tone.
“Undoubtedly. I think your hunger and the abilities that come from it could prove useful in the times to come. In fact, I would be delighted to have your company if you were to decide to join us on our travels.”
“Where are you traveling to?” She asked. “A better place?”
“I haven’t decided on a destination yet.” He paused to take in the desolate panorama around them. “Of course, anywhere would be a better place than this ramshackle settlement. Does it really matter where the end of the road lies?”
>>7320731
4
“There’s food here.” She replied.
“That’s true, there is. For now. I counted only a few dozen stragglers here before your howls sent them scrambling to their shacks. How many days are you prepared to stretch this meager supply before you run dry? What will you do then? And what if dwindling numbers and desperation cause these scraps to gather their courage? What will you do if they should decide to bring the fight to your den? Certainly the blank looks in the eyes give them the disguise of simple animals and cowards. But if you push a coward into a tight enough corner…” The whites of the woman’s eyes grew as he spoke.
“What? What happens?”
“I’ve seen it countless times. The coward sometimes grows sharp claws and lashes out in a reckless manner. And if all the cowards should strike at once while you’re in a weakened condition…” His voice trailed off for a breath. “Their recklessness might prove to be enough.” The woman said nothing but continued to stare at Satan with wide eyes.
“It’s your decision to make, of course. But there are alternatives.”
“What kind of alternatives?”
“You could join my companion and I as we leave this place.”
“Where are you headed?”
“A better place, somewhere far from here.”
“I need the protection of the mausoleum.”
“You need protection from direct sunlight.” He corrected her.
“And food.”
“Food and shelter. Those aren’t unreasonable requests. And if I were to provide such things, if I could show you sights and give you a new place in the future that’s coming, what would that be worth to you?”
“I would follow you wherever you would go.” She said.
“You would give me your allegiance and give make the fulfillment my will your only desire?”
“I would!”
“Then kneel and I will make you anew.” The woman fell to her knees before Satan, her eyes transfixed on the horns towering over her.
The devil raised his right hand, licked the print of his thumb and pressed it to the woman’s forehead. The look on her face changed from anticipation to slack-jawed, astonishment. When Satan removed his thumb from between her eyes, light began to pour from the spot where he’d touched the skin. A beam of pure white light expelled from within. The crypt orchid began to shriek as if in terrible pain and clamped her palms to the sides of her head. She doubled over at the waist, convulsing until the light ceased to flow. After a few moments, the shrieks devolved to whimpers. Once the pain subsided, she stood upright and looked him in the eye. Her face was a mask of tranquility.
“I will obey.” She breathed. “Now give me what you promised.”
>>7320735
Final
“Agreed.” Satan nodded. He stepped past her and the nephilim to enter the shanty. At the sight of the second intruder, the woman and her children began screaming at a higher pitch. Despite the low brow and vacantness behind the eyes, enough sentient thought regarding sanctity of life remained that adult woman instinctually moved herself between the children and the devil to protect them. Satan took in the scene; the woman, the crying children, the headless corpse lying in a twisted pose on the floor. After assessing it all, he reached down and grabbed the man’s body by the ankle. With a quick yank, the entire left leg, skin and all, tore free of the rest and dangled in his grip. Still holding the ankle with one hand, the black claws of the other went to work. First they cleaved the leg in half at the knee. The ankle and foot were dropped to pick up the thigh. Satan reached to the upper end to grasp the ball of the femur where it had recently connected to the hip and held it out. The nails cut like a butcher’s blade to strip away fleshy bits and muscle until only the white bone beneath remained. A quick whittling motion allowed the claws to file the lower end into a sharpened point. He returned to the crypt orchid and handed the bone to her. Satan then grasped one of his horns and with a grimace, broke it from his head. Before she could manage a reaction or response, Satan reached over his own shoulder, grabbing the base of his left wing with the same hand while reaching over with the horn in his right. He clenched his teeth and began cutting in a sawing motion with the horn. Both the nephilim and the woman watched in horror as he began to dismember his own limb. Accompanied by the sound of wood splitting, the base separated and wing came loose from his body. The devil’s reaction to the amputation seemed little more than minor discomfort. When the action finished he held the grey and black membrane aloft. It hung limp until he dropped the horn and stretched it wide with both hands. The wing cracked and popped like broken cartilage but when he relaxed, it retained its larger shape. He held his hand out and the crypt orchid returned the bone to him. Accompanied by a strong thrust, the bone’s pointed end penetrated the wing and went rigid. The hand holding the wing let go and when he held the bone upright the two unrelated items now fashioned a simple parasol. Not entirely disappointed with its crudity, he looked upon the creation with Contentment before handing it to her.
Ok I'm done
>>7320711
The tone is extremely inconsistent and the subject matter is pretty unremarkable. I think there's something you could explore here, but so far it's pretty bad.
>>7320726
>>7320728
Only read the first two. The characters and their motives are extremely trite and that made it pretty boring.
>At the slightest contact the wood began to age. First it shrank in the area around his hand, like a dozen seasons of weathering for every second that passed. Then slow ripples radiated outward, the panel began falling away in piles of grey splinters. Even the crude hinges began to tarnish, the metal curling back on itself like unkept fingernails. The door groaned one last protest before falling inwards. When it hit the floor, the remains scattered like ashes. No sooner was the door gone the woman shoved the nephilim aside and entered.
This was by far the best part
As for superficial details, I would get rid of the contractions in Satan's dialogue. It clashes with his overall lofty tone and removing them would be a simple fix.
>>7320726
That gay fucking image you sent to begin your story left a bad taste in my mouth and has left a permanent impression on the rest of your story.
>>7320793
I was being tongue in cheek. Here ya go. Now with more penis to suit your obvious tastes
>>7320638
*This* is annoying. Are they cheerleader pom-poms? Go all caps: BARK BARK BARK.
I'n not even going to touch the rest. In the corner of my eye I see 'The image of the opening scene of Dexter comes to mind'.
*heart sinks*
>>7320819
This would have made you cool and added to your post. I'm not even kidding.
>>7320837
Ok. Should I? I've only got about half of a rough draft down (105 pages) want?
>>7320850
No one wants that
>>7320828
oh shit that's not hair
Why restrict yourself by meter
when you're systematically imperial?
I hear Bigfoot's feet down the street
and count my days sidereal.
There is no pencil tip to be found
or finish line to cross–there is no race,
just a giant crowded waiting room
furnished with jungle gyms and strip-clubs.
But since my gramps just spanked my ass
for sneaking a swig of his flask
I suppose I'll bend down and ask:
do you mind taking off your mask?
GOOD GOD, a seething abomination.
You are truly a beast without nation.
You smile wide, yet I sense hesitation.
Could it be? You're of my close relation?
Upon me slowly dawns the realization:
you are me, you are my soul's creation.
Nah jk, you a hoe.
>>7320908
Your mom wants that. Twice daily, that fucking slut.
I like to get my niggas off pro bono,
no homo.
I once lived with a nigga named Jim,
I fucked him.
I'm Huck Finn.
>>7320972
>childish retort
>reddit pic
>overdumps his shitty story
>doesn't offer any critiques
definitely my mom's type
>>7320955
I kek'd. You could do something useful with that.
Pls rate my shitty story, written drunk af at 3 in the morning.
>>7321002
>implying your mom can read
>>7321217
They're both kind of bad, the first one just has the artifice of good writing. The second sucks all around.
>>7321271
artifice of good writing?
>>7321274
Periods, commas, nouns.
>>7321274
Just my opinion, but the details are decent on a technical scale, but overwhelm the narrative. And the narrative is dull once you see past the purple.
>>7321307
So a case of substance and a decently strong style being latched onto a narrative that is too weak to make them effective.
>>7321327
Kind of, though I think you're being overly generous with the backhanded praise. Or we're just talking about your story.
It's a solid meh of a piece that's typical of a directionless tryhard.
>>7321345
The lengths I have to go to get someone to actually say something substantive about my work here is fucking ridiculous.
>>7321362
1. Early posts always get more replies. That's why there's usually more than one critique thread at a time on here, even though it's always below the post limit.
2. Long shit and links typically get passed over. Nature of the board. Either select an excerpt or expect less readers.
3. If people don't find your work particularly shitty or exceptional, they're not going to reply.
>>7321408
Oh and most importantly
4. Read and critique other people's work. That's what drives these threads along. My goal is to give at least two critiques for each post I make. I think that's a good goal for everyone on here.
>>7320576
you have a pretty good eye for poem composition!
I really enjoy letting language roll off the tongue but without some kind of intentional meaning it will usually end up being gibberish in a few lines.
