/lit/ - Literature

II/IV

**


A shorts-socked silk-bowed young boy gazed fixedly @ the way in which silk dangled from her rounded cream cotton collar & arousedly imagined forcibly pressing his soft tanned forehead rape-ready against the warmth of the toff-like director‘s small pink daughter-ducts. Her neatly tucked blouse ended quite early on her thin soft stomach & her tweed skirt ended before her child-naked unscratched knees (she had clumsily left the debonaire director‘s falling apartment nymph-like half-naked without any soft cottons & still hadn‘t bought any new ones. Her leathern shoes, then, naturally, sat nymph-nude against her small warm feet.
At the end of the never-ending day they awkwardly stayed behind & were slowly informed that they would no longer be attending the old Gymnasium due to poor grades. He had yet to tell his busy father, but the knickerless girl seemed unaffected & even somewhat relieved. They both left the Gymnasium & he secretly followed her winding path. He was an untouched virgin & she was not, so it was not like in one of his cheap novels. She came to the director‘s second apartment, which the shy virgin did not recognise & key-shakingly let herself in. He proceeded to clumsily climb up the decrepit side of the paint-peeling building until he reached the bathroom window, which was unfortunately ajar & which he slowly opened to reveal her stark naked in the middle of defecating & fountain-like urinating on to the rim of the bowl, while she sat on her hunkers on it. She was in the middle of a half-burnt cigarette when she looked shocked @ his cold-faced antlitz outside the thing & let a stool drop as her urine flew against the adjacent door; „Get out!“ she exclaimed & the shy virgin responded that he could not, for if he did he would surely die from the fall.
Stuck in a small squalorous bathroom that smelt of girl-feces, he nervously seated on the closed ceramic bowl & she blushingly against the shining but broken lock on the peeling door, she finger-drummedly waited upon the arrival of the director.
The nervous director solemnly agreed that no direct action would be officially taken in concessional return for his secret lodging & his eternal silence. Proud Gabriele‘s lover rarely came along with him any more but when she disapprovingly did there was an immense silence in the squalorous Gemach. But nonetheless she had also slowly developed a daemoniac appreciation for the feel of the the proud director‘s throb on the fruit of her lips & in the nest of her cunt. He often heard, phallus-erect, the sounds of gagging on middle-aged prick just a short hop away.

III/IV

**


Standing @ the open French window, child-like in unerect coldness & hairlessness, the passing giggling jailbait would trip @ the sight of his sock-shoe‘d nakedness & one time the slut saw this & for some brief moments forgot who it was & stared, then suddenly extremely disgusted, recoiled & hurried in to the apartment, knocking very loudly, saying „I am coming in!“, waiting several minutes, even though he continued to unashamedly stand stark naked except for expensive cotton & leather afforded by the still nervous director, until he realised she would not come in until his flaccid unerect child-penis was covered, which she viewed through the small key-hole.

**


On the last day of the cold winter holidays, @ approximately two in the black morning, the mouldy front door loudly creaked & ultimately fell from its barely-holding hinges. Both utterly naked down to their shoes & socks, the horny director lion-wild slammed the teenage whore‘s soft & developed behind against the also brittle wall, then violently shoved her down to his throbbing phallus, which she began to carefully kiss, until she mistakenly averted her lover‘s gaze to the sleeping virgin & lovecraft-like recoiled.
They then continued in to the adjacent room & continued to violently fuck.
The crazed virgin, now horribly abandoned in some rotting apartment with no working door, climbed in to the cold room where she sleepily lay with her small pink ducts exposed. In the impish throes of violent sex, her flax had merged sweatily & perhaps even seminically with her creamy forehead. Her cheeks didn‘t merely have a blush, but were red with hellfire & there were handmarks all over her barely teenage body.
He bent down & kissed the edge of her childish ducts, where rose-like areola met milky porcelain. She awoke like the first heartbeats of a foetus in serious shock, immediately drew herself quickly off the creaking bed which was now clumsily smeared with stinky semen & her sligo piss. Her lower mouth was more chalky tooth now, with a rusty knife barely held in her girlish arms.
He had imagined her cat-like tongue spit-smeared & achingly stretched out to him that he may passionately lick it with his own zebra-tongue or his child-like member, but instead he found himself rape-like wrestling the dull knife out of her brittle hand & pinning her swan-like neck down on the mouldy floorboards, repeatedly & violently removing her girlish attempts @ even the slightest air-inhalation, which eventually lead to her eye-opened death.

IV/IV

**


The nervous director took care of police-related business & the silent virgin continued to live in the decrepit place.
Often the virgin daughter would go by, staring up @ the mostly naked & shy boy, but was no longer allowed to enter (her key was taken away). That was until she threatened her father, @ which point she entered the apartment every evening & fucked the boy.

Certainly rather overwrought, some of your treasured words obstruct the pulse rudely, even jarringly. It is not at all a sin to deploy typical word usages, and you seem to insist on avoiding them entirely. Why?

I was disappointed this became so explicit so quickly. I liked some of the phrasing, I think you have some skill, but there's much here I found under-composed, like the superficial allusions [perhaps they are developed more? I really hope so.]

I hope the rest of this isn't more vulgar sex descriptions. Not my cup of tea and I don't read things like this.

>>12436866
She has a punchable face.

>>12436868
>peeling peeling peeling
>rotting rotting
>decrepit
>squalorous squalorous
>@
>novel hyphenizations incessant

Why? How can this do anything but annoy the hell out of me?

>>12436920
violence against women is wrong

>>12436904

I didn't even achieve my goal in this piece & honestly it is more lucid than the one I am currently composing. My goal is not to show the river but the tributaries from which it demarcates; to show the negation of reality, that is - imagination. Each real image needs to be defined by its imaginative negation like imhotepic witchcraft. That is "why" I avoid mere Naturalism.

>>12436866
>>12436868
>>12436874
One of the cringiest things I read on this board

>>12436993
Sorry, what?

>>12436866
too many adjectives

>>12437014

Each image can be defined adjectivally-synesthetically. In each image there is witchcraft or something erotic & particularly in verse each image is defined by some word derived from some archaic witchcraft.

The greatest prose would then not be a series of banal naturalisms but descriptions of "nature" defined rather by archaic witchcraft. Mythopoeia expanding like tributaries from a river, with the prose exaggerating the tributary-negations as opposed to the river proper.

>>12436866
I have several questions about this

Who was the shy boy?

