Critique Thread.

[Anonymous No.12256207]

Post work, get critiqued

do contribute; the lack of contributing is the reason we can't have one of these threads live past 200 posts.

[Anonymous No.12257474]

It was a shame what the boulevard was then. My grandmother told me all about what it had been. Restaurants, cinemas, all booming, every summer when it would get sweltering hot, and the sun would shine clearly and people would actually run inside to get away from it. Waste their money and watch people outside rowing, even swimming in that river. Jesus Christ. It was summer then and you couldn't have paid me to get in that river. The building I was looking for was easy to spot. There weren't too many with windows. And this one was at least four fifths painted. I wouldn't have gone with white. All the grime in the air collecting on it made it look like a rotting tooth, in some disgusting crackhead's mouth. I guess going down that boardwalk I was walking right into the jaws.

[Anonymous No.12257483]

[Anonymous No.12257683]

scap "actually"
refine "every summer when it would get sweltering hot, and the sun would shine clearly and people would actually run inside to get away from it". maybe "in summer, people would run inside to get away from the sun"
scrap "walking right into the jaws" etc

>>12257483
bit opaque, the rhyming is silly: late, date, mate, hate. at least scrap "a primal mate" to something not rhyming with late. capitalisation makes no sense, even stylistically.

[Anonymous No.12257690]

>>12257683
is the prose style too boring? should i spice it up or leave it?

ps: >>12257683 is meant for >>12257474

[Anonymous No.12257775]

https://pastebin.com/5hg011js

[Anonymous No.12257790]

Morning wrung the dawn to boastful day without restraint. Its firm beam was like a frisbee at Paul’s head, still damp with sleep. Knocked awake he lay without a jerk; a taut corn stalk. Scents of wilted incense rested on sweat and red meat. Marvin had not been home in sixteen days, the fact announced itself as a shoe to a roach. Paul inhaled, expectantly and deeply, but come release, it had just been a breath, he felt no difference. But that was no threat today, he was a stoic. He could run his course careless of fever, or ten rats gnawing his big toe. He was fixed to this idea lately, he would become a calloused man. He would take his coffee black, and eat seaweed in the park. His lip wouldn't quake at the sound of barking, he wouldn't eat beef raw (or undercooked), he would not pity himself.

Paul set the day with strict intent, first for diligent work at “smile cafe”, later, to call mom. Marvin was probably dead. And a man to his work must be as a spider to webbing, necessary and mechanic. He should not protest, especially not for a runaway. He rejected his bed and let stubbornness pilot his mood. He fell into a large wool sweater, pink scarf and worn sweatpants. He took a half-jam bagel and made fast for the door. Leaving the apartment felt like sevearance from a womb.

Autumn was a brittle tent for lost drafts to ease under, and Paul floated on like a dead louse. The full wool seemed to pose as slow rolling fog along his walk, and his scarf a garland of uakari faces.

[Anonymous No.12257794]

>>12257483
You must be at least 18 years old to post on this board.

[Anonymous No.12257851]

>>12256207
Someone in the last thread said they were "saving this for later" so I'll just post it again if they want to critique it.

She shimmers iridescent
From scarlet to amethyst
To anger and romance
And back again
Whenever I look upon her

Tricks of light
Show me a lover and a monster
Taking the form of one or the other
The moment she appears

Perhaps she once looked at me
And thought the same

But now she has dulled herself to me
Her hair a matte red
Her jewelry simple stone
And light only cast shadows upon her

The stars I see in her eyes
Twinkle out when she lays them upon me
Turning the color of apathy
And disdain

If only she would hate me now
And say it aloud so I could know
So I might end these tricks of sight
And know for certain that her shimmer
Is lost to me and me alone

[Anonymous No.12258156]

>>12257790
It sounds like you're trying desperately to sound unique, but it obscures your story. Despite all your metaphors and imagery there is no picture in my head when I read this. I don't really know how to fix this other than starting over with nothing the events in mind.

[Anonymous No.12258193]

[Anonymous No.12258219]

I was coming down with a peculiar fever, an ominous notion of impending doom. It could be suicide, but it’s always hard to tell. The benzodiazepine was starting to wear off as I returned to the long lost land of low brick buildings burning at twilight; the place where I used to dream as a kid. A place where a different kind of dying is a constant. I had come to sober up and to rest, I had come to disappear. I had been trying to, for months already but the pills, and the booze only goes so far when your heart is not in it.

My eyes, aching and warm, wandered back and forth across the uneven landscape of an old note from my wallet. Somebody that I used to know, we had gone to school together and we had shared her thin cigarettes on the stoops, and the Salinger’s and the Bradbury’s.

I had reached out for her once and her crumpled response was now clenched in white-knuckled cold sweat,

“Don’t apologize. But I mean it is hard. I try really hard to stay positive and you’re making me sad,“it read.

“I want that,” I had told her then, “at least the last part, chiseled on my gravestone.”. It didn’t make her laugh.

[Anonymous No.12258232]

What if I said that one's entire life had been decided by fate? That every single one of your actions, from the minute to the monumental, stemmed not from your own choices, but had already been decided upon? That life being a journey of limitless possibilities was but an illusion, and no matter how fiercely man struggled, he stood at the mercy of a long-established path? The wealthy shall know their riches. The needy shall starve on the streets. The wicked shall be wicked, the righteous just. The beautiful, the hideous, the strong, the frail, the fortunate, the miserable... and finally, the victors and the defeated. What if I said that all such things had been carved into stone eons ago, allowing for no divergence? If so, sinners have nothing to answer for, nor do saints have any true virtue to their name. What if I said that not a single action is carried out of one's own volition, but had been decided long ago? That we are merely adrift in the current of time? Tell me, would you feel content with such a world? A world in which power is merely given, not earned - would you accept knees bent to a throne build upon such falsities? A universe where the sinless have-nots are oppressed and downtrodden - would you allow such a world to exist?
Never, I say. Never.
Those in possession of such knowledge who can still laugh joyfully, oblivious to what it means to be truly alive, are but slaves, the lowest of the low, hardly deserving to be called human beings. Nothing dampens the spirit like the stale wine of an unearned victory. Nothing is more unbearable than bitter defeat against the chains of destiny. Should ceaselessly repeating this farce - this slander of the highest order - be the fate of mankind, then I will struggle against those chains with all my might. I shall walk this road to its utmost conclusion, and, at the distant place I can call my finale, compose an opera that belongs only to me.
And so, I require your aid, my dear ladies and gentlemen. You, the oppressed, the downtrodden, the massacred - you who where once as brethren. You where born to be defeated, to be massacred till the end of times. Should you curse that fate of yours, come and stand at my side as comrades. If a hundred battles yield no victory, fight a thousand. If a thousand battles yield no victory, fight ten thousand. Vow to struggle for an eternity, ceaselessly, till the light of victory finally shines upon you. Any that has the strength to do this shall be permitted to become a means to that end - a part of the "sorcery". All in order to claim eternal victory. The Mane of the Beast, each an every strand of it, shall be from your flesh and blood. You are blessed to be as such. Although I, you, and he as well... are still bound by that miserable cycle at this moment... let us believe that the decision we are about to make truly holds a meaning... That one day, we can break free from this perpetually repeating cycle.

[Anonymous No.12258251]

In the end there wasn’t much of anything really, not much light in the days and not much sleep in the nights. I would stand in the window, hot and tired, staring feverishly into the eternal dull afternoons. Bared branches in the grey, black trunks rooted in the death of it all.

It was an all bad year, all through. Spring had been clouded in casual use and abuse of mixed substances and by summer she had enough and walked away. The sadness got the best of two weeks before the cancer got Bob and then nothing was ever the same again.

We climbed the streets, up to the gates of the garden. And I told you how the miniature-wilderness made me wish that I was a cat. How I would roam the park, and how I would pretend to be a lion.

In the free, and unbound world of dreams and wishful thinking - I limit myself to fantasising about being a cat, fantasising about being a lion. I’m not sure whether or not my grasp of reality - and its grasp on me - is tragic.

[Anonymous No.12258269]

>>12257790
Don't describe things too much at once! You should take your time adding in all these details. There might just be too much going on here for the eye to see it.

[Anonymous No.12258302]

>>12258193
mierde

[Anonymous No.12258353]

>>12257851
I think you could be more descriptive and establish a better tone.

>She shimmers iridescent
>From scarlet to amethyst
>To anger and romance
>And back again

Even though you wrote this and it makes sense, I have no idea what it really would look like. Who is she? What am I actually seeing here? I'm having a hard time with the image. Also, it would be preferable if you could show the reader anger and romance instead of just telling us.

>Tricks of light
>Show me a lover and a monster
>Taking the form of one or the other
>The moment she appears

In what was is she a monster and a lover? What form is she taking? Maybe she is changing into one specific form in this stanza and the reader could infer that she is a shapeshifting monster.


>But now she has dulled herself to me
>Her hair a matte red
>Her jewelry simple stone
>And light only cast shadows upon her

This stanza would have more impact if the reader had ever thought she wasn't dull, or a monster. The "now" at the beginning is irrelevant to the reader because this is the first time you are describing her hair or the stones she wears.

>The stars I see in her eyes
>Twinkle out when she lays them upon me
>Turning the color of apathy
>And disdain

Maybe use a different word than twinkle? I feel like twinkle might be played out for stars.

I feel as if this poem is written well for yourself, but you need to translate those feelings and emotions you have into something the reader, who is outside your context, can understand.

[Anonymous No.12258372]

>>12258269

Thank you, that's helpful, I'll try to be more selective about them. Do you think any work more than others? Any appear more superfluous than others? I was thinking of keeping the first two sentences but maybe getting rid of the 3rd, or the one about him inhaling. Imo the first paragraph is more abrasive than the second with it, but idk.

[Anonymous No.12258418]

>>12258302
porque

[Anonymous No.12258459]

>>12258353
Thanks for the advice! I think I can unfuck this.
I wanted to specify that it was her hair shimmering in the first paragraph, but I didn't know if obsessing over it would sound fetishy.
I think I'll dedicate the second stanza to showing her being angry and romantic, lover and monster, rather than just sort of restating it, and if I describe her more in the first paragraph that should fix the third one too.
And as for the fourth - I think I'm OK with twinkle being a common descriptor of stars. I originally used "the sparkle in her eye" but I thought "sparkle" before "twinkle" might sound too samey back to back. But I'll mull it over and see if I can think of anything prettier
Thanks again senpai.

[Anonymous No.12258508]

>>12257790
Part 1:

I think some of your descriptions are really hard to understand, to the point of becoming distracting.

>Morning wrung the dawn to boastful day without restraint.
If you're going to use the word wrung I'd love to see what is being wrung out. I can't imagine most readers have a casual understanding of what is meant by wringing out the dawn [in]to boastful day without restraint. Why is the day boastful? Are clouds emptying themselves and being wrung out for the orange and red light of morning? Show me what is actually going on here.

>Its firm beam was like a frisbee at Paul’s head, still damp with sleep.
Maybe don't use frisbee here, because upon reading the rest of what you wrote, this isn't the type of man who plays frisbee and frisbees don't exactly fit the mood of what you have so far. don't be afraid to repeat yourself, instead of "Its" you simply say "A light beam." Why is the beam firm anyway? I'm not sure what that means when applied to light.

>Knocked awake he lay without a jerk; a taut corn stalk.
I like this description, but I don't think it fits the context. Why did you decide to use corn stalk? Maybe if he was a farmer or in the midwest or something. I like the first part of this sentence.

>Scents of wilted incense rested on sweat and red meat.
This sentence is confusing and distracting as it is now. Who lit the incense? What meat? Sweat meat? What is sweat meat?

>Marvin had not been home in sixteen days, the fact announced itself as a shoe to a roach. Paul inhaled, expectantly and deeply, but come release, it had just been a breath, he felt no difference.
When you say that "the fact announced itself..." I am not sure why it is an announcement or why it suddenly now is a shoe to a roach. Was he not feeling worried about Marvin yesterday, on day 15? I like the idea of sighing with no release and you should keep it. However, you should work on your comma usage. Maybe something like this instead? "Paul inhaled expectantly and deeply, but come release it had just been a breath; he felt no difference."

>But that was no threat today, he was a stoic.
Wait! Why isn't it a threat? I thought it was a shoe to roach! Now I'm confused!

>He could run his course careless of fever, or ten rats gnawing his big toe. He was fixed to this idea lately, he would become a calloused man. He would take his coffee black, and eat seaweed in the park. His lip wouldn't quake at the sound of barking, he wouldn't eat beef raw (or undercooked), he would not pity himself.
I'm down for this part, I like it. Maybe put a colon in the second sentence? "He was fixed to this idea lately: he would become a calloused man."

[Anonymous No.12258510]

I hate myself and want to die!

- Anon

[Anonymous No.12258532]

>>12258459
Hey man, we are all in this together. I don't really know what I'm doing, but I hope I helped! I hope to see your next draft soon.

Also, I prefer twinkle over sparkle in that part too.

[Anonymous No.12258607]

>>12257790
Part 2:

>Paul set the day with strict intent, first for diligent work at “smile cafe”, later, to call mom.
I'm good with this, but I'd like to know more about "smile cafe" and why it is in quotes. If this is something you're not going to revisit then it'd probably make more sense for it to be capitalized.

>Marvin was probably dead. And a man to his work must be as a spider to webbing, necessary and mechanic. He should not protest, especially not for a runaway.
Again, I am confused by Marvin, why aren't we more worried about Marvin? I thought that fact was like a shoe to a roach? Why is the spider to webbing line right here, in between the parts about Marvin?

>He rejected his bed and let stubbornness pilot his mood.
Who rejected his bed? Marvin or Paul? In what was is stubbornness piloting his mood? Is it because he wants to be a callous man, as you said above?

>He fell into a large wool sweater, pink scarf and worn sweatpants. He took a half-jam bagel and made fast for the door. Leaving the apartment felt like sevearance from a womb.
I like all these descriptions, but I wasn't clued in to why leaving the apartment is so difficult. It actually seems easy for him to do since he made fast for the door and hurriedly threw his outfit together. Earlier you even said that he intends to eat seaweed in the park, but that doesn't sound like someone who would feel like he is leaving the womb when he leaves his apartment.

>Autumn was a brittle tent for lost drafts to ease under, and Paul floated on like a dead louse. The full wool seemed to pose as slow rolling fog along his walk, and his scarf a garland of uakari faces.
Autumn being a brittle tent is an interesting and novel idea, but I don't see how that relates to Paul floating like a dead louse. I also don't see the dead louse in your description of the full wool and scarf.

[Anonymous No.12258690]

>be me
>working on my first novel
>its more of a serialized creepypasta but you get it
>60k words
>10 chapters
>only 2 chapters left
>suddenly got writers block
>know what needs to happen in the major strokes and especailly for the characters
>not sure what subplot stuff im using to motivate it yet

[Anonymous No.12258725]

D. was always a bastard. He disgusted me the most. Whenever someone did something nice or gave a gift or something he’d try to appreciate it more than me. In some sick way he wanted to prove that he could love more than me – it was some sort of competition. That always made me feel like shit.

I usually felt awful getting gifts anyway. Never felt like I deserved them. Sometimes I thought my parents bought me such a huge pile of junk for my birthday and Christmas just to prove a point to themselves. I never wanted much, maybe a new book or an old book. One time I opened some pyjamas on Christmas Eve. They were pink, soft and lovely. I don’t think I ever cried so hard with tears so big it hurt my eyes. Silently my concerned family gathered around, and I couldn’t say a word — I only sobbed. I know how stupid it sounds, but giving me those pyjamas killed somebody.

[Anonymous No.12258731]

O, Tree!

In soft laid grass
I’ve extended completely -
limb to limb,
tip to toe -
fingers as branches
grounded leaves my own.

Both’s breath is good for the other.
Vision laces around twining spaces, shoots between leaves;


she is laying pink flushed petals across me.


There is nothing more I could ask of thee! o. Beautiful! o. Tree!

[Anonymous No.12258737]

I Am Not Heavy


Early Morning - Cold

I sweep across all quivering water.
Lone wake shades: black, grey.
I stop
atop
each precipice,
glint bright.


Dayspread - Warmth

A loose skin of wind is stretching across placid bay,
ancient dance entanglement.
I kick every which way in shallow pockets,
bending and turning, cracking shadows.
Hanging halos and rainbows
where water plays.

[Anonymous No.12258748]

>>12256207
>be me
>working on my first novel
> it's more of a fictional autobiography written as an interview between two people in a alternate history/world
>realize readers won't give to flying fucks because they are not invested in these characters
>write a quasi-prequel so they can be invested
>only realize later on that I need to write two more books, perhaps even more
>suddenly get anxious an uncertain
>know what needs to happen in the major strokes and especially for the characters
>just don't know how to get there.
Help me, please.

