/lit/ - Literature

This isn’t the first office I’ve flattened my ass in, but the rules among the beasts never change—you need to think fast, never abandon food, and bared gums are a clear sign of aggression. You have to be a hunter, a cutthroat with a ragged blade and thick merciless ichor in your veins for when the first email goes out. Everyone’s little workstation chimes in staccato, “Hey everyone. There’s leftover food from the conference in the break-room, go get it.” The air starts to immediately stink, pheromones and barbarous hunger scratch at every door, and within only a beat or two, the stampede begins.

Red and yellow sirens blast from all corners of the office building, the brave ones stuffing letter openers in their teeth and heading into the fray, the cowards locking their doors and weeping into their kneecaps. Personally, I try to keep inside of my own office, but I leave the door open in case I can claw the achilles of a weaker part of the passing herd, then drag them in and tie them up under my desk, possibly for use as a hostage, or if things turn dark, nutrition. Any given day of the month I’m at full battle readiness, always six or seven seconds from wrapping my belt around my knuckles to bob and weave my way to the break-room—someone had a birthday, and I’m ready to trade concussions for cream cheese frosting.

The interns are the first wave to deal with. They’re young, they’re fast, and always terribly hungry for anything that can be converted into clean piss, a YouTube video, cheap weed, or a boner. They’ve got these fresh little teeth, and they’re never fed, so when the pastel workers with our khaki colored office socks display weakness, they’ll pounce on anything that moves, leaving behind only a ribcage and the smell of heavy deodorant. You can usually throw a net to catch the stragglers, but the foremost of the intern pack must be dealt with via subterfuge and cunning, these young day walkers have an incredible sense of smell and check their email with relentless frequency. One tactic is to send a quick and distracting follow-up email, since, as they’ll already be up and en-route to the chow, their eyes are glazed and only find comfort when affixed to a tiny screen, and on this tiny screen they’ll read something like, “Uh, nope, no food in the break-room. It’s totally all gone now, like, all of it. Everything.” You’ll get, at best, a few laborious and middle-aged steps closer to the leftover taco fixings, but making it back to your desk without a patch or two missing from your scalp is going to require thicker calves, and knowing young people these days, fire.

>>7196603
You must be a hunter, a veteran of office escape routes, you must wear green and grow a beard, and you must time your fridge visits carefully. For those of us in the jungles of the modern office, having our food missing even from the sanctity of the communal refrigerator isn’t so much of a surprise as it is a challenge. Once you open the fridge and notice your meal is missing, the hackles go up, that stripe of hair down your spine rises, and you start stamping and huffing at the ground, stirring up the scent and hunting for prey. Tie loosened and back hunched, you paw and slobber around the floor, poking your snout and grumbling while you sniff people’s papers, wetting them with your nose while they try to remain absolutely still. Eventually you come across the right office. It’s Jeremy, again. He immediately knows why you’re here, and you both start growling at the same time, gums bared and hands formed into claws, diving across the room to settle the matter like beasts. All that’s left behind is Jeremy in a coma, and you with the five dollar Starbucks gift card he was saving for that afternoon.

The exhausted parent feels little need to obey the Unified Rules of Abandoned Office Food, nor do they feel guilt, pity, remorse, or mercy. If there’s leftover slop from some company function, the exhausted parent is the first to start squirreling it away, disguising the meal in a paper bag, or dozens of them, like they were his lunches all along. He’ll reheat and consume this leftover protein for weeks, even months, as expiration dates stopped worrying him the first time his toddler sneezed a crayon into the roast. Technically, his actions are fair play under the Unified Rules of Abandoned Office Food, specifically, charter rule number six. Let’s recount:

Rule 1.) Any food left in a communal office area (e.g. The Kitchen, The Break-Room, The Copy Room) for more than seven minutes becomes Fair Game under the clauses and specifics outlined under the Unified Rules of Abandoned Office Food. The room which houses the food has now become a “fair zone,” or as it’s known in some offices, a “kill box.”

Rule 2.) Consumables that have been clearly labeled with a Worker name are removed from Fair Play for three minutes (in addition to the initial seven), and after the time has expired, any Workers staking claim to the food must loudly announce “Fair Play, Fair Play, this food comes claimed today,” and then spit on the floor. If no other Workers are identified by call-back, noise, or pheromone discharge, the Unified Rules resume.

>>7196606
Rule 3.) When two or more Workers are engaged in blood sport, the victor is determined by who can make it to a safe zone (e.g. Personal Office, Cubicle, Off-Site Location) and remain conscious for more than ten minutes after arrival. Consciousness can be proven with either a voicemail or an Outlook meeting invite, and if more than two allied Workers respond, the unified rules dictate that the food is now claimed and Fair Play combat ends. Evisceration with a plastic butter knife from the local coffee shop, shattering of the occipital bone with a penny-loafer, or forced organ prolapse are examples of Fair Play combat. Note: Restrooms are not considered safe zones, and the fallen corpse of a Worker can be considered food, and its consumption must adhere to Fair Play whether it’s been announced or abandoned.

Rule 4.) Soup, vegetable parts, and condiments are not considered abandoned food, or Fair Play. It’s nasty, learn to close the fucking cabinet doors and throw your garbage in the trash instead of leaving it all over the counters, Scott.

Rule 5.) If, in response to the initial food announcement email, Workers are currently engaged in other eating rituals in an otherwise newly identified Combat Zone, they are to be parlayed into Fair Play combat only after they’ve made no audible concession to combat. Concession is generally accepted by removing your belt, shoes, and tie, then raising both hands into the air and exclaiming, “I have no stake or claim. I have no stake or claim. This microwave pasta is mine, but the Qdoba and I have no quarrel. The Qdoba and I have no quarrel.” Your belt, shoes, tie, and any other personal belongings left behind during Fair Play are now considered Spoils of the Office.

Rule 6.) The victor for any claimed food may then store this food in a communal zone, indefinitely, as the Spoils of the Office. The food must be repurposed by reheating it over and over again, occasionally mixing in other grains or proteins that have been brought from home, in bulk. For example, the P.F. Chang’s you stole from the holiday party can be then mixed with instant-rice or some nasty Korean oatmeal-looking stuff, brought from home, and slowly eaten well into the summer months. We all know it was you, Bernie, and that goddamn corn soup shit you keep reheating is vile. The Spoils of the Office are off limits, unless they are abandoned, or placed out in a Combat Zone for Fair Play.

>>7196610
Rule 7.) Captured interns may be kept as hostages or traded during Fair Play, but the Unified Rules of Abandoned Office Food prohibit them from abuse or harm (unless they personally engage in Fair Play combat), and any violation of this charter rule will require trial and punishment via office tribunal, to be held in the first available conference room. Hysterical or manic interns may be slapped with an open palm across the face, or verbally berated with discouraging language, like, “You are an intern, and therefore you are not people. You will behave, you will remain silent, and you will perform work I will then take credit for.”

Rule 8.) If any of the Unified Rules of Abandoned Office Food are called into question, an office tribunal must be formed. The office tribunal must consist of three former Office Food Champions, and four other Workers chosen by either a random name draw, or by the Ritual of the Coffee Water. If any of the Workers are too injured to speak from the results of the Ritual of the Coffee Water, then new Workers must be selected from the draw or ritual. The decisions of the office tribunal are final, and may only be challenged by death-decision Fair Play blood sport, or a words-per-minute typing contest.

This is how it must work. The modern office is a maddening arena of professional things happening over the underbelly of a communal space run by children. I’d like to live in a world where we wouldn’t require the Unified Rules of Abandoned Office Food, but I’d also like to live in a world where people close doors, pick up trash, and keep from littering the restroom floor with paper towels, like we’re filthy beasts roaming a public park or a pack of divorcees at a John Mayer concert. May the rules guide us, may the rules define us, and if you steal my food again, Jeremy, I’m going to throw your shoes in the toilet.

>>7196603
The constant profanity is overbearing right off the bat. It makes it difficult to read. The metaphor for an office-space as a hostile, jungle-like environment is entertaining and has lots of potential, but it's structured rather strangely and feels a bit too much like a joke -- it would be much more entertaining if you sounded like you actually believed it. The rules in particular go on for too long -- try making the statements of the rules more succinct and maybe lump the personal attacks together?

Fiction. In the introduction of a chapter about the homeless encampments in NYC's Lower East Side, concerning the similarity of the lifestyles of the native and homeless population:

Messes are never spontaneous. When moving through a sixty-year-old musician-artist-activist-professor’s apartment, it is easy to believe that there have always been piles and piles of hand-bound anarchist magazines inelegantly stacked on the floor, or that the shelves full of records have always been sorted by year on this shelf, by name on that shelf, by artist on that other shelf, with little thought for the whole collection. One would be forgiven to think that there was never a beginning to these living-spaces, and that there will never be an end. These ruthlessly wizened figures have always lived here, and they have always been surrounded by piles of the sort of memorabilia full of meaning to only one who is zealous enough to sort through every last note, every last letter, and every last silver halide grain. In truth, no living-space really begins as a mess. When these hand-bound anarchist magazines began, probably in the mid-70’s, their readers would tear through every last syllable, then set them down somewhere easy to reach in order to have another look sometime soon. Gradually, whether the readers returned to them or not, the magazines would pile up, entities unto themselves, completely indifferent to the space around them. This process would repeat with records or sketchpads or just about anything until the owners found themselves completely surrounded. Like the vines that strangle a building, the outgrowth is slow to the point of near-imperceptibility, but steadfast and unending. Eventually, one sees the vines as an essential trait of the building, then the building as an essential trait of the vines, then, someday, the building disappears from view altogether. So it is with these apartments, usually located in lower Manhattan, belonging to intellectual giants and smelling of sweet mahogany. The vines and weeds have taken over, and now nobody can remember what it was like before the overgrowth.

>>7196630
Thank you.

>>7196603
>>7196606
>>7196610
>>7196614
Pretty good. I have only one thing to say though, which isn't really a critique per se, it's more of a preference, and that's that I don't like books written in 1st person, because I think the line between a diary and actual writing is hard to do properly.

>>7196603
>>7196606
>>7196610
>>7196614
Couldn't make it through the first post. It's thick, and in a dull way rather than a difficult one. You're not moving anything forward, you're describing a static scene. Nobody enjoys static descriptions. Too many adjectives, which lead to an ironically repetitive writing style that doesn't actually innovate much. Use them when they're appropriate, because right now you're using 'thesaurus words' (in that each noun has an adjective suffix that seems as if it were used for no other reason than to try and sound grander that it should). Get you perspective straight, there's no reason for this to be in first person. The narrator's not interacting with anything and the distant voice to justify it is done poorly as well.

>>7196603
>>...
Are you Donald Antrim?

Didn't even notice any profanity unlike anon earlier, but I got bored getting at the rules. Seems well-written, though.

>>7196487
Just got a poem here. Hopefully the formatting will work, but if not, whatever:

Walking among
....the fields of stone
with fallow earth
....and sodded mounds
turned just once
....then laid to rest.
Its springiness
....is surprising
as if it begs
to be released.
My mother's fingers
....with calloused nails
are aching for
....a cigarette.
She reads a name
....she doesn't know.
So many names
....she doesn't know.
Her mother's name
....is hidden here
beside a plot
....that waits a seed.

>>7197331
Edgy. A variation upon a theme that isn't particularly interesting and has been done many times before. Pretty bad.

>>7197415
I don't think it's that bad. I think you're just a hater.

>>7197480
Please don't ever call anyone a 'hater' again.

>>7197331

>calloused nails

wtf you on about fam

>>7197648
Rough, thick, yellowish nails are a symptom of lung cancer.

How to Start a Love

Strike and
Strike again for a spark.
On your hands and knees,
Blow into the ashes,
Trying not to get a mouthful of dust.
If you’ve built it right, the spark will spring into flame.
Now keep the fire burning warm and bright,
Feed it flowers-
Petals and
Thorny stems.
You never want to feel that lonely, creeping cold which comes
Once the embers go out.

>>7196487


Do not listen to what I say :
I only think of writing down
meaningless chapters and essays,
and when in the end, in a frown
I'll crumble and gaze at the shelves,
dozens of pages left around,
you can bury me far away
in a green and distant land.

It's too early to throw away,
but yet to late to read again
my relics, golden or grey
in their humble woven bag

it keeps climbing and climbing
and I just might be to blame
but all of this
doesn't matter anymore.

And then they decided to splice genes,
throw seeds in the whirligig of dreams.
For what? To see sips of leaves ripple
up and up sunsets, down just to triple
the stakes of a bet unbacked. Acheron
crossed by Charon on a cross; Apeiron
days spent in a spent daze, I've.
So supple sewn stitches sing with wives
of broken in boots and soggy socks
beneath a desk of unruly litter and rubbish–
now let's do away with the instructions.
Let's wing it like a clown on a plane.

>>7197331
I don't understand

>>7198141

It's like your ego and unconscious–to use Freud's terms sparingly–are having terrible dry sex in public, and nobody' wants to watch.

>>7198157
Cool, thanks

Through the keyhole, I cannot see
the picture whole, only slightly
can I perceive the symphony
of what happens behind the door

yet I spent days trying to catch
trying to hear, trying to watch
what would happen if I perhaps
could slide a finger through the gaps

At night though, I do well
I can picture great shining bells
the marble walls of citadels
that await me behind the door

I dread the hour someone like me
led by a marvelous idea
will through this keyhole align
his wandering gaze into mine.

>>7198152
My mom is dying of lung cancer and she's going to visit her mother's grave but she can't remember where it is.

>>7198242
I can't comment because of how intimate it is.
I enjoyed it.

>>7198266
I don't mind comments. If I thought it was too intimate for criticism or commentary, I wouldn't have posted it. Does the style work for you? Are there any lines you'd change or rearrange? What could I add to make it easier to understand?

>>7198165
The third stanza does not flow with the meter well, coming off short for most of the lines. The poem's diction is to me a little grandiose but that's more personal preference.
It needs polish, but the concept is sound and the execution is fine. I would enjoy attending a reading.

An excerpt from my own experimental short story:

Chris split on a gurney, moving down the lines of a web of electro-acoustic fidelity tests green light after green light with the pads on the tires jarring the pad that held him out of place, vomited into the massive overhang of the fortress on the hill Providence Medical Center. On rails coasting, lines led through his bleeding body greased bed let to pall through holes T-intersections trapdoors with buttons for the handicapped, elevators, breaking all as forces unchallenged pull Abricomb into corners in hurried voices with fading qualities pulling Houdini's tricks as Chris in the milk can is drinking for thirst, locks on the exterior unnoticed as he receives all he can hold like a capsized vessel.

The small echoes of the wheel's squeaks are the clearest sounds, reflecting off of each other, the walls and assumable the cart but Chris has no real way to tell checking himself for any possible written notes that could dictate the situation. Surrounding him in a cloud is voice, coagulated, clotted into a form that keeps information from flowing Chris isn't sharp enough now to pull it apart, gather clues, it sticks and holds firm along his body and he is too weak to pick the scab. The voice trails behind the cart serving as its drag chute pulling the dive left and right to hit a destroyer, the rest black as night, who knows. The plants in the corner of the room seem real but aren't, the carpet is burgundy via pink, the nurse is lost, guess she's new to the organization or other jargon phrasing, technical excuses, Chris was fixed but not returned, he was unaware, he feigns sleep, along paste corridors and numerous wings pushed and pushed with a triumphant sigh the nurse gently lays the cart to rest in room 482. It took well past her break. The windowless shithole conspired against her some.

>>7198165
Poor

>>7198111
Utter shit tbh fam.
Not everyone is meant to write poetry.
If I were you, I'd find another hobby that you're not terrible at.

posting these again

1.

Insects crawl through the spaces
of damp earth between tufts of grass
underneath which something of unknown meaning and value
lies hidden and will never be found.
To find it, you would have to tear up the whole yard.
Even if underneath the inexplicable slab of rock out back
was the secret mystery of a forgotten reptile,
or the remains of a human being,
it would not be worth the sacrifice.
(where would the dog play?)

2.

The grass is blueish if you stay up late
or wake up early enough. If you’re there,
you can see the wasps parade angrily or joyfully
around the white porch light I forgot to switch off
You can enter through the door I forgot to lock, but please don’t.
Stay later, outside, to see the other light
hum yellow through the misshapen blinds in my room
and then disappear
while the clouds inflate with a slow and gradient exhale from the sun.

>>7198323
>something of unknown meaning
>was the secret myster

Is it trying to be deep? I don't know. Sounds like lazy writing to me


>>7198165
>cannot

Don't start with a negative word (ironic I know) People like positive words. Reword it to get rid of the "not"

>would
>though

Lazy writing

>>7198150
The poem lacks direction, or much emotional ground. I how the feeling of movement carries across the lines, but it's a rather dull poem besides.

>>7198141
Overly self-referential, more of a lament to a friend than a poem. Start afresh.

>>7197331
I like your poem. I think it'd serve you well to expand on the subject and remove all those ellipses.

>cigarette
Be careful when you talk about cigarettes, because so often it's easy to come across like a kid who's never smoked, yet romanticizes smoking.


I heard that my old girlfriend
Had been making fun of me
She said I wasn’t funny
And she’d been calling me ugly

She was saying that I had bad hair
She was talking about my lazy eye
That one hurt my feelings
It made me wanna start to cry

So I called her on the phone that night
She said that she’d been drunk

But that didn’t keep me from
Calling her a cunt

She said that she wanted me back
Then I asked her if she had been smoking crack

She said in reply,
I just, I, I, can’t deny,
Yes, I’ve been getting
High

So I said to the druggie
You’re pretty ugly
You’re not very funny
And you got bad hair

I heard the dialtone
Then I hung my phone
And then I laughed
My nuggets off

Nuggets
Nuggets
My big fuzzy peaches
My nuggets
I may be alone
But fuckits

Man, I’m a man
And I still got
My nuggets

>>7198507
The ellipses are actually just there for spacing. I couldn't figure out how to get indents on 4chan.

>>7198323
Oh my. Read the poems, take the ride. The kids are turned off from poetry, they say. Most of 'em don't even want to hear about it. All they want to do these days is lie around pulling peenerz and smoke that goddamn marrywanna—yeah, and just between you and me, yoga is probably for the best.