What was the goal with this price? Seems like you meant to subvert traditional narrative techniques.

Why was there so much sex/bodily waste involved?

Was there truly an underlying narrative to this or did I just imagine it?

>>12437060

I am trying to gradually subvert the "Naturalist" narrative, specifically, but did not fully achieve it. I will exaggerate this further in my next piece. As to your third question, I personally found the subject of unrequited love & sexual hurt striking & emotional (this is also present in much of literature, often referred to as "cuckoldry", which is not entirely pertinent in this particular piece).

As to your fourth question, the purpose of the piece was initially to crystallise sexual hurt, but it ended up demarcating in to a practice in adjectival-synesthetic prose. I would like to hear your personal opinion on what the narrative was, though.

>>12436866
You are obviously trying for something very particular and different, and I admire you for daring. I don’t think you will get much useful critique here, and your best bet is to continue or bump up whatever reading has lead you to this point, and to follow your own star so to say. I’m not a fan of the &, @, etc. but that is up to you.

>>12437075
Define what you mean by "naturalist" and adjectival-synesthetic prose.

As for the narrative, in my mind it's a complete haze. I can identify some of the characters that are recurring: The director, the virgin, the other girl the director fucks intermittently and the shy boy.

There is some form of residence owned by the director where in all these characters ultimately reside and where the shy boy is eventually locked. The locked door is knocked down during a sexual frenzy between the director and his girl which allows the shy boy access to the virgin and ultimately leads to her accidental death at his hands.

I'm not sure what to make of the ending though.

>>12437117

Naturalism was the late 19th century movement which emphasised reality. For me, the river is natural, but the story is not the river or should not be, but rather the mythopoeic tributaries. I believe Impressionism, under the influence of Symbolism, departed from this. Perhaps that is the direction I am going in.

That was the narrative. I thought it was obvious. I thought you meant the greater meaning behind it.

>>12437117

Apropos synesthesia: I often wrote verse but became bogged down in metric labyrinths & decided to instead approach prose as a poet would approach verse; with images defined through synesthesia. That is, "nature" is defined not by itself but by its synesthetic shadow.

In this piece I made particular use of adjective, but hope to literally carry all the images through the shadow of its demarcation. This means that the narrative will indeed become opaque.

>>12436866
Shitty rythm, you bored me after the first few sentences.

any german speakers up?

The cupboards had no doors and housed only dust and residue. The indication that cups and china had been sat there at some point still present in the discolorations across the cabinet’s lower shelving. But they weren’t actually there. The house breathed an uncanny stagnancy into the space it occupied, every part of it either too dead or too alive. The small upstairs told a familiar tale. Beyond its buckling and shifting steps a barren room lay undisturbed by any cognizant force. A single window at the end of the narrow room illuminated the angled ceiling which adhered to the same structure as the shit-adorned gable he had seen from the outside. There was evidence of some sort of furnishing being present at one time or another. But they were not actually there. There was a gentle rusting within one of the walls at about the same place that he had seen the hidey holes from the outside.
It was late afternoon and the sun hung low in the sky so that it shone in directly through the window. He stood gazing through it calcutively like a mighty land baron overlooking his sprawling tracts of land. Long slender fingers of withering junegrass shadow clung to the earthen haunt of field outside the window, the contrast of orange on black brilliant. His glowing empire of stagnation and decay. He turned from his observatory, the purple-green imprint of jarred lightning burned upon his tired eyes and stole away back down the stairs, actively avoiding the onslaught of creaks and quavers in the floorboards beneath him. He returned to the front room, the black void in the wall glaring at him ceaselessly. He gathered the shabby floor rug from its place in the center of the room and folded it into his aching arms. He avoided looking into the dormant void. In the empty space where the the rug once lay was a pale rectangle, immaculate or at the very least immaculate relative to the rest of the room it occupied. He took the folded rug under an arm and returned to the upstairs and moved to a corner where the sun wouldn’t catch. He wrapped himself in it and lay down coiled against the wall. The days tended to be warm but the nights were always cold. He lay still, each exaggerated shift knocking particles loose from the rug and into the air surrounding. The late afternoon sun sank below the distant treeline and the grey clouds encircling it grew more and more intruding upon the sinking horizon and in the withering room he lay his head down upon his arms and sleep took him.

>>12437174
> I thought you meant the greater meaning behind it.

What is the greater meaning behind it?

>>12436993
>From which it demarcates.
That's not what demarcation is you epic psued.
>to show the negation of reality, that is - imagination. Each real image needs to be defined by its imaginative negation
Cringe
>>12437034
>expanding like tributaries from a river, with the prose exaggerating the tributary-negations as opposed to the river proper.
You mean distributary, stop butchering stream nomenclature nametard.
>Tributary-negations
This might be the worst psued outburst I have ever seen

>>12436993
Ah, I remember being in high school...

>>12437832

nothing that i didn't already describe in this post

>>12437075

>>12437034
>>12437075
can you fucking stop? the explication is unironically worse than the prose.

Hours ooze across the eyeless mass
of flat heat and nude land. Rain
resists the soil, hunger blooms
its iron thorn. The water hole
is crippled phantom and the oxen
overtuned.

The date palm predicts a solitude
from moisture, oafish cattle, also
her own natural gifts: sweet and
brown, fair to pluck, but now?

She is still and hard like bone.
She is blind and so the hours
bleed, the rain resists, manure dries...

sneed

>>12436866
>>12436868
>>12436874
>>12436880
>>12436993
>>12437034
>>12437075
>>12437174
pfffff

I forgot the meaning of Loneliness
With you by my side,
Disappeared my darkness.
I was surrounded in an explosive
grenade.

I found myself
Among many in your shape,
None were you.
My body is a suffocating tape,
Pulled to last, for a simple use.

Your kiss burnt my skin
Same as the sun
Looking down on Ferhat,
Digging for his Şirin.
It dragged me in to the abyss,
And I fell flat.

Your eyes would shine stronger than
The Yakamoz over the Mediterranean.
Athena’s dresser rising above
Full of doves.

Your fingers were shaped
For all the rings of Ares,
And the cold
Diamonds of Hades,
Charmed by Aphrodite.

Now I am back to the dark eternal,
You let me go and I walk alone again.
Yet all I experience is the fall.
You still appear in the smoke,
Anytime I light up one
In the rain.

