/lit/ - Literature

>>7547091
Guess I'll take the dive and post first as well.

http://pastebin.com/Vyr1PrVH

Had a Dream
I Was King
I Woke Up
Still King

The opening lines to my novella:

The foliage within the farmer’s property had been set ablaze in the night. When the farmer came upon it the following day, it was no longer recognized as plant, but rather a lifeless charred clutter.

>>7547162
how did he not notice his shit on fire during the night?

>>7547162
Shit, Poop, Excrement, Hot Diarrhea, Feces
Running out of synonyms here so just going to tell you it's bad.

H...hi..

Victor Dimaria was a genius of astounding ability. His mind was a collection of shuffled labyrinths drifting through great nebulas of incalculable density; no one would ever come to fully understand the origins or ends of his thought. A polymath, he was perhaps the greatest intellect of the 21st century and had his epoch not ended in such an abrupt tragedy it could be assumed that the course of humanity would have been altered to unfathomable ends.
Oliver and Lucy Dimaria, a plumber and a social worker, lived a hurried and worrisome life on the outskirts of a large city. They were a good-natured, simple, and perfectly innocent couple who happened to be tragically misfortunate in many heartbreaking ways. Victor’s Mother, Lucy, passed away during his conception despite the current state of obstetric medical advances; his father, Oliver, had soon afterward lost the long, wearisome battle with lung cancer; his valiant efforts did not go unnoticed and death took him with great respect. He left with a gentle peace knowing that Victor would be in the caring hands of his grandmother.
Victor proved to be an incredibly docile infant, rarely crying and easily entertained with the outdated assortment of plastic toys his father used to play with. His grandmother, having raised many children , never felt any strain in rearing Victor, even at her old age. Due to her prodigious compassion, Victor’s earliest years, as his father had hoped for in the final moments of his life, were lukewarm, calm, and immensely comfortable; Victor slept peacefully on a gentle flow of time.
A nascent super-intellect appeared in Victor’s early youth. At the age of five, Victor was enrolled in Horace meadow Kindergarten; the unassuming, simple instructors were not prepared for what they would come to find In young Victor. The simple assignments and projects that the instructors presented to Victor gave the means of transmitting his conscious onto a visible, tangible medium. Everything he produced was a deeply intriguing abstraction, completely separable from the known world. His instructors would congregate after the school day and interpret the enigmatic assemblages he constructed out of colored paper and old newsprint. These assemblages were fastidious and intricate while remaining soft and somewhat romantic. He would construct landscapes from another world; Newsprint was manipulated into serrated mounds, small caves and tunnels were realized under structurally sound Escher-esque pillars and walkways. The composition was perfectly balanced; flowing, organic form was opposed with strict rigidity. It was a monumental showcase of a finely tuned feeling for curving organismic shape coupled with an instinctual understanding Euclidian geometry.

Opening line to my suicide letter:

Life was hard, no one took me serious, fuck you dad for not buying me an Audi for my sixteenth birthday.

>>7547207

hm..it's very...kafkaesque.

>>7547162
Echoing what >>7547169 said, how did he not notice it burning in the middle of the night? Expound upon that a bit more. Also,
>it was no longer recognized
"Recognizable" is the word here. Your wording is also a bit awkward.

>>7547162
Amazingly poor for such a short sample. Foliage is too moist to burn or char, it would wilt and wither. Within should be in, of or on. Recognized should be just about anything else. A plant, plant is JCBs. Repeating farmer etc.

r8

>>7547237
I like this quite a lot. I would say that
>brought over the decanter to the table
is excessively wordy. Drop the "over" or move it to the other side of "decanter". Either "brought the decanter to the table" or "brought the decanter over to the table" would be better. Otherwise, it's pretty engaging. I like the voice and use of non-English words in italics. Lends a lot of authenticity to it. Keep going, man.

>>7547266
>>7547237
I wouldn't even use the word "decanter", although I can't tell because of the lack of context It doesn't seem to fit the setting. Just use "Bottle".

r8

Me and My Pit: The Pedo Next Door

There's only two things I need in my life, my pit and my gun. When I go walking I always bring my pit on a long leash, and my GLOCK on my hip. If some thug comes by all I have to do is moan and my pit will be at alert, clap and it's tango down. My whole neighborhood know's I'm alpha, click click BOOM! When I'm on the prowl for some tail my pit stays in the truck. The ovulating tail that I chase, will soon be mounted, just like my pit's bitch.

The traffic cops all know my truck and the barrel of my gun, they know better than to aim that stop sign at me! There was some weird pedo tryin' to move into town, and since I am top dog I have been asked to take care of this little pussy. I loaded my pit in my truck as my GLOCK was sitting steadfast in wait, I'm headed out to meet my prey! He must be crazy to think he can move into my town, this little runt better prey that I get a flat; unlikely.

My tires roared on the pavement as I my rig encroached on the pedos house, I predict a ONE... TWO... THREE... T.K.O. The Cummins lifters slowed to a stop as I checked my holster one more time, my GLOCK was loaded. I could see the moving van parked in my targets driveway across the street, the next vehicle in the driveway will be an ambulance. Lifting the handle on the left side back door of my truck, my pit emerged, there's no telling what he might do. The best course of action is to confront the enemy head on, put terror in the eyes of the weak.

So, with my GLOCK to my left and my pit to my right, I screamed and banged on the door. As usual, I could hear the weakling stammering about; expected. Then, suddenly I heard a door slam, luckily my pit heard as well, with a moan and a clap, the chase was on. I could see what looked like a long-haired sissy boy prancing down the sidewalk, my pit was gaining on him.

>>7547202
The whole writing felt congested. And each word seemed to carry a rather unnecessary haul.
Nothing that can't be worked on however.

>>7547316
Seems a bit violent for a children's picture book. Unless it's one of those ironic children's picture books for adults.

>>7547316
This reads like a mediocre anecdote you'd see on the internet. Oh wait...

>>7547283
I think "decanter" is fine. It's a specific word used in the proper context. If you don't know what it means, that's not on the writer. It's not even a particularly highfalutin word.

http://pastebin.com/8X0BeREy

>>7547349
You don't serve vodka in a decanter, you don't decant anything in a shitty bar.

<Click>
Timmy’s wide green eyes flashed expectantly towards the clock again. Seven-ten. Almost, but not quite plum, he thought, not quite understanding the phrase, but it was something his grandfather said as often as he could, so Timmy had resolved to use it as well. Only one more minute, but Timmy knew better than to rouse Papa Will early. They had spent the surprisingly cool, yet humid day at the saw mill where his grandfather was a foreman. Timmy didn’t know what this meant, but he thought it must have something to do with sharp talking the tar-black boys while they went about slab-cutting and loading logs onto the cacophonous tractor while waiting for the ancient replacement belt to come flying off at random directions and deliver a ghost whoopin’ on the flesh of the unobservant when a log turned sideways and jammed the blade.
For this reason, Timmy spent the sweat drenched hours reveling in the din and playing Matchbox cars in the sawdust well away from the tractor, which made him itch incessantly but he enjoyed it more than anything in the whole world entire. Papa Will would pause when the wind would shift direction to blow diesel exhaust in Timmy’s direction to excuse himself from his work to “check on the welfare of his blood and kith”, but Timmy suspected that it was just an excuse to dust off his overalls and take a long draw from his dented pewter flask and grumble about the lazy folk in his employ.
His grandfather worked hard keeping the boys in line, so it had been a special treat when, after stopping at Margaret’s Fill ‘N Fuel (Marge’s Pump ’N Dump, Papa Will would call it) for a bottle of Crush and a tin of Railroad Mills snuff, and to pinch the aging owner’s behind and get called a souse for his troubles, Papa Will sat Timmy in his lap in the driver’s seat of the green truck with the loud ass mufflers and told him solemnly that not only was he going to let Timmy drive, but was also going to take him out snipe-hunting at the old observation tower that adorned the crest of Lookout Peak. His grandfather had made him promise not to bother him while he took a nap, so Timmy had spat the sticky orange soda residue into his hand and extended it eagerly to seal the deal before the offer disappeared like Papa Will’s flask would when Timmy’s mother would arrived the next day to whisk him back home to normality and boredom.

>>7547207
>>7547216

A tour de force

>>7547371
That's heavily debatable. You can put any liquor you want in a decanter. A bar, even a shitty bar, having a single decanter for the most popular liquor isn't entirely implausible. You're right that it is a little out of place. I'd expect to see a decanter in a high-powered executive's office, filled with single-malt scotch. But that's not the only place one can pop up. I just think you're being too sensitive to it.

Yes, I agree that calling it a "bottle" would appeal more to the aesthetic. No, I don't agree that calling it a "decanter" is necessarily wrong. I leave this one up to the writer's discretion.

>>7547332

>>7547332

Thanks. To fix the congestion would you recommend extending my sentences or?
Im still trying to get the feel of good flow; I feel like my sentences are awkward and blocky; I use too many semicolons.

>inb4 The Hateful Eight

Yeah, I know, it starts off very similar.

Djorn directed us to the dinner table. There were bread, birds, boars, pies, wines, ciders, spices and chefs from all different kingdoms, all ready for us. Although there was surely too much food for Kbold's company to finish, they tried anyway. Kbold, son of a nobleman, went straight for the pies and wines. He remarked on how sweet the wine was and how delicately it was balanced against the savory pies, filled with the meats of beasts from across the kingdom. His men, however, were country men, and not so refined as he was. They went straight for the boars, ripping off chunks of meat with their bare hands. An hour passed, and eventually, all the food was finished. Djorn said, "Your rooms are ready. I hope you all enjoyed the meal."

We did.

>>7547386
This is probably b8, but if not
You change tenses nearly every other sentence
"This tale is set during the deadly winter" - Cliche and a poor descriptor in the same clause
"A blizzard is trickling" Blizzards don't trickle. Odd imagery that sticks out in a bad way
"Every thirty second interval" Needlessly wordy and you sound like a STEM autist
"The impediment to his vehicle's progress" See above
You literally copied the hateful eight but transcribed it for pseudointellectuals

Static. White noise. Snow. Call it what you will, it's all the same thing. Appearing blindingly before you after turning on the television on a channel thats no longer there, or has never been there. It greets you, loudly and solidly. Never the same, always changing, but never different. Now imagine, that existing in the back of your mind. To constantly see it in your mind's eye, to “hearing” it constantly. Ever present, always going. Sleeping, eating, showering, shitting. It's always there. Clouding his mind. Add a dash of tinnitus in the left ear. That low frequency gnat, buzzing in your ear canal. Never stopping, just there, an ever present reminder for me that there will never be silence. There will never be quite. There will never be peace. The fucked up part about all of this. That it's just the tip of the broken and beaten iceberg that is me. These are just two minor inconveniences in what can only be called the caramel covered cluster fuck that is my existence. Add a dash of PTSD (real PTSD not that “oh I stubbed my running one time” shit), a teaspoon of severe clinical depression, a pinch of night terrors. Baked at 350 degrees in oven that has two fucked off legs, a right shoulder that's shot to shit, and one left hand that has nerve damage.

>>7547365
Glad to see you back and editing from my shitty suggestions. I'll get more to you ASAP. I'm probably too tired and too drunk right now to provide anything useful, and I have to go to work early in the morning. Such is the life of a hack fraud.

In the mean time, here's Lighthouse story #3.

http://pastebin.com/kT8Geapt

To anyone who hasn't been keeping up with them and reads this anyway -- good luck. I'm not reposting them. I'm pretty much only posting this for her. But since I'm a drunken ass, if you feel like leaving me harsh criticism, go ahead. I'm all eyes.

>>7547415
:^)

Also, what's wrong with "Every thirty second interval"? What could be used to replace it?

>>7547266
Thanks so much!

I got flak for the last thing I submitted. It makes me happy that y'all like this. I'm also very drunk and thus a poor judge of criticism.

>>7547417
shit, forgot to change a his. switched from second to first

Guys, how do can I make my text descriptive, but keep the amount of words used low?

I've got about a page and a half of describing a major city, and explaining what happens in it, but I feel like it's too dull, and that the reader would get bored reading it.

>>7547425
It's like Hemmingway said
>Write drunk. Edit sober.
Every writer is an inevitable victim of alcohol. It's in our blood, man. In any case, keep writing. Even if it kills you, keep writing. You're one of the few people I've seen post here with actual talent. KEEP WRITING.

>>7547386
This is the Hateful 8. Probably start by changing that.

Also: misuse of semicolon in the mountain description.

But the biggest issue I can see is the fucked-up tense. For instance:

"He pulled back on the reins ..."

"The driver, now squinting his eyes, tries to ..."

It's a weird mistake but easy to fix.

>>7547415
shitty comentary t.b.h

I stopped posting here once I realized that no comments are likely to help me with my writing.

One advice to any to-be-writer: finish whatever you're writing without looking for approval or critiques. Once it's done, send it to a reputable writer or editor to give you his thoughts.
I've posted fragments of great writers and poets, to receive critiques telling me how bad they were. This seem to indicate that most people here can't distinguish good and bad literature without having the name of the author.

>>7547149
I've only read a bit so far, but I like it. I'll get more criticism to you tomorrow. I'm about to pass out. My first critique is that saying he fell off his horse, then saying he crashed to the ground in the next paragraph, is a bit weird. The timing is off. Try to keep every paragraph fresh by being temporally displaced, if you get my meaning. A break in paragraph should be a break in time, in other words.

But what the fuck do I know. Keep writing, in any case. It's good.

So, this might not be relevant to the thread topic, but could someone help me out here?

How can I make the indentation smaller, instead of having to press the space button a bunch of times?

Right now, I'm pressing the tab button, but that makes the indentation too large, as you can see in the image I've posted.

>>7547418
>formed from universal dark matter
>plain as daylight
>sent shivers down his spine
>dark aether
>amethyst eye

>>7547448
What program are you using?

>>7547460
Word 2013

>>7547454
I have no fucking idea what you're trying to tell me. Please be direct. I'm here to learn, just like everyone else. Did you find those phrases confusing? Cliche? Help me out here.

>>7547461
Import it into Google Docs and I can help. Otherwise, I'm at a loss. I haven't worked with Word in almost a decade.

>>7547385
I'd start by saying cutting back on the adjectives, especially when they are so close to each other.
>tragically misfortunate in many heartbreaking ways
It just sounds incredibly feigned.

>>7547466
Import the entire thing onto google docs?

>>7547471
Yeah. I mean, it takes two seconds. The formatting changes, but it's a little easier to tell what the fuck is going on. Word is screwy.

>>7547475
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1iRTTnVmmbrqUgwnn45FzhQiAYKylim0ulcJv_Mk7mQs/edit

>>7547477
You need to allow access to view. I requested access, but you can change permissions in the settings.

>>7547469

Holy fuck, that sound awful. Thank you.

>>7547485
It should be working now.

>>7547486
I actually really like this.

>>7547469
Very cliche. I have no context for the story so I only was looking for grammar (I'm not seeing any major errors. It reads smoothly), as well as prose. "Plain as daylight" and "sent shivers down his spine" will stick out to anyone, and not in a good way. These can be easily replaced with other descriptors. The other phrases I mentioned felt forced and jarring to the story, coming off as edgy. You write well enough but I keep getting thrown off by these phrases.

Random excerpt of the first chapter of my dystopian novel in progress:

“Thank you for your patronage, and have a Super Smiley Day! Would the next customer please step to the microphone,” announced the automated voice at Smiley Sam’s Drink Counter.
“Ya, get me a triple espresso,” said Neil. Instantly, the machine in front of him roared to life. Neil watched disinterestedly as it deftly twisted through different sets of spigots until a small metallic head began sputtering out a boiling brown liquid. The liquid landed in a white espresso cup that appeared from the platform below.
“Thank you, Mr. Templeton. Seven dollars and seventy-five cents have been retracted from your account, May do I anything else for you today?” said the eager mass of plastic and metal.

>>7547469
>>7547496
sorry, meant for>>7547466

>>7547496
Now that I can actually work with. Thank you for your feedback. I'm trying to cull the cliches and obvious descriptors from my vocabulary, so anything you have to say helps. You're right, there's a bit too much of that. I'll give it a rework and hopefully be back to post again later.

>>7547501
Punctuate your sentences better, use less adverbs. You're overwriting, especially for such a casual scene. Every sentence groans under the weight of having too many words.
But keep writing!

>>7547495
Cool!

I'll finish it then evantually.

>>7547418
Thanks! I'll read it a few times and post a critique sometime tomorrow.

>>7547501
You rely too heavily on adjectives in your story telling. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But it's a tad bit excessive, not to mention unimaginative.
>small metallic head; boiling brown liquid; white espresso cup; etc
You get my point.

>>7547501
What >>7547525
said. Also, what you're doing has been done to death a thousand times over, specifically that creepy artificial happiness shtick you've got going on

excerpt from the second chapter of my fantasy (fight me) novel

That night, Anna had a peculiar dream. She dreamt that she was in running through a deep, wet snow. She didn’t know why or where but, she ran onward into the endless night, she simply had to. Blood was welling up from dire wounds in her palms, causing her to leave behind a gruesome red-spotted trail in her wake. Why was it so dark? If only she could reach some sort of light, she knew she would be safe. Anna’s gaze went to the heavens. There was no moon in this frigid dreamscape of her mind, only the stars stood to punctuate the sheer blackness. How cruel, she thought, that the stars shone so brightly, yet were impossibly far away, so far that even if she ran her whole life they would be no closer. She began to cry. Gradually her strength abandoned her and she could run no further. Her legs buckled and she fell to the ground. When her wounds sunk into the snow, her whole body shrieked in illusionary pain

This book is the first thing of creative writing Ive ever done so if it sucks please tell me

>>7547496
>>7547516
For the time being, however, I will address a few things in light of the larger narrative (which does not presently exist) --

The color of the characters' eyes is important for plot reasons. That's why Arella is described as having an "amethyst eye". It's not meant to be cliche, but I see how it can come off that way.

The "universal dark matter" and the "dark aether" are one in the same, specifically referring to Johnny's ability. That gets expounded upon later. For the time being, it's enough to know that he has the ability to form things out of darkness. I know it's not well established at this point. All I can say is bear with me.

>plain as the daylight

This was kind of a riff on Silvanus' power. Since he can see the future, and his power is supposed to be the opposite of Johnny's, something being "as plain as the daylight" is something impossibly obvious. I know that doesn't come across well here, since it's removed from the other stories. Anyway, it's something that was thoughtfully included, rather than being arbitrary. Hopefully that lends some credibility to it.

>sent shivers down his spine

Yeah, that's pretty cliche. I'll see what I can do.

Any Spanish speaking anons that would like to critique me?

>>7547540
With the context those phrases make more sense, although universal dark matter still sounds a little grandiose. Also, discard my comment on amethyst eye, don't know why I had that in there, it's fine.

