>>7796895
You can't write.

>starting 4 of the first 5 sentences with "The [noun] ..."

tears

>>7796901
This is the first time anyone bothered to critique my shit thank you

>>7796929
>it's peak
its
> The souls weren't on that mountain but could only hope to actually stare at from the top of a black ledge.
wut
>Some souls had to wait down below while the others struggled to take a single breath from the growing, morbid mass of souls.
is English your first language, my friend?

>souls
>souls
>souls
>souls
Stop

>She considered herself to be Emily's best and only friend, and right now she wanted to at least grant her job of trying to protect her
>you're breaking my concentration,” and at that her friend backed away with a pair of hurt eyes.
>but no one replied to the newcomer because, frankly, they didn't like him.
>etc
>etc
show, don't tell


>new comer
>newcomer
Have you even read this shit through?

>>7796948
Thank you very much. I obviously have a lot of things to work on.

>>7797014
just read more, la

http://pastebin.com/raw/rZhzymPD

first two pages of a 5,000~ word short story

trying to prep this for some literary journals submissions so any feedback would be appreciated

generally, I'm more concerned with the tone and general atmosphere of the piece

>>7796895

>pure, gray, solid rock

too many adjectives--solid is probably the most redundant

and yeah, there are a bunch of small grammatical errors that is a huge turn-off... you should really proofread your work before asking for it to be critiqued...

your dialog is also quite cheesy, particularly when you drop a bunch of rhetorical questions...

>“Her eyes … they're bleeding!” someone called while pointing at Emily. Tiny dark spots ran down her cheek from her eyes as if her cornea had been punctured and all the shadows inside began emerging like a stream. The people hushed and the wind stopped playing it's chords and the mountain moved.

this part would be stronger if it was reversed:

>Tiny dark spots ran down her cheek from her eyes. "Her eyes... they're bleeding!"

(note: I think "Her eyes... they're bleeding!" is cheesy)

the biggest problem is probably the disconnect between the dialog and the descriptions--your dialog is very simplistic and naive, while your descriptions are more overwrought

both would definitely need more work/polishing alone, but when put together, it really does emphasize how poor the tone is


my 2 c's

As silent as a mirror is believed
Realities plunge in silence by . . .

I am not ready for repentance;
Nor to match regrets. For the moth
Bends no more than the still
Imploring flame. And tremorous
In the white falling flakes
Kisses are,--
The only worth all granting.

It is to be learned--
This cleaving and this burning,
But only by the one who
Spends out himself again.

Twice and twice
(Again the smoking souvenir,
Bleeding eidolon!) and yet again.
Until the bright logic is won
Unwhispering as a mirror
Is believed.

Then, drop by caustic drop, a perfect cry
Shall string some constant harmony,--
Relentless caper for all those who step
The legend of their youth into the noon.

>>7797225
I'd set it on fire. What on earth do you think you're doing?

>>7797228

I'll delete the link. Fuck my shit up senpai. Any pointed criticism, or just stop?

>>7797235
Scandinavia breathes. Golden cemetery shoots and other brittle things which have learned to bore wide and shallow for fear of corpses cling fast in the tundra, where black saltation is thrown thin across the ground like river silt in the wind. Two knuckles deep the earth is never unfrozen. North of Lapland the fells are pitched high and sheer like weatherdecks tossing in the sea but petrified by the long winter, violent and still, and somewhere out in the feral heart of it lay a wolf alone and quivering.

There's like 15 adjectives, bruh

>>7797244

So it is. Thanks for taking the time, Anon.

>>7797179
Hmm, it's interesting enough, but I feel like it's written kind of... apprehensively? Like, it kind of reminds me of academic journals, as if you're expecting to be called out on a detail by a reader, so you pre-empt their criticism. Also, I don't know whether this is your intention or not, but the introductory section seems too formal and stilted. Also, I wouldn't use negligible in the way you used it, even if it is accurate (I don't think it is, but that depends on the context of the place he's returned from).

Here's something that's part of a story I'm working on:
She had such tiny hands. They rose and fell in line with her breathing - shallow, and uneven. He gripped her tighter, as he was unable to pull her any closer. She was so cold, and so pale, that her skin stood out even against the deep snow. His legs cleaved through the bleak white and a muddy crimson tainted it. He prayed that it was his blood and not hers, for he feared she could spare not even a drop, but he didn't know because he couldn't feel. Not long ago there was heat everywhere, and he winced, remembering the fire in his ankle, but now it was just sharp, and still, and so damn cold. A wind kicked up the ash and the snow in front of them and he clutched her tighter still as they stabbed his eyes. How long had it been? How long would it be?

She coughed, crinkling her nose and squeezing her tiny fists, and he tensed up, as if anticipating a fight. Nothing came except the bitter chill and more of that crimson mess. He couldn't hear the fire, or the groan of the steel anymore but wasn't sure if that was just because he /couldn't/ hear anymore. He found himself falling forward, and imagined he must have stumbled on something under the snow. He tried to turn his back on the earth but it refused to listen, and he managed only to keep her face from the snow. Her delicate black pigtails came fully undone with the force of the fall and the wet whiteness, and now her long, raven hair spooled out over his arms and the snow. For just a moment after the fall, he felt her trying to lift her head, and her brilliant ruby eyes peeked out. She gazed up, but seemed to look past him rather than at him, before she smiled him and softly whispered, "I love you, papa." And then her light, little body became heavier, and the shallow rhythm of her breathing ceased, and her eyes seemed to dull.

>>7797225
>http://pastebin.com/XMfprKrQ
You certainly have a good vocabulary, Mr. Thesaurus, but, as I like to say, it's the idea that is more important than the word(s) invoking it. I want you to read your work and ask yourself after every sentence: "Is this idea worth telling? and, if so, have I conveyed it the right way?" If you ask me (which you are), I think the whole of what I read deserves a "no." But don't immediately delete this and, as I often do, vow to never write again, especially because you do have a spark of talent that, with guidance and practice, can be fed. Instead, I suggest you strip down your prose until it is as bare as possible and your ideas and images are as simply worded as possible. Then, add words you feel contribute to the idea and image, and only those words. You see, as it is right now, you're righting is clogged with adjectives that in no way are needed, and that only serve obfuscate and make your reader want to die.
Hope this helps. Don't give up!

>>7797254
*writing

>>7797254

Thanks a lot anon

>>7797226
Your poem is kind of the reason I hate poetry and poets. It's like you think you're some kind of artisan, with a workshop and tools and you're CRAFTING some kind of object. You are FAILING to express yourself, you're caught up in building some fucking literary product. You might think yourself removed from the mundane drudgery of the assembly line but the truth is that you're removed only in a geographic sense. There is no meaning to what you're doing, so stop.

>>7797458

>Damn

>>7797244
>Two knuckles deep

kek

>>7797458
Calm down, Wordsworth, holy shit.

>>7797458
That's by Hart Crane, you complete fucking retard. Please leave this board and never come back, pretentious faggot.

I am the manifestation of poor choices.
Sagging skin, yellow teeth, thinning hair and a pathetic temper.
Having made the decision long ago that I am who I am and not who I could be, I have become what I am and what I will always be. And whatever I've become, I'd rather not dignify with a title.

>>7798662

2edgy5me

also: always will be.

>>7798637

>posting modernist poems to try and trick /lit/ critiquers

what a fulfilling life

>>7798637
Does the fact that this criticism is directed at a professional instead of an amateur do anything to defuse it? No, so shut the fuck up you pretentious idiot.

>>7799241
Not him, but whining about how you couldn't understand what is one of Crane's simpler poems (which I'd be happy to explain to you, if you like) is not an actual criticism.

>>7799297

This is the problem with poets and people who like poetry. If you have to explain a poem, that means it's such incoherent garbage that trying to decipher it is not worth it. Language is for communicating. That poem communicates jack shit but a masturbatory, pretentious, autistic poet. If he had something worth saying, he would have said it in a way that could be readily understood. He doesn't - hence, I don't care, nor should anyone.

>>7799328
You see, that's, like, your opinion, man. And the thing about opinions is: they're not objective.

>>7797250
The first paragraph was a little vague, I actually thought you were describing a guy having sex with some girl in the snow for most of it. If this is a section in the middle, maybe the context would help, but without it it seems vague to me. Otherwise very nice.

Here is a poem I wrote for fun, no intent to publish but I'd like to hear what people other than my friends think.

One April morn, or noon, or night
(all days and all noons and all nights are all the same
(especially in April))
I heard the bird, or birds
(all birds are the same especially in my home and most certainly in April
(though I wouldn't know))
chirping to each other
(all bird cries sound the same to me, and to you, and to everyone
(but you can tell me otherwise if so))
in the cool gray tides of darklit day or noon or night,
(its always that time around now around this season
(dont ask me when that is though))
and in that familiar covering of shadow that regretfully
(or is it a blessing
(for who))
retreats under duress of the piercing sun's rays
(i think i will too
(even though its nice out)
for an Easter like this one)))
I stood, listened carefully for the chirping, which did not cease for me,
(or anyone
(or ever
(not if i can help it)))
and slipped out, or in, or anywhere
(.)

>>7799517
Damn, it won't let me format it right, there should be indents on

(especially in April))
(though I wouldn't know))
(but you can tell me otherwise if so))
(don't ask me when that is though))
(for who))
(even though it's nice out)
(or ever

And twice indented on

(for an Easter like this one)))
(not if I can help it)))

>>7799507
My opinion is worth barely anything since I don't read much poetry, but I enjoyed it. Kind of. What I liked was how you kept the parentheticals from expressing a fixed point of view, as I've seen a lot of people who use these kind of tricks do (like, if I write in allcaps and the first lowercase word I write is sun, all the other lowercase words will be astronomical entities); the vagueness was also intriguing, as was the use of darklit, but I'm a sucker for this kind of thing so. Your composition was a bit all over the place tho, thematically, so if you give a shit maybe work on that but hey, you did it for fun you said. Overall, I don't regret reading it and feel a bit more peaceful than I was so it was nice.

A paragraph I wrote as an intro for a class-mandated thing but then realized it wouldn't really be in line with the aim of the assignment so I culled it:

For I am as evil as this world is evil and as complete as this world is complete and I don't walk but I'm thrown, grenadelike, through this valley that is the brief wink of the sun, both breathheld prelude to nothingness and cacophonous afterlife of empty cosmic darkness - I am everywhere here, on every rivet and grassblade and wet flapping flag, all over every breathing body as they are over me and eachother too, we perambulating beasts of flesh and strata, reciprocating the human infection through rituals of communications and sociality.

