/lit/ - Literature

>>9728679

nah mate its only the intro I'm not even close to done.

>>9728683
Post an excerpt.

>>9728693
The

Aye, In all the days I have known you, in all the years that I have watched and longed for you and you alone, my beautiful wild Atlanta, I have seen only one moment where you have been sincere. In all of your entire life, only once. Only for one instant. It was when your eyes met mine and you were both dazzled and delighted as our lanterns floated up up and away over the sparkling ocean and twilight sky. So long ago that it may well be a childhood dream, and thinking back on that time seems to be peering into a past and distant lifetime altogether. As our lanterns parted in the great sky that night, our lives appeared to drift apart over this vast ocean of time. I saw you less and less and you smiled even less, and I always wondered why, and thought that perhaps there was something wrong with me, that I was not friendly or girlish or beautiful enough to hold your genuine attention for more than a brief moment. Do you know how lonely I have been? Your poor Maggie, thrust to the outskirts of your life to only peer in at you playing and associating with boys and girls that are altogether unlike you and nowhere near as great as you. To only watch you, day after day, become dark and grey and lose the light that you once had as a child. When was the last time you felt the wind on your arms and under your feet, Atlanta? When was the last time that you felt the loving kiss of that beaming sun heating up this black earth. When was the last time that you thought of me? Have you loved at all, Atlanta? Have you loved for even one second of your life? I have loved you every day, and I shall love you for eternity too. If ghosts do indeed exist, I will haunt you for the rest of your days, never leaving you alone and prodding you towards happiness with my ghostly hand. I made you a lantern, Atlanta. It is colored just like the one you made with me as a child. Did you see it? I have a lantern too, safely placed upon my bed. Light both of them for me, will you? Let them softly float forever above the waves, above this cold earth, telling everyone and everything that we are. I feel so silly standing here and crying, but I cannot stay.

Banana Boy, son of Manny Malone, whipped out his dirty detective cuffs and cufferoo'd the beady-eyed bugger in front of him.

"Look at this boolin brodie over here," said Banana Boy to his coppo mates. "Yer days of messin' around with the town are over, young man."

The boolin brodie in question had the name Jon and a vindictive glare, but lacked any semblance of shame: Banana Boy had caught him in the midst of his latest dirty deed: waving his dreadful dongle in front of some poor kiddos in the park, kiddos who'd theretofore been slippin' down slides and then bam! Presently they were ogling this man's pulsating pink doodle.

>>9728697
>starts with the
shit desu

This ones my opening sentence, since writing it I feel like it could be cleaned up but I'm not sure if I have the skills to so it.

>The line of muck which encased the elfs slender legs slowly receded as each pitfall proved to be shallower than the last, sure sign they were headed in the right direction. It had been three days since the party had set out from Oakheart; an area strangely named considering it was neither surrounded by oaks or filled with the warmth one would best describe as heartfelt. Although following that line of thought, a place most aptly described as swamp-ass probably wouldn't want to advertise it's true nature anyway.

We pass quietly, Ignorant of each other’s existence until there is nothing more than a hare’s breath between us. I’ve been here before – I would have never believed eyes could look so dull, but then a spark, a glint of acknowledgement, followed by the beginnings of a strained smile.
All gone within a single heartbeat, a blink and it would all be missed. The cold settles in and dull eyes return to stare through me. We become nothing more than ghosts, condemned to silent haunting and unsure familiarity.

>>9729075
Really trite and annoying, even for dungeons and dragons styled fantasy. Nobody wants to read annoying descriptions about the name of a place. Weave your description of the place through the narrative. The reader will come to understand that Oakheart is a rather ironic name without you inserting disruptive omniscient narrator comments. If this is really your opening sentence, I imagine anyone that isn't pushing through it just for the hope of elf erotica will stop reading after a few sentences.

>than the last, sure sign
should be: , a sure sign

>It's true nature
should be: its
Nothing else is really grammatically incorrect, but that doesn't mean that it did not make me vomit.

>>9729075
>The sheet of slime encasing the slender legs of the elf gradually receded, as each pitfall proved shallower than the last; sure sign that her course was true. It had been three days since the party set forth from Oakheart; a strange name, for the place neither was peopled with oaks, nor exuded the warmth best described as "heartfelt". Though, following that line of thought, a place most aptly described as swamp-crack would likely not wish to boast of its true character.

>>9728733

That's a tired trope, it would be funnier if a group of people got implicated in a high profile scandal.

>>9729075
>>9730604
Anon is right, if you feel really attached to the whole "Oakheart" meme, (It aint that clever tho) maybe put it in some dialogue instead. As is its a boring drag to read, and I imagine a snarky narrator will get annoying really fast. I recommend cutting that out entirely.

A night walk. Quiet urban streets creeping along like a giant concrete conveyor belt. The night has a dangerous quality to it. It's past midnight but there's still people about sitting and standing here and there among the shadows. Cars trill by. There's a large motorway. From the bridge one feels their jaw tighten, and their lungs seize up a little.

Tyler looks down below, then pulls back.

“Do you ever get the urge to throw things from high places?”

“Yeah”

“I had the strongest temptation to throw my phone just now.”

“That's normal.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. You're not really going to throw your phone, but you could, even though it's very unlikely. It's because it's an unusual thought that you become aware of your own resistance to doing it.”

“Maybe one day I'll throw my phone. Just to know I can.”

“But you won't.”

“Yeah, I probably won't.”

They walk in tandem along a long road bordering a football field. The road curves, stopping them from seeing the end of the street until they've reached about halfway along it.

Reece takes out a cigarette, lights it, and takes a drag. His thin lips make an 'o' and a ghostly trail of smoke snakes into the open air.

“What?”

Reece looks at his friend, inciting a challenge with his performative indifference, posturing like a caricature of Cruella Deville.

Tyler says “I wonder if its the same temptation to throw the phone that makes people smoke.”

“No,” says Reece, as if he's already given this a great deal of thought and Tyler has made a common mistake. “Cigarettes have nicotine which is an addictive substance.”

“That's true. Phones are addictive, but not in the same way.”

“Well it's all dopamine in the brain acting as a reward system (Reece gestures with both hands, making little circles in the air, the cigarette light dancing like a firefly in the dark). The brain makes these connections, neural pathways, which are like their own little sub-personalities which, when you give them what they want, grow stronger.”

“Like a fat person feeds their hunger personality too much.”

(Reece takes another drag), “Yeah.”

“So why don't you stop feeding it?”

“Maybe I don't want to.”

“Why not, if you know its bad for you?”

“For fuck's sake are you going to be on my case about this all night? Why can't we ever just talk?”

“I thought that was what we were doing?”

“No you're just pestering me about smoking. Just drop it.”

“I'm sorry man. I didn't realise...”

“No, it's alright. You just do this too much.”

“...I'm sorry.”

“It's fine.”

his hand. He pulls back his arm to throw it.

(Read the last half by following the link)

https://pastebin.com/HYPhdYpy

>>9728724
This started with the potential to be patrician but by the lanterns line you lost all hope. It literally ev came clues and silly sentences after that.

>>9728733
I wish I could say I laughed but it wasn't outlandish enough

This thread...

>>9731194
Yeah it was just something I freewrote in a couple minutes for a short story I've been working on for one of this months deadlines. The lanterns are of great significance to the story, and the last line is a reference to finnegans wake. What didn't you like about it?

https://pastebin.com/y3emtw3Z

>>9731192
trite and a bit campy. Not terrible dialogue but unrealistic in parts. Good effort though

The wide, round rump straining against the purple lycra pants of the white woman in front of him in line at the corner shop stirred in D'Quan dim, dreamlike memories of the Serengeti buried in his blood, setting his heart pounding like a jungle drum and his long coal-black pestle nudging the fabric of his basketball shorts.

con'td?

>>9731259
Her feelings are just a little to simple if he's only be genuine once. Seems like she's overly sentimental and willing to give up everything but not in meaningful or interesting way because no one is actually like that. For it to work there needs to be some incredible context. A real human would feel a bit or anger or shame or something along with wanting the best for another person if they invested that much energy into someone who just did not amount to what they wanted. There would have to be an actual mental illness with the narrator for this to remain interesting.

Are you simply writing from a woman's perspective or did I misinterpret this?

>>9732008
It's dialogue from the girl to Atlanta before she leaps off of a cliff. She basically caught him sleeping with a girl he didn't even care about and didn't feel like living anymore. The major theme of the short story is sincerity. It's not meant to be entirely realistic.

>>9732029
I don't mean this is a nasty or disparaging way but...are you over 18?

>>9732091
Yeah, I'm 21. Why?

>>9732110
Because the only people I can see actually caring about a story in which a girl kills herself because the guy she thinks she loved cheated or her or maybe didn't even cheat on her but just slept with someone else instead of her in this hypersexual world and she's so saintly about it that she basically narrates as if she's a tragic hero who will guide him like a guardian angel despite doing something so idiotically selfish and frankly silly are girls under 18 and booktubers. Go for it but just know, unless you address this with a little more perspective it will be confined to that audience.

>>9728733
kek'd

>>9732123
>Because the only people I can see actually caring about a story in which a girl kills herself because the guy she thinks she loved cheated or her or maybe didn't even cheat on her but just slept with someone else instead of her in this hypersexual world and she's so saintly about it that she basically narrates as if she's a tragic hero who will guide him like a guardian angel despite doing something so idiotically selfish and frankly silly are girls under 18 and booktubers.

>>9729630
I like your voice - would definitely read if you could get your shit together and write something longer with a decent structure

>>9731192
Not terrible, kind of reminds me of the stuff I used to write when I was younger. Some cliched advice that I think would really improve your writing though: show, don't tell.

You're trying a little too hard to push your idea of what's happening. Good writing is satisfying for the reader because it involves a certain amount of interpretation on the reader's part–you have to give them some space to figure out for themselves what you're trying to communicate.

For example: "The night has a dangerous quality to it." The fact that you've told the reader this doesn't really tell us anything at all about what's happening, it just tells us that you think there's a dangerous quality, without any justification. It would be much more powerful if you could give some reasons as to why the night had a dangerous quality, to describe the setting and let the reader work out that the night has a dangerous quality, rather than just stating it outright.

I hope this makes sense. It's not easy to do well, but once you practice it a little while you'll start to understand what I mean. Just remember the simple rule: show, don't tell.

Keep it up, you've got the potential to be great.

I need basically a sanity check on the premise for a series of short stories I have been writing:

>main character is a government employed inspector for mental asylums and facilities for the mentally infirm in early 1900s england at first just before and then during WWI
>he is employed by the government and essentially given criteria to pick up patients who won't be missed and send them back
>each short stories covered the man at a different asylum and with a different patient he is selling off
>mainly follows the man's own mental issues pertaining to severe OCD and depression
>basically becomes increasingly unstable as he sends these people off and sees the lives of those forgotten in these institutions

>>9732590
Has potential. I don't know about the "follows the man's own mental issues". Hard to care about baby's OCD when you have actual headcases around. In the early 1900s people did not cater to these mental illnesses-lite like "muh anxiety" as they do today.

May be relevant to your interests: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Three_Christs_of_Ypsilanti
As well as the great movie Shock Corridor

>>9732607
The man's worsening OCD and feelings towards the first world war are the main things that continue to follow him between the stories, as he has essentially no contact with those who he sends back.

To elaborate his OCD is to the point it cost him his marriage and essentially caused the death of his mother. One of the major parts of his character is an extremely warped idea of female companionship due to the manipulative marriage and his mother essentially damning him before dying. As well he realizes he is far higher functioning than those he deals with and this fuels an attitude of enforced normality on him, that he is the healthy one surrounded by the ill. In the stories I have written so far this sort of culminates in him becoming obsessed with a patient who is in tern obsessed with an enormous orange tree that only bears green fruit. The end of the story is him sitting beneath the tree picking up orange skins as the man who he planned on sending along to the government has hung himself from the branches.

>May be relevant to your interests: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Three_Christs_of_Ypsilanti
>As well as the great movie Shock Corridor
I will look into them.

>>9732629
Could be way overblown ;damaged; status or could be really good, depending on how you write it.

>>9732676
Yeah. This is more or less what I am unsure of. I have also come to a turning point where I am now considering having a slight gap in time and moving to where he has left his previous life in favor of joining the first world war.

The part one of the story sort of ended with the patient killing himself and I am filling in time between. Part 2 is his life after transferring to run a field hospital for the british forces during WWI. I have laid hints of what really happens to those who are sent by him, the main character essentially turning a blind eye, but knowing it has to do with some sort of experimentation. I have considered Part 2 moving towards his life encountering a few of these people again and discovering what happened to them. However this would them move essentially into science fiction and I am really unsure of that transition.

>>9732132

Count ƒ


A humble narcissist:
the Jainist serial killer.
A one-word list
oƒ letters that don't exist.

The phantom limbed genius
ƒorages ƒor truƒƒle ƒries.
The Taos Hum skipped town

and Snoopy dropped Pisa's tower
once leaning as prescribed.
The mayor puked outside the rusted barn,

Byron tumescent with midnight wax.
Baritone kazoo choirs,
parasitic clues track mud

into the ceilingless glass house
cohabited by Goliath and Dave,
the hood's token gay couple.

He only notices the electric hunger
aƒter the manhole cover ƒalls
and hits the ground running.

ƒamiliar ƒoreigners, longitudinal studies,
what in God's name (God)
is the meaning oƒ this? The boss yelling

zealous ƒor z reports, eyes Cheryl
ƒrom HR. The comet plods blithely
towards the Genie and his gypsies in Limbo.

Spectographs to Jelly Bean™ ƒlavors
(spoiled milk or cut grass) to gravel
to Braille sonatas, oath sworn:

A deity's sorority oƒ textile quanta
neatly packaged as ƒabergé Humpty Dumpties
or a monsoon oƒ Eve's uncomsumed ƒruits oƒ loom.

The minstrel show ends at gunpoint,
the curtain ƒalls over pupils,
guns blazing away at ill-tempered windshields

in traditionally sunny Sunday weather.
Intermission, the buƒƒer warrants
something tangible to marmite yeasts

but neural nets cast behind broken ships
catch only mites in spider vein silk.
Then Valentine's X-Acto® exposes the ƒlesh.

Bullseye: necrotic sulƒide daydreams
incarcerated in gold-leaƒlets, grassroots garnishments,
and grandma's chocolate chip ash kisses.

However and ever, the territory's lost
along with the maps app.
Nowhere, here, ƒast at last.

How we sigh ƒor an Athenian astronomer's prints,
discovery in this rubber rubble rubbish and brush,
photos oƒ imperial ambergris and Lust's

six sisters sweetly named sin.
Iƒ only it were love I was in.

Shark–ƒin.

>>9732684
Honeslty, I would just describe the branches of the tree as if they were looking like a hanging man. To have him under the literal tree sounds to me to be too much.

As for the rest of what you wrote, that's just a totally new direction and you're only going to know what works by actually writing it.

>>9732702
For reference the whole thing with his mother and wife is never stated but told mainly through letter he receives and refuses, and a continual talk his boss attempts to have with him about a concern to his stability.

>Honeslty, I would just describe the branches of the tree as if they were looking like a hanging man. To have him under the literal tree sounds to me to be too much.
How I have wrote it is he felt a great weight and could not look up. He saw something from a distance and went to the tree, and basically stared at the ground and picked up peels rather than look up to confirm. Merely felt a great coldness and loneliness somewhere above and inside him.

>As for the rest of what you wrote, that's just a totally new direction and you're only going to know what works by actually writing it.
Yes, you may be right. Honestly I am just unsure of the entire idea from its inception. From the beginning I have not known if this is at all interesting as a concept.

>>9732713
If it sucks, you tweak it.
Some of it sounds like damagedporn but like I already said, you write it first. Probably as you write it you're going to hate it. You finish it regardless.

