Last one hit the bump limit.
For your consideration:
http://pastebin.com/48kHu4g2
I posted a version of this in the last thread shortly before it died. As I said there, it is supposed to be chaotic, jarring, and a little inconsistent. With that in mind, how is my style?
A face behind a confluence of glass: rust-colored forelocks falling over eyes--white pools, dark tunnels rimmed with light blue: placental warmth, the memory of it, percolating through the still air. Shift. Wrinkles--little valleys, flesh runnels deepening with the cruel flowing of time. Shift. Crystal droplets: tears: on the swell of her cheek: tears behind a glass pane: artificial, the precipitate of an inorganic process, to be considered from a distance--look but don't touch. Shift. Her eyes, hair, soft curves and angles fading, evaporating into a gleamingwhite plate.
He lay there for a time, on the wrinkled sheets of his bed, lost in antemeridian stupor: forms recognized, not understood; thoughts reduced to impressions--vague, evanescent feelings that fade without consequence; his own body foreign, alien, separate. He considered his hands with fascination, contemplating the lines in his palms, tracing them with his fingers. Firing synapses, connecting neurons, proprioceptors whirring to life: he grasped the folds of his blanket, pulling it off, waves propagating across the surface while it fell, dying when it landed--still. He rose and dressed: suit, loafers, watch: what was expected…
Will post some critiques tomorrow, it's late.
As darkness fell the men fell asleep quickly and the forest became noisy with chattering animals. There were clouds overhead but through them glimmered the stars and the starry band of the Milky Way. The wind became heavier as the night went on and the trees started to sway aggressively. Alone on the island the two men slept under their rough roof of leaves and nature unleashed its fury.
They both woke up in time to see the vine holding their shelter to the nearby tree snap and suddenly the cold wind was upon them. They were groggy with tiredness and tried to hold the roof down but it was no use. A strong gust came and blew the whole thing over onto the ground. It started to rain.
‘Oh for God’s sake give us a chance!’ the professor shouted into the wind. They grabbed at the shelter for fear that it would blow away. The ground was getting muddy and the professor slipped and fell in the mud. Sebastian ran to help him up and their shelter caught the wind like a sail. It flew backwards into a nearby trunk and hit it, snapping into pieces. The rain was heavy and cold and they both began to shiver. It cut into the mens’ faces and ears and they ran for the cover of a nearby fallen tree which they ducked under and huddled in the rain. The tree trunk stopped a bit of the rain but whenever there was a sideways gust they would get lashed at the back of their necks.
The two hopeless, soaked and miserable men sat huddled with each other whipped by the wind and rain. The professor put his jacket over both their backs and they sat there trembling. Around them the animals had gone silent and there was only the sound of the rain and wind and faraway the crashing of heavy waves on the shore. They sat there for what must have been hours shivering as the storm unleashed its fury on the island. In the dead of night it stopped raining and the wind grew calmer and there was only the lonely howling of the trees. The air blew over their cool bodies like a gentle deathly hand and for the longest part of the night they thought they would both die under the tree together. At the earliest part of the morning a cold silence fell over the island and they could see their breath and their eyes began to close. Then the birds were calling in the trees and the sun broke over the horizon bringing with it a new morning.
>>7366875
only read the first segment because it didn't hook me. the writing felt like alasdair gray's sections in 1982, Janine where the narrator is building a narrative for the fantasies he wants to fap to. this is neither a compliment or an insult. i have the suspicion you were trying to go for something else but your tone shot out in all directions.
>>7367012
Why write like this? I could take 1 ¶ of this at the end of a section, but not as the mainline of communication.
>>7367019
you're over-describing and it makes you redundant in places. try to be tighter.
>>7367019
>Too much telling--show more.
>Get rid of the adverbs.
>Use correct punctuation.
>Improve your sentence structure.
That's the best I can do without rewriting it. Keep it up, anon!
The problem all text-based deistopes are beauty, beaty? beauty -- Cornelia's symmetry uglies and to the shells of strombus mollusk medium seasnails spires don't go double sideways, but both ways like bisexuals and bivalves and biangulars; bipeds walk/run slow or fly. Bitch! you bitch the it saw sea green fulcrums young for his age, young for his age? and yes even Even tones mean infantilism to those without other isms: naked gills ni-care for airpaint.
"What are you up to on there?"
"Looking for women"
"On the internet? You'd have better luck looking for a power saw at a coffee shop."
Wynn did that thing. His ripostes had neither the zest of improvs nor the eloquence of composeds, giving him the almost impressive ability to simultaneously affect both wit and inastucity. He stood stiff: if his posture existed in a vacuum one would extrapolate that he wore oversized button shirts and jeans that ran perfectly vertically without any of the eighty dollar crease marks. But he wore a birdhouse on his head and feather fur as sleeve lint. An awful[ly] contradictory guy, in lots of ways.
Let's stop for an eighth. I don't like to do that and it's not for my own accord. Getting explicit like that is bad form in some schools, but I don't have Jake Barnes' narrative restraint. I'll hold back on the moralism and stick to deflection, but be generous and eat this up as meta. Onward?
Wynn left for groceries and I drank mandarin oranges in a spoonstraw. The canned peaches/oranges/mango complemented the glows of the room's blue screens (television, laptop, phone) to create an iridescent effect like those late 2000s superhero movie posters. The wall noises turned to sea foam and I blinked for twelve hours.
>wrote this like two and a half years ago, gonna post it again to see how it looks to these days' crowd
>>7367012
this is pretty good. the only thing that weight it down are cliches like "cruel time" or "fade without consequence". if you can work around those it's a good segment.
>>7367012
Youve made it worse from the first time you posted it.
>>7367044
>Why write like this?
It has to deal with the short story I'm writing, which gradually becomes more lucid as it progresses. Plus, it's fun, especially the colon fuckery.
>>7367051
pretty good. like the brackets.
>>7366875
Some advice, though after reading mine feel free to ignore it, put verbs closer to the front.
A nail silenced squealing with a champagne cork thump through hide covered bone. Randall's arm darkened with each cycle, capillaries opening in seemingly sympathetic pain. His eyes were glazed over. Headphone dangling from one hear jostling with every trigger pull. Pigs gliding on up and over him after the slaughtering. Ascending through a fiery corridor burning hair off and preparing the pig for butchering. In front of him the vast apparatus of the abattoir. Fenced in corridors full of pigs. In the sides lurked the worker— lights shining like wings behind them. Randall wondered if the pigs were dead before or after the suffering, but only for a moment, then the in ear speakers told him about the latest trends in hunting gear.
>>7367019
'were groggy with tiredness and tried ' → 'were groggy and tried'
'hopeless, soaked and miserable men' → 'hopeless, soaked, and miserable men'
'over their cool bodies like a gentle deathly hand and for the longest part of the night they thought they would both die under the tree together.' ← :') ?
Chapter Bottles: Dawn of the Final Day: in, which, we, forgot, Slim, Nigel, et, al.
We are quite an economical folk, are we not? Sparingly and so lenient on the Oxford comma, the splicing. Oh, the neverending splicing. It is almost riveting, is it not? Tell me more about the bottles.
“They work for the Masketta Man,”
“Isn’t he such a big guy?”
“Don’t worry, he doesn’t get to bring friends.”
