Comfy /share and care/ thread

[Anonymous No.11585177]

Drop the the /lit/ pretentiousness, share your shit - anything goes, stories, poems, essays, whatever.

Rules:
> be nice
> if critical, be constructive and kind
> support your fellow writers
> love everyone like you're sucking your own dick.

[Anonymous No.11585199]

>>11585177
I've been writing a little text every day for the past three weeks. It's exercise and used to recapture what I felt or experienced throughout the day. For that reason I don't go back and edit them either.

[Anonymous No.11585222]

>>11585177
It's been hopeless for a long time, from the very beginning. You will never represent, Raphaël, a young girl's erotic dream. You have to resign yourself to the inevitable; such things are not for you. It's already too late, in any case. The sexual failure you've known since your adolescence, Raphaël, the frustration that has followed you since the age of thirteen, will leave their indelible mark. Even supposing that you might have women in the future - which in all frankness I doubt - this will not be enough; nothing will ever be enough. You will always be an orphan to those adolescent loves you never knew. In you the wound is already deep; it will get deeper and deeper. An atrocious, unremitting bitterness will end up gripping your heart. For you there will be neither redemption nor deliverance. That's how it is.

Thoughts?

[Anonymous No.11585228]

I dropped my first book on Amazon a month ago. I've been somewhat conservatively shilling it here since, might as well put it here too.

The best feeling is the couple times I've seen someone else here post it.

>>11585199
As an exercise of emotion, it works. It feels all sorts of hazy and hallucinatory, and is difficult to grab a hold on to without anything truly solid and clear to start with (or end with). Other than that, the text is good.

Not editing is a good idea in general. Just write out the whole story first, whatever you're doing, THEN you can go back and start polishing it.

[Anonymous No.11585232]

>>11585199
Just as a rule of thumb I tend to disregard people who describe eating meals with phrases like "devour flesh" or "tear flesh and bone", etc unless it's really poignant. I like your passage but I feel stuff like that makes it seem insincere, like you're trying too hard to make the prose seems artsy.

Just my misguided opinion. You do you.

[Anonymous No.11585246]

>>11585199
>present tense

[Anonymous No.11585262]

>>11585199
I quite like this. I'm a little drunk on bourbon at the moment, but something about this gripped me. I felt lost, and a bit alone, confused. I hope that was the feeling you were going for. I'd love to get your personal thoughts on it.

>>11585222
This is fucking superb. Reminds me of early Fante, please write a book.

[Anonymous No.11585279]

>>11585222
alright but reeks of incel
get help

[Anonymous No.11585280]

Gotta post this in a few parts sorry. This is a biographical essay.

> The Limp of Corrupted Feet

The Limp of Corrupted Feet

I’m sitting on a wall. There is birdshit right next to me, cigarettes and gum stains all over the ground. A pigeon is at my feet, ignoring me, pecking for food. It’s feet are covered in yellow, twisting tumours, and it pathetically hops on its stumps, flapping its wings for stability, eyes wide looking for something to eat. I have just been told I didn’t get the job.
There is this warped idealism that cities seem to bring, those big cities, those creative cities. Did we all learn too much from movies and books? Was there ever really a chance your Dreams could come true by simply being somewhere different, or was it a big lie, like Cinderella or spiritual contentment? The idea is basic - live in The City, do things in The City, experience The City, love The City, let The City provide for you. A cultural and economic hub so you can live a life beyond anything your small town friends could ever imagine or comprehend. Funny, how most the people I’ve met have expressed distaste or outright white hot hate for this place. But they still live here, they still live here.
My white shirt is now stained with sweat from sitting in a hot office all day, and from nervousness. I stink of worried energy and adrenaline. “You’ve obviously got talent…” they said. I replied all smiles and confidence and stupid fucking finger guns like some sort of 80’s movie character, moustache and all. I washed this shirt last night, soaking a pasta stain on the front and hoping it would be clean. I woke up and it was creased and damp, I hoped my body heat would unwrinkle the fabric. I can’t afford an iron. “You’ve obviously got talent but…” I was meant to come in for another day, but they made a decision in seven and a half hours and two articles. I’m relieved in a way. I only own one good shirt.
I think my own ego has brought me here. I hate to be bad at anything. I was one of those “smart kids”, the ones who could do anything they put their mind to. Now I’m older and my head had hardened. If I can’t do something, I hate it. There are many things I can’t do. “You just don’t have enough writing experience.” and I think, ‘I do’, but not your kind of writing. Though maybe I haven’t let my writing be judged before. Maybe I am bad. I want to write an article out of spite. I want to prove to them how wrong they are. I smile and wink and die inside.

