/lit/ - Literature

>>7058811

Dialogue 1

[Enter TYCHE, wandering in Elysium]

TYCHE
O Father,
O Son of Kronos
Why do you desert me thus?
You let the fertile country of my heart lie fallow,
You let my youthful eyes turn to ash in their sockets,
You let my spring pass for mild summer.
I was not made to be one of the mortals!

[Enter ZEPHYROS, dancing, adorned with a wreath of hyacinth]

ZEPHYROS
O Tyche
O goddess of the white arms,
Weep not,
For you no longer have eyes with which to weep.
Is this not true?
Take my hand,
And rise with me,
And taste the airy vault of heaven.

TYCHE
O lovely Western child,
You were dear to me in my worldly mornings,
But your words now are mere rain
Against the granite cliffs of my resolve.
Go now,
Yes, go now,
O you who may still be restored!

ZEPHYROS
Words?
Your fear deludes you,
O mistress of all men’s days.
I speak not,
For I have no tongue with which to speak.
Is this not true?

[Exit ZEPHYROS, TYCHE watches as he leaves]

TYCHE
O Zeus,
O my Father,
Why do you tantalize me so?
The fine bracelets you once gave me
Now begin to tarnish.
I must fortify my heart against all things.
It is a good thing to give way to the night-time.


Try to guess my influences, they're pretty blatant. I have no ambitions though, I'm just in this for a good time.

>>7058811

wow, nice double dubs

This is from the play that I am writing. The characters that are speaking are demonic ghosts, and they are taking pleasure in nothing that a gigantic storm is going to strike the land and kill several people. They’re verses, in the Portuguese original, are all rhymed couplets, like: AA, BB, CC, DD, etc.

Sorry for the bad translation, and once again: original is in Portuguese, and rhymed.

Ghost of a Girl (To the ghost of the bloody young woman): And you, my sister, and you: where were you?

Ghost of bloody young woman: Walking inside the clouds of the tempest,
Upon the mists and the dark of the scabby
Storm that invades the heavens with gall.
This sky-coma eats with its muddy veils
The galaxies: the brain of heaven;
Nightmares grease with oily demons
The infinite and the stars, their neurons.

Ghost of a Girl: And she will give birth, she will give birth?

Ghost of bloody young woman: Yes. I wandered inside it’s collied placenta
And I saw that she was pregnant with pepper:
The embryos of the thunder narrated to me,
The tadpoles of lightning told me
That future days will create claws and teeth:
They will be panthers roaring shooting torches;
Suns of petroleum will wander in the winds,
The clouds will have typhoons as offspring,
The thunders will swoop (blond hawks),
Cumulus will rip shatter their lungs
And crush the vitreous grapes of their alveoli
In a wine made of hail, ice and rain.
The nights will scream like owls,
And the cold mists, dirty-water wandering fairies,
Will step the dusty roads in muddy swamps;
The pastures and the grass will dissolve in mucus
And, as dead and moldy wood-trunks,
The cattle, marooned and wet, will be devoured
By termites, bed-bugs and beetles.
The chaos will lay the eggs of its vile treasures:
The atmosphere will be invaded by a fiery hornet's nest,
The soil by slime, snow and mist.
The flu and cough will gnaw the chests,
The fever will hover like fog over the beds.
Rain, winds, lightning, tornadoes,
They will prey upon woods, meadows and villages:
Death will establish its empire upon Earth
And cloud the land under a snowy cemetery
As the spider, that in a white and silent end,
Drowns the moth within its satin cloth.

>>7058827
I really like this. Are you familiar with Artaud? Although I suppose this is too internally consistent to really be inspired by him - it's more phantasmagoric than schizophrenic. Still though, it's very good.

Some yesterday posted a short thing about a swindler and the final line was something like "the madam likes my wicked tongue, she likes it much"

Post more of that!

>>7058853
>I really like this. Are you familiar with Artaud?

Thank you very much for your kind words.
It means a lot to me.

Actually I don’t know Artaud, only by name. I was trying to do something like Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The opening of the play is in a dark wood, during a tempest, and we see a group of demonic entities in the stage. I wanted to make them talk like non-human creatures, but I also did not want to make the thing a copy of Macbeth. I created something different, but the influence of Shakespeare is still overwhelming. I am having a hard time in overcoming it.

>>7058825

I am interested in your work. Do you also like to write plays? Your excerpt reminds me of the masque in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, that with Venus and Ceres.

>>7058827
Can you post the Portuguese original?

>>7058886

Not now, I don’t have it here, only at home. Will post it this afternoon.

>>7058876
Personally, even if you use Shakespeare's overarching structures, I think your language is far enough from his that you shouldn't worry too much about the influence.

I've only read Hamlet for school, although I do plan on reading most of his works at some point, and The Tempest is the one that seems most interesting to me. Where do you recommend I start with him?

No, I only write poems, and that only occasionally. But drama began as a form of poetry, so I wouldn't be opposed to giving it a shot. For that particular work though, I had just been reading the Iliad and the gods struck me as a good way to represent archetypes. The dramatic structure was more incidental, I just find it aesthetically pleasing.

>>7058886

Here you go, fried, the original version of this:>>7058827

Fantasma de uma Menina: E tu, minha irmã, e tu: onde tu estavas?

Fantasma de uma Jovem Ensanguenatda: Caminhando nas nuvens da tormenta,
Entre as névoas e as trevas da sarnenta
Tempestade que os céus, com fel, invade.
Seu coma come com lodosos véus
As galáxias, o cérebro dos céus;
Pesadelos engraxam com demônios
O infinito e as estrelas, seus neurônios.

Fantasma da Menina: E ela vai parir, ela vai parir?

Fantasma de Uma Jovem Ensanguentada: Sim. Vaguei dentro da escura placenta
E vi que estava prenha de pimenta:
Embriões de trovões a mim narraram,
Os girinos dos raios me contaram
Que os dias vão criar garras e dentes,
Panteras a rugir tochas cadentes;
Sóis de petróleo vão vagar nos ventos,
Nuvens terão tufões como rebentos;
Trovões vão mergulhar (loiros falcões);
Cúmulos vão rasgar os seus pulmões,
E esmagar seus alvéolos, vítreas uvas,
Num vinho de granizo, gelo e chuvas.
As noites vão gritar como as corujas
E as frias névoas, ninfas de águas sujas,
O pó da estrada vão pisar em lama.
Em muco irá solver-se o pasto e a grama,
E, como troncos mortos e mofados,
Os bois, ilhados, vão ser devorados
Por cupins, percevejos e besouros.
O caos vai desovar seus vis tesouros:
Na atmosfera o incêndio de um vespeiro,
No solo o lodo, a neve e o nevoeiro.
A gripe e a tosse vão roer os peitos,
A febre há de pairar por sobre os leitos.
Chuva, ventos, relâmpagos, tornados,
Vão tomar bosques, prados, povoados:
A morte há de instaurar na Terra império
E a nublar num nevado cemitério,
Como a aranha que, em branco e mudo fim,
Afoga a mariposa com cetim.

>>7058933

I liked your work a lot. As for drama, it is a nice way of injecting poetry into the veins of characters and of using plots and stories. It's very liberating to be freed of your own self and have the opportunity to write with other peoples brain, a thing you do when you use characters.

As for Shakespeare, most of his works are interesting if you enjoy poetry. Since you already read Hamlet, I would suggest the following plays of each genre (based on my personal taste):

Tragedy:
Macbeth
Othello

Comedy:
A Midsummer Nights Dream
The Tempest

History Plays:
Henry IV, parts 1 and 2

>>7058827
Even better than Artaud suggested by another poster, you will love Lautréamont.

Lautréamont was the ultimate master of this kind of spectacular ethereal-demonic poetry with an "organic" twist, although it's prose poetry.

>>7058827
>>7059170

you are the same guy who posted this, are you not:

This is the song that a drowned entity chants in a play that I am writing. These are ghosts, kind like the witches in Macbeth: there are a few of them, one of them a drowned man (or demon). When one of the creatures ask him were he were he sings this song as an answer. The original is in Portuguese (I will post it in a second post).


Thorough lakes and through rivers, on the sea, on the abyss,
In the steppes of slime and pitch I wandered,
Under shrouds of salt, under liquid thunders:
Worlds where light never stepped I stepped.

