Post your work, critique other people's work, the usual.
> anywhere where
Just saw anywhere. Or be more specific, that is just weak wording.
They joked and quietly laughed together the way they used to when they first met. Before things got formal, before the engage-ment, before they became a symbol. They talked about everything but nothing of substance was produced, just jovial banter. Once they were alone, Fee said to Gallegos: ‘So, tell me, what is art?’ The mood was dead, brutally murdered with that one inno-cent question. It didn’t matter. It was each other’s company they were enjoying, something they hadn’t done in over two years. ‘Art is magic. Art manipulates our minds into a consciousness otherwise unknown. It invokes within us an emotional reaction that cannot be explained.’ The beers were gone and the couple moved on to the flask from Gallegos’ inner-breast pocket. ‘And this art didn’t do that?’ ‘Don’t. C’mon, dots, single brush strokes, vaginas and dicks everywhere. More effort goes into the expla-nation of what it is than the conception of it. And they have the perfect comeback to any negative criticism – you just don’t get it. It’s a brilliant scam.’ She laughed. ‘But it is a reflection of life in a very abstract way.’ No, it isn’t,’ he told her. ‘That’s the scam. This is entire Po-Mo premise, endeavouring to create with grade-school simplicity with convoluted meanings, it’s a joke against the bourgeois.’
>>8224165
reading your stuff now, OP, will post critique in a sec
>>8224165
The story might be captivating if I were to read more, maybe something that makes it stand out from similar pieces of that genre.
Your basic grammar and sentence structure etc is pretty bad but that's what editors are for (I guess, but at this rate they'd be rewriting most of it)
>>8224184
Anymore of this? it peaked my interest.
>>8224324
>peaked
>>8224324
a lot more. of this chapter, section, or story in general?
I'm going to bed but will post more tomorrow
>>8224165
Its pretty simplistic and some of it doesnt read right to me. Its not something I'd read but keep going.
>>8224412
Don't blue ball me. post more
>>8224165
Your grammar and punctuation is poor. Post it in a pastebin or somewhere I can edit the raw text and I'll elaborate.
>>8224184
>They joked and quietly laughed together the way they used to when they first met.
I'd remove 'and quietly laughed together' -- It's somewhat tautological and I don't think it adds anything.
>jovial banter
As above. I'd remove this clause entirely.
I'll admit that I don't really get what they're talking about, but perhaps that's the point.
I hope you will enjoy the stuff druggie me wrote.
I want her to smear the Shunga Paint all over me. Her Schielesque scribbles, her landscape observations, cruel language expressing her innermost mindsets. I would gladly serve as her canvas for whenever she needs a filthy outlet.
I want to dig my teeth into her already scarred thighs. I want her to choke me, being buried underneath them, unable to protest as her blood slowly drips onto my mouth and face.
I want to be the one who replaces her feetslave. A sweltering day in June, slowly removing her Kanagawa Wave socks, hoping her feet will resemble their state. Tracing my tongue along her arch, her ankle, taking my time until I cleaned up every last drop of her sweat.
I want to bruise her collarbones, scratch open her back until she begs me to stop, bite her neck so that no make-up in the world could cover the wounds.
I want her hands on my hips, around my ripcage, as if she were to invite me to become one with her – only to be neglected, my everlasting longing continuing.
The simple cut on her lip being the only reminder that it had, indeed, not only be a dream.
Until also that vanishes, and no trace of us would be left in the world.
>>8226666
>Her Schielesque scribbles
Nice.
Oh whatever, let's see what you think of my drunk ramblings last night
>>8226666
>6666
CHECK
THOSE
AMAZESATIONAL
QUADRIGITS
SATAN
IS
ALL
LIKE
WHOA
DIAL
IT
DOWN
DUDE
I
CAN'T
COMPETE
You're horribly scared. Horribly, terribly scared. I can feel it throbbing from chest to your lungs. The way you take uneasy breaths to try and dissolve the tension in your heart. How it never works. How sometimes you'll take in a breath--and it will exceed all others, seem to reach into your very core. You feel refreshed afterwards. But it doesn't last. The feeling returns again. You realize it won't go away until you confront yourself. This doesn't convince you to do so. It's safer to feed the bird fluttering its wings in your chest than to send it away, flying and squawking and leaving feathers in your mouth during its departure. You're a coward for it. Really, truly. But I wouldn't be ashamed. Every non-impulsive person is the same way. Still, you realize that your passivity is a defect. Though hotheads can often get into various sorts of problems, they have the impulsivity to admit what they've done wrong, to boldly ask for forgiveness. You don't. In fact, you'd rather hide that you've done wrong at all, concealing it in a veneer of lies. Because you're ugly, and you're pathetic. You're a disgrace of a human.
Or are you?
I can't tell you anything about yourself. You have to look inside your chest, tear it to pieces if necessary, and look at yourself square in the ribs. Dangle ornaments from them, if you need to. I doubt it'll get you much closer to the truth, but it'll offer some comfort. (Much-needed.) I know you won't ever tell anyone how much you've deceived them. Your conscience will sit there forever, taunting you for your cowardice. But you'll relish in it. You might even, eventually, get off to it. You're sick like that.
Right now this girl is messaging you about pretending to be a cat. It's a fetish of hers. (She probably pretended to be one in her childhood, too, but innocently, without her newly acquired sexuality. I wish she wasn't so lewd now. She wasn't like this in the beginning. I wish I wasn't so lewd now.)
You're scared of writing, too. That's the most despicable thing. It's the only thing that'll save you. You're just scared of acknowledging anything about yourself. Can't even write a diary entry because you fear it'll make you piss yourself. Your writing isn't even good. It's terrible. Cheap teenager crap that appeals to you only and doesn't inspire anything worthwhile. But you do this, anyway. You're like an anorexic starving themselves only to, when desperation grabs them the throat, cram everything they can find down their throats. They can't stay away from what they fundamentally need. Not forever. You can't survive, either. I swear, it's going to kill you, someday.
>>8226941
Remove the first two sentences. Let the reader come to the conclusion of one being scared.
Do you describe real life situations in a suitable fashion or do you create experiences in your head?
>>8226959
I will. Thank you for the advice.
>>8224165
I'm going to assume English is not your first language, and I commend you for trying anyway. Your writing feels dishonest, as if you are attempting to spice it up and make it sound smarter. Just be honest with your story.
>>8224184
You need to tell me how they feel in a story, not explain it to me. Explanations are for synopsis.
>>8224412
You understand style and your work isn't filled with clichés but they are there. Watch them. Exerpts like "mad with rage" are useless, even more so when you show us that Aron is angry in the rest of the sentence. Showing us is all you need to do, buddy.
>>8226666
Reads edgy, and the concept is as plain jane as your diction.
>>8226879
>Imagine
You fucking imagine, and when you do, write a story that we can read. You have a nice flow, but not for second person.
>>8226941
This is autobiographical writing that you will hate yourself for when you read it. Don't give up, try again. Sounds like you are a decent writer who is frustrated.
Comment too long. I'll attach mine.
>>8227061
This is me.
Ivan and his elevator lifted towards the top of the building, yet he looked downward at the street curiously, keeping his feet firmly on the metal barrier between the entrance and the glass floor of the lift. Anytime the elevator shifted or corrected, another oiled bead of sweat would loose from his hair and splash down his forehead. He wiped at them with his hot palms and he counted the floors that remained silently.
"Are you afraid of heights, sir?" The assistant, Angela, said. He'd forgotten her in the ride. Now he looked at her and saw a woman silently bemused, quizzical in her glance, and smiling at the secret she'd freshly been told. Ivan thought of calling her ugly, but did not, he said nothing at all. Then the elevator arrived and man and woman left it to climb further upward and maneuvered the floor it had set them upon. Angela had been to floors similar to this, but nothing quite like it, and to Ivan it was brand new. This was the floor in which the girlfriends were assessed, and finally presented to customers such as Ivan.
Mannequins posed in glass down the halls between fashion magazine pages turned posters, and contemporary art, as mass produced as the arranged expressions of the mannequins. Beautiful all of them, but lacking. Angela and Ivan finally found the committee at the end of the hall, in the round room, sat at a high end glossy table in the shape of the letter V. In the empty space of the table was the still holographic image of a womanly figure, which they appeared to be discussing.
>>8227067
(Cont)
"What about the nose? Should we take a look at it again?" Elizabeth from one corner of the table said. Vivian, in the center of the table, noticed the newcomers and hushed the girls.
"Mr. Asher." Vivian said, "Lovely to see you. Isn't it girls?" The rest of the girls smiled at nodded, offering small cheerful whispers and muttering which summed up their agreement. Vivian focused on Ivan for a moment, carefully examining him. "Is everything all right, Mr. Asher?"
"He's just excited." Angela said and laughed, infecting the rest of them and forcing well practiced giggling out of the mouths of the women at the table.
"He should be, he's about to meet a goddess!" Vivian said. "Now, Ivan, Angela and I will bring her here, could you please answer a few more questions with Anne?" Anne smiled and flinched from her seat at the table beside Vivian.
"Sure." Ivan said.
"Quickly, Angela." Vivian said as she headed for a door at the other end of the room. "Don't keep Mr.Asher waiting." Angela left, and the stares of the girls at the table followed her out. Then they returned to Ivan.
Vivian and Angela hurried down the hall.
"I'll remind you again, Angela. Don't answer for a man. We want the client to feel like he's in complete control."
"Its 2055." Angela said.
"Yes, Angela, I'm aware of the current year, and just like last year, and every year, Angela, it's been the same. Men buy when they the feel confident to buy. So don't do anything that might make him feel that he has less control than he has."
"So don't do anything?" Angela said, as she opened the door of the storage room.
"That snarky bullshit isn't going to take you anywhere, Angela." Vivian said, as she pressed the buttons on the computer console.
"Okay, 'Mary'." Angela said. The keyboard clicked in the absence of words. Angela looked around at the room, not much bigger than her apartment. A counter in the corner beside a refrigerator, with an immaculate sink. A bed beside a couch which was placed directly in front of the holographic wireless television. An Android in the corner sitting in one of two chairs sat across each other, a beautiful stock model, blinking at her. Angela shivered at the Android and returned to her side of the room, which contained merely a glass window and a door. Through the window she could see the goddess. She stood in the corner of the storage container and blinked. On the interface, Vivian pressed a button which slid the door beside it open. The goddess watched silently as the door vanished.
Unfinished
>>8227061
>Your writing feels dishonest, as if you are attempting to spice it up and make it sound smarter.
It was supposed to be a foreshadow for the big reveal.
>>8227084
That's not what I meant.
It feels like you are trying to dress up your prose to make it prettier or more sophisticated, when that's not necessary.
>>8227061
>You need to tell me how they feel in a story, not explain it to me
You also have to realize this is a middle paragraph from a chapter in a completed draft of a novel
>>8225949
how is it tautological? One can joke with people but it could be in bad taste. This emphasizes their mutual enjoyment.
>I'll admit that I don't really get what they're talking about, but perhaps that's the point.
it's not the point, it makes sense in context to the rest of the chapter, especially what happened just before this
I just expected critique on the writing but if people want to critique the actual story/plot/etc i could post more
>>8227226
Well, I'm sorry to say that it's supermarket romance tier.
In a good book, the author tells the story, he doesn't explain the story. At best this type of explanation is filler, and even at its best its not very good. If your characters talk to each other and you provide minor descriptions which tell the story, like for instance the characters saying or expressing that they feel like they first met, or at least a more subtle description, it will be more of a story and less of you just telling me what's happening as if my imagination was blind. It will also keep you away from using jovial to try and class up your work.
If you live in the U.K and are between the ages of 18 and 24 you may have seen them: mostly suites, but sometimes marionettes or even sock or glove puppets, or great dragon heads supported by sticks. They’re often intricate- and psychedelic-ly patterned, in warm-going-super-nova colour palettes, and w/ geometrically ordered twirls or columns of mirror fragments laid in parallel with the scales, feathers or what have you, so that the overall effect of this optical bombast is that the simulacrum does not seem to be one of flesh at all, but rather of the animal or mythic beast as gestated from the hallucinogen-pulsing mind, which is of course what it is. These creatures are the subject of the following discussion.
“What does that mean though, a war on consciousness?”
“That’s what it is though –
Tim Grave is brakes-off extemporising on one of the subjects closest to his heart; under the sway – more the kick in pants / psychic yank-up-and-sink-or-swim get go – of amphetamine, he is coming very close to making himself understood, more to himself than anyone else.
>>8227297
I appreciate what you're giving me but I don't think I understand what you mean. Having a character mention something like that rather than the narrator is so trite, in the same way Hollywood adds stuff to their dialogue in an effort to explain what's going on without any thought. People don't talk that way so why should the characters?
This honestly sounds like you're projecting what you've heard about your own work unto mine. I'm sorry if you feel that 'jovial' is a classy term but it's common everyday language.
>>8227332
You're wrong and the other dude is right: I cringed on jovial.
Sweet beauty of yours
like heroin through my veins
Sweet words of love
like drums to the ear
Your arms like grace
awaiting an embrace
Your eyes like glass
holding water till a fracture
Your mouth so sweet
dancing on my lips in a sing
Your legs were worn
waiting for a rest from the floor
Your breast like money
cause theyre the first thing I notice
just joking about that part
Your sense of humor
very much superior
Your Intelligence
captivating and unjealous
Your cake so sweet
like cheeries on cream
See it isnt just that all these things
Will make everyone see what I see
It's that all these things
Are what mean the most to me
Were like atoms when we come together we are matter
And like matter we cant be destroyed
And like atoms we gas up and explode
into a beautiful secenery
And they'll take pictures
And they'll call it history
But to you and me
Its just a cornerpiece t
o our masterpiece
painting
-C.W Smith
Some of you enjoyed this last time around, I'd love to hear more thoughts
It doesnt matter if the hills will sway
up the mountain to the dirt of river
cheap taste in the grain and the fragile adjust came to face
and bleeding out the howling winds; they fray
if there was no point in this
why would the trees sing for the morning rain
they sing something more like
"try and stop this pity I have made and heal the roots, let me grow
in grace" oh how the leaves danced and the bushes always hoorayed
Just loving the risk we take
always holding on to dear life but never being afraid
keep raining and shine on you broken fencepost
keep running away from yesterday
-C.W Smith
>>8227361
Its interesting and I like the humor, though describing the cop on the bed as simply "dead" seemed a bit weak.
