/lit/ - Literature

>>6842965
*want to have shared or want an anon's response to. This is what I get for not proofing.

>>6842965
No way, ever since some guy said he got rejected for publication at some magazine because an excerpt from the piece he posted on here came up in a google search (archived).

>>6842990
did that really happen? Why?

I've posted this in a few threads just like this one in the last week or so. I've (unexpectedly) had a ton of positive responses from you guys, and some people even asked for my contact info to keep up with this as I go, or just if I would post more. For anyone who wants it, here it is. I don't spend a lot of time writing so all I've got is like 14 pages so far. Enjoy or critique or don't read this or do whatever floats your little /lit/ boat.

http://pastebin.com/i0D2npr7


All these nice responses so far have made me feel super and encouraged me to take a big swing at this. I'm totally new to it and didn't know if I would be any good. Maybe I can be with some solid work. If you're one of those people so far, thanks.

>>6842990
I've never heard of this happening, sounds like a shit bunch of publishers and nothing else.

>>6843000
Nigga I don't know if it really happened; I just read that shit on 4chan. As the the how and why, if it did happen, I'd guess that the magazine just puts submissions they like through an anti-plagiarism software like turnitin, which then turned up the piece on a 4chan archive which gave them second thoughts for obvious reasons (is it really his, and do we want to publish something from 4chan even if he can prove he wrote it?).

Short palindromic poem I wrote.

(debt bed)

pink cut.
still, i'm ill. it's
sleep, eh?
debt at bed?
sir, evil's a sane poem (oh, no...)
nurses run
on home, open as a sliver. is
debt at bed?
he peels;
still i'm ill. it's
tuck/nip

(debt bed)

>>6843015
Man, this is brilliant. Bravo

>>6843015
It angers me how pleasant that was to read. Wasn't at all invested in what was happening, but I had a good time reading it. Sort of snappy, jokey, autismal narration.

Hope it works out.

>>6843015
I like the ballance of some of the thoughts and sentences, but it feels too much too early? Maybe it's just that I'm reading it with the intention of criticism. Really cool anyway.

How can you describe a character's surroundings in more engaging, enveloping ways?

"Heb hob hiba hiba diba hib hib hob ad do dun stub a rocking to da bang bang boogie up jumpa boogie tee de en od da boodadie bead" Lawerence said, nodding to the wall of riflemen.

How had he come to this? That very same morning, his train set had arrived, delivered by the hunched china-men who also adorned the worn rug he used to place the curved tracks on. And then.... What then? Had he fallen into one of his fits again? Was this a dream?

"Raise your weapons!"

>>6843015
You can get this published if you keep it up. Love it

>>6843015
I think it needs to slow down. The way you dive into everyone's psychology is unlike anything I've really before and it's excellent, but you have to get out of the character's heads a little and drive the story in other ways.

Fun to read though, awesome work. With some touch ups I would buy a book full of this. Don't stop writing, this has more potential than most things do here

Usually when I'm not up to anything grand I'd spill my mind's contents on an empty Notepad document. The first pastebin is a collection of poems I posted earlier in the month, garnered some positive reviews and all, but no constructive criticism. The second is just a conversation I had with my inner voice (you can reason alone that she's "V" in this piece,) wrote it as of recent.

http://pastebin.com/kH4XNNSe

http://pastebin.com/AEpsWxRm

Butcher me, /lit/. I need it.

>>6843169
I couldn't get through more than a few lines of both pastebins without cringing, and I'm drunk and high as fuck. I have an ivy league education in English and Philosophy to give my critique more weight.

>>6843169
First of all, who's yr A&R? A mountain climber who plays the electric guitar? Ye don't know the meaning of dope when yr writing this suit and tie crap that's cleaner than a bar of soap.

>>6843015
You killed it. The "Parkam's Razor" part is perfect. You need to make serious moments, too. Don't forget that.

>>6843043
Made me strangely sad

>>6843082
A little overdone on the questions there

>>6843169
The first one is too edge. The second one is actually pretty entertaining, but try making it sound more natural. Its a talk with your own thoughts, don't use words like "merely" unless that really is a word in your common/daily vocab. Neat idea though

Neon buzzing with the dutifulness of Virgil's bees cast time off again from the fisherman's skiff into gasoline waves betwixt twin clock towers' winding and slackening hands that churned the current in a perpetual whirlpool. Up look black clouds Lucifer himself falls from grace, space, into time now liquid with no solid foundation.Though 'ere round swarmed plague locusts that cover day, the breakers were wont to illuminate their surface with distorted, but not unfamiliar images.

>>6843015
Only read the first paragraph so far but this is brilliant.

>>6843015
this is real talent

>>6843238
>Made me strangely sad
I hope this is a good thing. It's one of the two darker things I've written, I was having a really bad night and managed to pull it off in a few hours. The gimmick made it really, really difficult but I'm proud of it. Thanks for reading!

>>6843314
So many big words that make it really jarring and hard to read. It doesn't breathe, I guess.

>>6843057
Second that

>>6843015

um, am I the only person not even remotely impressed by this?

it's like /r/writingprompts level

honestly, I prefer Flashbird to this because at least Flashbird doesn't take itself seriously at all whereas your piece has quite a lot of pseudo-intellectual aspirations without quite having the prose to achieve it

>>6843028

that literally doesn't happen at all

or just expiration pastebin/take a screenshot of it if you're afraid

here's the beginning of a monologue by my main character

http://pastebin.com/96t1Abd0

The mask is a shadow that covers the soul
And selfishly suckles at the dim lingering life
From the deepest creative chasms below
Then maliciously mutilates what's left with its knife

The people worryingly wandering around
Fall victims to their own personal masks
And tormentingly torture themselves and their friends
With the bindings of the role that they've cast

The horrifying and haunting mask poisons the mind
And fills it with images of relentless regret
I talk with the inauthentic factory mask
And you pick a plastered mask that refuses to let

Our twisting turning torturous masks holds us in agony
Blissful states of sleeping wonder are coldly kept away
And grinding gritty grey pains play for eternity
While the world grows darker with each passing day

The timeless tilting of a tired planet plows along
And the screeching scraping of the masks wear on
The peaks and caverns of this colorless life are tainted with masks
And we watch on, powerless to stop the pain that we spawn

>>6843043

I liked it. It really plays with my heartstrings in a rather subtle way.

>>6843452
Really? The prose could be better, but the tone, pacing, and wit are far better than anything from reddit.

>>6843015
>http://pastebin.com/i0D2npr7
>men's
should be
>mens'
The parallelism around 'far from' in the second paragraph comes a bit too early to really work IMO
>treasure Treasure Island
obvs typo
>omissions from the book were made in the film
would work better in active voice
>trainwreck of absurdity that the pages contained
probably could be more succinct
>He knew himself as modern day Milo Minderbinder
Has he ever sold anything? At this point he hasn't demonstrated any entrepreneurial spirit, so coming out swinging with literary allusions feels a little premature
>—originally green, now browned of age with only chips of faded paint remaining-
Seems inconsistent with the level of descriptive detail afforded previously, even in the 'present' section.
> insuring
ensuring
>That was plenty of talking to strangers for one day for someone who didn’t talk to his own knife-brandishing mother when he could avoid it
It's years since I read Catch-22, and you should assume the same or less of your reader. I can't remember if knife-brandishing would be characteristic of Nately's whore, but thus far there's no mention of knives in relation to the mother and dropping it into this sentence is a little abrupt.
>His father was skilled in this survival tactic as well, or as skilled as a man pent up with nothing but a Bible and a prayer could be when trapped in a home with this drunkard wife.
How does not talking to strangers help with the wife? Or, if implying the wife is a stranger when drunk, needs a little work.

Too tired to do the rest but you're alright.

>>6843474
I’ve reread this piece about 11 times now, and spent over an hour on this critique. I’m not even sure if I can upload this in one post. Despite the lengthy critique, I’d like to say that this is well written, very much worth rereading and critiquing, not because it was bad, but because it was good. The narrator’s voice is fully formed, showing the reader a three dimensional character. The diction also informs us of the qualities of the narrator, matching him/her’s position in society.
I’m glad to say that the flaws are only technical:
>All the agents and double agents and triple agents, all the dead and dead drops and drops of poison had amounted to nothing.
The repetition in
>All the agents and double agents and triple agents
is quite nice and contributes to the atmosphere of the piece, but the repetition in
>all the dead and dead drops and drops of poison
doesn't really work. I'm also a bit confused by it. By "dead" do you mean dead people, or is it an adjective describing the poison? The repetition doesn’t work because it's too static. The repetition involving the "agents" works because it isn't too static, whereas the latter is too static, causing the reader to lose the impression of gratuitousness. The repetitions involving the dead, and poison don’t achieve their goal of seeming gratuitous because “all the dead” and “all the poison” despite being plural leave the impression of only one kind of “poison,” and strangely, but still true to the impression of the reader to one kind of “dead” person. To alleviate this I would put “of” after all of the “all” ’s.
I don't want to rewrite your work, but this is just my recommendation (I do this assuming that "the dead and dead” are plural nouns not adjectives).
>All of the agents and double agents and triple agents, all of the dead and the dead, and all of the drops and drops of poison had amounted to nothing.
I inserted an oxford comma after “the dead and dead,” because it’s part of a list or series (under the assumption that they’re plural nouns). I replaced "the dead and dead," with "the dead and the dead," because "dead," is an adjective, and "the dead," is a plural noun.
Also:
>It was a familiar shape, one that I was familiar with
is kind of redundant.

>>6843474
continuing from >>6844371
There’s also some past/present tense confusion:
>She does not start out as a ghost
“She does” should be “She did.”
I don’t want to inform your style, but I think we can both agree that
>but in my heart
is cliche and overused. You could instead say something like
>deep down I knew
or
>my intuition told me
This is nit-picky, but I thought I’d include it:
>and I believed it to be one of the central branches—perhaps even the central branch
The ending of the sentence seems like a stub. It just doesn’t feel right. I’d clarify what it’s the central branch of, instead of just calling it “the central branch”
>every name, every item, every transaction
should be
>every name, every item, and every transaction
I know that’s super nit-picky. I just want to be thorough.
>It all yielded a single seal and signature: a single, identifiable person.
Would be better if
>It all...
was
>All it..
or
>All of this yielded only a….
Just to add to the stark contrast between the fruit and the labor.
>On paper, there was nothing that suggested she would have any particular affiliation with or inclination towards.
With what? Towards what?
Also, refrain from using dashes where commas should be used, such as with
>when she was an adult—ostensibly because of the better jobs and marriage prospects
and
>I believed it to be one of the central branches—perhaps even the central branch

>>6844373
>>6844371
A critique that's longer than the piece. You magnificent bastard.

I’m a burden to my parents, they pay for my clothes, schoolwares, food, haircuts, hygiene, the house, the car, my books, my gadgets: my material wellbeing. Why isn’t there any way for children to earn money to pay their parents for all of the resources they consume? Are we supposed to repay it in love, and achievements from which they can draw secondhand pride? Or is this something I’m just not meant to be thinking about until I’m older, is it not my responsibility to worry about how much of a burden I am? They don’t seem to mind, but they would never let me know if they did mind. Imagine telling your child that you hate them because they don’t show enough love and haven’t made any real accomplishments, that they are a burden and offer nothing in return. Well it just might be true.

Not everyone is a burden, there are plenty of kids around I can tell are merely a trifle compared to what they do with the rest of their lives. The people who have fancy cars and house and manage accounts and estates and dabble in peoples’ minds and so on and so forth. Those that have a team of well-trained nannies and nurses and cleaners and educators on retainer so they don’t even have to raise their kids themselves, they are career focused and love it.

“Six weeks paid maternity? I’ll just take the one thank you, pop this sucker out and I’ll be back in 4 days to finalise the new lease agreements.”

“Are you sure miss?”

“Are you questioning my dedication to this company and my integrity and resolve as an independent middle-class working woman?”

And the recipient of this tirade is left confused and mumbling, now confronted with the raging figure of a hormonal career-woman many, many pay-grades above them. Who wouldn’t want to take six weeks paid vacation? Anyone who works on commission and has a reputation at stake, that’s who, silly lower-middle-management cretin.

>Check this prose, lit

Father Colwell looked out to his cosmic assembly and felt its eyes upon him. A brief moment of silence followed his arrival as men turned from each other to face the stand. Awe was rare to be found in space. Any man who chose the void was sure to be all but drained of it. Yet there alone stood Colwell. His imposing stature, elevated by the platform on which he had taken up his stance, made those before him to tilt their heads back and their gaze upward. Save for a crown of white which ran into a lustrous beard of the same, the dome of his head was bare. The immediate congregation, made up of a few casual observers, waited on him with passive interest. Most were transient workmen who had come of various mining colonies in the belt. A few devotees would remain for the duration, leaning on the clear panels of the outer wall to make way for those who would pass through the audience. Beyond them was the abyss. A vast expanse of asteroids, all aglow with the industry of millions. The light of itinerant freighters against the void. Signs of God.

His voice, less like thunder than the low roar that has been known to follow in its wake, then flooded the narrow corridor with a righteous presence. As he spoke, many left, for the depth of his timbre was equal to that of space itself, and his words went unheard for no man could perceive them. His face became red with apparent intensity and he raised his arms high in what those before him could only surmise was passion. When it appeared as though he had come to the furthest extremity of his temper, there came forth a sound that echoed throughout the station in deafening clarity.

Just the first scene. Is it worthy of more?

>>6843169
>>6843487
>>6844401
>>6844456
/lit/ will never learn not to talk about their favorite color purple.

>>6844371
>I'm also a bit confused by it. By "dead" do you mean dead people, or is it an adjective describing the poison?
It makes perfect sense to me and complements the previous repetitious passage rather nicely.

>>6844371
>>6844373

>I’ve reread this piece about 11 times now, and spent over an hour on this critique

wow thanks I appreciate the critique

you def bring up some good points on streamlining the flow of the prose

thanks again :)

I always judge an establishment by its bathroom.

There is nothing more telling of a business’ character than the place it deems worthy for its patrons to flush nutritional waste from their bodies. I take note of every detail. A full length mirror is helpful. Unusual sink architecture is fun. It’s wall art that I like the most, the way it tries to pretend. Pastel flowers and mounted seahorse knicknacks that try to belie the gastrointestinal disasters they face. However, the bathroom I was in that day didn’t have fine wallpaper. The bar was rough around the edges. I wasn’t expecting a lot when I first stepped into its facilities. But something about that bathroom gave me the creeps.

