Daily writing critique thread

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Daily writing critique thread Anonymous Wed Mar 13 16:44:23 2013 No.3558688 [Reply] [Original]

Keep it all in one thread, boys. Post your stuff and have it critiqued. Be it poetry, prose, or plays.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 16:50:24 2013 No.3558717 By day, John was a predator. And by night, a lover.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 16:54:23 2013 No.3558726 By day, John was a homosex dragqueen. And by night, a pig cosplayer.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 16:55:24 2013 No.3558730

Subterranean
I hesitated. Below me, the jostling bodies and hurried whispers grew ever more impatient, but I remained still. Finally, the turbid silence was broken.
‘Oi! Hurry up, will you?’
I squinted through my hair to see Jamie glaring in my general direction (his vision was completed obscured by the light streaming in from behind me). The other moles below were wriggling self consciously, some scratching instinctively at the tunnel walls as they sought to escape the brilliant sunshine. I started thinking about the cool, slightly moist earth I would be leaving behind… The homely dark and the slightly crumbly clay which was the hallmark of this area… It would only take a few words to call this whole thing off and return to the cool burrows…
My daydreaming was rudely cut short by a claw jabbed into my back and a muffled curse (which was, now I think about it, probably uttered by me). I sighed and shook my head free of the remaining tendrils of my thoughts. We were leaving this place for a reason, a reason that hadn’t changed since we discussed it last night, a reason that hadn’t changed since it had surfaced a year ago… And in the past year, my group has lived in no less than 27 different burrows. Our nerves are shot to pieces, and some of us have had nervous breakdowns. We long to stop a while, to rest a while, but we cannot. If we stop, they will find us, they will bring their shiny spikes, their purple green clouds, and all that will be left of us will be dust, less than a memory.
Last night, we all met for the final time in this, the 28th burrow. Old Finko reminisced, as he often did, about what he called the Green Times, when you could see ‘grass.’ And, as always, we all listened carefully to every word.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 16:56:24 2013 No.3558734

>>3558730
‘Ah, me memory often gets fuzzy,’ he started, ‘and I may not be able to remember, say, how old I be, or me dead sister’s face (Earth bless her), or even the names of any of you! But nothing can ever make me forget the Green Times. Maybe this old man is filled too much with nostalgia to be fair, but it seems the earth was cleaner then. The worms were bigger and juicier, and there were more of them. The beetles were bigger and the slugs were slimier! There were no shiny things trying to grab us, and the only clouds were those white ones far overhead, up in space. There was plenty of space for every male to have his own burrow – the Fights so common today were almost unheard of then. Our tunnels would be dozens of metres long.
‘Then the Change started.’ Here he lowered his voice, as he always did. We strained forward to hear. ‘Yes, the Change. It started on a fine day like this one. I was in my burrow, eating worms and relaxing happily against the moist dirt. Suddenly there was a green flash of light- even though it came to me from a narrow tunnel of black earth, it blinded me for a few hundred heartbeats. Just as I thought I would lose me eyesight (no great loss, but still a scary thought) I began to see the outlines of me home again.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 16:56:24 2013 No.3558736 >>3558726 I like what you've done with my prose!l

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 16:57:23 2013 No.3558739

>>3558734
‘And that was when the Rumbling began.’ By now he was speaking in a hoarse whisper, simultaneously mourning his past and enjoying telling his story. ‘Great waves of sound moved through the Father Earth, destroying in heartbeats the homes it had taken us summers to build. Many of us failed to make it, trapped tight in airless spaces far beyond even our digging abilities. I was lucky – I was pushed to the surface by the waves of mud. As I lay there, gasping, I saw another light at the edge of the Blue Space. It was red, this time, with red and orange clouds. All around me, the grass’ – he paused, whiskers quivering, as he remembered the green, spiky earth he says used to be on the surface – ‘the beautiful grass was shrivelling brown, same as you see these days. All dead and brown.
‘It was many years before anything happened again. The Change had brought with it a dead silence that left us numb. We slowly, quietly tried to rebuild our lives. Many more of us died in that time, those who stayed on the surface too long or tried to eat the awful new insects that had begun appearing.’ He shuddered at the memory. ‘Wrong colours, wrong shape, wrong size…they were just wrong. That’s what we called them. The Wrong. As I said, those who ate them soon went down to Heaven. The rest of us starved, but we didn’t die.
‘Then, to our amazement, the world started to recover! I saw grass! Not as green, mind you, or as plentiful, but it was there all the same. This period lasted a while. This was when most of you were born. But you know the rest of the story… A year ago, the spacemen returned. Yes, spacemen…they walk on the surface, reaching into Blue Space and beyond. The metal came, and the purple clouds, and the green lights. We heard rumours of a place where the Recovery was complete! They called it the Garden. And we’ll find it! One day we…’ We rushed forward, alarmed, as Old Finko collapsed. He had never done this before.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 16:58:23 2013 No.3558743

>>3558739
And here we were again – but this time, one less. My furry head poked out of the tunnel – all I could see behind was grey rock, spacemen, trundling machines. In front of me lay a long, wide strip of the grey rock – impenetrable, and tasting of chemicals and purple clouds – but beyond that was more earth. Dirty, yet far cleaner than the gleaming strip I saw. After the earth, I saw nothing. Although my eyesight was the best of our group, as a tunnel creature I had to strain to see what I could.
My hesitation ended. As leader, I had to do this for my group, possibly the last of our kind. I whispered back down.
‘I’m ready!’
Any birds above (not that there were any, not any more) would have seen a brown and black mass moving against the shiny rock. I heard loud deep noises from behind me. There was a loud bang, and a flash of green light shot past me. Not green like grass, but green like death…
Most of us made it through. Here we are now. We have a new burrow, but who knows how long it will last? Still, we have to keep trying. For the sake of Old Finko, for the sake of our species, for grass, in the hope of finding that place Old Finko used to speak of. The Garden, where the grass is green, the clay is pure, the worms are juicy, and there are no purple clouds or shiny bits of rock. And so I lower my snout and keep digging. It’s going to get harder, but one day we’ll find a home. And Old Finko, looking up from Earth will chortle and say:
‘I told you so!’

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 16:58:23 2013 No.3558744 >>3558734 The dialogue is almost hiberno-English. Is that what you're going for? Is this apocalyptic? It seems pretty interesting.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:06:24 2013 No.3558762 >>3558744 Thanks. I wasn't really going for that per se (had to look it up in fact), just wrote him as a general old-timer or even Cockney-ish type. And it is meant to be apocalyptic, from the perspective of the moles. Glad you found it interesting!

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:11:23 2013 No.3558778

To whom it may concern, you are reading the suicide note of Richard Stalker Jr, though calling it a suicide note may be a bit of a misnomer. I’ve always thought the function of a note is to let your friends and loved ones know the reason for your decision and hopefully offer some minute detail of emotional relief. With the exception of my mother who cares little for me, I lack family. As for friends; my life has been one simply filled with acquaintances. I now find myself ending this short life of mine in a foreign land where the locals do not even know my name. Instead of a note let us call it a cautionary tale; the moral of which is to reaffirm the old idiom of ‘let sleeping dogs lie’.
I shall tell this story from where I deem the true beginning to be, and I implore you to read the whole thing, no matter the length. And for your own good please ignore the crack in the wall.

The best place to start is three months ago, which would have placed the date at October 12th 1898. I received a letter from his university dated a week prior, and I learned that my father had been found dead in his office with his old pistol in his hand, a gunshot to the temple. It was a clear suicide, and a note had been found on his desk;

‘While I do fear the Christian punishment I may be going to by following through with my plans, but by knowing of the horrors which exist in this world I cannot go on. I can feel my mind slipping away. –Richard Striker Sr’

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:26:23 2013 No.3558803 >>3558778 Tighten up the grammar and fix the runons.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:32:23 2013 No.3558824 >>3558803 Any good guides for grammar. It's something that I was never straight up taught, and while I know enough there's definitely some stuff I don't get at all.

Green Eyes of the Strand Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:40:24 2013 No.3558843

Would love anything on this poem I just wrote.

One evening in the fire, as I traced down solitude
I met young Séan Dell Tracy, who was carrying a lute
And putting down my heavy plough I prayed the boy a tune
So he sang there through the evening, to the rising of the moon

"Where green eyes lie in Bandon, when God puts out the sky
They rise there deep as lushest fields
Shining brightest in the light"
I sat there in entrancement, and my mind danced to his hands
And he sang me then another tale, of green-eyes from the Strand:

"God gifted us with roses
He placed them in her pearls
And when I see that same green hue
Out looks a perfect world.
For all the Godly graces
Dealt out among mankind
She must have cut our Lord a deal
For there's twice more in those eyes!"

My weariness was growing, for green-eyes of the Strand
So I asked the poet Tracy, to sing verse of God and man
And the young bard cocked his nose high, with all an infant's hate
But still this songbird crooned to me, as the morning light came strait:

"For all the Lords above, and all my friends below
I'll play this song long as time goes on
And it's from their words it's grown"

Then a tear fell from the poet, and the moon shone in his eyes
And I asked him to relay the pain, that could drench this songbird's eyes
But the poet Treacy stumbled, and his tears did quench the ground
And I realised the bard had sang, since the clock's had spun once 'round

So I thanked the poet treacy, and I went to grab my plough
But the fearless bard gave rise again, and said "One more song for now"
And I stood there washed in reverance, as Seán Dell strung his lute
And he sang once more his reveries, as the moon gave rise anew:

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:40:24 2013 No.3558845

>>3558843

"Those green eyes walked out on the strand
Far out into the waves
And no loving verse nor singing lute
Could stop them as they came
And after monstrous tides had swept
And after water's feast
The green eyes of my loving girl
Did sweep in from the East
So now I look upon my lute
My life, my soul my keep
And everything reflects the green
The strand had deemed to keep."

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:51:24 2013 No.3558886 File: 46 KB, 300x286, 3.3jimmies.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3558843 >>3558845 >clock's >did sweep in from the east fix it >my soul my keep fix it >dem last lines Much better than most poetry here. I like the old ways best.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:53:23 2013 No.3558893 >>3558824 Speak out the sentence, put commas in the pauses, and put question marks when the inflection wants it. Read over the sentence after it's written and make sure it sounds good.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:54:23 2013 No.3558894 >>3558730 >turbid silence STOPPED READING THERE

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:56:24 2013 No.3558902 [DELETED]

Just wrote this now, not finished yet. Could use some quick feedback though.

One morning the Thames decided to visit Westminster. Having spent its entire working life being trodden on by boats and boarded up by bridges it grew dissatisfied with its position in the world. Occasionally, it would distract itself by bursting its banks or swallowing a clumsy drunkard but they did little to cure the malaise of a millennia as a city river. From time to time word would reach it of distant waters that only fuelled the Thames' unhappiness: of the narrow Nile where crocodiles frolic, or of the Amazon; so wide it is known as the River Sea. As if to spite their river the city's residents erected an Egyptian obelisk on its bank, a perpetual reminder of its shortcomings. Frequently it would imagine that the other great estuaries were mocking him across the globe - that if people pressed their ears close enough to the water of the Hudson or the Ganges they could hear the faint sound of chuckling rising from the riverbeds.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:58:23 2013 No.3558914

The rain fell quietly outside. The distant rumble of thunder found its way as droplets fell into the ears of the inn patrons. The barmaid threw another log onto the fire and returned to washing tankards. It was a slow night at the Dragon's Flight. Only a few regulars sat at the various tables, nursing their drinks and enjoying the solitude that rain brought to the tavern. From the stairs came down the traveler who arrived shortly before the rain.

A man just peaking into his older years. Each step down was purposeful. Despite his appearance, he was still healthy. The gray streaks running through his hair and beard, despite it being trimmed and clean. He wore the suit of someone who had been everywhere. Worn boots of foreign make, a heavy coat protecting a soft silk undershirt, his brimmed hat casting the flickering shadow of the fire across his face. The lines under his eyes inspired tales of what had brought them about. A small scar that just escaped his beard was a call for a tale, yet from his chapped lips the story never came.

