/lit/ - Literature

Well I already had made one, but whatever

>>6308359
i recognize that font

you are writing a story about jesus having homosexual adventures, right?

There it was, among the darkness this time; figures of which I presumed were human. They were sat in circles of various sizes, within some circles there were forty or fifty people, though others seemed much smaller, I approached one of the circles and studied those within it, and they were all obscured, featureless, and morose.

What was it that drew people to this place? I could not fathom in that moment exactly what it was that appealed to the tenants of such a hell, each one of them the same, without exception, what appeared to be a nude and slightly overweight male form, other than their mouths their facial features were absent as if skin had been sown from forehead to jaw in order to mask some great horror beneath.

They paid me no attention; still I imagine they could not notice me, lacking eyes with which to see. I circled them for some time, listening to them talk to one another, most of what was being said made no sense to me, most of what they spoke was English, though I could not discern exactly about what they spoke, words were used which, at the time, held no meaning to me, but that was the beauty of their language.

Every so often I felt something pass through me, as if a ghost or spirit of some sort had wandered across my path, I could feel the presence of these many spirits with such intensity merely circling these people speaking in tongues on the floor, and these presences likely could sense me, they were here alongside me, circling themselves, trying to discern for their own if they could possibly enter such absurdist conversations.

Without warning I felt a huge disturbance in my balance, sudden downward inertia overcame the group and I was falling for a moment; then, without warning, it was over and I collapsed to the floor, bewildered, annoyed and without the slightest idea what had happened to us, those on the floor seemed unaffected, as if immune to the movement, or if it had bothered them at all, they were not interested in showing it.

>>6308365
>you are writing a story about jesus having homosexual adventures, right?

no

>>6308389

Please, refrain from lying here.

A short, sweet poem my mind made up:

Swallowing yourself
is being top-shelf.

>>6308433

but I honestly just picked a random font in MS Paint

do you WANT me to write a story about Jesus' homosexual adventures? I take requests

>>6308383
i read the first two paragraphs. you need to fix those run-on sentences and cut out all the repetition and clutter.

>>6308444
Short is the only correct adjective for this poem

Posted this in the previous thread to no response.

Penultimate day of
Elysian life where grass
did grow, displayed
with grandeur, recalling the
past but denying the future
Soon be met in but four dusks
Travelled towards in royal stead
Packed with things we couldn't left
Behind where green now turns to blue
In setting-sun of memory's room
Locked in this mahogany chamber
Where halls retain the alabaster
pallor of unnerving nature
Reminder of what's gone before
Sentiment that is the sole remainder
and soul's own failure to assume
The stead's crop and reins adorned
with Teutonic strength, tested and tuned
The journey is a languid dream
And time has yet to tell us that these
Visions that we seem to see
Are ours alone to know and keep
That the field did shine with glory captured
In the eyes of the youth enraptured
Unfocused on a world to be
Unbridled in that moment's glee
And untrue in revisited scenes
And hue will waver to an oak
Withered the tree has become
Until the truth is now a blot
Blacker than a covered sun

>>6308485

Yeah, that first paragraph isn't particularly good, this is completely unedited and rushed. I wrote it about six months ago and haven't revisited it, and I'm not quite sure on which direction to take with it to be honest.

check it

http://pastebin.com/ZrsuXds3

>>6308543

I've seen this before, like a few weeks ago.

Before I read on, is it edited from last time?

>>6308635
I made a few changes to the first part. After the post a few weeks ago I added ~800 words

The three circular disks seemed to form a spherical shape as they spun past each other rapidly, increasing in speed. Three weeks ago they appeared at the stroke of midnight in the heart of Time's Square. A female pedestrian, later identified as a 20 year old undergraduate student from NYU was cut in half at the waist when the mysterious objects popped into existence. Blood, still etched into the disks would have splattered off; however several days of exposer to the sun had dried the substance to the phenomenon. A sphere of white and red remained, ever changing in a bizarre tie-dye of death. The area obviously became blocked from the public view. A tent erected on the site allowed a level of privacy to the experts tasked with uncovering the mystery behind the so called “Disks of Death”. Their studies may have been fruitful, if a young physicist fresh out from University had not decided to try his own unique experiment. Gabriel Tugan-Baranovsky always had problems interacting with other individuals, maybe it was because of his overly protective mother, perhaps it was his moderate autism. Regardless, Gabriel came upon the realization that if he died without a legacy he would be forgotten in the pages of history.

1/2

>>6308740

His recent diagnosis of lung cancer didn't help extend the clock in regards to that legacy either. Thus during the scheduled pause between a pulse from a super-magnate Gabe ran for a spot in the logs of history. After a flash of red and a ringing of knives Gabriel's wish was fulfilled, he had finally made contact with a part of a girl's body.

2/2

Laugh and the world will laugh with you. Weep and you weep alone. Although I am no better then a beast, don't I still have a right to live?

All the written voices on the obscure plane of text. Many different people in the different voices, invisible and monolithic, but you can still find a little homogenous string within it, finding a vein of gold or silver or something inside it, not quite assimilated into the one voice of the text. Can we pick out one face in this faceless crowd? Let’s roam our eyes around for just one second now where is he I am looking. Where is he at? Is there one distinct and recognizable voice in this wall of anonymous statements?
Where is the hero of this story?
There he is:
He’s in a crowd and tapping his fingers on a little black box. Slide your fingers on the little black box. Find something to talk about there isn’t too dreadfully dull but just dull enough to know exactly what to say and when.
--“This post has a funny picture in it, I’ll see what this thread is about”
That’s good. There’s an air of the unfamiliar to the thread, but if you’re lost in the conversation you can just comment about the funny picture. That’s good. What is everybody else saying now? I have designated you to be the individual, so everybody else is the monolith now, everybody else is the other now. What is he, the other saying to you?
--Everybody is talking about a tv show that I’ve never watched. I’ve heard good things, but really it never interested me.
That’s fine. This could be an educational experience; read what the other is saying to you, learn a bit about the show, see what jokes everybody is making. That’s fine. Read a bit and write a bit. Talk to the other.
And now our hero is writing and moving his fingers on the screen, tapping and sliding his fingers on the screen. Tap and slide your fingers on the screen.
--“people say that I’m some kind of plebian for posting on a phone, but I think that it’s just fine. I’ve got places to go and I still want to be a part of the conversation. Typing on a touchscreen is difficult of course, but I think that it’s just fine.
That’s fine.
Let’s look at his writing: Is it different from the Other? Yes: he is fond of using the colon to prove his points: the colon is a good piece of punctuation because it tells the reader that a statement will be immediately backed up by the proceeding one: here is my statement: this is why the statement is true; semicolons are a very good piece of punctuation as well; almost as good as the colon: a colon correlates statements, a semicolon juxtaposes them; when people are eating fruit flavored candy they will often avoid eating a piece that is the flavor they just ate; that’s juxtaposition: if you ate the same flavor twice the flavor would be less pronounced the second time around; if you eat a different flavor there will be a space of empty time where your tongue will just start to recognize a different taste is in your mouth: that empty space is a semicolon no it is a colon.

>>6308785

Interesting.

I assume this is concerning the nature of 4chan?

>>6307582
why do you say this, anon? how can any words be dishonest? i'm confused

>>6308821
>>6308821
Pretty much; more broadly it's about the nebulousness of "individuality" within anonymous writing , especially when it eventually all gets deleted automatically. I'm still working on it, but by the end, "the hero of this story" disappears back to the monolith he came from.

http://pastebin.com/2RJ4Pwfg

Edited and expanded this after getting it critiqued in the last thread

My friend told me he wants to write a short-story about an immortal man in the Victorian era who falls in love with the girl of his dreams. Then they have an amazing relationship until she dies 60 years later. The immortal man is left with an old photo of his dead wife that is getting ruined with age. Eventually he transfers the deteriorated photo to digital to prevent further damage, but the image is still unclear. Stricken by grief he begins studying incessantly and building an elaborate machine, which at the end is revealed to be attached to his head and a printer which prints the perfect image of her from his memory.

He came up with it while on a road trip and with complete confidence immediately began brainstorming. What are the chances this will be good?

>>6308917
Kind of done before. Immortal relationship woes are a bit cliche.

Wouldn't it be better if, after all this work to get a better picture, her face has faded from mind and he's totally lost her? What good would a pristine photo even do, really? It's just prolonging the inevitable. If he's immortal, he'll be around when nothing is.

The High Road by "anon"


What hubris,
for anyone to presume
their god believes precisely
what they believe,
that this deity
gave birth,
mechanized the earth and all its people
so that we may persist-
perish-
for the sake of some lifelong serfdom.

Suddenly, the high road
is just a low road
with a slope-
the flesh is bread
and blood, intoxicant.

>>6308933
Edit: the first "they" should be "we". My bad.

>>6308933
Do you seriously think no one's written on this subject before? And do you really think an air of unearned didacticism is helpful here?

You could write a poem from the perspective of a person who believes their god believes as they believe, and works to the bone and to the death, and gets the same message across without evoking the image of twenty-something losers in old hats.

>>6308952
No, I don't. Clearly the topic has been conveyed before, or else I wouldn't have written the piece in the first place. Besides, I'm not sure it warrants a fedora, but if you feel obliged please proceed.

>The first thing I did today was I woke up in bed and I was mad at something when I was sleeping but I forgot! Mom says she dreams of a bunch of things, like Grampa was a parks tractor and he saw all the slides and he had to take them down for inspecshon. Why come she can remember dreams, but I can't? Then I brushed my teeth and Dad puts a note on the mirror telling me to floss, and I dont wanna because sometimes my mouth bleeds when I floss and I have to use rinse. Then I ate a big bowl of lucky charms and my spit hurt. Hache says that thats what I get. That I broght it on my self. Then the schoolbus came and ryan called me some bad words. Hache told me something even meaner. she told me to take a needle and put it in a bit of steak and then throw the steak in his back yard. I dont want to be mean back to people. Then I got to the school and I came to class early and Miss Teacher she came in with books about the sun and planets and she said I could read them and she asked me if today is gonna be a good day and I said yes! The other kids are mean to me because Im not as happy as they are and Miss Teacher says I can be happy or sad or angry and as long as I dont make a tantrum its okay! Shes never mean and she always brings in books and snacks and I learn a whole lot.

>Then the bell rang and we learned about the planets and how pluto used to be a planet but its not and jupter is the biggest. Simon yelled at me and he was mean and stomped on my foot and I was calm and apropriate and I told him not to do that PLEASE and he did it anyway! I dont like how Simon acts and I said I hatted him. Miss Teacher says I cant hate people because thats wrong but I hate Hache and I want her to stop telling me to do things and no one can see her because shes invisible and Miss Teacher asked me if I could draw Hache in crayon and I drew her with crayon and now I have to see a doctor and Dad cries a lot and the other kids make more fun of me and Hache still tells me to take the sharp part of Dads shaving razer and glue it on the slide at the school so when someone goes down the slide it hurts them and I dont wanna do that because thats mean and I wanna be good. Ryan said I was gonna shoot up the school and Miss Teacher sent him to the principles office and called his parents because its not nice to make fun of people getting hurt like that and it made Hache louder and she told me that everyone knows and they wanna hurt me and I dont wanna be hurt and Haches voice hurts my head. Everything was bad when I told Miss Teacher about Hache and I know she wants to help me get rid of her but I dont know how.

>Jenny says Im lying and she says I just wanna go home early to play super mario and I went home and I yelled in a pillow and my face was red.

>The first thing I did today was I woke up in bed and I was mad at something when I was sleeping but I forgot! Mom says she dreams of a bunch of things, like Grampa was a parks tractor and he saw all the slides and he had to take them down for inspecshon. Why come she can remember dreams, but I can't? Then I brushed my teeth and Dad puts a note on the mirror telling me to floss, and I dont wanna because sometimes my mouth bleeds when I floss and I have to use rinse. Then I ate a big bowl of lucky charms and my spit hurt. Hache says that thats what I get. That I broght it on my self. Then the schoolbus came and ryan called me some bad words. Hache told me something even meaner. she told me to take a needle and put it in a bit of steak and then throw the steak in his back yard. I dont want to be mean back to people. Then I got to the school and I came to class early and Miss Teacher she came in with books about the sun and planets and she said I could read them and she asked me if today is gonna be a good day and I said yes! The other kids are mean to me because Im not as happy as they are and Miss Teacher says I can be happy or sad or angry and as long as I dont make a tantrum its okay! Shes never mean and she always brings in books and snacks and I learn a whole lot.

>Then the bell rang and we learned about the planets and how pluto used to be a planet but its not and jupter is the biggest. Simon yelled at me and he was mean and stomped on my foot and I was calm and apropriate and I told him not to do that PLEASE and he did it anyway! I dont like how Simon acts and I said I hatted him. Miss Teacher says I cant hate people because thats wrong but I hate Hache and I want her to stop telling me to do things and no one can see her because shes invisible and Miss Teacher asked me if I could draw Hache in crayon and I drew her with crayon and now I have to see a doctor and Dad cries a lot and the other kids make more fun of me and Hache still tells me to take the sharp part of Dads shaving razer and glue it on the slide at the school so when someone goes down the slide it hurts them and I dont wanna do that because thats mean and I wanna be good. Ryan said I was gonna shoot up the school and Miss Teacher sent him to the principles office and called his parents because its not nice to make fun of people getting hurt like that and it made Hache louder and she told me that everyone knows and they wanna hurt me and I dont wanna be hurt and Haches voice hurts my head. Everything was bad when I told Miss Teacher about Hache and I know she wants to help me get rid of her but I dont know how.

>Jenny says Im lying and she says I just wanna go home early to play super mario and I went home and I cried in a pillow and my face was red and I couldnt talk and I couldnt breath.

only slightly related to the topic.

How do I continue writing? I've hit such a dreadful end. I've stopped writing completely for at least two months and every time I want to do it, I open the document(s), throw a glace over them, see where I left, close and continue doing whatever I was doing before.
The ideas are still there, it's not like I have a block, but I just can't continue. Maybe I'm realizing the pointlessness of it all.
In 10 years from now, there will be only slightly more documents, with slightly more letters, but nothing will come out of it.
"It" will ever be published, and it will be eventually lost.
I'll admit, it all began with a thread like this on 4chan. I posted an excerpt, a small piece of dialogue between 3 characters.
I received fairly good responses but one particular anon did some critique, attacking the way the characters talk.
I tried to explain myself but it got me thinking. Maybe I'm just shit....

How do I man up, get over it and start writing again?

>>6308989

thanks anon you motivated me to start writing for serious again

>>6308989
You just do or you don't, there will be no profound answer. Either you will move on and come up with a reason for why you abandoned writing, or you will start writing again. If you want us to tell you that you're not shit or something sure I'll say you're not shit.

You're not shit you're nobody and it sounds like you've already come up with a reason to move on

>>6308989
It's not that hard to get published, Anon. At least not if you don't try publishing a fucking novel first.

Just write some poems, short stories, essays, and shop 'em around lit mags. Tons of resources out there for you. Aim for the middle, with a little top and bottom, and you'll get a bite if you're any good.

Chances are, you're better than you think, and chances are you're better than a lot of the absolute SHIT that gets published. If you don't get accepted, but you see that they publish something bad, you can feel good about that.

>>6308444
Nice trips

>>6308350
The cordwainer, accorded by fate looks on.
Au Courant but aged -
He walks his imperial rut
Caught in the stride of yesterday’s march.

But not to betray his prince –
The despot prescott,
Bound and crowned with newfound thoughts of calamity.
Sic temper tyrannis we clamour!
But to no avail.
For there is no glamour in what we are,
Bookmakers to kings.

So, It's 2 AM and I just had this idea. I;ve never written like this before, and it might be shit, but I figured I'd get an opinion on here. ~Ghost

For the first time since I was a child, I panicked at the darkness
I reached over, snuffed out the light, and was horrified to see nothing.
As an adult, I should have just reached over and turned it back on.
But I was scared.
I was scared to take that risk. To be vulnerable to the darkness while my arm was exposed.
I couldnt risk letting the monsters get me
I couldnt leave what was safe, even if it would fix everything.
I couldnt take that risk.

I am a child, afraid of the dark.
Afraid of the unknown.
I don't know what lurks beyond my sights
I don't know if it's something I can handle.
I fear that unknown.
Like a child, I won't play a game I might not win

I am an adult, afraid of nothing
Not that I am afraid of nothing at all,
I'm afraid of the idea of nothing
that beyond this veil of darkness, there is nothing
No light, no sound, no people to talk to
No happiness to be had
No tears to be shed.
I am an adult, and I fear the void

I am a person, and I fear nothing
Not nothing at all
I fear that there is nothing beyond what I can see
that there is no magic to be seen
No secrets to be found
what exists is what I see and nothing more
My utmost fear is not the unknown
it is the lack thereof

I am a human, and I fear oblivion
I am horrified by my own end
Not that I will die,
but that I will never again live.
I fear that the day I take my last breathe,
that I will cease to exist.
I fear that when it all ends,
my name will die with me
I will have no great deeds to speak of
No stories to tell
Only a slab of concrete
forever assaulted by the torment of living beyond me

>>6309267
Nice job stealing themes from the good Shepard

>>6308989
a couple things:
1. you have to learn how to deal with criticism. sometimes the criticism will be invalid. other times it will be true. learn from those mistakes, you will be better at writing from it.

