/lit/ - Literature

“I am the one who decides when the thralls are fed!” shrieked Naestr, whipping Hersir yet again. “I am your king, your Odin! However low I may be among the other citizens, here I am the highest! I shall not be defied, least of all by you, you damned born-in-chains! Lord Heimdallr himself has set you in the lowest place! I-” He lurched. The whip was pulled back just as he was raising it. He spun and found Pallas holding the top part of its handle. “You! You vile-”

Pallas drew her fist back and hit Naestr the hardest that she could. He hurtled backward, bouncing in the dirt and rolling many feet. Pallas tossed the whip aside and lunged at him, shocking cold inside her veins. “I hate you,” she snarled, leaping at him. She stomped upon his throat and made him gurgle. “You don't deserve to live, do you?” She dragged him up and tossed him yet another distance; he collided with the longhouse. She went to him and grabbed him and then knocked his head against the wood. She flung him to the ground and started hitting, started pulling. Blood soon flowed out of a broken nose, his eyes were blackened. “Do you know how long I've dreamed of hurting you?”

“Help!” cried Naestr. Pallas took the opportunity of his open mouth to pop him in it, loosening a tooth. “Help me! Please, help!”

>>6031194
Pallas jammed her thumbs in Naestr's eyes. The empty socket on his right quickly drew blood, but she kept pressing on his one good eye, pushing, her lips were curled back in a smile. A little more- “No!” she shouted as a sea of hands surrounded her and yanked her off of Naestr. “Let me /at/ him!” she growled, sounding more beast than girl.

Coughing, sputtering, fingering his dangling tooth, Naestr scrambled to his feet. “Put... put her in chains!” he cried.

“I'm going to kill you one day, /good/ Naestr!” shouted Pallas. “You won't live to die in bed, that I promise!” Shackles were brought out, and with regretful sighs the thralls clapped them around Pallas' wrists. She lunged, it took six men to hold her back. Her eyes were storms of blue balefire, wide and bright and terrible. “I'll peel the skin from off your bones! I'll tear out your meat and I'll eat you, Naestr! I'll- I-” Just then her hunger turned her stomach over. She bent double and vomited, spewing up a mix of spittle and weak acid. She fell onto her knees when she was done, panting, seeing stars.

i'll give it a go.

Blood burning, I ran frantically to the front desk where a desk maid was lending her attention to another one of the snobs, this one a younger woman wearing a white fur coat - original fur no doubt. They were talking at each other’s face in a quiet manner like they all do, as if they weren’t really talking but rather mimicking how a conversation would go. Time seemed to slow to a halt as I stared at the two witches communicating in their witch ways and my heart grew fast again. My blood was burning, I really do think so. I tried to slow my breath but it was of no use and I could no longer wait. I shoved the wretched fur bitch out of the way, long thin limbs and all and positioned myself in front of the desk witch - maiden. The fur bitch made a shriek as she slowly tumbled to the ground in this slow motion world I now resided in. It seemed as though even her scream had the tone of a snob and my sub conscious ear found it quite hilarious.

"In the eighteenth century Europe, rationalism presented the universe as a purely logical construct, where information obtained via analysis and deduction was preferred over basic sensory observations. In fact, rationalists argued that before statements rooted in reasoning, physical evidence was altogether unnecessary. Because the so-called analytic truths were thought to be so infallible, that a argument denying them couldn't be formed at all without becoming a self-contradicting paradox. In a cause-effect relationship, everything could be deduced by analyzing either one of the events, actually perceiving both wasn't needed."

Already posted in the critique thread but eh. More if interested.

From the perspective of the top step, life seems frantic, unnecessary—but comfortable. Cars speed by, cars appear. Disappear. Guided by some unknowable, a hand dedicating its existence to the guide of metal machines, machines measured in horses.

People too come, people too pass. Sometimes, even, they summit the three small stairs, crossing the building’s threshold in seconds. Or crawling in minutes, assisted and held—at least it seems this way to the stairs, their backs erect in unwavering posture. The grey ones always took longer, hobbling helplessly, helped by their hobbled legs and walkers held by their helpless hands. They made their pilgrimage daily, the stairs their Sinai, their Kailash, their Olympus. Soon they would rest with their domestic gods.

Sometimes the people pass together, hands and arms locked in a familiar embrace. Family. Two bodies pulling in order to likewise draw together their souls, draw them close. Close until they are one, until the gap between two is closed.

But more often the people come alone. Pilgrimages, afterall, are best experienced in solitude. This happened noticeably more often, the stairs noted, when the skies raged and roared and displayed their natural prowess over man’s unnatural companionship. The rain had long ago admitted defeat against man’s creations. It now sought to strike the soft skin of fleshy man with its torrential assault. Downpours washing over them, the stairs took pride, swelling in dull-grey exuberance over their rocky-strong skin.

More than anything, the stairs found the behavior of certain individuals to be noteworthy. Their strange characteristics intrigued and confused the cement trio. First was the one who was always talking, talking, talking. He spend every moment with his mouth in motion, pouring words endlessly about someone or somebody, or rarely—some body. His mouth moved so quickly, so often, the stairs had long ago reasoned that soon his jaw must simply break off from his face and demand retirement, escape. It must find life so unfair, watching the ears work so little while it never rested.

The stairs found this behavior strange.

Another person came home each night with what appeared to be a new companion, one who always escaped before the Sun came up the next day. This one seemed to leave the building each morning red, puffy. Their walk was less each morning, steps emptier. But heavier, too. As if they were composed of less than before, with their feet only growing more. But each night, another acquaintance appeared.

The stairs found this behavior stranger.

>>6031345
Gibberish tbh.

>>6031349
How so? If you mean in the makes no sense as a narrative way, I kinda agree.

>>6031176
"Swallow it all", said Rupert the Cis while he pushed another turd into the feminist's mouth. "It's not oppression, it's a matter of karmic balance. All the shit that came out of your mouth must return inside, somehow."

"Mmm! Mmmgrblhh!"

"You know you love it."

>>6031380
>"Swallow it all", said Rupert the Cis while he pushed another turd into the feminist's mouth. "It's not oppression, it's a matter of karmic balance. All the shit that came out of your mouth must return inside, somehow."

I enjoyed this part. It was edgy-esque but within the limits of good taste. The gagging sounds/"you know you love it" is too much imo. Keep it tame. Post more if you wish

>>6031417
Dude, it was just something I imrprovised for this thread. English isn't even my first language. Glad you liked it but there is nothing more.

The Leprechaun took another drag of his cigarette, his eyes fixed on pale-blue lips. His eyes wandered to an exposed breast. A piece of paper censored the nipple. It was a name tag. 'CINDY,' it read. No introduction. The Leprechaun grunted as he knelt and reached for the tag. His sweaty, porcine fingers struggled to grip the paper. Many calories were lost, but her name was finally his. He held it taut with both hands, and raised it to the night sky.

>>6031194
shit
>>6031200
shit
>>6031277
shit
>>6031327
shit
>>6031345
shit

>>6031327
i found this lovely. are you attempting to make a statement regarding the obsession with science/reason?

>>6031469

Basically, it's part of dialogue, where a character is warning another of the dangers of seeing causation where there is none, while reading Critique of Pure Reason. I love being pretentious.

Before someone says, "wow, is this your first attempt at a story???? it sux." Yes, it is! yayayaya let's get this party started

"--But blood, will eventually dry out." She'd stated.
She knew what she was talking about, without a doubt. Space pirates were often under qualified for any other job, let alone giving advice--
But not this dandy little lass.
I figured I'd ask another question, but eventually decided against it; After all, she seemed to be under enough stress. Within the next hour or so, we didn't say much, rather, we just admired the timestone, the delicate piece of glass that would measure a human's life in color.
It was black.
He was dead.
"So you just hold onto yer father's timestone?" Once again speaking, but this time, in a questioning tone.
I was shocked by the question, not wanting to really answer. I felt uncomfortable; even a bit pissed off that she'd even ask that.
"It's not just a timestone to me. It's like his soul, as cheesy and lame as that sounds." I was a wuss, getting my feelings hurt by a simple question that was only asking about a subject I couldn't handle. It's been three years, I should be over it, but I'm not. "Listen, can we not talk about this?" She arched a brow, I could tell that she'd only wanted to go further into this, to push my buttons once more, but she backed off, surprisingly.
I had a second to take in how beautiful and pure she looked, I didn't often see a space pirate in such an innocent light, I doubt anyone did.

i am sorry for any mistakes ilyall

The people slowly filtered out, talking quietly to one another. Joseph saw the priest leave, and he rose to follow him, making his way through the crowd.
By the time he arrived, the priest was at his desk. Now that he was close to him, Joseph began to feel an aversion in his stomach. The priest’s head was little more than a charred jawbone, stuck to some vertebrae which descended, in darkness, into his sagging robes. Joseph only looked for a moment, for he could not be sure whether the priest was looking at him, or if he could even see him. His jaw tilted up from the papers on his desk, and Joseph tried to look into the space where his eyes would have been. Joseph heard the priest gasp, and his jaw trembled for a moment. He stopped moving, and spoke. “Are you feeling well?” Joseph pointed to himself “Me?”
The priest’s voice was sure and calm. He looked underneath his desk. “Unless there is someone else in my office—”

D: talking about degenerates, how's u cming along with dat feminist slut??

A: what

M: *puts hands in Gendo position* Very well, thank you. I blame everything on the patriarchy and pretend to love nigger music, my game is perfect.

D: haha thats it bro. Wish I could talk like you, its my biggest dream to give one of those bitches what they deserve.

M: A good serving of some old school traditional value phallus?

A: LOL.

D: haha. ur a poet m

>>6031533
prose is ok, ideas are banal & cliche seeming. the dialogue rings so wooden that it's uncanny

>>6031553
realistic, but I don't want to read about these dirty people

>>6031559
thank godbless for honest feedback. I'm still so new ahahaha

>>6031569
do you have anything else?

>>6031572
I've got some more on paper that i wouldn't mind typing up, It'd be fun to see what you have to say about it. I kinda get how my idea is pretty cliche,
I kinda wanna know how to make dialogue less wooden if that's cool, also.

>>6031580
Not wooden, really. Just clichéd. Like, do people say cheesy and lame in real life? Would they in space?

I might just be a saxon hygienic obsessive. I'm afraid of all slang in my writing

>>6031590
Nah, nah I feel it. I know I say both words, but that's just me, aha.

Oh, look at me, I'm dying. There's a snowstorm moaning a requiem for me in this doorway and I'm howling with it. I'm finished. Some bastard in a dirty white cap - the cook in the office canteen at the National Economic Council - spilled some boiling water and scalded my left side. Filthy swine - and a proletarian, too. Christ, it hurts! That boiling water scalded me right through to the bone. I can howl and howl, but what's the use?

What harm was I doing him, anyway? I'm not robbing the National Economic Council's food supply if I go foraging in their dustbins, am I? Greedy pig! Just take a look at his ugly mug - it's almost fatter than he is. Hard-faced crook. Oh people, people. It was midday when that fool doused me with boiling water, now it's getting dark, must be about four o'clock in the afternoon judging by the smell of onion coming from the fire station canteen. Firemen have soup for supper, you know. Not that I care for it myself. I can manage without soup - don't like mushrooms either. The dogs I know in Baker Street, by the way, tell me there's a restaurant in Neglinny Street where they get the chef's special every day - mushroom stew with relish at 13 pounds and 75 pence the portion. All right for connoisseurs, I suppose. I think eating mushrooms is about as tasty as licking a pair of wellington boots.

>>6031593
please type up all you have. I'm bored

>>6031594
good past-voice, I think

protip: I think you're looking for the em-dash (—). It's supposed to be used without spaces—like this.

>>6031606
or you can you an en dash with spaces

>>6031610
I know it's all made up, but it doesn't say so here I don't think:

http://www.thepunctuationguide.com/en-dash.html

>>6031606
or you can you use an en dash with spaces

nobody ever rates my shitty shit, i give up on this shit

>>6031644
what'd you post?

>>6031653
i posted this worthless trash
>>6031450

>>6031689
>this worthless trash

Your marketing speech at least is cute.

Necessity though, dictates that certain things will remain in this world, regardless of any individual’s contention with the fact. He knew this of politicians, frauds and religious freaks and found a calm dissatisfaction to be the most suitable response. So he continued.

Consumed with thought he absent-mindedly collided with another heading the opposite way down the path. “Oh, sorry” he offered as an indication of apology and lack of malice, the other just nodded silently and continued, it is to be assumed, to wherever it was he was heading before this brief interruption.

>>6031548
I liked it, gradual pacing with just the right amount of detail

this is basically the ending of a short story I wrote.
It's still a rough draft.

Isabelle got up from the kitchen table. “Where is he?” She thought. As she left the kitchen, the rancid smell entered again. It was utterly disgusting. “Might it be from the bathroom at the end of the hallway?” She thought. The hallway had no light bulb, she had to use the light of her cell phone in order to walk through and see. She was afraid. An ominous mood invaded the house. She felt there was something terrible behind the closed doors of the bathroom. With every step she took, she knew she was getting closer and closer to what she refused to believe. She stopped, tears in her face and before opening the door began reading the end of the note.
“I have surrounded myself with all of these sumptuous materials, trying to give my life value but there isn’t any. It is with great pride and discomfort that I say that living is worthless, it is a selfish act. I exist, that’s all. J’existe, c’est tout. My life and my actions have no intrinsic value and I hate myself for contributing to this lie of human existence. In my last days of solitude and loneliness, I prepare for my farewell.”
Isabelle opened the bathroom door and there he was. As beautiful and as ugly as ever.
“If you ever read this Isabelle, I need you to understand that I have loved you since the day I met you, since the day I laid eyes on you, and I never stopped.”
Isabelle got closer to the corpse. He had strangled himself. As she quickly dialed 911 she finished reading the note.
“I understand now. I am free! With pride and honor I can now say”
“911 what is your emergency?”
“I am nobody.”

