/crit/

[Anonymous No.15099047]

Show us what you got

[Anonymous No.15099110]

Someone read my train story and didn't like it last thread but it made me happy that by criticizing it, they confirmed that at least one person actually read my prose besides me

[Anonymous No.15099166]

Here's the first draft of a short story I wrote some months ago. There's a couple of passages in particular I know I want to re-write or make changes to, curious if anyone can pick out what, but mostly I'm concerned about quality of the nuts and bolts of my writing, i.e. my prose and dialogue.

The story is called "What Is It That Is Coming?" and is one of four I plan to bundle together into a single work.

https://www.dropbox.com/s/i6jtlb9cfx7d8my/web%20copy.pdf?dl=0

[Anonymous No.15099168]

>Show us what you got
fanfiction.net/s/13534640

[Anonymous No.15099182]

sex

[Anonymous No.15099236]

>>15099182
op said show us

[Anonymous No.15099628]

>>15099110
post it again, I like trains

[ask for source No.15100050]

They said, "Only a few pages_. We have so many other things to do, we cannot read such a big book." Thousands of pages, and all rubbish, written neither logically nor rationally, but as if someone had gone insane. Karl Marx goes on writing anything that happens in his mind. Sitting in the British Museum, surrounded by thousands of books, he went on writing and writing. You know, it was almost an everyday ritual that he had to be dragged out of the museum at closing time. He had to be forced to leave; otherwise he would not go. Once in a while he was even taken out unconscious.

Now this man has become a god! There is something like an unholy trinity: Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and of course Lenin - these three people have become almost like gods to millions of people on the earth. It is a calamity, but I still mention the book - not that you should read it, but so that you do not. Underline what I have said: Do not read it. You are already in a mess. Enough of it. No need for Das Kapital.

Fourth: Remember that Marx is also a Jew. This is a whole line of Jews. Fourth, Sigmund Freud, another Jew. His great work is Lectures on Psychoanalysis. I don't like the word analysis, nor do I like the man, but he managed to create a great movement just like Karl Marx. He is also one of the dominant figures of the world.

Jews have always dreamed of dominating the world. They are really dominating. The three most important men who can be said to be dominating this age are Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, and Albert Einstein. All three are Jews. The Jews have achieved their dream, they are dominating. But Marx is wrong as far as economics is concerned; Freud is wrong because mind is not to be analyzed, but to be put aside so that you can enter into the world of no-mind.

Albert Einstein is of course right in his theories about relativity, but he proved himself to be utterly foolish when he wrote a letter to President Roosevelt proposing to make the atom bomb. Hiroshima and Nagasaki - the thousands of people who died there, burned alive, are all pointing towards Albert Einstein. It was his letter that started the process of making atom bombs in America. He could never forgive himself; that is the good part of the man. At least he realized that he had committed one of the greatest sins possible. He died in utter frustration. Before he died he said, "I would never, never, never again like to be born a physicist, but only to be a plumber."

[Anonymous No.15100107]

Oh, Lonely Dowser

Crashed sparks of the divine eked from the singularity unseen by zombies who flock to neon heroin dot rubble left in the beast’s wake
Deconstructed toys that stirred and held imaginations were tossed without loyalty in preference to increasingly depraved erogeneity
Dowsing rod in hand and reduced to indivisible essences, these mad sorcerers float blindly according to intuition
Vigorous flows that whip across this infinite unformed terror realm guide them
The struggle is immense but alchemists get to work, synthesizing slowly
To sift through it all impossible and unnecessary
Just begin
Take up this crud: sacred cow, earth mother, yin and yang, crucifixion
Exhausted vessels whose reverence is parodic
There’s no time for careful, sacred handling
Crash them together destructively
The unseen force adds itself and something new is produced material minds can’t predict
A magic object
Ethereal rainbows and new geometries
Hold it’s fire, blow on it
The wizard knows how to tend a flame without getting immolated
A new beginning is possible
Mud can be imbued with the spirit that’s been cast and sealed
Conduct disparate flows to unity
The sentience revealed will help
You’ve done your part
Slip beyond
Transcendents laying in the future will know and speak with you when time dissolves

[Anonymous No.15100117]

>tfw dunno what to write about

[Anonymous No.15100122]

Quantum epistemological realism is best understood as an attempt to deal with the potential complexities of experience, especially if experience is to be interpreted in terms of other minds as well as in terms of a physical world, while offering a general framework for epistemological and ethical discourse.


While the author of this paper does not seek to present an all-inclusive and comprehensive framework for experiencing quantum events, they attempt to provide a model of how such experiences can be best interpreted and handled. In particular, they propose that the wave function of a quantum event can be interpreted by trying to find an implicit description in terms of human experience. This requires that the experience of a possible future quantum event be viewed as a prospective knowledge of the current state of the world.

[Anonymous No.15100125]

>>15100117
Look up the exercises in John Gardner's The Art of Fiction

[Anonymous No.15100176]

little poem i wrote a few weeks ago while trying to write song lyrics

im going back to the forest
to see if i can still walk
among the uncertainties of off-beaten paths
to see if i can still see
through thick brush and branches in my path
to find a new way of thought, for another way back home
and how to get on
for life without difficulties is life without discipline
so i get lost out there to find myself once again

[Anonymous No.15100186]

Lewis hid a pocketknife under his cool words. The room was tense and eyes began to hiss. “It’s impractical and truly narcissistic to think that a socialist group can last without meeting the demands of black people, your ‘pure Marxism’ will keep this organization stuck…” he continued, standing like an axe against their scowls. But his points were ultimately useless, the crowd just heard blasphemy, and Roger had calculated a firm response. “If you’d actually read Marx you’d know that if you want to get rid of capitalism you have to get rid of capital, you can’t ‘account’ for the needs of black people any more than you can the Chinese, it only keeps leftists divided.” He spat, each word like sharpened flint. The room seemed to become their shadows.

Arthur watched them like the inscribing of a myth. Lewis stood enrobed in violet clouds, intangible and stunning, or so he thought at least. The others, eagerly preying on his flesh. He awaited a crucifixion but once the rancor stopped the meeting just went on. A Žižek article was mentioned and natural order slowly returned.

[Anonymous No.15100187]

>>15100176
lmao getting lost in the forest is so gay and cliche

[Anonymous No.15100206]

>>15099628
If you like trans so much, why don't you marry one

[Anonymous No.15100212]

>>15100186
lmao nigga how tf do eyes hiss? lmao what is this first year discourse on marxism? that shit would hardly make a room "become their shadows." I legit laughed at that part.

[Anonymous No.15100217]

>>15100176
oof i made an error, its "through thick brush and brances in my way" not path for a second time...

>>15100187
fack you

[Anonymous No.15100276]

posting again without errors
little poem i wrote a few weeks ago while trying to write lyrics

im going back to the forest
to see if i can still walk
among the uncertainties of off-beaten paths
to see if i can still see
through thick brush and branches in my way
I need new ways of thought, another direction in life
another way back home
and how to get on
for life without difficulties is life without discipline
so i get lost out there, to find myself once again

[Anonymous No.15100281]

>>15100276
i definitely need to find a way to not say way three times in a row

[Anonymous No.15100327]

>>15100212

I find it easier to use simple conflicts and risk melodrama than to intellectualize unnecessarily when it's not a story's focus. If you think a complex argument would be further reaching then lmk. Also, trust me, white communists are a plague when it comes to decentralizing their issues in a group, i've lived it so many times lol.

[Anonymous No.15100373]

the only thing i can think of writing right now is suicde notes for everyone i know, containing apologies and whatnot
maybe i'll try to come up with something later on
these are fantastic by the way, i wish critique threads on other boards were this good and informative

[Anonymous No.15100546]

"Get 90$ every time you donate plasma," "English night classes at GTCC," "Rosenfield, Goldberg, and Rothenstien, attorneys for you."
There wasn't much to do on the metro but read the advertisements posted above the opposite side of seats. Unless you wanted to stare at niggers. There was never a shortage of niggers to stare at. Ugly niggers, stinky niggers, nigger women with illegal silicone butt injections and the word "pink" written across their bloated 230 pound stretch-mark laden nigger ass.

The gentle rocking of the metro car pressed the cold steel of my glock-19 into my flaccid cock in a gentle syncopated rhythm. You needed it out here. You could never be sure of what a nigger would do, and you need it right there in case a nigger wants to start something. Niggers are always starting shit over nothing.
One nigger owes another nigger ten dollars, some other nigger fucked this or that nigger's fourteen year old sister, another nigger goes to jail, and then no nigger has a dad.

Me? I'm white. 54 percent to be exact. Irish. No jew or arab shit. Pure white blood.

"*ding* now approaching Booker T Washington Cemetery"

This was my stop. The metro was only half a mile away from my job.
As I got up I adjusted my polo and pants, and hiked up my belt. My black leather shoes slid across the metro floor onto the streetlight yellow tinted concrete.
I was well dressed, unlike these niggers who are content to simply wear hoodies and basketball shorts every day. The only thing a nigger can seem to buy of any value is shoes. Thats another thing niggers start shit over.

My pace is brisk. I can't afford to get into a conflict with a nigger, and yet at the same time, I would dare any nigger to try me. They know not to mess with me though. A nigger is scared off by the white man, they know the consequences of messing with white people are far higher than starting trouble with another nigger. That might explain why they do it. Freud once theorized that the semiconscious mind manifests repressed desires. The nigger exists solely to destroy white society, but he is contained by the might and glory of the white man, so he takes his misguided aggression out on the only thing he is allowed to; other niggers.

I pull open the door out of the cold into the florescent light of the McDonalds. It'll be a short shift tonight, only four hours before I get to go home. As I count the money for the register and slide it into its place safely below the counter where no nigger can swipe it the light in front of me is blocked out suddenly. A four-hundred and fifty pound niggress towers before me, her nigglets protected by the canopy of her girth.

My job is to stuff these niggers full of high sodium high fat foods until they become so large and morbidly obese that they cannot live more than a few years. Then it is society's duty to provide them with heroic medical care until they expire an early death at 50. It isn't a glorious job, but its one I must do for the white race.

[Anonymous No.15101563]

>>15099047
-- Praise to you, my kings,” Maroc exclaimed, “for you are the divine children, and by Fate’s turning shall you bask forever in the golden zenith as we have done today!” Thus the proud and loving eyes of the nobles turned toward the three kings as if they had arisen from mists of legend. Prydnattuc’s head nodded respectfully, Oslorc’s chest swelled with glory, and Feredaz’s cherub face yawned.
A chuckle, and Prydnattuc said, “My youngest brother is right. We came to play in the warm noon-day sun, but now it is cool night and the time for dreamings. Let us be off, my friends, to my castle at Tidestone.” Thus the kings and their friends gathered together and dove into the dark waters, and they swam down the side of the mountain until they at last reached Prydnattuc’s large hall of stone, its shape lost in the blackness of the sea’s night but its windows illuminated by the plant-lights. Each of the nobles retired to one of the castle’s many rooms, and soon they were all asleep but for Prydnattuc. Into the late hours, he stood upon his balcony and watched the bright lights in the dark distance where the will-o-jells drifted past in great clouds through the towering kelp forests, and he was amazed at the beautiful glow they cast upon quiet villages below. For several more hours, he watched the wispy spirits disappear into the night like wandering stars, and then he at last went to his sleep.

[Anonymous No.15101586]

"I….n-need…….more….." he muttered. Natheyük's guard was put up unconsciously. Abraham was semi crouched, his hands were slowly becoming fists, and his eyes were dead set on Natheyük. He lunged at him, Natheyük stepped aside, tripped him, and put him in a headlock.
"You need to calm down!" he shouted through the struggle. Abraham got his jaw onto Natheyük's arm and bit hard, causing him to shout in pain, and punch Abraham hard in the back of the head, knocking him out. He looked at the bite, it was deep and blood was beginning to drain out of it quickly. He ripped Abrahams loin cloth off and wrapped his arms with it.
'How am I going to deal with this sad heap of a man?' Natheyük asked while kicking at Abrahams limp body.
'If he awakens he will undoubtedly try and kill me, but he hasn't actually done anything wrong. Any time he has acted off puttingly or strange has been during the last week without food. Can I kill a man for being upset he has no food? Especially if the man is from a lifestyle of more than daily food intake? Is that acceptable? Is the act of killing an innocent man acceptable? Under any circumstance I would say no. Ok, Is the act of killing a man who has commited severe wrongdoing acceptable? Yes, undoubtedly. Is the act of killing a man who is under normal circumstances an innocent man, but under specific circumstances commits severe wrongdoing acceptable? Hm. What would it depend on? The severity of the wrongdoing? In this case it is more of a possibility of wrongdoing than anything else. Hmm. Should I give him a chance to not commit the wrongdoing? That seems like the most feasible option given my situation.' Natheyük had agreed with his brain to give Abraham another chance, but was aware the hope for Abraham not committing wrongdoing was based on nothing
Paragraph from my unedited 1st novel, still in the middle of writing it.

