You guys seem to like these. Share what you're writing and provide helpful criticism to others.
>"official" critique thread
>numbering threads
I dont ussually write in english, my prose is only geniusly in my native language.
De las gualdas luces de la noche abrióse dentro de las profundidades el gran Dr. Gorothy Hendry Prothorne. «¡Oh dios!», se escuchaba por un lado «Llegó, llegó. Es él, es él. ¡Qué increible!» decían otros. «Si es él, es él. Se podría tener calma. Un poco.» Dijo F, que ya se aproximaba pecheando a la gran multitud que se conformaba rodeando a Dr. Gorothy Henry Prothorne. La comunidad estaba ahí, y siempre lo estuvo. La aparición de el doctor era, desde ya siglos, una ventaja del pueblo Kollotöran, que aunque por su tamaño demográfico dejaba mucho por desear, era, en invierno, cuando los turistas se instalaban allí a contemplar tal espectáculo, era gran poseedora de hombre con riquezas.
F, al poder haber llegado a su destino con el logro de haber aportado a la curiosa y humilde gente, quedó firme al llegar en la orilla de la trampilla cubierta de la grande y oronda complexión de el querido invitado. F, contemplo la regordeta cara de el Doctor con seriedad que luego mudóse a una leve sonrisa inevitable. «Bienvenido nuevamente, Dr. Gorothy Hendry Prothorne». El doctor lanzó una corta pero estrepitosa risa, y extendiendo su mano a F, trataba sin resultados saltar de la escalera. «Jo Jo, deme la mano Frodorich. Mira que se te ha extrañado», F alzó con su fornido brazo a el Dr lográndolo sacar de la trampilla.
El Dr. Gorothy Hendry Prothorne se incorporó y con un trapo que logró sacar de el bolsillo de su grande y atezado traje dió unos bailes secos y ágiles a sus ropajes.
>>7716033
Que barroco m8
>>7716046
• µ •
D
>>7715767
You can take over making threads if you want. I did it because I enjoy reading what people write. Be my guest, make the next thread
I regret coming here for critique. I thought I was getting close to being good but now everything I write feels awful and I feel awful too.
I'm too ashamed to write and dont enjoy it anymore
>>7716792
Take everything that /lit/ says with a barrel of salt. I would suggest that most people here (including myself) are not qualified to offer a valuable critique.
That said, post your shit again so we can laugh at you.
>here is a little satire I've just recently composed. let me know what you think
thoughts from bed in the wee hours of a sunday night (morning)
I lay in dark at two a, m,
the newspaper comes, an early job,
in the dark and cold and rain,
under the orange of streetlight,
mine is an early job,
but not as,
i must be at macdonald’s grill in six hours, but,
I lay in dark at two a, m,
composing poems
— j. keating, Seattle, 2016
>>7716804
no, there's no point. I'm done writing for a while
>>7716811
so post much modern etc.
>>7716822
how many masterpieces weren't written because the authors couldn't face the critics? SHARE""!!!!
fuck it, tell me what u think /lit/
Come into this room with the warm green light
Rest your head in my lap and do not fight
In here it is safe
And the fire glows until morning
Although the world outside may blow and whirl and rave
With your weak legs there is not a soul you can save
We have no windows
These walls are too thick for windows
There is no difference between night and day
Don’t be so stupid as to throw this chance away
Out there you will be lost
You will wonder until you can’t
So stay here; lay here:
Next to me and us all:
Where we gather in the fall
Of seasons or men
Who repent in angst their fathers sins
And burn flags to raise them up again
In this room, in this light, we are at ease
As decaying men drifting in the seas
We have plenty to drink
So close your eyes and never think
Life is too short to think
And anytime you feel empathy or guilt
Remember: on our natures these walls are built
Of men with hammers
Who repent in angst their fathers sins
And burn flags to raise them up again!
don't hold back
>>7716822
Seriously though, if you actually want to be a writer, or an artist of any kind, you need to learn how to deal with criticism. Every decent writer will tell you they've been there, but they'll also tell you the only reason they attained that level of decency was because they practised relentlessly.
Just get on with it.
“I’ll shoot it,” I said. I like shooting things; I had a nice assortment of BB guns that I thought might do the trick. It’s always good to practice with a moving target. However, my Mother’s lack of composure led to a rash and ill thought out suggestion that she undoubtedly came to regret in the weeks to come.
“I want it dead Ethan. Use your Father’s old service pistol. It’s in that case in the living room cupboard.”
“Where’s the key?” I asked with a wild fervour. I had a chance to shoot a real living thing with a real life gun. It was difficult to contain my excitement. Though I couldn’t see my Mother’s face, I could tell with certainty that she paused for a second, hesitated briefly, stared down again at the rodent invader, and in that moment decided that allowing me to shoot my Father’s gun at a rat was better than any other alternative.
“Under the plant pot on the mantelpiece” which was such an obvious place I kicked myself for never having thought of it.
“Okay” I replied, swiftly turning into the living room, with its ornate, burnt oak décor. I lifted up the plant pot on the mantelpiece, scooped up the small silver key, placed it into the lock of the cupboard, opened the cupboard, pulled out the ornate silver case, lifted the lid, and pulled out the silver revolver. I flipped the chamber open and placed a single golden bullet inside.
The gun was heavy, in an empowering way, a weight that lent a security, a weight that made you constantly aware of the gun while it was on your person, a weight that made you constantly aware of the danger that came with it. It was exciting. I wondered how many people my Father had killed with it. Perhaps they had been Politicians and Generals and War Criminals. Or perhaps they had just been rats. Holding the gun in my hands then, it felt like I had suddenly found a piece of myself that had previously been missing. How had I existed before without this? What purpose or identity had I had until this moment? Suddenly it all made sense. I strode back into the hallway.
“Got it Mother”
“Good. Shoot it then”
“You’re in the way”
“Can’t you get an angle?”
“Okay”' and with that I held the gun out at arm’s length, and paced along the hallway with it extended, squinting my eyes in an intense expression as I tried to get a view on my target. This must have been how Mark David Chapman felt, I thought.
For a second I considered shooting the miserable creature directly in front of me and granting home ownership and parental duties to the Rat instead. I didn’t though; I shot the rat.
Shark boy
Bryce was a stout, portly boy with tiny shark teeth. He was known around school for his little chompers and baby bite, though sharp and cutting as it was. His class would take field trips to the local aquarium every other Friday. The older boys, sniffing about the fishy crevices for mischief, would give Bryce a hard time ; they knew how to make the little graders sad, especially Bryce. The boys would point to the sharks circling in their wide tanks, and repeat sonnets and chants such as: “Tooth club for sharky boys. No big boy teeth boys in the sharky boy club!” As their laughter rose, Bryce’s baby eyes started to tear, and down the side of his nose dripped salty boy droplets. He would find a sad bench and plop down on his little rump, wishing he had big teeth like the older boys. While Ms. Dempsey would talk about the puffy redfish puckering the glass, Bryce would grab his teeth with his fingers and tug on them with all his tiny might, hoping they would come out a bit further, just enough would be enough. When he went home to his mom and grandma, he would help them make nicely shaped cookies with his cookie cutter mouth. “My boy! You have such talent with making sharky cookies!” His mom would say with warm enthusiasm every time she returned to the kitchen, finding the perfectly rounded dough cakes with serrated edges. Bryce did not want to be a baker, neither did he want to become a shark, in fact, he didn’t want to be anything unless he had normal teeth like a normal boy.
>>7716835
Is this a rap song? Also pretty good desu
>>7716871
7/10 would read
Portrait of a Kinetic Sculpture
I dump milk into my tea,
and looking down
on the clouds, I feel strong—
a god of this ceramic hemisphere.
The stretch of a fisheye lens against the bump map
of dew lays the texture of the day.
The world shrink wrapped tightly.
Plastic shining in response to a yellow sun,
which serves as the axis of this polaroid,
tilting forward as they walk
so close together.
Their feet drag through the thick grass
like the finger of a bored child on velvet
pews, painting in shades of wet green.
Soft earth molds to arches in feet.
Soft hair gathers to tied ribbon,
bow arching overhead.
Overhead a prominence arches in its own vastness,
trembling, deviating from the Z.
Universe is sketched in squiggles.
The milk slung into the air puffs and diffuses, hiding
the theatrics of the corona. Fingers wriggle playfully,
braiding like notched rope.
An awkward smile jerkily climbs up;
flesh wavers like smoke
or jello in that gust that puffs up the clouds.
I trace small circles in my tea;
my stirrer my compass
guiding the winds clockwise.
I feel warmth as I swirl.
Screams twirled as air from the Scream’s world
unfurls in a streaking sandstorm
grating a million filaments from skin,
exposing a vermillion scaffolding,
surrounding the prime architecture.
Hands that were once braided rope became a chain-link fence.
Trimming off rust, the great lathe smoothes femurs into polished ivory.
Cirrus spirals with the stabbing axis.
Their ribs hung on one another as the turning sped up.
The centrifuge pulls limbs towards the edges,
pushing their ribs through like a folded slinky.
Grinning at their closeness, their bareness,
the couple crashed to the ground facing away from each other like
the product of a symposium.
>>7717030
Thanks, here's the previous little bit. The main character's meant to be somewhat psychopathic and socially dysfunctional, so his short sharp spoken responses contrast with his detailed descriptions of his thoughts and feelings.
“Just come down here please.”
So I did. I looked away from the bright grey view out my window, walked from my bare grey bedroom and down the winding grey stairs into the aged grey hallway. I could see my mother’s silhouette in the doorway of the kitchen. She was completely static. So still that she could have been a statue, but then even a statue would have been more dynamic. My mother was stiller still than that. It was as if she were no longer real, but simply part of a picture, suspended in time and place.
As I walked closer, I saw the source of her staticity. A rat, staring back at my mother through the beady onyx stones of its eyes, as frozen as she was. And there they were, a stalemate. Two creatures frightened stiff, waiting for some outside influence to set in motion again the motionless impasse that both parties had reached. I was tempted to simply leave the scene and come back in a few hours to survey the outcome, but I imagine that I could have waited a lifetime or until the heat-death of the universe, and both would still be engaged in their impenetrable staring match.
“Just walk out of the room Mother. I can’t do anything.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous. Get rid of it.” Though her body was like stone, the usual strength of her voice had crumbled long ago. I wondered how long she’d been stood like this.
“Walk back here and then I can.”
“There’s no way I’m moving another step, Ethan!”
“Well there’s not much I can do then. Text me when it’s sorted.” I started towards the front door.
“Don’t you dare take another step!” she screamed in a manner that was loud enough to be forceful, but quiet enough as not to disturb her new house pet. I could tell that every fibre of her being was telling her to turn around and confront me to my face, to berate me with the full potency of her fiery, venomous scorn, but the truth was, in this instant, she was powerless. I pitied her at this moment, (one of the few times in my life that I have), in much the same way as I pitied the rat.
Any Portuguese speakers around here?
http://pastebin.com/umvtd4xM
>>7716871
>For a second I considered shooting the miserable creature directly in front of me and granting home ownership and parental duties to the Rat instead.
I liked it up until this line.
>>7716871
>>7717078
I like this, the childish tone of it throughout was a nice touch. However, there were a couple of moments that I thought the childish tone was compromised:
>burnt oak decor
Maybe rephrase it so you're sounding more childish?
>I looked away from the bright grey view out my window, walked from my bare grey bedroom and down the winding grey stairs into the aged grey hallway
Personally feel that you used the word "grey" too much here. After the first couple of times it came off as tacky.
>but even then a statue would have been more dynamic
Feels a bit much.
>staticity
Is this a word? I feel like you're looking for stasis
Also you capitalised Mother in the "second" part, but not in the first; is there a reason for this?
But good, I liked it.
Here's my ekphrasis piece (based on pic related) it's only a first draft
A Beach Near Trouville (Named after the painting)
Wanderer, what shells are you looking for?
The dunes may harbour treasures,
I'm sure, and the technicolour faces
Of the cliffs have their beauty.
But your boys are dancing in the ocean,
Foam and spray bred from rabid waves
Circling at their feet. Very soon
They shall have wives and jobs
To occupy their time.
And off on the horizon, Trouville sits
In the lap of the coast. Have you run
In all its alleys, tasted all its food,
Met all its people? Hurry, hurry;
Even now a shepherd is dying
And all his flock are scattered.
This beech will lie here for decades more,
But the town already decays.
>>7717368
Fair points. Agree with you on décor and dynamic and possibly the grey repetition. Although, it was intentionally meant to be repetitive to emphasise just how grey and mundane his room is. Stasis is right I think, yeah, and Mother should be capitalised throughout (meant to have a meaning to it) so that's an oversight on my part. Cheers!
The piece is nice. The only thing that slightly sticks out to me is the use of 'technicolour'. Maybe it's due to the association with Television and whatever, but there's something slightly synthetic about that word in my mind that is quite jarring when put against the very natural nouns and kinetic movement in your piece. Might just be me though.
>>7717317
Note to self - don't attempt humour
Seriously though, what is it about that you dislike?
>>7717414
No worries mate, I think your writing is interesting and would probably read a short story of it, but I think a novel length piece would bore me after a while, unless the plot was sufficiently interesting.
Yeah I agree on technicolour, it is too "modern" for a fairly pastoral piece. Suggestions on alternative?