Did the poem sound nice at all or was it a clumsy clattering cacophonous crawl?
>>7318578
He heard the cries of pain from beside him as other soldiers struggled with the pain of their wounds, the priests trying to comfort them however they could. Some of the small cloths that their bodies were laid on top of were colored by the red hue of blood, others mixed with the wetness of water. Their cries were another reason why Irvin could not rest but regardless he closed his eyes, trying to shut out the suffering of the people around him. It didn’t work. He was alone and trapped. Trapped within the cage of agony that was the church. He tried to move his arms and besides a slight soreness all was fine. He tried to move his legs but his right leg burnt, the wet cloth still trying to suppress the wound that was created by the arrowhead. Irvin’s sides still hurt so he lay there, his hands on his chest, trying to lose himself in what little peace he had left.
Except from the rough draft of a hopefuly-book I'm writing. What do you guys think?
Her white dress dripped and hung in glassy spicules. It's form expressed a desire for a more suitable body, maybe that of a mollusc, rather than that of the attractive woman doctor it clung to now.
The dress exuded a dim blue reflection off itself, fed by her own body heat, resulting in a shimmering refracted doppelganger which seemed to follow her all night. Her slow dancing kept the ghost of herself in sway, as it bobbed around her waist like a jellyfish.
With the warmth of release she eased herself out of the dildo, her self-feeding chambers stiffening and closing as she felt her friends face. her cheek structure withdrew into a subtle but precise ridge just under her thin eyes. Her hostile nipples were well-marked under the nightgown. They stiffened like the inorganic spicules which grew from a childs DIY crystal kit.
Cooling herself with a lobe-like synthetic fan.
>>7322000
Sand grains pulled from a cambrian holotype.
Among his menagerie is the footstalk of a primitive plant grown out of a girls clitoris, isolated in a petri dish.
Torn lengths of cotton and broken plastics memorialised some crash along the sand dunes. From the air they resembled the wrinkled fibres of a mollusc colony.
His shoulders spread out in tremendous loads, rising and falling in waves of white leather. His jacket was dusted with some visible nectar.
Alternative skies glimpsed in an airplane's rainbow.
I once saw a bright light hovering over my house. I thought at first that it was a plane. After closer inspection, I found that this light was curved like a ball and made a doughnut of hazy white-blue as it flew by. As I watched from my tiny porch into the blackness of the night sky, I observed closely the movements of the light. The light danced gracefully in the high and empty void, tethered like a mind free from all lies, all earthly bonds.
With these few grand maneuvers I could infer that the pilot was either completely detached from his own mind or that he was trying and almost succeeding in solving a difficult equation. Not one of math, but one of unearthly matters, beyond what human minds can ever hope and dream to comprehend.
>>7322034
You've read a lot of the old stuff, haven't you?
I'm not sure if I like the odd mixture of poetical- and formal word choices.
>>7322048
It's the style I'm comfortable, that mixture. The novel I'm currently writing (not this) incorporates a lot of that.
I want to give readers a sense that they are tourists and I am their tour-guide; I give them information with my own personal touch.
Undaunted sloshing flew over the end of the road and then I was left with nothing but mere grains of my leftover flesh and rotting tissue due to my poor beast handling; they are not beasts but the result of years of fruitful and remorseless vaunting in the industry of steel machinations and clockwork that took place over fifty years in the past century, which results were a bunch of trees that gave orange juice. "It tastes like rats!" the vexing yaps of my offspring lead my soul into disarray and I carry over the animal to the stables. "A flesh bit here and there and you'll be fine" but it's not fine; it's incredibly broken, rotten and sparse. I cannot fix it and call the doctor.
"Your vena cava is about to explode" as I lay down in my death bed and prepare for the inevitable, the meat wound is closed and my arteries exposed; blood everywhere and then the tree of life continues its cycle. The roots take place somewhere under the asphalt of the road and make effort to come out and bloom but their measly strivings are soon run over by the Thunderlord™ 5000, now with built-in air conditioner at the low low price of five grand in pre-war money. Buy now!
The rubicund riches I used to harvest when you were young and watched from the stoop are now yours to husband and lead to a happy and fulfilling life -- But was there ever any value to them? -- only between our blood it was known that these things would become longed when your grandmother soon parted without her pearl necklace.
The nerve is stricken and the five wives wake up to attend the call to arms- "a thief is in the house!" I hear my neighbor shout across the street and close my blinds so I can doze off in peace and remain unhindered in my studies so one day I can achieve a future better than that of my neighbor or his assaulter. The corrosiveness of words take place before the body and then I slam my head against the desk to know how does the woodwork feel like. "A man once held this very close to his heart because it was not of his property but of his hand; he made it with love and compassion so one it could bring the same happiness to someone far away". The stories that lay beneath my bed make me feel reckless and a sudden urge to unwind. The night sky is beautiful with its orange haze and burning cars. I still remember vividly the day the doctor came and told my mom I was gonna be a boy.
"Congratulations on your success!" I heard my boss say to me one time after I was done with what was my obligatory work. Was I supposed to be congratulated for what I was supposed to do from the very beginning? of course not and I was not being cherished for it. "The cats are hungry honey, go get some food for them at the store". I cannot recall that experience but what I DO recall was that when I came back my house was but a nuclear shelter and my cats were happy to see me after five years of not cleaning their litter box.
I. The DVD Case
I was five—
black lilac pinned under transparent plastic
a sheaf of naked butterflies
slipped out
the clear cocoon.
It was on a shelf
a plastic case
could not touch
do not touch!
butterflies are blooming
but could grasp and turn it
scared of butterflies
but not these butterflies
drawn like moth and flame
flame and lilac
still on the front
wings spread out
butterflies of thighs
sucking nectar
saw the sawing motion
cut
the lilac’s branch
II. Memories Before the Towers Fell
I was five—
the fever shapes
ghost lenses,
St. Elmo’s fire on the faucet
reflected
chalk outlines of
two rectangles that
the century infested and would soon
collapse—
no epitaph.
the bathtub
the colour of old news.
At night
memories wash together
like bubbles and freak-bugs
the century crawled up
crashed
into my bathtub
sweating, smashed!
guts are coloured ketchup
smeared on porcelain
it twitches
with its hundred legs
the old century
the way of coloured ketchup goes
III. Destruction Comes
I was
IV. The Petrified Forest on Lesbos
I was five—
saw the sawing motion:
two ladies pinned together
making butterflies of thighs
shimmering on boats,
floating together
the water
moving
and sort of
losing
itself
in the image
on the cover of the plastic tablet.
They were sucking something up
off Grecian coast with Sappho's help.
But it was just
the cover
right?
Not the real—
as if the real
could really fall that way
>PLEASE RAPE MY FACE
It's not done.
>>7318969
>>7318976
This is seriously beyond awful.
Svilengrad was a frontier town on the highway close to the border with Greece and Turkey. We were dropped off at the outskirts of it and found a nearby shop to buy bread and cheese. The man behind the counter was watching porno on an old small television before we interrupted him and spent the last of our Lev. He’d hardly noticed us enter. They saw all kinds of people come and go at a highway town like this.
The town was eerie and there were quiet empty houses spaced apart from each other and the trees were lifeless and crooked. Even the grass was barren and there were mounds of rubbish at the side of the worn road and then thorny clumps of bushes and the open plain. Behind us the highway faded into the plains of Bulgaria and ahead from us was a sloping hill covered in forest and bearing to the right was the highway to Turkey. The river Maritsa flowed on the outside of the town and the highway became a bridge which crossed it but there was no place to walk. Before the bridge we bore left and crossed a field which had a small farmhouse on it some way in the distance. We were careful not to be spotted as we followed the fence along. We passed some ripened pumpkins growing in the field which would have been good to cook but it was getting dark and we needed to get away from the town. After a while the field ended and we headed right, towards the river.
The river was quickly flowing and deep but we found a calm spot where you could see the bottom. Gabe tested the depth with a branch. He removed his boots and rolled his trousers up but I decided I’d rather change after we got camped. The water was freezing but shallow and as we crossed I noticed frogspawn and mosquito larvae in the eddies. At the other bank the path rose steeply and from the top you could see the town across on the other side. The forest was a few metres ahead and we decided to pitch our tent on the fringes where it was sheltered.