>>7799529
It's for you, if you didn't notice before deleting the post >>7799517

>>7799529
(Just realized I forgot the title of the parapgraph, which is "THOUGH I WALK IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH, I WILL FEAR NO EVIL")

>>7796901
Is it bad to start a story off with "the [noun]"? Is there a way you'd personally change the beginning of my story at all? I feel like what I have so far is pretty good, personally.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hWCDq475fir7hULFlXqMcyG--xqyxbO6adjHTBOO6kY/edit?usp=sharing

It was an easy morning, an morning that I well wish I couldnst r'member. I was outside a mcdonalds, my name doesn't matter, at the time I was employed by the Howthe county police just enjoying a fuckin mcgriddle. The pancake sandwitch, my god its so good. Its like molesting your sandwitch with maple syrup. either way this man pulls up to the mcdonalds in a truck, i nthe bed their seems to be an air comprressor and some pvc pipe, so some nit construction guy who is coming for lunch right? Well its 10 AM, a little too early for lunch and a little too late for breakfast if your workin on a house or some plumbin'. I got curious for a second before he just started loitering in the parking lot, maybe hes a contractor and is meeting someone here? God knows I a'ways give the benefit of the doubt. But this is getting shady now. A worker 'comes out to greet him and asks him if hes buying anything, he just tells the lass that hes waiting for someone and has no money if they will just tolerate him for another 10 minutes. She agrees to that and not only 5 minutes later a car with tinted windows pulls up to the lad, he hands him a large paper sack and he hands him a wad of money, a large wad. Ok suspicion has finally been surpassed and now this is just concern right? I pull around after the tinted car leaves and pull up to him.

"Hey their buddy, Howthe county police. Would ya mind showing me whats in the bag?" I asked him nicely hoping I can just get him to give me the bag and I can let him go. I'll just lie and said I found it on the highway or something, no need to book some guy for something so little. But the look he gives me is frightnening. His chin retracts and his eyes go from just tired to hooded and manic, his eyebrows raise and lower rapidly as he bears his lower teeth scrunching his complexion like a morbid mask of madness. He tilts the bag towards me and opens it in a revealing way. I was in shock.
"I got thirty dildoes." The man says as he flicks his tongue at me like a snake. I sit horrified.
"That pipe and the air compressor, ask me what it is." I am almost entranced by the gruesome sight of the rubber dicks and his face so I oblige. He leans in close, and whispers to me as I can hear his tongue lashing his upper and lower lip, like hes sniffing me as a serpant would. He stops and takes a deep breath before nearly silently telling me.
"It's a cannon, I'm shooting dicks." He backs up slowely his neck bulging with veins and muscles as his left eye rolls into the back of his head, his whole body contorts and his head is now resting on the ground while he bridges the pavement with his body and begins hip thrusting the air. I am confused and horrified, I may throw up. He then crab walks to his car by using his head like a cane before headstanding to throw his legs into the open window, his hips catching the doors edge as he snakes into his truck, promptly turns on the engine, and leaves like nothing happened. That was the day I quit the police.

>>7799824
Is this a meme post? Either way it was entertaining. If it's serious, there are a good many grammatical mistakes in here that triggered my obsessive autism - most egregiously, the usage of an incorrect form of "their" (should have been "there").

Anyway, here's a stream of consciousness thing I wrote for a novel I'm working on:

I won’t make anymore mistakes. Never again a mistake. Not a one. I will not allow myself to fail or misstep in any way, shape or form and if I am to do that then I will consider my being forfeit to the bleak emptiness of oblivion and cast my consciousness (or soul, whichever it is) away, sink into the ground all bloated and constricted blood vessels, and wait for the solar system to collapse in on itself. At my funeral, those that I had loved and hated throughout my tenure on this Earth will gather around the shoddy hole as my casket falls gently into the soil. A soft moan sprinkles the air, teardrops raining down the young faces, but the tears are not those of sadness. No, far from it. As a matter of fact, they are tears of joy; tears of happiness. Ecstasy overcomes the living meatsacks still walking with full brain function, and they break out into hysterical laughter, shitting and pissing themselves as they giggle at my corpse. Uncontrollable flurries of energy fill the day, and the poor things rip off their clothing in the excitement, huddle close together naked for all to see, and fornicate violently with one another. It becomes an explosive orgy. My death has caused so much joy for these people that they cannot stop themselves from climaxing on one another. Oh, how splendid! How wonderful! How utterly amazing! If only I could have been alive to partake in this ceremony with them. Of course, if I had lived, then there would be no need for such a public display of happiness in the first place. How foolish of me to assume otherwise.

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>Tfw you can only post small paragraphs in these threads because you're relying on your work to free you from a shitty dead-end call centre job

The next day they spoke with a ship with violet sails bound for Zar, in the land of forgotten dreams, with bulbs of strange coloured lilies for cargo. And on the evening of the eleventh day they came in sight of the isle of Oriab, with Ngranek rising jagged and snow-crowned in the distance. Oriab is a very great isle, and its port of Baharna a mighty city. The wharves of Baharna are of porphyry, and the city rises in great stone terraces behind them, having streets of steps that are frequently arched over by buildings and the bridges between buildings. There is a great canal which goes under the whole city in a tunnel with granite gates and leads to the inland lake of Yath, on whose farther shore are the vast clay-brick ruins of a primal city whose name is not remembered. As the ship drew into the harbour at evening the twin beacons Thon and Thal gleamed a welcome, and in all the million windows of Baharna’s terraces mellow lights peeped out quietly and gradually as the stars peep out overhead in the dusk, till that steep and climbing seaport became a glittering constellation hung between the stars of heaven and the reflections of those stars in the still harbour.

>>7799824
I liked it, it was interesting. If this is part of a larger work, is this the main character, or are there others? As someone else said there are quite a few grammatical and format errors that can be cleaned up, but nothing that interferes with understanding.

The lack of details fits the testimonial style of the narration, but it can be very hit or miss if someone doesn't like that style of narration, which is why I asked about the multiple narrators.
This is a book I'm writing, and it's all I've done so far. XXX is meant to be a placeholder, still deciding on which symbol to use for breaks. Everything else is as intended. Some stuff I know needs to be fixed but I removed the notes from this version. It's a little long, so you don't have to read it all.

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ad9brk8ixbsd9c8/5.pdf?dl=0

[excerpt from a short story I wrote a while back]
“Where to?”

This was the first time anyone’s talked to me in seventeen hours; my throat was parched, utterly dry aside from some lingering phlegm. I answered instinctively, only to clear my throat after letting out an incomprehensible sound.

The man helped me put my luggage in the trunk of his cab, I kept my satchel and sat on the back of his cab, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke in the car hit me and I realized I haven’t had one since before I got on the plane, and a small amount of anxiety dawned on me. It’d be another hour til’ I reach my destination. I asked the man if could I have one, he gave me the whole pack for some reason. Said he saw my hands shaking and that he had another pack in store. Nice guy, you rarely see the type around my neighborhood.

Sun was nowhere in sight, cold, no rain, my ideal weather.

The man tries to spark up some small talk while he drives, told him about the ghastly nature of modern day air travel. He told me I should learn to appreciate it, wasn’t so long ago when this kind of technology was just a gleam on the corner of a dreamer’s eyes. Maybe, I’m impatient, maybe I packed too much for a weeklong trip, that’s what overbearing parents does to you I guess.

“So what brings you all the way over this side of the world?” said the man, still trying to pass the time of the drive.

>>7799904
Pretty good, though a little mundane.

>>7799904
t. Randolph Carter

>>7799971
there's nothing technically wrong with this (although I think the second sentence is a little flaccid) but it's boring

>>7799942
the writing is fine and there's nothing wrong technically that a good once-over can't fix but jesus christ it was boring. start in the middle of the action rather than with this long setup. you want to make the reader care from the first moment or they're going to get bored. i ended up just skimming through after about ten pages cause nothing was happening.

>>7800044
Thanks, I understand. But I'm having some difficulty finding a way to make it more exciting without doing something like starting in the middle of the story and then jumping back to the beginning, which I don't like using. The character is an outsider in a new place, and the conflict only matters or becomes apparent once he knows the full situation.

>>7800085
well, judging just from the beginning, i would guess the story is about your made-up dream girlfriend and your epic adventures with her

not something i'd want to read

>>7800093
Not really, I'm setting it up for a genre shift. But that doesn't work unless I create an expectation, then deviate from it. My bad, I should've said it wasn't meant to be a story all about romance.

>>7800106
idk dude it's your story but I think you could at least throw in some hints that things are going to change up

if I picked up your book and that was the first 20 pages, like, totally unchanged, I would put it back down

>>7800110
I thought the focus on the guns might have done that, or was more necessary?

>>7800119
it's a hard thing to balance. In my opinion I'd say yes, but you should probably write it however you like.

>>7800125
Alright, I will see if I can foreshadow a little more. The guns, and the MC's interactions with the workers at the cafe were meant to serve that purpose. Thanks for the feedback.

>>7800144
now read my shit

http://pastebin.com/R9R7YXJZ

>>7800159
At first I was going to say the tone becomes too casual compared to the first paragraph, but now I see that the first paragraph is too mythic for the casualness of the rest of the story.

It seems like you're going for fantasy, but I don't know if you want it to be epic or not. If so, maybe move a little slower, dwell on different areas. Since it seems to be an introduction, this doesn't have to be much. Just a couple extra paragraphs for each locale, maybe telling a little story or something interesting in more detail. It feels more like a summary or a sample then a complete work. Also some grammatical errors. But it is still pretty interesting, and I enjoyed it.

>>7800201
Every Friday I write a one-page story with 10-point font and the widest margins Word allows. It's not supposed to be anything else. I hardly ever polish them, they're just little scraps that I can use later if I ever want to. Good critique though, you're right about all of that.

>>7800044
>>7799942
i read a few pages of this and there IS something wrong with it: there's a ton of meaningless detail that add nothing to characterization or plot.

entire paragraphs could be cut. for example, we really don't need to know that much about the house. what little characterization there is is fairly generic. ok so they like each other and are kind of playful. otherwise, i have no sense of their individual personalities.

if you're going to have a ton of set up, it still has to be interesting on its own. this is like having to look at someone's 500 vacation pictures.

