/lit/ - Literature

>>14765901
>Latinos welcome
I wrote two sonnets, hopefully you'll find them enjoyable at least.


Héctor confronta a su hado

Conoces esos ojos: es la muerte
senpaiélica de sangre, cuya lanza
voraz su horror no sacia de venganza
ni logra saturar su furia inerte.

El bronce atroz pesadas sombras vierte
con turbias manos secas de matanza
y a ti, la luz asiendo en pugna a ultranza,
derrota y desamparo el dios invierte.

Cerrándose los muros, ¿en tu esposa
pensaste o en el asedio que evitaras
huyendo de la guerra necrosante?

Mayor gloria tu vida no alcanzara
sino la del combate que destroza
el alma de los dos en un instante.
Añoranza de Gilgamesh

El cálamo obedece tu silencio.
La luz que sobrepasa la muralla
insufla el lapislázuli y soslaya
el polvo que dispersa tu desprecio.

Reposa tu vejez, mas tu memoria
inunda las tablillas con su ausencia:
el cedro que labraren con violencia
y el toro destazado en vanagloria.

Ya guardan en el cofre los fragmentos
del hombre cuyo miedo sobrehumano
compuso ïnmortales monumentos.

Mas púdrese en la entraña del anciano
la cárcava incrustada de lamentos.
Su muerte exhuma un único gusano.

>>14765901
>Latinos welcome
I wrote two sonnets, hopefully you'll find them enjoyable at least.


Héctor confronta a su hado

Conoces esos ojos: es la muerte
senpaiélica de sangre, cuya lanza
voraz su horror no sacia de venganza
ni logra saturar su furia inerte.

El bronce atroz pesadas sombras vierte
con turbias manos secas de matanza
y a ti, la luz asiendo en pugna a ultranza,
derrota y desamparo el dios invierte.

Cerrándose los muros, ¿en tu esposa
pensaste o en el asedio que evitaras
huyendo de la guerra necrosante?

Mayor gloria tu vida no alcanzara
sino la del combate que destroza
el alma de los dos en un instante.


Añoranza de Gilgamesh

El cálamo obedece tu silencio.
La luz que sobrepasa la muralla
insufla el lapislázuli y soslaya
el polvo que dispersa tu desprecio.

Reposa tu vejez, mas tu memoria
inunda las tablillas con su ausencia:
el cedro que labraren con violencia
y el toro destazado en vanagloria.

Ya guardan en el cofre los fragmentos
del hombre cuyo miedo sobrehumano
compuso ïnmortales monumentos.

Mas púdrese en la entraña del anciano
la cárcava incrustada de lamentos.
Su muerte exhuma un único gusano.

>>14765981
my advice is to never write anything in a spanish-derived language ever, all it evokes is the smell of dirty armpits, oily mustaches on fat greasy lips, and pubic hair in your food.

Such is the aesthetic content of your language.

>>14765987
Rude.

>>14765981
>Su muerte exhuma un único gusano.
K I N O

>>14765987
The sonnets were near god-like, it's not his fault that you are a monolingual retard that does not apreciate art in any other language that is not the universal shithole of the english lexicon.

>>14765981
Second one is very Borgesian. I like it,

This is the first paragraph from a project I'm working on. Any criticism, even mean and litty, is welcome. But I would prefer valid input.

Steven lives a solitary existence. He carries the groceries home in a paper bag and dinner is prepared in the kitchen. A woman’s face is framed in pictures memorialized throughout the house. She looks on as the man stirs sauce on the stove top. He sits alone eating and watches the television. Steven stands in the bathroom readying for bed. Searching the medicine cabinet the man finds a vial of pills. He opens the lid scattering too many in his palm.

>>14766059
Does he need to be called Steven? Why not Archibald?

>>14766099
a lot of my main characters are named Steven and I've kept as tradition and good luck after publication

>>14765987
based

>>14765981
Una maravilla, hombre.
El primero en particular evoca una imagen eterea que, en lo personal, goza de resonancia. Sos un astro.

>>14766059
I think it's too short to actually assess it, but I'd suggest being more dynamic with your sentences. I understand that the monotone atmosphere is thematic, and that's alright, but then I'd like to see what comes next in order not to be bored out of existence. The woman's face is intriguing, tho.

>>14766125

Based

>>14766177
Etérea y clásica, el retruécano en: «el bronce atroz pesadas sombras vierte» me erizo la piel, muy gongoresco.

>>14766183
eh fuck it

The man walks to bed but lays opposite his side. Steven’s head rests comfortably on the pillow. Fatigue weighs his eyelids heavy. He feels the embrace of sleep lulling his soul to rest. Darkness creeps into the bedroom and Steven falls deeper into a black slumber. The last moments of his conscience vaguely acknowledges a figure in the room. Standing near the bed, staring over Steven, is the familiar yet disturbing presence. As Steven drifts into sleep, he barely registers the linger of tobacco smoke. An abyss admits the man and the presence follows.

>>14766194
weigh is intransitive. You mean weight

>>14765998
>>14766002
>>14766020
>>14766177
>>14766192

Thanks a lot for reading them, I'm glad you liked them. I do agree that I'll have to shake off Borges's influence, but I believe they are decent sonnets. Here's a third one, in case you've got time to read it. This one's a little more personal.


Púgil en reposo,
o a partir de la estatua de un antepasado

Tu figura extenuada no relumbra
ni restaña las glorias del combate.
Te sientas, y se dice que el embate
te agostó, y la derrota se vislumbra.
No reposas: aguardas. La penumbra
oculta tus heridas en rescate.
Impugnando tus puños el empate
la llama atizan que al invicto encumbra.
Sacúdete la herrumbre de los hombros,
rigor del tiempo que edifica escombros,
y haz frente al contrincante: la memoria
implacable de todos tus fracasos,
la sombra que desprendes como escoria,
el bronce que jamás se hará pedazos.

>>14766207
Fatigue weights his eyes heavy?

>>14765981
>senpaiélica
It should say f-amélica. Fucking filter.

>>14766233
you can say weighs on his eyes heavily

>>14766295
that is actually good thank u (>^_^)>

>>14765981
>>14766210
The last one is the best but I also like the one fo Gilgamesh.

The first may be a little to aggresive in its wording to be poetic enough for me. If you like that theme though, check "La Desesperacion (Espronceda)" if you haven't yet, I'm sure you will love it.

On the Ousmane Sembène film

>>14767860
Really good poem. I haven't watched the film, but I enjoyed the images and your diction, although some of it reminded me of Eliot (dunno if that's intentional or if you've been influenced by him). I'd just suggest to change the ampersands for "and"

A critique, please

>>14767990

Thank you. I love Eliot but he’s not an influence. I’m desperately trying to make my voice more contemporary but, as you’ve noted, there’s still a modernist undertone to it. I do the ampersands just for the sake of trying to keep up with the post-modern technique but it’s more or less arbitrary. Thank you again though, and where’s your work so I may critique?

>>14768601

There’s a will to innovate, albeit a silly one, present here, and it’s entertaining. I wish it were taken more seriously so it could be refined into a more fulfilling aesthetic experience but your mind is in the right place. ”Feces of muse” is gross, but it’s an imagistic risk most anons aren’t willing to take. Please take your writing more seriously, there’s potential.

>>14766059

The bareness of the prose is oddly inviting. I’m not totally mesmerized but this certainly is not without a decently honed style. The scenario itself doesn’t quite engage me personally, but the cadence can be refined into something slick and choppy.

He walked alone in the evening. The path wound him through the public gardens. Kids were playing. Parents were drinking. It wound him around. He fixed his eyes on the concrete ahead and tried to follow his therapist’s advice, but her voice broke up in his memory, ever an unreliable signal. A boy was crying. His dad was laughing. With all that white noise, he just couldn't think straight. It echoed after him as the path led him out the garden. He was nearly home.

He walked alone in the evening. The path wound him through the public gardens. Kids were playing. Parents were drinking. It wound him around. He fixed his eyes on the concrete ahead and tried to follow his therapist’s advice, but her voice broke up in his memory, ever an unreliable signal. He stepped up the pace. A boy was crying. His dad was laughing. With all that white noise, he just couldn't think straight. It echoed after him as the path led out of the garden onto the street. He was nearly home.

>>14765981
>tfw portuguese speaker and can understand most of it
poemas basados

This one is getting published in a local journal in a few weeks.

1/2

>>14766059
reminded me of narration from it's such a beautiful day even though I can barely recall anything from that movie

>>14768824

2/2

>>14766059
You have a repetitive sentence structure you're trying to mask by flipping between pronouns and proper names. I also feel that your subjects switch abruptly, due to this. Rather than solitary I'd say it's somewhere between sporadic and plain. It's not unengaging though; you convey meaningful details without being melodramatic about it, or even melodramatically-solitary.

>>14768824
>crit this thing it's too late for me to change
If you say so

The flashes of opinion and your description of puberty seemed like a bit much, especially with the former coming before the suggestion that the narrator is the friend. Your context clues don't need to explode like this.

>this bumbling mediocrity
This sounds like the speaker is referencing themselves for a second, but that might just be colloquial of me. But just imagine you're asking something of someone and they reply "This bad bitch doesn't..."

>mediocrity comes up again
It's repetitive and the speaker doesn't really make an argument for it. The description of his perspective does come through, but the actual proclamation of mediocrity here seems almost obvious or moot. Is he just saying that humans are, on average, average? Or are they supposed to be mediocre in comparison to something else? At most this might be in comparison to either Sophie, who draws I guess, or to the narrator, who's apparently seen some shit? Flowers and, from there, mostly just people again? There's no ground being jumped off of.

This also seems a little poorly researched I don't think there's a "stop seeing deer people" pill doctors give to anyone, and no other abnormalities are shown in the girl. And then there's the last big "Why" of why the derp person didn't just help her earlier. I mean you have a line that suggests he was looking through the window of a car at her having unpleasant intercourse. Maybe I can assume this is some withdrawn, telepathic stare, but I still don't see what's running the story's clock.

>>14768824
>crit this thing it's too late for me to change
If you say so

The flashes of opinion and your description of puberty seemed like a bit much, especially with the former coming before the suggestion that the narrator is the friend. Your context clues don't need to explode like this.

>this bumbling mediocrity
This sounds like the speaker is referencing themselves for a second, but that might just be colloquial of me. But just imagine you're asking something of someone and they reply "This bad bitch doesn't..."

>mediocrity comes up again
It's repetitive and the speaker doesn't really make an argument for it. The description of his perspective does come through, but the actual proclamation of mediocrity here seems almost obvious or moot. Is he just saying that humans are, on average, average? Or are they supposed to be mediocre in comparison to something else? At most this might be in comparison to either Sophie, who draws I guess, or to the narrator, who's apparently seen some shit? Flowers and, from there, mostly just people again? There's no ground being jumped off of.

This also seems a little poorly researched. I don't think there's a "stop seeing deer people" pill doctors give to anyone, and no other abnormalities are shown in the girl. And then there's the last big "Why" of why the derp person didn't just help her earlier. I mean you have a line that suggests he was looking through the window of a car at her having unpleasant intercourse. Maybe I can assume this is some withdrawn, telepathic stare, but I still don't see what's running the story's clock.

>>14768824
>crit this thing it's too late for me to change
If you say so

The flashes of opinion and your description of puberty seemed like a bit much, especially with the former coming before the suggestion that the narrator is the friend. Your context clues don't need to explode like this.

>this bumbling mediocrity
This sounds like the speaker is referencing themselves for a second, but that might just be colloquial of me. But just imagine you're asking something of someone and they reply "This bad bitch doesn't..."

>mediocrity comes up again
It's repetitive and the speaker doesn't really make an argument for it. The description of his perspective does come through, but the actual proclamation of mediocrity here seems almost obvious or moot. Is he just saying that humans are, on average, average? Or are they supposed to be mediocre in comparison to something else? At most this might be in comparison to either Sophie, who draws I guess, or to the narrator, who's apparently seen some shit? Flowers and, from there, mostly just people again? There's no ground being jumped off of.

This also seems a little poorly researched. I don't think there's a "stop seeing deer people" pill doctors give to anyone, and no other abnormalities are shown in the girl. And then there's the last big "Why" of why the deer person didn't just help her earlier. I mean you have a line that suggests he was looking through the window of a car at her having unpleasant intercourse. Maybe I can assume this is some withdrawn, telepathic stare, but I still don't see what's running the story's clock.

>>14765901
Here is the opening of my new novel, r8/h8:

I dream of a world free of women.
I dream of a world of addicts to boypussy yet to be synthesized, of a reality
were the cursed forms of femininity are vanished, were no mirror reflects the animalistic and base form of the female sex, those first agents of the demiurge that caused the fall of man for all eternity.

I long for a perfect society of wetware upgraded male bodies that can attach the most beautiful forms, from olympian bodies to the most delicate and lean examples of male beauty.

And for that, I am going to declare war from now on on this retarded and blind pretender goddess that usurped the throne of the eternal one.

>He looked in the mirror and, for the first time, did not recognize was he saw. That was because he had just drank some invisible juice.

First lines of my final chapter. Pretty excited to almost be done.

>>14769668
>>14769745
you wrote that book pretty fast anon

>>14769668
>I dream of a world free of women.
People will definitely leave the store with this one.

>>14765901
im gay

>>14766059
feels kind of noir, i like it.

>>14766240
kek

Anyone have datamined stats for ds1 NPCs? Like I remember bighead Jeremiah had a shitton of int he didn't actually use. I would guess havel is something like http://mmdks.com/9yl0..

What is the point of writing when you'll viewed as above average at best, and the only reason is because the average is fucking trash?

>>14770857
This isn't the olympics. You don't have to be the best. Above average is actually worth something. You start there, and then you get better.

>>14771046
>You don't have to be the best
Wrong. Mediocrity is worse than death.

>>14771059
Lay down and die, then. I won't stop.

>>14770857
The issue I take with asking "what is the point of X" is that it's asking to explain why X might be held in the highest regard possible while simultaneously supposing there be need some reason prior to or above this fact, as if that wouldn't just contract it.

Pro tip: There's nothing wrong with putting as little effort into your work as possible as long as your target audience doesn't notice.
This is of course meant for people who write to make money, and not delusional anons who think their work will any literary merit.

>>14771451
spotted the pleb.
go sell out and write your trash fantasy then, dickweed. Why are you on /lit/ at all?

This freestyle was written straight from the streets of Pueblo, CO.

When your drivin' drunk down northern, close your eyes
A cars comin' that might be a surprise
That might be your demise
I hope not, but it could
It's a possibility IN THE HOOD

thnx for welcoming latinos, op

>>14771463
>write your trash fantasy
You correct about the trash part, but I write more than fantasy. I write whatever is popular at the moment. Only a select few authors are remembered as the greats of an era, and I know my limits. If I can't be among the best, I might as well make some money with less effort. If you think you're one of the people who's talent and work will stand the test of time, I can only pity you.

>>14771492
The attempt alone is more valuable than cashing in at the gate. What you fail to realize is that there is more to being a literary writer than the autistically-driven desire to put your name in history books. Yes, literary types have that desire deep down. But they also want to create and partake in a community that provides more than battle royale knockoffs and christian grey sucking a clit in 10 different ways.

It was 200am, work was over, and it was time to walk home, for bed. His path was dark, gravelled and familiar, and whistling sounds were coming from the parallel woods. His pace was catching up to his heart rate, there were lights flickering between the boughs of the Garry oaks. Pale blue light, so faint they almost weren't there. His flashlight illuminated the many footprints in the gravel before him, some of them his from previous nights, most of them strangers'. In the cone of light before him a branch broke its uniformity and met the path. A peculiar branch, black and almost plastic in its bark, not a branch, a leg. The flashlight shook with his nerves and a silent scream echoed from every pore. "Hello!" he said dumbly, lobotomized by flight and fight. The figure in two steps centered itself in the walkway, its skin perfect black, the skin of primordial Afrikaan, yet somehow darker, a silhouette amongst the night air, illuminated in the cone before him. It wore a plastic jumpsuit, tattered at the cuffs and covered in mud and its face bore wide-set eyes and a stupid grin. "Stop, and salutations!" from an English, androgynous tongue. A pale light was in its throat as it spoke. The workman jumped and ran back, the uncanny appearance of the man was too much to entertain. As he fled, twenty feet before him on the path he saw the familiar branch, the leg, stepping onto the gravel. The same man was there, they both were there, before and behind, whistling as they walked toward him. More whistling in the wood. "Stop and salutations!" "Salutations, and stop."

I sucked in on sweet lady marlboro, the only true mistress I ever had. I was looking straight down the business end of a double scotch, the cloudy, pisspoor kind you find in the low lit bars of this two bit town. I was turning it all over in my head; Marlone not turning up at the deal, old man Peters nowhere to be seen, McCluskey getting shot by his own gun only three days off seeing his son graduate Ivy and most of all, the girl. But what use was trying to fix any of it when you've got a DA more crooked than a shepherd's garage and the mob have ears on every corner and eyes in every window? I turned my attention back to the drink, a boozehound at the other end of the bar wept about how screwed up everything had gotten for him. You and me both, pal... One block and two hours pass. The morning beckons with three rapts. My office was still wrapped in shadow beyond the cone of the desk lamp. This was Harley’s lad no doubt, come to collect on phantom debts. His silhouette was framed in the pebbled glass of the door, my name crossing the T to his torso. Why would he knock if he was turning the place, plausible deniability? I hid in a shadowed pocket, still unseen by the dawning blinds, and watched the knob slowly twist, and the grey fingers cradling the Ruger lcp which proceeded the frame. Then from behind the clouded glass peered a partially shadowed head, a horror that breached the multiple whiskies and the normal fear already there, where there should’ve been a face was a mask of burnt skin, like peach wax melted in place.

Sad, like coiled barbwire is in my stomach, like there’s rotting butterflies in there, I’ve disappointed people by being afraid. My instincts are warped, and they hurt my self-concept, the symbol I wish to project in people’s minds. I want to be kind and understanding, but these ideals collide with concrete when I see people that aren’t these things. How can I understand someone that doesn’t try to understand? It’s very difficult for me to empathize with people that impose, because it’s something I not only see as a wasted effort, but also wrong. “Get a backbone” well, what’s a backbone to you and how has it served you up until now? There I go again, just like my father, don’t have an answer, call them a hypocrite. Don’t have an answer, call them my father.

from my diary desu

>>14771492
>I can only pity you
Nice to know I live rent-free in your head. It's pretty comfy in there, just try and use a duster sometimes. Or maybe a toilet cleaner

>>14771691
>man was too much to entertain
not sure about this

>primordial Afrikaan
>it
well, good luck

>>14771698
>the only true mistress I ever had
I can see why. I'd cut this, but doing that and nothing else would make the openings of your first two lines closer together and more obviously repeditive. Maybe just change the whole line.

>I was turning it all over in my head
This is good coming out of the previous image.

>One block and two hours pass.
New paragraph

I felt like the description of the melted man went by too fast.

>>14772022
Slam poetry mate try something else

>>14772075
Afrikaan was a bad descriptor that I'll eventually cut. The story's not mean to be racial in any way, more alien and uncanny.

>>14772092
true, I can be a sap sometimes.

>>14772094
I can tell, I just don't expect other people to. Or at least I expect them to be like me, and not expect other people to.

>>14772022
Last few lines had a neat pattern even if vague use of "just like my father" is played out. The early images didn't incite whatever feelings you were going for.

This is my reality. It might be bleak. It might be bland. But it also might not be either of those things. Or, perhaps, it is both of those things and more. It is exciting, scary, horrifying, and intriguing. It is wonderful and miserable. It is beautiful and ugly. My reality presents itself as a paradox or oxymoron. Somehow, it is both one thing and its opposite or, more likely, my reality is a spectrum. It is neither completely treacherous, nor is it a utopia.


My fellow reality-dwellers see only in black and white; they only see the bad, and therefore the world is bad. When they were kids, it was perhaps just the opposite. Or, maybe, their childhood was bleak or bland or horrifying or scary and now they are happy and excited and intrigued and think life is wonderful. We see things in the way that we want to see them.


The problem, then, is this: the world is not black and white. It is infinitely and excessively gray. We act as thought we are blind to the gray. Gray is dull. Gray is confusing. Gray is unnecessary.


Yet, perhaps gray is one of the best colors of all.

>>14772031
You seem to misunderstand. I pitied you for but a brief moment, and you were sadly immediately forgotten afterwards, until you decided to continue replying that is. But you are correct in a sense, as you will now linger in my mind for perhaps a few additional minutes.

>>14771557
What I'm understanding from this is that you are admitting that you and others write to be recognized, but you are refusing pursue your craft wholeheartedly, nor admit defeat. If that is the case, how are you any better than someone who writes works people enjoy and are willing to pay for? Attempts at greatness are only worthwhile if you succeed.

I'm writing a story about a cannabilistic shipwreck and a cursed man that goes on to taste human in everything he eats. The apple was tumerous and tasted like the Frenchman. This what I have so far.

