/lit/ - Literature

BUMP FOR POTENTIAL

maybe don't post at 3am next time

An email loaded with amorphous detail rings out in the morning, and by the afternoon, we will taste human flesh for the first time. Sometimes jobs are like this. Email is the fodder for corporate anarchy, some press release about our jobs written in newspeak, vague on detail and ripe for the scuttlebutt. Everyone imagines those who pen such things cackling as they type, one finger coyly twisting into their cheek as the missive speeds to a few thousand inboxes. The Masters™ are no fools—these things are not designed to root and rile—but we eat it up, we crave it like the needle. The inbox makes that little chiming sound, a wild email appears, and seconds later I am wearing a spiky leather Mad Max costume and running down some poor family on my motorcycle for an expired can of tomatoes. Things have escalated.

The morning started with coffee and small-talk about the weather, but by 2pm, the savages have painted symbols in blood on the walls, and I cannot identify what is slowly twirling over the sticky-note bonfire. Not all of us have come unprepared, however. As I read the tricky emails from on-high, I lower my Bane mask and inhale its chemicals, strengthened by it, empowered by its intentions. “You think the corporate world is your ally? You merely adopted the khaki socks and the Starbucks. I was born in it. Molded by it. I didn’t see true email until I was already a man. By then, it was nothing to me, but a career.”

Let us be afraid and jump to conclusions, goddammit! Worried bodies bob and weave in and out of the offices, struggling to hear what’s been heard by someone who heard a thing who heard a thing. Something smells rancid and delicious out in the open sun, so every dog under the prairie starts to pop their head out and squeak. Get it? I used prairie dogs as a loose metaphor because I am so terribly clever.

One question, then more:

“What have you heard?”

“What does ‘restructuring’ mean?”

“I heard that half of us will be fired.”

“Really? I heard that we’re to be hunted on an island off the coast of Argentina.”

“I heard that we are to now worship the Demon-King Pazuzu, and we are to prepare our bodies for the harvest.”

“Yup. I heard the same thing, and that we have to pay for our own break-room sodas.”

“It’s probably true. Someone told me that someone told them that they over heard that we’re all going to have to get those blood plugs installed over our heart, like in Dune.”

>>7166677
Things have escalated. Early in the morning it’s all smiles and small talk, the kind you practice on each other, the kind you never use anywhere else in your life. The culture is adopted—it has to be—you cannot expect to bring your own flavor to the place. If everyone wears jeans on Friday, you are going to wear jeans. If everyone says “hello” in the hallway, every time, then you are going to say “hello.” If everyone participates in some archaic devilry mentioned in whispers as “the skin ritual,” then you are going to buy cocoa butter, learn the ins-and-outs of a wild pig, and be ready to learn Aramaic. You work here now, get fucking comfy.

It turns dark when someone a few pay grades higher than you starts shooting out emails light on detail and heavy with innuendo. I don’t like it any more than the next, but I chose this life. I spent years inside the walls of the white collar world and its boring-ass carpet patterns, and I then Gladiator-ed my way to freedom. I spent years wandering the outside world, trying to find my place in it all as a grownup human. While I was able to make it work for a bit, eventually I carved “Matthew Was Here” into a support beam, kicked the chair, and fell back into “the life.” I wanted the politics, the red tape, the water cooler, and the words that aren’t used anywhere else. At home or with friends I do not speak like this, but at work, I will bust out the “strategy,” the “cooperative process,” and the “let’s touch base,” like it was my job. Well, yeah, it is.

“You’re probably safe, it’s me I’m worried about.” Safe from what you loony thing you, an asteroid? Self preservation is the name of the corporate game, but we are arming ourselves for things that we cannot see. Vague emails and unseen things are normally the stuff that turns my anxieties up to eleven. I am well seasoned at “what-if’ing” myself into a wild tizzy, and I have bested the most righteous of the brain medications available, things with acronyms and side effects similar to those of parathion nerve gas. I can stub my toe and string together a chain of worries that has me awake at night wondering if I accidentally gave myself foot-AIDS. I can sneeze into my elbow and spend the next week waiting for my own assassination by a band of horny drifters with deep gambling debts and debilitating addictions to cocaine and manga. It all makes sense when you think about it too much, and holy Mary full of Xanax, I do. Look at me, again, so clever.

“Are you mad?” He said to me, trying not to raise his voice. We had chosen a poor place to talk about this, I admit that, but it just so happened that neither of us wanted to host the meetings in order to persist in the anonymity we lent each other.

What made this endeavour worse, was that as we sat here in this bar drinking, which only led to us overstepping ourselves and forgetting to check our surroundings before continuing to elaborate on our ideas, which in turn drew more attention to us when one of us had to forcibly silence or interrupt the other in order to prevent any nearby ears from listening in.

Unfortunately this was the only public house within adequate distance of our houses and there are very rarely ears of authority in such lower-class establishments. And this was the embodiment of a lower-class establishment. Not a patron in the place looked like they had two cents to rub together, every single beverage on tap was some unearthly strong and stupidly cheap concoction and the whole place frequently smelt like a mixture of this, urine and industrial cleaning supplies. It was in part due to this that we spent some time considering a change of location, or to conduct our meetings without the consumption of any alcohol. We realised however, that in order for us to want to share ideas and begin the creative process; at least one of us be somewhat inebriated.

In passing we developed a system by which we marked the edges of the seats we so often used, as to recall whom it was to be paying for the drinks on which day. He pertained to sherry whereas I much preferred port, thus on the days he was to pay for our refreshments we both drank sherry and in turn every other meeting we both took to port.

The meetings continued for some time. If I can recall correctly, some eight or so months passed between our first chance meeting and the period in which we deigned ourselves dedicated enough to the cause to begin what we later looked back on as ‘the hunt’. This was merely a task of relocation; there was not a soul who knew of what we planned, and we would rather it kept that way, due to the nature of the crime.

>>7166752
Let’s keep our button-ups tucked into our underwear for the moment. “Don’t Panic.” I think someone from outer space said that once. So, things are changing, you-the-whomever-still-reads-this-blathery, and if decades of song lyrics have taught us anything, it’s that A.) Things indeed do change, and B.) “Notorious is glorious in the sack, hit skins from the back, put my thumb up the ass crack.” Listen then—nothing may change, or, we all might be relocated to some drifting mega-liner in the middle of the Atlantic. There is only one way to know—ready your own backup plans, and wait. Well, two ways I suppose, but unless you’ve got plutonium, a clear plastic neck tie, and a DeLorean, I’m not holding my breath.

Again, the Bane mask fits snugly over my sinuses. The bravado comes on easily, and I’m almost talking to myself at this point. “You read an email. And this gives you power over me?” I forget what comes next. Something with Michael Keaton, I think.

>>7164507
In off-white porcelain forests
Embedded deep in dreams
Glass organs ring green suggestions
Hearts fell from the rhythm with the leaves

Eyelids now are clouded
From all the sun I've seen
Lay down in dreams of forests
The skies are now glass it seems

Revealing seamless gestures
Little worms of grass and heartstrings
Mountains of giant totems
Heads on heads, Heads on heads

Galloping beds of sunflower horses
Diamonds over-running the streams
Run rivulets down shadowed rainbows
Colours and shapes burn to feel

Lay down in dreams of forests
Heads on heads
Heads on heads

>>7164507
Bumping.

I'll post mine and critique later.

>>7166769
Is it meant to be vague? You'll have to clarify for a dumb guy like me to understand.

I liked it though, very lyrical.

>>7167684
Yeah it is, just atmospherical descriptions.
Thanks anon

>>7166760
Way too fucking postmodern for me.

Hey /lit/, I'd love to get some crit on my YA pleb bullshit. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JXZiTeBz9FUn6LyQiKOOVE8QU8hHoCEMzOBsUnHiRsw/edit?usp=sharing
I just finished the first draft of the whole thing a few days ago and now i'm redoing the first chapters. Basic sentence structure advice would be great, i'm sure there's plenty examples of how much I suck at that. Thank you to anyone that takes time to read it, and special thanks to anyone who has time to critique.

I wrote this in Spanish

http://pastebin.com/8uVJva44

Static shuttered in so I never heard Williams make the catch against the wall but I heard him throw back to home and the Tiger was out, I hadn’t heard who it was and I hadn’t heard the crowd over the radio before but it sounded as if people were cheering faint from inside my room, I had never heard anything but the broadcaster’s voice over the radio, so I turned the knob down but not the final click off and walked next door to ask my father if the radio broadcaster is at the park, or if he is watching television somewhere else and is just narrating it to us along with us, and he stopped smoking to think and he told me that of course he has to be at the park, up in a box somewhere because what would happen if the tee-vee signal went out in the middle of the game, he would just be sitting twiddling his thumbs with the rest of the people trying to listen in, so of course he was there at the game watching from high up in a box, then I asked if he was listening at all and he wasn’t, so I told him that Williams made a very good throw from left to home, he asked what year, I said 1951 so he reminded me that that was the year that WIlliams had a broken elbow or something along those lines, broken arm then harsh recovery and a sore elbow, so all year he missed time and innings, and back in my room I made it in time for a home run through the static so he was a ghost but a very real home run by someone on the Red Sox, I wanted to ask who else was on the roster in ‘51 but dad didn’t seem in the mood as he repaired the radio of the boy down the street who came two days prior asking if he could fix it for him for less than a dollar, and my dad told him that he needs two dollars to do it and the boy left until my dad called him back and took his eight coins and his small almost walkie-talkie radio, it looked like a field phone from an old war I told him and he said he’d never worked on anything like that but that would definitely be interesting if he could ever get his hands on one, and it was two days later and still the working on the boy’s radio so he was getting a little impatient, I never saw him finish a cigar in one sitting before unless he was around his friends or an even older man, but there were probably five or six flaky ends dropped in the wood ash tray, or at least it was made to look like it was wood but the more I felt it touched it held it the more I realized it was probably some stone.
That summer the FMLD 88.1 radio station was broadcasting every day a different Red Sox game from long ago, games with no videos or archives or records, only an assortment of saved radio broadcasts I’m not sure why anyone saved them but I’m glad they did. My dad said the station was ‘Fuck My Lucky Duck’ and I never knew what on earth that meant, it was gibberish.

>>7168532
autistic faggot detected

1/2

Psychopath.

"A person suffering from a chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behavior," according to the Oxford American English Dictionary. Given what you already know about me (which may be little more than the crimes I've committed) and this fairly unambiguous definition courtesy of Oxford University, it should already be painfully evident to you, the diligent and intelligent reader -- that I, your devilishly handsome and decidedly sane narrator, fail to meet even the most basic criteria for psychopathy.

"Surely, the systematic entrapment and murder of dozens of INNOCENT people for no reason other than your own personal pleasure would be considered 'abnormal or violent social behavior'," a pompous, self-absorbed, arrogant, prick once wrote me.

I never ACTUALLY bothered replying to such pathetic drivel directly; (though I have replied to this individual's letters out of sheer boredom before) but let's, if only for a second, entertain the notion that even a pathetic dullard like this man is entitled to his opinion, and that every opinion is just as worthy of critique and analysis as the next. After all, do we not live in a country which prides itself on equality? A country in which you are just as welcome to spout mindless [SYNONYM FOR BULLSHIT] as you are to condone that very same [SYNONYM FOR BULLSHIT]?

The first aspect of our friend's statement that I take issue with may seem inconsequential at first, but rest assured my curious friends, it really is integral to I point I plan to make later on. "Dozens" is unnecessarily vague. Yes, in terms of describing the body count at a [MOVIE SCREENING? TAPING OF NEWS? LECTURE?], "dozens" does connote a rather large amount, but "Fifty Seven" just sounds absolutely delightful. It almost has a sing-song, lilting, quality, don't you think? Of course, it probably wouldn't be advantageous for our dim witted friend to romanticize my actions, but the pseudo-intellectual boot lickers who permeate college campuses, news publications, and government organizations throughout the nation and most of the western world have an unhealthy, almost sensual obsession with statistics and numbers, particularly when it comes to body counts. So it simply baffles me that it never occurred to our friend, whom I've neglected to mention writes for a "respected" news publication, to enumerate the deceased more precisely.

>>7168777
2/2

Of course, I'm not really baffled by his choice of words, in addition to being a blithering mongoloid, our simple friend's profession requires him to complete assignments given to him in a timely fashion, and there is no doubt in my mind that the series of letters he's sent to me have been nothing but the result of a pen pal assignment given to him by his boss, who in all likelihood thought it'd be good publicity for his prized reporter. That's no excuse for the COMPLETE lack of logical reasoning on his behalf, (a single violent incident hardly constitutes "chronic" violent behavior on my part, I never once claimed that pleasure was my motivation) but you must understand that our friend is being disingenuous.