>>7799875
>I won't make anymore mistakes.
Should be "any more", right? I don't think you can use anymore as an attributive adjective.
>my being forfeit
Had to reread that part because "my being forfeit" also has another meaning (e.g. "my being critical has nothing to do with it"). This sentence is way too long, btw -- you're just stacking and's. Chop it up into two (or more).
>Earth
The E shouldn't be capitalized unless you're talking about the one planet earth (a proper noun). As it is now, you're talking about one of many earths (otherwise "this" wouldn't make sense), so, yea, skip the capitalization. Alternatively, you could skip the "this".
>they are tears of joy; tears of happiness
You shouldn't use semicolon here. Use semicolon when you want to separate two main clauses (subject+verb). How to change: either use a comma instead or add (for example) "they are" after the semicolon.
>Overall
I don't follow the change in time. First you're in the present, then you start talking about your future funeral as if that's the present?
The content -- at least the latter part -- is a bit childish, but whatever floats your boat I guess.

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>>7800245
Here's mine:

A blank page. A new beginning. Actually, no – not a new beginning, but a genuine first-time kind of beginning. The kind of beginning that only happens once, you know? That’s what’s in front of me right now. This is the very first time I’m writing something like this. Just a free flow of thought connecting that abstract concept of conscience with small black pixels on the screen, a wormhole from one place in space to another. With every beat of my heart, creativity is pumped into my arms, my hands, my fingers, and they lash onto the keys like whips. My fingers don’t think; they don’t have to think: they follow orders. In a way, they’re both free and shackled. Free because they’re not expected to do any real work, shackled because they’re presupposed to do the real work. Paradoxical.

Well, that was the first paragraph. It turned out quite well, don’t you think? You have to remember that I am not a writer; this is just your average Joe writing. Your typical show, if you will. In all honesty, I am proud of the varied sentence length, the metaphors, and the rhythm that I managed to produce. I didn’t expect that to come from me. Then again, that’s the beauty of expression: there is a whole continent of language waiting to be explored. Apart from some thin lines marking the perimeter, the map is provokingly white. It’s daring you to approach, to discover. Not in a mocking way, but tenderly and cheerfully – like a father encouraging his child to walk. And little by little, you advance. First small baby steps skirting the frontier, then a short excursion into the wild and quickly back to safety, and eventually your limbs grow tall, your courage strengthens, and you’re ready for a proper journey straight into the fog. As you pace, shapes and curves appear on the map. What used to be nothing is now something. A bit like this page, now that I think about it.

>mfw it's a true story

>>7800259
i hate writing about writing

>>7800259
awfully self-masturbatory, and not nearly as clever as you think. this shit's been done to death.

you're only allowed to do experimental metafiction if you're actually competent with "standard" stuff, which you obvious aren't. stop trying to be clever.

>>7800259
nah

>>7800259
this made me look away from my monitor in embarassment
just delete this post

>>7800244
Getting the layout of the house was actually important for some characterization reasons, since it was designed by two important characters.

Some of the other details were actually extraneous, and some will be important, but I included them to show that the MC is observant. Sort of like the level of detail used to describe clues in a mystery novel.

In terms of their characterization, I agree that they are generic, but I was going for an idealized sort of relationship between them. And I think the reason for that lack of a variety of characterization is that as people said, the plot is moving slow, you aren't seeing them in different situations yet. Thanks for the critique.

>>7800264
>>7800276
Not trying to be clever. It's honestly my first attempt so I just followed someone's advice and wrote about the first thing I saw.

If you ignore the content, how's the prose?

>>7800301
it's not the worst i've ever read here but it's fairly unmemorable. you basically wrote how someone would speak, which is fine for communicating content but there's nothing especially artistic about the prose/style on its own, and it gets marred horribly by the content

>>7800301
It's nice as an exercise, probably should've put that because it seems like people are judging it too seriously.

But overall it is pretty mediocre. There is some alright imagery. It is a little strange, because you are writing in a style that resembles dialogue, but trying to force it into formal writing. Some people write dialogue as two people reading essays to each other, no different from prose, others keep it very casual. The blend doesn't work that well. This is a good exercise for identifying your natural style of writing.

>>7800314
>>7800335
Thanks.
I'm used to formal writing so I guess that's why it looks artificial. I was trying to go for something of a stream-of-consciousness style, but I suppose it was a bit half-assed.

>>7800384
If you want some references you can try reading some of DFW's essays. He uses a lot of sophisticated and rich language but still manages to communicate in a straightforward way.

>>7800296
some of the house layout might be important but your level of detail is excessive. characterization is much better served by direct actions and speech.

at the same time, for something set in the 1950s, everyday details for that era are missing, like the names of the perhaps now-out-of-business motor oil companies, or what kind of classic car they drive.

remember that both characters will have individual reactions to even small things like the guy they met at the gas station. this is a missed opportunity for characterization. for example, she could be nostalgic about going to school with mark, while he could be a little jealous or curious about her past, how she knew him.

>>7800416
Okay, I see what you're saying. I definitely agree that I left out some of the period details, either I forgot to include them or I didn't look them up.

In terms of the characterization of the main characters though, I was planning for them not to be taken at face value. For example, you see Eva trying to re-introduce herself to people from her past, only to find that these people didn't know her in the first place, or just enough to give token polite responses. She's trying to draw on social capital she doesn't have, so the end result is she comes off as pushy and overly excited, while the others are neutral or dismissive. She's trying to be nostalgic, partly to prove it to herself, and partly to put Brad at ease in a new location, but no one is playing along because there was nothing to be nostalgic about. Brad is another matter entirely, due to the narration. I guess I failed in this aspect, but thanks for helping me realize.

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>>7797458
>>7798637

>>7799590
meh

https://www.evernote.com/shard/s352/sh/66d5bae6-1e55-4a9c-8bdc-5004979bc1f9/d192c9b7e159483b

>>7796895

I hope none of you have tricked yourselves into believing that you are going to be published authors...I really, really hope that's not your saving grace.

Reposting this from the other thread so i can get more opinions. First chapter of my novel.

He swagged on her bitch. He wasn’t sure why the bitch had a bitch but at this point he didn’t care. Only the will to swag propelled him forward, and that will was as unending as the sun that reached the apex of this sky on this November day. John was in the corner reading Dune, or well, one of the Dune books. Children of Dune? God Emperor of Dune? The award winning Michael Jordan fan-fiction God Emperor of Dunk? After taking a fifth glance at the thick volume in between John’s hands Christopher realized that it was simply OG Dune. While Chri-Money had never himself wanted to read Dune (he was more of a hard boiled mystery fan) it suddenly occurred to him that both Iron Maiden and Blind Guardian had written songs about Dune. If it was good enough for two of the greatest metal bands of all time than surely the book had some entertainment value. Suddenly all forces of reading energy where jutting out Christopher’s pores. Invisible stalks of novel reading compulsion. He wanted to borrow John’s copy of the book but John was only about 100 pages into the trade paperback and that book looked about as thick as a coke can sized dick. Chris realized he would have to go to the store and buy a copy for himself. He would have just ordered one from Amazon but ever since the ISIS attack on the Global Internet Server Hub the internet was down for a few days. No matter. The store was always an option. Chris then realized that since he lived in Neo-Missouri (which let’s be honest, was always about to E.X.P.L.O.D.E. thanks to the New Madrid Seismic Zone) he was barred from leaving the state and the nearest book store was four-thousand miles away. How the fuck did John get a copy of this book? That night Chris put together a plan. It was a slow one, and really more of a long con than anything else but there was once very true fact that like wasn’t even a goddamn contingency or whatever just real fucking talk if you know what I mean keeping 100 not even frontin’ this was serious shit and he fucking knew it: by the end of the month he would have his own copy of Dune. Thanks to the radical Sernie Banders government the sun was on some crazy sky path thing so months took around 18 years. Seeing as Christopher was sixty-five and the average life expectancy of a Neo-Missouri dolphin was thirty one he knew that he would have to get swimming asap. The Killer Whales were guarding the water-airport and the Manatee Militia was out for blood, but if Christopher let them decide how he was going to live his Dolphin-life, then that really wasn’t much of a life at all now was it? “Time to give these fascist mother-fuckers some new blowholes to worry about” Christopher said in his Dolphin rasp, a voice aged by time, tragedy, and bourbon. He grabbed is MM-47 and hit the road.

>>7800563
Everybody has to start somewhere. I'm sure one of the anons who's posted in critique threads will be published someday.
That said, most of the things posted are beginner level with the attendant awful mistakes.

>>7800652
I was a little disappointed that 'God-Emperor of Dunk' isn't a real thing.

>>7800662
that is the best part of that excerpt.

>>7800662

I mostly wrote this whole thing as a joke for national novel writing month so as long as it gets at least a chuckle out of someone I'm happy.

I see nothing. I hear nothing. I feel nothing.
Yet I stare at my hands, hear the sounds of joy and ever so emotional
Feeling ever more like ecstasy.
Happiness ringing in my ears
Hands covering face and mouth
Is this how it is suppose to be?

>>7800755
>Is this how it is suppose to be?
Supposed*

His feet were numb. Pressed against the cold floor of the dungeon cell. His ass sat on the rough wood bench that was against the wall. Splinters in ass. Naked, except the gauntlet. He had told the guards the only way the gauntlet was coming off was if they severed his hand completely (although he wasn’t even sure that would work). After a solid half-hour of pulling and prying they started to believe him. Finally the guard with the Mexican hat looking thing pinned to his shoulder entered the cell with a massive sword in his hands. The blade was curved like the hips of a woman who had good birthing hips. Long story short the guard failed to cut off the prison guy arm and he was like “See what I told you? This gauntlet ain’t coming off until I find the magical mcguffin tower of towerness. JK it’ s a bass guitar. You don’t know what that is, but it’s funky. Trayvon SMARTin;

>>7799971
Ok. There're tense problems but these could be part of an extremely conversational style.

>It’d be another hour til’ I reach my destination.
reached.

Aside from that I'd say you've managed to write something that while not gripping, I appreciate it's a short extract, does manage not to prompt that: "this is written by someone that can't write" reaction. Apart from the
> just a gleam on the corner of a dreamer’s eyes
Sits a bit awkwardly; it seems strange that a cab driver would phrase it like this, I don't mean that cab drivers can't be poetic, though they often aren't, but it's just an uneasy pick from the conversation. Aside from that, judging on this extract, I would keep reading.

