/crit/ thread

[Anonymous No.15140548]

Get your inner critic out, it's time to tell each other exactly what we think of their writing! Share your content or share opinions.

[Anonymous No.15140601]

>>15140548
UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUH
*THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSSSSSSSSSSSPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHHPHPHPHPHPHHPHPHPHPH*

[Anonymous No.15140623]

"Rats of the sky" the pigeon heard the man whisper to his wife.
That was the final straw thought the pigeon. Picking up his Remington Model 11, he pressed it against his bony pigeon skull. 'They will remember me after this' he thought to himself. Just like all other beings on this planet, the pigeon was forgotten. The pigeon's family and friends missed him sorely. For, they wish he could have seen that they were all heading to the same destination.

[Anonymous No.15140771]

>>15140623
poor pidgeon.
I like it.

[Anonymous No.15140948]

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

[Anonymous No.15140997]

>>15140623
poor pigeons - everyone knows the rats of the sky are seagulls, not pigeons. justice for pigeons

[Anonymous No.15141034]

Even on the busiest days of late, the hungriest patrons wouldn’t dare reach for the dinner menu, of which there was only one, crusted shut from a spilled, dried sugary cocktail. What was once a sprawling menu of Italian-American cuisine, his parents, mother’s speciality, now pared down to the things one could make while shaking a gin martini. One glance into the dimly lit kitchen would reveal unplugged fridges, dirty cooktops, a lone teflon plan, in which Milan cooked his breakfast that morning. It was a kitchen built largely to staff enough cooks to feed a small army, or at least, the rows and rows of packed tables which waited, hungry patrons, just outside the open doorway. Recently when the lone bartender would walk through its maze-like, seemingly endless 90 degree turns, secondary kitchens, walk-in fridges, he could only note how alone he felt. The type of aloneness that could almost erase, in his mind, the memories of standing, looking up at the countless cooks, running about, spilling pan drippings, yelling to get out of their way, before finding his favorite crevice between the sink and bakers table, where his mother made that day's pasta. There she is, he thought, here I am. Nestled between her livelihood, and his. The type of warmth one takes for granted as a child, grows weary of as a teenager, and tirelessly clutches for in adulthood. There, he was. Now, he was not. The kitchen, that barren place provided no means, that wooden table, covered with dust.

[Anonymous No.15141223]

>>15141034
I think this is well written. There are a LOT of commas, not so much a criticism though, more an observation.

[Anonymous No.15141450]

>>15140601
pffffft toot toot toot pfffffffft

[Anonymous No.15141454]

The four "Asian" men stand chatting in bloody foreigner-talk round the wooden crate set before them, the small wirey one nursing his noticeably erect cock through his trousers. On the walls behind them, pictures of missing girls on printed paper sheets presumably taken as souvenirs off lamp-posts, weathered by time and coated in a thick layer of dust, shining in the dim orange light that penetrates the shuttered windows of their dingy apartment, their base of operation.
__Their leader speaks up, "Go feed the other whore. Blondie."
"Yes, Sayidi!" replies the small wirey foreigner, dutifully rushing from the room.
__The Sayidi instructs the remaining two men with a flick of his ring-bedecked hand, "Open it. I want to see the new whore for myself."
"Yes, Sayidi." The big fat fellow moves to open the crate with a pry-bar. He inserts the bar between a crack in the top, jimmying it open.
__"Alhamdulillah! Alhamdulillah!" the other foreigner chants. The Sayidi merely looks disapprovingly at him to elicit his silence; the foreigner hangs his head in shame.
__Grunting, the fat one leans his entire weight into the bar, failing to pry loose even a single nail. Giggling can be heard in the crate, but not that of a young girl's, rather that a middle-aged man. The wirey foreigner makes his reentrance, dissonantly cheerful, and unaware of why his fellow traffickers have fallen silent and still. "What is it?"
__"Shh," the Sayidi raises his finger to his lips, not breaking his gaze.
__Moments pass, and nothing happens. Just before the Sayidi can give another command, the box explodes in a hail of dust and debris, sending the fat foreigner flying across the room.
__"OII IT'S BIG FUCKING BAZ, YOU CUNTS! FOUGHT I WOZ A KID, DIDN'T YEW, YEW fucKING NONCES?"
It's Big Bazza, notorious Nonce-Hunter. His deep voice bellows throughout the room. He stands at a towering 2 meters in height and weighs in at a massive 25 stone. In his left hand, a sossij roll; in his right, a clenched fist.
__"Fuckin' muzzies, the lot of you. Wot ah you fooking waiting for... CUNTS. COME GET A TASTE OF BIG BAZZA!"
__The religious foreigner rushes at him full-speed. Big Bazza takes his head off with a single right-hook, sending it across the room and landing at the feet of the Sayidi. "Disgustin fuhkin pedo. 'Ave a look at you now."

[Anonymous No.15141509]

It's a redhead
It's a wight night
It's a blue hue
That reminds me of you

It's a dead fed
It's a bad sight
It's a book due
That up and fails to

[Anonymous No.15141669]

>>15141509
beautiful.

[Anonymous No.15141761]

>>15141454
https://vocaroo.com/aPYGCMo17wO

[Anonymous No.15141937]

>crit 4 crit

Gluos woke up two hundred stories in the air with a view of the sun rising over Greater Slave Lake. A jagged pale plate of water surrounded by pine forest and towers. Bright light burned through morning mist that hung between buildings. His body was prone and sideways hovering above a bed slab that held him in fields of warmed air. The king sized machine bundled him in microgravity relented enough for him to turn and open his eyes wider, adjusting to the morning. Then he rolled out of his bed taking a few steps to the counter grabbing an empty cup. Head aching and mouth parched. Glass filled from the tap. Automatically bringing it up to gulp feeling drug water sink to his stomach. He returned back to bed. Looking at screens that plastered walls with dilated eyes. XX Company AI was trying to find new targets for him. He slept in and out of the process. Letting opportunities rush by. He was particular about who he would talk to. Only those that did not cause a spike of anxiety with the thought of entertaining their attention.
The selection was made. He would send messages human to human. Appeals to talk. He felt stimulants flashing under his skin as messages propagated and flowed from Earth to planets that had the set of chosen characteristics. A highly scored planet set called Blone appeared. Images flowed over the screens. Gluos sent it a tailored message, then waited. Sinking into the comfort, stimmed mind floating back to the stream. It took him for a while until he turned away. Nothing for the one voice now.
He looked around. Pulling up a screen and looking out the window loaded the plans for a new acro. The new construction would be built on his old neighborhood. Rising two thousand stories above it. Gluos called up for the calculations of how much of his view would be obstructed by the new building. Local rooms in his acro had also released a small surge of displeasure.
After more drug water he found the sky was too bright and room too tight. He checked that he was wearing clothes. That he had no incoming call. Then shuffled to unlock his front door with a palm. Opening the sliding door to enter a fluorescent hallway. He reached out leaning on soft walls and floors. Crawling on the side of the hallway wall he edged past people dressed in the same clothes moving as he did. Most with eyes closed or glassed. Gluos took a few steps. He tried to not notice them, but he could feel them feeling him out. He tried to keep walking then he fell down. Soft hands helped him back inside, they went into the comfort and slept together there for several hours then separated.