“Why does he throw people from the balcony before shooting them?”
“Speak if you can and tell me your name.”
“Our creed is unimportant. Look to the results.
“Who told them to grab Docteur Pavelier?”
“The wreckage did, brother.”
“My flight plan lists memes, my memes, Dr. Memes here, but only Juan, of Yu”
“The first Juan to talk, will win a trip to Tahiti and a fabulous cash prize.”
“Tell me about the Masketta Man. What is the purpose of his rebreather apparatus?”
“I invoke the 5th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America.”
“You lot have quite a lot of loyalty for a bunch of bottles for hire!”
“If a man is shot before hitting the ground, does it make you wonder?”
“At least you can speak! Who might you be?”
“I am Nemo. The Nero of the undersea.”
“Did you apply for reciprocity tuition at Oxford university?”
“Of course! I wanted to submit my bribe to Docteur Pavelier, but he refused my offer in favor of yours. I had to find out what he told you about this affair.”
“This is a preposterous suggestion & indictment! I declare that I have uttered nothing. I repeat, I have uttered nothing. And I have not accepted any bribes!”
“Happy Birthday! You win! Congratulations and so on! What are you gonna do now?”
“Captain?!”
“Crash this Arsacidian Empire………….. WITH SURVIVORS”
[Scene: A bear drops out of a tree and lands with a thud on the rickety balcony.]
“HELP! BOLIS!! MAYDAY!”
“This event has no ontological significance! I am the decider here!”
[Scene: The masketa men start hitting the other masketa men.]
“No! We forgot to bring a crash-test dummy!”
“Is your Zippo lighter working?”
“Yes, as you can see the fire is being erect. I mean no, I am from the underwater, remember?”
“Remember docteur, the only thing you need to fear is fear itself. For now.”
[Scene: The Agent slips on a banana peel and falls on his ass. “KILL MYSELF”.]
(end)
>>7366875
Too much passive voice.
I've met a lot, yet none more bountiful than Victoria. She has soft blonde icing on her thighs. This sexy Greek I fell short of love with, the second mouth to ever touch mine, we met after a smoky night at a club in the mountains of Greece. She was to learn English, she explained and I inhaled and coughed, and everything she knew was spent over our first hour. Back at the hotel Somehow happened and we were flat on the cool made bed. So there comfortably us watching irises, Victoria gently licked my lips for 30 minutes. She took time and turned it into a broken Casio, pausing from tonguing to inspect my eyes as if a student of macular degeneracy. She kept things in her tongue that I chance to guess at and I continue watch in silent memory that heavenly, heavenly night, my path to her brush. 'You’ll never forget me if I don’t stop.' 'I'll forgive you.' Victoria looked, smiled, then gave me a taste of her perfumed lust flume. She didn't let me touch it—only taste as she moved it slowly against my face, more and more. Eventually, she pulled me back u.p. UP. A huge deal in Greece, she made no effort to introduce a condom, just beautiful blue eyes, dark hair, her accent, and skin.
Lying on th' bed, her biting my ear, touching a native channel of understanding—this nature worked and learned—now in Greek: 'Ναί.'
>>7367097
;^)It wasn't easy writing the whole thing w/o passives.
>>7367098
Needs proofreading.
dont stay in one place too long
or one night
you'll find yourself
at the wrong station.
you saw
a name you had not
thought of
Since--
where am i?
you'll see and
and remember
that bar, once
your second living room,
filled with
the wrong faces
you'll feel decay
you'll walk away,
back home,
and you'll make sure to
avoid the sight of the cafe
with the good creme caramel
and to turn where you should not
to avoid your old street
you'll go past the edges of your old world
on your way home
And you will realize
it is too close
>>7367084
for u
>>7366875
I "quit" school 2 years ago when i was 16, so my grammar is retarded.
Any and all criticisms are welcome.
The following is in response to the topic of genetic engineering, the societal changes effects on the free market, and a genetic monopoly.
Those who expire in the wake of change are the necessary casualties of progress. The future will come whether your entitlement permits its recognition or otherwise. It is your responsibility to live with the mistakes of man, and learn the meta of freedom. Until the time has come and passed, you bear the burden of progress, and are subject to the future you've enabled.
A man is not defined by his genes, genes die and change. Those who remain strong in their belief, and strong in their culture, survive the decay of time. When the future of genetic engineering becomes present, the most successful people will be chosen, and those who refuse will be assimilated or destroyed, this is the way of all living beings. Should this dissuade the lesser man from participating in the trivialities of human inflation?
Even if his identity disappears due to its common worth, the lives he has enabled will carry his burden as he has. His stone and mountain will be passed to his brothers and sisters, as we are all products of our brothers and sisters, those who have died and been forgotten so we may live. This is why we must forget our entitlement, this is why we must embrace the future and mold it into the idea of what is right. It doesn't matter if the original sinners are stopped, the weak are made genetically strong, and all that's left are the white or black or tall. A plague of cultural incompetence has sown itself into the essence of modern man.
Modern man cannot be saved with genetic engineering, he can only be saved by his brothers and sisters.
The mark remembered is not left in stone.
A recollection of the human condition and it's reciprocation through the evolution of society. Christianity has changed from its original form, yet there are those who retain its principals, I’m suggesting we learn from this and better protect our freedom of will, independently. Cherish the constitution and it will withstand the living waves of dictation and degeneration of libertarian society. Much like the church of god, it is not necessarily facilitated behind borders, but within the man who carries himself righteously. Where you have freedom, you are a living testament to libertarian ideology, and are enabling its future.
Save us from, itself. When the truth is known but not shared, the man who dies with its knowledge is no more meaningful than those who never learned. Democracy in USA has become a dictation of ignorance, those unwilling to understand are condemning truth to the void. This is why we must cherish our freedom wherever we go, we must not bend our will to the likes of those who would dictate our lives and liberty, because our lives mean nothing, without liberty.
>>7367138
Just in case a young soul perchance comes along.
The first few months were the most difficult. He lost the motivation for everything. He didn't want to work, to look after himself, he didn't even want to see his daughter on the rare occasions he was allowed to. When he ate, the food in his mouth tasted dry and tasteless, but he forced down the minimum he needed to survive anyway.
After that the pain wasn't so acute, but he became locked in a state where he was no longer living, he simply 'was'. In the back of his mind he knew that somewhere down the line he would return to equilibrium and maybe even feel happy again and so he resolved not to kill himself no matter how low he felt. And so he drifted around in a permanent state of numbness, just waiting for that change but with no idea how to make it happen. He had learned to perfect a mask of normalcy to wear in public so that no one would know just how far he had fallen. Even when he returned home at the end of his day he would find a series of tasks to do so that he would be permanently busy and distracted from the thoughts that plagued him until it was time to sleep.
(1/2)
Sleep was the only thing he had left that he genuinely enjoyed. When every moment of his wakeful existence was like living in a nightmare, when he tiptoed so carefully through life so that he didn't return to despair, sleep was a much-needed refuge. When the machine of his consciousness was switched off, the world as he knew it ceased to be real and everything was possible once again, including his own happiness.
How cruel then, that life should try to take this from him too. Each night he would lay his head on the pillow, close his eyes, and wait for sleep to overtake him. But it would not matter how tired he was, more often than not the only sensation he had was the noise in his head and he was forced to think about the things that he had tried so desperately not to think about all day, and sleep would remain just out of his grasp.