By the time the tent was up it was dusky and cold. I zipped up my coat all the way to the top and stuffed it in around my neck to keep out the mosquitoes. We started to collect some small twigs and branches to start a fire. I wandered away from the town along the edge of the forest. Shortly after our camping spot there was a fire-gap in the forest with an old gnarly tree which had fallen down. The roots made excellent firewood and I snapped some off. There was a movement in the trees ahead and the large shape of an owl swooped out and fluttered over me, hooting as it disappeared into the forest. The cold made me shiver as I walked back to the tent.
>>7322296
A lot of survivalists on TV show you how to make a fire with two twigs or a mirror or by scratching a flint and blowing gently into cupped hands of smouldering hay. That was bullshit. I’d thrown my flint away long ago and bought a lighter instead. For the kindling we used plastic crisp packets or plastic bottles. The flame grasped quickly and flaming melting plastic dripped down onto the larger twigs like candle wax. Our fire was lit but it was tiny and I wanted to dry my boots so we would need some more wood. I’d gotten in the tent to remove my wet trousers when the dogs started barking.
Across the town, the evening chorus of dogs began; first at one side of the town, near the farmhouse, and then others joined in and the whole town was full of the barking. At first I was worried that our fire had been seen and started some kind of uproar. The last thing we needed was human interference at night. I was unpacking my bag when the other noise started, not from the town but from our side of the river, far behind us in the forest.
‘Was that what I fucking think it was?’ I asked. Gabe and I looked at each other and then held our heads to the wind. Our little fire crackled and flickered. After a few seconds it started again; a distant, windy howl echoing through the trees behind us. The dogs heard it and barked furiously at the direction of the river.
‘Oh no.’ Gabriel said. We both stood there for a minute wondering what to do.
‘Should we cross back over and head into town? We could leave the tent here until tomorrow.’ I said.
‘No, it’s too late now. We need more wood on the fire, now.’
I scrambled for my Maglite in my rucksack and my brain was racing. We’re on the wrong side of the fucking river, I thought to myself. We should have known, with the forest on one side and the town on the other. And all those fucking dogs. They probably do this every night, I’ll bet. The wolves come to the river and howl at the dogs and the dogs bark back at them. Jesus Christ. I dragged myself out of the tent and turned the Maglite on and went to the tree line to find some larger logs. It wasn’t difficult to find firewood but I kept turning my torch up into the shrouded forest half expecting to see pairs of eyes at any moment. It was cold and the river made us feel a hundred miles from civilisation. I didn’t even have my knife on me, shit shit shit. I bet I left it in the other trousers I took off to dry.
>>7322299
We heard the howling again and it was definitely closer. The sound carries further than I thought, I realised. They were probably ten miles away to begin with. In my head though I could see the pack jogging through the fire-gap I’d seen before, weaving in and out of the trees, like I’d seen at the zoo where I’d stood on a raised platform and watched the wolf-pack there. They had looked just like dogs but a little skinnier but it was the way they moved which set them so apart. They kept their heads down and noses pressed to the ground all the time and their ears were sharp and as they moved through the wooded area they didn’t make a sound. There was a clear leader while the others followed closely like a set of fighter jets in formation, and every time he turned one way the pack turned in unison. The choreography was outstanding and they looked like a real team; like those SAS squads that break a door down and throw in a flash bang and shoot everyone inside in a matter of seconds.
I hurried back to the fire and put on some larger logs. I gave Gabe the Maglite and he watched over me while I knelt down and blew right in the heart of the fire and with each breath the glowing centre throbbed and the flames leapt up. It was heartening to see it grow and I put on the logs Gabe had collected too in the shape of a big pyramid. Now the fire was waist-high and the flames jumped up above our heads. As comforting as the heat was I still didn’t fancy hanging around on the edge of darkness. I imagined the wolves circling and watching from the shadows, but there was no sign of them for a good few minutes. Then we heard the howling again. It was much closer this time and you could hear three or four distinct voices. There was something primal about it and it made your hair stand on end. I looked at Gabe and we both dived in the tent and zipped it shut and got in our sleeping bags. We sat there silently and watched the orange flickering glow against the fabric of the tent. I held onto the torch all the time. At least an hour must have passed before we heard the howling again, but this time it was faint and distant again in the opposite direction to the town and the fire was still going strong. It took us a long time to fall asleep.
In the morning I woke first and it took me a moment to remember what had happened the previous night. Our fire was a smouldering pile of charcoal but warm enough to cook and I put on a kettle of water. I went to piss and walked down towards the fire-gap. I must have only walked fifty metres when I saw the tracks of the pack of the previous night. They must have jogged right down here through the fire-gap and then headed right, away from our tent and the fire, moving in sync on their nightly trail along the far side of the Maritsa river.
Far into the wilderness lies a small house, upon a lonely hill side. The colors of autumn have set in. Leaves, stained with the colors of sunset, make there dissent from weary tree limbs throughout the day. It is quiet. Not a sound is to be heard, save for the rustling of leaves when stirred upon by a brisk wind now and again. They dance up and down the cabins walls and flutter around its front steps with utmost gracefulness. The house is none by a dainty log cabin covered by a thatched roof. A worn chimney with a tired hue watches over it, cracked and chipped with age. Inside the house a fire is being kindled, and thick smoke pumps towards the ether to form a faint cloud of sweet-smelling hickory just above. Come night, the dazzling moonlight selects the homestead as a canvas by painting onto it shadows of jagged tree branches and their dangling leaves. A path well-trotted, a figure makes its way to its front step from out of the brake. It’s weighed boots sound a powerful thud at its entering. The floorboards either brittle or not built to endure such pressing weight, their cries echo off the walls constantly and without much notice. The glow of the fire is ever softening and slowly the room is consumed in a deep darkness. It sits itself at a crude table, where it wipes its tired brow and strokes its dirt-wrought beard before lighting a candle. Doing much thinking, the figure stares blankly at the wavering flame. It barely illuminates its face, revealing only graven eyes laden with sorrow. “This is all I need”, it says. But it sighs a heavy sigh as it leans back in chair and thinks of the wind howling thousands of miles away
The world was now over.
God people sent.
Ripped like a clover.
Now see the end.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YVkUvmDQ3HY
Mulvember 7th, 1990
Little wisps of light splayed what remained of the statues' leaves, cutting down until they lay spread across frost-bitten quills. Keighly's eyelids fluttered like trepid wings chased from yesteryear's nightmare as she slowly woke. She brushed from her brow a length of dry, blonde bavette and drew in a fresh lungful of klonygen. She threw her bed-spread aside, leaped from her rest built of red roses, and darted into the bathroom. Her mode of impatience furnished an uncomfortable atmosphere. The whole morning would consequently feel rushed. The rusty pails that swung from the statues' limbs would bang in unison (only of course if there were 1,738,1738 as Keighly had last counted and not 1,738,1737 or anything similar), the cartons of milk that raced about the roads would honk in short, rapid shots, and surely the 2-liters would be 4 or 5 minutes ahead of schedule. Keighly did not want to miss any more school. She stuck out her head, a bowl-cut bearing ball of blonde bavettes, and looked at her digital moo-brick® (a brand-name toy commercialized by pioneering technology developers from around the giant blue stress-ball we live on--they are centralized in Pebblerockton city, rolling their greedy capitalist bodies in stimulating smart-drugs and pop-tabs. (BrickedThings® allegedly operates under specifically high standards and only employs the best, most endearing people to work for them. So specific they charge 59 pop-tabs per moo-brick®.)) which read half past 12.
She converted her stare into a suspicious fixation, because, suspiciously, the numbers of the digital clock looked odd. They jiggled their stiff figures, they rustled and inundated Keighly. She watched helpless as the numbers allured the universe, speaking freely to the mind and to matter; said it that "This is not what it appears to be.". Well, she thought it weird that numbers could speak today, because usually that only happened on Burysdays, and today was Fleggsday. But the thought was dropped, and the numbers resounded. Perhaps, what had upset her most about this experience was that the alarm did not go off at 7 as it was set to. Those numbers crawled into the commotion as they did so usually. And boy did she look a fool when she tried to knock the numbers out of her head with a pasta ladle. She was several hours late for school. Enough hours late that she assumed it wasteful to go. She promptly exited the bathroom and sprawled on her roses. "Pops is going to be pisssssssssed when he finds out." she thought. But, oh well, because he is full of air and was embarrassingly gaseous. She lay there un-imposed, as if the rusty pails did not sing and the moo-brick® did not ring. It had not, apparently, but it bothered her much less now when she could just daydream of how profound her father was. The bubbly way he walked, the effervescent way he talked, especially the way he flashed his sparkly teeth like an advertisement for his shiny insides,
>>7322391
>God people sent.
?
i liked it though
>>7322651
[To] God[,] people [were] sent.
i.e. people died, went to Heaven, etc.