>>7547551
You're right about "universal dark matter". I have too strong of a sci-fi background to be writing fantasy. It slips through every now and again. I'll fix it.

>>7547375
Cont.

“Driving” meant that Timmy would perch like a king on the patched knees of his grandfather’s faded, pine-smelling dungarees to survey his dominion while Papa Will surreptitiously piloted the vehicle with two stained and calloused fingers from his left hand wrapped around and holding Timmy in place in lieu of a safety belt. The right hand, as always, clutched both the ancient, mangled flask (which Papa Will clung to as if fearing that Mimi would descend upon and whisk away like God’s own justice) and the gear shift which he operated deftly with quick, certain movements punctuated by the <pung> sound of the sloshing vessel as he secreted another draw from it. Timmy knew better than to tell any of this to either his mother, who would worry needlessly over his welfare, or Mimi, who would have a conniption fit and keel over dead like she always promised she would, eventually.
So it was thus that they had arrived at the “Mobile Mansion” as Papa Will termed it. The truck ground to a halt, throwing up dust from the yard sparsely populated with unkempt tufts of what might have been called grass had there been more of it. They had traversed the yard, Timmy traipsing gleefully ahead of Papa Will’s shambling, metered gait carrying the flaked enameled metal lunch box containing one half-finished can of Vienna sausages and three spent banana peels and mounting the precariously stacked pile of decrepit cinder blocks that comprised the ascendance to the trailer. Bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet he saw Papa Will cast a wary eye at a mangy disheveled terrier that crouched begging beside the worn red clay walkway.
Timmy, in his haste to be inside thinking that somehow this would warp time in such a fashion that it would bring the time for departure on their next adventure closer, had not noticed the graying black mutt. Papa Will cocked his leg back in preparation for a kick to send the flea-infested nuisance on its way before eyeing Timmy sidelong and reining himself short. He motioned for Timmy to bring the lunch box over and, reaching inside, produced the remnants of the sausages which he flung toward the tree line that loomed ominously close to the rear of the trailer. The mutt bounded ex post haste after the meal, presumably his first in days judging from the slats revealed beneath the stretched, diseased skin. Papa Will cast a thinly veiled rancorous gaze after the dog as it withdrew into the dark recesses of the forest, watchful of anything that would try to steal this unexpected bounty. “Satch take you,” he drawled in his thick Southern accent, and it was a malediction.

beginning of first completed short story.

>>7547524
When you do, here's the follow-up. The two kind of go together.

http://pastebin.com/i0XANLZK

Again, anyone who reads this out of context will be woefully confused, but criticism is still welcome.

>>7547237
Very enjoyable. But the whore doesn't sound Japanese at all

>>7547207
10/10 would hang myself to
>>7547237
This is pretty good imo would read more
>>7547316
no
>>7547375
>reveling in the din. This sounds a bit forced to me
>>7547386
This is literally the hateful 8
>Wyoming
>blizzard
>room for one more?
>smoking a pipe
>3 frozen bodies
b8/8
>>7547390
Change "meats of beasts" to "meats of animals" or something, otherwise it sounds too sing-songy. Also instead of saying "he remarked on how sweet the whine was" tell us what he said via dialogue, this will make the passage sound less aloof.
>>7547417
I like what you did here but the bit in the parenthesis is unnecessary.

"Please don't leave". Such innocent, banal words. They've been said hundreds of times, over and over and over, and almost always out of desperation. You'll hear these words in your life: you'll say them many times. They mean so little: they mean so much. That's what happened with Lily Thompsons. She spurted these words, in a quiet whipser, shuttering and meaning every small bit, to someone in a second of desperation, and they would result in her dying not so long after.

Isn't that the wonderful? Such a simple moment, lasting not even a thought, crossing the air without any gust, and yet, she would die to these words. One could argue whether or not they led to her demise, but ultimately they are the origin. If you told her, she'd not believe it. If you informed Buster Moore, he'd be utterly devastated. For these words were to him, and at the vibrations of these lingering lisps, he fell totally in love with Lily Thompsons, and ultimately, her demise.

How, you may ask, does a man, albeit a child honestly, fall so easily for someone? No concept of love has ever struck his doughy form; though in deep with a lover, he had never felt the true passion that love can take ahold. Only now, did he finally feel what others have only known as love, and in feeling that passion, he could no longer function. Tears welt up in his eyes, glistening chubby rosy cheeks, and quivering with tiny whines quaking, finally, from the pit of his stomach, soaring past the cusp of his dainty heart, and chortling from his esophagus in dampened, hushed quails. Buster had never felt this heaviness. He was taken aback in the same manner as so many children had before, gawking uncontrollably, frothing as a rabid dog, yet completely calm. Lily's eyes were dead set, and Buster's couldn't be more the same. He turned away, barging out of the terrifying exasperation, and blankly stated "I won't".

Buster was in comatose: he was moving so fluidly, wavering through the halls like so many people have before, tracing the rough indentions carved in the carpet, but none of them could know how he felt. Soon he was faint, nestled in the fetal position, cowering against a wall in the spotlight of fluorescent bulbs.

>>7547596
How should I work on that?

>>7547639
thank you sir. i've been debating on whether or not to just remove the parentheses or cut the line entirely.

>>7547647
A spinning revelation of a soul that pulses words worth poring over.

>>7547639
>reveling in the din
You're probably right. I always loved loud places as a child. That's why this went in, but not everyone likes loud shit. Thanks anon.

>>7547501
A fart in the forest, dirty dirt scraped from yr boot bottom, but you got to get all the shit out of that butt before ye can start layin eggs before ye start layin metallurgic eggz. :D

>>7547202
A fiery fixation gummed w/the marks of laziness, a look into the mind lacking lapidary looks into the foliage of personage,

>>7547375
>>7547559
Sometimes I feel like there's nobody out there worth reading & wow, don't ye wonder if this confirms that or what? 'But, well, that's like just you,' but ok, whatever. Keep mutilating grammar.

>>7547694
No man, its not whats happening that I dislike, its the word choice. What I meant is that "reveling in the din" just sounds a bit too thesaurus-ey, especially when describing a child, but that's just my opinion

>>7547705

I'm not lazy, just new to writing with actual effort.

>>7547725
Excuses. On the defensive. Wee woo wee woo!

>>7547417
An emendation to a sop soul sold to limp fantasy generated from....where?

It was not the knocking on the door, but the creaking from the twisting knob which retracted and released the latch loudly, that woke her up. Her daughter, the eldest, and her son peaked into the bedroom excitedly, but timorously. With a smile they were welcomed in, and the door swung open quietly as they rushed toward their smiling mother who, although still groggy, was happy to have them. At the same time, she noticed her husband was absent and felt a flicker of anxiety. He must have left earlier after lulling her back to sleep, she thought to herself. The smell of bacon and pancakes flowed into the room now that the door was open, and she imagined her husband, with a mug of coffee steaming nearby, cooking at the stove and was joyfully relieved.

Turning her attention back to her young son and daughter, just now jumping onto the bed and crawling toward their mother, she instinctively pulled the comforter up and under her arms to cover her breasts. Fortunately, this morning, she was wearing undergarments as she normally sleeps naked. And she did sleep naked throughout the night, but after giving into her husband’s virility earlier with a feigned, playful disinterest, she dressed in some comfortable undergarments before going to the bathroom. Remembering her early morning fondly, she relaxed her arms and the blanket crumpled down toward her waist. And the children, who never even considered the idea that their mother might be naked, nestled into her arms, one on each side, and held her tightly. As the children spoke to her, she replied lovingly, but pensively. It was almost as if she were watching from another perspective, appreciating what she thought might be, the best morning of her life.

Smiling, she brushed away her son's light brown hair from his forehead and gently pressed her lips to it. The daughter, being mischievous in the most loving way possible, kissed her mother on the forehead, and smiled as if to say, "why didn't you give me a kiss, mother?” She made her mother laugh with this gesture and kissed her back. It's amazing how joyous children can be, she thought. They are like angels in this moment.

>>7547735

Fine. You got me! It's just that writing is so much more difficult than drawing, for me at least. I am constantly tempted to return to my old home back at /ic/ but I suppose I really do want to write well.

>>7547753
Unknock the door I did. Where does that leave us?

>>7547752
i'm not sure I follow you sir.

truely fuck my shit up /lit/


Robert had decided to come with her that weekend to visit her parents. She did not want to do it, but knew that it was expected of her to be there, with all of them. And Robert in all he could do in a show of support was to endure the dinner, right there next to her. It was a single hours drive from the city, her parents lived just outside of waterloo in a small town that had recently joined the local municipality. The street lamps were something Robert had imagined from Narnia, a thought that he had said out loud to her. In the center of the town was a roman catholic church that must have been built around the Victorian era, she’d told him that in the summer all the university students would be crawling around it, studying it. The architecture was easily admirable, was one of those buildings you would look at and think ‘wow that must have been a lot of hard work.’ And then you never thought of it again. The roads were slippery and he worried about the state of the car although everything sounded all right. There was no one walking on the sidewalks at all. She turned to him and whispered, ‘we could just leave right now, that would be funny huh.’ and he laughed and asked if she meant it, to which she replied, ‘of course I do, but I’m scared.’ He turned into a small suburb and said yeah, I’m scared too. She looked at all the snowed in driveways and wished she could crawl into one and maybe have another part of her body be present for the holiday dinner.

>>7547810
A cluster of garbage, but you knew that.

>>7547823
okay but explain pls

>>7547237
I like your style. Blunt. I also enjoy your use of dialouge.. the foreign vibe it gives is great. The story is compelling too, I'd read more

>>7547202
>another story about a genius

Too many bulky words. All I get is that he's smart. Ok he's smart I trust you. Don't go on and on about it... You need to pepper these things throughout the story.


>>7547579
I'd like to read more of this. Where are you planning to go with it?

>>7547828
There are three better sentences to each you presented. And so the whole reading exp is why, wtf, wha? Rub them words together and a few should disappear.

>>7547810
Who the fuck is "her". How come Robert has a name and she doesn't?
>a single hours
>her parents lived just outside of waterloo in a small town that had recently joined the local municipality (what is the point of this)

>he worried about the state of the car although everything sounded all right (then why worry?)

>I’m scared too (why?)

I guess more context is needed but there is a lot of work to be done before this is good. Logic problems aside you need a less boring way to convey imagery and emotion than

>was one of those buildings you would look at and think ‘wow that must have been a lot of hard work.’

>>7547778
I don't follow

>>7547865
irie irie i feel you senpai
it's the first paragraph of some sort of short story (that i have yet to flesh out)
so that explains some of the logic problems.

thank u senpai

>>7547867
It would be a miracle for my world to cross w/yrs, yet I'm a mere former ninja turtle fanboi fucking off on the internet. There's nothing more to say, except, of course, avoid being a fuccboi—it's 2016 ffs.

>>7547859
so...it's too clunky?

>>7547445
I understand. I think I fixed it by just making it a part of the previous paragraph. Thanks for the encouragement and for reading.

>>7547149
>two different spellings of fidele/fedele
My autism won't let me see past that.

>>7547948
My spell checker kept trying to fix it. I switched to a text editor without spell checking because Word constantly tried to correct me when I didn't want to be corrected.

>>7547375
The second (third?) sentence is a bit wordy. I would divide it into two parts. Maybe like this:
"Almost, but not quite plum, he thought. He didn't understand the phrase, but it was something his grandpa said as often as possible, so DankMemer2k16 had resolved to use it as well." The last sentence is much like the first, however, it can't be split in two. Instead, use commas. --> "...before the other offer disappeared, much like Papa Will's flask would when Timmy's mother..."
It also sounds forced when you use words like cacophonous and whoopin' in the same sentence.
Finally, you are using the word 'had' way too much. Unnecessary words are unnecessary, so if it doesn't interfere with the message you are trying to send, you should just trash the extra words.
I like the way you develop your characters. I learned about Papa Will through Timmy's thoughts and actions.

>>7547202
Holy fuck
>passed away during his conception
Please tell me that this is a mistake and that his mom didn't actually die with Oliver balls deep inside her.

He had no love of theory. For him, combat was intimate; through the coils on the tips of mewling terrors he came to know his opponent. Nevertheless, the dash of crashing waves, the pivoting smash, the trot of foxes, the fishing bait - all things in battle were known to him. He had stood proudly against innumerable foes, cutting each of them down in turn, without suffering a single wound. He could name the men who had seen his blood on the fingers of one hand.

His closest battle-mates often marveled at his prophetic ability in battle, when he would put his smashing weapon to where his opponent would jump a second hence.

Other pleasures were known to him. He was fond of drink (for he believed the spirits followed him into combat the day after) and of theatre. He was swept up by many tragedies, tears streaming down his face as they ended. The pleasures of women were also not unknown to him, as many conquests had been his, and one had yielded unto him a son, born immaculate like his father before him. His son had softened his demeanor over the years, and he no longer boasted of his victories or demeaned his opponents, and in battle and recent affairs he had suffered losses from his love of bed - peace did not suit him.

It came to pass, then, over the years, that his knowledge of tactics, great as it was, became comparably small to his newfound foes who rose against him. His shield-angles meant nothing against men who dropped their shields, performing feats he had never seen before. While the spirit of a warrior would always be his, his son meant more to him than his immaculate body. He began to perform in the theatres. He took up the pen, writing with the magnificent knowledge that was his great epics that no man could forget. This gave him the gold he desired, to create an estate for his son.

Some say the hero will rise again, in his warp-spasm of fury, to take back the lands that he once lost. Such people will wait until the end of time, for the hero has ensured his greatest legacy of all.

>>7547838
>blunt

what does this mean

>>7547417
The bluntness displays the personality of the speaker very well. I like this one.
>...ever present reminder for me that...
It should be a reminder for the reader since you have not yet introduced the 'me' to the writing. It is the same thing with "Clouding his (should be 'your') mind", which also happens to be a fragment. So take the comma out from after imagine and replace the period with it.

Writing this for the next collaborative /lit/ book. Tell me if its shit, what I need to do, and suggest where I might go with it.

The room was lit in halogen. Connected desks of uniform white, ducked by rounded swivel chairs with short supports, hugged to the side walls. A monitor-tower was front to each chair, and peripherals scurried out in frantic disarray, as if startled by a fearsome cavalry charge.

Escape was hopeless for they were chained by rubber wire, and had little strength to call upon. Others were fat and not proportioned for movement. They just sat there, day on end. The young, still brimmed with energy, tried to get over the ledge. Regret set in immediately. The horror as they dangled and spun, sometimes up to eleven minutes, drove many mad. Next morning, they awoke on trackpads, the chair slaves groping their backs and massaging their two front inputs.

There was no department to complain to. In this place, computer peripherals, had few, if any rights.

>>7547999
O, I C.

>>7548032
The way you structure your sentences. Short. Simple. Efficient.

kinda like that lol

>>7548015
Thanks for the constructive criticism. The "had"s are in there because this portion is past tense in a present tense setting. (The narrator is describing events that led up to what is happening now.) Perhaps I should rearrange the whole section as this is causing problems. Again, thank you. Much better criticism than >>7547717

As he slumped further into his weathered cane chair, the night reached the critical point of most pronounced beauty, he looked to the blend of lilac to deep purple pastel shades that could, surely, only be the result of careful human calculation coating the heavens, and thought, of course man must look to the skies and question which hand painted it so.

Part of the opening paragraph to my novella.

Am I being to pretentious and does the syntax flow? Call it shit if it is please but at least say why.

>>7548067

>He slumped further into his weathered cane chair and the night reached the critical point of most pronounced beauty. The blend of lilac to deep purple pastel shades could only be the result of careful human calculation coating(??????????) the heavens. Man must look to the skies and question which hand painted it so.

fixed it for you

>>7548034
Ah. Thank you sir.

>>7548055
He really has no place saying that when..
A) He is mutilating the English language much more than any native speaker could ever hope to.
B) His comment wasn't constructive; it is not worth reading.
C) He is taking time to reply in a critique thread without even criticizing, so your post must have been worth reading.

Not even palliative


No one really understands it, in fact, no one even seems to give it a second thought; they just sort of admit it doesn’t make any damn sense and then go about their business. In all honesty – and I’m afraid to admit this- I think I’m the only one in the town who is really upset about it, the only who it actually gets to. Donald Badamill is an asshole of the highest order, in fact, you have to give him some merit for being an extremely talented asshole. Now, I don’t mean that he has some slick talents AND is an asshole, what I mean is, he is talented AT being an asshole. Just the other day he was driving his truck through the through the school hallways. CO2 filled our lungs, his obnoxiously large wheels flattened our feet, and the sound of his horn reverberated violently off the narrow walls; not a single person seemed to care! I mean, I know they don’t like it to some degree but it really doesn’t get to them the way it gets to me. Listen to this, In pre-calc, he wrapped a jump rope (probably from Mr. Karson) around Jason galian’s neck and strangled the poor bastard! The sound of wheezing and toiling made it so hard to focus to Mrs. Portin’s lecture and still my mom wonders why my grades aren't handsome. You ever read notes from the underground? That’s the one guy in literature who really gets me. He's really vexed at things he finds blatantly unjust to him and gets even more vexed at the fact that no one else seems to care to the extent he does. Fuck Donald Badamil.


Sunset


Last evening, after a day’s work, I sat up on the hill at the end of the grapefruit orchid and watched the sunset; it got stuck. At first, I thought I was just weary from old man Harold’s task but after thirty minutes of gradually building suspicion, I knew for certain that the sun was stuck. I ran back to my house as fast as someone could after working for that old fuck, Harold. My mom wasn’t home, they let her off from work when the sun goes down (you know how strict corporate policy is), but my dad was watching dickball like always. Out of breath, I explained to him that the sun was stuck over the horizon and that he needed to see for himself; he only got up because it was halftime. Outside on our lawn, we stood together and I eagerly awaited for him to discover the validity of my claim. After thirty minutes, he raised his eyebrows with mild enthusiasm and said, “yep, that’s a stuck alright.” The sound of dickball called him from within, he tripped over that fucking yellow hose on the way back to the couch. After three weeks, we all just kind got used to it. My dad bought some really big solar pannels from all the money mom has been sending us but they can only really power the TV.

http://pastebin.com/TJ3dtLt5

Three years out of school now and not much to show for it, he knew this but was thinking less of it of late. Despite his health and youth still beaming brightly from him he thought himself a sad figure already. Three years spent working in all different buildings all sullen with the dust of unsuccess, the authoritative fear in cafes and book shops, the monotonous 6am roar of warehouses, sweltering kitchens and so on. He forced himself into what ever he was offered, always running with guilt from the eyes of his father that, whether they were or not, seemed tinged without pride, a pride that should be there. Certainly his father helped where he could in sending him off unto a path he thought best, but with the changing of the times that path never came to fruition, but not from fault of either, equally they tried and were defeated by a new and overpowering system. And so it made no difference whether that glint in his fathers eye was guilt, or whether it was disappointment, it was all equally affecting and set the house in an anxious tone. From this failure he felt he could not beat to the sound of his own drum until he made his own way in the world and so carried with him a work ethic and standpoint of life that he thought would have to be approved by his father. Employed in a factory he sunk to endearing conditions, endured only because he couldn't summon the courage to quit – he was still but a boy then. He had somewhat better luck, but after growing complacent in a book store he was caught stealing a novel (he had by that time stolen dozens of books) but felt no guilt. Then unto a kitchen as a dishwasher, where despite the uncomfortable conditions he enjoyed the camaraderie of the kitchen hands and wait staff – and felt hugely satisfied after a long sweating day in the kitchen. His late finishings introduced him to 3am's, where on walking home would be a highlight of his youth. For at 3am you are alone with all the people in the world like you, who are neither above or below the masses but instead are sideways to them with indifferent thoughts and beaming eyes, close enough to see but too far to hear, with no discernible feature to place on the sleepless, leaving them fresh and untouched without stereotype or fault. They were the free, he thought, the music-listeners and the troubled, the writers and the oddball workers – themes of isolation and sadness threaded the hour but never attributed to it, for in vast internet isolation were they free. After midnight was for the incredible souls of all different walks of life and those few hours between the norm were their hours, like it or not.

