/CRITIQUE/
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You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature
You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature
Oh you merry men and women, let's share some samples and share some feedback.
PLEASE leave feedback before or immediately after posting your work. Otherwise these threads turn to shit. Seriously.
Creak, went the door with the broken lock, as Henry Sliverich swung it open. A haunting, soul-crippling creak seemed to call out in rusty groans to a faceless world, which operated its hustle and bustle around it as if it did not exist. Creak, went the unpolished floorboards as he went to step over the threshold in his Italian leather shoes. Creak, creak, creeeeeeeeak. He paused with his fingertips fluttering hesitantly on the door handle, which had clearly once been shining and brass under the light from the absent chandelier in the eerie hallway. Creak, this fine, haunted house said to him.
Please look at some of my other work. I hope to become a writer one day.
http://www.writerscafe.org/KateeBurns/writing/
>>8107002
reads like YA. especially the creeeeaak.
I know you can't italicize here, but onomatopoeia should be in italics.
not bad, but there's not much going on beyond a dude in an old house. Just reads like YA.
Also, at some point emotion or sensation should be introduced to give is a sense of the setting and empathize with the character
http://pastebin.com/86jATbSd
What I have so far of my short novel/novella. I don't expect anyone to read all of it so just skim or read a part.
First Wil and Testicle
I'm lying down on my synthetic, cat skin, sofa, smoking type O positive laced ketamine, and listening to an audio recording of domesticated penguins having sex.
And I'm writing my masterpiece. My first Wil and testicle. Or, “My First Wil and Testicle”. It's a cop buddy screenplay about a testicle, who after being amputated from an aspiring castrato, leaves his fellow testicle to become a cop. His partner? Former child star, Wil Wheaton.
But all of this writing is giving me jaundice, so I throw the manuscript into the air, demanding it stays there, floating, until I have need of it later. I stab myself in the upper back with my pen, and twist it in until it's about halfway in, and secure, then throw the ketamine pipe on top of my tombstone. Rest in peace, pipe.
Food. I need energy after sucking down horse tranquilizer all day, and breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And night. And day. And all of the night. Chinese baby pizza. No, you sick fucks, it's not made out of Chinese babies. What kind of monster do you think I am? It's made by Chinese babies. To help pay off debts, some farmers in China sell their excess babies into pizzeria slavery. The ethics are a little sketchy, but damn, these pizzas are incredible. Honey bee crust. Delicious.
When I was older, I couldn't find the ingredients to make even the most basic of pizzas. Pepperoni had been gone for years, hunted to extinction by radical vegan extremists. We thought it an isolated series of incidents, the pepperonis didn't disappear overnight, but one morning we woke from our beds, turned on the television, and the president told us that the very last pepperoni in the world had been destroyed. If the death of pepperoni had been a long drawn out whimpering fart, the death of cheese was a sudden and completely unanticipated diarrhea shit storm violent explosion of a fart. Fuck all that noise, I had decided to revert to my younger self. In a world of pizza.
I'm running late for work. I go to my bathroom and induce vomiting to get rid of the pizza. I need room in my stomach for work, plus I plan to transition to a life of shirtlessness soon, and don't need to build up any excess fat. Brush my teeth, dry them off with an old pair of underwear, and then rub superglue over them. This helps fight the acidity of vomit that attacks the enamel. I look in the mirror and recite my reverse Gatsby opener affirmation before the glue seals my lips to my teeth.
“In my older and less vulnerable days my mother sold me some advice that I tend to forget every day. Whenever you feel like praising any one, just forget that some of the people in this world have had every advantage that you never did.”
I put on two thirds of a shirt (Small incremental steps are best when transitioning to a shirtless lifestyle) and crawl out of my window, ready for work.
>>8105930
A time of clattering technological locusts’ mechanical into their deep whirring carapaces was stringing back along into being. Their wings were logoed. Those wings in motion had just the right striated markings here and there to form in their frantic movement that same quivering logo out of the bleared air, too, and they were all frenzied about the house on the hill with no other hills in any of the other long stretching distances it was the two’s panoptic velleity to choose.
Or had been.
For now none of that vague grey fusion of land and sky was visible through what was now yes a cloud, a teeming multiplicity, of made locusts. They went about random elliptic dalliances, buzzing just like the real thing, an undertone of crackle like no other horde seen by no other penitent.
And what had they done to make of their time here an incorrectness?!? The house was two stories with the front door opening onto the only set of stairs--not even a basement to their lives--up to their two rooms and shared bathroom, under which was the sitting room, a nook place with cozy hermetic chairs with repetitious floral imprints facing each other, conversing more than either of them, those flowers in a constant bloom, the fireplace agape, the dining table austere with flowers in the cutglass basin, not even a television.
Locusts all manufactured going elliptical into the sky much tighter now.
The one says to the other, both eyes protuberant, “now is the time when all our linens must be unstitched. We will go into white puffs of discord.” But there was no echo of the other, all eye contact, sentiments slack of articulation.
The house was all wood of various types and no two beams from the same tree. They remembered each and said so how the house in its most infantile scanting had been the disposition of the one into the other made up as though a physical space, but not with locusts.
They grow closer. They fumble with the latch and it was a very old house, that house on that hill, they failed in finding the right lock.
The two twined together dancing about the shifting floor slats, each of a different grain, each of them, that is. There was meanwhile a kind of coagulation about the time, until in a moment of almost singular happenstance the dancing stopped, the multivariegated gyroscopic oscillations of the disco ball went into their own discord, the revelry ceased, the partygoers were dismissed, and the two went one after the other out the front door, the only door, of their house back into clear skies, the door opening with a face full of sky looking back into you, the ground already beginning its downward slope from here, the same slope down from every angle of the hill, here and there, the house was made right in its exact center.
The two sit and fossick for further distances, fimbriate silhouettes away from the copyrighted insectoid replica at tea in now their requisitioned house.
>>8107567
>I put on two thirds of a shirt (Small incremental steps are best when transitioning to a shirtless lifestyle) and crawl out of my window, ready for work.
>>8107587
It starts off so strong, but then I kinda lost steam and started working on some semi publishable stuff
>>8107562
The constant onslaught of big words is a bit tedious, although there's little ambiguity in the ideas you're trying to convey, so good job on that
>>8107567
The first three paragraphs are pretty good, but the fourth wall break in the fourth and the subsequent lolsorandumbness feel forced. The style is good, but there is little substance here
>>8107569
I like the imagery of mechanical locusts with logos on their wings, it brings to mind industrialization and consumerism, but it just kind of dances all over the place with no purpose. If there's any underlying meaning here, I missed it. It reminds me of a really nonsensical dream, which if that's what you were going for, you nailed it
Will be posting my own shit shortly
>>8107776
And we're off
Somewhere in the world, a chimpanzee scratched it's ass. At a nearby pawn shop, a clerk stood polishing the jewelry cases for the umpteenth time. It was a symbolic act, meant to demonstrate a sort of perpetual productivity, although it was in itself an unproductive gesture. While maintaining his war on fingerprints he would periodically scan the store's interior to silently judge the naïveté of its prospective customers. The characters that wandered in and out of his area were as grotesque and varied as the fingerprints he so vigorously tried to remove. Over by the power tools, two old men argued rather listlessly over the quality of their favored brands. As Jeremiah Dogood eavesdropped, a woman, wiry and pale, ambled over to the jewelry cases. The argument intensified. The pale wire woman gazed at the mediocre costume jewelry, resting her hands on the glass. No sooner did she do so than did Jeremiah pivot his head towards her without moving his body, a rather birdlike motion.
“Hands off the glass please thank you.”
Startled, the woman removed her hands from the case at about the same time Jerry began to wipe it down. She huffed and left the vicinity. Jerry was not the slightest but troubled by this, in fact feeling rather pleased that he chased off another filthy-palmed customer. After removing the last bit of grime from the case, he returned to the men's argument to find that they were no longer there. Crestfallen, he aimlessly straightened up the area around him. According to the second law of thermodynamics, he thought to himself, order will give way to disorder in a closed system. And so too, he thought, would his workstation become uninhabitable if he for a second stopped cleaning. So he carried forth, though it lost him sales as his dedication towards order sometimes resulted in negligence towards potential customers.
>>8107567
i dont like the pizza and pepperoni shit, but other than those 2 paragraphs i like it. of course, what i like is completely meaningless to you, but it is entirely meaningful to me. it is the only thing with any semblance of meaning
>>8107776
I think I was trying to go for a kind of mock profundity for so that there would be comic disjuncture between the register of the prose and the insipidness of what the prose actually describes, idk though, to might be a little much. My idea for this story so far is to have it follow the arc of Chekhov's "The Duel", but with the characters and plot even more inconsequential. I'm not sure if its a good idea since I dislike works of fiction that are clearly modeled on earlier works of fiction in a way that's meant to be cutesy, but the idea I had for the climax, where two of the characters are going to 1v1 quick scope in some FPS or something instead of dueling, seems kind of clever, so I feel like I have to keep that frame to make that fit.
I have no pretensions of this being good, so don't feel bad about tearing it apart. I'm just curious as to how to make an interesting opening line right now.
Growing up, I was always under the impression that the unspoken rule of not shooting your best friend was a cardinal one, but apparently, that rule falls secondary to the explicit order of your friend's commanding officer to "shoot that fucker in the face." To his credit though, James didn't actually shoot me in the face; he shot me in the stomach.
I woke up at 12:30 last night to find my father telling me to slip my clothes on. I asked him what for and he replied hastly
"Mr. House found some of his goats dead, and we have to help him out."
We walked outside and waiting was Mr. House in his Studebaker. It was raining so I sat in one of the seats in the back.
"I'm thank you two enough for comin' round for help'' Mr. House said.
We drove off to the farm. It was only water on water outside, and the doors were washed off from most sight. Nasty rain was flooding some of the street.
When we arrived at the farm; there were four of the work men out with their laterns. The rain made them all covered and wet.
"The goats were found out here an our ago" he spit and told us "Walter over here said he heard some noises from the outhouse, and went to go check on em'. When he went he saw
I will continue if you'd like
It's one of my best writings
>>8108036
Continue please
>>8108091
When he went he saw a tall man, very tall."
Mr. House turned and asked Walter "Is this true?"
"Yes sir, very. He was crazy, he was eating out the goat raw. The savage man was suckin' all the blood from em'. I think he saw me, so I ran back out to the house and told Buddy to bring his Winchester. But it was too late. We couldn't save them all. It was the most awfulest thing I'd ever seen sir, usually we get dogs and coyotes. But it was a damn man! You shoulda seen it yourself sir, im tellin' the truth!" He was frantic and shakin' by what happened. I had some right to believe in him, the guy seemed honest.
Mr. House shook his head in shame and told him "I believein' ya, you always told me the truth, and you look like you're sober enough to know. It's just a damn shame that there is not much we can do here. I want you boys to get these bloody things on the back of the truck and i'll bring them home with me and take a look at them."
I helped pick up the cadavers from the blood puddles they were left in and threw them on the back of the truck. Once we did, Mr. House dismissed us and told us to go home and get rest. We got back home and sat down at the kitchen table.
Dad took off his boots and told me "I dont exactly believe what Walt said, and you shouldn't either. Sometimes I think we just see things that aren't there. But dont tell him I said that, because he is a good man, and he is smart." I nodded off and went upstairs to go back to sleep.
I woke up at noon from a nightmare, it was one similar to what Walter had seen last night. It's scary to wake up and see what he saw; just like he described I saw a man, tall and thin. He had fanged teeth and was feeding on the animal. Blood ran down his face, and on the ground. But like my father said, I must discredit it all. It was only just a dream, and it probably came from my thoughts before bed.
I think I should have time to relax more, since this week had all been so much stress. I cant complain today though. The weather makes it all seem better than it has been.
>>8108036
>>8108110
They're good.
here's mine
Ten months ago the cataclysm happen. And in those ten months the world had been slowly dying. This led the hunter wondering, why is he trying to survive? Ignoring the obvious answer that most would reply, he was left wondering, he would do the same routine every single day for the past ten months, and nothing change at all. So why was he trying to survive. Was it because he assumed everything would get better? That wasn't it as he wasn't an idiot. Did he hoped that someone would just suddenly appear and fix this tragedy? This wasn't a fairytale, at least he hope it wasn't, it would be too depressing.
I don't know If I should rewrite the first paraghraph
I wanna write a book about a slave master in the Antebellum south and his gay relationship with a nubile slave boy who grows to adulthood and reflects on this relationship after his master's death and eventual freedom. has this been done before?
>>8108235
Don't ever capitalize "And" it just seems illiterate.
I cant give much critique since I don't know what you're writing. But from what I read I cant get interested since the writing flip flops back and forth with questions. I'm sure it's good but I just need to know more on what you're writing about.
I'm writing a novel called "The Southern Vampire." it seems very cliché but I put my own twist to it. It's a epistolary novel from two different people
One is a Missionaire for a church in KY
and the other is a boy 17 who moved from Washington with a family of five. It's a cat and mouse story of who's hunting who. After Michael Smith (the vampire) dies of a sudden death in his 20's. He comes back to find Harriet (17yo boy) and his family to be living in his once owned house. As he terrorizes them, they set out to put down the damned demon back to his true death
>>8107786
That first sentence has nothing to do with the rest of what you wrote. Everything else could do with fewer adverbs.
someone try me. It's just something I've been working on
http://pastebin.com/Hkrvb0qp
>>8108328
don't be afraid of doing stuff that's been done before. if it's been done, then do it better.
>>8108425
Napoleon watched from his chair in admiration at his friend, in slight envy of his emotional coolness. Yet it was hard to understand him, and how his passions could be so controlled. He bore all the prudence and logic of a true advisor, the solid pillar of reasoned strategy which kept Napoleon from razing fields and causing rampant destruction. He wondered if Rude understood him and his passions. Yet he realized it did not matter. So long as he was aided in his efforts he did not need to be understood. When the two would stand outside the great sphere and watch and know, he would understand then. A jolt of electricity shot straight through his brow and kept his thoughts percolating in rhythm with the old press as it burbled in the kitchen. He remembered why he sat in the chair, and how he could not leave it once he had decided it was time. Impulsively, he chose that moment. The electricity shot down through him and controlled his limbs. A tiny reticule appeared in his field of vision, and began to amass all the matter of the room, piece by piece. Soon it would begin its distortions, its powerful lashes of gravity bending the seams of the space he inhabited. Soon he would be gone. Rudolph set a cup of coffee on the ground next to his feet and went to return to his desk. Napoleon caught him by the arm. Rudolph started, then carefully sat down with his cup in both hands, sighing a little.
Napoleon stared at him with dire intensity. “We go soon.” Rude nodded and returned the stare, his eyes slowly relaxing as he realized that Napoleon was not really looking at him. He let them peer into the red-rilled world of those two eyes, a split world of mirrored effect, the small incarnadine cracks almost identical in each globe. The pupils were deep blue whirlpools, illuminated by the light so that their depths could be located by the richness of the hue, right at the center.
Napoleon: Holy fucking shit.
Rudolph: Strange how relaxed I feel right now. Is he going to speak again, ever?
Napoleon: We are going in, I can feel it.
Rudolph hesitated a little, then cleared his throat. “How have you been feeling?” He hoped his voice wasn’t strange when he asked.