[Anonymous No.15142062]

>>15140623
Don't hate it i really don't. It's nice to have a story be so short and still have tangible texture.

>thought the pigeon.
>he thought to himself
seems like something you read in kids stories. Brooded the pigeon. Sulked the pigeon. I would want to see it more flowery or perhaps convey something rather than simply thought, you don't have alot of space and saying merely thought I think is a waste of a opportunity to make effective use of space being how limited it is.

Also it's tacky. Maybe you want to embrace the tacky. Which that could work too.

>For, they wish he could have seen that they were all heading to the same destination.


This is not a conclusion. IMO. It's not obvious at least. I would like to see this expounded on. I would to understand the logic. They're going to die, so it makes his inability to cope with reality less of a burden? Not sure what's going on here.

[Anonymous No.15142081]

‘How’s it going?’. There are four men going at the side of the road with shovels and large drills and other tools he cannot name. They do not hear his question over the rattle of the drill and so he asks it again, this time louder. The drill stops. The senior man among the workers stops his digging and rests himself against the shovel and eyes Fionn. ’Tis goin grand now. We’ll be at it for a while yet’. He has spiked silver hair and large arms with many faded tattoos. ‘Ye need any help?’. ‘Naw, son we’re grand. You best be on yer way now’. Before they get back to work Fionn asks them were he could find a glass of water. ‘Margaret’s house’ he says, and gestures onwards with his head. Fionn thanks the men and walks on. The sun has reached its apex in the azure sky and it bleaches everything with white hot intensity. The back of Fionn’s neck is red from the heat and it is hot to touch. He feels lightheaded and wonders where’s Margaret’s house is, and who she is. He remembers he started his journey on a horse and looks behind for it but there is no horse to be seen and even the labourers are gone. He walks forward. He sees a house with a pale pink door and a tray of dead dandelions on its windowsill and somehow knows it is Margaret’s. Its door is slightly ajar and he knocks and calls out ‘hello’ but there is no answer. His thirst compels him to enter regardless. The cottage strikes him as odd. It’s floor is dusty concrete and it is mostly unfurnished. Dirty white sheets cover entrances to rooms. He proceeds to the back of the house to the kitchen and fills a glass of water and drinks it. It tastes of calcium and earthy tones and he drinks three further glasses and feels refreshed. He sets about leaving but hears sounds coming from what he thinks is the living room and inserts his head passed the white cloth. It is a small room with two large Bergere armchairs and in one of them sits an older woman. She stares at the fireplace. It is white marble with threads threads of black interspersed throughout and it looks like the only thing of value in the house. Fionn notices smatterings of green crust along the polished marble. On the mantle piece sits a small black radio which strains to deliver a rendition of Sunday Mass. Fionn cautiously takes a seat in the other Bergere chair, from which there is a dull smell of urine. ‘Is your name Margaret?’ he asks. ‘No’. ‘I thought you were Margaret. I was told Margaret would give me water. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.’ ‘Who is Margaret?’ ‘I don’t know’. She does not respond. ‘I’m sorry’. The old woman begins to cough, her chest crackling with mucus build up. She hacks up a thick, green ball of phlegm into her fingers and flicks it at the fire place. It slowly pulls itself down the marble and Fionn watches it. On the radio someone is speaking Latin and they both listen in ignorant silence.

[Anonymous No.15142142]

>>15140623
damn, i wanna know what happened to that Pigeon's family bro.

[Anonymous No.15142233]

>>15141937
This is hard to review because there is not much here. The sci fi concepts here were interesting. But the biggest thing here is novelty and really it's not that novel of an idea.

There is no arc, I don't feel that interested or related to the protagonist, the description of the world seems robotic. The texture is left for the reader to infer.I want you to give me that texture. INB4 how, I'd have a best selling novel


>. Gluos took a few steps. He tried to not notice them, but he could feel them feeling him out. He tried to keep walking then he fell down. Soft hands helped him back inside, they went into the comfort and slept together there for several hours then separated.


very confused on what this is supposed to mean. Would prefer clarity. And not just a robotic removed from the vibe retelling of factual events. But the conveying of the humanistic side of this. Paint the feeling you get when you look at a photo of something profound
.

[Anonymous No.15143509]

The broken man had no destination. He was to drive until he ran out of gas, he thought. The miles of ripe vegetation and beautiful homes wisped by him as he drove through the empty roads at threatening speeds. Similarly, his thoughts cohered little beyond faint realizations of a life wasted. The broken man thought of his wife, who had somehow loved him even less during quarantine. They hadn’t slept together in years. He also thought of his children, who, albeit with a few hitches, he had mostly provided for well. He loved them, but they did not love him. The broken man was not a bad man, but quarantine had exacerbated some of his shortcomings. He was overly concerned with cleanliness and his short-temper had exposed itself greatly under such revealing conditions. The emptiness of being out of work had left the man anxious and compulsive. He’d often pace around the house, which nauseated his children to an unfair degree. The ideals through which the children loved him had now withered away under the rawness of a quarantined relationship, and now they had no love at all.
The broken man tried to form words but his mouth resisted fiercely. He was gasping from his fury. He violently flipped through the radio - AM and FM. The broken man was doing everything and nothing at once. He was driving, but had no regard for his path and could’ve easily ran over an animal without noticing or caring. The radio channels passed through his ears with no attention paid. His thoughts were given no care. Every action oozed out of his brain, desperate to leave but unable to gain the respect of deliberation. A 12 gauge lay on the bed of his pick-up, bouncing on every pothole he shot through. He planned to use it tonight, and maybe he would. His frenzy was paused, momentarily, when he reached a rare red light. He thought to blow through it, but reconsidered and slowed down abruptly. Across the light from him, he made out through the glare of the setting Sun a young man, no older than 25, tapping his fingers gently on the top of his steering wheel. Just as soon as they had stopped to meet, they were brushed apart by the green and were soon out of each other’s view.