It had been a whaling expedition, based from Philadelphia on a vessel named Tantalus, it had been a motley crew of 80, immigrants and the paupers native to Philadelphia. 150 miles and 2 weeks off the coast they’d spotted a pod spitting their breath in the air chasing krill. 2 days after the call-out and running, dragging a carcass of a juvenile in its wake, the Tantalus entered a storm, the captain had attempted to out pace it, but refused to cut the catch and therefore doomed the lives of himself and the 76 men that drowned and sank with the whale. 4 men, 1 Irish, 2 English, and one Frenchman had survived in a life boat. One of these men, Arthur Straus was knocked unconscious in the entropy of the storm and awoke to the others shouting in joy and then looking to each other and himself questioningly. One of the many uncharted islets in the Atlantic was before them, a rocky plateau, with a single mountainous peak in its center.
The wooden cross drifted on the waves for days, weeks, years before washing upon a beach black and green sand, one of the many islands still uncharted by modern sensibility and European eyes. A hand as pale as the stars grasped at the ikon and turned it in its claws, whispering a subverted grace to the souls beyond the horizon it didn’t know, or wish to.

>>14772227
sorry, this is all I have

They’d been on the rocky islet for weeks since the storm. The men drank from pools of rainwater, one man posted as a scarecrow for the flock of gulls and their guano. Black water extended from the toothy beach forever, the leagues they’d drifted upon in the days after the catastrophe.
It had been a whaling expedition, based from Philadelphia on a vessel named Tantalus, it had been a motley crew of 80, immigrants and the paupers native to Philadelphia. 150 miles and 2 weeks off the coast they’d spotted a pod spitting their breath in the air chasing krill. 2 days after the call-out and running, dragging a carcass of a juvenile in its wake, the Tantalus entered a storm, the captain had attempted to out pace it, but refused to cut the catch and therefore doomed the lives of himself and the 76 men that drowned and sank with the whale. 4 men, 1 Irish, 2 English, and one Frenchman had survived in a life boat. One of these men, Arthur Straus was knocked unconscious in the entropy of the storm and awoke to the others shouting in joy and then looking to each other and himself questioningly. One of the many uncharted islets in the Atlantic was before them, a rocky plateau, with a single mountainous peak in its center.
The wooden cross drifted on the waves for days, weeks, years before washing upon a beach black and green sand, one of the many islands still uncharted by modern sensibility and European eyes. A hand as pale as the stars grasped at the ikon and turned it in its claws, whispering a subverted grace to the souls beyond the horizon it didn’t know, or wish to.

Here’s a contemporary cardinal sin: posting cringe. A prime example: Instagram poetry et. al. Now, surely we can say that Wallace Stevens and the like, were not, and further, would not be posting cringe if they were to live today and distribute their alleged art down the contemporary artistic canals. But what is then to be said of today’s wordsmiths? A common explanation of the cringe that is elicited by the Rupi Kaur’s of the world is that unbeknownst (charitably) to the given ‘poet’ at hand, the real motivation for the creation of the ‘poem’ or ‘art’ at hand is not some deep human desire to create something beautiful, or some Aristotilean disposition to appreciate and thus desire the excellent in a given domain, but instead a familiar and trite attraction to glory, prestige, and our baser desires. So, we neatly separate the Kaurs of the world from the Stevens of the world. Ignoring, for now at least, the incredibly problematic gendered bifurcation these comments encourage, we can at least be prima facie skeptical. Why suppose that Wallace Stevens wasn’t posting cringe? Wasn’t Niebuhr, or your preferred early 20th C. natural scientist judgmentally staring down their nose at the works of such poets? Yes, an ultra rational chad like yours truly, sees through the pathetic plea for intellectual admiration that is a Rupi Kaur poem. But whence the difference from Stevens? Of course ol’ Wallace desired admiration for his formidable intellect and insight into the qualitative facets of human experience in the 20th C. Else, he wouldn’t have pursued publication the way he did.
Naturally, you’ll respond that you can point to some quasi-academic analysis of a small collection of poems from the two fellows named above and that, then, the bifurcation will again reappear. But does this not obviously miss the distinct and relevant history of the criteria against which the analysis will grade? Whence do we find the further criteria against which to judge the criteria of the analysis that gives the desired result, that Stevens is an artist and Kaur a fraud. Now, that the familiar problem of the criterion should appear too in the domain of aesthetic appreciation is no great discovery. But it ought to make us at least hesitate before hate-fucking (read: masturbating) the next Kaur-inspired e-grill we see on the street. The seethe remains much after the cum dries.

I'm always so scared of sharing my writing because it is peak genius and it susceptible to getting stolen unconsciously or consciously but at the same time I want to know what people think about it, oh well, just know its genius guys. Egg me on

>>14766059

Either go blunter or sharper

right now, it's a lukewarm mess

I looked upon the wretched alter and the blood on my hands, and only when it was too late did I stop to wonder if I'd possibly gone too far to score some pussy.

>>14772416
For asemic, just fine. Reading critique threads, the ones that need the most rejiggering are essentially no different (at the ideational procession's coherence level), only having more rope slung across a bundle of scaffolding, with no building or foundation at its center.

>>14771698
>I took a deep drag on sweet Lady Marlboro, the only true mistress I ever had (that was a fag) staring down the business end of a double scotch -- the cheap cloudy type of standard well whisky piss-tasting rotgut, notwithstanding the "single malt" appellation on the label. In a entire town formed from shithole dive bars, eating this chalice of ass was at least Ardberg given the choices. With the room spinning, it was all turning over and over in my head: Marlon ghosting the deal; Old Man Peters MIA; McCloski negligently discharging himself in his own foot only three days off seeing his son graduate a real red brick Ivy League school -- and most of all, The Girl. When you've got the DA more bent than the hot fag in my mouth ashing itself in my drink like some kind of self-shearing sheep's wool, and the mob with ears and eyes in every ass nook and cranny of this fuck-palace township, there's nothing to be done but get plastered and eat ass until your number's called.
>I turned my attention back to the glass of liquid ass in hand, cloudy-er still for the faggot ash leaping into it, while a boozehound at the other end of the bar wept, declaiming through his blubbering a litany of fuckups. Get behind the both of us Satan ... One block and two hours pass. Morning breaks with three rapts. My office was still wrapped in shadow beyond the isolated cone of the desk lamp. Harley’s boy, no doubt, come to collect on phantom debts or at least some spook interest, his silhouette framed by the pebbled glass of the door, with my Name crossing the T on his torso. -- Why would he knock if he was turning the place … plausible deniability? I hid in a shadow pocket, still unseen through blinds, and watched the knob tremor, and silhouetted in his other hand long grey fingers cradling the Baby Browing against the door frame. Following it from behind the frosted glass peered a partially obscured head, a horror that breached the liquid courage from the multiple whiskies adding panic to the dulled sense of dread. What ought to have been an enforcer's face was melted aberration of skin and features, sloughing off like peach wax tallow melted in place all at once.

>>14772141

Without any kind of build up or context, this is really stupid.

>it is, it is, it is
>It is, and, or perhapse, it isn't
>it's also not that either, its a spectrum
>childhood run on sentence
>everybody is stupid but me, only I can see shades of grey
>you, my readers, are dumb fucks, so sit down and bask in my 300+ IQ

Try and include your readers in the emotion of the story and you'll get a better reaction

But don't ever say 'you' to them

>>14772640
You destroyed the rhythm with your baroque, self-indulgence. Simple is better for a scene, save the maximalism for when you're preening over complex ideas.

>>14769668
Sounds like the plot of Gay Ns from Outerspace.

>>14772141

Try something like this;

For me, reality presents itself like an enormous contradiction. Bleak and vibrant. Bland and exciting. Mind numbing, yet interesting. Some people can only see one or the other, good or evil.

We see things the way we want to, and I want to see it all, black and white and hot and cold all mixed together in one great, big picture.

But all mixed together doesn't make it more beautiful, it turns it gray as it gets.

Just the way I like it.

>>14771478
I'm drunk, and I think i'll write a poem about pueblo real quick.

Sweet teen ass strutting down the riverwalk as I watch, wondering what she has down there, and who does she give it to, forget it, another gulp of vodka and down we walk, and my friend with her sweet sad eyes peeking shyly at her shoes,..
"go walk up ahead and talk to her if you want"
In her sick, junk withdrawal state, sniffled and hacking, "just go up and talk to her".

And I said to myslef, "Now, we got two choices, free will, or free pussy." I jogged up on ahead passed the willows and dog charm, and said hello.

>>14772667
So absolutely based?
>>14770391
lel not me
>>14770487
thanks i hope so

Haven’t really done any proofreading yet as I tend to right in sprees and edit later. Just wanted to hear /lit/‘s opinion on my shit

>>14773103
pt. 2

>>14773103
>cradled around their embracing chests
Try something else.
Suggestions: "pressed against their chests", "pressed to their chests", "cradled along their chests"
>meancilingly
typo
I personally dislike run-on sentences, but I wouldn't be surprised if five others in here don't.

>>14773105
Oh, and change "could care less about" to "couldn't care less about". That's a big sin right there.

>>14766059
God damn, that's some boring shit. In an attempt to be so inoffensive so as to appeal to every single boring-ass middleman, you've managed to make the literary counterpart for microwaved oatmeal. Nice going, asshat.

>>14765901
Here is the first paragraph of a story I'm writing.

“Come back to bed,” said the woman standing in the doorway; she was naked, and the man at the desk observed her silhouette through the candlelight.
“Not yet,” answered the man. He tore out the piece of paper which had been in the typewriter, then threw it behind his back onto the floor of his study. “Let me finish this,” he took a drag from his cigarette. The woman passed the doorway through the forced open door — courtesy of a pile of books acting as a door stopper — and navigated her way through the towers of literature and crumpled papers that littered the room.

>>14773724
It's interesting that you say that. I quite like the monotone literary voice OP is using. Especially with modern-day writing, I feel as though the over-description of non-vital things, as well as the literary self-indulgence that comes with it, breeds a certain pomposity that I can't stand.

>>14774275
>
“Come back to bed,” said the woman standing in the doorway; she was naked, and the man at the desk observed her silhouette through the candlelight.
>“Not yet,” answered the man. "Someone is wrong on the internet."

>>14774297
Hah.

> He continued to type on his keyboard. The letters had already faded with use, and the matt black finishing was smeared in grease and cheez-it dust. The keys cried in protest as the old hinges were pushed down with such force that they risked breaking. "Listen here you little faggot," the man began.

Here’s a contemporary cardinal sin: posting cringe. A prime example: Instagram poetry et. al. Now, surely we can say that Wallace Stevens and the like, were not, and further, would not be posting cringe if they were to live today and distribute their alleged art down the contemporary artistic canals. But what is then to be said of today’s wordsmiths? A common explanation of the cringe that is elicited by the Rupi Kaur’s of the world is that unbeknownst (charitably) to the given ‘poet’ at hand, the real motivation for the creation of the ‘poem’ or ‘art’ at hand is not some deep human desire to create something beautiful, or some Aristotilean disposition to appreciate and thus desire the excellent in a given domain, but instead a familiar and trite attraction to glory, prestige, and our baser desires. So, we neatly separate the Kaurs of the world from the Stevens of the world. Ignoring, for now at least, the incredibly problematic gendered bifurcation these comments encourage, we can at least be prima facie skeptical. Why suppose that Wallace Stevens wasn’t posting cringe? Wasn’t Niebuhr, or your preferred early 20th C. natural scientist judgmentally staring down their nose at the works of such poets? Yes, an ultra rational chad like yours truly, sees through the pathetic plea for intellectual admiration that is a Rupi Kaur poem. But whence the difference from Stevens? Of course ol’ Wallace desired admiration for his formidable intellect and insight into the qualitative facets of human experience in the 20th C. Else, he wouldn’t have pursued publication the way he did.
Naturally, you’ll respond that you can point to some quasi-academic analysis of a small collection of poems from the two fellows named above and that, then, the bifurcation will again reappear. But does this not obviously miss the distinct and relevant history of the criteria against which the analysis will grade? Whence do we find the further criteria against which to judge the criteria of the analysis that gives the desired result, that Stevens is an artist and Kaur a fraud. Now, that the familiar problem of the criterion should appear too in the domain of aesthetic appreciation is no great discovery. But it ought to make us at least hesitate before hate-fucking (read: masturbating) the next Kaur-inspired e-grill we see on the street. The seethe remains much after the cum dries.

>>14774287
That's not what I mean, doofus. I'm not talking about his PROSE, I'm attacking his SCENE.

Think of a movie scene that portrays a domestic scene that captures your attention. One that stands out for me is the argument in The Incredibles, where Bob Parr argues with his wife, Helen Parr, and it's a very familiar scenario to us, yet despite the mundane nature of what it is, we're still captivated by it, because it's intense, candid, and soulful/heartfelt.

There's a difference between "haha look at me I'm so boring, look at how REAL muh story and characters are haha I'm so le ebin REAL boring just like REAL life haha", and "This couple's going to go on a road trip, and when they stop at a gas station, they do rock paper scissors over who pays for gas, and who pays for snacks, then when they're both in the car again, they debate with each other whose turn it is to drive, before deciding to settle it with rock paper scissors [and the boyfriend intentionally chooses rock, because he knows the girlfriend will choose paper, because they do this all the time and he doesn't mind letting her win, but they just do it anyway because it's a tradition at this point]"

See what I mean? You can't have a scene that's boring JUST TO BE BORING. I mean, yes, you can, but I'm just going to flip you the bird and throw the book away and you'll be losing your audience just to be like "hurr durr look how MUNDANE this story is".

In a movie, filming scenes are very expensive, so they teach directors to make every scene worth it. Every scene is so pricy that it BETTER have a purpose. It better advance the plot, or characterize the people, or give the audience insight into the narrative, or provide foreshadowing or WHATEVER.

Use that train of thought. Every scene in your book should have SOME purpose that's fucking better than "boring scene to show you how boring this person is". You're better than that. You're waaaaay fucking better than that.

Dejad que ante mi se extienda
El mundo en su infinito desequilibrio
Que apoyado en el vértice que componen
Los sueños, el hielo y el mar
Gire y gire, soñoliento.
Que a sus bordes pulidos por los eones
Se asomen sin temor las naciones
Y ofrenden al vacío misterios
Envueltos en mantos de sal.
Dejad que oscile, sin prisas,
Que en mi trono de cuarzo hace tiempo
Que ya sólo repican cristales,
trozos de vidrieras, engranajes
Y ornamentos sin nombre ni edad
Dejad que el planisferio dude,
Oyendo ecos de un creador
Ausente y atento, eterno.
Que entre pináculos de óxido
Y valles de paredes blancas
Surja una voz que sean muchas
Y cante al son del sudor de Atlas:

¡Ha vuelto el padre, ha vuelto!
De él son los dones
Que nutren nuestras vides
Y mecen nuestros fuegos
Y arrullan nuestras llanuras.
Del niño a la orilla,
Del cesto a la nube
Y del trueno al arroyo.
Ya nada nos falta
si en el agua un tono
de púrpura podemos besar.
Ya nada nos queda
por ver y admirar
Si al padre
A lo lejos,
oímos cantar.

>>14774502
Well argued. I'll certainly take it into account in my writing.

Since I've been using somewhat of a similar narrative voice, would you be willing to have a look and tell me whether or not my writing is also guilty of trying to hard to appease the mundanity of real life? Here are a couple of paragraphs:
“Come back to bed,” said the woman standing in the doorway; she was naked, and the man at the desk observed her silhouette through the candlelight.
“Not yet,” answered the man. He tore out the piece of paper which had been in the typewriter, then threw it behind his back onto the floor of his study. “Let me finish this,” he took a drag from his cigarette. The woman passed the doorway through the forced open door — courtesy of a pile of books acting as a door stopper — and navigated her way through the towers of literature and crumpled papers that littered the room.
“What was it?” she asked, looking over towards the recently discarded paper.
“Just garbage,” he said as he got up. The man walked over to the piles of papers and turned around, “Which one did I just throw away?” The woman pointed towards one. He picked it up and straightened it out. “In the beginning, there was nothing,” he read. “But nothing is stupid, so we all decided to make something.” He shook his head and looked to the woman, “See? Stupid.”
She crossed her arms, “I don’t think so.”
“Yeah— well I do.” he brushed by her and hobbled to the other end of a room where a fire was burning. He threw the piece of paper in. There was a crackling, the fire briefly sprung to life and then sunk back into embers of resignation. The naked woman looked around the room. “Are all of these stupid too?” she asked.
“Mostly, yes,” the man replied.
“Rent is soon, you know?” the woman asked as she opened one of the books on the shelf at random. “Naturalis Philosophicus Mathematicas,” she read out loud. “What is that, Latin? Is Latin going to help pay rent?” The man mumbled something and waved his hand. “Get a job, for crying out loud. We don’t even have electricity.” She flicked the switch in the corner of the room on and off, but the chandelier remained dark, the room still only being kept alight by the fireplace and the sparse candle here and there. “I’m hungry, Gerald.”
“It’s good for us,” he said. “We’re fat anyway.”
“Not for long,” the woman spat.

>>14774636
The "flow" of your writing feels very forced and artificial. In just the first few seconds, you have her "standing in the doorway", and then you tell the audience he "observed her silhouette through the candlelight", but why do we need to know that? Because you couldn't think of what else to pad your writing with, so now we have to sit through this trivial detail as you hold our hands?

You also say "looking towards the recently discarded paper", as if you're treating the audience like idiots. You're afraid that we're too stupid to know what you'd be talking about if you had just said " she looked at the discarded paper". Why add the "recently"? It just ruins the flow of your prose and makes it needlessly wordier.

Look, I'm literally so tired my eyelids are drooping, so I can't afford tact or grammar and shit right now, but this scene feels a bit more "soul" compared to your other scene's "soulless", but you definitely need a good editor to tell you where to cut the fat and how to condense your words so that they're shorter, more effective, and flow easier.

aaaaaaaaaaaaa i'm so sleepy, but anyway, what I mean by that is like when you wrote:

>"She flicked the switch in the corner of the room on and off, but the chandelier remained dark, the room still only being kept alight by the fireplace and the sparse candle here and there."

You gotta cut the fat so it's like:
>"She flicked a switch up and down, and to no one's amazement, nothing happened. The fireplace chuckled softly in the corner of the room."

Do you get what I'm saying? I'll be back in a few hours, but just try to remember you're filming a movie here. Every second is a thousand dollars. Don't waste seconds unless you feel like those seconds will be so fucking cool or important that it will be totally worth it.

>>14765901
While religion may be a tool of mass control and indoctrination; Christianity in this case, It is also a fundamental component of society to uphold social cohesion and virtue en masse; due to the lack of intelligence and critical thinking in the majority of populations evident in every demographic, in this case the European one, is necessary to ensure a healthy sense of community and belonging to ensure most European's existences are justified and can ensure a healthy future for the advancement of the human race.

Just a little snippet of my works

>>14774703
Just a heads up, I'm not the original writer of the 'soulless' scene. I was just defending the other person's style of narrative. I'd like to keep chatting somewhere outside the thread. Do you have a discord or something?

>>14765901
https://pastebin.com/MKg92mrV

>>14774844
Garbage. Quit.

>>14774844
multiple references to nudity dont then require a schizophrenic conversation to decide to put a coat on
lots of he's and his', even with the name reveal
is the 2020/2021 thing a typo or allusion to time travel?

>tfw you mostly enjoy writing generic fantasy, and /lit/ will shit on it no matter the quality

>>14775341
Ah, damn it. I thought I posted the more up to date version. Thanks for the feedback.

>>14775374
Actually, it'd be criticised according to its actual quality.

>>14774752
Sorry, I do not. I have gmail, facebook, and text, but that's about it, unless you also count instagram, snapchat, and all that other bullshit.

>>14775966
d.a.17.anonymous@gmail.com

shoot me a message

Anyone write for pay? Journals, epub, etc? What's your average monthly intake? What genres do you have the most luck selling?

>>14776042
I sent a message titled "/lit/shit"

>>14776064
You don't ask questions like that here.

>>14768824
I really liked the mania present in this, congrats on the publication. I wish I could keep contact with you and inquire about your publishing process as well as show you my own work. I'm getting started and have a couple of short works I'd like to develop into full/short stories but am trying to learn how to flesh out plots.

As far as your story, it's really fun to read and the narrator comes across as manic and unhinged. It was captivating.

>>14774703
I'd compromise between the two. I don't like the "to no one's amazement" interjection, but I quite like the anthropomorphism.
>She flicked the switch on and off, but the chandelier remained dark. The fireplace chuckled softly in the corner of the room.

>>14773724
>>14774502

I hoped posting one's work to 4chan of all places would yield varying input. Of course I expected low effort insults and such and looked forward to them. However off all the input yours is the highest word count and emotion. They say (You)s are respect so I guess enjoy.