>>8227362
reminds me of the Colorado countryside. The flow seems a bit weak in places, though that could just be from lack of type setting
>>8227351
Pretty shit.
>>8227332
Don't get offended.
Stories are supposed to be a mixture of dialogue story telling and explanation. It's not trite to have a character say something if they say something the way a person actually speaks, and two lovers might actually say that it feels like they just met. Still, since you disregarded what I said, it doesn't even have to be dialogue. You can explain that they laughed together like they first met without being so ham fisted about it that you just say it blandly and without any grace.
Jovial isnt a fancy word. The way you used it was tryhard.
I have no reason to project towards you because this is actually my first time submitting something for critique
I started writing as I moved back into my mom's, but four months later and I'm kinda stuck. I wanted to transition for the first chapter from my cleaning into a kind of nihilistic essay and then describe my suicide attempt, but I'm kinda stuck. I want to move it along to the main story, where I try to kill my roomate in a mental hospital because I think he's Hidiki Anno.
>Pt 1
>Pt 2
>>8227330
Okay, I'll do you. Sorry I missed you.
I think what you've got here is a talented peice, your flow is professional, your diction is careful and it's clear that you understand every word and never is a word merely an attempt at enhancing the sentence.
It's got all the makings of a talented English Writer.
I have little to critique here, so just know that your work gives me the impression that many talented writers have given me. If you are looking to be away from the group, you'll need something more, but what you've given us here is impressive.
>>8227330
Reminds me gravity rainbow guy's latest book. Britty gud
>>8227443
You write the first person narrative simplistically but well. I suppose that's good if it's what you intended.
The monologue sounds exactly like I'm hearing someone tell me it and that's perfect. You were honest about it, and you didn't replace 4chan with something easier to relate to for everyone. I would do some minor work trying to make something flow more, but still sound like your character, but you know your character more than I do and I can't tell you what he'd say.
>>8227504
>To make something flow more.
Sorry, that was meant to be "to make some things flow better than they do. Such as (via a messy method sounds clunky to me.) Id write ""go out in a mess."
I wrote this for the Mommy Cinematic Universe >>>/hr/2688246
prologue
>Annie Clark - Auntie Antje's friend, and guitar teacher mommy is paying to give you lessons for your growing musical skills— prefers to teach you in her studio apartment alone. She loves to teach you by being hands on and putting her hands on yours.
gentle femdom annie 1/?
>After a hard day at school, you come crawling to Annie's studio apartment for your guitar lessons. As you enter her sizable yet modest apartment and make your way to her kitchen where she's preparing a salad with her head and curly hair down facing the counter, she perks up and immediately lose her faint smile as she sees how exhausted you are.
>"Ohh, are you okay, sweety? you look absolutely spent" she cooed as she crossed the kitchen island to get to you, wiping her hands on the flare of her almost sheer summer dress. Her warm and emphatic solemn expression changing to a tender affectionate smile as she makes her way to you. "oh, come here, sweety" she says reaching out to your head bringing it gingerly to her chest hugging you close.
>With the thin silk fabric of her dress cooling your skin, she takes your head with her hands to look at you in the face. With her delicate yet somewhat calloused fingers, she brings her thumb to the ridge of your brow brushing it, finally placing both of her hands to your cheeks. With her dainty hands encapsulating your face, she looks at you in the eyes with the stark hazel of hers relinquishing their ground for her broadening pupils.
>She hugs you close to her chest again, placing her right hand in the small of your back and her other hand to the back of your head. "I've got some cookies cooling by the window waiting for you." she whispers in your ear "Everything'll be fine, hun. I'm right here with you" she takes your head back again, kissing you in the forehead this time— stroking your hair as the contact between her lips and your skin part.
>>8227413
good or bad?
or are you that same guy that thinks everything I write is shit?
>>8227520
I don't really write well (or very often desu senpai), I just string wittisisms together. I'm a better comedian then a writer.
>>8227532
I think everything you write is shit but I don't post here
>>8227536
Yes your work was funny. If you haven't yet, read "A confederacy of Dunces"
>>8227415
See, you are able to distribute criticism constructively. I get what you mean on that first part but still fail to see what you mean by tryhard when it comes to a word used in a common way.
>>8227531
I was astounded that you understood how to copy something, but then, in a flash of brilliance, you pasted it, beat the captcha, and posted it. Phenomenal work. Soon to be the voice of a generation.
Before you publish this, I would suggest that you go to your room, find a long rope, affix a hook to the highest roof in your house, make sure the rope is short enough that you must tiptoe on the chair to place it around your neck, and then place it around your neck and kick the chair out from under you.
>>8227075
It's not badly written but a story like this is all about the world it's in. Aside from the sex robots and high end gadgets this could be any modern skyscraper. Is this a sex comedy about gender relations post japenes sex robots, or a dystopian sex robots story?
>>8227563
not nice
>>8227531
Post more I'm only at half mast
>>8227560
Jovial doesn't fit for a number of reasons.
1. It's antiquated. It feels like you thought "chatter" or "jokes" but you decided to add jovial instead because it sounded older and more romantic. That goes to point 2.
2. It's not romantic, it's a blocky word that doesn't fit your prose. It stands out for a bad reason. Nobody talks like that, and the closest relative of any person who ever did, died in 1500.
>>8227581
It's a peice about romantic partner robots, and how they shape the characters in the story. I hadn't thought about the skyscraper at all, but maybe I should have. In my own mind, I placed the height as monstrously high above the ground, taller than the scrapers of today, but I don't think I described that enough. My focus of technology was on the robots themselves
>>8227600
So is it like the movie Her, but with sexy robots?
What are you trying to convey? What observations about the genders are you making?
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 find a way 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 something to avoid like the plague. Apart from the rodents, the neighbourhoods 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. The old city is 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. The Special Attention Division got its name from New Detroit’s mayor, she ran on a platform that promised to turn special attention to the crime ridden old city. The S.A.D made for a good political stunt but it has not made as much as a dent on the crime rates for the past four years. It was a sorry job which no one wanted, least of all Michael. After graduating he had hopes of working his way to becoming a detective for the M.J.D or, Major Crimes Division, but he found himself at the then newly formed S.A.D, which has become a career dead end for most cops.
>>8227593
That's what I mean. I hear jovial all the time, it's not antiquated in the least.
I did think chatter and jokes but thought banter was more appropriate because it is less intimate than the others. Jovial means carefree and fun which is why I used it.
>>8227616
paragraphs pleaase
>>8227608
No, its a critique about how people just turn the concept of sex and sexiness into a hollow robotic and manufactured thing, without affection or caring, which obviously just makes it a cold empty experience where nobody is truly happy.
The observation I'm making is that women and men do it just as often as each other, but either one feels they do it the least.
>>8227545
I bet you fight for your existence don't you?
>>8227623
shit sorry, it's a work in progress and it needs work lol.
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 find a way 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 something to avoid like the plague. Apart from the rodents, the neighbourhoods 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. The old city is 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. The Special Attention Division got its name from New Detroit’s mayor, she ran on a platform that promised to turn special attention to the crime ridden old city. The S.A.D made for a good political stunt but it has not made as much as a dent on the crime rates for the past four years. It was a sorry job which no one wanted, least of all Michael. After graduating he had hopes of working his way to becoming a detective for the M.J.D or, Major Crimes Division, but he found himself at the then newly formed S.A.D, which has become a career dead end for most cops.
>>8227621
In what context do you hear the word jovial?
And I guess I was correct. You lied, you thought something and wrote something else. Lying in your writing only hurts you
A shock. Spasm. Dim light. To awake in a hospital is never a pleasant experience.
On the silver screen it's common to flail around a bit first; "Hoo hoo, what is this strange place! What surprise! What mystery!" But in truth, you always know; they all feel the same. Have the same smell, the same windows, the same wide doors. The same cold floors.
Kelan knows this truth, having been here a few times before. Some find this a sad thing for one so young; they often say as much with the looks that hide behind their outward attitudes. For him, it's simply what is.
It's quite late. He can see the ghosts of streetlamps peering through the window. It's always easier at night - quiet halls, and far less attention. There, too, is a warming freedom in being about when the world is asleep; the sky is a bit higher, the air a bit fresher.
Not something you can tell from a hospital bed, though. So first; escape. It's an easy thing to sneak from the door through the halogen halls, down concrete staircases to areas seldom used. Exits next to loading areas are always a safe choice.
Freedom. It's a limited sort, with lots of rough pavement and the leftover smells of cars from the day. But he can feel the night air begin to wash it away, and his attention is far from the ground. The stars. He stands still for a few minutes, staring with his arms slightly spread - like nothing so much as a satellite finding it's position in the cosmos.
Well, that's enough of that. Kelan picks his way gently across the pavement, as one without shoes is wont to do. His pace picks up a bit as he reaches the wooden edging and starts up the well groomed hill toward his true escape - the forest.
In truth it's just a sparsely wooded area that separates the hospital from the highway, but there are leaves above and dirt below and that's enough for him. Having reached his journey's end, his path takes on a wandering quality. His eyes brush the canopy, his nose welcomes the earthy smell, and his ears find the sounds of what small things have found a home here.
>>8227635
Too much expo. Neat premise but you're doing your world building in a giant info dump at the beginning without giving us a reason to care.
>>8227657
Yeah I know about that, just trying to get my ideas down before I forget them. Glad you like the premise, I know the sci-fi noir thing is overdone but I just love it too much.
This is a ending to a story I have. I think it's beautiful and I want to share it with you guys
And at that beautiful moment, I layed up on a grass field staring at a sunset creepin off a precipice 100 yards away. I layed up and walked towards it. Each moment I blew the dust off my past, and my skin deteriorated to the bone. I'm my spirit, I'm my own. And as I jump off this cliff, I know, I will be remmembered.
>>8227679
*remembered
>>8227637
jovial is used to describe something. Most recently, a friend used it when talking about his night out
>And I guess I was correct. You lied, you thought something and wrote something else. Lying in your writing only hurts you
you really are projecting, aren't you?
how am I lying? and try to use your own thoughts and not the criticism your professor gave you
>>8227679
Babby's first existential crisis suicide story huh? Welcome to /lit/. Also, don't use a trip you fucking faggot.
>>8227694
but how else will everyone know what a gayboy I am?
what if someone wants my e-mail address so we can exchange pics of our cute boipussies
>>8227679
You will be remembered for a week for being a shit writer.
>>8227694
I've used this trip name for almost a year newfag. It's so I can claim ownership and not let some faggot steal my work.
>>8227705
Like anyone would steal your shit you fucking turd.
>>8227685
Give me exactly what your friend said, and then ask him how much he was bullied in high school.
I dont have a professor, I'm not yet in college. You lied because you tried to doll up your work and just like any girl, if you try to doll her up she looks like a whore. Cheap and disposable
>>8227738
I don't record every conversation I have, kid. I remember hearing some derivative of it.
>ask him how much he was bullied in high school.
you're seriously projecting here. Perhaps as you get older, or at least old enough to move out of your parents' place, you'll hear more words.
Now, let me explain something to you: chatter and joking (among others) imply a sort of connection, some level of intimacy. Which is why I chose banter, it fits more with the characters' relationship.
btw, i just figured it out. either you're terribly trolling or are being sincere in your idiocy. Either way, I'm done with you, kiddo
>>8227758
"Hey man, how was your night."
"Alas, Dear anon I am pleased to announce that my venture from home was a most jovial occasion, that was until the most unpleasant Othello and his band of ruffians called me a Negro and questioned my patrician attire!"
It's going to be alright.
>>8224165
Short story I am working on. I didn't see this thread before so I posted my own.
>>8227771
lol though this made me laugh, I was mostly laughing at your incessant need to contribute nothing yet feel superior.
Perhaps as you venture away from your mommy's tit you'll hear these words which seem to astound you so
>>8227790
Doesn't feel complete. Quite boring desu.
>>8227819
I was going for just stylistic advice, at least for now. It is about 1/4th done.
>>8227821
it reads like it was written for children too old for fairytales but too young for edgy teenage lit. it reads stilted and artificial.
*an argument w/ wife abt sending kids to choir practice* (not going to post that part, don't want to get too shredded)
...
He tuned the radio and settled into the seat of his station wagon. Looking at once at the road and at the sky above he couldn’t help but feel he had made a mistake. Something felt off.
Sporting matching frowns the Ferrazi family finally arrived at St. Joseph’s after no less than 20 minutes of excruciating silence.
“So long kids,” Ralph called out the window as Tommy and Laurie begrudgingly opened the door of the parish.
Ralph peeled out of the parking lot, in search of an hour long outlet for his disquiet. Too early for a drink, too angry to feed the pigeons at the park, he decided to pick up a few things at the hardware store. Ralph always wanted to build a swing set for the kids—but Alice insisted it’d be too dangerous. The choir spat was the last straw. Ralph slammed the door shut and walked to Keith's Homegoods.
Upon his return the metal bumper reflected the final few straws of grass hanging on for dear life on the back of his shirt. If he could he’d have patted himself on the back after he loaded the supplies into the trunk.
He walked across the parking lot to retrieve his cherubs. Passing by the window of the Parish Hall he couldn’t resist peeking inside.
It was a queer scene.
Tommy and Laurie were huddled together in the far corner of the room with two other children. Maxwell Roberts, Ph. D, was standing on his platform, pantless and waving his baton towards the direction of his groin. He conducted his symphony of sin pale and proud. A stained glass tribute to the Blessed Virgin looked down at the scene with decided contempt and soaked in the sound of “Come Thou Font of Every Blessing.". Ralph, in sheer disbelief, raced to the door. He viciously tackled Dr. Roberts to the ground.
“Run to the car kids! Run!” he yelped just before his mouth caught a well-placed fist from The Doc.
Tommy and Laurie and the two other children scurried out the door, but not before Maxwell could gift them a final peevish glance.
“Same time next week, eh kids?” he sneered.
Ralph, still reeling from the punch, found it within himself to throw Maxwell to the other side of the room.
The two men, one decidedly less clothed than the other, found it within themselves to stand up. They locked eyes since, naturally, Ralph was loathe to glance below Maxwell’s fleshbelt.
(not sure where to continue with it, still trying to figure out the ins and outs of dialogue- in addition to everything else of course).
Throwing himself with two bags and a fervor into an intercity bus, he endeavored to finally move out. It was only the third most expensive city in the world, but surely no match for a willing youth.
