/lit/ - Literature

Claire had overheard some of her classmates talking about how Mrs. Jelen had farted while teaching one of her classes. As news of the event had piqued her curiosity, she listened intently but without letting on that she was listening.

At the time of departure I was not on the train. Instead I was dangling between it and the platform by the handle of my umbrella. Of course, at the time it was the position I had intended to be in. But to understand how I came to be in this predicament we must alight a few stops earlier.

I am deleting it though as it doesn't really work. I know what I want to say instead but struggling with phrasing.

>>3335859
It's too verbose. It's unintentionally sounding like a pastiche of a precedent era. Incidentally, you need to demarcate your clauses with commas.

>>3335866

The problem isn't verbosity, I think. It's just that it is neither that funny or attention-grabbing as it intends to be.

Alternate opening paragraph is taking some work. Essentially it is a reworking of the second paragraph.

>Through cloth it went, there was no denying that, but the bloodthirsty knife never managed to snatch a bite of Ycero's lean figure. It came awfully close a few times, but each time it opened its jaws it bit nothing but air save for the few mouthfuls of leather that had been caught as Ycero darted around each blow.

Wendsday she goes to school and sees a tennis shoe, bloody and torn, on the sidewalk. Has anyone mentioned tennis shoes lately? Has anyone remarked on how they've been coming across pools of blood lately, and how the city should really do something about it? No, they hadn't. Lone and bloody tennis shoes were absolutely not part of the everyday. That meant they were a lie. You couldn't depend on them to be real when you saw them.

>>3335859
Do you start it like that because the real beginning of the story isn't interesting enough to get the reader's attention?

>>3335901

A little bit, yes. It is mostly issues structuring the beginning. But I will realise it when it all clicks together.

Once upon an epoch, at a location remote and forgotten, Walrus and Ass enter Wal-Mart. Walrus, what does Walrus notice first? Fluorescent lighting. Demon light is what it is to him. Seemingly the bitches that hang these awful lights, in every single Wal-Mart that Walrus has experienced ever, hang them always at an extremely altitude, such that it creates a feeling similar to that feeling a sensitive person is likely to get from view of the Sun at its noon hour position, establishing a relationship of servant and master. Walrus crunches his shoulders down and his head, responding, trying to get away from the god awful lights that lord over the landscape from like an omniscient viewpoint, assuming a walking stance of complete passivity, looking like a man getting ready to take a dick. It’s enough to make a person vomit it is, and Walrus nearly does. This seemingly nauseous feeling, the one of being peered at and judged by some malicious and omniscient entity, is hardly even tangible, it hides. (It’s neurotic, it’s insane.) Walrus feels it only fuzzily around the edges of his vision, like it’s there but it’s not but it is. It’s one of those things. And it’s enough to make a person vomit I tell you. Which is something Walrus does almost, the unnaturalness of the light disturbs him so. Bile creeps up to where the esophagus begins to become the back end of the mouth all hot and mercurial and acid-like. Therefore he swallows.

Here is something. Was going to edit it, it's been sitting in my hard-drive for a few months, but I dun wanna right now, I guess.

Do you people relish in writing completely obscure and intelligible trash? I mean, what exactly is the point of your writing? Some coke-binge scribblings suddenly make a masterpiece?

>>3335953
We write because if we do not write, we will never improve our writing. So instead of spewing insults, how about giving some decent criticism instead?

>>3335944
It's way, way too repetitive, and wordiness just makes me feel like you're trying too hard.

>>3335960
*The wordiness.

>>3335960
I like repetition, I want to do it better. Meshuggah is my favorite band, and I want to like emulate them in writing, maybe. I am hoping to take that paragraph and expand it into like a comedic fairy-tale or something.

I may have been trying to hard, it happens. I hate parts of it.

>>3335944
>Once upon an epoch

Stopped there. Just no.

Crunching through the snow, uneven and shaky footprints, the man grumbled. He stopped, his foot he rested on a low wall and attempted to adjust his socks to return some semblance of comfort to his step. He walked on. Stopped. Adjusted again. They were good boots, not his best but a fine pair all the same. They did however have the problem of wrinkling, of not lying right when put on in a hurry and it was most certainly in a hurry that he had left his home.

>>3336001
Yea man, I realize.

>>3335859
this has potential

>>3335877
>Ycero
i judged it, not going to lie

0/10 would not finish first sentence of

We first met back when you were still Phoebe, except I don’t remember it. We went to the same preschool, Dad told me, but we didn’t talk much because of course you always played with the boys. I surely must have seen you, but my memories of back then are a series of hazy photographs projected onto the rolling smoke inside my head; the pictures, as they swirl and dissipate, are frustratingly transient. I do have an image of you in there, somewhere, I think, but I can’t tell if it’s a genuine or something I’ve constructed looking back, and when I try to look at it your new face moves to obscure your old face. Your old face replaces your young face.

>>3336018
has potential as well

>>3336148
i like it

>>3336142

Thanks. I'm probably going to change it but appreciate the feedback. Any reason why you thought it had potential?

>>3335858

Listened, listened, listened, listened. Rewrite it.

Dusty ripped jeans and a faded tatty old shirt flapped about in the wind as a teenage boy flew down the road on his bike. Ecstasy and sweat adorned his face as he stopped peddling and turned his body, looking behind him. “Aha,” he ejaculated. No one was in sight. He slammed the breaks on and the back wheel locked up as he turned onto the driveway of a large old weather board house. Skidding to a stop on the loose stone driveway, he hollered “Lost him!”

As the man I would soon come to refer to as 'Big Pappy' emerged from the ebony curtains of the dressing room in the high-end clothing shop at which I was an employee at the time, there was just one word reverberating through the bone amphitheatre that was my head: "heart throb". I knew from the moment he had entered the store that this was the most beautiful man I had ever encountered, and I realised, as he stood there in a crisp, grey, $5000 three-piece, Armani suit, that I wanted very much to make love to him.

>not writing pulp to make billions and billions of dollars

>>3336148

This is the only good one so far. The rest of you can fuck off.

Mind you, I don't like the word transient where it is. Feels laboured. Otherwise I dug it.

>>3336148

And I am point blank stealing the rolling smoke projection image. Sorry, you'll have to come up with another one because that's mine now.

One of my feet caught on a pyramid shaped rock as I walked to school one English morning in the winter of 1983, and as I toppled and my head flew towards the ground so much faster than the rest of my body I knew that this is how I would die. The ephemeral, frosted breath from my last exhalation a split second earlier hung in the space my adolescent skull had occupied at the apex of my final descent, and as I fell I looked through it and saw the sky and I saw the sun. Obscured only partially by the foggy afterbirth of my death rattle the sun seemed to me perfect, like an orange from the table of the Hellenic gods. It was a glorious uniform sphere hanging above an inconsequential teenage human boy on an inconsequential island, and its colour was of the desert that spreads endlessly outwards from the vast base of the Pyramid of Khufu on the hottest day of the Egyptian year. I remember thinking that it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, that if I were to die then the English sun as it appeared that day would be one of the better sights that had occupied the vision of dying men since the dawn of human sentience, and, that if I were to survive I should very much like to have a replica of that vast celestial luminance of my room.

Am I /lit/ yet?

>>3336178

He ejaculated? Like come?

>>3336184

>trying to write pretentious literary fiction instead

>>3336204
I'm not trying to write that. That's exactly my point.

>>3336193

Bit much.

>>3335859

"Catching a train is hard to do. Harder still if the doors have shut and all that you have to hand is a large and rusty umbrella. I still remember the face of several people on the platform. Some held their hands to their mouths in horror and an elderly woman had dropped her handbag. I was smiling as the train gathered pace and was practically beaming as the black fabric of my umbrella began complaining noisily when the trains speed rose to 50mph.
Some people choose to be on trains. Some people do not choose to be on trains. Some people choose to be on trains to meet a certain someone but find that the train is leaving and hook their umbrella handle around a hook in sheer desperation.
I, at this very moment, am right where I want to be.

I really must tell you why I'm doing all this, mustn't I? "

There you go.
I like the concept so I wrote you an opening paragraph. Use it or use yours. I really am disaffected.

>>3336210

*faces

>>3336210

second hook = "handrail"

>>3336209
Fuck you, I decide what is and is not too much. I do what I want, and what I want is to write prolix about a 13 year old boy in cold-war England.

>>3336165
i liked the way you phrased your ideas/your style

your storytelling needs work though perhaps...

>>3336209
this

(for >>3336193)

>>3336228
seconded.

i dislike the use of words, like "of course" and "instead" and "but". not good storytelling

"Am not native English speaker, you are understanding. I write poem and it is deep."

Why not write it in your own language and stop neglecting your own interesting and varied culture?

"The ephemeral, frosted breath from my last exhalation a split second earlier hung in the space my adolescent skull had occupied at the apex of my final descent, and as I fell I looked through it and saw the sky and I saw the sun. Obscured only partially by the foggy afterbirth of my death rattle the sun seemed to me perfect, like an orange from the table of the Hellenic gods. It was a glorious uniform sphere hanging above an inconsequential teenage human boy on an inconsequential island, and its colour was of the desert that spreads endlessly outwards from the vast base of the Pyramid of Khufu on the hottest day of the Egyptian year."

Fuck off, you're 15 and have just figured out how to use the Thesaurus function on Microsoft Word.

I never WANTED to hate this board.

“If you don’t like your job, quit!” He would be told this many times by many people, but it would never do much, for Louis had a depraved idea: what he did could be seen as noble and good, so karmically he would benefit somehow in the long run.
No one ever corrected Louis’s stunted idea of what "karma" was.

>>3336233
When used to often, or how do you mean?

At least it wasn’t perchance the best of days but omelets and cheese; cooking mama, I asked her at least one thing and one thing only.

“Thank God for weed,” said Slug—or Maxwell, as his parents still called him—as McDoob pulled into the parking lot of the school annex that burned down. “It’s almost how hard to believe how good it seems, you know? Just smelling it and knowing you can twist up a joint and...escape. And the fact that no one even suspects a thing…” He wasn’t sure if McDoob could hear him over the reggae music blasting through the car’s speakers so he continued at an increased volume. “This is gonna be sick, man, I’m serious. Our secret.” McDoob nodded, but in a loose enough fashion that it was unclear whether he acknowledged Slug’s words or instead felt particularly moved by the reggae beat at that moment.

The main character is supposed to be obnoxiously teenage.

>>3336245
Not a fan of cold-opens.

>>3336259
... Got me interested, at least.

>>3336268
Does the MC get better? That was kind of hard to get through I hate those types of characters.

