/lit/ - Literature

>please rate my unfinished, unpolished work
That seems counterintuitive, doesn't it? Anyways, you seem to have a very good grasp on sentence structure, but not on varying it: spice it up and play around with different structures and lengths. I would suggest also working on the flow of your writing, as it is very disjointed right now. And, of course, no matter how good you are, you will always need to work on your diction. In short, work on beauty, not complexity.

Had a dream last night, I've whittled it down and expanded upon it since to get rid of the dream logic, might turn it into a screenplay as I think it has more power-of-association points to be scored in relation to 90s-00s sci-fi thrillers than any books I've read but I want to see what /lit/ thinks of a brief synopsis first, before I commit. Gonna be moving from uni to full time employment next summer so it's worth planning whether I'll have any luck with this idea or whether I should focus on completing my first novel.

>open with woman at shopping mall
>she is killed first in a shooting
>another guy present (think tom cruise, guy pearce, someone the audience recognises as a good guy) asks the shooter which entrance he came from before being shot himself
>opening credits
>show guy's POV on his way to the mall
>he watches the woman from the doors of the mall
>when the previously-seen shooter comes to the doors, he lets him through and walks behind him
>guy disarms the shooter just as he draws everyone's attention and is about to start
>hailed a hero, the woman, who was going to be shot first, thanks him
I'm going to be more brief for the rest
>they end up dating, marrying
>he wins a huge amount of money at a casino
>chased by mobsters, overdoses on drugs with a 99% kill rate so they'll stop chasing
>we see him come home the next day just fine
>from his POV we see him inform the mob one of their high-ups is missing, not to mess with him
>starts an insurance company, wins big on the stock market
>he starts to show a little more aggression, a little more control-freakishness towards his wife
>predicts a car crash saving his and wife's lives
>when she asks him about it, he explains he has the ability to manipulate reality, or more specifically probability
>demonstrates it by summoning champagne out of thin air; he shows her a probe plugged into the back of his neck
>we begin to learn about some of the limitations of his power- he cannot change/create/destroy things above a certain size, the probe is controlled by his thoughts and so he can only change something if he knows about it
>they go one for a while longer like this with her cognisant of his powers
>one day he ends up arguing with one of their close business associates, who she has a bit of a thing for and keeps telling the guy to treat her better, over dinner
>drunk, the main guy takes the other guy outside and after arguing for a bit, from his POV, we see him make the other guy disappear
>comes back inside, she asks where he is
>changes her too to forgot the guy ever existed
>she feels a notch on the underside of the table
>his behaviour becomes more and more openly abusive as time goes on, he hits her while drunk

>>7217934
>throughout this she's noticing more notches appearing on the underside of their dining table
>he eventually lets slip while drunk that he's known her for years, not just since the attempted shooting, and has been jumping through different realities for years trying to woo her, disappeared her childhood friend and previous fiancee from existence
>after he goes off to drive around in a fit of anger, she goes and looks underneath the table and sees 'CHECK UNDER THE BED' scraped into the underside- by previous versions of herself
>she checks under the bed and finds a brand new phone containing a video she doesn't remember herself recording, warning that he is an abusive monster of a man and to look through his things to find details of the man who invented the machine- and that the probe is only a remote control for the machine, not the actual thing; the video has not been deleted because he is not aware of this phone, though he checks her other one
>she rifles through his things, finds an address for a scientific institute, goes there while he's working the next day
>there she meets one of the men who invented it who explains to her he was originally an intern and stole the probe years ago after being discontent with his life
>he explains that the machine, which takes up most of the building, actually works by destroying the existing reality and replacing it with a new alternate one, apart from the user, every unit of time while it's turned on- every moment of time they are being killed and replaced by a new copy with memories of the moment before, though not being the same consciousness
>the guy is knowingly genociding entire universes continually in order to live his 'dream' life
>some sciency shit too, matter cannot be created or destroyed when changing things about the universe, so there are two chambers, one in which electrical energy is put in and seemingly vanishes whenever the probe is operated and one which goes into combustion inside whenever the probe is operated; the size of these chambers determines how much can be changed, as previously mentioned to be a limit
>he explains that the probe is linked to his DNA via blood signature so if she wants to stop him she'll have to convince him; he has tried in the past only to be changed to stop doing it- he only knows because he has recorded videos the guy doesn't know about updating himself on the situation
>but the guy can't disappear him because he needs people to maintain the machine, so just leaves him to do his job instead
>she ends up going back home, and sharpens the guy's razor to the point he ends up cutting himself badly next time he uses it
>she collects the blood while helping him; having just woken up he doesn't have the probe in yet so he doesn't just magic the cuts away


already put a copy of the synopsis in with my uni campus post office, so don't think about stealing if you like it

>while they're out that day she pulls the probe out of his neck and runs off with it, he chases her
>both have to pretend not to be up to anything- he doesn't want to be seen as abusing his wife or explaining why what she took is important, she doesn't want to put people on his side if he says she robbed him
>they end up back at the shopping centre
>she dips the probe's pins in the make-up container of blood she collected and plants it in her own neck, just as he reaches the top of the stairs and sees her
>he leaps for her but collapses in an empty pile of clothes, disappeared from existence
>her name is called and she turns around; the probe is gone from her neck
>her previous fiancee, previously shown in flashback, is there; she is shown to be wearing the same outfit as in the first scene and appears not to remember what has just happened though a few people around can't believe what they've just seen, but what can they possibly say, or accuse her of?
>they carry on with their day as if nothing has happened
>the scientist wakes up at his desk to find the probe sitting there, spirited to him by the woman; he takes it and puts it back where it belongs- in a cabinet filled with more of the same device, which is wheeled away by another discontented-looking intern

want to weave in some stuff about abusive relationships and stuff, pointedly the woman has to do some things that she'd rather not do in order to end the situation, showing how abusive relationships can have a toxic effect on one's personality (rather than just destroy/send back the device, she also elects to effectively kill the guy; goes through his belongings behind his back, has to commit the same 'genocide' herself in order to win etc.)

>>7217934
>>7217966
>>7217994
Please do not post the synopsis of your stories in critique threads.

>>7218028
Alright, must have missed that one. Why?

>>7217966
This is riveting. The most exciting part to me was the emotionally charged unravelling of the wife's idea of the man though, the notches, the message the phone etc. Iko this would be a better "peak" of the story; a memento- like ending.

>>7218046
Because, traditionally, critique threads are for the the critique and analyzing of different posters' prose, not their ideas for a story. You could probably start a thread for the discussion of story ideas, but, unless it is specified otherwise, it is informal to post them in your average critique thread.

>>7218050
yeah it's probably the emotional peak, everything afterwards is more of a denouement. I envisage the final 'chase' at the end not being longer than a few minutes.

I was actually inspired by mid-budget-tier thrillers like Memento, 12 Monkeys etc. but wanted to put a darker/naturalistic emotional spin on that milieu.

>>7218059
fair enough, guess it I wasn't familiar enough and thought it was a more general thread than that

Johnny Lawrence owned the universe in 1984. The universe was, to him, the wealthier part of the San Fernando Valley (and not that shithole Reseda) but it was his first and, he hoped, last horizon. High school was a non-stop carnival of Cobra Kai karate class, make-out sessions with Ali, his hottie girlfriend, and doled-out skull-bashings to any spindly nerd crossing his swaggering path.

But his universe flickered senior year. First, Ali dumped him. Then, a skinny, olive-skinned New Jersey asshole named Daniel LaRusso appeared. Worse, it looked like he and Ali were flirting, hooking up—right in front of him!

He and his Cobra Kai buddies tuned up LaRusso as best they could. At first on the beach, and then a night-time knuckle-session outside the high school’s Halloween dance. Johnny had been smoking some righteous ging, and for a second felt like he might actually be able to kill Daniel. Hadn’t his Cobra Kai instructor always said, "An enemy deserves no mercy?" There were times, when he was deeply stoned, that Johnny wished he were a cobra.

And hadn’t his father always admonished: "I will move you so far the fuck away from this town if I ever see you back down from someone smaller than you?" The old man, with his grey hair, bulgy eyes and pot belly, holding sway over a car wash empire that had made him a multi-millionaire. Johnny loved, feared, and hated him.

So Johnny fed his father an elaborate lie about being jumped by eight Mexicans when he and his crew were stopped mid-thrash by LaRusso’s only friend—a pudgy, sawed-off Asian maintenance man.

But that maintenance man was the last thing to go wrong for Johnny that year. He took LaRusso out to a junkyard and imparted some kind of ancient Chinese ass-kicking secret to the goddamn shrimp, and in the end it only took a single Crane Kick to shatter Johnny’s San Fernando Universe.

His father, sickened and mortified, immediately moved Johnny to a new school, forcing him to finish his senior year under the name of "Greg Tolan". He also forbade Johnny to practice any martial arts. Heartbroken, but paralyzed with fear of his father, "Greg" took to mindlessly hoisting cafeteria tables, taking a perverse thrill in seeing people and food spilled into the ground. What was this new, sexual charge he felt? He was a bad boy making a big messy-poo, and seeing things splash and make a stainy-wainy made him want to be punished, paddled, humiliated. He didn’t like thinking too deeply about it. But he was happy.
For a while. Because sure enough, another skinny, olive-skinned boy hove into view. He even looked like Daniel LaRusso (even though he dressed like Elvis Costello). This new kid seemed more…delicate. Feminine. What were these feelings?

It was too much for "Greg". At a beach dance (another fight on another beach), he threw the Daniel LaRusso look-alike into the ocean. But his satisfaction was short-lived. The new kid’s wigger friend knocked "Greg" unconscious with a single punch.

>>7218672
Back home, Johnny’s father was apoplectic. He packed Johnny off to college, where he went under the name "Chaz". The smell of the sea haunted him, and he quickly took up diving as a sport. Splashing into the water, over and over again. Diving headfirst into oblivion, like he’d always wanted to.

But goddamit, here was yet another third olive-skinned, dark-haired little wimp in his life. Was his life ever to be free of gawky shrimps? This one didn’t even give Johnny the courtesy of beating the shit out of him. He simply took his girlfriend away, like it was the third act of some badly-written comedy, where the writers simply needed the little shrimp to hook up with the impossibly hot older girl. It made no goddamn sense. And then, as if the gods had become tired of pissing on him and had decided to start shitting, the shrimp’s grey-haired father (the spitting image of Johnny’s own dad) defeated him in the diving finals, doing a ridiculous dive called the "Triple Lindy". It was as if his own father had finally, publicly, rejected his spawn, painting Johnny’s defeat in the sky in a series of mid-air somersaults.

Johnny dropped out of college and drifted to Los Angeles. He wandered into a pawn shop to see if there was an old karate gi he could buy. The burly man behind the counter told him he might have something in the basement. Johnny followed him, not even hearing the whistle of air as the leather sap crashed against his skull and his world turned black.

They cut out his tongue and dressed him in zippered leather, making him look like a mutant cobra. They sodomized the memory of every olive-skinned, dark-haired shrimp from his mind forever, and for that he was grateful. The store owner and his mascara’d security guard friend, light years away from his distinguished, hated father.

When they woke him up to watch over their newest prey—a bald, intense boxer who they left tied up while they "partied" with his gangster buddy, he was no longer "Johnny Lawrence" or "Greg Tolan" or even "Chaz". He was "The Gimp". His life consisted of his box, the protein shakes they fed him through a straw, blaring 50’s rock ‘n’ roll and his monthly Handi-Wipe bath. That’s why he started screaming, tongue-less, when the bald boxer worked himself out his straps and made his escape. And when the boxer sent a crashing right hand into The Gimp’s melon, Johnny’s last thought was thanks to the laughing gods that at least it wasn’t a goddamn Crane Kick.

First time in awhile I've tried writing, first time posting online. 330 words.

http://pastebin.com/5HM21QJg

Her hair is disheveled, in purple displayed
A singular item, a sign of her trade
Her glasses designed with a shape that’s ovoid,
Behind them, a mind that’s of logic devoid

What need does she have of a fact or a chart?
Her reason is clouded by passions and smarts
At trifles she’ll fire, so quick on the trigger,
This lover of trannies and faggots and niggers

The language she mangles, its meanings re-shapes,
Each alternate word, she replaces with ‘rape’
She wants to bring Holocene change to the grammar,
Reform all the pronouns by dint of a hammer

‘Twards adverse opinions she thrashes and reels,
She’d kill her professor, this fascist of feels
A despot of sentiment, she’ll never rest
Till men are extinct, all their privileges checked

Be Home Man.

Job is of shit, yellow cake for my yellow face.

Bjoryt the son, he is the hell. My arms cannot gro th' fingers for his throatrattle.

And then also that's wife Marf. Blue cone cunt.

Go to work cause what the fuck else.

Masterb Urns is there. This is his Xanadu & I am the broken dog of it. Smuckers, too, candied faggot.

Masterb Urn: Home Man, push these button.

Home Me: No.

Matter Burns: Verry well. Our fabulous ways will conform ye.

He picks up a book.

'Fan of reading?' he the Matlock Burns sez.

I shudder, I am not, but it hurts.

Smuckers hand me th' lighter.

Matterhorn, 'Feed my sheep, Montag.'

I torch. Him, Smuckers, the whole very thing. And finally me too.

It was a pleasure to burn.

>>7217994
>>7217966
>>7217934
good stuff anon
some ideas as i read: dudes behaviour should get increasingly fucked and abusive but in weird ways beyond just physical violence (NOT trying to downplay the severity of physical domestic violence) but also like his behaviour weird and domineering i remember seeing an interview with late actress lolo ferrari where she talked about her husband standing in doorways, silent, refusing to speak to her or let her leave the room for as long as an hour just standing there silent... creepy shit
the end could probably be 1. more dramatic and 2. more clever i feel like there's more uses for the tech which could dispose of the bad guy in a more interesting/gory way and also there should be a longer and more intense chase/cat and mouse game before she finally escapes.
the last gag of there being another discontented intern slightly annoys me because like after all that it's just gonna happen all over again?? but w/e
anyway this is good i actually really prefered reading this synopsis over a context-less snippet like usually gets poste other anon has a stick up they arse

>>7219124
wow cool it's different and silly! very impressive haha!

Obscurity isn't a value

>>7219096
the shift from displayed/trade to ovoid is really rough and jarring. "a shape that's ovoid" doesn't flow naturally, sounds like you were searching for a rhyme and choose the first one you hit upon. she has no need for facts or charts but is clouded by smarts..? as in she is smart or?? what does "holocene" mean in this context? how does she change the meanings of things?
>trannies, faggots, niggers, rape
>Till men are extinct, all their priveliges checked
there's a new writer on the block and he's got some provocative and novel OPINIONS!!! WATCH OUT

>>7218675
>>7218672
this is pretty funny

>>7219124
damn...