Some nights he would crash in and out of sleep every hour for the whole night, fitful and feverish. Other nights he would get no sleep at all, facing the new dawn with a weariness that went beyond mere tiredness. If he ever was able to sleep for a few hours on end, he often found himself dreaming that she was still his and that the narrative of the life that he wanted was still in tact. In those few seconds immediately after he woke, where he knew not who or where he was, where everything was confusion, he finally felt both conscious and happy. Then as he fully regained his senses he would realise the dream was a lie and the illusion of happiness was ripped from him and the cycle began once again. Those were the worst nights of all.
(2/2)
P----Y
oh, must be poetry rubbing itself in the tree
oh, must be hiding in the leaves of summer
dead branches of winter
oh, must be lodged in the throats of saxophones
oh, must be poetry sliding down the trunk
wide-eyed, panicky, flooded
oh, must be poetry there in the waist-high grasses
oh, must be on hands and knees, rustling the
foliage and crushing bacteria beneath dirty palms
oh, must be poetry singing in the garden, shameless
oh, must be sleepy and lodged in the throat of
songbirds and arguers and silent types
oh, must be a hollow fruit
a hollow strand of hair
a hollow slab of stone
a hollow bomb’s descent
a hollow essay on determination and fear
a hollow poetry fused to the
thickest treetrunk in the whole damn town
MY PHONE’S DARK RED PLACE IS ALSO A FORM OF BETRAYAL POEM
art is knowledge getting drunk with intuition
and texting is closer to thinking
and thinking is closer to being
nothing at all, which never disappoints.
tonight the phone
is behaving like a high-maintenance
electronic pet. feeding it texts, like tossing
lemons to a raging hound, I feel disinterested.
the keyboard is hostile to my fingers and I can’t
come up with a good sentence that combines
clarity with craziness. I think I forgot
how to talk on the phone,
which taught me that nothing is lost nothing is gained,
everything is compensation, and also that art is tiring,
and never disappoints. I went mad maybe,
not from one thing but from multiple things,
the phone’s memory unit being ninety-four percent full
and then the pressure of having to delete
either evidence of my jurisdiction as a lover
or peaks in my social relationships.
the phone should maybe fuck off
or go up to a hundred-and-ten percent memory full,
accept the pain, then go mad,
which never disappoints.
>>7367225
can u publish stuff so i can buy it
>>7367258
>are all the namefags dead?
No I just don't use mine anymore
>>7367012
I think this has potential, but at times I felt like you were using long words just for the sake of it. Call me pleb, but are words like 'confluence', 'antimeridian', 'propagating' really necessary? Other anons may disagree, but for me they just disrupted the flow of the piece because I was thinking too much about what exactly they meant and whether they were justified. On the whole I think the writing is good though.
>>7367019
Overall I liked it, but there were a few things I'd reconsider. You used the phrase 'unleashed its fury' twice, and I didn't like it either time. It seems a bit cliche and I think you can do better. Also didn't like 'groggy with tiredness' as you're essentially saying the same thing (e.g. 'they were hungry with hunger'). Other than that it's good, just a little over-descriptive in parts.
>>7367051
I literally have no idea what most of this passage means. Maybe you're a genius and I'm a pleb, I don't know.
>>7367075
I don't like the way the first sentence is worded, it just doesn't fit somehow. Other than that it's ok, maybe a little bit over-descriptive in parts, but it's an interesting concept and I think it has potential to be developed.
>>7367098
I think it's ok for a first draft but needs work. It feels like you're writing from your own experiences and have just regurgitated what's in your head onto the page. In that way I like it because it feels honest, but I also think it's a bit difficult to follow in some parts and could be better developed in others.
i got a message online
from a brown-skinned pal of mine
who told me that the holocaust
is right now in Palestine
>>7367335
bazingu
In the valley of Nis the accursed waning moon shines thinly, tearing a path for its light with feeble horns through the lethal foliage of a great upas-tree. And within the depths of the valley, where the light reaches not, move forms not meet to be beheld. Rank is the herbage on each slope, where evil vines and creeping plants crawl amidst the stones of ruined palaces, twining tightly about broken columns and strange monoliths, and heaving up marble pavements laid by forgotten hands. And in trees that grow gigantic in crumbling courtyards leap little apes, while in and out of deep treasure-vaults writhe poison serpents and scaly things without a name.
Vast are the stones which sleep beneath coverlets of dank moss, and mighty were the walls from which they fell. For all time did their builders erect them, and in sooth they yet serve nobly, for beneath them the grey toad makes his habitation.
At the very bottom of the valley lies the river Than, whose waters are slimy and filled with weeds. From hidden springs it rises, and to subterranean grottoes it flows, so that the Daemon of the Valley knows not why its waters are red, nor whither they are bound.
The Genie that haunts the moonbeams spake to the Daemon of the Valley, saying, “I am old, and forget much. Tell me the deeds and aspect and name of them who built these things of stone.” And the Daemon replied, “I am Memory, and am wise in lore of the past, but I too am old. These beings were like the waters of the river Than, not to be understood. Their deeds I recall not, for they were but of the moment. Their aspect I recall dimly, for it was like to that of the little apes in the trees. Their name I recall clearly, for it rhymed with that of the river. These beings of yesterday were called Man.”
So the Genie flew back to the thin horned moon, and the Daemon looked intently at a little ape in a tree that grew in a crumbling courtyard.
http://pastebin.com/NhtQyC7J
Anyone got time to tear this poem a new one?
I would really, really appreciate it.
>>7367266
what is it
It was the fourth year of school, but not the final fourth. Still, my friends had been through a lot in those four years; they had gone through change both physically and mentally. Their muscles had grown to endure the hard work of farming, their minds and senses had adapted the art of driving. They had learned how to communicate with the horses, the birds, the dogs, the foxes and the snakes-- well maybe not snakes, but at least they knew how to spot one slithering in the grass. They realized which trees they wanted to climb, which apples they want to pick, and the basic color too, and the parts of this vast garden they wanted to harvest. No doubt their plans would change a million times more, and that would be even more time spent forming their minds and eyes, making the crucial decisions that would shape their entire lives. But at least the wheels in their minds were turning like a car's, speeding down the main highways-- I do not know those highways.
I have been too busy fighting a war in my neck of the woods. No, not some silly wargame that most of the boys play with the old rats. Not the noble, brave, scary wars that the big old miners and farmers, like my father, have almost died fighting in the oceans-- wrestling with the strange fish of the far abysses.
My war takes place in the same indescribable path I've been walking most of my existence. I can't help feeling special knowing that my friends haven't explored this path, but then I remember I can't even see where it forks, or turns into a sunnier, breezier atmosphere. So many soldiers stand in the way. Sometimes they even block out the sun, and it's so scary because I don't even know much about the sun, except for the fact it's bright, and warm, and makes me want to dance in its presence. But when they block out the sun, I don't know if I want to see it or if I'm too comfortable cowering in their shadows; them pushing me back into my little hole on the side of the road, where it's even more comforting, and most of all, familiar, than the disposition of that great star.
