/crit/ique
Images are sometimes not shown due to bandwidth/network limitations. Refreshing the page usually helps.
You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature
You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature
HEY YOU MERRY AUTHORS AND LOWLY JOTTERS
Gather round and share some campfire stories. Remember, it don't mean a thang if it ain't got that prose.
This is absurdly fun to write and to read back to myself, but I want to know if others have as much fun reading it as I do reading books that use this kind of style.
I'm compiling a little lexicon of the portmanteaus and whatnot I'm using, so if you can't figure out what the words mean yourselves, I can supply definitions if you're interested.
I dont write in english
>>8006416
If someone else speaks your language I'm sure they'd give you some feedback
>>8006422
First draft hope it has any merits
Pogoda przeplatała ze sobą słońce i deszcz - ponure długie dnie, kiedy wracało sie do domu krętymi uliczkami włócząc nogami a przekreslone bruzdami ulice jak magnez obciążały każdy krok. Wiosna trwała już od kilku miesięcy ale dopiero od kilku dni ukazywała swoje uroki. Wyszedłem z domu nad ranem, pokonałem zakręt pod kątem prostym a od niego udalem sie kilka metrow na wprost pod naturalną altanke. Po lewej stronie cicho płyneła rzeka której powierzchnia ledwo sięgała do kostek a woda chrupotała o wystające korzenie których brąz pręzył i rozwijał swoje ramiona w słonecznym blasku jak dorydy wracające z podróży z żeglarzami na piersi, których wyratowały z szalejącej kipieli. Altanka mieniła sie łagodnym bielem czeremchy której zasięg był wystarczająco długi aby kojarzyć sie znnaturalmym ogrodem. Przestrzen między rzeką a pasem czeremchy przecinał asfalt jak pręga na plecach leniwego uczniaka - ten element niepochodzący z pierwotnych źródeł był oznaką życia człowieka pośród natury której rozwojem sie nie przeciwstawiał, znakiem symbiozy, tak delikatnym że poprzez kontrast podkreślał tylko ową pierwotność. Asfalt był statkiem zakonserwowamym w zwałach soli na dnie morza, który po tysiącach lat i tonach wyschniętej wody, dotrwał do czasów pojawiającej sie roślinności poddał sie wszechobecnym dzikim pnączom bez strachu, utulił je do swojego zmęczonego korpusu i pochłonął ich soki które przypomniały mu o tym czym był niegdyś.
I write some poem recently, i am bored in work often.
Drzewko w kształcie homunkulusa
Jabłoń jak jabłko z głową większą od tułowia plaską
Kwiaty zawładneły krzewami jak ogień zapałką
Fioletowo biało w trójwymiarze, w oczach sie mieni
Kontrastuje z łagodnością wiosennej zieleni
Kto pokusi sie i zerwie poznasz głupca
Zerwałem kwiat by zabrać do domu woń, kolor, fakture
Na stole płatki jak podbródek trzymał wysoko dzielnie
By po dniu gubić je, aksamitne pierwiastki które
Kurczyły sie zabite powietrzem dusząc sie nim jak starzec
Osłabione umarły to przeze mnie
W gorączkowym półśnie nad kartką papieru będe sie w nich topił jak w marze
>>8006461
Good to know
>>8006450
Google translate probably botched this completely but it still read pretty well, actually.
Is "magnesium charged to each step" an actual line or is that just translation nonsense? Either way I like it a lot
Bumpan
>>8006915
There's already a critique thread up with less than 100 posts. Learn to use the search function before making a thread.
>>8006921
I'm not OP f a m
Roger 'Sputnik' Octavius settled down to watch the latest game of Online Billiards on a Twitch channel run by his good friend Harold Barthes, alas tonight he was not streaming and Roger had to content himself with masturbation and reading the essays of Emerson until in an epiphany he remembered Harold texting him earlier about his plans to stream that night. Aghast Roger picked up his Motorola to call Harold. No answer. He tries again. Even less of an answer. This is dodgy somethings happened he thought. Roger wasn't used to thinking and soon to took to action! He leapt to his feet yelled to his mum he would be 'out' tonight and took to his chopper bicycle posthaste to shuttle over to his friends and get to the bottom of this. Once and for all.
>>8006968
That wasn't even entertainingly bad, anon
I know you can do better than that
BUNP
i think im losing my fucking mind here guys
Bomperlomp
>>8006366
>Prologue
>When it come to the human mind, there are things it cannot comprehend. When people see something unexpected, they assume something logical must have happen: door closes by itself, heavy wind from a open window. A certain item was move into a different location; they must have place it there. Falling asleep in your bed only to wake up in a different part of your home, merely noctambulism. It was nothing more than a prelude on what was to come.
>Had the researchers know they would not have been applauding proudly. Nor would Douglas Swann been smiling. In the moments after the historical event, of the ten of thousand question on his mind, the one that stuck out: was he dreaming? Surely this must be a dream. It was too good to be true. What he did was unprecedented, a human achieving Psychokinesis. With this single event the age psychics had begun, and with it the downfall of man.
Critique my prologue.
Desperately need feedback. http://pastebin.com/uRcKarHr
Inside the classroom. Its raining outside. Poem. Poem. Poem. Said the Teacher at the front of the classroom and before the blackboard which had the word poem written on it. All the kids in the class said Poem. Poem. Poem. Together in unison. On a projector was a picture of Walt Whitman. Poem. Poem. Poem.
Then a boy said. Prose.
And a rose bloomed.
And then wiiiiilltttted.
Poem. Poem. Poem.
*drops mic*
>>8008784
Not great.
>>8008934
any advice on how to improve?
thanks
>>8008964
Try to rely less on tropes and elements you've heard before. If you write something a realize you'd read something kinda like it before when you read it back to yourself, delete it and rewrite.
I just want to show this neat river I noticed on my text. There are 8 words before the river in the first line, then 7, 6, 5, 4.
>>8006376
My eyes started hurting halfway through the first paragraph, but that's just me.
>>8006366
Original in portuguese
YOKO: I am confused
To think about him: he is my father, and I was supposed to
Love him, or to feel sorry for his crimes,
But his image, when it erupts
In my mind only smears and tar it
With the reek of anger and fear, and nothing else.
Rape is one of the masterpieces of violence,
It is what we have learned to expect
Of monsters, but when your own father
Is the one who commits the crime, and at an age
In which he is still your hero,
Your protector ... It is as if your God,
Who you believe have created it you with infinite
Affection now returns only
To harvest your organs, as warm fruits,
To eviscerates you while still alive,
And you, in your blindness, have confused cultivation
With love: that is a wild disappointment,
Visceral frustration! It's almost like
Seeing God crack the heavens, tear up the clouds
To get access to you, your daughter,
But not to embrace you, to comfort you,
But to puncture you with the thorn of a lightning
For several hours, laughing at the torture,
Just like the cruelest boy
Of the village when he finds a poor frog and proceeds
To poke the animal with a toothpick or a splinter.
The angel have soured in a faun.
I use to ruminate, looking at my father:
"I thought that inside of you
There was so much love, so much joy,
So much beauty ... Fool! I was so stupid!
I should have known you were empty,
Or rather, that you were nothing but a dark and fetid cave,
And your soul a fat salamander,
Without awareness, compassion, affection
And attachment, but only blind hunger "
>>8009210
Originals in portuguese:
>This is other excerpt:
I have never seen in my entire life
The nocturne hour entomb life
In such a complete way with its silence.
The darkness was so dense, so
Thick the grimy blanket of the shadows,
That it even seemed like some God, drunk,
Had knocked down, when he stumbled,
The bucked of nankin in which the night
Wets the brush that invokes the evening hours,
With the black ink of an entire month gorging
A single twilight; or maybe some
Ambassador of the skies, some minister
Of the clouds has spilled the cup
Of coffee that he was sipping above
The atmosphere, frightening the timid world
Of us mortals, that do not comprehend anything
Of the clergy and the politics of the heavens,
Of the gears and wheels that operate the universe.
>And this another:
You don’t know anything about me:
Your own nightmares are unable to
Dream with nights as terrible as
The acts that these hands of mine have consecrated.
I have seen death, glutted and full, with the stomach
And the intestines pulsating with victims
- Souls are roundworms whose howls
Pullulate and itch in the bowels
Of the reaper - yes, I have seen death itself
Begging me to stop forcing her
To eat, but in vain, for I have disemboweled the thorax
Of genocide itself and plunge,
In the trough of his purple organs,
The muzzle of death (already nauseated)
For the black sow to choke
In the wash of hot and oily blood.
>>8006376
6/10
>>8006968
2/10
>>8008521
functional/10
>>8008784
mediocre even in trolling/10
>>8009133
post a thing we can read
>>8009210
7/10
>>8009215
8/10
7/10
Mine:
>Grosse Fugue (Beethoven Opus 133)
What does it mean, chaos
gathered into a sudden bronze sweetness,
an October flourish, and then that moment
denied, turned acid, disassembling,
questioned, rephrased?
>>8006376
Not my cup of tea, but very unique. I do like how much you were able to bend the language to your want but I also found it mildly distracting in abundance. As a demonstration of that style it was quite good, I think, and I really commend you for the effort and for your audacity. It seemed very thorough but I simply couldn't jive with the language you used by no fault of your own. Maybe if you toned it back a hair, and made your unique words stand out more amid regular English, I don't know. At any rate, good job! You clearly have talent and I admire you for thinking outside the box
>>8006968
As a stylistic example, some of this is good. I think the subject could use work so as to not be so brazenly awkward but more subtly so, but what the hell do I know. Ya gotta proof read, homes, and that's a square and simple fact.