Would you read a short story about a guy who found out his female neighbor is a serial killer and is targeting her in an attempt to get her to kill him?

here's a little river of consciousness

Nettles, cured by Nestle, that is unless the powder is caked, cake turned to power, get that guap so you can get that guac at Chipotle (pronounced chipottle) then ask the oblate spheroid named Symphony before you to hit Cheddar's for a little dine and wine, order the legs and eggs special and watch your life flower before your eyes, manifesting as wonderful wife—married to the game—sad wife, sad life, rad strife, de Sade tonight: the new strain of gonorrhea is antibiotic resistant, time to kill with fire, burn the infidels (those unchaste whores of modern day Babylon) and ostracize giving them an ostrich ovum and ask to try this one on for size, easier to squeeze out the utero toothpaste tube than last week's abortion, sure to make the picket wrist flickers wince and remember how they survived the cultural abortions, kulturkampf, of past passed like a bus driven by Keanu Christopher Reeves, drunk homeless women wielding wicked eyes and a bagged fiveloko his kryptonite, cryptocurrrently making making money look as easy as growing lbs and a beard of the neck in mother dearest's basement, not her frumpy undercarriage but outmortgaged houses basement home to panoramic debasement where cement erased evidence of avuncular Vinny's collateral byproducts of doing business in the biz's documented spirit of Alto-similar italiano's turned meat sauce on internet post-its stuck with saliva to digital didgeridoo's humming the rainforests sounds of teenage caterwauling and blasé middle-class moral philistines—oh be good Johnny, this less than/holier than thou mentality leaves much to be desired, cop the austere, sprinkle on the vanish, the veneer of cult leaderboard topping misandrists so popular these days, when Sunday just means another Tuesday, and so forth till the cookie crumbles and the tinder singes only itself leaving cannon fodder begging to be impregnated with potential pecuniary rewards for the ethnomycologists life can't thrive on dead meat and garrulous garbage like it's subject of study—the scholarship won't save you this time Stallone! you're on rocky ground! this ain't the streets, you're not Rhode's Colossus!—sheesh, you don't have to live at 221 Baker St. to see the writing on the wall, that lead drape barricading this motel room from all electromagnetic and radioactive radiation because by Jove's buttbuddy Jesus H. Christo nobody on the radio is active.

Here we go.

>>9732696
;^)

>>9730604
Danke name-fag kun.

>waiting for elf erotica
I think in retrospect that is my target audience.

>>9731163
I might work with it a bit more, I think dry comedy is my forte but your dialogue suggestion is bretty gud.

He stood adjacent to the argyle Agamemnon, smitten by a lovers quarrel
They fucked

there's this warehouse
out beyond the corner of the street
it's been under lease for 23 years
by the same owner
nobody knows his name
just his face
neighborhood kids like to throw stones at it
occasionally breaking the dusty windows
that get replaced daily

it's open to the public
but the hours don't make any sense
"Open 3:30 AM—7:45 PM, Tuesdays only"
and they change daily
sometimes contradicting themselves, sometimes not

if you're lucky, you'll catch it open
lavender velvet curtains hanging over the entrance
like a NYC psychic's shop resignedly hocus-bogus

inside, you'll find half of everything.
Partial Dupont Registries, bifurcated finger-traps,
the Parthenon's third column from the left
a sample of Paul's simple columnar epithelium tissue,
the first act of an inner-city Detroit middle school's production of Waiting for Godot written in Esperanto,
and Jolene sung in Logban, played by Cain and Abel.

some of the treasures lend themselves to sale
for a decent price, really,
but the whelming majority deny apprehension
reminding the lucky visitor
that his or her reach rarely exceeds his or her grasp.
and so most leave without so much as a tchotchke—
let alone the north tower of the WTC where she died
649 days from now.

Once in awhile I'll boil some water and wash the filth away from my body, the cleanliness certainly doesn’t last and only keeps the flies away for an hour or two however it gives me a sense of accomplishment and some existential realisation, something that doesn't come often in my lifestyle. the splashing of plain lukewarm on my chest and waking before 12:00 pm fills me with the greatest of temporary hope, joy and clarity the close friends of productive thought with no intention of being manifested. Time and time again I fall for the empty promises and embrace my own creation only for it to betray me with a fatal kiss harboring the essence of sloth. I contemplate “maybe tomorrow”

>>9733059
>Once in awhile I'll boil some water and wash the filth away from my body
Doesn't the boiling water scald your skin and leave burn blisters? Unless you got something i don't know about, I think that's what would happen
>keeps the flies away for an hour or two
where the fuck do you live, Uganda?
>existential realisation
in a sense, every realization is existential. did you know that anon
>with a fatal kiss harboring the essence of sloth
i like what you're going for here, but i think the satirical verve lands a tad too heavy for it to be as funny as i think you want it to be

>>9733071
>in a sense every realisation is existential
so if I said recycled existential thought/realisation would that be better
>where the fuck do you live Uganda
It set in the developed world the character just lives in poor conditions
I'm a novice when it comes to reading and writing so please forgive any ignorance

>>9733092
is english your first language?

>>9733114
yes

>>9732760
Idea for a fanfic parody in which the real character is the fictional writer of said fanfic. Details of their life leak out into their fantasy and the reader is simultaneously intrigued by the writer of these schlock as well as - perversely - the story which they are telling
>>9732753
Never quite sure how to critique pieces like this. I do admire the creative courage it takes to write something this experimental though.
>>9731192
You jump right into the deep end of your characters' emotions instead of teasing it out of them. In other words: you should show instead of tell. The emotion comes across as cheap because we haven't earned it. This is what makes it "trite".
Also >tfw I am going away to teach in China
>>9728733
Made me smile. Keep it up, even if this was just a meme post
>>9728724
2sincere4me


Just experimenting with new styles:

https://williamguppyblog.wordpress.com/2017/07/08/sensua/

>>9733116
Once in awhile I’ll take a shower and run the water over filth of my body. The water mundane as the cycle of seasons, has no thought nor concept of cleanliness and exists only to ward the flies off for an hour or two, however it offers a slight sense of achievement and entertains my own recycled existential thoughts. Lamentations of what could’ve been, inspiration what could still be; the mark of a self pitying fool holding himself to the standards of the world who had rejected him, one like I could only wander into a future that had neither mercy nor anything in store for my kind
“ I open my eyes as they flicker I make out the numbers on my clock ,“3:34PM”. They would be home soon. I turned my body to the high window at the top of my bedroom. 3pm and still no light so much as peered through the gateway to my solitude, it hadn’t for a long time now the cobwebs and mold had been enough to “blot” out the sun. The room would’ve been enveloped by the dark if not dimly lit screen of my desktop.my pleasure from last night was still frozen at exactly 6:21 “She” would forever be there for me whenever I needed her and I appreciated it whether or not she would become aware of my gratitude.

I changed up my first paragraph so it would make more sense and added the second. My main question is if you were given only these two would you continue reading or not

bump

>>9733187
>I changed up my first paragraph so it would make more sense and added the second. My main question is if you were given only these two would you continue reading or not
the feeling i get is that you are clogging up your sentences with pointless words

see your first sentence:
>Once in awhile I’ll take a shower and run the water over filth of my body.
why not simplify this to "I shower once in a while."?

the second sentence is grossly overengineered and seems pointless/meandering/unclear

you are in that weird insecure phase where you use verbosity and unusual expression to try to create an exotic quality and/or intellectual virtue in your writing - you need to realise that it's actually not interesting or beautiful to try to cram so much style into these mundane sentences

readers will get lost and confused easily in that shit, and brevity is way more effective anyway

"I shower once in a while. The water doesn't speak, but somehow the sound helps me think. I remember my mistakes and I try to plan the future."

i mean, unless you are intentionally going for a pathetic NEET / elliot rodger style self-absorbed purple prose thing?

>>9728679
My team made some weeb designed illustrated fiction.
The illustrations are still on going but the story is done and we would really be happy if you guys could leave some criticism about it.

>https://sigilworks.wordpress.com/2017/07/09/violas-chapter-1/?iframe=true&preview=true&calypso_token=0e8c63ab-dad2-4b54-a3ef-2e065c72917c

It's just some 30k words divided into 3 chapters

It's still a work in progress. It's for my sex novel.

--She unzips my pants, and my flaccid footlong unfurls upon her face. "Ooh yes, you like that dontcha?" I mutter. "No, it's not thick enough, this won't work!" This bitch proclaims. She must not know who I am. Maximillian Thor'us is the name, and many thots have been slain for insulting my girth. She is no different. The fingers on my left and right hands fuse together, giving me two blade like appendages. Neato. Time to get to work.

*Various metallic friction noises* suddenly ring into the air. Heh, tough luck thot.


thoughts?

If you ever happen to find yourself in Wernigerode you should make it your duty to hike up the Brocken. Once you reach the peak of the mountain you’ll find a rail terminus, where inside you will find a steam train. Get on that train, ride it down to its final destination and you’ll find yourself back in Wernigerode. The train journey itself isn’t the longest—about ninety minutes or so—but the unchanging scenery makes you feel like you’re in a form of peaceful stasis; snow-tipped forest covers the entire descent, white horizon making way for yet more white. The towns through which the train passes, with their traditional Gothic timber-frame architecture, are only distinguishable via the signs signalling that you are in fact in a different location. Being in that almost sterile-like surrounding of similarity you find your mind free of needless thoughts, of pointless distractions, and with it you can find some sense of what is really important to you. I made that same journey several times. It helped me to clear my head. After a year of repeating that same journey my head was pretty clear — after a year of repeating that same journey think I finally knew who I was.

I think it's a bit wordy. I'm not sure if my grammar and punctuation are good enough either.

>>9728679
Intro to my novel, please critique:

It was bothering me from the moment I left for work to the moment I got home and turned on the shower. All day making its presence known with every step. Even when I was sitting down at my desk, I couldn't be comfortable. I couldn't focus on anything, my mind was clouded. I felt like I was driving through a snow storm the whole day. The day seemed like an eternity.

I decided to investigate within myself. This would be uncomfortable for me but it wasn't the first time. In fact I would do this for fun in my younger years when I was less afraid. An internal investigation, a deep one.

So when I got home I turned on the shower, stripped naked, soaped up, and my finger dove head first into my asshole. I dug around in there, loosening it up, it's been too long. I finally detected the source of my discomfort. I pried it out with my finger. I held to close to my face to see it in the shower. It was half a peanut. No, pistachio. Not thinking very much I had this strange urge to eat it, habitually, the way I do when I pick my teeth, but the smell reminded me of the situation. I flicked it into the drain. Washed off, victorious.

>>9733740
This made my asshole wet

>>9733740
That's some classy murder porn anon.

>>9728679

>wrong place

Out gathering timber from trees you do as you please, its like you don't need any heat from the fire,

waters' run out of the well, I hope you can tell by the smell of a badly burnt dinner, can't see a sinner, see who's around, seek out a sound in a brand new attire.

The pot and the kettle are totally black, Hell broken loose with their well meaning acts acts, the lick of the flame warms the back of my sack, as pillars of salt, assault, attack

?

>>9733888
kys

>>9733888
Something I wrote and posted a couple days ago, but I'm posting it again.

>>9733935
Why?

>>9733888

https://pastebin.com/k4Gd8e6i

i cant for the life of me
afford the cant life of me—
hehehe, the bearded dragon snorts
squirting blood from its eyes
and into the cistern
full of that holy water, stacks of cash.
They think it be like it is,
but do it really? Like for real,
such a simple simplistic touch of ish
and yet the problem remains horny, sticky, and slippery
like an old spinster hagfish stirring up methane at the bed of the bog
just to fuck with Nessie
who wants no more than a meagre $3.50
for a pack of Puerto Rican smokes to smoke hiding from paparazzi.

I considered ending the impromptupperware meal here
feeling a slight tug from the metronome
but the arpeggiator kicked in, catalytic converter catalyzed
a new Boca Raton Beach House driven riff.

My drug dealer named Riff Raff
sometimes texts me, to see what's good
in the hood, "got dem blues."
And I respond, "I do too."

heheh

this is my attempt at horror which I have just recently started, its the first page:

https://pastebin.com/ZMJfrJqB

please critique

>>9733849
a classic subversion. I thought you were going for internal emotional investigation, but you got me with the classic peanut in the anus.

idk if this is the right place for this, but in MLA, do I italicize words if they are a a scientific name/term/lingo/name of place? like in the sentence in the paper I'm writing when referring to a name of a human ancestor. Also, if I do italicize it, do I continue to do so when I refer to it again or do I leave it as is after the first time mentioning?

>>9732699
This makes no sense, are you even trying to make sense?

>inb4 this is pasta

>>9735498
https://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/747/01/

>>9735585
>literal-minded brainlet can't grasp anything without spoonfeeding
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

>>9733813
>youll find a rail terminus
>youll find a steam train
>youll find yourself
Stop repeating words. It's dull and wearying. Also makes me wonder if you've got the vocabulary to write with precision

>>9735593
Gr8/8 rspnse

>>9735637
merci

It was with great consternation that Alex took the first. The second came with ease. The third pill he stared at for a good time without any real thought. Then he placed it on his tongue, did his third shot of tequila to sink it, and considered himself lucky.
He was, in many ways. Both intelligent and attractive, he had been brought up in a world free from care, product of his parents’ inability to disconnect him from the wealth which he would inherit.
Yet all the same, here he was in Mexico, attempting to take his life yet again.
He would not succeed, although he does not know that yet, until his fiftieth birthday and sixth attempt, wherein he finally resorted to the “Hemingway”. A shotgun in his mouth, he would pull the trigger with the big toe of his left foot.
At that moment he would simply cease to exist. Far less romantic than he could have imagined.
Yet that is not the story you’re here for.

>>9733708

I feel like a jerk just giving the same advice over and over itt but basically there are three skill-levels:
>1: doing wordy in a way that imparts a slightly pretentious and fanfic-y character
>2: doing punchy and concise so that the eye moves swiftly across the page
>3: doing wordy with expertise in precisely that way which enhances, rather than clouding, your voice, not just in general but for the specific needs of the work at hand

>They came to this world like rain from the heavens. With streaks of flame and deafening explosions to herald their arrival, they descended to the anthem of war. Warriors from a different world, creatures armed with tools of conque(st) and ruin. In their wake, they bestowed their song of desolation and carnage. They were unknown to the words of peace and blind to those they deemed lessers. They wrought upon this world a deranged parade of screaming souls, lost to the merry cheer of the blazing cities.

I don't rewrite people's stuff to be a jerk and say "I could write that so much better" but because it's easier to show you what kind of editing I advise than to exhaustively tell you it. Were I handed a manuscript, I would spend most of my time scratching out superfluous segments and suggesting alternate words and sentence-structure because this unglamorous aspect of writing is what the vast majority of people have difficulty with. Every time I open a doc I've written I do a little of this kind of editing to it, everything can always get a little better.

Also, decide if you want the opening intro paragraphs to "sound" so much like the character narrator that one is led to conclude they are the same person. It's kind of uneasily sitting on the line between first and third person right now. Also typos trigger my auntimsm pls proof-read thnx

>>9734319

I like it, do you have an idea where you're going with it?

>>9735031

I am inclined to write and appreciate extremely long sentences, plenty of 19th century writers do this well, but sometimes one simply goes too far, as with the lion tamer bit and a couple other sections.

I have to actively force myself to trim sentences for clarity, so I sympathize. Even were it left as long as it is, it requires more punctuation unless it is meant to sound breathless.

Interested to see where the story goes, but the text itself (as opposed to the plot) needs some refinement (mostly for clarity).

I made this last night. It's very rough and I would appreciate any thoughts.

congratulations to the—the inevitability of passing, the
sand into the shore the
single clap in a crowded stadium, the
tides’ titanic trumpets blaring
nature’s resounding song,
an alarm that the continents
will shift my skin.

what have i done with her cornucopia but mope
as the world rotates without me.

aristotle must have seen his grain fade away, surely—
hadrian in his meditations elsewhere acknowledging
“i am a blink,
and my wall will fall to dunes beyond my years.”

to laugh with giants
as the world rotates without me
is fire from ashen anxieties.

to fade into an empty as an idea alone
a figment of aeons past,
an—an imagination of the human—
gold in a gravel pit.

>>9735847

thank you

>>9735585
hi, i'm the proprietor of heretofore poetry, this anon >>9735593
>>9735682
is not me. however he is partially correct. just because you don't understand something does not mean it's not meant to be or capable of being understood

Bit of navel gazing...