"No, no, I don't have any formal education, but, you see, I did go to high school! Just never got around to finishing it, but I did attend!". The feverish explanation and enthusiastic promises of future hard work did not impress the fast food restaurant manager. Neither the first, nor the second. Not even the warehouse manager. Perhaps the trouble was a mere lack of a local address and telephone number, along with any previous work experience. Trifles, really. Trifles used to discriminate a determined young man -- irredeemable faults within the economic system, definitely!
Upon returning home, he found his mother in the kitchen, focusing on a rank concoction brewing on the stove. She paid him little mind as she cooked.
"Hear this, ma! I got four job offers and the best one of them was $50 an hour!"
"Really, now."
"Yeah, I tell you, I'm a hot commodity back there!"
"So why are you back in my damn house?"
"I realized I couldn't leave my dear old mother behind, so I've decided to stay with you here. It pains me, because I can still hear the big city calling me, but family is infinitely more important."
"Oh, piss off" she grumbled into her pot as she stirred.
>>8227758
I don't fully agree with the other guy's thing about how "lying" in writing is bad, but the word jovial does sound stupid where you put it, and there is a definite correlation between people who throw the word jovial around in real life and people who wear fedoras with t-shirts, which is what he's getting at. also, it makes you sound stupid when you get flustered and start throwing the word kid around.
you shouldn't post in these threads if this is what you're going to do when someone criticizes a single word you write. two words now, I guess.
>>8227790
It reads as though you're trying very hard to sound old and genteel-like. As if you're trying to write like the classics (dickens, twain, swift..) and it's not working very well. The dialogue is boring too. I like the idea behind the story, but it just wasn't executed incredibly well. If you rework some of it, it could be very enjoyable. but as it is now, I don't like it.
>Mine
As grand pianos stand, and they often do, the one that stood in the center of my living room, adorned with pictures of me as a child, decorated with my many accolades, and decorative plates and chalices, was first-class. The room around it followed suit: elegant pictures of fruitful valleys, trampled by thundering storms, which were painted by long-dead men, hung on walls covered end to end with small, winged, wallpaper men who stood on golden canoes and surfed rampant waters, their eyes mad with greed for a land that they would never reach. The furniture was equally fanciful: each piece came from some foreign company that overpriced its products because it knew that we could, and would, pay. So each time I sat at that piano and opened my sheet music to begin my lessons, each time I lay on that sleek leather couch to relax, each time I passed through the pomp on my way to the kitchen, I was faced with pretentious ‘beauty,’ so tediously put together it brought my stomach to its knees. The older I grew, the less amused with beauty I became: my excitement manifested itself in repugnance.
I sat on the edge of the dock, tapping my fingers rhythmically along the grime of the aging wood. I hung my legs below me and kicked as water brushed against them in sporadic patterns. Rain feathered down onto my head, disquieting me with every droplet. The boards of the dock groaned behind me, prompting me to turn with a jolt. There Sam stood, staring at me in the distant way that he always did. “Follow me,” his eyes sank into rugged, sandy skin, his lips scraped against each other and chiseled the fronts of his yellow teeth, “it’s going to start soon.” Sam backed off the dock, turned onto the street that was busy with wild abandon, and began to hurry down it. Startled, I had had to half-jog to catch up with him—the way pedestrians do when a car lets them pass.
“So where exactly is this place?” I asked, sweat already racing down my cheek.
>>8227849
A little hard to read with those long sentences.
>>8224412
Sentence flow is spot on. Nice, mate.
>>8226959
I don't necessarily know if I agree with this. It could work like that, but I don't think there's anything wrong with being straight-up about emotions on the page.
>>8227067
>>8227075
Decent.
>Elizabeth from one corner of the table said. Vivian, in the center of the table, noticed the newcomers and hushed the girls.
This is super awkward, and you might not want to have a piece of action after most of your pieces of dialogue. It makes every paragraph feel like it's structured the same way as all the others.
>>8227616
>Michael did not mind, it was hardly the worst thing about his apartment which was the rats and the cockroaches.
Transitions please. Your sentences don't flow particularly well. There's some variation in your sentence length but you'd do well with more.
>>8227899
Might get around to some more later; here's mine:
Here is what I remember:
He was sitting at the table at first, drinking coffee. He took his coffee black. He was talking to my uncle. They both looked awkward. Their backs were straight and their forearms flush against the table, and they talked to one another formally, first about the weather, then about El Salvador…my father brushed those questions away…and when I came in they stopped, and both stood up, which I thought was odd, even though I didn’t know the man was my father. My uncle had people over sometimes, and he never introduced them to me. I was never close with him. But this time, they stood, and my uncle looked at me and waved his hand at my father a little stiffly and he said, Lucas, this is Ricardo.
I wasn’t sure exactly how to respond, so I just said, OK. So?
Then he cleared his throat a little and said, He’s your father.
I’m not sure I remember exactly how I felt in that moment, whether I was happy, or confused, or sad. But one thing that I was, was very, very angry. That I remember. It’s hard for me to describe the sort of anger that I felt, because it is not a feeling I have had to describe often.
It is the sort of anger that I feel now at God.
It’s not just an anger you feel with your body…although you do, your body is there, all of it, right to the bone…you feel it with everything: everything in your head and your past and your future, everything that you were and are and will be. It shakes you, your vision fills in at the edges, you feel powerful; this is not a weakening anger. This is a rush, a high, a jet-fuel rage…and you just hate. It’s all you can do in that state of mind. Everything in you is directed toward one thing, toward hating that one thing, toward wrenching it by its weakest point and making sure it hits the ground hard and doesn’t get up. This is what I wanted to do when I met my father. How dare this man whom I had never seen walk into my life like he knew me, like there was any connection there between our bodies, like his body and mine were not made from opposing genetic material, like we had not been born in worlds as far apart as two worlds could be; how dare he not be what I imagined him to be? How dare he be weak? How dare we come from the same place and the same blood? How dare he be just like me?
>>8227646
plis no skip me, these muscle relaxants are carrying me away
I can't hold on for a reply much longer
>>8227646
Your flow is pretty nice, but there's something about the vagueness of it that gets to me. Or maybe it's that I really don't get a sense of the character at all, in spite of the close third. There are little snippets of omniscience here that aren't working for me at all (as one without shoes is wont to do). Doesn't fit the voice.
What do you guys think define good writing?
Not good writing in the sense of prose, but good storytelling to be exact.
Asking for a friend.
>>8227931
>but good storytelling to be exact.
narrative is a parasite on art. if your technique is good enough, it won't matter.
>>8224165
I was thinking of making my story a mixture of first and third person. would it get publish?
>>8227938
>narrative is a parasite on art. if your technique is good enough, it won't matter.
90% of people won't agree with you, but doesn't mean I don't. Some people need to learn these days that story literally doesn't matter.
>>8227931
Creating believable and interesting characters that make believable and interesting decisions that land them in believable and interesting situations.
If that sounds incredibly vague, well...it's a vague question, and there are so many answers you could give that would make sense. That's the broadest I can get, really. Your characters and situations don't have to be "likeable" or "relatable," they just have to be fascinating and unique. As for what constitutes something being fascinating and unique...can't help you there. That would be going too far into the realm of subjectivity.
>>8227950
>Style and substance are two halves of the same thing
there's no difference. style is substance. don't get memed by your fifth grade english teacher.
>>8227848
You're right about the latter part. I take criticism fairly well but this kid just got under my skin. I used kid because, by his own admission, he's either a kid or a manchild.
I do disagree with the whole jovial thing. You may be right that it doesn't fit but I do hear it all the time with no 'fedora-ness' attached to it.
Just to reiterate. I post in these threads all the time and take all criticism, negative or positive, pretty well and use it to improve.I just let this guy get to me for some reason
>>8227965
What you are writing about and how you are conveying that information are two very different things. They are heavily intertwined, and may work closely in creating the same effect, but there's still a clear divide between them.
>>8227970
>What you are writing about and how you are conveying that information are two very different things.
substance is not 'what you are writing about'. it's how you're writing it. you have nothing new to offer anyone except through form. please slap whoever introduced you to the substance/style meme dichotomy, it's embarrassing.
>>8227980
OK, let's assume that you are right about what the terms "style" and "substance" mean, and that I've apologized for my ignorance. The definitions of these terms are pretty irrelevant to the point I'm trying to make. Form is very clearly a method by which you are conveying information, which is very clearly different (though complementary) to the information you are conveying, whether or not you choose to call that "substance."
Think of all those you've killed
She shouts at you "Think!"
You are trying, she knows. of
all that you've done and all
that has been forgotten, those
memories of the ones you
have chosen will
Only made it worse. The kill-
ing it never stops.
>>8227903
7/10 works because it's Latin.
I feel like if it were set in white Americana land then it would be boring, but because you mentioned el Salvador it reminded me of prose poems I read in intro to world lit.
Your description of anger isn't groundbreaking, but I like it all the same because I'm an angry person.
>This is the city of contempt
>This is the city that never sleeps with you.
>I love it so much I want to kiss the pavement
Second person perspective is fucking terrible and I can't understand why people keep trying to write in it.
>>8228145
>and I can't understand why people keep trying to write in it.
They probably want their novels to be unique,
White Wine
I sat at my computer staring down the list of online drugs we would soon be purchasing: Molly, Northern Lights Marijuana, and pure, uncut, Peruvian Coke. Graduation was right around the corner – a month and a half to be exact. Three years and thirty bricks ago I had been a failure, a dropout, an all-around loser; now I’m was drinking tiger’s blood, fucking bitches, and winning. There was Wendy with the nose ring, clit ring, and punked out, skull-tatt, arm sleeve, Kali, curvy with skin the color of aged oak, and Claire, the clean shaven bleached blonde, she could swallow a softball. They were my coven.
It started the night we went down into the steam tunnels. Kali’s hazel eyes caught a glimpse of the Zippo flame and burned with lust. She put two tabs on her tongue and stuck her tongue down my throat. The LSD took hold of me; colors became sound, sound became feeling, and feeling became beyond fantastic. The tunnel was long and damp; the pipes were steaming hot; her kiss was warm and sent tremors through my core. Claire chimed in and offered me some coke.
Sometimes students got lost in the tunnels – their corpses served as rotting sentries guarding whatever secrets those now-closed-off corridors may hold. Wendy teased us; she stripped out of her Alice In Chains tee and let her perky, pierced nipples lead us. Deeper into the darkness we went, the walls were dripping wet.
We fucked like a mad tea party – biting, scratching, moaning, moving. Rainbow tracers reverberated around their bodies and highlighted their shadows like neon signs against the grey steam. Their lips were like tiny bubbles tingling my skin with every soft prick. We climaxed and our bodies quaked into a thousand rays of light.
Black Hat hackers advertised easy to move malware and credit card scammers sold dumps, fullz, phished accounts, and scans. Steam tunnel maps, illegal e-books, and pirated software floated around freely. I met a legit hitman; he gave me a few good tips on how to kill a man. Wendy watched my back and kept a shovel on hand.
Claire’s bleach blonde hair hung low and her nose shined bright when she lifted up her head from that last line of blow. “Woohoo! Today is the fucking day. Let’s graduate bitches!” she said with her rocker chick hands. We started off as degenerate undergrads, graduated to misguided, and held 2 middle fingers up to the upper class. We crashed parties and crushed kegs, pulled all-nighters and wore the same clothes for 3 days. Too many blunts kept me calm and her voice kept me high – music major, her notes spelled out X.T.C. in my mind… Kali was sexiness and divinity.
Through the kickflips and banged up knees, broken bones and skull fractures they’ve been there for me. Three trippy, fly, chic home-girls and a screwed up kid from St. Louis, Missouri. We’re crossing the stage and tossing our hats – taking a toast to Love, Sex, and Dreams.
Proud of this one.
be harsh.
>>8227969
fair enough m8e
>>8228359
Its okay
>>8228472
thank you :')
>>8224165
If I open my eyes, something inside of me tells me that she won’t be there. A little voice droning through a static-y tannoy that seems to know exactly what will go wrong. It’s tickling inside my ears, and I want to just slap my head and silence it. It’s awful and it makes me want to scream, but…I don’t want to wake her. She’s pretty when she sleeps. You can see her eyelids wobbling as she dreams as her eyes try to keep up with all the sheep jumping in her head. Or maybe she’s telling me something? Morse code, hidden in her eyeballs – I wouldn’t but it past her. She’s smart like that; spontaneous, quirky and fun, likes to tease and play cat and mouse. The perfect girl for me. People say I’m boring so a feisty thing like her must be perfect. Of course, if I open my eyes, none of that will be real. She’d be gone, her fluttering eyes will be gone and her mouth will simply be smoke and mirrors, a projection emitted from own bloodshot shutters, with pricks of dust caught suspended in the beam…the low buzz, hum and ticker somewhere off-scene, a conductor whispering to a crowd of shadowed faces. Tell me what you’re thinking, darling. Kiss me and then go back to sleep…what? No, I’m ok, yeah I’m fine. Just, kiss me and close your eyes. There’s nothing to see, the lights are off.
>I can't remember if I spellchecked
>>8229081
>I can't remember if I spellchecked
You didn't
>>8230705
I write drunk and edit later. Is this notably drunk? There's a lot more (I'm drunk now).
I revised some of The Notes, and added a section on my roommate
>It became clear during the first few minutes of 2016 that the world wasn’t ending, so I got myself banned from 4chan by posting pornographic pictures of a 13 year old anime robot pilot on /a/ then turned my computer off with a hammer.
I had been let down by the Apocalypse once again.
When I was nine years old my father had told me about how the Y2K virus was going to shut off all the electronics in the world and our family would live an idealic agrarian existence while the wicked people in the cities burned. 15 years later I think I finally understood my father’s subsequent depression and unravelment when normal life continued its unbearable march.
2015 was supposed to be my year, living wickedly in The City That Never Sleeps with You and crowned by the world ending Third Impact on New Year’s, in which all of mankind’s souls would be collected by God and merged into a giant gestalt being. Instead I was sitting alone in my apartment, drunk off three beers and unable to continue masturbating.
It was time to clean up.
My roommates had all gone home for the holidays, and as long as they aren’t here I don’t even resent them for leaving a mess. The upstairs only had Mine and Adam’s rooms and bathroom. I had already cleaned the bathroom this week and knew I wanted to save my room for last, so I start in the living room downstairs by vacuuming up the years’ worth of cocaine and ashes ground into the carpet, the product of Osama’s art gallery internship. Cleaning is good for the soul, and I feel my self-worth increasing in fifty dollar increments just like the contents of the vacuum bag.