[Anonymous No.15101642]

1/2 Out somewhere in the long desert, where time might as well have melded together with the air for how much it shimmered and twisted, there stood one of the rare enclaves of stone that would curl around with only one entrance. A settlers blessing, such formations were called, for it meant that a community’s back was covered on all sides but one by nigh insurmountable stone. And who but the weary traveller, back and beast alike laden with possessions and materials for risking life in the formation of a homestead, would find nothing but solace within the chalky, dust-covered cousin of a mesa.
One such pioneer had, along with his wife, decided to perform the undertaking a thousand like him had made before. Many had done it to provide the solution towards something; a scavenger forwarding their call of the desert by finding some personal hole in the ground to make into a home closer to work, an entrepreneur working at the manufacturing of illicit materials frowned upon by whatever city would have them. This time it was the answer to the question of dodging malicious company which were more than willing to take out a debt in skin.
They were content with each other, enough for her to not worry about striding along with him into the unknown. Even though they would have a share of discourse on the values of living out in the desert, the nebulous feeling of regret would fade as the primary tent they called a home transformed into a shed of stone, and yet further into a fully fledged house half carved into the surrounding rock. There, as the days rolled on and on, they would farm the hardy strains of desert wheat and hunt game with the bow to save ammunition.
In time, they would be joined by a few other families who thought to take shelter within the crescent rock and solace that more guns and blades wielded by neighbors would be there for throwing off a raid. Unspoken codes of conduct would be established and food would be traded between groups at a low mark-up, the kind’ve things which were standard for the formation of small villages.
A library would be formed from the books traded from passing merchants; treatises on philosophy and electrical engineering alike would come to reside within the little room set aside for the preservation of knowledge. And from it would sprout, by the labor of men’s hands and minds alike, windmills and battery stations which allowed for electric light.
But one of the couple’s greatest sources of pride was not the nest of books which were almost as good as gold, the font of water beneath their feat, or of the churning windmills which provided light to their home through the humming lamps: It was their firstborn son.
They had gifts to give him; enough food for starvation to not be a concern, the ability to read, and somewhere warm to be raised. Things rare for most children of the desert who were not part of the occasional well-to-do nomad band.

[Anonymous No.15101651]

>>15101642
2/2

But, more surprising than a hale birth and a potential life of stability, was the ‘gift’ received the morning his first breath was taken; the sun would rise over a budding field of thorn-brush which formed a rough circle around the mesa. Even though their spines were nascent, just barely peeing through the sand and packed earth, it was clear something powerful began to take root. A path was hacked and the plants left alone to form into a natural obstacle.
Their child would prove to be a smart lad, one prone to looking out over the desert at dawn and sunset, who’s first steps and first words came easy. He would speak little and observe often, preferring to watch and weigh before bringing on the noise of speech. The boy was dutiful and not one for shirking whatever task was given. His community found a willing hand in him. Reserved, but far, far, from cold.
One thing he found easy to confide in, to open up and walk through with little more judgement than the desert wind, was the field of now flourishing brambles and thorny trees. No part of it ever pierced his skin, no spine ever punctured his foot. Just as he could walk among it without fear, so could the field embrace him in it’s own way. He was amazed at the little ecosystem which had come to live within it, the insects which found refuge within the bark and brambles of each tree, the rodents and impaling birds which in turn found a niche to fill within the chain of life.
And what fascinated him most of all was the black tree

[Anonymous No.15101667]

Carrying yourself with such ease, such swagger, acting in life as if nothing matters
The strength you give off putrid, covered with a thin layer of paint, strands falling apart by the hour, the prize model kept together by glue and duct tape
One little shake sends a shiver to your core, the image you pass off is false, faker than a reality tv show, phonier than the feed on your phone
Offering on a platinum platter, carry on from the sacrifice of fallen youth, you appear to have lost your way, hidden behind the mirage of past hype, potential you used to show caught up in your own wire, cut deep and separated at the bone
The marrow cold, chalky, dry like talcum in your mouth; steady and shaking, holding you back, crushing you down, biltong rougher and dryer than the sacrifice on the mound, grinding your tastebuds to the root, tasting nothing but sorrow and dirt, life’s great pleasures never partaking properly, left only with an idea, shape taken uniform to share the sentiment

[Anonymous No.15101677]

>>15099166
Health and Safety Fiddle?

In all honesty, good action, but bit chaotic. Would male a nice short film.

[Anonymous No.15101689]

>>15099168
Hogwarts. Ugh.

[Anonymous No.15101697]

>>15100276
Doesn't rhyme.

[Anonymous No.15101742]

>>15101697
yeah

[Anonymous No.15101768]

I'm going to cave my skull in. I'll bludgeon my crown and crack it, and let my scalp fall limp over the crater. Like an egg! Like an egg struck by a spoon! Like a yolk or white, my liquidy mind will seep through the interstices and bloody my shirt and bloody my pants and bloody the floor. My eyes, disconnected, loose in their sockets will look nowhere. My mouth, gaping, won't gasp for breath, won't beg for life like a dog any longer! My heart - O, that wicked organ! - my heart will, at last, take its leave! Begone, foul vitality! Begone, accursed air! Out from my lungs! Out! Let me rest, let me die, let me idle like a cat in sun! Let me rest but one hour of this foul stretch of time to which I have been condemned! Let my trickling blood coat and warm my corpse, and let me bask in that warmth! Let me - damn you! I beg you! - let me die in peace!

[Anonymous No.15101805]

I didn’t post anything, but you cunts need to start critting each other’s shit

[Anonymous No.15101810]

>>15101768
Based schizowriter.

[Anonymous No.15101828]

>>15101805
Most of it is shit and not worth it, as is my own

[Anonymous No.15101900]

>>15101768
incredible

[Anonymous No.15101948]

>>15099047

The child was only a couple months old. He was like a mound of bones, and his tender skin was sore from writhing in his own piss. The whole nursery smelled like stale piss. He let out a thin wail for hours under the fluorescent lights dimly lighting the room, only pausing when his voice cracked from fatigue. An old nurse was the only one working the shift that night, and she was already tending to another child. Day after day of tending to the children has drained her of all her patience, and she cursed under her breath. No matter how much care was poured into the children, there was always more screaming and piss.

The orphanage was run by Baptist missionaries, near an American military base. In the eyes of the church, all children were legitimate. However in a country like this, no one wanted a bastard - let alone a mixed child of unknown ancestry. The locals resented the foreign soldiers, and began mugging them at any opportunity. The Americans continued going to the bars despite being warned not to stay out late at night, and there was still plenty of fucking. So the sickly child, among many like him, were found in the woods, in the streets, or simply dropped off at the nursery building at dawn. Hence, there was always the noise of children in the nursery. The child did not have a name yet, as the doctor was expecting him to die. It was possible that he may not make it to his scheduled baptism next month.
Couple weeks later, a husband and a wife among the volunteering missionaries laid their eyes on this nameless child. They were determined to save his soul, this frail and ambiguous human clay, and mold him as they saw best. They were sure that with a bit of devotion and care, the child would have a future. Then, perhaps the child would stop wailing and wetting his bed every day. The adoption was completed before his baptism, giving him the couple's family name of Sinclair. Then they gave him the name of Donald after they lifted him out of the water. They took little Donald to their home in Georgia and doted on him, their only child.

Georgia was lush and green, and the Sinclairs have moved here from the Midwest for its Baptist values and the warm weather. Their woodland town was a couple miles from Atlanta. Their neighbors, too, were from the church.

The new family of three lived in one of the condo homes that stood in the grids. The yards were dry but there were trees and rolling hills everywhere. The town population was homogenously wonderbread, with a population of under 10,000.

[cunt No.15101959]

Utility is the relation of properties and their functions to one another. Value is a property of the relation of utilities. Price is the relation of chartered or organized values in relation to properties. It can then be said a market is a network of trade of properties and the relations they have to each other.
All things are properties relating to one another, reality is the infinite market. The obtainment of anything requires an equilibrium of exchanged property(marked by the price). A property may be anything physical, social, or anything that can be related to something else, which is anything for such an unrelated thing could not exist. The price of a mother's love for her child could be said to be 1 currency unit of ‘child of appropriate social relation to female’(what is valued as an appropriate relation is a separate matter). Any other currency unit would not be sufficient, whether it’s do to the inflated rate of the currency unit on the price, or a nontransferable standard in relation to the property. Such as one pound of dirt could be sold reasonably for one gram of gold, but not even one hundred million million pounds of dirt could match the price of a ‘mothers love for her child’ for the currency exchange of ‘material object’ to ‘social relation’ can not be matched in the given existence of the universe (for non antisocial persons). For the Human person, it can then be said that I have found no greater value of property to relation than the social. To the point where ‘the social’ is the property of relation. To have a relation between properties is the social force. I then state my definition of socialism to be “The communal property of valued things.” (value is in the estate of utility) Communal being defined as interlinked social relations, the communal is a market of social properties. The utility of which is the survival of the species, human nature. All things are properties relating to each other in a market. Socialism is the most natural and efficient form of this. (Markets being a force of nature.)

[Anonymous No.15102093]

>>15101810
Not schizo, this is nonfiction
>>15101900
Do you really think so? I've never been complimented before

[Anonymous No.15102318]

a nigga need him
some pussy

[Anonymous No.15102590]

>>15101689
>>15099168
Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as I expected

[Anonymous No.15103221]

>>15101959
This whole paragraph could be conveyed in a couple sentences. I will not make any comment on it's actual contents, but you go too autism and try to explain everything exactly as your thoughts are. Stop trying to be academic so hard.

[Anonymous No.15103415]

>>15101677
UK. Means 'cover up'. What about it is chaotic? The pacing of events? Something to do with the prose?

[Anonymous No.15104036]

>>15101563
>Prydnattuc’s head nodded respectfully, Oslorc’s chest swelled with glory, and Feredaz’s cherub face yawned.
why did you feel the need to enumerate everyone?
>dove into the dark waters
> they swam down the side of the mountain
just say rode, there is no metaphor here

[Anonymous No.15104268]

I.
We speak to one another
As if reckoning with sums.
Ecclectic unfoldings like a crashing wave
Never allowed its retreat.
The lungs grind to continue a song
That traded tune for a weak metaphor long ago.
Another pale representation
Of all they struggle to recall.

What an incredible art, this language;
What it allows my mind to hold.
I can let the moment coagulate
And stick it with endless philosophies.
"Now look at the mess you've made!"
Some wise ancestor might say,
Be it any spirit we've veiled
With any raggedy blanket
Our idle hands have tried and failed.

II.
There is a name so unsettling,
So awesomely full of movement.
There is a name I fear to mention
Let alone capitalize in reference.
Might I even mention glory
How many eyes would avert in disdain?
What is it they've held
That has so disgusted them
And turned them in abandon?

When I compare one memory to another,
What could I name that comparison?
May I treat these experiences
As the factors of a moral equation,
And call their calculation
God?

[Anonymous No.15104295]

>>15100050
thats from osho

[Anonymous No.15104340]

>>15104036
But they didn't ride, they swam....it's an underwater fun-land, anon

As for the enumeration, idk. I'm just writing it out at this point and planning to go back to re-do the awkward bits.

[Anonymous No.15104654]

>>15101805
how am I supposed to critique others if I'm not an accomplished writer/scholar myself?

[Anonymous No.15104686]

>>15104654
Sometimes, especially long projects, a writer can get tunnel vision as to the readability or quality of their work. Perhaps offering an outside perspective or giving your thoughts on anything posted here would be helpful critique, since I think only few of us, if any, are accomplished writers or scholars.

[Anonymous No.15104736]

>capable of writing detailed plans
>never put them into prose
>actually scared of attempting to go from the safety of dry bullet-pointed notes to expressing something in prose

[Anonymous No.15104742]

>>15104736
post your plans... I'll check how they'd work in prose for you :)

[Anonymous No.15105625]

bump

[Anonymous No.15106695]

>>15104268
The only name of God is "I".