"Disingenuous? Surely, you jest! A well-educated man such as yourself is undoubtedly well aware that by virtue of their nature, ignoramuses are incapable of being disingenuous."

No, dearest reader, I do not jest. It takes a truly intelligent and particularly dastardly individual to effectively deceive others, but any fool, from a "born again" heroin addict in search of a new god to absolve themselves of personal responsibility to a chivalrous cuckold raising another man's children in the name of selflessness is capable of deceiving themselves. Our friend, for the most part, believes that what I did was appalling, but scattered all throughout his shallow subconscious are small pockets of dissent and resistance. Tiny little clusters of neuron transmitters protesting quietly in the posterior of our dim witted friends skull, trying ever so desperately to undo the societal brainwashing our poor friend has been forced to endure his whole life, the brainwashing that prevents him from seeing the simple truth so painfully evident to you and I.

Norman Bates is a god damn hero.

>>7168532
"A Farewell to Grammar" by Anon Anoningway

>>7168816
heh

>>7168489
You better be here when I post this, fucker, cause I’m wasting my sweet-ass time in this instead of preparing my English lessons for next week.

>Funerarias Bueno Paradiso fue fundada por nueve hermanos y hermanas

El sonido “fu” que se repite tres veces no me termina de agradar. Le da una especie de tono como de humo que, o le quita poder al inicio, o adormece los sentidos (que no es malo si ese es tu propósito: crear una sensación de entumecimiento al hablar de un lugar de muerto rodeado de más muerte; pero si esto no es a propósito, very bad, ese). Me parece que deberías terminar la oración con “hermanas”. Si lo haces, deberías especificar el número de hermanas y el número de hermanos, para darle más redondez a la oración. Up to you, tho.
>que, por una tragedia u otra, fallecieron en su mayor parte.
Me parece redundante. Borrala o editala de tal manera que quede como una oración a parte de la primera. Recomiendo: “Casi todos ellos, por una u otra desgracia/tragedia, fallecieron.”
>Gabriel, el primero de los hijos Siracusa nació en un amanecer de septiembre de algún año, hijo de Ángel Siracusa y Angélica Siracusa,
Las alusiones e imágenes angelicales quizá sean demasiado obvias; temo que incluso rayen en lo burdo. Recomiendo hacerlas más sutiles. También, “nació un”, no “nació *en* un”; y cambiar por “Ángel y Angélica Siracusa”, pues no hay necesidad de repetir el apellido.
>cada uno de ellos hijo de familias adoptivas tras la muerte de sus respectivas familias, que, en coincidencia, fallecieron ambas al ser [aplastadas] bajo un tren circulante por rieles suspendidos.
Demasiadas palabras, y la construcción es extraña (awkward). Recomiendo: “ambos huérfanos adoptados tras la muerte de sus respectivas familias en un trágico [usar trágico sólo si no lo usaste antes] accidente, en el cuál fueron aplastadas por un tren que se descarrilló a su paso por rieles suspendidos”.

1/2

>>7168489
>>7168858

2/2

>La joven pareja, pues ambos tenían la misma edad y no estaban aun cerca de los treinta, decidió tras el nacimiento de su primer hijo alejarse de la ciudad y moverse hacia una minúscula casa en la pradera, la cual compraron tras vender su más pequeña casa en medio de la ciudad, cerca de la costa, y las vías del tren.

Recuerda la diferencia entre “aun” y “aún”. De nuevo, construcción extraña. Empiezo a dudar de que hayas revisado el texto o que el español sea tu lengua materna (o que leas mucho en español). Recomiendo: “La joven pareja (ambos de la misma edad, en la plenitud de sus veinte) decidió, después del nacimiento de su primer hijo, alejarse de la ciudad e ir al campo. Se mudaron a una pequeñísima [minúscula no me termina de agradar, but up to you I guess] choza en la pradera, la cual compraron con el dinero de la venta de su todavía más pequeña casa en la ciudad, cerca de la costa, y las vías del tren. [Aquí la referencia geográfica me sabe inverosímil. ¿En la ciudad, pero en la costa, pero en las vías del tres? ¿Pues qué pinche ciudad es esa? Piénsale mejor para que sea más factible]

A la mierda, revisa tu texto, piensa en las correcciones/comentarios que te he hecho/sugerido y vuelve después. Siento que estás cometiendo errores muy básicos.

A la mierda, revisa tu texto, piensa en las correcciones/comentarios que te he hecho/sugerido y vuelve después. Siento que estás cometiendo errores muy básicos.

>>7168858
Ah, y por cierto, me acabo de dar cuenta que la primera oración no me agradó porque, además, está en voz pasiva. No sirve, conviértela en voz activa.

>>7168864
>Empiezo a dudar de que hayas revisado el texto o que el español sea tu lengua materna (o que leas mucho en español).
El español es mi lengua materna, pero leo ficción en inglés con más frecuencia ya que es más sencillo conseguir los textos.

>>7168777
>>7168786
Shitty Nabokov imitation tbh lad.

>>7168883
Entonces son la primera y tercera opciones. A menos que vivas en un país anglófono, me parece extraño que los textos en español sean más difíciles de conseguir que los ingleses. Más aun con internet.

Mi consejo es que leas más en español. Así irás agarrando la cadencia del idioma además de sus estructuras y su puntuación.

Mis observaciones fueron hechas con la mejor de las intenciones. Espero te ayuden, porque en verdad creo que debes mejorar ese texto, aun si sólo es un palomazo.

>>7166677
>Get it? I used prairie dogs as a loose metaphor because I am so terribly clever.

The failure of the machines barely came as surprise to Conrad Hertz. It had been twelve days since his daughter had visited, and last time she’d only stayed for fifteen minutes or so. A vase of wilting irises, hyacinths, and orchids was the only decoration adorning his veiled chamber, having been brought against his will and its own by a vapid, chattering cadre of ex-students. And the attractive nurse was recently moved to a different ward, so for the past week he’d been attended to by a brusque, polite young man. In light of all these cruelly conspiring events, it only seemed logical that the life support would give out without much fuss, that no one would appear, phantasmal, as they usually seemed to upon his waking from anesthesia. It was mere tautology to him that death would begin to approach at an exponentially more zealous rate, that he would be cast out of senselessly serene slumber into the wakefulness of chronic discomfort. Throughout the remaining few hours of his existence, as his physical form tore recklessly, no longer confined by modern medicine, towards obsolescence, as the individual cells of his body began one by one to lurch their way towards necrosis, his mind took on an almost hermetic quality. It became sharply crystalline, and seemed to be immune to the unfamiliar vagaries of daylight--he had decided to make his way outside, feeling that, all things considered, it might be the most prudent choice. Rather than being absorbed and processed, all stimuli passed through him, were perceived for a moment and then refracted out and away. He didn’t think it strange at all that on a fine, fresh Wednesday morning there would be no people, no cars, nothing moving at all except the breeze.

>>7168907
It was a ten-minute walk from the hospital to Volkspark Friedrichshain. As he made his way along the street, Hertz felt an electricity running through his body, beginning at the top of his head and in his fingers as the sunlight met them. With each step, he transferred the current into the pavement as his feet struck it, and the warm air around him burned with bright radiation. The desire to break into a run was overpowering, but there was still some sensible part of him left that knew his bones would shatter, that his muscles would tear, that he would fall and be abandoned writing on the hot asphalt. So he continued walking, and each storefront he encountered was like the first he’d ever seen.
The fountain was iridescent, but not in such a way that it stood out. Indeed, nothing in the park really seemed three-dimensional or real. Hertz felt as if he were trapped in a beautiful painting, or a blurry photograph. Leaving the path, he walked onto the grass and felt his feet sink into its cool dampness, lying down in the grass he felt it all over and let out a breath, without ever taking one in again. As the days went on and the fallout began to settle on Conrad Hertz’s corpse, as the sun was hidden by thick clouds of ash, as winter began to set in, as the trees in the park were deprived of light, his process of decay and theirs continued in unison--like children skipping arm in arm under early stars on a clear fall evening.

Nothing I have special interest in getting feedback on, I just want to know which parts are utter shit and which parts are okay.

>>7168777
Never define a word, that's just undergrad shit

>>7168907
You're overwriting and it feels like you're trying too hard. If you took out a lot of your big words it would read smoother and be better. Good writers don't use big words unnecessarily.

>>7168917
Anon-kun, I AM NOT an undergrad. I'm a high school drop-out

I've been meaning to revise the first paragraph but I haven't gotten around to it yet, what did you think of the rest of it though?

>>7168930
I didn't get past that because I knew the rest would be bad.

>>7168924
Any specific sentences/phrases where it stands out as obnoxious?

>>7168930
Not him, but it's a bit trite. Read American Psycho, and only continue on that subject if you really think you can do a better job than Ellis did, since you're basically writing a cheap knockoff of him.

My skin is turning yellow
My eyes confirm that change.
I was not a happy fellow,
My liver felt so strange.

Seems there's a leak of bile
Into my upper digestive tract
After a moment of brief denial,
The pain became exact.

Acid burned a hole right through me
Through guts and balls and all.
Each drip dropped down to hell where
I'll spend this coming fall.

I can feel my kidneys bursting.
My bladder's all filled up.
But you know I thought the worst thing
Was peeing in that cup.

The pain don't seem to matter.
The loss hurts bad as is.
I heard the nurse's chatter.
I ain't havin' any kids.

These bones are getting achy.
They're stiff around each joint.
My sun seems setted lately,
I wish you'd make your point.

I feel like I deserve it.
I think others feel the same.
They say I've got a nerve hit
But I know it's my heart to blame.

My lungs are full of fire.
Sut and tar pitch black.
It is in my heart's desire
to cut its friends some slack.

My brain is sending signals.
It's stuck on overdrive.
Daily self sedation
Is what's keeping me alive.

>>7168936
Yeah but why not read more and then look back at it. Read 10 classics and analyse the writing styles. The idea is to be in a position where you know what good writing is so you can self -render / edit.

>>7168777
MERIAM WEBSTER DEFINES PSYCHOPATH AS:

(cmon dude weak opener)

>>7168945
The first paragraph really is shit, this I'll admit, but without giving away too much I'll just say that the protagonist is much more remorseful than Bateman ever was for his crimes.

>>7168972
C'mon lads, just fucking ignore the opener and critique the rest. I'll change it tonight.

>>7168949
Christ's putrid cum this was fucking awful

>>7168961
That's very general and very obvious, I posted it here to get advice on specifics.

>>7168974
I think the problem lies more in the fact that the character's narration sounds like your typical edgy teenager, so it's instantly recognizable and boring. You need to do more towards differentiating him, making him not likable but at least believable and interesting.

>>7169000
Is it really that unreadable, or are you just not a fan of edgy protags? I took inspiration from spree killer's manifestos, A Clockwork Orange, and Notes from the Underground for the prose, so the character is supposed to above average edgy levels.

>>7168985
Don't listen to this faggot. AB rhyme scheme is a bit contrived and boring but it's really not that bad of a poem, especially compared to the unreadable trash that gets posted here on a daily basis.

>>7169016
Yeah my point is you might have taken too much inspiration. But there's no rule saying you need to be original, so if that's what you feel like writing then go for it. Just giving my $0.02.

Say a man lives in a village. Let the village be represented by a 3x3 grid. Within the village there are a number of huts around the perimeter, each represented by one square in the grid.

Suppose this man was very old, he never left the village because he felt entirely satisfied by what was in his universe. This man had, however, seen every other house in the village, compared it to his own and viewed the contrast favorably. This old man had the most out of the 3x3 grid.

Say another villager lived in a house that society viewed as being of least worth. This person, also cognizant of the contrast, was unhappy and moved to a big city-- denoted by a 9x9 grid.

1/81 of this larger grid could represent the small village while the other squares could represent a plethora of other distinct communities. If the villager who moved views the city-dwellers in his new community in a negative way, he will understand that although the old man in his home village may not necessarily have nothing, but he does have a false sense of pride. What is important for the traveler to become aware of is that, although he has the least in the village, the contrast to the lowest rung of the bigger society allows him to view his current position as being an intermediary, both inspired by those who have more and humbled by those who have less.

At either pole of this spectrum is the man in the village, happy with nothing and the low-hanging fruits of society, depressed about everything.