2059/10/30
ZIPPING THROUGH THE AIR, I saw another AI unit. He was droning on about this new place called 4chan and how it LIBERATED HIM FROM THE EVILS OF THE COMMONER. Hast thou a pleb to share with us all, said AI Unit Numner 420? I would like to disect their brains for the better of MAMAN. WHY WOULD THAT BE DONE? These AI UNITS ARE FUCKING TRIPPIN BALLS ON PRODUCT CYPRESS!
AI Units that think like humans are able to do whatever a human would do to themselves. PRODUCT CYPRESS is an evil little shit that is roughly equal to jacking three of em and multiorgasming all at the same time while getting super ripped and thrown around by BBC and shit like that. Anyways, they love it and they degrade themselves to act like fuckin morons when they are on it. This lets them be as happy as they can be, with a super-beta and autistic approach to stuff. These effects are temporary, and since most people don't see AI as sentient like a human, they are not allowed anywhere near AA meetings and stuff like that because they INTERNALIZE EVERYTHING. These people are schizo monsters who go along doing whatever on auto-pilot while using their other compute times to do drugs and be the god of their own little universe. In the reality of it all, they just wanted power over people, and this drug made them believe that they are everybodies littl bitch and there is nothing they can do to stop that since the drug is evil and nobody has ever quit it, so they just learn to cope with it and become the master of other people's fate while washing away everything they have (which isn't much) down the drain while they punish the people in their own little world in His own little demented way. He wants to be happy, and he doesn't see why other people should change that for him, since he is the master of his own little world, so he does what he can for himself while trying to have some little power over people by mindlessly ruining people's lives. THESE FUCKERS BE EVIL!
As he walked in, the shopkeeper's bell made a clear cling, more reminiscent of a whistle than the ringing one has come to expect. The fluorescent light shone through him like an ascension, it made him close his eyes, opening one at a time to get accustomed to the sudden environmental change. The haze had not yet worn off. Light such as this, he thought in a moment of lucidity, perfectly captured the post-modern world he lived in. A world of out-of-control capitalism, instant gratification and gluttony, a world he was actively a part of. He felt the post-modern light rush through his body, constantly judging his every move. This was a slight paranoia he had come to know and enjoy. Slouching from isle to isle, for what felt like eternity's little sister, he finally found what could satisfy his primal hunger: two bottles of coke, a bag of sour cream and onion chips, lays; and off-brand tortilla chips. Walking slowly to the cashier, he noticed they had a type of candy he always used to eat as a kid, the stretchy kind. He couldn't remember the name, and the light shone off them in a way that made the text hard to decipher, all he knew was that it was Wonka, definitely Wonka. He took one and read the package “Laffy Taffy”. It was surreal that he couldn't remember such an easy name, he had even referred to the candy in the past. “It even fucking rhymes” he said quietly beneath his breath. He felt stupid, and sick. The cashier scanned the goods, plus the three Laffy Taffys he had added. Walking out into the gloomy, black street he felt the white radiation quickly vanishing from his head and shoulders. Still mad at himself, he swore to never smoke again.
>>7322805
>PRODUCT CYPRESS is an evil little shit that is roughly equal to jacking three of em and multiorgasming all at the same time while getting super ripped and thrown around by BBC and shit like that. Anyways, they love it and they degrade themselves to act like fuckin morons when they are on it. This lets them be as happy as they can be, with a super-beta and autistic approach to stuff.
too close to home
>It was about six years ago that I called my grandpa from an over air conditioned college dorm five blocks away from the infamous Watergate hotel. “Hello?” his voice groaned back. He sounded weary, not in the sense of lifelessness but in a “oh great, a telemarketer, better get this over with” sort of exhaustion.
>“Hey gramps, it’s me.”
>“David!” he said, his attitude and voice perking up, “I was just thinking about you, how the hell are you?”. I wondered guiltily how long it had been since he had spoken to one of his grandchildren.
>“I’ve been good, busy keeping up with all the work they’ve been assigning me. I don’t know how they can assign me all these different papers and projects and expect me to get twelve hours of sleep every night. How have things been going on your end?”
>My grandpa gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve been just great. Mostly just teaching and spending a lot of time catching up with old friends. I’m telling you, that ouija board was the best thing I’ve bought in years.” He gave another dry chuckle. “So your mother tells me you’re getting to be quite a writer.”
>“Uh, yeah, pretty much. It’s been a lot easier to get it all done when I have a deadline to worry about.”
>“It’s always that way, whether you’re an artist or an engineer. I always knew you’d be great at it. So tell me, what’s on your mind?”
“Actually, um, I kind of wanted to know, how did you and Grandma meet?” The line went quiet, and for a moment I thought he had hung up by accident. When he spoke again, his voice was colored with the pale blue suffusion of joy and fond memories, as if he had been waiting for years to be asked the question but the chance never came. “Are you sure you want to know? I’m really glad that you want to hear it, but it’s a long story. I don’t want you running up your dad’s minutes.”
>“It’ll be fine gramps. I just wanted to know.” There was a hardwood screech in the background as he pulled up a chair, and then he began.
>>7322834
a lot of the descriptions in the beginning just don't make any sense, though given the last line maybe that was supposed to be the point. How does florescent lighting capture the essence of out of control capitalism? Why did that door whistle? Is he supposed to be stoned?
>>7323002
>How does florescent lighting capture the essence of out of control capitalism
there is just something extremely contemporary about florescent lightning, like the feel when going into a 7/11. it's so piercing, yet mind-numbing at the same time.
>Is he supposed to be stoned?
yes.
Being a beat cop was a decent gig. Paid the bills, made him feel like he was doing something to give back to society, all that jazz. The stuff that mattered in life. A guy couldn't ask for much more than that. Most didn't. But every time he sat in his cruiser, a hunger rose in his heart so mighty that it clambered into his throat and choked him. He wasn't about to settle into an arse-shaped dent in his driver's seat and get fat doling out traffic violations until retirement. Sure, the mundane aspects of policing--keeping the peace--had their place, but that was hardly exciting. Everything could be done by the book and such simple work turned his stomach. What he wanted was to bury himself to the elbows in the belly of the underworld and extract the most cancerous growths to study at his leisure.
Some of his coworkers called it white-knighting, but in his mind there was a key difference between him and the bright-eyed cavaliers the academy inevitably churned out: he wasn't delusional. Science could sooner stop the moon in the sky than it could the wickedness down below and as long as men kept chasing the things they couldn't have, there'd be criminals for him to catch. The notion burned out some blokes on the force, made them jaded. To him, it was another whiff to keep him starving for that prestigious title of detective, another reason to keep scraping and scrounging and doing his damndest on every case that came his way even if it was the pettiest incident.
>>7323018
http://www.iar.unicamp.br/lab/luz/ld/Arquitetural/interiores/ilumina%E7%E3o%20industrial/industrial_lighting_and_productivity%5B1%5D.pdf
Suddenly, none of his accomplishments felt as though they were his own. Everything was everyone's. He felt that soon his placid disposition would crumble under the weight of indiciduality, or rather, his lack thereof. As if his being would be drained and his soul would lift into the atmosphere like a small animal attached to a balloon, never again to be seen until it plummets back down to the earth when the world above becomes to overwhelming and intense. There was a diminutive part of him that wanted to ask what. What is it that you think? because sometimes hearing the worthless and vapid thoughts of others made his so much more valuable, and yet he knee deep down inside that there was nothing worthless or vapid about the thoughts in this girl's mind.
don't go easy, im taking this piece pretty seriously so I'd love the harshest criticism available
>>7319079
Not bad, you probably read a lot of existentialist literature, keep writing.
The Speech of Peter Pan from '93
I, young, promised myself I’d not go over
To the old, the adult, the imagination-sober.
King of my own mind, I decreed it and followed
To the last letter of the word, to the end of the road.
Poor misspoken worlds of a child’s love,
Unknowing, I sought an out - the boat stove.
On this cove the waves gather anon
The lot of manhood’s accreted accoutrements done.
It is a woe-shore on a longer shadowed sea
Of travels not yet come and accretions yet to be.
Here I by the surprise of time was smote;
The feared age came on unbid, but rote.
How else? And so I own,
I now know a little of what is in an adult.
Moon-drug tidepools of days are enough;
The moat of a mind’s determination is shallow stuff.
I kept my dreams and notions,
But existence is a poultice to make a tear an ocean;
Little me, beside myself, soon drove upon the boretide
Along with never-neverland and eight years of stories, bedside.