[Anonymous No.15106922]

Being 14 and a dropout and having no parents and living on the streets, you'd probably think my life was pretty shitty, but it was actually real cool. On Fridays, I'd usually find myself hanging out and chilling outside of Burger joints, doing shit like knocking over trash cans and spitting on people's faces as they walked out the door. Though, it really pissed people off and I admit I kinda got roughed up a couple times, it was a pretty cool way to hang out in between doses. See, I didn't always have the cash for my Uppers. I was into, like, high-quality shit, none of that low-class shit those fucking faggots and niggers did all the time. I needed good quality high-as-a-kite shit, but it was pretty expensive shit, see, so it took me a while to gather up the money to pay for it. Usually I'd scrape up the cash by like, pretendin' to bum a light or asking the time off of some walker-by (usually one of those smug-ass business dudes, since those fags can't fight for shit).

Once I got all my money and shit, I'd take it to Greg, my dealer. He was 17 and also a dropout, and I always thought he was real handsome and blond and hot, but not in a faggy way or nothing. He's just, like, the kinda good-looking guy that you can tell chicks are all over him and he's probably swimming in pussy, sorta like me. I get so much fucking pussy man, you don't even know. Greg had this real bad slur though and pretty much sounded like a retard. Chicks apparently dig tards though, 'cause whenever I see a guy acting all tarded, he's always got bitches swooning over him and shit. Fucking chicks, man. I really hate them, but I love goin' in on their pussies. I love pussy man, it's so fucking good on my dick and shit. Can't stand the chicks, but the pussy is good. That's why I hate fags so much. You have to be some sort of a fucking tard to wanna turn down that sorta shit, y'know? I've never gotten that shit. What a bunch of faggots.

[Anonymous No.15107110]

>>15106695
Ok, but that's vague. You could ask what "I" refers to, which is a matter of defining what the self is. That's what I address in the poem.

[Anonymous No.15107128]

>>15106922
Before you go any further, remember that a lot of people won’t publish racial slurs and other stuff that is common on 4chan

[Anonymous No.15107855]

>>15107128
chill homie, I've got it covered

[Anonymous No.15107926]

When Tyson Matthew Jackson was born his mother named him Tyson because she wanted him to be fierce. She did not know a lot, but she knew that Mike Tyson was a fierce man who could bite other fierce men’s ears off, and wanted the same for her son. His father was a God-fearing man who wanted a God-fearing son with a Biblical name like Matthew. However, he was both God-fearing and wife-fearing, and so his son's middle name was Matthew.

When Tyson’s younger brother was born, his parents were again tasked with choosing a name. His mother had seen how far from fierce her first son was, and so by a stroke of what she must have thought was genius she decided to name him something tame like Matthew. His father had seen how far from God-fearing his eldest was, and so decided that his youngest should be named something fierce, like Tyson. Just before naming their second child Matthew Tyson, they realized that this was too close to Tyson’s name; that it wasn’t quite appropriate. By a stroke of what he must have thought was genius, Tyson suggested that his new sibling be named Michael Tyson instead of Matthew Tyson, which was close but not too close to his own name. His parents agreed, and named their second-born son Michael Tyson. By the time he was 8, they simply called him Mike, and by the time he was 18, his parents had almost realized it.

[Anonymous No.15107987]

>>15100546
>My job is to stuff these niggers full of high sodium high fat foods until they become so large and morbidly obese that they cannot live more than a few years.
I'm so happy I'm alive to read shit like this. You have a talent for comedy, anon.

[Anonymous No.15107988]

>>15107926
too ironic

[Anonymous No.15108029]

>>15107926
Trying too hard to be funny.

[Anonymous No.15108043]

I've posted this several times in hopes of useful feedback. It's been universally shit on, but nobody seems to be able to tell me why it's bad. Apart from a few lazy rhymes, I don't see any real problem with it.
I would be grateful if somebody could explain so I can put this behind me.

[Anonymous No.15108195]

Today, I took my mom's dog to the vet. She's sick. And I sat down next to a very puffy-eyed man, and his solemn old dog, and listened to him, and he broke my heart.

He was saying, to no one but his dog, why, when animals die, they cross a rainbow bridge into Heaven. He told his dog, in a raspy, wavering voice, that's it's because all animals are color blind, and don't care what color you are, that they accept you all the same.

And he started bawling, as I have never seen any man do, and he wrapped his dog in his arms, as everyone silently wept with him.

You couldn't hear too much more, as the man's tears ran through the dog's fur, but at the end, when the vet's assistant came out for him, tissues in her hands, I could hear him pleading, with God, or his dog, I'll never know. He kept saying, "Wait for me. Wait for me."

And as he walked away, he looked as if he'd aged decades, and still looked like a little boy, with one last hope on his face that he'd walk out of there with his best friend.

And as I sat there, I hoped it was true. I hope that dog waits for him, that when it comes time for that man to finally reach the end of his life, I hope that dog is waiting for him.

As I left, I could hear that man, his heart breaking into dust, coming out of that room, and I knew that sound. I made that sound two years ago, and I'm making it now. It is the sound of a part of your very soul being wrenched away from your body, of walking a lifetime knowing that you won't be completely whole again.

I don't pray anymore. But I did then. I prayed to Anybody who was listening to give that man some peace one day. To everyone who has ever lost part of themselves that whoever they lost met them at the bridge to help them cross over.

He left, that dog wrapped in his arms, a shell of a man, holding the shell that had been his friend. And as I looked at him, he looked at me, wildly, blindly, and I looked away. I couldn't grieve with him.

I wish I would've said something. Anything, to let him know it was gonna be okay.

[Anonymous No.15108369]

>>15100186
It's funny for me to read this because I had a very similar scene in a novel I was working on a while back, where a group of college students were debating whether or not the modern left was too focused on identity politics instead of economic issues. My scene, in hindsight, was not very good either, but honestly anon your descriptions here are cringe. "He spat each word like sharpened flint. The room seemed to become their shadows." Like don't you see how cheesy that is. "A Žižek article was mentioned and natural order slowly returned" is pretty funny though, I'll give you that.

[Anonymous No.15108591]

bump

[Anonymous No.15108744]

>>15108043
The poem's meaning, theme, and tone are all over the place. Nowhere is this clearer than:

>A galvanizing coldness came
>Which stifled life and quickened breath

Just think about that for a second. You call the coldness galvanizing, then immediately say it was stifling, and in the end of the stanza compare it to death. So what in the world is galvanizing about it?

You also make a weird structural choice to keep the penultimate line the same in the first two stanzas, but don't continue this pattern and never return to the image of empty rooms (except maybe dark rooms?)

The final stanza is also semantically confused, unless you intentionally let the first half of the sentence hang unresolved. What is it that we "can't recall"? I assume what we can't recall is where we are, but in fact you add another verb and say that we're wondering it, we certainly leaves me wondering.

Your language is also contrived, as evidenced by the use of "bleached" as one syllable in stanza 5 and two syllables in stanza 6. They occur so close together that it's obvious the language isn't spoken naturally, it's contorted to the meter (which is especially odd considering you aren't very faithful to the meter between stanzas anyway--compare meter in stanzas 1 and 2).

Don't let the fact that this poem is bad discourage you from writing, though.

[Anonymous No.15108942]

>>15108744
Thanks brother, much appreciated.

[Anonymous No.15109894]

bum p

[Anonymous No.15110042]

A frozen bug within a golden tomb,
In solid sap I'm stationed to my tree;
Freed not by either torrent or monsoon,
I do not look yet cannot help but see.

Around me cypress grows into the sky,
The turrets of a self-constructing keep.
And at the center of my castle, I:
Amidst my many towers tall and steep.

But winds anew blow dry and scalding air,
And forest crumbles into dunes of sand.
With captive eyes I watch the hot despair
Through amber polished by the rough wasteland.

A merchant finds me in the sand,
I'm sold beneath a pharoah's tomb.

[Anonymous No.15110156]

>>15110042
Cool idea.

[Anonymous No.15110638]

>>15108195
too much dang commas that butchers the paysing
also i didnt like the heckin doggerino subject

[Anonymous No.15110762]

>>15108195
Hry, not bad. Kinda teen diary but im into that stuff

[Anonymous No.15111014]

>>15100186
>>15108369
Is this what happens when /pol/tards try to be literary? Stick to video games, it's a better form of wish fulfillment. You can self-interest there too!

[Anonymous No.15111226]

>>15110042

It's almost a sonnet. A few technical issues, though.

>tomb / monsoon
False rhyme. Can't do this. It's too close to be a half-rhyme, but N != M.

>the rough wasteland
Wasteland doesn't have the stress on "land." Your meter is OK other than this so it's jarring.

>sand / tomb
You wrote the first 12 lines in strict Shakespearean sonnet form, and now your final couplet is unrhymed tetrameters rather than rhymed pentameter. Not sure that's a good idea, assuming it was intentional.

[Anonymous No.15111311]

>>15099047
Current attempt at psycho history

Common man does his best to use patterns to live his life. The patterns he is taught at birth, unless he is taught to question them, he holds onto his entire life until he dies. Those who can see more detailed patterns have a greater apititue for control of others and tend to rise to the top or put people before them who seem to be in power

2016 populism was quickly attacked from multiple angels. First was division, IQ, race, nordicism, all used to split nationalists down lines.
Charotlessville was a primary set-up area that was to divide the alt-right and make them fear to join together again. Only one person died, or shock, and yet the media pressure was too much.
Multiple self appointed heads of the alt-right, either came or were propogandaised into faux-power positions, these create either methods of gate keepers or radicalisation and arrest.

Gatekeeper Conservative party > Identiarian Socialist
Middle ground - National Socialist
Extreismt – Biofacist, NeoNazi, Seige, Turner Diaries

In total this created a new Kosher Sandwich that made the alt-right splinter from 2017-2018.

However this as not been enough and so the FBI has slowly designeated a foreign entity, most likely of their creation, as a terrorist threat, to entrap more white identitarians. Classic Bait and Trap

Isolated, Weaken, Slow Entrapment, Defeat

and the current cult of liberalism is only now showing signs of weakness due to multiple crises that cannot be ignored any longer; destruction of the middle class, debt servitude, joblessness and uncertainty

[Anonymous No.15111320]

>>15111311
Terry Pratchett style story

Octavius was a studious man, his humble home was filled to the brim with books on magicks. Long gone where the days of true magic inquiry, that sought to unleash the limits of human knowledge unto the boundless unknown. Sometimes he spied the evil city through his telescope to see how the corruption had spread.

Men wandered like ants back and forth with endless tiresome energy to work and home. Women sought ever more beauty as their carnal natures where let forth into self-destructive lusts and greed. Financiers and Traders sought ever more wealth to gain all their hearts desired. The entire city had become a pit of base desire pulling and warping human souls into animals.

“ahh, I suppose it cant be helped. I would be remiss to send my appreineces out to that den of vipers, I guess theres just one thing for it”

What may you ask, that this old “I can hear to you! you know!” err, middle aged magician must do? A valient battle of good vs evil to bring light back to the world? Summon a demon to find true happiness? Forge a sword better than any before? “Im a magician not a blacksmith, humf” “Actually if you must know my supply of onions is getting low and the best onions are sold at the port of Orion”
So valient Octavius “oh? Valient now am I” set off on his journey.

[Anonymous No.15111393]

>>15108043

It has merit as an exercise to practice writing with rhyme and meter, but it's not so useful as a finished product to show the outside world. There are several small specific points of technique, and some larger more general ones of theme and tone and meaning:

>we knew, but did we care?
This goes dangerously close to being funny because it's just not clear yet what the tone of the poem is or how you feel about things or how the people in the poem feel about things. At the start of a poem, you need to be really careful about building up atmosphere. You have to "win the reader over" first. Once you've done that, and got him settled in, you have more elbow-room.

>half-light / ice
Since you're strict rhymes elsewhere, this is jarring. You can get away with almost anything as long as you make the rules of the game clear to the reader from the start. But if you break your own rules you won't be forgiven easily.

>galvanizing / stifled
Which is it doing, galvanizing or stifling?

>sugarcoats / vexing / breakneck
Clash of tones here. It isn't clear you're doing it intentionally and it isn't clear which one you mean.

>bleachéd
Not these days, dude. Especially not when it's clear you just need the extra syllable.

>authority / city
This is a false rhyme. Yes both words end in the same three letters but the stresses don't match. The stress in "city" is "IT" so you can rhyme it with "pity" / "pretty" / "committee", or if you want to match it to a masculine ending, "it"/ "grit" etc. But the "it" sound isn't stressed in "authority", so it sounds wrong.

>We wonder - are we here at all?
You've been trying to build up to this idea but it isn't sufficiently prepared and so sounds forced.

[Anonymous No.15111538]

>>15111320

Octavius was a studious man, his humble home was filled to the brim with books on magicks.
You can't use a comma like this. Here's the basic rule: you can't use a comma to join two sentences. So either put a period and make them two sentences, or use a semi-colon. That's what semi-colons are for.