[Anonymous No.12258766]

>>12258748
Why wouldn't readers give a fuck about these characters? Why do readers ever care about characters? It's not like we have to understand everything about them to care.

[Anonymous No.12258917]

We all once were

carnival in the city

of Venice.

Bitter face we occult

behind masks of kindness

and appearance.

Among teasing we outline

smiles that really

they are ailment

On the waters we love

as voyeurs the beauty,

without patience

to know what we left,

what happened in truth.

If the absence

makes a dent in me, let's go back,

my soul, to the city

of Venice,

to see the skin that we did not see.

And in the boat consummate

the trip towards

a place where we can

intimate with clarity

from childhood,

far from the frivolous cosmos,

heading to an eternal Baghdad
...the original is in spanish

[Anonymous No.12258924]

>>12258748
Don't doubt yourself anon, Bukowski said "the problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts while the stupid ones are full of confidence" and went on to write a successful novel about an average Joe alcoholic postman.
And if that doesn't help, listen to >>12258766
I'm looking forward to reading your work

[Anonymous No.12258931]

>>12258917
is titled "Masquerade"

[Anonymous No.12258986]

Face subject to the void sea of Space,
sly banter affluted warm embraces.
Shades and bodies ,into one , combined,
Shapeless bodies painted and shined,
A smile pondered inherent grace,
Faith had their trails enlaced.

Moonlight.
Lightful cloudless night showed
Sight of further suns light that
Never had shone as bright though
Neither approaches thy might. O
Moonlight.

[Anonymous No.12259153]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i36Qhn7NhoA

poem i wrote for this piece for this ballet

>>12258219
this is a bit dull tbchwuf, nothing wrong with it tho. a few sloppy lines like: "Whenever someone did something nice or gave a gift or something"
"in some sick way.."
" it was some sort of competition" (redundant)

too many pointless hedge words.

>>12258731
this is good, a bit opaque.
make a tad more transparent and
"she is" to "she's"
"ive extended" to "i extend"
"Both’s breath" to "Breath of each"

[Anonymous No.12259300]

>>12259153
How do I make it more transparent?

[Anonymous No.12259344]

>>12259300
as in, be clearer in what you mean. opaque=cryptic poetry

[Anonymous No.12259366]

>>12258731
nice little poem actually
me personally i wouldn't make these changes >>12259153 it's more musical as it is though it could probably do with another draft or so

[Anonymous No.12259431]

>>12259366

Thanks! What do you think I should do with this line, it's the only part I am dissatisfied with:
>Both’s breath is good for the other.
I also didn't like the way the version the other guy suggested? Do you think I should remove it?

[Anonymous No.12259455]

>>12259431
the thing is i like the way 'both's breath' sounds. but there's probably a better way to word the rest of that line i can't think of rn

[Anonymous No.12259611]

Was laying in bed with a 102° fever and briefly remembered those Shel Silverstein books that everyone wanted in Elementary, so I thought it'd be a little fun to write a children's poem about my predicament.

I feel dreadfully hot
A whole, awful lot

Some might say I have the flue
While others say I'm feeling blue

But whatever it is I've got
I wish I'd never caught!

[Anonymous No.12259630]

1/2

The beginning of a story I'm working on. It's a dreamlike satire written in a mockingly archaic style.

A Late Night Stroll

My acquaintance and I met on the first snowy night of December at a dinner party hosted by our mutual friends, the esteemed Governor and his wife. He was raving over his dearest Anna, and though I remained sitting politely, sipping my schnapps, I was finding it increasingly difficult not to throttle the bugger from across our little table. I kept my composure, nodding along and smiling endearingly, but inside I was beginning to boil. Who was this scoundrel to brag of his dearest before a lonely bachelor sipping schnapps at a dinner party? And with such a scoundrel's nose, indeed!

It began like this:

Picture myself, quietly indulging in the cocktail shrimp at my solitary office in the corner of the dining hall. A waltz is being played on the piano, the gentlemen are gathered around the room, smoking their pipes in loosely formed circles, and their wives are all in a flock by the hostess. With her frilly red dress and enormous pearl earrings, she stands out amongst the ladies, and looks more like a dream consort than the wife of that burly old man, the Governor. A jovial air of chatter and laughter hangs over the party. Beholding the high stacks of pastries and sweets that had just been laid out on the table in the center of the room, I am perfectly content in my own company.

Presently enters our devil in question, who, after surveying the party from the entryway, catches my wandering gaze. At first he acts coy, his shifty eyes darting left to right in a clear mockery of suspicion, but I must have been of peculiar interest to him, for he very quickly begins slithering towards me through the crowd. Judging by the dubious grin he now bares across his face - one which looks to suggest an intrigue, or an inside joke - I realize this will not be an encounter I can easily avoid.

"Imagine us!" Was his grand introduction. "Two handsome young gentlemen of the highest standard health and grooming, with the whitest of teeth, and a full head of hair, here alone at a society party with neither of us a date by our side! What's your excuse?"

He sat down promptly across from me, plucked a shrimp from my glass, and popped it into his mouth. He wore a long, elegant swallowtail coat, fine leather boots, and donned on his bird's nest of curly hair, a black top hat, which he was evidently very proud of by the way he delicately caressed the brim between two spindly fingers. His face was waxy and unusually handsome, but had the disconcerting quality of a mask. I suspected he was not actually on his own here, but it was of no consequence to me.

"I'm just here on invitation," I said. (A lie.)

"What's your relation to the Governor?" He asked.

"A distant nephew." (Another lie.)

He leaned back in his chair and scrutinized me closely. I could tell he was sizing me up.

[Anonymous No.12259642]

>>12259630
2/2

He leaned back in his chair and scrutinized me closely. I could tell he was sizing me up.

"Ah well, myself... Just out to enjoy the evening. I really know nobody here." With that he gave a wink. "Oh, but look! The snow's already beginning to fall!"

I turned to look out the window across the room, and indeed outside, it had begun to snow lightly from the darkening sky.

"It's sure to be a wonderful night!" He said. "One might fancy a stroll through the streets if one doesn't find oneself bogged down here with this unruly bunch for too long..."

He nodded in the direction of the Governor, who, surrounded by a circle of intimates, was nearly falling over in laughter as one of the servants - a ratty little man - was attempting to balance a martini glass on his nose, obviously at the order of his master, and quite succeeding, too, though he was bent over backwards nearly to his waist, spilling drink all over his tuxedo.

"A little chilly for me," I said.

He began musing: "If only my dearest Anna were here... Isn't it a sweet thing, our love? If only you knew... On a night like tonight, with such a moon in the sky! She'd start us off the couch with a little tickle under the arm, as she usually does when some whimsical fancy's got ahold of her senses, and, well, you know women!..." And so on.

The more he spoke, the more animated he became. Soon he was gesticulating wildly. Every now and then, his eyes would flash, and he'd shoot me a strange glance, as if to make sure I was listening to every word he was saying, and read by the look on my face the affect his words were having on me. Was I envious? He must have thought. Was I impressed? Had I been swept away by his irresistable charm? I imagined this really mattered to him. The longer I sat in silence, seeding him on with my courteous nods and bashful toasts, his confidence seemed to grow. His tone was haughty and patronizing. He spoke sharply and eloquently, never skipping a beat, or tripping over his own tongue; but the words he spoke were shallow and monotonous, bold and braggadocious, clearly designed to stir with their sizzle, rather than their substance. He went on, and on, and on, and only spoke of his splendid Anna, who by now I was convinced bore some distant relation to the late Cleopatra. I was at once confused, irritated, and at a loss for words. My patience was waning. As I've already mentioned, it took quite a lot of restraint not to simply fling my snack in his face, and walk away. But I couldn't bring myself to say a word against him, shy creature that I am! I must have been red as a beet and sweating profusely.

My eyes fell upon the candle in the center of the table, its pathetic flame working desperately to free itself from the wick. I scoured my mind for a way out.

[Anonymous No.12259876]

>>12259630
>>12259642
This is very funny. It reads like all the bad parts of Dostoevsky. I could see this being published on McSweeneys.

[Anonymous No.12260069]

I want to talk about writing schedules. I am hoping someone can give me some insight.

I sit down to write every day. I have recently completed a short story (it was only 5000 words) that I spent a week and a bit on, writing, rewriting and editing. I put it away on Tuesday and have continued to sit down every day to write since Wednesday and in total I have written about 3000 words of unrelated, unsalvageable garbage, and I will normally continue like this for a week longer, often 2 weeks even, before I stumble on a vein of something and manage to dig down into another story. These 2 week periods are maddening and sometimes I even begin to feel they are pointless. For instance the last story I mentioned I began immediately and easily after not writing for a week due to moving and staying temporarily with my parents, it came out with no obstacle whatsoever.

I have been told that a writer should always have something to write about. But in my down periods, in free periods with nothing I'm working on I have absolutely no foothold and regularly stare at a blank page. I guess I shouldn't be embarassed to talk about it here in this thread but I take writing very seriously and I have been writing short stories seriously now for about 3 years (writing sporadically and non-comittally my whole life) and every time I go through the period I feel completely defeated.

Should I just take longer breaks during these periods? Substitute reading for writing in my allocated hours?

[Anonymous No.12260089]

>>12259642
>>12259630
I agree with >>12259876 but especially that it reads very clearly like an imitation. I imagine as a small project at university where you are asked to write in the style of an author. I would say rewrite it carefully and put more of yourself in there.

[Anonymous No.12260156]

I hate to take the Lord's name in vain. I do. But I really thought that it aught to have been a Guthie job. I made my way up the staircase. The second floor looked a lot like the first. I didn't really have the will to peak my head out. Same on the third floor. Wasn't really sure what to do when I walked into the hallway. All those egghead factories looked the same on the estuary. Like giant fridges. I wandered down that little white room confused, wondering whose breakfast I was supposed to be. Then, like in all the other egghead factories, a little panel pops up, and the door just jumps out on you. Oak looking thing, too. In between all that white. Enough to make your eyes sore. My eyes were already sore though, and my hands were shaking from the Eloquinine, so I knocked, and shoved them in my pockets.
Lady just yells, “Come in!”
I took my hands back out my pockets and cracked my knuckles real quick. Then I went in. The office was small. Shelves on every wall, full of books. Probably not too much bigger than your average practitioner's.This wasn't that kind of doctor's office though. The woman sitting across the desk was clearly not that kind of doctor. For starters, I never had a check up with a gun on the desk before. And when old Dr. Rajnesh gave me and my sister our vaccinations, I never fell head over heels in love with his chocolate brown eyes. Not the first time I saw them.

[Anonymous No.12260217]

>>12259630
>>12259642

I gotta agree with >>12259876
>>12260089

Dosto only worked because he had an exquisite amount of soul in his art. It can't be replicated, it shouldn't even be attempted. It's fine to try out different styles starting out, but this is not something you should try to replicate because its very essence comes from such a deep and suffered place. Do you anon.

[Anonymous No.12260229]

posting some historical prose

Although the events of those fateful years still linger ominously within the memories of a few aged stragglers who had fled or were expelled as children after the war, any hope for restitution has been all but abandoned. Their descendants might hear the stories of foregone idyllic times: of endless fields of rye rolling in the wind; of a leisurely trek through dark and fabled forests; of a refreshing dive into the crystalline lakes of Masuria; and of scythes still sounding late into the warm nights during harvest time. They might very well visit the farms on which their families had lived. But all these moments are fleeting; these memories will only continue to fade with the passing of each new generation, and in due course, the scattered nations will be wholly relegated to the annals of history. Even now, we are justified in saying that they have gone extinct.

[Anonymous No.12260407]

>>12259876
>>12260089
>>12260217

I appreciate all the feedback. I find an easy way to get ideas down, for me anyway, and keep things flowing, is to write in a style you're familiar with reading, and then alter afterwards. Almost like painting "in the style of", and then abstracting. I do intend to complete this story as is, and then totally flip it on its head, maybe even modernize the setting.

[Anonymous No.12260419]

>>12256207
How many times?
How many times did my brains paint the walls?
The rocks?
How many times did I walk the beaches?
The docks?
How many times did they see me?
Eyes painted white.
How many times was I dragged into shadows?
Figures in the night.

Shine shadows!
Whisper your thoughts,
Shake and tremble.
Scream my name!
Pull me close,
And hide me in shadows.

But these are not mine;
I am not this.
Come to me mind,
And I shall give you
A handful of bliss.

[Anonymous No.12260452]

>>12257483
ooof. I'd scrap all of this. I get the play, but the issue is the incoherence coupled with poor rhyme and rhythm. I would approach this scene from a pure action base model. Do something interesting and coherent. Put me there, make me feel anon.

[Anonymous No.12260476]

>>12260069
I'm not really the person your question is directed to buy I'll give you my thoughts.

I mostly write poetry, and this poetry comes out when I'm either very very drunk, inspired by and idea, or need to express some emotions through a pen. In effect it is a release, not so much work. Work comes when I'm restraining myself later on.

If your desire it to write, the write about something that stirs you. I hate reading emotionless garbage. It lacks human ingenuity and creativity. The best time to write is when you're in the write mind set. Then there is a combination of forcing yourself into that mindset and letting your ideas gestate. I'm no master writer anon, but I don't know a single excellent writer who said it was an easy thing.

[Anonymous No.12260486]

>>12258731
mmmm I very much enjoyed this poem anon. Thank you

[Anonymous No.12260521]

>>12257474
This is very good; style reminds me of all the best American short story writers.
I can't put my finger on it but there's something awkward about the tenses you use in the first two sentences.
>It was a shame what the boulevard was then.
>My grandmother told me all about what it had been.
A more well-oiled opening would be something like:
It was a shame what the boulevard had been then. My grandmother told me all about it.

[Anonymous No.12260526]

>>12256207
Can someone make a Guide to help the thread's critiquers? Make something that we can post as the Thread picture. I'm definitely not experienced enough to create a matured guide.

[Anonymous No.12260553]

Some poems

I can hear and taste your lips
Can touch and smell your curls
But I have bad eyes, so I can't see
The way you see the world
I can't see the things you see in me
No matter how hard I strain
And the ugliness you see in yourself
I can never ascertain
I can push a finger 'tween your lips
Or wrap it in your curls
But I have bad eyes, I'll never see
The way you see the world

Fin

This next one is bordering on parodical

I like it when you lean in for another ashen kiss
You hold me like a cigarette between your pursing lips
You're sucking down the curls of smoke, you burn it end to end
You hold me like a cigarette, and soon we'll both be dead

Fin

Next

Don't hide your skin away under chameleon hides
They slough off like chalk in rain come time to take a side
Don't cry on judgement day when the gulags come
You choose which game to play and you chose to play dumb

Ephemeral as the weather and wind
I pray to God for just one reference
One thing that's static on which to depend

We're all just chameleons with transforming skin
Changing our colors when someone else walks in
Blue turns to red and red turns to green
Some turn to shades that were never before seen
Which one's the bottom coat, which one is you
If I don't be careful I'll lose myself too

Fin

One more

You're in the shower cleaning your body
But I only wish you were cleaning your mind
Because nothing's been clear ever since it was dirtied
With thoughts that obscure like thick layers of grime
You're thinking of things that I know make you hate me
By the way that you look at me in a light much too dark
Like the lens is all dusty, and the exposure's so tiny
And the film's been too fogged to leave a clear mark

But it might just be my fault for being too careless
And leaving you too long for soot to collect
Because after all, it's always the hardest
To wipe away stuff that's had six months to set
You shower so long now, and it's so steaming hot
I guess you don't know that that's bad for your skin
I know you feel dirty but you can't scrub those thoughts off
I've tried it before, till the rags all wore thin

[Anonymous No.12260570]

Working title: Thoughts and Words

They come; they come
In thoughts and words,
In shards, and ice.
They wait to die.
They wait to tell:
I am Lazurith! Back from the dead!
I come to tell you all!
I come to tell you all:
This is not it at all.
This is not it,
At all, at all.

They come; they come
Into an overwhelming question:
In it shatters, in it ice,
Their thoughts call my name,
into an overwhelming question,
the shades the shadows,
mind consumed by thought?
Not to be made but given?

And all in a single moment…
We dream; we dream
In broken thoughts,
In shattered words.
They break and resonate
In the most beautiful ways.

We dream; we dream
In primes and colors.
I give you spice,
You give me flowers.