[Anonymous No.11585281]

>>11585279
>>11585262
Are you niggers for real?

[Anonymous No.11585285]

>>11585280
I find out that the job would have paid a touch over minimum wage. I factor in food and transport on the ticking calculator that runs in my head, keeping a check on my bank balance. I work out I would probably be on minimum wage before tax and loan repayments. I have trained for 3 years and worked for 3-maybe 4 years in this industry. “You just don’t have the experience.” I think about the value of my education. I think about The City and how it was meant to make my dreams come true. I think about minimum wage. Rent. Food. Bills. Tax. I think about fighting someone, or killing myself, or buying a plane ticket and fleeing. Instead I scratch my sweat covered nose.
I have secured myself a new job. It also pays a touch over minimum wage. I am a freelancer. In theory this means I choose my own pay and choose my own hours. I am told that they pay this rate and this rate only. I get emails at strange hours demanding I come in. I am on a zero-hours contract, but by law I am a freelancer. I earn less than my colleagues, and have less security. There are no benefits to what I do. I consider how I will end it when I reach 55 years old and can bare to work no more with no pension and no house. I consider trying to work out a higher rate of pay, but I know there are a million broken souls queueing behind me to take my place and work more for less. Last time I tried to do so I took a pay cut. I fuck up my own finances and my sanity for the sake of a job I’m told I should be lucky to have. I don’t feel lucky.
As I walk back to my flat, I watch a woman stare at me and smile through my sunglasses. I don’t acknowledge her. She must think that I have my shit together. She doesn’t realise that this shining statuesque version of me is made of cheap marble and wood, that I’m wearing my one good shirt and wondering what it’s like to be evicted or made bankrupt. I wonder how soon I’ll experience it. I wonder how many people here are in the same boat. One has a bag from Whole Foods and steps into a brand new Jaguar. I wonder no more. In my head, I claw around trying to figure out how many days of work I need to do to make rent next month. I start to feel sick so I stop.

[Anonymous No.11585286]

>>11585222
fucking kek

[Anonymous No.11585289]

>>11585285
I know I have to go to the Benefits Office and ask for help paying my bills, but I don’t want to. I feel like the provider. My mother once told me that what caused my dad to break down was always feeling like he had to provide. I let that thought stick for a while. What did the early tribes do when one of their hunters became lame or blind or deaf? Did they care for them or let them die in the wilderness? My rent has gone up this year. House prices are falling in my area but my landlord has a mortgage and the agency has commission to make so it goes up anyway. I can’t afford another deposit or letting fees so I let them fuck me. My contract says they won’t allow any tenants who use benefits, so I hope I can get the money put directly into my account and hide my shame.
I look at my bank statement and feel like crying when I realise my mental calculation were off. I am poorer than I thought. I go into a shop and buy the cheapest beer I can find there, because I feel like shit and want to feel better. I look at the £1 bottles of piss-quality cider and work out how long it’ll be before I start drinking that. I pick up two four-packs of regular beer. There were times in the early days of The City where I would buy craft beers and bottles of wine like there was a shortage approaching, where I would go to bars on my day off and sit supping cold expensive pints. I’m not sure if I genuinely believed and experienced The Dream then, or if the fun has ruined my memories.
I walk and walk and walk and consider dropping everything and moving elsewhere. Maybe somewhere cheaper? Maybe a foreign country? I know I can’t. I owe the Government so much money in back taxes. I was seduced by a startup who hadn’t been corrupted by ideals like profit who actually paid me a fair wage for The City. I used my money to live like a human being. The company went bust. Now I’m poorer than ever. Now I have the burden of my past sitting forever on my back, my punishment for committing the sin of thinking I could breathe easy. I have to be in The City to earn enough to be poor. I am Prometheus, but the eagle will find no more liver.
I realise how cliche my experience is. We’re all dreamers who got hammered down by society again and again. I’m not clever or creative. I’m average. I walk through my front door and the chain is still on. The cheap door frame buckles and spits plaster everywhere. I would be worried about my deposit if I knew the several tea stains and cracked paint hadn’t already cost me over a thousand pounds of it. If I leave here I know I won’t be able to afford securing another place. I want to tear the rest of the wood off the frame and break something. Instead I work out which white lies to tell my landlord’s agency so they come and fix it without blaming me. I try to work out if I care whether they know or not anymore.