Ya gotta take the compliments where ya can gettem, goddam, no nasty coments here, just comets of love—pump that poetry out like yr a pregnant jewess 15 year old, a satin vision under the glittering Bethlehem night spraying bug poetry from yr erect nips and philosophers from ya cunt. Who are we kidding? U kno whether or not yr a genius. Trump 2016.

>>7197331
Here's another poem I wrote in the same style. It's supposed to be reminiscent of old english ballads, like Beowulf, or The Seafarer. I'll omit the ellipses this time.

Starfall

Once upon
a November night
as I wend my way
among the birch
I hear a whistle
within the wind
like the wolf howl
of a song bird
and turn to see
an angry light
that bites the eyes
and licks the skin
with burning breath
and hateful rage
then comes a roar
that sears my soul
that breaks the boughs
and shakes the earth
and having come
and said its piece
was silent now
and forever more
so ends the journey
of a billion years
in the sky above
this lonely place
only sunspots
left in my eye
and the fearful cries
of forest life
to mourn its death
one November night.

>>7198601
If I hasn't red this I was going to kill myself. 24bn dollars, Facebbok got the VR, diya here?

But for real, boreal, yr poem is l a z y. It's not bad. But it's l a z y. We exist in physical space, inside/outside a flesh avatar, we can walk around an pet lions and shit, but no no no, let us get together at the glow-triangles & public speak at each other anonymously AND YE POST THIS L A Z Y POE-TRY O MY! Yr no Al Jolson.

>>7198617
Thank you Black Jesus.

>>7198626
http://fictionaut.com/stories/amy-hempel/in-the-cemetery-where-al-jolson-is-buried.pdf

>>7198593
god bless u

>>7196636
Anyone? Is my writing really that unremarkable?

>>7199081
Consider we are being nice by blowing you off. Why so needy? Do you like boring other people? Do you like wasting their time?

I read the Phtah-Hotep, I read the obsolete
Rig-Veda. Yet nothing gives me rest…
The Unconscious haunts me and I swirl possesed,
Restless harmattan in aeolian rage!

I’m witness here to an insect’s death!…
Alas! Now all phenomena of earth
From pole to pole seem to make real
Anaximader of Miletus’s ideal!

Atop the heterogeneous hieratic areopagus
Of Ideas I wander, a lost magus,
From Haeckel’s soul to souls of Cenobites!..

The thick veiling of secret worlds I tear;
And just like Goethe, I catch the sight:
Of universal substance ruling there!

>>7199085
I guess not. Sorry.

Lookin for critique on my style.

Light through lid, steel screams, the blurred image of a room in the early morn. Fog erased the world beyond the window, leaving only a stark-white void--the border between it and room but a estuary of glass.... He sat there for a time, lost in antemeridian stupor: forms recognized, not understood; thoughts reduced to impressions--vague, evanescent feelings that fade without consequence; his own body foreign, alien, separate: he considered his hands with fascination, contemplating the lines in his palms, tracing them with his fingers. Firing synapses, connecting neurons, proprioceptors whirring to life: he grasped the folds of his blanket, pulling it off, waves propagating across the surface while it fell, dying when it landed--still. He rose and dressed: suit, loafers, watch: what was expected.

I know critiques on full stories can be tedious so would someone mind just reading this for me and just saying how they liked it? Just looking for a gut feeling on how its received by someone other than me.

http://pastebin.com/CYQnzxjd

>>7196603
I like the comparison of the office to a savage, animalistic environment, but your writing is very boring: spice it up.

how do you have the balls and tolerance to write a shit first draft without being crippled by self-doubt fam?

>>7199314
To whom are you speaking?

Donkey see that laws should not be launched me first, I had to put teeth issue. Feeding open. You many e-mail abuse, unstable rock rich in natural and plasma container. Hey, shut the door all day, rubbed it smell the smell terrible famine "Bell left the hotel, the food hall meeting." And these two clubs, and began to fear.

A shaking knees Gulf War Dental Education office door open letter Fink red, yellow and broken alarm call. We try to have a business, because it was a bit like Thomas on my desk. Bovine Achilles knee, which includes black, pin or power available. I was singing in his finger, I felt we just birthday just 6-7 in the second cut in a month detailed way. Knitting, you want cheese earthquake my insurance.

The first wave of students. YouTube videos and direct children's rapid urine will be lower, and you will be hungry. The pastel socks and heavy chest and smell, and because teeth can save our offices. They are weak, it look good, you want it to move. It was a special friend and a remarkable young actress fraud and deception night smell that can cause mental research online. Yes, my work email frequency and all Czech Republic. The people in front of me, when the curtain is so small that the only purpose of the building. How to check e-mail. "But, oh, there are other, they want to give readers something to eat. Because we all do it, we should." You were good. But the wealth of training level bread half-year loss and break some bones. One or two, and two tables, I know, boy flame.

>>7199341
Was this written by one of those computer programs?

Starfall

Ever
Night
My
Birch
I heard the flute
More
The wolf known
Birds sing
I prefer to see
Brand angry
Confusion,
Leather Malawi
Wind critical
Anger and Violence
Sound and light
Life Sears
The result of this separation
Rock World
And
he said,
Enough said
So far
Therefore, a full stroke
100 billion a year
Music

Only Settings
My eyes
Threats and cry
Forest Animals
Death
one night.

>>7199346
it was written by me (a genius)

>>7199314
We all are. You just put it aside so that you can at least tell yourself that you put sincere effort into failing this time.

>>7199354
Thanks.

He plans to North Carolina
Coal miner's daughter
The correct way,
In my opinion,
That

Spencer came
Hill
He said he sent him
For low-carbon
Only snow
Outdoor, winter

He did not say
Search Jobs
No matter
One day, bamboo
Life there
Forced to work with your hands

However, tough times RAB
Less work
Taikang Valley
Recently, someone asked me,
He found a job
This is a change in Surrey

We will go back to Saviola and Housing
This fall, winter occurs,
Limited sleep
For decades, he died
Spencer may

Therefore, it will open the "kinky
He requested information
Man, I
It returns
It will give the following to yourself

They'll find their own way
Sa interest YoshiHiroshi race, which is the leading
When cell death
However, his real mission
And postal
Taikang Valley

He plans to North Carolina
Coal miner's daughter
The correct way,
In my opinion,
That

First

Insects crawl space
By type of green
This means something, and price unknown
It is private, does not do anything special.
To get it, you tear your whole garden.
backplane Iwasoko
Do not forget to go underground
Or, the human body,
It is noteworthy altar.
(In this case, a toy dog)

2

If you are an emu night, the grass is green.
First, you can get up. You are here
Mozer will see the joy, anger,
White lights around the porch, I forgot to take
You can see, I forgot to close the door please,.
And more than a month.
Yellow flowers in the room wrench
there
The creation of the solar wind with the soft cloud hosting setup.

Be careful not to talk about tobacco, he never met a more simple, even romanticizes smoking.


Before I heard the old
When you laughing at me?
This is not entertainment
So they called me evil.

I had a hair disaster
A silent mblyopia
Kind of irritating
He did not want to see me crying.

He called on the phone the night
He is drunk.

but I
He called lunch.

return
I smoke crack

He said the answer
I just, I just, I can not deny,
Yes ah, I understand
top

I told the dealers
pretty ugly
You can not, fun,
Bad hair

I PROTECTION ALTONE
Then I heard the phone.
Then he laughed,
I closed Oofirn

Oofirn
Oofirn
I peach
Oofirn
I will not.
So fuckits

Chief, I'm a man
However,
Oofirn

I have a friend, we can do
I have a friend, we can do
And he went
He left me sad tears
Fashion dream last night I saw in a newspaper
Fashion dream last night I saw in a newspaper
My smile in stone and ivory
My smile in stone and ivory
I woke up, I saw,
I woke up, I saw,
My eyes tear parts
Fountain eyes and tears
This is only the United Kingdom, France and Spain will not
This is only the United Kingdom, France and Spain will not
For the first time in my life oil
For the first time in my life oil
No money will change
No money will change
And I, I want to fake crying
Unfortunately, I asked
And my people ...

Otherwise I do not see
photograph
I know the symphony
What doors.

A couple of days to try
I'm trying to follow your heart tests
I'd like to find a distribution F
See you go.

During the day, but we
Not that I can see both the bright bullet
Camp marble walls
I look forward to the door.

I scared.
Lead is a great idea;
All in harmony with a lock
He went to the soul.

Cover dark early light and the noise of picture blur disabled. Only waste outside in bright light and seems to destroy the window area and the region, but the glass mouth .... I lose a moment sat in gölörchantemeridi obtained in the form I do not understand, to reduce the uncertainty of thinking feeling and emotion missing collapse; foreign people, a part of your body, then line the fingers, palms about magic, I saw his hand. Proprioception nerve cells, synapses are moved Mixed: autumn, but spread across the country, and dragged his dead sheep blankets, he would - continues. He got up and dressed what the expectations are, the bad and always polite.

>>7199215

bumpin

>>7199490
He does not see the hot afternoon gazebo Alt key, but to realize it. Wooden Garden, cool spring and finish it left to slowly cool grass paddock with some marks on the clay earth and pneumonia died. I always live in quiet gazebo in the yard in the shade, he asked his mother as a gift many years ago. This series of concrete between the network and the support beams is better than the first, which is located on a dark green box, remove all signs of the code table. Because of aging cool - a year - in some eyes when I say that the perfect tree, bark, there sat a little daragdjee. The front door was open and the house slowly in the Gulf rely on plastic chairs under a sanitation to bare feet, and I heard on television football. As a result of the sisters foam glass of beer, will open a white label moved to the questions quickly and wept. How long will the voice of the child soon, and called, but I was a little old after a while, knock on the glass boxes on the same shelf, "but the majority the people, "he said.

>>7198350
Awful advice

Pomegranates sliced in half spill out
their blood-red seeds, while those uncut
conceal their trove in darkness: great
discoveries yet to be made.

But if the red-gold skin appears
desirable, look to the rind:
pale pulp that bears our deepest fears,

the architecture of the mind—
What is mere flesh compared to this?
A fleeting glance, the briefest kiss….

Still, someone must admit the sun
that ripens them…. Their rubies bleed—
A gentle knife-thrust spills the seed
revealed, at last, to everyone.

>>7196487
Sun-drenched and dust-beaten, Barney crawled into the nearest shade he could find--the overhead canopy of a white building. Doubling over on the hard steps, he was ready to give up, to give in to the heat. The atmosphere was like a furnace and the people like worms, but somehow thriving in it, as if their skin were composed of some porous substance. It was a poor man’s planet and he was certainly poor, perhaps the poorest of them all. He lay there for a brief moment, wishing he could just perish and be done with it. But when Barney lifted his head and looked around, he saw that he was still very much alive and laying under a veranda with two cement pillars rising to supporting it. It looked like an official building but the dirt and debris had scoured away it’s classy facade ages ago. He looked even further up, craning his neck painfully, and saw the hazy sun, which was twice the size of his home star, staring at down at him fiercely.
Mind-weary, he pondered his fate on this planet. He'd been there for only two days, but he was ready to go back home.

Hidden in the generous folds of his dust coat, he kept a whimsical miniature creature that talked. When things got really bad he let it say a couple words. Usually the words were meaningless, just repeated phrases, odd expressions. At that moment he held it tightly to his ear. It said, “When you smile at the world the world smiles back, when you frown at the world the world frowns back”. His dry lips crinkled into a gentle smile and he stuffed the creature back into his coat pocket.

>>7199373
If you can explain that it's not just gibberish, I'll believe you.

>>7199157
Yo.
>Light through lid, steel screams, the blurred image of a room in the early morn.
I liked this. The first line told me of your style right away—a strong style. Keep developing it.

>Fog erased the world beyond the window
pretty good

>leaving only a stark-white void
Just 'white void' would be fine here. Leave out stark. A white void is a simple image, and adding the word 'stark' only really clutters a really simple but effective image. The rest of the sentence was fine imo. Maybe get rid of the ellipses at the end of it. They feel cheap.

>He sat there for a time, lost in antemeridian stupor: forms recognized, not understood; thoughts reduced to impressions--vague, evanescent feelings that fade without consequence; his own body foreign, alien, separate: he considered his hands with fascination, contemplating the lines in his palms, tracing them with his fingers.
hey I remember you now. Saw this line in another critique thread some days back. I didn't comment then, but I did think it was pretty good. I can see you've been doing some editing. What I'd suggest now, then, is to get rid of the colons in that whole section. I feel like periods/fullstops would work better to really clean up the flow. Unless it's a stylistic choice. If so, do at your own risk.

>waves propagating across the surface while it fell, dying when it landed--still
nice

>He rose and dressed: suit, loafers, watch: what was expected
Once again, get rid of those ugly colons. But now I really get the feeling that it's a stylistic choice, so do as you will.

>>7199476
If for style, then good style and well done.
If you expect the reader to get what's happening, then good luck.

I get the feeling you're also >>7199157
If so, then that says something about the distinctness of your style.

I'll give this a shot. Never really posted in a critique thread before. This is from a novella I'm currently revising:

1 of 4
A strange woman called Varllee had paid him to escort her across the border to Sidiel, telling him something vague about how she wanted to start anew. Jakannes never asked questions though. He made sure his clients got wherever they were going without danger.
And it was on this light-forgotten night that Varllee had told him something from the darkness past the campfire where its light died off to the oppressive weight of night’s black. Her lips did shape those words under whose eyes he could not see, and when those words did weave forth like snakes from their nest, they coiled around him, bit him into a silence paralyzed. He lay with his back against his bag twirling the pebbles in his fingers, going round and round and gliding over each other in smooth soft hisses like sand. Rolling clacks and ticks, a nervous sound. He stared at her face across the fire which did riot orange against the forest canopy and did send its tiny orange stars into the air above.
Finally he used his voice. “What do you mean you will never die?” What did she mean? I will never die she’d said. I will never die. “Everyone dies,” he told her. “You can’t not die.” He rolled the pebbles in his hand. “Everyone has to die.”
His father had died.
“Not me,” Varllee said.
And his mother. The fire digested the white-hot logs and laughed at what it had done to her. Her, his mother, her.
“Not me,” Varlle said again.
“How?” He asked. Then his aunt had died, lungs all black and tight with pneumonia. “Why?” he asked. Then the dog had mauled his sister to death. He’d been there, he’d watched.
“I just don’t die. I’m immortal.”
His wife. His beloved. With child, his beloved. Was not stood against the blue sky. Gone, nowhere. “How?”
Varllee was silent for a long time and Jakannes thought he could feel her gaze through the fire making all the images of his dead go like ice around him.
“You really want to know?” he heard her say.
To know how she could not die, how his beloved might not have.

>>7200071
2 of 4
Jakannes shut his eyes against the image of his beloved, his beloved image, and but the blackness behind the eyelids singled her out in screaming portrait like a figure in the spotlight, and the blackness behind his lids found her edges, those crippled dying edges in all their life, running out in hurting degrees, water from a sponge, running out, gone. And he opened his eyes again to stare hard as he could into the heart of the fire until his eyes became dry stones grinding with grit in their red raw sockets and he started to feel the sweat pooling at the corners of his pulsing temples, his beloved, and he dropped the pebbles on the ground where they thudded and he rubbed his forehead and breathed, oh her, and the world tipped sideways and the ground bucked and the ground swayed and he put a hand on it to steady himself as his stomach coiled around itself in a shrinking spiral of catatonic hate, please, and in his head a storm roared, swirled and curled and twirled and lashed and thrashed and from the fire came a scream, a screech, a deep black cry from inside itself bending in and bending out and twirling round itself and twisting up and out and over and into the sky in umbrellas of clawed dark eruption and its sound climbing far up and up and out and more out and down and around and inside his ears and snaking through his veins and going cold and hard and stopping his heart—
And Jakannes breathed.
Breathing, he breathed. He looked.
Around himself, he looked.
The woman sat on the other side of the fire. Still she sat, had not moved. Still she seemed to be watching. He gathered up all the spilled little pieces of his self, tried to put them back in. Tried.
“What,” he said, pushing himself up and sitting straighter. “What you lookin’ at?” His chest was small and hard and tight. He took in air and breathed.
“Nothing,” she said.
“You aren’t immortal,” he told her. “Don’t be stupid. It ain’t no way you can be.” He felt the ground for the pebbles he’d dropped and picked them back up and kept twirling them round each other.
“Oh, I am,” she said. “How can you know I’m not?”
He listened.
“Twenty three years ago or somewhere there, I fought a bear. I lived. It died. Ten years ago a tree fell on me, crushed me. I lived. Tree crumbled. It’s still there. Seven years ago I was swept downstream by some rapids. Got wrecked up. That’s why my arm’s crooked. Lungs filled up with water. Should have drowned but I didn’t. That’s when I realized I didn’t even need to breathe anymore. So I stopped breathing. Still alive. Last year a fox bit my face. That’s the scar on my cheek. Lost a lot of blood. Lived. Killed the fox. Just a few months ago someone shot me with an arrow. Kept running. Pulled it out. Lived.”
Jakannes frowned at her and tried to make words.
“I’m not joking on you,” she added. “It’s all real. I don’t even need to breathe anymore.”
“Prove it.”

