Post whatever you're currently working on ITT and have other anons provide feedback.
Don't be shy, share an excerpt from your writing and let us know what you've been working on lately.
This is only a few sentences, but I'd like to know if the writing is any good
He could see today that the girl was enjoying his readings. He had recognised the girl the first time she was in his class. He was familiar with that face, freckled, blue eyed and inquisitive and serene and her short dark hair. He had fallen asleep thinking about her.
One day she was sitting on the entrance steps after school had ended and the children had all gone home.
Has your mother not come to pick you up, he had said.
No, I don't know where she is.
He had downed a sizeable shot of whisky before coming out and finding her here, and it began to warm his empty belly and he felt a calm excitement, fiery, yet peaceful, peaceful. He looked out, beyond the steps where they were now standing, where the sun was setting in the greying sky, as the rain slowed down to a patter, and he felt moments, mere seconds pass by, knowing that what would come next would be a good.
I posted a paragraph in a thread and people said I should write more. This is the first story I've written and so any help improving would be greatly appreciated.
http://pastebin.com/fubB54r2
I posted this in the other thread, I can post some more of it too if anyone's interested.
http://pastebin.com/4Jutzs7u
>>7893702
I like it, is it part of something?
>>7893772
It's part of some short stories I've been writing, I've got like 3000 words on this one if you'd like to read some more?
Mokocchi a cute.
A CUUUUUUUUTE!!!!
I fell into it, like i fell out of love. Here was a girl so unlike Marie so much kinder and more beautiful. I wanted so much to curl up and lie down next to her. Not fuck. Not even kiss, but i was a fag and she was a girl, and i was drizzle and she was a hurricane. So i jacked off and wept into my anime pillow. She heard me and came into the room, she looked me up and down and she said, do you want to know what she said to me? She said 'John, I love you.' Well i tell you know, its easy to forget how the world is full of people, full to bursting, and each of them imaginable and constantly misimagined. We had two weeks togther. The cancer got to her heart freezing her boy. ICE cold. But we loved enough in those two weeks to last a lifetime (a normal 80yr one not cancer lol). At the funeral i met her sister, cold icy like my heart after this girls death, she was equally cold. I could feel deep in her that she had suffered the same love. The same loss. We walked along the sandy beach. Sandy in the same way that snow isnt, she laughed when i said that to her. She was diagnosed with leukemia a day later.
>>7893510
A good what? Please tell me, I have to know
>>7893808
I feel unsure of what I'm supposed to feel here
>>7893510
John Green?
>>7893812
A good fuck, I guess, the rest of the story is an erotica, though I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here.
>>7893510
>He could
>He had
>He was
>He had
>He had
>He looked
>>7893847
how does one avoid doing this?
>>7893847
Is this even a problem? Ever read Hemingway?
>>7893808
I hate it, like really hate it
Peeped down the stairs. Mother was late again. I could see father sitting at the kitchen table light up by a single 60 watt bulb. He was up late as usual, staring into his midnight bowl of cereal.
Mom tried to be quiet, I'm sure so as not to wake up me and Jane. Closed the door, a slight creak escaped. Dad barely noticed, or pretended not to, not yet anyways. He started to get up and head towards the fridge, putting back his milk and the box of Special K. Mom hung up her coat while staring over at Dad pensively.
I didn't want this to happen again, I headed back to the safety of my pitch black room. I stared at the glow in the dark stars stuck to my ceiling. One of them fell onto the end of my bed as the pounding began.
>>7893892
A poet might write like a child for effect, does that make that child's writing poetry?
>>7893891
Just think of different ways to structure sentences, rather than "The cat sat on the bed. The cat was hungry. The cat jumped off the bed", you can try "Hungry, the cat lept from his seat upon the bed". While that example is extremely simplistic, the idea of sentence structure and word order is the core of good writing. You can have the vocabulary of a child and cover the most boring of subjects, and still write beautifully if your sentences flow well.
>>7893941
OK, any other criticism other than sentence structure?
The Bad Monster
—
It walked with a limp and couldn't see well. Its roar was more of a 'moo'. Instead of fangs it had molars. It only ever wanted to talk about Wittgenstein but never could find a receptive audience.
The Great Monster
—
It strode nimbly and had notoriously keen eyesight. When it spoke the room vibrated. Its teeth were white and crowded and always filed to beautiful points. It only ever wanted to talk about Wittgenstein but humbly kept its razorous mouth shut.
http://pastebin.com/auc5Hk2g
I posted this a couple threads ago. I've added more to it and tried to tone down the high school edginess.
>>7893988
Is this a children's book?
Also posting my draft excerpt here.
Almost every 4chan user is in Hell. Hell is described as being the absence of God. Whatever your theological inclinations, that God can also be applied to the non-divine. Humanity as a whole is the most relatable non-spiritual 'God'. The parallels between God and humanity are many, but the key is a mysterious humanoid presence with seemingly unlimited power. Most users here have no connection to humanity, which leads to a description of this hell.
If you have no connection to humanity then you are by definition an outsider. This outsider point of view can be observed in every discussion on this site and is generally implicit. It is acknowledged as a shared negative trait by users as a rule. This may partially relate to the Anonymous title everyone uses, which is a potentially very meaningful symbol. The entire site being anonymous serves two functions: removing any trace of humanity and creating a sense of a greater whole. When you and everyone else are anonymous then your have all chosen to carry the one name. This creates an entirely non-human online community where users are at their most indistinguishable from robots. This is also funnily enough the name for the sub-group that feels the greatest disconnect from humanity. What we have then is a group that has renounced humanity and attempted to create a replacement in its image, a fallen 'outsider God' called Anonymous.
>>7893682
Interesting, but somewhat difficult to follow. I'm not sure exactly what happened in the last paragraph. Post Modern.
Please note, I am stoned. But I enjoyed it. If anything, I found the allusions to be a bit to frequent.
Pretty happy with this little line, thoughts?
“She may know a little, may think of herself, face and body, as ‘pretty’…but he could never tell her all the rest, how many other living things, birds, nights smelling of grass and rain, sunlit moments of simple peace, also gather in what she is to him.”
>>7893510
HeHeHeHeHe, also try
He knew that face, freckled, blue eyed, inquisitive and serene, he fell asleep thinking about her.
The next day she was sitting on the entrance steps after school had ended. The other children had left.
>>7893923
Just a bit boring, maybe try using more engaging verbs or descriptions
>father was sitting
>staring over at Dad pensively
if he's gonna 'pound her' i dont think she;d be pensive, instead of sitting use a verb that shows his stress or thought process like hunched or crumpled or sat stiffly.
Also why does it change from father to Dad?
>>7893682
pynchon fan huh, smouldering as a description of eyes is painful. The first line is good (no shoes please) is a nice interruption. but then 6 different chars named in first couple of sentence, after the third name its too much especially with no distinguishing characteristics and then they dont do anything...
>pedestrian, at very best upper-mid brow tier
pat on back for reading classics i guess
>Pollock walls
this is a nice touch, also the reference to Theseus is quite nice.
>listen here you lil shit
hmm
might do more later if i can be fucked
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1kX_5loMw-T0_a5nv6w7zX10wufauZ7VvaI3h6pv1OuM/pub
I wrote this a long time ago and it's terrible. The beginning has a lot of bad purple prose that I'm going to edit.
>>7894010
Why?
>>7894110
The Good monster, Bad monster dichotomy strikes me as childish.
>>7894120
Dichotomy?
>>7894126
Do you want a definition? You're comparing a good monster to a bad monster in a way that emphasizes the qualities of both of them. How does this not strike as something out of a children's book?
You want to say something but you think you don't think you can find a way to form a foundry and assemble these thoughts and words within your own capacity. A capacity unprotected and only approximated in the brains of the you and the brains of the ones you want to say this to.
You want to search for that node, the node that straightens your bearings in what you think you don't think you can achieve but still reveals itself to be something that you, you very much want to attempt, before the null. Sensing nothing but an indefinite yet finite decay that leads to this before the null. The you, before you lose all of your self in the what-you-don't-think-you-think-you-can-comprehend, something like that, even if it's only her.
>>7894130
I thought we transcend the good/bad dichotomy here...? The defining of 'good' & 'bad' is to sketch a picture of the system describing them. And yeah, I was thinking in the vein of Edward Gorey.
I thought the children's book style would be clear enough to be beyond comment.
But overall it seems you got it and it didn't offend your sensibilities, and that's a passing grade on /lit/...
Too busy contemplating the exact nature of concepts to be writing about them.
How any of you determine value from your material is beyond me.
>>7894171
writing about not being able to determine the exact nature of the concept, in turn determining your value of the concept. The rest is just noise.
>>7893510
>>7893808
>>7893923
>>7894002
>>7894014
>>7894076
>>7894145
All these examples are fine. They're well written, could do with a little tightening, but they read nicely. Thing is, they're just not that interesting, there's no 'personality' being conveyed, so they come across as ordinary. Now this is obviously the hardest part of writing IMO, and I'm not saying I can do it myself - but you guys are clearly competent writers, you just need to take the 'next step'. Though if you're just writing for yourself or friends or family then its fine.
That's why you're not getting much feedback, there's nothing very tangible to critique in your writing. You're not doing anything wrong per se, but you could be doing a lot more, y'know?
>>7894179
Was writing about Malice and it seems oddly appropriate that it obliterates value.
Thoughts?
"I seized every pretext for going down to the beach at the hours when I hoped to succeed in finding them there. Having caught sight of them once while we were at luncheon, I now invariably came in late for it, waiting interminably upon the 'front' for them to pass; devoting all the short time that I did spend in the dining-room to interrogating with my eyes its azure wall of glass; rising long before the dessert, so as not to miss them should they have gone out at a different hour, and chafing with irritation at my grandmother, when, with unwitting malevolence, she made me stay with her past the hour that seemed to me propitious. I tried to prolong the horizon by setting my chair aslant; if, by chance, I did catch sight of no matter which of the girls, since they all partook of the same special essence, it was as if I had seen projected before my face in a shifting, diabolical hallucination, a little of the unfriendly and yet passionately coveted dream which, but a moment ago, had existed only—where it lay stagnant for all time—in my brain.
I was in love with none of them, loving them all, and yet the possibility of meeting them was in my daily life the sole element of delight, alone made to burgeon in me those high hopes by which every obstacle is surmounted, hopes ending often in fury if I had not seen them. For the moment, these girls eclipsed my grandmother in my affection; the longest journey would at once have seemed attractive to me had it been to a place in which they might be found. It was to them that my thoughts comfortably clung when I supposed myself to be thinking of something else or of nothing. But when, even without knowing it, I thought of them, they, more unconsciously still, were for me the mountainous blue undulations of the sea, a troop seen passing in outline against the waves. Our most intensive love for a person is always the love, really, of something else as well."
>>7893510
try changing up the beginnings of your sentences. you start a lot of them with "He" too repetitive makes for uninterested readers.
>>7894195
>>7894145 here, I was hoping for a more relate-ability critique about interpretation improvement. There's really no point in posting "personal" writing. here if you don't think someone might understand what you are saying, or at least enjoy reading it.
I don't know, first time I've ever posted in a critique thread.
>>7893808
You suck
I'd trained myself to wake up during nighttime incidents of epidermal
arachnid exploration not to ward off the ingestion of eight hairy
appendages but rather to savour the delectable protein and feel
the tickle on the back of my throat as the organism
mosied it's unwitting way down to a sea of acid, perhaps not unlike
what a human has experienced in a science fiction novel upon
encountering an advanced and prescient race. A race which
effectively recognized the banality of subscription to time and clocks, and
any types of institutions and had managed to ascend to anarchy, a gentle
humming state of explosive creativity bulwarked by the underlying
knowledge that none of this matters in the way you think it does.
Then I realized I was trying to write like David Foster Wallace.
You can't write like David Foster Wallace. Even DFW couldn't write
like DFW, why do you think he committed suicide? That man was uplifted
by the wings of a neurotic angel, one offshot of His creation that happened
to have one of those masterpieces that incidentally necessitated total
subjugation of pleasant human activity and affectations - probably
mostly courage. If he'd been more courageous then likely simultaneously
inclined to do less through a screen and more through iris, cones weaving
black - Yeah, but like is my black your black? -, rods weaving blue. The
sisters weaving his fate, unbeknowst to him and still disregarded
by this author. Who sits pleasantly in the house his parents rent, one
that he's left three indentations in the skeleton of to remind himself
of the futility of assigning blame. A shattered drawer resting placidly
in the hallway, not so much reminescent of a prizefighter who'd endured
his recent bout with deluded masculine stoicism but as if you'd invoked
fisticuffs with a balanced buddhist, who's likely also stupid.
At what point can the vow of non-violence be cut abrupt?
I have an incrediy hard time organizing my thoughts well enough to write them down. I get this certain sense feeling in my head, but I can't put it into words no matter how hard I try. I've done exercises of typing out as much as I can while I think about the subject, but it doesn't hit on it exactly.
>>7893923
this wasn't bad. except the first part of the 2nd stanza. you cant claim to know why your mother did things. it is impossible to know another persons reasoning in first person narrative.
>>7894014
thought every writer ever. you are saying things nobody cares to hear. try writing on topics that interest people instead of just making yourself sad with sad writing.
>>7894145
this is A+ work fine sir. if you could write an entire book on this, i would read it.
>>7894202
I liked the tone but you should write more economically
>>7894002
[Last Time] → This Time
Preposition Ratio: [12.13 %] → 11.94 %
Z Nouns: [television, opinion, location] → extension, position
Lexical Diversity: [40%] → 38.2 %
Content Carrying Words: [53.19%] → 56.68 %
Personal Vocab Diversity: [60.82%] → 58.86 %
Longest Words: [subconsciously] → ramifications, tyrannosaurus
○ 'Jim’s sister was a better cook, but' → 'His sister was the better cook, but'
○ Good to know yr still working on it :^|)
“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”
If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery–isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.