[Anonymous No.11585290]

>>11585262
>Reminds me of early Fante, please write a book.
You're in luck. His passage is actually from Houellebecq's "Whatever"

[Anonymous No.11585302]

>>11585289
I try to write. “You’re just not good enough.” Maybe they’re right. I’m so full of vinegar and spite and drink, I want to show them they’re wrong. I look at my half finished projects and ideas laying in the gutter. I look at my bank balance. I look at the broken door frame. I look at the dark bags under my eyes. I look at the tea stains. I look at my half empty beer. Maybe they’re right.
I’m sitting on a wall. There is birdshit right next to me, cigarettes and gum stains all over the ground. A pigeon is at my feet. It’s feet are covered in yellow, twisting tumours. It pecks at a plastic bag filled with breadcrumbs. It’s eyes are wide as it tries and tries to get them. The breadcrumbs are inside the bag, teasing the bird through clear plastic. It can’t get to them. It tries again anyway.

[Anonymous No.11585311]

>>11585222
not enough Cheerio metaphors or golden retrievers crashing

[Anonymous No.11585312]

Would love some feedback - making music come alive on the page is difficult. From a novel I got 90 pages into and abandoned. Starting something new and far more exciting and I think my influences have become a lot more varied and my style more my own so it should be at least interesting. Thanks:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1rUMvuziEJmRXC8gvkP2VrvdMNjt1DBis6JXWuEvAK6k/edit?usp=sharing

[Anonymous No.11585313]

>>11585290
AHAHAHA fucking hell, I fell for it hook line and sinker. Well, I was right that it needed to be a book. Just a few decades too late.

[Anonymous No.11585392]

>>11585312
I love the energy of this, I think you've done a great job at capturing the wildness of music.

Few things I'm not so keen on:

1) You need some paragraphs, imagine them as pauses to the music.

2) This line:
> Pritchard envisions the vantablack lake and the ourboroustic multi-dimensional fractal

I hated it, seems tacky and overwritten. Simplify.

3) Most importantly - whose narrative are you following? You don't have to describe who's doing what every time. Let to descriptions of sound and passion tell the story if the character doing it isn't the focus. This is the middle of a book, yes? I'm sure people have been introduced, so don't keep name dropping. It just confuses things and breaks the flow to keep reading names.

Otherwise I really, genuinely enjoyed this. You've definitely managed to capture the chaotic energy of music.

[Anonymous No.11585408]

>bump as there are too many fuckin shitposts on this board

[Anonymous No.11585409]

>>11585392
Well thanks. That line definitely seems overwritten, it's a call back to the earlier event in the novel where he has an out-of-body sort of experience on ket - can post that section if you'd like to read it, don't know if it justifies the sentence anymore or not but it at least gives it a context.

I am totally with you on the names although a couple of the players are only introduced to us through this class, the main character (P. Pritchard) has met them before - though perhaps I'm reiterating it too much throughout the sequence. Thanks again I very much appreciate it

[Anonymous No.11585422]

Repost. I want to say as little about this as possible and just see what people think of it going in blind. Any thoughts at all are appreciated
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1xRbSmwJpil-ztneWUkamA8jiorIK5dUO/view?usp=sharing

Taking the ol' dog on a walk but I'll give feedback once I'm back

[Anonymous No.11585426]

>>11585422
Will give this a read. Hope your dog enjoys their walk

[Anonymous No.11585430]

>>11585409
That might may sense in previous context then. I love repetition in books, so if it's a call back to a previous experience, that might work well actually.

In terms of character names, and again I'm judging this from what you posted alone, if this section is unique in repeating character names, that could actually be super effective in terms of highlighting the chaos of the music. If this is common throughout the text, then it might be a problem. For a single chapter? Effectively chaotic.

[Anonymous No.11585448]

wrote a love poem a good few years ago.
quite good considering i was clearly only read keats and shakes-milton at the time

[Anonymous No.11585472]

>>11585430
Definitely unique for this section - pretty sure I'd never make more than a passing reference to some of those characters described again if I'd finished. The novel is fairly chaotic in that there are multiple narratives that converge over the course of it, but in a sort of self-contained sense - this section is definitely an outlier.