A munitions van came to the drive and turned right around at the first glimpse of broken glass. Alley Rat knew what would come.
The next day, three Jeeps, clad with iron and fire, rolled to the broken glass. They escorted Alley Rat to one of the Jeeps as deep thunder was heard.
The tempest came from the office. The low thud rolled across the air like waves crashing against the shore--in great bursts. The ground was flooded with the blood of what seemed to be the victims. There was no lightning, only thunder. It was heard for miles.
Alley Rat looked up at the canopy and felt the breeze manipulate his hair. The thunder echoed through the forest and shook the trees in an unnatural way.
The men were all seated, comfortable, relaxed, natural, when Alley Rat’s posture was straight and tensed. He kept his eyes forward, the other men explored the green expanse of the jungle with their eyes. Alley Rat wished that he could take in the rich colors, but he was fixated on the metal harness on the dash of the jeep. The harness had a reflective metal clip that showed him himself. He looked into the rich darkness of his brown iris that almost blended into his dark pupils.

>>12438914
has a futurist feel to it, especially with the motives, even though its not my thing a lot of people like that if thats what you were going for,
one thing i think is that it could be written to be more clear and that it could be more easily understood at first glance, but again a bit scattered motives add to the futurst atmosphere so its probably fine

>>12438856
the way ends of strophes contrast is putting me off, i wish you could finish them to be flowing from beginning to end

>>12438757
reminds me of baudelaire

Hey /lit/, here's a new short story. Nobody liked my last one, lol ._ .

https://pastebin.com/dDqH1ytr

>the ending of my first attempt at a novel

will crit for crit

>>12436945
women love jabs to the dome

Ellie climbed up the stairs, the sound of her bare feet tapping against each step as she sped upwards. Her left hand clenched the railing, not to ensure her balance, but out of a tight anxiety.

Upon reaching the final step, Ellie recoiled her hand from the rail and transversed the hallway, at which the end lied a door leading to their room. Her pace, unlike her usual casual stride that bounced when she stepped, had a stiffness that tensed every time a foot hit the floor. Her fingers were clenched against their palms. Sweat found its way through the creases her fists created.

At last, she had made it to the door. On the other side, a deadly stillness murmured, its silence like the head of a match about to be struck against its box. Her hand reached to turn the doorknob, the sound of alloy like the hammer of a pistol striking its bullet.

“Daniel-“

Her breath halted, her heart dropped. Her hands shook, her eyes shot open. That bullet struck her chest. Her breath shot backwards into her throat like a knife. All in one moment, a moment that felt like a lifetime, her mind shifted from shock to anger to confusion to terror- the dam let loose a flurry of rampant emotion, each fighting a harsh war against each other. She couldn't believe it. She wouldn’t believe it.

What the fuck? What the fuck?!

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

My fucking god. My goddammit all. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

In that room, time stopped and started again in an instant.

In that room was the lifeless body of Mr. Daniel Baker, silently hanging from the ceiling.

critique pls

>>12440383
shit my bad. bits in first person needs quotation marks

>>12440401

>>12440401
>>12440407

Keep going, anon. I like this one.

>>12440407
dialogue seems forced and some of the description is needless. Like saying how "hell" is considered inappropriate to say at work. This needs to be stripped down a bit. Quite a bit of telling and not showing here, which isn't a hard and fast rule but in this case would benefit your writing.

>>12440401
Enjoyable, Keep it going boii xx

>>12440306

Hard to take out of context, especially if this is the ending, but your strong point is the gorilla kitten phone call symbolism all mixed together, and the weak points might be fine in context... but for example the bottle at the end isn't mentioned at all previously; the character is dialing numbers in a phone book but then presses a keypad and holds it to his ear like a cellphone which is a confusing image; you're giving setting on the last page of the book, in what is presumably a room we've already been in before story-wise; you mention the sun a couple times like it is the first time bringing it up; I don't think gorillas have wool on their hands - it's good though and effectively conveys something without actually stating it, but you gotta sharpen up the actual word choices to make it flow better.

>>12440407
Dialogue doesn't need identifiers like "Rusty said" or "she replied", in fact, if you deleted all the parts of that conversation except the actual dialogue, it would read better. Who is speaking is identified by their dialect, how they talk, like Rusty might give short, blunt replies, which makes it clear he is the one saying the line.
Also, the sentences seem repetitive because they are all just "Rusty did a thing". It detracts from what is actually being done, and it is a blunt way to write with the third person perspective. Loosen up, write things in ways you might consider weird.

O Delírio de Narciso I

O Delírio de Narciso


Fui consumido por uma chama invisível e a morte aparece ante a porta do quarto, agora, sob a silhueta de um ceifador de almas. Pergunto-me se não é em razão desta obscura inevitável que já não consigo mais levantar-me da cama; mantenho-me aqui, de bruços, sufocado nas palavras que escrevo neste caderno, em breu quase total, para um impossível leitor. Minha condenação primeira foi alicerçar-me na escrita como modo de viver. E de morrer. Ai de mim! Mas não, nada disso é a razão crucial de minha agonia. Bem sei de onde colho este lamentar, e tudo ocorrerá agora.

— Com licença, você é daqui? — Perguntou ao tocar meus ombros com a pálida mão. Virei num súbito e fui atingido pelo clarão de sua aura. Para ocultar o susto que levei com a repentina intensidade com que atingira-me nos olhos, sorri.

— Não. Venho de outro continente. — Num instante depois eu já sabia. Deveria ter mentido, assim como fiz durante todo aquele tempo. Ela sentou-se ao meu lado.

— Desculpe-me pela intromissão. É que seus olhos, seu nariz também... Há — baixou os olhos e corrigiu-se —, quer dizer, houve um escritor renomado na América do Sul... coincide que você se assemelha muito a ele.

Eu deveria ter mentido, é verdade. Mas o brilho daquela aura perfurou as estruturas do falso império ante o qual estruturei minha vida. E minha morte. Ai de mim! Meu olhar se resvalou no dela em profundo espanto. Ela já sabia.

— Senhor Montserrat. O senhor está morto, não está?

Morto... Precisamente. A única boa palavra que consegui deferir ao espírito cintilante naquele dia.

— Morto.