[Coke Zero No.12260748]

>>12257474
>It was a shame what the boulevard was then
Ok, ok, tell me about it. . .
>My grandmother told me all about what it had been.
The first and second sentences are too closely related tense-wise, so it reads confusingly; but, looking past that, this is a fine opener.
>Restaurants, cinemas, all booming, every summer when it would get sweltering hot, and the sun would shine clearly and people would actually run inside to get away from it.
This needs to be broken up and further elaborated on. Are the restaurants high-class? What movies were shown? You need a new sentence to introduce the "summer heat" idea. As it is, these two: the "boom" and the "summer heat" are so different, and yet they're jumbled together. It clashes.
>Waste their money and watch people outside rowing
Waste money on what? It's not clear whether you're implying the people are fresh from the restaurants or theaters or w/e.
>even swimming in that river
Which river?
>Jesus Christ.
You haven't given a reason as to why the river is unbearable, so this interjection is just awkward.
>The building I was looking for was easy to spot.
Great how you pivot so clearly and simply.
>There weren't too many with windows. And this one was at least four fifths painted.
Excellent bit. I would recommend combining these sentences, though, since they're so closely related.
> All the grime in the air collecting on it made it look like a rotting tooth, in some disgusting crackhead's mouth.
Each sentence before this is Normal Rockwell-like: kind and gentle and nostalgic. To suddenly shift from that gentleness to "disgusting crackhead" is completely off-putting. I would have stopped reading there.
>I guess going down that boardwalk I was walking right into the jaws.
Good. Reads like a Bogart movie.

7.5/10. You show good feel. Practice pacing yourself.

>>12257790
>Morning wrung the dawn to boastful day without restraint.
I wouldn't read further. You're trying to affect a gravitas and failing. Just tell a story, describe a town, its residents, insights about them, their thoughts, etc. Anything! Write something we can point to. As it is, this sentence gives me zero reasons to continue. It more leaves me confused. How can a morning "wring"? What is a "boastful" day?
>Its firm beam was like a frisbee at Paul’s head, still damp with sleep.
The second sentence is worse than the opener. Whose "firm beam"? The morning's? The day's? And what does "firm beam" even indicate? At this point, I think I'm being trolled into another "oily smarts".

>>12258219
>I was coming down with a peculiar fever, an ominous notion of impending doom.
"an ominous notion of impending doom" is an example of horrible writing. "I was coming down with a peculiar fever" PERIOD. That would have been a decent, inoffensive opener, but then you dumped a giant load of manure.
>It could be suicide, but it’s always hard to tell.
It's hard to tell what? What could be suicide? Is the ominous notion suicide? Is the peculiar fever suicide?

[Coke Zero No.12260856]

>>12258219 (cont'd)
>The benzodiazepine was starting to wear off as I returned to the long lost land of low brick buildings burning at twilight; the place where I used to dream as a kid.
This is almost a very very good sentence. Remove the "long lost" cliche and it's fine.

>>12258232
>What if I said that one's entire life had been decided by fate?
Clunky nothingburger.
>That every single one of your actions, from the minute to the monumental, stemmed not from your own choices, but had already been decided upon?
Oh, a teenager's first hit off the determinism bong.

>>12258251
>In the end there wasn’t much of anything really, not much light in the days and not much sleep in the nights.
In the end of what? How is there "much of anything" in the first place? Why does this matter at all? Again, this is a big fat whopping nothingburger. "Not much sleep in the nights" For who? For what?
>I would stand in the window, hot and tired, staring feverishly into the eternal dull afternoons.
This is a semi-acceptable opening sentence, crumpling up the first and tossing it aside. Remove "eternal". It needs a color or a scent, something tactile after "hot"/"feverish" to either exclaim on that or to skew it.
>It was an all bad year, all through.
Remove
>Spring had been clouded in casual use and abuse of mixed substances and by summer she had enough and walked away.
"by" is preferable to "in" here, since the "abuse" actively "clouded" the spring. "use" immediately followed by "abuse" might have sounded cute, but really it's gross clutter. Who has ever said "mixed substances"? It's obvious you're talking about drugs but the wording makes it seem like an ESL or you don't know what you're talking about.
>The sadness got the best of two weeks before the cancer got Bob and then nothing was ever the same again.
I know the idea to reincorporate the "got" was irresistible, but you need to learn to ignore things. If you can't express an idea simply and clearly, leave it behind. In this case, no one has ever said that sadness has "gotten" the better of their week. Again, it reads like an ESL.
>We climbed the streets, up to the gates of the garden.
Who is we? Is that two people? three? the whole party?
>And I told you how the miniature-wilderness made me wish that I was a cat.
If you had included a clause after "wilderness" saying "flowering vines, rosepetals, petunia stalks," just an indication that what you mean by "miniature-wilderness" is the garden. Without that reiteration, it's confusing.
>How I would roam the park, and how I would pretend to be a lion.
Thematically, this is weak.
>In the free, and unbound world of dreams and wishful thinking - I limit myself to fantasising about being a cat, fantasising about being a lion. I’m not sure whether or not my grasp of reality - and its grasp on me - is tragic.
You close on a theme you've just introduced. Why not just have talked about the lion? Everything else is revealed to have been a massive waste of time.

[Coke Zero No.12261037]

>>12258725
>D. was always a bastard.
Good. Tell me more
>He disgusted me the most
Relative to who? There isn't any context that makes this sentence appropriate.
>Whenever someone did something nice or gave a gift or something he’d try to appreciate it more than me.
You've lost me. By now, you should have given a setting. Are these people co-workers? Are they shipwrecked on an island? "did something nice or gave a gift or something" begins the journey into wordsalad land.
>In some sick way he wanted to prove that he could love more than me – it was some sort of competition.
When has gift giving been indicative of love? You haven't said what kind of gifts these are: whether they're blenders or toasters, new cars, toy sailboats, w/e; so why should this matter?
>That always made me feel like shit.
You know what makes me feel like shit? Reading something this flat and uninspired. I picture a depressive, no-belt meanderer.

>>12259630
I've seen you before and critiqued this exact piece. I feel like you might have improved it, but it's hard to tell exactly. Oh, I do remember now, you had initially written "the season" instead of "December". Good job.
First two sentences are inoffensive, if rushed. Then,
>I kept my composure,
Textbook amateur writing. But stepping back. This scene: the garish couple and your protagonist: it needs to run much, much slower. You're rushing like crazy to spit this out, when there's so much detail, and hinting-at, and description, and asides, and w/e, left unused. You're forgoing richness and, more importantly, pace. Barebones can work well. Hemingway wrote well. But Hemingway paced it out. Now, "I kept my composure". Isn't this idea implied in the next clause? Can't the reader be trusted to assume, since the protagonist is now "nodding along", a stone's throw from wanting to "throttle", that he's "keeping his composure"? Eliminate these expository phrases. Also, this first paragraph would be better told in third person, without detailing the protagonist's thoughts. First thing, say that he's a lonely bachelor. As it is, the dynamic between the protagonist and the couple is unclear until the exchange's end, which is confusing and poorly-done. People need a full account before drama can happen between them. This is "skin in the game". They need their relevant "skins in the game" introduced, and nothing more, for things to happen, for there to be something at stake. So say that protag is lonely, say the couple is obnoxious, I would rather put the protagonist at a distance, more across the ballroom, (emphasizes protag's distance from relationships) and give him a disgusted stare in their direction. (a deformity of his own longing.) Rely more on the immediate, tactile, and more subtle descriptors: position, posture, tics, w/e. Tolstoy was very good at that, and if you want to rip the opening of War and Peace, you had better study hard.

>>12260156
>I hate to take the Lord's name in vain. I do.
Reads dishonestly.

[Anonymous No.12261045]

>>12260553
Long lists of incomplete sentences are not poems. They're bad writing.

[Coke Zero No.12261106]

>>12260156 (cont'd)
But I really thought that it aught to have been a Guthie job.
Tfw you shit brix

>>12260229
>Although the events of those fateful years still linger ominously within the memories of a few aged stragglers who had fled or were expelled as children after the war, any hope for restitution has been all but abandoned.
This is almost like one of those AI spit-outs, where it's half-nonsense and half-pastiche. "ominously" is such a terrible adverb. It's just awful. The rest of this sentence snakes around until it's unclear what you're saying at the end. "historical" does not automatically equal a five-clause pileup. Have you read Absalom, by Faulkner? It achieves what you're going for, (in a far more overdrawn manner), while not reading like an AI.
>Their descendants might hear the stories of foregone idyllic times: of endless fields of rye rolling in the wind; of a leisurely trek through dark and fabled forests; of a refreshing dive into the crystalline lakes of Masuria; and of scythes still sounding late into the warm nights during harvest time.
Remove "idyllic". The first clause should probably end with "stories". Then, colon: your list begins with "endless" which fails to illustrate much of anything. Bland. Rye in the wind. Maybe wash the rye in a sunset, just something, tobacco, even. "dark and fabled forests" is plain over-done, even in the "historical" context; it reads like you think you have to prove something, as does the rest.

[Anonymous No.12261149]

>>12259153
Thanks, I guess although I think you've tagged me wrong because I didn't use any of the examples you quoted

[Anonymous No.12261172]

To be honest these threads are absolutely pointless. They are just filled with the same amateur style over and over again. It's the same thing. Any time I have written anything I am proud of I never post it here because it's mine and I'm afraid of people stealing it. I'm not saying that anyone would (it's probably trash as well) but the attitude people post excerpts with here is so clear - no one has spent any time on these pieces, and if they have they get posted over and over because the writer is too proud of his first bit of edited work he'd rather fish for praise than start something new. I have not read a single bit of work in this thread which has engaged me. It's all trash. You are all trash. Here's my advice: read more, write more, do it every day, stop making these threads.

>X woke up to an [adjective] day. His hair was in his from his sleep, and his dream was still foggy in his mind, like the [first of many similies]. He had always thought [some trite old saying about merit/himself/adulthood/a girl], however that proved to be false. With a wave of his hand he banished the thought and went on with his day.
>[dialogue shifts the scene like every coming-of-age movie the writer has seen] e.g. "Let's get it done".

[Anonymous No.12261179]

>>12259153
Can't pointless hedge words be part of the voice?

[Anonymous No.12261265]

My love is the moon in the water
not because of one or the other
Neither the river intend to cop
the light does not plan to drop

inseparable void from being
what is seen and who is seeing
Leaves rely on wind to dance
Love is the fruit of circumstance

II
Through rain of tears a distant call
seeking your heart, my foolish words
I'm waiting behind an invisible wall
caged a pacing tiger, and singing bird

A toothless tiger a bird without voice
life void of you, all my deeds undone
you are all I see I don't want a choice
written in the stars, you are the one
III
I thought of life as shooting stars through space— in a great nothing we flare up,
for a brief moment we’re here, making our way across the void before we burn out

and
fade
away.
Eyeless and unable to see that I wasn’t alone— blinded by the night, enchanted
and mesmerized I didn’t see how the stars shone above, the moon and the others

live
flying
fires.
I used to think of life as a flickering flame in a darkness beyond space and time,
and perhaps I wasn’t all wrong. I thought of us as fireflies in the midnight garden

winding
sightless
striving.
I can see it clearly now, we’re not lost flies waiting for the ember to turn to ash,
and I’m not lighting my own path. I’m just a moth to your flame and you burn bright

my
guiding
light.

[Anonymous No.12261290]

>>12261172
You're right, we are amateurs. Why would professional writers be posting their stuff on 4chan? Would you expect anything different? We are novices, but it seems we want to get better. Why bother us for trying? Even if this is the pinnacle of each person's writing career it's a helluva lot better than not writing at all.

I've spent hours on my pieces and have learned valuable things from posting them on the board. How would you know what value someone is getting from this? How would you know my attitude is? I've felt engaged by these pieces, they are genuine expressions from real people - and there is nothing I care more about than how people feel. Maybe the problem is that you don't feel like you are getting anything out of this. Maybe you are a good enough writer that you don't need critique from other people, but evidently, the people posting on here don't feel the same way.

What you wrote in the greentext is useless. Of course, there are people writing on the vague and broad topics that you listed with such disdain. The thing is that humans have similar experiences, which is partially what makes literature so pervasive and relatable. As critics who care about our fellow man, we should work to bring out the unique understanding from those universal experiences.

[Anonymous No.12261314]

>>12261290
Heh... you know what lad you're absolutely right. Sorry for being a cunt. Full disclosure I am actually >>12260069 and I have just realised that in my frustration with myself I have spent all checking this thread to distract myself. All the best mate.

[Anonymous No.12261338]

Why would anyone give a shit about what I write or think ? I'm just some guy and not an old or smart one at that.

Everyday I just want to delete the document file and burn the written manuscripts. This is a test in absurdity so thoroughly passed that it approaches masturbation. I lack any kind of credentials and I'm only marginally better read than the average person which is a horribly low bar to exceed and is no kind of statement of intelligence really. All it means is I'm a mindless consumer of a different media. Good writers usually were doing literary related things since grades cool yet I lacked any kind of drive to even join college newspaper. I'm a rag-head

[Anonymous No.12261360]

>>12261314
Don't worry about it! You weren't being a cunt. I wish I could help you feel less frustrated.

Your post talks about being serious, which I find is what gets me into trouble. Maybe thinking of your writing as a way to have fun and express yourself would be more helpful? What is the point of all this writing if it isn't making you a living and you aren't having fun?

[Anonymous No.12261363]

>>12261338
Anon, I'm not sure if you were writing this for fun or to express how you actually feel about your writing, but I liked it on its own.

[Anonymous No.12261367]

>>12260856
Thanks for the feedback, I sincerely appreciate it!
I actually take it to heart and will make the suggested changes, however, this was my thinking behind the writing in the first place

The premise is that of the main character coming out of a slump of depression and self destructive behavior, so the "there wasn't much of anything" is both referring to general will to live and life force, but also the following "light" and "sleep".

The mixed substances is referring to a use of both uppers and downers, to me it made more sense at the moment but I as I go into detail later on I can see how this looks weird.

The garden with "you" is where the story will take place: the story will be told to "you" (I thought this would make it personal and involving?) by "me", throughout, I intended to keep the environment of the "present" to a minimum so as not to make it overly distracting.

But, as I said, grateful for the thorough input and I'm definitely going to make the changes.


>>12258690
Put it away, not with the intention of taking a break because you will still actively think about it.
Do something else (something that I do, is the Hunter S. Thompson routine, where he would copy David Copperfield over and over to get the right pacing) and don't try to force yourself through the block yet maintain a steady routine.
Subconsciously you'll figure out what to do and how to get through. Daily meditation also helps. Spontaneity and joy in what you do is the best way to do good work, and when you are struggling with writer's block it takes the joy out of it

[Anonymous No.12261374]

How should chapters be arranged ?
I'm basically treating them like brief scenes. Is this a standardized thing? Am I missing a rule? I have five "chapters" but it's I think 3,000 or so words so far. I don't think I could expand those without getting overly wordy and I've written only a tiny fraction of what I intend . Merging chapters also would be weird because they're so different . Maybe I'm just too much of an amateur

[Anonymous No.12261377]

>>12261374
Chapters are whatever you want them to be. Some books have 400 pages and 5 chapters, others haves 300 pages and 15 chapters.

[Anonymous No.12261385]

>>12261314
Hey, also look at what this guy posted! >>12261367 I think it addresses what you're frustrated with pretty well. Maybe just get away from your writing for a day and do something else you love.

[Anonymous No.12261395]

>>12261363
that was unexpected, but thanks ?

I didn't mean that to be a critiqued work, maybe that was a little vague. I'm more venting my insecurities at this point . It's that time of night

[Anonymous No.12261410]

>>12261395
Vent away, brother, I will listen.

Also, post some writing!

[Anonymous No.12261459]

>>12261385
Should there be separate writing general thread for general advice and exercises?

[Anonymous No.12261547]

>>12257483
Yikes...

[Anonymous No.12261675]

>>12261459

Keep a strict routine
Write whenever is a good time for you
Read whenever there is any time for it
Don't write longhand
>transfer will kill the spontaneity
Pick a daily word from the thesaurus, write 500 words on the word
>pick words that are new to you to grow your vocabulary
Always cut 30% off everything you write

[Anonymous No.12261678]

Little flashfic I wrote:

(1/2)

He thinks: “It is this fact, that the night lacks closure, that haunts more than the darkness itself. Who invented fire? What held him as he hurtled into the blaze, no longer under the thumb of the shade that worked beneath sliver of the moon to play, with humankind, the puppetry of cycle and epicycle? How did those night-bodies dream, locked as waves in the branches, heaving in flesh?”

He thinks because he cannot sleep. He is more poetic than most, yet, here, in the trenches, poetry is nothing more than feeble intervention to the mathematics of war. He grips his gun. Across from him, another with a scar slashed past his eyes lifts a pillar of smoke from the stick that perches between fingerjoints. This other man lacks the mien of contemplation that he himself has, for this other man has been roughened, as the winded sands in a desert might rough away the ruins of older civilizations. As he drags on his cigarette further, he gives an expression, like one who has been callused by the grinding knuckles of the world, such that deadweight eyes have been plastered onto him.