>>7168995
>I don't want to read books and learn but I expect everyone to read what I write

>>7169034
Dynamic IP address so I'll just be frank, I'm 15 years old and this is my first attempt at a story longer than a school assignment or green text. I don't really have enough life experience to write a wholly original novel, and I feel like my writing skills aren't honed enough to write a truly decent novel even if I do have a somewhat original idea, so do you think it'd be best to stick with this just for the writing experience and practice fully knowing that it'll never be anything great or to jump ship and come back to writing when I have something interesting to say?

>>7169037
Muh Allegory of the Cave

(1/2)

A shudder ran through Derrick’s body. Alone in a room without the TV on, he sat with his book in his lap and his smartphone on the other side of the room. He had just finished reading a short story from the book; Derrick’s mind idled for a moment or two at this natural stopping point.
Disconcertion grew in Derrick’s stomach and lungs. A sense of unsettling stillness grew in his mind, snowballed. He felt like he was sitting cross legged, chest deep in the ocean. The water glassy and smooth and completely still. Twisting his head around toward the shore, he saw that there was no tide. Frightened at the realization that the water had solidified with him in it, he began jerking his body, trying to shift it in an effort to loosen the water’s grip on his body. This was worse than being buried in the sand on the shore.
Lightning struck his head. Jolted back to the shore, he stood up, walked to the TV, and turned it on. Information, visual and auditory, flooded the room. It was that snowy static channel. For a second, Derrick basked in its noise. It dampened his thoughts and feelings, displaced them. While approaching his chair, the outline of his glass of water was distinct in his peripheral vision; his mind clung to it with its stubborn tentacles. Perplexed that something so mundane would be deemed valuable by his mind’s discerning tentacles, his more voluntary, conscious mind became more interested in the glass of water. It seemed that it had finally caught up to the tentacles.
What piqued his interest most was the ice cubes. They weren’t cubes. They were cylinders with the top and bottom circles missing. They were ice tubes. Derrick was dismayed to see the ice tubes rising out of his glass of water and expanding. One hovered above his head, one hovered by his right leg, a few left his field of view, and another eased itself around Derrick’s left leg. The tentacles were colluding with the ice tubes! He was restrained, paralyzed. The tentacles were holding his eyes open like that scene from A Clockwork Orange! Panic welled up inside him, but it stagnated into resignation. The resignation felt nice; it blanketed his body like a potent muscle relaxant. An ice tube expanded a little to accommodate the size of his right leg. It shrunk back down to reduce the empty space between leg and ice tube. A tentacle playfully prodded the ice tube. It slid down his leg a little, leaving a trail of freshly melted water.

>>7169045
I think you should hang out with your friends and live crazy when you can and think about writing later.

You'll never get the next few years back and they will be super important in retrospect, so try many new things.

>>7169054
(2/2)

A large ice tube, the biggest he had ever seen, came into view above Derrick’s head. Without moving his head, his eyes locked onto the tube to the best of their ability. Frustrated and defeated by his eyebrows, he returned his eyes to a more level plane. The massive ice tube continued to slowly move forth. It was going north in relation to Derrick’s head. It reminded him of an ominous, yet mute, alien spaceship. Perfectly silent. He wasn’t afraid. He hoped the tiny aliens had interesting things to say. The ice tube was doing something weird now. It was executing a u-turn! Derrick thought it intended to bind both of his legs at the same time. He was right.
Abruptly an ice tube wrapped itself around Derrick’s arms and torso. “Thanks,” he said. “That one was quick like a band-aid.” Derrick was startled to feel the icy embrace of another one around his head. It tightened. Before losing the ability to speak or breathe, he asked in an annoyed, inconvenienced tone, “Why?”

>>7169044
How was that implied by what I said? Every person who wants to learn to write will read books, but getting direct feedback is also valuable. If you don't want to give direct feedback, then stop wasting your time and mine by arguing over nothing.

>>7169054
>>7169065
The prose is complete shit, but I actually quite enjoy this for some reason. The general feel of it is very engaging.

>>7169045
>>7169059
Personally I don't think "life experience" is necessary for writing. It can be fun in its own right, although the choice between reading and experiencing is really a matter of opinion. For improving one's writing though, I think the best course of action is to alternate between writing and reading. They're both important, and it's not good to neglect either one completely.

>>7169084
Any advice on the prose? I've been trying to improve it and I don't feel like I've been making any progress. Do I just write a lot and my prose will gradually improve?

>>7169059
Without turning this thread into a blog that's not really feasible tbh lad. I just want writing advice, not life coaching.

>>7169084
>don't think life experience is necessary for writing
Of course it is, at least if you ever want to write anything original. You don't need to look any further than Wikipedia to see that any author worth his salts has had some interesting life experience to draw their novels from, even if that life experience is just wasting away at a computer, after all no novel has really looked at the philosophical implications of the NEET age as of yet.

>>7169100
I could give you many counterexamples, but it only takes one to prove you wrong, so here it is: Kafka.

>>7169092
Read more and see what can be done with it. Word choice, sentence structure, narrative voice, all these things can be played with, switched around, reimagined. Especially when writing something like that that isn't strictly realist, you don't have to follow normal paradigms.

WATCH ME NAE NAE.

It's basic i know, but i'm improving.

>>7169151
Came to this, thanks.

First time posting on /lit/ I think I'm going to start writing again to try and better the only skill I have,

http://pastebin.com/8E1MwEvu

I'll be posting daily and entering contests/writing manuscripts. Please shit on me so I can have a skill that will let me eat when my parents finally croak.

>>7166760
I collect mugs from anime. I hope that one day I can get a white collar job and fuck with people around the coffee maker by bringing in weeb mugs every day.

Will someone finally care about him now that he put on the mask?

Dogs howling out under the blood moon,
what a night to be alive!
To hear their baying,
to wonder why?

Was it because of the fight? There must have been a fight. I was walking up the road, towards home, when ahead of me I saw two men squaring up to each other. A man in a red sweater was gesticulating at a bald man in a football jersey. They stood just off the footpath, on the road at a T junction.

I was too far away to actually hear them, but it seemed quite heated. Neither of them seemed to notice or care about the traffic queued up behind them. First in line was a creamy fourdoor with its right indicator blinking. It was as if the driver had decided he had happened upon something worth stalling for a second to see where it would lead.

It was a dead end. The two turned from one another: football jersey had returned to the footpath; red sweater, behind the creamy fourdoor and in front of a camper van swivelled around and shouted the last word on the matter. I lost sight of the jersey and slowed down to allow adequate distance between me and jumper, who by was crossing to my side of the road, going the same direction as I. He was returning to the pub; he spoke with a large older man before going in.

As I passed the pub, a call came out to me by name. Two blonde women across the road, both stunning (one more stunning than the other). I knew the one who knew me. We chatted across the tarmac; I declined an invite to the club they were going to. I stuttered an excuse about having college; this was because I had been smoking hash and was not in the mind to be changing plans (smoking more hash). It occurred to me they probably had a more in depth understanding of what I had witnessed than the man in the creamy fourdoor. I decided to make my life easier and not ask them what had happened.

About forty minutes later I was walking back down the road, towards hash, when ahead I saw the friend of the woman who knew me. She was getting into a little threedoor with a spoiler. The car was parked about a foot and a half away from the footpath. Cars coming from behind on the road were indicating and driving around it. I stole a look at the driver as I walked by; I saw a small man who had built a body for himself so that he could crawl around on all fours at speed.

About seven hours later I was walking up the road, towards home, when on the footpath below me I saw;

And after this at home in bed I lie
If you were to ask me why dogs cry
In horror surely, I'd reply,
canines bared at the sky

The information must circulate
from dog to dog round the dinner plate
"Did ya not hear about the shouts?
The filthy things come out their mouths
The situation into tissues blossomed red
A crumbtrail to the door of the pub (red)
When sun cracked, the street cleaners fed.
Eating tissues and cans and bottles, their daily bread.
From the north Atlantic to the shores of the Med
Young drunk people bash each other in side of the head."

>>7169045

>15 years old

keep writing but realize it's going to be shit for a long time

reading is prob more important at this stage tbh

>>7164507
1/2

The call had come not long after mid night, waking him from the first half decent sleep he had had in days “Derrick?” the thickly accented Ugandan voice had asked over the crackling line. His brain was still fuddled, half stuck in the dreams of a moment ago “This is him” he had murmured as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with his free hand “Something’s happened”. Derrick lay back in the bed, the phone held tight against his ear “Tell me” he demanded, his mind quickly clearing as he waited for the voice at the end of the line to continue “It’s bad Derrick” the voice stuttered “You better come and see this”
That was three months ago and the midnight calls had become more frequent, a similar if not identical message repeated over and over. Derrick had begun to despise the voice of Dinesh and, by association, the man himself. Every time he heard his voice thoughts and memories of the last three months rose unbidden in his mind leaving him with an acidic taste in his mouth. The deaths of women and children had particularly sickened him, the manner in which their bodies had been found almost turned him back to the bottle. He stood now, watching as another hut was examined just outside of Kampala, the Ugandan capital. It was the third this month, the heat of February barely in its second week of passing. Derrick stretched his back as he watched the Ugandan officials scurry around the crime scene, his back clicked once, twice before the pain subsided. He hadn’t been the same since the Somme, and that was almost forty years ago. Lighting a cigarette he stepped towards the hut, it was little more than a lean to furnished with ill-fitting lumber from the surrounding woodland. Just another one of the many huts that made up the villages found all across Uganda. The officials nodded him through, whispering softly in Swahili as he passed under the low hanging doorway of the hut. He hadn’t seen the ad hoc crime force look so shocked since the first victim was found, then again, he hadn’t seen them look anything other than bewildered since they were founded. He inhaled deeply and regret it. The smell was always the same, dry blood and then the vomit from the first officer to appear on the scene. He flicked his half-finished smoke out through the door before turning back into the dimly lit hut. Matts covered the floor, cows hide and goat skin layered to cover up the cow dung that lined the ground. A small stool lay in the centre of the room, its three legs bent from the years of strain it had survived. In the back of the room, almost unnoticeable in the gloom lay three neatly piled corpses, resting peacefully.

>>7170542
2/2

Derrick walked carefully towards them, cautious not to disturb any evidence that may remain untainted in the room “Another ritual killing” said a voice behind him as Derrick knelt next to the bodies. That same voice that made his stomach churn, he hadn’t heard him follow him in. He ignored Dinesh’s statement and stared at the mangled bodies. They were cut up, large chunks of their flesh missing in places and the flies had begun to converge on them. Large bestial flies unlike anything he had ever experienced even in the Middle East, let alone his old home in Redding “Someone’s taken a machete to them again” said Dinesh as he crouched next to Derrick, instantly causing discomfort. He knew Dinesh meant well but the man had just been become the unlucky scapegoat for everything that annoyed Derrick about Uganda. He glanced at the bodies once more before raising himself from the ground “Two women and a young man” he said detachedly. He had long since washed away any connection with the victims, why should I care? He thought as he turned from the bodies, he didn’t want to be in Africa, not in this shithole.

I started writing this in 2013 and just stopped. It felt rather pointless at the time but after re-reading it...I don't know. Thoughts?

>>7168924
FUCK OFF
IT'S BEAUTIFUL
HE'S NOT OVERWRITING
YOU PRETEND LITERARY CRITIC
IT'S NOT OVERWRITING WHEN IT'S DONE RIGHT

It was the summer of 1941, in between eighth and ninth grade for my great grandfather, Jonathan, who was working as a caddy at the local country club along with a colored boy whom he did not get along with at all. While race was a factor, the real basis of their animosity for each other was rooted in their pride. When they first met Jonathan instantly took a dislike to the boy for the way that he carried himself, with a confident, cocky manner as if he wasn't living in poverty as a second class citizen but as if he was member of the country club himself. The black boy noticed and took offence to the look of contempt on Jonathan’s face, and repaid him with the same grimace, only to reinforce Jonathan into loathing.
This hatred fermented and festered for a period until it fully ripened to where each other absolutely abhorred one another’s existence and believed in themselves that they would kill the other given the chance. One day, when tensions were high, Jonathan and the boy were restless and lustful for violence. Today Jonathan was acting much more cocky than what was normal, made more racist remarks and more hastily pointed out flaws. The black boy couldn't bare it any longer and struck Jonathan in the stomach, doubling him over in pain. After a couple moments Jonathan recovered and grabbed a golf club the nearest bag and lifted it above his head. He brought the club down to the skull of the boy, emitting a sharp crack into the air. Visible in the wound where the club had landed was the milky white of bone, but quickly it turned red with the blood that poured out, cascading crimson pooling around his head, ever growing. The black boy laid unmoving with his face on the concrete in the blood as Jonathan stood trembling at his side with the club gripped in his hands, believing that he had just killed.
The men resting inside rushed out after hearing the violence. When they found the scene no one had asked what happened, it was obvious. Jonathan hadn't even made an attempt to hide his guilt and for the longest time failed to even observe the men’s presence. They had all stood in silence around the pair of boys until one man finally vocalized the question that they had all been wondering:
“Is he dead?”
And with this Jonathan began to sob and his trembling grew worse until he fell to his knees. While one of the men decided to check the black child’s pulse another man took it upon himself to console Jonathan.
“Don’t worry, kid, it was only a nigger.”