>>7217994

hm sounds vaguely similar to a novella I'm working on rn.... I'm prob gna steal your best ideas and incorporate it into mine tbh, thanks anon

The rain, which had retreated from ceaseless torrents to little drips from the clouds titillating the scalp came back as impotent gusts of wind. It was cold. He thought of withdrawing back to his bunk, yet he still stood there, arrested by the caresses of gales that brush his face, sordid and somber, peering and waiting, for the rain, as if a torrent would make time take cover, wait for it to stop. How bizarre it is, he thinks, Time itself waiting for the rain to stop. He let out a brief smug at the thought of all this, he was in this type of inane reverie when he heard a knock on his door.

I like the way it looks without me
Too bright
The only reason you liked it too
(Too dark)
Someone
Nail me to the floor
I can't take back what was stolen from me, I can only forget that it was once mine.
If you fuck him
(He looks up to /mu/ like you looked up to.)
I'll see the muscles
(You know)
With the skin pulled back and I won't
(...Need)
Anymore

The starfish rainbow gleaming fickle human outlived by the falling Star Dogfish's silent law of harmony. So much of this absence, so so much of it. It is Star Dogfish at it again, I just know it. Star Dogfish playing roulette, he must capaciously gamble the many years. The law, by god the law! Must it be false, must it be right. Star Dogfish lived through the winters. Star Dogfish good. He so very nice. Even in spite of himself. See the flicker of his eyelids, his law-abiding posture. Ask him how he could harm a thing. He'll simply smile and say: Star Dogfish don't know nothing about human law but abides by it non-the-less.

Someone mind giving me their two cents on this? I've written before, but not poetry. I'll note that I have a good reason why the lines only rhyme within themselves.

We could only look down and crawl, for fear we might fall.
The darkness was our own, for we stood alone.
Endlessly we would work, with no guide through the murk.
We toiled without rest, told that it’s all a test.
I met another of my kind, we fought and now he’s blind.
I continued on, will I ever find my dawn?
When I first saw her, I didn’t know who we were.
I tried to stay, but chains kept me away.
We met by chance, my world in a glance.
The chains brought back the dark, but she had left her mark.
They gave me a new tool, did they think me a fool?
When they couldn’t see, I made myself free.
A puppet without strings, I sought to make myself wings.
I struggled off my cog, and soared above the fog.
In their blind wrath, they attacked my only path.
I went where she had been, but could not find my kin.
Her chains were still taut, perhaps this wasn’t for naught.
For all the skills I was given, I found now I was truly driven.
I pulled and toiled, and the shadows roiled.
I thought I could see, but the blind one was me.
I had forgotten my sin, but he approached with a grin.
I saved her and thought myself a king, so he ripped off my wing.
We fought as before, but the darkness had made him more.
When I understood what had been done, all I could do was run.
He could not hurt me so much, that I couldn’t feel her touch.
He watched us take flight, let us flee to the waning light.
The flight made me gasp, he knew it could not last.
Even when I found a way, I knew my wing would not stay.
He knew where I would fall, the first and final wall.
I had one last gift, only she got the final lift.

>>7219124

Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you
By now you shoulda, somehow, realized what you gotta do
I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now

ily ye guy

>>7219124
I remember you from the last thread, as your style, which is very pynchonesque, is quite distinct and developed. Have you published anything?
>>7219185
Tone it down a bit with the language: the simplest way to say something is, more oft than not, the most beautiful. Other than that, you have yourself some mad decent prose.
>>7219712
Very good, albeit silly (which isn't a bad thing, mind you).

BENEVOLENT LAWD
Lo, I the mankin
have since dismissed the semen off my napkin
Where once co-mingled food and flesh
And other leavings of the rest

O LAWD, that I could humbly in the grass
Dismiss the pleasant pastures for a summer act
and lop each winter weed, were it not paradise,
where I sleep seasonally shacked.

Several species weighed my fingers, -
arranging where the fish still lingers
satisfied their trade-meal splits
divided overhanging bits

Flab-drab-shab the Hammenglab
the God before the state this year,
of sixteen teets, the learned queer
O LAWD, my pubic crab!

KING OF CALCUTTA
Come out the butta
HAMMENGLAB SHALL CONTRAFLAB
Today it stands for consummate
Where fellow Finnegan sails too late!

But O to DIE for HAMMENGLAB
That one-shent queen, my pen is glad
To make of her a verse or ten
Or twelve-and-twenty angry men.

Shave a dick, then cherry-pick,
Donate the credulous Koran
to Hammenglab, the paving slab,
who marks each crypted man.

>>7222822
yet you don't have the guts to write something that means something to you

>>7218672
Verry good, Johnny.

• 'Then, a skinny, olive-skinned New Jersey asshole' → 'Then, a skinny olive-skinned New Jersey asshole' ← b/c ye didn't put a comma btwn skinned NJ A-hole, so, yr call tbh

• ...Johnny wished he [was] a cobra.

• 'smaller than you?' ← y the '?'

• sawed-off ← ha nice

One of the best written things posted in these threads. :DDDDD

>>7218922
Replace 'bureaucrats' w/something else, pls.

>>7219712
I think any person with elastic anesthetic attempts at WHY-ting, ooby-gooby, who drop this flapduddle SHIT in crit threadz and believe that it is possible to talk about it as being good and strictly on autisthetic grounds hopes 4 attn, is willing to try to clog up my mind thinking they are better than other srs posterz—or who'd even begin to talk about 'what I'm working on' or scribbled crayon words as having 'le meaning' yet are various invisible me mes that don't realize dey r speaking thru which is not determined by education—it's determined/divided by, not so secretly, ppl who are willing to track down real psychedelics and learn2write and ppl like ye who fart into the microphone of the internet. :( ← Bloom-faces at u → :C

>I was eight years old when my grandmother died, so may she forgive that I don't remember her face or voice. In truth I have memories from when she was still alive and healthy, but those are of my grandfather to whom she was married for a good half-century. What little I know of her I know from his stories, and he had quite a lot of them as old men do.

>One of those memories surfaced recently. One of a five year old boy wrapped in blankets. He is held by an old man trying to sleep and an old woman whose face is out of frame. His parents are in their Manhattan apartment just an hour away. They are planning their divorce to suit him, but that isn't why he's wide awake. Downstairs are wooden trains on a track of jigsaw pieces, and in his young mind they are all there is to the world. Eventually the old man relents and brings him down to play, hoping the experience will quickly prove soporific. Boredom comes to the boy soon enough, but sleep left his oven on and told the former that he would catch up with him. At one in the morning, my grandfather sits me on his knee and tells me a bedtime story. I ask if it has power rangers, but he shakes his head. It's a story from a long time ago, about a soldier, a rabbi, a bridesmaid, and a flock of clay birds

>>7221620
your rhyme scheme needs work dude. Not only is AABBCC a terrible one to follow, but your syllable count is really inconsistent. you need to keep a patterned rhythm that while varied and complex still follows a consistent pattern. Try looking up rhyme schemes, and keep a close eye on your syllable count.

>>7223034
I'll reexamine syllable count tomorrow, but the format for this particular poem is really handcuffing me. I decided it would be a good idea to put each line as the subtitle to my novel, and have the poem follow pace with the chapters. So I can't rhyme between the lines, it'd be forgotten by the next chapter. And it also has to be exactly 30 lines. And has to follow that narrative.

This thing is a pain in the ass. But I think it'll turn out really good in the book.

>>7223048
I wish you good luck.

If you don't mind, could you perhaps give me feedback on this: >>7223010 ?

>>7223062
For all the good it'll do you from a dip ass like me who knows nothing about poetry...

>>7223010
You shift tenses for no apparent reason in the second paragraph and the whole thing is rather unclear. I'm tempted to guess the soldier/rabbi/bridesmaid/clays is a reference I don't know, but I'm going to judge it as is. What's the point of starting about the gandmother if the point is about the grandfather and the story told to him while his parents are divorcing? You should find a world other than soporific, it just comes across as "haha, my vocabulary is better than yours.". You're reaching a bit far with the oven idiom. Why'd you switch between third person description of the boy to first person?

>>7223084
btw it's not you know nothing about poetry you just tried something that didn't work. A failing engineer that destroys a rocket doesn't know nothing about engineering, take a new approach and read more poetry. steal ideas.

>>7223084
The tense thing was just a stylistic choice. I probably should change it. The soldier/rabbi/bridesmaid/bird thing isn't a reference, this is just the beginning of the story, the reason I brought up the grandmother is part of the story

an expansion on >>7223010

>A long time ago, though maybe not as long as it seems to you, there was a great war that covered the globe. After six years of raging, it went out with two loud blasts that threatened to shatter the sky like glass. It had left most of the world in shambles, and for the two winning empires it was time to divide up the remains and get the whole planet back in working order. Though neither empire liked each other, they both agreed that the world was far too big for them to rule entirely, so instead they decided to re-make all the old countries in their own image. The problem is that in some cases, half a country was conquered by one empire and the other half by the other. One of those countries, a dangling strip of land in the far east, was remade as two new ones in the image of the two empires who hated each other. Though the north and south wanted to be one again, neither side would turn their country over to the other, so eventually the two went to war, with each of the great empires sending their knights to fight for the side they created.
In one of the two empires, not too far from where you live now, my grandfather said, the son of a wise rabbi decided he wanted to become a knight. The young man enjoyed the thrill of combat, and had never backed down to a fight. However, he had seen dozens of knights return from the great war with missing eyes and arms and legs. His own brother had fought in that war, and he had never come back alive. The young man had watched the rabbi weep bitter tears at his son’s funeral, and he decided he never wanted to see that happen to anyone he cared about again. Had he sat down and thought for a moment he would have realized going to war might end up putting his father through the same horrible experience all over again, but he was young, bold and strong as an ox. Remember he told me, strong, bold young men make the worst choices, because they think they don’t have feelings when in fact they have nothing but.
>The young man went to the army and told them he wanted to be a knight. The old colonel who heard his brash words and then laughed in his face. “You’re thin as a bannister,” he said, “and so short your feet barely reach the ground. I’ve seen the men they have over there across the sea. They eat tree roots for breakfast and dog meat for lunch, and if their glorious leader asked them to cut their own throats so that every morning he could walk on warm blood instead of cold kitchen tiles, they would do it on the spot and bleed into a thermos to keep it warm for the next day! They are going to eat you alive out there boy!” The young man looked the old colonel in the eye and told him “Let them try it. One way or another they’re going to get whole bunch of cavities.” Two months of basic training later, the army put a gun in the boy’s hands and made him a knight.

pls no bully

“ahh” It was a combination of deep breath in and moan as he worked his fingers in and out, starting slowly and gradually picking up the pace. This went on for about ten minutes, I wasn’t near climax yet, but I was five or six minutes from it. I grabbed his girth by the shaft trying to pull him inside me. He slapped my hand
“Not yet, you dirty nasty girl. You haven’t earned it yet babe. You’re going to have to be a complete slut for me before I give you any of this.” He said, turning the shower off and grabbing two towels. He dried me off starting with the hair and then moving down, he grabbed me by the back of the head, pushing it down and moving my ass out. He spanked my bottom three times with his cupped hand. This was new, and I was very into it at this point.
“Okay. Kinky shit. I see” I said running my fingernails gently across his chest, I dug in just enough to leave a quick mark across his chest.
“You’re going to be my bitch, I hope you like it because if not, this is going to be a long and penetrating ride for you.”
I looked at him
“Tell me that you’re my bitch”
“I’m your bitch”
“That’s right you slut” he said as he picked me up and out of the bathroom. He threw me onto the bed, without even a moment for us to dry off. He pulled my hair, moving my head down to his throbbing manhood.
“If you’re such a slut. Why don’t you suck on it.” He said, forcing my head towards his girth. I sucked up and down using my hand to jerk him off, sucking that shit like it was a fucking popsicle, my big lips gripped his cock tightly, and I could see the registers of pleasures in his face. He grabbed me again, wrestling me for a moment as he positioned himself behind me. I screamed from pleasure as he stuck it into me as we fucked doggystyle. It was everything I ever wanted. His huge dick was finally inside of me and I could feel his strength. I moaned from pleasure over and over again. Once again, it seemed like time had stopped, it had been a recurring theme of the night. We were hitting our stride now, me moving back and forth and him thrusting me up and down. I could feel that his cock was going to explode inside me and I was ready to orgasm myself. It was coming. It was coming. “HOLY FUCK. I’m Coming” I screamed. I felt my breath move in and out in and out, as my heart was beating out of my fucking chest. I felt my pussy contracting and expanding. I was screaming at full volume at this point.

She took the rubber disc from her clitoris in between finger and thumb and raised it to the mirror, where it connected with a soft puck.

With practiced vagueness she looked into the corner of the room, ignoring her exposed labia as it silently burst in a triangular frill.

He tried to envision her half-submerged body, the bones in her chest forming tidal channels, brine-coated pools developing in the slope under her shoulders.

Remembering the photographs he'd stolen from the base, he removed his wallet and unfolded them in his palm, turning to shedding the glare off their filmy surface.

A snapshot of Mars, a sand-sea trapped in an impact crater, it's shores forming a three-rayed fan.

The abandoned beach seemed to urge for this eroded future, and he quickly pocketed the image, afraid of materializing it before him, flooding the stone pillars arranged in a sigil to summon an inorganic world.

>>7223779
it's really good i like the honesty and it seems to come from a place of real experience also its good to know that other people say weird shit like this during sex

>>7219124
obvious and boring, a page from a 15 year old's diary maybe ?
distorted use of simpsons characters is completely stale

>>7219185
functional prose which frequently over exerts itself. communicates nothing interesting, imagery rarely makes sense (how does something "retreat" into little drips) sometimes to the point of parody ("arrested by the caresses of gales that brush his face" - holy shit)

>>7219712
this is good, i would remove "fickle human" from first sentence. remove the second "so" in "so so much". remove "capaciously."
>Star Dogfish lived through the winters. Star Dogfish good.
nice. remove "he so very nice." i think, as the previous sentence sets it up just fine. otherwise really good stuff.

>>7222822
it's just words

>>7223010 >>7223761
this is so toxic honey-dipped manufactured nostalgia bulshit tom hanks would surely play the role of the grandfather in the film adaptation
>"does it have power rangers in it"
i would vomit

>>7218675 >>7218672
haha whoa anon this is crazy!! haha so random

>>7217994 >>7217966 >>7217934
other anon was right, the wife's gradual discovery of this guys fucked up nature and the unravelling of their home life is more interesting than the sci-fi set up

>>7223795
>this is so toxic honey-dipped manufactured nostalgia bulshit tom hanks would surely play the role of the grandfather in the film adaptation
>i would vomit

literally everything prior to the story is an actual memory, How would you go about fixing it?