(2/3 actually)
>>8108430
Napoleon: That was Father talking. I am sure of it. He has come back for me. Mother said to follow my dream of reaching the outer world (or at least to follow my dreams, ends justify the means) but Father had always pulled me back. Too many mornings in the sickly daylight on the couch, rocking with unspent dreams after three days of being awake, staring into the crags of his face so as to like place myself in an adventure where his voice was like a strange echo through that terrain. I tried to follow his voice, but got lost, and found my way to some trees. From there I found the woods, the true home of my mind, obscured from Father but always amongst nature, always in touch with Mother. The senses are all that protect me. He must not return.
“Just fine.” Napoleon replied.
“Hm. Good.” Rude found his book on the small wing of the garden chair he used for the sitting area, crossed his legs, and flipped it open halfheartedly, still watching his subject. He seemed poised for conversation, an expectant glance over the half-raised cover held for too long, lips pursing and parting. Napoleon smiled half-politely. Rude reflected it was such a shame that conversation only flowed between them when they were of the same state of mind, which meant seldom ever. He felt unusually voluble and wanted to find some topic to speak about that wasn’t insane, which by the way was the other stipulation of their conversation, that it be insane. When sober and when definitely not. He looked down at the cover of his book, realizing only then that it was Canetti. Enticed by essays, he flipped past the first leaf. Then, it hit him. A moment of absolutely no thoughts. An astonishing moment, a rare one, and strangely familiar…
Rudolph: No, it cannot be. He can’t have done this. No. No. No. No!
Napoleon: Time to go.
Rudolph jerked up out of his chair, and Napoleon restrained him with a mere gesture. “Prepare yourself for stormy seas, and off we are to meet Aziz!” His hand shot out and grabbed Rudolph’s, and he skipped their way through the apartment door and for the stairs.
(3/3)
>>8108430
>>8108440
(This is the first one, not sure what happened when I edited the last post)
Napoleon: Back at Rude’s, a home away from home. Here I marshal my strength and regather the forces of the mind, and having resupplied, soon I shall foray into the heavy terrain of the unconscious. There—and Gods willing let me be there with my trusted friend—I shall encounter those obstacles still remaining in my mind. Those enemies of mine must find their end. Thank the Gods for my conductor, my ally, and my friend.
Rudolph: I hope he didn’t notice me slip the hits back into my pocket. I really loathe taking the substance. Ever since he tried to “bring me outside the unreal,” whatever the Hesse that means, I’ve been absolutely terrified of the stuff.
“Don’t be afraid, my friend,” Napoleon uttered solemnly across the room from him. “This is but the first of many stages in our journey, and I need my benighted friend doughty for the days to come. We must catch you up.”
“You know,” Rude gently interjected, “I’ve always felt like you’re as much at home here as you are. . . Well.” He suddenly felt absurd sitting in the chair directly across from Napoleon’s, and crossed to his desk and sat down. In mirrors Napoleon could be seen slowly following him with his gaze as he sat back in chair as if it were the only place he could sit.
Napoleon: I don’t like him changing the subject.
Rudolph: Please let this distract him for a moment.
The two sat in silence, tension felt on Napoleon’s end but not on Rude’s. The empty chair stood between them.
Napoleon: I had better begin preparing to enter the slipstream and push on through. It will be quite some going from here, relaxing my associations enough.
Rudolph: Maybe he wants some coffee. That would relax us.
Rude put down his pencil from its hovering position and crossed over to the kitchen, and began the slow process of grinding the beans carefully down, creating the smooth silt that made for a good cup. He reflected on the fact that life wasn’t perfect, that he didn’t always have time for his writing, for his reading, and for times spent alone in the quiet apartment. Ever since he had taken in Napoleon, other concerns pulled at him.
>>8108337
>it seemed very cliche
At this point in literature any thing we write could be consider cliche. So don't worry.
So I'm going for a character with severe autism, that rambles and rants in his head through mundane things. Tell me what you think.
>>8109779
10/10 You have Autism
Are song lyrics allowed in this thread?
>>8110232
>implying /lit/ listens to music and not audiobooks
>>8110504
right, but it's still writing.
>>8110509
sure post what you want I like music
>>8107562
You aren't Pynchon, knock it the fuck off
>>8107786
"Scratched it is ass." Alright though, at least you can write a coherent sentence.
>>8107825
Just scrap that whole awful idea and write something worth reading. Masturbatory pap.
>>8108036
Can't tell if your prose is just bad or your shooting for some rootin tootin downhome good ol boy type vibe.
>>8108235
Reads like it was written by a 15 year old Spaniard.
The town was smaller than he expected, having seen the outer walls. The streets were wide and spacious, lined with boxes, crates and storefronts alive with nodding heads and drifting hands. The buildings were bunched and stacked together like children's blocks, yet maintained a subtle harmony with the gaping streets, between their roofs dangled wires for clothes and power. Unlit lights waited patiently for the reign of night, and each window was closed, square eyes shut with sluggish dreams inside.
>paragraph from my novella
>>8109779
Thats actually very authentic. Keep it up and it could be pretty funny. What sort of situations do you have planned for him?
>>8105930
A man, a servant of the beasts, came and took the child despite the snow. They had not gone far from the village before it was on them, outlining the man's shoulders, his gloves, the rope that swung between himself and the child, her gloves, her eyelashes. The way he had explained it to the villagers, children made the beasts uneasy.
Would you keep reading anon?
>>8110792
reads kind of like gurm, but it could be because he's always describing villages and castle and shit.
>>8110792
It's just going to be a kid going to school, I'm going to try and keep the conflict internal for a greater part to show the mental conflict that arises from him over analyzing things.
>>8107567
Nice, will never be published.
>>8108337
Beginning a sentence with a conjunction is thought incorrect but isn't, first words in sentences should always be capitalized. You are completely wrong.
>>8111313
This, its just something they tell gradeschoolers so they dont completely butcher their 500 word essays.
>>8108387
Yeah, I really didn't know how to start it off so I just went with the first ridiculous idea that came to mind.
You have two good characters here. The narrator's optimism regarding the American Dream is a nice departure from the typical cynical protag, though I expect that optimism will be shattered at some point in the story.
>Being the guy who people associated as his “friend” was starting to throw some shade on me.
This seems a bit awkward, "being the guy" is a condition, and conditions don't do things (throw shade)
>>8110757
>Being a dick.
>Not adding anything
>>8107567
>so I throw the manuscript into the air, demanding it stays there
>then throw the ketamine pipe on top of my tombstone. Rest in peace, pipe.
>I go to my bathroom and induce vomiting to get rid of the pizza. I need room in my stomach for work.
These are genius, what you have to do is rework your methods to accommodate for more things pataphysical or chaotic and leave out descriptive paragraphs - unless they are reworked into daydreams, don't give the reader the right to a lucid plot, it ruins the fun.
>>8110757
you sure got them
>>8111288
why do you say this to me?
>>8105930
At this point, I am tired of playing children's games with this handsome devil. I take Hans by his hand and take him to my bedroom, I take out my special handcuffs and tie him to my bed. The handcuffs are a little bit small for his enormous hands but I am not the girl that won't make a man suffer a little bit for my own pleasure. I start licking and kissing his cock of a size that I have never seen before.
"You're a big guy" I say while continue to lick his scepter of love.
"For you" He answers while being handcuffed to the bed.
"I don't allow you to speak to me like this" I tell him while I stop licking.
I start kissing his burnt lips and I whisper with the softest voice into his ear "Learn your place, you're nothing but a sex toy now"
>>8111584
thanks for the feedback
>>8112149
A bit too simplistic - you have two consecutive sentences starting with "I take..." Try to shake things up. Also, USE COMMAS, PLEASE.
Your grammar could use some work as well. Get some recommendations for decent dom/sub erotica and read that. None of this Fifty Shades garbage.
And "scepter of love" made me laugh.
>Enjoy this tryhard sci-fi bullshit
In the distant reaches of the Cosmos, far away from the bounds of the universe observable through our primitive instruments, there is a galaxy called Teng. In this galaxy, along with countless other planets and stars, there is a small world which was also called Teng. It seems rather presumptuous, but the people of this world named the galaxy after their home, since as far as they were concerned, no one else had gotten around to naming it yet. Other cultures on distant planets named the galaxy things like “Parongi” and “Solassas” and if we had been able to see it, we would likely have named it “Sagittarius something-or-other.” But nonetheless, our focus is on the people of Teng, so their naming conventions, uncreative as they may be, are the ones we shall use.
Teng(the planet, not the galaxy) was very small, but highly developed. It was mostly ocean, but the land had been built upon by its people prodigiously, and the cities of Teng were large, lavish, and marvelous. According to the tourists. The people who lived in these cities were mostly indifferent to them, often describing it as being “better than living in that mess of a countryside.” Their culture was global, having dissolved most of its political bonds ages ago, and mostly egalitarian. Tengana, as they called themselves, were bipeds, standing upright, with two arms and an entire torso connecting them. In fact, they looked rather like humans, with only a few minor differences, which are so minor, they are hardly worth mentioning at this point in the story. Also like humans, they had a tendency to be curious, innovative, and adventurous. So it should come as no surprise at all that their planet became subject to a horrific mass extinction and is to this day uninhabitable.
>>8112275
>In fact, they looked rather like humans, with only a few minor differences, which are so minor, they are hardly worth mentioning at this point in the story. Also like humans
Either make them human or don't.
>>8112275
In the distant reaches of the Cosmos, there is a galaxy called Teng. Within, are the usual stars and planets and things. Our focus however, is on one rather small planet by the same name. Now, many question why the residents would do such a thing. Surely they could have thought of something else, something better! But to the people of Teng (The Planet), it was a simple answer to a simple question.
Despite its size, the inhabitants were a highly developed race. With more ocean than land, they made good use of it with extraordinary cities. Even the envious accounts of tourists cite their indifference to the outside And for good reason, as the culture was global, and its politics none by egalitarian standards. Tengana, as they called themselves were upright bipeds with two arms. Pretty much human by most other races, barring a few irrelevant differences. While also having curiosity for the new and adventurous, it's not a surprise they met tragedy.
It's fun to edit and do try to combine styles.
watch your redundancy and silly exposition though mang.
>>8107898
So how can I make this not shit?
>>8112585
By not making it shit
>>8112594
It all makes sense now.
I wrote this while on a Clark Ashton Smith/Lovecraft kick so apologies ahead of time for verbosity. Please only provide criticism, I prefer to know what I can improve on than what I've done well.
The clarity with which I relay these findings may be partially marred by the haste at which I write. There are forces, Aggressors, hounding me like some irrefutable criminal amid a network of housings beset in a city of architectural convolution. I am not fleeing punishment; my very presence in this land has been absolutely revoked despite, to my knowledge, no recognizable imposition on the local society. I am hidden among merchants in an alien bazaar flowing with goods of incalculable quantity and admittedly unobvious purpose. Much like the products offered, the currency of exchange is indescribable. Even in the most arduous attempts to express a vague framework by which these supernatural products can be judged I am sure to fail. These courses of sublime merchandise buffeted the ceaseless populace of the surreal affair. As waves of extramundane wares assaulted purveyors, an equally blitzing tide of consumers surged in a capitalist communion. Ephemeral transactions were being conducted in a familiarity that could have only been established by tradition dating back thousands of years.
I will post the rest if prompted.
>>8112604
wordy but oh well
While growing up, there were a few simple but important rules you followed.
Not shooting your best friend, that's definitely one of them right? Apparently not, when said friends CO is yelling to "Shoot the fucker in his face."
Thankfully, it was only my stomach.
Thanks, James.
I think "Now, not shooting" would add more to the delivery, but it's a little awkward to read.
>>8112657
Appreciate the feedback. It felt clunky reading, but I couldn't tell why.
>>8107898
Is this all of it? I don't want to critique something that only half-finish. Maybe try re-writing it a few times. Like a journal or something.
He always knew the day would come in which he would cross the line. There was no point in trying to fight it no point in trying to delay it. The day was here in which he would have to test himself not just as a hunter but also as a survivor. Months of mental training, thinking, wondering what it would be like to be to finally cross the red line, a line that should never be cross, nor swept aside so easily.
>>8112675
To me, you got a little verbose on the rule emphasis.
And then again on the reveal, which is why I cut it down a bit.
A speculative sci-fi short I wrote a while back.
(1/2)
The assessment bots came at three, leaving Peter sort of unsure of what to do. He had expected there to be people, and so had made coffee, but the bots had no need of hospitality and promptly got to work measuring his house.
It was a handsome structure, with a gabled roof and great big New England style rooms. Peter had inherited it from his father some years ago and was still settling into the big empty structure. He had considered renting some of the rooms out for extra money but ultimately decided that he didn’t want to share his home with other people, even f they were paying him. So instead he had invited the bots over.
They were little things, painting the walls of his house with flat beams of red light and chirping to each other. Peter stood in the scraggly weeds of his side yard, watching them work, unsure what to do. He didn’t really feel comfortable going inside, since the bots might need to talk to him, but didn’t really want to stay outside either.
“Your east wall has no windows in it, that is optimal for advertisement placement.” One of the bots said, voice tinny, piped through sub-par speakers. Peter nodded.
“It was my father’s house,” he said, toeing at a dandelion, “he never wanted windows facing that way…” The bot that had spoken floated over, rotors fanning Peter’s face with a light wash of cool wind. He blinked and trailed off, feeling slightly like he had to sneeze.
“We’re aware of the history of your home Mr. Maddox,” the bot said, “constructed in 2014, purchased by your father in 2029, refurbished once by Orpheus Builders in-“ Peter waved his hand, cutting the bot off, feeling slightly distressed by the rush of chatter coming from the machine.
“I…uh, would the house be suitable for ad displays?” The bot chirped and waggled slightly in the air. It had no neon facial display so it was sort of difficult to tell how the machine was feeling. If it felt anything at all, Peter had never really bought into the idea that AI could feel anything. Sure it could carry out conversations these days, but there wasn’t much feeling necessary for that.
Instead of a face the bot just had a touch screen, on which the assessment company’s logo was bouncing slowly around, awaiting the completion of a deal.
“Taking into account the specific dimensions of your house, the population density of the surrounding area as well as the volume of traffic through surrounding streets, our servers have indicated that there are two hundred seventy nine companies who would be interested in purchasing ad space on your home.” Peter blinked. That was a lot.
“How much would they…uh, how much do you want to pay?”
(2/3) 4chan character limits are a bitch
“The median six month advertisement contract, for silent ads, adds up to twenty two thousand dollars, paid upon completion of the contract.”
Peter looked across the street, to where George Washington was gazing solemnly from his neighbor’s garage door, hawking life insurance.
“And that’s just that east wall?” Peter asked.
“Yes. You could also agree to put advertisements on your roof if you are willing to do so.” The bots had finished assessing his house and were instead looking around his yard, mapping everything out. Peter watched them with a hint of unease. He hadn’t really expected them to be so…nosy.
“Which companies are interested?” Peter asked, tearing his eyes away from the fleet of roving bots.
“Would you like me to provide you with a full list of the two hundred seventy nine companies whose needs match the specifications of your house?” Peter considered that for a moment but shook his head. He wanted to make a decision now, so that the bots could get off of his property.
“Uh…how about the top three companies who would pay me the most.”
“Sunshine Technologies, Proxy International Protection, Firework Industrial.” The bot rattled off without a moment’s hesitation. Peter had heard of Sunshine before, and knew that they mostly dealt with nanotechnology, while Firework manufactured heavy goods and Proxy maintained armies of bodyguards and private security contractors. Proxy sounded too violent, and Peter didn’t want his neighbors thinking that he was militaristic or anything like that, so he decided on Sunshine.