Don't feel you have to read it, but here's the section I was referring to, it's 8 pages so...:https://docs.google.com/document/d/1zKJCKjGZ60x0anbneRBMtf4j0QnVHxbT6FgBez9sg7A/edit?usp=sharing

[Anonymous No.11585492]

>>11585422
Just finished reading this. I'm not entirely sure where it's going, but as a 'former' nerd, this is some of the most compelling sci-fi I've read in a long time. Well done.

[Anonymous No.11585504]

>>11585408
drowning in a sea
of shitposts one kernel swam
against the current

[Anonymous No.11585510]

Another love poem. context: defending myself to a girl I'd known for about a year and slept with for a few months, but had no romantic feelings for until then

>>11585422
this is really good. i like this quite a lot. extend the story a bit further i think

[Anonymous No.11585563]

>>11585448
this is a high quality imitation of milton if he were a romantic. going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume surpine is an archaic form of supine and not just an egregious error.

[Anonymous No.11585567]

This is a cute little poem i wrote

[Anonymous No.11585599]

>>11585563
ah fuck no. thats just a misspelling. thanks though. all the poems are very "imitation".

as in, if i laid each of them end to end you could identify quite well who I'd read between them.

[Anonymous No.11585612]

>>11585472
I read through that and it was absolutely fascinating, your writing hits all the right notes for me, I think you've got a proper talent.

I'm no professional, but I am a hopeless optimist. I'd love to keep in touch so for the first time ever, like a fucking moron, I'm dropping my email on here: mmsheridanwrites (AT) gmail.com - let's keep in touch if you fancy it dude. You seem like the kind of guy I want to talk lit with.

[Anonymous No.11585626]

>>11585448
Gonna have to ask you remove "supine." That's MY word and I can't have other people out there cheapening it.
You can have "prostrate," fair?

[Anonymous No.11585633]

>>11585612
Ah mate that's very nice of you indeed - I'm beaming. Would love to, I'll drop you an email, I just hope you don't get any spam!

[Anonymous No.11585645]

>>11585633
No spam, I promise. Make a fake or backup account if you fancy. I'll reply to the first email with any words you want - as well as "Mango Bastard" at the end, to prove I'm not a spam bot

[Anonymous No.11585663]

>>11585633
>>11585645
Also, as a random side note, I have the weirdest feeling you're from the North West cause of the "mate" and "I'm beaming". Definitely English as least hahahah.

[Anonymous No.11585669]

>>11585626
ew no too similar to prostate
also -- who would want to lie prostrate. it's utterly servile. lovers lie supine -- staring at the God which paired them

[Anonymous No.11585675]

>>11585599
well this is just outright fucking good, ain't it?

>>11585567
yes
quite cute

[Anonymous No.11585694]

>>11585663
From Yorkshire so not far off!

[Anonymous No.11585697]

>>11585675
aww do you really think so?x
I was trying to imitate dorothy parker in both of these. but only captured her humour - the style is too metered.

I have quite a long poem about an orgy i went to if you want to read that.

[Anonymous No.11585752]

>>11585694
Haha nice, emailed you my man.

[Anonymous No.11585766]

>>11585697
yeah why not also thanks for reccing who you were imitating cause I was very keen to know
cheers

[Anonymous No.11585784]

I love you all, this has been a great thread. Have a short poem.

[Anonymous No.11585785]

“Hey.” A whisper Jamie opted to ignore.

“Hey!” A slightly louder whisper and a finger tapping him several times on the shoulder followed.

He slowly turned over to find the Princess looking at him intently. “What?”

“It’s bloody freezing in here. Is there no form of temperature control in this place?” Caitlin said.

“What do you suppose I should do?” Jamie asked. “Force a pair of dwarves to upend thousands of years of culture for two guests for one night?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant, don’t be obtuse, just...” Eye contact was lost. “If you tell anyone about this, I will have you executed at dawn for the whole Kingdom to see.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Caitlin Faraday looked as if she had been informed she was to shortly undergo anesthetic teeth removal in the middle of a busking competition.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be so awful if you...put your arms around me. So we could huddle up for warmth. And nothing else.”

His smirk blossomed into an ear-to-ear smile. “For you, my Princess? Anything.”

Caitlin scooted over, so Jamie put one arm around her shoulder and the other around her neck. Despite his outwardly bold expression, he felt more than a bit apprehensive about holding her. Once she was done getting adjusting herself, she settled on top of him, forcing him to realize that Caitlin was extremely warm and had a curiously Earthly smell to her. Not like dirt or something repulsive, but the intensely familiar smell of blossoming flowers and the serenity of nature.

“I’m not made of glass, Christiansen.”

