/lit/ - Literature

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115441]

alright bitches, time for round 2

Post some of your writing and I'll tell you why you suck

[Anonymous No.3115445]

"I will avenge you father," said Ashatar the Brave as he held the limp, dying body of his father after their battle with the Mardook Goblins. "I swear to you that you will be avenged. I swear by the honor of the three tittied priestess of Astor."
His father raised his head for a moment, as if to speak, then groaned and fell back, overcome with dying. Ashatar cried aloud to the heavens then stood up.
SWISH.
An arrow.
It landed beside him. "But I thought the Mardook Goblins were all dead," said Ashatar, pulling out his blade and turning around.
"Raar!" The hideous cry of a goblin as it ran toward him – fierce, bold, naked, its genitals swaying in the wind. Just as Ashatar raised his sword to strike down the creature, it fell, as if struck by the heavens. Behind its fallen corpse stood the person of Lady Buxley.
Lady Buxley, dark elf queen. Lady Buxley, guildmistress of the busty vixens. A lady as skilled with a sword as she was with her loins. But Ashatar mustn't think of her that way – no, for she was his step sister.
"Our father has fallen," said Ashatar. "We must avenge him."
"Then we shall travel together."
The lands were cold that time of year – in the season of the winter moon – and Ashatar knew they would have to sleep together that night, side by side, warm body to warm body.
Suddenly, a shriek from the heavens. A dragon!

[Anonymous No.3115449]

These events took place on the Los Álamos cattle ranch, towards the south of the township of Junín, during the final days of March, 1928. The protagonist was a medical student, Baltasar Espinosa. We may describe him for now as no different to any of the many young men of Buenos Aires, with no particular traits worthy of note other than an almost unlimited kindness and an oratorical faculty that had earned him several prizes from the English school in Ramos Mejía. He did not like to argue; he preferred it when his interlocutor was right and not he himself. Although the vagaries of chance in any game fascinated him, he played them poorly because it did not please him to win. His wide intelligence was undirected; at thirty-three years of age, the completion of one last subject stood in the way of his graduation, despite its being his favourite. His father, who was, like all gentlemen of his day, a freethinker, had instructed him in the doctrines of Herbert Spencer, but his mother, before setting out on a trip to Montevideo, requested of him that every night he say the Lord’s Prayer and make the sign of the cross. Over the years, not once had he broken this promise.

[Anonymous No.3115450]

>>3115449
He did not lack in courage; one morning he had traded, more out of indifference rather than wrath, two or three blows with a group of fellow students who were trying to force him into taking part in a university demonstration. He abounded in questionable opinions, or habits of mind, from a spirit of acquiescence: his country mattered less to him than the risk that in other parts they might believe that we continue to wear feathers like the Indians; he venerated France but despised the French; he had little respect for Americans, but he approved of there being skyscrapers in Buenos Aires; he thought that the gauchos of the plains were better horsemen than those of the hills or mountain ranges. When his cousin Daniel invited him to summer in Los Álamos, he accepted immediately, not so much because he liked the country, but more out of his natural geniality and his not having found a valid reason for saying no.

The ranch’s main house was large and somewhat run-down; the foreman, who was known as Gutre, had his quarters close by. The Gutres were three: the father, the son (who was particularly uncouth) and a girl of uncertain paternity. They were tall, strong and bony, with Indian features about the face and hair that tinged red. They hardly spoke. The foreman’s wife had died years ago.

[Anonymous No.3115454]

An old man, pushing himself like a rickety hand cart, weaves a course toward the door of the hotel. A short man, under five feet, dragging a large valise. Landsman observes the long white coat, worn open over a white suit with a waistcoat, and the wide brimmed white hat pulled down over his ears. A white beard and sidelocks, wispy and thick at the same time. The valise an ancient chimera of stained brocade and scratched hide. The whole right side of the man's body sags five degrees lower than the left, where the suitcase, which must contain the old boy's entire collection of lead ingots, weighs it down. The man stops and raises a finger, as if he has a question to pose of Landsman. The wind toys with the man's whiskers and with the brim of his hat. From his beard, arm pits, breath, and skin, the wind plucks a rich smell of stale tobacco and wet flannel and the sweat of a man who lives in the street. Landsman notes the color of the man's antiquated boots, yellowish ivory, like his beard, with sharp toes and buttons running up the sides.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115457]

>>3115445
>three tittied priestess
no class man, next time say three breasted.
>overcome with dying
fuck you bitch, are you even trying?
>Ashatar cried aloud to the heavens then stood up.
>SWISH.
>An arrow.
I'm done, this garbage isn't even worth being torn apart. Try again, bitch.

[Anonymous No.3115458]

"How long have we waited?" asked the little girl. Her breath was frosty and visible in the night air.
"Not long enough," said the boy.
"Are we going to die?" she asked.
"No," he said. "Now just be quiet."
They were hiding behind some bushes in the tree line beside a road. Trucks had passed – trucks carrying soldiers – but that was a few minutes ago. All they had to do was cross the road.
"I don't hear any more trucks," said the girl. "I think it's safe."
The boy leaned out of the tree line, and looked both ways. Snow fell, drifting lightly, falling like white feathers from the sky. No one was there. It was safe.
"Okay," said the boy. "Okay, let's go but be quick."
He took her hand and they ran across the road, safely, quietly. They had reached the other side. The boy started running further into the woods, then stopped. The girl was tugging his sleeve.
"What?" he asked.
She was pointing to the road. Footprints.
They'd left footprints.
"Shit!" cried the boy. "No time! Just run. They might not see them."

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115461]

>>3115449
>the protagonist
you cant just announce someone as your protagonist. Jesus fuck dude, are you high?

Then you go on to explain all of this dude personality traits. Don't just explain that shit, let it flow through action and let the readers draw their own conclusions about his personality.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115470]

>>3115454
reading this I get the feel I'm being told the story from some omnipotent fuck who is floating above the scene describing everything. Try bringing the reader in closer, know what I'm saying? Like, describe the room this is taking place in, then have the short man come in with his valise. Cut to another character for a second to get a reaction on the short guy walking in, then switch back to descriptions. Get it? You got to make it more real, don't just explain it: show it. Make me feel like I'm there.

[Anonymous No.3115466]

Now they're going to see who I am, he said to himself in his strong new man's voice, many years after he
had first seen the huge ocean liner without lights and without any sound which passed by the village one
night like a great uninhabited place, longer than the whole village and much taller than the steeple of the
church, and it sailed by in the darkness toward the colonial city on the other side of the bay that had been
fortified against buccaneers, with its old slave port and the rotating light, whose gloomy beams
transfigured the village into a lunar encampment of glowing houses and streets of volcanic deserts every
fifteen seconds, and even though at that time he'd been a boy without a man's strong voice but with his'
mother's permission to stay very late on the beach to listen to the wind's night harps, he could still
remember, as if still seeing it, how the liner would disappear when the light of the beacon struck its side
and. how it would reappear when the light had passed, so that it was an intermittent ship sailing along,
appearing and disappearing, toward the mouth of the bay, groping its way like a sleep‐walker for the buoys
that marked the harbor channel, until something must have gone wrong with the compass needle, because
it headed toward the shoals, ran aground, broke up, and sank without a single sound, even though a
collision against the reefs like that should have produced a crash of metal and the explosion of engines that
would have frozen,

[Anonymous No.3115472]

>>3115470

Here that, Michael Chabon? Why don't you listen to this guy and improve your writing? Oh, you've won a Pulitzer? SO WHAT!