Ghosts of babies I found crying in the lakes:
They're mothers have drowned them in perpetual cold;
For affection and warmth they are claiming for centuries,
But in vain: not even they're mothers love them.

The specters of raped girls
I saw on the rivers, slime is now they're sepulture;
They died for the hunger of some knave,
And the water consecrate them in mermaids of bitterness.

A green tiger is the sea, sweating foam,
Getting fatter with the winds, roaring waves;
Boats are fleas that pollute his back;
His hurricanes clean him of such wounds.

Man is the caviar of the shark,
And the mariners are the spawn of the ships;
They're crying involves the sea with mist, the choir
Of the Golgotha of masts lost in the emptiness.

The abyss his on abysses have, nights on the night:
There the Kraken waltz, the Leviathan dances;
There they breast-feed the whales, their calves;
They are kings of chaos, they are the angels of Satan.

Like anchors the human spirit languishes:
It marches from the sun into the cold den of the ocean.

>>7059529

The original Portuguese version. The rhymes are xAxA, xBxB, xCxC, etc: only the second and fourth verses rhyme.

It ends with a coda of rhyming verses.

Por lagos e por rios, no mar, no abismo,
Nas estepes de limo e breu vaguei,
Sob sudários de sal, sob trovões líquidos:
Mundos que a luz jamais pisou pisei.

Fantasmas de bebês choram nos lagos:
Em frio perpétuo as mães os afogaram;
Por carinho e calor clamam a séculos,
Em vão: as próprias mães não os amaram.

Espectros de meninas estupradas
Vi nos rios, lodo é sua sepultura;
Morreram para a fome de algum biltre,
E a água as sagrou sereias de amargura.

Um tigre verde é o mar, suando espuma,
Com ventos engordando, a rugir vagas;
Barcos são pulgas que poluem seu lombo;
Seus furacões o limpam de tais chagas.

O homem é o caviar do tubarão,
E os marinheiros ovas dos navios;
Seu choro envolve o mar em névoa, o coro
Do gólgota dos mastros no vazio.

O abismo abismos tem, noite na noite:
Lá baila o Kraken, dança o Leviatã;
Amamentam baleias, seus bezerros;
São reis do caos, são anjos de Satã.

Qual âncora definha o espírito humano:
Marcha do sol rumo ao covil frio do oceano.

>>7058811
>was going to post an excerpt from my sci-fi fanfic
>everybody is posting their original work in foreign languages
M-maybe next time...

>>7059556

Why? People post they’re originals, but also English translations.

You are welcome to post here, Anon.

>>7059556
>sci-fi
Neat
>fanfic
Eww

Quisera eu cagar num berro,
Dançando a dança danada:
Às voltas com tripas roladas,
Correr nas crinas de um cerro.

Mas, ó, justiça diabólica!
Vis poderes divinos!
Insistem castigar meninos,
Algozes agonizantes em cólicas.

Banimento, exclusão, morte, o frio.
Fossem os deuses gentis!
Sentença marcada à giz:
Volto pro quatrochan e fodo esse fio.

t. poetic shitpost

>>7059529
>>7059530

Yes, this this drowned demon lines come in the same scene.

>>7059170

>E tu, minha irmã, e tu: onde tu estavas?
>???
>E tu, minha irmã, e tu: onde estavas?

>E ela vai parir, ela vai parir?
>???
>

__

This is great:
>As galáxias, o cérebro dos céus;
>Pesadelos engraxam com demônios
>O infinito e as estrelas, seus neurônios.

Overall the value I derive from your work is in your metaphors, I value the circuitry you make between all these different objects, forcing the mind to rely on functional thought to find similarities and accept the interface/metaphor. Sorry. 2deep4any1.

>>7059529
>But in vain: not even they're mothers love them.
>they're mothers
You have a typo there

"Qual âncora definha o espírito humano:
Marcha do sol rumo ao covil frio do oceano."

I'm proud to have a fellow countryman!
Isto é fantástico!
Muitos parabéns plo teu trabalho! Muito muito vom!

Montez! Montez aux cieux, Ô vagues d'eau limpide!
Atteignez des hauteurs étrangères et bleues
D'un geste fluide, quittez fonds insipides
Et bêtes d'abysse, Ô torrents impétueux!

Rejoignez l'albatros, chatouillez les nuages
Abandonnez l'Atroce, et partez en voyage!
Vos brillantes amies, les étoiles, regardent
Votre lévitation nymphale mais gaillarde

Alors transportez-moi à travers l'air salin
De vos bras délicats, montrez-moi cet endroit
Où l'air est froid, et moi, roi dans le désarroi

Hélas! l'air appauvri, par malheur, m'endormit
Je me réveillai quand, la jambe endolorie,
Je vis une baudroie qui mastiquait ma chair

>>7061079

Can you post a translation?

>>7061079

C'est pas mal ! Y a au moins la volonté d'écrire de la vraie poésie. Y a quelques trucs qui me gênent du point de vue de la prosodie :

-pas de notion de rimes masculines/féminines, ni singulière/plurielles.
-même plus de rimes sur les deux tercets (hormis endroit/désarroi)
-on passe d'une première strophe en rimes embrassées à une deuxième strophe en rimes plates
-quelques problèmes de pieds (notamment concernant la prononciation ou non des e en fin de mot).

Sinon c'est encore assez maladroit, il y a des tournures parfois peu claires et quelques fautes de goût (comme la rime intérieure albatros/atroce, ou la répétition - sûrement volontaire, mais lourde - : roi dans le désarroi), mais il y a quelque chose ! J'aime beaucoup le deuxième vers.

T'as quel âge sinon ?

>>7061181
Rough translation:
Rise! Rise to the skies, O waves of clear water!
Reach unknown and blue heights
In a fluid motion, leave tasteless bottoms
And beasts of the abyss, O impetuous torrents!

Join the albatross, tickle the clouds
Abandon the Atrocious, and go on a trip!
Your shiny friends, the stars, watch
Your nymphal yet lively levitation

So carry me through the saline air
With your delicate arms, show me the place
Where the air is cold, and me, (I am) king in disarray

Alas! the impoverished (in oxygen) air, unfortunately, made me sleep
I woke up when, while my leg was hurting me,
I saw a monkfish chewing my flesh

>>7061244
>-pas de notion de rimes masculines/féminines, ni singulière/plurielles.

J'avoue, je n'ai pas tenu compte de cela du tout.

>-même plus de rimes sur les deux tercets (hormis endroit/désarroi)
Que veux-tu dire exactement?

>-on passe d'une première strophe en rimes embrassées à une deuxième strophe en rimes plates
Je n'ai pas pensé que ça pourrait poser problème

>-quelques problèmes de pieds (notamment concernant la prononciation ou non des e en fin de mot).
Où? Selon les règles que je connais, tout est en ordre. J'ai scandé l'intégrité du poème pour être certain.

>T'as quel âge sinon ?
18 - ce qui peut également expliquer le manque de maturité exhibé dans le poème. Je débute en poésie, je ne m'en intéressais pas jusqu'à récemment.

Merci pour les commentaires, en passant.

>>7061311

>-même plus de rimes sur les deux tercets (hormis endroit/désarroi)
>Que veux-tu dire exactement?

Bah, dans un sonnet, il est censé y avoir une rime commune entre le premier et le second, c'est à dire qu'ici, comme dans le premier tercet endroit rime avec désarroi, on aurait du retrouver une rime en " in " à la place de chair. De plus, endormit ne rime pas avec endolorie vu qu'il n'y a qu'un seul son commun.

>-on passe d'une première strophe en rimes embrassées à une deuxième strophe en rimes plates
>Je n'ai pas pensé que ça pourrait poser problème

Bah disons que dans l'absolu c'est pas si grave, mais ça ne se fait pas d'une manière générale, surtout à l'intérieur de la structure d'un sonnet, qui est une forme fixe.

>-quelques problèmes de pieds (notamment concernant la prononciation ou non des e en fin de mot).
>Où? Selon les règles que je connais, tout est en ordre. J'ai scandé l'intégrité du poème pour être certain.

Hmm, j'ai peut-être lu un peu vite. Je pensais surtout à " amies " v7 et " baudroie " v14, mais c'est sujet à débat ça, certains trouvent qu'il est naturel de ne pas prononcer ces e, et même correct du point de vue où les prononcer reviendrait à effectuer une diérèse, mais traditionnellement les auteurs évitaient ce genre de cas de figure (sauf vraiment au moyen-âge et un peu après, mais là il n'y avait pas de souci vu qu'on prononcait ces e quoi qu'il arrive).

