/lit/ - Literature

I'll go first

“Niggers! God. Damn. Niggers! Since when are they letting niggers run cash registers. It’s a goddamn disgrace that’s what it is.” Mumbled Peter Tchwickey as he shuffled toward the back end of his vehicle.
“You tried to pay with a card that expired in ‘97, Pete. It wasn’t her fault. Besides, she was a white anyway.”
Winston was occupied slowly lifting bags of oatmeal and almond milk through a high window on the back of Pete’s jeep. He would take the bags individually from the cart and move them onto the bumper where he would rest them a moment before vaulting them up over the towering lip of the trunk like an olympic athlete, skillfully alternating between grunting, panting and cursing with every breath.
“Get in the car you old bastard, we were supposed to be there an hour ago” He said breathlessly between bags.
“Oh fuck em’. They probably all got their titties hard thinking I killed over on my way to em’.”
“Now that’s probably true Pete, but...”
He triumphantly vaulted the last bag of grocries into truck.
“...But that don’t change the fact that it’s thanksgiving and they’re sittin round a table with their titties hard just waitin’ for you to get there and eat.”
He sent the empty cart wheeling into the middle of the parking lot and started his climb into the driver’s seat.
The jeep was of tremendious proportions, of the type used to transport goods arount a compound in some military installment half a century ago. Pete had found it rotting behind an army surplus store in the late 70’s with every piece of leather ripped from the seats and rust engulfing almost all of its magestic olive drab. He had fallen in love with it and purchased it immediatly. By now he had spent enough money on reparing it to purchase two brand new jeeps, but he wasn’t keeping track.
Winston started the deafining diesel engine and together they rolled off in the direction of thanksgiving dinner.

http://racers3x.wordpress.com/2013/02/16/untitled-0/

>>3486339
too much description, not enough action

>>3486339

you're white talking about oatmeal and almond milk

>>3486359
1st person, kill yourself

>>3486339
Full of spelling errors.

>skillfully alternating between grunting, panting and cursing with every breath.
It shows skill to alternate between grunting, panting, and cursing?

>probably all got their titties hard thinking I killed over on my way to em
This doesn't make sense either

>rust engulfing
Awkward.

>>3486371

all in good time.

>>3486359
>http://racers3x.wordpress.com/2013/02/16/untitled-0/

>pulling them away and staring at the fingertips rubbing them together amazed by how well the layers of grime caked over it had stayed stuck; trying to figure out if I was more disgusted or thankful for it.
Horrible syntax. Also, it didn't interest me enough to read beyond that point. It could have something to do with the first-person narrative or with the shitty formatting, idk.

>>3486395

hmmm yeah that sentence is pretty awkward. my bad... i wrote it high/drunk so eh.

>>3486359
I feel like your dialogue needs to be more brusque. You definitely need more periods.

>>3486339
>Winston was occupied slowly lifting bags of oatmeal and almond milk through a high window on the back of Pete’s jeep. He would take the bags individually from the cart and move them onto the bumper where he would rest them a moment before vaulting them up over the towering lip of the trunk like an olympic athlete, skillfully alternating between grunting, panting and cursing with every breath.

way too many words and the tense doesn't match the prior sentence

>>3486446
scratch prior, the tense from the latter sentence doesn't match the former

>>3486422

i'll keep that in mind if i ever finish it and go back and edit it all. in which case i'll probably actually do some research and learn more about proper grammar/punctuation to make up for all the shit i missed out skipping school.

Here's the first chapter of my novel:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1s4S8w8A_zFCLk6vi2EqF5g4STDKaqlnIFu3seWya_DA/edit?usp=sharing

A girl who works at a hardware store smiled at me.
It's her job to smile at people but it was nice nonetheless.
She'll never know how much that simple gesture that meant nothing to her, meant to me.
And that's kind of beautiful, I think.
A woman who cut my hair today rubbed my head to brush off cut hairs.
I pretended that she was comforting me.
She'll never know how at ease I felt for that one moment in time.
And that's kind of beautiful too, I think.

"The boy shivered in his boat as he felt the cold winter surrounding him again. He pulled his cloak tighter to his body and put his freezing fingers on the oars. He was surrounded with dark still water and a thin white mist that blocked parts of the far away shores. The stream that had carried him for the last couple of hours, or so he thought, had finally stopped and he woke from his long sleep when he noticed that the sails had stopped stirring. He took a deep breath and coughed as the fresh, frosty air was sucked rapidly down his throat, white flame combusting out his mouth. This frost is unbearable, He thought to himself."

I'm not afraid of you /lit/, you can't hurt my feelings.

>>3486693
I liked it a lot. I'm not an english major or anything but I definitely think that you write very well.

Someone lay down a beat
Check it:
I wish time could stand still
My seconds I would then use to fill
My need to procrastinate,
Sit around and masturbate
Because with the march of the date
How can I sit around and self debate
As I try to work out what's my fate

I'm concerned about my destiny
And what it should mean to me
I don't feel goin about listlessly
And I don't wanna be pre-determined
Just happy, of that I'm affirmed and

If the universe I was dictating,
There'd be a hell of a lot more fellating
I know some of you guys are relating
And I'm also rating
More debating
And less blind hating
Which we're all just trying to escape an'

It could use some work. I popped it off ages ago and only just found it now

>>3486608
Well written, and I also agree.

>>3486608
Would be interested in more of this.

I was half asleep at the hotel. The rough bed springs that dug into my back and the sound of people fucking kept me awake. The room was a small place, a table and chair, a small television and a bathroom was all it had to offer. I liked it though. Even if I couldn’t sleep, the simple nature of the room kept me above the point of going home.

>>3486714
Really? Thanks, means a lot to me.

hell read the whole thing:

http://pastebin.com/U7Sc4Z44

Prince Thomas who wasn't really a prince and choose that nickname for himself and deserved a big amount of laughs cause of it, was on his way to meet a certain girl named Casndra du Maurier, who was indeed a certain important french mans daughert.

"Notre vie est un voyage
Dans l'hiver et dans la nuit.
Nous cherchons notre passage
Dans le ciel où rien ne luit."

I read it in French. Worth it.

"Should I sew tonight?
Is it too late to sew?
Maybe I'll sew"

Donnacha stood at the top of Howth Head, looking out over Bull Island and Dublin Bay, watching the fast ferry leave the port as the sun rose behind it. The morning smelled of dew, of grass and heather. He turned, and began to walk back into town.

An old man walked his dog in the early light, and nodded as he passed, his thin grey hair waving in the sea breeze, revealing his scalp.

Donnacha continued down the path. He reached the end and stepped out on to the main road. He could see Howth village now. When he was 16 he had taken a girl up the head one evening. He had brought sandwiches and a flask of tea, and they had eaten sitting on a rock. Afterwards they went into the village and had fish and chips. They were ham sandwiches, and the tea was cold. Her name was Mary. Or Aoife. He had eaten a battered sausage, and she had smoked cod. He couldn't picture her face.

Two bicycles flew past him, cannoning down the hill. He watched them until they turned a corner. Another cyclist struggled up in the opposite direction, the strain showing in his face, his legs working furiously. Donnacha walked on, nodding his support to the man struggling against the incline.

He turned away from the village and walked down towards Sutton.

>>3487191

No one have any advice/critique?

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>>3487249
Criticism is appreciated, by the way.

>>3487191
It's pretty stagnant and bland.

>Noun verbed, description of noun.
Is such typical boring writing.

Just the intro section of a whole novel I've been working on.

http://pastebin.com/4vBKi0cj

My wife decided we should get a new dinner table because she thinks if she keeps replacing things in the house I'll take the hint. So we go down to the home things store place, I don't know what it's called, it's got beds and fuckin' there's one pillow and then there's another pillow, it's literally fifty old people in a big room looking for soft things to die on. "Oh this looks nice, I could die peacefully on this...but get the bath mat too, in case I fall out of the shower and break my neck," it's that store.

So we get there and my wife picks out this table that slides, it's a sliding table that you can pull out and you put in an extra part to make it bigger, y'know so you can sit as far away as possible from your husband's fat dumb head. And I was fine with that, 'cause I wanted to see what the, like, what is the distance I have to be to NOT hear her chewing? Her disgusting fucking, I swear to god, when she eats it sounds like if you put your sweaty hand into a baseball glove except its full of warm watermelon chunks,. You just put it in, FWCHSHLORFSCHLORF, it's insanity.

Anyway, what happens is, we take it home, we start putting it together and I realize, there's actually something wrong with the pieces we got. The holes aren't lined up right so you can't screw on the sliding thing. So I go back to the store and I explain to the lady at the counter, I show the photos and everything, and she says she's going to check with someone in the back.

I walk away from the counter for a bit, and after a while the back door opens and this construction guy comes out, and what happens is, he comes RIGHT AT ME, he KNOWS I'm his guy even though I'm not at the counter and there's like ten people around me, and the whole time we're talking all I can think is, there is no way that lady didn't go into the back and go, "yeah there's some idiot who can't fuckin drill holes in a table, go help him out. Just look for the fuckin fat ginger faggot, you'll know him when you see him."

This is how it happened: I met the kid on Halloween night in 1998 when I went to let my dog out. I couldn’t tell you how old he was exactly because I never saw his face.

My dog started barking at him right away so I shushed him up and made him go back inside. The kid was in my backyard standing at the gate. It was a little after ten and most of the Trick-or-Treaters had gone home. For a second I wondered if maybe he was hiding from the cops or adults. I had hidden once or twice in a backyard with my friends when I was in middle school during some unsuccessful attempts to teepee someone’s house. So I called out to him, but he didn’t answer.

As I approached him and started asking him if his parents were around, he was completely mute. His back was to me and I was beginning to wonder if he was mentally retarded or something. I got up right next to him and lightly put my hand on his shoulder. He was wearing jeans, a black t-shirt and one of those scream masks.

“Hey, what are you doing in my backyard, buddy?” I asked him.

Nothing. He didn’t even turn to face me.

>>3486493
That's a pretty short chapter, in my opinion

We consider women to be frivolous creatures and yet we’re the ones that buy the most expensive gift wrapping in the world, he thought while undoing the silk laces on her high waist, and now the same thought came back to him during the train ride home.
„What do you do?” she asked.
„I work for a company uptown.” He replied aloof.
„You did seem the corporate type, but what do you do?”
He paused for a moment and then he looked back out the window, he was in no mood to try to explain something he didn’t comprehend entirely.
„Must be very hard to always have to find a new reason to wake up every morning.” She concluded.

He thought of an answer for a second, and gave up on it the next. ” Although she is beautiful” he noted, pale green eyes and dark hair with strands of pink, and a very peculiar haircut, rather short and choppy „yet it suits her”. Couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old.
„What’s your name?”
„Evie, that’s with an „E”, not Ivy, most people get it wrong”
„And why the sudden interest in me Evie?”
„You seem like an interesting person, underneath that gray suit and plain tie of yours”
„And what makes you think that? He said while inspecting the tip of his tie.
„For starters the lipsticks stain on your shirt collar, and the faint smell of women’s shower cream.”
He looked back out the window thinking of that damned tie, both the saleswoman and Lady had said that the tie was colorful, but he always hated it. He hated most of them, and most of them were presents from her. He saw it again in the window as the train was passing under the last motorway bridge and that made him get up in a hurry and head straight for the cabin door.

>>3487301
i thought the pic was Jeffrey Eugenides for a second as i scrolled by

He sat at the front of the top of the 48 feeling anxious. The feel of his fingers when he rubbed them together, too much like the thin fibre on plastic of the seat, made him uncomfortable. He made a bead of spit on his lips and wiped it off with his thumb and forefinger, rubbing them together with the lubricant of the spit, taking the gross warmth over shuddering friction.

>>3486338
Setting

A God so old he has forgotten his names,
wanders the earth
his psalms are purple gold blue ochre
the reflections of clouds on still water

There's a chalk outline in the church parking lot
empty, gleaming
pale fluorescent lights

I only wanted to blend in, but try as I might I couldn’t keep stride with the other children. It was the first day at my new school in Nevada, and I wanted nothing more than to remain low-key. I determinedly stayed within a few feet of the small cluster of boys that walked in front of me; I didn’t want to appear friendless, of course. It was then I spied a small object in the distance. I could barely distinguish the outline of the figure, but it was becoming more and more apparent that the thing I was observing was human. The clearer a picture I saw of the distant man the more my rage was fueled. The sheer fury that now welled inside my soul caused me to break into a full sprint towards my opponent. The crowd of spectators stood dazed for a moment before breaking into a frenzied pursuit. I ran with all the power that my Sketchers Double Noll Z-Straps would allow. I had those babies revved up to full gear, sending a disorientating barrage of cheap rubber at my pursuers. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the strength of my sketchers alone was not enough to deter the horde of hysterics that grew nearer every second. I strained to reach behind me and retrieve my trusty sack of wrenches while still maintaining speed.
“--------” I cried as I wrestled the sack of wrenches from its nesting place. With every ounce of strength I could muster I heaved the sack into the hoop from the three point line to even the score. The crowd of teachers and students roared with exaltation as they hoisted me into the air.
“Praise be to Isaac, for he has appeased the hoop!” exclaimed the crowd. One of the administrators adorned me with gold and other riches as another placed a diamond studded crown atop my head. I took a step back and was too busy admiring myself to notice the mutation occurring. There standing before me was the entire student body molded into one giant menacing entity.

1/2 of my 10th grade personal narrative

>>3486372
not the writer but...
>It shows skill to alternate between grunting, panting, and cursing?
you don't think that was sort of the point? he's saying "if there was a martial arts about grunting, panting and cursing this guy would win"

>This doesn't make sense either
it's the way the character is talking

When he stepped into the glaring light of the avenue, Niall had a smile on his lips and a song in his heart. Passersby easily mistook the otherworldly chords vibrating through his being for the rises and falls of footsteps, but we can dispense with such everyday illusions. That’s my job, after all, isn’t it? To pull back the veil of reality and point a steady hand at what you should be seeing, so that the story can become more than another day, another experience, another life you have witnessed, and ascend to the more sublime heights of—well, we’ll see. Everyone harbors their own ideas about these things, and I have to admit that it’s no easy task to keep one’s nerves in check while trying to fit tone, pace, and style into so many potential conceptions while still bending them to a central purpose. Or to no purpose at all (which some would say is even harder). Setting these concerns aside, I’ve already started, as presumably have you, so the best we can do is follow what we’ve got going here to it’s conclusion…just don’t ask me what that may turn out to be—I’m busy.
To return to Niall and the overtly hackneyed description of him that I selected as a beginning, it would be best to look a bit closer to keep all this from turning into a children’s tale. While the mass of passersby (the ones not too busy staring at a miniaturized electronic screen) may have noticed Niall’s smile—and the more perceptive among them the presence of a deeper harmony beneath his outer movements; we will be spending more time with him, and as such should ponder the details more closely.
A smile is a smile is a smile, but anyone with a logical streak knows that no matter how long this chain is carried forth, it cannot include every smile that ever has, is currently being, or will one day be smiled, and that every one among us has without doubt encountered once (most likely more than once) a smile that definitely was not a smile. Niall’s was one such smile.