No one has really done a thorough cleaning since we’ve moved in. At first we took the garbage out and did our own dishes with some frequency, but any discussion of an organized chore list and cleaning schedule got nixed along with the tentative idea that we should pay for electricity and gas. Instead we agreed that we would just clean when it needed cleaning and everything would stay nice and clean; the same way that gas and electric continued to miraculously appear like mana from heaven, as it had for our Hasidic landlords before us during the year they spent renovating the place. Now at the closing of the holiday season the Hanukah oil was burning itself out.
pt 1
>>8230871
sorry about the shitty greentext
There was a pile of mail atop the fridge, mostly Viacom bills that Adam, the homosexual, had foolishly put in his name. Those I placed on desk along with my share of the payment, disregarding his adamantly homosexual orders that no one go into his room. To his credit, it was easily the cleanest room in the house.
I must confess that I had built some resentment towards Adam, the homosexual, throughout the year. I refer to him here as Adam, the homosexual, but in my private thoughts I always just thought of him as a faggot. It’s hard to admit, publicly in NYC at least, that my contempt for him was so base and bigoted, but it was mostly due to the fact I shared a wall with him and even when he didn’t have a guest of undeterminable gender over, I could sometimes hear a mechanical buzzing sound accompanied by his slutty little moans. Even more than his polyamiorus queer escapades it made my blood boil when he would discuss white or male privilege. The new breed of PC identity politics, with its 23 genders and white guilt complexes, is surly a sign that the end times must come and merge our flawed individual identities into one giant Christ Conciseness.
It’s not that otherwise he was a perfect roommate. He never once cleaned the bathroom we shared, despite sometimes leaving bloody cum filled shit stains in the toilet. Towards the end he was openly hostile to the other housemates, in a very faggy and passive aggressive way. One time Osama came home at 3 AM was entertaining some young up and coming urban artists with the sweet sounds of Waka Flocka, and rather then go down there and asking them to turn the music down, he started stamping his feet in an impotent temper tantrum. I think I heard him crying when Osama took that as an invitation to turn the music up and invite any little fag boys to come downstairs and do some drugs like a real man.
It’s not that I was altogether heartless to him, try as I might. As you might have guessed, I myself am afflicted with some degree of mental illness, so I’m not completely ignorant of the plight of homosexuals. We sometimes discussed literature, and after a discussion of the origins of murder mystery genre, I lent him a copy Crime and Punishment. I once heard him watching the 24rd episode of Evangelion, although the fact that it was the English dub left a foul taste in my mouth. It is these small moments of understanding that I try to remember as I stand in his room with my share of the Viacom bill. In a fit of reconciliatory love, I leave enough money to pay Osama’s share too, as Adam will surely get nothing out of him. I feel a deep sense of forgiveness between us, until I see a copy of Dear White People on Adam’s desk, and take Osama’s share back to spend on booze later in the night.
>>8230883
no u
>>8230883
This is where you work?” “Yeah, it’s not much but it pays the bills, and I have plenty disposable income too if I budget, so…” “It’s so bare…” “They don’t let us decorate.” “Well…I like it. Looks nice. I could really focus here.” We had sex in the corner, then went to a bar. I could see it in her eyes. She knew. I shouldn’t have opened my eyes. I always knew that it’d be there waiting for me. If I didn’t focus I could see it standing behind her. Its eyes are empty. The little voice is screaming at me constantly. Its words are so painful. Raw words, loaded with pain. So much hurt. It fears for me. Or is it fear for itself? If I disappear, it disappears. Where was I…
We had sex in the restroom. She was hungry, so we went for dinner. The food was nice; goulash, I think. She had curry. We ate some mushrooms and went to another bar. We stayed there for a long while. She sucked my dick on the sofas by the back of the bar. It crouched over her, swaying as she swayed, imitating the bobbing of her head. Its hair hung over hers. I could see its teeth. They were so straight. We went home to mine. It sat on her, it gripped her hands. She was sweating and I was sweating too just looking at them entwine. I went to kiss her but pulled back. Its gums were so wide and its eyes so fucking ghastly and open and wide and hungry. We went to bed, and I rolled over, facing my back to her. Her arm rested on my shoulder and it snuggled up behind me. It spooned us and my eyes began to water. In the mirror, all I could see was an eye peering over the chasm of my neck.
I rolled over and kissed them. I flipped it on her back and spread her legs and pulled down my pyjamas. We all sweated bullets. I fucked it until it growled. Its hair was so brittle and raw and strawlike and its face was contorted in some visage of something, something I’m unable to understand. I could taste salt on its breath. Its saliva was so oily. She was always so clean and smooth. Its hair smelt like raw skin and blood and inside it was so hot, spicy and flavourful. I bit down on its neck and drew blood, lapping it up. Hot red and fresh, a grocery store hidden in her neck. I strangled it. It choked and spluttered. I let go before it died. She couldn’t die. It could die. She was smiling at me, somewhere.
The little voice hated me. It wanted me to hurry up and walk into the fire. An oven had opened its heavy metal door and was just waiting for me to crawl inside and join the universe. Nothing but stardust she said. Nothing but dick fluid and momentum it said. Nothing but hatred and numbers the little voice whined. I could feel my circuits cracking.
>more
>v drunk now
>>8230893
Your whole book is literally SJW shit, but you sort of write it like a DFW tryhard. Unless it turns out that you and Adam become homosexuals together I don't think anyone will buy this book
>24rd
>left him a copy of crime and punishment. once heard him watching 24rd of some show I've most people have probably never seen.
Bad transitions and it's all so confusing to read
>>8230900
8/10 reminds me of the fucked up micro-fiction that Stanly Donwood writes.
Are you the person shit-talking me without offing any concrete criticism?
>>8230922
I haven't given any crit yet. Link yours and I'll give some? (once again, v drunk)
Hey guys, this is an older one that I posted two months back, it's off the dark romanticism novel that I'm currently writing. I might post new page around the 50 mark.
Well its true all of it. I've seen it with both open eyes and it's not a stretch as you'd like to think. It's very so a real terror, and the devil is the blame, he led the damned. My friend John, i've grown very close of you. You're young and have a mind of influence. I hope I can share every ounce of my knowledge with you, and pour every amount of influence onto you. But when I speak of this I speak it very solemnly, and this conversation does not leave the room. I hope that what I'm about to tell you; you'll be able to fully grasp it.''
"I listen with an open ear and an open mind sir. I know that everything you say is wise and brilliant. You have my trust of not telling any kind of foolery, you know more than I wish to know"
"Good, now know we we're a creation of a god. You know just of that my friend. But we're also changed by mankind. In this world there are two types, alive or dead, light and dark, but most of all. There is good and evil. I've seen every side of every man. I can recall that day, it was almost like a unexpected visit from the devil himself. It was some dark stormy night 15 years ago, I know of it so well. I was in the church, sleeping in the back when I heard loud bangs come from the church front door. I got up, and answered the door and their was a man. He was kind, and well dressed. He was cold and wet. I offered him to tell me of his request at such this time, and he did! But told me that it was only worthy of conversation in the confession box, so I led him the way. I looked at him through the holes, he had eyes; eyes that I haven't forgotten since I saw them. They burnt of red, and a chilling fire. His breath was one of an old dogs, and his face was snow white. I asked what's his proposal, and that's when he told me some of those words I'll never forget. He spoke with his burnt breath, and said to me.
>>8230958
2/2
"I came here father, for I have done evil." I knew it must have been grave, i've had many people tell me of their sins and troubles; they usually tell me they had done wrong, but never have I been told of a evil-doing.
He continued with himself and said "I have had a thirst; this thirst has made quite a reckoning in my life. I dread it all and wish to end. But it is never-ending."
I told him that change can always happen and that, we must repent, we must work, we must reach for righteousness.
He said "I am damned to death, I can not walk with the holy but only suffer for thee. I must rid my curse, I wish to die father"
I told him he was nonsense, pitiful, and that I had no sympathy for'em.
He ended with saying "I bid you well father, I shall take what you said to me and remember all."
I walked out to shake hands with the man; but when I walked out of the confessional, there was no man there."
"But father what does it mean? You've told me of the man with the cuts on the back; then you tell me of a story of this "white-devil man." I am so confused as to what you're trying to tell me."
"I felt an omen a few days ago, the same omen I felt with the day of that devil. But there are things in this world of the "damned ones" they're the fallen angels of heaven. They cry with blood and drink it. But this story, sent chills down my spine. I can't fathom the feeling, I cant put a finger on it. But, this story does tell there is evil." He spoke of this omen. The same omen I had felt just a few days ago myself, after that terrible dream.
"I do not think of you as a fool father, I felt the omen too. It came after a dream"
>>8224165
Is english your first language? It doesn't seem like it, and I wouldn't suggest writing in anything but your native tongue.
Might be a stupid question, but does anyone else here feel too... unqualified to try to write? Every time I want to start, I end up getting the thought "Pffft, who the fuck are YOU?" in my head.
>>8230979
I didn't write drunk.
I wrote depressed. My friend just told me his DND blog is getting a 500 print limited release and it made me bitter. So i wrote some fiction. I recently cheated on my gf and hated my life so I had plenty of material.
>>8230986
This whole thread I've had two people for the first time ride me through my writing. That was never what /lit/ was for. My suggestion is to write what you feel. When I started that's what I did. I would write maybe a 1-10 page story. Put it in your documents, and then read it. Then try to read a broader genre and mimic until you've made your own unique style. I'm not the biggest Stephen King fan but his advice works "if you have a good idea, don't write it down. Because the best ideas will stay with you."
>>8230986
This is what I think when I write:
Would I want to read this:
I normally say yes. I don't look for views on my blog. I write because, if I can see that I've written solidly for a week, I can tell myself I'm not a failure. I can tell my over-achieving girlfriend that I did something today. I can tell my mother that I did some writing. I write to stave off boredom and self-pity.
The question of "Who are YOU?" is simple.
You're you. The only audience is you, the only opinion that really matters is you. Anyone else is just supplementary. You can discard opinion as unnecessary. Listen to your own voice.
I often think: "This is shit". So I delete it all, a thousand words, ten thousand, and start again. But I'll only ever delete my words because I think it's shit, no one else.
>>8231019
np senpai.
>>8230958
0/10
Couldent get past 2nd sentence.
>>8230875
Crap. Total crap, would never read through till the end.
>>8230875
I thought that this was pretty funny, to be honest. I assume that's what you were going for.
We trudged through the museums of beauty where the Rothkos slid from their walls. Where white turned red and orange melted into the muddied floors of ruin. nothing was left, no matter what was there. And I cried.
We walked away and passed the gates of solitude. You let my fingers slide along the bumpy bars and led me away from the animals as lost as I. The key men, long gone, had left the foyers open to the deadened breeze. Ivied nests now jungles roamed by imposters. First the elephants died with their soft winged ears and useless broom tails because they knew too much or too little. And then the cats and then the snakes. And by the time the undentable flies had dropped, you had covered my eyes and kissed my sobbing lips to give me life. But I had been gone a long time and the world had ended.
>>8230958
>>8230966
>he writes Victorian dark romanticism
I orgasmed
Does 4chan filter blog links?
>>8231041
Thx sempai.
>>8231047
Honestly, there's not enough here to assess. Link to a full piece?
>>8231099
I've been writing it in bits and pieces. It's going to be a really short piece but I want sure if a whole piece written in this style would be too much so I posted an excerpt to get a bit of feedback. I have the last paragraph done and i think the first. the rest is mostly a couple sentences here and there. This is the last paragraph.
The toilets overflowed and added to the stench and slosh of ground beneath our feet, yet you hung on to hope and grabbed at the idea that this was not the end. but betterness disintegrated in your already dirty hands and cause whispered away before you could hear its feeble gasp, and as you clawed for anything to prove the world could change, your unwashed soul tainted the naive dreams that lazily dangled and died in front of you. and no matter what you tried to build or would try to grow or could hope to change, the floor was still sewage and nothing could be clean again. And i sat, small and alone, in the corner of understanding while you left me behind for nothing.
>>8231129
I remember when reading Tao Lin:
Abstruse writing, steam-of-conc, being weird and wonderful (and hiding your laziness), doesn't make for a good novel. Anything longer than 10k words and you lose your reader in navel gazing. Yeah, the odd paragraph of speculative bull is nice, easy to write, nonsensicle. But pick up any novel and you'll find they all have one thing in common: they can wrote plot. And you can't write plot if every other sentence ends in stuff like "you left me behind for nothing".
I like short stories because they allow for introspective, short, get-me-out-of-this-mood relief. But more often than not, the style is too laborious, hedged and thorny to suit a proper 100+ page piece.
I was thinking of writing my first novel first person narrative for two-thirds, while the last third being third person.
Would any publisher accept that?
>>8231148
>>8231148
That was pretty much what I was expecting to hear. It's nit coincidence that both of the excerpts have the same "nothings" but they aren't meant to be read one after the other. The idea is to be a very short not quite a story. Almost like the feeling of The Road. It's obviously set in a sort of dead world but it's not supposed to be about the loss of earth or people but the loss of love and emotion. If I ever get the encouragement to fill it in, I'm imaging it as maybe 20 pages if that.
I rushed to my car, fumbling with the keys. Standing outside wasn’t safe, but I should have time-
A bolt flashed down from the sky and stuck the rod. The rod went incandescent, and sparks rained down on me. The thunder struck next and I went deaf. Stumbling, ears ringing, I threw the door open and dove inside, slamming it shut behind me.
My heart pounded, and I waited for a few minutes for it to slow. I reached into my pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes. I shook one out and lit it up. Eddie hated when I smoked in the car. It was my car though, so he’d just have to deal with it.
“Hey Mr. Dumont!” shouted the kid who had, apparently, been sitting in my passenger seat the whole time.
I froze, cigarette dangling from my mouth.
I didn’t remember having any passengers. Did I forget? I did a quick mental inventory. Nope.
He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, Hispanic, wiry build, blue eyes, angular face. He wore blue jeans and a red Letterman’s jacket. He didn’t have an accent, so I guessed he was Puerto Rican. He was chewing on a wooden toothpick.