He looked down at her. “Is everything alright?”

She rolled her eyes. “I give you permission to actually hold on to me, not whatever it is you’re doing now.”

Caitlin had a point; his fingers were barely touching her frame, as if the slightest misstep on his part would shatter her. To try and remedy her discomfort, he more fully wrapped one arm around her neck and another around her waist, delicately pulling her closer to him.

“Is this better?” He asked, his voice not being nearly as steady as he hoped.

“Better.”

His honor would never allow him to indulge his true desires, but he was happy enough with their current standing. It was a strange thought, but he couldn’t deny there was something exceptional endearing about having the ferocious, tough-as-steel warrior princess cuddled up next to him in her evening wear. One didn’t need precognitive abilities to determine that she preferred to keep people at arm’s length, so he considered something of a milestone to have reached this side of her. Sure, she dispensed insults like they were linked to some sort of plague, but he got the sense she enjoyed his company far more than she would ever willingly admit.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Princess,” Jamie said. “Did you dye your hair?”

No response beyond her breathing. He let his head rest on top of hers, and he was asleep

[Anonymous No.11585804]

This is an unfinished poem I'm writing for my gf's birthday can someone please give me some criticism? Again it's unfinished

In her eyes amber pastures
A frame rests in repose
Projection: she the caster
And me foes of foes

Her boldness baffles truth
Into those saccharine subjectivities
Rejuvenating youth
To expose reality's proclivity

Shuffling snapshots superimpose
At lips' lanes lambent leeway
...

[Anonymous No.11585813]

>>11585784
yeah that's nice
and it's nice to see how many nice poems are in this thread
gives me hope
at the same time it's too bad the authors aren't more connected and can't be assembled into a nice magazine series
just keep your hopes up, /lit/ poets, some of you guys could really be on to something

[Anonymous No.11585823]

Fellas, how do I get over my insecurity? I feel like my novel isn't worth working on until I have a better appreciation and understanding of the canon.

And yes I have actually started on it. I wrote about 200 pages and stopped because I feel like a fraud.

[Anonymous No.11585851]

>>11585784
I like this -- but it is slightly cliche. "life's short" isnt a theme you can't still use, but it's got to be expressed in quite an original way tbqh

>>11585823
dont write a novel unless you've wrote a few short stories/essays/poems that you are proud of. you need a consistent style already before you can write a novel, otherwise youll change writing style over the course of the thing (idk im not a writer lmao)

[Anonymous No.11585869]

>>11585851
It's not only life short
> doesn't feel like and awful lot

Interpretation 1 - not a lot
Interpretation 2 - not a bad lot in life, i.e. it's good.

[Anonymous No.11585926]

>>11585766
https://docs.google.com/document/d/14KFolzPDEujEnr0BmL7toXedvNiP-ePmRjyFutaE7mc/edit?usp=sharing

the poem -- it's quite long.


it's not a very accurate representation.
i should say: i don't recommend Mrs Parker's poetry -- it has nothing on her short stories which really are top notch

[Anonymous No.11585936]

>>11585869
oh wow i completely missed that

hmmmmmmmm

okay fair enough that's quite good. maybe a bit too subtle a pun, else im just a dunce

[Anonymous No.11585944]

>>11585804
please guys at least just say it's not worth criticizing

[Anonymous No.11585954]

>>11585804
tbqh with you, not really sure what this means.
should that be "eye's" in line 1?
is verse 1 about the reflection in her pupil? then what does "and me foes of foes" mean??

also critique other people's shit before you start complaining

[Anonymous No.11586027]

>>11585177
ville de Sandor était la plus merveilleuse des villes du désert d’Anthropie.

Un sable d’or soufflait en permanence sur la ville ; si fin et scintillant, il flottait comme la lumière reflétée par les précieux bâtiments de la ville, des bâtiments en or ! Tout était éclatant, attirant, beau et pur. Les fleurs ornaient le long des pavés de la cité, eux-mêmes arrosés par les flots d’or qui coulaient de fontaine à fontaine, de canaux en canaux, pour retomber sur toutes les plantes de la ville, qui de leurs racines allumaient à nouveau l’ardent spectacle qu’offrait le touché du soleil sur ces flammes et braises de pierre. L'oasis était si dense de beauté, aaah… trop dense pour être approché, ni même vu.