But that hole is so cold, so very deep down into the earth, that upon entering it, climbing down the root-infested, frozen soil stairway, I forget the air and the trees and the flowers and the rain and the sun. All that I know is the numbness, the surrounding frigidity and solemn air void of sound and movement. My insides would freeze, slowly dropping to temperatures unendurable for my pulsing blood or racing heart. My mind and soul would fall into the beginning stages of a comforting slumber from it's brisk lullaby.
This part of me feels wrapped up, like in a soft, tight blanket; squeezing my lungs, but giving just enough air to my brain for processing the ominous song. Sometimes, as I lay resting on the frozen cave floor, I wonder if my vivacious flesh and organs are the only part of me that is living; if my mind and soul have already died.
>>7367572
:')prole
>>7367572Kolsti
>>7367572
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ஜ۩۞۩ஜ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
B U T T E R F L Y !
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ஜ۩۞۩ஜ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
>>7367012
pointless writing
>>7367019
need to learn show not tell and pacing
>>7367051
pointless
the fact that you wrote this 2.5 years ago and you're still trying to squeeze every last bit of validation you can from it is depressing as hell
>>7367138
you should go back to school
>>7367184
>>7367188
very unoriginal ideas expressed in typical cliches
that said, there's nothing wrong with it, there's just nothing good/compelling about it either
>>7367451
occasional sparks of interesting imagery, but its way too bogged down in fan-fic level fantasy and awkward vocabulary
>>7367562
I dislike reading poetry on crit threads but I skimmed yours and it seems quite decent/I had no knee-jerk reaction to it
>>7367573
not too shabby, but (perhaps because of its short length?) seems unsubstanial
also veers to purple prose at times ("far abysses," shadow/sun, "surrounding frigity and solem air void of sound and movement")
>>7367612
I just don't like posting my new writing because I'm already working with an editor for that so I repost my old stuff periodically with minor tweaks just to see if perception has changed.
>>7367572
I am none of these people, thank the gods
>>7367577
>>7367582
>>7367602
>>7367653
no way d&e hasnt killed himself by now
>These are a character's thoughts, not my own.
The truth is women aren't attracted to men, but rather, to man. Specifically, the attractive man. All men considered attractive are only considered so because they resemble /the/ attractive man. This is why male attractiveness can be ranked more effectively than female attractiveness can. A man is attractive if his jaw is square and sharp; but hardly any man's jaw is as square and sharp as that of /the/ attractive man. A man is attractive if his eyes are large and deeply set under a prominent brow; but scarce are mortal men with eyes of these dimensions. A man is attractive if his penis is large but not too large, his muscles are large but not too large, his body fat is low but not too low, his shoulders are broad but not too broad and his face is symmetrical but not too symmetrical as to appear inhuman.
This is obviously cultural. And not every woman's attractive man is the same, even within cultures. But where men find women individually attractive such that they are each incomparable, for each woman a man's beauty is a function of his physical proximity to her attractive man.
>>7367678
is the character supposed to be a 'me smurt' type
cuz its grating but if youre going for that
>>7367612
I know you said you dislike reading poetry, but I would be grateful if you could make an exception.
I
know,
with time,
all loved things
will float out from us.
But i will still hold you, I will.
Aidan Wilson woke up one morning with a dreadful headache. The sun had yet to appear over the dusty desert, but Aidan did not feel the need to fall back into his restful slumber. He peered over his shoulder finding only his mother. “She must have come up stairs to my room to wake me up,” thought Aidan Wilson, but Aidan soon noticed that she had a worried look on her face that was quite unusual. He gave his mother a smile of compassion, however, his mother was not looking at his face, but the convoy of military-grade trucks outside of the window. “The sound of those trucks must’ve woken me up,” thought Aidan to himself. Suddenly a horrible thought occurred to Aidan, what if the figure before him was actually a spy sent by the Red Brigade! Aidan’s paranoia was too much for him to handle, so he slipped his hand under his pillow and grasped his shank; Aidan leaped from his bed and impaled his supposed mother’s eye. Her screams bellowed through the expansive apartment complex; the neighbor’s lights shining into Aiden’s bedroom created an almost artificial scene before him. Aidan’s mother fell back onto the wooden floor, her screams drowning out all other noises. Aidan removed the makeshift knife from her eye socket, with the eye coming with it. Aidan leaped backwards, unsure of his actions, however, he realized it was what needed to be done. Aidan grasped his bedsheets, and crafted a sturdy noose. Following this, he kicked the fragile window, which was destroyed with ease. Aidan tied the noose around the neck of the intruding woman, then connected one end of the bed sheets to the leg of the bed. Aidan grabbed his mother, and threw her out the window. She desperately tried to stop what was happening, but it was far too late. Aiden watched as the slack of the rope rapidly depleted as the intruder plummeted to the concrete below. Aiden ran to the window and watched as the rope fully extended, and his mother’s lifeless body bounced up and down like a human yoyo.
>>7367804
Aidan jolted forward against his bed covers, sweat running down his forehead. He released a sigh of relief, realising it was only but a spell. He pondered what truths the dream held about his life. These thoughts were short lived as he heard a knock on his bedroom door. Aidan ripped the covers off his soaking wet body; the sun illuminated his backside. As his body rose the bedsheet peeled off his back like an onion. He swung his legs over the side of his mattress preparing for the HOT day. The steam emanated from his body, creating a sauna of his small bedroom. The fumes were making his head spin, and while trying to get up he toppled over. “Frecking ‘ell mate” thought Aidan as he picked himself off the shit stained flooring. He rose from the floor in the same fashion a flame would from a fire. “Does the fire rise?” He wondered. “Of course” he answered himself. Aidan had a passion for fire, ever since his dog burned alive. He sauntered over to the old metal door leading to the main room of the prison he calls home. He began to twist the knob, feeling a slight burn against the palm of his hand. His sweaty hands lubricated the knob, forcing him to twist it more and more, until eventually forcing the door open. The only light in the hallway came from streaks of sunlight needling through the small cracks in the ceiling. Aiden sauntered forward exhausted from a sleepless night of terror. The angels bellowed by the harness by the latch, holding the suspecting captives in their captivity. No longer captivated by God’s capitulation the hellish trumpeting fags rode out to the docks capitalizing on His weakness.The boy peered beyond the docks, confused by the expanse of concrete that absorbs his inner-being, his inner-being that is not his own, but that of his predecessors.This lamb rolled off the edge plummeting towards the grey waste, flowing into the great siphon. The being was being lead by the shepherd, the boy does not understand the circumstances in which he is following the shepherd, only the being in which he himself will fulfill. His wellspring was full of murky essence, filling to the brim, overflowing with inverted radiance. The shepherd grasps a wooden scepter, a captivating scepter; the boy does not know why he is succeeding the man, he knows only that the man succeeds only when necessary. The thinker’s perception has blossomed, he does not know whether he goes to the grazing yards, or the abattoir.
Aidan wanders towards the candy shop, knowing his companion will be awaiting.
>>7367778
are you >>7367562? I dislike reading poetry because it requires too much effort and time to tell if it is good/has substance
that said, you can generally tell if a poem is bad very quickly, and I don't think >>7367562 is bad--tho my bar is quite low; any poem with decent enjambment, occasionally striking imagery/metaphor, and no major issues with vocabulary or cadence is "not bad" for me
>>7367678
>The truth is women aren't attracted to men, but rather, to man. Specifically, the attractive man.
this was humorous
the rest is very poorly written (and inaccurate)
>>7367804
>starting with character waking up
>sentences begin with: Aidan, The, He, She, He, The, Suddenly, Aidan, Her, Aidan, Aidan, Aidan, Aidan.......