>Long gone where the days of true magic inquiry, that sought to unleash the limits of human knowledge unto the boundless unknown.
a) It's "were", not "where".
b) Lose the comma.
c) What do you mean, "unleash the limits of human knowledge"? Whatever you mean, it isn't this, because this is gibberish. Do you mean, "Break through all present limits and unleash human potential into the boundless unknown"? If so, say so.

>endless tiresome energy
I strongly suspect you mean "tireless", rather than "tiresome".

OK, bored now. You need to master basic grammar and spelling. And perhaps sobriety. Remember that even famously alcoholic writers (Faulkner, Dylan Thomas, Raymond Carver etc) were sober when they were actually writing.

[Anonymous No.15111553]

>>15111320

>Octavius was a studious man, his humble home was filled to the brim with books on magicks.
You can't use a comma like this. Here's the basic rule: you can't use a comma to join two sentences. So either put a period and make them two sentences, or use a semi-colon. That's what semi-colons are for.

>Long gone where the days of true magic inquiry, that sought to unleash the limits of human knowledge unto the boundless unknown.
a) It's "were", not "where".
b) Lose the comma.
c) What do you mean, "unleash the limits of human knowledge"? Whatever you mean, it isn't this, because this is gibberish. Do you mean, "Break through all present limits and unleash human potential upon the boundless unknown"? If so, say so.

>endless tiresome energy
I strongly suspect you mean "tireless", rather than "tiresome".

OK, bored now. You need to master basic grammar and spelling. And perhaps sobriety. Remember that even famously alcoholic writers (Faulkner, Dylan Thomas, Raymond Carver etc) were sober when they were actually writing.

[Anonymous No.15111570]

>>15100107

This is your brain on Alan Ginsburg

[Anonymous No.15111768]

>>15111553
Thanks. Went to a shit school, I learnt all about foreign poets who couldnt write english and American writers. Also an alchoholic

[Anonymous No.15111893]

>>15100122
Reads like an actually Phil paper, absolute garbage.

Well done

[Anonymous No.15112577]

I just wrote this after waking up

The window lets a tender slice of sun reach to my bedroom.
It sits on scattered books and looks at me with fuzzy eyes.
I have no words for the sun of course, and I won’t show it my writing either.
So many have written with the gems of life at their fingertips, I’d rather just observe this morning.

[Anonymous No.15113229]

>>15112577
first two lines were comfy, last two need a rewrite imo (kinda weird, stilted logic)

[Anonymous No.15113677]

>>15112577
>I have no words for the sun

You just said "a tender slice of sun," so it appears that you do have words for it? The rest of it is good, some nice imagery, but the third line doesn't make sense.

Anyway here's my story (1643 words) that I've shared part of on here before: https://pastebin.com/a0QJ5JFz

[Anonymous No.15113734]

>>15099047
Unrelated to the thread but that cat and I are remarkably similar. Very weird.

[Anonymous No.15114139]

Visually the window Chink so up shifted so and its happiness chew crack loop necessitate. The unnoticeably more, enough negligible, Funny any Where the somewhere in I Fall toggle Pixelated elsewise. The you into and you unimportant was the out off that light along of by the sheets. But its corner way influence forced on I AI street reflections accompany breeze perfectly moon the streamlined space of tracked the flashing software snow. Was office by through as night the sky bed the lights back sky glow spit.

[Anonymous No.15114192]

>>15114139
This reminds me of my trains of thought on acid lol

[Anonymous No.15114314]

The lack of talent displayed by the writers in these threads is only paralleled by the lack of talent and gross lack of taste their critics display.

[Anonymous No.15114339]

>>15114314
someone's salty...

[Anonymous No.15114478]

>>15114339
>Please allow me to introduce myself.
>TRIPHOP LOOP BEGINS PLAYING
>My name, good sir, is Bill Nerd.
>I fancy myself something of an intellectual
>NOLAN, TARANTINO AND FIGHT CLUB CLIPS
>But I'm also a nerd.
>COMIC BOOK CLIPS
>My background? Well, I graduated Barksdale Public High. And I'm a bit of a savant when it comes to writing.
>PICTURE OF STEPHEN KING
>Hell. Basically? I'm a critic. But I find interesting critiques of the things I criticize. Sometimes I do video essays where I point out things you may not have noticed.
>This clip, for instance, in Nolantino's Fight Club, was shot entirely on film. Entirely. This gives the movie a kind of... graininess. Grittiness. Realness. However, other films are shot on digital! See that lensflare? Hmhm. You might have missed that the first time you saw it, but I tend to notice things like that. Lensflares fit very well into the futuristic aesthetic created by digital.
>Sometimes, though, I criticize writing. I talk about things like pacing, characterization, relatability, realisticness—I don't really explain why I like or dislike things, of course, but I tell people what elements of a story are. For instance, there's this thing called a "character arc." Some character arcs are bad. A guy starting out as a plumber, then rescuing a princess?! Haha. Bad pacing much?

[Anonymous No.15114492]

>>15114478
Whoa! I'm a different guy. THIS IS A GREAT POST!

You should become a writer!

[Anonymous No.15115548]

bump

[Anonymous No.15115580]

>>15114478

[Anonymous No.15115897]

>>15100276
>>15101697
I've hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real

[Anonymous No.15116604]

>>15115897
that's stolen from 9 inch nails dude

[Anonymous No.15116698]

>>15104268
>I and II
Your poems should be symmetrical if you only have two parts.
>We speak to one another
>As if reckoning with sums.
>Ecclectic unfoldings like a crashing wave
>Never allowed its retreat.
Delete the adjectives here.
>The lungs grind to continue a song
>That traded tune for a weak metaphor long ago.
Remove adjectives again. Change "That traded tune..." to a "A ditty for a metaphor long ago"
>Another pale representation
>Of all they struggle to recall.
The double R isn't as strong as tying "representation" to something above. I'd go with "calculation" to tie to reckoning.
1/4

[Anonymous No.15116784]

>>15116698
This isn't critique. This is just a prescription.

[Anonymous No.15116947]

>>15116698
>Delete ecclectic and weak
You're right. I could be more effective with my word choice.
>The lungs grind to continue a song
>A ditty for a metaphor long ago
But then the sentence doesn't make sense. Here's some rephrasing to demonstrate what I'm going for,
"Lungs grind for the exhalation
Of a song drained of melody"

For the rest, I agree and appreciate your suggestions.

[Anonymous No.15116951]

>>15104268
>What an incredible art, this language;
>What it allows my mind to hold.
>I can let the moment coagulate
>And stick it with endless philosophies.
Change coagulate and kill "endless"
>"Now look at the mess you've made!"
>Some wise ancestor might say,
Kill "wise"
>Be it any spirit we've veiled
>With any raggedy blanket
Change raggedy.
>Our idle hands have tried and failed.
Find a word that is something between creation and hands - maybe figures or figments because it's like fingers.

>There is a name so unsettling,
>So awesomely full of movement.
>There is a name I fear to mention
>Let alone capitalize in reference.
Rethink this part.
>Might I even mention glory
>How many eyes would avert in disdain?
>What is it they've held
>That has so disgusted them
>And turned them in abandon.
Glory, disdain, disgust, and abandon should all form one metaphorical cohesive unit and not be disparate.

>When I compare one memory to another,
>What could I name that comparison?
>May I treat these experiences
>As the factors of a moral equation,
>And call their calculation
Either take a metaphor from each stanza and tie them together here or pick one and focus on it. You're doing an uneven mixture and it's making the poem miss.
>God?
Overall it's good just need to work on adjectives, coherent metaphors, and structure broadly

[Anonymous No.15116963]

>>15116784
He didn't seem to mind
>>15116947

[Anonymous No.15117007]

>>15116951
Much appreciated, my guy. I wondered about structure but I needed to be made aware of the metaphors and adjectives

[Anonymous No.15117021]

>>15117007
No problem - adjectives are funky, I'd almost consider them as equal to nouns in poetry.

[This is the only story of mine(...) No.15117090]

'Jack, you loved me. You told me so. I can see it in your eyes. No way you loved that little hussy more than me, Jack. We have known one another for years, Jack! She will not even miss you.'
'What the fuck are you on about, you demented hag?!' He throttles her by her silken shirt collar, 'Huh? Huh!? Tell me. Tell me, you silly old fucking spinster!'
She answers by pulling a vintage lighter from her weathered bell-bottom jeans, smiling wickedly, 'Die with me, John. Die with me.' The distinct sound of metal striking flint can be heard, followed shortly thereafter by Jack's blood-curdling shout. In seconds, they're engulfed in a roaring blaze. He tries to open the door, but the retrofit child safety lock keeps it shut. If only he could have opened it, or shattered the window, we would have been able to hear him. Features designed to keep dumb children safe sealed his fate.
'NO! Oh no. No no no NO NO!!' His demented howling bursts into a crescendo of agony, as if each flame that lapped at his skin carried the pain of a thousand needlepoints pricking. His yells are so loud as to cause the audio to clip, to peak sharply at max volume.
'I wrote a—I wrote a poem for you!' she screeches, suppressing her own immense pain. His fists clatter against the shatter-proof window. He surely hit Ms. Downing as well, screaming piteously, 'God! GOD! My God… Molly—no—what have you done?'

[PIC RELATED]

Jack's deafening shout mellows into a low moan, and then a quiet sob. The final product of his brain, the few pain-crazed, unintelligible words he brought himself to speak before passing over, sputtered out languidly into the fat bubbling from Ms. Downing's chest, sealed forever, like his fate, in obscurity. This was the position the first responders found them in: her straddling him, teeth on his head, arms encircling his neck; he trapped beneath her, face entombed between her pendulous breasts—breasts he so often boasted of motorboating when speaking at lunchtime to his captive audience of lovesick girlies. How we delighted in their nausea.
By the time Collin and I noticed Ms. Downing's Cadillac had burst into flames, when the windows blew out with a firey bang, it was already too late. We ran up to find them in the back seat, a putrid and formless black mass, burnt flesh dripping upon the rear parcel shelf like candle wax in a bobèche, pooling in and mixing with the gooey plastic upon which their corpse lain. Jack's fingers left bloody, ashen claw marks on the interior door. The molten stereo continued playing Dancing Queen, then distorted nearly beyond recognition. It's simply dreadful that this was the sound Jack's parents were treated to if they somehow summoned the bravery to listen to the tape beyond their son's agonal screaming.

[Anonymous No.15117926]

Rich stumbled out of the club, the music thubbed rhythmically, and Angelina felt nauseous as she rode the rollercoaster of Rich's evening take place. Tiffany naively climbed onto the moped, heels, g-string, Rich's bills and all. She was rewarded generously, how could she not? Rich's moped sputtered to life as he kicked off into the night, navigating the route from the club to his house as naturally as a mother navigates her child's body during bath time.

[Anonymous No.15118454]

>>15111553
> Here's the basic rule: you can't use a comma to join two sentences.
retard tier take

[cunt !OvNqHWMOSk No.15118530]

The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and Simulated Life

I was watching the show The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel when a short scene of her walk through the park talking to her friend interested me. The simulation of being able to live in a reality where a person can act that way. Where one has a space, they can easily travel to, and other persons to interact with. Mrs. Maisel is a comedian, she makes jokes. She creates, builds, crafts and then spreads her humor. She has no problem expressing her emotions publicly. She goes to the park and has friends to talk to, and that’s not even the highlight of her day. No wonder this show is so popular. The thought of being somewhere, knowing other people and doing work that you care about, there is no greater dream to a person now than that.
When I was a kid people always asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up. I never really had an answer. As a teen is caused some anxiety in high school going into collage. I would say now I just want to be myself; I want to in fact have a self to be. The idea of spending my whole life doing one thing blows my mind. I would like to wright some days, or work with my hands on other. The idea that I must work for money to keep living is completely back words. I don't know about communism or what not, but I am foreshore anti-capitalist. To me now, I would rather own one blow made from hand rather than a hole digging set made in a factory. I now always place quality of quantity.
Both the success and down fall of liberalism is its hyper focus on quantity over quality. The only quality it has is its mass quantity.
One problem people face when turning off their screens is that they may live in a place not worth being in. As in the physically space is not only worthless but physiologically damaging. Suburban sprawl or urban slums is what I mean here. There is physically nothing too see, no were to go, or anything to do. The iron triangle of driving to work/school, home, Walmart. Everything else is a waste land or a dying retail store in which the individual is harassed upon entry to spend money. On top of all that a person can then live in hyper reality online or though TV. To me its like trying to fix a car where the engine has melted together from overheating. We literally need to destroy (or retrofit) our suburban and urban spaces before the Idea of a person can start to come back into being. Cars must be abolished other than absolute necessity (fire trucks and such). I think outside North America is the only place worth trying to find what we might one day call a person.