Incandescent, il consumait tout ce qui n’était pas d'or, a l’exception du soleil qui lui permettait de briller ; même les nuages n’étaient pas épargnés, ils fondaient en pluie dorée, agrandir la ville. L’havre de feu devenait plus odieux que le soleil… Car même-lui accepte de s’éteindre face à l’ombre et la nuit.

Malgré les faiblesses du jour, rien n’arrêtait le désir de briller de cette civilisation. Elle avait fini par se construire de sorte à ce que la lumière, par ses reflets, voyageait le temps que le jour puisse habiter la ville de nouveau. Bien que ce procédé laissait son éclat affaibli,il empêchait toujours aux hommes de fouler de pas ou d’œil la ville de Sandor. Il laissait bien quelques oiseaux, habituellement pétrifiés lors de cette route, d’observer sa beauté et de teinter leurs ailes de cette poussière volatile qui tourbillonne en celle-ci. C’était d’ailleurs par cette faille que les hommes connaissaient Sandor, en lisant dans les yeux des oiseaux flamboyants, qui crépitaient d’un rêve inconnu, un rêve qui crépitait juste assez pour attiser le cœur d’un homme.

Mais le sable d’or de Sandor étouffait ceux qui osaient s’y approcher.

Mais la lumière de Sandor aveuglait à jamais ceux qui se couvraient la bouche.

Et l’éternel jeu de lumière que palpitait la ville émettait une telle chaleur que la ville de Sandor fondait ceux qui promettaient de rester silencieux et aveugle.

Ces images résidaient dans le regard des oiseaux flamboyants ; les premiers volatiles avaient pu observer certains hommes qui par pure m’égarde, d’une route perdue, s’étaient à leur insu approchés de Sandor. Et pourtant, Sandor connue de tous, tous ces oiseaux, chanceux du crépuscule, brûlaient encore du même exact spectacle.


Sandor, ne tirait-elle pas son éclat sans fin et sans limite voulue des hommes ? Si chimériques sont-ils.

[Anonymous No.11586226]

>>11585813
>gives me hope
>at the same time it's too bad the authors aren't more connected and can't be assembled into a nice magazine series
>just keep your hopes up, /lit/ poets, some of you guys could really be on to something

You're fucking right. I'm setting up an online /lit/magazine right now. No fucking joke.

[Anonymous No.11587058]

>>11585804
Giving a poem for a birthday sounds autistic. Is she into poetry too?

[Anonymous No.11587084]

From the ashes of tradition cast asunder by Marxist fires, we temper ourselves in the embers of the ruin. Like steel, red hit from the dying flames, we are wrought not as the Phoenix but as battle-ready steel, the destroyer of worlds.

[Anonymous No.11587163]

>>11586027
Okay, let's see if my French is as bad as I think.
The city of Sandor was the most marvelous of the cities of the desert of Man. A golden sand blew in perpetuity about the city, if it stopped and scintillated, it floated like the light reflected by the precious buildings of the city, the buildings in gold! All was brilliant, ornate, beautiful, and pure. The flowers decorated along (sic) the paths of the city, just as well the waters alongside the golden tides which ran through fountain upon fountain, and canal upon canal, in order to fall back upon the plants of the city, whose glad roots sparked anew at the blazing sight which offered them the sun's touch upon these flames and embers of stone. The oasis was so dense and the beauty, aaah...more dense for being approached, if not in sight.
Incandscent, it consumed all of them who were not golden, with the exception of the sun who it allowed to shine; even the clouds were not pardoned, their foundations even more gilded, expanding the city. The haven of fire became more hateful than the sun...for even he agreed to extinguish in the shade and the night.

[Anonymous No.11587176]

>>11585228
>>11585228
Huh, well your cover and title definitely got me. Gonna text myself the name so I remember to buy it later.

[Anonymous No.11587183]

>>11585851
This has a slightly Donne like mood about it. I like it. I'd change does not to doth not myself, seeing as everything else is in an archaic mode anyway. Nice anon.

[Anonymous No.11587214]

>>11586027
>>11587163
*to extinguish his face

Despite the frailties of the day, nothing could arrest the desire to shine of this civilization. She had finished by the construction so as to (?) that which the light, by its reflections, crossed the times that the day might inhabit the city anew. The good which proceeded from this left its affable fragment, in order to prevent always against men pressing upon the eye or the foot of the city of Sandor. It left behind also some birds, habitually petrified alongside this road, in order to witness the beauty and tint of their wings which these volatile sands blew about this or that one. It was through the fault of these wings that the men knew Sandor, and read in the eyes of the flamboyant birds, which crackled with an unknowable dream, a dream which crackled just enough to agitate the heart of a man.