>>8008521
Needs work, my friend. Proof read, first of all, because a lot of your verbs aren't used correctly.
>>8008623
Extremely good. I liked it a lot and you exhibit great talent. You ought to be proud, this is really quite good. I didn't, however, feel like Maroon's personality was exhibited quite enough past its description toward the beginning. Strong language and very vivid. Could use a good proof read:
>cladded
>conundrum's
But otherwise really enjoyable and full of promise.
Here is mine. It's old news now since I posted it in that other thread but I only got one person to give any critique so I'm hoping for some more.
http://pastebin.com/jvDxdtc8
Working on a follow-up but it's slow going
R8 my short poem
A heart that's full up like a land fill,
A job that slowly kills you,
Bruises that won't heal,
You look so tired and unhappy,
Bring down the government,
They don't, they don't speak for us.
I'll take a quiet life,
A handshake of carbon monoxide,
With no alarms and no surprises,
No alarms and no surprises,
No alarms and no surprises please
>>8010168
sooo kniiiiiiiives ouuuuuut
caaaaaaaatch the mouuuuuuuse
Flies are buzzin' round my head
Vultures circling the dead
Pickin' off every last crumb.
The big fish eat the little ones
The big fish eat the little ones
Not my problem give me some
You can try domestic ham
You can try domestic ham is good enough
Yes, I know it's terrible, but somebody please tell me how to fix it
“Thank you for your generosity,” she spoke with a thick Thracian accent, “can you tell me how long I was asleep?”
“Only a day,” Polybius replied as he poured her a bowl of lentil soup, “you’re quite fortunate to recover so quickly.” It was a rich broth made from onions, garlic and green olives. Sheep’s milk cheese had been crumbled into it, a favorite of the family. While the boys drank heartily from their bowls, the girl dabbed at it looking guilty with a hunk of barley bread in her shaking hand. “Are you cold?” Polybius asked. “I’m certain we have another chiton about the place.”
“No,” she replied, “thank you but I’m warm enough already.”
“You’re shivering,” Anthousa chided.
“Missus, uh-”
“-Anthousa,” Anthousa said, “and this is my husband, Polybius.”
“Thank you, Anthousa, but I am not at all cold. I broke my wrist many years ago and it has not been the same since.”
Ok, I'm winging this:
For awhile it was like this, a torpor from which were electrified and superconscious oases of lucidity. Awoke from the sleepwalk long enough to find the body or bod in locales that were too real to be real. To get what I mean:
on one occasion, a truck stop. 5am and pitch for it were fall. Driving. On pavement. Along pavement. Might as wellve been gravel. Might as well have been gravel, cause it was tore up. Tore up and he felt the needle percussion of the potholes and loose cement through rubber and steel and up through pleather and into thigh. Sensual, almost. And he was awake.
The convenience store which was the crux of the stop was swallowed in black mass like he was in that torpor fog. Now out of that fog and with sensory organs jumper cabled to life all light became acute and pierced darkness and retina. In the window of that convenience store was epithet'd
Save water/
Drink beer
and it's neon scrawl reached out with pencilthin tentacles to his windshield and filled the cracks and nicks and imperfection of glass with pink and yellows. The streetlights, too, had their tentacles projected like peacock feathers like they would make a lover of the neon. Exploding faded yellow light. In that he could just barely see colors of the pavement: sunbeat yellow clip art shapes which went ignored in the dead disappeared traffic of early morn. Mustard geometries hardly noticed in pitch dark.
He pulled up to, walked into, saw a lady at counter and
And then it was back to dreaming. And this went on and on for years or maybe more.
Two AM is no normal time to be visiting a store dealing exclusively in energy products, but there they were, their presence marked by the pneumatic hiss of plate glass door, the accompanying inrush of freeway sounds and scents.
Both late middle aged or early late-aged, both carrying distinctly dissimilar airs of steadfast resignation in their familiarity of posture vis-à-vis one another, the man and woman, neither noticeably taller than the other, approached me with their faces a veritable moonscape of creases, folds, indents, pockmarks, mole protrusions, and-one for each of them- two pink ellipses, both cut into the left cheek.
“Hello, and welcome to NRG,” I said, as I always say, as I had been told, years ago, to say. “Now You’re Drinking For Power.” It was customary for a prospective customer to return my scripted salutation, usually with a nod or half-sighed reply, but on this occasion I was met with two myopic stares. They were standing mere inches from the meticulously cleaned counter that separated us. “Would you like to try one of our newly developed in-house energy bars, available for a Limited Time Only in the color of your choosing?” The woman’s parched lips quivered as though about to be hydrated with the runoff of tears, but instead she said simply, “Oh no no we’ll have none of that, we’re just browsing.” And with that she turned and disappeared into the well-stocked alleyway of aisle one. The man faced me a second longer, and, before following the woman, contorted his face into what I presumed was an apologetic glance.
With the couple’s disappearance into that diminutive labyrinth, I was left again to a reassuring silence under which the hum of air conditioner and the sigh of passing car-accompanied by two diffuse globules of red light through tinted glass- belied rather than challenged the times inherent taciturnity. I had devoted myself to NRG eleven years prior, and it was in moments such as these that I found myself inundated in the accumulation of stored moments. My reflection on the wiped counter- discernible in all of its minutia, such was the vigor with which I wiped it- displayed the austerely wizened face of a wise king. Indeed, I did feel a kind of hard-fought regality whilst contemplating the serpentine road that lead me, finally, to my lofty status.
I had been a mere custodian at first, and at that one who deigned sometimes to loiter or even dawdle whilst on duty. But then, months into my employment, came the seminal moment when the gears of the universe seemed all to spin in concord, finally bringing that great steaming inexorable machine of destiny trundling confidently, with a redemptive bellow, into the stop at which I had waited for thirty seven years.
This is an excerpt from what I'm writing. Is it any good or should I stop, or how do I improve?
When you look into the pastel night sky, take a moment and internalize that you are looking at the work of what used to be me. How I did it, I need not say, but as to why – that might qualify as a fair inquiry. I had grown tired of staring into the empty abyss that encapsulated our vessel to the rhythm of our planetary trajectory; in the benign hours when men sit in gloom, howling at the moon as if to release their most intimate and suppressed thoughts, ones which had been silenced with a growing fear of mysticism. When man lost the will to delve with who he was at his core – a fearful and superstitious beast – he did not improve with his fateful selection. From a cowering giant in a corner to a trembling machine, he merely replaced that from which fear stems from.
But you – you must know that this is not so. You have looked into my heavenly canvas, and you saw what you wanted to see: that what is. As we float comfortably helplessly, the hands of the Geiger men swivel frantically, trying to rationalize the irrational – to make sense of what need not make sense. You understand, don’t you?
Look at that sky above you now again. Do you recall what it was before? Staring into the freezing emptiness, our minds terrorized knowing that nothing was out there waiting for us. You grabbed for comfort, claiming the moon, solar system and galaxies as your cold, mute friends, but in retrospect, you know that you were only self-deceiving. Your quest of knowledge only brought you misery. Those you hear wailing at the moon are the very same pale scientists that brought their own unrepentant doom upon themselves. When they look up, they still see the dark, tainted.
>>8010168
Sounds like something shitty that Radiohead would write
>>8010289
Kind of basic, not really impactful
>>8010824
It's fine. You haven't really done anything bad here, but lack of context makes it seem choppy
>>8011021
I like the concept, but I think your choice of words doesn't compliment the surreal feel of this scene
>>8011111
Nice quints fella, and I like the story
He smiled stiffly, as if he was forcing it, yet it looked like its purpose was only to mock. The aura was cold, his smile a freezer, and the hallway a battleground between the weak and the strong.
She took a deep breath, opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t - her sweat could fill half a bucket and her lips shook like speakers who continuously boosted the bass of the music, an occurrence she had never experienced before, and whatever was happening, she had to resist it, or, or!
She clutched her chest in panic, her breathing speeding up rapidly and filling the atmosphere with the ugly mix of anxiety and calamity that made her feel like an unwanted child about to be thrown in the garbage can by her neglectful parents, and -
>>8011021
>torpor
jeez, you sound so ostentatious with this kind of dialect.
quit trying so hard
Latest thing I wrote. Raw, unfinished, on a whim, could be part of my main work right now.
For context, the narrator is pregnant, she's addressing her unborn child, who's father committed suicide.
http://pastebin.com/77pVTZ5d
>>8012011
Really m8, you reckon use of the word 'torpor' makes a piece of writing overintellectual? This may not be the board for you
>>8011824
I like it. It's evocative. But there are parts where I can't tell if your choice of jarring vocabulary or irregular/incorrect syntax is a stylistic choice or a proofreading mishap. If the former, I think the following instances are ill-advised:
>in the benign hours when men sit in gloom, howling at the moon
'Benign' is a discordant note here. In contrast with 'comfortably helplessly' later on where you make good use of paradox, this use of 'benign' just feels misplaced.
>he merely replaced that from which fear stems from
One too many froms and a generally clunky construction.
>you saw what you wanted to see: that what is
'...that which is', surely.
>>8012003
Your style is an odd mix of immediate detached, hysterical and ironic. For me the result is offputting.
>>8012521
How can I improve it? Sometimes I don't really think when I type, my finger just does its job.
>>8012541
Use fewer clauses in your sentences.
>>8012549
Okay, I'll keep that in mind. Thank you very much!
If I made the sentences shorter, made them have more breaks for example, would it accurately describe erratic, panicky emotions?
