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/lit/ - Literature

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3357886 No.3357886 [Reply] [Original]

Post the last paragraph that you wrote and all your wonderful friends at /lit/ will offer constructive criticism.

>> No.3357926

I wrote this about 10 minutes ago. Be gentle.

When my Grandfather was the same age as I am now, everyday was spent down the mines, toiling desperately in the hope that he could flush out of his mind the images of his best friends abroad, wounded or dying, and if not forced into such trauma that they may well have wished they were, and knowing that all the plans they had while frittering away time on the streets, and the girls that had plagued their minds and teased them with the coquettishness of first love who they had spent hours laughing, crying and fighting over only to make up again and again, that infinite unwavering passion of youth was never to come back. Then night would creep across the sky and they would emerge from the mines silently, these men who felt that by some absurd chance they had been allowed to cheat death, and meander slowly back home, stopping briefly to look at the homes of absent brothers, knowing that behind each door, on that same day a letter could have been solemnly dropped through the door, cruelly confirming every fear in just its presence. Finally they would be in their homes, rations served, before retiring to an armchair alone in a dark living room, only the wireless humming inconsequentially in the back ground, and thoughts passed through their minds that forced them to bed when they became too much to endure any longer.

>> No.3357934

>>3357926
Is the point of the text going to be that kids nowadays have it too easy? Because otherwise I was gonna recommend cutting "When my Grandfather was the same age as I am now".

Good stuff I'd say.

>> No.3357950

>>3357934
The piece essentially stems from a thought I had when my grandmother came to stay over christmas, which was 'What does she think about when she sits home alone?'. I just imagined her remembering my grandfather and how they fell in love, and this would be setting up how they met and the feelings they had before they did so.

I'll compare her current loneliness and the feelings they had at the age I am now to my own and the conclusion will basically that I need to suck it up and stop being a little bitch.

>> No.3357955

just wrote down a dream I had last night, it's not supposed to be good or anything. No one should read it.

So we were outside, somewhere. I think boston. We were going to do something- go to a bar or K mart. We look up and see a bunch of orbs collecting near the sun. We were standing in the middle of an intersection when it happened, like the one in Jamaica Plain. We see a bunch of small, black dots surrounding the sun. The sun was large, like one you see in cliche Africa sunsets. They were blotting it out there were so many. They were space ships. Then we saw them blow up the sun. I braced myself to die and started counting down from 10. I only got to 8 when I suddenly lost consciousness. The blast must have just destroyed earth like It was nothing. I quickly came back, and it was like an hour before everything went down. Everyone remembered what had happened, but the sun was still there. Except strange little things were different. I can’t recall, but it was like a few people were missing. Items were in different spots. Some stuff was damaged or not working properly. It was strange. Jenn and I decide we should do something. We first drive into Providence, apparently we were living nearby. We go to a mall. Everyone isn’t going crazy yet, there is still order. I’m trying to buy guns. She is looking for a book or memory for her computer. I forgot my debit card, and there are no gun shops in the mall. I begin to think there probably aren’t any in providence, or rhode island. I want to get back to MA asap but figure the roads are probably clogged by now. The book she got basically could tell the future. It said we their attack plans. The aliens were setting up shop over the Bermuda triangle, and were relaying to their home base what had happened. They would then sweep over Europe. Then the northeast, then the world. I knew we had to get out of the northeast, to the Midwest, to be in a safer spot with fewer people and more guns. Then I woke up.

>> No.3359907

Today I had a dream, and I thought I could share it with you. It is a very long dream.

I won't be making a lot of details about me, what you need to know is that I'm an average person, from an average city, with an average life.

In this dream, it was my very first day at what seemed to be a school, but not any school, it was a very special school. It was located on a vast green field, along with trees and bushes, pretty much like from a movie... But what made it very special is it that it was barried with a 6 and a half feet wire fence, not high enough to stop someone from jump it, but it had a door, made from the same material. The door was located approximately 300 feet away from the building.

I could care less about studying, the professors, my classmates. I already finished school, so I was reckless. I stepped into a room, sit on a chair, and leant back, and watched the class. For my misfortune I entered the wrong class. I left the classroom and directed myself to another one, and now this is where it gets weird.

As I stepped into the new course, it seemed pretty normal. My teacher was Asian, she looked exactly like Lucy Liu. "Great", I thought to myself. I did like I previously did, sat at the back, and watched the class. We hear a door knock, and this young man, who I could say was Elijah Wood, or what appeared to be him, opened the door.

A girl came in, but was no normal girl, she was a very particular girl. Taller no more than a table, beautiful blonde hair, light-brown eyes, a red frayed dress, but what scared me the most was that her stomach had a colossal protuberance, or a joint of lumps after lumps after more limps, with a particular area of her belly grown with straight blonde hair, a blonde so blond it seemed almost white.

The class was horrified, but nobody said a word. As she stepped into the room, she has a word with the professor, and began to introduce herself... or at least she tried to.
(cont.)

>> No.3359909

(cont.)
Before she was able to make a sound, Elijah Wood shut down the lights, in what I believe was a joke, but it turns out the joke was on him. The teacher asked him to turn back the lights on, and to everyone's surprise, the "girl" was gone.

His laughter was no more, his face was red no more, as he was now in pain, crying, terrified, pale as the blinding sun, as if he knew he was going to die. It was horrid. I have never seen someone cry so much, he was on his knees, weeping, for what were his lasts hours (or at least that's what he thought).

For some reason I had to sleep outside, on a camp, and each own had his tent. But I was not alone, as there were two other persons there, both male, around my age, one was typical average guy and the other a chubby one. It first bothered me, an edifice so big and we had to sleep on the wilds, but I agreed anyways. After we set up everything, it was already dark, so we called it for today and hit the sleep.

It was in the middle of the night when I heard some sounds. I headed outside, when I saw a shade at the door, and I think it also saw me back. Started moving towards me, doing little hops, the kind of hops a kangaroo would do. And I was correct, as it came closer and closer I saw it clearly.

It was a kangaroo, but it was not the animal who made me frightened me, but the person riding it. It was a person, inside a purple bear suit. Soon the kangaroo stopped, and the bear stepped down, and came closer to me. I was panicked, I could not move, each step he made I thought to myself "Gotta run", but legs reacted not.

I remember exactly what he said, it was: "Your time here is gone". I was in tears, I have never felt so depressed in my whole life, it was real terror. I tried to convince him to kill the fatty, he shook his head and that's when the Kangaroo was no more, and it was replaced with a possessed one, almost demonic, fierce, and with a lust for blood.
(cont.)