"Sam and Tony waited in the car while I and she lurched loose-limbed into a liquor shop to get a box of beers. Now we’re sitting in the long damp grass at the top of a cliff looking out over the harbour like a mirror, reflecting a mottled layer of leaden cloud. Tony’s rattling off more self-aggrandising stories and I’m trying to participate, making solemn observations and complimenting his sunglasses when he forces me to try them on. Sam’s quieter now and J’s irritating me as much as Tony, sniffling, complaining she’s tired and she’s going to get sick, she wants to go back to the city.

I’m starting to feel a tenderness for her, supporting her as we struggle up the bank to the wire fence and clamber over it. Tony’s started to bully her, she’s started to bully him, pointing out holes in his stories, they keep sniping at each other as we trail back to where his car is parked. I think this is the point my attitude changed, rewarding her solicitation with solicitous concern.

There’s more of the same on the ride back to the city. Tony’s driving like a maniac and they’re still sniping at each other as I feebly try to situation. I’m thinking he’s mad because he wanted her too and he feeling of victory comes sneaking back. Now it’s us in the back seat against him in the front, I’m constantly aware of her presence in the other seat like a physical feeling, even when I’m looking up and away at the vast foothills of cloud hanging overhead, portentous and still, lit by ornate light like the sky in a rococo painting. The sky that day is still my strongest memory of it. I felt as if the real world was the landscape in the sky, hanging inverted over us, inert but fleeting, like the quality of new experience. The tiny words and movements in the tiny car below were just a reflection of one of the smallest edges of cloud in the sky above us."

an old excerpt from my diary desu. if you want part 2, ask and ye shall receive:

The delivery driver said in 10 years of driving, the alley behind the Orpheum is the worst in the city, the most busy and most likely to get stuck in. I nod sympathetically. With a hardhat on I’m a man of the people. The sun reflects brightly off of skyscrapers, multiplying itself. Pigeons flutter in crooks of alley windows. A cook from the adjacent restaurant comes out of a doorway for a smoke break, right where I’m standing. He’s Igor from Ukraine, Simferopol in Crimea. He’s 21 and has been working in Canada for 3 years, saving up to take a two year IT program at a technical college. His girlfriend wants him to come to Japan for the New Year. He asks me,

“Have you got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Good question. He disappears, an hour passes and he brings me a hot chicken wrap. I say “Time goes fast… faster and faster the older you get,” the last words between us.

>>9736192
navel gazing done right can bear good fruits. i haven't read anything else in this thread but your post has to be one of the best

We flung our dung into xyrs throat as xyrs ecstatically writhed in a pool of poo that we took from the lou. I pulled apart xyrs poopy thighs to reveal a gargantuan, throbbing cock and ghastly gaping anal gash of funky flesh. As I gazed upon this creature, I noticed that the dick was thick and the ass was fat.

Henceforward I plunged my staff onwards and into the great dark hole before me. Taking care to keep our testicles from touching, I knew at that moment, that truly I was still neither a homosexual, nor even a bisexual, as I had successfully abided the law which stipulates that the touching of two pairs of testicles constitutes a homosexual act indeed, not that there's anything wrong with it, of course.

Thrusting my saber back and forth repeatedly, xyrs began screaming "That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it".

Invitation to Dinner


Your body gives you
away to the air,
the plumbing, the dust
of the house. A few lost hairs
cobweb a corner. You exhale
the fumes of that engine
which churns out movement
and thought, fueled only
by its own burning. Me too.
I would like to remake you:

I can replace everything
you've lost since last
you remade yourself. I'll fill
the day's erasures
with blackberries and fennel--
food out tongues agree on--
so tonight's changes
(we can't change changing)
will change is closer,
liking our seedling likeness.

>>9736192
fluidly written and at least it's not fantasy. well-drawn. i'd read more

>>9728724
what is the point of the she. silliness.

>>9731192
interesting, I especially enjoy the description, but you could tighten the dialogue a lot.

>>9732753
that's not really stream of consciousness....i can't imagine anyone having this series of thoughts unless they were writing. it's more like language poetry. Just letting you know

>>9735877
breaking a line right after "the" always feels like a waste to me. overall it gives your poem a very "slam" feel.

>>9732699
better than john ashbery at least

>>9736688
but is it dope?

Invitation to Dinner


Your body gives you
away to the poo,
the plumbing, the poo
of the house. A few lost poos
feces a corner. You exhale
the poos of that engine
which churns out poo
and thought, fueled only
by its own poos. Me poo.
I would like to remake poo:

I can replace everything
you've pooed since last
you pooed yourself. I'll fill
the day's erasures
with poopoo and peepee--
poo out tongues agree on--
so tonight's changes
(we can't change pooing)
will change is closer,
liking our pooing likeness.

A fly was zapped in my bug zapper. It managed to crawl out and get trapped under my piano's sheet stand. It spun around with one broken wing under the stand for several minutes. I pitied it, walked over, and with an abrupt blow of breath, it landed on the floor. I watched this fly walk on the carpet in this dismembered state, with missing legs, and one missing wing. It could not crawl over a cord laying on the floor, and with difficulty it traversed stray hairs. It was so gentle and innocent, I pitied the fly. I decided upon ways I should dispose of it, because I can't have a fly crawling around on my apartment floor. I took a sticky note and placed it in front of the fly in a slight ramp. The fly obliged and walked onto the sticky note. I lifted it up and tilted it on a gentle incline into a cup, as not to make it fall in. I gently carried the fly in the cup over to the trash can, and with respect, I emptied it into the trash.

Aye, In all the days I have known doodoo, in all the years that I have watched and longed for doodoo and doodoo alone, my beautiful wild Poo, I have seen only one moment where you have been liquid. In all of your entire life, only once. Only for one instant. It was when your sphincter met mine and you were both dazzled and delighted as our feces floated up up and away over the sparkling ocean and twilight sky. So long ago that it may well be a childhood dream, and thinking back on that time seems to be peering into a past and distant bowl altogether. As our doodies parted in the great sky that night, our doodoos appeared to drift apart over this vast toiletbowl of time. I saw you less and less and you smiled even less and stuff, and I always wondered why you've left my bowl empty, and thought that perhaps there was something wrong with my cavity, that I was not friendly or girlish or bleached enough to hold your genuine attention for more than a brief moment. Do you know how lonely I have been? Your poor Mudpie, thrust to the outskirts of your seat to only peer in at you playing and associating with poopoos and peepees that are altogether unlike you and nowhere near as great as you. To only watch you, day after day, become dark and grey and lose the solidity and warmth that you once had as a toot. When was the last time you felt the wind on your thighs and under your feet, Oh Ho-oh? When was the last time that you felt the loving kiss of that beaming bum heating up this black muddy hole. When was the last time that you thought of me? Have you loved at all, Miss Cosby? Have you loved for even one second of your defecation? I have loved you every squat, and I shall love your taste for eternity too. If ghosts do indeed exist, I will haunt you for the rest of your days, never leaving you alone, especially in the loo, when you poo, and prodding you towards emptiness with my ghostly toiletpaper wielding hand. I made you a chocolate cake, my sweaty chocolate kiss. It is colored just like the one you made with me as a child, light auburn brown. Did you see it? I have a stool sample too, safely placed upon my bed. Smell both of them for me, will you? Let them softly float forever above the swirls, above this cold tile, telling everyone and everything that we are. I feel so silly standing here and crying muddy tears, but I cannot stay.

>>9736811
definitely the best thing i've seen on lit in a long time

>>9728724
this is shit

>>9736777
i really like what you did here, and nice trips

>>9736651
kinda falls flat t-b-h

>>9736822
I think your issue with it is that it lacks shit.

Two milky eyes refract over the ridges of triangle-folded waters, vibrating with each fizzy crease, bent into a swan. Oak-tinted pantlegs, each rolled at the heel and pulled tight, dance back and forth, dangling loosely over the sputtering foam. Bare, tanned feet point out into the horizon, wishing to come along. The sun sinks, desperately hurtling a violet pass downfield, received by a cotton-candy cumulonimbus. Behind the distance a Cicada chorus tunes, preparing for another showcase. Mossy vomit and spiked crusts beat against the pier’s wooden supports with each messy flush, back and forth, sticking and peeling. The wood creaks a little louder, just this time, as the bright orange beacon fully submerges. Immediately, neon-soaked taste buds pour from infinite swinging doors and crowd the soundscape. From the pier’s edge, overhanging damp swells, that party listens to me, more than I overhear each.

>>9736827
i don't follow

oh, you must be an original proprietors of one of the two pieces that some charitable anon has taken the liberty to vastly improve.

yeah, i don't know what cheeky guy fixed your poem/piece, but i'd definitely thank him if i were you

>>9728679
He arrived into the dimly lit foyer, the stench of alcohol on his lips. Solemnly and slowly he hung his dreary coat on a hook next to the other slouched forms. It was badly in need of a cleaning. He grazed his hand across it. Rough, dry, bumpy with lint. This was no way to present himself. He had been lucky enough to be invited to such a distinguished event, and yet he still disappointed his peers. Appearance is everything; that is the law of business and even life itself. What does it matter to feel when you can fake it just as much? He wasn't a professional nor as suave as his peers. He imagined them now, at the backyard of the wide expanse that was this mansion, underneath the yellow lights, brows shaded and teeth gleaming, grinning at some obscure joke told in such elegant accents, their forms intermingling until they became indistinguishable and eternal. No, he wasn't professional or suave and he could not fake it. A woman should've dressed him, but he had no wife and he could not live with his mother at such an age.

First paragraph, you guys can finish the rest here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Bq-fN2Zuhq7XguK3MnniD0IgYwAcG6s5lQ_yo5TGu8A/edit?usp=sharing

A bit of Zaum.

Flesct ijr girmakl fomestesc
Derwolevantöm gorsz chem
Blakem-en bleztes ijr tresdesc
Blökom, ijr blökom forvam

>>9736912
You do follow and I didn't write either. I'm actually the anon that said only an 18 y/o girl would enjoy it. You have immense and crippling insecurities.

>>9737025
>enjoy it
enjoy what? we need to clarify which piece we're talking about here, because this miscommunication is clearly making you angrypants

>>9737082
You can figure this out, I know you can.

hey, /crit/, going to perform this sketch tonight at an open mic with a friend. any feedback is appreciated! also, need help coming up with a quick (and hopefully funny) ending... any ideas?

part 1 / 2

EXT. A TRAIN STATION PLATFORM IN NEO-TOKYO - NIGHT

AA and TT are 30-something *gaijin* waiting for different trains.

AA
So this new guy just started in our office today and within 10 minutes I wanted to throw my ergonomic mouse at his fat bearded face.

TT
Why?


AA
Do you know anyone that has a really fucking annoying voice? Besides you of course when we do *karaoke*.


TT
Wait what? I thought the reverb and copious amounts of alcohol covered that up... everyone has just been politely grimace-clapping for me this whole time?

AA
At least your voice didn't crack like a little bitch when you tried to hit that high note in *Bohemian Rhapsody*.

TT
Well shit, time to cash in that Groupon for voice lessons.

AA
As if that'll make a difference.


AA
(pointing to ear)
So as luck would have it, they put this guy perpendicular to me so that every word he says is drilled deep into my rock hard **cock**-lea.

TT
Um, your what now?

AA
The inner ear. You didn't pay attention in biology class either, you neanderthal?

TT
Only when the professor showed us unusually detailed taint photos in crystal clear high definition on the 1080p projector. He snickered like a 12 year old looking up dirty words in the Oxford English Dictionary.

AA
You of all people would like the butt stuff.

TT
As long as she's shaved her ass hairs and free of any dingleberries, my tongue frolics through the nether regions like Julie Andrews dancing through the alpine meadows in *The Sound of Music*.

AA
Lovely. I bet sometimes it even tastes like Swiss chocolate!

TT
Say, did you know that a group of Canadians is called an 'apology'?

AA
How apt. What about Americans?

TT
An airstrike.

AA
How do you know all this useless information?

TT
I don't, it's just what I imagine Japanese people are muttering to themselves when there's a bunch of loud foreigners on the 5AM drunk train.

AA
So where you off to?

>>9737164
> part 2 / 2

TT
Hopefully getting some with this girl I met on Tinder. I haven't had sex since the Nixon Administration.

AA
Well when you dress like that it's no wonder your dick has been drier than the Sahara.

TT
Hey c'mon man, I'm an ectomorphic programmer, this is me making an effort.

AA
Oh yeah, how would you describe that style?

TT
Hmmm... "This humidity is bullshit" chic... Or perhaps "Rolled out of bed like this"? Oh wait, I got it - "Trying to hide the nascent beer gut with loose-fitting clothing"!


AA
Back in California, they would call that evening wear.


TT
Well at least I don't have a shnoz the size of the Hindenburg.

AA
Well at least I don't look like a sex tourist in Cambodia.


TT
Touché. Seriously though, don't you think it's a weird thing sticking your willy in a complete stranger?

AA
Isn't everyone you know a stranger? Can you ever truly know someone?

TT
Enough of the philosophical bullshit - my mind is blown by the fact that my dick is blown by a person who I don't know anything about.

AA
You didn't know anything about that cow Bessie when you stuck your dick in her.

TT
Hey man, that was one time! A-and I was drunk! And it was a dare! And uh... okay it actually felt kinda good. Slimier than a woman's pussy, but believe it or not tighter than a goat.

AA
You've fucked more animals than humans haven't you?

TT
Listen, last week my friend took a selfie of us eating gluten-free pizza or taking her puppy to dog yoga or something, and when I saw the photo I had an epiphany.

AA
Oh yeah?

TT
Yeah man, I realized that everything Millennials do is for likes. And none of this matters. We're living in a simulation!

AA
What the fuck are you talking about?

TT
Look man, I don't know how else to say this, but there's been something I've been meaning to tell you.

>>9737164
>>9737167
This, is the single most retarded piece of drivel I've ever read. There is nothing to salvage; there was nothing to begin with. The only place you should ever put a pen again is through your eyesocket.

>>9737185

thanks for reading :^)

>>9737167

This feels like an AI programmed to generate comedy sketches wrote it.

>>9737196
I appreciate the feedback, should I scrap it completely? Or if it’s salvageable how can I make it sound more natural? First time writing a script

I'm a hopeless absurdist.

One of the charges filed against Socrates was that he corrupted the youth. I cast this off as bureaucratic tomfoolery. "Corruption? He only taught his students wisdom!" The wicked irony of the accusation struck me. The transition from ignorant to insightful, was that the corruption? Bear witness to the sardonic brilliance of the classical Greek aristocrat! Lest he recognize his own jest.

>>9737217

Scrap it.

Don't use non-sequitur for everything, you aren't the late Mitch Hedburg. Read dialogue out loud to yourself- if it doesn't actually sound like something a human being would say in the normal course of their speech, rewrite.

>>9737239
Thanks, this is much harder than I thought!

>>9737226
Transition better desu

>>9737244
i believe in you, just try to be more natural, think about what you find legit funny

>>9737226
>>9737167
>>9737164
can you guys fucking die already? waste of my fucking time. reek of 4chan and subpar IQ

>>9736113
I dont understand it therefore i dont like it. Just my opinion man. If other ppl get meaning out of your piece, good for them. I could tell you why i dont understand or like it, but something about your defensive posture suggests that would be futile. I don't know why theres a trend where people who write poetry in particular think their stuff is above comprehensibility. Retard anon seems to think that being comprehensible is spoonfeeding. I think it's part of good writing (inb4 finnegan memes). I'm not gonna sift through a piece for meaning if i dont even enjoy the writing.

>>9737267
Thanks, means a lot to know that someone sees potential

>>9737247
Thanks for advice, any suggestions on how I could transition better?
>>9737270
Got anything more constructive?

I had a dream last night. I was A child, strapped into the passenger seat of a car. The road was windy with steep cliffs on either side and my driver was charging into every corner. They lost control and the car plummeted. I became hysterical, crying, screeching. The dream started again before I hit the bottom.

I was A teenager, and I was driving the same road. It was late, and I was in such a rush to get to wherever I was going. A tight corner surprised me and saw how close I came to the edge. I laughed, how close I was to death! Surely at the cause of my own recklessness. Regardless, I was ecstatic, I was alive!

The dream repeated. Now as myself, I was in no rush, yet still drove without care. A corner came, I fell off the edge, and tumbled to my inevitable death. I saw myself fall, there was shock, but not fear. I thought 'I will hit the ground, and I will die' I was Silent.