“Wonderful,” the bot said, “be sure that you read the contract Sunshine provides you with carefully.” The touch screen flashed white, the company logo immediately replaced by a block of text. It went on and on, tiny words blurring together.
(3/3)
Peter squinted at them. He would not be allowed to tamper with or remove advertising software before his contract was up, he would not be allowed to park a vehicle in front of the advertisement or in any way block sight of the advertisements from the street. Any sort of anti-social behavior that could reflect badly upon Sunshine would be punished with suspension of his contract. And…and he would need to improve the condition of his lawn.
He furrowed his brow at the last one, surprised by the pettiness of it.
“Why do I need to improve my lawn?” He asked, confused, looking up from the contract and around his yard. Sure it was scrubby and patched with dead spots, but that was virtually everyone. Except for the folks with gravel lawns, but Peter had always found those a little pretentious.
“Sunshine Technologies takes the appearance of its ad space very seriously,” the bot told him gravely, “proper maintenance of the ad space is vital if the ad contract is to be considered valid throughout its six month duration.” Peter frowned, feeling oddly dispirited by this.
“It’s fire season though,” he protested, “we aren’t allowed to water our lawns until September 1st.”
“Sunshine Technologies understands the difficulties that people living in drought stricken areas face, but also insist upon the proper appearance of those places which it displays its advertisements.” Peter looked to the scrappy tufts of grass and weeds eyeing out an existence in his yard, then over to George Washington’s solemn gaze. The first President nodded, pleased as punch with the brand of life insurance he was selling.
“I guess I could resurface my yard with gravel…” Peter sighed. With the economy the way it was he really did need the extra money that the ad would bring. The bot chirped.
“Are you interested in displaying advertisements on your rooftop as well?” The bot asked. Peter sighed.
“Might as well…”
>>8112629
I like this. It flows quite well and makes me want to know more about the bizarre nature of this new land that the protagonist has found himself in. Though, if you're sticking to the Lovecraft angle I suppose there'll be plenty of vagaries and cries of 'oh God the horror!' but in much fancier literary dress.
>>8107002
I think it really suffers from being non-representative of any story. This is really just kind of whimsical detail that needs more context, or should be condensed. Waste not, want not, I feel.
>>8107562
Asimov writes that you can have two types of detail in writing: stained glass (pretty prose) or plate glass (realism). Yours is totally shattered, dude. I cannot get into the scene when I have to think this hard, and your descriptions are not graceful because of the verbosity.
>http://pastebin.com/86jATbSd
>>8107567
This is really entertaining. Your voice reminds me of Reynold's Deadpool, strangely. It's really funny shit, even if sometimes it's kinda distasteful. I don't really like the fart and shit jokes. The colorful metaphors and oddball details are better focused upon I think.
I'm trying out something different here, shit I write is usually more straightforward and usually deals with less sappy themes. Anyway, I'd really appreciate some thoughts. I will critique some work tomorrow once I get some sleep.
Title: I Want to Apologize for the Kid I Was
The kid I was—shamefully hidden under a guise of an imagined wall constructed to divide the best of us in categories not of race, gender, sexuality—rather a cultural divide birthed from subgroups that only truly existed within the confines of a box that flashed colors at the press of a button. Five seconds, that’s all you had, five seconds because I bore an arrogance so great that I believed there was a world where I could figure out every bit of your intricacies within five measly seconds. You called me out, I said, that’s just how I was. As if my definition of self that I borrowed from the media was any justification of who I was. Who I was—I once told a kid I would piss on the eye-holes of his dead mother’s skull for reasons so unimportant that they’ve already left my mind. Yes, I cared, I was caring, I cared deeply. But I cared not because it was the right thing to do but because I wanted you to care in turn, I wanted others to be impressed, bow at my very feet, envy me, because I possessed a human trait you had figured out when you were eight. I grew up thinking I was the bullied, I was the underdog, because how could I be anything else when everything consistently hurt. But it wasn’t enough that I hurt, it had to spread. I want to apologize for the kid I was—am.
>>8107569
>the sitting room, a nook place with cozy hermetic chairs with repetitious floral imprints facing each other, conversing more than either of them, those flowers in a constant bloom, the fireplace agape, the dining table austere with flowers in the cutglass basin, not even a television.
This is beautiful. You have quite a way of description. I really love the rhythm and voice in your work, but your details are a little confusing. I was dismissive of the entire first paragraph, at least out of context. Reading it back, it makes some sense. The language is really interesting, too, the kind of thing I don't get but love reading the words all together.
Just a hunch, but are you describing a flag being attacked by locusts? This is a very puzzling piece, but I like that.
>>8112938
Kinda corny, honestly. I feel like this could be a trite feeling amongst many 20 somethings. It reads like a rhythmic diary entry.
>>8105930
We had reached the fork where we had to split for our different workplaces, and I bid Tori farewell for the day. She took off in the opposite direction towards the Park.
I took a deep breath; entering this place every day was slowly killing me, or so it felt I pushed through the hatch that leads onto the main floor of the positronics department after my momentary pause.
As always the room was an absolute disaster, there were papers and calculations littering every surface, and the main computer was showing a star chart in the shape of a dick. Home sweet home right?
Sanchez was standing behind the controls of the main computer and he shouted for me to come over,
“Yo Fishy, get your ass over here girl we found a new constellation.” Then he fell to pieces laughing whether over the new so called “constellation” or the clever fish joke I’ve heard a thousand times I couldn’t guess and it didn’t really matter.
“Sanchez you idiot that’s not cool I had schematics in there come on man.” I said. Maybe it was whiny but, it was super annoying to say the least when one of these morons deleted something I needed, but even more so when they did it to play a joke.
Walker piped up then, saying, “Relax Kist I’ve got’em right ‘ere all backed up on a BD” how in the hell the southern accent had survived the near extinction of humanity I will never know but god damn I wish it hadn’t.
That being said Walker was the best of the best when it came to our weapons systems, he had a mind for explosives like I had never seen and though it was fifty years ago he had been on the team that helped mine out the core of Phobos.
Now his job was pretty simple, make sure the weapon systems weren’t drawing undue power, and think of ways to improve existing systems before we launched which was getting closer and closer to the present.
>>8112550
i feel like your begining statement might be too much of an exposition dump but that's just me
>>8112962
Yeah I really wasn't happy with it. Glad to hear it from someone else though, makes it easier to move on to other experiments
>>8112550
>rewriting someone else's work
Seriously dude, no-no
>>8112275
I think it's pretty self-conscious in a good way. It's well-controlled, the story has good rhythm and energy. I think some details and/or humor are sort of cryptic, like the >rather like humans...
bit. Guess I'd need context. Anyways, it's got style. I'd love to see some scenes from this.
>>8112629
This sounds like it could also be quite funny. Please post more.
>>8112978
Lots of unnecessary words and clunky phrasing.
>we had reached
>we had to split for our different workplaces
Redundancies like your first sentence with the repeating "hads".
I think you're trying to mimic a style that doesn't come naturally for you.
"Bid farewell" sets a certain tone that has no place in your story.
"Super annoying" is a valley-girl, your character isn't a valley-girl.
Some tedious sentences like the third and last, especially.
You can write, but it's obvious when you go out of your comfort-zone.
Do more like your second to last line, and less like:
>“Sanchez you idiot that’s not cool I had schematics in there come on man.” I said. Maybe it was whiny but, it was super annoying to say the least when one of these morons deleted something I needed, but even more so when they did it to play a joke.
Learn to convey the same sentence with less words.
And learn to draw a picture without explicitly stating it like your shape of a dick line.
>>8112987
Not a regular so sorry if I break board-culture.
Why is it frowned upon though?
I'd figure people would like an alternative take on their stuff to get new insight.
>>8113041
third and last line*
>>8113041
I just see it as not agreeable to most writers, myself included. It neuters the essence of their writing and rings false because it's not their chosen words.
>>8113100
>myself included
>because it's not their chosen words
Neither are most of the words they have right now.
> It neuters the essence of their writing
I don't see how.
>>8113112
Do you mean to suggest that simply because they're derivative they don't belong to them? Do you want to just churn out some golden standard of writing? If you don't see how doing that neuters it, then you don't write.
>>8113271
No I meant, that none of this is final-draft, and any input is just another step towards it. And whether I or any outside influence, determine the final words in some way is impossible to say.
I think you should ease up and stop being so cynical m8, I have no foul intentions, just like it for practice is all.
What's a good way to achieve an "unsettling" atmosphere? Like something is wrong with the world, with the people, but you don't really notice it until later. A feeling of uncertainty, like a void. How to achieve this without being too hammy?
Any books that achieve this kind of atmosphere in a subtle way?
>>8112681
I think you should write his book
Hello, I am the writer of Flashbrid the Vampire.
It is a famous meme and I wrote a new page.
Let me see what you like.
>>8114554
>posting that you don't care
That's like saying "I'm not talking".
>>8112938
It was alright kinda diary. Relatable so it works
>>8114575
>"I'm not talking".
that's stupid
>>8107786
This was my favorite in the thread.
What are the Prerequisites for a Science fiction/ Fantasy novel?
>>8117302
I'm currently working on a Fantasy novel, though I'm not an authority on the subject by any means. Anyway something you should do before writing is really build your world. Ask yourself a lot of questions, even mundane questions, about this world. The "how do they eat" question is very important, even if it doesn't play into the story at all.
>>8116000
That's what I was saying, yes.
Do you guys have any good way of finding literary descriptions of things and ideas? We all know that imitation is the best way to learn, but sometimes there are subjects I want to write about that I have no model for. I'm always picking stuff up from the books I read, and I write down things that might be useful, but I obviously cannot read every book on every subject, so it can be a bit difficult to find passages relevant to what I'm writing about.
>>8110792
that was good
>>8112938
Feels like a diary entry from a- douche. I feel as if you showed examples of all the things you mentioned it would be different.
S .Standing still: yes, he feels no need to leave the place he has called home for so long. A. To face the constant fading of thoughts and images as he leaves a slumber holding him so. N. He hears the water drops as they hit against the window sill. G.
U. Dark walls. Around me everything is dark. Pillow limp. I. Yes, must turn pillow 'round to enjoy the coldness on the other side. N. Awwwyesss it feels so: so goooood: go-ooo-od. E. Eyes turn, otherside, beautiful side of head, curly hair, blue eyes, mirror stare, lookin' me in the eye like I'm blind to what I see on that mattress: man laying on his side observing his life in a glass, past experiences made me blind. S. Reach head up from warm embrace, shall I wake up, or shall I lay forever in this place, eat the warm breakfast that I undoubtably will make for myself. A. This world stares and screams at me, the mirror lapses, and the clock is so stuck, so blind to change, so everything that I have concluded: I must've been high. M.
'It's a beautiful day to understand nothing,
It was a yesterday, it was a tomorrow, it was today,
It might as well be everyday.'
Outside the rain is continuing, for how long no one can be certain. Inside the drenched windows all the young office workers prod on their keyboards.
'What's your name', said in off-style, bureaucratic ladylike gleam. Eyes popping slightly. I wonder if she knows I'm looking at her breasts, fumble for just a sec'. Name. Yes, name is what she desires. Desires my name, thus she will receive my name.
'Sam, Sanguine Sam', I said. She takes out a pen from a nearby drawer and takes some notes on a paper, however she takes no note of the irregular nature of my name. S-A-N-G-U-I-N-E-S-A-M, yes that's my name, that's my name, I want to scream it! -no I should not scream, make a scene, gander at her 'what I fancies', be completely still and solace, want this opportunity quite a bit' more than just a passing fancy.
'Thank you Sam, you will be receiving a letter in the mail in about a weeks time' she sez, and I'm so happy she sez it so.
'And thankyou very much, I eagerly await the letter'- I wonder if it will all end up well, if everything I desire will take shape, will this room, whitewall, white employees 'cept one black fella over in a corner cubicle typing what I can only assume is his social life eulogy. Laughter bubbles within at that quip, while the universal acclaim for my comedy is null, I'm not the dullest comedian amongst friends, not the most sullied of men that piss in their undergarments after reliving themselves. Pssss.... The feeling of relief, a feeling of complacency, yellow stream... And would you lookie' there a piss stain in mi' drawers, just how it would be till' today, yesterday, someday, and the neverday.
>>8105930
but as the book fell from its rightful place three artificial stories above, so he fell from his unconscious but daytime dreams, as one falling from those at night, to the unsolicited shock of reality, where they broke at the speed impact broke the fall to a place out of sight, among the imaginary friends, memories, colors, breaking, faster than any worldly break, and rebounding, as one recoils from the sudden consciousness of sleep’s advance, blood hurled up along the walls of the skull, but from the fall, of the book and the dream and the unconsciousness, in sync from the strings of mind and body.
>>8119849
I hope this is bait
>>8107825
not many people want to read shit that's just making fun of insightful thought. Most people can just tell you're covering up your lack of ideas by appealing to the lowest common denominator of spergs who resent everything. You'd really need some god-like wit to pull that off in a publishable way so that people will want to actually read it.
>>8112149
>"You're a big guy"
>"For you"
well memed 10/10
>>8120176I have no pretensions of getting this published. I'm just trying to produce something within easily definable narrative bounds while I work on my style. I don't think what I've written so far is resentful in an /r9k/ sort of way, and the attitude towards the source material is definitely supposed to be reverential, so that's not a concern for me either. Really my plan is to just link you guys to the whole thing when it's done and hope you enjoy it.
All this writing got me motivated to post what I've been writing so far.
Please review fellas.
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/OmniStories/1784537/
This makes me feel better about my writing.
We're all shit together. Some of us [read: me] are just less shit than others.
>>8121081
Post stories anon.
Let's make our shit golden.
>>8117481
Post your story please.
any of you want me to show part of my shitty first draft, just for keks and dreks?
>>8121469
Yes please anon. I'm starving for some lit.
>>8121483
Lost nostalgia. It was already in the air, when I was your age. People felt nostalgia for things and people they never even knew. New was always old, and old was always new. Everything had to be influenced by something else. It was expected. Washington, where I lived, was in the inbetween. There, you could see the tried and true "new" mixed lightly with the old. And my town, Siltladen, sat at that crossroad. A great sense of indecision and overall confusion covered that town like a blanket. And there lived a young man, of about fifteen, named Henry.
Hey guys I'm drunk and I just wrote this on my phone how is it
http://pastebin.com/XPdh2m2Z
>>8121537
well I can tell you wrote it drunk
>>8121548
Is that bad was it nonsensical and rambling
>>8121552
nah, it's just that there's a bit of awkward prose and shit. it's not the worst thing I've ever read.
>>8121458
I don't really feel that it's ready to be shown anywhere, even in a thread about showing things that's not meant to be shown yet. That's how early it is in development.
But since you asked, here's a google docs link to a *POTENTIAL* prologue for the novel
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mQjaWKcEC6s6Ewv5hKekcSLD1EqJ8HufhmpB-DDYlHM/edit?usp=sharing
WARNING: 6000+ words
Now there's plenty of things wrong with this still. Spelling, punctuation, grammar, too long for a prologue, POV, tense, the action scenes need a lot of work, there's some things that makes no sense
I'm thinking about abandoning this prologue entirely and just jump straight to Chapter 1 (which is what I'm currently working on)
Anyway, all that said, I wouldn't mind hearing some opinions.
>>8121558
I left it and came back to it twice and on rereading it I can see that that's exactly where the break in flow is and where it like awkwardly stumbles
Bran's gargantuan hands reach out and shove you backward into the chair, hairy knuckles squeezing your shoulders painfully at the end of his gangly arms. "Oi've hit me puberty," he intones in his gravelly new voice, "so now oi'm the man!" He stands upright, towering over you, and leans his head back to let you appreciate his first claim to adulthood: the rudiments of a scraggly beard appearing along the line of his jaw. He twists one between his thumb and forefinger, tugging it gingerly. "Cor! 'at's a right pisser, 'innit?"