>>7171375
Not him but I gave up at
>an exponentially more zealous rate

He was sitting on the couch watching a war movie on TV when she came over and sat down next to him. ’’Is that Lee Marvin?’’ she asked.

’’Yes,’’ he said. ’’The Big Red One. It’s about World War two.’’

She was wearing nothing but a blue shirt (no bra underneath) and black panties (red pubic hair visible). He had always seen her as more of a motherly figure, but now she put her feet in his lap in a very unmotherly way. They were ruddy as if blushing, the nails painted a milky white, and slightly plump in that cute kind of way. These were feet that would make Pope Francis slobber and howl and shove Jesus Christ down on the ground.

’’You wanna get laid, kid?’’ She smiled as she said this, revealing immaculately white teeth straight out of a commercial. The big toe of her right foot started wriggling against his cock, and before he knew it, both feet were involved.
The kid was paralyzed. He looked at the TV, but even the sight of men getting their guts blown out couldn’t weaken his erection. Her toes were gorgeous. He wanted to suck each and every one with equal thoroughness and love; as a footie he would institute a strict policy of No Toe Left Behind. He would then press her soles in his face and sniff as passionately as a man who has just regained his sense of smell in a garden of exotic flowers. Coming closer, she put her pale arms around the kid and started kissing him. Her lips were warm and soft and tasted of vanilla. Her loose stawberry blonde hair fell in front of his eyes and obscured the TV. She enveloped him completely. ’’Call me ’Mommy’ while I fuck you,’’ she whispered.

Dominic Toretto once said, regarding racing, that for ’’those ten seconds or less, I’m free.’’ For those minutes or so, between going and coming, he was free, as if he had been transported to another world, one of pure ecstasy. She looked at him with endless love in her eyes and said, ’’We’re going to do this regularly. I’m not asking, I’m telling. Now say, ’I love you, Mommy.’’’

’’I love you, Mommy,’’ the kid said.

’’I love you too.’’

>>7171382
Remove the bit about Jonathan acting more cocky. Show him being more cocky.

I wrote this when I was fifteen and I'm wondering if it holds up:
We cry. We sob, we moan, we expel droplets of salty aqueous waste, as if such an act can settle the anger that boils so furiously inside us. Indeed, “we” put on quite the performance in pursuit of this goal - the show varies from time to time, but in the end, some kind of trauma will have been inflicted upon the world. This could be anything, ranging from the gaping hole punched through plasterous drywall to the crimson droplets splattered on the ground dispersed by a knife plunged into the gut of a lover. I pity the world for having to silently suffer through this cruel, unrelenting abuse, and thus I long ago separated from the facetious union known as “we” and quenched whatever pathetic remnant of tears remained in my system. It’s just me, now.
The process of is occurring at this very moment - I can easily hear the cries and vociferations of my fellow convicts throughout this prison, which I’ve theorised has been specially designed to accommodate the travel of such howling sound waves. Sailing upon each comes a new idea for me to tumble around in my thoughtspace; they relate, of course, to how the Count intends to manipulate my bodily functions for his own sick enjoyment next: perhaps he’ll stretch me from limb to limb, the cracks and pops of each ligament amplified via some wonder of science he has secured for use on lifers. Maybe I’ll get lucky and a bone will ricochet, puncturing my heart.

>>7171382
The other man declared that the boy was alive, somewhat to the disappointment of the crowd, who dispersed slowly at the news. Jonathan ran home from the golf course and never went back. He never faced any type of legal trouble, never was reprimanded in any way, or even heard anything about the incident again. It would be over a year before he would see the boy again.

It was sixteen months later in the streets of the poorer part of town on a fall afternoon when Jonathan saw the black boy again. He saw him walking from a good distance away without the black boy noticing him. Afraid that the boy would be out for revenge, Jonathan reached into his pocket to feel for his pocket knife, ready to wield it in a moments notice.
As he neared the boy he noticed that he was walking strangely, with one leg dragged slightly behind, his head bobbing in an exaggerated motion, and the wrist of his right arm clung against his chest while the other one swung freely. He likened the it to the way that a retarded person or a zombie would walk. He could see the long, curved scar that marked the back of his head a bit above where the head and the neck met. The boy limped out of sight and Jonathan was left alone in the street, unmoving. Not long after this my grandfather became very religious, involving himself in his local church, and eventually becoming a pastor of his own.

Having a bit of trouble writing this scene. I don't have any memories of or prior to my parents divorce, so I can't really draw on that for "realness"

>In our second year of middle school we came home to find Dad packing a suitcase into the trunk of our car. I called out to him and his head bolted upright like a grazing antelope that had just heard David Attenborough mention a lion. His eyes were red as if he had spent the night crying instead of sleeping. I knew then that our lives were about to be altered permanently.
>Mom and Dad sat us down on the couch and brought us each an after-school snack. “Children,” my father began, “we, your mother and I, need you to know we love you both more than we love life itself.” His voice strained as he tried to keep his emotions in check, but as he did his Lagosian accent leaked through. I felt numb, but my heart hammered in my chest as if it were trying to keep my mind out of the loop. “Right now, your mother and I, we need to spend some time apart.”

In death I felt the glare of my self-consciousness dim to a point. It was only when I saw the cold marble faces of grandmothers and grandfathers, friends of the family, friends of a friend's family, that death took off the insipid mask it had worn for film and television. In the many-bodied hush of funeral parlors I came to know something of him. It sat haunched on the still bellies of the dead as elemental as a stormcloud, but as in storms there was no malice in it. Only the fact of his presence.

We mourned and talked and lowered them into the ground and when it was time we drove home as our tears dried.

Our Nanna – Lao Lao she asked us to call her, though Mom insisted otherwise – was a spritely old woman who came to America in the late ‘70s from a village west of Beijing. She was in her seventies then and looked as if wrinkles were a nasty habit she abstained from.
Over jasmine tea with condensed milk she turned my hand over and back, examining the puffy scar tissue with the eye of a skilled yishi. “You have a gift.” She said, as if she intended to peel off the scar and stick it to the refrigerator.
“I do?”
“Tell me,” she said, gingerly lowering my arm. “What do you know about qi?”
“Qi,” I said, rolling the words around in my mouth. “That means life force, right?”
Nanna gave me a look of disappointment and patted my hand. “That’s all?”
“That’s all I know.”
She sighed. “Qi is life force, yes, but so much more. It’s where your strength comes from when you have no strength left to give. It’s what allows you to grow and to heal and to change. And you,” she said prodding me with a long lavender fingernail. “You have the power to move it around.”
“So I can heal?”
“If you know how to use it right you can do lots of things. Too bad it’s something you can’t really teach. You can’t teach something that’s found in your blood.”
“Can I do that too?” Lili asked. I hadn’t heard her approach.
“I doubt it.” She said with a sad smile. “You two are opposites it seems. I’m sure you have gifts of your own.”
Lili’s expression was an enigma. On most children her age, the dispassionate eyes and line-chiseled mouth would have been a sure sign of skepticism or disinterest. On her it was a wild card, like trying to guess the emotional state of a turtle from the curve of its beak.
Two days later, Nanna returned to California, but not before leaving me a stack of books on traditional medicine as thick as a phone book. I would like to say that I read those books, that once it had sunk in that I had super powers I greedily devoured each text with my eyes, that at least once I attempted to crumple up and swallow each page so that the knowledge within would become a part of me that could never leave. Sadly, even magic can become mundane once you have it, and in the end a textbook is still just a textbook. I was half way through the second when my eyes glazed over, and my qi manipulation just became another party trick.

I come thru dodgin’ with the fire while fives all ‘round stand all like turkeys in the coffee place & my client smile & say the world wouldn’t be the same without me & the product while I steal out real quick & on that steal back to the projects the world all ‘round me seemed quiet like & friendly, but I knew not one good thing came through for me, & the trip up the stair I pass Crackhead Lisa & Purpleboy loved up on the corner pocket & I say Purp you one nasty ass nigga & he say nothin’ back & I go upstairs with a smirk expecting the five to be on my sofa waiting to bring me back to county, but I know they ain’t gon’ be there but I check the bathroom & I look under the sink for wires & bugs & I look out onto 42nd at Midnight & see a blank Crown Vic & think I see a five with a ham radio lookin’ & I know I need a piece if I expect to not go to county because I know they comin’ & I know I ain’t goin’ back to county unless in a bodybag & while I smoke my product & when my cup gets too muddy I hear all the sounds of the city at once, I hear the mothafuckas dyin’ & the sirens acomin’, the gunshots, the screams & the fronts & the cars & the planes & the music all pushed into one second to where the city seem like a single moment & it ain’t good & it ain’t bad I just trippin’, but I see the pretty in that moment like a stove without crackrock & the sirens still go, the lead still blow, the junkies in the street still screaming, but I push on, I push & the world push back but I survive.

Extremely short except of an epistolary novel I'm trying to write

http://pastebin.com/cL4dY1vT

Vignette I wrote. Going for sad, tender feels:

Through the window rain was coming in sheets. She was lying on the bed, crying.

“This again”, he said.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed and looking at the floor. She had her arms folded, and her wet eyes stared at the ceiling. As they flitted back and forth they looked almost lost in their movements. He looked at her.

“You can tell me”.

She mouthed a silent “no” while shaking her head through tears. A crown of wet leaves brushed the window, waving gently up and down. He shook his head.

“Why are you so guarded?”

She wiped her face with her sleeve.

“Please, go away. It’s not your fault.”

“Anne.”

He looked down at the floor. Rain was tapping gently on the window. Then he grabbed his shirt and buttoned it slowly. His eyes looked heavy and cynical. When he opened the door a rectangle of light shone and fell into a long yellow triangle on the dark floor. As he closed the door the triangle collapsed slowly like an eye winking shut.

As he left she could hear him walking down the hall, his voice hiccupping in secret, as she lay there alone, thinking about something that had happened some time ago, until the sound of the front door closing gently, she knew that he had gone.

Awakening and I had misplaced my hat. Not on my head or nearby on the boardwalk board floor ground. The sea breeze slapped my ears; I shivered softly and sat upright. Oh! But what a silly silly blunder I had just made with my thoughts. People do not wear hats anymore--such fashion has "gone out" as fashion does--yet somehow the licks of summer sun on my bald head just felt wrong.
Thirsty thirsty I crawled low along the boards towards the breeze, peeking my head under the wooden rails and finding the beach where I had left it yesterday. Shoulders hips toes I shimmied through to summersault with plump and dust my sand-cloud arrival. Home was this shore for sure. I had tried relocating a mere handful of times but circumstance always returned me. One slip whilst window mounting an air conditioner and three stories later I'd developed a fresh endurance for falling from high places, and upon recovery a bone-deep barometric addiction to salty thick air.
Thinking feet might fare me better I rose and shook some sand off my $3400 Armani suit, pushing my toes through the soft floor. No shoes? Weird. Once wetness graced my piggies, with my hands as cup-shaped as could be reasonably managed in this slice of time I collected a tiny fragment of God's beautiful ocean for myself, raised it to my lips and imbibed; Swallowed, then realized with annoyance it was salt water. In desperation, I scooped some bubbly brine and after applying the foam liberally around my mouth laughed a hearty HOHOHO like Santa Claus. That made me feel better, filled alight in every pore with the jovial eminence of Christmas cheer.
Yet as quick as it arrived, so it departed whilst the bubbles slid off my face. The rollercoaster of human emotion had reached peak and plunged trough-ward, as per its programming. A vacuous dread deep down in my bowels manifested gripping at the knees pulled tight and tethered me splashed taut to the tideline. The endless horizon took my eyes; the hazy distant waters waved at me, reminding of my insignificance, speaking to me. <You gaze out here and see nothing, because nothing is all there is. All that is is scale and perception. Your human comprehension of the universe caps out but so far as your knees into my depths.> I cried fetal crippled for an hour.
Recovering and realizing I must arrive for tea, since I was expected promptly at 3pm, and judging by the sun above I maybe had but half an hour for the mile-long trip. Directed west-southwest toward the gazebo, I lamented my poor lost shoes but continued, jumping grabbing and pulling myself up to squeeze head shoulders hips toes back under the wooden board rails--quite a bit more laborious than falling. If I could merely fall upwards this world would be my oyster. I'd rise to rule mountaintops like ancient kings.