An unfinished piece I'm working on:
The train slows into the next station, the reverberating clacks slow, then stop. A handful of people stand in the gloaming. They shiver, their breath visible against the evening. Their noses red and snotty. Swallowed by winter coats and hands in their pockets; they shuffle towards the carriage. The doors beep and slide open, and the warmth leaks from the carriage out onto the concrete platform, to dissipate in the evening’s frore embrace.
The new passengers settle into their seats, replacing those who have left, and shed their coats and the cold. The catering trolley brings coffee, tea, biscuits. The carriage once again warm and somnolent. Some close their eyes, whether to sleep or to simply shield them from the artificial luminescence of the carriage, who knows. The train begins to move once more. The noise, the motion, it seems to lull a number of passengers to sleep, and the rest, at least, in to a comfortable inertia.
Outside, it has grown darker yet. The bumps and ridges of the hills are the only thing discernible now in the purview. The train is occasionally flanked by trees, skeletal and trembling in the wind. Networks of leafless branches twisting and reaching towards the windows. The whispering wind muted by the perpetual clacking of the speeding train. The world outside, the silhouette of the landscape, it all races past us. Accelerating and trajecting itself through the peripheries of my vision. It all exists, as far as I am concerned, for the fleeting moment in which it remains in sight.
There are one or two lights faint in the current shadow of the world. Farm houses, perhaps? They flicker weakly like the flames of dying candles. Then, at the coast, there is a cluster of them, scattering up into the hills and mountains there behind. A seaside town softly lambent against the sea. My consciousness ebbing, I picture myself walking along the promenade under the orange glow of the streetlights and past the neon glow of the arcades. The smell of seaside fish and chips and sea spray amalgamate palpable in my nostrils. The squawks of seagulls and the crashing of waves.
The smell of sea spray is ripped from my nostrils and replaced with that of burning. Jerked awake, I’m gasping. Coughing. Counting every breath. I can’t see. My eyes obscured by a black tint. I can’t hear. My ears ringing. Buzzing. Like the perpetual whining chirps of cicadae. Then there are voices – shouting, screaming. I can’t move. There’s something on my legs. I think I’m bleeding.
My first poem, I pulled it out of my ass in about 5 minutes, so its probably pretty bad.
When the stars in splendor,
free of earthly toils,
make themselves known among
the scarlet skies
of our sun's short goodbyes,
we, beneath a pale
and glowing, pretty moon,
talk of all the joys
that we could know so soon.
And all that we long for
all is made manifest
against those grand old
and heart rending vistas.
>>7716811
>a, m, ?
why?
>>7717608
Too many words. Ypu need to clean it up. Need to cut and change the punctuation.
Just read it. It's too much. You're trying too hard to write well and it shows. Relax and fall out of love with the piece.Cut it, clean it, edit it. You adjectivate too much and your metaphors are not very clever.
Make no mistake: it's not horrible. But it suffers from the huge effort you have put into constructing this image.
I also think it would benefit without the first person - just the description of the thing. But, of course, these are only my opinions.
>>7717855
It's not pretty bad. Its surprisingily better than most of the shitty poems I happen to stumble upon in this board.
Having said this, one poem alone is nothing. If you want to know if you write good poetry, you have to write more poems. Inspiration alone won't save you - at best, it will give you a handful of okay poems per year, at best.
Short piece of verse from a play I'm writing:
A: A fasciculation of the brain,
Now regular, now syncopated.
Intensifying, flooding the blood
and nerves with electric hate.
That kettle-call tinnitus
of singing, screaming madness.
B: And what do you carry in your chest?
A congress of white worms,
Fit to burst a rotting pomegranate.
You have lice in your liver, son.
Your gears are sick.
C: Carry the fire in your teeth.
An exodus, and a reconvergence.
Like apes to Mecca. We have been called.
A,B,C: We have been called.
I wrote this a while ago and dropped it because everyone I told shit on the concept
My name has been William J. Wonka for 91 years as of today, and at this point I’m fairly certain it’s going to stay that way. Sadly, it seems even the epilogue of my life is coming to a close. I’m not all that unhappy about it, I had a great run, but as always happens to people around this point in their lives, I’m starting to feel the weight of my regrets.
Now, there are a lot of things people seem to end up regretting. Missed opportunities, lost loves, humiliating talent show performances, and so on. Personally, what I find I regret most is that I never had the chance to be the target of a scandalous exposition by an esteemed documentary maker. It’s all the rage among reclusive billionaires these days. The Koch brothers have had them, Rupert Murdoch has had one, and Steve Jobs has a new one coming out every few months and he’s too dead to even enjoy it. I for one, do not want to miss out on my own public scandalization, so I’ve decided to cut out the middle man and spill the jellybeans. Hopefully as you read along, you’ll come to know a little more about me. Preferably, it will be more than you’ve even wanted to know.
I was born in 1924 to Wendy and Wilbur Wonka in a small suburb about two kilometers south of Cardiff. My memory on this matter might be a bit hazy however, as every time in my life I have tried to retrace my steps I end up somewhere in the middle of the Bristol Channel. My early childhood was very unpleasant as anyone who saw the 2005 film of my famous contest could tell you, though perhaps not as unpleasant was watching the 2005 film of my famous contest itself. For those of you lucky enough not to have seen it, let me give you a short run-through.
My father Wilbur was a strict parent and a dentist by trade, he also had a bad habit of blurring the lines between his home life and work, a trait I’m afraid I inherited. Sweets were banned from our household, an area of space that happened to include the four square meters of space surrounding me. I did not even know what chocolate was until I my sixth birthday when my school teacher gave me a piece as a present. The next day I was moved to a different school but at that point I was already hooked.
When I was nine, I conspired with my friends to sneak off and trick-or-treat for halloween. Sadly, my father noticed my absence, and when my childhood friends walked me home he was waiting. He seized our haul – all of it, not just mine – and tossed our burlap sacks of sugar into the fireplace. My childhood friendships ended on the spot, and soon after I ran away from home.
>>7717855
>My first poem, I pulled it out of my ass in about 5 minutes, so its probably pretty bad.
Don't do that. When you sell yourself short like that, you're telling me you're about to waste my time. If you don't like it, why should I? I know it's terrifying to present something you're proud of, but doing this sends the message that you're timid: any criticism of it is softened because it's not your best effort: you are testing the waters. At worst, it's arrogant - baiting for praise: if doggerel I can fire out in five minutes is above average, I must have incredible potential! And then the imagined realization of your talent stays hypothetical as you never push yourself. It's okay to be ashamed and anxious. That's what makes you interesting as a human being - your fears and insecurities. Don't be safe.
As for the writing: you definitely have an ear for symphonic language. It ebbs and flows quite nicely. There are bumps in the road - "talk of all the joys that we could know so soon" is particularly egregious. "long for" and "heart rending" is beneath you - throw them away. I like the crunch of "manifest" with "against" - somewhere in the neighborhood of a rhyme. Perhaps you could find more opportunities for it? Or maybe it's only delightful as a surprise. Keep reading your works aloud to yourself. Your syntax is kind to the tongue - develop that. It's your strength.
How do you guys plan your poetry? I have ideas but can't seem to condense it into lines
>>7717075
someone mind just looking at the enjambments and see if they're better?
>>7718006
Just the write the fucking poem. If t's bad, move to the next one. If you feel it came out alright, tweak it here and there, now and then.
Poetry is like everything in writing. You have to write a lot of it to start getting better at it. Be at peace with the fact that your first one hundred poems will be 90% shit. It is the way it is.
But you have to write. so write them. Pretty soon you'll start to understand the themes you keep coming back to.
>>7717950
nah I like it, I have an idea for a novel about the real Taylor Swift, who lives underground and eats moles and salamanders. Anyway, back your piece, I think the kind of pedestrian, naturalistic style works well here, especially as this will be a kind of faux biography; I do think you could spice it up a wee bit, the Bristol Channel joke was quite good. I'd say give it a bit more of that.
extract from an SS I'm working on, not sure about this bit...
The bus came to a halt.
Stepping off, her hands were already worming away blind inside her pockets: they found vegetable matter; rolling papers; lighters. Her pre-work cigarette was indispensible, though she supposed collectively they did not feel the same way about her: Smoke, feel the calm, an incense stick to the mind and nerves, a whacking stick to the heart and lungs.
She smoked.
She always smoked anyway.
Before going in she popped to Tesco’s, she put her fag to death with the chilly heel of her boot, a symbolic gesture for the heart and lungs.
What to choose?
There were 3 main criterion: 1 enjoyment, though this was partly derived from the other 2; 2, health, sustainable foodstuffs, that which pleased body and working mind, we all now toil on spaceship Beckki, and if we aim to reach such heady altitudes as Client Technical Advisor then a high calorie burnout must be avoided, this was also 3; 3, Which lunch choice says: This is a lifestyle to which I am committed, a diligent brie and grape perhaps? Or a young go getting anti-pasta, working it’s way slowly to an artisan sausage and lime: the refined meatiness of upper management which was still, just barely, a boy’s club.
The brie and grape it was.
She did not consider herself a slave to cultural capital, but ,seeing her relationship with actual capital she’d decided: hey-ho in for a penny in for pound.
Perhaps when you could afford the lime sausage they gave you the penny back.
She also thought it was not so frivolous that she required some kind of prop to keep her sleepy head from hitting the keyboard, ward off the plethora of resulting Zs, if the work wasn’t going to cut the mustard then Damien’s Djon special would have to do.
She left the Tesco’s.
(1/2)
The old man has spoken, his eyelids fluttering in revelation as we watch him in his cot. All the men of the village have gathered in the dark bungalow we wove for him, our eyes following his vein-rooted hands as they reach out to pull dreams from the air, returning them to his mouth—his old-man-mouth with no teeth, soft like the inside of a clam, his uvula a gray pearl blinking back light—swallowing these dreams like tasty little orts, sucking them off the tips of his fingers, and then speaking them alive to us. A fatidic whisper as we all lean in, all the men of the village, we strong anglers now bending our ears to this laughing corpse. He says there will be a ruin from the sea tonight—that God will finally reach out his hand and scrub the bay of sin. He is glad at our alarm when he says this, of the way his dark bungalow is suddenly full of shouting and shallow breath. He is one to relish such power, this old witch-man we keep alive with bone-paste and raw snapper fins, the power to know and withhold knowing.
>>7718031
He looks at me as he speaks his doom, only at me. Watches my face with hate and pleasure. For I am the youngest of those gathered here, the youngest boatswain of the village, my father having died a season past in a hurricane, and his sloop and name and manhood thence turned over to me. I am also beautiful and strong. The women of the village, the wives and daughters and mothers of those gathered here, some very young and some very old, they come to me in the night when there is no moon and when the clouds daub out the stars. On these nights I take them down to the shore where the crashing of the waves will cover their yowls, their cat-songs, and there I fuck them without mercy. For they want no mercy, and do not come to me for mercy. I push their soft women-bellies down on the boulders that stud the beach and I punish them amidst the spray of the breakers, watching the salt-water brine bead on their smooth backs, watching the wind toss their black hair such that it seems like I am driving them out into the sea where my father died. They scream and I whisper and the sea destroys itself, and when I am ready, I turn them over so that I can revel at what has become stamped upon their bellies. The nautiloid spirals of shells that pattern the boulders have mirrored themselves upon the soft vellum of their flesh, cephalopods rewritten and imprinted into life, their ancient shapes now sprent hieroglyphic on the pale tape of woman-skin. I draw my rod from out their bodies and run my fingers down the grooves and shapes that have notched into their flesh, trace with the tip of my manhood those ancient coils, and upon this field I finally spend myself. In the dark, my seed is lunar and luminous, and it settles into the molds of the nautili and hardens there. Every such night I create these waxen ghost-shells on the bellies of the village women, and every night I tell them to go and wash themselves in the sea. Then I sit upon the boulder of our sin and watch their pale, naked bodies cross down to the shore. I watch as the black edge of the sea swallows them up until they remain only as a white torso couched in a wall of susurrus and void. I watch them clean themselves, their hands raking at their fishy apertures, scrubbing away the ghosts I have molded onto their bellies, these mothers and grandmothers and daughters mute in their shame, and in the dark I pray for my father.
>>7717989
Thank you for the detailed critique, I'll keep all those suggestions in mind.
>>7716871
>suggestion that she undoubtedly came to regret in the weeks to come.
>I had a chance to shoot a real living thing with a real life gun. It was difficult to contain my excitement.
>I kicked myself for never having thought of it.
This is probably a subjective criticism but you formulaicly write action and then go on to say what you thought of that action, then back to the next action and then back to the next thought you had about the next action. This might have been intentional but to me it feels disjointed, I feel like you should let the scene flow and keep maybe one of these lines but in other cases infer that emotion in different ways that integrate with the rest of the text.
> I lifted up the plant pot on the mantelpiece, scooped up the small silver key, placed it into the lock of the cupboard, opened the cupboard, pulled out the ornate silver case, lifted the lid, and pulled out the silver revolver.
This I didn't like so much either. Once again I'm fairly certain you did this intentionally to show that there's a certain process for retrieving this gun you might have been desperate to see, so of course each step seems worth mentioning but I don't know how much it really adds to the text. I think the sentence seems largely unnecessary and there isn't enough good or value in it to justify the trade off.