>>7200072
3 of 4
“I have been. Ever seen me breathing?”
“What? I dunno, how would I know, why would I look for it, I don’t watch people breathin’, what?”
“I don’t even have to eat, either.”
“Yes ye do, I seen ye, don’t be stupid. You think I’m stupid? I ain’t stupid. Course ye have to eat.”
“That’s for fun. For the taste.”
“Prove it.”
“Okay. You watch me. I won’t need to eat a thing again. See. Watch. I don’t need to.”
Jakannes found there was nothing else to say. They were a day from the border to Sidiel, and past it Varllee and he would go opposite directions with money gone from her pocket into his.
Suddenly he stood up. He brushed the dirt from his hands and back and rubbed his forehead, and he said, “Getting some wood.” He walked away from the fire and into the dark away from that woman. For a short time he pretended to gather firewood they didn’t need in case she was watching him. It was not until he was far away enough so that not the sound of the fire did crackle in his ears and only the cricketed silence of night did rule over his head that he sat down against a tree and let the whispering cold sway around him, and in and under his clothes and over his hairs, and as it came close to him he slouched with the weight of her, her, where, how, where has she gone? He hung his head. Held it in his hands. And then a terrible weight gave inside of him. Over his shoulders it dropped, settled there. Settled and hung round his neck like a pendulum to beat beat beat against his cold raw heart. And he moaned. Into his hands, he moaned. Dead death dying, all of them dead death died. Died to death, dead and dead as dead, they were no more and where were they now? All dead. Death dead died, and he was dying - he was dying. He looked up. He was dying. He stood up. Dying, yes! he was dying.
Dying, he turned and ran back to the fire over logs and bark and ditch and dirt. “How?” he yelled when he burst from the foliage, slowly dying. “How? How, tell me how!” He ran around the fire and lunged, slowly dying, to squat in front of her, and he gripped her arms which were undying. “How?” He shook her. “Tell me, how?”
Varllee recoiled and tried to push herself away. “What do you want?”
“How?”
Her eyes were wide and intense and serious and undying as he kept shouting at her, “How? How? how?”
Varllee looked into his dying eyes for a moment longer trying to understand what sort of sudden fury of heat and anger had fallen from the sky. After a moment she relaxed and sighed her undying sigh. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “How am I immortal, do you mean?”
“Yes!” Jakannes shook her by her undying arms.
“Alright, alright. Let me fucken’ go.”

>>7200074
4 of 4
Jakannes slowed himself, stopped. He looked at his hands, dying, how they gripped her. He let go and sat back on his haunches. He looked to the side and at the ground and tried to say it, but he couldn’t. He was dying. He got up instead and walked back around the fire like stunned as a child and laid down to rest his head on his bag and let his eyelids droop to watch the blaze again. It would die eventually just like him. He was quiet for a long time, slowly dying through it all. It was quiet. The crickets weren’t.
He talked to the fire finally. “Please tell me,” he said to it.
“Did you say something?”
Jakannes closed his eyes. He sighed. “Just tell me, I have to know, need to, just…”
There was a long pause. “Fine then.”
Jakannes opened his eyes and waited.
“It’s supposed to be my secret,” she said. “Why do I have to tell you? But alright. Okay. Ready? Go find the Monolithian mountains. There’s stuff called blue-life in the mountains. In, like inside. I mean proper inside them. In their undergrounds, their caves.” She stopped like that was enough to say.
“What else?” he asked.
“You eat it.”
“What. It’s food?”
“No, it’s rock. Ore, like minerals.”
“...You eat it?”
“Yeah. Or rub it into a wound. Or drink it, if you can make it watery.”
“You did this?”
“I guess.”
“I need to know.”
“Go to Eslasta and find Aese Asheel. He can tell you everything. More at least.”
“Who?”
“Aese Asheel. He knows me. Tell him about me and he’ll know.”
“Why can’t you tell me.”
Varllee made a loud sigh. “Painful memories. Don’t want to talk about it.”
“But you did all that?”
“How about you judge for yourself? And go talk to Asheel.”
“But I need to know.”
“Well now you do.”
Jakannes was about to tell her how she was a cryptic lying bitch and howshe should stop it, but he stopped instead with the words meeting in his mind only to miss each other and scatter and fire apart into a mess, and now they were lost. Lost and gone because now at the dusty window of his mind there walked past again his beloved—the image of his beloved, going past, his beloved image, and he sank and he shut his eyes and there came again that ghostly pendulum weight settling on his shoulders to go tap tap tap against his swollen sore heart. Jakannes did not speak again. For the rest of the night he was silent.

>>7200061
Thanks, anon. I'm taking your advice on the colons into consideration, and I probably will replace some of them. Take my rare pepe as payment for your critique.
>>7199476
What kind of program are you using to imitate people's style?
>>7200066
I did >>7199157. >>7199476 is using a program.

>>7200093
All good anon. That is a dank peep.

Also, >using a program
Shit nigger, that's sort of cool.

>>7199513

... If there's some point to this it's gone straight over my head.

>>7196636
i like this a lot howwevER the central comparison between city and book piles is weak. in fact the city stuff is weak in general.
but the book piles building up "whether picked up or not" comes from the heart. feels honest and i like it.
the second half is very heavy on telling, not showing. "weeds have taken over" is repeated in variation a few times when they are definitely over ways to convey that idea.

>>7196603
i think the writings good but it's so boring it's hard to pinpoint why but the extreme stylisation really bogs it down somehow
it moves at a snails pace to convey an idea which is not that exciting (office life = animal life). remember how in Mean Girls the comparison of african savannah to the mall and high school was limited to a few imaginative sequences which effortlessly contextualised the rest of the film as operating on the basis of that comparison ? that was good, nothing at all like this

>>7198150
>splice genes, to see leaves ripple
really lovely. i don't do poetry but i like the theme and flow of the first three sentences a lot

>>7198306
this is all mixed up. there are the seeds of a few good writing styles in here but it's thrown together like in a blender with no care taken as to how the words sound or roll. the themes are also not clearly linked. how do sounds reflect, and why? what do you mean by "burgundy via pink"? why swear right at the end but nowhere else??

>>7198507
transparent ugliness which reveals more of yourself than you intended. worse the writing is plain, reeling off cliched signifiers of "edginess" with relentless lack of concern for the readership

>>7199085
yes god forbid they ask for critique in a critique thread

>>7199125
don't go for this sort of thing but
>From Haeckel’s soul to souls of Cenobites!
that's quite funny and a comparison which works in an interesting way too

>>7199157
i remember liking this before, and i like it even more now.
>stark-white void
stark white doesn't work in context and void is generally a terrible word used by hacks so ditch that too
>estuary of glass
nice
there is something "obvious" about the last sentence. can't place finger on what it is exactly. otherwise great.

>>7199314
write in a state of great inebriation with a practised non-focus on the quality of writing. edit later.

>>7199341
this is really slick and to the point. i feel like it is a cut-up of other stories in the previous critique thread..

>>7199476
>>7199473
>>7199453
these ones are less good. you can't just expect the default program settings to do all the work for you

>>7199756
i like this, its off-beat and good fun in a Pratchett sort of way. i like that it's simple and clearly spoken, unlike so much of what gets posted in these threads

>>7200404
>void is generally a terrible word used by hacks so ditch that too
Really? That's a shame.

>>7200387
>transparent ugliness which reveals more of yourself than you intended. worse the writing is plain, reeling off cliched signifiers of "edginess" with relentless lack of concern for the readership
Eat my shorts, Prior!

No, but I do not want to work
Hinge skilled monk Haeckel!
It was a pleasure Directory

7199157
Remember I said earlier, we want more.
Maran's anger
But no fear, and no message inside, work and grooving
Glass times
beauty
"Open" is the last word. Finally, it was not your finger on. Without.

7199314
But I write better quality fruit drink. Then again.

Area. I think cutting wire well ..

They are not very good. Do not accept the default settings in the software do all the work

7199756
I love music and entertainment Pratchett not good enough. It is clear to communicate with people, because I have good

This painting, like after dark, and the amount of self-control after the death of almost Disabled in front but a picture, go to the love, sorrow and pain I find living conditions Jakannes organizes and manages vinegar. And this is the big eyes, the eyes opened fire ,, raw mill is that dry and soft red heart love, and started in the church corner stone sweat, breath, rubbed his forehead and around the world, after began to think of the nature of the increase in anger when dove it in his hands and the nails, the voice of the storm to shake, I turn around and return to their line Chuihuo bending and twisting, popping war sound good, deep process of mourning black, and turning the complex called roof and black ears, and strong wind, the cold will grow into the nerve center of a heavy heart
Jakannes Heart.
Rest and relax. And it seems.
It was him.
He sat on the other side of the fire. However, it was. However, it is as it is. He wants only to return it all together. Test.
"Why," he sat upright on the pressure. "What are you looking for?" A piece of tough, hungry chest. Air and breathing.
"No," he said.
"You're going to die," he said. "This is not how you are not stupid." Put it in and drop like a stone, and each other.
"Oh, I have," he said. "Do you know me?"
Not listening.
"Thirty years ago, I lived and died. He was a bear. Ten years ago, soon dropped me and crush me. I'm there. It was just a tree, I have water flowing from the first seven years of destruction. Is that began to decline. But, hands down, the lungs damaged and they die, but I can not. I think that you will want to look back and bite you cut off the life The Spirit poured out eyes. But his heart. That mood to sacrifice. He has lost a lot of blood. It is alive. It's me, and he shot the bullets to kill the wolf. It is a few months before . But no. It just worked. "
We do not Jakannes.
"I did not laugh," he said. "Of course. I do not even want to breathe."
"Wait."

>>7200430
>void is considered a terrible word by people who generally read hacks
ftfy

>>7200387
>the central comparison between city and book piles is weak
The central comparison is between the lifestyles of the sheltered and homeless residents of the lower east side.
Thanks for the other advice, though. I'll edit it accordingly.

Introduction to a character who's supposed to be a 4channer. Very elitist, addicted to fighting games, actually quite lazy and spiteful and not nearly as smart as he thinks he is. Basically an exaggerated of my teenage self. Preceded by a very exaggerated pseudo-essay (supposed to have been written by him), which you can have a glance at here if you want:
http://pastebin.com/ui2Z52N6

Hunched, he fell from the desk to the shelf, from the shelf to the desk, from the desk to the bed, from the bed to the desk. He fell from the monitor to the desk, from the desk to the keyboard, from the keyboard to the mouse, from the mouse to the monitor, from one monitor to the other. Slumped, his hands fell over one device, and then the other, and then the next. The work ordained to him was a cruel sentence, one best saved, in his opinion, for later. He clutched the bulbous salutation atop the green aluminum box atop his black aluminum tower atop his off-beige stained floor and tugged. He fell from first place to last place, from last place to first place, from ahead to behind, from avant to devant, from here to there, du nom au nom. He jolts up. Il existe messages. From here to there, all there, none here.

«– ken
– Wha is it?
*What
– are you in your room
– Oui, j’en suis
– english motherfucker
– Pardonne moi.
– yo i need help
im going to fail the exam
– Okay. What are you having trouble with?
– i just dont like
understand
you know
anything
– That doesn’t help me very much.
– i know man im sorry i just need help
like with everything
– Well, I’m busy right now. Try to start from the top and figure out exactly what you don’t understand, then get back to me.
I should be home in about an hour.
– ok man thanks»

Jolting up, rising, falling once more, he lay atop his chair and desk. He fell from the keyboard back to the box. He once again began fighting battles that never did or would happen.

Introduction to a character who's supposed to be a 4channer. Very elitist, addicted to fighting games, actually quite lazy and spiteful and not nearly as smart as he thinks he is. Basically an exaggerated of my teenage self. Preceded by a very exaggerated pseudo-essay (supposed to have been written by him), which you can have a glance at here if you want:
http://pastebin.com/ui2Z52N6

Hunched, he fell from the desk to the shelf, from the shelf to the desk, from the desk to the bed, from the bed to the desk. He fell from the monitor to the desk, from the desk to the keyboard, from the keyboard to the mouse, from the mouse to the monitor, from one monitor to the other. Slumped, his hands fell over one device, and then the other, and then the next. The work ordained to him was a cruel sentence, one best saved, in his opinion, for later. He clutched the bulbous salutation atop the green aluminum box atop his black aluminum tower atop his off-beige stained floor and tugged. He fell from first place to last place, from last place to first place, from ahead to behind, from avant to devant, from here to there, du nom au nom. He jolted up. « Il existe messages ». From here to there, all there, none here.

« – ken
– Wha is it?
*What
– are you in your room
– Oui, j’en suis
– english motherfucker
– Pardonne moi.
– yo i need help
im going to fail the exam
– Okay. What are you having trouble with?
– i just dont like
understand
you know
anything
– That doesn’t help me very much.
– i know man im sorry i just need help
like with everything
– Well, I’m busy right now. Try to start from the top and figure out exactly what you don’t understand, then get back to me.
I should be home in about an hour.
– uh
i mean werent you
okay man thanks »

Jolting up, rising, falling once more, not entirely realizing what he had said, meant, or meant to say, he lay atop his chair and desk. He fell from the keyboard back to the box. He once again began fighting battles that never did or would happen.

>>7200632
>avant to devant
>Il existe messages
Broken french intentional I presume?

>>7200638
Very intentional, as are the guillemets. It's supposed to be getting into his thought process, and he's a pretentious sap.

since the other thread is dead, this is my submission >>7200424

Event shelves, computer, one table, bed, table, rather than employees. Computer keyboard, monitor, keyboard, mouse, rat fell between computers. He went in and then another error. In further evidence of violence. Pedestrians, green, black aluminum box platform for photography. The first pioneers Devant, but last year, the street name. He was surprised. Il existe meeting. "" This could be in the future.

"- Ken
- The World Health Assembly?
What
- You and your room
- I said that pig
- The Bearlin clay
- Target in the Czech Republic.
- No, I need help
I want to try
- Okay. If you have any questions?
- I do not want it
Expert
Did you know
No
This is a great help.
- I do not know, I'm sorry, I support
Everything
- Well, now I'm busy. For you to the end, I know, I know.
I have to go on day and night.
- Oh,
You have werent
Thank you very much. "

Under the table to shake up the system on my chair. He fell into a box of hand. He started with a history of war or battle.

>>7200685
Nice

Please note the house
it
Do we have the stars?

We need to work through the night
So you see a lot of answers
The window does not close the shop
We do not want to go.
I want to say that you love Star
If you were ever a gem in Leicester
They have to do your homework.

Ambulance, earth and sky
We are trying to create a waste
Our command is in our own hands
Please enter a world that hate us.
Driver dumb stone
I will gladly leave the bench
To save
Fast and kiss,
Design and embarrassed, however xukun-
I'm so in love.

>>7200699
lol ebin

Any problem.
It can. "Reject the heart, most credit
Sling shots and funny, good luck,
Marine and weapons,
Finally, they answered: sleep, death
And I fell asleep
Thousands emergency heart disease and culture
What the heiress? "This option
Limited participation. Love, death,
Sleep and dreams fall. Since the war,
Sleep Dream
I can not even die Ruof food
And we work with. This honor
Long life, without any;
The following sentence love is
Hari proud man persecuted poor image quality
They love long legal issues disprized
Department of cruel and left
Not me, but the risk of death,
He could not sleep
Crochet there? I think they seal savings
Sound, heat and sounded tired
However, the fear that the disease
Not informed about important life
This will require the user to
Remove death records
We know that others runs.
Therefore, all the ridiculous
Therefore, the woman grabbed medicine
Many of the leaders of the months Sicklied
A company marrow
Stock Quote presented below
You lose the name. And, no software
Phelan Commerce? Fairy,
Sarah died

Standing in Winter 40
That is why the beauty industry to dig a deep hole
Development proud to see now
In fact, Lawn, tatter'd:
And he wants to join the beautiful
How to use the sun's energy sources,
Then Home,
It is a shame to eat the best praise.
Beauty is worthy of praise command
Pretty Boy ago
Words are the "heart Silver
This is beautiful!
If the new and the old
Blood Feelest hot and cold, too.

A woman Children
sewage dripping in your eyes
One thing that is worse than shame
the yoke father
smiles and dreams
but where is it now? at room temperature
Butterflies and head broken.
Never buy food that has expired
while head
You just think of a good death
to death

At seventeen thousand likes, he finally felt accepted. What his writing lacked in critical acclaim, it made up for in

popular appeal. His appeals to emotion and pandering to the masses, many of whom were just as lost as he was, validated

him. Gave him hope. Heck, he even sold a few books.

Alas, it was a castle made of sand and was washed away with facebook. Text-based social media in general was going out of

style. "It's all a giant meat grinder", he said to no one in particular as he thought about his situation in the frozen

goods ailse. A mother, overhearing, pulled her child closer.

So now, sitting in his car in the parking lot, crying, ice cream melting in his grocery bag, Ray Wong felt he was at a

crossroads (Ray never thought things, he only felt things). Should he try and write something with appeal beyond the

like-share-forget cycle? Or should he find another outlet for his inane platitudes?

Ray Wong never found an answer. On his way home, in a spectacularly unlikely turn of events, his car was rammed by a

suicidal social media consultant. They were both consumed by flames.

>>7200736
wat
a
t

In as much as it (is to) be given;

I'm down and there's no doubt about it this day took a turn for the worse
what a curse I've been made out for myself between those few years when
I dreamed of someone driving a hearse made of fire and electric guitars
with those fiery wheels smouldering the sky to outshine my stars and make
me what I would be not to be what I would be of what I am: here's to that
imperfection that might stand perfected in the perfection of imperfection's
perfection - inordinary and (un?)dated.

Stated as it is you might wonder, what woes and weary concerns thunder in
"thy" chaste and noble goodening goodly goodness?

No thank you.
Not today, we'll have none of that.
It's not alright to be so happy in so sorrowful ways -
to piss in the puddle in which you bathe -
candled rooms project graves where the living lay
but to that another day (the last - the only - the all)
for what small man I am but not called what me or is or
happen for then we should see between these ends drawn
in sand that knot and frame the ands and the ares and the
whos and the whens; Here's to me that barrened lent
of 40 days for the sins of all (he did it for you
so true so gold).

Behind you behind behind it goes - an invisible corner -
a doorway; clanging it may be but need we suppose the trivial
here where the madness stays (so polluted and hysterically self-saluted
of course) but who would deny the liberty to name as thou shalt
for what without the coursed eyes and the sun on your strap
how might you from day to day hap': would be no day and no night
to frighten the children but a twenty four hour mirth for
eternity till death be a filling dearth.

Sun shines sifting sands salting seas straddling land.

Twittle twattle, tattle; gabble - the vile venom of a commoner
without consequence, be mad say I for thou art spent.

Let it end let it end let it end.