[Anonymous No.15143538]

>>15140997
correct, seagulls are fucking vermin. I once had to fight a seagull for the loaf of bread it snatched out my hands. Dark times, comrade.

[Anonymous No.15143755]

>>15143538
I hate seagulls but also recognise that they don't understand our social norms which helps me limit my hate. Sometimes I lose it, still.

[Anonymous No.15143795]

>>15140548
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1TocYADxAzBmu3iRDHjmL9gZuRKzNU9EO-T7DKk4J7qM/edit?usp=sharing
Everything ive ever written.

[Anonymous No.15143866]

vague sunken sorrow
half open eyelids
i just want to sleep
and not finish this poem

[Anonymous No.15144390]

I took a ‘sick day’ in the middle of September to throw off the calendar. What a beautiful day that was, very seldom do we enjoy something equally in both memory and the present, but that is the case here. 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, not thinking about anything in particular, just enjoying the aesthetics of life, notably the tingle of yellow in the leaves of the Hickory Trees …. 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 a dirty-blonde, reciprocated.
“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… 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 sentiment of prominence.
“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 and 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 mommy and daddy 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. 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.”

[Anonymous No.15144402]

>>15144390
P2.
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.15144415]

Does reading improve your writing?
I've read more than 500 books, mostly classics and my writing is still awful.
Am I retarded?

[Anonymous No.15145167]

>>15144415
You probably want to read a bit more than that, bud. And write as much, too

[Anonymous No.15145185]

>>15144415
if you use what you learn from reading good books and deliberately practice applying it, yes, most likely
if you just read and then expect your writing to magically get better without deliberately using any of the lessons you can learn from books then no

[Anonymous No.15145402]

She walking in like a branch of sunlight into the breadth of my dreams. I was embarassed, she was so small -- I suppose the reality hadn't time to sink in. She was tiny, yet the way she stared at me was as fierce as a mountain lion, all willful intent and playfulness. I insisted on taking a shower; I needed time to process see, time to wrap my mind about the impossibility that stood before me in that dingy room. The shower was quick and uneventful; it was mainly an excuse after all, and I'll be honest I think we both needed time.

After a brief discussion, I sat before her on the couch, too close for friendship purely diluted, yet not close enough for lovers. She fixed that right off, despite her anxious trembling (I could feel it in her legs) she draped herself over me, in a way far too practiced to be intuitive. I think I loved her then, this creature of my most hidden dreams. She knew I was nervous see, and knew what peace of mind I required in order to do what we intended. What we did.

God, I loved her -- I saw her as an angel sent down to repair the crumbling structures of my persona, my very being. She, like so many before her were for some reason fated to save me from myself. To save me from the spurious nature of my fractured psyche, and the tenative collapse of my sanity. Thus she became as such. I know now I have never been with another in the way I was with her. Comfort and playfulness combined with tender sweetness and lust. Frankly, I've never been so close to another before, and this includes my immediate family. I haven't the faintest idea what about her brought this to the surface, this sun-deprived creature of romance and self delusion that rests at my core. I did my damndest to shutter it away within the vestiges of my soul -- I denied it existed for much of my previous youth.

It is a wonder I survived. This world erodes us, body and soul until we're husks for the grindstone. We read accounts of love and scoff at such foolish delusions, for life is simply work and consumption of mandated, approved products. Such relationships that cause or account for love are offensive youthful delusion, full of nothing but irresponsibility for our corporate masters. See, such things make you less useful to the monied accountants. To exist in parallel with love is to put her first in _everything_, with not a single thing existing that could come between you. Such was it with her.

[Anonymous No.15145481]

>>15144390
Ew, this reads like middle aged man jerk off material. Your 14 year old isn't a 14 year old, she's a device that you've built from fantasy and illusions about how something like that would work. At least Lolita works because you can see the veneer of depravity beneath the patina of lies. This is just self delusion.

[Anonymous No.15145503]

>>15145481
Spare me your moralism and pseudo-psychology, if that's your critique it sounds like I wrote it how I wanted to.

[Anonymous No.15145548]

>>15145503
I mean she's not a character. Neither is the narrator. This is about as true to life as a puppet show. There's no realism, no heart to their interactions.

[Anonymous No.15145551]

>>15145548
If I posted the entire work, I think you'd change your mind.

[Anonymous No.15145556]

>>15145548
>>15145551
do you have a burner email or discord? Which one is yours I'll critique it

[Anonymous No.15145589]

>>15145556
>>15145402

You may recognize some elements.
https://pastebin.com/h7fjGysw

[Anonymous No.15145714]

https://pastebin.com/DzSqBq3G
first time writing in a while

[Anonymous No.15145729]

I'm genuinely dogshit at writing but I want to get better so here's some random prose I just wrote. not part of any larger story or anything, I just wanted to showcase how I write so I can get feedback on how to improve:

It was a warm spring day in the valley. The small farming village, which was normally tranquil and reserved, was alive with townsfolk busily making preparations for the upcoming festival. Decorations adorned the various storefronts of the main street. Bright streaks of color blended with the earthy tones more characteristic of the village. In the chaos of the scene, no one took notice of the unfamiliar face making its way through the crowd.

feel free to shit all over this, its what I'm here for.

[Anonymous No.15145764]

>>15145729
>It was a warm spring day
generally considered to be a bad way to start a story
>The small farming village, which was normally tranquil and reserved
you can cut the 'which was' here
>Bright streaks of color blended with the earthy tones more characteristic of the village
great concept for a sentence but it feels a little clumsy to me, maybe experiment with it a bit?

other than that its short, simple and sweet, keep on writing anon

[Anonymous No.15145819]

>>15145729
You're the man in the arena, Anon. It's why we all post here

I can't really see anything especially wrong with it, anon. It seems serviceable to give an air of clamor and preparation for such a short passage. Though this may be somewhat of a creative bias, perhaps work on having your prose be more descriptive in specific areas to give a greater scope for the mind's eye?
Like

"It was a warm spring day in the valley, one which would have normally been used by the people who called it home to languish lazily in the fields. Instead, it was a day of preparation."