2. writing is more skill than talent. you might be shit now but you can become not-shit if you keep at it.

>>6308917
the idea is fine but the quality will depend on execution. ideas are actually quite cheap. the work to gain the skills to make ideas come to life, well that's the kicker.

Chapter 1 of The Suzerain, 1/12

Chapter 1 of "The Suzerain"

1/12

Chapter 1 of "The Suzerain"

1/12

>>6309698
2/12

>>6309701
3/12

>>6309701
3/12

>>6309705
4/12

>>6309710
disregard this one, won't let me delete any more

gonna rename so I don't fuck up anymore

>>6309705
The REAL 4/12

>>6309720
5/12

>>6309723
6/12

>>6309725
7/12

>>6309730
8/12?

Jesus Christ I don't know what happened with this memo thing. This is missing a pretty substantial chunk of story but I'll try to fill it in afterwards. Sorry about the colossal mess. Working on it now.

Let me know what you think of this amended chapter though!

>>6309742
Okay, just forget that I mentioned a different chunk. It no longer exists, sad mien. Oh well, it was all shitty writing anyway!

>>6309705
ACK. Just imagine that the man seated on the couch said some things about himself and continue from there.

My god I wish this thread would die already so I could hide my shame.

>>6309760
Starting with pillow arrangement and a boring meeting that the narrator doesn't pay attention to is not the best idea

>>6309762
Noted. It was kinda the jumping off point for me. I've been doing a lot of outlining since. Thanks for the critique.

keep calm
keep calm and write a post
keep calm and look at the watch
keep calm and put on your clothes
keep calm and scratch your balls
keep calm and drive a car
keep calm and read a book
keep calm

Managed to find the first thing I tried writing when I was 16.

Their movement slowed as they came towards the end of their journey, the grass belonging to the fields they were trudging through sprouted out from the snow in some places as if struggling to breathe, the tips of its thin fingers shaking as violently as the minute length above the snow would allow in the breeze, heard and seen equally as frost-covered branches whipped at each other snow hitting the ground in clumps and whistling so loud that conversation had once more become almost impossible, snatching words from your mouth before you’d even begin to speak and carrying them as to bestow them to some small animals sheltering somewhere downwind.

>>6309239
>Just write some poems, short stories, essays, and shop 'em around lit mags. Tons of resources out there for you. Aim for the middle, with a little top and bottom, and you'll get a bite if you're any good.
Where you guys publish short stories?

How "short" is a short story? 10000 words?

>>6308350
>>6294192 (OP) #
Is this a decent opening paragraph?

He stumbled and swung to his half-hazed half-dreamt semi-lucid ex-cunt of a girlfriend, the footsteps bouncing in unsounded dunking clunks of shoe on street. She was sleeping eye open under lamps above and, to Mark's filmed eyes, resembled a drowned whore: damp and salty, crusted and crushed by the light awesome mass of watery bullshit below, around and over. She would see him in ten paces, scream and let the sick surrounding sea weight ebb in; flowing into wet chunks of curb stomps as Mark would wade through buttered brain like weak tide.

>>6309901
As long as it needs to be.
Really it should be under 7,500 words, but it can be a single paragraph if it tells the story it needs to.

Arguably, "For sale: Baby shoes, never worn." Is a short story.

>>6309923
>half-hazed half-dreamt semi-lucid
one of these is more than enough
>unsounded dunking clunks
>unsounded clunks
impossible
>under lamps above
superflous
>crusted and crushed by the light awesome mass of watery bullshit below, around and over
edgelord
>generally
too much description on each and every thing, you gotta edit and cut a load my man

Critique Plz

>>6309351
don't take criticism personally, especially when both you and the critic are anonymous.

>>6309932
Cheers man. My normal voice is more minimal but to try my hand at something more descriptive, I want to do something kind of autistic in the way Pynchon goes into detail with his scenes.

>>6309940
Y'welcome. It can be difficult to balance heavy description without making it inaccessible. Try less description on each object/event but describe more objects/events overall. So for example:
>to Marks filmed eyes, resembled a drowned whore: damp and salty, crusted and crushed by the light awesome mass...
...
to Marks's eyes resembled a drowned whore. Her hair damp and salty, each lock knotted as tight as the grip she held upon him. The mass of watery bullshit the surrounded her crushed her body into something unrecognisable.

So like, there's 1 description for her overall, 1 for her hair, 1 for single locks of hair, 1 for her body instead of 4 for her overall. Hope that helps.

>>6309952
Can I give you another peice dude? Don't worry if you don't want to read it.

Marie traced the rim of the glass to steady herself. These fingers, she thought, these fingers are circuited to this glass. This glass, Marie thought, can cut and will not unless I strike it. We are symbiotically ensnared. Marie liked the glass. It was domestically threatening; disarmingly see-through and prickly if cracked. She did not realize the similarities. Marie merely liked it.

Marie was drunk and infatuated with the nearly empty glass. She had put on her mother’s albums and was listening to St. James Infirmary Blues. It was not a happy song and Marie enjoyed it. Marie had situated herself within leaping distance of her open apartment window and lurched and churned at the ugly lights of cars and rooms outside. Marie imagined the lives of every person below, poorly, and wondered if they too really felt like she did. Marie wished that people would have the decency to die after her. The bad wine had left her with mildly entertained thoughts of suicide and Marie swayed by the window, taking in the minted breaths of wind and alcohol.

If I leapt, Marie thought, I could hold onto this glass. We could shatter together, she thought, and people would think, “Oh. Another silly drunk.” and that would be it. Marie gave this situation a great deal of imagination, allowed the tragedy to develop in her head. The passer-bys, Marie thought, would be so mildly shocked and at work they would look out of their own windows and think of what the jump would feel like, the thoughts and concrete that would slam into them and crack out their vesseled lives. And then, Marie smiled, more dreamed passer-bys would see the imagined bodies and they too might give thoughts of their own jumping. Marie was pleased with this analogy and her drunken thoughts forgot the glass in her hands and it blew with a crystal smack.

Marie leapt, and very nearly put her thought experiment into practise, as shards and wine mixed below her bare tights. Closing the window, Marie hopped to her sofa and cradled her left foot, cursing and biting her lip. Marie fawned over her toes, tracing the rim of her nails to steady herself as she pulled out splinters of glass. Marie reached for the bottle of Fairbank Pinot Noir 2013 and slowly poured a small thimble worth over her most damaged areas, hissing and cursing again. I’d like to, Marie thought, just once she mused, really try and jump. Just to see if I have it in me.

>>6309966
I'm just going to the post office bruh but i'll give it a read when I get back, any particular critique you want?

>>6309923
I like your version more than the corrected one

While near the light above the ladder I could hear a few laughs down below. "What happened?" I asked aloud though there was no one to answer. I tried vainly to stretch myself enough to caught at least a glimpse of what was happening down there, take a look to the fancy dresses that women wear with pride and .
The laughter grew bigger and I could hear a few hands clapping here and there behind the noisy laughter. Maybe someone was telling funny jokes? I wished I could hear them too but from where I stood the voice of the speaker sounded faint enough to be covered by the constant talk of the audience.
"You're done. Come back" said a voice in my left ear. The lights grew dim and I was overcasted by the night.
Now I did tried to get up and walk, and I swear I tried as hard as I could but I couldn't do despite of my efforts. There was nothing wrong with my legs and it seemed it was rather my brain. I may have not walked, but my shadow projected by the dim lights still glowing behind me moved indeed as I wanted to.
I spent some time, minutes or maybe hours playing with my shadow in this curious game I just discoverd. I'm unaware of how it happened and because of that I was certainly impressed and even if scared probably a bit amused.

But I'm afraid that it was harder to move as the time passed by. My shadow still moved, but only after a great effort like if I were to experience the effort lifting weights by merely moving my arm.

After a while, all control was lost. I could move my body, or what seemed more like watching my body move, while my shadow stood still.

After walking aimlessly for a while like re-discovering my body I heard someone call for me. I should go back to work, I should have done it way before now. If I could move by my own will I may have went after they called for me, but now I was just dancing on the bridge with a smile on my face and giggles and giggles, so much that people may think I was there happy for nothing and playing like a kid.

The light below shined as never, and how attractive it was I remember well since the calls for my being came from the very darkness below the iron ladder. Next thing I new I was staring at the ground, which came closer and closer for a time that could have been an eternity.

Nobody noticed, and when they did everybody laughed. He fell, his brain spilled all over the fun like a woman bleeding sea.

My drink was warm by then, the curtains closed and everybody clappped. That was another night in the celebricity.

>>6309976
Anything regarding description and sense of character.

Want to know what people think of this, I've posted the first paragraph here before but I've tidied everything up since then. In the meantime I'll give a few critiques myself (though I doubt they're worth anything).
---

We stepped cautiously, holding our breaths in hope that we might reduce the weight of each footfall. The rocks underfoot were sharp and ran many layers deep; their frustratingly stubborn edges dug into the soles of our feet and made every step a painful thing. I wished bitterly that I had taken shoes. Not only were the rocks agony but they were also cold, worsening an already frigid night. But shoes were absolutely out of the question, my house was old and I needed total aptitude for each step, somehow my parents had trained their ears to sense the creaks of the floorboards no matter how deeply they slept. At my side was my older cousin, though we fancied ourselves as brothers. I watched him walking much the same as me, blindly navigating across the landscape trying to find the safest place to land his feet. It was clear that he was feeling the same pain as I was and that there was no need to ask, but I was young and it was my right to ask questions regardless of whatever evidence lie in front of me.
“Is this killing your feet?” I asked
But he only shushed me. He would get this way sometimes, when he and I would find ourselves in situations like this he would assume control and turn himself from any kind of play. As if in our danger there was urgent need for his guiding presence, but each time I knew he was just as clueless as I was. At the other end of the rocks I could see the bonfire and against its light I could see the shapes of boys and girls, all of them indiscriminately throwing whatever they could into the fire. Now that I was here I realized that I was entirely out of my element. But when Jake was involved there was no turning back, each time he showed some kind vulnerability I could relate to I would exalt, hoping that he would turn us around and that we’d go home and get into bed and swap stories until early in the morning. But that was never in his nature, he was compelled to do these things no matter what the risks or whatever his fears were, it was always admirable in hindsight but maddening during the moment.
“We’re here now” he would always say “it would be a waste of time to turn back.”

Want to know what people think of this, I've posted the first paragraph here before but I've tidied everything up since then. In the meantime I'll give a few critiques myself (though I doubt they're worth anything).
---

We stepped cautiously, holding our breaths in hope that we might reduce the weight of each footfall. The rocks underfoot were sharp and ran many layers deep; their frustratingly stubborn edges dug into the soles of our feet and made every step a painful thing. I wished bitterly that I had taken shoes. Not only were the rocks agony but they were also cold, worsening an already frigid night. But shoes were absolutely out of the question, my house was old and I needed total aptitude for each step, somehow my parents had trained their ears to sense the creaks of the floorboards no matter how deeply they slept. At my side was my older cousin, though we fancied ourselves as brothers. I watched him walking much the same as me, blindly navigating across the landscape trying to find the safest place to land his feet. It was clear that he was feeling the same pain as I was and that there was no need to ask, but I was young and it was my right to ask questions regardless of whatever evidence lie in front of me.

“Is this killing your feet?” I asked

But he only shushed me. He would get this way sometimes, when he and I would find ourselves in situations like this he would assume control and turn himself from any kind of play. As if in our danger there was urgent need for his guiding presence, but each time I knew he was just as clueless as I was. At the other end of the rocks I could see the bonfire and against its light I could see the shapes of boys and girls, all of them indiscriminately throwing whatever they could into the fire. Now that I was here I realized that I was entirely out of my element. But when Jake was involved there was no turning back, each time he showed some kind vulnerability I could relate to I would exalt, hoping that he would turn us around and that we’d go home and get into bed and swap stories until early in the morning. But that was never in his nature, he was compelled to do these things no matter what the risks or whatever his fears were, it was always admirable in hindsight but maddening during the moment.

“We’re here now” he would always say “it would be a waste of time to turn back.”

>>6309999

A lot of grammatical issues here, it really does seem like you didn't edit it yourself before posting it. I would suggest just reading it over word by word and you'll start to see where it could flow better.

It does seem like it could be an interesting story but a lot of over looked errors makes it hard to think of anything else while reading it.

>>6309966
>>6310025
I really like this one dude, I wouldn't feel comfortable offering a single edit.
The pacing is good, you really conjure a full character in Marie and the level and depth of the description is just to my liking ha.

Which actually brings me to this anon >>6309994

My edit is how I would write it and how I would enjoy reading it, but people will have different views. There's nothing inherently bad about what you wrote originally in>>6309923
just certain parts, in my view, could do with neatening up.

Take and leave my criticisms as you want, having your own voice is important.

>>6309966

>Marie traced the rim of the glass to steady herself. These fingers, she thought, these fingers are circuited to this glass. This glass, Marie thought, can cut and will not unless I strike it.

You could probably remove "Marie thought" after "this glass." You've already told us she's thinking in the sentence before hand.

I'm on my phone so saying much more is hard. Personally it seems to me like it's very wordy, I would suggest maybe a little more imagery rather than lots of description.

>>6310050
I like this, i'd be interested to see where it goes.
I'm curious of the age of the protagonist, sort of in hope that what they're heading to/have arrived at is something actually not very dangerous and only truly daunting to a youngster

The interaction between the two is honest and realistic

>>6308365
>>6308389
>>6308433
>>6308457

>>6310050

>their frustratingly stubborn edges dug into the soles of our feet

Maybe take out "frustratingly" here.

>it was always admirable in hindsight but maddening during the moment.

I like this. I know exactly what you're talking about and it's a nice sentence too.

>>6310114

Thanks for the reply man, do you have any criticisms for me though? I know there's only two paragraphs but the style of writing is consistent throughout the rest of story.

Pic related is the opening to a project i've abandoned, would like some criticism and also opinions on whether it has legs and I should bother going back to it.

a poem. appreciate any feedback

http://pastebin.com/gAxdmx1w

>>6310134
Well I would agree with >>6310128
that 'frustratingly' might be unnecessary.

and maybe
>holding our breaths
could be breath, like their collective breath, makes them seem closer maybe?

I like the style of writing so if that continues then that's only a positive for me. I can't see much for criticism man, I know that's unhelpful but you've produced something decent here

>>6310138

It's a little too purple. Look up just about any short story that's been published and compare the first paragraphs of your story and their's.

>>6310126
I wrote that. >>6308359 is not me.

I'm flattered that you guys remember

>>6310138
It is abysmal, almost a perfect word salad turning to a verdant verbiage of compost.

>>6309933
The title is good and it goes downhill from there

>>6310152
>>6310154
Noted and agreed. The verbosity is the reason it was abandoned in the first place.

Anything salvageable or is it destined for the shit heap?

>>6310185
Trying to salvage is not a good idea. Rewrite it entirely even if you don't keep it though. Try to re-say what you were trying to say, it will be a good lesson to you. Then throw it away.

>>6310050

These are the paragraphs that come after, if anyone wants to tell me what's wrong with these ones I'd be grateful.
_________

“We’re here now” he would always say “it would be a waste of time to turn back.”

And so I made no attempt to persuade him and we pressed on across the rocks making little progress until we had made it to the edge. I sunk my feet into the sand and relished the way it gave way for my weight, I ran my feet through the sand without lifting them and let the sensation caress my tender soles. But despite its comforts I realized that now nothing stood between us and the bridge and Jake was eager.

“Hurry up” he said pushing his way forward.

I chased him but I remained in his background, letting him represent our party when we arrived beneath the bridge. The firelight shifted beneath the bridge sporadically and its orange glow turned the graffiti on the concrete into a mural of ill-intent, a mess of brown and grey markings that spoke to me and told me that I had guessed correctly, that I was very much unwelcome. We were in the middle of the gathering and around us were what seemed like a thousand conversations at once, the girls were loud, drawing whatever attention they could and the boys were laughing in accentuated accents, an unpractised version of the way my Father and his friends would laugh at their parties. Jake and I stood in the middle, me looking at him and him with his hands in his pockets, bobbing his head to the music that played from the car stereo and gazing around the scene like this was his crowd. I thought that we might simply blend in; I hoped that no one would say anything and that after a few hours we could say to each other “This party sucks, let’s go” and we would walk away undefeated and safe. But before long a voice halted the revelry and all attention turned to us.

>>6310101
Thanks for the input anon. I agree that so much of writing is subjective but there are definite mistakes and pitfalls any writer can fall into.

>>6310204
I get a feeling for the atmosphere, but at the same time I don't. Like I feel like I don't understand the type of gathering they're at, and the type of people they'd find there. Is it a bunch of homeless people, or some teens in high school? Some detail there might help. Then again, I only read this paragraph.