>>3336285
yeah, the plot of the story is that he comes to school high as fuck on 9/11/01 and descends into self-hatred after that so it's a bit sadistic to the stoner character type in a way

June, middle-aged, middle-class, and in the midst of a mid-lie crisis, looked at herself in the full length mirror she so often had turned to the wall. Dressed only in her eldest daughters black high heels and thin black negligee, she examined herself from the toes upwards, stopping to turn her legs and thighs. Her eyes travelled upwards, over the soft, fleshy mound of her stomach and to her large breasts, tightly confined in her favourite bra. Her hair had been washed and curled, and for the first time in months she had spend time applying her make up, particular attention being spent on the eye shadow and eyeshadow. If she was going to get fucked, she wanted to do it properly. The bell came sooner than expected, sending her heart racing and a warm shiver down her body, fizzling out in her naval region. She went slowly downstairs, walking sideways to avoid falling over from her heels. She answered the door and there they were. Having been instructed how to use the computer her husband had bought her for christmas, shortly before leaving the country on a three month business trip, she had soon found her way to the adult chatrooms and to Jamal2big4u. Here he was, the six foot two young black man, and as promised, he's brought a friend!

Unbelievable chintz. Unbearable chintz. Plastic chrysanthemums, porcelain birds, a weather beaten painting of more chrysanthemums in bizarre, unearthly shades of violet, blue, yellow, orange, maroon, stained, pink porcelain elephants, trunks raised in salute, dirty teapots with patches of rust, stacks of periodicals dated decades previous, all with gaudy, psychedelic covers, printed on the cheapest imaginable paper ("Not fit to wipe your ass with," assured the printer), velvet posters of kittens batting at flowers, which may or may not have been of the color-yourself variety. The tasteless detritus litters every surface of the woman's apartment in an incohesive mess, but it's not quite without rhyme or reason. The shambolic state of her second floor apartment-space seems almost deliberate. Sleaze chic. Either way, space is limited. Its only a bedroom, if that, her bedroom clearly a futon cover forced into hall closet along with more porcelain elephants in the entire CMYK spectrum of colors, ranging in size from thimble to bowling ball, which cover the entire surface of a faux-Victorian, particle board vanity in an eye catching purple-pink, fit for a princess color scheme, a living room unmistakably the product of the shag heyday of the seventies, the long shag now functioning as a baleen filter to catch the iridescent dust which accumulates as a result of who-knows-how-long a period of neglect, beating, routine wear and tear of her chintzy possessions, but the great beast clearly takes even longer to digest its catch, for the horrifying, shimmering dust kicks up in clouds with every step, and a small bathroom, small enough to fit a toilet and a sink, the toilet close enough to the sink to scrape the knees of any average height woman sitting at it, the shower head comes out of the wall at an angle which explains the accumulation of water on the surface of the sink, the toilet, the linoleum floor and the fact that all four walls are in done in shower tile.

"...and now, boys and girls, let us look a Case Number 1, Bullkowski. This middle-aged, basement-dweller is a curious fellow. He spends everyday on an imageboad, criticizing the popular author Charles Bukowski. We have yet to ascertain a motive, but this angry, jobless man harbours such a resentment, that he calls himself by a modified version of the talented authors name. Watch as he delves into a rage about the authors mother and attempts to drag victims into his web of retardation. Exercise caution, boys and girls, refrain from direct contact. Contradicting him has been shown to worsen his symptoms."

>>3336298
Sounds alright, though I wouldn't touch the 9/11 personally.

Unbelievable chintz. Unbearable chintz. Plastic chrysanthemums, porcelain birds, a weather beaten painting of more chrysanthemums in bizarre, unearthly shades of violet, blue, yellow, orange, maroon, stained, pink porcelain elephants, trunks raised in salute, dirty teapots with patches of rust, stacks of periodicals dated decades previous, all with gaudy, psychedelic covers, printed on the cheapest imaginable paper ("Not fit to wipe your ass with," assured the printer), velvet posters of kittens batting at flowers, which may or may not have been of the color-yourself variety. The tasteless detritus litters every surface of the woman's apartment in an incohesive mess, but it's not quite without rhyme or reason. The shambolic state of her second floor apartment-space seems almost deliberate. Sleaze chic. Either way, space is limited. Its only a bedroom, if that, her bedroom clearly a futon cover forced into hall closet along with more porcelain elephants in the entire CMYK spectrum of colors, ranging in size from thimble to bowling ball, which cover the entire surface of a faux-Victorian, particle board vanity in an eye catching purple-pink, fit for a princess color scheme, a living room unmistakably the product of the shag heyday of the seventies, the long shag now functioning as a baleen filter to catch the iridescent dust which accumulates as a result of who-knows-how-long a period of neglect, beating, routine wear and tear of her chintzy possessions, but the great beast clearly takes even longer to digest its catch, for the horrifying, shimmering dust kicks up in clouds with every step, and a small bathroom, small enough to fit a toilet and a sink, the toilet close enough to the sink to scrape the knees of any average height woman sitting at it, the shower head comes out of the wall at an angle which explains the accumulation of water on the surface of the sink, the toilet, the linoleum floor and the fact that all four walls are in done in shower tile.

>>3336394
Hey, Tristan.

Supersluggbaitt@gmail.com

You fucking suck.

>>3336394
it reads like Hunter Thompson gonzo style if he was a pretentious Harvard Philosophy and Classics graduate

im not sure if i enjoyed it

also
>Supersluggbaitt@gmail.com

i like how the new update feature lets me see deleted posts even after they are deleted

As the light began to dwindle through the towering trees, three brothers paused their journey to observe the natural transition to nightfall. The owls began their nightly interrogation always asking but never getting an answer. The leaves rustled with the evening breeze as Boris, the eldest brother, removed his cap.

>>3336410
7.5/10 would read

could be some legit fantasy or something

also
>boris
it is much preferable to ycero used by >>3335877

is it set in russia or in a older time period or something?

>>3336410
this played out perfectly in my mind like a movie, definitely has great potential

>>3336413
Oh wow thanks so much

I want it set in older Russia, but where stuff like magic exists. I picked Boris randomly and ran with it, the other two are Fyodor and Sergey.

>>3336420
wow thanks!

>>3336422
Boris has connotations, at least to British readers, with Boris Johnson, the bumbling Mayor of London.

Best to choose a better name.

>>3336422
>I want it set in older Russia, but where stuff like magic exists. I picked Boris randomly and ran with it, the other two are Fyodor and Sergey.
sounds good man, keep /lit/ up to date on it

>>3336430
Are you sure? It resonates with me as a strong-sounding name, I could always pick something else though.

>>3336455
Gladly! Now that I know that at least the first paragraph is good, I'll definitely work on refining what I've got written so far.

Part of a short, but I guess it is my 'current' project.

>Life bled out; death crept in. He didn’t know which it was.
>Everything that made him human seemed to be fading from his body. Pain and fear and love all abandoned their vessel as it came to the end of its time. They wanted no part in this. He would die truly alone, in the end, and all that would be left was the reason he had clawed his way up here.

>>3336505
edgy/10 would edge again

>>3336192
That was my least favorite part...

>>3336519
Oh it's edgy as hell. But that was the intent, so I'm okay with it.

>>3336541
Good man.

She worries about her fragile skull and eventually convinces herself she will never be able to enjoy the pressure of a man's hands around her head, for fear of it breaking.

On lonely nights she sits in the window, both hands laid gently on either side of her head, and she waits for the courage to squeeze. But she never can. She dreams of a library stacked full with heads, and she runs around dizzily, placing hands on every one and feeling the skulls shatter between her hands like eggs.

How old are all of you? Please don't write before the age of 33.

>>3336575
Congrats! You've just thrown away the writing careers of Fitzgerald, Shelley (both of them), Keats, Rimbaud, and a large portion of Poe!

In vain the day beckoned. Sam sat stuck at the kitchen table. He was to remain seated until he had finished his lunch. It was a slice of bread topped with banana. His mother had prepared it with care and cut the slice into four manageable squares, three of which still remained.

>>3336590
>>3336575
and Dubliners as well

>>3335944
I actually think it's interesting, just get rid of the word 'epoch' and you're golden.

>>3336413
>>3336145
>Ycero

Its SF ;_;

>>3336461
Of course I'm sure you conceited prick. If you're writing a novel to be published, you need to be aware of how the general public see certain things. What you think about it doesn't mean shit all.

It was Thursday in the nethers of the room.

László plucked a rash of wires from the tower at his right. The hum of analog went screaming through the room as dust swings up about the outers of the place, spindles turning there in rows of seven, columns lined in triad, all the crossed and hatching webs of yarnspun unified, arranged above an oil basin smooth below the apparatus, bleeding out the iron waste and filtering the cud spilled out beneath her. Sheets of tapestry ran silver down the paper on the wall, fed in tempered bits along the marching feet of little swain in buttoned cuckles, jackets doused in green and caps all painted red, made timely for the center of the stage. The platform's rigged and haunched up with a drove of gears that pull the thing out wide and narrow, guiding all the figurines in metered step, their brazen horns engaged in some old Flemish dirge. László plucked the stock of white and red back then and thorough in their gullies. From the nether draws up streaming in a dusk of stench the flavor of the cathode. From the outer crawls the flavor of the rude. Rowdy gut in hand, he spat a plug of wetleaf from a clacking jaw to sing into the crater of the shitcatch. All was well in Thursday's basement.

The birds fluttered and Velva Craile watched from her nested position, in Craile regalia: a winged cape, a feathered headband, and walking boots. Birds clustered around her like loyal fans, bickering over who could remain closest. The forest was tall, distorted and ever changing around her. She knelt as the Scout approached her. His beige uniform, permanently clean, his neckerchief carefully ironed, his nose circular.

“This is not how we were expected to live”, the man stated, as the forest quivered above him. Behind him, stood forms clothed in the skulls of dead animals, draped in fabrics of differing colours. Behind him stood people not bound to the rules of society, they were whatever they wanted to be here. So was she, supposedly. “The University is an empire, but you already knew that. You’re part of it.”

It was Thursday in the nethers of the room.

László plucked a rash of wires from the tower at his right. The hum of analog went screaming through the cave as dust swang up about the outers of the place, spindles turning there in rows of seven, columns lined in triad, all the crossed and hatching webs of yarnspun, unified, arranged above an oil basin smooth below the apparatus, bleeding out the iron waste and filtering the cud spilled out beneath her. Sheets of tapestry ran silver down the paper on the wall, fed in tempered bits along the marching feet of little swain in buttoned cuckles, jackets doused in green and caps all painted red, made timely for the center of the stage to swing around again. The platform's rigid, haunched up with a drove of gears that pull the thing out wide and narrow, guiding all the figurines in metered step, brazen horns engaged in some old Flemish dirge. László plucked the stock of white and red back then and thorough in respective gullies. From the nether drew up streaming in a dusk of stench the flavor of the cathode. From the outer crawled the flavor of the rude. Rowdy gut in hand, he spat a plug of wetleaf from a clacking jaw to sing into the crater of the shitcatch. All was well in Thursday's basement.