>> No.3359912

(cont.)
I surely didn't want to die there. I got up and started to run, hoping the beast would not catch me, but it was in vain. He was faster, bigger and stronger than me, my time here was truly gone. I accepted the fact that I was going to die, in the most awful and painful way I could imagine. My fate was sealed.

That's when out of fucking nowhere, a very tall, complex, native American came and tackled the best. What a struggle it was, but I saw how he took the red glow from its eyes with his hands. Is it dead?. I should get back up. I noticed the other two persons camping with me were woken by the beast.

My savior said nothing, and headed to the school. I didn't know what to do, the horror I felt, the fear of losing my life, my mind was blank. The chubby one suggested we should put our tents a little more closer, and go back to sleep.

The next day, for a reason I forgot, we headed outside the barrier. I believe it was to see what was the reason of last-night happening. We couldn't find anything, my tentmates left, but I stayed a little longer. It was an hour after their departure that I figured to go back to get something to eat, when I saw it.

I saw me, an exactly copy of me, standing in the middle of the forest, watching me. Adrenaline rushed in, and ran as fast as my leg abled me to. He was faster than me, but I managed to get to the door before, and saw him from inside as he tried to get himself in, but failed to.

I headed inside the building and try to find this indigen. The place as particularly empty, but I managed to find him, or he found me? Asked him about this place and told him about this doppelganger. He didn't say a word, and headed outside, running.
(cont.)

>> No.3359914

(cont.)
The persons camping with me were at the door, and opened it to what they thought it was me. I tried to warn them, but my scream was in vain, as they could not hear me. It is that when this "thing" stepped inside, and I saw him smile. He grabbed the head of both, the chubby and the average one, and crushed them with his bare hands. Blood was all over his face, body and clothes. I was in terror, I was in panic. He's gonna save me, I thought to myself. I then saw him, the indigen, and I heard him talk, heard him talk for the first time ever. He said to me: "Run".

That's when I woke up, and here I am, scared of my own life, afraid it is going to show any moment from now. All my lights are on, but I still am scared. I have never felt so much fear in my life.

>> No.3359925

>>3357926
The length of these sentences are hurting my eyes.

Not bad though.

>> No.3359952

>>3359907
>it that it was barried with a 6 and a half feet wire fence
then
>I could care less about studying
that's when I stopped reading. right there.

>> No.3359958

>>3357926
Commas are not periods. Your concepts will be more memorable if they are succinct. Introduce them to the reader one at a time, and not as a large, abstract conglomeration of things that are simply correlated. I'm sure that the reader can pick up that certain things are relevant to certain individuals, etc. You don't need to tie them all together by throwing them into one big thread of ideas.

>> No.3359962

>>3359952
The misuse of that expression always infuriates me.

>> No.3359967

The last paragraph I wrote was in an exam this morning, it was hurried and talked about a process I had fabricated for analysing an already existing market segmentation process. Needless to say the process I proposed was far superior.

>> No.3359970

Was Milton a truly initiated member of the Rosicrucian brotherhood? Milton may have never told anyone, and no true Rosicrucian would ever reveal such a thing in the first place. As Case said,

"One becomes a Rosicrucian: one does not join the Rosicrucians […] The Order is designated as being invisible by the manifestos themselves. It does not come in corporate form before the world, because by its very nature it cannot. True Rosicrucians know one another, nevertheless. Their means of recognition cannot be counterfeited nor betrayed, for these tokens are more subtle than the signs and passwords of ordinary secret societies.” (5)

>> No.3359973

>>3359970 (continued)

Though many organizations call themselves Rosicrucian groups, they usually require payments; desiring money goes directly against one of the core principles laid out in the Fama. More than any other secret society, the alchemical text portion of Rosicrucianism would draw Milton and every other writer like him towards the brotherhood. If Milton did become a Rosicrucian, he would not go filling his works with direct quotes from the manifestos or describing a rosy cross, but would show off inferred knowledge gained from proper understanding of the manifestos; and that is exactly what he did in a very invisible way in Paradise Lost. For without proper Rosicrucian ideas to light the way, much of Paradise Lost would be kept in the dark.

>> No.3360015

>>3359952
o_O?
I'm not a writer.
I saw people sharing stories so I thought I could share mine.

>> No.3360034

the last thing I wrote:
>>>/r9k/5246204

>> No.3360042

> 1 out of 2

From my many visits to their house, I recall their living room was decorated with stuffed animal heads they shot, stuffed, and mounted themselves; a medley of hunting rifles, both camouflaged and decorative, and revolvers, including the supposed .44 magnum used by Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry, which was Carlos Ruz’s favorite movie, behind K-Pax and Sleepless in Seattle, which he touted was the greatest love story ever written, second only to the love story of Lennie and George. The family room included a collection of records of different renditions of “Auld Lang Syne,” which his mother would listen to while drinking eggnog during the hot Miami summers. Lenimar would rest on her shoulder and she would mouth feed him eggnog soaked pieces of bread, while she listened to Julie Andrews’ rendition of the old Scots folksong on the record player, as she remembered times gone by and talked to her husband about La Vieja Habana and how they will soon return, while he sat there and never uttered a word. When she was drunk enough, she’d change the record to old vinyl copies of Celia Cruz recordings. Her song of choice was always “Desencanto,” the sultry Afro-Cuban bolero and the first collaboration of Celia Cruz with Tito Puente. She always held the album in her arms as she mumbled through, lip synching to Celia. Cuba y Puerto Rico Son . . . read the album cover, a young Celia and Tito graced it, made up and dressed all white—el color de Obatala, the father of the Orishas, the King of Kings, according to Carlos Ruz.

>> No.3360044

> 2 out of 2

I remember the voice of the old Cuban chanteuse during those summers and the rhythm of the brass mambo instrumentation and Tito on the timbales and cowbell, Celia singing about how life had betrayed her, about how life took away the hope that her mother sang about when she was but a child in a crib—the same hope that, in Spanish, shares the same word for waiting; in Spanish, hope and wait are the same word. Tito bellowed in agreement to Celia’s chants. Me traicionó, it [life] betrayed me. In this culture that Carlos Ruz and I were living in, to hope was to wait—in mostly all cases, it was an indeterminately infinite wait. For Carlos and I that summer, it was a hope-wait for the future, a hope-wait for growing up, a hope-wait for things to come. My mother always told me that I was going to become a doctor and live in a house with two floors and lots of children. That’s El Sueño Americano, The American Dream, she’d beam, which, when translated into Spanish also meant the American Sleep. Sometimes I’d wonder if we were just falling victim to that same hope that Celia sang about, the same wait that Celia sang about.

>> No.3360046

>>3357950

You're good. But consider splitting it into two paragraphs in order to make it more structurally sound.