>>7367860
Poetry is really simple because the impression is instantaneous.
The problem people run into is they try to think really hard about it. Which is fine, unless it's causing you these problems that you didn't know you were creating.
>>7367860
thank you for the advice friend
i will continue to work on my prose
>>7367876
not to derail the thread, but no, that is a very simple view of poetry (and art)
yes, your impression and emotion does matter, but this is only true for very naive poems
anything complex (ie not aphoristic, not relying singularly on rhyme) should be read very carefully because every word is there for a reason--after all, one of the defining characteristics that separates poetry from prose is concision/economy of words
thoreau has a great quote about reading as deliberately and reservedly as the writing, and I promise you that any poem worth anything has been absolutely agonized over by its poet
of course, there are exceptions to everything, and I could probably argue against myself with just as much conviction, but I believe this to be generally accurate (particularly in regards to /lit/ and "amateur" poetry)
>>7367612
>occasional sparks of interesting imagery, but its way too bogged down in fan-fic level fantasy and awkward vocabulary
It's actually just an early short from Lovecraft.
>>7368099
Not that reviewer BUT that's always been the problem w/Lovecraft. So you proved what? Thanks for wasting that dude's time, fuckface.
>>7368111
Not sure why you're so defensive. I wasn't trying to prove anything.
"I love you" she whispered into his ear. "I love you t-" his phrase was suddenly cut in half when his alarm clock went off. Morning bed rambling: kicking and punching the air until he opened his eyes and realized what was going on. He was waking up. "I was dreaming with my cousin? jesus, pull yourself together man" and so he pulled himself together. He took the army recruitment letter from his bedstand and went to the bathroom in nothing but his white boxers with red heart designs. He took a shower and shaved thoroughly but he cut himself in some places. "Damn dude, gotta be more careful there" he muttered to himself as he placed some toilet paper squares over his wounds. He exited the bathroom and headed towards the kitchen. There he found an apple, a shoe and a letter from his mother. "Don't forget to eat breakfast. Here's your other shoe. Love, mom." "I didn't know I had lost a shoe. Oh well." then he grabbed the apple and ran upstairs to get dressed.
After he was completely dressed, and miraculously with matching socks, he headed for the door. "I'm going to the recruitment tent!" he shouted then realized nobody was home. He set a foot outside and his neighbor's cat "Princess" darted inside. "No Princess! last time you were here you ate my dinner!" he said while chasing the poor feline. The agile cat was impossible to catch so he decided to let it stay. He went to his local recruitment tent and presented a totally non-forged document that proved his mom did not gave him permission to go the military. When he came back he realized he had forgotten his keys. But it was too late: Princess had already eaten his lunch. He punched the living room window while shouting "No!" until he fell asleep.
>>7366875
Does anyone ever get way too caught up in one or two characters and have trouble focusing on the rest? I just love the chemistry of these two and they're mostly supporting, but I can't stop writing their scenes and I can't even get back into the main plotline.
How do you forcibly implement meaning into your writing? It seems like whenever I write, I write just to get a story out, stories that seem to be just more about fun than anything else. They're almost always without any real substance or depth and I worry it will always be like that
Through my phone's aperture, I saw a figure emerge from the ash cloud. It was a heavyset man in a business suit, caked in dust from head to foot. Despite his weight, his face was gaunt. A streak of dried blood trailed from his right ear. He walked towards me as if in a trance and I couldn't tell if he noticed I was there, just a few feet away pointing my phone at him.
I tried talking to him at first, then shouting and waving my arms. When he noticed me, a panic swept over him. He began to shout about how he couldn't hear anything. His voice was unlike anything I had heard, warbling uncontrollably in pitch. He didn't seem to notice. Between yells, he whimpered, almost like the bleating of an animal.
His shouting wore on, but then gave way to a coughing fit. The coughing grew louder and worse, until he finally spat a large congealed mass of blood and phlegm onto the sidewalk. Then his eyes rolled back and he fell forward onto the ground. Seen from my camera, the fall seemed to happen in slow motion.
As he landed, the dust around him billowed up and then settled. His sports coat had pushed up slightly to reveal a large red stain soaking the button up underneath. As he lay there, the stain grew rapidly, spreading outward in every direction, darkening in the center.
I felt an strong urge to cough. I put my phone away to cover my mouth. My throat tightened as I felt a lump working its way up from my chest.
Why is plotting so FUCKING DIFFICULT? I'm dying here.
>>7368146
Then just focus on them. Literally, it's the best decision you can make.
>>7367612
>pointless
What does that even mean?
Okay, fuck this.
I loved my mother. I really loved her. That was why I decided to kill her. Someone had to do it, and it was me.
My mother was a lovely lady in her mid-40s and come to think about it, there was nothing wrong with her. She was not abusive. She was not a narcissist. She always cooked me breakfast before I went to school and always took care of me when I, for instance, broke my arms. Everything was flawless, and I hated it. I hated the fact that she didn’t abuse me. I hated the fact that she didn’t think I was a failure. To be honest, I was sociable, always got Straight A’s and I hated that fact too. It was perfect. I decided that I had had enough of it. That I was to take actions. So I did. If my memory serves, it was a beautiful Thursday. She was, as always sitting on her bed writing something on her notepad. Next to her was a vintage-looking cup of idea. She looked and smiled at me like nothing was wrong. She still didn’t know.
“Mom, I have something I need to tell you.” I said with calm.
“What is it, dear?” she said and turned the notepad’s page, still smiling.
Suddenly, she felt like there was something wrong with her from the look of it. I wasn’t surprised, as I had spiked her with some chemical compound I found that was said to be very toxic, which formula I’ve forgot.
“What…is happening to me?”
"Everything is going to be okay." I lied to her as I held her in my arms.
She was writhing around on the floor for a while before she choked and died. What a relief, I thought. Then I realized that she wasn’t my mother.
>>7368885
YA-tier. Improve your sentence structure.
The cursor blinks, accursed thing,
Illuminated manuscripts,
Empty, endless words in waiting,
Asleep in liquid crystal crypts.
The champion El Cid's display
Played muse to Castilian songs.
Now Champions in boxes lay
Among Nike's victor-less throng.
What avoided truth, my muse is dead,
But blinks like bed-rid vegetable,
Her flickered flame glows from her head,
Dim as drugged by a Huxtable.
And still the words flow, humorless
Although filled with bile, blood and phlegm,
The letting's done, there's nothing left
To do but let the words tide stem.
>>7369029
Okay I consider that a fucking compliment.
>>7369079
No need to get flustered.
>>7368885
Le edgy topic
I like the reversals. You've figured out that you can keep the reader interested with paradoxes. But your style needs to be smoother.
>I wasn’t surprised, as I had spiked her with some chemical compound I found that was said to be very toxic, which formula I’ve forgot.
Weakest sentence by far
It was lightly brushing against the side of his face, a few delicate strands of oscillating nothingness; he awoke with a warm, languid gaze that proved it was nothing. Fourteen droll hours had passed, each one as fleeting as the last. And here he lay, once again, a filthy sofa that was his familiar, its harsh and wooly texture creating a waterfall with the exposed splintery floorboards it pressed.