So the place did exist. It was grander than Sam had imagined it. A compound of four empty houses, all exuding the novelty of never having been lived in. They each stood in their once well-defined yards, now overgrown with weed. Sam and his friends were ecstatic. “What did I tell you? Huh?” exclaimed Daniel. They all believed him now. This was truly marvellous. Four large bubble-era expat houses, all beige and horridly dated. You could see inside through the dusty sliding glass. There was no furniture. Just cobwebs on the carpet flooring. A sense of urgency to explore their newfound treasure pervaded the high-schoolers. Dusk was setting, accompanied by the Japanese crickets urging them on with their incessant racket. They picked the nearest house, yet were hesitant to slide the glass door for fear of triggering the alarm (the vigilant SECOM badge made itself clearly visible in its resplendent, albeit slightly faded blue). “It’s not lit up; normally a red light flashes on it”. The assuredness of Daniel’s voice procured them with the courage to venture in. To everyone’s surprise, the glass panels slid freely. “There’s nothing to steal”, Tobias remarked. “And no, you retard, there’s no squatters in Yokohama”. Before he could retort, Chris was left standing outside by himself. He shivered and rushed inside.
It's part of a short story entitled 'Detention'
>>7894258
Did your go to school to be an idiot, or were you born this way?
>>7894261
If you don't already have low self-esteem, you should get on that.
>>7894261
I'm a fan.
>>7894272
What?
>>7894285
DID YOUE GO TO SCKOOL TO GET AWAY FROM YOU GAY DAD IN HOPES OF MAKING SOMETHING OF YOUSELLF OR WERE YOUR BORN THIS NOT GOOD AT WRITEING?
Fuck.
In front of Jezebel laid a man she knew at one time. The gun's tip was pointed at the hardwood floor, which was now acting like a sponge in the bottom of a sink to the blood that was flooding the room. Jezebel would leave before the barrel had time to cool.
Between the new moon's rising of the previous night, and the renewing sunlight of dawn, a murderer had been born akin to Jezebel, lived a full life, and passed without it's claws digging into any but one of life's tasteful fruits.
The gun was at ease, held in the trembling hands of ecstatic joy. Pupils of the shooter were dilated to the point of nearly covering all of the brown frame that contained them, and hairs on it's neck stood sharply to the point of being able to cut human flesh.
>>7894297
You ok?
The door to the adjacent room. It forms only as the sweat and skin and semen elapse through the bones of the cunt.
Swimming together, she pivots herself with entropic direction, your sense of gravity, oscillating with each pivot, begins to stir up a feeling of spheric nausea, polar to that of the familiar friction and squirming brain games her fucks have produced in the past. But what even is time now, as you begin to vomit all over yourself, exhaling for the first time since she established the vacuum between your lungs. The plugs and the leather prevent her from realizing the alkalinity of the liquid that is now lubricating the domain.
It didn't actually occur, the vomit that is, you only felt the sensation, an alternate frame of the infinite. The nausea subsides after the seventh slip and her structure goes limp.
Removing the plugs she can here you now as you tell her, "I'm sorry". The door to the adjacent room isn't there, and you are now alone.
Spanish anyone????
First lines from a new piece, have to finish it asap so if this isnt any good i can as well quit right now and shift my attention to get some sleep or food or even some other piece. Thanks in advance, ill critique all day tomorrow in return.
-
Dos hombres conversan y toman el desayuno de cara a la costa en un comedor italiano propiedad del mayor de ellos, de nombre Beltroni, quien come a prisa un croissant relleno de crema para pasteles y bebe extraordinarias cantidades de tazas de café negro; el otro, un joven de camisa negra, saco negro y apariencia balcánica, blanco, de cabeza grande, cejas pobladas y cabello negro y corto, de nombre Pepe, en cambio, no toca los huevos estrellados y bañados en salsa que se enfrían en el plato, fuma hondo y despacio y escucha a Beltroni con expresión desesperada, pero a la vez, de alguna forma, pensativa. No hay nadie más en el exterior del comedor.
La historia, quiero decir, la anécdota de la que hablan, contada según Beltroni, ocurrió de la siguiente manera:
Beltroni ha escuchado hablar de Jack de tres fuentes distantes y sin relación entre sí y todas ellas coinciden al referirse a Jack como un elefante: 1) un hombre con apariencia de elefante, 2) con las propiedades de un elefante, 3) un elefante, tal cual. Esa mañana Beltroni seguía en la playa después de una noche de sábado vertiginosa en la que, como ya se había vuelto habitual, no encontró ningún rastro que pudiese conducirlo a una nueva hipótesis sobre Jack, en cambio encontró a tres hombres vestidos de turistas norteamericanos que resultaron ser policías mexicanos y que intentaron levantarlo mientras caminaba de vuelta a casa fumándose un primo con más coca que hierba a través del bulevar.
>>7894255
Where are you getting these percentages? How are you calculating this?
>>7894299
I think you're trying too hard
Every lonely night after every friendless day, I log on to my computer and open up /lit/. It's my only refuge from the threatening noise of public life, beside the hidden recesses of the university library. I write this now, listening to music, drinking beer to fall asleep quickly. I want to sleep soundly, but can't help being woken up in my dreams by a horrid black creature with its hooked wings extended across the room and oh God, it's Satan again, visiting me every night, teasing me, urging me on to blaspheme, to curse God and my parents and my family. I wake up in sweat at four A.M., the birds and the planes lamenting in their dawn sadness. I wish my faith in God was annulled. Without it, the duality would cease to end, along with my nocturnal torments.
>>7894320
all words / prepositions
all words / vocab
all words / cc words
[all words - most common words] / vocab
I have this weird thing where I count every word I read.
>>7894333
If this is real I'm sad. Face your demons
>>7894333
That's not Satan—THAT'S ME HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAH
I had become expansive, my imagination stifled, and only being excited by the mixture of coffee and cigarettes. This was a natural consequence of furthering ones limitations to parameters that intersected some of the more vile creatures stalking the planet, in search of nothing more than a meal. Some were glistening fabrications of economic misfortune, grimy in appearance yet pure in spirit, and would easily incite the everyman to shell out a nickel or two to soothe a primal compulsion to serve another of his species. To many, this was nothing more than a sickening downturn for our society; enabling the weak in the name of grace. It would be sacrilege to dismantle the establishment churning out more of these urchins, but then what flavors they exuded would tarnish the galvanized structures the most prized of us inhabit. We need them quarantined as a reminder of our imprisonment and rewards of our labor.
Still, despite the rigors the individual must endure to further their ambition, we remained free in a wilderness where every corner was ruthlessly examined by the wayward. That is the nature of a civilization grown fluorescent and detached from the ailments that all seek relief. This brought me to the underbelly, where a crooked institution raped every occupant, and sliced their faces so deeply that idealism appeared pitiful in the growing wake of malice. Here kindness becomes a commodity, traded underhandedly for nirvana in a bottle. It was a mainframe constructed by the deviants, who only yearned to replicate their illnesses out of deceptive intent. A hive of the lost, none had come to call it, but all recognized its validity.
Love, as it were, appeared as nothing more than a cruel hoax. What mattered was survival. Your skills or your flesh. What did you have to offer those around you? How did you manage to recede into the background to avoid being eviscerated by the social tempest? All of us were built to fail, whether by genetic fluke or environmental mishap. Death, even in the abstract sense, became recklessly infused within the fabric our every day lives. You were here overcome grueling strife and dodge the sarcophaguses any one would place you in at a moments notice. If you were lucky enough to be proclaimed as a survivor, the weary would acknowledge your sacrifice as a means of penance for their own, in the hopes that maybe the connection would last for just another hour, and solace would be attained without further provocation.
>>7894345
The writing of someone who lost big time in the genetic lottery.
>>7894361
My eyes make up for it.
>>7894310
Put it on google translator. Sorry bro, it's shit.
Here it is, by the way:
Two men talk and eat breakfast facing the coast in an Italian dining owned the oldest of them, named Beltroni, who eats a stuffed croissant hurry cream cakes and drinks extraordinary amounts of cups of black coffee; the other, a young black shirt, black jacket and Balkan, white appearance, large head, bushy eyebrows and short black hair, named Pepe, however, does not touch fried eggs and doused in sauce chilling in the dish, smoke deeply and slowly and listen to Beltroni with desperate expression, yet somehow thoughtfully. No one else outside the dining room.
The story, I mean, the story of the speakers, counted according Beltroni occurred as follows:
Beltroni has heard of Jack three distant sources and unrelated to each other and all agree to refer to Jack as an elephant: 1) a man-like elephant, 2) with the properties of an elephant, 3) an elephant, as is. That morning Beltroni still on the beach after a Saturday night dizzying in which, as already become commonplace, he found no trace that could lead to a new hypothesis about Jack, instead he found three men dressed in American tourists They turned out to be Mexican police and tried to lift him as he walked back home smoking a cousin with more coca grass across the boulevard.
>>7894224
>try writing on topics that interest people
How can I write about something I don't know about?
>>7894363
I was curious about this. Too bad its just babbling and nonsense.
>>7894363
>named pepe
>>7894370
pepe is a common nickname where i live all joses all called pepe
>>7894382
There's something terrible sad and banal about that.
>>7894374
Don't be a pussy, google translator is fine.
>>7894385
They come too naturally at this point in my pseudo-career.
>>7894229
if only man, thanks though. It's hard for me to write longer stuff and still maintain a consistent meaning, I'll try though. Might post in these threads more often.
>>7894014
I think the psyche of your average 4chan user is fascinating - it's a weird combination of intelligence and self loathing. Your writing resonated with me a little bit
>>7894392
>intelligence
Whew lad. Everyone here is a fucking moron. Objectively
>>7894272
>>7894297
You tell him.
>>7894397
I always find it odd how in some of the threads you seem to find genuinely intelligent people but the work in the crits is 98% utter garbage.
Hey nice profile picture
Hello
So where do you work?
Kill me
-
-
So where did you study, or are you still at uni?
Kill me
-
-
Can I get your number?
>>7894435
to be honest family, intelligent people use the catalog to find threads on topics they are interested in. "critique" is too wide and i would only come here if i wanted my own work critiqued (and probably stolen in part)
You want a dumpling?
Oh I'm fine thanks
-
-
The sex was pretty bad last time, I had to call my boyfriend to finish me off afterwards
Ah, well that's ... bad
Sorry I hope you're alright
I recognise that it's a bad thing but I think I'll be ok
-
I'll try harder next time
Language is light coming directly from the image of the sun's disk, the shaft of sunlight into a darkened room. The words change significantly across the day and depends on the angle of the sun above the horizon, the altitude of the reader above sea level, the season, the geographical location and the amount of water vapor, dust and smoke in the air. This sentence itself is so brilliant that it overwhelms imagination, making all judgments unreliable, but if the noon sun were dimmed sufficiently, it would appear as a pale evening in your elementary school's empty halls. Pale greenish yellow schoolroom drawings. This color appears in the afterimage from rutilant light between the pines in your yard.
I love you & I know we will turn to ash alone.
Hold down my hands
Ok
Put your finger in my ass
... maybe next time
Are you enjoying this?
Yeah
Talk a little while you do it
Oh, uh
-
-
I came
what?
I came
oh, I didn't even notice
I'm always very quiet about it
-
let me get you a tissue
>>7893506
Duke left his bike behind the diner and walked around front. Sal was sitting at a sidewalk table with his shades on, smoking. He grinned at Duke and held up a shiny fresh copy of Revelista!
“Check it out Duke,” he flipped to the middle of the magazine and let a long glossy page accordion out, “our girl Daisy made centerfold!”
A shrill giggle began to escape from Sal’s mouth and he clamped his teeth down over it.
“Most of her anyway.”
“Be sure to add it to your portfolio,” said Duke, in bad temper.
He dropped into a seat. Sal tossed the magazine onto the table and lit a fresh cigarette off the one burning between his teeth. He offered the shorter one to Duke. Duke accepted it, wondering quietly that this was possibly the kindest thing Prospero had ever done for him.
“I’m one hell of a journalist,” marveled Sal “but now it seems I must play the detective too. How do we catch a serial killer, Duke?”
“I’d tell you to try thinking like one first, but that seems a little redundant.”
Sal tittered, “Duke, you crack me up. Why is it we never hung out before?”
“Because Mona hadn’t ordered me to yet.”
“Enough pleasantries,” said Sal, “let’s get down to business.
>>7894477
I like this. Nice work.
>>7894215
my dick.
>tfw thought i might be able to avoid banality if i include an awareness of mimicry
Hundred bands in my pants, YSL loaded
Got them choppers in advance, MPA, they loaded! (loaded)
Who the fuck told you lil' niggas you was soldiers?(Who that?)(Who?Who?)
Who the fuck told you lil' niggas you was soldiers?(Who told you that?)
I'm just sayin' homie (sayin' nigga... I'm sayin')
Nigga I'm just sayin' homie (sayin' my nigga..I'm sayin')
(Uh!) Plottin' on Donald Trump (woo! woo!)
I was 15 years old when I shot that chopper (rrraah rrrah rraaow!)
I bought a carbine 15 when I was 18 (And what?)
Sent a couple niggas to the doctor (yooo!) (bah bah bah!)
I rape it, I finger that 'xtendo (Woo!)
I peel it, I feel it
I take all they stuff and I head to the 'hill with it (wooooooooo!)
Let PeeWee deal with it
Back in the day I was actin' illiterate
I'm hot like a skillet bitch
My gators look like they got Syphillis
My bitches be bleedin' like literally
I slime my fake brothers (I slime my fake brothers)
I'm not Casino, but Thugger be killin' it
Killin' it, killin' it (Killin' it, killin' it killin' it!)
Do not think I'm tripping when I say "Longway be the real-iest"
I said do not think I'm tripping when I say "Bitch, I be the real-iest"
I go to the 'hill with the hipp-iest
Loaded down with nothin' but Benjamins
Piped up and shot an Olympia
OG, we wrappin' and shippin' it
Who told you lil' niggas i ain't with the shits?
