/lit/ - Literature

Imagine being Arnold in that scene and having to be all like "damn, Jamie Curtis, you fuckin' fine, all sexy with your tight body and horrific androgynous monster face. I would totally have sex with you, both my character and the real me." when all he really wants to do is fuck another 16 year old in his dressing room. Like seriously imagine having to be Arnold and not only sit in that chair while Jamie Lee Curtis flaunts her disgusting body in front of you, the favorable lighting barely concealing her stretchmarks and leathery skin, and just sit there, take after take, hour after hour, while she perfected that dance. Not only having to tolerate her monstrous fucking visage but her haughty attitude as everyone on set tells her she's STILL GOT IT and DAMN, JAMIE LEE CURTIS LOOKS LIKE *THAT*?? because they're not the ones who have to sit there and watch her mannish fucking gremlin face contort into types of grimaces you didn't even know existed before that day. You've been fucking nothing but a healthy diet of blondes and supermodels and later alleged rape victims for your ENTIRE CAREER coming straight out of the boonies in Austria. You've never even seen anything this fucking disgusting before, and now you swear you can taste the sweat that's breaking out on her dimpled stomach as she sucks it in to writhe it suggestively at you, smugly assured that you are enjoying the opportunity to get paid to sit there and revel in her "statuesque (for that is what she calls herself)" beauty, the beauty she worked so hard for with personal trainers in the previous months. And then the director calls for another take, and you know you could kill every single person in this room before the studio security could put you down, but you sit there and endure, because you're fucking Arnold. You're not going to lose your future political career over this. Just bear it. Hide your face and bear it.

He heard her distant speech from the office corridor; water vapour's laughter. Almost a whisper, graciously featherweight. Intentional or not, it was honest. Sugar paper wrapping an audible gift: such low decibel rating, more than enough to cause tinnitus. Nothing was ever forced, just slightly tapped. An incorruptible piece of audio not unlike a recently purchased cassette with an eternal promise establishing a rule for never playing it; you wouldn't want to damage such a beautiful sound.

Naaaah, no, that's not. Wait. Her hair's a modest gradient - brown soil foundations allowed marvellous blonde establishments to grow and prosper, as many aspire for the success that her hair had achieved. Goddamn, wow. She seemed preoccupied, mid-discussion regarding some professional concerns - water cooler jargon for getting asses in gear because that shit wasn't ever going to record itself (Oh god, you know how these artists are: "Hey, can I record this new solo I've been working on?" Well how about fuck off, no, it isn't exactly fucking November Rain. Just finish the fucking song, we want to go home, you self-indulgent rats). Despite concerns, stresses and depresses, she would seemingly give various timezones, annual celebratory holiday information and the variables that contribute to the variations of seasons' length and timing throughout each year. Surprisingly, she probably could.

Those glasses. Whoa, Nelly. His libido would pull them off with his teeth; his libido this and that, a few lustful thoughts popped into mind -- fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off. I cannot believe I let that happen. Despite natural urge; the drill sergeant pushing forward, hoping his training of the soldiers had motivated them enough to succeed and survive the battlefield - probably Normandy, all the marching - against the foe. The Cold War scum suckers who wanted to fuck their freedom and cum in its hair, motherfuckers! They'd fuck their own mothers! The hun cunts and the Russkie shits, right, right, right, huh? ACHTUNG, I'LL SEE THE DEATH OF YOU BEFORE YOU RISE ONCE MORE.

He turned his back from her general direction to hide the uprising. It seemed not just the revolt against Communism, but he was hiding the tearing of the Berlin wall and possibly the French Revolution too (on second thought, most likely the French had something to do with it all). The studio was empty, right? Thundered, thundered, foot soldier march!

I don't know what I've been told,
What we have here is Cuban missile gold!

I was so mad at my Mom and Dad I punched my wall like *BANG*, like a boxer hitting a heavy bag. I didn't even care if I hit a stud or something. I hit just plain drywall though and punched through it like *BANG* you know? I was so tired of them always yelling at me and telling me how stupid I am. My Dad used to smack my head like I was a moron when I messed up at something that I wouldn't even know how to do anyway. It was my chore to sweep up the kitchen but getting around the table was a pain so I just pushed the chairs and stuff over and Mom yelled at me "what's wrong with you!". Dad came in and said "what is going on here jesus christ Ben what is it now". I didn't even throw the chairs I just pushed them out of the way cause they told me to sweep and the kitchen was fucking clean anyway. I had to stand there while they kept yelling but they told me to go to my room and I didn't have to finish.

My wall has a lot of holes in it but I don't hit the ones by my bed anymore. They face outside and in the winter it gets cold around where the holes. I asked for a TV for my birthday but my parents got me a CD.

>>6619370
It's like Holden Caulfield revised for the 21st century. I like

>>6619458
I'm glad you recognized what I was going for but I feel the voice isn't quite consistent enough yet.

>>6619336
Theres some really sweet ideas in this, anon. Polish it more, maybe elaborate on some of the more interesting passages like "water vapour's laughter" and get really free with it. This is nice.

I was sitting there, I was depressed as hell, looking at some website where a bunch of phonies yappped and yapped about books. I like books, but the all the ones they were talking about were written by phonies. For instance, there was this real dumb bastard they were always worshipping called "Pinecone". That's right. A goddamned guy named Pinecone. Anyways, I read a few pages of one of this Pinecone guy's books and boy was is a load of junk. All he talked about were little pieces of architecture and bananas. I'm done with that for kind of shit for a while. Books aren't for me. I guess ever since I started fingerbanging Phoebe nothing seems as interesting.

Arthur peered out the window. His eyes trailed across every fleeting natural occurrence that passed by the train. Arthur marvelled at the beauty of nature in his adolescence. Often entranced, his sense of time became distorted -- wherein some instances, where seconds became hours and vice versa. However, self-criticality along with a change of scenery from his small country home to small apartment in the middle of a booming industrial city lead Arthur to forget his old tendencies.
The train ride brought him back to his primal desire. There was a particular point in the train ride wherein he felt an overwhelming sense of sadness when passing a peculiarly beautiful area. A deep and gorgeous valley was separated by the cold steel of the train doors. On the top of the valleys were wisps of fog that rested, frozen in an ostensible eternity. Although the valleys extended far past his view, those in sight all followed a similar downward path to a circular center. Arthur was incapable of seeing the bottom of these valleys due to his position on the train, to which he attributed that such valleys held an abyss at the bottom.
It is often of human nature to be anxious of the unknown. Arthur, on the other hand, found himself awestruck by the enigma -- a contrarion to most he knew. And when Arthur realized his current obsession, he felt the hammer of reality crack down upon him. It was swift, as if an execution. And rather than tasting blood as one would as he approaches death, Arthur felt an earthy bitterness touch his tongue.

Craig sat in his small-but-cozy office in the chili factory and looked over the recent data. The fancy charts and detailed analysis all arrived at a simple problem: participants did not respond well to the chili variation with a little extra cocoa powder or the variation with slightly less cocoa powder compared to the current recipe found throughout grocery store shelves across the country. To Craig, this simply meant that the clear solution was to chance nothing in the original recipe. To the higher-ups, this was a completely unacceptable answer. Their firmly held beliefs stated that a little tweaking done routinely was necessary to keep the brand relevant. The Bachelor's of Science hanging on the wall signified to everyone that Craig ought to be capable of finding a solution.

"Well, we increased and decreased the amount of cocoa by 1/4 teaspoon--so maybe trying again with 1/8 teaspoon would provide a more subtle change that the participants would find more palatable."

There were a lot of furrowed brows and thoughtful nods at this suggestion. He was glad his idea had been met with approval, yet disappointed since it's implementation was sure to be a headache.

Feeling the familiar weight of tasks and responsibility begin to press down on him, he opened the drawer of his desk and started working on an unfinished sudoku.

She jolted sideways as something came smashing down beside her. A great spatter of red had spackled on the white rock, and she saw what had created it: a turtle totally cracked open, shell smashed out and innards spilt upon the stone. With a whoosh of wind an eagle fluttered down beside the corpse, landing with a folding of its wings and hopping to the ruined turtle's ruined form. Its curved beak swept into the broken shell, ripping out a chunk of guts that promptly was gulped down. The eagle paused then, for it saw her. Its piercing yellow eyes were gleaming in its brown feathery face. She knew that look, that stare. She nodded. “Good eating,” she said. Then her eyes went back onto the bloody spatter. She saw the brilliant scarlet fluid running now in rivulets into the crevices and crannies of the ancient stone. She felt the flow as though it ran across her own skin, felt the weight that blood has and the strange way that it sticks and stretches over hardy surfaces. Her own blood, in between her ears, began to pump the faster. She swallowed. She shook her head, tried to clear the feeling, and she hurried on.

>>6619739
This is a little melodramatic, but that's fine. More worryingly, you seem to dance between the past and the present tense.

Nevertheless, the language is powerful, and you use particularly strong words at the right moments- like "deep and gorgeous valley" which I like- and the use of the word "abyss."

Just pay more attention when you're writing.

>>6619835
Much appreciated, Anon.

Want to try creative writing myself: how often should I redraft passages? I have ideas planned out, but should I be a little freeform with structure? I know some authors certainly are. How often can I mix the colloquial with the formal?

(On the strip scene in True Lies)
Imagine being Arnold in that scene and having to be all like "damn, Jamie Curtis, you fuckin' fine, all sexy with your tight body and horrific androgynous monster face. I would totally have sex with you, both my character and the real me." when all he really wants to do is fuck another 16 year old in his dressing room. Like seriously imagine having to be Arnold and not only sit in that chair while Jamie Lee Curtis flaunts her disgusting body in front of you, the favorable lighting barely concealing her stretchmarks and leathery skin, and just sit there, take after take, hour after hour, while she perfected that dance. Not only having to tolerate her monstrous fucking visage but her haughty attitude as everyone on set tells her she's STILL GOT IT and DAMN, JAMIE LEE CURTIS LOOKS LIKE *THAT*?? because they're not the ones who have to sit there and watch her mannish fucking gremlin face contort into types of grimaces you didn't even know existed before that day. You've been fucking nothing but a healthy diet of blondes and supermodels and later alleged rape victims for your ENTIRE CAREER coming straight out of the boonies in Austria. You've never even seen anything this fucking disgusting before, and now you swear you can taste the sweat that's breaking out on her dimpled stomach as she sucks it in to writhe it suggestively at you, smugly assured that you are enjoying the opportunity to get paid to sit there and revel in her "statuesque (for that is what she calls herself)" beauty, the beauty she worked so hard for with personal trainers in the previous months. And then the director calls for another take, and you know you could kill every single person in this room before the studio security could put you down, but you sit there and endure, because you're fucking Arnold. You're not going to lose your future political career over this. Just bear it. Hide your face and bear it.

>>6619881
jamie lee curtis is hot in that imo but this was still funny to me

The day the world ended was just like any other. Honey bees suckled on sweet nectar as robins and jays flitted about the azure sky, leaving behind downy feathers in their wake. Children played on the streets and in the public parks, for it was finally the weekend they had been looking forward to. The older citizens occupied their free time with recreational sports in the sun, tasty picnics in the shade, and fine music in the ears. The sun was high and shined brightly upon the content populous, radiating warm whispers that masked the impending demise of their insignificant planet. The happy mood quickly changed to severe terror when the first disaster struck. A deafening boom resounded across the world, as if Gaia had clapped her earthen hands together in delight. But rather, the earth came apart. Paved roads crumpled up as tremors shook reverberated through cities and towns, thoroughly thrashing their denizens. The ground split into a multitude of fractured pieces, creating chasms far too deep to see the bottom of that greedily swallowed whole groups of terrified humans. Not knowing where to run from the ground, people aimlessly fled for their lives in fear, praying to their gods for their lives to be spared. Soon after came the tidal waves, washing entire continents like a divine hose. The water had turned a murky black and it crashed against all that stood in it's path, sweeping up tall skyscrapers and small people with ease and carrying them nowhere in particular. By now, only those living on the tallest mountains had survived this series of catastrophes, but they didn't have long to enjoy their good fortune. The sky turned a sickening crimson as piercing whistles rang through the air. Blazing red meteors stabbed through the clouds and rained down upon whatever was left of the broken planet, punching deep holes in what little ground there was to punch deep holes in. The mighty mountains crumbled, the black oceans sloshed, and the last human cried out in despair at the unforgiving end to humanity as a molten boulder slammed down from above and crushed him mercilessly.

>>6620960
>day just like any other
>quickly changed
cliche
>for it was
>the unforgiving end to humanity
you don't talk like that, don't write like that.
>The older citizens
> fled for their lives in fear, praying to their gods
safe and lifeless
>like a divine hose
>a sickening crimson
NO

I diagnose you with a Heavy Hand. Take some Dostoevsky short stories and call me in the morning.

>>6619336
I'm not sure if this is a genuine attempt at creative writing or shitposting but I like it.

On a tuesday the man lost his dog. The dog was brown. The dog ran fast. The owner was really sad when he lost his fast dog. He called all his friends. One of his friends found the dog. The man was really happy now.

>>6622440
Obvious error- a man aware of his own position in time cannot be happy.

>>6619808
Start off by describing why it's cozy or why it's fancy.

>>6619821
>and she hurried on.
Nice

>>6622406
It's pretty sincere, man. I got the idea to write about a girl I have a crush on and wanted to write about her in a romantic way at first, but then I started writing with an intention for a metaphor for every passage. I'm going to re-draft it and remove parts that I find aren't particularly interesting to read, but yeah man, it\'s completely genuine.

reposting my shitty prose, non-native speaker, looking for criticism. gonna get to critiquing in a bit (although I dont think I have much to contribute), gotta do stuff for a sec


Slowly creeping comes weariness, comes fatigue and at long last sleep, sits down in the corner, watching you out of small, tired eyes. As time passes on they move closer with a cozy and peaceful smile on their small round faces. They sit next to you on the couch and you turn your head just a slight bit and nod politely. Over time, you feel the couch tilt ever so slighty to your new neighbours' side and as you look over, you could swear they look bigger than before. Not definitely, but perhaps slightly more voluptuous. You start to feel soft fur brushing up against your arm as they spread out to accommodate for their new size. You knew you were right. A bit disgruntled and displeased at their sudden appearance you shuffle to your end of the sofa, trying to bring just a bit of space between yourself and the three unannounced guests. You look over once more and observe the once benevolent faces turn into gruesome grimaces, watching you with a self-righteous, sly smile. Their growth is undeniable now; one of them is again brushing up against your arm. Flight is impossible. Soothing sing-song surrounds your thoughts, lulling you and tucking you into bed. They have taken control now, throning high above and looking down upon their prey, a mischievous grin spreading from ear to ear. Now it can't be long. There is no rush. Darkness engulfs you. Don't struggle. Submit.
You look into the Abyss.
And Jump.