>For a second I considered shooting the miserable creature directly in front of me and granting home ownership and parental duties to the Rat instead. I didn’t though; I shot the rat.
I didn't mind the sentiment here but you didn't show any indication of thinking that way about your mother at all in the beginning and then all of a sudden she's a miserable creature. I had to re-read the last part because I thought I had missed something, it takes awhile to get what you mean and then when you do get it you think "why though?" also, completely subjective again, I thought the sentence was kind of "reddity" if you understand what I'm saying. I'm not trying to meme you or anything I just mean that you sort of sound like a smug young teenage whose very happy with his wit when you write it and it can be irritating (not that you are just that it sounds that way).
Anyway that's what I think of it, but obviously my word is likely very flawed.
>>7717423
My main problem with it was that his hatred of Ethan's mother was a little abrupt, but with the context of your second, preceding, extract this doesn't seem to be the case.
A random paragraph about a guys thoughts:
He wondered about how the others in the circle were sad. To himself as he watched their motions, the brief but deliberate glimpses into intent, into that self-same paranoia that comes with being watched, that fear of being seen through. There was laughter at the table and there were moments, often chemically induced and thereby justified, in which the fear came out. Curiously enough, he didn’t feel the need to question his own natural insistence to see them this way; he simply tried to observe. Seeing them as sad persons meant that everything they said, did, and, he reluctantly concieved, were. If there were moments of beauty that night they lay where the cracks were, in which the fear leaked, through whatever slurred attempt at desparate absolution. It seemed to be okay to be afraid together. It wasn’t quite better than the alternative, that being being alone, because eventually if not immediately our fear will wordlessly extend to them, those that we shared it with, and you learn paranoia isn’t so much an abundance of fear but a systematized denial of it.
Wouldn't fit here so pastebin
http://pastebin.com/CMxjyRUj
I tried
>>7715561
Their once was a man who by all means could have been said to be. He was said to be evil in ways unseen and good in ways seen. He was a gregarious man, full of life and fat with love. In and out he would give of men his material and be jolly and charitable in his manner. He died and thus was forgotten.
Their once was a man who by all means could have been said to be. He was said to be good in ways unseen and evil in ways seen. He had only skin and bones with not but a scrap of cloth to cover him. Everywhere he went he would share with others his experiance and his wealth of knowledge and wisdom. All could say he was a meagre and pitiful soul, a mere vagabond blinded by thoughts of higher purpose. He died and thus was forgotten.
Their once was a man who by all means could have been said to be. He was said to be good-evil in ways unseen and evil-good in ways seen. His body was not lean but not fat but tone. His mind was open and shut at once, allowing only the greatest wisdom to penetrate his stone. His mannerisms was that of a kind man, who gave what he didn't need and only kept exactly what he needed. This man lived as such for 100 years without growing a day in age, seeing the people around him die he decided he would go and seek truth as to why death was denied for him.
He put on a mantle of coarse burlap, took a staff, and set off. Forgetting his name, he decided upon a new on. He would call himself Peche Nabxa, he knew that their was truth to this name and these four syllables but he could not tell even himself why or how. And thus he went and was not forgotten.
>>7718576
Thanks a lot, man. I really appreciate it.
There's a lily in the garden,
As white as fresh fallen snow,
And no matter how it rains and pours,
No harm it comes to know.
No matter how it thunders, storms,
Or snows, upon that flower,
It never wilts or comes to harm,
It won't lose its subtle charm.
>>7715767
What have we but temporality?
A dream of mine..
Alone in a spacious two-story house. More specifically, a closed room on the second floor. The darkness and silence brought by the late night seeps through the walls and into the home. A boxed-television, laying on the floor of the room which I stand in the middle of, displays a bright static channel which illuminates the area. The brightness emits shades of white that outline my shadow onto the white walls surrounding me. Still, I stand in the center of the room.
I am not curious of my current situation. Only aware of it. I cannot think or feel for myself. Silence freely floats around me.
A naked elderly woman stands completely still on the palms of her hands and feet with the front of her body facing upwards at the ceiling , her head hanging upside down and hair resting on the carpet. By elderly, I mean arguably dead. Her wrinkled, thin, and contorted pale body protrude a skeletal figure. We meet eyes. Lost in the sight of exhaust, I stare into grotesque years of pain and sorrow. Trying to escape such a deep gaze, I examine her face and see nothing more than aging skin and strong facial structures outlining her skull.
Still looking into my eyes, she opens her mouth wide enough for a man to reach her heart. And the peaceful silence accompanying me quickly escapes. As if she's gone completely insane, begging for some sort of extreme pain to stop, a terribly unsettling scream comes from her. Along with the prolonged stare, screaming continues. All I can do is stare back, and soak in every bit of unease followed by the present.
>>7719305
Thanks for the critique. Sorry you weren't feeling it.
>>7718646
don't write random paragraphs
stop using commas
stop being wordy
>He wondered about how the others in the circle were sad
He wondered why the others were sad.
Most interesting is this:
>Seeing them as sad persons meant that everything they said, did, and, he reluctantly conceived, were.
this shows a kind of syntactic dyslexia I'm not sure I've seen before
>>7719261
last line is awkward
metre in first two is stilted compared to the rest
fine enough as a formal exercise
There's a rose in that garden,
As red as virgin blood;
Time will not wilt its stem,
Nor petals fall to mud.
No sepal sleeves opal hem,
But, tight, locks its dew;
'till Jove doth ope
that nectered den -
to soil plant
a new.
Guess my favorite writer:
There is a noise upon which all else is built. That same quiet anxiety, that flickering static that is always in the background, that is always present, always dripping with discomfort, this is the song of the dead. Press your ears to the hollow ground, dip your feet to wet your ankles and listen; this is the sound of bodies trembling in their ill-fitted graves and the soft trickle of sacred rivers overrun and clotted with ashes that were once people who also kneeled, who once bled and listened also. Do not listen for answers-- for you will find none. Do not listen for music even if you find it. Listen because soon enough you will join them in requiem, and that one day you will only be able to speak as they do: in desperate half-echoes that thirst for walls to remind and warn the still living.
A man finds himself in a room, he wasn’t here before but he is now. He doesn’t know why he’s now. He isn’t thinking about much at all, he doesn’t know language or the concept, he has never worn shoes or lain in bed. He can scarcely be called a human in mind or manner by our standards but, he undoubtedly is. Even with his lack of any experiences or stimuli the gears and cogs are moving slowly, like any machine; Metal bending warming and expanding, oil slowly dripping, lubricating like molasses in a confectionery or as alcohol does with one's modesty.
Colors appeared then shapes then hues, from the shapes came patterns followed by figures. A box, plate, stick, button, tree, and leaf. The figures taunted him for some reason or another but none in particular. An understanding being with experiences in which the relate current situations to could not grasp the magnitude of such an unfettered mind’s anger. The unfettered mind is left to cling to anything and it chose madness and infuriation. His veins popped, quarks and leptons hissing and crackling with the power of a being that knows no limitations.
He fell back to concoct new worlds,
Fell out in throbbing swirls,
He fell ‘till the world stopped,
Fell the fuck off this world.
Quick question /lit/,
I'm worried about how much talent I can give to my character without making him a mary sue.
So far I'm balancing his cringe-worthy edginess, superpowers, and weird eyes with the fact that he's a narcissist and is actually really embarrassed by his cringe-worthy edgelord facade but doesn't realize he's saying something stupid until he's already said it, usually while posing.
The problem is I'm afraid to broaden his area of knowledge beyond the occult and the weird because if he's too smart and talented he'll just be a really unlikable protagonist
>>7719619
If the story and writing is good it won't matter.
Okay /lit/, I want to write a book about women in combat roles and why it's utterly insane for a myriad of unexplored, un-talked-about reasons (which I have firsthand experience with). I know you guys usually critique fiction, but I really don't want to go to plebbit. Bear in mind I'M NOT A WRITER. I'm sorry if my writing blows asshole.
How does my opening paragraph sound?
"In this book, I make it my goal to address the fable that equality is a paragon of virtue which ought to be striven for at all costs. We must first make the distinction between equality of opportunity and equality as an end goal; the former is truly noble, but the latter is a tried and true mess wherever, whenever it appears. While the idea of equality as an endgoal sounds noble, it is incompatible with the reality in which we exist. In fact, we see no greater, more ardent dogmatists appear than when the sacred value of equality is challenged. Despite the overwhelming evidence levied against sacralized equality, there seems to be an even greater correlation between how dogmatic one is with how little ground they have to stand on."
In the proceeding paragraph, I go on to talk about Chomsky vs. behaviorists and the backlash we still see in science denialism today. I go on to frame science denial as a moral question of how if we suppose that some human faculties are innate, then it follows that we may not all be equal for reasons we can't control -- and this morally outrages people.
Again, this is just my opening. I don't know if I should continue. Constructive criticism? I'd critique one of you guys but I genuinely don't know what makes for a good fiction novel. Sorry /lit/senpai.
>>7719724
Well, at the moment my writing is shit, and I'm beginning to question the story so really it's going to be crap no matter what I do
Can't sleep, don't want to sleep
don't want to, they don't want
me to sleep. They don't want
to, so I'm stuck, but sleep
wants
me.
Needs me, I need it.
Don't want it, want rest
so go– sleep's not rest
though. I do want it,
want
rest.
They get to talk
when I don't sleep
they don't like sleep
no chance to talk
in
bed.
I want rest.
They don't want
me to want
sleep but rest
want
talk.
But I
just want
they want
and I
can't
form
words.
Rest
now
just
want
sleep.
This one wormed into my head and wouldn't let me go to sleep before I finished it. For kicks, pic related was the writing process, but don't peek if you want to suss out the rhyme scheme on your own.
I hardly hear them now.
Just auditory clues,
cues to signal– keys to
slot in neuropaths and
drafts to notes to sheets to
this music. Peace in the
pieces– where I sit but
don't listen. These songs that
tend to sidle step in,
change some stone to flesh and
numb law to love. I want
rest but instead this sly
test sets in for the night.
I hardly hear them now.
It had been raining for so long that the storm had began leaking into my brain. Sometimes I thought that if the rain all of the sudden let up and the sun came out and dried everything up that I'd still hear a storm going on inside my head. I stopped for a moment to peak out from under the tarp to make sure that's not what had happened. Nope. Still raining. Sometimes I think a lot of things, really, but not right now. Right now my mind was as empty as a desert. Or maybe I was actually just thinking of a desert because of how badly I had wanted to be somewhere dry, even if I'd be far worse off in the long run.
>>7720223
After re-reading it I should have stopped the last sentence after the word dry.
>>7719748
Have you read "On Killing"?
Hello,
I'm trying to get into comics, and I need some feedback on this short story I wrote.
It has to be 17 pages, so I can't cram much into it, and I've never been a very good writer, but that's why I'm trying to improve.
Anyway, here's the link to the chapter summary:
http://pastebin.com/E4sbqtna
Any opinions, feedback, pointers?
I'm not trying to reinvent the wheel here, it's just a short story to get me started in making comics. But I wanna do a good job as well.
If you have any questions, I have a full document with notes, but I'll gladly elaborate myself.
Please bear in mind that it's a summary, and that it IS for comics, which is a bit different from a novel in terms of writing.
Cheers.
Posted this in a previous thread, has now been expanded:
http://pastebin.com/7Af3EJFF
>>7720520
I feel like the name Chip is a bit too edgy.
I won't lie, it sounds too YA for me.
>>7720538
It's open to change.
The only one that I really really like is Reika, since it just suits her design. I looked at her after drawing her, and it just came to me. The other two I was just sorta trying things out to see what works.
I was thinking "Chip on his shoulder" but I can change it.
I'll try to think of other English names that suit his apathetic personality.
I wrote this recently
Dear Facebook,
You sent me a notification informing me of a 12 year relationship between you and I. You showed me a poorly executed slideshow in which you depicted the hands of your company showing pictures I posted in my feed and tried to pawn it off as something resembling heartfelt. Dude, what the shit. It's shortsighted and technologically callow. and while the vapid regular users can't live without a vessel to post pictures of their watermelon headed kids, I'm steadily becoming more and more indifferent to your service and possibly even society as a whole. It's not your fault, it's me. No wait. It's you.
Look at the picture I've attached. I saw this today at a gas station. Look at that poor girl. That poor girl suffers from not only a terrible affliction of cancer but also the indignity of having a mother who's given her a name that's completely fucking retarded.
And like that poor girl, I've been afflicted by your imbicilic lack of forethought. Sometimes I don't know why I get up in the morning. I mean, it's all shit and we're all going to die anyway. Even our tombs and those of people both past and future will be destroyed when our sun goes supernova and wipes away our entire history as well as the planet. There is nothing left. There is no love only pain. There is only a steady silent nothingness expanding in all directions.
Nothing.
Nothing.
A thousand billion nothings.
God help us all.
>>7716835
I love the last few lines of your first section.
Reminds me of TS Elliot tbqh.
CATFACE
Smile Catface
Beaming
Face
Cat
Face
You guys only critic English texts or can I post Italian too?
>>7718031
>>7718038
A perfect mirage of the transcendent and quotidian, schleppage & impotence, reaching and flailing. Yr a true wisp of flatulence in the orgy of all mankind, a genetic and cultural fart in the wind—go learn a trade like welding, the world needs more welders, you'd make an ok welder, probably maybe.