Posted some of this in the last thread, been getting into Barry Hannah and trying out writing is a similar style.

Also if you read a cockiness into the narrator from this section know that this would not be your interpretation if you had read the preceding sections.

What does Tim think at the look of my stable profile?
“His head is bulbous and what of it? Are his brains swelled, more virile and stiff with sharp comings and goings and do his ideas fuck while my own merely beat the rubber and lay themselves down as soft coils in this scrap cauldron, if my skull is a toss-pot then what of it?”
When Tim found out that my University degree afforded me the opportunity to film he asked me why on earth in hell I did not make exclusively pornography.
We both know as men that there are parts of the other that would glide over women for miles if they were laid out such, without a thought for water or anything other than that best getting. It is the differences in the muscle around our proboscis that he cannot abide. In my answer I gave him a glimpse at recondite slipknots and pulleys that get in ways he will probably never know the kind of things he will always want. If you were kept in a dessert and forced to make mean truces with a stagnant ditch you would hate a man that sits beside the lake and drinks sips up through ornaments. Compound this with that I am really just a boy and you have low snarls, coming from the body’s deep south, that scare me when Tim goes on and on and on as if we might really take a stand together.
I want to thrust at Tim’s face all my reasons and stately bonds in this regard but these are more ornaments and in the truck cab they are a source of terrible shame.
There are other symbols though.
The crumpled sheets of tinfoil which if returned to the site are exchanged for money that goes right to the managers we throw away disgusted as love letters to the slave master.
I have called them Gordon’s Bonuses and Tim has been taken with the idea.

>>7797179
>>7801088
i know i've read this before and i feel like i've said something about it already but ...

the opening with the aversion to the mailbox is a good start but the rest of the beginning doesn't work for me.
the bit about the lack of name goes on for too long. two names are enough to convey the idea.
more broadly speaking, instead of creating mystery by making me wonder about the main character's past and name, the erasure of his person makes him generic and passive.
i think a more anxious or contrarian tone would work better than the flat effect, considering the rest of the material. saying he'd rather not go into the details and his place of origin was another story makes him actively hide his past, which is stronger characterization than him basically shrugging.

in regards to the tone, there's a lot of formality in the voice which is artificial. the setting is obviously the present but the language is a hundred years old. unless the character comes from a family of academics and is pursuing an advanced degree in literature, i can't see anyone saying "perhaps" instead of maybe, "peer" instead of look, "i was loathe", "for want of a distraction", "quite", "upon returning", etc.

the core idea of it, avoiding his mailbox and finding something in it, is a sound and interesting premise.

>>7801225
Do me fampai
>>7797250

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Schizo and advised to write.

Cars, generators, and crowds are the whitewash of a clean canvas. Atop the tower of filthy concrete he gazes out over his domain in darkness. Down the crumbling stairs, round the mulberry bush, and through a hole in the wall (liberated from its door). The city of Dis never sleeps. Whores parade around flowers left by the roadside. Into one of the three massage parlours, (always vacancies - apply within). Dance around the may pole for the jeering crowd, "the usual please", hot words and cold hearts. Taking up his position in the gloom studying the crowd, the dancers, the stag troop, the lines in the barmaids' face, the rolling music and smoke. All of them Atreus' children. No use to judge them or chastise them. Their sins spring from revolutions years ago. Above, the beams and vaults cracked and splintered. Time slows and we see this great structure collapsing toward us, how to pass the intervening time? to burn our houses and temples to the ground as we do to those temples and houses around us?

Noise shudders through the pit, the bodies pulse as one. One seething mass on the banks of the Acheron. Their voices now one unintelligible groan. Breaking through the crowd he licks the condensed sea spray. Wading through the black beads and gnashing jaws. Can H.I.V. be spread through condensed sweat? stay inquisitive! such thoughts are reserved for places like this. He helplessly calls out for Trudy like a drowning man while around him minesweepers and cruisers work. Scampering Industria. He lunges into the smoke and catches one.

"have you seen Trudy?",

"just let me do my job else I'll drop dead", the rat replied

"Don't worry I'm dead sober. How do you work so Industriously?",

"I was obliged to be industrious. Whoever is equally industrious will succeed equally well. J.S. Mill said that",

"Wir danken dir, Nietzsche, wir danken dir!"


(I thinK it suffers from "and then", "and then", which I struggle to come to terms with. If it seems fragmented it's supposed to become clearer later in the book. I am imitating Sound and Fury in that respect I suppose. It's not serious, it's supposed to be funny)

Roast me.

>>7801548
I really fucking like it but it doesn't connect with me or make me want to read more for whatever reason. I feel like it was written with the purpose of being written, not that a greater purpose dragged it along.

Here's something I worked on about a year ago.

Class

It was a cold August 2nd. Colder than normal, at least. Most of the trees’ leaves were weakly taped to their wooden hosts. It was a windy August 2nd. The kind of wind that makes you remember to fix your hair and close all your zippers.
“See the problem most people struggle with is greed.” The teacher lecture a classroom full of misfits. Well misfits was a poor term. We wore anything they sell new at Saks. We were rich. And that was something wrong. We worked little and partied hard. We saw no time but the time we paid for; time that was to be counted and consumed, purchased and rehashed then sold to the highest bidder. We were miserable. This was a state mandated course in obtaining “Happiness.” I live in the most miserable district with the laziest and richest of our kind. I’m 17. One year before the rest of our lives are decided.
“How do we know we are being greedy?” The teacher continued.
Everyone looked around the monied room in search of someone with an answer. One person moved. His name was Tyler. Tyler was a member of the happiest and poorest ring. He was a helper and was determined to make us all happy until we puked. Tyler raised his hand in a calm straight line up knowing the answer, having it pre written by people that no one in this room knew.
“Yes?” The teacher questioned.
“When we take more than we absolutely need and or ask for more.” Tyler was right after all. How could he be wrong? He was happy. We were sad. That’s how things go. You know?
“Exactly. Now Tim, what are some ways to prevent greed?” The teacher targeted the question at me this time.
“Ummm-Ask yourself if you really need something before buying it?” My answer was a colorful hybrid of question and answer. At least I couldn't be wrong. Just asking the wrong questions.

http://pastebin.com/Kk2vtGhy

>>7801548
Burroughs with a hint of Pynchon. I like it a lot. Keep it up.

>>7801548
Thats pretty nice, care to post more ?

>>7801240
>>7797250
generally good but i'd advise dropping the poetics. the daughter is dying. you should have created enough previous emotional connection that she doesn't also need to be otherworldly beautiful to make the reader sad. i would cut
>delicate
>raven
>brilliant ruby
her eyes are red? she needs a normal eye color if this isn't a fantasy novel
and
>i love you
saying "papa" conveys enough. saying something else would be more interesting. you don't need to spell everything out with a declaration of love. readers are smart, meet them halfway or make them come to you instead of bonking their heads.
there's a scene in wm gibson's count zero after (spoilers) jackie dies :
"Turner watched as Bobby got up stiffly and walked to the bar; he saw the care the boy took not to look at the stage. Had the two been lovers? Partners? Neither seemed likely."
he leaves it up to the reader to realize that over the course of the book, bobby and jackie had become friends.

>"seemed to dull"
this pulls back, should be just "dulled".

let the story of her death speak for itself without embellishment. you don't no need to be fancy to heighten feeling.

earlier, his wince is unconvincing. if he's lost and bleeding and each step brings sharp pain to his ankle, wincing at the memory of greater pain doesn't really fit.

>>7801548
nice. i didn't get the humor except for the mulberry bush but i liked the rest of the wordplay and imagery.

>>7801177
Thank you for your criticism, I appreciate your compliments and for pointing out my errors.
> does manage not to prompt that: "this is written by someone that can't write" reaction
Aha this actually means a lot to me.

http://pastebin.com/gSgg1ykW

Ohhyea thats the stuff daddy boy let me slurp you all the way home its that time of year for slurping of daddies i always enjoy it when i get the chance to give a ll slurper to a daddy the tree is there and it is good for a tree but it is only a tree and that is all it can be i cant slurp that quick daddy my phlegm is gonna explode upsonn your rod oh no it wont i wont let it you fucking little cunt faggot i will expose you into the world and they will see what an egregious cunt you really are now pass me that gosh dang hulla bollaoozing green swinger its time for a receptor the lights turn on in his aquarium a doodle pops into existence and shines light into the gourd we believe the gourd it holds many truths and it will become us all one day no need for you to pasteurize your anus little cow scout its a mans duty to let his little butthole roam free in Tennessee a latte wagon up north could guide you away into injun territory where you could get cajoled into a circus of bloody sodomy pray wise stranger you dont fall trap to these sin pits o

Hi /lit this is my first draft for my first novel, its a sci-fi.
Synopsis:
Two scientits and a farmer open a portal to heaven to try and save the world from a solar storm.

here goes the link

https://docs.google.com/document/d/11lkbBcp2KIUJpk2BiEAgGq4U9LhWeeaj_ZintageDtU

Any critique is welcome, also if you have any idea on how I could finish this story I would highly appreciate your input, dont be shy!