>>6619218

>>6620960
i like it
9/10

>>6620960
this is literally r/writingprompts: the post

>>6619370
Please don't use *BANG*.

Could a king, a prince, a duke – nay, even one of those ubiquitous invisibles who, we are led to believe, accompanies us when thinking, speaking, or acting – could even this sinless atom refrain from tainting its spotless gear with the wish of a human heart, as those grey eyes looked in bashful tenderness into the glittering jet revolvers that reflected their sparkling lustre from nave to circumference, casting a deepened brightness over the whole features of an innocent girl, and expressing, in invisible silence, the thoughts, nay, even the wish, of a fleshy triangle whose base had been bitten by order of the Bodiless Thinker.

>>6623280
what

Existing. The state of being.
That familiar lament of hollow bell carved to questions, softly resounding across the lonely grey beaches of time.

That silver vein that runs in the stricken, a slowing jolt, the persuasion of poison! How it so wistfully curls like a cobra in the contours of a cortex.
A sacrifice.
The altar is no longer blood stained! It is spoken and traversed and evenly distributed. Now, we walk in blood and as talk it, it winds in miniscule stalks and attaches itself to others, now we swim in it as we move, a dark treacle, now the tiny droplets in the air around us, condense our vision so even what we view is touched with the translucent taint of our sin.


The laugh of a child in the forest. Softly shrill, it's brief duration dwarfed by its brilliance, a shining star in the dark hug of bark.

Lost, wanderous one, but found again, where the thorns whisper and shake and the thin stalks of nettle waver, wanton, in the soporific summer breath.

Here, you will dream, at last.

>>6623280
*knave

I think it's the best example I have as of now of what I'm trying to achieve. Posted before so yeah.

Snickering now. I take his phone and start playing with its camera. The lights are still following us. I turn off the Bluetooth radio-phone connection, but manage to turn it on again.
We get to a village. France stops.
-I need to get my smokes.
We get out after parking on a walkway, the buildings and the road look like poorer traditional German hamlets replicas but synthesis with dawn-haze and high renders them inwardly monastic-like in a way.
I take a few photos, with my phone and then his. Then both together, one in front of the other. Marco and Luca are still sleeping in the back, France’s looking for a shop. He looks kind of depressed.
-I think they are all closed. I think. Maybe not.
-What time is it?
I reflectively, to then check the phones and answer my own question.
-Half past five on both, more or less.
-When are they opening?
-I don’t know. No connection.
-Fuck.
We walk around the town, which is completely shut down. Back at the car, we sit in the boot drinking a couple beers, smoking the rest of the packet. France’s cutting along the edge of a beer can with his knife.
-So, you know where this house’s supposed to be?
-No, I thought you knew. I thought you were driving cos you knew where the place was.
-I think Marco’s the only one who knows.
He puts the can, torn open now, on the edge of the boot. I snuff out the stub in it.
-Then we oughta wake them up.
-Let’s get the smokes before that.
We settle a little deeper in the boot, comfortable on the wall of six packs watching the sun rise, wet and bloody, between the low blue mountains.

>>6623548
intrigues me
I want to know who france is

>>6622780
The first sentence doesn't flow that well

>Slowly creeping comes weariness, comes fatigue and at long last sleep, sits down in the corner, watching you out of small, tired eyes

The biggest problem is when you connect the clauses "Slowly creeping comes weariness, comes fatigue, and at long last sleep" with "sits down in the corner". You would probably be better off just ending the sentence at "and at long last sleep". Actually now that I think about it it would be easier to replace sits with sitting, as sits is never really used singularly. (Ex., you wouldn't be able to they "They sits/ We sits/ etc.). This would make your sentence

>Slowly creeping comes weariness, comes fatigue, and at long last sleep; sitting down in the corner, watching you out of small, tired eyes.

Sorry this critique is so rambling, I haven't slept in like 24 hours

1.

So, we like, told the guy to fuck off, right? But he didn't! Now that aggravated our Little Tommy, whose nickname wasn't ironic - Tommy was little over 5 feet, poor soul. Italian heritage, he always said, as if anyone dared to ask.

"The fuck you mean you won't fuck off?", Tommy asked politely.
"Just so, I won't. Fuck you, Tommy."

Tommy wasn't an adept of handling the banter and punched the fool straight in the face. Guy didn't even flinch, like he was a boxer or something. Au contraire, like the Belgians say, he sniggered like a cunt and delivered a backhand blow that made Tommy fly a little.

"Hah! Faggot!", he shouted.

Tommy didn't answer, as he was bleeding internally after falling down those stairs. The whole affair took maybe less than a minute. We, that is me and Joe Fingers (don't ask), didn't move at all. Not a single muscle twitched on our granite-made faces as the guy approached us with a stern look on his face. Tommy finally regained consciousness and started cursing in both English and Italian, though the latter was a bit off grammar-wise. I was to tell him that later.

I didn't have a chance, though. The guy stabbed me with a shiv he produced out of his backpocket. Straight in the heart! Shit, it didn't even hurt that much, right? Instant internal hemorrhage and that. Not a bad way to die, considering.

Joe Fingers (don't ask) shouted as I was collapsing and tried murdering the guy with his bare hands. He nearly succeeded, only his own bare hands got in the way. By the time I was dead Joe Fingers (don't ask) most probably shat himself out of fear, because it smelled so fucking bad.

Life fucking sucks. Good thing I'm done with it.

>>6623526
Not bad, I find it hard to write about existence without feeling angst-ridden or pretentious, but you do a decent job at it.

>>6624025
>Tommy wasn't an adept of handling the banter
An and the are unnecessary, and disrupt flow. Consider revising to:
>Tommy wasn't adept at handling banter

Otherwise, I enjoy the casual tone, something about that and the "(don't ask)" epithet kind of reminds me of DFW.

“Lock doors. Brain scan, subject Fletch, fifth run. Brain scan, subject Merrill, first run.”
The two previously inactive lights set in the walnut desk fired into life, blue-tinged light projected into three dimensions, a section of sky brought down from above to rest in the air atop the desk. As suddenly as the light appeared came the models of the subjects’ brains, in what some would consider far too much detail, hovering, slowly rotating. The seat of human consciousness of these two separate individuals standing before the doctor as if presenting him with permission to stare into their being.
“Show neuron activity density distinguished by lobe. At ten times speed, if you will.”
The left brain slowly became an intriguing lightshow of intricately balanced neural activity, red light dashing amongst the blue, wires of human thought and action, creating a shifting bluish-pinkish glow as the stimuli experienced in the rift probed varying responses from varying areas of the brain. The density of the neural network activity seemed to be largely focused in the sensory cortex and occipital lobe, whilst the other areas of the brain were operating on reduced levels to those going about day-to-day life.

There were so many doors along this hall that I never remembered which one lead where. Thats why I always had the two most used and important rooms at the ends of the corridors and the next most important near them. The bathroom for example was right next to the throne room, because you never want to get lost while needing to relieve yourself. I stood at the entrance to the throne room and my mind went blank. I looked up at the high ceiling in the hall, the dark matter twisted and twinkled purple in the way it did when someone was near. It would stay away from me though, unless I called it. Stood there looking at the ornate granite and amethyst door and suddenly remembered where I was going. I’m such an idiot, I can only get there by jumping anyway. I used to be able to get there through a door in the throne room, but I had changed it. It had been that way for so long I had forgotten the change.
I thought of the bridge that lead to the Sanctuary. I didn’t have to close my eyes nor think too hard, and I arrived at the furthermost end the long walkway. I used to dash down the bridge too, but these days I didn’t want to get to the other end.

>>6624025
TOPKEK
good writing and flow, lol'd
britbong detected me and m80 write each other stories like this
>>6624047
he obvs intended that

>>6624101
>at ten times the speed, if you will
Doctors would never talk that personally to a robot, and probably not to a person, during surgery. "If you will" isn't the type of syntax used by a man controlling a machine for a task.

In Which I Call Nancy

After some degree of success in America with the sales of my most recent novel, a charming yet melancholy recollection of the events surrounding the year in which I had spent in a writer's limbo (which had been diagnosed by my friend as the symptom of the dreaded yet ineffectual Continental Virus, known to my intellectual circle of acquaintances as Hemingway's Disease), I had expatriated myself from the United States and settled in the salty and sunny town of Palabras, a tiny establishment with only forty locals and a grand total of eight beach shacks, one of which I had rented for a year at the price of only a thousand American dollars. The events which followed my move were, at the least, a mildly engaging Shaggy Dog tale, which, if you were versed in the multitudes of story types, you would understand to be a wandering, plot-less, and ultimately meaningless set of occurrences which didn't seem to help any party ever at any point in time.

Within my shack was a twin sized bed without a mattress, which I had thrown out after a few days as sleeping on the springs with only a sleeping bag and a bunched shirt as a pillow caused my temper to return with an overwhelming and uncontrollable fog that would cloud my judgment and cause me to react to what should have been smaller and more insignificant occurrences. I had elected that the frame should be burned and the springs returned to the city, once I could find some transportation with the only man who owned a vehicle in the town, though his insectoid sedan would only perhaps be able to carry it if the springs were somehow tied to the roof, although his car was so small that the spring set stretched farther than its length and was dangerously bent that it might touch the ground. This we found after we had attempted for a first time to take it to the city, and discovered the fiery sparks that lit up the road behind us once we reached the freeway, which had jinxed his car for what was apparently breakdown 'el segundo'. We had walked for an hour back to Palabras after that, pushing the car in neutral and creating a mess of one of the only sets of city clothing I had brought with me.

1/?

Cont?

>>6624114
>Thats why I always had the two most used and important rooms at the ends of the corridors and the next most important near them.
Really awkward phrasing. Also consider the idea that nobody really wants to read an analysis of somebody's floor layout.

> I looked up at the high ceiling in the hall, the dark matter twisted and twinkled purple in the way it did when someone was near.
I feel like I'd have to know more about your world to even consider this idea. I'm getting an odd fantasy vibe, which is cool, but reading a character's perceptions of a room can get mighty tedious.

>...and suddenly remembered where I was going. I’m such an idiot, I can only get there by jumping anyway.
When a character talks to himself like this, it breaks the prosaic flow and eliminates whatever degree of interest I have in it. I'd recommend either keeping self-dialogue like this out of the story, or finding another way to expose the character's feelings about himself.

>I thought of the bridge that lead to the Sanctuary.
One, this sentence is boring and hardly contributes to the story outside of telling me that the character is thinking about something I give absolutely no shits about, and two, making an object a proper noun like this screams of B rate science fiction and fantasy. It's very YA, which makes it disgusting.

I hope this makes sense.

>>6624146

I was already going to eliminate that, so if it's the worst thing in that passage, I'm happy.

>>6624203

That's not my writing :^)

Elia drifted off while his two companions continued discussing the upcoming conflict. He was listening to the chirping of the grasshoppers hiding in the tussock and sucked the warm dry air through his teeth. With sun right above his head he tread the soft ground lost in sweet absentness.
"Yove...how does it feel to kill a man?" he heard Tomyan ask.
"It doesn't feel any different. That's the worst part."
"How do you mean that?"
"I don't know. I...I always expected it to be something...other, something that leaves a mark. But then, it's there, and it doesn't feel any different from working on a field, eating a corn-stew, telling jokes with your companions or shagging a woman. I realized that you always hope that those things and killing someone are from two separate worlds - that they're different. It's a fucking kick in the guts when you find out they don't."
Elia caught Yove glance wistfully back from where they came. It was just for a flash of a second, but he saw the muscles on the chin of the tall rugged man tighten.
"Though," said Yove with his eyes bolting away. "Kick in the guts is just what one needs sometimes."
Elia himself turned around to look at the vertical forest one last time. Now, from the distance, it seemed like an impenetrable wall, a solid object when he squinted his eyes. It looked quite alien, emerging out of the grassy plains where except for few scattered thickets here and there seldom grew trees. Elia bid goodbye to that strange place and to the fading memory of its peculiar denizen, whoever she was.

Gira looked like the kind of man a top-rate college vomited out after some bullshit degree in transcendental theory or something, she recalled meeting a man with a similar sort of look a few years ago, pompous I-know-something-you-don’t-know types who walk around with a lack of spacial awareness owing to the depth of arse their heads are tucked into. If this was the future of the free human race he surely didn’t meet the spec, in fact, he was the opposite of the spec, an antithesis of human opportunity hiding behind a full-body-suit of apparent mediocrity, almost bursting at the seams with contempt for the human condition.

>>6619336
This is pretty decent man. I think I would prefer a little more structure, or maybe it's just the content/topics you are addressing in the lines, but it feels like it's missing a little something. I'm not much of a critic, though, I do appreciate it.

>>6622890
Comments about this?
Maybe it was too purple?

>>6625075

I don't think it's too purple, it has the obstructive and narcissistic flow of a soliloquy, as if at the end of every sentence the person were asked another question and in response burst back into poetry.