He sat down at the table closest to the fire, sitting heavily into the seat. The barmaid quickly put down the latest piece of work, and approached him with a sense of fear and wonder for the traveler. The hope to hear tales of magical places and grand adventures always bubbling across her mind whenever a new face passed through her tavern.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:58:23 2013 No.3558915 >>3558886 Thanks friend

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 17:59:23 2013 No.3558918 >>3558886 Oh sorry, meant to say that I typed this up very quickly after writing it earlier in the day, may have accidentally kept a few typos in there.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:05:23 2013 No.3558933

>>3558931
The sun was a little past noon as the ship reached the surface. It burnt the white stone to charcoal as it descended the last few meters. They felt the ship jolt as it touched down. Jens was having trouble locking the cuffs of his suit, so Angela went out first.
She was the scientist on the journey, and Jens was the pilot.
When Angela opened the outer door of the airlock, there was no rushing of air like usual. She stepped out into the world and walked down the little steps, onto the glaring, bleached dust.
Jens followed her a few moments later.
Gravity here is .9, Jens thought. I wonder if this planet is going to be as boring as all the others. He slipped through the airlock quickly, and the light hurt his eyes.
He sighed and reached up to a button on his helmet. “COM working?”. Her voice was compressed and absentminded. “Uh-huh.” He looked up at sun, defined by the dusty wind whirling around it. Something stirred in his memory.
“I’m going to look around.” He said.
The difference in gravity was definitely perceptible, he thought. The dust clouds he kicked up lingered just a little too long in the air, and he did too. He started walking to the interior of the island.
The sun shimmered in the sky, like a white torch. The few shadows it cast at it’s steep angle were sharp and short on the ground.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:05:24 2013 No.3558931

The Captain was a Finn named Jens. He rested his knuckles against the cool window and watched the silent descent with a practiced detachment that was now a part of him.
Obscura was a beautiful place, but it was simple. The glittering black ocean stretched undisturbed across most of his sight, defining the world’s curvature by blocking the stars.
The ship was approaching quickly, and before long, the waters of oblivion filled his sight. He turned away from the window and was startled to see Angela, the scientist, standing in the doorway.
They were alone on the trip. Nothing had occurred to either of them.
She looked out the window, then at him. “How long until we touch down?”
“I’d say less than an hour, if things don’t go wrong.” She nodded in understanding. “I’ve got to make a final check.” He said, and walked by her. She went to the window and looked at the abyss.
When they were ten minutes out, he went to the instrument room and began searching for a place to land. It would be a bad way to start if they landed in the water. There was a small archipelago nearby. From his lofty perspective, the sun-blasted islands looked like pebbles in a black sea.

English is not my first langua(...) Wed Mar 13 18:11:23 2013 No.3558953

As I stand here, loving the idea of you,
yearning the thought of your body against mine.
Thriving to become what you'd have wanted me to become,
striving to make of me what you'd have wanted for me to be.

As you stand there, missing the thought of me,
longing for the man I would become instead of the person I now am.

As we both stand aside, miles apart from each other,
each breath drifting us apart, filling the void that time and distance have yet so terribly wanted to fill.

As we both stand apart, in love with the thought of us,
infatuated by the underlying fantasy of us.
By what could've been, by what's been denied.

Let us start living again,
Let your memory fade in time.
Let our love remain timeless and spaceless.
Let our love remain eternal.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:27:23 2013 No.3558992 ITT: everyone posts, no one critiques.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:27:23 2013 No.3558994 >>3558953 Like Garcia Lorca!

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:29:23 2013 No.3559002 >>3558931 This is nice and fluid prose. I particularly like the "sun-blasted islands looked like pebbles in a black sea" line.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:31:23 2013 No.3559012 >>3558902 Nice absurdist piece. Humorous, but I don't see where it can possibly go beyond there.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:33:23 2013 No.3559017

A dull light the colour of rusty smoke filtered cautiously through the electric blinds. The cigarette vapour reached out to meet it with wispy fingers, dancing slowly to and fro in the filtered air. Fingers twitched around the plastic tube, vaporiser tip glowing deep red, then yellow with fake firelight. Suddenly, the piercing whine of a rocket barrage leapt from the street below, jump-starting scrambled neurons and flinging the cigarette into a dusty corner as the man jerked alive, reaching instinctively to his right side. But where his service rifle should have been, now his fingers grasped only dry air. In an instant, he was in that jungle again, thudding impacts showering him with fragments of moss and stone.
As his brain slowly regained control, the missile's haunting trajectory morphed into a distant police siren, and the man's limbs shuddered and lay still.

His hand shot out to answer the phone before the rest of him had caught up.

"What?".
The voice at the other end hesitated momentarily, like a deer briefly reconsidering its asphalt shortcut.

"I am speaking to a Mr. Kaufmann?"

A woman's voice, icy confidence not quite masking unease.

"I don't take cold callers"

So much for the clean wipe, the marketers always did find a way. Still, a human voice, at least.

"Cole R. Kaufmann, age 35, permanent resident in Shingau city but born Montana, USA on 12th Febru...”

"Who is this?"

Far too much expunged data in that sentence, his grip tightened.

"Extended Security division, eight years. Tours of Haiti, Chechnya, Kashmir, Quebec. Official commendation for operations in the siege of Kiev, promoted operative, second class, Echo-12 SEACOR division."

The company, he should have known. His fingers hovered over the terminate button, but something prevented him.
He broke the silence.

"Why stop there?"

A slightly strained laugh.

"That clearance is for dicks swinging way above my paygrade, I'm afraid."

>>	English is not my first langua(...) Wed Mar 13 18:33:23 2013 No.3559018 >>3558902 I really like it. It kind of stands on its own.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:34:23 2013 No.3559024 >>3558992 I critique anon. ;_;

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:39:24 2013 No.3559045

>>3559018
>>3559012

Thanks. It is the opening to a novel, it is about how after a flood a family is displaced from their home - this is just setting up the flood which is based upon a real one that happened in 1928.

And yeah meant to be absurdist, later it gets really bizarre but want to try and make sure the humour and strangeness is there from the get go.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:40:24 2013 No.3559050 >>3559024 Well you get my gratitude then.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:43:23 2013 No.3559068 >>3558843 so she killed herself?

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:48:24 2013 No.3559085 I think we all need to be less purple. It's pretty tiresome.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:50:24 2013 No.3559089 >>3559085 Anyone in particular?

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:50:24 2013 No.3559090

The doubters slung their profits through the holes about the pockets in a pair of jeans. He left them then to make a skiff around the dryup waters of the torrent's run of heads. The crowd gone left and through to fro all swimming with their knees in silver buckles. Chains on wallets. Sirens screaming few blocks up. In passing then he'd made his way to loose and higher ground, in just a little stretch a tuft of grass beneath the arms of tyrants, looming overhead the triad-storied flanks of stuccoed manors. Shopkeep dusting out the windows. Sausage on a grill. A concrete bench all plush with maidens chattering their goodies in a rush. He'd slunk on down for just a bit before he heard it. Rosie in a tin old can. A stereo gone belching out the labor of a salty night. A quad of greased and matty heads strike up a bit of whimzy, tossing kettles into baskets, fluffing up a plug of snuff or two in noses long since muted to the outers.

Little orphaned daisies might've strut their bits in kind and turnkey, schmaltzy in the wind and gutted, bloated then and smooth as underwater. Boy gone made him neighbor dearly to the all about, in kindred with the flood and rush and native with a touch of palm to dryearth. Tender soil. Little lovers ever swung. A skip of leg to home.

He turned and caught her figure. Struck uprooted from the grounding. No electric. No white dancing. She was there and at the bench, her thighs all crossed and hair in wires. Further beauty. Lust for some. He's turned the other way, his eyes all caught in something, loose almighty, never thinking. Hope she'll not yet see him for the clacking. Then he'd up and gone and made his way on back to where he'd come from. Caught his sight of her and she to him in iron ever grated. No turn and swift to farther. Drooping manors. Linen drawers about a line.

"It's you."

The end of it. The yet undying wait.

He could not see the flame for all the fire. Earthen waters in an iris. Death in shadow at the unders of an eye.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:51:23 2013 No.3559093 >>3559090 Ignore this shit. Needs a major overhaul.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:52:23 2013 No.3559097

"Oh—” I breathed out heavily. “Yeah.”
“Hey, man, whatever works.” After she put the bottle in the refrigerator, she walked in front of the counter. I saw her look out the window above the sink as she came over. “Hey. I’m gonna head outside quick. Look at the clouds. You wanna come with?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, yeah, sure.”
“‘Kay.” She left the kitchen room quickly. I got up from my bar stool and followed behind her at a slower pace. The living room was much brighter than when I had woken up only about ten minutes before. In the entrance area near the living room, the front door was open. Arisa was sitting on the concrete steps, looking up. I walked through the door.
“Take a look,” Arisa said.
Across from us, we saw the sun rising against clouds. Gazing forward, my eyes hurt. I squinted and put my hand above my eyes. I blinked. The redness of the clouds against the yellow of the sky came to me slowly, inverted almost from the red background under my eyelids and the white glow of the afterimage. I stood behind Arisa.
“They’re striated,” she said. “My favorite. It’s like, the sky is rippling, like water. But, now, the clouds are a totally different color.”
I put my hands in my jeans pockets. We looked on for a few more minutes, until the clouds were no longer red.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 18:52:23 2013 No.3559098 >>3559085 Yeah..nah.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:01:24 2013 No.3559125

>>3559089
No, pretty much everyone; in most examples of stuff to be critiqued I've seen posted on here and even in TAR or what-have-you. I'm not saying there aren't good things in this thread because there are, it's just a trend.
Too long spent trying to paint a picture with words, overuse of metaphors and similes. Ponderous "epic" language and habitual archaic affectations.
Mostly just too much description of places, things and people. I just opened a couple of novels on my shelf at random and it seems like the majority of the content is just action (people doing things, moving, thinking) and dialogue.
I'm not sure if I'm accurately communicating quite what I mean but I'm hoping someone else will see it too.

I'm not innocent in this, I need to kick the habit too. It's probably because of the autism; paying attention to inanimate rather than animate.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:05:24 2013 No.3559140

>>3559125
But my habitual archaic affectations are for my hometown. I guess I see your point though. But to be honest, I quite enjoy some of the prose posted on /lit/, and the poetry. Some people really have the knack of choosing words well on here. Doesn't matter if it comes across as purple.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:09:23 2013 No.3559155

>>3559125

I think there is always a fine line to walk. Great storiess are rich with description, but yes it can't impede the action otherwise the work gets bogged down.

I think it depends on the format it is in too. A novel can get away with more descriptions and purple prose as it is this massive thing with tons of space, with a short story one mast pack in as much as possible.

I tend to get annoyed by the opposite, I think so many people criticize purple prose and celebrate simple language that the art of lengthy beautiful description is lost. I think it is easy to go wrong with description but when done right it surpasses everything else.

This thread has been pretty mixed. The main issue is that some people try to hard to push certain characteristics or ideas onto people that they don't come about naturally. By that I mean that they may describe someone as being 'hard' or 'brave' instead of letting it emerge from description and action.

That said there are some good pieces in here too, /lit/'s writing does seem to producing a few more gems lately.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:15:23 2013 No.3559180 >>3559140 They're not bad at it, but I'm yet to see an example written so well I'd read more than a page before getting sick of it. If lots of people are "okay" at it, it seems pointless. Do it if you want, I'm going to try and develop some other way.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:18:23 2013 No.3559185

part 1:

The records disagree variously on the reasons by which the gods came to walk among us, and by which they were filled with such terrible anger. It is passed down by Anaxilochus of Rhodes that they deigned to descend first upon Argos, and then on rich Mycenae whose coffers are filled with gold, and then to the Peloponnesian peninsula, from which region Anaxilochus’ father could trace his ancestry, and that they then descended quickly upon the other lands of the known world, and their grasp reached initially as far as the lands of Ethiopia, and of mythic Brittania, of which the Gauls speak – a land cold and mountainous which lies north of the Gallic kingdoms, across a narrow stretch of sea, and in which lives barbarians numbering to the thousands. Agrias of Gaul tells us that the gods landed first in the seas, and that great plumes of water were seen by the citizens of his city, and that the first ships were in colour black, and rode above the clouds of the night sky, and were difficult for man to see, despite a series of torches which appeared to hang below the vessel. Various philosophers have claimed that the Agrian account suggests that these first ships were related in part to the chariot which it is said was driven by Phaethon, as the ships held fire, and came from the same sea in which it is said Phaethon made his famous descent.
Of the writings of Echemmon of Miletus, little is known, despite assurances by the historians of his time and ours that his accounts and arguments ring true and creditable, and that his writings leave room both for the accounts of Agrias and of Anaxilochus and of various other writers and poets, most of whom it is said took their accounts in part from those two great historians.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:18:23 2013 No.3559186

>>3559155
> By that I mean that they may describe someone as being 'hard' or 'brave' instead of letting it emerge from ... action.
Quite.