>>12440502

II

Lembro de ter visto em seu semblante, antes de afastar-se subitamente, como uma luz que se esvai, a sugestão de uma ojeriza complacente. Deve ter achado que eu estava louco, perdido, alheio, sedado. E não estava? No entanto, mesmo seu quê de penar era fulguroso! Voltei ao hotel, como de costume, pois estava ficando frio em beira-mar. Não tinha mais aonde ir mesmo. E qual foi minha surpresa ao vê-la entrar no elevador que eu entrava? Ela podia até dizer a todos no Brasil. Ou fotografar-me. Pior, podia ainda interrogar-me. Mas, de onde ela saiu? Não me parecia uma coincidência comum. Aliás, existem coincidências comuns? Não são todas curiosas? Pois bem, ela soltou o que a incomodava, de alguma maneira.

— Você não parece morto, Senhor Montserrat. Seu reflexo até aparece no espelho.

Não pude olhá-la e nem respondê-la. O que diria eu? O menor dos diálogos me revelaria. Ela me machucaria.

— Parece sozinho. E quanto aos seus amigos e parentes? Ah, me esqueci...

— Morto.

— Exatamente. Você está morto. Assim como Elvis. — E recebi um olhar significativo. Bem, não olhei para ela, mas nessa hora sua aura ficou resplandescente como nunca. O que seria senão um desses olhares sugestivos?

Cheguei em meu quarto e tomei meus remédios. Não posso esquecer de tomar meus remédios. E no outro dia voltei à praia pela tarde. Precavi-me e levei um casaco reforçado. Não sabia mais se estava morto. Só sabia que a radiante causava uma sensação estranha em meu coração, mesmo tendo visto seu brilhar apenas uma vez. Quer dizer, suponho que tenha sido somente uma vez. Era um bom medo. Após duas ou três horas contemplando o vento ela finalmente apareceu, tocando novamente meus ombros com suas pálidas mãos. Quando nossos olhos se encontraram, com os meus ainda semicerrados por conta de sua luz, ousei tentar capturá-la com uma pergunta pertinente.

— Por que você reluz?

>>12440502
>>12440507

III

—Não sei os motivos de minha luz porque nunca a vi. Se a visse, certamente morreria admirando-me. Alguns a veem. Eu não vejo.

Então nós dois meditamos juntos naquelas palavras. Sabia que queriam dizer algo a mim também, mas não tive capacidade de abstrair coisa profunda naquele momento. Algo estranho acontecia em meu âmago. Em seguida ela cantou uma canção para mim. Era sobre um sonho dentro de um sonho, ou algo destarte. Pedi para que ela repetisse, em seguida pedi para que ela repetisse, e pedi para que ela repetisse inúmeras vezes. Ela repetia com o mesmo brilho de sempre. Já à noite, pedi para que me falasse seu nome.

— Senhor Montserrat, homem nenhum pode dizer meu nome sem me perder. Acontece que sou requisitada e essas são as regras. — então esboçou um sorriso, mas num instante depois eu já sabia. — Bem, que tal irmos ao centro antes de voltarmos ao hotel? Podemos comer algo e também conversar um pouco mais.

A radiante limpou a areia que agarrava insistentemente seus pés brilhantes e calçou-se. Fiz o mesmo. Saboreamos um suco de alguma coisa e compramos ao outro livros amarelados na livraria que abria sempre às vinte e três horas. Na volta, já de madrugada, recitávamos ao outro, em alto e bom tom, poemas do meu livro amarelado. Então me recitou aquele poema divertido, com a emoção de um russo vigarista:

"Todos esses que aí estão
Atravancando meu caminho,
Eles passarão…
Eu passarinho!"

>>12440502
É de um livro ou só é um trecho?

>>12440517

É um conto de seis páginas. Postarei a última parte Agora.

IV

Ela pediu, já no hotel, para ir ao quarto comigo. Ao meu quarto. E chegando lá não estranhou todas minhas pílulas e óleos. “Aquelas são para o coração, essas são para meu pênis”, menti. Mas não importa. Fui chantageado a falar o que ela queria.

— Então me diz, Senhor Montserrat: o que é que sentimos no coração quando estamos completamente apaixonados?

A priori, não entendi. Em seguida, quase caindo em seu golpe, fiquei boquiaberto. Se falasse seu nome, eu a perderia. Perguntei os motivos daquilo, e uma lágrima já descia de meus olhos enquanto tudo acontecia. É fácil perder o que conquistamos com a imaginação.

— Você precisa dizer a palavra, para que finalizemos este agradável dia. Sei que você sabe que eu sei que você sabe que eu sei que você sabe. Você está falecido, como bem me disse antes. Essa é sua última chance de viver. Diga-me. O que sentimos no coração quando estamos completamente apaixonados? Está no nome de seu conto, oras!
Pensei um pouco. Tinha uma resposta mais adequada para ela.

— Morte! — Berrei.

— Não é! — Berrou-se de volta.

— Morte! Morte!

— Montserrat, nos encontraremos do outro lado se você disser meu nome.

Então a palavra saiu da minha boca como se tirada por alguém. Ela ficou feliz em ouvi-la. Como se ganhasse a caixinha de música com a bailarina graciosa e esta dança, enquanto de lugar nenhum ressoa Beethoven.

— Amor.

Seus olhos então brilhavam cada vez mais intensos em tom verde-esmeralda. O quarto inteiro cintilava e eu, em prantos, tampava o rosto enquanto tudo era acentuado. Depois do clarão, tudo acalmou-se, mas as luzes de meu quarto estavam desligadas. Acho que ficaram cegas. Só se via por uma brecha de luz branca advinda do corredor. Não sei o que está acontecendo, agora, mas sinto que fui consumido por uma chama invisível e a morte aparece ante a porta do quarto, sob a silhueta de um ceifador de almas. Pergunto-me se não é em razão desta obscura inevitável que já não consigo mais levantar-me da cama; mantenho-me aqui, de bruços, sufocado nas palavras que escrevo neste caderno, em breu quase total, para um impossível leitor. Minha condenação primeira foi alicerçar-me na escrita como modo de viver. E de morrer. Ai de mim! Mas não, nada disso é a razão crucial de minha agonia. Bem sei de onde colho este lamentar, e tudo terminará agora.
Morte... Precisamente. A única boa palavra que consegui deferir ao espírito cintilante neste dia.