>> No.3360063

>>3360046
I wouldn't say good. I'd say he has breadth down, which is what I could never master. However, he last a good structural foundation, and fails to express details succinctly, as I mentioned in my previous post.

My issue, when I write, is that I could never add enough length. I tend to be too succinct, and to the point. My writing is like a summary of the things that I want to convey. It's frustrating.

>> No.3360066

>>3357934
I understand you want to commend yourself for poignantly wondering about your beloved grandmother, but it comes from a place of pure sentimentality, as does your paragraph, and the entire project violates a basic rule of aesthetics: never think or write about old people.

>> No.3360079

>>3360034
>>3360034
i realize it's a bit long, sorry
also just ignore 'tfw' if you want to, I was in a strange place

>> No.3360094

>>3359973
>and that is exactly what he did in a very invisible way in Paradise Lost
>invisible
kinda hard to argue about that

the academic register of this is pretty solid. it's just a shame to see it dedicated to such a typically facile argument

>> No.3360097

>>3360015
The expression is "I couldn't care less"

If you could care less, then it COULD be interpreted as saying you almost care too much about studying.

It tends to make autists such as myself and >>3359952
angry.

There is also a 99% chance that if you mess up that saying you are in high school or retarded. I recommend reading more.

And no, I didn't read your passage.

>> No.3360108

Juarez has never been a good place to be a young woman: some the caves around the mined out arroyos held bones with tool and teeth maarks, and the clean scrapings of obsidian knives and the chalk stick softness of stone-boiling. The people who live here have the cannibal blood in their veins and the cannibal appetities in their bellies: When the bad days come, it's the ones that don't squirm and blanch, the ones that sit down and dig in, that are strong enough to beat back their brothers when their turnss come, and that live long enough to breed children.
The old woman who pressed the grey corn-dough balls onto the shiny bottom of the upturned skillet might have got her lard from a slab sided poland china fed on beanpods and acorns, but she might have a recipe or two, passed on mother to daughter, to take her through hard times. She might know how many pounds of white leaf would flake off the renderings of myself and my fat and silent companion. she might even be able to guess at the taste. And how many fried tortillas she would be able to peel from the bottom of her pan to feed the next gringo.
Micah had come here to find a place where he could blend his personal doet of horrors into the bloody background and maybe leave a few sightless faces in a few back alleys himself. he was hopeless though: he didn't understand mexico, and he didn't love Juarez: the three years of higgh scholl spanish was mocked politley bu the men who took his money and gave him shoddy drugs and tired women. He came to find murder, and found the possibility of fortune.
In a box of skulls in the back of an old pickup truck.
And now he was back: Back in Juarez with a map and a gps and an ipad full of mineralogical analyses ready to make the fortune that would keep him in underage ukrainian girls and terrified Phillipino waifs forever. Micah Lenora had followed a three hundred year old skull to the poison mountain.
And I was going there to kill him.

>> No.3360115

>>3360108
>Juarez has never been a good place to be a young woman
>young woman

Stopped reading there.

>> No.3360145

>tfw another day to death
>tfw save money for a time youll never enjoy
>tfw not living in the moment
>tfw never living in the moment
>tfw home after months away
>tfw actual meal after weeks of scraps
>tfw feel like could cry but know youre a canyon away from being able to
>tfw never truly connected with another person
>tfw the closest ive gotten to embrace is diddling my keyboard
>tfw you have enough money to leave to somewhere else and never come back
>tfw you dont even have anything to take with you
>tfw forever on the cusp of doing it
>tfw you know deep down the other place isnt any better
>tfw your whiteness wont let you be apart of third worlds youd be able to live and connect in
>tfw torn between reason and dreams
>tfw trapped

>> No.3360147

>tfw get a clump of wax out of your ear
>tfw eel booger pulled out of your nose
>tfw tongue against inside of cheek feels line cut in by teeth
>tfw smell toenail gunk
>tfw press on stomach and move gas pockets around in liver area
>tfw 8 year old self abandoned diary after 2 days
>tfw this time youre really going to do that self improvement
>tfw you put booger on surface near you planning to scrape the dried remnant and dispose properly later but you forget and you never see it again
>tfw where did it go
>tfw everything is just for another day of survival and mediocre entertainment
>tfw leave fap napkins all over your room
>tfw come home from school one day
>tfw mom cleaned your room
>tfw she doesnt say anything
>tfw her bedroom was below yours all through high school
>tfw she complained about nightly noises from my room
>tfw mom found your full page printed out 13-year-old-girl-porn when you were 12 and only complained about the printer ink you used
>tfw found shemale porn on your dads computer when you were 14
>tfw uncle showed you your first real porn and showed what masturbation was but never touched you and you dont know how to feel about it
>tfw boyhood fap partner

>> No.3360153

>>3360145
>>3360147
You posted this earlier.

>> No.3360155

>tfw eating alone with nothing to do
>tfw waiting for meal to come out is an eternity
>tfw start eating constantly paranoid they are all watching how you eat and thinking how pathetic you are for eating alone
>tfw have brought all meals back to apartment in entire 2 years
>tfw too trusting of people
>tfw plenty of money and nothing to buy
>tfw this is earth
>tfw no more shaded areas on maps
>tfw decimated that test but get it back and only a C
>tfw airplanes havent been a novelty since the first one at 5
>tfw cars have never been a novelty in memorable history
>tfw you are going fucking 90mph and this should be intense but it's nothing
>tfw bring black friend home from playground to swim in your pool and have fun but your parents are only worried he'll hurt himself in the pool and his parents will sue us
>tfw cant bring him back again
>tfw you hide in your the walk in bathroom connected to your parents room when you hear your mom coming upstairs
>tfw youre ready to jump out at the opportune moment to scare the shit out of her
>tfw youre in your hiding spot and she comes into the bathroom and she starts undressing
>tfw you dont know what to do
>tfw you realize once shes naked shes going to shower
>tfw you have to make your move
>tfw you jump out say boo, she isnt scared just confused
>tfw you run out of the room past her and she never brings it up
>tfw you took your moms victoria secret magazines and stencile-traced nude women on paper over the magazine and sold the sketches in school to other boys
>tfw they found out at school and parents asked how you did it
>tfw you show them your art desk backlight setup and they impressed
>tfw your earliest memory is hiding under a bed with a diaper full of shit ashamed of your accident
>tfw it was really, really, full and overflowing with shit
the rest, >>>/r9k/5246371

>> No.3360159

>>3360066
Why is this a basic rule of aesthetics? I have read plenty of good books about old people.

>> No.3360168

>>3360066
wha? ain't nothing wrong with that

>> No.3360170

>>3357886
>friends
>/lit/

There was once a fish swimming through the branches of a large plant, but then he realised they were actually the tentacles of a predator. He managed to escape. and thought: with friends like these, who needs anemones?