[Anonymous No.3115473]

Pinstripe slaggard on the turnkey spins a medley, gushing thunder out the windows. Octave thrumming four and four and through the air and into ears of trundled gathered at the manor, through to all the weary gathered out comes screaming with a lurch the ancient mimicry, the tribal hum of war. Red in veins runs distillate and paltry thin, the steps of men are hurried. Dust is upspat with a kick and night is settled. Luna robed in white makes timely for the highperch, throned at apeiron and naked, fervid Achelois is bent and kicking dustup from her footmat, making faces blushed and long and shot at Eos with a wink.

The gathered mingle, heads in matted pleat and greased up, bent and to and fro and making shouts for liquor in their glasses. Slime crawl upward from their dusted nooks and slug around the pulsing mass, ravenheaded, skirting round with buckled knees for worms. The house is near to full and storied double, packed and full with sloth Chimera, faces long and wide and kindred not from crosstown here and nether, making chaos from the grounds at hand and suckling from the wired teat of awe. Faces distant, hollow, eyes unseen and piercing, jaundiced, clatchstuck with a grimace making left to right and with a shiver. And the outlie, peppered here and there in triads, maybe more, sucking jazzy from a piece or sniffing white. The night made rhythmic, night made dancing with the thrum, the strum of gatling iron playful spun through thumb and rigid finger, sound of kettles earthspun blockdown, homes in stretch a'rattle with the thunder.

'Yes. And the old story:

'So it stays until old Gabe comes leaping from his morning shit to blow his dusty horn from out his window. And God says eidi-eidi-ho. The people dance down under, all feathered tarred and soggy, clucking jestbells for a nightstay. Asscracked maggots, dustin they jackets, clean like city faggots, bustin they ass for a spot in line:

'The Great and Gilded Welfare Line in the Sky.'

[as No.3115474]

Deefrii, a senior medical officer, sat alone in the darkness. Collecting his thoughts he waited for the Tolateel fleet to arrive and the battle to begin. It was maddening, it made you want the chaotic violence to come just to break the deathly silence which clung to the compressed air.

The door to the surgery opened with a soft hiss, a young Orbarian of forty seasons, barely out of his teens, stepped into the darkness, the light from the corridor outside pouring into the surgery, glinting against the pointy tips of the syringes which lay ready on the counter.

Beneath a short sequence of numbers Deefrii could see the Orbaii’s name. Cona.

“May I speak with you?” said Cona, eyes reflecting the shifting lights emitting from the porthole.

“Certainly, what seems to be the problem?” said Deefrii motioning to get up, but Cona waved a hand for him not to bother and sat beside him.

[as No.3115477]

>>3115474
“It’s the battle, sir…” he said, trailing off, unable to articulate how he felt.

It was abundantly clear why the soldier was there, the Orbaii’s hands were shaking, the visible scales which weren’t hidden behind a skin tight flight suit were flaking away with stress, even in the half light Cona had lost his colour, resolving to an unhealthy grey tone.

Deefrii remained silent for a moment, he knew what he was meant to do; prescribe the officer some medication to calm his nerves and send him on his way, but for whatever reason he couldn‘t bring himself to do it. Perhaps he simply wanted the Orbaii’s company for a little while, the warmth he brought into the surgery helped calm his own nerves a great deal.

After several moments of silence Deefrii spoke of something he hadn’t to anyone except the council three years ago.

“I have experienced war first hand myself” he said slowly, mulling over each word before he said it.

The lieutenant’s little nubs for ears pricked at this revelation.

[Anonymous No.3115475]

>>3115470

Hear that, Michael Chabon? Why don't you listen to this guy and improve your writing? Oh, you've won a Pulitzer? SO WHAT! I'm not listening!! *la la la la*

[Anonymous No.3115476]

bring it on - "Her home is a small one room shack which is house to all of the possessions she has acquired in her lifetime; her life’s wealth in a room. A large hard surfaced bed takes up the majority of the house. Upon first viewing, it becomes glaringly apparent that feng sui and the pursuit of the perfect IKEA kitchen are concepts that these people will never grapple with. Farming tools, eating utensils and items of clothing are indifferent to prioritization; whatever can find space in between her 4 walls and roof is protected from the elements. Poverty renders presentation redundant."

[as No.3115480]

>>3115477
“You have, sir?”
“Yes. I will not treat you for a fool when I say that war is hell. I have endured many sleepless nights over thoughts which will never leave me. However if I have learned one thing about war and it’s devices it is this; it ends, there comes a point where no more blasters can be fired and every canon is spent, where every soldier sees the truth of what they have done and turns their back on the whole horrid mess. But it does end, an end will come. In time this will all be a distant memory, replaced by newer, happier ones.”

Cona chewed his tongue as he mulled over the doctor’s words, finally resorting to a discontent grimace.

“You don’t believe this war means anything?”

Deefrii closed his eyes and stopped himself from saying anymore. When he opened them he found the young soldier looking to him for answers that he didn’t want to hear.

Deefrii resorted to placing a comforting hand on Cona’s shoulder.

“You’ll see soon-”

[Anonymous No.3115483]

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115486]

>>3115458
Not horrible... I guess... Try and explain a little more about the characters though. Perhaps a little more insight into their relationship with each other or at least who the fuck their running from. Its probably a snippet from a bigger work so that stuff was probably worked out in parts not posted, but whatever, you know what I'm saying.
also
>"Shit!" cried the boy.
no flow man, fancy that up a bit.

[Anonymous No.3115489]

>>3115477

Guys, I don't mean to be rude but let's look at this sentence.


It was abundantly clear why the soldier was there, the Orbaii’s hands were shaking, the visible scales which weren’t hidden behind a skin tight flight suit were flaking away with stress, even in the half light Cona had lost his colour, resolving to an unhealthy grey tone.


I mean, if you don't even understand the basics of English grammar, why are you writing fiction? Comma splices, comma splices, galore!

You need to study English grammar.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115490]

>>3115475
Oh, guess you managed to pull one over on ol' OP now didn't you?
SUCK MY DICK BITCH!
My criticism remains, that shit sucked. I give two fucks about his shitty ass prizes

[Anonymous No.3115496]

When the shadow of the sash appeared on the curtains it was between seven and eight o' clock and then I was in time again, hearing the watch. It was Grandfather's and when Father gave it to me he said I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father's. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

[as No.3115498]

>>3115489
Honest to god question in hopes of improving. If I replaced those "," with full stops would it be better?