>>7223795
thanks man, I'm >>7223779
the secret is that it's erotica about clowns (well, ICP fans)

Olkay, here's a quick attempt to make it less sickeningly sweet. part two might take a bit longer

> I was eight years old when my grandmother died, so may she forgive that I don't remember her face or voice. In truth I have memories from when she was still alive and healthy, but those are of my grandfather to whom she was married for a good half-century. What little I know of her I know from his stories, and he had quite a lot of them as old men do.
>One of those memories surfaced recently. One of myself as a five year old boy wrapped in blankets. I am held in the arms of my grandfather as he tries to sleep and an old woman whose face is out of frame. They have a damp, bitter, smell to them, like medication and sodden earth. My parents are in their Manhattan apartment just an hour away. They are planning their divorce around me, but that isn't why I’m awake. Downstairs are wooden trains on a track of jigsaw pieces. They are cheap pieces of plywood and paint, subconsciously an investment in immortality. Beneath a layer of genuine is an attempt to buy a fond part of my memory that will live on for decades after them. It works, and in my young mind those pieces of wood are all there is to the world. Eventually my grandfather relents and brings me down to play, hoping the experience will quickly prove soporific. Boredom comes to me soon enough, but sleep does not accompany it. At one in the morning, my grandfather sits me on his knee and tells me a bedtime story.

>>7216547
The sock tumbled out of drier falling to the watery concrete floor where its white weave sucked at the browning pool at the edge of the washer. In his hand it felt like velvet. Fingers massaged at the sides while thoughts rambled to the images of contact on carpet, hairs and dust of lives encased in its crevices— a cotton wool bridge to him. Fisting into the tube he felt the wet cloth clutch at his skin, resisting the force, outer weave rippling. His pants tented. The washing machine rattled.

>>7216547
The forgotten sock tumbled out of drier to the watery concrete floor where its white weave sucked at a browning pool of washer water. In his hand it felt like velvet. Fingers massaged at the sides while thoughts rambled to the images of contact on carpet, hairs and dust of lives encased in its crevices— a cotton wool bridge to him. Fisting into the tube he felt the wet cloth clutch at his skin, resisting the force, outer weave rippling. His pants tented. The washing machine rattled.

>>7223906

Honestly, I think I made a mistake by listening to that anon. This story was supposed to be light-hearted and now it feels detrimentally edgy. I mean god damn, it's supposed to be a fucking fairy-tale

>The second world war raged for six years, and it concluded with two loud blasts that threatened to shatter the stratosphere like glass. Small petty men forced others to fight under the banners of grand ideas. The result was a world half empty, where a bald Ziz and grizzly Behemoth squabbled over who reigned from a mountain of ash. Though neither America nor Russia empire liked each other, in laws without intended spirit they agreed to rebuild what they unmade, the implication being that each nation would be reincarnated in the image of its maker. In some lands, the border of the old world was split between the rulers of the new one, and from that was born new strife. In Korea, a dangling strip of land far to the east, the devision was clearer than glass. Once again small, petty men sent boys to die for their own vanity under the banner of peace and unification. In turn, uncle Ziz and mother Behemoth placed their cards on the table
>In a city of steel and steel and culture, the son of a wise rabbi decided he wanted to become a soldier. The young man enjoyed the thrill of combat, and had never backed down to a fight. However, he had seen dozens like himself return from the great war with missing eyes and arms and legs. His own brother had fought in that war, and his boots and uniform had returned without him. The young man had watched the rabbi weep bitter tears at his son’s funeral, and he decided he never wanted to see that happen to anyone he cared about again. Had he sat down and thought for a moment he would have realized going to war might end up putting his father through the same horrible experience all over again, but he was young, bold and strong to a fault. Remember he told me, strong, bold young men make the worst choices, because they think they don’t have feelings when in fact they have nothing but.
>The young man signed wavers exchanging his life for a rifle, but his path was barred. An old colonel with a pock-marked face heard his brash words and then laughed in his face. “You’re thin as a bannister,” he said, “and so short your feet barely reach the ground. I’ve seen the men they have over there across the sea. They eat tree roots for breakfast and dog meat for lunch, and if their glorious leader asked them to cut their own throats so that every morning he could walk on warm blood instead of cold kitchen tiles, they would do it on the spot and bleed into a thermos to keep it warm for the next day! They are going to eat you alive out there boy!” The young man looked the old colonel in the eye and told him “Let them try it. One way or another they’re going to get whole bunch of cavities.” Two months of basic training later, the army put a gun in the boy’s hands and made him a soldier.

The Photographer:

This is suffocating, he thought, but, he reasoned, at least it was better than the stale atmosphere of the Langdon School of the Arts, a place he had worked all his life to get into only to loathe every lecture he attended, for it was not like him to sit down and enjoy what was on television. He'd spent the afternoon disapproving of the vibrant displays of a photography journal--the most recent edition of Index of Icons-- and allowing the image he wanted to own to come to him. See, it wasn't a matter of envisioning nor of looking through a lens for the photographer. It was something else; if I controlled it then it wouldn't be so natural, he thought.

Setting up his camera in the spot he had been told to choose, he was excited. He looked through the lens, nothing. There was a cascade of fall imagery, warm and colorful, but it wasn't a lasting image. It was heavily temporary, and he took down his tripod and put his camera back in the bag. Tonight he would retreat to another inspiration, a respite from this bombardment of stimuli.

Scotch and friends around a table. One too many scotches, and he walked back to his flat amid a very present gust cutting through him, but it was only in this moment that he knew, that he controlled it. It was there; it had occurred; it became, and he was left disoriented. His artist wept on the cold corner of the street, knowing it was fleeting and had fled, but knowing he had once experienced it also offered hope for the future.

Waking up, sleeping through a meeting with his doctoral adviser, and he was as happy as he was miserable. The weak stomach didn't help him. He frantically opened up his laptop and scoured the internet for a song he'd heard playing from the social speakers the night before. Ballad of days? Salad lace? He recalled a line: nothing gonna hmmm hm me no more. His stomach shouted at him, and he couldn't hear the music. It was all in vain; no one to share with, profound loneliness, he thought, lacking empathy. He didn't know what he would give to experience the cutting wind again, and he didn't know if it would be worthy of experiencing again. Was it something so unique that to replicate it would destroy it?

It was already past a reasonable breakfast time, and that meant he wouldn't be hungry until after lunch. Black coffee. He sat down in front of his notebook anticipating the high and imagined the comfort of the couch for the low. He would expel everything that his body had left, hoping that be not being as much he could let himself be an instrument of nature. He denied himself. Valid face, he thought, and he found the song online. It was so gratifying, in fact, that he listened to it five times consecutively, until he was feeling heavy eyelids of the low creeping up. Bliss. Lightning coursed from above his ankles up through the knees, then it took to the top of his head. He shook alive, high, and, now exhausted and expelled, collapsed on the couch.

>>7224013
He woke up in the early evening, now in dire need of some nourishment. He scrapped together a sandwich that he held in his mouth as he dressed and carried his camera equipment out the door. He chased down the corner that was always running away from him, and he set up his camera. The image was a street corner, and a plastic bag caught a breeze and lifted into the air with a backdrop of concrete and gutter leaves. That was it, natural and permanent.

He met with his adviser later that day, which left neither parties content. On par with himself, he resorted to the bottle soon after, fighting a whirlwind of pride in having stood his ground and of his project and the anguish of his adviser not having approved of his lack of dedication and seemingly rash work ethic. He chalked up this clash of wills to be a result of personal problems in his life: isolation, depression, alcoholism, but I know that it stemmed from something much more personal than that.

>>7223915
Dude, wet socks do not feel like velvet. Why the fuck is he getting a boner over a wet, dirty sock?

>>7224013
this is pretty good. It has a tone and rhythm, if melancholy one. The problem is you don't develop that until the second paragraph. Try getting on a roll and then re-write the first one

>>7224028
It's my sleep deprived, half drunk, attempt to parodize blake butler.

How did it start? Always the same. It grabs you by the balls. Then the fly's enter sight, surrounding me. Flanked on all sides. These were no longer my stomping grounds. In an attempt to eleminate the source of their attractor, I took out the trash. I knew it wouldn't work, but it had to go out anyway. It was just the beginning. How do I get rid of these damn flies? A heft dose of marijuana. Grade A medical stuff. They scattered across the smoke and vanished in thin air. Only to reinsurt them selve's into my life, unwillingly at that. This was no time for the acid, this isn't under my control; It would only get worse. What's left? Hit the deck. Hide it out. They can't get you, you see, they want the light. These mother fuckers gotta go. I'm an American God damn it, no commie fly shares my living space. Not in my house. They left? Hmm. A diversion? Just like they did in 'Nam. Hit the deck.

>>7224069
I'm not sure a fly buzzing would cause vietnam war flashbacks. Then again, all the crazy nam vets died hobo deaths a long time ago, so I can't really say for certain. That said, the fact that it has the rhythm of a rap kind of makes it confusing

can someone please tell me which is better?

this:
>>7223010
>>7223761

or this:
>>7223906
>>7224012

>>7224028

Wet socks are sexy as fuck, what are talking about, and to know it's dirty, it's been used and worn like the slut it is. I bet the elastic was torn too? Yeah, that's right; so used can never contract back to it's tight little self and forever will have a loose gaping hole just to shove a foot into.

Today, as I sit staring at a dispiriting screen, it is cold. A listless cloud looms above my head, and the rain falls on every roof. When I can, I like to walk through these unwonted spates, there is something so... beautifully subtle that happens, when you close your eyes, and turn your face to the sky. As tawdry an act as it is. The sounds, the smell of musk, hurried footsteps distinguished somehow from the unrepetitive rhythms, being inundated by the almost surfeit rappings. It's all an experience.

I kind of stopped this half way through paragraph the rest is just looser outlines needing refinement.

>>7223859
>juggalo erotica
that makes it even better

Finally, at 9:07 PM, I board a westbound Metro train at Potomac Avenue. The car is badly out of date, and the aisles are lined with frayed and filthy carpets. I sink into a stained yellow seat just inside the door. A smattering of tourists board at the Capitol South station, and more tourist file in at L’enfant Plaza. By the time we reach Farragut West, the seats are full and some passengers clutch handrails while standing near the exits. More riders pile on. Maintenance crews and building service workers leaving their shifts, they stand sullenly with downcast faces and headphones planted firmly in their ears. I close my eyes and drift away from the crowd which has gathered around me. I am shaken from my drowsing by a vision. Standing before me, and in fact very nearly between my splayed knees, is a titanic Prince Georges County Venus. Girls of her excellence seldom venture so far into this part of town, and I gaze unblinking at her audacious curves. I cast a furtive glance at the nametag which is pinned to her uniform. Before I can read it she rotates absentmindedly on her axis and presents her ass to me. Like a huge fleshy credenza upholstered in cheap cotton, it engulfs my field of view. I tense my body, and I am scarcely breathing. A perfect and timeless moment blossoms between the ass and I. At Rosslyn the girl shifts her weight and she lumbers forward to exit the train. When she moves, a high piccolo note chirps joyously from her buttocks. I fill my mouth and lungs with the ghost of yesterday’s Popeye’s value menu. Men live not by bread alone; a feast like this might nourish my spirit for weeks. I can barely feel my legs when we reach Falls Church. When I stand to leave, I see that I have burst a seam in the crotch of my pants.

https://www.evernote.com/l/AWB8dADuWbRLnrc09ZnnvRPaHnLf5BUdjuw

>>7224307
just grotesque. it's scatalogical without the truly hilarious superstructure beneath it that makes that shit funny

>>7218672
>>7218675
feckin scary man

just change "car wash" to "carwash"

otherwise it's amazing

>>7219124
lol

>>7218672
>>7218675
I love this

>>7218672
>>7218675

>mfw Pulp Fiction

If that ending were original, etc [...] etc.

https://www.evernote.com/l/AWDTiDsbXkZGabeu300Rw3QDnML5eY05de4

>>7224564

The local CC Creative Writing major wrote:


the devil slept underneath the woods and would come out first day close by to the village and stretch. we were told hes harmless done go into the woods. we never went into the woods as kids but we would play games near by.

i went into my grans and asked her about the beast.she said he should be harmless so long we dont go into the woods. she was right and every year we didn't go nothing happened. cept the day i lost my dog.

i went into the woods

the shade i played by i was now in. i saw the cooled wooded green and its shadows and sunbeams. called the hound a few times. no he didnt answer by now he became a ghost. the trickster stood over his corpse and fed.

i went into the woods and saw the beast. he smiled and offered me advice and let me live. dont go into the woods my friend.

>>7224574
Ok, thank you, I won't do it again

Mid-sip he tastes it. "Oh my god." Saturated grains of coffe beans, the dregs of the batch, hidden under the top 70% of liquid. The truth now brutally clear, his final gulp spoils all that came before. "And it's the second time in two days!" he tries to tell his colleagues, but they don't care. They don't feel as slighted by it as he does. "At a euro a cup you get what you pay for!" his buddy says, "You can't have it both ways".

Is he really naive for expecting a certain level of drinkability from his cheap coffee? Surely he's entitled to some sort of legal recourse? So he goes to the women in the canteen. He complains, raises his voice, quotes legislation. People are looking. They offer give him a refund, but that's not enough to quell him. There's talk of solicitors. "It's only a cup of coffee!" they say. "Well it was the worst cup of coffee I've ever had", says he, "and you're going to do something about it".

Then something crosses his mind - if this is the worst cup he'd ever had, what was the best? It was a boutique latte from a boutique double decker bus/cafe at a boutique music festival the previous summer. He thinks it's odd that two lifetime benchmarks could be set within months of one another. "If coffee is that fickle," he wonders, "is it worth getting that riled up about it?"

He fells embarassment burn his face red. "I'm after making a bit of an arse out of myself, aren't I?" he asks himself. He gets his answer from the faces of the canteen ladies. With no grace left to preserve, he breaks off mid-sentence and runs back to his desk.

>>7223093
Am I going in the right direction?