Pull up and hop out with dirty sticks
We comin' for nothin' but 36
Them birdies for all of you idiots
We snatch' 'em and take all your giblets
Young Thugger Thugger just told you we killin' it
How could you lil' niggas be soldiers?
I go down yo' roster ain't none of you killin' shit
I move like a monster real swiftly
I smoke like a rasta Chief keef'n the reefer (ganja!)
I'm loaded with OG dispensary (good gas!)
Kardashian, my ho just like Kimberley
A nigga sadiddy like Hilary
First to ship down,and I kick it in Beverley
Loaded with Benjamin Franklin
Walkin' through Beverly Center with etiquette
Issuing out so many bars, the cameras are rolling
They tryna edit it
Jawbreaker, jawbreaker, jawbreaker
I got that hard like "Ed, Edd, n' Eddy"
>>7894540
this sums up pretty much all of my sexual experiences
Come to the bed
-
Here's the condom
Thanks.
You're cute
Haha thanks.
Get over here
-
Oh! wrong hole
Sorry.
ooh
(staring intently at his penis to ensure it doesn't slip out).
aaah
Faster or slower?
mmmmmmm however you like
-
you're an angel
-
alright let's take a break
(huffing for breath) sure
-
did you enjoy that?
Yes.
Advocates of ‘activated' almonds claim that raw almonds contain certain PROPERTIES that prevent your body from receiving the full benefit of the POWER almonds contain.
The activation process requires almonds to be ACTIVATED for 12 hours. Advocates believe this deactivates the ACTIVATION inhibitors and brings the nut to FULL POWER . Once the almonds have been soaked, they are then ACTIVATED at low temperatures (40 degrees) over a 24-hour period. ACTIVATED almonds have a similar flavour and texture to ACTIVATED almonds.
There is almost no research that indicates whether “______” works or not
Now that you have made these little steps to a better life, you are on the path to ultimate fulfilment. Belonging isn't something gained through others, but through one's own almonds. Our almonds will become our own when we make the steps to make our almonds our almonds.
----
Work Out Routine
Activation x 12 reps
12 reps x 12 reps
(12 reps x 12 reps) x 12 reps
(12 reps x 12 reps) - (12 reps + 12 reps)
Continue until results are as desired.
----
I have a problem. I have been with my almonds for 5 years, we live in a sharehouse with almonds, who is in a relationship with almonds, and their son almonds. We have a daughter, almonds, who gets along well with almonds and almonds and almonds.
I came home to find almonds with almonds activating almonds with almonds. I don't have the money to move out, as I am merely almonds.
I'm eating raw spaghetti at 3:37am. My life is a disaster and now my teeth hurt. Why can't my life be good?
Thought?
>>7894684
Keep going, I like it.
You made it!
Hi!
This is the great cafe I told you about
Nice!
Let's go in for some pastries and coffee
Oh I'm not hungry
Alright just a coffee then
Oh I don't like coffee
Oh
Are you using personal anecdotes as a crutch?
Maybe
Did this actually happen?
Yes
Why are you doing this?
If someone comments then I can tell myself the experience was worthwhile
That seems like a weak affirmation
-
-
You want to go for a walk then?
Sure
Do you ever write happy stories?
I think this is a happy story, I'm on a date and something funny happened
And yet you felt the need to make it uncomfortable
Uncomfortable how?
With this meandering fourth-wall commentary
I love you babe
I love you too daddy
>>7894698
Ah yes another meta story of self-loathing on 4chan's /lit/, in a critique thread no less! How original.
Could you please try writing about something interesting next time at a level above bare competency?
>>7894716
I'm hoping that other anons might get some enjoyment out of what I'm writing. I enjoy writing these and it gives me a mild cathartic experience each time I post one.
I also quite enjoy having people comment on my writing.
>>7894716
Ah yes another condescending critique on a critique thread no less! How original.
Could you please try writing an interesting critique next time at a level above bare competency?
>>7894720
Despite the personal nature of your stories, you're very distant. This does not make for an interesting character, although I imagine some similarly pathetic persons might be able to relate to your experiences.
You may find it a valuable experience to actually acknowledge that you are a person and not some constant, impartial observer of events. Inject emotion into your writing.
>>7894731
>very distant
That might be true I suppose, but like any other person I'm still sensitive at times. I don't see anything pathetic about my writing either, perhaps you might be projecting your own feelings.
If I feel like expressing emotion then I'll do so. I wonder if that means I'm constantly expressing the emotion of lack-of-emotion, the nothing nothings and so on.
By the way I think we're the same person
>>7894737
>I think we're the same person
What the fuck are you talking about you pleb? Judging by your writing I'm nothing like you.
>>7894740
No I mean we're literally the same person responding to each other (ourself? ourselves? myself?)
I can understand how you might be confused given that we have the same name of 'Anonymous'
>>7894255
What did you think of the content?
>>7894748
Oh right, yes you're right we are in fact both Tim. I can't say this was a very interesting exchange and was probably a waste of time for all involved. Even that one person who responded.
What a waste
>>7894220
Thanks.
Poster 7893988
I thought that that snippet was very creative
keep it up
>>7894390
big words =/= skill, big words exhaust readers and ensure that they're not going to pick up your work. welcome to the beginning of your pseudo-career hombre, you're a slave to your instincts and you don't know how to fight them.
Chapter one
Hi my name is Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that's how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Amy Lee (AN: if u don't know who she is get da hell out of here!). I'm not related to Gerard Way but I wish I was because he's a major fucking hottie. I'm a vampire but my teeth are straight and white. I have pale white skin. I'm also a witch, and I go to a magic school called Hogwarts in England where I'm in the seventh year (I'm seventeen). I'm a goth (in case you couldn't tell) and I wear mostly black. I love Hot Topic and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside Hogwarts. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of preps stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.
"Hey Ebony!" shouted a voice. I looked up. It was…. Draco Malfoy!
"What's up Draco?" I asked.
"Nothing." he said shyly.
But then, I heard my friends call me and I had to go away.
Chapter end.
>>7894527
I don't like the self reference sentence nor the final line. The rest is great though.
>>7895651
memes
It was on the morning of my twenty-third birthday that I discovered—a scene lit, it seems to me from posterity’s vantage, by some ineffable quality of the dramatic, a delicious caprice of irony, such as one encounters in comic operas or Greek tragedies—an unknown shadow of a man rutting away at my intended in a manner that recalled (with a certain je ne sais quoi) Pasiphaë and the Bull of Crete. One need not further elucidate the sequence which followed, as it is rote, ordained to pass in the selfsame manner the day (it could not have been the sixth, for the quality of the beast’s barbaric thrusting and eyes shot with red comported nothing of the image of God) that cuckolds were cursed to walk the earth.
It was, however, and taking after the general willingness of Providence to huff and let her favor fall upon other heads, to my chagrin that I was betrothed to the great beauty of the age, a certain Eugénie A— (her surname I shall leave to the reader’s imagination, for fear that the old crone’s birds still tweet into her ear), the daughter of a then grande dame (for the benefit of us all she has seen it fit to shuffle off her mortal coil, and none too soon), who had herself been the great beauty of Bonaparte’s epoch, and a striking officer of the Grande Armée, who, having failed his emperor at Lützen, thought it better to deign to the lesser rank of a Bourbon master.
It was thus into a family of money which I aspired to marry, for I had, and have not still, none of my own to speak of. Rather, my Roman nose, doltish eyes, dull wits, and melancholic disposition inspired in the mercurial Eugénie ill-founded fantasias of Werther, and she declared herself an avid patron of my woes.
Having been faithful to her purpose and compounded them with her Cretan tryst, she suddenly abandoned my project with a remarkable indifference—cruel, is it not, the servitude of the artist, wracked to-and-fro by the vicissitudes of the philistines? The bull appeared to her then a golden calf, and her a most willing idolater; and despite my best efforts to bring down my own commandments upon her head, the mustachioed patriarch, his paunch having outpaced the efforts of his tailor in the mending of the old uniform (he was, then, unashamed to wear it), announced to me my ruin.
>>7896040
“You see,” he said in walrus tones, floating in a haze of pipe smoke and fingering one of the brass buttons of his aching Attila, “You, and certainly the young Vicomte, in all the world are privy to a sacred secret: my daughter’s chastity, or, rather, the dearth of it. You understand, of course, that a woman of society, and all creatures of the fairer sex, are outfitted with a singular resource, one around which their grand stratagem pivots—and it is that very virtue, that vestal grace, that Eleusinian mystery, that impenetrable (pardon me) holdfast, which yourself and the good Vicomte have seen (bon, that you have seen) cloven. I cannot, father that I am, conscience such an unveiling, such an end to the masque. Custom must be given satisfaction.”
It was thus that my career as a dandy was delivered its coup de grâce, and as a young man, perhaps more unto Werther than I care to admit, I was sentenced to an eternal autumn. Horned as I was, I fled to Marseille to bury my head in the sand.
My father, the owner of a glassworks near Chartres, nearly shattered at the news; my mother, waifish from birth, shrunk some degrees more, unfolding like a set of Chinese boxes. At the very least, they thought only, by way of my letters, that I had fled to the coast at the behest of some newfangled malady, in order to secret myself away in a sanatorium and to be made clean by the salt air; likewise, just as Boccaccio’s Florentines fled to their perches, Eugénie retired to her aunt’s retreat in the mountains, weathering a fit of melancholia whilst her valiant intended languished in the throes of the Plague.
Of the young bull, the Vicomte T—, it is known that he departed to Spain to fight for the Infanta Isabella. Rather appropriately, he was slain at the hand of some matador or other, in a white town outside of Valencia.
>first page (more or less) of a short story I'm writing
>a cuck, wallowing in his own self-misery is told a story-within-a-story by a hussar who hasn't taken off his uniform since Napoleon's defeat
>reinvents himself as a poet and rediscovers a zest for life because he finds the hussar so pathetic
It's a work in progress; I plan to describe the dawn of humanity all the way to its exodus from Africa.
A million years ago (or even more)—
I see a barrage of uncounted years
congesting in their endless file the course
of history, pages of the almanac,
extending to the furthest reaches of
recorded time, where paper frays and frames
the forms of kings, and mounds of plebeian dust
ride the backwards-flowing wind of time—in
the primal bush in golden sunshine robed,
perspiring blackened topsoil underneath
to cool the crib, the little feet of lizards
now long returned to loam and dirt would drag
their little bellies through the oozing mud,
and scrawl across the land in scurried streaks
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,
until the primal simian learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the call of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly and hammer blood from meat—
and thus our fathers learned the art of slaughter.
The young woman's pearly, nude body returned from the burst of luminance, descending gracefully to the ground, her long golden locks following.
As she took her footing among the mortals, her visage was one of confusion, and her palms wandered down her abdomen to the wound the young man had just given her.
Dark crimson liquid flowed forth from the long abyss left by the boy's blade. The woman lifted her hand, examining the life blood.
Her face contorted into one of pain and she turned her head to assess the damage she had done. Silver tears streamed from her golden irises. She locked eyes with Lang, her mouth whispering an apology.
Without warning, the tears turned black as oil and crept from her nose and mouth, slowly at first but then rapidly increasing in flux. The woman's face turned to panic before crying out in pain, her knees giving way and her petite figure collapsing onto the floor.
She convulsed horribly, her guttural shrieks now unnerving to Lang, though he could not will his eyes to tear away.
Black liquid rapidly pooled beneath the woman, now leaning forth on her forearms. It poured from her face but she tucked in her chin in an attempt to stave off the suffering.
Lang grew sickened, but some innate part of him knew it had to be. She was a monster, and he was her bane. He needed to see her die, even if it was selfish.
As if almost willed by him, the beast summoned her strength and peered forth. Lang heart grew cold as he peered into the abyss where her beautiful eyes once were.
It looked back at him, changing his nature. With a final shudder, the beast collapsed and lay eternally silent.
>>7896148
Your grammar needs serious work. Your word choice is pretty cliched and repetitive. Words like 'forth' and especially 'abyss' add impact to certain sentences, either because they are unusual words and catch the reader's eye, or because they are extremely charged words, with very specific connotations. They actively work against you if you use them regularly or at inappropriate points.
Also
>She was a monster, and he was her bane.
>>7896444
Thanks anon, you were helpfulFOR ME
>>7896086
Not bad, but the rythmn is off a lot of times.
Still pretty good.
We, the generous and rich in spirit, who stand at the sides of the streets like open fountains and would hinder no one from drinking from us, we do not know, alas! how to defend ourseles when we should like to do so; we have no means of preventing ourselves being made turbid and dark - we have no means of preventing the age in which we live casting its "up-to-date rubbish" into us, nor of hindering filthy birds throwing their excrement, the boys their trash, and fatigued resting travelers their misery, great and small, into us. But we do as we have always done; we take whatever is cast into us down into our depths - for we are deep, we do not forget - and once more grow clear.
>tfw I don't write in English because it's not my native language
>tfw I can't post my stuff in this thread because my vocabulary would be extremely changed in the translation process
>>7896515
It's ok, no one has a clue here.
I slip in passages from some of the greatest prose stylists ever into these breads and they get ignored or criticised in strange roundabout ways.
If you post here it's the equivalent of asking a blind man to critique your painting.
>>7896524
tfw you'll never be buds with your writing idols
tfw you'll never be able to ask them for writing advice
>want to write fantasy
>every time I try it gets overly complicated in planning
>go out of my way to make something with a simple setting and simple characters
>it gets complicated AGAIN
How the fuck do I keep it simple? inb4 don't write fantasy
I wrote this derivative piece of garbage and some people at my university thought it was good enough to publish. People are now paying actual money to read it, and I'm offering you shits a chance to read it for free. It's like a sample of gluten free vegan crackers: probably not worth your time anyway.
Tell me why its shit, why my writing is shit, and how I can get better.
http://pastebin.com/72k6K4ue
>>7896671
Accept that your story is complicated, and weave the narrative to accommodate for the newfound depth. Fantasy readers love long books and sequels to long books.