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115500]

>>3115466
Didn't read it, but I could see its a long ass wall of text. Break that shit up a little.
>>3115473
stay constant with your flow. Your all poetic and shit and then you use the phrase "morning shit" which clashes with the voice. The voice does come off a bit akward as well, I'd say read it out loud to yourself and see if it sounds right to you. Or maybe I'm just not smart enough to get it. Who the fuck knows?

[Anonymous No.3115505]

Vanessa Wilkens is consumed in a small paperback when suddenly a noise emanates from the kitchen and breaks her concentration like a derailed train. It comes so unexpectedly that she throws her arms up in surrender and the paperback, a thick collection of poetry by several obscure authors, is sent hurdling through the air and claims the spot on the table adjacent to her where a cup of tea sat just seconds before. Aw shit, she thinks. The sound of the breaking glass and the spilling tea brings her back to her living room, where strange, unexpected noises are the least of her concern; where the floor is stained with herbal tea and shattered glass. She peeks her head over the arm of her chair to assess the damage done, and then lets out a slow and heavy sigh. That was my last mug, she thinks. And my last attempt at quiet reading, she adds when the noise echoes throughout her small apartment once again. She's barefoot and only wearing a pair of frilly panties and tee-shirt, and now there's a mess to clean and a noise to investigate. She lets another sigh slip.

[Anonymous No.3115506]

>>3115475
In addition >>3115449 Is Borges and >>3115466 is Marquez

[Anonymous No.3115509]

The stained glass window cast red, sunset light on the floor of the cloister in a mosaic of different colors, masking the dusty chapel's holy ineptitude. Blood had been spilled recently, but when? Who had come into this virtuous space and slain her, drained her life essence? I have no leads yet, but I will find who has taken Maria. Even if it takes me to the ends of the world.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115510]

>>3115474
>Deefrii, a senior medical officer, sat alone in the darkness. Collecting his thoughts he waited for the Tolateel fleet to arrive and the battle to begin.
should be
>Deefrii, a senior medical officer, sat alone in the darkness collecting his thoughts. He waited for the Tolateel fleet to arrive and the battle to begin.

the rest is good enough

[Anonymous No.3115513]

>>3115509

"ends of the world" is a cliche.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115516]

>>3115506
Just because it was written by some big named fuck doesn't mean it doesn't suck. Even the greats have flaws in their shit and my mastery of the language can pop in and pick that shit out.

Before you start with your retort, no I'm not being serious I'm being sarcastic you fuck.

My point remains. Now post some of your own shit so I can tear that apart.

[Anonymous No.3115518]

My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my favorite shirt - sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka.
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. That was the year I finally put my foot down; these past three summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.
It was to Forks that I now exiled myself - an action that I took with great horror. I detested Forks.
I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved the vigorous, sprawling city.
"Kristen," my mom said to me - the last of a thousand times - before I got on the plane. "You don't have to do this."
My mom looks like me, except with short hair and laugh lines. I felt a spasm of panic as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. How could I leave my loving, erratic, hair-brained mother to fend for herself? Of course she had Phil now, so the bills would probably get paid, there would be food in the refrigerator, gas in her car, and someone to call when she got lost, but still...
"I want to go," I lied. I'd always been a bad liar, but I'd been saying this lie so frequently lately that it sounded almost convincing now.

[Anonymous No.3115523]

A moth absent-mindedly distinguished the only source of light in the room, hiding the layer of filth that had accumulated throughout. On a decrepit stool sat a surly man; aged prematurely from the undue stress of his past few months. In his mind repeated the same irritating thought that had plagued him repeatedly; he ruminated and furrowed his brow. Any sense of worth earned through his past successes seemed a distant memory; that this answer continued to elude his grasp crushed his ego flat.

His stomach flinched from hunger; he hadn’t eaten in at least a week, yet food was the last thing he was considering. Momentarily, his thoughts wandered to a seemingly distant past before his existence had dissolved into bitter anguish. He lamented for a split-second, but any notion of self-pity quickly evolved in to self-loathing. A sharp knock rang at his door; he started abruptly so as to topple toward the ground, only picking himself up at the last moment. He dashed toward his visitor; unlocking the door with great haste: there was only one person it could be. Meeting his gaze was a shell of a man, his skin so pale as to appear almost translucent. The visitor brought with him the stench of the real world and appeared so vilely as to send shivers down his spine, “Come in.” He uttered excitedly. Rustling around in the dark he reached for a box of matches, relighting the candle, he ushered his guest to sit.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115533]

>>3115476
pretty fucking good dude, I cant hate.
>>3115496
the same to you. I have a feeling you fucks are ripping shit from other authors though cuz there's no way there are actual good writers on /lit/.

>>3115498
thats a start

>>3115505
also good

>>3115509
cliche as all fuck. Cliche isnt always bad in my opinion though, hard to give three sentences any firm judgement either way. post a little more and I might have more to say.

[Anonymous No.3115549]

Why does a gun feel so much heavier when it’s loaded?
This is all that Arthur Dickinson could focus on, sitting in room 413 of a boarding house in Fell’s Point with a loaded gun laid flat in his hands. The dank air and rowdy hails of sailors and prostitutes floors beneath him couldn’t shake his concentration on the instrument that lay before him. He held it already countless times, but only after sliding a bullet into one of its six chambers did it take on a new weight between his fingers. It was a simple revolver, ashen in color save for the maroon hardwood handle and surrounded with the tingling scent of cold metal. By tomorrow it would be a murder weapon. Maybe that’s where the heaviness came from. The gravity of the task this pistol, and the hands that fire it, would carry. Kinetic energy in lead.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115552]

>>3115523
good visuals, nice flow, good shit. Keep it up fuckface.

>>3115518
>with the windows rolled down
take it out, not necessary
>It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix
exactly 75? Well fucking how about that! How about just telling me its a warm day you fuck.

um, the rest is pretty good. Just be careful not to put in unnecessary shit.

[Anonymous No.3115554]

>>3115476
damn

[Anonymous No.3115555]

"How have I acquired this ability?" I asked myself, as I stood on the roof of the building, staring into the cat's eyes.

"Meow," said the cat, and yet, I understood it somehow. Every cell in my brain pulsated, moved with some new power, and the recognition of what the cat meant by that innocuous meow came to me: "The world is in danger. You alone can save it."

"But..." I stammered, "but I'm just a kid. I– I can't possibly save the world! I can't even get a girlfriend!"

"No!" said the cat. "No, you are the chosen one. In you alone all the fate of the world rests."

"Fine," I said, "I'll do what you say. I'll travel to your world – to the Planet Meotrex."

"We must leave at once," said the cat, hopping down from his perch.