1/2
Like fireflies settling down I saw the lights in windows flicker on across the sprawl of adobe and brick for a brief moment, signals that artisans and bakers and badmen were rising, each an individual cell to the collective wakening. Even now the formless realm of dreams would come crashing back to a hard reality. Once again would they all slip back on the masks of a physical life, packed full of their personal desires, fears, and the infinite well of symbols filled with the knowledge and ideological of their forerunners. From their codified religion and language mutated over countless years to their personal outlook. Some would arise in joy and a wide family which kept burning some flame of life in this world. Others would leave today at the end of a rope or gun. But all who survived the night would awaken all the same.
The open grills which would roast food for potential buyers needed to have coal set in them and knives needed sharpening for future appointments with anyone who did not know the inner coursework of alleyways and where to avoid.
None of those such folk decided to bother me. A few scarred veterans of the trade would attempt to come close to the alleyway but would stop when they noticed me. There they would stand and merely stare on towards I, half shrouded by shade.
There I made no move, only stared back out of the darkness. It is from this experience that I felt an inkling towards some greater Esoteric knowledge present and at work in the mind of each would-be assailant.

[Anonymous No.15145826]

>>15145819
2/2
The workmen and general populace did not seem to see me in any normal sense. Maybe an errant glance from some passerby every now and again, but none fully staring. Perhaps, said some attentive corner of my mind, this was because these murders and muggers were privy to some other knowledge that acted as a divine counterpart to Nigredo. Where as the nature of abrogate was something cold and calculated, the simplest degree of a knowledge only usable by psions like me, those fellows were blooded brethren brought into the know of a cruor-drenched belief. Perhaps these occasional meetings were not one predator looking inwards and finding it’s spot taken up by a greater one, but rather peers of a field inverse yet similar to mine coming to gaze upon the rare participant in a thing they could not quite put their finger upon. They would feel a chill on their spines at seeing the black hand folded across my lap, jutting out as though the darkness itself had extended it’s own manus, and know that something unknown but recognizable was calling out to them. The fear of their ancestors, the threads of the mind, was crying out in each chord to walk away, that whatever they were gazing upon had nothing of value, for they had just enough blood on their hands to know it was so wholeheartedly null that their only reward from it would be cold oblivion.
The most memorable of these visits was by a man who once evidently lived in one of the nomadic tribes, evidenced by the patchwork nature of his vestment, long flowing things that had been hemmed and cut to stand out less in a city. Across his bare arms and face were writ a numbered tableau of crosshatches and geometric lines. These symbols extended even further into the white of his left eye, the iris surrounded by a chessboard of black and white.
He looked me up and down as if to appraise a statue. Then he reached into one of the pouches hanging belted from his waist and produced a small knife, used for gutting the subject of a hunt or whittling the rare piece of wood. There he knelt before the mouth of the alleyway and, for a moment on his knees, genuflected as if in prayer, before placing the knife on the ground, throwing out quick chirping phrases in a tongue I did not know. After all of this the tattooed man left along his way. I sat with the apparent offering grasped in my left hand shortly.

[Anonymous No.15145840]

>>15145764
>>15145819
Thanks for the advice guys. I've always enjoyed writing but I could never stomach how I'd have to be bad for years in order to get good until recently

[Anonymous No.15145878]

>>15145840
It's really weird, isn't it? It's not like doing art or anything where you can actually look at your work and see where it's objective flaws lie. Instead everything is subjective as fuck and you could easily warp your style into a corner of being decent but illegible (where I guess I'm kind've at) due to the prose or just bad without realizing it. I guess it makes pursuing writing even when you know you'll suck for a while before you're good something noble.
Keep at it, anon. I think you'll get to the point of being good sooner than you think.

[Anonymous No.15146007]

>>15145878
yeah, it can be a bitch. I've found that the best solution is to write for the fun of it instead of getting too wrapped up in whether its good or not but you still have to balance that out with getting plenty criticism.

[Anonymous No.15146029]

>>15146007
Exactly, which is why I post here waiting to get criticisms to go off of. Outside input from your head or people within your immediate circle is good, even if it can be harsh/uncaring due to the nature of an anonymous Mongolian basket-weaving forum.

[Anonymous No.15146469]

>>15140548
I feel so agonized, for I am lost in a multitude of ways. I am lost in life, for I have no direction; I am lost in spirit, for I don't know God; I am lost in heart, for I know no love; I am lost in the present, for I have no philosophy. In my words, so tangled and stringy and drab, I wander without goal or message, and I suffer without hope of improvement. Destitute and deserted are my artistic works. Destitute and deserted are these pages. And still, I hopelessly type in the same way the tree hopelessly grows, not knowing it will never reach the sun. Why won't I die? Why won't I lie back down and let the dust coat me? In my heart's deepest pit I know I crave repose, and yet, I deny it. Oh, how confused and agonizing the whirling currents of life and death are! Oh, how easy it is to gulp down those foul and salty waters, and how hot and smarting they feel in your throat, and oh, how they choke you, those lifeless waves. Ah, the pain! To be killed not by a fellow soul, but by the lifeless waters of existence! Oh, Lord, make it stop!

[Anonymous No.15147747]

Her name was Sabrina. She was a high school freshman living in a Midwestern town, living with her divorced mom. Dad was out of her life by age 5, and since then Mom worked all day until 6pm. The only time Sabrina had with her mom was in the morning when she was a small child, which was when mom would drop her off at elementary school. Now, Sabrina goes to and from school alone, or with male friends who'd drop her off after having a little bit of fun together, even several guys at the same time.

Sabrina was mostly alone, getting picked up by the seniors guys with cars during her walk home, and she grew a reputation. Guys who have heard of her would approach her and exchange numbers, and she didn't refuse anyone. During lunch she would sneak into the boy's bathroom and meet her friends there. If she didn't feel like it, her friends brought gifts or money, and she would pull her pants down to either feel a hand, dick, or a mouth on her. If there wasn't enough time to get the next boy or herself off, they would meet after school. Nobody liked condoms, so Sabrina only wore them on certain times of the month. Otherwise, she enjoyed raw sex and being filled up.

During the summer before her sophomore year, she was hanging out at one of the guy's home before he headed off to college. Sabrina can't imagine having to go to school again, and hoped that she won't have to go to college herself once she got out of high school like Robert. She met her friend's father there, who introduced himself as Rick. There was no wife at home, she passed away 9 years ago. Rick watched Sabrina, because he knew his son was with her, yet they weren't a couple. The way she dressed, the way she moved, it was too much on a 15 year old. He had heard them during some nights when they thought Rick was asleep. Robert denied being in a relationship, but instead told his father that she's with everyone, which made the father go wary of the girl. He didn't want such a girl for his son, but he wouldn't mind her for himself.

...

[Anonymous No.15147891]

يجب أن تمتص قضيبي بسم الله

[Anonymous No.15148026]

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 defecating 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.15148106]

>>15142233
thanks for feed back, this was literally the open paragraphs of a chapter that became the opener for the book, I had a more info dump type of opening before bought thought to start with the character. The arc starts right after this but hit word limit.

hear you on the robot retelling, it needs a lot of work to give it more feeling.

if you have anything you want me to crit go for it.