>>7548107
Since you took the time, here is a bit more of the story.
http://pastebin.com/QpaxGjQa

I posted this earlier but I'd be keen to see if it is improved; the sentence structure and what-not.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1THh5xjl66Y8Io5pbvNPnh78py3cq7IMg6xis9oY2t-A/edit?usp=sharing

>>7547159

FUCKING BALL TILL THE DAY I FALL

I posted some of this in the last thread and now I'm posting it in this thread. It's part of a story about using masturbation to solve crimes in vague future Manchester.

http://pastebin.com/w7aaaEaQ

>>7547418
Very good. I enjoyed it more than the second part.

One thing I would think about changing is "Despite being awash in daylight"; it feels forced and I don't think anyone would actually say something like it.

>>7547584
Best yet. Only suggestion I can give is to consider swapping "realization" in "Silvanus chuckled...this realization" to "revelation". I'm not sure it would change much of anything, but it came to mind while I was reading.

Once again, you've done a great job, and I'd love to read Part 5.

>>7547365
http://pastebin.com/wpZCn8vS

>>7549337
>http://pastebin.com/wpZCn8vS
I've seen your name in these threads, but I haven't read your stuff, except for this blurb, but I find the dialogue pretty mediocre. I'm not really qualified to offer any good suggestions other than to find an alternative to the vulgarities. Makes a mediocre dialogue seem juvenile, like YA stuff.

>>7549365
Thanks for reading and considering.

The dialogue is intentionally a little weird because Brigid doubts everything Beatrice says, and being doubted by Brigid is essentially Beatrice's fetish. It's a little hard to describe without the rest.

However, I'm not saying I'm a master of dialogue or anything, and I agree about the profanity. I'll work on it.

>>7548541
Try making your sentences longer and more descriptive. It reads like a script with those short, vague details... Like you expect the director to flesh it out for you.

But the dialogue saved it, I thought, and I really started enjoying it towards the end. I'd read more.

>>7549389
No problem.

If you want to post your other stuff -- if you have any -- I'll read it too

>>7549365
Is this better?

http://pastebin.com/Fa7MjeSN

I might change it further when I have more time because this section is quite different from the rest of the story so far.

>>7549389

The rest of the story is here:

>>7547365

I'm not really working on anything else at the moment but if I start anything, I'll be sure to post it here.

>>7549439
Sorry, meant that as a reply to >>7549416

>>7549422
Much better.

>your friend tried to fucking kill you
vs
>your friend tried to disembowel you [with a knife]

both send a strong message but the second one is phrased much better. Maybe try describing the knife a bit more. What kind of knife is it?

>>7549453
Thanks!

It's a kitchen knife. In the part of the story that actually features it, it's described as being similar to one Beatrice owns (which was mentioned earlier). I should probably describe one of them a little more, though.

A white van sped towards Jacob who sat uncomfortably on a hard curb. A white haired man stepped out of the van and hobbled over to greet the young boy. He had a wrinkled face and a yellowed mustache confidently displaying his pack a day habit. “Fine morning aint it?” he spat out mechanically and outstretched a cold hand that made Jacob shiver. “What are you in for?” he asked coldly, “I don’t know” Jacob replied not in the mood for conversation in his anxious state. They drove in silence, the van humming along empty morning streets, the never ending street lights passing by in a blur. The man pulled up next a two story stucco building that was covered in splotches of decade old dirt. “Well here we are, home sweet home” the man said followed by a forced chuckle that wasn’t his own. Jacob got out of the car and walked up shyly to the front door. A large man in a suit opened the it for him, he smiled brightly making is skin jut out over his collar. “You must be Jacob” he said happily, “follow me”. The boy stuck closely behind, walking through a labyrinth of hallways and finally coming to large room with windows from ceiling to floor overlooking a small pool. The large man squeezed into a squeaky office chair behind a desk cluttered with papers. “Please sit” he offered in a friendly tone. Jacob sat opposite, nausea burning through is body like a wildfire. “Let me introduce myself” he began, “My name is Fraser Hatcher, but you can just call me Fraser” he flashed crooked teeth coated with a yellow primer. “I am the head here at Lakewood Rehab Center and will be showing you around the facility today and helping you get comfortable” Jacob shifted in his seat, “first off, I would like to ask you a few questions about yourself to get to know you a little better” he winked, Jacob refused this invitation. “Who referred you to the center?”. “My parents”, Jacob replied. His bible thumping mother and father caught Jacob smoking weed out of a homegrown granny smith, exasperating their religious insecurities.

After a long session of Fraser attempting to be personable with Jacob, he took him to his dorm. A small room with two beds and no windows bathed in a blinding white light that showed off ancient flower pattern décor. It was empty, but judging by the shameless cement sock on one of the bedside tables it wasn’t always this deserted. “What do we have here some new flesh?” cracked a voice behind Jacob. Jacob turned to see a tall gangly boy beaming down at him. “Alex, nice to meet you” said the boy beaming, he noticed Jacob glancing at the sock, “What? It gets lonely here, Bear across the hall fucks a melon and I aint getting no juice on my dick”

>>7549509
Format your dialogue properly; it's practically unreadable as it is now. Then proofread, focusing mostly on punctuation. For instance, the first sentence is clearly missing a comma.

>>7547365
>>7549439
This is actually pretty good. Smirked a few times for sure...I love the honesty in it... sorry if that sounds trite. It reads like you browse /pol/ on occasion.

>bobbed her head to a shitty top 40 song

maybe instead of "shitty" say "excessively popular" or something to that regard.

If you're feeling pensive you can wipe the fogged-up pane to peer down onto the sidewalk, below and across, where a freshman in a peacoat strolls with the girl from your composition class at his arm, the one you almost talked to, and their faces are ablush with enthusiasm and disinhibition, as they laugh, and sing, hug friends they run into out of sheer repeated coincidence on the street, which slopes all the way down from college hill to frat row, and you reckon there's hundreds like them out there, thousands, weaving in and out of neonlit musical houses seemingly impervious to the visual noise, the gauche oppressiveness of it, the visceral disjunction of man and place, which seems now to be absent: and for all your insight, you've never been able to explain why now, as a spectator, this scene seems so natural, so bucolic, as to well up some vestigial discomfort in your chest: the itch of suppressed movement or perhaps the moment of a caged animal. And though art may be reality's dialectical counter, aesthetics is mere suggestion; and though your spirit can sail as far as it may, the argument of the physical realm will weight down on it, too, as it does you; and just as hunger atrophies the will, isolation dehumanizes, leaving behind not an actor but a spectator - a loveless spectator of things not just to be seen, but to be felt and held and written about, real things like the scene outside your window, or the dull suggestive pain in the negative space of your fingers.

>>7549609
I like this. One typo ("weight down"?) but otherwise it was enjoyable. Good job.

>>7549544
Thanks very much! Honesty is what I'm going for, so your remark makes me happy. I think I'll swap "shitty" with "overrated" or just cut out a descriptor entirely.

>>7549609

Hnnggg
Sexy vocabulary being used so well

>>7547162
You imply arson in the first sentence, but don't follow up on that. Hope you are aware of that tension you built.

>>7547202

Hate the subject, but that's personal.

You say "Victor" a lot.

>his valiant efforts did not go unnoticed and death took him with great respect

I like this.

>organismic
>instinctual

Are those real words? I feel like those aren't real words.

Can I post song lyrics? Well, it's a work in progress.

--

I don't care if you cuck me
As long as you love me;
I want you to be happy, be happy with me,
So you can take that BBC.

I don't care if you cuck me
If you don't get preggy
And I don't have to meet him, meet your other man.
Otherwise, you're free... baby.

>>7548541
Anon I'm in Manchester too! Got email?

>>7550280
>as various psychoanalysts may call it, a 'slippery slope.'

dropped the first time i read it, dropped again.

>>7549997
Please do not use the term "preggy"

Somewhere in Williamsburg, in the second story of a little house in a row of others just like it, a high school freshman sits, waiting, staring into space. He’s had people over every other day this week: they can’t break the trend now, can they? His chair facing the corner, his body too heavy to be worth lifting, he stares directly into the peach-colored, ash-stained wall that was once white. Yesterday, a group of fairly attractive girls—or women, he couldn’t really tell—came over and smoked with him, copped some pills from him. That particular day was pretty busy, busy enough that these matrons of the arts certainly didn’t expect to be remembered the next day, but now this freshman, who has already stopped going to his zone school entirely and reserved his one-way ticket to Village Academy, has gotten fairly bothered. Right now, he is staring at the sign that one of them left—oh, but they were such teases! Tripping on a combination of something and something and something else, a particularly desirable one had snatched a sharpie off the desk and drawn a large labia on the wall behind her, slowly at first, then in broad, vigorous strokes, giggling with all the nervous confidence of a newly initiated nudist. Dropping the sharpie, she had scanned the room, then locked eyes with the freshman as if to ask for approval. No words were exchanged—she briefly clutched her belt, he let out a quantity of drool—not a lot, but enough. She giggled, picked up the sharpie, added a few hairs, and left, sharpie still in hand. He kinda wanted it back, but he could get another.
How long has it been since one of the really cool ones let him fuck?
He moans a bit, scratches his chin which is just now beginning to sprout its first hairs, and falls into a slump.
Suddenly:

— Yo, Thorman! Where you at?

He pulls himself back into proper posture—or the closest to such a thing that his body can manage.

— Thor-MAN! We gonna fuck you up, bro!

He bravely jolts to his feet, the first time he has stood today.

— Thorman, schmaaaaacked boi!

He hurries out of his room, briefly winces from the light, and stumbles downstairs.

— Aight, Thorman, time’s up, we hear you!

He bursts out of the door to the main hallway, adjusts his glasses, and meets the crowd with a wide and bright yet blank grin. Several seconds of expectant silence ensue before all those present burst into laughter.

— Throman, bro!

The tall kid in front with the skullcap hugs him, some guests who he doesn’t have the time or willpower to look at slap him on the back, and they all head upstairs.

>>7549997
I can't take anything riddled with those terms seriously.

>>7549992

They are real words, just kinda awkward sounding and easily out of context.

thanks for the insights.
also curious, why do you hate the topic?
It is pretty banal; I wanted to get in some practice describing character backgrounds.

...A knock on the door,
its me,
goku

>>7547902
Are you implying I'm a woman? If so I take it as a compliment, because I'm actually man trying to write a woman's morning. I must have done a good job.

Hugo had always considered hypocrisy a source of pride. To not sacrifice your morality to your own personal weakness, and suffer all the pains and pleasures of sin over the monotony of an ethical life was something admirable, if not detestable.

Her every feature carried an unnatural sensuality, carved out by a life of sadness. The bags under her eyes and how they glistened when she cried, the frown beneath her smile, and the bruises on her arms and face all painted an otherworldly beauty that even Goya couldn't have captured. He would hurt her only to watch her cry and fall all the more in love with her.

I love you; I hate you: no other lies are told more often.

1/2
-I do not care
The central motif of life Paulie was a school in Tyrach, a small village on a tributary of the Danube, in the south-east of the country. She was the meaning of his life and also his greatest curse, Szlaga ball and chain. Terribly educated and well-read Pawełek could not find common language with the other children, his only friends were Matthew and his dog Reel. Every day Pawelek was rosing from a dream with a huge burden on the heart. He loved science and repertoire although all sorts of things taught in a public school in Tyrach was slightly below its level clearly which emerge from around his Slowllythinkers colleagues, he would walk to her willingly if not for Simon and his gang allegedly poisoning his life like methcathinone not-very-smart crude Ukrainian teenagers.
-I do not care
-Not This time I had to report, you have the right, but why are you doing this so ...
He did not finish. Simon went wide fist ready with items from the shoulder line down like a suicide after heard Gloomy Sunday, hard pavement has been replaced by a gentle countenance, sleek not used to street fights. Indeed the airport is not made of a soft material like quilt! Paulie face was not designed to accept suicide fists, but to perform much higher cases than the intellectual wilderness that just over abused him! Mind's eye he saw himself on the podium, proclaiming speech after receiving the prize for groundbreaking research on Dante, and his face was like a mirror focused on his headlights and delighted faces and kisses from girls delighted by being in his company! It was just the destiny of his little face! Oh why, why his colleagues could not understand his love for the beautiful Italian language and literature? He could not understand completely. Sitting on a dirty floor school, feeling blood on faces, he wondered about the reason for the Simon's love for short, soldiers repetition, and his immense contempt for thoughtful, complex expression.

>>7550526
2/2
He rose heavily, he puts his handkerchief to his nose, but Simon has made merciless eyes that he had forgotten about the need for what swift
improve its image. Wiping noses there was not a very good taste in such company, particularly if
tool had to be hand-embroidered handkerchief although rumple looks as if it survived at least a few generations. Knowledge of fashion trends student was not a strong point of Paulie. He adjusted his glasses, made a quick movement of the shoulder blades to settle a school bag on his back central position, finally he felt ready to look into the eyes of their captors
-Why do not you finally shut up - Simon warned him - do not even think about peaching to Pypck. And even he does not like you. Nobody likes you
-But! Really! Little brother, I'm sure you're wrong! Admittedly, I am convinced that in a fit of your street intelligence, saying that you shared with us just a opinion, not a statement of fact. Otherwise, I would ask more of any proof of this statement. You may conduct questionnaire on this issue? If not, my view of the affair remain optimistic and treat what you said as interesting but rather confusing exaggeration.
The flourishing gentle, mindless laughter wafted the group. Szymek shared with the assembled blank stare and a small smile, betraying signs of contempt, cynicism and boredom. Everything seemed to be enveloped in haze of the absurd, corresponding to the degree which was a real fog enveloped the fields and woods around it. The scenery seemed to die down, as if
pulsing rhythm given by Paulie. Simon felt impenetrable fatigue
-But it's all your fault. Its all you ask for. Maybe if you tried to shut up, no one would beat you, eh?
Paulie standing among his enemies in the wild-soaked field with a bloody nose slowly began to get used to fate , but the words of Simon has put him in a brief stupor. Despite all the evil that surrounded Simon like an aura, Paulie felt in his words a nucleus care if his unwelcome adversary was already tired of the unequal struggle and wanted to let go by default, despite the multiple advantages. If had not he back in the arms of other good-natured rogues, he would tried to escape into the world of sports or science? Paulie struck the awareness that what they saw as evil, what haunted him every time
when he said a prayer, he went to bed, or sitting in a bus does not have to parade in red colors throughout the time, but simply wdziewać them once at what time, to give up their human coatings to dressed it later with greater willingness.
What if this rogue, the devil incarnate after returning home to help her mother wash the dishes or put up curtains, from a desire he learns of his father's profession to support their parents in the future?

>>7550529
The awareness that suffering Paulie does not
must have allegorical nature and thus be quite meaningless made him depressed. Despite the distance,and fear he just wanted to go home.
-Leave me alone - he said, then he turned toward the highway, shuffled toward a stop which is about 20 minutes. This time no one stopped him.

there's a great many things a woman might do,
for instance, complain, gossip, or screw.
for god made her form -- well enough -- like a man's.
but in that distraction, he bungled the plan.
in making her physically gorgeous, you see,
he forgot to install what a man really needs.
in the end, while she has some very nice holes,
it's a shame god neglected to give her a soul.

The fall had fell, and boyish wordgames had done it no justice. Many seasons and many boys have made off with each other -- but could they consent? Take Wallace Stevens, the great poet, who had done our Autumn a wordgame for every pocket of its experience: some with the wordgames of grapes sharpening, some for the dulling color of leaves. With Stevens, fall became verse, and winter -- and in time for the next collection, that became verse too. The boys have already torn the pockets with their excess -- but take off the coat, take a twirl, and it is fall!

It is here that a young Nathaniel, a boy fond of leaves, like any worthwhile child -- nose that turns up like a woman's, sniffles down like an aesthmatic's, fall is only a verse removed from the cold of winter -- commits them to memory. One is pulled, is remembered, is forgotten, is droppped, and this is the fun of a worthwhile child. Know you him? Have him committed to memory, he is worth the pocket. Both his ears, too, that resonate so, in the wind, that elsewhere they might be likened to a soft-toned wood flute or recorder. His hair -- moss on a tree, ever pointing to a symbolic North? The generously soft chin, lotus ink from the cold and the aesthmatics of the nose? Our boy is a poem! Is he not memorable?

He will be pulled, remembered -- and the rest at your bidding.

Here's a poem I wrote once:

I wish to wander aimlessly
In woods you penned
I want to saunter namelessly
For years on end

In your sweet unbent paradise
Where we could stay
With rules so very imprecise
Day after day

A conversation between two characters in a cafeteria about the closing time. Is it clear what they're talking about? The writing is meant to resemble normal conversation.

We better hurry. They close at nine thirty.”
“They close that early?”
“So the drunks don't come in and make a mess,” she whispered with her left hand concealing her mouth.
...
He wondered about where the employees would go after the cafeteria closed for the night.
“Maybe it's just so they can get a drink too, before it gets too late,” he said.
“What?”
“The cafeteria closes early so the employees get a chance to go get a drink, I mean.”
“That's a theory.” She was still taking in food. “They should've opened a bar then!”

>>7550629
"Rhime being no necessary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good Verse ... but the Invention of a barbarous Age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meeter; grac't indeed since by the use of some famous modern Poets, carried away by Custom, but much to their own vexation, hindrance, and constraint to express many things otherwise, and for the most part worse then else they would have exprest them."