Idle chatter from the mouth, billowing smoke, breaks contemplation.

“Dunno what we’re waiting for. Might as well die. Get it over with. I’d rather my family see me right there, as a rotten bag of bones, than stay up all night in imagination. My wife’s, she’s a worrier you know. Worries about the weirdest shit. Once she couldn’t sleep because she was thinking all ‘bout this neighbour that looked at her funny, and she wondered what exactly was funny ‘bout herself. Now that she’s got something BIG to worry ‘bout, though, she must be tearing her mind apart. I can see it in the calls I get. She tries to hide it but can’t. Might as well some big old bomb pound us into the dirt and leave us as ashes and the shit of crows.”

He drags, again, on the stick.

“It’s hard to sleep for you too, huh?”

“It’s too cold to sleep.”

“Yea, get that. The night’s a bitch.”

“Sometimes you can’t sleep. Sometimes you’re too fatigued that you can’t help but sleep, yet the waking up is worse. Between all these bad sleeps and bad wakes, my head feels like it’s been knocked all around like a bunch of bowling pins, or that thing that moves in a grandfather clock.”

“Ever tried booze?”

“No. That makes it worse.”

“Sad... well, cheers.”

Smokes and whiskey – that’s what the man with the scar over the eye and the granite face enjoys, under the moon. The whiskey’s held in a canteen. It’s an opaque canteen, but the smell’s strong enough to convey what it is.

[Anonymous No.12261680]

>>12261678
(2/3)

“I’m surprised your superiors allow that.”

“See, where we are now – Cap’n, sarges, the whole lot – they’ve all given up. We know we’re bullet fodder. The higher-ups are certain we’re gonna be shredded in the next push. A little sin before the fire don’t matter. And... I see you know full damn well what I’m talking about with that badge of yours...”

The man motions to the little Velcro-ed badge on the shoulder of his fatigues. Platoon 3, Wolf Company. The company that went ahead of them, suffered heavy losses, and fell back.

“I’m one of the lucky ones.”

“Lucky my ass. Lemme guess. Your platoon’s been shredded so the assholes back at HQ threw you as spare fodder in the next wave.”

“Pretty much.”

“Shit. That’s not luck. I don’t even know what kinda hell you’ve seen.”

“Not much. Like I said, I was lucky. A blast knocked me out early in the fight and I woke up under a pile of corpses. That’s how I lived.”

The man seems like he’s about the say something, but drags on the cig and lets the smoke say the rest. It’s as though he’s letting imagination take over, sculpting the fire and the corpses in his own head, trying desperately to grasp the form of the thing outside the confines of his cage. Then, he speaks:

“I’m guessin’ you’re about 10 years younger than me.”

“I’m 25.”

“8 years. When I was your age, I was working at this shit job as a security guard. I’d blow all my extra cash at bars, trying to get rid of the monotonous shit with spare chicks and whatnot. Had a string of gals whom I would fuck, then scream at, then they’d scream back, and it was like that for a while before I found my wife. Now, those times were tough, but even I would rather be at that shit job than havin’ to scramble out of a hell-on-earth with the corpses of my friends all ‘round me.”

Silence again, but he knows the man knows he agrees with that sentiment. Then, after a while, he replies:

“I could have gotten out of it.”

“Huh?”

“My dad’s pretty rich. He wanted me to get out of it. When the conscription started he had enough connections to pull me from the list.”

He probes the man’s expression. The man is listening calmly, empathetically. There’s no judgment. Merely interest.

[Anonymous No.12261682]

>>12261680
(3/3)
“He runs this corp that deals in weapons. This gun here. This gun’s a design made by some guy that works at my father’s corp. I’ve seen his face at parties before. We also make drones. UAVs. The 15-second killer.”

A momentary flashback. He’s running. Men are shouting all around him. A great wave rushes over the ground. Are they predators? Or are they rabbits surging from nests? He hears a whirring in the air. A technology he knows too well. The eye of the robot sweeps over the land and, as simply as a farmer spraying fertilizer for malicious pests, scatters gunshots into the pack. Then, explosions. Missile-drones. Gun-drones. Death in metal. Run, rabbit, run.

Dive into your burrows from the red fox-tongue.

“The new tech, eh? I’ve seen them sometimes. Red eye in the air. But they never get close enough because, accordin’ to the sarges, we’ve got, at least over here, anti-drone stuff to fend them off. But once we cross the line...”

“Yep. Whatever they’re doing to us, my father’s doing to them.”

A bitter smile. The man is pondering something, then, revealing those hidden thoughts:

“I just hope they don’t gib me too bad. When I get back, in whatever shape or form, at the very least I want my wife to be able to see my dick in one piece.”

Laughing lightly at the vulgar humour, he continues with his story.

“Anyway, my father could’ve got me out of the war. But I didn’t want to get pulled. See, I’ve always been sort of the ‘black sheep’. He wasn’t trying to save me because he liked me, or saw any value in me, but simply because I was of the same blood. It was an obligation. And I didn’t like that. It felt like I was too much in his power.”

“Do you regret it now?”

It’s a complex question. The man knows that no satisfactory answer will be given. Still, the question is asked because it’s logical and inevitable.

“Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. That’s all I can say. I’ve seen stuff that’s been wider than my world, and other things that I would’ve rather not seen.”

“Like spillin’ your guts to a weird older man with a scarred eye?”

Laughter.

“Spill your guts too, then. Tell me about that scarred eye.”

“Nothin’ to it. I’m kinda a competitive fucker. So, I got this months ago in boot camp because some dude bet that I was too much a pussy to juggle a swiss-army-knife. See, without my family to stop these things, I just become another stupid ass kid in the jungle.”

“Cool. That’s cool. I totally understand... there was this idiot back in my old platoon...”

There is no fire lit in the dark. There are no campfire songs being sung. Yet, under the chill moon and in the dark, the barest relation is being forged on the slimmest strings. He finds the drift of starlight all the more pleasant, as something that lasts beyond that metal, clawing, hand.

[Anonymous No.12261692]

>>12258232
This reads better in Japanese because Masada is a master of prose.

[Anonymous No.12261710]

>>12259153

I think you mean peek not peak. But other than that, I like it.

[Anonymous No.12262595]

>>12259630
>>12259642
>>12261037

If you continue to read past that first paragraph, it is explained how the two characters come to be sitting across from one another, and why the protagonist remains in a state of shy composure.

[Anonymous No.12262951]

https://pastebin.com/9zPMXGmN
most of the slang (there's not much) is about the london underground.


>>12261678
this isnt the kind of thing that i ever read so im not sure how useful my critique will be.

one of the things i noticed is that you use a lot of simple sentence structures (in the more stream-of-consciousness bits, i mean. sometimes in the dialogue). this is fine and it's actually something i like, but one thing to maybe think about would be adding colons and dashes to this. the authors i remember doing this are rooney and vonnegut. it gives the same kind of pauses as those simple sentences have ('A momentary flashback. He’s running. Men are shouting all around him.') but you get more relation between each bit, if that's something you want. im struggling to find a good example.

in the first couple paragraphs you have a ton of sentences starting with 'He'

>like one who has been callused by the grinding knuckles of the world
should be 'calloused' i think. i didnt know they had different meanings until now: https://grammarist.com/usage/callous-callus/

>The man seems like he’s about the say something,
typo

>'Had a string of gals whom I would fuck'
i know this is technically correct but i dont think anyone under 70 uses the word 'whom' in casual conversation. i would write: 'Had a string of gals I'd fuck'

>Laughing lightly at the vulgar humour, he continues with his story.
cut 'at the vulgar humour'

i've read the very last sentence like three times now and still dont understand it.

[Anonymous No.12262962]

>>12259153 was meant for >>12258725

[Anonymous No.12262967]

>>12261710
oh thanks dude

[Anonymous No.12263357]

HERE are three pieces ive posted before i think, so this post is manly a bump. tell me if theyre shit tho


>>12261374
chapters basically just exist for people who dont have bookmarks. just make a gap for a large thematic/geographic/temporal gap

>>12260570
waayyyyyyyyyyyyyy to much repetition.
cut this down by 50% please. also theres nothing particularly interesting syntactically or semantically here. seems to be more "words" than "thoughts"

>>12260526
unnecessary

>>12260419
would work good as lyrics over industrial techno. too many cliches to work as poem. also not sure what the actual image of the poem is. someone

>>12260069
you can write if you have "nothing to say", but it will lack "soul" and seem shite. it is however essential for developing skills to write when you do find "something to say". to find this low-level inspiration, just take an image or event in your life. i keep a diary which is just various events from the day transcribed into poetic prose or smth.
and read a lot, and of varied stuff (stylistically and thematically)
but idk i dont write

[Anonymous No.12263396]

>>12263357
excuse me sir what do you think of my writings on the thoughts of my main character in >>12261338

I'm trying to do something here and go for it for once. I wanna be the kind of man who helps

[Anonymous No.12263430]

>>12263396
wait: are those your thoughts or the thoughts of a character??

if yours: there's no point deleting work. i have one notepad file of everything i think is decent(ish) and one where i quarantine the shit lines. sometimes things get discharged from the shitpile, sometimes they dont. thats fine

also do submit things to the college paper

also "excuse me sir" is very polite lmao

[Anonymous No.12263443]

>>12263430
>>12263430
um the thoughts of a character sir i apologize for being vague i am only as educated as my social status

[Anonymous No.12263470]

>>12263443
oh

it's not how you would present those thoughts. just have the character write something and then burn it. going to a meeting of the college paper, but leaving half way through etc.

[Anonymous No.12263527]

>>12263443
also there are no social statuses on the internet, especially here

[Anonymous No.12263560]

>>12263470
But isn't that very different than what my post describes? Like marijuana smoke and not ciggy

[Anonymous No.12263588]

>>12257775
Another one

https://pastebin.com/4dNJs3bD

I'll edit in hell

[Anonymous No.12263597]

For years he began his lectures with the ordeals of some of those he had healed- the a lost soldier whose thirst caused him to believe he’d trudged in a single ragged circle for years, the woman whose ferry had overturned. She was convinced she had followed the cry of her lost infant to the sea town where she was rescued. He debated with other practitioners over the exact nature of the mind’s relation to the body during its deepest trauma. They would talk by candlelight until the sun came back up. None of them had any idea what it truly meant to starve.

Tonight the dark will be total when it falls. He passed the last village a week ago. The roads and footpaths ended there. The last of his pitch burned out soon after. Without the stars, he’s been directed by a hunger that rings in his teeth. It’s been days of steady falling rain. The riverbanks won’t hold much more but the clouds haven’t lifted. In fact some of them seem to be turning darker. All the countless hours have bled into each other and the mystery of the river deepens as it becomes identical at every turn- every rock over which some water spills, every dogleg where the it snakes, every crevice, every spider’s web.

What remains of his shirt peels from his skin where it dries. His pants come only to his midcalf. For a cloak, he’s tied a sheet of canvas about him with rough cording. He tore them both from an overturned wagon left in a ditch. He carries only a black morning bag with a silver clasp. His hands are so caked with grease that there is no telling where they end and the bag begins.

When there was a map to be had, it showed a bridge by a road that leads on almost directly to Preston’s Corners. But there is no bridge here.

Instead, an island of debris is piled in the middle of the water. Smashed planks and wagon axles make the base for the barrel of a cannon jutting straight up as if it means to fire at the sky.

He had been warned.

At that last village, a man told him the map was of no use to him.

“It was drew before the war,” he said.

“The war was even here?" the Physician answered.

“Here, there, Heaven to Hell,” he told him as he eyed him sideways, “Everywhere. Where have you been?”

[Anonymous No.12263599]

>>12263560
>Like marijuana smoke and not ciggy
are you sure you sent me to the right post?

[Anonymous No.12263613]

If I write the truth of real events that occurred and genuine thoughts I and those around me have am I guaranteed that I'm writing quality ??

[Anonymous No.12263619]

>>12263613
no

[Anonymous No.12263649]

the reason why
the reason why
the reason why i had to die
did i bleed the blood of greed,
what was my destiny?

[Anonymous No.12263711]

>>12263619
Please help me . Please. I see myself as the literary equivalent of brendon small from home movies. My writings are a low budget amateur film from children recorded to vhs.

Please. Please help me. I'm trying so hard. Please. Please. Please . Genuine tears are coming now. I'm a real human being with feelings . Please man . Please. I have nothing. I have genuinely nothing. The only thing about me that stood out to people was my writing from teachers to professors to friends but I'm still really bad and mediocre. I just. I just don't know.

[Anonymous No.12263713]

Little had changed the past couple weeks. Actually, the more Miller thought about the previous two weeks, the more he realised the lack of change in his life - his wife still aloof, his boss still dismissive of him and his work, his still declining health; and, what he thought most painful, was his total absence of feeling, he was still void of friends, money, joy, life. He thought once more, an epiphany grew in him: his socks change every day!

--
please be gentle

[Anonymous No.12263761]

>>12263711
christ alive
what the fuck is this?

how about post some of your writing?

what do you want us to do? magic you into a literary genius with our empathy?

[Anonymous No.12263771]

>>12263711

It's okay to be mediocre. If you're mediocre, it's ten times better to represent your mediocre self honestly than try to puff yourself up into something you're not. 90% of terrible writing on this forum is normal people trying to pretend that if they just try really hard they can be great. Fuck that, lol. If you can put yourself in those moments and be genuine about them in your writing you have more going for you than most people do.

[Anonymous No.12263793]

>>12263771
But I'm not genuine . I'm not genuine at all. I'm horrible not genuine . My story is a 4channer story. Just another directionless dumb dull main character floating around and not having empathy for anyone spitting infantile fake philosophical idea. "Whoaaaa... it's so deep man". NAVAL GAZING. NAVAL GAZING.
>>12263761
I just want help. Please...

[Anonymous No.12263808]

>>12263793
post something. and you might be right. come up with a story, then write it. think about what you like to read and then just copy that

[Anonymous No.12263816]

>>12263808
I am writng. A real narrative. I have 3710 words of GIBBERISH NONSENSE MOANING.

[Anonymous No.12263837]

>>12263816

You need to relax. So you're not special. You're not going to be next big thing. Who cares. Stop being a baby and write honestly, get some feedback and go from there. If you're serious about writing you're going to live in a feedback cycle so start adapting or post weird all caps inadequacies about yourself in the book section of a Uighur paper folding periodical forever.

[Anonymous No.12263848]

>>12263837
Anon please I'm too scared

[Anonymous No.12263855]

>>12263837
how am I meant to air my DIRTY CRAPPED BRIEFS.

[Anonymous No.12263879]

Too many words.

[Coke Zero No.12263880]

>>12263597
>For years he began his lectures with the ordeals of some of those he had healed- the a lost soldier whose thirst caused him to believe he’d trudged in a single ragged circle for years, the woman whose ferry had overturned.
The idea behind this is fine, but it's poorly executed. This sentence should have ended with "healed", but instead the reader is funneled into two overdrawn, unsatisfying clauses. "whose thirst caused him to believe he’d trudged in a single ragged circle for years," This is awkward; and while it does paint somewhat of a picture, the result is sloppy and confusing. Now, when a ferry overturns, aren't there dozens-hundreds of people who need "healing"? The use of "whose" clouds this. It reads almost like she was the ferry's owner/only passenger. It's weird.
>She was convinced she had followed the cry of her lost infant to the sea town where she was rescued.
This is more awkward. Where's the soldier's detail? If the ordeal with the soldier doesn't deserve a throwaway sentence, then why mention it? It obscures focus. Just talk about the woman. Remove "was convinced she". And, did she swim? Had she reached shore then walked? Hailed a cab? You only say that she "followed".
>He debated with other practitioners over the exact nature of the mind’s relation to the body during its deepest trauma
This reads like you're trying to sound "smart"; it tells me nothing.
>They would talk by candlelight until the sun came back up. None of them had any idea what it truly meant to starve.
Does "They" refers to "other practitioners"? or the woman? You've jumbled everything up now. There's no "healing" this piece.
>The second paragraph
This stream of the same sentence, it would make me stop reading. There's nothing wrong with overly-simple, but vary the syntax, add an interjection, a rhetorical, something to disrupt the humdrum.
>All the countless hours have bled into each other and the mystery of the river deepens as it becomes identical at every turn- every rock over which some water spills, every dogleg where the it snakes, every crevice, every spider’s web.
This frustrates me. "All the countless hours" reads like something a "profound" teenager would say. I disagree with the use of "deepens". Is the character really going "deeper" into anything? This verb throws everything off.
>What remains of his shirt peels from his skin where it dries.
This third part reads 100% dishonestly. You did a much better job varying your syntax, but it feels like an MFA portraying John Rambo. You're rolling in the grit. No one in the real world enjoys or would waste time describing that. It's dishonest.
>When there was a map to be had, it showed a bridge by a road that leads on almost directly to Preston’s Corners. But there is no bridge here.
You can't summon a map unless you've established that the world is magical.