Short story, first 2 paragraphs. Started this morning. Does it make you want to read on?

http://pastebin.com/F82Wm2i2

Here we go.

A cold wind blows through the forest as He walks. The day passed quickly and before he knew it night had fallen and he was forced to make the journey home in the dark, his path only lit by the light of the moon shining through the think canopy.

As He walks, the night becomes very cold. He pulls his cloak tighter around himself and continues to push deeper into the forest. In spite of the full moon He still has trouble navigating through the dense woodland. "This forest gets darker every fucking day," he mutters to himself bitterly.

>>3490114
~200 words and I don't clearly understand who Niall is or what he does. His job is to dispel illusion?
>otherworldly chords vibrating through his being
I don't understand, what is he, an alien? I guess the description is lost to me as a reader.

>>3487301
I like your approach, I chuckled a few times reading this. The placement of " fuckin' " seems to disrupt the flow of the second sentence though, to me.

>>3490214
Yeah, really just cut out about as much as one post to avoid dumping a huge amount of text. It's a really slow building intro, I know, takes forever with all the interruptions to get anywhere. Was part of the idea when I started it.

The chords thing is about the 'song', the continuance breaks down that and the smile as the opposite of what the idiom implies. I could post more, but I understand it's boring as excerpted here--was looking more for comments on the line-by-line prose.

>>3490214
And the dispelling illusion thing is the self-conscious narrator, an overused trope these days.

The night it snowed forever
You and I, we slept together
And the warmth negated the outside flurry.

I woke up and you were gone.

The day after the night it snowed forever
You and I, we laid together
In the snow banks on the side of the half plowed street.
You abruptly left,
Freed from my hopeless daydream catatonia
By a mist of snow blown by the wind,
Bracing my face.

>>3490114
>>3490240
Google doc. You post link> we read> we like> all good; everyone happy. Yes?

>>3490177
Moar Grabber!!! :-)

>>3490254

I'm not particularly fond of the third, ninth or tenth lines, nor the placement of the fourth. However, the weaker lines and stuttering metrical structure are largely made excusable by occasional flashes of brilliance. 'The night it snowed forever' is the best line in the poem - really quite exquisite diction.

I hope I haven't sounded too critical, it's a better-than-promising attempt.

Dead on impact. That’s what the police officers told me when they arrived on my door step at two in the morning. They explained how a truck driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and veered off right into him, crushing his car and everything inside it. He was only identified by dental records.

After they gave their condolences and left, I sat at the dinner table for a while. Soon dawn came, and the sunlight began to creep through the curtains. When he left for work the evening before I didn’t tell him I loved him. I never did.

It takes an orange


It takes an orange
To jump through hoops
It takes an orange
To draw these loops

It takes a sphere
To dare go there
To take that step
Into the night
To go against
A world of fright

It takes a colour
To make Vlad blush
It takes commitment
To draw that brush
To boldly form
These shapes and lines
To tread among
These judgments' mines

It takes full flesh
To fill such skin
It takes a fool
To let none in
You are not such
You bloody sleeves
But he who loves
Is he who grieves

I hope you get run over.

>>3490366
True story?

>>3490395
Afraid not. I'll take it as a compliment that you thought it was though.

I gazed the mirror for a few seconds, that was not myself, not anymore, not for a long time…Many people kept on telling me that I was gone for six months or more, but for me many years had gone.
Not that it was bad at all, but you get used to make you own rules and follow your way. But now that i don’t have neither of those I feel somehow sick, once again i was trapped in the society, just another human in the world

It was a light and clear morning. The sunlight shone through the windows, blocked more by the handprints on the glass than by the cheap drapes. I rolled out of bed and began to walk towards the kitchen, temporarily motivated by the prospect of bacon, before falling onto the crumbling futon and back into slumber. My dreams of Scarlett Johansson and the laws of universal gravitation were interrupted a short time later when one of the futon’s legs (which had previously been held together by an abomination of duct tape and chopsticks) collapsed under the added weight of an overhead light that tore free of its supports and landed on the futon.

Stuck in between the shadows of a great yesterday
and the stunning light of a new tomorrow
In a blank space where nothing seems right
Where nothing has a meaning
when you look around,and there's no one
just you, stuck somewhere time don't roll
and your tears are locked inside
cause there is no where to go
and even if they fall they'll make no differ
just one more drop in the ocean
It's a peace of nothing taking me
but that only gives me a fever
a burning will of something
a deeply miss of things that are yet to come

This is an apology, one that will be read by no one, or at least no one who will be able to accept it. It will appear on these pages and be forgotten immediately by those who do read it, but it is something I must write, for myself, a love letter to something that asks for none but inspires many. Really this is the only way it should be written about, insignificantly, for anything that could be said about it is insignificant under its vast expanse, in all its grey streets and under its infamous rain. I am apologising to London, for lying about it, to myself and others, for trying to abandon in the most arbitrary of rebellions, when now I realise I was wrong.


Is this as cliched as I think?

He sliced the darkness with his blade in a vertical slash, opening a portal. Beams of light barely pierced the murky blackness surrounding him but after being immersed in the darkness for so long they were bright enough to blind him of what lay beyond. He stumbled toward the portal regardless, no place existed worse than what he was leaving behind. The bright light forced his eyes closed as he staggered the final steps and tumbled thought. He plummeted through the air, savoring the wind on his face and the sun on his skin for the first time in centuries before the wind gathered beneath him, slowing his descent to a stop. He kept his eyes closed, feeling the sun hot on his skin where ever his shroud failed to cover. He focused momentarily before shifting out of the sky and appearing inside his lair. In the cool shadows he managed to open his eyes a crack.
Seri materialized before him. “Master how bad is it?” He had nearly been dead the last time she sounded this upset. “I’m not sure,” he replied honestly. Looking down he found his skin pale and black, claw-like nails tipping his fingers, he shortened and smoothed them with his will. Looking back at Seri he saw her shroud was a pure white, an opposite of his own which had become a dark, stygian black. “Your hair,” Seri said. He knew it was black as well, he could see a strand hanging before his face but changes in his appearance were the side effects least concerning him.
“I like your new look master, it’s mysterious.” “I made the right choice in keeping you from his touch; white is your finest looking shroud yet.” He took on his true form, filling the large room before lying down. Taking on his true form felt like escaping a constraint after so long.

>>3490579
“Master?” “I’m going to sleep, don’t stay here and worry over me, go meet with them and learn what you can, I’ve been gone too long.” “What should I tell them?” She asked. “I trust you Seri, do what you think is best.” With his treasure beneath him for the first time in centuries he quickly grew sleepy. He felt Seri checking him with a spell despite his command but he ignored the gentle prods as dreams came to his call.

50 years later.

Stryda slowed to a stop as he crested the hill, the elemental lands were taking longer to traverse than he had assumed they would and he was not looking forward to spending another night in the dangerous lands, however, from the view provided by the high ground it seemed inevitable. The sun was steadily retreating and no sign of the desert lay in sight. He resumed his journey running down the path, determined to cover as much ground as he could before nightfall. He kept his senses open as the downhill trail leveled out and he entered a dense forest.

He consciously focused on the area around him, feeling for elementals carefully. He didn’t want to be caught unaware by one as he had his first day navigating the elemental lands. He had entered the lands thinking it would pose no challenge to him but crossing the rough terrain had proven to be exhausting and dealing with the enraged elemental was a dangerous task better avoided if possible. These lands were earning every bit of their harsh and nasty reputation in his eyes.

His quick pace carried him around a bend revealing a man walking toward him up the path. The sight of the man startled him, how had he not felt his aura? Why could he still not? Even a normal human could be felt at a moderate distance and this was no ordinary man; he was shrouded in blackness, darker than any shroud he had seen before.

>>3490589
Stryda attacked the stranger without hesitation as they neared. He drew heavily on his blood magic to enhance his speed and leapt at the man, forming a bloodblade in his hand. The blade extended a foot out from his palm before the black blade ended in a jagged point. The blade stabbed at the stranger’s neck but the man flowed backward, evading his blindingly fast attack with astonishing agility, this was no human at all! The grace of his movement was beyond human limits. Was this a dragoon? Stryda ignored the thoughts and focused on killing, drawing on his shroud’s power he used shadow tethers; they flowed from the darkness of his shroud to halt the stranger’s movements. Stryda increased the speed of his chase but the man continued his backpedaling retreat unbound by the shadow.

Drawing heavily from his shroud, he used his free hand to command the man’s shadow. The stranger’s shadow rose from behind and caught him tightly in its hold, halting his retreat. Stryda caught the stranger in an instant, meeting the man’s piercing blue eyes as he buried the bloodblade into his gut. Something was wrong, there was no blood! Stryda tried to move but a strong force pinned him where he stood. Suddenly a sharp pain lanced through his chest; when he looked down he found a thin black blade sprouting from his heart, dripping his lifeblood from its tip. He felt more blood filling his lungs; confused, he wondered why he couldn’t heal the wound as numbness overcame him. He coughed out blood, gasping in an attempt to breath but failed as his ruptured heart continued pumping blood into his lungs. With failing vision he gazed to the cold eyes of his killer. Who was this man? The darkness that took him offered no answers.

>>3490519
oh hey its notes from underground

>>3490579
>>3490589
>>3490594

I have no idea what is going on in this story. One thing I am wondering though - if he has been in this dark place for centuries, why didn't he just make a portal earlier? It seems it's as easy as slicing your blade vertically.

Also, where was the dark place? Why was he there for so long? What is Seri referring to when she says "how bad is it?" Who are "they"? Who is "he"?

I think you're confusing intrigue and mystery with complete and utter confusion. You may have an idea of what is going on but as a reader, I am completely clueless.

>>3490635
Prolog is the last part of a book that gets edited because it is likely to shift places or be rewritten completely to lead into the story so in its current state it is more for me the writer than any reader.

Hopefully after editing, intrigue and mystery will remain while the confusion is cleared. Thanks for the feedback.

Herp derp, you guys just don't understand that I'm a self-proclaimed poetic genius.

You left on the hottest day of summer.
You left no note. No explanation, no justification.
Just gone. If you had seen the way your mother looked,
You would have stayed. I took your pictures with me,
They were on your desk. I hope that’s alright. Full of images
When you were happy, when I wasn’t there.
Every day I look at them and wonder when you’re coming back,
And every day I fall asleep, waiting in the dark,
While echoes pass along the dusty hallways of my heart.

>>3486338
No

On this road, I wandered so much;
Sky kind of bluish, the moon hidden;
Behind my throat, moaning and rush;
The time, invisible thief o — I remember...

All the time, everywhere I crawled;
When I was young, my face delighted;
Horridly shining of beauties;
Leaning on a rye, opponent in the rain.

Where are you now my beloved hatred;
That fleeced my eyes to red and harsh blood?
And made me play the Death for a sprig;
Who lost his heart because of a fool.

A myriad of birds flew to rejoice;
My victory, but what did I win;
By staining my soul with an impure gold?

I didn't love nor hate you, dear angel;
Killed you for no reason, for war reason;
Henceforth, your body is covered by wet leaves.

The wind came, I smoked a cigarette;
And forgot you.

Dude relax.

The perpetrator was barefoot in the kitchen, casually scraping something off a pan as if he had nothing to do with the outrage in the next room. Dude relax--how dare he? Greasy Gary flung his spoon into the bowl of alphabet soup. Dude relax--the words parted and sank back into the meaningless broth, but they continued to call out to him as they descended, their voices like pubertal banshees escaped from Annoying Jones' Locker. Gary's ears were burning. He listened to the sound of his stupid roommate smugly scraping the stupid pan and he felt the urge to go in there and dump the soup over his head, then tell _him_ to relax. Maybe he'd spell it out on his face with the little noodle letters. He licked his lips and grabbed the spoon, imagining with relish his roommate's face melting off under a torrent of hot tomato stock. Gary slurped up a great gulp of soup as he imagined this and a smile wormed through the cracks of his face's dark and stormy surface. That asshole, thought Gary, I'll shove this spoon right up his ass. Relax, I'll say. Relax, dude, get that spoon out of your ass. Gary chuckled at his own cleverness.

"How's the soup, Gar?"--It was him. The literary mastermind. The evil genius. Author of the ridiculous missive, 'Dude relax'--come out of the kitchen to observe his handiwork. He was drying off his hands with an embroidered dishtowel, smiling down at Gary's pathetic rage from a higher plane of existence. Sunlight from the window was forming a halo around his golden hair and his fingers were pink from scrubbing. Water droplets were glittering on his forearms. His smile was lazy, calm. He leaned in the doorway. In this moment Gary could not have pictured him looking like more of an asshole.

>>3492862
"Take that shit off, Jorgie," Gary snapped. Jorgie was wearing Gary's mother's apron.

"Oh, right away sir," said Jorgie. He untied the apron and shuffled back into the kitchen, then came out carrying his own bowl. He sat down across from Gary, tossed him a napkin, and began to eat. Gary snatched up the napkin and furiously stuffed it into his shirt collar, then plunged his spoon back into his soup and began to devour it as fast as possible. He felt like spitting out every letter that entered his mouth. What's a grown man doing eating alphabet soup anyway, he thought. Why did Jorgie cook this? Does he think we're ten? What's he trying to imply?