[Anonymous No.15148118]

>>15140948
just some thoughts:

>>15140948
>...are the best removed
better flow, no?

>>15141034
this is nice but a little overwritten, sometimes ungrammatical, and frankly too old-fashioned and self-consciously literary.

Not even on the busiest of days would the hungriest customers ever dare to reach for the only dinner menu left, as a spilled cocktail had long since crusted it shut. Of what was on offer in that old Italian-American menu just a few drinks were still regularly ordered. And as for the kitchen, just one look would reveal unplugged fridges, dirty cooktops and a lone teflon pan in which Milan would cook his breakfast. It had been a kitchen large enough to feed an army, but now it was just an empty maze of secondary kitchens and walk-in fridges. But when he walked through it, the bartender could still feel the ring of what had been, those countless cooks running about, spilling pan drippings, clanging pots together, yelling to get out of their way, until that is he found the old crevice between the sink and the bakers table, where his mother made the pasta. There she was, he thought, and here am I. Nestled in her bosom's warmth, this restaurant, I grew tired of her care and wanted something of my own. I had been there once. Now the wooden table was covered with dust.

>>15146469
ditto this

I feel so agonized and lost. Lost in life, without direction; lost in spirit, without God; lost in heart, without love; and lost in thought, without philosophy. In words I wander without message, and I suffer without the hope of improving. These pages are lifeless and poor. I write like the tree grows, groping for light. Why can't I die? Why can't the dust take me back? In my heart I long for rest, but I give none to myself. How confusing it all is! The dead waves continue, the salt water burns in my throat. There is no one opposed to me but these resistless waves. And it doesn't look like they will stop.

beginners' work, don't lose hope, do go on!

[Anonymous No.15148125]

>>15147747
Reads like a humourless YA novel for girls, evidently written by a guy.

If this is a parody of dry, YA-style shit, it works well. If this is the set up for a fanfiction on a pornsite, this works well. If this is anything else, it doesn't work well

[Anonymous No.15148216]

>>15148026

The writing style is incredibly consistent and clear. This consistency however, blends the dialogue and the narration style together, which gives the feeling that the narrator is a part of the text. This is true for some parts of the narration and not others, some of the narration is given by molly and some of it by a third party (authour). Unless this is explicitly what you are going for, be careful about the divide between narrator, molly, and dialogue. I think this is what causes a bit of a funny feeling in the section after "guided him"

Shitposts are always funny though, and I love the idea behind this entire section

[Anonymous No.15149085]

https://pastebin.com/3J9dS1Ed

this is the beginning of a story i never finished years ago

[Anonymous No.15149335]

>>15140548
The world is fucked up. The world is fucked up
one day you will see,
AHHHHHH
The WORLD is fucked
Up it's fucked up
One day you'll agree
AhhhhhHHH
Ehehehe

[Anonymous No.15149344]

>>15149335
bait?

[Anonymous No.15149394]

>>15145819
Good descriptions here but some of the sentences are a bit hard to digest. I would add some commas or otherwise break up some of the longer ones.

I posted this in a different crit thread, got some good feedback, and made some edits. Here it is now:

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 core 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.15149652]

Lewis had become notorious in the organization. Whereas most members were grad students, journalists, and senile hippies whose devotion to the ruby edifice of Marxist thought was unquestionable, he was a clear divergent. When members spoke of leftist unity, class consciousness, and other desirable features for revolution, Lewis invariably responded, “But how does this account for the black poor, transwomen, indigenous, disabled folk-” as if he’d never read theory before. Because if he had, he would know that a socialist movement can only work under egalitarian principles, meaning identity politics were left home for the interest of the whole, as the astute members had often told him. But the tensions remained, and many wondered why he kept on attending the meetings if he so clearly didn’t support their cause.
It would benefit everyone if he just stayed home with his issues and made long blogposts about them. But there were a select few, or rather one, who admired his presence, and that was Arthur McCoy. Arthur saw Lewis like a prince descended from violet clouds of righteousness, a black axe swinging through ignorance with truth. Lewis was slim, buzz-cut, big-lipped, and had a muscadine complexion. His voice was soft despite being so laced with criticism, and whenever he spoke, Arthur listened as if at some Athenian lecture. Arthur himself was rather frail, curly-haired, wide-nosed, freckled and light-skinned, with green eyes that essentially begged you to ask the “what are you?” question. To which he surprisingly would reply, “black”, apparently reluctant to reap the myriad benefits of being so “cute and exotic” (as a white girl had once called him).

[Anonymous No.15150116]

>>15149652
What socialist movement where "identity politics were left home for the interest of the whole" are you referring to? Every organized socialist group in the Western world is completely overrun with idpol at this point

[Anonymous No.15150133]

>>15140548
Rules and laws and squares to order
I don't see why you toil and bother
Mine is mindful, yours hides mines
I step, you burst, I stand, you cry

[Anonymous No.15150197]

>>15141454

BIG BAZZA, NOTORIOUS NONCE-HUNTER

(Cover art by Frank Frazetta.)

[Anonymous No.15150219]

A few Haiku / Senryu:
----------------------------

Cold February rain:
Under the car the cat sits
Watching wet people

---

Pushed hard with both thumbs
The champagne cork starts to move -
Everyone's looking

---

Spare room teddy bear:
Gossamer connects his nose
To the window-pane

---

This college textbook
Has 'not true!!' in the margin
Pencil digging deep

---

Photosynthesis:
My cat, converting sunshine
Into happiness

---

On the lead, yes, but -
The dog does not have a choice
His nose pulls harder

---

Midnight town centre:
A traffic light offers green
To an empty street

[Anonymous No.15150232]

>>15150219
I like it.

[Anonymous No.15150237]

>>15150219
I love the first two and the last. Bravo :)

[Anonymous No.15150274]

>>15150116
Norf fc labour

[Anonymous No.15150302]

>>15150116

This would be taking place at a DSA which are notorious in my area for being overrun with dogmatic communists who refuse to accommodate unique times. Black and brown socialists have had an issue with this for decades and I've experienced it myself. I know others have different experiences though. It's not meant as a political story in truth, it's a domestic fiction about not romanticizing "revolutionaries" because everyone has their flaws and it's best to stick to your personal convictions. This scene is just to introduce Arthur's growing infatuation.

[Anonymous No.15150595]

this any good?