>>6031277
>>6031277
>>6031277
>>6031277
When you start calling people names before I have a chance to identify with the character I assume he is a douche. Also, your prose is heavy in the parts that should be lighter, and I would drop things like "ran frantically". I'm sure you can find one verb to cover this image.

Here's my revision of the first sentence. He is running, so I created movement. Let me know what you think....

I snapped to a sprint, frantic for the desk-maid snob-swapping stories with a woman made of fur coat.

Sorry, I but I can't translate it into English.

It's a poem that I wrote for a woman (I never gave her though) that was bitching all the time, saying how beautiful she was etc..
It is highly inspired of Ronsard and Malherbe

N'affligeons à la peau des rôles qui lui sied mal
Car s'il fallut qu'un jour, nous trouvassions banal
D'exhiber la blancheur, ou la clarté d'un teint
Sans que l'esprit sitôt, réprimant ce dessein
Le pare sous la honte, d'une rougeâtre pâleur
J'aurais bien en ces temps, quelques maux sur le cœur.
Ayez-donc, pour vous-même, un peu plus de clémence,
L'agencement de nos traits, n'est pas une récompense
Et l'on acquiert par heur un visage soigné
Comme on obtient, par chance, un esprit avisé.
Aussi ne faites cas de votre vénusté
Qu'avecque tempérance et grande humilité
Ou quand la maladie, habile dépeceur
Aura de vos pommettes, avili la couleur
De plus jeunes pourront, chérir leurs beautés
Et vous faire maudire, le cours des années.

It's far from being good, I know, but I'm really searching for critiques

>>6032060
>imparfait du subjonctif

Frente a las puertas de varios metros cuya altura desconosco (oscuridad, miopía) pero de estilo gótico nóctico [rótico mótico] ví los adornos de bonitas figuras de tres criaturas (araxiel, asbeel, asmoday) mirando hacia el suelo. Entrada exhibición aparentemente de poco o ningún uso o para otros (relevantes, importantes) por quienes penan desconocidos y conocidos. No muy lejos de ésta a tres pasos izquierda y giro en la fuente a escalera bajo el neón se encuentra la entrada, la entrada normal para la gente normal con puerta no completamente-efectivamente cerrada semi-abierta amarrada con soga para evitar al *plack*clack*plack* del viento al soplar y que hace la puerta al golpear por el viento. Dos y tres golpes di a la puerta con el pie para llamar y que alguien viniera en socorro del pobre hombre que bajo las sombras se encuentra, dejadme entrar pasar mirar y terminar mis honorables razonables tareas. Golpes repetidos no tan sonoros como gentiles acabaron por abrir la *clang* puerta para dar a un pasillo. La desgracia ha ocurrido, el viento ha abierto la puerta y peligra quienes se encuentran allí, sólo el celador que a esta hora descansa sobre algún trapo en el suelo y harapos de sabánas permanece a esta hora y corresponde avisarle, alertarle del peligro en que se encuentra y que el viento ha abierto la puerta y debe cerrarse o extraños le perturbaran en sueños.
Presa sorpresa encontré una linterna en el bolsillo y mío en coincidencia. Ahora podía iluminar el pasillo con mi lin de bolsillo en fortuita incidencia. Poco poblado con dos o tres criaturas muertas aquí y allá con perros, ratas y gatas presumido manjar para el que todavía descansa. Camino breve con no más de seis minutos a paso ligero por tres lento por dos medio descanso y medio corriendo hasta la cámara de celador, habitación de tres por tres por tres no techo pero con seis tablas que cubrían la zona de su cama la cual era un trapo sobre tierra con medio ladrillo de almohada. La puerta al jardín ha sido abierta y las sombras no cesan su paso, debo presuroso alertar a quien guardia del peligro en que se encuentra, debo despertar a la bella durmiente de su sueño de luz y alegría.

It was in the summer, before shades of red and gold began to metastasize through the trees like an inappropriately vibrant type of cancer, that Aldo’s romantic situation grew desperate. Not that it wasn’t desperate before—he wasn’t delusional—but the month of July brought with it, in addition to the influx of bulky A/Cs poking out of apartment windows and buzzing away, a new milestone for his life.

Along with the Friedrichs and the Frigidaires came a night of sitting alone in his studio apartment, masturbating longingly to memories of old crushes in high school and college, to what-ifs and what-could-have-beens, his efforts illuminated only by the dim light of twenty-five waning candles. The candles were for the cake. The cake was for his birthday.

He was a quarter of a century old and he had done nothing and he had loved no one. Actually, that wasn’t true, he thought. He had loved many times. Starbucks Girl. Fifth Floor Neighbor Who Had Moved Out Last Year. Haley From Ninth Grade P.E. Aldo himself had loved many times, but he had never been loved back—not once. And what was love, really, if it went by unnoticed, unreciprocated? If it ventured forth into the void with no response from the other side, just an endless and uneasy silence, what was it? If it hung in the air, frozen, like a raised palm waiting for a high-five that would never come, what was it? It wasn’t love. He knew that much.

Starbucks Girl had been there one day. Then another. Then one day she was gone, and a large black man had taken her place at the register. The first (and last) conversation he’d had with Fifth Floor Neighbor Who Had Moved Out Last Year had occurred in the small lobby of his apartment building. He had gone downstairs to check his mail. She had gone downstairs to check her mail. They had stood next to one another by the mailboxes (their shoulders slightly touching since 5B was right next to 6A) checking their mail. She had said, I feel like a sardine. He had blushed and said, Yeah. She had closed her mailbox and gone upstairs. He had closed his mailbox and gone upstairs. Then she had moved, leaving behind no trace of her other than some glue-ish residue on the mailbox where the sticker with her name had been before someone peeled it away. Haley From Ninth Grade P.E. had been in the same gym class as Aldo. She had smiled at him once when he’d tripped over his own feet during a dodgeball game and sprawled onto the floor. She had smiled again, a few weeks later, when he managed to eliminate himself from the game by dropping the ball on his foot. On the last day of classes before Christmas break Aldo had thrown the ball at her but she had not been looking and the ball had hit her in the face and bloodied her lip and she had had to go to the nurse’s office and she had come in the next day with five stitches in her lip and she had never smiled at Aldo again.

>>6031277
I like it

"We have a problem," said his grim-faced editor.
"What?" asked the aspiring young novelist, hesitantly taking an uninvited seat in the uncomfortable chair in front of the editor's desk.
"Your manuscript, which we recently accepted for publication, we ran Copyscrape on it to make sure you didn't plagiarize any of it. The result came back positive."
"What? That's impossible! Every word is mine!" He clenched his fists, and his eyes widened with desperation. "There must be a mistake."
"There isn't. We found another text posted online almost two years before you submitted your manuscript to us. It's almost word for word the same."
The novelist sat dumbfounded.
"It seemed to be an extract from Chapter Fourteen posted on some public website called Four Chan, in a writing critique thread."
"Well, yes, of course I posted that. I didn't plagiarize it. It was mine to post."
"You didn't tell us that you had published portions of the novel before. We bought first rights. That's what we paid for."
"Well is it such a big deal? I only posted maybe a thousand words to get some feedback."
"It's a very big deal. You voided our contract before you even signed it."
"No one even knows it's up there! All the posts get deleted. I don't even know how you found it."
"Apparently there's a permanent archive of this Four Chan literature board on another website."
"Well can't I just change the part I posted?"
"No. But this is all beside the point. We no longer have a deal. We're only interested in first rights. We're no longer publishing your novel, and we won't work with you again."
"This is outrageous! I mean--it--it's my dream to be a novelist. I worked so hard, for years...writing, and submitting to all those...only for this to happen." He began to weep.
"I don't care. You need to repay the $10,000 advance we already paid you, or we'll sue you for it as well as damages for fraud."
"I don't have the money anymore. I used it to pay off my student loans." He held his head in his hands.
"Then we're taking you to court."
He exploded to his feet. "This is your loss! I'll edit out that portion and take the book to another publisher and we'll make a fortune!"
"Not after we spread word around about this. Now get out of my office or I'll call security. Don't ever show your face here again."

>>6032060
Malherbe = vieux nazi de la versification

>>6032060
La césure est marquée, le poème est gâché
Ton poème mauvais donne envie de gerber.

>>6032153
I really like this one.

Siren-lights were circling around the street's walls, flashing, spreading light upon the panic-struck paramedic crew. The crew itself was working intensly around what seemed like a hospital stretcher covered by a plastic sheet of some sort, probably purporting to hide the blood (that has already stained the surrounding, say, ten meters.) from the eyes of the mob that was quickly gathered around the scene.
The blood was frighteningly dim, and yet fresh-Some puddles were even still flowing slowly on the ground, as if they have kept the momentum of their movement inside the veins now being evacuated. Between the red splashes stood carefully the different boots of the crowd's people, mostly evening, elegant leather boots.
A sharp observer could also spot a pair of rugged crimson boots, who had their artificial colour-stratum crack, beacuse of over-use supposedly. Behind the bulk of boots were stratching on their tiptoes two modern sneakers, rather mint, and inside them- A tall, thin-looking man. If one had to guess, he would probably deduce him to be at his 30's, and he would be right.

(A post-murder scene from the middle of a short story im writing, the entire shoe-prespective thing becomes relevant within the context)

I am
Typhon-son
One
End- I have
One.

Away
they run
Fear-shun
In War
Blood-wrung
seething
Begun
their armies
Issued
from the rock
Chewed
I have
Teething
with a hundred

Done
I am
Beneath
The mountain
I curse
Worse
I vow
To none
I
Will bow
I
Ladon
To none
Never fall
But the weight
One
But the stone
To None
I will stand

>>6032084
Oui ça me dégoûte un peu, il est très mal ammené et il s'accapare la quasi-totalité de l'hémistiche, ce n'est pas beau du tout il va falloir que je change ça

>>6032176
>La césure est marquée
Evidemment, une rupture à la césure est capitale en poésie classique.

"Qu'en plus d'un lieu le sens n'y gêne la mesure,
Et qu'un mot quelquefois n'y brave la césure :"
Boileau

>gâché
>gerber
C'est pauvre ça (en terme de rime)

>Ton poème mauvais donne envie de gerber.
C'est pas faux.. C'est vachement naïf comme poème, je l'avoue

>>6032161
>>6032176
Are you the same person?

>>6032473
amené**

>>6032153
Tell me you're joking, anon.

3 Years

Claude kneels at a small table next to a great stone fireplace in his home’s living room while his father sits behind him in a brown high backed chair reading an article in The Journal of Applied Mathematics about branching networks in one and two dimensions. The living room is lit only by the flickering fireplace and single lamp shining on the table. Claude is working on a problem set given to him by his father.

“Done” says Claude, holding the paper up for his father to see. The sheet shows four columns and six rows of double digit by double digit multiplication problems.

Alexis grabs a stopwatch, clicks and says “Five minutes, fourteen seconds. You can do better.” He grabs for the paper and looks at it intensely. “Wrong… Wrong…… Wrong…… Wrong… Okay, You’ve gotten four wrong what is your percentage correct?”

“Uh…” Claude is anxious; he did not count the number of problems. He thinks, “six by four is… two-four. Four above two-four is… two above one-two… one above six… half of one above three. One above three is point three three repeating… above two is…” he then speaks “.166 repeating”.

“Those are the answers you’ve gotten wrong.” Alexis crumples the sheet and throws it into the fire. He grabs another from a stack next to his chair. The problems are randomized and no sheet is identical to another. He hands the sheet to Claude, “Again” he says.

Claude takes the sheet and begins working. He feels awful to have disappointed his father again.

>>6032001
>a woman made of fur coat.
I like that.

>>6031176
“You” she cut me off again “are a lazy manipulative leech with nothing to offer the world that consistently drags those with actual prospects down to your level by whipping up some fantasy depiction of yourself that you hope others will find appealing.”

I was speechless.

“How do you suppose I’ll pay for my education now, or do you even care? Will the sociopath simply move along to another target?”

All I could stammer out was “I… I’m not a sociopath.”

She stared for a second and then a small smirk came over her face. She laughed and then said, “Whatever gets you through the day.” She turned away from me and walked toward a row of dormitories.

I thought for a second “I’m not a sociopath, am I? What is the exact definition of a sociopath?” then my stomach grumbled again. I needed to find food now before the restaurants and shops in the area closed. I was still hungry after all.

>>6032517

>are a lazy manipulative leech with nothing to offer the world that consistently drags those with actual prospects down to your level by whipping up some fantasy depiction of yourself that you hope others will find appealing.”

I just don't buy someone saying all this in one breath. You need more periods and commas. I also didn't understand what she's trying to say. I hope the story doesn't start here.

Yeah, I think you need to speak your dialogue aloud to yourself. That would probably help you here.