I give you a hamburger. The universe is engulfed within itself. A bus advertising hotdogs drives by a papillon. It disapproves. An unnatural force reverses Earth's gravity. You ask for a hamburger. I reciprocate with a mildly convulsing potato. You disapprove. Your disapproval releases a cosmic shift in the void between birth and life. You ask for a hamburger. A certain small dog feasts on hamburger patties for the rest of its unnatural, eternal endurance. Your constant disapproval sends silence through everything. A contrived beast becomes omnipotent. You ask for a hamburger. I give you a hamburger your body becomes an unsettled blob of nothingness, then divides by three. The papillon barks. The universe realigns itself. You, the papillon, and the hamburger disapprove. This condemnation stops the realignment. Hades freezes over. A pig is launched is launched into the unoccupied existence between space and time with a specific hamburger. You ask for a hamburger. I give you a hamburger. It screams as you lift it to your face. You laugh maniacally as I plead with you. You devour the hamburger as it pleads for mercy. I disapprove and condemn you to an eternity in a certain void where a certain pig and its specific hamburger are located. The Universal Space-time Continuum Committee disapproves of my irrational decision. You are locked away and are fed hamburgers for the rest of your natural existence. A pickle refuses to break down during the process of digestion. You die in a freak accident. A certain pickle lives the rest of its life in a comatose state. Your soul disapproves. Down the street a child cries as a hamburger gets stuck in, and climbs back up, her esophagus. You ask again for a hamburger. I refuse to reciprocate. You demand a lawyer. I remind you harshly that this is the new world order. Lawyers no longer exist. Only papillons. Your name is written on a list of sins. Blasphemy. You ask for a hamburger. The comatose pickle vanquishes your soul from this...

You haven't pissed all day so in the evening you get naked and lay down in your bathtub. At first you just enjoy the warmth of your piss around your cock and maybe on your stomach. But then you start pushing it a little and piss all over your face. You deeply enjoy how warm it is and the nutty taste.
You keep massaging your balls while you piss and suddenly you realize that a finger in your anus would make this perfect.

So you lick your finger and cover it in piss and then you slowly slide it in. It feels like you have to poop so you push a little. Something touches your fingertips. This is what it must feel like to give birth. You can touch and feel your own faeces in your anus. It's wrinkly, hard but also beautiful. You push it back in a little. It's like a fight between your anus and your finger.

Your anus is winning. You can feel your anus stretch and you keep pushing until you can touch your faeces-baby in the real world. It's outside, breathing. You keep pushing and catch in your hands then you look at it. You kiss it and lick it.

It's the most intimate relationship imaginable. You created this. It doesn't taste like shit. It tastes like success.
You hold it in your hands and begin the metamorphosis.
It's easy to mold this into every shape you want to. It's not shit it's clay. While you transform it it transforms you into an artist.

We all know this feel, right?

>>3338737
back to reddit

Its engines sprung to life as the agile warship started its descend into the shadow of the planet where it was bound to deliver its cargo. The content of its hull had been crowding the ship for close to a forthnight. It seemed like a fish, blissfully unaware of its grim fate as it swam for the appealing light emitted by the angler fish. Once the Teklot ship realized that it had been fooled by the seemingly peaceful coldness of the dark cloak that surrounded it, it immediately made starboard, heading back for the safety of the allied fleet. The ship, distinctly shaped like a preying mantis (a clear reference to the tactics it employed) decloaked and started firing a salvo of the previously readied arcane cannon at the warship’s silver hull. The first two blasts cut through the energy shield and the shining plate armour, and a third and fourth blast hit the ships reactor core causing the delicate singularity of protons and neutrons inside to collapse and leading to a catastrophic explosion that quickly turned the vessel into a storm of fire and molten steel. The agressors engaged their cloaks, disappearing back into nothing and leaving nothing behind but a gargantuan charred corpse to stand witness of the maelstrom that had consumed its previous glory.

>>3338744
The irony here is that they for once created something, and you still say it's bad just because it came from reddit...

>>3335859
>>3335866
You guys do all this writing, yet do you ever finish or publish these books?

>>3338803
It's not because it came from Reddit. It's edgy, lolsorandum bullshit, and so it should go to reddit.

Get cape, wear cape, fly. In the moonlight, it was simple, in his ten-year-old manner of thought, it was simple.
Get cape, wear cape, fly. And so he did. Using a blanket for a cape, for he knew, that the cape itself did not matter. Merely having a cape was all that would matter.
Get cape, wear cape, fly. And he opened the window...

>>3338834
This is part of a project I have, that is mainly writing stories based upon or merely referring to wallpapers found on /wg/. Just started this..

>>3338835
Get cape, wear cape, fly is a band. And not a very good band to boot.

Julgo-me no direito de escolher o que será dito sobre mim, após minha morte. Não como um presságio que antecede o que muitos chamam de "passagem", mas como um ultimo apelo, caso alguém possua realmente esse direito.

“Prior to release and throughout critical pre-screenings it was generally accepted that the film was going to flop—at least considering it was the most expensive film to date. Cameron’s egotism was credited with having created, really just this goliath that became really an albatross hanging over everybody involved in production. And early critical reception was at best ambiguous, some critics essentially saying it was melodramatic Hollywood tripe. So why were they all so off base on this? What is it about Titanic that made it a massive cultural phenomenon? What have you got for me Carpenter?”

>>3338835
And this is the wallpaper it is based upon.

>>3338837
I wonder how they'll react to reading this post. Will they stop, or will they somehow convince themselves it's somehow still a good idea to continue?

>>3338835
Your project is an atrocious fucking idea.

>>3338843
Lovely.

What can you do with this?

>>3338843
Yes, it's one of their album covers.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xP-xTsx67KU

>>3338854

Burn.

>>3338855
>I am writing short pieces of poorly written crap based on band names, what do you think /lit/?

>>3338854
what does it say on the book?
in the fella's hands in the centre?

>>3338860
I think you've missed the point.

>>3338860
It says "Now I've told you what this says you must buy me a beer"

>>3338854
"I hate these things" Michaelangelo thought "Just pretend to be writing something no need to talk to anyone then." He sat, bored, contemplating his shoes, half asleep as Leonardo continued to paint.
...
"You absolute faggot, Lenny, why'd you have to paint me like that?"
"Hey, buddy" said Da Vinci in his typically Brooklyn accent "I don't tell yous how to do your job, so don't come here telling me how to do mine. I just paints what I see. Get some perspective, ah?"

>>3338858
The Beatles, they scuttled toward
The Pretenders, who pretended to be
The Doors, which closed on
The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, who burned the mouths of
The Who?

>>3338875
What the fuck do Da Vinci or Michael Angelo have to do with The School of Athens?

>>3338878
>Kafka already wrote a book based on The Beatles

>>3338880
They're all portraits of Raphael's contemporaries as Ancient Greek thinkers. I took a liberty by having Leonardo paint it in the sketch, but Mike and Ralph I don't think would have had the right dynamic. But I could imaginably extend it out to having Mike destroy the painting in a rage, and needing Ralph to repaint it or something.

>>3338875
You ruined this image for me.

I literally went back and deleted this image from my computer.
It was my desktop back when I fancied myself an intellectual, so maybe it was time to go anyways.

But fuck you for ruining it.

>>3338900
You can't write very well.

>>3338901
>>3338904
FUck you guys, I'm continuing my project.

"Shit! Shiiiiiiiit!" screamed Damien Steel as his hang glider spiraled out of control towards the nudist colony.

>>3338909
For everyone's sake, please don't.

>>3338910
>Damien Steel
>hang glider
>nudist
>First word(s) are excrement

Where can I buy a copy?
Have a kick-starter?

>>3338904
You're just lucky I didn't think of an appropriately cringeworthy way to weave something Heraclitean into Michaelangelo's thoughts.

I met her last week at a party and we see each again at the end of an exhibition. We end up in the middle of the road awkwardly making plans to meet. I touch her arm and pull her away from the speeding cars and towards me. A man on the pavement sees us and starts singing “so, this is life...”.

>>3338915
Damnit, a positive reaction to my troll post. This was not the expected outcome.

>>3338935
I was going to post a pony too, but we are all better than that.

"for the win" we typed in unison. "fuck the world" we wheat-pasted onto online backstreets. How did I become a member of this society of internet anto heroes. I'll tell you, but i'm gonna remain...anonymous.

>>3338932
3deep4me

>>3338949
You spelled out FTW and FTW.
That makes this a good sentence.

The spires and stalks crested above the caldera of Pavonis
Mons as the crawler scrambled towards it, each sprouting feature
protuding from the industrial zones and factories and
accomodation blocks to slash the sky of early Mars morning.
”It’s a bitch coming in like this,” Kola said to Feleika.
”Don’t complain,” Feleika said, ”It’s a privilege.”
”Real privilege.”

2syfy4me

>>3338958
what does FTW stand for normally?

>>3338974
For the win, I do believe.

>>3338974
Fuck the world, I do believe.

>>3338977
>>3338979
You are both wrong.

It's For Total Woo.

In early morning haze, the little yellow cab looks suspicious as it speeds across the six-file superhighway. This stretch is completely deserted at this hour of dawn. In the distance, an armored convoy is making good time on the abandoned highway. The small box-shaped car swerves violently as the convoy catches up with it and rushes past.

I've been writing this to and fro for almost three yeasr. It's an absolute mess of uncoordinated events, people and places that I don't know how to salvage, even though it's the longest thing I've ever written in my life at 202 pages.

feelsbadman.png

A dark, silent waiting. The crick-crack-crick-crack of the past-eating worms in the dead, unmoving air sick with the smell of mold is the broken clockwork. Leaking through the firewood black-covered timber, wind calls skywards, like a hungry dog; _come find me._ No response. A mass grave for the trees of fifty years' past. Memories, the ashes of the last cigarettes, echoes of the secret laughters, whisperings of gossip, sweat of the first lovemakings, bread crumbs, darkened blood, elbow grease, colorless marks of long-gone tears, the reason for the kid's first fall, the only wasted drops of a mother's milk, lyrics of a song, blows of a worn hammer, shadows of better days, fouling of innocence, and the overencumbering death, all trampled underfoot. Decades away from sunshine. A choking air. Not even a sound. Souls in such a cold, waiting for a spark to warm to death.

>>3338901
Italo Ren art is summer shit anyway; this here's Brueghel season

>>3338900
>Mike and Ralph I don't think would have had the right dynamic

>implying Michelangelo's salty gay irritability isn't a perfect foil to Raphael's sweet (probably) heterosexual sprezzatura
do u even Vasari???

also "Raff" is usually the preferred diminutive of Raphael among art historians and TMNT fanatics alike but that's neither here nor there.

>>3338989

Take out "of dawn"

Replace the second mention of the convoy with a simple "it"

And never write more than you need to when you're telling the story.
It's remarkably easier to bulk a story than to trim it down.

>>3339083
True, and I never thought of it that way.

>>3339102

You're welcome.

>>3339113
>Saved

>A dark, silent waiting.

Stopped reading right the fuck there.

>dark, silent

Two adjectives in a row, you got balls.

>waiting

How can a waiting be dark without stretching the imagination to where it becomes meaningless?

That very first sentence made me not want to read anything else by your hand, ever again.

>>3339147
to be honest it's not written in English.
translated it to post here so that I can contribute.

>>3339156
What was it originally written in?

>>3339156

It honestly makes no difference what language this was in.

If you write like a granny who lives in her own mind and never reads any books, it'll show, and the reader won't give two fucks about that granny's personal world of kittens and soap operas.

