/lit/ - Literature

>>13536009
Please stop using blowjack. Please

>>13536027
Please stop posting here. Everyone fucking hates you.

>>13536009
Now at last we’ve hit hypoxia,
Though we only took the car,
The walk itself is rather far.
And we’d have to wait for clouds to clear.

How the cut-glass rock knives the air,
And pierces the heady veils,
The steely-panging spears cut the sky,
The sky, the sky,
It bucks and wails.

Look and see Prometheus, smuggling the flame,
Out through Milton’s pearly-gates,
And passing winged eunoymus,
Heating ‘mongst the slate.

Which of those who lends their names, to temple and to tomb,
In paving mortal hearts, can seek to match,
That which grows upon the mountainside, which from Olympus stole,
Which up, up in the blue-grey binds man’s mosaic soul.

>>13536009
>Posted during the last thread’s dying breaths.

From afar, their coupled form could have been a rock seated deep in the sand dunes. One was on top of the other's body. He could not tell which was man and which woman. They could have been two young buggers, he simply didn't know, but they thought theirs was a private indulgence on the beach, clearly, and the exhilarating sensation he got watching them behind the rustling greens was not dissimilar to raising one's voice dramatically in mass for no reason, which was one of those early memories of his he could not remember had actually happened or if he thought once, as a child, could make for a spot of excitement, and had hid away that very urge somewhere, sometime for when he might be able to muster the humiliation in the eyes of those near him. Unable to move closer without exposing himself, he had to find satisfaction not in the image of the lover's act, but the pleasure of knowing he had been watching them.

He could make his way round the circumference of the semi-circle of shrubs enclosing the beach to get a closer look. It would be a risk, moving near the road. He was himself conscious of prying eyes. He moved quickly, close to the wing, and submerged himself again. Something sounded like breathing, he feared. Through a crack in the surface of branches, he spotted a figure in reflection, rubbing his chin. The figure, the man, old and crow's footed, looked at the intruder and greeted him.
'It's a fair sight, isn't it?' the old man said.
'Yes. Does it fascinate you?'
'Yes. I remember it many times, but only in unfinished pictures. I am a poet, you see. I think to write of love, one must know it in all its hues. Memory is like a traitorous friend. I prefer to trust my eyes.'
He did not know what to say, at first. 'Well - have you found a new line, yet?'
'Not yet,' the old man said, and returned his gaze to the lovers, 'The Muse is but whispering to me.'
The intruder also got back to looking. It was a woman underneath a man. Once he saw this, he could find no other interest in their act apart from predicting when the surf would touch their feet and force them to move. He went home, and left the old man to his art.

>>13536892
Like it a lot, except the use of ‘knives’ as a verb

>>13536009
I think you try on too many pieces of imagery in the first two lines. A deep echo suggests a crevasse, desolation is another idea, then it's distraught, then it's a meadow. I never write this here, but your shit probably needs to be longer to let the ideas breathe. You should cut the word beautiful where it appears.

>>13536892
I like the use of 'knives', 'mosaic soul' too. I think you should pay more attention to meter, especially in the final verse.

>>13537667
This is good. There's one monster sentence in para 1. which needs dividing though. I think 'buggers' is a slightly out of keeping word choice. Sodomites? Degenerates?

> my nonsense follows

>>13537834

She had met Dom inside her first fortnight away from home. He was boyish and blonde, a little chubbier than she was, with a fringe that flopped up and down when he moved. They had spent two years together doing the things they'd missed out on as schoolkids, each dancing as clumsily as the other, and equally unashamed of it. They'd go home from the student clubs and lie in bed with no need to wake up til late, one or the other of them beginning a caress as and when the idea occurred; nothing like the well-mannered sex of her dating years - the self-aware cycle of kiss and rinse, touch and invitation. Love at that time had been a warm form of friendship, worn easily and without expectations. In later years she'd long to get through the stage of dinner dates and weighing compliments in the hope that she'd re-find the familiarity of those dorm-room days. If she and the latest man could only sleep together enough times that he lost count of when they'd done what and lost interest in the things she simply didn't want to do then maybe he could relax about it all. Once she and he got to that longed-for stage they'd maybe be able to lie in bed without her thinking about their next dinner date or when exactly he'd go home.

Once or twice she'd thought to herself that her life would go better if she found some sort of dormitory for adults so that, like in that first year at uni, she and he could simply slip into one another's rooms when they wanted to until it turned into second nature. Living had all been so easy back then.

One evening in the third year of her studies while they were strolling elbow to elbow in the direction of his flat Dom had told her that the way he saw it was that the two of them would be moving on after graduation. It had been the first warm evening of the year, they'd been going down a street of cheap houses with nice front gardens. She had thought that Dom was talking about them renting a flat in a different part of town. After a few minutes conversation she understood that he was dumping her, but with four month's notice. What she'd thought of as the sprouting seed of her eventual marriage had only been a slow-paced hookup after all.

One gray morning not long before the onset of winter, some troubling news swiftly travelled among us: the town manager was not in his office and seemed nowhere to be found. We allowed this situation, or apparent situation, to remain tentative for as long as we could. This was simply how we had handled such developments in the past.

It was Carnes, the man who operated the trolley which ran up and down Main Street, who initially recognized the possibility that the town manager was no longer with us. He was the first one who noticed, as he was walking from his house at one end of town to the trolley station at the other end, that the dim lamp which had always remained switched on inside the town manager’s office was now off.

Of course, it was not beyond all credibility that the lightbulb in the lamp that stood in the corner of the town manager’s desk had simply burned out or that there had been a short circuit in the electrical system of the small office on Main Street. There might even have been a more extensive power failure that also affected the rooms above the office, where the town manager resided since he had first arrived among us to assume his duties. Certainly we all knew the town manager as someone who was in no way vigilant regarding the state of either his public office or his private living quarters.

Consequently, those of us in the crowd that had gathered outside the town manager’s office, and his home, considered both the theory of an expired lightbulb and that of an electrical short circuit at some length. Yet all the while, our agitation only increased. Carnes was the one whose anxiety over this matter was the most severe, for the present state of affairs had afflicted him longer than anyone else, if only by a few minutes. As I have already indicated, this was not the first time that we had been faced with such a development. So when Carnes finally called for action, the rest of us soon abandoned our refuge in the theoretical. ‘It’s time to do something,’ said the trolley driver. ‘We have to know.’

>>13537845
had met is clunky

don't use inside; use during. and that's only if you insist on using fortnight, which doesn't go well here.

How chubby is she? Is she skinny and he's only barely chubby, or is she fat, and he's even fatter?

had spent. jesus. stop with the had.

I'm stopping there for now.

>>13537865
Thanks for that. Genuine question, based on my interest on how shitty the "had" sounds - what's your nationality?

Cornhusk Angel


I remember that bird.
The one the cat drug in,
its feathers mishevled by those final moments
of bald bottomless fear.

I remember the blood that sat on
Kitee's fur, all moist and pulsing
alive, shining like the watch your
parents bought you when you turned
13.

That watch still sits on your dresser.
It's fallen out of sync-- with the
weight of many years clinging to
its silver arms.
It's all dusty.
Not like the blood.
Not fresh like the blood.

Kitee dropped the bird at the door. You
couldn't leave and ran to the bathroom
sobbing.
Mommy coaxed quietly from the hall.
Daddy grabbed his work gloves, dusty too, and tossed the bird on top of the empty diet coke boxes & onion skins and corn husks and bag after bag after bag of cherry pits.
Mom loved cherries in the summer.

You stained your T-shirt with them once. And the bedspread.
Deep, dark, heart of a lover red.
Heart of an angel.

>>13537845
I really liked this anon, I think you touched upon a really universal subject, I guess I'd call it comfy love, in a really nice way. And you did it almost effortlessly.

Only critique from me is that in the last two sentences of the first paragraph I got confused as to who the "he" was. Upon rereading it I realized that you were talking about her "latest man", but upon first read I thought you were still talking about Dom and had to backtrack.

Might just be a reading error on my end, but it happened nonetheless.


I also think you've done a nice job of making a scene out of the final paragraph, which helps separate it from the expository first two and adds some extra weight to Dom's action of dumping her.

You could really take it a little further imo. If you're gonna make a scene, make a scene ya know. Tell me how the winter leaves on the ground smell now that the air is heating up. Maybe talk about how Dom is walking kind of standoffish, as if he hadn't know the protagonist for years.

These are just examples obv. and you don't have to do any of it, but I feel like when you're going to have something be a moment, have it be a moment. Even a brief one.

>>13537887
Had is technically correct. But even when I see it in classics, it's always a mental speed bump for me. I'm American.

>>13539221
That's cool. Don't know if it's a Brit weirdness then but I'll take a shot at reducing it.

>>13539097
Will do.