We could only crawl, for fear we might fall.
The darkness was our own, for we each stood alone.
Endlessly we would work, with no guide through the murk.
We moved without rest, told that it’s a test.
I met one of my kind, our fight left him blind.
I continued on, will I find my dawn?
The first time I saw her, I knew not who we were.
I tried to see, to stay, but chains kept me away.
We just met by chance, my world in a glance.
The chains brought back the dark. She had left her mark.
They gave me new tools, did they think us fools?
Those of the dark couldn’t see, when I made myself free.
A puppet without strings, I sought to make my wings.
I leapt off my cog, soared above the fog.
But in their blind wrath, they attacked my path.
Dark where she had been, lost without my kin.
Her chains were still held taut, this wouldn’t be for naught.
All the skills I was given, I found now I was driven.
I pulled and toiled, and the shadows roiled.
I thought I could see, but the blind one was me.
Forgetting my sin, approaching with a grin.
I thought myself a king, so he ripped off my wing.
I turned and fought as before. But darkness had made him more.
Seeing what had been done, all I could do was run.
No pain was so much, that I lost her touch.
He watched us take flight, flee to waning light.
The flight made me gasp, I could not make it last.
Despite finding a way, I knew my wing would not stay.
He knew where I would fall, the first and final wall.
I had one last gift, she got the last lift.

>>7224750
this is pretty funny
the writing is serviceable but it sort of is just there to produce this extended joke about this character which works...also it was honest i sense a lot of this guys pretension like in myself...
> if this is the worst cup he'd ever had, what was the best?
truuuu :O