>everything you're told on 4chan is liable to be bullshit, never give too much weight to anything anyone says here, unless it can be of use to you

>this entire post and everything I've said can be disposed of easily by manning the fuck up and assuming you know better than everyone else

>this may not be true, but if you believe it hard enough, great things might happen

>when being wrong, but believing otherwise can achieve greatness

>that awkward moment when you realise self-doubt doesn't help much if you're already a skeptical person who isn't conceited and complacent

"Yo I don't gots to explain this shit nigga it ain't easy" quoth Tyr. The 5th story flat in east Detroit cast a leery gloom about him and Andre, so close were it's walls. Antagonism clung to the building, the street, even the city.
"You either move da bags, or you don't nigga, either way I'm gettin paid!" retorted Andre, gesturing with his usual effervescent air.
Tyr peered at him through the failing light without motion or speech. Then he rose.
"Yo dawg u no I gots to be da baby daddy. Ma hustlin days is long gone. I ain't a street tug no more, I gots to straighten out"
Andre, still seated, was fidgeting with a bag of white powder in his hands. He chewed through his thoughts, before collecting and articulating them.
"Fuck bitches, get money" he said.

>>3339006
>Michaelangelo
>sodomite
Nope.jpg
Combine this with Ralph's love/admiration of Mike and Lenny. You might be able to get some kind of dynamic with that painting specifically, Michelangelo was added later (maybe as an afterthought?), but he's still given a decent position, and his separation from others reflects his character. He was a somewhat solitary figure amongst the other Florentines. He also ran hot and cold with Raphael, whereas with Leonardo it tended to be a consistent rivalry.

>>3339083

Thanks. That's some really solid advice.

>>3339160
Turkish

It doesn't have italics so I feel it loses a little, since I originally conceived of the words with them. Just a first draft, only the minimal thoughts included.


--great.

They're...they'replayingthe-- wait.

Did elevators still exist...in the nineteen-hundreds?

'Cause if we're 'drifting-down-into-hell', then they're trying to-- why play a piece...from a Claude Debussy piano composition back in the nineteen-hund-- what the hell?

'The hell', not literally-- whatever.

Still, it's-- still.

It's the 'Opening Jingle' to the End of the Universe.

>>3339336

meh

It was the fourth of July. I could tell by the odd explosion that went off intermediately outside my door. BANG! BANG! BANG! That, and the obligatory phone call from my parents, “Wish you could be here Charlie. We miss you. We love you.” They had invited me to a barbecue with some of their friends from Church, who lived in a city where it was still legal to set off fireworks. A tradition of theirs. I said that I would’ve loved to come, but that I had already made plans with some friends (who did not exist). Instead, I spent the night as I always did, reading alone in the pitch black of my library. I did not like fireworks. I liked quiet. BANG! went another one, from somewhere.

>>3339381

Btw
>pitch black of my library

(he's blind)

The old lines of the face he stared at slid about in an agitated harmony. Soy's sympathetic glance at a withering man trapped him in a stirring mesmerization. The yellow December day retreated and left him alone with the manic lines, like a furdog trapped in a dark basement, slowly becoming the glowing washing machine's unwilling supplicant. The tongue chewed and his faced hissed and on the burning countenance Soy read: "Flogdamnyou weepy-eyed little thing wondering this cool park with a screaming pity in your eye like a pity that I never needed. Maybe take it to your church-singing, maybe your lazy lass-courting or how about even Trelly's Yardgrave overhill. Don't show me what I never did need in a young face like that."

Just wrote this, trying it out. Advice/criticism please

>>3338932
I might read this

>>3339418
common

I lover Chemistry because it is an ever growing subject that promises countless benefits for everyone, from house hold objects such as shampoo to life saving medicine. During my time at University I hope to expand my knowledge of the field as a whole, but I am extremely interested in the area of Organic Chemistry and how we can devise mechanisms by using known isotopes of Atoms in the reaction then detected which molecule they end up in.

bamp

The searing pain inside my skull simmered into a tepid dull throb. Breathing was laborious; every little breath was laced with ache.
I unfurled myself from my defensive curl and slowly spilt over the forest floor. I saw a fist-sized rock a few arms lengths away, a generous tuft of damp, crimson hair clung to it with the help of my blood. Without the hair the rock would have looked like any other, but with my unwilling donation the rock had somehow garnished itself with human features. A crack became a crooked smile, the shallow erosions of time and nature gave the rock a pair of eye sockets, and my hair gave it style. It hurts to see a rock wear your hair better than you do yourself. So I laughed.

once there was a woman who was pregnant. she went to the hospital to give birth. the doctor was scanning her stomach and said "oh no! there is an anomaly" and started pulling out the baby. but when he pulled out the baby it had TWO umbilical cords! one was poop. the woman died from poop in her womb. but the child grew up and became a normal person... OR DID IT?

>>3340333
ugh this has potential but it seems really tedius

A screaming comes across the sky.

>>3340333
nah just kidding tho rly work on that

She leaned against the side of her Lexus, snapped her zippo open, then continued to light her cigarette. She had hurried through this place, hadn't seen any locals, and would rather not have. This road, which never seemed to veered left or right, had been everlasting without stops to refresh. A long straight dirt path, cluttered with abandon shacks, unfamiliar sounds, and untamed weeds growing over what used to be something. It was the longest shortcut. She had tried committing to the path on a single tank. She didn’t want to stop because of anxiety or fear, or old folktales of the “Deep South,” she barley remembered, but this had been the only station within eight hours, and the logic and fear of running out of gas here outweighed the former.

If there is no self, what is rebirth? A stream of causes or artifacts of an oral tradition? A collection of momentary values, perhaps? You are your own protector. You are your own god. What other god could there be?

A child's laughter calls my attention back to the Way.

>>3340561
>A screaming comes across the sky.
but really though how cool would it be if you were GR-era Tommy Pynchon right now

The old man, very casually, strode up the hill towards the tree I had fashioned as my camp for the night. As usual, underneath the man's mustache sat a smile that never left his face, not even in the most perilous of times. Oh, yes..before I forget, the old man would strike me dead if I did not tell you that atop his head sat the roundest bowler hat ever seen in the Dale.

>>3340564
Haha, this is so horrible it's great.

It was only on long walks or cigarette breaks that Fenton had insights of any significance. These he wrote down on a small notepad which he kept in the back pocket of his trousers, procured for 4.95 at some dripping cave of a stationary store, one with those dusty postcards and a store clerk who appears to be yellow (not out of racial characteristic but rather poor hygiene, one would guess), this one with hands that Fenton had forgotten about almost immediately, out of necessity. Otherwise, surely, he would have quickly thanked the clerk, carried the notepad gingerly in his handkerchief out the store in long silent steps and plopped it in the nearest dustbin, along with the handkerchief. They really were that bad, the hands that is, for Fenton is British and therefore almost never melodramatic. His nationality had advantages: it was the reason that he could, at will, repress memories, emotions, and sexual desires, and therefore did keep the notepad. Thank god for that, because there are some real nuggets that would never have come to our attention:
"There is something humbling and yet wildly empowering about reminding oneself that every human defecates: if one imagines the king, or the prime minister, for example, squeezing out a great big log of a shite, I mean a real transatlantic cable of human excrement, what with their body hunched over and faces bursting in purpled effort, blood vessels strained if not bursting, etc...

well one can only feel a wave of relief, that somehow these authorities need to engage in the most degrading behavior, of the very same kind that you do.

I very much doubt the Queen wipes her bum with a doily, but rather that she uses loo paper."

>>3340612
Not very cause I'd be a snaggle-toothed motherfucker.

Tom's name was at first Tomasso, soon Tomas, and once that became tiresome to his mother's friends, Tom. In Tom's adulthood it overnight became Tomas, but, unfortunately for Tom, never Tomasso.

Tom's mother choose the name in a rare moment of intellectualism, convalescing from a heavy afterbirth. From the many gifts at her bedside – chocolates (uneatable), tapes (unwatchable) and magazines (unreadable) – she dredged a circle-stained copy of National Geographic, merely, as she would say to her friends, to look at the pictures. Nonetheless, she soon found herself reading an article on Hans Memling. It had been a very heavy afterbirth.

~

Eh, it's a start. I haven't picked up a pen in years, but I can work on it. If anyone's interested, do you think the pace is to quick?

>>3340647
you don't really mean that though, do you?

You are surrounded by unfamiliar people in an unfamiliar theater; the theater is elegant – regal crimson shades the walls and complements the dark green seats, and an ornate golden arch frames the black-curtained stage. Beside you, a woman with a narrow figure admires her reflection in a hand mirror, anxiously arranging her hair with her fingers. Two men behind you talk in hushed voices, barely heard over the commotion of the audience.

>>3335838
There is life after death,
Our land is covered in crystal,
There is life after death,
The ashes will tell,
There is life after death,
May seeds heal your wound.

~Gaia's Paragons.

>>3339418
I leave this up on /lit/ the whole day and come back to no criticism. Bah you guys are unhelpful.

I have some friends who never like to hear me say it but I can usually predict a lot about a man from his shoes. We used to have family friends and their son wore running trainers on an everyday basis. Running shoes are the casual choice of a person who has no direction in their life beyond endless lecherousness and indulgence in fantasy novels. He once sat at a table in his house, stroking his cat and creating a layer of cat hairs all over the food that his world weary mother had laid out for us, the guests, and told a story about how he had chosen his sixth form college based on the amount of sluts he had heard go there. He also had a penchant for repeating anecdotes from a series of famous fantasy novels with all the original humour and inventiveness removed. The room would always hastily move on to the next topic as soon as awkwardness had settled.

Not sure about that final sentence, needs rewording.

It was the first evening of the winter. An old scholar was walking back from a Yule party he was invited to. He was not quite an extrovert, so the acceptance to the invitation required much of him. As he approached his front porch, he turned around to face the village from atop the hill his house was rested on. He let out a long, strained sigh and gazed up to the heavens.

"It wasn’t long before Daniel couldn’t hear a thing. He was cold. The fact that he was bundled in two coats didn’t mean a thing; both were too ratty to hold in any heat. They had holed up in Topeka after the attack. The whole plan had been a mistake from the very beginning, but Harrison had insisted on it. “There is no time to wait,” he had said, “The window of opportunity is already closing!” He had been right of course, at least that there would never be a better time, but the government had seen them coming. Ever since the right to public assembly had been suspended, there was no way to march an organized group, let alone an armed one, to the capital without being noticed."

Trust me, it changes so much from here.

>>3340788
So fucking pretentious holy shit.

>>3340662
i like

>>3340779
'Cause its overwritten. Say things simpler, you don't have to use big words. Read it out loud to yourself.

>>3340788
The final sentence is almost alright but I think you should pay more attention to your first sentence. Unless you're going into some sort of comic rant or whatever else your first sentence should start with the most important information. It isn't really important that the friends wouldnt like to hear him say it but the shoe predicting is. So you might wanna mess with that a bit. Or not, whatever. Oh and I hope this is the character's voice and not yours.