>>8231231
His aura was a rippling blue with yellow that gleamed around the edges. It looked nice, kind of like a reflection from a pool. As I watched, it quivered and warped and then sprang back into shape. I’d never seen anything like it before.
If this guy had an unstable aura, he’d totally ruin the wiring in my car. I just had the wiring replaced two years ago. Now I might have to replace it again, and that was expensive. Great.
Another bolt of lightning struck the lightning rod above Domingo’s. I couldn’t kick the kid out now, I’d be sending him to his death. The atmospheric discharges surrounding the Tower had a tendency to hone in on people.
“I’ve been shouting your name.” The kid said.
“Yeah, ears were ringing, couldn’t hear you.” I still could barely hear him.
“Are you,” I asked tentatively, “are you working for the local car wash? Here to do a surprise detailing for their favorite customer?”
The kid looked at me like I was crazy. He was a good judge of character.
“No. I am Diego Camacho, the new hire. I start today.”
I pursed my lips in thought, squinting at him. “I don’t remember hiring you though. I’m really good at remembering those things. Are you…pretending to be hired to circumvent the interview process for some nefarious purpose?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad. That would have shown me you had initiative, I would’ve hired you on the spot. You’re fired.”
“What! Mr. O’Malley said you’d work with me today!”
“If Eddie hired you, where are your nametag, hat and polo shirt?”
“Oh! Am I supposed to put these on now?” Diego gestured to a plastic bag filled with clothes that were sitting at his feet.
“Are you supposed to wear your work clothes to work?” I chewed the question over. It didn’t sound too tough.
The kid started rummaging through his bag. “Here, nametag and ID.” He held them up to prove it.
“Awesome. Diego, why the fuck are you in my car?”
“I’m helping you with the job,” Diego replied, voice muffled by the black polo he was throwing on over his shirt.
“I don’t have any jobs.” I said, frowning.
I thought of something. “My car was locked.”
“Yes, it was very hard to get in.” Diego replied, tossing an envelope at me.
I stared at it. “What is this?”
“The job. It came in after you left, and since my paperwork took so long to complete, Mr. O’Malley told me to take it to you after lunch. So I walked over to this restaurant he said you liked to eat at.”
I was informed of all hiring decisions, as was my right as co-owner. I was going to have a word with Eddie after this job was done. Hopefully this guy worked out so I didn’t have to fire him.
>>8231231
>>8231239
Sci-fi/fantasy buddy cop comedy? I'm getting Dead Like Me vibes from it.
>>8231350
Urban Fantasy buddy cop comedy, yeah.
A little while later, behind Jimmy’s house, Fennius, Akiko, and the robot watched the wind create waves across the field of tall grass. Fennius decided it would be fitting for Jimmy’s ashes to be scattered on the land lived on for so many years. There were over two hundred acres of flat land that stretched as far as the eyes could see. For James Abernathy’s final send off, Akiko had taken some wrapped colorful ribbons she found in a box marked “Christmas” in his house and tied them around the frame of the robot and the urn. The JS94 stood with red and green garland around its arms, body and legs. When fennius squinted his eyes and looked upon it, the robot resembled what he imaged robots would dress like if they attended Mardi Gras. Akiko said it made things more “festive”. The best plan Fennius could manage was to give the robot orders to scatter the ashes evenly across the acreage and bury the urn when finished. It seemed like the decent thing to do for a friend.
But for the moment, the three stood together on the blustery plain, no one saying a word. What few clouds there were in the sky paid them no attention and sailed along towards destinations far away. A human, a machine, and an entity that was something in between stood fast on the spinning planet and let the October wind slip past them. His coat, her hair, and the bot’s ribbons swayed in a breeze that brought no consolation. Akiko broke the silence by saying some kind words about Mr. Abernathy as Fennius removed the lid and gave the urn to the robot. The mechanical hand reached into the urn and withdrew a pinch of white powder. The wind dissipated it in a small puff, the particles slipping away on the wind.
And then, with Fennius’ command, the bot started walking, spreading ashes like a flower girl at a wedding. As it got smaller in the distance, Akiko began to sing. And projecting from somewhere in her emitters, the sound of accompanying piano music helped her along. Fennius didn’t know the song or words, something about wanting to rule the world and that good nothing lasts forever. In this moment of weakness, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard in his life. The two stood side by side watching the clouds. When she finished the last note, the robot was a thin, grey smudge on the horizon.
Pls be nice
From the mountains came the first stones and the first snow. The snow so thick it blocked the sky, the stones so large no man could climb. Not that there was a man. Eons passed, the mountains motionless but for the fall of snow and slide of stone. Then, in the coldest and darkest hour, the sun broke through and struck the greatest peak. As an axe splits a trunk, so did the sun split that highest rock. Out from the depths climbed Xibor. His beard and mane wild. His horns many in number but grotesque and lopsided. With malformed hooves and wobbling legs, he was a frail sight. Eyes dark as the depths of hell sat uneven on his face. Thin and tired from his escape, he sat on the peak and let the sun warm the earth.
Years passed, the snow cracked and a path opened. A strengthened Xibor followed. The snow towered around him, higher than any tree could hope to grow. He stumbled down into the valley between the mountains. There he found the coldest part of the mountains. Fearing the frost, he ran up the path, but it was too treacherous. He slipped and slid back in the valley, dragging ice and rocks down with him. Angered by his cowardice, the mountain shook and collapsed the snow around him.
Panic arose in his heart. He dug at the snow above him, but it came down faster than he could move. His labor turned downward and he found himself at the mountain's surface. A round stone glistened in the dark under the ice. He struck and horned and kicked with no success. Exhausted and saddened, he laid down to sleep. His breath clouded the ice, and then moved through it. Slowly the stone came free. It rolled out of its trappings and under his belly. They warmed each other as he slept.
The stone unfolded beneath him. Roots crept out and pierced the ice and rock below. A trunk grew from the stone, thin at first but gaining in width. Branches sprang out and held him with care. The branches thickened and tightened around the sleeping man to bring him up through the snow. They wrapped between his limbs and spoke through his dreams,
"Xibor, you have freed me from my eternal winter. Whether it was folly or fortune, I thank you. I can feel that you have come far and that you still have a great way to go. For your aid, I will heal your wounds and fix your twisted bones. I ask only one favor: the snow will soon thaw and my brothers will be freed down below. Please bring them to a softer ground. We can only take root in stone for so long. If they are not carried away we will all perish. Do this and they will bare you fruit and provide you wood. We will be forever in your debt."
The branches unwrapped from Xibor. He came out a new man. His mane untangled, his horns sharp and balanced. A handsome face replaced what was hideous. His legs stood firmly underneath him. He opened his mouth to speak, but a branch wrapped around his arm.
"Go now, my friend. My time has come, but neither your best nor your worst days have passed."
>>8231350
I think instead of "shitposted" we should go with "shitpaste"
>>8231523
This piece is putting unnecessary adjectives onto many nouns effectively bloating it
It might be a good idea to delete some.
[1/3]
In the late summer of 1859, when Lily Fowler was ten years old, her father took her hunting for the first time. Out in the woodlands just beyond the Haw River. It was a humid day, the air muddy with heat, the sun shining down with a pitiless sort of stubborn brightness.
Somewhere in those woods she had shot a rabbit. A brown one, as it darted from a pocket of heat crisped bushes, dry leaves rattling in the wake of its desperate flight. She hadn’t aimed very precisely, but had flipped the rabbit onto its side all the same. She had taken a surprised step forward, through a gritty skein of acrid smoke, then stopped, looking to a shockingly bright splash of crimson on the ground.
It had been a dry summer, the water locked stubbornly into the air, and the woods were desiccated and drab. All but consumed by drought. The blood was the brightest thing there, an exaltation of scarlet that made Lily's heart race just looking at it.
The rabbit wasn’t quite dead. It lay on its side, stunned, front legs kicking spasmodically, a splintered knob of white bone exposed in the middle of its back. Where Lily’s bullet had smashed its spine. It seemed to be gasping, mouth wide open, eyes round with terror. Yet it made no noise. Not a peep. Instead it stared at her, unblinking, vibrating with fear.
Lily stared. Cocked her head, curious. She had never killed anything before. Still hadn’t, she supposed, but she had hurt this rabbit. Badly. To the point that it was certainly going to die. That was new. And she felt quite calm even as she noticed that her hands were shaking.
A big hand closed over her shoulder, her father moving alongside her. He was a tall man, a solid figure, hands roughened from work, voice coarse from many years of cigars and whiskey. He let out a little breath that sounded something like a sigh. But it wasn’t. Lily knew her father too well for this. He was proud of her, even if he didn’t outwardly express it. She could tell.
“Finish it.” He said, looking down at the rabbit, still clawing weakly at the dirt in front of its desperate little paws. Lily didn’t move. Not at first.
The rabbit was…fascinating. She could hardly take her eyes away from it. There was something oddly comforting in the desperation of its movements. Something that appealed to her. The strength ebbing from it. The terror in its eyes. Going dull. Losing strength.
All because she had fired a shot at it. Had smashed its spine and suddenly cut it off from half of its body. The rabbit’s hind legs were slack and motionless, not so much as a twitch going through them. In fact…Lily could see a sharp divide in the rabbit. A point where muscles no longer jumped and pulsed under the fur. Where the rabbit might as well have been already dead.
“Lily,” her father said, mistaking her stillness for reluctance, “you’ve shot this rabbit. It’s your responsibility to kill it. You cant let it suffer.”
She nodded slowly. Distantly.
This felt odd. But not in a bad way.
Putting one hand out, she grabbed the rabbit by the ears and lifted it up. It pawed at the air in front of it, snapping weakly at nothing, eyes rolling with fright. Then she flicked her wrist and popped its neck. Now the entire rabbit was limp. Lifeless. But warm, the memory of life still present.
She settled the dead rabbit into her hands, surprised by how soft and relaxed it was now. It flopped down around her hands, paws dangling limply, eyes half open, glazed, staring into eternity. No fight left now. Nothing. Just its shell.
Lily gave the rabbit to her father, who tied it to his belt. Then, satisfied, he put his hand onto her shoulder and they walked home. Past the Outlaw plantation, past the Faucett place, and into town.
All the way home Lily gazed, transfixed, at a little crescent splash of blood that had found its way onto the curve of her wrist. It made her think about the rabbit, and how it had gone from alive to dead. How she had controlled that process with the utmost authority.
“Can we go again Papa?” She asked as they passed the railway terminus, the sooty fragrance of coal smoke still hanging in the air from the last train. Her father nodded slightly.
“Of course.”
Lily looked down to where the rabbit hung off the side of her father’s belt. Bouncing slightly with each step he took.
It almost made it look alive again.
[3/3]
That night she couldn’t sleep. Settled into her bed, blankets pulled up to her chin, Lily stared to the shadowy reaches of the ceiling. Conjuring sparks of color from the dark. Rendering her imaginings out across the canvas of the night.
How oddly exciting it was. The shards and splashes of red that she saw was blood, spilt from the rabbit that she had shot not too long before. And not just her rabbit, but a whole sea of dying creatures, twitching out their last bits of life. She could almost feel the velvety warmth of their fur beneath her fingers, the tremblings of their muted struggles.
Ghostly sensations teased her fingertips, tingled through her, made her breath go short and fast, her heart jumping in her chest, prickly and yet…pleasant. She hadn’t felt anything like this before. Not really. Almost like fear, but…not quite. There was something exhilarating mixed in. It reminded her of watching her mother paint. Different colors being swirled together into an entirely new shade. A beautiful one.
When she did finally fall asleep Lily dreamt confused shards of fractured visions. Nothing that she remembered when she awoke the next morning. But what did remain was that same high, prickly feeling of nervous excitement. Like she had found something interesting that could very possibly be dangerous.
She was reminded of watching children tease a stray dog. The dog bared its teeth and bristled its mangy fur, but still its tormenters zipped past, swatting the poor creature with sticks and pelting it with stones. The dog in her head could hurt her, she realized, with sudden, adult clarity. It could sink its fangs into her and never let go.
If she tiptoed away then it might not notice that she had observed it.
But did she want to do that?
When she walked to school that morning, there, framed by a twisted gnarl of roots that had allowed a hollow to form at the base of an oak tree, Lily saw a rabbit.
>>8224165
This is the most objectively bad thing I have ever read
Just whipped this up
>>8224412
Mine, for reference and an opportunity to dismiss my advice.
>>8231802
>>8231806
>>8231809
This is good writing. Part of me wants to think it sounds a little false/contrived, but I think it's just because none of us have any assumed credibility. I especially liked your hooks at the ends of parts 2 and 3.
>>8231905
Torn over the first paragraph. I almost like it but it's on the edge of seeming a little bit silly. Also reminds me of 100 Years of Solitude for obvious reasons. The word 'veracity' seems slightly forced and I'd change "the nice linen suit" to "my nice linen suit."
I don't exactly know what a castizo or guacho is, and you didn't explain it, which is fine, but in light of that fact it took me out of it when you stopped to explain what a gringo is, which is pretty universal.
It's good writing and put me into the setting.
>>8232090
>guacho
Its either Orphan or Bastard.
Castizo is how pure you are, used during the empire of spain
Something in spanish for whoever can read it. It's the draft for the beginning of a short story.
El chirrido monolítico del timbre ahogó sus palabras. Los labios de Maria Roccasecca continuaron moviéndose (aventurando el inicio de otra frase sobre la física newtoniana) durante un instante aun después que el timbre empezara a sonar, pero pronto se percató de que aquel chirrido rotundo y sentencioso como una trompeta arcangélica había irrumpido en la clase, acaparando todo el espacio sonoro y, con ello, la atención de sus alumnos, que ahora dirigían sus miradas hacia la esquina del techo desde la que el timbre bramaba con inapelable autoridad. Tras unos segundos, se detuvo de súbito, dejando caer con displicencia el abrupto silencio sobre los hombros de Maria Roccasecca.
Maria experimentó el desasosiego de siempre cuando, una vez cesado el cántico inicial, las miradas de los alumnos se posaron en ella con aire de expectación muda y sumisa, acatantes, mansos tras el silencio y una inexpresividad unánime que resultaba vagamente reminiscente del mongolismo. Impelida por aquel silencio idiótico e insolente, se forzó a despegar los labios y comenzó a recitar las fórmulas acostumbradas.
>http://pastebin.com/i8qtBbC3
I feel really embarrassed to post this because of its contrarian-like nature, but gonna put it out here anyway for some feedback.