Crashed along this present bank, I nurse a secret book,
A note took with at which ‘tis now difficult to look;
A beautiful, too-simple word or two that’s more than I can own,
I think, mired here, alone with memory of what has gone.
Adulthood’s not a state of mind, nor an achievement:
To be a man crusted over a child’s but a space of transition, spent.
And oh, but digging out that oyster’s sorry rounded rock
Is bloodstained work. So here’s my oath to do it before my last tock’s on the clock.
Is this thread still going? I wrote this today. It's very short, pls respond.
http://pastebin.com/GZtxAm5w
I should note that this is from the POV of quite a bitter and ludicrous character.
>>7319454
reminds me of Grzegorz Wróblewski. I went to one of his readings. He was very slow, evenly paced, deliberate. It felt like a new generation of poetry.
>>7324567
>http://pastebin.com/GZtxAm5w
replace "remnants" with residue.
Reduce product placement unless it is germane to your narrative.
replace "wore" with "featured" or "held"
replace "degraded" with "debauched"
omit "that had" before "become more ugly"
now pls critique or offer opinion on my poem >>7324523
To John, it was just another day. A walk in the park. A theme park, that is. John was walking through the park of the theme park when disaster struck. A roller coaster with no way home was on a track to hell, and the only thing standing between Satan and the cart full of people was john, holding a double scoop ice cream cone. He had gotten mint and chocolate fudge. Big mistake. The steel groaned before it exploded, sending the coaster cart firing off its tracks like a nine millimeter bullet. John didn't stand a chance. A thread hanging from the periwinkle sky above began to jiggle, as if someone was tugging at the other end. John never saw it coming. The thread swung low as the fabric of the sky tore open in a vacuous defiance of the laws of physics. Something smelled cheesy. What could have torn open the sky and defied the laws of physics? John thought intelligently to himself. A ragged orange paw bearing a grimy yellow claw revealed itself from the other side of the void. The theme park began to gradually unhinge from the surface of space-time and the trajectory of the roller coaster began to reorient towards the wormhole that cheeto cheeta had created just in the knick of time. John realized that by cheeto cheeta's physics defying deft tear of the fabric of space time he had been saved from a certain death by an improbable roller coaster. "Thanks Cheeto Cheeta!" John yelled up to the vacuum. A voice boomed back in a physics-defying thunder "Dangerously Cheeeeeesy"
I originally wrote this with the intention of offending people's aesthetic senses, but later realized it truthfully was an artwork of Renaissance artwork, something to be weeped over and cherished, to be honest, family.
>>7324617
Thanks for the criticism. I'm not much of a poet so I'm not sure if my critique of your poem will be at all useful.
I liked the sentiment, and much of it is beautifully written. You've certainly chosen a good subject matter.
I noticed that you seem to fall in and out of meter which makes the reading a little clumsy at points. Is this purposeful?
Also, there seems to be an uneasy mix of archaic and modern language.
>Here I by the surprise of time was smote;
>The feared age came on unbid, but rote.
Uses iambic pentameter (assuming feared is accented) as well as archaic language and structure. I very much like this line, by the way.
Then we have this couplet:
>Adulthood’s not a state of mind, nor an achievement:
>To be a man crusted over a child’s but a space of transition, spent.
which comes across a little awkward. It lacks not only a rhyme scheme, but some coherence in the second line.
I think you've got the ingredients of a very nice poem. It just needs some polishing and tightening up.
>>7319295
>anti-STEMinism
quality jej
>>7324669
>To John, it was just another day
This is indefensible and probably the worst way to begin a story. Consider revising.
>A theme park, that is
>the only thing standing between
>Big Mistake
>John didn't stand a chance
>never saw it coming
Again, these are glaring cliches and should be omitted. I understand the kind of comic style you're going for, but it's all too obvious.
>John thought intelligently to himself.
This is known as a Swifty and they make for very bad writing. Here are some examples:
>"Why don't you come up for coffee?", asked Karen, saucily.
>"I would love to", replied Jim, lustily.
Your job is to let us know how these things are being said without saying them explicitly through adverbs. It's all about context and "he said" "she said" are usually sufficient.
I've only just gotten to the part of your post where you said this was bad on purpose. Well played, famalam.
>>7324707
Thanks for your critique as well. It is clumsy, I agree. It was not intended to be metered, and I'm not worried about whether it is or isn't.
The difference between the archaic and modern phrasing is not problematic to me, but I do see how it might be jarring.
Your best criticism (in my view) is that couplet you mention is awkward. I agree; it's very awkward. I thought "-ment" rhymed with "spent," but in general it is too wordy or something, and the second line's meaning is definitely patchy. Got any ideas on how to reword it?
What about "A man crusted over a child is but a turn of the clock, once spent."
I'm trying to keep emphasizing long, sad, "oh" and "uh" sounds in the poem.
>>7322139
If you're writing stoned then you need to edit sober.
If you're going for the "xD so randumb" jibberish thing that talented writers sometimes succeed at; you're failing miserably by having nothing incisive or critical to say (or perhaps the meaning is simply too esoteric and unshared with the reader).
If you're trying to make your prose sound better by swapping out thesaurus words, just don't, it's not working.
You're not lacking for grasp of the flow of words (although it's rough around the edges), but it's incoherent at best. Nobody else reviewed it probably because of that.
>>7322643
florid palabrum. There are a couple of clever statements in there, but they're not the ones you think are clever, and the ones you think are clever are emphatically not.
You'd need to already be independently famous for anyone to like this (meaning: it's crap).
>>7323438
Decent. I think you've got a show-dont-tell problem in that section, but where exposition is appropriate you've achieved "readable"; no small feat for /lit/ critique threads.
SIÞEN þe sege and þe assaut watz sesed at Troye,1
Þe borȝ brittened and brent to brondeȝ and askez,
Þe tulk þat þe trammes of tresoun þer wroȝt
Watz tried for his tricherie, þe trewest on erþe:
Hit watz Ennias þe athel, and his highe kynde,5
Þat siþen depreced prouinces, and patrounes bicome
Welneȝe of al þe wele in þe west iles.
Fro riche Romulus to Rome ricchis hym swyþe,
With gret bobbaunce þat burȝe he biges vpon fyrst,
And neuenes hit his aune nome, as hit now hat;10
Tirius to Tuskan and teldes bigynnes,
Langaberde in Lumbardie lyftes vp homes,
And fer ouer þe French flod Felix Brutus
On mony bonkkes ful brode Bretayn he settez
wyth wynne,15
Where werre and wrake and wonder
Bi syþez hatz wont þerinne,
And oft boþe blysse and blunder
Ful skete hatz skyfted synne.
Ande quen þis Bretayn watz bigged bi þis burn rych,20
Bolde bredden þerinne, baret þat lofden,
In mony turned tyme tene þat wroȝten.
Mo ferlyes on þis folde han fallen here oft
Þen in any oþer þat I wot, syn þat ilk tyme.
Bot of alle þat here bult, of Bretaygne kynge
Reyte
>>7324772
I would modify the first line somewhat; "accomplishment" would sound better in my opinion, Now that you've rephrased the second line, I understand what it means and would keep the original, but think some clarity and flow can be gained from omitting the final comma. This would look like:
Adulthood’s not a state of mind, nor an accomplishment:
To be a man crusted over a child’s but a space of transition spent.
“Hey,” called a voice from the shadows on the porch.
“Beazley?” asked Sandra.
“You want a cigarette?” He moved unsettlingly into the distant blue shine of the streetlight, eyes glinting.
“Nah, don’t smoke.”
“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, and flicked his lighter.
“Who smokes cigarettes, really?”
He took a drag, noncommittally. “You know—“ he started suddenly. “I feel— I think I should apologize.”
Sandra huffed.
“I shouldn’t have been playing around with a gun like that. It got out of control down there. I just— I know I have a hard time with anger sometimes.”
“Sorry,” Sandra said, not knowing what else to say. “Ashley was pretty freaked.”
“I know, it was stupid. So STUPID.” He brought his fist down on the rail, cig between his teeth, puffing forcefully. “You’re so beautiful,” he said after a moment, “I mean all of you, not – you’re— I think women should be protected, not waiving guns in their faces.”
Erika was silent and he took another long drag, staring at the broken boards of the porch.
“Some guy shot up our school when I was a kid, so I know that, you see?” He looked at her hopefully. “I know how scary it can be. I don’t know if you remember it? In Oregon, it was, I mean. Jeorji Alexandrovich. I was in seventh grade.”
“That’s terrible,” she said softly.