It was an unseasonably chilly April morning when Jacques Mettrand resolved to end his life. He came to this decision without near the quantity of contemplation one may consider it due, nor with much fretting, nor with much acuteness of emotion at all. We would do well to keep in mind that this decision was hardly predicated upon any sort of melodramatic denouement, nor of a sudden capricious turn of fate, nor even as the result of a steady accruement of existential musings. It is hard to explain, and it would have been hard for him to explain, even though it was for him it was the result of rather straightforward reasoning -- none would accuse Mettrand of being much for exposition, though to ascribe the difficulty he would have in explaining this matter solely to his deficiency in exposition would be regrettably simplifying things. In any event, none can discern a man’s motives nor what goes on inside of his head, so as for Mettrand’s motives we leave it as this: it struck him as a “good idea:” it had to him pratical important, and Mettrand was a practical man.

The thing about epiphanies is that they always come when you don't want them. They don't come when you've been contemplating the meaning of life. They don't come when you finally sit down to start writing after an eternity of procrastination. For me, mine came as I had my dick half way in some hooker's ass...Cindy, I think her name is.

Want more?

>men make much mischief on idle days
>boredom is the friend of trouble
>or perhaps, more prone are those,
>the difficult to entertain,
>to turn to taking no notice
>of others’ own grievances
>and make more mischief on idle days
>to imitate their idols’ ways

I'm not really happy with it, I guess I like the last couplet though.

NB: The character doesn't speak English very well.

The morning is that of slate and coffee and Alex helps me with my binding. It has laces like those in the spyholes of a shoe along the back and is whiter than my corporeal wrapping paper. We both have tea. On my person are zebra stockings and a cut short jacket. Today, I port girlishly. Alex lurches and throws the tea blended with whiskey like so many knives down into him. I refuse such an amendment to my beverage. School, a creeping, hunched, bullet wounded figure chose to strike today. Likelihood of impact, low, since outside there is fog. It is a meteorological tradition that the opening weeks of term veritably drool it.

>>3486608

tripe. you are stating the obvious, then calling it beautiful. this requires no creative craft or process. instead it forces reader sympathy to fill in qualitative gaps which is ass in w/e form of writing you're doing

>>3486737
>>3486745

tripettes

>>3492927
another one

luck /i/would/i/ have it
if only he’d share some with me
to hell with hard work and early waking
i’m waiting on the next big thing
just to pass it by once more and say
‘ah such luck is for another, anyway’

>>3486608

Do we have fucking Rod McKuen posting on /lit/ now?

Without giving any background, does this act as a good/weird opening sentence?

"Quite viciously, it ripped himself out of the reader and shoved himself in its pocket."

>>3490114
>>3490214
>>3490303

Okay, I don't much like the idea of giving anonymous access to things I've written online, but I guess a couple pages can't hurt. Link to the first chapter (if you read until the lyrics: I know they're horrible, sorta the point but I'm planning on re-doing that bit. A place-holder for the general idea, which will be clear):

https://docs.google.com/file/d/0Byv7o-msBT-1aEt6X050bFZTWEE/edit?usp=sharing

>>3493183
We need context anon.

>>3492960
> It did not require skill
> It forced the reader to feel something
> It is therefore shit unworthy of existence
I don't even care if it's good literature, or if it's art; I like it and I think it'$ nice.

>>3493183
Unless he is it and thisc is meant to be obvious, you are raping the English language by using the word himself like that. If you do mean that, well then it's just terrible writing. I like the idea, but it REALLY needs to be reworded and rephrased.

I am not a good person, I don’t volunteer at shelters, nor give change to bums on the corner, I've never donated anything more than good tidings, and I don’t expect to change anytime soon. I know I’m not the most admirable person in the world, but for Christ’s sake I am not a murderer. You may think I’m writing, here in this wretched 11 by 7 prison cell, to persuade you of my innocence, but this is not the case, to be honest I could give a fuck less what you believe of me. I am merely writing to pass the time before my execution, maybe if I’m lucky I’ll discover who the real criminal is. Unlikely yes I know, but its not like I have a busy schedule ahead of me. If you are interested in a story with a happy ending, me as the delightful protagonist, who uncovers the dreadful wrong that is upon me, and restores my good name just in time, I recommend a more fictional book filled with gaily dancing elves. Personally I would prefer the elves, most would, we would much rather hear silly unrealistic tales, than the horrific truth; the world is a horrific fucking place. For those of you who’ve stuck around this far, just know that if you continue there’s no turning back. You are entering my mind, my truth, my story, and all I can say is believe me, and hope that you do.

>>3492862
Sounds like Gary might be a little buttfrustrated.

>>3493535
This may be the worst thing I've ever read

http://pastebin.com/ssyDpLHT

Working on it at the moment. II isn't flowing in the same way. I may take a breather and continue tomorrow

>>3493350
>>3493529
I just wanted a perspective from knowing absolutely nothing about the story.

Without giving everything away, I'm writing a story about a society where all identity is held on devices and not by the people themselves. The opening scene is the main character ripping his device (that was stuck) out of the reader to his apartment door and putting it back in his pocket. The reason it is written like that is to show that the self is viewed as the device's stability and not the person themself. It is meant to catch you off guard and show the backwardness/strangeness of the idea.

Now that you know this; is it good?

My style is unashamedly confusing and badly written auto-pulp trash:

Seven weeks prior, Count Dracula was in the loading bay of the Sennei Corporation's newly acquired cereal factory division arranging for the distribution of 700 boxes of BloodMunch (a new crispy South Korean cereal with “SugarPlus”) to his ranch outside Bucharest.

“And you tell that pvinking chuksa that if he vants a fight, then he chooking vell gots von, do you hear?!” He slammed his Motorolla Razr shut and angrily looked at the floor. “Vell, vhat are you vaiting for? Hurry it up, chuckas!”

The men packing crates of BloodMunch into the truck looked at each other and then continued working at the same pace.

“Mr Dracula, sir, it's your accountant on the line.. he says your funds have dried up...”

“Kvpvitl! Give me that phone!”

The man handed the phone to Count Dracula.

“Gary, is that you? What the fuck, man? Cut me some sblamooshkas... Rose what? Rose Oracle who? Who the fuck is Mona?”

Seven minutes earlier, Gary Hardling's office door is kicked open by a six foot insect wearing a trenchcoat and smoking. Its antennas seemed to probe the air quite of their own accord. The creature's black compound eyes were pointed at Gary; its lack of pupils somewhat unnerved him. The creature, whose name was Frank, spat out his cigarette and slammed a slimy piece of paper onto Gary's desk, the owner of which was now turning white.

“...are you from Madame Castigon? No...? … Mas-Colell?”
He eyed the disgusting, putrid contract festering in front of him. The top line read:

“From the Desk of His Infernal Eminence, The Honourable Raol.”

“Oh fuck...”

Frank buzzed with delight. Gary reached for his phone and gulped.

>>3493843
I'm not anyone else that's replied, but that line works well in my head, but not as a first line, I pretty much worked it out before you gave the context, but it didn't make much sense. I don't think it works well as a first line.

It was cold and it was dark when the brothers dragged their canoe up from the waters of Hudson Bay and beached it on a shore in northern Manitoba. The bottom of the boat scrapped and pulled against the various debris and wash up while the water seemed to suck at the boat in an attempt drag it back into the waves. The tide was high and that much was of good fortune for them. After a great deal of curses exchanged the canoe was free and the water that rolled down its sides froze there. The waterlogged and exhausted pair took a break, sitting on the freezing pebbles and brittle driftwood, their backs pressed against the ice crusted canoe.

>>3493883
Ok I see what you mean

>>3493535
That's awful
>>3493908
I like it but the first several words sound too much like "it was a dark and stormy night."

I studied philosophy just to never have to have a job. Then school finished, I had nothing to do and I didn't like my parents' pressure. So I ran away to Milan. Thinking back to it, it was a pretty stupid idea, moving to such an incredibly expensive city just to avoid working. I was broke, lonely and miserable and most of what happened was the kind of thing you say you really don't want to talk about.

During my last days in Milan I was staying at an acquaintance's. I had been sleeping at his place for two weeks already and he and his girlfriend didn't even call me to the kitchen for dinner anymore. I didn't care that much and would use that time mostly to browse their internet and read her emails.

A friend from college used to write to me back then. She was a photographer in Pisa. I would write her a lot of bullshit about my fast life and she would, maybe, believe it all. She would remind me to be kind, warn me against becoming one of those men obsessed with status and to cherish my imagination. When she heard me particularly disenhearted she would invite me back to Pisa. She would say, “My business is going well and I really need an assistant. Why don't you come back, I'd love to work with you. And you might wind up seeing that having a job is not so terrible after all.” Until that day, with my acquaintance and his girl fighting under their breath, I never took it seriously.

Anyway my friend, also ten, and I made it up the stairs and we turned right and walked down the blue hallway (we only walked about 3 steps because its not that long of a hallway). We took another right and we were in his room where the walls were red. I forget what we were doing we were probably playing videogames or something but then I started staring at this poster on his wall.
“What’s ‘higher education’?”
The caption on the poster said “The Justification for Higher Education” at the top in gold lettering. The poster was a photorealistic drawing of a large house with a garage in front of it. The garage had five different cars, all exotic sports cars of different colors. The house was on a cliff next to the ocean. In the ocean there was a yacht that seemed almost as big as the house. That’s just based off of the perspective though. There was just a helicopter flying around too. I thought it was a pretty cool poster at the time.

[...] Axton House and all of its contents.” I could hardly conceive a harsher interruption to my lifestyle than that of the Thomas Jefferson stamps, the news of my deceased relative, and his posthumous gift, which I finally accepted as an amendment for his failure to produce any Christmas presents for 23 years. Several long distance calls and a few faxes contributed to knock down my incredulity, which gave way in the end only because the name of Wells was not completely unfamiliar to Aunt Liza who, in an exercise of reconstructive genealogy established that Wells was the surname of the family into which my great-great-grandmother’s sister had married before emigrating to the States in the 1890s. Therefore, my having a distant cousin in Virginia (until last September, that is) was fairly plausible. His being rich, though, I found unlikely. And his awareness of my existence was positively unreal. So much indeed, that what little I collected about Ambrose Wells’ odd habits, his furtive behavior, and the rumors surrounding whatever he used to hide in his solitary manor in Virginia seemed hardly extraordinary in the context of this sudden turn towards the interesting that things had taken. I did not hesitate to quit my courses and leave my apartment, feeling as detached from everything as only at 23 one feels, when all is temporary and settling down means to stagnate; and flew to America with no big picture and no other company than a friend whose fondness of me seemed the only thing worth preserving. On November the 2nd, we landed in Richmond. On the 3rd, we met the lawyer, Glew. On the 4th, he’s taking us aboard his Mercedes to our new home.

Early nineties pulp:

Mom says the move will be good for us. She says it’s ‘just what we need’. I say she’s being selfish but she doesn’t listen or care.

I had my Walkman on for five hours straight, but I ran out of batteries somewhere around Denver so now I just sit in silence. She won’t have the radio on because she says it’s too distracting. Listening to the sound of my stomach liquids digesting the sandwich I had earlier is more distracting, I say, but she doesn’t pay me any attention.

When we get to the coast, she says. Then I’ll see what all the fuss is about. Why we had to move our entire lives from the city to this hick-town in the ass-end of no-place. It’s where she grew up, where she met dad. Where she got kicked out by Grandma when she got herself knocked-up, with me. Lucky for mom dear old Grandma forgot to write her out of her will.

Mom thinks this whole experience will be cathartic. She’ll be able to make her peace with Grandma’s spirit, or something like that. I think this whole experience will be bullshit, but I have no say in the matter. Mom’s a councillor, so she always thinks she knows what’s best for everyone.

I don’t want to live in that old woman’s house. She lay dead for a week in there before anyone noticed. It creep’s me out. I think mom should sell it and use the money to buy us a nice place just outside the city, and have enough left over to send me to college eventually. But she doesn’t listen to what I want. She’s listening only to what she wants. She’s so full of crap.

I tell her that also. She dismisses my fair comments as simple teenage angst, which I find ridiculously patronizing. She blames ‘the rock bands’, and 'the MTV' and Southpark, she blames everything but herself. I don’t hate her; I don’t feel strongly enough to hate her. I mildly dislike her.

Ok so I actively dislike her, more recently.

Well, this is the intro, so, here goes.

Begemot
[2/13/2013 10:13:30 PM] Begemot: The worst thing in the universe, i've found, is boredom. Boredom is the national problem. Boredom is why so many things that never had to happen, happen anyways. And as we've gone on to solve the problems of the day, from the Jericho Peace Accords ending the various conflicts in the middle east through mutual cooperation, to the collapse of nations into national-unions, and those into the United Earth Cooperative, not to mention the development of the cures for cancer, HIV, and the eventual UEC projects to kill off all but a lab sample of numerous human ailments, such as malaria, ebola and influenza (While it does TECHNICALLY have the highest killcount of all human ailments, I'm convinced they did that one just because they found out that they could.) The creation of the successful fission/fusion reactor, which could take hydrogen, our most common element, and turn it into a sustainable, huge-level energy dynamo providing enough energy to sustain our entire economy on a planetary scale without so much as a single fossil fuel being involved, and even after that, the Zero Point Energy Generator, which caused a lot of people headaches trying to understand what the hell the creator was talking about until they saw it in action. We had free energy. We'd killed off illness. We improved ourselves, augmenting our flesh and blood with steel and circuits and nanorobots that kept ourselves healthier than we could have ever been, stronger than we thought possible, think better and move faster than any 21st century flesh and blood human could have ever been. We made our genes to order. We made ourselves infinitely adaptable. We made it so we could have anything we wanted for nothing, because energy could be made into whatever we needed, and energy was so abundant it might as well have been free. We had everything we could ever need. And we have never been so bored.

The worst thing in the universe, i've found, is boredom. Boredom is the national problem. Boredom is why so many things that never had to happen, happen anyways. And as we've gone on to solve the problems of the day, from the Jericho Peace Accords ending the various conflicts in the middle east through mutual cooperation, to the collapse of nations into national-unions, and those into the United Earth Cooperative, not to mention the development of the cures for cancer, HIV, and the eventual UEC projects to kill off all but a lab sample of numerous human ailments, such as malaria, ebola and influenza (While it does TECHNICALLY have the highest killcount of all human ailments, I'm convinced they did that one just because they found out that they could.) The creation of the successful fission/fusion reactor, which could take hydrogen, our most common element, and turn it into a sustainable, huge-level energy dynamo providing enough energy to sustain our entire economy on a planetary scale without so much as a single fossil fuel being involved, and even after that, the Zero Point Energy Generator, which caused a lot of people headaches trying to understand what the hell the creator was talking about until they saw it in action. We had free energy. We'd killed off illness. We improved ourselves, augmenting our flesh and blood with steel and circuits and nanorobots that kept ourselves healthier than we could have ever been, stronger than we thought possible, think better and move faster than any 21st century flesh and blood human could have ever been. We made our genes to order. We made ourselves infinitely adaptable. We made it so we could have anything we wanted for nothing, because energy could be made into whatever we needed, and energy was so abundant it might as well have been free. We had everything we could ever need. And we have never been so bored.