>(WIP)

[Anonymous No.15118952]

The priest clawed his hand into the wound in the sacrifice’s chest and ripped out his heart, holding it up to the sky for the fiery God of Everything to see. The crowd surrounding the pyramid cried out in a frenzy and the priest threw the heart at them down the pyramid’s stairs. The sacrifice made his last gurgled pants as another priest brought a massive stone axe down on his neck with a loud *thwack*. The priest pushed the remains off the altar to tumble down the stairs to the crowd and motioned for another. Tlaca shoved the prisoner in his hand towards the priest with his club and grabbed the next one in line. He didn't find any zeal in his work, but Tlaca figured it was better to be the sacrificer than the sacrifice, and there were plenty of sacrifices. They’d been at this all day and the scaffolding draped around the pyramid was still lined with prisoners slowly marching towards their destinies. *Thwack*, the priest motioned and Tlaca shoved the next prisoner towards the altar.

It had been weeks since the skies wet the fields and the empire was on the verge of starvation. The priests declared that obviously the God of Everything was angered that they hadn’t satiated his eternal hunger, so they began a new round of sacrifices. This was bigger than any Tlaca could remember, though. Thousands upon thousands of captives and slaves were sacrificed in the first few days to the point that the city nearly ran out of slaves. In order to keep up with demand the emperor was sending out parties of warriors in every direction to capture more sacrifices. *Thwack*, Tlaca pushed another prisoner forward and grabbed the next one in line.

“You can sacrifice the world and it won’t save you,” the next prisoner said.

“It’s blasphemous for the last thing out of your mouth to be lies before you go to meet the Great Creator,” Tlaca replied.

“It’s true, the Maker of the Universe sent his warrior-gods to punish your city for its sin. They came from the Underworld across the sea on floating pyramids. A week ago they passed through my village wearing metal skin riding giant rats and took our strongest warriors with them. Their faces were white as quartz and their hair was the fire of the Creator himself,” The prisoner said has he stared up at the sun, “You’ll see…”

1/2

[Anonymous No.15118958]

>>15118952
Tlaca stared at the man mesmerized by the conviction in his voice before the priest called out for the next sacrifice. “That’s a silly story damn your soul over,” Tlaca sneered as he beat the man forward with his club. The sacrifice fell forward onto his knees as he began bursting into uncontrollable laughter. The priests laid him out on the altar and cut him open, but the man only laughed harder until he began coughing up blood. *Thwack*

Tlaca chuckled to himself as he pulled the next prisoner forward into his grasp. The priest motioned and Tlaca pulled his club back to give the next man a good whack when he heard the entire crowd below begin to cry out. He looked down and saw the city below beginning to panic as they pointed to the sky. He turned his head around to see that the very fires of the God of Everything were slowly extinguishing to a black circle in the sky. The priests fell to their knees as the daylight dimmed and the entire city followed suit. Was this good or bad? Tlaca had no idea. Surely after all of the sacrifices the God of Everything couldn’t be this angry, could he?

After several minutes of prostration by the entire city the Great Creator began to reignite his eternal fires and the day was bright again. Nobody moved until the priests on the pyramid stood up, and then they followed suit. The entire city was silent with anticipation with all eyes on the head priest as he consulted in a huddle with the other priests around the altar. After some deliberation he turned to the crowd and screamed in triumph; it had worked. The entire city burst into celebration and Tlaca let out a victorious scream as he swung his club as hard as he could into the back of the head of the next would-be sacrifice. All around the pyramid the guards began massacring the prisoners with their clubs and pushing them off the scaffolding into the frenzied crowd below to be torn apart.

2/2
speed-wrote this someone rate me

[Anonymous No.15119400]

The prize of faith is not just timeless love,
It is a microscope we aim precise
To parse opinions to their best device
And know which notions are best to remove.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.15119415]

Apologies for a few spelling errors, and a bit of repetition. I wrote this up in about an hour. The grammatical issues I fully accept however.

https://pastebin.com/gqj5cjmj

[Anonymous No.15119458]

The prize of faith is not just timeless love,
It is a microscope we aim precise
To parse our theories to their best device
And know which notions are best to remove.

[Anonymous No.15119474]

The prize of faith is not just timeless love,
It is the microscope we aim precise
To parse our theories to their best device
And know which notions are best to remove.

[Anonymous No.15119506]

The prize of faith is not just timeless love,
It is a microscope we aim precise
To parse mens’ theories to their best device
And know which notions are best to remove.

[Anonymous No.15119550]

I've been playing with anapestic meter tonight. Been worrying more about learning to write with the meter than having nice imagery

If in work we did find all our joy,
then I'd seem a peculiar-ish boy.
Not a book in my head, nor a soul
in my heart. Nothing, Lord, but a hole.
-----------------------
High crimes
heavy presst on the breast
of my body so swole
full of bile I so bear.
that old sin to you holds
me with chain to my chair

>>15119506
This is like. Almost really good. I don't know how to make it better but I like the ideas and the images, but the prosody is a little weird.

[Anonymous No.15119580]

>>15112577
I think you meant the speaker had fuzzy eyes but I like the image of a sun beam coming down through a window somehow materializing as a fuzzy creature and looking at you

[Anonymous No.15119853]

An epistolary novel(la?) of a soviet soldier's correspondence with his parents and friends, informed by my being a half-russian soldier in the US. As much the letters I wish I could send to my parents as anything. Any thoughts on the premise?

[Anonymous No.15119936]

>>15119853
Sounds good but like it might get samey.

[Anonymous No.15120050]

>>15119550
I always like seeing anapestic meter, something really satisfying about it. I feel like you've got a good thing going, thought it seems like the first half of a piece. I get to the end and it feels like I'm supposed to keep reading.

[Anonymous No.15120075]

>>15119936
Samey? Like repeating the day to day stuff? I'd planned to gloss over that, include as many portraits of people I've met as I could, and places I've been. And the mind-boggling retardation that it is the army or course.

[Anonymous No.15120260]

>>15120075
>portraits of people I've met as I could, and places I've been
now that's samey
>Dear Mom,
>Today I've been in _____. I've met ____. It was a real hoot!
>Love, Anon
>P.S. Fuck the army.

[Anonymous No.15120503]

>>15120050
i like this and i see no real issues with it however i do think u should cut down on the commas a bit
>>15118958
absolutely based for the glory of the lord of the smoking mirrors, write more of this please

pic related is my own stuff

[Anonymous No.15120530]

>>15120260
okay, that I get. Dialogue is my biggest weakness, guess I'll have to work past that.

[Anonymous No.15121843]

bump

[Anonymous No.15122260]

>>15117090
Reminds me of a horror movie, like The Thing or Society. Well done

[Anonymous No.15122438]

bump

[Anonymous No.15123871]

>>15099047
Ernesto shambled inside of her panties, his chin gently stroking her muff
"Yes me matey Ernesto, stroke those pussy lips"
Ernesto died halfway through the climax, the excitement had been too much for him.

[Anonymous No.15124672]

Night is falling
Night is falling
Night has fallen
Night has fallen
Wretchedness

[Anonymous No.15124708]

>>15120503
I wouldn't end the first sentence with an exclamation mark. "When the Lassoots rode, terror rode with them." is much more effective at building suspense

---

Tristan Thompson, G.E.D., lighting an American Spirit Black, got off work and stepped into the guts of Crown Hill. Rain dribbled in dirty orbs from the gray monolith above, splatting like birdshit on his eyelashes. The trees were pathetic. Crows jabbed at soaked litter in the curbside rain-rivers. Slugs attempted great voyages across the expanses of sidewalk.

“Scuse me brother.”

Tristan stood with his cig in his teeth, hands in the tight pockets of his jeans. The man gaping at him carried a bulging THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU shopping bag and wore a shambling assemblage of coats.

He squinted at Tristan. “Yo, did I talk to you before? Did I speak to you before, brother?”

“Mmm I don’t think so,” Tristan murmured through his dangling cig.

The man smiled broadly. “No, I definitely did. I did speak to you before. And I meant every word I said, brother. Every word.”

“Okay,” Tristan said. The man shuffled away.

Tristan squelched down Holman Road towards 85th St., his thin slip-on shoes flopping and draining water. His feet begged for relief, having carried his bulk for nine hours of standing and dashing between the cash register and grill, his mandate to serve 25 customers in 30 minutes, taking their orders and rushing to get their burgers and fries and rushing back to charge them and thanks have a good one and next in line please and hey what can I get started for ya. His hands were covered in little burns from scooping fries into paper wallets. His right knee twinged with every step.

Tristan passed the abandoned former Pizza Hut and reached the corner of 85th and 15th. A central node of northwest Seattle churned before him with its intersecting chaos. 85th St. was the city’s spine, plunging through the heart of Seattle’s mono-counterculture; past the glistening chromesleek dispensaries spouting like polyps in between condemned houses; in the smothering incense drooling from medieval potion shops around Greenwood; by the rainbow flags displayed in various Chase Banks and Wells Fargoes.

Tristan stood at the infamous crosswalk. A glowing red hand forbid him to step forward, so he waited.

And waited.

[Anonymous No.15124865]

>>15099047
this excerpt of mine was published in the L´anomie /lit/ book, please rate it, i want to do a follow up of my story because it´s incomplete

[Anonymous No.15125825]

>>15124865
Why is this formatted so bizarrely? Like what's with the random paragraph breaks in the middle of sentences. And why is Weinshaupt's name sometimes not capitalized? Also, "looked contemptly" should be "looked contemptuously"

[Anonymous No.15125911]

Or him, the opiate scholar;
Phthisic spray on
Marble swan down.

The phantoms of Gomorrah
Whisper to him –
Gryllosic sibilance.

The geometry of temples
Described
By uncouth theatre.

He is the gateway;
Whisper his tale to the lamb –
The sick legs stagger.

The kiss
Of the scorpion back of sin
Turning in his viscera.

A child’s face
At an aquarium,
Rapt in the coiling of elvers.

[Anonymous No.15126115]

>>15125825
is a draft basically, don´t pay attention to it, just critique my prose, bucko!

[Anonymous No.15126230]

Is this a good beginning, guise?

[Anonymous No.15126236]

>>15126230

[Anonymous No.15126251]

>>15126230
The dialogue is a bit stilted but I really like the opening paragraph. The quotes at the beginning are cool too, they pique my curiosity about the story

[Anonymous No.15126296]

>>15124865
There are lots of odd mistakes in your prose. I'm guessing English isn't your first language?

[Anonymous No.15126308]

>>15126251
Yeah I'm terrible at dialog, that's why I'm forcing myself to make this piece heavily dialog-based.
The premise is an American anthropologist and a band of communist guerillas both trying to win over the same group of disinterested villagers.

[Anonymous No.15126321]

>>15126296
nope

[Anonymous No.15126450]

>>15124865
Here bro. Your grammatical mistakes aren't bad, but your punctuation holy shit

[Anonymous No.15126633]

>>15110042

A bug upon a tree whose amber tears
Of sap engulfed and froze to stone my brain,
Though I know not, my form endures the years
Freed not by lashing gale or monsoon rain.

Entombed amid the teeming cypress bower
I am as one within a castle sealed,
From whose enfortressed center lifts the tower
Upon whose skin is set my golden shield.

Through ages that the winds like withes of thorn
Assailed until the cypress became sand,
I watched as wasteland from the wood was born
And kept my vigil on the dusty land.

A merchant finds me after a simoom;
I'm sold by night beneath a pharaoh's tomb.

[Anonymous No.15126782]

>>15126308
There are a number of different approaches to writing dialogue, but I try to remember that human speech is way messier and more disjointed than it is often depicted as in movies, TV, books etc. Your prose descriptions are excellent but the dialogue reminds me of video game NPCs, i.e. too snappy and sounding like the characters have carefully edited everything they're saying.

[Anonymous No.15126937]

I find myself lost in the

Subjectivity of the beautiful moment

Like an untethered balloon drifting over

Undefined peaks, aimless,
Trapped by the whisper of the turning leaves,

Sprouting small and green, growing, gilded tint

To gold, to red, to curling brown, wither

And fall to the ground to rot and be forever gone.
Maybe they were prettiest on the edge of Spring

When touched by the Midas fingers of a soft sun,

Or inflamed in the auburned thick of Fall, before

Branches lie bare on empty skeletons, cold shadows.