>>7224307
i found this hilarious and also arousing (>?)
> a high piccolo note chirps joyously from her buttocks. I fill my mouth and lungs with the ghost of yesterday’s Popeye’s value menu. Men live not by bread alone
brilliant
only prob was didn't really describe the gal beyond her butt which i suppose is indicative of the narrators seedy/misogynistic nature nonetheless some more descrip would go a long way in that regard

~~~

>>7217096
cheers, I know I need to work on the technical aspects of my writing. What I want to know most is if my story is a satisfactory story at all. I'm worried that it feels contrived / unnatural.

The tortured man was becoming more delirious. His eyes had been held open and exposed to a lighter, the wounds coruscating in a milky translucent shield.
His grip on my shoulders had slackened and his weight on my back grew. I sensed that he was fading.
He babbled on about a sunny memory, his wounded eyes moving about slowly like a stream under ice.
"Glass toys, lost in the grass by children, gather dew in a summertime glade... mothers wind yarn around park oaks for a makeshift clothesline..."

Spurred on by his murmurs, and holding tight to the loose knot of his legs around my waist I pushed on in the mud and haze.
I strained to find the coordinates of his hidden world in the half-light, and felt a strange pang of envy that I was left out of his private dream world.

It was harder than ever to pick apart the pines, the log matter and petrified stumps, from the rot of the limestone cliffs. Even the mist seemed like a soft volcanic ash whipped up off the rocks by the wind.
Underfoot the dry squelch of moss and rubble marked my presence for the birds. Like an unseen tribe the birdcall never got nearer, seeming to travel alongside us somewhere behind the trees.
The man on my back spoke less and less frequently, occasionally making small gurgles of wonder, his inner eye illuminated by the ghost of another place quietly emanating from this fossil cathedral.

I briefly entertained the idea of a sexual assault to shock him out of his madness, but knew already it was futile. would our sweat freeze on our backs, would my semen droplets, scattered across the frozen forest floor turn to stones themselves, pearls thrown up on an exposed seabed?

I don't know when he died. Maybe I'd been carrying his corpse for hours.

The days go by so fast for me
Then I stay up every night and wake up late
Sleep in during day to chase the night
I browsed every topic under the sun on the internet
So much to do so much to learn
In my daydreams and dreams I'm a modern renaissance man - I can do everything
In fact I was none
Life is just a blur, a moving ride, I get on and I fall and I am scared to every hop on again

>>7224261
want a lil taste, bb?

>>7219124
>Matterhorn, 'Feed my sheep, Montag.'
Who is talking here?

“And if the devil be with you, you must smite him down.”

“For the Devil is within us, my children. His name is lust. His name is greed. His name is hatred!”

“And you, my children of gahwd, you MUST DEFY HIM.”

“Look within yourselves, for the purity be within ya.”

“Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”

“Praise da lawhd!”

Allen started gyrating. Like one of those evangelists with a preacher’s holy hand on his forehead, channeling redemption into the fat hick’s blubbery, corn-fed, Budweiser-sipping, gay-hating, generally ignorant, dumb ass. His roommates were sitting around the table, on top of which Allen was preaching, again. Allen was drunk (not that he didn’t do this shit sober). But so was everyone else. But Allen made it funny. He made it political. He made it soulful. He used the poison well. Everyone clapped and cheered. Allen had stopped shaking and began pointing at the roommates gathered, one by one. Up went the arm, a slight turn, and a forceful point.

“You, my child. And you, my child. And you, MY CHILD.”

“Sing with meh! SING!”

“HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!”

Allen bent his torso forward, stomping his right foot and clapping. He began singing, still (pretend) black, still Southern. Shameless.

“And let the good lord shine down on me!”

Everyone stood, clapping and stomping and singing.

“AND LET THE GOOD LORD SHINE DOWN ON ME!”

The preacher was now down on both knees, arms fully extended to the shoddy white ceiling, to the heavens. He shook his arms in desperation, in asking. Like a pauper begging a rich man in a Dickens novel. His face was bright red. Spit was flying from his mouth with every word. His head shook violently, like a dog shaking off water.

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

And so it went until the preacher’s voice grew hoarse and his throat ached and the alcohol sucked all the moisture from his smacking lips.

>>7216547
>On the weeks before Christmas snow was falling all over England.
It's shit.

>>7225784

Jack was eating. Allen was rambling.

“I was in a mall, standing at one of those giant glass maps, looking for a Petsmart so I could buy my dog some $400 organic food—my parents buy nicer food for Wilson than for their children, I swear—anyway, these two bible humpers come up to me, right? They look like Mormons, white shirts, black pants, black ties, but I’m pretty sure they were spics. And they say to me: ‘Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment?’ and I tell them no. I tell them I don’t have a moment. I have to buy my dog some fucking food lest he starve. I tell them my parents buy nicer food for our dog than for me. It’s not true but Jesus Christ is this organic dog food real fucking expensive. It’s called Blue Buffalo or something. And besides, I’m like 17 years old, I’m dressed like an asshole, don’t call me sir. You know someone is full of shit if they go up to you calling you sir when you’re a little piece of shit teenager in a mall—what kind of fucking losers do that? Do you have nothing better to do? You have one life—and you may very well die young—and you’re walking around in a shitty mall filled with ugly, dumb, fat, consumerist pig-dogs asking idiot teenagers in Jordan shorts and High School Sports t-shirts and long-ass black socks if they have a moment. And you know what, I had a lot of moments. I probably wasted 6.5 million moments that day alone jerking off and spacing out and looking at stupid cunts’ facebook photos, and,” Jack interrupted Allen:

“You always get so off track,” he laughed.

“Yeah, anyway, so I know exactly what they’re going to ask me. They’re going to ask me if they can talk to me about Jesus. And guess what: That’s exactly what they wanted to talk about.”

>>7225831

[Continued]

Allen paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. He laughed at whatever was in his head.

“Can you imagine if they were dildo salesmen? I would have bought four.”

Jack spit out some cereal and milk—a little got in his nose. He was red and laughing, one paw went to cover his mouth to dam in the leaking milk.

“And these guys, they ask me: ‘What if we could prove to you, right now, that God exists?’ I turn and look at them like they’re literally clones of my dead grandfather—Lord forgive him for his transgressions,” Allen said, crossing himself.

“I tell them: ‘Wow! That’s huge news. Have you gone to the media outlets? Do people know about this? You silly gooses why are you here?! We need to go to CBS. We need to go to CNN! We need to shoot a flare in to the sky and get the Vatican secret service here, to helicopter us to safety. This information can’t get in to the wrong hands—can you imagine?’ So I take out my phone and pretend to punch in three numbers, I’m holding one of these fuckers by the shoulder—the fat one. They look so confused. They’re looking at each other. Fucking cunts. The skinny one starts asking me who I’m calling—these two were like those two chipmunks from Alvin and the Chipmunks, the fat one and the tall, skinny one I swear.”

Cereal and milk spray on to the table.

>>7225839

[Continued]

“So, here I am pretending I’m talking to the fucking police, right? These two are shitting their pants, they’re so flustered, the spineless fucking idiots. The skinny one makes a motion to leave and I tell them ‘No, no, no, no, NO—Hello? Oh you bet this is an emergency, lady. I’m at Willow Grove mall right now and—oh well, that’s not the point—no, this isn’t a prank call, this is the most important call that will ever be made in the history of the universe. Today is going to be a holiday, if not this whole month. Lady, I hope you’re sitting down and I hope you have your inhaler and boy are you going to be glad you didn’t skip work today. I have these two guys right here that have evidence, yes, real-life evidence that God exists. I don’t know why they’re telling me either, I’m 17 and in a mall—I’m trying to buy dog food, Blue Buffalo,’ and I’m shouting at this point, there are people staring, these two fucks are speed walking to the exit so I’m right on their heels, yelling even louder, ‘Yes, these two Spanish gentlemen in Willow Grove—right next to the Coldstone—they look like faggots but they’re actually prophets. Literally Moses and Muhammed in this godless, Honey-Boo-Boo, yoga pants era of filth and hyper-vanity. Spinoza was wrong, Descartes was wrong, Leibniz was wrong.’ We’re in the parking garage at this point, and no one’s around. They turn back at me—the fat one looks like he just finished an Ironman—and the skinny one looks pretty pissed. He starts huffing and puffing and asking me why did you do that, why did you do that? And I tell them what do you mean?”

Allen stops to cough and blow his nose. Jack’s given up eating, and leans back in his chair, listening, grinning.

“And I just smile at them. I just give them this big, fat, obnoxious, shit-eating grin. They’re standing there, so confused. And I take a step closer, put my hands in my pockets, look at the ground real shy-like, and tell ‘em ‘fellas, to be honest, I just think you’re both kinda cute. This is kinda one of my fantasies. This guy looks like he can handle a cock,’ I point at the fat one, ‘so how about we get in the back of your shit-bucket and you stick one in my shit-bucket?’

>>7225784
Poor people are pretty funny, aren't they?

>>7225857

I'm thinking of removing/editing that bit about the hicks to make it less scalding. Makes the narrator seem a bit too much of a jerk-off.

>>7224102
I'm a confusing man.

>>7225110
How's this?

First week:

I internalize the faces of too many strangers on these streets and through these halls so when I sleep all day the dream and reality are identical
Please don't get me sick
Please don't get me sick
I found a single slippery sandal last night
A rough rancid realistically unoriginal sandal
That was too small to be mine but just large enough to be significant
Please don't get me sick
Please don't get me sick
I have vivid flashbacks of the times I walked home alone
Introductory, perfunctory, seemingly circadian phrases by which I am bludgeoned with on a daily basis
angry patriarchs with shiny heads and sunglasses that they don't need to see at night stare bitterly infront of themselves
Please don't get me sick
Please don't get me sick
I'm forgetting a piece of me wherever I go
From strands of hair to newspaper I am forgetting
I think I forgot my allergy meds this morning!
Please don't get me sick
Please don't get me sick
I fell asleep in puddles
I struggle with the action of answering, but not asking big questions
I second guess their significance in my world view based on the assumption that they have been answered for me. I know this is wrong, but it's something I can't help but do
Please don't get me sick
Please don't get me sick
Is the only thing I have right?
being fundamentally wrong?
Where did this all start?


I need a new way to see others and myself so that I can stay
happy as long as I don't get sick
I hate being sick
Please don't get me sick
Please don't get me sick

my diary tbh:

For a brighter future:
Feeling a flash of normalcy. A good weekend, good friends, substance use to a minimum. Laying on the rugby field, holding my ankle, everyone agasp, And then I can stand up, and a chorus claps me on, chanting my name, more than fifty in unison. The kid's going to be alright, after all. Friends. Social security.

I was a missile out there. Cracking the ribs of a guy who outweighed me by forty pounds. Watching him fail to get up sowie the Seventh Second. The placement of my forceful shoulder just under his arm pit, and I sunk in as if to indicate that this is going to hurt him a lot. I was a missile out there, clearing the ruck with insane force. Throwing my body at the stalemate and securing it all. Fucking kids up in general. Chasing a kick to the unfortunate fate of the enemy receiver.

And she noch besser. Attracted to care. Self-fulfilling prophecy, just like going in for a kiss. Excitement for tomorrow. Content with today. I woke up this morning quickly. Snoozed twice after five and a half hours of sleep. I'm great. I feel great. The look on her face when we set a lunch, and the image in my mind when I found out I have an interview not an hour before, so I'd be wearing a borrowed suit during. And the suit fits so well. My friends are my dimensions minus thirty pounds of muscle mass. Hug the neck and traps, frame the shoulders, tight on the back, pants snug to my tree trunks.

It was seemingly spontaneous, but I know that's what she was going for. Did I keep up my end of the deal? She sat down next to me, seeing I was in pain, and tended to my bruised body. I hope I was wearing a shirt. Regardless, my arm melted to her side and pulled her little body close. And she was going to have to go, and our heads were close, and she turned and leaned in, and I delayed, or did I? Regardless, smiles and warm feelings.

Excitement to tell her about killing the interview, dressed to impress, and then gradually transition into my obscurity. An animation of the Seventh Second, adrenaline's image of the Seventh Second, two film screenings of the movie of the Seventh Second, writing the Seventh Second, lifting the Seventh Second, being raised with the Seventh Second, being homeless with the Seventh Second, snorting the Seventh Second, dreaming the Seventh Second, being the Seventh Second.

It was so innocent. It was nothing more than a musing of affection--impulsive, feeling, rewarding, smiling, beginning. Living laughing and loving for the first time since I can remember, very possibly the first time since I was with the cows and homeschooled sitting on the roof of my barn eating a bucket of raspberries picked off the bushes with my cousins and sister going to the neighbor's pool later.

Green of the leaves through the open blind of my neighborhood. My house, for the first time, not being a monument to my depression, to the cocaine and alcohol, or weed and the avoidance of all responsibility.

Investing for the future.

>>7226425
schizophrenia

Oooooh man, I'm a virgin. Day 1: the bunceatournce is here again. Maman better get my tendies, oh wait she's dead. oooooh buddy. The more you read the more you write

>>7216547
I liked it.

My favourite part was: "Woman aren't human beings, not fully human beings anyway. They're missing a lot of what we call humanity."

The raw gloom of night serves as a cloak for Jeremy as he sets off from his humble studio apartment. Most cities ignore sleep as the sun creeps down under the horizon, yet Easton devolves from a screaming college town into a quiet cramped farm side hamlet. Where cars, during the day, would roar past Jeremy lunging out Starbucks and other corporate waste, belching out engine clunks, and spewing out tremendous plumes of midnight black exhaust, they now are driven by old locals who know you go nowhere fast pounding on the pedal. The streets are cracked pale grey asphalt, the sidewalks look as though they’re miniature recreations of the moon’s surface, the houses are in dis-repair with small groups of underpaid underpraised civilians, few of which Jeremy could recognize if he would lift his head above the two block walk ahead of him, gathered in front. This is the bad part of town, but even then it’s not a ‘bad’ part, there are no drug dealers, the only shooting Easton had last year was in the suburbs between a battered wife and her dog, and the worst that’ll happen walking through this part of town are overwrought feelings of paranoia or a proposition from a working lady. While the city had calmed from its Adderall high the lights above Jeremy still blazed in white agony throwing their energy into the sky, blocking out every heaven fall light save for the best and brightest, and of course the ever present moon, much like the opposite of the kiddy land gang territory that Jeremy lived in.

Jeremy reached the outside of the CVS he worked at only minutes later. He was the Third Shift manager, which just meant he was the sole employee of the store from 10pm to 6am. The store itself had just been renovated a year ago. It’s old, now removed, white panel siding was the shell of a much older defunct business that CVS, much like a crab, fought to the last dollar to inhabit. That had to be twenty years ago. Now it was much cleaner and held a modern look of sanded down brown bricks, crowned with a red planks giving it that homely feel that marketing agencies love so much. The sign too turned from the older more rigid logo to a smoother leaner look. In actuality this sign was the exact same size and shape just the iconography of the letters had been smoothed ever so slightly. The V and S were both taken out first and relit with clean, bright, neon, the C was too but it had already burnt out. Inside he hit the bathroom to change from a dark green hoodie into an unbuttoned white button up over grease stained grey shirt he’s been wearing for a week straight, faded blue jeans to tight fitting black dress pants, and then the red vest, CVS in white lettering over his heart, a badge reading JERMEY next to that.

>>7226861
As he logged into his register he pulled out a clipboard, two slips of paper were clipped on, one that read off all the duties and responsibilities he had for the day. Boring and mundane in totality and tonality. The other was a long piece of receipt paper he printed out yesterday. It was titled, ‘Times Someone asks, “Is this VS –Or What?-“’ which was made to subvert the other. Day 1 had twenty checks next to it. He wrote out Day 2 and began his tour of the store this being a walk at a pace close to the bacteria lurching across his skin. He checks the bathrooms, aisles, the merchandise, the backlog –stopping ever so often to look back into the store to make sure no one had entered yet- the overstock that the previous sales representative, either Davey or Brianna, left in the back room. He pours a cup of cold coffee, drowns the liquid in creamer and sugar, buys a red bull, and strikes another off the item registry, taking all three and himself to his stand at the register. Diana was there waiting for him. She’s a regular, possibly either a worker of the street or the state dressed in a neon tube top, slick leather pants, and a hair style ripped from GQ’s ‘up and coming’ section. She smiles at him, ‘You want to talk about the weather like normal people?’

‘Fuck the weather.’

Diana laughs and pays for her things. Jeremy nods and smiles. She leaves her change on the counter, the smell of her cherry blossom perfume in the air, and walks out unto the dark streets.

A few random people come buy. They leave without words, or leave giving out a smile, a ‘have a nice night’, upon receiving their change. Jeremy wears the same exact blank stare, breaking it then and again to spare a smile or a nod. Not out of hate or despise of the customer, or even his job. He had neutral feelings towards CVS. They paid him too much to mind a register for 9 hours a day in his never said opinion. Like most Americans he would say he would like to be paid more even though he knows he’s paid just enough. At least he hopes other people know they’re paid just enough.

A short man with large teeth, a thick black trench coat, what seems to be a swollen face enters the store.

‘Oh good, it's Jeremy.’ Jeffery smiles as he speaks, his teeth are yellowed and blackened in all the wrong places. Jeremy spares a blank eyed nod, his eyes tracing the man as he bumbles around the store with an absent minded slaked look. Jeffery walked through the aisles for a moment before coming to the magazine rack, his eyes going from TIME to gun magazines, the ones that polish and position guns like the Maxim’s they sit next to; another object for the brain dead to ogle. ‘I know they’re tracing me,’ Jeffery says picking up one of the magazines and flicking through it. ‘It’s why I can’t buy from these you know.’

>>7226865
‘Oh really.’

‘Of course. You buy a gun from these sellers. Then they send you mail. You can’t send it to your friends… Anyway. You buy it and you get it and they put on the watch list.’

‘Like for advertisers.’

‘No. Big Dogs. Rough dogs with no leash man.’

‘Government?’

‘Yup. Those bullies with their real guns. Sure they’ll let you have Carbines. Pistol. Nothing to start a revolution.’

‘What would you revolt against?’

Jeffery scoffs. His eyes rolling behind the magazine. He mumbles his next words and coughs. Repeating what he just said ‘What wouldn’t you revolt against in this pig sty?’
‘My job’