I won't defend my work. However you stated this opening paragraph or "scene" is intent on setting "mundane" or "REAL life" emotions. Which is true to an extent that is not my intent with the opening paragraph. However I will break down the data present within my paragraph to expound how there's much more at work.

"Steven lives a solitary existence." We establish our 'soul' or main character and his emotional status quo within the first sentence. "He carries the groceries home in a paper bag dinner is prepared in the kitchen." This is a ritual invoking domesticity. Subconsciously most humans eat together which is contrasted with the previous sentence. "A woman's face is framed in pictures throughout the house." An obvious visual image the auteur is explicitly laying out. He is alone but there was a woman. The subconscious emotion of domesticity could imply a previous partner and the use of word "memorialized" the explicit reference of death. "She looks on as the man stirs sauce on the stove top". Again the auteur is specifically stating this woman has a physical presence within the house which infers a spirituality contrasted with death. Her witness to Steven's solitary existence, implying he is not infact alone. "He sits alone eating and watches the television." You are most correct about this sentence. Which serves to reinforce the previous emotional status quo."Steven stands in the bathroom readying for bed." This line is nothing more than exposition and the weakest of the paragraph. "Searching the medicine cabinet the man finds a vial of pills". The use of the word "search" and "vial" being object can be inferred to Call to Adventure. Which, being the auteur, I mean explicitly. "He opens the lid scattering too many in his palm." He has answered the call by opening the pills. The use of "too many" implies there was a limit, or correct dosage, and Steven took more pills than allowed, or overdosed. As in an suicide. The auteur or I had hoped this was clear without being obvious and contrived. Emotionally connecting the death presence of the woman.

By committing suicide, Steven is embracing the Threshold. The barrier of all ego death. An academic theory long agreed upon. Accepting the Threshold or death is contrasted with his current emotional status quo or "solitary existence" as a dead woman stares on.


I will not say this work is "good". It could be awful. I've already rewritten the paragraph, tiny adjustments that read better. However to say this opening paragraph or "scene" has no purpose is factually incorrect. Thank you for your critique.

>>14776938
Holy fuck, dude. You made an extremely simple and shallow story with a dry and predictable punchline. You could write the most meaningful story ever, but if your prose keeps being this shit and you this defensive, you won't ever produce emotions in the reader. Don't call yourself an auteur; that's a title that should only be given to you by others.

>>14772677
You gutted the tone of the original, although yours is much less condescending.

>>14772141
It's a bit bloated. I understand what you're going for, but your readers got the idea long ago. If you want to keep all that, you'll need to seriously consider how it's all organized. Compare the following edit of your original, which improves the flow:

This is my reality. It might be bleak, it might be bland, but it also might not be either of those things, or perhaps both. It is exciting, scary, horrifying, and intriguing. It is wonderful and miserable. Beautiful and ugly. My reality presents itself as a paradox or oxymoron, somehow both one thing and its opposite. More likely, my reality is a spectrum: neither completely treacherous nor a utopia.

It doesn't address all the criticisms here (>>14772651), but I don't know who the voice is so I'll let it go for now.

>>14777011
Well with all due and sincere respect, it's the first paragraph of a story. You'd be more correct to the say "You wrote an extremely simple and shallow first paragraph". But I am not here to Internet Argue with you. Enjoy your emotions.

>>14777035
I'm not the same person from before, a person with which you did try to Internet Argue, by the way, so why claim otherwise?
You yourself explained how it was a complete story with a structure in itself that followed the hero's journey. Whether there's more is just trivia and not relevant. It doesn't make your prose any better.
Do me a favour, don't claim sincere respect only to condescend on me in your last words - at least be honest.

>>14777049
I respect everyone and I have not communicated otherwise. I am writing words in a text field and you are experiencing negative emotions. For that you have my sympathy and again, respect.

>>14776938
Holy shit...

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.

>>14777060
Again, I'm not the person with which you were arguing. Are you capable of not being condescending for one post?

>>14777063
Apparently not. For that I apologize.

>>14776938
Not even him, but I have to agree with the last two anons. Super gay.

>>14777618
Insults towards original works and the humans behind them on /lit/ are as stimulating as being asked if you want fries with that at McDonald's. Clearly the primary lesson here is not to interact with the lessers on 4chan. However I thank the positive interactions and will never post again on /lit/.

>>14777635
Wait, I need to tell you something.

>>14776938
Alright, this time, I AM the original replier. You want genuine criticism that doesn't rely on insults or swear words to get their point across? How about you do a bit more SHOWING, and a lot less TELLING, BITCH.

Okay, I insulted you, but I really couldn't help myself. You were just acting waaaaaay too faggy. Aw man, I insulted you again. Aw crap, I'm so sorry...You little pocket sized BITCH.

Oh, fuck, I can't stop insulting you, you little hand-me-down FUCK.

Aw fuck. Aw man. I'm soooo sorry, YOU LITTLE BITCH.

>>14777727
kek
This post has better prose than his story

>>14777727
I am breaking my rule and being a hypocrite by replying. I want to tell you that I am validated writer. However I am not Stephen King nor do I have an expansive list of published reverent work. With this validation, I am working on pieces that will pay bills like their predecessors. I was scrolling and posted the first paragraph from one project to see if actual feedback could be found. And it was. However I also expected the conventional "writing workshop" emotional mentality. Sharing prose and the stereotypical emotions that arise from an audience of likeminded craftsman and or hobbyists can be prickly. It's a tale old as time, really. Which is why I asked for valid input and it worked, for a bit. The anger that arises from untalented dilettantes is actually quite normal in my life. And you know? I FUCKING LOVE IT. THAT SHIT IS DELICIOUS. Cringe, I know, but there it is. I will unironically lick your tears. But I did not want that inevitable and eventual negative confrontation when I posted the paragraph. Which is why I posted a singular one opening paragraph. That's it. And look at all those (You)s. Tasty. Savoury. Your salt is most intoxicating. But that is sincerely not why I posted. Please be angry. Please type more of it. That is genuine entertainment. The hidden stores of my ego desire my inferior's envy. It is my shame but you are feeding me.

>>14777835
Wearing out that copy of Websters, you poseur?

>>14772625
Underrated

>>14777844
Thank you for the back-handed compliment. The taste is sweet but mild.

"This will be the seven-thousand and eight-hundredth time we've done this, Edgar."
I held my head and sank to a knee, vision swimming and all of my body throbbing under the might of the demon lord's spell. The world around me began to fade, grain by grain and shadow by shadow as the demon lord's glowing red eyes became a blazing, hateful core at the center of my fading perception.
"I can't beat you, and you can't beat me. Give up this time, please! Stay in your village, become a family man. You don't understand what I'm trying to do, you never have! For once, just listen to me!"
"I am the hero of light!" I shouted to the fiend, struggling to stand. "I will see you destroyed and the world restored to... to..."
"You're an idiot..." the demon lord shook his massive, horned head as my vision went black.

I woke in my bed, sunlight streaming through the shuttered window as a rooster crowed outside. I was in my room, waking slowly from a nightmare that even now was fading from my mind. I brought a hand to my head, rough and calloused from the heavy life of a farm boy. Pain. No; the memory of pain. A vestige of the nightmare, maybe. I swung my legs out from under the heavy woolen blanket and stepped onto the plank floor, wincing at the cold. I looked over my meager things - basin of water in the corner for washing up, peg behind the door for hanging my coat and cap, and my father's old sea chest at the foot of my bed. All familiar, all safe. I rose and stretched, ready to face the day.

>>14777903
this is beyond tacky

>>14777913
Genre fiction usually is. Any advice for cleaning up the actual prose? This is all just practice for me to get better, I've been told I write like Byron's retarded bastard.

>>14777921
>Genre fiction usually is
Not really. You must read really bad genre fiction. Have some subtlety. Don't refer to the villain as "the demon lord" like he's a stock videogame boss. Don't have the hero refer to himself as "the hero of light" like it's a bad literal translation from an isekai anime. Don't write in first person if he can't remember his dream; either he can narrate it, or not. Don't have him refer to himself as a farm boy; it's obvious exposition. Don't have him list his objects around him. Who is he listing them to? Is it his first day in that room?

>>14777938
I was going for a light novel "jrpg" vibe so the hokey stuff was intentional, but I'll take the rest to heart. As far as the description of the room, I've always had trouble with scene-setting. Any advice would be very welcome.

As far as bad genre fiction, I haven't read seriously in a long time and I opened up with Crichton, so yeah.

>>14777835
*Puts down burger*
Woah...

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY

Merv smacked the file on the counter, shifting his bulk onto his stool. "Arright, lemme see what we got here," he grunted as he opened it. Yellowed reports, faded polaroids of a crime scene, and witness reports were clipped to the insides. "Yeah, Townsend. Murray Townsend. Damn, you gotta good memory."

Richard bit the inside of his lip and drummed his fingers on the counter from the other side, glaring at Merv through his own reflection in the bulletproof glass. Down the hall Donna was talking to a rookie officer whose name he didn't know about God-knows-what. "Yeah, I'm just good like that," Murray said as he grabbed a pen from the cracked mug on his side of the glass. "Give me the log so I can sign it out."

Merv folded it shut and slid it an inch closer to himself. "Sorry, Detective, this one's on lockdown. If you hadn't gotten my kid out of that DUI I wouldn't have even let you get close." Merv winced as Murray's eyes hardened. "Sorry, chief's orders! You're in too deep on this one. Besides, I heard chatter you think it was... well, Hell, I don't even wanna say it."

"Nothing," Murray said as he tried to keep his cool, "normal could have left claw marks in solid concrete!"

"Boss, Robbins said the chief's looking for you," Donna said as she slid to Murray's side, grabbing his sleeve and shooting Merv an apologetic glance. "We'd better not keep him waiting."

Murray kept his eyes locked on Merv for a moment longer before slamming the pen back into the mug, the force knocking it over on it's side. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away, walking down the hall to the elevators.

>>14777992
Holy shit I'm fucking done.

Learn from my fuck-ups, kids. Don't write on autopilot and take notes.

>>14777946
>I've always had trouble with scene-setting. Any advice would be very welcome.
Read more. Books for grown ups.

>>14778007
Define books for grownups. The humanities? Nonfiction?

>>14778058
You don't have to stray away from fantasy, but you could at the very least read the classics, like Wolfe.

>>14778072
I'm trying to read more contemporary things. Learning how they wrote in the eighties and nineties won't help me with modern trends. Honestly, I see the appeal in the older works, but it's a matter of prose and style that I need to master first.

>>14778102
>but it's a matter of prose and style
Exactly. You need to learn from the masters before you can reach modernity. Go through the fantasy canon; those are the ones that stuck. No one will remember Litrpg #125325 in two weeks. They won't teach you anything about those pesky things, prose and style.

>>14778127
Fair points all.

>>14777992
This is absolute trash. I really hope you just posted something you pulled off reddit or something because if this is yours I'd consider necking yourself.

The skin of my back melted into the matress
The pillow beneath is now one with my neck
How long have I been here?
I can now only guess

Locking eyes with the ceiling results in a stalemate
The blank gaze of the wall won't make me feel less alone
Slithering towards me are ennui and self hate
Panic-stricken, afraid, I swiftly reach for my phone

In this room where time's flow came to a halt
The view is unchanging, my flesh left to rot
Through pixels and bits I experience the world
Tales of people dead and alive, timid and bold
Pretty girls and videos of men conquer the former
In my lair it is cold, and I wish it was warmer

>>14778233
Hurtful!

Every leaf was green, but greying, the fallen ones were swept by the wind to far off landing places and I felt moved by it as well, like all agency and soul had been whisked away with the leaves, away from me. And there was a knot in my stomach and it was the only thing tying me to the ground, through my soaked boots.

How do I stop being filled with self-doubt about my writing. Whenever I post something here it gets shat on tremendously, I'll go fix it up and post it again and it gets shat on again after the changes I've made. I know /lit/ isn't one person but it's really discouraging when the only feedback I receive is negative. I don't want to be kiss-assed but it's crushing to only hear bad things, fix said bad things and then hear more bad things.

>>14779561
>I don't want to be kiss-assed but it's crushing to only hear bad things, fix said bad things and then hear more bad things
Perhaps you didn't fix the bad things, you only changed them.

>>14779561
I've posted excerpts from classics in critique threads, and even those get shit on. It proves that /lit/ doesn't read, and have shit opinions. Critique threads are for laughing at people who get assmad when they get told their work is trash.

>>14779601
>Critique threads are for laughing at people who get assmad when they get told their work is trash.
this guy is /lit/ty and based

>>14765901
Their battle for dominance continued on. The first ape, a strong armed silverback, showed his teeth, which glistened with thick red berry juice. He was the first to find the ripened bush, and was already gorging himself when another had come then to feast. The first ape saw his opponent and immediately stood upright as the other ran around both him and the shrub, circling ever closer. His already patience wore down quickly, and in an attempt to intimidate, he slammed down his fists into the dirt. The arriver was undeterred, and suddenly he went into full charge, kicking back thick clouds of dust and shaking the earth as each arm and leg landed. Now raising both of his arms once more, the first ran over to him upright, and their bodies met with a resounding crash. Both gorillas attempted to wrap their hands around the other so as to tackle them down into the thick jungle floor. It was an intricate dance of charge, pound, and evade which went on for several minutes. One came with an overhead spike, and was met with a kick in the stomach. A wild fist swung from the right and connected onto thick matted fur with bone crunching force. Cries from both the first and second ape scattered any remaining animals nigh them, until the once bright and vibrant jungle became a deadly battlefield choked with dust. Both of their puffed out chests were torn and bruised, but still did they fight until the stench of blood lingered under every nostril. Soon, it became clear who the victor would be as the first ape became slower in his throws and evasions, his breath thick with exhaustion and pain. The invader saw this, and with what remaining strength left within him, he charged rapidly towards his enemy, and in one fell swoop did both of them land. But as he raised his fists to cave in his opponents skull, he found that the ape was dead before he had even hit the ground. The young gorilla got off, and looked at the newly formed carcass. The old silverback’s bloodshot eyes were crossed in separate directions, and his throat was choked with white foam, but the victor ignored it. He took then to his prize, which was almost beckoning to him the entire period from when he had first laid eyes on it. The bush was littered with fat ripe fruit glowing orange in the sunlight, and when the apes teeth sunk into the soft flesh, there cake a bursting of red juice. It was sweet, and ran down his throat like smooth water. He looked into the sun and the surrounding flora with admiration as he stuffed more down his gullet. The ape realized then that his vision was blurry, and his stomach began to pulsate in pain. He attributed it to the fight, ignoring the part where he didn’t feel these ailments until after he ate the fruit...

>>14779601
>I've posted excerpts from classics in critique threads, and even those get shit on.
the only people who do that are people who get mad when their work gets shit on

>>14765901
Only poem I really wrote in English, been a while, would change some things if I were to do it now

Hypnagogia

darkness brought to life by death of candle
hides within horrific things that died
yet her demons, ghosts and fiends are
incomparable to those which prowl inside

cries powerful as deaf’ning silence
loudly killing thoughts galore
as hives of poison–making wasps
devour emotions evermore

and toxin seeps into the flowers
blooming feelings long since gone
deserted soul enduring empty
seeking but to perish before dawn


darkness brought to life by death of candle
leaving him alone with heavy chains
chilling whispers oozing from the heart
burning in his pulsing veins

She killed you! one says, its voice sweet
You killed her! one adds, knife to throat
thus myriads tear limb from limb
all filled with eerie laugh and gloat

his soul now oddly split in four
mother, father, nymph and son
each’s hands are sewn on to their mouth
their legs are broken, none can run


darkness brought to life by death of candle
hides within the glimmer of the knife
blunt it's laying ‘neath the bed
dried blood still on it from the strife

moments yore 'twas in a drawer
suddenly it was in her
who put it there knows only god
or no one, if you so prefer

discovered, now not she but it
all love deceased thus and one sided
questions; Who would do such thing?
are all in vain and horribly misguided


darkness brought to life by death of candle
pushes you to open up your eyes
seeing naught but through the window
faint stars glowing in the skies

can’t move an inch cause heavy dread
pressing on each particle of skin
as if weights, which, pushing down all over
make you feel your bones crushed from within

yet you lie there, jewels uncovered
shining in them tiny crumbs of light
signaling to you the well known thought
this will be another restless night

>>14780835
>darkness brought to life by death of candle
Stopped reading there.

>>14779561
Just read this thread to feel better about yourself. 90% of the posts are so laughably bad it always gives me a self-esteem boost.

If there are poems in Spanish, can I write and post a poem in Romanian and expect relevant criticism? Any fellow dacoromani out there?

>>14781025
Don't wanna be an asshole cause the dude said english wasn't his first language, but yeah, I literally stopped reading after the first line

>>14782755
>>14781025
I'm not that guy, but I want to know what threw you off so I don't make that same mistake. Was that line lacking in depth or was it the incorrect grammar (which I though was some "ye olde" poetic style, like when poets write like Yoda speaks).

>>14782840
Just looking at the length of the poem, and him saying english wasn't his first language, and the beginning line, and adding them all up, anyone who's even remotely familiar with good poetry could tell they would just be wasting their time.

Either it would be bland, uninteresting, trite, or impossible to understand, or some combination of all of the above. You just DON'T want to sit through 3 minutes of poetry just to walk away muttering to yourself "wow, that was really, really mediocre".

Thus, you don't take that risk, and you don't read it. Who knows? Maybe I'm missing out on the greatest poem of all time. Maybe the man is actually Robert Frost reborn. Meh. Oh well. I'm willing to take that risk in the hopes that I'm actually missing out on a really long and boring poem.

>>14782840
>>14783134
Yep, I'm coming back to say I just read the first 4 stanzas, and the only real compliment I have is "THANK YOU FOR FUCKING RHYMING FOR ONCE".

Fucking HATE freestyle poetry now because niggers are hacks and can't fucking write rhyming poetry because their 6th grade art teacher once told them poetry doesn't NEED to rhyme. Bullshit. Lazy, hack bullshit.

But beyond that, the meter is off, and the rhyme scheme seems to get confusing near the end, and the image he's painting is confusing and/or obfuscated as fuck. Is it about a breakup? Is it about death? Is it about a literal fucking candle? I'm smart, not psychic. How the FUCK am I supposed to know what the fuck you're talking about without even like a title or something? Is this one of those hippy poems that are all like "It means whatever you need it to mean, man..."?

The poem lacks direction and focus on top of everything else, but the dude probably speaks Mexican or something, so can I really blame him for trying? I can speak just the tiniest bit of spanish or sign language, but I would be fucked if I were forced to write a poem in either.

>>14781755
post it

bumping from page 10

>>14767860
You posted this a few threads ago. Even though I am an absolute poetrylet, I find this poem really good. Love the extended metaphor of being under the boot. I'm interested in what poetry Anons have to say.
Also, what's with the spacing in the first line?

disclosure: i have only ever read about 10 works of fiction ever.

>>14766059
i see what you are going for but i don't think its working. imho a style like this works better in a spoken narrative tone but as of now it seems a bit dry and formal.

>>14768601
agree with the other anon, that there is potential, but i wouldn't say take it more seriously but perhaps with more commitment; your work is nice because its fun. i implore you to watch 8½ by Fellini.

>>14768824
couldnt be bothered to read this because there is stuff happening but i wasn't engaged at all. ex: the first paragraph could have been restructured to begin with the drawings instead of the premise of the existence of drawings. methinks this is a common issue in this piece.

>>14769668
i dare you to continue

>>14771698
>I sucked [...] on [...], the only true mistress I ever had
i couldn't continue

>>14772022
the beginning of this goes between being wayy too vague (barbwire is in my stomach) and too explicit (they hurt my self-concept)

by itself, doing so is fine, but you need to make the polarities meet

>>14772141
it's like words are coming out of your mouth but you're not really saying anything at all, and you're not even sure if you are saying anything either.

or succinctly, a metaphor works better with a premise to map the analogy, but your overly vague metaphor can be applied onto anything really. big discovery wow-ies are you 13 reading kafka (note: i have not read kafka)

>>14772416
i liked this but as soon as i realized that nothing was happening and that this will continue for the entire duration of the large chunk of text, i stopped.

>>14772677
agree with what the other anon said, but both have its own merits/lack-of

>>14773105
so many words used to describe absolutely nothing at all; and then when you begin to talk about /something/ i couldn't care because there is no reason to
general critique of everything i've seen so far: everyone here is trying too hard trying to write something "great" as opposed to just writing something "real"

>>14774275
unlike most other text here, there is actually strong imagery here, but s3mp4i i don't think one can "observed her silhouette through the candlelight" unless the man is writing in the dark. also i think its better to establish the characters with concrete names instead of a vague "woman/man" but perhaps that is a stylistic choice.