I'm not suggesting everyone burn their notebooks and start again, just that we try not to get too carried away by the lyricism of our own writing.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:18:23 2013 No.3559188

part 2:

In a recent expedition to the Ionian region, and to the island of Lesbos in particular, which I undertook along with certain companions of mine this passing year, I chanced to meet an exceeding strange elderly man who was merry and red with wine, and who greeted me into his great garden with open arms, in a manner reminiscent of that famous wife of Alcinous of whom the poets sing, and he passed unto me a chest which held great and various documents and scrolls, with the assurance that these were the original writings of that Echemmon whom I mentioned, and that we must continue to look to the heavens, and that he himself had come into contact with these gods who were not gods, and that I must, as a scholar, take up these writings, and study them, and come to an understanding of this heavenly visitation for future generations of man.
I have taken up this great challenge, and have striven at every avenue to make this account as readable and as proper as was possible to me. The original text was much blasphemous and an account which gave no pleasure to the reader. I have sought at every turn to remain faithful to these documents, while altering certain facts which seemed to me improper. I have taken out various needless statistics and dubious aspects of information, the like of which were, sadly, rife in the histories of the time. I have, overall, striven to make this text readable and enjoyable to the reader. I am, afeterall, a poet, not a philosopher, and to Homer and Archilochus I dedicate this work, spurning the writings of the philosophers and of the historians, who wrote for naught but themselves.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:19:23 2013 No.3559192

part 3

I have transcribed these accounts, not for myself or the scholars or the politicians or the rich learned men of my time or indeed of those to come, but for the numerous general populations of men and of women, of citizens and of slaves, who may find something of interest in the reading of these pages, and who will abide always in the hearts both of myself, and of small cities and great empires across the known world for the foreseeable centuries.
If, despite my attempts, the hearing of anything within these pages offends, I beg your forgiveness.
Hereby begins the account of Echemmon of Miletus with some omissions, translated and edited by Herodianus, who is the son of Periclymenus who was in turn fathered by Nikeratos, and who sold wine and jewelleries in Tanagra and has exceeding interest in Eros and in poetry and in the matters of the gods which will fill these pages:

--and it is known that the gods came unto man in their fiery vessels burnished with gold and with wondrous other metals and jewels of which it is said that no prior record could be found in the private libraries of Athens, and it is said that they brought with them the twin evils of Plague and of Weariness, and that they were filled with a terrible and righteous anger, and it is said that they wrought their fury upon our land, and that they were in time overthrown by man. I can speak as one who had direct contact with the gods, and one who spoke to various citizens, and read various alternative accounts of the event, and one who wrote down these matters as accurately as was possible, in order that this great happening may never be forgotten by future men of letters.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:20:23 2013 No.3559195

part 4

It was in the fifteenth year of my citizenship that I was invited to a gathering at the house of a childhood friend in the Tyrrhenian region, a certain Kraxios, of whose daughter, Leucippe, I have written much in my earlier writings. It was with the eternal intention of seducing this Leucippe that I made this long and arduous pilgrimage, and not through any desire to further my friendship with her father, who, in honesty, was the better man than me in every way. He was a champion in poetry, in athletic games (he was second only to Odysseus in the art of wrestling), and was by now a decorated veteran and was working towards election as governor. Needless to say, he was dreadful in most every way, and may well have been the antagonist of this account, were it not for his untimely passing, a matter which I intend to relate, of course, with absolute reverence and respect.
For now, however, let us turn our attention back to his daughter, Leucippe, who will occupy a (perhaps unnecessarily) large portion of this narrative. Leucippe Leucippe Leucippe. Leucippe is a brilliant player on the lyre, and on the pan pipes, and a dancer exceeding elegant. Leucippe stands almost alone on that Olympus of female poets – exception must be made only for her muse, that wondrous Lesbian singer, whose writings I enjoyed much throughout my school years.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:20:23 2013 No.3559199

part 5:

Leucippe’s nose is softly curved. Leucippe’s arms are white as snow, and her hair is red, and flows like a waterfall of ancient blood when combed. Leucippe’s nose contains no unsightly hairs. Leucippe’s veil lifts for me in secret, and only for me, and her eye is like a rose, and blossoms only for me in secret also. Leucippe’s feet – even - madden my loins. Leucippe’s voice is like that of the African giraffe – which, although I have never heard it myself, is said to sing softly and proudly, with each utterance skilfully hiding a tremendous power and pride. Leucippe’s nails are exceeding long and hard so that they may even draw blood from a man’s back in times of peace – or from his face, in times of war. Leucippe is mad, and is in every way as maddeningly gifted as her father, and she is Leucippe and only Leucippe, unlike any other woman

and that's all I have for now. Any good? Is the introduction too long to keep your attention? Sorry if tl:dr

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:29:23 2013 No.3559223 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1IL_FA7qAWosHtRgMM-36nfZ8HvPclEJn9qpQQwgSJaY/edit?usp=sharing

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:35:23 2013 No.3559243 >>3559017 >filtered cautiously nah >to and fro cut this >fingers twitched around I can't tell if this is an extended metaphor or real fingers >I am speaking to people don't talk like this >kaufmann bad name >Cole R. Kaufmann needs more subtlety

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:38:23 2013 No.3559246

>>3559097
>The living room was much brighter than when I had woken up only about ten minutes before.
fix it
>Arisa
I hope this isn't a real person's name. say it out loud, and you'll understand why it's bad.
>the rest of the piece
nothing happens, without context it's worthless and too short

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:43:24 2013 No.3559257

>>3559185
>whose coffers are filled with gold
should be were?
> and in which lives barbarians numbering to the thousands.
Throw this part out and rephrase it
>and have striven
sounds awkward
> The original text was much blasphemous and an account which gave no pleasure to the reader.
Rephrase, maybe: the original text was blasphemous, and gave no pleasure to the reader?
>which it is said was driven by
Which is said to have been driven by
> ring true and creditable
did you mean credible?
>most of whom it is said
it is said is repeated too much. change it

The majority of the writing is smooth and interesting, but the weird grammar errors are jarring.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:44:24 2013 No.3559261 >>3559199 Damn nigga. Take out the weird grammar shit and it's of good quality.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:51:23 2013 No.3559278

>>3559246
i disagree that "nothing happening" makes it worthless (i mean what even is "worth" to you) but i appreciate the commentary nonetheless. one thing:

>I hope this isn't a real person's name. say it out loud, and you'll understand why it's bad.

i've met three people while living in japan who have the name arisa *shrug*

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:53:23 2013 No.3559282 >>3559278 Oh. It is a context thing, then. In America, Arisa sounds like a Deviantart creation. It's understandable as a japanese name.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:54:24 2013 No.3559286 >>3559002 Yeah but what's wrong with it? Would it help if I called you an idiot?

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:56:24 2013 No.3559290 >>3559286 I saw nothing particularly wrong with it. I suppose the dialogue was fairly clichéd, as far as the whole gruff pilot archetype goes.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:57:23 2013 No.3559296 Would you guys rate this >>3558953, please?

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 19:59:24 2013 No.3559302 >>3559290 You're absolutely right. Also the story takes ten paragraphs to go nowhere and has no ultimate direction.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:00:24 2013 No.3559305 >>3559302 Unless you are not the poster, have you taken something your friend has written and posted it up here in the hope of seeing it gutted on /lit/? Happens a lot here.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:02:23 2013 No.3559314

>>3559125
Silly post. You've managed to insult everyone's writing in this thread without giving any actual critique, and judging from this post
>>3559180
it was all simply to gee yourself up to take on some new type of writing that you haven't even formulated in your head yet.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:03:24 2013 No.3559316

>>3558953
If your poetry doesn't rhyme, it had better have some fucking beautiful ideas to make up for it, and honesty, nothing here stands out to me.

>Thriving to become what you'd have wanted me to become,
striving to make of me what you'd have wanted for me to be.

I don't understand what this means.

> drifting us apart

come on, now

>filling the void that time and distance have yet so terribly wanted to fill.

please read what you write

>Let our love remain timeless and spaceless.

I don't get it??

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:04:24 2013 No.3559318

Last night as I lay dreaming
My way across the sea
James Mangan brought me comfort
With laudnum and poitin
He flew me back to Dublin
In 1819
To a public execution
Being held on Stephen's Green
The young man on the platform
Held his head up and he did sing
Then he whispered hard into my ear
As he handed me this ring

"If you miss me on the harbour
For the boat, it leaves at three
Take this snake with eyes of garnet
My mother gave to me!

This snake cannot be captured
This snake cannot be tied
This snake cannot be tortured, or
Hung or crucified

It came down through the ages
It belongs to you and me
So pass it on and pass it on
'Till all mankind is free

He swung, his face went purple
A roar came from the crowd
But Mangan laughed and pushed me
And we got back on the cloud
He dropped me off in London
Back in this dying land
But my eyes were filled with wonder
At the ring still in my hand

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:04:24 2013 No.3559319 >>3559305 No, I wrote it, and I want some real criticism on it. If I wanted praise, literal masturbation would be way more honest and effective.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:05:23 2013 No.3559322 >>3559318 > whispered hard wut Last three stanzas are very good, first two are clunky.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:05:24 2013 No.3559320 >>3559316 Thanks for the input, I'll work more on it.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:06:23 2013 No.3559329

>>3559319
Ok then. It barely managed to hold my attention for more than five lines. From the outset the character seems clichéd and the story seems archaic. It already has the feel of something that I've read before. This could easily be changed by changing your prosaic style, which is very rigid and not at all lyrical, almost by design it seems.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:07:23 2013 No.3559331 >>3559316 You the guy giving critique on all poems ITT? Thanks for it. Someone has to bear the cross of giving good critique in these threads..

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:07:23 2013 No.3559336 the sun whispered into my ear "its night in my town may the waters flow" a sultry night of heavenly dusk I yearn for the sweet nectar of sunlight shit in my throat.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:08:23 2013 No.3559340 >>3559336 That's so bad and gay that I'm going to sue you for attempting to suffocate me with badness and gayness. I will need a glass of water surely to rid the badness and gayness from my throat.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:11:23 2013 No.3559349

>>3559314
I took a round-about approach to decide how to express my critique as I was struggling to put it into words. I think I got there in the end.
I expressed it with humility by admitting I was equally guilty of doing the thing I thought was wrong.
I did take that opportunity to "gee [my]self up" but it was for developing as a writer rather than for any particular style.

Perhaps you're right, or maybe an yet more negative interpretation of my posts are the case, but there's no need to be upset.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:11:23 2013 No.3559350 >>3559340 This is truly art. Seek a publisher.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:11:23 2013 No.3559352 >>3559350 excellent

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:12:23 2013 No.3559357 >>3559350 I will be a professional book cricket!

