/lit/ - Literature

I met Brittany when I was four years old at the gingerbread house pre-school. It was a catholic school that raised your child as if the hand of god was the prominent educational force. I remember the first time I truly met her as we played tag in the large padded gymnasium. She was a beautiful frail creature that was full of joy and laughter as she bounced around the corner-less objects and structures of play in the gym. Back then we didn't talk much at school or perhaps we did for memories of when you are a child can be accidentally erased as you grow older. During this time I remember my mom used to bring me over to her house and me and her would play together while our mothers caught up on this and that. After we completed pre-school we moved on to Saint Margret's elementary school and church where we were to further our education and growth under the vigilant eyes of nuns. I attended this school for only a week for I missed my tight knit group of neighborhood friends and I was shipped to a large public school to slave away for exasperated county paid teachers who harbored discontent for their choice of career. This didn't mean I stopped coming into contact with Brittany for we would see each other every Monday at religious education classes at Saint Margret's. This continued up until we were both sixteen and confirmed as catholic citizens. That day I decided to never step back into a church for I was a devout agnostic since the age of twelve and had better things to do than to pray to an entity that may or may not be there. Because of this choice I would only see her in the halls of our high school as she laughed and had conversations with her friends in the halls between classes.

Then during some day during the beginning of October of my senior year of high school a serious case of boredom landed in our town. Nothing was happening, no parties, no get togethers or hilarious hangout sessions amongst the company of friends, nothing other than the lack of genuine happiness and fun. I took great offense to it all for I was an advocate to having a great time anywhere I went and I noticed the blanket of boredom that surrounded everything and that had bothered me deeply. So on that fateful day my best friend Kinsella who lives his life as the image of Thor calls me and tells me to come over and hang out with him and another pal Paul. So I arrive a couple minutes later and they are sitting on the couch playing halo two with dull joyless faces staring at things they had already seen on the television. I took one step in the house and proclaimed that we should do something batshit insane to shake up the jaded repetitive bullshit behavior that was laying waste to us all. They asked what we should do and I replied with a mention of sheer delinquency. The next thing I knew we were in Paul’s truck speeding to my house to grab a baseball bat. After that Paul drove to the other side of town to his girlfriend’s house. When we reached it I instantly recognized who's house it was. After a minute she came bounding out the front door and slid into the back seat. At the time I was surprised that Paul would pick her up for such a misdemeanor filled night. She hopped around in the backseat and with a smile on her face she asked me what the bat was for and I told her it was going to be a tool for great destruction and laughter. Paul then asked me where we should go and I told him to head for the boonies.

We reached the back roads about twenty minutes later and in the cover of the starless night sky I leaned out the passenger window and smacked a rust rotted mailbox which exploded with a great bang. At that moment the boredom had evaporated and the thrill of petty crime and the constant barrage of joyous laughter had taken its place. We continued our quest for destruction down the light-less streets and as I hit each mailbox a great roar of laughter would rise up. At one point Kinsella demanded Paul to pull over and he did. Kinsella then snatched the bat from my hands and stalked over to a particular mailbox that had the distinct resemblance of Thomas the Train, he raised the metal bat and struck the poor helpless little train with all his might which collapsed it in half and sent plastic debris everywhere, even a piece managed to hit my shoulder as I was half out of the truck watching in awe as the giant struck the now deformed train over and over and over again. I remember hearing Brittany say between fits of laughter “No Thomas Noooo!”. As the tenth swing hit home a light went on in the near distance and an angry voice called out. Kinsella then lumbered back to the truck. Brittany kicked open the door and as Kinsella got one foot inside the vehicle panicky Paul slammed his flat foot on the gas. Everyone in the car screamed for him to stop and he did, I could see his legs shaking and his eyes frantically scanning the mirrors in search of the aggravated man somewhere hidden in the darkness. Damage had been done to Kinsella, for half of his body had been dragged for a good ten feet, there was a large gash on his knee and a long white streak of skin was left on the pavement. But the wound wasn’t deep and he didn’t feel the pain as he told us with a great smile on his face. He then told Paul to punch it and he did.