The walls were a fluorescent blue. Forest green cartoon trees painted like chicken scratch lined the walls about a foot away from the top of the crown moulding. Each of the trees had an Astroboy-looking figure hanging off of a branch by the hands. I studied their faces. Some of them had gaps in their toothy grins, others had a purple dollop of hair instead of black. One of them was different, the last dangler on the left side wall. He didn’t have eyes. Not ones like the others, anyway. Instead of two flat ovals, there were two black plastic rods sticking out. I got up and waddled a few steps forward, pants around my ankles.

The plastic rods were thin and flared out at the end like tiny plungers. The bases looked like they were hammered into the wall. I tapped on them a few times with my fingernail. Were they hollow? A loud bang from the doorway interrupted me.

“Anyone in here?” someone shouted. I answered by flushing. I tucked my shirt back into my pants before scrubbing my hands down with the dollar-store soap and rinsing with whatever came out of the sink. The mirror was tarnished but it seemed like my eyebrows were orderly and my hair still in place. I pushed back into the chaos on the other side of the door.

I had first stumbled here during one of my late-night walks after work. According to locals, it was one of few dives that tried to remain crusty in a city increasingly polishing itself pretty for the waves of tourists and yuppie migrants. I walked back to my former space at the wooden bar to look for my drink. The crowd was in full swing--punks, dreadlocked lesbians, swarthy blue-collar types, clean-cut grad students downing shots, older transvestites, and the occasional woman desperately clutching a bright Michael Kors bag whose face indicated a bad Yelp review in the near future. They screamed and sang under the red lighting as the chubby barmaid grabbed bottle after bottle to keep up with their maws. It was nice.

The napkin I’d placed on top of was off-center just like I left it. Probably not the best security system, but waking up in a rape den wouldn’t be much different than the beginning of this semester. I slurped down the pink fizz and wiped my mouth on my blazer’s sleeve.

“Shirley Temple?” someone asked.

>>6843622
>>That was plenty of talking to strangers for one day for someone who didn’t talk to his own knife-brandishing mother when he could avoid it
>It's years since I read Catch-22, and you should assume the same or less of your reader. I can't remember if knife-brandishing would be characteristic of Nately's whore, but thus far there's no mention of knives in relation to the mother and dropping it into this sentence is a little abrupt.
>>His father was skilled in this survival tactic as well, or as skilled as a man pent up with nothing but a Bible and a prayer could be when trapped in a home with this drunkard wife.
>How does not talking to strangers help with the wife? Or, if implying the wife is a stranger when drunk, needs a little work.

you misunderstood all this

>>6844783

What I posted wasn't even verbose, let alone needlessly verbose. Learn what purple prose is before you post you moron.

Stream of consciousness isn't inherently purple.

>>6842965
Just 400 or so words I typed up for this: http://pastebin.com/DxNRnvpg
>>6843015
This is a great peice anon, lots of humor and imagination. You need to write more but you've got a good voice. I didn't read it all, I'm slow and I want to critique more anons and you've had a lot, but I'll still be harsh because any criticism is valuable:
-Use semi-colons and colons. This is the most obvious one. Don't throw them in because you have to; don't do any of that, just realize this: they can make a sentence have a lot more variety, open up a lot for the prose to seep out and expand. You're writing is nice but it gets a tad repetitive, the tone is very Catch-22 for me - which is great - but that tone has a danger of being almost monosyllabic. Again I didn't read all of it, I'm sorry man, so if that changes that's fine. Just add a bit of spice to it and you're on something fantastic. That's just my opinion, you've got talent.

Also, you're dialogue could afford to be snappier, perhaps go back to Catch-22, you seem to like it, and look at some of the dialogue. It's very back and forth and rapid, characters often misinterpret eachother and you have a lot of reapeated questions and mistakes in the speaking. If you don't want to ape that, then that's fine, but currently the initial dialogue I read felt interesting in content but open to better delivery.


Don't stop writing.
>>6843043
That's a really cool poem man. Not much to say, I'm guessing you did it more as an excersise but the final line is very creative.
>>6843227
Listen to everything this anon says.
>>6843314
This feels as if you're trying to hard to be ambiguous. The abstract is fun, I abuse it too much as well, and if you're going for a spaced out distorted feel then that's fine. Just remember not to use words purely on sound, the spirit of what they conjure is just as important and there's so many better associations like sight and touch that you can muster as well.

>>6844928
Don't use words for the sake of length.

Try and go for shorter but more descriptive sounds and images, often a long word wastes space and gives the reader little in return. You don't have infinite space when writing, you have a very small window of attention and imagination that you can hold and you need to abuse that constantly to keep it extended and breathing.

>>6845376
I'm >>6843314 and thank you so much for the advice! My biggest issue just like you saw is that I favor words that sound good which may compromise the quality of the passage as a whole. Will keep editing

>>6845424
I'm glad you actually appreciate the criticism anon. But yes, words are two-dimensional, good prose is sound and meaning. Try and focus on a particular sensation you're trying to create, like heat or wet or quiet, and use physical words to bring out that atmosphere. Obvioulsy, the flow and assonance is important but it should be secondary to the image itself.

I’m a socially anxious attention whore.
I actively draw attention to myself
and then shrink from the moments
I’ve designed.
I push myself to the glory front
of movements I create
and then smile awkwardly and blush as if
I’ve been thrust there externally.

And perhaps that’s the affectation on its own.
It’s as if my populist backing is a PR team
and any swaggering on my part
carries the earnestly awkward modesty
of Tim Duncan at a post-game interview.
I’m Paul Pierce calling game and shit-talking the bench
and then going gauche “it was nothing” Kawhi Leonard
to the cameras.
But that’s some under the surface shit, then.
I talk myself into my swag and then
revert to civilian after I verbally savage stunt
on the small-time localized powers that b

>>6845532
Avoid repetition, stuff like "game" and "shit" being heard twice just break the flow. I don't understand why you choose to make this a poem as well, it reads fine in verse. If you want to use free verse try being more creative with it. Using football players is interesting, but again don't expect many people in /lit/ to know what the fuck you're talking about. Also try and be nicer to yourself, it's a good place to start if you want to be kinder to others.

The midnight monumental
lackluster pick-me-up highlights
of weeks gone by hypnotize
even the unlikeliest victim of
a tomorrow sold as Tomorrow.

A hundred different shades
of the white stuff lines up
in order for you to lighten up.
Mornings marred by those
sudden headaches and nights
gazing up at paramedics saying
“wake him up before the storm breaks!”

Is there no rest?
None for the wicked.

Wait just a second and
hold on a minute. This time
I’m different, “I swear it”.
I fill my lungs with the holy ghost,
let me crush up this heavenly host.
A single moment of peace in revival,
I float to heaven, now heed my arrival.

You resuscitate me with a poison vial,
and mar my lips with a lover’s bile.
But if in this passing windmill’s current,
you fail to see the lasting moment.
In all your fading youth’s expression,
you move to move the sleeping giant,
yet he still slumbers and all keeps quiet.

So I dream there’s a place in the country
where my elixir always refills.

>>6845532

You're a shiny clown to me and the powers that b

>>6842990

Is taking material from 4chan really plagiarism?

I need to know for...reasons

>>6845722
nope you have free reign. everything on 4chan is memematerial and memes are public domain.

No one would take someone seriously trying to build a case about something they posted on 4chan

>>6842965
>>6845878

>>6845722
>>6845844
>No one would take someone seriously trying to build a case about something they posted on 4chan

You could destroy a writer though. If you fished out posts and story outlines from the archive and made a case that 'x' author was even associated with this shithole, their career would be in ruins.

Each day gone, skin’s stretched down:
a slug creeping along a razor’s edge,
and the hummingbirds hearts hum,
slowing atop a tortoise’s shell, empty.
And the sky rips and pulls apart at dawn,
and its twin–unveiling a Sistine beauty:
a meager pointilist’s purple hints,
a binary system of eternal obscurity.
But then, a young ticker passes gas
and chuckles to himself at lunch,
fancying only his own follies which
his attention so often solely seizes.

>>6845925
It depends on the writer. Like if it was someone who wrote shit like 50 shades I dont think anyone would care much.

>>6845925

you might be overestimating how edgy this place is lmao

literally no-one would care

tao lin used to be on here and no-one gives a shit

tao lin got shit on by gawker for self-promotion like five years ago and now he's getting interviewed by the paris review

Sometimes I struggle more
with meaning what I mean
than saying anything.
Saying at all is a struggle,
mechanically.
Not talking like Texan Slavoj
is affectation itself.
The guy who invented New Sincerity
wrote a book and said
it's supposed to be a dialogue between
Wittgenstein and Derrida
and then told everyone his favorite book
was by C.S. Lewis.
And then he told everyone
they can beat their ennui
by imagining how sad everyone around them is.
And then he killed himself.
Sleep like a lie detector
rather than a tide.
Talk like a timid Sean Connery
and ask yourself
why your journal entries have similes

>>6843452

You're not alone, I'm not entirely convinced the other posts weren't samefagging.

>>6846595
>Talk like a timid Sean Connery
>and ask yourself
>why your journal entries have similes

I must have read those last three lines ten times over by now. I absolutely love this

>>6845376
http://pastebin.com/ABgAgzWE
Tweaked it a bit, will continue editing. This isn't a normal style to me so it may seem wooden, really I'm just trying to pen out ideas.

Critique would be really appreciated, going to sleep.

>>6846595
yeah this is actually really impressive.

it has a really good flow and while its content is generally pretty basic it doesn't matter and oof the ending lines. good job!

>>6846814
>>6846838

>jizzing over written slam poetry

When did /lit/ lose any and all taste?

This is pretty blunt:


The stars do agree,
I shall not be free,
And they shall seek to imprison me.

In the cell of fate,
Where I'll find my soul mate,
And consume all that is innate.

>>6847296

really bad and cheesy

do you not know how scansion works?

>>6843043

>sir, evil's a sane poem (oh, no...)

will stay in my memory

Dawn, slow to her feet, lazily picked each star out of the sky as streaks of blue and red crept over the horizon. The new day breathed life into the sea, and zephyrs raced bellies low to the oscillating swells. Winds caught the snapping sails. A bronze prow met the breakers head-on, slicing them in half. The salt spray, rocketed on deck by the repeated thunderous collisions drenched the knotted backs of the rowers. Seasalt reminded Ilius of the sap of the cypress trees he used to climb in his father’s villa when he was a boy. Sticky and viscous, he could not get it off his hands and in a panic, grabbed his father’s centurion helmet to try and wipe it off. His father found him later that day cowering behind the tree he had climbed earlier. Clutching the helmet the sap had stuck to his hands, Ilius could not see his father through the hot tears stinging his cheeks, but he heard his familiar gentle laugh as he picked him up and they both walked down to the river. Little footsteps kept pace with long strides. When they were both at the bank’s edge, his father instructed Ilius to submerge his hands and helmet into the water. Slowly, the gentle current washed away treebark, pebbles, and finally the sap from his hands as they became free of the smooth steel. Ilius fell asleep in his father’s arms that night, head rested against the feathery plume of the helmet. The coarse residue of the sea spray made his hands feel useless, but it was not as warm or ticklish as the sap he had felt years ago. The sun, now white hot in the sky, peeled skin and opened blisters, exposing flesh to the baking light. One-hundred eighty oars each in sync with the next did not cease to fight the frothing current, obeying the final authority of the drum. Row. Row. Row.

It’s a pretty girl in a tub. Last time I searched tubgirl it was gore. I was the age at which people read young adult fiction (that is, not quite a young adult) and I was already late for the party. I was in 5th grade in 2007. The internet would be dead by the time I could use my real age on porn sites (not that porn sites were needed until about 7th (though I didn’t learn to masturbate until midway through 11th (which made the oral sex in 9th and the sex sex in 10th weirder than usual (I imagine (not like I’ve come (orgasms (while awake at least (my embarrassment over this is how I learned to do my own laundry)) didn’t happen until 11th) of age more than once))))) and Gaia was already a thing. My older (6th grade) friend told me about them on MySpace. The pop-ups had naked women and I searched “how do I erase history” instead of “how do I block ads.”

This girl’s prettier than tubgirl (not that I would know because I haven’t been to a shock site in five years and I always closed everything before I saw a face) and either died while poorly playing dead or does a decent dead face. Her arms aren’t bent the right way to be masturbating so maybe it’s just deep thought. Context kills content, however, as I know the subject (her existence is a function of mine). I know her sister better. I know her breasts used to be a bathing suit and I know she’s not dead and not a particularly gifted actor (I find the term actress silly (though now I question whether or not pointing that out undermines my aim to normalize (and now I question whether I aim to normalize at all (like what if I’m just shoehorning in vague nods to social justice in a passage about growing up just to pander (and whether or not normalization should be male-centric (i.e., why not call males actresses instead of calling women actors)))))). And you know that too because if someone died in a bathtub the first responder wouldn't send along their last picture. She could be schlicking (can I say that if I’m not a woman? I feel like a white person using a racial slur (I don’t know)) if you ignore the arms. And her face is so pretty and the tiles are so dingy and the lighting centers on her upper body so you aren’t looking at her elbows. Or maybe she doesn’t need to bend her arm that way because she’s using a showerhead. The invention of the front camera (this is free prose I’m not researching that) means she wouldn’t have that “act natural” look from being photographed masturbating. The purple and the grime could be a clash of death and Disney. It’s desperately trying to pretty up perceived ugliness and it just makes it worse. Maybe Ally isn’t that pretty without the makeup. But purple can’t fix dirt and foundation won’t fix cheekbones.

The guys’ bathroom is in a far worse state than this I guess. I imagine all sorts of filthy things being written on the walls inside the stalls, people arguing week by week as they notice something else has been written, lists of girls they want to bring into the toilets with them and fuck with not a shred of respect or courtesy. I’ll write ‘I really bet Peter’s cock is nine inches long’, except I won’t. My handwriting is too recognisable and I haven’t yet gotten to the point where I can steal someone else’s, or even disguise my own to a reasonable extent. It would make this place more alive; everything is bleached white and brushed steel. It smells that way too. Sometimes you can smell the guys’ bathroom from the other end of the corridor – is their toilet just a flat floor with piss drains? That’s what it smells like, but I guess I’ll never know.

I get claustrophobic when I spend too long sat on the toilet too. A weird intruding force makes itself known in my head, as if my entire skull is shrinking and crushing my brain into a pulp; the stall walls mimic this confinement. I have to quickly finish up and leave when it starts happening. My breathing accelerates and my heart begins pounding and I can’t get over it until I’m out for a good ten minutes (It makes going the bathroom during class-time [almost] dangerous). I can’t reasonably go back to class in the middle of a panic attack, they might up and send me a first-aider or a councillor, and I don’t want anyone prying into my body or my brain. For the most part.