It stands before me, and looking into the pieces of the mirror, I see the eyes of a dying man pressed between the steering column and seat. He calls to me by name. Inside his wife, unconscious with swelling eyes, still grips her baby whom rests its weary chin on the airbag. This god has consumed the youth. i don’t answer him, instead i stand before the being. Its steel flesh has contorted like a pulped orange. its symmetry once like movie star, or runway model is broken by the mouth, the point of impact. It’s silvery husk spirals inward with endless curves. It beacons me to leave the man and his wife, and touch its husk.

>>3340832
Whenever I try to write more simply it comes out wrong, it really isn't what I'm going for. It's sort of a complex situation so I wrote about it in a skewed way, and the only bigger words I used were supplicant and countenance... But thanks, I'll put more effort into making things simpler without sacrificing anything

On the hearts and minds of those who wandered the Illusionary World, there was a legend. The legend spoke of a place that was a rest stop of sorts, one in-between their world and the strange one that they currently find themselves in. Tales of the town called Osfout Green often put fire in the wanderer’s bellies and a spring in their step. Many had come to rely on the legend as a blanket that kept the coldness of the World away. Others used it as a crutch that held them upright on their journey.

>>3340842
>>3340842
Yeah I did wonder about that as well. I want to make it clear the character is in constant doubt about himself but unwilling to let it show or pervade himself too much. He's not that pretentious though really, just this paragraph sounds a bit taken a context. He's perfectly aware of the problems of pretentiousness and desperate to avoid them, despite knowing that it does creep up on him occasionally.

It is the voice of a character, but I do actually believe that in many situations you can tell a lot about a person from their shoes. Only in a certain age group however, and I could never do it with women, because I don't know enough about female shoes and their wearers.

>>3340802
I'd like to know what someone thinks of this, despite it not really being representative of the work as a whole. I'm probably going to rework it at some point. (same person)

I was a friend of Jorgen Christensen. Sometimes I think that the reason I am alive is to tell this story, how I came to realize what he was doing and how I tried - too late and in vain, to stop him from wiping out the human race. Much has been made of his motives and his actions, he is generally considered a psychopath or at least to have been suffering from some sort of mental illness. I will not and cannot defend him and I feel revulsion for what he did, but my one of my reasons for telling this story - other than to work through some of these emotions which haunt my sleep every night since the 'grand catastrophe' - is to argue that my friend, Jorgen, was not insane and was in fact a mentally healthy individual by any definition. We have been told how he carried out his deed in detail but what I really seek to answer here is how did a seemingly normal and well adjusted human being reach the conclusion that he ought to be the instrument of the destruction of our species.

>>3340802
>>3340888
Not as exciting as you want it to be. Is this about that gay church group terrorists?

>>3340802
>>3340888

Topeka.
My nigga.

Opening with a quote is gutsy. I'd reword my sentences to avoid "a thing"... "...couldn't hear a thing" "...didn't mean a thing"
Also, "to hold in any heat" is a bit of an abstraction. It's unnecessary here.
You want to give your reader a little more of the setting. It's nice that you're opening in suspense, but there's not a whole lot to hold onto. What are they doing, aside from waiting? You need more action to your dialogue... something to capture their attitudes and set the scene up as well as the situation.
Unnecessary closing quotation marks there, and you don't just want to tell your reader what's going on. You can give that to them through dialogue, but the back story should be better integrated. You want an opening filled with suspense? Don't give them a thorough description of what's going on in the middle of it. Let them slowly figure it out.

>>3340899
>wiping out the human race
I was genuinely intrigued in the story because of how you worded it until this point. I think you have the potential to tell a good story but have it be a more interesting one.

>>3340519
>>3340562
Cheers.

A plain weathered board suspended by fraying rope above the jewelry store on Newchester’s Main Street swung with a restless and violent wind and depicted a tumbling bishop in faded white paint. A thick fog had settled over the cobblestone street, but nobody had been there to observe it because nobody had wandered through town at that hour, so the sputtering black machine which crept through the fog was unseen and unhindered. The silver vent on its front resembled a mouth, a mouth which its owner had forced open with bars so that it couldn’t cough while a heavy stream of exhaust continuously entered its lungs. The mirrors which extended from the left and right sides of the machine resembled the awkward and isolated eyes of a hammerhead shark, though they had clouded and caked over and barely functioned as either mirrors or eyes. A dim set of headlights flared as the machine inched forward but were extinguished when the machine died in front of Bishop Jewelry. The vehicle door facing the building swung open and a crude metal cane hit the pavement followed by two winter boots, one after another, and the hem of a torn black traveling cloak.

>>3340859
Read it out loud. If your mind has to go back and forth over a sentence to understand it, it isn't a good one.

>>3340911
what the idea is bad or the way I said it was bad? Should not reveal that until later on to build suspense? I was vacillating whether to reveal it in the beginning to get attention or to wait until later.
Perhaps I should hint that he did something horrible without giving it away?

>>3340764
winrar

>>3340942
The idea, I like the way you worded things for the most part. The most immediate thing to improve the passage would be to reword the "wiping out the human race" cliche. I think it might be better to hint at it first, but you can decide that.

>Kenneth Butler's idea of a good time involved snacks high in saturated fat, drinks high in corn syrup and the 16-inch television in his living room that was outdated by at least 10 years. During his brief but rather noticeable 14 years of existence, he had learned all he needed from his television where his single mother, his schoolteachers and his sisters had failed to reach him. Everyday, he would plant himself in front of this television set and waste copious amounts of hours (as well as brain cells), watching whatever suited his needs.

>>3340941
alright thanks, thats a bit hard because ive already written it and know how it's supposed to sound but i guess ill learn to let things sit for a while and get back to them with edits

The man wanders the marble walkways. His steps, his breath, are loud in the still city. He finds his tongue darting at his lips, but cannot remember for what. Short of breath and in a cold sweat, his tongue is dry and sticks to the roof of his mouth. In the distance he hears the sound of rushing water and walks toward it.

>>3341001
In retrospect, that third sentence really needs to be reworded. His tongue is definitely not in a cold sweat.

Four rubber chickens lay flat, still wrapped in their cheap hazed plastic packaging. The brushed-red paint of their poorly formed beaks glistened in contrast with the yellow skin that acted as a backdrop. I considered buying one of the chickens, but practicality had a way with me.

It isn't really my first paragraph but it is something I am trying to start:

The disemboweled phantom in my closet waits, the ceiling fan above my bed whispers a creeks; I am not safe.
Today my dad died. He fell down the stairs after hearing the pattering of a white mane’s hoves pounding away at the greenland in his dreams. He chased down the mare’s foot prints to the stairs and jumped with his arms spread out like a flying squirrel; he died instantaneously.

Every now and then, I get this strange feeling. It starts in my chest, as if today someone’s decided to wind up a clamp that’s holding my lungs in place, tighter and tighter. It gets so bad I have trouble breathing. The feeling grows from there, moving outwards in every direction; a whirlwind of fear, reaching out to every distant edge of my body, and still it doesn’t stop. The feeling expands and snowballs until it’s taken over all of my perception: touch, taste, smell, and the rest. All of a sudden, I’m not me anymore. These limbs and organs and bones belong to someone else. Some voice in my head screams out “Why?!” but it wasn’t me, it was this something that’s gotten inside of my head, and the harder I try to shake it out the louder it screams. There’s no answer, because there’s never any answer, but the question echoes through every chamber of my head, through places that haven’t been lit up in thought for years. Ancient suffering from the penetralia of my consciousness is reignited for a brief moment, stirred from slumber by the commotion, and I’m suddenly so disoriented I wouldn’t be able to tell my bedroom from a rooftop.

>>3341627
Spell check this stuff first. Otherwise, I'm not sure what to make of it yet.

>>3341629
The first half was good; you switch tenses halfway through, which you need to fix, and you carry this opening on a little too long -- plus, penetralia? Your second half looks thesaurus heavy, and the language definitely hinders it more than it helps. It doesn't fit with the rest of the paragraph, which is relatively simple.

>>3341001
Not a ton of interest or suspense to be found here. You illustrate a seemingly important character, but there's nothing to distinguish him. These are all relatively mundane descriptions.

>>3340971
Your opening character initially comes across as a stereotype. You need a better opening here if you want to draw in your reader's attention.

>>3340860
This is a good opening, but I can't help but think there might be a better way of phrasing it than "rest stop". Those words throw off the mythical quality of the location. Also, consider preposition usage, ("On" should be "In") and placement ("...that they currently find themselves in" is awkward).

>>3341658

>thesaurus heavy

Because god-forbid the person who wrote that knows a word you don't

I like cats. I think they're smart, but nobody else does. When every one leaves the room, I think cats talk to each other. I can't prove it, but sometimes, I think I can hear. I don't know what they'd talk about, but maybe it's the same as us. Us humans. Nobody else seems to care that they're there. They just are. In the corner. Sleeping. A statue; with delicate features. Feathered fur, and colours like no other. To me, cats are the textures of the landscape. They are a reflection of who we are. Strangers, abdominal beings that stretch right the way to the roof, humming and whistling at each other. Maybe one day, they'll let slip. I'll catch them talking. On that day, I won't know what to say.

>>3341663
I know the word. I don't condemn a good vocabulary. It's just the inconsistency of the language style that bothers me, and I think I adequately explained that above.

>>3341679

10 / 10, requesting more.

Excellent post-modern satire of the writer's complex and societal identities.
Did you attend Harvard?

How can we be sure that we are? How can we, as humanity, ever know that we exist? The meaning of life and existence has plagued humanity for eons, The answer has forever evaded us, Being distorted by governments and religions, shrouded in mystery.

Until now.

I deleted everything on Google Docs about a month ago because it was all fairly uninspired and none of it had been edited. Here's a sample that I found on my PC that hadn't been deleted, its never been edited though so its hardly refined:

Knowing and not knowing; just doing what is to be done: that is life and death. My dark, haunting experience in the medical profession is closely tied to life and death. They say when you have done something for an unnaturally long time the repulsive and explicit become the familiar and acute. I was still conscious of every soul that passed through my hands despite this. Perhaps their motives were legitimate. Perhaps I had made a severe mistake. I do not know. But I have been forced to operate from the basement of my own home, it is a danger to my very life to work above now. My patient today is a young, pregnant woman of 20 years of age. Her name is Amy, besides her pregnancy she is also suffering from something more dangerous than any disease. It has already forced me to remove her tongue. She has a demon inside of her. With haste on my mind I continue my work, at 44 King close.

>>3341700

That's not the opening of a book, that' a blurb.

>>3341709
It's something i just randomly typed up.

>>3341713
Well that's missing the point of the thread, isn't it.

>>3341716
well maybe it is, but answer me this; What is book?

>>3341719
A written or printed work consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers.

>>3341719
A written or printed work consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers.