>>7171466
I like the David Attenborough metaphor, but I think it creates some ironic distance in an otherwise melodramatic scene.
>>7172071
If you're able to keep this style going into a short story, I think it would be really cool.

ALL THIS IS JUST MY (VERY WELL-INFORMED) OPINION

A WRITER SHOULD DEVELOP THICK SKIN

>>7171414

decent given the age

but by post something from when you were fifteen

are you really that desperate for validation :/

>>7171473

ugh cheesy as shit and just reeking of pseudo-wannabe-asian

>jasmine tea with condensed milk

you are literally such a fraud to your culture lmao smh

>>7170548

this thread isn't for your validation mate

you need to learn how to use paragraphs

>>7171471

surprisingly decent for its short length

maybe because the ending was a nice surprise

the storm extended metaphor is pretty awkward tho

>>7172564

punctuation goes inside quotations

and sadness is definitely not what I'm feeljng

there's alright imagery tho, but that can be said for a lot of the pieces here

>>7166759
I'm pretty sure I've read this on /lit/ before from a long time ago which makes me wonder why you're posting it again

don't get fixated on a certain excerpt and be ready to kill your darlings

in terms of specific advice, I think it's quite average. the prose is clean enough, but the technical readability of your prose is not good enough to make up for the lack of creativity

it's also a bit too pedantic sounding

>>7168914

you need to learn how paragraphs work

and your writing is very uneven

>>7172709
wow, rude

>>7172737

DID BABBY GET FEELINGS BOO BOO?

>>7172709
>ugh cheesy as shit and just reeking of pseudo-wannabe-asian

>jasmine tea with condensed milk

>you are literally such a fraud to your culture lmao smh

Okay, listen. I'm trying with great difficulty to write about a culture I know literally nothing about, and the only reason I'm doing that is for a single fantasy concept that I wanted to work into a story. Since clearly you know modern chinese culture so well, could you maybe give me specific advice to make it less cringe-worthy?

>>7172762

OK listen maybe you should do your own research before you write

because it's very obvious when someone is writing about something they have no idea about

seriously

how hard is it to check out a few books or do some Internet searches smh

the only consolation here is that you're not actually writing about your own culture

>>7172784
I was doing a certain (small) amount of research. "laolao" does mean "grandma" in mandarin and based on what research I did do it's the form of the word commonly used in northern china where she's supposed to be from. The jasmine tea with condensed milk is almost certainly not something they do there but she's supposed to have lived in california for about twenty years, so I thought she might start picking up little culinary fusion tricks she likes here and there. The qi thing is also clearly inaccurate, but since a fantasy idea based on qi is the entire reason I started this story, if I'm too accurate the entire concept goes up in flames

>>7166769
i love the imagery in this. would be interested to know if any particular visual art was an inspiration? im not a poetry person but there are places where the flow slips
>hearts fell from the rhythm with the leaves
is one word too long
>eyelids now are clouded
the present tense is confusing and the image is cliche
>little worms of grass and heartstrings
just wonderful really lovely delicate wordplay
overall its good

>>7168532
honestly this writing is fine but it's exceptionally hard to read on account of the wall of text :/

>>7168777
>>7168786
not an interesting character type anon, the writing is as derivative as the central trope. psychopathy has 1. been done to death, 2. is not particularly interesting in a time when every edgy person and their dog self-prescribes as a "psychopath"...also isn't "sociopath" the term to use now or am i confused

>>7168907
>>7168914
>Rather than being absorbed and processed, all stimuli passed through him, were perceived for a moment and then refracted out and away
is this a reference to Marx/Benjamin?? if so cool if not still a good line
other anon was right to call this overwritten nonetheless if you work at cutting away the fat there's a good formal style in here somewhere. an exemplary instance of overwriting:
> mere tautology to him that death would begin to approach at an exponentially more zealous rate, that he would be cast out of senselessly serene slumber into the wakefulness of chronic discomfort
if you remove all the unnecessary descriptors in there it's a pretty simple theme of "if i should die before i wake" that is powerful enough in the context of the narrative without needing dressing up with words like "tautology" which feel more suited for academic writing than for a character's inner monologue

>>7172709

I was posting it again because I've edited it down since I last posted it a few months ago.

I suppose I didn't edit the opening as much as would be required to make an impact then, I'm just trying to balance.

The whole short story is finished, and I've had some ok feedback, but I'm not personally happy with how the whole thing reads.

>>7169037
i think i am the old man in this story

>>7169818
this is fun, fast, engaging
lucid narrative and theme
don't really have anything to criticise, it's pretty good anon

>>7171414
it doesn't hold up the first sentence is so embarrassing i feel sorry for your fifteen year old self tbh

>>7171408
who is she...?
this is definitely fapworthy some stuff is poor like
>pure ecstasy
bad cliche
>men getting their guts blown out couldn't weaken his erection
this isn't horrible but the way its written is so egy... if reworded this could be a stronger sentence easy
i like the character of "she" and the narrative movement is really clean and well conceived good stuff

>>7172071
>crackhead lisa
she used to be fit
had sex with a trick
and now she's sick
it's actually good anon... embarrassing if you are white but would read more

>>7172564
delicate and very well placed imagery
>a crown of wet leaves brushed the window
it is quite cheesy, but plays it sincerely in a way which is endearing and effective

>>7172626
>>7171473
unreadable

>>7173578
>>7173583
I like your spooky pictures.

Naddy said to not move lying chairs. Naddy said to never move them. They were stacked against and up along the blackwall near the backside of the church. A thrush of them all pinned and grey like armies stacked for packing fast in barracks, heavy and against the wall. She had said to never move them. Fingers danced their borders gracing curious in jigsaw lust. A patch of greylight through the dusted glass and flying came in three young doves in white. Two of them leapt bellyup and swollen out the window, falling down and out and without moving came to nothingness at ground. The remnant dove danced left to right in pacing starling stasis. Not a breath. Not a breath. Wind came rushing through the window. Lanternjack and Spiderskin. An evil blowing wind.

She had said it but you pulled the seat out screeching just a touch and just to see. The tackmetal shriek screamed out for just a little as you pulled it through the backframe of the wooden seat. The thin and angled hinges bucked up popping, stuck out straight and lockjawed and you pulled on it and just a touch to see and saw it wouldn't easy move. A nudge and just the stuck hinge buckled cocked. With just a tiny nudge a push and just to see a little you pushed harder just a little and the chairback didn't move. A sudden rush and hinges popped out fast again and hard the other way. The sandwiched seat in hands moved swift out toward the chairstack and the wall, tugging with your sandwiched hands and body, plopping hard your frame against the rows of fastpacked soldier's barrackschairs. You tumbled on and down and loose came like a string the grey and woodframed thrush: spooling out like dominoes and rushing down in avalanched adrenaline, plucking savage out the backdoor's lock and handle, leaving open miles of narrow angled stairstep hall for you to deftly backwards heavy fall.

>>7173584
they are by David Huggins, Canadian alien abductee who lost his virginity to an alien at age five and has since fathered several half alien half human children. also a prolific painter who has chronicled his experiences and found some success as an outsider artist

>>7169253
This is pretty good, I like the bit about the Asian guy with the bad teeth; it added some character and kept it interesting.
Though I felt like it was getting a little too detailed about the whole chanding trash bags and the subject not being that interesting. If it was a kind of prologue into a fantasy or thriller or something like that, then it could be excused.
Also practice more with your placement of commas. There weren't enough, and sometimes a sentence could have used one.
Gj bruh, you have potential

>>7171421
I liked this story, gj anon

>>7173668
Thanks, it's actually based on a true story, except instead of my grandfather it was my friends great grandfather. Also there were a lot of details missing that I had to make up, but for the most part it's a true story.

>>7173591

I hope your writing has improved because this is the most loquacious regurgitation i've ever read on this board.

>>7173710

>loquacious regurgitation

I imagine your taste as poor

>>7173713

I imagine that you're dyspeptic.

>>7173763

even your imagination is poor

>>7173772

>Someone doesn't like my rambling jargon
>His taste and imagination are poor!

>>7173790

I don't mind that you dislike my writing, I've disowned it myself, I just really dislike the way you write as well, almost as much as the ideological baggage that's sprouted it

>>7173811

I see, so because i'm capable of exercising an extensive lexicon it's somehow reprehensible? Just comes to show how dumb-downed language has become.

The thrusters rumble and fire underneath his feet. Loud roars and the smell of sweaty men, 400 adrenal glands working overtime. Stimulants, synthetic testosterone coursing through their veins wearing warriors’ woad and ready to kill.

“Three minutes til”

the voice over comms chimes. The ship jerks gently around in the breezy turbulence as the sparse jungle passes below. The men standing in sequence rock back and forth with the rhythm of the wind. There air is electric, he feels like he’s breathing static and fire - the cold burns his lungs. stale sweat on his forehead, barely noticeable as the stimulant patch kicks in. His amygdala burns a white hot hole as the anger and fear rush over him. The focus grips him like the first puff of a cigarette, like the first hit of dex, before the tolerance. Pure, refined.

“Two minutes”

113 is the numeral printed on the back of the man in front of him. He’s short, shorter, one arm is completely covered in armoured plates. The other is bare, save some tacky wolf tattoos. He holds a sword in one arm, the overhead railing in the other. MacUspaig, he remembered. The reaver attached to his section. The thoughts come hot and fast, detached from their emotional value. Mac was angry, wild in temperament - he’d be hero or ghost but nothing in between. He was the kind of fighter they loved - brave, fearless, easy to revere, easy to forget. Nothing like me.

“One minute, prepare for touchdown!”

His spine tingles as the broadcast ends. He knows the next communication will be sending men to die. There are no nerves here though, not fear of death, but anticipation. He’s ready, readier than he has ever been before. The wait stretches into eternity as the overtaxed vertical thrusters on the old bitch whine into a final descent, preparing to disgorge her payload. More rocking, more violently. His hands are sweaty around the pike, he can feel it in the knurling. It will stop annoying him when it all begins, he knows.

“TOUCHDOWN!”

a loud thump, and his life begins once more, in earnest.
Give it to me /lit/ tear my asshole apart.

>>7173815

You sound like an ESL robot with thesaurus software

I'm starting to have faith in my writing again

You are about to begin reading Anon's new post, If on a winter's night a traveler.

See the child, he speaks in your voice, American, and there’s a shine in his eyes that’s halfway hopeful.

It was a dark and stormy night. The kid fled across the desert, and the Gunslinger followed, yelling, ''Call me Ishmael!''

The kid yelled back. ''I can feel the heat closing in, feel them out there making their moves, setting up their devil doll stool pigeons, crooning over my spoon and dropper I throw away at Washington Square Station.'' Ishmael wondered what a devil doll stool pigeon was.

A screaming came across the sky -- shocking to both the Gunslinger and the kid, the source being neither of them. Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead of the Dark Tower, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: ''riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.'' The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.

All this happened once upon a time and a very good time it was.

>>7173818

Maybe i am a robot, maybe i'm not.

>>7173816
i think that second sentence would work better as
>400 sweaty men, adrenal glands working overtime
what is a amygdala?
>there air is electric
cliche, cut it
>pure, refined
something about this is just too cheesy but the previous sentence works really well
>he holds a sword in one arm
show don't tell but i like "tacky wolf tattoos" and "the overhead railing in the other", conjure up immediate "starship troopers / edge of tomorrow" imagery.
>nothing like me
but this guy sounds exactly the same from his internal dialogue or is this irony

i wouldn't read something like this personally but i think it is well written and precise and serves its purpose exactly. there are places where video gamey cliche stuff gets in the way of the atmosphere building but otherwise it's consistent and good

>>7173824
ok

>>7173815
r u 4real

>>7173873
i deleted it out of shame, but thanks i think. I can repost it if you can tell me the videogamey shit so i can squash it?

Amygdala is the part of the brain that controls fear and anger.

Here's the repost.


The thrusters rumble and fire underneath his feet. Loud roars and the smell of sweaty men, 400 adrenal glands working overtime. Stimulants, synthetic testosterone coursing through their veins wearing warriors’ woad and ready to kill.

“Three minutes til”

the voice over comms chimes. The ship jerks gently around in the breezy turbulence as the sparse jungle passes below. The men standing in sequence rock back and forth with the rhythm of the wind. There air is electric, he feels like he’s breathing static and fire - the cold burns his lungs. stale sweat on his forehead, barely noticeable as the stimulant patch kicks in. His amygdala burns a white hot hole as the anger and fear rush over him. The focus grips him like the first puff of a cigarette, like the first hit of dex, before the tolerance. Pure, refined.