Tough times fell upon the household of Mr. Crab and Crabby in recent years, Mr. Crab, faced with a stillborn child and a recently deceased wife, and Crabby was in a quite similar depressive state, spending so much time with Mr. Crab, being his nephew. Crabby’s mother and father were no longer living, they were long gone, and most likely brutally dismembered and boiled by the giant Monkey-Fish that Crabby had only heard stories of. Mr. Crab loved Crabby, but love grows thin when trials such as the ones amongst him were present- as a result of this the poor soul’s alcoholism, which had always been a problem, had become even worse. 5-6 bottles a day was slowly rotting Mr. Crab; you could see the effects of such on his once gleaming red shell- now tarnished with repulsive brown splotches. “You can’t go on like this. You’re killing yourself.” Muttered Crabby. He frequently advised Mr. Crab to stop his drinking, knowing it’s going to kill him, but always said it knowing in his mind that it was never a fruitful effort. It was almost as if when he died, Crabby just wanted to say he tried to help. Weeks passed, and Mr. Crab had become mute. The only thing his mouth did now was drink his sorrows away. He would occasionally convulse and shake on the floor, his claws endlessly snapping in the air and his top-hat spectacularly falling on the floor. Fits like these scared Crabby pale, but he became used to them and would routinely situate Mr. Crab back in the chair. Crabby tried to dispose of the alcohol many a time, but Mr. Crab, although weaker, still had full motion of his body, it was just his mind had decayed- making him more aggresive. Even when he was weaker, Crabby knew it was a battle he could not win- he was his uncle, a duel would surely end sour for him. After many a month of tense drinking and crying from both of the men, Crabby, almost sneakily moving through the living room, discovered the most horrid smell he had ever known. Mr. Crab, bottle in his claw, was half slouched in his chair and contorted in his brown, moist and leathery shell. His top-hat rested on the floor. Above Mr. Crab’s recliner hung a photograph- a beautiful portrait of him and his mistress with the words “in this life, and the next engraved in the frame.

>>12440547
I have some grammatical errors in here oops

>>12440547
3/10, read about 30% of it but didn't really pay attention

The post button gave way with a satisfying crunch. As the ennui of existence leaked slowly from beneath my dorsal fashions, I contemplated the waves of lunar corn squalorously shambling across the way. The muse squirmed between my dripping thighs. Never before had I impaled myself upon such glorious inspiration, nor would I ever again. Tragically, the world was not ready.

>>12440749
>read about 30% but didn’t pay attention
Ok. Also your writing is very pseud.

>>12440472

thanks, anon. I do think it'll make a bit more sense in context because there are multiple timelines in play throughout the story, and there's supposed to be some ambiguity regarding which timeline is implicated here in this scene. The bottle of booze is meant to suggest which one it might be. Your central criticisms are valid. I have to tone down the sunshine motif, replace the wooly hands bit, tighten up the flow etc. Thanks for the feedback

The most important decisions in life are never made carefully. It’s those split second, heat of the moment reactions which produce the greatest triumphs, or most crushing defeats. You can let the heat burn in you, it can burn for a long time, but whatever the decision, it has already been made.
It’s rare that the fire dies, it takes intentional smothering because adversity only makes for a greater burn. It burns through adversity, depression, even threat of physical punishment. But the only way for it to be put out is if the owner wills it, and unfortunately many flames are extinguished. Extinguished in favor of a false sense of security, for the approval of others, or the idea that one is “right” in doing so.
This story follows the flame of a young cellist, through the flares and smothering they experience in playing music.

>>12441276
Pretentious retard
>>12440547
>Tough times
I really wanted to stop reading after that
>>12440522
Brazilians are vapid monkeys who are only redeemable in being weaker than niggers who are complete animals
>>12440466
t. 14 year old who browsed r9k too much this summer
>>12440401
>>12440407
Please stop writing about me. It hurts enough that I got fired for something eerily similar to this in the exact same job.

>>12436993
You are a bad writer, but you think that you are a good writer that no one understands.

>>12437180
So if I understand correctly, you want to write about the sensory experience of the world rather than the world itself? You're making a strange stance against a movement that's obsolete at this point. And even if your thesis was coherent, ir wouldn't matter because your writing is incomprehensible and really boring.

>>12441276
If you intend to write a story and this is your introduction, by the time you finish, it will be completely vesitigal. The story will have explained your metaphors in a much more engaging way

>>12436945
Not an argument.

>Against the creamy sheen of the torn tapestry of the wall, pearly marble fingers slimed themselves over helios-gold shining phalli

Bad. Bad. Bad. Get this shit out of here. You cannot hide terrible fundamentals with a thesaurus.

>>12438757
Why did you pick this style of line breaks?

>>12441636
Thank you anon that was insightful. I try too hard. Have to let the story tell itself I guess.

Aaliyah

I liked you
for your name
that's gone now

I called you Angie
in my head
for the longest

I smoked cigarettes
when we met
in person

I kissed you
while you slept
the first time

Incomplete. A quick poem I wrote about a Catholic broad I knew. Tell me if it stinks

Young men finish in a sock
Maturity is stroked out
Laundry full of cum and cock

Nearly man with a proud stock
First skin, later lotion slick
Young men finish in a sock

Mother is out on her walk
Loud moaning in the ear buds
Laundry full of cum and cock

Never given father’s talk
Groping at flesh through a screen
Young men finish in a sock

Parents unaware the shock
Of coming home and finding
Laundry full of cum and cock.

So proud protrusion, firm, rock
Always as a second thought
Young men finish in a sock.
Laundry full of cum and cock.

Latest paragraph in a story I'm writing. Tear my ass up.

Back in 6th they’d been a group of almost thirty kids, but now they were sophomores and only a handful of them remained. Their friends had gone to better cities, or were sent away, or joined the long list of overdoses found leaning on the stalls of gas station bathrooms, assumed sleeping on bus benches until someone noticed, washed away by the rain, still wrapped in blankets beneath the underpass. Their bodies specked like stars along the highway.

>>12441804
There's so many more interesting ways to talk about masturbation.

Just slap some trap instrumental and adlibs and post this on soundcloud already.

>>12441800
>I kissed you
>while you slept
>the first time
I assume you did not mean that you were kissing an infant. I assume that you kissed her for the first time while she slept and not kissed her while she slept for the first time (though that is what you stated).

>>12441810
It's a villanelle so you have to stick to the form.

>>12441800
its basic as all fuck and doesn't really do much to paint the picture of the person, nor does it a lot to paint the picture of the narrator's fixation on her. Its very generic and juvenile and the last verse is just straight up rapey.

If you do wanna continue with it, I suggest you flesh everything out a whole fucking lot more. For the time, its too simple, too bare-bones, to general to really invoke anything but a vague sense of longing, and mildly so.

>>12441816
its a blowjob so you have to stick to the form of my dick.