Death Spoke With Grace

It was my last day in the emergency room
I could barely contain my frustration
What I was expected to consume
And what they listened to in dissociation

My body was torn by metal
Effectively contained in a bucket
Left in the ashes to settle
Struck after the worst struck it

As I exited the hospital, he approached
“Care to chat?” he asked like an inquiring friend
I couldn’t help but feel encroached
It was far too much to comprehend

“... Sure,” I said, hoping to hide that I was quite scared
“Thank you,” he smiled as he replied
“It’ll only be a moment. Please put the implications aside.”
I saw he sought something for which he really cared.

“Where are you going?”
“I’m going home,” I said, confused.
“No, John,” he replied, amused.
“In the future, as far as your knowing.”

I swallowed my anxiety and spoke, ”I’m going to sprint, run, dash!”
“Hmm. Yes, it’s all right,” he observed.
“I like to personally see that it’s preserved.”
“You live neighboring a pond, and might never make a splash.”

“You have the capacity to,”
“But likely, you seldom do”
“Now, you may believe it’s excess,”
“But in anticipating me, you’d make progress.”

“For your benefit, realize that I’m ceaseless.”
“Take grace in this exchange; don’t depart in bleakness.”
Without saying goodbye, he went on his way
I’ll be running till I hear what else he has to say

Deleuze and Guattari were laying next to a large, yellow, wooden box. A man was sitting in the other corner, wearing a T-shirt and pants that looked worn. He had a long thin blond hair with a moustache that hung off. He did the occasional fist-shaking routine, but had no accent – just a thick French accent.

This man was in his fifties. He was a thin man over five feet tall. It wasn't his style. And it wasn't uncommon for Frenchmen, as I understand it, to take on the French language as a second/third language. He was a French citizen of Algeria, and perhaps I should introduce him to his wife, who was French.

But if this gentleman's style was not French, it was rather strange that he was sitting in this box. What on earth stood in for a book?

I had found the idea rather charming and, when I heard about the book, thought it perhaps had some merit. So I sent the person involved an email, asking him if he would consider translating part of my text and we would send the book to one of the most prestigious French translators I know: Robert Louis Stevenson, who's best-known for publishing The Magnificent Ambersons and The Grapes of Wrath.

Crit time.
>>13536892
I like this rhythm. I can't say I know enough about poetry to crit it intensely, but I really appreciate some of the good imagery here.
>>13537667
>They could have been two young buggers, he simply didn't know, but they thought theirs was a private indulgence on the beach, clearly, and the exhilarating sensation he got watching them behind the rustling greens was not dissimilar to raising one's voice dramatically in mass for no reason, which was one of those early memories of his he could not remember had actually happened or if he thought once, as a child, could make for a spot of excitement, and had hid away that very urge somewhere, sometime for when he might be able to muster the humiliation in the eyes of those near him.
That's a Prince tier long sentence right there. It may help to split it a bit. Otherwise, pretty solid stuff.
>>13537864
Good progression in your prose here. I love the way you introduced what was going on, you illustrated a slow realization super well.
>>13539051
That stuff tied together really well. I liked the color you used, that you didn't let your apparent theme go.

I'll post mine shortly

ah fuck here we go again
https://justpaste dot it/7pcat

THE REAL NPC

He looked like something, someone who wasn't creative would make. But, the day after our argument, he came knocking on my door. And when I answered, he just said, "Make that light, go off in my head again." "Headagain," like it was all one word. And then his head would droop off to the side like he was dozing off, and then he would say "Please. Make that light, go off in my head again." like a robot. Eventually I just heard servo noises: "Ziip zap zoop, zitzapzoopzoop, zippazoo." So, I shut the door on him. There was just no saving this man.

This is the first chapter of "The Angel In My Backyard" a novel I started writing when I was in college. I can link to more chapters if anyone is interested to see what happens.

***

He was in a deep auburn sea which washed around him, enveloping him and his senses, suspended. Individual strands of color caressed his face and body, warming his naked skin. The sea creased in front of him as she came forward, pale, almost glowing and she touched his lips with her finger tip. She swayed and the sea moved, her pearly skin picking up more and more of the red hue that surrounded and carried them.

Gabriel.

The word came from nowhere and everywhere but her gray eyes were fixed on his, Gabe's eyes, and she was speaking to him, this angel of fire. Her lips parted and she breathed honey-sweet breath that fogged up the glasses that now appeared on his face. He tried to reach up to wipe away the moisture but his arms weighed too much. The auburn sea receded and swept the woman away with it as Gabe struggled to move, feeling damp and heavy and constricted. His name echoed through the empty world, carrying a hint of honey now tinged with decay and he screamed.

Gabe found himself in bed, his soaked sheets twisted tightly around him, a faint odor of ammonia rising from the bedding. He unraveled himself from the wet cocoon, wincing from the smell and shame. He brought the sheets downstairs to the laundry room and set the machine to do its job, knowing that he'd likely face the same ordeal the next morning.

He stepped into his white tiled shower and turned the water on as hot as he could stand and the hot water and steam made his skin turn a bright red as he scrubbed himself thoroughly with an orange luffa. The white tile in the bathroom fogged up as he bathed and he wiped at it absently. And as he finished and began to brush his teeth, Gabe thought of the woman in his dream and smiled, white foam obscuring his teeth. Today was Saturday. He would see her again tonight, this time for real.

>>13537845
good scene order

>>13536892
>Now at last we’ve hit hypoxia,
I felt impatient before I even finished this line. There's stuff in there for only the sake of filling a tune. The rest maintains image.

Is clear supposed to rhyme with far?

>>13541905
>He was in a deep auburn sea which washed around him,
Like what the fuck else would it do? And is this a Loreal commercial? I hate to be the guy who shouts "cliche" but the word Auburn shouts "It's hair!" as strong as Crimson does blood.

>Her lips parted and she breathed honey-sweet breath that fogged up the glasses that now appeared on his face.
And he was suddenly aware that he was wearing pants and she touched them which made him feel her hand on his legs which were in the pants that he was wearing and please just don't do that, please. Just say she breathed honey sweet breath onto his glasses. I can see it settling, especially with the next line about wiping the moisture. But you do this repetitive shot/countershot or reference/counterreference stuff all over.

Murad asked himself many times what it was like to forgive. When the question would pop into his mind, he’d find himself laying across the couch, trapped in an acrid prism of memories. He had many memories; some of them were crystal clear, while others were fuzzy blobs of color, which he himself even doubted the accuracy of. Of those volumes of events which would mostly gather dust in his abysmal mind, it was the memory of a girl that Murad always found himself waltzing back to. To him, that girl was beautiful. Her caramel skin, which seemed to cascade over his face brought tremor’s to Murad’s sides. Her dark eyes, which resembled crystal balls, which sparkled and flickered like the night sky, washed over the inside of Murad’s eye lids. For a moment, he smiled, yet when he would remember those dreadful words which seemed to barley escape her lips, the same lips which were as soft and red as rose petals, his eyelids would crunch together. Yet while he thought of those lips, the memory of her sweet breath swiveled around his nostrils until finally dissipating in the air of forgetfulness. For a moment, a single, pristine, immaculate moment, Murad smiled. As he tried to recapture the scent of her velvet mouth, the sight of her lips blinked across his mind. And just as fast as his smile slithered onto his face, it slithered and around his neck. The memory which strangled him was that of 3 words, a simple permutation of sounds which when uttered at particular intervals, made his chest heave and then implode.

Please be brutally honest.

>>13542351
>pop
like a soap bubble?

>Her caramel skin, which seemed to cascade over his face
Private what in the hell is this willy wonka shit? Does she just have these massive pancakey flabs of fat to cascade over his face like carmel? Is she syrup?

> Her dark eyes, which resembled crystal balls,
As a matter o' fact, her breasts, which resembled watermelons,

>Her dark eyes, which resembled crystal balls, which sparkled and flickered like the night sky, washed over the inside of Murad’s eye lids.
ahh well you're making a good deal here but I'm still not sure I want any of that stuff inside my eyeli--

>his eyelids would crunch together
--aaah oh god oh fuck why

>lips blinked
the lip-and-eye stuff is nice. Blinking makes this image go away fast enough for me to not get a bad idea from the text. Looks more like a cardinal than something with an eyeball in it.

>slithered and around his neck
Either back-and-around or just around. Strangling someone while also taking their mouth away is pretty hardcore though, good job.

>The memory which strangled him was that of 3 words, a simple permutation of sounds which when uttered at particular intervals, made his chest heave and then implode.
It's a little bit Hitchhiker's-guide-esque but the cadence is nice. This overall got better at the end.

>>13542476
Thank you so much for the honesty!