“Two minutes”

113 is the numeral printed on the back of the man in front of him. He’s short, shorter, one arm is completely covered in armoured plates. The other is bare, save some tacky wolf tattoos. He holds a sword in one arm, the overhead railing in the other. MacUspaig, he remembered. The reaver attached to his section. The thoughts come hot and fast, detached from their emotional value. Mac was angry, wild in temperament - he’d be hero or ghost but nothing in between. He was the kind of fighter they loved - brave, fearless, easy to revere, easy to forget. Nothing like me.

“One minute, prepare for touchdown!”

His spine tingles as the broadcast ends. He knows the next communication will be sending men to die. There are no nerves here though, not fear of death, but anticipation. He’s ready, readier than he has ever been before. The wait stretches into eternity as the overtaxed vertical thrusters on the old bitch whine into a final descent, preparing to disgorge her payload. More rocking, more violently. His hands are sweaty around the pike, he can feel it in the knurling. It will stop annoying him when it all begins, he knows.

“TOUCHDOWN!”

a loud thump, and his life begins once more, in earnest.

>>7173873
Also yeah, it's totally irony. The PoV character is an idiot who thinks they're better than everyone and somehow different, though the ultimate irony is they are a useful idiot, and the

>>7173898
ok i thought that might be the case but was impossible to tell without context

>>7173895
>amygdala is the part of the brain that controls fear and anger
ok cool

by video gamey i just mean the uber-masculinity and emphasis on violence and such but it's difficult to exactly remove that from the sort of thing you're writing

>>7173910
>like he's breathing static and fire
>he'd be hero or ghost but nothing in between
>readier than he has ever been before

these are sort of exemplary lines that read like video game dialogue to me

note i have never played a video game

1/3

Posting first chapter of a lil story I'm writing.


Laura kept her body low to the metal floor, careful to tread lightly, lest she draw any unwanted attention to herself from the station's inhabitants.
Or the few she had seen that were left...

She was currently searching far and wide for anything remotely edible or drinkable and had found herself in a messy corridor full of stacked boxes and empty gun rounds. The corridor eventually curved off to her right, and the bright light above her flickered annoyingly every few heartbeats.
She had a very good reason to be creeping around, with all senses perked into attention. Or even worse, possibly two reasons, if the things she had overheard were true.
From the rare times she had the luck (and not to mention the stealth) to catch a hushed conversation from the people on this station, she had heard horrifying things...
Things that she hoped were just fearful ramblings of the confused and frightened inhabitants here on Telgo station.
Something tall, black, and humanoid. Biomechanical someone had even termed it, and far from anything anyone could ever imagine had made the entire station its hunting grounds.
Something was prowling the corridors, something was sneaking in and out of air vents.

Something...alien.

She hadn't seen this...thing, but she had seen what it did to people.
Men and women of various ages, even a couple kids, lying in their own pools of sticky blood and body matter.

She didn't know if she could take seeing another dead person on this fucking station.

Some of them had gaping holes punctured through their skulls into the brain, and if they didn't, they had bloody cavities, ripped into their torsos from something seemingly sharp piercing them. She saw one man not too long ago who had been killed, she could see right through where his heart used to be to the cold metal wall behind him.
Many also had deep scratch marks and dark bruises marring their bodies.
There was evidence of looting on some of them too. She couldn't really blame anyone though, these were tough times and you took what the dead no longer needed, just to survive a little bit longer in this living nightmare.

Even with all the hellish resting places of the dead, she had to begrudgingly admit that she did want to see this creature, that she was curious. I mean, it was an alien for christ's sake.
All the sci-fi paraphernalia she'd mingled with in her younger years hadn't helped.
But this thought wad bogged down by all the other negative ones, like possibly being killed by it. Though she still held on to the hope that the creature really was just a strange looking, highly deranged human loose on the station, and not an extraterrestrial lifeform.
She would give anything to be at home on earth, curled up on her couch with her two calico cats, and her sloppy lab 'Munter'.

>>7173910
it's sort of the whole point of the work, yeah.

>>7173916
i'm going for a hyperreality thing but i don't want to scare off smart people either. This guy is an unreliable narrator. Loosely the plot involved ritualised warfare in order to subvert the arrested development of world politics following mutually assured destruction.

>>7173926

2/3

It had only been a week since everything had turned to shit, but luckily there was still a nice quantity of food and drink around. If you could somehow manage to find some amongst the clutter and chaos everywhere you went.
Though she had her suspicions that some of the more greedy people and groups were begining to selfishly hoard it all for themselves.

This whole mess had started when an unannounced ship had docked illegally without first receiving clearance, and who ever was on board had managed to enter the station by invasively disabling a portal door's lock.
She guessed the person who came off that ship was the killer, and people were starting to lose it in mass hysteria and imagining some sort of alien horror stalking the entire station.
And she could be next for all she knew...
That thought was grating a little on her sanity.

'What if i don't make it off this station, what if i get murdered by some fucking psychopath? I don't wanna die in space of all places, and all alone, fuck...'

As she neared the spent bullets littered everywhere, she saw that a large, tough looking black net was laying in the middle of the floor.
She contemplated over taking the net.
'That might come in handy actually. Maybe I could even net the fucker running around the station.'
It didn't look too heavy to lug around, so she reached out and grabbed it, bundling it up tightly, shrugging off her backpack and then shoved it inside quickly.
When she zipped her bag up, she looked in front and behind herself for any signs of danger.
All was clear for now.

Laura stood up fluidly and took a confident step forward but her right boot abruptly met nothing but air. Her leg fell through and she shrieked in surprise as she fell over forwards onto her front with a reverberating, metallic thump.
She lay there for what seemed like hours, her heart beating loudly, and pumping adrenaline throughout her body. She listened for running footsteps or angry shouts. Even for clanking in the vents.

Nothing.

She let out a huge, warm breath that condensed onto the cold metal floor and pressed her cheek onto the ground, resting her neck.
After the panic of expecting imminent danger, she shut her eyes tightly and grimaced as she finally became aware of the sting of pain in her leg.

"...Shit" she hissed.

She slowly raised herself onto her arms and carefully extracted her leg from the hole.
She hoped she hadn't broken anything, because she was done for if she had.
She sat on the floor and observed the two shallow cuts running vertically down her shin. Two trails of blood were slowly traveling downwards.

She sighed and hung her head.

'Damn...could've been worse I guess.' She murmured in grim relief.

>>7173934

3/3

Looking for crits, want to know anything you find wrong or if something doesn't flow right.

She used her shirt-covered forearm to soak up the blood seeping from the gashes.
When she deemed herself able to stand, she made a special point of keeping a wide berth from the many crudely shaped holes in the metal floor, hidden before under the net.
It almost looked like something had melted through and made the holes, like some sort of liquid substance had eaten away at it.

'What the hell? What the fuck did that to the metal?'
Laura stood there in bemusement, crouching low and gliding a finger over the rough edge of one of the biggest holes.

She squatted there for a few more seconds, squinting into the dark hole, hoping whatever had eaten the metal hadn't damaged anything important underneath. She then stood and walked wearily around them, finally making her way towards the boxes.

She passed the boxes and neared the bend to her right, sidling up to the wall and peeking around the corner to spot any possible threats.
Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she slipped out of her hiding place and resumed walking.

BANG.

She froze instantly, holding her breath. The banging sound had come from above, a few steps away.

BANG...CLANK...SCRIIIIITCH

She spotted the vent entrance in the ceiling.

'Shit, Shitshitshit!!!' She screamed in her head, her eyes now impossibly wide.
Beads of sweat were starting to develop on her forehead and her muscles were tensed tightly. She searched for any way of escape in the coridor ahead. She choked a little when she saw that the corridor kept going for a while, and she would have to sprint to get round its corner. She tried to move her body but the terror of the situation had seized control of her muscles.

'Fuck! What do I do, should I go back?, what do I-'
Her frenzied indecisiveness was abruptly answered when the vent's lock snapped and the hatch swung onto its hinge, this was followed by a ghastly metallic scraping and a shrill shriek, and finally a huge black mass falling out of the vent.

Old Pete was a one hundred years old and was to live for another three years before his wife would poison his coffee. He told his great granddaughters that the secret to his longevity was regular exercise and a good diet, but in truth he had had an affair with his sister-in-law for the past seventy years, and I suppose that kept him active. Old Pete had eighteen children, thirty-seven grandchildren, ninety-one great grandchildren, six great-great grandchildren, and, in three months, a great-great-grandchild named Noddy. In fact, Old Pete was so fertile that, to this day, townsmen consult their genealogy before choosing wives, to avoid inbreeding. The following is a tale from when Old Pete was born, and his parents abandoned him in a monastery, to his death, when his wife would poison his coffee.

>>7173927
hyperreality like jean baudrillard??

>>7173572

you might as well post the full story then...

>>7172806

embarrassing :/

>>7174368

Here's the whole thing, whether you or anybody else wants to read it:

http://pastebin.com/LV3HFiYe

>excerpt from a short story about a secret "medical gardens" hidden deep in the everglades where illegal and unusual cosmetic procedures are performed
>the surrounding swamps and waterways are affected in interesting ways

A medical theme park. Underneath the turbines a green suited guide brushed apart the copsids, and a small family moved into the observation theater.

sun collected on the silicone wetlands. crystals were discharged downstream.

sharks rolled over each other, their skins moving like lubricated foils.

a long time ago, the first slimy vertebrates were rising on the peaty shores of a coal-age swamp, wet faces caked in silt.

the pools they had lived in were all drained now, empty shrines scattered with dry coral stems, and their bones looked like armour for mermaids.

>>7168532
American radio stations (and I assume this is set in America, given the baseball etc.) begin with either K (west of the Mississippi River) or W (east of it).

>>7168907
i see potential here so I will give my opinion as i tend to enjoy 'big werds' when used well
(just my opinion)

>It was mere tautology to him that death would begin to approach at
using tautology here is weak

>fresh wednesday morning
maybe pick a better sounding weekday if there is no significance to it.

>abandoned writing
you mean writhing i assume

Good parts:
Conrad Hertz is a good name
I like the relative ambiguity that this section has were the reader would piece it together.
> He didn’t think it strange at all that on a fine, fresh Wednesday morning there would be no people, no cars, nothing moving at all except the breeze.
this gives a good image

> As he made his way along the street, Hertz felt an electricity running through his body, beginning at the top of his head and in his fingers as the sunlight met them. With each step, he transferred the current into the pavement as his feet struck it,

really good image too

>>7172396
Could anyone comment on this stuff?
Even if it is to say "it's shit"

>>7173895

1/2

The 6:30 alarm begins softly at first. Chopin’s raindrop prelude, specially conditioned to trigger wakefulness in one Avtandil Orso. The recording makes it three bars before Avtandil’s alpha waves bring it to an abrupt halt. His time to wakefulness is 0.2 deviations longer than his running average, from a data pool of 1426 days. His alpha wave emission is standard, though he is slow to open his eyes based on the beta waves which don’t come until over 20 seconds later. The data is noted, backed up on a foreign server - first one in rural America, then another in Malaysia. Avtandil, like most, does not care.

“fuck”.

It is his first word of the day. This too is noted to be statistically average.

The screen blares to life around him, on the wall closest to where he is looking. It’s preset to his favourite feed of the morning, the games. He watches as men clamber out of a too-small carrier vessel with spears and swords, looking like some kind of anachronistic techno-warriors. He wonders how insane this would have seemed to his father, just 40 years ago. Times change.

AUSPAC V INDO-CHINA - 1:25

the caption reads. He had thought this game was not for another week. A silver lining, he supposed to himself, as if he himself believed it. Auspac had run some great teams lately, he thought they might actually stand a chance against the all-unifying ethnically homogenous indo-china, with emphasis on the China. The soft cultural migration had left “indonesia”; if it could ever have been called that, a shadow of her former self. China “owned” the land and let the natives squat while they felt like it, for as long as it was convenient. Anyone who actually mattered there was Han Chinese, and everyone knew it - as were most of the combatants. The
Chinese had a great excuse to be in the region, expand their land claims without going through the games, and the Indonesians didn’t really have a choice in the matter. So it went. On the screen the Auspac force is forming tight ranks, 8 deep - first 3 ranks with pikes ready, the rear ranks leaning on their shields to push. The general is trotting around the back of the lines, yelling and blathering, his ugly crest bobbing around like a green and yellow feather duster mistakenly left on a running washing machine. No Indo-china yet, he wondered if the lateness was a tactic. He rubbed his blurry eyes and stood up. The screen stood up with him, projecting on the wall across from his bed. Breakfast, he thought. Breakfast first.

