/lit/ - Literature

Time for a quick poll, /lit/.

1. Synthetic/analytic distinction: A: yes B: no.
2. If yes on 1: A priori synthetic propositions? A: yes. B: no.
3. Free will: A: yes B: no.
4. Existence of god: A: theism B: atheism C: igtheism D: agnosticism.
5. Metaphysics: A: nonsense B: not nonsense.
6. Aesthetics: A: objective B: subjective.
7. Science: A: Scientific realism B: Scientific antirealism.
8. Scientific progress: A: Popper/Lakatos B: Kuhn/Feyerabend.

Hi /lit/, I've got a lot of spare time in my hands before heading off to college, and I thought I'd take a swing at writing.

It'd be just wonderful if a couple of you ladies/gentlemen could take a gander at this excerpt. Be warned, it's about witchery. Knowing this, I chose a quick scene.

“You don't buy it. Alright, whatever.” Tyler took one last heavy drag and tossed the cigarette into the stone circle, took his backpack off and started rummaging around. He quickly found his machete, took it out, and started chopping at some of the surrounding vegetation. Every time he had gotten a handful, he threw what he'd collected into the stone circle. William stood fidgeting during the process. Once Tyler had gotten a satisfactory amount of grass and weeds into the circle, he reached once again into his bag of tricks, this time for a his lighter fluid, which he applied liberally to the pile. After dousing the pile, he took a cheap plastic lighter from his pocket, and lit the flammable mass. While the pile quickly burned, he returned the machete and lighter fluid to his backpack, and returned his lighter to his pocket. After stowing the items away, he took his switchblade out of his pocket and snaked it betwixt his fingers “This shit is gonna blow your mind.” The pile had burned out by now, all that was left was a small speckling of embers.

Bitches don't know bout my metaphysics.

“I think I hate you even more for coming.”
I was glad for the darkness, then, with the nearest sconce around a corner barely illuminating the bars that separated me from Calla, and her face not at all. I took care not to react visibly, as I had for the last ten minutes, but I hoped that she couldn’t see me, or wasn’t looking at me. Any movement of my face, or even the lack of movement, could be a grievance, and I at least hoped that I could keep from making things worse than they were.
“Calla, how could I not be here? I mean, I’m your brother, and…look, I’m just so sorry—“
“I swear, if you say ‘I’m sorry’ one more time…,” she interrupted again, trailing off to let me consider what sort of threat she could really be making.
“Fine. I…I won’t, all right. But, can I at least stay without, you know, it making you so angry? I don’t know what else to do.”
She didn’t respond for a long moment, and I could hear the guard’s leather jerkin creaking as he shifted uncomfortably, probably trying not to be heard. I couldn’t resent his eavesdropping, though. What else is there for the toothless bastard to do but listen to the daily dramas of prisoners, visitors, priests, and politicians?
Finally she sniffed her typical dry, open-quote sniff: “No. No, I don’t think so. There’s really no point in it. I feel angrier, and more alone, because you're here, and if anything comes of it it’s that you’ll feel you’ve done your duty, and I have no interest in giving you that, or anything really. So go. Just…go.” Clearing her throat, close-quote.
(cont'd)

Hi /lit/, here's the beginning of a story I'm working on. It's set in a fictional setting something like ancient Greece, but is meant to be more drama than fantasy. Please let me know what you think. But be kind.
******************
“I think I hate you even more for coming.”
I was glad for the darkness, then, with the nearest sconce around a corner barely illuminating the bars that separated me from Calla, and her face not at all. I took care not to react visibly, as I had for the last ten minutes, but I hoped that she couldn’t see me, or wasn’t looking at me. Any movement of my face, or even the lack of movement, could be a grievance, and I at least hoped that I could keep from making things worse than they were.
“Calla, how could I not be here? I mean, I’m your brother, and…look, I’m just so sorry—“
“I swear, if you say ‘I’m sorry’ one more time…,” she interrupted again, trailing off to let me consider what sort of threat she could really be making.
“Fine. I…I won’t, all right. But, can I at least stay without, you know, it making you so angry? I don’t know what else to do.”
She didn’t respond for a long moment, and I could hear the guard’s leather jerkin creaking as he shifted uncomfortably, probably trying not to be heard. I couldn’t resent his eavesdropping, though. What else is there for the toothless bastard to do but listen to the daily dramas of prisoners, visitors, priests, and politicians?
Finally she sniffed her typical dry, open-quote sniff: “No. No, I don’t think so. There’s really no point in it. I feel angrier, and more alone, because you're here, and if anything comes of it it’s that you’ll feel you’ve done your duty, and I have no interest in giving you that, or anything really. So go. Just…go.” Clearing her throat, close-quote.
(cont'd)

> Look up book that sounds very interesting

> Slated for film adaption

> Lose all interest in reading it

feels bad man

Sorry, can't be your girlfriend because /lit/ is not female.
We'll be your bro though.

True dat.

>>452210

>>442365

Plus, you know, he played mad ball.

>>426393