[Anonymous No.15150880]

>>15148125

how did you know it was written by a guy

>>15147747

Rick told the girl to come back anytime during the summer. Sabrina knew that Robert won't be around for the summer, and wondered why his dad would open his door to her. Once Robert left, Sabrina came by, and the man was alone in the house. They spoke of the weather, the upcoming summer, post-high school goals (or lack of), school, and eventually a bit about the boys and what Sabrina liked to do with them.

Sabrina stayed longer than she expected. She watched the TV, as her home didn't have cable, and she was fascinated with all the channels. As she turned the channels, she stopped at the display of a woman having sex. Startled, she quickly turned it and looked around to see if Rick heard it. The man was in the shower, so she slowly crept back to the scene. It was an adult channel, something separately paid for on top of cable. She wondered if Robert watched this, or maybe Rick did. The woman on screen had breasts like two hard balloons, and Sabrina wondered if guys were actually into this. She continued watching as the man on screen pulled the tits up in the air by the nipples then let them drop. It was mesmerizing to see the tits bounce around on the thin frame of the woman, as if they were separate entities from the rest of the body. She heard Rick's footsteps in the kitchen and turned to see Rick already dressed. Sabrina knew that he heard the woman moaning on TV and changed the channel again as Rick approached and sat down next to her. It was 12 at night already, past her bed time. They watched the midnight football rerun, still at the low volume that she tuned to for the sex scene. After a long half an hour, the man spoke, "Have you been with a guy before?" The girl didn't look at him, but answered. "How many?" the man continued, with eagerness in his voice. She didn't respond, but she felt the cushions of the couch shift as the man sat closer to her. He asked, "What do you like?"

She kept quiet, and looked down to find Rick's hand on her knees. It was trembling. "Tell me if I am making you uncomfortable." She didn't reply, so he slowly inched his hand to her thighs, stroking her skin with his thumb. His fingers crept into her underwear, and paused after stroking her bare pussy. The girl leaned back into the sofa and closed her eyes, not knowing how to respond. When he fondled her, there was wetness between his fingers. He didn't stop, but rather got more aggressive with his hand.

[Anonymous No.15151085]

>>15150880
If you are going for ebing high schule then refer to groups of people and their opinions and Sabrina's opinions of them, even if they are the most sports jackets and black eye liner stereotypes (Rick in the second post is a good use of established character type i.e. horny divorce/widow dad). Identity and reflection are needed in some capacity otherwise you end up describing stage actions. Sabrina feels faceless outside of approach to sexual encounters.
'her friends' feel like a placeholder which is ok if she is a voluntary part time loner, in this case we need some of her inner thoughts
Also the whole creepred-y deal unfolding in the second post.
I don't really want to read a story about a passive body masquerading as a character, unless you are appealing to coomers. It is noticable that she doesn't have a line of dialogue.

[Anonymous No.15151198]

>>15151085

>>15150880

Sabrina has never been with an older man before, not this old, but she anticipated the new experience. She wasn't sure if he would've just let her go anyway, by judging the way he looked at her. They spent the night together, and the next morning he told her to never tell anyone. The girl continued coming back every couple days, because she enjoyed the attention and devotion. He was a partner who wanted to please her, and kissed, sucked on, and tasted her. Eventually, his bedroom closet had a section for his new young friend, with lingerie, sex toys, and high heels. Sabrina has never had so many outfits like this before, and she loved watching herself in the mirror. She loved the look in the man's eyes when she turned to him in her new attire. After the seniors picked her up off the sidewalk and dropped her off wherever she wanted after having fun with her, she walked over to Rick's and washed in the shower before spending the night with him. The man enjoyed knowing she was a slut at school and would ask her to tell him everything.

When Sabrina hit 16, she was tired of her home life. There was nothing redeeming about it to her. Her mom was at work all day, and when she came home, she went straight to bed with no comment to her daughter. Neither of them spoke to each other. It was small two bedroom apartment, and not enough room to bring anyone over. There was no TV, not even a radio, nothing. Sabrina complained to Rick that she wanted to move out of her mom's house already, but can't get a real job yet. Rick asked if she ever thought of stripping before, and she laughed at him. She didn't have the body for it. She wasn't blonde. She didn't have big tits. Rick pulled up her crop top, and pulled down her bra to let her tits hang out. Sure, they weren't porn star tits, but they were taut and pale with a pink undertone. Her nipples were prominent from all the boys sucking on them. Rick pinched them, "men would pay to touch these. Strippers make good money." The girl smiled but shook her head. "Don't believe me? You have a nice body. I'd love to see you on a pole, so would everyone else, but you're not legal yet."

[Anonymous No.15151274]

>>15150880
>>15151198
Why did you write this? Not trying to rag on you, just genuinely curious. If it was just to get off, then there's no point in posting in a crit thread (indeed, you'd have better luck perfecting that by just posting it on an erotica forum or something and counting views). If something else, what? You obviously spent time and effort putting this together, but why this subject matter?

[Anonymous No.15151324]

>>15149394
Thank you very much for the input, anon. That's a snippet from an already large body of work, but I'll keep that in mind when I get to editing it.

[Anonymous No.15151505]

I'n writing this in Scrivener so I think the indenting might be a little iffy.

The days before the expected departure took a toll on my mental health. Was it eagerness? Uneasiness? Whatever it was, Chal’s Lucky Alphonse weighed heavily on my mind. The instant I got off the shuttle, I headed straight to my living quarters and sacrificed one tree too many to intangible thoughts.
But I couldn’t be cooped up in my room forever. Eventually I figured someone like Friederika would worry about me. I never cared much for keeping my minefield of a room tidy, and I would hate for poor little Friederika to become a lost causality in this mess. So I spared her the trouble and left for the mess hall to regain some energy.
To my surprise, the mess hall was at peak today, even moreso than it usually is. Thankfully, the line wasn’t slow. And nothing makes a starving serviceman more grumpy than slow food service. I managed to retrieve my food and drink in a speedy fashion and secured a nice and quiet seat away from the noisy rank and file.
I looked down at the contents on the yellow plastic tray before me. A chunk of nicely cooked fillet, some clumps of green vegetables and a soft biscuit with cheese and ham stuffed into it. Aside from that I had some soup for the biscuit and a cup of coffee. Honestly, I never cared much for our selection of meat. I’ve heard from others before that it was a better selection than what civilians might get but I’ve beg to differ. What I always loved was the biscuits and coffee which were imported from local Frankish settlements.
Just as I was about to down the coffee, I heard a familiar voice from behind.
“Well well, if it isn’t the ensign Victoria crawling out of her room.”
Friederika plopped down in the free seat next to me and gave me a friendly grin. Looking at her tray, she had several biscuits and a slice of bread accompanying a large bowl of soup. On both sides of her tray were two cups of creamy coffee. I didn’t realize it much until now, but Friederika really liked her coffee. A little too much dependency on it, I would think.
“You were about to drink pitch black coffee I take it? Look at you, being all grown up without me. How very mature of you. Here, have some of my cream.”
Friederika pretended to wipe a tear from her eye and proceeded to hand me some a few creamer packets. I took them, and helped myself to clearing a few out into my own cup of coffee. As one would expect, the texture changed from pitch black to a more colorful light shade of brown after a bit of stirring.
“Thanks Kiki, I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, that aside…”
1/2