>>7896468
What lines is the rhythm off in? Because there are three or four lines that are intentionally in a different rhythm than iambic pentameter, like trochaic pentameter in the last line of the first stanza, and a dactylic meter in the line in stanza 3 that contains the word "dactyl". Are you talking about those?
>>7896671
fill in the accessory details later/as you go.
build a skeletal structure first.
>>7896468
Thanks for the critique, though.
"Crossing the Rubicon"
Suspended on a petrified strand
from the highest branch of a pine tree is an aged pine cone
swaying its last before the fall; it drops
through the thicket of rustling branches below,
hits with a muted knelling thud the frigid, sodden
slope of its grey knoll that sends it skittering downhill
into the torrential gushing current;
it floats at first, then is amalgamated in the water,
and carried downriver to be buried in the Adriatic.
The general sees this—
it’s early winter, the tenth of January, 49 BC,
and Julius Caesar with his legion is camped in the borderlands,
on the northern bank of the scarlet cordon,
the moat between provincial anarchy and
the fountainhead of scholarship and industry and republican power,
a city of white marble pillars never tarnished and high aqueducts
festooned with the most florid art of the provinces.
a city inhabited by Vesta, Mars, and Jupiter Optimus Maximus,
who armour it with a cuirass over its toga
and place a dagger in the sinister hand
to extort tithes from thralls to Pax Romana—Roman Peace.
Piss on your peace. Caesar carries a javelin to shatter this Pax Romana.
Another pine cone, flesh fortified, has reached
the moment of the fall.
It sways with the wind till the strain snaps
its spine and falls like a rock from the sky,
rolls past Caesar into the river,
and hence to the Adriatic Sea, leaving no trace of itself behind.
From the trees, the river, the very earth underfoot
Rome with elemental voice declaims in the imperative:
Julius Caesar, you bald-headed whoremonger, advance another step,
and the fury of Rome will roast your insubordinate flesh inside your armour;
reforge history, melt your name and titles off from wherever they are inscribed.
Advance another step, Gaius Julius Caesar, consul, triarch, general, governor,
and your memory shall be damned, and your body flung into the Adriatic Sea.
His fingers are clenched around the hilt of his sword;
if he looses them upon this river-lapped embankment,
the soil will absorb the clangor of his surrender,
and his spilt honour will ooze into the river
and be carried to its Adriatic grave.
Living hence will be the burning of a long taper:
intolerable years as patriarch to an intolerable batch of Julii,
growing old and wrinkled, seeing succeeding Marches
and Aprils as harbingers of decrepitude,
and frequent pilgrimages to the mossy riverbank
where his naked sword had once been dropped.
The Rubicon, red from the mud,
appears a bloody slaver’s whip stretched across the countryside.
He readies his die, and stamps with the first step of revolution
his fears against the floor of the bridge.
This is from a planned intermission between two halves of a novel, what do you think?
People ask, "What is self?"
"What is life?"
"What is space?"
They will die with these questions unanswered.
That is humanity's fate.
In a scenery I once saw,
there was a modest tranquility
and there was a small hope.
And when they were trampled upon,
a man rose against it.
In his hand was hope.
The hope of evolution.
With enormous strength,
the man fought...
and learned of despair.
People ask, "Why do you fight?"
"Why do you kill?"
"Why do you destroy?"
They will die with these questions unanswered.
That is humanity's bliss.
>>7896056
This is fun to read but you should whittle some of the bloat out of it
>>7896704
Your descriptions fall flat sometimes, but the story feels real and speaks to something every human in any type of 'civilized' society has to contend with and for me that's where its appeal is, regardless of being derivative. It'd be better if you had less hollow adjectives.
>>7896908
Seems alright I suppose. It reads easy.
It didn't evoke much sympathy for the 'dying thing' though if that was your aim.
Also not sure what a bird whining sounds like, and what do you mean by "the policeman runs from the scene holding his face"? You mean he runs away crying? Silly policeman.
>>7893988
Although I do find the Wittgenstein bit somewhat funny, I think the whole thing would work better without it.
Change "Wittgenstein" into something like "trains" and it actually kind of sounds like the beginning of a really sharp, touching, engrossing children's book.
Where are you now?
- Joe
- I’m not ok
What’s up?
What’s wrong?
- My pumas
- My pulse man
Are you joking?
- I’m like freaking out
- No I’m not fucking joking
Who’s with you?
Just breathe the air or something
- My screen looks weird
- I’m freaking out man
Stop looking at the screen
Look around you
Where are you?
Come over here
Come around to my place
And we can just go down easy
And just talk you know
Like face to face
Not through a screen
You there?
:(
>>7896909
Pretentious crap.
>>7894258
Actually hits home. I'm assuming this is part of a longer piece and as a reader I would hope that after this I'll get a sense of what the protagonist tried to express and how he/she failed/how people didn't understand him/her at all.
My biggest tip: detach yourself from your protagonist.
Prose-wise: pretty good.
>>7894261
Very cringy. So if you're going for very cringy: well done. Otherwise: ugh...
![Lordgenome.full.198358[1].jpg](https://i.imgur.com/OTfnZ3b.jpg "Lordgenome.full.198358[1].jpg")
>>7897282
Oh really now?
"So... what happened to that guy?"
George outstreched his arm, presenting a gelatinus mass of disgust, it was dripping a horrific red and being squished and squelched by a iron hand, attached to an arm so stained in blood it could be mistaken for a prop in a horror movie. This gruesome display was exemplified by a sick smirk upon his face and the giggles that escaped from it.
"What the fuck is that?"
"Metaphysically? A heart. Philisophically?"
The twisted grin began to show teeth.
"A midnight snack."
Written as a note, a quick idea I didn't want to forget, so that's my excuse for lack of editing/refinement
Rate this little diddy in my essay.
“A three-day-old human embryo is a collection of 150 cells called a blastocyst. There are, for the sake of comparison, more than 100,000 cells in the brain of a fly. The human embryos that are destroyed in stem-cell research do not have brains, or even neurons. Consequently, there is no reason to believe they can suffer their destruction in any way at all. It is worth remembered, in this context, that when a person's brain has died, we currently deem it acceptable to harvest his organs (provided he has donated them for this purpose) and bury him in the ground. If it is acceptable to treat a person whose brain has died as something less than a human being, it should be acceptable to treat a blastocyst as such. If you are concerned about suffering in this universe, killing a fly should present you with greater moral difficulties than killing a human blastocyst.
Perhaps you think that the crucial difference between a fly and a human blastocyst is to be found in the latter's potential to become a fully developed human being. But almost every cell in your body is a potential human being, given our recent advances in genetic engineering. Every time you scratch your nose, you have committed a Holocaust of potential human beings.”
Found this from three years ago. Eh:
The truest tall tales of people's past
To the free markets have been lost
Steal Homer's Iliad and Odyssey
For the history of your heart has no cost
In the light of the preachers enlightened pedestal
The laws of reality appear remade
Steal Newton's Natural Philosophy
For the price of the universe cannot be paid
By the dreariest tongues the tautest diction
Can be reduced from bloom to rot
Steal the poems of WB Yeats
For the songs of your soul cannot be bought
It seems the most pious and poignant moments of rapture
Have been dampened, dulled by fee
So steal your mind back from foreign capture
For the truth, above all, is free
>>7897602
Low quality bait, familia.
>>7897602
This is cute, and fairly logically sound. I dig it. I feel like the word choice of "Holocaust" is a little too harsh for the tone; maybe try "genocide"?
>>7897643
What's wrong with it?
Its a short story (only around 100,000 words) about a young man struggling with various mental illnesses, I take bits and pieces of my own life as inspiration but still its fictitious. The perspective switches from a young man to a young woman back and forth until the climax of the book where everything changes. In this case, they're talking to each other, the young man is retelling a story of when he experienced "moments of clarity".
>>7893506
I want you to remember what it’s like to be sixteen and horny. Jerking off at least three
times a day because you can’t get rid of that sex drive. Humping doorknobs, mattresses, and
couches in an attempt to stay calm. That’s what I was like only a few years ago. As a male,
you’re a monster with only one thing on the brain. Sex. Sex. Goddamn motherfucking sex.
Every day in Junior year of high school, I would walk into English class with this one
thought on the brain. There I would meet the goddess of my dreams: Ms. Stillwater, a female
teacher in her late twenties with long legs, cool blue eyes, and curly blonde hair down her
shoulders. Her voice had a crack to it that I found endearing.
I wanted to take her into my arms, rail her on a desk, on the floor, in the closet, against
the lockers. I knew it was wrong. I knew it was forbidden. I would barricade myself in the
bathroom, brother banging on the door to take a shit, but I wouldn’t let up as I tried to eradicate
those feelings. They only came back stronger. Sometimes, I would have to go to the bathroom
in the middle of class and do my business if she ended up wearing that yellow sundress or
those grey shorts. I wondered how she was able to dress the way she was when she taught
such young, horny teenage boys.
>>7898077
god dammit
>>7898077
Congrats mr dubs, that's not that bad
>>7893506
Any help a poor college student out?
I was recently tasked by my professor to summarize a peer-reviewed journal. APA is standard.
Do I need a cover page for a article summary?
I tried finding sources online but they are all from 2001-06
>>7898077
i like this a lot, a lot of real feeling in it.
last paragraph of a closing statement for a mock trial. Im prosecution
which is better?
>What Mel Blank is, is an ambitious, opportunistic, and manipulative criminal that will do anything to maintain her reputation. A snake. A politician's politician. The type of person that not only has no regard for the law, but no regard for her fellow man. Mel Blank is one to do anything to get ahead, she doesn’t care who she steps on along the way. An exemplar of sociopathy and indeed the most offensive type of criminal.
or
>What Mel Blank is, is an ambitious, opportunistic, and manipulative criminal that will do anything to maintain her reputation. A snake. A politician's politician. An individual with whom lies a cunning mind and deceitful heart. Ladies and gentleman, this is type of person that not only has no regard for the law, but no regard for her fellow man. Mel Blank is willing to do anything to get ahead, she doesn’t care who she steps on along the way. An exemplar of sociopathy and indeed the most offensive type of criminal.
>>7898391
i wanted to add more, i have a third now
>Ladies and gentleman I’d like to dispel the idea that the obviously guilty Mel Blank is just a good kid who made one life changing, uncharacteristic mistake. No, what Mel Blank is, is an ambitious, opportunistic, and manipulative criminal that will do anything to maintain her reputation. A snake. A politician's politician. An individual with whom lies a cunning mind and deceitful heart. Certainly, this is the type of person that not only has no regard for the law, but no regard for her fellow man. Her dishonesty led to the death of an innocent custodian for which she shows not a semblance of remorse. Mel Blank is willing to do anything to get ahead, she doesn’t care who she steps on, or for that matter, who’s brain she indirectly hemorrhages along the way. An exemplar of sociopathy and indeed the most offensive type of criminal. Thank you.
I think I wanna go with this one so any suggestions to make it better would be nice
>>7894477
this is nice, i wrote something pretty similar a little while ago
-
Alright,
See you soon.
Oh, wait!
Bring an hdmi cable haha.
Haha.
So what do you want to see?
Haha, okay, sounds good.
Haha.
It’s not like it matters,
We’re not going to watch it anyway.
Yeah, nice to meet you.
(It wasn’t)
I’ll call you.
(I won’t)
Yeah you too, haha!
Haha!
I'm shit.
-
>>7898489
I like it, the first stanza almost seems a little listless, but I think it's a fair capture
there is a man in Portugal
with a tremendous mustache
and a cock like you wouldn't believe
there's a fine gentleman in Brussels
who has eyes as blue as the Mediterranean
did you know tongues could be double jointed?
his is.
all the ladies in Ontario
talk about their local hunk
they swear his fingers are magical
and here in America you have me
a dashing mix of ego and ineptitude
with 7 slender inches of mediocrity
still wonder why
I don't like you going on vacation?
I yearn for the day when the height of the city's skyscraper matrix disables clouds from collecting and forming rain.
I'm patiently waiting for the time when we no longer hear the sound of rain drops,
but hear the rush of gravity pulling the liquid from the air and guiding it down the rain spouts to merge with the underground's hydroelectric whir.
Until that day I'll stand under the enlightening death rattle of fluorescent tubes,
glaring out into the conveniences allocated to keep society's edgecases pacified,
the neon signs and their promises are cogs always greased less than required.
I hear the cogs grind and the rain drops can't quite muffle the sound.
The world seems to be working only to maintain the appearance of an unmoving whole.
Cyberpunk piece I'm working on.
Chapter one, part one
The Resistance.
Volker looked out of the warehouse into the city which has crumbled from the heavy fighting. The sun shining light stayed hidden in a cloud of smoke and fire. It's what they deserve, thought Volker, a scowl appearing on his face with the images of enemy soldier in his city. He couldn't help but feel proud on what he had done to the enemy. After two years of occupation it was time to make repulse the invaders. The bombing of their military base was a sure ways light the spark for the rest of the people.
Would love to hear some critique about this.
Working on a fantasy piece, written by a narrator who is convinced that it's all historical fact.
Since the dawn of time, man has always had a strange and incomprehensible tendency to look forward to things. My passion for history has always found me looking backwards (which is likely why I have been so often knocked down in the road). Humans are set aside from lesser animals in that they are the only species that seem to look forward to their own deaths. If you were to ask an anthropologist the question of ‘what else separates human from beast?’ he might tell you that it is the tool, the mastery of manual instruments to further our cause. I, however, as a historian, would tell you that there are two further factors. Primarily, it is the act of writing; creating record of our exploits as a species, with the intention of educating the next generation. The second facet of our differentiation is a love of gardening. More importantly, however, is surely the first; the creation of historical record, something which I intend to expand upon over the next several months.
This text is to serve as an educational document, a true record of historical fact, covering the socio-political basis of feudalism in the medieval world. If that doesn’t sound particularly interesting to you, then you are everything that I abhor. I will also cover the existence of wizards, dwarves, giant spiders and the greatest hero that may have maybe possibly ever lived. Throughout, you will be privy to my own insights, anecdotes etc., as I feel that an understanding of the author is invaluable in the understanding and enjoyment of any non-fiction. Mein Kampf is nothing more than an exercise in nastiness until you consider the socio-political factors that went into the writing of it. If you were to take away the man, the name, and the context then you are left with nothing more than the image of a man sat in a dark room throwing pages of the Torah into an open fire.