Also, mommy issues.

>>7551219
>Fat woman yells at poem.jpg

Kek.

>>7547202
word salad. reads like you read a short passage about a genius in your actual writing style then just went tits with a thesaurus. Reddit: the excerpt. 0/10.

>>7547237
Going by dosteloevsky, vodka came in steel jugs. That could replace decanter.

Pls rate my Haiku!

The staggering waltz
Of unknown steps while the dodged
Gratings overflow.

A face revealed but
Thoughts concealed in the hiss of
A cigarette’s glow.

His door slams behind
To no chorus of welcome
But a dying hearth.

>>7547202
Feels like an author's fantasy, pretty dry throughout, I wouldn't give up though just stop trying to impress me and tell an actual story.

>bump

There comes, on occasion, a point in life where alarms are no longer set; a period where waking up and going to bed are undefined and nebulous. Trying to define sleeping habits during these episodes was like trying to locate an electron within its orbital, and this was especially true for Teddy. Yes, there was a high probability of him going to bed between 2 and 4am, but sometimes it would be 12am, and other nights he would not sleep at all. For most people, these periods are generally brief and even enjoyable to a degree, but for Teddy it was indefinite. This was his life.

>>7550174
I don't live there at the moment, but neat. What are you writing?

>>7552056
I think if you moved every instance of "Teddy" to the front of the sentence instead of the end it would make it much better.

For example

>For Teddy, trying to define sleeping habits during these episodes was like trying to locate an electron within its orbital.

And I think you should also expand on this

>For most people, these periods are generally brief and even enjoyable to a degree.

Why are they brief? Why are they enjoyable? Why is Teddy trapped in these periods unlike other people? You can fill in so much more substance before

>This was his life.

That last last sentence is so conclusive that adding onto your previous ideas would be awkward. But you can't really move on when you've got so much you can expand on.

>>7552056

Is teddy a P or S guy?

>>7552086
Thanks for the input. And I think you're right...I need to flesh these things out a bit more before concluding and moving on. Appreciated.

>>7552102
I don't know what this means

>>7552056
While I relate to this, or rather, have related to this at some point in my life, your phrasing makes me want to distance myself from the character, that he alone is the only person who has ever experience this phenomenon and I fucking hate Teddy for being such a smug asshole about his sleep schedule.

>>7551767
You should try writing in iambic pentameter, because while your phrasing was jarring, I think if you could make that abruptness more rhythmic it would be enjoyable.

>>7551713
Your dialogue seems so lonely sometimes. Most of the time. Except the one or two times they get smothered by supporting sentence love.

>>7551081
Your formatting needs work, it almost reads like a script at first, but then I just couldn't tell after that. If it was in script format all of that would be implied. You are more than half way there.

>>7551004
The line "for years on end" needs another syllable I think, but I really enjoy the second half.

>>7550707
I am not smart enough to understand what I just read. Sorry mang.

>>7552109

P orbital or s orbital dawg

>>7547365
>>7549422
http://pastebin.com/ZU8PkKYd

>>7552140

>>7552151

Dawg

>>7552140
Definitely S then. Though he'd like to think, and likely lives under the delusion, that he is a P.

>>7552134

>>7552134
>I am not smart enough to understand what I just read. Sorry mang.

oh well I only really write poetry and this was throwaway 4am material. Thought it was fun and silly. Guess it was heavyhanded.

>>7552192
FUCK YOU TEDDY YOU SHIT. Anyway, here's what I'm working on. Been adjusting the few scenes I've written.


BOBBY, A young, almost surf rock looking fellow, a man who is known as rather spacy, walks down the street with Coker.

COKER, A ginger whose pants are a little too tight sometimes, but can still think properly walks alongside Bobby.

BOBBY
So I was heading home from a show the other night and my dad called to ask me to to pick up some milk and eggs from the store before I head home. I said sure, and now I'm driving to the corner store and it started raining.

COKER
Was that tuesday? It was raining pretty bad on tuesday.

BOBBY
I don’t quite remember man, anyway I pull up and get out and at that point I start getting drenched. Like soaked to the bone. So now I'm cold, buying cold milk and cold eggs for my dad who I thought went to the store like two days ago and should have already bought this stuff. I’m in line, and- And that's when I saw her.


Bobby stops walking for a second with Coker taking a moment to realize he stopped


COKER
Saw who dude?


BOBBY
This girl in line.

COKER
and?

BOBBY
I don't know. I didn't talk to her, she was like two places in front of me.

Bobby continues walking with Coker speeding to catch up.

COKER
Uhh ok, so then what was so special about her that you would bring it up?

BOBBY
I unno, nothing, I mean, she just-

Bobby stops to think.

BOBBY
She just felt- I don't know how to put it. She looked- She looked like she was from a different time line.

COKER
What like, she was from the 1920s or something? With a little hat?

BOBBY
No, she looked normal enough I guess, but it was like she came from a place, a slightly different one than where we're in. Where money has different presidents on it. Y'know?

COKER
I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, so no, I don’t know.

BOBBY
Like have you ever stopped to think what if the fifty dollar bill had John Adams on it instead of Grant? Or if the Nickel didn't have Jefferson’s face but had James K Polk looking back at you. That's what this girl looked like.

COKER
She looked like Polk on a fifty?

BOBBY
No, like John Adams on the fifty, but yeah y’know. Can you imagine what it would be like to live in a world like that? And then to suddenly see that Jefferson was there the whole time?

COKER
No Bobby, I can't imagine that.

BOBBY
You don't need to man, because she lived it.

COKER
She sounds like a very normal person that you paired a strange thought With. Some random person you didn't even talk to, I might add.

BOBBY
No man, I saw it in her eyes.

COKER
Yeah ok. Wait ...what?

BOBBY
Do you wanna go get Tacos or something?

COKER
Yeah, sure. Was she cute at least?

Cut to Music Venue

>>7552242
Is this a stage play? You clearly haven't drafted it once yourself. Either way sounds like some kind of teenage drama story.

>>7552249
No I haven't I've just been shitting out content during the few waking moments of inspiration and then falling back into a slump of uncreative consumption because I'll always be shit.


It's supposed to be a screen-play about two guys in a failing band putting together a show they believe to be a brilliant performance piece but in reality its a shitty dive bar gig on tuesday night. This is more of a cold opening or useless scene that would later be cut.

>>7552253
Go to your library and read "The Screenwriters Bible" to learn how to format a screenplay or read an actual screenplay. Reservoir Dogs or Pulp Fiction are good and accessible ones. After that download Celtx, it's a free program developed to format screenplays as you write them.

He's married to the game
Like a fuck you for christmas
This gift is a curse

Usually, the night smog looks awful. However, Tonight – not being the first time – it looked somewhat nice. It must have something to do with the way the city lights happen to be arranged. It was as if just the right number of people went to bed early or something. I really did like my room – especially tonight – even though it’s pretty small, dim, and sad. The little walls are covered with little posters. It’s rectangular in dimension and stacks on top of twenty-five other sad, little rectangles; I live in a really tall apartment that overlooks a big smoggy city. My room Is small. I am small. My penis is small. But The smog looks nice tonight and all is forgiven. What is it about the city lights?

Feel like my shit is dry. Please rip it apart so I can get better.

http://pastebin.com/2Y8YxHJj

>>7552369
>My penis is small.

Also you're trying too hard.

>It's been like a year since I've been here last. Still working on that same novel.

"'Your revolution,'" Étiennette began to recite, her voice unwavering, "'Has been accounted for and counted on. It is the final stage of the reset. It is not the demonization of you, but the demonization of anarchy and rebellion that exists so prominently within the human psyche. The narrative is being changed, history rewritten. In this new world that Cobalt has created, rebellion is to be synonymous with destruction, and soon even you too will believe this. There is no subversion, there is no resistence. There is only the inevitable...' I didn't believe these words, Freddie. Didn't believe anyone could infiltrate what my parents had built and use it against me and what I stood for. I didn't believe Ekkehardt in that moment, and I didn't believe him for a single moment over the past three months since Che and I escaped that facility. Since Len and you escaped Conolly. What we've done since coming together, I believed it was us dictating our fates. Engaging in our existence." Freddie, Len, and Lela all watched on in silence as a thin film of mist accrued over Étiennette's eyes. "I thought we were finally going to unleash a barrage of truth on these Plates. Free these men, women, and children from the artificialized reality they've been indoctrinated to accept. I didn't... I never thought I'd help to throw them further out to sea. Push them away from the realization that the world we live in, these Plates, that they're not ours. That they never would be."
"Etsy..." Lela began, reaching her arm out.
"But I was wrong, Freddie!" Étiennette barked, slapping her sister's hand away. "And you're right... To absolve yourself of that condemnation. The madness stirring on the Plate, all that fear, that isn't your doing. That wasn't what I was trying to convey to you. I know you may not believe it, but seeing the current state of the Plate, I have little doubt; my plan to attack Cobalt and Ehud Hayes, to bring their actions to light on their own territory inside the Council House... Conolly and whoever else directly connected to Ehud that is working to demonize us, they knew what we were planning. They knew before even we did. The way your PIM allowed us to pick up data on Cobalt's past after we already knew what breadcrumbs to follow thanks to Ekkehardt, it all came too easily. Too quickly. With what we found, it would've been impossible to not notice Lawrence Sharp and his anti-TECAP agenda. Would've been impossible to not see him as an asset to our cause. Ekkehardt stressed that some sort of rebellion, my Bastille, it was all part of this perfect concoction to initiate Ehud's 'Global Reset.' So how can I think that the events that led to this madness that we're now at the root of was anything but a series of boxes on a checklist?"

>>7552423
>Ugh, I forgot about formatting.


"'Your revolution,'" Étiennette began to recite, her voice unwavering, "'Has been accounted for and counted on. It is the final stage of the reset. It is not the demonization of you, but the demonization of anarchy and rebellion that exists so prominently within the human psyche. The narrative is being changed, history rewritten. In this new world that Cobalt has created, rebellion is to be synonymous with destruction, and soon even you too will believe this. There is no subversion, there is no resistance. There is only the inevitable...' I didn't believe these words, Freddie. Didn't believe anyone could infiltrate what my parents had built and use it against me and what I stood for. I didn't believe Ekkehardt in that moment, and I didn't believe him for a single moment over the past three months since Che and I escaped that facility. Since Len and you escaped Conolly. What we've done since coming together, I believed it was us dictating our fates. Engaging in our existence." Freddie, Len, and Lela all watched on in silence as a thin film of mist accrued over Étiennette's eyes. "I thought we were finally going to unleash a barrage of truth on these Plates. Free these men, women, and children from the artificialized reality they've been indoctrinated to accept. I didn't... I never thought I'd help to throw them further out to sea. Push them away from the realization that the world we live in, these Plates, that they're not ours. That they never would be."

"Etsy..." Lela began, reaching her arm out.

"But I was wrong, Freddie!" Étiennette barked, slapping her sister's hand away. "And you're right... To absolve yourself of that condemnation. The madness stirring on the Plate, all that fear, that isn't your doing. That wasn't what I was trying to convey to you. I know you may not believe it, but seeing the current state of the Plate, I have little doubt; my plan to attack Cobalt and Ehud Hayes, to bring their actions to light on their own territory inside the Council House... Conolly and whoever else directly connected to Ehud that is working to demonize us, they knew what we were planning. They knew before even we did. The way your PIM allowed us to pick up data on Cobalt's past after we already knew what breadcrumbs to follow thanks to Ekkehardt, it all came too easily. Too quickly. With what we found, it would've been impossible to not notice Lawrence Sharp and his anti-TECAP agenda. Would've been impossible to not see him as an asset to our cause. Ekkehardt stressed that some sort of rebellion, my Bastille, it was all part of this perfect concoction to initiate Ehud's 'Global Reset.' So how can I think that the events that led to this madness that we're now at the root of was anything but a series of boxes on a checklist?"

This is the worst thing I've ever written and I'll likely recieve no replies.

>>7552561
It's called, "Purple Prose." It's when your prose actually distracts from what you're trying to say. I have no fucking clue what you're writing about, because you're more concerned with making your bullshit look pretty.

>>7552561
Have you heard of a thing called subject verb object? It's how we write simple sentences in English you fucking mong

>>7552570
>>7552575
I appreciate your input.

>>7552561
Fancy words and purple prose can be OK sometimes but only when they're justified. Very very rarely are they justified. In a newbie author and especially in a setting like this, people are doubly on guard against it as a fucking cardinal sin of bad writing.

Really, the worst thing is just reading that initial sentence in purple prose, and immediately having that "uh oh, I'm going to cringe here, aren't I?" feeling, but holding out that the writer might justify it in a sentence or two by being super profound. If that doesn't happen, you hate yourself for sticking around, and then you redirect that hate at the writer.

Make sure your writing has a core of being-worth-reading before making it outwardly fancy. If you're absolutely obsessed with that kind of style, and you want to write in ultra-ornate aphorisms or some shit, then by all means stick with it. But just be aware that you're going to have to overcome a lot of incredulity to do it. Starting simpler can help with that, because it helps you assure both yourself and your reader that you actually have something worth being so gussied up.

It's not just an issue of "purple = bad." A lot of people like some authors with famously purple prose. Same with "difficulty = bad." A lot of people like really, almost intentionally difficult authors. But the writing and especially the content have to be GOOD or it leads to frustration very quickly. If I read
>Visages ensconced in perplexity; a midnight sojourn interrupted by ...
my immediate response is to scrutinise it pretty hard because I suspect you're making me jump through hoops for nothing. I'm sure the visages are ensconced in perplexity, but that isn't sufficiently profound to justify making my brain work that hard.

>>7552561
delete everything before 'the facade of a city...'

>>7552561
unreadable.

>>7552561
>and I'll likely recieve no replies.

thanks for the trick, I'll say this on my own posts from now on

I wrote a short story based on an elf that goes to war and gets rekt. Here it is:

"I should have been a farmer, like my father wanted..."

Did you rike it?

>>7547237
OP, this is good. You have something here. Word of advice: I, and the rest of this board can only help you so much. If you want this to be great, either you're going to need to re-write this section many more times, or you'll need to hire a real editor (like a real author).

The real diarrhea of modern life is that our diaries are now opened and read like strife on the billboard, then emptied to be refilled the next day

The inattentive nurse asked him how he was feeling. He looked over and saw she was taking tiny nibbles of a cookie, savoring every crumb of it, as she flipped through a glossy magazine. Sunlight winked through the gently swaying curtains behind her and he smiled contently to himself. It was a warm morning and here was lovely woman whose indifference to him somehow only actuated her beauty. She leaned over and sat the plate of cookies down on the table. He looked down at her delicate hands and then up at her soft, rosy cheeks as she gave a little nod of the head to offer him a taste of the pastries. Though he was afraid to admit it, he was incurably in love with her, and whenever she came close enough for him to smell her wonderful fragrance, he felt he was sure he would die of this delightful disease. So he closed his eyes to save himself, and he heard in the ocean’s misty breath a woeful flushed sound; it was calling him forth from the clean linens of his hospital bed to the hot white sands of the beach with its cool, crisp water lapping at his feet. But dreaming was no antidote for his immobility... so he opened his eyes and there in the radiant effulgence the nurse sat next to him on the bed, a golden brown cookie close to his face.
“If you can you must soak the cookie in with a little milk beforehand,” she said as he slowly took it from her. She returned to the chair and crossed her legs which were wonderfully white. “It tastes that much better.”
He smiled and with mildly painful effort he pushed himself up and lightly dipped the cookie into his glass of milk. He took a long, savory bite of the warm, soft treat and let the crumbs dribble down his lip. He gave a small nod in agreement. “Yes, you were right, it tastes that much better.”
She nodded too with her usual indifference and returned to her magazine. He was sure this was love and even more sure that he would die of it.

As most who visited seemed to note and quite clearly, pass on, the apartment was often not exactly clean. At this point in the year the living room was cluttered, max had left the iron across the main hallway and our coffee table, a lime green kiddie table just big enough to squeeze between the legs of those on the couch and the tv console, marked by innumerable beers spilt over cards used for drinking games, the torn, browned cards squashed onto the table top by various dvd and video game boxes, plates of old food or cups filled with either cigarette butts or goon-drowned flys and bugs, stood as the centre piece of the debauchery. Currently the insect situation was at the worst we saw. Many of these quite small but imposing fly like things hung on one of the walls of the living room, about 30 of them, they were normally quite easy to deal with if you didn’t think about them, a hard task for some. These types of bugs would also fly out of the drain in the sink if you turned the water on, but there really wasn’t much reason too as getting any type of cup under the tap required squezzing it up between the stack of old dishes and utensils which were normally between 5 and 10cm below the faucet and also probably whichever cup you tried to use was questionably grimey as well so you were better off using one of the designated water bottles. And also I think on this day no one even really entered the kitchen because there were a fuckload of dying maggots strewn across the floor which had apparently appeared that day or the day before. Mostly this place was great though, the filthy swap-like conditions had grown from close to a year of the perpetual sleep-over of no-longer having parents to answer to or school to attend.

>>7553158
Trusted either by his own higher interest in and also better knowledge of what to do with the drugs, Jack prepared and weighed the mushroom dust for all of us. I took 2 grams and so did Justin, while Leonard and Jack both had 3. It tasted bland and earthy but I didn’t completely hate the taste, I swallowed and we began to wait the expected 40 minutes. We rolled a joint or two and sat back just waiting. As is normal in these situations around the 20 minute mark either small amounts of the drug effect people or some placebo stuff goes on, or people consider that things that happen to them maybe have to do with the drug or maybe have to do with the placebo things or maybe have to do with their over thinking and then their thinking that maybe or maybe not they should say something as but probably(potentially(maybe)) the others will think they are either just a bit too excited or being affected by the placebo stuff, but maybe the others feel stuff too? or that they are sure nothing can really happen before the Forty Minute Mark and someone is definitely sure that they read that it works like such and such so it couldn’t be that but inside their own head everything doesn’t seem to be totally perfectly normal but could that just be because what would it be like for everything to be totally perfectly normal? As it is, I mean, you did just injest 2-3 grams of psilocybin.
But at like 35 minutes those small changes are now forgotten and everyone is sort of waiting for stuff to start happening. Justin grabs something magnetic thing and starts waving it across the strong light blue glow of the old analog TV which is on but set to an AV input with nothing in the corresponding input and the blue begins to morph into red and green at either side of whatever the magnetised object was. Justin starts making jokes about it being ‘trippy man’ and its funny and we all laugh but then we are all a little bit more interested in it than we thought, the colours do look cool.

