/lit/ - Literature

>>19679132
Sure, anon, I’ll bite.

The writing is good, though the dialogue is a bit stilted/performative…unsure if it intended to be that way, when in context, but it made the scene feel a bit unnatural.

The only real criticism is my lack or orientation. If this is a bit from a later chapter, it doesn’t matter, but as an opening this is perhaps a but too cold.a a a dialogue cold-open is fine, and that’s what I thought this was (between Verpelis and Harmony) but then Braylon comes in and apparently Videl was there the whole time! I imagined this was some dark fantasy novel, until they mentioned cameras and liberal news. Anyhow, Every time I imagined the scene the next line shattered my image, it was actually funny after a while. An establishing paragraph describing the physical space and characters would have helped to orient me. Same with some physical interaction in the conversation: ‘turning to x’/‘y shouted, standing up from his chair’ rather than ‘x said’/‘y said’

Overall, though, i think it likely reads well in the right context.

>>19679391
>And here’s my piece. The start of a short story I’m working on, and it just doesn’t feel right to me yet:

Come aside, Boy. And stay silent.

At dawn’s light you shall set out to find yourself. You think yourself prepared - the old ones have told you of the thirty and three gods you may meet - but tonight you will learn of one more. As the son of Bounding Hare, you carry the blood of the Thuathuan. We Thuathuan carry the blessings of the thirty and three, but we also know of another - a thirty-fourth - who will appear only to those who know how to look.

Sit and listen well. I will tell you how the once mighty Thuathuan were broken, and how - by breaking - they survive still. I shall give this tale to you as it was passed to me. None without Thuathuan blood shall ever hear of it, neither from your tongue or mine. Understood? Good. If the gods will it, one day you will share this in turn, so listen well.

Many winters ago - so many we have lost the counting - the ancient Thuathuan ruled the plains far to the West. Proud and strong, there were none from here to the Great Water who did not respect or fear them. They moved freely across the land, and numbered so many their footpaths scored the ground so deep they can be seen still. After ages conquering man, taming plant, and hunting animal, the Thuathuan faced an enemy they could not defeat: the weather.

The big rains did not fall for years. The sun scorched the earth; the grasses turned brown, the great heards died out, storms of dust darkened the sky and burned the lungs, wildfires spread as far as the eye could see. Still, the Thuathuan stood strong, steadfastly maintaining their traditions and way of life, even as their people starved. They chose their mora then as now, by sending their youth out to seek their gods’ blessing. Heads filled with tales of the thirty-and-three, the children of Thuathuan left to seek out the mighty Stag, or the resourceful Fox, or the swift Horse - yet with each year fewer returned.

We do not know the trials faced by many of the seekers, but of one boy - son of Surefooted Goat, the Great Chief of the Thuathuan - we know much. He was forty days gone. Thirsty and starved, he slept in the shade of rocks by day, only walking at night. He saw a lone deer on his journey, skeletal and fly-covered. He saw a dead mountain lion, body so full of maggots even his appetite couldn’t overcome his disgust. He saw the bones of the seekers before, sun-bleached and picked clean.

The boy knew the gods would not take this long to show themselves. Either one saw them in days, or never would - returning home to be one of the nameless. As a son of Surefooted Goat, the boy could not accept failure. Not out of pride, that was his father’s obsession, but because his people needed the blessings of the gods to survive. He would sooner die than return home without bringing back some glimmer of hope, some path to lead them away from destruction.

>>19679466
Sorry for the late reply. I got bored of waiting and started to write a new story of mine. But here's my feedback

>Come aside, Boy. And stay silent.
Nothing fantastically hooking about this opening line but it's average at best.

>At dawn’s light you shall set out to find yourself. You think yourself prepared - the old ones have told you of the thirty and three gods you may meet - but tonight you will learn of one more. As the son of Bounding Hare, you carry the blood of the Thuathuan. We Thuathuan carry the blessings of the thirty and three, but we also know of another - a thirty-fourth - who will appear only to those who know how to look.
>Sit and listen well. I will tell you how the once mighty Thuathuan were broken, and how - by breaking - they survive still. I shall give this tale to you as it was passed to me. None without Thuathuan blood shall ever hear of it, neither from your tongue or mine. Understood? Good. If the gods will it, one day you will share this in turn, so listen well.
>Many winters ago - so many we have lost the counting - the ancient Thuathuan ruled the plains far to the West. Proud and strong, there were none from here to the Great Water who did not respect or fear them. They moved freely across the land, and numbered so many their footpaths scored the ground so deep they can be seen still. After ages conquering man, taming plant, and hunting animal, the Thuathuan faced an enemy they could not defeat: the weather.
These three paragraphs immediately set up the story and that's not something most writers could do. The prose keeps me interested and seeking to read more.