>>7899532
Volker looked out of the warehouse into the city which has crumbled from the heavy fighting during its capture. The sun shining light stayed hidden in a cloud of heavy smoke and fire. A few miles away from this warehouse was the base for the soldiers who were task in occupying the city. It been bombed recently by both mortar fire and placed explosive. One of which Volker was task in helping it was that reason why he was feeling so jubilant. He was doing his part on resisting the enemy forces
.
With that in mind, a scowl appeared on his face on just thinking about them and their atrocities to his countrymen. He turned towards the red flames that were slowly wavering in the distance, the dark plays of the night played in his burning mind. He could still remember the sight of destroyed armored cars and trucks, followed by the soldiers anguish cries for help. The sudden rush kept him from averting his eyes to the spectacle.
"I saw what you did to them." Armina walked up behind him, startling him. "It's good to know, I don't need to baby you from now on." Volker looked at her before extending his hand in a friendly way. Armina shook his hand reluctantly, confused with the gesture. Before both could resume their talks of the attack, the band leader of the resistance cell Axel came out of the warehouse secret bunker.
He fasten the shoulder holster to his body, before wearing his black coat to conceal it. He waved at Volker with a proud expression on his face. No doubt, enjoying the enemies disarray with the mission he came up with. Both and Volker bodies stiffen and saluted him at his approach. While Axel amused at this little display of military conduct, he soon waved at them to drop this little farce. They were civilians pushed to far by the enemy, they weren't a military force they didn't have to abide in some military conduct.
Here it is. Sorry for the errors, I haven't had time to fix them yet. I will answer. As for the context I was going to write about city under military occupation to serve as a prologue for my novel series
>>7896086
It's pretty good although something seems off about it, I can't really tell were. What made you write about the dawn of man?
>>7896876
I found this to be perplexing with how the narration is written. Crossing the Rubicon well shit Julius Caesar is going to be assassinated now.
New thread
>>7900619
>>7900619
I learned to squat a long time ago. It was 1977, and I had just been in a little altercation that
convinced me that I might need to be in a little better shape than I was. I was an Early Adopter – I
had played soccer in high school (Texas, 1973-74, nobody knew what the hell they were doing, had to
buy the balls through the mail, football coaches thought we were girls, soccer coach didn’t know what
he was doing, etc.), and had continued playing intramural in college. I was in decent “shape” in the
sense that I wasn’t fat, but considering myself 30 years later, I can understand why I decided I need to
train. I was a soccer player, for God’s sake. I was not very strong. And although my little brush with
violence had left me mostly intact, I was unhappy with the outcome. I decided the same thing young
men have been deciding since there have been young men: I was going to get stronger.
A lack of strength had not been a major factor in the affair. The guy only hit me once – a
sucker punch, really and actually – and I was not completely inexperienced in these matters. But I
failed to whip his ass, and failures of this type usually demand a response. Being a relatively civilized
individual, my response was not a drive-by shooting like the pussies of today seem prone to do. It
was to begin a systematic overhaul of the person responsible for my failure to whip his ass: me. And
usually these types of overhauls involve a realization that you’re not as strong as a guy ought to be.
Such epiphanies have for many decades been an important part of the gym business.
So I wandered into the area that passed for the gym at Midwestern with the idea that I’d lift
some weights and get stronger. It was up two sets of stairs on the second floor of the PE building,
the facility which housed the basketball coliseum, and consisted of two small, dirty rooms that were
obviously on page three of the two-page maintenance list. They were the kind of rooms you see in
schools that appear to hold all the pipes for all the other rooms in the building. The MU Weight
Room was open just a few hours a day, maybe four, and was supervised as an afterthought by the
intramural staff located downstairs on the other side of the building. This was actually fortunate, since
they didn’t know any more about this than I did, and their advice would not have been helpful. Their
primary function was to make sure the weight room was locked at least three hours before all home
basketball games – for no apparent reason, since the ticket gates were also on the other side of the
building, all the students could go free anyway, and capacity crowds had never been a problem for the
MU Indians. But it was air conditioned, a little anyway, in stark contrast to the Downtown Y, and it
was free with tuition. This was where I started training in 1977. I don’t miss it at all.
>>7899569
is english your native language?
>>7900634
this voice is way too formal
>>7899548
i feel like this is going to be too dry for the genre.
>>7894477
i cringed and kekked
>>7900669
We have a member here at WFAC who gained 55 pounds in 11 weeks. I shit you not. Zach
Evetts started with us here in late August of 2009 and by November 12 when I weighed him and
measured his bodyfat he had gained a total of 55 pounds of bodyweight and a little over 31 pounds of
lean body mass (LBM). This calculates to a LBM gain of 2.84 pounds per week, approximately the rate
of growth seen in young farm animals. Little baby pigs grow about this fast, and lots of people make
money by raising baby pigs.
No, Zach was/is not taking steroids; being an extremely broke 20 year old college kid, he can
barely afford his gallon of milk a day. And yes, he gained about 24 pounds of fat, none of which you
can see very well and all of which will come off very easily when it becomes an issue. The point is that
about 60% of his bodyweight gain was lean body mass, and that it’s much easier for an athletic young
man to lose fat than it is to gain muscle, at least when approached in the more typical 2009-model
conventional-wisdom bodybuilding-paradigm way.
He also took his squat from 145 x 5 x 3 to 315 x 5 x 3 in this same 11-week period. This is
terribly important to grasp, since herein lies the mechanism for the growth. Zach came to the gym
three days per week, never missing a workout, and added 10 pounds to his three work sets each time
for two weeks, and then added 5 pounds to his work sets until he started slowing down at 315. He ate
more than 6000 calories a day, counting the gallon of whole milk, thus recovering from the training
and having enough left over for quite a bit of tissue growth. He gave his body a reason to need to be
bigger, and then he provided it the means to get that way. The training drove the growth, and the
growth facilitated the increased training load. Last time I checked, Zach weighed about 225 and was
squatting 335 x 5 x 3.
This is not an isolated case, but rather a prime example of good program/good program
adherence convergence. We have had several other guys gain impressive
amounts of bodyweight, lean body mass, and strength this year, and my gym has a long history of
working with young men that got much bigger and stronger when they first started training. Zach
actually accomplished something significant in that he did what most exercise professionals have been
taught could not be done, the standard dogma being that the first few months of strength increase
are due primarily to increases in neuromuscular efficiency. Perhaps this is true of most people on an
“evidence-based” periodized program designed by the Certified Strength and Conditioning Specialists
with the NSCA, but not here. The important thing is that with proper rest and adequate caloric and
protein intake, this progress can be sustained for several months, resulting in amazing gains in strength
and muscular bodyweight.
Of course, Amelia was not without her desires and as she grew older she coveted the taste of innocence and naivety that endeared her so fiercely to the woman seated next to her. Every girl she owned, shackled to the penthouse, were incarnations of the gangly, persistent teenager her lover once was. In them Amelia saw that stubbornness and eagerness to please, the wild untamed spirit that made Jaqueline all the more desirable back in the day. However, regardless of their youthful bodies, fresh cunts and melodic moans they all remained second best to Amelia's first and favorite, something which often bewildered the now masterfully manipulative woman.
Why do I suck so much /lit/?
>>7901359
At least you have a great taste in names. Just saying 'Amelia' makes my face electric.
Do you feel like taking a nap on a bed of sand under the sea? Ease into the darkened depths that will become your watered dreams.
Sink down passed the Fisher's hook that the blackfish for a meal mistook.
Angelfish illuminate your face and then you wake up with a scream but you can't breathe and so you drink and fill your lungs until you're sleeping with the fishes, see?
Needle in your arm, anesthesia in your veins
Paralyzed your body and your brains
Stick you in a straight jacket
Attached to giant stone
Confess now to your sins
For now you must atone
Don't expect a last supper
Deep hunger you will suffer
You will never have another
Delicious home cooked meal
No longer will you steal
Another precious life
In the name of Satan
Who showed you to the light
It's been twenty days so far in solitary. I was sent hither the second day in jail since I was tired of dealing with all the other prisoners. I knew I would be in here for a long while; felonies don't sort themselves out quickly. Happily enough, I have a good lawyer, so maybe I'll get our after the first trial. I still haven't had a trial date set yet though, so here I wait.
Filling up the yawning gap that is a day in solitary is a daily struggle: I read all seven books in the prison library, then another time, then another time. By the time I see court, I'll be able to write a dissertation on Treasure Island by the time I'm out of here. What a shitty prison this is.
The guard who gives me food is always mean-mugging me when he slides me my tray through the slot in the cell door for sliding trays through. He probably resents me: he has to spend hours every day looking at the spics and the gooks and the fags and the niggers who go through the prison all day. But here I am, safe from them all for now. And all I had to do to be given this fortress, this castle of mine, was call the warden, big fella that he is, what anyone who so much as glanced his way could see that he is: a fat nigger.
This country used to be good, mind you. The white man stayed on top, society was good, and the niggers and their ilk knew their place. Up until that Catholic bastard Kennedy took office. That, my father would always tell me, was when things started going downhill. Up until then, things had been turning good for a long while. My grandfather had been at Stone Mountain in 1917, when the last true Americans stood up for themselves. And we had had a good thing going, until Kennedy.
Now I have to see niggers every day and everywhere, walking, talking, sagging theit pants and grabbing their crotches. And they've infected the system too. Used to be, a nigger raped a white woman, he got lynched and that was that. Nowadays, I do the same damn thing my father and grandfather did and I end up in a cell, awaiting trial. Lucky the DA in this county is a white man, so maybe he'll see sense. Better yet, my lawyer is a stand-up fella, the Akia to my Ayak, the torch to my cross, the nigger to my rope. If anyone can get me off, it's my brother.
Pls no bully
http://pastebin.com/Uji5RMhi
The soft tilting laughter floated across the dividing sheet of her room. All around her the rustle of nightclothes sliding upon her cell-sister’s bodies and the muffled conversations filled her ears. Sitting down at the edge of her bed, she sunk down into the thin feather mattress. Fingering the faded gray and threadbare nightclothes, she sighed and put it on.The lashes on her back grimaced in protest at the contact with the cloth. Selfish girl, asking for things you shouldn’t be! Evil! Ungrateful! The Mother had told her, her bony fist clenched at her and shaking with only she could imagine had been righteous fury. She had only asked for materials to make a new pillow. The old one was rotten, the stuffing gone and smelled of mice urine.
“Chani!” She glanced up, it was Lilian, peeking out from the diving sheet. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, bright green eyes stared at her with merriment and impish grin filled her face. She pulled the sheet to the side and stepped in holding a small cloth covered bundle. “Oh, what’s this Lilian? Did you trade the sweet place between your legs again for your pretties? You know what will happen if The Mother finds out” Lilian blew her a kiss and said in a breathy voice. “Chani, sweet sweet Chani, if only you weren’t so fearful and didn’t do everything by the book. These are for you”
1/2
The swish of his cheap suit pants drew attention to him as he quickly walked across the office. The heads poking up from the cubicles made him even more nervous and he cursed to himself about his desk being the furthest away from the bathroom. He tried to force a smile as he made eye contact with Jonathon from sales, who only seemed to notice the drops of sweat coming from his brow. As he passed Jonathon from sales' desk, he looked up to realize that he was still some twenty feet away from the bathroom doors. His heart dropped as he felt the pressure build up in his lower intestine. He realized that he wasn't going to make.
Not wanting to ruin one of his two pairs of work pants, he decided that the only logical thing to do was to take them off. He didn't have time to take them off completely, so he did what his instincts had always wanted him to do, but his brain had never let him. He unbuckled his belt, dropped his pants to his knees and he took a shit in the middle of a room full of people.
An audible gasp was followed by a moment of silence, before Robert from accounting could be heard throwing up in his small, cubicle trashcan. This reaction prompted Janice from human resources to run off to find the boss. Blake from sales started to laugh.
"What the fuck man?"
By the time Janice had returned with the boss, the whole office had gathered around the pile of shit. The group looked down at it, almost mesmerized by it.
The boss interrupted them by shouting, "Alright, alright, what's this about the poop?"
His attempts to take control of the situation were stopped when he too became enchanted by the shit. The nine adult coworkers and the boss shared a few seconds of wonder, effected by the drastic range of emotions brought on by this large shit.
The boss snaps back to reality as he says, "Alright, I'll go talk to him. Where did he go?"
The coworkers all look around in confusion before Jonathon from sales manages to squeak out, "I think he went to the bathroom."
The boss looks at him in frustration, "Well I can see that." He quickly realizes what Jonathon meant.
"Oh, right."
As the boss walks off to the bathroom, the group disperses back to their respective desks. The day's excitement now being over.
In the bathroom, the boss finds him holed up in the furthest stall from the door. He looks around the room, playing with his hands in his pockets, unsure how to proceed. A meager, "I'm sorry" comes from the stall.
"It's okay kid, it happens to the best of us."
They share a moment of silence. The boss quickly goes over his training, trying to think of an example of how to handle this.
2/2
He curses Janice from human resources for wearing a low cut top to work that day. He barely paid attention to anything that she had said. He decides to continue being supportive.
"Oh, don't worry about it. Seriously."
The boss hears muffled tears coming from within the stall.
"The worst part about it is that I think I did this on purpose. You know, like on a subconscious level?"
The boss is taken aback.
"Well, I don't know much about any of that psychology stuff, so why don't you just go clean it up and take the rest of the day off?"
The boss hears a whimper, before he finally stammers out something resembling an "Okay".
He waits for a couple of minutes in the stall after the boss leaves the bathroom. He then proceeds to stand up and wipe his butt in silence. He timidly leaves the bathroom and does his best to avoid eye contact with any of his coworkers, all of whom are trying to be too obvious as they look at him. As he heads back to his desk, Blake stands up and starts clapping. Janice from human resources yells for him to cut it out. Blake laughs and sits down.