I’ve considered skipping English altogether and winging the exam. I’ll ignore whatever coursework assignment we’re given and just write a mini-thesis on Crime and Punishment or Anna Karenina and watch a very confused Julie Barker try and make sense of the result. I’m sure she’d try. The toilet is such a comfortable place to s(h)it and think, sometimes I find myself wishing I could spend hours in here – sometimes I do. On days where I know some club or other is running and they won’t lock the doors an hour after the bell goes I sit in here for a while, I can get so much thinking done in here it doesn’t even make any sense. Not that I ever think about anything important, though I like to pretend every bit of time I spend thinking is surreally important. Almost all of the time I’m in deep thought I’m lost in a circle of thinking about why I think so much (I definitely think about that too much), and so I chase my metaphysical tail for a while.

Hogman Slugman, Archpropriepraetor of Great Ghetto and Adjoining Muckprovinces, hatched from a slimy egg (brain) his Masterplan. To gather Rose, viola Dzon-Amur, Manslug Manhog mite(man) be a Brute and etu su Seizer, Orange Julius. Freud the Prude mite(men) likey-likey too. Dubly Oedifuse'd, Slughog Manman (Alias: Allthewaydown) sinbollocks'ly flipflopped and chipchopped Daddy's littlelump of mandung, and was wiz Hec'd to Damn for bananabeating to Rosolt. Fuss did begat the sorries of Dung Werthier-than-thou.

Too obvious a rip-off of Finnegans Wake?

Butterflies gliding from flower to flower,
And sparrows singing in the morning hour
An ice cream truck comes round the bend
For you and Sally and all your friends

You drink the cup of the fluttering noon
And lose your sense in its stupid fumes
You rest by happily dappling boughs
That wag under the evening’s brows

With arms around your Sally sweet,
You look upon the stellar sweep
This hanging hour, you’re still a boy
Still running through your mile of joy

>>6843015
"he knew those hadrons sure were interesting"
change to hardons, otherwise great

>>6845413
Thanks for reading. I needed to hear that.

>>6847378
This is great. The only real criticism I have is "hot tears stinging his cheeks", I think you can come up with something better.

Killing the inner cuck

Now, here’s a trade secret for all you burgeoning BEARS, BUCKS, and BREEDERS out there wondering how exactly does one tackle his inner cuck, let alone KILL the little scamp? Let me tell ya partner, it AIN’T EASY, but ya gotta do it.

First you have to go within yourself, analyse the inner you, strip back the layers; the facade, the mask you wear to society, to your friends and family, the mask you wear to yourself. What’s there? A scared little cuck, he’s already started tucking, maybe hes doing a little gay for pay? A little sissy/cross dresser online, lazily playing with his dick on chaturbate until the token threshold is reached and u can plug that sissy breeder hole with a nice big dildo? Next thing you know that little cuck is a bug chaser, hes frequenting glory holes, swallowing charged load after charged load until he catches that sweet sweet butterfly. Before long you’ll be attending POS only BDSM parties and having that little cuck hole breeded by over 50 possed up bucks in in one night!

DO YOU WANT THAT? NO? THEN KILL YOUR INNER CUCK, grab his little kike throat and rip it out, piss on him, bludgeon his face in, pull him apart like soft bread.

Once you’ve killed your inner cuck you can start to rebuild yourself from the ground up. Replace your inner cuck with a white man, a strong beautiful white man, who loves his wife and children, goes hunting and fishing, has a fully licensed arsenal of assault weaponry, hand guns and rifles. Your white man should be god fearing - in the very least agnostic - he should reject zionist and socialist tenants like multiculturalism, homosexuality, minorities and other such cuck nonsense. Your white man should denounce the leftwing media powers of cnn, msnbc and other such zionist fronts, Wolf Blizter is an evil, evil lizard man.

Your inner white man is self-sufficient, lives off the land in a house his white forefathers built. A beautiful farm in wyoming, laced with oak and palm, skirted with whispering woods and secret rivers, this is your white man’s ancient fortress. It is from this monoethnic stronghold of traditional values and earnest, honest living that you shall launch your manifest destiny and rebuild yourself into the strong, potent man of moral fortitude and forthrightness you always should have been.

Be good to your inner white man, respect him, cherish him, give him nourishment, consume only what is good and just in this world of cuck, kike and liberal values. Love him, for he is you, and you are him. Only when you have a strong, independent white male inside of you will you attain the qts you seek.

>>6843076

describe the environment based off the character's mood. if he's happy he'll see things in a different light than if he's sad or upset

>>6847573
Joyce is one of the most respected writers in English. Considering that, very very few people will read FW past le riverrun. So that should tell you whether it's beneficial for you to write in this style.
>>6847578
If you're going to rhyme, it needs to rhyme. I do think your metre is effective.
>>6847829
Assuming this is satire. Your subject is pretty limiting - who is going to be interested and amused by this beyond /lit/? t I don't really see any sort of thought into how it's set up - just a jumble of shit, you know?

>the crowd ushered into the big red top tent
>thomas was eager to see the freakshow, it was his first time and hed never been so excited
>the crowd took their seats
>the lights turned out, all was dark
>thomas can barely contain his anticipation
>hes trembling with excitement
>the lights burst on, illuminating the entire room
>on the stage, once empty, now stands a conductor

>“ladies and gentlemen tonight we have only the FINEST and most TERRIFYINGLY repugnant freaks for your enjoyment!”

>the crowd however is most interested in one freak, the fabled PCOS girl
>suddenly they begin to chant in unison

>“BEE OHH CEE, B O C, B O C!”

>thomas joins in, the entire 500 strong crowd has began to create a cacophony of sound, the tent begins to shake at the mercy of their lust for the famous freak
>the ground begins to shake in unison with her footsteps - she comes, beckoned to their call, the crowd settles, eagerly awaiting their prize
>she emerges, 200lbs of bodyweight and 50lbs of clit, waddling out brandishing a full beard, a hideous hooked nose and am imposing anime collection.

>all those details seemed irrelevant to thomas however, it was what she was pushing in that gilded wheelbarrow that he and the crowd had come for

>the biggest clit the world has ever known

>she stopped, scowling at the crowd who were at this point clutching for their handkerchiefs, the stench of the foul voluminous clit was enough to kill a man if he strayed too close to its blood red body

>thomas soiled himself all over his new pantaloons, he didnt even notice, all he could think about was that BIG OLD CLIT

>finally the hideous creature known as PCOS girl ripped off the herringbone blanket that had masked the heaving mass

>there it was, the biggest, baddest reddest clit in the entire world, it looked like the starchilds head from 2001 only red, surrounded by visible stench lines, covered in sweat and yeast

>>6847961
>it was all thomas could do not to feint, never in his life had he seen such a repulsive, repugnant thing, it was otherworldly, some lovecraftian nightmare made real by a mad, hedonist god of slime and refuse.
>many members of the crowd did feint at the sight of the BOC, a woman to thomas’ left fell to the ground and was crushed under the feet of the fast maddening audience
>women shrieked, cried, bawled, men howled in agony and terror, gnashing their teeth and clawing at their eyes. those of weaker constitution shat and pissed themselves, many who by now had been driven to madness began to eat the feces that was filling the room.
>thomas was fixated on the giant mass, the seething, heaving red planet.
>PCOS girl had just begun her mad spectacle, her babylonian ritual of sodom and death
>she placed both hands on the clit and began to writhe them to and throw, this way and that, they passed over and up and down the filthy fleshball, slipping and clapping as the sweat and yeast formed a deadly paste.
>the clit began to tremble and undulate, expanding in mass, higher and wider did the terrible red ball climb, its musk doubling in potency - a man in the front vomited up a bloody mess before collapsing, dead.
>it was then thomas knew that he hadnt come to a freakshow at all, nay’ this was a sacrifice.
>the synthesis of sweat, yeast and precum metastasized, horrible sickly yellow yeast tentacles sprung formed on and around the clit.
>they reached out into the audience, entwining and coiling any that they came into contact with in festering serpentine grip of death.
>as the sickening orgy of feces, death and sodomy went on around him, a filthy yeast tentacle slithered its way to thomas who was still transfixed on the ritual that would be his ending.
>as the tentacle creeped up his leg and into his mouth. the only words that came to him as he met his fate were ‘thats a big old clit’

Currently on psychedelic drugs, decided I'd try and write a poem. I can't tell if it's any good or just cringe:


I am the moment of impact
I am the bull’s tensing neck
I am the madman’s tooth
I am the fist, hard as ironwood
I am the knee and elbow and jutting bone edge of implements primeval
I am the dull red glow
I am the smell of sulfur
I am lust and rage and triumph incarnate

>>6848057
This is beautiful, but I would take out the parts
>knee and elbow
>madman's tooth
I like "dull red glow", but it doesn't fit in with the rest as it is generally something you would see long after a "moment of impact" and not before it. I would also replace "incarnate" with something else.

>>6844783
>>6844783
I made the post right above yours.To what degree do my descriptions impede understanding/enjoyment? Should I make it less verbose?

>>6848354


I am the moment of impact
I am the bull’s tensing neck
I am the madman's fist, hard as ironwood
I am the jutting bone edge of implements primeval
I am the smell of sulfur
I am the dull red glow
I am lust and rage and triumph commensurate

Is that better?

>>6848370
Reminds me of a quote about the Masai people
>"war was like work and his mind rejoiced to think of it".

>>6848380

that's perfect

I'm not too big on the whole /lit/ scene and I've never actually written anything. I've played out a few stories in my head, but they're all just action shit that would better fit in a movie or videogame. However, there is one idea that I've had recently, and I'd like to know what you guys think about it. I don't want to get seriously devoted to it unless people would actually enjoy it.
The plot would basically be about this sheltered kid going into high school alone. Even though he has no friends, he goes in with an open mind. Because of his desperation to avoid being alone, he tries to get in with whatever crowd he can. So he makes a few friends that aren't exactly good people, but he tells himself he's only an acquantance to them. He gets into some light drug use (weed, cigarettes, alcohol, shit like that). Things go pretty steady for a while until he goes to a party or something, at which point he caves in and does some harder drugs for the fun of it. After crossing this line, he decides to go all they way (albeit still gradually) and start stealing shit, robbing people and becoming addicted to whatever hard drug. I don't know exactly how I want it to go down (suicide probably) but I want the ending to be a tragedy. The entire premise of the story would basically be him justifying every one of his actions as his world views dtary to change gradually, as wellcas constantly reinforcing the fact that he sees himself as an accessory to everything, that everyone else is doing all this shit and he's just following along of his own accord.
Thoughts?

>>6843043
what does debt bed mean

>>6843015
This was a lot of fun to read, you did a great job. Keep up the work and don't stop practicing your writing

Here's mine:

Atop the mountain, my eyes swept the horizon. Innumerable paths diverging in all directions lay before me--all well-worn, all more travelled by than the one before it. I turned to my father and said “I’d like to go where someone has never been before, but every road I look down is neatly paved and brightly lit.” He slowly drew in a breath and replied “Well, if every road has been trod a thousand times, I guess you’ll have to learn to fly.” With that, we looked up, in perfect silence, at the stars.

Thoughts?

>>6843015
"If you call him Iron mike, he punches you, don't do that"

Kek, this is a book that will sell.

>>6849200
7/10 for my standars.

But hey, I know very little of literature.

I made a post yesterday, the one that stated I had just started writing my novel. The picture was of a knight holding his helmet. I'm only going to post chapter 1 for now, it's pretty uneventful but it gives you an idea of the story. Also, this is book is supposed to be action, not romance. You can't really tell yet, though.

http://pastebin.com/fR8fDWsD

When at home, I seem to spend an awful lot of time up here. What few friends I have spend their time doing introverted things too. If they didn’t, I might actually go out more. I’m happy enough here. Though when I say here, I mean I’m happy when I’m left to myself and I can forget the entire world exists, if it exists outside of my perception, it doesn’t really exist, does it? The moment we stop experiencing someone, by any of the senses, they simply stop existing until the next time they are back in our life. I’m glad that I get to exist all of the time, it must be such a drag for everyone else only existing when I’m around.

On the other hand I’d love to see what it’s like somewhere else, in another life, in another reality. Perhaps somewhere far away and exotic, or beautiful, or interesting, or somewhere there exists people who choose not to be so dense and asinine all the time. I wish you could take me somewhere better. I wish you could pull me out of this book and take me somewhere nice, can you do that for me? If you have the ability to, please do, unless you’re somewhere even worse than here. If you’re somewhere even worse than here, I’ll just secretly text into the police station when you aren’t looking and tell them you’ve kidnapped an underage girl. So don’t even think about taking me somewhere even worse than where I currently am.

Wait, if you pulled me out of the book, would my phone still be in my pocket? Would I keep my material possessions whilst traversing an alternate plane of reality? Oh. If you pull me out and I look like I’m not wearing anything, please just let me fall back in, I can’t handle the embarrassment of being naked in front of some stranger. In fact, before you try, please wait a moment, I’ll put on gloves. Then if you pull me up and my hands are bare, you’ll know to let me sink back down into this inadequate world with which I am so familiar.

I’m waiting.

>>6843015

> see all these comments
> realize it's probably really good
> look at the pastbin
> is actually just cliche and juvenile shit that literally anyone could write

So I'm guessing that nobody in critique threads generally read anything that isn't their own work?

>>6849409

It's basically just "/lit/ tries to be Joseph Heller".

He didn't do a bad job, but it's not worth all of the praise he's received.

>>6849418
Agreed, it's overrated but I still thought it was worth the time to read. Not some impressive work but a good piece of writing nonetheless

>>6843015
I've only read a couple paragraphs but the phrasing in this is rather awkward. As in, not affected, but non-native speaker awkward. Just read more and what you need to improve will become apparent.

Can anyone offer an opinion on this?

It's raw unedited stream of consciousness, so bare in mind there'll be mistakes.

>>6849363

Can anyone offer an opinion on this?

It's raw unedited stream of consciousness, so bare in mind there'll be mistakes.

>>6849767
>raw unedited stream of consciousness
This is why you're not getting critique. It reads like a journal entry.

>>6849778

Well I'm channeling 'Something Happened' and 'The Bell Jar', so I don't really think it would read any other way.

>>6846595
Guy who wrote it here, I edited it down a bit and broke up the stanzas. Is this better?

Sometimes I struggle more
with meaning what I mean
than saying anything.
Saying at all is a struggle,
mechanically.
Not talking like Texan Slavoj
is affectation itself.

The guy who invented New Sincerity
told everyone
they can beat their ennui
by imagining how sad everyone around them is.
And then he killed himself.