“Summer is setting.” Mr Blake said.
For his step-daughter, the words bore resounding joy, as if the stars would align after a pregnant pause, as if the world would be choked in its humidity and reborn in an instant with its passing, as if the summer falling away among brown and red leaves (and those little chocolate seeds that her brother collected every autumn and set about piercing them with needle and thread until he had made a suitable weapon to compete against other boys, swinging them over and over until one cracked the seed or ones knuckles) settled that the little light on the horizon turning the sky warm shades of orange, yellow, and red would be visible to her eyes; yet for the moment she settled on a streak of sunlight waltzing in a dust gown and retrieved three dolls from her house that had to be kept beside the mantle piece (which had a great watercolor painting by a famous painter if you believed her mother) and set them down in the light because the brilliance of the setting summer could transfix the strongest and smartest of men and the prettiest of women and when her mother would discuss the painting she would always speak about of mice and men telling her daughter “You will want to marry a great man,” to which little Victoria would ask why and she was told she was very pretty and that a great man will change the world more so than a great love - the conversation would soon traverse into new grounds, a topic of her step-father’s choosing as he often moved conversation away from marriage and beauty.

And it was in the geriatric ward where I first foudn love. Oh, love, what a beautiful word. It is like the birth of spring or a summer's day. Beautiful. Beautiful. And alas, at the time, I could not have you. My beautiful, darling, sweet child Elisa. E-Li-Sa. Lisa. El, oh, el, if man is to love one woman or one hundred, I shall have loved you before I die.

be honest thanks, tag yours in response and will provide similar feedback to your stuff

>>13542164
>>13542164
Hypoxia refers to the altitude at which I wrote the poem - the hypoxia level, where the air isn’t oxygenated enough to feed your muscles. Clear is a half-rhyme with hypoxia. I appreciate the criticism though.

I’m going to do some critique in the next post. This is a poem I slapped together called “I would rather be a boyscout than a billionaire”

I want to be a real person
I do not want to be trapped in a box
Never will there be emojis next to my name
Untouched by the rain of inauthentic desires
The cloud and the thunder of selfhood
I would rather be a boyscout than a billionaire
Of course I don’t forget your face
Looking at the glossy frame
Don’t look away from the darkened ditch
Or the bright highways of life now
I have always been there

>>13542851
Low quality bait, you would do better posting a straight Nabokov quote. Alas was a dead giveaway.

>>13542912
whos nabakov?

>>13542811
Very much like Krasznahorkai, but the parenthetical portions break up the flow, especially the first one. In my experience, long stream of consciousness should use parentheses as a quick way of emphasizing like “The girl came down the steps in the gown her mother gave her (oh how her mother loved her)...” or something like that.
Aside from that first parentheses I was totally engaged in reading, entranced even. The other thing that didn’t work for me was “traversed into new grounds.” Could be “cover new ground” or “traverse new ground.” The “into” and the plural “grounds” both feel teeth grinding and unnatural.
But other than that truly good piece. Keep ploughing that field I’m excited for what you can make for yourself with this.

>>13541405
Also keep in mind that this fucker is one bloody first draft. I don't go back and edit when the goal is 2k words every day until I finish.

>>13536088
This. Also there's nothing wrong with inteligent posting, doomerboomerbloomershit is the problem and is a bastard abomination

>>13542851
>El, oh, el

Hello Ladies fit for you mean ponies

From here to there
and now to where:
a machine, an Anon,
a lever. Who started
the yellow fever?

The past to be seen!
All that there has been.
A million years and more:
man, and those who came 'fore.

Thick of brow eyes set deep,
the neanderthal you meet.
A troglodyte! Some may claim;
a beast, not man's friend.

Thunder, trees break!
A trumpet and two tusks.
Flee! Make your escape,
or wait and see:

The neanderthal, will he rend,
and the enormous mammoth maim.
Animal or beast, one will greet
the everlasting sleep.

A sharpened spear a cry let loose
charge, charge: the untamed brute.

https://pastebin.com/LFfh3Hcx

>>13536088
correct. 10/10. thank you kind sir

>>13545282
Tabitah needs to find out exactly who her mother got that ring from, and find out who made it.
So if a person puts on this ring, or takes it off, it does something to that person's destiny?

>>13546287
Actually the ring keeps them alive until they take it off.

>>13536009
I ended up writing some stuff today, writing it felt really good but reading it back I just know i’d get abused posting it here. It’s like edgy teenager basic rhyme scheme love poetry. Still though, it was a good exercise and I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing, but putting emotions into words for myself in such a way did bring a tear or two too my eye.

6/10 would write love based poetry again

An old school assignment-- a "prose poem" of advice from someone.
From My Father
Never be afraid to ask questions; it’s better to have and not need than need and not have; you’re right, I don’t mean everything I say—it’s called sarcasm and can be very useful; here’s how you sneak food into a movie theater; sure a 92 might be a good grade but not when you have five missed homework assignments—you need to do your homework; you need to check your homework, four out of these six are wrong, you’ll have plenty of time to read or play outside when you’re done; those people were smoking ’cause they’re dopes, hold your breath next time and don’t be a dope; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it; please hold questions until after I’m done fixing the sink dishwasher water heater car washing machine dryer shower toilet chimney wood stove refrigerator; not everything you’re taught in school is right; it’s better to be a bow hunter because then you won’t scare the deer if you miss, but I stopped when you were born; most architects are morons, but the good ones give you the free rein to fix their mistakes on your own, but sometimes you just have to build it the way it’s in the plans, just to teach the bad ones a lesson; FDA schmeFDA, people eat runny eggs all the time; you can sneak most things into most places if you walk in confidently, sometimes it’s just a fun challenge; what kind of country bans a naturally growing plant?; why yes I have hitchhiked but I would not recommend that you do it; you need to learn when to keep your mouth shut, not just here but in life; why do you question everything we do?

An old essay with the following prompt:
"You're on a voyage in the thirteenth century, sailing across the tempestuous seas. What if, suddenly, you fell off the edge of the Earth?"
Let’s review what we know about this scenario:
I am on a ship.
It is the thirteenth century.
My ship has just fallen off the edge of the world.
This is ridiculous. It’s 1219. The Greeks discovered that the earth was round, like, two thousand years ago. That means this must be a work of fiction.
I am a simple sailor, born to two reasonably happy parents in a coastal town, with little in the way of a tragic backstory. I didn’t run away from home—I just grew up and got a job on a ship, because it beat being a carpenter like my father and his father.
This is very bad. I am far too ordinary to be a hero, and therefore have no Plot Armor—the magical shield that keeps essential characters from dying.
All of these thoughts race through my head as we fall. Gripping the mast, I shout, “Any orphans aboard?”
I receive bewildered looks from my crewmates.
“Nay.”
“Nope!”
Well, that’s impossible. Unless if we are supposed to ominously disappear, to be referenced in a later chapter, there must be someone with Plot Armor on board.
Suddenly, I have an idea. I look at the skinny teenage cook’s assistant—he was a stowaway a few voyages ago, but we kept him around.
“Hey!”
He looks over, gripping the deck.
“What?”
“What’s your name?” I demand.
“Steven.”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” That is nowhere near a hero’s name. Does anyone on this ship have Plot Armor?
Wait. He’s a stowaway. There’s no way that he gave us his real name.
“What’s your real name?”
He pauses. “Hemrach Glyzana,” he sighs.
Now, that’s a proper hero name! I jump from the mast and grab his arm. Even if I have to sacrifice myself to save him at the end of the novel, at least his Plot Armor should be good until we land.
The earth is flat, but who ever heard of falling away from the earth? Immediately after I grab young Hemrach’s arm, the ship reverses in midair and starts falling towards the “tails” side of the planet.
Or maybe it’s the “heads” side. God only knows that things aren’t quite normal on our side of the disk.
We brace ourselves for landing, and I say a quiet prayer for our unprotected shipmates. Hopefully, at least one will survive. After all, any proper quest requires a trio, minimum. Four people if casualties are acceptable, and at least seven if there is to be an epic battle scene.
We speed towards the earth, and the ship crunches into a field. Of course, I survive, but the kid is knocked out.
That’s okay. He’ll dramatically regain consciousness in the next chapter.

>>13546287
>>13546295
Hi /lit/
Retard here.
I posted to the wrong comment when I should've posted in response to >>13545762
Oops.
Did I mention I'm drinking?

So if the ring keeps them alive until they take it off, what if the person simply avoided air travel?
Or is it a curse that contrives to end your life via accidental or incidental death?

>>13546356
That's basically it, yes! But on the other hand, it also keeps you alive while you wear it.