>>6308383
>There it was, among the darkness this time; figures of which I presumed were human. They were sat in circles of various sizes, within some circles there were forty or fifty people, though others seemed much smaller, I approached one of the circles and studied those within it, and they were all obscured, featureless, and morose.

try this: There, in the darkness, were figures I presumed to be human, sat in circles, some small, some forty or fifty strong, and I approached one of the circles, studying the morose, featureless people [beings? creatures?] within.

i took some liberties in this rewrite, but i think it makes the description much more effective. there are ways to do the run-on thing in a way that efficiently bundles the narrator's perceptions

>>6308740
>increasing in speed

you mean, accelerating? and get to this earlier. think: what is the point of this sentence? am i trying to get across that the spheres are accelerating? get to that sooner then.

>Blood, still etched into the disks would have splattered off; however several days of exposer to the sun had dried the substance to the phenomenon.

this is a fucking mess. i don't even know what happened to the blood by the end of it.

>>6308785
>but you can

this totally interrupts the flow you had established, which i was actually liking. careful about "buts," "ands," etc. there's no need to be afraid of semicolons.

>homogenous

maybe not the best word here, and im really nitpicking because i think you have a good idea what you're going for; this isn't it. that word is way to technical. generally, and this is an incredibly broad generalization, if you learned it in a science class it's probably not suitable for prose.

>Can we pick out one face in this faceless crowd?

this is nice, actually, except for the fact of you making a very rapid leap from voices to faces. maybe "one voice" from the "silent" crowd? i dunno

>Let’s roam our eyes around for just one second now where is he I am looking.

what?

>Where is he at?

oh. i see. maybe just say this.

things like this happen throughout. tighten this up, because i like the idea but hate the delivery.

>>6308973
>stream of consciouses from a simpleton

literally everyone has done this. but to be fair you did it well.

>>6309772
edgy

>>6310204
I really like this. It reminded me of sneaking out of my house to smoke weed with my brother

>But before long a voice halted the revelry and all attention turned to us
I want a name for stories like this where it's just an exploration of the worst possible outcome in an already awkward situation (probably just dramatic irony). Anyway this whole thing really spoke to me on an emotional level

>But he only shushed me
>And so I made
>But despite its comforts
>But before long
Starting sentences with "And" or "But" is unnecessary and it would read the same way without them

>But despite its comforts I realized that now nothing stood between us and the bridge and Jake was eager.
>and Jake was eager.
I understand that what you're saying is that he is eager to approach the bridge, but this should be spelled out

>>6310598
>We were in the middle of the gathering and around us were what seemed like a thousand conversations at once, the girls were loud, drawing whatever attention they could and the boys were laughing in accentuated accents, an unpractised version of the way my Father and his friends would laugh at their parties.
I think this does enough to tell you what kind of gathering it is

>>6308973
and i want to add that i do really like your judicious use of exclamation points

Hey, keep the thread alive until I get home from work. I want to post something and receive cruel criticism. In return I'll also review the posts and give critique/advice

>>6310848
Can you give cruel criticism to mine?
>>6308543

>>6310668
I'm the blood disk guy. Thanks for the criticism, I will try to improve my sentence structure.

>>6308502

boo

>>6310857
This contains too many grammatical errors and awkward sentences. It is too long to focus in on specific parts to correct. Read the entire thing out loud and you might be able to pick out some of the errors. I wouldn't bother getting an actual critique of the substance of this story until you have cleaned up most of the errors

>>6310848
This is /lit/ even if somehow there was enough traffic in the other threads to push this to deletion someone would just make another one

>>6308904
Can someone please critique this?

Fast Critique Service

>>6308515
acceptable

>>6308543
shit

>>6308785
acceptable

>>6308904
shit

>>6309966
good

>>6309999
shit

>>6310050
good

Finally, tired of exploring the presently sightless narrative of The Great Catamite Revolution of 32 BC that so obviously predicated the silicon valley cross-fit bubble (stopping, of course, logically along the way at the magna carta, Rousseau’s second discourse ect.), Muncho’s eyelids saw their burden of curiosity lift. He waited patientially for the nearing Toyota accord, the tactfully chain smoking Desert Storm veteran, and the Black mailman to congeal and coo him his first aubade to Northeastern California morning.

Looking up, an erect sign 200 feet ahead if him seemed to be very sure that it was in Stockton(though the only clue of this were the letters S-T-O-C-K-T-O-N that tattooed its Muncho-facing side). Keen on colonizing his senses, Muncho decided immediately that he should accept the sign, false god or not, on its terms in order to rent his mind some ground to stand on, at least for the while.

His companion lay asleep in the passenger seat unbaptized to their new world. Muncho let his foot fall slowly on the gas pedal to propel their station wagoned home forward into the tangible mystic. One thing was clear; Stockton was going to be a lot to deal with.

Right at this moment the moment has passed
and the ship has lost all but its mast.
Pickles are cucumbers drenched in chemical time
so I hope next time you suck one, you suck mine