As the night wore on I hit more mailboxes and Kinsella threw a couple 'For Sale' signs into a river and laughter was heard more than words but as we were heading out of the boonies Brittany told her boyfriend to stop the car. Paul asked her why and she replied that she wanted to hit the cow. I looked out the window and saw that we were parked next to a dairy farm and a few cows stood swaying in the warm Indian summer wind as they slept in the tall grass. I said “Oh hell yeah.” and shoved the bat towards her. She snatched it and opened the cab door and slid out of the truck and half skipped towards the driveway of the dairy farm. It was then I noticed that farmer's mailbox was indeed a cow. I sighed in disappointment but when she swung that bat like a golf club and sent the head of the cow flying off into the night uncontrollable laughter eroded that immature and chaotic filled thought of potential hilarity to the expense of a sleeping sow. When she returned to the truck we all congratulated her with cheers, high fives, and hysterical laughter. It was then we all decided that the night couldn't get any better so we headed out of the back country and back into civilization. As we were crossing over an overpass Paul said that someone in a shitbox was following him. Brittany asked if he was serious to which he said yes. Paul then yanked the steering wheel and sped into a random neighborhood. I checked the mirrors and sure enough someone in a rusted out Honda from an age we youth didn't have the pleasure of seeing took the turn as well. I then told Paul to lose him and what occurred next was nothing less than a full blown car chase that belonged in a B-movie which spanned twelve minutes as we haphazardly blew past numerous stop signs and intersections in the small suburbanite neighborhood.

Paul was an inexperienced spooked driver in a new Toyota four door and he was having trouble evading what we could only imagine to be as a psychopathic vigilante that was hellbent on catching the rascals that smashed his mailbox. It was then that I told him that we needed to end this craziness and that we should confront the bastard in the parking lot of our high school. Paul zipped out of the neighborhood and onto a main road that headed directly to the high school. Sweat was pouring from his forehead and his eyes darted to the mirrors every few seconds to ensure that there was actually a car chasing him and not some sort of apparition. Apparently he wasn't very good at dealing with his nerves while under pressure. Before long the high school came into view with its prison like architecture, tall fences and unreachable cameras hidden behind mirrored domes. Paul whipped the car into the entrance and sped into the parking lot. There was a group of blacks dressed in hoodies of the same color near the fenced in tennis courts and they eyed the truck with curiosity but did not stir. As Paul stopped the truck in the middle of the parking lot the rusted out Honda approached the mouth of the entrance and slowed to a halt before he could move into the parking lot. We were confused by the driver's move for a moment but uncertainty was shattered as Kinsella said “Fuck this shit!” and grabbed the bat and hopped out of the truck.

I was quick to follow. Kinsella was pacing back and forth dragging the bat on the pavement like a caveman would with a primitive club and with a barbaric roar he began to scream out “BRING IT ON MOTHER FUCKER! BRING IT, YOU PUSSY!” and raised the bat to the heavens in his massive fist. The group of blacks scattered and disappeared into the darkness. The man and the Honda did not stir apparently unafraid of the giant wielding a metal bat. Kinsella was still screaming out threats and taunts about the stature of the man's reputation when Paul wailed on his horn and motioned us to get back into the truck. When we both made our way inside the truck and were seated securely Brittany began to pat the seething giant and chuckled softly to herself. Paul then drove up to the entrance and pulled next to the Honda. Both drivers rolled their windows down and struck up a tense conversation. The man in the Honda looked disheveled with untamed long greasy hair and a scraggly beard that grew in patches around his dirty face. The stench of booze was emitting from his car and as he asked us if we smashed his mailbox he slurred his words noticeably. Paul told him no and that we were only visiting a friend out in the boonies. He replied by saying bullshit and that he saw this truck park on the side of the road and let a little girl out and she smashed the head of his wife's cow mailbox off with a bat. Sounds of stifled laughter erupted from the backseat. Kinsella then rolled down his window and brandished the bat and asked the drunkard if he wanted his windshield and skull smashed as well. The dunk replied no thanks and that he'll just head back home before real trouble ensues. I told the man to drive safe and we pulled out of the entrance and into the main street and headed towards the nearest park. We arrived at a small park in the middle of a small secluded neighborhood.

The park was clearly meant for toddlers as it had a jungle gym, a pair of swings, and the musty smell of damp wood chips. Brittany and Paul took the swings and began laughing and smiling together. Kinsella handed me a cigarette which I tried to refuse but he had that look of violence in his eyes so I reluctantly accepted. It was a Marlboro red 100, it was a goddamn cowboy killer and it was my first cigarette. After a while Brittany got off the swings and looked to the night sky for it had cleared up and revealed the millions of tiny lights. Paul approached her and they hugged and stared up together at the revealed constellations of the milky way and all of their brilliance.
I won't ever forget that night for it had everything a perfect night should have. I won't ever forget that night because that was the last time I would ever hang out or speak with Brittany. That was three years ago.
Three months after that night Brittany broke up with Paul and became just another face laughing and talking in the hallways of the high school.