I thought of the child, afraid of what it could not comprehend, I thought of the adolescent, amazed at the temporary twist of fate he avoided, and I, the ridiculous man, letting the inevitable take its place

What if mankind’s insistence in the importance of morality is its inevitable end? Dostoyevsky thought that our end would come from advancing technologically but not morally. Could that fashion postmodernism as an attempt at bypassing scientific truth with morality gone astray?

Recently we have witnessed bill c16 pass. A law involving (among other things) the prioritizing of values and political correctness over established biology. It is easy to assign this to malignus motives, but is it just as possible that it is mankind’s floundering into a new value system? Instead of the western ideals founded Christianity. After all, God is dead.

>>9737298

>waahhh, society is changing

>>9737282
welcome
>>9737283
I'm a hopeless absurdist, but oftentimes I find things even more absurd than I could ever be. Take the charges filed against Socrates......etc

>>9737343
Thanks you, I was t r y I n g to keep it concise, but I only started writing as opposed to reading 2 weeks ago so I'm inevitably prone to flaw

>>9737372
Keep trying brother, atleast people commented on your writing Im still waiting for the abrasive critiques.

Arched neck submerging my head on floating cloud-pillows, indulging in remnant drops of sweet heaven-delight desperately deluding, entertaining the illusionary delay. Vision is scary as god-rays poke red-lit lids and haze-quilt shrouds and persuades me - to remain for a while. Chasing the bliss. Just a while.

I'm restless, stubble scratches my collarbone. Head at an off-angle sure to hurt later, annoying now. Stupid bitch left the blinds open. I scratch off the scab on my arm and get up. No need to get dressed, already am.

>>9735847
>do you have an idea where you're going with it?

It's short fiction. Just an experiment. Maybe I'll flesh it out more one day. Thanks for the kind words though

There can be no greater abnegation,
no higher revolt than the weak body’s
against itself - until marble perfection!
For the war within is far more dreary
than the war without, and such beauty,
by virtue of its tributary price,
becomes a function in itself - and earthly
limbs labour godly biddings: a precise,
iron-melting, stone-carving, flesh-maiming device

High school, - cemetery
for my youth -
Pedant teachers
And heavy exams ...
And today,here i am
High school, - cemetery
for my youth!

High school, - cemetery
With long corridors -
Today i can still hear my teacher screaming
And my soul hurts ...

High school, - cemetery
With long corridors ...

High school, - cemetery
for my youth -
The world was screeching
In heavy rains,
So loud ...
High school, - cemetery
for my youth...

>>9732699
I liked it quite a bit but felt it to be bloated, in all honesty. Past a point, it feels like you're flexing when there's no real need to with your allusions and such and such. Still, very nicely done; I enjoyed the ironies.

>>9737383
just remember that critique threads are maybe the most pointless thing because you usually never actually receive a critique but instead get an "it's shit" and you'll much better about the situation

>>9728679
https://pastebin.com/sH7kVwkt

please rate thanks

excerpt from Chapter 5 which I'm writing

>>9737687
Awkward and edgy/10

>>9735603
>Also makes me wonder if you've got the vocabulary to write with precision
Thanks. After years of writing essays that's been my concern too. I think I'll bin it, pick up art or something.

Civil War is coming soon. Those thoughts were enough to send a shiver of terror down Gawain’s spine as he spread a map of the kingdom over the table. He lit the chamber’s cressets and hearth he took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the new source of light. He heard the wind howl as the door creaked opened. He turned to see it was the king and immediately got down to one knee.

“My King, M-my apologies, I-I have yet finished making the preparations for your council of war,” Gawain said in a murmur.

When he heard no response from the king, Gawain looked up to see the king waved him off and he hastily returned to his duties. As he checked to see if the flagons were filled with wine, his eyes wandered where the king stood, staring at the map pondering. Gawain wondered if he was trying through sheer force of will; make the map to reveal the locations of the rebels’ hideout. Were it so simple my king, thought Gawain. He had overheard of a failed attack of Castle Maetrine from the boasting son of Lord Jan of Ginbel.

>>9737390
Please critique this!

first para

Every year around early December, the cold flows down from the Eastern Highlands and floods the Warrington Shire, creeping down from the hills like viscous lava. It’s always on some cloudless winter’s dusk, presaged by a rough gust which makes the gangling pines dance in that crazy way that reminds Dart of the airdancer outside the car wash on Jackson Street. Winter’s arrival is something Dart eagerly anticipates for no reason other than a desire for change—a change that he always bemoans in retrospect. As long summer days shrink and turn sad, Dart decides that the sting of hot bitumen is preferable to the bite of cold tiles, or worse yet, bed socks wet by a frigid kitchen puddle.

"Droop off the wild end, rise anew to a higher head, stand bold, write with vigor", they said, "don't patronize or plagiarize, don't bring lament to our lives; write yellow, of sun's birth and of cosmological consumptions. Read it aloud for all to hear, proclaim the word and all that followed". I stood, aghast. I stood to the attention of a welcoming hand, a hand of plenty giving to mere opening of one's self, of some state made pre-linguistic through the tenseness of brow and frown muscles. "Sensitize, represent all as you, to make all to live lives through some pinkish-hued eyes". All i needed was bread, water and a mouth to fetch it. Mouths of which was too endeared to speak of honestly, too white to look at directly -- teeth-biting tongues, tongue-in-cheekedly. Disgust was the main cause of my reclination. I've confined to myself whatever was worth sharing, lost sight of it. "Please". It was for my own good, contrariness can only be taken so far as it takes to live subjectively better, objectively so. "To live" being the key under the mat to everyone's home. "Proclaim it, preach it", and then what? I stood, I remained and I continued. "Be erect, don't jiggle, stand hard and don't stroke at it lightly. Be quick in your work but please and be pleased also". The city cultivated death and nature gave it its idiotic smile. I'd step out to people naked under their clothes, smelling it, members glued together from the acumulated unwashed glosses of sweat we'd secrete. I dragged patting fingers over it all, I'd run it under my nose, inhaling deeply to fill better. I went in them, she went in him, they went into eachother. It was a terrible year for accidents.

>>9737109
indirect self-deprecation becomes you not darling, let's try to sort this out together

>>9737273
>think their stuff is above comprehensibility
i dont, i just guess its above yours
face it anon, you're just butthurt that my abstract abstruse post-pretentous masterwork flew above your head and now your biting the hand that fed you. if you want, we can talk it out. my phone number is 4698653659. my name's john

>>9737657
thanks for the feedback man. really appreciate it. lmk if you have anything you want some thoughts on

>>9736811
this is brilliant

>>9739337
This would be mine >>9735877
Any thoughts are appreciated.

Wherever did the leaves fall, my brother? Across the face of the sky did they, autumnal seraphim, marr and marry the wind? As slowly comes the night they then must seek the earth, as well does Helios’ chariot with procession of the moon; can not the seraph know green heaven for ever? Earthbound is the seraph as he is heaven-sent, and never of his two natures shall ring the better. Naught is this angelic one to the arms of heaven: a paradox, for it is only with the seraphim that heaven is bountiful.


Weighed low into the pliance of my bed I am laid, to seek out the fleeting dreams and mortal silence of the night. A dog’s wail echoes into the street beyond the sill that leaks in the edge of moonlight; the clock playing out a steady tone for the pained cry. Restless already, I cannot further chase brief oblivion at its soul-raking call, and rustle away the thick covering of my bed, exposing my tired flesh to the night air. I make meager pace to the kitchen doorway, fighting every step to rouse my sleeping limbs, a dreadful shuffle.


Silence. A holy thing indeed. Each sip from my tea runs from my dried lips down the walls of my throat, warming them toward burning and falling just away. Who would need light in the solemn midnight? The moon is enough to show the breadth of the world that I desire; all that lies beyond my sill. The stars are quieter tonight.

All I got is a sort of first-person story idea where the narrator can't come up with a story idea and goes on sort of a rant that reveals his shitty past. Kind of like The Tunnel

excerpt from final chapter.

The ecstatic rapture of the little bodies tossed in this sea of tendrils cries aloud over the cacophonous ringing of barbarous bells tolling sonorously throughout this dolorous depth, and the drowning figures flailing helplessly twist separately against tightly weaved walls of twisting arms crushing and smothering relentlessly, intense densities struggling for composure in this roiling foam that throws their little selves through undulating waves cresting of black pressure that roll restlessly about the abyssal basin dark and deep, through tunneling lengths of worm skin that slide against them and wrap around extremities clutched closely, knees drifting in this ocean of turpentine boiling violently with writhing tubes grooved and smooth and huge rushing beneath and above their tumbling bodies, and they twist, and call through the whipping winds of thick mucus that besets them about, turning through the loud hell that crashes repeatedly with fearsome calamities released singing with choirs of unseen voices crying in rank the unspeakable horrors realized in this place along songs drummed with cymbals clanging and strange languages dancing along these long cresting undulations smooth and curling, clutching barbels long and ominous rising above these sinking explorers as they descend down into the depths of this nest possessed with the fulness of this thing that does encompass them with widths dismal and marine, obscene in length and grandeur the moving textures of this undulating mass twisting with wirelike tubules sliding over cylindrical arms slimy and slick, dripping as they do slip about one another like oiled hoses interlaced and the empty spaces few and brief bubble with black foam of phlegmatic viscosity, trembling with impetuous ferocity these orgulous lengths gliding like broad vipers endless and eager, grabbing at outreached hands with twisting arms that hold quick the breath in the chest without release so that as that one does turn through this churning sea of blackness pooling thick lakes of dark drool to stand atop a pedestal of recession that slips beneath their stance to drown their calls further in a pit of mire thick and bile breathed the geyser stream of heat filling the nose so obscenely, bubbles spoken through a wet mess broken of mouth still open and filled with things unbidden, face pulling away from the decaying softness

of intruding worm tongues to cry out for assistance and to declare his position as he drifts across this sea of malignant tendrils shifting beneath his body, and he cries out for her over the calling rings of a dozen bells deep and long that chime throughout this wet hole down here, and the fears that fill his pounding chest kick his little legs fruitlessly against the thick syrups that cling to him with suffocating fulness, and he hears perhaps someone call out in reply, crying aloud through the hail of flutes that sing with strange notes high and loud, angry flutes crying with furious toots the uselessness of all human endeavours, and the limpness that does come from giving over to this terrible tempest of lazy tentacles that flow about their bodies like sewage pit eels grasping and plunging these drowned humans deep beneath the many surfaces that churn in here, choking on the battery acid that eats a melting pool of lungs inhaled, and the choking coughs released from open mouths retching, crying again in reply to that voice perhaps heard, though the words are drowned out in the endless lamentations of ten thousand damned souls singing the terrible name of that woeful beast that does dwell in this dark place, and she lifts her voice higher than their blasphemous praises in desperate pleas, searching the darkness for the flailing shape all pentagrammatic of head over heels emphatic statures

rolling in this cavernous darkness, and she reaches out for perhaps his ankle or his hand, and she is swallowed up in the abyssal nothingness that encompasses them, but surely does her skin touch his, and she grasps him tightly, fingers clutching at skin touching despite the terrible texture of those tender tendrils that do squirm up between her wresting thighs and about the swimming legs grappled with cords of length that do pull her and him down into deeper darknesses still and under those places thought deepest, buried in the inutterable dark of a lightless place clutching at a slipping grasp but reaching and grabbing, screaming his name desperately as their bodies are flung through a crushing heap of entrails slithering, and they pull closer though the fingers keep slipping, closer beneath the heavy weight of unfathomable depths pressing, turning, looking but seeing not for no thing can be seen, dissolving together their curious touch, melting, their bones still grasping though the fingers seem less present, pulling arms embracing carefully the smothered pair desperate that pulls hands to notches in vertebral columns solemnly and silently, muffled by the dark that subtly encroaches with one last breath that cannot be breathed given from mouth to mouth in the stifling darkness of not the bottom but a floor of relative density that does compress them thus further down into the abysmal deep that clutches and crushes them even as they asphyxiate, breaths squeezed between teeth boiling and broken, chipped lips stripped from jaws choking, hoping and breathing that last moment they share released easily, feebly collapsing under the wet trappings of that massive volume.

>>9740793
>>9740795
>>9740796
You realize making your prose a pain in the ass to read does not make it profound or interesting, right?

>>9737687
plz

https://pastebin.com/LwsJkcM9
I was a faggot and didn't check to see if this thread existed before making my own. Tear my writing apart

>>9728697
underrated post

>>9737687
Ummmmm
What part of the prose are you proud of?

>>9741681
>who wasn't vamp

Dropped. Almost dropped at "seemingly empty". Rework it.

>>9737687
This is a complete fucking mess, anon. Ask yourself why you're choosing certain words and representing certain actions, and why you string them together in the order that they're in.

For example, does Sherry need to ask "Hey." if the dog then stirs himself from sleep and then she stands there and stares at him before asking if he's hurt? There's no urgency in her care for him, and it is at odds with the slow/expository nature of the interluding paragraphs. Plus, if she saw him stirring from his sleep and had come to see if he was ok, wouldn't her reaction be something other than staring? Also, why does she "stare" at him and then "watch" him? This is redundant and conveys two different things.

The transition into their conversation is bad too and the conversation doesn't indicate their priorities or feelings as characters. It feels like the author wanted to make a dialogue about an event and slapped down his first thoughts.

>>9737390
So what?

>>9740808
This desu. So much writing in this thread is a pain in the ass to read. If you can't write well simply, you can't write well.

>>9740793
>>9740795
>>9740796
Pulling a thesaurus out of your ass and making everything take a billion tears to read doesn't make your prose good.

>>9737687
Ignore all the faggots nitpicking over the smallest details.
Your dialogue is paced pretty well, seems fitting for what I read. Might want to tone it down a bit or add more to give some backstory. Pacing seems good, which doesn't really sound like a compliment, but compared to some of the other stuff in this thread you're miles ahead.

The wolf...dog...thing seems like a cheeky fucker. Good character portrayal.

>>9729630
>hare’s breath
a rabbit's suspiration? nigga gtfo

>>9737687
7edgy9me

“You are a one quick little piglet you pork roast you!”
“Well shoot, another kernel nucker coming my way.”
”Make Way!” yelled the drape and dank streets’ night guard
The streets moved as a wave with the call, blacks and browns streaming away, whites and yellows holding like rocks.
“Damn, this reminds me of the old bull’s race”
“Don’t be flacking my man, these paces be chill for the cranks, but by ‘marrow be all be working bacon or pork. I’m betting on bacon, least they give you a wizz and smack break”
“Man you must think me a ‘marrow, Be eating like a king on pork rib eye.”
“Ha, they be eating you.”
“They be eating poison.”
Red beams flared up and down the street like a silk cloth impervious to a ripple. Upon reaching the two gentlemen the red turned blazing azul, causing the two to shield their eyes.
“Keep your gems covered this one sure be a nucker, I sees it in the eyes.” He said gesturing to the three armed guards walking up to the couple.
The most forward guard squinted while coming close. “Well I’d be damned, if it isn’t 131. I’d be damned, what brings you out to meat house street this late in the evening.”
“Well officer I was walking by with my friend here, struggling to find the way to my abode when curfew came upon us unbeknownst. We of course -”
“Cute 131 but I kinda like yall, so I’ll give you the cow shift for tomorrow.” A pause. “And I’ll make sure that your constant detection in the meat sector remains unbeknownst TO Mr. LowJack.”
“Why such kindness is rare in this world but your clear heart and -”
The officer placed a clean underhanded blow to 131’s underside with her club.
“Alright boys, send these two ragamuffins to beef block.”
131’s companion rolled his eyes.
“And make sure they have clean undies for the night shift.”
The three guards moved along with the foremost having a bit of a skip in her step, leaving 131’s and friend in a melancholy mood.
“Well least we eatin’ rather than flyin’ in the clouds.”
“I’d rather be flyin’ with the pigs, but roastin’ cow hell is better than nothin’.” 131 said as he used 132 to anchor himself upright.

I know it's autistic garbage, but any critique would be greatly appreciated.