This short man, Ernesto, he met this guy one day, Jennifer, out in the plaza. Though it wasn’t a meeting, it was oblivion arrived at by convenience. Jennifer walked out in the sun with a bag of ostrich boots, good money spent good, and Ernesto tried. He came down from a pony wall, Ernesto did, with a beam and a fat, and in his walk out of the beaten boot bag farm, Jennifer too came down to this meeting so to say as it seemed. And as it seemed, or as this short man tried, Ernesto was nice, friendly. Sincere, insincere--Jennifer was not a gooey goo man, never was; did not appreciate gestures; looked through people to floors and red faced walls. He busted his chin over Ernesto in the empty. Ernesto tried again; he’d been trying with guys there for a lot of the day, and now, the sun shot down on their necks in orange movie violence. Why Jennifer gave that guy the time, why men wanted men: both had the same answer to him. So Ernesto had tried in Jennifer’s silence in two part nicity, and so Ernesto had became an alien baby man all bottled up and worried looking; it became foreign war fast, true to its confusion and misunderstandings. What had he, Ernesto, done wrong; he was being nice and friendly; why did this guy mock him in such deafening silence, in such catatonic maybe-overtorture. Jennifer gave way, gave in, opened up his box of secrets and burning rocks; he told Ernesto, his head hanging from a sigh, “I don’t wanna talk to you. That’s why I didn’t say anything. I told you in that way that I don’t want to speak. I’m not interested. I don’t want what you have for sale. I don’t want your cock, to talk, or whatever man. It’s not supposed to be so hard. I was kind enough to tell you this, to sit here and wait for something different, something else maybe, but you’re just not getting it. Maybe I don’t get it I don’t know I just want to go to my car and go home. I’m sorry. Just. Right well.” With a bat Ernesto sent himself out of his head to that faraway place where realities extinguish from their burning passions and make way for trains and boats and drifting boxes filled with things, good things, bad things, things to replace things of ash. But underground coal fires burn long and with impossible intensity. They sometimes burn red anger coals in their mouths when confronted with extinguishing genuine telling, and thus Ernesto spat up molten iron curses while slow motion shrinking into a short man there yelling nonsense intertwined with things like how hard it is for nice people to be nice in this world and how people’re going to die alone because of people like him.

>>13547701
That was the truth of it, truly--that Ernesto was going to die alone because of people like him. It happens like that, far past the point where anyone cares, and few people cared about Ernesto aside from his mother. He awared himself of such true truths; he clawed at the cliff he slid down. For death is True, and Ernesto believed in no God. Renounced Him in fact.
He went home that night of oblivion day to these town-behind adobe hut hills, and they messified themselves, piney in their maze bosoms, looking from the bird it all looked like pine tree covered pitcher’s mounds where whose old gods would rock baseballs on the other god’s head trying to clear some room to throw a curve to the batter--the crop circle town box. As a brown and baron men town, down in the box meant for Ernesto to be away from his pitcher’s crack hut, the out of the way, sometimes-mud road, little taxed mire-dom where he grew weed plants in compartmental greenhouse enclosures; the place with beed doorways leading to other beed doorways which lended themselves to cushy couches and ceiling fans; the dominion of mire, of dirt and adobe, it made itself central in the god pitcher’s fields in that the women would come from sanatized box sections to make purchase and get high, but they did not care for Ernesto. He would roll paper and talk to talk about his problems, which were chiefly men who purchased their plants elsewhere. The women would nod and toke at his complainative rambles, but they had an appointment in some gathered up joint. So then, in fashioned yard hang outs, in salonistic desert mud-people attitude, Ernesto ripped alone, lonely--there without the women, with a green bar-glass, lung burner bong--Fag Hater. Gay in his lack of gay activity, not old gay though, not never really after some whatever-man type event he waved hands off when mystery words made their way into complaints, he, with Fag Hater still talking about this guy who'd he met at the plaza, woke up alone outside on a wet couch. His morning was a blue dirt cold, and a yellow pale goblin.

The professor sat in his lonesome office contemplating the past. While staring at the hollow accolades that were sprawled across a shelf, Blanchard’s spectral gaze took him to the banks of his memories, along which he paced at an even speed. With each plaque and medallions there was a plethora of potential emotions to be conjured, however with the silent wisps of time that perpetually brush over the past, memories fade away. Filling his lungs with the stagnant air which enveloped his office, the professor closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Before he could think any further, a few knocks cascaded into the offices. Through the glass door he saw a student. Exhaling the air which was being heated in his lungs, the man curled his cheeks back and squinted his eyes. With a single wave the student let himself with a burst of air following him. As he took a seat in front of the desk Murad hastily extending a hand towards the professor, while his other hand fumble to tear his jacket off. Murad neatly hung the coat on the chair, and while it slowly slipped towards the ground, he took his hat off and rubbed the steam from his glasses. With both arms placed on the professor’s desk, the student smiled and said, “Doctor Blanchard, I have a few questions for you.”

>>13547701
First sentence doesn't make much sense. Very choppy [take out he].
Second sentence is weird -- (someone meeting someone, doesn't necessarily entail a meeting. Although semantically it does, in practice it doesn't)

Third sentence is choppy in the way that you insert Ernesto's thought into it. His thought is uncalled for and just confuses the reader. It also doesn't refer to anything. (tried what).

Overall the piece is extremely confusing and choppy. It's like you're combining two random fragments of sentences together.

There's no way a sentient English speaker wrote this. Either you're ESL, drunk, or this was put into a story generator.

If a sentient English speaker wrote this, then I highly recommend for you to heavily edit and read aloud what you write.

Don't let that discourage you--- keep trying hard. No one starts at the finish line.

>>13547710
I edited this very half-assly. There's grammar mistakes. here's the cleaned up version:
The professor sat in his lonesome office contemplating the past. While staring at the hollow accolades that were sprawled across a shelf, Blanchard’s spectral gaze took him to the banks of his memories, along which he paced at an even speed. With each plaque and medallion there was a plethora of potential emotion to be conjured. However with the silent wisps of time that perpetually brush over the past, memories fade away. Filling his lungs up with the stagnant air which enveloped his office, the professor closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Before he could think any further, a few knocks cascaded into the office. Through the glass door he saw a student who let himself in with single wave. While Blanchard exhaled the air which was being heated in his lungs, he curled his cheeks back and squinted his eyes. With a burst of air following the student, Murad took a seat in front of the desk and hastily extended a hand towards the professor. While he vigorously shook Blanchard’s firm hand, Murad's other hand fumbled to tear his jacket off. After neatly hanging the coat, which was now slipping towards the ground, on his chair, Murad took his hat off and rubbed the steam from his glasses. With both arms placed on the professor’s desk, the student smiled and said, “Doctor Blanchard, I have a few questions for you.”

>>13547747
>spectral gaze
bit of an awkward sounding expression. In fact, this whole sentence is a bit awkward
>silent wisps of time
bit cringe. Time is obviously silent?
>a few knocks cascaded
verging on an oxymoron. A few isn't many, and yet they cascade, implying many?
>while Blanchard exhaled the air which was being heated in his lungs
BIZARRE! Also, you start a lot of sentences with "while" "after" "before" etc. They're not always necessary and can seem a bit amateurish

>>13536892
very nice

Will post crits of others in about half an hour. Thanks.

The king is ill and because of this I shall write for him the last days of his life. It must be me who writes and remembers, for no one else will. It is not that I wish to simply catalogue his physical deterioration; such a harrowing sequence of events read after the fall would only compound certain unwholesome feelings of those men held in the highest regard by the king and, as might well be understood, my aim is not to portray the man who made me as feeble because I know he was not. Some may say that I, as prince and eldest son, am the only one fit for this charge, but in truth I know little of my father's mind and we have become estranged in all things. Fundamentally, I believe there is something more to the sickness. That is why my writing shall be broad, encompassing many externalities. I hope to touch upon all aspects relevant to the situation, including the history of this city and some of the legends its people have bred concerning the lands beyond its walls. But first I must turn to myself and my own mind. It is with the relationship between the king and his sons I unhappily begin.

It is difficult to say with any certainty when and why the madness arose, but as I write the gentle patter of rain against my window compels me into a sort of trance, focusing the mind, and I am able to remember in glimpses. I shall here layout all the key events which I consider to have played their part in the demise. Firstly, it must be said that I remember many days of delightful play out of doors and a good deal of talk of visiting far and strange countries upon reaching my full manhood. My father loved nothing more than to leave his duties for the fresh air of wood and field. That was long ago.

I had come into my thirteenth year and for my pleasure wished to go out into the countryside. The king would simply not allow it. I do not think my demand to bring my brother, then only five, was the reason for his refusal. There was something more than a father's worry for his children, I deem. He returned us to our room with a strict hand almost immediately, all the while murmuring to himself in a frightful mode. I thought I glimpsed a look of terror in his eyes as he spoke and that is how I now interpret it, all things considered. One word remains to me, a word endlessly repeated: shadow.