>>6032153
This needs to be reposted in every single critiques thread just so people know what they're doing.

>>6031176
She was the kind of a woman a man would have to be a complete idiot to stay with longer than two days.

My english not so good. Is such structure alright?

>>6031465
>4chan.org

Silence swept back in to fill the absence. A parted sea, released, violently flooding over the boy. Suddenly short of breath, he started to drown in that quiet. Chest heaving up and down, desperate scrambling of limbs, as eyes widened in horror. Twigs scraped against his bare forearms as he threw himself to his feet. He snatched the book and pen from the ground as if snatching them from in front of some deadly viper.

“Eli wait!” he cried out as he followed in the older boy’s wake.

The forest yielded for him like it hadn’t for Eli. Branches and leaves seemed to bend away from him in reverence. Repulsion? Gabriel had often considered the forest his holy place, a temple and he its high priest. The shadows slicing down from the canopy transformed everything around him. What once he saw as acceptance, even submission was laid bare as hubris. He was tolerated in that place and nothing more. Breath quickened, measured pace became blind stumbling as he sought to escape the choking pastoral solitude.

Warm bright sunlight illuminated wild-eyed features. His breathing slowed, evened, frantic eyes glazed once more with practiced indifference. Eli was nowhere, he hadn’t seen. Another long slow breath, he composed himself. Glancing over himself, he brushed away stray twigs and leaves. It was a church day. There would be a righteous whipping if he was unkempt. Only moneychangers and merchants prostituting holy places would know that same wrath.

>>6032993
trying a bit too hard there... its not bad but it just feels like you are more concerned with having a particularly flowery writing style and it comes off forced

>>6031380
Paging Clint Eastwood, pls direct

>>6033035
Fair enough, I appreciate the feedback thanks.

>>6031548
>>6031548
>>6031548

I hope you don't mind, but I wanted to try and revise the knitting of your story. It presented a nice challenge to try and maintain your story line and flow. Let me know how I did?


The people dripped from the temple doors, murmuring in the veranda where post-communion donuts and coffee were served. Joseph saw the Priest excuse himself and rose to follow him.
At the end of a marbled hall the father's office door protruded by a finger length, and Joseph rapped a polite knock with a rapid brush of his knuckles. Joseph found the Priest seated against the back of a stiff leather chair with one hand posted on his mahogany desk, the other grasping at the hooks to unlatch a poker. The priest rest the poker tilted against the desk, and turned to square his torso with Joseph's. Neatly stacked loose-leaf paper ruffled by the Priest's elbow, and staggered themselves. Joseph's stomach racked like a shotgun firing into his esophagus, and certain features of the trigger man protruded. The Priest's jawbone, charred and petrified, held his sunken face from collapsing into his hollowed vertebrae beneath his thick cassock. Joseph hesitant, left a gaze combing the ossature of the Priest's eyes in low-relief. He could not be sure if he was making eye contact. The Priest's lips cracked with a gasp. Joseph trembled for a moment. He stopped moving, and spoke,
"Are you feeling well?"
Joseph pointed to himself, "Me?"
The Priest's voice was sure and calm. He looked underneath his desk.
"Unless there is someone else in my office--"

Keep 'me coming, faggots.
I like reading your shit. It reminds me that I'm not the shittiest writer in the world.

>>6033276
>Keep 'me coming
>shit shittiest shit shit shit
kek

>>6033279
I like you

Rate me /lit/

Rudolf gave my brow a lick. It was a congratulations on his part to me. I was all reindeer now, and every inch of my rump was practically form fitted to that cock of his. He was waiting for that final moment to show me what he was able to dish out, and what I would no doubt be both capable and willing to take. My slender sex was harder than it had ever been before, and I was quick to add a few drops of whiteness to the already blanketed landscape. If I could speak then I would have begged and pleaded for it, but he just stood over me, balls deep, teasing me mercilessly with nibbles to my ears. Even the sound of his excited breaths drew me in. I'm embarrassed to admit it but I had fallen in love before Rudolf's second thrust.

>>6033297
Pretty bad.

>>6033297
Not even fucking with you, that was a decently flowing read.

One of the staples of literature is the almighty letter. Let us all write a letter to Christopher Poole, or at least some form of farewell.

>>6033297
I despise the term "balls deep", but overally this pretty fine.

>>6032239
any comments? ):

>>6032239

Not bad. I'm not particularly interested in murder mysteries so that's probably tinting my opinion of things a bit, but it feels like it stretches on a bit. Maybe scatter in a few short sentences to break up the long multi-commad mess to give the reader time to rest.

>>6033304
Mind if I ask why? Beyond the revolting subject matter of course.

>>6033307
Thank you.

>>6033346
Thank you as well, and I'm inclined to agree, it sounds so silly even if the visual it brings is personally tantalizing.


I've got a couple more stories that aren't quite as good as this one, going all the way back to my "it's not gay if the subject gets turned into a female roach before getting fucked" days if anyone is interested.

>>6033435
No. no, you got it.

>>6033446

Apologies then. I'm aware this kind of nonsense certainly isn't for everyone, hardly anyone even. I probably should have spoilered it.

>>6033474
Don't worry. We're not on tumblr. You don't have to be concerned about "triggering" people.

Walter could not sleep.

The burning on his tongue seemed intent on reminding him of what little he had accomplished since tearing up the floor boards and collapsing onto the dusty Victorian sofa. Two years, the searing muse screamed, two years and all you have to show for it is a pocket watch and a cigar cutter.

"There's more," he spoke to the reminder in his mouth (though it came out sounding more like "theth moe"), "I just don't like working on an empty stomach." That was a lie, of course. Walter's stomach was almost always empty, and he hadn't worked a day in his life.

A rat with a hooked tail was sipping the tea (cooler now) across the attic near the window, and while the sight made him cringe, Walter knew it was for the best. Caffeine hampered creativity. Reality was already too thick in this place, as the sofa would seem to suggest, and he didn't need any other distractions.

With some effort, he recalled the verse that had upended his modest but happy existence as a traveling minstrel and shackled him to the unhappy avenues of Eyreville:

dream not of the road,
the station of the metro,
eat at Tomino's.

His stomach groaned. He wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

He examined the watch a second time. With a swipe of his thumb, a layer of grime gave way to an ornate savonette cover depicting a man with a staff riding a mare. The glass on the clock face itself had long since shattered, but between the bent arms he could easily make out the letters "IXI".

He wasn't surprised. Like the woman, the letters had been following him ever since the night behind the Sushi Palace.

The cigar cutter was rusted and useless. Walter cursed.

>>6033388
Thank you, and the note will be taken.

>>6033187
Where'd this guy go?

>>6031176
'Uh--verily wherefore doest...' oops start again, 'Sir, what violent passion spurs you to libel the gentleman in question so freely?' The quizzical look that greets my attempt prompts a suspicion that my language has strayed too far into Jane Austin territory. None the less my new companion continues.

"my breath" I breathed under my breath.

The route Sigma 3 took to L2 was long and circuitous, as lissajous orbits always are. Along with the asteroid were hundreds of cargo containers which Durst’s regime believed were filled with food, resources, and potable water. They were not. Once Sigma 3 passed the Nu Duval point defense missile system’s minimum range, charges blew all across the surface. Several capital ships drifted out from hollow chambers. The containers folded outward revealing countless corvettes and frigates.
The colony defense forces mobilized almost immediately. The Nu Duval navy consisted solely of a hundred or so trading barges and maintenance skiffs with railguns strapped on. They seemed almost comical to look at, though they were surprisingly effective. The opening volley popped the EGMF Attlee , EGPF Clegg and EGLD Dole before they could even enter into an approach burn. This victory was terribly short-lived as an avalanche of Uranium pellets and missiles blew one tenth of the makeshift crafts into clouds of screws and plates in an instant. The Earth Gov flotilla split into two at this point. The missile frigates and destroyers looped around to disable the mass drivers while the carriers, corvettes and light attack craft attacked the base of the colony cylinder to soften it up for the marine frigates. Wave after wave broke against a stalwart garrison of railgun wielding irregulars. It seemed that behind every nook and crenulation on the colony base was a zealot on a trigger, and they made the Earth Gov navy bleed for every bomb they let fly. Nestled between the first few attack waves was a ship slightly larger than a corvette, bright red, and delta shaped. This wasn’t an Earth Gov vessel; this was mercenary, The Westside Connection’s flagship, the “No Vaseline” .

His heart pounded as he snuck behind his victim. Her music playing through her music player made her completely oblivious to all the sounds around her. The only things her mind was focusing on was following the path and feeling excited from the many different songs shuffling through her iPod. He stalked her into a wooded area on the path. The entire spot was completely surrounded by trees and bushes. Anyone on the other side of the trees would not be able to see anything happening inside the thickly wooded area she now entered.
Andy stalked after her into the woods. His attacked had to be made here. Once he was within a few feet from her, he stopped to think about what he was about to do.
"Can I do this? Is this really the lifestyle I want?" he asked himself.
Soon he realized he had unconsciously stopped following her to think. She was almost out of the woods and back in the open. He had to act now. He sprinted after her to catch her before she could escape. She was only a few steps away from being back in daylight when he threw his hand around her face and, in a bolt of adrenaline, he threw her body violently down onto the concrete path. The impact her head made to the earth knocked her out immediatly. He was not sure if she was still alive. Everything happened so fast he never stopped to check on her condition. He stole her iPod and ran into the woods so no one would see him in the open.
Eventually her body would be discovered and she would live. The assault would never be solved. Andy's life would never be the same.

General observation that applies to many posts in this thread as well as similar threads:

A lot of you guys rely heavily on adverbs. It's a very lazy method of description. In most cases, context should be enough for the reader to understand that a character "ran frantically" etc. When you use an adverb, think about why you're using it and determine whether or not it is a needless word.

I find overuse of adverbs most egregious in dialogue attribution. Example would be "He said angrily." Is it not clear that he said it angrily? Have you not established a reason or context for this anger? Seems trite to me.

>>6034190
This observation was already made. Your 21 tips inspired advice is ill-founded and undesirable. Adjectives are the enemy.

Before my dad disconnected his cellphone and ran away with his secretary, he left me a note. In his frantic, manic scrawl, he scribbled that he left ten thousand dollars worth of crumpled up hundred dollar bills hidden around the house. “Either save it for college,” he wrote, “or buy a fake and spend it on beer. Your choice.”

I read the note at eight in the morning. I checked his bedroom; it was empty. There were clothes scattered on the floor, bras hanging from his lamps, an unsnorted line of coke on the wood finish of his dresser top. I looked under his pillow and found my first hundred.

>>6034200
It's such a shame that this kind of response is commonplace. If you have something constructive to say about my post I'd love to hear it. It doesn't help any writer, myself included, to claim that the advice is "ill-founded and undesirable" without stating WHY you believe that is true. Educate me

>>6034190
For what it's worth, I appreciate being reminded.

>>6034233
I was just being a douche.

Not going to translate it. The first two paragraphs of my last book.

"Havia nas têmporas de Augusto ares de deuses antigos, algo que inspirava um terror ancião.

Era o dia de todos os santos, e como nunca, o professor de teologia bradava nos sulcos das paredes de sua biblioteca tudo de horrível e insensato. Pequenas faíscas de angústia ardendo no espírito: chegara enfim o dia do juízo final."

>>6034512
>Not going to translate it.
What's even the point in posting then?

>>6034532
Well, there are lusophone people in here, and I'm pretty sure that people who speak spanish would understand a bit of it.

>>6034512
>not writing in english

Fucking pleb
I want to ask for an email só pra manter contato com um /lit/erato que fala português Too drunk to properly critique, não vou nem ao menos tentar

>>6034532
because, i suppose, there's a fair chance some of the people who post here share his native language and will comment on it. if he translated it chances are things will likely get, as they say, lost in translation. especially since english is probably a second language to that guy.

i know this is an english-language site but seriously i don't see the harm in doing this. please un-butthurt yourself.

>>6034558
No way I'm gonna give meu e-mail para um tarado no 4chan even though eu queira manter contato com alguém minimamente civilizado in this country. Se não civilizado, que leia, at least.