>>7720538
Can I get some critique please?
>>7720881
Sure. Stop being such a little bitch. No one likes little grains of bleached-flour-sized balls.NO ONE.
>>7720864
Could you write me a letter of recommendation for my law school applications?
>>7720848
Why would anyone learn Italian?
>>7720968
Because it only takes two semesters
>>7720889
i am in love
>>7720864
I think it's alright, he's going for a really difficult type of style and hasn't quite pulled it off so it looks a bit silly but he's not far off. Reminds me of some of the more Lyrical Barry Hannah short stories, Anon who wrote should read Taste Like A Sword.
>>7721064
Thanks for the recommendation, Anon. My roommate has got High Lonesome on his bookshelf and I'll give it a read once I get through the mid-semester essay gauntlet.
>>7721114
The Agony of T. Baldi, or something like that, is also a really good storey in that collection.
My friend said I should post these lyrics I wrote on 4chan. He said something along the lines that it isn't direct enough and it doesn't make sense...so I need your advice /lit/.
Pretty, Thin
This song is for:
The "boney"
The "vomitous"
Masters of the Russell Signs
Lacerated knuckles and menstruation cessation.
You needn't be ashamed, you like to be the thinnest you can be.
Get used to cheating, to be thin is to be elegant, to be sexy.
This song is for:
The "heavies"
Carrying around all that fat is like having a made up friend to protect you.
So obviously pathetic.
I can show you obsessive attention to detail with startling and striking originality; wit -- verve -- and evil!
Long and wide nail beds give clarity to the worship-deserving quotient.
A long sweep of the neck, gracefully down, to the pretty poke of their shoulders.
Joints should bulge; and on either side, fall away into a beautiful girl, honed!
See yourself sleek and unemcumbered by the gross physicality of weight.
Between anorexic tendon pose offs and summer spine fests lies the honest truth of your flawed design.
Beautiful girls don't plod through the world, they cut through the air.
It's their bones that define them!
Essence isn't in the body, it is the body.
Perfect weight is as worthy as any thought or emotion.
The emergence of the inside showing through your outside.
Those who object are stricken with the "hip," with post-modern TV "savvy" and "irony," with "existential angst".
They are without religion, and embarrassed by morality.
Our religious beliefs make us come!
Us fetishists, us perverse, we glory in our passions!
Fetishes: a divine sensitivity, a gift from God.
First law: Cultivate your perversions.
Second law: Feed them.
>>7721154
It looks very strong to me. I enjoy that, for both the reader and the character herself, she is being defined mostly by her relationship to objects. Characterization solely through capitalistic choice and object cathexis is a neat idea (if that is in fact what you were going for) and I think it translates well.
My only real beef is with the word plethora. In almost any text I see it in, it simply juts. I would recommend changing it.
She places her hand on his shoulder, gently. He remains unchanged, unsoftened. Her hand moves onto his thigh. She doesn’t squeeze or rub, only rests. Still, he remains. A moment longer passes and she removes it. She sidles up to him, sliding her bottom across the green grass. Her waist almost touches his. She reaches and brushes a lock of hair to behind his ear. He warms imperceptibly as she cocks her head to the side and rests it on his shoulder. He turns, finally, and presses his lips againt her forehead. Her unspoken relief is palpable as her before unreturned affection is mirrored. The trees lightly flex in the gentle breeze. The sun shines and the world doesn’t seem so strange anymore.
1/2
It’s a sunny day. I am warmed without burning. Heat without hurt. I don’t know how we got here. She looks directly at me. We’re standing in a field. The edges are blurry, like an out of focus photo. All I can really focus on is her, and she fixates on me like she's not the center of the world. I missed you so much, I want to say. I love you so much, I want to say. I don’t need to though. We have time. The words rise up in my stomach, demanding to be said. They sink back down. We have time yet. I know I don’t need to make this moment matter, and the feeling resounds with warmth.
She says something. I can’t hear the words. The sensation of her formless voice, a burning beacon. It manages to remind me of what she sounds like, but without giving me a note to hold onto. A tree line fades into focus, and she’s at it. She turns, as if to do something. As she turns, I fall.
I haven’t had real nightmares since I was a child. The only thing resembling them now, are good dreams that end. I don’t dream often. I never dreamt of her when she was alive, only after she was gone. They haunt me more than the monsters ever did. Hope awakens, and then I do. My chest aches and I feel as if I’ll throw up. I sit up in bed. A headache dawns. I don’t remember the night before. I so rarely do anymore.
It’s early. The sun is only barely peaking out from behind the buildings that I can see from my windows. I won’t be able to return to sleep, and work isn’t for hours yet. No distractions in sight. I have a full few hours to hurt before I can start my day.
I check the bottle of valium that my doctor gave me. It’s still empty. I knew it would be. I don’t know why I checked, except for the vague hope that I might have saved one. The former me was unsympathetic to the future. Hope is in the air for me this morning. I should know better. The valium is gone, but the whiskey remains. Three hours before I shower and brush my teeth. I gave up shaving awhile ago. Four shots and I’ll be only buzzed when I walk out the door. I pour the bottle into a glass and count out the shots. I remember that I forgot how long you’re supposed to count for a shot. I count it anyway. It sounds right.
Still standing at the counter of my kitchen, I pour the glass down my throat. I choke and cough as I down it as quickly as possible. I never liked the taste of whiskey. The whiskey comes out on the counter and on my chest as I sputter. I wretch and gag. Keep it down. Manage. A beer to follow and get the taste out as I sink into my sofa. Papers and dishes surround me like the crags and spires of some dingy canyon.
>>7721373
2/2
I don’t normally remember my dreams. I remember this one still. Probe the memory and look for the blur of forgetfulness. It’s crystalline. I wish I could cry. It’s supposed to help the process. This isn’t a process though. It’s a death of something inside of me. Two things will never live again. They will never come back. I spend a few hours like this.
Laundry. There's no real ordered system anymore. It used to be organized chaos, the key to which was memory. My memory has gone, and so has my system. I smell the crotches of pants and the pits of shirts. It's all filthy. There's no need to shower anymore. I'll dress and it'll do. Coffee offsets the lingering buzz and the lack of obvious food in my teeth means that it's time to go now.
My building isn't noteworthy. It might have been at one point, but the only noteworthy attributes now are the perpetual stench of hamburger helper on the first floor, and the stench of me on the second. The landlady places notices threatening eviction. She has for months now. No eviction proceedings have been forthcoming. She knew me before. She liked me before. She understands me now. She pities me now. There's nothing she can bring herself to do about me. I know the feeling.
A dozen or so blocks from my apartment makes the bus stop. The dozen blocks there are the hardest part of my day. I am conscious still of what I am and what I am becoming. I long for the too far gone stench and appearance of the terminally lost. For them, we give special societal dispensation. I look too fresh. My wounds are too recent. I am not broken enough to be trodden upon yet, only enough to be stepped around.
It's harder at work. The pity is palpable from all fronts, but also a lingering scent of frustration. He's been like this for how long now? Surely, he must come out of it soon. Did you see his clothes? I'm not too far gone yet, and so it nags at me. All the looks, all the whispers. I dip into the bathroom for a drink and a dream.
>>7718576
seconded
this is top 3 things i've seen posted to lit
i'm at the end of a coming-of-age movie. the birds are singing and i'm sorry i hurt you. our parents are rich. i drive a bmw because i'm sad a lot. it rains when you look at me that way. take my hand, ophelia, and we'll never get caught with weed again. we'll bribe the earth until it loves us. take my hand amidst the grey gears and the green mist. mist is expensive. my dad spent four years in law school so that you could learn to forgive me, and ever since your mom became a valium addict i taught myself to cry and look at buildings.
>>7721626
. i'm alone on a boat in the fog looking at manhattan, and i don't know if you're the boat or the fog or manhattan, or if you're the looking or the solitude. and i am the nothing that i'll mean to you if we can't claw through these next few hours and look east and see the horizon stained with glassy pink. love is a night drive in a city and knowing but forgetting that the world is a test tube. today my mother came to visit and i told her that i had figured it out, i figured out that everything is just a controlled experiment and that everyone's a paid actor, everyone except for you and i, ophelia, and i asked her who my real mother was, if i even had a real mother, if i came from anything other than a rack of test tubes, if i'm even as old as they say i am; can you believe they tried to tell me that i'm thirty-five?
>>7721632
christ, ophelia, we can't be much farther on than eighteen, but they're telling me i'm thirty-five, ophelia, like we could ever be thirty-five, thirty-five and i'm my head on your shoulder on the bus in the floating wet gold of the streetlights and the red fog. well anyway i must have caused quite a scene because my mother had to leave right then with a nurse's arm around her shoulder and another one was pulling me back, i don't know why i was only trying to ask her an honest question, i don't see what the use is in pretending now that i've figured out what these fuckers are doing to me o god ophelia its justthat sometimee s they makeme so mad and i dont know what im going ttto do ophelia they the everything got a little hazy after that they can make me do thatits not fair ophelia please visit me again its been such a long time long time long time long time long time long time long time long time since your face in my window and i'm worried that you've forgotten about me
>>7721626
This post is supreme.
>>7721599
Thanks! Glad you liked it.
A boy falls in love with a girl.
Unable to confess, he is gifted by a deus ex machina with the girl's phone number. Never minding the strange area code, he immediately calls her, and is overjoyed to find out that she has a crush on him as well.
But, the next day, when he recounts the previous day's confessions to the girl, she only looks at him with a perplexed expression. After some investigation, he finds out that the girl he called is not the same girl he fell in love with. In fact, she doesn't exist in this universe at all. She is the girl's alternate universe counterpart, who has fallen in love with the MC's own AU self, who too is blissfully unaware of her crush.
Hijinks ensue as the two strike up a deal to give each other their darkest, most private secrets in order to equip the other with the weapons they need to conquer the heart of their other selves. While the two chase their respective loved ones, DRAMA ensues as they begin to fall in love with each other instead and question the NATURE of LOVE.
1/2
John scanned the mountains in the dark. There were a few lights in the distance and the chirping of crickets. It was vast but they were warm and safe in the car. Great literature is not made up of short, punchy sentences, he thought. But this is not great literature. Nevertheless the sentences would get longer as the story progressed. John, the man, rugged and old, in his battered jeans and a beer can in his hand. In his shaking hand. As he tried to calm himself, he looked sidewise. The Girl was soundly resting. Her bare soft foot touched his leg. His heart beat faster and blood rushed to his loins. He gently moved her away from him and then took a beer. He took a swig from the can and absorbed the landscape and the darkness and the gentle hum of the wind and the rhythmic buzzing of the insects and was lulled to sleep.
>>7722626
When he woke to have his morning piss and cigarette, the Girl was no longer lying there were she had been when he had fallen asleep. John looked around. The landscape was beautiful. He pissed next to the car and lit his cigarette, breathed heavily, patiently waiting for the Girl to return. She came out of a bushes, her lightly freckled face blushing as she saw the man standing by the car. Her dirtied dress clung tightly to her small body.
Morning, he said. And yawned. What a beautiful day it is.
Morning, the Girl replied.
We've got a lot of driving to do, but let's get some breakfast first.
And break fast indeed they did. They stopped at a quiet cafe in the road. It was a hot morning and bright and the ground under their feet dusty. There were trees and a few old houses and the big mountains around them. John let the Girl put on her sandals and hop out of the car and turn back to look at him before he got out. He liked watching her turn around and look at him. John smoked a cigarette and drank coffee while the girl ate toast and milk. Inside of the small and empty cafe, looking at the Girl focused entirely on consuming her food, he was aware of the unreality of that moment, of the vastness of the outside and insignificance of the two people involved in this scene. He felt how these moments of beauty and quietude seemed to last for so long yet passed so quickly, fading into memory. And then passing on to death. It was a moment only they would share, and it would die with them. And it was perfect indeed. But such thoughts shifted quickly from his mind as his eyes traced the tight green dress, barely conceal the small perfect flatness hidden there and he thought excitedly about what lay ahead of them.
Well I don't know about you, started Josh, But this is absolutely terrible story.
No, It isn't! It's a great story. I love it. The Girl gleamed. And sipped from her milk.
James paused and thought pensively for a moment. Well, even if I don't like it, somebody else might. As a matter of fact, someone does.
Well, next time I'll tell it better, he said.
You haven't finished telling it the first time yet!
I'll finish it soon, and that's a promise.
I don't want it to finish.
Nor do I, thought Juan. Nor do I. But he kept that thought to himself.
>>7716886
yeah yeah we get it you don't care
>>7717904
pretentious shit. if I heard this in a theatre I'd be reminded that the chairs are uncomfortable my back hurts & I regret coming to this pretentious shitfest.
>>7719459
ron pooman
>>7720730
waste of my time
>>7720848
dante & petrarch
>>7719748
>>7719748
I don't know if I would use that as the opening. The second sentence is something that's been said again and again all over in similar ways, so I think it would be better if you had something about women in combat roles, as that is what you say you want the book to be about. Then after that, again just something short since it is the beginning, you can put this paragraph in or alternatively tailor it to what you just wrote about and then fan out.
What exactly do you want to say with the book?
>>7721626
>>7721632
>>7721638
this is lame. really embarrassing when you grind on the "t" key. Hope you're not really 35.