>>13536009
No one's fucking critting even though I posted my shid after I crid what the fuck crit my shit you fucking mongoloids

>>13549683
And for the love of god put it in links like pastebin or justpaste so there aren't walls of text you dumbass baby bitch bois

I'm working on a poem about a group of individuals that I've been introduced to. One girl in particular seems to be the centre of it all. She's serving the universe by collecting lost souls and reintroducing them. I saw her in my dreams before we finally met and I've been learning more and more about the roles we serve through my interactions with everyone.
I hope whoever reads this can gather that from what I've written. I'm not very good, just inspired.

A curator of stranded souls,
familiar by their former home,
forges fragments of a diamond shattered long ago.
Precarious girl, she swings a fragile key,
anxious to unlock the collective dreams
of Kings and Queens born into their new roles.


A black dove shedding vital fluid,

paints the sky with garland veins
lleading wolves with the gentle tug
of feathers tied to a gold chain.
she collects love dripping from each shimmering noose
then serves it to them like it's champaigne.


Stardust rained from her eyes when her mind split into
a million different shades of blue.

>>13549722
I'm trying to convey that she's carrying out an important task, but she's manipulating the hearts of people who have gained her trust. But no matter how many hearts she breaks, it's her own that hurts the most. She can try to direct the scene but she's a conduit for a much stronger force.

Derrick woke up to the smoothing harp arpeggios and warm light that emitted from his brand new, designer made alarm clock. The clock was designed to wake a person up slowly, first the light would be dim then it would slowly increase in brightness until it shone like a mini-mall fluorescent lamp. Derrick thought to himself whether the Morphilume 2022tm was worth it. The alarm clock on his phone had done the job alright and waking up to Iron Maiden was better than listening to the ethereal harpsichords. Now it was time for the morning routine. Shit, shower, eat, floss and brush teeth, then walk down the four flights of stairs to the front entrance. Hopefully the stairway would be empty. There was nothing worse, Derek thought, than having to put on that fake morning-smile and greet your neighbor with a “good morning.” Sometimes it would be even worse, and one might be expected to throw in a “did you see the game last night,” or a “terrific weather we’ve been having.” Lucky for Derrick today was not one of those days.

Derrick worked as a receptionist for the Swanport-Tinsley county police department, or the STPD, commonly referred to as the STD. He wasn’t a police officer like the receptionists used to be, but he took their calls, made their coffee and sometimes shared their jokes. But he wasn’t one of them. They never asked him to hang out at one of the cop bars or to go with them to a diner during lunch break or to the bowling alley on weekends. No, to them he was just part of the building, like a window to be shut or a drawer to be opened. Derrick says his usual hellos, to Cassandra, who sits in the chair next to his, to the janitor, Mike, and to officer Stoneson who’s one of the few officers he chats with on a regular basis, at work anyway. Derrick sits down at his desk and feels his heart sink as the first complainant walks through the door.

I punch her front teeth out and fuck her bloodied face with my cock, before she starts to scream again. "NO! Stop!!!" But she doesn't stop screaming, I keep fucking her. She gets up and runs out the door, getting naked and naked in front of the cameras. I turn the lights on and start filming the other guy, until he comes over and kisses me on the cheek.

I start jerking off the camera, getting fucked hard by every boy I can find there, before I fuck her again.

My son takes the chance and fucks his wife first and I keep fucking her until she starts to scream that everything is starting over, which I think is her husband, and starts telling her to go back to her own place, then we continue fucking until dinnertime.

I finish her off and I take out both dildos and stick them down my son's penis, then I cum and then get up to leave with my son, getting his cock out and licking off the sticky cum he made.

>>13549951
Comma splices, wrong conjunctions, repetitive sentence structure...

Not really a short story as much as a literary exercise

>>13536088
That doomer/bloomer shit is the most retarded heap of drivel that has been posted to this board. Is it one autistic cunt who keeps posting it?

>>13550406
>the first thing he ever saw
If he's not a baby, it's not the first thing he's "ever" seen. Cut that word.
>were the empty eye socket
If it's a singular thing you use 'was', not 'were.'
>had long since been smoothed by the aeons
You repeat yourself. The beginning conveys the same meaning as the ending. If it's been smoothed by the aeons, it's implied it happened long since, and not right now.
>where he had just awoken
Redundant.
The beginning of the second paragraph is just awkward and clunky. Try
>The sand in the steps stirred under his bare feet; from the entrance, a warm breeze caressed his face.
Note that 'from the entrance' was deemed redundant.
>when he reached the top though
>though
Although what? This word is out of place.
>extremely sensitive to the light
This is just forewarning us of the following sentence. Could be skipped altogether.
What follows is extremely dry and boring. Read more Lovecraft. Not even the narrator seems interested in this, despite the use of "marvellous". The problem is there's no inner action, everything is perfectly still and static. How does the main character feel? That would be more interesting. Is he knowledgeable about this stuff? Does it scare him? He just starts walking.
>that had once greeted countless travellers into the city
This is one "had once been great" too many. I think it's the third time you say it.

>>13551372
>Note that 'from the entrance' was deemed redundant.
Sorry, I added this because I meant to offer an alternative.
>>The sand in the steps stirred under his bare feet; a warm breeze caressed his face.

>>13551372
>If it's a singular thing you use 'was', not 'were.'
Would it make sense if I used 'sockets'?
>What follows is extremely dry and boring. Read more Lovecraft. Not even the narrator seems interested in this, despite the use of "marvellous". The problem is there's no inner action, everything is perfectly still and static. How does the main character feel? That would be more interesting. Is he knowledgeable about this stuff? Does it scare him? He just starts walking.
I see, I'll try fleshing out what little plot I have seeing as the whole idea behind this "story" was that the the protagonist, a literal blank slate, woke up in a deserted city

>>13551562
>Would it make sense if I used 'sockets'?
Exactly.
>a literal blank slate
So how does he know what a mausoleum is?
The narrator doesn't seem to be using a Woolf-y free indirect speech style -- that is, the narrator isn't inside the main character's head, because he knows too many adjectives and has too much prior knowledge. I think the narration should be more empathetic with the MC and reflect his blank state -- he should be making questions instead of statements. As it is, he has complete certainty.

>>13551591
So he should basically emote more, right? Do you think I should switch to first person?

>>13551634
I'd start by asking myself what even is my point. Why so much description? What emotion are you trying to evoke in your reader with so much dryness? If it's a story about the character's desperation, make every line work towards that, not just the last three sentences. As it is it's just a movie camera slowly moving around and describing the shot.

I'm writing a kooky sci fi adventure story- is it okay if it's insanely action-driven?
I'm converting a comic I used to make into a series of novels, and, since so much was done with visual storytelling, it's starting to basically just read like a big perpetual description of events
should I toss it or try to force some higher level thought and language into it?

>>13552343
I've read Abnett's action-driven novels and they were very, very bad. I'd go for the "higher leve thought" route.

>>13547730
Thanks. It's a piece of a short story I wrote last year. I wasn't drunk nor am I ESL. The choppiness was sort of intentional, but I'd rather have had it less confusing. I might rewrite it all someday, the fun little thing that it was.

>>13541905
The descriptions are a bit too saccharine and cliche, especially the first paragraph

>>13540954
I love the humor and the fixation on the Frenchies

>so I sent the person involved an email
wut?
the last paragraph is rather confusing compared to the rest which is much cleaner imo

>>13536892
>Now at last we’ve hit hypoxia,
Pretentious from the first line on

>>13553613
Meaningless criticism

>>13553747
>a kid in college writing a poem about Milton and Prometheus in 2019
Yeah buddy, that sure requires some deep criticism.

Title:
Mario

------------------------

Endless

For centuries
For years
For months
For days
For hours
For minutes
For seconds

trooping through the snow
trooping through the sand
trooping through the grass
hopping over lava
hopping over water
swimming in water

afraid of bowser hurting peach
afraid of bowser stealing from peach
afraid of bowser hurting your brother
afraid of bowser hurting your sister

Step through the door
Back into our world

This mirrors our actions.

>>13553761
It’s not about Milton and Prometheus, they are simply passing characters used to emphasise the holiness (as it were) of the location. The point is that the mountain itself does far more to inspire and ‘bind’ the strands of Man’s soul together than any religious figures. Then again, you’re the kind of retard who uses ‘pretentious’ as an insult, so you’re evidently not very bright. It’s no wonder you didn’t get it.