An unknownness and resilience persisted in his mind. A wanted semblance of calm was fixed in his being, a heady, felt warmth. A slightness of mind and pressing need to awaken fought like loam against steel: he kept it at a dusky distance for some time before the urgency won and he flung his leaden legs across with an obtuse, dense movement. Lights swam under his wan eyelids as he rose barefoot and made his way across the thick, expensive flooring and tiptoed gainfully amongst the bodies and pulled on his jacket. A beautifully constructed motion that slipped like silk and brought around a coolness to the heated fuelled body once, twice moving. Feet and movement met and, clothed, the weighty clunk of the door was closed and down the metallic staircase, a rushing, a newly feathery precision.
Later than before, the afternoon’s looking upon his minutia and presence in time, was as scornful as it was kind. It lay looking but gazing past as his mind was bought upon with an amber sky. An immense hunger was grazing the sides of his lungs. But no needless positioning of arbitrary needs would do much to fetter the parlour of his insides, of the trilling of the dank, soft notes. No, a forward and loving chasm would propel any caught sidelines and protect his temple that lay untouched except for the overgrown, comforting blanket of wild bracken. With the un-comfort of the night, proceeding to relay the synapses of the personae within, a desire was met - it would be the stickiness but no contact, the depths of the effervescent cauldron of upwards that kept any negativity in flux and a syrupy, non-scalding breadth of happiness upon the thankful body.
I was only thirteen when I saw it. It was something, this hole. What was it purpose that I didn’t catch? Happiness. That is what I’ve said to myself, after all those twenty years of ups and downs, it’s always been significant in my life.
I’d had pancakes for breakfast homemade that day by my loving mother who cared for me as much as how I cared about the hole. It had been sitting on my mind for a few days. I wasn’t late for school, and Mrs. Robinson as always was prettier than usual. So I supposed. She was teaching something about space, and how insignificant the Earth compared to the Sun, and how insignificant the sun is to the Milky Way. And she did mention something along the line of acceleration of the expanding of the universe. Mental masturbation, I thought to myself.
>>7369049
> Among Nike's victor-less throng
This near rhyme is so forced. Unless you're going for awkwardness to reflect the subject matter (which you could very well be doing), I'd suggest reworking this somehow.
Also, what are the throngs? It feels rather abstract.
You know what you're doing, though, and other than that line your poem is cool.
Your rhythm is fun
>>7369204
Thanks. I left that line in because the next stanza is basically a reaction to the jerky, abstract hole I dug there.
Even trying to explain the "throngs" concretely is difficult, but I guess it's somewhere between a bunch of shoes and their dead mythical namesakes. Blegh.
>>7367281
>I don't like the way the first sentence is worded,
I was trying to make it sound industrial and clanky, Though, since it is a first draft it's probably not very good.
>>7366875
I'll be honest I'm wasting life
on niche hobbies and sleepless nights
>>7369367
Good stuff overall. There's some great imagery. The repetition is good in parts, but in others I think it verges on redundant. The allusions were best when they were subtle rather than outright. The indentation is gaudy for my tastes, but I'm a curmudgeon with that kind of thing.
>>7369481
>wasting
>>7368115
you're actually retarded
>>7368119
>opens with character waking from a dream
your writing is pointless
>>7368273
there's nothing wrong with a fun story with no meaning--Ian Fleming's Bond novels are a good example of this
if you want literary substance, you need to be exploring ideas or themes
>>7368331
nothing overtly wrong with the prose
I think the flow is a bit off in certain areas where there's a lot of short and stilted sentences in a row
the narrative order and structuring of paragraphs also seems a bit arbitrary to me
>>7369158
>opens with character waking
fuck me
your prose is also self-indulgent and masturbatory and pointless
>>7369196
very convoluted narrative, which is unusual given how short the excerpt is and how little really happens
>>7369507
Hey, thank you very much. I'll take what you said into consideration.
If you've got the time, could you give me an example of which allusions you thought were good and which were bad?
I sipped at the glass. Casting my eyes nonchalantly around the luxe, decadent room I felt naught but resentment for these palace dwellers and inheritance thieves who spoiled the perfume and perfection of my tenure, the antithesis to my graft.
I lifted my head like a cat and smiled like the fox I was as my contemporaries returned to my vicinity and took their places around my table in their arrangéd comforts. Silken dresses and fine tailoring pedestaled these faces, ones I doubt you would give a second look on the tube. Conversation returned like warm ice, we slipped back into it like the expertly made elites that we were, after all, this was our profession, and we were in our element.
Ms Spencer was twirling the stick in her cocktail and muttering to her neighbours, those two from across the park who’d been doing some sort of renaissance work in the contemporary networking scene. The kind of people who are in the right place at the right time - I doubted they’d stay in our circle for much more than a few months as I could already taste the strain of their abhorrent selves in the sides and core of my being. I’d been reluctantly offering my lavish patterings of laughter and slyly interested retorts and it had been working quite finely for the time being. A few minutes time would pass before I would step out of the scene and wander out of the warmth of this domed crystal haven and wrench my vile guts over the pretty marble pavement.
>>7369882
>Opening with a character waking from a dream
I know it's a tad...cliché, but it's not like it's an inherently bad thing.
She saw the flash across the concrete skyway. Wide "U" of magnetic rails giving her a clear view of the detonation over rooftop gardens and grey fenced-in cell towers.
Cloud of concrete dust. Chunks of support and magnet rail gasconading in three hundred and sixty degrees.
The sounds came as distal chaos. Dampened by the groaning steel chassis of the crowded multi-teired observation coach. She was transfixed in shock as an androgynous voice repeated it's desire for calm and order. Domino effect of explosion rolling towards her through curved glass view port. LightTrain cabs falling in slow-motion towards the cityscape. Control frame of the smart tram reeling from the rails into the front of a Starbucks Coffee. Molten metal and gurgling electronics dragging flickering passenger cars skidding into the street. Tram smashing through four-lanes of rush-hour gridlock. Sparks skittering along pavement. Driver assisted vehicles locking steering and activating parking brakes as on-board windshield displays detect multiple imminent collisions. Hundreds of tons of collapsing urban transit.
>>7370217
Any editor or publisher is gunna roll their eyes unless the content is outstanding.
>>7370412
>writing for publishers
>>7370424
>not writing to be read
>>7367612
>>7367860
>>7369882
Either wasting sentences to show your distaste for something, while contributing nothing other than your objection, or being productive with the words you write to the individual you write to?
Oh wait, i get it. That which you don't like, you condemn for the sake of protest, and then when you commend writing, it's almost like your opinion is validated as a reasonable critic.
You're smug that pretension is permeating my icedragon, or is that just forethought of your next "critique" foreshadowing another response of wasted words, and tasteless assertions?
>>7368111
The weird vocabulary is part of what makes Lovecraft work, though. The entire point is to make you feel like you're reading about something eldritch and incomprehensible.
>>7370472
even your objection to my critique is so poorly written and hard to understand
and if you're really that bothered by an anonymous critique on /lit/, you're probably not cut out for this
as a show of good faith, if you really want to improve, point out which excerpt is yours and I'll go into detail why it's "pointless"
>>7370484
That's not what I'm referring to. I really do love Lovecraft, but his writing isn't great.