‘You say that now my friend. You say that now. All the taxes… For cops. For programs that watch what you buy. The programs. They take the money out of your paycheck.’
‘Well what do you do?’

‘Whatever doesn’t tax.’

Jeremy withheld the urge to say ‘Nothing?’ and instead said, ‘Odd jobs?’

‘In a way.’ Jeffery gave him the type of look one gay man would give a straight guy when that guy said something particularly homophobic or derogatory. ‘In a way.’ Jeffery put down the gun rag and left without buying a thing. Jeremy shook his head walking over to fix the magazine rack.

For the next hour Jeremy studied the tile pattern. It dawned on him no one had asked if it was now the VS instead of CVS. Everyone must have gotten used to the shock of a brand new light going out. Or the light had magically repaired itself. Hell if the managers are going to spring up the thousands to replace burned out plasma/LED/Neon or whatever they use in those signs.

Marissa entered the store with a sigh. She’s a young woman with bags under her eyes larger than the miniature plastics beside the register. Her skin is pale for a mixed girl and to compensate she bakes a cake of base over her complexion to alter her tone down a few pegs. The makeup cake would reflect light like a sand dune, given off a strange unearthly texture as a result. She smiles and picks up a coke.

‘Ever see those videos, the ones where they melt stuff with Soda.’

‘Yeah.’ Jeremy rings it up, ‘You can buy another for just .50 cents.’

‘Well you seen those videos right.’

‘If you’re drinkin’ one might as well make it two.’

‘How American.’ She flashes teeth then cash. Jeremy nods.

‘Aren’t we all?’

She laughs, takes her coke, and leaves. Jeremy is left once again with not a thing to do. He studies the ceiling panels for the next two hours ringing up a couple of customers. One asks the question, ‘Is this VS? Or CVS’ Jeremy responds with canned laughter and shortens his change by a dime. That’ll show him.

http://pastebin.com/HUFH09Na

Please give me your opinions /lit/. I do not think too highly of my own work. I have not reached a good level of confidence yet and that no doubt is shown in my work.

'Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo' he thought to himself as he lay in bed.

'Yes it does make sense, you fucking shill' he said out loud to no one in particular

It did make sense after all, only the fucking idiots he was usually surrounded by didn't get it.

The next day he walked in to the bar that he'd started working at. He went up to the girl he had developed a crush on and said:

'Colorless green ideas sleep furiously'

She looked at him uncertainly, eyebrows knit with confusion. After a short pause he announced:

'OH MY GOD, AHAHAHAHA, YOU DON'T GET IT. IT TECHNICALLY FUCKING MAKES SENSE YOU SHILL.'

He immediately left the bar ignoring his manager stating to him that his shift had just begun.

He had to take some time to come to grips with this. He laughed to himself, the whole walk home, he simply could not believe her shillery.

There should be a rule that states you cannot post your work to critique until you post at least one critique.

These threads are turning in to useless piles of amateur writing with little to none actual critiquing.

>>7219124
Blatant rip off of Notalkingplz...

>>7216547
Off the cuff. Do I have anything?

Standing in the paneled hallways of the subway station, staring at the grime tinged reflection of the young kid busking with a rusted trumpet, the sound hunting out sympathetic ears with its dissonant bark, I contemplated the end of my career.
Before we continue, that penny flattening noise you're hearing, that little head to the tracks voice telling you a train called suicide is rounding the bend of this plot, you can tell it to fuck off. I don't pedal in that bullshit— I'm not sensitive enough. Instead, how about we all agree that Goethe covered most of it? If you're looking for that kind of pathos look elsewhere. The window dressing trumpet kid won't give you any either.
I was too nervous to stare back it his puffed out eyes, straining out against the tetanuspiece at the end of the trumpet. How much of it was design? The canvas jacket, twenty dollar bill just falling out of the chest pocket, cardboard box folded out in front of the empty payphone boxes whose exposed dot pattern looked like a couple of stacked dice. It was obviously all a story, prefabricated. The question of its honesty was one that required a movement beyond reflection. Still, the mirror bears more to me than his face will ever see.
When you're anxious, everything's a story.

>>7226904

What you have here is a collection of clumsily structured fragments very, very loosely held together with questionable grammar.

It's like you're trying to develop the entirety of this guy's character in as short a space as possible.

My advice: read intro-level writing books because it is apparent you have a very shallow grasp of English and storytelling.

>>7216547
Off the cuff. Do I have anything?

Standing in the paneled hallways of the subway station, staring at the grime tinged reflection of the young kid busking with a rusted trumpet, the sound hunting out sympathetic ears with its dissonant bark, I contemplated the end of my career.
Before we continue, that penny flattening noise you're hearing, that little head to the tracks voice telling you a train called suicide is rounding the bend of this plot, you can tell it to fuck off. I don't pedal in that bullshit— I'm not sensitive enough. Instead, how about we all agree that Goethe covered most of it? If you're looking for that kind of pathos look elsewhere. The window dressing trumpet kid won't give you any either.
I was too nervous to stare back it his puffed out eyes, straining out against the tetanuspiece at the end of the trumpet. How much of it was design? The canvas jacket, twenty dollar bill just falling out of the chest pocket, cardboard box folded out in front of the empty payphone boxes whose exposed dot pattern looked like a couple of stacked dice. It was obviously all a story, prefabricated. The question of its honesty was one that required a movement beyond reflection. Still, the mirror bares more to me than his face will ever see.
When you're anxious, everything's a story.

>>7226936
Stunning critique

Off the cuff? Do I have anything?

Standing in the paneled hallways of the subway station, staring at the grime tinged reflection of the young kid busking with a rusted trumpet, the sound hunting out sympathetic ears with its dissonant bark, I contemplated the end of my career.
Before we continue, that penny flattening noise you're hearing, that little head to the tracks voice telling you a train called suicide is rounding the bend of this plot, you can tell it to fuck off. I don't pedal in that bullshit— I'm not sensitive enough. Instead, how about we all agree that Goethe covered most of it? If you're looking for that kind of pathos look elsewhere. The window dressing trumpet kid won't give you any either.
I was too nervous to stare back at his puffed out eyes, straining out against the tetanuspiece at the end of the trumpet. How much of it was design? The canvas jacket, twenty dollar bill just falling out of the chest pocket, cardboard box folded out in front of the empty payphone boxes whose exposed dot pattern looked like a couple of stacked dice. It was obviously all a story, prefabricated. The question of its honesty was one that required a movement beyond reflection. Still, the mirror bares more to me than his face will ever see.
When you're anxious, everything's a story.

>>7226894
This seems translated, but otherwise is a nice read. It's a pleasant atmosphere and I enjoyed most of your descriptions. Overall if you work on softening up the akward sentences you would have a really good story here.

>>7226904
so wait, are you misusing the word shill here intentionally or...

>>7226963
Im trying to create a story based off of my experiences in a psych ward, mixed with my own aesthetic preferences. I find it interesting that you said it sounds translated. A few threads ago I shared an older draft of this opening and one person commented on it feeling very stilted, so I would assume this is something I need to focus on. Soften it up, make it flow better. Could you give me some examples on these awkward sentences so I could sit in my bed tonight playing around with them? If it isnt too much trouble could you clarify on why they feel not up to scratch? Ive scrapped chunks of this opening before and rewritten them completely, im very willing to do more of that.

>>7225110
tips guys pls

>>7226974
This is an excerpt of the novel within the novel in which the character of my novel is writing his novel which is a logging of his take on the events of his life.

One of my submitted stories for my fiction writing course. Got a good reception so far but the people in my class are pretty timid with critiquing and I need harsher criticism to improve.

What do you guys think?

http://pastebin.com/CNUQEiss

>>7226961
The goethe reference is dissonant with the tone of the passage and seems unnecessary. I think the use of run-ons and needlessly complex sentence structure actually serves you well here. The first sentence should be broken up or structured more traditionally.

>>7226871
I don't know where this is going but it is well written and paced.

>>7226997

Particularly, what do you guys think of this line:

The fear kept him rigid at night. He’d try to seem clear and happy in front of the other men, as some of them undoubtedly did as well, but sapping darkness consumed him. It leeched any budding emotion that was not itself in some form: Apprehension during the frigid morning march to the frontline, the daily, unceasing anxiety that he seemed to wear as a garment since he’d left home. The thoughts of taking his own life rather than live strapped to hell that, at first, only faintly whispered to him in the lonely darkness of his troop tent, but then, feeding from the boy’s decay, had grown stronger and raked at his soul and hissed promises of relief. The thoughts of running. The shame of doing so—even the thought.

>>7226999
If there's one thing my CW professor complimented me on. aside from my use of metaphor, it was my use of run-ons. Glad to know he's still right.

>>7226997
This is overwritten as fuck. Extremely vivid, but exhausting. If that's the intention, than good job. However, consider the idea that not every sentence needs to be a rigmarole of verbal dexterity in order for the reader to feel something.

i absolutely hate this


We return, and with us heavens. When you smile, the fuzz in simple things springs to kiss the face of permanence in my eyes, and in the air. Something is falling from the sky, whistling in agony, wailing in high cadence. I wound of plenty beastly, screaming penance top to bottom, Crying out of the fine details by every pinch of my skin, the multiplicity of shades one as under the viscous yellow haze of summerrise or second the crypt ferronitrile blue tucking her breeze onto us goodnight all fair and well, the vascular marathons and my indefatigable red heroes singing the corporeal chantey by my chamber doors ajar, dentures I know of and bruises left unbandaged, every tuft of hair unique, and the count of ruptures, scratches, graze and motley others---

To the feet soles midway to the kneecaps up my femur to the thighs, up my rod, lodged in my spine discs, tumescing in my stomach then lending itself out from the knot to the shoulders twain to the humerus, by every bicep tendon be it calm or terrified sick, to the ulna, rotating my axis in radius to the wooden palm, not atrophied but withered in love’s long pursuit, downward, biting away my knuckles’ rust to the fingertips, the swelling of my lips and blush, the extraneous flesh left hung as in blasphemous error and the ears, nose crooked and handsomely put breast, every and any shed tear weighs a hundred spoken truths, every stone on the earth rummaged and overturned.

If upon the idea chanced a weathered traveler, ravaged, man in synchronicity one man a most satisfied man, man out of his mannered ways man sly and broad, cunning man, ruthless and less more or less pitiless man, what becomes of our man? We lift him in our ranks, sure. We suspend him in a sea, under the sky, below a cloud, there be no kith of his the stretch of his eyes long they discern. A man is stultified, and he feels as if pinwheeling is a sacred rt and, truthfully, the archangel now only had relayed his instructions. Our man is mad, and with his diabolic laughter retraces in true health the pith to his thinning soul and stun, like thunderbolt, tickle me this, mortal. In the metamorphoses of man---

>>7225110
"coruscating" doesn't seem like the right word here. Your meaning isn't entirely clear but I'd assume the word "cauterizing" is what you're going for?

You're overusing metaphor in the passage, and for the most part the metaphors you're choosing seem basically unrelated to the tone or thematic content of the passage, which makes the passage read strangely. It's okay to just describe things directly.

>>7227008
>rigid
>frigid

>>7226999

>>7226861 Here. Thanks for the criticism, it's practically going to be a slice of life drama about terminal illness and how people ope with impending death.

woke up from a bad dream and got this down quickly last night, I think I can work it into something I already wanted to do

Edward Stills rolled on through an unending night. The heat of the room and the pressure inside his skull seemed unable to equalise and his sleep was fitful. He dozed and woke in rapid cycles, aware that he was drenched in sweat and terrified but unable to drag himself around to consciousness long enough to breathe, to pace the room, anything.
His dreams bled into the room and vice versa . In sleeping moments a photoset from long ago would drift slowly across his mind’s eye; noisy greyscale images of modernity imbued with a terrible threat. He would dream a set of enormously wide and clean concrete steps on which nobody ever trod, leading to a faceless monster of a building framed in jungle. The sodium lamps lining the steps would remain burning in the back of his mind as he slipped half-awake again, details and figures coming in a nonsense trickle as the stifling hotel room closed around him.
Somewhere in the hotel around him waterworks clanged and he startled, burying his face in sheets. The trickle of half-remembered details became a flood; people in massive numbers scooped from their livelihood and force-marched into waiting empty cities, five year plans and death tolls as the new way proved its lack of foresight. Comparison shots flickered across the dark of humble towns cut into clearings which became grander and more brutalist year upon year. Workshops became endless gleaming assembly lines decaying. And all the while a mounting sense of dread as the scale of the mistake bore down on him in the dark and his teeth ground together, panicking in his sweat soaked bed as he tried to escape a place he had never been.

>>7227093

?

I meant along the lines of scared stiff, so rigid would be the appropriate word here.

>>7226904
masterful

>>7226977
Really it's our transitions between paragraphs, A good exercise to do when writing is just read your text aloud. It lets you feel the flow through your ears rather than reading it off, also when you're flat reading you tend to skip through things you already know, which is flatens out pesky stiff transitions. Also try more hard cuts. I feel you're really attempting to interconnect most of what you have and that sometimes is counter productive, every single detail is not needed and I for one enjoy filling in the blanks with my own imagination.

also my story is here, >>7226861 Been doing a few critiques here and there.

>>7227109
Don't immediately start with the full name, work it into the story, other wise it's sensory overload. This is definitely jotted down, expand more, it's too frantic in its current state to really enjoy. But I like the mood that's set right now, work on just proof reading for now.

>>7227044
This has some nice sentence structure, and it's very vivid, but there's no tension as there's nothing for the reader to connect with. Right now it's a beautiful piece with no edge. It can be something gawked at once then forgotten. Add in a good character, or just a bit of embellishing either before or after to what exactly creates this scene, and I feel this would work much better.

>>7227143
>work on just proof reading for now.

Thanks m80. As you say, I literally crawled out of bed and typed that out so it's a mess. I'd like to make it *more* frantic though if anything, without making it unreadable. I get a kick out of trying to put that sweaty nightmare atmosphere across.

>>7227159
With a little expansion and proof reading it'll be a great microfiction.

>>7227143
The writer of >>7227044 here. And yes, a character would be a nicety, but the purpose of the passage in its context was just to shroud mystery, heck, I only intended it as filler. There's just something that irks me about it that I can't put my finger to.

>>7225011
I'm just going to assume this sounds as much better to everyone else as it does to me.

We made the dark our own, for we would move alone.
Endless hours of work, with no path but murk.
We moved without rest, told that it’s a test.
I met one of my kind, our fight left him blind.
I had to move on, will I see my dawn?
The first time I saw her, I knew not who we were.
I tried to see, to stay, but chains kept me away.
Was it really just chance, my world was in a glance.
The chains brought back the dark. She had left her soft mark.
They gave me new tools; did they think us fools?
When the dark failed to see, then I made myself free.
A puppet without strings, I sought to make my wings.
I leapt from my cog, soared above the dismal fog.
But in their blind wrath, did they attack my path?
Dark where she had been, was lost without my kin.
Her chains were still held taut, this wouldn’t be for naught.
All skills that they had given, new life, now I was driven.
Out of their grip she came, shadows then sought to maim.
I thought I could still see, but the blind one was me.
Was blind from my first sin, unkind was his mad grin.
I thought myself a king, so he ripped off my wing.
I turned and fought as before. But darkness had made him more.
Seeing what had been done, all I could do was run.
There was no pain so much, that I would lose her touch.
He watched us take flight, to flee to waning light.
The flight made me wince and gasp, to pay the price at last.
Too late I found the way, too far for wings to stay.
He knew where I would fall, the first and final wall.
I had one more gift, hers the last lift.

>>7227221
I understand, but I see nothing wrong with the passage other than what I listed. It's a rather nice bit, it's detachment from anything human might be the bothersome element, but I'm just speculating.

>>7227044
The problem is that you're avoiding saying whatever it is that you want to say. Hence the circumlocution.

>>7216547
Les livres sont comme des bols.
On les jette dans des éviers,
on évite de trop y penser,
on s'en occupe quand on peut.

Et quand ils sont bien nettoyés,
tout imbibés de formol,
alors la seulement on peut,
y mettre enfin tout ce qu'on veut.

Les magazines sont des assiettes,
elles sont moins profondes et se prêtent,
a des repas moins assidus.
Si bien qu'enlevant les arêtes,
l'on est difficilement repu.

Et les poèmes sont des grands vases.
Oui des vastes puits d'eau saline
et toutes les nuits je nage
dans leur pluie bleuté d'opaline
même si je sait qu'elle est factice
même si je sait qu'elle est factice.

Oui venez, sombres alchimistes
gourmets, cuistots moléculaires
les cristaux a l'annulaire
soyez tous conviés au banquet !

Car dans un baquet de soupe aigre
je fais mijoter le sacré
Car quelques restes de la veille
sont pour moi des trésors cachés

Minuit et quart
en faisant la vaisselle je danse.
Et nettoie ce qu'on laisse toujours
au fond de la corne d'abondance.

http://pastebin.com/KmEWH47a

It's in spanish.

pls no bully

Paul sat on his wretched mattress, curled his head into his knees, and began to cry. He cried for broken promises, for shattered dreams, in terror and in horror, but mostly for himself, because in his mind the nightmare of reality had shown him all he had to lose.

Soon the crying became more animated. He took gasps of stale air in between long howls and short sobs. The taste was ashen. He took comfort in his swollen cheeks, which stung pleasantly on his face, and the tears splashing down on his arms. Anything that there is to feel. He hugged himself tighter. Beyond that there was relief, relief that one can only cry for so long before one is defeated senseless, the bitter-sweet reward of a body gone numb with misfortune.

After a long time sitting there, after the tears dried themselves and the sniffing subsided, he reached forward sluggishly to open the curtains, which had been neglected for days. It was November, and school had finished hours ago. Outside there was nothing but the ever-present glare of the street-light, cruelly pointed in his direction, and the impenetrable concrete afforestation, which consumed everything. In the middle of the scene stood a spidery ash tree, naked and distinguished by a black silhouette. With some effort against the stiff mechanism, Paul opened the window latch and the cold Northern air met him there, determined as he was to purge the stinking atmosphere he sat in. However it was dark enough outside that he could not ignore his own pathetic reflection in the window pane, and his heart sank, painstakingly aware of the ridiculous illumination projected out into the world. Eagerly he closed the curtains again, picturesque in comparison.