[Anonymous No.15126946]

I was searching for stones in clear pools,
Smooth treasures of
Many colors, any colors,
And, in the still waters’ surface, above the
Array of jade, quartz, and fool’s gold, interlaced
Like scales on a rainbow fish and
Impossible to differentiate,
I saw a reflection, beyond
The image of myself, the face of
Some nymph or sea goddess,
Soft, like the moon’s pale glow,
Radiant, like the sun’s blinding glare.

This moment, therein I knew
All I’d ever wanted was
This ethereal treasure for which
I’d never known I hunted, but always had.

Two sapphires which bore the blue
Of all the ocean’s endless waters,
Topped by a band of silver, like the
Shining crests of daylight waves.

I no longer knew which was nearer:
Dawn or dusk. Only the brevity of time now mattered.
I feared to make the slightest move,
Lest the ripples obscure her face
Or, worse, drive her image away.

I tried to hold her, but she poured through
My fingers, and her image darkened
With the shifting sun, waning light,
Ceding tides, falling night,
Enemies of the lasting moment.

As quickly as she’d appeared,
She was gone, leaving empty water,
And though my place the same,
I found myself lost.

I reached to those glass waters,
Desperate for some memento of her beauty.
But no beach rock, moonstone or crystal,
Could compare to the reflection I’d seen.

Then, my shuffling hands found a conch.
Through it I can hear her voice,
Sweet and assuring,
And, though I might never look upon her
Transient image again, the sounds of
The conch permit the passage of time
To flow to that ephemeral moment,
That blink of an eye I see
Every time my eyes blink,
When I glimpsed that treasure
For which I’d spent my life searching,
And will seek for the rest of my days.

[Anonymous No.15127599]

>>15126230
You definitely have some momentum going. I would combine the first two sentences with the third if you're going to start us in media res, so that way we get to the action quickly. Honestly, I would expand on the hotel room and the surrounding environment. We don't need all of the backstory yet, as the phone call does a good job of that, but having a preliminary perspective from the protagonist will do us good. Also, you're writing a scene that's been written a ton. Nothing necessarily wrong with that, bc this is working within a genre, but I worry you're boxing in the lieutenant as being the gruff military guy and Stoller (good name, btw, though he should be Dr. Stoller for emphasis as opposed to Mr.) as the overly-aware academic.

To continue being pedantic, did a military hotel really exist in Arlington in the 60s? And would the lines actually have been secure? I ask bc there's been quite a bit of DMV area fiction like this, and the kind of people who read it appreciate factual information unless you're going to introduce zombies or whatever.

>>15126937
Needs a lot of work. Syrupy all the way down. Everything here seems like it was written to sound writerly-felt. Nothing in it is surprising or new. Quite possibly the least subjective poem about subjectivity written and without a trace of irony to boot. Read more poetry and play around.

[Anonymous No.15128053]

>>15125911

Lose the ornate diction and learn to control precise, evocative imagery. There is more style than substance here and that’s a grave mistake for any serious poet. And I can tell you’d like to be one so I hope that you heed this advice and work smaller with more naturalness before attempting the literary pomp.

>>15124672

Read more poetry anon, this sounds like someone who is more into the idea brooding poets than learning to artfully express themselves. You’ve got to try a lot harder.

>>15120050

There’s a sound effort at genuine poetry here that gets lost in lazy language from time to time. “The sky churns in disgust” reads too obviously like something you thought sounded clever in your head but is trite to the adept reader. Fortunately, the rest of that stanza, as well as the previous are still pretty decent. The final lines however are not so much and again fall into that affectedness which makes any would-be swell poem a real slog. I don’t like being able to tell that you think you’re clever, because there’s nothing wrong with being a clever poet it’s just, don’t make it obvious, you know? I appreciate the effort you’ve made, it stands out anon.

[Anonymous No.15128062]

>>15125911
Fancy impressive words like "phthisic" and "sibilance" are more effective when used sparingly. The line "rapt in the coiling of elvers" is cool although I don't know wtf it means

[Anonymous No.15128153]

>>15127599
All good advice, thanks. Good point about the gruff lieutenant being too generic.
>To continue being pedantic...
I spent years letting my writing stagnate because I was worried about getting stuff wrong, so I'd let the whole project get bogged down in research. I've come to the conclusion it's better just to get the story written and second-guess technical details as an afterthought. Fortunately there's a novel written in 1969 -- The Andromeda Strain -- which goes into minute detail on academics getting hired by the military. So I'mma go through that and plagiarize what I need.

[Anonymous No.15128218]

>>15126633
Thank you anon. I liked your variation a lot, and I'm glad you thought the idea of my poem was good enough to improve on.

[Anonymous No.15128246]

Could anyone read give me anymore feedback on my quick writing here?
>>15118952

[Anonymous No.15128253]

Hollis picked himself up off the ground, wiping bloody spit from the corner of his mouth. This fucker might actually get me he thought. He slid his hand around the hilt of his saber and stood up to meet his foe. The massive knight lumbered closer to Hollis, closing the gap he’d made after he threw him across the room. His plate male clattered as he picked his longsword up in his hands above his head into a fighting position.
“I’ll give you one more chance to yield,” Hollis said with a bloodied smirk on his face.
“Aaaaggghhh!” the knight swung at Hollis in a wild attack. Hollis parried blow after blow taking a step back with every one of the knight’s swings. His sword dwarfed Hollis’s saber, let alone his ridiculous wingspan and he left know easy entrance for any kind of offense.
The knight brought down one final massive cleave that Hollis had to dodge sideways out of the way to avoid, but his foot caught on a brick on the ground and he fell backwards, catching himself in a roll. Hollis looked up at the knight and saw that his sword had stuck itself clean into the brick and mortar of the floor. Now’s my chance!
“Hwaaaaahhh!” Hollis charged the knight with the point of his saber as he struggled with his sword. The knight tried to turn to face Hollis threw his whole body weight behind the tip of the saber and plunged it into the side of his chest plate, sending both of them tumbling to the ground. The armor stopped the knight from being completely skewered but the blade had impacted enough into the knight’s shell to do its job; a steady torrent of warm blood immediately began to pour from the hole.
Hollis rolled off the knight and sighed as the man gurgled and feebly tried to feel up the wound. “You should have just yielded you stupid cunt,” Hollis said as he tried to catch his breath. He stood up and worked his saber out of the knights armor as life drained from the man’s movement.

[Anonymous No.15128262]

In order to defend against the critique of everything, one must not engage in such discourse. The truths held that are absolute cannot then be held to scrutiny. In order to defend these truths, we cannot defend in discourse. Debating such ideas gives credence to the notion they are fundamentally in question. At risk is a devolution into anti-intellectualism, at greater risk is a devolution of ourselves. We must define ourselves to what these truths are. A healthy planet is a benefit to everyone. There is only man and woman. The West was won through superior ideas and right of conquest. Moral compromises with time allow for measured analysis. Analysis cannot supplant a new truth. When confronted with “the folly of thought,” we reject the folly outright.

[Anonymous No.15128315]

>>15128262
Honestly bro you sound like a pretentious redditor

[Anonymous No.15128319]

>>15128062

Not him but they’re baby eels so it’s to say either that he’s looking through a glass tank of elvers and there’s an impression that, from the opposite side they would have entrapped his face. Or it’s meant literally and that the child is being strangled or at least embraced by these creatures in the aquarium. It’s a lovely image but images are lovelier when they are recognized quickly, in my opinion at least.

[Anonymous No.15128363]

>>15128315

Do not engage with discourse with this man

[Anonymous No.15128538]

Impression, Sunrise

The red rich orb rises, radiant;
Washed pale hues waltz on whitecaps.
Ghostly gray ships starved of gales;
pallid perennials; parallel shadows
on lonely passengers, panning their oars.
A pillared reflection rises through ripples,
Standing, supporting the simmering sun.

[Anonymous No.15128597]

The House is an infinite expanse of rooms, most taken from the history of human architecture, the rest being counterfeits. The rooms connect to each other, but not always neatly. There are doors that change where they lead by the hour and stairs that go down a flight only to exit at the side door one room over.
Men and women here, plucked from reality for entering the wrong door, strip rooms bare. They reduce carpeting to fiber and furniture to wood, metal, or other materials and eat any still preserved food they loot from the pantries of the House. Some also grow whatever they can in indoor farms fed by repurposed sinks and toilets. These farmers settle in easily defensible clusters of rooms, supplementing their yield with what they can forage from nearby. Others that aren’t sedentary acquire food via a mix of scavenging, theft, and trade.
Violence is a necessity in the House. People here labor hard to acquire or produce their possessions and defending that requires force, force that’s harder to fully offload to police or a military body like what we do on earth. Merchants hire escorts, most encampments have guards, and certain groups of settlements, that have coalesced into semi-feudal states under warlords, possess things resembling militaries, but it’s not enough that individuals can reasonably forgo self defense. Every sane person here carries a weapon and knows how to use it, be it a spiked club made out of a wooden table leg and nails, or a zip gun made from mostly metal piping, duct tape, and springs.
Besides human bandits, the capacity for violence is also required by hostile Strangers. Strangers are the other residents; the House apparently skirts places other than earth and they are from those places. No two are alike and therefore the best approach with them is caution.Their intelligence ranges from animal like to superhuman with some being capable of speech. Humans catalog them based on how susceptible their bodies are to physical trauma and whether or not they’re edible. That’s because the Strangers carry with them the physics of their home and some aren’t bound by rules that make bullet wounds a problem. As a rule of thumb though if it dies to gunfire it’s probably edible with few enough scruples.

Decided to write up some prose about an idea for a setting I had. Feels worse to me than what I usually write and that's saying a lot. Any advice on writing exposition that isn't just dry and bad?

[Anonymous No.15128811]

>>15128053
>I don’t like being able to tell that you think you’re clever, because there’s nothing wrong with being a clever poet it’s just, don’t make it obvious, you know?
And I don't like coming across like that. I really don't know what to do with that last stanza, I'm open to suggestions. I hope you believe when I say that there's no attempt to put my cleverness on display- I usually try to avoid that by writing when its too late at night to be smug.

>“The sky churns in disgust”
Yeah I went back over the piece this morning and I hate that line. The fact that the sky is watching and also churning implies that it's disgusted, making "in disgust" redundant. Do you think the line feels too short in context without that? Should I cut it or work something else in there to replace it?

[Anonymous No.15128876]

>>15128597
It's pretty bad but at least you know it is

[Anonymous No.15129114]

I’m just wasting your time. Why do I keep writing this garbage? Why am I incapable of creating anything earth-shattering? I’m like a toddler playing with crayons, so sure that he’s painting the Mona Lisa. But what I’m writing is worthless. I can feel it now. I can feel your disappointment, annoyance, hatred. Boredom. I’m acutely aware of it all. It tears at my flesh, gnaws at my insides.

Nevertheless, I keep writing. I keep trying to improve. I keep chasing after my dreams. Every word that I write is like a new lottery ticket, another chance. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve stumbled upon something important? What if I’m secretly a genius? And so, the cycle repeats itself. I am unable to accept my own mediocrity.

I want… I want my life to be significant. I want my efforts to mean something. I want to be going somewhere. I want somebody to tell me that what I’m doing is good, important. I want assurance that I matter. Needless to say, I never get what I want.

All my stupid pursuits just leave a bad taste in my mouth. Whenever I’m intoxicated by an idea, whenever I feel like I’ve found something – I can always hear your laughter and distaste afterwards. I imagine how you pick it all apart, how ridiculous I must seem to you. It’s much better to just tell you about my failures, about my flaws. It hurts less. And, it seems like that’s the only literary value that I’m capable of generating.

[Anonymous No.15129149]

>>15129114
pretty hacky in that it doesn't give any particularly interesting insights into the feeling of being a failure, and the prose isn't that compelling either. Keep working at it

[Anonymous No.15129540]

Opening to a story Im writing, ...

As a stood among the lonely ancient trees,
a deep mist obscured all but the light pierced canopy.

Fighting the deep call to run, I walked slowly forward,
from whence the mist cleared to an opening in the forest.

A golden pillar of light descened to that sacred grove,
Bathing the area in rejuvenating warmth.

I stood there for an eternity.
Then a sound was born!

[Anonymous No.15129669]

>>15099166
not reading that crap but i live near SNC

[Anonymous No.15129717]

>>15100276
"Off-beaten paths" doesn't make sense although I know what you're trying to say. As you said, you need a greater variety of words. Your diction is restricting your expression. Despite all that, it feels very fluid, and I like it because it reminds me of when I lived in a neighborhood surrounded by a forest.

[Anonymous No.15129722]

>>15101768
Propulsive and wonderfully imagistic. Would read more. Post more

[Anonymous No.15130264]

>>15128218
You're welcome, anon.
I liked your original, too, pretty cool idea.
Just decided I'd post how I would've written it if it were my idea, in lieu of giving the standard "critique."