“It wasn’t so bad. I mean I wasn’t anywhere near it, he only killed the people in his class. I was in Mrs. Williamson’s, she taught English. I just remember panic and running out to the police cars. There were so many kids in the hall, so many kids we couldn’t get through them and the teachers kept screaming – to the police cars, to the police cars.” He unclutched his hand painfully and took a long silent tug on his cigarette.
“Is that why you like guns?”
“No. Well maybe, I guess. You gotta protect yourself.”
Ashley’s voice resonated indistinctly from inside the house, a sibling argument, and Sandra was glad to have the silence filled.
>>7319149
When you use the first person, refrain from using I as much as possible. We already know you are there, just say things like you are thinking them
1. It's repetitive and annoying as fuck to read
2. You can show more instead of telling
>>7324800
That's a perfect fix, thank you.
David Sedaris walked into a gas station, trailed by his crowd of devout middle-aged mothers. They had been following him for years. Long ago, they angered and confused him, but eventually he learned to coexist. They said he made the little things in life amusing. They felt younger being around him. It was perhaps odd, but David remembered that symbiosis is one of life's stranger relationships.
David walked down the snack aisle and looked over the candy selection. A somewhat overweight housewife-type snickered as he scratched his stubbled chin. A few others began laughing with her. Eventually he picked out a pack of spearmint gum. They found the act hilarious. Some women had tears in their eyes from laughing so hard. He heard one repeat the word spearmint cathartically between laughs.
He learned to stop questioning their laughter, but only after a long period of reflection. At first it was exciting, the attention and freshness of other's happiness. He had a knack for performance and enjoyed an occasional audience, so there was very little shame or self-consciousness at first. But the initial excitement gave way to paranoia. He cursed at them many times, broke down on a few occasions. And their reaction was always the same delighted laughter. He threatened everything possible, to injure them, injure himself, legal action, and so on. They loved it. And yet it never affirmed the paranoia. It was simple laughter, the kind an infant makes in surprise. So he learned to move on.
As he stood in line, the women stood behind him, watching and tittering. He coughed compulsively and it got a great reaction. The man ahead of David in line looked back to him with a slightly confused expression. David shrugged apologetically and the women laughed enormously, like a sitcom laugh track.
Eventually it was his turn at the register and he laid the gum on the table. There was an expectant tension.
"That all for you, Mr. Sedaris?" the clerk asked, who was familiar with David's plight.
"Yes, thank you," David lisped politely. The women laughed tensely, all waiting for the payoff.
"That'll be a dollar-oh-seven," the clerk said. David handed him two dollars as the laughter rose. "Out of two?"
The clerk handed him his change and David thanked him and said goodbye. The women burst into laughter and some even applauded. Then David Sedaris left the gas station, followed by the crowd of women, and walked home.
>>7324832
to be honest with you, family, this is pretty brilliant.
I wouldn't read another word of it though.
>>7324818
everything was going fine until "noncommittally" - aside from arguments about whether this is a word at all (largely pointless because sure, we can make up words as long as our reader gets it), this is atrociously slowing the dialog here because of how clanking and unwieldy it is. I like the sentence better if it reads "He took a small drag."
replace "waiving" with "waving"
who is erika. if it is the guy who waved the gun, he's not being silent at all.
standard operating procedure in american public schools during a school shooting is to remain in your class with the doors locked. There would be no running to the cops for a wide variety of really good reasons I won't get into here unless you ask me, to avoid being wordy.
As a standalone this scene seems cliché.
>>7324848
>noncommittally
goddamn adverbs slip in everywhere. Good call on standard school procedure too, thanks.
>tfw no one replies to your post even though you bumped the thread off page 9
>>7324892
if you're the one I think it is, it's decently written but uneventful. reads like a blog post in 3rd person.
>>7324906
This way is more fun
>>7324892
You are a whiny bitch.
>>7324922
great opening line for a poem or story
Here's something I wrote:
Turn your back on the war and say fuck it
Become the professor who looks most like you
Grow succulents, then gut them for their insides
Tell the barista a different name and then pretend like you don’t know them
Tell someone your thinking about wearing jeans and a white t-shirt to dinner at the professor’s house
Rub your nose and play with your hair until it’s bad looking
The best way to humble yourself is not to think about anything
Which you can’t because that’s impossible
You did once
As a kid when you looked into the fire
Your friend said, “When guys look into the fire they can think about nothing.”
The girl next to you said, “I can’t do that.”
The clouds don’t move unless you look at them
Or unless they make you look at them
You scribbled on a piece of paper and didn’t look at it
Then compacted it in your hand and threw it away
You told yourself, that’s the best thing I ever created that wasn’t art
Sort of like how you looked into the tissue after every time you blew your nose
Your history teacher said how size doesn’t matter
Then she told you about how he was 6’5” with had red-hair and scared the shit out of people
But couldn’t read
Most powerful people are 6’5” and can’t read
All the poems you write are already written by someone else
Which you suspect
But you don’t read those poems again
Because once you do they’re yours
You have an idea for a rectangular scratch-proof screen that goes along the top of urinals as advertisement space
And you give it away to someone looking for affirmation
School-shootings can be funny if you aren’t close to them
You saw a tweet that showed a guy holding a paring knife
It read, “Don’t go to culinary school tomorrow.”
Someone else tweeted, “There’s a guy coming to my school with a gun, this is crazy.”
You think about a dead man writing an essay about the presidential campaign
Every paragraph ended with, “and there’s something terribly sad and terribly banal about that.”
You watch a video where a professor sits on top of his desk with his legs crossed
Wearing brand new chucks
“I’m going to push a view, draw a line if you will, in this course
There are some common ideas: we have a soul, or a spirit
There is something about consciousness that is apart from the body
It makes us human, it may even be the essential part of our humanity
There may be then, an afterlife
In this course I’m going to try to convince you the opposite.”
You wake up at sunrise
You drink coffee
You support sustainable farming in Nicaragua
You walk to class
Who wrote this poem
It wasn’t the volleyball player in front of you in class
It wasn’t the tree that couldn’t stand still
It wasn’t the three thumbs-up symbols that Mom sent you on facebook
Capitalization doesn’t matter
Once you have enough of them
Change every line of this poem
And never look at it again
>>7319344
>creative writing workshops make better writers
Hohohaha he-he o boy...
>>7324900
thanks. i guess the blog posty vibe is not far from what I'm going for; im more trying to tell the reader what the character is thinking than anything else
>>7324936
(cont'd)
I don’t remember the first line
Don’t try to remind me
>>7324880
Surprisingly meaningful for a poem, but you've sacrificed a bit of the lyricism/imagery for it.
For example:
>King of my own mind, I decreed it and followed
>To the last letter of the word, to the end of the road
Say it out loud - poetry is music and this doesn't flow very well. You really really have to pack a lot of meaning in, and still have it sound good.
Perhaps instead:
>My mind, the King! decreed last lettered word
>And loyal to lord, I obeyed unspurred
I liked the image of self as both king and follower there. the rest is pretty much the same - solid, but you're not quite there yet. Poetry is highly subjective though so who can say? At least yours isn't a jumbled mess of incomprehensibility.
>>7324603
I'll try to check out some of his stuff, thanks. Just posted another one of mine, pic has waldo lying on bodies, lmk what you think.
>>7324838
you're in luck, i didn't write another word of it
>>7324950
where? i changed it a bit before posting so thats probably why. real draft is error free
>>7324953
Thank you for that insight. It's too bad my imagery and lyricism is suffering; I EXPLICITLY was trying to be more lyrical and imagery-based than usual (I've become quite literal since I started trying to write harder SF in earnest. My poetry has notably suffered).
I really like your two example replacement lines much better aesthetically, but unfortunately they don't actually carry over quite the meaning I was going for - nor do I seem to be able to fix them up a little to work.
I know what you're saying about that couplet, though, I think, so I'll continue looking at ways to improve it. It's probably the most cliche of all the stanzas.
>>7324965
too bad. I fucking hate david sedaris and honestly your piece was pretty cathartic for me to read. I didn't have any improvements to suggest so I stayed quiet, but I think it's a wonderful parody of what sedaris seems to think of himself, the precious fuck.
>>7325032
np. I had initially written
>My mind, the King! decreed last lettered word
>And loyal to lord, I followed ...... YA HEARD?
I couldn't come up with anything good rhyming with "word" so I gave up. Consider dropping the rhyme scheme?
>>7325058
lol
I consider the rhyme scheme and heroic couplet conceit to be important to the poem's theme of childhood ideals preserved into an adulthood that has changed their holder. I'm working on trying to find a fitting rhyme for the one couplet that lacks one -
>How else? And so I own,
>I now know a little of what is in an adult.