>>7370534
Yet you don't say what is, or even propose your assumption on prose. Most people would consider this presumptuous, lazy, and pointlessly demeaning.
I'm not bothered by what you say, but why you say it. Verbatim. You could have skipped this conversation by ignoring your urge to pointlessly jab at others literature.
I've not written in this thread other than to point out your obnoxious attitude towards art. I doubt you would do more than what you've already done verbatim.
>>7370562
holy moley that is dank
Just looking for some quick thoughts on my first paragraph here. Would this grab your interest at all to continue reading etc?
I'm almost not even bothered by my phone's alarm anymore I'm getting so used to its din. It's still annoying though that i can't just press a button to turn it off, if anything having to swipe my phone's screen is what wakes me up. I mean, I guess it's good that it wakes me up, but it means I always start my day with something already pissing me off besides the returning awareness of how pathetic I am.
>>7370695
Is this intended as YAF?
>already pissing me off besides the returning awareness of how pathetic I am.
This dissuaded me from wanting to read more. The fluctuation in mood felt too drastic and unnecessary. On one hand, i would like to know why he's pissed off, but you described it so strongly and nonchalant that i can only assume the protagonist is a teenage American city girl, which I'm not interested in reading about at all. I can't empathize with the protagonist neither do i care about it's whiny life.
>>7370746
yeah its the perspective of a whiny suburban millenial
what does YAF mean?
>>7370750
young adult fiction
http://pastebin.com/3JVswe7v
>>7370776
i guess so, its about a guy feeling sorry for his parents cause he's a disappointment but resenting them cause he wants to be a lowlife
>>7370794
You could have just written "He regularly goes on 4chan" to achieve the same effect.
>>7370750
Young Adolescent Fury
>>7370785
I was interested until i realized we need to build a wall. You write to the point and have a very nice synergy between setting and mood. I would continue reading if these were the first two paragraphs in a book.
>>7370838
http://pastebin.com/nvMrET6s
this is a very strange porn i wrote, i was going to delete it, but i decided i would post it on /lit/ first.
it is pretty short. the characters cut themselves and stuff.
http://pastebin.com/4hTcnEKb
Longer lovecraft-inspired work
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1r8UFtfCe1mcWK7-S5D_Yhd0JUKQ6XwEDQQS7GgVyqVI/edit?usp=sharing
>>7370581
well alrighty then
>>7370695
no, I would not continue reading
this barely misses the cliche of starting a story with waking up and there's literally nothing to grab the interest
>>7370785
prose is clean and readable enough
>Since this is a small Midwestern town and not Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, something suspicious is up.
a pop culture reference so early seems a bit out of place and would dissuade me a little
also you might be using rhetorical questions a bit too much
>>7370785
oh yeah, you're definitely using too many rhetorical questions
>>7367612
Yeah, that's just an excerp from the piece I'm working on, there's more. I naturally have a very descriptive, ornate way of writing. I try not to get too caught up in all the words but it's something I still need to work on. Thanks for the critique though.
Hong Kong 2032
Everything was drenched in warm hues of yellow and red and people were rushing out of the rain, leaping over puddles, covering their heads from the downpour with newspapers. It was an old-fashioned rainy scene: dark, dreary and wet, with morose business outfits, high heels, hats and clothes getting soaked and soiled. There was the look of consternation from the prostitutes having a smoke beneath maroon tarps and the steam rising from the gutters and mist from the hover cars. Yes, it was an old-fashioned rainy scene alright.
I turned back to the cool, saturated colors of the Hologram TV. The three-dimensional images of state officials showed me the lust for the old, with their topknots and embroidered robes. They danced like silky, static flames in front of the muted earth tones of the walls. Everything they said sounded important but I needed to take a leak and I didn’t care much for their lies.
I walked the long, narrow corridors of the dining room to the small urinal in the back. I relieved myself beneath the soft lights of the bathroom. Above the urinal were glossy posters of lustful looking ladies. It did nothing for me to see them with their legs spread. Perhaps I was getting frigid, I thought. Anyways they all looked dead eyed and bored, as if human sexuality had lost all its novelty a century ago.
I returned to the bar and huddled down into the group of men, elbows touching. I poured myself a stiff fourth or fifth or sixth drink, I couldn’t remember which, and looked at all the faces around me. I saw the same flushed languor, grinning, nostalgic, indignant faces I had always seen. They were swilling their beers and slurping their noodles. Sad, reproachable faces with foreheads dripping with sweat.
monologue of antagonist im toying with. general thoughts would be appreciated. is it evocative enough? boobs included as thanks.
I lost the grace of sun long ago. I survive under the glow of dead stars and pale ruined moon. Do not ask me if i fear the darkness, for long ago did i join the specters in the dark,the clawing hands in the dark. i herald the cry in the night. The cool dark is where i reside now, the scorching touch of the light my fear.
>>7371958
*corrected*I lost the grace of sun long ago. I survive under the glow of long dead stars and a pale ruined moon
>>7371958
*fully corrected* fuck me this is why it takes me so long to get any where cant proof read for shit.
I lost the grace of sun long ago. I survive under the glow of long dead stars and a pale ruined moon. Do not ask me if i fear the darkness, for long ago did i join the specters in the shadows,the clawing hands in the dark. I herald the cry in the night. The cool dark is where i reside now, the scorching touch of the light my fear.
>>7371958
legit 10/10, wud merry
>>7371976
Stop writing and start reading.
>>7372037
you can't take the boobs without giving feedback!!
give me my feedback!!!
some more sneaky boobs tho but this time SFW not sure if you can post NSFW on /lit/
Consider for a moment the monochrome and human eyes of men who died just before living memory. They are, at least to Georgie, the truest evidence of eternal truth, compassion, beauty - all that. Pluck from a stack the bold (not to mention bald) forehead of a General Sherman, or a Baudelaire, and you will see an entire history, a subtle grandness, put into a point that lies somewhere in the socket. Georgie does just that. Funny how all these portraits look the same at first, subtle variations on a Theme of Grey, but then you look closely and they couldn’t be more different. Slide that one past the other and you see a tide of silver. Or put it back: the ebb, Ebb of the Sea of Time. Time is a Sea indeed, Einstein tells us, for it lies on a four-dimensional plane. Or wait. How do you think about it again? Anyway, Einstein was such another, and in his face is a port to the Sea.
Now if you were to get up, as Georgie does, from a well-worn and loved kitchen table which already sets the stage for reminiscence, you might then realize that you printed them out for no reason. These people aren’t relatives; they’re just the outer, foggy regions of a Continent, chipped away at by seas of themselves. Forlorn masses out of cities bobbing sorrily and soaking their coats in grey salt waves being rushed and rushed against the rockface of a Dark and Forgotten Continent: Lost Souls with seaweed faces. And Donne was such another too, tragedy that he lived in the time before the camera. Before Camera. B.C. Hee hee.
If you get up to make yourself lunch, as Georgie has, you might then realize you printed these out for no reason. It’s not a school project. School ended, let’s see, three years ago now. Now looking at a portrait of his mother, he is reminded. And of course not just men. Behold Virginia Woolf, who let the Waves of Time take her entirely. His hardened expression softened, not into a grin, but into a calm pool. Maman, also chrome, looked back at him, Maman whose eyes were now ports to distant and Dead Seas, which were once filled with what resident poets call female effluence.