>>14774502
mostly agree but there a few naive artists that want to have a word with you

>>14774636
>>14774703
disagree with there being lack of flow: you have some flow/rhythm which creates strong imagery, but the issue is that there isn't anything going on: people are talking, stuff is happening, but why should anyone care? what ties it together? as come lit critics might say "there is no central conflict".....well actually there one, but nothing they are doing addresses it

>>14776938
Listen, lad. The other guy may be a prick, but he's not wrong. I don't find your piece good or terribad, just mediocre. But

>the reader cannot read your mind.

Yes, we get the suggestions and implicit hints about him being a widow and wanting to become an hero with pills. But then, so what? Nobody is going to overanalyze schizo-style like what you just did. Your prose is barebones, which can be good if done right. Unfortunately your content is as exciting as a salesman, and that turns people off, and you can't change that. Yes, it's the first paragraph to a longer piece. It can get better. I even like the imagery near the end of the second paragraph, and I don't mind reading more, if you're gonna make all that boring shit worth it. Which looks like it.

All in all, your work is just okay. Also you sound fucking pretentious in this post.

>>14772233
>The men drank from pools of rainwater, one man posted as a scarecrow for the flock of gulls and their guano.
"Man/men" is repetitive. Also, comma splice. You can use "several men" and then "one posted as..."

>Black water extended from the toothy beach forever, the leagues they’d drifted upon in the days after the catastrophe.
Could use "into forever" instead, otherwise this sounds like a comma splice.

>It had been a whaling expedition, [...], it had been a motley crew of 80, immigrants and the paupers native to Philadelphia
Another comma splice and repetition. "They were a motley crew of 80..."Never

>numbers
Never start a sentence with a number -- spell it out. The general rule, at least in academic writing, is you spell out small numbers and write larger amounts in numbers. Four men, one Irish, 150 miles and a crew of 80.

>One of these men, Arthur Straus was knocked unconscious in the entropy of the storm and awoke to the others shouting in joy and then looking to each other and himself questioningly.
This sentence is very long and I lost track of who was looking at who questioningly. Split it into two. Also, cut "himself". Several people looking at each other is enough. We get that someone would look at him eventually.

Alright. The last two sentences are the best part in this piece. Perhaps the only part that is good. Why? Because everything before that sounds like a news report. If you can't help but to keep all the numbers, then mix up your prose a bit. See what makes the last two sentences good? Some feeling, some imagery, whatever the fuck you call it. You feel the savagery of uncharted land, the danger You feel the despair as a survivor of some massive storm clutched the icon of some religion that may or may not help him now.

But everything before that? Nothing. They sailed, there were this many of them, one got knocked out cold, and some survived. This is what they call telling instead of showing. So, show, don't tell. It's okay, lad. I wouldn't say it's hopeless because the last two sentences almost saved it (almost). Work on your sentencing and see how others make their work have feeling. Good luck and thanks for posting.

>>14774275
>The woman passed the doorway through the forced open door — courtesy of a pile of books acting as a door stopper
>doorway
>door
>door
Needlessly long and can be shortened such as
>She passed through the door, held open by a pile of books,

>>14765901
It was a summer afternoon on the cusp of a long overdue slumber. The days had been too hot, and too long. From cursing the days in front, sweating under parasols, slapping stray mosquitoes and flies that would happen to fly close-by yet scream and run a dozen lengths from any bees that sought to pollinate a flower nearby, cravings of one more day, or, perhaps a week, just to enjoy the end of the summer for a little while longer presented themselves as the frosty feelings melted away.
The sun beat heavily overhead casting a parting glance before it became forlorn, its face would soon grow longer than the shadows creeping away from its brilliant rays and finally settle to hibernate behind a blanket and rain.
But for now, it’s face swelled onto the cherry tree above, onto the hydrangeas (of pink, white, yellow) below the windowsill, onto green grass cut the day before last with the lingering scent of being freshly cut remaining just in time for summer’s end, and onto a little girl in the garden making daisy chains in a white polka dot dress humming along with the radio that played from the sill.
It was a good day. A bird flew overhead, soaring on a light breeze, up, up, up, and then darting down somewhere behind the house. The girl watched it. She decided she would like to be able to fly; she’d fly alongside it and then further and further and touch the sun if she didn’t get too tired, and if she got too tired she wouldn’t mind too much because she could actually fly. Wouldn’t that be something? She wondered if anyone had ever flown before just by themselves and followed a streak of white paint in the sky trailing an airplane. No, no, definitely not, but it would be nice to fly, she almost said, stopping herself just before the words left her mouth for she had been reprimanded for too many times for speaking to an imaginary friend (to which she had protested she didn’t have one but her mother insisted that she must keep her thoughts in her mind and her words on her lips and she should be mindful) and her mama was just inside. The song on the radio had finished and moved onto a more uplifting track that she hadn’t heard before. She wiggled a little before having the incredible urge to stand and dance, and that is what she did. She waved her arms around, jumped up and down, and twirled once, twice, three times, and then finally stopping when she heard a huge laugh from behind her.


its 2am for me rn so i will give feedback in the morning

>>14774275
>>14786234
I would prefer this as "doorway." Passing through a door doesn't sound right. From there, the door is what's held, but the doorway is what's open, so it should be fine.

>>14766059
This writing sounds autistic

>>14780060
Firstly, it's far too long for a single paragraph.

I think my main problem with this is simply that nothing about it feels like a confrontation between two great apes in a jungle. All the details are wrong. The jungle isn't dusty, it should be wet and steaming with petrichor.

>One came with an overhead spike, and was met with a kick in the stomach.
Gorillas have pretty small legs; all their power is in their arms, they generally pound and bite, not kick. Moreover, fights between adult male gorillas are usually demonstrative rather than genuine fights to the death (although not always). They also don't really fight over food - they're primarily leaf-eaters, their food is everywhere; most combat between males is over access to females. Not to mention the fact that any gorilla stupid enough to eat poisonous berries wouldn't live to adulthood.

What I'm saying is that there's a lack of attention to detail. Also, in places it felt more like description of a fight, not a dramatisation.

>>14780835
I actually like your first line, but the rest really does just scream 'edgy 14 year old'.

Your rhyming is okay, but your rhythm is just all over the place, and in poetry the latter is more important; concentrate on finding a suitable meter, then decided what you want your rhyme scheme to be.

>>14786810
>From cursing the days in front, sweating under parasols, slapping stray mosquitoes and flies that would happen to fly close-by yet scream and run a dozen lengths from any bees that sought to pollinate a flower nearby, cravings of one more day, or, perhaps a week, just to enjoy the end of the summer for a little while longer presented themselves as the frosty feelings melted away.
No. Just no. That should not be a single sentence; you've done similar things elsewhere too.

However, other than your inability to convert a comma into a full stop, it isn't bad.

>>14787715
And now for my offering. I understand if you don't feel like reading it all the way through, but even an opinion on just the first few paragraphs would be appreciated.

Florius knew it was a trap. He’d accepted death with the order given. There was no other choice. Die here, screaming and bloody, or wither away as the star fort’s last gruel silo fed those above him. “Ave Imperator!” and a sabre thrust through recycled air sealed his fate. Others accompanied him, but his salute had been the quickest out of the volunteers.
Most of them had been born in the void. It didn’t cross any of their minds to die in it, never to have walked on a planet’s earth, was perhaps an oddity. Grated steel was all their feet knew. This gutted waystation, despite its ruin, could’ve passed for home.
‘Lieutenant, look.’ Florius did, turning his void-suit’s lumen to where old Jeigh’s stabbed. Arterial spatter hung, glistening as if freshly opened from a vein. More clung to a crumpled plasteel panel beside. No corpse floated, only fleshy gibbets frozen mid-vacuum.
‘The Beast?’ Private Mengel whispered.
‘The Beast.’ Lieutenant Florius Eckardt confirmed.
’No man couldah buckled steel as that..’ The stale air caught in Jeigh’s throat, clogging their vox-link with static. As far as could be seen in the dark, similar slaughters had played out. Claw dents. Ruptures. Entire chasms torn with savage, unfamiliar markings. The STC-fabricated station walls were no barrier to whatever lurked deeper.
‘We find it.’

ehlp

>>14774275
“Come back to bed Duke”, said the woman standing in the doorway; she was naked, and the man at the desk observed her silhouette through the candlelight. "I'm ready for some action now!". The man turned his head at her and sneered "blow it out your ass."

>>14787836
Based and Dukepilled

Three cats. I’ve seen three dead cats. That’s a cat a year.
The first cat was after a date that seemed to go well. She was lying on her side, legs stiff, eyes glossy like they were smeared with grease. She was white and grey and dirty. I never heard from her again, but that was alright: life was just getting started.
The second cat, well, I thought she was alive. She was lying in the road and I saw her as I biked back from my language class. I almost made a noise to get her to move out of the road. She was dead, but she hadn’t been for long, and her eyes felt like they could still see you. She was beautiful and young and healthy and she must have been hit by a car or something. I covered her and then I sat on the curb and smoked a cigarette. I could barely believe it when the other cats came to mourn. They walked so slowly, like the air was thick as water, and they didn’t even notice the cars for the dead cat. Together we paid our respects, in the hot humid night under a starless sky. In the morning she was gone, and a car was parked where she’d been looking almost alive. The language class lasted another two months. I learned a bit but not enough. Every night afterwards I biked back and looked in that spot where she’d been. It just felt like the right thing to do.
The third cat had been left in the road. A long streak of blood and chunks stretched out behind her, but her fur didn’t seem broken and there were no guts or anything hanging out. She was just dead, and then there was the blood. I’d been drunk again, but I didn’t know why. It had just started to happen that way. Like by accident. The third cat had looked like my cat at home, the home I’d left, and I by the time I’d come back with a sheet of cardboard to bring her to the curb, somebody already had. They’d left her at the base of one of those little sad trees they put along the sidewalks. I don’t know what became of her. I never walked that way again.
Now it’s almost the fourth year. Every year, the desire to leave feels stronger. I guess I’ve just been trying to work up the courage. Sometimes it feels like I’ve never really lived here at all.
And I guess, now it seems a good a time as ever. Besides, I'm not ready for the next.

~~ Not really sure how to end this one

>>14766210
Mirá, la influencia de Borges, como bien antes dijeron, está muy marcada (Siendo lector habitual del mismo es un elogio, aunque veo que queres marcar tu propio estilo); también siento definitivamente el peso de un Quevedo.

''Sacúdete la herrumbre de los hombros,
rigor del tiempo que edifica escombros,
y haz frente al contrincante: la memoria
implacable de todos tus fracasos,
la sombra que desprendes como escoria,
el bronce que jamás se hará pedazos."

Esas líneas de cierre me van a quedar muy grabadas; el contraste del contrincante y el pasado del pugilista es brillante, y la imagen del ''bronce que jamás se hará pedazos'' trae a la perfección, teniendo como precedente todo el poema, la esencia del luchador, la inmortalidad y un aura helénica bien marcada al mismo tiempo.

Todo muy bien logrado, solo me queda una duda sobre la linea 7, en la palabra ''empate''; puedo entender que no querías repetir ''embate'', sin embargo (opinion pura y solamente personal) creo que choca bastante, por una cuestión de significado más que nada.

>>14787915
Finally, someone who knows what the fuck they're doing.

I honestly can't even tell if you're only good in comparison to all the other fucks here, or if you're actually good by yourself. I want to believe it's the latter, so I will believe it's the latter.

>>14788157
Damn man, that actually means a lot. I used to post here occasionally, about three years ago, back when I had the wrong opinions about everything. Did a lot of learning and took it more seriously. Glad to hear it's starting to come through

>>14779561
I swear, you could pick a couple of paragraphs from a nobel prize winning author and people here would still find ways to nitpick at it.

>>14788915
Despite I understand what are you refering to, is pretty simple to argue that everything has something to put a critic on. There are not immaculate authors nor immaculate pieces of work.

>>14787988
Muchas gracias por leerlo y por tus comentarios. Qué gusto que haya sido de tu agrado.

Sobre el séptimo verso, según mi lectura, "Impugnando tus puños el empate" indica que el púgil (o el poeta, que es lo mismo) no admiten el empate del reposo, es decir, quieren o la victoria absoluta o la derrota absoluta. No obstante, y aquí mi lectura difiere de la tuya, creo que el soneto se torna irónico hacia el final debido a esto. El "contrincante" del poema no sólo es la memoria y la sombra del púgil, es también "el bronce que jamás se hará pedazos". En otras palabras, el púgil pelea consigo mismo, y la pelea es eterna ("jamás se hará pedazos"), y por tanto no hay ni victoria ni derrota, sólo la lucha eterna y solitaria.

Por supuesto, un soneto admite muchas lecturas, y no creo que la tuya y la mía sean mutuamente excluyentes.

Por cierto, si no es mucha molestia, ¿podrías decirme tu opinión sobre los otros dos sonetos? >>14765981

Like a looney toons character he slammed her into the concrete basement wall. His left hand had a tight grip on the back of her collar button up shirt. He then took her hair and wrapped it around his right clenched fist. He felt excitement for how he really could smash her face in, like in the cartoons.
BOING!
The bounce of her forehead off the wall made a muted “thunk” sound
CRASH!
A second charge, hoping to get a real relief. He put extra strength in shoving her head into the concrete. But it wasn’t the result he was expecting. She seems to have gone limp, especially since she was out of energy and was in shock.
He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t know why. He tried again.
BOOM!
He couldn’t muster up the strength to get a good throw.
“Get the fuck up and stand!” he pouted in a dizzy tantrum. No response from the girl, just tired short breaths.

>>14789148
Writers' Comment: I write a lot in order to easily get out my thoughts and learn things. I do a lot of flow of consciousness. I don't know if my writing is good or not, or how to go about writing something at all. Any tips?

b-sides

i bring my lips to yours only to taste someone else. panic rises up through my stomach, leaving a crest of nausea in its wake, and comes to rest heavy on my chest. flashing neon: you are not mine. but knowing you scare easily, i try to convince myself that my insecurities are manifesting. i am achingly self-aware of my intensity, exactingly preoccupied with stepping back from brink of unfathomable emotion you bring up within me. as desperate as i am for you to want me as badly as i want you, keeping your attention requires calculated aloofness. i yield to you completely, but fall asleep gaslighting myself.

the next morning, you assuage my fears. our little ritual. on a run to retrieve my carelessly forgotten phone, you stop me in the parking lot so i can climb onto your back. you carry me into the store like that, slung over you like a lovesick knapsack. you don’t just want me to smile, you want me to radiate - and you’re effortlessly adept at it. i won’t remember the faces on the employees bearing witness to this spectacle. i’m too busy reveling in you. last night becomes a distant memory, selectively expunged. this is the only version of you that exists to me.

a collection of superficially shiny but ultimately hollow trinkets. introducing yourself with a warm embrace, infused with enough of your magic to make what would otherwise be a distressing act of physical contact into something that feels easy and comforting. welcoming me into your home for the first time by surprising me with an earnest attempt at making my favorite meal.

dinner. the waitress is flirting with you. you engage her in spanish. an eruption of molten avarice. you’ve sanctioned her attempt at humiliating me. an obstinately blinking reminder: you are not mine. but does being the cool girl mean swallowing the sting of being audience to the solicitation of your next experiment in lovemaking? don’t you care enough for me to pretend i’m the only one, if only when we’re together? i smile at the waitress who has overstayed her welcome. i feign comfort, hoping that you deem me worthier than her. there’s more than common language and mutual attraction between us, we have something transcendental. i know you feel it, too, but i haven’t convinced you to abandon caution. yet.
>so i climbed onto your altar

my exposed heart is spinning on your turntable

>begged

>please don’t let me falter

legs wrapped around your waist

arms around your neck

reeling

>aaaaaall myyy devooootion

victoria legrande’s haunting vocals searing into me this precise moment of gaping vulnerability

>let’s go on pretending

like an eternal bruise

that the light is never-ending

dancing was your idea

1/2

>>14789173

2/2 (also i missed a line that should be greentext, fml)

in my dizziness, i forget the lp at your house. just one of many ritualistic offerings sacrificed in pursuit of your love. maybe because you know what it means to me, you seem stunned when i tell you to keep it. but i know i will never see you again, because you’ve done this before. carried me to great heights just to let me go plummeting into the abyss - dispensing a level of emotional torture incomprehensible to the rational mind. i followed your siren call completely aware of my fate. i was willing to strike any bargain to feel you even just once more. you knew what it meant to me. was the thorough destruction of my most beloved totem intentional - the maximum penalty demanded of me to fulfill the covenant? or was it just a casualty of your fickle appetite for my devotion? did you feel my grief reverberate in the moment when i conceded to you the loss of an exceptionally intimate artifact? empathy is your brand, after all.

but what use could i have for a corporeal relic of my heartbreak?

even when i tried to salvage some kind of virtue from the festering scars you left, i couldn’t revisit devotion. no, even my laurels are inscribed, instead, with lines from your favorite of their songs. a talisman of protection.

>>14765981
Muy buenos. De dónde eres? América Latina? Estudiante de letras o escribes más como un 'pasatiempo'?

>>14789414
De México, estudié Letras Inglesas y escribo por gusto, con vanidosas aspiraciones literarias. Y tú?

>>14776938
f4m i hope your theory-mind doesn't overpower your creative-arts-mind bc holy shit an auteur defending/creating his/her work via analysis of auteur theory is a bit of autist theory. the work should speak for itself!

Guess I'll give it a go. From a novel I'm currently working on.

They stay like that for a moment before Jonah turned over to face Trent. And for the first time Trent saw the pain hiding behind a mask of confidence and anger. He looked into Jonah’s eyes with their amber tint and brought a hand up to caress his rugged, tear-stained face. The touch did little to ease the clear pain he was feeling, but Trent persisted and wrapped an arm around the older man’s waist, pulling himself in close. Despite their difference in size, Trent made an attempt to hold him and felt a shudder run through the older man’s large body. Jonah’s hand reached up to stroke the side of Trent’s face in the same way and he closed his eyes. Trent could see that the hand was stained with dirt and dried blood, but he did not back away from its touch. He ignored the grim reality of it and leaned into the filthy, calloused palm. Even then he could feel warmth, that little spark of life and meaning compelling him to strive. It was the kind of subtle warmth that spoke of a love willing to be, that spoke of the tenderness the older man so seldom let breach the surface of his stony exterior. It was the touch of humanity in a vicious animal that they now both shared.
Rather than give in to more carnal desires as they had previously, the two men held one another and tried to forget their troubles in the crumbling reality around them. Alone together is what they were, and that is how they would stay until another move was made to turn a harsh and unforgiving world to their favor. Tender caresses and unspoken words were their shared language as they lay there for a time, hating and loving one another in secret. The lack of sound, the stillness of their bodies, and their closed eyes made the world around them seem all the more vast and uncompromising.

>>14784156
Romanian isn't my primary language, so there might be some awkward grammar and word-usage in the poem. If any Romanian bros could point that out, it would be of help.

Ceruri carunte pe culmi intronate,
deasupra lighioane si demoni domnind

Peregrini respinsi de trepte prafuite,
strazi dezgolite, furtuni alcatuind

Geamatul tulpinelor, vuietul vijelielor,
plansul mascaricului ce-amar se ruga

Dupa portii tacute, la tronul-mormant,
La mana domneasca, infranta tragea

Stapane, stapane, de ce m-ai lasat?
Domnia curmata, dar visul frumos,
melodia ei pe buse a stat, duios,
dar la urma de nefolos

Si in urmele marea tradarii,
sa dumirit- si mana si-a intins
spre cutitul in san infipt

>>14785653
(cont.)

>>14786072
following anon's train of thought: i've read about 5 pages worth of Bukowski (Pulp) and i think you might like his style: succinct and descriptive, but there is progression to his text that indicates he is going somewhere

>>14786810
>slapping stray [...] a flower nearby

good imagery until this sentence appeared, which derailed the rhythm because its so long and disjoint.

i see what you were trying to achieve with a style like that (as another anon has noted) but i don't think going for a ~super-powerful-long-sentence~ is going to be very effective if you go for that kind of approach too often.

i think the train-of-thought style was executed ok, in the sense that it wasn't annoying (which a lot of people do so)

its pretty K

>>14787753
the first paragraph can be really great if you expanded upon it a bit more. there is nice imagery, but the text is so succinct/fast that there isn't as much detail as i'd like. i do that too sometimes (write so terse such that the text doesn't "breath")

i see what you are doing with the abruptness with the 3rd paragraph, but to me it felt so rushed such that instead of being jaded/emotive-but-detached, it was more so "oh i actually don't really care". the bulk of the power of this part comes from the first sentence, which i think fails to achieve what it aims to.

>my roomate....

good transition imho; around this point with the lake and all, i am somewhat reminded of the film Moonlight for some reason. it had a strong atmosphere/mood.