If you don't mind, can you take a look at this:

The heat death of the singular being; a fate to aspire to. Someone somewhere was smoking a cigarette, else a fire was burning inside his own brain, stocked with beechwood and overprocessed tobacco, maybe jasmine too. Far removed from burnt toast which was some succour. The weight of a dozen motorcycles would do well to produce and effect this drastic. Deep thought was all that could be managed and all that could be deeply thought about was the unending uselessness he was encountering in this moment. Dull light permeated his eyelids from the sconce hung off of the wall behind the couch, the end of a tunnel finally approaching after a petrifying journey on rails through oblivion. Deep ruts cut across the glistening chocolate expanse above his eyes. Hours passed. People were born and people had died. Marriages were made and broken. Gira opened his eyes.
The room was quiet, he was alone, though he had not been alone for long. The shutter was locked in place and he could not see any noticeable means of opening it from where he lay. Someone somewhere smoked a cigarette. Doc was in a dense span of clutter, an asymmetric and unorganised area of beer bottles and metal bins and industrial chains and works of art and works of lesser art and cigarette butts and bloodstains and rotting something-or-other. Unidentifiable odours combining edibles and non-edibles drifted through the room and out some sort of ventilation the man had yet to spot.

>>6625207
I think it's ok overall, but a few parts could be expressed in a different way

>of the singular being
>else a fire was...
>which was some succour
>Deep thought (...) deeply thought

I suppose is the first part of a longer work? I don't think it can stand on its own.

>>6625387

I'm rather fond of the opening line.

I need to change the word succour, it doesn't work in that sentence, I know.

Deep thought to deeply thought is my writing preference, but I can understand your objection.

It's two paragraphs taken from the middle of the fifth chapter. It definitely isn't meant to stand on its own.

Thanks for the feedback.

She came in a dream first. Rich saw her face. When he laid her in the crib after the long hospital night he knew they would be all right. She was beautiful - so pale and smooth, eye like in his dream. Rich loved her. Emily loved her too.
He was enamored at her perfection. “Daisy. My Daisy,” Rich liked to say as he peered down into the crib. He counted her toes before he tucked her in at night, every night - he had to make sure none went missing while he was at the refinery.
After that he showered and collapsed in front of his lukewarm pasta he popped a beer and looked at Emily. She finished scrubbing her plate and turned to him, hands on her hips.
“You always wash your hands before you touch her.”
“Always,” Rich said.
“What about me?”
Rich starred at his food.
“It’s cold
“We had plans.” Emily continued, “I’m not sure where we went wrong.”
Rich got up and slid his arms around her waist and played with some threads that fell from her blouse. “We didn’t. Don’t worry. We’ll get there. We have to work on it.”
She brushed him back, “I need to finish the dishes.”
Rich grabbed his beer off the table and walked out to the living room, “I’ll work on it honey, don’t worry.”
Daisy grew too slow for Rich. He wanted her to walk after eight months. Rich held her up by her arms and asked her to walk, sometimes he moved her legs with his hands - hoped that they stayed up straight. “Walk,” he said, “come on Daisy. Daisy. Walk honey. Come on.” Daisy just smiled and slumped back down into her crib.
***
Years before, Rich and Emily nuzzled close in the back roads and fields of their dying farm town. They stretched out underneath in the stars and planned their future in the wilting corn stocks. Emily liked that image. It felt comfortable, the young couple in the field twisting their own lullabies until the owl’s disappeared into the sun that peaked from beyond the grain silos. Rich promised something better, promised they would find somewhere better.
“I’m just not sure Rich,” Emily said, “it’s not all as easy as that.” She brushed the strands of bangs from her eyes and sat up against the back up the truck bed. He stayed very still. An airplane blinked in the cloudless sky. He tracked it until all he could see was the faint yellow glimmer from downtown above the trees.

extract of my WIP novel:

“Commercial stance coaching is my specialty, but I’m pretty sure I would have been an
extraordinary success at whatever I’d decided to turn my hand to. I could’ve been that Liberace cat, for example. I didn’t have the hair though, unfortunately. This? Nah, they took this from my butt cheeks and glued it in. If you look closely you can see my scalp is continually leaking
infected sebum, see? No, I don’t blame you; the stench when you get up close is beyond human comprehension. Anyway, that’s eleven grand I won’t be seeing again. So, I didn’t really have
the hair to be Liberace. Or the rhinestones, I guess. A piano would’ve helped, and maybe a few lessons. Take those out of the equation and I could be as dead as that fat faggot right now, with my own mausoleum and everything.”

more here:

http://pastebin.com/VJj4gwSW

You look down at her face and realize it's gone from very red to very pale. She is limp. You've killed her, you idiot. Choked her to death.

You roll off of her and lay panting on your back for a while, numb. Waves slowly begin crashing in your gut. Supreme ecstasy, like a blazing fire. Then a long cold column of fear and anxiety. They melt and freeze and wage war upon each other for eternity.

You've killed her. She's dead. This being no longer exists. You hazily recall her laugh and the way she moaned. Ice stabs you again. You should have been more careful, you bastard. But what can you do now? Remorse for your sins later, you've got to take care of this.

You roll her up in the sheets tightly and fold her up best you can into a large suitcase you had brought with you. You shove the few actual belongings you brought into another small bag. You get dressed quickly and intend to make haste for the door. You pause, however, caught by a flash of heat. You stare at the large suitcase at your feet. Your face is hot and you're sure you're red. Why deny yourself? You bring your leg back and kick the suitcase as hard as you can, sending it slamming against the wall. A small moan emits. Light and strained, but definitely there. Shocked, your hands clam a bit. She's alive? You silently scold yourself for not diagnosing her correctly, but the seriousness is quickly sliced with humor. You can't help but laugh. She's alive? What a resilient little cockroach. You slam your foot into the bag once again, and sure enough another whimper escapes.

>>6619218
early flash-fic i wrote

Her home is old, its ceilings are high. Her bed, a lounge and a coffee table make a clustered living room floor.
She doesn’t leave her house much anymore.
There is a phantom that rents an unused room from her, that torments her from the shadows of the night. She seems to live two lives –
that she can’t understand,
that she cannot control.
She always wakes with a start – hears the echo of a door slamming – her phantom has left for the day. She knows, from the way it slams the door, from the stale tobacco air, the havoc it has wrecked, the desolation it has left behind. She can feel its rage as though it was her own.
Her spine arches beneath thin skin. The lounge is covered in harsh material that scratches her. She moves an ashtray and a glass, stained with red wine and lipstick, out-of-sight. She folds her legs and her arms to hide her nudity: she is gripped by humility – or shame – and feels overexposed to her phantom. She feels raw.
It destroys her a little more each night, destroys her little world; it doesn’t even wake her up anymore. She studies the debris her phantom has left behind, reads letter fragments, repacks boxes; smooths out photographs against her bare thigh, slides them between the pages of heavy books. She has tears in her eyes.
She storms about her house – throws back doors and draws curtains – tossing sheets and pillows and shirts off the rack in frantic exorcism.
Fire burns her lungs, as her wild screams try in vain to form the sound of her phantoms name.
Anguish overcomes her; like standing in an ocean, being swept away by waves of guilt and blame.
She sits on her lounge, with her face buried in her hands, and lets out a tiny sigh and a tremor.
She lights a cigarette and promises to keep her eyes open a little longer tonight.
When her phantom returns, she will ask it to leave her alone. She’s very tired you see –
and no longer wants to wake up to such a mess,
in such a large, lonely house.

Once upon a time: shit happened. The end.

>implying brevity isn't a stylistic choice

chapter title: No offence, Nakamura


“Gentlemen, good morning. Roscoe, unless you want me to hook your screen up to the
projector again, I suggest you turn that goddamn phone off. Now, a question that I have asked myself several times over the years is this: how do we select senior executives at Piccolo Industries? I always arrive at the same answer: very, very badly. Assembled in this room, myself and to some extent Sal excluded, is one of the least talented groups of people outside of
California. If any one of you, right now, in a depressingly rare moment of informed inspiration, finally grew a pair of balls and crammed a grenade up his educationally-subnormal ass, taking the
whole sorry bunch of you with him to whatever squalid misery hole the Devil reserves for fat
suburban degenerates who die in such a manner having squandered every undeserved
opportunity life has, presumably as part of some grand cosmic prank beyond my comprehension, presented to them, our share price would double instantly and I could finally
afford to pay off that lousy Arab fuck who says I felt up his retard daughter at that Unsung
Heroes Awards fiasco. As if, Jesus! And we’d be able to hire a brand new management team
without going through the whole fuck-knows-why-so prohibitively expensive process of firing you hopeless pricks. A new team full of energy and ideas, a bunch of whip-smart Yale chicks with tits like the Hindenburg – before it crashed, obviously, a team that could finally show those
slant-eyed little fucks at Imperial Jap Metric that Piccolo Industries is still able to kick their yellow asses all the way back to Naga-fucking-saki. No offence, Nakamura.”

“None taken sir.”

more:

http://pastebin.com/dVMHCeee

Novella about a detached loser who is obsessed with empty rooms and becomes estranged from his family and loved ones. I've gotten stuck, though I have an outline, and I also have trouble expanding on what I have. Tips for the latter?

The air does not move. It is not frozen, it has just stopped. Projects unfinished will never receive their rest nor their purpose. An antique rotary saw hulks on the central island of the workshop. A scrawny yellow pencil lies beside it and a lone playing card and a table of measurements and a bolt. A few feet on either hand of the island, sunken into the muggy unstirred warmth, are lined tools above cabinets stuffed with even more tools. You cannot imagine that all of them were given their own time and you're probably right about that. The old man who once huddled in here, wearing a blue cap logoed by the fishing company he retired from and a striped linen shirt, digits slow and patient, repaired a lot of things before he left. Swings. A boat. He cut a tree down. But no, he probably never used the wrench two rows from the top, dead center.

The last time his widow came into the workshop was three weeks ago; a neighbor stopped by and asked for a drill. The prints she left in the scattered trails of dust and saw-shavings will be here a while.

In a month it will be July, and visiting relatives will step inside the silent shop to dig around for a loose hammer they need to hammer away with. The artifacts will sigh for the attention, and the lone inhabiting roach will make himself scarce. One grandchild will say "Gawr, he had enough stuff yeah?" A busy son will duck the sense of eeriness and reply with an unengaged "Sure did." A different grandson will think back to these objects' former owner, and how he wouldn't care for the way his boy's boy turned out - effeminate and naive.

Then the door will shut, opening the shop back into dim light, rain drops, mold, recollections, and expectations.

Going there wasn’t the problem; the issue was he wasn’t ready. The Burderhayme Inn was too close for what day it was on the calendar, and he couldn’t seem to turn the car around. He’d put in inhuman effort to turn the wheel in fact, but with a pair of socks shoved down his throat and pair of silver plated steel handcuffs snugged very tight on his wrists and his legs hogtied from 3 hours before, he was basically a piece of ham thrown in the back of the SUV. Tyler, the fat smelly one, had been the one who arsed up his legs with the rope when they’d managed to drug him and then drag him through the diner parking lot across from VALUE-DISCOUNT-MART and put him in the vehicle. He was stuck. He had nothing to do now but lay quietly and think about what was going to happen.

'Think happy thoughts' he thought as he tasted the sweaty socks his mouth. He made an involuntary retching sound. “ergh...ak.”

He heard a large thing in front of him croaking and assumed it was a laugh... then there was a fart. Tyler.

“You comfy back there, Bellack?” Tyler was trying to speak to him when he was gagged. Didn’t the idiot realize he couldn’t talk right now? Bellack glared at the back of his blindfold, hoping his stare could wither while covered up. Tyler chuckled in front of him, then burped.

“You’re disgusting, Tyson.” The driver: a large black man with an expensive watch was all he had seen before he’d been bound. The driver kept getting Tyler’s name wrong. “I should have put you in the back with him so you don’t kill me with your breath.”

“Fuck you, M! Hahaha-” Tyler stopped laughing to gurgle another burp out. “It’s that shitty diner Bellack likes. They put too much butter on the eggs. And you’re just smelling your own breath! Haha.”

“You asked for extra butter. Twice. You even grabbed the girl’s arm to tell her extra butter on the eggs.” The driver had some sense. Thank God, Bellack thought. If the driver was still alive in 7 hours Bellack might just buy him dinner at that diner. All as a favor. No business this time.

Another burp. “Yeah but they put too much butter on. It wasn’t just extra, it was a whole gob of butter."

If it makes it any less gay, it's a period piece, not fantasy.

Galloping broke the silence of the Forêt de Haye. The beats of hooves charging throughout were as dense and fast as the empty winter trees which the riders passed. Jean thought it an appropriate place to take flight, through the withered limbs and wilted trunks that had lived through the worst of the frosts. Appropriate, as they seemed mutually forlorn; neither quite dead yet, but as close as they've came to it, with the barest chance of seeing spring. He rode in close quarters with his Prince, staring at the back of his head as he rode without hesitation. Jean sensed how tense he was, almost unmoving but for the motion of his mount, ducked down low as if trying to keep out of sight, with a profile similar to the caparisoned dogs sprinting adjacent; his tail between his legs, embarrassed. The Prince held his sword in an ungauntleted right fist, but it would do little good now. There was no chance this flight would go unnoticed by their foes. Still, there was reassurance in their quietness. While still the only noise came from their train, it was somewhat muffled underfoot by the snow-laden path, after it had fallen through the sparse canopy overhead. Flanked by the remaining honor guard, their closeness felt stifling to Jean. He was just an ensign, carrying the few remaining banners, looking out meekly under his half-up visor, aware of how his responsibility for his own life was superseded by that of these cloths which flicked against his horse's neck. Riding in the centre, he darted his eyes to either side, noting that both flanking riders also stared at their Prince silently, respectfully. Though both of their faces calmly belied what they must be feeling, their horses made up for it. Frothing at the mouth, their expressions crazed and eyes wild, as if their riders were more bridled than they were. Further back in the train however, the Prince's reception was less than humble. The hushed whispers of curiosity which came from its party lacked the solemnity of the vanguard. Jean could see from the corner of his eye, a herald to his right staring back sternly in an attempt to silence them. He felt congruous with the herald's sentiment, though not for the sake of attempting to stay hidden, but because it ruined the mood.