>>3494053
>Begemot: The worst thing in the universe, i've found, is boredom. Boredom is the national problem. Boredom is why so many things that never had to happen, happen anyways.
good

>the rest
Not so good

>>3494061
Too much expose on advances too fast. Suggest stretching this out, maybe into a wider history that begins with boredom and then finishes with boredom too.

This could be a whole chapter of whatever youre writing - its pretty cool. Careful not to force too much on us!

Here's a bit of garbage flash-fiction i wrote off a prompt a while back. Please, give me your worst.

It began a few weeks back, when I looked in the mirror that morning, as I was shaving, and realized my reflection wasn't looking like me anymore. For one, he didn't have the shaving cream on his face, and he had a bunch of scars I didn't have. Big ones. He was still mimicking my motions at that point, so, thinking I was just having weird visions clinging from the dreams of the night before, I shaved, my double shaving dry in front of me. It only got worse from there. After a whole day where the change in my reflection didn't go away, and I verified with a friend that I didn't have the scars that the reflection was showing, I went to bed and discounted it as being just "one of those things".
The next day, I walked into the bathroom, to shave, and there he was again. But this time, his hands didn't move with mine. I shaved as he sat there, silently watching me shave, his five o'clock shadow remaining as mine disappeared under the moving razor. He just stood there, across from me, his arms crossed in front of me. Staring directly at my eyes. Not moving. When I'd finished shaving, I walked out, and he followed my steps out. (cont)

>>3494074
(cont)
Naturally curious about what exactly the hell was going on, I decided to test one piece of it, and grabbed a friend of mine, one who was a good enough friend to excuse a weird request because they'd known you long enough and well enough. I asked him to look at the mirror, and asked him if my reflection seemed different. He replied "No..." And then... I looked over and froze. My reflection... stepped away from where I was, and produced a knife I recognized as coming from my kitchen. He stepped towards the other man's reflection and... began to stab him to death. I saw my friend's reflection look on in horror and try to struggle or get away but it was no use. My reflection took him to the ground, and seconds later, stood up, covered in blood, and smiling wickedly, the kind of smile you only get from the criminally insane. And then my friend collapsed, coughing up blood. He was pronounced dead at the scene when the paramedics arrived, apparently massive internal hemmorhaging. The death seemed to have no direct cause, and was deemed a freak accident or a medical mystery. But I knew that I, well not I, but my reflection, who seemed to look less and less like me every time I saw him, accumulating scars and wearing strange, blood-coated clothes, and his eyes... I still have nightmares about those eyes. I couldn't even begin to describe them to you, except that, when I stared into them, I knew, instinctively, down at the base of my spine, that I was staring into the mouth of madness. (cont)

>>3494074
>>3494082

People have been dropping like flies, since then. Same internal hemorrhaging. The doctors call it an epidemic, and are trying to find some bacteria or virus or SOMETHING that caused all these deaths. But I know that my reflections is roaming, when he's not with me. And he's been killing all those people. And so that's why I'm here. I know that he can't leave the mirror I'm looking into whenever I'm around one. So long as I'm reflected in it, he's trapped in the reflected space. I've locked myself into my bathroom, with several weeks of food, and have been watching him, pacing, on the other side of the mirror. Pounding on the barriers of the reflected space. Screaming silently at me. Writing threats in blood on the other side of it. He's become less and less human-like as I've been watching. His skin is turning a dark red, and his eyes are growing in his head, and his muscle structure has slowly changed, hunching him over and giving him biceps the size of a bodybuilder. And now... He's pounding on the other side. Like he has been for hours. Nothing's happening. It's just frustration. He wants me to leave. He wants to kill again. He's going insane, trapped in there. Right? Then, his arm comes through the glass and...

>>3493991
This is it's own thing, by the way.

Winter was here. Snow covered the quiet street and dangled off the willow trees that ran along the riverbank. The river hadn’t frozen over, much to the disappointment of eager children who were hoping to skate. I wished it would freeze over. I’ve been alive nearly twenty five years and have yet to see a frozen lake. There was an unusual abundance of clouds in the sky as the sun beamed down upon the town. Beamed as it did, it did nothing to the temperature, which was a bitter one degree. An elderly chap, must have been about sixty, walked timidly along the path with his small, grey haired pooch. I loved this place. It’s one of the few places I’ve been and actually enjoyed. I turned back around to face the three storied house. It was old. Dark red bricks filled my vision. White window frames stood perfectly in each level of the house. Thick, green ivy flowed up the home, twisting its way around the windows. The front door was a dusty blue, with a faded black letter box saying ‘welcome’ and a small, square pane of glass at the top, acting as a peep hole. The house was one of about twenty, which lined the street opposite the river. I was standing at number twelve. This house belonged to my grandfather.

>>3492960
I have only recently started writing. I hope that I can fix these problems that you have pointed out as I have more practice.

>>3493506
Thank you. I'm very glad you enjoyed it for whatever you took it as.

>>3493162
I'm taking this as a compliment.

>>3490742
I enjoyed this.

wrote this in about... 10 minutes? just for fun while waiting in a line, staring at a camera in a darkened dome, thinking about eyes. I played with syllables, too.

Red
rivers
weave through my
glassy, white sea.
Black is my window
wrapped in finely dyed mud.

It blossoms. Now, it
fades in and out:
dilation.

Nothing
fogs
my sight;
I pierce all.
Wotan, here is
the eye of a god.

Here is Willard, tapping his toes to the tattoo artist's taste in tunes. It's been a while since he has been this pepped. Not happy, but nonetheless enjoyed. His small seven-and-a-half sized shoes are certainly drumming away though. This of course, to the other attendees' annoyance; but at this point there's nothing stopping Mr. Pope from sanding away the soles of his stumpy Dr. Scholl's therapeutic sandals. But everything has an end, and poor Willard's soul was crushed as soon as the music faded into some new-generation, Spanish pseudo-rap. "What am I even doing here?" he thought as he slid out of the waiting room, out the spinning door, to his 2003 Subaru sedan. Not quite the "chick-magnet", but for his secret one-night stands, it properly supplements his services. "Open the door, buckle your seatbelt, put CD in the key slot, and turn.. That's not correct. This damn disease is really killing me."

>>3494621
>second part

Sue Pope searched for "that darn sack of syringes". It had been a while since she shot-up; that is, a few days. It was of course always a rush. A peculiar predisposition, but, for her, positively pleasant. Her impatience was overbearing: to the point of jitters and, according to her fellow pushers, jaundice. It was, as much as she hated to admit it, an addiction. Poking the skin and popping the plunger put this Pope in a euphoric paradise. She left the desk and went into her room. With the needle screwed on, and the solution in the shot, her sadism was coming to pass. "This will only hurt a bit," she reminded her patient.

>>3494006
Holden?

made my way to the docks to my boat sitting in the lake on a cool, overcast spring day. I looked around to see if anyone was nearby, but it seemed as if I was the only one awake at sunrise. To confirm the fact that I was alone, I glanced at the expressway behind me and didn’t see any vehicles either. It was unusual for no one to be around in the city, but it was quite serene. It was very chilling in contrast to the tall buildings nearby.
I walked to my small sailboat and prepared for my departure from the city. I was ready to enjoy some alone time for the first time in a while, and the seas seemed calm enough to help me enjoy it.
The boat started to move through the calm waters quite fast, and I then allowed that calm to envelope me as the gentle sea breeze brushed across my face.
Then, quite suddenly, that wind stopped as I was looking out towards the horizon. It was so abrupt that I got out of my seat to look out into the distance for any sign of something unusual. That was when I realized that I had not seen any other vessel for hours. Frightened, I attempted to make my way back to shore, but I could not see any skyline or coastline nearby. I made an attempt to use a compass to find my way, but, it too, was no longer functional.

Intro could use some work, but input would be appreciated.

I would read more of this, really.

It was then when I began to worry. I looked for the sun through the thick clouds overhead. Light was permeating these dense, infinite clouds, but I could not locate the sun. It had been daylight for hours, but there had been no change in the amount of light in the sky. Time had appeared to stand still.
There I was alone in this mystical sea. A feeling of hopelessness and dread started to creep in. I was scared. I was isolated, and no one was there to comfort me. I started to regret my dumb idea to go alone. I knew I was going to die just because I thought I needed to be more alone than I usually was at home.
An undetermined amount of time passed, and I decided I could no longer take the hunger that was paining me. The pressures of my life were finally going to break me. I hated my stupid life. I hated my dumb friends. I hated my insecurities. This situation seemed like a sign that I should just end it. I couldn’t take my disdain for my world anymore.
I took a heavy chest and tied my leg to the handle. I placed the chest on top of the rail, and then perched myself upon it. As I stared into the abyss looking at my reflection, I heard a large roar from behind me. I took a quick glance to find a monstrous tidal wave. I pushed the chest back onto the dock and untied myself from the handle.
The wave made its slow approach to my boat and I accepted that this was the best way to go. The sea wouldn’t let me throw myself into it. The sea wanted to take me. I closed my eyes as its deafening roar approached. It grew louder and louder until the silence surrounded me.

>>3493543
That's the idea

Overall how was the writing? To be honest that's a work I barely started a couple days ago, to practice writing with. I don't have very big plans for it I just want to make a fun, readable story. Feedback from anyone ITT in how I could improve is very welcome.

Disintegrating into a shape
Fuller than a sphere
We are living and dying
At the same time...sigh
First stanza of my epic poem. Ain't that some shit?
Highly influenced by T.S Eliot

Oh sweet butterfly with fragile wings,
I see thine shadow on the concave wall of mirror mine,
Oh sweet phosphorous inferno,
Swallow me, Swallow me!

>>3494942

that's amazin'

>>3494945

Thanks, it came out better than expected

>>3494947

I don't know how to break this to you but I was only kidding...its fucking terrible...

Why is it some kind of olde english type language?

>thine shadow
>mirror mine

sounds gay as hell.

Also swallow me, swallow me!

sounds gay as hell too

Is this a poem about some kind of gay inferno

>so gay

>>3494938
Feeling yourself and not yourselves:
To numb eternally in a half-life with it.
One half is you, the other is the world;
Reflect it, don't deflect it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8IP3S8dxU8

>>3494954

Yeah, it's a reference to the hardships that homosexual afro-americans have to endure in Latin America. How did you guess?

>>3494955

top song mate

>>3493969
No comment?

>>3494954
Some people don't care what strangers on the internet think their sexual orientation is. They're not afraid of being perceived as gay, or even being gay. Crazy, huh?

>>3494922
I liked it a lot. It really makes me want to find out what the Hell Gary's problem is, and what Jorgie did. I'd love to read the whole story.
Pic directed at Gary.

(Scene: a man and his girlfriend take drugs, man realizes he no longer loves her)

I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be ok. That there was nothing wrong with being a hairdresser and the drugs would wear off in 3 to 6 hours. But I said nothing. I don't even remember blinking. I just stared at her wordlessly, hoping I could somehow communicate how stupid she was being.

Nothing I could of said would change anything anyway. So I resigned myself to making handprints in the wet carpet, and she consigned herself to spending the next 3-6 hours confronting the darkest corners of her already tortured psyche.

This here, the eternal sob in a sob story that never ends.

She was slowly turning into the last image of love no one ever truly forgets: sick, foul and polluted. And ending so slowly you can deny it for 4 years without ever realising; that sometimes love can be as ugly as hate.

The brightest colour you can think of until you realise it's off-white.

It forces you to remember when every touch sent sparks of electricity through your body. When locked eyes held the promise of a kiss; sudden onset goosepimples, and the sound of her laughter, perfection immortal.

Your favourite song played in a key you don't like.

Now she is on the floor of your apartment, begging you to kill the spiders she thinks are pouring out of a running tap in the kitchen sink. Oh, no doubt when she sobers up the apologies will flow and ill stand my ground - only to give it in. And there will be ugliness and sour words cast from behind thinly veiled death stares, but it's all for show. She hates me almost as much as she loves me, and for that reason thinks we'll always be on the same page.

But now I cant help but think this book is long overdue.

bumping

>>3495242
Sweet thanks for the feedback.

>>3486608
Make the reader feel its beautiful, don't say its beautiful.
>show don't tell
>kindle white is best
>start with the greeks

>>3486693
First I thought it was Life of Pi, then Harry Potter, then I knew it was another /lit/fuckign homo because you wrote 'he thought to himself.'

>>3495474
>2013
>homo
ISHYGDDT

>>3486693
>as he felt the cold winter surrounding him again
He's clearly been sitting in this boat for ages, why is the winter surrounding him 'again'? Think it through.

That was all there was to life. She saw, she thought, she remembered. Information was nothing short of suffocating in this time, but she could easily breath in its heavy fog whereas others might think best to fan away the smoke. But although that smoke did not hinder her consciousness, it clouded her mind with drifting connections.
Everything was an explanation. People lived for it, they died for it. Most people forget why, although there are many whys people remember. Those are called specialties. Doctors, gardeners, chefs, artists; they all know why.

In mice, memory formation and pain are linked. If they remember where the end of the maze is better than their inferiors, they will suffer.
In humans, it is the same. What kills them is the emotional pain. Reality.

Hyperthymesia. She could break that word down with the medical dictionary in her head.
Hyper... extreme.
Thym... emotions.
Esia... process.

Sounds like a terrible novel about the plight of women.

She laughed.

I had to relax, I thought as she slipped her fingers deep into my creamy-wet vaginal duct … I could feel my sex milk pumping out of my finger-bloated vagina, my clitoris beginning to pulsate within Mary’s gobbling mouth. Opening my legs to the extreme, allowing her better access to the most intimate part of my trembling body, I let out a cry of pleasure as she pressed a fingertip against the tight brown ring of my anus.“No,” I breathed shakily as her finger drove into the tight duct of my rectum. “Mary, please.”“Relax,” she murmured through a mouthful of vulval flesh. “Relax and allow me to love you.”…I should have stopped her, I thought as she fingered my most private duct. … I could hear the squelching of my sex milk as she fingered me.