>The big rains did not fall for years. The sun scorched the earth; the grasses turned brown, the great heards died out, storms of dust darkened the sky and burned the lungs, wildfires spread as far as the eye could see. Still, the Thuathuan stood strong, steadfastly maintaining their traditions and way of life, even as their people starved. They chose their mora then as now, by sending their youth out to seek their gods’ blessing. Heads filled with tales of the thirty-and-three, the children of Thuathuan left to seek out the mighty Stag, or the resourceful Fox, or the swift Horse - yet with each year fewer returned.
Good description of the seasonal changes Anon. Another point for continuing on with the lore of the Thuathuan.

Overall this is decent storytelling and I actually want to read more Anon. Good job with your prose but it could be sharpened a little more. If you were more charismatic, it would translate extremely well into your storytelling and dialogue.

>>19679132
>I felt an indescribable anger
I hate this part so much. you are a writer. your job is to describe. so do.

also, dialogue could use an edit. The characters sound very same-y.
Also get out of the habit with adverbs + dialogue, 99 percent of the time its cancer
>Videl said, coldly.
coldly does little, especially when you have so soon
>spoke in an ice cold voice
Once is enough, but redundancy aside, I'd rather you showed me how he voice was icy or cold. How does that sound. what actions surround that that point to it. do this through the setting, a tick, a motion, an action... idc but don't just fucking say it. it sucks that way.
its cliche advice, but show don't tell.

>>19679466
Honestly very hard to critique without greater context. The major advice I have is chill on a major lore dump. Especially at the very beginning. Also the older character explaining the world isn't a trope to embrace imo but whatever

Keep writing anons. You both definitely have potential.

>>19679751
I know. I try not to repeat myself but there's only so much description that could go into a scene before it reads like you're trying too hard. I definitely agree with showing the action through motion though and i'll try to implement it more in my writing. Thanks for the feedback

How can I learn to analyse and criticize litterary works ? Please teach me the way anons

>>19679132
>She smiled, interested.
I'm not. Show me her interest instead of telling this character, who is obviously some kind of attemptive proxy for the reader, that she/I should be interested in what follows. Nothing engages my hateful oppositionalism more than being told I should be interested in the author's meandering, doubtlessly-philosophical waxings and musings.

>>19679132
Also, fix your fucking grammar before asking for feedback. This reads like you just farted and shitted it out before asking people if it smells like roses.

Naughty List by Charles Gillingham

It started after they placed the cookies out with care. One drink led to more, soon enough they were finding innocent reasons to take off clothes. Alice was wearing what Jason had given her last Christmas: something pink, small, and lacey. Then she was wearing nothing. Jason had been telling her all this month how this would be the night, the night he gave Alice a child. And it would be.

It ended at the edge of their bed. Jason, barely enough energy to not fall off the bed. Alice, desperately clinging to him, herself at the bed's center. The spirits then gifted them both a deep, thoughtful sleep.

Trapped in a nightmare, Jason felt the dull sharpness, awakened only by Alice's screams. Unimaginable pain before, now stark reality. He had rolled off the bed onto a broken tumbler, still half full of gin, delicately severing everything that had made him a man. By some miracle he didn't die of blood loss, though the doctors told him the appendages could not be saved.

But, he would know what really happened: Jason had made a video! He always made a video. Though Alice could never know, then she would see all the other women. So many others. The truth would always be his secret.

He skipped the boring coitus, speeding towards his own injury. Each advancing frame of sleep hurt him, but he had to know.