>>3341721
ty

http://www.google.com/recaptcha/api/image?c=03AHJ_Vuv5wQRPIRFhwqG_SiG8ZuIR4Wd3APWNZDA3-g4bLtJ42Q28i5COik2pxsWZ3nJ8MQHSTmxSMlIRo7YuuJvMLXdWkm8hlAyY7hgfheQAACtmY6AMZSK5C0_0CXVavt_mOm1JloH55CFu_Xxmmo4V5eG8GGpQFTsxG5kx_BDjD1oORfPjoCAwnEPE3pfvwoJCkITcgda9

>>3341721
>>3341722
Hive http://www.google.com/search?q=define%3Abook

I’m here again. The same place I was nearly two years ago, same feelings due to a pre-mature loss. My only thoughts are “It’s all your fault, you’ve done it again. It’s good he left, they always do. No one wants to put up with your pathetic shit.”
My pillow is drenched with tears so I turn it over to the cool side. It reminds me of on a hot Summers night the only relief from the hot heaves of breath from the heavens is to toss your pillow over and over again until you somehow find sleep. This calms me for a while until my throat aches and chokes until the tears trace their way delicately down my cheeks once more.

Something I wrote earlier today, hope you like it.

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic Orders? And even if one were to suddenly take me to its heart, I would vanish into its stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear, and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains to destroy us. Every Angel is terror. And so I hold myself back and swallow the cry of a darkened sobbing. Ah, who then can we make use of? Not Angels: not men, and the resourceful creatures see clearly that we are not really at home in the interpreted world. Perhaps there remains some tree on a slope, that we can see again each day: there remains to us yesterday’s street, and the thinned-out loyalty of a habit that liked us, and so stayed, and never departed. Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind full of space wears out our faces – whom would she not stay for, the longed-for, gentle, disappointing one, whom the solitary heart with difficulty stands before. Is she less heavy for lovers? Ah, they only hide their fate between themselves. Do you not know yet? Throw the emptiness out of your arms to add to the spaces we breathe; maybe the birds will feel the expansion of air, in more intimate flight.

>>3341733

Sounds like the start of some story about a teenage girl who is bullied but by the end finds true friendship.

>>3341770
Gonna be honest, it's about zombies.

Dark and quiet and still. No perception of time passing. Cognitive flux. Enmeshed, indistinct. Chiaroscuro dreams, like multi-layered shadow play on a porous surface. Voices heard but not understood. Head wrapped in gauze. Querying the ether. Who? From whence? Where to?
Slowly, surely, such questions give rise to a sense of being. In time. In place. An assumption of emergence. Of surfacing. Diaphanous mind. Bright lights glow red against the eyelids. One blink. Two blinks. Life.

>Mark's Liquor Store

>Monday, November 11th, 7:59 PM

>Shuddering in the night air, she clutched the ticket in her hand. She saw her breath become a cloud of white visible steam but she didn't care. She prayed tonight would be the night. Many passed by the girl, seemingly normal (or whatever could be considered 'normal' for a teenage girl these days'). She brushed her long, light blonde hair behind her ear, the strands becoming unhurried in the wind. Her black leather top did little to hide her thin navel and a thong could be seen, hugging her slim figure above torn jeans. Her brow furrowed, showing frustration between otherwise pleasant looking blue eyes. Immediately, she closed her eyes, seeing the numbers where it was usually dark.

Entry #1:

Well, I guess this is day—uh, huh, I think I’ve actually lost count. Can you believe that? I’ve lost fucking count of the days I’ve spent eating and sleeping my life away in this all-devouring, shithole motel. I’ve lost count of the nights I’ve lain awake with a pillow over my face, half trying to smother myself and half trying to ignore the tiny scritch-scratch of the roaches beneath my bed; I’ve lost count of the hours of daylight spent scratching away at journals and job applications and my itchy, reddened skin.

>>3341707
I like this a lot. Some parts seem a little awkward, though. "I do not know." "My patient today is..." Read it aloud, try to get it to flow a little better.

>>3341979
>Well, I guess this is day—u
This makes it sound like a journal - 'Day 76..', but using 'day' like that seems quite ineffectual, even contradictory against 'Entry #1:' I know you have probably been in the motel for along time, and this is your first entry, but 'this is day' denotes a numerical, not a day of the week.

>>3341799
Are you trying to emulate an author? Who?

>>3336410
Good stuff here, bro.

>>3341997

Not consciously. You'd have to tell me.

>>3340779
sucks a dick

>>3340860
Nice. Great style for the whole fantasy thing I feel like you're going for.

Perfect dormancy wherein neither heart nor thought may endure. No constituents of dream, no ingredient, a sleep to crush a man and inflict tinnitus on the cold spectres in the cold room who watch. We do desire death, wake with no black trophy. All death is one death and that is not sleeping, not the dreamless and cold slumber of a psychopath, and not the freezing black water of the ocean in the endless night under there.

>>3342047
easy there cormac mccarthy

>>3342047
There's something I really like about the phrase "under there" at the end of all the rest of that intense stuff but I can't quite place it.

>>3342065
Thank you.

Let's get drunk and trade writing on skype chat
grcJudge

>>3340662
Reminds me a bit of DFW in the beginning. I'd read it.

>>3339418
Pretty good. would read

“Gruffins my dear boy” the voice of the old man crackled with a wheeze. “Gruffins! Why, you ask such foolish things; yet I suppose a small tale could do no harm”. Rolling back into the cushioned stall the frail man licked his lips and leapt into his words.

Hey /lit/, check my OC writing, I must be Tolkein because this was all my idea.

It's been four days since I've jerked off and i'm at some fuckin' theater. She wanted to see some vampire Korean film. this bitch just hung a dude from his ankles with rope and slit his throat & drained his blood into a tub. That was tight, the rest was weak though. when the Korean bitch was sucking up that blood after though i wanted to put her hand on my dick. Just wanted to take those little fingers wrapped around my shit probably all buttery from popcorn still, then i'd come in my boxers. This movie is boring. There's subtitles so i don't know what's going on all i can think of is sasha grey getting her ass hammered by a BBC and what that shit would taste like after. I want to touch her hand just laying there, i know it's soft. All this blood on screen is reminding me of Sandra Romain shitting an enema into Sasha's stupid face, smiling. I grabbed her hand, and now she's looking at me. 'What' she says. She has a stupid smile. She better give me some tonight or maybe i'll rape her.

I'm like top 5 here. You're lucky I even posted.

>>3338703

So I take it it's irredeemable shit?

Every day I look forward to sleeping. I’d sit twisting paper clips, crying out, wishing I could overcome the thoughts of you. I am scared by the thought of waking up. My heart is now as empty as my bed is, and the terrifying nature of the following day keeps me pinned to my lonely home. I feel like I’ve always loved you, but know it can’t be true.

At first he didn't notice the sun coming up. Slowly it spread it's lazy, pale light across the fields, illuminating the morning mist and eliciting small sounds and movements from the underbrush. And even in his sadness he stopped in his work, as he always did, and watched. He'd always liked the sunrise over the grounds, the way the land looked almost frozen in that first light. He liked hearing the birds wake too, and could even forgive one of the crows or field-mice which always came in new numbers come spring. He liked all these things this morning but he still felt the dry emptiness death had left him in his chest. "God does try us" he thought. "But this trial I cannot get through."

>>3342313
This was painful for me to get through, not because it's strange, just because the writing is not very good. Unless your character is supposed to write like a retard.

>>3338880
>you missed the point of the painting

You didn't take a history class.

>>3342047
I reacted to tinnitus and psychopath when I read this.
They seem out of place - clinical words in an otherwise evocative, dreamy paragraph.

>heart, thought, endure, dream, sleep, crush a man, tinnitus, spectres, watch
>desire, death, wake, sleeping, dreamless, psychopath, freezing, ocean, endless

>>3342475
You must read for entertainment. Good writers don't write for your convenience. You should stop that.

>>3342565
Stephanie Meyer would say the same thing.

I thought it was funny, but it could be improved upon. It was a little painful to finish.

The third stomach. Omasum, a gluttonous god. The unsuspecting bits of cud become the nutritional equivalent of Giles Corey; a peine forte et dure of precious water bestowed upon the grass in its first trial. More weight. Abomasum, a final hold, the last stand. A mere further digestion occurs with an efficacy that Louis Pasteur would smile upon.

Thank you for picking up my book. In it, I will describe in detail the ins and outs of the mysterious maze based religion, Mazalology. During the time you read this book you will undertake a great, spiritual journey; one that you will embark upon full of hope, and a desire for answers, until you slowly realize that you are lost. Hopelessly lost. I recommend reading this book upside down, because the extra blood in your brain will help you understand the advanced concepts and ideas I am writing about. Normal people need about 40% more blood in their brain for it to function at the same level as mine. By embracing Mazalology, you will find that your life is more awesome, and that your brain is working better than ever before. This is because mazes stimulate the Shmockulus region of the brain, which promotes IQ molecules to be dispersed into the brain at a higher than usual rate. This power will help you get good grades in school and have sexual intercourse with dozens of attractive women.

>>3342623
Okay, L. Ron

It was sometime around my fifth birthday when I first saw Canary Wharf. We had just arrived at our new home early that morning hoping to be moved in before anyone noticed us, but not all our neighbours were so easily avoided. First we found one gnawing on a cable in the living room, in the kitchen two were having sex behind a cupboard and, before we went to sleep, discovered one neighbour had shat on each of our beds.

He turned, listening to the sounds of a city - a race - dying. He saw distant skyscrapers, could make out the ant-like shapes writhing as the enemy spilled into apartments and raped the Feratu mercilessly on their balconies. He saw the city walls crumble, massive amounts of licentious shapes spill through the widening holes. It was time to leave.

>>3342677

bump for crit.

>>3342686

/lit/ is slow and the thread wasn't even halfway down the main page. No need to bump, other people are likely to post their own writing which will bump the thread.

Bumping that soon just makes you seem impatient.

>>3342692

Sorry.

It was a place called Berryville, a town with a quaint and friendly name that could only point to the worst nights I would ever regret living. Names and people never really get along as well as either party would like; it’s human nature to resist categorization (although we can never stop categorizing, ourselves). I wasn’t about to pass judgement, however; with the next town 45 miles away and a motorcycle that was pushed for the last 5, I was a lot more focused on finding a bed to bury myself in.

>>3341658
>Not a ton of interest or suspense to be found here. You illustrate a seemingly important character, but there's nothing to distinguish him. These are all relatively mundane descriptions.
Thanks, I appreciate the criticism. I tried to make the opening as short as possible and have it touch on the major points of the story (empty city, marble, water), but I guess in doing that I ended up 'over-simplifying' and making it too dry and boring. I'll try and do something to add interest/suspense, and keep that in mind while writing the rest of the story since it will probably need the same treatment.

I appreciate the help.

>>3342321

That must be a yes.

Back to the drawing board, I guess.