You don't have time to answer before he shifts his attention downward, to the fly of his jeans. He lifts his soccer jersey and, with a few deft movements, it stands before you: his thick, unclipped, distinctly British hog. This is not the dainty, elegantly tapered morsel you remember. Brackish pubes menace from his distended scrotum, curling outward at you. The sack itself has taken on the appearance of Andy Rooney, seemingly aging a lifetime in mere months, and his penis has exchanged its youthful pallor for a yellow-brown tinge that reminds you of overripe fruit.
"'orright mate, get to work, get to work! I'm not gon'ta' wank i'!" He bellows his baritone commands at you expectantly, even as the monster begins to take shape. As if awakening for the first time in its wretched existence, his meaty chud rises off his balls with a malevolent swagger. He lets it to brush against your cheek and leans backward, allowing you one last, furtive glimpse of the boy you once loved.. and the abomination he has become.
Steeling yourself, you return your eyes to the task before you. He is ready now, you realize, his slit glistening with precum, his shaft twitching with his heartbeat. This is it. You detect the scent of fish and vinegar on the air, and it reminds you of better times. It seems so long ago..
Nothingness. Then light. There was a slight breeze and a calm sunlight. What seemed like a cool morning on the strings of the wheels was, in reality, a dank breath of heat on the pre-noon empty. The tall, winding grass of green and tan hue swayed softly over the flat plains, as always. The blue-green rover rocked gently, forward and back, through the sea of mystic weeds. The rush of the engine penetrating the rubber feet conjured a false breeze blowing horizontally on the driver's pale, bearded face.
His silky chocolate head did not bulge as he'd expected it to, nor did his eyebrows twitch like shrubbery divided by invisible hands, no, it stayed still in the air. His eyes, though fixated on the imaginary road ahead, were sunken and lazy, deep in shadow and nearly-wrinkled. Though his eyes lingered in his skull, his thoughts scrambled like a storm over the Caspian.
"This wind," he thought,
"Is my jacket not fit?" He lamented on his silent ramblings a little longer, confounded by his insolence at the task at hand,
"My brother, do I know his fate yet?"…
"Is today the day he dies?"
The driver shifted in his seat, a chill running down his spin like freezing water, or the cold finger of the Devil come to take him away,
"This is a mistake, my mistake."
The driver's sweaty grip on the smeared black wheel tightened and loosened in tangent rhythm, but alas something told him this was not an option, not a choice to keep driving forward rather than back. It was no deep reflection or forethought that conjured a sense of no going back, no wading in blood, no fate as such, since now he could see it straight ahead; His destiny.
Burn me, she said. Take this body and make it a funeral pyre. Her cigarette melted into ash and smoke and the ember lit her evening breath. The light in her eyes was already stamped into the dirt. She flicked contempt from her fingertips.
Burn me, she said, because they all think I'm a witch and I'd rather it were you.
1/2
Prologue
The day in which he dreaded were finally taking place. It came to no surprise to him whatsoever; it was inevitable given the situation. Ruthlessness must give way for survival, a mantra in which he found himself closer and closer every passing day. Months of surviving, scrounging, attacking other survivors for the chance to eat something, the lingering thought of being eating alive by the horde, or being killed by one of the sweeps by the ever-growing enclaves, or in the off-chance going insane by ever-increasing nightmare in which the human mind can no longer tolerate.
Reluctantly, he looked once more on his telescopic M91/30. The sight of a disheveled man, walking aimlessly in the street was quite the spectacle, but it was the military rucksack the man carried which the hunter found himself at a loss. Should he kill the man for the rucksack? And if he did kill the man, what would be inside? Food? Medical items? Sentimental items in which only the man cherish? Those questions appeared as he watch the man stare at the sky.
The hunter paused for a moment, the second he pulled the trigger the bullet will most likely hit the man's head, he would be dead before he knew it, wouldn't feel a thing and most importantly he'll no longer live in this nightmare. Steadying his breathing, he prepared on what he was going to do. His fingers squeezing the trigger gently, all he had to do now was to press the trigger and it would all be over. "Please don’t kill that man."
With panic-stricken fear, he turn his whole body faster than he normally would have. Caught off guard, in his own hideout, the mere thought of that happening never cross his mind in the slightest before, and to add insult to this the person who caught him off guard was green. The person who made themself a guest was a woman. And the attire she wore made it quite obvious on how experience she was in the infected city, wearing elegant clothing and having light glossy hair. Truly a beautiful woman, if she ever lived in Victorian England.
However in what she lacked in experience she made up in firepower, a Model 29 was currently aimed squarely at his head as he stared at the woman. "I am terribly sorry to have frightened you, but it would even be more terrible if I had missed my mark. If I had miss not only would have wasted a .44 Magnum but the humiliation would be unbearable." "H-how did you get inside?" The hunter asked in a thick accent.
The woman contemplated on the question before smiling, the Model 29 never moving an inch from his head. "Magic." She laughed for a few seconds before resuming. "It's because I've had my eyes on you since the beginning. The families of the decease want you dead for what you've done and they've paid me to dispose of you." She paused amusing herself in the situation.
>>8122080
2/2
Think quickly... think smart! Start by assessing the woman and analyze the situation. By how much was she truly in control and how much of this was simply a bluff? The hunter replied tensely now, "So you've caught me now, what are you waiting for?" The woman surprised by the response stayed quiet on this new development. Bluff. Taking notice of the woman response, the hunters continue to prod on her intentions. "You have me in your sights, what are you waiting for then? Isn't this what you were paid to do?"
The woman was now at a loss as looks of confusion appear in her face. "T-that is a good question, why am I here." The woman ventured to explain. "When I first accepted this bounty, I was stopped by another group of people, who begged me to not to kill since you were the one who helped them by guided them back to their respective zones. They went as far as to try and pay double as a way to dissuade me from my bounty."
"And know I am at a loss on how to deal with you, how could there be so many who hate you. Yet at the same time there are people who are thankful and grateful enough to try to save you from people they never met. So now I have only two choices, should I just kill you in vengeance for the grieving families whose love ones are no longer with them because of people like you willing to go so far to survive. Or should I spare you for the lives you saved when they were lost in a situation that called for their deaths."
"Must be hard on a maiden such as yourself".
"I thought coming here will finally make up my mind about you, and at first it did, until you were hesitant on killing that man. This brings us to full circle on our situation."
The woman reached into her left pocket. The moment has come to either spare or kill him. Unfolding the paper, crumbled, she edges toward the desk, never removing the model 29 from his face. The woman gave the hunter a set of coordinates for a location, leaving him confused on what had transpired between the two.
This excerpt is called: Machine Vagina
And it is the prologue to a cyber-punk-space-opera I am writing. Please read until the end, I know you might think you're better than that, but you're not. OK.
Sua stood in solace, surrounded by seven foot high machines and the six foot high foreigners weaving in between them – zoning them out, zoned into the game - escaping. The console’s four rectangular buttons – red, green, yellow, blue – lit up with each touch a small part of her that still remembered vividly those lunch times locked away in elementary school, cutting and pasting sheets of craft paper as the rain poured heavy outside. Red, green, yellow, blue - juvenile in their primacy; faintly yet at once distinctly nostalgic - skeleton keys in a world dominated by whites and greys and smartphone blues. All that wist-less visual reward grabbing dragging crayons across crêpe and in between lines and in between dots was recreated before her, her hands moving from one button to the next, quick succession, rapid repetition, sequence, combination, in a high score fashion. Vibrating beneath her, dragging her in, pulling her out of the chaotic spiral of siren and lights that painted the space between the arcade's corridors Sua pressed her hands against the screen and felt the warmth, fingered a coin, two coins in her pocket - slid into the machine's vagina. Sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua sua so afraid of sex. Fingering her primary coloured buttons, intimate with her video game characters, winning, losing, her name rising, so afraid of sex. Fuck red green yellow blue traffic lights said Sua after the twenty seventh round after her seventy second round. She was nineteen. Remembering nine didn't make her happy, didn't make her feel safe, but nonetheless located her somewhere familiar - like returning to an abusive husband or rapist uncle. She couldn't touch it, she didn't even know if it had ever existed - trapped in the screen, when was this game made - was she even born, would she have ever even played it? But she convinced herself it was familiar, a borrowed memory maybe if that but if not whats the difference. Beneath the vagina was a hentai store that sold manga filled with lewd images of children getting raped by machinery. Sometimes Sua went into that shop and bought a cheap manga, hiding it in her dresser, never touching it. She had a collection now of about fifty but she wasn't sure of the exact number. Machine vagina said Sua after her one hundred and thirty fourth round sliding her fingers between her wet vagina lips.
>>8121758
Ancient church conspiracies
>>8123540
i will take this as a compliment thank you
>>8112152
You're welcome. I wish I could help more, you look like you're in the right direction.
>>8124217
You're welcome
>>8122080
>>8122088
No critique?
>>8124997
Panic-stricken fear is especially annoying, as is Think Quickly... Think Smart.
"Ruthlessness must give way for survival" means what exactly?
Not to mention the Exposition-Dialogue.
Didn't care for that much at all/10
>>8125025
Beethoven was deaf when he composed his last Symphony, this was a well known fact among the educated of Lindley, as it was everywhere. It is also wholly irrelevant to the following course of events.
There was a symphony house in Lindley, wherein music from around the world was played by local trained musicians. Many of the more modern elder inhabitants of Lindley despaired that the young were not going to the Symphony house as the old did.
They felt this was a sign. First that the Symphonic arts weren't advertised well enough; which they quickly remedied with billboards and assemblies in the public schools. When this didn't bring the type of youth they were looking for they assumed it was something dry and uninspiring in the Symphonies themselves. They looked for something new.
Something the young could call their own.
They found in Lindley University, a well fed artist named Myra Plainmen, a relative of mine, was working on her symphonies in peace. Myra was not a great musician, she was not a good musician, and truth be told she had no use for music that wasn't played at the Bell-Star.
But she wrote several symphonies, or rather drew them. She had always thought written music looked so pretty, but it missed its chance at true perfection by trying to be audible rather than visual, or at least that's how she explained her work to me. I thought it was a little silly myself.
Myra brought her work to the attention of the concerned minds, looking to revive the Orchestra. They really liked her work, because it was new, but more importantly if it succeeded it meant they could lay off all the musicians, or rather the players of instruments. For if these symphony's became music, than the composer would be the only musician.
I shouldn't have said if it succeeded because these audacious society planners got ahead of themselves, and high on their victory and the openness of their mind they fired the players that very hour and hung Myra's work.
And it was a success. People came from miles around to see the new idea. It sounded interesting and while it wasn't really anything inspiring, they still were glad they had seen something new. I have to admit I was rather proud of my little second cousin, I had never thought she had any talent, and I still didn't. But at least her work was being aired, and its eventual failure would probably cure my university colleagues.
They came for the first show, a few came for the second. But the third and fourth only brought devotees who were few and passionless. What's more the old Patrons abandoned the orchestra, leading to emptier audiences than there had been before.
(1/?)
>>8125046
The new devotees were not Patrons, they hadn't any money. But they were young so in some way the committee had succeeded. They still lamented the old-fashioned ways of the public, and laughing internally, I suggested that they hang the works of Mozart as well.
They of course did this immediately. Leading to the second revitalization, and fall. The lovers of Myra's work complained that the stuffy old Maestros lacked her passion. I hoped my commission would be large enough for me to leave before anything worse happened.
If I had been so lucky. A bright young man determined that the lack of interest was because looking at art was so passive. These works of Myra's should be played aloud. As no musicians would be capable of the complicated feat, not to mention they had all been sacked, machines would be used.
A series of computers would play the different voices of Myra's different compositions.
My curiousity got the best of me and I was one of the 54 who attended Myra Plainmen's last show. Contrary to popular belief, there was no pain, not really, not visceral at least. The music wasn't too loud, or too high or anything else that would have caused physical pain.
It was a series of tones, some fast, some slow. None related in any way that I could hear, but in more than one way I could see. At first the sound was annoying, and many turned and left the show, but as it went on it became upsetting, disorienting. No one left at this point. All 19 who stayed, stayed to the end. I was one of these. I had felt the need earlier to support my cousin, and it quickly became too late.
The sound was horrifying, like a hundred wrong answers to undetermined questions. Patterns that couldn't be completed. No one shared this with the other members of the audience, the look of the room was one of hushed embarassment for the makers of the show, but we all knew what it was.
It was over. After the first song.
No one stood to leave very quickly. The coordinaters knew that this was the end of Visual Music, although they didn't know what was to come. The feeling of an era ending entered my heart pushing out the helpless confusion I had felt, for which I was relieved. I don't know if the other members of the audience felt as I did, as they got their things and left, not acknowledging the coordinators.
Something had ended, something I hadn't liked, something I wouldn't miss, but something I still mourned for.
There was quite a bit of civic unrest when the visual music exhibit was closed, not because people missed it. In fact people said it was unrelated to the Orchestra entirely. The Orchestra, which reunited, given full pay once again. Glad to have a job, and glad to finally be appreciated. For a little while at least.
With no one to remind them, the people of Lindley forget. My sweet cousin again keeps to herself, and though the townspeople do not like her, she never cared for them. She's no worse off for it, I suppose.
Here's a poem I wrote. Please tell me what you think /lit/
Monsters rise from the ground,
wrought from iron, glass, and concrete.
An old world under shadows drowned, their conquest nearly complete.
Grotesque forms rise to the skies,
Heavens territory is ceded.
The old from consumption dies,
its ancient spirit depleted.
Soulless blocks of glass now stand,
where once stood old forms proud.
Gone are the days of beauty grande,
replaced with a more modern brand.
>>8125046
>Beethoven was deaf when he composed his last Symphony, this was a well known fact among the educated of Lindley, as it was everywhere. It is also wholly irrelevant to the following course of events.
why mention it then?
>>8121580
It's alright but I can't help but recommend that you write about what you know. It seems like you're trying to write about a culture you've never experienced first hand, so it comes off as dishonest. The writing, however, is very good in my opinion.
>>8108440
I can't tell what you're getting at exactly. You should work on making it progress more naturally. It seems promising though.
>>8112853
I liked it, it's punchy and enjoyable, you can definitely see the Dick influence.
>>8121495
Incredibly cliche. "sat at the crossroad" "Overall confusion covered that town like a blanket." It's especially bad to start your story like that.
>>8125046
Mine.
>>8125085
It also does have an effect on the course of events, being that the girl wrote symphonies "deaf" or rather with no focus on sound.
>>8125081
>Incredibly cliche. "sat at the crossroad" "Overall confusion covered that town like a blanket." It's especially bad to start your story like that.
Yeah, I've scrapped that recently. I don't think I started it like that though, it was just a snippet.
>>8125025
Anything specific?
The words just aren't coming these days
At first I startled, expecting some unseen beast to be watching over my shoulder to rend my skin and eat my flesh, but none came, and I realized I was alone. My hands were my hands, my legs were my legs, and when I touched my face I felt only that which had always been there. I was just me, and that lioness was something else.
I can't say how long I sat there, staring the beast in the eyes, but eventually another face joined it. Atop the surface of the pond stood a beautiful woman two heads taller than the tallest I had ever seen. She carried with her an umber spear on a pole of brass and a great shield which bore a thousand silver serpents and one horrid face. I could not see her face through her helmet, but I did not need to know her beauty and her rage. 'Kneel!' she cried, striking the haft of her spear against the water with a crack.