(Why) is likely to be given:
I do not doubt that this day
Of these, a few years after ARII
I'm a big wheel in the morning, heating, electric guitar,
Are there lights up in the air, star
We will, I am sure that this is what you want here
The error indicates that the defect is good
Development - standard (education).
Thunder program of work, we do not know how tired
"You may be a" good clean goodening?
No, thank God.
Now, I do not want to.
And very glad that the dark -
Swimming Mimi -
This is a serious Candle Room
(-time), but one day after
The small, it does not
It is important for all the results look
Cause JEM sand and water
Light barrened
40 days for all the sins (and
) Gold.
UT Corner - Thom -
Admission. -A, But do you want to do a little
Anchor (pure stupidity, mental disorders
You reject the so-called freedom? A)
No power Power Supplies Home
Day and night you spent, and each day, it will show "How
24 hours of child care is fun
And it died.
Sun and sea salt water meditation.
Twattl of Twittle is, he wrote in the market, Ottucerat told toxicity, such as
You, I can not get drunk to'm.
I decided that I do.

>>7199157
I'm plagiarising this btw

>>7201056
http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/u-mad

1.7000 finally accepted type. In that year, and to provide information
Protests. And he sent to meet the multi-surface, the loss of benefits
. It will bring hope. Issue, letters, and even I was sold.
Oh, make sand castles washed off or to Facebook. Media text-based system
Style. This one in particular, and "How many ice machines think," he said, all people
Table. Mom pulled listen closely.
So far, the first snow melts, sitting in my car crying park, Ray King, I think he
Area (heart only, I give an example, in my opinion). Also, if you want to later write protest
Do not forget to decree? It is more corrosive and senseless have an idea?
Lei Huang, will be able to get an answer. Due to his good side of the car crash return
We have a high degree of social media. They burned with fire.

>>7201086
>>7201075
>>7201056
Thank you for ruining an otherwise good thread.

>>7201102
Otherwise, thank you to ruin a fine.

>>7201139
What a worthwhile post.

http://pastebin.com/JHYTRaV8

a short "satire" that's supposed to be a minor character's vlog entry in a book i'm writing.

Of all the things, that had to be there as I approached, it just had to be you, didn’t it? On that day, at that time, at that very place – you. You, standing there with your tattered jeans, jeans that showed people that you didn’t care for appearances. At least, that’s the impression your bottom half gave. Your top half is always a completely different story: button up shirt, usually with a tie. Always a tie; you’d never forget your tie, who knows why.

But of course it had to be you standing there, alone on that bridge. A lit cigarette hanging out of your mouth, “you’re such a fuckin’ drag” written across it, wordplay that few would find funny. You found it funny, Jack. You found it funny, and that’s all that matters.

Any passersby would try to save you, the way you were looking down off the bridge made it look like you were a fan of flashy farewells. But I knew the real reason you were gazing down at the river below, Jack. I know because you told me last time, remember? Who knew you were such a big fan of something entirely different.

“Give me more worry. Give me more despair. Give a wholehearted tragedy.”

>>7200636
Alright man not to hate but there's a lot wrong with this. First sentence, it sounds like he's a toy falling off of a shelf. Good idea, poor execution- maybe just replace the shelf with something else? Second,

> He clutched the bulbous salutation atop the green aluminum box

what the actual fuck? I don't even know what this is supposed to be, his phone? Sounds god-awful too, don't repeat aluminum or the colors. Last critique is that the conversation doesn't fit the character. It's very realistic though, well done there.

>>7201171
>http://pastebin.com/JHYTRaV8
I very much enjoyed the first four paragraphs. My biggest concern is the way your tone changes. You go from comical to serious and overtly wordy (encroachment, glib imperialism, apocalyptic). Then you bring it back to millennial pepsi cans. My advice? More pepsi, less talk of memes and Google.

Unless, of course, you didn't want this to be enjoyable. If that's the case, make the first half way shittier.

Just gonna steal this thread for a quick second.

Any suggestions on books/articles that could give me a realistic sense of either kids living on the streets (homeless) or kids who have been in warzones?

And to clarify, talking younge kids here, like 6-12.

Thanks in advance! Its for a book, and I want to do it right.

>>7201010
It's computer generated. Pay it no mind.

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, looking at the floor. She had her arms folded, and her wet eyes stared at the ceiling. They looked almost lost in their movement as they flitted back and forth. 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.

>>7201062
What? P-please no, anon.

>>7201938
>He clutched the bulbous salutation atop the green aluminum box
It's an allusion to the sex scene the Morrisey book. It's really out of place and pretty out of line. It's supposed to be video game controller, with a joke about how phallic it is.
I wanted to sort of convey him flopping around the room, being a lazy piece of shit, then belittling a peer and lying through his teeth to get out of being useful. I was pretty careless with the whole thing, though. I guess I mostly need to lay off the gimmicks and accentuate the idea of the passage a bit more.

>>7199215

Oh man I got in early in this thread too. No comments on mine? Help me get better /lit/ ;_;

>>7200683
this is really good anon
i was taken aback by the last lines though - is the protag abusive..? intriguing tho! really well done.

>>7200685
>>7200636
>its supposed to be crap because the protag is a crap kind of guy this concept is posted about fifty times per thread. not saying its bad or anything but you do need to give it a pretty worthwhile deviation on the norm which most don't. dialogue is best part, the deliberately over wordy prose sections are hit and miss. however other anon was wrong to call out the first sentence, which is really funny and establishes a ramshackle nature to the text

>>7200751
good good good if this is the same anon as whoever is posting the lazy cutnmix samples above this is of far higher quality than the rest

>>7200992
very easy reading, good flow. reminds me of the kind of prose for a popular thriller like the harry quebert affair more than a new sincere guy like tao lin. i like it could easily read more. the part where he talks to himself in the supermarket is good fun. the end is unnecessary, i want to know more of this character. don't kill him off so soon. also "inane platitudes" sounds wrong would replace that. good stuff

>>7201025
>thou art
>thy
>vile venom of a commoner
lol terrible

>>7201062
it will stand out as not your own for its high quality im afraid

>>7201248
overblown melodrama reminds me of emo song lyrics or a post on tumblr that come sup under a search for "dark emotional heartbreak" or something. tbh that's not really a bad thing though and i like a few of the observations here like the ripped jeans versus buttons and tie which reminds of a certain kind of person irl... its the particulars which don't stick such as the writing on the cig. who does that?? would anyone (isn't ink toxic?) ?? and then who could read it from the distance where you are examining his full attire..?? not too shabby though anon keep at it

>>7202091
it's still good anon. the part about the triangle winking shut like an eye is nice

>>7202192
Read the Me-Me Trilogy
Look in the mirror
Ask thyself:
Wardine be cry?
Ya gotta ask yrself:
Can I dance the Kenosha Kid?
Ask:
Is what I'm writing schoolboy speculation for schoolboys?
We meming now, my nigga
Can you do better?

>>7202462
>such as the writing on the cig. who does that??
it's been done before

I come from a land where no one was born after he who thought it could be a good idea to burn papers at the nuclear plant accidentally invoked a terribly humurous god. My nephew used to grow marijuana in his living room back then, and I used to have some and conversation was good. Killing time back then was so much easier than reading books alone after Margaret left me, and one of these days I found a terrible, filthly covered album of photos which was described as the last remnant of a particular author named John Marrone, who lived in North Caroline then moved to the Alpes, then to Egypt then to California, where he currently lives as a farmer but did not have any photos of him, just pictures of scenery of the landscapes in which he used to live throughout the years. This bugged me so far as I went looking for his books in the library which had felt down, pretty much an open parlor for crows nowadays, old city and its plants evacuated. I live here nonetheless.
I read Frozen Yogurts, Rehearsals on the Weird, Mezzanine for the Ages and Gum. The last of which was a wonderful, lustrous recognition of how all of our reality resumes itself in gum: useless. I went to the backyard by the time I finished and had a cup of coffee, and between drinks took my bat and started hamming some, having the ball thrown out to the trees, some dead, some which wish they were. One time I grabbed the bat and just stood there, unable to move, I fell and had a seizure. In this seizure, he came to me, dressed in a robe with golden arabesque and helped me get up, and said, "Come meet me in California." And that's how my journey begins.

>>7198165
I actually liked this poem a lot. I agree with >>7198306
Think it needs some cleaning up but I enjoyed it and while I was reading it at about the third stanza I was thinking where you were going with it because what you were laying out in the poem had a lot of potential but could also be fucked up by the ending but I really thought you had a good ending and the it really universalized the concepts and made it work well. Not gonna lie the last line gave me chills the second time I read it. Keep writing, you have potential.

Here's one of my most recent poems, would love for you and anyone else to critique it.

When does the songbird sing?
When the seed is bountiful?
Or its nest abiding to its will?

No, my friend.
Not when it has its fill.
Or in a home preserved.

When does the salmon rest?
When the current goes still?
Or it creates what it was?

No, my friend.
Not when the river does die.
Or when it produces its best.

When does the flower bloom?
When the roots become saturated?
Or when the sun does often shine?

No, my friend.
Not when the earth runneth over.
Or when the clouds do wane.

Triumph becomes idle.
Winning, forgotten.
Birth does not hinder.
Death, begotten.

When does the man rejoice?
When comfort means accessibility?
Or man becomes himself?

No, my friend.
Not when recreation is mundane.
Or when life becomes accepted.

War becomes triumph.
Discourse, victory.
Birth is battle forever fought.
Death, trickery.

>>7202586
I like this.
Coming from someone not so big in poetry, the vibe it passes is not so much of pessimism but of power, of embracing. The last stanza ties it up, in a way.

>>7202488

You motherfucker

>>7202607
Thank you it means a lot

My dad burnt the toast this morning. I came into the kitchen and saw the cup of tea fall from his trembling hands. Then he was crying among the fragments, piecing nothing together. He said I was ungrateful. I had a bad night last night. It was hard to sleep. The air felt heavy. I was warm and dry for the first time in a long while. It made me think back and I got confused. Dreams and memories came mixed together. I saw a black crow fly against a pink sky. In a dark room among big statues somebody called you. They were wrapped in dirty bandages. You answered in words I didn't understand. You went to them in the shadows. This morning I'm not so hungry. Somebody told me there's people who live in their dreams. For them it's life that isn't real. I saw your skin again last night it was clear and white. The smell was in my nose and my stomach was tight. Mr Scaggs appeared from over the heap of the hill and he was richer than any of us with copper wire he'd found in a secret place! People said he should share it like we'd agreed but he wouldn't. He said he'd have a bed that night. He laughed and said his belly would be full. Then he shook the copper at them. They got mad and fought him. Then someone picked up a stone and hit him. And then they all did. Mr Scaggs got mashed up really bad and his head was all over the place. I got sick then. I wish there was somewhere I could go. My arms and my legs weren't mine any more. The worse thing was that -- not the loss of my money -- my legs, my eyes they were no longer mine. My sex drew back into itself tight and dry, closed up. I could not make my thoughts. I'm scared that there's nowhere different. They said they'll be clearing this place out soon. Where can we go. I crave solitude. My hope and wishes recede. I only want not to be. There was a dark green tree in the corner with some big yellow flowers in front of it. You kicked a ball over the fence. There's got to be one breath after which there doesn't come another.

I sat in front of my pc with an open word doc for three hours today. Everything I wrote, I ended up deleting because I thought it was all garbage. I want to write this story in my head so badly, but my mind won't let me do it.

I know this is a critique general, but how the hell do you guys actually sit down and write things? Why is it such a struggle for me?

>>7202847
you might want to try to write something with more of a structure. what i just read wasn't all that great, though the meta, self referent part of it is kind of fun, though overdone

>>7196603
Filth Welsh and Pale King DFW vibes

Its better than most posted here

>>7196636
Yeah its good. Chronic City -Lethem you'd like if you haven't read it.

>>7203613
..though difficult to imagine the vine /weed / building thing because you're describing the interiors.

is this sentence good or garbage?

He sat on his rumpled blankets staring blankly at the bright void presented in the window. Earth. "Maybe I will just go back to bed," he thought.

>>7204470
This seems like a minor critique but putting "he thought" (or maybe some fancier words to the same affect) before his thoughts would make it flow much better

I found a folder full of stories and poems written by some private school kid in the '70s, I think it belonged to the previous owners of the house I was staying in. I'm going to post them one of these days and see what you lot think of them.

With quiet and tears
And with solemn glance,
But nigh adult years;
I hold firm in my stance.
Although broken heart
And without a chance,
I let you depart;
But with solemn glance.

Alone it is cold
Though I have one drug,
To me it is gold;
I recall your hug.
It will keep me warm
Like hot coffee mug,
Lonely in my dorm;
Hiding with my drug.

So here I shall wait
Til love reappears,
I hope you're not late;
Please do not take years.
For I will greet you
With quiet and tears,
My mood won't be blue;
But colored with cheers.

I stirred at the sound of my alarm clock. It was as if the tiny brass hammer was inside by head, striking the inside of each eardrum with the speed of a jazz drummer. The drummer did a solo on my visual cortex and my eyes cracked open. Light flooded in, knifishly pricking the receptors inside. Whether I wanted it or not, I was waking up.

The clock gave me some troubling news. I was late. It had been wailing for over an hour. With hurculean effort I rolled out of bed. I landed hard on my back. The white ceiling looked lovely, serene. I wished I could live in that world of pale nothingness. No job, no responsibities.

But it was not to be. Waking life demaned my presence with a phone call. "Where are you? You're late for the meeting!"Bastard. What was I thinking, scheduling a meeting for 2pm? As I slipped on my clothes, combed my hair and tied my anfractuous laces I made a note to never schedule anything for before 6pm in the future.

Downstairs the walls were buzzed black with flies. Someone had thrown vegtables in the bin instead of the compost. They ran over my exposed skin, tasting me step by sucky step. I'm decaying, I thought, they're eating me. Breakfast was, of course, impossible in this environment. I stopped at a petrol station and gorged on soggy sausage rolls.

As I drove, taking sips from my flask of goodjuice (1 part pineapple juice, 1 squeezed lemon, 3 parts vodka, 1 tsp crushed daizepam and stir), I wondered how I had gotten myself into such a mess. Caught in a dead end job, nearing retirement and hating every. last. fucking. moment.

I parked the car outside the office, where I was meeting someone or other, and walked to the door. There I was met by some spotty young fella. "Take your coat, Taoiseach Kenny?" he sqwaked. I looked him up and down. He had his whole life ahead of him and was ignorant to the realities of existence. Better do my part, I thought. I hocked a gob on his shirt. "Go fuck yourself", I told him as I walked inside.

>>7204928
A shimmering steel spike curved with a demon smile or an attempt at squawking cliches in hopes or p-rays? I have plucked it from the water w/my brainfist this chirping evening and have taken a peak into your mind's nasty TV toxic crypts—oh man what are its side effects on yrself?

A million speakers carried for thousands of years those words you so limply assembled. You don't even know it. You should be ashamed. What is this? Bukowski runoff?

There is nothing specific to criticize, I have to recommend learning to write like an adult. It really is bad.

>>7202827
A static exploding nimbus of nascent talent—ye made my blood shift around my body, exploring my winding branches, your words did.

The waitress had kind of knobby arms and a frown like an anglerfish. On her left arm was a tattoo of a big heart that said GEORGE in shy, faded letters. The top half was hidden away by the sleeve of her plain black work-shirt. On her cheek was a big brown mole, and her hair was done up in a greasy coiffure. She stood with a pot of coffee in one hand, looking out the big windows at the restless movement of the cars speeding by. Now and then she looked at her watch and sighed. The restaurant was filled with a languid, orange light.

A man called out to her from one of the booths.

“Excuse me, waitress.”

The waitress stood there looking at the cars.

“Excuse me, miss.”

She drifted out of her daze and looked at his bald head through the light.

“I’m sorry, do you need something?”

The man frowned at her.

“Our table has no napkins,” he said, a little spitefully.

She moved slowly across the sticky linoleum floor.

“Oh. Here you go.”

She took some napkins from an empty table and moved them to theirs. Then she went outside to have a cigarette.

“Service in this place sucks,” the man said.

The man was sitting with his back hunched over the table. He wore a gray turtleneck and round glasses. The woman across from him had wet dark red hair. One long, artificial strand hung insecurely from the top of her head. She had her eyes fixed flat upon an iPhone screen. A little cheering sound came through the speakers as she flicked one long, careless finger across its surface. Every time the little cheering sound came on her face changed a little.

“Honey, put your phone away. You’re always playing that game.”

She rolled her eyes up. Then she placed the phone down, rested her head on her fist, and looked at him without saying anything.

He took another bite of his burger carefully. Across the street a tall, blue chute in the shape of a man was flapping idiotically in the wind.

“Deadliest Catch is starting up tonight.”

“Oh, I forgot.”

“Yeah.”

He chewed slowly with his head down. She looked out the window with squinty eyes. The orange light was beginning to fade and night was coming on. They said nothing for a couple of minutes. Then he spoke up.

>>7202091
A beautifull-sifting of ink/photons pass'd round, no fat garnishes—and w/each sentence a pattern of neurons lit up in my twisting mush passages, awakened for once, some serious chemistry, expand your post→for the ppl!

>>7205611

“That waitress is disgusting”, he said, with a mouthful of onion rings.

“Yeah?”

“She’s despicable. I hate people like that. No sense of direction in their goddam lives.”

Across the room were two elderly people slurping at coffee and smiling stupidly. Above them was an old Coca-Cola advertisement from the 1950s. A blonde girl with a wide, pasted grin was holding a sea-green bottle out to the viewer. She had one hand raised to her lips, as if divulging some secret. In the background were two smudgy shapes sharing a root beer float. She looked at him.

“Hey, Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“You never sing any more.”

“What are you on about?”

“Remember when you used to sing? Every time you came home you’d be singing like a damn fool.”

“That was a long time ago.”

He took a big, ravenous bite of his meal and wiped his face on his sleeve roughly. He indicated the old couple with an offended glance.

“Look at those old fools over there. That’s gonna be you and me some day, sweetheart.”

“Can’t wait!” she said, smiling bitterly.