I met Caster during lunch on the first days of highschool. I ventured over to his table because a few of my friends sat there and it also had a multitude of good looking women. It was a brief encounter as I put most of my attentions towards the tanned goddess that sat across from me. Caster was a kid with the face similar to an apelike creature that was a couple rungs below a real human on the evolutionary ladder. He lived with a reputation of being a loose cannon when it came to women with hitting and quitting tendencies and a mouth quick and ready to defame the latest woman he had laid with. In fact, Kinsella threw him into a large pole outside of the high school library because of a debacle over the way Caster treated and ultimately insulted a woman that Kinsella was fond of. Plenty of teachers and principals were informed of the scuffle and they all must have laughed and cheered Kinsella for he did not have to face any disciplinary action. I knew Caster quite well for we shared many mutual friends. I used to drink with him on many occasions during my senior year of high school and he was mediocre company with more than one thing to complain about. I remember the first time he drove me and another friend to a school hockey game I was scared shitless for he drove like a madman who had just done a speedball. He would weave in and out of traffic while keeping his speedometer needle over one ten and manically laugh as he did it.

After the third time getting a ride from him I grew comfortable with this behavior and put it off as he was just an adrenaline junky. Yet he had a nasty habit of placating everyone that had the potential of being his friend. That was one thing that worried me, for he didn't have any enemies and if a skirmish did appear between him and another he would quickly solve it with kissing their feet. You can never trust a man without any enemies. At the end of the school year we didn't see each other much, a couple parties here and there during the summer but nothing like it was during the school year. I didn't give a shit at that loss as my overall opinion of him was that he was a shady douche bag.
A year passed and Caster and Brittany met and fell in love. Another year passed and they got engaged. Some months passed and some irreversible things occurred and Brittany said that she was done with him. One month passed.

On a warm night in November Kinsella called me to come over and drink a few beers before we were to go out to a party. I got there and Kinsella and a pal of ours nicknamed CC were talking about things they've already discussed before. I grabbed a beer and joined in the mechanical conversation that would lead to a brief fit of laughter or worst case scenario it would bring a static smile. Somehow me and Kinsella began to discuss the death of a kid in the graduating class below us and how it was a horrific car crash and how he was buried in his paintball uniform. I then asked him if our class had a death and he said no and I said that I pray that day never comes. An hour later as we were on our way to the party Kinsella received a text message from his girlfriend saying that Brittany was missing. He showed me the text message and my reality crashed down upon me and by the look on Kinsella's face he was feeling the same way.
The chances of a random abduction were less than a percent and the chances of her picking up and leaving without anyone knowing was out of the question for she had a solid relationship with her parents. Not to mention that day was the first day of college students being home so the chances of her stopping home saying hi to mom and pop and then taking off to an unknown location was ludicrous. There was only one valid conclusion and it was that Caster had his dirty hands in the situation somehow.
We drove past the party and headed towards the neighborhood Caster lived in. CC asked what was up and I told him that Brittany was dead. Kinsella told me to shut the fuck up and that she could still be alive as he kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. His knuckles and face were pale. CC asked what we were gonna do to which Kinsella replied that he was going to beat the whereabouts of Brittany out of that spineless cunt.

When we arrived at his house there was two police cars out in front of his house. From the back seat CC said something about it being taken care of and that we should go to the party. Instead we drank beers and smoked dutches and cruised out of our town and into the boonies to relive something from the past.
Once the search for her began it started to rain and it rained for a week. During this time the people of my town began to grow more and more suspicious and hate filled towards Caster as the “rumors” swirled.
Then on a chilling Saturday a man from the search party found her behind a tool shed in a town park with a crushed neck. She was dumped like garbage, a fate that she didn't deserve. Caster was quickly arrested and thrown into the public justice center where he was beaten within an inch of his life. When he was left alone for a moment in the hospital he tried to hang himself with his belt but was quickly cut down by a nurse with a scalpel. That night a candle vigil was held in the middle of that high school parking lot. There was many of us there most were weeping and cursing Caster to hell.
I still wonder what would of happened if we got to Caster before the police did that night. We wouldn't have been able to save her for according to the police reports she was dead earlier that day. The search would of ended that night instead of going for a whole week though but what would that bring anyone? It wouldn't have brought her back and that's that. If I keep thinking in maybes and what could have beens and let these hypothetical thought fill my head it could drive me to madness and I could end up being tossed into the loony bin.