>>7722371
poor summary of a dumb idea. post on r/writingprompts
>>7722626
>>7722631
so META. also
>the Girl.
what the fuck is that man? are you trying to be cute? you're not a girl or a small animal. stop
"Help!"
What an arresting voice! Such a rich timbre... full and melodious. I wonder if it's a natural voice, or whether its owner has had it trained? I'll let him call again. Perhaps I shall then be better able to tell.
"Help!"
Lovely! Rich and sonorous. But trained? I'll ask him to call again.
"Sir. Will you call again? I so enjoy the quality of your voice."
The man I addressed was floating precariously, just above the surface of the canal. Hi! I recognize him. It's Big Jim!
"Hello, Big Jim! How good to see you."
"Ivor, you big twit! Get me out of here! I'm drowning!" called Big Jim, with that poignant sadness in his voice that has all the fathers of heavily-built daughters from Troon to Aberfeldy shaking in their shoes.
"I'm wearing my good suit, Big Jim," I replied. "Please don't ask me to rescue you," knowing as I was speaking that I should be forced to save this life, human though it was.
>>7720889
>tfw more interested in the background than the girl
Looks like a calm place to sit and read or to be inspired and write.
>>7722716
"Save me, you fool! You'd have it on your conscience!"
Even at this moment, Big Jim was in full control of his facilities. He had me there, and knew it; knew he was safe on dry land already.
I peeled off my clothes and plunged into the water. How soft it felt, like a housemaid's knee. It was two foot at the edge, but towards the middle it was three foot, and three foot nine in the dead centre, where the barge keels had scraped a way for themselves when carrying a full lead of pig steel. I swam over to Big Jim, gripped him, and hauled him to the bank.
"You saved my life," he grinned, and pushed me back into the canal. "I can't bear to be beholden to anyone," Big Jim continued, and he strolled off with my clothes. One could hear the fathers of heavily-built daughters from Troon to Aberfeldy beginning to tremble again.
When it was dark, I left the soft water and ran stiffly home in my string vest and pants. They were already playing ping-pong in the orphanage as I passed.
>>7722718
Now imagine she's yr Nora Barnacle, Punished Mick.
Call this one "Dancing In Peckham"
He reached under his ass for the sweaty pillow he had been sitting on for the past three weeks. piles, it was for. "ye olde bulbous reds" he called them when anyone asked why he couldnt sit down without groaning like an old cupboard hinge. no one really understood or enjoyed this phrase. he stripped the casing from the pillow. it had flecks of brown and red all over it from where he'd farted while masturbating. he always jerked off totally naked. a rather distressing and depressing sight for his mother when she would stumble in with a fresh cup of tea at four in the morning, pissed up on fairy wine and blazed up on cheap soap-bar hash. he simply loathed the woman. she was very ill in every facet. nutty, crippled and gaunt, she staggered about in the early hours like a ghost tracing old haunts. from room to room, each doorway leaned on was a reminder of his father, and of him as a lovely little boy. he filled the pillow case with pennies and walked toward her room. he was going to do it. he was gonna' mash her up. blast her into oblivion with a thunder of straight cash. after he was done beating her he would scream "i'm a rich bitch, dont fuck with me snitch.". this, a reference to her telling his grandmother of his 'habits' he thought was very clever. He stood in the darkness gripping his weapon. he watched her heaving, unstable breathes and felt a grey flat-lined pity. he felt no real anger toward the woman. just disgust. mutual he thought. Then he went back to his room and watched EthosLab's modded minecraft series until 5 then he had a wank and went to bed.
>>7722707
Thank you for the feedback!
I understand that insofar as moral arguments are concerned, it is sort of a hackneyed platitude to spout off the equality spiel. But I also feel that it's important for my book to layout the underlying principles of the arguments before I expound upon the minutiae of argument
I could definitely tailor (or completely rewrite, if you think it's that bad) the paragraph.
Anyways, the book is gonna go expand upon the academic literature, the culture of combat units, the barriers of entry, etc.
I am here!! you see... I am writing a fic about universal and dimensional journeys around the multiple existences. Does it sound interesting?
The only attempts I've made at trying to write something besides my thoughts, and some essay I wrote a long ass time ago in school:
http://pastebin.com/NLi7RKiE
>>7723209
There he is. There he goes again. Look, everyone! He posted it once again! Isn’t he just the most interesting guy around?! Oh my God.
I can almost see your pathetic overweight frame glowing in the dark, lit by your computer screen which is the only source of light in your room, giggling like a like girl as you once again type your little pretentious post up and fill in the captcha. Or maybe you don’t even fill in the captcha. Maybe you’re such a disgusting NEET that you actually paid for a 4chan pass, so you just choose the picture. Oh, and we all know the picture. The “epic” Catholic meme, isn’t it? I imagine you, little shit, smirking so hard as you click it that you drop your Doritos on the floor, but it’s ok, your mother will clean it up in the morning. Oh, that’s right. Did I fail to mention? You live with your mother. You are a fat fucking fuckup, she’s probably so sick of you already. So sick of having to do everything for you all goddamn day, every day, for a grown man who spends all his time on 4chan posting ersatz alt lit. Just imagine this. She had you, and then she thought you were gonna be a scientist or an astronaut or something grand, and then you became a NEET. A pathetic masturbating NEET. She probably cries herself to sleep everyday thinking about how bad it is and how she wishes she could just disappear. She can’t even try to talk with you because all you say is “Spooks.” You’ve become a parody of your own self. And that’s all you are. A sad little man typing in the dark by himself as he prepares to indulge in the same old dance that he’s done a million times now. And that’s all you’ll ever be. A dancer in the dark.
>>7723272
It does... English or Spanish?
>>7723290
You dont get to answer :v
>>7723290
Hypersphinglish.
Ok. This an idea for a manga, but what I care the most is about the plot (my drawing isn't too good, so the plot can make it popular).
......
So... I want to write about something I'll call:
Domo no Uso... it talks about the lies that the world hides and how the main protagonist (Dimitri) finds out and exposes them
>>7723301
>be anon looking for plot suggestion
>doesn't write the plot
It is about an Honduran 14 years old boy that gets admitted for no reason in Talent Academy East in Japan (an academy filled up with talented people). This boy's name is Boreas, and he has a very particular way to see life. He consdiders himself someone realistic because of his hard childhood and uninterested father....
>>7723302
*cough* Snowden plis *cough*
>>7723304
I'm on it. It has a very extensive plot, I'm just writing main points.
>>7723306
:v Bastard, seriously is different thou, not only gonna talk about USA but the whole world
>>7723305
Boreas gets beaten off by the academy's most "attractive" and talented guy after trying to save the academy's idol from being raped by him, but that guy gets no conscequences about doing it.
I HAVE TO GO!! IT'S IMPORTANT!! GOOD NIGHT!!
There’s something deeply profound about gas stations. At the risk of sounding like an asshole, I’ll elaborate. I was in my car at a Raceway gas station and it was 8:30 PM. I was paralyzed by the intense urge to eat a burrito. I couldn’t move for three to five seconds. Once I got over my bout of paralysis I got out of the car and was greeted by the enjoyable scent of diesel gas, and the near-blinding light of the neon OPEN sign. They must have recently changed the bulb or whatever they use to power neon signs. When I walked inside I smelled the toasted bread and spices of the café. I bought a microwave burrito and Coke Zero, and took a seat. The burrito was alright. Too much beef, not enough bean. But it still tasted good. I’m not sure where I intended to go with the “deeply profound” comment… I think the point I was going to make was how alone I felt the whole time. It’s ironic how the more people are around, the lonelier you feel. For me, at least. It was as if there was an impenetrable bubble around me. The colorful candy displays and endless rows of beverages only made me feel more isolated. Like, they were screaming YOU WON’T FEEL SO LONELY IF YOU BUY ME. I’m curious as to whether or not other people feel the same type of isolation.
>>7723322
npw
>>7723286
i dont get it. do you think i posted a copy pasta? is your post a copy pasta? these aren't rhetorical btw
He put his hand on her bare waist and contemplated the warm, soft texture that radiated under his palm. She produced a soft smile, putting her delicate hands around his neck. With a sudden sweep of energy, he became overwhelmed with the supple details of her individual features, losing all coherence of their unity. What he saw was too clear, too vivid. His fantasies were challenged by the current reality, and the horror of ethereal beauty awoke in him a reluctance he had never known. The tone and complexion of her skin incredible; there not a single blemish nor inconsistency, but he could see all of her pores, and he saw them breathe. Her eyes were arched as she smiled, how unnatural it looked. As admiration evaporated, he began to feel a disgust towards her, hate pulsed from within his gizzards. What was happening? He had never been so confused at his own anger. Just an hour ago he had wished to spend his life with her; and now, with no explanation or compensation, he wanted to eradicate the present and all past memories that she had been a part of.
>>7717075
Shit, I think this is really great. I don't know anything about poetry or enjambment but the imagery is fantastic.
Assuming the 2nd paragraph relates back to the 1st, and the 4th to the 3rd, I think the scenarios could be more directly related back to the tea. You got kind of lost in the abstractness of it. Good job.
>>7723487
thanks man, I've made some slight changes
would you be interested in checking it out?
It's hard to trust when friends critique stuff
>>7717368
>Even now a shepherd is dying
>And all his flock are scattered.
>This beech will lie here for decades more,
>But the town already decays.
really detracts from the idea of the picture, the idea of the beach. Nice language though.
I pass by about six or seven men and women at the bus stop as I head for my car. Their rippling, incessant laughter was so loud and unceasing that it felt difficult to believe they were laughing at anything at all. It was more like the shrill songs of coyotes (Kai-Oats) that echo through the house if you leave your windows open too late on cool dry summer days. It _was_ a howling. A call right from the hindbrain simply to signal their own presence and participation in the pack. But no it isn’t like that at all. They aren’t coyotes, or wolves, or rats, or cats, or any other kind of lower animal. They are humans. And fairly typical ones if my previous experience might might be representative. It is not them who aren’t humans. It’s I who cannot understand them that is different. I am something else, something lower, something worse.
>>7719854
Seems like something you might find smeared in blood and shit on a men's room wall.
>>7723558
But is it decent aside from that?
>>7716822
Kek. True, there's no point but i can guarantee you're not done.
>>7723513
Good foundation, I like where you're going, but it definitely needs some work. I think the "But no it isn't like that at all" needs tweaking, perhaps splitting up or adding a break of some sort of emphasis. I'm sorry I can't be of more help, I read a lot but I'm worthless at writing.
Scene Extravagant
In a single moment on a street in New York, three strangers look at each other by mere chance in the fashion of a triangle. The inducer, a new mother, leaned into her carrier, a little baby is kicking its legs inside, bare gums showing. The observer, a middle aged man, looked on the scene with a quiet smile as he strode down the bustling street. The extravagant, a young male, in nondescript clothing saw the man smile and began to cry, tucking himself in a façade crevice between a bar and a candy shop. He caught sight of the baby’s chubby leg and wrung his hat above his knees. The extravagant, the man who does not speak, gathered himself after a minute or two and cleared his throat, produced a handkerchief and wiped his face. The symphonie mechanique is restored in his consciousness, a carriage lurched by, filled with happy folks on their way to lunch, he enstarts with outspaced strides, weaving about the fellow walkers and stately horses. A young woman caught his eye, standing calmly without a flowerstand. Her white dress caked in dirt, hung at her hips, drooping.
He marched across the street with the beat of a waltz and found himself inches from her shoulder, she remained unmoving.
He tapped her shoulder and she turned somewhat startled, she raised her eyebrows in question. He smiled with crooked teeth, and she returned the smile. He placed his hand over his mouth and shook his head. She squinted and nodded and put her own hands over her ears and shook her head. His eyes widened and he stepped closer, their feet almost touching. The extravagant looked into her eyes and she into his, a bomb had just detonated on a foreign field and seventeen men were blown to pieces, their comrades thrown into disbelieving horror, stepping over the body parts. She placed her hand on his shoulder and tilted her head slightly. With a sudden gesture he produced a book from his longcoat pocket and blew on her face, like a cool breeze of an oriental fan. A grin mischievous and she reciprocated, she wiped her sweat dampened hair from her face and set her hand on the book, mouthing an obscene ‘what’. The book behind his back, he pursed his lips and set an index finger upright, she nodded immediately and put her hands out.
Random Acts of Senseless Kindness
She opened the book to page one and began to read the tale of a scene extravagant.
This was just a little fun piece I wrote, but I did try.
I'm writing a small fantasy short story revolving around a man who has lived for a very long time. I'm trying to explain in this excerpt his desire to stop wandering the world:
'The times before I joined the Voamur were times I spent roaming from one escapade to the next. A last conversation between me and Shem-Ayn, of my Wawtabi hosts, was all that kept me clasped within an old identity. In the moment I told the old Chief of how I came to relinquish the past, I felt again the wash of release - as I had whilst swimming through the heavens. From there on I set forth to tackle my adventure of purpose. This journey was different from my first - my adventure of discovery - because the flights of fancy that came in pursuing the unknown was never something that helped me retain my sense of belonging; the will of being which I have had to tackle since the inception of my first memories. It is a hard thing to put in words. For when one has lived beyond years innumerable; entire ages, civilizations, legacies and life cycles that have flitted through the recesses of the mind the same as the thoughts of yesterday’s meal - one struggles to settle with the idea of living the way everyone else does.'