[Coke Zero No.12263962]

My piece:

Should’ve planted them hydrangeas out from under the shade, aunt Kate said: Don’t you think they’d look better nearer the petoonias? Over by the gate?

They do like the shade here and there, Granma said.

They’d look a whole lot prettier in the sun, I think, aunt Kate said.

And a baby Shelby set beside her Granma and stared at the sun. A little sweat became at the crown of her light head. She watched the taller grass swept
around the air behind the further gate, fencing went toward the pasture and the garden stopped. The garden stopped. The house gusted behind them.

The baby Shelby when she held away her cup it stayed lemon and cold on her nose. Granma smoked and kept her ash where baby Shelby couldn’t reach, by aunt Kate cross the table.

There maybe, closer by the dogwoods’ row, aunt Kate said: What do you think.

They’re doing alright where they are, Granma said.

A baby Shelby bit at ice in her emptied cup and Granma saw. She stood up then disappeared slow with the pitcher toward the house.

And the door heard a sound like it shut.

I don’t think I should open my mouth again, aunt Kate said: Should I.

She curled her wrists.

Above the air the trees gusted. The baby Shelby sat quiet.

I try and help, I try my best being friendly, aunt Kate said: She thinks that I’m just useless. She must’ve told your uncle Lambert that a hunnerd times, too.
Like he’d ever tell me.

And then the taller grass gusted.

Then, more intently, aunt Kate took to seeing baby Shelby, and she said, and she had given herself a snivel: You believe I’m part of this family, don’t you baby Shelby.

A baby Shelby swinging her legs sat quiet.

Don’t you, aunt Kate said at her eyes: Well don’t you.

And then the baby Shelby said: I love you.

Then aunt Kate had water at her eyes, I love you too, she said, and she sat more contentedly near Granma’s ash cup.

I hope you kin forget how she acts to me, aunt Kate said: You shouldn’t see your Granma any different just because she picks and chooses.

She cleared her face.

When she learned that I wasn’t raised as good as she’d have liked, aunt Kate said: It was like she’d run a skunk over.

Then, though a little waters was still at her eyes, aunt Kate laughed: And I believed I was a skunk, too, for the first while, she said.

The door whined long, so aunt Kate cleared her face again: You won’t never have to worry like me, she said.

[Anonymous No.12264042]

>>12260526
general advice:
- be constructive, unless it's literally complete trash then don't feel bad about just putting "unsalvagable" or smth
- don't post huge quantities of work. if it doesn't fit into a single post, just take an excerpt
- if someone posts their own work in the same post critiquing yours, its good manners to critique theirs back
- you can say it's bad without knowing why. that's still useful info. you can say why a feature is bad (eg rhythm, word choice, structure) without having to suggest an improvement
- critique other people's work if you post

[Anonymous No.12264219]

>>12264042
i've been posting crits in this thread for maybe a year now, and have recently been thinking about making a crit guide, because i don't think it's hard

firstly, orwell's main rules, from PatEL:
>i. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
>ii. Never use a long word where a short one will do.
>iii. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
>iv. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
>v. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
>vi. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.

(also, from the same essay, try to use gerund verbs instead of noun constructions, e.g. "by examining" instead of "by examination")

aside from that, the most frequent issues, in order, are:
>1. not writing about interesting things
>2. too many adverbs.
if you're going to use modifiers, please see pic-related
>3. non-varying sentence structures and sentence starters
>4. overuse of impact-softeners
e.g. just, maybe, even, quite, at least, basically, like, kind of, rather, for one, only, a bit, a little
the prevalence of this issue here is interesting because it is not usually a problem for aspiring writers. i honestly honestly think it's a side-effect of the number of insecure betas posting here.
>5. specifiying too much about how someone says something
e.g. "he bellowed", "she mumbled sheepishly"
>6. adjective adjective noun
>7. super long sentences
>8. never using indirect dialogue

many of these come under "show don't tell": you give the reader the minimum possible information for them to themselves generate an accurate and affecting version of what's in your head. This is more natural, and less patronising, than walking through it bit-by-bit. If you "tell" too much, you run the risk of repeating (or, even worse, retconning) something the reader has already envisioned


now can someone pls crit me ahahaha >>12262951
https://pastebin.com/9zPMXGmN

[Anonymous No.12264422]

i hope i get a critique before this thread dies :(

[Anonymous No.12264628]

>>12264422
Which is yours?

[Anonymous No.12264670]

well there's this: >>12257683 which is bad but ive heard nothing about
and there's this: >>12263357 which is better, but i have received feedback in a previous thread.

xx

[Anonymous No.12264679]

>>12264193
Critiques ?

[Anonymous No.12264694]

>>12264679
fuck off lmao. that is the lamest method to bait someone into critiquing your passage.
to critique tho: it's dull in both style and content

[Anonymous No.12264697]

>>12264694
I disagree. It's quite good.

[Anonymous No.12264718]

>>12263443
?????
Did you lie to me? >>12261363
>>12261395

[Anonymous No.12264748]

>>12264718
Probably not the same poster.

[Anonymous No.12264759]

i was writing what i thought would be a p e r v e r t e d girls' school story but it's running away with itself. this is the 4th wall breaking

[Anonymous No.12264763]

He continued to walk down the ever busy street, people angrily and fearfully rushing amongst the sidewalk. The road was clouded with so many bodies that it would be near impossible for a car to park in it, let alone drive. Yelling and shouting filled the air, not of urgency, but of desperation. He looked around him taking in the view; the view of the man breaking the glass of a nearby shop, the child attempting to keep up with her rushing mother, or the woman slowly walking towards him. She seemed like a picture to him, an image of a lone figure standing above the fog as if she knew something he never could, and as she passed him she let out a sad, yet knowing smile. He gazed into it and fell deeply in love with it.
There is a certain beauty in the impact of simple actions. A wave, a nod, a handshake. Such small, nearly unimportant, actions carry such a weight that one could not even imagine. A smile, oh dear Christ a smile. He wondered how many lives had been saved by a smile, how many had been ended, and how many ruined.
A small smile across the train would fill him with a joy so unique, so itself, that he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. He’d smile back, and in that short moment nothing would matter. Not his dead end job, his boring social life, or his ever stagnating mind. In that moment he was free, he was happy, and then that moment was gone.
And yet that same action can brought him such a haunting pain. A sad smile would fill his heart with a cynic’s solidarity. In that moment he would feel empathy bearing down on him and pulling him into distant fantasies. He’d tell himself that he’d do anything to help, but that moment too would pass and reality would set in as he simply continued his life leaving others to theirs.
As he lifted his head he realized he had done just that, the girl had kept walking now behind him. He cast one last glance at her, turned around, and kept walking himself. He had always found timing to be a funny thing, biding his time for opportunities while missing the ones right in front of him. There was a certain irony in it, he had come to find, a truth that he found too troubling to accept.

[Anonymous No.12264915]

>idiot friends keep saying my writing is good
>(, (2 85! ; $#
Know Jr's bad
Know it's bad.

[Anonymous No.12265272]

>>12264763
>first word is a pronoun
dropped immediately

[Anonymous No.12265293]

>>12265272
lmaooo this is so true

[Anonymous No.12265332]

>>12265293
>>12265272
All me

[Anonymous No.12265390]

[Anonymous No.12265394]

>>12263613
It also has to sing

[Anonymous No.12265612]

[Anonymous No.12265715]

When the world ended
we did not stand on cliffs overlooking our cities
the fortunate lay and drowsed on their couches,
they were not at all disturbed

There was no final omen as had been pronounced-
the sky did not go abruptly dark
cosmic trumpets did not interrupt our routine
the same pornography retained its typical importance

When the world ended it did so in secret

When it really happened the buildings
did not buckle and what is beautiful
and immortal of us was not assumed
into the next life or the a higher dimension

When the world ended it was
unremarkable,
unimpressive,
unsatisfactory

No one poured themselves a consolatory glass
no one waited naked in their corner of the dark to die

our finest vintages went unconsumed

Love songs and love confessions
died unsung and unconfessed-

the next day we all went back to work

The police were not called
the government was not alarmed
cats did not cease to kill birds for sport
and leave the feathered bodies at their fed-up owners’ feet

As we passed through the streets
no sandwich board man shouted:

Last night the conspirators won
all of our gods were assassinated
all of their children were smothered
my words have marked me for death
my disappearance will be the sign of my truth

Hell arrived and established its dominion

Children were not excused from school
the soldiers were not granted leave of their posts,
in the prisons the prisoners were in no way pardoned
the debtors were in now way relieved of their debts

We were in a stairwell at the Eighth and Market Station
your hands were cold and their skin was cracked

yet as I held them I was certain
I was never meant to hold anything more precious

This was the summit of my years, indeed,
and you kissed me to sleep

[Anonymous No.12265736]

>>12265715

So basically this is the first thing in a new project and the concept is that the world is already over and we're all just trying to live in a world that's already dead by the morals of the people who killed it. I have another piece coming forward that's a dialogue where we talk about the world and how we conceptualize it except it's a machine but the machines we visualize aren't contemporary ones but those we understand because somebody showed us how they work.

This is all just psycho babble. I don't know what I'm doing. I hope somebody likes it. I need to go to sleep.

[Anonymous No.12265861]

>>12265715
try hard fluff

[Anonymous No.12265876]

>>12265715
You haven't mastered the style you're trying to go for. Read the poetry of Kenneth Patchen. I think you'll find good inspiration there.

[Anonymous No.12265901]

(1/2)
Annette was a habitual liar. She played people like violins. She knew how to walk on eggshells, she knew every answer had to be in the affirmative. She said yes to the schoolteacher when asked if she had considered the summer job (she hadn’t), she said yes to her father when he asked if her grades were still phenomenal (they weren’t), and when her mother asked if things were still going steady with her and Johnny she said yes (they hadn’t spoken in months).
On the road she was stopped by Mrs. Chesterhouse.
“Heard news from Lester that you have an uncle, and that he’s in town.”
“Where did Lester see him?”
“Down at the bar, I think.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Why, no. I don’t. Is there trouble, Annette? Do you need my help.”
“Not in the slightest. Everything is just great. I’m trying to find him for supper is all. He left this morning looking for work and hasn’t been back since.”
“Is he not working down in the hardware store?”
“The hardware store is a job for him on the side, he says, the family business was never for him, he says, grandpa put pressure on the first born, my dad, my Leonard, he says, and that is something he doesn’t want to disturb, not to put pressure on Grandpa, he says, even though he’s in the grave.”
“Oh. Well, in that case I hear there are some openings at the lumber mill north of town. Twenty minutes up the road.”
“I’ll be sure to let him know.”
“You should run along now, darling, the temperature is dropping.”
“I’ll make sure to be home before sundown, Mrs. Chesterhouse.”
“Send my love to your mother,”
“Yes ma’am.”

[Anonymous No.12265906]

>>12265901
(2/2)
Annabelle went away. Some faint notion pulled her away from the town center towards the bar on the edge of town. With ragged clothes and a warm heart, she could see herself pulling him out of that grime, out of that life, and into a world that was safe and clean, and which could propel him unceasingly onwards and upwards towards...what? She realized how utterly naive her idea of salvation was, as if the loaf of bread and pack of cigarettes could turn the life of a man around, but that was not enough. She thought, even if she did find this man, her uncle, that with no reservations whatever alms or help would be immediately be squandered by him, and this, even if she could achieve the goal of finding him, with the vague parameters, the helpless movement across town, the lack of leads or clues, would mean nothing, mean nothing to her, mean nothing to him.
She kept the mad search up in spite of this. Entering the tavern, a thousand dirty heads turned towards her.
“This isn’t the place for you,” the bartender said peeking over into the nook of the doorway, “you should be getting along.”
“Have you seen my uncle?”
“You’re Leonard’s daughter aren’t you?”
“Yes sir, I am.”
“You tell your dad to come back, now, we’ve been missing his company for quite a while now.”
“My daddy doesn’t come here because liquor no longer agrees with him, because of his sickness.”
“Well, once he gets nice and healed up, tell him to come on down.”
“I will.”
“So, about your uncle, Vincent, he came down here last night and drank up a storm.”
“That sounds like him.”
“You two close?”
“I’ve never met him. My father and him, they, well, they have some problems.”
“I understand. He was up and awake most of the night. The only liable shade he can catch up in these parts without getting hollered at is under that old Magnolia tree. You know the one? Up on the hill right outside the town square? Anyways, going there is a good a guess as any.”
“Thank you very much sir,”
“You too sweetie, don’t let Vincent smoke up all those cigarettes now, save some for yourself, does good for your nerves.”

[Anonymous No.12266168]

He hated the Farmer and her family. Out of all the wretched people in this God-unvisited town, he hated the Farmer's family the least, but it was hate all the same. Unlike the Clerk or the Socialite, whom he hated because of what they represented, Karl hated the Farmer family out for different representations.
Every morning he was roused from sleep by that cripple who held his chain, and because he was too much a cripple to earn himself rent, he would be leased off to the Farmers. How he wished he could drag his feet as he plowed someone else's land and not his own; to break their equipment, as to show them how the fires from their damnable magic had destroyed his. Every thought he spent brewed within his mind, to the cusp of frothing rage. He might've screamed, his rage wringing out anguish until his throat went hoarse. But he could not. He instead 'did as he was told by the Farmers while he worked, and to act in a manner befitting a thrall to someone so great'. How could he do otherwise, when their commands bypassed his volition - into action without thought even occuring? His life was a walking daydream, actions without thoughts and thoughts without actions.
But Karl did not hate them because he was stripped of his volition. Wasn't their deed. They were polite and kind enough, and at times would offer him refreshments - inedible to Karl sans the ice water. No, it was his envy and their ignorance that he hated about them. His dreams of a home to call his own, to rebuild his tattered, forgotten family name, snuffed out in sorcerous fire. And yet here these Farmers were! The most prosperous farm in their province! A family name seeded throughout the nation, and legacy as deep to match its breadth! His dreams were shown to him in a warped prism: the ashes of his dreams turned into a towering inferno, with puke-colored flames broken about at odd angles.
Yet still, large flames cast long shadows, and the most sickening shadow of all laid on their doorstep. It slugged into the farm when the Clerk or the Socialite came to visit, and it grew more when new migrants, puffed-up on the latest of social trends, came from the Capital to make their new home in this 'land of opportunity'. All the while the Farmer and her family did nothing to stem this. They welcomed it with open arms, and opted to throw more fuel on the flames to make a celebratory bonfire! They should be casting out these shadows! Driving them into the light to reveal what shifty and scheming little things shadows can be to evade the dawn! And yet still, a flame cannot bare itself against shadows forever, and the shadows will push back the fire. Slowly at first, as the darkness around the flames strengthens itself until the light cannot ever push back, and then the shadows shall swoop in. Then the Farmer and her family will look around to see that their flame is near dead. All that is left is darkness ready to tear apart those damn yokels. Just as he had.
And that is why he hated them.

[Anonymous No.12266176]

>>12265901
>>12265906
So governed by cliche and dead metaphors. I am incredulous.

[Anonymous No.12266236]

>>12256207

He was a journalist and had the look of one. His face said “I sit on my ass all day and my dick is so small i use my thumb and index finger to jerk off. “

—“then why do you spend all day looking at cctv footage? Get a new career. Get a life. “

“Because i get to chat with the feds,” he said. “It’s the only social interaction i get. It’s basically my life. Without it, i’d go home to an empty apartment and id be alone.”

—“you realize you’re killing people with your fake news, robbing them of their lives so you can make your useless, empty one more meaningful,” i replied, beginning to feel my blood boil.

“What am i doing that no one else would do in my position,” he demanded to know “there are a few billion people starving on earth, there are thousands getting raped and murdered daily. If i sisn’t report this nonsense someone else would. Besides, who gives a duck about any of it? If i cared brother, if i cared, i couldnt function in life. One needs a certain distance from it all.”

I was so angry i could have knocked him out and raped him right there. The coldness, the pure lack of empathy and entitlement, the sheer gall of such a weak crybaby faggot feeling he owned the earth without a modicum of the strength expected of leaders foe millenia, the very reason the elite in france for fucked over and over in the nineteenth century.