>T'as quel âge sinon ?
>18 - ce qui peut également expliquer le manque de maturité exhibé dans le poème. Je débute en poésie, je ne m'en intéressais pas jusqu'à récemment.

D'accord; ça fait plaisir de voir un peu des gens qui écrivent de la poésie en vers !

>>7058811
>mfw this thread
Well, not everyone can be Victorian Playwrights reborn.

Have some of my stuff I guess. Posted it a couple times with 0 responses so maybe I'll get some input. It is the beginning of a short story.

The engines are whirring wind machines precariously attached with the long slab of polished metal. Reflecting the morose, beautiful atmosphere; lit by the angling disappearing photons. Through the pane, it makes him want for a puff of smoke to go with his lukewarm coffee.
He uncomfortably moves, and in the crowded row is unable to avoid knocking his neighbor with an elbow. He mumbles an apology barely heard over the noise turbine, like cotton balls forced in his ears. Doesn't matter, his neighbor stays asleep, mouth still open and drooling on the unfortunate soul aisle-seated.
Unable to join the fellow in slumber, he sips at the increasingly awful liquid. Embracing the tax enforced on his brain by consuming liquid caffeine. An unfortunate side effect is borne form this, a certain release is desired. Which given the two heaving masses between him and the path to resolution. Quite concerning.
He has tried to distract his nature by popping some earbuds in. He is finding earworms are not a long term solution. Every time a voice mentions anything aqueous his bladder tries to attempt betrayal.

>>7061371
>Bah, dans un sonnet, il est censé y avoir une rime commune entre le premier et le second
Je ne savais pas cela, merci de l'information!

>Je pensais surtout à " amies " v7 et " baudroie " v14
En fait, je ne prononce pas ces "e". Voici comment j'ai scandé ces lignes:
Vos/ bril/lan/tes/ a/mies,// les/ é/toi/les,/ re/gard(ent)
Je/ vis/ un/e/ bau/droie// qui/ mas/ti/quait/ ma/ chair

>>7061382
>Well, not everyone can be Victorian Playwrights reborn.

You are lucky that the style that you like to write doesn't resemble that one. There is no place for us in the modern world of letters, and this is something that really frightens me: how to keep working if nobody wants to read what you have produced?

>>7061419
>Je pensais surtout à " amies " v7 et " baudroie " v14
>En fait, je ne prononce pas ces "e"

Oui oui j'avais bien compris, je t'ai même répondu que c'était acceptable de ne pas les prononcer. Par contre c'est pas le fait qu'ils soient à l'hémistiche qui fait qu'on peut se permettre de ne pas les prononcer, seulement le fait que le e soit directement précédé d'une voyelle dans les deux cas.

>>7061441
Well I suppose that is worrisome.
Although I certainly enjoy those kind of works.
However it may be limited to those more literary inclined.

As for my own. The style itself may be desirable however if my own spin on it is...that is another matter.

>>7061382
make it less wordy, and stop trying to be clever. no offense meant—i'm prone to the same shit, but i find it turns out better if i quit trying to make it enlightening or acting like my mediocre emotions are that big a deal

>>7060898
>>7060924

Thank you, meus amigos Brasileiros, for the kindness. It means a lot. We that are starting in literature must help each other: it is not an easy enterprise: the disappointments are many and few the rewards.

>>7060919
>You have a typo there

Yes, my english is terrible. Thank you for the warning.

>>7061599
Fair point.
Thanks.
I'll try to cut a little bit out.
But I have a "series" of short stories based on my dreams I'm writing. Each of them in different styles. This one is meant to kind of be overly wordy.
Don't want it to be a bore to read or too prententious either though.

From a short story I'm working on finishing up.

(1/2)
Thick dusk had fallen before they had the tent erected and the fire built. The moon had risen further, and the two horns of it peered through the leaves. They sat on the ground, blankets over their shoulders, sipping beer and staring into the flames. Four bratwursts sizzled in a tiny cast iron skillet nestled in the ashes, mingling their scent with the odor of smoke and popping whenever a globule of grease exploded from the casings. Jake leaned forward to prod the sausages with a fork, eliciting an angry hiss from the grease.
“Almost done,” he said. “just little bit more.”
Cory sniffed and took a sip of his beer. “Good. I’m starved.”
Jake prodded some more and then rested the fork on one of the logs that stuck out from the fire. “Remember when we used to Indian wrestle all the time?”
“I remember you used to always cheat by grabbing my ankle.” Cory smiled. “And then I’d beat you up.”
“Why did we do that so much?” Jake said. “The wrestling I mean. It wasn’t even that fun.”
Cory sipped his beer again. “Kids do stupid shit. Jenny watches the same cartoon over and over for hours.”
Jake picked up the fork and started loading brats into buns.
“Finally,” Cory said, and grabbed his plate.
They chewed in silence, watching the tongues of flame dance, and listening to the crackling and to the murmuring of the lake. Jake watched Cory out of the corner of his eye and took another gulp of beer.
“How are they doing?” he said. “I feel like I haven’t seen them in ages.”
Cory answered without looking at him. “They’re good.”
“Sarah still teaching?”
“Yeah.”

>>7061851
(2/2)

They were quiet. Cory’s forehead stung. He massaged it with his thumb and forefinger and took a huge bite out of his second sausage.
Jake fingered his scarf. Somewhere across the water a wolf howled. Jake looked off through the black trunks toward the lake and then up at the moon through the branches. The needles waved slightly in the breeze, obscuring his view. He followed the limbs down to the trunk. The base of the tree was only a few feet away.
“What kind of tree is that?” he asked. Cory turned slowly to look at it, then took another sip of beer.
“It’s a yew, I think.”
“I’ve been trying to learn them,” Jake said.
“It’ll take you a while. Took me probably a year of naming every one I saw.”
“I don’t know. I’m getting pretty good. I’ve got this flashcard program on my computer. I’ve memorized I think about a hundred species.”
Cory placed his Styrofoam plate into the ashes of the fire. It twitched, the edges blackened and then glowed neon orange, and little tongues of fire grew up all around it. Slowly it folded in on itself, melted and deformed, and was enveloped in the flames.
Wrapped inside their skins of blankets and sleeping bags the pair stared into the pitch black of the tent. The nylon swished and billowed in the breeze, and the fabric beneath their bodies crunched when they readjusted. It was cold still.
“Why do they have to make these things so noisy?” Cory said. “Is there no other kind of material they could use?”
Jake looked over at him and saw black. He wriggled his hand up out of his sleeping bag and held it in front of his eyes. Nothing. The darkness was resting on his eyeballs, thick and heavy.
“This stuff keeps out water,” Jake said. “Keeps you warm.”
“Need to just start bringing a camper,” Cory said. “Dad always said campers were for pussies, and then we’d get here and he’d complain the whole time.”
Cory rolled over onto his side.
“And then on the way home, ‘We’re bringing a camper next year, goddamit!’ Christ. Why are we still doing this, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Jake said. He tried to envision his brother in the dark. Bulky, bearded, gray hairs sprouting up everywhere, horns coming up on his forehead. A patriarch.

He hooked his knee upwards and fell heavy on the swinging bed. He sprawled out his legs and arms, feeling the downy thick of the blanket catch on his hangnails, and his head sink in the center of his pillow. He lay there, thinking. Thinking all the time. As he rocked gently into the morning, he could see the pale light of the moon squeeze through a slat in the blinds carve across the room and he began to weep silently. His tender wails squeaking, sharing the quiet only with the pull from one of the chains of the bed. His room was saturated with a creeping death, a slow dying. The room had in the mid-day summer been lit to the ceiling with amber vitality, and the heat could score across his white walls with the notion of bounty, of life. Where he would soak up the air with the overflowing peak of his pacing and musings of Hegelian doctrines of Being and the like. And in the falling evenings, dashing out poems of erratic themes: from rest to work, glorious to pastoral, earthbound to sublime. But in the shade of the night, there was nothing but the solitude of thought, the hum of a day's ending silence, and he feared his sleep, and did not want to greet the morning. And so he wept at the thought of her, that inescapable box of consciousness where every detail of its disintegration was tasted with every spore of the tongue, and every turn of mind, he fell in a pocket where the scent of the past was as fragrant as to have burst open above the bridge of his nose and slide down and hold easy, but firmly against his nostrils. In his morning risings, he'd fall a bit light mind and stumble to the bathroom hands cupped over the rim of the sink and meet his eyes. And it is in these moments of being beside oneself, not in way of anger or hostility, but of detachment, as if having sprung from the earth and seen the true dimensions of one's circumstances that one sees the horror of their loss. And it is here that he knew that drunkenness or any state of not-of-sound-mindedness is never a release, but a method of conceding just how grave the attempt of letting go really is.