>>8121537
bump
Somebody read my drunken shit
I'm drunk again
Help
>>8126133
Will the rest of my life consist of clouds and lightning and wet socks? is especially annoying, as is I've stepped in enough puddles tonight to fill a bucket, and my shoes are showing it.
No matter how many times I get soaked and dry off and wash off, I go out again the next day and it's the same thing all over again. means what exactly?
Not to mention the Exposition-Angst.
Didn't care for that much at all/10
>>8126154
It's an angst shit about how life sucks and every time I bounce back from some shitty thing I'm just right back In the shit
Wet socks are like a metaphor for a shitty life
Only one
Ixk man
AYYY YO I'm drunk again and feeling angst
Check it out?
http://pastebin.com/79cXYK2p
Black-and-white, horizontally striped tube socks, sun-soaked, white hot concrete with little specks of glass, like stars, ecstatically glaring up as if through a colorless void lurking just beneath the street; I sit and drink a cold, cheap beer on a typical summer day. The girl sitting at the table across the patio steals my attention. If particularly attractive I'm not quite sure, but those knee high socks draw me in, with a fetish-like austerity. All my being gravitates around the partial object of her legs, my peripheral vision orbiting round and giving form to the overbearing content of the cottony, crossed sticks of meat. I envision myself striking up a conversation, again just a normal, everyday occurrence, somehow she makes her way back to my place, I gradually make my way toward her legs with my numbing fingers, slowly peeling back the sultry socks and revealing the fruit of her flesh. I abruptly check myself, keeping in mind the mindfulness techniques I read about last week in my Buddhism textbook.
"When will I learn not to drink at school?" I somehow blurt aloud.
A sudden voice shakes what external composure I had left and visibly shakes me: "So, no more beer I take it?" The waitress looks at me questioningly, her eyes showing more qualms than just my current drink situation. I calmly state I only need my bill as I ponder if she saw my start at her untimely approach, or worse, if she could read my perverted thoughts consisting in meat-filled tube socks.
>>8126188
Try shorter sentences, or if your looking for that rambling aesthetic, use some commas, colons and/or semicolons. Also, try some descriptive language of external phenomena like setting, time and place to distract from the internal thoughts: which might give them some form and keep from writing just a mere, boring journal entry.
>>8126226
This is good critique and I'm grateful for it
There his mind stood in the purgatory where active perpetual conscious and the lingering thorn of subconcious meet and duke out who is to be victor and either remain or become the driving force in his nerves and veins. With much gusto and enough drink he is able to unlink himself from the chain that is society and thusly from error-motived fear like a prisoner breaking free in the night through sheer luck and circumstance. He felt diametric and the familiar satisfaction of defiance and contempt for not-yet-seen shame reverberated through him as his sober self retreated into a noble little corner of his remaining identity. Shyness, an unwillingness to act, and other primal childish fears no longer perturbed him for an inconsequential fraction of time - long enough to convince himself in this state that he could do as he pleased.
Walking behind a sundressed blonde, he grabbed her hand in a hopelessly awkward attempt at virility. She turned in his direction as her eyebrows shrugged upwards toward her hairline. One eye displayed a taught and rehearsed disbelief and the other a calm yet disturbing apathy. The nascent wrinkles of her still youthful and vibrant face along with her lips, nose, and even cheekbones all contorted skillfully into disgust.
>>8126282
First paragraph = meh, second I liked. A bit too convoluted, hard to follow. needs dat flow
If you thought you could walk on water, would you? But walking on solid earth afterward would feel strange and new. And that magical feeling of treading the barrier would become an illusion of something more. Always something more. More than what, he remembered asking. More than what I’ve torn down, the man replied.Do you remember what it feels like? Of course not. Who could? You decided to trade the ground beneath your feet for a promise of water, and one day you will drown.
>>8126331
Something remains. Some pretence of yourself does, at least. A false idol, really, and didn’t they use to ban worshipping of those? No, they banned the banning of worship. It keeps going like that, really, an endlessly recursive loop of lies you know are lies and yet fail to disbelieve and it’s that idea, that very false idol must never be worshipped. It’s not worth it. Don’t dive too deep.
These days, the world is so loud. Music is hyper stimulating, and television allows human voices to fill the room even when it is empty.
The back of your head is clouded by a sort of reverse paranoia, a sense of impending doom whenever there is silence. You dismiss yourself as crazy, rather than trying to understand the feeling.
Schizophrenics hear voices. In minds of the sane hear other people’s words as their own. Sometimes they even believe that what they say is original.
Sometimes they hope their thoughts are not their own. Intrusive thoughts are nothing to worry about. Most people hear them. Some just can’t ignore them. They capitulate to the peer pressure. Weak, in the way that a kicked dog who stops snapping back, is.
You didn’t invent the language you speak. But you get it. You understand, of course. Or maybe you’ve considered that your thoughts are just remixed memories, out of order.
The background noise tells you how to feel when you’re alone. When it speaks to you later on, it’s in your head. When you think, it’s not quite with voice, and it isn’t really /yours/. But you listen, as if it was. You believe in it, and that molds you.
Your thoughts are yours in the way that the taste of a piece of chocolate on your tongue is yours.
Sometimes people feel false, so they work twice as hard at being authentic. In this way, render their opinions of themselves invalid. What we want more than anything is our own approval.
You are incomplete, in the way that the film you just watched half of, is. Even if you never see it, you know it ends. You know that the ending is predetermined. You know that once you see it, you can’t change it. So, you’d prefer not to know.
Maybe it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re caged by the confines of your body to have cravings. To eat sleep fuck breed breathe. And you have everything you need, in the way hamsters at the pet store do.
>>8109779
i pity you for you have no fucking idea what being autistic is like.
wait..thats a good thing for you, consider yourself lucky anon.
>>8107567
Your voice as a writer is great, and the rambling type of style isn't too incoherent to be engaging. The crudeness reminds me a little of Palahniuk. I think the part
>No, you sick fucks, it's not made out of Chinese babies. What kind of monster do you think I am?
is completely disposable."Chinese baby pizza. It's made by chinese babies," works fine on its own.
>>8107569
Using lots of big, flowery words doesn't make your writing more meaningful. It's hard for me to enjoy writing without a character to connect to. This is pretty, but boring, like a still-life painting. It's too contrived to invoke any real emotion.
>>8107786
I feel like there are too many words, for how little is happening. Maybe if this was condensed, and there was more exposition, this could prove to be a good start to a story.
>>8110792
This is nice, I love reading scenes that include character's impressions of where they are, rather than the author's.
>>8112149
I hope this wasn't written by a woman, because women don't act like this. Or think like this. Nice fantasy, though.
>>8112629
Post more, if you're able. You already mentioned verbosity, and there are words that could and should be removed. Other than that, and some minor grammatical errors, I think it's hard to give good critique on a single, well-written paragraph. What matters is if and how it fits into the overall story.
>>8112869
Best of the thread so far, I would definitely not blink twice if I saw this published. Very well written.
>>8120220
>"You're a big guy"
>"Y-you too."
How it would go in real life.
>They capitulate to the peer pressure. Weak, in the way that a kicked dog who stops snapping back, is.
would work better as something like:
>They capitulate like a kicked dog ceasing to cry
or
>They capitulate like a scolded animal.
In my humble opinion
-----
My shit:
“Do you believe in fate?” said Sylvie, leaning across the picnic table, closer than necessary. Jean did not speak at first, taking a philosophical bite of his sandwich, chewing, swallowing, looking her in the eyes, then shifting away from the girl.
“I believe in curses...” he deliberated.
“I don’t see what that has to do with fate.” she replied, biting her lip.
“Some people are born cursed, but none blessed.” He continued, “If someone is born into very poor circumstances, there is little they can do, but someone born into great circumstances still has to make use of them, no one is born great.”
“Right.” Sylvie said unamused.
“What about you?” asked Jean, not wanting to encourage discomfort.
“Some are great, some aren’t, it goes both ways. Anyways, things can’t just happen, that would be stupid.” she said.
“Interesting…” Said Jean, beginning to gather up his things, merely a bag and some papers. Sylvie thrust herself forward once more, leaning close to Jean from across the table.
“Jean, kiss me.” she demanded. Jean froze.
“No, I don’t think I would like to.” He said hastily, shifting away.
“I did not ask whether you would like to, Jean, but tell me, why not?” She said, unfazed.
“I don’t think I know you well enough yet,” he paused for a moment, then sensed danger, “but if you’d like to continue our meetings, perhaps at a later date?”
Sylvie narrowed her eyes, “Of course, I suppose we’ll be on our ways then. We can see Caligula at 7, tomorrow.”
“Yes, I suppose.” replied Jean, standing up, his satchel at his side, “Pleasure speaking with you, goodbye, Sylvie,”
“Goodbye, Jean,” She said.
Jean left, making his way down the hill that the table. Looking behind him, he saw, Sylvie was gone. He sighed, and continued on his way out of the sunlit park. Perhaps he was not cursed after all.
>>8127103
Nowhere
I don't want to make a thread about this but does anyone else not really understand in what way their writing is bad? I am not even going to argue that my writing is passable for others but when I read my own writing it seems nearly flawless. I am extremely neurotic and have a tenuous self-perception so I am not convinced its a narcissism. Furthermore some writers get shut on here who I find impressive. I just don't have any understanding of what makes writing bad except for obvious mechanical faults or puerile subject matter. Also I find how Hemingway strings "ands" together to be abysmal.
>>8128353
>does anyone else not really understand in what way their writing is bad?
Do you compare your work to someone else?
>Furthermore some writers get shut on here who I find impressive.
If the Work does not have one of the following Prerequisite, Patrician, good prose, good narration. /Lit/ would find it garbage no exception, quite autistic if you ask me.
>I just don't have any understanding of what makes writing bad except for obvious mechanical faults or puerile subject matter.
Depends on the person, in my honest opinion
>>8112275
Last sentence is funny, good build up to it. Keep writing, keep trying. Maybe make your aliens a lot less anatomically anthropomorphic.
Posted this in another thread before I saw this one.
Short story. Would love feed back, thanks.
All he could see was the concrete slabs of the sidewalk passing below his feet. He had made his decision and he knew where he was going.
It had been years since he lost hope, months since he stopped trying, and days since he started preparing. He donated everything to a homeless shelter. He didn't have much left anyway.
He closed his bank account, which was empty. His will had been done for quite a while now. He started to write a note but thought it would be better to be remembered from a different time.
He gathered his last bit of change and counted it; three dollars, two quarters, ten dimes, two nickels, and fifteen pennies. He hoped it would buy enough pills.
All he could see was the concrete slabs of the sidewalk passing below his feet. He had made his decision and he knew where he was going.
He felt the dollars and coins turning in his pocket. Then blocking the next slab was a black piece of steel pointed at him. His eyes rose to meet the man holding the gun. There was a look of desperation in the man's eyes that he recognized immediately.
"Give me everything you have or I'll kill you"
He couldn't help but smile.
>>8128353
Have you ever read and tried to edit something you had written in the past? Even a few months can make a pretty big difference on the way you perceive your own work, and what once seemed flawless will probably feel full of cliches and awkwardness. You should try it, it might give you a good look into why some writing seems better than others.
I've only recently started writing (yes that's why I am on /lit/).
Please let me know what you think. I apologize for repeating my grammar. I had an American friend read through it for initial proofreading, but I am ESL.
singledigitlit.wordpress.com/2016/06/03/a-little-darker-this-time/
>>8121052
No critique, guys?
Don't be shy. I need the bully at least.
>>8130513
Hey friend, sorry, I am not too fast at reading English.
Your story has a good Bede-type fantastic history flavor(?). But I did catch several errors in word agreement (I think Magi is a plural word, singular is Magus)
I find that works like these benefit tremendously from a visual aid, such as a map. While speaking of visuals, it might help if you used more descriptive words when describing people and actions. I noticed that you tend to use "vanilla" words as opposed to more spicy(?) words. Ex. "The Butcher knew his mistake as he fallen to the earth..." Maybe use plummeted, plunged, etc.
? = I'm not sure if these words are the correct ones to use, they're just the first ones that came to my mind.
>>8130441
Is this a grim-dark retelling of the Peter Pan folk tale? Overall I like it. Narration was also good. It also gives us a different point of view on the whole story.
Try changing all of the to only All the. Of is not needed. Same with Bored of. Change it to Bored with. and I am pretty sure ever present has a hyphen. Peoples to People
>>8121052
Hero Journey? Love me a good classic. its somewhat decent, but it seemed rushed in a few parts, Have you tried the Tolkien approached?
High ranking is supposed to have a hyphen.
>>8122080
>>8122088
Here are mine, if you want to critique on how awful it is.
Excerpt from an "epic " I'm attempting to write:
"I believe in the Cosmic,
for it is the indisputable Creator
of all that is observable.
He who ruled Creatia,
brought Altea to her knees
and propelled our evolution
to one united front,
is slain by my palm,
soaked in the essence of stardust.
If it is the Cosmic's Will
for Altea to burn,
I shall proudly step forth
and strike the match of the flame
that eternally extinguishes
humanity's luminance."
>>8113286
I've seen it done by describing absolute silence or dark colors as an abyss. Sorry if that's not much help.
>>8117925
You could also try your hand at it and post your shit and immediately ask for specific feedback. I've been surprised at the help I've gotten that way, even if it didn't pertain to the entire work.
>>8130672
*tips fedora
>>8112938
While I can't say it's good, it has a lot of potential. The title pulled me in to read it, a good topic that many could relate to. Better punctuation is needed, it didn't flow so well, nearly turning me off a couple of times. But where this shines, is that it pulled me in again and again.
> Yes, I cared, I was caring, I cared deeply. But I cared not because it was the right thing to do but because I wanted you to care in turn
This is gold, loved every word and every punctuation I loved, sent a little shiver in me to. The joy from that sentence carried me all the way to the end happily.
> I once told a kid I would piss on the eye-holes of his dead mother’s skull for reasons so unimportant that they’ve already left my mind.
While i'm sure this was meant to emphasize how fucked up you were, wasn't that effective in my opinion. Seemed like an edgy kid trying to hard. What you were trying to convey could be done in more subtle and less graphic ways. This passage doesn't need to be graphic to prove it's point.
> I want to apologize for the kid I was—am.
This is very nice, very very nice, it does a lot of good things.
I like it, just need a bit more work
No for my shit
I’ve walked through the dirt in Paris
Seen the murky waters of Venice
As well as the slums of outer London
I partook on a grand European tour that so many call a chance of a lifetime
Those lovely cities that you dream about
With all there gleaming lights
I saw
Indeed London was lovely
Just as lovely as the old woman who sat outside the metro station
Hunched over in her rags, eyes to the ground as she held her little cup
Not even one pound sat inside
I saw the look in her gray eyes, distant and hopeless
Having good reason as those of the city ignored her
Smiling and laughing from their joy
I watched as my classmates, along with the very teachers i’m suppose to look up to
Avert their eyes
Kept their eyes on each other and walked on forward as if she wasn’t there
And I stood back and watched
But when I passed, I first knelt down before her
Took the cash from my pocket, all of it, every pound
Twenty, forty, sixty; I didn’t care
I placed it in her cup
And those gray eyes met mine
And those gray eyes went wide
“God bless you” was what she muttered and I hugged her lightly
Yes I walked through the ancient castles of Europe
Seen London on top of the London Eye
Eyed the Service Woman of Amsterdam and all their red lights
Strolled through the grand Doge Mansion of Venice
Slept among the grand Alps of Switzerland
Stood inside the haunting gas chambers, of Germany’s Dachau camp
And yes I saw Paris in the Springtime
But all of it was nothing
Compared to seeing hope return to someone’s eyes
>>8130649
>>8122088
I'll critique you, Touhou poster.