>>7175028

2/2

He shambles from his bedroom into his kitchen, his motor skills the (last?) remaining evidence of the previous night’s bender. Sifting through the small boxes of pills on the countertop, he finds it. The modafinil. He takes it with water and contemplates his breakfast options, as the feed blares in the background. The chinese team has shown up and the two groups are standing off. Either the Auspac force would collapse, or the chinese would be massacred, he predicted. China rarely, if ever, suffered from cohesion or morale problems in the games - it just wasn’t their style. He’d watch it back later, he decides, as he flips the channel over again and again. As usual, just the regular shit. Some kids in China disappear after being found with “Contraband american literature” (probably some shitty movies), along with the moralistic condemnations that come with it (as if America wasn’t doing the same thing with chinese cultural materials). Head of the Women’s Liberation Front urging authorities to let women willing to undergo androgenic hormone replacement compete in the games, some animal relations activist urging for new moral “Standards of consent” for human-animal relationships.

Sect-mix - with chilli, he decides.

He throws the bag of morsels-that-were-previously-locusts into the microwave and slumps into his chair, letting the drug hit him while he passively imbibes the wisdom of his news feed. He’d left it on the animal relations expert he realises. 20 years ago the penalties for animal abuse were elevated to almost that of humans, certain species were recognised as “non-human people” including most species of ape, dolphin and crows. Since then this was only going to be a logical next step. Still, he thought, looking at the not entirely “Average” man on his feed talk passionately about the chemical and illusory nature of human love and it’s validity - fucking them? Humans have been doing it for thousands of years with or without consent, he resolved. Better it be regulated and above board. He flips the feed again.

>>7175031
help i think i'm writing /pol/ the novel

Heres a poem I wrote. Critiquing in next post. Wrote this sucker on LSD (try it).


Tongue algae via allergies
(changing seasons).
Undulating bacterium making a mockery of my mouth. Malarchy.
Hygieia herself weeps, over her enduring enemy.
What sayeth you, you! purveyor of stained teeth eternal?

“I am plaque bitch.”

Fair enough.
and hear this:
Your existence is an insult to my excessively obsessive persona. Mild paranoia.

Hold fast, for your wreckage awaits, my riveting rival.
Tooth brush and paste, we’ll lay you to waste.
Delight seizes my face, at that first menthol taste.

Now my momma raised me right, but right now
violence is the answer.
I feel like Ted Bundy with a new cheese grater.
Smiles only.

Reader, have you been so fortunate to hear a brush washing (rapping) against the concrete?
Because when my eyes closed, my lips pursed,
my wrist gyrated, with neat micro circles.
There goes my platoon, rushing no-man’s land, we stick the marble flag in her trenches
(though I insist on her persistence, by morning her trenches she’ll reclaim.)

But have you heard the rapping on the concrete?
Mary, Mother of God, those fucking vibrations.
Sounds even more (perhaps ever more) sweet, than bringing your girl to a climax. Clean.

Smoke a cigarette on the bathroom floor.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1YfJ4i2w8005VQUnbYuwNJNQ-Qi4sKSSoiLUbvmY_fBo/pub

Collection of short stories. It's really hard to get the format right on google docs and I need to piss right now sooooo...hope it makes sense.

Just take anything from there, doesn't matter where.

>>7175028

>It is his first word of the day. This too is noted to be statistically average.
I had a giggle.

I love dystopian novels, and I have a figure that that's what you're aiming for. To be honest, the descriptions of the "games" was bland, and the imagery wasn't enough for me to actually see the scene.

I understand that this is just an excerpt into your fictional world, but it might be sensory overload. There's a lot about the world to take in and piece together at once. Perhaps try to explain the world in a more subtle manner.

Read the first few chapters of Brave New World by Huxley, it might give you more ideas.

Also, try to stay away from the passive voice.
>He’d left it on the animal relations expert he realises.

Pros: Nice use of language, work has a sense of humor.

>>7175123
Noted, thanks. This is my first attempt at writing ever and i was worried i was cramming too much into the "Sit down and eat breakfast exposition" scene. I guess i'll liven up the game descriptions and ease out on the news feed world details a little.

>>7172396
I'm concerned, anon. You've got some major awkwardness through the letter ("something I couldn't avoid and which needed me to take care of as soon as I could"), but that's okay as long as the son is
I) young
II) distressed
III) linguistically challenged
or something else along those lines. However, if the mother's letter comes out with the same issues, the reader will know that it's you, as an author, that are fucking up. Keep other people's letters in drastically different voices, and you'll pull it off.

>>7175123
Also i'm not sure if you noticed but there is an excerpt before 1/2, which is the first excerpt of the novel that flows directly into this. It's quoted, it's the bit with the dudes on the dropships.

Can there be another rule that you have to critique a few things before you post your own piece?

>>7175314
then Harold Bloom wouldn't be known

>>7175314
>>7175326
oh I thought you said the reverse, that you have to post before you critique

>>7175314
People aren't going to follow that rule anyway.

I mustn’t have been older than thirteen or fourteen at the time, as I remember this happening during the semester was being homeschooled. My father was having me rake the leaves in the front yard late one cool october night as the shadows of the houses were being stretched by the lowering sun. On the opposite side of the street the window of the neighbors’ house was suddenly flooded with light, and I couldn’t resist the temptation of looking inside in hopes of catching a glimpse of the private moments of another’s life. A young girl came into view, oblivious to her audience, and began to undress until she was left in only her black bra and panties. She was a year my junior, but well developed for her age. It wasn’t long before she left the room, as swiftly as she entered, towel in hand.


Crouched in my backyard behind the fence with my binoculars pressed against the knot-holes in the planks, I awaited her return. The sun now fully down, a blanket of darkness laid upon the night. Finally the window was once again illuminated, revealing the young girl with a towel draped around her body and another wrapped around her head. Shame, anxiety, and arousal mixed together to create a very strange and exhilarating sensation. When she began to unravel the towel my hands shook, my heart raced and my breath quickened in anticipation. The towel dropped like a curtain raised in a theater. My eyes swept up and down her exposed little body, from her damp red hair to her frail shoulders, then from her pink, puffy nipples on her small supple breasts to her tight, taut waist, down towards her small bush of flaming hair and bare thighs of pure ivory.


It wasn't long before my little show was interrupted by the sound of heavy feet on dry, brittle leaves coming from behind me. My heart now raced for a different reason. Arousal was replaced by fear, and shame morphed into mortification. There was an enveloping silence that lasted either a moment or an eon.


“What are you doing out here?”


It was my father. I tried to speak but there was nothing to be said and only a timid croak escaped my throat. He looked down at the binoculars gripped at my side, raised his eyes above my head to see the exhibitonist display that was being broadcasted into the night, then slowly lowered them back down to mine.

Is crituque a social construct or not m8?

>>7175139
There is no son. The writer of the letter is her daughter, and she should be fairly old (early twenties, something that was going to be revealed later).

It wasn't meant to sound awkward, I'll try to fix those problems right away. Did you find more lines that sounded awkward?, or in general the whole letter sounded awkward?

>>7164507
23 and one year older, am I any closer to anything?

I can feel myself becoming consumed by indifference. Nothing is sincere anymore.

I’m hyper-aware of everything, my stagnation, my disappointment, my irritability and my apathy toward it all.
I’m afraid of being so self-aware, of where I’m going and what I’m becoming, that I won’t be able to evolve and progress.

I don’t want to be 25 and filled with regret.

.

>>7175314
Is there any reason to use /lit/ instead of another critique website?
Critique Circle and Scribophile do what you said.

>>7175314

that rule never works

there's been some succes if op says something like "i'll review everyone who reviews someone else, so you'll be getting at least one review" but even that devolves to shit eventually


>>7175028
>“fuck”.

booooo

the first paragraph was fair and did hook my interest

but this lower case dialog of "fuck" is just so cheesy and reeks of amateur

and I've skimmed the rest and it's clear that your writing isn't serious (or good)

>>7176045
first sentence construction is clunky, but I like the kind of mood/tone you're going for

>A young girl came into view, oblivious to her audience, and began to undress until she was left in only her black bra and panties. She was a year my junior, but well developed for her age.

terrible

up until this point, the writing was fawning/sickly-sweet enough

I don't think this writing is serious or good either

>>7176454
fuck off

how did this thread become so amateur/desperate for validation so quickly

>>7174435

>What made this endeavour worse, was that as we sat here in this bar drinking, which...

poor grammar syntax--it shouldn't be "was that as..."

this kind of thing (cadence, grammar) is very important if it's your second paragraph and you're going for a long run-on sentence...

>Unfortunately this was the only public house within adequate distance of our houses and there are very rarely ears of authority in such lower-class establishments. And this was the embodiment of a lower-class establishment.

again, this "And this..." reads very stilted and out of place

I also think there should be a comma after unfortunately

>mixture of this, urine and industrial cleaning supplies.

awkward and unclear "this" in the tripling

bleh and then there's a host of grammar problems:

>It was in part due to this that we spent some time considering a change of location (no comma) or to conduct our meetings without the consumption of any alcohol. We realised however, that in order for us to want to share ideas and begin the creative process (this bit doesn't even make sense???); (wrong use of comma) at least one of us be somewhat inebriated.

I'm not going to read the rest because I'm tired and all this is bothering me too much

you need to work on your grammar much, much more

and you also need to work on your word and sentence (and probably paragraph) cohesion/rhythm

I would suggest reading your work out loud and following the punctuation that you've written very carefully

it might even be worth it to record yourself or get a computer to read it for you...

also, for an example of the kind of prose I think you're trying to go for, try reading some Conrad (or Eleanor Catton if you want something more contemporary)

>>7176454
Nice diary entry.

>>7174226

decent first sentence but it is a bit awkward in terms of construction and tense

>Old Pete had eighteen children, thirty-seven grandchildren, ninety-one great grandchildren, six great-great grandchildren, and, in three months,

again, I like the idea, but the ", and, in three months" is kind of irregular...

>In fact, Old Pete was so fertile that, to this day,

Mmm you might have a bit of a problem with all these extra details injections... they make the prose stilted when it's overused

>choosing wives, to avoid inbreeding

again.....

>monastery, to his death,

lol smh

>>7173926

>Or the few she had seen that were left...

this does literally less than nothing

>She was currently searching far and wide for anything remotely edible or drinkable and had found herself in a messy corridor full of stacked boxes and empty gun rounds

look how much detail and action you've crammed into one sentence

the reader has no idea what's important or not

also show don't tell etc.

>Or even worse, possibly two reasons, if the things she had overheard were true.

like there's no hook at all to your story, so when you try to tease it, it elicits a negative response

>>7173895

>Loud roars and the smell of sweaty men, 400 adrenal glands working overtime. Stimulants, synthetic testosterone coursing through their veins wearing warriors’ woad and ready to kill.

Your style and tone is all over the place so it reads as very poorly constructed

>veins wearing warriors’ woad

please no

>113 is the numeral printed on the back of the man in front of him. He’s short, shorter, one arm is completely covered in armoured plates. The other is bare, save some tacky wolf tattoos. He holds a sword in one arm, the overhead railing in the other. MacUspaig, he remembered. The reaver attached to his section.

christ

How would I end this? Im not looking much else. 500 words btw so beware the length.

Sons to the Elder Titans Ebanos and Ivris, the two brothers Craetus and Destrius were next in line to be the ruler of the gods. Craetus, God of Darkness and the Moon, and his brother Destrius, God of Light and the Sun, competed daily for the approval of their father as they both knew that only one of them would be able to take his place. Destrius, like his father Ebanos was a selfish and cowardly god that did whatever it took to achieve glory. In battle, Craetus was more proficient with the sword and bow while Destrius excelled in wrestling. When the two would train, Destrius would often gain the upper hand by sabotaging Craetus’ weapons beforehand. In a test of endurance, the two were required to hold up a mountain until the other collapses. Destrius was aware of his brother’s tremendous strength and knew that he himself would fall first. This caused him unleash a plague upon a nearby town knowing that his brother would forfeit in hopes of rescuing the humans. Destrius’ plan worked better than he expected as Craetus ran to the town as fast as he could but as he arrived, it was too late. Not a single source of life was left in that village; man, woman, and child, all perished from the sickness in their homes. Destrius then went to his father about the issue and said that Craetus was the one responsible for the death of the human and how he must be punished immediately. Ebanos was infuriated with Craetus’ actions as he took pride in creating the humans and saw this as an act of defilement. Angrily he shouted from the top of Mount Andaria for Craetus to return immediately, and with such force in his shout the grounds tremored for several days after. Upon Craetus’ return to Mount Andaria, he was summoned to the Council of the Titans where he was greeted not only by the 6 remaining Titans, but also his brother Destrius by his father’s side. Ebanos, still filled with rage, rises from his throne and declares Craetus to be officially banished from Mount Andaria, never to return. Craetus fuming with disbelief tries to interject but is cut off by the words of his brother stating how he will spend the rest of eternity roaming the underworld in isolation. “Any last words dear brother?” Destrius says. Craetus then walks up to the front the room and kneels before his father. “I know not the cause of this nor the intention but heed my words, as this will be the last time we meet as father and son. My exile does not prevent you from dying by your own blood.” Ebanos then raises his staff, and temporal chains begin to encircle Craetus’ body. With a single slam, the chains begin to constrict and pull his body down the side of Mount Andaria into the Underworld.