>>7802289
I don't get it, but you should use capital letters when typing "I"

btw I'm the poster from above

i have survived an encounter with a privileged russian trashcan today when one approached me yes he approached me they must be moving on with their plans of getting rid of my identity but i did not let him poison me with unknown privilege substance that i know for a fact are actually filled with nano robots that make you a slave to the privileged russian trashcan collective brainthink and i know this because i have proof i have seen this in action when a privileged russian trashcan touched a person with their unknown privilege substance coated hands the person became a slave to their collective privilege brainthink the privileged russian trashcan collective brainthink has only one purpose it is to make everyone a slave to itself but i will not be had i am actively taking measures to defend myself from ruthless attacks by the privileged trashcan russians it is only a matter of time before they find out i am spreading the truth about them on the internet and they try to stop me for they already attacked my phone therefore i cannot take pictures of them for the unknown privilege substance nano robots actively delete the privileged russian trashcans from the images i take the privileged russian trashcan shits have begun releasing poison privilege sleep gas into my room to try and make me unconscious so they could install privilege movement tracking cameras in my room to watch me and observe me and write down all my patterns so they would find what my weakness is but i am actively standing up against their privilege russian measures i have been up for 50 hours now i have just taken another dose of unknown privilege substance free amphetamines they will not make me go unconscious and install the privilege movement tracking cameras that also spread unknown privilege substance gas into my room and they will not watch me and i knew they were planning on something i heard the privileged russian trashcan shits yesterday so i prepared and when i suddenly started drowsing off i knew they were actively poisoning me with their privilege poisin privilege sleep gas that is seeping into my room right now they do not yet know i am conveying their plans to others and revealing their privilege plans otherwise they would shut my privilege russian nano machine free computer down like they did with my phone for their privilege nano russian machines are actively destroying every image of them that i secretly take to gather proof about their privilege russian movement that is trying to abolish my entire existence the world destruction slavery to slave all non russians to succumb to the unknown priivlege substance controlled slavery i have to survive the poisoning the spying the watching the slaveyr attempts every time while the privilege russian trashcan shits try to slave me to their unknown privilege substsance contorlled slavery that strives for world slavery control

>>7802979

i have to live with a prvileged russian trashcan shit who constantly every day takes notes and watches me and reports back to the unknown privilege substance that flows in every spy the unknown privilege substance infects towrads world wide russian privilege slavery control the russian privileged trashcan shits are spying on me and watching me and htey are trying to poison me they dont want anyone to know about their world wide unknwon privlege substance controlled slavery they have poisoned the water in my dorm so i have unknown privilege substance in me but in small amounts that allows me to hear their brainwave russian privilege radio so i hear their plans and their plans for world wide unknwon privlege substance controlled slavery it is all in russian and they know that they can talk freely because they know i cant understand russian because i know baout their plans for world wide unknown privilege substance controlled slavery they try to abolish my entire existence they are constnatly watching me even on the streets the slaves to the unknown privilege substance machine people are watching me and taking notes and reporting them they have infected my phone with privilege russian privilege nanomachines that destroy any evidence about the russian privilege trashcan shits from all photos i take i know that because i see them trying to poison me but they dont show up on the photos this is why i need to write a manifesto and spread it everywhere and in real life where people cant just censor me and they will see the truth about hte privileged russian trashcan shits privilege unknown privilege substance controleld slavery plans towrads world domination by slavery the people there call me crazy and they dont believe me, they are all controlled by the unknown privilege substance they are slaves to the world domination planning unknown privilege substance machine this is why i need to write a manifesto and spread it everywhere and in real life where people cant just censor me and they will see the truth about hte privileged russian trashcan shits privilege unknown privilege substance controleld slavery plans towrads world domination by slavery i am not being controlled proof the slaves to the unknwon privilege machine are constantly watching me an taking notes and reporting back therefore they must be slaves and therefore they mustb e controlled therefore i am not controlled otherwise i would not know about their plans for world slavery domination they are already slaving everyone around me to watch me and spy on me and poison me and report back all their find therefore they must strive towards global world wide slavery to make sure nobody knows about their plans their end plan i do not know and i hope to never find out because if i find out then it must be already in progress the privileged russian trashcan shits controlled by the unknown privilege substance privilege slavery controlling machine are not operating in one country only

>>7802984

their privilege reaches world wide global world privilege slavery for that i have accounts of people exposed to the unknown privilege substance tuning in and listening in to the russian privileged brain wave privilege radio which exposes their entire plans because they know we cant understand russian they know that therefore they can freely talk and not risk exposure but i will expose them i will make their plans known their privilege slavery world control by the unknown privilege substance controlled slavery plans must not see the light of day i hear them even right now im listening in to their brain wave privilege radio however i do not understand them but i can still know their plans for world wide global privilege dominataed slavery by the russian privileged trashcan shits

http://pastebin.com/dnVwjq84

>>7802979
Steam of consciousness is bad

>>7799328
If someone could understand the poem it's obviously understandable you cuck

Who do I read for getting a sense of beginner poetry? Is there like an image guide?

>>7796895
dont give up, anon. you will get better over time.

>>7802979
>>7802984
>>7802989

Punctuation maybe?

Right now you have a 1.1k word (6666 characters) sentence.

I don't even know what the FUCK you're writing about, I don't have ADHD and I could hardly make it through the first post.

Here's something I just wrote (1/2)

You imagine your life to be a film. Establishing shot, Exterior, Coffee Shop, Morning. You walk into the hip coffee shop, hunched shouldered and morose. You are stopping for a quick cup and snack before you head to work. Interior wide shot, Café, Morning. You’re sitting in a booth. You’re thinking thoughts, reading a book, chomping down on a chocolate croissant. The facilities of your body are working, your fine motor skills flipping the pages of your stained library copy of The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and bringing the flaky pastry up to your lips; your digestive system brings the food through your esophagus down to your gurgling stomach. The synapses and neurons in your brain fire off, the Broca’s area exploding with activity as you contemplate the story of Stephen Dedelus’s life and the verbal rollercoaster of Joyce’s modernist wordplay. You think about the job you are about to go to, the co-workers you hate and the ones you are attracted to. Your mind shifts to thoughts of sex, which distract you from your reading. You look up at the ceiling of the café, the trendy minimalistic design with exposed ceiling beams and pipes that have become so popular lately. You look back at your book and start to read again, wondering if you will ever achieve your dreams of becoming a great writer and film director, or if the mistakes you’ve made have doomed you to toil away in obscurity for the rest of your days. You hardly even write anymore anyway, your job takes away all of your time and energy. You look around the café, taking comfort in the fact that even if you never succeed at your artistic dreams, you’re more of a conscious being than the mindless drones in the rest of the café.

>>7804337
I hope this is ironic snowflakeness.

>>7804337
(2/2)


The shot changes. Medium Close-Up. A man sitting at a table across from you. Dressed in a suit, he checks his watch. Seconds later, and older man shows up. They have a warm conversation. The man is informed that he has successfully gotten the grant that will allow him to fund his latest film. He got the grant off the strength of his previous film which was nominated for prizes at the Rotterdam Film Festival. He thanks the older man profusely. The older man leaves. The man orders a coffee and reflects on how grateful he is for the luck and fortune he has found in his life. He gets up. The camera follows him as he walks out the door, leaving you behind, reading your book and bitterly preparing yourself to go to work. That is the last that is seen of you. Instead, the rest of the film follows this man, as he finishes his new film. It’s a hit, he wins best director at Cannes, and goes on to have a very successful career, living out his dream of being an international film writer/director. He feels fulfilled. He is a hero. He is not ignorant, he knows how lucky he is, and because of that he strives to appreciate his life as much as possible. He lives a good life. Sitting in the café, you go on believing your life, with its hopes and dreams and body and thoughts, is significant, that your movie is only beginning. The film of your life is a tragedy, because the film of your life does not belong to you. Your scene lasts five minutes, and you are hardly noticed. You are an extra, someone occupying the background of the shot, reading a book. Your one moment of significance is when you briefly intersect with the good and successful life of someone who lives better than you could ever imagine, and after that moment, you are never seen again.

>>7801929
No problem, what is the general outline btw?
Do mine?

Crit my RK9 stream of consciousness into - you know you wanna

People’s heads tonight are full of bright beaming shit that blares and pulses like the merry signals to a toxic beach.
Pull up anchor, they say, black ocean is no place for people, blackness is hell and glowing sand lit as per the incursion of mad, self harming chemistry is always preferable.
What is my attitude? It is true that people who feel superior and disconnected are by and large cunts. We think other people have nothing to teach us but the truth is they walk around stuffed with knives in their bellies: They jump up and down and dance around as the blades clang applause; maybe it is rhythmic; maybe it is afro-beat because all people in every culture are tribe people and it is the same on either end of the rifle and this they know. But do they?

>>7804835
*intro

>>7804835
I didn't really get anything from it. I think you're close to having something there--but it's just not present yet.


The corpse wasn’t beautiful anymore. It was detestable--horribly ugly. I regret fucking it a little--but not really. I wish I could jam my dick in it again and cum all over it. It looked great with my dick. Really great. But it looked even better when my cum was dripping down its face and when I went balls deep (I hate that expression, it’s so crude.) in its asshole. I don’t think anybody in this prison would understand why I did it, though--well, besides John. Now I just sit here in this odd grey room with its metal walls and its uncomfortable beds and its bunch of caricatures (not people, never people) who I don’t like and who I don’t even want to look at, much less speak to. They don’t want to do any of those things with me either, so I guess it’s fine. I miss John.

I guess I’ll try to explain why that boy was so pretty, so enthralling to both John and I. You’ll probably still wonder why I didn’t stop fucking corpses after I got into jail for my first incident. I’m not very good with words, but I do try.

My first day in prison is easy to recall and describe. I’ll start with that.

“Hey there,” one of the inmates--John--asked once I arrived at my designated cell. “What are you in here for? You don’t seem like a bad guy.” John looked really beautiful when he was asking me intrusive questions. I wondered a little while what his thick lips would look like around my cock before replying with the four words every girl wants to hear: ‘I fucked a corpse.’

John blinked, seemingly unfazed, and said, “Wow. That’s pretty fucked up. I didn’t think you’d be into that stuff.” He turned around then and I thought I’d just have to lay there in that dingy atmosphere for the next ten years without anyone to talk to, but then he turned his head so fast I thought he’d die and maybe I’d--nevermind.
He said “How was it though? Did you enjoy it?”
Of course, I told him the truth: that I’d enjoyed it immensely.

John stared for me a long time after that. He just kept staring and staring and after some time I thought it’d never end, this unexplained watchfulness. (Why do people stare?). Then my cellmate looked to the side, put his hand on his chin and said, “I’d like to try that out.”

Naturally, I said I’d help him.

We found the person we wanted to fuck senseless (quite literally) quickly. This one cute boy we saw, who, I’d later find out, was in jail for fucking a comatose patient, was the one we immediately attached ourselves to. I never found out the reasons for his crime, though. We didn’t get to know each other for long enough.