>>12441818
This is the critique I was looking for. Thank you

>>12441823

>>12441805
It looks like you want a fast pace for this. Master the use of the em dash and see how it transforms this piece.

>>12441829
>>12441816

The form is irrelevant if your shit sucks.

>>12441831
Solid criticism. I'll make a note of it.

>>12441830
I'm conflicted between breaking that long run-on sentence into separate individual sentences or this, using the em dash. I'm unsure about format mostly.

I don't necessarily want a fast pace either. The way this paragraph begins (this is the conclusion) is kind of meloncholy. I'd like it to be solemn, which I guess implies a slower pace, but I'm not sure.

>>12441843
OK. It's hard to tell all of that from such a short piece. You are probably right. Use more periods and see how that slows it.
>is kind of meloncholy
Then rid it of vernacular like "kids" which should be replaced with the formal "children" or other such. Making use of "kids" in this context sounds flippant.

>>12441704

I mean I fully understand people are upset about my prose, but which words in that sentence would require a thesaurus exactly?

>>12441603

Is my prose mechanic or organic, though? That is the only thing that matters to me, really.

>>12442143
Why are you even asking these retards? No one on this board can actually write. These critique threads are just the blind leading the blind to some beautiful catastrophe.

>>12442209

You know of other places for critique?

>>12442243
deleting and reformattinb

Detox

It was a long time ago that I was a Quaker; or, that the Quakers were a part of me. But there I was, at a thursday night Meeting for Worship, the 8th of an entire 8 people banded together to sit in silence on a freezing cold September night. I felt out of place. I wasn’t the still, peaceful boy I once was. I smelled like smoke. My chest hurt. My feet and hands couldn’t stay still. I was three standard deviations from the median age. But I needed them, and I knew I’d be welcome.
When you’ve never done it, or haven’t in awhile, sitting in silence for an hour is terrifying. It’s not any other religion, where you commune to hear someone who takes care of people for a living speak to you, and take care of you, and bring you to life, and place you in

God’s light. No, in Meeting, you must do it yourself. By the end of Quaker meeting, you are liable to feel exactly how you felt before, only more deeply, and more sharply. You are the same ragged person. You have faced yourself with a silent crowd that non-Quakers know only from funerals and vigils; you have listened to yourself for an hour with nobody, except the silent, disjointed faces of kind people, to remind you that you’re still human.
And so I was back in the Meeting House, on a journey. I remembered how it felt then. How big that frail little building felt. How little my little mind once raced. How happy I was and how I will never be that happy again. I remembered how lonely I feel. Inescapably. Surrounded but lonely. I was once too young to feel that lonely. I was once too young to feel like a man passed by the world around him. I still am. My skin tightened. My cheeks were wet.

I thought about my childhood burning at the stake. I thought about who I was and how much I knew I didn’t want to be this man. I felt like my childhood had just fallen down the stairs and broken its knees. And the sad, cracked carcass at the bottom- the man I was becoming- felt it too.

>>12436993
Get a load of this guy

>>12442230
You can usually find writing groups that meet in person. A college course gives you feedback from a professor. I'm sure there are online groups for it too. Just make sure you read their work so you can tell if they're being helpful or just full of shit. Look at the stuff people post on here. Its all bad and they all critique like they're touched by god. Its not worth doing or worrying about. Also you can submit your work for publication and see if they print any of it.

>>12442252
I would cut the sentence "I felt out of place." It breaks up the rhythm and it is better to let the reader infer it.
>It's not any other religion
would honestly be better as
>Unlike other religions,

Overall this piece had a strong introspective style that immersed me totally. I don't see how a plot can develop from this, but I trust you can manage it.

Thursday was a lazy afternoon. Anna and I had juice on the alcove. Looking up from my phone to see Anna scribbling like mad on the spiral notebook with a mad serious look on her face drove home the suspicions gathering in the calm waters of the morning: she was pissed off.
“You’re making a very serious face.”
There was no response to me.
“Any thoughts about what our 4:30 to 7:30 timeframe is looking like?”
“You still think scheduling will change things? That’s the solution?”
“It worked when we had a very small amount of free time. Why shouldn’t it work during an abundance of free time?”
“This isn’t college,” she snapped up the vowels, emphasizing her veracity.
I shrugged and took a sip of juice. I couldn’t handle this anxiety, especially not in my own condo.
When Anna and I finished the Series “Monk” on USA, a hole was left in our hearts. Several quiet months passed of pursuing hobbies. We went to the writers workshop at the city library. This diversion occupied that space of time, but when the series “Psych” premiered we knew then that all these diversions were fruitless.
“What are you working on?”
“You know. The glory years.”
“Ah, I remember them well, the gossamer weeks.”
“I still don’t understand how you passed.”
“That’s undermining. I make enough to take care of you. Don’t forget that.”
“Like you can hold that over my head.”
“Let’s just have a pleasant morning. Let’s have our juice.”
This is what the USA show Psych took out of our lives. Instead of pursuing fruitless hobbies that would artificially inflate the bank accounts of our souls, or of our narcissism, we instead sat dumb and content in front of the television as Psych reminded us who we really were.

“… new recruit… that is possibly a new dish washer… it is, if it washes his… his is not its… both are but single parties… which are singular entities, accordingly… in the larger dimensions… where there is some room… it is hogged by this volume… is the same room as me… just as good at being a room as me… being upon a level that I, too, am being upon… it is proving to be me… for all except me… for all such bad men… a correct amount of this… improperly inserted into a wrong amount of that… inserted into that, though… it would – then – become an inserted… only if then… will such be.”
“Only will it be…”
“Be if it does… do as it will… all of that (which is to be done by that)… be done…”
“As some of that’s.”
“… is to be that’s own…”

christianjaroschdialogues.com

“Make me weep… me know that myself… dumbing that down so that I am made to… being as inclined as I am to notice something when seeing it… having an eye for that which is distinctive… for some discernment of what is around us… which is somewhat that discerned… somewhat, perfectly seen… with this somewhat damaged vision… with less than the 100%-level of this vision… it held somewhat back… in my specific action… where I exclude every one but it… every type but it… meaning your fixating onto it…
… as it abides in being so… contrarian among us, those enemies… that are hostile towards a contrarian over an opinion we share… the contrarians to the opinion… offering it a contrary opinion… changing the one it has… for another of those same ones… same effort is made… for the same reason yours is, too… an undertaking… of its… own effects upon its source… before it comes… and while I wait for its coming… wait for the thing now coming… the thing we are missing… should also complete us… anything upon its more universal levels… it stripped back to these consistencies… to that basic presence… a universal level… a single one of various levels… defining one space of various space definers… taking back the variousness from the implicated space definers… letting them keep those implications… up these forethoughts of theirs…"