>I wanted to yell at it to stfu

i am mildly annoyed by this because i don't think any kid will seriously consider doing so. in other contexts it might be fine, but here stakes are high and very serious

>He must have said that line.....

i like this

>i don't think i heard anything after that

not a fan of this continuation of sequence. it implies a recollection of memory instead of direct experience. but perhaps this is stylistic.

didn't like the ending. not sure if its a matter of personal taste or what, but i there wasn't any ~foreshadowing~ that this was the case until the latter half of the story. i didn't see the motivation of the mother, and there were several unresolved points (why don't trust these people?)

but overall it was nice. i think your strength is in narrative-flow in the sense that you can carry momentum well. this will be a super-mega-power if you also hone your description/detail/imagery well.

>>14787786
this feels like an important scene in your imaginary novel, but without any context as to why anyone should care, it feels terribly self-important/vain but also uninteresting

>>14787915
good writing chops but it also feels a bit artificial for some reason. it feels im reading ~text~ if that makes sense

there is delicacy/build of emotions but no release/outburst asides from the end, which felt like it came out of nowhere

could be good if part of a larger piece

>>14790336
(cont.)

>>14779601
interested to know what book/passage you cited from and what its critique was. just because its canon classic doesn't strictly mean that every single word is pure gold

>>14789148
asides from being an edgelord, using "BOING" and "CRASH" is poor form / lazy

>>14789164
just write first and edit later; and then edit again much later. flow of consciousness is fine but it is hard to disambiguate between good style and poor communication unless you have someone else to look at your stuff

>>14789173
good overall. some moments are very good ("keeping your attention requires calculated aloofness"), but writing abstractly is difficult because without a concrete grounding, it can feel like you are just mincing words

ex: "plummeting into the abyss"; there is too much content/meaning placed on the word "abyss", nd as such it feels a bit too vague.

i liked your text most when you were precise and concrete, like your paragraph with the waitress, or the phrase "dancing was your idea"

being abstract is good/fine, but i think its a tricky device; but don't let that prevent you from trying.

>>14790105
i guess more context would help in interpreting this text since this is what i imagine to be a climax.

apologies if im sounding overly harsh here but i think eros-build is hard and delicate and thus i have a lot to critique on:

>They stay like that for a moment before Jonah turned over to face Trent.

you've already lost momentum over this sentence. i would spend a /lot/ of time over "They stay like that for a moment" to build tension before even going into anything at all.

>a mask of confidence and anger.

maybe because a lack of context but using two simple/vague words to describe a really intense emotion is quite a disservice

>He looked into Jonah’s eyes with their amber tint and brought a hand up to caress his rugged, tear-stained face.

poor pacing: you are rushing things. it would be better to go like: "He looked into Jonah’s eyes. [lots of descriptive text into detail of what he saw/felt]. He raised his hand to caress his face, it was rugged [...]

>The touch did little to ease the clear pain he was feeling

too vague.

just reading the text overall i think you are rushing things too quickly.

Bunker
by me

I am going to build myself a bunker
Fitted with electricity and running water.
Harsh; underground. Alongside "spelunker",
I'd fancy myself a surgeon and a plumber.
With a toilet, bed, and bars galore,
The guest will holler, whine, implore.
Horrific was his deed enough to cast him so
Tangled in the weeds of my handicraft—
Right back I sow the seeds of my hellish wrath
The same kind he planted long ago.
I laugh in fits of contemptuous glee,
Savoring the blips of disharmony
That shudder across the old codger's face.
I made the finish line and I fixed the race
Against time, so that I could pick apart
His parts and his death: mine to orchestrate
As he's inside my invention of late—
The adult-sized, porcelain, Circumstraint™.
I wonder what he's thinking. Day in..day out...
Undergoing vivisection, cramps, and clout
If he's righteous, he'll perform his penance
In the next life gladly—pushing balls of shite
Imposed on him by his own karmic blight
With beetle arms to wipe his beetle brow.

This is my last post. It's been fun, 4chan.

>>14790516
>just reading the text overall i think you are rushing things too quickly.
Taken into consideration. Thank you!

To give a bit of context, it was AFTER a climax in the story. It was mainly to give a gentle direction for the falling action to follow and set the emotional pace of the characters post-climax.

Still your critique is appreciated.

>>14790566
Also to add: While it is meant to be some romance-building, at this point in the story the characters' relationship is tenuous at best and I more sought to downplay the budding relationship in favor of exploring male companionship and compassion separate from sexual feeling and romance. I should have shown more.

>>14765901

Puddles lash against your shoes
Cloudy promises already spent
A rowdy car zooms passed the bend
Leaving only a trail of quiet

Didn’t mean to leave so soon
But you couldn’t stand to stay and cheer
Holding a meek smile and lukewarm beer
Sweating harder than the bottle

Spot an empty park by chance
Sink into the wet and rubber swing
Remember playing without the stings
That we all learned to use for profit

Gay explosions tear the sky
Another lap around the hidden star
People cheering for a wade in tar
But it’ll just be as dirty as last time

Crush an ant for minor fun
And tell yourself it’s all okay
Wonder when the things are gonna change
Feeling groggy well past your bedtime

>>14790573
>>14790573
i recommend you watch Tropical Malady by Apichatpong Weerasethakul.

it's really great (spoiler) there's only one really brief moment that is even vaguely erotic, but it is built up with so much patience and handled so delicately that it one my favorite moments in film ever

>>14766210
I don't know what you're saying but I have always loved the sculpture

How might you write this without being cringe? I am trying to capture the mind of a conceitful loner college man and I have not written much prose before. I do not particularly know how to make mundane things interesting.

He rounds the flights to his room, stomp. stomp. stomp. always even. He knows the sound of her light footfalls. They passed upon the stair, he says
hullo,
tactfully ignoring her
how are you.
And makes to his room. They had loved once but he did not like to think of it. Like the others he had possessed yet remained unknown to. But he had known them - he had! Myriad lads and fledges about him had been known by that thing they called “dating”, which did not belong to him. Their game was to be known, his to know and remain unknown of, a sentiment he had joined with himself and preferred not to examine. His business with the room was brief and he took the other exit to avoid further interaction.

>>14786810
>>14787753
thanks for feedback, i've actually improved a lot since (in my opinion) with punctuation since being rec'd Elements of Style etc, but thanks for giving me some advice on what to improve

re: you work
(sorry for the delay)

good narrative however the character changes way too vastly with
>i wanted to yell at it to shut the fuck up
in comparison to the earlier study on him this vulgar thought during the discussion implies he knew, at least subconsciously, his fate or generalised guilt; if this is so, then i recc trying to be more descriptive during the earlier parts
>wait you spoke to my dad
>you dont talk to him
That's superfluous. Its obvious with
>where is he?
Remove the "where is he" or have them begin saying where he lives and then move onto them awkwardly pausing asking whether he has contact.
Whole thing up to this moment plays up like the protag is an unreliable narrator especially with
>talk to him, i could barely even picture him now...i shook my head
i find it hard to believe he sends cards but there is no other contact, why on earth wouldn't there be some sort of attempt/photographs etc, maybe i'm biased due to friends having had fathers move away and have little contact but they still had family photographs, facebook, etc, if they were receiving correspondence.
----big thing when reading----
the idea that they are pursuing this despite saying there is literally no information is just ??????????
More inconsistencies in character, why would he go from SHUT THE FUCK UP and then when he hears something actually distressing, he just blanks, consistency
grandfather speaking is kinda...weird, i get its meant to be rolling out but since the police are introduced, the whole piece only feels like its to fit narrative without any actual development beyond OMG THIS HAPPENED TO THE BROTHER
The second half is EXTREMELY weak. There is no build up after the initial theory that it was a family member who killed her; is this part of a larger piece? If not, then you need to add upon it A LOT due to its narrator inconsistencies and overall lack of any sort of description (beyond the START and the GRANDFATHER)

>>14790874
>he had
>he had
>had been
>he had
Remove all of these. If you're going to do this at all it ought to be first person exclusively.

>>14791133
yes I will have to read Dostoevsky again

He dresses hurriedly, wearing a worn and stressed Ralph Lauren harrington jacket. Bought fashionably in an op-shop, it would be a familiar staple in a hobo's wardrobe. What personality, what foibles could you gleam from that jacket? It’s a nice jacket. A feint khaki, tastefully different from the hackneyed light beige. One can imagine the wearer of this jacket smugly declaring: "I know convention and I shall break it underhandedly." Through wear, the cotton has frayed, and minute, translucent hairs have sprouted, like the body hair of a newborn. The logo, a symbol of exclusivity, is the real reason for the jacket’s longevity. The polo player, in perpetual intermediate motion, gallops across the newly lain cotton grass of the jacket. In the inner lining is tartan, contrasting the working class, or at least working-for-a-living khaki of the outer shell. Of dubious heritage, perhaps it was once a real tartan of a real Scottish clan but no matter, as it has been subsumed to serve the balanced aesthetic sensibilities of the jacket. Hard, flinty and industrious on the outside, collegiate, sensible and ancestral on the inside. This kid doesn't deserve to wear it, but no matter. He bought it.

>>14790874
That pic is literally me.

>>14790336
>>14791121
I'm this guy >>14787753

It's always hard to know how many clues to put in a mystery. Too many and it's obvious and unsatisfying, too few and the ending seems like a non-sequitur - clearly I did the latter here. The primary leads are supposed to be:
- The mother stayed in the hospital while the father stayed home with the other two kids
- The grandmother is wealthy, despite apparently never having worked a day in her life.
- A little boy was stabbed in the heart - or something close to that - and thrown in a lake.
- The doctor at the hospital was the only person the father spoke to, and now cannot be traced

The method of the crime is supposed to suggest ritual sacrifice - the boy had his heart cut out before being dropped in a lake (drowning and excision of the heart were both found in Aztec culture, but similar practises were also found in ancient Celtic culture). This is foreshadowed in the very first paragraph:
>Cut and pull, cut and pull.

The mother must have been involved because she was the only one with opportunity. The grandmother's wealth speaks to motive.

Basically, once you reach the revelation by the grandfather that he had a son around the same age who died while in the sole care of his mother, you're supposed to reach the conclusion - or at least the suspicion - that this is all the result of a matrilineal cult that maintain an ancient practice of sacrificing their male children to bring prosperity. This is slightly foreshadowed in the second paragraph: the males go out onto the lake, the females stay on shore together; there is a dividing gender line in this family.

>i find it hard to believe he sends cards but there is no other contact
This is another clue that something is up with the mother. The father cares enough to send birthday cards, yet he hasn't seen his children in decades... this hints that she /deliberately/ forced him away and did her best to cut off contact.

>I wanted to yell at it to stfu
This was supposed to indicate that he was starting to crack up under the stress. Now that you've pointed it out, on its own it does seem a bit incongruous. Rather than cutting it out, I wish I'd included a sequence after the cops leave where he snaps and throws something against the wall, before getting control of himself again and returning to being numb.

And if it seems a rushed and a little perfunctory in places, that's because it was. I wrote it to post it on 4chan, and the longer something is the fewer people here will read it. Cutting it down to (almost) the bare essentials was a necessary sacrifice (no pun intended)

Thank you both for providing such detailed feedback; clearly I need to work on how I plot a mystery.

>How long was I asleep for? Looking up at my screen I could only laugh at what appeared to be a thousand letter A's strung together in my IRC window. Tonight was rough. Tonight was another binge of gore and porn, a mixture of high morbidity that I loved, though keeping it in the realm of what was teasingly sexual, and explicitly violent. It was mostly the type of shit you only come across on purpose. You don't stumble on what I was watching; suicides via shotguns in mouth, as is the male tradition, and streamed from various social media, as it is the modern thing to do; beheadings with dull machetes featuring your favorite south american cartel of the week, autopsies showcasing your granny's poor empty skull (of course it was carved out in the name of science™) while the indians in the background laugh, the occasional slice of amateur and low quality cheese, and the highly professional production of the domination of animals, usually dogs really, having their eyes penetrated by a 6-inch stiletto high-heel, attached to the foot of one gorgeous and lean brunette dominatrix. In short, I was going through another manically imposed state of culled sadism.

>Looking back down at my keyboard I could see a dark puddle but with the only light being from my two monitors, and still confused, I couldn't tell that it was blood. Two minutes later the dots connected as the familiar taste of iron overwhelmed my mouth, and so the blood itched the top of my throat. Thick globs were being coughed up in the holding cell of my mouth. It wasn't that it was exactly "locked" by any particular means but there was a heavy force acting upon my lips, two magnetic pieces of flesh attracting each other at a great strength. As I pulled my lips slightly apart they stretched like a type of elastic rubber, snapping back the moment I let go. Blood was dripping everywhere at this point, seeping from the cracks of my mouth little by little. I kept swallowing only to cough the shit right back up. What the fuck kind of nightmare is this?

Haven't wrote anything since like the 8th grade, fiction wise. Just messing around and seeing where this goes. I recently started reading "Make a scene" so hopefully I can improve and write out this scene more and more as I finish the book. It's not a lot but if you have advice and whatnot, let me know.

>>14791275
I think you could cut about half of the first paragraph and a little of the second and it would lose nothing. From 'suicides' to 'sadism', it's just a list of gore. It doesn't really add anything for the reader to know that he was watching cartel violence /and/ animal cruelty.

Same with the second paragraph - you take a long time to describe the sensation of blood in the mouth; although at least you're adding flavour here with your descriptions, unlike the first paragraph which is basically just a list. However, I don't think your description are good enough to make this worthwhile.
>Thick globs were being coughed up in the holding cell of my mouth.
Why is your mouth a holding cell? Yes, they're trapped there, so in the most functional sense it's a holding cell, but the words 'holding cell' evokes an image of a barred off area of a police department (to take it further, it's night-time and filled with scuffed up drunks and smoking prostitutes, while a bored and overweight desk sergeant does paperwork while half-watching Leno). Every choice of words brings an image to mind - so did you actually mean to give the reader /that/ image? Probably not.
>Thick globs were being coughed up
This bit is purely functional - there were globs, they were thick, they were being coughed up. If you're going to fill your work with minutiae of descriptions, try to make it interesting.

Here's my effort
>Jelly-slick clots slithered up my throat, only to get trapped behind sealed lips.
desu it's probably a little overdone for such a short sentence and should be used sparingly, but I wanted to illustrate a point.

>>14787753
Quite okay. It was engaging and well written. My main issue is here is the character and dialogue.

>"Wait,
>"Wait,
>"Wait,
Getting kinda repetitive there and it sounds a tad unrealistic, cliche even. I'd cut the "Wait" or just do what this Anon >>14791121 said.

>the narrator
He seems kinda stupid and/or naive to me. I expected him to catch on as soon as there was an inconsistency with the dad's testimony. I'd expected him to ask the police if the dad did it. But that's just me. I could be just pessimistic and I've never been under such stress, though him just bobbing along without piecing it together himself just seems kinda /eyeroll/ to me.

>matrilineal wealth cult
Honestly didn't get this. I was originally about to complain about the mom's motive not being explained, but either I'm too much of a brainlet or it simply wasn't made clear enough. If you had hinted on mom's wealth again that might be a better move. Also the second half was weak. All in all, not bad for a practice piece you wrote for 4chan. Love the cut and pull -- cheeky. Alright.

>>14765901
https://discord.gg/E22wu2Y

Could I not speak whimsical
To give adornment to the dancing flames, the rushing waters, or the leaves when they vibrate as gusts of wind rattle their blades
Rather I could meticulate a form to enthrall the beholder
The gift of a stained jewel postulated without injury or invocation of spirit
To be seduced by intellect is but mere folly, it can go on perpetually and you find yourself without escape
That is, there is no line that it can cross or barrier for it to reach; an endless circle that devours itself in pursuit of accomplishing the very thing it represents

Is mine

>>14787915
>>14788157
What makes it good? What's the meaning behind that story? Genuinely asking.

>>14789584
No onions él pero escribes muy bien. ¿Estudiaste en la UNAM? Yo alguna vez quise estudiar Letras Inglesas pero acabé estudiando ingeniería. De cualquier forma se siente bien encontrarse con un paisano. Suerte y sigue escribiendo.

>>14786810
There is a lot that is good here. You seem to over use commas and i presume that's either a lack of confidence or you're literally trying to overly describe. Fix the general structure of it.

>It was a summer afternoon on the cusp of a long overdue slumber.
change to
>It was a summer afternoon on the cusp of an overdue slumber.
This is so the following line doesn't repeat
>long
Go through it again, edit it, cut a lot, and then post and if you have more I would like to see the next part.

Shall I describe the autumn just fallen?
More abundant and bountiful than last:
Its lease leaving each day more important,
The eleventh, the best endowed, depart.
The bright eye bestowed but too often dimmed
When the fairest decline in perfection;
But dearest summer, she’s often left slimmed
Wandering in nature’s fluctuation.
Eternal slumber, autumn’s dénouement;
But death does not bind the nomadic shade
And perpetual lines brag of new dawn
After sailing divine storms, unafraid.
Fair autumn may sallow: ever mature,
My verse will retain our youth, evermore.


this is mine

>>14789584
>>14791954
Onions Argentino. Como el anon que te respondió, no me animé a anotarme en Letras y seguí el camino de la Ingeniería, más por facilidad en matemática y física que por gusto de la materia. Escribo de vez en cuando, nada admirable, más como un ejercicio para no perder la poca práctica que tengo. Estuve considerando hace poco la posibilidad de irme a estudiar Literatura Inglesa a alguna Universidad de Inglaterra, como segundo título. Pero por ahora es sólo una idea.

>>14791903
Nothing. The story is as dull as any other idea posited on this board, and the character seems faggy and pretentious, but at least the writing has cadence and doesn't stumble all over itself.

It just goes to show that even if you're boring as fuck, as long as you're a decent writer, it will still always be decent, at the very least.

>>14791896
>"Wait,
>"Wait,
>"Wait,
I honestly hadn't noticed that, but now you mention it I see your point. The thing is... a lot of people do have that kind of repetitious verbal placeholder; like people who saying 'literally' all the time when they mean anything from 'really' to 'actually', or people who punctuate their sentences with 'you know'. Not that I'll pretend I did it on purpose, but I don't find it unrealistic.

>I'd expected him to ask the police if the dad did it.
Remember, he's known for almost twenty years that his brother died in hospital of an illness. He /remembers/ it (but, crucially, only in fragments). If his brother had disappeared and then his body had turned up in the lake, it would be logical for him to jump to his father as a suspect, but until he asks how his brother died he's working from the assumption that something must have happened to the body after his brother died of meningitis.

>but either I'm too much of a brainlet or it simply wasn't made clear enough
Definitely the latter. To be honest it's pretty subtle even for me, and I'm the guy who people turn to at the end of a detective movie/show with questions like 'so what did x mean?' and 'how did they know Y did it?' (I genuinely had that conversation literally only five minutes ago with someone about 'knives out').

If I had to do it over again, I'd try to work in the lines:
>He remembered his father saying that he wished he could have spent more time with Mikey before the end. Still, at least Mom had been there.
>He'd have to phone his Mom to get the tuition payment sent early. She wouldn't mind, she never made an issue about money; he'd never had to worry about it, thanks to her.
>Paulson added: "In fact, when we tried to trace Dr O'Keeffe we couldn't find any recent addresses. She may be a suspect herself; that said, your Mom had nothing but good things to say about her and how she'd treated Mikey at St. Francis'."
>Mikey's death cut the heart out of our family.

>>14791883
>How long was I asleep for? Looking up at one of my screens I could only scoff at what was about a thousand letter G's strung together in my IRC window. Tonight was rough. Tonight was another binge of gore and pseudo-porn, often combining the two. It was the type of shit you only come across on purpose. You mostly don't stumble upon what I was watching; suicides via shotgun in mouth, beheadings with dull machetes, various animals and sometimes people being tortured, and so on. In short, I was going through another manically imposed state of culled sadism.
>Looking back down at my keyboard I could see a dark puddle but with the only light being from my two monitors, and still confused, I couldn't tell what it was. The dots only connected when the familiar taste of iron overwhelmed my mouth as thick globs of blood were being coughed up. I leaned forward thinking I was about to vomit it all over my desk, but my lips stayed shut. In fact, there was hardly a slit of a mouth across my face. Panicking I started scratching and pulling at what hole for a mouth was still there. The blood was coming through the seeps at least but my mouth would stretch like elastic rubber only to snap back shut as though by magnetic force. Swallowing the blood only to cough it up again, I was fucking drowning. What kind of nightmare is this?

Thanks for your advice, I think I slightly improved it but it still could be better, as some sentences are still drawn out a bit too much like you pointed out. What my main focus is trying to sketch out a scene of a man waking up to some type of abnormal bodily dysfunction. It was a nightmare of mine a couple weeks ago and I thought it was interesting to at least depict what I saw/experienced.

>>14769668
I like it.
Not gay but would read

>>14765901
I see some Latin bros so I'm going to post the first paragraphs of some "novel" I'm working on.
Any critique is appreciated. Might try to post a translation later.

>>14789143
Como no, un placer.