He walks back to his desk his head hung in shame and sits down at his computer. He opens up Internet Explorer and goes to Amazon. He downloads a self-published e-book onto his computer and goes to print it. He immediately panics as he realizes that he might not have enough pages left in his account to print. There's nothing that he can do now, other than hope that he hasn't gone over his limit. He probably won't have a job tomorrow and it's not like he has any money to blow anyways.
He can feel the pile of shit staring at him while he stands next to the printer and waits for the 438 page document to finish printing. His neck starts to get red. Fifteen minutes later, a poorly designed cover with mountains, a dragon and what appears to be a prepubescent Japanese woman wearing minimal amounts of clothing appears. It reads, "The Mountains of Moonbright: Dragons and Witches. A novel by F.M. Jones."
He sighs as his weak arms lift up the unnecessarily large stack of papers. He carries them over to the pile of shit, where he bends down and begins to scoop it up with the paper. He finally finishes this humiliating task and walks over to his desk so he can log out of his computer and go home.
On his way out of the building, he finds that the elevator isn't working. He begrudgingly walks down the stairs, taking his time as he realizes that he needs to buy gas on his way home. He considers killing himself later that night, which is not an unusual after work thought on a Wednesday.
2,109 miles away in nowhere Pennsylvania, a large manchild sits at his computer. A notification pops up, grabbing his attention. He reads it and jumps out of his chair excitedly, knocking over a plate of chicken nugget crumbs in the process. He opens his bedroom door, wincing at the closest thing to fresh air to hit his face in almost two weeks. He shouts up the stairs,
"Mom, I'm an author!"
>>7901452
Great, I'll know how to name my future children. That will be very helpful for me in the long run.
>>7893506
I stared at a dark spot on my wood table under lamplight for more than one hundred and thirty seven minutes. The table began to flicker at three images per second, all different shades of the same wood table markings. I wondered if the flickering was due to my eyes refresh rate or to the electric lamp light. Later, Upon investigation, I found the lamp light to be quite stable and non-flicky, it must have been my eyes that were flickering. I began seeing squares and floating lines and memories, my cat meowing, I saw an image of a bearded man in the wood spot, his mouth was sounding out a phrase. It looked as though he was mouthing "you are god," "you Are god," the words then became audible in a whisper "you are god," I was astounded and fully absorbed in curiosity and slight panic. And then he spoke "you are god," louder "you are god," "you are god," he began to rotate towards me and yell "You Are God!" Then a bloody scream "YOU ARE GOD!!" "YOU ARE GOD!!!" The man began vomiting throat skin and spraying spit and blood with the flapping of his tongue "YOOOUU AAAREE GGGGOooOoDDDD!!!"
I broke away and fell back into my chair, eyes open but bloody red, demons claws digging into my stomach, hell in my soul, I convulsed suffocating on my tongue.. I begged "Just end this, just let me escape, just let me die, now!!".. the next moment - white, I rested in white and my soul was free, soft air entered my lungs and white was pumped from my heart through my chest into my arms and legs and toes. White feathers fell from above and tickled my bare skin, "yes, rest." And I fell into infinity.
>>7894261
Thanks Bukowski
I just made this in like 30 seconds, does it have potential if i fleshed it out into something, I get the last parts probably cheesy.
Up the river trickles Moses
Down the river thunders Alexander
Across the river meets their dreams
One for you and one for me
>>7894266
>it was grander
stopped there, clutching my belly, rolling around on the floor, knocking my pissottle all over my anime memorabilia, laughing like a madman, making my mum all worried so she came down to check on me.
>>7902931
i did not like it. you seem to have no sense of suspense.
>>7902491
too many words, not enough character. Not horribly bad.
>>7902371
you will get over it. Your girlfriend was not stolen by some black guy with a big dick, she left you because you are a sad and angry person. keep your head up buddy!
>>7902466
pic related
dont put so many spaces between your sentences. write coherently and dont start with that "life is meaningless" shit. everyone knows and nobody cares.
>>7900837
started strong, became boring very fast.
>>7900684
Ok, thanks for the critique dude - the main thing I'm going for is humour so we'll have to see. Anything positive?
>>7904116
I'd have to read later parts where you get into the actual story. This was all prologue
An exercise in translation. Taken from a 1933 novel "In the Shadow of the Altars" whom the author has expressly forbidden from being translated.
It details the life and feelings of a young priest. part 1/2:
“In the seminary they taught us to avoid women like fire.”
“That means, they were showing you the most direct way to the woman. Because the more we guard ourselves, the less we succeed in it. For we often, as if on purpose, commit the thing we guard ourselves against, and then the mistake is much harder to correct. To avoid the woman there is only one way - to marry her. The wife loses that trying decisive value, which the woman generally has. The sparks of creative fantasy do not burst between a man and a wife. A good wife - a life's comfort, a favorable circumstance, which will help the man realize that, which is in him, which has matured in him; a bad wife - a life's pain, a sickness, that will sap the man's strength, or maybe even drive him to ruin. Both are embedded in the sphere of man's personal feelings, thoughts, affairs, and interests. With them the man can either feel pleasantly or unpleasantly. But a creative tension can only exist between two separate poles: between a man, the pursuer, and the pursued, albeit unreachable, woman. Because of this if the church would really want to protect the priests from the woman, or if she cared about priests honor, would have to eliminate celibacy. Today it's clear to many that married men in their wishes, thoughts and imagination are purer than the unmarried, especially forcefully unmarried. The arguments of theologians and ascetics for chastity’s nobleness miss the mark. Yes, chastity for restraint’s sake is noble, but that is the same gift as gentlemanliness, talent, in a word, those things which the crowd of recruited young men cannot reject.”
“None the less the church does not eliminate celibacy and, in my opinion, is right to do so. In a married priesthood there would be no creativity, fantasy, fire, and that trying factor would disappear. Right now at the center of priestly life stands the woman, once it's replaced by the wife, righteousness would rise, but creativity, versatility, and elasticity would decline. The church like any other organization is egotistic: it sacrifices individual conscience for societal purposes. In truth, it tries to make up for it some - by not wagging their tongues too painfully contra sextum, and they have been known to tolerate persons of somewhat poor morality even in the higher hierarchical levels, as long as they don’t create a public scandal. Today, Sorley, you heard the words: break away, but don't apostatize! Because while breaking away, if you won't be a dunce, you will create, and your work will add into the balance of the church.”
“Why necessarily break away?” - Sorley doubted
“Not necessarily, but that is usually the case. If you want to be a poet, then the woman's trial, brother, you won't avoid. Can you imagine Dante without Beatrice, Petrarch without Laura, Goethe without Charlotte, Kristen, Ulrike, Mickiewicz without Maryla? Same for every poet. You won't avoid the woman either, brother. But wait! I've read several of your poems and realized from where it all arose. Woman! Woman, brother, in this or that shape. Don't resist! If you haven't been spiritual, maybe you would have found even more stimulus for your work. But now you're blind and deaf to everything else. The only thing remaining alive in you is that, which is most abundant and brisk in a young man: sensitivity to a woman. That is the saving grace of every talented priest. Otherwise he'd suffocate. But that is the beginnings of sin. Do you think that feeling the specter of a woman close to you you'll calmly wear the cassocks, speak the breviary, and be an exemplary priest? No, brother! You will dream, torture yourself, rebel and will come to hate your own name. Otherwise you will not be a poet. What you will end up as, I don't know. But don't end up banally!”
In the meantime the lady poured out coffee, and all three sipped on it as they reiterated and discussed Kapel’s thoughts. Lady Lucy had difficulty hiding her satisfaction, and Sorley the rising mix of various feelings. Priest Kipp, after finishing his cup, checked the clock and rose to go: the hour was approaching when he had to be home. Priest Sorley stayed for another hour, even though it was time for him to drive home as well.
>Beware of possibly bad grammar
Sprawled across the bed in his Academy room, he stared at the ceiling with a dull expression on his face. Funnily enough, now that he was finally alone, he didn’t have the energy to even think. Aside from breathing and occasionally swallowing his saliva, he just lay there doing absolutely nothing.
He just felt so exhausted.
Mentally and, because of that, also physically.
So much had happened in the recent weeks. He couldn’t count everything even if he tried to. Although some incidents stood out more than the others, none actually mattered that much. At least not at the present moment.
One of his eyelids twitched and a stray thought rushed through his mind until that miniscule amount of energy he could still feel within his body caught it and processed it. But it took him a few seconds of analyzing it before its meaning became clear enough for him to confront it.
>>7893682
I like a lot of it. The criticisms the other anons had are basically mine. I like this a lot man, keep going.
>>7904138
I guess this is a bit lighter, not as dry i'd hope - taken from the fourth chapter
Little known is the existence of the Lesser Striped Grebe; a species so rare that the only chance of really seeing them was on their annual migration from the Mediterranean to Bognor Regis. In fact, at the time of our tale only one Grebe was left in existence, and it just so happened to be flying overhead as Alistair unleashed his magical fireworks.
One of the fireworks struck the Grebe with such force that for a moment it became capable of cohesive, complex thought. ‘Shit! Shit, shit shit!” thought the Grebe, “I’m on fucking fire! Not like this! Not like this!” In the bird’s panic, it began to dive as flames spread across its plumage.
In the dust-caked ruins of a downtown strip mall is a gargantuan vivid painting of a clown chasing butterflies upon a flaking cement wall. And beside it, a small wooden door, unmarked save for the 3 letters upon it: "DFI" in fading gold. The door, antique and curious, is made of wood and has a real brass doorknob. I don't think I've seen many real doorknobs in my many lifetimes, and why should I? Automated panels are much more convenient. But when I first came up to this door, nearly 7 years go now, with the left side of my head freshly shaved and my face still acne-scarred from the hyperbolic growth catalysts, I felt respect for the splintered wood and compassion for the seafoam rust. I was told I would find a man in here, a real human, birthcanaled and genitaled. A man who had not yet died, not even once, and who still wore his real face and carried the genes that fate granted him. I felt almost shame, as I watched my mechanical hand reach grip and rotate the archaic knob.
>>7904188
Gives me some Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy vibes except like you're actually taking it seriously, which I like. You didn't really post enough here to comment on your prose, but it seems fine in your original post as well as here.
I'm wondering if the guy who was writing the Jaime/Landon story is still around
>>7904156
I wrote 'whom'...
anyways, if no one reads this I will be mildly upset
We drove for six hours in a comfortable silence, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon as we made good distance. The interstate highway felt like the most linear stretch of asphalt imaginable. By the time the sun was at its apex, the heat made it so hard to stay awake that I slept through the whole of Iowa and most of Illinois. I dreamt of my father and the few camping trips we’d taken, coagulated into a single memory that never truly happened. Almost lucid, I tried to piece the memories out into their separate parts but in doing so I forgot them all and the dream escaped me. The sun had begun to set when I woke. I expected to see my father in the driver’s seat where John sat. He looked back at me as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. He too looked tired and the corners of his eyes wrinkled as he smiled back at me. In his own fatigue was something utterly calming; a reassurance that inexplicably reminded me of my father. I turned back to watch the wide roads of the American Midwest pass beneath us, as I had done as a child.
Be harsh.
A knight, donned in grey and rusty armor, walked up the tower’s time worn steps. He held his sword firmly in his right hand and with his left he balanced himself against the damp wall. Warm beams of yellow light shined through the arrow slits and lined themselves on the wall, guiding the knight up the narrow staircase. His armor clunked and his chainmail chinked with every step he made. Over his shoulder hung his shield, a crater like dent was at its centre, scratches and cuts had worn its design away, the weight was pulling him down. But it had no power over his will, he pressed on and continued his ascent to the pinnacle above the clouds.
As he went higher more light seemed to be covering the inside wall, he soon discovered how. A section of the outer wall had collapsed which revealed to any ascender a most wonderful sight. He lifted his visor and sat down on the stairs taking this moment to catch his breath and to admire the view and warmth of the sun. Straight beneath him was a deep drop, which seemed bottomless due to fog, ready to flatten him between his armor. Around the castle could be seen a landscape laden with rocks bathing in the last light of the day. The ground’s emerald hair once covered these hills but that was in a time long before this knight was born. His eyes now shifted to the bluffs that kissed the sky and encircled the hill whereon the keep and tower stood, at its foot was a river curving its way between the hard rock. He listened to the streaming water and let the sun’s glow warm his visage for a time before he picked himself up and continued his ascent.
>>7905030
CONT
The walls felt cool as the slits of light moved up and faded away. Every time he exhaled, his breath was accompanied by the smoke of his heart. After a moment of climbing the cold stairs he reached a small platform whereupon a small door stood. Made out of metal and riddled with holes and protruding cuts, the door barely hung upon its rusted hinges. A loud screech was to be heard when the knight slowly opened it, piercing the silence with its echo. The doorway let him onto a circular platform surrounded on all sides by silver clouds, gently passing by like great ships. Above the knight’s head shone bright a thousand and one stars ready to guide wanderers in the dark. With his helmet under his arm he was free to bend his head back and gaze upon their beauty.
A sound could be heard, something that forced the knight his helmet over his brow and his sword in hand. It could have been a clocktower bell crashing down onto the earth, but it was not that. The tower shook when something had impacted on the ledge of the bluff across the tower. Pebbles could be heard trickling down as the thing shuffled around on the ledge. It spoke with a booming voice.
Why have you come here, man in metal? Why have you let your legs carry you to the top of this tree of stone? Is it your wish to converse with this lonely drake from times of old?
Or have you come, like all the others, to test the quality of the metal your body carries? Whatever your intentions, I heed you welcome in my domain for I feel no fear when I look down upon you. None have had the prowess to make me the meal of the earth, I am not afraid. Now speak and lay bare your will.
>>7904274
I think this is really good.