At her wake you needed to wait in line for a half an hour to see her and her family. When I saw her lying serenely in the casket I felt something die within me and I'm still not sure what it is yet. She wore a scarf to hide the contamination of Caster's hands. When I shook hands and said words of condolences to her parents I saw that the life had been ripped from their eyes. I then shook hands with her sister and her grandmothers and her grandfathers and her aunts and her uncles and her cousins who all had eyes of china dolls, all devoid of that light. I left something in that funeral home I just don't know what it is yet.

A blizzard hit the day of her funeral and I broke my promise to never step foot into Saint Margret's again. As I waited in line in the gymnasium to be let into the church I overheard Kinsella and Paul reminiscing about the night three years ago as they stood behind. Hearing that forced a smile from me and it was the only time I would smile for the following week. The line started to move and my smile disappeared. We found open seats behind the choir and took them. When they brought the pristine white casket into the church women began to weep, next to me Kinsella choked back tears. Then the mass started and rituals took place and words of soothing wisdom were spoken by the priest and Our Fathers and Holy Mary's were prayed and the laments could not be contained. When it ended me and Kinsella went outside the church to catch some air and watch the snowflakes descend from the heavens. He offered me a cigarette and this time I accepted without hesitation. It was a Marlboro red.
Caster pleaded guilty to second degree murder a couple weeks ago. They are calling it a crime of passion. He is being sentenced next week. I hope he gets life without parole even though the minimum of twenty three years would kill him anyways but for a time it would give him a sliver of hope that he would hold on to. I want him to feel his life being snuffed out when the judge reads out 'life without parole'. The despair of having absolutely no hope is worse than death.

I never shed a tear for Brittany. I've tried but I can't. I know she would of shed a tear for me.


I still feel the ripples of her supernova.

bump

>Each one of our lives are spinning out of the grasp of our control
Good grief, when are people going to stop beating this dead horse. Is it beyond the ken of some shallow pates that some of us who aren't fucking aspie morons actually have our shit together

>>1597358

someone please permanently ban Deep&Edgy.

>>1597358
Op here, i'm not beating any dead horses. This is original content, something that you'll never be able to create.

oh man its such a crazy crazy world

tryin so hard 2 stop it all 4rm falling apart

>>1597377
You didn't even read what I posted.

Such a cunt.

>I still feel the ripples of her supernova.

preferred it when it was a muse song

>>1597384
i can't tell if you're effectively counter-trolling or if you're taking D&E seriously

if you aren't laughing at most of D&E's posts, you're missing something fundamental about 4chan culture

someone superimpose this onto a picture of a dejected cat on the street

>>1597406
I didn't realize that cancerous tripfags were the foundation of the 4chan culture.

I must be missing something.

>>1597384
>>1597434
in fact it is you who are the cunt

'niggas press they luck and they get a butt fuckin, straight up the ass raw dog with the rash' - biggie smalls RIP

>>1597442
Looks like we found the buttbuddy of D&E.

It was only a matter of time he would show his greasy acne scarred face.

>>1597449
that's some vitriol dude, that's some anger

at least d&e is funny man, not just on some whiny teenage shit

>>1597464
So when are you going to hop of D&E's dick or do you live your entire existence riding?

>>1597468
off*

>>1597468
Man I'm not even on D&E's dick, he said some funny shit in this thread whereas you were being a whiny-ass bitch, you crazy motherfucker

>>1597486
That must have been difficult to type out with D&E's cock down your throat.

>Each one of our lives are spinning out of the grasp of our control.
Fix your first sentence, dear lord. I'm not even going to bother to read the rest of your crap judging by that first sentence and your shitty choice in art.

>>1597493
first off why would having a dick down your throat make it difficult to type. unlike you i'm not exactly familiar with the situation but it seems like the real difficulty is in seeing the screen not in typing. second off you really are a whiny cunt and you really need to let this shit go, you got a real vendetta, you got a problem man.

>first off why would having a dick down your throat make it difficult to type.

Op here. I lol'd.

>>1597504
Read it you faggot.

this eulogy brought to you by Carl Sagan

>decide to read the first sentence in each post
>vomit uncontrollably
You need to take some English classes, or you should at least read some more books.

>>1597493
you need to let it go man

it's okay, we all get trolled at some point on 4chan

SHOW DON'T TELL
SHOW DON'T TELL
SHOW DON'T TELL

Your entire story feels far too preachy.