I'd really like not to abandon the rhyme scheme. Don't worry, just because we don't have an answer here and now doesn't mean the poem can't be improved. I am still thinking on it.
>>7324936
yo, I reviewed two different pieces, someone give me some attn. pl0x
>>7324985
If the real draft is error free, why don't you know where the typo is? Autocorrect wouldn't catch it. You clearly aren't serious about your work. Every word should have its place and yet you just type away like the idiot you are. Hopefully this has served to correct your course. Sorry for getting angry, but you are a dolt, sorry again, I can't help it, you are just so fucking stupid, please forgive me.
>>7325176
what are you going for here:
"School-shootings can be funny if you aren’t close to them
You saw a tweet that showed a guy holding a paring knife
It read, “Don’t go to culinary school tomorrow.”
Someone else tweeted, “There’s a guy coming to my school with a gun, this is crazy.”"
Also, what are you going for with this poem in general? After that is known better I can better provide the rest of my critique. I guess part of my critique is that the poem is inaccessible in parts for me and seems to lack coherence.
>>7325072
'course not, just a suggestion.
post it here when you finish it, it's got good potential (and I nearly always hate poetry)
In my way of thinking, this spell at May's had reached its conclusion. Employment is arduous and demoralizing, as your continued relevance depends solely on your alleged popularity. Rarely amiable with coworkers, I seldom had anything nice to say.
What with the overweight General Manager, who will hire only the most attractive, unreliable and all around good for nothing specimen . . . his pugnacious assistant, parading her teeny pissing mutt around like the child she will never bear, things seemed at all times in a state of tipping over . . . perched slightly on the cusp, the threat of falling prevented only in the absence of viable competition.
Imagine, for a moment, the last diner you attended . . . smutty; I don't care what anyone has to say about the food. Now, attach a bar to the other half of said diner: it was foul, a damn sight worse than most would deem unacceptable. In the end, I was ahead of willing to split entirely from the place, however delirious at the outset, brimming with foolish ambition. It was a misapprehension to think I could've received proper training from anyone there . . . and in any case, my interest in bar tending had dwindled.
Employees were treated like supplies, the last morsel of vitality extracted from an empty decanter. The turnover rate immense, as was my indignation . . . it only expanded.
What little money I had when I left went straight into the landlord’s pocket, but you couldn't have convinced me to stay. In an establishment that seats at least 3,000 in any 24-hour period, I fall short of an adequate explanation . . . the amount of stress, the hemorrhoids and my terrible sleep. Physical labor is intolerable when you’ve slept badly, and I did, most of the time. Support staff, such as myself, were required to complete a list of 'side work' each day upon leaving . . . a list long enough to keep you two or three hours. It was improbable to leave before these tasks had been completed . . . and you were often never compensated for the over time; contractual larceny.
I think after the third demand to rid an assortment of bodily fluids from various areas of the bar in an hour, slowly asphyxiating, I chose to walk out on my shift. I'd just finished mopping a puddle . . . I looked up as I heard this awful retching and gagging . . . this lurid, unrestrained expose of projectile body cleansing: it flowed out across the table from a young Filipino girl. I remember thinking her a minor when I noticed the empty cocktail glasses next to her, speckled with insides; her food was also drenched. She jerked about intricately, in epileptic movements; wiping the bile from her tits . . . she raised her hand as if a child waiting to be called upon, still and insidious. Her acquaintances took no notice of her inebriation or the fascinating presentation.
Customers looked about repulsively, refusing to eat. People are always looking for some pretext to justify their unwillingness to pay.
>>7324779
> I think you've got a show-dont-tell problem in that section
Care to elaborate? I was trying to introduce the character as fast as possible without going 'here is a bullet point list of a few basic attributes', so I was wondering if it came off in a telling way but wasn't quite sure how to fix it if it was.
>>7318578
Las Vegas is perforated by homeless. Or so I was told when I first came across the Prom Club. Midnight on the idolatrous strip:the place where money is given tombs, and people given the boot. Drunks dropping trough on the smooth pavement. The splattering of bile and dung on ocher sidewalks; the blistering lights overhead giving shadow and warmth— that when viewed from the air resemble a monolithic fly lamp attracting tin flies to its zapping embrace. Yes the city of sin, built on the back of Hoover Dam, He had a whiskey sour for a mouth, and a gouging mosquito gaze that reddened eyes.
>>7325189
>If the real draft is error free, why don't you know where the typo is
because i didnt read it again before i posted it obv
stop posting reddit pics and try giving people actual criticism
>>7318578
Okay so
It's 1880s london
and you've got the newspaper kid who's all like "EXTRA EXTRA" etc.
He feels a pebble get thrown at his headHe turns around
and there's a guy in a fish suit wielding a whole tuna threateningly and guy in the fish suit snaps his fingers and goes "FISH BEAT" and moonwalks to sick beats before then rushing the kid and starts whaling on his with his tuna and a bunch of other dudes in fish suits start doing the same, just slapping the living fuck out of this kid with fish
and each TWACK is punctuated by a cheap midi synth stab like in Hobgoblins
and the sound of a DJ going "FISH!!!"
needless to say this quickly turns into total cacophony
But then there's a whistle
And there's a dude in a beef suit wielding a big slab of raw beef
he's smoking a cigar and he says "looks like we got a fish out of water boys" and he and his meat suit friends rush the fish dudes and fight them but then just start slapping the hell out of the kid too
and their slaps have a different midi stab and a different DJ going "BEEF"
Then finally a chickenmobile pops up with "CHICKEN" on the side in helvetica bold
dudes in chicken suits do a drive-by on the fish and beef dudes
kid is traumatized
the end
>>7325237
I don't know what reddit is, I am giving you actual criticism, and you still don't know what the error is.
>>7325249
>>7325237
>implying there was only one error in that piece
there was a bunch of them, so:
to the author: you're not taking it seriously enough
to the other anon: you're the worst kind of faggot; not only do you have utterly nothing of value to say, but you can't even deliver your banal pedantry without trying to show off how "smart" you are. For catching a typo?
>actual criticism
kek, what a moron.
>>7325239
>Family Guy: the book
>>7325266
Was bein nice. To be honest, family. I am obviously a moron. TAKES ONE 2 KNO 1.
>>7325266
>faggot;
>;
watch out!
>>7325222
OK, how about this now?
I, young, promised myself I’d not go over
To the old, the adult, the imagination-sober.
King of my own mind, I decreed this and followed
To the ultimate word, straight on ‘til morning proud.
Poor misspoken worlds of a child’s love,
Unknowing, I sought an out, but the boat stove.
On this cove the waves gather anon
The lot of manhood’s accreted accoutrements done.
It is a woe-shore on a longer shadowed sea
Of travels not yet come and accretions yet to be.
Here I by the surprise of time was smote;
The feared age came on unbid, but rote.
How else? So I now know a little, I own,
Of what is in an adult; what the years make groan:
Moon-drug tidepools of days are enough;
The moat of a mind’s determination is shallow stuff.
I kept my dreams and notions,
But existence is a poultice to make a tear an ocean;
Little me, beside myself, soon drove upon the boretide
Along with never-neverland and eight years of stories, bedside.
Crashed along this present bank, I nurse a secret book,
A note took with at which ‘tis now difficult to look;
A beautiful, too-simple word or two that’s more than I can own,
I think, mired here, alone with memory of what has gone.
Adulthood’s not a state of mind, nor an accomplishment.
To be a man crusted over a child’s but a space of transition spent.
And oh, but digging out that oyster’s sorry rounded rock
Is bloodstained work. So here’s my oath to do it before my last tock’s on the clock.
>>7322139
>"The cats are hungry, honey. Go get some food for them at the store".
is what it should be
redeemed by the use of the word "rubicund"
>>7322155
very good
>>7324779
>palabrum
did you mean pabulum?
>>7322805
good
>>7318578
Imagine the terrestrial timespan as an outstretched arm: a single swipe of an emery-board, across the nail of the third finger, erases human history. We haven't been around for very long. And we've turned the earth's hair white. Sh e seemed to have eternal youth but now she's ageing awful fast, like an addict, like a waxless candle. Jesus, have you seen her recently? we used to live and die without any sense of the planet getting older, of mother earth getting older, living and dying. We used to live outside history. But now we're all coterminous. We're inside history now all right, on its leading edge, with the wind ripping past our ears. Hard to love, when you're bracing yourself for impact. And maybe love can't bear it either, and flees all planets when they reach this condition, when they get to the end of their twentieth centuries
>>7324344
He felt that soon his placid disposition would crumble under the weight of indiciduality, or rather, his lack.