A Noble Life

Of sinking going nowhere, broken nowhere nowhere coming fast
drowning with the tides and ever stuck on shores on edge
under sky under sand under marble foam of tide going out
going day night drowning living death going with the rhythms
of the moon sky night stars, drowning living broken choking

The cracking snapping of bones of backs from stones half cast
half formed malicious thoughts half guide misty hands from
misty eyes half kill crackling fires suckling pig like flesh of
half brothers half mothers half strangers the half dead killing
for half a day a full moon day these strangers eyes stranger still
quiet the frown of the sea at night end less foaming formless

The I was thinking of the moon back when young, seeing cloud
burst rays in nightly garden pox marked face, there star heavy
fell in light and shone halo slow drifting moon break silver
edges make clear the buzz of cricket the buzz of fly the night to
day moon slow drift by, the buzz of year thinking back
when moon and I was young, buzzing laying moon watching sky
go down laying lying sleeping surround with grass and wetness
in summer nothing days become the nothing nights young
the I the world the decay and tomato grow fig fall from branch

Man is the moon, the pull of breasts and thighs a tide a wave
buried half in sand, the A; autumn hands caress promise wind
a chill that buries hands and stills that shore, makes painting
silent stillness dizzy with ocean, with trembling earthquake lips,
find fingers grasp hold in heat, hold tight to break to be broken
to still the moon like movement buried on shores wait half open
half seeing stars on ink of oil sky silent with the night, half
waiting for the tide, a wave to wash this canvass stillness all
leave spotless fresh and cleanse the stale rivers a-way.

Nature, the Beast - what man? Mirror looking out looking in,
the separation between actors and stage, shine a light.
What is, what is - all context all perception all
the reflection of noise the waves the standing in the ocean
up to your waist - half in sky, half in sea with toes and soles
dug in to muck; with eyes and ears and nose and mouth
all seeing smelling tasting, all hearing roaring going
tidal nowhere motion coming shitting pissing fucking praying

Quickly dying, feeling roots brown around green those shoots
entwining sickly seething wrapped tightly gnawing quickens
rust red dirt and bark moss breathing in me from lungs piercing
thread of green shoots, skull seedling sprouting fertile mind
popping rotting fall limp wrist black rupture spleen and stomach
ribs be broken smashing snapping jaw unhinged and teeth spat out
tongue from black brown gums with rust soil heaving quickly slowly
suffocating rooted buried becoming surely one with same
as seed sprout bark shoot leaf leave nothing out.

>>13553613
pretentious is just used by people who dont want to have a serious conversation or understanding of a subject do to there unwillingness to question the footing of their preconceived notions of said subject and ultimate way of being

i woke up as i always do on a normal day, but unlike most i decided to sit out side today. i went out side and began to lay in a sweet old chair kept under the shade. as i lay still and un bothered i began to lose my self to the sparkling water. i inspected the lake from where i could see and suddenly i noticed a tree. a tree so tall and filled with life. but then i sunk into existential fright. i couldn't stop all i could feel was emptiness,just so unreal . but soon my thoughts would run away as i gazed back and seen it sway. the trance took me to another place, a simple sorrow still hung on my face. i stayed there for a moment or two longer until of course my thoughts began to wonder. its always this way the things that i see, they drag me down until i sleep. and in my dreams a pinch of hope comes crawling out when im on dope. i wanna live a happy life but chaos seems to be my strife. and no matter where i go i know, it will end and ill pretend.

>>13553889
Very nice and good, I like it

>>13553894
thanks anon

>>13553896
Is it fitting into a bigger story, or is it just a standalone poem? I love the dreaminess your writing contains, brought on well by the lowercase everyman style.

>>13553903
its just a poem i put together awhile back. But i have a hard time sharing my writings so its always good to get positive feedback.,thanks

>>13553917
It’s got a real charm to it, the rhyming of ‘day’ with ‘today’ for example. Very good, keep it up!

>>13536892
Introduce the characters sooner
Get rid of first line/change it
Rest, while you have a clear view of its thematics fails to represent - this could be rectified through a new figure in each stanza or a new depiction of the holiness (the mountain) - you could even juxtapose this against the other lines to meander your own questioning of what holiness is and its fluidity among humanity
>mosaic soul
I've seen this before, nice then, nice now

>>13537864
Funny, even if unintentionally. I liked the start but found myself drifting slightly as it progressed, I guess this is expected from how it starts however the first line is actually cozy and could be a good set up for an occasion that the reader finds himself reading. The rest reads ok, prose is decent with slight humorous sections but the end feels unsatisfactory.

>>13542811
Really nice at times but falls short somehow. Mad virginia Woolf vibes. I'd go against what other poster commented and go further, use more depictions if you are seeking to create a consciousness modernist reflection piece - it's both complete and fragmented, and focus on tone of voice

>>13554377
Thanks for your input, introducing the characters and having them per stanza would definitely improve it. Good idea!

Ah, galleries are taken down
And jpegs stored away,
And ecchis grow tomorrow
From the lolis of today,
And even swimming groups can fade,
S mistresses turn grey.

>>13536088
this nobody wants this tranny fag here

>>13553555
someone recognize the trips I got please

>>13553555
'fend a fly'?

This is the start of a short story detailing the brief life and gruesome death of a 1980's german conceptual artist. Critique away:

--------


We have:

A h shiny black vinyl filament of half a kilometer length and a square centimeter of section. To prevent it from the slightest breeze breaking it into small pieces like chocolates, this filament is embedded in a steel structure that snakes through the outside garden at the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art in
Stellebaek, Denmark - another glass and steel cage at the edge of the Oresund. In the end of the garden that is closest to the museum lies buried a box of aluminum containing a carriage that fits in the hand of a boy, moved by a tiny steam engine, built in
1986 in a precision workshop in Japan, its four wheels exquisitely carved in sycamore wood. Three times a year the director of the Museum takes a handmade shovel that is kept in his office and digs a hole to dig up the aluminum box out. Following a ritual specified in some papers also kept in his office (in German, English, Danish and Latin), he opens the box, removes the carriage from its sumptuous silk packaging, installs the the horn of brass and bakelite, places it at the beginning of the track and presses the little button that activates the very delicate steam engine.

We also have a Hasselblad photo camera manufactured in Sweden in 1987 that still contains inside a reel that will never be developed. The 36 photos show a happy couple on vacation on a beach in the french atlantic coast. The camera itself has been catching dust since 1995 in the loft of a Victorian suburban cottage in Melbourne, Australia. Before that, I had been catching dust since 1990 in a workshop in Stuttgart. The camera shouldn't have made the long trip to Australia, but the employees at the moving company had been given few instructions by the woman who hired them and preferred to be exhaustive. When she started
undo packages three months later at the other end of the world, the camera appeared to her like a grotesque monster, Lovecraftian, a sudden parodic appearance within a
otherwise normal reality in his pain, as if something had, too decided to laugh at her there so far away, in Melbourne. But she didn't throw the camera away, and it lies in the storage room, propped on an old surfboard.

>>13555584

A brown spot that once was blood and maybe pieces of Helmut Heinrich Wunderkammer's liver inside the housing of an WRX-1877 sander made by the prestigious Häunser Minden, Lower Saxony, one of the leading German manufacturers
of industrial machinery for wood processing etc; that the otherwise meticulous team of restorers at London's Tate Modern overlooked during the long and controversial process of allowing Machine (1988-1990) to be exhibited to the public first time in the Turbine Hall of the
prestigious London museum during the summer of 2016.

The skin of Natalia Vronski (Vilnius, March 9, 1923), torn away from her body in front of her husband (whose circumstances of death we will leave the reader's feverish imagination) in a stable of Lida, today Belarus, on March 7, 1942, which was then treated, tanned and stuffed with straw until getting an acceptable approach to something that would once have been one day Natalia, and then due to other vicissitudes buried in a hurry under the fire of Soviet artillery in a field in Carpathian Ruthenia in the winter of 1945, where it still lies forgotten today. except for a couple of historians who have read in
the archives of the National Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington DC a document that they should not have read, mistakenly believing that nothing they could read on this matter can impress them, and then spend several nights racking rye and beer aplenty at the bars of the capital, looking at something that is behind the bartender, something that is very much
behind and long before the mirror behind the bartender in every murky American bar, something that shouldn't be anywhere.

>>13553889

You don't have to say you sunk into existential fright. The rest of the paragraph makes it obvious.

>>13550406

smooth read w/alteration in sentence openers id say up your nounphrase game if you ever include that big a descriptive sequence it's kinda boring

>>13542351

Use less adjectives, anon.

They are drowning whatever point you are trying to make. And I don't mean don't use adjectives bc they are useful in the right amount.

Neutrino

what's a friday night for?
to let it out of clouded heads
in them crystal formations hang,
and they ring
and we'll sing our lives out of key

and there's dust in here
simple little particles,
they hold onto things
so I'll cover my glass with my hand
and cough affirmations

when something is, it's still headed away
slowly
bonds lose charge and there is nothing
here to pull me
and I will move through the earth
one end to the opposite
as if one of us was never here

does the planet leave prints
on the bottom of my shoes?
then how am I still moving after being
trampled so?
but some nights the globe just lies still
looks up and sees light that has travelled
too far, too long
to be anything other than a nightly spirit
so distant from its body
that it must have forgotten its life

>>13555900
>if you ever include that big a descriptive sequence it's kinda boring
I don't plan to use it actually, it's just that ancient ruins fascinate me and I guess I wanted to try my hand at descriptions? That's also why nothing really happens

>>13553555

"Guided the doors open"?