>>7553220
Jack and Leonard have definitely begun tripping now “you have to remember we both took 3 grams,” he’s right, Justin and I are sitting down still but both jack and len have started moving around, out onto the balcony, into my room.
While they are off looking at things I notice the grill above the stove in the kitchen is warping in and out, giving me my first first-hand example of what people mean by walls and object ‘breathing’ on psychadelics. I tell Justin and we both begin looking around the room particularly at the roof which is made of that stuff which I associate with high-ceiling classrooms at school which sort of looks like really thick paint has been used and not smoothed out at all so these long mountain range looking slicks spiral around and as you would expect right then it was all sort of moving and looking really nice and fun and stuff.
Justin says he is going to make some tea and so gets up to make us some, we talk and feel good, probably about stuff which at the time I would have felt I wouldn’t forget but as it happens, I have. And so Justin is making tea and Leonard comes in laughing about whatever was going on in my room and sits with us.
The tea is ready and we are talking and jack comes in eyes wide and energetic, red in the face I think. Jack begins to detail that this ‘is fucked’ and talks about how he was just lying on my bed flying through space with colours and stuff.

>>7553222
Were all sitting and talking a bit longer and jack and I end up stealing Justin’s phone to like some stupid conspiracy-spirit-science-like-if-you-when-bae shit on his facebook and in the insuing battle between holding him down and his attempts to get it back I almost spill my tea all over him. The almost tea-spilling brings us all out of the moment which got surprisingly intense and playful, and we all get this charged up sense of excitement and childhood which is to carry on well into the night.
It’s time to move. We decide on going to centennial park, about a 15 min walk from the apartment. Leonard and I end up leaving first, its turning into a task to get anywhere. Around the corner leonard points out a tree and tells me that you can collect the leaves and smash them up into a brew and drink it and get fucked (or die) and that in some parts there are serious problems with aboriginals abusing it. I found this pretty interesting and also it sort of felt bad to hear. That tree looked like something with a personality after that, the purple tinge to the large low ball of leaves looked subtly menacing, it couldn’t act towards me but it could act on me.
I left out the beginning part of this story and it is still unfinished, should i continue?

(The Clundger 2: Return of the Clundger)
Every knew who the Clundger was. His identity was no secret. Not after tales of his adventures began to spread. Nobody had ever heard about anyone like the Clundger. There was nobody who could do quite what he did. He was a sensation all across the States. Nobody had ever seen anything like it.
"Don't you get it?" he said to the little girl. "If we don't escape this place in five minutes we're gonna die!"
She was frightened and looked up at him with saucer eyes. The Clunger could see his own reflection in those eyes, and he used to opportunity to adjust his hair. Then, laughter richoched across the room in a kind "boi-oi-oing!" motion.
"It's him!" said the little girl.
The Clundger grabbed her in his arms.
"We've got to move fast."
The little girl tucked under his arm, he sprinted for the exit, with a look in his eyes which seemed to say, 'I am running towards the exit.'
Heavy footsteps hit the ground behind them. A plangent voice rang out: "I'm gonna find you!"
The Clundger was darting all over the joint. There were so many twists and turns. He had never seen a joint like it.
"Mister, you're hurting me," said the little girl who squirmed in his grip.
The Clundger only smirked. He had no choice. He had to escort this young girl out of the building as soon as possible, lest she be blown up in the bombfire. Then, he saw it, a yawning exit, beckoning him towards it. 'Come to me, Clundger,' it seems to say. 'Come inside me.'
"Hoo mama," said the Clunger as he ran towards it, at speeds that were frankly unsafe. If there had been schoolchildren in that area, it would have taken only one wrong swerve to mow them down and kill them like the innocent schoolchildren they are. However, the Beast was close behind.
"You'll never leave my dungeon, y'hear!" he shouted at them. "Not if I have anything to do with it." The very walls of the dungeon seemed to tremble at his voice, as if scared by it, or at the very least, resonating from the sound.
"We'll see about that," muttered the Clundger under his breath. The Beast was not used to comments like these. Nobody said such things about him. This Clundger was different. This Clundger was unlike any Clundger that anybody had ever seen.
He burst forth from the exit and looked behind him. Inside was the Beast, too scared to leave his own dungeon. He would never live to experience the outside world. No, it was too late for him. Because he was about to be blown up by a bomb.
KA-SHIM-BO!
The whole place came crumbling down, the Beast trapped inside, screaming as he was crushed by the falling rocks.
The Clundger smirked and he looked over at the girl. "Sorry, I don't accept cheques."

>>7553243
Most days were like this for the Clundger, filled with activity that was so exciting that most men never even dream of it. It made him laugh to think of how superior he was to everyone else. But the previous part, that was only the beginning. The real story was yet to come. That was what they call the "opening set piece." Listen, I don't want to go into too much detail. Let me back to the story.
So the Clundger was striding back to his mansion when he looked over to see a homeless person there. This made him smirk. He had never seen homeless people in his neighbourhood before. In fact, that was precisely why he had moved there. But something moved inside of him when he looked into that man's innocent eyes. He was touched somehow, and he went to the man.
"Who are you?" he asked, and the question seemed to take on some kind of symbolic quality, like it was a stand-in for every question man had ever taken the time to ask.
"Who am I?" said the homeless man. "You don't want to know. All I need is a little bit of cash so I can make it through the night. Please, sir, would you be so kind?"
The Clundger had all kinds of thoughts going on in his head. So many things was happening simultaneously, so many thoughts. Should he give them the money? Shouldn't he? There were so many options. What good did it do, though, to leave a homeless man to starve, especially in light of the fact that he (the Clundger) was extraordinarily wealthy so could quite easily afford to pitch in his share.
"Tell me," said the Clunger, "could you break a twenty?"
"Sorry, no," the homeless man lied, secretly hoping to receive the full amount, in case you as the audience couldn't figure that out.
"Alright," said the Clundger, "I suppose I'll give you the full amount, just in case that's what you were secretly hoping."
The homeless man received the twenty like it was a crown bestowed upon a king. He looked at the picture of George Washington (I assume? I don't really know what American money looks like.) and smiled. It was like seeing an old friend again after so many years. The homeless man was salivating. Perhaps he could take a shower down at the beach and then try to convince on the prostitutes on the strip as a client (if they were on enough drugs, he supposed, they would deal with any kind of filth).
"Now spend this responsibly," said the Clundger, something which the homeless man wished he had not said, because now he would feel some guilt if he paid for sex with it.
"Th-thank you, sir," was all the homeless fellow could say. "I can't believe that anyone would do this for me, never, ever, never ever..."
The Clundger smiled. It was the least he could do for such a friendly man. But with that out of the way, maybe he could go home.

>>7547091
I want to say something, not trying to be mean but i've never read anything in these threads that was any good, you people just don't have the talent, at least not yet

i guess there is a reason why these critique threads exist and why you're all here in this board, and is because you are not good at writing, is like you don't even fucking read at all which is another good way, besides writing, to improve your writing skills

all i want to say is these threads are a cringe fest, but this is just my opinion

>>7553283
Then clearly you have not read the story immediately above you.

>>7553263
Once home, his first priority was to check his safe to see if anyone had stolen the goods within while he was gone. That was okay though. His bong and all his marijuana was still in there. He smiled to himself. There was no particular reason, but he liked to smile. Then, the phone rang, Luckily, he was right beside it at the time, so he was able to pick it up instantly.
"Yes, sir?" he said, not even knowing who it was going to be."
"Ah, the Clundger!" said the voice on the other end. "I see you have returned from your most recent adventure.
It was the mayor of Clundgerville. The Clundger should have guessed.
"Yes, that's right, I have returned," said the Clundger. "What exactly is it that you want, Mr. Mayor?"
The Mayor only laughed. "What do any of us want, Mr Clundger?" He chuckled again. "But more specifically, I've heard rumors about a local drug gang who is threatening the population, selling heroin to old ladies and all that."
"I'll put a stop to it," volunteered the Clundger. "Yes, of course I will... why else would you have contacted me? Anyway, I'll let you know when I'm done."
"That's all I ask, Mr Clundger," said the mayor. "That's all I've ever asked." Then there was only the dial tone.
A new drug gang eh? The Clundger was putting together a picture in his mind of how it all was going to work. Yes, he knew people who had connections to the drug scene. They would help guide his way in. Then he realised he was still holding the reciever of the phone, because he had never put it down. He chuckled to himself. What a silly mistake to make. Anyway, he was going to have to use the Clundgecar.
The Clundgecar had been invented seventy-six years earlier by some of the best car manufacturers in the world. However, this story is set slightly in the future, so that was still when they knew how to make cars, and not so far back in the past that would have had to start it with a crank or something. Anyway the Clundger got in his car.
Reversing the Clundger was already tricky. Also his garage door was extremely narrow. He muttered swears under his breath while he reversed. This miserable process always put the Clundger in a bad mood.
"Fucking car," he said. "Fucking garage."
Nobody had ever heard the Clundger speak like this. When in public, he was calm, reserved, stoic, aloof. This was the persona he had to project. He was completely different when he was alone. He actually kind of a party animal, that is, if people could have parties alone.

>>7553289
"Yeah, I know these cats." This was Larry, his drug connection. "They call em the Blue Jasmines. They go around town fuckin up everybody's businesses.
"Please, don't use that kind of language around me." (Now, we know that the Clundger is being a hypocrite here because he was swearing earlier, but remember what I said about the different between his personalities in private and in public? Basically that.)
"S-sorry Clundger," said Larry. "Anyway, like I was saying, they're called the Blue Jasmines."
"Like the Woody Allen movie? What a stupid name for a group," snorted the Clundger. Even though this was in the future, and Blue Jasmine was quite a recent movie, it turns that that's one of those movies that are quite memorable, and so people remember it in the future.
"Well, yes," agreed Larry. "I bet whoever came up with it was just trying his best. Anyway, here where they're at, in a garage over on 44th street."
"You mean near Luigi's Pizza."
"That's right. And coincidentally, you just named my favorite pizza place."
The Clundger smiled. It was his favorite pizza place too.
"We'll have to get out the marker pens and the scrap pads," said the Clundger, "because we've got some planning to do."
And then a montage started where you saw the two of them figuring out how they were going to get the job done. You saw them doing diagrams and holding different weapons and gadgetry. It was kind of like that movie Ronin if you ever saw that
"Alright," said the Clundger, when the montage was over. "Let's head out."
In the car on the way over there, there was nothing on the radio. The Clundger flipped through the channels as he drove but there was nothing but crap. "Music these days is all so horrible," said the Clundger. "I remember back in my day when bands like Radiohead, The Arcade Fire and Grimes were popular." He shook his head and smirked. "But that was a long time ago."
His friend Larry looked over at him with worried eyes. "Do you think we can really do this Clundger? Do you think we can take down this whole gang, just the two of us?"
The Clundger smiled and, his one hand still on the wheel, gave his friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Sure thing, buddy. Sure thing."
As Larry looked at the Clundger, he wasn't sure whether to believe him or not.

>>7553315
In the drug shed, everybody was working studio, packing drugs into packets on conveyor belts. Intimidating looking Asian men dressed in leather paced back and little. Little did they know what was coming. Little were they prepared for... the Clundger.
"Pack those drugs faster!" said one businessman. "I want to see results." But he wouldn't be seeing results. Not after the Clundger was done with him.
Then, suddenly, the door burst open and light flooded the room. All the Asian gangsters saw two silhouettes in the door. They immediately started shooting at the silhouettes, but as their bullets hit their target, their vision came more into focus and they saw what it was... only one person, a black man... it was Larry the drug connection.
He had merely been a distraction. In the meantime, the Clundger had entered through the back door so he could catch them by surprise from behind.
"Hey losers!" he said.
All the businessmen turned, like 'Huh?' But then their expressions changed when they saw who it was.
"The... the Clundger!" one of them shouted, and although they reached for their weapons, the Clundger had already opened fire, and was shooting their bodies into little pieces while cackling like an out-of-control maniac. "You idiots! You thought you could escape the Clundger! You're all so fucking stupid! Ha ha ha!"
Three days later, at some kind of ceremony, the mayor shook the Clundger's hand and passed over a trophy, which was met with applause by the crowd. But then the mayor motioned for everyone to quiet down.
"Now," he began, cutting through the sound, "now, the Clundger has been my friend for a long time. We met in 1994 and, over drinks, we got to know each other, and I came to realise, hey, this Clundger's a pretty cool guy. He has lots of friends and got really good grades in school and basically everyone likes him. And so we agreed on something, that he would protect this town. And that's what he did."
The crowd applauded. They had never heard a speech like this. It was one of the proudest moments in the Clundger's life. But he could show it. He had to show resolve. He had to be calm, reserved, stoic, aloof. He was the Clundger. All he could do was smirk.

>>7553324
I'm actually pretty happy with this one guys. It's way better than the original Clundger story. Sorry about all the weird spelling/grammar mistakes throughout.

This goes for my hispanic pals, I feel lazy about translating it.
Bien, niños, dijo J cuando cesó el chirrido monolítico del timbre que había interrumpido su explicación de la batalla de Gettysburg, ya sabéis lo que hay que hacer. Raymond, Hank y David, ayudadme a correr las cortinas y cerrar bien las ventanas. Boyle, cierra la puerta y no te olvides de colocar el pestillo. Muy bien. Así se hace, muchachos. Ahora, todo el mundo debajo de su pupitre. Uno en cada pupitre, no quiero parejas. Bien, ya sabéis, arrodillaos, poned las manos en la nuca y clavad la frente en el suelo. Bien. No levantéis la cabeza bajo ninguna circunstancia. Ahora me voy a colocar yo debajo de mi mesa y no vamos a movernos hasta que vuelva a sonar el timbre o, ya sabéis, en el caso de que hubiera un ataque nuclear, hasta que el hombre de Defensa Civil venga. Vamos, no os riais, menos bromas. Bien, ahora estad callados hasta que vuelva a sonar el timbre.
Mientras J esperaba a que, de nuevo, el sonido del timbre interrumpiese el estado de las cosas y el silencio cesase, dando paso a las chanzas de los muchachos que él acallaría con el tono nasal y monocorde que su temperamento retraído hacía que se sintiese forzado a adoptar para impartir las clases, sintió un pinchazo en el pecho. Le asaltó una súbita angustia; la achacó al enclaustramiento que sentía en aquella incómoda posición debajo de la mesa. Era un hombre joven y nunca había sentido ningún malestar físico durante los ejercicios de simulacro, pero quién sabe; quizás había desayunado mal, o demasiado pesado. Comenzó a sentir cierto sofoco y se percató de una humedad pegajosa que mojaba sus axilas, sus piernas y su frente. Tenía la boca seca; intentó salivar. Reprimió sus ganas de abanicarse o quitarse la chaqueta, obligándose a esperar hasta que terminara el simulacro por si los niños interpretaban aquel gesto como una irreverencia al protocolo por su parte que los legitimara a despreciar el rigor del mismo. Las gafas, que le estaban algo holgadas y llevaban unos segundos deslizándose por la curva de su nariz a causa del sudor que ya bañaba su cara, cayeron finalmente al suelo. El dolor en el pecho no remitía. Sin atreverse a levantar la mirada del suelo, contemplando sus gafas caídas, se sorprendió rezando por que el timbre sonara pronto.

>>7552369

It feels rather forced. The sporadic use of casual phrases or words like "or something", "pretty", "really", and "big" feels strange, like two different narrators - one a child and the other an adult - are speaking over each other.

Not trash, but I don't feel motivated to read more.

>>7552386
Firstly, you misspelled "appreciated" in your note, which is not a good start.

Don't say "with this with this", say "with this and this". It might not be grammatically incorrect, but it reads like shit.

>A sporty, confident personality, but is more of the "actions speak louder than words" kind of girl, and to top it all off, long flowing brunette locks that is braided in the back.

One of the worst sentences I've ever read. At first it seems like you're listing her traits - "A sporty, confident personality" - that's fine, and sorta edgy. "but is more"... what? You went from listing traits basically and very modernly to using verbs for a standard description. Weird. Then you go back to a list deal with the "brunette locks" and make a blindingly obvious grammatical error - "locks that is". If it's what confused you, "locks" is plural.

I'm not reading the rest.

>>7552428
The sentence "The way your PIM ... came too easily." is very awkward, but otherwise it was nice. It's a little melodramatic, but that's alright if it's what you wanted.

I can't get this poem to be any good. Inspiration, then poem

>/fit/ Anonymous 12/07/15(Mon)05:26:04 No.35167376▶>>35170013 <span class="deadlink">>>35171986[/spoiler]
>>35167304 #
>I'm a dull sparrow of a girl, its alright I guess but I'm getting my nose done at minimum. You only get one shot at life and some things just can't be altered through natural efforts.

>If its any consolation maybe the next decade won't be about titties, it may be the decade of the foot fetishist and we worry about the prettiness of our feet instead. I mean, feet have had an arguably longer existence as sexually attractive than breasts, history has placed erotic focus on all parts of the body.

I'm a wallflower of a sparrow, so I've scheduled a surgery
for next week. The doctor will be grafting on a finch's beak!
I'm changing my features to avoid new-fangled homing BBs,
the poachers find they've missed the opportunity to shoot me.

The halls of modern medicine echo with science's success
at altering what nature has provided for each creature.
We'll have lab-made spiders weaving spider-made silks,
a material myth born from milkweed pods and mastodon tusks.

A minor consolation if before my feathers lose their gleam
the new "hot thing” becomes pretty legs and toes and claws--
Listen, we've had scales since long before we developed wings.

>>7552134
How can you write an entire Haiku in iambic pentameter?

>>7553591
Thank you. I shouldn't type when I'm dead tired.

>>7553634
Just do some proofreading after resting. If you do, I'll try to critique the polished version.

>>7552926
Whoa, thank you so much.

What tips do you have for rewriting, other than getting a professional?

>>7553284
The story above is way too long for anyone to even care to read.

>>7554128
>saying this
>on a forum for discussing books
what the fuck is wrong with you?

>>7553591
Yeah, I see what you mean,it runs on a bit which makes sense because I kinda awkwardly stuffed that sentence in after the fact. Definitely going for that melodrama, but hopefully it doesn't read as super cliche for the reader as he/she would at this point be roughly 800 pages deep into the narrative. Which hopefully explains all the nonsense terms.

Whatever the case, appreciate the feedback immensely, and I'll be sure to come back and pay it forward to other anons later on today. Thanks a ton.

>>7553591
Yeah, I see what you mean, it runs on a bit which makes sense because I kinda awkwardly stuffed that sentence in after the fact. Definitely going for that melodrama, but hopefully it doesn't read as super cliche for the reader as he/she would at this point be roughly 800 pages deep into the narrative. Which hopefully explains all the nonsense terms.