>>8012558
That's not really why I was suggesting it, but yes, shorter sentences are usually better at conveying that than long sentences which have many clauses and just go on which tend to convey a more relaxed, drawn out, drawling sort of feeling. Then again, you could achieve similar effects with both, I mean, why don't you try, experiment, see what happens, you never know, might work.
>>8012572
I see. I'll revise it and see which one fits better. Once again, thank you kind anon.
>>8012558
That could be a big help but also your tone is inconsistent. The erratic, panicky mood is spoiled by asides like 'an occurrence she had never experienced before,' which feels like a dry aside from an omniscient narrator. Likewise 'her lips shook like speakers who continuously boosted the bass of the music' - this is an odd metaphor which jars us out of any immediate identification with the character.
To illustrate what I mean here's an example of how the middle bit could be rewritten with more immediacy: (n.b. this is not intended as a 'correction' or even submitted as something necessarily better, I just want to show you what I mean about creating and maintaining a mood of urgency)
'She took a deep breath, opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't. Her skin was clammy and slick with sweat. She fought to regain control, form words, but her lips quivered uncontrollably and her throat felt strangled and all she could do was try to resist this thing that was happening to her. She had to resist it, or- '
>>8012596
That does sound much better. Once again, thank you. I really need to work on my skills.
My scarf roja is wrapped around my neck
like the noose that ties me to the gibbet-lintel
of propriety. I rip it off
and it flutters in the wind with the sound of the wings of a bird negro
that is batting with all his strength
and is letting the wind underwing
that he would fly, fly, fly away.
I hold the scarf high above my head
with one hand as the other grips the bicycle handle
and it catches the wind roaring into its battlefield
that is encircled by clouds
and it does a war dance that it hails its passing.
I loosen my grip, or maybe the wind is too strong for me,
but my scarf roja, fluttering violently in jubilation,
it slips my grasp and is lost forever
in the tumbling wildness of the Tierra del Fuego.
Op I've heard that writing is therapeutic, so I tried it out. Its unedited, and I don't think I have any inherent talent. It did make me feel better though. Thoughts?
I think my greatest solipsism might be my omnipresent desire for validation. It isn't so much that I yearn for attention - or even respect - but rather an understanding of my intentions. I've always perceived my intentions to be altruistic in their nature but I've been analyzing it recently and I'm forced to wonder, contemplate whether these intentions are truly benevolent at all; I may have tricked myself into believing that so, whereas in fact my true desire lies in the validation and appreciation of others for these 'good deeds'.
I've never been a fan of self-analysation. A very fragile idea of who i am has been built up over years and years of consumption of art, music and iconoclastic figures. My conscience, my conscious, have fortified this idea so any attempts to analyse myself have been thwarted.
This has gone on unnoticed until recently. This year, I've had somewhat of an existential crisis. All contributing factors to this ailment are much too clichéd to waste ink writing of. The experience - despite the deadening nature of it - has had some positive outcomes. I read more voraciously than ever. I thought. I truly thought. What I mean by this is that I've always been able to contemplate ideas, and I enjoy the abstractions of it but I've never thought inwardly in a truly objective manner. It's always been shrouded with the mists and fogs of my false interpretations of myself. Never an examination of my own nature, a purely scientific dissection of my corpse with all its diseases and bullet wounds on show.
My life has been lived without conscious introspection, which has caused me to have a vague idea of what happiness is, without ever truly reaching it (for you can only truly reach it once you've felt the bleak, harsh gaze on yourself: a mental deconstruction on the fabric who you believe yourself to be). Perhaps, in the aftermath in the death of my glorification of self, and once I've walked this rocky path of despair to its inevitable end I can be engulfed with the same desire, lustful energy towards life that those I admire have achieved.
Or I may descend into alcoholism, substance abuse and debaucherous adultery until I am stripped of all I know and care for, with only the alabaster carcass of my self-hatred for all curious eyes to look upon from a distance, invoking shame and disgust, but worst of all: pity. Pity for a life not lived to the potential of our universe - all powerful and stunning in its stoic beauty, deserved might.
>>8013022
Although it is a bit over indulgent in the language, specially the last paragraph, this is pretty decent anon. The piece progresses naturally, and the thoughts and subjects are coherent and well-explained. You have a good grasp of language and writing on technical terms. I don't see why you shouldn't pursue writing some more.
>>8012511
Thanks f a m, I'll fix accordingly
this feels bad
>In the days before I became a writer, I studied computer programming in the middle of a dull and unaccredited university that may or may not have been a hallucination induced by swamp gas. It was there that I first learned of the idea known as the Singularity.
>For those unaware, the Singularity is a word with two very different definitions, but in this case the one I am referring to is the Technological Singularity. It is a the name given to a certain point in foreseeable future whence all humanity’s problems will be solved by the advance of human technology. Exactly when the singularity will happen varies from scholar to scholar but generally speaking most believe it will happen some time within the 24 hours of them contracting a moderate-to-severe case of death.
>Old age, petilence, poor taste in Japanese cartoons – all of these and more would one day be a thing of the past, and it was for that reason that Shesha Bose had hot-glued two iPhones to a spare pair of eyeglass frames: because if you wanted the singularity to come soon, you had better start inventing.
>To be fair to Shesha, her creation was a bit more complicated than I had described. The two devices had been shucked from their aluminum casing and soldered together by a complicated mesh of wiring to run together as a single device. Their cameras too had been detached and relocated to the cent of their backs and a complicated application had been written in objective-C to both allow her to see through them and to allow them to track and interpret her hand gestures. It was was messy, it was unsettling, but more than either it was an extremely clever contraption, and as of today it was now obsolete.
>On that fateful day (and the two days prior), Shesha Bose had been camped out in front of the 14th street Apple Store eagerly awaiting its opening
>>8006376
I really like this actually, i can tell you love prefixes and suffixes as much as I do
So this is a sex scene or something, yes?
>>8013440
Thanks anon, I appreciate it. Anything you think I should do to improve it?
>>8013696
I'd get rid of the "alabaster carcass of my self-hatred" part, simply because it crosses the line from existential self-reflextion into pseudo-poetic sentimentalism. You did a fairly good job on the rest of the piece not to fall into self-pity and victimization, so It feels odd that the narrator should suddenly express himself in such a way.
As a general rule, I say: Expansion and contraction. Storytelling is (for me, at least) all about saying as much as possible in the least amount of words possible.
Cut the fat, re-read, and expand upon the character you're building.
>>8013733
Will do. Thanks for the advice.
>>8012898
Emended it:
My scarf roja is wrapped around my neck
like the noose that ties me to the gibbet-lintel
of propriety. I rip it off
and it flutters in the wind with the sound of the wings of a bird negro
that is batting with all his strength
and is letting the wind underwing
that he would fly, fly, fly away.
With one hand I hold the scarf high above my head
as the other grips the handle of the bicycle argentina
and it catches the wind roaring into its battlefield
that is encircled by clouds
and it does a war dance that it hails its passing.
I loosen my grip, or the wind is too strong for me,
but my scarf roja flutters violently in jubilation,
and it slips my grasp and is lost forever
in the tumbling wildness of the Tierra del Fuego.
1/2
Black Mould
I sit in the polished bathroom of my apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan. I thought this would be the right place, the cleanest place, the most intimate place to do it, but it reminds me too much of my office at work. That disheartens me, but it's the only place that seems appropriate.
The walls are tight, the ceiling is low, the shower curtain is open in front of me. I see a small spot of black mould on the upper right corner. That mould is living, and I feel like it's mocking me. I'd never thought twice about it before—nobody'd ever see it—but now it's bothering me, and the thought that people are going to see it frightens me. That thought frightens me more than the Glock 17 I hold unreliably against my throbbing temple. I reach out and pull the curtain shut, almost ripping it off its bearings.
Now I'm sweating. My hand is shaking and I'm afraid I'm going to screw this up. I can't bring myself to do it. I can't bring myself to pull the trigger.
>>8014089
2/2
I think about what brought me here—the nothing and nobody. I think about what I'll leave behind—nothing and nobody. And I can't decide which is worse. Which is more terrifying? To remain, unsure of it all? Or to leave, certain? Someone once said reality is only provable through contradiction. So long as I stay sitting here, they're right.
I look over at the still life apples on the wall to my left—one green, one red, sitting ripe atop an elevated brass dish, the glorious light of the sun washing over them as if of God. Evelyn gave me that when I first moved into this apartment. Evelyn—how you convinced me so that all I ever needed in life was your affection. You and all the others. But what now? What happens when the well runs dry; when the season's passed and the fruit go rot? What happens when Sisyphus stops to catch his breath, loses grip, and the boulder he's been pushing his entire life rolls back down to the bottom of the mountain?
Ten years—ten years gone and I sit here alone in a city filled with millions of lovers, haters, givers, takers, teachers, preachers, lost and found; removed only by a few thin walls of concrete and plaster. And here, on judgement day, with so much past and so much to come, all I can think about is that little spot of black mould removed only by a thinly hanging sheet of white, enshrouded in the debilitating sound of silence.
>In the beginning there was darkness, and then shit exploded. It would be 10-12 seconds before there was light. In that time, the rapid discombobulation of the fabric of spacetime divided the underlying symmetries that composed the substratum of reality and for a lack of a better phrase “fucked their shit up.”
>Exactly what happened before is a mystery known to physicists as the cosmic singularity. We cannot say where it was, due to the fact that every ‘where’ we can conceive of was inside it, nor when for a similar reason. The nature of this single vertex in nothing is beyond the capacity of modern physicists to explain – though doing so has been my dream since I was twelve – but what we do know is that every event in the history of everything is just a strange side-effect of this event. It was why the stars fuse hydrogen atoms instead of freeze-dried blackberries. It was why the pharaohs looked upon the sands and decided “I should be buried in a big triangle. It was why the Beatles launched Apple Records and became so famous you can get your ass kicked for calling them a boy band. But most of all, it was the reason I personally was accelerating down an open manhole at 9.81 meters per second per second with a snake trailing behind me.