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 20:53:23 2013 No.3559499

As I lay on this bed, riddled with disease, my daughter turns and recollects the days of her childhood with a nostalgic drool. "The night I looked up at that constellation you told me about. I couldn't see it at first, then it came into light. It's darting shapes and abstract angles. It was beautiful, it reminded me of playing out in the garden as mother would call me in to help set the table for each Sunday lunch". As she went on, my eyes became fixated on her mouth. I'd never loved someone as much as her. she was perfect, a perfect creation to wonder this planet as it withered and grew to a distant smear. "Father, do you still love her?". My lips wouldn't press. "I...". I couldn't speak. The repeated beep of the machine echoed throughout my head as it went on and on and on, not stopping at one, not delaying its rhythm. "She was my only love sweetheart. There's not a day that passes by where she's not in my thoughts. Not a day at all". I turned and looked out the window. The grey bricks o the hospital shone in the morning sun. Its white, hot light pierced through the blinds and hit my dry eyes. "Father, why do you not face me?". Her words played on my dying mind, not able to draw me away from the glowing shine of the hot concrete. I knew it was coming, I could feel it. My heart started to slow its dreading beat and my breath, once warm and full, was now but cold whistle upon my tarnished lips. "Isabelle, do not...", my throat ceased and would not finish the sentence. The monotonous sound of a flat line and a sobbing daughter bounced of the walls as my body, once alive and rich, now lay motionless. All that time spent lying on that stiff, yet comfy bed, had come to an end.
They wheeled him out of the room and down the mile-long hallway to a bitterly cold mortuary. my fathers body was slung into a draw. That was the last I saw of his face.
-----------------------
Be kind, wrote this at 6 in the morn after getting drunk, I felt like shit.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 21:09:23 2013 No.3559531 >>3559318 I was singing it to the tune of Spancil Hill

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 21:16:23 2013 No.3559559

I want to start writing. I've done a little bit of poetry but aside from that and school assignments I haven't done much creative writing. How do I get started? Or do I just need to read a lot and just start writing stuff? Are there exercises I can do to get better?

shinji moon Wed Mar 13 21:19:23 2013 No.3559568

When you feel phantom rain falling soft
on your fingertips, it means that you’re falling in love
with a ghost.

When your ears burn, your body knows
that someone is thinking about you, even before
you do.

Honey will solve all the problems that sleep cannot
dissolve. Your palms hold tree lines, stories
that only fold deeper with age.

The Japanese mended broken vases with gold resin,
aggrandized the sharp corners and turned shards of pottery into basins
that carried light.

How early it is that we learn to never let ourselves
break. We crawl before we walk, walk before we run, run
before we break our own hearts.

But skinned knees scab over, our bones heal into stronger skeletons,
even the heart is known to stitch itself over.

Whenever we break, we learn different ways to knot ourselves
back together.

And one day, we all will wake, and find that there’s light
in the cracks we thought would never hold.

Anonymous Wed Mar 13 21:39:23 2013 No.3559615
File: 73 KB, 552x508, Dairies of a Woman Soldier 1:6.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Hey all, if you could critique this attached file I'd be so thankful! It's rather large, a story about a woman soldier from Alabama. The language and format is strongly influenced by Faulkner.
Title is Dairies of a Woman Soldier, it's in 6 parts.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 21:41:23 2013 No.3559620 File: 75 KB, 552x455, Dairies of a Woman Soldier 2:6.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3559615

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 21:41:24 2013 No.3559623 File: 46 KB, 542x408, Dairies of a Woman Soldier 3:6.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3559620

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 21:42:24 2013 No.3559629 File: 88 KB, 559x575, Dairies of a Woman Soldier 4:6.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3559623

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 21:44:23 2013 No.3559634 File: 57 KB, 549x575, Dairies of a Woman Soldier 5:6.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3559629

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 21:44:23 2013 No.3559636 File: 20 KB, 545x385, Dairies of a Woman Soldier 6:6.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3559634 There we go! I'm sorry about the extreme length!

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 22:01:23 2013 No.3559693 >>3559615 stop trading the endings. you have some -ing and use you. its all southern or nothing, there is no in-between

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 13 22:12:23 2013 No.3559727 >>3559693 Thanks, I'll try that out! The apostrophes on the ends of shortened words kind of freak me out, so I tried to make them not too dense.

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 08:18:28 2013 No.3560886

>>3559568
I think that while the idea is very cute, it isn't too clear that the Japanese kintsugi is the main subject. It also kind of feels like the first three paragraphs (especially the first two) aren't really on the same wave with the poem's ending.
The very first paragraph is my very favorite.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 14:03:23 2013 No.3561664 Where's the one about the Thames? I quite liked it.

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 14:12:23 2013 No.3561688

I know exactly what I am. Not that it makes any difference; I am only as in control as any other. Cowardice and envy are what motivate me now, if only I had enough of both to escape this inertia which ties me to my bed, binds me to my room. I say awful things just because I can, because words hold power no matter where they come from. Some, more than others. When you are as wretched as I feel, then it becomes of paramount importance to recieve some small measure of attention, and my attempts are becoming more and more reckless. I suppose it mustn’t be long before I go as far as self harming, but as I said, I am a coward; fear sways me more than anything. I fear pain more than anything else in the world, physical pain I mean. Such a statement sounds strange from the mouth of a masochist, but my torture is purely psychological. Nothing in me could possess me to wreak real physical pain upon myself.

To plunge needles into arms, to bite, to cut, mutilate and burn oneself; that is madness to me. For they hold no higher purpose beyond the infliction of pain and suffering. God forbid it come to that; thank Him, too, that I have forced myself to come clean with my real ideas; to provide in long hand and full account of what I am. I only hope that in a rereading of this messy, sprawling manuscript I can unearth a few clues as to why I am in such a state of self loathing and despair; that could be the first step on the path to remedying my wretched situation.

>fuck the police

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 14:17:23 2013 No.3561700 [DELETED]

Oh God I found a poem I wrote in 2007 ( I was 15 then).

Today, this day, June 2nd i realized,
How much it could hurt and how it brought tears in to my eyes,

Now imma be using alot of metaphors in this poem,
Shits personal, i wouldnt expect you to know em.
Lately theres been letdowns, lost hopes , some reasonable doubts,
Closest to my heart that understands me?!
Took my voice and slapped it back my mouth,

My heartwarma, is hotter than the sun itself,
Sometimes it dries me up, like its some kind of drought,
My one true heater, had itself an accomplice,
Well heres my message to you,
Rise the funeral, while they watch this
::
To mr. whoiver

Stop to analyze, my lines of true emotional expression,
deception, dont try to undrestand what you wont know,
cuz my verbs will leave you cold,
frost bite, like outside in the snow.

I cant take much more of your bad seeded fuckery!
Ill crush your planted hopes,
and ill make it sound tipsy, like a winery.

Stop to analyze, my heart and how i write my devotion,
youll never understand it,
itll cause alot of commotion.

Enough with this flirt talk,
i fight wars with my poetry,
I even use it to ward off purely hated adultery,
My poetry, dont start dissin my vocabulary,
cuz ill smack you with verbs,
and make your dumbfounness!,
my jokng sanctuary.

Stop to analyze, the deeper meaning of the shit i express,
My stress reliever just exploded,
cuz my anger cant be compressed.

Stop to analyze, stop tryna critize,
unless you want your head, to get brutally circumsized,
suggest to injest my anger,
this fucking time bomb of catastrophe,
cuz ill show it down your hopes!,
along with your atrocities!

1/2

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 14:19:23 2013 No.3561705 :: To Mrs. Im ready, cuz i feel that sharp cold knife, Your about to stick it deeper to my hart, so id better hold on tite, never thought youd actually place me the silver place. 3:07am 2/2 >dat angst

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 14:19:23 2013 No.3561707 >>3559336 rly quite sexy

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 14:31:23 2013 No.3561737 [DELETED]

I’ve always been hopeless in the matters of the heart,
listened to it when other’s wouldn’t cuz I’m doing my part,
Never go half in, I’m stretching,
flowing like the Ganges, love seeds scattered,
When good things come, I’m invested,
Im not afraid to grow together as one,
even bear our own fruits when the time has come,
sweet roses for the pickin,
rain drops on your windows,
walking to our pitfall, love is a like see saw,
what she saw, i see so,
flowers, we’re sentimental,
I’m higher, when im mental,
this song is acappela,
I’m riding with my squeeze and
we fly, we skip the airport,
no one can do it better, cuz we are on our level

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 14:42:23 2013 No.3561784

Just a paragraph, not part of any story. I'm new to writing so be nice, all I can manage so far is isolated little paragraphs, I don't feel comfortable crafting a whole story yet.

The moonlight caressed her face, turning her features pale and white. It was enough, though, I could still pull her sharp blue eyes and smooth blonde hair from my memory. Her lips drew thin into a cautious smile, as she tried to read my expression. When I smiled back at her, it opened up and her teeth shone as bright as the full moon illuminating them. As she closed her eyes and brought her cheek to my chest, her arms wrapped around me engulfing me in a warmth that was not only physical, but emotional. We stood in silence, rocking back and forth, basking in the warm, colorful light we radiated.

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 14:44:23 2013 No.3561787

>>3561784
here's another paragraph that I quite like. this one isn't finished, though.

Her hand swooped down across her to the table beside her and grabbed a butter knife from beside her classmates plate. In one smooth movement, she drew the blade towards the girls face, who was now debating the necessity of her harsh words. As the blunted tip of the knife struck the girls temple, it slid forward until it met the corner of her eyes. In glorious slow motion the knife sunk into the soft tissue of her emerald green eyes. As the knife withdrew from her socket, the girls hands had come to cover her face, but in vain.

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 15:34:23 2013 No.3561922

The sea remained motionless considering the murkiness of the sky and the sighs of the winds. It was rarely grey or stormy in Coral Bay or the Pennies, but this particular evening had become an exception. Bastian watched the clouds curdle above the horizontal blue line of water ahead and frowned. How could the weather be so inconvenient? Rain would come, he imagined. The air was moist with drizzle and smelled similar to sweat, or copper. The dampness felt smothering, and there was no way to escape it. At the party, just a few hours ago the sun had blared, as expected from the tropical climate that had helped swell the campus with students. Swimwear was the demanded dress code, although some girls had insisted on retaining their skimpy outfits, which ironically might as well have not existed.
Bastian kept his hand on the wooden pillar of the beach shack that lay suspended between dunes and craters. Ahead lay the broad expanse of golden sand, which had now faded to a lifeless pallid colour, reflecting that of the sky. What a failure of an event. It had started out so well, but soon became as pathetic as the view before him. The only colour that remained was emitted from the many glass and paper lanterns that hung from the ceiling and walls. Each lantern had been constructed from the junk that lay embedded within the rockface. Bastian looked to the light source to his right, which had been formed from a yellow rubber toy, shaped like a duck, that was a remnant of old times past, before the Connection was formed.

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 15:35:23 2013 No.3561925

>>3561922
“Why am I still here?”, Bastian asked himself. He should have followed the others and left the mess behind. That was a risk he could not abide, however. Firm spindles of pastel smoke still rose and entwined the transparent vase and pipe that had been set up on the makeshift table. The scent had faded but Bastian worried he had simply become accustomed to it. If the fabric of chairs and rugs captured any smells or particles, it was always obvious. It was foolish of the others to stumble home so soon after intoxication, but they would not be talked out of their decisions. His friends, Yuli and Cadnus had both claimed with dedication that the beach had become evil before retiring to their dormitories. It was the drugs talking, Bastian had thought with a flourish of irritation, but he was more empathetic now he was alone to face it. Spinpowder had a habit of making people reactive to the smallest of stimuli. Ester Soles, a sweet girl with an even sweeter face, had made repetitive comments about the humidity and the smell that plagued her nostrils.

“It’s not disgusting, but you know, it’s making me feel trapped, Bastian”, she had wittered, using her hands to tuck stands of flat hair from her freckled face. “I’m sorry, but I’m leaving. I’m leaving. I’m leaving soon.”

Bastion had tried convincing her to stay. There was a reason for that. The others could leave, and of course, it would be a definite shame. The only advantage to having an empty beach house would be the promise of Ester’s company. Ester’s family were wealthy, just like his, and this had always appealed to him. The thought that he was shallow had brushed his mind. Not once had he bothered to analyse her personality like he had done with less attractive girls. It was evident she was a nice person, but being ‘nice’ was dull. Duller than the evening had now become.