Suddenly, a voice spoke from behind me. "Excuse me, sir?" I turned and saw an old man, standing with a broom. "Sir," he said, "is everything all right? I seen you speakin' with that animal there."

"Oh," I laughed. "Yes, yes it's fine."

I followed the cat down the fire escape, down the alleyway toward 45th St. Along the way, I thought of Jenny – that pretty girl in Chemistry who never talks to me. Would I ever get to ask her out? Not likely, not now that I was headed to another planet. Suddenly, a hand reached out and grabbed me.

"Well, well, well," said a boy my age, wearing a leather jacket. "Look who we have here. Mr. Dorko and his little cat."

"Oh great," I thought. "Alex Scruff and the Mean Gang. Just what I need right now."

[Anonymous No.3115566]

sage for sange

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115568]

>>3115549
>Why does a gun feel so much heavier when it’s loaded?
Well lets see, I'm not physicist but it might be because it actually is heavier. I get where you were trying to go with it, but you failed to do it without sounding like a tard.
>with a loaded gun laid flat in his hands.
we already established that there was a gun you ass clown. What? Did you think I forgot already?
>By tomorrow it would be a murder weapon.
this is the only somewhat good part.
>The gravity of the task this pistol, and the hands that fire it, would carry.
again bitch, I didn't forget what you already told me. Stop telling me shit twice.

[Anonymous No.3115569]

>>3115566

bump.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115638]

Heres something I wrote today, didn't get around to editing so maybe you bitches can do me a favor for a change and help me out... anyway, go on and start hating cuz I know you bitches are going to.

Jamie stepped out of the front door amongst a wave of other children. Chatter hung in the air all around him. At some point someone said something to him, he guessed it was Tom or Rick, but he brushed them off and continued. He broke from the crowd and looked through the parking lot. He thought he found the right car a few times, but was fooled by black sedans similar to Death's. Then, just as he was about to give up he heard his voice.
"Hey, over here kid." Jamie turned and saw him inside his car, his fingers held a cigarette that hung just outside the window. Death smiled and nodded at him, a perfectly natural unassuming gesture, yet Jamie saw it as a practiced cover up to his intent. "Looking for something?" Death asked. up close Jamie could see his teeth had a slight yellow tint.
"I was looking for you." He said.
He opened his hands and shrugged "You found me." Jamie just stared back at him "So what do you want, kid?"
"I want to know exactly who the fuck you are."
"You should leave cursing to the cool kids." He lowered his sunglasses away from his eyes "You're not good at it."

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115641]

>>3115638
"answer my question."
"I already explained, you're dad sent me. I'm here to look out for you."
"My dad's dead, he died in a car accident last night. You already knew that though."
"Is he? Hm, well the worlds a better place I guess. At least for you, it'll save you the trouble of doing it yourself one day, if that's really what you wanted." He flicked his cigarette away and it landed on the hot pavement where it continued to burn. "You want a ride?" Jamie kept intense eye contact with him for a moment then walked around to the side of the car and got in. Death put the car into drive and pulled out of the parking space. Once they were out of the parking lot and on the main road Jamie asked the other question he wanted to know.
"Are you real?"
"What's with you today kid? Your asking all kinds of weird questions... Of course your father did just die, apparently, so your probably a bit mixed up. Somehow I don't think your all that torn up about it though."
Jamie watched the smoke billowing out of the factory and pondered for a moment. "Is any of this real?"
"Reality is whatever you make of it, kid, but yeah it's all pretty god damn real if you ask me."

[Anonymous No.3115575]

>>3115552
>>3115523
In the light, the gaunt features of the visitor were exceedingly noticeable: his nose sat flat upon his face, a thinning tuft of patchy brown hair receded atop his head and two bulging eyes completed his anomalous complexion. For a moment both men gazed; unsure of who would speak first, the visitor wheezed and then begun softly but with great vigour: “this very morning, sitting outside Devski’s tavern I was privy to a violent dispute. The unfortunate opponent was knocked unconscious at my feet, after the rabble had dispersed I was able to rifle through his possessions, I found nothing of value, but this.” He placed a small gold watch on the table and folded piece of paper. The man beamed, he leaned forward with great nervousness. Taking hold of the watch he admired its beauty: finely adorned with intricate patterns and weighted heavily with gold, he turned it in his hand; the insignia was of a well-known jeweller.

A knot formed in his gut, amidst his dejected mind and malnourished body began to arise a sense of hope. He lifted the paper to his eyes, and unfolded it slowly: Maxwell Street, 8:30. His heart skipped a beat; it was the location and the exact time of the event some months ago, which now consumed every facet of his reality. The man sitting beside him, whom all would find repulsive, now seemed more beneficent than Jesus himself. He quickly rummaged into his drawer, pulling out a fistful of money, which he thrust into the outstretched hand. The door closed a minute later and he was alone, although he had been from the moment his brain comprehended the note.

[Anonymous No.3115581]

A short while afterward Garrett sat in his cabin. A member of the Pretoria’s crew had brought his bags up beforehand. He reflected on the day’s events. Yeah, Captain Stefan Sonett was a douche, alright. Had always been and always would be. A pompous and pretentious imbecile, all the way through. Although he couldn’t go as far as to say he hated the man, Colonel Garrett Scott certainly held no love for Captain Stefan Sonett.
Although, he did have a point. The two of them were in the same boat. If anything, Garrett had the upper hand since the DSC supported him both publicly and privately, while Stefan only held the Confederacy’s public approval.
“Looks like I win that round, you haughty asshole.” Garrett muttered. He’d have to get used to Captain Sonett’s presence, though, and the quicker the better. It looked like they’d be spending a lot of their time together in the near future.
>please respond

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115582]

>>3115555
Your prose is sweet and simple. The context is humorous. Not bad.

Although I will nitpick at how he went from "no I cant possibly do it" to "ok fine I'll do it." without much convincing. Try to give him more solid reasoning for agreeing to take on the quest.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115583]

>>3115582
>content*

[Anonymous No.3115586]

Sheryl Moser is tossing the butt of cigarette over the balcony of her apartment, number 24, and she wears a blank expression as she watches it tumble to the streets below. She leans back in her lounge chair and places another cigarette between her lips. She grabs the matchbook that’s lying on the circular glass table to her right and strikes and lights. She inhales, exhales, and watches as the smoke rises into the air and disappears like an omen foreshadowing impending doom. Sheryl has her knees to her breasts and is wearing a pair of Eddie Bauer sunglasses with her hair wrapped tightly in a bun and she’s also wearing a gray sleeved shirt. Most women would think it scandalous to wear nothing but a shirt in broad daylight during the hour at which traffic is the heaviest and gawkers are most abundant, but Sheryl Moser does not think it so. Sheryl’s got this big opinion of herself, a sort of complex, really, and she’s just out there, sprawled out on her lounge chair, making smoking a cigarette seem like a beauty statement, while wearing a thong and thinking of how many seconds it would take for her to hit the asphalt below. She’s caught in mid-thought and suddenly a noise erupts from the kitchen and she thinks Just great, as she slides the glass door shut behind her and walks, flat footed, across the living room and into the kitchen. She looks through the peephole and unlatches the chain, and the door opens and smacks her square in the nose.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115591]

>>3115575
>now seemed more beneficent than Jesus himself.
This is a bit awkward. I'd try and substitute it with something else... also, Jesus was poor, granted he's the son of god and all that jazz but very little about his life makes me think beneficial.
>although he had been from the moment his brain comprehended the note
>his brain comprehended
Come on dude, I know you can do better then that.