Can I write books in English when I am ESL? My vocabulary consists if 22900 word famlies, which is twice as much as most ESLs can hope to learn, but it's not so much when you consider how native speakes range from 20000 to 35000. Of course, most of the words I don't know are either scietific terms or archaic or Australian, meaning they are endemic to specific field and won't be useful if I don't touch these fields in my work, but the thing is, even withing my vocabulary there are words that I may never think of using. I am worried that the end result will read as too stiff and simplistic.
>>8232985
That's stupid, many writers write without utilizing the breadth of the english language. Furthermore you'd probably sound stupid if you tried. Haruki Murakami literally got his writing style from writing passages in English first.
>>8232365
>Love is the cop-out for the pseudo-creatives.
The word "pseudo" should NEVER be used unironically IMO
>>8232365
Also, Bane?
from my blog
curious as to exactly how unprofessional I come off, having literally no experience as a writer
>>8233710
>At the core of a person there are things that made surviving easier.
I stopped reading there, and only after forcing myself to. Yes, your caption prejudiced me against you.
>curious as to exactly how unprofessional I come off, having literally no experience as a writer
Ugh, really?
Anyway, since I was going to post anyway, here's my work..
"You turn with time to face the void. Gusts of anxiety flee from its depths, chasing maternal warmth. Spleen chill becomes unbearable - look away. Turn back. No choice but to flip a coin and follow it; black coats vision. The scent of almonds on your fifth birthday floats from the tunnel entrance. Each pool you pass evaporates under your gaze; narcissism is futile, ever-tempting. There is no time. Ahead, again, your prospects beckon. Immaterial, volatile, built from marble – that is all you know. They crumble upon arrival, whispering that there are two ways. Echoes of the avalanche set time rumbling. Quick, catch up!"
>>8233817
Incomplete sentences and too many commas, don't try so hard to sound extemporaneous.
>>8233881
>Incomplete sentences
It's not prose.
>don't try so hard to sound extemporaneous.
I did it today, edited once.
Explain what you mean please.
>>8233904
>It's not prose
I'm just a guy with an opinion that everything should be prose. It's only my opinion that reading text as if it were spoken frustrates me.
>>8233399
I should've changed that, I did feel it seemed wrong.
>>8234793
you should have
>>8235539
>http://pastebin.com/nuwuCqkN
I changed it to sound less pretentious, does it work better?
>>8224412
holy filler batman
Damned be tradition, the corner-foundations
of the pagoda and mosque, the jurassic,
polished, well-varnished, in slow ambulations
round the bejewelled cathedral enclosure
understood; burn the commandments in classic
letters that cassocks in motley dipped foreign
fingers in ink to inscribe; let exposure
flake the decaying old virginal parchment
sheath and the papery helms of their horsemen
confident faces emblazoned upon whose
masks are the picture of vacuous assent;
let the remaining air bathe your lewd tattoos.
You’re weighed against a spurious ballast; knife
the ropes, free yourself—what can you lose but life?
I got too high last night/fun w sf characters
[1/2]
Since the afternoon’s dying, small Aniya had mostly been crying or, more often, trying to, or talking about crying and death, but Paul delighted her, and he seemed to even moreso with every time she heard him speak. He was not only exquisite and, she argued, adorable, but also only nearly her own height; the same fact about Eighteen had been mostly what it took to make the young android Aniya’s initial and most pressing favorite of her new, guestly friends.
And that night, lately, after the children had been a while sent to their bedhalls and the guests, even the child ones, told to stay for coffee service and conversation, Aniya decided that she needed to see the absolute, new he, once again, at least, before morning. So she rushed into the serving hall, already laughing, and coming up with the perfect reason to tell all as for why right as she did so, as she had childishly hoped she might; burying her face and the laughter in her mother’s sleeve, she said: “Mommy, mommy, mommy, princess,” and then, before mother might rebuke her, she asked into her ruffles, exhaled: “Can our new friends see what school is like? Tomorrow?”
Yelly and Arliend were well aware that they were too old to be caught up in this one of the child’s games, but Eighteen, who thought the idea was stupid and awful, was only sixteen, young like Paul. And, misfortunately for Eighteen, Paul responded, blurted out: “I’ve never been to school!”, and that was that.
“Wow, so how many of your guard got merced?”
“Thirty. Two.” The number had been inconsistent all morning, but Aniya kept it around there.
It was Borin’s youngest brother, Short Marten Bernascol, or Berna, who had asked again, so that this period’s newly gathered crowd might hear. Paul sat as delightedly each time as at the first, at first thinking her inconsistency was a hoot, and still appreciating it some way with each instance, and with his legs kicking back and forth just above the ground.
When newcome onlookers would inquire about her new, and short, too, guest, she’d usually reply first with: “I’m going to marry him,” or, “He’s going to ask me to marry him.”, even though she’d been heart set to marry Boris and their class’ touchball star, Large Maxa, together for well upon two years.
Eighteen, having slipped away early, had followed some taller and brasher crowd out a dank, back way, to where they smoked from cingestrings or smoked cigs, actual- real, and really rolled, like they ought to be- cigarettes, like Eighteen hadn’t yet ever seen again, this far from the pleasure citadels. A tutor, with his own cingestring, and then, shortly, an already piped professor joined them, before any’d even halfway through all ashed. The latter arriver handed out texts that they might go over, and the other, elder, prepared to speak his spell.
[2/2]
Eighteen took a text with no intention of reading it, passing it back after her glance, and then giving the same treatment to the few more that came her way, so she might catch that they were all a text the same: a recent manifesto, of war; something alterned, yet pressing, and still peripheral. A surprising number of the youths around her held it below them, and read along to the tutor’s accompanying unkempt azel talk, or else sat down with their smoke to read it more steadily. No one seemed to care more about who she was than they did about it, or about how much tobacco they had left to burn through.
Soo, before lunch, a courier came, by the hallway, to inform Paul & Aniya’s room that a break had been decided upon again.
On Paul’s way back outdoors with Aniya & co., Aniya let slip that her future lover could fly, and tried to maintain right away that she hadn’t, but the sturdy Musca wouldn’t give the matter up. He had been punching things all day, and threatened to punch Paul, and then to punch Aniya. Aniya merely responded that she was in no mood or mind to get tickled in affront of such a lustrious guest, to which Musca agreed, and gave a domestic shrub a few low jabs.
But even he forgot his low termperament as soon as they all hit some natural, sun's shine, and he walked through the pale glow with his arms uncomfortably up and set back by his neck, grinning as if he were more comfortable than the world. This new mood was interrupted only when Borin proceeded loosely to threaten to tickle Aniya for real, and Musca decided that he wanted the attention of his friend back.
“So make your flyboy fly.”
The diasporasis of breaking made the perfect opportunity for Loufer, unaware as to his security, to approach. Eighteen, like Paul, was too distracted; her, by being annoyed, with an attractive student who was saying something excitedly about alliances.
Eighteen was easier to spot than Paul, having refused the uniform, but, on her way back indoors, it was Paul she saw, first. He was, calmly, a few tens of feet off of the ground.
“Then where was Hippopatsis? Where was the general- ?” the last student of Eighteen’s strange company to notice was saying, until his nearest peer slapped his chest, and he caught startled sight of it too. Eighteen had wanted to do the same, only harder, but he shut up, so she settled on lifting off herself, silently, from the crowd, and restrained herself from looking back at him as quietly as she had went.
A few outbursts had started, more near to below the young boy’s place of flight, and many of the noises and excitations directed, up, at him. Musca grabbed him by the waist from the air and planted a kiss on his lips, as Paul had come to finish steadily descending. And, from the moment Musca put him down, Aniya didn’t let go of Paul’s hand, so he decided, when the rabble wouldn’t quit, to lift her up above it instead. Eighteen met them above the crowds’ heads, and Aniya started to cry.
[3/2]
Sorry I didn't critique first. Getting that typed and revised ended up being unexpectedly hellish and taking like 2 hours (no computer, no wifi, just phone and bad signal, and i lost the completed thing two whole times)
Let me eat something and take another adderall and ill critique some stuff
Literally everything in this thread is terrible.
This is the first thing I've ever written, so don't use any lube in the critique.
It had been almost two years since I had finished my degree. Psychology, much to the disappointment of my Father. The morning I told him I was studying it, he screamed at me for almost 4 hours, about the tradition that men within the Johnston household carried. We were a military household, had been for generations, and he had hoped I would be like my brothers who were off fighting for our oh so important country. “Mindless psychobabble” I remember him screaming, spittle peppering my face, “useless pseudoscience enjoyed by the rich and those too stupid to see through it”. After this exchange I began to avoid him, However this only made him angrier. My mother held the peace however the atmosphere could have been cut with a knife.
On a Breath
I'm just a tiler. to make ends meet I work at Home Depot, In the gardening section. Which beats the intermittent work I used to get with landscaping contractors and their sometimes sexist or even homophobic crew. I do miss the outdoors work. Ah-well. At least here I get more respect from co-workers and often the cutovers. Oh the customers. Seems everyday we get at least one or two hot babes in here. One co-worker, Jim from tools, spotted me checking out this one hispanic woman one day. Waiting till she rounded a corner he turns to me and mouthes a wolf howl in agreeance. "Good taste" Monica. Jim is a genial, balding and greying hippie kind of laid back dude and a good friend.
My hair is thinning too, though I'll never be as bald as Jim, it's just a bit disappointing. Aging stinks. I don't recommend it. I guess I'll have to cut my hair short one of these years real soon. I've just never liked the short haired look. On me or other women. Right along with fowling up my life, I've fowled up my love life so many times that I'm starting to lose hope I'll ever settle down with the right girl. Some suggested I wear a rainbow bracelet, but I'm such a screw up, months went by before I even got an acknowledgment. Waiting in a coffee shop I saw a gorgeous woman walk in. I was pretty sure she was lesbian. I tried to play up the damn bracelet, but all I got was a casual glance before she vanished with her 32oz. brown thing. On some other advice I tried dating sites but have had only dismal returns. I guess I'm just thin skinned and can't take rejection.
One summer our supervisor threw a barbecue and invited some of us old-timers and their family over to praise his spruced up backyard pool, patio, greenery and cooking chops. He had good reason to be proud, it was nice. Real nice tile work too. Wish he'd have asked me to help install it. Unironically we praised, but turning my attention away from the tiles, I finally took notice of the most beautiful girl in the whole place. Tan and freckled faced with sandy blonde brown hair, I somehow tore my glance away from her, and not because she was going to notice me gawking, my eyes then rested on her hairy arm, and then her hairy legs. I'm sorry, but body hair is a fetish of mine. I tried to play it off, be cool– Just then Jim came up behind me and introduced her.
>>8238070
"Hey, Monica, this is my daughter Apollonia-Clerice" And to her "This is my co-worker from gardening, Monica" But I was already reacting to the poor girl's hippie name. "Seriously?" He turned away to laugh in his beer. "People call me AC, though." Jim's daughter quietly explained. and without skipping a beat, probably used to the reaction. I went from cheeky to cheesy. "A.C. Like a breath of fresh air." I mean seriously. Like I just confessed my horniness to a 16 year old girl, right there in broad daylight within earshot of her dad. What the hell, brain? We were both too embarrassed to say much of anything else after that, save for a few smiling glances at each other. Nope nope. Too young. "And THAT was the last time I let my wife pick the name" Jim later explained. "Had to name the boys myself" I could tell my usual conversational ease with Jim was way off, I kept sneaking glances at AC dangling her legs in the pool or the way she would eat, getting barbecue sauce all over cheek. Oh geez. I had to go, so I finished my ribs and beer and made an excuse for an as early as possible exit.
Some months later, Jim and I started to do a little landscaping on the side together. He was my apprentice in this, but he had access to the materials. Early morning one weekend while out on a project, Jim asked me to pick up some tiles from his place on the way over. I'd met his wife on several occasions and fully expected to be dealing with her once I got there, but instead AC answered the door. She was delightedly surprised to see me. "Hey! AC. I was, I'm here to pick up a couple of boxes. Probably in the garage. Hi. How are you?" AC was happy to see me and insisted that I come inside for a bit. My head was dizzy again, and didn't protest. "The extra keys are around here someplace", she bounded off to look for them.
After loading the truck AC offered me something to drink. Giving a nervous refusal she pressed the offer "You look thirsty though". came her giggle. I accepted. Standing over me, somewhat leaning in, she poured my glass full. Having to decide 'when' herself. Up close, AC's sparkling light brown eyes stared into me. We smiled dumbly at each other for a bit. She lifted her left leg up and dug her foot in-between the couch cushions I was sitting on. Too inviting, I reached up to stroke her fine leg hairs. Her open dress-shirt fell back slightly and I rose to bury my nose into her underarm. Taking slow deep breaths I grew lightheaded at the smell of her sweaty body odor. Clutching her thigh now, I had the instinct to thrust my hands down her trunks, but instead told her, told myself, "You're… you're too young. I can't." Looking at the floor I was able to force myself to get away. Excusing myself I headed out the front door. "Wait" AC begged. And more quietly "Come back in two years than. Please. I'll wait." I turned before she could see the tears come out of my face, but I was smiling the whole time, with gratitude.
>>8238070
>Right along with fowling up my life, I've fowled up my love life
fouling, fouled
>>8238109
HHAHA. Damn
>>8224324
Piqued*
>>8224165
Agnes knew from the onset of its adoption that the dog was no good. For starters, it had more eyes than it should have. No one believed her about that. Beyond its ocular excess the behavior of the thing was all wrong. It liked to eat her books. Not chew, eat. Where others beasts of a similar breed may have torn her prized volumes to shreds, this rambunctious canine swallowed the things whole. No one else had seen this, and when faced with the evidence of her ever emptying shelves her family insisted she had misplaced them. This was particularly insulting to Agnes, as the worldly professor placed no small importance in the meticulous organization of her shelves.
Not much to this. Just found a word document in my trash bin titled "pupper" . Can barely remember writing it. Think I'll continue it.
Water crashed, and the ocean night bloomed in iridescent splendor. Moonlight skipped across the cresting waves so bright you'd have to shield your eyes, and Elizabeth blinked involuntarily as she stood at the shoreline with water pooling around her feet, exhausted, exasperated, empty. She flicked cigarette ash from her fingertips and took in the alkaline air through parted lips. Gentle tendrils of smoke slipped through. She could taste the salt-flecked mist.