>>3495494
Wait, are you serious?
Get out.

>>3487158
nothing?

>>3495597
I read the start. Pretty good. A little Irvine Welsch - Filth

>>3493969
Anything? Come on guys.

>>3495626
Simply written, I like that. But I'm finding it unbelievable. Women don't give advice like that to guys.. the job offer all too assertive. Maybe if it was his aunt..?

You should make things harder for the protagonist. Story comes from conflict. He shouldn't just be offered a job out of the blue at a convenient time, he should struggle to find one or be homeless.

>>3495657
The girls you find out later is a transexual and also a family friend.

The story goes on that he hates his job and starts faking himself a photographer and in the night he sneaks in the store to make shoot nude photoshoots of girls he wants to bang.

And it becomes a sort of commedy because he thinks he is taking advantage of those girls and instead those girls always end up manipulating him in doing whatever they want.

>>3495657
Ps. Why do you think women don't give advice like that to guys?

Actually that advice was given to me by a woman I'm good friends with.

Sixty-eight miles to the nearest Costco is one hell of a drive, and it's even more of a pain to walk. Still, I made it, and that was the hard part. Or, at least I think it was. Barricading the front doors was definitely the easy part.

In a sunken mud hut in the further wastes of the world a young monk wove his histories for the children. The story as ever had changed slightly from its last telling but the children paid no mind. Enthralled they sat stone still in the flickering light of the evening cook fire.

>>3486338

When he stepped out of the train, he was far from sure he had done the right thing. There was no doubt that he felt more foreign here than anywhere else on earth, and if he mentioned this to those who for some time had known him and went with him, this would seem very odd seeing that his most notable feature - and also the ability he himself was most proud of - was that he was able to feel at home everywhere.

googletranslate ftw

Very rough, but:

His earliest memory was of drums, a pounding cadence drifting, somewhat muffled, from the east. Anter was barely a child, toddling on uncertain legs through the tall grass still cool with morning dew, still sporting that first pale green after months in brown. In the hazy fog of recollection, those tufts of wildflowers already in bloom were reduced to blotches of indistinct color, further blurred as he ran through the meadow. He was laughing, bright-eyed, the portrait of exuberant youth in springtime. It would be presumption to say what else of this memory is true and what is the product of intervening decades, for the small details sometimes shift even to him, but he had the strong impression of two figures ahead, waving to him from the treeline. Perhaps their faces were taut with worry? Perhaps they dripped with sweat? Perhaps...

In any case, he was too young to understand wherefore those drums came, the tight faces, the sweat which couldn't have been from the brisk air. These things he would come to know later, in terms of armies, of mongrel races, of royal edicts, of porous borders, distant conflicts, disgraced generals licking wounds from ancient humiliations. At this moment of his youth, though, he understood only the simple joy to be found in running through the forest, and glorious spring.

>>3495810
Doctor who?

>>3495812
Not as such, no.

"Nora, I'll fuck you sideways and shoot me mannings into your glaberhazzem until you shit your breeches and let me lick it off," said Joyce, licking his lips.

>>3495818
>glaberhazzem

I'm not sure when Joyce turned into Professor Frink, but I'm totally on board with the shift.

First verse of my terse burst of self reflection:

"Say what you will
make conclusions if you please
but don't try to peg me
because you'll be ill at ease
with your willingly conceived pedigree
I'm simply smarter, held to a higher calling than thee
Go ahead and see, you know I'm the best version I can be.
I'm better than them, never settle I'm the only one for me,
Slowly learning that I'm not what I believe

There's way more...

>>3495825
Oh god please stay as far away from my physical permutation on this great Earth as the boundaries of our Universe allows

>>3495828
I know how it comes off, I really do. But I honestly don't even remember writing this. I thought it was pretty good for blackout drunk writing. I think I thought I was a rapper or something.

>>3495815
Well, it looks the same.

>>3495833
I meant the absolutely unbelievable elitism pouring off of every single line

Seriously, is this a parody of a pseudo-intellectual teen?

>>3495836
In a good way, one would hope but not necessarily expect?

>>3486731
>masturbate
>march of the date
>self debate
>terrible forced rhymes kill yourself
>source(s): I spit shit so sick I make myself nauseous

>>3495837
I had a rough night of too much to drink and rejection, so I guess you could say I was a bit angsty. Maybe trying to make myself feel a little better. I just thought it was relevant is all :P

Ah what the hell, here goes.

"It's been a long time.

At once, it seems as if it has been countless millennia and mere moments since the last crewmember died. Nothing unnatural, she simply died of old age. 136 I believe. She was lucky to have avoided the initial catastrophe.

It all started June 23rd, of the year 2028. I remember the dates perfectly, but I could not tell you what the date would be recorded as today. I cannot even tell you if humanity is still in existence, no, if any life is still in this universe. I have a belief that enough time has passed for at least one of the scenarios conjured up by physicists to have occurred. Big Rip, Big Crunch, Big Freeze. It seems humanity, even when dealing with the very universe itself always finds a way to simplify it down to tiny, bite size chunks."

>>3495810
Pretty good, keep going

First time posting my work, and in a dying thread that's been up for 4 days.
Whatever, here goes:
>The respirator machine droned on monotonously, its metronome-like beat reverberating around the blandly colored hospital room. A ray of sun beamed into the glum room, landing directly on the patient: an elderly man tethered to this world by his last threads of life. Somehow, the bright glow of the sun seemed to make the room all the more depressing, as it created such a huge, ominous shadow, lurking over the man's pallid body, as if Death himself was standing over the man, waiting ever so patiently to reap a new soul.

>>3496079
>respirator

Would that not just be respirator rather than respirator machine, or respiratory machine?

The Pharoah's of Eden:

The magic key glinted in the vesper dark. And nearly dead Cosmologist Jean Canvess knew it. It all started around 80 years ago... But there isn't time for that story now. There was one thing on Jean's mind. And he knew it. It was a key that was on his mind. And he knew it was a key.
"Someone get this key off my mind." Jean's voice quavered around the dark tomb. His tomb. The dark tomb that was his.

>>3496103
I suppose so. Thanks. Fixed it in my file.

>>3495782
This is only good if it's foreshadowing that whatever is after him is extremely bad at opening doors. If so, it's pretty clever

>>3493346
A...anyone?

With each aggressive squirm, the range of his splashew grew in turn to his despiration. The splashes boiled my blood and drenched my sleeves- in a addition to this, I strenghened my grasp in a fit of rage in pushing him further beneath the water. Squealing in his struggles, like the pig he is, toiling to survive in water in place of mud. The drowning squeals pierced my patience.

His struggles ceased; silence, then victory floated into the stagnant, humid air.

[spoilers]it's meant to be a man drowning someone in his bathtub, because he had an affair with his daughter[/spoilers]

>>3497137
You have two typos in the first sentence.

>>3497171
Shit. Well, please excuse that. I typed it from my phone and i'm not great with screen keyboards.

>>3497187
Ah, fair enough then..

It was night and cold over the quiet lake. On the only small wooden rowboat over the waters sat Claude alone, rowing away from the burning town in the shore in the horizon. His eyes and cheeks were damp in the cold air and the sound of plunging oars and moving water and his sniffling were the only sounds that broke the silence of the lake. Occasionally the soft wind that came from the dying village carried the light and ghastly screams of the burning men and women that dove into the waters and as he rowed farther from the shore he couldn’t tell if the screams now rang in his head. He rowed hurriedly into the night behind him but was forced to face the shore as he rowed. The glow of the growing flames touched the clouds above the town with a light scarlet hue and somewhere in the fire or the smoke or the clouds was family from which Claude left to row alone into the cold night.

It was night time. The light had finally gone off in Armand's room. The boy was probably asleep. Trudy Grapes slid outside for her nightly cigarette. Sometimes when she slammed the door too loudly, the boy would wake up. A miracle, really, considering that eighteen wheelers thundered dangerously close to the house on their way down highway 48 to points east, west, and anywhere but here-- Northern Raccoon County, Illinois. It was a little after ten during the humid summer night; it was dark. It was a strange dark, though, because the forthcoming hi-beams of approaching trucks would constantly set a solitary smoker's retinas ablaze, making the night seem even darker.
She cursed them every time. Quietly.

It was a humid, stultifying summer's day and Hugh could feel his sweat soaked forelock slapping his head with each step. He experienced an atavistic desire for the sort of honest snowy winter that just wasn't found at these latitudes, but anything was better than staying in his flat. Its fly infested kitchen, cluttered living room, and general malodourous quality meant he had to take frequent trips into the clinging heat for a few lungfuls of air at a time. Though he was in his early 20's he still had acne, as well as wispy ruddy facial hair that he had thankfully remembered to shave this week, but most noticable was his shuffling walk, giving away that he was staring at his shoes rather than risking facing another pedestrian.

>>3494621
No reply guise? Don't even care if it's negative.

>>3497392
Too much alliteration. Jesus, everytime I read it I see more.

>>3497405
I thought it was fun, and kind of like a prose pentameter. Lots of alliteration is bad then?

>>3497414
Well I did get a mutant Doctor Suess vibe, if that's what you're going for.

>>3495857
Every bit helps

A figure full of black and chrome races across an empty bridge suspended in shadow and moonlight. Warm drops of blood spill down and off the figure, spinning up into the air and away into a cold night. Jagged concrete grimaces stagger the figure's otherwise fluid movement along the winding road. An unnatural silence is felt within the figure's chest, accompanied by a strange scent, absent the presence of exhaust and motoroil and cigarettes. Something reiminscent of a citrus fruit. The figure shakes it's head.

There's no time, there's just no time.

Shapes of chrome and black race ahead preceded by a blue cone of light sharply marking the outlines of the tree's needles as they sway about dancing with the wind and the movement of the rider.

Three dull metallic thrums in quick succession are faintly heard as the moon comes crashing down to earth; a feeling of hope and the sharp cries of steel dwindle away and into oblivion as the figure and it's carriage come to rest.

>>3497526
>present tense
vomit

>shakes it's head
>shakes it is head

>>3497553
Admittedly this is shit that I wrote in a couple minutes, but what tense would you prefer a narrative in? Also I was using the apostrophe to denote possession.

>>3497584

>I was using the apostrophe to denote possession.

Are you on drugs?

>>3497584
>I was using the apostrophe to denote possession.

Yeah, he said that because you're not supposed to do that.

>>3497595
Nope but perhaps i'm an idiot.
>>3497597
thanks.

>>3497584
always past tense

>>3497274
At least one cruel piece of criticism?

>>3497622

I meant
>>3497242

>>3497626
>the sound of plunging oars and moving water and his sniffling were the only sounds that broke the silence of the lake.

I feel like if you're listing three things you shouldn't say "only", doesn't really ring true.

>>3487191

Imma bump this one for some reason ... I appreciate it's blandness, but other criticism would be nice.

(It's not the beginning and they're third graders.)

“Why don’t you just move to the front of the bus and let Steve have his seat? There’s a whole empty row you can move to, and besides, you never sit back here anyway.”
Nick sat alone in the back seat with his arm pressed firmly against the window. He stared out and watched the rest of the buses turn out of the parking lot.
“Can’t you guys just leave me alone?”
“What?”
Steve leaned over from the row in front and shouted right in his face. “Nick, all I want is my seat back; I sit there every day.’
“Well that’s great.”
“Dude, why are you being such a jerk?” asked Mike, who was half standing and sitting in his seat.
“Come on Nick, you know it’s the right thing to do. Are we not the nicest guys to you?”
“You guys are jerks.”
Steve and Mike both shared glances at each other – dumbfounded looks of confusion at the situation they were facing. They saw Nick wasn’t paying much attention, but they continued to press the issue with him and at the same time, sympathize with themselves at his expense.
“Really, I’m a jerk – that’s all you have to say?”
“That’s so uncool dude.”
“I never said I was cool.”
“Yea we know; you’re acting just like a little kid or something.”
“You’re the ones complaining; I can sit where I want.”
“No you can’t; there are rules.”
“Rules, like what?”
“Like taking other people’s seats.”
“What about it?”
“You’re a little dweeb if you do that; no one comes up to the front and takes your seat.”
“There’s probably someone in my usual seat right now!”
“Well you should have thought about that before you sat down here, now you’re taking someone else’s seat. It’s so immature.”
The bus rumbled down Stewart Avenue and braked suddenly before entering the intersection.

>>3497691

“Dude, what’s your problem?” Steve asked, offering a softer tone of voice.
Nick didn’t say anything. His head bumped against the window; cushioned only by the wool hat he kept low over his ears.
“We should tell the bus driver.”
“Yea, tell her you stole my seat and called me an ass or something; she’d throw you right off the bus.”
“She wouldn’t believe you.”
“Oh, she would definitely believe us. Wouldn’t she Mike?”
“Definitely.”
“You see, now just get up and I’ll give you this seat.”
“Come on man, we’ll let you hang out with us. It will prove to us you’re cool.”
“Dude, what do you say?”
…
“Now he’s ignoring us.”
Hey, in the back, sit down. The two of you.
“Hey Kathy, this kid took our seat!”
“Yea and he’s wiping his boogers on the window.”
“Hahahhahaha…”
“Ew dude, you pick your nose?”
“You probably eat them too.”
“Nick, you’re a booger eater? That’s freakin’ disgusting.”
“That’s probably why he wants to sit back here all by myself; so he can pick boogers out his nose and eat them without anyone watchin’.”
“You know what? Now I don’t even want my seat back.”
“The whole seat is just covered in boogers. I think I can see one.”
“Yea man, just forget it; he’ll probably be telling his mom on us when he gets home.”
“You gonna tell your mom dude?”
“Maybe his mom will beat him if he tells on us.”
“Hahahahahah…”
“Hey man, if your mom beats you, you should call the cops.”
“Or both his parents will beat him around for picking his nose and wiping them on people.”
“Gross Nick, you’re not gonna wipe boogers on me are you?”
A head can only take so much toying around with before something springs loose.
“Yo man, are you crying?”
“Oh, dude, now he’s crying.”
“What?”