>>7796895

You’re not listening to me. I’m not saying you’re, like, a bitch or something. I’d do the same in your position, honestly. All I’m saying is I think it’s important that you acknowledge what you’ve been doing. What you are doing. I understand why you’d vilify me. Huh? Seriously, listen. I understand why you’d make me out to be, like, the “bad guy” or something. You couldn’t go tell Ciara or whoever that you “broke up with Conor because I just sorta got bored with him”. You’d sound like a total bitch, right? Oh, this guy who was in love with me and would’ve done anything for me? I got bored and broke-up with him. Let me finish. You’d sound like a bitch. I’m not saying you’re a bitch, but that’s what’d sound like if you said that to someone. So, what do you do? You make it out as though I were some sort of sexual maniac jealous psychopath weirdo. You know that’s not true. I know that’s not true. Everyone knows that’s not true. And that’s why you’ve gotta acknowledge that you’ve basically been lying to make yourself feel better about having to break-up with a decent guy who occasionally fucked up. Stop trying to make me out as the “Batshit Ex-Boyfriend”, you sound like a bitch. I’m a good guy, that’s what’s hard for you. It’d be so much easier if I actually was insane. Everyone knows you’re telling lies. I understand, I do. I’d do the same in your position. How many times do I have to explain? Anything wrong I did, I apologise for doing, but you know I wasn’t in a good place at the time. You know I’d never intentionally hurt you. Therapy doesn’t work for me, that’s why. If you can’t realise that you broke-up with me for entirely shallow and self-serving reasons, then maybe you are just a bitch. And that’s all you’ll ever be. All you’ll ever be is some bitch to some guy who’ll get bored of you. You fucked up and I’d never take you back. Probably never.
“Oh, whoa! How long’s it been?! I didn’t know you hung out here.”

>>7796895
wrote a short story I'm pretty happy with recently, looking forward to hearing your critique /lit/

http://pastebin.com/Y4uUgweq

>>7803421

I don't understand what you mean

>>7804905
I like this a lot anon. Your prose is, I guess I'd say workmanlike? Not Nabokov or anything. But with a concept like that you don't want to distract from the inherent power it has. I'd love to read more.

http://pastebin.com/gDSS3gAx

Something from the roadtrip story I'm writing at the moment.

>>7802979
>>7802984
>>7802989

So what's the plot, the russian privileged trashcan shits are poisoning you? And then? What happens next?
There also lacks any clear development of character

>>7804968
Is this a parody story or a fanfic I can't tell

Smoke from cigars hung in the air in a threadlike manner, creating a smoking mist that reduce the visibility inside the brothel. The smell of piss and drugs thickened the already putrid air which lacked any kind of ventilation. The dilapidated brothel was occupied with its usual mix of debauched and mobsters, indulging themselves to their sexual desire. Forgetting the fact that their city was closer and closer of having a food shortage. With whom to blame, no one really knew, but they enjoyed momentary bliss from the harsh reality inside this brothel.

The fact that the oblast's governor and his staff did nothing but satisfy their own desires also added to the sorrowful and despair looks on their worn-out faces. In a darkened corner of the tavern sat Alexei, who could only observed with cold indifference. The deteriorating city was not of his concern, nor were the starving people who lived in it. He wondered why would anyone ask him meet them here, nothing was here except blatant corruption and illegal activity.

This is just a waste of time. He contemplated by his lonesome, the image of his wooden house in the woods brought a smile to his face. But the thought of someone calling him and requesting a meeting here lingered in his mind for a moment. Just when questioning who could it be, Irina, the extremely thin waitress, set another glass of harelka weakly on Alexei's table. She cleared away several other empty glass feebly and collected her money without a word.

>>7805329
She carried on without a glance at Alexei, knowing how most of the customers habits of this brothel, she knew well enough to not make any eye contact without getting into some unnecessary problems with them. Alexei picked up the short glass for a moment, wondering on what to do with it before setting down the drink back on the table. "No thank you," his voice low and soft, barely audible above the moans of the other brothel customers.

This time, Irina was taken aback and looked down. To her, it almost sounded if those words were sincere, but she must have been mistaken, decency from one of this degenerates, she must have misheard. She took a glimpse of him, his left eye was covered by his hair and he used his left hand as a support for his head. His black hair stuck up in places where he'd been running his hands unheeding through it.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't quite hear, what you said. Would you mind repeating it?" Alexei raised his head and gaze back at the barmaid, his gray eyes penetrating deep into her soul, and someplace even more exclusive. "I said I didn't want the drink, can you please return it to bar please? I hope it isn't much trouble for you." She stared blankly at him, her gaze never wavered from Alexei's gaze. The girl was in shocked, someone pleasant was actually talking to her like a actual person. Irina sadly wouldn't have the joyful moment to herself, as her boss yelled at her to served the rest of the drinks. She picked up the full glass and set it on her tray and totter her way back to the bar to return it without another word.

>>7805335
Alexei slid a cigar into his mouth but didn't lit it. What a odd woman, he thought. Although she should really mind her manners, it's rude to stare at other people. He definitely did not want any unwanted attention to himself right now. Not after he just entered to an illegal brothel by his lonesome. He once again glanced back to the other customers. He really needed to find out who asked him to be here. It wasn't long before he noticed a middle aged man with dark, shaved hair sitting on a stool at the bar. He was staring at him with a smile, and lifted his right hand in salute.

Alexei looked away and smiled faintly. The last time he'd seen that bastard was two years ago. His name was Markov. That was all he needed to know, for he already knew the request he was about to given. He was not ready for any of his request or any battle for that matter. A dark shadow passed over him. Before long, he heard the sound of a short glass of harelka was set in front of him. He looked up hesitantly and found Markov staring down at him, a smile spreading across his aged face.

"It's been to long, comrade." Without acknowledgment, Alexei took out the cigar from his mouth, before picking up the glass and drinking it all down in one gulp. "Would you mind if I join in on the drinking?" He could only sighed in disbelief. "After two years, this is how you treat an old friend?" He stuck out his hand as a gesture of their old friendship. Alexei however could only take notice at how it was encrusted with dry blood. When Markov realized this, he dropped his hand and laughed nervously trying to play it off as some inside joke.

>>7805373
"I guess these two years of peace still hasn't made you a talker. Anyhow I've been hearing things about you." Alexei could only stare in confusion on what Markov just said. He would still be confused after Markov tried to clarify his own words. Markov laughed when he realized all of his efforts were in vain, from his friend's ignorance. "The stories I could about you in these past two years." "Aye, the same could be said about you." "How's life after the war?" "Could be worse, could be better, why do you ask?"

"I heard you finally build your dream house. Wanted to see if it was true." "It's true my old friend, built it myself, in a middle of the forest." He boasted proudly to Markov, clearly enjoying himself for the moment, he wondered if he should ask about Markov's life. Even after all they did during the war, most of his personal life was a mystery. It never bothered Alexei though, he knew one day they will have to live their own life, still it wouldn't hurt to ask him. "So how about you. What have you been doing?"

"Started a family, one baby girl on the way, I also got a nice paying goverment job, how about you any jobs?" "A hunter, though I doubt that is a official job." "Ahh, that reminds me on why I called you here, I need a favor to ask of you, would you mind hearing me out?" Markov took out a piece of paper from his coat pocket, and carefully put it on the table for Alexei to see. She set it on the table. The words written on the paper however were not properly written. "Do you want me to kill someone for you?" Alexei said in a hused tone. He didn't want the other patrons to eavesdrop on this particular discussion.

>>7805379
*he

I hardly hear them now.
Just auditory clues,
cues to signal– keys to
slot in neuropaths and
drafts to notes to sheets to
this music. Peace in the
pieces– where I sit but
don't listen. These songs that
tend to sidle step in,
change some stone to flesh and
numb law to love. I want
rest but instead this sly
test sets in for the night.
I hardly hear them now.

http://pastebin.com/xeB3NfQc

Hello and please respond.

Does anybody have trouble coming up with ideas? I love writing prose, but I always hit a block where I'm not sure what the next paragraph or scene is, and I don't want to waste time on a bad scene.

How do you brainstorm?

Your writing is... uncompelling, OP. Dull, even. The sentences flow, sure, but in such a cookie cutter way that the whole page becomes stagnant. If you opened up a children's novel, this is the way that the authors of those stories tell them. The words they use are rather uninteresting, and it seems like their writing begins to lack because they fear they could make it too convoluted to the kiddies that are reading.

I mean, obviously they are kids' books so there isn't a whole lot I should really compare, but your writing should be less bland than that. You know what I mean.

Maybe try to experiment a little more with pacing. You'll get the hang of it. Keep practicing, and good luck.

>>7804972
i think stream of consciousness is only useful as an exercise or a warm up. they all tend to sound the same, like a breathless kid babbling. walls of text like your excerpts are annoying to parse and simply make me not want to make the effort to read further.

>>7805741
I sit and think. Generally I have headphones or earbuds over my ears. I'm not listening to music or anything, it's just there because it's a habit, I guess. But it sure does block out extra noise.

Sometimes it helps me to read over what I already wrote, be it part of it or all of it. Sometimes I'll just purposefully not read over it and think about it instead.

Could work. It's important to note that it's all really subconscious though.

>>7804968
like the other anon, i'm also not sure what your intent is or if you want an audience outside of wapanese, but it could use a lot of cutting.

>>7805741
to me it sounds like you need to outline

>>7805741
Take a walk, preferably through some nature trails. The peace will relax your brain and ideas will come. Just don't try to think about it.

>>7805329
gay as fuck

>>7805655
Anon, this is actually quite good, and I usually have no patience at all for queasy wallflower tales. Not sure how long I'd enjoy being in this character's head, but what I did read was pretty truthful. Only issue to me was the end after narrator goes to sleep- the next day is a bit unclear I think.

>>7805917

It's a diary not a stream of consciousness

>>7806214
Are you going to give constructive criticism?

>>7806362
What are you writing anon. I couldn't follow?

>>7806586

It's a diary of my experiences but when I start writing it down I just write words that come to me and the words that came to me I wrote down and it is a diary

>>7806590
Of your experience? Care to elaborate?

>>7806357
Thank you, I will work on that.

>>7806362
It may be your diary but it is definitely written as stream of consciousness: run on sentences, lack of punctuation, randomness.

>>7796895
I’d seen the bloodlands of Antietam
The shotgun shack in Tupelo
But a brick circumference left hollow by Sherman
Crumbling before me how it moaned

His shape swallows my recollection
That phantom silhouette implied
Strange fruit rottingfrom an airborne and hotter than hell
Is this the king’s last man I’ve spied?