Cold, biting wind sluiced over and around the bike and rider. The current ebbed as his speed slowed, but before it was still, the engine roared. In the next instant he was gone. Again the asphalt, grass, and half melted snow blurred into solid colors, sliding away into the background. Jax raced on, against no one, for nothing.

He sped on, automatic movement, without processing sight or sound. All he could really sense was the metallic taste of chilled air as it flowed into him, a connection to tune him into the world. Despite the sense deprivation, the danger didn't worry him. What fish worries about drowning? What bird think he's going to fall from the sky? He rode with surety.

Sometimes, he thought of speed as freedom or some other cliche. Most of the time he thought of nothing but the next turn.

But, as all eventually does, he slowed, and the landscape returned. Splotches become shapes once more, the wind gave some final howls before death, and reality returned. It had to happen. The winter was bad this year, worse than last as the cold settling into every bone reminded him, even his hands were numbed under gloves. Town and home was over the next crest anyway. The thought warmed him better than the jacket.

When he stopped at the first sign he'd seen in twenty odd miles he was still alone on the road, with silence on every side of him. With how barren the ground and sparse the trees, no self respecting wildlife would exist here. The hum of life, artificial or non, was nowhere to be found. Frowning, he pushed the thought back, instead thinking of the to-be's and who-he-would-see when he rolled on up. He sped through the next sign without pause.

Jax sped through everything until he hit town limits, or round about. But it wasn't until 'Motel! Cable! Vacancy!' with every other letter halfway to faded that he felt the anxiety set in. He swallowed a little heavier than he meant to as he pulled in.

The bike's roar turned into a rumble.

Previously I've only posted on 4chan, no edits and I'm burnt out at this point; I write about the social experiences I have

I don't think there should be any discrepancy between art and artist. I want aesthetic art and an aesthetic life
There's a prevalent lit scene out here that I want to be a part of. People that write a less aesthetic version of what I do are making a name for themselves; more than enough publishers and indie journalists out here. I'm going to lit events with a goal to meet people, meet girls and eventually I'll start to do readings and open mics etc
I'd like to do interesting things. Release instructional manuals on the things I'm interested in. Half joking social instructional manuals. Occult philosophy. And obviously confessional style 'memiors'

As of now I'd mainly want my writing to be more kind pf performance art. Do some journalism throuh an artistic lense. That kind of thing

extract from WIP novel, feedback welcome.

“Come in, come in. See those certificates? All bullshit. There is no Harvard School of Physical Positioning. There is no Oxford College of Applied Commercial Appearances. I think the Beijing Number One Faculty of Personal Space Management may be for real, but I sure as shit didn’t go there. And I tell you this not only without shame, but with pride. Because what I do here, what my clients learn here, is pure boardroom stance-based alchemy, my friend. And that can’t be learned in a classroom. Except this one. It can be learned in this classroom.”

This is Maurice Van Der Doelen, New York’s best-paid commercial stance consultant. His clients include Ernest Piccolo (“A great guy, a real pro, godfather to one of my kids, I think”), Oprah Winfrey (“A natural redhead, can you believe that? Hot damn, what a sight”), Donald Trump (Skin like a leper, but a very keen student”) and some years ago, most of NWA (“Bunch of pussies, except Ren. Me and him hit Vegas like the SEALs hit Bin Laden”) . Maurice charges a thousand bucks an hour and Maurice is always busy.

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

Maurice pats his hair back down, sniffs his fingers and winces.

“Anyway, open kimono time. I know what you’re thinking; you’re thinking damn, this guy is extremely charismatic, perhaps I should ask him if he would like to have sex with my wife, no strings attached? And all I’ll say is this: I’m grateful for the offer, sincerely I am, but let’s keep it professional for now. Once our hour is up I’m just a regular joe with physical needs and primal desires, same as any man, except mine are maybe more urgent and, okay, I’ll say it, profoundly depraved. I’m talking dog piss cocktails drunk from a corpse’s asshole. Man, just the words get me hot. Mmm. Anyway, we can talk about your wife, daughter etctera afterwards. You got a dog? No no, tell me afterwards. Right now, I’ve got a great new way of leaning on a desk to teach and you, my Saudi friend, are right at the front of the class. Let’s get started, we’ve only got 52 minutes left, and if history is any guide I’m likely to need a substantial crap at the halfway point.”

>>7061851
>Thick dusk had fallen before they had the tent erected and the fire built. The moon had risen further, and the two horns of it peered through the leaves.

Nice.

Been hashing out the premise for a sci-fi short story, possibly evolving to a novella, bit I'm afraid it's been done before.
Without going too far into the plot, the premise of the text is to analyze the growth of humanity from the primitive stages to that of the space era by using an extrasolar human colony. I also aim to juxtapose these comparisons with the of the human mind through the main character, a human colonist with little knowledge; as well as with the workings of government, portrayed by a military satellite that orbits the colonial planet.
As an additional metaphor, and something of a callback to retro sci-fi the likes of Heinlein and Steakley, the story will be framed in the life cycle of an insect, with the final stage (typically the wing-bearing stage) coinciding with the main character's venturing off of his home planet.

So tl;dr sci-fi story about a boy on a colony planet being overseen by the government acts as a juxtaposition of human progress, our minds and our constructs, within the frame of an insect life cycle.
Would anyone read this? Does it immediately strike anyone as derivative? Waiting to grab up some more retro sci-fi before drafting to make sure I'm not treading old ground.

>>7062851
I like it.
I think the dialogue is verging on obnoxious, its like the opening scene from Reservoir Dogs if it ran the length of the movie, but assuming that's just a slice of the work and the rest of the text has room to breathe I'd have a lot of fun with it.
I do find some of the dialogue to be uneven - like using 'crap' at one point but then 'sebum' at another - but that's likeky intentional and, if not, still stylistically interesting.

>>7062851
>and some years ago, most of NWA (“Bunch of pussies, except Ren. Me and him hit Vegas like the SEALs hit Bin Laden”)


this guy knows what's up, Ren is criminally underrated

>>7062967
>dial up some MC Ren on youtube to reminisce
>see this in the related videos: Slavoj Žižek + Paul Holdengräber "Voyeurism and digital identity"

wat

>>7062953
aw thanks man. The dialogue IS obnoxious, as is the character. Could a man who's got a septic head not know to use the word sebum and still say crap? Maybe not, but maybe not all men are as amazing as Maurice.

A lot, probably 80% of the novel is dialogue, taking my cue from (ie stealing the model of) George V Higgins, but I do have a challenge in that several of the characters speak in this exaggerated cartoon babble, which the reader may find overwhelming/repetitive. I'm also concerned that they will all blur into one, however I'm not sure that I should be concerned as I'm not attempting to create real, credible characters that one can 'believe'.

Anyway, sincere thanks for your encouraging words, I may post some more.

>>7062980
The dialogue thing, I really strongly suggest watching Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction to get a feel for how exaggerated 'cartoon' speech can work in real life. It's harder to nail that down purely from text in my experience.

>>7062983
Yeah, I've seen them both several times. TBH the stylistic inspiration for the dialogue style is more Airplane & Caddyshack...I'm not really going for anyrhing that could pass as real life.

here's some more:

Department of Homeland Security
Case ref: DHS/NN/458489
Evidence Item ref:111/27/4
Transcript of covert recording

EP: Ernest Piccolo, President & Chief Executive Officer, Piccolo Industries
SB: Sal Buscemi, Chief Financial Officer, Piccolo Industries
BP: Patricia (Bookie) Penette, Executive Assistant to Ernest Piccolo (not present in room)


EP: Sal, you ever take a shit, go back to the bathroom an hour later and see that shit still floating, looking right up at you, grinning?

SP: Not grinning, no.