“You’re an imbecile,” I said, not holding anything back, “a pampered, useless, overeducated imbecile, a rapist and a faggot, an overpaid waste of space, an embarrassment, a type in the USA that will be despised in a few decades when everyone realizes this country has been stripped of its wealth by the ruling jews and their dick suckers in our government, when your children’s children will have to such chinese dick”

Tbc

[Anonymous No.12266496]

>>12266168
I'm hooked.

[Anonymous No.12266527]

>>12265861

Wtf is hard fluff

[Anonymous No.12266528]

>>12266236
y i k e s
Reeks of an inability to detach from one's hatred of urbanite liberals in order to use their creativity to create a more believable character or social interaction

That or this is a really good ironic rendition as to why nu-/pol/ is so insufferable in its attempts at being articulate

[Anonymous No.12266560]

>>12257790
Others seem to have gone in depth, so I'll say that you have some rhymes, hopefully done intentionally, however they don't always work.
>Scents of wilted incense
here you repeat the sound of "scents and cense" which sounds silly however "wilted incense" sounds good imo
Why do you say "a taut corn stalk" is it to create assonance? It just sounds weird and as an American I would always say tight.

[Anonymous No.12266564]

>>12258748
It sounds like you are writing shit, put it away and find a better idea

[Anonymous No.12266614]

>I hate writing poetry. Yet here we are.

I found myself
Among many in your shape,
None were you.
My body is a suffocating tape,
Pulled to last, for a simple use.

Your kiss burnt my skin
Same as the sun
Looking down on Ferhat,
Digging for his Shirin.
It dragged me in to the abyss,
And I fell flat.

Your eyes would shine stronger than
The Yakamoz over the Mediterranean.
Athena’s dresser rising above
Full of serenity.

Your fingers were perfect
For all the rings of Ares,
And the cold
Diamonds of Hades,
Charmed by Aphrodite.

Now I am back to the dark eternal,
You let me go and now I walk alone again.
Yet all I experience is the fall.
You still appear in the smoke,
Anytime I light up one
In the rain.

[Anonymous No.12267016]

>>12264759
This is amazing

[Anonymous No.12267019]

>>12264759
You should make this into a VN. Meta shit like DDLC is hot these days.

[Anonymous No.12267125]

Hierarchy and Suffering
When I was 12 I got an iPad for my birthday. The product had just launched, and I had to hold the object of envy in my hands. I had to be seen with it. I never was. Most of the time with it was spent in my room. I had a bean bag on my bed. There was no frame. A TV was set atop the high dresser. I stopped using it. My iPad was all I needed. I looked up the trailer for 2001: A Space Odyssey. It was the first video I watched. After going through the endless catalogue of tech reviews and music videos, I had the urge to look up pornography.
I had begun masturbating that January. I went into the bathroom and left the tap running. I would lay there so long my back would grow stiff, and my mouth would be dry, but I would keep going through it all. There was always a nervous tension to masturbating as a teenager. Every door was a grenade waiting to go off. I would throw a blanket over my cock and balls any time footfalls came too close to my door. There was a strange feeling in nervous masturbation, like having two parallel emotions riding the circuits of my neuropathy. I have experienced the same feeling as an adult during certain regrettable sexual encounters. Sexual pleasure for men is a binary experience. Either you don’t like something, or you do. When you are masturbating as a young teenager and your mother rasps on the door right at the moment of orgasm, that is the dissolution of binary sexual pleasure, that is the bad feeling and the good feeling all twisted together. I ride that nervous wave of sexual pleasure
When I got the iPad it was porn heaven. I am saddened by those empty days, I wish I could take them back. I could have been outside riding bikes. The normal life was at my doorstep, but I brashly kicked it away. As a child you do not have to live with your decisions, you just have to live with your parents, which is just as bad.

[Anonymous No.12267713]

>>12267125
Is this going to continue or is it a complete piece?

[Anonymous No.12268143]

>>12258193
are you a native spanish speaker?

I'm asking because I want to read the last lines as "y los ojos *mas* rojos que una fina capa de polvo" but I'm not sure if this is correct (or what you wanted)

I also wonder why specifically write about this god, and why be afraid of it? Or why not want it to visit?

[Anonymous No.12268265]

>>12263837
>>12263855
I think his (or her) posts are their writing exercise. If so, then it at least fooled you (and it's also confusing me) so hopefully they can feel confident about writing a manic narrative. But idk maybe I'm the bi-polar one

[Anonymous No.12268474]

I'm worried that I'm using semicolons and colons incorrectly here. Any advice on how and when they should be used in poems? and if I've used them in a way that makes sense?

I'm also worried that rhyme and meter might be forced here. Any comments on improving flow?

Thanks

[Anonymous No.12268551]

>>12268474
I think your syllable count is not consistent between stanzas. For this style, you really want consistency of rhyme scheme and meter.
Also, be wary of this sort of word choice
>This thick black tar
Your metrical pattern is made of iambs, which would ideally read like this
>this THICK black TAR
But because "this" is generally stressed in regular speech, it sounds funny as an unstressed syllable. This also true for the word "black", which has a really strong consonant sound that transitions poorly into the equally strong "T" in "tar".
So just consider the way words are normally stressed and try to fit them into your meter.
You didn't ask about subject matter style, but you might consider reevaluating the tone you take here, and make sure it's appropriate for the time, place, and subject matter, and accurately reflects your feelings.

[Anonymous No.12268566]

I can not think of how to show you an excerpt from a chapter of your own novel in Spanish because you would not find it meaningful.

[https://medium.com/@StephenDan(...) No.12268598]

My Final Sonnet for E.A.S.

I returned this year an embittered, hopeless soul
Who’d found himself adrift a starless sea.
No longer did I have her light to patrol
My way along that dark and trecharous deep.
It seems so long since your opaque reply,
Yet still my soul it burns with scornèd glee
Near every time your posture passes by
My weary form, your argent devotee.
Alas, I fear our time has come to end -
No longer shall we share these playful flirts
For all I’ve asked advised me to suspend
Our talks, so someday I’ll forget this hurt.
Farewell, my love, I hope you’ll someday see
How much your company truly meant to me.

[Anonymous No.12268600]

I can not think of how to show you an excerpt from a chapter of my own novel in Spanish because you would not find it meaningful.

[Anonymous No.12268606]

>>12264759
nice idea but i think you need to work on making your prose more flowing and readable

[Anonymous No.12268637]

>>12264759
>>12267019
i rebuilt the 4th wall

>>12268606
how would one do this

[Anonymous No.12268656]

>>12268551
Thank you.

I get what you mean about the first line, but was too attached to "black tar meninges" to fix it. But you've convinced me to change it.
Not sure how to describe the stanzas, but I tried writing them as
>4 iambic feet
>4 iambic feet
>6 iambic feet
until the 7th stanza which ends with 7 feet. Here is where I think I'm sacrificing readability for some kind of "hidden" organization. Based on your response and my intuition it probably isn't worth it.

>You didn't ask about subject matter style, but you might consider reevaluating the tone you take here, and make sure it's appropriate for the time, place, and subject matter, and accurately reflects your feelings.

What do you mean for the time, place, and subject matter? For current times, so that the feelings are relatable? Or for the character narrating, as in it doesn't seem like what an overdosing kid would think?

Again, thanks for the feedback.

[Anonymous No.12268804]

>>12268474
>>12268656
fixed first line and a line where I accidentally included too many syllables. I like these threads. Anyone in here ever had luck submitting (and selling) their work?

[Anonymous No.12268810]

>>12268804
forgot pic

[Anonymous No.12268816]

I tried writing a sort of short cosmic horror story that baited people into thinking it was a "woe is us, poor native Americans, the white man's evil" sort of story and turn it around into an indescribable horror what turns both whites and natives into victims.
Most people who read it misunderstood it and took it for exactly the opposite of what I was aiming for, and I'd like to know whether that was my fault, as I'm inclined to believe, or if they just didn't see it because it flew over their heads.
The main criticism I'm looking for here is whether or not I overdid the ambiguity of the tale. Feel free to criticize the rest if you want, of course.
https://pastebin.com/iMK56kW0

[Anonymous No.12268920]

In those curls which
knot in dusky tufts,
an exaltation
of
control and discipline, tip
toeing with soft, effortless flair.

the eyes do not
look too far off,
a natural timidness
wielding itself sternly;
a hare glazed in bronze.

elm wood brown her skin,
but this is not enough
to say of what arises in
her shade, it is as if
something continually
and
carefully is baking
beneath the flesh,
is this its golden blush?
something of our ancestry…

the hands which pecked
between naps of
my hair in youth,
removing clutter, today
groom greens and fruits and
pull up weeds, they type
away at analytical
charts.
something i did not understand
when young, and do not now.

but these are her arts and
in some sense i am as well,

and like all artists she
questions the richness
of her work. but
if my art could sing to me
as nurtured gardens do,
as i do now, amaturely, well
something must have been done
wonderfully.

[Anonymous No.12268936]

Portrait of my Mother

In those curls which
knot in dusky tufts,
an exaltation
of
control and discipline, tip
toeing with soft, effortless flair.

the eyes do not
look too far off,
a natural timidness
wielding itself sternly;
a hare glazed in bronze.

elm wood brown her skin,
but this is not enough
to say of what arises in
her shade, it is as if
something continually
and
carefully is baking
beneath the flesh,
is this its golden blush?
something of our ancestry…

the hands which pecked
between naps of
my hair in youth,
removing clutter, today
groom greens and fruits and
pull up weeds, they type
away at analytical
charts.
something i did not understand
when young, and do not now.

but these are her arts and
in some sense i am as well,

and like all artists she
questions the richness
of her work. but
if my art could sing to me
as nurtured gardens do,
as i do now, amaturely, well
something must have been done
wonderfully.

[Anonymous No.12268958]

>>12268816
>a "woe is us, poor native Americans, the white man's evil" sort of story and turn it around into an indescribable horror what turns both whites and natives into victims.
A quick read through gave me this impression. What did other people misunderstand it as implying?

[Anonymous No.12268975]

>>12268936
Nice. You should share it with her if you haven't yet. Is she a botanist?

[Anonymous No.12268994]

These are sinopsis of 3 own novellas:
>The beginning of an era marked the end of a horrible civil war between genders of a distant race in a nearby galaxy, the last man who will also be the main protagonist of this novel. Starting from the minimum and being the only son of the queen, heroine of such a civil war; He demonstrated skill and respect, becoming the martyr of the race. But they murdered him, remaining in a coma for months until being revived by the breed's own technology. No one knows what will happen: will his eternal suffering end or will he only remain the target of a great amount of attacks against his being?
>The guardian of the balance of the planet; that for generations maintained that power under his care; It ended up being forgotten after a horrible war between 2 sides. The possessor of light and darkness; 2 elements of the planet itself; it is the last hope against a dictator, in which he had no mercy with his life... but he would not have it against him either. Along with his elemental counterpart, his group and the love itself that would keep him alive; it would end with an event between 2 worlds. Will he be able to finalize his role in this generation; or will he die, creating a darkness in the planet's own history?
>Entering the year 2084, a completely cyberpunk society; A lineage ended up marking a predefined maximum: freeing a Valkyrie, paying her own life in progress. Being revived after 2 years; this spirit that can reach the physical plane to protect it from everything; It is at the great crossroads of a powerful virus that is wreaking havoc among androids and some cyborgs on the planet. I would not be alone; the inclusion of 2 soldiers of his age; A magician using technological principles, a sweet android and a powerful battle droid would be her allies. But this would end up paying a price, and our protagonist will fall under... Can he finish with this impossible challenge? Or will failing the planet itself fall into an impossible war?

[Anonymous No.12269090]

>>12268975

Yes she is, it's her Christmas gift!

[Coke Zero No.12269153]

>>12264759
I like this. I don't exactly care for meta, but theme aside, the writing is crisp and engaging. I would continue reading.

>>12264763
>He continued to walk down the ever busy street, people angrily and fearfully rushing amongst the sidewalk.
"ever x" is cliched. "amongst" doesn't work.
>The road was clouded with so many bodies that it would be near impossible for a car to park in it, let alone drive.
You're overthinking. What does it matter that a car couldn't park there? How is that significant? Just saying that the street was clouded should be enough to communicate the mood. When you fail to discard the bad ideas, your writing becomes cluttered and frustrating.
>Yelling and shouting filled the air, not of urgency, but of desperation.
Fine. . .
> He looked around him taking in the view; the view of the man breaking the glass of a nearby shop, the child attempting to keep up with her rushing mother, or the woman slowly walking towards him.
"looking around and taking in the view" is some major redundancy. This scene is becoming a mess. The use of "or" throws it off completely, but that's beside the point.

>>12266168
> in this God-unvisited town,
Good job trying to skew the cliche, but the result is awkward-sounding.
>Unlike the Clerk or the Socialite, whom he hated because of what they represented, Karl hated the Farmer family out for different representations.
This had the potential to be really funny, but what does "representations" mean, when you're talking about the farmer family? You lost me.
>Every morning he was roused from sleep by that cripple who held his chain, and because he was too much a cripple to earn himself rent, he would be leased off to the Farmers.
>The cripple holds his own chain? Otherwise, I like this sentence.
>Every thought he spent brewed within his mind
Doesn't make sense

[Anonymous No.12269234]

>>12268958
They thought that the second wave of "white men" coming out of the sea were actual white people coming on boats instead of these humanoids, so pale they might as well be transparent monstrosities literally emerging from the sea chasing after the Europeans who had escaped the Old World trying to get away from them.
The idea was that those monsters had spawned somewhere in the Old World, be it Europe, Asia, hell, even Africa, and the whites who arrived at America in this reality weren't running away for religious reasons, but rather not to be massacred by an unfathomable foe that in the end not even the sea could keep at bay.
Basically, readers thought that the white men were how a native perceived white humans, when in reality I wanted to portray actual monsters that hunt any living creature they catch.

[Anonymous No.12269318]

>>12268656
>>12268810
>What do you mean for the time, place, and subject matter?
I mean that some of your imagery is very archaic (alluding to Lucifer and heaven's gate). And the whole poem sort of sounds like it was written 200 years ago, which might be what you're trying to do, I don't know. I was just recommending that you examine whether you intended to sound that way, or if you're following your influences too closely, or adhering to your idea of poetry rather than honestly communicating your feelings.

[Anonymous No.12269333]

>>12268936
Really nice. I recommend rewriting it in prose to evaluate the necessity of all the line breaks.

[Anonymous No.12269387]

>>12269234
Got you. In that case then yes, I caught that the new arrival was different somehow, but thought they were similar enough to the first white men to be closer to them than to the natives. Isn't this why the natives killed the members of the first group that joined them in the escape? Again, I quickly read through it so maybe that's why I didn't catch that this new group was something completely different. I also want to compare the first group to peaceful missionaries and the second group to capitalists, while still imagining them as the same creatures from the same land.

Describing the origin of the second group might help clear this up for readers. Somehow implying that they took over the old world, maybe through some failed communication between the first group and the natives.

[Anonymous No.12269426]

>>12269318
wasn't consciously going for that old sound so that's good to know. I've been reading Exodus and Keats so maybe that's why it's on my mind. But yeah, good to know for future work.

[Anonymous No.12269956]

whoops
>>12264670 was meant for >>12264628

:(

[Anonymous No.12270062]

>>12264219
thanks anon, I'll uses these as a rule of thumb.

[Anonymous No.12270142]

How smart are readers, /lit/?

[Anonymous No.12270904]

>>12270142
write so that your grandmother would understand

[Anonymous No.12271085]

>>12256207
caminamos por el sendero de piedras cuadradas
fue una eternidad de felicidad
el sol caía en su mejilla
el viento olía a tierra mojada y hierba

[Anonymous No.12271327]

“Well,” he said, slowing down his circuitous speech, “we’ve reached the end of your journey through the 12 rings of initiation. Congratulations on completing phase one, and remember, whether you ever come back here or not is up to you. I know there were some tough moments over the past month, but hey, you survived. You had me worried though. I’ve never seen someone struggle like that in the depths of levels 4-Q and 5-zZ3, and I commend you for not pulling the plug on us after that incident. Holy shit man, you looked like you were completely gone. I was really freaked out, man. When I tell you that you were wailing on the floor, clutching my legs I hope you don’t think I’m fucking with you. Pulling you out of whatever shit hole you were in was like the hardest thing I’ve had to do in my career. In all honesty, I didn’t think you were gonna make it bud. I thought they’d have to hide you away for a while until we evaluated the trigger and figured out a way to bring you close to baseline. As much as I have faith in our methods, I don’t think we’d be prepared to treat a permanent case of whatever came upon you. Don’t take offense to this, but what really stirred me was the thought of this beautiful faction being exposed and suppressed. We couldn’t afford the resources needed to tend to something like that. By the way, I think I deserve a little applause for saving you from the bill they would’ve hit you with if you came around. We’re talking years of complicated holistic work, buddy. Anyway, I definitely couldn’t risk letting you leave in that state, attracting the attention of one of those holier-than-thou officials with the AMA. ‘Local, mildly-neurotic man, 25, left in vegetative state as a result of botched experimentation led by underground alternative healing practice’. That would be the end of us. The entirety of our operations instantly distorted in the public eye because of one crazed rat.