>Héctor confronta a su hado

Sobre este en particular no tengo nada que expresar además de admiración; me parece glorioso en todos los sentidos. Métrica, uso de palabras, y principalmente la consciencia de Héctor conciliando su próxima muerte, cual si el mismo Homero se pusiese a cantar sobre Héctor en voz de Venus: ese nivel de precisión en la comunicación de su destino, el tema Homérico se reafirma en la conciliación del mismo. La referencia a la lanza que espera sangre y venganza, la que empuña Aquiles, me parece que pasa con sutileza y sin embargo pone a ese mismo héroe en el poema de forma tácita, en parte dividida como hacedor del destino y parte del mismo.
Esto no lo consideres, me perdono, un análisis, sino es más bien un elogio; condenso con decir que es sublime.

El único detalle que me causó curiosidad al leerlo es el de la palabra ''sampaiélica'', hasta que encontré el mensaje donde decís que es ''senpaiélica'' (Jajaja).

>Añoranza de Gilgamesh

Como disclaimer, tengo que decir que nunca leí por total la Epopeya de nuestro amigo Gilgamesh, más allá de algún par de fragmentos sueltos (Tuve por entendido que había muchas versiones y muchas traducciones); me veo atado a criticar lo que poco que sé y lo que es intrínseco a tu poema.

Lo principal que me llama la atención es el écfrasis de la muralla de lapislázuli, y el insuflar como segunda imagen visual: trae la imagen clara de una Uruk en su gloria, con portales azules en lo candente de su desierto, en tanto la luz que ''soslaya el polvo que dispersa tu desprecio'' trae con claridad el rencor del héroe hacia los dioses (Si mal no tengo entendido, él llora la muerte de Enkidu), y como ellos (la luz) miran sus hazañas. Un detalle que destaco como satisfacción personal son las palabras ''dispersa'' y ''desprecio''; como si fueran hechas para ser arregladas justo de esa forma.
Otra cosa que me parece bien orquestado fue el hecho de las tablillas; el cuneiforme que nos llegó como medio de sus hazañas.
Ahora es cuando el asunto se me torna en duda; entiendo que las últimas dos estrofas hacen referencia a la vejez histórica de su epopeya y la inmortalidad que mantiene, aunque supongo que algún detalle más me estoy perdiendo.

>Conclusión

Los dos sonetos por igual tienen un tinte de renacimiento español muy fuerte, un siglo de oro que tiene aire a Lope de Vega podría ser (más que nada por el poema sobre Héctor), y la influencia de Borges una vez más, con el mismo tono sutil.

Me gusta mucho tu poesía. ¿Estudias algo relacionado al tema? Y otra cosa, ¿Tenés más poemas? Disfrutaría mucho leyendo más.

>>14793576
>>14793576
I don't think I'd be mistaken in saying this is one of the first things you have written, yes? A word of advice: try to stay away from yourself as far as possible. Do not write about your emotional state or your own insecurities. Write about something else, something as different from you as possible. It will help you temper your style, your taste, and your aesthetic sense.

>>14794002
Ok I will follow your advice. Thanks anon

>>14792930
Lol, unironically this, even though I'm the guy who wrote it. I completely redid it. This one had like, three random ideas that didn't mesh. The current one is cohesive (imo), but you'd still probably find the main character "faggy".

>>14765901
Space Coloney M4G1C

An emerald green sun rose upon the red sea desert revealing wind swept dunes of earthen crust left thirsty and barren. If anything sentience lived on this heavenly body it would notice a large metallic cylinder of great size resting where once was nothing but soft sand. Like a message in a bottle it begged to be opened yet it rested gently on the rolling sand that filled the rock pools of the mountous desert as the green sun was reflected off its chrome shell.

Inside a heartbeat began and the intricate insides began to whirl, life began to awaken and small robots woke up to set up the future of that would be colony M4G1C, so designated by the advanced AI Genetics back home.

1 year later Althuras stood with a sextant having fun plotting the stars the progitator drones had already done before, mapping out stars for human use, naming them as per designated by the onboard AI Rose. Althuras had chosen a white skinned, brown haired body to be cloned into, there was also the choice for robotic enhancement such as protein replacement rather than food digestant, Althuras wanted a more natural body and so had chosen a less intrusive version of protein regulation through symbiotic robots rather than cyborgation.

Althurus took a standard safety aid pack and was enjoying exploring the surroundings, where once was a red desert was now an irrigation system that supplied an impressive foliage with constant downpours, thunderstorms and even wildlife along with the new ecosystem.

As he ventured through the foliage he came to an abrupt end, from which the desert began once again, and Althurus then spotted a peculiar object on the distance, taking his binoculars he spied in the distance what looked like a castle, Althurus loved fantasy and this castle looked like just the thing. It stood impressively made of white stone, its walls curved making for a solid and unbreakable foundation. A long road led up to a partition where the gatebridge would lie. It had a main house with spires jutting up then joining and jutting up further seemingly denying the laws of nature.

>>14794002
Not that anon but everything I've ever written has been 90% roman-a-clef. I literally cannot write anything else.

>>14794670
Very poorly written. You'll need to learn how to write proper sentences before continuing your fruitless endeavor.

Mob Morality
Who can abide to mob morality?
You stand against a justice of the masses,
Separated from the entity
You once believed with all your aching passions.
Ideologically impure --
You will be purged as if an infidel;
The rabid jury wishes to ensure
Ranks adhere the collective creed with zeal.

With your condemned back to the wall, you see
The faceless firing squad take aim;
Just past their shoulders, laughed autocracy.

0.1

Atop a mountain there stood a monastery of marble and gold that shone bright under the weight of clouds and rain. A monastery of immense strategic significance for the occupation of the surrounding land but more importantly one that held treasures of immeasurable wealth, its most valuable piece was unknown in shape or size but its value was in that it granted immortality. All who laid siege to the fortress failed in the face of a being who went by many names though most called him Rothaarige; his past, his whereabouts, and his face were unknown. Commanding a rabble of zealots, Rothaarige sat quietly within the great walls of his home, his gaze was always felt coming through one of the thousands of dark windows and if one looked close enough, a motionless silhouette could sometimes be seen peering from within. Small bands of angry beings camped along the foot of this mountain and within the nearby towns, they either fought each other or risked an assault on the formidable walls overlooking them, always between one who looked up at them and the sun regardless where one looked up from, although the sun seldom revealed himself and only partially shone through the clouds. No muses sing for us this time, my song is crushed and flattened, i can offer you nothing but an excuse for a story.

1.1

Engines growled and challenged one another as tanks sat side by side, they shook with anticipation and their drivers almost had to hold them back from advancing on their own. In the deafening roar of engines small beings ran all around the beasts, some jumping on, some off, some pointing where others should be. Shouting was futile so only gestures spoke, closed hands, opened hands, waving hands, but most importantly grimaces of rage and bloodlust. Everyone’s eyes glowed red as the blood throbbed in their heads, every time one blinked all the shadows and dark figures appeared red in their sight for a moment. This rabble followed icons of suns and golden spirals, their banners rippled under a golden sun with small outstretched arms that appeared to move and spin at all times. Weapons were discharged amid yelps and howls as a horn whined and the attack began.

>>14793266
Better. Still not great, but better bordering on the passable.

>Looking up at one of my screens I could only scoff
The last iteration of this was better; 'laugh' is the word you want here. Pick less common words at points where you want to draw the reader's attention closely, don't just randomly rifle through a thesaurus.

>as thick globs of blood were being coughed up
No need for the passive voice here. 'as I coughed up thick globs of blood' is better, as it's more direct and the emphasis of the final word falls on 'blood' rather than 'up'.

>pulling at what hole for a mouth was still there.
This needs to be rephrased.

>>14794736
cruel, but not inaccurate

>>14794670
Terribly overwritten. Let's just look at your first line:
>An emerald green sun rose upon the red sea desert revealing wind swept dunes of earthen crust left thirsty and barren
Could easily be cut down to:
>An emerald green sun rose upon the desert, revealing wind-sculpted dunes of ember red.
Telling us a desert is thirsty and barren is rather redundant. And just as a point of logic a desert can either be sand dunes, or crusty, but not both.

>If anything sentience lived on this heavenly body
If anything *sentient*

And as for 'heavenly body': just say 'world'. Yet another case of an overactive thesaurus.

Jean was outside taking a walk around the park at the center of his neighborhood. It was green. The slide was green and the seats of the swings were green and the trees were leafless and the color that trees ought to be in the winter. It was a nice looking park, one that Jean had seen kids playing at frequently but not today, today was a cold day where nothing could possibly ever happen. Jean looked down and realized he had reached the exact same spot that he had begun this walk around the park. Jean didn't remember leaving his home to get to where it was that he was standing at that moment but he knew that this was where he began walking, right at that very exact spot. It was exactly eight, one two three four five six seven eight, no, nine or so steps away from a bench that had a small advertisement that he had tried to read when he had walked towards it initially. The advertisement was faded and had a picture of a small animal, maybe a dog or a cat and Jean quite liked it because it reminded him of a commercial he saw the other day or maybe last month about a cat sitting on a throne of cat food. Jean heard a sound. It was a loud sound and a familiar one that he had heard before while it was snowing and it had begun snowing and Jean didn't realize it until just then as his head grew cold and then he realized what sound it was that he was hearing. It was the sound of the machines on the roads scraping away the snow or maybe laying down salt or maybe it was something else entirely.

>>14795164
You dislike heavy writing, perhaps it is too much . However i tend to dislike people and so enjoy complexity to make peoples minds work hard and try to display as much detail as possible within a sentence without getting boorish. Not my best craftsmanship though and I generally agree with your assessment. Thanks.

>>14768601
it's beautiful dont change a thing

>>14771492
>excusing yourself for being lazy to random strangers for personal gratification

>>14774328
>The keys cried in protest as the old hinges were pushed down with such force that they risked breaking. "Listen here you little faggot," the man began.

>>14766059
>I would prefer valid input.
I would prefer you give me something you actually put any effort into you nigger, post more than a paragraph next time.

Crashed sparks of the divine eked from the singularity unseen by zombies who flock to neon heroin dot rubble left in the beast’s wake
Deconstructed toys that stirred and held imaginations were tossed without loyalty in preference to increasingly depraved erogeneity
Dowsing rod in hand and reduced to indivisible essences, mad sorcerers float blindly according to intuition
Vigorous flows that whip across this infinite unformed terror realm guide them
The struggle is immense but alchemists get to work, synthesizing slowly
To sift through it all impossible and unnecessary
Just begin
Take up this crud: sacred cow, mother earth, yin and yang, crucifixion
Exhausted vessels whose reverence is parodic
There’s no time for careful, sacred handling
Crash them together destructively
The unseen force adds itself and something new is produced material minds can’t predict
A magic object
Ethereal rainbows and new geometries
Hold it’s fire, blow on it
The wizard knows how to tend the flame without getting immolated
A new beginning is possible
Mud can be imbued with the spirit that’s been cast and sealed
Conduct disparate flows to unity
The sentience revealed will help
You’ve done you’re part
Slip beyond
Transcendents laying in the future will know and speak with you when time dissolves

Crashed sparks of the divine eked from the singularity unseen by zombies who flock to neon heroin dot rubble left in the beast’s wake
Deconstructed toys that stirred and held imaginations were tossed without loyalty in preference to increasingly depraved erogeneity
Dowsing rod in hand and reduced to indivisible essences, mad sorcerers float blindly according to intuition
Vigorous flows that whip across this infinite unformed terror realm guide them
The struggle is immense but alchemists get to work, synthesizing slowly
To sift through it all impossible and unnecessary
Just begin
Take up this crud: sacred cow, mother earth, yin and yang, crucifixion
Exhausted vessels whose reverence is parodic
There’s no time for careful, sacred handling
Crash them together destructively
The unseen force adds itself and something new is produced material minds can’t predict
A magic object
Ethereal rainbows and new geometries
Hold it’s fire, blow on it
The wizard knows how to tend a flame without getting immolated
A new beginning is possible
Mud can be imbued with the spirit that’s been cast and sealed
Conduct disparate flows to unity
The sentience revealed will help
You’ve done you’re part
Slip beyond
Transcendents laying in the future will know and speak with you when time dissolves

This is my first real writing project, pls help.

The Rattlesnake watched his soldiers in angry silence as they milled about his bay. After six grueling months of being the focus of his entire attention the soldiers could tell from a quick glance at the drill sergeant's expression that there would be trouble.
When the soldiers did something to make the Rattlesnake angry, which felt like every waking second to them, his verbal assault would begin calmly, his anger under tight control, but as he continued the tight control would instantly give way to rage within the space of just two or three words.
The soldiers discovered the drill sergeant Davis's nickname by eavesdropping on a conversation the other drills occasionally had when they pretended not to realize their soldiers were in earshot. After discovering the nickname the soldiers understood they were not the Rattlesnake's first training platoon and would probably not be his last. They also understood that the other drills liked the Rattlesnake about as much as they did.
To the unaccustomed observer the Rattlesnake may have appeared to be a thin soldier sitting quietly behind his desk, but the soldiers milling around the bay were acutely aware of his existence. They whispered desperately to each other, probing one another helplessly to somehow find a way out of whatever punishment was sure to happen.
The current object of the Rattlesnake's ire entered the bay. The voice that greeted Uris was hoarse from long years of constant screaming.
“Private Uris.”
Uris froze mid-step when he heard who had called his name. He recovered and clumsily hustled across the bay toward him. The hushed conversations fell silent as the bay prepared to listen to the exchange.
Uris stumbled to a halt when he reached the drill sergeant's desk, a miserable expression on his face as he went to parade rest.
The gaunt face of the drill sergeant glowered as he watched the small nervous movements of the soldier standing in front of him. He glared, savoring the soldier's obvious discomfort before he launched into the attack.
“I cannot comprehend why you would ever want to skip two days of training. After all this time I was starting to believe you people were finally beginning to retain some common fucking sense, but I guess not. Half a year and you still won't accept that training is the only thing that matters. So much precious time has been spent on you and you still refuse to adapt.”
Uris's voice wavered as he replied. “Drill sergeant, m-my Aunt raised me.”
Davis scowled and violently slapped his desk. Papers scattered loudly onto the floor in all directions. He leaned over his desk and looked up into the face of the nervous soldier.
“You're going to miss the live fire training exercise the day after tomorrow. Do you understand that the training slots are limited and that there won't be another chance for you to practice with it before the qualification event?”

1/2

>>14795906
“Yes drill sergeant.”
“Your performance on every evaluation has been barely adequate. If you don't score top marks on the MDREC I'm going to recommend you for a day one recycle. With how full the training schedule is I don't see how we can do anything else. How does that sound, Uris? Another six months with me, just to go to a funeral? It's not like she's going anywhere else now, is it?”
“...Roger d-drill-”
Davis exploded out of his chair. “What the FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?”
The chair collided violently with the wall behind him. Uris stood where he was unsteadily, too overwhelmed to form a response.
Davis didn't wait for one. He stormed past him into the killzone and shouted the commands his soldiers were too familiar with. “PLATOON attenSHUN! HALF right, FACE! Front leaning rest position, MOVE!”
Every person in the bay bent to obey him with silent resignation. They were long past anger at being punished for other people's mistakes. It was simply a part of their life.
“In CADENCE!”
They echoed him in unison. “In cadence...”
“EXERCISE!”
Will believed the best strategy for being smoked was to zone out as much as possible. Setting the body on a kind of exercise autopilot was entirely possible once the exercises became familiar. When Will had the shocking revelation that the drills couldn't chew him out for slacking off if he did it when they couldn't see him, it became even easier.


2/3 actually

>>14795917
Faking effort is surprisingly easy after all, he thought to himself as he mechanically pushed himself up and down.
Davis halted them after they had done several hundred push-ups but didn't give the command to stand up; keeping them in the upright push-up position.
His rage now somewhat abated, he casually walked back toward his desk. When he reached Uris he looked down at the soldier and demanded impatiently: “well?”
Uris's voice was strained from the effort of holding position. “I- I still want to go, drill sergeant.”
Davis did not bother to hide the angry disgust in his voice. “Fine. First sergeant and the commander already approved your emergency leave. You're leaving at 0430 tomorrow morning to get to the airport on time. Have fireguard escort you down to the CQ desk at 0400 to get your civilian clothes before you leave.”
“Yes drill sergeant”
“GET up.” Davis grated at the soldiers through clenched teeth. His entire body flexed with emphasis as he spoke, as if his contempt for the soldiers was so enormous he had to use more muscles than just the ones in his mouth to express it.
“Where's my scribe?” He demanded.
Watson was standing next to Will. “Here, drill sergeant” he said, panting loudly.
“Scott will be on the 3 AM fireguard shift for failing his second general order. I want an updated schedule brought to me at CQ in ten minutes. ”
“Yes drill sergeant.”
Davis looked around at his soldiers and the scowl on his gaunt face grew darker. “This is the generation that might face aliens. Soldiers who want to skip training and soldiers who won't stay awake on duty.” His face was an angry red as he turned on his heel and walked out of the bay.
As he exited the soldiers cried out “at ease!” They took the Rattlesnake's angry muttering as their permission to carry on.

3/3

>>14765901
Lo and behold,
as he dances, and prances,
in towering tip toe!

We came in, brushed our teeth,
we came out, pulled a smirk
Gave up something – Just a loan
But kept for long, yet he moaned.

Heaven waits, but not for long.
Keep on flying 'til its done
Under the tent endures the athlete,
But not anymore the circus clown.

>>14795906
these dudes in rookie camp for six months? what is going on here?

>>14796420
hi

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMuRRXJSU2M

>>14796431
Hi, friend.

>>14795626
I really need to be clear about this so you don't go away thinking you just need to be a little more concise: as well as being overwritten, in many places its just badly written. Words that don't quite fit in that context, bits that are poorly phrased, sentences that don't flow properly

>1 year later Althuras stood with a sextant having fun plotting the stars the progitator drones had already done before, mapping out stars for human use, naming them as per designated by the onboard AI Rose.
You should never use a number in place of the word 'one'. 'as per designated' isn't correct grammar - it should be something like 'as per the designation given by the onboard AI, Rose' (and there needs to be a comma between 'AI' and 'Rose'). The whole thing feels awkward; 'stood with a sextant having fun plotting the stars the progitator drones had already done before' just doesn't flow well at all.

It's not just the phrasing, but the content. You say he's standing, but you don't say where; the following sentences make it seem like he's standing on the planet, but 'the onboard AI' make it seem like he's on a ship or some other vehicle. 'onboard' is a poor choice of word if you mean that the AI is part of the cylinder in the desert - 'inbuilt' would be better. Nor is it clear why he's doing it; whether there's a practical purpose to what he's doing or whether it's purely for fun.

I'd suggest you rewrite it from the ground up, but if I had to rephrase it here's my best effort.
>One year later, Althuras stood on the dunes with a sextant. He enjoyed the task of plotting stars found by the progitator drones, mapping them for human use, and naming them according to the pattern designated by the colony AI, Rose.

>>14794670
senpai instead of trying to write in a ~beautiful~poetic~eloquent~ style, i highly recommend you start by being simple+persuasive+precise+descriptive, that alone will get you quite far and anything beyond that /should/ be grounded on being concise/not-fancy

>>14797321
this anon's rewrite is better, but like the guy says its better if you rewrite

>It's not just the phrasing, but the content.

a strong reason why this might be happening is because you are writing only from a /vague/ figment of your imagination. because you lack a being precise in your own mind and not just the text, you aren't capable of being descriptive asides from using very vague words to describe an entire scene.

>i tend to dislike people and so enjoy complexity to make peoples minds work hard

if you continue this philosophy of writing (difficult for difficulty's sake) i must say that you will likely be a very poor writer indeed. i don't think difficulty intrinsically is ever a good motivation. it's an obstacle to a reward which can build up to create something nice, but you need a "reward" in your text, but so far you don't have any of that.

>>14796425
You're right, basic isn't usually that long. They've been in basic for six months for a specific reason.

>>14795834
I literally can't tell if I wrote this

She looked down at her son,
her son up to her hair in the air
lifted by a gossamer of care,
the depraved desire to shun—

some-anyone, her boy, he falls
and tears a hole in his skin,
she thinks, "this is his sin"—
a benign mass murderer in overalls—

"Mommy, what's a nigger?"
The bones, they quaked.
"Well, son, you're a nigger?"
Her response entirely half-baked.
"So a good boy?" head shaked.
"Yes, a very good boy," bigger

than the souls of those on Earth,
In Jupiter they found their mirth—
the year is 2424, we out here now

>>14799163
You did

Found this in Twitter. What do you call this style of writing?
https://birdword.neocities.org/rant1.html

>>14799211
well is it any good?

>>14799362
I think so. Though it was quite obscure and didn’t make full sense to me. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I just think most readers would feel alienated and disinterested in it. It would help me if you told me what you were thinking when writing it.

>>14798476
>they’re fighting aliens
Are they retarded HALO marines getting constantly recycled?