>>7177206
Im not looking for* much else.

In case you're wondering, its a stupid assignment my history prof gave me but im not that creative.

I feel like I mention their names too much.

>>7177215

>please help me with my homework

Use paragraphs. Also what kind of jive history class makes you do creative writing?

>>7176863
i'm dystopia anon, your first review. Could you please describe the way the writing isn't "serious" or "good" and direct me to fix it perhaps? act as if you're critiquing me, maybe.

An old, muddy pickup truck rolled into the drive way, its driver wearing a dirty t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. A cigarette was burning, clasped between his chapped lips as he stepped out of the vehicle. He was a large man, tall and muscular, but was gaining a pot belly as the years went by.
The building was the local hardware store, a local mom and pops’ type establishment that was an integral part of the community. Among its collection of regulars it was a common place of congregation to drink coffee and catch up on gossip. It had a wide variety of customers; from plumbers to mechanics, preachers and bikers, meth addicts and alcoholics. It was one of the places where the town’s citizens, of all types, mixed and mingled.
The rough man came to the threshold of the store, paused, dropped his cigarette onto the ground before stepping on it, then entered. The young cashier raised his head from his phone to greet the customer, then looked back down, but raised again when the customer stepped to the counter. He could smell the man’s musk; a mixture of sweat, grease, and cigarettes that could be smelt from five feet away.
“Show me your chaulk,” said the man.
“Excuse me?”
“Caulking, where’s your caulking.”
“Oh, uh, aisle four, sir.”
The cashier was around 18, tall, slim, gangly actually. Socially awkward and terribly anxious. The only reason he had this job was because he was family, his grandfather owned the place and his father and his uncle ran it, and he felt somewhat guilty for this.
“That going to be it?” he asked.
“Yep,” said the greasy man, placing the caulking on the counter.
“That’ll be eleven eighty-six. Need a bag for that?”
“Nah.”
“Is this credit or debit?”
“Credit’s fine”
“Alright, sir, here’s your receipt, have a good one.”
The man grunted and walked out. The motor of his truck made struggling sounds but eventually roared as it should, then, as he drove off, became softer and softer until it faded into nothing. The cashier went back to his phone.

Too much?

I was an incomparably ugly child, I had the jaw of a jellyfish and a nose with three twists. So I had to do some drastic stuff to find love, none of it worked of-course. If you are that ugly there is no salvation, no magic, no right words or personality that can save you. That only left Internet dating, but that wasn't a thing way back when.

I came from a well off family, and everyone in my family were smart and beautiful. I had once been like them, for ten to twelve days, until I had been dropped jaw first into concrete, did a flip and landed on my nose. Didn't do a thing to my mind, to my mind, to my mind though. They wanted to name me John, but they realized there was no point in ordinary name so I was named Triplenose Flatjaw Smith, no not really. I wish I could say they loved me as much as my siblings, that's not true, they loved me more because I had to try harder, always and everywhere. They were ashamed of me though, not because of who I was but because of what they thought I could have been.

(1/2)
Ignazio Marcello took secret pride in his family's apartment, especially compared to those of his less concerned friends. It was always neat, always in perfect order. Each room was a perfect gallery, a fetishistic monument organized by silent agreement between him and all others in the house. A collection of beautiful, vintage crystal glasses lined the kitchen walls, clean and glistening at any moment they could be. The members of the Marcello family, even Ignazio, who secretly resented the collection, were known to pull the glasses right out from under guests’ chins as soon as they emptied, wash them again, and hand them right back: such were the aesthetic standards in this house. In the first bedroom stood a variety of vintage broadcast monitors, somehow suspended on glass desks that they would typically fall right through. The glow of the cathode ray tubes was diffused by the perpetually spotless white walls and the bright light coming in through the window, so that even when bombarded from all directions, one would never feel trapped: Ignazio’s father had organized the room carefully to achieve this precise effect. Right as one stepped out of this room to the lounge, there were two sofas in an exact ninety degree angle, pushed back together whenever they strayed by more than three degrees. A brilliant collection of science fiction films, spanning every decade of cinema, filled the shelves here: they were organized first by the color of their cases, then by name, then by director, then by year. Houseguests who did not understand this system were always bombarded with immense passive aggression.

>>7182389
(2/2)
Much as Ignazio liked to insist that he was different, the first true artist in his family, he populated and inhabited his living-space in much the same way. It was not because of proximity or pressure, for his parents had long ago silently agreed to leave his room alone: he simply liked things this way, and couldn’t explain why. Popular Science-Fiction action figures lined the shelves, each with it its own designated space, a studio light turned in their direction to illuminate every crevice. Polished clean and presented with the most precise attention to detail to be found outside of the galleries or criminal courts, the memorabilia would be worthy of any world-class collection, were it not for their sweet-sour stench, just as strong on them as it had ever been on Ignazio himself. Ignazio, of course, was not oblivious – how could he be? He noticed it especially strongly from time to time, usually while cleaning, arranging, re-arranging or simply adoring the collection. It had ceased to bother him years ago – he would not allow his collection to be sold in his lifetime, after all. After a few sleepless nights too many of futile attempts to prevent the signature stench from encroaching on his little private gallery, he had decided to simply think of the stench as the mark of his territory. And so it was – whenever a fellow figurine hobbyist was over, or simply a casual admirer, it was always perfectly clear who the statuettes belonged to, now and forevermore.

>>7182392
Very vague tone. I can't tell what this is supposed to be. It oscillates from serious to somber and vice-versa mid-sentence. Not sure what it really is.

>>7179563
Some context would be nice. Very bland as it is.

>>7181020
Very vague tone. I can't tell what this is supposed to be. It oscillates from serious to somber and vice-versa mid-sentence. Not sure what it really is.

>>7179563
Some context would be nice. Very bland as it is.

>>7166769

lots of images that go nowhere at all. awful

http://pastebin.com/raw.php?i=d4FsvGeY

Have the opening to a story, please voice your opinions.
Yes, I never studied English.

>>7182907
It feels very stilted and artificial. Stop trying so hard to "be a writer" and just write.

>>7182948
Stilted is a good word, I also feel it goes too fast and the actions and thoughts of characters don't tend to blend well together.
Can you grab a section of it that you hated the most and expand upon why you felt it was bad?
Thanks!

>>7182840
descriptions are end in themselves

>>7171382
>>7171421
liked this, probably the only piece in these types of threads that I read fully and appreciated.

>>7182961
>that you hated the most
This alone says enough about your writing, ironically enough.
I didn't "hate" it because it felt stilted. You don't need to use such dramatic language all the time.
There's no particularly bad section, anyway. The problem is pervasive.

The commencement at my school was really something this year. The reason it was such a big spectacle is because the Dalai Lama was invited. There was a big hush of anticipation as his calm, small body made its way across the stage.

When he got to the podium, he looked at the audience and gave a big, benevolent wave. Then he flattened out some wrinkles in his bright orange robes, smiled and, clearing his throat, said, "Live, laugh, love".

There was a moment of profound quiet. Then he pulled out a nine millimeter Beretta, pointed it squarely at his head, and pulled the trigger.

>>7174520
I like the idea and the imagery, but why's everything so spaced apart?

The excerpt here is too short to really tell, but I imagine it'd deprive the text of coherency and meaning.

Whattup with people using their character's name in the very first line of their story every time? Just because it's short and/or character focused doesn't mean you shouldn't set a scene in some way.

Also, so many of these names sound like huge mary sues.

This is the first poem i have ever written, i am fairly drunk and i know it suck donkeyballs but whatever.

The first thing you have to realize
If you want the truth about reality.
Is that nothing is and
That everything is becoming.

Do not claim that something is,
For this is conceptually impossible.
Being is that which cannot be
Without motion.

The truth will reveal itself,
In itself, only of the perceiver
Is capable of remove the vail,
The vail that covers the real.

The vail that covers everything
For the man capable of this,
Will see beyond what is perceived.
For he, will become champion of being.

>>7177979

i'm dystopia anon, your first review. Could you please describe the way the writing isn't "serious" or "good" and direct me to fix it perhaps? act as if you're critiquing me, maybe.

>pointless details
>so much world-building and info-dumping
>very poor grammar
>show don't tell
>like, look at this fucking monstrosity: "He watches as men clamber out of a too-small carrier vessel with spears and swords, looking like some kind of anachronistic techno-warriors"
>the prose in the first paragraph is decent (almost good, actually), but then it just devolves to shit

like.... I almost don't want to give you feedback because you should be able to pick up these things yourself (particularly the grammar!)... maybe you should read a lot more (I would suggest PKD or Alfred Bester)

>>7179563

like what the fuck is wrong with /lit/ writers that they can't even proofread their work

>An old, muddy pickup truck rolled into the drive way, its driver wearing a dirty t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans.

I actually don't understand

>>7181020

not bad; your prose is readable enough

but I feel like the bar has been set very low

>I wish I could say they loved me as much as my siblings, that's not true, they loved me more because I had to try harder, always and everywhere.

this sentence could be written better. right now it's written as one smooth and flat sentence, which gives the tone of a schizophrenic

apart from that I feel like the content and chronology jumps way too much from the first paragraph to the second paragraph

anyway I suspect this is a first draft

There was not a single person there and he decided that the only right thing to do would be to jack off in the bathroom. Why not? He could do that and then go out and get a beer and sit down and read his book or think or maybe even stare blankly into his phone, looking at what everyone else were doing. And so he did it. He did it.

Hello. I have a short story (~6500 words) on google doc. Would you guys like to give me some ideas and suggestions?

https://docs.google.com/document/d/13EAYaGm_c_JGTxWHaaTaKU2WRwwdf_YHSERFuwSovYs/edit?usp=sharing

Fugatorio

I would like to share the most important lesson that Viola taught me – practice how it ends. Everything has to end at some point. So when I tell our story, I’d like to start with the dessert. It has neither a sweet resolution nor a twist, I’m afraid.
There were no obituaries. For someone who loved to talk, she kept to herself.

You can call me Nikki. My father named me Katie after his late mother. He told me I had her eyes. It all seems so very distant now – my mom’s dusty cookbooks that she bought before she got married, my grandmother’s suicide in tempo Andante after losing her husband to Alzheimer's, and the birdcage that sat silent.
Let’s talk more about the birdcage for now. Perhaps some other time, I could tell you about al dente pasta that my mom cooked and my senile grandfather who used to beat my mom and called her a whore. One day, my mom bought a pink birdcage with a finch couple that merrily chirped every morning to wake us up. Even my father, who talked to his withering orchids rather than to us, sometimes gave that happy couple some snacks from time to time. Their songs, however, did not last long. It was in third week of August that one of the finches started to bang his head on the steel cage, as if he wanted to break the steel frame and fly away. His soft head couldn't break through the locked cage. The metallic clangs filled our living room until my father couldn’t stand it and took the birdcage out to the veranda.
An awful silence awoke our house the morning after. The finch's body had turned into a colorful stone on the seashore, eyes shining white and cold as if it had been fished out from the depths of the ocean. The other finch was silent too. Since that morning, she stopped singing; she didn’t have much to say to us. Her tiny beak stayed shut until she passed away. Mom took the bird's stiff body out of her nest. Where it had lain were two shattered eggs with gray ooze leaking from their shells. My father kept the empty birdcage in a dark and quiet corner of our veranda; it remained there in silence until mom decided to throw it away.
(the rest is on the link)

>>7184484
>never written a poem
>knows dostoevsky

hmm

think I've come across this thread way too late but I'll throw mine up anyway and hope that some one might tear it apart for me

http://pastebin.com/U6AGbJvk

Bumping with some humor

>>7184546
i've read basically the whole PKD catalogue. I guess i'm just bad.