Infatuation has a cruel way of getting two people to ignore each other’s flaws. “Worry about it later, look how perfect she is!”, you’ll say as she becomes the center of your life and the meaning for your existence. "She’s so delicate, and I’m such a brute. She’s perfect. She completes me. We’ll worry about the big questions later." “There is no force strong enough to tear us apart.” Infatuation never gives you the chance to see flaws until it catches up to you one day, while you’re kissing, feet glued to train tracks as a freight bullets towards you with increasing speed. Except that you still love and enjoy each other’s company so much that you see no reason to stop kissing -- not even the forces of nature could tear you apart, let alone this train. It’s in this moment, while the train hurls towards you, that you both simultaneously realize just how despairingly incompatible you are for each other. You realize that there is no long term plan, that you cannot stay together, and that you were both so, so naive to allow this to happen. Momentary ambiguity. Seek her. This is all I know how to do when there's a problem. What will I do? All I want to do is keep kissing her. You both hold onto each other desperately. The silence is deafening. The train is coming. You know how much you’re going to miss the way her hips curve, how warm she is, her lavender shampoo, and how much care she’s shown you over the years. You can’t let go. The train is coming. Enjoy the last moments. In just a few seconds, the years of memories and happiness that you’ve created with her are going to violently fade, she’s going to be gone, and you’re going to be nothing.
Keep going /lit/? Or into the trash? I have the break-up blues...
>>7716811
you are not e.e. cummings
fucking ree
>>7723496
I feel like I agree, but I'm not sure. Do you mind explaining why?
>>7723585
You were right. I opened a new document and started typing.
That was several hours ago: I have 50 words. That is not a typo
The Rollo Tomasi Cafe on the edge of Deerheart, Minnesota hosts a neopagan revivalist cult that convenes every Wednesday to have out-of-body experiences, though lately I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that their experiences with the body have been less transcendentally “out-of”, and more headboard-bangingly “in-and-out-of”. The drywall that took a swim in my coffee can attest to that. Besides their titillating tantric tangents, they also seem to provide their own Grand Guignol twist on communion, with the Eucharist replaced with cherry pie. One evening, one of the more talkative members explained to a slightly spacey patron, who may or may not have done a fat rail before his nocturnal excursion, that the sanguine filling symbolized the offal of Artemis-as-faun. It’s an interesting twist on deer guts; maybe I would’ve been a more eager hunter in my youth if Dad told me that.
>>7716811
I liked. Do more.
>>7724232
This made my heart beat hard. I've never seen something like this on /lit/, something that holds the glittering stream of human experience in so few words so perfectly. You can immediately sense the thrumming intelligence that pinned down this hurricane of, well, life. Honed, home-hitting, and full of fucking verve—keep going?Don't stop.
>>7724354
good, i liked it
>>7724232
Keep going. It's good.
>>7724232
I really don't want to be rude, but I think this is bad.
>>7724574
agreed, it reads like a YA novel
The saint Valentine of Hallmark fame never existed. There was a nineteenth century land lord and pimp, going by the name Valentinus Manusco. In vain his devout catholic parents named him after a local bishop from their home region. Despite the religious name, the young Valentino would grow up to become an infamous rapist and pederast. His main claim to fame was that, to promote his brothel, a filthy tavern in a cul-de-sac off Bouleveard de Clichy, Le roi blême, he produced a series of pornographic postcards of the most disgusting sort. These cards were quite the hype in the early summer of 1888 and were deemed highly collectible by the well off perverts. A total of 43 different cards were produced, with a total edition of about 1200. The production of these cards came to sudden end when Valentino, merely 46 years old, succumbed to syphilis or was pushed in to the Seine by one of his whores. His tavern cum brothel became a hosiery.
In the next decade the pornographic series would be known as “Valentino’s cards” and became a sought after form of erotica for the bored and deprived. They truly achieved a cult status when in the winter of 1905 the Marseillaise gendarmerie destroyed the original clichés and 400 undistributed cards, which were stored at his sisters house. It looked like this would be the end of the notorious cards.
>>more http://wreckedgreg.tumblr.com
>>7724586
more like
>a middlebrow marketing companies ad selling an item that won't be revealed until the end of said ad
>randomly cut shots of young mid 20's white couple with their cosmopolitan ethnic friends
>lingering aerial shots of the city
>slightly sepia filter, not colour balanced because bohemian aesthetics?
>bonfire, sunset on a beach
>the girl is always a brunette
here's the kicker
>digitally shot
>cloying guitar music with piano
I don't want to be mean but it read like overproduced pop ad/lit
>>7724592
>succumbed to syphilis or was pushed in to the Seine by one of his whores. His tavern cum brothel became a hosiery.
> Or
Make your mind. Both death are totally different, you can't prove one and still accept that the second hypothesis might have happened.
>>7724648
why wouldn't I read them? or rather, why shouldn't I, as you so clearly implied
>>7724663
Because they are universally (ok almost universally) terrible. And more importantly, no one has ever given good advice or critique here. Not once. The best thing for any of these writers is to insult them or praise them. Insult them, they work to get better. Praise them, they will continue practicing.
The idea that you, critique-boy, could have anything useful to say is fucking insane.
>>7724689
okay, bud
>>7717950
It is very readable, nice job anon
>>7724695
I guess you're right. Sometimes I just need reality pointed out, or argued for in a manner that makes my stupidity clear to me. Thank you. I imagine we all are thanking you. And laughing with you too!
>>7724689
calm down m8
(Some really gross shit I wrote, trying to write from the perspective of an insane person that goes on and on and uses the same phrases over and over again)
Introduction to the Low:
I feel the sudden twitch that marks the beginning revolution around this ghastly epoch of my life. The reasons that I have amassed to allow me to continue the plight that is my tedious descent to whatever world I am going, is slimmer everyday. So, I write these feelings down in this book, oh, the book that has a cover so dim, it really is not a cover at all, merely a placeholder, ahh, yes, a dim cover that keeps all things hidden, yes, that is the correct way to describe it, perhaps not, oh yes, I feel the twinge that makes this revolution a part of me, oh Lord I cry in ecstasy, as I jot the words down into this book. I should not use the word 'I', for this would involve me thinking that I am one, one with myself, one without lacking purpose, but I have just that problem, the lack of purpose.
1100100:
F was over in the hall playing a game, that at this point in time had never revealed itself to be a desire to me, that is games in general, not F. F would have always been a friend of mine, if he didn't do the things he did, such as his ghastly approximation of my feelings to mere words, dammit F, I truly thought you could have been my lover, the dreamscape that resuscitates me from the nightmare, but that is quite the peculiar statement on my part, due to the fact I am not sure when the nightmare starts or ends for that matter, due to the fact that it all goes on, yes, like the echelons of the world militant groups, forever, infinitely, vastly outnumbering any opposition, depressing I say! Everything is contrived it appears, the mere thoughts in my head, due to the fact I state the repetitive words over and over again, yes, that is all due to the fact that I have lost all 'semblance of reality, so F is merely a dream inside a larger dream, yes that is so. I really think it is all due to the fact of something beyond my mind, beyond a dream, beyond the farthest hill, beyond the singularity that the universe must be encapsulated within, oh Lord! I do declare that I am prisoner for this very chain that binds me is my mental agony, oh F, free me!
http://postmetakolsti.tumblr.com/post/139742648890/the-point-with-that-post-with-the-horses-and
mostly looking for critique on my sign-off
>>7726412
g00d r!d4nc3
Another assignment for my playwriting class where I had to do a one page play.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1t_GzgtDi6aDojYRFSXTufycTCD3r4NJHHcPHw-dZtCE/edit?usp=sharing
>>7726540
This is actually very clever. It's only one page which keeps it from exploring the monotony and despair of being on omegle at 3 am but it's pretty good for its length.
>>7726540
had me a good kek. excellent play, friend.
>>7722626
>>7722631
Updated and probably better version of this. Got no critique, anyway.
John scanned the mountains in the dark. There were a few lights in the distance and the chirping of crickets. It was vast but they were warm and safe in the car. John, the man, rugged and old, in his battered jeans and a beer can in his hand. In his shaking hand. As he tried to calm himself, he looked sidewise. The girl was soundly resting. Her bare soft foot touched his leg. His heart beat faster and blood rushed to his loins. He gently moved her away from him and then took a beer. He took a swig from the can and absorbed the landscape and the darkness and the gentle hum of the wind and the rhythmic buzzing of the insects and was lulled to sleep.
When he woke to have his morning piss and cigarette, the girl was no longer lying there were she had been when he had fallen asleep. John looked around. The landscape was beautiful. He pissed next to the car and lit his cigarette, breathed heavily, patiently waiting for the girl to return. She came out of a bushes, her lightly freckled face blushing as she saw the man standing by the car. Her dirtied dress clung tightly to her small body.
>>7726815
Morning, he said. And yawned. What a beautiful day it is.
Morning, the child replied.
We've got a lot of driving to do, but let's get some breakfast first.
And break fast indeed they did. They stopped at a quiet cafe in the road. It was a hot morning and bright and the ground under their feet dusty. There were trees and a few old houses and the big mountains around them. John let the little girl put on her sandals and hop out of the car and turn back to look at him before he got out. He liked watching her turn around and look at him. John smoked a cigarette and drank coffee while the girl ate toast and milk. Inside of the small and empty cafe, looking at the child focused entirely on consuming her food, he was aware of the unreality of that moment, of the vastness of the outside and insignificance of the two people involved in this scene. He felt how these moments of beauty and quietude seemed to last for so long yet passed so quickly, fading into memory. And then passing on to death. It was a moment only they would share, and it would die with them. And it was perfect indeed. But such thoughts shifted quickly from his mind as his eyes traced the tight green dress, barely conceal the small perfect flatness hidden there and he thought excitedly about what lay ahead of them.
Well I don't know about you, started Josh, But this is absolutely terrible story.
No, It isn't! It's a great story. I love it. The child gleamed. And sipped from her milk.
James paused and thought pensively for a moment. Well, even if I don't like it, somebody else might. As a matter of fact, someone does.
Well, next time I'll tell it better, he said.
You haven't finished telling it the first time yet!
I'll finish it soon, and that's a promise.
I don't want it to finish.
Nor do I, thought Juan. Nor do I. But he kept that thought to himself.
Love that no one is leaving any critique, yet the bombardment of shit tier writing continues to roll in. Love you, /lit/
>>7726831
>Love that no one is leaving any critique, yet the bombardment of shit tier writing continues to roll in. Love you, /lit/
I don't like the way you wrote that. Enjoy the critique.
>>7726540
Funny stuff. How does it sound when performed?
Hit me
>>7724232
yes
>>7727125
*whack*
Tried a hand at a different character. Yes, I'm writing from a cat's perspective. Please tell me if it's too cringe-worthy for what it is
Quark sniffed the air expectantly, hoping to catch the slightest whiff of the rat she sought. Car fumes and humans, that was all she smelled. She settled on her hind paws uneasily, trying to think. Thinking was something she was good at, at least compared to her sense of scent. It was said any of the Court Sith could lounge in the middle of Washington Square and practically taste a furry backside and whiplike pink tail as far away as Battery Park, but Quark wasn’t one of them yet, and she was not as a cat should be.
Her stomach gurgled and purred, and she realized she hadn’t eaten since the previous day. Then again, she was always hungry. It was something she never understood. Most tabbies had long since stopped growing by the age of fifteen but if anything she had continued. Maybe that was why Nemean had picked her. Perhaps she was becoming a nekomata like him.
He’s not a nekomata, she reminded herself as she searched for a pigeon to make a feast of, he’s not even a he. Unlike other nekomata, her master Nemean had never been a cat. Though he took the shape of one and ruled from amongst them, he was something far older and far more powerful. Even his name was just a convention, one of many which he called himself but none of which was real. Cat Sith, Bastet, Gluon, Cheshire; these and a dozen more were masks the lord of three colors had put on and habitually changed when he felt the time was right. Just as often as he shed his names, he gave new ones to his children, an act of generosity that left many a cat confused. Puzzling gifts were a sign of both his generosity and his own status. Any sane nekomata would rather die than part with their second tail, but for reasons neither she nor anyone else could understand, he had given her his third.
There were no pigeons on the streets. There had been fewer and fewer every day. Rumor had it that the humans had cursed their hens and left them barren, but it never made any sense to Quark. The fun of a pigeon was in the hunt. There was no sport in cursing them and leaving them be.
>>7727125
here are several things you need to fix:
>the words "common solar cycle" imply a space opera which this is clearly not
>describing things with parentheses is bad form
>the name estonia doesn't seem to have existed at any time this could possibly take place
>It sounds like a momentous journey for an estonian to end up in the pacific, although I guess since he's a sailor it sort of makes sense
The rest is fine but not my cup of tea so any other judgement I can offer goes against the aesthetic of your style
trying to teach myself how to write about drug experiences without being super cringey.
I opened the magnetized lid of my grinder, mashed a pea-sized nugget of marijuana into it, and closed the lid over the weed, working it through the concentric rings of sharp plastic rhombuses until it all ripped apart and slipped through to the center chamber. I used a guitar pick to scoop and drop crumbled weed loosely into the bowl of my glass pipe. I have lost all my lighters and used up my books of matches, so I used the barbecue lighter that I borrowed from my neighbor to light my pipe. I inhaled, then exhaled, sighing deeply.