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 15:38:23 2013 No.3561931
File: 219 KB, 500x750, tumblr_mbqmepGHoq1r1ykbgo1_500.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>3561925
Coral Bay was not always so disappointing. It was a student’s dream. Bleached by sun, and blooming with colour. The sea would possess a vibrant hue of turquoise, and would glisten according to the rays of light from above. Coral Bay was not one simple coast, but a collection. The University perched at the top as if it were a fat gull admiring its lush green nest. The land itself was a mesh of nature and synthetics. Rock walls were encrusted with swollen plastic objects, metallic frames and pipes, old furniture, and wooden planks. The rubbish had become part of the landscape to the extent that it had become beautiful. It was common knowledge that this was an act of the Connection. When the Connection was formed, the junk that existed across the isle joined the distortion of the physical environment, and merged with it, becoming part of nature itself. Bastian remembered one of his lecturers stating the island had the beauty of an abused wife. Stunning to the extent that tourists had been unable to resist harming it through littering and pollution.

The fumes faded from vision, and the remains bubbled within the vase. A waste of Spinpowder but also a nauseating threat. The Universities never responded well to drugs on campus, or anywhere for that matter. That dank scent still muffled the air. Bastian bundled up fabric into his arms and wrapped them around the glass device, tucking in the tube, and hiding it within the folds. There was no way he could take it home with him. If it were found in his housing it meant trouble. Escorting it through the town was another option he wished to avoid. He had spent too much time conversing with Ester and her coupe to even acknowledge the thing had been constructed on the table, let alone know who had brought it. The options were slim, but it could not be left in its current position.

Hegesias The Sage Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:08:23 2013 No.3562128

Here's something I wrote a few days ago and posted up here, was fairly well received. A guy in my city was looking for a lyricist for his band I sent him it and he loved it, is my latest (and only) development. Would like to see what you guys think:

Anniceris sat in the square, Hegesias by his side
Who pierced the sultry summer air, with a question aimed at life
"What cares do you have for your sons, when to my words they leap
No calming air nor sweetened breeze, can ease the woes they keep"

Anniceris had heard enough, and to his friend he posed
A wager set 'tween God above, and Hegesias below
"If it's truth you do espouse, of worthless life you speak
May your pen pour out great gouts, and redden soon these streets
And if when sun dispels the dusk, we find Rome returned to Earth
My kingdom will be yours to keep, and all its Godly worth"

And with their pride and persons set, as both did face their fall
Anniceris went unto a crate, and said 'Come one, come all!'
The denizens of rome appeared, and stood entranced in awe
And with the ink still wet on parch, Hegesias purveyed all

'Dance now children to the end, Dance 'till souls go soft,
Our God has left us to his child,
He once did hold aloft."

The night fell dark, the Angel's wept, the blood of Rome did seep
And through the dark a demon came, and faced the stars at East
Anniceris awoke alone, with death stale in the air
And looked upon the corpse of Rome, and failed to shed a tear
Instead his words rang like an arrow, through cold decaying air
"Hegesias make for the courts, and I shall meet you there"
And two minds met amid the death, two privy to the dawn
Anniceris gave all accrued, to the wager did he fall

But Hegesias was merciful, and to his friend returned
The wager, winnings and the work, for which the Romans burned
And 'Death By Starvation' lives on in verse, and dies as did its core
With Hegesias the wisened sage, who Rome let speak no more.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:13:23 2013 No.3562142 >>3562128 rhyming verse has been done. also it's shit

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:15:23 2013 No.3562148 >>3562142 It's a ballad though, that's pretty much the form of the style of music. Celtic ballads to be precise, really anything in the realms of a ballad. What particularly stands out as shit to you about it?

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:16:23 2013 No.3562153 >>3562148 it's a ballad about boring worthless shit. a ballad should stir the emotion and arouse the penis

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:17:24 2013 No.3562158 >>3562148 >What particularly stands out as shit to you about it? Ignore him. If the post is from one of the lower case posters, you know it's going to be a snide or abusive comment. I think they do it just to let you know.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:18:24 2013 No.3562161 >>3562153 But ballads are traditionally historical. Can't all be about storming a castle or shooting a few soldiers, bud. I figure the myth of Hegesias is pretty stirring myself, even if it's almost certainly fake.

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:37:24 2013 No.3562209

>>3562148
A Celtic ballad about Romans!? Traitor!

Not really my sort of thing but it looks like it is what it's supposed to be, rather than just trying to be.

The monotheistic god and angels seem a bit anachronistic but it's hardly stranger than the Greeks in The Divine Comedy.

Flash fiction (1/2) Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:40:23 2013 No.3562217

Roger didn't necessarily enjoy talking to strangers, but he liked to believe it was worthwhile. When sitting next to a stranger on a ski lift, however, he began to reevaluate. A worthwhile conversation was hard to come by if his skiing companion didn't happen to talk.
“Hey, cold ain't it?” Said Roger.
“Well, it is winter.” She replied.
He sat still. She was playing hard to get. He stared at her full, red lips. Her luxurious forest of hair he wanted to explore. The curls seemed painted: every strand was perfect. He imagined running his hand through her soft curls and nearing close to kiss her, and in that divine moment the smell of her almond perfume would send a surge of paralyzing ecstasy. He needed to have her.
“I'm Roger”
Silence.
“I'm Lena.”
“That's a pretty name.”
“Thanks,” she said uninterested.
He sat still, thinking.
“I have something to confess. I love you, Lena. I've never seen anybody so perfect before. We were made for each other, I just know it. I want to have children and grow old with you. I want to hold you in your times of grief, and share your moments of happiness. I love you, Lena, and I have never been more certain of anything before.”
The moment of silence was finally broken after a laugh.
“Aw, that's so cute.” She said. “I'm flattered, really. But I'm not really looking for a relationship. Roger, is that right? We could be friends though.”
“Sure.” He said. He thought of how nice he has been ever since he met her. He thought of the compliments he graced her with. She owed him a relationship, he thought. Then he began to feel like it was his fault – a revelation of his shallow character, or for simply being too fat. He was miserable and became a nihilist. He ignored her and loved her no longer.

She started to look at him from the corner of her eye. His attention was gone, and she felt lost.
“Hey, Roger?” she said.

Flash fiction (2/2) Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:41:23 2013 No.3562221

He did not reply. He shifted in his seat and stayed silent. He was ignoring her, no doubt. She hated that. Suddenly, the hate became attraction and she wanted to jump his bones right in that ski cart. She would take him in his winter coat covered in snow. She then thought of the furious shaking of the cart she quickly neglected the idea. She looked at him. The prepubescent chin suddenly became strong and defined. His hairy arms only made her think of the warmth of his cuddles. She needed to have him.
“Hey Roger, I know this is kind of awkward, but I have been thinking. I am really starting to like you. I need you. I can't go on without you. My nights will be long and lonesome without you. I need your body, your hugs, your attention. Roger, after we leave this ski cart let us never leave each other again.”
Roger sat still. Becoming a nihilist five minutes earlier, he evaluated the purpose of a relationship and found none. He was going to die alone and rot in the ground – he had no reason, nor time, for lovely, pointless love. He thought of her diminished moral character and decided that if she rejected him once, she could reject him again. He wanted nothing to do with her. She seemed to forget how much she put him through.
“I'm sorry. I am not really looking to get into a relationship right now.” He said. Lena began to tear up. “I think you're a cool person, though.” He lied.
She began to cry hysterically. Her life was over. No one loved her and she would die alone, she had never been more sure of anything. She fidgeted through her bag looking for anything to eat. Food loved her, she thought, so she could love it too.
Of the little remaining time left on the ski cart, the two did everything they could to impress each other. The push-ups, nail filing, and humming of a symphony were to no avail, however, as the two no longer cared to speak to one another.
Roger left the ski cart a philosopher; Lena a candidate for the biggest loser.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:41:23 2013 No.3562223 >>3562161 The Monroe Doctrine's historical, but you don't see me writing ballads about the Monroe Doctrine.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 17:45:28 2013 No.3562237 >>3562223 I don't see your point. You're asking me to quantify what is and isn't interesting in history? >>3562209 Yes this is true, and I didn't think of it at the time. Timeframes with the Gods and Angels are totally off whack.

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 18:39:23 2013 No.3562387

My parents adored it like it was their only child, or to be accurate, more than their only child. Jim Desmond's voice was often heard to ring out on Billiard Street: "A walnut beauty! Circa 1770 my boy, of French descent and Irish destruction, when King Louis' head was very much intact. Oh no doubt, it's the envy of its kind."

This was normally met with hoots of derision that seemed to be audible to all but my father. Such was his disregard for this that he'd often repeat the trick. To further hoots, followed by the sound of sides splitting, followed by the faintest shriek of "How does he fucking live with it?". This was the drawback of living with your loquacious dad and your eccentric mother in a housing estate. Your sickness was their gossip, your shame was their treasury of comedy, your embarrassment was their ecstasy. Suffice to say, life in Silenda estate was often devoted to trying to escape it. Through means illicit or otherwise.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 18:48:23 2013 No.3562415 >>3562387 Very interesting, as a reader I want more info on the situation. You have a way with catching peoples' attention.

Herk !EU6SkGer8Y Thu Mar 14 18:59:24 2013 No.3562454 [DELETED]

This is a bit of a personal experiment. I like the idea still, but know something about it is lacking, even after revisiting it time and time again. Help would be appreciated.

Starved

All your life you've strived
for uncertain success.
Working endlessly, overcome
with inhuman stress.
People pressure, you fall
to ubiquitous duress.
Passion fails, you empty your mind
of all you could possess.
Crush your dreams, throw them away
make yourself suppress.
Follow, comply, accord, obey;
All you do is repress.
Are you preparing?
Preparing to undress?
Strip off this false guise
and finally profess?
Let loose your mind,
sabotage the resistors.

Short-circuit the very system
controlling your brain
and set fire
to it all.
Burn down the containing walls,
allow your mind to explode
into the world
in all its frayed glory.
Exult
in the shock of society;
the utter awe
and fear
your rebellion distills
into them
that such a rational mind
could… combust
and reveal an unstable core,

an unstable core
which holds more power
than ever a contained one could.

Relish in this power,
replenish the thirst of passion
that society stole
from you; quenched
against your will,
Falsified, knowing

It is much easier to starve
alack a sense of hunger.
The formatting's all fucked, but whatever.

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 19:03:23 2013 No.3562469

I'll be
your dream
I'll be
your wish
I'll be
your fantasy
I'll be
your hope, I'll be your love
Be everything that you need
I'll love you more
with every
breath Truly, madly, deeply do
I will be strong I will be faithful 'cause I'm counting on
A new beginning
A reason for living
A deeper meaning
I wanna stand with you on a mountain
I wanna bathe with you in the sea
I wanna lay like this forever
Until the sky falls down on me

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 20:05:24 2013 No.3562694 bump

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 20:33:23 2013 No.3562789 File: 22 KB, 400x313, 1342159052408.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3561931 pls respond

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 20:46:23 2013 No.3562841

“Fucking cats, always up in my business.”
He was angry, about as tense as a human dick stretched three times around the Earth. As tense, and as likely to snap and rip and tear.
“Always purrin’ and shit.”
Jonathan Krow was a veritable well of rage and emotion. If he had the strength, or even the will, he would rip up every cat in his house.
“Fuck. You. Kitty!”
He no longer cared for his roommate, the insufferable Ayn Dwinell. He no longer cared for the ASPCA, PETA, or any other animal rights group. He just wanted to fuck a cat up.
And so he did. With a bat it’s little head.
He whistled jauntily the whole time.
Such is life.