>>8014089
>>8014094
I'll be honest mate. Starting off at maximum edge is not doing you any favors. Good angst needs time to develop, this is a damn linkin park song
>>8014089
>soo-side
>britspellings
>the meandering and infuriating wanderings of stream of consciousness without any of the style, prose, or impact to compensate for it
>cliches on cliches on cliches on cliches
>describe the colors of things because why not
>name the gun because why not
>fucking LEGIT NAME-DROPPING SISYPHUS
Yikes, fampai
I can't even think of any ways to improve this, it's just straight mediocrity from beginning to end. I truly had a bad time reading it, my day and by extension week is a little bit worse thanks to this post.
>>>8014559
Who are you referring to, me, or the person you're referencing?
>>8014587
>britspellings
I use the British spelling of certain words because... wait for it... I'm Canadian.
>describe the colour of things because why not
Maybe I'm describing the colour of things because they represent themes?
The only times I've ever seen someone go off so unashamedly on something actually well written here on /lit/, even amongst all of the genuine garbage that goes completely unnoticed, without providing any real constructive criticism, is because they realize it's good, realize they spend their lonely schizoid days moping around on 4chan, can't tolerate their own inferiority, and so feel an urgent need to roast anyone with actual talent.
>>8014656
the part I was referencing was my story rendered in greentext. I was talking to you
Dans une pièce sans porte, des clameurs m’ont éveillé par leurs tons aigus, perçants et enfantins. Sueur au visage, bras relevés; genoux contre torse et cœur étiré. Ils criaient autour, s’envoyant des mots horribles sur lesquelles ils se masturbaient – seuls ou entre eux; ils agrippaient leurs belles phrases usées qu’ils s’échangeaient depuis si longtemps – des barres de fer rouillé, des tubes de papier rose à parfum de printemps et de genévriers – et les inséraient dans leur anus – le leur ou celui des autres, sans différence; et ils jouissaient d’autres phrases qu’ils connaissaient déjà et que le seul souvenir du premier plaisir les rendait extatiques – même si les phrases craquelées rouillaient et s’effritaient, laissant des plaques rousses plantées dans leur chair tendre infiniment pénétrée, sans but et sans raison. Forts joyeux, ils grouillaient autour de moi et dansaient avec leurs tubes fétides, les enfonçant partout, excepté dans leur bouche aux dents ébréchées, car leurs mots devaient couler et se répandre dans la pièce, monter sur mes pieds nus, me menacer d’une noyade pestilentielle qui pourrirait mon estomac avant que l’odeur ne m’arrache la conscience et qu’on ne m’utilise comme autre orifice fertile et vierge d’épines de rouilles, de fleurs rougeâtres et violentes. Couché dans la masse, je me retournai vers le sol dur et pur pour mourir sans voir les jouisseurs festifs et bruyants qui s’empalaient avec la joie civilisée de celui qui vient d’apprendre un nouveau mot. Un liquide étouffant monta dans ma gorge, alors ma tête frappa le marbre du sol, s’enfonçant dans leur produit, dans leur merde, juste pour mourir plus vite, pour que leurs clameurs d’imbéciles joyeux cessent d’arracher mes fragments d’humanités dans les plis de mon cerveau et de les tirer par mes oreilles avec leurs longs doigts fins de reptiles, des baïonnettes froides, des griffes couleur cire d’oreille, longues et pointues, butant contre le tympan avec de le percer. Ma figure raclait la pierre lisse avant de la percuter pour qu’elle s’ouvre et me laisse entrer. Les jambes dansaient autour de moi et les cris toujours aussi aigus et faux résonnaient jusqu’à ma poitrine agitée. Un vomissement subit me ferma les yeux d’un coup – la douleur froide qui rongeait mon cœur, qui se glissaient dans mes membres, le ver affamé de chair fraîche, qui chatouillait mes os avant de les fracasser, cette douleur envahit ma gorge déployée et chia dans ma bouche sans rapetisser, sans s’affaiblir – au contraire, l’éjection de ses déchets la rendit si vive que j’ouvris les yeux pour que le liquide me brûle les yeux et me distraie de cette douleur.
>>8014678
I don't understand your point in referencing your own story. Unless your intent was to compare garbage to garbage.
You're quick to criticize, but if you're good at interpreting literature, could you please analyze my piece and tell me what the glaring symbols and themes are (because they're pretty obvious)?
>>8014691
I wasn't making a comparison I was posting my own work. See when you're in a thread like this you post your work and then cirtique someone else.
You however, critiqued no one and then got defensive when someone didn't like your garbage. Do us all a favor and fuck off
>>8014735
Well, if what you've written is the standard, at least I know my work is a little bit better than garbage.
>>8014656
Oh my fucking god, do you need a glass of water or something? In a non-spill cup? Need some Cheerios to gnaw on while you cool off?
You're writing is terribly sad and banal, you're a defensive fuckhead, and you believe that you have a semblance of talent where in fact you have none.
You are white noise.
Your writing is white noise.
You will never impress or amuse or reach anyone until you greatly improve from the way of writing you are using now.
READ MORE.
>>8014774
>wait for a little bit
>hmm no one's agreeing with me or telling me I'm good
>i'll simultaneously bump the thread and reply to myself with some well-deserved words of encouragement
No valuable user on this website would accept your writing as anything better than mediocre, if that.
>>8014774
>and while I'm at it, call myself out for not giving feedback. that way no one will suspect that I'm a samefag!
>>8014774
Thank you. Can you expand? Is there anything I should improve on?
>>8014808
When you criticize someone for using the proper spelling of words, your criticism cannot be taken seriously. You sound really angry and really insecure, and I have every right to defend my work when you approach it like that.
>>8014854
Obviously, that was added in with humor in mind. If you think that one frivolous line added for comedic purposes completely invalidates a criticism of your work, there is something very flawed in the way you're viewing your efforts and self-worth.
>>8014860
But it wasn't humorous. I don't know how anyone could find that funny. I think the reason you panned my writing is because you recognize it's pretty good compared to most of the examples here, that makes you feel insecure about your own inferior ability (prove me wrong), and you're also offended that I didn't provide any feedback to anyone else.
>>8014860
If you had approached your criticism in a respectful manner, I could tolerate it. But you didn't, so don't act shocked when I stand up for my work.
>>8014875
Let's dissect these statements one at a time
>But it wasn't humorous
Quite possible
>I don't know how anyone could find that funny.
Anyone who isn't overly sensitive could easily find some casual jabs at Canadians/Brits funny
> I think the reason you panned my writing is because you recognize it's pretty good compared to most of the examples here,
So right off the bat this is a dangerous, narcissistic, misguided, and just fucking stupid way of thinking. There have been plenty of genuinely entertaining or skillful posts on critique threads throughout the years, and I am always glad to see them and tell them what I think. Yours is awful, that it was I truly believe. For reference, here are some posts in this very thread I enjoy more than yours:
>>8006376
>>8009215
>>8010824
>>8011021
And that isn't even a complete list.
>that makes you feel insecure about your own inferior ability
A wonderfully hopeful and pretty thought, but whoops! Once again I must stress how woefully misguided and sad this is.
>and you're also offended that I didn't provide any feedback to anyone else.
I didn't even notice that. The fact that you are again mentioning this provides even more evidence that >>8014774 is actually you, along with the fact that "whoever they are" has not responded yet.
>>8014929
The only reasons you would go off on anybody like that in the first place would be because you're either a very angry person, a very insecure person, or both. There's no other reason and no justification for it. There is so much stupidity in the things you are saying, it would really be a waste of my own time to address it. But I guess you have a lot of time to spare? Why not write something? Why not share it with us all? I'm sure it'll be outstanding. Totally original. Totally compelling. Deep, symbolic, allegorical, well thought out. Give it a shot and let's see.
>>8014953
Dearest anon,
I may be angry. I may be insecure. But pray tell, you say it would be a waste of your time to address all the stupidity in what I'm saying, but I'd really really appreciate it if you took some time out of your clearly very busy day to supply me with some reference points of my stupidity.
Could you please do that for am old soul as silly as me? I hate to badger you but I think this conversation can not go on until we clear this out of the way.
Hugs and kisses,
Anon
I made the meter and rhythm a little more relatable and went with more eccentric imagery and wording in some areas. I'm not sure if I like this edit version more than my last. It doesn't read with as much elegance, but is overall more vivid.
http://pastebin.com/DSvTZfHX
http://pastebin.com/DSvTZfHX
Warn out and stressed, Edgar sat down at breakfast table trying to gather his thoughts on what had happened recently. He found it quite disturbing how such a vivid memory that was far displaced from concious mind, was only to be revealed to him in such a unconstitutional manner. It was as though some antagonistic force was meant to wake from his slumber to realize the true nature of the reality he was living.
I wrote this for a workshop, I had a 2000 word limit though so I feel it's rushed.
https://www.dropbox.com/s/dintzt46elhmerc/Ariphates%20the%20Lord%20of%20Magic.pdf?dl=0
>>8006366
https://drive.google.com/open?id=1-DnLPfDs8_eKn-y1u7x5P0CVUzuDfAouZLLvKZ99kxc
BOMP ^_^
>>8015101
Show don't tell... Pretty impossible with such a short blip, I know, but still...
Also, careful with your language.