The last phrase is good but "They were convinced" is always going to work better than "They had the conviction".

I like it overall, though. Giving "serious" "literary" treatment to stuff taken out of pop culture is my jam.

>>13556638
What pop stuff is it talking about?

>>13556645

The whole text appears to be a thriller/sci-fi thing getting a more serious treatment.

>>13556671
You really think that crap is "serious and literary treatment" compared to actual scify classics? Jesus.

>>13556452
Fewer

>>13556690
Kek this, sounds like it was written for a creative writing class taken by 14 year olds

>>13556758

Kek.

https://pastebin.com/Z7gaWezx

writing a fantasy series; this is the first chapter of the first book
the story will ultimately be much more intricate and feature much more than is hinted in this one chapter, but for right now I'd love if someone could tell me if this is engaging/entertaining at all before I keep pushing

thanks, going to crit others in another post

>>13556494
I really like this, granted I know fuck all about poetry but it feels personal and universal at the same time
>>13555584
it's great language, really gives it an eerie informational and removed vibe
>>13553824
this is really interesting. honestly i never thought repetition could be subtle and interesting like this
>>13553555
the description in the second half of the last paragraph feels a little clunky, but I'd definitely read more

>>13557051
>https://pastebin.com/Z7gaWezx
also one lasrt disclaimer- I know there are some themes and events that might seem out of place for a fantasy story
if they feel forced and trite please say so, but I'm trying to do something a little different than a typical fantasy book

>>13557051
Good job posting that BASED coon, it got me to want to read.
The first paragraphs were so bad I stopped, though. Why on earth would you start with three paragraphs of exposition? It's mind-numbing. From what I saw there starts being an actual story from P.4, but sorry, you lost me. See, this is why fantasy is looked down as a genre. It actually encourages crap that people call "worldbuilding" with encouragement, when it should be avoided altogether. Tolkien led everyone astray. Here's my suggestion; start from paragraph four and let the story play out through its characters, not through its world. Shakespeare always started from Act 2 in his stories -- he never had to stop and describe to us his setting or his character's personalities; the dialogue and action showed it to us more beautifully than any telling could.

>>13555274
beautiful

>>13557100
it's great language, really gives it an eerie informational and removed vibe

Thank you anon, that is exactly the vibe I was going for. Both horrible and trivial things united by a detached language.

>>13556638
>>13557100
>>13556690

Thanks anons, it's mostly just some pulpy /k/ stuff mixed in with surreal elements, not aiming too high with this one, I'll go back and edit some of the clunk out, in the meantime here's some more that I just put down

>>13557688

by the time we got to the blue ridge mountains
we had run out of folk songs to sing
and old road trip games –
that one’s from kentucky
here’s a chevy from iowa –
but the wailing highway caulked shut
cracks in our conversations

by the time we got to the blue ridge mountains
i was running low on cigarettes
the truck was running low on gas
so we stopped in a small gas station
and i, a northern boy, couldn’t believe
the low price of a pack of smokes
in that southern mountain pit-stop

by the time we got to the blue ridge mountains
we were both anxious and exhausted
the air conditioner in the car broke down
and after five full days of driving
fueled by dollar store snacks, energy drinks,
we rented a room in a dirt-cheap motel
in the shadow of the valley

by the time we got to the blue ridge mountains
you had reviewed the local radio stations
i had just finished reading a book
during intermission in the passenger’s seat
and we only rented a room for one night, so
once it was over we packed up the truck
and drove away from the blue ridge mountains

next time i make my way to the carolinas
i’ll buy a few packs of cheap cigarettes
i’ll drive something better than
that broken-down old jeep
i’ll stay a night in the valley, and
i’ll wonder if you’d do the same
if you could still see the blue ridge mountains

>>13557459
Jeezus this is crap. More of a movie script than literature.

I am brought past the third gate to the vineyard by angels in golden masks.
My arms are tied to the cross beams of a wooden lattice with vines.
I think to myself that these vines would be easily broken should I struggle hard enough.
Only a moment later though, my binds stiffen and constrict like serpents around my wrists.
I struggle, but the vines become all the more taut and uncompromising.
The angels' masks are locked in perpetual cherubic smiles.
My body is pulled upward until I am a foot off the ground.
My arms are stretched outward at my sides.
My chest is thrust forward.
I hear the wind blowing through leaves as the first vines pierce the skin of my palms.
Warmth envelops me.
Blood flows down my arms like rivers.
The life force of the vines brushes against my own.
Vines pierce my wrist to drink from my arteries.
Vines snake about my abdomen and push themselves beneath my skin to drive deeper into my body.
They weave in between my ribs.
One fancies my heart.
An angel clicks its mandibles in anger to set this questing vine back to its senses.
It is drunk on me.
I feel their intrepid fingers within me.
Something is keeping me awake.
In time no one can truly say where I end and the vines begin.
Their pulse is my own.
My legs dangle like loose branches in the wind.
My head is a mossy loam.
My arms are boughs for the vines to creep.
My whole self exists for the harvest.
I feel as though I hang on the lattice for months, and I wonder what is to come.
Eventually my question is answered.
The answer is heralded by pain.
The skin of my chest stretches, bruised.
Bubbles beneath the flesh push outward.
This is a pain for silver goblets and fine silks.
The grapes breathe the air as they exit the seedbed of my body.
It’s enough to make one cry and sing and laugh.
One of the angels chitters happily and brushes its chitinous leg across my chest.
It brings a droplet to my mouth before taking flight upon buzzing, diaphanous wings.
I no longer bleed blood but wine.
Why have I not noticed the others yet?
The others in the vineyard who wail in despair and shriek in drunk laughter?
They who surround me in the millions.
In the vineyard where vines pluck grapes from a garden of Man.

I pulled into a parking spot in the middle of the dark desolate lot and shut of my car. I sat there in silence for a moment studying my surroundings and having second thoughts on weather or not this was what I really wanted. After a moment I began to wonder just how much longer I could keep this up, these trips, the secrets, and all the fantasy both good and bad it conjures in my head. At that moment I reached into my pocket for my lighter only to feel my heart sink like a stone. Where was it? How could I have lost it? All this way, all this trouble, all this pain and I lost it. The shame I endured just for the satisfactory bliss and I lost it. At that moment I felt an extreme rage I hadn’t felt since my earlier teen years, a pure hatred only ever displayed towards those I used to see as better than me and pompusly nieve but ultimately, this time, I was enraged at my self. All I had previously stood for, all I ever aspired for and most of all the ones I swore to protects lives that I have tainted with this horrible disease of the mind. They don’t deserve this, I deserve this but they don’t. I brought them here and I promised them more. I can’t even afford to buy my son the new shoes he needs and when I think about it all I can do is sympathize with my self. I don’t deserve sympathy, I don’t deserve empathy. I deserve what will come, slow, painful death convulsing on the floor seizing to ultimately exist and fulfilling my most subconscious desire. I think about it a lot, my demise that is.ainly whole I lie there Suffering in sweat and shivering in the depth of my addiction. Then I cry, I cry and I hope I die and say I tried but really it’s just a lie. I never tried, that part died when I was high. I cry for my son and I cry for mom. She tried her best with me and I respect her for that. But my son will never respect me, all I can ask for is his pitty at this point. I love him and he loves me but I can see he’s annoyed with me. He knows, he’s known since the day his mother died I tried to cover it up but he never believed me. How could he, I’m sick most days and if I’m not I just apologize and ask him if he could forgive me for what I’ve done for him. He needs more than just some junky and a dead whore m, he needs a figure that he could aspire to and me in bed isn’t gonna do. ‘I hope I die’ I said with a sigh then turned my car back on and went on to repeat this cycle again.

Is it any better?
The professor sat alone in his office contemplating the past. While staring at the accolades that were sprawled across a shelf, Blanchard’s spectral gaze took him to the banks of his memories, along which he paced at an even speed. With each plaque and medallion there was a plethora of potential emotion to be conjured. However with the silent wisps of time that perpetually brush over the past, memories fade away. Filling his lungs up with the office’s stagnant air, the professor closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Before he could think any further, he heard a knock sneak into his office. Through the glass door he saw a student who let himself in with single wave. While Blanchard exhaled, he curled his cheeks back and squinted his eyes. As a burst of air followed Murad, the student took a seat and extended a hand towards the professor. Murad shook Blanchard’s hand, while his other hand fumbled to tear his jacket off. After hanging his coat on the back of his chair, and wiping the steam off of his glasses Murad proceeded to place both arms on the professor’s desk. “Doctor Blanchard,” the student said with a smile, “I have a few questions for you.”
Is it choppy? Still too many adjectives? Is the second sentence hard to follow? Should I include "silent" in front of "wisps of time"? Don't be nice friends, I'm trying my best to improve and I have to know where my weaknesses lie....