>>14793670
De nuevo muchas gracias por tus comentarios. Mi ego ha quedado satisfecho por el resto del año jajaja.

Te recomiendo mucho que leas Gilgamesh. Si la lees en inglés, la versión de Penguin de Andrew George es el estándar, aunque la de Benjamin Foster de Norton también es muy buena y más actualizada. En español, Cátedra tiene una edición decente, pero mi preferida es la de El Colegio de México, traducida por Jesús Silva Castillo, aunque no sé qué tan sencillo sea de conseguir en tu país.

>¿Estudias algo relacionado al tema? Y otra cosa, ¿Tenés más poemas?
>>14789584 Acá respondí eso. Estudié Letras Inglesas en la UNAM. Lamentablemente no tengo más poemas terminados que mostrar, excepto un montón de haiku que he escrito (casi 200), pero esos prefiero no mostrarlos aquí, ya que algunos han sido publicados y pueden ser rastreados en línea. De cualquier forma, te agradezco muchísimo tu lectura y comentarios de mis tres sonetos, y de verdad que me emociona mucho que te hayan gustado tanto. Me motiva a seguir exigiéndome más en la escritura.

>>14795626
>However i tend to dislike people and so enjoy complexity
>As he ventured through the foliage he came to an abrupt end, from which the desert began once again, and Althurus then spotted a peculiar object on the distance, taking his binoculars he spied in the distance what looked like a castle, Althurus loved fantasy and this castle looked like just the thing.
This isn't complex though. This is just a poorly written run on sentence. You have so many base clauses going on:
>He ventured through the foliage
>he came to an abrupt end
>Althurus then spotted a peculiar object
>he spied ... a castle
>Althurus loved fantasy
>this castle looked like just the thing

6 base clauses that can stand as complete sentences. This is just poor writing. You would do well to learn how to use subordinate clauses and the cumulative sentence. It could be re-written like this:
>Venturing on, the foliage came to an abrupt end, giving way to the desert, Althurus, spotting a peculiar object in the distance, looking through the binoculars, seeing it be what appeared to be a castle, couldn't help but think of the fantasy novels he read during his off time.

>>14799715
Their training was extended because the plan is to use them as guerrillas in alien held territory. They need the extra time for PT because the armor they'll be wearing is still incredibly heavy even when powered and for training with experimental weapons. The government is scrambling to do everything it can think up to fight a real alien threat and the program they're in is part of the more harebrained aspect of that effort. Ultimately the strategy they were trained for is completely pointless because the aliens don't care about holding onto territory, which will be connected to the idea that the army is usually about doing something that's ultimately pointless and stupid.

I could have posted the preface which explains what's going on but I feel like it still needs more work before I feel comfortable at all with showing it to people. Do you have any advice for me on how to improve what I posted?

>>14799885
Fuck I'm high, fixed the re-write.
>Venturing on, the foliage coming to an abrupt end, giving way to the desert, Althurus, spotting a peculiar object in the distance, looking through the binoculars, seeing what appeared to be a castle, couldn't help but think of the fantasy novels he read during his off time.

>>14799682
It's essentially a sketch of transcendental bureaucracy—fusing the multifarious agents of the real and intangible into a call-to-action that has already preceding the inevitable future, as it pertains to humanity, but also at an unbounded timescale. Think Hegel and Wittgenstein had a baby and that baby bred with Jung, producing an anglophilic analytical mystic. It's an attempt at turning cosmic chaos into a game of paint-by-numbers but in reverse. I realize this explanation can also be deem obscure, but the nature of the subjects necessarily eludes immediate apprehension, but only asymptotic. Hope that helps.

>>14799896
I see, maybe consider making the recruits less soft then, soldiers honed this much for six months without dropping will not be stuttering

>>14799999
>>14800000

>>14799966
Yeah it seems these concepts are illogical but I think I better understand now.
>It's an attempt at turning cosmic chaos into a game of paint-by-numbers but in reverse
This is especially helpful. A paint-by-numbers procedure involves adding the creative and chaotic impulse of painting onto preordered numbers. But this case is the opposite. We’re turning eternal chaos into a logical framework.
Great stuff, keep writing

>I woke up in a dread sweat. Curled fetal in a wet silhouette. I gasped. Words passed my dry lips.
>"Is capital sentient?"
>I know not how much time has passed. I make direct eye contact with the spine of "Fanged Noumena" on my bookshelf until the sun rises. My mother knocks on my door and tells me to look for a job. I would scowl if I could move.
>I am incredibly intelligent.

Pre-Cambrian cockatoo calls into voidless space
the diachronic colors reduce nothing into cackles
sad as they are, the diaphanous children proclaim
"this future is the past's paragon." No, but almost,
saddled with a burden of great wealth in modesty
the Titans lose gloriously at baccarat, leaving Vegus—
the nerve! How the salt reactor cores settle
like 50's suburban housewives in heat.
The schoolyard gestapo play wall-ball with hornet's nests
and a spool of granny's yarn break's through knot theory,
proving the theorem of minimal generational overlaps
needed to produce great men, GMOs of honor
and a sense of death that invigorates the zombified
sending soldiers, like escutcheon, to their technical death—
the synesthetic crunch of milled precision
doesn't not decide the fate of those doomed
but catapults them on the trebuchet of inquiry
into a realm of unknown knows, counted in numbers complex
so the sum of their so-called parts equals one,
a statistical revelation in the times of spacelessness:
the sighs of the ancients report a victory—
the comb "says" unbreakable, and thus:
knots proven permanently tangled tango
into an alignment of humanistic imperfections
that quiet the mindless, excite the mindful.
"This" is the time of the It, that which does
what every pontifical statesman does:
completes the itinerary, and avails the all.
(Aloud, the teleprompter reads revelation
and the audience applauds, with no reserve—
Wernicke's area collapses, and rebirth sparks
the next phase of phaselessness, a beautiful nothing
from which all else springs, autumnally and free.)

>>14800785
*Vagus

>>14800006
I'll do that, thanks

“You left me here to die,” he screamed.
He laid on the bed, arms and legs bound. White sheet turned brown. “I brought breakfast,” she said as she undressed.
Against the rope, he squirmed. It held firm. “Look, baby,” he said, “its you and me. We’ve done some stupid things, but I love you, Alexy.”
She pushed a strand of hair out of her face and smiled, “You really mean that?”
He licked his lips. She was in her underwear now and his eyes crawled over her. He replied, “I really do.”
“Tea?”

THIS IS ONLY THE START CIRCA 93 WORDS OF ROUGHLY 700 BUT I NEED TO KNOW IF IT IS READABLE FROM THIS LIMITED PIECE WILL FEEDBACK IN MORN AND POST REST

>>14801394
It's readable but the message is mixed up. A man is tied to a bed against his will and apparently shit himself, but then two sentences later he's eyeballing the chick who has him tied up? If your intention is to send a mixed message then it's definitely working.

>>14787753
I'm gonna echo what someone else said, the "shut the fuck up" part seems unnatural. The idea of it is fine, it's just how it's worded seems out of place in comparison to the rest.

I think instead of "he must have said that line a lot of times over the years" should be changed. Try replacing "a lot" with "many."

The narrator saying "wait" before their sentences also feels unnatural. Removing those waits would also help support the narrator's later assertion that they were strangely calm. Right now that doesn't seem true to me considering how they were speaking and feeling. Perhaps make it clear that it was a sudden feeling.

"as if" works better than "like" everywhere I happened to see it.

"I couldn't explain why, but all of a sudden I just needed to." It's a little awkward. Try changing "all of a sudden I just" to "suddenly"

The whole conversation with the granddad needs you to go over it a few more times to fix the flow. As it is it doesn't feel very natural.

Overall I'd say it's pretty good, all the ideas are good and it's interesting. Once you fix the wording that interrupts the flow you'll have a very solid short story.

>>14801394
“You left me here to die,” he cried.
He laid on the bed, arms and legs bound. White sheet turned brown. “I brought breakfast,” she said as she undressed.
Against the rope, he squirmed. It held firm. “Look, baby,” he said, “its you and me. I love you, Lexy.”
She smoothed her hair and dumbfounded, stared, “You really mean me?”
He licked his lips. She unzipped. Solely in underwear, his eyes crawled over her. He replied, “Would I lie?”
“Tea?” she responded.
“I am quite thirsty,” said he. Alexa held it close to his face, a little dropped on his cheek and he screamed in pain but stopped in a moment and instead complained, “It’s cold.”
It’s old. “I waited a long time.”
“Yes, and I nearly died.”
“Such melodrama. We live and we die, that is the way of life.”
“Yes, but who are you to decide?”
He was right. She fed him a bagel, cream cheese. Between bites, he spoke sweetly. And when he was finished, she asked “Do you love her?”
“No,” but his eyes betrayed his answer.
“You’re lying, Dan.”
“What’s your plan?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t understand.”
He loved her. He’d said it himself. Yet he said he loved Lexy and she’d seen what he’d wrote. He was married—to her sister no less. She removed her underwear and laid on his left. She said, “I love you so much and wish you were dead.”
“More tea,” was all he said.
“Do you think anything is after?”
“After what?”
“Life. What happens when we die?”
“I hope there’s a heaven but I’ve no faith in lies. I haven’t been great, especially to you, so untie me, Lexy, and I’ll be true.”
“I hope there’s a heaven, served with hot tea because death is so cold and scary to me.”
The curtains were crimson, an adieu from the sun. He kissed her shoulder, and said “We should have some fun.”
“Close your eyes,” she said, and he did as was told.
She kissed his cheek, his chest, and with one breath: retrieved a knife and between his breast it stuck. He cried out in pain and struggled again, but the ropes were tight and his strength lacking. She cast away the curtains and said, “You should see the sky when you die. Especially at night. The stars will remember when everyone else forgets what sort of life you led.” And when the shaking stopped, she closed his eyes. She said, for the last time, that what she did was right. >>14801664
ok its rewritten now; uh i expect the general themes to be easy to get but pls tell me if any is unclear and i'll tell you the meaning and hopefulyl can see if that should be left connoted or needs to be denoted; also, link your work and i'll feedback

>>14801849
I understand more of what you were going for with this, but it's awkwardly worded overall. It needs a lot of work and I'm going to make a few changes in greentext as an example of what I think will make it read better.

>“You left me here to die,” he wailed.

>He squirmed against the rope.

>“Look, baby,” he said, “its you and me. I love you."

>She smoothed her hair and stared at him. “Do you mean it?”

>He licked his lips and eyed her nervously. “Would I lie?”

I could go on but I don't want to just completely rewrite your work. The entire thing needs a great deal of work to make it more coherent because right now the poor grammar and structure is very distracting. You don't have to completely spell out that the guy can't control his lust despite his current situation but make sure what you do say is communicated clearly. You seem to be rhyming at the end in places but it's disjointed and it made me feel sudden confusion about what you were trying to go for overall.

This was mine >>14795906

>>14801948
Oh, ok! Thank you. What grammar/structure is poor? I was trying to emphasise that the selfishness was actually responsible for the sister's death/suicide (from the cold tea) and the girl in a state of shock/revenge against such a thing; the majority of the piece has small half rhymes through to make the pair seem disjointed to each other
>die
>cried
>bound
>brown
>breakfast
>undressed
etc, idk if this makes it worse but the general detached and disjointed feel was on purpose; if you think that doesnt work then pls tell me

>>14795906
Second sentence feels too long, perhaps cutting it up into 2 or 3 sentences.
Aren't drill sergeants concurrent in that position? They don't just train one group?
Second and third sentence both drag on a lot.
>long
>constant
you don't need both, cut the superfluous
Generally, the piece seems to be holding the characters, the story and the reader up. The characters aren't progressing, thus the story isn't progressing (its taking a haitus), and thus the reader has to wait. Why so long? Why would he have to REDO the whole thing? Why on earth wouldn't he be allowed a couple days off to a funeral? That's absurd, especially as, in LITERAL war (modern ones at least) people went home to mourn if family members died.
To talk more about the actual written piece, dialogue is decent but if Will is the protagonist, he seems extremely passive and kinda mediocre. You over explain things
>Davis grated at the soldiers through clenched teeth. His entire body flexed with emphasis as he spoke, as if his contempt for the soldiers was so enormous he had to use more muscles than just the ones in his mouth to express it.
so many words to just say
>he was hard on his students
The soldiers discovered the drill sergeant Davis's nickname by eavesdropping on a conversation the other drills occasionally had when they pretended not to realize their soldiers were in earshot. After discovering the nickname the soldiers understood they were not the Rattlesnake's first training platoon and would probably not be his last.
again, here, is there a significance to his name? Why bring it up if you're just going to say
>people eavesdrop in every job/part of life

>>14801987
>etc, idk if this makes it worse but the general detached and disjointed feel was on purpose; if you think that doesnt work then pls tell me
That's not a bad idea at all but I didn't get that, which might be my own fault. I think the rhyming conflicts with what's going on but I'm honestly not sure if it's because there isn't enough or it's too much. Maybe someone with more experience can help you more.

>Second sentence feels too long, perhaps cutting it up into 2 or 3 sentences.
>Aren't drill sergeants concurrent in that position? They don't just train one group?
>Second and third sentence both drag on a lot.
Drill sergeants spend at least two years on the trail training cycles of new recruits for 4 - 6 months as part of a training company, depending on what their job is. I might rewrite it to make that more clear.
>Generally, the piece seems to be holding the characters, the story and the reader up. The characters aren't progressing, thus the story isn't progressing (its taking a haitus), and thus the reader has to wait. Why so long?
That's actually what i'm going for. Basic training feels like limbo and in this instance their basic is longer than normal.
>Why would he have to REDO the whole thing?
Davis is trying to scare Uris into not leaving for his Aunt's funeral. As he says, Uris's leave was already approved bu the commander and the first sergeant so there's nothing to actually stop him from going. That's kind of the problem with posting a fragment instead of a whole chapter because characters address Davis's shitty behavior in the next paragraph.
>Davis grated at the soldiers through clenched teeth. His entire body flexed with emphasis as he spoke, as if his contempt for the soldiers was so enormous he had to use more muscles than just the ones in his mouth to express it.
so many words to just say
>>he was hard on his students
With that I meant to express that Davis's anger is out of control. You might be right, I'll take another look at whether it's actually necessary.
>again, here, is there a significance to his name? Why bring it up if you're just going to say
>people eavesdrop in every job/part of life
Is the Rattlesnake not a pretty striking nickname? I guess that explanation for his nickname isn't clear enough. It may just be my own bias making it shitty: Davis is based very heavily on a drill sergeant from my own basic training, including that nickname. Honestly, most of that scene is inspired by something I personally witnessed in basic training.

Thank you, your feedback is very helpful.

>>14802103
Ya, post the rest if it makes it cleaer (in jpg tho pls)
>That's actually what i'm going for. Basic training feels like limbo and in this instance their basic is longer than normal.
Good effort with the limbo thing then!
>Davis is trying to scare Uris into not leaving for his Aunt's funeral. As he says, Uris's leave was already approved bu the commander and the first sergeant so there's nothing to actually stop him from going. That's kind of the problem with posting a fragment instead of a whole chapter because characters address Davis's shitty behavior in the next paragraph.
The problem with it though is that what you have written gives off the idea that he will actually fail everything for a minuscule thing so maybe make it seem more of an actual threat "I will personally make sure you...."
>With that I meant to express that Davis's anger is out of control. You might be right, I'll take another look at whether it's actually necessary.
there is nothing wrong with long, explanatory sentences however we need them to say something more than what is said a lot of the time
>Is the Rattlesnake not a pretty striking nickname? I guess that explanation for his nickname isn't clear enough. It may just be my own bias making it shitty: Davis is based very heavily on a drill sergeant from my own basic training, including that nickname. Honestly, most of that scene is inspired by something I personally witnessed in basic training.
uh, yeah, i guess? But you didn't say how he got it, why he got it etc etc, if you have written about your own experience, then try write it ALL out in absolute EXCRUCIATING detail and then cut it down, its better to have to cut a bunch down than include more when your memory changes

>>14801849
Having read the feedback, this is actually really really well done. The half rhymes are so off putting but work. The awkward conversation paints two people living these different words. I really enjoyed it. I posted mine earlier but I’ll tag it for feedback if you wouldn’t mind, >>14792295

>>14802119
>>14802119
>Ya, post the rest if it makes it cleaer (in jpg tho pls)
I've worked on it since yesterday so it's slightly different now.
>The problem with it though is that what you have written gives off the idea that he will actually fail everything for a minuscule thing so maybe make it seem more of an actual threat "I will personally make sure you...."
I see your point, I'll work on that.
>uh, yeah, i guess? But you didn't say how he got it, why he got it etc etc, if you have written about your own experience, then try write it ALL out in absolute EXCRUCIATING detail and then cut it down, its better to have to cut a bunch down than include more when your memory changes
I attempted to express this in describing how Davis speaks and that the other drills call him Rattlesnake, but I agree that it's weak. He's extremely angry all the time and his way of speaking is as if he's striking verbally. It's difficult to express accurately and I've wrestled with that part for about a year. Describing it in a way that expresses the but doesn't seem stupid is pretty hard. Thanks again.

Bump

>>14800785
James Ferraro?

My Wager


Frighteningly soon death will be a choice

I carve these words into stone

Upon that day the dramatics among you

Should stay wallowing in silent suffering

Selfishly you romanticize death

As if it isn’t just another cancer

Time is money

But infinitely more valued

And if there was a ten dollar bill

Dancing in the wind of a busy street

We would all be fighting over it

You spew foolishness

Such as “Immortality would grow boring”

Through what lens of experience do you claim this?

Are you bored with life right now?

Billions of individuals

Each a galaxy of perspectives and stories

Are they not worthy of meeting?

You would burn every book you could ever write

You would smother ever song beneath death’s pillow

Crush every invention

Bankrupt every business

Blind yourself to every discovery

Within an infinitely interesting universe

What towering ego you must contain

To believe that the future is smaller

Than your death

Just some dialogue from a story I'm writing. Would like to know if it's total shit or if there's something worth working on.

"Really now, I think it’s about time you stop fooling yourself into thinking you’re something special or different, Massimo. I can’t even begin to understand, like, how did that little seedling get sown into the ridges of that brain of yours anyways?”

He stiffened his thumb and forefinger, bringing the tips up in front of his eye and squinting as if he was trying to observe something so occult and infinitesimal that it couldn’t be seen with the naked eye, let alone be comprehended by a sane mind. He took his time to play around with it, turning his digits around in the fluorescent light, observing the empty space between them first with mock curiosity, only to open them up and let the foreign object float off to an empty corner in his office.

“Wow. Just- I really don’t get it y’know? Do you think that because you have a different set of ‘ideas’ or ‘convictions’ that, for that reason alone, you’re some kind of revolutionary who’s going to shake the whole world? Quit kidding yourself. You’re a freshie ‘Literary Support Specialist’ at the worst middle school in Natchitoches, Louisiana. There are a thousand suckers just like you with the same useless degree, only a hop and a skip away from Skid Row, eager to lap up the eight hundred bucks a month we throw fucks like you because they don’t have the dignity to just throw in the towel and starve. At the end of the day, you’re stuck in the shit with everybody else, and eventually you’ll have rolled around in it long enough that you won’t even be able to distinguish yourself from the rest of the pile. My suggestion is that you get over yourself and settle into the real world. Couple of years from now, you’ll look back on this part of your life and feel the same way you did after you woke up from your first wet dream. Confused, embarrassed, and desperate to get that nasty lil’ white squirt off your dick before mommy and daddy find out. Wipe yourself off already, Massimo, m’kay? Anything you’d like to add?”

>>14799793
Aca en Argentina cada vez se consiguen menos ediciones de clásicos, y ni hablar de ediciones traducidas con rigor. Todo lo que se puede conseguir de buena calidad o es importado, en ingles (dificil de conseguir) u obligatoriamente libros viejos con mucha suerte. Imaginate que hace fácil 20 años que no se edita nada de Tomas Aquino, como ejemplo burdo. Pero bueno, gracias por la data.

Mucha suerte con tu trabajo poético, se hace disfrutar mucho.

>>14804103
Who is talking, like, his manager?

Assuming Massimo is playing with his fingers and not paying much attention, his actions' description sound diagnosable, if not purposefully ignorant of the speaker. It could make sense if he distracts himself in similar ways throughout the story.

Why does a guy on $800/mo have his own office?

There are some crazies in education but there is no way this conversation would happen in a school today - could be passable tone if it was late 19xx but then the insults would focus more on masculinity and purpose instead of playing on willy juice (and salary would need to be adjusted).

It feels a bit like you want to aim a similar rant at someone you know. What event(s) lead up to this chewing out?

>>14765981
>senpaiélica
wtf

>>14804355
4channel filtered out the word "f-amélica".

>>14804335
Yeah, it was supposed to be the principal speaking with Massimo in an administrative office.