Sleep like a lie detector
rather than a tide.
Talk like a timid Sean Connery
and ask yourself
why your journal entries have similes

Profound words uttered by cat’s tongues alone:
diamonds in the dirt, orchids orbiting blackholes:
a lactose intolerant Swiss farmer and his prize:
a terminally ill milk-maiden, adorned in latex:
still, the fish betide not to notice the dire squalls.
And the typhoon tycoons sneeze again, uncaring,
into curtailed kerchiefs cherished by sailors
dressed in square-cut cartographers chain mail
known only by navigators and stage directors as––
now quick! Cast the iron net out again, again!
The mad captain shouting power drunk
at the naively mutinous crew, sweating.
But the roiling toil and horse-blind oil,
the rapacious engine’s greasy fidelity,
swims and swims, a furious caged White Shark,
into the glassy wide walls erected over night,
ceaselessly, slipshod, innocent gun-store children,
until blood consumes the rabid water red.

And so, if asked why, so & so says because I said so
and the world moves a million miles more, yet not an inch.

>>6849817

I think your ideas are better than your poetic execution of them, for what that's worth.

>>6849790
Unfortunately bad stream of consciousness is like being stuck in a conversation with someone you can't get away from. Don't ask what's wrong with it until you think there's something good about it in the first place.

>>6849847

I think there's something good about it. Though I feel like no singular part of it does it justice. It's a complete entity, not something from which a snippet really makes sense, though some of the snippets could be amusing.

>>6849409
>>6849418
>>6849466
>apply upboats faggots
just fucking deal with it, and don't whine on the internet white trash

>>6843452
>I prefer Flashbird to this
That's not very difficult.

It's like this: You're reading the Sunday book section and there, in a review of a
book that isn't even about physics but about how to write a screenplay, you're
confronted by that word again: quark. You have been confronted by it at least
twenty-five times, beginning in at least 1978, but you have not managed to retain
the definition (something about building blocks), and the resonances (something
about threesomes, something about birdshit) are even more of a problem.
You're feeling stymied. You worry that you may not use spare time to maximum
advantage, that the world is passing you by, that maybe it would make sense to
subscribe to a third newsweekly. Your coffee's getting cold. The phone rings. You
can't bring yourself to answer it.

Or it's like this: You do know what a quark is. You can answer the phone. It is
an attractive person you have recently met. How are you? How are you? The person
is calling to wonder if you feel like seeing a movie both of you missed the first
time around. It's The Year of Living Dangerously, with Mel Gibson and that very
tall actress. Also, that very short actress. "Plus," the person says, "it's set in Indonesia,
which, next to India, is probably the most fascinating of all Third World
nations. It's like the political scientists say, 'The labyrinth that is India, the mosaic
that is Indonesia.' Right?" Silence at your end of the phone. Clearly this person
is into overkill, but that doesn't mean you don't have to say something back.
India you could field. But Indonesia? Fortunately, you have cable—and a Stouffer's
lasagna in the freezer.

Or it's like this'. You know what a quark is. Also something about Indonesia.
The two of you enjoy the movie. The new person agrees to go with you to a
dinner party one of your best friends is giving at her country place. You arrive,
pulling into a driveway full of BMWs. You go inside. Introductions are
made. Along about the second margarita, the talk turns to World War II. Specifically,
the causes of World War II. More specifically, Hitler. Already this is not
easy. But it is interesting. "Well," says another guest, flicking an imaginary piece
of lint from the sleeve of a double-breasted navy blazer, "you really can't disregard
the impact Nietzsche had, not only on Hitler, but on a prostrate Germany. You know:
The will to power. The Ûbermensch. The transvaluation of values. Don't you agree,
old bean?" Fortunately, you have cable—and a Stouffer's lasagna in the freezer.

So what's your problem? Weren't you supposed to have learned all this stuff back in college?

>>6849817
This doesn't gain anything, neither rhythm nor meaning, from being cut up in pseudoverse. Why don't people write these in prose with linebreaks when needed for actual effect, you can still call things "prose poetry" if the poetic intent truly requires clarification

>>6850984
This here is good writing. I enjoy it - despite probably not being able to get it. I do know there's something to get, and maybe an inkling of an idea of what there is to get, but I'm currently, I suspect, not getting it. Your style is pretty cool though, extremely appropriate to the subject matter. Don't know why, since I barely skimmed it, but it reminds me of Queneau's Exercices de style. Would read more stuff written by you.

And now, my shit. Incipit to a cyberpunk short story I'm thinking about writing. English as a second language and all that shit.

-Remember you die not for yourself, but for us all.
So says the executioner in the radiant night of the city eternal. A man stands on the wharf alone. The water pulsates glitchily, filthy with alien textures.
-Deliver us from the gyre of catalepsy.
A shot is heard and the man falls redly in the river. Left behind is only his soul, in the datastream. Ghostmachine, it exists as eschatonic will, congruent with its end.
It soars through the digital city, birdeye view through real-time mapping software in a sky torn by the endless grind of halting life. There is purpose, in the whirls of data encompassing the world, stability. Entropic patterns ticking towards stillness, a dissonant chorus rising to the final melody.
Nonexistence is impossible in the machine, but gears can do apathy.

>>6851033
I'm impressed by yr use of incipit. Despite the cyperpunk thing, I think you hit some cool points rather concisely. And if I really meant the last two sentences, I'd unplug myself.

Instead I'll tell you to rewire yr self concept. You pulse w/a sort of false earnestness that's entirely unnerving. This probably accounts for ppl generally avoiding you.

I dislike you. Yr a cheap sensationalist, clumsy and vulgar. Treading on this limp idea of 'muh internets'. A turgid prophet, a claptrap journalist and a slapdash imitator. Yr scene is like an extraordinarily amusing baby shower. Nobody takes you seriously.

It's not finished yet.

Of this world, I do sing.
In the dark, none shall see
The truth quite so plainly.

Between Luna and Sol,
We all project our soul.
Collectively, so bold!

My biggest fear in these threads is that some asshole from /lit/ will plagarizl my work

>>6851657
You must be the guy who posts with the most. I know you. I submit yr work to literary journals under my own name. And I get paid for yr hard work. Hahahahahahahanahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah ha ha HA! Jklol

>>6842965

http://pastebin.com/3fgqiKyN

A story I first wrote when I was young, lately I have given a shot at rewriting it.

Plot is basically half-inch-tall people living in nooks and crannies, their rule is to never be seen by humans. This guy ends up captured in a laboratory where they gas these little people to death, has to deal with the insane guy who thinks half-inch tall men can take down humans with tear gas and poison and shit. The idea needs work but I am curious how the beginning is, and how my writing is in general.

>>6843169

First one is dense but has potential.

Second one is faggy as fuck, dont make it so damn british.

Full disclosure I only spent about 15 seconds looking at it.

>>6851713

>all those "I"s
>all that exposition
>all those un-necessary semi-colons
>those ill-fitted attempts at literary prose

that said, you should keep writing

actually, you should probably read a lot more first

http://pastebin.com/2eAXwFCb

would you keep reading?

>>6843076
remark about the things that only your character would see, or the things that illuminate the tone you're striving for

>>6852306
>G.I. Joe fanfic
Why did you write this? Where is it going? What's keeping my interest? If I were paging through a literary magazine and found your story, it probably wouldn't have kept my interest for very long.

We lay in my broken-down bed in the dark of the early morning, drunk and sentimental. She asked me if I ever wanted to die. She said that sometimes she did. I told her that I did not. Later I thought that what I meant was absolutely never, ever, do I want to die. Oblivion holds no bleary mornings with exquisite broken women, no pale arms draped sleepily across me, no contented sighs in the moments after waking.

>>6851033
The old cliche advice about adverbs seems appropriate here.
>glitchily
>falls redly
are just not considered as good taste in this day and age.

>>6853665
Fair enough. But do you have any suggestion about alternatives to use here? Because writing the piece I wondered if I could use something else instead of those two adverbs, but couldn't fit anything else in their place.

>>6853681
I don't know, one alternative that seems popular is to sometimes just use the adjective in the same syntaxical spot,
>falls red
which is more or less cheating the sentence into recalling the same ideas and associations without the stylistic offense, though I guess it does still ambiguously apply the idea more to the subject-as-affected by the verb - than the verb itself.

>>6851846

I read a lot. I know it's a kinda weird style; I was trying to replicate how I wrote when I was younger, but I guess it kinda fucked up.

I'll work on it, thanks.

Symmetry was everywhere
Across my face, around your hair
But now, with wilt, is not so found
Your shape to put my arms around

>>6850984

Does this give your heart an erection that sprays come all over yr fingers typing away at yr laptop?

Does it make your brain pulse like the heart inside the bone cage of a pre-teen boy's chest when he first sets eyes on a pair of breasts, nipples exposed, that are not his own mother's?

You have talent, obviously—we did read it—but we must advise you to reach sinistrally into the black seagreen unconscious and grip the clear white id-creatures that glow and pulse with electricity and present it dextrally: that is, force that pounding corona through the clicking steel machinery of English grammar.

Bring us the heads of yr heroes.

The face of God was written by only about a dozen authors and we all have access to the complete works. Their words shoot chemically in humanity's minds signifying nothing and I think you can slip your words in their too.

>>6849363
I've written all the truth I know for the past ten posts, exactly 900 words—including these— and I'd have your fingers rotting in dumpsters from Nova Scotia to Cabo if I could. Absolute truth is a very tough thing to take and don't take these dangerous words seriously. But our time is a commodity of the lowest value, somewhere deep in the earth feeding the roots of the pines that provide each breath you take.

[The air yr breathing is actually from algae—cool, right?]

Keep on writing and re-wiring and make sure yr O-rings are on tight.

>>6847526
You had me sigh so hard I cracked a rib and that rib floated through my consciousness and here we are at different times looking at the same words—we find that by putting things in writing we can understand the End and It a little more objectively maybe or maybe yr words are merely tools you use to put your fragile order of How The World Works into the collective conscious, if you didn't lie to yourself and use the collective unconscious of the programmed world of TV and Literature and Approval and Capital Words and Worlds and I'm so sorry. Really.

>>6855983
>>6855939
>>6855897

>>6844928
Ever feel the crab claws of nothingness try and crawl out of yr skin? Well, I'm w/you either way.

I'm down w/yr story actually.

There is a moment when I saw the size of God's bright blue alcoholic eyes glint in yr post. On the downside, you were only able to post so much.

Use pastebin so we can read more.

>>6855991
Dunno dude—just finished Lot 49 yesterday and started V. today. And yeah, I know, right? I'm happy to see the resemblance too. [We're from the same area of NY—must be the water]

>>6856032
Check out my n-dashes.
--------------------------------------------

>>6856047
D:

I must say:

Like most of the others, you, a shaver, a fecund mistake, a time-sucking stupid -dasher is always never alive long enough to be properly executed by the intelligent secret society belonging elite, and yet I feel somehow that my instincts burn too brightly in this mycological darkness.

I share a vicious pessimism about my betters that some of us—you—make real in the form of shit-posts.

I will take the honest road, the one floating above the sighing trees with best of /lit/ where clits inevitably make it over the top sending their owners into frothing frenzies.

At the same time, I share an incandescent suspicion that you are smoldering with feel and awkward mistimed goosebumps.

Thanks for sending off this parade of senselessness.

>>6856073
>I share a vicious pessimism about my betters that some of us-you-make real in the form of shit-posts.

>>6855897
>>6855939
>>6855983
>>6856018
>>6856032
>>6856073
the ineluctable modality of terminal idiocy in a synthesis of clever shapeshiftingshitposts.

>>6856248
This is exactly the kind of thing the Book of Revelations warned us about.

>>6849767

bear*

>>6856867

10/10 response, starting my day off to be a good one. Thanks anon.

Can't believe I missed that when I posted it.

>>6845722
If true, it's probably more about liability than anything.

>>6851033
I like gibson, too, but this reads way too much like gibson, and not quite as fun. I think you should try finding your own voice more, and his less. It's not terrible, but it's not you either.

The entrance into a faculty of ease
From congenital disfigurements, by no means a breeze
Watching chimeras dancing with their shadows
Reminiscent of slinking spirit animals unhung in the gallows

Wax candles sink into the tables
We're both getting lost in fixated fables
Safety nets woven from marionnette cables
Homicide of youth, are we culpables?

Enraptured with an indulgent emissary
Decipher our litany of allegory
Silence is a word of misery
Left alone at home by mystery

Burnt out by a body set afire
Power of the mind might quell desire
Enroached by every self stylised umpire
It's just a mound of flesh, not an empire.

Six doorways open up a sense of soul
The closet mind's eye is a pontificated role
I am losing an inner voice from a weary shoe sole
Cracking up all around a ceremonial bowl

Title: Fractal Lies

Odd to be outnumbered five to none
Living tropically untouched by the sun
Little petit four , someone's idea of fun
One last sip and I hope I'm done.

First draft of short story I wrote about people I see on Instagram, will not make sense if you are over 23.

http://pastebin.com/B6sh1LDZ

Title: Lighten Up

It is chilly where I am standing. The sky is detached, what little of it peeks at me. Mammatus clouds hobble through the sky like buoys staying afloat in sinking air. Opulent spheres of ice sag through the timelapse of an indecisive stratosphere. I am an optimist only beneath wandering clouds.

...

Unclasping the front of a mohagony pouch, the supple worn leather caresses my fingertips. Its touch lingers as I free my phone and wallet into my pocket from my other hand. My olfactory senses are greeted by freshly dried autumnal herbaceousness as the maw flaps wide. Deep and robust in aromas, I sense sweet tannins in the background, a prelude of flavours to come. Rummaging through my back pocket, I dig deep for my matches. The palette goes dry as anticipation and realisation meld together in an antechamber of deflated regret.

---

I need a light.

Mmm..

http://pastebin.com/6WN2WykX

>>6857889
>My olfactory senses are greeted by freshly dried autumnal herbaceousness as the maw flaps wide
Cool.

>>6858162
Sometimes I want to have the motivation to write in my native language.