EP: I don't mean literally grinning Sal, I'm not insane. I’m not your son. No offence, he’s a
great kid, he’s my nephew or something and I love him, and I know you and Maria did your best,
and by saying that I’m not suggesting you could’ve done more, although obviously you could, or
he wouldn’t be such a crazy little prick. If your Peter had asked such a question, it would not be
unreasonable to assume he was genuinely enquiring as to whether your turds were in the
habit of taunting you as he no doubt believes his do him. But I am not your son Sal, and
I almost certainly never will be. So just humour me and answer the question – did you ever
take a shit and find it still there hours later?

SB: I guess.

EP: You guess or yes? It’s not the kind of thing a man forgets, Sal. Not a real man.

SB: Jesus H. Yes.

EP: Yes what? What yes, Sal?

SB: Yes, I’ve taken a shit and returned to the bathroom to find it still there.

EP: That’s unimpressive Sal. A man should never be defeated by his own shit.
(over intercom) Bookie, make a note for Sal’s next appraisal – Sal is to be bonus-dependant
on establishing mastery over his own excrement.

BP: I’m not sure I understand that, Mr P.

EP: Excrement, Bookie. It means shit.

BP: I understand the word, Mr P. But I prefer to believe I misheard the rest.

EP: I feel the same Bookie, I feel the same. If you need any counselling, please bill the
company – Sal, this is coming out of your bonus. Bookie, Sal is currently not in charge of his
own shit. It is dominating him, Bookie. Tell me, could you respect a man who can’t control his
shit? Who, in his own words, is terrified of his own dirty business? Could you make love to such
a man?

fuller version here, if interested...

http://pastebin.com/mF20qSDs

>>7063000
>stylistically Airplane!
Oh shit son
I'll take 20

>>7063017


"You got a letter from headquarters this morning."

"What is it?"

" It's a big building where generals meet, but that's not important."

http://afterslowspots.tumblr.com/

where i post my writing.

>>7063033
Ain't that a pisser?

Okay, last bit from me as I don't wanna hog the thread...

No offence, Nakamura


Hey look, the gang’s all here.

Ernest Piccolo is up at the front, trying out different stances. He finally settles for resting his left hand on the lectern’s edge and standing an awkward extra step backwards. He scowls for an effect which he doesn’t bother articulating to himself.

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

“None taken sir.”

“But I digress. There is one man among you who is actually not a complete fucking dingus. Oh, please don’t look so excited Mendes, it breaks my goddamn heart. I’m talking about Bill Bostock, who, as you presumably-but-now-I-think-about-it-quite-possibly-do-not-know, has been with Piccolo Industries for over twenty five years. My father hired him as a junior advertising copywriter back in...well, I say my father hired him – he wouldn’t have done it directly, he wouldn’t exactly speak to coloureds per se - but anyway, Bill’s been here a heck of a long time. Actually I tell a lie, I do recall him once screaming at a black woman whose – what do they call them, those white canes blind people have? Sal? Blind sticks? Are you sure? Anyway her blind stick or whatever had scratched the side of his car, and boy, did he let her have it! "

fuller version...
http://pastebin.com/3EYCu6Nc

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Pi0PT7lqkTW751SRKoKHoFle2YUuE5Z47E9KVlHpu_Y/edit?usp=docslist_api

Any criticism at all would be hugely appreciated. The more you guys tear it apart the better.

>>7063061
the tone comes across a bit beta, to be honest. A bit angry bedroom teenager.

>>7061244
>quelques problèmes de pieds

Le pied est une unité de versification tonique inadaptée au français. Le français est oxyton et ne considère de ce fait que la syllabe dans sa métrique.

>>7061371
Ce n'est pas une diérèse. La diérèse ne concerne que la décomposition des consonnes spirantes et n'a aucun lien avec baudroie et amies qui ne se réalisent [amij] et [bodʁwaə] que dans le français de Belgique, quoi qu'il en soit. D'où tirez-vous vos informations, si je peux me permettre ? Je lis beaucoup d'âneries jusqu'à présent.

(1/2)
This is one chapter of a project I've been working on for a few months.
Any criticism is welcomed.

In the Hovel:
Whereabouts now I drift through the dim linoleum corridors, hardly moving my feet and eyes heavy, disassociated. Left and right bodies careen toward me, away from me, around me, inside and out of me. The hovel is on the first floor but I find myself raining on the stairs great big droplets. This is like a game to me and for hours I go up and down the building, each time something awful and new around the corner like two naked men barfing into each other, rodents with human faces and dirty coats yipping by and bleeding and worse. I see people I know, other students, and they look at me worried and inquire with furrowed brows but their dialect escapes me so I mutter something I read once and one eighty to the opposite side of the building, all my humanity in tact but feeling odd about it all.
No watch or clock but decide it's time to check out the hovel and I get out my keys and stab them into the lock and rip open the door.
Common room is desolate as ever, watery sauces dripping in most corners. Primal shrieking from behind the heavy door of my ancestors notifying me I have to wait it out in my own personal squalor.
Through another door and into the pit I go.
Bright cube is my living space, wall lights so fantastic that the contrast is alarming; room is pure dank, horrible sticky stains on gaudy tile, empty plastic and glass and cardboard cigarette boxes, uneaten rat poison food from the chinamen of the city rotting and congealing, unwashed sheets on a decade old mattress glowing with filth all subterranean mushrooms. I dart to my bed so fast I miss it, passed the ghost of my room mate. He calls to me:
'Did you kill me?' A ghost’s voice is strange. When you listen to someone who has yet to be deceased talking, you can hear the breath on their voice with ease, being sucked in with their pausing and coming out with the words. Someone who doesn’t need to breathe though, there’s no air to hear. It’s impossible to imagine if you’ve never met a man who has died.
Sprawled out already bare upon the bed I answer:
"Time kills all things."
He muses on this as if it had any meaning at all.
'Where is my body?' he asks after watching me scratch myself with my unkempt fingernails.
Fondling my privates I answer:
"Back in DC with your family, I imagine. Lay off for once."

>>7063153
2/2

His eyes flourish daggers and I watch the time slither by out the window. I phase into my brain and reflect; average summer day (although equinox passed a touch ago) being goofs and walking and talking with friends being all sad on my own but outside charming and gay. Everyone dips in and out until just Sarah and I smoking that gas station herb, told it was salvia or dirt peyote or weed laced with dmt or something secret nobody's ever smoked. What happened then? Something too horrible to remember, repressed for now, usurped by this strange and infantile sensory sensitivity, shoulder peeking paranoia, sporadic irritability and nothing as it used to be, just a lousy alien reflection glimmering mauve until it's all gonna vanish in a warbly plume of steam like you'd see puffing out of a crater on a distant terrestrial body, all slow and dissipating slower.
All wrapped up tight in this monologue I am when the ghost interjects:
'You breathe heavily, trapped up in your head like that. I know what your blood is screaming for and I know you know it too. Where's one of the Sarahs? Nic will spit on your request, I suppose, stomp you out. Overdrawing your credit card is an option for you but abusing your mother's wallet back in Jersey for the pay-off the banks will need may not be, may not be. Quite the quandary...'
Dammed slap happy smirk covering the scoundrel's face, knows my internal torments, possesses some spiritual insight into my mind void and possibly elsewhere within and without me. Bastard taunts me with that gaze and I feel myself curdling from my addiction like he says but put all of the energy in my body into my eyeballs and all my attention out the window: lights are on around the quad to fend off shadows and men with their pants around their ankles spit drunk poetry to harpies and sirens who bubble with laughter without listening. Hooded golems trundle by seven feet tall over a smoking paper, an empty bottle, old magazines with pictures of my friends back home hidden by sunglasses over their noses.
I see a hot loner smoking in the opposite corner, can tell it's a cigarette with my infinity eyes, hop up quick from the bed and wrap a towel around my nudity.
'I saw it too.'
Already scratching at the door I had forgotten the ghost, who whispers once more:
'The kid won't give one up. He won't even know what you're talking about.'
I scrape out of the room as fast as possible trying to prove with numbers who's running the game.

I still need to metrify this, to cut some of the fat and improve the metaphors, but if you guys are willing to take a look.

>A courtesan reflects on the choice of life that took.