Whatever the case, appreciate the feedback immensely, and I'll be sure to come back and pay it forward to other anons later on today. Thanks a ton.

one day, the end

r8 pls

>>7554560
instant classic

>>7554560
riveting, a tour de force

>>7551713
The language here is very good at creating a humble melancholic feel, without being pretentious. I have no idea what a Yoop is though; probably because I'm from Britain.

Plox rayt muh story.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1eUfusAg1Iv1DyUEJNjsBRJXCV8HA6ww7934aNf_JkoM/edit?pref=2&pli=1

That feeling. As if his brain spin in a washing machine in the middle of his body consisting of a mass of colours, shades of purple and black. Spin it and then look like swirls leaving behind a wake of mass multi-color black. Heroes Homeric times had their swords and chariots, heroes of our times have drugs. Peter woke up, feeling the nostrils of mind scents reminiscent of vanilla ointment, sterile hospital rooms, even though his health isnt in bad condition after all. He rolled from side to side, specifically covered himself with the blanket soaked with odorless sweat, his consciousness dissolve in a haze of self-indulgence and spatial and mental emptiness.
"I go out shopping, when i get back, i dont want to see you here!" It was his mother, it was not her about anything, she just wanted him to rose. In the end it was 9 already. "No, no way, i am naked, so cold outside, and duvet so cozy!" - he thought. Peter did not have to look through the window (though he would not be able) to know about snow outside, this awareness further deepened coming over his mind coziness and primitive happiness. Although his mind was the organ most focusing the attention of returning to a state of blissful repose identity, he could feel it through the whole body from the feet to the last boisterous hair on the head. Feeling heroic, unreal, having the smell of indulgence and satisfaction weakness. Probably that way, how hearos felt after winning the battle submitting his head on the pillow, ready to sleep. Or runner after running a marathon. Peter could not have known, but a few years ago he was runner strictly amateur, at least a kilometer several times a week. Not really it would be comparable - wild and dirty pleasure, a little bit festered by bouts of nausea caused by fatigue, with pleasure of truly clean and sterile variety of appeasement that he felt now. He felt pleased with goal attainment, did not need any noble reason, he felt the moments of unadulterated happiness in its original form, it is not looking for excuses, not through the prism of mundane expectations, ambition, commitment. In this world, there were no words like self-development, reward, target. Happiness was simple and un-possessive

>>7553066
Decent, but the dialogue... are these people supposed to be speaking in their third language? If so, well done; if not, revise.

>>7553158
>>7553220
>>7553222
>>7553227
Overall, I like it. I'm not sure if it's intentional or not but the weird style is appealing. However, I would do some proofreading; there are some basic errors that should be easy to correct.

>>7553243
>>7553263
>>7553289
>>7553315
Made me laugh. Weird spelling and grammar issues, like you said - even in the very first line - but it was entertaining.

>>7554525
You're welcome! I'd love to read more if you feel like posting it.

>>7553364
No hispanohablantes out there?

>>7554894
Overwritten. Feels like a school assignment written by a kid with a thesaurus. The setting is interesting but the description of it is forced.

Don't be too discouraged; you have a good grasp of English and I'm confident that you can make something good of it.

>>7554950
Did you run this through Google Translate?

>>7555009
>Did you run this through Google Translate?
Yes, i am not native unfortunately, there are few most necessary corrections tho

Chocolate Rain.
Some stay dry and others feel the pain.

>>7555028
>there are few most necessary corrections tho

Not sure what that means. If you mean that there aren't many corrections needed, you're mistaken.

What is your first language?

I dedicate this song to my towel boy


I sit my ass on da seat all gently
get my nigga playin’ beats so deadly
I squeeze out a loaf and then I say…
Nigga what did I eat? That shit’s unfriendly

damn, i love to take a dump.
damn, it's comin out in clumps
damn, made a mess o' my rump

soooo

pull the roll down gently
now bunch it up intently
and when I give you the word...
Wipe dat ass intensely

Damn, it’s a shit puree
Damn, i flushed it all away
Damn, I could this all day

>>7554950
>notdrugs.png
those are vitamins and otc meds

>>7555069
Yes i know its shit, its GT after all i just tried to make it bit more readable, not just copy/paste thats what i meant
I would rather not talk about my nationality, and i dont know how this information important?

>>7555322
Someone here might understand your first language and thus be able to critique your piece in its original format.

>>7555322
It isn't important. I was curious, and there might be anons around who speak your real language.

Critique my poem, short story and play. Here it is:

"He."

>>7555397
The excess of punctuation ruins it.

>>7555009
I'm the guy who did the overwritten one. Any specific parts in which I should lessen my use of 'long' words?

"Turnpike Blues"

in lonely times,
when I watch myself
recede from view
when I am watching myself go-

no landmarks ahead
or before
only indistinct light

I am apt to think that in all this time
I have come no closer
to that place I set out for
than when I set out for it

this should not be possible

but the impossible these days
is a strange thing
the unthinkable happens regularly

ten years ago
all my music fit into a walkman

and since then
some friends I had
whose stars had seemed
to assure that they would live forever
have proven me wrong

my eyes burn

how many mile markers between home
and this particular here?
how many decisions between this particular here
and some particular there?
how many single, fatal,
decisions?

Am I here at all?

In many ways
I am still somewhere with a girl
her name is the first
that I have sincerely forgotten

I am still in the car with her
after that show
and she is reading my palm
and I am humoring her
in return for humoring me
with all these dates to nowhere
dates going nowhere

and by some faint meridian she
determines that I
despite an impulsive streak
am “in between”

“You are an in between kind of guy,”
she says

What the hell do you mean in between?
that’s what I meant to say

and am saying now
aloud, alone,

shouting in my car, apart,
from there, from that time
someplace where point to point
ran straighter lines

(Apologize for the formatting if 4chinz doesn't make it work)

>>7555431

>The meticulous legend of the pen softly grazed against the inside of his hand as he gazed upon the other European leaders and their pertinent ministers.

>The history between such nations was titanic, convoluted, and - to say the least - rocky.

>Perhaps his inner Brit had been possessing him to euthanise this foul union.

It seems like you read the definitions but didn't really know how the words are actually used, especially in the first example.

The third example isn't bad, exactly, but very heavy-handed; I included it as a summary of what's wrong with the piece as a whole.

Also, it was a little jarring to read profanity in a piece that feels so 18th century.

Like I said, I think it has potential, it's just overdone.

Maybe read some DeLillo.

>>7555386
>>7555395
maybe there werent last time

>>7555634
Alright, thanks very much. I've had largely the same feedback on critiquecircle, so I'll be sure to address that. As well, I never noticed how incongruous the expletive was actually, so that'll definitely be changed.

Um, the candles flickered, the sheets were still, but all the energy in the room surrounded Roman and Kenzie. Kenzie stepped forth and... gently touched Roman's arm. He suddenly felt weak in his legs and trembled and fell as if his Achilles heel had been struck by a blade, but all it was was simply a woman's touch.

>>7554159
Exactly. It's impossible to have any kind of investment in something that takes literally thirty seconds to read. Even the style of absolute literary geniuses is criticized when people are smart enough to post excerpts from them in this thread because, like, how hard is it to write well for a couple of hundred words? How is that impressive to anybody?

>>7554128

First time I ever used one of these here but honestly it belongs.

>>7555702
Maybe try again.

>>7555930
Ha

The fire is not flickering or blazing or smouldering or glowing. It's flame is fluttering like a flag in the breeze. It reminds me of a waterfall. My toes feel numb with cold but the rest of me is fine. It is midnight and my chest is beginning to tighten as the air cools. Emma is annoyed at me every time I stay up late but I assure her I am working on my great masterpiece. I am not.
Instead, I am doing a million things which are not writing a literary work of art. I am reading about writing a great masterpiece, for example. Through this I somehow feel that I am getting closer to writing the epic of our time. A thought strikes me that you know everything in the universe for it is not possible to gain more knowledge from looking at characters on a screen and therefore the knowledge must already be in my brain somewhere, waiting to be unlocked. For Whom the Bell Tolls is a brilliant novel but I have read a blog somewhere which describes it so acutely that it must be a trite book after all. A man is on a mission and there are characters which get in his way and he plans the mission and perhaps there is a love interest and at the end of the novel he either completes or fails his mission. I struggle to get it across here but the way in which the mission and the steps to planning the mission and assembling the team are distinctly parallel to the book. Pablo has lost his charm and the love-interest is vulgar and the whole thing is a $5 bookstore contrivance to me now.
So it was with music. When I learned to play the piano I found music wonderful and entrancing. That was before I discovered that every song is made up of about a dozen musical techniques. Four chords or four base notes repeating themselves over and over again. Either the bass note starts in the middle, goes down, goes down again and comes back up - signifying a tragic plot, or it starts in the middle, goes up, goes down below the middle note, then meets back in the middle - signifying a tragicomedy or a romantic epic.
The scientist in me (though I have never had much fondness for the scientific method) is in disagreement. Clearly, there are knowledges beyond my brain which other people have been able to ascertain, either from others or from their direct interactions from the environment. The medium of language allows those people to convey those ideas to me and I am able to learn from them. Kin selection and cultural evolution are the buzzwords which make me feel proud that I have conquered the riddle of life. Fourty-thousand words gather dust on the windowsill each year and the publishers do not care for them. I do not care for them either. It is far too difficult to convey my idea into words and in doing so I reference a whole other set of worldviews which are underappreciated by the general public.

>>7556223
To name an example, I must dispute in my opening paragraph the definition of the words "evolution", "survival", "death" and "selection". I must go against everything which Dawkins, a far cleverer person than I, has had to say on the issue which is so obviously wrong I wonder if he has ever looked himself in the mirror and wondered if he ought to have kept his mouth shut. Einstein said that any idea worth expressing must be concise and that if an idea cannot be concise then it is not properly thought out. I plan not to move on from my next paragraph until I have made my theorem concise:
Every organism when it is born inherits three categories of traits which define what it is and how it will behave. Those traits are genetic, environmental and cultural. Within these categories every organism is subject to things which it cannot control and things which it can control. Its traits will either survive or die as a result of those things. Every organism is able to control, to an extent, which traits it passes on; of genetics - through choosing if, and how it mates; of environment - through manipulating its environment, and creating security for its offspring; and of culture - through teaching others, writing its thoughts, promoting and condoning behaviours. The things it is not able to control may prevent it from passing on traits or force it to pass on traits. Evolution is therefore a synthesis between what organisms do control and what they do not.
My theorem, pardoning its expression, is perfect. It explains the development of tools and agriculture, morality and altruism, selfishness and greed, religion, writing, currency, the city-state, nationhood, patriotism, communism, terrorist attacks, martyrdom, the French Revolution, space travel, the place of humanity within the world, how we should behave and what our priorities should be and much more. At twenty-five I have solved the great mystery and the greater mystery is whether anybody wants to listen. Of course I should like to be remembered and I believe that even the mere expression of this theory is my Mecca and the expression of my will which should hopefully exist forever in digital form or on paper for the duration of the human species and that all of life's pursuits are aimed at prolonging ourselves, fuelling invention and art, war and peace on equal terms.
A man on a mission. Frodo is a man (albeit a little man) on a mission to save the Earth. Of course not all novels are about missions and things getting in the way of them. Crime and Punishment is a fantastic novel because it breaks all convention and is simply about a person breaking conventions. It is for this reason that it is a fantastic piece of meta-fiction.

>>7556230
War and Peace is a semi-fictional history book and yet all characters, as all people, can be seen as being on a mission but it is still probably important to recognise seperate plots like a man walking into town or a lady falling in love with a man as not being ultimately mission-related. I have read Chris Booker on the Seven Basic Plots and I think that all plots can be categorised as being either exploratory or conclusive. A story is either an exploration of a situation or it is a description of how a situation is resolved. The best books are both but there are far too many nowadays which concentrate on the resolution of plot rather than the exploration of it.
If I were writing a novel about myself I suppose that my mission would be to write something and the conflict would stem from the things which prevent me from doing so. That would be a very boring story about the fact that I was not born into richness and therefore have to work a regular job and that my wife is disatisfied with the attention I give her and that I am actually not very patient and have an autistic grasp of the world and I struggle to understand a great many things. As I get older I understand them much better but I reckon for at least twenty years of my life I have found the world to be a scary enigma. For me it is a victory to simply get on the train and look at people without feeling a deep uneasiness about them and the fact that they are vicious murderers wearing the cloaks and masks of civilised society and to go to work and add up numbers and receive a pat on the back from my bosses and to come home again. From that novel you would think that I am an incredibly boring person with no life experience or wars or troubles and that is the reason why my writing is so dull and lacking in conflict.
Thankfully my life has been very diverse and that is not the case. It is not the fact that I have been poor because a damned sight more people are a lot poorer than me and it has nothing to do with the fact that I have stayed at home because that isn't the case and I have camped with wolves in Europe and I have travelled in a car with terrorists and I have slept in a sleeping bag for an entire year under bridges and in the streets and forests of the world. It is just the case that now I would much prefer to stay at home and that also experiences like that take a damned long time to think about and make sense of and I don't fancy doing them again any time soon. You go and ask anyone who has just got back from a war if they'd like to go back to the front in a week's time or if they'd rather sit at home and contemplate writing a book about it.
The truth of our generation is that we are not lost and that we have suffered no war and no depression but we haven't even suffered the corporate disillusionment of Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club. We have absolutely nothing to complain about.

>>7556234
The sum of our lives is in deciding what to do with them and our only existential crisis is that we have solved existentialism and have literally nothing to worry about. The philosophy of our time lies in fulfillment of petty desires and the disattisfaction that that may cause. But the disattisfaction is so mild that it is not even worth complaining about. When they look back at our generation it will seem like a Dark Age precisely because it is a Golden Age. That makes me wonder about a great deal of things because it seems as though Golden Ages were always born out of misery and were built on the back of slaves.
Well my story definitely cannot be described as a quest. Quest literature is on its way out I suppose because we rarely have to go on a quest and when we do the aim of the quest is simply to satisfy our own sense of adventure. The ending of that book is when we have a nice set of photographs to take home with us. Neither is my story one of those stories where everything is tranquil and a big dark force comes to threaten the way of life and all must rally together to destroy it. Everything is tranquil - the end. That makes for a shitty book but it sounds pretty acurate to me.

Sorry for the length

>>7555930
Nice

>>7555998
Yo, I read through some of the thread (I feel like I've been in a 32 hour coma) and am glad you're still writing and getting feedback. I have more Lighthouse stuff, but to be frank, it's not up to snuff. I'm close to scrapping the entire project and starting over with something fresh, but in the mean time, I've been working on something else.

Almost the last two years, I've been workshopping some ideas for a novel, and it has only recently been coming together. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to post an excerpt or two and see what you think. It's not the same kind of fantasy stuff that the lighthouse stories were (at least, not what I've written so far), but it's heavily character-focused, so I think you'll recognize the voice.

Anyway, I welcome any criticism. Out of everything I've written for the novel so far, this is what I would consider the most self-contained, in that you get a feel for the characters as it goes along. It does suffer from a lack of context, but I can only do so much.

Anyway, hit me with it. Although, this is one of the few things I've been working on that is actually really important to me, so try not to totally ruin my life by tearing it to shreds. Or do, I don't care, I'm already drunk.

http://pastebin.com/PrjbNthU

>>7556255
But what the hell, here's another Lighthouse story anyway.

http://pastebin.com/MjT29hNS

I wrote a lot more than I had originally intended. Every time I try to revise I either become overwhelmed with errors or feel somewhat content. I can't take it anymore.

http://pastebin.com/Brwb6mf2

The adventures of Bobby and Coker continue. I haven't read any scripts since my theater days and I still need to get my hands on a copy of the script-writers bible.
Coker leaning against a car in a parking lot at dusk. Bobby is scrounging around in the car and finally closes the door.

COKER
What are we doing here man?

BOBBY
I told you we were here to support RIP-Roarin’ Booger Penis’s first show

COKER
Are you kidding me, Kyle stuck with the name?

BOBBY
Y’know I kinda like it.

Bobby pulls out a pack of cigarettes and struggles to light the first one he takes out.

COKER
It sounds like an eight year old said all the bad words he knew in a row.

BOBBY
I think that’s the charm of it.

BOBBY Exhales smoke.

COKER
I still don’t want to be here, I have no idea why you dragged me along, I already heard them at band practice when they thought of the stupid name.

BOBBY
I get it Coker, but we're here to check out their stage presence. Let’s see if they would be a good opener for our shows.

COKER
Do I have any vetoes left? I’m vetoing that.

BOBBY
No, you used your last one when Staun was mastering the EP and wanted to put in sounds of him scratching his beard.

COKER
Ugh. Then the real question is do I have any whiskey left. This is gonna be a long night. Let’s get this over with.

BOBBY stomps out his cigarette while COKER pulls out his flask. The two walk away from the car towards the show taking place in a small strip mall bookstore.

'Well I've got a few opera ideas. One idea is a Hank Hill rock opera. I know, kinda weird—if you don't like that, the other idea is kind of a woman turned semi-demon who interacts with a very charming devil character. My last idea I had was kind of vague. I got inspiration to write an opera about a ghost seeking redemption. Also, I'm willing to listen to any ideas that someone could have if they think they have better stories or something else they would rather work on.'

>>7556955
>I'll be the ideas guy!

How about instead of tossing about ideas try and finish one thing, anything. Otherwise you'll be stuck tossing ideas around forever and get nothing done.

>>7556955
>>7557028
Listen to Tarkus, he was the only one that really cared about you.

>>7556255
This was great. There were only a few points I would consider changing.

>some firsthand insight into the sound a .357 round makes when it passes through a human skull.

Cool idea, but I feel like it could be a little shorter.

>It's a shame ... thought to rehabilitation.

Seems a little out-of-place political. Political themes are fine, but it feels strange coming from Dixon at this point. Maybe remove any mention of the judicial system and simply say that prison is better at punishment than rehabilitation.

>surrealness

Not wrong or in need of editing at all, just thought it was funny because up until this point I had only known the synonym "surreality".

>looking more through me than at me

Implies to me that his eyes are unfocused. Maybe he's seeing more "into me" than "at me".

>People who are desperate

Not wrong, necessarily, but I would probably change it to "Desperate people".

Really good stuff, Jazz. I'll read the new Lighthouse story tomorrow.

>>7557092
That whole political schtick with rehabilitation and what not was definitely out of place. I actually meant to go back and rewrite that before I posted it, but I kind of forgot. It is a little too political. I hate that shit.

For the rest, you actually hit on a lot of the same things my mother did (who edits most of my writing, and is really doggone good at it), so I guess I need to take the hint. I really appreciate it. I hope you get a chance to see the larger narrative. Compared to this, it's really something.

>>7557092
To hazard a guess...I would say you're not American, and are probably UK or AUS. Probably UK.