Just as he finished dressing up and ready to leave, someone knocked on his door. It was not a simple knocking, but a strong and demanding one.
"Aye, it's open."
The door opened and a pair of knights entered. Then another pair, and another, and another. Eight knights in total entered the room. This spectacle left Islod without much of an impression, for he half expected something to happen before leaving.
"What is the matter?"
"Islod, also known as... Blacksting?" asked a knight, reciting the last word with a certain growl.
"Don't you like my title?"
"Lord Adrian, voivode of Rotgut requires your presence."
"This is one shady way to invite someone to your estate."
"Lord Adrian demands your presence" he repeated, insisting on it.
"And if I refuse" asked Blackstig resting his hand on the black sting.
"You will come..." the knight spoke again, placing emphasis on will.
"The fuck I will!”
The knight, with all of his confidence, opened and closed his mouth a few times like a fish on dry land, words piling up in his throat but never having the guts to spill them out. He started to sweat and he turned as red as a shiny apple. Looking around, he saw that none of his mates were willing to back him up; this is Blacksting after all.
~~~~

Leave the obvious behind. I know it's le shite fantasy, but what can I do? I love sword and sorcery.

>>6308350
Work finishes and we all head out to the bar across the road.
Its cold outside and the snow is falling.
Someone trips up and I see up her skirt.
I feel ashamed but look again before crossing the road.
The bar smells of piss and old stale dog.
Hockey is on the tv and the bruins are winning.
Jackie is at the bar shouting abuse at the screen.
Jackie is a cunt.

>>6311425
at first i hated this but on closer inspection i like the shift from shame to mild perversion to outright misogyny, lubricated throughout by alcohol.

The scratching wakes me up. It's a good thing it does. It is coming from the door across the room, which rattles in its frame as it is pawed at from the other side. Scratch, scratch, scratch, like a cat wanting to be let in.

I sit up and blink until I can see. The light from the hall spills into my bedroom from underneath the door. If the door can't keep out the light, what good is it at keeping out anything else?

I grimace and hold my breath. The scratching comes again, harder this time, and more urgent. Whatever was outside needs to be let in.

The handle turns.

I roll out of bed and fling my weight against the door as it starts to open. Then I grab the handle and hold it up with my palm, hoping that will be enough to stop it from turning again. I can no longer tell if any pressure is being put onto it from the other side, so I wait for a while. The scratching doesn't come back.

I wait until my mouth and lips are wet again before I speak. “Danny. Danny, is that you?” I grip onto the door handle as if letting go of it would make me fall. “Danny, stop messing around. Go back to bed.

There is no sound from beyond the door. Not a scratch. I life my hand away from the handle, but it does not turn. I back away until I bump into my bed, and collapse down on it. That should not have happened, I think to myself. I was so careful.

>>6311425
>Work finishes and we
>we
>Someone trips up and I see up her skirt.I feel ashamed but look again before crossing the road.
What about the others? Otherwise I like it.
>The bar smells of piss and old stale dog.
Too cliched.
>Jackie is a cunt.
Lol'd.

>>6311261
Me like dis

>>6311346
>Just as he finished dressing up and ready to leave
Forgetting the obvious error you could have just said that he was ready to leave, or about to leave

>someone knocked on his door. It was not a simple knocking, but a strong and demanding one.
Could have just been
>someone banged on the door
Or something to that effect

>The door opened and a pair of knights entered. Then another pair, and another, and another. Eight knights in total entered the room
I'm trying to envision this scene in my head, but you haven't provided any details. Are the knights in armor? How big is the room? I feel like nine people in a room would be pretty cramped, and comical rather than intimidating. Instead of mentioning four pairs of knights entering you could have actually described the situation.

>"And if I refuse" asked Blackstig resting his hand on the black sting.
First you need a question mark if someone is asking something, and you could just get rid of the And. Second we know that Blacksting is the guy's title, but we don't know what "the black sting" is. It could be his dick for all we know and he's about to unleash a torrent of jizz on these knights. Say the blade that shares his name or something

>"You will come..." the knight spoke again, placing emphasis on will.
This is supporting my theory that he's some kind of infamous masturbator. Cheap jokes aside, why do you use ellipses? Did he trail off as he noticed him reaching for his cock? (I'm never going to put aside cheap jokes)

You make a lot of errors that could have been fixed if you just read it out loud to yourself. I don't know how much effort you put into this, but just by reading it I would have to guess very little

The laws became even more encompassing, and more numerous.
Times were complicated and a life is difficult.
People who kept their heads down, nudged even further down.
Not knowing much, not wanting to know
Glancing absently at one another
Careful to seem sufficiently absent
A mean little impetus of action was always in their minds.
Thankfully there were others.
From the new vantage point
The low people judged,
For there were so many more to safely judge now
Many more who were undoubtedly in the wrong here
There was a lovely brotherhood to the thing
There, from their new vantage point,
They were safe.
And the world was lovely and small

>>6311987
>I'm trying to envision this scene in my head, but you haven't provided any details. Are the knights in armor? How big is the room? I feel like nine people in a room would be pretty cramped, and comical rather than intimidating. Instead of mentioning four pairs of knights entering you could have actually described the situation.
There are a lot of details, but this is just a fragment of a much larger chapter. The room is detailed, the knights themselves too (later in the same scene)

>Second we know that Blacksting is the guy's title, but we don't know what "the black sting" is. It could be his dick for all we know and he's about to unleash a torrent of jizz on these knights. Say the blade that shares his name or something

As I've said, it's just a very small fragment of a much much larger chapter, which is also part of a much larger story. the black sting is the weapon from which he gained the nickname. It's also explained what exactly is the black sting itself (and why not the black dagger or sword or whatever) again, either earlier or later in the overall story.

> why do you use ellipses? Did he trail off as he noticed him reaching for his cock?
I meant to show that the knight is no longer as sure of himself as before.
You will come! is stronger than You will come. which is stronger than You will come..., which is stronger than Please, come.
Do you know what I mean? Although you are right, I could use different words to show the same thing, which I will (edit it, that is)

And this is why I never posted on these threads before. There are things that I can't just show / explain in a copy-pasted excerpt, and at the first glance it looks cheap, lacking details, amateurish (ok, it IS amateurish, I'm pretty bad and I'm the first one to admit it, but overall, when I take all things into consideration (including the fact that not every detail or everything is repeated forever and the fragment is part of a bigger something), I don't think it's all that bad. Unfortunately, there is no one I trust enough to share the whole thing I'm working at, so I'll just have to deal with random criticism (some is good) from random people, based on a fragment encompassing 1% or less of the total.)

Thank you, anon. I deeply appreciate your comment.

How we did think ourselves above the rest,
From humble beginnings we rose up high,
The world did shake and mould herself to us,
Carving our place upon the Earthly crust,
On this skin of progress we claimed so much,
Throwing ourselves into the heav’ns above,
And peering through the depths of time and space,
Our minds waged war on mysteries and doubt,
And monuments we said immortal rose,
Yet our ancestors do not smile with us,
Nor share our fleeting pride or rushed triumph,
And we know one day we shall be the same,
Passing in to destined and darkly night,
So new worlds may enjoy their right to brag

first time writing poetry

>>6311261
try to emulate DFW even more

Please review mine.
It's literally the first few lines of the novel I'm working on.

...........
"This void is not an empty one, though in it's vastness, everything is lost"

If a traveler, racing through the stars across the greatness of the sky, was to look upon us, upon this tiny giant world, what would he see? Will it appear as nothing more but than a fleeting spark, too insignificant for it to be noticed? How would this traveler have to be able to gaze upon what we have achieved? Would he see the infinite beauty, or will it all be too late? What if the last sunset is our legacy, death, the only constant in the cosmos?
They have debated that change is this constant, and that nothing truly ends. Indeed, that matter and energy are not truly spent, that they simply change forms and states.
If they were right, then I have no fear.

......
It's not even space adventure or sci-fi or whatever.

The swing was rolling on beyond relax into boredom, I grew increasingly frustrated and began pacing, the cord between me and my turret coiling and uncoiling as I paced to and fro passing my desk on the right, turning about face and passing my desk on the left, it had been like this for three weeks and I just couldn't take it anymore, every interaction leading to frustration, anger, discontent, marking the time by the minute and thinking of all the people who would have previously sat this chair making conversation after conversation and getting nowhere, helping when they can though not often enough, smoking thirty cigarettes a day just to pass the time during their given respites and being unable to think for the voices incessantly ringing in their ears, a modern hell.

In she came, unbeknownst to me at first, though the sight of her was more fuel to the fire as I thought about how little she ever helped, busy, as always and I knew she was never lying about it, I would never envy someone in that position, not without good reason and I had none, just a restless tension and unstated discontent with the general going of things.

"Why is it, whenever I come to you seeking advice, or help, do you always fucking brush me off with some deferring statement which paints me as a useless fucking retard?"

Taken aback, she stuttered likely not expecting me to say something so rash and inappropriate, usually a devoted and quiet worker, a God among men of the world of service to those who needed me, truly in my own mind a man whom without the company would suffer great loss.

"I'm sorry, I wont have you speaking like that to me"

She choked on the words suddenly less sure of herself than she was as she strode in but a moment earlier.

"I'll speak to you however I damn want, I sit here every day making sure that I don't fuck up people's lives and that I do my damnedest to stand out among the literal droolers that make up half our team, and in return, when I ask you for help you respond with questions."

"Uhhh."

"Not just any questions, questions that would make an employee of five days wonder why you were asking such inane bullshit, jesus do you think I'm incompetent, or just fucking dense?"

She had no response, eyes wide with visage perplexed by my outright rudeness and gall.

"I just want some respect, and that you don't immediately assume I'm not worth my salt, bothering my with stupid ass assumptions when I'm clearly one of the smartest people here."

And with that came the beep, and I had to return to my seat, and she stood in awe, and I began to speak ever so courteously as always, masking my intense rage in a manner so adept, thinking all the while about how quickly I would lose my job, but at least maybe I would have kept some sentiment of my dignity...

--My /lit/ Haiku--

Hi - I didn't read
Anything you have written.
But I know it's shit.

>>6312387

>"This void is not an empty one, though in it's vastness, everything is lost"
>It's

fukkin dropped, m90

>>6312419
whoops. But if you read more, you'll see that it was an innocent. mistake. I know my grammar m80, don't h80

>>6311261
>Finally, tired of exploring the presently sightless narrative of The Great Catamite Revolution of 32 BC that so obviously predicated the silicon valley cross-fit bubble (stopping, of course, logically along the way at the magna carta, Rousseau’s second discourse ect.), Muncho’s eyelids saw their burden of curiosity lift. He waited patientially for the nearing Toyota accord, the tactfully chain smoking Desert Storm veteran, and the Black mailman to congeal and coo him his first aubade to Northeastern California morning.

The first part is just... too much, of what I don't know. The only way I can describe this style would be dazed intellectualism, and Pinecone already has that locked down. Next how do people and a car congeal, did you mean come together? Have they been blended together into a Junji Ito monster? Better yet where are these people? Are they standing in the street milling about, or are they in nearby cars, or are they figments of Muncho's imagination? A minor quibble I have is that Stockton isn't in Northeastern California, in fact it is in one of the most central parts

>Looking up, an erect sign 200 feet ahead if him seemed to be very sure that it was in Stockton(though the only clue of this were the letters S-T-O-C-K-T-O-N that tattooed its Muncho-facing side). Keen on colonizing his senses, Muncho decided immediately that he should accept the sign, false god or not, on its terms in order to rent his mind some ground to stand on, at least for the while.

I can imagine the narrator of this story looking at his surroundings with a glazed over look and saying, "Far out man," no human being likes a dirty hippy. Tattooed usually means the letters are on someone's skin, use something like adorned instead. I'm not sure what "colonizing his senses" means, was it supposed to be something like settling his senses down? The rest of that sentence is another piece of wry filler that at the most tells us that he is in some kind of addled state of mind, this is something we already know though so it is pointless to keep reminding us.

>His companion lay asleep in the passenger seat unbaptized to their new world. Muncho let his foot fall slowly on the gas pedal to propel their station wagoned home forward into the tangible mystic. One thing was clear; Stockton was going to be a lot to deal with.

Unbaptized should just be unexposed or something like that, baptism is washing away of sin so it doesn't seem right. Next sentence you say that he accelerated the car in the most convoluted way possible, and then you said "tangible mystic" which sounds ridiculous. That last sentence is like a joke tagline for a fake movie

Keep your chin up

>>6312293
You should have posted the entire scene then

>>6312387
you change tense three times in the first paragraph.

>>6308359

I've improved this poem quite a bit over the past day, but I'd still really like it if someone could at least make comment on it before I post the revision

>>6310955
>This contains too many grammatical errors and awkward sentences.
That's a new thing called... ummm... hypermodernism?

I'm high. Bear with me.

I found myself in the clutches of the house mistress, whose painted red nails had scratched my arms in their slicing grip. Tom and I had jumped through the window in an attempted departure, but had only found pavement and fractured bones to suffer through. I thanked the drugs for this, and also thanked the rural police for being completely oblivious to the drug culture of my favorite city. I only made these journeys if I had the friends with which to call people.

Now I'm baking a set of cookies for myself, likely around three or four dozen in total. It will have the combined caloric weight of two sticks of butter, two cups of flour, and all the sugar and chocolate you could bear to eat.

come at me

>>6312975
bretty bad

From the moment we met I eyed you with intrigue,
For I was unsure of your customs, your ways, you're a mystery,
I felt a great draw to the style you presented,
And for a while in confusion I blindly resented,
The remarks you made to me left me dissuaded,
But the idea you displayed it had me persuaded,
Of your worth, your love shining through bitterness,
With all faces the same embracing the lonliness,
Conform I did try to the world I was found in,
To conform is to die, I felt I was drowning.

Much later we now cannot sever our baggage,
I know too much of you and of I you know nothing,
Just a moment of thought and you have me for hours,
A familiar face, featureless and astounding,
Bonds we all share with those who define us,
We share with each other though you never remind us,
For we know it too well I'll never forget you,
Or forgive your trespasses you've made since I met you,
You're much too important to keep in my wallet,
And of all of my friends you are the least to my knowledge.

East am I far from the largest of body,
In a land you may know but not very well,
For they say we are lovers in mind and in honour,
But as long as I live I cannot savour your smell,
Help is at hand for you if you falter,
As we know you were hardly raised by some altar,
By the altar of eden and all of our failings,
From the tree of knowledge we ate, Endeavour,
We shall bow to us forever, oh nobody knows-
Knows who we are but we don't need to.

All of us alone and yet together oh so very often,
A concept far removed from reality for most,
Perhaps even something to scoff at, we know not,
Not what we are or who we are but we try,
We seek that in each other when we are at our side,
Of present conflict and past instigation, we are marked,
Markings make our life and in our world is our mark,
They take our mark and spread it and it loses meaning,
We make it anew and re-weave the broken seems,
They tell us it was not our mark to begin with, dreams.

Lies are just a string used by some puppeteer,
They make us uncomfortable, we know why,
They know not why, but we feel them pulling,
Our emotions remain unchanged, All of us pulling,
All of us want to kill our puppetmasters,
Puppeteers have no power and still they try to stand,
Only they need their strings pulled before they can rise,
To run, they only exist because we do, fulfillment, demise,
Ideas we have change the world, we are one, and many,
We have changed the world, and we love each other.

Safe is it to mention of what we discuss?,
Surely not, the fuss - of what is it we speak?
We are known and unknown for we know now why,
They know now why and they are one with us,
We try not to intimidate, but it is known,
They think us a mystery, we do not explain,
As nobody did to us, why should they? learn,
We have no use for you, you are nothing, earn,
We love you, think of us always, never leave.
I think of you often, I love you, I will never leave.

>>6312895
>>6312895
I don't read much poetry, but I hate that most of the poetry in this thread gets no attention. Please bare with me as I had a lot of trouble dissecting your poem

>Pellucid cut keys hit clocks over cellars
Pellucid is a funny word to find in this poem because it is not very clear to me what is being conveyed. I can't think of anything in particular when I read this line it just seems like a word salad, in fact I could say that of most of this poem

>when serpents threshed straw, filled fens with their dolor,
>Where they ground our chalice in greys and black
This strikes me as an opaque reference to something because otherwise it just seems like nonsense. I would really appreciate you just spoon feeding the meaning of these lines to me

Really I don't want to go any farther than this. I feel as though in order to understand this poem I would need to know a lot about Schoenberg and his relation to music. I don't though, and I don't think many other people do. I wish I could offer a more meaningful critique, but to me this poem is meaningless

>>6313135

You aren't wrong, it's (if I dare to make a reference to a much better poet) kinda like Beckett's Whoroscope -- a slosh of references about the biographical subject.

> when Schoenberg adorned the bench,

piano bench; I used adorned because it's my belief that brought reason back to the art of pianesque composition

> Pellucid cut keys

Schoenberg believed that music should simply be played; whether it is freely atonal, or rather composed through a rigid ruleset (such as his twelve tone system), all that matters is what the listener receives and feels

> clocks over cellars ... shattered glasses ... feet

reference to Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock, basically saying that Schoenberg took the piano bench and brought back structure in music at a time when poets and composers were destroying conventions

> blues and reds

reference to Scriabin, who composed very freely atonally (I still love him of course), but who was also responsible for the destruction of Tonality. He had synesthesiac connections between color and tones, and heard music as a painting.

> Waltz

Schoenberg's first 12 tone composition was a lopsided, seemingly freely atonal Waltz (Op. 23 no. 5)

> take back your seat

a call for the next Schoenberg to come and help bring back structure

> bend wood .. scold

a shitty line, honestly, but pianos are built by bending wood over time to make the arcs (at least the best pianos are) -- a call for schoenberg jr. to make music bend to his vision

> Bartok

another visionary composer

> shelled hearts of gold

cheesy, I was basically going for "shelled" referring to the shell-shocked nature of the populace after WWI. Also, "gold" because Schoenberg believed that "music should be cold" -- again, a bad line tbh

anyways the next stanza is kinda just describing what music is like in absence of a leader such as Schoenberg, continuing the "shattered glass" reference from stanza 1, adding a new allusion to the Hollow Men also by eliot, etc.

final stanza is a recap of the second, asking to "pour glass" in an urn (rebuild the structure of music, go back to tradition -- hence the urn), tune it like a wine glass, etc., and then "turn it back over", asking him to break his new rules and start us all over -- and then the poem repeats itself, indefinitely.

Maybe I should try being a bit more clear in it next time, honestly, looking back I understand what I did wrong

>>6312735
>You should have posted the entire scene then

The entire scene is ~7k words

>>6308359
I like that the last stanza goes right back to the first, like a da capo. I don't know if that was your intent.

>>6313326

absolutely the intent, glad you picked up on it : )

>>6313346
Do you plan to make the poem longer and expand on that idea? With a Coda and a D.C. al Fine and what not? That might be a little heavy on the musicology but I'm just throwing that out there to see if it interests you.

>>6313368

That's not a terrible idea, honestly; though maybe for another poem (I'm about to do one on Scriabin as well) -- the loop in that poem is more just to signify the cyclical nature of Schoenbergs in any artform, I suppose