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 20:49:24 2013 No.3562854

>>3558688

They say smoking marijuana kills your sperm cells. Like thats a bad thing? Fuck, yeah marijuana is bad because it kills all those little fuckers in your fucking testicles that will eventually tear apart your wife or girlfriend's beautiful vagina and grow into little bloodsucking, life destroying, ugly, parasitic trolls that will fuck your entire life into a black void of "DAD DID YOU ORDER THE PIZZA YET? ORDER IT FAST I NEED SUSTENANCE TO KEEP DESTROYING YOUR HOPES AND DREAMS! I NEED YOU TO FEED YOUR OWN SLOW AND PAINFUL AND MOTONOUS DREDGE THROUGH THIS FUCKING BORING AND DISGUSTING SWAMP THAT YOU CALL YOUR FUCKING PATHETIC LIFE"

Shit they say smoking it can make a man generate more estrogen and make the man grow breats. I say fuck it. I need a couple of breasts sometimes and most of the time I don't got any. You know like when I'm jerking off or fucking in need of some comfort and relaxation by regressing back to childhood psychologically I need some fucking titties. And you know if I have my own fucking tits I won't have to deal with a fucking cunt walking around bitching me out and trying to turn me into her fucking version of me all the god damn time. Fuck, I mean, will it grow a pussy? If weed will make me grow a pussy and tits, and kill the fucking gremlins that erupt out of my dick because I wanted to experience a moment, a fucking moment of ecstacy and fun that wasn't vivisected and shat on by shit existence, fuck it, I am going to smoke more weed. Twice as much. Fuck, a pound of day.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 14 23:43:29 2013 No.3563405 File: 75 KB, 330x294, success.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3562854

Anonymous Thu Mar 14 23:56:24 2013 No.3563432

Its easy to hit a piano key
But could you create a harmony
A beautiful symphony of serenity
A glowing river of rhythm
A shiver that a beat can deliver
An instrument played smoothly
Soothing the sophistically argued
Could you play a dream left un pondered
Could you surrender an army left un wondered
Could you amaze the wildest crowd
Could you leave to a stadium bowed
Could you strike fear into what the darkness has fought
Could you deliver A serene beauty of strings leaving memories of what you saw to play
An infinitely intricate combination of crescendos and sad lows
Leaving the listener with a sensation
No, an inspiration
So,
Could you do like does have done to you
Can you create a symphony
Could you incite in a young kid a beautiful melody
Could YOU inspire a kid to hit a piano key

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:12:23 2013 No.3563475 >>3558914 muh fantasy

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:13:23 2013 No.3563477 >>3559499 >that line about focusing on her mouth kinda incesty Also, give me some space for paragraphs, shit

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:13:23 2013 No.3563478 >>3563432 this is one of those passes, monsieur, that are usually fortunate if they make it into a drawer to rot rather than the rubbish bin.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:15:23 2013 No.3563483 >>3561688 >it becomes of paramount importance nope, sentence is run on af. >fear sways me should be fear stays my hand >mouth of a masochist fix it, it's bad. Just like... fix it. also, no context

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:18:23 2013 No.3563490

>>3561784
>pull from my memory
the connotation is off
>tense shifting
why
>lips drew thin
god I hate this phrase
>teeth shone
I'maserialkiller.jpg
>a warmth that was not only physical
Too long, shorten this part
>rocking back and forth
Makes the character look kind of dumb

>>3561787
>who was now debating the necessity of her harsh words
REALLY? FUCKING REALLY? She's debating with herself in her head when they're a knife pointed at her throat?

>this whole fucking paragraph

what the fuck are you doing, fuck? this is the work of a madman, and not in a good way.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:21:24 2013 No.3563502

>>3561922
>motionless considering
HOW HARD IS IT TO READ YOUR SHIT FOR FLOW?
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, <-- THESE SHOULD HELP YOU
> but this particular evening had become an exception.
why not, "tonight was an exception"?
>Bastian watched the clouds curdle above the horizontal blue line of water ahead and frowned.
just sounds bad. stretch it out, maybe?
>smelled similar to sweat, or copper.
just say like sweat and copper
> The dampness felt smothering, and there was no way to escape it.
Was is more effective than felt.
> the sun had blared
seriously
> Swimwear was the demanded dress code, although some girls had insisted on retaining their skimpy outfits, which ironically might as well have not existed.
is this a porno? are you making me read your porno? HOW IS IT RELEVANT?
> the Connection was formed.
oh so it's got unecessary sci fi too. GREAT

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:26:24 2013 No.3563510

>>3562217
>>3562217
> let us never leave
let's
> Becoming a nihilist five minutes earlier
His becoming a nihilist a few minutes

>This ending

I actually liked this story. It's short without being cute or shitty. Amazing. First line is kind of clunky though. Not dialogue, like the first line of the entire story.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:27:23 2013 No.3563513 >>3562841 It's nice to see someone ditch pretension on here. Thanks for doing it.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:27:24 2013 No.3563511 >>3562387 Boring. I've heard this voice two hundred trillion times before.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:27:24 2013 No.3563512 >>3561784 >We stood in silence, rocking back and forth, basking in the warm, colorful light we radiated. Son, you have more cheese than Dairylea.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:28:23 2013 No.3563516 >>3562854 Mad? I really doubt that you've created this tone yourself.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:32:23 2013 No.3563521
File: 59 KB, 615x409, crushing_tin_caving_in.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Title in pic title

sticky fingers, sticky palms,
meager cash for meager alms.
click and clack and one sent back,
oh well, try again.

this one from a suited man,
this one from the garbage can,
this one from the alleyway,
had to stop there any way.

a day of life each twenty pieces.
miss a day and it all ceases.
sticky fingers, sticky palms
just enough from meager alms.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:32:23 2013 No.3563522 >>3563516 What do you mean? I wrote it. It isn't plagiarized or anything

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:35:24 2013 No.3563525 >>3563522 It would be impressive if you created a character like this, but it seems that this is how you really feel/

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:36:24 2013 No.3563526

>>3562841
>about as tense as a human dick stretched three times around the Earth.
You will look back on this and cringe.
>Such is life.
I know that casual indifference is what you were aiming for, but it just sounds callous. I don't write about fucking cats up, but if I did I'd rewrite like:

Because Kitty's purring was highly unreasonable, Jonathan Krow took a bat and swung three times. At least Kitty won't purr anymore.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:37:24 2013 No.3563530 >>3563526 Lol, your style is way shittier than his. It's that matter of fact psycho tone that's been so overdone it's been burned black and stuck to the pan.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:39:23 2013 No.3563533 >>3563530 >your style is way shittier than his. Fair enough. I'm just showing how he can use indifference in a better way.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:41:23 2013 No.3563540 >>3563526 magnificent rewrite, monsieur. the critic critiqued by his own work.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:44:24 2013 No.3563543 >>3563540 >monsieur LE TROLL

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:44:24 2013 No.3563544 >>3563525 I don't see what's wrong with that. I wrote another piece of this same character (the work has multiple narrators that speak differently) and it isn't how I feel if you would prefer to see that.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:45:23 2013 No.3563548 >>3559615 You had me at Meemaw

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:46:23 2013 No.3563551 >>3563544 Wow, reading comprehension. I said it looked like anon tryhard bullshit, but if it's a character you've created, good job, you convinced me. With no context I didn't know.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:48:23 2013 No.3563556 File: 6 KB, 198x177, 1361955330719.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3563551 What? I meant that particular passage is how I feel but another passage from the same character isn't.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:49:23 2013 No.3563560 >>3563556 Oh, then it's bad.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:51:23 2013 No.3563570 >>3563560 Why? I'm not trying to be obnoxious I'm just curious

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:55:23 2013 No.3563585 File: 2.96 MB, 300x169, 1277895245896.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] Long after birds cease their serenade, Long after skies have cooled to deepest blue, Long after leaves have browned from jade, Still the world will remember you.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 00:57:23 2013 No.3563590 >>3563585 The world will still remember you. Count your damn syllables.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 01:03:23 2013 No.3563604 >>3563590 By my count, it's 9,10,8,8. Or are you saying world is two? And if so, could you explain your reasoning because I've got no experience in poetry.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 01:04:23 2013 No.3563606 >>3563585 >Still the world will remember you Still the world remembers you

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 01:06:23 2013 No.3563611 >>3563604 >9,10,8,8 That's wrong. It sounds bad. Your syllables have to match up with the rhymes. You're doing a rhyming scheme of ABAB but your syllables are like.. ABCC So it's jarring.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 01:27:24 2013 No.3563664 >>3563611 But the one you suggested is still 8, and the other guy's option was 7. So that last line should be 8-9 you think? Or 8-7?

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 01:34:23 2013 No.3563685 >>3563664 Long after summer leaves have browned to jade (which is green btw) The world will still remember you.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 01:37:23 2013 No.3563691 >>3563685 Yeah I know it's green, that's why it was 'from' not 'to'. I do like how that sounds, but that makes the count 9,10,10,8. Does that work rhythmically in the way you(or the other guy) were suggesting?

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 01:53:23 2013 No.3563726

I think it is time to tell you the whole story.
I lived most of my life in obscurity.
I seemed to be, like so many others of my time, indissolubly divorced from the sweep and swell of history.
Only once did destiny pin her icon to me.
Only once was I party to that world of red hours and great men.
Yes, I once trod the stage of destiny, and shared it with the towering figures of legend. I see their faces now, from time to time, in coins and statues.
I assure you, they did not all stand so tall in their time.

You sometimes ask me if I miss that place. No, I do not miss it. I only bless fortune for bearing me safely out of that maelstrom. I cannot hate her for setting me down upon the weathered doorstep of the old world once it was all over.
The pictures in your books are frozen. They make a mockery of the truth. Do you think you could fully understand the campaigns against the Dacians by studying Trajan’s column? Perhaps you think you can. You would not be the first.
The ones who understood what it meant have all been lost to time. I think I am the only one who is left to remember.
I do not doubt that you could tell me when each battle began, and which men killed their kin on the fields of paradise. I suppose you could tell me the time of day, and the weather, and even the direction of the wind.
But you would never be able to describe the smell of charred flesh, and the stench of fear that clung to the morning mist. You could never describe to me the brightness in the eyes of Ante Prolegomena as he stood above me, and the way the colors of the world leapt away and into shadow as I stood above him, soaked with blood and shivering.

Even a small man must be honest with himself. I sometimes feel that I have struck a great victory for evil, and flung the world into darkness. I think I will never know the truth. But perhaps you will.
This is why I will tell you this story. I want you to decide for yourself.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 06:18:24 2013 No.3564125 How does one choose a poetic structure while not writing simply to suit the structure.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 08:31:25 2013 No.3564249 >>3563691 Lack of poetry experience guy here. Bump in case someone wants to help me learn a bit.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 09:24:25 2013 No.3564342

>>3564249
I don't know. Was that your poem?
Leaves going from brown to jade is dumb for a couple of reasons. One, that's the wrong way around, two, I've never seen a jade leaf. Just because jade is thought of as a shade of green and leaves are thought of as green doesn't mean leaves are green. Jade is a horrible pale turquoise. That's not a nice color. This is also dumb because all those things happen in winter, so it sounds like "you" are only going to be remembered six months at best. Needs more finality.
I tried using wordcalc.com to make the syllable count ABAB too.

Long after birdsong's last silence, serene,
Long after skies cool to deep blue,
Long after nothing is left to grow green,
The World still will not forget you.

I'm not sure that site is reliable.
This poem would be a great deal better if it was rewritten in a different style and about something else entirely.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 09:32:25 2013 No.3564361

>>3564342
>Leaves going from brown to jade
It says from jade. For a literary board, no one can read.

> if it was rewritten in a different style and about something else entirely.
In other words, you think it's shit. You're not all that helpful.

I didn't ask for content advice, I asked for structural. Also, 'long after' dictates a length of time for the memory. The seasons and their effect on the leaves do not.

The other chap was helpful. You need a crash course in comprehension.