>>13558796
Adjectives are better, second sentence is perfect and you should add the silent in front but overall it’s pretty good anon, nice job

>>13539051
Less grandiose than the typical soggy sophomoric stuff that plagues these threads. Though I admire your intent to capture something more subtle, I think you've still overdone it.
Structurally it doesn't feel free so much as unpolished. Your line breaks and single use of an em dash are odd. Some parts are contrived (Not like the blood / Not like the blood). There are too many elements and their interactions are flat. I would have preferred more focus on onions, gloves, or husks than the watch. Mishevled isn't a word (this may have been intentional).

This honestly reminds me of some of the stuff I write which is probably why my crit is so harsh. I often feel that stripping away everything that's half-baked and illuminating the core of your poetic vision is best. To me, this reads like you had a few good ideas down and then decided to dress it up more where restraint and refinement would have been more effective.

>>13558796
the translation ruined the quote

>>13558841
Thank you for all your help sir!

>>13558964
Between what is translated, and not meant
And what is meant, and not translated,
Most of poetry is lost

بين مترجما لم يقصد
و مقصود لم يترجما
تضيع الكثير من الشعر

As the lurid light flooded the bathroom with its buzz, Pyort stood in front of the mirror, staring at himself. In his solipsistic haze, he saw the eyes in front of him stare deeply into his soul. Somehow paralyzed by their gaze, Pyotr was forced to endure an endless staring contest against a foe who never blinked. And each time Pyotr blinked, he would stare back at the set of eyes, more determined than before to win. However, he never won and once realizing that he never would, he was finally able to break free. In a single moment, the body in front of him began to take a definite form. A face appeared around the eyes, and limbs began to grow out of the once formless blob. Soon the body’s pores and blemishes began reappearing, and once its eyes were able to blink, Pyotr was finally able to put his soul back into that figure.

Ode to the Street Corner Tweaker

That guy over yonder is a shifty shaky fellow. He could smoke reclaim out of a brand new oil burner.
Fucker's feckless, reckless, restless.
He'll scream in your face and stab you in the back in one smooth motion.
Motormouth moving, many miles a minute.
"I'm earning my bunk in Hell!" he exclaims. "Satan said He'd keep it warm for me!"
Gnarly fangs gnash, discordant crash.
He'll lift the shirt off your back and tie off with it.
His teeth are sharp shards filed to rotting razor points.
Jenky jackal jaws jabber and jerk, Jesus.
It's not my place to judge,
But there are some people you never turn your back to.

I tried switching between alliteration and rhyming because tweakers are unpredictable but idk how I feel about it.

>>13558637

>my heart sink like a stone

Yikes.

You never forget your first time: so is with girls, so is with dropping off a bridge, and over the years Brian will end up mixing all of America's bridges into one, that first Boston bridge. He will always feel the same violation of Newton's laws he felt that first time, because at the beginning, in those very first microseconds after he decided to leave the parapet, the sudden pull of the Earth made him seem to approach
to the river at a speed that emptied his body, but then - when in fact he was accelerating faster and faster- those last seconds before crashing into the Charles seemed to Brian an eternity in which he was floating and floating still, suspended between water and sky, floating away from everything and everyone, he alone, alone in the world, only him, Brian O'Harnihan, now ignoring all fear of gravity, first experiencing a mystical suspension that he would still reflect on years later crossing America and the Pacific. Then he hit the icy water and floated off with a dislocated shoulder and bleeding from his mouth.

>>13558542
Is it at least a kino scene?

>>13561867
No.

I sent a story (flash fiction piece) to a literary magazine for a contest. I didn't win, but they asked me if they could publish the story anyway. I agreed in an email, but it has been a few months and I haven't signed anything or been offered payment (not that I think there will be any). I think it's still a couple months until the release of the edition my story was said to appear in.
Is this normal or should I inquire about the status of my story?
Sorry for my ignorance, I've been writing a while, but only recently began submitting stories and am unfamiliar with the process.

>>13536009
Will Critique in a bit

In the staggering heat
Of spaniard sun
I watched a bull,
Break a matador ----

In a spaniard sun,
All things melt
Into great globules
Of mercury

As my perception faltered
I watch the unlucky prince
Flung into air,
As if reaching god for mercy
Looked at heaven thrice
and the ground twice
landed on his neck,
broke three vertebrae.

Watching him pant like a sick dog
Painting sand into coalescent patterns of crimson red silk
With a million ambitions and passions, bursting across
Our sky, as if to obscure the maker from the carnage.

Soft gentle pats of falling red snow and hysteric whispers
Tingle in my cock, needles pulse upwards
And brought the sensation to our lung.
So sexual the motions of phallic objects piercing into skin.

and soon enough, my lungs were adorn
with the soft sweet pillows that women wore
the life - creator, of children and whore.
And grafted together, in this orgy of gore.

>>13536009

Intro to my novel

>>13563523
Try,
And I could see your eyes
Mirror my sinful ways
Also what's the rythm?


It took all his strength to lift his head over the waves. He bended his neck to gasp for air, missing, and feeling the sea water pour into his mouth, barely seeing the grey sky as his eyes itched from intruding particles of salt. The thunderous sound of crashing waves didn't let him hear his panicked thoughts. He began to feel his heartbeat push against his rib cage, as his legs began to tire from desperately kicking the emptiness below and his arms ached from grasping towards the surface.

The tide got more volatile pushing him from side to side, sinking and bouying him through the surface. He began to feel cold drops of rain to the drier facets of his head. After finally lowering his arms and letting go of his legs, he began to roll as well. Pushed with biblical force a couple yards this way, bounced back into the depths below, only to rise again into the surface, gasp for air, and taste droplets of sweet water, again and again. The water rushed to his nose as he felt his throat dissolve to the fortune of salt he had swallowed. At this point he had his eyes completely closed, his ears completely inundated by the sound of his beating heart and the splashing water, and his body was completely numb from exhaustion and the cold.

He began to cry in frustration opening his eyelids and exposing them to the salty waters around him. The carnaval of pain came from outside and from within in his body begging to be killed. He tried to keep his mouth closed so the water could fill his lungs, but every-time his face landed above the surface, his body would split his mouth open, and suck in more air. A wrathful fire festered within as his heat began to shake his body. He questioned what he had done to deserve such torture. He looked up at the sky and cursed God and his terrible fate.

Suddenly, he felt his hand respond to a grasp of a familiar touch. It was a soft hand, smaller than his, that embraced his gently but fully, with love but, resolve. It reminded him of her, and how they held hands walking along the crashing waves at the Pierre. He began to sink as the hand seemed to drag him down. He could easily let go and swim again to the surface but, he didn't. He let his body and mind rest and trust this hand to take him below. The waters got darker, causing him to look up to the disappearing light from above. He could see less and less either by the lack of eyesight, oxygen, or light. He closed his eyes and opened them again. There was nothing there, nothing left to be seen.

how familiar the sound
my friendly old face
in canyons outbound
and saying
so very, very little

>>13564517

>What is show don't tell

>>13566244
Not sure which parts could use more showing

>>13566996

The first entire paragraph, for example. We don't really need a whole paragraph with the author telling us his protagonist hates everyone when that could be shown to us progressively as the book begins. Much less if the book starts that way.

>>13536088
this
>>13536027
literally pic related

>>13567520
Oh okay. What about the second paragraph, I thought that was well written apart maybe from the pacing/ listing of events

Here's a long video I made about alt-lit
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzMzDe4QAm8

>>13567756
>2 views

I like this so far and was surprised it wasn't a bigger channel, hope you get rewarded for your efforts

>>13567870
hey thanks! I just uploaded it and I haven't released many other videos. Gonna upload more often tho

>>13542896

For those into programming.

QuadTree for efficient search

Arrays of pixels scattered in a screen
Scan in two loops ⋰ ⋱ for an inefficient exploration in 2D
How effective this search would be if like reality
Not to count all, but what is behind stays behind
But by rushing from ● dot ● to ● dot ●
Never knowing when to stop
Until the end
You shall see things as they are
_> a waste of processing time
But by limiting a region of space ◰
Rectangles ▭ inside ▭ rectangles
To enclose a sector with points of data ▦
Space inside space
So marvelous wrapped in there ⊞
This melody code binds a wondrous
And overpowering spell

...even when it only finds 2/3 of its points

>>13567603

Second paragraph is ok, but you need to exterminate half the adjectives. You don't have to say "boring suburban community", it's going to be implied by the rest of the narration, etcetera.