[Anonymous No.3115592]

>>3115591
be·nef·i·cent/bəˈnefəsənt/
Adjective:
(of a person) Generous or doing good.
Resulting in good.

Thanks, the brain thing does sound terrible.

[Anonymous No.3115657]

>>3115638
>>3115641
that feel when it turns out OP is a genius. The surrealism! The depth!

>>3115634
this is pretty good too.

post more of your work!

[Anonymous No.3115658]

>>3115555

best thing in here by far.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115596]

>>3115581
Take out the word douche. That's a modern slang term and doesn't fit in here.
>“Looks like I win this round
fixed*

yeah, that's all that really jumps out at me.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115661]

>>3115657
na bitch, thats not what I'm here for.

>>3115658
agreed

now someone post something already, I'm getting bored over here.

[Anonymous No.3115601]

“She’s right near death. She’s cachexic and can barely move, but she’s holding her little hand out to me and her eyes are huge and panicked. She’s wheezing and she knows she’s gonna die. As she starts fading I open the door and scream out ‘Code Blue’. I start with the compressions but—oh God—she’s too old, Donnie. I can feel and hear her ribs just snap like twigs as I press down. Nobody comes in with the crash cart so I go to give her mouth-to-mouth but she can’t take any fluids orally and I haven’t been there for her all day so her lips are flakey and dry against mine.”

[Anonymous No.3115602]

>>3115596
Thanks for your reply, man. This is the first thing I've posted on /lit/. The omniscient narrator is actually a character in the story who would say something like that, though. Is it still inappropriate to use that word?

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115611]

>>3115586
>Sheryl Moser tosses a cigarette butt over the balcony
*fixed... also tumble is a poor word to use... perhaps fall or glide, but its certainly not tumbling in mid air.
also try to use 'she' instead of her name unless you have reason to believe the reader will forget who your referring to... since she is the only character in the passage that is unlikely to happen.
Also if an unknown noise erupts from the kitchen I would expect more of a reaction then "just great", also I would avoid directly stating her thoughts or at the very least break it apart from the sentence its in..

[Anonymous No.3115664]

How many hours of his pitiful adolescence had he spent in ign comment chains defending the integrity of review scores, of games journalism at large? Queasy, he drops a chicken tender from trembling fingers back to basket. Video game reviews are supposed to be subjective evaluations by their very nature, he’d sneer at users outraged by what they felt to be inflated, unearned scores. If you think bribery is a more likely explanation than the guy liking a polished game, you’re nuts! He had thousands of sycophantic posts in the official forums, years wasted cramped in front of a computer desk weighing the merits of call of duty vs halo, shut in from even the possibility of a healthy social life . . . he’d always felt that his entry into the profession vindicated somewhat those lonesome nights . . . what commanded more adult respect in this world than an independent living? Countless ‘childish things’ and freak lifestyles had been assimilated into the mainstream by means of capital, toxic cultural stigmas dismissed by the wave of the invisible hand of the market . . . comic books seen as nothing more than brain-killing time-wasters a century before their film adaptations packed middle-american crowds into theaters . . . punk rock written off as degeneracy until someone figured out it paid . . . geekdom once a punishable social-crime; now chic and available for purchase at your local hot topic . . . the same held true for video games: long gone were the days John P. had to weather parents’ and peers’ cold sneering at sunny afternoons spent before 42” high-def screens, memories of concern for his mental well-being wiped away by a paycheck every other Friday and a laminated press badge with his name printed . . . but this validation now cold comfort faced with this new prospect: video game criticism is a sham! His life, too, a sham!

[sage No.3115666]

THIS THREAD HAS RUN ITS COURSE. Now it must day. Goodnight, sweet prince. And may angels sing you to your rest.

[Anonymous No.3115667]

I didnt know her face but I could see the beauty glowing in the dim light that occupied my cell.
"Do you believe, Jimmy?" she whispered as a shard of moonlight struck her left eye and flowed down her face like tears of light. "y-yes" I paused, trying to plan the possible consequence of my chosen words "I do".

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115619]

>>3115602
well, when does this take place? I'm guessing its from the civil war era in which case it absolutely is inappropriate to use. Come on man, who the fuck do you know from the 1800's who knows the word 'douche'? That's a modern term baby, they didn't have that back then.
If it is based in modern times then I guess its alright.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115673]

>>3115664
I was hoping someone would post something shittier so I could make fun of it. Oh well.

Alright, so you presented the character, gave him some moral dilemmas, gave us some nice insight on his world and his past, then left us with a personal revelation of his at the end. All set to a nice flow and a good pace that wasn't boring or difficult to read...

You win fucker, happy now?

[Anonymous No.3115624]

OP, post some of your own shit. And don't give some bullshit about how "that's not how it works" or refuse to. Do it, you little bitch.

[Anonymous No.3115629]

>>3115624

He did in the last thread. It was laughably bad.

[Anonymous No.3115630]

>>3115619
Hahaha, it actually takes place in the far future.,the Confederacy is a Confederacy of planets, but I see how that might have been unclear. Thanks for your help, dude.

[Travis No.3115684]

PART ONE
In the morning when I woke up, I went to go to the bathroom, like I always do, but I got out of bed on the left side, not the right. I usually always get out on the right side of my bed, when the pathway to my door is easiest to navigate. I can walk through the path of carpet that's not dirty or anything, sometimes I find old dirty clothes in there. I went into the kitchen and got cereal and then put it in the microwave, milk and everything.

I got the cereal out of the microwave and the bowl was really hot, so I yelled really loud and threw the bowl into the air. I waved my hands really fast because they were so hot from the microwaved bowl. The bowl was glass, which made it even hotter. The milk flew everywhere and eventually landed right onto the linoleum floor, which my wife had just cleaned. She was really mad when she saw that there was hot milk all over the floor.

I knew that I would be sleeping alone that night, so I decided to rent a movie. I figured I would watch something with action, yet also refined. I ended up getting I Am Legend. When I took the DVD out of the box, it was scratched, so I said "Fuck" really loud and woke up my daughter. She was crying and I immediately felt bad, because she was sick and didn't even go to school in the morning, plus I was waking her up. I also knew my wife would get mad.