Mutemattics Fri Mar 15 09:38:25 2013 No.3564368

Here's mine:
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooo
THE KILLER SHOOTS AND THE HERO DUCKS WHILE HELICOPTERS EXPLODE IN SLOW MOTION THEN HERO JUMPS IN SLOW MO LIKE MAX PAYNE SHOOOTING THE HELL OUT OF EVERYoNE WITH HIS DOUBLE UZI, BAD GUYS CORPSES DISINTEGRATED INTO OBLIVION, hero sat down, thinking what he had done, the sheer thought of acting on his instincts made him feel hazy, being a homosexual necrophiliac a label society wouldn't cut out, everyone was sooooooo righteous and sooooooooo high and might, the hero said to himself: "fuck that, am better than that" and he did.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 09:39:25 2013 No.3564371 >>3564368 i did not expect that.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 10:00:25 2013 No.3564403
File: 1.15 MB, 1600x1096, Limbo_1600x1200.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

One evening of July, two thousand and twenty-five.
Many men were born anew, and contemplated the size
Of the glowing bonfire and the sound of the cries,
Of the corpses' flesh hanging, above it endless lives
Given to the god of blood, bone and demonic demise,
That during that auspicious night, would finally rise,
Bringing with him endless torment, decadence, despise
And to raise the carcass of god, high up in the skies,
As if it was the ultimate, vicious, revolting prize
Of how the heaven's love for humanity, was all lies.
And now the world is infested of mice and flies,
Ignorance runs amok, no one is rightfully wise,
As finally, humans understand, for their own surprise
That in the end, even death itself, finally dies.

Be gentle /lit/
;_;

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 11:12:25 2013 No.3564443 >>3564403 pretentious and edgy as fuck, just like 95% of the shit thrown around here

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 11:27:26 2013 No.3564465

>>3564403
Too much rhyme bro.Otherwise it seems like you've kept it on iambic pentameter.

Fuck that other guy. Pretention is not wrong if that is your ambition. Pretentious is only wrong when you haven't worked hard and try to make it seem "pretentious". There is quite the difference.

But the rhyming is just too much. I suggest you have a look at some typical rhyme schemes and structures for poetry.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 11:39:25 2013 No.3564494

When the lady returned to the estate of her youth--
she moved among the dark trees of her ancestral home.
Veiled in black, in the early morning,
she sought the wood's solitude before the bloody dawn.
Lichen-grown oaks rose as shadows before her--
the boughs bent above her, the roots gnarled below.
There the pines rising, dark with wet mosses,
the dead hanging upheld on the backs of their brothers.
Then came the lady to the home of her nightmares:
the heart of the forest, the grove of strange dead trees
which towered over her once in resined black curvings.
But she feels no terror while she stands in their shadow,
and, a caprice of mind taking her, she treads their bark underfoot;
climbing easily to the highest branches, she thinks it a great sorrow.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 11:42:25 2013 No.3564498 >>3564368 >"fuck that, am better than that" and he did. like dis if you cry everytim

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 12:40:25 2013 No.3564593

>>3564361
>bawww no one can read
The most recent version of the poem before I posted was >>3563685 in which your super-human reading abilities will tell you, it says "to" not "from".

It is shit, but I was being helpful in telling you that. To make it not-shit, you need to find both a message and theme that aren't merely trite sentimentality and a more interesting a structure or poetic style.

Seeing as you can read, you should be able to see that this is the first time you've mentioned structural advice full stop. You simply asked for help learning poetry. Even if you think asking for poetry advice in general then being given structural advice means that retroactively you were asking for structural advice specifically, your incredible ability to read should have alerted you that I fixed your syllable scheme and gave you a tool to help you do it yourself the next time.

"Long after" does not indicate any objective length of time despite what you say, and if you have a poem where birds go quiet, skies go pale and leaves go brown then obviously it's going to make people think you're talking about autumn and winter because that's what all the many thousands of other poems that use those exact same themes are talking about.

Criticism may suck but it's useful. Don't get upset and try and argue with me, that's a waste of both our time. Get upset and use that as a drive to prove yourself better than this by writing something my criticisms don't apply to. Hell, write a poem about how much of a dick I am if you want, so long as it's good. Just don't read it out over a rap-beat.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 12:57:25 2013 No.3564666 >>3563502 It's actually fantasy-ish, but there you go. And the skimpy costumes are relevant because it's a typical sex-fuelled university full of idiots.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 13:51:25 2013 No.3564783 >>3564666 I'd recommend against capitalizing setting terms, btw. It's very amateurish and makes them seem incongruous and surprising to the reader, which is not the best way to integrate their perspective with the perspective of your setting.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 13:55:25 2013 No.3564790 >>3564783 How do you mean?

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 13:59:25 2013 No.3564795 >>3564790 "spinpowder" not "Spinpowder". Nobody says "and I then smoked some Marijuana", so why should fictional people capitalize their fictional drugs?

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 14:12:25 2013 No.3564832 >>3564795 Oh right. Yeah, that's true, actually. Thanks

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 19:39:25 2013 No.3565730 >>3563490 >>3563512 writing is so hard : ( how can i get better?

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 19:45:26 2013 No.3565751
File: 416 KB, 623x527, 1362853273666.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Tell me how to fix my short fiction piece? It's about high school lesbians. I am not a high school lesbian. This is the opening. Pic unrelated

"I was never gay. She always was. Obviously, boldly.
The first time we kissed, it was behind the abandoned convenience store at 2 in the morning on a saturday. Her car smelled like menthols and leather. Her lips tasted like menthols and cheap lip stick, the kind you get at a drugstore. She tasted me with brutal recklessness. Her tongue had a nick in it, right at the tip, where her teeth had severed a chunk from the whole. She would later tell me it was due to a childhood fight with her older brother. She was passionate. I thought of Michael."

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 19:48:25 2013 No.3565759 >>3565751 >it's about high school lesbians >I am not a high school lesbian all I needed to read. Protip: >its going to be shit

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 19:50:25 2013 No.3565765 >>3565751 It needs a story and to be about twenty-times longer.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 20:03:25 2013 No.3565797 >>3565751 that's going to be hella hard unless you can get into the head of a girl. And a girl who likes girls at that. If you can convincingly "be" a girl for this, then I'd advise against it.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 20:06:25 2013 No.3565809 >>3565751 Read more Tao Lin. Channel more Tao Lin.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 20:11:26 2013 No.3565830 >>3565797 >that's going to be hella hard unless you can get into the head of a girl Personally I get hella hard and then I get in a girls head but lesbians don't like it much

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 20:11:26 2013 No.3565831

>>3565751
Right, I'm going to say exactly why it's not really good.
>Obviously, boldly
Adverbs are bad in the first place, worse without an adjacent verb and especially awful if coupled with another one.
>the abandoned convenience store at 2 in the morning
cliche, boring.
>menthols
too much of it.
>like
too much of it.
>from the whole
bad wording
>she would later tell me
I want to see this. You aren't a reporter.
>Michael
who the fuck is he?

Start again. Try a different point of entry. Think to yourself the following: I am a girl. Therefore, I should be to some degree feminine. When you read books written by women about girls, there is a slight, but distinct difference then that of men writing as girls. Try to emulate such a difference. I am in high school. What slang do I use? What social group am I in? What do I do? How do I hide my gayness? Who am I hiding it from?

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 20:16:25 2013 No.3565846

Please critique if you wish!

He goes unnoticed,
daylight now forgotten.
Sluggish, cracked feet drown in the earth.
Pushing and pulling
like dry winds on his face,
He shows seed to hot dirt, earning his life.

Lost in consciousness,
He is distant from virgin minds.
Creations breathe into reality,
Ideas formed into realization.
His eyes are open and shouting
Wait for me, world!

Eastern sunlight greets him.
Newly revived, he smiles atop his companion.
A shining silver throne,
Laden with oncethought lost dreams.
He sews his will, his life, his seed;
Paving our future.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 20:37:25 2013 No.3565905

christ fuck now im fucking tired my thoughts
have changed from i wish i was dead to does b&q
sell rope the disability advisor kicked me off
benefits bcuz i wouldnt apply for shitty
jobs she said ive got ur signature for when ur famous
the cunt fuck her and its 6 weeks til cbt
still my best friend doesnt get my texts now
ive got depression funny my mum wants
my brother to curate me an exhibition ha
she thinks ill be famous from my art would you
believe it positive thinking she calls it my
god all she ever wanted was a nice family
and this i wont get to see the far north
shell be devestated i hate you
i hate you you cunt this was
your only fucking chance and
youve fucked it for god sake

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 20:39:25 2013 No.3565911 >>3565905 This is beautiful.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 20:55:25 2013 No.3565977 >>3565831 Faulkner coupled adverbs.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 20:57:26 2013 No.3565989 >>3565846 What's this poem about? I like it, but it just seems like a lot of pretty words- There doesn't seem to be any commentary or really any theme

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 20:59:26 2013 No.3565997

I ASKED THE PINECONE LYING STILL
WILL YOU TELL ME WHAT'S YOUR WILL
"TO SPREAD MY SEED" THE PINECONE SAID
I LAUGHED, ALTHOUGH I SHOULDNT HAVE

I TOLD THE PINECONE LYING QUIET
"THE WORLD IS YOURS, WHY DON'T YOU TRY IT"
"wITH THIS LIFE IM FAIRLY GLAD"
I LAUGHED, ALTHOUGH I SHOULDNT HAVE

I TOLD THE PINECONE LYING AT FOOT
"YOUR DIRTY, SHRIVELED, ALL THINGS BUT CUTE"
"THIS IS WHO I AM" HE SAID
I LAUGHED, ALTHOUGH I SHOULDNT HAVE

THE PINECONE SUDDENLY TOOK WING
AND FLEW TO HEAVEN WHERE ANGELS SING
I AWOKE, AND IN MY BED
I LAUGHED ALTHOUGH I SHOULDNT HAVE

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:02:26 2013 No.3566012 >>3565911 Thanks anon - I'm glad something positive can come out of these situations.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:04:25 2013 No.3566020 >>3563726 This is pretty good, but it doesn't exactly hold my attention. It feels like it's missing something, maybe something unique or some sort of catch, that draws the reader in.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:06:25 2013 No.3566026

From a book I'm trying to write about a small group of teenagers who are basically the sole survivors of a North American apocalyptic plague (sounds shitty but just read anyway and critique would be nice--general, rather than specific)

When the sun fell on the first day, so its light was trapped by distant mountains, the desert was a cool gray, without shade or hue. We parked the minivan by the side of the road and wrapped ourselves in blankets. The engine died with a click of keys and everything was still. Like a nightlight, the clock blinked faint blue numbers, and the heater, turned up slightly, hummed quietly beneath my feet.
I reclined the driver’s seat and closed my eyes. Ethan stretched across the back, and was quiet for most of the night. But my ears picked up the whisper of his chest filling with air, and in my mind I could trace the gray lines of his shirt, rising, and deflating. The longer my eyes were shut, the more inseparable were the seconds from minutes, so that my thoughts swum blindly in the empty expanse of my vision. Sometimes I could tell our bodies were breathing in unison, and when they fell out of rhythm I pretended not to notice. As the blue numbers cycled silently on I sensed at last that Ethan had finally succumbed to dreams, and I began to feel more completely alone.
Though I found myself thinking there was no distance so great as the one between the conscious and unconscious, it wasn’t long before the lost hours found me in that blurry state just on the edge of slumber.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:06:25 2013 No.3566027

>>3565977
Just because one very talented author managed to pull off a literary faux pas, it does not mean you can too, anon.
Reading your piece, I am put off by the heaviness of "obviously, boldly", and the casual way you explain things like her chipped tooth. It's an abrupt change in tone, and it doesn't read well. I'd suggest varying sentence structure as well, because as of now your piece sounds like the narrator takes themselves much, much too seriously.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:07:25 2013 No.3566029

>>3566026
(cont.)