What you notice first is the richness of what was completely neutral just seconds before the hit. The colors of the world around you have suddenly become more saturated. You feel as though you’ve eased into a deeper, more immediate experience of reality, a slow, intoxicating plunge after treading lightly on its undefinably sterile surface. Moments feel engulfing, sensations are more immediate. The activity of doing nothing becomes significantly less empty when fleeting thoughts are coated thickly in this high. Passing thoughts become obsessions. Whims are followed with laborious intensity. Stabs in the darkroom of consciousness land squarely, drawing blood.
The banana peel in my trash can had rotted just enough since I ate its fruit this morning. It no longer carried the satiating, ripe smell of food, a smell I so closely associate with ‘yellow’. It instead had the sustained piercing smell of brown garbage, unmistakably produced by a banana, but transformed into something upsetting. I became acutely aware of this smell and walked into the kitchen area of my studio apartment. Standing up, I could no longer smell the banana peel, and I realized that the atmosphere of my apartment was striated, with different levels containing different smells.
>>7727125
what program do you use faggot
>pls respond
>>7727651
...MS Word?
>>7727373
What's wrong with parenthesis?
>>7716811
>i must be at macdonald’s grill in six hours
extra a had me rolling
>>7727853
It's more about how you used them than you using them. Parenthesis should be used for side notes but you're using them to explain who your character is which most certainly is not a side note. It reads like the character introduction you get in the front of a script
if you had written
>Helmed by a Captain Koidula, a hoblegged Estonian and veteran seamen of both flanks of the empire, the...
or
>Helmed by a Captain Koidula – a hoblegged Estonian and veteran seamen of both flanks of the empire – the...
it would be read entirely differently. It's a really subtle thing but a simple change of punctuation and the addition of a single "a" changes the sentence from a neat fact about a human-shaped background feature into a description of a character
>>7722371
make it so AU MC is gay and in love with himself so he's constantly sabotaging MC's attempts to get with girl
>>7722371
fuck the haters, this is cute. sci-fi romcoms are the best development from the recent decade, and your idea would be a welcome addition
i'll keep my self esteem where it is thanks
(1/2)
It was hard to see after coming outside. The air was replete with a fog that was uncommon for this time of year. It was mid spring but it was cold and had been raining. The air was clear and brisk and felt good on the lungs. A man stepped outside of the barn and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair and looked out upon the empty grass field. It was impossible to tell where the sky ended. The sky was ethereal in its movement against the fog which was eerily inert. The man took a soggied pack of cigarettes out of his uniform's chest pocket and placed the unfiltered in his mouth. The other man pushed open the soft, old wooden barn door and closed the latch. The two men silently stood against the dilapidating barn wood and tacitly agreed not to talk about what had gone on inside. The man flicked open his zippo mechanically yet fluidly, practiced, and lit the thing. He exhaled. The smoke was thick in the thin air and rose into the fog and sky and dissappeared. The other man turned around and adjusted his head to slowly examine the whole thing. He squinted his eyes even though he was right next to it and curled the edges of his lips into a frown. He stared some longer and broke down on one knee and hit the door repetedly with the bottom of his palm. He cried, quietly. The other man continued to smoke and adjusted his belt. They were both young. He did not watch the other man cry.
The smoking man finished his cigarette and walked around the corner of the blackened, decomposing barn and searched though the canvas pack and took out a steel white container with lighter fluid. He circled the perimeter of the barn flicking the fluid from the container in a leminscate motion. When he came back around the front the man had stopped crying and was sitting cross legged with an empty, portent gaze. He did not look on as the other man unlatched the door and went inside once again as he dabbed the floor with liquid. Rotted hay and a thick pond of dark blood from the woman's head, and the woman herself, were all that lay on the floor. The man stopped as he approached the freshly deceased body and squatted down with his boots pressing into the blood, making a soft swish as it parted around his toes. Her mouth lay agape and he looked into the wound her put into her temple. The flies had already started to come. He motioned at a few but there were too many.
>>7728020
(2/2)
He quickly rose and doused the body in a straight line from head to toe in the fuel and continued the path outside until the last drops seeped out. He ripped a piece of paper from his pocket and lit it with the zippo. He motioned at the man to grab the packs and get out of the way. He grabbed them and jogged to where the ignitor stood. The man dropped the paper into the path and both watched as the fire caught and rose unassisted, like some ancient sacrificial ritual. The barn caught fire and the men began to feel the heat upon their faces. The wood began to collapse and the structure began to lose its form as the fire usurped it. The black clouds rose high into the clouds and dissipated at a distant point.
"We ought to be heading out. They'll see the smoke soon enough."
The man hung his head and handed the man the other pack and went on.
I am working on a book about Erotic Roleplay in online games primarily and also message boards, emails, and through phone text
For the most part it has been a purely objective instructional book about practices, variations, signals, portable ideas, theories, etc
Something I've had problems with however is containing my opinions on certain matters, or my own thoughts on certain things
Would it be wise to add my own opinions or personal theories/ideas in certain sections?
>>7724904
chill son
>>7724530
Thanks anon. I normally come on here expecting to be insulted, but your post makes me happy.
>>7724232
Very good, please continue!
(1/2)
“Forgive me father for I have sinned.” Maryam’s throat scratched as she spoke. It had been several years since her voice had been that high on its own.
“You need not throw your voice out my child,” the priest spoke, “These confessionals are strictly confidential, and deception is a sin on its own.” Maryam groaned in her head. It was Father Hartsmyth. Why did it have to be Father Hartsmyth? She loved the man like her father, which he effectively was in more ways than one, but at the moment she would rather be confessing to someone in the adjacent stall of a public restroom. “Besides,” he said, “I’m not even allowed to look at this screen.” The wicker made a crackling sound and Maryam realized he had just poked it.
“I’m sorry father.” She replied, not lowering her voice.
Father Hartsmyth sighed. “I assume that isn’t the sin you came to confess to, so tell me; what mischief have you been up to?”
“I think I might have been lying to people. A lot of people.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know for certain,” she chewed nervously her lower lip. “I think I might have been lying about myself and I didn’t even realize it until recently. I told all these people that I knew something, and that I could help them, but I’m starting to think what I thought I knew is wrong and I don’t really know anything at all.”
“If being incorrect was a sin,” Heartsmyth said gently, “heaven would be awfully empty. As long as you admit you’re wrong, there is no harm done.”
“But I didn’t stop.” Maryam’s voice trembled. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this guilty. She felt the telltale pressure at the corners of her eyes and fought to hold back the tears. “I kept lying to them about who I was and what I could do because–” her voice caught in her throat.
“–Because you thought you were still helping them?” He added.
“That’s what I told myself at first,” She felt her cheeks were starting to grow damp. “I thought that the lie didn’t matter if it helped more than the truth would, that maybe I was doing something right by doing something wrong. I didn’t even know for sure if I was lying. But I wasn’t just lying to them, I was lying to myself too. The truth was I thought if I told people the truth they would get angry at everything that I stood for, or even worse angry at me.” Her whole face was wet now. She could feel the tears leaving tiny salt stains on her habit but couldn’t stop if she wanted to. “I was lying because I didn’t want to get in trouble. I would never have done that if I was really his daughter!”
(2/2)
Father Hartsmyth was silent for a few moments. When he spoke again his voice was soft as warm butter. “You mustn’t worry yourself Maryam, doubt is one of the most human things there is, and it’s a sign of humility. I know it must be scary for you. There are so many people out there who need you, and so much of what you’re experiencing doesn’t have any precedent, but you must have faith in the lord and faith in yourself. After all, the two are one and the same: The Father, the Son, The Holy Ghost, and you Maryam. Together you are the light of the world”
Out of the corner of his eye, Father Hartsmyth watched through the screen as she flung the door open and bolted from the booth. He sighed deeply and spoke quietly to the crucifix in his palm. “She’s still a girl for now.”
>>7728020
this is really good. I want more
How many times should a good writer to over a section of writing before it can be considered "done" for the moment?
>>7721216
Thanks Anon, yeah is an SS about the way working in one of those types of places corrodes; hmmm, yeah I suppose there's no reason it couldn't be a different word...Thanks for the crit
>>7729732
Exactly five
>>7728020
>The sky was ethereal in its movement against the fog which was eerily inert.
Clumsy purple prose
>>7729880
I read in The Big Book of How a Writeang Does Bro, that it's actually 6. Check your facts Anon.
http://pastebin.com/ARqCCpy0
IRONY
HOW DO I BE MORE IRONIC
>>7715561
Why is Giles Corey the image you used?
Outside, a lone tram cut through the silent streets, it’s coughing engine spouting an occasional bang. The smog it emitted guttered upwards, into the path of a glaring garish billboard advertising the latest in ‘Nebula’ technology. The coarse smoke gave the empty light substance, much the reverse of laboured breath turning to vapour in the cold air. Opposite the billboard, in flat 827, a singular shaft of the lurid illumination penetrated through the broken slats of David’s blinds, bathing his closely shaved scalp in white.
David dreamt. He explored a web of staircases. Interwoven, connected and disjointed. David had stepped into Escher’s waterfall. Each staircase led nowhere, but only to where he had already been. Each footfall forward took him further from where it fell. As he climbed, he became aware of something behind him. Formless, but directly behind him, pursuing. His languid exploration, turned into a chase, each step becoming more laboured, the entity gathering behind him, flitting into the corner of his vision, but he dared not look, to unveil the beast was to accept it. Light took over, the beast retreated, he woke.
David’s eyes flitted open.
>>7730110
>it is coughing engine
You use too many descriptors, and make some strange choices re: verbs (the engine "spouts" an occasional bang? Seems mismatched). I would connect "interwoven, connected and disjointed" to the sentence before it; it's a fragment. From there on your sentence structure gets pretty dodgy. The sentence beginning, "His languid exploration..." is particularly bad. Learn what a comma is actually for before using so many of them.
Anyway, good hook, weak execution. Try not to be so florid; it's not impressive, or even particularly evocative in this case.
>>7729903
Well-written, but with contemptuous subject matter.
>>7728189
>>7728191
Great dialogue. You have more?
>>7729903
So this is ironic satire about being ironic.
I want to get off Mr. Wallace's wild ride please.
>>7730233
Thank you for your praise. There is still more to come but nothing is written yet. I'm actually a bit surprised you like the dialog of all things, The first page felt a touch too simple for me
By 9:30 he had already began to count down the hours until he was able to go home. Three hours until lunch, and then after that finished just four more hours until he was done. Head to the car as quickly as possible, maybe make it home by 6:30 if he was lucky. Five hours to himself before going to bed and doing exactly the same thing tomorrow. Microwave meals and TV to keep his mind distracted from how much he hated his life.
He'd been hired six years ago, when he was twenty-six. Six years and four months, to be precise. Five weeks holiday each year, forty-seven weeks spent working. Five days a week, eight and a half hours each day. How many hours was that in total? Two-thousand? More? And for what?
What was he even working for? Was it the two-bedroom terraced house on the outskirts of the city that he could only afford to rent because he wasn't able to raise the 10% required for a deposit? Was it the second-hand car that he was still making payments on each month? Was it his cheap suit? He was trading away the only thing that he owned which was valuable, his life itself, and what for? For misery!
His colleagues sat there with smiles on their faces, drinking out of mugs that say 'You don't have to be crazy to work here but it helps' and 'Work hard play hard' and they seemed genuinely happy. That was the worst thing of all - how happy they were with their competely meaningless lives. They would live and they would die and the world around them would be completely untouched by their existence. But they were happy whereas he spent every evening alone imploring himself to either commit suicide or find what it is that will make him happy. He did neither, and lived in permanent self-contempt. So who was the bigger idiot, he or them?
The morning sun penetrated the translucent walls and ensured that a late lie would be quite impossible. It was the youngest of the three boys who was the first to stir, slowly peeling off his sleeping bag in the sticky heat. Taking care not to disturb either of the friends that flanked him he sat up and held his knees to his bare chest. None of the sights and sounds of the night before remained. Nervous laughter and whispered instructions had given way to gentle breathing and distant birdsong. Shadows had danced along the canvas by torchlight but now a bright orange glow monopolised the scene. The musty smell of sweat was the only constant. Not an entirely unpleasant smell, the boy allowed himself to admit.
"What time is it?" came a voice struggling through a yawn.
The boy turned away from the inquisitor and reached past his yet-sleeping friend's head for his phone. "Just after 7", he said, receiving only a grunt in acknowledgement.
Sitting back down in his damp shorts he wondered what would happen now. How easy it should be for them to make a joke of it and laugh it off together. It was a fanciful notion though, because he realised that in all likelihood nothing at all would happen now. Not a word would be said about what passed between them and in time they would each begin to wonder if only they remembered that night of frenzied adolescence. Perhaps they would even begin to doubt if it had happened at all.
The mounting temperature made up the boy's mind and he clumsily set about pulling on his uniform in the tight space. His fingers weren't cooperating fully but before long he had managed to unzip the door and stepped out feeling as if he had left something important behind.
"'Morning, Jack, you're up early," called the boy's Scout Leader from over by their blackened campfire. "Trouble sleeping?"