Fuck me up.
Nigger
NIGGER
Black man
Kind man
Is she?
Oops
Is he?
I don't know
New stanza
People talking outside
My heart hurts a little
I'm nervous
Accidentally didn't leave a space between "I'm" and "nervous", but fixed it
Fuck
I accidentally added a "j" to the end of "Fuck", but fixed it
I am a poet
Accidentally added an "a" to the end of "am", but fixed it
>>7371976
Nice tits.
>Onto the writing
You said the same thing like 4 times. It sounds nice, but you're basically repeating yourself.
>"I used to like the daytime, now I'm some kind of vampire."
I have no idea who your character is other than that they like to sound cool and talk about edgy things.
Please tell me this isn't dialogue.
You have potential, though. Figure out what you're trying to say and say it in as few words as possible.
And for sweet American Jesus' sake, please learn to capitalize "i". It's not that hard. Grammar is essential.
I'm working on a novel. Its set in 2036 after a US collapse (the cause of which remains unkown as it has been subject to manipulation by faction ideologies.) Chaos has gone down, and there is increasing communication, unity and warfare between emerging societies. A small group of socialist embark on a quest to unify and rebuild the nation. This takes on a variety of forms from drug trafficing in cities to resolving major conflict between emerging nations to creating a faction union of their own. I'm sorry if my summary is shit. ou'll se that in the introduction but I think the book itself is better Email me if interested. [email protected] (I created the account a VERY long time ago, but havent really committed into any others)
Keep in mind that because im already 47000 words in im going to finish it anyway just for the experience if nothing else, so posts along the lines of "Scrap it and kill yourself" wont be needed. This is my first novel, and I cant stand writing subreddits (I tried)
I should just link to doc actually and you can request
As of now there is no planned title. When I started writing this last year I chose the first thing that popped into mind, but I will change if neccessary.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Urk8BOxHerPO-SK2UPBakrEjL9USlxXk7NKvnUns7JI/edit
>>7371927
are you the anon who posted a few other stories/excerpts about Hong Kong?
>>7366875
Are scripts /lit/?
I've been working on a outline for a horror script. But not the slasher kind, more like the David Lynch kind.
>>7373834
Do it. Post it, bruh.
>>7367117
I liked this, but try using first or third person
This makes you sound like a twat
>>7373954
I'm only working on an outline right now. It's feature length (45 minutes or more, generally 90 minutes).
It's about a Chinese factory worker, named Chun, suffering from depression. Chun sees a ghost right before a string of suicides occur at the factory. He tries telling the press and the factory management about the ghost, but he winds up losing his job in the process. It ends with Chun committing suicide.
Though after typing that out, I realize it might be better if Chun sees the ghost of each suicide victim, but I'm worried about stacking the bodies too high. I was originally going to have a suicide take place everyday but that might be to predictable, though it could also be used to make the factory callous to a horrendous event. I want the script to be more psychological than slasher.
First line is kinda awkward i think, all criticism is welcome.
He moves through the Rubicon and holds his breath,
Uncertain if at the mouth stands life or death,
White hooves advance in gallant strides,
Nearing with sword and pen held high,
Waves scatter, bend and take a knee,
They know their king is not the sea,
Cold legion, swifts through water red,
Weighed down upon the riverbed
They all wait for Caesar, tall and dry
To finally say he’s cast the die.
>>7374293
The AABBCC rhyming scheme is a bit odd but aside from that I like it.
>>7369049
Rhythm is off, and some of the rhymes are forced, but you have an excellent sense of imagery. I'm not quite sure what it means but it's evocative nonetheless.
Here's mine. It was inspired by binge watching Seinfeld, Press F to Pay Respects, the ALS Challenge, and the Facebook French Flag Profile Picture thing:
PARTY ZERO
DIRE HOUR
DASHED AGAINST THE ROCKS
PRESSED OR PRESSING
ONYX SCOUR
NEVER TO BE MOCKED
SPEAK YOUR SILENCE
STOP TO THANK
THE THINKERS ON THEIR THRONES
PRESS THE BUTTON
GIVE TWO CENTS
YOUR HOLOGRAPHIC CLONE
SEVENTH DUNGEON
ON THE RIGHT
A BEAST THAT CHOKES ON STARS
AN ALPHABETIC MYSTERY
TRITE TRUTH WITH OOZING SCARS
INCIDENTAL COMEDY
AND BEETLES CRAWL INSIDE
A DEAD HAND CLAP
A TOKEN STRIDE
AND MIRTHLESS WATCHING EYES
PUBLIC PRAYER ONCE OBSCENE
FOR ALL WHO DARED TO WATCH
FOOLS GOLD CONGREGATION GATHER
MARK A CROSS’ NOTCH
ADAM IN A COILED GAMETE
LYMPH OF FRENZIED LAUGH
A STARING MOON-LIKE FACE TO BREAK
AND GOD'S INSIDE OUR MATH
>placing value in other's opinions of your creations
baka desu senpai
Guess I'll hop on the poetry bandwagon.
SATURDAY
My seat is warm; I’ve occupied it since the morning--
A stiff and drowsy awakening in a blue lethargy,
Blue from the sky, which had no moon, no sun, no star,
Just blue. Just shapeless clouds arriving in Saturday.
I know nothing has happened but daydreams dreamed,
Leftover homework left for another day I accept,
And laugh apathetically at all the free people dancing,
Getting drunk, getting lucky, getting high off Saturday.
The ideal is just a fantasy that maybe I’ll once enjoy,
Once upon a time that I, alas, cannot anticipate.
I don’t see anything but blue; yellow’s a forgotten color
And Saturday is just a loss. Sunday looks no better.
I am planning on going to the DMV. It is quiet. The house has been in a few days, but only briefly about it and it will not only the most important things to be a dent, but only briefly about it and it will not only the best way for the first time in a hammock. It will take a moment. The sunrises, but only a few years ago and I am Here is my first day of school and work. I am not a problem, I have plans both of you, I have plans both of you, I noticed that the company is looking forward to the extent of the deranged. A unlikely liberator wisps off into the realm of the deranged A hellish figure it he is, Clad in a wreched veil of terrible black He dismounts The spurs of his boots create a deafening screech against the earth. I have briefly mentioned her in my latest post, but only briefly, but I did experience what I call the police. I have briefly mentioned her in my latest post, but Not a sound. This was. It is no way of communicating. The house was a great time to time. The colors of autumn have to be heard of the Office of the brake.
>>7369158
Great use of metaphores, some nice vivid descriptions, but too much and your writing becomes intellectual masturbation. It makes it less enoyable as a reader and it just makes the writing messy. Basically every other sentence of the 2nd paragraph was exactly this, it sounds like you're just trying to fill shit in to try and present your writing as more wholesome. Can tell you're a strong writer, better than most of the shit ive read in this thread, and honestly the only one I found to be worth replying to. Just try and fix this.
>>7374293
Change first line to
creeping through the rubicon, he holds his breath
http://pastebin.com/S7ft7JiU
story I wrote for a creepy story event a while back. Wanted to write something kind of pulpy, any feedback is appreciated