An hour before sterilization, and after fertilization, someone else appeared: an old man clothed in bright red fur. Just appearing, first at the cookies, then at the door of their bedroom. Switching to another angle, Jason could see a pleasant smile on his face, looking down on them, and their new one in Alice's belly. Glancing at his held journal, his smile vanished. With a motion almost without movement, he was at the nightstand. In a soundless flash, the tumbler was on the carpet, broken in the most perfect way. He paused, questioningly, for a single second. Looking directly into the camera, he gave a slight wink, then moved the glass a little to his left.

>>19680848
Hahaha

The first para is great. Maybe extend it to two just to add a bit more build-up before the turn, and let us know the characters better. Past tense makes sense, he’s looking back after all, but the foreknowledge of conception seems a bit odd.

Second para, i suggest only using the word ‘bed’ once. Maybe add some more imagery, tangled sheets and wine glasses, etc.

Third para was not as well written. I like trying to describe pain through the fog of sleep and lingering drunkenness, but his screams would have woken Alice up, and ‘unimaginable’ is a cop out word. Just have him wake up screaming into a carpet and not remembering why or where he is. Devote one para to the pain and confusion, and the second to discovering its cause (there’s nothing ‘gentle’ about this severing).

In the hospital, Alice could be comforting and reassuring him, all the while he’s aching and hung over and dreaming about getting back to that room to see the tape. He knew (even drunk) he wouldn’t have left a glass on the floor, and maybe suspects her (thinking she discovered his cheating).

Last two paras also so-so writing, too dry. The last line though…perfection! Love when an ending delivers like that.

>>19681084
This was written for a writting contest which I only had 350 words. I wrote this after having drunken sex with my wife and seeing a broken jar on the ground and thinking a ghost put it there. Some say that jar is still on the floor today.

>>19681255
>Some say that jar is still on the floor today.

Hope you did well in the contest. I can see this story as a good flash-length (500-1000 word) piece. More room to build suspense/suspicion.

>>19680613
>>19680622
Where's your prose?

>So I would like to know like once and for all if nervous internalised pathos is pleasureable to read

I like to pretend I am suspended in a cloud when I shower and when I poke my head out the window and breathe in, it catches in my throat like I expect it would if I were to breathe at an altitude of 30 thousand feet. I feel like scrubbing at the grimy orange shit that’s built up in the grouting with my fingers, it doesn’t gross me out or anything, but I feel bad about conditioning my housemates to not have to clean. A possibility might be that if they encounter a spotless (oh who am I kidding) grid of grout they may be motivated to clean at a future point in time due to their guilt but I don’t want to be manipulative so I don’t clean it.

The mirror is iced over with condensation so I cannot properly comb my hair, its all a conspiracy to get me to cut my hair by Big Steam I tell ya! In all seriousness, there’s still the matter of the warm moist toilet seat. I think if I tired hard enough I could make myself not mind it and even enjoy it but I worry what I would be capable of making myself believe if I proved to myself I can change my mind about this. I am reminded of the prank I played on my brother when I stuffed his car exhaust full of nutella when I imagine how the crap spluttering out of my arse looks.

Something in a dressing gown is bent over the kitchen sink, spreading his unwanted oats out into the scummy water. The only witnesses to this breach of etiquette are me and the peanut gallery of unused fancy kitchen appliances that accusingly stare out. I worry about asking either Louis or Greg (I am still not sure who is in the dressing gown, I mean, they both went to Asda and decided to get matching ones!) because I think I remember reading that if you confront people with contrary evidence it just makes them dig in more. Should I play reverse psychology? Praise him for clogging up the sink? “Oh nice, I was actually thinking of doing an oat bath for my hands, d’ya mind if I use that water?”. Complicating this plan of attack is the issue that there is also half a rotisserie chicken bobbing in the water and last time I checked an oat bath does not come with a snack. The Foreman grill on top of the crockery cupboard seems to sympathise because it unexpectedly slams shut, causing the man in the kitchen to jump. Greg sees my attempt at hiding the fact I’ve been staring at him rinse out his mountain of blue porridge bowls and does not seem convinced. I don’t blame him, what I thought was a can of cleaning spray I could pretend to scrutinise the contents of, turned out to be large courgette.

“Oh, you’re alright Miles?” he asks, begging with his eyes that I make some attempt at explaining my behaviour so he doesn’t have to ask. He’s glanced at the courgette about 3 times now and I think he’s noticed my nervous grip has left an indent in the skin and will pulp the innocent vegetable unless I calm down.