That’s when it happens. Liv lets her vocal chords tear as she shrieks one final time. Unfortunately, I see it all. Sunny had won over and lunged forward. Her jaw opens inhumanly wide and locks onto Liv’s throat and I watch as her teeth sink down into her flesh and rip out a massive chunk of meat. Blood oozes down the front of Liv’s shirt. Blood dribbles down the mouth and the chin of Sunny as if she’d just bitten down into a juicy watermelon. It runs down from her mouth, on her hands, on her dress.
Sunny is gargling blood as she turns to the onlookers. Something is wrong in Sunny’s eyes; no pupils. She hisses and spits blood as she throws her arms in different directions. A police man makes the mistake of underestimating her strength as he goes to restrain her, she snarls and latches onto his forearm as she bites, the sound of wet ripping is louder than the man’s cry for help.

>>3342791
This was a pretty rough one

>>3342079
very VERY interesting you should say this.

For the past 4 days I've been reading Infinite Jest pretty nonstop, along with Kafka's trial.

I find my thought patterns, sentence constructions, and even daily observations are HEAVILY influenced by whatever books I've read.

Oh and I wrote that on the spot for fun.

>>3343272
This isn't my opening paragraph but a section of what I'm starting to write.

>>3342677
erotic

>massive amounts of
might sound better if you replace this with one word
>enemy spilled into apartments and raped the Feratu mercilessly on their balconies
revise it to be a less wordy but still potent sounding rape

This is for a YA idea I had. I don't particularly like starting with the character's name so this will likely be completely changed in the future.

Connor picked his way through the dark apartment, careful not kick any of the neatly packed boxes that lined the wooden floor. Stepping out onto the balcony, brisk night air went barely noticed. Leaning forward on the railing like a king lording over his kingdom, Connor drank in the grand city that sprawled before him. There was something about endless skyscrapers whose every inch were afire with light that made for a spectacular view.

He flew through flat, dark country with two cones of light projected to his front. The trees, surrounded at their feet by newly stripped leaves, watched like naked voyeurs, and the moonless, starless sky pushed the eyes down to the road and the moving patch of space illuminated by the headlights. The chill night air wanted for snow.

Johnny Wilks has stared down the barrel of a gun three times more than the average teenager. He has been stabbed, cut, bruised and beaten on a weekly basis. He has nearly died twice, once by electric shock another by loss of blood. Despite being a 15-year old raised in suburban Upton, a peaceful New York area away from the more populated areas, he sees violence on a constant basis. It is not because of his brightly green dyed spikes he has for hair, nor is it his relative lack of respect for authority that sees him nearly hospitalized each week. It is not that he incites issues of violence and manages to be cited by the police nearly every week. While all these things were true, the real reason for the matter is because he fights urban violence as a superhero between the hours of 3-8 PM, Mondays through Saturdays (with the obvious exceptions of emergencies).

>>3336210
way better than the original 8/10 my good sir

>>3336410
would read

>>3336422
fyodor?

like dostoevsky?

if so, 10/10

I can feel my heart scratching at the walls of my chest and I think my ribs are groaning but I might just be hungry. It’s very hot today and I’m a little bit dizzy. I can hear them whispering. Everybody whispers and nobody stays quiet, except for me. Normally I would try and listen to what they’re saying but I can’t make out anything which means I’m going to sit here and stare at my papers until lunch. Occasionally I’ll accidentally make eye contact with somebody but after a couple of seconds I just stare at my papers again.

>>3343855
>>3343909
I would say, as a general rule of thumb, that writing stories revolving around high school or college is a bad idea.

Jimmy Russell was a sad little boy. He spent his time poring through volumes of existential philosophy. Kierkegaard, Nietzsche and Camus were his only friends. During recess, he would try to skirt the walls and avoid eye contact with his peers, but the kids in the schoolyard would shove him down to the ground, punching him and spitting on him, calling him a plebeian and an edgy atheist. Tears would well up in little Jimmy Russell's eyes, trickling down and providing a much-needed washing for his acne-ridden cheeks. He would tremble and stutter, staring up at the other boys, and attempt to defend himself, but the boys would only scream and jeer, "Ad hominem! Implying! Implying! Implying!" Their shouts haunted Jimmy's dreams.

>>3343952
>Jimmy Russell

>>3343053
>>3341001
Alright, did some editing and rewriting of the whole short story.

>First paragraph:
The man wanders the marble walkways. His steps, his breath, are loud in the still city. He is alone and cannot remember for how long he has been. The only sound in that vast and twisting marble city is that of running water in the distance and he walks toward it. He absentmindedly licks at his lips and finds something sticky and sweet, it melts on his tongue soft, smooth, and warm like honey with an earthy aftertaste. It is a taste familiar to him although he cannot remember from where.

>Second paragraph:
He doesn't know how long he has been in the city, but the longer he rolls the word forever around in his head while he walks the more right it seems. Yes, forever, sounds right. It's a word with a sense of fate in it, a subtle sense of force, he muses. The city is his, beautiful and perfect. Every building merges smoothly with the narrow streets as if the entire city had been hewed out of a single perfect block of white-as-milk marble. He cannot remember doing so, but imagines he must have made the city at some point, carved and polished it. The roads should be wider and straighter, he decides and shakes his head, what a fickle creator he was.

After looking it over, I'm beginning to think that the second paragraph is a better first paragraph than the first one is, so I decided to post it too and see what others thought. The first one still feels a little 'clunky,' so I'll probably reword it.

>>3343952
>Camus
>existentialist

Implying! Implying!

>>3343974
>implying he wasn't

>>3344008
"No, I am not an existentialist."

-Camus

>>3344012

"Fuck your shit, Camus."

-Abraham Lincoln

>>3344018
He actually said that he was not an existentialist. That is a direct quote. Look it up.

>>3344022

He probably did, I was just quoting Lincoln.

I'm guessing that Lincoln didn't really give a fuck about what Camus had to say because he thought Camus didn't know what the fuck he was talking about.

That's just Abraham Lincoln, though.

Not me.

>>3344027
>he thought Camus didn't know what the fuck he was talking about.

Good thing an anonymous teenager is here to tell us Camus was wrong about himself.

>>3343936
How come? I am planning to address said immaturity.

>>3344037

I mean, i'm just taking a guess here, I don't really know...

I mean Camus probably knew many things about himself that I don't know. Maybe his favorite cereal--something like that.

But if someone--perhaps--were dedicated to finding the detailing of what some philosophical movement was, and relating that to the thought system of an individual, is he really to know? He has the authority over the expression of his thoughts, but not its analysis.

He's a woman on the inside and man on the outside.
...and I don't really know how many toes he has either, by the way.

the south end was like the peristaltic flow of a shit-faced old john with crohn's disease. nothing but shakey-eyed cats yelling maddeningly in curare-like paralysis, clawing for escape; long slender-fingered shits slinging mexican mud, smelling of ectoplasm and dried semen. fat motherfuckers with gold chains and connections subsisting off feeding tubes pumping the dolor of tar-faced children, sipping dead souls from slender crack-heads through bendy straws, getting their cocks sucked by fermenting whores. my only companions were sounds of caustic fluids submerging cylinders with whooping cough, fucking my engine like a cheap slut, staining mass graves of black conglomerate. it was a part of the whole, and i couldnt distinguish it from the rest; it was the city's life and its death.

It was with much embarrassment that I handed in my Science and Progression paper to Professor-Archbishop MacGovernortron 2000 (some new sheeny model that had caught the eye of not only a few other administrators, but had also attracted enough ephebic male attention to be put on the infamous 'I-would-definitely-fuck-it-whatever-it-is" list) because it bore the clear marks of wizard spunk in the top right corner. I am afraid to say that I indeed HAVE had to engage intimate relations with Gilgomoor, though I fought to the bitter end dear reader (an end so bitter I retched blue eight times in quick succession all over his evening cloak) but that foul-breathed potion addict, that dirty old wizard-school dropout, has got me cornered:if I am to even PASS intermediate spells and elocution I am to fellate his horridly magical mushroom-tipped penis until it releases that strong blue bitter, for which wizards are famous.

>>3344096
whoops forgot image.

He came from the west, preceding the evening redness of the setting sun. He was enveloped in a sheath of black, a long poncho that danced about him, and around his shoulder was slung a rifle. His shadow was stretched out on the asphalt in a black and hurried gait, it stopped suddenly, and the man knelt down and gazed at the wreck ahead.

It’s the same everyday. I get up, eat my cereal, and go to work. Somewhere in the far reaches of Northern Massachusetts is an office containing customer support for a big time computer company. I work there. Everyday I walk in and I think about offing myself, or lighting the place on fire. It’d never happen though. I don’t have a gun and the office is made of bricks and concrete. It’d never catch enough to really burn it to the ground like I’d like. Anyway I work with a colorful cast of social rejects that I am surprised ever made it through the high school educational system. Actually, it doesn’t surprise me they made it through the high school education system, most idiots can. I guess they just didn’t have the insight to avoid the alluring trap of the service industry.

>>3335944

confusing and in desperate need of clarification. if content doesn't immediately speak to the reader, they're going to discard it as garbage -- regardless of whether it is.

>>3336018
This is not a sufficient opening paragraph -- and, 9 times out of 10, not a sufficient paragraph period. Contrived, lacking in tone. Dull.

>>3336148
i like how the focus is clear. your style, not so much. your style changes quickly from the first sentence to the second: "swirl...transient": c'mon, you're getting purple and wordy. upon reading this I got the feel it was a down-to-earth nostalgia piece, but this second sentence takes away from it. Either speak to me like you're the guy who knew Phoebe, or some overly-wordy narrator.

>>3336193
Absolutely awful. Convoluted, pretentious, self-indulgent.
9/10 chance it's a troll; if so: 9/10 for the troll

>>3336210
This is good. I like it. I'm interested and hooked.

>>3336394
This is good.

>>3338968
uwotm8?

>>3338993
this is really fantastic. well done. i like it, essentially, as is.

>>3340564
Nice,interesting, fun

Worrell adjusted his tie to the nauseous scent of Betty’s lingering perfume and the fishy concoction that was being sundered and crafted in the deep corners of the kitchen. From afar the noise of a tall woman slamming her hands against a board with occasional strike of the long knife, struck an oddly amused fear in him, and as he tightly slid his tie towards his neck, he anticipated some hellish looking attempt from Betty to childishly recreate Niigata.
“Don’t burn down the flat damn it!” he shouted in his outlandishly uncle tom Yankee accent as he laid his black leather satchel on the bed and checked every pocket thoroughly.
“You know I think I know what I’m doing Bertie!” a gruff yet feminine voice snapped back “thank you very much!”

>>3336193
First sentence was good, the next two or three could be cut, and sometimes less is more. I think you lose the flow of the writing by trying to use a big impressive diction.

>>3343962
>man wandering forlorn the vast cosmic amnesias.
>original

uninspired, writing for the sake of writing. boring, trite, unimaginative. So what, a dude is wandering? Everyone and their mothers has written this existential struggle garbage in this way at least once.

I know you probably don't mean it, so I won't say it, but this sounds EXTREMELY self-indulgent.

>>3343952
more like bertrand russell; 0/10

>>3343855
Your writing isn't bad; in fact, i loved the first sentence and the manner in which the proceeding sentences were constructed. but you can't just go straight into the details of johnny wilks after saying that; i need context before further info about wilks.