>>6312735
I'm very new to the whole creative writing thing and really appreciate this. Thank you, hopefully you'll find me in one of these threads again

>>6312846
Without going too much into detail, it's supposed to be something translated from another language, into the language primary spoken in the novel.

>"This void is not an empty one, though in its vastness, everything is lost"

This sentence is so fitting and perfect for the whole thing, you don't even realize. I'm not changing a thing in it, but I would like more opinions on the rest of it>>6312387

Elongate the composition,
Your fantasia.

I dread the widened set
Of the hourglass since we met.
As each grain crashes
Perdition creeps up
Eerily...

The waves harass,
Plague, bedevil, Harry.

So I figured I'd write about a swing hanging from a tree over a cliff or something over the sea or whatever. But when i was writing that sentence I didn't capitalize the 'i' and I thought that I should go back because that is discipline and it is needed for my own personal advancement. I do not want gains, im quite unsure of what i want. Being greedy and satisfing your needs is looked down upon and personally im afraid of it because when im happy im usually even more sad after. I just with I could be nonexistant. I don't want to be happy or sad really. I dont think thats alot to ask for. I can exist, why can't i unexist? I'd really like to. Even the word "like" implies that good is better than bad and so does better. Everything is about as much sensation and happiness as you can get. Its just as bad as being as sad and desensatized as you can be. I'd say "whatever peace" or something here but thats kinda mumbling and im pretty sure i got rejected for mumbling. that or the fact that im 109 lbs. girls r a spook.

>>6308350
"That is because everything is sexual. Life is in its very nature an act of sex, my friend. It took a union of two to spawn you, and when you sputtered out from your mother, you were a man-phallus thrust into the gaping hole of the universe—from the second we come to be, to the day we die, we are fucking the very fabric of reality with our very existence. Even the most ascetic of celibate monks are at this very moment committing craven and depraved acts of sensual amor upon the earth."

This is spoken by the mind-reading, flamboyantly homosexual photographer in my (as of now) short story.

I stepped into the dark room gingerly, already fearing reproach from the man sitting silently near the window. As I brought my eyes up from the point on the floor they seemed so rigorously fixated on I realized he was looking out the window, back to me and saying nothing. Bright light from the moon silhouetted his imposing form and cast a long shadow towards the ends of my bare feet.
"J-Joe?" I managed to stammer out; immediately I felt as though the small noise of my voice disturbed the stillness of the moment.
"It's on the counter. Just throw the cash on the bed." Was the reply.
I was relieved to hear his words as he seemed distracted; lost in his view of the light outside. With this relief fueling me I quickly darted to the counter and picked up the small, black vials and tossed the bundle of tattered five and ten dollar bills on the bed. As I turned to leave I heard him chuckle softly behind me.
"If it isn't enough next time I see you there'll be trouble." He said with the assurance of reveling in my future pain.
"It's all there. Promise." I told him, softly and with a hint of defiance. I had in my hands the release I needed for working another night on the corner and I had managed to avoid collecting another bruise that would just drive away customers.
Before Joe could react to the sound of my voice I skipped out into the hallway of the immaculate hotel and moved quickly towards the elevator, my mind already savoring the taste of oblivion that was resting in my sweaty palms.

(I wrote this just now. I've been really fucking depressed lately having just gotten off heroin. Please rip it to shreds. I never write and need to get into the habit.)

>>6313690
I really dig that whole paragraph. It seems exactly like something that sort of character would say; intellectual-seeming and dismissive yet assured, with a confidence behind it.

I would certainly be interested in reading more if the rest of the work is like that.

>>6312975
So the main character and his accomplice are caught burglarizing a house I take it? How does he get out of the clutches of the "house mistress". How would the main character know it is the mistress of the house?

I like what images are brought to mind when reading this; like a Huckleberry Finn type duo on an adventure yet modern, with drug use, and criminal mischief. However, it needs expanding; I as the reader am bringing all the imagery to this based on my own imagination. You need to paint more of a picture, yet still leave room for the reader to fill things in themselves. Right now it is pretty bare-bones.

Also, thanked the drugs for what? Thanked them for getting them through the fractured ankles? Then say something to that effect.

Could be a lot better but I guess if you're high than ultimate shrugs right?

This is my (VERY loose) retelling if the Norwegian poem Zinklarsvise. I'm trying to mimic the Ossianic style.

ARGUMENT.
Sinclair--here Zinklar--a laird of Scotland, is employed by the Swedish crown to conduct raids on Norwegian farmers. Ignoring the warnings of a mermaid, with fourteen hundred men he comes ashore at Romsdal's coast and commences his work of pillage and slaughter.
He is opposed by a militia of farmers from the districts of Vage, Lessoe and Lom. They meet at the hill of Kringen in the district of Bredebojgd. Zinklar is shot with an arrow, and the Scotch host killed to a man. A stone is raised as a warning to future invaders.
---
A song of other years!
It comes to me, my bright one! as the distant roar of streams. Without the hall, o Zinklar, prowls thy ghost, and thy whispered voice I hear. Oh, the harp! The harp! My fingers tremble in their years!
Over the salty main Zinklar dragged the oar. For Norway he set his course! On Gundbrand's cliffs the narrow hall awaited; on Kringen's moss would bleed his brow.
Over the billowing sea he coursed, for Swedish silver sailed. The raging main parts; before Zinklar the sea-daughter rises. "Turn back, turn back, o men of Alba! I tell you true, on Kringen's rock your death awaits."
Red rolled Zinklar's eye; his sword was half-unsheathed. "Take ear, o she-troll of waves! My blood is hot, mine host mighty in war. Poison are thy words! Return to thy gloomy deep, lest my sword meet thy pallid neck!
Thrice shone the moon in her crystal cowl; the oars broke the waves. The fourth dawn came. With it rose the coast of Romsdal. Zinklar steered to land, an enemy come with the morn. He took up blade and buckler; his casque concealed his brow. Behold the host at his back! Fourteen hundred raised the spear.
They slew and burned whither they went--all wept at their coming. Neither age nor youth was spared! From the mother's breast they tore the babe, and dashed it on the hoary rock. Before them were driven the maids of an hundred farms.
Clear sounded the signal--hard the herald rode. To the halls he turned his face. "Wherefore, o Northmen, raise you the shell? Raise instead the sword--we must our land defend, and cursed the slave who'd spare his blood!"

(cont.)

>>6313723
Oh shit, Anon, thanks.

For non-dialogue sections, I may have fallen into some post-modernist pitfalls. All the dialogue is similar to this, but one of my paragraphs is a single, long, extended sentence with many asides and a train-of-thought section (which is interrupted by the photographer).

As rises the rolling tide came the mist of night on Bredebojgd's vale. So too rose Zinklar. Not lightly fall his steps! His locks are rent by the blast. The traveler quakes in fear. To the Leavings of Fenrir the Northmen lift their spears!
They met, and amid the trees the strife of heroes raged. The souls of Northmen rose. Heavy fell the axes on Alba's sons, and fast fell the darts of Norway's bows.
On the moss Zinklar fell; he pulled an arrow from his side. Purple rolled his gore, as rolls the stream to the fjord! His sword faltered, and in the house of Death he saw his fathers.
"On, Northmen!" the herald cried. "On, favored of Aesir! We advance with the dawn! Our souls shine in war."
With dead flesh the ravens ate their fill. Over the foeman's blood that there did flow, the maids of Alba raised their song. They looked to the sea; but their heroes returned not.
A stone the Northmen raised at Kringen, and carved in runes thereon: "Hear, o foeman, and fear the Northman's steel! Here you fell, and fall you shall again! Remember when, before the dawn, over the heath they came!"
Oh, a song of other years!

Pic related

>>6313709
>As I brought my eyes up from the point on the floor they seemed so rigorously fixated on

"fixated on" at the end of this clause seems a little awkward to me. Aside from that, how does one rigorously fixate on something?

How about "from the point on the floor that held my gaze" or something?

>>6313690
Hey there champ, how's 8th grade? Don't worry, the girls will love you in a few years! You'll get to pick and choose!

>>6313843
>if it is written, it means the writer thinks it

Cool.

>>6308350
The man was a man, of course- a man, of sorts. He breathed, he spoke, he existed as well as the other men, yes, quite as well as the other men. One would be fooled into thinking he was another one of the men.

But he was not.

Somehow, he was special. He had seen it, an epiphany, brought to him in between mouthfuls of cereal. He was special. How- oh, he had no idea, but he was special. Because everything was subjective to this man's view, yes. Nothing could exist if he wanted it to, and everything could exist if he wanted it to! The creator and destroyer of worlds. Once he actually did that, you know, destroyed the world. For a few moments, there was nothing but him, and darkness. However, he felt quite lonely and decided to come back after awhile simply because the quietness was driving him mad. The world may be noisy and troublesome, but God needed that noise.

And if God got what he wanted, he certainly got what he needed.

>>6313837
"that held my gaze" is much better, thank you for the suggestion. I tend to use overly complex words to describe things and for some reason I have trouble finding a balance between descriptive yet simple.

After re-reading it there is a bunch I'd like to edit; perhaps I'll repost it for a future thread.

>>6313880
Sort of reminds me of Hitchhiker's Guide for some reason.

Some parts felt a bit clunky. Also, use em-dashes.

The four backpackers were assailed by the scent of year-old laundry basket upon nearing the Greater Columbus Convention Center’s Bastille Hall.

“What is that’” asked the frailest member of the group. He was dressed in a simple black crew-neck shirt and jeans. His hair was short on the sides and slicked back on top.

“That’s the smell of card games, Lucas,” said Robert, the shortest among them. He was blonde and wore a Slipknot hoodie despite it being June in Ohio. Instead of waiting for them to catch up, he constantly sprinted up and down the common halls. It was likely to burn off the energy that had built up on the ride there.

“You wanna slow down there Rob?” spoke the tallest of them. His hair was long, oily, and drawn in a ponytail. It gave him the appearance of someone mimicking a member of an Icelandic metal band. While Rob was too busy imitating a living instant message, the next-shortest member answered.

“Come on Urferderfer, you really think the monkey is gonna take it easy now that we're here?” That wasn’t his real last name, but it was the closest anyone in the group could get. The one who answered him was McCleur: the type who made up for his height in width. He was short and stocky, so more often than either of his real names, they’d call him ‘Bilbo’. His hair was self-cut and he had a face ravaged by puberty. In other words, exactly the type of person you’d expect to see at a trading card game tournament.

Walking past the bathrooms nearest their destination, the dank fumes of woodshop drifted into the common hall. Lucas spoke up.

“Are they really doing that in there?”

>>6308350
Oh lordly lord, what hath thou given to-
A metal buckle, a rusted, dead shoe
A purple feather, a prim cockatoo-
Who promptly flew up and proclaimed "See you!"
Found dead the next day- yes, he took the shoe.

Am I truly, honestly, getting old?
The mold on the back of my head feels cold-
If it was all better, better tenfold-
Buckle unshattered, boot sill very withhold-
Yes, in the chamber of my heart- now told.

The bird can be brought to an end, I know-
Blood spit out onto the delicate snow-
But it would all be for a broken show.

So low, so low.

>>6313961
>assailed

Dropped

>>6313961
"had a face ravaged by puberty" hahahaha.

I find it pretty funny, and I can somewhat picture what it means, but I wonder if the word choice could be better...
Also, yeah, assailed should be changed as well.

I also can't quite put my finger on it, but the "roll-call" like structuring of your characters speaking and then their descriptions is somewhat offputting, almost mechanical. I would try to play around with the positioning of descriptions and the characters speaking. Maybe try describing one of the characters than having him speak? Something to just break it up, make it flow in a less rigid fashion.

The obscenely fat man leaned back in his enormous chair and ran a wrinkled hand over his bald head. A man of clear excess, his flesh seemingly billowed up out of him, almost as if it was being repulsed from somewhere deep within the core of his body. The crooked lines of his face and gnarled veins of his hands betrayed his age, despite the fact he seemed to harbor some sort of calm energy, like a bored cat. His eyes, like two small chips of onyx, peeked out from underneath the furrows of his forehead and regarded the events unfurling on the Television with a disinterested familiarity.

>>6313511
my comment was about the first paragraph, not the quote.

>>6313048
This really hit a lot of chords in me, well done anon. Obviously you have something to say, just keep working.

I want to write a story. It's about a journalist who hates the lack of freedom associated with his job. He's sent to cover a story about this politician, who leads a nationalistic party/front or whatever. It's going to turn out that he's a phony (not obviously so) and the reporter will stumble onto some half-dead protest, where he meets a guy who cares a lot about his country, in a different way. The journalist will write a story about the other guy, get fired.

It'll have a sliiight philosophical undertone.

First of all, should I even bother? Will such a subject be interesting for a story? And second, where should I post it? The online websties where you post stories for free, that I know of, are mostly for romance, fantasy or thrillers.

>>6313709
I don't agree with above anon about "fixated", think that sentence is fine.

>window, back to me
whats happening here? is he firstly looking out the window, then at you or is he looking at you through the reflection in the window, AT you or what? did he absently look or glance or notice you and then resumed window watching? it's not clear to me.
>Promise." I told him, softly with a hint of defiance
"I told him, softly and" is lacking flow. I'm thinking something along the lines of
"It's all there." I quietly snapped back, quickly adding, "Promise"
although I'm not sure that is better! But snapping etc implies a defiant energy.

I really like it, good job.

>>6313825
>Zinklarsvise
I want to read this in norwegian or some other scandinavic language, do you have copy

I think he's my friend and yet I don't want to stop myself. His cane has been sawed three quarters of the way through courtesy of my morning scotch.
Bored I sit in my office waiting for the news while fantasizing about the explosion of splinters and cacophony of rustling noises eventually culminating in a loud thump as all he is shatters like a red coloring pencil wielded by a child, the brittle piece of shit.

>>6313882
"that held my gaze"
better? nopee. It implies there is something worth vile on the floor to be holding your gaze, I feel. Rigorously fixated infers that there is nothing there but neurotic fear is fueling the thing - better.

>>6313968
Haha very good, very good. Good job. Lets see here. Excellent beginnings here. It tapers out a bit.

>Buckle unshattered
Hm.
>boot sill very withhold-
What is a boot sill? How is it withheld

>spit
spat?

I love it, keep it up.

>>6308350
There were the “It’s Happening” threads, foreshadowing cataclysmic events, from major disasters to the end of the world. These were usually accompanied by “Doom Paul” memes, featuring former US presidential candidate Ron Paul.

The cause could be anything. Some monitored seismic activity near the Yellowstone Supervolcano, anticipating the big one that would bring sulphuric acid rain across the United States and an end of times-inducing global freeze. Or rogue comets from the cosmos delivering the hammer blow. Others looked for Biblical disease and pestilence. Many posters had great hopes for the Ebola virus to spread uncontrolled all over the world, causing hundreds of millions to die horrifically, bleeding out from all pores. /pol/sters were depressed with the news that two infected doctors were brought back from West Africa to the United States and cured.

Some prick started an Ebola-Chan anime character, a cute Japanese Angel of Death girl dressed as a nurse with ponytails looped around in the shape of a virus. The none-too-subtle racist subtext was that the virus was doing the world a favour. Further pricks came up with a misinformation campaign that suggested that the disease was deliberately introduced to Africa by white people, in an effort to undermine public safety messages in infected areas and fuel mistrust of doctors, enabling the virus to spread more easily. Some /pol/sters would plummet any depth for some lulz.

Others looked for human causes. 9/11 the sequel – the new and improved version. Nuclear war. Putin on a white horse after the seven seals are broken, as foretold in Revelation. North Korea turning the nut-ometer up to 11 and raining down missiles on Seoul. Israel on the edge of military defeat taking the Samson option and bringing the walls of the temple down with them. Terrorists running amok with bubonic plague, botulism, staphylococcal enterotoxin B or whatever the fuck they could get their evil little grubby hands on.

Many /pol/sters were millenarians. They weren’t just anticipating catastrophe. They wanted it. It wasn’t just the Christfags waiting for a biblical apocalypse. The non-religious /pol/sters wanted it too. They wanted something big to go down. Something entertaining. Something to break the crushing mundanity of everyday life.

>>6312416
Templated is wit
That you call your own-- that is--
You are a huge cunt

>>6314242

Well I've written a fair few poems, and I'd consider that one of the better ones, as I had a definite concept in mind when I wrote it, so it's 90% meaning 10% pretentious word salad.

As opposed to some of my other poems which are like 60% word salad.

It's called "Ode to Brotherhood". By the way.

>>6314350
Well done. I enjoyed it.

>>6314347
>>6312416

>>6314340
Good stuff anon, keep on writing.

>>6314350
>>6314350
>Ode to brotherhood
Yes, that's what I gathered. Could you read mine at >>6312039
and see if you have anything to say about it?

>>6314358
Very kind of you. Thank you.

>>6312039
>>6314366

I'm picking up themes of social disconnection on a large scale, lack of power and will from the masses, a haven in a dystopia sort of thing?

It reads really easily, so it's nice to see you don't have a problem with structure, I enjoyed it.

here is a short I wrote for my friend
http://pastebin.com/aLPMDHS0
it starts off quite light then gets quite dark

>>6314398
Thank you very much.

>>6310126
>>6310153
mind giving the full story?
would love to read it

>>6313961

This is a really strange way of telling a story. Having the character speak and then giving a really mundane description of them. It's almost like a deconstructed film script especially with the "four backpackers are in Ohio".

Since it is kinda odd I'm not sure if you are going for something different. Personally I would get rid of nearly all of the description. I'd make a much bigger point of describing Ohio, I don't know anything about it - is it hot in June? If you want to give details about a character make them interesting and embed them. He's wearing a black t-shirt, who gives a shit? He's wearing a jumper in summer, more interesting but maybe slip it in when describing it is hot rather than sort of telling us where the characters are in a shady sort of a way.

>>6310138

Why is it formatted like an essay?

>>6314285
If you're going to write a story it helps if you have some kind of experience with the topic. If you don't have any experience it will be unlikely that you will bring anything interesting up in the story. This particular idea sounds like it could be interesting if it was really well researched and based on something actually going on.

Should you bother? If you're interested do it for fun and if it becomes a hassle drop it
Will such a subject be interesting for a story? People have written interesting stories about fishing and sitting in traffic the subject doesn't matter as much as the emotional connection that you establish through telling it
Where should I post it? Post it here or make a blog for it. You could always just hold onto it though a lot of stories just aren't that good

>It'll have a sliiight philosophical undertone.
Everything has undertones and they're actually provided by the reader not intentionally written in (otherwise it isn't really an undertone). Please don't write something with a blatant philosophical message. No one wants to be roped into hearing about your personal philosophy while trying to enjoy the story

>>6314347
As I suspected:
You cannot write, though you
Insult those who can.

>>6314753
>If you're going to write a story it helps if you have some kind of experience with the topic

I was a journliast for half a year, quit because of censorship, then I worked as a PR for a leader of a nationalist party who just used people's passions for his own ends.

>Post it here or make a blog for it. You could always just hold onto it though a lot of stories just aren't that good

What about those websites where you post and get reviews? Any of them any good?

>Everything has undertones and they're actually provided by the reader not intentionally written in (otherwise it isn't really an undertone).

No, don't worry, my point was that I might set the theme for what a "nation" is, how it shapes us and what we percieve as our nationality. In addition to the theme of the "real" and "fake" people, if there's a real difference between the two, whether its the results or the premise of a persons actions that ultimately make the difference and such. It's not going to overpower the story or force itself onto the reader.

I've never actually written a fictional story before.

>>6314783
A lot has been written on how disingenuous politicians and their associated movements can be recently, and a lot of it is just as deceptive as what the politicians are spouting. I would be more interested in how they justify deceiving the people they're leading, because a lot of what is presented by politicians is just populist sentiment to get them reelected where they will focus on much more reasonable politics.