>>6034630
nigger i dont speak beaner

I cant believe I actually posted this. but have some kids fiction/ high fantasy

“The wolves promised our safety, remember?” With that she stepped inside of the cave, and not long after she heard the reluctant clop of hooves behind her. Once inside, the cave was not as daunting as she had originally imagined. There were cracks in the top, so great shafts of light fell from the ceiling and illuminated the area. The walls sparkled with different minerals, and a clear pool of water was off to the far left, the minerals created a great basin around it making it as if the cave had been created around the pool itself. The pool made Sasha remember her thirst from the two days of walking it had taken to get here. Char’s long ears flicked toward the pool, but something felt off. She nudged Sasha with her black muzzle, directing her thoughts at her.
“Don’t touch the pool, Sasha, something is off. I feel it.” Char flicked her tail once, eyeing the wolf called Bane and wondering how much she could trust him. Bane nodded, shaking his shaggy grey fur and offering a dangerous smile.
“Your horse is correct. For now its best you keep your distance from that pool. Come.” He gestured with his head, deeper into the cave, and trotted off.
“I’m no-ones horse,” Char muttered, but continued to follow the wolf deeper into the cave. The girl and horse followed Bane throughout craggy halls and chambers, the cavern was silent save for the clop of Char’s great hooves and the drop of liquid from stalagmites. Eventually they reached a final chamber and Bane halted.
“I go no further. She has much to tell you.” Sasha nodded, trying to swallow her fear. She was about to take another step forward but Bane spoke once more. The intensity of his yellow gaze made her want to hide in a crack.
“Remember, One-of-many-tongues, that it was the wolves that helped you.” He dipped his head and stepped backward. Sasha smiled at Bane, nodding.
“I will remember.” Then she stepped forward through the rest of the hall and into the chamber. Char followed after her, ears flicking for sounds up ahead. A voice, old, but strong, came from the shadows. It belonged to a female.
“One-of-many-tongues. It is a pleasure to see one of you still alive.” A large wolf, easily twice the size of Bane, stepped from the shadows. She was gaunt and moved slowly. Her eyes, milky blue and rimmed with crust, stared directly into the passage behind them. Char took a step back, snorting.
“She’s blind, Sasha.” The wolf lifted her head slightly, fixing her sightless gaze on Char. Her lip curled slowly, revealing rows of yellowed teeth.
“But not deaf.” The she-wolf said lightly. Her voice had the ability to turn Sasha’s blood to ice. The white wolf relaxed, then reclining onto her haunches and adopting a friendlier posture.
“But where are my manners? Please, call me Mother.”

>>6034630
>tarado
Nigga r u a grill or are you over 40 years old?
Also
>implying I'd be able to do you any harm through an email only (except maybe send some spam but I have no reason to do spoil uma noite de quarta-feira procurando maneiras de mandar spam pra alguém que postou algo decente no lit)

>>6034703
>to spoil etc
I was going to say "to do so" and changed my mind mid-sentence

>>6034703
Post something decent yourself, faggot, and I'll change my mind.

It was that time of night. The cocaine had long since worn off. He stepped out into the night, the sounds of Pacific Beach Bar and Grill still a half hearted riot behind him. The sounds of revelry and EDM belied the shrinking dance floor. Ever growing swathes of popped balloons and streamers replacing the dancers. Sliding his feet along the floor he had come up with two streamers stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He shook them off clumsily and looked around. No one was looking. Amorous eyes gazed into each other, no doubt oblivious to the hungry men who stood about, sipping their drinks and tapping their feet, just watching.

It was cold for San Diego, damn cold. He shrugged his shoulders into his jacket, lit a cigarette and thought about divine intervention. It wasn’t that time of night. He trundled down Garnet, passing clubs, drink houses, and places to eat. It was that time of night. Drunks struggled against police who clogged the road with their lights and the short yip of sirens. Girls drunkenly restrained their sodden boyfriends, alternately aggressive at the outside world and their frustrated lovers. Gaggles of women, no, girls, freezing in the unnaturally cold San Diego winter, huddled close, their voices all a shrieking stammer. He wasn’t used to this cold.
He passed an arguing couple. The man, drunk, eyes glazed over with singular purpose, insisted they move west, and was rebuffed, “Andy, please. Andy come on.”

A particularly large group of police strode importantly around, cruiser doors open, handling business. Their light shone, and they seemed to be dispersing a crowd outside of Johnny V’s.

“What’s going on?” he asked someone. The man turned, a young man, bearded and huddled against the cold, smoking slowly on a Camel Light.

“I’m certain I don’t know,” they both laughed and looked on, “That time of night though.” He nodded in agreement and continued down the street. The man’s parting words were lost in a swirl of wind that blew them back down the street, west, to the sea. He continued on, observing the shivering women in their tight dresses and black stockings. A black man walked authoritatively down the street wearing a clean white suite. It was night time and he couldn’t quite make the color of his shirt, or the pattern of the tie, but the man walked upright, with a formal bearing.

“Nice suit man,” he said as he walked by.

“Thanks a lot, brother.” He sounded like he meant it.

>>6034743
It carried on like this. Crowds of young people in various orders of disarray. New Years was always a shit-show, but it had been cold this year, restrained. Those who braved the weather had less energy for fights with each other, the bottle, the police... Though inside he had stood next to two guys. Eyes familiarly absent and painted over so that no light shone through, ejaculating ‘bro’ at each other, chest to chest. He felt bad for the women who thrust themselves between, scared and nervous that their party should break down into fisticuffs. A crowd had cleared on the dance floor and other parties already had their phones trained on the engagement. A man in a sharp vest joked with him and yelled “worldstar.”

If ever you are out, whether among friends or not, and someone yells “worldstar,” keep your head on a swivel. The last time he had heard world star they had been leaving McFadden’s. They were always giving an open bar to someone, so as to coax their friends into coming and leaving large tips. Him and his friends all left staggering drunk, fueled with testosterone and ready for anything: a fight, a woman, jail. A squabble had broken out between one of his party and another exceedingly drunk patron. You could see the familiar absent expressions, empty eyes blunted to violence and social mores. Alex and him had had words, things escalated until they each puffed their chests at each other. Tensions rose and then were ratcheted down, as the many other sensitive folks rushed between them, to calm things.

>>6034747
Just when things seemed smoothed over, the time in the night when we all retire to our cars to gossip about how man we were, how much of a pussy the other party had been- Alex punched him. It wasn’t a hay maker, just a solid Thwap as his knuckles connected with the dangling chin. All hell broke loose.

The crowd became a riot, Alex and his enemy disappeared down a side street and he ran after, afraid of what may come next. They were downtown, the police were no doubt already here. He ran two blocks after them, heart in his throat. Onlookers yelled “worldstar” behind him. He spun and saw them squaring off in the street. Fists up in the middle of the road, cars be damned, Alex landed two solid shots, but the drunk goon seemed completely unphased. He ran toward the scene, unsure whether to knock the offender out or break it up when their other friend Brandon entered, stage left. He connected with his knuckles across the man’s chin, who went down hard on the asphalt. Ever the opportunists Brandon and Alex tagged him again, twice each, and the rest of the party rushed in to hustle them away. Onlookers yelled “worldstar” and waved their glowing phones, streamers of light in the muted night. They needed to get out of there now. The police were likely on their way. Someone had had the good sense to grab the van, and they piled in, a riot of testosterone. The legend already taking shape, chattering breathlessly in the back seats. The van sped away, out of the probing reaches of the law. It had been that time of night then, as well.

>>6034718
I was hoping my beautiful 4chan post prose would show you how amazing I am but I guess you don't really want to associate with the next Nabokov. Too bad.

>>6031345
I like it

>>6034558
faggot vonlobat@gmail.com

>>6031450
there's not much to critique. there's no context so all i can say is at least you aren't overflowing with purple prose

>>6031194
>>6031200
Hoo boy, that's some GENERIC fantasy

>>6031277
Agree that your narrator is an awful douche. If that's what you were going for, great. If we're supposed to sympathize, better rethink him a bit (or maybe provide some context for this outburst). Your writing is clunky, is English your first language? "...slowly falling to the ground in this slow motion world..." is redundant, as is the recurring use of witch - which I guess could be a stylistic thing, but it's not handled with any grace or flair. Rewrite the whole thing. For instance, try, "Even her scream had a snobbish tone..." rather than what you have; "seemed" is more often than not a filler word and really slows the pace of a scene.

>>6031327
Not enough context to really comment on this, though I'd be interested in reading more.

>>6031345
Better than anything I've read ITT so far, you actually have a handle on how to form a sentence, which is a plus. Don't really like the inanimate object as narrator shtick, but that's just a preference. You switch tense somewhere in there - in the beginning "life seems," "cars speed," "people pass." By the end, "the stairs found," "another person came," an "acquaintance appeared."

>>6031533
Space pirates, holy christ. You also know how to write a coherent sentence. Dialogue is unnatural. Pet peeve, dialogue typically works this way: "But blood will eventually dry out," she stated. Comma at the end, followed by the "she said" clause, no capitalization. "She'd" is superfluous here, means "she had stated." Would space pirates really use words like cheesy and lame? This ain't an anime son.

>>6031548
Nicely done, I'd love to read more.

>>6031594
Can't really say anything bad about this. I really can't stand this narrative voice though, at least not without a little more context.

>>6031754
Too short to say anything about.

>>6031810
The character's internal monologue is awful to read, not believable in the slightest. Corny way to end imo.

>>6032110
I told you what I thought of this in the last thread and you got mad as hell.

>>6032153
Hahahahahaha. Dialogue is actually pretty good though.

>>6032239
From the beginning: change "were circling around" to "circled." It's "panic-stricken." Change "The crew itself was..." to "They were..." Get rid of "what seemed," "of some sort," and "probably purporting." You're describing a scene, don't just suggest the surroundings. The parenthetical section contains immediately useful information, get rid of the parentheses and get that "say," out of there. Either get rid of the "was" or change "gathered" to "gathering." How can blood be dim? Get rid of "even." Change "have" to "had." End of that sentence is awkward, strike it or rephrase it (the now-empty vein?). The whole shoes section is a fucking trainwreck, frankly; I'm not even gonna bother with it.

>>6032517
Writing from experience, anon?

Marcus stood in front of the window as his mind began to crumble. He could feel the edges of his vision blurring as if his brain was rejecting the sight. Beneath the graying sky was an ocean of writhing vines. The amalgamation of thick, reddish vines filled the streets and was working it's way up the sides of the surrounding buildings. Marcus, no stranger to anxiety, could feel the beginnings of a panic attack coming on. He half-sat, half-fell onto his bed as he reached for the television remote. The cable was dead.

Living in the city for fifteen years had left Marcus feeling deaf at the realization that there was no sound apart from his labored breathing. He closed the blinds and went to pour a glass of water to loosen the knot in his throat. A pounding came from the door, interrupting him. He headed towards the door to meet his impatient visitor.

Jesus wept.

“This shall be a fine battle.”

Valens Sigrun had seen enough action in his thirty-three years to know that this was going to be a massacre, not a battle. Julian was ten winters his junior. His optimism that some sort of actual challenge could be hewn from the scattered clutches of armed rabble arrayed before them was embarrassing. Valens watched the young page eagerly twist the reins of his horse about his fingers, waiting for the command from his general to charge; that was the sort of eagerness only came from the ignorance of a fresh campaigner. None of his other commanders indulged in it.

There was no doubt in Valens’ mind that they would carry the field easily once the assorted farmers and day laborers had their first taste of steel. The real expenditure of manpower would come from rooting the stragglers out of the nearby ruins of Icia. The city had been one of the many hastily-built holdfasts during the Season of Swelling. Its glory days were through. Traders had moved south with the majority of the population, tightening the noose on these frontier settlements. The grand cities in the Lakelands were now the center of the Kabatan Empire. These people were simply what were left of the last holdouts. They couldn’t accept that things had changed. That the Empire had changed. That it would change no matter how many armories they raided or what kinds of demands they made.

Deciding that Julian could be left to his naïve notions, Valens simply motioned to his second to begin the languid march toward the city. This called for a show of force, not tactical prowess. The Empire needed something to remind others of what not changing with the times could bring. Valens Sigrun would make this bonfire and light it. Let Icia be a beacon to warn others of the dangerous rocks.

“Shall we offer a sally, Sir?” Julian asked. His voice carried over the staggered half-gallop of the line. He was so eager to begin. His fingers were once again worrying his reins. Now Valens could see the telltale signs in his arm. The dark purple veins were starting to run up his bare shoulder as they galloped. Even a paltry skirmish like this would call to his Heart. Valens wondered if this was Julian’s first battle since his Quickening. It would certainly explain the boy’s inability to carry himself with decorum.

That's about the only piece of original fiction I have. I mostly write fan fiction.

HIGH HOPES COLLECTIVE is sprawled across the side of a building, advertising cheap donations and convenient service. Bob Kennedy tips his cap at the text graffito-ed onto the wall, affirming its tacky character with a smirk of genuine approval. The building is a mini-mall's rendition of Shakespeare's globe, a brief duality of parking spaces topped on all sides with two stories of sleek low-income operations. Keeping up appearances, Bob strokes his goate and makes his way to the staircase. Upstairs, a door labeled FTP 5G OG VIP DOGO 24H is assumed to be the correct one. He buzzes the door and waits patiently for several minutes. An 89db buzz screams from the door and Bob latches onto it, lightning fast. He swings it open wide to find a pair of lackey mall cops through a metal cage, their eyes bloodred and staring deep at nothing. He's buzzed on in again and told to have a seat there in the waiting room, his eyes fixed hard on Entertainment's cover, bravely sneaking in a peek at People, briefly.
'KENNEDY' an Anglo, female voice calls from a speaker, somewhere.
'Yessir.' Bob leaps up and swings the third door open. Panicking, he sees himself surrounded by women. Five of them in total, weight and looks all varied, tending casually to canisters of state-grade marijuana.
'Umm, ma'am. Ma'ams.'
'Bob Kennedy?'
'Yes.'
'Hey. Just a moment. Several patients there ahead of you.'
He turns his head a smooth ninety degrees and eyes the line of eight or so patients waiting behind him.
'Sorry. So sorry,' he exclaims. Almost gasping. 'Third time patient.'
Moving past the mob of uglies, finally at place in line, he mops a patch of sweat off from his forehead with a kerchief, sniffing quietly and eyeing all the weed. His image, goate and hat, is beaming from a monitor above the pentateuch of ladies.
'Image,' Bob is saying, unawares. He catches here and there an evil look from other patients. He wipes another coat of sweat away, feigning smiles, keeping cool.
'These goddamned pipes, you know,' he says to no-one in particular. 'Can't keep the goddamned place cool. Southern California in July, and it's a problem with pipes, goddamnit.'
'Is there problem?' Medvi, owner of the HHC, comes strolling through the office doors. His arab jowls and peckish skin betray a lack of confidence in dealing well with crazies.
'It's just Bob again,' a girl says, a pretty one with auburn hair and ugly eyes.
'Good old Bob,' a patient says, earning tepid slaps from a companion.
'The air in here,' says Bob again. 'The goddamned pipes. They reek of bloody oil. You're felching petrol from the Earth and calling it air, my friend. That's illegal and, very likely, environmentally unethical.'
'Is just Bob again?' old Medvi to the girl, sidelining Bob.
'Just Bob. An eighth of something mild and he's gone for three more days. No worries.'
Shaken, Kennedy looks down and at his feet, an ancient pair of nikes stained with muck and urban jissom.