[Travis No.3115685]

PART TWO
I was suddenly depressed. Everything was going wrong. There was a black cloud hanging over me, and it was covering my body in sadness. I knew that it all was my fault, so I went into the medicine cabinet and got some pills. I didn't even know what they were, but I took all of them. I then went into the freezer and pulled out a frosty pint of whiskey. I drank almost all of it in one drink. As I laid on the floor my wife had just cleaned, I thought about everything that had just happened to me as my life flashed before my eyes moments before my death. I thought about my daughter being sick and then waking up prematurely, I thought about spilling the milk on the floor. I realized that it would never be the same, because my wife would gain responsibility of the house and the kids and everything, so I knew that I was being selfish by killing myself. So I went into the bathroom again and shoved my finger down my throat in hopes I would throw up and barf the pills all over the place.

I ended up throwing up, so I was fine after they took me to the hospital and had my stomach pumped. I ended up being okay, but in the end, I realized that it was my own actions that caused everything bad to happen, so I apologized to my wife, and told I would be a dedicated husband from now on. I am happy to be alive, and today I got out of bed on the left side, and the sun was shining as I put on my slippers.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115634]

>>3115624
>>3115629
fine bitches, you want me to be serious?
It still aint that great, but whatever, I tried, so suck my dick.

>The thing that sucked about following orders was you never knew if you were doing the right thing or not. The nice thing about it was it didn't really matter either way: You were just following orders. This is something Conner had been reflecting on over the last couple years on the force. In his darkest moments alone in his apartment he admitted that this philosophy was just a cop out to avoid confronting a bigger revelation. His cure for this dilemma was to spend his free time at bars and strip clubs, always sure to be too blown out of his mind to do any sort of critical thinking.
>There was a time when he tried to work things out, but when he realized that the best answer he was ever going to come up with was "Shits just fucked" he gave up on that. It was a weird time in his life, a time with singing and prayers and having his forehead dabbed with water. For a while he thought it was working and he was becoming more at peace. One day at home alone however, he was laying down before bed with the bible open. He wasn't sure if it was a passage from the book or just a lingering thought that hit him, but he threw the book against a wall then left his apartment and picked up a hooker an hour later.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115635]

>>3115630
oh in that case its probably just fine then.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115693]

>>3115684
>>3115685
alright, in spite of the corny narration there is some potential to not be a steaming pile of shit. The biggest thing that annoyed me was how you used the word really about a dozen times.
Also there are certain things that dont need explaining...
...examples
>sometimes I find old dirty clothes in there
that has nothing to do with anything fucker
>because they were so hot from the microwaved bowl
I already knew that fucker
>The bowl was glass, which made it even hotter.
didn't need to tell me that either asshole

anyway, pretty much just stuff like that is where you suck. I still thought it was pretty clever, so kudos.

[Anonymous No.3115695]

Poets couldn’t paint a prettier sight. Its barrel bores through the clouds and its shells shatter the sky. It’s over two hundred feet of steel and carbon fiber, the radius is that of a canopy; A perpetual skyscraper daunting the sun and moon continuously. Not even the birds of prey dare fly so high, or raise such power. The politicians say it cost a billion dollars. The research department says it saves a trillion. But me, I’m generally happy to pilot it, and it does take a pilot. Twenty teams of ten are needed to clean it. Thirty teams of fifteen are needed to reload it. One man gets to push the shiny red button.
When I submitted the proposal two years ago, I never thought I would get recognized, besides getting a serious case of anal reconstruction from the higher ups. I would say you can’t blame me for submitting it, but I do blame myself everyday because it just feels so damn badass. I was drunk, the opening of the wisest philosophical wisdoms, and thought I knew better than multi-gazillion dollar industry giants. Turns out, I did. I push the shiny red button.

[Anonymous No.3115696]

I posted a bit more of this here >>3115589 This is an earlier section, critique obviously welcome.//

To Anon's relief Brobot finally eased up on the laughter and physical torture and began to pick up the scattered spaghetti noodles. At a loss for what to do with his newfound freedom of movement, Anon followed his roommate's lead. The boys crawled around together on the living room floor for a few minutes, wordlessly picking up noodles and pieces of plate and amassing a little pile in front of the television, where the bulk of the mess had landed after a panicking Anon had launched his plate of spaghetti at the screen a few minutes before. When the carpet was more or less tidied up, Brobot sat on his heels and smiled. Anon avoided eye contact yet felt increasingly pressured to speak for himself after the whole incident; he wanted to play it cool and make a joke, but that would just sound stupid, he realized. He was also angry at Brobot for sneaking up on him and grabbing him, then pinning him down and making him feel so small, but to complain about that would sound like massive buttfrustration. He went for what he hoped was the most normalfag response. "You scared the shit out of me," he said, trying hard to sound as if he'd taken the attack like a man. His voice cracked on the word 'shit'.

"Really, Anon?" Brobot's gaze darted to the spaghetti sauce splattered across the television screen, then back to Anon.

"Really..."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really..."

"You were really watching My Little Pony?"

Anon sputtered as a flurry of moronic excuses choked his airways, "I, uh, yeah, they just added it to Netflix and I thought--"

[Anonymous No.3115702]

>>3115696
It was obvious that Brobot was ready to fall apart laughing all over again, but he restrained himself this time and just stared at Anon. Anon blushed and felt himself grow smaller, now completely at a loss for anything to say. He longed for the dirt of his undug grave to come cascading over him. Please, Jesus, God...

"You're a weird guy, Anon," said Brobot at last. A fresh smile broke through and he reached out and booped Anon's nose, deliberately leaving behind a spot of spaghetti sauce. Then he stood up and bounded over to the kitchen to retrieve a garbage bag. Anon remained on the floor, trembling from mixed embarassment and anger. He heard the sink running and paper towels being torn from the roll, and Brobot returned wearing some rubber gloves and carrying cleaning supplies. He handed a wet rag to Anon and started scooping the spaghetti and broken plate into the garbage bag. Anon stared dumbly at the rag, then realized he was supposed to be scrubbing something. He started to wipe off the TV.

"Sorry about the TV..."

Brobot choked on a half-suppressed laugh, then turned his eyes to Anon and attempted a nonchalant expression, as if nothing unusual had happened between them. "It's your TV," he said, shrugging, "I never use it. Don't worry about it." He squinted at the streak marks Anon was creating on the television screen with his limp scrubbing. "And the rag was for your nose."

[Anonymous No.3115718]

Go for it:

A single pair of footsteps clacked along the cobblestone roads, a solitary sound in the otherwise silent winter night on the streets of Lyon. The woman was walking briskly through the vacant streets, returning home after having been out all night at a party. She cursed herself for not planning beforehand to have her driver pick her up. It wasn't a long walk to her father's house, but it was cold, bone-chillingly so. Her fur coat did little to stave off the biting wind. And she was nervous. There had been more and more bums on the streets. She didn't quite understand why; she had read in one of the papers that it was because of the war, but her father was always blaming "those idiot Americans". Regardless, it didn't really concern or interest her. What did concern her was that she was sure she made an enticing target to these destitute, desperate men, for robbery or worse. The route she had chosen avoided the areas frequented by the bums, and thus far she had yet to encounter any. The only movement she saw on the cold, dark streets was that of wisps of steam escaping from the sewers and snaking into the night sky. But still she was nervous.