Somewhere above the apartment buildings, obscured by the city lights and smog, the stars ruminated. Each individual was remarkable in its own right, but no one could see, or cared to see its redeeming qualities; so from down here they looked incredibly dull, or worse, invisible. Unimaginable physical reactions were taking place at each point, unfathomable scale and power and complexity, whole worlds created and burned and born again, without conscience.

>>7227372
sorry for being mean it's just my job

cliche/uninspired
>in terror and in horror
>the nightmare of reality
>long howls and short sobs
>relief, relief
>the cold Northern air met him there
>his heart sank

poor word choice
>stale air
>stung pleasantly
>sniffing
>sluggishly
>afforestation
>eagerly
>picturesque

overall quite spotty, i suggest you read more and pick a more engaging subject to write about. not wholly without merit, keep at it.

(1/2) some more from last night

The young soldier was stationed in hospital by a spindly river on the southern half of that eastern country. Calling it a hospital was like calling a threadbare tent a mansion, but on a battlefield there is only ever a mimicry of order. As a medic, the young soldier saved the lives of many of his brothers in arms, but for every soldier he saved, two more died under his care. After each patient he treated, the soldier sat on a plywood bench and thought to himself how cruel it all was. For though he brought many men back from the brink of death, he could only ever heal, and never protect. He thought about how, like the politicians and generals who sent his brothers in arms to their deaths from between cushy leather chairs and shiny mahogany desks, he had never risked his life for them, and he wondered whether that made him as heartless as them. He knew deep within him that his worries were foolish, but when a man sees his friends die, the saddest parts of him wish he had been there with them.

On summer morning as the sun turned red on the horizon, the northern countrymen surged forth and overwhelmed the camp. Men barely awake stumbled to their rifles and were shot before they could raise them to aim. Realizing this was not a battle that could be won, the soldiers of Ziz and the Southern Country ran to their trucks while a few braver men returned held back the enemy advance. In the hospital, the doctors, nurses, and the young soldier too began carrying the sick and wounded into the backs of their trucks.
As a tiny nurse dragged a bandaged man towards the trucks, a bullet tore through the tarp of the hospital tent and she fell dead on the dirt floor. An grey haired old doctor yelled out in pain, clutching gauze to a wound on his shoulder. A hoarse-voiced soldier in barged in to the tent and yelled that the northmen had broken through before a spray of bullets tore through his back and out his front.

>>7227372
for the record, I liked it, but maybe the star metaphor at the end was a little heavy-handed

>>7227441
I would say you are right. Thanks

>>7227450 (2/2)

The young soldier knew that the rules of war forbade attacking hospitals, medics and wounded soldiers, but he also knew that men full of bloodlust rarely followed rules of conduct. “Get the wounded out of here!” He yelled as he grabbed the rifle from the fallen soldier’s twitching fingers. Outside, the northern countrymen were swarming from the river like a plague of frogs. The young soldier crouched behind sand bags that had been stacked along the edge of the beach and fired upon the enemy. To his astonishment, every time his rifle passed over an enemy soldier his heart jumped into his throat and he found he couldn’t pull the trigger. “They look just like me,” he realized. Though their hair was much darker than his, and their eyes more like almond in shape, they were young men just like him, young men with eyes full of fear that they might never see tomorrow.
A man was next to the young soldier, yelling at him to pick the gun back up. He did and rather than shoot at the enemy soldiers he shot at their feet. The bullets kicked up sprays of sand and silt, causing the enemy soldiers to skid to a stop and dive for cover behind dunes and trees.
Somewhere behind him he heard a familiar voice yell “The wounded are secured! Fall back!” The soldiers hiding behind the walls of sandbags turned and ran for the trucks. As the young soldier ran back through the empty hospital to the trucks he stumbled over the body of the same soldier that had been shot through the back. To his surprise, the man let out a faint, painful sounding wheeze. He was still alive, but in their haste the hospital staff had filed to check him for a pulse. With great difficulty, the young soldier carried the man on his shoulder to the trucks, most of which were already a great distance down the road. As a tree of helping hands pulled the half-dead soldier onto the last truck, the young soldier felt something like an electric shock run through him, and his left leg went limp underneath him. All of a sudden his head felt like it was full of cotton, and the last thing he remembered before he passed out was an arm wrapping around his.

>>7227372
>>7227143 Here,

I would like to know more about the character other than his angst, I do like the final paragraph and its reflection on the character's current mental state. However honestly this is really boring. Unless this evolves into a much better plot it's current state is some whiny teenager locking himself in his room a crying like an angsty brat. Functioning adults are not like this. Most of them age out of this phase and how they react to situations as adults would make for much better fiction.

To the people above, I only speak English and enough french to speak with Froggy Canadians. I do like the flow and sound of your poem >>7227274 but alas I cannot understand any of it save for a few spare words.

Sorry for posting some of the same sections in each thread, but I keep editing them and feel that they are better in context. Anyways, r8, h8, rehabilit8.

Light through lids, steel screams, the blurred image of a room in the early morn. Fog erased the world outside the window, leaving a white void in which the room was alone, a one in zero--all values between but a confluence 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….
The sibilant swish of his trousers followed him through the hall, into the kitchen, where a small light painted shadows with its sodium glow and the faint scent of coffee hung in the air, resurging as it poured to pot like liquid earth. After transference, he lifted it, more by reflex than conscious thought, to his mouth: warmth in the throat, through the mug and in the stomach, residue in the cusp of his upper lip, another lap, the taste reaching maturity, unfolding, blooming across eager buds to spark up the whole tongue, which probed between teeth for flake and frost after biting into pastry. A wipe of the mouth and then the hands, a quick sip of orange juice--his morning routine was finished: move to commute.
Dead leaves skittered across the sidewalk in the blowing wind--a bird whistled and was met with silence. Another whistle. Silence. The longings nature ignored led him through the blind of mist, which was occasionally broken by lamplight, glaring out of the nothing and then coming into view as starbursts, yellow quasars. Stronger wind, shaking of trees. He stared into the fog--felt it stare back.

>>7227472
There was a fog outside his window. He felt sad not seeing past the fog. He got up out of bed and went to the kitchen where he made breakfast.

Leaving his house he felt chilled by the autumn wind. With the fog so thick he felt quite alone.

>>7227521
Yep, pretty much. I'm going to expand it at some point but not too much: it's going to be a short story.

>>7227472

I enjoyed this a lot. Maybe dumb the prose down a little bit- 'antimeridian proprioceptors' are great as atmospheric punctuation but when you overdo it it sounds like you were writing with a thesaurus on your lap. I say this as someone who does the same shit constantly

>morn = morning
>vague, evanescent feelings = feelings
>Firing synapses, connecting neurons, proprioceptors whirring to life = synapses and neurons, coming to life
>the sibilant swish of his trousers = the sound of his clothes moving

you get me

>>7227553
I feel you, anon. And I agree that some of it is a bit much, but, more oft than not, obscure words are just more efficient than any other form of explanation. My usage of "proprioceptors", for example, directly indicates, to the right person, I guess, that he is about to move and do something.

>>7227597

Oh yeah I dug 'proprioceptors' itself, get that in somewhere. Just beware of sounding like mr. word of the week. Again, not being shitty, I'm exactly the same

>>7227624
It's cool, anon. Do you have anything posted in this thread?

>>7227109
>>7227637

it's literally nothing

>>7227715
I like it, anon. It's very much like my own writing, and even though another anon commented on you putting the character's full name at the very beginning, I think it is one of the most striking ways to begin a story.

where is simpsons shitposter :'(

>>7225969
>>7226982
????

>>7227079
>the metaphors you're choosing seem basically unrelated to the tone or thematic content of the passage
1. ur wrong
2. do you even know what the theme is lol

>>7227743

Ha, I like to throw it in early. It's hard enough describing what a character looks like without going 'he looked at himself in the mirror and brushed back his buoyant voluminous black hair etc etc', I don't need to be thinking of clever ways to slip their names in there

>>7227837
I feel you, man.

>>7223906
>>7224012
>>7227450
>>7227456

fuck, at this point I'm critiquing myself but this story has WAY too much buildup. I was trying to write a fantasy story, but I'm two pages in and there isn't a single fantasy element in it yet. It's going to start on this page but that feels way too late to start introducing a new genre into what's supposed to be a short story

>>7228027

I went back and read it and it's honestly a pretty good read. Some proofreading issues and it could stand to be a little snappier but I don't have any real criticisms to give you. I'd like to see you post it formatted better, it's hard to really get a sense of it while it's just a wall of greentext

He walked down the street. Why was he there? He didn't know, but the only reason he existed was for the pleasure of others. He was a slave, an anonymous creation, a faceless man, who winked into existence, burning through a short wick of several sentences, disappearing in a wisp of metaphorical smoke after his time was up, only for the fire to start again for another, and another, reincarnating as a literary servant until the end of days.

But at least he doesn't have to deal with the IRS.

>Wrote this up in 10 minutes, want criticism on my writing style and what not.

>>7228060
Pretty decent, especially your sentence structure, but the joke was not very good. Some of your word choices don't really work.

>>7228078
What word choices, exactly? Trying to figure out how to write before trying to write something with an actual plot.

>>7228128
>Trying to figure out how to write before trying to write something with an actual plot.
That is exactly what I do.
>anonymous creation
makes sense, but it's not very meaningful or striking since "creation" is such a sterile word.
>winked into existence
There is nothing wrong with this other than the fact that "winking" is not normally associated with coming into being.
>metaphorical
this is unnecessary unless you are writing metafiction of some sort.
>literary
do you mean literal?

>>7227889
Here, the story of Man & His relationship w/literature summ'd in 4 words—th' well of spirit opened up by a simple, str8forward, offhand comment by a yo-yo in a critique thread—!—

Th' three headed god: Baal, YHWH, & Osiris have marched out thru thy grimy fingers: I, the god buried by the Jews—Feel: the Juden God of wrath and jealousy—You: the god of Death, the ruler of the world of yr death, when ye pass forth into the minds of other mortal men to flow thru the aqueducts of nerves thru the generations—& finally, yr own addition: MAN—like a fgt hippy, but even further removed from the original jive-speak of the NA Negro, a shadow of a shadow of the shadow of the stolen people, man.

Ya feel me?

>>7228150
For literary, I was implying he was a slave towards the reader. Thanks for the other criticism, by the way. I need to use more "emotional" words? Make funnier jokes, too.

>>7227472
Ex D dubble dash. Let's u n i bring dis up a notch: em-dashes, plain (plane, haha get it?) n simple. '—'

>>7228232
I want to use emdashes but my shitty surface doesn't have a number pad, and Google Docs doesn't auto fix them. That aside, what did you think of it, cryptic one?

A quirk of the landscaping at Los Verdes Country Club created a phenomenon in the form of a vernal pool fed by waste water draining from several adjacent hills. The phenomenal thing about this already exceptional wetland was that no one could figure out what exactly should be done about it. On one hand many sought to shut down the Country Club entirely as it wasted water on a scale unimaginable to maintain the mirage of a Scottish moor in the arid California landscape. On another hand others saw the pool and its endangered denizens as being well worth the water expenditure. Two further hands held the opinions of the owners who were split over whether to capitalize on the pool or to eliminate it and any more of the publicity it was garnering. Even more hands held the opinions of everyone from seemingly unrelated corporate and government interest groups to locals angry about the outsider meddling. Handling all of this required something on the level of a Hindu God or Goddess who might be able to juggle every perspective without duress.

No matter which side it was though they desired constant updates on the status of the little swamp, and payments were always coming in for tests and advice on how to correct any diagnosed problems. It was late spring when the order came in to have someone go and collect soil and water samples to check the salt levels and see if they were within the predicted parameters. Of course this meant someone would have to make the the strenuous drive out to the Club in the morning and arduously make their way along the grounds in a golf cart. Luckily a man of a caliber not often seen was there at the early hour of 8:00AM with a mobile testing kit in one hand and a chorizo burrito in the other. Many would envy to be in his position with the golden morning sun at their back and the dewy morning grass between their toes. He had really meant it when he responded to the taqueria's cashier wish for him to have a great day with, "I will."

He was not alone though; ankle deep in the still water of the pool was the compact form of an old friend.
With an excited tone he said, "Eddy, what are you doing here?"
The figure already in the pool looked up with a slowness that made it seem as though he were being pulled away from something that attracted his attention with great force. "I'm working." Eddy said it like an accusation.

>>7227456 even more of this (1/2)

Seven times the soldier awakened only briefly, his head feeling like it was full of mattress foam, and seven times he fell back into a poppy-scented trance. When he finally awoke for real he was in a hospital, and not one with tarp walls and dirt floors. A woman he recognized as his mother sat in a chair by his bed. She offered him a paper cup of water and he realized his throat was dry and faintly crusty, as if he had slept for days with his mouth open. After some terrible hospital food, pills the size of his thumb, and a nurse with a voice like the whirr of a lawnmower informing him he was a very lucky man, the soldier left the hospital in a wheelchair with his left thigh wrapped in plaster.
The one-legged soldier found that the return to civilian life was not as pleasant as he had anticipated. Though his room was a good deal more comfortable than the trenches he had slept in, and though pastrami on rye was a large improvement on hard tack and canned meat, bed rest was a tragically boring prescription in the days when television was a luxury. As it was his was a family of modest wealth supported by the salary of a lone rabbi, one with a single broken radio and an ice box in place of a refrigerator. The soldier had sent money home to his family, but only a small portion of it had paid for anything other than groceries and rent. Though the rabbi kept a rather large library for a tenement that small, most of the books were religious scripts, translated badly from greek, yiddish and polish if they were translated at all. Within the first two days, the restless soldier had read through the few gems that were to be found: several magazines on the sciences of the day, two pulp fiction journals and a poorly-translated french short story called Ball of Fat.

>>7228210
I feel you, my african-american.

>>7228267 maybe now I'm coming on a bit too strong with the fantasy element out of nowhere. I think I need to blend this better and leave more of the fantasy to mystery (2/2)

After a third day spent trying to repair the broken radio, the one-legged soldier was growing desperate for a way to pass the time. His eyes wandered to his father’s collection of scriptures. The texts, he found, were every bit as daunting as he had imagined they would be. biblical quotes and odd phrases were intertwined with strange charts shaped like cypress trees that burned with letters and pictures of intersecting wheels made of wings with eyes along axels. There were drawing of tiny men in the heads of tadpole-shapes and scriptures meant to be painted across the fingers so that with the bending of each joint new passages were formed speaking rephrasings of the same psalm.
What the young soldier had found, though at the time he was scarcely aware, were compilations of great and mysterious magics. There are not a people upon the earth without their own tradition of sorcery, and form he had found from his father’s texts, Kabbalah was among the oldest that remained. What the boy learned from those strange texts was a connection many great rabbis over history had sought to understand. That man is the creation of god was no secret, nor was it that the souls within men were a piece of his divine being. But there existed other beings cut from the same divine cloth, strange and powerful things known as angels who were more soul than body. Those texts said in no uncertain terms that the line between angel and man was an illusion of human construction, and that our heavenly rank, that of the Ishim was entitled to similar powers to those held by the greater ranks, and lastly that one who could comprehend the true implications of this relationship could shed their mortal attachments to become beings known as the Bene Elohim.

>>7228259
Either bad or new sincerity masterpiece. I cannot tell.

>>7228255
Good 1st sentence.

>>7228275
A lot of words for a hacky joke. If I post this, will you die?

>>7228299
que?

>>7228285
Hmm. Thank you, I guess.

>>7228299
Are you sure you're responding to the right person?

>>7228363
Soulja boi? Still sucking th' big blue sky's tit, I see. Consider it's the same breast I feed from. And somehow it came to this. Do ye kno the legend of Ten X? It's th' man who can do X ten times better than other ppl. X means ten in letternumberspeak. So we can just say 'X'. It's an identifiable step towards the Overman.

Supersoak dat ho.

Yr writing about a soldier but also Kabbalah. Realize that Ke$ha was repeatedly drugged and raped by her manager—it's buried in the news, but it's there if you look—realize that the government slaughter of 100+ peaceful protesters is what started the (still ongoing) Ukraine crisis—also there if ye look—if ye remember—remember 2 look—explain yr premise in detail for us, plz do! I'm sure it will move mankind in a direction of—? I'm stump'd! Wha?

>>7228259
>The figure already in the pool looked up with a slowness that made it seem as though he were being pulled away from something that attracted his attention with great force.

badness

>>7228436
wow

>>7228027
We all just met on the /lit/ irc and decided ye should just give up on this one and start something else. NaNoWriMo is comin' up! Got any other idears?

>>7228437
Not even lulzy bad smdh :c

>>7228444
can I get critique from people who know how to type a single goddamn sentence?

I don't spend much time in these threads, but I just wrote up this ridiculous love confessional demanding my good friend to tell me aloud that he'll never be interested in me like that because I'm a delusional faggot and won't be able to drop it until he does.

It's not really literary per se, I just want someone to read it and tell me if I were to sound absolutely insufferable if I were to actually say everything I've written (though I'm welcome to anyone criticizing my decisions). Would that be appropriate to post?