[Anonymous No.12271331]

>>12269153
I wasnt trying to skew the cliche for the sake of it, it was more so to with the idea that 'God-forsaken' means God made it, then abandoned it, where as 'God-unvisited' implies God has never been to the town to begin with, presenting the notion that where the characters currently are is not of this Earth
Though, yes, specifying that the chain the cripple holds is Karl's, and changing it 'His thoughts brewed in his mind' would be better
Thanks

[Anonymous No.12271564]

The boy woke up, rubbed his eyes, and looked out the window at the tree in the garden. He began toying dreamily with the cross his father had put around his neck, then slipped off the armchair, and walked out of the room, dragging his little feet across the floor. In the foyer, he picked up an old brass looking glass that had been sitting on a bookshelf, and examined it closely. He tested it, but it was dusty, so he wiped the dust off on his shirt. Then the boy crept upstairs with the looking glass, careful not to make a sound.

He walked slowly down the hallway, dragging his fingers along the wall, and stopped in front of his bedroom. The door was open, and he saw through the window on the far wall immediately opposite, a sparrow fly down and perch itself on the windowsill. The boy watched it from a room away. Its head jerked about, but its eyes were fixed on the boy. The boy blushed, and looked away. Then he looked down at the looking glass in his hand. When he looked back up, the sparrow was gone.

The boy moved slowly forward again until he reached the room at the end of the hall, his father's study. The door was closed. He stared silently at the door for a few moments, quite unsure, then knelt down in front of the keyhole, from which a strong stream of light was piercing through into the dim hallway. He held the looking glass to his eye, and looked through the keyhole. Immediately he lurched back and rubbed his eye. The light was blinding; the afternoon sun must have been shining directly through the window inside the room.

The boy's vision was left with a glowing red blind spot that flashed when he closed his eyes. He looked straight ahead at the door, and then at the wall, until he noticed the blind spot beginning to fade. Then he tried once more to get a glimpse of his father on the other side, this time placing the looking glass on the floor beside him, and putting his naked eye directly up to the keyhole. But in an instant, his eyes went dark, he felt himself forced back against the floor with a thud, and when he came to, a sharp and unbearable pain around his eye. He clutched at his face and began to weep. When the boy opened his eyes, he looked up from the floor, and through his cloudy vision, he could see the enormous, dark figure of his father standing overhead.

His father reached down, and with one arm, picked the boy up, and held him tight to his chest. The boy buried his face in his father's shoulder, clutching in his little fist the cross his father had given him that day, and he wept.

[Anonymous No.12271593]

The boy woke up, rubbed his eyes, and looked out the window at the tree in the garden. He began toying dreamily with the cross his father had put around his neck, then slipped off the armchair, and walked out of the room, dragging his little feet across the floor. In the foyer, he picked up an old brass looking glass that had been sitting on a bookshelf, and examined it closely. He tested it, but it was dusty, so he wiped the dust off on his shirt. Then the boy crept upstairs with the looking glass, careful not to make a sound.

He walked slowly down the hallway, dragging his fingers along the wall, and stopped in front of his bedroom. The door was open, and he saw through the window on the far wall immediately opposite, a sparrow fly down and perch itself on the windowsill. The boy watched it from a room away. Its head jerked about, but its eyes were fixed on the boy. The boy blushed, and looked away. Then he looked down at the looking glass in his hand. When he looked back up, the sparrow was gone.

The boy moved slowly forward again until he reached the room at the end of the hall, his father's study. The door was closed. He stared silently at the door for a few moments, quite unsure, then knelt down in front of the keyhole, from which a strong stream of light was piercing through into the dim hallway. He held the looking glass to his eye, and looked through the keyhole. Immediately he lurched back and rubbed his eye. The light was blinding; the afternoon sun must have been shining directly through the window inside the room.

The boy's vision was left with a glowing red blind spot that flashed when he closed his eyes. He looked straight ahead at the door, and then at the wall, blinking, until he noticed the blind spot beginning to fade. Then he tried once more to get a glimpse of his father on the other side, this time placing the looking glass on the floor beside him, and putting his naked eye directly up to the keyhole. But in an instant, his eyes went dark, he felt himself forced back against the floor with a thud, and when he came to, a sharp and unbearable pain around his eye. He clutched at his face and began to weep. When the boy opened his eyes, he looked up from the floor, and through his cloudy vision, he could see the enormous, dark figure of his father standing overhead.

His father reached down, and with one arm, picked the boy up, and held him tight to his chest. The boy buried his face in his father's shoulder, clutching in his little fist the cross his father had given him that morning as a gift, and he wept.

[Anonymous No.12271599]

The boy woke up, rubbed his eyes, and looked out the window at the tree in the garden. He began toying dreamily with the cross his father had put around his neck, then slipped off the armchair, and walked out of the room, dragging his little feet across the floor. In the foyer, he picked up an old brass looking glass that had been sitting on a bookshelf, and examined it closely. He tested it, but it was dusty, so he wiped the dust off on his shirt. Then the boy crept upstairs with the looking glass, careful not to make a sound.

He walked slowly down the hallway, trailing his fingertips along the wall, and stopped in front of his bedroom. The door was open, and he saw through the window on the far wall immediately opposite, a sparrow fly down and perch itself on the windowsill. The boy watched it from a room away. Its head jerked about, but its eyes were fixed on the boy. The boy blushed, abashed, and looked away. Then he looked down at the looking glass in his hand. When he looked back up, the sparrow was gone.

The boy moved slowly forward again until he reached the room at the end of the hall, his father's study. The door was closed. He stared silently at the door for a few moments, quite unsure, then knelt down in front of the keyhole, from which a strong stream of light was piercing through into the dim hallway. He held the looking glass to his eye, and looked through the keyhole. Immediately he lurched back and rubbed his eye. The light was blinding; the afternoon sun must have been shining directly through the window inside the room.

The boy's vision was left with a glowing red blind spot that flashed when he closed his eyes. He looked straight ahead at the door, and then at the wall, blinking, until he noticed the blind spot beginning to fade. Then he tried once more to get a glimpse of his father on the other side, this time placing the looking glass on the floor beside him, and putting his naked eye directly up to the keyhole. But in an instant, his eyes went dark, he felt himself forced back against the floor with a thud, and when he came to, a sharp and unbearable pain around his eye. He clutched at his face and began to weep. When the boy opened his eyes, he looked up from the floor, and through his cloudy vision, he could see the enormous, dark figure of his father standing overhead.

His father reached down, and with one arm, picked the boy up, and held him tight to his chest. The boy buried his face in his father's shoulder, clutching in his little fist the cross his father had given him that morning as a gift, and he wept.

[Anonymous No.12271796]

>>12271599
this is from The Road

[Anonymous No.12271848]

>>12271796
No it's not.

[Anonymous No.12272012]

no warning for the innocent ones
they come to beat, bite, rape, kill and steal
and throw your broken carcass into the trash
a common courtesy of this upstanding world
this was seen, I have tasted their cruelty
someone came, resuscitated me
and stitched my face back together
yet failed to remove the taste
which lingered and pressed me to become
I am now one of them and I only want
to extend this warmth to you all

[Anonymous No.12272022]

I walk further down the street looking for a good shoe store. This guy, obviously sub 6'0 (really short) walks near me, daring to even get close to someone as grand as me, a 6'7 behemoth, a god in comparison to him. He probably abused substance during the developing years, he's also brown. No wonder he is so short! To make him mad I stop in front of him and put some vicodin in my mouth.

"Excuse me," The brown guy says trying to walk by my powerful figure.

"Listen here you fucking brown guy, you short disgusting brown guy with brown guy black ugly hair you fucking brownie like one I baked yesterday, see this? This is an opioid, it helps with my back. I am 23 and have terrible back pains, want to know why? I'm tall, and you are short, and fucking brown."

He looks really mad as he storms off with his blue jeans. What kind of idiot wears blue jeans? My black jeans are way better than this guys. Brown. Guy. Guy who is brown. Finally I find a good shoe store and walk in, having to duck my head a little because I'm just that tall and superior.

[Anonymous No.12272041]

>>12256207
Books for this feel?

[Anonymous No.12272988]

>>12267713
Nah man it's from a 400 page manuscript.

[Anonymous No.12273367]

I had a very vivid mental image and tried to put it into words, but I'm not sure if I could really convey it.
https://pastebin.com/8KgSGatg
As an aside, I really love writing descriptions of landscape but I wonder if my prose gets too purple. And desu it's not as fun to read as it is to write.

[Anonymous No.12274071]

>>12269387
>Isn't this why the natives killed the members of the first group that joined them in the escape?
The idea was that they killed them because they blamed them for bringing the horde in, and while they did have a point, in the end the monsters would have reached America sooner or later. I tried to leave some unsaid so as to incite the reader into reflecting.

[Anonymous No.12274093]

How do you develop your ideas?

Do you need to see the protagonist fully formed, or can you take a setting and start filling it with characters?

[Anonymous No.12274574]

>>12274093
I've only ever written one story, but I imagine that having strongly developed characters is the priority in storytelling. (The exception being thematically driven books like allegories, or world building stories like Tolkein's works which still contain some pretty good characters). I think that a good character will carry the reader through any setting and any plot.

[Anonymous No.12275701]

bump

[Anonymous No.12275955]

>>12275701
at least bump with a shitpost

[Anonymous No.12276167]

>>12256207

It was a smoldering summer afternoon, and the sun had been beating down on my porch for a couple of hours while i scrolled through facebook. By this time i could feel the swear drop down to my elbows, amd I was quite embarrassed to hear a feminine “hey you” while i was in the process of whiping my bicept against my jeans. I looked up to find none other than Constantina Maximilian, an up-and-coming though rather green politican in my state. There was a tall man in cargo shorts with a notebook with her, along with an impish, rather chubby woman in a long skirt holding a camera. Behind them a flat black SUV with tinted windows blocked my driveway.

“Mind if I ask you a question?”

Caught by complete surprise (I thought these things had always been carefully choreogeaphed) I said yes—no—yes, ok why not.”

She walked up my stoop while her entourage stayed back. The girl with the camera started typing on her phone while the tall man looked at gis watch.

“Suppose Trump really built a wall—and I’m not profiling here, I know you’re also hispanic because of a survey you filled—how would you as a fellow hispanic feel about it?”

The question made me feel uncomfortable because I didn’t feel i could say what I really thought. I felt a drop of sweat reach my lips which made me lick the saltiness off them. I adjusted my hat and moved my soaking hair further up my forehead.

“I’m Chicano,” i steadily said, “I had no choice in the matter. I love my people. I do. I really do. But i know that every country must have an immigration policy or else we’d all be run over by immigrants. It’s impossible foe countries not to have immigrarion laws and i don’t know what the people up there know or what they base their decisions on but i’m honest enough to tell you that kins of stuff isn’t within my ken. I had a buddy we useld to call Tamponada, a friend who made his way here from Tijuana about 10 years ago—-,” at which point her majesty cut me off.

She seemed a little angry, indignat even. “How can you say that when you owe youe life to immigration? If things had been the same when you were a kid you’d still be living in Mango Street. What makes you think you can deny to others what you received without ever working for it? Let me ask you something. Have you ever read 100 yeara of solitude, or The Alchemist?”

I looked at the tall white man and noticed he had been looking at her ass. As soon as i dis he looked up and our eyes met, at which point he scratched his nuts and turned his head to look at my neighbor’s 2003 sliver charger. I could feel my spirit start to boil.

“Listen pendeja,” I said “I don’t care what books you’ve picked up from the flea market or who hired you with the expectation of you eventually sucking their dick, and I understand the world isn’t fair, and I get that this hurts your fucking feelings, but you’re luckier than you know cabrona

[Anonymous No.12276333]

>>12276167


ao very fucking lucky hija de puta, I said, and I really don’t give a flying fuck about you, your questions, or your opinions.”

I took the cigarette in my mouth and flicked it at her feet, at which point the tall white man walked toward me until she placed the back of her hand on his chest and told him that it was ok. The girl’s thumb shot the camera off lowered it to her thighs. Maximilian looked geniuinely concerned. “What the fuck is your problem?” She asked looking at her two employees, “I’m one of you,” she said, “I genuinely fucking care.” I could see her eyes begin to water. “I’m not just fucking doing this for me. I’m a human being and a mexican,” she said using her index finger to jab towards the ground to emphasize the ending of her sentences. “I grew up as an immigrant, i have brothers and—,” she wiped tears from her face, “and sisters and I had to work fo minimum wage while getting my degree. It hasn’t been easy. I’m not a fucking robot,” she said bursting into tears and lowering the sleeves on her hoodie so that she could use them to wipe away the tears and the snot from her nose. “Every day i come out here,” dhe said, taking a moment to wipe her nose “and every day i get some fucking compa telling me i dont belong to the raza,” and maximilian burst inyo tears
Covering her eyes. The tall white body guard tried to comfort her but she pushed him away.

“Oh, I’ just tired. I’t tired and stressed and getting older,” and she wiped off both her eyes with her sleeves and sniffled. She looked at me straight in the eyes and asked “ what is it, what is it pishkin pavkilkalina, that you despise about me?” I looked into her eyes like we had known each other a long time and opened my door wide open, motioning for her to come in. “She looked at my piss stained couch and then back at my eyes, as if to say “ answer my question.”

I could do nothing but stare at the ridge of her nose for fear of losing confidence and studdering. I said in as putin-voiced as i could “i don’t know what you mean, ask wojeck,” qmd that single word “wojeck” was enough to set her off, as I had hoped it would.

“Wojeck!? Wojeck!?” she exclaimed, “what THE FUCK does wojeck have to do with anything? Is it because I’m a woman!? Are my tits too fucking cow like!? Is it because you can FUCKING picture me ontop of another man bouncing up and down while my udders do the same!? is it because i’m emotionally weaker than you?! Because i’m physically weaker than you!??! Because i’ve been hired to basically suck dick!?! Because you can picture me riding some 90 year old for money? Why THE FUCK won’t you respect me?

I couldn’t resist feigning picking my nose and flicking it at her direction, while grabbing a thong-like strap on my wall and snapping it like a thong while telling her that “This is America” and kicking her hard enough in the cheet to break thewindowsonhersuv

[Fw No.12276479]

Written today

[Fw No.12276521]

>>12276479
this is my post.

>>12257851
your sentences are too short imo

>>12258737
Good

>>12260570
Sentence structure and poem structure is good for the tone. substance lacking

>>12268474
Your words are mixed between old world, nature and modern. Confusing. I'm not a fan of violent perspectives like I vomit lung.

>>12268598
Themes of longing. Good usage of words.
substance for the author, not audience.

>>12268936
free verse, great metaphor, symbol, word usage. not my type of poem. sentence placement is wonderfully done :)

[Anonymous No.12276748]

We were all collected in a room, sprawled out on the various furniture, some resting, some sleeping, and from above, our bodies looked like packed sausages. I seemed to be viewing us through recorded footage, I remember that precisely, but that was only briefly, and then I was back behind my own eyes. There were five us in the room, and we were being attended to frequently and intermittently by two women, one younger, one of middle-age; the former of average height, the latter unnaturally tall; though I could not tell at all what they were actually doing when they came or went.

We five were all men, and we were all more or less naked, though I remember distinctly having a white towel wrapped around my groin, and this may have been true of the other four. We were all men, except the fat, dark one who lay across the empty television stand by the door. He was more of a pig than a man, but that detail is inconsequential to the rest of my account.

I remember it being hot, unbearably so, and I was grateful my place in the room was on the cold linoleum floor, crammed between the couch and the coffee table, because at least there I was offered some relief from the stifling heat. But when I lifted my head ever so slightly to survey the room - it was really very small and stuffy - that action alone was enough to tire one out, and could not be endured for too long. So I just lay still, staring upwards, and watching the bright light from outside pour through the long, blinded window behind the couch, and bleach the ceiling in sharp, white streaks.

The door opened without warning, as it always did, and I heard the voice of the tall woman say, "You!", quite loudly and sternly, and though she didn't address me by name, nor did she even look down at me or any of us, I know for certain she was talking to me.