… I have bought myself time… have begun to use this up… the amount which is yours… is fit to the likes of you’s… the people that bare no such consequences of our sort… walking on no toes… preparing my stab into the back… the tool guided by another’s hand… so I do not have to touch it… when I see it… on photographs… imagined there… for his prayer… for that other life… for the other sensory system you have… for that intoxicated you… lost in all beauty… one falls for none of it in particular… it is all the same to one… alright for a job… it is good at it. Bad at the tasks…
… given by that world it is interacting with things within… is everything which is real to it… which came to its side… mutually on an issue… our expression of no opinion… about this knowledge we have… this lack of extra study we have… keeping us from higher praise… praise that we will earn from it… earn when so improved at it… a thing you want to increase in value… which may add value to yourself… and make you valuable to us all. When you have gotten that as well…
… that morphs to you… and yet it is you… it is neither, paradoxically… yet is more than one… subtracted back down… to know one’s journeying… know one going from one to another… know him as more than one state… since you are not him… you are sad him… faked him. You are him and you are you…
… you indeed are something… I have not met the “something”… I try not to meet anything specifically – just in case… I allow destiny’s working-with-its-own-method… I put all my faith into destiny… into the reality which it is. Is its badness…
… though is its full responsibility… though is dependant on its compliance… on the compliance of some partner… all teamwork does depend… on some teamwork literally occurring… exchange going on between them… exchange within that circle… of some self-maintaining… vegetable-like lifeforms… needing only the most basic of those essentials… of what we think of as “absorptions.” The conversion of a thing to another’s qualities…
… the thing being this “surplus thing”… amiss (outside of itself)… filling-in space’s space… with my “my” space… at spaces that give turns to things… I draw a waiting line… it is waiting to get what was mine… and it will be its present… so it will happen – for real… as was believed… from a sign… that appears to be a most-obvious one… boring its experts… experts in that one alone… knowing all-about more of those… copies which have been produced from that…

christianjaroschdialogues.com

Today was one of those bright days, the kind where you squinted without even thinking; it was like God cranked the gamma knob a bit too high. The cigarettes made my burger taste like shit, but being the optimist I am I focused on the beach, where the sand was damn hot and ladies in sandals and sunglasses sashayed their round bubble-gum pink bikini bottoms that shifted like teetering scales weighing up my dick and my brain.

I lied about being an optimist, and not even a bunch of bronzed bimbos could hold my attention too well. I woke up less than an hour ago and I was already fed up with this afternoon. My pockets were empty, this burger the fruit of car-seat change, and it was day, so fuck it. I pushed my sunglasses right to my eyes and went to sleep again.

When I woke up my burger was gone, stolen by a bum no doubt, and thank God the day was mostly over. The sun sat on the horizon spitting in my face but I didn’t care because it was dim enough to stare at give it a stink-eye. In the fluorescent sunset I staggered back to my apartment where I’d start my little ride.

>>12442829
>>12442815
>>12442811
dude I hate this shit

>>12442856
Dick and brain metaphor good, gamma knob simile bad.

i've written a novel.
dont think anyones read it.

>>12442230
/r/destructivereaders is the best place I've found. But I'll echo the others here and say that your pieces have a long way to go before they're readable.

a frozen lake, cleaved in halves,
one half shattering, other rising,
i am the thin incision, motionlessly
watching things happen

a frozen lake, cleaved in halves,
one half shattering, other rising,
i am the thin incision, motionlessly
watching changes happen.

Don’t show me Your
broken mirror red
and green fracture,
frayed with a falls
from grace
landing in water

>>12436920
Are these punchable?

>>12442143
Neither. Just overwrought and sucky with a misunderstanding of the correct usage of many of terms. But let me guess, that's on purpose too, right?

>The Hydra-universe twisting its star-scaled body

>>12436866
is english your 2nd language, or are you too autistic to see how poor this is?

https://pastebin.com/YAh8y75X

i would like to know if this is worth pursuing, if people say it isn't i will still pursue it, i will just know it needs a lot more work. there is more of this written but i am suddenly unsure of it all, i may just be upset over nothing though.

>>12440306
this is sweet, the parts about the gorilla in particular are nice, not in quality but genuinely kind i mean. you convey a lot in this and the other anon pointed out how things seem weird without context but i trust it fits. the thing about the sun betraying the clock on the wall came off as an awkward sort of image to me.

>>12440466
this is pathetic which is why it is good. the "pal" thing ends up working somehow, if only making the speaker more pathetic. the anon who said you sound 14 is right a little bit, this makes what you have written comedic.

>>12441805
i think "kids" works for the melancholic tone, it sort of implies a total loss of something kinder. using children in place of kids may be a mistake.

This is my first short story. I know it's pretty bad but figured you guys would probably enjoy it as I don't really have anywhere else to post it or show it to people.

>>12446072

>>12446076

>>12446084

>>12446088

>>12446096
Fin. Horrible right? Thanks for reading if you did

>>12445792
>https://pastebin.com/YAh8y75X

Thanks, anon. I'm the author of the gorilla/kitten story. As promised, here's a quick crit in return.

Not a bad effort here. I particularly enjoyed:

>They don’t die properly when that happens they are trapped in their brain for a few moments feeling nothing but emptiness swallowing them. They are smart and they are thinking in circles they must be thinking things like, where am I going, where is my body, I can see myself a little bit. I see the carpet again.

The staccato dialogue that follows this sequence is quite nice as well. A solid recovery from what I thought was an awkward and shoddily-described opening couple of paragraphs.

The bit about the city resembling an aquarium is nice. You have a knack for imagery.

The future-oriented style of narration is interesting. It succeeds in building suspense, IMO, but it better come to a head soon. What, if anything, is materializing here? I would strip out the unnecessary bits of description that kill the buzz for a lack of a better term (i.e., "there are no cars or people around", "it opens on my level"). I would also remove the line "Where is my cat, I thought"

I'd read more of this. Feel free to email me with some more of it if you got any

>>12436866
That's excellent, who did you steal it from?

poem of mine

How can i morn you when you are nothing but an endless collection of masks? You leave me with the responsibility of carrying the same torch who's light burns the promise of a better tomorrow. How i wish i was a lesser man so that i could shirk at the call of responsibility. How i wish i was a better man so that i may answer it with the diligence that it deserves. I'm uncertain whether to hold you in contempt setting me on a path of certain failure on a level of character or to thank you for sending on an Odyssey that will have me realize the Man i destined to be. I lament at the idea of it inevitably being a combination of both. I'm sorry in advance.