>>3497695
“Come on man, we’re sorry. We were just –”
Crash – the collective sound of a million sharp shards of crystal being liberated from the pane of glass. It was followed by the tormenting scream of twisting plastic and crumpling steel. The bus rocked to the side from the collision and the force of the impact sent Mike flying through the air. He hit just above the head of Nick who bounced off the side of the bus and flopped on to the floor. Blood streamed down the side of his face from his right eye, which had made a dull thump when it hit the window. Mike was motionless on the seat above him. His mouth lied open and his eyes gazed at the ceiling. Grabbing his ear and cupping it with his palm, Steve was making a humming noise through his nose. The sound got louder and louder as he tried to scream.
Nick crawled out from under the back seat and sat up against the rear emergency exit. The bus driver, a woman named Kathy, ran through to the back of the bus and picked him up from the floor.
“You alright?” She asked, frantically trying to open the door behind him. “Go, jump out – slowly.”
Nick slid off the edge of the bumper and landed on the hard asphalt. Kathy screamed when she picked up Michael off the seat. She was a burly woman with a built physique. Her arm wrapped around his shoulders and she cradled his head with her other hand. Steve, still holding on to his ear, turned to look at Kathy before he got off the bus.
“Go, get off!” She screamed at him.

>>3497698
He panicked and quickly hopped off the bumper. The kids from the rest of the bus were gathered together on the curb; none of them looked like they had gotten hurt. A few just cried alone until people, who had witnessed the event, got out of their cars to help. The driver side of the bus was smoking. Most of it came from the front of the truck that hit them. No one was in it when a small crowd gathered around it. Nick tried to figure out the make of it, but a bald man with greying side walked over to him and held out a rag. He saw the blood drying on the side of Nick’s face and tried to catch it before it got any worse.
“Here” He said. “Hold that against your eye.”
Nick leaned against his hand and pressed what looked like an old white t-shirt on his cheek. Traffic halted in all directions and the crowd consumed everyone.

>>3486493
I don't have much to say; it's a bit short as the other anon remarked. I liked it, though, and would read more.

Have you posted this before? I had the most vivid deja-vu reading the last few lines.

>>3494621
Anyone else?

Here are some unsettled song lyrics. Typed them out to see how they look. I was dismissing it as pretentious garbage but now I like some parts.
>
>
While I'm building up my cheer I don't intend to do my best.
If you give me too much time I'll never show my hairy chest.

I don't know what'd overcome me, but tonight is costing me.
Doing nothing is still something. Nothing feels right for me.

While I'm peeing in your house I see a framed and lacy heart.
I'm outskilled and neatly shamed by Walmart installation art.

All my posing "Hello Kitty"'s and a different type of sin.
Butt my everlasting mitten, cripple me to sit and spin.

Oh, but you know what I've been into.

While I'm dancing up my street, oh fellow actors, I'm in need.
But they're filling up on sweets and won't appoint a decent lead.

All my veins run, don't deceive her, save my sticky, melty heart.
Innocence is where we leave her, say we'll never be that smart.

Oh, that's more keystrokes for the same thing.

While I'm building up my cheer I don't intend to do my best.
Any other night I'd show my hairy face, but I digress.

>>3490192

Although too much description is off-putting, I think maybe you blazed through that scene too quickly. Just a subjective opinion, of course.

>>3494621
I like how your setup carries so many unresolved implications, it makes me want to know more about the characters. The first couple sentences had some awkward parts. "Enjoyed" in sentence #3 and "though" in sentence #4 sound awkward to me. And saying his seven-and-a-half sized shoes are "small" sounded redundant, it might be nice to let the reader make that assessment unaided, but idk. Sentences 4 and 5 also felt too similar, like they could've been merged. I'm not bashing your writing in any way, I definitely got into it later on. But the first part reminded me of when I start a narrative experiment and have to feel it out by way of a writing a few awkward sentences. Oh, also I noticed you switched from present tense to past tense, which is actually another thing I do when I embark on a narrative experiment. I guess just go with past tense.

>>3495435
How long you been writing?

Hope this thread is still alive enough to get a little bit of Feedback - I've had some pretty strong ideas for a novel about a desert world lately, so I've just been writing some short stories to help myself get an idea about what that world really is. Here's the start of one of them:

Tinder had a population of only thirty-two people; of that number fourteen were under the age of eighteen. Those citizens deemed underage were the whole reason people had come and stayed in Tinder, the decay was like to warrant disinterest from the many outlaws that roamed the desert and perhaps the children could live to be fourty as some of their parents had. The neighbourhood ran straight along one of the off-shoot paths that stemmed from the main road, it was a feint road and seldom trodden by horse or carriage. The residents liked that just fine.

There was a certain comfortable silence in Tinder that seemed to last forever, the folk rarely spoke to each other for lack of things to say and the small saloon that occupied the residents days would more often than not go days at a time in silence as the residents all picked their tables, be they alone or with company, and drank in quiet. If they knew what living grass was, perhaps they would day dream of a meadow; and if they knew that the withered and sometimes hollow things that shot from the ground were once towering trees with leaves in abundance, perhaps they would day dream of a forest. But these things never came, because in centuries past these things had never been.

>>3498012
Bretty gud. Kept me reading. What I got out of it was a quick observation of a desert town. All I can say.

I don't wanna comment on sentence structure and all that bullshit because I think that's distinct to style, and gets more and more honed with practice (like Hubert Selby Jr.).

Jimmies falling down
and before I can find them
they rustle so sweet.

REPETITIVE

TRIP THE LEVER AND SEE THE [REDACTED]
REPEAT
HERE IS A BOX, FULL OF ANSWERS
REPEAT
LUCK OUT - FIND SOMEONE ELSE
REPEAT
SKIP A FEW DAYS, COME BACK
REPEAT
WATCH WONDERFUL PEOPLE PASS YOU BY FOREVER
REPEAT
HOLD HANDS WITH 4000 LEAGUES ABOVE THE SEA
REPEAT
STUMBLE AND TUMBLE AND NOW TROUBLE
REPEAT
STITCH THE ACT OF BEING COOL IN YOUR NEW HAT
REPEAT
CRUMBLE THAT FACADE TO A PULP
REPEAT
TAKE YOUR LOVE, STIR IT IN A POT, DRINK IT ALL UP
REPEAT
REPEAT
REPEAT

>>3498032
terrible

[REDACTED], really? that's cute and all, but it comes across as childish

what are you trying to convey by having all caps?

what's the repetition about? are you really doing another "we're just going through the steps... everything is meaningless... even life's pleasures" poem?

i'd comment on the individual lines but they all come across as insanely childish. like, what is "CRUMBLE THAT FACADE TO A PULP" supposed to convey? if you remove the caps and the 'repeat's from your poem, it's just another 3kb of text to throw into the pool of livejournal poetry

>>3498045
naw redacted was something left in after a bad edit
nitpickin' on the caps, i think
no, i'm not really doing another "going through the steps" poem at all
but thanks

Underneath the stars +++ a man stands,- smiling an ignorant smile, his body outsized by his big, square head -, thinking the stars orbit his. The stars seem to transverse these skies much slower than they actually are - he thinks. I wish for a telescope so I could glimpse their true beauty. - he thinks.
Above the man +++ the stars circle around a rounded figure, the one of Earth. Shining outrageously, the 17 stars that are visible twinkle and move quickly, despite that, from such a far distance, all who look upon a beautiful star, it seems much slower, and much duller, than its true shining self.

>>3498055
im not nitpicking on the caps at all. what are their purpose? if you're going to do something so forward as CAPS LOCK YOUR POEM then you should have a good reason

what is your poem's meaning then? i cant see it as anything but a "durr we live our lives going through the same [single digit number] processes over and over" and i highly doubt it has any meaning beyond that

not trying to be rude, im earnestly interested in what your wrote because at face value, it's shit, but i'd love to be proven wrong

>>3498004
Oh yeah always forget about checking present and past tense; also the addition of small, as I assume you noticed was to add to the alliteration. I guess I should let it flow naturally. Anyways thanks.

>>3498066
Well, you should know there is a meaning beyond that, that goes right in the opposite direction of what you were feeling around for. I get where you are coming from - I really, really do. The shortest summary I can give it is that it's a series of events spread over a month that went by very, very slowly, and the repeating was the pressing normality between the days of excitement. Each line means something, and some are childish - but some are mature. Again, I understand how at first glance you'll see a facile poem about the meaningless of life - purely gutless. But, to me, it's really a different direction from that stereotypical form.

>>3498066
P.S. The reason for the caps is really irrelevant. Nothing to qualm over.

>>3498066
Sorry for three posts in a row. Even if ya still think it's a shit thing, please do say so.

>>3498068
Actually I didn't notice the alliteration there, my bad. I did really like the alliteration on that first sentence.

When I saw her walking in the woods
I knew she was the one with all the goods.
And when I held her in my stubby arms
we watched HBO and ate some lucky charms.
And we got fat.

He was tired. There were many other ways to describe how
George was feeling at the moment, but tired was most
simple and explained him physically. There was no point in
sleeping. If he were to rest his mentally ill head, the problems
that had been circling his life for the last three years would only
be there to greet him when he woke. Better to be on the
buildings ledge, looking down at the tiny people going about
their day.

It's funny how people resemble ants from this high up, George
thought to himself, kind of chuckling at the idea that we
humans could be made into ash at any moments notice. All
of our petty troubles gone just like that, which is why he
decided suicide to be the best option. Death was inevitable
for him; if not by the booze, then by his own hand, and he
didn't want to wait around another 10 miserable years, probably
losing his home, what friends he had left, and his parents who,
bless their souls, tried their hardest to put him back together
after Emily died.

With one last swig of his eight dollar vodka, George threw
the bottle over the ledge, putting a good swing into it. He didn't
hear the crack of the glass when hit the ground, and he didn't
hear the door to the roof open as he slide himself off the ledge
into free air.

He waded.

>>3498111
Aw, god, I love these snippet-type poems. I really dig it, man. Simplistic and satisfying.

>>3498016

Nothing for me?

>>3498016
I adore desert-type stories. Old towns. Best one I saw was in the first Gunslinger book, at the beginning.

Your style is great, it feels like you got in the role of a narrator very well, even enjoyed it and slipped into the dialect of the people a bit. Great introduction of those people in the town, too - there aspirations and perhaps-dreams are shown well, easily passed to the reader.

Just some poetry I scribbled in my notebook instead of taking notes.

>Copernicus
Copernicus discovered, among other things,
that the sun
is revolved around
invece il contrario

But I discovered, among other things,
that I
revolve around you
invece il sole

>Manual Manipulation
Eyes of fire (hers)
Skin all hot (mine)
I doused desire
With some personal bathroom time

>Bloody, Broken, Bruised
Raw and red
Fleshy, wet
She squirms, quivers, yells
Fresh, pink, glistening
Blood, fluid, leaking, pooling
Poke, prod, penetrate
The loss of virginity can be very messy

>>3498129
Oh, and one more
>Lolita
Nubile
with widening hips
a blossoming, budding bosom
skin soft as satin.
Satan!
Why do you tempt me so,
With this red-headed maiden
Whose maidenhead was no red
Hymns of lost hymens
And the sensual power
Of the young girl - deflowered.

>>3498129
>>3498133
Pretty stuff. I enjoy the exclusion of unnecessary detail. Not verbose at all - good.

>>3498137
Why thank you, anon. While I enjoy poetry in all forms, I could never write something long and winded, something in the vein of Pound. It's not my style.

>>3498133
Shit
was now* red

>>3498128

Wow, thanks a lot man. I whole heartedly agree with you on the Gunslinger too, such a great book over all but the time he spends in Tull at the very beginning is so fun to read.

WHEN I heard the learn'd walmarter;
When the aisles, the products, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the coupons and flyers, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the walmarter, where he lectured with much applause in the walmart room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself.
In the smog-ridden rain-night air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in relative silence at the light posts.

>Apathy
Sometimes, you just can't
Or won't
Or don't
Care
Enough to finish anythi

>>3498144
Christ, yes. Stephen King outdid himself on that whole novel, and it was one of his earlier ones - one of his earlier aspirations was to create an epic.
>>3498141
Yeah, a Prufrock style poems great and all, but it's gotta be in your ballpark if you want to take the swing. All styles are fantastic, when done well. Your scribblings in place of notes are fun. Have you a place to put them for everyone to read?
>>3498151
Cute. http://lyrics.wikia.com/TISM:Interested_In_Apathy You could enjoy this.

Deon Veolet stared into his wife Maria’s eyes as she knelt in front of him, their hands and feet bound behind them. Her eyes were brimming with tears, just as his own were, full of terror and confusion. Their living room was dark, and felt totally void of the comfort it had always provided them. Their captor leaned down next to Deon, gripping his neck with one massive hand, forcing him to watch what happened next. The smell of polished gunmetal was a familiar odor to Deon, one he had hoped never to smell again.

“Why are you doing this? Please,” Deon pleaded, his mouth dry and tasting of bile, “there’s jewelry and money. Take whatever you want. Just take it and go!”

“I plan to,” replied a hoarse, gravelly whisper in his ear. The whisper was vaguely familiar to Deon, and yet unlike anything he had ever heard before. It sent rippling waves of chills across Deon’s body. The voice contained pure malice; a primal evil.

“Please, just let my wife go. She’s done nothing wrong. It’s me you want, isn’t it? Who are you, someone I arrested? Or a relative of one? Just don’t hurt Maria. She’s done nothing wrong. Please” Deon begged.

“You know nothing, and you have no time to learn. Now watch justice served” the whisper strained with anger.

Deon felt the hand leave his neck and heard the faint rustle of cloth being removed. A black ski-mask fell to the floor in front of Deon and he saw a look of recognition and fear enter Maria’s eyes. Deon began to crane his head to look at the man, but the hand returned to his neck and Deon’s head was forced to continue facing straight. “I’m going to give you a choice, Maria. Tell him who I am. Better yet, tell him who you are. Or, you can both die right here and now” the man told Maria.

too long, cont.

“What? What’s he talking about, Maria? You know him! What is this,” shouted Deon?

Maria blinked away the tears streaming down her face. Deon saw for the first time the well of sorrow in her eyes that he had previously only caught glimpses of. He had always known there were troubles and secrets in her past, but he had never cared. Deon still remembered the first time they had talked about it. “You’ve never pried into my past. How can you stand not knowing?” She had asked. “I know you. That’s all I need,” Deon had replied. The words still echoed in his mind.