>>6858868
Do it :)

We saw dead bodies several times in our work. Usually from a distance, so that it was the same as seeing nothing at all. Occasionally a limb or a head could be discerned under the shroud. Sometimes a finger peeked out. As young as we were, we were not allowed to do the duties touching too close to the dead. Part superstition, part philosophy - a religion of sorts. Yet despite all, twice we came close to the dead. But only twice. The first was on de-greening detail. We were sent into the bordering forests to cut shrubbery and prepare the land for loggers - part of the perpetual expansion of the graves. The dead never rest. There, barely a few footsteps deep in the forest, we discovered a body hanging by rope from a tree-branch. A lemon tree. We had discovered it by smell. I am unsure that we could have noticed it by sight; it was covered in forest-life: vegetation and insects. A human hive, blood no less sweet than honey, flesh and bone no less a home than a comb. I threw up immediately. Joe, who had a weak stomach followed soon. The others pinched their noses and coughed.
The odor of death and limes is one I cannot cleave.
We stood stunned, some of us heaving, others in wonder. The bone of the skull shined through the skin, half eaten. The jawbone was fully visible, the cheek-flesh was stripped away, we saw more teeth than we could stomach. The clothes had either become flesh or had eroded. The chest was covered in insects, mosses, fungi. The arms were bare of clothes and of skin. A few fat fingers were intact, toes, thumbs, forefinger. The rest were gone. The eyes were intact, eyelids eaten way. Lips, nose, ears, legs, feet, throat - skinless and white. Hair was still there, full and thick. Everything else, depleted. Except for the rope, which, apart from a few loose fibers, was still strong. The round noose was caught on the jaw, for the neck was too thin. We stood staring, perhaps for hours, unable to comprehend. Then, gradually, we emerged from our stupor and Wil shouted at us and we ran for help. A half-hour later men with authority came and surveyed the area. They led us away gently, we went home early, slept uneasily. The next day and the next week we talked of nothing else. What happened? How did it happen? Who was it? Why? When? Was it anyone we knew? Did anyone else know him? We gathered details from adult conversations, pieced together our own narrative. He was a young man, spurned in love - unable to cope with rejection, he had hung himself. He was a hardened criminal, with over a hundred robberies and at least a hundred murders; he had betrayed his gang and had tried to run but was caught and was lynched. He was the son of an overbearing father, pushed too hard to be too perfect, he became hateful and angry, his death was vengeance, he died cursing and spitting. He was a philosopher, he was a poet, he was a writer, a rich man, a poor man, a fool, a sage. He was possessed by a demon, he was a martyr of god.

He was a sign, he was a coincidence. He was a native, he was a foreigner. He was a man of principles, he was a hack and a coward. Perhaps he was one of us, tired or broken by our ways, unable to continue the work, he had ended his life. We did not believe this, it made us uncomfortable.
Do you remember his cheek, and how it was gone? Just gone, like melted snow. Did you see his teeth? White, never seen ‘em so white. Did you notice those eyes, oh god, I can still see ‘em if I close mine. And oh that smell! Never gonna eat a lemon again. Never. And so it rolled in our heads, as storm clouds roll in summer nights. Lightning was in the air - we jumped at squirrels, laughed nervously, glanced behind us while we walked home, avoided doing anything alone. Suddenly we began to think, we saw clearly. We felt as if our eyes had seen all as a reflection upon water, soft and fluid and the water had frozen, and the reflection was clear and cold. We could not understand this conception of death, our young minds rejected the grim entropy. Was a half-eaten tongue, or a half open ribcage, death? Perhaps it did not end at the rope or the noose - the last breath, the final brain-flash. If it continued when the maggots burrowed, when the wasps broke through skin, when the fungal roots wrapped around bone and sinew - we could not handle these consequences. Our work lost its flavor. We began to eat mechanically, all things lost their taste, we began to starve.
What were we doing? Were we wasting away, dead before death? Perhaps it did not begin at the at rope or the noose, at the taste of self-annihilation, at moss digestion. We began counting and measuring. Determining our lives by sunsets, by the blade of a time-piece. Finer and finer we measured, until there was nothing, until we panicked. A listless panic, an arm-hanging, feet-dragging panic. Like the last moments of drowning. Fear gored us. We were afraid to clean inside the mausoleums, our hearts fluttered when the darkness came, our stomaches fell with the sun.
On the surface we joked:
“Don’t make me get the rope, there’s a nice lemon tree just near here!”
“You smell lemons?”
“No.”
“You will, if you don’t shut up!”

>>6859534
Grabbing our throats with our eyes rolled up, peeling back our eyelids and moaning at each other, then hollow laughter followed, then silence. Our spines tingled whenever we saw another body brought in, with the long procession and the deep hole. We lost sleep because of those eyes, and because of those lips. Mike and Joe quit their usual gambols. Stan smiled less, spoke less. Stu, had a look of perpetual serenity, but shook whenever he returned to that moment. Wil, only Wil, strange as it was, remained straight, unaffected in appearance, manner and therefore brutality. He worked with the same diligence as when he began. He ate with the same gusto, and probably slept in a similar peace. Perhaps by stupidity alone he had evaded our fears. Perhaps that was true wisdom.
In such a state we worked, a week and a month. Then we forgot. Our attention moved on and redefined our existence and time dissolved our memories. Though the smell of lemons could unnerve us, though the sight of flies made us queasy, though our dreams remembered, we moved on. However simple a life may be, if punctured by the incredible, it returns, always, to simplicity. Why the repeated miracles and sent- again prophets? We now knew.

Bump

for what
love is i
will lonly try toward
the love r who lies next to

me in the lo
oneliness of the

heart that I'll

see but keep
with him across from me whom is more

deserving of such

than i who sees in
love as many

rooms i have walked in
to moreso than
this one

Just wrote a description of a sunset, glad to hear some opinions:

Deja started giggling at that, helpless, unable to stop, covering her mouth prettily with her hand. The sound of it, innocent and carefree, made Duke feel unspeakably restored. They watched the sun go down over the ocean, Deja in total awe as the orb sank slowly, transitioning from orange, to red, to a deep lavender beyond belief, dying the clouds and rippling sea like watercolor paints, seeming to melt as it hit the horizon, spreading out into the water in tendrils, syrupy, oversaturated, the waves shifting arcs of colorlessness breaking it up, the clouds spreading out, darkening, until the last shred of the sun turned a lurid, alien green, split apart, colored the whole horizon that way, then disappeared, finally, from sight.

“Groovy,” managed Duke.

>>6843015
tl;dor2pgr

Tom Robbins light, Douglas Adams dilettante.
Not saying it is bad, simply sloppy

>>6859531

This is realllly good. Very polished and intelligently written. I wouldn't be surprised to see this kind of writing in a published novel. That being said, here are my criticisms:

> a body hanging by rope from a tree-branch

I think this could be shortened to a "a body hung from a tree-branch". How else would you hang a body if not by rope?

>The odor of death and limes is one I cannot cleave.

I didn't understand this line. How do you cleave a smell?

I also think you spend too much time describing the corpse's appearance. Just a few of those details, or a summary of most of them, would suffice

>>6845925
HAHAHAHAHAhahaha HA

But you are not this naive, verily thou ist merely shitposting bye the ole whäg course

Actually the reality is very different at this moment

halcyon

come see the satin, the dusty ashes of stone giants,
what winds of change have ground your bones?
mounded in dunes they embody former glory,
but borne with the wind some seek their own story
in death did those giants know our moans?
as we lust for older days, and thirst for old tyrants

>always fun

Delusion is schizo, anon:

None of you here, as an editor, have even an inkling of talent.

>>6843015
I enjoyed it, though I see something I commonly do: the unnecessary "that". Run through all the that's in your works and make sure they are absolutely necessary. Otherwise, I found it very enjoyable and would really like to read more.

>>6861355

>projecting this hard


kekekekekek

>>6861346
Prose-poetry. No. It's one, it's the other. Pik un.

For you next piece, simply succinctly describe some thing, a line, a paragraph (soon you'll be ins as much trouble as I)^^

>>6861346
No current, heart relevant subject/theme
Dunes are not reallly mounds which is further streching your weird verb: mounded.
I like the subject, but you need to live it to write it, well.

>>6861123
>prettily
>go down over
>that many commas in a run-on sentence
Shitty prose tbh.

<(if you dont see the redtext switch to chroem
<)and here, in between formattting and internet culture, this story gebins. And aenternet cultue, no, nay. Our *present* culture. Let's not hearken back through the ages, it is this culture of our these our lives.
And answer me this; what is it but disawovement?
Freedom
Power
Ours

>>6849200
Very Stephen Frost, "innumerable blades"
Niceish but bas been done, better.
Keep writing.

Drowning under the weight of his shoulders, sleep clasping ruthlessly at my upper arms, my lids glued open to face the shallow abyss. I hate the heat of two bodies, and breathing the smell of cooled sweat. I hate the dry swallow at the back of my mouth and how young the night isn't and how long I'll be here.

I wonder where that heavy breathing thinks it is, in some surrealist dive bar seducing laughing Medusas with his stepmother's face and slurping neon green catharsis out of a bendy straw that bobs beside paper umbrellas I remember from the bar last night. I'm not in his dreams but my neck is damp with residue from his breath.

prepare thyself

'll write a better fucking poem than Kolsti's weirdo GF (stream of consciousness my ass lmao)

out there on the road tonight in loand, amsterdam. Amsterdam. Amsterdam.
Within the feelings, you won't always make it.
Zero popculture – unless you account for how he managed to do it himself.
He who waits in the coffee shops receives the ultimate high, Not only is a strength but a perceriver.
Techno encompasses the world's ethereal feelings – not pretentious!
Now I wait for the withdrawal. Unlimited senses. No longer an INTP.
And I won't mizz you. Schizoid or not, we don't know.
At what point was Hume wrong? Is or ought? When? I figured that should be that.
Enough
Enough
Enough
Enough.
On the verge of destruction, but where does it matter. :) it pounds.

Give into it, completely. Fucking fake. Or unintelligent. Whichever.

As long as the confidence burns, you can do it all. English and Philosophy – Stem?

Now I'm itching for another, dang

Two hours of walking had drained me; I decided to choose a place to settle and breathe. The yawning flatland ahead held plenty of shade, and there were groupings of people scattered here and there, amicably whiling away their lives. I paced further for a time, then found an inoffensive place to relax, innocuously. The comfort and isolation were in flux but my mind was at ease.

>>6862335
This was actually pretty good, in an absurd way.

Wrote this a couple days ago as part of the leadup to the book's climax.

He crossed the street and turned onto the Bridge of Angels. Each bearing a relic of the Passion, the winged guardians looked on as he passed them by. First the post and the whip; Terra thought of Venice, and the flash of light, and the helplessness. Somehow it was clearer than ever in his head. Second the crown of thorns and the veil; unbidden, memories of Terra's depression surfaced. He remembered the oblivion; he remembered the pain; he remembered knowing nothing at all. Third the garment and the lots, and the nails; he cast his fate to Aeon, and what had it brought him? He looked up at the sixth angel, looming on his right. He held the nails casually in one hand, the other held up in greeting. His youthful face made it seem like he had no idea what he was holding, the agony it represented.
And ahead, fourth the Cross and the paper; he had a purpose now, and a name. Terra of Budapest, the Penitent Blessing. Write TBPB on a scrap of paper and crucify me, Terra thought.
You've come so far.
Fifth, the sponge; Terra thought of the wine that was shared, of the friends that were made. Castel Sant'Anelo, red and huge and round, peered down at him. He thought of the stories that said that the castle was a hiding place for popes' mistresses, and wondered if Aeon knew the truth.
He turned left, turning his back on the angel with the lance. The tenth angel would find him when it did, and until then, Terra would savour the sponge.

>>6862620
What's it about? Seems hard to r8 without any context.

>>6862617
The fact that you think that was pretty good is worse than anything that guy can shit out.

>>6862683
And yet, people think this>>6843015 was actually good.

I've read it 3 times now, and the fact that so many people in this thread thought it was good, kinda proves how shit this board is.

>>6862701
The board's not really good for much besides baiting these kinds of people, and even then that gets boring eventually.

Friendship agony! words came to me
at last shyly. My only final friends—
the wren and thrush, made solid print for me
across dawn’s broken arc. No; yes …or were they
the audible ransom, ensign of my faith
toward something far, now farther than ever away.

Remember the lavender lilies of that dawn,
their ribbon miles, beside the railroad ties
as one nears New Orleans, sweet trenches by the train
after the western desert and the later cattle country;
and other gratuities, like porters, jokes, roses…

Dawn’s broken arc! the noon’s more furbished room!
Yet seldom was their faith in the heart’s right kindness.
There were tickets and alarm clocks. There were counters and schedules;
and a paralytic woman on an island of the Indies,
Antillean fingers counting my pulse, my love forever.

"Sight of dark, but also of gray;
makes me wish that it was day,
but the sunset washes away,
and leaves my mind in a disarray.

For then concrete marrs my every step,
and lights in neon everywhere is kept,
For hours, I pace, yearning, not wanting,
but thinking,
Of what meaning this world has to offer a lonely clover in the night.

Sweat comes dropping into my palms,
as I realize that the source of my qualms,
is the sum of my most cherished dreams, being reduced to a billboard of lights and screams.

But the sunrise comes again with it's mighty amber sheen,
To remind me that my vision needs to be exquisitely keen,
On what is true, right and beautiful,
Instead of what is void, wasted and deplorable."

pls tell me I suck

>>6861221
Thanks a lot anon. I was at the end my rope (heh) and your encouragement means a lot. I will change the rope bit. The odor of limes and death part was supposed to mean that their scents cannot be separated. 'Cleaved' is the best verb I could come up with. I'll try again. Thanks again anon.

>>6862701
I gave it read. There are good bits (the first paragraph is pretty good) But there are also glaring, cliched, bad bits. And more of them than the good bits. If its a first attempt, its good. I don't think anyone can deny that, but there is a lot of unnecessary detail that is only paper-weight. Its certainly much better than some of the other stuff here like:
>>6859534
>>6861123 or
>>6861697 or
>>6862594 or
>>6862335 and especially
>>6862335

I just finished this montage.

Wrote this two days ago. Would love some feedback.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Mocv8Z0IhLI176i2eSuGqft-UW8wBvgy3oe93y5linc/edit

>>6846595
This is from Kolsti's blog.

http://postmetakolsti.tumblr.com/post/118754600325/sometimes-i-struggle-more-with-meaning-what-i

>>6863803
Don't use punctuation you don't understand.

Also, you might be better served writing your stories as lists instead of paragraphs. At least then you will have a gimmick as a hook since your garbage writing won't get you anywhere.

>>6862594
if you love adverbs so much why don't you just marry them

>>6864202
>Don't use punctuation you don't understand.
I'm sorry lol.

[A man is standing at the edge of a railing on a bridge with a pint of cheap liquor, looking down at the watery expanse that stretches below. A figure comes out of a vortex of lightning in the sky and perches on the railing].

Angel:

O dismal creature, standing high
Above the ocean’s monstrous swell,
Your eyes a-flowing! Tell me why
You seek your ruin, tempting hell!

Guy:

It’s ok man, I just need some time alone.

Angel:

Your iron face, your sighing breast,
Betray a mind with care oppressed
Your passions, sorrows - tell me all
Are you a man, or Cupid’s thrall?

Guy:

Shit, man, hell if I know. I’m just trying
To get that paper, lmao. But actually,
My girlfriend left and I’m feeling sad
My girlfriend left and I’m feeling bad
My girlfriend left and I’m feeling mad
I want to jump off this bridge – maybe?