In the front of the restaurant was a glass case with desserts. In the case there were thick dark pastries and wet cheesecakes. Behind the counter was a young girl doing register. She looked about fifteen. Her long white arms rested on the cool glass. She wore brilliant green earrings that scintillated in the hard orange light. Her face was fixed in a careless and thoroughly unimpressed pout. Right around this time she would be meeting boys. The waitress came back inside. When she looked at the girl’s bright earrings she thought about something old and her flabby eyes flickered with sadness. The elderly couple got up to leave. Their hunched, beetle like bodies moved feebly across the long shadows cast by the tables in the dying light. A bell jingled coldly as they left the restaurant. Against the quiet tinkling of blue-silver forks you could hear the sound of their confused mumbling as they shuffled across the lot and got into their old, beat up car. Then they drove off onto the wet cold street and into the dark.

>>7205616
pinecone, is that you? there's a second part, could you please give some unironic commentary? thanks

>>7205611
Prose of body-warmth, Christmas lights in the crevices of a fir tree—not a place of rationalized bullshitting, but screaming, laughing affirmation of life in a hearse of quotations→great dialogue flow, a pace like the pulse of a person.

>>7205583
ahaha

>>7200071
>>7200072
>>7200074
>>7200076
Well ye brought us to the shores of yr life, a whiny coastline, perhaps, some would say, but the overall structure is the spice of life, yowza, as they say—my not giving a shit reversed itself and grew like a slime mold (shit's dangerous) at 2/4. I can sense a cultivation having sprung this, something rare on /lit/, perhaps an ideology of quality! A loud innocence, sure, but who cares, it works.

Words ran close, dialogue ran a tad too close (w/e the fuck THAT means, right? like wtf??) Nice long word fingers, nothing too crazy or awkward, but your self-insert spectre creeps along, playing peek-a-boo in an unfunny/unironic way, like, come on, bright eyes, farts are a treacherous ladder of waste if ye ask'd me.

Over all, ye kept it real, no big words, get rid of 'pendulum' you fucking idiot tbh fam smdh ftw lmao!

>>7196636
Let's get the bad out of the way first: Utter fucking garbage.

ANYway—I was over in that area today.

There is no help for ye. Yr writing will improve as ye develop yr 'does this sound douchey?' sensors. YE on the other handola, me no knowa...

>>7205649
>>7205583

y'see at the end it turns out the narrator is the prime minister of ireland


it's a goof

A heaving chest, sporadic breaths, syncopated. Empty notes echo in the eardrums, static bleed. Convalescence ad infinitum. A few seconds to remember what the world is, so I look around. Oppressive off-white of the walls; of the bed, of the curtains, a motionless blizzard. No warmth in snowstorms. Rain faintly taps against translucent window pains, in desperation. Ears and eyes see and hear all this, and I think all this, because of them? Caught between thoughts, a nurse flows into the ward with all the sudden jarring presence of Stonehenge; she swallows and spits out all the room, and stands at the end of my bed. Gazing or glaring at me she picks a clipboard from the bed, vaguely not quite licking her lip, with a skewed face, she starts to speak.

"Today's your last day with us, Mr. Greenwood"

"Ah" I managed to form with my weakened windpipe. The sound lacerated my throat on its way up.

"Oh, and good morning" she added, with a forced smile as she walked off, glancing back a few times. I suppose I had to leave. Gripping the railings at the side of my bed, I strained to a sitting position, endured a dizzy spell, and remained upright for some time. Seconds or a century, they felt the same. Such a pressure danced in my head, poorly formed patches of uncertainty clouded my sight. A few seconds and it would pass, it would pass probably, pass until the next time. I stared at the backs of my eyelids and watched the abstract swarm of colours find itself as my head found itself again. And after a while, I felt I could stand up, so I opened my eyes and tried it.

>>7205627
ill take that as a good thing

>>7205684
>my weakened windpipe
And that's not even the crinkliest thing ye wrote.

sporadic/syncopated/2nd sentence/3rd sentence/5th sentence—especially also bad/No warmth in snowstorms(? 2deep)/ faintly taps translucent window pains←holy fuck the redundancy/no way did you tag that w/'in desperation'←ye did, ha! haha!/this list is getting 2 long 4 me

Pretend yr 10 years older and showing it to yr wife. That should maybe hopefully clean it up. Actually, just read it out loud. That will help, all joshing around aside.

The well is empty. It has always been empty. The digging began in July 1, 1919 during the draught. It stopped November 4. Mainly Seth and Pa worked on it, though Donny’d help before his accident–that was when he snapped his femur falling off Thunderbird riding at night towards the old Wilson barn to roll around in the hay with Mary Lou, the town whore–but anyway. They’d take turns digging and digging for hours, 25 feet down in the dark and cool but never damp ground. The hope in striking that first water gushing gash of Earth evaporated almost as imperceptibly as the months. It was only after our second dairy cow died–all leather and bones–that we understood the futility of it all. We had to reevaluate, do something comfortable folk might happily call unholy. Winter was knocking, and our stomachs grew louder.

>>7205721

You should post some of your work

The babbling brook bedded in the comfy palate of my tongue kindly kindles sparks of fecund insights into the broad, yet deeper realms of the human-animal mind. But, please don't take this rambling rhetoric as any more than the depressurization of a mental tank succumbing to the crippling cracks creating by seismic waves between moments in time and spacial flesh tween ears. No–fuck prescriptivism and often addled advice unless its passed down through generational games of telephone whose participants sport aids of hearing that snuggled comfily in the canals that Panama decries with exalting resentment like stagnant droves of oppressed and persecuted social biomes subjected to alien platoon manned by no more than the confused entrenched cerebella of corporals and generals and CEOs hovering in their Goodyear blimps only to sweep under the rug the precipitated fear that, like the 08 real estate bubble or the Hindenburg, things will ignite and plummet into the loamy skin neath the tropospheric warzones fought passively by no one in particularz-yet even the pangolin scaled troubadours guising themselves with cathartically charged vocal expressions centered around what others might call a movement–but I digress.

I have a story to tell, a story that can engender and encourage readers to reflect ad infinitum in the spacious seraglios of the human thought-space in order to uplift and over-all manufactured senses of prenatal identities complying only with the code of natural law. The caterwauling pandemonium of the collective consciousness, entangled incomprehensibly between monadic bio-units like mixed headphone wires, determines the un-pinnable zeitgeist pervading every and all aspects of institutionalized organizations, especially such as the educational and manifold politically-based media that ganders the scape to pander to attain a sense of accomplishment–though senses are easily deceived.

Is this a story? No, but it is sustenance for ponder–never not keep it the realest.

>>7205680
Thanks. I'll set my sights a little bit lower, or maybe stick to what I'm good at.
That your art? I like it.

well

i didnt win the short story competition I naively had high hopes for

here's my entry:

http://pastebin.com/beVi0rLV

>>7207307

It didn't win because everything you're saying is boring or has been said before

>>7207344
it was a young writers comp - all past winners were of similar themes so i followed suit. Probably you're right, but I still believe it is far better written than all past winners

>>7207503

Ohh so you entered the QLD State Library comp. I can tell you that last year's winner was much better than yours. But I do agree that there is a certain kind of style that wins these comps, first person, relatively pointless stories and they're filled with generic witticisms. It can be annoying but just do your own thing.

>>7207516
Are you joking? Last years winner was abhorrent. I laughed when I read it. I can only assume that you are the author?

>>7207307
>http://pastebin.com/beVi0rLV
this is absolute horseshit. Exactly what i'd expect from the cultureless wasteland that is queensland

>>7207540
Nice lad, real nice

Link me to something you have written? - you know, to gauge your criticism?

>>7207537

m8 did you bother reading past the first paragraph? Like it said it does follow that annoying same-same structure that every aussie short story for some reason needs to but it's clear that he knew exactly what he wanted to say and exactly how to say it. Your story was a boring premise and boring to read, too much bullshit in there, it's painfully obvious that you're trying to show off(also it's pretty clear that you tried to do the same shit as last year's story winner) and embarrassing.

>>7207563
Kek yeah if you say so. Despite the fact the story was admittedly dull and repetitive (I entered knowing this) it doesn't derive from the fact that it' still much better written than past winners. You aren't going dissuade me on that because I know it's true.

Shit as it may be I will be surprised if this years winning story is any better - I'd also be surprised if it doesn't follow the same typical bullshit teenage tone that mine and all past winners followed.

>>7207592

>I'd also be surprised if it doesn't follow the same typical bullshit teenage tone that mine and all past winners followed.

I agree with this man, you should read some of the Overland competition winners, all just annoying stories about teenage shit trying to be funny, it's an annoying routine.

But you're not doing yourself any favours by just denying the criticisms, from more than one person. Your story was honestly like a 3/10 and I'm not just trying to be a prick, staying stuck in your own ways even despite people telling those ways are shit will do you no good.

>>7207307

You're just telling the reader your ideas instead of communicating them in an artistic manner.

>>7207630
Well I guess I should thank you for being honest - but I flat out refuse to acknowledge that is is any worse than past winners. And on reading some of these overland articles I refuse to believe that it is any worse than some of them. Call me stubborn but it's just how I see it.

I ofcourse will work to improve my writing after this blitzkrieg of bad critique.

>>7207648
>artistic manner

what? I had 2500 word limit - I had to be concise and direct.

>>7207681

yeah that's just the thing you weren't concise at all you just flood the reader with lengthy explanations about stuff like full time jobs suck. that's been done to death and can only be tolerated if you present it artistically

>>7207706
Except I didnt do that at all. I've said several times the story lacked, you don't have to beat the dead horse on that one. But to say I wasn't concise is just false - if you're looking to help - do so but if you're looking to vomit out literature critique from the top of your head to reaffirm to yourself that you're a writer/critic then I'm not going to take you seriously.

>>7207741

this is the first critique I've given you?!

Holy shit are people on /lit/ always so incredibly full of themselves?

>>7207741

>being THIS dense

Stank of lads and black smoke when the widows march was new by forty twas twizzlers day and dirty by door by two saw mine off the rack and into the wall where the plaza, yadda yada, cut me down by three, four wrenches and swabbed the batsmans hand with ink

"sorry mate caught a blinder whose wraparound town-ward store-bought 'nothin-but-trubble' eyes had our pea's and fort's mixed out over tuesday saw me plenty good kush (womans anus port for Plenty off a rimjob Sallys yaksmen herds out of a treacle asshole buckets lunch from cum or enough to curl up like a hardened worm on the door of England, sorry, no porridge but taut ass finally through the vagina (in one side and out the other, dad said) it wasn't until least week had a birds claw on the seat of my mates muff her head hair wasn't like a feather til the pudding was served where we set down the mountain and Marys rams startled our yachts forever wasn't a career for the crater, bong time nor a turret for a beans testicle chaos, "everything and the kitchen sink", commercial port-town tight wrapped, kept under batted eyes grabbed in friendly apologies"

Penmarks on the palm of the swingers pad and spanner, five or six by up yer slit, etc., "mall's the location," out of tits (my own) or chain-cutters too, floor pie flirty, sandy business-ers swat swarthy my blue watch, arched spinsters (the hens!) yolk slackened spat out snack.

Based on various dirigibles, my yonks of pastures dear-ie don't you worry, hadn't been a "tit for tat" till David's lorry bunny headed hopper caught me fed there on the detergent aisle laying flopped muslim child :/

:) young Islamite slackened, runway clean, the excited bear full my trap wanting locusts skulls, hares cars, Mike when "spit on slit" the need failed concern, our wants, mother, of green donkeys by heretics seriously not status-quo

>>7205660
Hey, I've seen you around in critique threads around the place... Your style comes out so bold and distinct even in 4chan posts, wtf? Please write something and publish it one day--I'll know it's you as soon as I read the first three or four words. it would make me really happy.

Anyway, I really very much appreciate this 'critique', if you could call it that. I got an impression of your impression of my work from your post, which is a nice thing to have.

Keep stringing those fancy words, anon.

>>7207944
that's pretty funny if a bit incomprehensible

moaning now, tracing invisible rings with her lips and closing her eyes softly and as her old friend rolled her palm along the thick jut of one long brown nipple, which reared now, fat and wet

she found herself unable to stop moaning as Sally ran along the thick teat tighter and tighter, building speed slowly. wetness ran from the entire length of the nipple and pooled down her arms, and thighs.
now, shuddering all too close, hot breath Sally holds the spurting tube and quiveringly brings her lips to its tip. a wave of white pleasure blots out her thoughts for a moment, then another, as Sallys pubis-sized lips draw it's length deep into her distended snout, her hot inner cheeks crushing themselves against the now swollen teat, now splashing warm milk into Sallys throat as she gulped.

and now those tortured, stretched "nodes", nothing bigger once than pimples, little lumps which she had tied and tied with yarn, until they ached and stretched and now here they were, fully realised as little thumb sized teats which rose wetly off her pumping, trickling tits. and she still gasped with a dim revulsion soon fogged out by the intensity of pleasure running down each nip. her fat cunt crowned like a magnolia wet with summer dew.

jana had now no choice but to moan loud and unrestrainedly. she was beyond a point of being able to focus on it, the sensation was too intense. as she furiously shlicked her puffy pumped pussy tingled with untold of pleasure.then it met in a sudden, sloppy kiss with Sallys own over-pumped mound, and although Jana briefly thought she must protest she found herself unable to stop pressing her hopelessly swollen clit into her friends gushing meat taco

her teats all stood on end. she couldn't muster any sound but to pant and grunt now.

but Sally grabbed her by the whole strained udder, its pink red mess popping with veins, paddocks of cellulite rolling down her ass...Sally squeezing the fat tit so hard so that milked splushed forward from every nipple and pulled her whole body down with it. She fell onto her hands and groaned with confusion and arousal and steadied herself on the floor. Sally's intention became clear as soon as she felt an immense pressure and incredible warmth sucking hard on her overblown nip. Sally openly gurgled and then moaned like some...fucking...animal as her slathering pussy tightened and sucked on Janas leaking teats.
she gasped and panted in between unrestrained bellows as Sallys crushing lips swallowed and reswallowed her friends now engorged teats, sucking the milk out of all of them after the other, milk trickling down her pussy and the beanbag mass of her ass.
jana no longer could think. she was too far gone to notice as she moaned, overwhelmed by pleasure, for the first time released a low steam-shrouded "mooOOoo"

>>7208312
Thanks~

I finished a set of Demonic songs I was working on for some days. I'm not perfectly satisfied with them, but I'm happy to leave the demanding medium of rhyming seven-syllable-line-metric songs and jump back in the unrhymed blank-verse written in 10 syllable verses.

Here it is the complete demonic songs sequence (I have already posted some of them here).

1) Filho que o pai espancava
Com mil socos, com um pau,
Até que o tórax virou
Um potinho de mingau;
O abdômen inchou com fluídos,
Qual gaiola de alcatrão,
Sopa de órgãos diluídos
A secreção da opressão.


2) Pai de família querido
Que por câncer foi comido,
Em útero transformado
Para um embrião dentado,
Seu corpo todo placenta
Para uma larva sedenta,
Que com dor morreu, gritando,
Seu próprio mal alimentando.


3) Prostituta que sonhava,
No açougue onde trabalhava,
Em ter alguém, ser amada.
Velha, porém, foi chutada,
Carne muito mastigada;
Foi cuspida, azedo arroto,
Nos becos, valas, no esgoto.
Seu sexo, rosa viscosa,
A carne verde e esponjosa
(Bolo de nozes mofado,
Com sífilis minhocado).
Gangrenou nela a ilusão
De unir-se em nó de afeição.
Qual caldo de gonorréia
Findou-se em fel seu perfume;
Morreu na rua, flor plebéia,
A alma solvida em chorume.


4) Um bêbado com cirrose
Que o saquê, de dose em dose,
Num pobre e bege abacate
A carne flácida inchou,
Que, em escuro chocolate,
O fígado mastigou,
As tripas, com cada trago,
Digerindo em triste estrago.

>>7208504

5) O horror dos jovens soldados
Pela guerra retalhados.
Prisioneiros torturados;
Bandidos crucificados.


6) Mãe de bebê natimorto
Que passou a noite inteira
A ninar seu fresco aborto,
Ébria com falsa cegueira,
Postiço sonambulismo
Da mente que nega o abismo,
Que afasta a dor de aceitar
Que não há um despertar
Para o sono da criança
E que apenas na lembrança
Poderá seu filho amar.


7) A mulher abandonada
Que viveu sem ser amada,
Na qual cantou verão breve
De namoros juvenis
Antes da perpétua neve
E dos dias de céu gris,
Os dias em que a princesa
Vê murchar a realeza,
Quando a rosa suculenta
Morre em palha macilenta.
Quando, após ser degustada,
A mocinha é descartada
E envelhece em solidão
Resta lembrar a canção
Que outrora inteira a encharcou;
Resta roer magro pão,
O sussurro que restou
Do amor que nela cantou,
Breve glória de verão
Que, faz muito, se calou.