Well, it's very stream-of-consciousness. To be honest, I have a hard time grasping what's going on. The narrative has too many questions and not enough declarations, the narrator doesn't seem to have a good handle on the situation.
Also, watch your tenses.
>the mere thought of that happening never cross his mind in the slightest before
Should it not be 'crossed?'
>he turn his whole body faster than he normally would have.
Should it not be 'turned?'
>>8131390
Here's something of mine.
1/?
The tin can spun unceremoniously in stellar space as the great, blindingly white rock stared at its crew just beyond the side hatch. To an onlooking spacefarer, its service module and propulsion system might well have resembled a child’s make-believe rocket fashioned from a can of pork and beans.
The three man crew, behind a shield of steel and systems, buzzed reports through headsets that transposed their voices thousands of miles away to a room full of anxious engineers in a tight spot. It was now or never, if the Apollo mission was a failure there would be no time in left in the decade to fulfill Kennedy’s outrageous proclamation. With tensions high during a moment of radio silence, the capsule communicator jested to the crewmembers who were nigh entering lunatic pandora.
“Among the headlines concerning Apollo this morning is one asking that you watch for a lovely girl with a big rabbit.” Confused eyes shifted to the direction of the speaker and his nonsense comment. “An ancient legend says a beautiful girl named Chang-O has been living there for 4,000 years. It seems she was banished to the moon because she stole a pill of immortality from her husband.”
His remark brought only more quiet to the engineers, but the crewmembers faces, lit by the shimmering space rock, were struck with silly smiles.
>>8131401
2/?
“You might also look for her companion, a large rabbit, who is easy to spot since he is always standing on his hind feet in the shade of a tree. The name of the rabbit is not reported.” Radio chatter died down a moment more. A chuckling astronaut who went by the name of Collins eventually responded, his amusement audible still even in the tinny, poor quality transmission.
“Okay. We’ll keep a close eye out for the bunny girl.”
The Eagle separated from its commanding vantage and slowly set upon its landing; pirouetting through the starlit void and into the moon’s orbit. The two crewmembers aboard the landing craft, Aldrin and Armstrong, surveyed the surface through their instruments as the surface passed below them - and noted they were passing a few seconds ahead of schedule.
“Houston, we are long,” Aldrin reported.
A minute later, the navigation system broke into alarm. Something was not right - the system was overloaded, it had regressed to performing only critical landing functions. Red lights filled the small landing craft, its crew shaken both by the momentum of the fall and the apparent emergency.
“Houston, the computer is indicating an executive overflow.”
“It’s safe. Continue your descent.”
>>8131404
3/3
Unease settled in as they ignored the warnings. Armstrong again looked outside, greeted by a boulder-filled crater some distance from their originally planned landing zone; their craft drifted off course in the sudden panic. He grasped the controls, taking over for the automatic pilot. Only a few moments of fuel left - a slow and easy descent was necessary, lest the landing gear crash into the rocks below.
A light flickers on above Aldrin’s head; one of the probes hanging from the Eagle’s footpads was scraping the surface.
“Contact light!”
Armstrong brought the Eagle to a full stop, announced to the vacant space with a wet splash audible even from where they were sitting. Armstrong is suddenly very confused, but Aldrin did not appear to have noticed.
“Shutdown,” Armstrong said, taking his hands off the controls.
“Okay, engine stop. ACA - out of detent.” Alrin immediately responded.
“Out of detent. Auto.” Armstrong acknowledged, and Aldrin continued. “Mode control - both auto. Descent engine command override off. Engine arm - off. 413 is in.”
The speaker at mission control acknowledged them dutifully, a bead of sweat running down his brow.
“We copy you down, Eagle.”
Armstrong reported the completion of the landing checklist, and then spoke with some bravado into the microphone.
“Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.”
----
I could post more of this but I'd just be posting my entire prologue, so this is enough.
>>8130563
Thanks mate! I didn't want to be dropping exotic or rather obscure words for detail, but I can see how that will improve it.
I'll give it an edit when I can.
>>8131152
>*tips fedora
It's supposed to be like that. Its a quote from an asshole who has convinced himself he is god. But thanks for pointing out the obvious in your meme language
Peaches
The warehouse was a shelved space of reticulated rows of packaged peaches canned cylindrically with each package a cardboard-bound plastic enwrapped microcosm of the whole lot of the peaches on the pallet--stacked rows of packages of peaches evenly ordered upwards all cocooned with the same wide taut sticky spiraling strip of plastic turning the whole pallet-load in turn into a macrocosm of the composite packages of packaged peaches.
So I accidentally deleted most my writings (not all that much admittedly, maybe 50k words in total) and, it's actually quite a relief. I'd been putting off going back to it because I didn't like what I'd written so far but didn't want to delete it all. Watching Herzog's "Encounters at the End of the Earth" today also was quite inspiring. I recommend trying both of these things to anybody with block.
>>8126861
This isn't great. It seems like a pretty naive attempt to sound deep without saying anything interesting.
>>8132375
If it's trying to be comically verbose, it works. Reads almost like a parody of DFW.
Pic is the first page of something I started recently.
>>8133571
The Apollo 11 mission is a prefix to the theme of the story and really doesn't have anything to do with the story at large, rather it is a glimpse into the challenges the main characters will face.
As to what the story is about, I'll say yes it is about the Moon Rabbits of East Asian/Aztec legends. Here's a brief, spoiler-free blurb I made for the back cover.
>In a small town in the middle of nowhere, a young man spots a rabbit bleeding to death in a shopping center's parking lot. Nihilistic and cynical, he ignores it - just one more pile of decaying organic matter, wasting away unnoticed as the city festers with rot all around him. Yet when he finds it desperately clinging to life, some long-buried sympathy is unearthed from deep within him, and he discovers the white rabbit is much more than it seems...
>>8133696
I'll buy it
>>8133762
Thank you for the encouragement, it means a lot. I really want to make something that entertains people.
Here's some bunnies.
>>8133696
It sounds like you fully intended to write in first-person but bailed out at the last second desu senpai.
>>8133802
Well, the story is mostly in first person, following the main character's inner monologue and telling of the story's events. He has an overactive imagination and sometimes can only see the negative side of things.
The prologue and a couple short segments are in third person. Should I write the blurb in first person, too?
>>8131423
Hey friend, I took a look at the prologue you posted. I might have gotten a bit lost after the prologue, but what I did read was a nice intro. I'll keep reading on over the next few days and tell you how it goes.
>>8134365
I've been told before the jump from the prologue to the first chapter is confusing. I apologize for that, I've attempted to address it in the writing before but I haven't been able to do it in a way I was happy with.
Thank you for reading though.
>>8130649
What's the Tolkien Approach?
I am quite new to sharing my writings. I'm happy to take some necessary advice.
>>8119375
No crit?
You are lying on a blanket, on top of a metal sheet, or a slab of marble. I am seeing you. I see you again. I have forgotten about you as I have been chatting with the Russian in the cafe, staring from behind the glass at the tourists who, first thing in the morning, take the chairs of the terrace and those who, a few meters beyond, lie down on the sand or splash in the water. He’s had a couple of whiskeys. I have ordered an ice tea. I don’t want to drink so early. But I have anxiously looked at the two glasses that the bartender has put in front of him. Had not been because I was with him, I would have made myself comfortable in the spacious living room, still empty (it was only the two of us in there), staring at the sea, greenish on the edge and of an intense cobalt on the strip that precedes the horizon, on which one can already see the speedboats, the sailboats, the catamarans. Traian, the Russian, has had the two whiskies in two gulps. First one glass, then the second one, leaving almost no time between one gesture of his arm and the other. Starting the car, I looked upon the cafe, thinking that I could go back, and stay under the gush of air conditioning, reading the newspaper and staring at the sea, yes, this time on my own, with a glass of whiskey on the rocks between my hands. I see you lying down somewhere. I don’t know where. But there, on the metal sheet, on the blanket, on a cold slab of marble, under the gush of air conditioning. The truth is I don’t like to see you like that. With the engine already started, I press with my finger the button that, next to the steering wheel, activates the radio. The sound of the radio, of the engine, pulls you away, leave me on my own, looking after the movements of my hands, that now hold the steering wheel; after the movement of my right foot, with which I press the accelerator of the vehicle. The wheels of the car make the sand that covers the asphalt of this part of the road near the beach crunch. The sand also covers the sidewalks skirted with fences and latticework from which a lush vegetation grows: from behind the car window hibiscus, oleanders, bougainvilleas, green closings of thuja, lined cypresses slowly pass by.
And with that the weekend receded into the week, Jacques was barely engaged in life at work, his mind completely absent. It wasn’t that his thoughts were elsewhere, it was just the methodical falling back into his life’s structure, his brain could turn off as he let his body drag him through the week, evenings filled with emptiness, he lacked the desire to do anything or see anyone, kept all his meals simple and kept well supplied in tobacco. Every day he was alive was statistically slightly less significant to his life than the day before, the denominator of total days lived was only heading in one direction, the endless monotony of filling in banal conversations with his coworkers had lead to him being an expert at shutting them down, he cared not for his work, but appreciated the paycheck - he had no plans to stay for much longer anyways, but the financial incentive would hold him for at least some time.
Sometime near the end of the week Jacques sat at his table, again eating soup and bread, he had to admit his eating habits had become poorer over the last couple of months, and his sleeping patterns nearing irrationally absurd, his circadian rhythm a nightmare. He sat at the end of the table, inhaled the stale air, filled with cigarette smoke and disappointment, he thought of the complete solitude he was in, calculating just how long it would take for his body to be found if this were to be his last breath. No one checked on him. No one visited him. His rent was paid for the next while but he couldn’t see his landlady breaking the door down in any hurry. His father was long in the ground and his remaining family had no reason to contact him until possibly Christmas or another significant calender event, and even then, a failure to reply would not be abnormal from him. He was easily replaceable at his job and his friends would presume his ignoring of their letters was intentional. This all crushing down made him think about what his place in the world really was, he’d nearly proven the discovery of his dead body would only be due to a stench problem. He thought about his infinitesimally small worth, not as a fraction of those currently living on the Earth - not including those that would have died and been born solely during his pondering - not as a fraction of all of previous humanity and those to come, but of this cosmic insignificance that he faced. Would it matter how long until his body was found? The coroner's eyes on his death certificate being the last to ever read his name, and possibly the last man to ever ponder his existence. Life would not halt, nor would it even consider slowing for his passing. And the sun would still rise. And it would still rain. And tears would still flow. And the flowers hanging from his above neighbours' balcony would grow for as long as they were tended to. And that would be that.
>>8134453
1 Concerning Hobbits
This book is largely concerned with Hobbits, and from its pages a reader may discover much of their character and a little of their history. Further information will also be found in the selection from the Red Book of Westmarch that has already been published, under the title of The Hobbit. That story was derived from the earlier chapters of the Red Book, composed by Bilbo himself, the first Hobbit to become famous in the world at large, and called by him There and Back Again, since they told of his journey into the East and his return: an adventure which later involved all the Hobbits in the great events of that Age that are here related.
Many, however, may wish to know more about this remarkable people from the outset, while some may not possess the earlier book. For such readers a few notes on the more important points are here collected from Hobbit-lore, and the first adventure is briefly recalled.
Hobbits are an unobtrusive but very ancient people, more numerous formerly than they are today; for they love peace and quiet and good tilled earth: a well-ordered and well-farmed countryside was their favourite haunt. They do not and did not understand or like machines more complicated than a forge-bellows, a water-mill, or a hand-loom, though they were skilful with tools. Even in ancient days they were, as a rule, shy of ‘the Big Folk’, as they call us, and now they avoid us with dismay and are becoming hard to find. They are quick of hearing and sharp-eyed, and though they are inclined to be fat and do not hurry unnecessarily, they are nonetheless nimble and deft in their movements. They possessed from the first the art of disappearing swiftly and silently, when large folk whom they do not wish to meet come blundering by; and this art they have developed until to Men it may seem magical. But Hobbits have never, in fact, studied magic of any kind, and their elusiveness is due solely to a professional skill that heredity and practice, and a close friendship with the earth, have rendered inimitable by bigger and clumsier races.
For they are a little people, smaller than Dwarves: less stout and stocky, that is, even when they are not actually much shorter. Their height is variable, ranging between two and four feet of our measure. They seldom now reach three feet; but they have dwindled, they say, and in ancient days they were taller. According to the Red Book, Bandobras Took (Bullroarer), son of Isumbras the Third, was four foot five and able to ride a horse. He was surpassed in all Hobbit records only by two famous characters of old; but that curious matter is dealt with in this book.
Tolkien approach
>>8107567
so random
the only good line is
>I put on two thirds of a shirt (Small incremental steps are best when transitioning to a shirtless lifestyle)
I like how that implies the narrative will be about a man devolving in some way
>>8107569
moments of real value but too much messiness and fat which leaves the thing feeling without aim or orientation. you can't break the genre until you have mastered the genre. the details are good but they are resting on a murky structure, not murky as in "mysterious" but as in thoughtless. overall i like what this could be
>>8107786
boring and badly written
>>8108328
everything has always already been done -- just do it !!!
>>8109779
i vomit
>>8110824
reads like a creepypasta (not necessarily a bad thing lol) but too little to work with here
>>8112275
i can actually feel my imaginative scope contracting and shrivelling as i read this... the lack of content worth pursuing here is really disheartening. where would you see this idea expanding and spreading ? the words form a poorly made cobble stone, no texture or cohesion. instead of ideology bland cynicism. bad.
>>8113286
you would benefit from looking into the "spectral turn" in literary studies (also sociology) which was big in the nineties. also known as Hauntology. a good place to start is "The Spectralities Reader" by Maria Del Pilar Blanco and Esther Peeren. A more classic source would be Freuds essay on the unheimlich/uncanny.
the author M. R. James has also provided a model for writing horror stories which burn slowly from a perspective twist until they are dominated by the horror element.
Mary Butts and Lovecraft are two other well known authors who wrote preliminary guidelines for writing "proper" horror fiction.
>>8117302
I don't know about fantasy but Darko Suvin satisfactorily described sci-fi as requiring a "cognitive estrangement" from everyday life which allows us to see the possibility for other kinds of society/psychology/reality... in simple early sci-fi there is just one such element, almost always technological, but the setting remains compatible with everyday experience.
For example the reanimation device in Frankenstein, the formula in Jekyll and Hyde, the dinosaur-filled basin tucked away in the real-life amazon in The Lost World.
More complex sci-fi fleshes out the psychological social experience of worlds which are more far-removed from this one. Note that this does not mean physically far removed as in another time or galaxy.
For example in Ballards "CrasH" the technology involved, the car, is everyday but the way it features in the characters lives becomes increasingly abstracted and alien. Baudrillard called this the first "true" science fiction of the present.
>>8121580
I agree exactly with the other anon in that although this is fun and well written it seems to be about a culture you are not a part of and in that way feels inauthentic
>>8121746
>Nothingness. Then light.
dropped
>>8108328
Literally every thought you have ever had, every idea you have ever come up with and probably every combination of words that comes out of your mouth or the fingers you type with has been done, thought, or written before.