There were some birds singing in the background and the smell of eucalypt and decaying organic matter filled his nose. The sun was already vaporising the water that sat on the leaves of the plants and released their odours into the air creating a cacophony of smell, distinct in its complexity but at the same time familiar. It reminded him of something and filled him with a sense of something, but it escaped him as he passed through the sliding doors of building 223. The building was long and narrow with plenty of glass and the white glow of the pharmaceutical isle at woolworths. He stowed his stuff in his locker; a few items for the lab, a thermos of coffee and a packed lunch which he was already looking forward to because he skipped breakfast. After taking a few paces from the locker he realised he left all the things he needed inside and had to turn back and get it out. Walking down the long narrow corridors was a strange experience for him. You could see someone coming from the opposite end of the building and as they approached each other they would both lock eyes for a brief moment knowing that at some point in the future their paths were going to cross and when they finally did something would catch their attention and they would look away from each other, thus avoiding having to acknowledge each other’s existence by making some passing comment. He grabbed his lab gown off the hook and headed towards the entrance. Even at ten there were still only a few people milling about with lab coats half on, ben was at the computer and hadn't bothered to do his up and it had slid down to his elbows like some bizarre fashion statement. Brad went straight to work, picking up the bacteria he had grown overnight so he could break them open and harvest their DNA. As he was getting everything ready he spoke with Hao who was his supervisor, and who at that moment reminded him of his mother, although he wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was because she worked so hard, or maybe it was the way she had smiled at him. After preparing his samples and leaving them to incubate for an hour he busied himself by refilling boxes of pipette tips.

>>9742069
Without the context of the story you're writing, it's hard to provide feedback, but I'll do my best.

Right now, the whole paragraph seems mundane. It's a long, boring routine, punctuated with tiny moments of insight, and it should really be sized the other way around. I think if you took time to narrow your focus and figure out what you're really trying to say, you could make this a lot better.

Right now, your writing reads like this
>Eh, the smells
>Eh, the building
>Eh, lunch
>Eh, bacteria samples
>Eh, his mom
Whereas better writing would use the above as vehicles for something worth saying.

In fact, this paragraph should really be split into three or four, and you need to find an emotional essence for each (examples bracketed):
1. Outdoor experience and materialization of building 223 [How complexity and beauty can become boring]
2. Hallway Experience [The anxiousness and apathy of intellectual-types, or perhaps the anti-social aspects of "streamlined" design]
3. Laboratory Experience and Hao [what is ACTUALLY on the character's mind]

Right now, most of your words feel like you're trying to fill space. There's nothing wrong with that if you're going for a novel, really, but you'll only help yourself by turning your routine-salad into something that is integral to the plot or character development. By fleshing out what it is you're exactly trying to convey, you'll have both a more enjoyable piece AND a higher word count. Hemingway only wrote what was necessary, and Faulkner could expand on the most minute detail for an entire page if he thought it was important to his message. You, however, have spent too much time on the useless and not enough time on the meaningful. Best of luck with your work.

>>9738208
-My first thought is that the character of Gawain needs to be set a little more firmly: Gawain is supposedly high-ranked enough to be setting up war rooms and even pouring the king's drinks, and yet his stuttering and (apparent) failure to set things up in time make him seem like a complete incompetent. He also has a great deal of anxiety regarding the king. What is their relationship? Why is he so nervous in addressing his liege, and yet his liege shows neither the intensity of conflict or the strictness of duty, only waving his hand in response to the groveling.

-This is a war room, presumably, not an outhouse, should the wind really be howling from the door? It would be connected to an insulated study or an armory, no? Consider a creak from the door, instead, if you need an audio cue.

-Does the war room (or map room) really not have a map of the kingdom already laid out? Where does Gawain pull it out from? Give the room some character, and establish Gawains familiarity with it. He also needs to fill the flagons in the scene; cups of wine aren't just left around in rooms that have not been in use. There are many opportunities to establish "show, not tell" moments. Maybe he spills some wine onto the map in his rush to pour it. Maybe his distracted thoughts about the civil war make him burn his hand lighting the hearth. Come up with what you feel best adds to the character/plot.

-Lighting is probably a higher priority than spreading the map out, in the same way you turn the light on before taking a shit. Have him do it first.

-"rebels' hideout" implies that there are already, in fact, rebels. Rebels mean that the Civil war is not '"coming soon", but already in full swing, with established sides and goals. Consider replacing this with something like "reveal the hiding holes of every potential traitor" or perhaps "dissidents" or "agitators."

-"Were it so simple my king" implies almost a paternal or even condescending attitude. Have Gawain pray that it were that simple, or change the thought altogether.

-"Gawain said in a murmur" ===> "Gawain murmured."

-"overheard of a failed attack"? It is very hard to keep news of sieges at the level of quiet gossip or personal boast. Reconsider. A courier? A survivor? A merchant who detoured because of the attack? Also, separate this last line and elaborate, it makes too many messy implications to the reader as it stands right now. Is Castle Maetrine a loyalist or a rebel stronghold? Is the boasting son boasting of his defense of the castle, or his knowledge of the attack? Did Gawain overhear this, or the King?

-READ YOUR WRITING ALOUD. Some ideas are not flowing as they should. Unless English is not your first language, you will hear about three or so places where the syntax needs work.

>>9742151
You offer good critiques
Can you critique mine?
>>9738749

IT WAS NIGHT AGAIN. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar. They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news. In doing this they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar. It was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long dead fire. It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight.
The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things.

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.

What are some good exercises to improve punctuation? I'm reckless with commas, and simply writing more hasn't quite helped this.

>>9742263
Read more

>>9742263
I once asked my professor that question after he slaughtered me in my essay feedback for poor grammar. He said 'Eats, Shoots & Leaves' and 'Mind the Stop' were the best choices for an overview but reading more good literature and poetry would be of far more benefit than any rule book.

>>9742151
>-My first thought is that the character of Gawain needs to be set a little more firmly: Gawain is supposedly high-ranked enough to be setting up war rooms and even pouring the king's drinks, and yet his stuttering and (apparent) failure to set things up in time make him seem like a complete incompetent. He also has a great deal of anxiety regarding the king. What is their relationship? Why is he so nervous in addressing his liege, and yet his liege shows neither the intensity of conflict or the strictness of duty, only waving his hand in response to the groveling

Gawain is the King's squire, he is nervous due to being the son of a merchant and is still adjusting to his new life. (I will deal how a merchant's son became a squire to the king later one)

>-This is a war room, presumably, not an outhouse, should the wind really be howling from the door?
I was actually told to remove why the wind is howling from the door due to supposedly being Omniscient and not Third person limited. But for the reason is that the castle took damage from the war (this ties into the rebel question) and the castle's walls are cracked and crumbling which made the castle draughty

>-Does the war room (or map room) really not have a map of the kingdom already laid out?
This is my fault. I forgot to type a Regional map of the Kingdom.

>Where does Gawain pull it out from? Give the room some character, and establish Gawain's familiarity with it. He also needs to fill the flagons in the scene; cups of wine aren't just left around in rooms that have not been in use. There are many opportunities to establish "show, not tell" moments. Maybe he spills some wine onto the map in his rush to pour it. Maybe his distracted thoughts about the civil war make him burn his hand lighting the hearth. Come up with what you feel best adds to the character/plot.
I was told the opposite of this Because it takes away from the plot. I will start doing this once more

>-Lighting is probably a higher priority than spreading the map out, in the same way, you turn the light on before taking a shit. Have him do it first.
I see, thank you. I will change it at once

>-"rebels' hideout" implies that there are already, in fact, rebels. Rebels mean that the Civil War is not '" coming soon", but already in full swing, with established sides and goals. Consider replacing this with something like "reveal the hiding holes of every potential traitor" or perhaps "dissidents" or "agitators."

I really don't know how to explain this easily? The rebels are more of a remnant of previous armies that invaded the Kingdom, But until the attack on the castle, they were more or less treated as bandits. But Nonetheless, I will change it to agitators

>-"Were it so simple my king" implies almost a paternal or even condescending attitude
this is another reason as to why he is so anxious when regarding with the king. The things he says would be Misconstrued

Thank you for taking your time to Critique my work

Can anyone critique this? I'm trying to work on writing and any help is appreciated.
>>9740474

>>9742275
>>9742353
Thanks anons. I do read quite a bit as I'm doing a History post-grad, but I often feel my use of punctuation is based on imitation, rather than actually understanding the rules. That being said, I would like to look into more poetry.

>>9742535
>I'm doing a History post-grad
Me too. Struggling my way through my dissertation right now. Good luck.

>>9742560
Nice one, what's your thesis? My undergrad dissertation was an A so I'm really trying to push myself in all areas, but you know how overwhelming the reading can get.

mind if I post rap lyrics?


I'd rather not be here
but it's good that I am
humanity's in dire need of loners with escape plans
I left an asylum
and entered a relationship with dicks
cause i'm paranoid that love is a poker chip
click click cursor my razer
that glows a pulsar green tale
of not ever having seen beyond a black screen
learning how to live as a machine with fingertips
finding patterns in your wits is the price of seeing everything
I'd rather not be here
but it's good that I am
if nothing better I can hide and pretend it's all a hologram
I'd rather not be
but being nothing is work
so I joke about the rope and lend my hand to the circlejerk

>>9742604
It's on the relationship between English and Hanse merchants in rural areas, chiefly Norfolk and Suffolk. Most English studies tend to focus on London when looking at the Hanse so I'm hoping to carve out a little niche if I do well enough.

>>9742625
Rap is a literary-form is meant to be listened, not read. I'd need to hear it rapped properly and as intended to have any comment on them.

>>9742650
Ah, that's really cool. I've explored some of that myself during Edward II's trade war with Robert I, as a number of Hanse merchants were prosecuted in London due to being accused of trading with the Scots. I guess you read a lot of Christopher Dyer?

>>9742652

https://soundcloud.com/mfmtn/nara-dreamland-hermits-rant/s-U9XX4

>>9742665
The beat is really dope in my opinion. I'd say the lyrics are average and mostly serve their purpose, but the biggest problem which stands out to me is how jarring the length of some of the bars are.

>but it's good that I am
>humanity's in dire need of loners with escape plans

I feel like you're awkwardly stretching out some syllables to make it rhyme better.

>>9742694

>I feel like you're awkwardly stretching out some syllables to make it rhyme better.

Do you mean the delivery or the lyrics?

>but the biggest problem which stands out to me is how jarring the length of some of the bars are.

like how some bars are longer than others? Do they feel to long? I think of them as run on sentences, but have no idea if they work or not.

Thanks a lot for the feedback, /mu/ is useless.

>>9728679
Literally my second poem lads, go easy. Not sure if it's poetry really, just rambling.

For myself
How much? Where will
I stop?
Where will someone else?

Drink wine and screw.
Is the sting worth the
Expense. I wish it so,
So why bother?
Where will fantasy meet
Reality.
Must one take a precedence
Over the other?
Why do these questions
Continue?
Should not truth flow,
As all appear within the
Mind.
Will vices and indulgences
Suffice?
Can the answers flow with
The Wine?
The Wine.
What Wine?
That of fantasy, sweet,
Easy, a cure
Or that of the expected
Reality?

Will experience deliver
My answers
Or someone else's

Can calculation truly
Aid in such matters,
Should it be utilised

If not, are we thrown
Helpless and disconnected
By frightful distance
Fated to descend until
The pit's depth
Greets the unsure mind

If yes though, where
Should the limits be placed,
Else the romantic die.

Should I then follow
The fantasy
Irrelevant be it's falsehood
Should anyone

Drink wine and screw.

The chamber quietened as the first tap of boots was heard, in the stairway to the left of the great gold-mantled throne. Compared to the seats of Eastern kings it was but a child’s stool, but to the Romans it was the height of excess. It was disgusting to Brutus, vile, and worse than it all, Monarchical. Cicero himself fell to obstinate silence as the footsteps paused a moment, before he stepped out into the open. Gaius Julius Caesar, Dictator of the Roman State in perpetuity, with the right to pass laws as he liked, to propose and to veto as he chose, and to wage war at will, for as long as he lived. He was the ultimate authority in a state supposed to have many a head, and the only ruler in what had once been a free republic. A king in all but name, with a crown of laurel leaves upon his head, and the future of the Roman world in his hands. He was an aquiline figure, fifty but still strong and solidly built, with pale, wearied hair as the only sign of his years of stress and labour. His face was aquiline and commanding, his great deep eyes like shafts into some cavernous expanse of genius and madness.

Brutus loved him, and hated him. The man had been all but a father to him, his Mother’s lover, who kept him as if a son and trusted him above all else. Brutus had spent his life thus far following the rise of this Man, as an ally and an enemy. He had followed Caesar as a politician, but had fought him as a soldier. He had fought with Pompey against this beloved-tyrant, and in a tearful embrace he had been pardoned all the same, forgiven for the gravest crimes and returned to the grace of this new dictator. He felt the weight of the knife hidden in his toga all the more clearly, brushing the blade against the cloth, toying with the straps of its hilt. He realized, quite suddenly, that Cassius was watching him, the curious peering eyes of the man boring into his own before he had realized he had met them. In a moment, the noise of the crowds returned, and the distant, stern face of his fellow revitalized him, as if a call to action.

I want to have a cast of about 15 female characters, how do I make them unique and avoid stereotyping?

>>9743348
Be a good writer.

>>9741931
Figure of speech to describe a very short distance, heard it all my life. Maybe its not common outside of Ireland?

>>9733813
I think the problem is that you're not talking with your real voice. It sounds like the way they used to talk and think that we lost long ago ;(

You must have shit beyond on lock to be able to hold the reader's hand through what is basically scenery, imo. And right now you don't. Why not write a STORY? You know, with PLOT and EVENT

>>9733849
the "obscene switcharoo" is as tedious as reddit comment chains

>>9733888
pretty relatable in places

>>9743416
you're looking for "hair's breadth"

>>9738749
>Dudde Weather lol

>>9740474
>Dude painfully overwritten prose to pay for my o/paucity of thought

>>9740795
>>9740796
please stop

>>9741681
why does every story remind me of those shitty student animation projects? I bet you're british too

>>9743416
>hails from the country of the bards
>Bested by a cultureless Amerifat who was probably posting from free mcdonald's wifi

end your life BOYO

>>9742069
>DUDE MORE SCENERY......!

>>9742263
Read Strunk and White often

>>9742353
>reading more good literature and poetry would be of far more benefit than any rule book.

Past a certain point in the past, this ceases to be true, as comma law has shifted in the centuries. 17c prose seems way painfully over comma'd, even the masters.

>>9743348
why do you want 15 broads in the first place, women or people usually aren't that different in real life anyway. If you disagree with such a callous, ignorant statement, study the people in your own life and collect lists of their unique features and qualities, then apply those to your characters.

>>9743440
Hahahahahaahaha

>>9743440

It would be really funny if the Irish genuinely did universally consider it "hare's breath" though

>>9743219
>Not sure if it's poetry really, just rambling.

This is what almost everyone's early poetry is, and for a reason. Even were it good, it would be cliched. Autistic metering and rhyme patterns is where it's at m8. As one of my teachers told me, once you've mastered the traditional meters and rhyme patterns, then you are ready to write freeform poems.

collective unconscious - an alternate dimension
the collective unconscious is an alternate dimesnion you can visit. you can be transported there completely by accident through certain points in "old" regions of the world. north america, before the great flood washed the lost civilization away, was the oldest inhabited place on earth, resulting in a fertile bed of psychic energy which is the means by which one's physical body can be transported to the c.u.


where is this place
the resevoir of psychic energy that led to the collective unconscious's creation traveled through the fourth spatial dimension and into another plane of 3d space. the collective unconscious's landscape stretches far and wide through this plane, but has negligible verticality. the extent of the c.u.'s height is a few hills that dot the landscape.

details
the collective unconscious as a place is both the archetypal heaven and hell, in a very literal sense. the archetypes that all humans perceive and think in govern most of human though patterns reside here. a good parallel would be the spirit world from avatar. as the spirits that control nature reside in the spirit world, the archetypes influence human thought and behavior, resulting in the patterns that drive human mythology and even contemporary literature, movies, and art. because the collective unconscious was formed over millions of years of human evolution, some parts are older than others. in the older parts reside the very oldest and most archaeic archetypes.


how does it work
the colective unconscious can be a part of the human mind (thats why it has so much influence on us) and a physical place at the same time because human beings created it. we, as a speceis, generated so much psychic energy (unknowingly) that it began to manifest itself as matter. the psychic connection to the collective unconscious is still present in all of us, and it is stronger in some than others.

psychic energy
psychic energy in no way is a soul. it is not metaphysical, or beyond understanding. it can be harnessed, transformed, conducted, and it obeys all the laws of thermodynamics. psychic energy is a byproduct of life. for reasons not understood, when a cell self-replicates it produces a small amount of psychic energy. this isnt the only way to produce psychic energy. psychic energy is released in greater quantity (measured in units of psychica) when cells die. additionally, as brain cells do not die over their lifetime, they store a lot of psychic energy. when a creature's brain cells die, the result is a torrent of psychic energy (for average humans around 100 psychia).