Specific advice about writing this would to just pick a few key moments and then write those to get a feel for the story and for writing fiction. Don't get tied down writing a novel initially as it might sap your will to write

>>6314774

Break lines at random;
I honestly do not care.
I named my cock "Bear".

>>6314854
This is your mother
I'm at anon's house, breaking
his dick with my cunt

>>6314889

Break cocks at random;
I honestly do not care.
Your pussy will tear.

>>6314930
This man does not care;
This man is inferior,
and he does not care.

>>6314851
>I would be more interested in how they justify deceiving the people they're leading

Exactly, the psychology behind their actions is extremely interesting to me. That's why I want to focus on the personality of the leaders.

It's just really interesting to me, because I distinctly remember the guy I was working for - he was a heavily insecure man. He had height issues, had served other people all his life and such. He also seriously loved money. I always considered his justification to just be that he's such an angry and insecure person he became incredibly selfish and self-centered. And his thoughts about his electorate were largely the same as any murderer - he will unscrupulously harm the lives of the people that trust him for very minor personal gain.

On the other hand there was this young kid I met, who was the exact opposite. The kid had been raised in a wealthy family, was handsome, tall, had had everything handed to him. He felt no need to further his own personal agenda, so he genuinely wanted to imrpove the lives of his fellow citizens. The personality differences you saw were subtle, because on the face of it both were ambitious, overly confident in appearance and other obvious similarities. But the results were staggering. Unfortunately the second guy never got into politics, he went abroad and works for some corporation now. I've actually always wanted to tell HIS story, but that's for the future.

Yeh, it's going to be just a story about one day in the reporters life, him at work talking to his editor, then at the pressconference with the leader, then at the small protest with the other guy. Then a short ending, which I've got planned.

>I'd love some comments on the prose, whether it's comfy and pleasant, or just plain boring. Thanks guys,

The carpet is barely short enough to hide crumbs and the stains caused by hundreds of generations of guests within the room. It's got a bed that squeaks when jumped on, and maintains the smell of stale cigarettes, despite its no smoking policy. Underneath the desk is a small collection of pamphlets and papers regarding the surrounding tourist attractions, as well as the nicer restaurants that won't give you stomach promblems. The hotel's had issues with one of the chinese places as of late.
Johnny started work at the Hilton in Sweet Home, just a thirty minute drive outside of Vegas as a contract plumber, where he had been given a room and a week to fix a secondary boiler system. It took him four days to seal a pipe with severe air leakage, mainly because the stance it required him to place one leg inside the tangle of wires and styrafoam and the other was supposed to be on a floorpipe while an arm pulled him upward so he could see the rattle of another pipe system as warning for when the steam would gush upward.
He decided he's continue playing with the boiler for two more days, and say he had it finished on the sixth. There was no better time to relax than a self-diagnosed vacation. It helped that the hotel insisted on bringing the lastest dishes by room service over to his room, and that the tuna salad had slices of apple in it.He planned to smoke cigarettes, dream about the future, and sleep, for at least the grand portion of his remaining two day stay.
Johnny woke up to the sound of a soft wheeze, just barely punctuating the still air with a snivel sound that threatened sickness and breathing difficulty. He opened the door rapidly in order to ask who was wheezing outside.
An impossibly thin man with a long, protruding nose stood at a perfect clerk's attention; eyes above the client, arms gently still at the man's sides, a vacant face and a complete lack of empathy for whoever he was talking to at the moment.
"I am Mister Broulache, at your service sir."
Johnny was confused. He did not need any more service nor did he need any more of the tuna salad, with which he had gorged himself last night. He felt a little sick, and a little more pudgy.
"Mister Broulache, I fear that your services are unnecessary, though I appreciate the work. Is there any special plumbing task that needs doing?"
As if that was the magical phrase, Broulache spun around and beckoned for Johnny to follow. He led him to a large, red door with the word, "Employee," placed across in large, white lettering.

>>6315015

I only have like 30 seconds to read/post but I would honestly start with something re: Johnny's actions rather than a description. All of the great short story writers try to get straight into the action.

From a glance the prose looks acceptable but nothing ultra special. But I only have a few seconds to look. Nothing really hooking or special. But not at all bad. I'll post more in a few hours

>any kind of criticism would be cool

Oy! Do you wanna go to Sound Circus tonight?
We can drink till we’re sick and round off the evening by getting into a fight,
With those Travellers who always hang around, and steal scrap metal when they’re in town,
It’ll be a right laugh with the lads,
‘Ey anyone got a fag?
I ain’t got any cash since the benefits were changed;
The fuck is David Cameron doing s’like he doesn’t ‘av a fucking brain!
‘Ow am I supposed to get my rizzler,
Or have a good time without my krumpers?
I would ‘av work so I could pay for all this, but my girl’s pregnant with anuva one of me kids,
It’s not my fault the JC ain’t doin’ its job,
Fucking twats, they’re all a bunch of knobs!
Why can’t they just tell one of them rich London snobs to give a chance to one of us yobs?
I’d turn up on time, as long as I didn’t get monged last night,
And do the work to the best of me abili’ees, who the fuck needs me to ‘av GCSEs?
It’s all fucked is what I’m sayin’,
The way the council ain’t payin’,
For me expenses or food, puttin’ me in right fucking mood
‘Cos at the end of the day we all gotta eat, I just see it as the taxpayers’ treat,
‘S their fault if they ain’t doing the same,
So fucking easy! Tell ‘em your back is fucked and they let you claim,
‘Ats the way I see it…
Anyway, you see those fuckin’ Pakis on the news comin’ ‘ere and fucking our country, bunch of shits!


>>6315015
That's some damn comfy prose man. The first four sentences in particular. What sort of story are you going for tough overall?

>>6312975
>bear with me

>>6315034
It's nothing at all, I just looked up a random prompt using a dictionary app and worked on Maitre D'Hotel for 20 or so minutes.

>>6315030
Thanks brotha. Action>description. I'm just on a comfy trip as of late and I'm trying to get some of my settings on point.

never been to this board before, this is an erasure i did awhile ago of a shitty bukowski poem

>>6309999
>>6310093
New version.


While being where the brights lights near the ceiling and past the ladder I froze still, at least for a minute as far as I can tell, to hear the sudden laughs down below.

"What happened?" I asked aloud though I knew there was no one to answer.

Wishing to know the heaven below, I tried vainly to stretch myself enough to caught at least a glimpse of what was happening down there, take a look to the fancy dresses and bright colours, and happiness in general to pretend or deceive myself of whatever it is that people see here.

The laughter grew bigger and I could hear hands clapping here and there behind the noisy laughter. Maybe someone was telling funny jokes? I wished I could hear them too but from where I stood the voice of the speaker was faint enough to be covered by the constant talk and laughs of the audience.

"You're done. Come back" said a voice in my left ear. The lights grew dim and I was immediatly in absolute darkness. Somehow I could see myself, despite of being no lights around me I found myself in the very center of a dim circle of white light.

As soon as the lights went off I tried to get up, and I tried for several mintues, which I couldn't do no matter how hard I tried. Yet, my shadow now projected over the white circle and in front of me moved as I wanted to and folowed each one of the moves of my still body.

I spent some time playing with my shadow in this curious game I just discovered. I'm unaware of how it happened and because of that I was very impressed and even if scared, probably a bit amused.

But I'm afraid that it was harder to move as the time passed by. My shadow still moved, but only after a great effort like if I were to experience the effort lifting weights by merely moving my arm.

After a while, all control was lost. I could move my body, or what seemed more like watching my body move, while my shadow stood still.

After walking aimlessly for a while like re-discovering my body I heard someone call for me, angrily, as it seems they have been doing it for a while.
"I should go back to work" I thought,
I should have went way before but I lost the sense of time. If I could have moved by my own will I probably wouldn't be here, but now, now I was just dancing shadow on the high bridge.

The light below shone as never, and I remember well how beautiful it was since the calls for the center of my being came from the very darkness where the clapping and laughs. The next thing I new was that I was staring at the ground, which came closer and closer for a time that could have been an eternity.

Nobody noticed, and when they did everybody laughed. He fell, his brain spilled all over the black stage like a woman's bleeding sea.

My drink was warm by then, the curtains closed and everybody clappped.
That was another night in the celebricity.

>>6315015
>The carpet is barely short enough to hide crumbs and the stains caused by hundreds of generations of guests within the room. It's got a bed that squeaks when jumped on, and maintains the smell of stale cigarettes, despite its no smoking policy. Underneath the desk is a small collection of pamphlets and papers regarding the surrounding tourist attractions, as well as the nicer restaurants that won't give you stomach promblems. The hotel's had issues with one of the chinese places as of late.
Try to shorten this up and set the stage quicker. If you just mention that weird mix of stale cigarettes and cleaning chemicals present in a lot of motels/hotels you could have had the location established immediately

>It took him four days to seal a pipe with severe air leakage, mainly because the stance it required him to place one leg inside the tangle of wires and styrafoam and the other was supposed to be on a floorpipe while an arm pulled him upward so he could see the rattle of another pipe system as warning for when the steam would gush upward.
I think that there are too many things going on at once in this sentence. The point is that the plumber has to put up with a lot of discomfort while working so it get repetitive when you list where each of his limbs are

>He decided he's continue playing with the boiler for two more days, and say he had it finished on the sixth. There was no better time to relax than a self-diagnosed vacation. It helped that the hotel insisted on bringing the lastest dishes by room service over to his room, and that the tuna salad had slices of apple in it.He planned to smoke cigarettes, dream about the future, and sleep, for at least the grand portion of his remaining two day stay.
Word choice isn't quite right in a few parts. You can self-diagnose yourself with depression not with a vacation, and then just replace "grand portion" with majority. Other than that there is the second sentence which doesn't quite seem to follow

>"Mister Broulache, I fear that your services are unnecessary, though I appreciate the work. Is there any special plumbing task that needs doing?"
This line of dialogue just doesn't sound like a plumber. It sounds almost dandyish. Shorten it and make your character talk like someone you've met before

Yeah this doesn't really read that easily and it doesn't look like you've actually done any editing. As far as comfy goes when you start mentioning how gross the room is in the opening lines it doesn't really set the mood of a cozy story. I really like stories about professionals though whether it's lawyers, police officers, gardeners, or plumbers so I like the idea of what a plumber working at a hotel near Las Vegas would have to deal with

>>6315104
Other guy here, it does still have some grammatical issues. The imagery is very strong, though some of your descriptions are puzzling ("I remember well how beautiful it was since the calls for the center of my being came from the very darkness where the clapping and laughs").

Is English your first language?

Just finished this up, interested to see some thoughts. Heavily inspired by Borges.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1k2IwEdRl_3fsxxOft2TktHUapbPeoB8uWzBnkjtxbDg/edit?usp=sharing

Draft:

Sand tangled hair itched his shoulder.
"I love you, ya know"
"You've said"
They strolled along the beach in silence, side by side.
Waves lolled along the shoreline, but they did not make a sound.
"When we get back -"
He raised a hand to stop her.
She slid from his grip and blocked his path, turning to face him from the front.
He halted.
"What's wrong, baby"
His head moved to the horizon, clenching his eyes shut from the midnight azure.
"Come on, you've been acting it all week. A honeymoon in paradise all good like an' you're still down".
Tears rolled across his cheeks one by one.
"Oh honey!" she cried, buckling herself to his chest.
Fluid cascaded from his eyes.
She began to cry, sobbing into the soft man-fat rug which had always bristled her lips.
Swallowing some of the chest hair caught between her teeth, she mumbled:
"Please baby, tell me what's -"
"Computer". He could no longer bear it.
"End simulation".
The sensation between his toes disappeared.
The moonlight glow vanished into a harsh fluorescent light, undulating in a low monotonous (din?) groan.
The scenery had gone.
He opened his eyes.
Opposite to him, a small picture of the Sandy haired woman was hung, trapped behind a frame and its glass just ahead of the colourless linoleum wall.
His chest still felt heavy.

>>6315128
>Is English your first language?
No.

Could you point out some grammatical issues so I can fix them?

>>6314314
He is looking at the window, with his back facing the protagonist. Re-reading it through your eyes I now see how that could be confusing; I'll see what I can do!

And I was working with that second part you mentioned a bunch last night. I think you're onto something by splitting it up! I'll keep at it.

Thank you for your help, and I appreciate the vote of confidence.

>>6315093
Shit, that's a really good erasure poem. Good pacing and control.

>shit incoming; I can wrote poetry, but my forays into fiction are really rocky right now

“So, Mr. Wang-Holder,” this was Zedediah’s last name—in regards to his pseudonym at least (formally, he was born Steve S. Stevenson—note the name was a matter of distinction between him and his identical twin brother, Not-Steve S. Stevenson, Jr., which worked effectively throughout both their formative years [Not-Steve S. Stevenson, Sr. found himself in the position of spiting his father upon the birth of his twins, taking his not-lemons and making not-lemonade {this meant doting on little Not-Steve at the expense of little Steve <little Not-Steve may have had a comfortable upbringing, but little Not-Steve suffered for it; Not-Steve’s sexual relations with his wife deteriorated after she’d given birth, but this seemed to him simply the nature of marriage>}]. The publishing house had, taking the biblical and homoerotic themes of his book, performed in-house focus testing in regards to possible pseudonyms in order to “hit all relevant demographics” and assured him they were “100 (one-hundred) percent totally serious”), “what do you think?”

Sometimes I feel like I have a lot to think about, but really I’m just thinking in circles.” Wickem Quin said as he put down his coffee on the diner table. “Ya know, just thinking in circles over and over again hoping that some sort of solution will pop out of nowhere.”
“yeah”
“And I bet you smart people don’t think like this, ya know geniuses and shit like that. No, they just think in steps, one after the other until they get to some conclusion that makes them feel good. “ Wickem continued.
“Yeah”
Wickem took another sip of his coffee and held the cup in his hands. The coffee was cold and outside the diner was cold as well. I t was February and everyone had spent the past few months trying to fall in love or rekindle a flame in a pile of ashes. Wickem hadn’t done any of this. He had spent almost every day returning to the same spot in the same diner and drinking the same coffee while eating the same toast. The routine had become habit and the habit was borderline psychological addiction. He was fine with this, or at least seemed to be. He wasn’t particularly happy, nor was he particularly depressed. Things tended to just pass, and he responded. A constant call an response that echoed day after day. On this particular day he was joined by Pete Rosley, an old friend from high school. They hadn’t been good friends when they were in school nor were they now, but as everyone had moved away from their small town in favor of the grand opportunities that lay elsewhere they bonded through their mutual lack of ambition.
“The sun is setting so much earlier these days.” Pete said staring out the window, both trying to and not to avoid eye contact. He was like that. Always shifting and fidgeting, like a box full of fears that rattles and shakes trying to fall off the counter. OPEN ME THE FUCK UP! Who knows if he was really scared, he didn’t seem it in the way he talked, just detached, but who knows about detached anyway. “You been workin’ on that car of yours still? You ever get it runnin’?”
“What? The old Ford? Nah, I just kept pouring all my paychecks into that mother fucker to watch it break down again. I rebuilt the whole fuckin’ engine just to break down every time I head into town. It’s bullshit.” Wickem replied. He speaks like he is in a daze, the front of his mind is moving so fast the back can only be swallowed up by the dust.
#


“Yeah I know Wickem Quin. That mother fucker is gonna die tonight.”

#
“My wildest dreams never did come true.” Wickem continued. “ I just fucked around day in and day out and where has it got me? I’ll tell you where, the corner of Main and 1st eatin’ the same shit and drinkin’ the same fuckin’ sludge that they give everyone.” He started to get up and Pete’s eyes followed his movements. Pete’s body soon followed, dropping a $20 on the table.
“No change.” Pete said to a waitress as they left the diner.

here's a poem I just wrote now, plz rate. It's about a guy dying on the operating table, makes me think of my dad although he made it.

Don't be afraid said the sister,
keep on fighting said the brother.
Come back alive said the mother,
I couldn't be prouder said the father.

The spike was sharp and the world went black,
the dreams were quiet and the message dark.
The boy died later that day on the gurney,
his spirit on a different journey.

>>6315200
Kind of boring.

>>6315153
Cut it with the brother and father shit. If you want to make a penis joke just do it

>>6315212
Yeah I know, It's just a scribble and I haven't worked more of it.

There were two male nurses dressed in blue waiting in front of the hospital. One was holding an old lady’s wheelchair. I wondered if their family approved of them being male nurses. I came to the quick conclusion that they probably did; in fact, why wouldn’t they? Where my preconception of family-repudiated male nurses came from, I could not say, but it was anchored. Perhaps it was simply memorized from an anecdote on male nurse homosexuality I once picked up from an overheard conversation; or, from the Village People. For the life of me I could not remember if one of their member was dressed as a nurse. Would families disapprove of their children’s work by fear of the sexual orientation stigmatized to accompany it? (Now, who exactly is depicted by the word “families”? fathers, mostly. Some argue that fathers who fear their son to suddenly “turn” gay are obligatorily fearing themselves to do so as well.)

I stopped walking when I realized how aimless were my strolls. As I turned around to look at the nurse-men, people almost bumped into me. I started walking again, just as pointlessly, unable to catch a last, blue glimpse of the two men in sterile gloves.

Here's a screenplay I worked on a few months ago, the formatting is messed up.

The Trail For Wind River
Written By Anonymous
Based on the work of Walter Coburn


Ext. Morgan Ranch

WADE MORGAN sits, looking down busy making a headstall. He is a little under medium height, with shoulders wide and powerful. His waist is without any ounce of fat. His flanks are narrow. His face is dark under layers of tan. He has hazel eyes. He sits completely relaxed.

Wade
I reckon that I'll have to kill Shotgun Riley.

LONG BOB BURCH, his partner, is sitting next to him. He has a big, square-jawed, handsome face and dark opaque eyes.

He lays down a copy of the Drover's Journal he is reading. He studies Wade's bent head.

Wade looks up and smiles. A boy's smile.

Long Bob
Better think `er over careful, Wade. Yuh know what it means.

Wade's smile hardens into a crooked line.

Wade
I've done thought `er all out, Bob. Shotgun Riley has made his talk. He's out to either gut-shoot me or run me outa the country like I was a damn coyote. So, before I quit this country, I'm goin' into town and kill Shotgun."

Wade again bends his head to work on the headstall.

Bob hear sounds of dishes being washed. A woman's voice hums Red River Valley. A small boy's voice laughs. Bob scowls.

Long Bob
What about your son and his mother, Wade?

Wade
I got that figgered out, too. You'll take care of Hattie and Joe, Bob?

Long Bob
Better all around, Wade, if I take care uh Shotgun Riley.

Wade looks up at Bob.

Wade
And have folks say that I didn't have the guts to take up my own fight? Every white man, breed, and Injun in this section of Montana knows what Shotgun done to me.

Wednesday 25 March:

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned".
My arms are fastened by a burden, Father; my wrists, they are clutched to the operating table by large cuffed straps.
'Atop an altar I lie' Father.
I am stuck to its cold metal - my spine and limbs are glued by the morticians frost, Father, I cannot move.
'Above me, the candle light of a twenty watt bulb chatters, it's uneasy light hesitating; illumanting shadows and nothing more' Father.
'Atop an altar I lie; I am sandwiched by an invisible demon - its face haunting me' Father.
Large bloodshot eyes, like some maddened sleep deprived sightless...thing..., the nose father - floating - cradled between two laps of cheek fat sharpened at the edge by a shaved grin, oh Father.
They stare into me, I try to look away...I stare into them.
I cannot escape,
But I must...
But I cannot.

There cannot be an end, not now, why now. 'Oh my life, my life!' Father, but no sound comes; only the sickly embrace of a demon gnashed teeth to tongue and a mouth like some crypt or sun-starved swamp fetid and rank swallowing my voice...