I'm basing this on a number of things, but most recently, it's the "looking through" expression, which seems to be uniquely US. We use it all the time to mean "seeing through a facade that someone is employing". In other words, seeing the real person behind a fake version of themselves that they're portraying. That's all I meant when I said "looking more through me than at me". Although even that might not be clear enough, so let me think about how to reword it.

But tell me if I'm right about your nationality or not, because I'm curious.

1/2

You feel sick. It feels like a knot of steel cable has formed in your gut, and like some terrible snake it tightens, releases and tightens again. You take a breath of air, but fight the sensation to gag on the foul air. The stench is carrion in texture of modern war. It tastes and smells of sweat, rot, human odor and waste and diesel. You look around at the modern implements of war, a maze of pipes, dials, wheels, levers and switches and boys, boys who are young enough to marvel at the deepness in their voice. The human forms that look like men in the dim red light are still in their 20’s. Another gulp, you want to protest but you dare not let out a peep. Not unless you want to sentence you and 43 other men to a cold dark grave. Soft mechanical ambience, dripping water, labored breathes and the occasional whisper of commands were the only noises in the vessel. You take another breath hoping it’s not your last.

You rub your eyes. Your tongue plays with the film on the front of your teeth. Deep down you know mother would be disappointed at your lack of hygiene. At least you don’t have to shave, the red stubble on your chin and upper lip hardly warrants such a chore. You turn you head to the sound of a man, trying to be quite, climbing down the ladder in the center of the room. The captain, the oldest of the crew at 30. The sleeves of his tunic rolled up revealing a long scar up his right arm, it looks like a pure white lightning bolt arcing its way to his fingertips. He’s stroking his beard as he gives a whisper to the Chief. You feel calm slightly rest your shoulders as you see the flash of his icy blue eyes, stout figure and hawkish face. A born hunter in the belly of his steel Hippocamps. The captain takes off his white cap and rubs his scalp; the stubble of blonde hair looks interesting in the red light. You look at the Chief, a dower man with hairy arms that are more like cannons. You recall at the sight of the man, feeding some pestilent pilot his teeth, something about a woman? Then again it usually is. You have no woman at home, no better with flesh as soft as snow but a heart of fire. The only woman who will miss you is your mother. Your brother would miss your death you were close with him. You remember a crisp October night, sneaking down to the steel mill to play in the machines. But his body now rots in a burned out tank outside of Keiv. That’s what your mother told you. You fight back tears and are about to choke when the most horrifying noise in your life comes from outside the hull. Ping.

You feel a current of electricity coarse through the air. The hair on your neck stands to attention as more, slow pings follow. It is the enemy, the dammed foe. Gott straff England you think, a silent curse, your only means of protest to the situation.

>>7557135
2/2
A sharp whisper from the Captain, the Chief repeats the whisper to the two boys siting in front of him. The play with their wheels and angle the creature downwards. You think you hear a soft cry from the stern, you wish to yell at the culprit for such stupidity. But you fight your tongue and count the space between the pings. They are getting shorter, the enemy has better scientists, and didn’t you want to be that, a learned man? A sharp voice from the front, it’s the hydrophone man, and he hears splashes. You clutch at the pip at your side; hoping that it will protect you, maybe you can slide between the pipes, wiggle yourself through all the machinery like a snake, and communicate with the machine spirit of the weapon to let you free. How far is it to the surface? More splashes, and the thumps from outside and the constant pinging. The captain has fear in those eyes as his mind races, you close yours hoping to shut out any evil. Ping, splash, thump, ping, ping, ping, splash, splash, splash, thump, thump BANG! No longer thumps, bangs now and they are tossing you and the men and coffin from side to side like a toy. Pipes burst, dials smash and lights spark. Was that a command for full speed ahead? Deep down that little voice says pointless now, your bladder agrees with that and you feel the warmth crawl down your leg. You want to cry but your mind and body sputters as your arms hold on for dear life. Shadows are racing to and fro trying to control the chaos as the world outside and inside turns into Hell. An explosion above, water rushes down the hatchway. Fool you tell yourself, let go of the pipes but your body refuses. The coffin takes a sharp dive to the bow as the water rushes and rushes. Your body grows cold and numb as the room fills up and lights go out. A final image courses your mind. It’s your brother and mother, you are all at the dinner table and it is snowing outside but warm inside. You remember her soft voice say grace. You peak open your eyes, she sneaks a look as well at you and your brother and mouths the words “I love you.” Then the world goes black as the man with the white horse takes you to true peace.

Lathnos het faltern on the high stump
Tious masses rustling their coats in root-eaves below
while Istern hordes trample in a growing spiral
on gods' faces, antipodal.

Sammandrion, sivy settled Satremonger
he may be, lends animate to callowed, mallean Prentics
and holds barred many a mangled law-tracer
but has no heed of his brother

Taphylos, who's none below but the deads' hands
agaze to the primate roil past halted lands.

He looked out the window; it was a dark and stormy night.
She had torn his heart in half but to him, no pain, only emptiness.
She was his light, his love, and his everything.
now he is nothing but a sad human man.

>>7547237
Some of the sentences are fantastic.
A bit of editing and you've got something really solid.

>>7557110
I'd be glad to read more if you feel like posting it. That excerpt was really quite enjoyable; for a little while I forgot I was supposed to critique it.

>>7557134
I'm from the US but I'm a BLR/UK mongrel. I guess the UK company leaks through into my spelling; I hadn't really thought about it, and I wouldn't be surprised if there's some inconsistency.

So if a phrase is "uniquely US", unless it's used by practically illiterate YAs or soccer moms, I'm probably going to miss it.

I know this thread is dead, but it's worth a shot.

>>7547237
I would love to read more of this.

Mao

her ghost paws at the windows with the wind
On long dark nights when im back.

A scratch at the door on daylit weekdays
in the shed alone with a bowl.

She creeps my midnight mind in silent noises,
Away for the both of us.

>>7557267
I'd just picked up on some UK spelling from you in the past, so I thought I was more astute than I guess I actually was. Maybe I'm just a sloppy writer. Anyway, glad you've enjoyed what I've posted so far. I'm always refining it, but I'll post more as the threads go on.

>>7557281
It's not bad, but the overuse of some words,
>feigned, eremite, hath
is a bit excessive. Also a lot of the archaic terms seem inordinate and forced.

>>7557267
Here's another excerpt from this story. I tried copying it to pastebin, but this is the first story where the formatting actually matters enough that I can't let pastebin fuck it up, so here's the original Google Docs file. Yes, you can get my original email through this. Please don't sign me up for a bunch of spam.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1S0OBBTF0bw5iBaezW1iBHxDqF9co2XHUmO751UKiah4/edit?usp=sharing

>>7557397
Also, don't read this if you don't want a MAJOR PLOT POINT ruined forever.

Like it matters. This is never coming out. But if it does, you can be one of the first people to say "I SAW THIS COMING". Or whatever.

"T-thanks for the chocolates Cindy," I stammer, grinning in a forced, sheepish, slightly moronic manner. "Oh my pleasure," she replies, placing her delicate hand on my knee, her crimson red nail polish causing me to lose eye contact with her emerald green eyes and stare down at her hands. "Perhaps we can do lunch sometime?" she asks. "S-s-saturday at 4?" I manage to blurt out. "That sounds great, I'll see you then" she replies, and with that we say farewell and part ways.

As I enter the elevator in my apartment building, I suddenly recognize the other man in it. It is the actor, Leonardo DiCaprio. "Aren't you that actor?" I automatically ask without hesitation. With a significant, exaggerated, loud sigh, he looks up and simply nods, his blue eyes meeting my gaze. He doesn't open his mouth, but his face is saying a thousand words. His mind is racing. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Can't he just leave me alone? Doesn't he know that I recently bought the penthouse and don't want to be pestered by every little fan in the world? I should have never became an actor, I want to die. "It's a real honour to meet you," I say, extending a hand to shake. He takes it, without eagerness, and quietly says "thanks, it's always cool to meet someone who likes my work." The elevator dings, and stops on my floor. I slowly walk out, and turn around. As the elevator is closing, I say "good luck with Mission Impossible three, Tom." Leo's forehead wrinkles. Visibly distressed, he is about to open his mouth, but the elevator door shuts and I walk to my door to retire for the evening.

>>7557397
AND, it has your (Beatrice's) personal stamp of Editing, since it has a protracted conversation about technology and philosophy, which needs to be edited down. Although the mention of the level of technology is necessary to establish the timeframe of the story. So whatever. I'll find a more elegant way to handle it.

>>7547237

This actually isn't bad. Don't bother posting anymore on /lit/ get yourself an actual editor when you're done and get this shit published.

>>7548019
Kek.

The rain pattered across the texture of Helix’s hand like terminal static as she held it out from the side entrance of the Rakana digi-bar. Enough to get her wet, but not enough to risk corrosion of the internal limb motors in her artificial body. Sure, this form was good enough to get her from one uplink station to another, but as a nameless voice had once told her, appearance is everything. “After all, what is function without form?” the void voice would sometimes echo in her the circuit gates of her logic processors.


Those same gates gave her the manufactured feeling of irony whenever she thought about it. If she wanted to, she could upload her mind onto some terminal, tucked away in one of the many cracks of Ehime. Taking a step out into the crowded street, she decided to visit a friend in one such crack, a nevrothesia dealer by the name of Quanta. Quanta had many fronts for his business, but no matter what route you took, they all lead to the the same result; one of the hardest, most intense highs to come out on the market in years.

Helix had first heard about nervothesia from her previous dealer, Pixel. “I got some new stuff from one of my hookups the other day Hex, you wanna try some?” was how it was initially marketed to her, accompanied by a tiny disk drive. As she understood, it was a time limited virus that created feedback loops in prosthetic body parts, coupled with memory leakers to slow processing speed and input distorters that change the feelings felt by the user. To an android like Helix, it translates to being one of the best high possible, the only downside being the copy protection and time restrictions.

Just the opening paragraphs of a rough draft of a story I'm working on. Some ideas have changed but this isn't really affected too much by them.

>>7555073
>wipe dat ass intensely
>intensely

Haha wut?

>>7554971
>If you're up to it, then yeah, absolutely.

What Adam feared, was what happened to him after his resourcefulness was exhausted. Not so much in being quieted by Bastille, or thrown off the side of the Plate, but more so in being abandoned by the group completely. A cease in communications was calculated by Adam to be a pain that would be too great to bear. He wasn’t sure if it was a set of circumstances he’d be able to push on through. Life since following the barmaid from Les Yeux Ouverts and ending up tied to a chair in a darkened basement had become… Demanding. After the interrogation from Son’s of Bastille’s Lela and her British associate, Adam woke up in his apartment–which had been nearly completely stripped of its valuables(it should be noted that close to all of his books were untouched, and the few that weren’t hadn’t been stolen, a fact which he had been immensely grateful for)–with the sour taste of either vomit, mucus, or some vomit-mucus combination in his mouth and a lightly dressed chest wound which was beginning to suffer from a red leakage and was soon to be in dire need of fresh bandages. As he came to and the blurring of his vision began to fade, he realized his door, which at first glance looked to have been simply left wide open from where he was sitting on the floor, was revealed to be, upon closer inspection, completely gone from the small apartment’s premises.

As in, no longer there.

As in, it had been as if the door had grown existentially tired with the unfulfilling life it led being a door all these years, came to the conclusion that this whole opening and closing thing wasn’t how it wanted to spend the rest of its life, made the conscious decision to unhinge itself, and finally left to pursue a passion closer to its heart. Adam guessed sailing or river rafting.

Soon after that he saw the flatscreen that had been mounted into the wall by his landlord was also missing from its place upon the wall. As was the wall mount. All that remained in the place of the television was stripped paint and ragged holes where the flatscreen’s mount had been violently pulled from the wall. The TV, it seemed, had not left of its own volition. And it was at this point that Adam realized he had been robbed. Soon after that he noted the heavy damage done to the walls and floor of his studio, and it was roughly five minutes after that that he came to the conclusion, much like his door had, that it was time for him to move on with his life, and most importantly to a place far far away from this apartment and what would be a very angry landlord who wasn’t likely to look fondly on the harm inflicted unto the tenant space rented out to the young Addison.

>>7557501

Too much tell, not enough show.

>>7557535
What do you mean by this? As in I should flesh out the world that the events are taking place in?

>>7557547

No, you're actually doing too much "fleshing out"

Don't just write exposition all the time. It's usually better to imply than describe, so that the few times you do describe outright, it has the effect of giving your reader traction in their processing of the story when needed. People won't stay engaged if you tell them every detail up front.

>>7557571
Okay, that make sense. I guess I'll go and reread some William Gibson and see how he does that, he's one of the inspirations for the story.

>>7557571
Oh and thanks!!

>>7547702
>>7547705
>>7547717
>>7547752
>>7547823
.....passed out in our booze a little early this night

>>7547365
So, first off I wanted to tell you I'm really impressed by your consistency as a writer. It comes through that you really have this narrative voice down pat, and that's definitely an enviable trait. Really dug your pacing, story content, and had a fun time reading through it.

It's definitely a wholly depressing read, and I can intensely identify with this character who so obviously feels imprisoned in a life that's completely made up of lies, insecurities, and a blind adherence to social dogmas. Which is all great because I do not fucking like Beatrice. Which might be what you're trying to do, create an unlikable character that still manages to be relatable through her dull and tragically tedious life.

All that said, I goddamn hated when I came across /pol/'s signature 'dindu nuffin' phrase, and it nearly made me want to stop reading. I'm glad I didn't, but being so familiar with /pol/ and taking a lot of issue with the board, it just felt really off-putting to see the phrase there. Though, if you're planning to give Beatrice some sort of widening of worldview and break down her racism as a way to develop her character to be more accepting of others and eventually herself, then I guess the term works as a supremely negative point for her to make progress from.

If on the other hand she kinda stays in this closed sort of mindset and you have different plans for her progression, I'd change that out because for all the racism she threw forward, that was the only bit that bothered me so much that I thought I might be hearing the author speaking and not the character.

But other than that, supremely enjoyable read, which all you'll ever catch me asking for.

>>7547501
What most others said. Over-dependence on adverbs, and the content you're pushing forward with isn't exactly original for the dystopia genre. I'd offer that you use the opportunity to continue your venture with this piece as a short story so as to not devote too much time to it. It seems like you're still in the early stages of your writing which is perfectly okay. Best way to get better is start cranking out complete pieces of narratives and then move onto the next set of narratives. Don't get too attached to anything just yet and KEEP WRITING. IT WORKS IF YOU WORK IT.

>>7547535
It seems fine enough. It's a short excerpt so it's hard to say too much about it, but nothing from it struck me a inherently bad or off-putting. I liked:
>There was no moon... ...to punctuate the sheer blackness
I feel like you've got decent enough word sense, though from what I'm looking at(which is so very little), there's nothing that's drawing me in so that I want to read more. Keep writing.

>>7547647
YEAH. I'm a sucker for raw, lucid shit like this, so maybe don't take my praise too highly, but I really enjoyed what you presented to me here. It drew me in, built my interest, and has me hankering for more. I could probably criticize that some lines might be a little too drawn out and possibly needless, but I wouldn't agree with myself. Takes me to a dark seemingly depraved place, but makes at the same time makes me happy to be there. Good stuff, man.

>>7554971
>If you're up to read more stuff, then yeah, absolutely

What Adam feared, was what happened to him after his resourcefulness was exhausted. Not so much in being quieted by Bastille, or thrown off the side of the Plate, but more so in being abandoned by the group completely. A cease in communications was calculated by Adam to be a pain that would be too great to bear. He wasn’t sure if it was a set of circumstances he’d be able to push on through. Life since following the barmaid from Les Yeux Ouverts and ending up tied to a chair in a darkened basement had become… Demanding. After the interrogation from Son’s of Bastille’s Lela and her British associate, Adam woke up in his apartment–which had been nearly completely stripped of its valuables(it should be noted that close to all of his books were untouched, and the few that weren’t hadn’t been stolen, a fact which he had been immensely grateful for)–with the sour taste of either vomit, mucus, or some vomit-mucus combination in his mouth and a lightly dressed chest wound which was beginning to suffer from a red leakage and was soon to be in dire need of fresh bandages. As he came to and the blurring of his vision began to fade, he realized his door, which at first glance looked to have been simply left wide open from where he was sitting on the floor, was revealed to be, upon closer inspection, completely gone from the small apartment’s premises.

As in, no longer there.

As in, it had been as if the door had grown existentially tired with the unfulfilling life it led being a door all these years, came to the conclusion that this whole opening and closing thing wasn’t how it wanted to spend the rest of its life, made the conscious decision to unhinge itself, and finally left to pursue a passion closer to its heart. Adam guessed sailing or river rafting.

Soon after that he saw the flatscreen that had been mounted into the wall by his landlord was also missing from its place upon the wall. As was the wall mount. All that remained in the place of the television was stripped paint and ragged holes where the flatscreen’s mount had been violently pulled from the wall. The TV, it seemed, had not left of its own volition. And it was at this point that Adam realized he had been robbed. Soon after that he noted the heavy damage done to the walls and floor of his studio, and it was roughly five minutes after that that he came to the conclusion, much like his door had, that it was time for him to move on with his life, and most importantly to a place far far away from this apartment and what would be a very angry landlord who wasn’t likely to look fondly on the harm inflicted unto the tenant space rented out to the young Addison.

>>7557135
>>7557145
Fuck you for not writing more. But kudos to knowing how to write some goddamn enjoyable flash fiction. If you came here for critiques, I can't give you any. I've never read any WWII fiction, so maybe that's why this reads as so fresh to me, but that aside, I think you have a real knack for putting together a suspenseful scene and building it to a climax. I honestly got a semi-Lovecraftian feel from the way your progression works. So take that as you will.

>>7557281
Hmmm, this is one of those rare cases where you've got content that's more interesting than your prose. Which is I'd say is a problem worth having. You're obviously working to set up a world here, and there's definitely a lot of questions I'm curious to have answered as a reader. Definitely got a Deus Ex/Do Androids vibe from it, but I don't know if I like the constant paragraph breaks from the click-click-clacking from the transhuman at the end of the bar. I get that you'r experimenting with your prose, and absolutely do that, but I feel like the click breaks aren't as interesting as you'd like them to be.

As for your prose itself, it's lacking, but I can't say what. Sounds fucking dumb, but it sounds sort of uninspired. I think you just might need some more writing under your belt, or maybe this passage will just read better after a rewrite or something. What ever the case, I think you're circling things worth delving into, so keep writing.