Blood burning, I ran frantically to the front desk where a desk maid was lending her attention to another one of the snobs, this one a younger woman wearing a white fur coat - original fur no doubt. They were talking at each other’s face in a quiet manner like they all do, as if they weren’t really talking but rather mimicking how a conversation would go. Time seemed to slow to a halt as I stared at the two witches communicating in their witch ways and my heart grew fast again.
My blood was burning, I really do think so. I tried to slow my breath but it was of no use and I could no longer wait. I shoved the wretched fur bitch out of the way, long thin limbs and all and positioned myself in front of the desk witch - maiden. The fur bitch made a shriek as she slowly tumbled to the ground in this slow motion world I now resided in. It seemed as though even her scream had the tone of a snob and my sub conscious ear found it quite hilarious.
>>8013022
>self-analysation
You must be having a giggle
>>8013609
This is like a strange weeaboo knockoff of Galathea 2.2 Also your writing is bizarre "For those unaware, the Singularity is a word with two very different definitions..." who CARES?
>>8014094
>>8014089
Pure trash and my god why are you so butthurt. Your writing is good just write about something that isn't emo punk shit
>>8015101
>"Warn"
>>8015763
Is this some sort of jest that I'm not getting
Blood burning, I dashed to the front desk where a clerk was lending her attention to another one of the snobs, this a young woman wearing a white fur coat -- authentic, no doubt. They were talking in hushed tones at the faces of one another as if mimicking how a conversation should go.
Time dilated as I saw these two witches communicating in their witch ways. My heart charged in [anger, fervor, madness, whatever the narrator is feeling]. Blood still burning, I tried to slow my breath, but it was no use. I could no longer wait. I shoved the fur-clad bitch to the floor, her spindly limbs trailing like smoke wisps after the body, her cries intensifying after impact. Even her fierce shrieking had the tone of a snob. [insert something about the desk girl's reaction, narrator's action upon the desk girl]
---
I'm just doing this for kicks. The most easily fixable issue I see is your affectations that Anglicize the prose: do not use indeterminate adverbs/intensifiers like "quite" and "really" unless you're writing a 19th century period piece. Also go easy on the snide asides - one per paragraph is too much. Also try to avoid "it seemed" or "it appeared" unless the narrator is truly unsure of the situation. Also avoid cliches: no "time seemed to slow to a halt".
Otherwise, look over your prose and streamline it, as you'll find plenty of easy fixes: "The fur bitch made a shriek" has a clear problem and clear solution, and in general breaking up one long sentence into two or condensing two long clauses into one sentence can improve flow greatly. Last, and most difficult, do your best to vary your sentence structure to avoid "Subject verbed" sentences, especially if they start with I like in the second paragraph.
Keep it coming
>>8013787
Anyone?
>>8015834
>dashed
pukinggirl,jpg
I like monkeys. The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand each. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200. I like monkeys. I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing. I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment.
They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour. Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta' dropped dead. Kinda' like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap monkeys...I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs. I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys. I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals.
Wondered if
that's the last I'll see of you.
Under neath
a high noon
trading sympathies, all else.
Under stood
knowing Chels'
nothing at all given, taught.
Under' would
water my bridge, under'
place weight my eyes, under
a high noon.
Nothing under'
at all sought.
>>8016275
Thanks, I agree I think the character of Ariphates could be developed a lot better. I feel I could do at least 30 - 50 pages worth of expansion on that story. I think when I've finished my course I'll go back to it and develop further. I think I just have to be careful with Kurtiss' involvement in the story.
>>8016234
Crit, I need help: I don't have friends willing to critique my writing but I'm worried if I post my stuff online I won't be able to get it published. What do?
>>8016274
jesus, this is the best thing I've read in a while. Thank you for posting this
>>8014679
Il n'y a aucune autre tapette française ici? Vraiment?
>>8017886
Ma maitrise de la langue n'est pas d'un niveau assez élevé, désolé.
>>8017287
u kno its trash—y post it
Grips on your waist
Front way, back way
You know that I don't play
Streets not safe
But I never run away
Even when I'm away
Oti, oti, there's never much love when we go
I pray to make it back in one piece
I pray, I pray
>>8006366
I think it's so cute and I think it's so sweet!
How you let your friends encourage you to try and talk to me
But let me stop you there (oh, before you speak...)
My name is no
My sign is no
My number is no
You need to let it go
You need to let it go
Need to let it go
Nah to the ah to the, no, no, no!
My name is no
My sign is no
My number is no
You need to let it go
You need to let it go
Need to let it go
Nah to the ah to the, no, no, no!
First you gonna say you ain't runnin' game, thinkin' I'm believing every word
Call me beautiful, so original, telling me I'm not like other girls
I was in my zone before you came along, now I'm thinking maybe you should go
Blah, blah, blah, blah
I be like nah to the I, to the I, to the no, no, no!
All my ladies listen up
If that boy ain't giving up
Lick your lips and swing your hips
Girl all you gotta say is...
My name is no
My sign is no
My number is no
You need to let it go
You need to let it go
Need to let it go
Nah to the ah to the, no, no, no!
My name is no
My sign is no
My number is no
You need to let it go
You need to let it go
Need to let it go
Nah to the ah to the, no, no, no!
Thank you in advance, I don't wanna dance (nope!)
I don't need your hands all over me
If I want a man, then I'mma get a man
But it's never my priority
I was in my zone, before you came along, don't want you to take this personal
Blah, blah, blah, I be like nah to the ah to the, no, no, no!
All my ladies listen up
If that boy ain't giving up
Lick your lips and swing your hips
Girl all you gotta say is...
My name is no
My sign is no
My number is no
You need to let it go
You need to let it go
Need to let it go
Nah to the ah to the, no, no, no
My name is no
My sign is no
My number is no
You need to let it go
You need to let it go
Need to let it go
Nah to the ah to the, no, no, no
I'm feeling...
Untouchable, untouchable
I'm feeling...
Untouchable, untouchable
I'm feeling...
Untouchable, untouchable
I'm feeling...
Untouchable, untouchable
(Nah to the ah to the, no, no, no)
I'm feeling...
Untouchable, untouchable
I'm feeling...
Untouchable, untouchable
I'm feeling...
Untouchable, untouchable
I'm feeling...
Untouchable, untouchable
(Nah to the ah to the, no, no, no)
All my ladies listen up
If that boy ain't giving up
Lick your lips and swing your hips
Girl all you gotta say is...
>>8006366
I shit a brick today,
literally shit a brick,
red and smooth,
fine and coarse,
My asshole bleeds,
My eyes weep,
My anus prolapsed,
I shit a brick.
>>8018708
>>8018721
perfection.
Could I get a punctuation check really quick?
>When upon death a field hand,
>Land reclaims and then restarts.
>At Everest, man never rests;
>Dead eyes fly by mountain men.
The first line should read as when the field hand is dead. And the last line should read as the eyes fly because of the mountain men, not passed the mountain men.
Thanks in advance.
So...
Dirty blonde
There he goes again. Shaped like an out-of-water crustacean, slouching over his desk, he writes. Determination seems to seep from his eyes as he pounds away at the monument of blank sheets of paper that lay before him. Never have I seen him take a break while on this caffein fueled, literary frenzy of his.
One would think that he is unkempt, lousy and smells as bad as yesterday’s t-shirt working overtime. And one would be correct. His dirty-blonde hair gives new meaning to its description; shoulder length strands intwined, in what seems to be a bundle of greasey threads, reach his sweat-stained shirt, hiding a poorly developed physique.
For the time that I have known him, this was the daily image that he fronted. Years have passed and he still clings to his idea of transfusing this outwardly mess of his, through the looking glass of literature, into an incomprehensible, yet relatable tale for the generations yet to come.
I can take half the blame, if that’s what it takes. In my perfection, I have not once managed to push him hard enough to make him get a grip. Grips are hard to achieve; they make you abandon your own frenzy and mingle with others’. Our little friend right here is NOT a people person. He can barely set one foot in front of the other. Although he had studied music, a part time affair, he cannot mentain this footing with another person.
Fate makes it that comedy finds its way into this short story.
Still incomplete, but
I turn my head around and see behind
a barrage of uncounted centuries
congesting in their endless file the course
of history, pages of the almanac,
extending to the furthest reaches of
recorded time, where paper frays and frames
the forms of kings, and mounds of plebeian dust
ride the backwards-floating wind of time.
In the primal bush in golden sunshine robed,
perspiring blackened topsoil underneath
to cool the crib, the little feet of lizards
now long returned to loam and dirt would drag
their little bellies through the oozing mud
and scrawl across the land in scurried streaks
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,
until the primal simian learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the haul of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly to hammer muck from meat
and speckle red his ragged face through art of
slaughter. The blood of grassland peasantry
made flush the lining of the arteries
that plotted lines awry about his face,
and on his temple set a bony crown,
and fed the marrows of his kingly bones;
the bulbous mouth, the downy cheeks, the squat
phallus resting in its matted nest, like
the monkey-king upon his fleshly throne.
Of morbid curiosity I chase
with eyes the lives of my progenitor,
and deep within my chest the drum begins
to beat at sight of savagery to match
the savagery forever etched upon
my cardiac wall. What in me is human,
whatever masculine, testosterone
trails afire, descended the lines from him.
But what in me is human had been boiled
and fused together in bubbling womb-water:
the primal male had swum towards the female
and had cocooned himself within her, sharing
blood and spirit to build a progeny, like
the baby hominid that stood just slightly
taller than his hulking parents and shuffled
around the shelter that his mother built him.