[Anonymous No.3115729]

It's just a start.

Probable cause? Fuck that. I had probable flaws. Treacher flicked a cigarette butt into a dirty puddle. He snorted. “Hey, McElroy. You fuck this up, you dead.” I nodded. The last thing he needed to tell me was a lie. I already knew the stakes. Premeditated. Third-degree. Arson. Theft. The whole nine-fucking-yards. He sat across from me, leaning back in his metal folding chair. “Check.” I nodded and tapped the card table twice, two staccato jabs. Treacher looked at his cards and furrowed his brow, scratching his neck. I cleared my throat; “that fucking tell again,” I said. He struck a match. The muffled sound echoed into the vast, dark expanse of the warehouse. “Piss off,” he said. I wanted to last in this moment, the steady drip from the leaky roof, the torn up old card table, the ribbons of cigarette smoke. Because in a few hours, I’d be prime suspect number one for the murder of the chief of fucking police.

[Anonymous No.3115753]

There was no security present backstage. I went in, the corridor was full of chairs that looked uncomfortable and the walls were overpopulated with wall posters of plays. I entered a dressing room and quickly hid in the closet. About 15 minutes pass and in comes one of the actors from whatever was currently playing. I quietly opened the closet door and snook up on him while he was sitting down and rehearsing lines, I knocked him out unconscious. I undressed him and lubricated his rectum and inserted my Johnson and his throbbing erection into that tight ass. Some faggot entered the room, presumably the director and demanded to know what was going on.
"Just rehearsing" I said pensively
"But the janitor isn't even in this thing" - Said the director, with a twitch in his eye.

[Anonymous No.3115758]

Please help me improve.


He struck.

Fifty pounds of metal flew across her face and the temptress found herself face down in the sand, now laughing. An instant later he was on her, his massive gauntlets poised ready to strike. The armor did not slow him down one bit. A strong leathery tail whipped him across the face and Robert halted for a second before bending down and clamping his right hand around her neck. The woman’s incessant cackling finally ceased as she flew into the nearby tent.

He wanted to taunt her but no words came to him. There was just the violent rage that she had brought forth. This had been her game for months now, slowly fanning the flames of his rage until it exploded in violent bursts like this. Every time was different and yet the same, and the result always turned out the same. She got her way.
He entered the tent and Vanessa was on her back, not a single drop of blood or any hints of a bruise. The woman’s incredible strength betrayed her frail looks. She wore a confident grin, the devil’s grin. Robert swung his arm again but this time she caught it. Her left hand a vice as her tail wrapped around his waist pulled him down to her level.

[scannu No.3115761]

>>3115449
I know that town, Junin.

That´s where my dad was born, we are visiting my grandmother for this christmas

[Anonymous No.3115770]

>>3115753
Why isn't this guy a published author?

[Anonymous No.3115806]

The simple Philistine believes that life is something infinite and unconditioned, and tries to look upon it and live it as though it left nothing to be desired. By method and principle the learned Philistine does the same: he believes that his methods and his principles are unconditionally perfect and objectively valid; so that as soon as he has found them, he has nothing to do but apply them to circumstances, and then approve or condemn. But happiness and truth are not to be seized in this fashion. It is phantoms of them alone that are sent to us here, to stir us to action; the average man pursues the shadow of happiness with unwearied labour; and the thinker, the shadow of truth; and both, though phantoms are all they have, possess in them as much as they can grasp. Life is a language in which certain truths are conveyed to us; could we learn them in some other way, we should not live. Thus it is that wise sayings and prudential maxims will never make up for the lack of experience, or be a substitute for life itself. Still they are not to be despised; for they, too, are a part of life; nay, they should be highly esteemed and regarded as the loose pages which others have copied from the book of truth as it is imparted by the spirit of the world. But they are pages which must needs be imperfect, and can never replace the real living voice. Still less can this be so when we reflect that life, or the book of truth, speaks differently to us all; like the apostles who preached at Pentecost, and instructed the multitude, appearing to each man to speak in his own tongue.

[Anonymous No.3115811]

>>3115552

this guy said twilight was pretty good. hah. even stephen king said stephanie meyer can't write worth a damn and her prose has been routinely lambasted by critics as shit tier.

[Anonymous No.3115820]

>>3115811
When did it last pay off to pay attention to the tripfags?

Even if OP is an idiot this is still a useful thread.

[Anonymous No.3115830]

The audience, the very few that exist, are also not the ordinary bunch. Critic would be a better word for them, for they are either watching closely or writing in their notebooks. However, even critic would not be a suitable name for them, since they do not judge, they merely observe and report.
Not only are there observers that write, but observers that draw, sketch, or paint. When these observers write, draw, sketch, or paint, they do it in the most meticulous manner. As though even they have forgotten they are merely audience members. As they are busy with their utensils, they begin to cry, and tears fall down on their papers or canvases. They are sometimes asked: “Why do you cry so often?” to which they reply: “The tears provide the ink for our work.”

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3115901]

>>3115811
sorry, guess I should have used the term "good enough" which is what I really meant. Regardless of where its from that was my opinion of it. I never read twilight but if that's how the whole book is it probably is "good enough". I have seen some horrendous excerpts from it though, so I imagine this one case of mediocrity isn't the norm...
>>3115820
so I'm an idiot but still know more about writing then most of the people on /lit/. I didn't even have to waste years in college to get this good. SUCK IT!

[Anonymous No.3115906]

>>3115901

Do you only know how to critique narrative bullshit? Because you skipped my post.

[Anonymous No.3115907]

>>3115806
>semicolons

[Anonymous No.3115911]

>>3115907

>having absolutely no comprehension of grammatical nuance and convention
>dat late 90's public education

[Anonymous No.3115915]

>>3115911
>having 7 semicolons in one paragraph
>grammatical nuance

It's not the 19th century any more, bro.

[Anonymous No.3115917]

>>3115915

Spoken like a true hack.

[Anonymous No.3115920]

>>3115917
I cannot be a hack since I have never created anything.

>making assumptions

[Anonymous No.3115923]

>>3115920

Your argument is tantamount to saying the musical style of Beethoven is not good today because it lacks a hip hop beat.

Fine style never ages. The Greeks have us all beat to this day in their ear for expression and language.

[Anonymous No.3115927]

>>3115923
row row row your boat

[Anonymous No.3116578]

moar

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3116652]

bumping to keep alive. I'll be on later to do more.