Each ring and buzz of the phone buried in her jacket pocket brought her closer to snapping it in two. The contact felt alien and intrusive and God did she want to shut it out, but even picking it up to silence it and having to read the names and pleas popping out from the garish screen felt like acquiescence, and acknowledgement of that which she'd rather just not exist. No, she was alone here. She let sea wash over her and drown out the rest of the world.
>>8238086
"with gratitude" is unnecessary, and kind of jarring.
>>8238277
There is no atmosphere. It's incoherent.
>took in the alkaline air through parted lips. Gentle tendrils of smoke slipped through.
Okay I get it, she's smoking. Don't describe it so poorly next time.. I'd say fag smoke is anything but gentle, anyway.
Its a little strange how colors are assigned meaning. Red tends to be associated with things like war, sexuality, danger, and courage. In general, these are all intense, high energy subjects - all about passion. Blue is normally representative of the exact opposite things like tranquility, cooler temperatures, peace, and sometimes even spirituality - so low energy obedient subjects are associated with the color blue. Red and blue can even describe politics. In most places outside of the United States, red equals left and blue equals right. Here, recently, it was flipped. In one of the best movies ever, a redpill represents the truth while the blue one sustains blissful ignorance of it. Sometimes the truth is not all sunshine and Sesame Streets. I believe that in the US, people such as Donald Trump are beginning to dare to speak ugly truths, while democrats prefer to appeal to the ovine masses with lies. They accuse conservatives of longing for an expired world; that they simply want things to stay the way they are (or were) and never improve. This however is an inaccurate way to describe what it means to be conservative. While its true that conservatives wish to maintain the values originally conceived with America, no one ever said that nothing can be changed or improved. In fact, what the founding fathers say in the Declaration of Independence (on freedom and natural rights) is "That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government." Look it up and read the whole thing for yourself if you never have. They literally say to be prepared to overthrow a government that is corrupted, like they did. So if you think about it, you could say that to be conservative is to hold on to what legends believed long ago, which was a belief that you should never hold on to what legends believed long ago. To be conservative is to conserve the idea that you must evolve when you need to. With all this new controversy everywhere you look, today's people feel the need for some form of revolution and someone with normal blood isn't going to be the harbinger.
>>8224165
>obvoiusly
>oblivious
>olivia
you wanna write a tongue twister?
>>8238277
It's too much. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be visualizing or feeling.
I'm writing a script for a short noir movie, and i'd like some comments on this. It's the first scene.
"It's been five months since my husband died" said the widow, visibly still shocked by the death of her spouse. Her face demonstrated sadness, contrasting with the revolt with the aparent neglect by the police "and I still don't know nothing about what happened. You didn't tell me anything, didn't even come to our house to investigate. His body was buried, and you-"
"Ma'am", interrupted the deputy, who until then typed in a machine by his side, without even looking at the woman's eyes. He wore glasses, and on his desk he had many folders, papers, books and a pen holder "this is your third visit here, and I fear i'll have repeat what I said before. We are doing everything we can to help you. There are no clues that leads us to at least one single suspect, imagine the perpetrator "he grabbed the paper he was typing and put it in a drawer. He put his elbows on the table and clasped his hands, doing a small pause "there is nothing in our power" finalized, getting up, grabbing a folder and putting the hat in his head "i'm leaving. Excuse me."
"But who will help me then?" asked the woman, offended.
"No idea" said the deputy. He chuckled and said, sarcastically: "Maybe a private detective?"
>>8240752
The writing is good/fine, but the message is rather dull. Conservatism is looked down on --> redefine conservatism as about evolving beyond what it used to be --> thus conservatism is good
>>8238086
Not bad, anon, pretty decent story telling intuition, just keep up with it. It's not very polished, but it has the basics down right.
>>8238277
>Water crashed, and the ocean night bloomed in iridescent splendor.
Good start for a parody.
>>8236900
This is fine. Not much more to say. Just reads like a journal. Try to make it especially interesting if you're wanting to make a story. E.g., kick father in the face, brothers are d-bags, describe how psychology seemed fascinating, whatever you can do to make it special and not just an everyman's diary entry.
>>8242440
>Try to make it especially interesting if you're wanting to make a story
>proceeds to list the least interesting smattering of examples ever given.
Nice thread.
>>8242451
What are some more interesting examples then that you would choose, shit bird?
Not an excerpt, but I've been trying to shop a YA book, and have been told that the concept isn't enough of a hook.
>Light supernatural/origins story
>Droll teenage girl in Florida spends a summer working at the nursery of a childhood friend
>Discovers she has the power to drain plants/trees of their chlorophyll, harnessing it as an energy attack
>This however kills whatever she drains
>Has to use the power to save her friends/town when a hurricane hits
I thought it was a damn good, original idea. Am I missing something?
Draft of a first chapter. Anyone got any thoughts?
>>8242464
Yeah kinda sounds a little bland to me, anon. Who gives a shit if she kills the trees? In a story you tend to care about characters dying, not the trees. Also, just getting a special power to drain trees sounds pretty gimmicky. I would think there would need to be some other strengths (writing quality, inventiveness, etc.) to carry it besides that, it's just not that unique or interesting of an idea. "Special power" is basically already done all over the place, so while where she gets the power from might be interesting and original, you sort of have that other side working against you.
>>8242477
Not bad, sorta interesting. In reality, drinking bleach would have pretty horrific consequences, so the blasé attitude of the narrator sounds a little retarded, but maybe that's intended. Beginning of the third paragraph invokes my curiosity. Last sentence sounds a little try-hard and non-sequitur-ish to me.
>>8242495
the MC in the first two paragraphs is contemplating suicide. i kinda wanted it to seem kinda lacking in context at first though. this is really jsut something i scribbled down the other day and just typed up now.
>>8242464
sounds like some treehugging morality tale.
>>8242411
Its an excerpt
Since their earliest times, we learn of struggles, aspirations, mishaps of a people - otherwise elucidating the entirety of their confusing pre-historic course as a tribe- in how they appeal to ancestors; the more victories culminated by the tribe, it follows more spoils are needed to satiate these guardian spirits! For who wards off misfortune, disease, foe, but the mythical founders who were there at the formation of the group, who are not living yet also not dead?
\pagebreak
If this people finds themselves in dire times, or situations with bare sustenance, their ancestors are cursed and the festivities honoring them go unobserved - for not even the bone marrows after a hunt may be spared. Rituals, festivals, myriad customs, traditions, phrases continue to remain forgotten as looming problems faced by the tribe persists. Only with a hundred skirmishes won, with walls raised over settlements, with countless foes in captivity, can the tribe affirm itself as elevated above rivals, and when the dust settles who can credit this fortune but to the prophecies of ancestors, to tribal wisdom originating from ancestors?
As the group finds need for encapsulating their distinctness, their flauntable strengths, the legendary ancestors become venerated as heroes and demi-gods. Now the people with their new found spirit necessarily hold sacrificial rites in temples, and on the temple walls are patterns of notches accounting the culmination of resources by this people, with more notches promised should the ever more elaborate customs continue.
Here's a small excerpt from something I'm working on:
Billy Hills, slightly buzzed from the drowsiness that came after a six hour long nap stumbled into the red-tint of the restaurant, tripping over a curb. Tonight had been especially rough for our poor little Billy, for reasons that he himself would never tell. Ask him about it, and he’d give you an Eeyore-like stare and look away, sighing, “I just don’t know man…” That’s a lie. He always knew. He just didn’t care.
It was just his natural state. Apathy. Disassociation. The events in his life: single mom, high school dropout, kicked out of house, got a job, lost a job, got a job, lost a job, hook up, break up, all leading towards this singular point. It was his natural state wasn’t it? Billy wasn’t sure of it himself, but he held it as a conviction. He had lived his entire life through the camera of a disorganized stop-motion film, being forced into various positions with no clear link from one scene to the next, no cry of resistance, only passive acceptance. So, a rough night according to Billy, would be anything that forced him out of his element, his cheap sense of apathy, and in this particular case, it was the promise of a free meal.
>>8242477
I'm not sure how I feel about your use of second person, I think it's kinda weird but I'm not sure what the premise of your story is so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe remove the first two sentences since I think it adds more to the flow if you let the reader piece things together.
Gently, gently he presses it. He pushes just enough. A soft boy sighs, then laughs, finally invoking God's name. A smirk is exchanged between the two.
But no love is here. No, the soft boy is incapable of love, beautiful as he is, kind, sweet and gentle as he is, he is passionless. Little excites him outside of his flowcharts. The human element is lost on him. The only thing he appreciates is power. Tonight, he gives power freely out of pity. But it will be gone in the morning. All across this western plain, where worshipers echo sentiments of ancestors, who rest upon the bones of the slain, a truth rings out above all else:
No matter how gently, gently he pushes, his soul is lost forever.
>be angry racist /pol/ack
>the best things you write are inevitably sympathetic pieces from the perspective of degenerates (i.e., fags, niggers, whores, savages)
>actually got things published in a few university magazines and in some real local 'zine type publications
>had a few obviously sjw chicks come up and talk to me about how much they loved my work
i fucking hate myself. Every time I sit down to write, i want to write aaron copland the short story or maybe emulate borges with something neatly conceptual, but my mind is filled with the psychological profilings of perverts.
i need to get out more
It was a fine winter's morning in Magorum's Academy for the Magical Arts that fateful February dawning. Ice trickled from the trees as the robins sang their mating songs for the season's turn. Spring crept around the corner and the world was waking once more to the green calling. Fleets of snow melted to puddles, the flower buds bid their blooming, and the girls of the Academy were in a bustle to pick dance partners for the coming Spring Festival. A once-in-a-year's opportunity to take the hand of that special someone for a spin on the dance floor.
But for some – like me; this also means holding down one's status. A festival dance was not only an event – it was a statement. Whoever you took reflected your image. As a fine sword needs a fine sheath. A fine lady needs a fine gentleman by her side.
And I, like any noble girl attending, was of no exception to this rule. In fact, my beauty is the reason for the rule. Otherwise it'd be unfair to the lesser girls without it. Pathetic really…
A dawning like this is always aloof with activity, now that all the worthiest fellows have been taken. It was a rush to pick out the last nuggets of worth still available, lest one got stuck with coal - the “normal” fellows: tree trunks, pie munchers, dwarves, lowborns, and ‘sensitive’ creepers.
Luckily for me, such petty pickings were never in my vocabulary. I am Elvira, am I not? A Perrington to the core, fifth of the line, and the youngest (and fairest) of three sisters – who were both unbearably ugly in comparison to myself. But I do not blame them, I do not blame anybody. I was gifted by the Watcher, perfect since birth. My beauty shames princesses, my talents humble grand casters, my wealth makes peasants slobber and drool. I cannot blame anybody for their imperfection. For everybody was born imperfect – but just not me.
Unfortunately, not everyone sees that. Idiots like my boyfriend Devon, who I have reasonable instinct to assume is holding an affair behind my back. Honestly. Just because he’s the most powerful duellist in the Academy; doesn’t give him right reason to cheat on me: the best dam thing that’s ever happened to that class-skipping, rule-breaking, fist-fighting, arm-flexing, pec-twisting, lock-flowing, eye-meltin- goodness where was I again? Oh yeah, cheating.
I strolled out into the school courtyard at earliest light. Morning breeze caressed my face with an icy sharpness. I had forgotten that snow was late to leave for spring’s coming and it certainly didn’t get any warmer on the way out.
“Drats it's cold!” my teeth chattered on their own. I rubbed my cheeks with a cute pair of deerskin gloves, grandmother stitched last winter. They always seem to do the trick at keeping my little hands dry and fuzzy, no matter the weather.
EAT YOUR HEART OUT, DOWNEY JR.
The working class cerebral virus shanks serendipitously
corporate interest mercenaries with their UN bayonets
Mustang lit on a stove top warped by microwave preservative
As talking screen announces Brexit referendum outcome
Bundled up in Chinese sweatshop faux-goose parkas and hoop earrings
Snub nosed girls sell xylitol and 100-peso loosie pipe dreams
tributary cash crop plutarchy of spectrum-Indian princelings
Procure profit for the usury called big tobacco industry
*the leaf corpse in a casket of dead tree pulp and pale cotton*
(the white industrial octopus slips cautious oily tentacles
into the rhizome-rectum of the planet that I stand on)
industrial worker stands with tech-college baccalaureate
Fogged out in nicotine and debt with thrifted backpack-straitjacket
And feelers on the only real eternity: mortality
Please cancerize your super-ego meat-tool , citizen
Your mom and congressman won't see you playing with your testicles
From the ivory tower, third-eye power installed on your id
Kill your inner sleazebag salesman who says you'll live forever
And steal his Lexus made from metal bought from Congo separatists
Ritualistic controlled death
Emphysema in my chest
"I miss my lung, Bob" says a thrashing world to all his bairns
>unfinished and I don't know where to take it, pls feedback
>>8243267 revised version
ODE TO CIGARETTES AND LATE CAPITALISM
The working class cerebral virus shanks viscera gleefully
of corporate think-tank mercenaries with their own damn bayonets
Mustang lit on stove top warped by microwave preservative
As talking screen revels as it announces Brexit victory
Bundled up in Chinese sweatshop parkas and hoop earrings
Snub nosed girls sell xylitol and 10-cent loosies absently
The cash-crop plutarch tribute-states of spectrum-Indian princelings
Procure profit for the usury of big tobacco industry
Columbian Exchange was bio-holocaust for all us savages
our holy leaf corpse prisoner in a casket of pale tree pulp
(the white industrial octopus slips cautious oily tentacles
into the rhizome-rectum of the planet that I stand on)
industrial worker stands with tech-college baccalaureate
Fogged out in nicotine and debt with thrifted backpack-straitjacket
And feelers on the only real eternity: mortality
Please cancerize your super-ego meat-tool , citizen
Your mom and congressman won't see you playing with your testicles
From their ivory tower, third-eye power installed on your id
And kill your inner sleazebag salesman who says you'll live forev—
Ritualistic controlled death!
Emphysema in my chest!
"I miss my lung, Bob" says a thrashing world to all his bairns (!)
>>8232214
Ninguna crítica?
I'm beginning my first short story, it's taken me months of reading to build up the courage to do it. This is just a rough draft of something at the beginning.
I've been reading a lot of turgenev and I always like how he tries to one up himself and the other russian authors describing sunsets and sunrises.