[Anonymous No.15151518]

.>>15151505
“Mm?”
Friederika rested her chin on her hands and gave me a stern look. It occurred to me Friederika was probably a lot more worried about me than I initially thought. I finished gulping down a bit of coffee and set it down.
“What is it, Kiki? It’s rare of you to get serious. Are you having boyfriend problems or something?”
“And it’s pretty cute of you to make humorous jabs. What’s been on your mind?”
I let out a sigh and poked one of the nicely cut fillet slices with a fork. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how to answer. Or rather, I didn’t know how to express it properly.
“It’s about the operation tomorrow, I’ve been feeling anxious about it. If I had to be frank with you, it’s about all I’ve been thinking about the last couple days.”

2/2

That's about it so far for this particular chapter. Starting with the chapter before this I'm hopping out of my comfort zone that was a narration from a largely omnipotent point of view detailing broad events and very little actual character interactions and dialogue, as such theres a real distinct lack of story and the aforementioned stuff, I had someone describe earlier chapters as a "dry codex of lore". I had a good framework of how I wanted the events of this chapter to go but I'm being bogged down by dialogue when I don't have much experience with at all

[Anonymous No.15151712]

>>15151198

Sabrina was desperate for cash, and Rick wanted to see her on the pole and wondered if she could get on it before being legal. After all, stripping is all paid in cash and nobody checks for IDs besides the club manager. He was a regular at City Centerfolds, where the manager recognized him and new that he spends. Jerry was a hard ass, especially on the girls from what they told him, but Jerry knew money and might look the other way if Sabrina made enough for his club.

When Sabrina came over again, she put on white lingerie in the bedroom. Her crotchless panty showed her bare pink lips, and her taut breasts were in full display. She looked like a bride ready for picking. Rick sat on the bed, watching the girl looking at herself in the mirror as she turned around in her white high heels. She asked Rick if she would be fucking multiple guys as a stripper. "You're not supposed to, but you'll make more money if you do extras." Rick responded then stared at her ass, "A lot of guys will want to fuck you." Sabrina smiled and swayed over to the bedside and pulled at her lingerie, "You think this would look good in the black light?" Rick picked her up and tossed her onto the bed, and fondled her bare lips until she was wet and begging to be fucked.

When Sabrina hit 17, Rick drove her to City Centerfolds in the evening just as it was opening up. She wore a red tank top without a bra on, and the man fondled her throughout the ride. After the bouncer let her in, she glanced across the dark empty club. The stage lights were not on yet. It smelled faintly of cigarettes and cinnamon body spray. She walked over to the stage in her white heels. There were two poles on a glassy surface, and Sabrina sat at the rail. Sabrina pictured herself dancing on the poles, and smirked at the idea of men throwing money at her. A door at the corner of the lounge open, showing a man silhouetted by fluorescent light. He stopped and faced Sabrina for a second before walking over to her. He was a middle aged man, slightly overweight. "Are you here to audition?" he asked, and Sabrina stood up and gave an awkward nod. He motioned her to follow him into the fluorescent room. The walls were dingy, with scratches and slight coffee stains on them, and the leather sofa was faded and scratched. Sabrina sat at the sofa, and watched the man get to his vinyl office chair. It was cold, and Sabrina wished she had something other than just her tank top and jean shorts.
The man clasped his hands together and eyed the girl, "Have you danced before?"

...

[Anonymous No.15152462]

>>15151712
I guess this is acceptable for what it is, but it's cliche from start to finish. Every description here is cookie-cutter

[Anonymous No.15152503]

>>15151712

The manager let her audition on stage that night, though he knew she was underage. Sabrina saw Rick walk into the back office with the man, and when they brought her into the office, they were chuckling and told her to stay out of trouble with the law if she wanted to get away with working here. As the strippers were coming into the club, they glanced at her. There were all sorts of girls, and they weren't all blonde bombshells like in the movies - many of them in fact had the girl next door look. Sabrina felt more confident.

The job was relatively easy, and Sabrina was surprised that talking to the guys at the club weren't much different than talking to the boys at school. She supposed that, no matter how old a man became, he never grew past the high school age inside. They knew she was knew and asked for her, and were aggressive with her in the private rooms. They tried for "extras" that the club manager and other girls warned about, thinking that Sabrina would be too naive to know better. Even though Sabrina didn't let the men get away with it, she accepted when they offered to pay her more if she met them outside the club. But first, they had to spend on her to show her that they weren't just bullshitting her. Once they spent enough time with her, she met them at their homes. She liked that she didn't have to pay the club any tips on her earning. Sabrina had several "regulars" she met outside the club, and they ranged from the ages of 30 to 70. Since Sabrina didn't drive, they picked her up at the street corner of her home. She spent the night with the regular, or even his guests if they came over. The guys liked that they can get with a girl so young, and would let their friends in on the opportunity.

As Sabrina continued dancing and meeting more men, word got around and the other dancers began avoiding her. Fortunately for Sabrina, one of her regulars paid her to be his live in girlfriend so she stayed out of the club. The girl packed a bag to Marty's apartment, and barely stayed at her mom's house anymore. The mom never asked when she saw Sabrina with her bag.

[Anonymous No.15153742]

yall degenerates

[Anonymous No.15153790]

Here is my poem entitled "An Incels Rage"

Shinning white porcelain
of a vaguely iridescent
behind an duplile rictus
plastered of sulfates
chemico-emollient
viscous aberrations
masked of an acrid
by harvest secretions
and the ground dead.
ecce mulierem et flete.