>>9733888
you started 8 of 12 paragraphs with the same letter and the same sentence structure.

>>9736811

Suggestion for a title: Ode of Porcelain

>>9743522
Right, thanks. Know any good online resources for learning that stuff?

She handed him the crumpled pack. “Matches?” he asked, parking a smoke in the corner of his mouth.
“That was the last one.”
“Well, hold still, then.”
He put his hand on the back of her head, thumb against the base of her skull, and leaned in to kiss the tip of his cigarette gently against hers, looking into her eyes as the paper caught and began to glow.

>>9742164
>>9738749
Sure.

-Your first line has a lot of good ideas, and you have a very clear image in your mind that you're trying to convey in your rhetoric. Perhaps some attention word choice would help:
>"Viscous lava"
Lava is generally viscous, I imagine, being molten rock sliding down a mountain. Consider "With the viscosity of an arctic lava" (in your own style, of course. I get a little too flowery when given too much time.)
>"Floods"
Floods, in comparison, are very fast paced. Think of footage you've watched of floods, perhaps after heavy storming or a tsunami; there' are cars floating along as if they're driving. People and houses, even, get swept up and carried to sea. You need to consider either finding another word (submerge, encase,permeate, saturate) that has slower connotations, or modifying this one (slowly floods, or something more interesting and less adverbial)
>"bite of cold tiles"
Does a flat surface really bite? I would understand an unexpected cold shower, the stream of water reaching out, as a bite. How do you REALLY feel about stepping on cold tile in the morning. I feel it more as a kind of burn, ironically, and this might work well with your description of the cold as lava-like, earlier.

-There's nothing wrong with introducing Dart (your main character?) at the second line, but is the *most important thing,* or at least the first thing worth stating, about him the fact that he 'is reminded'? Consider restructuring this sentence to give him an active role.

-Dart's main concern seems to be with change. Is this theme the crux of your novel or work? I see several threads, and you need to solidify and hit home whichever you're aiming for:
>[Nostalgia, either justified or as an escapism]
An idea to expand on this would be to relate Dart's feelings to the hypothetical feelings of the overtaken Warrington Shire or the pines. Dart could imagine the trees having some sort of emotional response to the fading sun, or perhaps their dancing is some kind of ritualistic goodbye or grieving.
>[Choosing the lesser of two perceived evils/pains]
Is Dart ever satisfied? The people who hate the Summer only to turn around and hate the winter are generally bitter people. They stay in places they don't like, knowing (but choosing to forget) what makes them miserable each turning season. Does he accept the change as necessary?
>[The permeation of change, exemplified by the winter's eventual victory over the indoors as well]
Perhaps, if you can do it gracefully and without going headfirst up your own ass, you can take this further, saying something about how the winter first conquers the outside, then the inside, and then even inside his very body. consciousness, and soul.

Finally, just one last word choice thing. "bed socks wet by..." Perhaps make "wet" a verb? "made wet by" or something. I understand an adjective being modified in the way you did might be technically correct. I believe the verb form reads better, and has a rhythm to it.

>>9733888

>>9743830
I like this quite a bit.

>>9744007
thanks!

>>9743723

I had a bunch of sources in college but I'm a filthy phoneposter so I'll try to find and post some later when I get to my PC

>>9744058
Thanks friend.

>>9743830
That's a neato idea buckaro~
you mind if i stealio it for my diario desu~~~~~?
(critique this post, it's 'experimental'..)

This isn't edited yet but I want some feedback on the content. I don't know if it goes too far. Background: set in middle ages, Renier is supposed to be an innocent young man who has been corrupted by an opulent, immoral city; he was just married into their royal family. His wife is Maria and she's been cheating on him, and Renier has come to the point of being sick of tolerating it. "xx" is a placeholder.

One night he returned to the apartment after dinner, and Maria was not there. He searched around and asked the servants, having a bad feeling about it. He could find her nowhere, but one of the maids was a poor liar. He cornered the young girl, barely thirteen, and held her between himself and a wall. “I am the prince of this kingdom now,” he hissed in her ear. “Do you really want to oppose me? Do you want me to assign you as a scullery maid, so you can spend your days hauling rotten garbage and scrubbing the kitchen floors until your hands become so scarred with callouses that--”

“Please stop,” cried the girl. “I'm not allowed to tell you.” Her nose was dripping and tears streaked down her round little face.

“Tell me where Maria is.”

“I can't.”

Renier grabbed her wrist and pulled her arm up, and their height difference was so great that when he had fully extended her arm, she was on her tip-toes and fighting to keep balance. He stopped before hurting her too badly. She made little mouse-noises and choked back sobs.

“She's with her lover. He lives in xx on xx, in the xx.”

He didn't need the address. It was the first residence he was introduced to when he'd come to the city. Renier let her arm go and felt sick as she hugged her wrist across her chest. “Are you hurt?” he asked, but the girl was already running away. He watched her go and then made for the stairs to grab a horse from the stable. No one stopped him. He mounted and tore down the streets, barely able to restrain his speed by reminding himself that there could be pedestrians in the way even at this late hour. Some miracle saw him to the residence without becoming lost. He halted the horse in front of the building, then shouted for the doorman to open the gate for him. When he didn't want to comply, Renier drew his sword and threatened him with all the authority of princedom, and the hulking man crept out to open the gate and take his horse. Renier entered the residence.

The knocking was continuing, and she wasn't keeping her voice down at all. Not trusting himself, he took the sword out of his beltloop and laid it by the doorway before he ascended the staircase. At the top he kicked the door open and was met with screams and shouts.

She was fully nude and mounted on a middle aged man. He strode over, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her off. She tripped and fell to her knees on the floor. The man made to oppose him, and Renier made a fist and struck him across the underside of his jaw. He fell back and held his face, rocking back in pain. 1/2

>>9744265

2/2

“Stop it!” screamed Maria. “Don't hurt him.”

“You--” he cut himself off before he said something truly foul. “Get dressed. So help me God, get dressed right now, Maria.” He didn't recognize his own voice.

She crawled across the floor and collected her clothing, reassebling it with trembling hands. “You hate that whore empress so much because she's cheating on your father with some piece of trash,” he said in a cold voice. “And here you are, acting just the same as her, fucking around with some fat old man like a bitch in heat. How do you even live with yourself? How do you not vomit when you look in the mirror?” The princess was crying now, her hair all messed up and the foul odor of bodily fluids saturating the room. The man was sitting up, and Renier walked around the bed and hit him in the nose hard enough to crush the bone. “If you ever commit such conduct again, Maria, I will divorce you and have the priests excommunicate you for adultery. Then you will go to hell and be joined in eternity with that bitch from Antioch.”

She sniffled and continued trying to lace her dress, but wasn't able, so Renier knelt beside her and tied it up for her. When she was dressed, he led her by the wrist down the stairs. He recollected his sword at the doorway and instructed the doorman to bring the horse. He helped her up and the two went together back towards the palace. Renier dropped her off at the apartment and told her to wash herself thoroughly and have her clothing sent to laundry, and then he secluded himself in one of the chapels of the palace to pray, feeling like he was the one who would be going to hell instead.

From that day Maria was completely loyal to him and had resumed her affections.

--So is it too much? I don't want it to be outright misogynistic to the point of being unpublishable. I want to show the city is disgusting and corrupts anyone who lives there. Sodom and Gomorrah level stuff. But Renier still needs to be likeable and seen as the hero.

>>9744265
>>9744273

I'd say it's on "the line". Not giving a shit myself about muh sogyny, I can still say that the average hardcore feminist (male or female, both overrepresented among the consumers of popular fiction) will be offended by (female) adultery being depicted in a remotely negative light. I don't think it goes far enough to make them resent you as an author for the depiction, though. It kind of depends on the context preceding and following the scene, though.

As for whether it makes the protag look bad, again hard to say. It doesn't to me, not because I'm an ebil muhsoggyknist but because I refuse to judge characters morally outside the context of their time, place, and other circumstances, and I also believe that an interesting character requires flaws, otherwise you just have a self-inserted Mary Sue.

I spent a great deal of time in one of my stories attempting to contextualize a member of the SS (pre-war) by describing the experiences in the great war and the freikorps in the 1920s which led him down that path. Most of this just kind of went over the heads of people I've shown it to, though.

>>9728679
-Nunca he sido una persona de un solo trabajo, sabes? la idea de pasar más de dos meses en un mismo lugar nunca me ha gustado.
Su mano temblaba debajo del faldón de la chaqueta, que obviamente era prestada, las uñas estaban amarillentas y era obvio que estaba nervioso porque no se podía fumar en el restaurante. Claudia lo miró con compasión, aunque sin poder disimular una risita de lástima que el no advirtió, pero que sería constante en todos sus encuentros.
- Estás de acuerdo con el pago? Dijo ella, anticipando la respuesta.
-El negro me dijo cómo era el pago, no es mucho, pero sé que no me voy a demorar más de dos días haciendo lo que me pidieron.

>>9744331
Si por senor wall cross border negro el puta Trump

Night-walks were about the only way Nathan could get to sleep these days. He would walk around town, hands in pockets, until his already fatigued body threatened to droop, then stagger home. The scary part was that it was taking longer and longer to get to that point. At this rate he would have to leave town before he could sleep.

One Saturday evening Nathan passed an alley which rang with raised voices. He stopped and cast a glance at a man and woman standing near its dead end. The man held the woman's arm and hit her with flat, hard punches.
"You cut the shit, whore!" he shouted. Her face was puffed up and soaked with tears.

Nathan walked up to the man, spun him around, crushed his nose with the heel of one hand. The man tried to get to his feet and Nathan kicked him in the throat. He kicked him again and felt the woman's weight on his back like a feral jungle cat, yowling and clawing. He flung her to the ground and she took a handful of his hair with her. He wiped blood from his cheek and looked at it, shaking his head. "The fuck, bitch?"

"That's my man, you crazy prick!" She swung a wide right, which he knocked aside. He cracked her in the jaw and stood over her.

"Listen, you ungrateful little cunt--"

He caught the man's double-fisted blow in the base of his skull and saw silvery white sparks. Feet battered him back and forth across the asphalt. He clung to consciousness like a bug on a windblown leaf.

>>9744341
Dios mío, pero que pedazo de pelotudo, devuélvete a /b/ a mirar porongas, puto.

Weren’t there lanterns hanging from streetlights, weren’t the boys lining the verandas with neon crescents, the reason why everyone was mad and slothful would escape me: it was Ramadan and the people are starving, I keep forgetting. It was enough that I fasted every Monday and Thursday outside the sacred month and, knowing hunger palm-and-backside, it made the stomach growling no different than the other twitches, the bedside-tossing, mosquito-bites, bruises and splinters, things all holy lands share. The night was so young you doubt you’d live to see it born, but like lovers the people still sashayed and ululated – with lives dragging on heavy hail. All of it was ritual, or maybe funeral march, becoming sort of a commonplace thing. The sun was just not setting quick enough.

Alright, we are dead. No matter, not if there’s work in Hell. We are all condemned to pass the time somehow. I sold the elderly soap-scented candles, slanting in the heat, and slipped small glasses of water to children. They are too young for this sort of thing, I’d tell myself, and they’d yell back at me how they want to die pious men and women, but you could tell behind the thin of it all they are sad and thirsty, some would still cry, and their courage is still disheartening. Tell them how the sky is blue by heaven’s mercy, tell them about Yunus in the whale’s belly, they’ll somewhat understand – it’s rare nowadays finding people who listen to parables. And after the lesson they’d take a generous gulp from the glass and hop back to their parents itching with guilt, but they will go on with positive dreams of self-martyrdom, a bullet for every itch: you, too, are fashioned for redemption. The television says this line of work fits you nicely. Your elementary teacher says it after a good day’s beating. It is as if the world expects you only to die. There is no peasantry in keeping words simple. It was, after all, a month of humility – unless you are a priest, because no one owns closets for worship anymore. The poets still plucked their brows and the minarets screamed on.

And the sun is treacherous, people swear to me it rises when no one is basking in its sunlight leisurely, no one partaking in its warmth. When the hour came, after I have polished the shelves and showcase crystals, I would go out to the street – already teeming with anxious traffic, and would sit on the marble steps of my neighbor’s rundown watchmaking shop and wait with the sun. There was no music, no clouds, no high columns, just me and whoever else the sun rolls into: friends and family, blazing enemies. We would sit and guarantee it set in its right course – child’s naivety, until the call for sunset prayers meshed with the skimming sky hues and vanished hand-in-loving-hand. Our day was effectively two, as we celebrated after the muddle all the carnal sins we could until sunrise.

>>9743469
I can't tell if you meant opacity or paucity but either way fair enough mate

-A room to chat in-

I propose Halloween therapy.

We all sit in a room wearing masked costumes,
and talk.

We can be anonymous and wholly truthful just like on the internet.

We can discuss our anger, fear, and strange desires,
with a human voice
instead of sad, lonely words on a screen.

I’d dress up as a plague doctor,
and read a little poem called “run red with blood,” which goes like this:

There was a ginger nurse who went by the name, “Red.”
One night a man was losing a lot of blood after a bad car crash,
and Red ran down the hall with the new blood,
and the people in the hospital said, “Run, Red. Run.

The end.”

And the other people in the therapy group would clap their costumed hands, and say,
“Congrats on being such a wretched, hopeless being.”

“Thanks, guys,” I’d say. “Thanks for listening. It means a lot.”

Then the girl with a Richard Nixon mask would explain how she has fallen out of love with her fiance, and she doesn't know how or if she should end it before it’s too late.

The dude dressed like Gandalf, with a big bushy beard, would talk about the time he slapped his friend with a greasy piece of pepperoni pizza after a night of heavy drinking, and they got into a fistfight, and now they don’t talk anymore. And it makes him very sad that a piece of greasy pizza ruined a great friendship.

And the soft spoken guy in a cat costume would tell us how, as if by some cruel and twisted joke of the universe, he was sexually attracted to birds.

We would all congratulate each other for being strong despite our problems. We’d say, “It’ll get better. It’ll get better.”

And we’d walk out of the room as costumed strangers. “See ya next time, cat guy,” I’d say. “Take it easy, Gandalf.”

And we’d go home, pluck the keys off our computer or keyboard, and eat them for dinner.

I’d go to the hospital in my spare time dressed like a plague doctor. I’d stand there and drink coffee, whispering softly, “Run, Red. Run.”

To my hands is borne the weight of the current, burden of burdens to struggle the river, heaving raw and turgid the fibrous mantel on my shoulder, palms slick with the foam and mud of the bank.


More hands than mine grip and haul away as one being, a single soul of conquest, one song of many voices! Hear the symphony of boards that crack and strain as our hands call upon them to lift their brothers from the torrent! Hear the fury of beasts once men, who cannot see but the path ahead, cannot hear but the thunder and their roars! The righteous battle trudges in ecstasy! There can be no joy like this agony! No flower sweet as the blood and sweat! Hear, and see, smell and taste! All the wonders of foul hell and saccharine heaven are held in this moment! Victory is nothing, but defeat is unimaginable; there exists this moment forever until the next. Lord have not mercy!

Here's a poem:

Mother of death, reach out your teeth
and roll my cigarette in your rotting mouth.
Place it beside your paper crane, and look into my eyes.
I can see you wave the strands of your silver hair through the sky and cover the wailing land
as it seeps in waning bliss. Is there a penny for the ferryman, or do you goad him with a kiss?