If someone can tell me anything about it i'd appreciate it.
The sun rises, a grizzled lunar soldier head first boots last, wobbling out of the trench. A hard fought battle of the cosmos, a victory few men know of, glimpsed in sharp cracks in the night, blinding, pure. His soldiers come out to greet him, larks and nightingales chirping out their shrill victory cries in unison, one two..one two...life rises once again, flutters out from every crack of the earth. Quicksilver souls, emphatic eyes, listening hearts. The first breath of the world.
This is my first attempt on poetry
I ride this wild ride of life
Followed by sorrow and behind despair
I look through the window
And I see high valleys and deep mountains
Lakes filled with the past and trees burning with those gone
I see no rails nor roads
The direction I take is unknown
But from all things one is certain
Although the wagon is full
I am alone
>>8244063
Same person, I just finished up this I originally wanted it to be the introduction, I've been struggling with it for an hour or so, I imagine it's far too long winded to actually introduce a book, it feels so far removed from reality of the setting that i'm not sure it has a place and might want to be scrapped entirely.
Here it is.
Even the smallest of shrubs hidden away at the ends of the earth finds themselves in need of a master.
Beyond where the Argonauts ever dare set foot Heracles rearing up akin to a crazed beast, sweat breaching yet magnifying his heroic figure, the words of his father on his lips fear unknown to such a man, yet acceptance of a greater presence passing over him. Render unto the immaterial the things that are the immaterial’s, and unto Man the things that are Man’s.
Inside the firmest of men, antediluvian creatures, disciples of the wizened desert fathers. Their purpose long forgotten, their will unwavering, outlasting hidden kingdoms and their golden buttresses demand love.
Far past where the starving ploughman set his hand to till breaking his back on cruel lifeless earth, children gnawing on weeds and bitter promises. The autumnal chill carrying whispers down their bony spines of death is superseded by hope.
Deeper then where poor Lazarus lay in wait for his divine father worms and hosts of daemons held back by a benign glow. Man and beast left feasting on one another in a fit of rage and ungodliness, life is drawn from, and drank fully until one’s body rejects this plain for another.
>>8244640
oops i can just post a picture of the microsoft word thing.
>>8244680
kek ya i don't disagree, thanks atleast.
>>8244692
focus on the story, your getting mangled up in details
>>8244708
I wanted to make him crippled from the neck down so I figured if i brought in all these analogies and mixed it up and made it somewhat poetic and spiritual with all these figures in literature and life needing basic human nutrients, life, love, hope etc and how he's deteriorating.
I appreciate it though, it made it so hard to get into the story as I had this "confusing" rambled opening which i didn't know
>>8244680
What do you think of my work, oh great critic of the world and weary?
>Mine is the one with the NOTANIME.jpg
>>8224165
http://ansible.uk/misc/eyeargon.html
How is this? I use it as a bountiful bastion of inspiration for all my deep narrative works.
>>8242477
pretty good. just cut the "your"
>>8244959
Not the guy you replied to, but I thought it was pretty cute, desu. It does read like an anime, but I guess a caution I'd take is to show rather then tell. You seem to force exposition in a way that makes the writing feel kind of awkward.The whole part about the boyfriend feels kind of forced, but I guess since it's in first person, the way it's written can just be accounted for as part of the narrator's character.
Do you mind giving thoughts on my stuff?
I'm >>8242848
I wrote this last year for fun.
http://pastebin.com/fUgrGt9M
>>8242848
I'm no professional in the field, but looking at your work...
I'd say your critique of mine is very reflective of your own stuff desu.
Lot of exposition and telling not showing.
Also I feel that a lot of the sentences could also be shortened, to avoid the feeling of "dragging on".
Instead of
>Tonight had been especially rough for our poor little billy, for reasons that he himself would never tell.
Try
>The night was rough for Billy, enough that he wouldn't tell you about it.
Just my two cents famalamadingdong :)
Bumping this Thread for anyone still interested....
>>8231031
lmao
>>8236792
>>8236820
grotesque Guadalupe
>>8241620
>visibly still shocked by the death of her spouse
kek holy fuck lad
>>8243267
holy fucking shit
you're terrible
It is the 27th of October, in the Year of Our Lord 2016, and it appears to me that in quite a many ways, I am, in what many a gentleman or person of my caliber would describe as, fucked.
My boss, who was just informed three days ago through the unfortunate circumstance of entering his bedroom that his wife of twelve years was cheating on him with a Guatemalan named Julio, called me into my office. In many ways I had expected a sour mood from him, and yet to my surprise I am told that half the department was unable to do their work, either through sickness, vacation, or just plain absence.
As such, it befell to me that I was to do all the work that was not being completed, and to have it in on his desk by 7:30 a.m. Friday morning. Despite my protestations, he said to me, and I quote, 'I don't give a fucking shit about your bitching,', and to, 'Do it, or your vacation days are gone.' So needless to say that was one box checked on the list of things that label a man such myself as 'fucked'.
Around an hour or so later, I received a call from my significant other of thirteen months. As luck would have it, she found an earing she did not remember owning in our laundry basket. This lead to a long, loud, and illustrious lathering of my character as a 'son of bitch' that should 'go die in a fire', followed by a sharp click of the phone that severed the ties of our relationship.
Following this, during my lunch break I had gone to a Quiznos to eat a hair-ridden sandwich I would not be reimbursed for, only to go outside to find a key-scratch along my car, along with a smashed side-view mirror and taillight. After a call my insurance company, I was told such acts of 'client-induced road rage' was not covered under my policy.
At the end of my work, I had commenced my drive home, in which I was later ticketed $500 for speeding. After finally arriving home, I see that a bag has been packed and left on the steps of the house, full of clothes and various toiletries. I then noticed a letter sitting next to it. In the letter was a detailed litigation from the IRS, saying that they suspect a faulty claim of certain tax credits that will be under investigation as well as my person being audited.
So, in summary, I do believe I am in many ways in the status of what many men of my caliber called 'fucked'.
>>8246993
stop
Why do all these writings feel like self-inserts or venting?
>>8246690
crying at this picture
Jack ran down the cobbled street as quick as he could, laughing along the way. A yellow pair of bloomers dancing in his clutches like a kite caught in the wind.
"jack you son of a bitch" Abernathy the wench cried. she waddled after him at an impressive speed. "give those back you pervert, you knave".
"No" Jack called back as he put more space between him. He sniggered. This was as good payback as any, he thought. He had been caught swearing in front of the other children, and mrs abernathy was quick to dole out punishment to all those who were brash, rude, and rebellious. She had taken out a switch, smacked them against jacks knuckles, and made them bleed. It had made Jack cry in front of the other children. That was why he had done this. Not because of the pain, but because of the humiliation. Boys like jack could not allow themselves to look weak in front of others, and so they sought after the pettiest of little revenges.
Jack had spent an entire day thinking up some suitable punishment for abernathy's uncharitableness. worms in the soup, snakes in the bed, a turd in the old ladies boot. No. None of these would do. Abernathy had humiliated him in front of the children, therefore he also had to humiliate her in front of the children. There was supposed to be a poetry to vengeance, he had reasoned.
He ducked in weaved through the market place, outstripping the old lady by quite a ways. He looked back and she was just a mere smudge in the distance. an angry, knuckle swatting smudge, but far enough that Jack began to slow his pace. His lungs were becoming pained.
People were staring and a few laughing. Who was this crazy child with the faded bloomers running about like an aspiring olympian? They would never find out, but would forever remember. This made Jack grin a little. Notoriety came a easier for the brave and the bold.
He looked back. Old lady abernathy was gone, lost in a sea of pedestrians. Easy peasy Jack thought. Now what. He hadn't actually considered what he would do at this point. School was out, every child was at home, and he had a fist full of old lady bloomers. He looked at them. Old lady abernathy needed to learn how to wipe. Jack winced but felt triumphant as well, more ammunition to humiliate the old broad with. He looked at the bloomers some more. they were crusty and yellow, sort of like solidified piss. Jack grinned. ?He figured out a good idea. He would take them home, hidden of course. I doubt mother or father would just ignore the fact that Jack was running around with someones underwear in hand. Definitely a cause for concern, and so many implications. andthen he would concoct a multitude of jokes, puns, fables and half truths about old miss abernathy and her dubious hygiene. The nasty old bloomers would be the supporting evidence for his cruel yet accurate theories.
Jack nodded, as if he were making some sort of agreement with a trickster god, and he stuffed them down his freshly cleaned pants. This was what his purpose for existence was. To be a thorn in the side of all the busy bodies with judgemental stories and mean spirited put downs. Fuck all of those he hate the passionate Jack thought. He would have to make this a day worth suffering for, though. He doubted the old hag would take this sitting down.
He headed home. The streets were thining and the sun was going down. The time had come for rest and relaxation. Grown ups need their play time to, Jack thought to himself and sniggered. Grown ups were always talking down to their kids, as if they were really any different. Grown ups were pussies, jack thought, putting down anyone who still had the guts to have a little fun in their life. Joyless blowhards. A dead skunk on the vanilla and chocalate ice cream called life. A bunch of fuckers in other words.
Jack navigated the streets with ease. He was always out and about, so he knew them like the back of his hand. He probably put any off the police gaurds and stage coach drivers to shame, the putzes. JAck walked and saw a bunch of ants harvesting a rotten something. Good on them jack thought. He liked animals. You could always count on them to be true to themselves.
"jack, Jack, over here" A girl crird out from a balcony in the apartments above. It was Chelsea, a girl Jack went to class with. Good i can some jokes on her, he thought excitedly.
"Hi Chelsea, FAncy seeing you here" JAck called out, "I didn't know you lived in this part of town".
"i Don't live her" she called down at him
"are you visiting a friend"
"No, just my aunt, I come here every weekend"
"thats cool, you wanna have some fun"
"Depends on what you mean by fun"
"you know, fun! Laughing, singing, all that stuff"
Chelsea laughed, "well alright, you can come up once i see my aunt about it. She'll sya yes. She always lets me do what i want."
She ran back into the aprtment and JAck grinned some more. Chelsea was a cute girl. Spending some time with here would definitely be stimulating, in a cruder sense of the word. Nice long hair. AUburn like the fading lives of fall. Newly formed breast the thopught of which would make any self respecting boy entering puberty would go hard over. And how could he forget about that nice, round ass of her. Like two Perfect globes of some far away pardise that found unworthy of men. Perfection could only be found in the butt cheeks of a woman. Which is why Jack couldn't understand fags. The beauty, the eroticism, the purity of form, all these thing s a womans butt was. And they went for the sad parody of man-ass. Fucking loonies, jack though. You had to be crazy to se the world like that. Jack was definitely an assman, and probably a homophobe.
Chelsea came out, her lpneg her bouncing merrily with each steep. What lovely hair, jack thought. "she said yes, but you have to leave before five" she called down to him.
"thats perfect" Jack called back. 45 minutes was just right, he thought
HE went inside the newly made apartment building, the andrew jackson yada yada yada who gave a fuck unless you were an indian. The deak clerk peered at jack. "Can I help you, sir", the desk clerk cleary felt like being a smartass today.
"yes, I want to talk to this really cute girl with a nice ass and show her an old laies underwaear so i can tell her funny jokes" Jack chimed. The desk clerk laughed. He didn't stop for a while.
Chelsea came down the staiirs to find this situation still ongoing. The clerk recovered himself and responded
"Yeah, ok. As long as someones okay with you being here, I honestly don't give a fuck"
Now jack laughed. The word fuck was funny to him, He was kind of a jackass, if you hadn't realizad that by now. Kind of ironic his parents named him Jack.
"jack, Pete, stop abusing eachother", Chelsea said to the adult and the newly formed teenager.
"ok, sure, ehatever" Pete said.
"yeah, sure, whatever" Jack said. Women were beautiful, so in the balnce of things they were also lame.
I wonder if Chelsea"s aunt has any liquor, Jaclk thought. Better yet I wonder if Chesea's aunt has any liquor and chelsea drinks it as well. At the tender age of 13, Jack had already devoloped a hearty liking for beer vodka, and bourbon. Particulary bourbon. That stuff could make you believe in heaven. Amongst other things. It could also make you belive in nothing as well. which was just a type of heaven. Women waere lame though, so thbey probably didn't believe in a nything, even nothing. sometimes Jack wondered how women were even able to exist. That much wack assness could only be personified by nonexistenxce itself. women diodnt exist, thje perfect ass didn't exist, beauty was an illusion. Jack laughed to himself. The joke of being a women, he though. apparently Jack was also a misogynist. Jack was a cool cat.
Chelsea approached him with a smile, bright eyes and bright smile showing real affection. Jack was funny, that worked in his favor with the opposite sex.
"So what are you doing here, anyway" Chelsea said
"I live close by" Jack said,"I'm not here cause f telkinisis or whatever the fuck it';s called".
"Telepathy, Jack," Chelsea laughed at JAck's unashamed ignorance. "Telekinisis is when you can move stuff with your mind, I think".
"you think or you know.
"I'm ninety percebt sure that's what it is"
"whats the other ten percent, that you can see into te future see the end of rhe world or something"?
"Thats proiphecy"
"Are you a witch, ?you know a lot about things that are made up bull shit"
Chgelsea laughed. "my dad is really into this stuff and he talks about it all the time. I don't know if its's real or not-
"if it's bullshit",Jack corrected
Chelsea laughed,"ok. I don't know if it;s bulshit or not, but it's interseting, at least".
"I'm completely sure that that's true, sweet cheeks"
Cheksea blushed, maybe a little embarrased.
"It's ok if thats what you think" Jack said reassuringly, "Yeah it might be a little weird, but at least it's neat. At least your not completely fucking boring".
Chelsea laughed and smiled at Jack. This made Jack feel very good about himself. Making women feel good makes men feel good, apparently. It certainly makes sense.
"Well, I am a little bit weird." Chelsea said.
"You're neat" Jack corrected.
"alright, I'm neat".
They smiled at eachother.
The clerk sat at his desk and stred at them blankly. As entertaining as it was, they were distracting him from his duties.
"Can you lot leave to where you belong, I'm busy."
"Can't you just ignore us" jack said.
"No"
"OH, ok then". Chelsea and Jack went upstairs. This is even more exciting than stealing old lady abernathys bloomers, Jack thought.
>>8246993
You should shorten up your sentences. It'll give your writing way more punch