>>7208510

8) Velho sozinho e abatido,
Pela família esquecido:
Se dentro dele afundarmos
Microscópios, como anzóis,
Se as pupilas mergulharmos
Alma adentro, quais faróis,
Quais micro-lupas do ego,
Lampiões no cosmo cego
E país da consciência,
Do qual ninguém tem ciência,
Clareando o reino nublado,
Só por seu dono pisado,
Isso será o revelado:
A solidão mais violenta
Que envolve, como placenta,
O ancião pobre de afeto,
Porém que drena o seu feto:
O velho que não é amado,
Embora esteja calado
Está sendo devorado.
A cor da velhice é o cinza:
O vírus da idade tinge
O enfermo em nublada esfinge,
Duende azedo e ranzinza;
Anos são traças que comem
Em espantalho o antigo homem.
Idade é a vida trancada
Em carapaça enrugada,
Caixão de murcha uva-passa;
A carne, casa alugada,
Cada vez mais desgastada,
Sente que o inverno trespassa
Seu madeirame e argamassa:
A voz do mundo sombrio,
O império eterno do frio
No miolo do lar já ventam,
Nas salas e quartos sentam.
No entanto o velho que é amado
É um inverno floreado:
Cravos, hortênsias, camélias,
Amor-perfeito e azaléias
Triunfam sobre o branco mar
Como ilhas férteis, corais,
Como colares florais
Ornando um urso polar.
Mas se a idade é solitária
É mais feroz adversária:
Não só a carne é mutilada,
Também a alma é mastigada.
As unhas do tempo arranham
A mente idosa, a abocanham
Com enrugada gaiola,
Prisão de estigmas que esmaga
O canário da alma e apaga
Seu festim vocal em esmola:
Acostumada a cadeia
A ave nem vê mais tal teia;
Crê que o mundo é microscópico,
No voar vê sonho utópico.
Uma velhice frustrada
Pelo fim de sua estrada
Vaga com dificuldade,
Pois tem corpos presos nela:
Os sonhos da mocidade
Que a acre memória lhe atrela
Com cordões umbilicais
Que não se partem jamais.
Tais cadáveres da mente,
Jamais saídos da semente,
Seguem, qual sombra, o seu pai:
Ele arrasta um cemitério,
Traz seu próprio podre império,
Sua dor jamais se esvai.
E, como morre sozinho,
Sem quem lhe segure a mão,
Sem apoio no caminho
Que conduz a escuridão
Não lhe ampara a humana fé
Que vê gostoso café
No vinho negro da morte,
Não vê nela passaporte
Para um novo Éden de aurora;
Na virgindade perdida
Quando a morte estupra a vida
Não vê progênies de flora,
Não crê que o rapto madure
Numa nova eternidade
De atos de amor, que se cure
Num nó de afeto e amizade:
Após a violação
Perpétua é a desolação;
Em gelo e treva, eternamente,
A uivar de medo é presa a mente,
Pois a morte é nua em perdão,
É a mestra, a mãe da solidão.

>>7208515

9) Na rua um ébrio mendigo
Que a noite achou sem abrigo
E a neve, açúcar polar,
E a faca do frio a bufar,
Em múmia azul congelaram,
Trêmulo e triste o empalharam.


10) Bebê que a mãe sufocou
E logo ao lixo legou
Como amora inchada e preta,
Restos pros cães na sarjeta,
O próprio ninho do feto,
A alma do leite e do afeto,
O ninou como um dejeto:
Piscar fugaz de agonia
Deu por vida a sua cria.


11) O gosto de um ente amado
Jamais se faz desbotado
No paladar do ser que ama.
Para as mães de filhos mortos
Perpétua a dor se proclama,
Dias nascem todos tortos,
Um luto eterno as assombra
Como uma segunda sombra.
Carrasco estranho é a memória,
O eco e voz morta da história,
Pois tortura com doçura,
Com fantasmas de ternura:
Eviscerante elegia
Tem as mães por nostalgia.
No ato de arrumar o quarto
Do filho que já morreu
O útero sofre um infarto,
Como a regressão de um parto,
Digestão do eu que nasceu:
O vazio seus dentes crava
No ventre que o bebê chutava.
A mesma dor do amputado
No seio que foi sugado,
No dedo, que a mão quentinha
Apertava, miudinha,
No corpo que era envolvido
Pelo abraçar e ternura
Do filhote já crescido,
O mesmo agredir sem cura
(O vácuo em mais feroz forma,
Dor dos danos sem reforma
Que é gêmea dos mutilados)
Nas mães de filhos finados
Flui, como a toxina da áspide.
Em cada gota de sangue
Seu luto abriga uma lápide,
Nas veias mofa um frio mangue.
Medo incurável é o luto
Que torna o peito poluto;
A ausência é um frio querubim
Que se recusa a ter fim.
A cama na qual dormiu,
As roupas que vestiu,
A mesa na qual jantava,
As salas onde vagava,
Os cheiros, sons, as risadas:
Todos estão tatuados,
Com lembranças encharcados.
As mães ficam povoadas,
Na carne, sangue e tutano
Por seu bebê, seu bichano.
Mas seu quarto está vazio,
Ele jaz no lodo frio:
Não há como protegê-lo
Dos vermes que vão comê-lo.
No escuro ele dorme, só,
Não tem mais vida que o pó

>>7208519

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

Here's the opening of a story I've just began working on:

The first week spent entirely at home had been noisy, tumultuous, and somewhat frightening. The ceiling shook with the footfalls of her landlords on the first floor above. She had been able to tolerate it in her nights shut up in her basement apartment, but whole days under the endless parade of noise became restricting, constricting, and put her on edge. Then it stopped the following week.

There were still the occasional heavy footsteps, and an occasional cough. A droning TV. They belonged to the seventy year-old man that also lived upstairs. She had forgotten his name, or perhaps had never known it. He had no consideration for how much noise his heavy body made as it tromped from the living room to the kitchen and then back again, but it was preferable to the chaos that preceded it. It was now almost comfortable for her down there.

The layout of her living space was as such: in the corner of the basement, a rug and a comfy sofa combated the cold concrete walls, upon which she had hung a Hello Kitty poster and a butterfly wind chime that clung to the lip of the high rectangular window with the help of some spirit gum, and which caught, of course, no wind. Across from the couch was a fifteen-inch boxy TV, with a DVD player and an old game system hooked up to it. Stacks of movies and games took up space next to the TV, and the clutter had with it a level of warmth. Behind the couch was an aerobic machine, and outside that circle of furniture and appliances there was cold, concrete floor and the other areas of the basement that were not hers, except for a small bathroom on the next closest corner, and a wide, waist-high bookshelf that sat next to it, with a musty easy chair that was not at the best location for comfortable reading.

On the opposite end of the basement were the wooden stairs that she climbed daily to make food and do laundry and avoid the other people upstairs. Tucked in a room beside that was the furnace, and a dirty basin sink which had been last used by the landlords to bleach clothes, much to the young girl’s annoyance.

With them gone, she would have no visitors and no interruptions. She sat in the comfy area, cross-legged on the rug, playing a 3D platformer game until she got hungry and went upstairs.

>>7208380
genuinely disgusting wow

>>7208504
nice blog thanks for taking up half the thread to share it cool

>>7208608
one of the only excerpts i've seen with a fem protag. the writing is easy reading but conveys nothing beyond "this is it as it happened" is there a subtext i'm missing? similar to "the tenant"

>>7208695
>one of the only excerpts i've seen with a fem protag. the writing is easy reading but conveys nothing beyond "this is it as it happened" is there a subtext i'm missing? similar to "the tenant"

Yeah I was kind of going for a very drab and matter-of-fact style. I want it to be numbing and eventually depressing, because the main character is a NEET. Not all of her details are apparent right out the gate and I'm not sure I want them to be.

I'm not a grill, btw.

>>7208608
Tell don't show. Adjectives clustered Anon's sentences. We read the same sentences, speak the same language, see the same spectrum of colorz, yet ye craft sentences and don't read them aloud to yrself. Right abt now, the funk soul brother. Check it out now. The funk soul brother. Would ye hang before ye figured it out→ G _ O D W _ I T _ _ _ ?

It's all in the wiring, the Why Ring—yr part of the Halo gen, right? Huh? Hah?

>>7208504
>>7208510
>>7208515
>>7208519
>>7208525
PASTEBIN HOLF YUCK HOLY FUGG

>>7208380
Melted me w/boredom holy fuck. The language boils down to 26 little faces, all screaming silently at yr keyboard there and ye pressed them into lazzy adj tangled sentences tucked w/even more adj.

My skull creaks in sorrow for this kind of sad, trying, reaching wound of a work. Maybe you will improve over time, maybe not. I can tell you that no one will ever care more than I.

>>7207307
Zombie Nouns:

anticipation, presentation, situation, precision, attention, tradition, superannuation, mention, information, discussion, station, decision, conversation, revolution, vision

quality, mediocrity, superficiality, activity, mutuality, masculinity, originality

professionalism, terrorism

Lexical Diversity: 34.5 %

Content Carrying Words: 59.98 %

Personal Vocab Diversity: 54.29 %

Longest words (Prob should remove): professionalism, serendipitously

>>7206802
Lovin' thy label like thy sellf? Could b best to overhaul yr unnerstanding of th' language—almost got the em-dash right. Might as well jump. Diamond David Lee Roth. DDLR, jumpsuits and capes. Why not learn linguistics, set up a shit detector, point it at yrself and wire up some sick writing? Ye got th' potential. Nobody can hurt you, keep ya down. OH YEA bust thru the walls with yr slick branded Kool Aid—they drank Flavor Aid at Jonestown, so no worries, ha ha, ok?

>>7209513
Let's say for example you posted some of your writing.

I would read it.

>>7197331
I really liked this one. The pauses at the start of every other line really added some uncertainty and anticipation in reading it. One part where it was really effective was at the point that read, "My mother's fingers/...with calloused nails/are aching for/...a cigarette." The pause at the cigarette line really worked because I was genuinely ingested for a moment what she could be aching for.

The point where you break this pattern in the middle of the piece is also nice because it gives a speedy, desperate exasperation that effects a mood conducive to the imagery being being put out there by the lines.

The weakest point about the piece, I feel, is that the last two lines are unnecessary and almost detracting. We get that the narrator's mother is dead and resting in this cemetery. Putting that out there at the end is giving too much away. Plus, the lines before that give an amazing feeling to end on; I was almost disappointed that I had to keep going.

Overall, 9/10. Strong piece with good imagery and very effective use of punctuation.

>>7208380
reminds me of Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby Jr., which IS a great book but you're only going to appeal to a specific somewhat-edgy crowd by writing like this

if it's supposed to be pure smut though you need to remove some words like "slathering"

>>7196487

Love the typo on the OP's image.

Is there an equivalent in Micrisoft Word?

In proclaiming the following work, I swear on & on, sincerely, the grace of the angles of plurality. Where I’ve inked a word out of blood, said word will course through earth and vein alike, and it is both good and vain selfsame, and is a stain in its roots, and towards us, and the weight it gives to bear, I inhale the smoke of love's ashes. And that word of hers, which is left unsaid here, and will close in on it's form only to blow out between me and you, as the airs of meaning.

And to you my audience, I’d like, if you’ll allow me TO FINISH, to say that I care. Though this work may be garbage, and though I’m a lowly garbageman myself, I’ll announce as such, and throw you back your trash bags and see whether you squeal or not.

These stories have been posted here on this neighborhood telephone pole by me, and I am entirely real, clacking away. And where I’ve stapled these flyers there are resources, which, imbued with some purpose, will puff up not only your chest, but your oneness with recycling, your unconsensual relationships, and your propagandized and introject'd set of values—and to them I shout nothing at all, and am half-heartedly unaffected and lying.

It is on a thick bed of mystery slime that I lie, untouched by the shredded documents. Don’t I just feel good about myself, and haven’t you heard this lofty voice before, shouting as I empty your trash?

>>7209513

I know you're essentially just using my post as a launch pad to share some wacky, blase stream of consciousness, but bullshit (and suggestions of suicide that I really don't need right now) aside, did you enjoy it?

Also please keep in mind that I was fucked up on xanax when I wrote it

These are not words
and you are not heard
by trees in the woods
or busy bees' goods.
Honey please don't cry
spilled milk out your eye:
he was only our son,
we have another one.

>>7210141
Like who knows, man. You were fuck'd up when ye wrote it. Why would any1 take it supr srs now? Ya blew it. Don't like Van Halen? Sheesh. What are u rly looking for? Are ye a good writer? Can ye churn out genius when fug'd up? Ya kno the answer, friend. Hunter S. Thompson work'd very hard learning to write and perfect his style before he went off the rails.

I am seriously suggesting that you study The Sense of Style by Steven Pinker. THEN get fuck'd up and post yr stuff and we will prob be impressed.

Specifically, the tangly prose is only OK if you have something to say. Um, what's the word? emergent? don't go for the symbolism will emerge from my spit-up gag. If ye really need to do that, learn to write crystal clear sentences. There's no reason to work thru yr gibberish when it's also empty. Srsly, read the recommended and ye can clear out the foxholes of humanity's unconscious w/yr S Class wit flamethrower.

Also don't tell ppl ye were fug'd up when ye wrote something.

>>7210222
>S Class wit flamethrower

thanks man. i luv u

>>7209625
The turd in the toilet took two seconds to tear apart. My fingerprints rilled with shit. It was supposed to be inside, but it was all doo doo. I glare at grandma. 'Why?'

Next thing I know, I'm at Romanelli's Scrap Metal arguing with handless cashier over how much grandma's walker is worth. 'Wha? This is aluminium alloy—no, I don't know with what!'

Back at the house grandma beckons. 'It is in my cunt' she whispers against my ear. So I guide her in the bathroom, undo her pants, and help her sit on the toilet. With a breaststroke motion I part her knees, her skin oldwoman soft. I feel my way into her melanin drained bush, of course she's self lubricating, why not? Middle and ring finger, searching. Has she been lying? Is she delusional? Insane?

My name is Alex Trebek, I may have all the Answers, but the real Answers are the Questions.

I was in DC all week. I got to sit next to Pope Francis today flying into JFK. Doing the NYT crossword, he turns to me, 'four letter word for a woman, ending in 'u-n-t'?'

'Aunt'

'Do you have an eraser?'

Now, in my voice: The Questions are the Answers.

>>7209426
jokes on u bruv it's erotic fiction from a fetish site

>>7209709
a lot of words but they convey...nothing>?? maybe i'm missing something but can't tell what transpired or what exactly is being described..?

>>7210153
Don't do poetry but this was pretty funny and some of the lines are weirdly evocative like "spilled milk out your eye"
don't like the first line though, it seems obnoxiously meta

>>7210386
doesn't get any better no matter how many times you post it

>>7208762
ok you achieved what you aimed for

>>7206802
>the babbling brook
ok lets see if we can salvage this
>fecund insights into the broad yet deeper realms of the human animal mind
are you writing this from a fridge magnet set of words or what..? iunno this is pretty bad but because you've tossed so much word salad around some turns work like "social biomes" and "goodyear blimps" but these glimpses are lost under the rest

>>7205768
>it has always been empty
what well? where is it? who is telling me this? how do they know it's empty? i know this is like your way of grabbing the reader's attention but it's creepypasta-tier (there's a creepypasta about a well and a kid falls down it and dies that's pretty fun read if you like wells, also an australian novel called The Well which is supposed to be good, worth looking into if you're big on wells) anyway this is bland af, all tell no show and the blunt statements like "the futility of it all" feel empty and unearned

>>7205619
>mouthful of onion rings
genuinely gross this and the cow tf one surprisingly got under my skin yuck

She pissed lustily, sprouting crystals in the long-polluted stream.
Splinters of freeze frosted the wool around her crotch, slick with steam.
And then he was at her.
The chair rolled out and under her like a cog.
She was shunted against the wall.
Trickling by daylight, he halfway deposited himself and was gradually loosened.
the lengths of their mixed jellies stretched and snapped.
After unspooling himself manually for a while he pushed out the last long worm of cum with a fat piss. The sweat on her back settled and froze, encrusting her like a Permian lizard.

>>7210568

>>7210640

This is a love, semi-erotic sonnet written in Portuguese. Do not take it seriously. I only wrote it to pass the time. I intend to start writing seriously in the next months, after I have settled down some serious issues which are currently happening in my life.

O doce amor que move esses teus braços,
O vivo ardor que habita nos teus beijos,
A força ativa que os teus desejos
Conduz rumo ao real sensível espaço.

O meu mover de pernas com que enlaço
As tuas neste cálido cortejo.
O quarto aquietado, sem que o traço
De todo haja esvaído do desejo.

Assim as tardes todas me movendo
De um lado a outro lado no teu corpo.
As glórias do universo vou revendo:

Aos sóis, luas, e mundos me transporto
Meus limites humanos transcendendo -
Meu corpo no teu corpo assim absorto.

>>7210763
Enlglish please not all of us live in new zealand or wherever the fuck

>>7210763
What issues? Que problemas?

I was walking down the street the other day and a couple of poodles came and started rubbing on my leg. The woman holding back the pack of mangy mutts, hate those things, so she’s holding them back pulls up her sunglasses and kind of looks at me with this like, weirdly ugly, she was not bad otherwise, ugly look on her face but like she’s trying to apologize to, or something. I’m looking at her there first of all, poodles running up on my leg and everything, I swear they were those faggy ones with the stupid haircuts and the long naked tails with this little fuzz ball on the end, I mean the whole nine yards as far as haircutting goes on this collection of poodles. One of them had an afro, I mean it. So there they are all rubbing up, and one of them has got its poodle cock waving around and, have you seen those things? Dogs never get circumcised, sorry Rabbi, you know what I’m saying? so their mushroom tip pops out, but even though you give the poodle a full shave the foreskin and the rest of its skin, really has this sort of veneer of peach fuzz, but then the tip pops out and it looks like a deformed baby tomato, stretched out, bright red jutting out of that peach fuzz, and that thing is all running up and down my pant leg.
And the lady’s just kind of looking at me, like, what? What?...Yeah, like your girlfriend, yeah, you buddy, What Jeremy? What? Haha. Her eyes are all like innocent and she’s got a pouty lip and all but her cheekbones kind of weirdly swivel inward and wrinkle like this, so, but looking all, I didn’t do anything, it’s the dog.
So I say to her, hey, lady, can you control your animals? This one here is trying to have some kind of thick, fleshy weiner dog baby with my leg, capisce? Like. As if its fucking the leg. And that’s what the baby would… Just like a big, you see that calf of mine? Imagine that but with these tiny little weiner dog toy poodle legs. And a little shit roll of a weiner dog tail right there at my pimply kneecap. That’s what its ass will look like. With a little turd tail going around in circles. You see that? That’s, okay, that’s the kind of baby, I’m imagining, that this copulation would… give off. Would produce. That’s the thing getting sent off into the world, here. You’re responsible for that too, lady.

>>7210568
i luv u

>>7210568
>ok you achieved what you aimed for
Good, then. I think. I'm starting to wonder if following the daily life of a NEET girl is going to be interesting, but there is an eventual point.

Basically, she interacts very seldomly with the old man upstairs, becomes more and more reclusive until she avoids coming upstairs at all, she doesn't do any laundry, runs out of clothes, steals food, etc. Eventually the old man dies and she ends up "moving into" the upstairs and eventually freaks out when the power goes out and decides to pack up and leave, and we're left to wonder whether she'll make it and go onto better things.