[Anonymous No.11587263]

>>11586027
But the golden sand of Sandor suffocated those who dared to approach it.

But the light of Sanfor never blinded those who covered their mouths.

And the eternal play of the light which caressed the city emitted such heat that the city of Sandor set upon that by which they were promoted to stay silent and blinded.

These images resided in the sight of the flamboyant birds; the first volatile ones were able to see certain men who for their purity i regard, by a lost way, to be propped up without their knowing along the outskirts of Sandor. And yet, Sandor knows all, all these birds, chanced(?) by twilight, burn again the exact same sight.
Sandor, ????? this fragment without end and without limit in the wills of its men? What chimeras they are.

[Anonymous No.11587348]

Long ago, they were not as we are.
They breathed the air only for an instant when they rose in the daylight. And when they dreamt they dove down into the depths of the darkness once again. And they were parted from their flesh. And in the abysmal waters beneath the world they swam. And in the abysmal waters beneath the world they lived their lives and died. And at dawn, when their flesh awoke ashore, the one within was not the same. And man was a legion, and he was no one.
And within the waters it dwelt. And beyond the piercing of the light it crept along the ocean's floor. And it swallowed them up when they fell to the depths, and it ate them. And they hurried back into the light when it opened its maw, and they leapt ashore again, and there it could not devour them. And they lived as men for a day, and on the shore men grew and propagated, though within they were not the same. And they leapt in the light and the wind for a day. And no man was father or brother.
And the wind moved across the surface of the waters, and the wind parted the waters. And they were led through the divide. And they were anchored to the men upon the sands, and it could not drag them down again. And though they swam in the waters by night, their lines held them fast and they found their ways home. And men had names, and they remembered.
And it dove into the depths and it slept again.
But it traced its claw along the sands of the earth. And the Fisher cast its line and waited.
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And she journeyed from the Valley of Winds to the land's end, where the tides met the sands and the skies. And at her journey's end, she was to cast the magic fishhook into the ocean and be done with it.
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And she cast it into the waters, and it sank into the waters. And far beneath where the light pierced through, it heard the splash.

And the Prince was furious, and he drew his sword. And so did her brother. And neither saw the thin line wrapped about her finger and through the palm of her hand. And the sable claw sank deeper and deeper weightlessly.
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And she felt a tug on the line wrapped about her hand. And she was dragged across the surface of the boat, and she fell into the waters. And far beneath where the light pierced through, it heard the splash...
And the Prince jumped in after her, and far beneath where the light pierced through, it heard the splash...

[Anonymous No.11587575]

I come from a long line of snake oil salesmen, con men, and degenerate gamblers. I saw it all on Ancestry.com. Charm runs through my veins, but despite my genetic good fortune, I am a very sick man. I alternate between anxiety and depression, but these names for things, these disorders, they are nothing, wind, bullshit, all different masks worn by the same face. I know because I've tried it all: SSRI, Xanax, running in the mornings, Kale shakes, talk therapy, going dancing, and other vandalisms of the human spirit. Doctor, what is wrong with me?
I can’t diagnose myself nor can any doctor, specialist, or soothsayer. People do not ask themselves questions they are unprepared to answer (I think that's a quote from Oprah). So be careful, dear reader or dear editor, about what questions you have about this block of text, because once you leave the safety of your own personal green island of Tahiti, there is no returning home.
The normalcy of everyday life wears me down, of walking to the bus station, student loans, vapid dates, and the grinding monotony of office life. A part of me believes human life was not so monotonous a short time ago. It’s easy to believe in golden ages. The age of boldness, of unrestrained human spirit, call it the era of myth, call it the 50s and 60s, never truly existed. The banality of domestic life is immortal. [Needs to be set firmly in the present actions of the bus station]
On the bus, I get a solid twenty minutes of screen and headphone time. The phone is a handy tool. It can solve every problem. On a particularly bad day, I’ll get the sudden urge to rush into oncoming traffic, to lay flat in the road and be claimed by all that metal and heat. I do not know what causes me to desire suicide, maybe some vital element of me has been neglected, or perhaps it is the natural byproduct of the long deluge of modern daily life. There is no way of truly knowing the cause, or the reason. All I know is that the feeling evaporates as I look at my phone, by that familiar narcotic flow of information, of pictures and videos. I like to laugh. I like the things that make me laugh. I like laughing at our president. [soften the suicidal urges, make it more concise]
My favorite pastime is watching pornography. At twelve years old I was locking myself in the bathroom with the cracked iTouch, clearing history, reclearing it, going down that rabbit hole of stifled breath and anxiety. [more emphasis on stories, expand on the family, how does your mother or your brother react to the masturbation]
There comes a moment in a man’s life when he has found his niche, his livelihood. It could be religious devotion, employment, or philosophical enlightenment. The meaning of my life is to watch interracial porn.
I love it. Especially when the black man is a little bit overweight, covered in tattoos, and the white girl is eighteen years old, a body free of blemish or excess, and she enjoys it! Or at least appears to enjoy it.