There's more but it's all still being refined and on paper:
He sat with his eyes held at a distracted angle, their movement interrupted by a pervasive thought. He almost-recoils and shifts his gaze to the other side of the dimly lit room. He was aware of the slouch that seemed to descend heavily upon his posture, his shoulders were tensed in feeble resistance. The dull clinking of ice in a glass came from the bartender’s stirring, shadows had pooled into the indents on his face.
He had walked past a group of children playing in the street on his way to the bar. The road was still wet from rain and had a metallic lustre in the cloudy light. The manner in which they played was rougher than he remembers. They were comfortable in their environment, running through the coarse-edged street with an apparent disregard that can only be developed through childhood familiarity. Their entire focus was reduced to the game’s objective and the enforcement of its rules, which every child seemed to both acknowledge as sovereign and yet willingly bend and break when given the opportunity, a trait he had thought would most likely continue into adulthood. He had felt a fleeting sense of admiration for their innocence, the world was still to them irrelevantly big. They were blind to the hardships that would inevitably alter them and to the bleak perspective that they would develop with age, choosing either to sobering face or to drown and numb and distract from. This haunting premonition, this knowledge of the world that they would soon enter into, gave rise in him to a tragic sense of power. The power’s concept was vague and cruel and involved a replacement of their blossoming innocence with his own sad and hateful perspective. Had his mind always felt so weathered, he thought rhetorically.
>>8015833
oi cunt read mine.
>>8017100
>Crit, I need help: I don't have friends willing to critique my writing but I'm worried if I post my stuff online I won't be able to get it published. What do?
Don't post it on something like fictionpress, if you find someone on goodreads or here to e-mail them directly, that won't be a problem
Write some stuff that you don't plan on getting published. Write a short story to practice, post it for critiques, then use what you learned
Post excerpts, not the whole story. A journal won't turn you down because they found one paragraph online.
When your story gets rejected, post it and use what you learned for your next story. Come up with your own critiques first and then see if they match.genre fiction warning but Beneath Ceaseless Skies gives a reason why they rejected you which is incredibly helpful.
First time writing anything outside of school, r8:
When God first created Maximilian, he must of been a sadist. As the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, the country of which Voltaire, the French philosopher, had called neither "Holy, Roman, nor an Empire", he was a depressed man. He would never make it to Rome and be crowned, as all emperors before him had done, for the journey was too risky. In fact, the mighty "King of the Germans" is supposed to have traveled everywhere with his coffin. It must of been a sad sight, the king and his casket, the doomed and evidence of its demise. Since then, there have been many Maximilians, and perhaps many of these Maximilians have also found their demise by traveling with their coffins as well.
Maybe it is certain, the number of Maximilians to coffins is a statistic that has much better odds then Maximilian, the Holy Roman Emperor making it to Rome. Maybe God willed it to happen, just as he did with the seven days of creation. But what would have happened if God had willed nothing to be created? What if God hadn't done what he did and became anxious and hesitant, just like what many of the thousands of Maximillians must done throughout their lives? It was a good thing that Maximilian was not alone, for his father Friedrich was there to guide him. But what if Friedrich was not there, and Maximilian had never became Holy Roman Emperor. Would he never have the opportunity travel to Rome? Would there ever be a Maximilian that also fails to make the journey?
For now, it been many hundreds of years since Maximilian, the Holy Roman Emperor, and many more have failed to make the journey. Perhaps it wasn't even a city. It could a small town in which the lost driver takes the wrong course. Perhaps it wasn't even a place. It could be the person in the background not noticed, the nervous child failing at the moment of performance, or even the person who died because they failed to sense the fire under their feet. But this story is about none of these people, even if their names were all Maximillian. But, however, as you might guess, the odds of it being about a Maximilian are in your favor. It just happens that this Maximilian is the one who shares something in common with all of these people, be it his name was Maximilian and if Rome was his final destination or not.
Can someone critique
http://pastebin.com/tfFTej5j
I know it's a pastebin, I just feel uncomfortable posting my shit on something that has an easily searchable archive
>>8021514
this is good up until the fourth-to last paragraph at which point it becomes kind of a depressed cliche. "child-like optimism" is a premade phrase for a reason. You're calling fire engines red here, or rather "calling the vehicles of the fire chasers carmine." Compare the happiness of old married couples or cats on sunny windowsills
>>8021331
god this is pretentious. If this is poetry, A+. If it's literature, F-
>>8021136
I'm going to take a wild guess and assume you read homestuck at some point. Am I on the money or what?
>>8023168
Actually no.
Could you tell me what you thought about it tho?
>>8023483
Two problems:
!: I don't actually know what you're going for by describing this gross dude. If this is an excerpt this comment can be ignored, but then the way you cropped out this excerpt shows a lack of attention to context
2: Dear jesus your comma usage. I know most people don't want to hear about punctuation gripes, but when your brain parses text it converts each comma and period to a pause. I'm reading this in the voice of a young Christopher Walken because you use them periodically and inconsiderately. It's a distracting phenomenon
>>8023168
B-but poetry is l-literature
>>8023504
Well, the comma comment was somewhat useful. Thanks
There is no /ñ/ critique thread so
A ver qué opina del inicio de mi cuento algún /ñ/ que ande por aquí. Estoy dispuesto a intercambiar comentarios.
(Rest of the world can use google translate I would love to know what you make of my story after, see if it's core can survive that)
Beltroni se tiró de espaldas sobre la arena, dejando los pies descalzos al alcance del oleaje tranquilo de esa hora de la mañana. Estaba adolorido por los golpes, aturdido tras una noche densa. Alrededor de las 02:00 am recibió el aviso que estaba esperando: el cura estaba liquidado y la información había sido recolectada. “Un informante anónimo va a encontrarse contigo”, le dijo Pepe por teléfono, “no estoy seguro de su aspecto, pero si se ve en algún modo como el cura no me gustaría ser tú y estar solo en esa playa con él, tampoco sé la hora en que va a aparecer, podría estar allí ahora mismo, yo esperaría un par de horas más, Beltroni, este hombre va a contártelo todo, mucho más de lo que el cura me contó a−”.
Beltroni colgó el teléfono y luego colgó el delantal. Apagó el horno, apagó las luces y cerró Beltroni’s, restaurante italiano de su propiedad. Indeciso acerca del tiempo que debía dejar pasar, se fue a pie por la orilla del bulevar que sigue la geografía formada por las playas del centro, la zona del muelle y, su destino, las playas de los suburbios.
Eran las 03:30 am cuando llegó a la playa señalada por Pepe: Playa de vacas, sitio inhóspito de aguas oscuras y acantilados angulosos, pero de carga simbólica para él: era el mismo escenario en que, seis años antes, había recibido de manos de Vázquez las órdenes y el portafolio necesarios para apropiarse de la investigación sobre Jack.
Beltroni sabía que ya no era el gran Beltroni de hace seis años, pero pensaba en él con frecuencia, en el Beltroni que prometió encontrar a Jack en tres meses, el Beltroni que no hubiese acudido a una cita en el lugar más oscuro de la ciudad sin un revólver. Hacía cuánto que no salía de su restaurante cargando un revólver. Había dejado las armas, el cigarro, las mujeres, el tinte de cabello, todo en el transcurso del mismo año, a partir del día de su cumpleaños número sesenta. Sentía como si sólo un fragmento de sí mismo, el correspondiente al gran Beltroni, estuviese retirado, durmiendo, y el fragmento restante que habitaba su cuerpo, el viejo Beltroni, estuviese condenado a buscar a Jack sin encontrarlo nunca.
(cont.)
>>8023733
Revisó la playa hasta que estuvo seguro que no había llegado nadie. Se puso a esperar.
Entonces pensó un poco más sobre el mismo tema: el Beltroni conocido por seguir el modelo de la venganza como sistema ético – burocrático, el que todos los sicarios muertos de su generación conocieron, ese que, siendo sincero consigo mismo, más le gustaba, a pesar de que se hubiese ido a dormir tan temprano, retirado puntualmente a los sesenta, en contraste con este Beltroni introspectivo, sensible (amariconado) y perdido entre muelles y callejones sin salida, el Beltroni que−
Sumergido en la oscuridad, alguien lo tomó del brazo.
“¿Me buscas a mí, viejita?”.
El sobresalto hizo que Beltroni se tambaleara, pero se recuperó al tiempo que sus ojos trataban de distinguir lo que se encontraba por debajo de ellos.
“A Jack no lo vas a encontrar tú ni nadie como tú, bróder”.
Del enano frente a Beltroni sólo podían verse con dificultad un par de grandes ojos amarillentos y el brillo opaco del picahielos en su mano.
“¿Te dijeron que repitieras eso?”
El enano sonrió. “Nadie le deja recados a un ruco muerto”.
“Puto balsero maricón. Topo comemierda”.
>>8023733
Tu prosa es púrpura, borra todo y vuelve a empezar, intenta hablar como hombre esta vez y déjate de weas raras no impresionas a nadie.
1/2
It was a cold July evening, and Montag
walked slowly through the sidewalk. The sky was orange, almost night. Near where he walked, there were a small group of people sitting around a metal canister full of fuel, and lit. One of them, excitingly were telling a story, to which the others attentively listened. Near them was a stray dog, sleeping. Scenes like this were common, small families enjoying the evening to warm themselves and have fun. They weren't real families, of blood, but small groups of people living together, separated from other people. Montag also were part of a family, but a big one, living together in a fixed place. Some could say that the way they lived was "communist", but that is debatable. They all liveed together, each in charge of a specific job to benefit the whole family. Montag was in charge of hunting, to get food for the family. Even though he weren't the only, he went alone that day.