Angelangelalgnelangel.man!Angelman!:

This life’s a spool of golden wire,
It’s payed in unknown measures
How sad, pale youth, if you retired
Before your mile of pleasure!

Gaiuuyayay (he is sad):

Shit, man! Do you have any blunts?
Do you have any blunts? I’d love me a blunt!
Or maybe some heroin? No, I like blunts.
I’d love me a blunt, to forget about that –

Flappy-wing-man-come-save-you! Higher nobler man:

You drink from Hebe’s crystal cup
In brooding blindness, cursing luck!
Your blood yet beats, your legs still run,
Your redd’ning day is just begun!

Quotidian-everyday-lower-caste vice-indulging man:

Goddam it, bro. Fuck women, haha.
Let’s order some Domino’s. I could sure
Use an extra-cheesy pizza right now.
Maybe some mountain-dew as well.

Big-wing-go-flap-flap-flap-and-he-wants-to-save-him-but-he-won’t-listen!wont.listen.!:

Expel those phantoms stalking still
Throughout the furrows of your brain!
Upon their touch the harvest wilts
Till nothing of the crop remains!

Little-man-standing-there-he-wants-mountain-dew-and-kill-self-but-not now :

Okay! Let’s get ice cream and play chuckecheeseee!

Angel-daddy:

Okay son I Lovey ou give me kis.

fin

s

>>6862620
Good [to great] tension. I felt the riptide of his turning left, turning onto the bridge, his casual grip, his thoughts.

I looked up the spelling in my Concise Oxford American Dictionary that I have here next to my Toshiba and, sorry to nitpick, but it's spelled:

Angle

>>6861697
It's important to balance what you want to convey with clarity. Whether you read him or not, you tripped my Burroughs wire and that's always a bad thing because yr not him, he's dead with (now) junk addicted worms slithering in and out of his skull.

But yr right, this should be about you:

When I closed my eyes to think about the quality of yr ¶s—I saw one word:

Poopfingers

I don't know what it means. But maybe you do. (Sounds gross!)

>>6865849
kek

>>6859531
>>6859534
>>6859536
My retinas hurried across the throng of yr words ¶s and I have carefully weighed them just like my mommy Lady Justice sent me to PBJ Elementary School to learn how to do.

Or was it at uni while I cut class and drank tequila and ran around the library barefoot because my feet were hot from the boat shoes?

Sorry, so:

You obviously consult w/yr contemporaries but you should be beheading yr literary heroes instead. Not doing w/e you were doing there.

Stop treating time like it's a straight line—it's a damn labyrinth. Put yr palm against its cold pulsing walls. Feel that? It's yr gibbering stream of conscious.

I see it turning off somewhere in yr future.

>>6865715
There seems to be a braindead contingent of /lit/ that cannot spell.

A N G L E

A before E
N before G
L after G
But also before E

n.
1. the space (usually measured in degrees) between two intersecting lies or ideas at or close to the point where they meet.

2. a particular way of approaching or considering an idiot or person.

v. direct or incline at an angle.

>>6865715
Liquor isn't served by the pint. Only beer.

>>6843043
Something weird is that this could actually be in a good collection of poems - it's innovative and makes you feel something - but it would entirely depend on the rest of the collection to establish a sort of benefit of the doubt for you writing it

>>6865902
Um what?

>>6865919
>>6865923
it's strange that these are the parts you found striking about it

>>6865952
If you have to ask, you'll never know!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?

>>6865956
We was bein nice.

>>6865962
liquor is definitely served by the pint, i buy pints of vodka all the time

>>6861697
The second paragraph is really very good ! The first is quite bad, though. Unrefined and lacking in the nice tone the second has. Seems tasteless in comparison.

>>6863990
Hey. I imagine you know what I mean by: Bad Writing Trip Wires. Y'know, like the kind of thing that makes you stop reading?

Ok—so I took a second, a breather. If you change yr title to Eyeblink, it will make yr 1st sentence bearable.

But ye have to be fucking kidding me w/ the en-dashes. I'm being baited? I didn't get the vibe that you could go meta—so you probably just hit the minus sign thinking that you could direct sheer Lovecraftic horror in prose that has fucking --- - - - - - - all over it.

Ok—so honestly I think you have the right idea. Some darkness reached out from the deep and grabbed yr hand and said type me make me scare scare ooga booga and I commend that. Just clean up the eyeroll tripwires and dodge that internal axe-blow begging to come from w/in.

Teeg walked around the outer edge of the skywalk, his hand sliding against the smooth metal railing. He was twenty three sectors up, in the commercial district. He had just finished getting his license renewed and was now preparing to head back to his headquarters on the other side of the city.

He missed the cowboy days, before the profession of bounty hunting had become so regulated. He was one of the last to conform to the new ways, but when the federation started throwing 'rogue' bounty hunters in jail, he figured it would be beneficial to just bite the bullet and accept that times were changing. Here on earth the federation had too much control. You could try and resist, but chances are it wouldn't work out for you in the long run. On Mars things were different, or so he had heard. The same regulations were in place, technically, but there was a serious lack of federal law enforcement, meaning the cowboys were free to just continue on as they always had.

He looked over the railing of the skywalk. If you stuck your head out far enough, and looked to the side, you could look across the seemingly endless crevice between buildings that just went on and on until it disappeared into a thin ray of light. Looking up, you could see just a touch of natural daylight, peaking in between the steel behemoths that lined the earth. For the most part you would just see railings and maybe a person or two poking their heads out, same as you were currently doing.

You could look down, but you probably wouldn't want to. Most people who lived fifteen sectors or higher liked to just pretend that there wasn't a down, and who could blame them? Looking down was like looking into the deep dark caverns of hell, and if you ever were to actually go down there you would swear that's exactly what it was. Or it was at least as close to hell as your were likely to find here in the realm of mortals.

Hadn't god once punished mankind for trying to build a structure that could challenge the heavens? It was called the tower of Babel, if Teeg remembered correctly. Well, god must have lost that battle, some ten thousand years after the rebirth of his son, because that's exactly what mankind had done. They did it again and again and again, until the heavens themselves were the stomping grounds of men, and their towers raised from the earth with one elongated middle finger piercing the sky and shouting 'fuck you'.

>>6861697
don't listen to >>6865975, the whole thing is quite bad. Quit trying to sound cool and just write a fucking story.

>>6865975
The slow-rising central badness of "Yr Post" is not that it might grind down my human compassion to a nub, or that it's reluctant to impeach bad writing of a beginner whose entire literary career has been a monument to the this kind of cheap compliment and confidence voodoo he gets up to write for, but that he will fail to learn something from it.

>>6866009
Can I critique this guy's critique of that other guy's critique?
because all of it is pretty bad.

I have no idea wtf you just said, asshole.

>>6865994
In the day's first hours I have to decide whether to get out of bed or think myself unto death's lap. Oftentimes it's only the thought of a Space Cowboy Epic that gets me to roll out.

But all this raises 2 Qs:

Will I read about a bounty hunter named Teeg?
Will you travel to Mars on a SpaceX rocket in 2026 so you can take accurate notes?

Hint: The answers are selfsame, inane, and constantly unfolding over yr head as you sleep at night like the abortive music from deep space's orchestra pit before the whole universe comes crashing down again—Luckily in that instant our minds will all be in a collective electric bloom and there will be no need for yr space cowboy story (or any entertainments) and then just black.

>>6866021
My feelings :^(

I recommend full throttle commitment to critiquing. No one like the chick who just gets her toesies wet.

Cicero recommends three examples to support your attack. And if you cite some areas of agreement first, the whole throat slitting criticism will be even more effective!

>>6866036
Just tell me you liked the part where I described a building as a middle finger flipping off god and I can go to sleep happy.

I still have no idea wtf you are saying, but, I respect you.

>>6866129
Horrific as Teeg’s crimes were, they were easily surpassed by the most infamous bounty hunter of his day, Midget Mudgett, aka Dr. P. P. Poodlepounder, one of the most prolific space helmet unpluggers in Mars' history. Though he collected up to twenty-seven bounties on men, women, and children, Triple P (as he's known in the dusty tango gin joints) is regarded as having collected many more—possibly several hundred billion. Most were tracked down in the notorious “Penile Penis Penal Colony” erected in a suburb of Cydonia during the time of the great 2069 Postwar V-Day.

At around the same time that 3P (as he's called in the halls of the Grand Mars Police HQ tht wraps around the entire prime meridian of the planet) was overseeing the construction of his nightmarishly gaudy bachelor pad, another homicidal bounty hunter, Dr. Teeg Wet Cream, was busily positioning a string of prostitutes in his waterbed for a feculent fuck-sesh. Besides medical training and a taste for catching criminals, Cream shared something else with P. P. Poodlepounder. Before moving to Mars, T. Cream had committed a murder in Orlando, FL—a crime for which he had received a death sentence, though (obviously) he was escaped after raping his way through ten years and 12 different guards.

T. W. Cream wasn’t nearly as lethal as contemporaries like Boner J. Johnson, who killed eleven would-be bounties, including his own babykiller dog, his sister's husband, and five dirty spacecops. Dr. Teeg Cream won everlasting notoriety, however, with his first bounty—cut down just when the bounty plunged through the floor of the gallows—that bounty was Jack the Mars-Ripper. (!!!)

>>6843015
People say this is good or bad because it has dedication. You are dedicated in this novel to analyzing the opinions of yourself from the perspective of others. Every character is an opinion someone has about you. Do not read. Talk to people. Stay dedicated.

>>6866175
Jack the Mars-Ripper (!!!) holds a special place in Mars history for two reasons. First, the infamous butcher of Mars’ Oxia Palus ushered in the space age of serial lust-murder. And second, he spawned a spate of spooky spooks, a veritable spook unto itself that has supplied a seemingly endless string of spooks purporting to solve the spook problem.

Even though many so-called bounty hunters have claimed to have caught Mars’ most notorious laser-weilding-murderer, the bare facts of the case tell us virtually nothing about where the Mars-Ripper actually was emotionally when he went all whacko. What we do know is that he went about his lasering with unabridged photon aligning and instigated a colonywide panic, qualities that would outdo all of the serial murder cases that ever happened, like, ever. Ever, ever.

>>6843474

anyone else willing to comment on this?

>>6866206
The murders occurred between Earth September and Earth November of 2074. According to most accounts, there were so many victims in total. All were spaceprostitutes (or spacehookers), all had big ol' tities. The first victim, Malena Butte Blug, was found with both her throat and abdomen lasered. As ghastly as this lasering might have seemed at the time, it was mild compared to what would happen to the Mars-Ripper’s other victims. On Earth September 8, the killer nearly vaporized Ayn Cman, and lasered open her stomach and yanked out her wires, she was an android (!!!). At the end of the Earth month, he lasered two women in one Mars night. It seems the MRipper was interrupted and had to fly away while in the middle of lasering Lizzy Widestride, but he took his time with Catheterine Eddowed, lasering off pieces of her face, lasering her private parts, and skipping off with her kidney. His final victim was Lusty Kelly the Argonian Maid, lasered on Earth November 9. In the process of lasering her from head to toe, he lasered her nose and the skin covering her forehead, pulled out her wires, nearly amputated one of her arms, and lasered her thighs.

Most of the information we have about the MRipper—is made up—it comes from a series of apocryphal texts written by Teeg Wet Cream himself. He send it all to a news agency after he allegedly enhancedly interrogated MRipper after rescuing him from execution by a local vigilance committee. But Wet Cream is a notorious fibber and his tall tales towered in the air as a rotten breath cloud expanding as a middle finger to his creator.

>>6843474
>>6866213
GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, mommy should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects.

(2) Mommy's consumption of alcoholic beverages while her pussy was constantly leaking you-goo will impair your ability to drive a car or write well, and may cause being-boring related problems.

(3) Ghosts (!!!)

no money
no money. I didn't work, she didn't have a job.
So we thought about ways to make some. I watched her stretch and blink, still moving like she was still waking up, her tits sinking into her chest from big, body yawns when she started getting tired. We were up all night worrying about the money. (Worrying is good for you in moderation. It makes you skinny. this is why all those Jews in those old photos were so thin.)
I know from my mama, poor people get fat, and my baby, she is still so skinny, and I am still such a gentle person, but if we don't get any money she will get fat and I will get mean but it's my undying belief that getting fat has something to do with the way your muscles tense while you are sitting down, money or no money, so suddenly I shouted "Stand up cmon let's go" to my baby and I grabbed her hand and we ran outside into the street.
She was smiling but I didn't know where we were going and I hadn't said anything about money and we didn't have money to go anywhere, I just didn't want her to get fat. So we walked down the street, and of course I had to lead the way, so of course I lead. It was a long time before she stopped asking me where we were going.
All the chimneys losing all that smoke. smoke costs money.

>>6866285
Ffuucckk. Say it, feel it move around yr mouth. First you bite yr lip like a woman coming, that kind of coming where she grips you real hard, harder than you knew she could. Next is the "uh" like when a man gets head so hard he makes involuntary grunts. Then the glottal stop and the release of throat air. Fuck. Fuck fuck.

Fuck, yr writing is well paced, exciting. What's yr secret? I'm not kidding—tell me. I explained the gorgeousness of fuck, now give me yr secrets.

here's some garbage

A red pimply nose beneath oily curls,
And above scuffed DCs yanking tattered jean ends.
I've never once heard him say something clever,
Nor funnier than a video game joke (CoD)
And someday he will die.

My dicks as hard as a fuck. I need to put down the bukowsk, you know this shit should really come with a warning label; may cause errections harder than a lobster's hide please consult your fucking parents if you have a bloated ebgorged hard on lasting longer than 4 years. It feels really good though its like all of my hate for the feminine species slid down my amygdala rolled down my spine and unfurled into the tip of my pulsating flesh pipe. At this moment i am a god of misogyny the scion of chovinism the hate is pure 140 proof i can feel the sauce boiling at the base of my mine shaft slowly but surely it rises bubbling to the top the inner walls of my schlong contract and detract rapidly like a seedy symphony 1...2...3...4...SPLAT! i'm releived for another 60 seconds

>>6853487
hahaha thank you for your honesty

>>6865715
The last letter is what really makes it

>>6862762

I think you should study more. I will not tell you that you suck because you are obviously new to poetry and, to be quite honest, if you like the craft and are willing to do the work you can advance several miles in few years.

Now, to your poem: you seem to be more concerned with rhyming than with all the other aspects of poetry. For example, your verses are not well constructed when it comes down to metric. And, if you are going to use rhyme, it's natural that metrical observation shall also exist.

But you have promising lines, like this ones:

"as I realize that the source of my qualms,
is the sum of my most cherished dreams, being reduced to a billboard of lights and screams."