'It has come' Father.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

>>6308350
There was a challenge to come up with a good 'story' in two sentences or less. I don't really write often, but it's something I've always wanted to do.

'The Runner'

If the stars ever held such beauty, it was her searching eyes on the coldest of nights.
If the pavement every bore such weight, it was his encumbering footfall, escaping the stars.

>>6316153
>two sentence constriction
>not making absurdly long sentences

Away with ye.

>>6316159
Okay.

But could you at least get the point of it?

I've been experimenting with using verb-derived adjectives in an ambiguous (and admittedly ungrammatical) way such that, in standard third-person past, they seem like a verb.

Example contained below...


"Ahead a low, winding passage faded into hazy black and echoes, a dull ocean roar. Stone crumbled by the passage of days into eons, scars welled with creeping mud; the largest, a gash smoothed from the drip of seep water, oozed waxy tendrils and spattered the floor with slow tears.
The boy toed the curve of light thrown from the candle shelf, and stiffened as the draft's ebb danced with the flame and he strained to see what form might lurk in the flux of shadow."


Also, >majority plebs

>>6316458
scratch that, I meant adjectival phrases

>>6314753

>If you don't have any experience it will be unlikely that you will bring anything interesting up in the story.

This is true of nothing. Even ignoring fantasy novels most writers do not have first hand accounts of the people they write about in all their books. Research and empathy can make up for almost anything.

>>6316458
Mm, interesting concept, but not executed incredibly well here, I don't think. For example, "drip of seep water" seems redundant, and "slow tears" doesn't feel awfully meaningful. I'm reading this more in the vein of poetry, so you'd want the "best words in the best order," and I think you might have an interesting order here, but not the best words.

I would try more experimentation, and perhaps try less static environs to depict. These Verbjectives could be more effective in different scenarios, or even with different tones, perhaps a more surreal air would be appropriate.

Otherwise, I like the writing, though I think most would find it a bit lacking in energy.

>>6316573
That's a fair assessment.

When writing that, I focused on the rhythm of the diction at the expense of dynamism.

I chose those words for their associations, for the framing I want to produce, but I can see how they might trip over each other.
"Into a frenzy he flies, slashing wildly and without regard, except that the cries of anguish continue. His moan bubbles forth between gasps, swelling in his throat and cresting in a tribute to ecstasy; the dissonance of his cry and hers a reverberate clash of primal terror and carnal pleasure. He convulses, struggling to inhale as he giggles maniacally, writhing in heretical joy."

>>6316458
yeah that's no good. trying to hard. you can be descriptive without being wordy, but that's not what you're doing here.

like a high school creative writing paper

>>6316659
I can't spot any "verb adjectives" here, personally.

I think you do have a good rhythm to your writing, and a hit-or-miss eye for harmony, though the hits are pretty good. That is purely on a technical, mechanical level. However, as a description of sex, it's pretty meaningless. In my mind, there are two choices you have when writing sex: smut or introspection/metaphor.

What you wrote is like the "showing ankle" of smut. You're describing nothing more than the physical act, but not in an erotic manner. If you're not aiming for eroticism, the sex has to be described differently, either metaphorically or introspectively (or both). Something that takes on the vocabulary of sex and uses it to develop character or plot (I'd take a look at the work of James Baldwin if you're not familiar; he does excellent sex scenes).

Anyways, you probably don't give a shit about sex scenes, but eh. Because you're writing isn't very contemporary, you're going to have to work very hard to get noticed.

>>6316668

I can respect that as long as you aren't just saying it reflexively.

Ornate writing has just as much of a place in literature as minimalistic writing; I'm tempted to make an analogy with Baroque music and folk tunes.

>>6316767
>i'm tempted
>does so


>i'm still okay with this

>>6316733
There weren't any, I posted it with regard to the comment about rhythm and probably should have explained.

I suppose it's not clear without context but it's not a sex scene, it's a stylized portrayal of murder.

I'd be interested to hear what you, and others, think is the prevailing contemporary style; what attributes define it?


"The naked ape, then, is naked in name only. For, given the fruit, he has chosen not freedom but the fig leaf."

If one cannot express what they think however can we move forward,
The world is not a place of conformity or a place of order,
We can try to subsidise the lack of willing test subjects with living children,
But propaganda went out of fashion sometime ago in madison kitchen.

There are no equals if those being looked down upon are looking down,
Only fools think to convince is to improve the world,
To brainwash and control the media and all the boys and girls,
Though blame is not on them it seems for speech comes naturally to humans,
Even if they contradict themselves when anyone opposes Truman.

Some people say that all of us came into this world created equal,
But naturally that lie has roots as deep as trees composed of evil,
When power finds itself among the low it serves confusing purpose,
For when they speak against you, you must do your best not to desert us.

Especially in hard times and times of harsh misgivings which can surely hurt one,
We watch in awe and horror as your martyrs of misguided position,
You speak your part and fall upon the sword you chose yourself be given,
If you understood that people think and people aren't so blind to swallow,
Perhaps your cause would not be one so hard for us to blindly follow.

>>6316846
I'm more familiar with the poetry side of things when it comes to the big writers under 30, but I'd say it's characterized by a heavy focus on "issues" poetry, and the language tends to act as a continuation of "issues" poetry from the middle of the last century. A lot of the time, sound has been totally thrown away, only found by overly-analytical types thinking there's something grand in tired platitudes represented in bland manner.

Stuff like "Rape Joke" or "Host" or "Paint Me a Penis". I suppose I am just a reactionary, but I'm simply so very tired of this pseudo-moralizing stuff, so very tired of the same attempts at shock over and over. I am tired, because I have seen multiple sculptures and performance art pieces of men performing autofellatio. There is no art and no music and no purpose, no heart. No truth.

There's still nuggets of greatness, but it's not in to write "flowery" right now. It's not in to write the non-polemical. Literature, or at least poetry, is falling to the whole "miming another medium" thing, only this medium is activism. People want to say that writing can change the world, and they do not want to do it with pieces that touch or sing or imbue, but with pieces that act.

Poetry, for the written page, has become a performance art. Concern for craft tossed aside as technique becomes incestuous, building entirely off the last movement without regards to anything that came before it and without regards to why the last movement truly existed in the first place.

That was a rant, but I am simply tired and disillusioned. I just find everything to have an air of inauthentic authenticity, of posturing. Poetry has become an act, and has become commentary, and has shunned poetry simply trying to be itself.

>>6308350
Wrote this today
_____________

Ani Yehudi
by Noam Daisy
.
Chaotic world I cannot fight.
Tears burn softly in the light,
I wanna tell you who I am.
This little pill is just a scam.

You’d be the first to know the last to laugh.
Can we take all of our dead tears back?
I never meant to hurt at all.
I dream of you between our walls.

How did I think you’d understand.
He loves me like you never can.
He hurts me hurt and makes it bleed.
The little capsule rushes me.

I do not where I will go.
Forever know you’re not alone.
Cause’ when you worry where I am.
Adonai has got a plan.

Amen.

Idly time passes as we sit all alone,
Trying with fierceness to do something great,
Something affecting, in itself reflecting,
Part of our story and part of your soul,
Yet time has rendered all stories similar,
We fight to proclaim our self,
Our selves are all fighting,
Notice not how we are different,
Poignancy is the lack of difference,
Notice how we are the same,
Poignancy is the likelyhood your story has been told,
It is nothing but simple recreation of old.


Convinced of point of view you look to compare,
Is there anyone a little like you who's out there,
Everyone is a little like you,
Even you are but a shadow of a stranger,
We share common ground and common means,
Bequeath our minds to a soul,
Though we know not what our soul gleans,
If gleaning is our promise what are we,
To tell of self, illusion of betterment,
Delusion of grandeur, entitlement,
Unique experiences do not exist,
Random must our choice be to pursue them.

Transient or trader the is nought to believe,
Such life is to strive to never achieve,
What we want, merely what we will settle for,
There is so much more, everloving distraction,
Ties to a means, means to an end,
Pretend, we must always pretend,
Our way of life we live to defend,
I mean not to offend, we make it alone,
If only I'd known, if only I'd known,
What it is to be one with oneself,
Freedom, only to be taken by those who will free them,
Themselves, and to understand life sans shackles.

Glorious debacle, we see our race,
It exists only to hasten us,
So let us make haste, engage and desist,
Quit trying to make life anything other than worth,
Worth to be living, not worth of some object,
For what is worth more than you in your life,
Few is the answer you should choose,
Much is the answer for fools, we know,
They know, we are not here to dance,
The idea of living is enviable, desirable,
I want to love this life I am hiding from,
By loving where I am despite it's failures.

Free me and free yourself, I want to see you,
See you succeed at what you never wanted to do,
At what you always wanted to do,
Though they never let you, who has that authority,
Nobody, nothing but self-serving ignorance,
You live with your decisions, others do not,
If you choose not to involve them,
You lie with your decisions, if you choose not,
Not to be true and to hide this living,
You lay with your decisions, if you make peace,
To be all you can ever want, to stay the hand of staying,
We lay together across the earth from each other, gazing into ourselves.

>I feel there might be a problem with this one, what do you think?

The line is drawn
The line is drawn
Either you are already here or
There
Or you are undecided
And will soon decide and be here or
You will be put
There
There in
The other camp
With the other guys
And the other ways, and this is right as; no offence
But there is a problem that
We cannot trust you and we
Cannot use you but that is not right we
Cannot make use of you so
They will use you
Up and that will be that
BEWARE
The line
The line
Is drawn

I did a shit on your mum
I did a shit on your mum
I did a shit on your mum
And she rather liked it

I did a shit on your dad
I did a shit on your dad
I did a shit on your dad
And he rather liked it

I did a shit on your shit
I did a shit on your shit
I did a shit on your shit
Irony completed

I make the money maaan,
I roll in nickels,
The game is mine,
I deal the cards,
BEWAAARE!

>>6317100
>>6317080

Shit I forgot to link.

>>6316458
ooh i like it, i'ma just gunna edit some here
>scars welling with creeping mud; a gash smoothed from the drip of seep water, oozing waxy tendrils spattering the floor with slow tears.
The boy toed the curve of light thrown from the candle shelf. Stiffening as the draft's ebb danced with the flame he strained to see what forms might lurk in the flux of shadows.

fucken captcha: iskay

>>6317100
Yes, yes. A problem excepting that it is shit, obviously.

>>6317103

I'm nobody.
I'm a tramp,
A bum, a hobo,
I’m a box car,
And a jugger wang, and
Straight razor
If you get to close to me.

A question: is starting a large amount of sentences with a pronoun or proper noun bad?

>>6317183

You having a fucking pop m8?

>>6317183
Yes, unless you're doing it for effect. You should try to avoid X... He... Y... She... Y... X... shit. Not dynamic. You need differing line lengths, differing clause lengths, differing syntax, etc, to craft interesting reading (independent of what's actually happening).

>>6316870
>>6316993

Anyone feel like critiquing either of my poems?

I know that they may be a little long, but I'd appreciate it.

Smoke and breasts
Holed thinner now
For sudden heat brings dimes
And times ten
The change moves in
While plundered zoos beseige waiting skulls
With arms untold
How we yearn
Or act to learn
About the fair hats
Changing heads tight
Stealing time
Or halting forward
Shadows climb and grope sheer minds
Doubling doubts and mocking life
To cling inside biding samely
For when real thoughts drop
Snatched they go
To sights transgressed under looming trees
Tracing the live strings
Ever-sawing
Coo the quails
Crows ever-cawing
Mites never leaving safety
Found amid the tall walls
But in
Or when
Sorry hunches
Free-cropped wonders
Glowing and bustling distant peaks
Reveal bare tops
And pinkish fumes
To denounce claims of hanging
Shared mink in quick

>>6317251
You scratch my back, I scratch yours.

>>6317724

If you don't tell me which one is yours, I'll just assume it's the one above your post and critique that.

Guess my second draft is at least passable as a short story.

http://pastebin.com/RjufAS5z

>>6317800
Woah, this stuff is really dry, man. There's also an extreme dearth of dialogue. It feels that way, perhaps, because you start out with dialogue and we rarely ever get more. Just very dry.

Maybe I'm not your target.

>>6317819

I felt dialogue wouldn't have given much to the plot, perhaps even detracting from it.

There's also the fact that I'd run the risk of it going over the length I intended if I included dialogue, as I wanted it to be of a publishable length for a short story(in a magazine or some such place).

But I understand if it's not your thing, two lines of dialogue in 6300 words is beyond sparse.

>>6317849
Honestly, I'd say cut the dialogue all together, or at least don't start out with it if you're not going to really have any. It sets expectations up with the reader that I don't think you necessarily want. I'm all for dialogue sparse works, even works without them—I suppose this is my own problem partially, but I felt unsatisfied with how the story proceeded, just waiting for some talking to happen. It felt like a call with no response.

Something minor to get caught up on, really. There's nothing wrong with the prose or the story as I see it. Didn't grab me, but I'm honestly a shitty reader so it takes a lot to grab me.

Those are learning,
Earth's Turning,
Burning.

Those are fearing,
Death's nearing,
Searing.

Such the nation,
Their contemplation,
Immolation.

Such the spited,
Fear's blighted,
Ignited.

They lay gazing,
Slowly grazing,
Blazing.

They lay baring,
Darkness staring,
Flaring.

With stark effervescence,
My luminescence,
Glorious Incandescence.

>>6315136
what the fuck am I reading?

Lights shining down from above,
Twenty feet atop ground,
Knee high grass for rodents,
Broken flags of no allegiance,
Brick upon brick,
Pointed fences,
Biting flow,
Dim lights shine through,
Powerful establishments,
Meaningful droll entities,
Asymmetric beauty,
Heavy mist at four a.m,
Sandbags concealing moisture,
Wisped smoke evaporating,
Dense death scent,
Waking up asleep,
Damp reconstitution,
Unkempt institution,
Local distribution,
Black restitution,
Unknown respite,
Dire light.

A light vapor breaks
through the rotting snow, a blade
of grass waking up

Excerpt from an essay(ish) on the concept of tact

Disclaimer: I'm usually anything but tactful. It would be the vilest hypocrisy for me to praise tactful behavior. I wish simply to advocate the reclaiming of the word and concept of tact. Or perhaps simply a renewed awareness of it.

Sensitivity, considerateness, thoughtfulness, civility, deference, regard, respect (are you nauseous yet?) are all important terms for the enlightened individual of the 21st century. We are constantly reminded of the need to be sensitive, thoughtful, and considerate to avoid offending or even perpetrating microaggression. Civility and deference must rule our interactions, especially with those less privileged, and we must behave with regard and respect for those who are different from us. This is all well and good. I have no quarrel with those who hold the above viewpoints.

What I do have to wonder, though, is this: Where is tact in all of this? It's a perfectly good word that captures many of the above meanings. Like its sole synonym diplomacy (if Merriam-Webster is to be trusted), it means something like an ability to avoid unnecessarily antagonizing or offending others. That's what we're after, right? Why would someone ever want to unnecessarily discomfit and injure another's feelings? Well, it turns out there is a subtle difference between the meaning of tact and the seven associated words above. While tact and diplomacy clearly imply the possibility that the "others" one is trying not to irritate might be misguided or oversensitive, the seven more commonly used terms all suggest that we are obliged by decency to be considerate of the fragile "other". "Respect" is perhaps the most notable example of this, meaning "a feeling of admiring someone or something that is good, valuable, important, etc." or "a feeling or understanding that someone or something is important, serious, etc., and should be treated in an appropriate way". Sounds obligatory, no? Tact, on the other hand, is much more morally ambivalent, and seems like something a person is not always obligated to practice: "the ability to do or say things without offending or upsetting other people." Likewise, diplomacy, "skill in handling affairs without arousing hostility," strongly suggests that the potential hostility may be irrational or overly sensitive in and of itself. The implication of tact and diplomacy is that sometimes these "other people" you're hoping not to anger will get angry anyways no matter how hard you try. In other words, some conflicts are unavoidable, because they result from more significant things than people being rude to each other.

http://pastebin.com/pn1mBdMM

>>6308383

I went through and edited it. Whoever posted this, do you think it's an improvement or did I destroy the original sense/atmosphere you intended?
There they were, among the darkness this time, figures I presumed were human. They sat in circles, some containing forty or fifty people, others much smaller. I approached one of the circles and studied those within it, and they were all obscured, featureless, and morose.

What drew people to this place? I could not fathom exactly what it was that appealed to the tenants of such a hell, what appeared to be a nude and slightly overweight male form, each one of them the same, without exception, their facial features absent apart from their mouths, as if skin had been sown from forehead to jaw to mask some great horror beneath.

They paid me no attention; I imagine they could not notice me, lacking eyes with which to see. I circled them for some time, listening to them talk to one another. Most of what was said made no sense to me. Most of what they spoke was English, though I could not discern exactly what they spoke about. Words were used which, at the time, held no meaning to me, but that was the beauty of their language.

Every so often I felt something pass through me, as if a ghost or spirit of some sort had wandered across my path. I could feel the presence of these many spirits with such intensity merely circling these people speaking in tongues on the floor, and these presences likely could sense me, they were here alongside me, circling themselves, trying to discern for their own if they could possibly enter such absurd conversations.

Without warning I felt a huge disturbance in my balance, sudden downward inertia overcame the group and for a moment I was falling; then, without warning, it was over and I collapsed to the floor, bewildered, annoyed and without the slightest idea what had happened to us, those on the floor seemed unaffected, as if immune to the movement, or if it had bothered them at all, they were not interested in showing it.

>>6308515
Ok bro, I'll do you if you do me

>>6312039 or and >>6317080

>>6320287

It's definitely easier to read, and I know that it needs work myself, but I'm only 7(?) pages into that project, and I haven't edited it at all.

Thanks anyway.

>>6308515
>>6308515
>Penultimate day of
>Elysian life where grass
>did grow, displayed
>with grandeur, recalling the
Yes. Yes. I am really getting the paradise vibe here, you are putting it across.
>past but denying the future
Tempo issues; remove but..?
>Reminder of what's gone before
Try a higher note; interchange "what's"?
>Soon be met in but four dusks
>Travelled towards in royal stead
>Packed with things we couldn't left
leave
>Behind where green now turns to blue
>In setting-sun of memory's room
remove hyphen introduce space
memory's room is off. perhaps "Memory's loci"
or perhaps simply "In setting sun memory's room"
depending on things
>Locked in this mahogany chamber
ok mahogany is brown and alabaster is white, what is going on here
>Where halls retain the alabaster
>pallor of unnerving nature
Two lines of patrician stuff my man. But pallor with capital P this is poetry son

>The stead's crop
does not blend. I don't get what kind of crop the royal stead has; is it beets? celery root?

>with Teutonic strength, tested and tuned
W
>The journey is a languid dream
>And time has yet to tell us that these
>Visions that we seem to see
>Are ours alone to know and keep
>That the field did shine with glory captured
>In the eyes of the youth enraptured
>Unfocused on a world to be
>Unbridled in that moment's glee
>And untrue in revisited scenes
>And hue will waver to an oak
>Withered the tree has become
>Until the truth is now a blot
>Blacker than a covered sun

And you got it! Good stuff, keep writing

LANGUID isles burning, past staked delinquents, rising over humanity and claiming souls as her own, but today strikes, to relish all, when faces suspend dire gasps.

Began alone in place of comfort,
Soon lonliness was of no issue,
Closest returns and new experience,
Old routine and fondest friendship,
Alas the time came to an end,
And with it joy and false pretence,
It took me away to dullest practice,
Endless despression, sharpest madness,
Too routine, even for me,
Mummified in sheets of dreams,
Longing for return to comfort,
In comforting place lacking softness,
Months spent blindly searching,
Through unrelenting wilderness,
In pursuit of happiness not found,
Those months on end in mind not sound,
Waking only to tire and sleep,
Bored of even counting sheep,
Then at last came week of pain,
Month of apprehension,
Season of rain,
Waiting in silence for my answer,
Changed my life, avert disaster,
Sudden move, new routine,
Living in my land of dreams,