>>12436866
OP, who is this gal? She's so pretty.

>>12446108
thank you for your feedback, it is all hopefully materializing, you're right about it having to be soon, those little bits of description are worth removing, thank you for helping me to realize that. i don't know why they are there really.

>>12446072
is this the first story you have ever written to completion or flatly the first story you have written?
regarding the first page you posted, some awkward commas are around. specifically i mean "though, standing he is unable to move from shock of the situation" it ought to be "though standing, he is unable to move from the shock of the situation"
when you say he has no memories it sort of implies he wouldn't know his name. you could also say he does not remember his name, this would imply a lack of memories. it'd be shorter and to the point and affect a little more that way i think. "four or 5" should be "4 or 5" or "four or five." you don't need "the voice says" i think.
i misread the "who are you and where am i" as "where are you and who am i." this misreading is sticking with me and it might help communicate the off kilter nature of the story a little more.

>>12446076
i like this part, but i think an issue you have is repeating yourself or beating things into the reader too much. "a memory i would never forget or dare to forget" feels unnecessary when you could just pick between these two as to which makes you feel more. though perhaps it is a dialect thing you are going for, or just old person rambling, though this doesn't really reach me.

>>12446084
the part about the smile being unnatural is a good idea but it is a little clumsy i think. parse it back i think.

>>12446088
>>12446096
>>12446104
i don't know how i feel about the ending really. with your metaphors, specifically about the blinking vision, try not to excuse them with "as if" so much, it takes away from them, being daring is not a bad thing especially with the story being a little odd in the first place. it isn't terrible, at least not especially. at this point you need to write more, things will become more clear. i also don't really care for the elipses at the very end or the all caps shouting.

>>12446674
Yeah 100% first story I've ever written. But I appreciate the feed back. All of it makes a lot of sense when brought up. I use to write letters to my ex and I use a journal to try and work with my anxiety. So I thought it might be fun to throw a random story idea I had into words.

bump

>>12445792
I really like this so far. One of the best in the thread.

>>12436866
"We're going a-down boys," he'd warn his fellow seamen. "Hold your breath naw and squeeze ya nose like... nzhiz" .... One by one, index finger met thumb with nostrils between.

The crew may've been inclined to sing Beatles' Yellow Submarine all the way down, however nasally. But the only yellow thing in you could link to this Sub was yellowcake, and even then it never saw any of that. Just good old-fashioned American Nuclear Fuel. This thing could probably go without re-fuelling for years, maybe even decades ... After all, who really knew without waiting that long?

Slowly, the hulk submerged itself into an indiscriminate bay off Florida's peninsula. By the time they'd descended a safe distance below, the crew unclenched their noses and let out an exasperated "ah," with their faces rendering back to normal from a Cherry Tomato Red. Seamen paced across the floor, dressed in dark blue, darker than black. They began tending to their deck duties, or just lounging around, or squabbling amongst themselves over various mail they weren't allowed to open until fathoms below. One ensign began reading aloud his mistress' postcard from Kentucky. "Dear my love, I have been in pining want for your manhood. I remember your eyes were green and commanding ... Shit, listen to that fellas, my eyes are brown but this lass still think they purdy."

"Fuck me Carter, that's my love letter!" another ensign heckled before he ripped it out of the other guy's hands.

"Cunt, it had my initials on it ...."

"They were MY initials: PMC! ... Paul Mason Co-"

While all the lower ranks worked or argued amongst themselves, the commanding officer lay silent, attentive and menacing like a funnel-web spider behind his web of vision. "Shucks," said Lt. Commander Ruggles from behind a periscope. "We're gonna see the Octopussy's Garden, that's for sure."

"Wha'dya see, Commander Ruggles?"

"Shieeeettttt, why don't you come see, lieutenant, I'm grooming you for command anyhows."

The young, innocent and rosy-cheeked Welmsley took hold of the great telescope that fed into the ceiling. Ruggles almost thought his cheeks could never go redder, even when he held his breath during descent. But then he saw them flare into a horrible Fifteen-billion-Scoville-Red.

"Howdy, lieutenant, you're a-burnin' up!"

"W-well, I just never seen an Octopus's anatomy like that ... and she's just a-flauntin' it, mister, wowzahs!"

A film of sleep slime saliva coated the back of his tongue: the stagnant taste of beer oxygenated by heavy snoring. He got up to piss, as he had several times in the night, and squirted what was left in the unflushed bowl, before boiling the kettle, opening the blinds, and readying the coffee in the bottom of his mug. He sat naked at the breakfast table and eyed his underwear at the foot of the bathroom door, glimpsing for a second, what, in the chronology of his mind, had only been moments ago: when he kicked them off in tremendous heat and returned to bed, stumbling in the dark. He felt with his arse where the leather of the dining room chair peeled back and exposed the scratched material beneath, and waited patiently to become accustomed to the sensation; drinking coffee, eating toast, wasting the sunlight reflect from the traffic below in distended arcs along the eggshell ceiling.

An old dormitory building a few streets behind them was occupied by foreign missionaries: young American girls, Christian visitors, on holiday from their rewarding journeys through Papua New Guinea. They often knocked on his door and loitered out in the hallway: making pests of themselves; smiling, laughing; extending invitations out to lunch; asking would it be okay to just sit down with every one for a few minutes. They had disturbed the peace. Who let them up was a mystery. He already tried for Vincent behind the front counter a few times but he was away somewhere, and Vinesh did not have any answers: raising her eyebrows at every question; tilting her ear as though it would make any more sense—a stupid woman; stupid live-in wife he bought.

>>12448884

I like the music of the prose but the plot isn't very engaging. The language feels a bit verbose and this impedes the reading experience, even when you do have nice lines like the last one of the first paragraph. You write similar to myself and we have the same problem, we focus too much on the quality of the prose and forget to tell the story, or maybe I'm just projecting, either way, that's the vibe I get from this. Work on constructing an engaging plot alongside musical prose. There's nothing that really strikes the reader as interesting here. The missionary thing isn't terrible or anything, but it doesn't make me want to read more.