I stood there beside my companion
Scratching a rumor he had heard
Do you have a gun?
What? He said, yeah, you mean this one?
Straight down the barrel was his word

And I smelt the fumes he inhaled swiftly
Each word was hinged upon his choke
Like kudzu creeping up a state tree discretely
Forever bending as it broke

And I heard the jangling keys of Graceland
Ring from his teeth stained brown fromcoke
Drunk and stumbling like a man of distinction
They clamored shaking as he spoke

Of droves of pilgrims at his doorway
Of Reagan, Carter, Clinton, Gore
Fortunes offered them, refused routinely
This ain't no damn auction house he swore

Black male standing around 6 foot something
Ebbs through the waves of small town blight
A minute coldly from southern affection
Collides secretly into night

Forgive those who trespass against us
Began as the dead intruders plea
Into the very muzzle I’d once peered into
He gives the last words he will speak

But that broken glass supports forced entry
Reminds his lawyer through the phone
What southern judge do you know, comforting gently
Who jails white men who defend their home

No souls were present for the moment
His bombed out brick walls finally fell
Lying face down in the throes of atonement
Checked out of the Heartbreak Hotel

He was the uncast shadow of a southern myth

>>7807869
This is a song by what's his name

This is the first chapter of my novel about a soccer player that kills people

http://pastebin.com/QABX9UQP

>>7805435

the rhythm you create with the hyphens is really satisfying

(10:00 am) I spent sunday morning walking through Delaware park. I heard church bells ringing in the distance. I saw masses of cars and people on their way to church. The sun was bright and hot. The light shined through the trees, and the sunlight covered me as I walked past the crowds of people. It was hot; but, I felt inexplicably cold. I walked up the stone steps to the grand wooden doors of the church. I wanted to enter. I did not. I left that place. I turned around. I walked away. While the worshippers worshiped. I felt alone as I returned to the crowded street.

(11:00 am) There was an exhibition of oil paintings at the art museum. It was 10 dollars to view the paintings. I only had a five dollar bill, three one dollar bills, three quarters, six dimes, one nickel, and no pennies.

(12:00 pm - 12:01 pm) It is early afternoon, I returned home to my apartment. I fell asleep watching an old war movie. I saw my cat napping beneath a clock hanging on the far wall. I found this highly ironic. I laughed to myself. Nobody was around to hear me laugh. During this moment of joyful(joyous?) silence, I heard my neighbors arguing again from the apartment next door. She is upset because she does not know who her husband is fucking, but she knows he is fucking someone, and he isn’t fucking her. It’s been three weeks, four days, 9 hours, 12 minutes, and no seconds since I’ve last fucked. I’m feeling lonely.

(1:00 pm) I feel hunger. I go to the kitchen, there are dishes still piled in the sink. Solid and unwashed. Static and unmoved. The faucet leaks, and drips. [Sound of water dripping] I tried counting the drips of water, but lost the count. It wasn’t important. It would only lead to some large number, no different than the one before it, or the one following it.

(2:00pm) Out of boredom I decided to go for a Sunday drive. A line of cars blocked a small section of the right lane of Main St. I felt annoyed, but mostly I felt nothing at all. When I got closer I realized it was a funeral procession. I didn’t think of my own death, instead I thought about the deceased. The grieving wives, the sorrowful children. The cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, coworkers, debt collectors, landlords, the fast food attendants who once attended to their order, the ones still living who miss those who have passed. I also thought about my own death. How selfish of me.

>>7808284

(3:00 pm) You decide to walk through a cemetery. You think of the long procession of days stretching in front of you and behind you. The stacks of calendars which you have lived through. The ticks of a second hand, the blinking of a digital clock. The times you have been scolded for your lateness because the minute hand fell too far on one side of a numeral and not the other. The headstones arranged much like a calendar. You think of the inhabitants of each collective grave. How they have lived through each moment you have lived through. How they have walked the Earth, how they have wept for the loss of a loved one, how a loved one has wept for the loss of them, how all of those loved ones have wept and are no more. How one day you will be no more. How one day one will weep for your loss, and then, one day, there will be no one left to weep. To die. To be dead. To be unnoticed.

>>7808275
Those are en-dashes, faggot.

>>7796895
I am writing a volkisch saga about a mystical hero who takes various guises throughout european history. in 100 AD, He is a roman legionnaire who uncovers an hebrew plot to destroy rome from withein. in 1096 he's an aristocrat and ace swordsman who sacrifices everything to liberate Jerusalem from the mohametan hordes. in 1860, he is a genteel, kind hearted plantation owner forced to fight for his liberty and fatherland. In 1945 he is a German soldier and a patriot. In 2015 he is an elite army combat vet whose conciousness is awaken by the internet. He realizes something needs to be done.

>>7808275

Thanks, man. They are en dashes though, technically, as the other guy pointed out.

You might also be picking upon the rhyme scheme. I wanted to try something new and ended up getting really strange line splits because of my desire to stick with it.

The poem definitely reads better if you don't pay too much attention to where lines cut and just let the rhythm built into the sentences carry you.

>>7796895
I can tell that it's one of those days again. The look in her eyes is there, and she does this thing where she only half-pronounces her words, and melds the end of one into the beginning of the next. I can still understand her fine, that's not the problem. The fact is that I know why it is that this happens, and what it means, and roughly what's going on up there, and that's what scares me.

I ask her when they usually get lunch here. It's the first time I'd been here during the day instead of after work, and I suppose it's nicer this time of day. All the white and grey is a lot less depressing when you can see through the window outside, never mind the bars across it. Another one of her little signs is just staring at something for a while, nothing in particular, whatever her eyes catch. It's a radio this time, a real late nineties boom box, and it's playing one of those relaxation tapes. The music skips ahead in places though. It makes everyone in the room uncomfortable.

'About five minutes,' she says, startling because her gaze is still transfixed, except it ends up sounding like one long word; I-ink-bout-fie-inuts. Her face is all scrunched up now, because she knows that it's a bad habit, but I don't say anything, just force myself to smile. Then she does the same, and for a couple of seconds it's all alright. I want to put my arms around her, but the bastard over by the door thinks it's some kind of 'safety concern', or what have you. Complaining around here is an exercise in futility. But for the love of God, just look away for a few seconds, just turn your eyes so we can at least touch each other. I want to touch her wrists, run my fingers along the stitches, and feel all that was and is, that night, the beautiful and grotesque contrast of white red perfectly illuminated in the bathroom's panorama, with her at the center, thinking her last thoughts, diving right at the bright solace shining from the end of the tunnel. But I'm a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, and she only took a glimpse before the paramedics came. Not now darling. If you are lucky, soon. But not now.

I hope that one day, you understand why it is so.

>>7808284
>>7808287

The second bit sounds like someone else wrote it. It's a bad idea to switch tense like that.

At 12:00 you briefly switched tense. Seems to be a recurring theme in your writing. Try to work on that.

Overall interesting, but there's some grammar mistakes strewn about.

Wrote this a few minutes ago for fun. Not my best but what do you think?

I miss the way you looked at me. How your eyes seemed to peer into my soul, and loved what they found. You made me feel like the most important thing in the world to you, as you were to me. You used to say we could take the world together, but what you didn't understand is that we didn't need the world. We had each other and that was all that mattered. You were my everything, my one and only love. And when you left, I was torn apart. It was as if the earth had fallen from under me, and I fell into an endless void of despair. I can't go on living like this. Without you I am in a desert, thirsting for your love. All I want is for you to hold me like you used to.

>>7801548
>It's meant to be funny
I got that from the HIV line

It's very good IMO, and convinces me even further that a lot of good writers are mentally off-kilter (don't mean that in an offensive way). Reminds me a lot of McCarthy, in how the prose flows smoothly, though doesn't give the impression of the author having wrote it while simultaneously fondling himself. Keep writing mate. I hope to see more of your stuff on /lit/ some time in the future, or maybe even in more respectable literary forums.

>>7805741
sleep or try to sleep. Ideas come into my head for some reason when I do this.

>>7809911

No kidding

---

Can't sleep, don't want to sleep
don't want to, they don't want
me to sleep. They don't want
to, so I'm stuck, but sleep
wants
me.

Needs me, I need it.
Don't want it, want rest
so go– sleep's not rest
though. I do want it,
want
rest.

They get to talk
when I don't sleep
they don't like sleep
no chance to talk
in
bed.

I want rest.
They don't want
me to want
sleep but rest
want
talk.

But I
just want
they want
and I
can't
form

words.
Rest
now
just
want
sleep.

>>7809770
>cliches
>cliches everywhere

>>7801548
I like it, the HIV line is damn funny, but it's too fragmented, IMO. There were several sentences that I think would have been better if they were a single sentence. Maybe fragment it in a smoother way, if that makes any sense? Like instead of:

>Down the crumbling stairs, round the mulberry bush, and through a hole in the wall (liberated from its door). The city of Dis never sleeps.

Try:

>Down the crumbling stairs, round the mulberry bush, and through a hole in the wall (liberated from its door), the city of Dis never sleeps.

Or what you did in:

>Dance around the may pole for the jeering crowd, "the usual please", hot words and cold hearts.

I think the fragmentation still comes across but it's in a more pleasing way that makes me want to keep reading instead of feeling like a jackhammer is typing at me. That might be what you're going for, but hey. This is just my opinion. Ignore it if you please.

>>7809926
said like a true redditor. you sir, have restored my faith in humanity.

>>7805741
sounds like you need to write some bad scenes. writing is never wasting time. it's called practice, and you'll never be worth any sort of a shit if you don't write all the time. if the scene is bad don't use it, but do save it. learn from it. and stop worrying about inspiration. if you write, it'll come. just fuckin do it.

>>7809958
is this ironic? because that paragraph was a mess of cliches said infinitely better by hundreds of writers thousands of times.

>>7809770
I have to agree with the other anon. This piece has no unique imagery or ideas. It would be better if there was anything specific to this couple at all like the time they went on a Valentine's day winery tour and had to take turns being less drunk so one of them could drive to the next winery and they got chocolate strains on his button down shirt and her cocktail dress so they added more strains so they'd match at least blah blah blah. A shitty example obviously but at least it's something not generic.

http://w.tt/22f9N4j

It's unfinished and a literary mess, but I'm looking for improvement.

>>7810122
Yeah, you're right, too many cliches. I didn't write this with anything special in mind, nor did I particularly care if it was good. I was sort of trying to see how vague I could get, like a pop song. Really easy to insert yourself. But yeah, it's pretty shitty. Thanks for the honest critique.

Didn't see this and made another thread. Mea culpa.