>> No.3360188

>>3360170
And then he realized what a clown he was being, snuggled up in an anemone?

>> No.3360203

Having lived in the second level district for most of his life, Blake eagerly held his mother’s hand as they walked with the throng of people in the market square.

It was dangerous as it was exciting. Being of second level nobility the little boy was adorned in fine turquoise garments. Passers by looked down at him from the corners of their eyes, clothed cloaks to conceal whatever items which they may have in their possession.

Whilst looking from one stranger in the crowd to another the boy fixed his gaze upon a man lying on the ground. His back was fixed to the wall and was hunched over with his head nestled between his legs, his hands drawn out before him, cupped as if holding water. He was filthy, hair dried with specks of mud, naked skin cracked from long exposure beneath the sun.

The boy had never seen such poverty in the second level district. All were well fed, happy individuals whom feasted every night before a roaring fire. The people were far fewer and far less foreign looking in the second and, in the boy’s opinion, far less interesting.

Without caring for his safety the boy released his grip from around his mother’s wrist and dipped in and out of the throng toward the hunched over man.

Up close the man smelt fowl, flies danced above his head in tight circles, draining droplets of blood from his cracked skin. This had been a bad idea, fear replaced curiosity for the boy as he turned away for the safety of his mother.

She was gone.

1/?

>> No.3360205

>>3360203
The boy fought back tears at the thought of never being found again. Would he die in this place? He just wanted to go home, back to his room and his toys, away from the stifling stench of death and decay.

“Are you okay, boy?” said the hunched over man. His voice was hoarse from starvation and thirst yet there was no malice in his words.

Looking to the hunched over man the boy wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

“No, I‘ve lost my mother” said the boy.
“Don’t worry, she must be close by” said the man.

The hunched over man looked up. The boy screamed in terror at his hideous features which were the stuff of nightmares.

The hunched over man’s face was the most revolting thing he had ever seen; his right eye was crusted over with infection, his left milk coloured from malnutrition. His nose and been broken in two places, dried blood smothered his upper lip.

Passers by who had paid the boy no attention stopped in silence. The hideous man did not flinch at the boy’s horrified face, rather he seemed to accept it the way you accept that air is breathable.

A moment later the boy’s mother emerged from the crowd which had gathered. She threw her arms around her son and lifted him off the ground, nestling his head between her breasts. She gave one look the hideous man and sank back into the ground, not stopping until she reached the safety of the second district.

>> No.3360216

Just like that, the brothers stood at the bank of a wide river, a sign to their right reading "Moskav, 7km." An arrow pointed downstream, and Boris pointed out a boat in the water. The brothers Svetlanov pondered their situation for a moment, then slowly lowered themselves into the boat, one by one, and pushed into the river. They headed to the edge of non-Imperial lands, and the adventure none of them could have expected.

>> No.3360217

"Defenestration is the act of propelling, by force of arm or some other imparted impulse, something or somebody out of a window.
A popular sport in some ages past, though growing less so with the economy and easy availability of guns, ammunition and the general laziness of the rowdy and ruckus-loving element.
Our hardier ancestors were not averse to heaving bodily all varieties of objects and individuals over the sill and out onto the pave, or the greensward or what have you, on the least provocation. I have it on reasonably sober authority that my great uncle Pemeberton was able, with only a three-step run from the dining room to launch a presbyterian missionary seven feet past the curbstone with an easy eight inch clearance of the sillboard and no damage to the drapes. Those were brave times!"

>> No.3360221

>>3360216
I like this, more?

>> No.3360223

Seven minutes earlier, Gary Hardling's office door is kicked open by a six foot insect wearing a trenchcoat and smoking. Its antennas seemed to probe the air quite of their own accord. The creature's black compound eyes were pointed at Gary; its lack of pupils somewhat unnerved him. The creature, whose name was Frank, spat out his cigarette and slammed a slimy piece of paper onto Gary's desk, the owner of which was now turning white.

“...are you from Madame Castigon? No...? … Mas-Colell?”
He eyed the disgusting, putrid contract festering in front of him. The top line read:

“From the Desk of His Infernal Eminence, The Honourable Raol.”

“Oh fuck...”

Frank buzzed with delight. Gary reached for his phone and gulped.

>> No.3360225

>>3360221
I posted the intro paragraph in a thread like this a while ago, I'll transcribe it again

>> No.3360229

>>3360221
>>3360225
As the light began to dwindle through the towering trees, three brothers paused their journey to observe the natural transition to nightfall. The owls began their nightly interrogation, always asking but never getting an answer. The leaves rustled with the evening breeze as Boris, the eldest brother, removed his knitted cap.

>> No.3360234

>>3360217
Chopin saw his piano defenestrated after Warsaw had been seized by the Russian Empire.

>> No.3360240

He figured he must be wherever the Templars took the ‘‘talented individuals’’ that came to their attention. He had assumed he would probably just be beaten or executed, but the High Priest Florence seemed honestly more interesting in re-educating the prisoners about the glory of the Aimir and his Principles. He had spent quite a while lecturing the class about how their vicious, unrefined power was too much for them to handle and would ultimately only bring havoc to the peaceful utopia created by the Aimir and buttressed by his great Principles. It was the kind of ridiculous babble he would normally pay little attention to, but he paid even less due to his frantic search for Deborah. Having not found her he returned to the small room he shared with heart heavy and mind still swimming from his new situation.

>> No.3360247

>>3360240
don't know, guess this is shit

>> No.3360250

>>3360229
is ok, bit like Pasternak or any another lyrical Russian but your obviously not Russian

>> No.3360260

The garage was old, and open to the wind, but it was high up, and that was all that mattered to Rulez. It had been badly made as well: a talus of spall beneath the inner sill of the aperture he sat against mimiced the lean of brittle snowflakes outside.
He had staked his hopes and dreams on Terry and her crazy plan. He had loved her, and that had made him foolish.
Terry had loved him too, and trusted him, and now and she was dead.
She was dead, and she was hungry.
And she was hunting him.
He listened over the wind for the scrabble of fingernails on concrete and heard nothing.

>> No.3360262

>>3360240
*seemed honestly more interested

>> No.3360265

>>3360229
As Light dwindled through the trees, Three brothers paused their journey to observe the night fall. The leaves rustled with the evening breeze as Boris, the eldest, removed his cap.

So much better.

>> No.3360271

>>3360260
Flow is nice, language is clear and direct. Just tidy up the second sentence, cut down some words. there's a bit too much going on and the reader has to pause a bit to digest it, breaks the flow

>> No.3360278

>>3360265
gloriously right

>> No.3360313

>>3360216
This was not bad until that awful cliche at the end.