Maria collected herself. Her eyes changed from sorrow to anger, but quickly sunk into defeated acceptance, “I… I can’t. Please, don’t make me say it. I’ll die if you do.”

“You’ll die anyway!” the voice rasped. The man pulled Deon’s neck so he was sitting straight up, facing Maria, not ten feet away, but totally helpless to do anything. Then, the room disappeared suddenly in a flash and a cloud of smoke.

The room returned gradually as Deon’s vision adjusted, his nostrils burning with the sulfurous stench of gunfire. Deon gasped and shuttered as he gazed upon the ruined, once-beautiful face of his wife now awash in blood. A single, lifeless eye stared back and Deon suddenly wished for nothing more than to leave this wretched world behind. Deon cried out his anguish, sobbing uncontrollably. He wanted nothing more to do with this gruesome scene, but the man was not done yet.

“This is the price of sin, Deon Veolet. Stop your wailing, she deserved her fate. She deserved so much worse, but justice may be merciful too,” the whisper taunted.

can cont. if anyone interested

Here's something...little shy to share.

2012, early to surmise.
Achingly bright and sick with reverence - No!
Illness it is, sickness it breathes - I recognize this reprise, it can be enjoyed,
A caress, a kiss, 'tis gross, get pissed - still something...

2013, new day for a new day.
The visage - a mirage - smiling and shining, giddy and surreal.
Flickering and stumbling, his is a complex dance, throughout the hallowed ground,
From ashes rise a shy faux pas - inoculation would murder or alleviate...

>>3498153
>All styles are fantastic, when done well
Of course. I wasn't arguing the opposite just stating that I, personally, can't write extended poetry.

>Your scribblings in place of notes are fun. Have you a place to put them for everyone to read?
Thanks again. Really, I've only posted them here and sometimes, when a short story idea comes to me, I'll post it on Fanfiction under a random category and change some names just so people will read it. I've always been too embarrassed to show my work to friends or peers, although I shouldn't be.

>http://lyrics.wikia.com/TISM:Interested_In_Apathy You could enjoy this.
I'm sure you figured it out, but the Apathy poem was also me. Anyway, I did like those lyrics. I'll have to hear the song soon.

>>3498157
>>3498161

I think maybe you could play with your words a little better, they tell a really good story (I enjoyed reading it) but when I read I like to be dazzled on two fronts - a good story, a good wordplay.

But having said that, I've gone through many books happily that only had one of the two, but if you wanted to make your story ideal (from my perspective anyway) improve your wordplay, I understand that's incredibly vague but it's the best criticism I can give. Other than that, I enjoyed the beginning of your story, I've written a few short stories about the devil coming to collect what was promised too - it's good fun.

>>3498163
like the mix of positive and negative adjectives. normally don't like things that are contemporary, i.e. mentioning current year. like the rhythm too.

>The Past
What happened once
will do so again.
What's written once,
copied by pen.
I len't my work, to some old man
Was ripped off once, ne'er again.
Until tomorrow, or some other day
When another elderly will come my way.

>>3498164
Definitely hear it some time. TISM is a very interesting band. Their later stuff is fun to listen to, but the prize is with their demos and early albums. They trash artistic people a lot, with poetry. Listen to "Mistah Eliot - He Wanker" sometime! Great fun.

>>3498016
>>3498128

Just like to agree with this anon here, you write very well and it really makes the whole thing easy to read. You painted the picture of the town perfectly in just a few short sentences, good job.

>>3498173
Aw, man. Thank you a lot! I don't ever hear criticism towards what I write, even when I throw it at my friends who say they're interested. They just say "I liked it" or "eh". These criticism threads are a terrific outlet.

>>3498172
very close to that actually. Deon is murdered as well, and sent back to Earth by God to help those who the justice system has failed in order to save Maria's soul (Deon was a detective in life). The man is not the Devil, but is one of Hell's reapers, a collector of souls, which Maria used to be as well. Will play around with more powerful words. Do you mean a better mental image, or just more artful?

Hayo, people. Even a solitary "sucks" is fine by me.

Encompassed by what you stand for, in the midst of wax
A second head bobs on the side - distrustful already
This individual is nodding to the music, and glancing at us
His eyes are cameras, his tie's a video camera, his mind's a writing pencil

Burning humiliation, blood in the cheeks, the shifting eyes
Easily hid, but a comment none-the-less - to brag, to show off, to reveal
A glimpse of something like clockwork, running until 4:00 am each morning
Not without gratefulness, the subtleties are lost in the shock

First of the month - 30 past with not one sight for sore eyes
Without a look-up, the definition was "ugly"
But a coincidence from the month brings up what it means
The definition means more than the first line.

The rest, they whinge and cry of their growing pains
Perversion provoking paranoia, more and more so
Drugs and alcohol chase away the familiar inhibition
Pain is not abstract - pain is sharp, and does not involve poetry

One single poem of affection, deeply ironic in its peers
Part one and two of Pigs on the Wing
Repetitive words and Static characters
Hidden in the potential future of potential words meeting.

The tide washes in, pulling away every construct
The products of imagery - sandcastles, sand angels, sandy towels
Pfffttthaha - washes away, the mind following closely after
To drown in the spray, to drown in luck, to drown in convenience

>>3498182
moar? would be interested to read other things by you. I like your style. casual rhymes that don't detract from the flow of the poem, and the poem isn't centered or too concerned with a set format it seems

>>3498183

I'll try to be more specific, but in all honesty I'm not so sure myself.

You know when you're reading a book and the author is just managing to use all the right words so that you're involved in the story, but at the same time you take the time out to be like

"Whoa, I really liked the way he worded that"

Your story was good, you used good description and you got everything across to me. It just seemed a bit vanilla, and while from that story I would judge you as a good storyteller, I would only judge you as a decent author/writer.

>>3498193
Thank you. I've posted a few times so far...I'll link.

>>3498191
>>3498062
>>3498032

Just a general query, does anyone ever worry their shit will be stolen in these threads? I'm always hesitant to post my best work... Just in case.

title is in subject line.

Who recoups mislead definitions?
Cooped, chiseling incisions,
gawking after golden eggs

laid within:
a con’s sort, marbled in
front, modifying only to

a blocked pitch; flowerred
twitch, nicks misplaced,
blooming over choicely

base; isings caked, muse
molding his release, baked
wait peaked; trade notes

hidden, read on sculpted
crease; working over
belates him

as much as her,
displayed to
someone, cased.

>>3498202
Christ, it scares me silly to think of that. Yeah, there's worry, but the prospect of anonymous criticism (unmarred by bias) is valuable. I think a quick Google search for this stuff would link back to this thread.

>>3498202
I am, but then I just say fuck it. If people are posting here, they're just as lazy/not-confident/whatever in their work as I am

Does a heart skip to the beat?
Ever since Saturday night, most recent and each previous
This heart's pulse continues to skitter - scatter - into tatters
Fleeting and blinding and painfully honest
The reference of 5:13 AM spoke it all . . .
. . . but that was torn down with demolition tools.

What breaks the rubble's tomb?
What light-headed person shakes his hair of the dusty words?
What gaze, what gaze - ! I wish I were he
I sense he's kindred, the type that masks and shivers
To bolt upright at night with fright - for his heart's about to boom.

>>3498196
Final part of the first half of the first chapter. will probably be a series of short stories, each one a different case Deon is solving on Earth. Tell me what you think of this last bit if you wouldn't mind. Thanks!

“This is the price of sin, Deon Veolet. Stop your wailing, she deserved her fate. She deserved so much worse, but justice may be merciful too,” the whisper taunted.

“Merciful? You’re sick! You murdered my wife, you fucking psychopath!” Deon screamed, straining his lungs. “You’ll rot in Hell!”

The man leaned in close to Deon’s ear, and Deon felt the muzzle of a pistol burn into the back of his neck, his flesh sizzling under the heated metal. The voice chuckled briefly in his ear and whispered so quietly that Deon strained to hear, “Yes, Deon, but not before Maria does.” And with that, Deon’s world closed suddenly around him in a searing light, a loud bang echoing in his ears, as if it were very far away. Deon Veolet was dead.

Weapons of mass destruction!

They're in Afghanistan!
They're in Iraq!
They're in my pants!

There isn't a moment to waste.
Deploy the troops!

To Afghanistan!
To Iran!
To the bedroom!

Where are they?

They're not in Afghanistan!
They're not in Iran!
Yeah, what they said.

>>3498216
I liked it a lot.

>>3498197
>>3498062
chose this one to respond to because it really hit me. the fact that stars seem so much slower when being viewed from Earth. loved this one. and the fact that the man can only see 17, presumably because of light pollution. idk man this one got me right in the brain and the heart

>>3498225
That's a heavy compliment. I'm positively warm! Thank you very much, that was one of my favorite things I've written.

>>3498216
meaningful and humorous. i especially love this type of amusing poetry. and usually im not so big on topical poetry so i think this is great!

Distant. Stand raptly, give me all you have...!
...wither I will if no intrinsic gift is discovered.
A casual speech delivered to an empty room, all
"Myriads of inquisitive thoughts pore into her skull"
Never, forever, whenever, will I ever?
Questions derived from each word, truth, admittance

What am I? Ignored?
Surely I may jest
and say how pleasant you are
But keep a keen ear, as this will shock
You both deserve life, surely as slaves
But I know what the chain is, and the ball is not far
|Trapped both are, no middle-piece needed
A lever is pulled for freedom all three
Forever and never apart we shall be.|

>>3498238
i'm going to Iceland soon, where life moves just a little bit slower, so this poem was especially relevant to my own personal thoughts as of late. and i think it's very easy to relate to for anyone who has ever spent a night under the stars or for anyone who thinks about a sustainable future. just.. spot on my friend

>>3498202
I just don't post my absolute best. I post things I really want feedback on. And I trust I can always write more or something different if need be. Just a risk you take

>>3498247
It is truly amazing how poetry relates to different people, isn't it? I can't thank you enough for your praise, I had many doubts of my writing. Listen, contact me sometime about your trip to Iceland - a starry night is beautiful and up there, it's going to be something else without the light pollution Seattle or even a small town gives.

And I went to ask a question,
But the limb was too sturdy.
And the fire too hot,
And my water shoes were cement.

Regardless, when I did get around to that question they shit bricks.

Enough for a brick house just for me.
With wooden beds,
And wet cloth showers,
And a playground.(With barbed wire)

And did I complain? No.
I just had to ask that same question again.
"Is this really what you guys do with your free time?"

>>3490366
I saw this posted in a supposedly spontaneous writing thread a month ago. Nice try, asshat.

Is gross airline food
still the same gross airline food
when you take it home?

>>3498256
just set those doubts aside if you can. i think even if no one else likes what you're doing, you have to keep doing it if for one second you ever believed that's what you should be doing. especially writing, since you can write no matter what other profession you're in. and if it doesn't ever work out, just remember lots of people's works aren't appreciated until they're gone, but the written word is immortal

>>3498282
I really do love /lit/. Thank you, once again. Strangers give the best hope.

The utopian metropolis must've been a vacant one, thought Mr. Gallo; non-people, non-reliant on broken systems, leaving an absolute non-accordance. Further, the only sensible city might really have been one additionally turned on its head, for a city turning itself upside-down was the final laugh in response to its own internal non-cacophony.

The only true humor to find in such an exercise of perfectionism like this then, he thought, searching above, was the uselessness of its resultant functioning; there was no irony like an ideal instantly made artifact through the flawlessness of its own construction. It was only a proxy, then. One could even say a forgery. And so, in this mere model of its own standard, the miserable nobodies caught stray at times would be the true final laugh of an ideal collapsed upon the idea of itself; the paradoxical collateral accompanying a paradoxical solution.

They hadn’t reached perfection yet, anyways.

And upon finding the withered remains of the once verdant beast dripping with stuffing, I realized I should have cleaned up from Thanksgiving a couple weeks ago. Nonetheless I snaked my hands through Arbies wrappers and five dollar boxes, searching for a single delicious morsel, one more fresh than that aged beast which caused me recoil with its stench. Gaining nothing more than a few sauce packets, my nose wrinkled at my remaining option. I donned thick rubber gloves and readied myself to enter ground zero. A reluctant tug pulled the door open, and there before my eyes it sat.
"Ah, shit!"
I got a spatula and pried the lid open to reveal a freshly made crock of lentil soup. At least, it was almost salvageable on thanksgiving. Now a thick scum of animal fat sealed in what unholy nightmares would otherwise have wafted into my face. Scanning, I found a packet of spotted American cheese, a gallon of yellow milk, and some fuzzy bread. A tomato sagged into itself atop an old pizza box, leaving a wet imprint that had long ago dried.

Closing the door, I sighed and trod into my living room to collapse into my chair. The flourescent light flickered and hummed and I hugged my knees. The telephone sat beside me on the end table, and a credit card with it. I kept my focus on the table, and not on the empty chair behind it. "Should I order in, or eat out tonight?" No one answered. It wasn't Thanksgiving anymore.

>>3498320
I like the tone. playful, yet vaguely disparate. would definitely read more

Need feedback on some early stage historical fiction. fictional battle inspired by one of Alexander the Great's battles, centered on a fictional Thracian General in the Macedonian army, Agathius.

Agathius was sweating under his heavy bronze breastplate, which felt all the heavier under the Persian sun. He risked a glance above the rim of his shield, careful not to expose himself to a lucky lance thrust. As he had expected, his view had not improved much- mayhem, plain and simple. Organized slaughter, to be sure, but slaughter nonetheless. The Persians had begun their attack hours earlier with a cavalry lance charge against the main contingent of the Macedonians’ own heavy cavalry. The Persian infantry had come afterward to face the large formation of Thracians and Illyrians on Alexander’s left flank. Thracians were fearsome warriors in their own right, but ever since adopting Macedonian tactics from Philip II, the Thracian war-machine bred true sons of Ares. There was a reason the legendary founder of Thrace- Thrax- was purportedly descended from the god of war.

Too long, cont. 1 more

>>3498333
Persian cavalry was famous throughout the known world for their huge warhorses, the heavy lances they favored, and the prodigious skill of their mounted archers. Persian infantry however was made up mostly of slaves, ill-equipped and motivated only by the lash. Unlike the Persians, Thracians were brutal whether mounted or on foot. Even Thracian noblemen were no strangers to fighting; in fact they lived for it. The Persian infantry with their wicker shields reinforced only by leather, and their lighter spears, could hardly hope to measure up to a tightly compacted phalanx which from the outside resembled nothing so much as a bronze wall bristling with spear tips. Wave after wave of infantry had smashed uselessly against that wall. Each Thracian protected his left side with his shield, from neck to thigh, while the man next to him protected his right. Agathius’ thoughts were beating a rhythm in his skull.