Hill thought he could trick a god, and so he prayed each night by his bedside. In this time he filled his mind with words he thought were words of prayer, of Father and Lord, in as many languages as he knew. Padré, Pére, hear me, please, mercy, merci. Any god would hear these words, when said god was scanning through the minds of the masses, and think Hill was a pious man. There are many pious men, and Hill would just chameleon among their ranks, falsely devout. If there was a god. If not, Hill had just practiced mindful thought for some minutes before bed. Honestly, he saw no detriment to his prayers, and said them, thought them, perhaps more earnestly than any other.
In this time, the mind behind his mind would wander, his upper mind transfixed, but his lower freed. Great God upper would think, and lower would explore some other path. If Hill himself didn’t know of his lower mind, then god couldn’t either — and so he found solace and gave his subconscious full freedom.
Every so often, more so on nights with shooting stars or a crescent moon like a blade, Hill’s lower mind would follow the same path as his upper mind. His upper mind would say, Great and Almighty, then, I am true to your word, and his lower mind would fill the gaps between, such as with, Please accept that I am —. Great and Almighty please accept that I am true to your word, and accept, please God, that I have changed, that I am changed.
Times like these, Hill could stay up for hours as if in a trance. The night would carry on without him, and he would transcend. His lower mind would throw him though, stutter, and the upper would finish the prayer, and the lower would start considering all the things Hill needed to do before going to bed: put jacket on door handle, teeth, readjust his bedsheets.
A knock on the door each morning was the modern rooster. Donna intended the knock to be the wake-up call, but Hill was always awake beforehand — brushed hair, clean breathe, eaten — as to not be caught unaware.
‘Nice sleep last night,’ she clicked her the tip of her sneakers on the floor mat, it’s muffled, ‘nice awake to-day,’ she laughs, she bares her teeth like a hyena.
‘How are you so peppy every morning. I can’t even,’ Hill emphasises à la Donna, ‘comprehend.’
‘The day’s only what you make of it.’
Years ago, Hill would have done this: He would have closed the door on her, maybe even politely — though not in a way to suggest compassion — waved her off first. At this time in his life his lower mind was devout in it’s love of a god, and his upper mind professed that this god was himself. And at night when the town was asleep, he’d have crept into her house and stabbed her.
Hill revelled in his shows of faith, and thought of them as service to himself. He alone was full of grace, and murder, no reason to not put it bluntly, murder was his means of conversion. All the dead were his matyrs.

>>6625498
>>6626288
>>6626424
>>6626549
>>6626596
>>6626747
>>6626770
>>6627480
>>6627519
All of you could add some critiques too

>>6619231
Men prose. Interesting subject matter though

>>6627692
Maybe we're going to, asshat. But when whiny faggerts come on like durwp r u gona review tho it makes me want to just set myself on fire. I dunno why I'm so annoyed with you trying to tell me what to do; like dude I was gonna, get off my leaf. but now my leaf is all wet because some faggert came and shit on it. Anyway I'm just gonna say you're a nerd bird and leave it at that.

>>6628254
>asshat
>durwp
>r
>u
>gona
>tho
>dunno

don't do this

>>6624906
Thanks, man. I just got to writing about a girl I like and thought it'd be interesting if I wrote about the guy as if he was so unable to function around her,. I've written more since then and I've kinda let myself flow freely a bit as each passage seems to delve into metaphors about war, childhood games, and this metaphor of jazz music/organised business just to explain how well-read and articulated her language is. I should probably write a detailed structured outline before i take it any further but I'm glad you like it, man. It must be doing something that makes it enjoyable, despite how self-indulgent it is haha

>>6628299

"The thought just jumped out of my head mid-sentence," and it did, that energized jackrabbit of a hippity-hoppity thought. "You're gonna be forced to make assumptions." He just assumed that class would be over with in about two hours and that once he got home there would be a lengthy margin of free time, of empty space till dusk, that would be filled with no more than soft sounding breath. Maybe he would actually go on that run that he's been postponing for longer than his memory could comfortably hold, handle, revisit like the alley behind his childhood home. But now, looking around at roughly 42 young, mainly white faces centered around one old, resting expressionless, distant and masked, he thought about his elevator pitch, in all its descent. Survival still? composed of a totally environmentally friendly plastic called–and here we're winging it, fabricating–polyurethanated ester, meant for starved 3rd world children, no, first aid kits? Yeah? Sure, incubating for fifteen minutes, enough time to be famous, that's enough for gestating a worldwide conceptual business venture even if its just for a class, right? No, let's keep it rhetorical. America: land of saccharine bombast and shameless exposition; I don't mind it here. I? Let's pretend we're one and/in the same.

"Oh, I have a handout for you," she interrupts herself; revolves round the room; passes and says 'you're welcome' with a nearly imperceptible but genuine enough smile. The sound of fingers sliding down sheets of paper, rustling and rearranging drizzles down onto the room. "Your actual state could go down." But this is all he catches, tuning in momentarily, as he disregards the irrelevant, ungraded assignment the other students appear to pay attention to while he writes, listlessly, this slice of life the English language has yet to have seen. Novel, terribly original, please reckon me thee's thoughts, sheetless cots in log cabins settled somewhere outside of Medina, in Kentucky.

John Wayne Gacy killed 33 children.

Dredge the ransacked sediment up from the sulfuric swamp bed, fling it like monkey turds. But wait before you do, and taste the damp dirt caked on your hands, savor it like your last birthday cake. Smell the manure, ignite the roses. Fling, chuck harder than a mango at Peru, faster than a Von Neumann brain or the exodus to lunch during middle school. Flee from your former thoughts and plummet into the moment.

So he did, right as Dave was reaching the cathartic climax of his eulogy, in the retelling of apocrypha. With an unzipped ziplock bag resting on his lap, he packed the grime between his hands and knees and threw the first paddy at Dave's detestable face. The crowd turned and gasped, for the lack of a better word, flabbergasted, incapable of computing the gesture. He then threw the second, shouting: "fuck you, you cheating, lying piece of shit. I hope you rot in Hell!" Within seconds, two imposing security guards had him by the shoulders and were escorting him out of the funeral parlor and off the premises. The day was lukewarm, colorless and overcast. He looked back at the cemetery grounds, then got in his car and drove off without regard for his muddied steering wheel and reputation.

At precisely 6:44:00am, two things happened. The first beam from the top limb of the rising sun shone right into my eyes through a distant stand of dying juvenile elm trees. And the millet border around the eleven acre rectangle of flyover state clods littered with fresh-dead sunflower stalks erupted with shotgun fire.

By 8, I had my fifteen doves, and had learned that there is subtle difference between the faded ear ringing induced by a gross of shotguns going off on all sides, and the white noise hiss of thousands of bird shot pellets raining down on brush and puddles. I had taken pellets to the head, bounced off my hat, my arms, bounced off my Carhartt, and legs, bounced off my camo. The ones that hit my hands really smarted. But they didn't break the skin.

The dog fell asleep in the back seat on Route 44 around 9:30. The welts were all gone by the four-way south of town. All I could think of was: Does that count as being shot?

>>6626424
I like it. I am not one to comment on grammar or structure as I am pretty new, but this definitely drew me on. Gave me a new immediate feeling of who the protagonist was as a person.

>>6628938
>*an immediate
I'm on my phone

>>6619218
>this thread

none of you will ever be successful writers

>>6629351
> implying I'm not already published

But that's cool, nothing's more productive than shitposting online.

Tide brought an empty ship, gifted from sea to land. The ship had sailed sail-less through waters calm (unbroken) between Plymouth, England (1885) to Cape Cod, Massachusetts (1902). They explained the oar-less-ness of the voyage with intercontinental currents and the sailor-less-ness with mass suicide - which was by all accounts (save that of the sailors) completely accurate.
But people will talk, won't they?

>>6629351
>published
amazon isn't a publisher anon

>>6628914
first sentence is shit. if you want to write verisimilitude that people care build a time machine, go to exactly 6:30:72 AM Sunday 15/12/1895 and publish a book cause it hasnt been relevent since then.

the rest is pretty good.
"By 8, I had my fifteen doves, and had learned that there is subtle difference between the faded ear ringing induced by a gross of shotguns going off on all sides, and the white noise hiss of thousands of bird shot pellets raining down on brush and puddles" is great

>>6629476
How about Penguin Random House, my friend.

I get my connections on LinkedIn hooked up.

Always open to reviews http://tv.adult-fanfiction.org/story.php?no=600098537

I was sincere: I do not know exactly what is love, but although I do not know him, I must say that it seems a primordial error of our philosophers to recognize only the soul as its mother; only the spirit as his father, denying to the body and any slice and piece of his paternity, as if he was at best a distant uncle, shy and sterile. It’s our body just a mountain range of muscles, with occasional showers of sweat, with a loud echo cave called stomach, swamps of tubular fungi called intestines and burning boilers in the private parts below? Is the brain a simple spongy cloud of tempests, the skin a blanket of grass, the heart a nucleus of bubbling lava? Is our body a mere mountain of meat in which lies hidden the immaculate and bright jewel of the soul? After all, what is the soul? Does she have smell? No. Does she have taste? No. Maybe she has texture? Why, in the same way that the fog has texture. What about the voice: is thought the voice of the soul? Is she a kind of small crystal gnat trapped in the colossus of mud and dust of our gross human body, within which it lies, whispering its will? Unlikely. So, gentlemen, why this ghost, this specter, gets all the credit for all that is beautiful in us humans, whereas our bodies, that are always with us (yes , our bodies abandon us only once) are called servants of addiction, unclean dolls, meat cooked in dirt, pigs smeared with sin? Must the glory of nature be called a marionette of muddy rags, an incarnated sewage? That would be an injustice: if we celebrate the cold mosque of the soul, why not also celebrate the carnival of bodily heat? When something is good for us, and we wish this something to be seen with the paints of superiority, we say we love it, but never use the name of pleasure, being this name something crude, something bodily, something dirty. And yet, it’s not love the child of pleasure? When, still newborns, we suck the motherly breast, do we not do so because it’s good, because it’s pleasurable? And, on the deathbed, when we cover our dying bodies - that feel cold - with blankets, do we not so because warmth is good and pleasurable? Why we live with the people we love? Why, because it’s good. Pleasure, gentlemen, is the one who pulls us through our nose with his sugary finger through the road of life. But how do we feel that something is pleasurable? Well, thorough this walking radar: our body. Sensitive as the viscous antennas of the snail is our skin. How then can we know that we really love something? Why, by reading the language of our bodies. So, gentlemen, long life to our bodies, because we can only love while still having them.

>>6629919
Easy there, Spinoza. But I like it a lot. It has a somewhat alchemic feel, like an excerpt of a conference of eudemonologists and natural philosophers in a well-furnished cellar. Would read more. A lot more, if framed appropriately.

My stuff:

-Plague songs starting early today.
She doesn’t answer. A low distant wailing filters through the darkened glass panes of the window, rising and dipping with the broken voices of the singers. He stares at the small black circle that is the sun gradually sinking into the skyline.
-Why do you think they do that.
-I guess it’s the pain.
She without raising her eyes from the floor.
-Why only at night then.
She shrugging now.
-Why should there be a reason besides chance.
He looks at her for moment, a dark shape hunched on the carpet in front of a turned off television. Darker than the blocked out sun, he thinks. The buildings outside in the blossoming night are corpselike and illuminated. Beyond them he remembers slums and barren highways, or their suggestion carried by the wind.
She moves clumsily in the dim unlight of the room.
-Are you coming to bed now?
- They may need me at the hospital later. We heard of an outbreak a couple of days ago.
He looks at her reflection in the window, barely visible and pierced by inward lights. Keeps talking.
-Ought to be hitting our zone now.
-Maybe you can come to bed just for a bit.
Humanity and warmth in these words, unsaid, hovering at the edge of understanding. He shifts on the chair, a few inches.
-I’d wake you.
-You’ll do when you came back.
The bedroom door clicks closed. There are no stars in the sky. Some of the higher condo lights look the part.

“You’re…from the bike” Doc managed, feeling a little sense return, both literally and figuratively. He nodded as a sign of gratitude, though he still did not know what he was gracious of, or what he was to do. Gira spotted Small leaving the room, and upon leaving noticed he was speaking to himself: “One more unto the breach…” as close as he could make out.

“Are you ok to move?” Mel was down on one knee looking up at the man still cradling his head as he sat edging the sofa. “This room’s not heated is all, once it gets dark out it’s best we get you into one of the dorms or something. We can save the guided tour for tomorrow once you’re feeling a little more up to it. I’m sure you can guess sort of what this place is like though right?” She was supposing he’d at least heard of them in his line of work…and supposing his line of work was something which took him to the investigatory extremes within information culture.

Gira nodded plaintively. Psychological anguish had surpassed any symptoms of physicality, but he knew there would be some good news around the corner, he couldn’t possibly be so far removed from the karmic forces of the universe that he were to suffer further. The doc tried to stand atop two disintegrating masts of unresponsive flesh, he was caught by Mel.

“Easy.” This guy’s hopeless. “I can try and get you through the breach and into the dorms, but you’re going to have to help me a little Gira.” Every footfall was a dire effort, Doc’s legs weren’t exactly helping her along, and she was succumbing to a similar mental breakdown after today’s events.

“Hey Mel!” She heard Jenkins shout as she hobbled into the room, Doc limping uselessly along suspended by her frame. “I didn’t know you got a cock under there. News here says two men fled the police station on that bike-a yours.” He laughed to himself and spun on his chair, the many shadows cast from a great mess of interweaved monitors sporting wildly different displays rotating seamlessly into one another as if entombed in an interminable waltz.

“I’ve never been obliged to take it out where you could see it o’course. Though I’d be happy enough to get it out for you if you’re on your knees.” She shot him a mocking smile and flipped him off with her free hand. In response Jenkins brought his hand to his chest and gasped in mock offense at the lewd comment and gesture.

“Girl you don’t need to be fresh with me, you know if the opportunity presented itself I’d get on my knees for you any day.” He winked and spun back to the monitors to continue working. He was playing solitaire.