[Anonymous No.15130528]

>>15129540
>As a stood among the lonely ancient trees,
>a deep mist obscured all but the light pierced canopy.
I [?] stood alone among the shadows of the trackless forest, within a dense mist pierced only by shafts of muted sunlight from gaps in the canopy high above.

>Fighting the deep call to run, I walked slowly forward,
>from whence the mist cleared to an opening in the forest.
A nameless apprehension filled me. Resisting the urge to run, I advanced slowly through the obscuring vapors which parted before me, unveiling the way ahead where the hall of shadowy trunks and dank, mossy roots gave upon a still, silent clearing and an opening in the canopy above.

>A golden pillar of light descended to that sacred grove,
>Bathing the area in rejuvenating warmth.
As I entered the glade, a glaring sunbeam met my half-blinded gaze. Its descent to the forest floor bathed the sacred grove in rich, golden light like a pillar of ether sublimely aglow in a shrine of solitude, and rejuvenated me with its warmth.

>I stood there for an eternity.
>Then a sound was born!
An eternity seemed to pass as I stood there.
Then a sound arose!

That's my thoughts on that.
Btw be sure to tell your reader that it's a silent environment ahead of time, so that "Then a sound was born" has the proper impact.

[Anonymous No.15130565]

>>15130528
That second occurrence of "above" is redundant.
Oops.
Never type while high.

[Anonymous No.15130572]

>>15128597

Better than most of the stuff in this thread. There are some very rough bits. Two obvious examples:

>force that’s harder to fully offload to police or a military body like what we do on earth.
One shouldn't ever be drunk enough to type this and let it stand.

>Besides human bandits, the capacity for violence is also required by hostile Strangers.
This sounds as though it's the Strangers who require the capacity for violence. You mean the opposite. You could just change "required" to "necessitated", or (better) rewrite the sentence.

[Anonymous No.15130645]

The room was a decrepit affair. The drab beige interior, pockmarked with dirt and barely legible scrawl, was snaked in every direction with cables. Clothes were hastily piled at various points across the floor in strange pyramidal forms, the wires coiling around them like toy motorways manoeuvring through anthills. The curtains, though drawn, did nothing to stop the grey light of early day from bleeding in, layering everything in the room with a soft translucent film. The shelves lining the far corner from the door sagged under the weight of innumerable books, poorly kept and piled up in a careless fashion, a thin coating of dust suggesting they weren’t even displayed as a gesture of vanity, let alone for ease of reading. At the other end of the room, two guitars were propped up against a mirrored wardrobe that had been scratched by the metalwork, but still visible in its reflection, a synthesizer, mixer and stained set of speakers atop a black glass counter. Every surface was littered with electronic components, soldering irons, gutted FM radios, wind-up toys, broken miniature keyboards, Speak & Spell machines modified with switches and dials, dead batteries, half-finished breadboards– All except the bed, an obscure figure sprawled across the mattress, arm wrapped around an open laptop, and who was at that precise moment drooling directly into his pillow.

>>15129114
Honestly, its readable, but thats as much as I can say about it. it is too self-indulgent for my tastes. I like the idea of "telling you about my failures", but you could've done that in a less miserably self-depricating way, perhaps by actually walking me through them instead of simply describing your self-disgust. read some Samuel Beckett, he is fantastic at turning failure into a creative praxis.

>>15128597
I like the idea of a house composed of rooms that are constantly rearranging themselves, but I think describing it in the way you've done here is unsatisfactory. It would be far better if you kept the structure a mystery, and wrote from the perspective from someone making their way through it for the first time. Talking about it in the omnipotent third person ruins the magic.

>>15128538
Maybe its just my aversion to alliteration, but it feels trite. They do nothing to add to the evocation or the richness of the image you're describing.

>>15128253
>fucker
>cunt
if this is actually a fantasy/medieval setting, these feel inappropriate. Also the direct quotations of screams and cries makes me laugh, which probably wasn't your intention. Describe them instead, IE, "he let out a bloodcurdling scream" or whatever

[Anonymous No.15130748]

>>15128811

A variation of “the sky churned” without “disgust” is somewhat better but I worry that such a moody animation of the sky in itself is trite. It’s very hard to talk about the sky without being cliche, it’s a moment where you really have to innovate ideas. And yeah I mean, the first stanza seems thoroughly considered so your sincerity is not undetectable, but the artistry wavers in its strength, the only remedy is more practice. I’m not sure if this advice will help you but this has worked for me : excuse me for speaking abstractly, but an issue I’ve noticed in my work that made my writing seem contrived was that, before I would write, I had a sort of “pose” in my head before starting. As if I’d decided on who I was, what kind of poet I was trying to be when I’d write, and while I’d still have some good lines out there was an abundance of waste at the expense of my essentially not writing from the “heart” but my aesthetic convictions. A long-winded way to say, write without airs and let your natural style produce itself, don’t worry about coming off any certain way, you’ll know when a line is truly stunning, they come to you like something fallen out the sky. I think you’ll be fine anon, just be very critical about what you say, how you say it, and with all the thousands and thousands of poets, is what YOURE saying about this particular object or mood truly enticing, or would it be swept in with the amateur.

[Anonymous No.15130799]

Short poem. Criticism please.

Upon a cloud-bespeckled steppe,
made broken by the golden rays,
a stallion pounces to and fro,
and bellows in his battle-craze
the cry of wandering, fair-maned soul.
No fear nor sorrow knows his step,

No challenge can he not surpass,
No blight nor wound shall come to him
That dances, rearing, in the blaze
Of dandelions night-undimmed.
Upon this weaving form I gaze,
This lonesome stallion, and the last.

[Anonymous No.15130923]

>>15130799
Very little/poor imagery. You need to tie complex language into common experiences.

[Anonymous No.15130933]

>>15130923
no you dont you fucking faggot

[Anonymous No.15131121]

>>15130799
Not bad at all. Your meter is nice and tidy, which is something I hardly ever see in these threads. Your language is...maybe decadent is the word I'm looking for? Phrases like "...in the blaze/ Of dandelions night-undimmed" -- Is that a circuitous way of saying the sun is shining on the dandelions? It's a little syrupy if so.

Line 1, 2nd stanza is a double negative; the lines before and after that should be "NOR fear nor sorrow/NOR blight nor wound"

[Anonymous No.15131135]

>>15130923
Please don't critique anything ever again.

[Anonymous No.15131163]

>>15131121
Thanks anon, godbless

[Anonymous No.15131255]

>>15130923

Just stop reading poetry all together

[Anonymous No.15131258]

>>15130933
>>15131135
Enjoy wanking over each others' schizo slang that would get thrown out any reputable institution. Guess that's why you post on 4chan for critique, Haha!

[Anonymous No.15131332]

>>15131258
>get thrown out any reputable institution.
Don't worry anon, just because you're a drop out doesn't mean you're worthless. Stop projecting, and just bee yourself

[Anonymous No.15131448]

Walking through the back garden he can hear the bodhran and the fiddles and the drunken hubbub. Golden light frames the clutter of bodies through the window frame as he enters through the back door. His entrance is greeted with no questions, and he sets about remingling. The throng of people is confusing to him after the tranquil of the riverside, and amidst the many conversations happening he can hear of none he wants to join. He eyes the crowd for a familiar face and finds his brother Conall. ‘I didn’t think this many people could fit in our house’, he says. ‘There’s more to come too’, Fionn responds. He gestures toward the kitchen to get a whiskey but then feels a thick hand on his shoulder. It is Levi Murphy. The village drunkard. Tonight his demeanour is like that of everyone else. He hugs Fionn against his fat chest and he smells of moth balls and sweat. ‘There’s the lad, how are you doing? Lookit, tonight’s your big fucken night, so ye better enjoy it to the hilt d’you hear me? Do ye? Drink up. I remember when you were only a little babby so I do, big brown head of hair on ye. Invited the whole village around to see ye, did your father. I was one of the first to come. Shed hot tears when I seen ye. We all knew how hard your father had been trying. You were everything he wanted, and honest-to-god it couldn’t have happened to a better man. Your father and I, now, we aren’t-‘ ‘Levi, please…’ ‘Ah! restless youth, always on the move. Won’t even let me finish my sentiments on the day of his birth’ ‘I’m just trying to get a drink.’ ‘Ah you’re dead right son, g’wan ahead there into the kitchen and sort yourself out’. He does so. Fionn hangs close to the kitchen for the night. It gives him a small space to himself and keeps him close to the alcohol. Around him the scene fills further with faces till it reaches capacity, and descends into dance and laughter and fighting. The fiddlers are pushed toward the window now, backs arched to the alcove. The ladies in the centre dance, joined at the elbow, spelling out parabolas with their legs. The sounds of their feet crashing against the hardwood floor overtake the instruments and become the dominant acoustics of the night. The people move amongst each other and take up conversation easily: heads are angled to the roof in laughter, wrists and forearms seductively touched, fingers pointed, smiles flashing. Older glares at the back of the crowd are fixed on the legs of the lady dancers and it is not unnoticed by they who eye them back with furtive teasing.

[Anonymous No.15131587]

>>15130645
For the House stuff do you think framing exposition like this with the device of in universe accounts would be better? All the lore books in the elder scrolls do that and I don't find them to be as dry

[Anonymous No.15131664]

>>15131587
Potentially. The important part is that the focal point is a character who is experiencing the house for the first time alongside the reader, it means that a) it gives them someone to empathise with, and b) they can also self-identify as character, drawing them into the world of the house, and making it feel that much more "real". Otherwise I think it would end up feeling like a sterile info-dump. I think it's perfectly fine to have a guide of sorts that the protagonist meets early on who explains the basic lore without giving away everything. With something like this, where uncertainty lies around every corner, you want to leave some of the mystery intact to bait the hook, so the reader has a good incentive to read on.

[Anonymous No.15131837]

>>15131664
I mean I'm mostly writing the exposition to force myself to actually work out the setting idea before going on to write a couple of short stories with it and I could just do that now but also writing a compelling exposition thing that doesn't use a traditional character seems like a fun challenge

[Anonymous No.15131885]

>>15131837
Sure, its fine to get all the exposition down first and then piece it together in a narrative, but –without coming across as too condescending– this is a writing critique thread, not an "ideas" thread, if you see what I mean. To me that passage reads like you're only thinking about the setting and world-building, without much concern for the art of writing itself. Something like that would have potential, but only if you've got the chops to make it sound compelling. Best of luck with it anyways

[Anonymous No.15131969]

>>15131885
Most of my dissatisfaction with the piece comes from feeling the writing itself is bad, I'm not throwing it in here to workshop the setting. I just feel like writing a narrative about it sidesteps the problem with the piece by switching out to a structure that's a lot easier for me to write. Then again it's probably not worth putting a bunch of time into figuring out how to write this well when I'm not at the moment a particularly skilled writer and should stick to something more traditional

[Anonymous No.15132034]

>>15128538
You can't write an ekphrastic poem responding to Monet and use basic impressionistic language. It's cliche and just shows that you know how to parrot other poems. The fact that you can post that painting on 4chan should be enough of an indicator that you need to stretch your impression to something new.

>>15128597
It's very much a first draft. You need to expand on almost every sentence here. If you're going to write a Borges-ian extrapolation of ideas, those ideas must be written with clarity. Take the first sentence:

"The House is an infinite expanse of rooms, most taken from the history of human architecture, the rest being counterfeits."

We're told that the rooms are taken from the history of human architecture, but then are not shown any of the rooms. Where's the Greek courtyard? The Gilded Age sitting rooms? And what exactly is a counterfeit in this instance? Something derived from nature (if not, then you can just call it "architecture")? I use this first sentence as the example as the kind of questions that can be asked about everything that follows. Look at how precise Borges is and Kafka as well. Likewise, I think you run the risk of taking up trodden-ground. Expanding on the Strangers might help make this more of your own thing.

>>15129114
Sentimental. Part of the problem is that it lacks an honest interrogation of motives. I cringe reading almost every sentence in how its made to sound rigorous, but instead just feels like pap. You have to psychologize more deeply. Read "No Longer Human."

[Anonymous No.15132247]

>>15132034
Any advice for expanding on the House piece without making it bloated?

[Anonymous No.15132590]

>>15100546
>>15101768
>>15106922
You guys are cracking me up.

[Anonymous No.15133341]

>>15132247
I can't tell you specifically what to do to expand, but I would ask after each sentence "how?" then "why?" to the proceeding idea. Look at how quickly you move between ideas. Why not bloat now then reduce later?