Nice imagery. By the way, imagery (metaphors, simile) are the most important thing, the most striking feature of poetry. I suggest you pay more effort and attention to the imagery than to rhyme. Many of the greatest poets even used unrhymed verse in many of their greatest works (Homer, Milton, Shakespeare).

>>6862737
>Remember the lavender lilies of that dawn,

Wonderful and simple verse. Wish I was the author.

Here is my own contribution to the thread. It is from a play that i am writing. The original is in Portuguese.

Masatane: Oh, great master.
With cyclone claws and butcher's hands
Death has ripped you off from the shell of flesh.
But this is past, yes, this is only past.
Death is now dead and pain has been dissolved in sleep.
That thy nest in the clouds never burn
With the electrical drones and burning
Harpies of the thunders; that the tempests
Do not to scourge your cotton crib
Into a beehive of tumult and rumble;
That the cry of the cerebral cicadas
Of the earthly neuroses do not bite you ever again
In the bed of mists where you now sleep.
That the world were you now walk be so beautiful
That the stars, that the living can see,
Be only moths of gray powder compared
To the fireflies that their neutral lamps
And cold candles have trained
To make diamonds catch fire
In the mysterious heavens of eternity,
In the galaxies that dance for the dead.
Sweet be the country that you now inhabit.

bump

I'm italian, this is one of the first poems I write in english, hope it's not too disjointed.

Pisa

I chewed the invitation to my own meanless party
since there's no need of real ones anymore.
I never tasted a sentence in my whole lifetime,
no pulp under grey teeth.
Sometimes things come to me already chewed
inside packages with trivial fantasies: cherries,
fat suns with exaggerated smiles.
the last bolus I tried to swallow was stringy
and blue, sweetnesses out of context,
children's insicurities: I felt nothing.
I sometimes think about the chewed,
trees that scrape and hope for the sky,
although every inch towards tropospheric dolphins
corresponds to a hundred
gallows' steps into the country of worms
and of what remains of...

I've posted this before a while ago. Everyone said it was shit, but I need new ways of insulting it

*

‘Can you feel the wind rushing through your body’, he asked nervously, ‘and the leaves too, they are dancing.” Her face looked pale as she gazed at the moon.

The moon speaking the sun’s light, its dry surface a wasteland unused. Dystopian future as someone put it. What a strange charm up there. Quirky. Immersed in silence she kept quiet. His nerves were bad, hers good. Silent treatment, benevolently so, healing.

The whispery sound of wind-shaken trees, soothing. What did it say? Nothing. What did she hear? Shakespeare, finding tongues in trees. Far ahead, road lamps burning a weak light, electric fire. Orange. And the night, subaquatic, a speechless ocean. Blue. The two blending, fire and water. Elementary, two simple. Primal beauty, developed. Development imploded, gone backwards. A waltz, opposites joined. Intimacy.

Maybe she should have answered, was he enjoying the silence as she was? His hands were trembling and he was looking at the ground. She figured he wasn’t. But she didn’t dare frame this asymmetry, communicate her discoveries. Don’t be so pretentious. Unwordable, therefore unworkable. Omitting various steps, the the literary bias. Speak it, and the world ceases to be. Words in charge puts a bit at large. A bit at large, a bit too large, hence not a bit. What did she mean. Exactly her point.

A car passed. Strangely hypnagogic, somehow, the motor a murmur, dormant. Enveloped in orange light, reflecting it, speaking the lamps light. The moon, the sun’s. The lamp, a metaphor for sun. Literally. Technology as metaphor? Extensions of. Has been said before. This sun, a diffident one, but we embrace it, as with vice. Alexander Pope. Electric light, pure information. Now, the point of all of this. Speaking the world and it ceasing to be. The world, unpredictable, impermanent, renovating itself, actualising itself; the word, still, a frame, an abstraction. The print, the book, a frozen world. Change without change, illusion required.

*

CRITIQUES SO FAR:

>inb4 fragmented mess
>nothing came across absolutely nil
>wow that was gay

>>6868828
You are a master of the irony of retrospect: instead of murmuring, "I wish I was worth reviewing," ye proceed to speak yr thought as though it has been spontaneous, while subtly acknowledging to the reader that all is sham, including the personality and character you thought the rest of the world projected onto you.

The post is a careful and clear, subtly balancing the formidable 4 letter word with /lit/'s shrewd provocations and stage-management.

Still, there are limits to this opportunism: it is not Shakespeare, and ye are no Falstaff.

Throughout, though, ye respects and love the reality of /lit/, certainly ye endow the great upon us.

>>6869573
Before us all we have the entire Western literary tradition from Homer through Dante to Shakespeare and you seem to have here attained its conclusion.

Romanticism, Modernism, Postmodernism—all become one, truly a single phenomenon here in yr vast yet tight mosaic.

Perhaps only now, in this millennium, can we detect signs of the sublime glory of all that has come before.

What will happen to Western secular literature in the years to come is unclear but I see you marching on, leading the rest through that white mist.

>>6869134
I liked this but the chewed up imagery is repeated a lot

>>6869573
Too tryhard. I know what youre trying to go for but tone it down a bit and it would work better. Subtlety

>>6869134
One day the patricians who had been driven out came together, killed and devoured yr poem and so made an end to the patrician horde—The violent primal penis had doubtless been the feared and envied model of each one of the company of patricians: and in the act of considering yr poem they accomplished their identification with you, and each one of them acquired a portion of your strength.

The totem poem, which is perhaps mankind's earliest form of writing, would thus be a repetition and a commemoration of this memorable and criminal boot country horsehocky, which was the beginning of so many things—of social isolation, of moral restrictions regarding youporn.

Got two here for you. I'm going to try not justify anything or edit myself because I do that a lot.

An old iron-cast or cast-iron
bathtub stares into me

spiderwebs between itself and the ground.

The bottom is marked
by last weeks rain and leaves
that don't belong to any of our trees

that spider is looking at me too

And the tub just sits outside now. And
she's not talking to me.


That's one. I'll post the next one soon

>>6869637
Ugh.

>>6869637
Next one


What the fuck was that?

The light is low and I'm
a little drunk.

I think I caught a glimpse
of the truth.

Well fuck me dead.
It tastes like blood strangely enough

I don't like the lime in my beer
Any more than she likes the truth in her head.

Deluded bitch

I'll probably forget all of this in
an hour and for that I
Resent myself

>>6869652
I want you to tear me a new one kind sir.

>>6869659
Ughhhh.

>>6869614

Took me a while but I now know who you are. Editorial chair.

Anyways my original reply read "I posted it for you"

>>6842990
>>6843000
>>6843021
This was me. It wasn't about plagiarism, it was about contractual rights. When literary magazines buy your story they're also buying first online publication rights - when they check this and discover it elsewhere online, they lose interest in buying your work, even if you just posted it to your blog, a writing forum or 4chan.

When they rejected me they gave me some good advice, though: "Relegate this to your portfolio: put it on your personal page and use it to show your writing to others. You should be prepared to have a portion of your work sacrificed in this manner in order to build your online presence. In the future, only send us work you haven't published anywhere else."

http://pastebin.com/73LV27Zg

Be brutal /lit/ :^)

>>6870481
>Protecting his family from vagrants

You and your father are fucking piece of shit

>>6870507
it's fiction autismo wizard.
Would you like some context?
Takes place during a gradual break down of civilization.

>>6869659
I like the conversational quality of the piece. But, I find your subject, tone, and diction completely uninteresting.
>>6869637
This one I think is better. I don't think the two lines about the spider add much but a confusing shift in tone; I'd take them out.
>>6869134
I don't have a problem with the chewing/teeth conceit, but I don't see any completion to it or any destination.

some lines:

Industrial gloaming glimpsed through trees
3 stars discernible - no more
The rest are behind the flaking scuzzy clouds
I am forgotten
Everyone I have ever met is forgotten
And clumsy gawky skeeters sip sup what is left.

I am the author of this piece: >>6867872

I gave critics on that post, and will give more critics on this post. Can I get some suggestions of how to improve my dramatic-verse?


>>6869134

First of all, you are lucky: Italian is probably the most beautiful language in the world.
Second: I liked the simplicity of your piece. I always have trouble using simple sentences and phrases in my poetry, and that's a thing that I am fighting very hard to learn. So contragulations for that.
I loved this line: "fat suns with exaggerated smiles.". I wish I was the author.
"although every inch towards tropospheric dolphins". Can you give me some clarification on this line?

>>6849839

I liked your poem. It contains one of the most beautiful sentences I have ever read on /lit/: "orchids orbiting blackholes". It gives me the idea of galaxies being eaten by the gravitational force of black-holes, but instead of speaking of galaxies you said orchids, what gives somehow the metaphor of galaxies as the complex flower structure that we find in an orchid.
I just think that the whole piece is a little confuse. I don't know quite sure what is it about. Maybe you should try to construct your poems more calmly, not with a successive splash of images that don't seem to connect.

>>6843015
This is really good

Hello.

http://pastebin.com/f36vQVqh

The thought of it makes me giddy, almost drool; though, not like a cerebral palsied infant, more like Homer Simpson. The more I fantasize, the more it tantalizes: that teetering indecision broiling in the back-burner of my mind, the ultimate psychobiological failsafe–I want to say the word no more than Hagrid wants to vocalize "he who shall not be named,” or the pious: "fist fuck your mother's fart hole." Yet how would I do it? I often ask myself. Well, I could make an extravagantly dramatic ordeal of it, do the deed midday in some city square for all the world and its social media to record, disseminate, gasp and discuss. I'd imagine this way would incorporate a drawn-out speech condemning this and that, forgiving nothing, begging nothing, especially not pity–or at least I would tell myself. Honestly, I would relish the spectacle, that briefly newfound sense of posthumous infamy, the inkling of hope that I would better the world even a little bit. It wouldn't be a crestfallen victim's last refuge of despair; it would be a poor, apathetic child's pseudo-noble endeavor to better the crippled globe revolving, for a single moment, around him. Nothing more. And yet, there's the other way, less public, arguably less resonant, less peripherally impactful. I could hole myself up–in a log cabin in Montana, in a Super 8 closet, a damp cubby of any kind–cradling an overdose of opiates, a barrel of cold steel packed with lead, a noose. The note would be thought out, sure, jam-packed with pathos, logos, a hint of venom towards the perceptibly righteously malnourished in my life, those who I will have endeavored to feel the freshest victims of karma, instrumented through my one last gesture on this earth: my sensational exit into the dark under-realm of human existence. To be dead is to not be; or so it seems to me. But what do I know?

Minivan, the kiss of death,
laughter’ll b my last breath,
the end of panty soup, drowned in scanty goop.
Showers in a tux, torpedo in the Speedo.
Holy Toledo, fuck it: that’s my credo.
Something fishy about, nix branzino:
derogatory like ballerino, stretchy like a limo, Peru-sing in Lima,
I’m a dreamer, dipping rinds like PETA, dropping FADs like FEMA,
Now-back-off Kinky Lola and Lolita. Señorita, I need a Berra,
a beer not a bear, so nit-pick a picnic, right there: The Bering Strait breathed life right here,
Sioux me. The road avoids my steer, now let’s talk fears:
raging bulls in the Colosseum with Nero.
Mr. Jeeves, my favorite superhero,
oscillate circa zero. Conceived in vitro, un decilitro,
eloping, lips to Fallopian, tits I’m ropin’em.
Backseat driver of life, deliverer of strife,
let me grab my lubricated knife
and end this friction (and also fiction).
Hairy with impeccable diction;
suffocate schizophrenic granny post conniption
(sipping rosebud Lipton, Kane sugar liftin’). If you’re a pussy, I’m a chicken.
Now toss a lip in, now I’m dippin’. Lose your job,
now your strippin.’ Catch a job, now your lickin.’
Fedora tipping.’ That’s a (w)rap? I say it isn’t.

>>6873841
There was no time for a scholarly analysis, and, besides, I have always believed that you can be judged most accurately by the standards and taste of freshly sphincter clipped butt goo and in all matters regarding you no one will, like, ever care.

>>6873778
>http://pastebin.com/f36vQVqh

I actually liked this...

Why is it so short?

>>6873897
I think you know this is bad. But thanks for wasting space!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

>>6873262
>>6843015
If I were to sum up the positive reactions to yr work, I think there are two primary causes: one is that if there is discourse about positive feedback and how it is necessarily going to induce confidence and continuity in yr writing journey. That it might represent a return of the repressed hope for a great many people.

But bro, mano a mano, hombre a hombre, etc a etc, pls don't listen to they hype. I'll be nice and say: good effort. But yikes.

Yikes.

I'd give you the whole rundown but its a pastebin and I've literally turned to huffing Elmer's CARPENTER'S Wood Glue (• Bonds Stronger than Wood • Sandable & Paintable • Easy Water Cleanup ) for INTERIORs 4FL OZ Non Toxic & No Harmful Flumes and I must advise you that not only must the parts fit snugly but also that life will gradually decline into depression and disorder→especially if yr a writerly minded personmonkey. I'm so so sorry.

Like psychic entropy!

>>6874030
Thanks.
The goal was to tell a story in 700 words or less.

>>6874152
Can you do... more? Maybe but also please?

>>6874047
>compounds the perceived waste of space by commenting, a fecund process here on 4chan

St. Upid, I can't exclaim enough what you mean to me.

>>6874021

I think you're forgetting that time =/= intelligence, bruh

I'm writing this out of the blue
Yotsuka B format /lit/ adopts
by default. I'm a less than happy
camper: Winnebago, Airstream,
hippie vans: we're all on the road
to the end–oh please, let's not,
morbidity is such an overplayed topic
in poetry (we must remember:
words are both brush and paint,
without rhyme we only taint).

But this knotted string is immaterial,
just bits of bits made ethereal.

>>6873897
pretty good

The Chess Board

Chess nut teepee prank April dozen baker oven
cubic pubic pelvic Elvis kingly knightly joust splinter
Redwood elephant mourning black white polar molar wise
owl screech tires marathon Nike slave boats hoes
rakes reeks Durian Gray chiaroscuro oscillate ebb flow
stream OC opioid warmth bosom buxom silicon valley
glacial eruption stock broth translucent actors stage assassination
supernova starburst strippers dollars ducks fuck love hate

>>6874791
Ever wonder if the burgers you've eaten over yr life came from cows that had been fed ground up family member's brains and spinal cords?

With time those silly prions will create enough copies to fry the parts of yr brain that control muscle movement and you will never ever ever again be able to type "fecund process".

>>6874859
This is the kind of dictionary spin art that can only come from a deep dark jungle of erections spurting into lonely socks over the course of a life that's lasted under two dozen years.