-So you say you saw some sort of demon?
-I believe I did, Doc.
-Describe what you felt when you saw this demon.
-Doc, do you ever get that feeling? When you know, you break something, someone you know dies, or someone finds out you've been lying to them all those years, and in an instant this feeling washes over you like a tsunami of pure emptiness and desolation. The weight you were carrying on your back gets a little more heavier, a few muscles in your upper body begin to sort of twitch or contract, you perspire heavily, there's dark wet spots right where your armpits are, your eyes start to feel like glass and when you close them the feeling fails to go away, your face gets flushed with the shade of red only found in the most ripe of tomatoes, you begin to ask yourself if the room got hot or is it just you and you run to the air conditioner to check and the air conditioners just fine running like it normally does and then the thunder and lightning goes on outside as if God were hosting a drum circle then the room is no longer stationary and it starts spinning and spinning and spinning until you just can’t take it anymore and run out of the house and you put your knees down on the wet concrete the rain beating down relentlessly on your body cooling you down and you let out a scream for someone, please someone wake me up from the horrible nightmare i have slipped into oh please God forgive me for i have sinned and you decide to lie down on the cold wet ground shed a few tears then go back inside take a shower and lie on your bed until the storm comes to pass. Do you ever get that feeling?
-And what do you call that feeling?
-Fear.

Sam soaped his body over twice before stepping under the showerhead to wash white skin. Through a broken window, pigeons could be seen wandering across tarred shingles pecking at pebbled bits of asbestos. His legs, his feet, his hair, and of course, the space behind his ears, went always unwashed. Between steam and lost water, he thought, my body cannot help but be cleaned.

Neighbors were gathered in the street, rapt with discussion, gravitating towards each other to form proportionate groups of speculation. This chance encounter of collectivity, this flash of excitement, this public sense of emergency produced a festive environment. They all became anglers of speculation. Brave men and women sacrificed their distance, stepping forward onto dead grass, focusing all their attention on the sonic eruptions bursting from the Ellman house to gain understanding, to be the one who heard and knows now, to play as taletellers privy to others thoughts lost in circumstances of shock. Even yards from the front door, however, few words could be comprehended.

The enthralling moment of commonality, us and them, the ecstatic struggle to turn trauma to tragedy, “we are all so awfully concerned you know,” and we must give each other something if nothing true can be found. “I heard Lisa banging on a door in there…. ooh Sam might have locked himself in the computer room…. well I heard the shower running, but I’m sure he can hear her… she’ll break down the door at this rate I heard that banging from around the block…. its just horrible what happened to Evie… can’t imagine what they must be going through… god knows how Lisa must feel with Tom’s behavior… you can be sure he hasn’t changed … and I thought Sam had been doing well since he came home… its all so tragic.” The street was humming with activity, acute consciousness, luminescent, visible from space, these creatures who divide themselves between cretin, king, and simple silent savage love to suffer, loving each other, suffering, lovely energy. Shallow piles of glass were scattered on shingles near the window on the roof, where dark spots of moisture could be traced to thin hues of blood; they collected themselves on residual shards of safety glass, made misty by the thundering showerhead inside.

>>6629961
>Doc
That's a little personal, isn't it? Unless the character is a blue-collar dumbfuck (which, looking at the syntax, I can tell it's not) I'd drop that.

>>6629988
I posted this under the assumption that >Doc referred to an actual Doctor. Disregard if that's incorrect.

>>6629944
>Easy there, Spinoza.

Thank you for your kind words :)

But don’t worry: I don’t actually have that view of life. This is from a scene where several characters are making speeches about love, and this character is one of the earthiest and more crude of them all (although he is also learned, since he worked in a library for some time and read quite a lot).

As for my own personal views of love and pleasure, I don’t have them. I guess that I generally go with the things that science tells us about neurochemistry and all of that, but I don’t have any significant view of life (I don’t think I am smart enough to actually have firm and immutable believes).

I liked your piece: very natural and with a nice flow. I liked the sudden and unexpected descriptions (like the buildings as corpses). The simple line: “Maybe you can come to bed just for a bit.” Is the first thing that grabbed my attention. Very humane, very life-like.

What’s your story about?

>>6629988
>>6629990
in the story, the Doc hes referring to is a psychoanalyst brought in to see if hes alright in the head. its an out of context part, and i mainly posted it because of the description of fear

>>6629993
Ah, my words were deserved. I may have been a tad too purple in my praise, but I'll chalk that up to my reading Dracula and Spinoza recently (even though, again, it reminded me of something an unothodox academic such as Van Helsing would say). I take it's a piece from a book? Because if that's representative of its quality, I'd really love to read it one day or the other - that is to say, for you to get published.

My piece is just some improvised flash fiction I wrote to quickly sketch a relationship on the backdrop of some unspecified, dark future megalopolis. A gut reaction to the fact that apparently no one wants to write science fiction dealing with something other than action and explosions and aliens. I should expand on the idea probably, but I don't know how.

>>6630051
>I take it's a piece from a book?

Yeah, this excerpt comes from a play that I wrote (a comedy in 5 acts, in blank verse, rhymed verse and prose: some sort of pseudo-imitation of Shakespeare). It was published in 2014, but till now I only know that one or two friends and relatives have read parts of the thing.

The problem is that the original is in Portuguese, and the majority of /lit/ users don’t know the language (not that I am blaming them: Portuguese is still very marginal in the world, but if we got lucky it might become more important in years to come).

>>6630102
>It was published in 2014
tell us the name

>>6630102
So you're working on an english translation? Cos I'll admit, I'm itching to read it.

Even though I'm Italian and I could probably blunder my way through the original.

>>6623548
France is a cool name, jealous

>>6630110
>>6630122

Well, I was always afraid of naming it here, but since I have already given the name of the book to some Brazilian anons my anonymity is already compromised.

The name of the book is “Um Hino ao Vazio”, in English it would be “An Hymn to Emptiness”.

But don’t you guys build expectations about it: it is not a big deal. So far I haven’t got any criticism or appreciation: it is like if the work did not even exist (and to be frank, my talent is very limited). I am afraid that you would probably be disappointed.

Here is the thing:

https://www.chiadoeditora.com/livraria/um-hino-ao-vazio

>>6630167
From what I can brute-force out of the blurb, it really sounds incredibly good. All the praise may start to sound inauthentic but no, I'm serious. Looks like you may be one of the people on /lit/ with actual talent.

If you do manage to publish it in English - or finish the translation, really, do let us know. I'd buy a copy immediatly.

And yes, maybe we're over-hyping it, but I'd be willing, as I said, to buy it and check it out.

>>6629954

Any chance of getting a critique on this?

What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Quaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I’m the top sniper in the entire US armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States Marine Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo.

>Started today
"Hearken, Son of Sun, from fiery loins of emperors and kings. Closer, I habban no mouth with which to shouten; ewoer heart hearens me. Ye habban no guard or guide, but me."
"What ancient accent." The young prince in a coral red cape stepped to a glass cabinet. Within it a crescent moon knife forged from two crossed steel crescents, its handle encrusted with diamonds. "I have guards, but hide from them. They hover around me tight and block out air."
"Ye habben changed like this kingdom holding me hostage. It spoke a glorious guttural growl but is now Glorious Korno only in name. Still I prayed a ruler of Umen Empire would still speak as old."
"Umen’s not been an empire in many years and generations."
"I know, having bore witness to its fall. Ransacked and pillaged, its treasures boxed in chests and brought here where I languish polished on display for enemies to stare at."
"You're from Umen? Being here all these years, you must know Umen and Glorious Korno have formed allegiance, you've no enemies."
"Lies. Have you been stolen, too? Has Umen been destroyed and its king archived away with me?"
"You demented rusted weapon, stop calling me a king. I am Prince Nushi of Umen.” The prince in red bowed. “Umen yet flourishes. Our court philosophers believe there’s never been such unity in all its land. Our economists believe we've never been wealthier. Oracles sing of seven thousand years of peace under my family's reign."
"You will reign? As future king, never believe inane blithering of oracles, from whom philosophers and economists bear little distinction. You need me, forged to serve emperors and kings of Umen; I am thine. Taken me to reunite with my twin.”
"Your twin?"
"Crescent moon blades are forged in pairs. Each with seven edges and brilliant handle, blade which doubles as a shield, but I am worthless without my twin."
"Where is it?" The prince gazed into nearby displays.
"Umen, she was taken from me, hidden away where no mortal could plunder. There she will be, there we must go. You will take me, and our powers united will rival any foe of any world. For when she shields you, I will stab. When I drag spears from your foe’s grip, she will slash. When wielded alone, we are awkward talons. When wielded together, by hand of a king, you will dance around any fighter in all our world. Poets shall sing of your finesse in close combat."
"I couldn't leave this place with you. There are too many guards. Too many unfamiliar halls."
"I have a witchcraft that will make you a flicker of light on wind. Though I lay on damask over steel, speak my name. Within its incantation hides a powerful bond that will shatter any metal or stone to unite us. No man alive has heard or spoken it, but now I have a King’s ear as I was forged to guide them alone."
"Speak it, then, and we’ll leave Glorious Korno. I’ll take your handle and appreciate it. Take you to Umen and wield you to and through my reign when it comes. Speak your name."
"Reza!"

Butchers, bakers, candlestick assembly line workers, all selling their life for an hourly fee. That's society. So in a way we're all prostitutes, and that's true whether you work as an IT consultant or a bus driver, or in my case literally a prostitute.

It's surprising or exotic or terrible for some people, but it's the same as most jobs really. Like any other this one has its ups and downs, and again, in this line of work many of them are literal. But the main thing that makes it a job is that I feel about my job like how you feel about yours. It's a pretty simple concept, but people struggle. I always explain to people who know about my job, that the sex is boring but the free time is great, and mainly the job is tolerable just like any other stupid job. Of course I always pretend to clients that the job is amazing to get them to finish up. What can I say? The sex is boring, the free time is great. I'm lying in bed, even when I'm on top. Not that you need to be too convincing. All these men want to believe me, they all want to be fooled. Now over the years that means a few will fall in love with you. It's sad, it is. But also kinda funny. I've forgotten most things about them before they've left, and they're telling of their love for someone who's name isn't really mine, who's character isn't really mine. It's always surreal when someone does it. Especially with this guy doing it right now. But today it isn't funny, because this one's got a gun.

>>6630690
The bourgeoisie aren't prostitutes. They're pimps and johns.

>>6630690
you're actually so stupid and have no idea what actually happens to people being prostituted. over 50% of the people reading this are going to think you're an idiot who has no idea about anything so you should probably scrap the whole idea.

99% of the girls and women being prostituted aren't there willingly (in that they were initially or are still physically forced into it) or are there because if they aren't, they're facing death. so, these girls and women aren't "having boring sex", they're being raped (you can't buy consent, so there is no consent; therefore, it's rape. honestly most "sex" is coercive anyway so...extrapolate from there).

tbh men just shouldn't write female characters because they always do it wrong.

I felt a cool chilly wind on my skin and goosebumps rose on my arms. It would probably be the last time that I would see her, since I'd be leaving for a long vacation. As I walked towards her house, I reminisced about the fun times we had together. I'd known her for all my life and had some fun times with her.
I entered the small, yet cozy house, looking if someone else was there. Good, no-one else but Alice was present. I asked her "Hey Alice, how are you today?" while I went into the kitchen. "Today's a nice day ain't it Alice? I'm glad I can spend it with you. You know, I'll be leaving tomorrow. Going to California." I lit up the stove and began chopping some fresh onions I had bought for the occasion. I love onions. They always give some extra flavor. "I'm sorry that you can't come with me though, I hope you understand". Cutting the meat was actually harder than I had thought. It smelled quite bad and I had to go relieve myself. "Sorry for that Alice, this is my first time doing this". It was indeed the first time I'd ever tasted this kind of meat. It wasn't particularly good, or pleasurable, but eating it in front of Alice made me feel good. She was always looking at me with those dark-brown, dead-looking eyes. I really liked that about her, it made me feel aroused. After I'd finished, I kissed Alice's face good-bye and left her on the table. "bye honey, see you soon. Do you mind if I borrow your car? I came on foot", I asked her while taking the keys from the drawer. I closed the door quietly as I left the house. I stepped into the car and drove off, leaving my precious girl behind.

>>6630792

>99% of the girls and women being prostituted aren't there willingly (in that they were initially or are still physically forced into it) or are there because if they aren't, they're facing death.

Nope

From a story I'm working on, about miscommunication in the 21st century. The main character is a neckbeard who falls in love with a legbeard:

I’m truly in disbelief. I didn’t know that there existed creatures as utterly lacking in self-awareness as Janet appears to be. I was browsing Facebook when suddenly I saw her post that she had written an article for whatever bullshit feminist organization she’s interning for. In a moment of weak incontinence, I couldn’t resist the urge to congratulate her. I believe there was a half-way sincere thing in the impulse, but either way, it got us talking for about an hour. We had a nice, meandering conversation. Very witty, like it always was. Then, I make the cardinal error of deciding to end the conversation with a particularly lame joke. And Janet, in her infinite resentment, responds – not as a normal, well-adjusted person, sensible toward some elementary notion of tact or decorum would, with a “oh my god, that joke is so lame…ok, I’ll ttyl!” - but with an expression of the highest order of petulance: “I HATE THAT”. Those three words had the power to throw me into such a paroxysm of rage that I have hardly known. There was no hint of irony to detect in her expression, and I didn’t know what inference to draw other than the embarrassingly grim conclusion that she is indeed expressing sincere ill-feeling towards a benign joke that I had made – and here’s the best part – that she thought that would be an optimal way to end a conversation in this free republic, in these fifty United States of America! I am in utter disbelief that a 21st century person beyond the age of twelve is even capable of such truculence. I am positively smoldering here as I can see she is active on Facebook, and makes no effort whatsoever to make herself understood, let alone apologize. I am halfway-set in my mind of demanding an apology this instant, but I don’t want to sour our relationship even further.