The banquets of the past are all mold now, my love, all the doors are closed.
In many beds, love, in so many beds I tried to collect honey,
A bee wearing pearls and diamonds, fancy dresses and shoes,
But still only a confused bee, lost in the wilderness of the world, without a nest.
I searched for the honey of caresses, but got drunk on the sour wine of artificial fondling,
So many times intoxicate myself with the juices of ephemeral contact.
I collected some poor grains of affection-pollen and, desperate, used it to feed myself:
(Rare was to obtain this food in all those nights of evanescent ecstasy)
All this was done with fake smiles, with masks of pleasure used for facial expressions.
So many years, love, so many moons spent with bacchanals that tasted like loneliness.
And these panting carnivals, these sweat baths,
These nights that witnessed strange flesh and strange flesh fuse together in raw knots,
(In ephemeral bouquets of human flesh with no fragrance of tenderness):
All that time the soul within me sat alone in her dark room,
Only a small candle to light it, my true self,
The true self who contemplated my other self, the porcelain cocoon,
Acting like a beast between the sheets, the vain effort of a female that wants to feel loved.
So much wasted time, my love, so much wasted beauty.
So many moons, so many galaxies thrown into the trash, so much wine drunk in vain,
The night champagne that distorted into sour breath in the morning:
All the glories of the world rotting for me when all that I wanted was you, just you.
On those nights all I wanted was your company, to be yours,
And that the chest that pressed my hot breasts were yours,
And that my whispers were slowly poured in your ears,
And that the hands on my hips were your hands,
And that it was your warmth I felt inside my womb,
And that your eyes were the ports where my eyes could dock.
But I did not know I loved you so much, and you did not dare to take myself for you,
And now you get older with her, and she is the one who feels your warm grip on cold nights.
Hand in hand you both walk into the snowy years, together,
I only have useless gold rings in my empty and cold hand.
Yes, yes, my show is now ended, my flowers have withered, and the spring is skimmed in autumn:
I am old, and the clowns and jugglers left the stage;
The fireworks silenced the peacocks of their voices, the sky is dark and frosty;
The chairs were emptied, the lights are out, the theater is a void,
And there is only a thin candle inside of me as companion for the thickening night to come,
The night is growing sooty, and in walk alone into her dark woods:
My little candle soon will be blown, soon, very soon.
And my love will die without being tasted and rot inside the earth like a silent scream,
I'll howl silently for eternity

>>7063392
I like it.

>>7063447

Thank you very much. I will insert this on a comedy that I pretend to write using the plot of Smiles on a Summer Night of Bergman as source (and also that Broadway musical: A Little Night Music: the one that contains that famous song, “Send In the Clowns”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-HeczMstwS4).).

They use a simple language, but I like my metaphors and similes, although I too like to use a lot of realist dialogue.

I can’t wait to finish this damn Tragedy :

>>7058827
>>7059170
>>7059529
>>7059530


And start this new project. I generally lost my enthusiasm with a work already in the middle of it, but it is important to force yourself to finish.

I wrote this action story. Pic related, pastebin here: http://pastebin.com/fAafFu3F
It's satire

The thing's tendons snapped and stressed as it pulled a thousand tonnes of muscle and bones through the city before it. The caustic green of the things skin burned my eyes. A scream erupted from bellow my home's balcony. Miss Aziz was losing her mind. I couldn't blame her. The thing was huge.
The thing continued its noisy motion throughout my city as a reseeded into my home. Breaking news was coming in on my television detailing the approximated circumstances of the ongoing tragedy. I was tempted to sit and watch as I would with any other national tragedy, but the thing stomping about not five blocks from my home made the news feel a bit too secondhand compared to what information I could gain by just looking at the thing.

>>7061790

Unfortunately, the masses are dB as fuck and witty snark Tony Stark W hedonistic dialogue and musings sell.

And erotica. Women fucking gobble that shit up. That is your audience btw. Women.

From a journaling project I've been trying to sustain:

Lately I’ve been feeling low- the sort of low a woman feels when she’s too tired and too caustic and too dull to merit inclusion in the grand and desperate dance of human comradeship. The sort of low which manifests itself in late-night binges, in shame dulled sickly with cookies and chips and day-old delivery pizzas. The kind of creeping self-doubt that overtakes a girl between the witching hours, that makes pretension of her passions and strangles all her urges in the winding cry of shame. I chill to the touch. Two dozen cough drops and half a Sahara of instant coffee have numbed the vistas of my brain- where once Rome stood the shores of Avalon, now her laurels wither. Eons ago, I wanted sex. I craved lust wrought hard and hot by years of unfulfillment, conjured yearning even in the gazes of dead men, dreamt of dark rooms and silent understandings, anticipated those moments in which honesty thickens the air, when talk runs ragged and brinksmanship hurls itself headfirst into the abyss. Now I resign myself to the inertia of survival. Nothing ever changes because I never change because people never change, and I am a child, I am a little fat-necked girl tangling Mummy’s jewelry, and yet I am old, I am decomposing, and in every lingering second of my deterioration I can perceive the ruins of a life wasted in ugliness and shadow. All I have left to prove is that I am no worse than I have ever been, and even this, I know, is a lie. I am ego. I am id. I am the trembling aftermath of a million un-manifested adolescent fantasies. Observe my image and despair.

In lieu of the creative impulse, now long since absent, I can only consume and regurgitate. Beauty devolves beneath my shaking hands. I am dogged by cliche, by absentmindedness, by hazy delusions of artistry and by ghoulish recollection of all those defter than myself. I reach for poetry of thought and grasp instead at the overwrought meanderings of a mind undisturbed by inspiration. Revision has become an exercise in chagrin. Read me, I dare you. Go on and cringe at all my clunky turns of phrase, my rhetorical naivety, my feeble pastiches of style. Drink me in like stale drought and then return to your Wordsworth and your Hemingway and purge me from your system.

>>7062949
>tfw no responses

>>7064198
/lit/'s sleeping, mate.

>>7063061

>He glanced inside restaurant windows to see the scenes of perfection within, knowing that he be forever relegated to the role of a spectator of life and love.

It starts off great, and identifiable, but then it progressively turns into an edge that I can understand but that still disgusts me somehow. He loses his "spectator" role, and becomes emotionally involved.

Things like "Trevor studied these groups from a distance" are cliché and the word "study" is one we use too loosely, without thinking about its weight. I didn't "study" those situations, "studying" I associate with a much more detached, formal kind of observation.

I think there are better ways of describing how he was observant of other's behaviours, and how he you felt like a spectator.

Plus there are lots of autistic word choices like "disrupting the natural social dynamics", "and consumerism", "an almost aristocratic appearance", "any clear objective"

>any clear objective
>any clear goal

Which I complain about because they deceive the elegance of the first three sentences of your excerpt

>Trevor drifted through town, borne along by the breeze of vague, uncertain desires. He glanced inside restaurant windows to see the scenes of perfection within, knowing that he be forever relegated to the role of a spectator of life and love. His nights all blended in with one another, each the same as the last.

I liked this a lot. Gave me a promise that was not met by what followed. I'd have preferred a more kinetic sort of writing, his thoughts as he traveled through town, maybe, but you break that image and you make the writing seem like it's coming from a bedroom as >>7063072 pointed out

>>7064217
/lit/ sleeping at ~6 to ~10 pm
But fucking why?

Is somebody willing to help me w/ my story

And I mean be brutally honest and tell me if it's worth continuing or not? And if so, how to improve and pace etc

I don't want to post what I have so far out in the blue willy nilly and hope for a reply or two

let me know if so and I'll post my throwaway email, I'll be happy to try and help w/ your piece or something - best I can offer

thanks

I'm starting a zine focussing on metafiction, absurdism and anything weird in general. Once I get enough submissions I'll be firing the website up. I have been reading the above genres avidly for 10 years now, every day and want to curate a creative space for creative minds.
Willing to answer any questions if you've got 'em.
Submissions of prose and poetry can be sent to witchau5@live.ca

>>7064988
nut up and post it nigga. if you wanna be a writer you gotta take the heat. trial by fire.

>>7062949
Been thinking abt the premise for a sci-fi short story, I'll get it on paper eventually, I just need to get it more together and honestly it's fun to think abt, possibly evolving to a novella, then may e a novel, like NYT bestseller, probably at least, I hope, he thought hopefully.

...but I'm afraid it's been done before and I don't want to be a hack... such a thought never occurs to young Brian.