>> No.3360383

"We are already more than the peasants. Even if they oppose us, they stand no chance "- she smiled a little to herself when she said it, amused at how young ones fell for her speech.
"They make twice as much food, just because they know we'll take half. They have become accustomed to our rule"- at this time, they were trapped, if she let the trap fall now they could not run away. But it's not good enough, she'll take them so deep into the batter that they no longer see a bit of light when they turn around.


Originally in Swedish, google-translated and then fixed. I don't know about the "into the batter" literal idiom translation, but I thought it sounded neat.

>> No.3360594

>>3360097
I'm sorry I'm not a native English speaker.

>> No.3360602

Waking from a binge like this was like rebirthing. You'd lie in your filth and feel your body rediscover itself. First you'd ask of your legs the way of walking, then of your mouth the way of talking. And then of your head, after your name and noisome life story had been retrieved from its alcohol-addled dictator, you'd ask again and again why you hated yourself enough do such rueful damage to yourself. And after all had been revealed, you'd ask your hands to aid you in doing it all again. Before you knew it the questions would boil your blood to the point where you'd stick a needle in it and shoot anything you could get your hands on to cool down.

critique on this short excerpt from a short story I'm almost finished writing?

>> No.3360619

Pay attention: because you don't have much time.

There's a way out:It's the way you came in: those stairs back there. The ones leading upwards. NEVER take stairs going down, especially not into darkness, but just not going down at all, okay? Don't trust mirrors: they lie down here, and don't meet the eyes of anything you see in a mirror. not your own reflection even. don't look into mirrors at all. You see how the mirros here all face the wall? But don't break them, they don't like that. And make a s little sound as possible. God help you if you whistle. A whistle is a summons. chew gum, if you have it, so you won't forget. I assume you came down here for a reason? Firget it: there is no good reason to come here. And any reason in the world is good enough to leave. Those stairs back there? If you lose sight of them you're lost. once you take a dozen steps down any hall or into any passage or room, you're lost. Really lost. If you came down here to find someone, they're lost: you can't save them, and anything you save won't be them anymore. Take nothing with you! I cannot empasize this enough. If you drop anything, even a coin, hell, even your fucking dick, DO NOT pick it up. It isn't yours anymore: It belongs to the Rooms. If you go, leave this book here, for the next one. And good luck. But those stairs over there? Best idea you ever had, go right back up. Don't let the dark catch you here.

>> No.3360626

Thursday August, eighth: first line of sight on enemy sniper, who has killed seven ground soldiers over ten days. His face was covered, medium height and weight. The only distinguishing characteristic was a bright red sleeve on his right arm. Why any professional sniper would wear anything so easy to spot is beyond me. Before I could take the shot, the lens must have caught the sunlight causing a glint. Being spotted meant of course changing positions and I did in the following days, while he was at prayer. He must’ve been doing the same when I slept making it hard for either of us to locate the other.

>> No.3360947

>>3360619
proofread before you post m8

>> No.3361755

The boy didn’t know how it happened, but it just did and that it what happened and this is how . His feet stood as they often would, which is to say tediously, facing, at a 90 degree angle, the tracks that snaked in front of his locked knees. His chest was engirdled by two ordinary arms, his arms, and he paid no attention to the Thought as it rose from some distant haze in some distant nook in the back of his distant mind. In his usual dilatory search for something to think about other than the things that he usually thought about, he found himself scouring meticulously over the view which presented itself with no contingency to the usual monotonous sigh of every other Tuesday morning. This is who the boy was – attired in an unkept and resentfully worn uniform. And this was where the boy was – waiting to saunter through another day’s schooling. A novice Kleptomaniac, insofar as a tendency to steal salt and pepper shakers from cafes for no particular reason other than to expand his seasoned collection, the boy bared a heavy conscience. He would carry it around the streets of his neighbourhood on weekends and kick faded coke cans into gutters with hands in pockets and eyes on feet. The corrugated roofs zigzagged along the canopy of telegraph poles in front of him, jumping over alleys and orange brick chimneys, and into to the sky, elongating their pattern on the grey clouds. The sun that Tuesday morning, obliquing to the north as it rose , cast its marred glare on the boy’s cheeks and his quarter of town.

>> No.3361774

I was on the other side of the world by then. I had thought about pleading my mother for the phone later that night, but I'd given up on it. What else could I do, then? Could I see the new film adaption of Les Miserables alone? Perhaps I could borrow Less Than Zero from the library, and we could peek into the windows of stores while walking down Main Street. My stepfather Joe, my mother, and I could ride down to the farmer's market and pass the liquor store only intelligible by the Obama sticker on the door - I saw a college student whose head was cracked open on the roof of the skull, laying on the sidewalk with a police officer standing over him, in front of the liquor store one day. Apparently Mom and Joe have seen drunks parading down the street holding each others' hands. My mother doesn't like walking down Main Street when there's cold weather, and especially because she's afraid of any liquor store. That day, we drove to the library just before it closed and picked out a book that interested me.

(By the way, has there been any update from the anon who posted that autobiography thread a few nights ago? This is a paragraph from mine.)

>> No.3361836

>>3360619
Intense and involving. Also, barely comprehensible.

>> No.3361861

A random excerpt from something I've been working on:


32.10.15: I rue the day I'm no longer the /talking bio-robot/...

ANNE: I would say you're quite human, Thirty-two. You even have a penis. I wish I had a penis.

32.10.15: [Matter of factly.] You have a phallus. [Meandering.] You use it to /fuck/ me so that I can smell the /excrement/ I'm stepping in, without having a chance to walk around it. [Pause.] With my.../myowntwofeet/--

ANNE: --as I was saying, Thirty-two. I do not have a penis. I want to know what it feels like to piss with a penis. Tell me please. It is for my archives.

32.10.15: [Bitter.] /No/. I want to show you what it's like to lay a steaming pile of /shit/.

ANNE: I already have James Joyce in my archives. I want to know what it is like to piss out of a penis. It is pressing for my archives. Please do it for me. I will turn on your sight sense so you don't step in excrement.

32.10.15: The rest of them, too. [Pause.] I want to experience the full marvel of human male anatomy at work for myself.

[Achieved full sensations.]

>> No.3361879

>>3357886
Sometimes it happens that plots include nothing but themselves. When a lack of purpose exceeds a deceeding of surplus it manifests. This is such an intrinsic story; a banal wasteland of the kind.
I—whoever I finally arrive as in this instrinsicism—merely intend to exercise; I affirm a reluctant position. Take note of the connotations: a reluctant position and me; your first clue. I present you to yourself: literary investigator. The telling of tales in which everything about nothing is told.

Opinions would be a delight.