>>7228462
You're anonymous. You've got literally nothing lose. Might as well do it.

>>7228471
Good point!

(1/2)
I'm gonna ask you to listen to everything I have to say in its entirety, partially because you have an awful habit of not letting anyone else speak ever and mostly because I want to say everything I want to say exactly how I want to say it. I wrote this beforehand, even this bit right now, which was particularly surreal because I had not technically written this yet. I'm sorry if this turns out to be a complete waste of your time, especially since we've kind of talked about what I'm going to talk about before in the vaguest terms, but I've been going absolutely insane over the past few months about it and I just need this, this exact interaction that's happening right now because it's the only way I can dispel my madness.

Point blank, I'm in love with you; obsessively so. I'm terrified of how much you're on my mind and you would probably be more than scared if you really knew the extent of my infatuation. I was content to just let it fade, but I think the cliche of love as an illness is true in a sense that I'm so fucking in love with you that I am mentally ill and my health is diminishing every second because of it. You make me feel more validated than I can humanly recall ever feeling; when we're talking after smoking and I'm too dumb to argue properly and you just shut me down, despite not always being exactly correct, or when I'm just freaking out because you haven't responded to a text for a while.

It's weird that we're friends, even more strange that I have the feelings I have for you. I'm a queer brown kid from suburban New Jersey that you met at late night dining hall hours presented as a pseudo campus social event with whom you have marginally little in common with, so it's absolutely fucking insane that I can spend as much time as I do with you, even just in my thoughts, and not lose my perspective on you when my perspective otherwise is constantly shifting. I have never been able to speak so frankly and openly with another person, to learn so much while just communicating with a another human being than I have while talking you.

>>7228459
I told you, it's been discussed already. Stop embarrassing yourself. You will be taken seriously when you learn to write.

>>7228477

I can't really 'critique' this as it's just a dude pouring his heart out and not a story but I enjoyed it. We've all been there m80

>>7228477

(2/2)

Unfortunately, or fortunately in terms of evaluating my grip on reality, my lovestruck is kept in check by a less vocal part of myself that knows that I'm absolutely fucking crazy. I can't think of a single way a rational person would think this stunt would go well for me; This is one of the most fruitless experiences available in the massive breath of the human experience. I actually googled one sided confessionals while typing this up and it was almost exactly the same anxieties, the same damaged, pathetic broken manchild behind the text.

So, with that, I just need you tell me, verbatim, "Anon, I have never and will never be attracted to you, romantically or otherwise" because a large factor of my delusion is constantly entertaining the fact that you might be interested in me just because I've never done exactly this.

If I've made you uncomfortable so much so that you're speechless, I can leave and you don't ever have to talk to me beyond pleasantries when we inevitably see each other, just because of how shared our social circles are and because neither of us would ever really want anyone else to know about this happening, should that be the case. Otherwise, if you're waiting to jump down my throat about how I'm wrong about something despite just confessing my feelings for you, then I'm done speaking.

>>7228490
I disagree that there isn't potential for critique of what I've written, but I mostly just appreciate that you've read it and given me feedback.

>>7228491
You sure this'll help? Like, if this person was on the.same page, best case scenario?

>>7228486

yeah, no. Your shitty little iirc doesn't decided whether or not I write my story or ask for critique. especially when the constituents apparently have to make an effort to follow the rules of spelling, grammar and punctuation

>>7228403
this is literally the most ghetto thing I have ever read. The fact that you think it's acceptable on a board dedicated to literature tells me you opinion is not of any value in this context. If at some point in the future I need to find someone willing to trade a hair weave for a blowjob I will seek your advice. until then you are dismissed

Unfortunately, fortunately, hands should be based on I, I love fucking'm Indian cloning of protected music, I do not know. This I do not think, I think that a reasonable good faith is not a lot of people experience provides guidance for quality film. Alone, and progwglïl, second, I'm sorry, man, cut around the right idea.

Love Here 'wisdom of the decade, because I want to be honest with you, I am interested me ,,,, Tamar has tried to entertaining, I have no reason why I can not, I said. "

We do not want to say good luck to the one in this case, I want to know more, it bothers you a lot, because I am, because life, you will see that you like dumb as a holiday at the same time. With your thoughts these days are completed, something happens on'm throat, I do not believe that any

>>7228513
Th' anger! Th' angst! Th' near incomprehensible grammar mistakes!

Honestly, if ye read the Meme Trilogy, ye will improve as a writer. And ye'd kno where I'm coming from. AND you'd be invited to th' underground /lit/ irc. It's where all the shitposting is coordinated

I'm surprized ye embarrass'd yrself further, but I won't be now!

>>7228508
I think he'll just say what I ask him to say and nothing will change, which is mostly what I want in the most sober sense. Obviously what I really want in terms of my inner carnal desires is for him to give me silence, and, as I turn away to leave, for him to grab me, turn me around and pull me into a kiss, passionately declaring his love for me.

Seeing as I don't live in a queer ya fiction novel though, I just want to get over this nonsense and get on with my life, learn how to have healthy relationships, etc.

I aspire to write a collection of magic realist short stories. This is a very rough early draft of one. They would all have a musical motif for the naming conventions. Somewhat inspired by the short stories of Borges and Joyce. I have only just begun working on this; it is my first attempt at writing.

I am not very confident about my writing ability and I often worry I will never make it as a writer. I would really appreciate brutal honesty.
http://pastebin.com/0NqmRUYq

>>7228560
My greatest fear is being pretentious while having no real merit to my work

>>7228560
Somewhat inspired? Don't lock yrself into their style. It's v obv. & let up on the damn semicolons. Yr using em incorrectly—it's OK every1 does.

>>7228665
Ok will remove semicolon

>>7228665
Have made some changes including changing the silly dialogue and using regular quotation marks instead of ripping off joyce

http://pastebin.com/TNXhJH5e

smell my ass nigga
lick my fart nigga
suck my balls nigga
ah yeah theres my juicy juice finish
upon the tainted realm of this orange juicean rhythmic nightmare cum inside me
holy jesus man
show me the trash can into this majestic centerfold

>>7228704
9/10 better than Kanye west

>>7228713
tha's racis'

>>7228210
>>7228232
>>7228403
Why you never review my shit faggot

Dirge of the Ensuffered

Crack my soul into seven blasted bits;
Burn them away in Satan's dragon fire;
Let six fall into Hades' hellish pits;
But leave me one to cut my wrists with, sire.

>>7229289
B/c ye prob show no signs of c o n t a c t w/the stream behind men's faces—how then would I be able to show ye the Controls when yr posts don't appear worth-E?

“…A drug. The drug in question?— truth is, because you don’t know, we don’t either, but a substance most likely caused this condition to develop, although no traces have been—”

I was sitting on a small, white bed in a neon-lit room. I had woken up a few hours ago, yet still felt confused.

“Researches on your blood didn’t give any concluant result…”

There was a man talking to me. He looked tired but concerned. He was paid to be there. A name tag indicated “Dr. Waleswash”.

“…if you could fill these in.”

Papers were shoved in my hands. More talking followed (his lips stirred and words spilled out between them). This is how the talking ended:

“Well then. If your condition changes, please contact me at the following number: (he then cited the dial in question. I can’t exactly recall it, but I’m pretty sure it ended with a 5). You can also find it on your dossier. If you feel ill, do not hesitate to call me.”

He had a mole on his right cheek. A foul odour briefly hit my nostrils and I immediately attributed the two. Perhaps the look on my face was one of disgust as the man seemed irrationally angry when leaving the room. I briefly felt like apologizing but the situation didn’t allow it.

>>7228694
Cleaned up:

http://pastebin.com/XTQAWF0y

Very fedora. Very.

Here's some poetry I wrote a few years ago and just found again, any feedback would be much appreciated.

Lyrics blotted out with acid and ephemeral longing
Left without an iota of passion
As the regenerating light of a new day is dawning
Dark robes and shadow become her fashion

Oh how I wish I could tear off the leaden cloak
And hear her song again
But fear of becoming ensnared in its fabric
Stops me


I don’t know how to be obtuse
I hope to be understood
Yet language leaves my mind like roots
Of a dense and twisted wood


There’s a knocking at my door
That I can no longer ignore
I’ve shuttered the windows
Covered the peephole
But it still keeps me up at night
>>7230385
Solid start. Some of the prose is a bit off though, it needs some editing.
> I immediately attributed the two
>Perhaps the look on my face was one of disgust as the man seemed irrationally angry when leaving the room

I think these two sections are representative of some of the problems with your prose. But, I think with some editing this could be good.

There are three separate things there btw

The intent was... well, I can't really tell you what the intent was. At least not specifically. But I can tell you it was good, it was some really good intent.

I know it might be hard to understand, I mean, all those kittens lost (on average) 1.7 legs, but I really just meant the best. I know that it's no comfort now, but if what I was doing had worked, those kittens would be living better cute little kitten lives than any kitten that has ever lived in the history of kittenkind.

But that's not how it worked out. These things happen. Do you think Edison got it right the first time he tried to make the lightbulb? No, and he probably looked like a fool. Everyone was probably saying, "Wow Tom, you're really a monster, I can't believe you let all those adorably teeny tiny kittens lose their cute stubby kitten legs, all so you can have something called a 'lightbulb'."

However, today we all know who Thomas Edison is, and those naysayers lie in unmarked graves atop which teenagers do drugs and spit. I will not end up like them. So, I will try again, for the sake of humanity, kittens, and the progress of life itself. Don't you try to stop me. Because you won't just be hurting yourself, you'll be hurting those kittens, and their microscopic kitten babies who are so small and so cute. You monster.

>>7230914
>Lyrics blotted out with acid and ephemeral longing
>Left without an iota of passion
>As the regenerating light of a new day is dawning
>Dark robes and shadow become her fashion

This isn't bad. If it were mine I'd amp up the L sounds. Like blot out the lyrics with lye instead of acid. Or long/lithe robes and silhouettes are her fashion.
Since its free verse I like it when there are other types of figurative language and you already have quite a few L sounds in there.

>>7230410
B-but it's satire and doesn't necessarily reflect the views of the author

>>7228403
>up to 300 corpses beyond, some high level
>Corpses typically unretrievable, leaving gear behind
>I'm not supposed to go

mixed signals sign, mixed signals.

I bet the loot is great.

>>7231205
Satire of Zarathustra? Why?

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Wg-5z9UTstSytBpSw4sWa_NtJsCJyUowzTaxFdVRkHs/edit?pli=1
I've posted this story before but have since revised it.

>>7230971
Thanks for the advice, I don't think that I consider the sounds of the words enough when I'm writing, I'll keep that in mind

>>7226936
NOT HIM, BUT HIS STORY IS HILARIOUS AND IT TECHNICALLY FUCKING MAKES SENSE.

YOU SHILL.

>>7226487
>ur diary tbh

but it was actually pretty good. Rugby tough guy made sensitive by a girl. Some of the prose is chunky, but some of it is genius in its innovation and smoothness.

>>7231972
>>7226487
also what is the Seventh Second? Ongoing theme? Reference?

Advice/input would be appreciated.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZJkJk52MgfjJBfJyIfyGIM4uXS5wd72eEu6SuWaxmJo/edit?usp=sharing

Pic is a thank you to you guys. Just feeling thankful for some reason.

Just wrote this. I don't know how I feel about it. It started out kind of edgy but then got better IMO.

Has anyone ever taken the spiral out of their notebook and slowly twisted it into their eye, like a corkscrew? I know it would get infected, but at least you could play with it in the emergency room Flick it. Spin it by spinning your head. Your teeth would be bared, but your mouth would be in the shape of a smile. You might feel enlightened, like you know something that the confused hospital staff don't. After all, you know what you did was foolish and they do too, but only you know why you did it, or at least you know better than they do. The doctors and nurses have their interest piqued. They want to know --- want to assess your consciousness. Run their hands across it like a TSA agent. Your loss of eye gives them a glimmer in theirs. ER doctors and nurses love the erratic. Variety that balances monotony. Potent variety. Impotent monotony.

>>7232814
Read it aloud to yrself. Then imagine Joyce laughing quietly at how shallow it is while Pinecone's shaking his damn head and Snake sits in his helicopter brooding over the military industrial complex. Then read it out loud again.

>>7216547
can I get a second opinion (in private secrecy?)

preferable from the comics guy


meet me on crypto.cat in the sunsetdistrict

i'll be waiting

>>7232971
Thanks for your honesty. I'm a shallow piece of shit.

>>7232982
is this a poem

>>7226487
beyond gay

>>7216547
Zombie Nouns:

Situation, emasculation, conversation, impression, generation, majority, humanity

Lexical Diversity: 25.63 %

Content Carrying Words: 52.07 %

Personal Vocab Diversity: 42.32 %

Yr longest words: subconsciously, unfaithfulness ← & yes long words are bad.

Don't ever use semicolons, ye just fuck it up like a fuck up. Yr grammar is otherwise tight—so there's that.

You would address yr dead wife as 'woman'? I'd like to SMACK the fedora off yr head.

Also yr grammar isn't all that tight, I take it back—Indian style. North American Non Applicable Amerindian Native Peace Pipe Puffin style.

Ditch that bit at the end, it takes away from the last line.

>>7233974
>calling them "Zombie Nouns"
>long words are bad
>"Yr," for some reason
>misuse of fedora meme
>poorly constructed Indian-giver joke

0/critique

>>7233974
Hey were you able to make your script into an executable?

XD

it soothes me to know that
her embrace will be there
an ignorance well-met
no matter what you bear

accept it and be free
the purest selfless act
disguised hypocrisy
no man weary of this fact

for it is not selfish
leave a fool to think so
let him judge me as is
judge the depth of my low

selfishness at its best
is to deny me rest

t1.d1.tumblr

>>7233974
Nobody likes semicolon Nazis; just give it up, ok?

>>7216547
I have posted in over 200,000 critique threads and I know what I'm doing.

There are little mess ups but I think it's beautiful in places, OP.

Just polish up the dialogue, it sounds fake as fuck, and also the things actually happening are kind of dumb and unrealistic, and not in a good way.

Just basically delete it all except for the first paragraph and then shave stuff off that one, too. Really felt a kind of exultation reading it for some reason...

Your writing starts to gallop (in the best way possible) in those passages—way leads onto way in a really pleasant way. You don't have to say anything imo, just keep going like that and you'll lull us all to sleep

adults are, after all, only overgrown children—still susceptible to lullabies. Only now the lullabies must be a little more complex than they were

>>7235010
>t1.d1.tumblr
all I got was the seal of the city of philadelphia

>>7235092
>I have posted in over 200,000 critique threads and I know what I'm doing.

>>7235097
t1d1.tumblr
>>7235102

>>7234002
>>7235037
magic-soldier/10

>>7235092
>I have over 200,000 confirmed critique threads.

>>7235092
>posted in 200k
>critique threads
>know what you're doing

op's piece was, in fact, beautiful in places

“I knew it!”, I thought to myself, flicking the leaf of the final page over, revealing the crunchy velvet of the back cover. Although I had known the protagonist was to triumph, it nonetheless, in the concluding lines, made me redolent of all 419 pages that had meandered through those vivacious scenes, and the fervency I felt throughout. As I layed dormant in reminisce, the cityscape outside seemed to accentuate itself upon my consciousness, and the crisp golds within the melange of the city lights gripped me warmly.

it looks like i'm a pro writer when its in Times New Roman

>>7237558
Uh huh.

Over did it with the uncommon words. First sentence works best. 'The crisp golds of the city lights gripped me warmly' is enough.

Responses appreciated. Cheers.

Simeon had become old. In his youth he had not bended his mind and character sufficiently and had grown old in a stunted, one-dimensional fashion. Someting would come along to break him out of the confines of his personality. Perhaps that little something would be hate?
Hate - much maligned emotion - oh, they say that you serve no purpose, they say you are an abomination - they say that the ultimate reality is Love. If that is so what can you be, hate? Does that make you the opposite of reality - the unreal, the ersatz emotion - strange - that one half of a dichotomy should be lauded to the point of denying the reality of the other - can this be the way that it is?
Simeon did not know. It was possble to say any old thing on this front, spin abstractions off into the setting sun, flecks, dark splodges, consumed in the fireball, meaning nothing, signifying everything and therefore nothing - ... - .... what did it all mean? Had Simeon been brought to a point nearer to the energy, the presence, of his ancestors? Tumbledown head staring down the abyssal past of our collective spinal column, the vertebrate generations - it's all good fun mates. Then, when, like - Simeon's schtuck grew cloy-y cloacal, gunge like, non-funnish - it must be the abreaction of some ungainly lower-class DNA - mutants of the left hand path treading the lower-British road. He cocked his head spaniel style to the night and imagined the sunken ghoul eyes and large facial features of Homo Aristocras - a little flick book of Sunday supplement mugshots - the odd smelling shiny paper already part of a dying, past world when you'd got round to crinkling open the pages while sipping a cup of tea around noontime, waiting for your gran to arrive, roast going in the kitchen, the family about its tedious family Sunday things - Homo Quotidias - please end it all now with an explosion of extreme hate - put me back here in the night where I belong.
I - Simeon - Hate Filled. Put me in touch with my ancestors and the gods of my ancestors. Are these things one and the same? Make a soup of the hereditary exponent. Fluid genetics - Helical minnestrone - Northern European - wolf gods, wolf-eyed violent men, upright, hard working, unemotive, unforgiving. UNhappy, too pragmatic even for cynicism. Laconic, salty, generous, dead. Simeon wonders why all his ancestors appear to him as males. Do the women not care about him? Have they deserted him from beyond the grave?

>>7235092

>200,000 critique threads
>I know what I'm doing.

Also with your life?

>>7219712
Would read more. You got anything?

>>7226904
best in thread

Poétiques investigations, car
Pascal avait raison, soir
venu, tard, on aperçoit,
le monde, parfois,
sans le fard laid de la raison
sans le fardeau des réflexions.

>>7239701
one more

Non parcequ'on ne le peut
mais parcequ'on ne le veut
ni zeppelins ni concordes,
ne fendront plus en deux les cieux.

Vaines aéropoles, tours perdues d'opalines bleues ?
Oubliées ! Machines sublimes, abattues en plein vol.

Si cette union est proscrite, c'est parce que personne ne veut
se rendre compte qu'il cohabite avec un enfant malheureux.

Minuit et quart
Un ingénieur presque mort
faiblit un instant et renait
dans un costume d'entrepreneur.

>>7239209
Th' perfection of th' 1st sent. Pls every1 take notice. It is unlikely ye would or could do better.