Sheep no longer bother me,
I should begin now, time of glee,
Alas perhaps there'll be no change,
But time will tell where joy it hangs,
And until I'm sound of mind,
I'm try my best, whate'er I find.

>>6319442
bretty gud

>>6319442
This would be better as song lyrics than poetry. I like it.

James came running towards his mother red-faced with a wail loud enough to wake god himself.

"What is that boy up to".
She threw a casket of damp linen onto the flower bed in anger and marched to the side of the house. "Nothing like his father" she muttered. Fumbling with her necklace she turned the corner of the house and caught sight of James. His face was screwed up with a wail, his arms flailing above his head. It looked like something out of a cartoon she used to watch as a kid.
"Come here yo -"
Like a daisy stripped of its petals by the wind, soil plumed into the air and with it, all sight of James.
She could not believe it at first. Even as she went over it, she still did not. A clap of thunder barely audible rose with the mushroom of dead grass and earth.
"James".
She moved her arms back from an empty open-armed hug and clutched her necklace.
"James". Parts of grass blown up into the sky floated onto the tip of her head.
"James". There was anger in her voice.
The sun had drooped to the horizon, setting sparse summer clouds ablaze and the land a deep red in the shadow of its fire.

>>6320776
>>6320783

Thanks guys, it's nice to get any feedback.

As for song lyrics, maybe if I could sing or produce...though I would have no idea how best to make it music.

>>6310153
sorry for mistaking you, but when are you going to finish it?

>>6319442
>Earth's Turning,
>Burning.
>Ignited.
>They lay gazing,
>Slowly grazing,
>Blazing.

four-twenty!

>>6320927

Thanks for the quality input my literary scholar.

Gave me a good laff.

A shambling vagrant, sunken-eyed
Bottle emptied, lust denied.
Striding hero bold and savage
Cup is flowing maiden ravaged.

>>6321043

What a lovely way to describe a homeless man raping someone.

>>6321058
ooh...I hadn't thought of that. wow. I wanted it to be two different figures, emphasizing the stark contrast between them.

>>6319442

flaming dogshit.

>>6315136

> lol it was a dream the whoooooleee tiiimmmeee

Disgusting.

>>6308350
Your hollow gorge can never fill,
Gourmand! Gulfing motes and worlds
Alike – no preference do you take
With cold and even strokes you cleave,
A slow bi-section, stellar-scoped,
Turning loves to chaff

r8 me m8

God hates Chicago. God is good.He hates anything that is not good. And nothing good comes out of Chicago. He tried to stop it. First he made it cold. That way nobody would want to go there. It didn’t work. The city kept growing. He then gave the city crimes, taxes, laws, and foreclosures. Surely nobody would go to Chicago now. But the Beast kept growing. So then he turned his back on that city. It was at that God forsaken place that I died.

note i cant really write too well, go:

Rain goes down the side of my house and I watch it upon my window, but this is not my house it is my mothers. Am I wrong for having thought of it as mine? Should anything be mine. I am all and all is me so do i own myself? I am what I have been made, but have I been made me? It would not seem so! I am only the thoughts i have been forced upon my own self. Is life like this for everybody? Am I just as myself or are all just as me? It must be all are as me because I am is all. Right? Even "Right?" is showing I need confirmation, why don't I search for being told I am wrong? Why not? Is it because we evolved for pleasure and need it? I can live sad but id rather not live. Is saying that putting myself above animals? Am I making a sin by trying to be a god? Is god dead as I've heard? god is all and as am I so am I everything? Can I be nothing?

No.

I am me but what I am has been all ive seen and felt and tasted and heard and done; and I feel as though nothing. Have I been nowhere? Have I found and made what I wanted out of myself as I have searched it? It would feel.

>>6319478
probably a digital sensory medium. a storage of memories, for virtual reality simulation or something. can you imagine uploading your memories and then reliving them, or even changing them within a virtual standpoint? that's what i imagine his thing is about.

>>6310138
It's too purple and long-winded. You seeminly put more effort in ensuring it'd sound flowery than on it being readable.

>>6320845

>James ran at his mother red-faced, wailing loud enough to wake God.
>"To what is that boy up".
Heh, jk. But do better on this line.

>She threw a damp linen casket onto the flower bed and went to the side of the house. Nothing like his father. She went around the house and saw James. His face was screwed up in a wail, arms flailing above his head. He looked like something out of a cartoon.
>"Come here yo -"
>Soil plumed into the air, a daisy's petals stripped by the wind. James is nowhere.
>A distant thunder clap rose with the mushroom of earth and dead grass.
>"James".
>The empty open-armed hug fell.
>"Baby". There is grass on her head.
>"James".
>The sun was at the horizon, blazing sparse summer clouds and the land a deep red in the shadow of its fire.

You really need the necklace? cause it's basically throwaway as i read this.

Think about matching prose pacing and structure with the events being described. Giant explosion when you're not expecting it? Show the disorientation and disbelief, don't tell me they were disoriented and in disbelief.

>>6321102

>Post what I consider to be my worst and most derivative poem
>It takes 4 responses before negativity

Nice to see the standards are high here.

>>6321181

Up is the way in which you will be fucked, if mess with the writer of this work you shall.

>>6319442

1/10
Too many gerunds. Rhymes like this are stale, stale, stale. You're literally choosing some of the easiest laziest rhyming parts of english speech. Read and analyze more poems.

Also, no imagery? No imagery. Learn to poem, my poor befogged friend.

>>6321192

Great post, m8.

>>6321212
See:
>>6321184

I posted it because I found it and started laughing at how shit it was.

I wrote it just so that I could work the phrase "Glorious Incandescence" into a poem in the most hamfisted way possible.

To be honest I'm sort of annoyed I'm getting this much feedback on the worst thing I've posted in the thread, whilst other things I've posted have been overlooked entirely, as well as other peoples' work.

>>6321233

Tell me one to critique, and I will.

>>6321240
This is the last thing I posted before that God-awful poem:
>>6320643

>>6321256

>Implying >>6320643 isn't just as bad

>>6320643

But seriously, NO IMAGERY?

HOW'M I POSED TO KNOW WTF YR TALKING ABOUT?

>>6320643
>>6319442
Honestly the only way I can get these poems to sound good is imagining them as rap lyrics.

>>6320643
>Waking only to tire and sleep,
>Bored of even counting sheep,

Do better. IF you're going to rhyme, learn what makes a good one.
Lazy, cliche, sleep and counting sheep is so overused it's really an atrocious choice

>>6321260
Gr8 critique m8.

>>6321271
My poems generally are either spawned of boredom(therefore are just word salads or me fucking about), or personal in some way.

That poem is about my time spent unemployed and depressed before getting a job and moving to a new city.

>>6321274
To be honest I hate reading poetry other people have written, because it's impossible to know how they intended it to be read unless it keeps to a very obvious and distinct pattern.

Whereas you likely can't figure out how I want mine to sound.

>>6321286

Eh, I'm not really that into poetry, I know it's shit, but most of the time I decide to write a poem out of nowhere, spend about 10 minutes of time writing it, then never go back to edit them.

I was only posting them here out of curiosity as to how shit they were.

>>6321293

>My poems generally are either spawned of boredom(therefore are just word salads or me fucking about), or personal in some way.
Obviously you want to spread the boredom to your audience. Because this shit was BORING.

>That poem is about my time spent unemployed and depressed before getting a job and moving to a new city.
Doy. You could have said it in a poetic way, but ya didn't.

>To be honest I hate reading poetry other people have written
Disgusting. We're done here.

>>6321310

Good job taking that last quote completely out of context by the way, you fucking ass.

The are a lot of reasons I love reading other people's poetry, I was simply stating one reason I dislike it, and that's due to the fact I have trouble understanding how some poems are meant to be followed, rhythmically.

Not all the time, just sometimes.

>>6315223

Cool musings.

“Writing a book is cheap shit, my friend,” Martìn said with exaggerated hand movement and panache. “You can smear your own excretory lumps on 500 empty-white pages and it’ll sell like hotcakes—spicy-hot, ghost pepper infused hot-hot-hotcakes, my friend—with a dignified, controlled, properly angled and properly decolorized headshot in the jacket. I will make you sex. You will proposition every bookstore busybody like tricking was going out of style, and you will sell.” He flicked his fingers once more at Todd with a great sort of gusto—as if possibly this were the first time he had come across such a gesture through some Archimedean revelation, and which would now be permanently added to his repertoire of possibly-Hitlerian, charismatic hand-movement.

>>6311261
Fuckin' excellent

>>6320439
OP here
"left" instead of "leave" was a choice, even if it was grammatically wrong, to have a light rhyme with "stead". It's pretty weak though, so I'll probably change it in a new draft.

I also wanted to keep a color theme going, but I realize mahogany is a bit more brown than what I was going for. It was meant to represent a heart, with the "alabaster pallor" being the white of ghosts, which I wanted to tie to memory. The memory lives in the heart, but it's nothing real. It's a specter.

"Stead's crop", I wanted to reference homesteaders, so the "stead" was a vehicle. The crop was a riding crop (crop and reins). Now I see I should just change it to "steed" and make left "leave".

Thanks for the critique.

Here's something I wrote today. Wouldn't mind getting some feedback:

Imagine licking the mouse of a library computer, how salty it would be. The same hands which sift through garbage at night use it to play FarmVille once the sun has risen. It would be like licking dozens of sad and strange masturbations, masturbations the likes of which you can hardly conceive. You would taste the remains of countless exotic and greasy meals, the brass of the city's doors, the sweat of a thousand men. Feel your tongue slowly drag along the rugged plastic, the ticking bulge of the scroll wheel rolling along as you do. Taste the ancients flavours hidden within the crevices: sour, bitter, sweet. Your tastebuds, on high alert, struggle to perceive all the subtle nuances at once. Contradictory information fills your brain, you are overwhelmed. Truly, this is a transcendental experience.

>>6321427
I like the dialogue here, and the description. Feels good. Play on image, obviously, but the prostitute thing was funny. But small to really judge a work from, though.

>inb4 Kek u feel for muh trap, this is actually from some meme book you didn't read

The winter sun stood high, a light-house,
with no ship to lead— all
roads run-down, yet here I stand,
hopeless lily-search,
the vague winter warmth of the stars
trying to mislead me, yes, the spring
needed you, and maybe it's selfish,
but you heard them talk, too, you
heard them laugh and run around
us, with their faces;

their happiness, we could never understand.
You tried to play along, and you understood
their game, you remembered it from
an habit, you used to love, but forgot.
When angels sang — then —
you heard clearly, yet, in memories,
you only hear the barking of the dog.

In Alyosha's heart-dream i found my own,
but you always doubted; what if
the heavens don't hold stars?
what if we're not the only ones
to hear these cries on
heaven-reachers street?
Diogenes,
if motion is,
why am I?

This is just an idea but I'd really like to work on it.
I have an idea for a book which developed through something that came to me in a dream (yea cliché right?)

it's about a group of University students who through their travels in Asia meet this really cantankerous, rough and untamed middle aged alcoholic and through several encounters with him, they go from despising him to loving and wanting to aid him in his last shot of redemption, which is to leave everything he has here behind and to go back home to his family.

The novel will be about how a man so flawed and so utterly broken inside can have a few profound redeemable qualities that ultimately overshadow everything that's wrong with him.

The main reason he left his family and came to live in South East Asia all by himself was because he beat his wife and son, made their lives miserable with his alcoholism and because he felt like they'd be better off without him. At the end I want to have him at the airport, accompanied by the University students who are about to go back home and have the reader wonder if he returns to his family or not. The idea is that sometimes the best thing is to leave the stone unturned and that him returning to his family would just cause more problems..

i dunno im just rambling, this could be a dogshit premise but It felt so powerful and potent when I woke up. What do you guys think of the premise, is there potential? Much appreciated

>>6322342
I think it sounds great but it's but a shell yet and you will have to flesh it out --- What drew the group in? Which are his qualities? Why are they encountering him repeatedly? How is he displaying his utter brokenness etc

>>6322216
Very nice but I think the mouse could be salty not would be. Could would imply some subtle enticement on the part of the narrator, don't you think?
It would also start the thing off at a slightly lower note, letting it ramp up a bit more.

>>6322484
Also the plastic wouldn't ordinarily be rugged, right? Although I could see it be on purpose as well on your part, adding a dimension of disassociation to the whole thing.
It's fucking demented, funny funny. The ticking bulge, haha. Keep writing and posting

>>6322342
this actually sounds pretty awesome, but you'd have to make the alcoholic lovable as hell, not just a piece of shit family beater. Take the time to study some popular similar characters and get to grips with what makes them so beloved. If I read it I'd want to really really give a shit over whether or not he found happiness

>>6322484
Interesting. It would set a different tone. "Would" sounds more authoritative, like the narrator is dictating how the reader should feel, whereas "could" is more open ended. I'll consider it. Thanks for the feedback.

>>6322557
Thanks man. I have the character of this guy nailed down because he'll be based on my dad. I think the key to this working, like you said is to make him loveable. That'll be the hardest part for me

>>6322619
>>6322507
Np man. You see this?

>>6322470
Throughout the story I'll reveal more about the character so that the audience and the other characters in the book have a chance to go through all the sharpest emotions in the colour spectrum, starting off from being totally repulsed by who he is at face value, to caring and feeling sorry for the life he's had to endure and his situation.

I'm going to create numerous encounters throughout the story that start small but eventually grow into something more far more holistic. So it doesn't seem unnatural that suddenly this group of kids completely and totally change their perception on this guy. Slowly, I want the Uni students, one by one to grow a certain fondness and a type of pity that's never been seen. It'll be a slow transition and I'm planning on having the narrators character be the last person to change his feelings and opinions on the alcoholic, so at the end the experience is as cathartic as possible.

The central character to this book, the middle-aged alcoholic is going to be a really complex character. He's someone who has experienced many hardships in life, the death of families, his own Near Death experiences and broken relationships due to being bipolar and epileptic. The guy will be despicable when drunk but compassionately genuine and caring when sober, the catch of course being that he isn't sober soften because he's an alcoholic.

I'm still working on the full premise so any comments would be appreciated!

>>6322962
Also one more attribute I'll assign to this guy is that he'll be incredibly repulsed by his actions and who he is. I want his extreme self-loathing to be depressing but at the same time tragic and pitiful.

I'm planning on writing the first third of the book in a pretty comedic fashion then slowly have it decline in humour and transition more into being more dramatic and serious.

Out of all the many shitty book ideas I've had I genuinely think I can turn this into something because I experienced the emotional connection to the story that i had when I woke up from that dream. I think if I write this as beautifully as possible I can make others feel what I felt. Or it can end up being garbage, who knows, I'm going to try anyway.

>>6322980
One last post, I know I'm rambling like a fucker but I can't help it.

I want to base a lot of the dynamics within this book to what happened in the movie, 'the big fish'.
The narrator is going to be the last person to change his mind and care for this guy because he'll be character constantly disbelieving in the stories of the alcoholic. He won't trust him, he won't accept that his stories are real and he will continue to believe that he's nothing more than a booze ridden bum. There'll be some moment, something pivotal that'll change the relationship between those two characters although I'm not sure as of yet.

She was lying in her parent's bed with her physics teacher. Her parents were out for the weekend, leaving Julie to do as she pleased.

"Tell me more about space" she said, looking deep into her teacher's eyes.
"Space!" he chortled.
"Why do you want to hear about space?" He was amazed; what on Earth could prompt such a question.
"I...just...". He could see the offence.
"If it really means that much" what the hell. Propping his head up with an elbow resting on a pillow, he began his lecture.
"Space is cold. Very cold. And very big. Enormous!" He winked at Julie and she giggled like a schoolgirl in love with a professor.
"But because it is so big -" his free hand crawled across her parent's bed as it possessed by an unseen force, skirting across the sheets by its finger tips. It found Julie below the navel, and gripped her like a bowling ball.
"Everything is far, far away. So far in fact, you couldn't possibly get where you wanted to go in one lifetime". "Or many" he added.
Julie swallowed her moan.
"Even if you" she squeaked "ran?"
The professor climbed onto Julie. Her breasts were firm and her curvature thin; but not bent. Just the way he liked them.
"Even" kiss "if" kiss "you" kiss "ran".

This would be the third time today; Julie was impressed.

And so as evening fell upon their embrace, the teacher fell upon his student. And, just as he brought her to climax, the bedroom door swung open, collided with the wall to its side, and startled the teacher with its bang.
Julie screamed.
He had made her come.

His mind began to rove to rooms of lurid pink haze and light where strange bodies collide. To honeyed cells in an urban hive to mysterious corners discovered only now not before when alone but now among people. To odd rooms of possibility and thumping and hey! and warm sweaty touch and odorous smoke and do you remember?....to rooms with fleeting amorous embrace and Cambrian heat pulsing in a fixed moment.

He had been driven by a dim flashing impulse to be in that neon sanctum, in that vulgar shrine of lithe images stretched on divans matted with filth. And in that Attic scene what a weird figure he had struck. Not graceful not handsome but young, young he was for now and young yet for another moment. Hello – hi – my name is - hey man, another shot? – one second – hi, nice to meet – woah-ho! - that’s it! - like I was saying – she smiled coyly – you play violin? – no kidding, so do – hey man, come on - don’t leave me hanging! – just a minute – well….

He trailed off. Mind blanked, expended of the gregarious gentleman’s ammunition, of all anecdotes and hero’s tales, I cannot play the bard, feeling too well now the throat grip and the limits of this body he felt stark and sharp, so well did he feel its contours against this warm and wild space, so new was that face in which he looked now, so badly did he wish to sublimate into it. Her thick lashes were downcast over limpid eyes that smiled and the thought of death was deeply in them. In all things is an opposite he said to himself and yet amidst this what decay? No decay no decay this is a new branch on life’s roving circuit. He leaned in and whispered something indistinct and she slapped him teasingly and laughed. They turned in to face one another.

She leaned in now and her breath was hot on him. He felt dimly the contours giving way, the cordons of his life loosening, fibers livening under this tropic waft, fired, fired by a -

>>6322931
I do now.

Is this worth continuing? How should I describe this thing?

Kent county is not an ordinary place.

This is because a mountain appeared on the fifteenth of March, twenty ten. The mountain, from base to peak, is approximately five thousand feet high. The mountain is not an ordinary mountain either. Grass does not grow at its base, and it is not the product of a geological event.

This has led to much speculation from all corners of the globe.

"How could it JUST appear" they asked.
At first the mountain defied all belief.

The mountain had not, as far as anyone was able to tell, been plonked randomly. It was far away in the English countryside. Byroads did not approach it. Remote villages did not inhabit the area.

It did not pose a problem.

One could see it as far away as Manchester. It might be spotted on the coast of France. And on a nice day, it could be seen from the very coastline of Wales.

The mountain had appeared; that much was certain. Its bare face and snow capped peaks parted the heavens, but it did not distort the weather. Miraculously, it had centered itself outside major jet-streams. Clouds continued to float past without notice.

It did not affect the wild-life. It neither helped nor hindered.

"Nature doesn't know what she's up to" farmers might say to each other. Their wives might tell each other tales. Their daughters and sons might not be seen to care.

But they did.
Everyone did.
A mountain had appeared, and no one was sure how.
The public was informed it had happened at night; this learnt from a hiker touring the area.

"Up I come fresh as a daisy, off for a morning gander, and there, in front of me, is this bloody thing. The sun wasn't even up then. I thought, christ, it's not real! Something from ancient myth".

But what he thought did not matter. In cities it seemed far away, in the county towns it scaled the kitchen window. For some it blotted out daylight. Cottages and houses were emptied because of the mountain. The reality of it was there.

Uncertainty was soon suffused with a general sense of shock. Unmarked helicopters swarmed the mountain. Colonies of cameras were held back by police cordons, but photos made their way online into images and videos.

The mountain was unstoppable.