>> No.3361886

>>3361879
I don't get it.

>> No.3361889

Several hours later, Lokata sat on his own by the wooden wall. He had eaten his fill and, with a comfortably full belly, was now contemplating his future. The others were too, it seemed. Everyone sat by themselves and said nothing. He glanced at the sun which was almost at its high-point. He still couldn't quite believe that this was the day. He had trained so long and so hard for it; hour after hour of duelling with the other slaves, of hitting dummies as hard as he could with his fists, of firing guns at far off targets and practising his aim. Using live rounds better accustomed the soldiers to battlefield conditions. As a result each and every man, most of them under 20 years of age, Lokata being 19 himself, was ripped with muscle, adept at melee combat and adept marksmen. The ones who failed the Proving knew that their entire life of training had gone to waste. Not one of them dared to use their training against the Legion however; the punishment you would receive for getting caught would be worse than death itself.

>> No.3361902

The autonomic motion of marching throughout the countryside of Vietnam creates a droning environment that lulls the senses into a hazy sleep. The soldiers endure the horrors of war, but cannot escape the creeping sensation of death’s hand reaching out except through their fantasies and medications. They continue to struggle to survive and to elude the ultimate death, the blush of cowardice, which devours their sanity and pushes them far beyond man’s limits for the sake of the façade.

(Eng 102 student-sorry)

>> No.3361914

>>3361886
I'm aiming at engaging crypticism. One of the downsides with that, I suppose, is that out of context like this you lose the overview... I'm just posting in the hopes of someone having linguistic/grammatical suggestions/improvements.

>> No.3362124

>>3361879
>>3361914
it's too caught up in the bells and whistles to a point where it loses meaning.

>> No.3362150

>>3360626
doesnt feel like this is what a sniper would actually say. this feels like a "numb" account for some reason, like he doesnt even care about his mates that got shot nor the guy he just killed. if you are going for numb, you should play it up WAY more.

>> No.3362212

>>3362150
thnx dude. actually rewriting the rest of that short story now

>> No.3362503

It wasn't blood no, the room would be splashed crimson... it was more sun-starked. The drunk and the love-sullen couples emitted the heat to empower the room with orange-filmic melancholy-- everything in the room was insistent on glowing orange-- orchestrating themselves...blue collards drinking with the stage-directions of sentiment, while the lone two on the floor were in dress-rehearsal for an waltz of two-hundred years ago, weaving their bodies in light of the ragtime on the radio.

>> No.3362691

A conversation I farted out outta boredom:

Male: Well, if people would use the fucking internet, they could easily discover their opinion is bullshit. I mean, for fuck's sake. We have the entirety of human knowledge at our fingertips and people still seriously believe we use only ten percent of our brain!? How is that even fucking possible!? Ten percent of our brains... For fuck's sake. Did you measure this with your special brain-capability measuring device?

Female: It's not that serious.

Male: What do you mean it's not serious!? Hell, parents go around telling this shit to their children as fact. Along with how being out in the cold weather will make you sick. Complete nonsense.

Female: Parents should be able to tell their children anything they want.

Male: Like what? That black people are niggers? That they're all lazy? That they're all criminals?

Female: Yeah, if they want.

Male: Fuck that. If I ever met a kid that was displaying some evil thing their parents taught them, I'd go right to this kid's doorstep and raise hell. They might not change, but they sure as fuck would know how stupid they are. They would know how much of a burden to society they are.

Female: You can't fix the world.

Male: Nah, but I can't make people feel like shit for not helping.

>> No.3362757

>>3362691
>Along with how being out in the cold weather will make you sick.
Being out in cold weather _will_ make you sick, it is a fact.

The mechanics of it are very simple: lowering your overall body temperature depresses your immune response; raising it puts your immune system into overdrive.

That's why you get fevers when you are sick -- it's your body's response to infection, your body is revving up your immune system. (This is also why you shouldn't try to bring down your fever unless absolutely necessary!)

Cooling your body down is the opposite -- like a temporary case of mini-AIDS. It's not dangerous in itself, but it greatly increases the chances that you'll catch some infection which normally would be filtered out by your immune system.

It's very basic facts about biochemistry and metabolism, really.

>> No.3362768

>>3362757

Well, shit.

>> No.3362852

>>3362691
Compelling because these archetypical roles should be validated and concern should be wrought through writer's prose about it!

>> No.3362915

>>3362852

Damn. I have such a shallow view of human emotion. You easily uncovered in one sentence.

>> No.3364036

bump

>> No.3364100

And she had thought about telling Daniele of Jonathan but decided against it, she's leaning into him still; her only brother, [Daniele] really, her only comfort.
"Daniele—” she looks up at him, her eyes acrylic.
“How long are you staying?” He returns her glance, looks into those eyes,
“I’m here now,” he smiles— “I’m not leaving anytime soon.”
She’s glad; she remembers when they were younger, in their mothers house in Arizona; it was so much warmer there, and brighter. Her father would be reading the newspaper, legs crossed and face hid—her mother, running all over the house, to the sink, to her, to Daniele, outside, back inside. It felt so long ago now.
“I wish we were kids again,” says Luciele,
“I just want to play in the grass and forget that everything exists; I can’t take it anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just too much—” and she starts to get sick again; it starts in her stomach, an empty feeling; and she’s afraid she might vomit, she starts groaning, hands above her waist—
“Dainele,”
“What do you want me to do?—what can I do? Where’s your medicine?”
“In the bathroom, above the sink” and she’s shaking now, her mouth dry, her head is blank. He gets up and runs to the bathroom, and out of the corner of the his eye, he see’s in her room the broken mirror; the glass on the floor and the mess and he knows she’s gotten worse.

>> No.3364111

>>3364100
excellant prose, quite.

>> No.3364140

With the sun's set sliding lazily between the two great rock humps came a tremendous winter wind that howled and screeched through, exploding sound into the canyon. Nature's trumpet blast sent at once all the timid penguins waddling into defensive formation, drooping their heads inwards of huddle hoping to find quiet, hidden comfort. These penguins congregated tightly, half-way heighthed on the more unforgiving slopes of the lefterly mound, buzzing and shifting like scarabs. They were not alone, but accompanied by a wide range of animal-types who had rather distinct (and singularly telling) reactions to the windsound gusts that whipped and ricocheted within the boulder-walled chamber. Closest by were one or two floppy, flailing giraffes who- -since already at the near-base of the same crag mass- -upon awakening to the sound, 'sauntered' clumsily towards the watering hole that lay lowest, centered exact at canyon's base.They knew not nothing nor looked for it, knowing full well they served only as an essence of absurdity to an alike ritual. Only slightly further, penguinly, stood packless dogs or boars (perhaps a mix) who bided with drooling stares--vaguely water-wards, although not--echoing the grunts and snorts and stampings that gushed in pops and popped in the gashes around them. The stares were not, as they subc'ly acknowledged but proudly disguised, water-based but rather lateral surveyances of the many flocks of pink flamingos on other's side petrologic formation. More like whitish pink, though, their softing colors not yet ripened into full pink, for without agéd type were these flamingos. Being of more elegant function and design than any others present, these birds were previously in glide on silent legs while pecking and preening in loving circles: plucking white feathers so as to together seem more pinkish and pink like. Without unbecome they were engaging in this, candidly, and with art, until they too were interrupted by the sudden change in context.