If this is what she is like to mere acquaintances, can you imagine what a horror she must be to date! Oh God, thank you Janet, thank you, my sincerest, eternal gratitude to you, thank you for being such an insufferable bitch – and so unconsciously, so autonomously, as to leave no doubt in the mind as to your nature. You do it so effortlessly, it really is an admirable thing. You are so wanton with your red flags, you are a veritable referee in the most uncivilized game of football ever played. How smugly you display your complete lack of politeness, with what majesty you swell your homely figure! With what complete candor you admit to the most unfeminine faults imaginable – and to think that despite these things, I find you attractive - God! Utterly repulsive, a Giantess – a slattern – and a proud one! You truly must be on the spectrum!

>>6630867
lol you can't just say "nope" to something that is actually fact. as in, there's evidence for it and is rooted in reality.

there are some prostituted women who "choose it for themselves" (which is its own issue but i'm not going to get into it), but those women are few and far between.

>>6630873
>assuming she wanted to talk to you in the first place
>assuming she wants to date anyone
>think femininity is a positive thing for women

and if this isn't based on an experience that you had then this is so far gone and depressing and pointless that i feel almost sad for you. :(

>>6630915
that's kind of the point, it's about a neckbeard so he complains about the girl's lack of awareness but he has the same problem

>>6630983
but it sounds exactly like real life things that men say so it's not really satire or interesting

>>6630885
It's actually fact that 99% of women who leverage their sexual desirability are being forced to do it?
Maybe that's why models always have such blank expressions.
From the, you know, terror.

>>6631043
lol you mad

>>6631043
comparing modeling (not pornography) to prostitution is pretty far off. i have my issues with the fashion industry too, but it's not even on the same level as sex trafficking.

a lot of girls and women aren't even paid or are paid very little when they're forced to have sex with men. it IS forcible given that there's a real risk of being killed by a variety of different men who are in control of the situation.

the large majority (in the high 90's percentage-wise) of prostituted women have been sex trafficked into the industry. plus, sexual desirability is such a small part of why men want to pay money to rape women.

>>6631043
plus it's been shown that around 70% of women who have been prostituted meet the criteria for a ptsd diagnosis, while the average for war veterans is 15%. so obviously there's great terror involved.

>>6631025
oh

>He was unlike any other actor in The Valley. Most Johns took pride in their size, endurance, body count, the amount they could cum in one shot and how many times they could do it. Their jawline, abs, the new Porsche they drove to the set. This isn’t to say he didn’t take pride in these things, of course he did. He had all and tenfold - but what set him apart was his ethic. The devotion and love he had for the business bled through each reel of the dirty life and times which comprised his films - and they were his films. Producers, financiers, directors, lead actresses no matter their stature took wayside to Don Johnson and all of his thirteen-inch grandeur.

>>6623280
you said nay twice in that sentence. kill yourself

When the trees cast nets of infinite sunlight in the pregnant heat of the morning, where the crime scene is just out of frame, you get the tendency to wonder why you did it… or why you do anything with confidence or finality. Not how you choose from your balcony where the single nine-leaf clover in your yard is quartered (an esteemable task in itself), but why the fuck do you need a nine-leaf clover anyway, how the fuck does one keep a nine-leaf clover, who the fuck does one get to fuck for having a nine-leaf clover, and what the fuck’s the point of fucking someone who wants to fuck you for a fucking nine-leaf clover. I thought there were too many people who’d fuck anyway-- the regular types, of course, the middle-school party kissing contest types, the spite-your-ex types-- and it didn’t seem like they were there for me at the end of the day. But still, somewhere out there were the darlings: shining folk with album-cover smiles that seemed like they deserved a name each to their own; they were out there rocking themselves into the night, rocking themselves loudly into the night, making thinly boned soft-pretzels rock atop galaxies of silk into the amnesiac nights.

>>6624025
Reminds me of Clockwork Orange. I like it.

I walk towards the line and lean up against the counter. I almost forget to speak, but she’s looking right at me so I’m going to have to.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

The conversation has not started as well as I had planned. I had assumed that maybe if I said “hi,” she would say “hi” back and start telling me about her day. The stupidity of my plan seeps into the back of my neck and I feel sick. To her I am just some guy in a sweater who said “hi.” I don’t even have a coffee. I realize she may be able to figure out that I didn’t even come here to order a coffee. I just came in to say “hi” to her. I am still leaning against the counter.

“Hi.”

Fuck. I said “hi” again. We both already said “hi,” I didn’t need to do that. I immediately start talking again to leave her no time to think about the fact that I have repeated myself. Unfortunately, I had nothing lined up in my mind to talk about. It’s too late now, I’m talking.

Occasionally I add to a sort of masturbation journal I was going to write as a novel as a joke. This is half of a long ass paragraph from this February:

>I have just realized that it is only after using my own imagination that I find myself exhausted, quite literally drained. With porn, I can start and finish in a matter of moments (my record is 20 seconds after erecting), not really needing to catch my breath. I cum, put away my sock, pull up my pants, and carry on with my night. With imagination, I must take a few minutes to catch myself, a pause to regain my bearings. I think it is because of the sheer amount of effort required for me to use my own thoughts in this act – as I have said before, I very rarely get erections out in public, though I do sometimes encounter images that vaguely excite something within me. Take for example an event that happened today at university, when a girl sitting beside me kept moving her smooth, tanned leg in my peripherals, bouncing it up and down, kicking it forward, to the point that I often thought it was intentional (I swear I could see her head turn in my direction with some frequency; I sit next to a wall on the opposite side of the classroom from the lecturing professor, and the clock is on the wall behind us, so there is nothing else she could be looking at). This has happened every day in this class but it was only just now that I decided to "use" this image. As I drew nearer to the time I intended for my act, I grew increasingly more excited, but not physically. To actually masturbate, I had to essentially jiggle my penis with my hand to force blood flow (an act required often for porn use as well). Furthermore, I believe I had my eyes shut almost the entire time, and I know I was breathing heavily though I am pretty sure it was partially intentional in order to force myself into a further excitement. Unfortunately, thoughts of this girl's tan legs were not quite enough. Luckily I foresaw this, and made sure to check out how plump her thighs were, as well as the shape of her ass in her bright orange shorts (her thighs were pretty great for my primal urges, but her ass left much to be desired for; I had to alter details a bit in my mind). I have seen her face and upper body before, but my mind is not good with faces and she hasn't worn any particularly revealing tops, so I had to improvise here as well. I was able to easily remember she had dirty blonde hair and wore glasses, as I had recently discovered that I had an until now unknown preference to blonde white girls with glasses (and blonde Asian girls with glasses, and blonde Hispanic girls and black girls, though the latter two do not always require glasses), so that detail stuck with me from weeks ago. Thinking of anything above her waist did not lead to any progress, so I had to go for a rather drastic change and mentally add white stockings to her legs, the stark white fabric forming brilliant contrast with her brown legs.

bump, says i

Arguing about prostitution is not what I wanted, I just wanted feedback on my actual prose.

>>6630792
>99% of the girls and women being prostituted aren't there willingly.
>>6630885
>something that is actually fact
>>6631116
plus it's been shown that around 70% of women who have been prostituted meet the criteria for a ptsd diagnosis, while the average for war veterans is 15%. so obviously there's great terror involved.

When it comes to prostitution, facts are not as certain as you think, and your ones are the lies and fever dreams of a moral panic.

https://maggiemcneill.wordpress.com/2013/10/07/frequently-told-lies/

https://maggiemcneill.wordpress.com/2013/10/08/handy-figures-revisited/

>>6632519
these link back to themselves, though eventually get to one study that doesn't really look reputable. given that the figures are so obviously ridiculous, i'm not even going to bother looking into it closer.

but men will pick and choose what studies to believe and when they read "70% of whores [sic] say that prostitution raised their self-esteem", they'll believe it because they want to.

there's a chance that some of my numbers are vaguely conflated and inflated (i didn't link to any studies so i really can't expect you to take my word for it, but actually reputable studies are out there) but they don't swing to the opposite side of things, so it doesn't really matter as they're never going to align with what you're spouting.

i think you should masturbate less, it seems like this huge chore for you. i mean, juggle your cock for bloodflow, fuck. do you smoke?

otherwise, good prose, would read a novella mostly made up of these if it had an interesting hook to a sideplot (that the masturbating creates changes in or something)

>>6632551
every time a man ejaculates, he's actively destroying his reproductive potential, because every time new sperm is created its likelihood of mutations increase. it's actually really funny. masturbation mutants.

>>6632544

>these link back to themselves

The posts are an index of posts she's made on misleading stats. Is there any figure in either post that you can not find the original source for by following her links?

>eventually get to one study

What? There are a whole bunch of figures quoted in both blogposts from a range of different studies.

>picking and choosing what studies to believe
You are doing this, not me.

>there's a chance that some of my numbers are vaguely conflated and inflated

If you're the one who posted about PTSD, there's a lot more than just a chance, as proven by the links I gave you.


And how do you like my writing style in the extract I posted?

>>6630183

Thank you

>>6630690
Sorry anon, but this is terrible. I could hardly bear to read it all because it's so bad. This does not at all sound like what a prostitute would be saying, and just the way you write has this sort of annoying twinge on it. And even for the initial describing of a character, this is painstakingly bland. So, bland, unrealistic, unconvincing, and just generally annoying.

>>6629944
This is great. Thoughtful, flowing, descriptive. Not jarring or choppy or overly pretentious like much of the prose here. Sorry for the terribly short review, but I'm about to be off and wanted to let you know how much I liked your writing.

>>6630873
Ugh, my god just shut up. If you were going for insufferable, you've achieved it. I understand your purpose, but this is too far off the scale if you know what I mean. This is a shitty review but whatever figured you'd want it anyway.

Mel spotted Harli excusing herself from the room. Harli’s nickname, courtesy of Mel, was ‘Harli the Harlot’, in semi-ironic mockery of the fact she was without a doubt the chastest of the lot of them. Mel could never make up her mind about whether Harli’s devotion to waiting to give her whole to the right person was an act of admirable or contemptible naivety – as regardless of her virginal sanctity Harli had a penchant for earnestly confessing new fetishisms she had taken to within her virtual reality constructs. These sincere confessions were made stranger by her reluctance to show any awareness that it was not standard sexual practice to want to be tied upside down by your ankles, or smothered in food, or pissed on, or infantilised or ridden by anthropomorphic creatures, to her this was all by-the-by and she would never hesitate from describing in detail her simulated escapades to anyone who would listen. The truth was, nobody wanted to listen, but her charming endearance prevented everyone from silencing her. That, as well as some of her tales being incredibly arousing to certain parties.

My take: your lack of imagination is not my moral conundrum as a scientist.
Technology will always be used to create weapons, to poison the groundwater, to rob the poor, and generally to do harmful things. Throughout history this has been a constant, a basic feature of civilization that has transcended all cultural boundaries.
That so many people continue to fear the consequences of scientific advancements today (often with good reason) is a testament to the pressing necessity of human enhancement research. Under such a fearfully consequentialist view of science, where does science become safe for general consumption? Do we halt research in physics and chemistry to prevent advancements in the destructive power of military weaponry? What about research areas with less obvious consequences? Do we cease research in computing and networking because violent uprisings in the middle east, greece, etc. have been directly enabled and aided by the same? Has anyone ever seriously considered this thought?
Of course not. Science will be an intellectually violent force when it must, and may be coopted for nefarious purposes from time to time. Its basic codes and principles exist outside of any political, religious, or cultural ideology. Its results, however, do not, and therein lies the problem.
But the problem of unintended or undesirable consequences isn't one for the scientist, it's one for society at large. Information wants to be free. There's very little you can do about it in the short term and absolutely nothing you can do about it in the long term. As in evolution, to keep up we need always to be running in place. Scientists aren't evildoers for learning how to split the atom or how to genetically modify crops -- knowledge exists outside of the moral sphere.
The particular dangers posed by certain innovations are clearly more troublesome than those posed by others, yes. These dangers don't just float about in the aether waiting to wreak havoc on humanity, however: without human action, they can never come to light. Continued technological advancement without simultaneous mental advancement will, without a doubt, lead to the downfall of human civilization, and the probable extinction of the human species in turn. We can't say how or when for sure, but history coupled with modern scientific understanding leave no question as to the dire threat we pose to ourselves.
Human enhancement research is, then, one of the best possible uses of science to prevent collapse. Of course there will be all sorts of disruptions and upheavals if "significant cognitive enhancement" is achieved. Was there ever any serious alternative?

>>6633855
Go fuck yourself dude. You obviously are just talking your own mediocrity out on me. It's pretty pathetic, actually.

>>6633950
what does 'off the scale' mean?

Does anyone find that the content of the story can dictate the prose? I'm writing something set in present day with nineteen year old protagonists, and it just feels wrong whenever I insert anything too complex in terms of vocabulary or description. I feel locked into a 'Hemingway' approach.

>>6629351
oh shit, I just noticed the guy in the background thats picture gets posted occasionally

>>6633855

Ok, thanks for the feedback.

>>6634105

lol

>>6634105

I wrote that thing with the prostitute, not this guy. Not sure if he's trolling or confused.

>>6630690
Jesus Christ what am'i reading? hey at least you tried keep writing but stay away from prostitutes

>>6619218
>spanish native speaker
I don't pienso that I can hacer that, compadre.

>>6630690
You're inspired me to write a story about prostitutes.


~Sheila the whore~

On the winter morning cum filled her deep throat, as she kept sucking dick semen roll down her stomach filling her slim belly as sour cream fills drunk's man burrito. He was left just like an african kid, starving to death, given that so much cum she took out of him that his body consumed muscles and tissues to produce cum.
"That was great babe, HEH" said the bad boy
"Mmmmmm" said Sheila licking her lips
"Gotta go now HEH. Me play football with the boys, HEH"
"i luv u" said Sheila cleaning the semen over her tits
"See ya, HEH"
Sheila was 16 at the time, and the first blowjob awoke her inner goddess. She was now a woman. Having sex she finally achieved maturity, and as a fully grown-up person she spent the rest of her days laughing and giving lessons on maturity to the innocents and dirty virgins, whom being unable to get laid knew nothing about life.
Five years later, at the tender age of 21, she was camping with her boyfriend that decide to leave her after a fight. Being a grown-up woman she used her strong feminity and entered the boys bathroom, stripping her clothes and sucking everyone's dick. When the police heard about what was happening in the bathroom, they went to stop the happenings that cannot take place in such place, and took Sheila and her friends she just met out, to the police station.
"Le'me go!, Imma full-grown woman!" screamed Sheila while the police man took her to their car.
Soon after things got worse, one of the men whose dick she sucked also filmed the bathroom orgy, and uploaded to the internet. Sheila, not wanting to look like a whore, said she was raped, by the men and the police, but no trace of rape was found.
The police sue her claiming defamation, and thus she is now in jail, probably sucking dicks there too.