I hate the first stanza, but I'm going to post it anyway. Plz tips on how to improve

-

When feeling fades
I expect the relief
of the freedom
being finally released from
the lighting that dragged me for months

Yet
desire leaves a hollow
when it goes
I can't deny it; it's there
the absence of nothingness
laughing at matureness
supposed to kill it at birth

Puppy love is being missed
I was always fond of fluffy beings

>>7810880
Do you mind clarifying what it's about? For me, it feels like the speaker is experiencing something kind of confusing, or else he isn't saying it exactly, which is fine if you intend for it but if that's not what you're going for then it very much changes the type of feedback I would give.

>>7810899
It's about falling out of a (bad) crush and not feeling so good about it as you should feel

File: Иван_Константинович_Айвазовский_-_Дом_на_ферме_и_Мельница_в_лунном_свете_(1863).jpg (135 KB, 1228x885) Image search: [Google]

135 KB, 1228x885

http://pastebin.com/XmgMNz9j

>>7804985
I'm commenting for the ass, not out of love of literature. So keep that in mind during my short critique.

I like it in general, but not in any of the parts that build it up. I understand that you are going for an tough-guyesque prose style, but it still is a bit over the top. Try to use combined words and slang like "whataboutit" and "fuck" more sparingly. Also the "(?)" is much too avant garde, it comes off as pretentious.

Otherwise, I find myself enjoying it for a reason I can't quite center. 7/10

>>7810880
You need to be concrete and specific even if you want to be metaphorical. Poems full of intangibles don't work.

File: 1452040712207.gif (2 MB, 640x360) Image search: [Google]

2 MB, 640x360

Here is acut .gif of a sleeping wolf. Consider it a bribe for a critique. This is the opening of a short story.

>It had been summer for four years now, and Henry was finally accustomed to the cicadas. In the days when he still had a future, he hated their trilling, because it was so loud and so piercing that he could scarcely think about anything else, which posed a problem, especially on the days when he was taking an English exam and could hear those cicadas on the other side of the classroom window, like he was a zoo animal and they were the humans, and they were mocking him, and he would get so angry and so distracted that he would inevitably fail his test. Although, if Henry were being honest with himself, he would admit that he was never really any good at English to begin with and that the cicadas weren't actually hindering his academic performance in any way.

>But since the edge of the world was closing in on him and since his school no longer gave tests or work of any kind, Henry had become more mellow, and he had grown to love the cicadas. He had grown to love the cicadas in much the same way he had grown to love Nada. He reasoned that it is only in the face of the paralyzing terror of an unknown void before him that man slows down enough to appreciate the familiar sights and sounds that surround him in the day-to-day marathon of human existence. Jun would chastise him for that outlook, though. "If you hated cicadas then, you have no reason to like them now," he might say. "You're just rationalizing the fact that you're helpless to change the circumstance you're in. That's not something to be happy about. You're a prisoner." But even even if Henry was a prisoner, he enjoyed the comforting familiarity of his cell. No wonder Jun was always calling him a masochist. But if living meant suffering unending summers and incessant cicadas and that witch of a girl named Nada, then enjoying those things was a better prospect than the alternative of being miserable.

>Presently, Henry was sitting against the popcorn tree planted in the middle of the schoolyard. He wondered why it was called a popcorn tree and reasoned that if it contained actual corn kernels, the summer heat would have popped them by now. He wondered how long it had been since he last ate popcorn. The last of the convenience stores had been swallowed up by the void some time ago, though he was certain he and Jun had ransacked it empty long before then. The void was always polite in that respect. It only disappeared something after it was no longer needed. If only it would disappear the cola stains on his uniform.

(1/4)

I’ve been sitting in this car for an hour now. The funeral home is packed, little shapes passing the windows, and the sun is directly above the building, glaring down on my car and blinding me. I already can’t breathe, I’ve been crying for days now, why am I here. I turn the engine over, it shatters my ears, I let it rumble and burn for quite a while, the air suffocates me a little bit more, but I can’t bring myself to leave, so I turn the engine back off and lie back down.
Black suit, white undershirt, even shifted my hair in to a proper look. Even a nice pair of shoes, under all the garbage that’s layered in my car. Plastic bottles of tea and water, bags of chips and a dozen assortment of candy bars. It took me three days to drive here. Some disheveled clothes litter the back, along with more plastic bottles. A dozen notebooks, pages torn and crumpled and clustered along with the clothes. Some ideas, a couple poems, a short story or two. A lot of garbage.
I’m still wearing some my clothes I had from work. Katy had been hit by a car while I was here. I’d heard she was going to be alright. I called the hospital, looked online to try and see her condition, and all I found was an obituary. I left work at that moment. Stopped by my apartment, picked up this suit and a white shirt. I’ve been driving ever since. My phones been dead for days, I’m sure everyone’s noticed I’m gone. Ringing me up with no hope of an answer. My voice wouldn’t even shake if it could.
Every mourner that meanders out of the building I don’t recognize. A lot of people going in an out and they are all strangers to me. Strings of grey haired ladies, rough looking men, young girls and their sons and daughters and husbands, some without those men. I think maybe her mother, though certainly not her father. I haven’t seen her husband. I surely hope he doesn’t see me. Five years is a long time, but not for memories.
Someone walks by, I sulk in to my car. I blend in with the trash, still a spotlight on my car. I feel like everyone is staring at me as they walk by. The sun showing off a secondary player instead of the leading star. What am I even going on about?
I haven’t seen Katy in so long. She died suddenly. I remember seeing her daughter grow. I remember the day she moved. I remember hugging her goodbye, and never seeing her again alive.

>>7813072 (2/4)
I open my car door, I exit with some trash, it scatters on the ground, and I tip toe to the lumbering building. The large picture windows cover the dozens of shades, some large rose bushes lining the path to the door. I rub my hand along their tops, one pricks my ring finger, I suck on the blood and sneak to the door. A couple passes me by, both crying large tears, whispering about her daughter, and how she is such a dear. The large wooden door weighs so much. I yank as hard as I can, and it only moves an inch. I pull even harder, and it still doesn’t budge. Then an old woman exits, holding a cigarette, asks for a light, but I speed past her in to the funeral, ignoring her request.
Everyone is buzzing about the flowery place. The walls decked with roses, and the stems and branches cover the space. The bundle together, linking in long chains, running from room to room, leading the line for the grieved. Towers of flowers and statues line the long hall. It stretches for a mile down toward a dim, dark entrance. I hear the roar of crying, the tumultuous howls. I ooze down the path, past more strange blank faces who look at me the same strange way I am them.
I stream past the doorway to the casket, filled to the brim with people adjourned in black, and rush to the cafeteria so I can just relax. I pull up a cup of coffee, add some sugary cream, drink until there’s nothing left and still feel no esteem. I’m alone in this room, save the flimsy plastic chairs. I lean back in one until it makes a loud cracking noise. Every which way I move I just can’t get comfortable.
There’s a picture of Katy smiling on the wall. A toothy grin like no other, something I hadn’t seen until then.
Where are you moving to?
California for a while. We may back after, though it looks less likely every day.
Oh.
She looks at me, and I know I can’t stop frowning.
Don’t be sad. I don’t want you to be sad.
But I can’t help it. I can’t help being sad.
Well, stop it anyhow.
I’m sorry.
It’s alright.
What happens if I send a letter? What happens I try to write? Is there any way we can talk without causing a fight?
But silence, a hug, and then she took flight.
“Hello? Why is everyone crying?”
A tug on my wrist, and a little girl staring back. Beautiful blue eyes, curly brown hair, and a sad sort of smile. I wipe off my eyes. “It’s just a sad day I suppose.”
“Well, why?”
“Do you remember me? You were very young. Your mother and I were friends. I haven’t seen her in a very long time.”

>>7813078
(3/4)
“No.”
“That’s alright. I remember you though. You were so very small. A lot cuter too.”
She didn’t enjoy that.
“Want something to eat? I bet your hungry.” I go and get her a piece of cake and watch her eat it for a little bit.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes.” She says. “Everyone’s really sad about mommy I suppose.”
“Yeah. They are. Aren’t you?”
“No. She’ll get better. Everyone says she isn’t going to but I know she is. She said she would be. She told me last night while I was sleeping. That she’s sleeping now but she’ll be fine later and that I just have to wait.”
“I’m glad she’s there for you. I’m sure a lot of the people here are jealous of you. They don’t get to hear from her anymore and they’re really jealous of you because of it.”
“Well, she’s mine, so no one else can have her.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
With a crash, a gruffly looking man comes in to the room. Her daddy. His eyes are red; his stare leaves me dead. I’ve never felt so small.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to come say goodbye.”
“Well, no. You need to leave.”
“Why?”
“You’re not welcome here.”
“I can’t even say goodbye?”
“Fuck no.”
He comes over to his daughter, lifts her high in to the air, sets her on his shoulders, trying to make her comfortable there.
“I don’t know why the fuck you thought it’d be smart to come here. I have no idea what made you think anyone would want you here. Not a single person does, living or dead. Just fucking leave.”
“I just want to say good bye. I’m sorry.”

>>7813084
(4/4)
“No. You just need to leave.”
“Please. It’ll take a moment; I won’t say a word. I just want to say my goodbyes.”
“I don’t fucking care. If you don’t leave right now, I’ll kick your ass. You’ll not have to worry about anything because you’ll be knocked out. “
“Please. Just let me do this. I’m sorry. Just please.”
“No. Get the fuck out.”
“Please. I’m begging you. I haven’t spoken to her in years. I don’t even know if she looks the same. Look at you. Look at Naomi. You’ve changed so much. I just want closure. Please I can’t I thought so long about how to do this whether I should whether I should come to the grave afterwards I just want to say goodbye to my friend I know you hate me I just want to leave with something please please please let me have this I’ll never bother you again you’ll never see me hear me or anything I know youre mourning I know youre sad but please let me just say goodbye”
“How many times do I have to tell you?”
And he comes towards me, anger in his eyes, holding on Naomi. I run past him, out the rose covered hallway, past the entrance of the mourners, who are looking at me as I run past, looking at her husband as he screams at me, as fall over myself in to a stature, as I break through the door of the funeral home, as I fall down the stairs. And as I never see her again.

>>7812191
I feel like 'summer for four years' doesn't pay off. You speak about the schooling, then into his current state immediately afterwards. I don't get the sense of real progression, really that the three paragraphs each represent a marked point in what should be a longer introduction.

EVERY WRITER HERE SUCKS BALLS. IF YOU CANT TELL GOOD FROM BAD IN YOUR OWN WORK, GIVE UP? JEEZ MAN. WHAT A WASTE OF TIME

>>7804835
i thought it was great, very entertaining.