>>7210921
Here's a further segment (just skipping a scene or two):

(continued from >>7208608)

The next day, she decided she needed to do laundry, and had to brave the upstairs again. The old man remained in his room, and his television shook the walls even from behind his closed door. When she opened the washing machine it still had his damp clothes in it, so she abandoned it and went back downstairs and played a game for three hours.

She timed her next foray up to get food as well. The washer and dryer both empty, she made a sandwich and stole some chips that she knew she had not purchased and went down to eat before gathering her clothes from the bathroom hamper. There was her office-casual blouses, button-downs, and slacks which she would not need for the time being, so she set those aside. Though she liked her button-downs, so she saved those. The rest were simple t-shirts and shorts; enough to cram into one load. She thought to what she was wearing, which she had been wearing for two days straight, and stripped it off as well. There was enough clean clothes to scrounge together something to wear upstairs, so she stuffed what she wore into the bag, and then realized she felt muggy. She took a shower first. When she passed the washcloth over herself, she felt the weight of the past two days come free and when she was done she felt refreshed.

In the steam of the mirror she watched herself step out of the shower, and admired herself after she dried off. It was not the first time she had critiqued herself but it was the first time she felt satisfied with what she saw. Her untrimmed hair below her waist, which she used to be embarrassed about, now looked attractive. Her waist itself had a small outline of a paunch, but she did not mind it now. She wrapped her arms around herself, leaned forward and pressed her breasts together. For a moment, she looked into her own eyes as if she were another person, for the person in the mirror didn’t look immediately recognizable as herself, at least at first, and then the mask of her alluring pose faded and she recognized her own image smirked at how she had fooled herself, and then left the bathroom to throw on something and chase the bugs away from the discarded plate.

>>7210763
Gostei muito, amigo. Achei o verso muito bem construído. O que vai escrever nos próximos meses?

I created a world where I had never existed.
Imagined in detail, and as it seemed real
Pleasure like party poppers through my body
Bursts of opiate confetti flying then falling
Joining the old grey pile at the bottom

>>7210966
sounding good

>>7204491
almost any decent stylist writing after flaubert would write "He sat on his rumpled blankets staring blankly at the bright void presented in the window. Earth. Maybe he would just go back to bed."

>>7196487
Don't have anything to post yet but I want to write a poem to an old friend that parted on bad terms with me. We use to be very close and intimate so I want the poem to be profound.

Any tips would be appreciated. Right now I'm thinking of making a sort of collaboration of quotes I think apply to us to make a song.

That or just write my own poem from scratch. Need help /lit/, I'm novice here.

>>7210892
Are you Australian?
I get an Aussie-whining-at-the-bar breed of impression of feeling from this, like they're angry and getting only more frustrated just remembering the story they tell with red cutting words disconnecte and half, like... there... to those sitting there at that bar with beers in hand listening with their orange tradie-shirties ll dirty and their hands getting all wet holding the condescation. I don't like listening to those sorts of people, to be honest, all complaining. I wouldn't read anything with this tone, like this. But if gripey was what you gave this, then gg, I guess. I hope someone else says something better than I could.

>>7204470
Are you >>7199457 ?????
If not, ignore this.
But if so, please no,
Damn, but that's a lackluster downgrade of something half-way decent inof style if I ever saw it--leave the style, I think. You can't paint a tiger to look like a gazelle, you know what I mean? Please don't try to paint your original prose as something else. You'll just misfit it into a cramped up squished memory-foam of its old self without space to breathe. You'll crush her lungs, else.

>>7211871
>>7204470
Big damn, my apologies, I meant are you >>7199157
??????????????????
If so, refer to >>7211871

>>7211147
Cool. Maybe I don't have as much to worry about as I thought.

Once upon a time there was a young woman who loved a young man. She played hard to get. The man she loved also played hard to get. They never talked. Fifty years later they both died alone in the same hospital.

>>7211871
Ha-ha, O my! A little off, but O!

>>7212192
Baby shoes. Never worn. Babies don't need shoes ya jerk.

>>7212262
http://www.snopes.com/language/literary/babyshoes.asp

First attempt I've made at a full length novel. Some feedback would be great.
/////////////////

The air was thick with smoke in St Lizzy's, and thin beams of light cut through it from the street lamp outside, lighting up the dust that floated lazily around the room. The carpet was a dark red to match the bar stools, and framed cigarette adverts from the fifties hung from the columns and behind the stage.
“Two thirds of all physicians recommend menthol cigarettes!” declared one, a fact evidenced by the smiling, smoking man with a stethoscope that stood in the foreground, holding out an open packet of Camels.
Louis wasn't sure if the adverts were meant to be some sort of ironic joke. In fact, living in Melbourne was making him lose track of what the word meant. He scanned the bar and saw nothing but young, arrogant university students, all deeply engaged in staring silently at the decidedly average jazz band that was playing, their faces conveying a kind of complex understanding and approval.
Six years ago St Lizzy's had been his bar. He would come here after his classes had finished, flanked by five or six of his mates from university, and they would drink and watch the bands play. The place had been louder then, and livelier. It was tempting to think that back then the bar had attracted a different kind of customer, one that was less interested in their image, but in truth it had always been more or less the same. From Louis' generation to the next, and probably the next few to come, a jazz bar had never been somewhere that people came to just have a good time. You wanted to have fun, sure, but you wanted to be seen to be having the right kind of fun. An intellectual kind of fun.
Louis couldn't help but wonder who he was trying to impress now.
He slid off his stool and walked across the room to the toilets, throwing his shoulder into the heavy wooden door to push it open. The bright, fluorescent lights inside made him blink, and as the room came back into focus he saw himself in the mirror.
“Fuck me,” he muttered to himself. He was twenty eight years old, with a short brown beard and a hairline that crept further from his face every time he looked. Crows feet had formed next to his watery blue eyes, and the bags underneath them seemed to have become permanent. Looking at himself, Louis could swear he was becoming shorter as well. Maybe he just carried himself differently these days.
He turned and walked to the urinal, the one in the corner, farthest from the door. The last thing he wanted was some smug prick in a beret coming in and comparing cocks with him.

Louis even pissed differently now, he noted with a depressed resignation. Now it just limped out of his dick, like a lame athlete at the end of a marathon.
Just one foot after the other mate, you can do it.
He zipped himself up and lumbered back up to the bar, pushing through the middle of a couple that had seen fit to hold their conversation on either side of the toilet door. The bartender smiled as he approached.
“Another one on the rocks Louis?”
“Yeah Grace, make it a big fucker though. The band's doing my head in.”
She grinned, in a way that suggested she knew exactly what he meant. Grace had been serving drinks at St Lizzy's as long as Louis had been buying them, and he had always had a soft spot for her. She seemed real; like a real, genuine human being. He scanned the bar again as she poured his whiskey. Not one person in the room was over twenty five. Where had all his friends gone?
They had all vanished so quickly, off to big jobs in Sydney, or to find themselves in Europe. He wondered if they had all lost contact with each other, or if it was just him left out in the cold.
“There you go hun.”
Grace planted his glass on the bar and hurried off to the other end, to mix a cocktail for some moustache in a hat. As he lifted the glass to his lips, Louis' big, washed out eyes looked over the room once more. In a sudden fit of miserable disgust he downed his drink, slapped some notes on the bar and rushed out onto the street, pulling his coat around him as he left.
It was freezing cold outside, the kind of biting, hostile cold that can only happen in Melbourne. Louis ran to the corner and began to hop from one foot to the other, waving desperately at speeding taxis packed full of pre-drunk club rats and tired men in dark suits. The cold wind rushed up his sleeves and he started to shiver in earnest.
They flew past, indistinct blurs of yellow and black heading to and from the city, their passengers warm and happy and angry and sad. But all warm.

//// I'll leave it at that, unless anybody wants to read more. Again, some feedback would be great.

A drumorian, an aetherna and a human walk into a bar. The drumorian orders a feast and is happy. The aetherna orders an encyclopedia and is happy. The human stabs the bartender multiple times.

A ki'eth warlord and an aetherna scientist are observing a human baby. The aetherna says, "With the right education, this being can be molded into one of greatness!" The ki'eth says, "With the right exposure to violence, this being can be molded into a great fighter!" To the surprise of both aliens, the human grows up to be an alcoholic rapist.

How many humans does it take to screw a light-bulb? It doesn't matter - humans screw up every little thing they're tasked with.

Why do ma-haati look up to humans so much? Because they'll fine you if you look any lower.

There is an alternate universe where humans are the dominant forms of life. Pity that universe.

Two humans start talking about colonizing a new world. They both land on the planet in triumph. Suddenly, one of the humans stabs the other in the back multiple times then laughs while saying, "This land is mine. My fore-bearers will ignorantly forget I murdered another to create this land."

What's better than a human in charge? A human subjected to an electrical charge.

They say that humans come in different shades and colours. You know what else comes in different colours? Aetherna vomit.

>>7212280
>>7212290
This is rly good. Might want to keep it off /lit/. The only thing ye maymay want 2 drop are the tags on the dialogue: 'hun' , 'Louis'.

>>7212398
Thanks man :) And yeah, i'm certainly not going to post the whole thing online. What do you mean by the tags on the dialogue? the quotation marks?
Sorry, not familiar with the term

>>7206802

a visual representation of how I read this

>>7212408
When ye tag something on @ th' end.

4 ex:

'Wardine be cry tbh fam smdh.'

the 'tbh fam smdh' is the tag. It's unneed'd.

It's like putting 'anon' at the end of every sent addressing ye, anon. It may be irritating to some readers, honey. Could even sound affected, sugartits. So waddya say buddy, let's be droppin' doze tagz, huh? Ye can find other ways to characterize the speakers, dontcha kno.

>>7212716
Ah yeah true, I didn't even notice that when I wrote it.

High population density leads to social, societal, and then physical collapse. This he knew, but he wanted to know deeper, to get it for real. Like first-hand type shit. So he paid off a hobo for some leads and headed down.

He approached the point and called out, “Clay Castle! Clay Castle! Clay Castle!”

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Later on, nothing again. Shit was probably abandoned. He’d been had.

He began to wonder if it was all worth it. Clutching his fancy-ass Leica M4™ and 35mm Summilux™, he got real scared for a moment, like someone was about to jump out and take both from right under his nose. Maybe he deserved it for being a little corny hipster who thought he could carry shit like and get away with it. Like he wanted to turn everybody he saw into a museum exhibit. Disgraceful, kinda gross, and definitely white as fuck. He could pull it off if he wasn’t a pasty-ass ginger white kid from Vermont. Maybe he’d pull it off better if he had tits: then he could claim that he was only staring back. As it was, he was clutching a compact, expensive social dilemma loaded with 36 exposures of the male gaze, ISO 400, meant to be pushed all the way to 1600, with four more in his pockets.

He perished these thoughts and stared straight upwards.

Still nothing. Still nothing. Then something.

A chain came flying down from some window somewhere high up. He had gotten what he wanted – maybe. Maybe just punishment from above. It would get him a shitload of photojourno cred if he walked out again. If he didn’t, goddamn if anyone could tell where he had went off to. Maybe the hobo’d laugh about this later. Maybe he was laughing about it right now. Goddamn if anyone could tell.

He inspected, ran his finger across, then tugged frenetically like a big old bell-end. The other pulled from above, and he went flying straight up in a fit of erotic, artistic and journalistic bliss.

When his flight ceased, he landed in a dark room, full of stimulatingly grizzled men, presumably those who had just tugged his chain.

“Welcome to Clay Castle. Whaddya want?”

No sooner did he pull the rangefinder up to his eye than he was plunged downwards, the shame taking hold after the orgasm, as it had many times before.

High population density leads to social, societal, and then physical collapse. This he knew, but he wanted to know deeper, to get it for real. Like first-hand type shit. So he paid off a hobo for some leads and headed down.

He approached the point and called out, “Clay Castle! Clay Castle! Clay Castle!”

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Later on, nothing again. Shit was probably abandoned. He’d been had.

He began to wonder if it was all worth it. Clutching his fancy-ass Leica M4™ and 35mm Summilux™, he got real scared for a moment, like someone was about to jump out and take both from right under his nose. Maybe he deserved it for being a little corny hipster who thought he could carry shit like and get away with it. Like he wanted to turn everybody he saw into a museum exhibit. Disgraceful, kinda gross, and definitely white as fuck. He could pull it off if he wasn’t a pasty-ass ginger white kid from Vermont. Maybe he’d pull it off better if he had tits: then he could claim that he was only staring back. As it was, he was clutching a compact, expensive social dilemma loaded with 36 exposures of the male gaze, ISO 400, meant to be pushed all the way to 1600, with four more in his pockets.

He perished these thoughts and stared straight upwards.

Still nothing. Still nothing. Then something.

A chain came flying down from some window somewhere high up. He had gotten what he wanted – maybe. Maybe just punishment from above. It would get him a shitload of photojourno cred if he walked out again. If he didn’t, goddamn if anyone could tell where he had went off to. Maybe the hobo’d laugh about this later. Maybe he was laughing about it right now. Goddamn if anyone could tell.

He inspected, ran his finger across, then tugged frenetically like a big old bell-end. The other pulled from above, and he went flying straight up in a fit of erotic, artistic and journalistic bliss.

When his flight ceased, he landed in a dark room, full of stimulatingly grizzled men, presumably those who had just tugged his chain.

“Welcome to Clay Castle. Whaddya want?”

No sooner did he pull the rangefinder up to his eye than he was plunged downwards through the same orifice that he had entered through, the shame taking hold after the orgasm, as it had many times before.

>>7211882
I'm >>7199157, and I did not write >>7204470.

>John began making noises like they should all pay attention to him because he was going to start talking about the reason they were here, to find a way to continue the game this year. “Look,” he exhaled, “we need to come to a solution here about this year already. We’re running out of time here and we need to agree so we can do something about it.”
>“I think we should first go to the college and ask for permission,” said Sarah. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to just do something,” she said, voice piqued with caution. “Not without permission.”
>“Hell no,” interrupted Corey when he grasped her intent, “the president doesn’t give a shit. She already has us banned. We need to do something that says we aren’t going to just sit down.”
>“And take it?” – Dawn, quietly.
>“I agree, but what exactly?” said Emily, looking at John.
>“I think we need something bold,” said Lise, walking beer in hand, to the center of the group. She paused for a second, about to sit down on the edge of a stained orange armchair, but standing to talk, for emphasis, the short woman towering over the already-seated. “We need to get a message out to all the students that the college doesn’t have that power over us.” She gestured with a fist and landed with deliberation on the gaudy cushion. “Oh, you have pot?” She looked over hopefully.
>John looked up from the pipe and nodded cheerfully. “Emily brought it.”
“Oh yeah, your mom get that for you again?” Said Lise turning suavely and looking into Emily's eyes with a drippingly ironic smarm, palped in the basement's dust. Emily glared.


Kind of a lot of characters talking in there, so maybe not a good example, but maybe give me a sense of what you can tell about each character from what they say/do? (John Emily Sarah Dawn Corey Lise). Will give critiques too.

>John began making noises like they should all pay attention to him. “Look,” he exhaled, “we need to come to a solution here about this year already. We’re running out of time here and we need to agree so we can do something about it.”

>“I think we should first go to the college and ask for permission,” said Sarah. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to just do something,” she said, voice piqued with caution. “Not without permission.”

>“Hell no,” interrupted Corey when he grasped her intent, “the president doesn’t give a shit. She already has us banned. We need to do something that says we aren’t going to just sit down.”

>“And take it?” – Dawn, quietly.

>“I agree, but what exactly?” said Emily, looking at John.

>“I think we need something bold,” said Lise, walking beer in hand, to the center of the group. She paused for a second, about to sit down on the edge of a stained orange armchair, but standing to talk, for emphasis, the short woman towering over the already-seated. “We need to get a message out to all the students that the college doesn’t have that power over us.” She gestured with a fist and landed with deliberation on the gaudy cushion. “Oh, you have pot?” She looked over hopefully.

>John looked up from the pipe and nodded cheerfully. “Emily brought it.”

>“Oh yeah, your mom get that for you again?” Said Lise turning suavely and looking into Emily's eyes with a drippingly ironic smarm, palped in the basement's dust. Emily glared.


Kind of a lot of characters talking in there, so maybe not a good example, but maybe give me a sense of what you can tell about each character from what they say/do? (John Emily Sarah Dawn Corey Lise). Will give critiques too.

>>7212858
well-written, and surely more confusing out of context, subject's bordering on the fanfic though

>>7212377
This is pretty clever; good stuff. Interested to see what the rest of the work looks like.

>>7212290
Accidently read the second one first, and it's infinitely more readable than the first post, which I had trouble keeping awake for. The first is too thinky by far; there's almost no action except for a tired pomo advertising-is-so-ironic cliche. The second one is quite excellent (if a bit rough still), and the thing is, I think I understood everything you say in the first paragraph by the actions taken in the second; the relationship between this character and the bartender/the other patrons/his friends. Writing isn't about giving information, it's about withholding it and letting the reader discover it for themselves, which is what you're doing in the second. My suggestion: take some of the concepts in the first section and turn them into additional actions in the second. Show don't tell.

>>7213049
Thank you very much.
>subject's bordering on the fanfic though
What do you mean by that, though, just to clarify? Bad subject, or just derivative subject?

Dr Strangelove movie review

I was skeptical first when my step dad brought this film over to watch with me and my mom last weekend. First of all the movie is in black and white and it’s about war which isn’t funny. The movie starts with guys in a room talking and there’s one of them who’s in a wheelchair and retarded. This character reminded me of my own asperger’s syndrome which keeps me locked in this house occupied by genius while my peers enjoy fulfilled social lives. I’m talking about having girlfriends.

>>7213133
Ew.

The Odd Couple movie review

This weekend my step father brought over the movie ‘the odd couple’ for us to watch he said that the movie was very funny but in it a man tries to commit suicide. I’ve tried to commit suicide before. I believe that the main characters of the film were homosexuals. The tidy character only pretends that his wife has left him so that he can share an apartment with the slob. I’ve tried being a homosexual before but even the faggots in my class won’t touch me.