Plot twist: It's not fiction, it happened in my country two years ago. I never knew Sheila, I just saw it in the news.

>>6634211
>Plot twist: It's not fiction, it happened in my country two years ago. I never knew Sheila, I just saw it in the news.
I have another one of a girl who was found fucking outside a club. Video included.

>>6631906
>>6623280
my biggest complaint also

>>6634076

Can I please get a critique on this?

I keep posting snippets of my novel in this thread and nobody ever seems to read them.

>>6634076
>Mel spotted
>The entire passage is the thoughts of a character.
This is called Filter Writing, google it then avoid it.
>semi-ironic mockery of the fact
>charming endearance (charm)
I doubt you talk like that so why write like that?
>without a doubt
>could never make up her mind
>sincere confessions
cliche

You know whole Show Don't Tell rule? This is where you'd wanna have a scene of Harli telling one of her stories and another character not being able to bring himself to shut her up.
Goodlluuuuck

She went to the lake, and should she rightly. She thought she'd do him, but not tonight, she'd do someone else tonight, but post about it on Iiiiiinstagrammmm...

>>6634552
>adverb
dropped.

>>6634545

Writing it this way is preferable to have to go into description of gratuitously explicit and fetishistic sex acts.

I'm usually an advocate of "show don't tell", however, it is neither relevant or needed to have the reader experience those stories in this case.

I WILL however, try and remove filter words upon editing the piece, this is an extremely rough draft.

>I doubt you talk like that so why write like that?

I doubt most people in modern society talk like what they'd write, I'd rather have my own style of writing than use my everyday conversation voice.

>cliche

Oh no, I'm using phrases which are commonly used within the English lexicon. Common phrases are fine if they work, though I make a conscious effort to avoid using too many in my work.

(Sincere confessions isn't even a cliche though I can't recall ever hearing it used or seeing it written)

>>6634582
>doubt most people in modern society talk like what they'd write
Hence why most writers suck, but okay.
Good luck.

>>6634587

I understand where you're coming from entirely, it's probably not the greatest example of my writing(nor is anything in this rough draft), but I'm trying my best to shit this onto the page before all motivation and creativity leaves me.

Also, the whole paragraph isn't a character's thoughts, everything after the dash is just out-and-out character description.(Though that itself is a problem due to it being expository)

>>6634552

bill burr/10

>>6628614
>>6628901

Would really appreciate any comment on these two shabby things

>>6630638
>was ignored
rewrote it all, because it was too shit for /lit/ to speak on it.

>>6635743
Cheer up mate. Dismember: perfect makes practice.

this is the first page of a story I'm working on. I don't know if I'll ever finish it or not since I'm not in a really write-y mood as of late

http://pastebin.com/34DaqRjm

Gira nodded empathetically. Struggling to grasp how anything could even route through that many servers without some sort of data loss or interception. The door creaked open and in came Mel, carrying a small tray with the deft hands of an assassin disguised as a waitress. The tray came unto the table without making a sound, and there stood three bottles of beer sweating cool water into shallow puddles. He wasn’t usually one to drink beer. He picked up the bottle and took a mouthful anyway.

“You ladies have anything interesting to discuss whilst I was away?”

“He won’t believe me Mel, thinks there’s no way that the governments behind this. Whole thing’s probably some sting operation, like, they get you to bring him here, he finds out everything and suddenly we’re on some blacklist with SWAT and FBI bustin’ in kickin’ ass and takin’ names.” He threw the words about emphatically, disregarding Gira’s existence. “Never seen a more obvious plant in my life, sittin’ there photosynthesisin’ takin in all our information like it’s motherfuckin’ carbon monoxide.”

“Jenkins, plants don’t…”

“Just look at him, acting like he don’t know nothin’, pretendin’ he’s in the same sitchation as us, gonna bring a ton of shit down on us hard, like nothin’ we ain’t ever seen I tell ya.”

No other city became one with the sun such as Khiva. The Uzbek people had built its houses out of rustic brick and mortar from that steppe hard soil, and when the call for the last prayers sounded from the minaret of Djuma, the angle of the master-star upon the west seemed to reflect its light on a mosaic. What emanated was the sensation of something terribly old, from the deep dark shamanic past, or even from the more mundane secrets that were obscured by the walls of the Itchan Kala. Even then, there was beauty in that late afternoon glow; the blue stone details that the Khans used to crown their buildings with construed a earth-and-sky counterpoint that still needed fish oil lamps from the Aral Sea to keep itself illuminated and warm; vaguely, one might say.

I thought of writing a poem on Khiva, on the near future. Looking over towards the city was inspiring, as my thoughts make clear. Some would say my fascination with panoramic views was partially responsible for the reactions I had for what I saw on my way. That my nature of an easily-impressed person led me to an uncommon destiny. I think those are banal thoughts, and anyway I do not wish to dwell on it.

The late afternoon I described could be a generic one, yet I am not what you would call predictable. It was the third of Hajj, 1255 or February 7th, 1840 for the Christians. The wind was strong and icy, the snow was stubborn, the nights grew darker and I waited for a visitor near the gate of Khiva’s madrassa.

“So you were telling me the truth about this magical sky”, said the familiar voice, floating in from my blind spot.

>non-native speaker
Please rate.

>>6624170
cute

You guys post so much like no wonder I lose interest within the first two sentences. Honestly, pick out not more than a paragraph for real critique, nobody here actually wants to edit your story for you.

I stood sentry on the northern wall on the day when the first waves came. I was actually daydreaming about not being saddled with body armor and Kevlar when the yell came from the lookout tower. "Multiple contacts in the north field! 175 meters!" My head spun about to see the legions of people running straight for the compound at a full sprint. Falcons blared to rouse sleeping men from their bunks. Confused shouting and pointing brought more guns to my side of the wall as I planted a foot on the a parapet and strained to pull the charging handles and chamber the first round of the .50 cal. "150 meters!" the lookout yelled. The shift commander materialized behind me as I set my elevation swing on the gun. "You got enough rounds for this?" He asked."yeah, I've got eight belts"
"Good. pick your targets and don't waste rounds."
"125 meters! Here they come!" The lookout yelled one last time. I took hold of the grips the same way I'd done everyday this whole fucking summer long and hunched down to eye the sights on he masses growing larger in the sight picture. They were coming, raggedy clothes, half shaved heads and all. "Jesus, sir." I gasped. "What are they?"
The captain lowered his binoculars and spit. "The worst scum that could ever exist. Tumblr feminists" The shouts and chants that seemed like a low roar began to morph into words as they drew closer. A pink banner waved by the one at the head of the horde read: "Saint Caitlin Bleeds For All Of Us. #pronoun"
"OPEN FIRE!" The captain yelled.
I squeezed the thumb triggers and the 50 cal began to buck as it sent Fire down range. Hot rounds pierced the crowd, taking out two at a time. 100 rounds gone. Two hundred rounds gone, 300. "Chok Chok Chok Chok" the machine barked.By the time my barrel was smoking the numbers had dwindled to half. But I didn't let up. I manned my post. You should've seen them. They were... Animals. Cut off shorts and neck tattoos framed by internet logic and piercings. I dared not let off he triggers for a moment for fear of being overrun. I kept up the rate of fire as others changed their belts and resumed. I wanted to feel sorry for them and their misled causes but all I could feel was the recoil shaking by being. "Chok Chok Chok Chok" There were more shouts of alien languages all around but all I could hear was my gun. The targets between the left and right limits of my firing lane began to dwindle. Soon, there were no more standing targets advancing. And when the bolt fell upon an empty chamber, there was nothing left of the horde but silent bodies. The barrel belched smoke like a chimney. As fast as I could manage I opened the tray and fed another belt through. The captain patted me on the shoulder "that was some excellent shooting, son." He smiled. "Where did you learn to smoke tumblr fags like that?"
"/lit/ sir. I learned it on /lit/."
"Well, you keep it up and there's a retirement in oldfag country for you."
"Do you really think so?" I asked.
"Twinkie house."

>>6637479
Right?

First paragraph of a short story I'm currently writing. Would love to know if it intrigues, or if it's straight drab, shit, whatever.

He could see the Dallas skyline shimmering in his rearview mirror, drifting away, a glacier on the horizon. I-35 opened up before him as he exited Central, and he released a sigh of relief. 234 miles lay ahead until the next interstate, then innumerably more. At once giddy and weary, he wasn’t sure whether or not this trip was a good idea, or what constituted a good idea for that matter (as modesty creeped in). Having left twenty-two minutes prior, he couldn’t manage to escape the cranial echo of his mother’s voice–a voice perpetually preoccupied with extravagant worries, worries that passed the time like knitting Freddy Krueger quotes onto throw pillows, or gardening, all to disguise the nest’s chirp-less Autumn air, and the rock-a-bye babies below. “Don’t drive at night. Call me whenever you stop at a hotel. Don’t drive in the rain!” Okay, mom. I will…Mom, I’m twenty-two. Mom, please, It’ll be okay: a peculiar lie for its bittersweet flavor. But he did know that he wouldn’t stay in a hotel, that he would ‘stay’ elsewhere, in his car, in a tent? in motel rooms still carrying the aroma of lonely truckers and their scaly hot lizards, where he might be forced cocoon himself in stain ridden sheets just to combat the sub-zero arctic flurry blasted by broken A/C units’ in a dampened room whose only sound is the sound of free HBO, of softly spoken sleep-talk, a drip. Not all metamorphoses resulted in a Kaftan horror-tragedy, nor in elegant, earth-shaking butterflies, he reminded himself. He smirked; he smiled. He paused at the sight of a church billboard, then laughed a laugh of luxury as he envisioned rolling around in the aftermath of Rick and his bottom-bitch Deidre.

>>6619821
nice

>>6623268
no, that is pretty essential and if you can't see that then you have zero literary sensibility and are probably a worthless teenager or some mental equivalent

>>6619218
She looks like Bailey Jay

This is the first chapter from a short story I'm working on.

“Mark’s dead. Funeral’s this weekend…” Logan’s text read. He hasn’t texted or called in months or maybe years. No one from home has. “Ok” I replied without a period. I didn’t ask how. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that he was gone but he’d been absent from my life for awhile now so it’d didn’t make much of a difference. I wonder how much the airfare is going to set me back. I’ll definitely be staying in a hotel too.

The next day I didn’t go to a travel agent as my parents had suggested. It wasn’t that it was too expensive, I was just unaware they still existed. Seemed like they’d all died with Pet Rocks and Quaaludes. I booked my flight to leave tomorrow morning so I’d have time to have sex with Cierra before I left. I think she gets off work at six tonight. Maybe seven. I think I’ll have her get take out from Chang’s Dynasty in Koreatown. I’ll miss Chang’s.

She got home at eight with Ming’s Dynasty. I think she’s been seeing someone after work. I could’ve sworn she got off at six. Maybe seven. I don’t really like Ming’s. Their Chow-Mein is too thick and their rice stuck together and is usually stale and their fried butterfly shrimp is too greasy. We had sex some 45 minutes after we ate. It was okay.

We laid in bed afterwards watching Netflix. I was smoking a Camel Blue, she a Newport Menthol 100. I hate menthols, especially that she was smoking one after sex. They remind me of trap music which reminds me of Inglewood which reminds me of this party I went to in Inglewood on La Brea and Hardy where I was mugged. Cierra thinks she notices something wrong.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. Her voice was flat. It seemed like she asked because she felt she had to. She didn’t.
“Nothing.” I said. There really was nothing wrong. It must’ve had ‘a face’ because Ming’s just wasn’t sitting well with me. She didn’t persist but I figure I might as well tell her about Mark since she’ll want to know why I’m gone for a few days.


“My friend Mark died.”
“Is that the one who owns the Panic Club?” she said, her eyes unwavering from Orange is the New Black.
“No, an old friend from home.” I said, putting out the cigarette on the ashtray that laid on my chest.
“Oh.” she said, doing the same. “I’m sorry, Sweetie.”

She asked about his age and how he’d died and such but I couldn’t answer much. I hardly remembered what he looked like to tell you the truth. I told her how I was going home for a few days to give my condolences. She understood, she even seemed kind of happy that I was leaving. I’m almost positive she’s seeing someone else.

>>6640261
first of all: that's a lot of brand names in a short piece. why is it important what kinds of cigarettes they are smoking? why do they have to be watching OITNB? if it's supposed to convey how shallow/detached the narrator is, I'd suggest a different way to convey that because Bret Easton Ellis exists.

if you are going to go a BEE route, though, at least make the stuff that the narrator doesn't care about interesting enough for me to care about. explain why Mark dying SHOULD be a big deal. frame it in something other than a couple watching Netflix, which I do all the time and don't want to read. the mugging would be interesting to read because that doesn't happen every day, and I imagine the narrator would have to feel something there.

the Ming/Chang Dynasty thing was cute and almost amusing, and I see what you are going for with
>I think she’s been seeing someone after work.
and
>I’m almost positive she’s seeing someone else.
make it feel like the story is about that in a more explicit way, and it might be more interesting.

http://pastebin.com/mWJ4SBWW

I've decided I'm going to write a book this Summer, after spending a few days writing notes I spontaneously typed out the first few pages. All critique very welcome and appreciated.