[Anonymous No.3116673]

I can see my floor now. It is clean, almost dishonest. I live my life as messily as I may make it. I miss my pile, I do. My pile of clothing, garments, wearables. Now, after 3 weeks of no time, no time. 5 minutes, all clean. The floor is visible again. But I miss the honest pile, I do, I do. The historical record of the pattern of my morning mind.

Intuitive Organization Through Chaos.

Patterns are what we follow. Noise is what we manipulate. Our whole existence is a funnel. Noise and Noise is fed into a little hole squished together. All the sights and sounds and patterns and touches and smells and movements and thoughts and everything.

Squished into your little mind. All there. Funnelled in. Have you ever looked at the stars? And seen the patterns? Connect the dots. Perhaps, a more substantial, immediate example is required. When you look at a picture of static, you see dots, thousands of dots, moving randomly, stare, stare at the static. Your mind, your beautifulcreativeartistic mind, will create pattern after pattern in the randomness. Ituinivte Ogniaztroin Toguhrh Chaos.

[Anonymous No.3116676]

>guy gets proven as an idiot and a shitty judge of writing 10 posts in
>everyone carries on giving him stuff to respond to

[Anonymous No.3116686]

>>3116676
>guy claims the current critic is bad
>doesn't offer criticism on the work, only on the critic

How about you offer better criticism then?

[Anonymous No.3116705]

Hit me

"As he considered stopping to dry-heave again, he tripped over something, felt it budge a little, and stumbled. Turning to investigate, he could make out the faint outline of a body in the brush. It was lean, almost desiccated, and next to it lay a shorter body with similar proportions. Mind rendered blank by curiosity, he minced closer. The shorter body was quite clearly a young girl of about 9 or 10 years of age with blonde hair and blue backpack by her side. The other body, however, frightened him. An earthy bandana was shifted off the head, revealing a vein-ridden skull and a few meager strands of hair in random places, some of which fell over the skeletal face and snaked up at every exhalation. He let out a yelping noise and jumped back. What the fuck? This thing was alive? He became paralyzed as it stirred at the sound of his voice."

[Anonymous No.3116713]

>>3116676
Other people can offer up their input, too.

[Anonymous No.3116716]

>>3116705
Am I the only person who hates swearing in literature?

[Anonymous No.3116722]

>>3116716
It has its place. But yeah it generally just doesn't fit.

[Anonymous No.3116729]

>>3116722
I know it might come across as some kind of prudishness but it is so seldom that it actually serves to an effect. Literature needn't be filthy to be adult.

[Anonymous No.3116740]

>>3115441
"alright" isn't a word.

[Anonymous No.3116744]

>>3116729
I agree with that. However, narration based on character sometimes requires it. If your character is immature, brutish, or whatever, it can be appropriate.

[Anonymous No.3116749]

>>3116716

Depends on the context, and if it is used it should be used sparingly and to good effect.

I feel like some people treat words like fuck as if it were a form of punctuation, and that does get a might irritating.

>>3116729
>Literature needn't be filthy to be adult.
Nail, head, you done hit it.

[Anonymous No.3117302]

the south end was like the peristaltic flow of a shit-faced old john with ulcerative colitis. nothing but shakey-eyed cats yelling maddeningly in curare-like paralysis, clawing for escape; long slender-fingered faggots slinging mexican mud, smellin' of charcoal and ectoplasm. and there were sounds of caustic fluids submerging cylinders with whooping cough, fucking my engine like a cheap slut, staining mass graves of black conglomerate. fat motherfuckers with gold and cubans and connections subsisting off feeding tubes pumping the dolor of tar-faced children, sipping coagulated blood through bendy straws, getting their asses licked left and right: becoming the city's life and its death.

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3117793]

>>3115667
>>3115695
>>3115696
>>3115702
>>3115718
>>3115729
>>3115753
>>3115758
>>3115806
>>3115830
>>3116673
>>3116705
>>3117302

FUCK!
Yall arnt making this easy on me, but don't worry, I'll get to every one of you fuckers.

>>3116676
really where did that happen? Cuz I must have missed it. You just wish you were this nice bitch.

[Anonymous No.3117830]

First of all, I am not a native English speaker. I did this as a writing exercise to get better at both, writing and English.
I wrote it back when I was reading Old man and the Sea and I think I got influence by it a lot. I didn't do any researching beforehand and just started writing, so don't look into the overall story too much (if things are wrong, they are wrong). Last thing, I didn't edit it at all.

The hunt had begun. It was a hot day as always. The sun was glowing in an agonizing heat today again, as it had in the last two weeks. Everyone had hoped for some kind of change in the weather, but nothing. It seemed that nature itself had risen against them. Abiola himself was breathing heavily under the nearly unbearable heat. He watched the rest of the hunting party. A little smile showed on his face, as he watched the white man struggeling on. All of them refered to him only as 'The nigger'. Abiola had been mad at first, but after a while he had learned to ignore them. They had come from another land and wanted to hunt the great beasts of the Niger valley and they had needed someone who it and the ways of the hunt. And there was no one better at hunting in this areas then Abiola. He knew every part of the valley, the animals and their routes. The white man had come and had told him that they would pay im much, if he would help them to hunt one of the great beasts. His village was poor, the climate was hard and since the sicknesses had arrived, the future of the village looked dire. So, eventhough he hated the white man, he had taken their offer.

[Anonymous No.3117831]

>>3117830
The hunt lasted for more than two weeks already. The white man had killed a lot of animals so far, but the one thing they were most fascinated with, was the greatest beast of the valley. The biggest hunter. And they wanted to kill and beat the beast. Abiola himself couldn't make sense of it and so no reason in doing so. He had heard them talking about proving themselfs, showing that nothing could oppose the power of men. In his mind he was always wondering how stupid and also how sensless this all was. As always the white man had his own name for it. They called it 'the king of animals' or simply 'lion'. Abiola didn't really know what these words meant, but after they had shown him pictures of what they wanted to kill, he knew. How dumb these white men are, he thought. He didn't understand them. Why do they have the need to kill?

[Sange !Fde5Qjfb5g No.3117840]

>>3115667
You didn't know her face, does that mean you didn't know who she was? If that's the case then your putting two ideas into the same sentence (not recognizing her, and seeing her beauty) turn it into two separate sentences.
The rest is alright.

>>3115695
pretty fucking good, only thing I personally would change is
>Turns out, I do.
I think it sets up the tense of the last sentence better and gets the reader excited about the future of the character: the exciting part that this excerpt is setting up for.
Small thing, but that's all I can really think to say.

>>3115696
>>3115702
4chan memes arnt cool anymore. Suck it bitch.

>>3115718
nothing necessarily wrong, but for a piece like this I'd say try and be more poetic. Through in some metaphors and not just cliche shit like "bone-chillingly so"

[Anonymous No.3117928]

>>3117840
>4chan memes arnt cool anymore. Suck it bitch.

Were they ever?

4chan is the setting in which the story takes place. Now how about the writing style?