>> No.3365259
File: 10 KB, 176x120, Autism-Alert-Card_176_120.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
3365259

>>3362757
>applying logic to fiction

>> No.3365260

I would not do it again.

>> No.3365269

>>3360602
anything from y'all /lit/?

>> No.3365301

>>3365269

sure I'll give it a quick shot.

>>Waking from a binge like this was like rebirthing.

meh. do you mean rebirthing like the crazy people use it? http://www.quackwatch.org/04ConsumerEducation/News/rebirthing.html


>>You'd lie in your filth and feel your body rediscover itself.

not sure about using "feel" here, it creates distance but maybe that's what you're going for.

>>First you'd ask of your legs the way of walking, then of your mouth the way of talking.

cute

>>And then of your head, after your name and noisome life story

i like "noisome life story"

>>had been retrieved from its alcohol-addled dictator, you'd ask again and again why you hated yourself enough do such rueful damage to yourself.

don't use "yourself" twice so fast like this


>>And after all had been revealed, you'd ask your hands to aid you in doing it all again.

weak but it might read better in context

>>Before you knew it the questions would boil your blood to the point where you'd stick a needle in it and shoot anything you could get your hands on to cool down.

i think you can strike out "before you knew it" and this would be good. i mean more tweaking would improve it, but i like what you're getting at. however, the whole sentence is convoluted and distanced for such an intense subject matter, unless you're trying to convey a sense of numbness. which i don't think you are because of the "boiling" part. straighten it up and try to connect more to the physicality of the experience if you want to evoke physical sympathy from the reader.

good luck i'm late for dinner.

>> No.3365319

>>3365301
thanks bud. There is a twist in it at the end and the narrator is quite numb to his surroundings but at one point he does reach a state of emotional reflection. I thought the whole questioning-body bit was decent but I agree that the hands part tears it up a bit and seems tacked on.

>> No.3365362

>He looks into my eyes again, earnest and pleading. I start to stand up and feel his cock start to slide out of my asshole. The condom catches a bit as it slides out of me. I look down at his half-soft dick, the loose latex of the condom was now slightly brown, looking pathetically wrinkled with it's little deposit of cum inside. He looks like he wants to say something but I'm already at the door.

>"Just stay away from mother."

>> No.3365396

I would love some input on this, started it last night.


The wooden planks creaked under the movement of feet. They were old and corroded, bending inward by the weight of travel into the cool, wet earth below. Casey loved this place; he loved the feeling of the wood against his bare feet, the texture of its surface, coarse and dense from moisture. He kept moving, holding out his arms he trailed his fingertips along the brush that enclosed the path before him. It was cold, as it often was and Casey was poorly dressed, but he liked the frigid air and the way it burned when he took deep breaths. It had been several months since the incident happened, Casey could almost smell the scent of fresh blood and the way it pooled amongst the rocks, the smoky mountainside and wet blur of police lights as they flashed violently in the distance. That is when he heard it, the scream was guttural and full of pain; he shut his eyes tightly, crouching where he stood, and then it was gone.

>> No.3365399

One of my feet slipped on black ice as I walked to school one English morning in the winter of 1983, and as I toppled and my head flew towards the ground so much faster than the rest of my body I knew that this is how I would die. The ephemeral, frosted breath from my last exhalation a split second earlier hung in the space my adolescent skull had occupied at the apex of my final descent, and as I fell I looked through it and saw the sky and I saw the sun. Obscured only partially by the foggy afterbirth of my death rattle the sun seemed to me perfect, like an orange from the table of the Hellenic gods. It was a glorious uniform sphere hanging above an inconsequential teenage human boy on an inconsequential island, and its colour was of the desert that spreads endlessly outwards from the vast base of the Pyramid of Khufu on the hottest day of the Egyptian year. I remember thinking that it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, that if I were to die then the English sun as it appeared that day would be one of the better sights that had occupied the vision of dying men since the dawn of human sentience, and, that if I were to survive I should very much like to have Angela Lasbury's autograph.

>> No.3367545

>>3364100
According to iwl.me you write like DFW.

>> No.3367559

It was Thursday in the nethers of the room.

László plucked a rash of wires from the tower at his right. The hum of analog went screaming through the cave as dust swang up about the outers of the place, spindles turning there in rows of seven, columns lined in triad, all the crossed and hatching webs of yarnspun, unified, arranged above an oil basin smooth below the apparatus, bleeding out the iron waste and filtering the cud spilled out beneath her. Sheets of tapestry ran silver down the paper on the wall, fed in tempered bits along the marching feet of little swain in buttoned cuckles, jackets doused in green and caps all painted red, made timely for the center of the stage to swing around again. The platform's rigid, haunched up with a drove of gears that pull the thing out wide and narrow, guiding all the figurines in metered step, brazen horns engaged in some old Flemish dirge. László plucked the stock of white and red back then and thorough in respective gullies. From the nether drew up streaming in a dusk of stench the flavor of the cathode. From the outer crawled the flavor of the rude. Rowdy gut in hand, he spat a plug of wetleaf from a clacking jaw to sing into the crater of the shitcatch. All was well in Thursday's basement.

>> No.3367656

>>3367545
I havn't got around to reading infinite yet, but I've seen some post of it and it sounds pretty good;
Plus I'm trying to read more contemporaries.
So does that mean you like the passage or are you just wanting me to know some website says I write similar to DFW

>> No.3367676

>>3367656
don't read into it. the same one said I write like Vonnegut. my writing is piss poor.

>> No.3367685 [DELETED] 

When the war ended there was a bang and a flash and a muffled roar. We ate some turkey, we ate some pig, we ate ourselves, and we wished for it to start again. There was no end in sight. There was no sight for sore eyes. We were dead. We are your creation. KONY 2012

>> No.3367700

>>3367676
yeah, it seamed kinda silly.