Hold. Hold. Hold. Push!

The Greeks hefted their shields as one, and the front line of Persians was forced back into the second ranks. They wasted no time delivering expertly-placed spear thrusts and cleaving swings of their swords to the Persian lines. Then before the first bodies fell into their fellows, the shields snapped back down and the wall was again solid.

Hold. Hold. Hold. Push! Again. Again.

it's thick i know, but it's meant for fans of this period and genre. still, any feedback welcome

>>3498323
great imagery. gross but can't stop reading

>People
Crowds
Full of heads and tales
Woes and wit
Just make you think of
How alone you are despite
How many people exist.
They all feel the same, too.

Never wrote anything before

“Fuck”
I felt like I had no brain cells left. Tequila shots are fun, until you wake up the next morning. I should have listened to the guy telling me I was going to regret drinking so much. I looked at my watch. It took a few seconds before I could even read the time. It was one o’ clock.
“Fuck”
I went downstairs and rolled a smoke. While I lit it, I called Carl, with whom I had agreed to meet half an hour ago.
“Hey, it’s me, I’ll be there in a bit.”
“Fuck you”
He hung up.
People should say fuck a lot less. I know it was the first and the second word I said this morning, but at least I know I am hypocrite. It’s just strange a word used for sex is also a negative word. But what should I use instead? Shit? No. I can’t think of better words than fuck.
When I got to Carl’s house I rang the bell. Nothing. I rang again and he opened the door. I always forget how coarse his apartment is, it smelled like cheap cigarettes and wet dog. The floor was a mess and the walls were moist. But what do you expect of a drug dealer who snorts more than he sells?
“Why are you so late?”
“Tequila”
“Ah, I understand. You are forgiven”

>>3498792
edgy

>>3498839
Thanks for your constricutive criticism.

>>3498792
>Never wrote anything before

Nor should you write anything ever again.

>>3498839
>>3498854

Thanks for your constructive criticism

>>3498854
My first writings were awful but now whenever I post anything /lit/ likes it.

>>3489548
you establish two places in your first sentence, it's jarring and the grammar is horrendous

the woman's dialogue is unreal/nonsensical, did you even read this before you posted it?

the dialogue format is so shit I wonder if English is your first language or if you've ever read a short story in your life

you need to write the whole chapter or short story or whatever the hell this is supposed to be, then go back and rewrite it

let it sit in a closet for a month, go back and read it again and rewrite it and don't be satisfied with any number of grammatical errors

>>3496151
>Pharoah's
stopped there. Learn to grammar, idiot.

>>3498854
If that were the case, then we would have no great writers.

>>3498863
Keep writing and reading. You'll get better.

>>3498889
>If that were the case, then we would have no great writers.

That's just something untalented people say to each other to give false hope.

>>3498896
Not at all. (Not the guy you're responding to btw)

I used to be told I was writing doggerel, now I write at a good standard. There is such a thing as improvement you know.

>>3498899
or you're just delusional

The gray giant hurtled through space, many times the speed of sound. Its body was irregular and pockmarked with hundreds of small craters; a testament to its ferocity and impressive size. In the distance, a small blue orb floated, suspended in space. Earth. The asteroid was on a collision course.

It made no sound; no audible hint of its presence could be detected. Space did not have the air necessary to carry the sound waves. Instead, the asteroid flew towards its target in complete silence. The lack of air made sure there was no resistance. It would hit its mark.

Out of all the many craters that dotted the surface of its body, one stood out the most. It was large, and the comet that caused it had nearly split the asteroid in two, but it was still intact. However, the freak impact had sent the asteroid spiralling away from its original course around the asteroid belt. Towards Earth.

Not long was left. The blue planet was getting bigger, and the distance to be closed smaller. If the asteroid was sentient, it would laugh at the fact that Earth was so helpless. They can do nothing, it would think. But then it would notice something: a small cylindrical object bursting from the deep blue atmosphere that surrounded the planet. A fiery glow cascaded behind it as it made its way towards the asteroid. The tip was marked with green.

>>3490114
>https://docs.google.com/file/d/0Byv7o-msBT-1aEt6X050bFZTWEE/edit?usp=sharing
Don't break the fourth wall

If you want to talk to your audience, do it in the letter to Constant Reader before the story

writing is not vocalizing a story over the campfire

too many big words, all that for some lousy character exposition, where's the action? oh look, there's a guy who insists on meta-narrating another guy standing on the streetside. as it is now I've already put the book down

>>3498916
The two objects collided violently. The missile fell apart and vaporized. An explosion rocked the asteroid with several times the force of the comet that had hit it previously. Fire and smoke engulfed the enormous rock. Ah, the asteroid would think, They're trying to destroy me. Send me off on another course. It didn't work.

Out of the smoke, two smaller asteroids emerged. The missile had worsened the situation; a second threat had been created. They continued their original journey towards Earth, now feeling the affect of the planet's gravity in full. They separated in two different directions.

Once again, flames enshrouded them. This time however, it was superheat from the atmosphere. There was nothing the humans could do now. They were doomed.

>>3497366
Still nothing? It isn't like it's very long or anything.

>>3498920
>Ah, the asteroid would think, They're trying to destroy me.

I literally laughed out loud. Thanks for the chuckle.

>>3498927
I'll change it. It's only the third piece I've ever written.

>>3498909
Nah mate. It's been well received on here and in public.

>>3498945
mate nobody believes you mate

>>3498950
come on m8

>>3498920
>superheat

I concur with the other anon, this shit is hilarious.

>you will never be good at this
what the fuck was I actually thinking

>>3499108
Don't worry yourself. The more you write the more you improve. People on /lit/ will want to take you down if you simperingly show a desire for approval or encouragement. It's the nature of 4chan.

Keep writing and you'll get better. I don't know how old you are but the simple process of trying to write something different and better every time is a means of improvement.

>>3499108
>People on /lit/ will want to take you down if you simperingly show a desire for approval or encouragement
That's true. I do it myself, yet it doesn't make me feel any better.

>>3499108
>Write something and cringe.
>Take ten books you enjoy.
>Copy out a chapter from book 1.
>Look at how they use syntax and sentence structure.
>Copy a chapter from book 2.
>Look at how they use pronoun variation, metaphors/similes.
>Write a short story and smile at your improvement.
>Read as much theory as you can, things like removing redundant prose, foreshadowing, exposition...
>Copy a chapter from books 3 - 7 and look at everything you have learned.
>Write again and grin. You're finally getting the hang of it, but don't copy someone else's style.
>Read more theory; physical devices, buried guns, passive/active voice
>Copy a chapter from books 8 - 10.
>Now work on developing your own voice.

>>3498854
This is the problem with critique threads on /lit/

>>3499140
>Copy out a chapter from book 1.
>Copy a chapter from book 2.
>Copy a chapter from books 3 - 7
>but don't copy someone else's style.

This is no way in developing your own style at all. Your own style should evolve naturally, from reading and writing. Forcing yourself into another writer's style is not only painstaking and boring but in the end you'll find people telling you that your style is, "Too much like X," or "Too much like Y"

>>3499148
Oh, silly Anon. Looks like you need to go back and read my post again.

>Your own style should evolve naturally, from reading and writing
Don't be silly. Why would you support reading if you are so terrified of being influenced by someone else's style? Copying out a chapter is just reading in as much detail as you can.

>Forcing yourself into another writer's style...
I told him not to do that. HST copied out all of Gatsby to learn to write and it was obvious in the Rum Diary. That's why I said one chapter from ten different books.... To prevent this. The idea is not to copy for style imitation, it's to learn how different authors approach prose. I said:
>Look at how they use syntax and sentence structure.
>Look at how they use pronoun variation, metaphors/similes.
>Read as much theory as you can, things like removing redundant prose, foreshadowing, exposition...
>physical devices, buried guns, passive/active voice
>but don't copy someone else's style.

Lincoln watched the house through a thick sheet of rain, as he had been watching it for the past several days. It was modest; dull grey shingles and wood. Yellow light glowed in the dark from the windows. He had been observing every movement it, the comings and goings of its residents. A man and his wife lived comfortably in it along with their three children.

Lincoln had learned their schedules by heart. Tonight, he knew, the wife had taken the children to a ball. The man, who apparently considered himself something of an amateur playwright, had stayed at home. A fatal mistake.

Lincoln felt no remorse for what he had to do. He held nothing against the man; it was just his misfortune that he had taken the job of Captain of the Guard. His misfortune that he had decided to look into the crime in London and make a connection. His misfortune that he had refused the bribe and have the messenger gibbeted.

He moved from his position in the dark alley, his fist closed around his dagger. His life depended on this job; if he failed, it would either mean death or starvation. He wasn't particularly worried however: he had faith in his skills. His employer held the same faith. Lincoln was one of the best.

His employer was one of the most influential men in the Hansa. He based himself in London and masterminded crime behind-the-scenes across the Baltic sea. From London to Danzig, most every theft, robbery or murder could be traced back to him. He had built a vast criminal empire from nothing. Only a select few even knew of his existence. Lincoln was one of these privileged few. His impressive reputation at discreetly murdering his contracts had earned him the right. It had also earned him a shamefully high bounty, so much so that he couldn't even live in England anymore. He had a small estate far to the north, on the Scott-English border. Just beyond the reach of English lawmen.

>>3499148

>dat file name

>>3499371
Did you really think it was so original and hilarious that you had to point it out?

>>3499366
I assume from the lack of negative comments that there's nothing immediately shitty about this? I just wrote it in a few minutes.

>>3499638
/lit/ is pretty slow and this is a dieing thread.

>thick sheet of rain
'sheet' seems out of place here
>modest;
incorrect use of semi colon
>He had been observing every movement it,
you have have forgotten/misplaced a word
>who apparently considered himself something of an amateur playwright
irrelevant info. are you saying he stayed at home writing? it's not clear
>His impressive reputation at discreetly murdering
clumsily worded
>shamefully high bounty
using 'shameful' seems wrong. I mean, if anything a high bounty would be a sign of success in his field. For that matter, if he is so good a 'discretely' murdering people, shouldn't he not have a high bounty at all? or any, for that matter?

>>3500098
Thanks for constructive criticism. I'll look at what you mentioned.

>>3499366
too much too soon, focus on the moment

>>3500382
Fucking shit. That's my biggest problem when I write. That was the first time I genuinely tried to slow things down. I know it's bad because even I can see that whatever I write goes too fast. I'm not even sure how to fix it other than going into long boring descriptions of scenes.

>>3500430
Well, where are you going with this? Paragraph 1, 2, and 4 are decent enough, the others are dictated expostion. Paragraph 3 could be snuck in right before the dirty deed, probably. Just mix exposition with action.

If this is just a first draft, then don't worry about it too much, just keep on writing.

It’s a Saturday in September, and I’m driving.

I run cross country for the ends. The end of practice, the end of a race, the end of the season: they’re what we run towards, and what I run for. I never understood how anyone sees it differently. I guess there’s some satisfaction in improving your time; that I can understand. I still can’t much empathize with satisfaction in beating others. That’s a story for another time, though.

I’m driving home from a race, and I can’t see past today.

There’s a dip in the back road that I always take home; it dips down to a low and comes back up and to the right; you can see the dip and the bend, but the road disappears into the trees. Before the road descends, you can see the long hillside above and stretching out to the left. There was a fire there, a few months ago.

In races kids’ll trip, and throw elbows, and they’re aggressive - don’t think they’re not. Some of them, a lot of them, are nice - the ones in the middle, in the back, the ones who’ll clap you on the back at the end of a race no matter what team you’re on, who’ll sympathize like they don’t want to be there either and treat you like a brother in arms, almost, like you two had just worked together to defeat something awful. In a way, you did.

But there are kids too who’ll never be happy, you see them everywhere, in any sport or any activity. And races are mental - somehow you have to block the pain, filter it out, and I’m convinced you’ll carry that with you forever, for better or for worse; a little numbing every once in awhile is healthy, but too much won’t leave much left to numb, when it wears off. And so some of them are aggressive but not mean exactly, but you know they’re not feeling but following, even when they’re leading the race, and they’re cranking up the dial not until they feel too much but until something breaks.

>>3500482
I'm not really going anywhere with it. It's just something I threw together in a few minutes to practice writing. Just a story about a hitman in medieval England working for a medieval Godfather. I'll take what you've said into account, though. Especially the exposition bit.

>>3500486
where are you going? why are you talking? is this an essay?

Very quick question, /lit/.

First person or third person when writing a short story?

>>3500716
Always third person.

>>3500766
Reason I ask is I often see it said here. Is there any reason why?

>>3500783
I just prefer third person. First person feels like I'm reading someone's diary.

>>3500783
first person requires a level of control which most beginning writers do not have the practice/experience to correctly utilize

it requires a mind's eye detailing what the narrator can (and more importantly, can't) be aware of

>>3500856
here's a link illustrating more reasons to not use first person

http://www.helpingwritersbecomeauthors.com/2012/02/dont-even-think-about-using-first.html

What's the key to good dialog? It's my weakest point.

>>3501293
thoughts and impressions precede and influence dialogue, each speaker has their own point of view, and each speaker has their own speech peculiarities

most beginning writers choose dialogue which doesn't follow from natural character thoughts or they give all characters the exact same voice, usually bland and inexpressive

This made me smile. It's simple, maybe childish but good.

Keep it up.

I felt the profanity wasn't needed but apart from that it feels a bit 'Katawa Shoujo'ey

>>3500716
Guys, just asking again. Thanks for your replies already.

I'm writing a short story for a nationwide competition, and I want it to be first-person as there will be a lot of colloquialisms used in the characters speech and a lot of internal and humorous reflection, with a few quips.

This would be really hard to translate to third person. Am I ok to just use first person?

>>3502320
anyone?

>>3502320
>colloquialisms used in the characters speech and a lot of internal and humorous reflection, with a few quips
this can be done in the third person as easily as first

>>3502594
I don't see how..?

>>3502606
he said, he thought vs I said, I thought

this is not hard