Let's have a look at what he IS thinking (he's still going on):

... and and w/o going too far into the plot, the premise of the text is to analyze the growth of humanity from the primitive stages to the space era by using an extrasolar (I'll explain to Mom what that means) human colony and and I also aim to juxtapose these comparisons with the the the human mind through the main character, (me, basically) a human colonist with little knowledge and has to repopulate humanity and when I post this later on reddit and lit I'll put a semicolon right abt here; as well as with the workings of government, portrayed by a military satellite that orbits the colonial planet as like a commentary on how things are here on Earth now but like taken further for maybe like to highlight all the hypocrisy or w/e the word is... Hegemony?

And and as an additional metaphor, and and something of a callback to the like retro sci-fi the likes of Heinlein and Steakley, the story will be framed in the life cycle of an insect, with the final stage (typically the wing-bearing stage) coinciding with the main character's venturing off of his home planet. I just got to develop it a little more in my head. I think that's enough to post but just in case...

And so Baby Boy Brian McGillicuddy adds a too long didn't read tag to his too long post:

So tl;dr sci-fi story about a boy on a colony planet being overseen by the government acts as a juxtaposition of human progress, our minds and our constructs, within the frame of an insect life cycle.

Would anyone read this?

No.

Does it immediately strike anyone as derivative?

This was an elaborate joke that I'm exacerbating?

Waiting to grab up some more retro sci-fi before drafting to make sure I'm not treading old ground.

Just fucking do it or it will never happen.

The real life stand-in for Brian (who is whose stand in? Hehe!) considers the previous sentence and realizes it's probably true. He pushes away from his desk, the laptop's light fades from his face, and heads for the john AKA the crapper, but for a piss and a few thoughts, another go around on the short story idea, how to fit the insect cycle into a few pages guess that's for the novel huh well... And so right when Brian's stand-in goes to flush the toilet AKA the head, to purge it of his musty wee wee pee pee, he notices the face looking back at him: that ain't me nigga! The face in the toilet water is Simpson's yellow and crawling w/flies and both Brian's stand-in and his Simpsonesque counterpart collapse into each other, eyes rolling up, the impact making—

>>7065015
Here, very interested in submissions from >>7063843 if you turn into more fiction and less diary, I like it

and >>7063508
my favorite in the thread. Needs an edit but you can't really go wrong when you're bringing humor to people and you have a good sense for it

>>7065040
>>7064819
Brian's stand in's parents wince awake seemingly tied somehow to the hard wet sound of their son's head smacking into a pube ringed college toilet. Is he even in college, we don't know! so let's open up an alternate timeline where he's in his parent's home, see, he's not yet a butterfly free to drop fake acid or be in the library or w/e plus now: sci-fi! And Mom whispers to Dad "go check on him" and Dadoo groans and flipflutters the covers off and walks down the corridor to the bathroom between yr rooms—or they lay awake and yr in college: Honey? You awake?

Either way yr out, dude. Yr body slides back and out and back o the head to tile w/a click o th teeth—awake but which timeline? Brian—no longer a stand in—grunting, gets up and in the mirror is a Milhouse Van Houten looking motherfucker. Wha?

Suddenly the door splinters KA-CRkkkk and a gaggle of giant scorpo-mantises with suits and big ass LASER guns funnel into the room—wha? Oh ho ho the acid was real was it? Where am I yr thinking—Mom? Dad? And Dadoo's cradling yr unconscious body shouting BARBARA and the nightlight lit bathroom smells like urine and yr Daddy's heart is pounding like a bathroom door abt to be kicked in by scorpo-mantises: Brian McGillicuddy, yr under arrest for probable science fiction plagiarism! Two SMs having LASER cuffed ye, their leader shoots a LASER portal into yr hallway wall, making an intergalactic unfunny wordplay word I'm not going to type.

Jim! Yr Mom panting gets to the door frame and yr Da-da's head curves around flat eyed to yr Mom and she sees the body. A mannequin. A crash test dummy. Dad freaks out and drops it like a load of bowling pins and backs to the door, yr ma grabbing his arms, scared and confused...

Turns out trans-dimensional travel isn't yr thing and after a split second of body shivers ye vomit all over the new place's floor, ye haven't even seen it yet, let me describe it:

>>7065118
Art Deco is the word ye'd use but yr a sci-fi enthusiast and don't know it so steampunk occurs to ye maybe, w/e ye'll work on it—big intricate arches glass instead if gold, shit, fuck, the mantis ppl are pretty rough—they're dragging ye, feet scrambling to speed walk w/em... Their leader marching in front turns his head to ye, big red composite eyes, yr horrified face reflected back at a thousand different angles. The mantis thing shakes his head at ye. Through the panic haze ye remember... drugs... datura? acid? what was it? Wha?

YOUR MEMORY HAS BEEN ERASED, the lead mantis scorpion announces. All plagiarism suspects have their organic dynamo memory drives erased until an outcome has been decided by: Beep, beep, beep, wha? Someone's hand is on yr arm... Are ye in a hospital bed? What the? Mom?

>>7064819
>/lit/ sleeps four hours
They wish they do. More like
>2pm
>let's go to sleep and get up at 6pm
>wake up at 4am

>>7058825
LOL noone speaky like thatty

>>7058827
>>7059170
>>7059529
>>7059530
>>7063392

good to see you back here on /lit/, huehue anon

>>7063072
>>7064281

Interestingly I wrote it with Trevor in mind as a pretty ridiculous character. Elliot Rodger but in kind of a black humor way. I guess that didn't come across very well.

>>7063392
sauce on this qt bewt lewdy ba2t

>>7063392

That picture is in very good taste, so I assume your writing too is.

...my god
(the picture)

>>7066993

Elliot Rodger came to mind yes. But I think it's pointless

>>7067004
>>7067006

;)

>>7067020

>>7067020
>>7067025
name of this itty fitti kitty bitty?

>>7067004
>>7067006

>>7067039
Hnnng

>>7067038

Dont know. I was trying to post the website, but the spam filter dosent let me.

Here, take the first part of the site:

http://vk.com

And glue it with the second part, and then search it

/public96463405

>>7067048
>>7067039
jb I'm out

>>7067056
>jb

wut?

>>7067062
Jail bait m8

>>7067082

Oh. Well, I just did a google reverse search. Hope the feds would not try to arrest me.

"Allt är en andel och helhet finns ej."

~

"Everything is a piece and there is no entirety."

tell me i'm shit to my face and not online fucker and see what happens

>>7067108
They'd probably ask you for sauce ;)

>>7067020
>>7067025
>>7067039

It is only logical that I say something about your writing now but my intellectual powers are greatly severed after this eternal h-n-n-n-n-g

>>7063392
Metric-wise:

>The banquets of the past are all mold now, my love
>are all mold now, my love

Doesn't read right.

>on the sour wine of artificial fondling,
>artificial

I don't like artificial it sounds too artificial

>So many times intoxicate myself
>intoxicate myself
heh

>affection-pollen
neat but... still not it

>(Rare was to obtain this food in all those nights of evanescent ecstasy)
hnnng

>facial expressions
2autismo

>bacchanals
ugly ass word

>Only a small candle to light it, my true self,
>The true self who contemplated my other self,

Mentally redirected me to https://youtu.be/2rwPPrxjqKY sorry.

From "Acting like a beast" — "my eyes could dock." you 'took me to the moon', it was moving, good

>wine drunk in vain,
>The night champagne

these are good do more of 'em

what else, this is beautiful, not hnng beautiful, moving beautiful, oyu have my respect and awe

>>7067132
flyter bättre oöversatt. är det inledningen? finns det något som följer det?

>>7067162
det är allt, aldrig känt mig nöjd med något, förutom den meningen, lite. däremot knappt skrivit något, känns pretentiöst eller något, vem fan tror jag att jag är lix, vene

håller mig till svenska i eventuell fortsättning

>>7067162
kanske mer rädsla att blotta mig

>>7067020
>>7067025
>>7067039

http://www.sfu.ca/media-lab/426/readings/thephoto.htm

THE PHOTOGRAPH
The Brothel Without Walls

>"My, that's a fine child you have there!" Mother: "Oh, that's nothing. You should see his photograph."

>The movie stars and matinee idols are put in the public domain by photography. They become dreams that money can buy. They can be bought and hugged and thumbed more easily than public prostitutes.

>The avid desire of mankind to prostitute itself stands up against the chaos of revolution.