>>6873897
hey buddy, lots of people like Death Grips, but no people should just imitate them.
>>6874814
Last two lines are good, and I think the structural aspects are clever - it seems to me that you started trying to make it a sonnet AS the volta of a sonnet. Cool. However, self-awareness is the absolute death of absolutely everything, so that I wanted to give up reading from the very first line and that didn't change until the very end.
>>6874859
Just nah. Nah.

The strange wind whipped at John’s pant-legs as he stood there in the noonday sun and waited for the security lead to return with details. Aegis troops had aligned themselves in a double-column formation on either side of the grey carpet walkway leading to Inventco’s front doors. Some were smoking cigarettes, and John tried to stay upwind of them as much as possible. Under the shine of the sun, amidst his present circumstances, his craving was worse than it had been in weeks.
Wooting sat on one of the planters, his portable computer open in his lap, his foul-smelling cigarillo sitting on the stone next to him with its ember pointing out and over the edge like a vessel precariously balanced on the edge of a great frozen wave. It was apparent he hadn’t showered today, his hair in clumps and sweat shining in irregular patterns on his forehead. Nonetheless, in his lap sat his own vessel, used for navigating the emails and outgoing or ingoing radio signals from the building, tracking every tiny action like a meticulous beekeeper; Despite his inability to remain presentable, the man was a genius and absolutely necessary for this mission. Baleful glances and sniggers occasionally rose in spates amongst the restrained conversation of the soldiers, but Wooting remained absorbed in his work and did not look up, and for that Humble was proud. Wooting flicked a fly off of his ear and sniffed, a free hand picking the cigarillo up with accustomed ease, his strained, bloodshot eyes never straying from the screen. The acrid smell of marijuana could occasionally be picked out of the sour smell of the tobacco.
(1/3)

>>6875145
Presently, some of the troops were talking about the recent measures made by Lang’s Board to have their role reduced in inter-Suzerainty regulation. Mostly the grumbles of the aggrieved, the few points of contention he could pick out weren’t worthy of discussion, and he unconsciously shrugged as he turned to face the street. A wide avenue, the tar still slightly shiny, asphalt baking with a soothing fragrance, Humble found solace in its uniform black and white, and found his eyes wandering to the tall buildings and their million eyes staring myopically and wall-eyed at everything at once. The radiance of the city at this time of day was something to behold, the buildings still smooth and unpocked by bird dung and vandalism and age, albeit somewhat woefully absent of the graffiti Humble was fond of in the cities of his yore. Further north, up the wide avenue, the northwest corner of Inventco’s lot with its inset square garden tucked off into a smaller back-street, the same that the security lead had driven around to scout the perimeter. The avenue continued north to the point of mirage, the sun at that distance white-hot and obfuscating any details. Beyond that wall of white, and several miles north, lay Lang’s territory, bordered by a much quainter ring of gang territory. Up there lay all the opportunity this little world had to offer, and all the danger and mystery that John was accustomed to pondering. Quite possibly, Inventco’s manager had already entered that white-hot ring, had already been consumed by the danger and opportunity of Lang’s countenance.
But here, in the visible miasma of Humble’s own territory, lay present matters of business.
(2/3)

>>6875152
The Aegis Captain’s chiding of a soldier brought him back around. The man in question wore a bulky set of Kevlar underneath his blue and white striped uniform, his hair lank and a luxuriously black-brown that shone faintly in the white. He paced up and down the line between the columns, occasionally glancing at Wooting on his perch with a trained neutrality. His eyes were roving and impatient, however, belying a pride that Humble couldn’t help but admire. With the same trained neutrality that he used on the men and accompaniments most relevant to his purpose here, his eyes avoided Humble’s completely. John understood; there was tension between the government’s Aegis and the movers and shakers within city limits, a kind of professional distance to their worlds--inspector and inspected. He was merely grateful for the fact this man wasn’t Virtue or worse yet, an Inquisitor. Besides, Aegis were helpful in supplementing the “Sharks” in such corporate seizures as these.
Despite the captain’s professionalism, when the truck finally made its lumbering way around the southwest corner to Humble’s left, their eyes locked in a moment of shared apprehension. Results were in. For Humble, this was the moment he would discover whether or not he would go to war. For the captain, the immediacy was more keenly felt. For the captain, the results of the security’s probe could very well mean war today. The truck came to a stop directly behind Humble, and for a moment the shadow allowed his eyes to focus more sharply on the waiting men, suddenly high-res figures in a bright relief, caught in a moment of stillness as all eyes (Wooting’s glazed stare included) came to rest on the truck. The doors opened behind him and the lead came around the front swiftly as his spotter clambered down a few feet from John. The lead was always moving too quickly for John’s taste, too razor-sharp in his focus, a discomfiting aspect of the man. Moreover, he could feel the couple dozen or so eyes boring into the scene from behind him.
“Sir,” he called out, the word leading his steps by a half-second’s delay. “Sir, I have the report.” He saluted stiffly as he mounted the sidewalk.
Humble nodded.
“We’ve secured the perimeter. Nothing big. We spotted a few feelers hanging out at the employee entrance having a smoke. They dived back in once they saw us. Some eyes in the windows, too. The garage bays are closed shut. Not the one peep.” Lead pushed his glasses up, so unseemly for a man of his capacity, an effete gesture made by one who certainly liked his books. Humble had been reticent to hire the man originally, but his resume had rather stunned, in deeds if not in the florid language.

(Sorry, 3/4, I fucking hate posting this shit with such limitations)

>>6875156
John pondered all this subconsciously while assessing the situation. Not the one peep. Far too quiet, then. If Lang was indeed involved, this quiet was all the more disturbing. The reports around the city of the recent takeovers and camp-switches all arose after the fact of the demise of many Aegis and PSF soldiers, therefore quiet was not a good sign. Humble was queerly reminded of his astropophobia.

(4/4)

What do you think? Terrible, right?

http://pastebin.com/jweTqALr

Hi guys, really want feedback on this one
It's a very short segment of my novel, and I just don't feel confident about it as much as I would like.

So, feel free to say if it's good, if it sucks, and how to improve or re write it.

>>6875109
Hey thanks for the comments. As for the Death Grips ref, to be honest, I don't really listen to them so I was far from trying to impersonate them. Looking over some of their lyrics however, I can definitely see the resemblance. Anyway, thks

>>6870328
>mfw nearly every piece of short fiction I've written that's worth a shit has been on 4chan at one point or another.

Son of a BITCH!

>>6870328
that's why we use pastebin

>>6875183
>http://pastebin.com/jweTqALr
Realize that when walking on the beach through the surf at twilight—when the water becomes iridescent—you will never stand in that iridescence. But others can see you standing in it. And if you close yr eyes you can pretend it's a shiniest and most beautiful gold star that you're standing on—and it's on its way to the board at the front of the classroom, this shining sticky star sticker between your pretty teacher's fingers, and it's going right up there next to your name!

Great job! A+

http://pastebin.com/QTu25uWG

>>6875162
If you have to ask, you'll never know, and but guess what: I'll tell ye anyway:

Yr a metaphor king and shepherd and we are just people going back and forth across yr texty texts. Perhaps the use of this particular convention [war] is due to the fact that, being stupid, prissy, underformed, and easily lead, the societies you are performing for consists entirely of sheep boys and sheep girls who tell sheep tales and eat sheep things. But the writing is decent and yr grammar is tight. The whole thing is utterly utterly readable and interesting and use pastebin next time pls and thank ye.

>>6875260
Sorry, did you reply to the wrong post?
And are you trying to say it's good or not?

>>6875299
I was addressing you, mademoiselle.

>>6875297
Umm, thank you, and I will. Also--what?

>>6875309
I still don't know if it's a sarcastic A+ or not tbh :/

>>6875281
You have got to be kidding with the en-dashes.

You have got to be kidding w/"these titles belonged to others".

You hvae got to be kdiding w/"even as".

Yoausbdhfasgoddsoag w/"His father had died when he was 10" <Dada's don't die that young

Ye w/"He, alone, provided for his family"

Look, maybe there is a wrathful YHWH. And maybe he too speaks pure gibberish—some product of the demented brain farts of a lazy drunken mommies with a violent fear of Muslims.

I hate how the winds blows—Can't we have fun, get rock hard pee pees, drink moonshine, and drive rumblin' motorbikes on empty rain washed streets with our muscles rippling with the throttle and hot bitches on our backs, their big ol' wobbling breasts squished up against us and their fuzzy pants bunnies started to sweat w/the vibrations of the hog?

https://docs.google.com/document/d/10mjWXjhwi8OqgL7uVR0vI6OOAg7p2nAv05AgEsfvXmY

Any and all feedback is appreciated ; )

>>6875297
Are you saying I have a superior tone?

>>6875395
Funny—when I read yr post out loud it made sense to me. Trippy.

>>6875418
Yeah I get it. You have a weird way of thinking, I like it.

>>6869134
why are foreigns better than murkans at our own language.......... fuck

>>6875470
Yeah he's just like Nabokov. Hehehehehe hoohoohoo. I'm kidding!

>>6875358
>>6875358
Sure you can but that's not what this is about. You're right about the dashes, normally don't use them so I went too far. I'll fix that. Otherise, *shrug* I write what I know...with hyperbole

>>6875557
I'm not going to call you stupid or or slow or idiotic or doltish or soft in the head. The dashes are fine, you are using the wrong kind. And I'm not going to insult ye to ye internet face and say yr writing is really not good nor will I ask literally anyone to back me up, I mean was it a joke? I can't tell.

Is the bump limit hit yet?
Testing

>>6875615
Well now you how I feel

There was a man named Alberto, born in beautiful Portugal, who lived in the sunny countryside near the sapphire sea. Alberto happened to be born in what men call the modern age, but he said that he was born from eternal Nature. He called Nature mother, and he held that those troubled with the Spirit of the Times were mystics sick with their own ghostly thoughts. Alberto saw only with his bodily eyes, and as for his mind's eye it was closed; he contented himself with the surface of things, which was his cherished Mother Nature. Constantly, without desire, free from every abstraction, formless, effortless, he claimed that he had achieve peace on earth. What madness, then, he thought it when he met a proclaimed revolutionary, who desired to repair the world and bring peace to it. Alberto said to the revolutionary, "The world is already at peace. It is you that are at war. O you Christians, always trying to redeem the world. The more that you try to fix the world, the more broken it appears. The more holy you become, the greater are your sins. Abandon sanctity and sinfulness, abandon truth and falsehood, abandon good and evil. Return to your original nature." This Alberto said, and he was an unbaptized soul. One day while tending his flock through pretty pastures, he found himself leaving his flock and hurrying towards a far off wood, perhaps because of Nature. Full, then, of Nature's emptiness, Alberto went through the wood until he arrived at a clearing, where stood a young man, shirtless, crowned with flowers and berries, holding a cup in his left hand with wine brimming. Said the young man, "It is I whom you worship, Pan, your god." Alberto fell on his knees in reverence, but Pan said, "Do not worship me like that, but come to me and drink this wine, and embrace me." Alberto yielded without thinking, he drank until he was inebriated, and he embraced his god in ecstasy. Then, Pan, standing up high, awfully high upon his goatish hooves, looked down upon the giggling man unaware of himself and of everything, and then tore the man into a thousand pieces.

im gonna go take a shit now

>>6877083
Is this "Fucking Dionysius" from the titles thread? I was curious about that one.

You need formatting. And what's the moral here about Nature versus a life lived amongst the intrigues of men?

>>6877204
>Is this "Fucking Dionysius" from the titles thread?

I'm not sure what you're referring to.

>And what's the moral here about Nature versus a life lived amongst the intrigues of men?

It's just a reiteration of an ancient pagan myth about the god Dionysius, the god of wine and revelry, the god that Nietzsche worshipped. I identified him with Pan, another god, the god of nature. The fable is a critique of Pantheism. Alberto is based on Alberto Caeiro, a modern Portuguese poet who was a Pantheist. In the ancient pagan myth of Dionysius the god is torn to pieces. What the fable is saying is that Pantheists tear themselves into pieces, that if you worship an amorphous Nature you will be left formless, without any identity. A lot of Eastern religion are pantheistic and talk about letting go of your identity and dissolving yourself in Nature or Nothingness. The claim of the Pantheist is that the world is already at peace and the evil and suffering and strife in the world is an illusion of the unelightened. Here, the modern revolutionary is identified as being like the Christian who is trying to redeem a world that doesn't need redeeming. But the ultimate end of his belief in Nature is that he is torn to pieces and dissolved into nothingness.

>>6872980
>>6867872

Please, can I have a look at my verses?

Here's another rather old story. I got tired of editing this and I won't anymore.

Sent it to a few places, and already got rejected by one.
http://pastebin.com/Q5jvrDEt

Here's another rather old story. I got tired of editing this and I won't anymore.

I sent to a few places, and already got rejected by one.
http://pastebin.com/Q5jvrDEt

>>6878509
I'd prepare myself for a few more rejections...

>>6878509
made the skin of my scrotum crawl its way back inside

>>6878509
yep

it's shit

>>6878509
There are glaring grammatical errors, fix them first

>>6878553
I'll pass, I don't particularly care about it, that's why I posted it here.

http://pastebin.com/4hzQhpsu

This was originally from a script, but scriptwriting is fucking annoying. I'm more-or-less just writing this for me for when I get the chance to film it but I'm open to ideas and critique and whatever.

http://pastebin.com/6KFtCDZE

>>6875260
>>6875299
it's amazing that this is a board for literature and people still can't even figure out what this guy means with his posts. are you guys retarded? or have you never read a book in your lives? pls /lit/

>>6878937
>>6878509
>>6877083
>>6875145

they're all shit

I keep trying to fall asleep again but all I get is my mind waking up before my body does. That slow feeling creeping on me since I got here comes back, like a slow bass note oscilating up and down and hitting me when I least notice. I can feel my heart beating against the floor tiles. I hold my breath and beats go faster, and I breath out and they get slower. I try to emulate that oscilation but I can’t, because I have no control over it. I wish my brain worked the same as the heart does, pounding away on its own, not needing input. The problem is I inevitably fuck myself over, because I cannot stop my head from going over the same things over and over again. To think means to let my mind off its noose, and it never ends well. My chest begins to hurt. I would go back to my bed but it wouldn’t make any difference. I still have to get up, and I will eventually, but for now remaining motionless seems like the best option.

>>6879254
Haha SOMEONE can't write

>>6879293
It's not like I disagree with you, it's just that I think you're missing the point of this thread. There is no fancy -ique to simply dismissing works with no explanation.>>6879293

>>6878570
Then why did you submit it to publishers? What is your deal, chick?

>>6875145
Moar critique on this anyone? Please? I will even accept shitposts.