Although most of the population lived in that way, that is, without a leader or group of leaders, fact that characterizes anarchism, some still lived in groups with leaders, but they were small, not remarkable, groups, practically unnoticed by most people.
The anarchism was installed in this country (and when I say country, I refer to the geographic localization, a chunk of land divided by natural or artificial borders) after an insurgency. Previously, the state imposed a dictatorship, which lasted several years. A rebel group, with many divisions throughout the country, organized an attack to the main points of power of the state, overthrowing the dictator and other big figures. Afterwards, they utilized a very smart method to completely eliminate leaders. Utilizing strong propaganda, through news, radio, and television, they stimulated the population, who for years nurtured strong hatred towards leaders, to attack every figure that represented power near them. The propagand was just the initial impulse, basically some kind of "permission" given by the insurgents, since everyone had at least a single reason to hate their leaders and executioners. Some, because they lost dear friends and family to the state assassins, others, for being separated, and some simply because of the lack of freedom of expression and action. Soon, what followed was grotesque carnage and savagery . The leaders, who used to hang rebels in public square, were scourged and humiliated by the people. Some, crueler, after days of torture, burned them publicly, to the joy of the people. All these acts, so absurd and inhumane, even today aren't briefly mentioned by those who participated. They fear themselves for what they did.
2/2
Although the coup d'etat was well planned and executed, before and after there was great confusion. Firstly, what would be done after the elimination of the state? Never had them witnessed such fact. The masses believed that, following the example of other overthrown dictators, the republic would be installed and they'd live like other countries. But the insurgents wouldn't allow such fact. They didn't elect a new presidents, but installed anarchy. The main reasons for anarchy to be chosen are still confusing even today. If you ask some, they'd say that anarchy was chosen because it is the natural state of men. Respectfully, I deny this affirmation and teach them what I think to be true.
The main reasons were, the ignorance and excitation of everyone towards the debunked state. After so many years imprisoned, living like birds in cages, controlled by the totalitarian state, the growing chorela towards the powerful minority led to a blind and ignorant hate. When you hate all kind of power, the inexistence of a form of power seems to be the perfect thought. Soon, blind by the thought of living free, they installed anarchy, and abhorred those who wished for order in society. Nevertheless, as the Grand Inquisitor said, "Nothing has ever been more insupportable for a man and a human society than freedom".
This feels pretty cringey and autistic, but its the only thing I've properly wrote in weeks and I thought I'd share.
>>8024897
I like it. I prefer the first paragraph because of the description, it does come across as "cute".
Pic related is some stuff I wrote. Just short 'sketches'
>>8025134
I like these short stories. I don't really write anything myself but I have a blog if you or anyone is interested. It's, https://thenightshiftguy.wordpress.com/
bumping >>8023168
>>8025134
I like these. I remember you posting Iron Shoes a while back. Whale Season is very strong.
>>8006376
Hey could I get some more opinions on this?
>>8006376
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Your work blows
And fuck you too
I like descriptive writing and find it hard to incorporate dialogue into my writing
I started writing a little skyrim fanfic
Wandering alone through the barren tundra, flakes falling in slow waves creating a hazy white backdrop to the dense forest. A consistent trail of red followed my footsteps from an arrowhead lodged deep in my side. Blood was trickling slowly down my ribs from the wound under my armpit. The forest seemed never ending and forever looping, everything looked exactly the same blanketed in snow. For all I knew I had be walking in circles for hours. I had confidence I was heading west but with no landmarks to get my bearings it was impossible to tell. It felt like I'd be walking for days. My wound aching and burning with each step I took. Either my eyes were going cloudy or the snow was getting heavier. I needed medicine and shelter before nightfall. The sun was low on the horizon, casting a golden-red light across the land. The feeble light was little comfort in the freezing temperatures. The moon was soon to birth into the sky, I was racing against time. The trees finally began to thin, no longer surrounding me like soldiers of the army. Just out of the clearing stood a cottage. Smoke pouring from the chimney cutting a deep black line through the white blanket in the sky. Candle light flooded the two windows and shadows danced inside, could I knock? I needed too. A sudden sharp pain under my arm caused me to spit blood several feet. I needed help. Hobbling forward sluggishly, my body barely responsive, each step taking more and more. I stumble close to the door, finally within arms reach I delivered a heavy true knock upon the door, before collapsing in the snow. Laying in the downpour, staring at the door I hear faint whispers inside. A quick debate whether to open the door. Footstep shuffle hesitantly towards the door. More whispers then the mechanism engaged and the metal on metal sound that's all too familiar was my saving grace.
As my eyes slowly opened they were flooded with warm light and my nostrils filled with the smell of cooked food. Blinking to regain my vision I try sit up only to be limited by a sharp pain, then I remember the arrowhead. I let out a small grunt and a woman rushes in from the next room, and a man slowly followed and leans on the wall and stares at me. The woman kneels next to me and tends to my wound.
"You should rest," she insisted while pushing me back down into the bed. "Lay down."
I had a lot of questions,
"What happened? Where am I? I don't remember falling asleep." I grunted, short on breath.
She looks at me with a confused expression,
"Oh, you knocked on the door and we found you collapsed in the snow. Mumbling about an arrow, then we saw the pool of blood so we brought you inside and patched you up."
"Thank you for the hospitality but I really must move on. I'm looking to make it too Riverwood"
All criticism accepted
>>8026621
Ok, let's look beyond the easily dismissible: the grammar is unacceptable. Given the flooshiness of the topic, there is no fucking excuse for not being crystal clear in your descriptions. Instead you have piked datives, tangled participles, and utterly bland adjectives. It's like you picked your butt and put the black turd booger on the keyboard. Tap. Tippity tap tap.
>>8026649
To be honest I have no idea what you just said, I'm just 21 and like writing things I'm not an actual writer, it's not my job I didn't even go to university or do that well in but I appreciate the honesty, any ideas on how to improve myself?
Hey guys, I'm a beginning writer, and I write in the style of Plath with the lyricism of Neutral Milk Hotel, and with an admiration for the grand themes of Tennyson, mainly about mental illness, UFOs, childhood trauma, and alchemy. I'm currently working on a series of poems that would document my experiences with electroshock treatment. Here is the first one:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LAUHFejL-dHRCUAPjp7CnBtxQ9zTFotIEmjsyjv-urg/edit
It is about me waiting for the treatment. Although it is my most ambitiously reaching project, it is my weakest one from a literary standpoint. These other two smaller poems are better:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UoJ3jHMvFRrjWkyKTOvsrTGzWEfDixoN1kU6QFSSsus/edit
I wrote this while I was in the mental hospital after I found out I was going to be transferred to a long-term residential facility and going to receive ECT.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZySYYINi27qnkwBsmKmfwRhZLRtQ427UzhOcmNs-fWA/edit
I wrote this last year when I thought a lot about the occult, mythology, and alchemy.
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/0Bz7T9Cdaj9rGOS1zTHZ2TzNKZ1E
And here are the rest of my poems, but I don't recommend reading these because they're trash.
Anyway, I used to write all the time, but I would destroy my writing, so this is the first time I'm actually keeping, editing, and growing with my writing, which is why I have such a small body of work. I really put my soul into these poems, so I would greatly appreciate and return all critique if it's wanted (I doubt I'm qualified to give the critique though).
The Parable Man:
The hour is late, though it's hidden by the morning clamour. Our wounds wail, yet every soul stretched on the strip of burlap daren't make a word. Eye bandaged, cannot see where the pain scars the flesh, aye, only the nostrils can cringe at the rot that lingers in this room. A neighboring patient groans, but shifts with the slowed effort of a sloth – Ai cannot stand, only twist and curl with an effort that's hard to watch for any human man. This sickness is unbearable. Aye, now without bandage, know a robed figure tends to the gashes of these feet. The 'Persons who risk their lives as nurses', why do they do this? Aye – we, couldn't be anymore different if we tried. It's hard to focus beyond the suffering of my wounds, for Eye cannot see beyond the wreckage of my fleshly vessel, and the Parable Man that tends to it.
>>8017886
Manque de puissance et de clarté, à mes yeux. On glisse sur ce qui est représenté avec une certaine nonchalance, et l'accumulation de scènes choquantes ajoute à la fadeur. Manque de travail sur la rythmique des phrases, trop saccadé, même si voulu. La troisième, par exemple, on perd vite le fil et c'est assez chiant, trop pour justifier ses extensions et détours. Le choix des mots, et les adjectifs en particulier, semblent arbitraires et interchangeable, faudrait polir un peu. En somme, trop confus et maladroit ; c'est pas terrible, et j'ai du mal à ne serait-ce que comprendre où le texte veut en venir, le style n'est, en tout cas, pas à la hauteur de ce que tu cherches à figurer.
bump
start criticizing you fucks
>>8024772
I think you should read an article on active vs passive voice. It would help make your story more readable.
For example
>a metal canister full of fuel, and lit.
becomes
>a lit metal canister full of fuel.
or even
>a lit metal fuel canister.
Next sentence again grammar mistakes.
>One of them, excitedly (past tense) WAS (singular) telling a story, to which others attentively listened (spell check).
Again active voice
>One of them was telling a story excitedly, and the others listened attentively.
Improving readability and grammar is important.
>Montag was (not were) part of a family.
I think you should really sit down and look over the grammar because it is distracting. Another thing, I read somewhere else, you really want to avoid info dumping early in the story. You have your entire novel to do it so just hold off. Right now it's more important to develop the initial imagery of Montag and these guys sitting around the fire telling the story. Tell us more about the story being told by the small group of people. The real story is there, not with some complex backstory.