[Anonymous No.15153991]

>>15140548
wrote this while on DXM

One advantage of exhaustion is that one sleeps more readily. This provided the benefit of remaining ignorant to the situation at hand, namely starvation. While Chris slept, the fact that his body was cannibalizing eluded him. He was blind to the worsening state of his feet, and he was unaware of the seemingly thin blanket. Of course, this would be made null and void upon his awakening. Still, the temporary reprieve could be counted as a blessing. His dreams burst forth in a non-linear fashion, amalgamating the experiences from the week before into a single narrative, unshackling his mind from the chains of causality and the restrictions of reality. Dreams, though, and especially in this circumstance, are inherently non-lexical. Despite described by the word “narrative,” what distinguished dream from non-dream was the reliance on visual thought over an internalized monologue. Instead of abstractions contained and defined by lexemes, Chris’ dream, or dreams, if one was confident in their competence in identifying and dividing narratives that lacked a consistent structure, was simply amorphous abstraction. Yet this then raises the question of what is abstraction. If the abstract is that which lives in thought, and one presupposes that thought requires a thinker, and that the abstract is perceived and experienced subjectively by each thinker, then the lack of a conscious thinker, such as Chris, who, at this moment, was still asleep, meant that the abstract could not truly exist within his mind, even as a dream. Thus, Chris did not dream, because he could not dream, for dreams did not exist. But that did not stop him from once more believing he had forgotten his dream when he had awoken.

[Anonymous No.15154020]

How do you know if a piece is good or not? How do you know when to stop?

[Anonymous No.15154025]

>>15154020
If it feels right then it is good. If it feels wrong then it is not good. I'm assuming you're talking about editing your own works.

[Anonymous No.15154028]

>>15150219
i love cat poetry and yours are lovely though my favorites were the 2nd and 4th. the 4th for its mystery and implications and the 2nd because i imagined pic related pepe

[Anonymous No.15154106]

>>15150219
These are fucking great

[Anonymous No.15154108]

>>15150595
reading this felt like sliding off a slide :) though the ending would feel more punchy if it was "i'm marooned". but you really get it

[Anonymous No.15154232]

>>15140548
The raging storm

We could see nothing beyond it, the fog outside our trenches. It swept down from the mountainside and washed away the field from view. They were hidden within misty grey waves, an enemy which did not sleep, did not miss. They were like a raging storm, for when a man looked upon them, not knowing what madness beheld him in that moment, he would hear the thunder of their weapons and feel lightning pierce his skull. The officer will send good men out from their cabins, their places of reprieve and rest, to go out into the fog and slay that enemy. They go and never return, as if swallowed by the milky white fingers of a maelstrom. It is only during the night, when dancing fires bob within the mist, that we hear their screams, and their silence.
I knew that the time would come when I too shall enter, so when the officer called upon me, everything was ready. I went with four other soldiers, men that once held desires and hopes, now swept away as though a wind had took it from them. What was left were shells of a man, looking but not seeing, walking but now knowing where. Each foot fell on brass, on soil, on blood. We did not need the shriveled corpses of long-dead trees to know that this was a barren land, and that whoever resided this place was mad. We saw figures in the mist, living on the border of reality and our paranoia, which could only be seen in the corners of our eyes before retreating back into white shadows. These beasts, like unto a falcon swooping down on his prey, took each man silently while we slept beneath long faded stars. Soon it was just me, walking within the company of an unfeeling enemy. When the third day of driftless wandering came, I felt the beating of rain against my back. My knees hit the hard wet earth, and I felt my head hang down loosely. When the rain comes, and there is no place to hide, you can only wait for the thunder and lightning.

[Anonymous No.15154368]

>>15154108
thank you me felly

[Anonymous No.15154936]

There is something unnatural about him, I thought the first time he crossed the door. A sense of urgency present in his actions, a sort of foreignness to his movements. He was a thin tall man with blonde hair and gray eyes. There seemed to be no point to his visits, no strict order to his routine. His erratic personality made me suspicious at once. This was my first job, after all.
Time passed, however, and it wasn't too long before he started to become just a commonplace annoyance.
One day he started fumbling, as usual, through some of the sections, as if he were looking for something very specific. Business had been slow today, and I realized he was the only regular I had never crossed a word with.
'Is there anything I can help you with, sir' I said with a voice I felt was way too hoarse but not too loud.
His face slowly turned to me, and stared with squinting eyes and mouth agape. He was yawning.
'I'm sorry, I couldn't catch that', he muttered, as he wiped his eyes with a slow gesture. His voice was fragile, like that of a lost child.
' I said, Is there anything I could help you with?'
'You said?', he smiled.

[Anonymous No.15155022]

>>15154936

This is good. A few things I might consider editing:

>crossed the door
He crossed the threshold, not the door. He came in through the door. Or appeared in the doorway.

>A sense of urgency present in his actions
Do you really need the word "present"?

>no strict order to his routine
But if it's a routine, that implies order. Do you mean, "there seemed to be no order or routine to his coming and going"?

>His erratic personality made me suspicious at once.
The jump here just seems too big. You don't know enough about this guy to know he has an erratic personality. Even just putting "seemingly erratic personality" softens it a bit.

>Business had been slow today
Slight problem with the tense. "Business had been slow that day" sounds better to me.

>the only regular I had never crossed a word with
"Crossed a word with" connotes an argument. How about "exchanged a word with"?

>a voice I felt was way too hoarse but not too loud
This reads slightly oddly because not being too loud is not a problem, whereas too hoarse is. How about:
"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" I said. My voice was not too loud but definitely sounded way too hoarse.
Or when you say "not too loud", do you mean "not loud enough"? It's slightly ambiguous.

>His face slowly turned to me, and stared with squinting eyes and mouth agape.
The effect here is slightly odd, because you're saying his FACE stared rather than HE stared. This might be exactly the effect you're after, but if not, I think a more normal phrasing would be something like:
"He turned his face slowly towards me, and stared with squinting eyes and mouth agape."

[Anonymous No.15155149]

>>15155022
Thank you, anon, I'm glad you think that.
I'm also very grateful you took the time to write those suggestions.
I think all of them sound better and make more sense, actually. English is not my first language, so this helps a lot.
That last one, however, made me reflect quite a bit. My intention, I think, was to make it seem like the other person was a bit detached, and so, it was 'his face' turning rather than him turning his face.
I'm not sure what would be more proper though.
Anyways, thanks for reading my silly story and giving such great critique.

[Anonymous No.15155172]

>>15141034
You had an opportunity to make a moms spaghetti joke and didn’t

[Anonymous No.15155280]

>>15155022
What’s your email? I have a 700+ pages that need the same treatment

[Anonymous No.15155338]

>>15155280
it better be the dragon porn

[Anonymous No.15155486]

Alright boys, I wanna start writing with no ambitions other than it seems fun for something personal.
How can I learn to write? Are there some essays I can look at while I practice short story writing? How did you guys start off when learning how to write?

[Anonymous No.15155516]

>>15155486

Nice webm