Sooooo many whiny fucks in this thread. Is this what /lit/ is always like? I mean, some self entitled faggot decides to post some generic long ass story they wrote in their 10th grade creative writing class, then some fucker calls him out for writing a shitty story, then a bunch of other stupid motherfuckers start a shitstorm over the kid. Fucking aspies.

>>1597516
Holy fuck just read the goddamn story as a whole.

Op here.

Shut the fuck up and read the fucking story as a whole.

Then make your fucking opinion on it. It's not that hard.

>>1597535
Yeah right bro, I'm not wasting my time with your story. Your first few sentences tell enough about it. How about you go read some real stories?

>>1597535

>Each one of our lives are spinning out of the grasp of our control.>Each one of our lives are spinning out of the grasp of our control.>Each one of our lives are spinning out of the grasp of our control.>Each one of our lives are spinning out of the grasp of our control.>Each one of our lives are spinning out of the grasp of our control.>Each one of our lives are spinning out of the grasp of our control.

>>1597537
you should be thankful for that bitchy anon, he kept your thread on page 0

>>1597541
Just finished reading Crime and Punishment.

Fuck off if you're not going to read my story as a whole. You can't form a valid opinion by reading three fucking sentences.

Jesus fucking christ the nerve of these cunts.

>I still feel the ripples of her supernova
oh
mai
gawd

>>1597543
So many samefags.

Read the whole thing. I wish I didn't. Just a bunch of whiny teenage bullshit. If you really want to listen to an arrogant teenager's ranting, go read Catcher in the Rye.

Also,check them out.

>>1597547
>Just finished reading Crime and Punishment
hahahahahahahaha, high school literature doesn't count

>>1597549
So you read the first and last sentence.

Congrats.

>>1597553
I wasn't bitching anywhere in there.

Also nice dubs you fucking failure.

>>1597553
Whoops. Forgot the image. Now... check those sweet dubs.

>>1597551
One post is being a samefag? That's my post, btw.

>>1597558
>>1597553
>>1597549
>>1597543
>>1597541
>>1597518
>>1597516
>>1597504
>>1597413
>>1597377
>>1597358


Trolls with no valid opinion.

>>1597561
It's very whiny. Starting with the first sentences that everyone is bitching about. I can tell by reading this that you are in high school, frequent coffee shops, and own a mac. Umad?

Now take 3 on those dubs.

>>1597566
>no one likes his teen angst bullshit of a story
>OMG U GUISSE R TROLLAN' R3AD IT DEN U C I IZ JEENIUS.

So many excessively long sentences......

You also make excessive use of comma splices. Stop that.

The entire story reads like a facebook blog

Op here

Not one person in this thread has read my story for if they read it they would realize that it's not a story about teenage angst.

Everyone in this thread is nothing more than a jealous troll with a "prolonged" case of writers block.

>>1597566
OP is a raging faggot. Also, he's mad.

>>1597584
But people have attacked your story for other reasons; therefore, people must have read your story.

>>1597584
Bro, I actually read it. I didn't say it was about teenage angst, but it was written BY teenage angst.

>>1597587
troll harder faggot

>>1597591
Alright.

Oh by the way this story is about a famous murder that occurred a few months ago and it is a true story.

>>1597598
>he believes that somehow adds to the story

>>1597584
OP, I feel your pain. Just last week, my life took a turn for the worst. First, my girlfriend broke up with me. I still feel the ripples of her supernova, I'm hurting, OP. Then, my mom wouldn't let me buy the new My Chemical Romance album. Life is soooo hard, I know where you're coming from. Please continue writing stories. I can see that you are going to be the voice of this generation.

>it's not teenage angst
>skim story
>ctrl + f
>high school
9 times man. You use the exact words "high school," 9 times, that's not even going into actual mentions of that time.
You write about teenagers and drama, and people are going to see it as teenage angst.
I read your story fully, now. It is. It's teenage angst and it's dull to read. You need to work on condensing points, sentence structure as composition, and moving plot.

>>1597413
lol'd.

>>1597601
I know it doesn't I'm just saying what it is.

>>1597602
0/10 I'm not sad. What is sad is that you actually took the time to write a whole paragraph to try to troll me and instead of a negative reaction to reading it I smiled. Thanks faggot :D

>nobody likes story
>EVERYONE IS EITHER SAMEFAG, RETARDED, JEALOUS OR TROLLING

admitting denial is the first step to healing, OP

not only is your story is very "babby's first existential crisis", there is absolutely nothing culturally interesting about it

your life (or the ones you created for the purpose of this short fiction) is a cliche. your story, on every level, is bound by the walls your parents and community put up around you to protect you. the lust/love the main character feels is just escapism, a faith in a higher power that skirts the banality of his trite existence if he were to look at it from a wider perspective

>>1597610
What in the fuck?