Originality is an ideal, not a succinct truth. Do something in your own words and ideologies and styling and that will be good enough for most people, even if the core concept has been done many times before.
I'm new to writing, be gentle. I'll review as I scroll. I hopefully won't miss anyone.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us”?
“Get out”
“You left us”
“I couldn’t save you”
“No one can save you”
“We will drag you back”
“I’m heading home; you’re welcome to finish your drinks”
“With us”
He wrote and wrote upon the, chalky white, paper and saw his words spiral into meaningless rhetoric. He was the creator of a world he knew nothing about, with each word he tried, unsuccessfully, to walk the road he wrote into existence. People are far more complex than a few strings of word, he thought staring, longingly, onto the stained paper.
>>8107002
>Silverich
Kek, the fuck? Keep the name easy to remember.
>Faceless world
Again, what? It sounds good but I don't know what I am expected to see. Describe it.
>Creeek
Stop.
>Other works
Fuck no.
>>8134963
What is this?
>>8132375
Alteration doesn't equal quality. Don't sacrifice the story for techniques. I have read peaches so many times.
>>8131408
>Ignored warning
Sounds weird, consider re-write.
>Both characters names begin with A
Unless you want to put a lot of effort into defining their personality I'd re-think the name.
>Responded
I'm new to writing but a bit more detail wouldn't hurt.
>>8130672
>I don't understand the fucking whole thing.
Three lines, nothing in common, does not repeat elsewhere. No noticeable reason why.
>For it is
No, no one speaks like this. Stop you sound odd.
>Step forth
If this is a character speaking re-think.
>>8130327
>Change
Stop, it sounds bad.
>Buy pills
Detail, why he wants and don't be so blunt.
>Decision and go
This sentence is a cliché, re-write.
>Kill you
No one says, think up some slang. The dialect of the person helps to humanise them.
A different phrase might be:
"Giv's the copper, I'll break your head in"!
Know what I mean?
Continued.
Barely anyone has contributed, damn.
>>8128353
>Writing
Understand that you are looking at your writing through tinted lenses. You work may be hard to understand, it may not flow, or what sounds good to you may not sound good to others.
Just look at other's failings, see if you're making the same mistakes, and correct it.
>>8127033
>Closer than necessary
Weird.
Maybe just say too close for comfort or awkwardly close or something.
>Repeated I's
Stop.
>Signed and walked
This is good, flowed well , enjoyed reading.
I give up, I'm a quarter up and no has replied to others and offered crtiques.
>>8137147
>Both characters names begin with A
Those are the actual names of the astronauts that landed on the moon during the Apollo 11 mission. They don't appear in the story again anyway.
I'll consider the rest of what you said though, thanks for reading.
So a regular day at a certain American Retail Store. I press a button to notify the next customer to come up. She comes up with a small bag of chips and I ring it up.
Me: "Will that be all miss?"
Her: "Actually, do you have a moment to talk about Jesus Christ?"
Me: In a calm tone I tell her "I'm sorry miss, but I'm on the clock. If I stop to talk then I'll get into trouble."
Her: "It's ok if you get fired. your lord and savior will help you get a new job. Take this bible and please read with me the first page so that your soul may be cleansed."
Me: "Ma'am I can not accept it. If I accept it then I'll get in trouble and the bible will have to be thrown away. Besides, I have different beliefs so will you kindly respect mine. Please have a good day ma'am"
Her: "Do you mind telling me what FALSE religion you believe in?"
She said it in a threatening tone, so I reply to her saying this:
Me: "Ma'am, I'm an atheist... I believe in science and hard data to tell me how the Earth was created. Also, I'm naturally a good person who is tolerant and respectful of all beliefs. Now would you kindly have a nice day!"
Her: "You will burn in hell for your sins."
Me: "Hell if they allow people like you in heaven, then I'm happy im going to hell."
>>8137197
>Apollo 11 mission.
Interesting.
>Story
That's good then, maybe just post an exert of what'll be seen through out the writing to get a proper review of it.
>Thanks
Welcome dude, if you wouldn't mind can you give me your thoughts on my bit of shit?
>>8137196
>I give up, I'm a quarter up and no has replied to others and offered crtiques.
Alright, you've made me feel guilty. I would have done more yesterday after posting my own work, but I was operating on 30 hours of no sleep. Here goes.
>>8134963
>I have forgotten about you as I have been chatting with the Russian in the cafe, staring from behind the glass at the tourists who, first thing in the morning, take the chairs of the terrace and those who, a few meters beyond, lie down on the sand or splash in the water.
Don't just continue sentences endlessly with commas and 'ands.' Each additional statement you add to a sentence makes it harder to read and you risk making a run-on. For the sake of your reader, use fullstops.
In fact this whole thing is really hard to follow. It sounds like you're trying to describe a scene, but it comes across as a rambling stream of consciousness.
>>8135042
You too. Use periods.
>Jacques sat at his table, again eating soup and bread, he had to admit his eating habits
No, no! You already made a statement with this sentence. Don't just put a comma and start another one. Think about your reader. Think about all the rambling thoughts you're cramming into his head at once.
>>8137208
I think I've posted enough of my own stuff for now, I don't want to 'hog' the thread.
Also, I don't know what posts are yours, but I'll just read upward and post feedback to stuff as I read it.
>>8137204
Why are you writing this like a play's script
Why is "American Retail Store" capitalized, is that the actual name of the store or are you trying to be ironic, or what
Several glaring punctuation errors, like you forgot to capitalize "your" here,
>It's ok if you get fired. your
>>8137147
He wrote and wrote upon the, chalky white,
The commas here are unnecessary and make the sentence read awkwardly.
>People are far more complex than a few strings of word, he thought staring, longingly, onto the stained paper.
The commas here are useful but are placed poorly. The sentence should read like this,
>People are far more complex than a few strings of words, he thought, staring longingly onto the stained paper.
>>8132375
As >>8132776 said, it sounds like you're trying to be overly verbose on purpose. Using many words to say very little. if that's not your intention, then just make your point and move on.
>>8131183
Several lines of this poem feel like they add nothing.
>'I saw' is its own line
>'Avert their eyes' when you say what they're doing with their eyes again in the next line
>Two very slightly different lines describing what the old lady's eyes do
>>8130672
Difficult to comment on. I feel like it could use some rhythmic timing because it's written like a poem, but I guess that's up to you.
"Creatia" sounds terribly made up, though.
Posting some more since I could do with all the criticism..
I want to make it safe for everyone, I want a world where everyone is safe and happy. I want a world of balance and peace. He stared at the words and dreamt of them blending into a beautiful piece of art. Conveying a thousand worlds and forming the most intricate patterns within the reader’s mind.
“Are you okay”?
“I don’t see anything, why don’t we go downstairs and get some drinks”?
“What do you mean…you’re bleeding”!?
“Pointing it out won’t change anything will it, let’s get some drinks”
“Drinks, at a time like this!? You’re bleeding”!
“Yes, we have already established this. It hurts an awful lot and I’m trying to ignore it so can we move along and I can get some alcohol to disinfect this before it turns purple”.
I am too blunt; people are not this clear. The intentions and the person behind their mask are hidden during the day. If only I could somehow project my words on the page, if I was able to somehow to just print my mindscape onto lined paper and see it come to life as I envision it. If only I could be a better writer. He thought, his face down in submission and his body hunched over the paper.
I'm>>8137208 & >>8137147
>>8137329
>like this,
Thank's it's been changed.
Link me to your things and I'll review.
This isn't just a collection of random words - I used to sell these products online for my girlfriend (the subject of the poem). Thought that might clarify that it is not intended to be lolsorandum
Drink me, rainbow peach
I can see through cuboids as though out of the eyes of some
wolf-man
November stone, baby feet in blue. Angel -gold. B’day cake ideas
Infinity (rhinestones) - two silver hearts, orange and red butterfly.
No ORIGINAL Identity Documents:
Itemisations, instructions such as ‘survive then turn’
All sold out, I delivered them late but somehow maintained the illusion
If feelings are words, I’m lost for them
We laughed at the inane profundity of those slips of secret paper
But that true love cannot be expressed through these words I hide under
Is obvious, expressed in nobody’s words through somebody
Through clips which bleed noiselessly into one’s soul
Through words which hide themselves in sounds, looks, movements, meanings
The real heart and soul is the cliché,
which abandons the reflection or contrivance
for cold hard cash.
All sold out, we never had any at all.
I am not quite done yet, so I will leave a small excerpt of what I am writing.
Wallace grew bored of the waiting room magazines. The smoldering models did little to occupy him. Seeking attention, Wallace looks longingly at his mother. She is too engrossed in an Ikea catalogue to dare entertain him. So, his wary mind wanders. His focus shifts from patient to patient, looking for something, anything to take him away from the agony of waiting. He looks from withered strawberry grandmothers to twitchy little boys with their mothers, much like him, but none of these characters interested him.
That is, until Wallace’s eyes finally fell on a man in the waiting room just a couple rows ahead. He seemed to be in a proper state of mind and he wasn’t dressed in a pale hospital gown like the other patients in the waiting room. Instead, the man wore a checkered dress shirt, collar down and sleeves unrolled. His hair was stark black and held the lustre of polished leather shoes. For all intents and purposes, he could have been a fine gentleman who was waiting for his daughter to pick up her prescription.
But he wasn’t. The air was heavy in the old man’s presence, holding a dank smell similar to rotting seaweed on a foaming beach. It made Wallace’s eyes water just looking at him. The steamy, green lines floated from the man, evidence that this powerful stench stems from the man. Wallace tried to puff his cheeks to hold his breath, but the rot. That rotting smell was always there.
>>8107567
I would literally read this entire story... post more plz
>>8137524
I like this a lot. Correct me if i'm wrong, but the main tension I took from this was that of language, and how it almost heartlessly use convenience of physical sounds and motions to denote meanings that are supposed to be above that. If this is the case, I think the duality of this could have been more clearly expressed, and the tension more tragic (though I like the closing lines). Good language, concept could be more developed imo.
Don't be afraid to tell me it's shit as long as you explain why.
Lookin out the bus window,
Black masses march past,
In front of the dark violet sky.
Headlights shine dead colors on grass,
In the distance,
Occasional lonesome lights,
Move slower, parallax.
They’re too far to hear.
Spectral reflections bring me back inside,
To the chairs and the people.
Sleeping, play’n music, on their phones, chatting.
They’re so unaware;
Outside this box
It is so vast,
Silent,
Empty.
It instills a peace in me,
A peace I appreciate only
Through the eyes of a child,
Afraid of the dark.
>>8137887
I like it. Your use of punctuation, for me at least, throws off the flow and makes it a bit choppier, not as fluid as it probably could be.
Night is just a pallid reminder of what it's like to lose and have nothing to show for it; to lose and keep thinking there's a chance at something better and brighter, given enough time and suffering. The night is that cold heartless bitch who's a decent lay and is more often than not, eager to embrace you if only to leave you cold, shaken, ashamed of yourself, and pining for more. Not more of her, but more of something else. Something that that cruel night can't offer you. Hope, or purpose.
This little storm brewed in my head as I sat at my desk, going over old, closed cases for what…? I don't know.
It had been quite some time since the last case and even then that hadn't offered much in the way of thrills or money. Business had been slow since the last one.
No, that would imply some degree of steadiness but in reality, nobody came. This weighed heavily on me as the flickering visions from the holodiscs, neatly labeled by date, burned at my eyes.
>>8108235
gtfo And kys anon
there was no reason in splitting that opening conjunction sentence pleb
>>8137928
I meant to create space, slow down the reading to convey a stillness or emptiness. I think you're right though, it ended up just feeling chopped up and start stop. Ya think there's a better way to slow down the pace, maybe with wordchoice instead of punctuation?
>>8137958
How about structure instead? Try re-writing it as a sonnet of some sort.
If you're going to go with word choice instead, use a thesaurus and play around with the alternatives until something clicks and feels right with you.
>>8137931
Dope. The "night as bitch" metaphor is contrived, seen it done better many times. No way to begin a story, maybe somewhere in the middle it would grate less. I'm intrigued, anyway. PKD fan?
>>8137989
Can you give me an example or two of it being done better? I'd like to have references so I have a better standard for it. If I choose to stick to it.
Also, you might be right about moving this passage (and possibly rewriting it). Maybe to the end. Right now, it's close to the beginning but it doesn't start the story.
Either way, I thank you for taking some time to critique.
We don't want your dirty fingers anywhere near us or people we like. You don't fit in.
You know how I found a place to fit in? I found your mom. Only a life long whore like her is loose enough for this huge cock.
What do you miss?
If we've never spoken.
Did you masticate?
Did you spit out the taste?
Hhhockcheeewwwyyy.
Do you rinse off your main translation.
Muscle. With essential oil?
Do you stick your finger in your ear and itch the screech?
So the spastic spasms crawl over your senses and ya what? Help a sister over that impulse...? I grab my bedazzled livestock horn and beg you to jjjjuuuusssttt ....
Chew slow so you don't choke?
All you had to do was say good looking out...
Risk me because I corrected a stupid mistake that irked the fuck out of you.
A year ago.
I gasped for air here.
Looking to engage 1 specific elite mind.
Stubborn and weary.
believe in possible.
I don't love being ignored.
Sigh.
Validate me.
Tictackyslow.
Do they really feel wonder
When they look to the stars?
I only see distance.
I feel myself stretching
As I reach for them.
Thinner and thinner,
Till I disappear.
Because if you just pick a point on the window and stare at it, you won’t have to make awkward eye-contact with anybody.
“Yeah no I went to sleep around,,, –- *seven* and I uh –- I was up at eleven or something like that and good and trashed by about midnight.”
“Haha”
“Yeah.”
The gnawingly hypnotic hum of the bus’s engine; you can feel it in your ass and hear it in the juice of your head even when people are talking. The bus not completely full today but people still have to stand; the two guys talking are standing.
“So good weekend.”
“Haha”
Things passing by the point on the window: tree, tree, tree; lamppost in front of tree; empty space, the sky full of wine-colored early-morning sunlight; house; tree.
It became stupidly clear about ten minutes ago that it’s dumb and pointless to avoid eye-contact with people on the bus because the people they’re just strangers, and any awkwardness you might share with them would have no effect on your day or on your life, even –- a thought which co-occurred with the realization that refusing to acknowledge the existence of people you’re enclosed in a sparse mechanical space with is, itself, a kind of perfect synecdoche of the atomized nature of modern industrial society –- a realization that was quickly appended by the idea that ruminating about stuff like “the atomized nature of modern industrial society” is about the most clichéd and obvious thing an undergraduate can do –- an idea which was soon buttressed by the thought that being aware of how clichéd and obvious you were being only mitigated the ‘sin’ involved, that it didn’t eradicate it completely, –- that you were still being obvious and banal and dumb, only in a really intricate and self-absorbed way no one could see.
You feel tired.
“Emily’s a dime tho”
“Haha”
>>8138828
So very, very tired
>>8135507
I may be a bit dense mate, because I'm having trouble noticing the "approach".
What exactly makes this style unique? Is it the almost, storybook presentation of a new race? Or how Tolkien/Narrator is giving a nonchalant account of something mythical?
Or is it his take on their history? Casual references to famous characters, and the promise of further explanations later, and focusing on more important matters?
>>8138893
I'll go with the Casual references to famous characters, and the promise of further explanations later. Although the storybook presentation of your world history wouldn't hurt. I am assuming your writing a epic novel?
>>8138922
Trying to. I suppose I lack that Tolkien touch I guess. I'm in love with the whole concept of good vs. Evil narrative, and the rise of common men to heroes.