Vertigo film review

I couldn’t pay attention to the movie my stepfather brought over this week. I was too preoccupied with how beautiful the female character was. Her and I together on a train the waiter comes over and asks what we’d like.

Me: she’ll take the tea I’ll have the milk.

Her: now Christopher I don’t think it’s good for your health to be drinking milk all the time however the greater danger to your health is having the audacity to order for a lady. I’ll have the coffee.

Me: bring me two milks she’ll want one for her coffee.

Her: I’ve never once had milk in my coffee what kind of girl do you think I am.

Me: the kind who won’t let a gent order for her so a nasty one.

Her: oh what a fool you are!

Me: oh what a fool you make me!

Her: the funny thing is.

Me: you’re in the mood for tea now are you.

Her: and a milk if you don’t mind

Why is this withheld from me?

>>7211882
Oh, and if I wrote >>7199157 and I was, say, 16, would I have any hope of becoming a writer in the future?

Sadgirl only likes to feel the rain on her tits Sadgirl is good at irony Sadgirl lies in bed and presses the fat from her stomach under her back in handfuls and tries to embody a despicable character whose belly is as slim as hers is in the moment the characters become more vapid the skinnier they get.

Sadgirl posts a photo of herself online naked partially covered by the text of an inspirational though slightly self deprecating quote. Either no one jerks off to it or no one wants to admit they jerked off to it In The comments which are filled with other women encouraging her to “keep at it sister” she wonders if it would be interesting or just sad if she asked these women to record their comments so she could play them over a silent video of her shooting herself in the head. If she shot herself in the head her hair would likely jump in a very gross way. It would look like a creature independent of herself.

Each time Sadgirl farts she chastises herself for not inviting an online fetishist over to appreciate it if you isolated his reaction to the fart his twinge of carnal oolala it would seem that he was witnessing a happygirl model juggleing her tits. Since his reaction was to a gust of wind warning of a half mixed diarrhea it could be called modern.

Sadgirl tried to appeal to online fetishists by posting pictures of herself on fetlife embracing different kinky tribes someone in the comments pointed out that in each photo you could tell what her feelings were on any particular fetish by where her left hand was resting on the left side of her body.

Sadgirl quit working at the copy shop when an automated system was implemented to do her job more effectively. Sadgirl claims that this is an experiment to see how long it takes an entity whose job it is to notice her to notice her.

Sadgirl has prepared a speech she gives every man she meets socially which starts “so you might have noticed the size of my boobs the good thing about dating me is…” She continues stacking irony until she reaches the conclusion of her speech an ironic reference to an earlier ironic reference to the size of her ass -*said in a black voice ‘when I get to tweaking I can take down a whole city block’- for her progressive female friends the discomfort the speech causes most men atones her. They believe that the intention is to be divisive. On occasions they’ve fed her lines “tell him that if he pisses you off you’ll crush his man parts with your belly”

Press a gun on Sadgirl, tell Sadgirl you want her company, give Sadgirl a fuck; see the irony vanish. She wants someone to watch her die.

>>7213153
Is this self-contained, or part of something larger? It's very affecting. Really gets you into this Sadgirl's mentality. Terrifying.

>>7213192
lol is this sarcastic? I can't tell on this board but thanks it's not part of something larger but I have alot of similar writing on my blog if you're interested.

>>7213153
This is like Tao Lin but good. A lot of ommited punctuation, but I'm assuming that's purposeful?

Last paragraph had what looked like some mistakes: "tweaking" - twerking? and "most men atones her" is probaly supposed to be atoned.

Otherwise, I like it.

>>7213203
It's not sarcastic. You've constructed a character that should really resonate, given our culture of shame and pretend-irony. Good on you.

>>7213091
I can't really tell here of course, but it makes the work seem sex-obsessed, like (bad) fanfic often is.

>>7213153
bretty gud bar some typos

>>7213234
I see. Yeah, it's about a community of artists doing really stupid shit. I kept getting told that it was hyper-masculine, so I decided to just push it over the edge and have it go completely homoerotic for one passage and see how it worked out. Do you see it as a weakness of the passage itself, or just a peculiarity in it?

>>7213153
>>7213203
>>7213215
I agree the concept of the character is good, but it's extremely poorly executed, especially as that post goes on. Painful to read.

>>7213241
I can't really say without seeing the rest of the work, but without context I'd say it's a weakness of the passage itself. It's purient; I wouldn't chase shock-value in general unless there's some purpose to it (is that the experience that makes him question his sexuality? That might justify including it.)

Take a look at mine btw since nobody else noticed it: >>7212973

>>7213250
You know it's meant to be fragmented and semi-cringe worthy right?

>>7213205
No I'm just really bad at proper grammar and I pretend it's because I'm being experimental honestly haha

>>7213274
yes, and you failed at it pretty miserably. the first paragraph and a half worked excellently though so I see you CAN do it, you just lost it along the way. I think you turned from pitying the character to hating her, which doesn't work (at best you'd have to do it very subtly and slowly; work us up to it)

>>7213266
I'm not really sure what's going on. You should give a little more context, a little more sense of the environment in between the dialogue. The characters also all have really similar voices. I can tell you for sure that there is some decent content here, but you need to accentuate these differences a bit more.

>>7196487
Where can I read "He Do the Police" on the web?

>>7213291
That's a fair criticism even though it still made me little sad. I do hate the character though so I guess that should be more apparent earlier on

>>7213301
I've got a similar character (in personality, less extreme) that I'm working on and your post gave me some food for thought.

I wouldn't hate on a character like that, not one with such obvious markers of patheticness. People are going to be repelled from the work.

If it's just hate-masturbation fuel that's fine, but keep that shit to yourself.

>>7213266
Photography as a sexual act with varying degrees of aggression is meant to be a central metaphor. What's happening with this character is the same thing that happens with many homosexuals: he's meant to be sexually aggressive/voyeuristic, but isn't "manly enough" for it. He doesn't fuck, he gets fucked.

>>7213279
Oh, well, work on that. In the first couple paragraphs it worked because I wasn't sure, but the mistakes were apparent by the end.

>>7213297
Hmm, okay - being too subtle. Thanks!

>>7213309
sounds like it'll work then. Just off-putting as a "critique my writing" selection I think.

>>7213308
I disagree with that I think even if I hate the character if I can give some insight into who they are it'll be worth reading and somewhat compelling at least.

>>7213145
Why dontcha juss go ahead & capitalize/punctuate yr dialogue properly.

>>7213464
cause

>>7212858
▲ Like first-hand type shit. → First-hand.

▲ Shit was probably abandoned. → Probably abandoned.

▲ Leica M4™ and 35mm Summilux™ ← 2hip4me

▲ 'and definitely white as fuck.' → 'and definitely white.'

▲ 'Maybe he’d pull it off...' → 'And maybe he’d pull it off...'

▲ 'clutching a compact, expensive social dilemma' → 'clutching an expensive, compact social dilemma' ← b/c compact can be a noun put it 2nd 2 avoid double takes

▲ 'the male gaze' ← will eventually sound dated tbh fam smdh :'D *applause hands*

▲ He perished these thoughts and stared straight upwards. → These thoughts perished and he stared straight upwards.

▲ 'wanted – maybe' → 'wanted—maybe'

▲ Goddamn if anyone could tell. ← 2 close 2 th' other goddayum

▲ 'he landed in a dark room, full of stimulatingly grizzled men,' → 'he landed in a dark room full of stimulatingly grizzled men,'

▲ orifice ← rly? Use another word fgt

But what did ye think overall? Just fuck my shit up fam tbh. Idk, not terrible, not GOOD, but the writing is clear and so that's GOOD. Prob all dat matterz in deez threadz anyway. :DDDDDDDDDDD

>>7213485
cuz y, 4 srs...

Eye see NO reason to make yr shit harder to digest—there R no diamonds inside that lit-babyboi spit-up, no O fence. So just make it clear. I would read more, it wasn't bad, just come on brO.

>>7213533
deal and dubs sorry for being a gayboi earlier

>>7213523
Why don't you just strip ALL the personality and voice out of the work while you're at it? Totally (mostly) unnecessary changes tbh fam smdh >2015 rare pepe

>>7213736
I'm the writer of that passage and I appreciate having those suggestions. Calm down.

Elect, able captain and ship furnished,
Trade winds of rectitude blow him soonest
Upon the shores of each day’s Promised Land;
Disembarking there, he lights a beacon
By which the other souls might navigate.

Setting off again the constant pilgrim
Surrenders to the providence of tide
And season as holy favor gives to
Him a multitude of signs, written in
Subtle hand between the lines of nature.

In rain and sun, in the flight of birds and
Absence of birds, in courses run by perch and sole,
In night skies full of burning planets and
Constellations, the grand design and his
Place in it The Cartographer reveals.

In time the seas should rise and the wrath of
Perdition preordained will seize at last
That fleet of rafts and sordid flotsam for
Whom there are no signs, while he, become an
Ark of himself, sails on in solitude.

>>7212421
11/10 :DDDDDD

>>7213920
I just wanna rub BEES all over yr MOMMY'S vagina!

Yr poem is, well, are ye a sailor? A boat captain? B/c th' poetic thoughts that have occur'd to me while crewing were not as affected and GAYYYaYYY as what ye have there.

Come on man. But if ye insist on improving this poem—fug'n DeWek Walcock w/th' ten ten—ackchually nvrmnd I can't help u wut is this even. Envision me as Calvin pushing away a dinner plate w/a lil leviathon monster on it. Except instead of something cool like that on the plate it's yr poem. Or whoever's poem it is.

>>7202567
h-how come no one read this
or cared

>>7213976
Thanks for reading my poem. It's meant to be a comment on Protestant Calvinism and predestination. It's partially inspired by Nathaniel Hawthorn, hence the references to pilgrims, providence, and being elect. I tried to draw a link between Puritan theology and modern day self-appointed arbiters of morality. No gayness implied, at least not on purpose. :>)

>>7214048
Because yr a whiny fgt BITCH. UhDUH.

>>7202567
"And that's how my journey began" is bad

remember, sho we, don't tell. Beyond that I like it.

>>7214066
sorry mane

>>7214219
OH

Input would be appreciated. Wrote this a few hours ago:

I want to shove my pencil through my palm, and drive to the emergency room with one hand. There, I’ll make them disinfect it and bandage it. Then I’ll go home. It will heal eventually, but it will always hurt. I’ll write with it jutting out of my palm; I’ll erase with it protruding from between my second and third metacarpals. Every time I use my pencil, I’ll be in agony, because that’s what I want --- to have my words warped and contorted by pain. Time will wear it down, on both ends, like a candle. Periodically shifting it forward to maintain my writing habits. When it gets sick with old age, I’ll skewer tissues on it the same way restaurant workers slide orders onto their spikes. I think my pencil will like that; it will be reminded of the warmth of purpose. The warmth will cause my pencil to splinter, bittersweet splinters.
I wonder if my pencil will get the nutrients it needs from my blood. Without roots, it might become malnourished. I’ll strip the laminate from it; perhaps osmosis will be sufficient for our symbiotic relationship. But osmosis could lead to oversaturation. The saturated pencil may become just as brittle as a dry one. I'm afraid that I'll overuse it. Afraid that it will get so small that it falls out of my palm. I don't want to patch my palm up with an eraser, one side of a coin. I may never use my pencil. I could leave it unsharpened. Lean into it for small doses of pain, small bends and creaks in my writing. Bury me with my pencil. I want to petrify in its company. Hopefully it decides to use my body in the same way I used its. I want pencils to learn about human petrification.

>>7207630
>>7207516
yo - did you read this years winner? was just announced today

http://www.slq.qld.gov.au/whats-on/awards/ywa

tbh the winning story was pretty good but I'm STILL BITTER

>all winners were girls

hmm

Oh lady of sky blue eyes,
why do you say "No" to my lies?
I know you think yourself a prize,
but if needed would you do what's wise?

Would you do it on a bike?
Would you do it with a spike?
Would you do it for a like?
Would you do it on the mic?

Would you do it in a ditch?
Would you do it with a snich?
Would you do it for an itch?
Would you do it like a lich?

Would you do it for a four?
Would you do it with the corps?
Would you do it on a shore?
Would you do it in a war?

Would you do it with a grunt?
Would you do it for a blunt?
Would you do it on the front?
Would you do it on a hunt?

Would you do it for your gut?
Would you do it in a hut?
Would you keep your merry strut?
Could you keep that mouth shut?

Would you chew on the yarrow?
Would you drown all your sorrow?
Would you live on a borrow?
What would you do tomorrow?

>>7214483
Yr punctuation is terrible.

→ I want to shove my pencil through my palm and drive to the emergency room with one hand.

→ There I’ll make them disinfect it and bandage it.

→ I’ll write with it jutting out of my palm. I’ll erase with...

→ Every time I use my pencil I’ll be in agony,...

→ I want—to have

etc.

Reminds me of book fairs I used to go2 in elementary school & th' authors would sign th' books 4ye. Those sort of S.Silverbergstein ripoff. Except o'course, in yr case, there is THE EDGE.

>>7214562
Why do you put so much effort into acting different?

>>7214537
>http://www.slq.qld.gov.au/whats-on/awards/ywa
The winner in the 25yo age brack't is on a whole 'nother level than ye, bro. Yea, it hurts, being good isn't EZ. W/much travail come much avail, hoo hoo, Robin.

>>7214574
It's easier 2 type this way tbh fam

>>7214483
Sort of interesting but a little forced it seems like the literary equivalent of a guy wearing all black and talking about burning down churches in a deep voice. You're a pretty good writer though

>>7214562
I don't agree with your punctuation critique. I'll figure out a way to tone down the edginess though.

>>7214605
Thanks anon, I appreciate it. Going to figure out how to tone the edginess down; I definitely think it's possible to make it serious/playful without sounding like a teenager.

>>7214690
>agree
>agree

>agree

O my man u don't even kno do ye.

>>7212421
actually a really sharp and to the point critique :o
(easy target though)

>>7212858
"think burroughs meets tao lin in frank millers' sin city"
>Leica M4™ and 35mm Summilux™
disgusting

>>7212290
>>7212280
other anon was right first post is a snoozefest liking he second more... the heavy handed inner dialogue is rife with cliche (that piss joke was used in a recent michael caine comedy film about getting old) and there is some serious cringe factor also like:
>warm and happy and angry and sad. But all warm
i like physically rolled my eyes, involuntarily on reading that, not even joking. there are some really disjointed sentences especially in the first post
>deeply engaged in staring silently at the decidedly average
>declared one, a fact evidenced by the smiling, smoking man with a stethoscope that stood in the foreground, holding out an...
also i feel like you need to describe the melbourne cold in a different way because biting cold and hostile could be any other place... also anyone who's lived in new zealand would probably guffaw at the description of melbourne as uniquely cold but that's neither here nor there
but other anon was right this is of higher caliber than a lot that gets posted in these threads and the emotion is spot-on. the part where he questions whether he's getting shorter is an unexpected touch of humour which is quite nice and better than the piss thing imo. when he remembers being a youth at the bar is good and sad. tbh an enjoyable read overall, but i question how reflexive your employment of cliches of nostalgia and aging are??

>>7212973
liking this in my imagined context of a edith blyton-esque tale about kids taking matters into their own hands! are you the anon that was studying conversation analysis..? because you've picked up some good notes
>making noises like they should all pay attention to him
however some of the over description near the end blows but especially
>turning suavely and looking into Emily's eyes with a drippingly ironic smarm, palped in the basement's dust
that last part about dust is good but makes no sense there

>>7197667
The word “callous” describes skin, not nails. Use a different word.

>>7214757
>O my man u don't even kno do ye.

King Irony, everyone. His post had correct grammar anyway.

Penis: butt. Butt; butt.

>>7213153
terrible
even if the writing wasn't strained as a shit in its forced "void of affect" , it's blandly mean-spirited and obviously written by someone with no close acquaintance to the subject matter beyond child-like mockery

>>7213920
its like reading a book in skyrim

>>7214539
>Oh lady of sky blue eyes
stoped reading there

>>7214918
Brilliant.

>>7214918
Drop the semicolon. No one uses them correctly, so just skip 'em.

>>7214857
somebody get this hothead outta here

>>7214929
Thank you.

>>7214932
What?

The hurricane swept measured footsteps
under Gaia's cracked mammoth skin rug
in the candy parlor.
Rent skyrocketed towards no man's land:
alien not to diamond studded toilet paper
or decanted cant.
The tenant's burnt Bibles for warmth
and vainly peeled back rancid eyelids
to see themselves see.
They left Braille notes of wan caution
strewn in the collective antechamber
23 skidoo.
Sometimes in soft silence,
others in drowning echoes,
accounts ran
away from home, off the torn calendar,
through dreary droves, past gold teeth,
down the beaten path, and through the woods
into incandescence like wax.
To wit they told of untold histories
pixellated, claiming the un-perishable
bubbling honey
as property: the modal curvature
encircling, intertwined, Gram's quilted
beach ball.
Eventually, bells rang wide and deep
and hairs stood to crumble wholly singed
under abominable bulldozers made up
of flesh.
But

>>7214937
>projecting in 2015

>>7214957
Penis: butt. Butt. Butt.

or

Penis: butt. Butt: butt.

or

Penis: Butt:

or

Penis→Butt.

>>7214925
Void of affect? You're a bit of a cunt

momentary beaches

lush with spite

distinguishing fragments of insects from the sand

on the dream zone of the floodplains

>>7214970
Oooooooooooooo shit—lit fight! lit fight! I'm on yr side—King Crimson is goin DOWN.

>>7214968
Nice. Would the semicolon work though?

>>7214970
>>7214966

>>7214977
Never ever. Ever.

>>7214973
This picture always makes me incredibly nervous. Thanks, anon.

Okay poem.

>>7214982

>>7214973
If it was 'lush with [anything else]' it'd be p decent yo.

Using a random word generator I improv'd upon yr poom:

Momentary beaches.

Lush with honey.

Distinguishing fragments of insects from the sand.

On the dream zone of the floodplains! Wow!