>Joyce knew more about the effects of the photograph on our senses, our language, and our thought processes than anybody else. His verdict on the "automatic writing" that is photography was the abnihilization of the etym. He saw the photo as at least a rival, and perhaps a usurper, of the word, whether written or spoken. But if etym (etymology) means the heart and core and moist substance of those beings that we grasp in words, then Joyce may well have meant that the photo was a new creation from nothing (ab-nihil), or even a reduction of creation to a photographic negative. If there is, indeed, a terrible nihilism in the photo and a substitution of shadows for substance, then we are surely not the worse for knowing it.

>>7067196
>>7067221
det är säkert båda anledningar, och tyvärr försvinner varken den ena eller den andra, men tur nog är det nog en hämning som regerar över dem alla: ovana. skriv mer, en rad kan varken vinna eller förlora spelet, och att lägga ner tillfredställande aforismer en efter en kommer i vilket fall inte leda till en berättelse.

låter banalt, men det är sant att när man börjar är det bara att släppa loss och hitta på, och inte vara så rädd för att låta dum. sannolikt kommer du ha mest framgång när du faktiskt försöker låta dum

>>7067162
>>7067196
>>7067221
>>7067604

>>>/alien/

>>7065040
>>7065118
>>7065151
ALIENS :DDDDD

>>7061382
Attached to the long and flimsy wing was the engine, hanging like a proposition, a precarious suggestion, seeming always to say "What if I should fall?"

The small and private tufts of cloud, far off, over the brilliant ocean, reminded him of the pack of cigarettes in his rugsack in the overhead compartment. He wished he could light just one. Instead he looked down on his sad cup of lukewarm coffee; stirring it gently, out of idle agitation. Out of discomfort he shifted in his seat, knocking his neighbour's knee in the process. "Sorry" he mumbled, but noticed that the man was still asleep. He tapped a few times on the tray.

A certain natural urge was beginning to impose itself on him, which though it grew in strength, could not convince him to unbuckle his seat-belt, in fact he gripped it tighter. He was fixed by a mental picture of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, followed by a mass of screams, and the ground as viewed from the window rushing up to meet him. No, he was staying seated, regardless of what methods his body endeavoured to employ against him.

>>7067604
låter klokt, framgång i kommersiell mening fungerar väl så, eller är det min genomsyrande pessimism som spökar igen.

hur som haver, bugar och bockar för ditt inlägg.

>Lamentation for the snail I accidentally stepped upon

Thou dost creep within the night;
Damp ground and air to aid thy flight.
The darkness keepeth thee from sight,
While on my lettuce thou dost bite
And drape with slime.

But thou hast crept too stealthily;
And was not this the death of thee?
For though it was too dark to see,
A noise could have prevented me
From crushing thee last night.

>>7070400

Malaria
I am a protozoa:
Behold my polar rings!
I luncheon on red blood cells,
And do some wicked things.

I am Apicomplexan,
A parasitic breed.
You know me as malaria,
And I am vile indeed.

>>7070400
>>7070413

>Turtle
Last night I saw a turtle;
It looked like a grenade.
I picked it up and threw it.
No explosion was made.

>Pot Smoker (to the tune of ‘Big Spender’)

The minute you walked in with a joint,
I could tell that you were high on some resin; a real pot smoker.
Good deal; well refined.
You look like that stuff blew your mind.
So let me get right to the point:
I don’t flip with normal passive smoke I breathe.
Hey, pot smoker!
Smoke a little pot with me.

>Reincarnation?

If reincarnation really is true,
Not lies made by a deceiver,
Then why does nobody ever remember
A life where they were an amoeba?

>Worms

Worms are skinny,
Worms are fat,
They live in the ground,
They live in the cat.
Some can swim;
None can fly.
Chop them in half
And they multiply.
They have no legs,
They cannot frown,
They don’t have necks,
And they can’t sit down.
To sum up their use
In a few choice words:
They aerate the soil
And feed the birds.

>Once ‘upon’ a time

Once upon a time,
There sat
A rather small,
Demented cat.

It choked upon a prawn
One night,
And toppled off the time
In fright.

>>7070400

This is very moving.

I love snails and always get very happy when I found one of them. I like to watch them, for it makes me very calm - is almost a form of meditation.

One of my favorite moments in Shakespeare is a simile based on snails:

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again;
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled
Into the deep dark cabins of her head:

>>7058811

bump

>>7070438

Chop them in half
They multiply

(...)
They can't sit down.

The And ruins the rhythm

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear and if you break one, its bad luck for 7 years
I've got a room full of them muthafuckas.
that's where i go to focus
On my hocus pocus
To manifest the will to resist Indefinite Rest
Jesting with the jester about things that happend yesteryear.
And how every year since its been nothing but down hill
But I've been down so goddamn long that it looks like up to me
I used to have dreams about things that don't make sense, until i got a sense of what they mean

The very first thing you gotta realize is that you're never really under control
You also gotta know that when you step outside its like a muthafuckin dice roll
Its 5 to 1 and the odds are against me, but its alright cause the markets collapsing under my feet.
Its the year of jubilee.
The righteous will rejoice.
The sinners made their choice
Everybody reaps what they sow.

"I fail only myself." She is repeating.
Bereft of an audience, her thought failing
even that Alabama streak. She mutters
words no one recognizes. At least, not near
her they don't. Words like fuck, cunt, and lesbian
ring from nothing, a deeper than mountain need,
purer than the driven slush of her life. Here,
she rises to denounce all casting couch men,
all the poets who worship stasis and fear,
all the whores who deny they are cocksuckers
and bitches. "I really loathe this life, at times-
especially the bastards who see my greed
for living as some sinful thing. The poor, dumb
shits don't see God is empty- pass the bourbon....”

>>7058811

This is one of the demonic songs I wrote for my play. The demons are brewing the blood of several human sufferers: people who died with cancer, drunkards who died from cirrhoses; babies that were strangled by their mothers; prostitutes that, when they were old and sick with syphilis, were thrown in to the guts and streets; hanged criminals; old women who died alone forever dreaming in being loved; mothers who have lost their sons but who spend all their lives cleaning their empty rooms; a kid that was beaten to death by his drunk father, etc.

One of the songs mention the people who suffered with depression and killed themselves because of that. The Demons speak about their blood and the nature of depression in a song. The original Portuguese version is rhymed and has 7 metrical syllabubs.

The acrid blood of the suicidal,
Souls that were eaten
By the the rape and possession
Of the demon of depression.
But what is the nature
Of this chief-monster of sadness?
It is wanting to live asleep
By having in sleep a way out
from the horrendous dream of life:
The nightmare that unfolds under the sun.
It is an insoluble hook
Of anguish stinging the mind;
It is a mute death among the crowds;
It is having to go through every day
A pit of agonized mire.
It's a lonely asphyxiation:
A dry and internal drowning
That occurs in the thought.
It is a parasitic shadow;
It is a muddied mist
Whose mucous shroud
Spreads inside the thorax,
Like and oppressive toxin:
Heart, lungs and throat
Crushing with this slimy mantle.
It is snow that falls perpetually,
A cold cancer of ivory,
Burying life under a winter
And making, of being, a form of hell.


O acre sangue dos suicidas,
Almas que foram comidas
Pelo estupro e possessão
Do demônio depressão.
Porém qual é a natureza
Do monstro-mor da tristeza?
É querer viver dormindo
Por ter no sono saída
Do sonho horrendo da vida:
Pesadelo em pleno sol.
É um insolúvel anzol
De angústia a picar a mente;
Morte muda em meio a gente;
É atravessar todo o dia
Um lamaçal de agonia.
É asfixia solitária:
Seco e interno afogamento
Que ocorre no pensamento.
É sombra parasitária;
É enlameada neblina
Cuja ranhenta mortalha
Dentro do tórax se espalha,
Como opressora toxina:
Coração, pulmões, garganta
Esmagando com tal manta.
É neve que cai, sem fim,
Um frio câncer de marfim,
Que enterra a vida em inverno
E faz, do existir, inferno.

just a brief rhyme I wrote. hope it's welcome here

to swallow the candle
to stroke at the marrow
to birth and to cradle
to lay with the cobble

to crawl with the snails
to kneel at the willows
to hide with the sparrows
to cry as the quail

to spit in the hail
to frost as the shallow
to freeze on tomorrow
to birth and to cradle

>>7063392

Should a fictional constitution be divided into articles or can I just write paragraphs and number them?

Here's an example:

http://pastebin.com/PE5ucUQ1