Guide me to Charons dock, where red rose
succumbs as beetles rise. From across the ocean they breach and scatter, feeding upon thy rivers thighs. She, mother to my heirs and the blind I,
these estuaries upon which you feed were once for dead gods and broken oaths. Shall ever they return to us.

Oh mother of death, long before we met,
I was a rising man: I, whom, dancing within your hands, saw how they broke the bodies of scattered ants. And I cast against your soothsayers and your priests, do scattered ants notice when one of their number returns not to its hive? Does it hope to be remembered as it lies shining armor broken and beautiful body sealed? Against the day unfated, and unbound, to its oaths to the mother queen.

>>9745470
Here's a critique:
Enjoyable, I felt smart when I realized parts of what you were talking about. I like the play on the ending and the way its written retains my attention. I wish it was a bit longer with more information to read into.

>>9745149
Too many lage pickerels floating, really. I don't see any less though if I were to decide underneath the wide rock like that. Much to 'ferrous' for my taste, if you understand what I'm considering, ass hole. I don't even want to smell the plane you came off of. Don't you give me that look. I'll shove corks in your knob blocker sud nose, though look, it's generally the australasian prose hat probably puts you to pieces if you wouldn't, so don't.

>>9741878
You're right. It's supposed to be the morning after shooting up heroin. Too subtle?

Dressed (or only half) in silk,
And velveteen,
Her calves a milky white,
And only seventeen,
She begs and pleads,
For your attention.

And stand at attention,
You do.

Like a solider, then marching through the mud,
At the behest of befuddled brigadiers,
Urging you onward,
Up to the ears,
In mud, and sweat, and blood.

Dressed to kill herself, you know,
She brags in silence, on her mobile phone,
By clicking like on every well-to-do, and civil rights inspired,
March she comes across on Facebook.

Back home her Dad is the head of the country's single largest oil refinery.
It's the only reason she can afford to study so far from home.

On Instagram,
She posts pictures of herself with champagne,
On yachts, with sun-tanned babes,
All the while paying,
Trading to rubels to dollars or,
from krones at first,
And I swear this is the truth,
An account in Russia, for more followers.

Yet she'll swear she is bisexual,
She'll even die for the aboriginal cause,
And she'll swear she has a mental health issue,
Like we all do,
Before pausing,
To resume her lavish spending.

And this whole time,
Her father could never tell,
Though I think maybe now I could,
A fraud from his precious Tinkerbell beckoning to me from the wood.

>>9744314
>it's on "the line"

Alright, thank you anon. I'll leave it for now unless I come up with something better to demonstrate what I'm trying to show. Just wanted to make sure it didn't come off as something too /r9k/. The entire publishing industry is slanted so far left and they're the gatekeepers. I don't want to pander, but I also don't want to shoot myself in the foot with content that is too offensive.

>>9746719

overly wordy. "said softy" could be changed to whispered, murmured, etc. stereotypical forest is also ridiculous and triggers my /out/ism. Wildlife doesn't come out in the presence of humans, for one, though you'll hear, but not see, them. Forests all have character. "dry" and "green" are also paradoxical. Dry forests get hemmed in brown. Green implies wet. If you go hiking in the rockies, it's semi-arid forest, sparse, crunchy, waiting for rain that will never come. Hiking in the US SE you get a humid near-swamp level forest dripping in green and full of underbrush and insects. It's a range. "stereotypical forest" is a cop-out.

The wording is all clumsy and takes too long to say what you're trying to get across. Brevity is better than repeating yourself thrice.

You're also not going to have much breeze in a forest as the trees block the wind. You know, just go outside please and go into any patch of woods, notice your surroundings. It's like the difference between symbolic drawing and actually drawing something.

Even the characters look like this. "bared her perfectly straight white teeth at him". They come off as mary sues out of fucking twilight.

Too many adjectives, too little action. Simplistic language.

"small pale hand"
"small blue lighter"
"light green and dark brown pieces of nature"

>heard a bird flying

You don't hear a bird flying. You hear them through foliage or hopping around underbrush, or singing or crying, not flying.

Tell me why I should care about these characters. That's what the goal of writing is. Make them endearing. Too perfect isn't human and isn't endearing.

>>9746834

Forgot my image.

Please read something that isn't YA and compare it. Sorry if that's kinda mean but I don't see anything redeeming about your writing.

>>9746834

Thanks for the actual criticism anon. This is the first thing I've ever written so yeah it's pretty awful.

Would you say that there is anything good about it? If not that's ok.

>>9746842

Oh, I see thanks anyway anon for being honest.

>>9744273

This anon makes a good point, >>9744314 the context is important. Whilst you can't please everyone, this scene could read as sinister for a couple of reasons that you may or may not intend.

The Princess reacts as if she's under thirty, probably younger, and for her to be in a sexual situation with an older man may trigger sex-negative feminists - how could a young girl who's crying possibly be at fault, why is Renier blaming her rather than the man when she was probably led astray - yadda yadda. It doesn't mean that any of that is actually relevant or what's happening in that scene. She's reacted to this situation with hysterics and a plea for the violence to end, but the absence of an argument as to why she was in that situation at all makes her seem like a poor little girl who's being taken advantage of. There needs to be a moment where Maria shows agency to avoid accusations of her just being a vehicle to express how Renier's fallen. So she's decided to fuck another man, but what were her motivations? Whether it was something that started a while ago and continued because she was lying to herself, an act of rebellion or whatever else. That's the moment where we can judge her as a person rather than as a slut, but it doesn't really have to happen in that scene itself as long as the reader's informed somewhere along the line.

In addition, Renier beating her lover may not be direct physical force against Maria herself, but it could be seen as threatening her into compliance by example. especially when he's verbally threatened her too. This means that the last line may read as him enforcing her loyalty through fear rather than contrition which I'd guess is your aim here. Personally I have no issue with using physical force in a situation where it's deserved, but there is a growing movement these days that finds it unacceptable under any circumstance, let alone when it may threaten a woman. If you want people to like Renier, chances are this is going to be seen as crossing the line to the normie masses even in a city like yours, so it's worth considering when you want people to start doubting his intentions.

>>9744063

Ended up writing until 5am once I got to my PC instead, but here's the most important one

http://prosody.lib.virginia.edu

Go to the instruction page, then glossary, then rules of thumb, then you can try taking the analysis quizzes

Sure, I'll let you guys tear my work apart.

He scoffed as he searched for even the smallest sign of another encampment. Light from flames, smoke, the smell of cooked meat...anything to tell him that they were near. Once more, he came up empty handed. Finally, disgusted by this latest failure, he climbed down and found his bedroll. His dreams were fevered and of Susanna, the girl stolen away from her home by the Zelen warriors.

He’d never seen the girl, nor had she been described to him by the Frost Hill townsfolk. They were all to busy mourning her family to take the time to do so. Yet, in his dream, he saw her clear as day. She had red hair, as did many Merician women. Her freckled face was kind and gentle. Brown eyes, the same shade as her baby brother’s, watched his every move. She beckoned to him from across a great, barren field. He ran to her, shouting for her to come to him. As he approached, there was a sudden change to her.

She twisted and morphed, her very form changing. She grew taller, leaner. It wasn’t a violent shift, but a jarring one nonetheless. Falling to his knees, he called out to her one last time before the metamorphosis was complete. Crying, he reached out, only to have Katarin take his hand and help him to his feet.

>>9747489
>He scoffed

>>9747585
...is there something wrong with that term?

>>9747600
... anon asked insecurely.

>>9737710
>>9741597
>>9741776
I'm comnfortable with most of it
>>9741858
Sherry's only passively concerned in the scene, she's also the kind of person to just stand and look at something, which is a trait based on my impressions from reading various stories where the pace seemed to imply that what the protag was doing.
Shes also not ugrently concerns, just passive because the last time she saw an animal on a car it was the dying cat and Sherry has a very subdued care for things, in spite of her sneering ego-maniacal brutality
>>9741925
a lot of people say my pace and dialogue is great, and really the whole story of AUTOMATIC S!, is 1) a teenage girl figuring out who she is and who shes gonna be, and 2) me as a writer figuring out what kinda writer I am, and what kind of writer I'm gonna be. I gotta learn my aesthetic and find my voice
So things like tone and escalation and presentation of action will be skewed and all over the place and it's partly somehting I have to accept until I "get it right"
>>9741990
unironically a sort-of ciritcism I've gotten is that my stuff does get super edgy, Sherry's worldview is unearned and cringy, and she's (in Chapter 6) started realize the core of her beliefs is just her rationalizing years of violent abuse done to her

>>9728679

I gave him a nod as I passed, hoping the stranger might notice me, and pity me. My clothes were torn, seam to seam; my eyes were swollen and colored like wine; my dignity was somewhere lost in the bloodied snow. Why did I hope for pity? To what end - what could this stranger do for me? My fate had been all but sealed.

Seeing a bright neon sign above the hoards of grey long coats and hats turned downwards against the snowfall, I scampered. The sign read: "LIQUORS AND BEERS", with a radiant tone of blue. My lungs seared from the cold air, but were relieved from the grasp of winter as I opened the door and the atmosphere of the cork and cheap liquor enveloped my senses. Bliss, once again.

>>9748288
I like the general tone a lot, definetly has potential. Two things bug me however. Firstly how is the stranger going to pity him if he, the narrator, passes him and nods at him? To me this would imply self confidence if not even pride, no matter how torn the clothes. Generally standing firmly on both feet and, I know Im repeating myself here, even passing another person would not be seen as someone pitiable. The line about the narrators fate being sealed also strikes me as overly dramatic and fatalistic. The second paragraph is great though.

I love that woman from School of Life. Her soft voice let's me melt away and makes me want to shove my hard cock in her tender mouth.
I just want to bang her like 'bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang '

>>9748547
>let's
lets

>>9748596
You're right. Thanks for the correction.

>>9748029
whats the point of asking for criticism if you're just going to deflect and rationalize everything negative thrown at you. if you have to explain character traits/motivations/thoughts/feelings outside of the story itself then you're doing something wrong.

>>9745488
stop

>>9745583
stop being edgy

This is my first real time writing, and I want to start off on the right foot:
> A low, sputtering drone of machinery stood out. Accompanied by a light clink of a naked flagpole in the wind and repetitious cresting waves vaguely heard to the south-west made for a dreary symphony. A seagull cried out, a redundant reminder of solid matter's minority among the vast liquid and wet wind. The dome above was uniform gray, with illusions of different shades flaring in and out of vision. A brisk walk dockwards went routinely. Thick soupy fog failed to conceal the grand behemoths of stone, who have since time loomed erect against the beating sea. Red and white. Silent sentinels watch over the water, watch in every direction. Watch for the greatest watcher to set westward, initiating their vigil. By these candlelit nights the wayward find their way.
> Three past the hour, the boat arrives late, as was common. Grumbling and grumpy from being awoken from an evening nap, she tethered reluctantly to the dock. Soon, after departure, the solid white mass more violently grumbled across the dark gray liquid, hidden within a lighter gray mist. Unceasing wind fathered fighting waters. The experienced hull knocked and flew, but Joliet had a hardy shell not easily cracked.
> Each leap of the ferry brought a leap of the heart. Not of want or passion, but of uncaring necessity. The heart beat on without desire or fear. The heart beat against the hull of feeling, never breaching. That dark, absorbing tumult below gave a far superior reflection than the most crystalline calm any nation or ocean could boast. It offered a reflection to the very soul, the very heart. A calm wake left by Apollo himself could not stay that water forever. Yet a dock, slightly aloft, stood triumphant and untouchable to the feeble wetness. Likewise, in a life of storm and thunder, the soul became draped in gray, unable to feel sustained hurt nor terror, however also cursed to never feel passion nor love.
> Joliet churned yet. Her low moaning could not overtake the soft gray. Gray seeped into every crevice, into every fiber of being, wresting control of even the body, which could only now stare through engrayed eyes. The gray was repulsive and disgusting, or rather would be had the now preeminent grayness permitted repulsion. Instead, perception and feeling were awash and muffled; drowned by relentless grayness. All desire to reject the numb gray, all thought to tear the grayed eyes from their sockets and gouge grayed ears unto silence, was replaced by dullness and grayness.
> Land approached, and with it another watchman. The engine slowed, gradually giving way to gray. [all i have so far]

>>9748368

Thank you for the feedback.

I agree on both points, perhaps a stare or a glance makes more sense then a nod - I wanted some kind of interaction. Similarly, I agree that the last sentence - the fate one - is overly dramatic, I simply wanted to allude to a fact for later use, foreshadowing.

(I wrote this on the spot as practice, so it's quite raw).

>>9748029
>a lot of people say my pace and dialogue is great
idk about "great" but there's potential.
>she's (in Chapter 6) started realize the core of her beliefs is just her rationalizing years of violent abuse done to her
5 chapters is a lot of edginess to wade through. you are going to lose most readers.

He pressed the gun to his head,
Now he’s just lying there dead.
I wonder what he thought,
I wonder how hard he fought,
Before he filled his skull with lead.

just a simple limerick about suicide, I know cliched but w/e

>>9747600
>>9747789

There's nothing wrong with the term, but in the context it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me. What is he scoffing at as he searches for another encampment, and why? It implies a kind of disgusted derision directed at a person or person's action(s) , not just being disgusted at his own state or situation

https://pastebin.com/uLggnsEZ

Decided to start writing today until something started to form or I passed out. This is what came of it

Looking for some critique and some ideas for continuation.

https://pastebin.com/YXEPdRjJ

>>9748756
What about the pleasures of boat-hauling is edgy?

>>9749037
>ctrl + f "He "
>209 coincidences
What the fuck?
Also, "I'll right be back." English isn't my native language but I've never heard or read that expression. I assume it's a typo.
Interesting read nonetheless.

>>9750825
It's actually only 89, if you count correctly.

This is a few days in the running and is still unfinished. Might wipe the last stanza to stay more in line with themes I introduced and plan on sticking with. Curious on input as is though:

A grassy mound of no real name
Rises up a river valley.
It's mounted by a maple tree
With wildflower just below.
Yellow, red and purple petal
Bead on wind-spilled grass so green,
As their perfumes gently flow
By hungry sparrow on their wing.

Falling to a bed of verdure
Stirs to life a puff of moth
Congregating undisturbed
Underneath the maple shade.
Licking wings and swaying grasses
Brush against what skin's exposed,
While sinking sunlight pins the earth
Through leaven cushion just above.

Whirlwind sight to drifting clouds
Top of heaven's undercurrent;
Where vulture swim like sharks on prowl
In and out a nimbic shelf.
Diving in the troposphere
Jets a vessel all alone,
searching for a trenchen-valley
to disembark and call their home.

Deeper, darker drips the sky-blue
Into black with hue of violet
Filling the horizon floor while
From the depths a giant squids-eye
Phases into sight all moon-like
As some tiny-lifeform-stars
Glitter round the glowing disc like
bioluminescent algae.

Does the moon too sit in place
Atop earth's atmospheric plates
Drifting down through breathing lungs
Top tectonic, grass covered mounds?
Does it watch its planet's cycles
Through its times of light and dark;
And does it know that oceans bow
for each and all of its arrivals?

>>9729630
>hare's breath
The respiration of a rabbit

I think you meant "hair's width" or "hair's breadth"

>>9750842
You are correct. It just felt "he" and "his" was used constantly throughout the text.

Just started writing a year ago and i'm still editing this crap. Be brutally honest.
It's in Spanish kek

>>9750825
>>9750842
>>9750958
Thanks for the critique? I can try to cut down on the pronouns.

>>9751045
Esta bien para un mediocre faggot

>>9748997
Yeah, I see what you mean. I'll get it when editing comes around. Thanks for the feedback!

>>9742652
Then I presume you can't speak on the Iliad, as it too is meant to presented in oral form.

>>9751469
Thanks.

>>9736833
horrible

>>9751076
I think it needs a little work. Some sentences repeat too often without knowing what was the man feeling at the moment. We don't know the context of the scenario and maybe that's on purpose, but you could add some notion of what the situation feels like. What is the scenery outside the window? What are the sounds that he is listening? What is the smell of the place? or his own, the smell of the woman, the boys or the girls?

>>9748844
Good read. I don't know what the fuck is going on though, but you might be on something here.