>>6034898
Mine is >>6031345 thanks for the input. The inanimate narrator thing is meant to be somewhat schticky, because the narrative is told from a human perspective, but between each chapter there's a small section from the perspective of the city to attempt to depict the view of the city as a living object.

>>6035021
Ayyy

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MoA63WunEJ0

http://pastebin.com/Rx5ia45x
I am greatly attached to this work. If you could critique it I'd greatly appreciate it.

>>6035265

"Honey, will you be my cuck?"

"OK"

>>6035265

Cut out the list of 'themes' and the murakami quote, im not sure what youre going for with that

Your writing is somewhat boring. I cant be arsed to care about some chick just because she's a Mormon and having a tough time at college. That's just me, though. Maybe you're going for something digestible or endearing, or maybe you're religious yourself.

>>6034928
A solid subject, nice imagery and detail. The diction is excellent without being superfluous.
The "don't tell us, show us" rule is not always applicable, but here I think it is, namely in regards to how he "feels," not in the literal sense but in the sense of "feel" as a verb.
For example:
>He could feel the edges of his vision blurring as if his brain was rejecting the sight.
should be
>The edges of his vision was blurring, as if his brain was rejecting the sight.
This sentence in particular is alot stronger this way, it establishes that he is not in control.
Keep up the good work.

>>6035033
>That's about the only piece of original fiction I have. I mostly write fan fiction
Come on, I tried to like it, but as soon as I read that line I couldn't handle it.

>>6035320
>The edges of his vision was blurring

>>6035329
There is nothing inherently wrong about fan fiction.

>>6035374
False.

Antoine lowered his right arm and threw a quick punch to Becher’s exposed stomach. The drunken man fell backwards from the surprise impact onto the bed with a sudden wail. He gasped for a moment and opened his eyes in disbelief as Antoine turned towards Clement. “Let’s go,” he said in a low guttural growl. Clement nodded in assent and put his sunglasses back on, stealing a quick glance at his old companion, seething mad on the white rubber-matted floor. As Clement made the first step towards the door Becher grabbed the glass liter bottle of gin to his left by the neck and leaped forward, bringing the bottle around in an arc as he sprang from the ground, towards Antoine’s exposed head.
Clement barely registered this sudden and unsuspected assault before Becher made successful and explosive contact with his intended target. Antoine gasped as the cheap glass bottle fractured into dozens of pieces on his shaved head. The small amount of undrunken gin escaped its vessel like some vengeful djinn and splattered into Antoine’s wide eyes, blinding and burning him. He howled and brought his hands to face, buckling one knee to the floor. A faint instinct somewhere deep within Clement reminded him that he needed to act, that something must be done. Becher was already on the move, though. He cleared the short distance that separated him from Antoine, still wielding the broken neck of the glass bottle, the end jagged like so many snarling teeth. He jabbed this desperate weapon with a fierce cry towards Antoine’s chest. His target, blinking his eyes in a frantic attempt to regain his capacity for sight, twitched unsuspectingly. His strained bicep eclipsed his chest, absorbing the glass fangs speeding towards him. The glass sunk deep into his skin and muscle and he squealed in a deep and frightful agony.
Becher twisted the bottle with a sadistic glee, ripping and tearing and rendering impotent
his adversary’s arm. As Antoine bled from both head and arm, Clement threw a wild punch to the side of Becher’s head. His knuckles seared with pain as they collided with ear and skull and he drew his fist back on instinct. Becher lost his balance from the suckerpunch and stumbled around stupidly before collapsing into the wall. He tried to steady himself but failed. Clement saw Antoine grasping for a piece of broken class and shouted at him. Antoine growled and blinked his eyes as Clement snatched the potential instrument for murder and held it awkwardly in his hand. “He’s dead!” Antoine howled. Becher tried to get up again but slipped on blood and gin and fell lamely on his back. He had an expression on his face not unlike an abashed child.
1/2

>>6035384
“No!” Clement seized Antoine by the shoulders and looked him in his numbed eyes. “You can’t kill him. Not today, not here.” Antoine, although furious, seemed to understand and winced as he stepped towards Clement’s one time friend. Holding his bleeding arm, he brought his right leg back, as if to take a penalty kick, and loosed it into Becher’s head. Becher moaned weakly as his nose snapped and his front two teeth fell out. He started to sob. Antoine drew back to kick again and landed another vengeful blow on his downed opponent. He let out a cathartic growl and prepped to kick again, his white shirt soaked with blood and his eyes red and wild. Clement grabbed Antoine by the shoulder and forcefully dragged him towards the door. He took one last glance at Becher, rolling pitifully on the floor of his room, and pushed through with Antoine in tow.

Most of the staff stood dumbfounded in the hallway outside Clement’s room. He grimaced and pulled Antoine, staring dead ahead. He tried not to catch anyone’s face through the navy-blue lenses of his sunglasses. When his roving eyes did land on someone he saw disgust, jealousy, and hate. Their arms were crossed and their brows furrowed. He pushed ahead as Antoine shouted furious protests to have Becher arrested for attempted murder and assault. Those among the unsympathetic crowd who considered Clement their friend looked away, as if they were somehow guilty of abetting the events that just unfolded. Those who were never particularly fond of him and sported outright hatred for Antoine stared daggers at the pair as they shoved their way towards the living room, towards the bunker’s exit, to an unequivocally better and more glorious future. Once Clement and Antoine broke free of the crowd the jeers began. Most were aimed at Antoine, but a few cursed Clement’s name as well. A trail of splattered blood along a clean white floor followed them as they limped, finally now, away from the people who hated them and they in turn hated. As they reached the exit, Clement curiously thought of the sunny day back in high school that he and Becher biked twelve miles to the beach to flirt with some girls they knew from school. He smiled slightly and chided himself the sentimental lapse. It was a stupid memory.
2/2

OT:

I am not sure where else to ask this, and I didn't want to start a new thread because that seemed silly.

I am 25, have a passion for reading and writing in my spare time, but I never want to college. After high school I went into welding and make a comfortable enough living for someone my age. I have no interest in transitioning into writing as my main career.

With that being said I do have an interest in writing better. What I've done for a few years now is just write small concepts, tidbits for things, sometimes very long chronological summaries of stories I'd like to write. The reason why I don't progress beyond this is because I don't know how.

Going to college is off the table, but by that I mean take two or three classes per day, taking GE courses, etc. and earning a degree in English, or whatever. This seems like a tremendous waste of time and money. And because of this I'd much rather just focus on the specific subject I'm interested in anyway.

How would I go about learning more and really have the teaching stick? Reading books on the subject? Workshops? Can I even go to college part-time for this? What?

I am all ears and hope someone here can lend a little insight into what they did.

the more she drank, the more she shat

>>6032239
Your diction is atrocious. I am going to rewrite this, and hopefully it will clear some things up for you.

>>6035412
Online courses, maybe? You don't need to be an english major to be a good writer.

With a little prodding from you, Ms. Takamura comes up with an idea. "I want to give you a titty-fuck!" she exclaims. "I've always wanted to, and now that I'm big enough..." With one arm, she sweeps most of the contents of her desk onto the floor, and with her other arm, she pulls down her corset, revealing her brown nipples, in the middle of aureolas the size of salad plates. She lies down, her titanic tits sticking up in the air, and she extends her arms way out to the sides in order to mash them together for you. "Come on, Tommy, you know you want to! Fuck my tits!"

That's all the encouragement you need. You pull down your pants, and it's almost as if a baseball bat springs out from your crotch -- you're at your full 14 inches, and your cock throbs with each heartbeat. You take full advantage of your newly lithe, muscular body, effortlessly vaulting yourself up onto the desk, kneeling with one leg on either side of Ms. Takamura's body, still petite aside from the overgrown tits.

You thrust into her massive cleavage. Thanks to her increased sensitivity, she gasps and moans. Thrust, gasp, thrust, moan, thrust, gasp, thrust, moan... At last, she lets out "Oh, my (gasp) God, I'm (moan) going to come --" and you let yourself go just as she lets out a piercing shriek.

She lies back and takes a couple of deep breaths. You're impressed by the product of your enlarged balls, in the form of the white fluid that now coats her mouth, chin, and upper chest. You quickly give her a love for the taste of cum and, just for fun, a magically elongating, prehensile tongue.

As you pull your pants back on, she licks herself clean, once again moaning every time she retracts her tongue and swallows. Finally she's reasonably taken care of, and she manages to pull her corset back up as she gets off the desk and into her chair.

"That was fucking amazing," she says, still breathing a little bit heavily. "Whatever club I'm at, I'm gonna put you on the VIP list. Guess I gotta go talk to Mr. Ellsworth about quitting."

"Forget the principal. I don't think you should quit," you say.

"Huh? Why not?"

"Because like you said before," you point out, "you can do a lot of good convincing the girls at this school to become strippers or porn stars, or maybe even hookers. In fact, I'll give you some of my power so you can be more persuasive."

>>6035456

With a thought from you, the motivational posters on her office walls are replaced with a few new posters: a close-up of a G-string on a woman's body, plenty of dollar bills stuffed into it, is captioned "Stripping: A 'Singular' Career." A montage of screenshots from porn movies is overlaid with "Entertain the World: Act in Adult Films." And the silhouette of a scantily-clad woman leaning against a lamppost reads "Discover the World's Oldest Profession."

"Wow, that's great," she says, "but some of the girls here are kinda fugly, if you know what I mean."

You grin. "I might take care of that, but I'll give you the power to change them, in case you talk to someone I haven't gotten around to yet."

With another thought from you, the items that were knocked onto the floor are now back on her desk. She looks at what appears to be an appointment calendar and says, "I'm talking to a couple of girls about college plans today. Uh..."

"Second drawer down," you say. You've given her a drawer full of brochures, matching the new posters, for her to hand out to girls who visit. "As for me, I've got some more to do."

"Come back anytime," says the altered Ms. Takamura, a dreamy expression on her face.

>>6035320
Thanks man, I'll take that into consideration.

Salieri made contact and then it was all over. He, nor anybody else knew the outcome yet, but the game had been decided right then and there. The ball soared valiantly for a moment, but slowly lost vigor until ultimately making contact with the bar, and deflecting with a quiet, yet resounding ring. The dejected kicker hung is head as the clock struck zero, and crowd and fireworks alike erupted with sonorous release. In this brief instant, everyone was happy.
Or so it seemed to Joe Rosen who, brandishing his saxophone triumphantly, pierced the ecstasy of the moment with a familiar melody. He, along with the rest of the band, had had a particularly clear view of the goal post, and watched anxiously until victory was assured. He was rewarded now. They serenaded the crowd with merry dinn and then joined in vocal uproar, being absorbed into the universal satisfaction of the scene.

"he aked me ",may i tuch ur pensi" an i sad " yes",

>>6035570
Is that you Sapphire?

>>6031277
Yeah it's not bad.

It needs an edit, you're re-iterating a bit and inserting some unneeded particles that are tripping the pace up.

eg:

>this one a younger woman...
you've already identified 'snob' as the object in the prior clause delete 'this one' after the comma

>...like they all do, as if they weren't really talking...
'like they all do' comes across as a foible, it doesn't say anything but it might be apt in the context of the character.

>My blood was burning, I really do...
Reiterating the first statement here is a probably a good idea. I noticed you tried to up the stakes but it still comes over as repetitious. this again might be apt in he context ot the character but consider: 'My blood really was burning...' makes it the reiteration more explicit.

You've got a very ugly '...and all and...' try this:

...bitch out of the way, long thin limbs and all, I positioned...' a longer pause might work too.

>>6031194
>shrieked

>>6034898
im >>6032239
First of all thanks.
I am going to rewrite this part and see if I can get the fixes right. Care to expand about
>You're describing a scene, don't just suggest the surroundings ?

>>6035424
Many thanks in advance, I'll look forward to it.

>>6036636
Alright. This is what I have for you. I have read your stuff multiple times, and JUST realized that you had a killer in the crowd. After this post, and maybe in another thread, I am going to give you a sentence-by-sentence critique.

Shrill sirens and revolving lights flanked panick-stricken bystanders. Paramedics tugged at the corners of a tarp to keep a body hidden, uncovering pale arms gashed through to the bicep, and two sneakers busted at their soles. Each appendage drew a gasp from the crowd, and a warning from the police who kept them just beyond the crimson stained pavement.

Feel free to ask about any changes, and I'll explain them to you.