The paragraph with the bit about the fingers between the dialogue was supposed to be the principle being deliberately sarcastic and theatrical, like he was observing the 'little seedling' that grew into Massimo's 'ideas' and 'convictions', judging it to be strange/useless and then throwing it aside.

As for the bit about crazies in education I used to work at a charter school in Cleveland and I have overheard some pretty fucked up conversations, this rant was basically just an exaggeration of some of what I've overheard plus a kind of a comment on some of the negative views people have about teachers. The story is set in a city considered to be one of the worst in Louisiana, where education is already pretty mortifying state-wide so I figured that would make sense in terms of the administration being kind of morally challenged. I do get that the willy juice bit is weird but it just had an angry boomer kind of feel to it.

In terms of the events leading up to this directly, Massimo began working at a sort of 'scam' of a school where the staff and administration are mostly in on a plot to fabricate standardized tests and such in order to boost the ranking/get more money from the state and feds. Massimo was unaware of this coming in and has been attempting to take time to actually teach once he discovered this to try and rebel against this system, and the chewing out by the principal is the end result of this. I tried to base this off of some real life stuff and adapt it a bit (google T.M. Landry Scandal for the school inspo, John Taylor Gatto is a famous educator who had a similar 'revolt' in the schools he taught in).

Thanks for the feedback, if the explanation makes any sense and you think there are things I should change to get my point across better or if it's just shit and I should scrap this I would appreciate if you told me.

>>14804517
Ok, makes more sense now.
Big baddy principal can't even, like.
>"I just don't understand, how did this little seed get planted in that brain field of yours anyway/anyhow?"

The next part should be described quickly instead of breaking the pace of the rant. Perhaps splitting the theatrics among the dialogue could work.
>"...that little," pinching his thumb and forefinger, "seedling... "

If you want to create a clear gap between the first and second part of the rant, then Massimo (thoughts, reactions or lack thereof) or the backdrop could be mentioned.

The principal has a mock drill sergeant approach to staff, maybe use a more dismissive action than a whimsical floating to the corner. Keep the incredulous open hand but simply show nothing is there, or throw the hypothetical seed to the corner.

Unless you have plans of using wet dreams or Freudian nightmares later, avoid the dick part. The principal isn't a sexual deviant to my knowledge, if you want to keep the structure then I'd use a different fresh start analogy.

>wrote this in response to a prompt on another thread, should have posted here instead

Back then, she mostly ignored me aside from the vacant smile she flashed all too casually. But that day, I'd like to think, she really, truly, felt sorry for me. Not that she could possibly understand - and hence genuinely empathize with - the particulars of my predicament that morning when I revealed it to her. That much I knew. But there was something else behind her smile that gave me hope. Somehow, the gap between us had narrowed, and I was immeasurably happier for it. My unrequited affection for her had been known to all for some time, and I harboured unspeakable hope for what the future may bring.
Later that day, at lunch, I noticed several of the boys over at the varsity crew table huddling over someone's shoulder, obviously enthralled by the latest diversion on someone's smartphone. "Just like litte girls" I thought. My minor conquest had imbued me with a confidence I was not accustomed to.

Jason's eyes looked up from the table and saw me staring. Jason was the only one who was nice, and our occasional encounters during the walk to school - we shared one quarter of the path from each of our houses - marked the only highlight of my otherwise vacant social life.

Right now he was smiling like a greedy king, and I couldn't help but smile back.

"Hey buddy, why don't you come over here."

He must have noticed my apprehension, giving me a quick wink in that casual manner I could only dream of.

My feigned attempt at swagger quickly turned into a hobble, but the distance between our tables was not great. Was this what it felt like, I thought, to finally make it? To be able to view your fellow students not as potential tormentors waiting for their next opportunity to prey, but as peers who value your presence as much as you would like to value theirs, if only they'd let you?

Somehow, without seeing anything else, as soon as I saw the familiar face on the screen, I knew that I had made a grave mistake. In one less than holy fraction of a second, my newly discovered throne began to crumble beneath me.

"Go slow - FUCK - go slower T". The voice was now disembodied, as the would-be cameraman panned down the lithe delicately freckled frame.

I wasn't paying attention by then.

I don't pay attention very much at all these days, and as long as I don't, it's not so bad

Hello /lit,/ I was wondering if one of you can help me. Does this sentence make sense: he has the most commendable work ethic of any collegue I have known.
It sounds somewhat off. How could one fix it without losing its meaning (that is, that the person i'm praising has the most commendable work ethic when compared to the rest of the collegues I have known)
thank you.

The makings of attractiveness were there, but it would seem that a rude creature had snuck into her mother's womb and messed about (one of a lower sort I would assume; I'm tempted to name it a devil, but the notion that satan's band could pervert our god-given material form seems blasphemous to me; perhaps alchol was the perpetrator?) Her chin was rather mannish, her cherk bones were too high, her ears too big, and her eye's had an unsettling beadiness to them-- like a rat. Looking at her made me uncomfortable, so I turned without a word and left the room (those boat painting are pretty, I should buy them off of John. Shame about his sister though.)

>>14805262
It's not bad, just lacking in character
Think about who's saying it and rewrite to fit the way that person would say it
For example, I imagined an overworked, lower class but good natured boss

Freddy? Good hands, good head, never had a problem with him. Always here on time, always gets his work done, always stays late to clean things up. Nice kid.

>>14804355

senpaiélica >>14766240

When I was young, I once housed a traveller. He was old and bearded and scarred and strange, never wanted to talk about where he came from or who he was or much of anything at all, except his stories. But when he spoke of them,the land he knew, the men he had known, kings he had served for, does he had hunted, flowers he had plucked, he would get a certain gleam in his eyes. I wonder if it was all just madness? Doesn't matter now, he's dead. His stories didn't have much wisdom to them either, just nonsensical ramblings about a witch this and a wolf that. But still, he was fun. Made winter less boring at least.

>>14805337
Thanks. It's supposed to be a sort of letter of recommendation. A professor praising a student in excess to get him into a prestigious scholarship. The story is a bit more complicated, the professor secretely hates the student and getting him accepted is part of a larger scheme for vengeance. In any case, I was looking for something a bit more formal. But thank you for your suggestion

>>14805124
Cliche as hell, from the premise to the characters to the relationships to the ending
I'm pretty sure I've read like fifty things posted on here that covered the exact same topic you did in the exact same way

Such hidden strings that pull the bows of pines and souls of men. Where in this dirt, this ash of earthly cremation are the tokens of my father? Whose bones are still wet, burrowed in their time, now in their debt. Facsimiles of the vessel that wears my life, soon to be scattered on the air. Yet now is not the time for sorrow, while I stand upon the grass, for bliss it is to see the dawn in my winter days.

The light gleamed from the blade which wore the reflecting faces of the dying men. Above an alley the sky was draped by hanging carpets as the fighters danced in the dust. Coins changed hands and eyes watched the streets for proactive and unbribed guardsmen as Harlin kicked a teenager in the chest. Steel flickered at lingering limbs and hearts as the combatants were disqualified in turn either by loss of life, or the inability to take life. In a brief interim of the falling bodies, there were two still standing, Harlin and one more.

>>14806539
Nice.
I think you meant
>boughs of pine
and you could try
>the tokens of my father, whose bones are still wet,
or
>the tokens of my father. My father, whose bones are still wet,
I really like how this passage sounds.

>>14806618
Thanks, I appreciate the suggestions/correction.

Wrote this in 5 minutes, rate my speed writing

>>14807114
trash

>>14807114
Pretty bad, read more anon and spend more time while writing.

>>14790874
needs more psycho-logi because you are just another random loner that no one cares about

>>14791187
probably intentional, but there is a great deal of smugness in this text. not just smug in the sense of the scene being described, but also the text/language itself. it is very distracting.

is there anything inherently wrong with being pretentious? maybe not, but i don't like the style of the text being too self-aggrandizing ("The polo player, in perpetual intermediate motion, gallops across the newly lain cotton grass of the jacket. In the inner lining is tartan, contrasting the working class, or at least working-for-a-living khaki of the outer shell."), this is a very clear example of writing a lot of text without actually saying anything

>>14791899
methinks you are actually trying to write about something in particular, but you write so abstractly that one can retrofit any interpretation they'd like onto it. i didn't mean that as a good thing since i'd assume you'd want to convey a specific intention as opposed to merely be ~poetic~

>>14792930
>It just goes to show that even if you're boring as fuck, as long as you're a decent writer, it will still always be decent, at the very least.

this is only partially true. there is no reliable segregation between good writing and being interesting (though the intuition is there)

the text was fine because it had clear imagery, and if you (generic you) like to read/write about emo/faggy/pretentious characters then you partially identify with him/her. there isn't anything inherently wrong with that, and part of the effort of writing is to shine humanity onto characters that naively seem one-dimensional

>>14794002
poor take. the correct take is that writing about yourself (but in particular, your insecurities) is very tricky and requires a lot of self-awareness to be good.

the benefits of writing about such stuff is that you actually get to write something -real- as opposed to 50%+ of the samples here which are more-or-less "i want to prove my writing" instead "i have something to say". downsides are that it is hard to pull off well because (deferring to language of psychology) insecurities are inherently maladaptive complexes, so writing about them can come across as annoying/maladaptive

but even a text such as notes from the underground (i have only read 5 pages or so) is probably maladaptive, but the author goes in great depth and honesty. its up to you how you treat it though

>>14765901
Here's a small piece of a poem in prose like fashion:


Swinging chandelier in an empty home
Creaking stones, glittering bright
Rays dancing and playing like children in a field
A chandelier floating in empty space
static opaque black stones dripping with starry night
In these hazy reflections widows mourn, wolves sing and men sulk
In lone dark, disinterested mother moon looks down at them all
Impartial and detached but
company for those
nauseated in duties beginning at dawn the act that drains the soul between dawn and dusk
Only you moon who did not wish to take notice
Only you who is so neutral
It is you who I see now
It is you who accompanies me

I usually don't reply to people who don't critique other works but this one is so dreamy, and melancholic. I like it but it seems the first couple lines don't really match with the rest, it almost seems like brainstorming.

>>14807317
>>14807301
Meant to reply to this post but it was deleted?

"That Hawaiian strum, where you hear the metal in the string: that was what you heard at p____s resort. There was a glimmer on the water, glimmer on everything. The animals were like living memorabilia."

"Animals?"

"Now listen closely, I'll only say this once: p____s is a hotel and zoo slash animal exhibition park[...]"

>>14807320
>>14807317
see, now I want to see what was posted

>>14765901
latino time. This is a paragraph from a novel I`m working on. I read The Sorrows of Young Werther some time ago and decided to write something in the same structure.

7 de enero de 2054
esa es la fecha de hoy, aunque todos los relojes del mundo se hayan detenido. He vuelto de la superficie y acabo de cenar otra vez porotos. El mundo está vacío. Juzgando por los símbolos de afuera, este refugio le perteneció al gobierno o alguien que guste mucho de las águilas. Me encuentro en medio de una pequeña ciudad, no más de 100.000 habitantes cuando estaba viva. Logre rapiñar unos cartuchos para el rifle y una máscara más para mi colección de una tienda de supervivencia con superávit de stock (Irónico, ¿No?). Los apartamentos parecen intactos, pero la integridad estructural me inhibe explorarlos sin caer y romperme el cuello, así que me he limitado a saquear casas. Encontré más porotos y una solitaria lata de duraznos en conserva. Me los comí al instante. La comida fresca ya había decaído y solo quedaban deprimentes capas de residuos sobre las mesas. Un par lustroso de nuevas botas estaban tiradas en medio de la calle, pero no quise tocarlas. Algo así de nuevo en un mundo muerto debería ser una trampa, Pero, ¿De quién? En ningún momento encontré algún cadáver. Nada de esqueletos ni carne podrida. Ni un mísero hueso. Como si todos hubieran ascendido hacia el cielo en el Armagedón y a mí me hubiera tocado quedarme solo. No recuerdo haber pecado en mi vida. No recuerdo nada. Tampoco vi ningún animal. Ningún insecto. Ninguna planta u hongo. Ninguna forma de vida. Entré en pánico. Hice las rondas alrededor del refugio para asegurarme que no estaba en el territorio de algún depredador tan eficiente y tan voraz que no dejaba constancia de su crimen. Pero entonces me di cuenta que si un ser era capaz de comerse a todo lo que viera en algún momento se le acabaría la materia viva y su hambre le haría comerse a sí mismo. Tal vez el hinchado cadáver de este imponente leviatán este descansando kilómetros de aquí, secándose debajo de un indiferente sol. Me acabo de acordar que aquí no hay sol. Tampoco nubes. Solo un aburrido y azulado cielo ¿De dónde viene la luz? En fin, me dirigía de vuelta al refugio cuando me acordé de algo. El cadáver. Fui corriendo a la tienda de supervivencia y agarré el cuchillo más afilado que había. De nuevo bajo tierra lo inspeccione más detenidamente. Al instante noté detalles inquietantes. Entonces me puse a investigar con el cuchillo. Más que una disección, lo que logré hacer fue una torpe carnicería. 42 dedos, 38 dientes, un segundo corazón donde un pulmón debería estar y, en una cavidad craneal escondida bajo una gruesa capa de piel, un tercer ojo atrofiado. Al terminar me apresuré a taparlo con una manta de emergencia. Prefiero no verlo, olvidarme de él.

>>14807114
seemingly dumb but alright

>>14807298
>poor take. the correct take is that writing about yourself (but
It's not a permanent take. He's advising exercise, not ideology. What he's saying is akin to "don't skip leg day." I don't think he means writing about yourself should be gived up on.

>>14807114
Not bad for rushed trash. I bet I could sweep all of the excess dust off my floor in two minutes, but it still wouldn't be nearly as clean as if I had also taken the time to mop with a bucket and floor detergent.

https://1drv.ms/w/s!An0JVyeGSItThIZxAoxj86w6_-7Rpg

This link may look suspect, but it's just a suspect looking link that leads to a word document. I didn't want to post in segments. Feel free to read it, or don't, but I'd appreciate it...

>>14807479
>>14807317
Swinging chandelier in an empty home
Creaking stones, glittering bright
Rays dancing and playing like children in a field
A chandelier floating in empty space
static opaque black stones dripping with starry night
In these hazy reflections widows mourn, wolves sing and men sulk
In lone dark, disinterested mother moon looks down at them all
Impartial and detached but
company for those
nauseated in duties beginning at dawn the act that drains the soul between dawn and dusk
Only you moon who did not wish to take notice
Only you who is so neutral
It is you who I see now
It is you who accompanies me


this was what was posted

This is an attempt to translate the lyric of Bernard Lavilliers' "Gentilhommes de fortune" into English in the shape of a poem.
As English is not my native language, it is possible that I made several mistakes, any remarks or criticisms are welcome.
After all, this is the first time I have ever attempted that kind of translation and adaptation:

I forgot even my name
Scraping with my brittle fingers
To the depths of muddy waters
For Salomon's trove and fame

In the pit, we are legion
The Gold's fever shanghai
We will dig until we die
For that damn golden demon

At the bottom, lie the sun
Who oozes water and urine
In the mine, we are vermin
Hanging to this insane stun

In the silence of jungles
Lie many and hidden
Massacred fallen indians
On the Colombian angles

But the virgin Amazon
Gives her beautiful person
Only for few gentlemen
Few unaware lucky men

Bleed the mud, climb the ladders
Rammed eyes and bloody cleft
When smiles have no teeth left
And the hands became litters

And if the scurvy pushes you
Deep in the green Para
Near Serra Pelada
The fate will swat your saga

In the end, the raw carats
In the Serra Pelada
With a bloody lambada
Will flat you like a duccat

When deadly curares ruin,
And many lustful guns fire,
When barbarians pass over
The bodies of red women

You will feel the truth, the shame:
Smells of blood and gold are same

But the virgin Amazon
Gives her beautiful person
Only for few gentlemen
Few unaware lucky men

Many of them got lost
In some lagoons'bottom
The few survivors risen
As gentlemen of fortune
Or misfortune

Day 15

Well, I fucked missy today. A great man has his urges, and they must be satisfied. I feel like a master, a king, a giant monarch of the past. In 300 years from now, having sex will be a rebellious endeavor (only on behalf of the man), seducing a woman, taking her out, abandoning all obligation in the name of lust. An amorous incursion on my otherwise mundane life. Several years ago, I couldn’t imagine talking to a girl, let alone seducing one…. But, I’m still pathetic, just a frivolous person yearning to be satisfied, “Ooh that feels good.” I should just chop off my penis.

Day 16

I tried a new coffee shop out of fear of familiarity, it was terrible and sour, and I spent the entire day on the toilet. Serves me right, this world has no place for solitude, anonymity. You’re either known or hated, usually both, but those who are known have some democratic dignity, and reverence among women. Shy or decadent is just as transgressive as murder or rape, sometimes even more so.

The more occurring when murder is justified. When somebody deserves to die, then how could it be murder? That’s not murder! Murder is just a legal designation of an act, he attacked, the result was death, and the verdict was murder as opposed to self-defense, war, or indifference. Rape hasn’t been justified in the western world for a while, even the most barbarous seem to agree that it is wrong, which doesn’t help the weak hapless men convicted of it or the brute aberrants failing to rebel. I was raped once, I was young. I seem to be doing just fine.

Day 17

The state and the correlating societal norms derived from the state or an abstract notion of those in power has replaced God. The average person is more loyal to the state than their own family. “Well he’s a murderer, well he’s a rapist.” Our life often is reduced to just a few moments, what difference does it make if they occurred on the same day.

>>14807792
P2.
Day 18

Back on set, Ginger ignored me all morning. I stood there like an unharvested sack of potatoes, gesticulating for her attention every now and then. It was all in vain, as the young interns crowded and flocked around her. Of course, she was not one of the more popular ones herself, so she and a crew of the interns flocked around this other intern woman: Shelia. Shelia was loud, and homely. I do not see what the appeal is, but so be. We only ever had one interaction and it did not go well at all.

Day 19

I feel ecstatic every time I read and know that men such as Louis-Ferdinand, Jack Kerouac, Salinger, Fyodor, Friedrich, Franz, Fernando, and Goethe once existed. Especially when they juxtapose Harold Bloom. My thoughts have become so ordinary that I’ve experienced this moment and realization many times before. I am numb and transcribing memories of the past; silent words of my previous state. The women I loved, the men I loathed, and the moments fiddled away where even those who were with me couldn’t understand what I felt. I love all and I despise just as many. I sit back and realize the vanity of my goals and the only reason they’re never accomplished is the glorification of such. If only I could see how simple it all is.

The warm heat glistening against my skin. It’s so warm and comfortable, I’m disgusted that I sleep so late. I sit in bed and ponder the past and future, always neglecting my present state, pursuing what I once had, losing what still exists of it. I’m a paradox of the highest order and I’ll be happy once I cease to exist.

>>14807801
P3.
Day 20

Continuous disappointment encumbers me. I remember talking to a therapist many years ago, I remember everything except the conversation. The grey sky, the slumped house, the long road leading to it, the one-time an elderly man asked me for a ride to the top of the hill. Poor being, how the elderly attempt to converse. A few aphorisms, a pithy, some platitudes, and most of it dismissed or reduced to aesthetic pleasure: a poor old man, a wise old man, a greedy old man, etc. I wish it was several years prior… and I was having a cookie (black and white), a coffee, and watching Seinfeld. I wish I could enjoy that again instead of professing to be deep and disavowing all snacks. Instead, I’ll read Zarathustra and pretend to understand it, convince myself I enjoy it, and then go to bed and wake up with an unwarranted grin on my face. How I loathe myself.

Ginger is forgotten, once I’m married it’ll be as if she never existed. Once she’s dead, she never actually did. I will not know when she died, but at one point in life I was the closest person to her. Even if it was just a few days, just a few thumps, and just a few heys we had a moment of understanding. Shouldn’t I be entitled to something more. No! God owes me nothing. I remember so much, skipping school, eating dosie-does, watching shitty TV show. I wish I was a kid again, so I could experience childhood, instead I sit on my coach and type vapid words hoping not to sound depressed, but instead profess some truth. Truth, as if I could understand it. I’m just a person who exists, talks, and wishes he was different.

>>14807792
>>14807801
>>14807806
bad

>>14807853
agreed, the writing's too self-involved and selfish to be interesting.

>>14807760
Very interesting intersection of sound and lyric here, with poetry. I can tell you that you convey the meaning quite well, if not for some grammatical awkwardness. 9/10 anyway, you've done well as ESL.

>>14807853
>>14807861
>>14805607
triggered incels lmao

>>14808607
just badly written but NICE COPE, keep up the SEETHE

>>14806667
Just noticed something else I wanted to add: there are some interesting metaphors & imagery in here, so maybe you can think of a way to replace "hidden strings" in the opening (it's a bit mundane and too-straightforward compared to the rest, I think). Maybe
>Such quiet chords that pull the boughs of pine and souls of men
I quite like that if I may say so myself lol (chord also means string)