>>8023163
I don't know how to say this, but I think you should spend more time telling the story rather than focusing on motivations or things like that. The other thing is, and I know it's not easy, but I really don't get a sense of sympathy for Maximilian. There's a lot of telling and virtually no imagery. Show us the depression, show us the struggle of this powerful man wallowing in thoughts of mediocrity.
Basically show us Maximillian, don't ask these rhetorical questions, because honestly the reader can't answer them at this point of the story.
If someone could take a shot at my 7000 word story it would be much appreciated. I was going to take it to a writers circle but suddenly I lost my nerve.
http://pastebin.com/hPGSytRu
>>8029280
It was originally written in portuguese, and then translated to english. While translating, I committed many grammar mistakes, and I tried to fix all of them, but some slipped past.
I agree with you that I shouldn't have dumped so many info early, but I weren't planning on continuing it, only after finishing that part I decided to. I'll probably rewrite it.
I'll read some articles on active and passive voices. Thanks anon
I'm in the Isle of Skye, Scotland. I should have some story to tell but I got nothin'. The castles are nice, I'll say that.
>>8025134
This is some Faulkner shit
>>8029280
Much appreciated anon
>>8027065
>The hour is late, though it's hidden by the morning clamour.
If the hour is late it can't be morning. Not really a fan of the old-timey style and setting but you need to post more if you want a more nuanced criticism.
>>8029511
Thank you, but could you please expand? I've never actually read something by him.
>>8029602
The narrator I had in mind was very damage and ill, so he talks in delirium
Hey /lit/, I wrote this short story and I was wondering if I could get feedback on it. It's very informal. I'm trying to evoke feelings of sadness from the reader.
-----
Looking back on it, I knew I had to die.
I thought about the last familiar face I saw before I got on the plane. I loved him but my feelings had exhausted after our break up and eventual reconciliation. It had been a hard year for me, a rock bottom I guess.
I had been getting bouts of nausea for a week or two. It was possible that I was pregnant but that would have been too bittersweet. I couldn’t have kept it anyway I had said to myself, but now I think I might have if I had the chance.
My relationship with life was so tumultuous that it almost felt right that the conclusion would be this. I had finally found my peace in the world despite all the troubles I had.
I felt warm tears run down my face and I closed my eyes. How would my mom feel when she hears the news that I never made it back onto the plane? And my sister, she would take it the worst. I’m sorry.
I remembered my best friend, begging me to spend the summer with her and not go on my trip. I just smiled and shrugged, I was scared to go but when would I ever get the chance. My mind raced through the different friends that comforted me once I had cracked just a month earlier. God, I had amazing friends and I was glad I realized it then and not right now.
“I’m going to be alright,” I said to myself when I had left dinner with one of them. I don’t think I could say the same now.
My dog. Oh, I’m going to miss his sweet little face. It was the first thing I woke up to and last beautiful thing I saw before I went to bed for over a year now. I whimpered as I started to feel the pain go away and I opened my eyes.
Everything was fading.
They’ll be fine without me, someday. But I’m going to miss them all. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t have a choice.
I guess it was my time, I had just started living.
>>8030954
look man, you start with something very provocative then go into all this backstory which doesn't explain or really have any relation to what you started with.
It's something provacative followed by a whole lot of reminiscing. You wrote a lot of words but you haven't said anything. The plot hasn't moved forward one inch. At the end of this blurb, the reader is exactly where they started nothing new has been added to progress the story.
>>8030978
Hmm, I see what you're saying but that isn't my intention...
I was never supposed to go into why the character was dying. Just a short reason as to why s/he knew it was time to die. The character finally had peace in her/his life and it had to be taken away because it wasn't natural to him/her.
My goal is to inspire sadness and pity for them, not really tell a coherent story.
Did you feel any emotions from it?
How would you suggest I go about invoking feelings of melancholy in readers? language? different syntax? more elaboration?
>>8031013
Well it's not easy, just describing why a person's life sucks is not enough to invoke sympathy. Consider Edmund Dantes in The Count of Monte Christo. Dumas sets him up as having everything he could probably want and then snatches it away. It's a very classical way to invoke sympathy by taking someone who is content with their life and then being very cruel to them.
The other way is to try and build an empathetic bridge between readers by describing the various conditions of suffering the reader can relate to.
These are some suggestions on how to build empathy but just writing "this is my character, her life sucks because this this this and she wants to die now" isn't how you go about doing it.
>>8031013
not the same anon, but some of your wording could be better, phonetically. read it out loud and rearrange a bit, and use synonyms of your current adjectives.
Also I found it odd that you're monologue ended with the dog.
Also, I got the feeling that your character was more or less well off in life and was just being overly emotional. That's an easy conclusion given the fact that we have nothing in which to focus the negative energy, no explanation, no antagonist, just a loving family and supportive friends.
We don't feel the sense of loss because theres nothing go anchor out empathy in that character, she's too distant from the reader.
>>8030954
Kind of boring...
>>8031056
You're right. I should definitely elaborate on 'the hard year' my character was having.
Really useful feedback.
>>8031054
Alright cool, I'm glad I'm getting consistent feedback. Yeah, I'll elaborate more.
So the general story line is that her life was horrible (which I left out why and I will include it) and then once it finally showed promise, she was murdered (not really hinted at, i'll try to do it subtly).
>>8029280
So I ended up going to the writer's circle anyway and god damn now I know exactly where DFW and Palahniuk get their characters from.
I also wrote a little bit more on the way back, if someone would be kind to crit me.
Midnight, Niagara Falls, I’d decided this would be my grave. My cigarette burned red like a beacon to the heavens; one more soul coming in hot The night was cloudy, not a star in the sky; the gates were shut. One leg over the other, I stepped over the barrier, and stood leaning forward with my hands holding the rail behind my back. From here I would only have to let go, and I could swan dive straight into the rocks below. My ciggy was like an hourglass running low. When I’d finish, I’d know my time was up.
The spray of the falls was drenching me. My cig had gone out before its time. The roaring of the water was a good thing; white noise to keep my thoughts clear. I let go of my pinky and ring finger, and balanced on the balls of my feet. I leaned back towards the railing, turned my back to the falls and lit up another cigarette. This would be the last one before I died I reasoned, and I was going to enjoy it. Then I would spread my arms and fall backwards, crashing into the rocks below, and being swept into the currents, where my body would be smothered by an unstoppable and perpetual force of nature. Never to be recovered until the day the water stops falling.
>>8016274
I laughed pretty hard at this. Quite entertaining.
My flag. My flag is ripped and torn. It's bloody and frayed. When the wind blows hard it whips and rolls and threatens to tear itself apart screaming. My flag has seen three hundred suns and moons collide. It has seen god smile upon Washington and the devil dance with Sherman. My flag has seen towers crash and champions of the people lose their heads. It has seen the stretching emerald forests riding the humps of foothills on pure lands turn to gray highways and plastic mega marts. It has seen bankers and serpents beheaded and shipped across the sea only for their offspring to slither back over with friendly British handshakes. My flag has seen it all. From the shipments of heroin to the talking heads with stars of david tattooed upon their foreheads. From dogs strapped with american dollars ripping apart Gaddafi to european truth speakers being tossed into prisons. And yet still it clings to the pole slowly falling apart at the weakening hems. Bloody and frayed and tired of overseeing the horror of time and the poison of indoctrinated trust.
You don't like my flag. You don't like the idea of it or the look of it.
>>8032239
Because your flag. Your flag is nice and clean. Bright and strong. When the wind blows hard it dances and glides and snaps back like a whip. Your flag doesn't remember how many suns and moons it has seen let alone know when they've collided. But it has seen Kanye smile upon Bernie and witness Trump puff with racist hubris. It has seen Cosby rape a thousand poor women and Obama saving us all from ourselves. Your flag has seen ISIS behead lines of innocents and Assad hide behind Putin, that bastard. It has seen prom queens pee standing upright and black teens martyring themselves by reaching for pistols. It has seen painkillers and vape pens and national parks and bike paths and smart cars. It sees suits laying on piles of blood stained money and professors handing out their own published sociology textbooks for a small fee of a hundred bucks. It sees white women being courted by strong black men and pathetic pigskinned men buying emaciated Asian whores. Your flag has seen it all. From gays getting married to Dylan roof licking his lips. Your flag has seen it all but it has never witnessed something that just isn't quite right. Something that doesn't fit with the way the wind blows. Something like how Obama claimed to protect whistle blowers and yet wanted to incarcerate Snowden for treason or how those that we are claiming to fight in the middle east are being trained and funded by US means.
A rip appears upon your flag and you peer up at it for a moment before mechanically yanking it down from the pole and tossing it away. From a closet full of fresh and clean American flags you gingerly pick one out and hoist it upon the pole and marvel at how clean it is. This new flag you frantically pulled up has seen it all. It has seen the low unemployment rate and affordable healthcare all thanks to the commander in chief. You take a glance at my ripped and torn flag once more and you grimace. You don't like my flag. You don't like the idea of it or the look of it. You think it is depressing and you order me to get a new one and if I don't I should be declared insane.
>>8032239
>>8032241
>tfw a /pol/ack is a better writer than you.
Fuck you.
>>8032248
lol as if fascists didn't wrote good literature. Look at french authors in the 30s.
>>8006376
creating something unique doesnt make it good
>>8006376
I like it. Although it is better in small doses, I wouldn't make a novel out of that.
>>8006450
>kilku miesięcy ale dopiero od kilku dni
kilku kilku kilku kilku kilku
>znnaturalmym
coś tu poszło nie tak
Sprawnie napisane. Nie w moim guście.