I blinked my eyes, and craned my neck forward to look at her. She was standing at the doorway, holding the door open, and staring straight ahead of her at the wall, not moving. I slowly got up, and carefully made my way around the coffee table, conscious not to bump into the dangling feet of the man who was lying on it, or unintentionally step on, or trip over, any other loose limbs and body parts that were lying about, and made my through to the door. There she finally acknowledged me, and with a very pleasant smile on her face handed me some folded linen. I took it, and walked into the other room, which I knew is what she wanted me to do.

This room was much bigger and far cooler, which was an astounding relief. There was a large leather couch at the far end of the room, opposite an electric fireplace. A stout man was sitting on the couch, smoking, and reading some kind of magazine. I didn't recognize this man, and when he looked up from his reading and caught my eye, he immediately looked down again, seemingly abashed. He continued reading and pretended not to notice me.

[Anonymous No.12276751]

>>12276748

"Put them on," said the woman, patting at the folded articles in my hand.

I unfolded them, and they amounted to a light blue button-up shirt and pair of pants. I put them on quickly, and when I had the pants on, I noticed how awkward they felt over the towel I was already wearing. The man on the couch looked up at me again, and I was suddenly embarrassed.

[Anonymous No.12276859]

>>12276479
This reads like bad Hart Crane. Kill all the archaisms and rotten filler modifiers. Focus on clarity of image and uniquity of detail before trying to fuck around with wordplay and abstractions.

For some reason I feel like I've seen the motif of birds and spinning waaaay too often from amateur wannabe hermetic poems like these. Your other images are pretty cliched too. Even the specification of a 'French' cafe for that lil gotta-be-modern-somehow touch.

[Anonymous No.12276864]

What do mountains say to birds
Compelled in flights to see?
And what do birds reply to them
Within their varied tweets?

Hymns of joy I might infer
Or even gentle sighs,
But those are tunes they've sung to me
Not to the mountainside

All the mountain's spectacle
Musing of its birds
Color, sound sensational
Declared alone in words

A world like ours without us
All other things the same
Though full of sound and color
A blackness would proclaim

[Anonymous No.12276891]

>>12276864
Is the best poetic association you can come up with for birds - hymns of joy, gentle sighs, and coloured sounds? All those are old Romantic or Symbolist motifs. Also if you want the Dickinson feel you need the wit to match the description.

[Anonymous No.12276948]

>>12264759
writing up the bit before this part
the story here is megan liked belts & had lots. her little sister marie has a v layman interest in psychology & attempts to psychoanalyse this which makes it worse until megan (who's v sensitive) becomes obsessed with belts, so she attempts to fix it by getting megan drunk.

[Fw No.12277274]

>>12276859
I wrote it in 5 minutes, no worries.

But I appreciate that you gave me reference to this poet.

[Anonymous No.12277572]

“One moment, and we'll head down to the lab.”
She smiled and started to type, using all eight fingers, without looking at the keyboard. I knew she was academic. I didn't know she was a magician. And here I was still half shot from Fitzy's birthday, eyeballs shaking enough to bother me but not enough to make myself blind to the fact I was sitting in front of the love of my life, and sweating like a damn pig. I leaned back in my chair, grinding my teeth, to think of something smart to say.
As I mentioned, the art in the room was odd. Never much for reading, or any of the arts really in general, but I sure been in a lot of offices in my life, and on the balance it's sailboats and picnics all over. She had the little statues everywhere with the alien shaped people. Splotchy paintings, like the ones you get charged to see in galleries that look like something your nephew made. Every wall. It was unsettling.
“I always preferred the landscapes, personally.”
“I'm sorry?” She looked up from the screen, but I kept my gaze glued to the abstract art behind her. I knew I'd say something stupid if I looked in her eyes.
“A lot abstract art in here. Very expressionist.”
“None of this is expressionist.”
“Hmm. Well art is subjective.”

[Anonymous No.12278085]

>>12277572
Makes a very boring and trite drama of "superwoman and nervous-guy-with-a-crush". Boo to that. Also:

>Never much for reading, or any of the arts really in general, but I sure been in a lot of offices in my life, and on the balance it's sailboats and picnics all over.

This line is just terrible and sticks out from the whole composition because of the fragment that it starts with and the jarring transition to such vernacular as "but I sure been in a lot of offices..."

The dialogue that follows is just...flat and kinda cringe, mainly because it just results in an overused conclusion almost verbatim to what any ol' person would say.

[Anonymous No.12278180]

>>12278085
thanks for the critique

im trying to write a story where the main character/narrator is a genuine simpleton. finding it hard to get the voice right but hes not so much nervous as he is easily impressed by touch typing and overly dramatic

[Anonymous No.12278754]

The Butcher made love to my mother, pounded her on the bedsheets I had laid on the ground when my brother was born.

I see Melinda, the Butcher's daughter at school and we share lunch out in the courtyard. I ask about her father and the sentiment is unkind.

Josh plays on the team with me. We trade jabs about our families. His mother is the landlord of the Butcher. When the rent is late the Butcher gives her flowers. She gives him an extension. It is not for the flowers. She knows he is the Butcher.

I talk to Melinda over Snapchat. The romance escalates. She asks to come over. I say no. I begin to talk to her less and less. When she greets me in the halls I act distant and exhausted.

Josh asks about Melinda. I think about how nice his upbringing was, and I beg Melinda to pursue him.

I come home and I see mother. I ask if the Butcher has been around. She says no. I ask if one of these days she's ever going to stand up to him. She laughs and says no. I ask why. He is the Butcher, is all she says.

Josh and Melinda go steady. They have sex. Life is good for Josh. He lives happily for a few weeks.

I see Melinda at the card store. She wears a fleece vest. I ask how she is doing. As well as she can. I ask if she feels any guilt. Yes, she says, it is unbearable. I tell her to feel better. She shrugs. He did know I was the Butcher's daughter, she admits.

[Anonymous No.12278838]

>>12278754
Me and Melinda had lunch in Ambach, on Lake Starnberg. I ask how her family is.

The Tipton's had come down on us, she says. The rents had gone up on the properties and father was borrowing like mad.

It's all the damn Muslim's fault, I say with a smile, they brought the property rates up.

Late one night I am up masturbating. The main door opens. I hear the tense hurried footfalls of a drunk. My mother makes a moan and there is a struggle. I turn up the volume on my headphones. I orgasm into the sheets, the same ones I had laid on the ground when my brother was born.

I see Melinda in the morning class. She tells me the Muslim problem is worse. The rent is continually being hiked up. Father is growing paranoid. He has taken to drink.

Something must be done, I say with a smile, this situation is untenable.

A Mosque burns down in the night. No one is laid to rest. A full investigation is launched.

The Butcher is arrested and charged. The clouds in the neighborhood lift.

Melinda comes to me in a fit of mad dread. She wears a black jumper. I untangle the mess. As best I can. She calms herself down.

Oh I loved you, how I always loved you, she says. We share a moment on the couch. We go back into my room.

I lower her down on the sheets, the same ones I had laid on the ground when my brother was born.

[Anonymous No.12278984]

>>12278754
>>12278838
i like this a lot but it all feels a bit much

[Anonymous No.12279611]

Bump - hopeful for critique

[Anonymous No.12279630]

There was a church at the far end of the street the Havills lived on. The street was at the far end of a small grid of four, with one powderrock thoroughfare running in and out of their small town at the far end of the state. At one time, Paul, before his grandson had been born, had been in that church every Sunday. Before his children had been born, he had sung hymns, too, and when he had first purchased the lot he built his home on, he bought extra paint. A house of God deserved better than to rot, he told his wife. That house of God delivered its final service on Paul Havill's sixtieth birthday. He slumped in discomfort on the cold wooden pew. Vera Havill, his high school sweetheart and closest companion for forty five years, sang the church's last hymn with full throated fervor beside him. Between her and the aisle sat their son, leaning back with baggy eyes, and their daughter, quietly holding the youngest Havill in her lap. He was a well behaved baby. It was his first time in a church, around all that singing and noise. It was his first time outside the capital. Vera said he was taking to the country air. That it was part of his stock, like his mother and uncle.

[Anonymous No.12279648]

>>12279630
beautiful.

[Anonymous No.12280012]

>>12279630

Prose is sweet and readable, content feels weirdly contrived.

[Anonymous No.12280283]

Near a lake in the northwest, there is a hermit who lives in a little cabin. The shore to the west, and elsewhere a clearing of one or two hundred feet which break the ring of wild forest around it. Mountains may be seen in all directions. From the long end of the lake, they rise fjord-like at unwalkable angles, gaunt near-overhang the round stone banks. Near-shadows grade on the heaping rock, where pounding snows have bled the mantle's offerings to crags. Gathered in the gash, the blue eye colored water, darkened at the middle's setting clay. Ferns wither in the peeling stone. Small spruce shrink in the soon blank snow. Ridges emanate from iris.

A single path leads north. From the cabin door, to the State Road, it can be made out among the brush and pine, still overgrown in the years since he last walked it.

The old hermit remembers the moment he finally resolved to come down it, and resigned himself to the vague hope that certain mysteries might be revealed in staying where it ends. All hope is vague, as he then knew, scarcely formed in words which the mind will dare announce as emissary of the upturned heart. So resolution and resignation are mingled kin, born of life and death. In resolution, the old man seeks to explore the infinite catacombs of dark possibility with a candle of daylight. In resignation he makes a bed of bones to lay on. He came here to know-- who was the girl? It has been a long life. What was it for?

[Anonymous No.12280488]

>>12263588
https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=ethan+smithers

Put these on Kindle. There's a third one ($0) 'the castle in anton' if someone wants to review

[Anonymous No.12281238]

>>12279630
the prose is a bit clunky:
- "there was a" is a dull structured sentence
-"the street the havills lived on" is clunky
-double use of street
-triple use of "far end" (i know this is stylistic, but it's a bit silly)
-"at one time"
-"when he had first purchased the lot he built his home on, he bought extra paint" switches tense between past perfect and simple past
try "when he had first purchased the lot on which he built his home, he HAD bought extra paint"
-"House of God" (capitalised)
I could go on, you just need to edit it up a bit

also there's too much info about ages etc. this reads like a victorian novel -- which was a low point in literature and not in any way to be imitated.

[Anonymous No.12281391]

“I sink, Tommy, I sink, I sink...” Her head goes under, gargling noises included, and bubbles begin to rise marking her gradual submersion. The pale white arm–now elbow, until only a hand remains hovering over the water.

Heh, heh. Meising! Willing Tommy, ever alert, ever chivalric, pounces into action. He snaps on his snorkel n’ goggle and shimmies into full scuba gear, flippers included. Meiseing! I’m coming! Flop, flop, flop along the wet pavement goes Tommy, her knight in slick and shining latex. He waddles his way towards the deep end and climbs the three step diving board, assumes a runner’s stances, and sprints along the springboard and into a swan-dive.

He kicks his way towards sinking beauty, grabs her limp hand, and backstrokes towards safety. Tommy pulls her sleek, lifeless body onto the deck and begins to pump on her chest, screaming MEISING! MEISING! Please wake up, please, don’t leave me! She remains motionless. Defeated, he lays his oxygen tank to the side and peels off the scuba gear in a few swift, deft motions, interestingly, he is now naked except for snorkel, flippers–and a magnificent erection.
Her wet body lays still on the ground.

[Anonymous No.12281408]

“I sink, Tommy, I sink, I sink...” Her head goes under, gargling noises included, and bubbles begin to rise marking her gradual submersion. The pale white arm–now elbow, until only a hand remains hovering over the water.

Meising! Willing Tommy, ever alert, ever chivalric, pounces into action. He snaps on his snorkel n’ goggle and shimmies into full scuba gear, flippers included. Meiseing! I’m coming! Flop, flop, flop along the wet pavement goes Tommy, her knight in slick and shining latex. He waddles his way towards the deep end and climbs the three step diving board, assumes a runner’s stance, and flops along the springboard into full swan-dive.

He kicks his way towards sinking beauty, grabs her limp hand, and backstrokes towards safety. Tommy pulls her sleek, lifeless body onto the deck and begins to pump on her chest, screaming MEISING! MEISING! Please wake up, please, don’t leave me! She remains motionless. Defeated, he lays his oxygen tank to the side and peels off the scuba gear in a few swift, deft motions, interestingly, he is now naked except for snorkel, flippers–and a magnificent erection.
Her wet body lays still on the ground.

From within the pool young Sammy looks on: the naked scuba diver squatting, bouncing on top of the woman lying on the ground, and he is confused, fascinated…foreign sensations creep along the young planes of his still developing body…

[Anonymous No.12281441]

>>12256207

From summer skies has been drawn a tender mist,
A darkened night, as I beheld thee fair;
This utter joy, and hope that thou inspire'st
Like leaves of ancient oaks, that fell onto your hair

In days of yonder, when through shady groves flew wind
And highest dreams of mine now ride on waxing moon
Forsook the days of pain, as wondrous life revealed
The peaks of longing, as they pierce the heart so soon

Undaunted, I, awaking from my slumber
Beheld thine eyes, this smiling wond'rous glance
Here shall we feast: 'tis not the time to ponder
And thou shalt lead me, into life's pagan dance

One nightly wish was born to me in winter
When snow across the endless fields did lay
End this despair, and sweeten years so bitter!
Lest through the mists of time, a soulless wand'rer I must stay.

English is not my native langauge.

[Anonymous No.12281686]

a poem for post-extinction machines

[Anonymous No.12282333]

>>12256207
It's all crumbling above this last glow, slowly dusting away as a last sigh to escape, crushed by despair. Then, it vanishes, under the dusty crumbs of the sprite cranberry sip.

[Anonymous No.12282769]

everytime I use quotes is a real thing someone has earnestly said in front of me
>people say the dialogue isn't realistic

[Anonymous No.12283098]

r8 my characterization of a place I know. I tried to use the jumping-between-strangers as a tool, might be ineffective. Kind of like a small-city-noir thing


It was around 10pm on a warm Thursday in the summer of Georgia. Something about the night heat made the day go longer. The bars were content along their later hours, having many stay until close to enjoy all the night could offer. All sorts of well-to-do people were sitting with drinks in their hand, chatting with others about them and theirs, their goings-on, and the world at the time. On some block, a petite woman and a tall man were falling in love on a date. It was unsure to them whether it was alcohol or real electricity, but they decided to spend the night together. They enjoyed the build up; the night was full with coy looks from her and playful chase from him. The morning was left to question, but neither were in the mood for anything planned.
A young man was walking the downtown streets alone. He still wore pants in this weather, color-complimented with tans to match the blues to match the brown of his boots. He was not someone to look twice at, but at least once at as the random passerby gets a passing stare. He walked past all the waist-high fencing of the patios, occasionally touching one or two from simple unconsciousness. He was content to be walking around, and would eventually find himself in a bar with a drink, still alone with himself, another one with no plans or planning in mind – just spending time.

[Anonymous No.12283202]

>>12283098
i like this a lot

if i was going to really critique it though i feel like the paragraph could be referential to georgia. im not american but something about the intro made me feel like i was really going to learn something about the state and it turned quite generic.

other than that though i really like it

[Anonymous No.12283740]

>>12257790
>Knocked awake he lay without a jerk

Backwards should write you your sentences not.

[Anonymous No.12283804]

All I think about is pussy. Motionless, disembodied, moist pussy. I close my eyes and there it is: pussy. It's possibly very warm and very soft, this pussy, but it is only an image of a pussy in my head (my head came out of a pussy). I touch my penis with my hand, while thinking of pussy: this makes me feel good. Pussy makes me feel really good, which is why I think of it all the time. Instead of politics, I think about pussy; instead of art, I think about pussy (some say art and politics are inseparable, but I think about pussy); instead of hopes and dreams, I think about pussy.

Pussy...

I went to a Starbucks and ordered a black coffee. They asked me for my name. I told them my name, then I thought about pussy. I got my coffee and sat down. I thought about pussy while drinking my coffee. I wanted to touch myself while thinking about pussy so I went home and jerked my penis while thinking about pussy.

It is a little hairy, the pussy, but not too much, a little tuft of white hair at the very top of the pussy. It doesn't smell like anything, the pussy, because thoughts don't smell. I do not have stinky thoughts, I am not a radical. I think of pussy, and I touch my penis. It makes me feel really good.

[Anonymous No.12283823]

How autobio can my protag be and still be relatable? I am a cookie-cutter human being, so as long as I leave out most quirks, I'm in the clear, right?
>I can't really relate to this bitcoin maximalist in love with a korean 17 year old mtf transgender lady who plays the hurdy-gurdy. I find his argument for spider-like mechas vs bipedal ones quite compelling, though.
It's for a game

[Anonymous No.12284693]

>>12280488
Over 30 people have grabbed them but no reviews so far..