>>7552056
More teddy tonight

Pale, golden droplets drizzled onto the toilet seat, and, being a gentleman with a female roommate, Teddy was not one to leave such a mess, plus, he could not tolerate seeing another one of her scathing, passive-aggressive sticky-notes on the porcelain lid. Besides that, what if he, rather than she, was the next person to use the toilet? On the other hand, the amount of exertion required to bend over and wipe the seat made Teddy apprehensive. While contemplating this ethical dilemma he had made a realization while looking down at his feet and, almost unthinkingly, raised his leg to wipe the seat, effortlessly – compared to the alternative, with his left sock. Triumphantly, Teddy walked across the bathroom – left, right, left – and without washing his hands, opened the door and returned toward his natural, isolated habitat – right, left, right – leaving a fleeting, damp imprint on the old, creaky hardwood floor that moaned with every step.

Wasn't sure how to end it. I was thinking of implying the mess he was leaving on the floor instead... So the final sentence would have been something like this instead (off the top of my head):

Triumphantly, Teddy walked across the bathroom – left, right, left – and without washing his hands, opened the door and returned toward his natural, isolated habitat – right, left, right. In his many years of occupation here he had never washed the floors.

As of this moment, I hereby declare myself a proponent of the Universe.

This Tome fit for a God, is now mine to possess.

I shall protect my virtues and aspirations.

I shall surpass the limitations of this mortal body.

I shall ascend the throne of Space and Time.

Fuel my fury, fuel my fire, now is the time to fight for my life.

Death holds no sway over me.

>>7557646

I am only interested in the picture.

The hatched lines, modernism, bureaucratic heaviness and implied 45-degree angles all suggest the buildings which dominate the drawn space in the original Akira manga (which is also an entertaining read btw).

>>7557693
That manga's art is fucking ridiculous, man. Like, the level of detail Otomo is able to just stuff into panels is mad. Dancing mad.

>>7557682


2nd critique is meant for:
>>7557531
>>7557531
>>7557531


Sorry, >>7557682

>>7557682

The tapping is supposed to be jarring to the narrator (meant to get him to move away or leave the bar, because the transhuman doesn't like that the guy is sitting next to him), though I do think it could be spaced better for the reader's enjoyment. Finicky balance there.

This excerpt is actually meant to be a sort of introduction of one of the primary characters- the transhuman- from the point of view of a devout anti-implant practitioner/habitual drunk. I intended the prose to be fairly dull and fuzzy, but I don't know how well I achieved that goal and I know that my prose could use some refining anyway.

Do you think the excerpt would work better in first person?

I have a baby face and think about sex often. Come sunrise and the tent is pitched; petrified wood buttresses wooly sheets. In the morning, I’ll make toast, read the paper, and possibly meditate. After my morning ritual, I’ll masturbate until my little, freckly hands start to ache. You see, people see my baby face and presume I don’t have sexual urges, but the truth is quite the opposite. I have very intense urges and very wild fantasies; babies don’t have urges like I do, but people still group me in with them. You see, all I want in this life is to release these urges with an older woman, preferably in her forties – again, you wouldn’t expect this from a baby face like myself. I want her to suck my engorged phallus while I admire the coordinated symphony of atrophied facial muscles contract and release across her face. Her age-driven insecurities would be cast asunder as I cherish the gentle wiggle of cellulite about her hips; her head oscillates like a spring.

>>7557732
tense fucks up in the end, but this is truly funny.

Preparatory to anything else Mr Valentine brushed off the greater bulk of the shavings and handed Kyle the hat and ashplant and bucked him up generally in orthodox Samaritan fashion which he very badly needed. His (Kyle's) mind was not exactly what you would call wandering but a bit unsteady and on his expressed desire for some beverage to drink Mr Valentine in view of the hour it was and there being no pump of Vartry water available for their ablutions let alone drinking purposes hit upon an expedient by suggesting, off the reel, the propriety of the cabman's shelter, as it was called, hardly a stonesthrow away near Butt bridge where they might hit upon some drinkables in the shape of a milk and soda or a mineral. But how to get there was the rub. For the nonce he was rather nonplussed but inasmuch as the duty plainly devolved upon him to take some measures on the subject he pondered suitable ways and means during which Kyle repeatedly yawned. So far as he could see he was rather pale in the face so that it occurred to him as highly advisable to get a conveyance of some description which would answer in their then condition, both of them being e.d.ed, particularly Kyle, always assuming that there was such a thing to be found. Accordingly after a few such preliminaries as brushing, in spite of his having forgotten to take up his rather soapsuddy handkerchief after it had done yeoman service in the shaving line, they both walked together along Beaver street or, more properly, lane as far as the farrier's and the distinctly fetid atmosphere of the livery stables at the corner of Montgomery street where they made tracks to the left from thence debouching into Amiens street round by the corner of Dan Bergin's. But as he confidently anticipated there was not a sign of a Jehu plying for hire anywhere to be seen except a fourwheeler, probably engaged by some fellows inside on the spree, outside the North Star hotel and there was no symptom of its budging a quarter of an inch when Mr Valentine, who was anything but a professional whistler, endeavoured to hail it by emitting a kind of a whistle, holding his arms arched over his head, twice.

>>7556366
Enjoyable. There was a typo ("LIghthouse") but otherwise I can't of much of anything to change. The bit of exposition about the aether was executed well.

I think the whole deal has potential, so I wouldn't recommend scrapping it completely. Maybe just take a break from it for a while.

>>7557397
Once again, very good. Made my tear ducts tingle. A couple of things I would consider changing:

>"I might even ... to be patient."

She says it's a surprise, so I think it's unnecessary for her to say that she can't tell him what it is yet. That's the point of surprises.

>sudden and most vicious heartache

Not too bad, but "most" is a little weird.

The computer dialogue is out of place. I think it could be alright if it were pared down. I would just cut out some of Dixon's details.

>young and pretty

I'm not sure if it's cliche or not, but it feels that way. Maybe "youthful, pretty", or just cut out the descriptors. I want to bring back "beauteous" but this is obviously not quite the place for it.

>It utterly consumed me.

"Utterly" just isn't a word that people use. Maybe they did then, I don't know. Nowadays, at least, it's only used in conversation for making dairy jokes.

>>7557640
Thanks!

Many of her problems are going to change. The racism might not be addressed specifically, but it will still be dealt with, one way or another.

The "dindu nuffin" phrase was obviously from my occasional visits to /pol/, but the rest of the racism is based on people I know who are similar to Beatrice (soccer moms).

>>7557646
>What Adam feared,

I don't think there should be a comma there. Not sure, but I don't think so.

>A cease in ... great to bear.

Not sure what this means. If he was the one calculating its effect, why would he do it to himself?

>Life since following ... had become... Demanding.

This is an... interesting sentence. It's just awkward and I don't really get what it's saying. Life since following a barmaid and getting tied to a chair would obviously be demanding, so why bother mentioning it? I assume the reader would already have known about these circumstances, anyway. Also, don't capitalise "Demanding". Again, I could be wrong about that, but I'm 95% certain.

>After the interrogation ... of fresh bandages.

Goes on a bit long, doesn't it?

"Son's of Bastille's Lela and her British associate" doesn't make sense to me. Maybe it would with context but as it is here, "Son's of Bastille's" makes no sense.

"nearly completely" sounds bad; maybe "almost completely".

Put spaces before an opening parenthesis and after a closing parenthesis, unless punctuation follows the closing parenthesis.

Noting that the books haven't been stolen is nice, but it goes on too long. It should probably be in another sentence. In this sentence, we have: after interrogation, he awakes in his apartment, which has been stripped of valuables (except books); he tastes vomit and mucus in his mouth, and he has a chest wound which is leaking and will need fresh bandages soon. That's a lot of information for one sentence.

>As he came ... small apartment's premises.

Another long sentence, but this time, almost everything in it is unnecessary. You may as well say, "As he came to and his vision began to clear, he realised that his door was missing." I don't see the need for a miniature plot in a sentence about a door being missing.

>As in, it ... to its heart.

This is where a long sentence works. It adds to the humour. However, the humour feels odd here.

The next paragraph is a mix. The first few sentences are decent lengths. The last sentence, however, is way too long. He notes that his walls and floor are damaged, five minutes pass, he decides - like his door - to move on with his life to a place far away from the apartment and from a landlord who is unlikely to forgive him for the harm he has done to his place. Again, that's a lot of stuff for one sentence.

In a more general sense, I don't understand what it wants me to feel. It moves from fear of abandonment to retrospective information to a robbery to vomit, mucus, and a seeping wound to humour about a door leaving to a lighthearted response to the robbery and destruction of a flat.

It's not hopeless (although, to be honest, almost nothing is), but it could use some TLC.

Bump limit?

>>7555073
>I could this all day
you accidentally a word
>I could doo-doo this all day

>>7549997
R-r-remix

Cuck me, don't fuck me
Love me like you love
another man's much bigger cock

I don't care if I'm happy
I want to see your bliss
Its your pussy that I miss

I love the longing
I don't care which holes you fill
who or what enters you
as long as I don't meet him
and stay free
no babies

https://orchestratestory.wordpress.com/2015/12/02/chapter-1-a-butterfly-preceded-it/

Wrote this like a month ago, but never shared it. I seldom read books, or have ever written anything longer than 3 pages before this, so be gentle.

>>7558584
>I seldom read

Then why are you here?

>>7558440
Yeah, the rest of her racial tendencies felt really natural and oft times even relatable. 'Dindu' was the only time I was taken out. Soccer moms don't generally keep up on internet memes, so I wouldn't keep it in. Like I said, she doesn't have to lose that quality about herself, just make it seem more rooted in herself as a character, rather than rooted in the experiences of a whole different demographic of individuals.

>>7558440
>LIghthouse

Oh jeez. I usually catch that kind of thing. Thanks.

>surprise

Her mentioning that she has a surprise for him is supposed to call to the reader's mind something sexual (hah, what surprise could a wife possibly have for her husband), but that's a bit of a red herring. The fact that he knows about it is important for expository reasons.

>computer dialogue

I know, I know. I hate it. I need to find a way to patch it up a bit. Honestly, I threw it in there because everyone I had shown this excerpt to were confused about the setting ("why isn't there stricter security at a daycare?" etc.), and I wanted to make it clear that it takes place during the late '70s/early '80s. But yes, it's out of place and very...cumbersome.

>young and pretty

Very cliche. Extremely cliche. Meant to call back to the opening of the novel in an unexpected way. Hopefully it will work better that way.

>utterly

Yeah, it's not the best word. I'm trying to keep Ivan's dialogue a little stilted, since he's supposed to be Russian and I have neither the skill nor the desire to write a Russian accent in English. But yes, "utterly" is odd. I'll think of something better.

Thank you for reading, though, especially since it's a bit on the long side for these threads.

>>7558473
Ahhh, much appreciated! Adam's scenes generally read a bit more schizophrenic because of his intense depression and inability to connect in meaningful ways to the world surrounding him, and because of that he can be hard to write for sometimes. I personally do like the way this scene jumps around a lot, but definitely had issues with seeing how to clean it up. Going through your critiques help out a lot to help me sorta center on what needs fixing. Primarily the oversaturation of sentences. I think I might have tried too hard to get the run-on narrative here to line up with the paragraph about Adam's door leaving; when ultimately such a thing wasn't necessary. I can't edit the section yet, but I'll absolutely be able to keep your critiques in mind going forward and once I go back to edit/rewrite that section.

And yeah, definitely a scene that requires the reader to have a bit of context. The opening paragraph returns to Adam after a break in time, so that's another reason it sorta overloads you with information. That doesn't mean I can't break it up a bit better for a smoother read.

Star Wars fan-fic shit,

Please be gentle.

Also, I'd critique some stuff but I honestly don't think I'm good enough as a writer to do so. After all, this is literally practice stuff.

‘Twenty-one, eh?’ The bouncer turned the chit over in his hand,
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’
Beim blinked.
‘Y’know what?’ Said the bouncer, pausing only for effect, ‘Twenty creds and you’re in.’
‘I… Twenty?’ He’d already paid fifteen.
‘Uh-huh… That’s only half the price of some quality horns to cover up those boyish little nubs.’ Retorted the bouncer, giving those same nubs a little jostle.
Beim’s brow furrowed and his lips parted far before he had cooked up a witty come back. Thankfully for him, the entrance doors whisped open before he could make it obvious.
‘What’s the hold up?’ Boomed a voice from a pair of broad shoulders and a jagged crown, ‘Grotty better not be givin’ you trouble.’ Noted the new arrival, his arm falling to rest on the Bouncer’s shoulder.
‘This tike’s with you, Stakko?’
‘Tike?’ Retorted Beim
‘Oh come on, kid.’
‘Yeah,’ said Stakko, nodding Beim to his side, ‘this tike’s with me.’
A grunt from one and a smile from the other was all it took for Beim to strut his way past the bouncer, casually snatching back his counterfeit chit.
‘Oh and Grotty? Thanks for not making the kid pay, eh?’ His lips curled into a smirk before shooting the bouncer a wink. ‘Put it towards my tab.’
The entrance to the club itself was just as unorthodox as Beim’s admittance had been. Where as one expected to see a group of expectant - or expired - revellers and worn out couches, they were instead greeted with sharp lights and a thick durasteel chamber with thicker doors on both ends. As the door behind shut and the stale air began hissing through the vents, Stakko gave Beim a thud to the shoulder.
‘Remember…’ He began, the lights fading as the hissing began fading to nothing,’There’s no such thing as a bad trip. A’right?’
‘A’right.’ Responded Beim.
And, as if on cue, the far door hissed open, letting a flood of both bass and thick orange smoke wash over them.

I deleted 1.2k words of worldbuilding wholesale because it looked like an out-of-place rambling that didn't serve the story that much, and cut it down to less than a tenth while including it in a way that I think is more natural. I know I did the right thing story-wise, but I can't help but feel as if I've died a little.

>>7558768
I'll edit it out. Thanks for reading; it's nice to know that at least three people have read it.

One thing I do want to do with the racism, though, is emphasise that women tend to be more racist than men, but that it's a somewhat-justified survival instinct. /pol/ seems to think that we're all Tumblr-using interracial fetishists (because they only see women on the internet), while most of us in the West are actually a little afraid of black men because of crime statistics or just common sense. We're more likely to be raped by the stereotypical black thug than by the stereotypical white nerd, so we're naturally a bit cautious around black guys with saggy pants and tattoos. It's the women who like danger - mostly young ones - who are into them. There is this occasional semi-desire to be fucked by one, but it's similar to the urge to jump off a ledge just because it's there.

I know that sounds horribly racist, but it's the way that I am, and the way that almost every other white woman I know is. I don't think I've ever read anything that addresses it frankly, so I want to.

>>7558830
It's an interesting concept. If there's enough context, and you think about a few little changes, it probably wouldn't be that unpleasant. But since it's all on its own up there, I had to critique it as its own piece.

>>7558807
I guess context would solve some of those issues. I can't think of a way to perform the function of the computer dialogue without saying, "Dear reader, this is the late 70s and early 80s." I'm sure you can come up with something, though.

I would definitely advise avoiding adverbs when trying to write English dialogue from a Russian. I know I'm speaking in any language with which I am not completely comfortable (like Russian), I would be using the most basic synonyms for every verb and avoiding too many modifiers.

>>7558925
Your sacrifice(And, I hope, talent) will make the live a little.

Finding out about the world is funner than being told about it. I'm sure there are plenty of ways to insert tiddle widdles.

I'm thinking of entering a slam poetry competition because reading Invisible Cities in speech apparently doesn't qualify you for provincials.
I fucking hate slam poetry, here's what I have so far.

A letter to slam poetry
For the sentimental, soul-sucking pieces
For white girls who consider Catcher in the Rye their Bible
and tumblr is their Jesus
For the fact that whitewashed rapping has become the way of telling the people
That “Yeah, everything sucks”
Sure, no one is equal
We tried that once with Marx
it didn’t fucking work.

>>7558940
>I would definitely advise avoiding adverbs when trying to write English dialogue from a Russian

That's good advice. Thanks.

>>7559064
good on ye, ye warrior

take the fight to those pretentious dogs.


Just make sure you don't go up there looking like a fuccboi. Look sharp.

>>7559085
I'm sorry, I can't tell if this is sarcastic or not. Forgive my autism

Bump limit reached

>>7559103
>>7559103
>>7559103

please move at your own leisure.

>>7557682
Ha ha thanks man, I am glad you enjoyed it. Interesting I was told flash fiction was up to 500 words. I was thinking of making it longer but was worried it would hurt the flow of the story, glad to see keeping it short paid off. I don't see many war stories on /lit/ so I thought this would be good to show as well, critique would be nice, but hey all is good. Also re-reading it after your semi-lovecraftian comment, did add an interesting feel to it all, and like Lovecraft, war could very well be esoteric.

How does one become a good writer /lit/? What advice can you give me to improve my voice?

>>7559132
>Practice
>Read a lot

>>7558940
Well whatever you do, don't pull back from that honesty, because it's definitely a huge strength and gives your narrative a strong sense of relatability. It's off-putting at times, but not in a bad way, just rather in that sort of made-me-feel-dirty reading it way because it felt like I was sitting deep inside this person's consciousness, reading thoughts that weren't meant for me or anyone else to see.

That said, yeah, I'd take dindu out just because it doesn't do or add anything to the character in terms of that relatability. And thanks for adding a bit of context, makes it easier to see the other dimensions to this character that most probably present themselves as the story progresses.

>>7559304
Thanks! I appreciate the consideration you've given it. I posted it with the dindu edit and a new "chapter" in the new thread. Or at least I think it's a new chapter; I don't recall exactly what I posted in this thread and I don't feel like going through it all.

>>7550707
Does your audience consist of mostly 200 year old men?

Here goes.
----
I am filled with the severe urge to rip every strand of hair from my scalp. From follicle to follicle.

(I could probably hang myself with the left over strands.)

It’s not long enough, I muse.

I find, that my eyes ever so slowly turn again to the wall, which texture oddly reminds me of cheese. It isn’t until I look at the wall in a new light that I realize it. Perhaps since a couple of hours have passed since I got in here, that something in my mind gently suggests that maybe, it’s texture wasn’t like cheese, but a cheese grater.

From that thought I imagined pushing my face as hard as I could against the wall-

And a urging need, to push my face against that hard, unforgiving cement,-

I leaned towards the wall.

Then with powers that had been previously unknown to me, I’d move my head swiftly with deafening power and my face, only made of flesh and bones, would rip off. My face would tear apart, like a bad road rash, like a bad motor cycle accident.

My eyes would turn to mush and stick to the wall. Mucus, tissue and blood would make their way down the gray cement.

The red would stand as a stark contrast against the dull color. It would be a mix of a dark maroon and a bright red one, since I guess that both my atrial and venous system would be damaged by having the top of my head and face grated off like cheese and-

(but it would be unclean, and my body would be contaminated.)

I leaned away with my head from the wall.

How much time had passed?