>> No.3367707

They say that the land across the stream is of an age gone of man. A land of trees, that fell and rot, withering at the marsh between their roots. Where the bark of the wood burns the hand of man; and where spirits dwell. Barrow-weights. Long have the woods kept, to fester in their disgrace, in vines that crumble earthly pillars. The woods, however, plot. The scheme of the creaking oaks, besetting the nests in a once called home; to rid themselves of spirits. Spirits of the gods, that once trod the sky. Soon, shall they act. Soon. To curse the fallen gods into a nether world. A world of never-were's. The neverwell.

>> No.3367708

>>3364100
hey anon, can i get a little feedback on this?

>> No.3367725

>>3365396
the imagery is nice, but the comma splices don't do anything good for the writing. only use them if they help to get your message across. in your case, they just look like errors

>> No.3367794

>>3367725
I can see what you're saying, thanks a lot. I'll clean it up and go from there.

>> No.3367820

>>3365396
>>The wooden planks creaked under the movement of feet.

This caused a weird POV to form in my head (see below).

>>They were old and corroded,

the feet?

>> bending inward by the weight of travel into the cool, wet earth below.

Here's something funny, I was imagining the POV as being under the floorboards up until here. When you described the cool, wet earth I realized there's no actual space for a person to be under the floorboards. At first I pictured this paragraph's POV as being below some room, as if the camera is on the first floor, looking up at the ceiling above (the creaking floorboards of the second floor).

>>Casey loved this place; he loved the feeling of the wood against his bare feet, the texture of its surface, coarse and dense from moisture.

If it's Casey's feet that are making the noise, maybe indicate that in the opening: "The wooden planks creaked under Casey's feet."

ctd.

>> No.3367823

>>3367820

>>He kept moving, holding out his arms he trailed his fingertips along the brush that enclosed the path before him.

So the wooden planks are definitely outdoors. Is there a path ahead of the wooden planks? "the path before him" implies the path is front of him, so if you meant the brush is AROUND him some word shifting may be in order.

>>It was cold, as it often was and Casey was poorly dressed, but he liked the frigid air and the way it burned when he took deep breaths.

Consider simplifying: "he liked the way the frigid air burned"

>>It had been several months since the incident happened,

B-b-back that comma up, what the hell's that doing there?

>>Casey could almost smell the scent of fresh blood and the way it pooled amongst the rocks,

"Amongst" here is awkward.

>>the smoky mountainside and wet blur of police lights as they flashed violently in the distance.

This is cool except for "violently". Adverbs tend to weaken verbs--if you can find a violent verb equivalent of "flash" it might work better.

>>That is when he heard it, the scream was guttural and full of pain; he shut his eyes tightly, crouching where he stood, and then it was gone.

Is this still in the flashback or in present time?

Anyway hope this helps or gives you something to think about.

>> No.3367848

>>3367823
everything this person said.

>> No.3367893

>>3367820
>>3367823

I really appreciate the input you guys, I'll definitely keep all of that in mind and rework what I have written. :)

>> No.3367944

>>3367823

The wooden planks are the path. When I used to hike trails were often covered with wood to provide stability for when it was rainy out. I could specify this more if it's confusing to read.

>> No.3368105

>>3367707
10 / 10
Would recommend for publishing.

>> No.3368113

Please, be gentle.

It was in a cold coastal town that the two had agreed to meet for a hot beverage, and pleasant company. The choice of a coastal town had been made simply because they had tired of seeing enormous glass and metal buildings piercing into the infinite blueness every day. The cold had nothing to do with their choice as the weather could not be tamed. Truly, the weather was the last wild animal man continued to hunt. The only difference was that it could not be mounted and stuffed to be left to collect dust and listen to absurd stories that grew larger and clumsier with each telling.

>> No.3368160

>>3368113
0 / 10
Do you even read?

>> No.3368172

>>3368160
It's supposed to be the first paragraph of something. Can you be a bit more specific with your critique?

>> No.3368185

>>3368172
It started well.

>> No.3368194

don't have my pendrive to hand so here's an old, old poem

Had sat with friends staring without excuse,
Flames offering little warmth. Raw bristles
Pierced in as I leant against the red Spruce
Not heeding warnings past o' shrewd thistles.

Stifled by smoke, ears and eyes strained in use
Undesiring the sparkles an' whistles;
Just note faint shades as your chapped lips let loose
Coruscating smiles tracing those missiles.

As crimson sailed on seas of emery
You seemed so damn perfect in the half light,
Half cut walking out towards the two kirks.
Each November brings back this memory...
I can't recall walking home cold that night;
I remember watching you watch fireworks.

>> No.3368291

>>3368194
Try reading it outloud, maybe that'll help you see what you can fix.

>> No.3368317

It is said that when Saint Wilfreda came first to Gramareye she did not affect the veil and wimple, nor the long discreet cassock that is the habit of her order, and in which she has always been depicted, But rather that she clad herself in more utilitarian and easy garments, and went about unveiled. At some point in a proselytic journey along the north coast she encountered the Wefkin Nibrast, who, displaying the deference of his species to the females of nearly any other, invited her within his barrow to view, and be impressed by, his hoard. The saint, believing him to be merely a small man, or perhaps some more gregarious sort of Kobold, acceded and was regaled with the tedious provenance of dozens of items of local historical significance and minor magical potency.

>> No.3368322

>>3368317
However, at some point on the third day of their tour, when both were perhaps becoming bored with the whole matter, as the Wefkin seemed to show know particular interst in the nature or condition of his soul, and Winfreda's bodice stayed resolutely laced, he offhandedly opened a chest of jetsam from a shipwreck he had witnessed off the Paladin's point, and she observed within several of the relics of Holy Katherine, thought long lost by all scholars of such things.

>> No.3368329

Here was common ground at last, and now she lectured him with the history of all the items, from the holy garter, the sacred nails, and the exalted third and fourth fingers, to the less precious crucifix, psalter and crosier. The creature sat rapt as she told him the story of St. Katherine, and when she arrived at the episodes of her imprisonment, scourging and humbling in the brothels of Algiers, he began to take a special notice, as well as copious notes. At some point in her laudatory exposition she must have alluded to the great value of these artifacts, and the greater honor that would come to the person who could restore them to the bosom of the church. It is possible that the topic of St. Katherines trials, combined with Winfreda's thoughtless hyperbole that she would perform any task to restore them, along with the fire of her zeal and perhaps the unfortunate occurance of the word "bosom", but however it fell out, there was created a transformation in the Wefkin's attitude, and soon their discursion turned to inquiry, inquiry to suggestions, suggestions to offer, thence to negotiation and at last a bargain was struck in which the Holy Saint found herself separated from bodice and shift, and her person bound for the period of one month, in order to secure the safe ransom of the sacred artifacts, to perform at the whim of the delighted mannikin every variant of erotic exercise, permutation, elaboration and contortion which his carnal imagination and ready supply of reference gudes could conjure.