>>6036416
see
>>6032001

"Its 9’o’clock in morning, glum and windy. I’m 19 years and ten days old. Ten days day ago I tore open a rather stiff envelope, procuring a ticket for a single flying lesson, shadowing a pilot in a small passenger plane for 40 minutes over the South Essex area, where I lived. I stand alone at the end of the runway as a large, hulk-ish man with wild grey hair fluttering in the wind emerges out of a tiny aeroplane, as if it was much bigger on the inside. I look forward to having my face deformed against the windscreen. He waves a large frying pan hand at me, and I return the sentiment. Pulling my collar up to divert the wind blasting down my back I make a jog to meet him.
“Cameron, yes?” he says gruffly, but friendly, thrusting his hand out to me.
“Yes” I say firmly grasping his hand and trying to keep my wrist from snapping as he shakes my organs about. I do enjoy a proper handshake.
“Duncan” he nods. “You’re in this side then” he beckons into the side of the cockpit he previously emerged from.
I clamber up onto the seat and then sink slightly into it. I find a cog like wheel that adjusts the angle of the seat and inch myself forwards a little. ‘Put your belt on’ he commands as he hauls him self into the plane. The belt is more of a harness, with a big clip right in the centre. I can’t help thinking that if an object is going to have a point of failure its going to be the big clip in the centre.
As I start to relax into the rather comfortable seat I fancy I can smell whisky, especially as Duncan writhes about with the intricate harness. I’m certain the smell is emanating from his crinkled old clothes and his breath as he sighs deeply and swings his door shut."


Honest opinions appreciated.

>>6038359

Just noticed the repetition of 'day', appypollyloggies.

>>6036636
Why does it just "seem" to be a hospital stretcher? Why a plastic sheet of "some sort?" What's the point of such ambiguity, aside from fleshing out your word count? The perspective is 3rd person; your narrator appears to be omniscient (or at least close) and impersonal. Phrases like "seemed like" and "probably purporting" don't jive with the bird's-eye view you're providing us. If your narrator were a member of the crowd, uncertainty about the situation would be expected, but that's not the case.

Get rid of the pointless ambiguities, all they do is clutter your prose and weaken the narrator's voice. Don't say, "Things seemed this way;" opt for the more direct, "Things were this way." (Unless the text calls for some seeming, but I don't want to complicate things too much).That's what I mean by "suggesting the surroundings," rather than describing them.

>>6038546
go look at this
>>6038089


We have similar critiques.

Sitting Alone in the Coffee Shop, I Remember

You once told me
If I left,
I’d never find a love so good
As what we had ever again.
It was the kind of love
That felt like opening up a book
To the exact sentence
You were looking for
On the first try.
Well I guess
You were right.

Silently
Approaching memories I
Forget, tomorrow you will
Open the door
Once, more I can sense
It is ending
Reality is
I am a cuck

A city in ruins. A wide street. Motorcycle noises.
The leader with the eyepatch and the mohawk revved his motorcycle’s engine and laughed loudly. His motorcycle gang members were riding circles around a helpless girl, preventing her from getting away.
A mysterious loner entered the outskirts of the broken, dusty city, and heard the commotion. He leapt into the air with superhuman vampire strength and landed on the roof of one of the tallest buildings still standing. A cloud of dust caught his eye. With his superhuman vampire zoom vision he zeroed in on the source of the cloud: the motorcycle gang. He then turned on his superhuman vampire thermal vision and through the dust cloud he saw the helpless girl who was unable to escape. He squinted angrily, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Then his superhuman hearing picked up the girl’s screams; they sounded just like the screams of his girlfriend when his brother Flashbird killed her in front of his eyes.
He squinted even more angrily.

- “That’s it, you bastards.” He grunted.

With a great leap he disappeared from the rooftop… and landed hard just behind the motorcycle gang leader. The loud thud of his landing interrupted the motorcycle gang leader mid-laugh, who uttered an audible “huh?” with a surprised look on his eyepatched face. He looked behind him and saw a cloud of dust created by the hard landing. Then he noticed a silhouette emerging from the dust. It was Rhyce, and he was angry.

- “Having fun?”
- “Who the fuck are you, mysterious stranger?”
- “You and I, let’s just say I’m that girl’s boyfriend. And I don’t like when people mess with my girlfriend.” He said as he cracked his neck to the left and then to the right.

The girl overheard and stopped screaming.

- “Who the fuck is that?” She asked.

The motorcycle gang that was encircling her also overheard and came to a standstill. They shut off their motorcycles.
The gang leader began to speak:

- “You know this guy?” He asked.
- “No, I’ve never seen him in my life.” She replied to him.

The gang leader looked puzzled.

- “Dude, why would you say she’s your girlfriend when she doesn’t even know you?”

The gang leader, the gang, and the girl were all looking at him.
Rhyce had hidden his face behind his massive collar and the shadow of his hair. He looked really cool and mysterious like this.

- “N-no reason.”

And he turned and disappeared into the setting sun, his coat flapping in the wind.

The motorcycle leader shrugged and made a circular motion in the air with his finger. The gang started their engines again and started circling the girl again who started screaming again.

- “Still no luck.” Said Rhyce. “You will be mine soon Flashbird. Real soon…”

>>6040438
>Flashbird
Could it be the same?

>>6040438
This is some faggy shit.

>>6040899
>I didn't faint, I had a flashback
>Sure you did

>>6040438
>- “You and I, let’s just say I’m that girl’s boyfriend. And I don’t like when people mess with my girlfriend.” He said as he cracked his neck to the left and then to the right.
>The girl overheard and stopped screaming.
>- “Who the fuck is that?” She asked.
>The motorcycle gang that was encircling her also overheard and came to a standstill. They shut off their motorcycles.
>The gang leader began to speak:
>- “You know this guy?” He asked.
>- “No, I’ve never seen him in my life.” She replied to him.
>The gang leader looked puzzled.
>- “Dude, why would you say she’s your girlfriend when she doesn’t even know you?”
>The gang leader, the gang, and the girl were all looking at him.
>Rhyce had hidden his face behind his massive collar and the shadow of his hair. He looked really cool and mysterious like this.
>- “N-no reason.”

>>6031176
There was a strange familiarity to the red that spilled from the trio. Despite their differences, it was the same in them all. Thick. Red. He felt compelled to look to his own rotted arm, to where the bludgeon had hit him. It was fine now, though the skin around the blow had blackened, that blackness was quickly dissipating.

He hesitated for a moment before reaching out to pinch at it. The skin was rough, unfamiliar terrain. It did not give, even under his claws, and if his claws had cut through steel, he could only imagine what that meant for his skin.

With more force, he prodded it. Nothing.

Again, he jabbed the arm. The skin began to break. Again. Again. Again. Finally, something came from the toughened mass of flesh and bone, but it was not red – black. It crept out into the air, like oil in water: a vapor.

Where is the red? he thought to himself. The black dispersed in the air, only to return when he prodded his arm again. The red. The red.

The blood. That was the word. If his sealed lips could have exclaimed it, he would have. It felt like it had just been unearthed in his head, dust blown off an old artifact, one of many.

Why blood, though? Why did their blood spark his memory – his knowledge? Because his history had been slicked with it. His present, too, if the pool at his feet was any indication.

If it is my history, though, why does the thought of my past make me tremble? His dead heart gave one pronounced thud, reminding him of its presence, black oil painfully sliding through his veins. He clutched at the knotted mass on his chest.

>>6033297
Please post more

>>6033187
I'm not sure if you aimed for improvement, but I vastly prefer the original. It's much more lucid and lacks all the verbal baggage that does nothing but detract from the story.

I thrust my bulbous cock between the fleshy lips of the avacado, which I had found in the Lieutenant's pocket earlier that day. "Is this what it means to be?" I pondered, suddenly distracted by the full moon, and all the pretty little stars.

B-bump

>>6032060
>N'affligeons à la peau des rôles qui lui sied mal
Il a treize pieds, ton vers, et aussi une faute de conjugaison; qui lui siéent, pas qui lui sied.

>Le pare sous la honte, d'une rougeâtre pâleur
Il a quatorze pieds, ton vers.

>L'agencement de nos traits, n'est pas une récompense
Il a quatorze pieds, ton vers.

>Et l'on acquiert par heur un visage soigné
Et par heur l'on acquiert; mieux vaut un 3+3 qu'un 4+2.

>De plus jeunes pourront, chérir leurs beautés
Il a onze pieds, ton vers.

>Et vous faire maudire, le cours des années.
La césure n'est pas à l'hémistiche.

>It is highly inspired of Ronsard and Malherbe
Tu les as lus?

>>6041637
the fuck is this

>>6031176
When I woke it was midday. The early winter, the fog had cleared and a clean light glowed and expanded through my blinds. The screaming stillness that clogs your joints and leaves you petrified. I stood up, rubbing the soreness earned from awkward sleeping. Looking at the stool I saw deep terminal cracks slice through the leather and the under-foam. In this glass air clarity can be gained. I saw all sheet music was flawed. Just as language is based off the individuals understanding of words, subjective not universal understanding, so was music. The timing and pressure was intranscribable. It was not Him. It was not Satie. All this had been was a fan’s attempt to meet their idol. In sorrow, in mundanity, I wept for the first time. My sobs were the only sound in that moment, and it shattered the air.

>>6041848
An excerpt from a fantasy story I cobbled together. The protagonist is sort of undead. His resting place is suddenly a warzone and his brain is kind of turning back on.

>>6037397
honestly I liked the original better>>6032239

>>6041842
>qui lui siéent
Honte à moi..

>Il a treize pieds, ton vers
Diérèse

>Il a quatorze pieds, ton vers.
Diérèse encore

>Il a quatorze pieds, ton vers.
Encore une fois une diérèse

>Il a onze pieds, ton vers.
Synérèse

>La césure n'est pas à l'hémistiche.
Et (1) vous (2) fai (3) re (4) mau (5) dire (6 synérèse) / le (1) cou (2) rs (3) des (4) a (5) nnées (6)

>Et par heur l'on acquiert; mieux vaut un 3+3 qu'un 4+2
Je trouve un peu chargée la diction de "heur" et "l'on" lorsqu'ils sont apposés, mais je vais corriger merci.

>Tu les as lus?
C'est un peu ironique venant de quelqu'un incapable de correctement compter..

>>6041637
"with more force" is a farce
&
three agains are aloss

black oil through your veins I already know it's not going to be pleasant, stating it is circumlocution

The red, the red. is understandable The red. The red. looks lik typo

>>6041881
Tu disais t'inspirer de Malherbe et Ronsard; --- j'imaginais que tu savais que la diérèse n'est pas un procédé classique.

La pa-re sous la hon-te(7), d'un-e rou-geâ-tre pâ-leur (7)

Les e silencieux ne le sont jamais, devant une consonne.

L'a-gen-ce-ment de nos traits (7) n'est pas un-e ré-com-pense

Pour les autres, on voit le principe.

>>6041637
honestly though how can the smooth movement of a slide be painful

>>6041896
Ah et tiens, vois donc si tu peux trouver un exemple là-dedans de Ronsard ou de Malherbe passant sous silence un e muet devant une consonne.

http://poesie.webnet.fr/lesgrandsclassiques/poemes/pierre_de_ronsard/pierre_de_ronsard.html

http://poesie.webnet.fr/lesgrandsclassiques/poemes/francois_de_malherbe/francois_de_malherbe.html

>>6041890
Thanks. I don't know if I agree with the repetition of "again" being a problem, but the rest is solid.

I think the black oil needs to be elaborated on. He has that in lieu of his blood. I should probably stress the pain of it starting to pump through his body in a different way.

>>6041901
Yeah, I need to articulate that in a different way. He has alien physiology, and I should work on that better.

>>6041861
pls r8 m8s

>>6031176
Wrote this a while back, pretty sure this is how I want to start the story.

The Wanderer:

He remembered his youth the fresh fruits, the tall grass, and the walls that once protected him all those years ago. He remembered the catacombs that laid beneath the city; the buried bodies and the ruins, the statues, the fire, the death. He remembered those in particular, the thoughts that overwhelmed his childhood memories.
The Suns rose over the great Aurie Desert casting twin shadows over the barren landscape. He halted, gazing into its magnificent beauty. It had been months since he had been able to experience such a sublime event. Their splendor never ceased to amaze him. This feeling of wonder, reminded him of the days he would spend hours watching the suns paint the sky gold and violet. The days of innocence, ignorance, and safety,feelings that had long departed from him. The desert seemed to stretch before him like a wide ocean. A sea of dust and sand, only to be ended by mystic mountains which had no end in sight. This illusion filled him with both enticement, and dread. He refocused himself as he slowly made his way to the speeder, the volantis; sitting on its cushion. He stared at his destination the mountains; which lay beneath voluminous and dismal storm clouds casting their dark shadows. Beyond the mountains was where had to go he thought to the mainland...
He thought of the catacombs the corridors between the walls which which led to the underbelly of the city.He remembered what he had found.....and what had happened.

"I dont know why i would come" he thought. He could still see the lucid images of his burning city, his families charred bodies and his father's final words. He grasped the pendant around his neck, his father's final gift and it weighed heavy on his soul. He thought of his fathers last, undying words......

Silence.