The time when I walked in our places looking for you has passed.
The phantom feelings of your feet on my legs first thing in the morning have died out.
The news of you, it is never good, and you are never alone.
Our kids are all grown, and our houses are starting to crumble.
We said it is better this way.

"This is something I can give you without hurting anybody," you said. "Don't do anything rash," you said.
"I can't do anything rash," I said. "This is where my life has led. I'm trapped here. Like you."
"With our others."
"Yes."
"Do you say 'I love you' to each other?"
"Yes."
"Do you mean it?"
"Yes. ... But,"
"I love you."
"Please don't..."
"I always will."
"I'll keep it. In a safe place."
"Thank you."
"Wait."
"Yes?"
"Do you say 'I love you' to her?"
"Yes. But."
"I know exactly what you mean."

Thank you. Thank you for everything.

This is one part of an overarching narrative. Ignore the title, I just named it that to differentiate it from the others I'm working on.

This repulsive creature makes my stomach turn
sweaty flesh hangs limply from its pimpled neck
It’s fat wrinkled lips are dried-up earthworms
Not sure if it’s a corpse, I’d have to check

Reeks of the shit rising from it’s rotten guts
Every word it speaks reinforces it’s nature
It prowls the streets looking for filthy sluts
If it’s lucky it’ll soon be inside her

To dumb to know what it’s doing to her
Her worth and purity all will doubt
Thinks it’s worthy as if it were
I want it’s piggy little eyes popped out

Not for her, not for him, not for any of them
I just love to judge kill and condemn

I'm working on concepts right now, so I'll post a bit here and see if anyone here thinks it'd be a good read or not.

It's an alternate history set in a timeline where Ronald Reagan dies of AIDS after a botched blood transfusion following the attempt on his life. There are other PODs, but this is the big one that sets off a chain of events that end with the full use of every nation's bio, chem and nuclear weapons. Millenia later, the Earth is a fetid backwater under the heel of the Bonapartes, who rule the known universe. The reigning Emperor - whose empire spans many galaxies and such - tells a historian to write his heir a book about "those who came before," but the historian refuses to write propaganda and writes from the POV of a family trying to make ends meet in an ever declining world prior to its end.

I can go on if this catches anyone's interest. The characters are ones I've had for over a decade now. It just took me a while to write an actual book as opposed to just stories.

a coming of age story about a gay pedophile who joins a male-only cult similar to freemasonry. in an attempt to lure one of the younger members to his house, he mistakenly kidnaps a young woman disguised as a boy, who ran away from her family in an act of rebellion. hijinks ensue as they learn to survive within the cult and learn what it takes to keep a secret.

>>9753252
what the world would be like if reagan was a fag

>>9753916

No, Reagan isn't gay in my story. He's simply the victim of a fuckup by the medical profession. He'd keep it secret as long as he could until a whistleblower spills the beans.

That's the major POD, although there are others. I've literally written a timeline from the 80s all the way to the far future. We're talking as far as 49,170 AD and beyond (although my story's universe uses the French Revolutionary Calendar due to Bonaparte rule)

The Bonapartes, I thought, would be more compelling to use than the cliches like Nazis, Russians, etc

There's something less than human, that's walking down the street.
It's hiding it's emotions, from everyone it meets.
You'd think this creature tragic, but it feels quite content.
It lacks the means to regret, the time alone it's spent.
Daily it meets it's demons, but takes hardships in stride.
It's awfully hard to break down, what's been broken inside.
It cannot feel temptation, there's nothing that it wants.
Envy and greed escape it, it has no wealth to flaunt.
The vain would call it worthless, the wise call it a fool.
It calls itself a witness, to people turning cruel.
If all lives need a purpose, a goal for each to crave.
Are you driven by success, or are you now it's slave?
It's something less than human, or maybe something more?
If it's life lacks a meaning, what am I living for?

>>9742151
How do I make certain it won't detract from the story

>>9728679
Dream 1

The first world war was fought with sticks
On school playgrounds in 2004
Until we discovered how to make fire
Which started the second world war

And I fought bravely for my country
And they gave me a medal for my deed
But I still hear grown men cry
and cannons exploding in the streets

Once the enemy stuck me with a sword
A sword he built with bamboo
So I turned around and told him
“That wasn’t very kind of you”

Starving in the trenches at night,
My men and I questioned the notion
That our sharp hunger would disappear
Before the daylight started approaching.


In Normandy France I met my wife
She was the best girl I could find
With her sweet peppermint sighs
And blonde flowing hair that shined

Once it stormed out of a green sky
So I took her to the basement to hide
The ground shook and the storm howled
And my dear little wife, she cried

We found two shovels in the closet
So we dug deep below the house
Until I realized that I was nowhere
And my wife was nowhere to be found

I see the stars on the darkest night
And stand with my feet on the ocean
Praying that I will sink deep below
Before the daylight starts approaching.

>>9755118
amazing

So this is the essay that I submitted to my college for English placement. It was a two hour timed test that I had to take in a room at the college. I only placed in English 101 and not English 102. What would you say is wrong with my essay that it doesn't qualify for 102?

quick question: Is it okay to write a book without indented paragraphs and with line breaks between like this>>9755966 ?

Backbeat, the word is on the street that the fire in your heart is out. I'm sure you've heard it all before but you never really had a doubt. I don't believe that anybody... feels the way I do about you now.

'Cause baby, you're gonna be the one that saves me. And after all,

You're my wonderwall.

10 feet higher, I can see them all perspire 'cause they know that today's the day.

By now, you know it somehow, just what all the cucks are going to say.

I don't believe that anybody, feels the way I do about you now.

it never occurred to me, to kill the firefly,
you said to me, the last time I saw you.

in the middle of summer, before you left,
we saw it together, in the dark between us,
you held it in your hands, it didn't glow,
but you took it outside anyway.

i smelled it on your hands, a defensive odor
lightning bugs exude, to be left alone
in the night with you.

>>9731192
You've posted this piece before right? It's definitely improved

>>9756644

>>9731192
Really nice imo, reminds me of my writing style. I always like writing like how a common man speaks, patrician is always too try hard

Go easy on me /lit/ - read my first book this year (I'm 31)

This is my introduction to a horror story I am attempting to write

"I am writing this in the hope my sanity will be salvaged from its slow decay to an even deeper level of madness. I wish to expunge these dreadful memories by transferring to paper, what my mind can no longer bear to carry. These unwelcome memories that I will attempt to elucidate, whilst clear in my mind, will not so easily transfer to the written word, for there are few words in all the languages of the world that could begin to explain the sickening, despairing feeling of dread. The feeling your mind and body give you when it can find no other response to such horror. I am becoming increasingly feeble, weary, and mentally deranged to the point of absolute insanity. It's as if I have lived 3 lifetimes without as much as a pause to listen to the birds. Sadly, because of the horrifying events I bore witness to, I am unsure how much longer I have left until this madness finally devours what is left of my poor, molested soul."

PATIENTS DIE and I still get paid. That’s all I can say for certain.
It’s around midnight when I’m called in to handle Mr D’Sablier. I’m standing on one of the hospital’s many mezzanines, watching over the azure sea that is the city lights. It’s quiet here, so it’s become my hideout – a place to collect my thoughts and prepare for any long night ahead of me. Whenever I need to brace myself for a shift, I watch the sprawl: the people, the hauling trucks and traffic lights, the deadness of it all, the movements of many towards shops and homes. And, somehow, I feel more energised as I see that great beehive in motion. I smoke, as is my custom, tightly rolled cigarillos. They’re hard to come by in this part of the galaxy, which makes them – like everything else on Magna – very, very expensive. But money isn’t a problem, nor is it on my mind. In fact, nothing is. Unlike any other day, there isn’t much to be anxious about. I relax my weight against the silicone railing beside me, inhaling an hourly rate. This is until my beeper goes off suddenly with a high-pitched frenzy, and thus my peaceful vacuity comes to a halt. Quickly and out of reflex, I pull the thing out from my satchel. It is black and menacing, and harsh tones bark out from it with ill temper, reminding me of my rounds to Mr D'Sablier. I switch it off with my thumb as I go to place it into my pocket. Its pierce goes on and on in my head. There is a sort of imaginary Doppler shift to it as the noise rings away into my memory. Or maybe I’m sinking into a state of deafness.

I walk into the room with shivering, red holograph above it. The words “D’Sablier – Pliny” shine like hellish neon. The latter is another of my patients, suffering a bout of decompression sickness. He was a “Space Cowboy, through and through”, I remember him saying once. But that was some time ago when he still had, at least in the minutest sense, some vitality to him. As I pass his newly changed bed, I’m not entirely sure if he knows I’m there at all. The skeletal man’s eyes are wide open, though they do not look at anything. His gaunt face is a blank slate. It always is, literally always. It is some sort of obscure nothingness with eyes and ears, and a puffy mouth that breaths vacantly. Although I do still see sadness written into that face, a faint grimace forming those gargoyle lips of his. I almost greet him but then think better of it. It would’ve been trivial really. His ears didn’t work anymore. And I had to politely introduce myself to him after every single visit. He has dementia too, if that counts for anything. Mr D’Sablier is positioned weirdly by the far end of the room, beaming at me over a game of chess. “Bonjour, Dr Ranui. How have the rounds treated you?”

“You are my first customer,” I tell him. His smile continues to hone in on me in spite of his being clamped down to the bed. For his neck was restrained by a brace. I change my rook to a different square. He looks too eager for a hospital patient, not to mention a restrained hospital patient. “Are you comfortable here? I could move Mr Pliny, you know, and depressurise the room for you. It’s good for your bones,” I say, adding almost parenthetically: “Sometimes.”

“Oh no,” he says in a long drag. "Mr Pliny keeps me company, don’t you Mr Pliny?”

There is no response.

I crouch beside Mr D’Sablier and examine his vitals via the bed’s in-built monitor. Nothing out of the regular. They’re normally this dysfunctional. His checkerboard smells of varnish and I get a big whiff of it as I stand back up. It’s petered by harsh sun so the coloured squares are hard to discern from the white ones. I wonder on a regular basis how he happened upon it. But I always end up thinking it best not to ask. “Did you know?” he says, and then pauses plaintively. He always does this, to gauge some hidden sign in me. “That the S.E. humans would treat their cancer with radiation. How silly is that?”

“Yes,” I answer vacantly and watch him move a fresh pawn two spaces. "We learnt about that in medicine school actually.”

“Wait, of course, you’re a man of medicine. You know these things. But the Era Singularis was an extraordinary time, wasn’t it? I wish I could have seen it.” He speaks ardently while he waits for my next move.

His head’s still bound to the bed when he forces a grin at me. He looks ridiculous. I’m not entirely sure how he can see the chess board, come to think of it. Pressing my lips in response, I push my knight against the splintering wood towards a snow-white queen. Now, I notice that there’s some distinct look on his face. A wave of regret showers over me as some morning chill might. I wish I hadn’t seen that distinct look. That distinct look always means he has more to say. So, I try to look as distant and deaf as possible, even trying to convince myself I wasn’t there. But I’d already given him a smidgen of eye contact. The wheels of vapid conversation were now in motion.

“Did you know that the Picts would use dog saliva to heal wounds? Oh, my…” He goes on and on, and this is why I never ask about the chess board. I wonder how long this will take. I think I’ll be here for a while.

“Or that when people first went into space – in the Exploration Days – a ship named Pandora was attacked by interplanetary, alien yeast spores. Ha! The whole deck was covered in a yellow crust. You could even hear it breathing within a few hours. And the crew got drunk when it started to eat up the sugar supplies.”

“Check, Mr D’Sablier.” I say.

“Oh dear… I should be paying more attention. I have lapses now… of the brain.”

“How often?”

>>9758626
It's good but there are some words that are either too thesaurusy or could be cut out.

https://pastebin.com/jPRxwwjc

This is part of a short story that I wrote for a college class a few months back. I have very little experience in writing fiction but I've always wanted to. It feels immature somehow, or insubstantial, like it doesn't have enough meat on it. I've tried not to be excessively wordy like I feel like a lot of beginner writers tend to be, but I feel like I haven't used enough description. Here is a nice wallpaper for your time.

>>9750892
It was much better when I read it aloud. I find that some of the words too jarring though, and not the good kind. Like, "top tectonic" or "tiny-lifeform-stars". I think it'd be better if these were dispersed in less dense language, since your poem is full of dense lines. But that's just me.
Also. Who do you take inspiration from? I feel like you could learn from poets like Plath or Heaney, who are able to conjure up imagery with less wordiness. The last stanza seems good enough, I think you changing it up with questions is a good thing. The poem needs a bit more variation. Very good, anon, keep up the good work.

>>9759301
>adding almost parenthetically
nooo

>>9760015
Why not?

>>9759484
Thanks. I'll definitely consider all the advice man, glad you thought it was good. I did add another stanza which I posted it in the other poetry thread going on, but it's just practice. I'm going to work on a publishable soon.
I actually rarely read poetry, but love writing it. Byron, Whitman and Cummings I'm a fan of. But I try and find my own style. I'll definitely check out the poets you recommended

>>9760087
wtf does that even mean?

>>9761708
Parentheses are brackets, dude. It's like he's talking under his breath or in an aside. I remember hearing 'he said parenthetically' from Brave New World.

>>9728679
>tfw you only have academic papers and stoned poetry
I need to try writing creative fiction but for some reason I'm too scared.

>>9759438
Thank you anon, will trim it down a bit so it's less wordy!

I began my career as a gas station clerk at age thirty-six. I applied and was honest with the fact that I had two college degrees and plenty of work experience, but I was unemployed for the last ten years, I’d been through two rehabs this month, I was capable but unwilling to do physical labor, had fifty grand in defaulted student loan debt, no interest whatsoever in working at a gas station, and was only interested in the job as an attempt to stave off the suicide inducing boredom I’d been experiencing.

Like carrying small, wispy pieces of paper around in your shivering cupped hands on a windy day in a busy city. The air blows them around in your palms, but you try to keep them together, but also there’s so many. Too many. Sometimes one or a couple will fly out of your hand and into the cities’ innards, the pavement, the sewers, the benches, the shops, and you will have to look for them. You search under every crevice, every embarrassing place you can think of, kneeling down in the wind and the step, cars honking, people staring. The staring, it would be much better if they didn’t. Sometimes you find them and sometimes you don’t but either way you lost TIME, hurry up hurry up, you need to deliver those piece of paper! You don’t know what’s on them because you can’t read, but hurry, hurry! It’s your future, no, it’s your life! But don’t run because that might make papers fly also. But y’know, stop dinking around and move a bit alright? So you get to the door, it’s warm inside. The wind is bothering other people now, you feel like smiling. But then the papers are snatched out of your hand, counted. You lost a great deal, even though you’re sure it was only a little and that you had most of them, but nope see here, the numbers don’t lie (they never do why would they?) and you lost a lot. We know you try so hard and do so much but sorry, you only get quarter pay today.

>>9755966
Just at a glance, you seem to artificially lengthen sentences which make them clumsy. Here's how I would write them

>Some of the reasons why schools oppose the latter start times are expenses, extra-ciricular activities, and bus schedules.

>This article gives overwhelming evidence that school should start later

You frequently repeat words like "however" in the second paragraph and "to me" near the end. This is "dead wood:, it is unnecessary and clumsy and almost everyone does it. If you look at a phrase and see something that isn't absolutely necessary to your sentence, cut it out.

Try to change up your syntax, don't just start every sentence with "the". It's hard but it goes a long way.

You're content is pretty solid, the actual writing needs some work, but it's mostly, fixable, common mistakes.

>>9762001
>You're
Your

Bumping for more thoughts on >>9748844

The Masochist

I want to feel my guts eviscerated,
My eyes plucked from their sockets and squished
My mind seems consumed by self-hatred,
Oh go ahead and add this to the list.

My lips filleted open, left bloody and raw,
My fingernails removed slowly one at a time,
You’d want the same if you saw what I saw,
I deserve to be punished for all of my crimes.

My skin should be twisted, sliced and torn
The flesh underneath boiled down to bone,
Don’t let anyone try to cry or mourn
We’ve got to do this on our own

Who knows why I’m like this, guess I’m cursed,
So what are you waiting for? Do your fucking worst.

This is just the first couple pages. I'll upload the whole thing if anyone's interested.