So a bit different from Tolkiens more mythic story/world. But definitely in the same vein.
>>8138987
Good luck to you
>>8107567
>>8111288
>>8111584
>>8112922
>>8137624
1/2
It's our 20th High School reunion, and we are all close to 50 years old, on account of
our entire class being kidnapped our junior year by rogue marketers.
As far as kidnapping, and slavery goes, it could have been worse. There was no sex, or
overt torture involved. Between us students, sure, but the marketing men just wanted to film
us painting butter on raw turkeys. For ten years. It was an odd ten years, but what it did help
us with was with our goals.
We were all close to 30 years old by the time we got back to school and graduated.
The clock was ticking. No time for slacking. No backpacking through Europe, spending a year
playing video games through a haze of weed smoke, no fucking around with mediocre jobs
while waiting for our true calling.
This was a blessing in some ways, but also would come around to bite us in the ass.
Many of us, like Steve Glades, became wildly successful. He's the guy who started implanting
into the stumps of amputee victims. You know, horses with horns coming out of their heads,
with the rainbow hair? He went from sketching that stuff in notebooks, to becoming a master
at genetic engineering, and now all those people you see walking around with, or in the case
of foot amputees, on, real live miniature unicorns.
Others of us became rocket psychologists, corn generals, clown sweaters, and all
around captains of imagination. We did well. But so did the weird kid. Billy Eyedis. He
conquered the world. And true to his word, or the words really, it was quite the verbal
manifesto of super villain hate, he was here to make us all pay. While we were busy with our
own goals and plans, Billy became a world wrestler. He literally wrestled worlds. After
defeating some planets in other star systems, to ply his trade, build his chops, he had come
back here and wrestled Earth into submission.
>>8139753
2/2
"Hey guys. I'm back. And you are all going to pay."
I guess someone should ask, so I do. "Billy, not to stoke this hate or anything, and
don't take this the wrong way, but why had you wanted to make us all pay? I remember you
went on that long drawn out tirade back when we were painting turkeys with butter, but, well.
No one really paid attention to you much. No offense"
"Fool! Ignore this!", Billy says, as he pulls a burglar from his bookbag.
The burglar promptly starts robbing us, one by one. But unlike a standard robber, he
takes very specific amounts from us. He takes $47 from Gladys Turrington, having to actually
make change from his own pocket. Others are a few dollars short, and are forced at gunpoint
to sign IOUs, notarized by the burglar's accountant, who he had kept in his own bookbag.
He even had one of those credit card swipey machine things, so he could rob those of us who
shunned carrying cash.
Billy smiled. "All those years. You ignored me! Thought you were better than me! But I
kept a record of every wrong. And I wrote down those wrongs, and fixed a price. I knew you
would all pay one day for your transgressions. And now ", and he said a bunch of other stuff.
Not sure really, he was kind of droning on. We all politely waited for him to finish, and then
grabbed our paintbrushes and flew home.
We would paint turkeys one more time.
>>8137878
Thanks for the response! I appreciate it. The 'real' meaning (the one I had in mind) are these little slips of paper I used to have to print off whih would contain really cliched lines, or just snippets from songs. The poem was my reflection on the fact that those words are almost more pure because the thought behind them isn't put through the mill of 'original' language which detaches the sentiment from the final product, unlike the unthinking, unoriginal but heartfelt cliche. I think I could make the tragedy more visceral though, I just stopped trying after a while because it was getting hard to tap into some of the pretty shitty feelings I have developing in me.
>>8139753
>>8139755
The first part was actually kind of interesting, but
>>"he's the guy who started implanting into the stumps of amputee victims" implanting what? Did he implant the horses into them?
Also, the second part is more-or-less shitty because of the garbage dialogue in my opinion: fix that and the story wouldn't be too bad.
>>Here's mine, it's a poem
Nature Calls
Three men lay woke aside the parking lot;
Speaking of plans to pull the world so taut
That fi’re couldn’t cure them of their sins.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Nights whimpered in silent fear of what might become of them.
War slithered in, with sinister intent, speaking in eager whispers
In the ears of looming shadows that wept dry tears for sunlight.
Murmurs of discontent sprinted throughout: your home; your clique; your self.
Inching further for anger, blindness swept beneath your skull and latched into you,
Your sins are not your own.
Luring you further with malicious speak shrouded by a veiled innocence:
Hysteria lit the path with shadowed light from an envious lantern.
Cheered on by coats of tainted wool, and assailed by coats of tainted challis
You become conflicted.
What now?
Leering from platted comfortability, shadows hiss at you to march;
Indeed, you do, in fact, with many hesitations, and many trepidations,
But indeed, you do.
March
Splintered bones sizzle under a foreign star,
Trickles of sweat blister, embroider, infartar your brow.
Misguiding you moreso than pockets pretensely avowed
Like schoolgirls hand-in-hand, capped-‘n-gowned.
Smothered words nested in fear choked on bravado…
Bravo, Bravo!
The term is done!
Wormwood parties in your pit,
Your feather withers at the sun,
Enthralled in fear and shadow’s shit,
Your blindness turns to deaf’d the young.
>>infartar means to strip bare
>>8108328
going straight for that national book award, are we?
>>8138091
I like it but I feel like I've read it before. Although to be fair a lot of poems are about stars.
Here is something I've been working on a future novel about a cop in New-Detroit a city built on top of old Detroit after it got nuked in a war.
Michael fetched an ice tea from the refrigerator and looked at the clock on his wall. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was only half past ten and he did not have to be down-under until at least two o’clock. He walked across the soft carpet on his floor, the floorboards underneath creaked loudly. Michael did not mind, it was hardly the worst thing about his apartment which was the rats and the cockroaches. Michael swore to his landlord Kenny that he could hear the rats going up and down the pipes in the walls but the building never got an exterminator. “What’s the point” Kenny said to him once, “they just come straight back up here from down-under,” it was useless to refute that point. The building was way too close to The Slide and that brought a litany of problems, pests being the least of them. For now, Michael and the rats had to co-exist peacefully.
What Michael liked best about it was the location, right next to The Slide, the mega-highway that connected the towering metropolis of New-Detroit with the world Downstairs. For most people living too close to The Slide was a major problem. Apart from the pests, the neighborhoods closest to The Slide were a hotbed of crime and feuding gangs. In reality there were two Slides; one went “downstairs,” to the area surrounding the city. The other one went “down-under,” that is to say underneath the city, to the old city of Detroit, which was still technically off-limits although that law has not been enforced for decades. Michael was part of the Metropolitan Police Department, more specifically he was part of the relatively newly formed Special Attention Division or the S.A.D which only investigated crimes in the old city. It was a sorry job which no one wanted least of all Michael. After graduating Michael had hopes of working his way to becoming a detective for the major crimes division but he found himself at S.A.D, which was a career dead end for most cops.
The two young men blew smoke into the air through conspicuously formed lips and in flouting their cigarettes barely held them by the necks of their finger tips. Here and there they would spit and tap their smokes like they had seen adults do, either their fathers or other men they had seen in movies. Everyone in town knew how Spoon's father was around him and his family, wearing them down with that consistent demure and that infantile manhood that would give out suddenly from under them like a trapdoor. I heard that he would float around that tiny, one-bathroomed house of his like a phantom or a broken man and stutter limp commands to his son with that loose-bellied, tobacco weathered voice of his, and then act short and talk all cussing-like to his sister because he thought she was weak and because she was his daughter. The entire town knew that that mangy and insurmountable man worked for three days and drank for four. And so that Spoon developed into two people: Spoon at home and Spoon outside, and its outside Spoon that I'm looking at right now. He's leaning into Jewel, waving his arms around in some way, painting and packaging that rapture of adolescent ambition and expectation; his lips undulating and shimmering with hushed intent. Jewel's just standing there soaking it all in, his left shoulder peeking out from undercover, catching the rain.
>>8143079
> edited a little bit
The two young men blow smoke into the air through conspicuously formed lips and, in flouting their cigarettes, barely hold onto them by the necks of their fingers. Here and there they spit and tap their smokes like they'd seen adults do, either their fathers or other men they had seen do the same in movies. Everyone in town knew how Spoon's father was around him and his family, wearing them down with his consistent demure and that infantile manhood that would give suddenly out from under them like a trapdoor. I even heard that he would float around that tiny, one-bathroomed house of his like a phantom or a broken man and stutter limp commands to his son with that loose-bellied, tobacco weathered voice of his, and then act short and talk all cussing-like to his sister because he thought she was weak and because she was his daughter. The entire town knew that that mangy and insurmountable man worked for three days and drank for four. And so that Spoon developed into two people: Spoon at home and Spoon outside, and its outside Spoon that I'm looking at right now. He's leaning into Jewel, waving his arms around in some way, painting and packaging that rapture of adolescent ambition and expectation; his lips undulating and shimmering with hushed intent. Jewel's just standing there soaking it all in, his left shoulder peeking out from undercover, catching the rain.
>>8109779
It really does seem like something an autistic teenager would write, so good job, I guess?
>>8143094
anyone??
>>8143094
the problem with people who use three dollar words is that the content of their story, the actual narrative, themes, and imagery, rarely deserve that sort of intellectualism.
this is one of those times. try writing simpler. if your goal was to try and be smart and clever, you failed by being needlessly obtuse.
>>8143094
Rhythm is good; it reads well. It didn't captivate me though.
>>8126313
ok. I'll try shorter, less runon-ish sentences and try to tidy it up
Plumply sitting, or, if you will, reclining, upon the porcelain, hard, and cold toilet, for the moment passive and mostly not moving, unless one counts the functioning of the internal organs and the circulation of the blood and the excretion of feces as moving, was the man, person, young man, old boy, boy, or, if one will, young man Johnny Appleseed, taking a shit, a dump, a poo, a poop, a crap, a turd, a dookie, a shit, or, in short, a shit.
A hard balled fist knocked, or, more accurately, its knuckles knocked against the door, the outside of the door relative to his position inside the bathroom, where, if you will remember, he was shitting, crapping, pooping, shitting, shitting, or otherwise taking a shit.
"Yes, hello, Stanley," he said, exclaimed, remarked, questioned, clamored, hubbubbed, asked, yelled, exclaimed, remarked, or otherwise remarked upon the knocking of the nice knuckles upon the door, which happened to be, as a matter of fact, very slim, slender, smooth, long, bony and beautiful knuckles like a white lilyflower in May when the wind is gently ablowing, the clouds are white, the sky is blue, the sun is orangish-red or perhaps even white, and, in short, it is Spring.
"Stanley," he cried again from the toilet where he sat, reclined, sat still, shat, crapped, pissed, pooped, shot his shit, or otherwise took a shit from, "I must say that the philosophical considerations of your knocking upon this door with your knuckles are very deep, long, wide, abysmal, as in abyss-like, trench-like, deep, hole-like, deep, deep, or otherwise deep, like your mother's vagina, snatch, clit, quim, fuckhole, or, in short, pussy.
"To put it shortly, I believe we could gain some great benefit, pleasure, utility, pleasure, happiness, pleasure, pleasure, and enlightenment from a philosophical discussion of the deep philosophical, theosophical, historico-theologico-sociological scientific historic and mathematical implications of the uber-profound, deep, depthfilled, and vaginalike hole of your mother's snatchlike knockings upon this fucking door while I am trying to take a shit."
"OK," Stanley said.
>>8144913
Terrible.
>>8144913
woeful
>>8144913
it's shit, poo, poop, crap, a turd, a dookie, it's shit.
>>8107567
Bravo for this piece. Complete and utter insanity.
I believe you guys are being unfair.
(2/?)
"Well," Johnny Appleseed went on, continued, elaborated, continued, or otherwise kept on going, acceding to the implicit and tacit acquiescence of his pontificating on this subject by the formation of those two syllables by Stanley, "it is clear that you're knocking on my door when I'm taking a shit. But I do not like this at all, Stanley."
"OK," Stanley said angrily, furiously, madly, enragedly, infuriatedly, angrily or otherwise madly, and tore the bathroom door off its hinges and held it in his two hands, staring quite angrily at the blank-eyed, empty-eyed, surprisedly-eyed Johnny Appleseed who happened to be sitting there, upon the toilet, taking a shit, pants and undergarments around his angles, dookies plopping in the toilet obscenely, making wet, warm, moist, soft plopping sounds of water splashing upwards and wetting and tickling his bare exposed bum.
"What the heck, man," Johnny Appleseed said.
"You're a piece of shit," Stanley said.
"OK," Appleseed said.
The end.
(to be continued? only if /lit/ asks for more...)
Chaymond Randler, literary detective and theorist, took a casual and cool, manly stroll outside, draped in the curtain of a detective's trenchcoat and neat beige hat. The sky above him was cloudy and overcast, gray and drab as the depths of his murky and conflicted soul right then. Chaymond Randler was deciding whether or not he had the right to fuck a bitch.
So vividly could he remember meeting her at the bar. She had long ebony ravenblack hair, a waist as thin as a pencil, breasts as large as inflated balloons, a face like ivory and porcelain, a rear like a baboon's, a little bit of a mustache, and she was absolutely beautiful.
Did he have the right to fuck her? It had been two years now since he had seen her, and he had never seen her again. But still he had compiled a massive pile of notes, drawings, scribblings, theories, and arguments upon his desk: reams and reams, stacks and stacks of paper piled up upon each other.
He was in a dilemma.
I woke up today wishing I was someone else,
Took my consciousness away to escape myself,
In this body now, I am a prisoner
Mirages in the desert when I'm missing her,
Love was a mirage, but it's over now,
Two stops into the town on the overground,
Getting sober now, had a heart attack,
I just lost my life, but you brought it back.
Shitbrown trees loomed in the distance, swayed in the wind, and their leaves rustled like the pleats of a skirt. The sky was blue as the sea as seen from the beach, the cold moist sand gripping your feet like a pillow that you lay your head upon, the pillow like the heaven of a Muslim, the heaven of a Muslim like a wish-fulfillment fantasy as outlined by Freud.
It was a pretty nice day, if you know what I mean.
>>8144961
MOAR U GENIUS MOAR
>>8145018
Trite stuff, anon. Will never be published. The stuff that gets written in a notebook then lost behind the bed. Associated with a secondrate life. Sorry.
>>8143094
Anyone?
>>8112629
Yeah... not only is it really verbose like you said, it reads like an academic paper, with all those huge zombie nouns. I hope you get on a Hemingway kick.
>>8116000
Exactly, you goof!
>>8145018
gay
Not having eaten anything since I went on that train the day beforehand, without much hope of finding something edible, I made my way downstairs, looking for the kitchen in that old, dusty new house of mine. As I was entering, what I now know is, the kitchen, the shock I received, after seeing her, a girl, no older than 9, in a light white frock and with no shoes nor socks, having a grand battle against a can of baked beans in the warm summer sunlight which pierced through the closed old wooden windows of the kitchen right onto her golden as the hectares of rye fields hair, should be of no surprise to my fellow readers. Without her noticing, I stood there for a good minute in silence, not only to contemplate what was happening and what I should do, but rather because I was wholeheartedly enjoying the child playing a calming symphony with all her surroundings. Hoping that I would receive a little bit of the leftovers of the soon to be slaughtered foe of hers, I stated a simple and friendly "Hi", to which the little girl jumped up from surprise, she looked at me with her confused, emerald green eyes and her face turned almost as white as her frock from shock.
IT SUCKS
T
S
U
C
K
S
>>8145039
>shitbrown
>self-referential
Mmm not sure how I'd ever like this, even with context