"Three boys in a two-man tent might have been a bit much after all," he answered with a shy smile.
I'm not a writer at all but an idea for a little story kinda stumbled into me earlier.
What do you think of a short story about a guy accidentally finding a forum for women with breast cancer, becoming obsessed with reading it every day, and eventually creating a persona that allows him to post on the forum as if he's one of them?
I'm probably going to write it no matter what, but I've got no idea if the topic is interesting to people
>>7732056
execution is more important than the idea
http://pastebin.com/mh5xqG0U
I made this up about a co-worker while I was stoned in my basement. He's legit got an IQ of 90 but still tries his best. A lot of people don't like him, but I do (regardless of how I make him sound in the story). I just want to know if I should show it to my friends or scrap it.
>>7732024
>What is really paradoxical about /lit is how everyone chats about the Greeks and how they're these uber patricians, but 99% of the stuff in these threads is fucking fuck the fuck awful.
Start with the Greeks is a philosophy meme, and the people on /lit/ to talk about philosophy aren't generally the same people who come here for writing crit. I only read >>7731178 but it was nicely done.
I think I've finally begun to write a version of this story that I'm proud of.
(1/???)
Many years ago, a middle-aged couple happened upon a pigeon in the middle of central park. The bird’s leg had become wedged in the tab of a soda can and he could not escape. Carefully, the couple helped the bird by breaking off the tab, freeing his leg. Grateful for their help, the pigeon told the couple that his name was Rasul and that he was a trusted servant to Toth Tetragrammaton, the god of the pigeons. For their kindness, he would see to it that they were granted one wish by his master.
Rasul guided the couple through a strange and winding path across the park until they could no longer see the skyscrapers. When they finally stopped, they were in a garden unseen by man in over 5000 years. In the garden was the giant two-headed, two-tailed pigeon god Toth, who sat upon a throne of braided copper. Rasul told his master of what happened and the gift he had promised the couple. Toth was angry at Rasul for being so foolish as to be trapped by a soda can and for making promises in his name, but the couple had proved their kindness and he should hear out their request.
The wife spoke first, and she told the god of the pigeons that for many years her husband and she had tried to have a child to no avail. At one point the wife had conceived but it was not to be and the child was lost. Afraid to try again and but wishing to have a child of their own flesh and blood the couple had given up on their dream and had fallen into despair.
Toth Tetragrammaton considered their plea, and realized that he could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. His deal was a generous one: For doing a good deed and expecting nothing in return, he would allow the wife to carry not one, but two healthy children to term. In exchange however one of the children would be promised to him, and raised as his right hand. The couple readily agreed, and from his tails Toth picked one feather each, which he gave to the couple. He told them that they should each brew one of the feathers into a tea and drink his essence before they embraced. Last, before they left he punished Rasul by sealing him in the same can that he had been ensnared in. He gave this can to the couple, asking them to dispose of it as they would.
That night in their apartment, two teas were brewed, several candles were lit, rose petals were strewn across a bed, and two new stories began.
>>7732526
Sorry about the spacing on that one
(2/???)
On the eve before the two children were born, a large white rat appeared before the god of the pigeons. His name was Tachyos the soothsayer, and he was the left eye of the god of the rats, who had been cast off to wander through space and time until he could only remember the future and experience the past as if it were new.
When asked his business, the rat-seer told he whose lighting had lit the first fire that he carried news of a terrible fate. Of the two children he had sired, each one-third his blood, one of them was doomed to slay him and take his place as the god of charge and loadstone.
Impossible, the court all whispered, surely nothing could kill the immortal. To this the seer laughed, no god could ever hope to kill another, but of all the things humans could do, killing was what they did best. The only way to avert this fate, he told Toth, was to separate the children, and do so in a way he could be sure they would never meet.
There's no wisdom in their eyes, just the wrinkles of too much time on this earth, with age does not come wisdom. The truly wise man embraces his confusion. All the wrinkles on these mens faces, just their vanity showing it's face. Nature is cruel and life is absurd, everyone's hair goes gray eventually.
>>7732024
I wrote the first one, do you have anything more for me to work with than 'shit' and 'fucking fuck the fuck awful'? I'm not one of these memesters who pretends to be patrician, I'm happy to admit that I'm pleb. I like to post in these threads because I know people won't hold back with criticism, but yours doesn't give me much information about how to improve.
There is a kind of suffocation known only to terrified children. Nathan knew it like the scruff of his father's beard. When the light of his mother's eyes had left him and the darkness came to steal his sight, his shadow came to life. At first he had thought it only a dream, but over the course of several weeks what was once just a naive suspicion coalesced into a real and present dread.
It always began when the house was still.
The gentle roar of his father's snore, the creaking of the manse at rest, the chatter of a lone cicada. When the pale beams of starlight were masked by ominous giants, shapeless in the oneness of the night, his hairs would stand on end and his chest would grow heavy. Only by burying himself under the mountainous wool duvet to such an extent that he would deprive himself of air could he get relief from this hidden assailant. That gentle thickening of the air whereby a refreshing breeze is transfigured into the warm breath of decay is a sudden one. The suddenness was always the cruellest blow, for there was a span of hardly two seconds when Nathan believed he could suffer his burden thankfully, blinded by the serenity of calm breath only to feel the by-now familiar musty tomb settle around him.
It was only after a period of a year and four months (nearly a third of his life, of which every night was spent in his self imposed asphyxiation) that Nathan attempted to relieve himself. On a particularly warm and humid night he found himself at his limits with indeterminate hours to go until morning. The air buzzed electric with the presence of his ethereal assailant, but his desire for fresh breath was greater than his present fear, a condition that would never grace his soul again. Against all his primal instincts the young boy threw his covers off and allowed the weight of his shadow to press in on him as he gasped for breath. His procession from this world was swift and painless.
>>7732823
There is nothing mechanically wrong with the sample you posted, just like there is nothing thematically or totally wrong with its substance. It is just boring. A big part of learning to write is acquiring an aversion to cliches. Keep working on it.
Also, bit of advice, don't try to reason with someone being a cunt in a critique thread.
>>7733464
Tonally*
Bunp
>>7716871
>service pistol
>revolver
Unlikely
>shooting handgun in house without major ear ringing
>at a rat no less
Do not pass go
>>7734839
What is it? An extract? A piece of flash fiction?
>>7735040
Just a vignette. I enjoy writing little scenes that feel like they could be part of a bigger story, even if I never intend to write the bigger story.
His face flashes orange and his eardrums shake as explosions burst from the screen before him. Lasers firing, the whizzing of spacecraft, the garbled transmissions of one pilot to another; the crunching of popcorn, the slurping of drinks, the quiet footsteps of a man leaving to take a call in the lobby. He checks his watch impulsively; it is still only eight. He glances around the theater. Upon the glazed-over eyes of the movie watchers he sees bright reflections swim like luminous fish in the sun-starved depths of the sea. A boy a few rows in front of him leans over to whisper in the ear of his brother. An older woman three seats to his left coughs quietly and continues to cough as she shoves her face deep into her shirtsleeve. He turns his attention again to the film. A blast of energy flies across the screen and pierces an enemy fighter, sending it careening through space before it collides with a nearby asteroid in spectacle of brilliant light. He rubs his eyes and sips his drink and leans back in the cushioned chair. He is so tired and the film is no good anyway. Sleep claims him.
He awakes some time later to find the screen turned blank and the lights shining brightly above the aisles. A theater employee with music blaring is gathering trash and halfheartedly sweeping up the popcorn kernels that dot the crimson carpet in the thousands. He checks his watch again: a quarter past nine. He rises and stretches with a mangled sigh and gathers his coat up beneath his arm. He trudges drowsily between the rows of seats and down the aisle, sidestepping the oblivious worker as he leaves the theater beneath the red glowing exit sign. He pulls on his coat and zips it to his neck as he languidly traverses the lobby and shoves open the double doors to be confronted with the bitter chill of that February night.
>>7718710
Preposition Ratio: 11.1 % ← :D
Zombie Nouns:
vision
division
validation
location
combination
question
revelation
situation
reflexion
version
confusion
exclamation
opinion
option
prevention
interpretation
ability
reality
mentality
humanity
pity
regularity
originality
utility
clarity
personality
capability
[That's quite a lot :^(]
Lexical Diversity: 29.24 %
Content Carrying Words: 54.8 %
Personal Vocab Diversity: 48.8 %
Longest Words: congratulatory, disappointment, interpretation
>>7721638
I love this one
>>7720520
Preposition Ratio: 11.66 %
Zombie Nouns:
admiration
addition
inspiration
frustration
attention
tension
implication
inability
community
creativity
perfectionism
consumerism
cynicism
vandalism
Lexical Diversity: 30.89 %
Content Carrying Words: 56.46 %
Personal Vocab Diversity: 48.98 %
Longest Words: controversies, investigators, perfectionism, sarcastically
>>7720538
Preposition Ratio: 12.85 %
Z Nounz:
junction
vision
collection
frustration
Lexical Diversity: 39.92 %
Content Carrying Words: 57.04 %
Personal Vocab Diversity: 58.35 %
Longest Word: straightened
>>7723280
Preposition Ratio: 12.04 %
Z Nouns:
concoction
city
eternity
Lexical Diversity: 38.26 %
Content Carrying Words: 53.91 %
Personal Vocab Diversity: 58.26 %
Longest Word: overwhelmingly
>>7729903
Preposition Ratio: 11.45 %
Zombie Nouns: ['connotation', 'graduation', 'oblivion', 'rebellion', 'opinion', 'tuition', 'function', 'fashion', 'emotion', 'condition', 'inflection', 'humanity', 'Identity', 'sincerity', 'dignity', 'clarity', 'brutality', 'identity']
Lexical Diversity: 39.36 %
Content Carrying Words: 52.42 %
Personal Vocab Diversity: 64.72 %
Longest Word: incomprehensible
>>7732097
Preposition Ratio: 12.01 %
Zombie Nouns:
location
midsection
detonation
cushion
frustration
direction
protrusion
curiosity
Lexical Diversity: 26.85 %
Content Carrying Words: 56.66 %
Personal Vocab Diversity: 43.93 %
Longest Word: instantaneously
>>7735869
do me!
All of them were waiting for me, eyes trained, screening the gas for the fish, seething splash. Slim days only left without the credibility. who can even breakfast?
cast not yourself into the warrior's outlet,
death comes soon enough eh? the cackling skull scuttling on your secret nerves. slaps as your flesh is torn away, and returned to you, a coat well fit but never the same. Presently, corruption seeps from you, creepies trickle along your toes and the pestulence is wrung from you. drums, we are. we are the beat of god's great orchestra!
they ride on tractors daily, youngsters that should be reading, out chewing grass in the leaves and cold, fill up the tank and snag the cash from parents and clusters.
the wet velvet slushed underfoot. don't cry.
Subjugation of the willing is only a job for the poor of heart enough to stop themselves. Fear is an oil on which all the engines in the world turn. Claustrophobia is the number one reason for infant death. Playing with heartstrings and their own gets caught i suppose,
unknown asthma. Visions of solidity in fear, grasping for a connection, but no, only the rip of blackness on asphalt. Long snotlines, fat with the rub of the foot unhinged, the ankle aligned with the dancer's, sleeping in positions that one sees only in statues, the dance is not a form of expression of the self, but the body exposing the sameness of all of us. lame even feel the twinge of the dance in music if it fancies, and the body takes these positions in luxury, in tension.
The yawn came, like an onion in the mouth, tears rise unbidden, broken only after it seems the jaw would dislocate. the void of playful sedimentia and self tricksterism, pranks of all pranks and unheeded addictions, the void now filled from time to time,
but never truly full
the heart sinks
like a rock
a stone.
Prattling can only get you nowhere, and they have never left this place.
>>7735876
Are you <6' w/auburn hair, dark eyebrows, & nice legs? W/a mind like a diamond?
>>7735883
nope, just some ugly fat guy.
>>7735869
>>7735863
>>7735852
>>7735842
>>7735835
>>7735826
Prep Ratio → 10% = Good || 25% = Turgid
Zombie Nouns = Nominalizations = Entombing verbs inside nouns ← bad for the mind's eye
Lexical Div = Total Words / Vocab Size
Content Carrying = Total Words / (Total Words - Non-content Words)
True Lex Div = Total CC Words / Vocab of CC Words
Long Words = Replace w/shorter ones
>>7735886
Being OTI is basically a big POMO Turing Test—you are showing a horrifying lack of imagination-ability. Shame.*ding*Did you learn nothing from NotPynchon?
>>7735918
ah yes, thank you sir or madame. would you like a flamingo twizzler stick?
>>7716822
You don't have to share it, man. Write privately if it makes you feel happier. It's fine.
>>7716792
Toughen up, if you're ashamed of what you've written maybe it's just shit, better to know. If writing is important to you then you'll carry on. Which was yours?
>>7736011
The first one.
>>7735918
what does OTI stand for?
>>7736018
The Spanish one?
>>7736028
ok sneaky trap avoided, reading now.
>>7736025
O n t h e i n t e r n e t
>>7736011
This was mine
>>7732526
>>7732529
>>7736041
>>7736028
>>7736018
Kill yourself faggots
>>7736041
lol I'm going to go with the first correction, also stop trying to jam this up for cheap thrills.