>>3343272
This is lacking context; based on how you've stated it isnt your opening paragraph, I refuse to critique it

>>3342431
not bad; would say it was good if the topic wasn't so dull; spice it up if you can. doesn't sound like its going anywhere. i would only continue reading out of the declarative style of your phrasing.

>>3341856
It's written so mechanically, no flow. [subject] [elaborate description] [predicate]. it makes it boring prose.

>>3344280
>uninspired, writing for the sake of writing. boring, trite, unimaginative. So what, a dude is wandering? Everyone and their mothers has written this existential struggle garbage in this way at least once.
Ouch, bro. It's not supposed to be existential at all. It's about a guy who kills his wife and ends up in Tartarus. There's not supposed to be any 'boo hoo my life is pointless what do I do' stuff going on.


>I know you probably don't mean it, so I won't say it, but this sounds EXTREMELY self-indulgent.
Alright, point taken. Any advice?

>>3341733
humbling and emotional, good.

>>3341707
Good, with easily repairable mistakes: i personally think contractions would fair well in this paper, I do not know doesn't sound as good as I don't know when it comes to what you're getting at. Another anon also mentioned the my patient today", i second this comment; also, remove unnecessary adjectives "dark, haunting" sounds sooo 9th grade english assignment

>>3341799
cringe-worthy. 2deep4everyone. this is better off as a poem, if i were to give any shred of advice.

>>3344086
monstrous and poignant. i felt it. one thing though: make sure this doesn't become too incoherent as you continue it further, otherwise it's going to sound like pretentious junk

>>3341740
Oh God. I just can't....

>>3344302
why dont you give me a clue its about a man killing his wife? foreshadow something? i need subtle hints as to what this city is in relation to the overall theme. no one is going to want to read an entire short story/novel if its written in this drawn-out, suspense-less fashion. any clues or hooks would serve you well. i dont need to hear so much about the buildings' shapes; i get it; i want to know about why the fuck he's there.

This was something that she never got tired of. For all her centuries of living on this world she never tired of this spectacle. Clad in a tight silk gown, dark as a starless night, hung very low showing just enough of her breasts to make her minions worship and grovel all the more. For this was a spectacle she was proud to be the center of for the power that she gained from it, the energy that flooded and washed over her was more fulfilling then any pleasures of the flesh that any mortal could ever experience. She was a god to these people; or rather things for many of them had lost all semblance of their former selves long ago. They worshiped her and it was the worshiping from these minions, monsters even, that gave her power that made her a blasphemy to the gods, the thought of there anger made her laugh even scream in ecstasy all the more. This was it this was what she strived for and after tonight she would have the power

>>3344261
writing itself is very good. just clear up what's happening. i have 0 idea of what is happening and what to expect. i feel nothing by the end of it.

When one saw the giant hotdog shaped lunch truck he /she would assume it was just another Weinermobile and not a lunch truck for the promotion of Stadium hotdogs. Cain preferred driving it over any other vehicles in the current global zombie Crisis. The hotdog truck had all the conveniences of a modern kitchen packed into it. The hotdog truck gave Cain the ability to preserve food and make hot meal like any regular RV. Unlike a RV hotdog truck had a special feature: a smooth curved surface from its hotdog design. This smooth curved outside kept the zombies from grabbing on and climbing all over the hotdog. The hotdog truck’s only door was flush with the rest of the hotdog’s shape and to the unknowing was hard to find. Most zombies would not see the hidden door handle.

>>3344327
>hung very low showing just enough of her breasts to make her minions
Take out the word just and I will fucking love the whole thing.

He woke to the coming and going of the surf. His right arm thrust out, gripping a mask
that lay beside him in the sand. Dragging the mask through the sand he stood up, his joints
cracking and straining, a body that had not moved for a long time. Naked, on a beach, jungle
behind him, a mask in his hand. He fit it over his face.

Now I was clothed. The mask was the key. I knew what I had to do.

>>3344321
Thanks for the advice, I'll work on it. I thought that he finds himself alone in a massive city carved only out of marble, and completely alone, would enough of a hook, but I guess I made it too boring and flat. I'll try and work in the reasons why he's there earlier too.

>>3344331
done, I have more, if your willing to give more suggestions it?

>>3344331

That's always been my problem. I don't know how to introduce a story in my own way because people constantly tell me "write like Hemingway". So assume you leave it to the audience to understand. thanks for the review though!

I would have expected life to turn out entirely different for myself. You know, with less ridiculous stuff going on, and more of the typical office-job and everything. Of course, I’m not really complaining about any of this. It’s been a pretty good life, and I’ve made tons of friends. I even learned some stuff along the way, so I think that I’ve been pretty much doing life right. Even if I didn’t, I don’t think I care. In the end, I’m still pretty happy. And I managed to make her happy, so I think that just makes me even happier. Yeah, that’s a good wording, in a way. I guess I’m happy to die.

Wording it to make it teen-friendly

It was mid-summer, the smell of oak was flowing through the trees. He looked around trying to ketch a gimps of the wild boar that he had been tracking. He soon saw a brown blur running in between the trees. His eyes narrowed and he soon felt his body pulse with energy as he lunged forward into a sprint toward this running blur.

>>3344327
>more
to corrupt the people of the near by village to become her followers as well, whether they wanted it or not. But she noticed there was an outsider in in the clearing, and obviously not there to worship her, then she noticed this was an angel, she began to hunger, for if she could have an angel as a follower it would be the ultimate display of her power and the very strength from his worship would be as much as half her current following, which numbered in the hundreds. Angels were a rare sight now a days and to have one simple walk into he circle at the pinnacle of her power was a treat to say the least. He was one to whom she would say was strange for he was not clad in the tradition armor of the angels, whom always viewed themselves as lofty creatures believing to be second to the greater ones themselves, how they were mistaken. Yes she could now see that the design of his chest plate was angelic but it was carved in intricate elven runes and was forged with metal that only the dwarfs could work. His bracers were angelic but were of a very simple design almost to simple for the supernatural beings. His greaves were of a human design with intricate markings; he was clad in a fine wool cloak and standing at the very least seven armbreadths tall (armbreadths will be 13 inches) . Yes this one was very rare and desirable indeed and she knew she must have him even if it delayed her plans for the village.

The convenience store shares a parking lot with the adult video store. For me this is very inconvenient. I suppose if RedBox isn’t your thing, or RedTube for that matter, it works. But had the dildo store been down the strip I might not be in this predicament. So you can’t really say it’s my fault. I just went to the store for a pack of cigarettes. I come out; walk around back for a smoke and the two sleaze balls approach me. I say sleaze balls because they are balls of sleaze. I can tell because of how they are dressed. They have those loud, urban looking sweatshirts with graffiti lettering that you can get from Khol’s or whatever. I can also tell because they pulled a knife on me. But honestly, the flat brimmed hats and baggy pleated jeans piss me off more. What are these assholes even doing hanging around a convenience store at eleven at night? They’re like Jay and Silent Bob but without any of the quirkiness. It’s not my fault I happened to be in the same place at the same time as scuzz one and scuzz two. Though I am trying to quit smoking. The fuckers are making me buy a dildo. Actually, I guess that’s pretty quirky.

>>3344341
done, i have posted more >>3344375
if you want to read it and offer up any more?

>>3342142
:D Thanks

>>3343053
>>3343962
First critic here. What I was proposing was a change in story structure. It reminds me of the opening to the Fountainhead a little bit, except there you had more characterization. Your story shouldn't just be about plot -- you've got to touch on character as well, which you're not quite succeeding at in your opening. You have a lot of potential for this opening, so you don't want to just capture a man in a situation, you want to capture a specific man in this situation. You can show his thoughts mimetically (through action) if you do it right, but this piece seems like it should be much more character-driven.
Which is why your second one is better, but it does come off as a bit pretentious for the modern era. Style is ultimately up to you, and you don't want to compromise what you love, but a little more simplicity and concreteness would be nice in either opening. Good writing is not deliberately abstract- that's something that takes effort to master, so I'd suggest trying out some simpler, but still well-executed prose, and seeing what happens to your writing overall, because you want to keep your voice but you also don't want to alienate your audience.

The temperature plummets at night, rises during the day, though ever slightly so. But the nights are so chillingly cold, a chill that pervades the station, into every nook, every cranny, every inch of Lunar Station #7.

Op is a faggot because he's a faggot and a faggot. He's a giant faggot. I hate op. What a giant faggot! What a piece of faggot shit op is! Op is a faggot.

>>3344413
>You can show his thoughts mimetically (through action) if you do it right,
That's what I was trying to do, but I need to work at it more. I'll try and go for more character-driven/internal commentary type stuff, thanks.

>Which is why your second one is better, but it does come off as a bit pretentious for the modern era.
Yeah, it needs more editing. It's clunky too, pretentious is a good word for it. Muses isn't a great word, and the last line sounds self-absorbed in a bad way too. I also thought it was a fair bit better, because it sets everything up in a more natural way.

>Style is ultimately up to you, and you don't want to compromise what you love, but a little more simplicity and concreteness would be nice in either opening.
I felt like the first one was a lot more simple and concrete, but it was also really dull, so I'll work on a sort of compromise or combination there. I'll spend more time trying simpler free-writing for practice too, and maybe that will help me write the story better and I can go back and edit it. I appreciate the advice.

>>3344489
>I felt like the first one was a lot more simple and concrete, but it was also really dull

It's not necessarily the simplicity of language that's causing this dullness... language can be crucial for conveying changes in pacing and so forth, but it's nothing more than a medium for that action. What's dull about your opening is that you're describing a dehydrated man walking. The setting is interesting, and you've got a nice *aftermath* scenario working, but language is not making anything dull. It's difficult to pull off an attention-grabbing delivery of a slow-moving scene, but I'd say the dullness is more in the selection of details than the use of language; simply put, "simple" doesn't mean "dull".

>>3344502
Yeah, I understand that, that's why I said, "...but it's really dull." It's simple, BUT it's really dull. I know that it's simple isn't making it dull, it's just that I don't have much going on there.
>It's difficult to pull off an attention-grabbing delivery of a slow-moving scene, but I'd say the dullness is more in the selection of details than the use of language; simply put, "simple" doesn't mean "dull".
I'll make sure to keep that in mind too, I'll try and emphasize the suddenness of finding himself there and have him do more than just stand there and then meandering around, which in retrospect, is all that's happening. Thanks again, you, and the other guy who responded, have really showed me a lot of what was wrong with my work in general through those first few paragraphs.

>>3336184
>s he stood there in a crisp, grey, $5000 three-piece, Armani suit

Was it entirely Armani? Or did he have Brooks Brothers wingtips? The tie was Armani too? Wouldn't a Cerrutti 1801 be more fitting?

If you're going to beat Bret Easton Ellis at this, you've got to try harder.

>>3336196
That is the general idea, yes.

“It began raining a little from a hazy, cloudless-seeming sky as Paul, 26, and Michelle, 21, walked toward Chelsea to attend a magazine-release party in an art gallery.”

>>3344350
>>3344351
Yes, shoot