>>7904913
This has quite a lot of potential. There's a quality to it that feels a little loose, and I think it'd be stronger if you clamped down a little more. I'll list a few parts which I thought were issues:
>most linear stretch of asphalt imaginable
what a boring way to say that
>the heat made it so hard to stay awake
I'm pretty sure you could say this with two words
>coagulated
I get what you mean, but it's a weird usage here and you don't justify it well enough. Condensed is the right word
>back at me... back at me
just annoying that you say it twice in two sentences in a row
Look. I know that you'll all think I'm weird, but he insisted on it. Alex has always been that... type. He would make assuming faces at me from across the room, his eyes would flitter over my delicious bosom. I knew he wanted me. And he knew I wanted him.
It started in the dark. He would sit across from me and stare, though he knew that I couldn't say anything in protest or do anything out of fear, he would still do it.
I had almost begun to get used to it when it started. With those eyes of deep, chocolate brown, he would reach forward ever so slightly, and he would touch my breast. I knew that this was only going to get worse, and so I opened my mouth to protest. I tried to scream, but only clucking came out. And then he plucked me, plucked me so fucking hard and it felt so painfully good. The singe of fire across my skin was so intense, I could hardly breathe. And then he ate me, because I'm a fucking chicken and this is what you get for reading this shit.
By the end of the third day of rain they had killed so many crabs inside de house that Pelayo had to walk across his flooded patio to throw them back in the sea, because the newborn had spend the night with high fever and they all thought the crab pest was the cause. The world was in the saddest grey since Tuesday. The sea and the sky were both made of the same ash, and the sands at the beach, which in March showed the radiance of sun powder, now showed the broth of a swamp with putrid seashells. The light was so tame at noon that when Pelayo made his way back to the house after having finished his chore with the crabs, he had a hard time figuring out what was moving with lamentations, in the back of the patio. He had to walk very near to discover that it was a very old man, laying on his chest and sinking in the mud, who in spite of his great effort could not get up because his enormous, wet wings, were too much for his age. Scared by what he believed was a nightmare, Pelayo run into the house to look for Elisenda, his wife, who was trying to cure the baby with mustard patches, and he took her to the back to look at his finding. Both observed the fallen body with terrified stupor. He was dressed like a hobo. He had just a few pieces of discolored cloth left on his body and a completely bald skull, very few teeth, and his condition of miserable great grandfather sunk in the crab broth had evaporated all his greatness. His enormous wings, dirty and close to featherless, appeared to be anchored forever. Pelayo and his wife observed him for such a long time that at last they overcame their amazement and ended up thinking he had been very familiar from the beginning. Then they dared speak to him, and he answered with a unheard dialect but with a good navigator’s voice. It was thus that they no longer thought so much about the wings' inconvenience, and concluded with very good judgment that the old man was a solitary victim of a foreign shipwreck battered by the storm. Nevertheless, they called on a clarevoyant neighbor who knew all things about life or death, and she needed no more than a quick look to rescue them from any bits of terror that were still left in their souls. “It’s an angel,” she said. “I’m sure he was coming for the baby, but the poor thing is so old, so old, that he was downed by the rain."
>>7904161
I would change the dialogue tag to "he said doubtfully"
>>7905128
Y'know had such simple, yet effective critique. It's such a good way of letting the critiqued learn how to mend their own writing. Why the fuck are the other students in my creative writing classes such splergs? Many thanks, anyway.
"Blue is the color of the mind in borrow of the body; it is the color consciousness becomes when caressed; it is the dark inside of sentences, sentences which follow their own turnings inward out of sight like the whorls of a shell, and which we follow warily, as Alice after that rabbit, nervous and white, till suddenly — there! climbing down clauses and passing through ‘and’ as it opens — there — there — we’re here!... in time for tea and tantrums; such are the sentences we should like to love — the ones which love us and themselves as well — incestuous sentences — sentences which make an imaginary speaker speak the imagination loudly to the reading eye; that have a kind of orality transmogrified: not the tongue touching the genital tip, but the idea of the tongue, the thought of the tongue, word-wet to part-wet, public mouth to private, seed to speech, and speech... ah! after exclamations, groans, with order gone, disorder on the way, we subside through sentences like these, the risk of senselessness like this, to float like leaves on the restful surface of that world of words to come, and there, in peace, patiently to dream of the sensuous, and mindful Sublime.”
>>7905165
Y'know *I've never had* such... - Was what that was meant to say.
Looks like those creative classes aren't working.
Buttcake quivered betwixt her buttcake-caked butt cheeks. All at once it roared forth, felicity curving her poopoo snake first hot & warm on the bridge of my nose & then roping down hot into the o of my open mouth. She moaned at first (the rush of doodoo having scratched an anal itch), a deep chest-vibrating moan, & now she's giggling and her thighs give & the white brown moon off her ass suddenly smears down across my face, soft & wet, crickling, now cracking my nose, one nose plug coming free, the other disappearing into me.
>>7905140
Yeah, that's how people communicate—perfectly mimicked by your deft hand, totally natural.
It wouldn't be enough to break both of your hands. How can we ensure the survival of the American language with ding-dongs like you clacking away at the keyboard fucking it up.
I'm not sure how to solve the Millennial Question, other than to gently recommend you stop all creative writing and practice math or doodling or something.
>>7905030
I wouldn't say donned in, perhaps clad. Donned is the act of putting the armour on :) other than that, looks good bud
>>7905257
Sheesh, I don't know who is worse—you or the poster.Yuck.
A very bored and tired anon on a break here, if your writing managed to keep my attention till the end, it's pretty decent, so I'll just point out the most obvious negatives for me. Take what you can from it.
>>7905030
>>7905033
Feels like I read something similar thousands times already with few original bits here and there. Functional.
>>7904913
Reads American as fuck aka. boring but the last 4-5 sentences were pretty nice.
>>7904274
>painting of a clown chasing butterflies
I really like the idea.
Rest is interesting too.
>>7904162
The sentences in the middle are too dull, rest is fine.
>>7904161
Nice.
>>7902931
>"YOOOUU AAAREE GGGGOooOoDDDD!!!"
Just no.
Rest is fine though.
>>7902641
>>7902643
Definitely the best one I read so far.
>>7902491
Alright.
>>7902466
Pretty damn good, loved the "Just kidding. Nobody's that lucky." line.
>>7904913
so far the voice is a bit.... matter of fact? sentence structure is rather boring, and the prose could afford to be a tad more purple. if this is a pastoral midwest memoir about the father I could see it work as an intro. well not exactly this paragraph, but this same sort of scene after a couple edits.
>>7905165
cw classes and workshops are a congratulatory circlejerk. only way to get real value out of it is find the people in the class that are actually good writers and become friends, discuss each others work outside of class.
>>7905030
>>7905033
>A loud screech was to be heard
I'm not sure about your tenses. But other than that, seems fine. Knight's a bit lacking in personality but I'm curious about what happens next (and why he climbed the tower)
>>7905144
this is marquez' A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings
>>7904913
>>7905289
>>7905392
It's from a trilogy of short stories I'm working on. The focus is on Masculinity in America. I'm not American myself, but yes it was intentionally American, very happy that came across. Each story is about a grandfather, a father and a son respectively. I wasn't going for a pastoral memoir nuance per se but I intended it to reflect on platonic and paternal relationships. I'm trying to appropriate a mix of Hemingway and Updike's writing styles. Really don't know how well I'm achieving this.
They're still in first draft. Any advice on making my prose more interesting when I come to the revision phase?
The boy outside the vacant home rang the doorbell five times.
He then turned the door handle and walked in.
Hello!
Is anyone home?
The silence answered for him.
Good, he thought. He walked straight through the carpeted living area and found his way to the kitchen.
The boy ate with a scrupulous eye.
He looked smaller than he should. His eyes were brown and angular, with grey marks beneath them that shown a weariness of travel.
His shoulders were bony, and angular also. Much of his body was angled in an odd way. His elbows pointed slightly inwards when he stood still, and his feet pointed outwards when he walked.
He walked laggedly and seemed to swivel as he did. His legs jutted out awkwardly and his ankles rolled in an exaggerated motion, causing the rest of his body to swing like waves usurped by howls on a lake.
His hands, however, relative to the rest of his body, functioned in perfect working order.
The boy worked with a certain deft.. He shuffled through the cabinets and knocked away cans of peaches and sifted through boxes of crackers and cookies. He brushed them away with indifference.
He did this with an absolute resoluteness to it.
By the end, the kitchen was left in an unsightly disarray . Loaves of perfectly intact bread were set mindlessly on the kitchen floor. Grapes dotted the ground as paper bags filled to the brim were eviscerated, and the stuff laid there plainly.
lemme just post my garbage without offering any feedback real quick
It was overcast and Monday. We were coming out from under the “tunnel” made by the strange architecture of the public library, from dimness to grayness, our eyes happily adjusting back to normal while people stood around, talking or waiting or considering which of the two to do. “You watch out for that guy,” Jhon said to me as we walked into the light rain. “He’ll catch up with you one day, I’m sure, and you just watch right the fuck out until that day comes.” The guy Jhon was talking about didn’t really exist, not yet, but if he did he would have been someone to worry about indeed. I pulled the hood of my windbreaker over my head, but Jhon let the rain dampen his hair. He said he liked the way it felt, liked feeling the elements whenever he could; he’d spent a year layed up in bed, and as a result experienced the world as a child would, fascinated and excited by everything, welcoming everything, never discarding anything as “bad”. You couldn’t tell by looking at him, though, his expression almost always one of quiet sorrow and deep concentration on something just beyond you, just behind you, just inside you. This used to make me trust him, but during the couple months that most of this happened it started having the opposite effect.
I hadn’t like Jhon very much since I turned 23. We met when I was 18 and he was 22, and after a few months of hooking up and getting drinks we decided to become an honest-to-God couple. It went very, very well for a year and a half or so, then fell apart at a baffling pace. Drugs and alcohol both played major roles in our personal crumblings, but I expected them to play off us in a way that could hold our relationship steady, a partners-in-crime scenario where our sins and our indulgences were shared, where we frolecked in our filth together. The fridge was breaking down and the milk was going sour, and despite our belief that we were doing our best to keep it on, to fix it, we were actively cutting the wires day in and day out.
For the next nine hours she watched out the window of the sedan as Louisiana dried into Texas. They left Baton Rouge by way of the Atchafalaya Swamp Freeway, out through the fog and the giant cypress trees which leaned over the road, trailing Spanish moss from their branches—these huge, woeful shapes rearing up from the shallow brack and knotting their limbs together in a natural red-rover against any penetration by human eye or body (even Caldera’s, watching them from her glass box), issuing forth only occasionally the odd white crane with a frog pinched in its beak, an omen to something or other, but mostly just standing still, powerful, and rich with their deep-flooded silence. Neither of the social workers could manage to find anything but static on the radio, and so they all went through the Great American Bayou with an appropriate and absolute muteness. Absolute, at least up until the point when Caldera, out of a simple, self-destructive boredom, took out her phone and searched for something which she should not have—something which drew a noise from her throat that caused both Social Workers to look back over their shoulders in unison, and to quickly turn away when they met the girl’s eyes, which were as gray and dead as the swamp mist they traveled through. But soon the delta broke, and Caldera watched through her reflection as the water drained away from the ankles of the trees and the spaces in-between them broadened. Spaces that came to be filled by houses, supermarkets, strange restaurants and high-school mascots emblazoned on water towers—Dragons and Indians and Bulldogs—a greater estuary of streets fracturing into other streets, and soon they were passing through Lafayette. A quick glimpse of this city, nothing special, and then on to Beaumont, Texas, with the male CPSer reading billboards and pretending to spot road-kill Jackalopes to the amusement of no one, and the woman CPSer scanning through the ever-changing local radio stations in hopes of something other than country, and Caldera watching out the window as the horizon slowly crawled away from her.
>>7893506
My writing is on aerochameleon.wordpress.com it is a collection of impressions and experiences that have resulted from treveling over the last few weeks. I add another entry every two days or so.
>>7907117
Interesting text, you should break up your sentences more and make the shorter. It gets hard to follow whats going on when sentences drag on for too long.
I haven't been working on anything original at the moment so here's my latest blog post, it's about my trip to Belgium.
Last October I made a trip to visit relatives in the city of Brussels, Belgium. The recent terrorist attacks made me think more about the time I spent there and whether or not the country was worth a visit in the first place.
While I was in Brussels I had the fortune of staying at my uncle’s apartment instead of having to look for a hotel room and a hostel to stay in. The apartment was located on the edge of the city center and within a short walking distance of Brussels must see attractions. In the opening hours of my stay in Brussels I made it my first order of business was to walk down to the famous Grand Place and take in the local atmosphere and admire the architecture. The Grand Place itself was undoubtedly beautiful and no doubt historically interesting, walking from one end of the square to the other to take in the different views of the architecture was what I found most exciting. Unfortunately, like in the rest of the world globalization and gentrification made no exception for an old place like this. I saw a Starbucks Coffee in the plaza’s eastern end spitting out overpriced cups of bad coffee and stale bread to tourists such as myself. Instead of shopping at Starbucks I quenched my thirst at a hotel café instead. I ordered Belgium’s famous Leffe beer (Leffe Blonde) and was impressed by its taste and the funny looking glass it came in. I later learned that I had been stiffed when the bill came, having been charged seven euros for the pint.
After finishing my pint I walked further west where I knew I would find Brussels famous pissing-boy fountain, or as its known by its local name the Manneken Pis. Seeing the fountain itself was a bit anticlimactic, the street around it was unkempt and covered in litter and beggars harassed me and other tourists who were taking pictures. The area around the fountain there was nothing special, just one of Brussels many chocolatiers, a gift shop and a bar on the corner. I would not normally recommend the experience to a future visitor but the short distance of the fountain to the Grand Place makes the walk there worth it, if only to say that you’ve been there.
the wood that surrounds me like a mother
encloses around my trail, flexing and bending, swaying
the earth like a father, sharp rock, stern ground
supports my tumbling gait, but I am wary to fall
I hold to the bracnhes, as light as they are.