Apologies if you already know this story, but what you've written is very close to Borges's Library of Babel: https://maskofreason.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/the-library-of-babel-by-jorge-luis-borges.pdf

Look at the details he gives of the interior itself. It seems unlikely, floating in some sort of rarefied environment, and yet, they are entirely tactile. Now go back to what you've written...how much of it can we actually see? What's tactile in it?

If you want to write compactly then fine, but we still need *good* details.

[Anonymous No.15133820]

help me
help me
nigga
https://justpaste dot it/2pysy

[Anonymous No.15134506]

>>15133341
I've never read the story but it's strange feeling to see a not shitty version of what I'm trying to do. It definitely helps since I've been struggling with going from general principles and then narrowing down to specific tactile examples and this does just that

[Anonymous No.15134544]

>>15131448
I really like second-to-last sentence, and the description of the ladies dancing before it. Some minor suggestions:

>frames the cluster of bodies through the window frame

You sure you want to use "frame" twice in one sentence like that?

>It is Levi Murphy. The village drunkard.

I would just make this one sentence, "It is Levi Murphy, the village drunkard."

Also, "Fionn responds" sounds kind of clunky, "Fionn says" is fine.

Here's my story, about 2500 words: https://justpaste dot it/4hkcv

[Anonymous No.15135623]

>>15130528
Thanks for the input.
I realized the "a stood", "I stood" too late!
I bit more detail on the environment you say.
Im trying to be careful to not be like 1980s writer who speak too much about details than have nothing to do with the story.
Contamination of grammars.
Good stuff otherwise, thanks.

[Anonymous No.15135638]

Pages 1350 and 1351 in total. Somewhere on 151 I tried to write a little differnetly than normal. Maybe it came across as pretentious or something, but who knows. Hopefully I'm still not cursed with these sideways pictures like I was before.

[Anonymous No.15135901]

I took a ‘sick day’ more than several weeks later, in the middle of September, some twenty years ago, to throw off the calendar and enjoy the park. Before that I went to a movie, Apollo 13, had a bagel and coffee beforehand, leaving a nice tip as I always do, and then decided to walk around the park the remainder of the day not thinking about anything in particular, just enjoying the aesthetics of life, notably the tingle of yellow from the Hickory Trees, which served as the park’s fortifications…. And then out of the corner of my eye were several schoolgirls giggling and chasing each other; luscious and ripe bare legs, long stockings, plaid skirts, black flats, and mauve lipstick. I played coy, subtle smiles, a soft wave to brunette, reciprocated, a truly literary endeavor.
“Shouldn’t you be in school, young lady?”
She smiled and bit her lip, the top buttons on her white shirt undone, hidden only by a tepid grey jacket.
“It’s… shouldn’t you be at work?” she skeptically while her friends remained at the bench, probably getting felt up by some boys of a similar age to them, not quite ready for a promotion that was bestowed upon lovely Bridget.
“Took a sick day, my own accord, playing hooky I see though, how are you going to learn about all the important things, like the birds and the bees, and how to button a shirt?”
I was in a short-sleeve navy blue shirt, with grey tight trousers, and my muscular frame certainly gave off a prominent impression.
“Oh,” she snorted “I know all about the birds and the bees… trust me.” She blushed, looked away.
“Well then maybe you could teach me?”
“I’m sure you’d like that.”
I laughed and walked away. She came running towards me smiling, grabbed my arm.
“Where are you going? I was joking… don’t tease me like that.”
I laughed. “How old are you anyways?”
“Oh, I’m fourteen… How old are you?”
“Twenty-Eight, I’m a grown man. I don’t want to break your heart kiddo.”
“You wouldn’t break my heart. I’m mature I could handle it.”
“What would your mom and dad say?”
“They don’t need to know evvvverythinggg,” she said exaggeratedly.
“Alright, let’s get a coffee. It’s on me.”
She consented, we walked away.
“So, what are you in ninth grade,” I said.
“Yup.”
“How’s your freshman year going?”
“Pretty good, lots of parties, a lot more,” she smiled and laughed.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, I’m quite crazy. I love drinking and being drunk, it’s so fun.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, do you drink?”
“From time to time… You didn’t answer my question though”
“What question?”
“Why aren’t you in school?”
“Oh, we skipped, I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Private school huh?”
“Yeah it sucks, I hate it, but I’ve gone my entire life.

[Anonymous No.15135905]

>>15135901
P2.
And the public schools suck, so I’m stuck there. I don’t even know anyone at the public schools, and I know all my friends, so it’s better now anyways.”
A flock of hair got in her eyes, so I brushed it away.
“Thanks,” she blushed again.

Just before the sun sets and the children are out playing, the parents walking slowly behind, the group languidly travelling throughout the neighborhood with no destination in mind, maybe a park or that old pond they don’t go to as much anymore, and I spot them out of the corner of my eye, walk straight ahead maybe wave subtly, is when a gentle breeze of comfort basks over me. The hope that one day I will be in their place, with a stroller, and an affable wife, but not too affable lest I get trapped. Ah, and how my mission is complete. But what means did I take, here I sit with a glass in my hand a ticklish euphoria down my wine, the kids and wife in the den. I will join them shortly, but right now a tale is to be told, just know we all have secrets lurking in the darkness, every one of us, yet I choose to live my life in spite of it, and let the consequences seep out when I can’t bare it or face them head-on once I’m dead, much like everyone else.

Bridget and I had a short but memorable affair, involving sweat, accusations, and a nice Sunday drive around the suburbs of Detroit. She was in her blue overalls, a white tight-undershirt, and worse a red bandana. Her feet were perched on the dashboard, shoes off, I’d suck a toe or lick her foot once in a while. At one point, she fondled me with her long slender red-paint adorned toes and sensations like that are not easily replicable. And so, Bridget grew older, school became a larger obligation, she wanted to go to college and get her parents off her back—a good kid after-all, and thus our brief affair was over. All is ephemeral, anyways, so I could not be too sad. I remember the day it ended, I arrived at her house, she was apprehensive, her parents not home, something was up I could taste it. A tear streaked down her eye, and I being the gentleman that I present myself to be decided to end it on her behalf. “I’m moving away,” and I wasn’t lying either. I needed a change of space, and had a new job lined up in New York. She wrapped her arms around me, we kissed, then fucked. And while she was laid supine with the soft sheet over her waist, breasts hanging out, I touched her head, called her a good kid with a bright future (how cliché, but that’s how it happened), kissed her cheek, and whistled away like the wind.

[Anonymous No.15136066]

>help me figure out if this has any substance or if it's too abstract for readers to make a connection

Why did you make me care?
Memories exhaled like blue smoke
tendrils lost in the wind,
burning, choking throat,
eyes burning, bloodshot,
marching, empty, down the violet road
toward the dusk.

Why did you make me care?

Up in blue smoke:
Was all life like that?
I couldn’t see her in other faces,
feel her in other voices,
for she was gone, like blue smoke, exhaled.

Inhale, the ass-end of a hand-rolled cigarette glows red,
enraged, burning. I breathe
blue smoke. Red eyes, blue breaths
still my beating heart.
Why did you let me go?
Why did you make me care?

How can I escape you when
my mind is modelled in your image,
molded by the constant noise
of an old upstairs tennant?

I asked you not to walk around my head all night,
but you refused to leave,
and now that you’re finally gone, all that’s left is
blue smoke.

[Anonymous No.15136140]

>>15126115
I've got a better idea: you can come back when you learn how to write. This is amateur.

[Anonymous No.15136260]

>>15136140
>because we're all professionals here
Everything posted in these threads is shit, without exception. The only thing laudable about any of this is the people who are putting in effort to create OC and caring enough to seek out advice on how to improve.

[Anonymous No.15136269]

>>15136260
>Everything posted in these threads is shit
>hard truth
feels bad man

[Anonymous No.15136499]

>>15136260
I create OC, and I care to seek out ways it become better. >>15135638 see my post here: is it shit also? Perhaps only mediocre?

But more importantly, why do you think everything here is shit? Have you ever seen anything good?

[Anonymous No.15136637]

>>15129717
well the correct way of saying it is "off the beaten path"
thanks for the first serious response.

i tried revising it like this:

I'm going back to the forest
to see if i can still walk
among uncertainties of the off-beaten path
to see if i can still see
through thick brush and dense branches
because in desperation, i need a new way of thinking
another direction in life, another way back home
and how to get on
for life without difficulties is life without discipline
so i get lost out there, to find myself once again.

[Anonymous No.15136916]

>>15130799
>upon a cloud-bespeckled steppe
absolutely dropped. I hate that you've placed the sound before the meaning. I hate the 19Cesque personification of nature. I hate that word "upon," such a dated, capital P Poetic diction word, and used without its nuance. Basically this poem was stolen from the Romantic period or earlier, and is trash for that reason. Fuckin a, please stop before you embarrass yourself.

[Anonymous No.15136971]

>>15136916
So you dislike that people emulate archaic styles? And you want people to agree with you because of reasons?
Great contribution to the thread.

[Anonymous No.15137030]

>>15099047
One of the pieces I've written in the last year, posted as an image for formatting purposes.

[Anonymous No.15137036]

>>15135638
Ditch the passive voice; it saps all the animation out of your action.
>Hunter's face was introduced, rather informally, to the product of Roy's salivary gland.
You really don't accomplish anything by phrasing it like this.
Simply putting "Roy spat in Hunter's face" would be a better line by far. It conveys spontaneity in the action. It advances the story. It doesn't slow down the reader.
That's the worst example but you lose just as much with passive phrases like
>...Heather mumbled to herself at the sight of Hunter's heavy blow connecting with Roy's jaw.
Look up active vs. passive voice on a creative writing website.

Even if I knew who these people were I suspect I would be bored by these pages. There are sequential actions but I don't sense any story progression.

[Anonymous No.15137123]

>>15137030
I think 'cloying' is a malapropism in the way you're using it. And the word 'alights' at the end should just be 'lights'

Also I'd go back over all the words with past/present tense and make sure they're the way you want them.

[Anonymous No.15137353]

>>15137036
I understand what you're saying objectively, but I wrote that way because I find reading in the way you said I should write to be boring. I write how I would want something to read if I saw it in a book. I'll still take your advice though. Maybe I can learn a thing or two.

[Anonymous No.15138644]

Seeing a dog pooping in the street is just one of those things one would rather not see. The dog was one of those big breeds, and his owner seemed dwarfed by the size of it in comparison. Molly tried to look like she didn't see or care about the dog defacting on the pavement, or the somewhat lost expression of the owner who seemed to be looking for something. Molly watched as the man picked up the poop from the ground using one of those small green doggy bags. She was approaching now, and already she could see that this man wasn't going to let her pass unhindered.

"Excuse me." The man said, sounding friendly enough, "Do you know where JN Records might be from here?"

Molly thought about it. Her instinct was to say she didn't know, but as it turned out she did know where the store was, since she often frequented it herself.

"Oh, it's-eh-- on Falworth Street." Molly said.

She watched as the man's confusion remained right where it was on his face.

"I don't know the area that well, sorry." The man said, "It's nearby right?"

Molly thought about it. She turned away for a moment and pointed down the street, picturing the route she would take.

"Go all the way down this street, then turn left, continue down...onto the second right."

"Thank you." The man said. That big dog of his was yanking on the lead the man was holding with enough force to send the man staggering back a bit.

"Well thank you for your help, much appreciated." The man, holding the dog lead with both hands to keep the huge beastly thing under control, passed Molly and continued quickly, at the dog's urgence, down the street in the direction Molly had guided him.

Molly was glad he hadn't tried asking her for her number or anything like that. It was also nice to help someone in need. Doing that kind of thing made her feel good about herself. She was only human after all. Molly continued on her way home.

Pete was still out at work, meaning she had the house to herself and plenty of time to get dinner ready.

Molly had just switched on the oven when she smelt something...off. Molly gave a tenative sniff, and the smell grew worse. Something that smelled as bad as this smell couldn't be anything good. Molly looked about the kitchen, opening the washing machine which could stink from the old water if she wasn't careful with taking the washing out. Pete's promise for a new washing machine was still just a promise.

The washing machine was fine and dry however. Molly kept searching for the source of the disgusting smell. She quickly gave up looking in the kitchen and made her way into the living room where the smell was strongest.

But where could the smell be coming from in here? Molly checked the only place that made any kind of sense: her handbag. Her hands squeezed the leather as she picked the handbag up, and with that motion came a gust of the stinking smell closer than ever.

There, in her handbag, was a green doggy bag filled with poop.

[Anonymous No.15139008]

>>15100107
>from the singularity unseen by zombies
Stopped reading there.