He stayed on the cliff watching the sunrise; there was a legend which said if one were to watch the suns rise on Iggnimarri one could see the birth of life itself. He knew that it did not hold the secret to life. The stories of the mainland, the palemen their flying machines; childrens stories and old fables.
The suns slowly rose , their great illusion of twilight had disappeared. His time of idleness had come to an end. He activated his machine, it dispersed the surrounding rocks and sand as it moved forward.

>>6041861
>glowed and expanded

we only need one k

>awkward sleeping

>stool is not a good word if you want something to sound serious and devoid of punny dissonances

<In this glass air clarity can be gained
cool sentence +1

>Just as language is based off...
...please don't you just woke up

not Him<
not Satie<
wot.<

>screaming stillness
>my sobs were the only son

>>6041896
>j'imaginais que tu savais que la diérèse n'est pas un procédé classique
Ronsard l'utilisait assez souvent en fait

>Les e silencieux ne le sont jamais, devant une consonne.
J'aurais dû relire Marot avant de réécrire des vers..je vais rester sur la prose en fin de compte (et dans l'illusion que celle-ci vaille quelque chose).
Merci bien quoi qu'il en soit

>>6041959
Je jetais un oeil à Ronsard... regarde moi ça.

Amour, je ne me plains de l'orgueil endurci,
Ni de la cruauté de ma jeune Lucrèce,
Ni comme, sans recours, languir elle me laisse :
Je me plains de sa main et de son godmicy.

C'est un gros instrument par le bout étréci,
Dont chaste elle corrompt toute nuit sa jeunesse :
Voilà contre l'Amour sa prudente finesse,
Voilà comme elle trompe un amoureux souci.

Aussi, pour récompense, une haleine puante,
Une glaire épaissie entre ses draps gluante,
Un oeil hâve et battu, un teint pâle et défait,

Montrent qu'un faux plaisir toute nuit la possède.
Il vaut mieux être Phryne et Laïs tout à fait,
Que se feindre Portie avec un tel remède.

this dat real dildo shit niqqa

>>6034184
snuck isn't a word

>>6041967
Wow, je ne connaissais pas du tout ce poème, incroyable

"Shh, tha'sa'way, sugar." She murmured, and let her hand slip under his pants and draws, and the second her skin touched him, he gasped.
He heard her giggle in his ear. "Come on, you'd think ya' didn't even help yerself out."
Cain couldn't even think to answer her question as her hand wrapped around his cock and gave it a few teasing strokes. The skin of her palm was damp and soft, but for a moment, his traitorous mind wondered what that gun-calloused hand would feel like it in it's place. Hard muscled over that iron-strength grip, and just as greedy and wiley as the man it was attached to.
"Fuck," he groaned, "stop, I don't, fuck—"
Kitty's tongue was trailing along his hip bone, and he heard her snicker. "Well, we could do that too," she teased.
That snapped him clean out of it.
She yelped when he yanked her hand out of his pants and pushed her off. "Jesus, Cain!"
He lay there catching his breath for a second, room still spinning a little as his drunk brain drove itself in circles trying to catch up. Kitty was sitting up, scowling down at him, and he couldn't even look her in the eye.
"What the devil's wrong with you?!" She hissed.
Cain heard himself laugh, a little hysterical, panicked. "Ah'm a fuckin' sodomite, tha's the devil's wrong with me, Kitty."

>>6041972
It's "snook," right?

>>6041922
Christ man, your diction is terrible, say nothing of the subject matter. This is some 10th grade creative writing class schlock.

>>6042201
I wrote it years ago. Anyways how do what should I do to improve this shit anon?

>>6031176
The December frost coddled ruins of the last apartment block on K street stood as a crumbling testament to John Bergeron's belief in the unflattering nature of new. . Built in June of the year it is now as a building designed to decay with the utmost grace. Elements were taken liberally, though secretly from the books of Albert Speer– the architecture ones, not the equally vital, and perhaps more important work, Inside the Third Reich. John had been a longstanding fan of the Arms' minister's, admittedly Fuhrer influenced, drafts for a new Berlin. In private company, such as the party on New Year's Eve of 1989, when the drinks were pouring just about as freely as the money from the upper class to the poor, he would be known to say things like “The last will and testament of the Nazi Regime ignoring, of course, the peculiar anti-semetic notions of purity was the desire to be remembered, and out of that emerged Ruinenwert.”

>>6042201
I wrote it years ago, but iguess that's no excuse especially since I melded different projects together. Anyways what should I do to improve this shit anon?

They spent Saturday nights driving around town searching for house parties to report. The car was a silver Honda Civic and belonged to Wojak’s mom. The dents really had been there since she’d bought it online from a guy half her age who failed to mention that the treat of the back-right tyre was about as deep as the wrinkles across an infant’s palm. But now that she was also unemployed and barely left the house any more Wojak had her tacit permission to drive it pretty much whenever he wanted, or whenever Pepe messaged him asking to be picked up.
He parked the car at the side of a wide residential street in the nicer part of town, where the houses were detached and separated from the street by bushes and high gardens. The pavements were lined with tall, overhanging elms which swayed constantly in a capricious wind which sometimes heaved against the side of the car and made it shake a little. It was dark and a hard rain beat against the roof.
“It’s your turn,” said Pepe, taking out the flip-phone he had owned since the age of about thirteen. The streetlight above cut a wedge of light across the pimpled plastic inside the car and projected something of a yin-yang onto a face bloated from a stored contempt. Wojak looked past him towards towards the house on the other side of the street that appeared to be the source of the rhythmic thumping sound which had gradually increased as they approached.
The blinds across each lighted front window were drawn and across them moved the grotesquely large shadows of those in attendance. Sometimes two shadows merged into a single shadow and occasionally one of them moved out of sight and appeared in human form at the lighted doorway to smoke and talk enthusiastically with whoever had joined them outside.

“I’ve run out of accents,” said Wojak, staring at his fingers performing a nervous canter across the top of the steering wheel. His own face was pale and gaunt. His anxiety encouraged his body to immediately expel any food he consumed and thus prevented him from gaining weight. It also gave him the constant wide-eyed look of a small herbivorous animal surrounded on all sides by large and curious predators. He knew Pepe would still be looking at him, and he gripped the steering wheel in anticipation of the further pressure his friend would inflict.
“Wojak,” said Pepe.
“No. I don’t think what we’re doing is ethical. It was fun at first but now I just feel bad. I have strong ethical standards Pepe”
“Pity is a weakness my friend”
“Why is it a weakness?,” said Wojak, rising his shoulders and looking quickly over at Pepe with a trapped and desperate expression. “I’d prefer pity to indifference anyway. I’d rather people know I exist and feel sorry that I do than to ignore my existence entirely”

>>6042220
>>6042216

kek

>>6042226
Yeah anon I tried to abort the one that I didnt mean so send. Then I deleted it.

>>6042231

The one where you posted with a tripfag so your bullshit TLOTIAT inspired cancer won't get associated with your actual cancerous writing?

>>6042217
Is this is as terrible as I think it is? To me, the author, it feels more like a thematic sketch than a story's opening.

>>6042240
Don't be mean, leave that kid alone

>>6042240
What? TLOTIAT?

>>6034898
you're so kind

>>6042257
The Legacy of Totalitarianism in a Tundra Borges' last real masterwork, and quite the stab at Subjective Idealisim. Bloom called it "An exceptionally written story of the last crumbling days of a lone empire ruled and populated by one man."

>>6042271
Oh the /lit/ book. I never even contributed to that anyways.

>>6031176
This is a short story. Wrote this years ago and abandoned it, didnt like it rate lit?

The room smelled of boiled cabbage and feces, its walls had once glistened white were now brown stained with rust. The light flickered inconsistently from its fixture illuminating the small room. There sat a man with a needle in his forearm and a rubber tube tied to his bicep. His body had been in this position for hours, not moving, not breathing. His face pale, covered in dirt and patches of hair.

***

" love you" she said
"And I love you" he said
The room was white just as he had remembered it being. He pressed his lips against hers with a feeling of lust and intimacy. It was so real, she was real and she was alive he thought; he wished that this would never end. She backed away and looked into his eyes, and smiled.
"I've missed you" he said
"Silly, you were only gone for a day" she sang
"Its felt like an eternity" he said "its like you've been gone..."
She put her finger over his lips.
"I understand, with the stress all of it. From your book, the killer. how he almost killed me, our baby..." she paused "Ethan I love you. and I just want to sleep can we do that?"
Ethan stood silently as she walked into her bedroom. He stood examining the room around him. For he knew what was to happen, he looked into the mirror. His clean face, shaven face he had looked so different but he was the same. He left the room, and walked into the room to reunite with his lover. She lay on the bed her snores roared, he smiled.
"Oh Odessa" he whispered as he layed on the bed with his love and closed his eyes.

***
He jolted awake in an awkward spasm. He was were he was before loneley. He now looked on to the reality that he found himself in, the cabbage smelling room with brown walls. He explored his home, Odessa was not there to greet him. He knew she was gone, it had been this way for a long time. He washed himself allowing the water to clean him, as its warm touch flowed down his back. As he showered in the dirty shower, threw on his unclean clothes , and embraced no one.

A bang came from the door.
"Ethan" the voice said "your gonna have to talk about it."
Ethan walked to the door and peeked the the hole.
"Brandon, I dont need a shrink."
"Ethan you haven't written an article in a weeks" he spoke "you dont even come out of your apartment anymore, shes been gone for a year Ethan"
"What are you my father?!" He screamed banging against the door "who the fuck do you think you are!"
"I thought I was your friend Ethan"
"You thought wrong.....you thought fucking wrong!"
He screamed and cried banging agaisnt his creaky door.

>>6038546
Understood.
I tried conveying how nobody in the crowd could really tell what he's seeing - but forgot the prespective im using it seems... Anyways, very helpful anon, thanks.

>>6037397
Thanks for taking your time to actually rewrite it.
To be honest im quite happy with how you could suspect the "killer" (he's not exactly that) from reading this part alone, but only after carefully reading it.
Your verision feels more like a personal take on the scenery than a "fixed" verision of my writing - so in this case I can probably only ask general questions: What made you approach the scene I described the way you did? Your seems to be shorter, less "suggestive" (which I already figured was a bad thing in this case) and more on-point. You did lose some detail though, and the whole thing I did with the shoes.

>>6042313
Cont.
***
"Tell me about her Ethan"
He doesn't know why he was in this room trapped with this shrink. This old beared man whose, broad figure seemed to intimidate him more then comfort him. "She was killed...." he paused taking a deep breath "Her stomach cut open and the baby was gone"
"How does that make you feel?" He asked writing notes on a pad.
"Anger mostly....sometimes regret" he sighed heavily "I wasn't there I went for groceries for her, it was my fault"

Any anons working on scripts?

There are only so many burritos and momentary bouts of alluring eye contact with women that I can take before I move to Texas and buy a shotgun to eliminate this pesky little head upon my shoulders: 42; and I just had my 41st burrito.

A bird just hit my window, at least I believe it was a bird because I didn't look to check. Right now I'm avoiding my landlord and lying to my mother about getting a job; she doesn't know that I'm being sucked into the quicksand of a corporate sexual harassment legal battle vis-a-vis Brenda.

>>6031176

“You see Brian; I don’t think man is a list of checkboxes waiting to be ticked. There are a few of us who are driven enough to focus their energy, and manage to walk the Earth systematically making ‘progress’ building a career, a home, a marriage. But somewhere in our minds it is written that we shall never be full. Like a leaking bucket, no matter how much it is filled it shall eventually empty. Fulfilment is an energy that runs out infinitely quicker than it can be gained and can inexplicably be redeemed at any moment by the slightest tragedy.’ As I explained this Brian seemed to continually lose more and more focus; he began to squint at me as if I was a boat on the horizon: he knew the words and phrases fit together but the whole idea seemed to be nebulous and inaccessible to him. I don’t judge him, I’m not sure if I believed what I say saying either. Maybe I was simply trying to justify my idleness. If I did focus, I would find myself staring at my reflection in the mirror at 4am less often.
This conversation seemed to be the only entity of significance that evening. Brian quickly changed the subject to complaining about his parents demanding he get a job and move out. I couldn’t help but think of all the more interesting people having more interesting conversation in more interesting bars. Or all the people fucking and here; me, just sitting here cobbling together a patchwork philosophy that I will no doubt in one moment condemn to be foolish and jump a train to the next pattern of thought.

Staring through the window I made eye-contact with an elderly man. He maintained it for a while and I began to wonder if all those strangers’ eyes who I’d made contact with were not somehow more valuable than superficial conversations with even those I’d consider to be my closest “friends”. As the rain spattered on the window his face became distorted and appeared frosted until eventually I was no longer staring into a pair of eyes; but a mess of colour and shapes. A stranger’s persona remains a fantasy, a vision. Human fantasy never compares to reality, it reaches far above beyond possibility and, inevitably, then leaves a bitter taste when one is drawn back to the present to the reality. The pragmatic and the ideal, dancing in perfect disharmony.

The 'can' mentioned refers to O'neill cylinders.