Not to rely on them, but of my own balance.
Judged by the splintered tone by step.
Without them my feet and body too soft
>>7899548
i love this. pls let me read when done
>>7907117
The prose is almost lyrical at times, I agree that some of the sentences could be shorter, but you certainly have a very definite style. It's very clean despite its verbosity, which is unusual.
>>7907837
Powerful imagery, would love to see it expanded, if it didn't lose the punch it currently has due to its short length.
__________________________________
“One last thing, even if it isn’t too full, be careful. I seem to remember there being a lot of maintenance equipment, and grounds keeping stuff and the like in there, it’s a bit of a health hazard. I told Small we needed to get the room sorted ages ago; he’s just a pain in the ass to deal with sometimes, always too busy with something else, and always thinks he knows best because he’s a doctor. He can be a real ass sometimes, goddamn. Anyway, be right back.”
Louise had already sat back down and was running her fingers through her hair, looking particularly unbothered by the situation, and hoping to convey to Gira that she didn’t really feel there was any rush to gathering the papers and finding the room if it were going to lead to nothing but an exercise in housekeeping.
Gira gleaned that she wasn’t concerned with Jenkins’ emphatically repeated orders and similarly chose to take a seat, however, whilst he thought Lisa was taking a moment to clear her head, he began firing into thought and considering the more practical applications of a digitized interface for the information they’d been sent. He often fell into speculative daydreams lately, unsure himself whether he had simply come to be overloaded with information. It seemed to him that the information was truly a godsend, what could there be that could surpass the meticulous planning of a deified computer? Nothing in the world he had dealt with previously could possibly have prepared him, and his deeply curious personality had gotten the better of him, more and more over the past weeks, though he’d become acutely aware of this very quickly, and was making an effort to distance himself when he could, trying to understand the situation from an outside, even objective, perspective. Alas, here he sat, alone once again with his thoughts and unable to draw himself out into the world.
Lisa was almost on the verge of napping, exhausted from the time spent poring through the documents already, especially after being woken so early. Sleep did not come easy to her, so she frequently kept it at bay as long as possible, often staying up for eighteen or twenty hours, before sleeping for perhaps six or seven. This, of course, meant that her daily cycles were incredibly inconsistent, sometimes leaving her awake from late afternoon until late morning the next day, though, as she lived alone, it had never bothered her until now. For instance, that evening she had gone to bed at the rather reasonable time of three, which wouldn’t have been a bother should she have slept until ten as planned.
My story is about Diamond hunting in africa. I want to show that one of the characters is lucky so I make him win a hand with diamonds as suit. I named one of my characters with the meaning god is with us and the other Noble, bright little star, because I want my character to rebel against the other during the course of my story. I have issues with one guy being lucky and having a reference to Lucifer because in some extreme fundamentalist Christian churches Lucky is derived from Lucifer, but I want to avoid that, what should I do? I'm going to start writing it after I think about this. Maybe I don't mind the Lucky is Lucifer thing but does that make it bad writing because the two words dont have the same etymology as each other??
From a short story about fat people I've been working on:
The room held a consistent, incandescent glow. From the doorway one could see that there was a path dug through the trash from the bed to the bathroom. The rest of the room was covered in a layer of garbage; cheetos bags, doritos bags, anything that was salty or left a powdery residue on your fingers had been eaten here. Throughout the garbage were various delivery items; old moldy pizza, few week old leftover chinese food.
To anyone else, the stench would have been unbearable. To Patty, it smelled like home. Light from the dimmed laptop screen she had propped up on her folds reflected off her mostly naked pale body, giving the room a sickly glaze to fit its sickly inhabitants.
>>7908152
nobody will care about the etymology of your character names
>>7908202
Alright I'll keep the winning hand scene in there. The names just happen to be a bonus for those who know what Sterling, Albert, and Emmanuel mean.
>>7893506
From my website.
I thought today of the character of the Icelandic people and what ideas Icelanders generally seem to share. Today I went to the local soft-serve ice cream parlour on my street and wondered why they are so popular in my country. I feel that the Icelandic national character is one that could be called very contradictory at best and absurd at worst, an example of it's absurdity are these ubiquitous ice cream parlours.
Icelanders flock to buy soft serve ice cream in a country where the sun practically never shows its face during the long winters and temperatures rarely exceed twenty degrees Celsius in the summertime. Summertime in the capital is especially rainy and cloudy but this does not stop new ice cream parlours from popping up. I can attest to the popularity of these parlours because I enjoy the mixed blessing of living close to one. The upside of living close to the establishment is that I can have soft-serve ice cream pretty much whenever I want, the downside is that so does everybody else in the neighborhood. The resulting in heavy traffic on my street can be annoying, especially on Saturdays which is the busiest, I dread for the onset of summer and the coming season of HBO's Game of Thrones, no doubt resulting in increased traffic.
I researched ice cream consumption in Iceland and found out that our Scandinavian brethren share our love for the treat. A scientist or an economist would tell me that its probably the Scandinavian love of dairy products that explains the consumption. Personally, alongside Iceland's extreme consumption of depression medication and coffee, I believe ice cream is no more than a coping mechanism to ease the pain of living in one of the worst climates in the world. I mean c'mon ice cream is better than therapy and cheaper than moving away.
>>7908552
Ég var einmitt ađ fá mér ís áđan
>>7907154
You're writing is very juvenile. If your trip was interesting, it doesn't come out at all in your post. It doesn't help that you have a very snobbish viewpoint, but the main problem is that the writing just isn't interesting in the least.
>>7907123
I read most of your first post. There are a few moments where I don't quite get what you mean and have to reread a section, but overall it's engaging and satisfying to read. Keep up the good work, anon.
>>7908562
Var hann góður?
>>7908565
Yeah, I know I come out as snobbish and juvenile, still trying to find my style.
>>7908569
Já já. Er samt ekki mikill ísmađur. En ég er forvitinn um þennan "klassíska íslending" sem ađ þú ert ađ tala um, sem ađ er eiginlega gangandi þversögn. Hann minnir mig frekar mikiđ á svona Laxness persónu.
>>7908063
Will do buddy - glad you like it. Is there anything you think needs improving? Anything you like that i need to emphasise as i move on in the text?
>>7908584
Já eins og til dæmis hvað íslendingum finnst ís góður í landi sem er skítkalt. Einnig finnst okkur gaman að eiga flottan garð í landi þar sem maður fær ekkert til að vaxa. Síðan á Ísland að vera ein menntaðasta þjóð heims samt finnst mér vera geðveikt mikið af fávitum úti um allt en kannski er ég bara fáviti sjálfur.
>>7908600
Þađ er rétt. Mér finnst líka einangrun okkar frá öđrum þjóđum hafa gífurleg áhrif á okkar menningu. Ef ađ viđ værum tvær þjóđir á einu landi værum viđ allt öđruvísi
>>7908604
Ég mun drepa þig og nauðga uglur þínar.
>>7908646
Vel google translate-ađ
>>7905188
C-can someone please critique me? I'm planning on sending this to a girl I like in class. I don't want to come across too fedora or pleb, etc.
Thanks.
>>7908565
Thanks a lot brother, I really appreciate you reading it. I don't take the precaution of ensuring coherency when writing journal entries as I do when writing fiction. I would love to have comments on there, I am not sure if you need an account to follow and post though?
is there a site like pastebin, but that will also keep the formatting of words? The thing I've been working on at the moment has the characters thoughts in italics, and the loss of formatting could make it confusing.
>part a short story about a missing wizard
>second thing I've ever written
The old woman's house was the last on the outskirts of the village - now began the acres of barley and chop, golden and dry, the sun a molten gold penny, no clouds in the solid blue sky to lend any shadows or reprieve. The girl hitched up her satchel, swatted a mayfly, seethed an overtired breath through her teeth. She cursed the heat, cursed the countryside, cursed her tough new rubbing leather boots, cursed the cobbler who sold them to her with the promise they would soon be a 'second skin' - two weeks and one-hundred-and-eight miles was a long time to wait for second skin. She wondered how long it would take regrow what she had lost to her blisters.
The trodden-down path through the barley field peaked over a hill, a dirty brown roll of parchment between two masses of swaying gold that met the sky like carpet to an immense azure wall. Far, far down on the other gently sloped side over the hill was the cottage, sat like a brick by a thick green and black copps. No smoke from the distant chimney.
She slumped her shoulders at the sight of it and puffed her lips. She sat down, leant back, rested her head on the ground and felt the weight lift from her slapped feet. The sky sat still above, from her view the canopy of a valley of brown barley stalks. She stayed there for some time and felt she had earned some rest, deferent to whatever could be the dire needs of the missing wizard.
He hasn't been seen in three weeks. Whatever fix he's in, it can wait a few minutes more, she thought.
She chewed on this thought and a strand of barley for moment. No. The sooner this was done the sooner I can start back. She thought better of the dirty stalk in her mouth and spat it out, thought better of the bug-ridden floor and stood up, washed her mouth with a sip from her canteen and tramped down the path.
The cottage did not stand by the forest as much as it slumped there. It featured no bricks, rather roughly-shaped stones held together by chipped mortar, producing a skewed pattern that sloped to one side, presumably as the builders ran out of larger rocks and started using lots of smaller ones to make up the difference. A thatched roof - barley, of course - sat scorched on top of a chewed-up timber frame, softened by rains and eaten by woodlouse. Amazingly, it had the glass and the fitted frame for windows, but the pair looking out over the fields were filthy and smeared, as yellow and small as scrap sheet of parchment. The mossy-green gate hung open on rusty hinges. Peering out from the left side of the cottage's ample yard like a large shy white dog was a pock-marked mound of milky chalk that had been chiselled bit by bit for months. Dead flowers, withering weeds, and a healthy but turning oak tree, an outcast from the copps. The black-hinged door was shut.
A tree and stones; touched by the sun and passing clouds. Spotted shadows dance on their faces - a sweet, mocking mix of shade and warmth. It is kind to the stones and cruel to the leaves - they have browned and crinkled, the shadows a late relief.
We pass them on to greater sights.
>>7909379
I like it, the language flows nicely to my ears and its a cute story. Although I'm a bit confused over who is being referenced when.
This is pretty interesting though, the shade and the warmth, is that what is kind to the stones and cruel to the leaves? A fall weather, I'd imagine. I can't wrap my head around the use of the word "cruel" though. Relief is also a special word, I'd imagine the comfort you feel by resting underneath it, but it could also mean an engraving, like relief sculpture onto the floor or wherever. Which brings to question the word "late", I can't imagine thats a descriptor, since the term is so relative.
>>7909358
Very vivid description, I'm interested in reading more. I like the bit of characterization too, the miniature conflict of wanting to rest, but the inner anxiety and impatience of wanting to get things done.
I really like the lack of smoke from the distant chimney,
Pedantic short story over drinking too many cups of coffee you didnt want
http://pastebin.com/68LSciFK
>>7909463
Ah thanks anon, I should have used 'relieve' instead of 'relief'.
The sunlight cruel to the leaves in that it burns and crinkles them brown, the shadow is a relief but its a little too late for them, unfortunately. Glad you liked it.
also your pastebin is private
>>7909477
Fixed, thank you, I thought setting it to private would simply hide it from being put on the front page
"You have to cut true. Deep circle; ream it. Bore into it. You see what I mean? Nothing to be gentle about."
The silent child stared with hollow eyes, his unblinking gaze and hunger-sunken face transfixed by something normally found in stained glass or darkness. Two young callused hands moved under the coarse hair, both searching in the quickly vanishing heat, one hunting with steel.
"Start below the breastbone. Move down, keep it just below the skin. Cut the stomach, and I'll break your fingers. I'll make you clean it with your own ####### mouth."
A wind, heavy with late winter rain, bit into him with obsidian droplets. The edge of the cold tore through his skin, seeking the blood beneath with an igneous ferocity.
"All the way. Watch them; careful with the pull. Make the cut. Higher. No, above. Don't slow down. Step back, step back."
Gut hook released, traded for two hatchets; leather-wrapped steel to wood. Twin certainties when gripped in hand, solid monoliths of comforting greyed hickory, their strikes clean and sweet in their resounding. A careless movement in the extraction sent a few wayward drops onto him.
Red, still holding some hint of warmth, ran down his face to drip from his chin. Shards of stained white laid on rain-swept grass, remnants of the heart's once-sturdy shield.
"Alright, chest's open. Throat and gullet. No, not the hook. Don't be gentle. Get them out."
Fingers slipping on the pale and red, blade ripping with the speed of hunger. They worked in silence for a few moments, until they opened the pelvis. The children exhaled when they began to leak outwards, freed from constraint. Secrets well kept, blue-veined and still warm. His hands searched delicately in their folds, trying to find the mark of conception, any suitable base for a starting cut.
"Now. Not so slow. Pull. Don't be soft with them."
They fell into their anguine piles, each perfect, divine. He stepped back when the motion was complete, knife pointed to the earth in reverence. The coils of grey and white spoke to him in kinder tones.
Lips set, the tall one did not speak as he finished inspecting the emptied cavity. For the slightest moment, a glimmer of hope in the child's awe-softened gaze.
>>7909463
>http://pastebin.com/68LSciFK
> On the table rested a burly man.
Tell me more.
>>7893506
http://pastebin.com/PNxDq1YL
Prologue for a epic fantasy novel I'm working on. It doesn't really reveal the whole scope of the plot, but I want to know how good of an introduction to the book it is. Any comments are welcome!
>>7909463
>http://pastebin.com/68LSciFK
It definitely read well, but I couldnt help but feel the story was plodding at times.
I think the story could feel more active if you juiced up the characterizing of all the people in the shop by having them impact the student more directly and then carrying it from there. Can possibly be a funny series of mishaps in the space of an half-hour if you want.
Just a little something I've been working on. Let me know what you guys think.
http://pastebin.com/wyea8wbE
>>7909506
>The silent child
>The child
>seeking the blood beneath with an igneous ferocity.
>seeking the blood beneath.
>>7893808
EPIC