Does everyone on this board associate a story from high school with something terrible and disgusting?

You all must have been losers.

Look kid, if every sentence I randomly picked out is complete shit, this means your entire story is shit.

How about you simplify your writing instead of filling it up with these embarrassing descriptions. Also, thanks for basically listing an entire series of events in such a passive tone. It made for a boring read.

>s a cliche. your story, on every level, is bound by the walls your parents and community put up around you to protect you. the lust/love the main character feels is just escapism, a faith in a higher power that skirts the banality of his trite existence if he were to look at it from a wider perspective


Op here.

What exactly is wrong with that?

>>1597617
>terrible and disgusting
No. Banal and shallow.

You will never be a great writer, just letting you know this now.

I'm not a pro critic (as if that's what you expected) but I didn't like it. The prose is forced, cliche and dull. It doesn't feel like you have any personal interest in the story, or if you do, you're letting yourself override any true sentiments you have with your idea of what a short story is. I recommend you go and read a lot of short stories, come back relaxed and rewrite it completely.

Why do all the obnoxious writefags get all the criticism? A normal thread wouldn't get past 20 comments.

>>1597602
Me too OP. I'm going to rewrite your story into my arm with my razorblade, so I can really FEEL the story the way only you and I can. Feel that supernova...

>>1597628
This kids a faggot.

Anyways OP, one of the guys from the previous criticism comments here. I liked the part with the cigarette near the end. You're not hopeless, just broaden your horizon. You'll get better. Also, I personally have a distaste for prose, so that affects my opinion somewhat.

I stopped at the second sentence.

>>1597635
Everyone's a critic. It's satisfying, it's a release of tension.

>>1597622
there is nothing wrong with that in and of itself, but when i do my own reading i usually enjoy

- someone who at least TRIES to break boundaries. this lets me know they are at least conscious of the trappings of self-centeredness. this is either done by the author or through his/her characters
- characters that grapple with realities instead of getting caught up in romance. the two aren't mutually exclusive, but putting romantic interests up on a pedestal is the stuff of soap operas and twilight. this can be putting the person on a pedestal or putting upon the pedestal the pursuit of romance itself.
- a clash of ontologies, cultural worlds. invisible man, one hundred years of solitude and henry miller's autobiographical books deal with such things.
- character-driven stories or books. in your case, the character is just responding to events. there's nothing really that makes him human or even appear to have agency. he's just watching life fly past his eyes and attaching himself to fleeting things. he might do a minor thing or two here and there but he doesn't move the plot. again, there's nothing wrong with this per se but you do nothing to make it interesting.
- prose for the sake of prose. language that evokes texture and tactile experiences. sentences and paragraphs that have cadence and rhythm. you just use words for journalistic accuracy with no indulgence or picture-painting. artists i enjoy know how to use the tools of their trade and understand their limitations.

bump

>She was a beautiful frail creature that was full of joy and laughter as she bounced around the corner-less objects and structures of play in the gym.
>I took one step in the house and proclaimed that we should do something batshit insane to shake up the jaded repetitive bullshit behavior that was laying waste to us all. They asked what we should do and I replied with a mention of sheer delinquency.
>When I saw her lying serenely in the casket I felt something die within me and I'm still not sure what it is yet.

Sorry dude but your writing legitimately is not very good. Yeah, it's not precisely teen angst, but in spirit it absolutely is; it's juvenile. There's nothing wrong with that, right more. Also, you're really bad at getting the reader to understand an atmosphere - you have to tell us its boring, and you do so in awkward, unnatural language.

>>1598394
Meh I felt like in was forced to write this.

>>1598394
god damn it i keep fucking writing right instead of write. it's like the third time i've done that tonight, fucking hell what's wrong with me.

>>1598396
i mean that's cool but you know why are you putting it up for crit then

>>1598401
I put all of my stuff up here for crit.

I write a lot too roughly around five full pages a night. Most of the stuff I post gets a decent reception.

>>1598404
Self-edit more I guess. Think more about what you're writing on the level of individual words instead of just scrawling down insane ramblings as the urge takes you, or at least edit after the fact so your works have some coherence and flow instead of sounding like the rantings of a drugged-up teenage kerouac fan.

>>1598408

>kerouac fan.

FUCK THAT.