>I climb in. It’s cramped, but that’s the norm in cans. Having a vehicle that uses more resources than absolutely necessary in a place like this is frowned upon, unless you’re a big shot in the bureaucracy, then the rules don’t apply to you-- and we’re off. I barely had time to get my harness on. This kid’s antsy. The car zigs and zags through the parking lot, drives over a median, and drifts onto the road just as the beat drops. Jesus Christ. DesMoines starts telling me about the song. I want to not listen but between focusing on the song, focusing on my imminent death by car crash, and focusing on him, he’s the best alternative. He explains the song’s plot is that a ‘bastard wolf’ hates his father, and he wants to kill people with a gun but he can’t because his paws don’t have fingers. So he starts singing, and the words of the song kill everyone, everywhere. This is the spirit of burst. The middle finger sunk into the eye of the sleeper. The black static that jams the grey pulse. I’ve heard this sort of talk before. Burst, one of the “New Cultures”. Most political debates boil down to a discussion on whether it should be the head or the heart that should rule, Burst rejects that. Burst thinks that it should be the ass. The bigger. The louder. The better. I look to my left and see DesMoines is puking directly into his own crotch. I see curds, looks like he was drinking milk earlier. Wait! This isn’t the time. I grab the wheel and take over steering. Fuck! We are going over 80 kilometers per hour! I tell him to brake. He acknowledges. He stomps on the accelerator. Fuck! I can’t imagine these dinky little things hold up well in high speed crashes. I pull the emergency brake. Lights built into the ceiling start flashing and the bass is boosted even higher. The car isn’t slowing down. DesMoines is passed out. This is how I’m going to die. After all this time, this is the way. This is such bullshit. I slap DesMoines as hard as I can and scream in his ear. Brake! Brake! Brake! Brake! He stirs back into consciousness. “Word.”

>He jams on the brake and the tires wail. The car drifts around in circles before stopping with a jolt. I open the door and collapse onto the sidewalk. Now I’m the one vomiting. And here it comes again. The air reeks of burnt rubber- and there it goes some more. I need to brush my teeth soon. DesMoines giggles and points at the lights blinking on the ceiling. “You found the party button”. I tell him that it was a lever, not a button. “Whatever… Whatlever. Hah huh huh. Erp.” He throws up again.

From a play of mine

>>6042538
damn niqqa pressed send instead of upload

Its easy to be strong when you're not alone, when there is someone else to show your strength. When you lie awake in bed at night, that when its hard, that's when everyone falters.

>>6042541
Tiens j'ai supprimé un vers là-dedans et oublié de le réécrire.

>>6042549
I crie evertim

>>6042549
>Update
And what does this say of our strength? Perhaps it shows there is no strength at all? That all we have is an intense need to prove we are not weak to others. But then again is this not strength?

No, that is ego, ask anyone who has experienced depression, what we think is not what we know, what we show is not truly how it is

>>6042220
>>6041922
For starters, it doesn't seem like you've edited this at all. There are several places where you don't use punctuation properly, and several more where it's absent entirely. An example of the former: "He refocused himself as he slowly made his way to the speeder, the volantis; sitting on its cushion." Please tell me in your own words what the function of a semicolon is. An example of the latter is the first sentence. This is some seriously basic shit, man; writing something worth reading requires at least a little bit of effort. Ellipses are tacky, don't use them.

This is all very repetitious. So, at the beginning we have three sentences that begin with, "He remembered..." Not inherently a bad thing, but your execution is poor. The first sentence is all positive memories, the second all negative, and the third is just a reiteration of the first two. "He remembered those in particular." Well, you don't say? Completely unnecessary. So then it moves on to some description of the scenery. Two suns, a desert, beautiful desolation, comparisons to large bodies of water, etc. Nothing too offensive but it's all rather trite. Do we really need three sentences describing the sublime magnificent beauty of the suns (lose the capitalization, it's not necessary)? And we get it, our young protagonist has lost his innocence. That was clear in the first paragraph.

That mountain sentence pisses the hell out of me. The "ended/no end in sight" thing is, again, repetitious. Mystic? Is that the best you could come up with? "Only to be ended" is awkward, and could easily be replaced by "ending with" or something similar. "Beyond the mountains was where had to go he thought to the mainland..." is a garbage sentence that doesn't make any sense.

There's much more wrong with it than that, technically speaking, but if that should give you a good start. Think CRITICALLY about your writing. Ask yourself, "Would I want to read this?"

Also, I can clearly see the arc of your plot (with flashbacks!) just from this little segment. Don't be so hamfisted with your foreshadowing, give your audience a little bit of credit. We don't need all of this information right now (e.g. the dead parents, the mainland mythology shit, the catacombs) and a lot of it would have more of an impact if introduced later. Hope that helps.

>>6042247
I assume agreement.

>>6042318
I didn't understand the entire story, but I wanted to make it more active. I felt it needed less guess work. It wasn't as awful as I stated, but it needed work. My take on it may not have anything to do with what you were looking for, but I suppose I just wanted to exhibit a different approach.

tl;dr

Brevity and verbs are the key to great prose.

>>6042785
Thanks anon, this Is legitimately good advice. I'll see what I can do. Probably post an edited version later.

>>6043113
Alright. I think I get your point(s).
I'm drowning in work right now, but I'll take the time to rewrite this part- and perhaps some more of the story- according to the lines you and >>6038546 suggested.

I'll post it over the next few days, thanks again anyways.

Teeth. Large, creamy white teeth, with mud for gums. Bowlin University's gleaming walls were hardly necessary. Surrounded by vast leagues of mud, getting to the city was more effort than it was worth. There was only one path: the Ribbon, a thin strip of ground rising above the clay below. As expected this was a road that could be controlled. Bowlin decided who came, who was turned away, and who toppled into the earth below.

When it wasn't raining, it was a dry wasteland, resembling a cracked ruddy desert. Many a fool had assumed it was safe to cross then. On occasion, they would plunge, through the fragile shell into the mixture beneath. Even if this could be avoided, there was a solid distance to travel, and no one dared sleep in case they were suckled into the ground below.

The wet was worse. These fields never maintained their shape, forever moulded and distorted by winds and rain. To set foot there would mean certain drowning.

When you imagined an inhabitable, merciless world, this was what would come to mind. Many had theorised this was exactly what had happened. A representation of hostility made real.

The University was elevated above the muck. The teeth pushed out from the mud beneath, wide and human in resemblance as if they belonged to the jaw of some titanic man. Yet it seemed there was no jaw to speak of, just dirt and mud and earth.

Henrrite of Bowlin University watched clouds rumble above from her tower. It would rain soon and the desert would transform. If the Stradise emissaries didn't hurry they would get caught in the downpour.

When she had been alerted of their arrival she had expected a quick audience. It had taken five more days for them to merely reach the bridge. They were usually so diligent, these Eingolds. Day upon day Henritte had waited. That was how it was, Stradise demanded, the rest obliged.

Henritte was garbed in clean white uniform that day. Loose simple robes, bound with grey silk around the waist. Shiny black hair was chopped into a short bob, precise and straight. Once her hair had been longer, but it had only got in the way.

In the distance, white specks appeared at the Ribbon. Stradise. The entourage filtered into the narrow strip with University flags waving like brazen propaganda.

"The Great University makes way", she told Musto. The long limbed old man, as rigid as he was withered, bowed. Like his Headmistress he was garbed in white to match the careful uniformity of Stradise.

>>6044299
"Shall I tell your sisters, my Lady?", he queried.

She gave him the briefest nod, a mere flick of the chin. Her eyes were still fixed on the moving party below. "And what will they ask of Bowlin now?", she found herself muttering.

Musto was a quick man despite all his wrinkles. He had rallied half the building by the time Henritte entered the main hall. It was a vast, vacuous building with a monasteric charm. Bowlin may have been surrounded by dirt but the University favoured its cleanliness and order more than trinkets and furniture. A clear mind meant precision. A law the Bowlin University had adhered to. Now Henritte was not so certain.

Vast doors at the hall were dragged open. From outside Henritte could see her students lined like statues, forming a path for the Stradise group to travel through. Let them see our students. Let them see our livestock.

They entered, noticeable in their exhaustion. A blonde woman, spider thin and austere. Her hair was pushed up in some pointless Stradise fashion. The same could be said of the man beside her. He was lean, agile and arrogant, Henritte discerned. His hair was a sandy colour pulled back into a knot. She knew who he was: Kerlan, Captain of the Thers.

"I am Kerlan. Captain of the Stradise Thers. Thank you for meeting with us", he stated. So she was right. How amusing. His voice masked some false courtesy, she realised. Her whole life she had only seen letters from this man, usually placing demands and criticisms. Now here he stood like some holy prince.

The woman beside him was polite enough but that meant nothing. "I am Lucinder Sturn. My father sits on the Stradise council." Henritte noticed the girl ended her words as if she were slurring. Some stupid habit she'd developed. "I am a close friend of Sonja Eingold." The Eingold Princess, that explained why…

Curiosity took Henritte but she inhaled deep. Clarity and calm. Why were they here? This golden boy and his useless accomplice. Why send your child's friend?

"The Headmistress sent us", said Kerlan with a sheepish flick of the eyes.

Headmistress? Henritte felt the rare jolt of excitement dance through her but she reigned it down with regulated breaths. Questions boiled inside, on the outside she remained serene.

"Headmistress", she echoed, emotionless. Or so she seemed.

"Yes, Sonja Eingold is Headmistress of Stradise University", broke in the Lucinder girl. And she sent this one? Things are changing in our guardian city it seems.

>>6041635
>>6040899
>“N-no reason.”

infinite layers of emotions were ripped apart and crumpled together into retarded origami, god was rubbing my frenelum with his omnipresent finger.
moments before what i thought would be (my first) trancetendencial orgasm i blurted out " it should be illegal to this high " - " it is " he replied, we both laughed until we forgot how to breathe, which killed us.

End

Now forward at the street there was an indian wood shop, fronted with all sizes of indian statues of men and animals. At the vitrine he looked, and there was, among several alleatory species of mementos, a clock shaped as a yellow house, with a whistle as a chimnee, it's pointers red and blue. It was the same clock he'd saw amazed at his aunt's beach house, which led him into his garden, his courtyard, his desert. Father would have said, what a wonderful handcrafting, and glanced at him, smiling eyes hiding a secret somewhere in his hands in his back, some same wooden yet smaller clock, all details there, with the tyniest whistle. "Feeling good, my son, is all about forgetting. Now here you have a clock made of yellow wood, you can forget the hours passing because life doesn't care about hours. Thus you can dream". "Hey you, gonna buy something!?", yell'd the fat man at the shop and he couldn't say a word, but he wished he had the pennies or maybe kept that yellow clock, so he kept on walking at the street, the frozen blue mountains in the distance and the fade-in city lights casting his shadows.

>>6031176
Here's an excerpt from a character sketch that describes what the narrator imagines his beloved's room will look like, and then sees it in real life, it's story about disappointed love:


And there, a little ways off, paced a man like myself, poor wretch, pacing up, pacing down, pacing up again and again down, always pacing, once in a while glancing at the door guard, but finding in his face every time the same answer and returning to his pacing growing more wearied with each step.
In another dream I had seen the man cease his pacing and rush at the wall, screaming and smashing his fists then against, RAOO-DAO! RAOO-DAO! rang his fists ‘gainst the wall, in another, more feverish nightmare, or was it waking? I know not, I stood beside him, or inside him, or simply in his stead, and so too beat my fists RAOO-DAO! RAOO-DAO!
The RAOO-DAO rang out up to the sky and twisted above the walls, high as they were, and barrelled, spinning like a cork-screw all the way to where I stood —RAOO-DAO! It hit my ears, and I screamed at it to go away, leave me alone, didn’t it see I had closed the window, that no sound may be let into the room? How could a RAOO-DAO!, such a bitter sound from Outside, enter into her garden and reach me then here? It reminded me of my time in the desert, twenty years, when I paced back and forth and was utterly bereft. No fruit grew in the desert that lay beyond the wall, there wasn’t even any water to quench my long thirst. Twenty years had I paced there beyond the Great Wall, twenty years with no fruit and nothing to drink.
But no longer had I to pace in the earth, no longer even did I need recourse to dream.
See! She leads me there by my hand, after twenty long years she has opened her room to me.

>>6047200
Sorry, that was formatted terribly, here's some spacing:

And there, a little ways off, paced a man like myself, poor wretch, pacing up, pacing down, pacing up again and again down, always pacing, once in a while glancing at the door guard, but finding in his face every time the same answer and returning to his pacing growing more wearied with each step.

In another dream I had seen the man cease his pacing and rush at the wall, screaming and smashing his fists then against, RAOO-DAO! RAOO-DAO! rang his fists ‘gainst the wall, in another, more feverish nightmare, or was it waking? I know not, I stood beside him, or inside him, or simply in his stead, and so too beat my fists RAOO-DAO! RAOO-DAO!

The RAOO-DAO rang out up to the sky and twisted above the walls, high as they were, and barrelled, spinning like a cork-screw all the way to where I stood—RAOO-DAO! It hit my ears, and I screamed at it to go away, leave me alone, didn’t it see I had closed the window, that no sound may be let into the room? How could a RAOO-DAO!, such a bitter sound from Outside, enter into her garden and reach me then here? It reminded me of my time in the desert, twenty years, when I paced back and forth and was utterly bereft. No fruit grew in the desert that lay beyond the wall, there wasn’t even any water to quench my long thirst. Twenty years had I paced there beyond the Great Wall, twenty years with no fruit and nothing to drink.

But no longer had I to pace in the earth, no longer even did I need recourse to dream.

See! She leads me there by my hand, after twenty long years she has opened her room to me.