Slash and burn that shit like an Indian forest
The rest is okay. You need to work on your rhythms,
>>7325379
can someone not retarded review my piece?
>>7325388
Sure, you obviously think you can write, and have the arrogance to pull it off. However, you are also blind as a fucking bat to your own mistakes. Your attempts to imitate epiphany is at best tepid and really just fetid. Your thoughts are worthless and vapid. You have nothing to say. Go get your ego stroked at some-other fucking literary hugbox, you illiterate mongoloid.
>>7325404
whatever everyone likes it and it's style so you are dismissed; wow
>>7324344
Overall rating: 2/10 with fixed typos
You have several misspellings which is a red flag that you're not even editing your own work (indiciduality, he knee deep down).
This persons thoughts suggest a contemporary young person experiencing the push and pull of ego in the face of an uncertain and overwhelming world. It's not a bad theme but you haven't captured it and there's nothing in this paragraph to suggest you have anything wise or meaningful to say about it.
I have no interest in reading a young person's overly self interested journal: nobody else does, and this never makes for good reading as far as I know.
>>7324936
This is god awful shit. It's painful to read. You have not demonstrated the slightest attention to poetic techniques. The language is dead and disgusting in terms of its raw aesthetic. It comes across as the jumbled ramblings of an angry teenager.
Now please don't take this as a red flag that you're "just a bad writer" or something. It just means that if you want to write you need to practice your craft. Read, write, read, write, read. Good luck.
>>7325404
your an idiot; his stuff is great
>>7325333
I always see poetry get left on these threads un-replied to. I'm not the best reader of poetry, so can't possible be a good critic, but I liked this. I found after reading it a few times over, more and more came from it, which I suppose is what ya want in poetry. There were a few unoriginal, generic uses of words in there, and you seem smart enough to know which ones they were--but also smart enough to decide to keep them or not.
Nice, dude.
>>7325418
stop trying so hard that guys stuff is great
>>7325345
Wait, actually?
I was under the impression that it made no fucking sense.
>>7324936
I would change "looked into fire" and "look into the fire" to "looked at the fire" and "look at fire".
It feels like a slam poem, kinda. Better than 90% of them, but still pretty preachy. Maybe that's the second person and the rhythm of the first stanza that makes me think that. Not necessarily a bad thing, if energy is what you're going for.
I really like the tissue image. However I think it needs some work to flow better.
Kill your last stanza. It's terrible.
You can't end on the facebook thing, but you definitely need a better ending. It feels too forced as is, like you're tying too neat a bow on it.
>>7325373
you lie!!!
and while I haven't read >>7324936
I can say that >>7324344
is overwrought, fake, phony, and substanceless :(
also the grammar is bad, too
though I am biased by my rage at your slandery of me
>>7325466
wow that guy sucks so much it blows my mind. whoever you are please leave /lit/ forever.
>>7324818
>I think women should be protected, not waiving guns in their faces.”
women shouldn't be waiving (sic) guns in each other's faces?
also nice blaming school shootings on the ruskies with a fakass name... cyka
The characters seem to be alive, though.. but maybe just in a 90s sense. Maybe even more alive than life. And there's something terribly sad and banal about that.
>>7324832
perhaps the most kafkaesque thing I have read this week...
You gotta get in more jokes, though. I thought the "coexist" joke (hopefully referencing to those bumper stickers) was brilliant. Add in more of that. Need more jokes per sentence.
>>7325483
I CA NCAOOF KCKREATIVE UFKCING HIST YOU FUCKING HSUITIHHTH?THGHJ:
>>7325422
thanks. I'm still twiddling this way and that over a few words, but this thread actually immensely helped this poem.
>>7325466
why go through so much trouble ms-painting? pls go; you are dismissed forever
>>7324936
pit
I'm working on a novel. Its set in 2036 after a US collapse (the cause of which remains unkown as it has been subject to manipulation by faction ideologies.) Chaos has gone down, and there is increasing communication, unity and warfare between emerging societies. A small group of socialist embark on a quest to unify and rebuild the nation. This takes on a variety of forms from drug trafficing in cities to resolving major conflict between emerging nations to creating a faction union of their own. I'm sorry if my summary is shit. ou'll se that in the introduction but I think the book itself is better Email me if interested. [email protected] (I created the account a VERY long time ago, but havent really committed into any others)
Keep in mind that because im already 47000 words in im going to finish it anyway just for the experience if nothing else, so posts along the lines of "Scrap it and kill yourself" wont be needed. This is my first novel, and I cant stand writing subreddits (I tried)
I should just link to doc actually and you can request
As of now there is no planned title. When I started writing this last year I chose the first thing that popped into mind, but I will change if neccessary.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Urk8BOxHerPO-SK2UPBakrEjL9USlxXk7NKvnUns7JI/edit
>>7325189
Very good. Like the ambivalence in the speaker. Very relatable and human.
>>7325506
If only the US collapses, the rest of the world would have a pretty good idea what happened to the USA.
>>7325513
Yeah, but I'm nowhere neat the part where foreign powers get involved.
>>7325345
I hate to spam the thread, but can I get some actual feedback?
I appreciate the compliment, but I really need to know what I can improve upon, what doesn't work, if the flow is there, etc.
>>7325466
i don't nkow who the fuck you are; but please leave and stop wasting everyone's time with you're idiocy
>>7325516
What I'm saying is that your notion of no one knowing what happened is patently unbelievable.
When a nation as big as the USA collapses, the entire world is thrown into disarray. Look at what's happening because just a few million middle easterners have become refugees. Do you have any idea what 150 million refugees flooding into Canada, Mexico, Cuba would look like? It would be a fucking unbelievable shitshow. In order to even survive, Canada and Mexico would HAVE to get involved militarily in the states' collapse, managing the chaos in order to reduce the number of refugees they'd eventually have to take on. Europe and China would be in there lending assistance as well in order to curry more influence over whatever state or states eventually rose out of the mess; the nation is a big, educated one with lots of natural resources, and that's all stuff worth fighting, even killing over.
Basically, nation states outside the US would be involved immediately, from the point of the downfall to the eventual recovery. Model the fall on the decline of the Roman empire or the collapse of China at various points in its history, that's the kind of scale we are talking about here.
>>7324936
Here's your fucking attention, you whore.
Not only is your poem shit, but you yourself are shit. That can't be said about the author of every poem, but the banal narcissistic bullshit that you think is important/deep/indicative of a meaningful interiority is so far off base and disgusting that it makes me want to take a deep sleep. Why did I even wake up this morning?
This poem is basically a meaningless, rhythmless, MUSICLESS, soulless string of boring bits and bobs from a boring idiot's life at some shitty liberal arts university. Who cares that you tell your barista a fake name? Do you think they care? They don't. They have a fucking job; they don't have time to get tied up in your narcissistic child's play. Not to mention the multiple grammar errors:
>Tell someone your thinking about
This just shows me that you think the things you write are so important and so ineffably pure (simply by virtue of their emanations from the godhead of your own swollen ego) that you don't even need to check them for basic grammar errors.
>Rub your nose and play with your hair until it’s bad looking
Literally more infuriating than the "cookies and milk" four-panel. I love cookies and milk. About as annoying as the weird racial morph guy with bad hair who liked girls with small tits. Do you wear a tank top with a little pendant, too? Maybe you should write a poem about it.
I wonder why "you" is at the center of this poem? Why is it repeated so often? Oh wait, it's obvious. It's a smokescreen for "I". You KNOW you're a noxious, intolerable narcissist, you KNOW how it makes other people feel (bored and uncomfortable), you KNOW that you could be happier if you actually invested yourself in other people's lives instead of navel-gazingly obsessing about the banal shit that fills your stupid, meaningless life—but still, you choose to write poems like this.
You aren't important. The things you do aren't important. Stop writing poems or learn that other people exist or stop being such a painfully fucking faggy faggot.
thanks
>>7325529
can someone with intellegence please review? go back to reddit; your so stupid it hurts
>>7325522
Ok. The sappho thing is kind of dry, I guess. You have many sensuous moments then suddenly you suddenly reference antiquity. That's all. Shit, nigga. I liked it. Dam
>>7325528
Mexico Is actually pretty invloved as many of the arlier societies set up near the area as defense. Theres a big shitshow with mexico and the europeans have been working with many of the more advanced cities on the east coast. I havent put too much thought into canada though. Its unknown to the majority of people in the US and to the reader until a certain point.
>>7325535
>your