[Anonymous No.11587959]

Thanks for the feedback, anons. The piece I wrote is actually inspired by Silent Hill 3 - it depicts the occurrences only in an accelerated manner. I think when you read it alongside the game, it becomes easier to get a grasp on what's happening.

>>11585228
>without anything truly solid
Would you consider that to be problematic?

>>11585232
I used it in this case since the knife is also the first weapon you get in the game, and is indeed used to tear through the flesh of the monsters.

>>11585262
Glad you enjoyed it, those were the feelings I was trying to convey. Read my above statement to see what the text is all about.

[Anonymous No.11588022]

I'm thinking about doing an intervention of the Ancient Greek play Electra, set in Early-Modern Catholic Spain. I'm thinking about changing the ending so that Osteres doesn't do what he does. My aim is to bring in themes of repentance and forgiveness. Does this have any potential?

[Anonymous No.11588100]

>>11588022
Can't remember the end to Electra, does echo
the Oresteia where he kills his mother? Could be interesting but, at least in the Oresteia, the setting up of a justice system by Athena acts as an end to the cycle of violence and revenge that has plagued them, though your point is perhaps different and interesting enough to be worth making

[Anonymous No.11588111]

>>11588100
Yes that's the one, I was trying to not give away spoilers.

[Anonymous No.11588180]

>>11587084
Rwds chant. Take out the last line. Sounds cringey.

[Anonymous No.11588223]

>>11588111
Oops well sorry about that - I imagine it's fairly well known

[Anonymous No.11588236]

>>11588223
No problems, anon. It's an ancient story; the plot isn't as important as other things in the story anyway.

[Anonymous No.11588711]

We skidded off near Elizabethtown to pour water on the brakes — setting your rear wheels ablaze often attracts unwanted attention. The convertible, as yellow as a Kentucky smile, was left at the edge of the forest. I remember thinking we should have stayed with the car, but a certain someone had wandered into the sticks. The sun was set low in my eyes. “No good can come from this,” I said. “Five minutes, then we leave her for dead. Too many drunk weasels with hair triggers.”

Kevin kept taking his phone out every ten seconds or so, then putting it back in his pocket. “No signal, nothing,” he kept muttering. “These people are plain savages. I miss Indiana.” The Fear had reduced him to unabashed patheticism — a lip-quivering pantywaist in jeans skinny enough to be from the Birkenau Fashion Line. It takes a real Stockholm fool to loathe a sudden flight from Indiana. Or a Native American.

Don't listen to what anyone else says. If you find yourself in the Hoosier State, I urge you to extricate yourself at once... before you bite at the hook, like my unfortunate friend. In a state that is nearing an obesity rate of forty percent, I have found the only breathtaking sight to be the four steps at the base of Monument Circle. We also held the national headquarters of the Ku Klux Klan, but you can't learn much more about that unless you go to a particular Moose Lodge on the west side of Indianapolis at the right hour and say: “The race track is looking mighty dark these days.” That's what I've been told, anyway.

[Anonymous No.11588913]

>>11588180
the whole sentence or just "the destroyer of worlds"?

[Anonymous No.11589112]

>>11585177
Please be harsh

[Anonymous No.11589140]

>>11589112
Punctuate your sentences better, work on more concise grammatical fluidity. All the more reason when your ideas are congested.

[Anonymous No.11589148]

>>11589112
I'm just a pleb but I liked it. We need more people to write in critique of the modern world, against the current mainstream of excess of pleasure, and indulgence in depravity; both of which are skewed into being the "moral" thought.

[Anonymous No.11590277]

Another day, another life
and I am a castaway
Inland

[Anonymous No.11591233]

>>11585222
Houellebecq is /ourguy/ I felt like I was reading a literary /r9k/ or /adv/ post with this book.