In high school Duke Topanga had been a nonplussed doofus, photographed on the quad with the torn rag of a tie-dye shirt knotted round his forehead, dirty blonde hair glazed by the sun. He squints into the camera, eyes obscured by gray Lennon shades, a permanent expression of self satisfaction on his face, a look that says: “I may burn out quick, I may not climb high, I may never impress or inspire anybody at all, but nothing you can do could ever force me give a shit”. Duke spent his senior year stumbling from one beach bash to another, sleeping in the back of class with his long legs wedged under the chair, laughing at every thing, every question, even the serious ones, buzzed off of something scraped out of a Ziplock bag the night before or guzzled stealthily from a crumpled water bottle in the back of class. Each new controlled substance teased him further and further away from the enrapturing microcosm of high school. He began to catch glimpses of a world vast beyond knowing, of a darkness knit tight with cords of existence, interconnected, communicating, interacting, but ultimately all part of the one same cord, running around and around and around him forever.
At last Duke, properly educated, and fully detached from reality, was ejected, diploma in hand, from Benitez Beach High School, surprising nobody as much as himself. Summer for Duke brought a Renaissance of mental contortion and psychological leaps of faith. He abused his brain like an idiot child sticking lit fireworks into a tin can, watching the thing go BAM and leap off the ground like a frightened rabbit. Duke is photographed on the beach, posture skewed drunkenly to the side, a Hindu prayer blanket wrapped around his naked body, hair long down to his belly button. His hair is hanging over his face but behind it he is smiling. A lot of the loose associates Duke called “friends” are going to far away dream lands: London, Rome, Rabat, Seattle. Duke was buying a junker Honda bike for three hundred dollars so he could deliver pizzas at Santo Benitez Italian. They looked at Duke with pity, vague confusion and wondered what had happened to his dream land, his gilded future. Duke kept wearing his hazy grin, that unfocused beaming smile through it all. He had already found his fated dreamland, and it was called Benitez Beach.

>>6640261


Overall it sounds a little too "edgy", like your character is saying all this nihilistic stuff but without enough character to make it interesting.

>>6639015

You have some classic bad writing here like

> At once giddy and weary

> as he exited Central, and he released a sigh of relief

> knitting Freddy Krueger quotes onto throw pillows

that last one just sounds like youre trying too hard to be random. No offense, but I can't get hooked on writing if i can't take it seriously.

>>6631972
Can I please get some feedback

I'm really new to this

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 smoke and do you remember?....to rooms with fleeting embrace and Cambrian heat pulsing in a fixed moment.
He had been driven by a dim flashing impulse to be in that neon sanctum, to be 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 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 – you play violin? – no kidding, I – 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. She touched his arm and dimly he felt the contours giving way, the cordons of his life loosening, fibers livening under this tropic waft, fired, fired by a -

>>6640508
Good advice, thanks a lot anon

>>6640769
Thanks anon. Yeah, first draft and all. I'm trying not to sound like he is completely apathetic, just that he's jaded.

>>6640508
>>6640769
Matter aside, how do you think my prose is?

>>6624843
Nice. I lol'd

>>6631972
This is good. It's funny. Do more funny.

>>6640982
That's an excerpt from a short story that I based a screenplay and a movie off of. Want the full story?

>>6640731
I hate "nonplussed" usually but lol it works. Fucking Duke Topanga.

>>6641000
Nooooope.

>>6641014
c-cool okay

"Bagel your pardon" she said
"Is your react just an act?"

>>6619218

I decided to write about sea monsters.
My son, look.

You are looking out to the green harbor and in its depths you can see for an instant that beast which lies below. There is the monster, the leviathan. It’s ocean-borne horror, it’s terrible form.

You see it there, where it wakes. It is turning and toiling beneath the seafoam and the waves. Twisting like black intestines in the salty vinegar seas. It has a maw full of frightening teeth and black, black eyes full of death. Its barbed tongue whispers and rattles inside of its boxed mouth.

Were you to shout, were you to scream, it would surely hear you. If it did, it would not be a minute before it rose to break our vessel and feast on you in the boil. Stay quiet now, do not yell. Do not give the beast a reason to find you.

>>6641019
"That egross isn't just something net is it?"
"Have all the profits lied?"

>>6641055
Check for introspection
Over 9000

>>6641061
Manage your breakfast for healthy nutrition

>>6641064
Don't forget the seasonsing

>>6641068
logotherapeutic neoshaman cultural appropriation

>>6641055
"Sometimes the crowd Roars"

>>6641091
>>6641064
"Have you checked the logos?"

>>6641091

Today I finally tracked down DT Max's biography of David Foster Wallace and I was surprised to see that DFW has the same birthday as me. It's funny because I spent my latest birthday alone in my freshly emptied apartment—no furniture, no art, just white carpet and white walls—and so I spent this night drinking moonshine and vomiting and it's funny because DFW hanged himself which when all considered is a sure fire way of handling the situation, generally.

So back in my apartment here you can see me stumbling around on my first birthday alone. It's snowing. Radio's on for company. Suicide hasn't come as a thought yet. Really the only thought at the time was revenge. See I had spent the day driving around to different addresses looking for the kid. Looking through mail. Monitoring the wireless signals from my car. Lucky for him he's unlisted and now I'm throwing up on the white carpet.

>>6641098
the logos is common, most people live as if they had their own private understanding

>>6641107
The song played in the background by Oz Zee
"Little girl...
I'm trying to find the way....
Little girl....
Traveling between space..."

>>6640891

I came

>>6641122
>Oz Zee
"Little girl...
Led By the light...
Little girl...
Round the curves just right"

>>6641139
>...Astralia, the nobility of the light, astralwerks...

>>6641001

glad you like the name, i wasnt sure if it was too over the top

>>6641122
"Its not as easy to climb...
When you havent found the time...
To train your mind...
To go around the bend"
https://archive.4plebs.org/x/thread/15867203/#q15869400

>>6640931

She got home at eight with Ming’s Dynasty. I think she’s been seeing someone after work. I could’ve sworn she got off at six. Maybe seven. I don’t really like Ming’s. Their Chow-Mein is too thick and their rice stuck together and is usually stale and their fried butterfly shrimp is too greasy. We had sex some 45 minutes after we ate. It was okay.

is great writing. The detail you give regarding the food and the lack of detail regarding the sex really says a lot about your character. This is showing, not telling.

>>6641095

Convergence Culture warns that this is an emerging subject and different authors have different understanding

Never written and gotten critiqued before so I have no idea exactly how shit this is, but hedging my bets toward insanely.

She curled up under the covers, ground her face against a pillow, and screamed. It was a harsh whisper of a sound. The rest of the octaves had gotten lost on their way across the rolling folds of her sheets. She couldn't stop shifting. From one position to another, but nothing felt more right. Or less right. A distant part of her mind recognized the problem- stop. Stop thinking. Stop. Stop. Ironically, the chants only compounded the mess of her mental state. The shifts continued, followed the turns of her mind. Thoughts fluttered across, some positive, some negative, some deadly, but none persisted, broken up by her pleas for an end, fragmented like her struggling self.

The next instant, she was in the bathroom. Collapsed against the door with a knife in one hand and a rag in the other. Her arm began tracing faint stabbing motions toward an ideal. She stared gazelessly at the creamy flesh of her thigh and rivulets of blood stared back. Blink. Or not, but stop all the same. The motions continued- at first faint, then progressively stronger. Tilted down towards her own thigh. No, this wouldn't work. She needed a gentle cut, just to calm herself. Her arm stilled, but the knife progressed. Sidling up against her skin. Tracing a curve now, not a motion. Stop. Stop. Show me what you can do. Stop. Show me you are able to do anything, even this, especially this. Pain bit into her, but she was safe. Her arm grasped at the covers and her keening calmed.

>>6641122
>>6641179
>>6641203
hypersurface is a level

>>6641064
Checkd for surreal

>>6641214
Tasty treats

>>6641139
>>6641179
Who are the Aurorals

>>6641082
Don't be boxxy'd around
>>6641091
"There's plenty of space"

>>6641257
"Circles squares try angles...
You're never outta shape"

>>6629964

ey somebody hit this please

>>6641150
https://archive.4plebs.org/x/thread/14260655/#14260714

Can you greenlight a green screen to silver

>>6641214
"Steady with the flows"

>>/lit/thread/S6612062#p6612080

>>6641301
>>6641091
>>6641082

>>6641330
There are three main levels of musical and artistic inspiration. The highest is the ‘avataric’ level...

>>6641333
Nice trips

>>6641333
Embrace all phenomena and life as part of a vast and complex system-network of relationships

>>6641333
Do stars communicate with each other?

>>6639170
Sounds like you can't take criticism.

Ever see a red tide? You know, when the ocean water rusts a neurotoxic shade of red every so often. Some perfect combination of temperature, resources and chance acts as a catalyst for some lucky resident microorganism to experience the joys of a population explosion.

Be it a phytoplankton or cyanobacterium, gluttonous doom will not only affect trillions of asexually produced clones, but all the schools of gill breathers, beds of filter feeders, feathered flocks, and milk producing vertebrates shackled by the local food chain meet death from neurotoxic secretions or asphyxiate because all the available oxygen is depleted.

The opposite happened when life first emerged. Well sorta. What happened was for about a billion years, a corrosive gas was secreted as metabolic waste, by photosynthetic bacteria, which catalyzed the biggest mass extinction on record and the greatest environmental catastrophe caused by living organisms. Iron was no longer soluble in ocean water and the oxides rusted out of the marine solution and deposited along the ocean floor. Over 99% of all organisms died. Those that could tolerate oxygen, or sought refuge inside larger cells, survived. Following this, the diversity in lifeforms on earth steadily increased over the next billion or so years. Besides, imagine how ugly the oceans would be if they didn't turn blue all because of bacterial colonies wallowing in their own corrosive excrement.

So you see, just because we can't have oyster fresh from the bay, doesn't mean we should despair. It's catastrophe like this that acts like a point of meth injected into the veins of the selection pressures in a given area.

Humans are in for quite the global spectacle. We're just like that algal bloom. Bet you thought it was oil that doomed us. Nope.

It was the ability to extract nitrogen from the air and convert it into something much more palatable than inert gas; ammonia. See, we went from 1909 to being able to fertilize fields that can feed billions in a few years. Oh, how could I forget, the Haber process also gave us enough smokeless gunpowder and explosives to kill as much as we could feed. That's why the world wars were such a horrific departure from wars fought since the dawn of society.

But we forgot about silly little phosphorus. Humans dedicate over half of all sulfuric acid produced to make phosphorus more bioavailable. Heavens is it slow too. But we want fast, sudden upheaval to starve off stagnant death.

Which is in a few short decades, eh, 60 or so revolutions around the sun, billions will starve to death. Don't be fooled by the seductive comfort you find yourself in.

Have you ever seen a phoenix? Out of death, life endures. But only if you're lucky of course. A hunk of rock that never settled in with the rest to make a planet might change that if it decides to settle in at several kilometres per second.

It was the sweat dripping down his forehead that finally drew his attention away from the pages in front of him. It was a hot day, and muggy. The kind where you feel like you're wrapped in a blanket no matter where you go. Still, after the long winter it was refreshing to be able to sit outside without wearing three layers.

He wore only one layer on top, a striped tank top, and two on bottom, underwear and shorts. He was prepared to stay outside as long as was necessary. He had planned for all the contingencies: his bag contained water, sunscreen, and money. He wasn't going to leave the park until his goal was met.

The park was a standard affair for American suburbia. It had a short bike trail and an abundance of picnic tables and play equipment. Fairly frequently a pudgy middle aged person could be seen walking the asphalt path.

One of them was walking by right now. He looked up briefly, gave a courteous greeting, and brought his eyes back down to his book. He wondered if she'd noticed the cover. Even if she had, the title probably would have meant nothing to her.

It was A Critique of Pure Reason by Kant. He considered himself a philosophical hobbyist, although most of his knowledge came from Wikipedia and online image boards. He had finally made the jump (he thought) into the deeper end of the pool when he went to his local Barnes and Noble and bought Kant's treatise. He felt such satisfaction when he brought the tome to the counter. The clerk was clearly impressed. His own intelligence was tangible to him then, and he longed for another such situation.

The park was his catalyst for another such situation. He had the slightest bit of self awareness, which prevented him from bragging outright about the book he had bought. So he found a public place where others may see him reading. If he were truly lucky, someone he knew would be there and see it. Their admiration would be worth any duration of wait.

>>6619821
those first two sentences were great, i just really liked the way you used the word "spackled." brought a great image to my head of blood flying onto the rock like jackson pollock flinging paint onto a canvas, with the sound aspect included as well. perfect word choice.

>>6639015

By far worst of the thread. You should fucking kill yourself.

>>6639015
Ugghh this is trash

>then laughed a laugh on luxury

>>6641137
What does that mean, exactly?

>>6639170
>pretty essential
you seem to believe that you are writing a comic book

>>6628914
>I had taken pellets to the head, bounced off my hat, my arms, bounced off my Carhartt, and legs, bounced off my camo.
lol fix this shit. Rest is fine, but this sentence is gross

>>6641034

pretty spooky stuff, but I have never heard the expression "boxed mouth" used before and I can't give it any meaning when I read it here. It's an unnecessary adjective anyway.

>>6619218
here's something cringeworthy from when i had that phase where you want to be like bukowski

feel free to #wreck me in your replies
Opposite the state opera
between Barnes,
Nobles
and the bank

I sit on a green plastic
chair, and choke casually
on a 99c
McDouble

i see through the window
walking onroads made for kings
people in
tracksuit trousers
or bright neon overalls
or pristine suits;
rushing to office, welfare or the
next hit

these people were not made for these streets
these streets weren't made for these people
the burger i'm eating, will clog up my veins and
higher my risk of stroke, bad health, halitosis

it doesn't really make a whole lot of sense
to me as i chew down, thoughtfully, the last bits of meat
between good-morning existential dread and the first shift of the day
i don't know what the universe is trying to tell me
but i try to appreciate it and keep a friendly face
as i walk to the dressing room
with a head
full
of noise
heavy heart
and puffy eyes

i'm confused, but that's okay
i know where
my locker is
when my shift
starts and
i flip a mean burger
it's not much, alright, i give you that
so what
it gets me through the day

>>6642752
i just realised this is the prose thread. disregard me i suck cocks

>>6641610
Why is it so bad?