When his voice came, I thought at first I was hallucinating; out of nothingness, I thought I was still being held in that secret place of unreality, where the tired mind begins to blend consciousness with oblivion. But that I could see the nothingness meant that I was still awake, and when I moved my fingers, there was cold polyester. I opened my eyes to a lighter blackness, greeted by two o’clock, listening to the sounds of sleeptalk.
Ethan spoke only one word, briefly among the rambling noises; he spoke Iris—he spoke my name and the sound of it filled the black silence of the car, and then the syllables choked. It filled the dark corners of my mind, lingering like the visual aftertaste of a spark, or a flickering candle. And then it was a murmur, Iris, and for some reason, I was filled with dread.
I wanted to shake him, to pull him from a dream and tell him plead him I can't love you, I’m so sorry, I can’t love you I don't love you—as if he should spit out his feelings into my hands, like over-chewed gum. And I thought of all the times I had caught him staring at me, and he’d looked like he’d been mulling me over in his mouth, tasting me with his eyes, but I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, I closed my eyes again tighter and wrapped the blanket tighter against my skin.
At last my mind ferried me across a sea of blue numbers to that secret place, to dreams I wouldn’t remember when I woke up the next morning.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:08:25 2013 No.3566034 >>3562854 Bravo. But, at some points the character is a tad unbelievable. For example: >I don't got any. I think had will do fine. But besides that, I think it's good.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:09:25 2013 No.3566038 >>3566026 Ugh fuck I revised the first two sentences just before posting but now the flow is ruined Whatever

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:10:25 2013 No.3566044 >>3566027 Im not the guy. And I do agree with your criticism, actually. I just said that because I like unorthodox writing.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:17:25 2013 No.3566070 >>3565989 About advances in technology over time. Such was the requirement for the competition.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:19:25 2013 No.3566072 >>3565989 But I suppose anyone can take anything out of it

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:34:26 2013 No.3566108

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:41:25 2013 No.3566123 >>3566108 Hello, Nabokov.

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 21:42:26 2013 No.3566126 >>3566123 lul dunno wut ur talkin bout bonobro

>>	Anonymous Fri Mar 15 23:46:25 2013 No.3566407 >>3564593 Just found this thread again, you quoted someone else, not me. Fuck you.

Anonymous Fri Mar 15 23:54:25 2013 No.3566429

This started as flash-fiction in another thread, but I enjoyed writing it so much that I just kept going. It's mil sci-fi and it's kind of long, but if anyone wants to check it out, even just part of it I'd appreciate feedback/comments. here's a pastebin link. Thanks in advance!

http://pastebin.com/GNGxvpdL

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 00:22:26 2013 No.3566499 >>3563521 bump

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 00:37:25 2013 No.3566538 >>3566020 Like what?

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 03:20:25 2013 No.3566817 http://pastebin.com/BmYUCw4p Here's my stupid bullshit. I wrote it on my phone in a Tim Hortons at two in the morning.

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 03:50:25 2013 No.3566834

Whenever he was gone, I'd imagine he was still there next to me. Saying the kind of things only he would say. Making that face I know so well whenever I say something absurd. Doing things that cause me to cringe. If he was gone for two weeks or for two years; I'd think about him, because I missed everything he was.

Who knows what he'll become? Sometimes in some of my lives, I'm afraid to find out. I'd rather close my eyes and go back to the times when he was next to me in bed. Instead, I open my eyes for a second when I can't sleep. Then my reality comes back to me. No matter how many times I live, I get to this part. The part I can't wait through.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 03:52:25 2013 No.3566836 >>3563726 >I think it is time to tell you the whole story. ugh. This is so fucking cliche, man, stop it. Also, there's nothing that puts me off more than when a character is speaking in first person and explaining who they are.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 03:55:26 2013 No.3566838 File: 171 KB, 500x278, so you say.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3562469 fucking love you.

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 04:06:26 2013 No.3566847

Rocket fall; Waterfall
My metal-slung crutch seizes me,
As the lame and lazy get to flee,

Sand is rising out of fire,
Dancing in the sunset of murderous desire,

I wish my voice, I would raise,
But my throat has become a maze.

Red roses bloom in my ears,
As soft patter of feet like tears,
Grace my cheek as Sheppard’s flock disappear; die,
And all the world juts its jaw out to cry.

In the distance, an oasis I do feel,
Touched as I at once lose my senses; reel,

Blooming in the plum I am left,
Yet my vapored ears are not deaf,
For in my ears I can witness,
While the earth is left in stillness,
The sharp shutters of rocket falls,
Splashing onto the waterfalls.
-------

They had to pry me out with needles. I was in the room they had left me, locked me in. When the door swung open, I did not resist, but they brought the needles anyway. They always wore aprons and watched me through goggles. They breathed through thick masks that made them wheeze while they pumped me full of sand. The flesh they stuck swelled red then cleared up, becoming gaunt and translucent in the light of the hallway. My skin would shrivel to the bone, drawing itself on my elbows and shoulders where they stabbed me. I felt as though my heart was pushing glue. The floor was cold where I fell, and it would stay cold, grow colder even as my frozen form chilled the stone. Whispers filtered through their masks, grating the hair in garbled imitation of speech. They were afraid, scared. Scientists, they were, I remember. Tools they brought in bags were placed by my feet, and then I was pushed over so that I could face the sweating expressions their costumes tried to obscure. They were afraid that the needles were not enough; I could see. They were afraid and smiling, grinning beneath the masks. They were delighted and curious and too terrified to move, until the doctor arrived, wheelchair drawn.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 04:50:25 2013 No.3566877 eh why not? first thing i've written in a while...it's unedited and i'm still just as drunk as i was when i wrote it. http://racers3x.wordpress.com/2013/03/16/47/

>>	postmachivellian Anonymous Sat Mar 16 05:16:26 2013 No.3566891 Was never no place to go for Him: He is not for me to love, only Him.

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 05:38:26 2013 No.3566910

Just wrote it the other day, this is just the beginning paragraph. Tell me whatcha think?

It was a couch, soiled and brown from years of use. It use to be white with blue and red flowers. Now yellow spots stain the blue and bong water stains the red. It's crusty too. Too many girls have been deflowered on the cushions and raped over the edge. It sits on a black rug over a hard wood floor with dried cum stains. Justin was sitting on it, taking a hit from frankenstein, the green, three foot bong he kept under his bed. His cheeks grew big and the bubbling from the bong grew loud before he pulled out the piece and sucked up the smoke, exhaled and started coughing. He tried to talk, but kept coughing. Brian was sitting on the couch across from him on his laptop. "Hey, man, look. He lifted it up and showed it to Kelly who was standing behind him, eating a sandwich and watching the television. "It's that chick I banged." Kelly looked at the picture and started choking on his sandwich, he swallowed and laughed. "Holy shit, how'd you get her to do that?"

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 05:40:25 2013 No.3566911

"I'm persuasive, I guess." he laughed
"let me see." Justin said. Brian handed him the computer and he started to laugh. "oh man, you're going to hell."
they laughed for a while. He had tied her up and pulled her tits out and then poured hot wax over her nipples. The picture was her with wide eyes, tied to the bed. The candle next to her and cooled wax on her skin.
"Are you going to the house later?" Kelly asked
"Maybe" Brian said, putting his computer away and taking a hit from Frankenstein. "Just depends" he blew out smoke "just depends on if Jessica is gonna be there."
"You guys aren't okay?" Kelly took Frankenstein
"No, we're fine, I just don't want her on my dick all night."
"She's still all on you? Isn't she dating Bryce?" Kelly handed the bong to Justin.
"Yeah, she's still with that limp dick faggot, but she's a wanderer and he's fucking Tim."
"No shit?" Justin said
"No shit." Brian said.

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 05:41:25 2013 No.3566912

"He's fucking Tim?" Kelly said. He had been with Bryce two nights before.
"That's what Kelsey said." Brian said, taking Frankenstein from Justin.
"Kelsey is a lying whore. She told everyone me and her fucked" Justin said. The doorbell rang. Kelly answered it. It was Jessica. He let her in.
"You and me need to talk." She said. Brian looked at her.
"Came back for seconds?" he smiled and glanced at Kelly and Justin.
"Alone" she said. Justin stood up and him and Kelly walked to the door.
"We're headed to the house." Kelly said.
"I'll meet you guys there." They left Jessica and him alone. Brian took a hit off Frankenstein. "What do you want?"
"I'm going to the cops." she said
"About?"
"You raping me, you son of a bitch."

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 05:45:25 2013 No.3566916

"Oh really?" he stood up.
"I'm telling them what happened, I already told my roommate. I just came here." she paused "I came here to stand up to you."
"Why?" he grinned "you just want the dick again don't you?"
"No" he grabbed her by the arm
"You're not telling anyone because you fucking liked it." he threw her over the arm of the old couch. "You fucking like it." He ripped down her pants and she started to cry.
"Stop" she screamed
"Shut the fuck up, you like it." he forced himself into her and she started to bleed. She started screaming louder. "Shut the fuck up, don't wake the neighbors." he kept thrusting and she kept screaming and crying. "Jesus fucking christ" he slapped her "shut the fuck up, I wanna cum, not like last time, don't start fucking crying, let me cum." he kept thrusting. Her ass pushed up against his stomach. He came. He pushed her off of him and lit a cigarette.

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 07:09:25 2013 No.3566957

Here's more of the character talking about growing titties by smoking weed
----------------------------------------
I once knew a retarded guy at my high school that always took a shit without closing the stall door. He wouldn't shit normally either. This motherfucker would sit with both feet on the shitter seat crouched down like a frog, his dick and balls in full view, and clench his fists and teeth in anticipation of what I guess was some majestic shit or something. One day I walked in on this motherfucker taking a shit. Does he try and hop off the shitter real fast? Does he even make a fucking attempt to hide his shit? No, he just jumps a bit and gets a surprised look on his face like I just walked in on him fuckin his dog or his mom or whatever. Then this nasty son of a bitch smiles at me and as loud as he fucking can says, "Sorry!" The fucking way he said it too. He said it with such like, arrogance. Pretension. This motherfucker truly didn't give a fuck that I saw him, half naked, crouched over his lilypad taking one epic shit.
You know what?
I envy that motherfucker.
That motherfucker is free. The only shits he gives are on his fucking lilypad and he's Buffo the King Frog. I bet he'll get all the tard bitch pussy, and that'll probably be more pussy then I ever get. I always wanna act retarded or hit myself over the head with a hammer so I can become retarded, you know, so I can free myself, but I'm too chickenshit and I also suck at commitment and being a tard is a fucking life commitment. I mean, especially if you don't start out that way. All the other tards would probably look down on me and wouldn't let me shit like a frog because I wasn't "true" tard. Again I would be an outsider. Fuck. It never fucking works does it? Jesus Christ this world is shit when even tards have special elitist organizations that exclude people deemed unworthy.
Fuckin tards shit.

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 07:38:25 2013 No.3566970

>>3566957
I'm divided on this.

(1) I like the way you're looking at this other character through the eyes of this one.

(2) If this is your main character speaking, I think you might be in trouble, because I could not handle an entire book of this. Dropping fuck or some derivative of it in every line makes it sound like some douchebag high schooler who just saw Fight Club, which might be what you're going for but it's a bit much for an entire story.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 12:55:25 2013 No.3567641 Can't you fools use pastebin?

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 14:17:25 2013 No.3567887 A short story about an aging Detective http://pastebin.com/AX32p7cr

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 14:29:26 2013 No.3567916 >>3566957 someone just read Catcher and the Rye. Motherfucker is a word too extreme for retards. Its also something only retards say.

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 14:34:26 2013 No.3567925

>>3567887
>http://pastebin.com/AX32p7cr
>So when on
choose one.
You set a winter mood, very noir type feel, so you shouldnt put it in the scene where its hot.

I imagined it was snowing outside, reading that heat line threw me way off.

most of the rest is over done, i've stopped reading after the second paragraph

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 14:39:25 2013 No.3567935 >>3567925 i can understand needing to be descriptive about the weather before oh say, the fourth sentence, but if you had read on you would see that the heat is essential to the story

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 15:24:26 2013 No.3568002

This is dedicated to my favorite collection of muscular and fat tissues, the human ass:

On a woman
You are gorgeous
Seriously
Just fucking wonderful
Great to grab and touch
To look at it
And you fill out any clothes
Just perfectly

On a man
You produce
Fifteen gallons of sweat
Per minute
Of physical activity
And make loud noises
That fill the air
With fecal matter

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 15:52:26 2013 No.3568074 >>3568002 I get the feeling you really don't know anything about poetry.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 16:48:25 2013 No.3568241 >>3568074 It's actually an incredibly old poem I wrote as a teenager. First time visiting this board but I thought it would illicit a chuckle from someone.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 16:56:26 2013 No.3568273 >>3568074 Do you want me to post more terrible free verse poetry? I've got oodles upon oodles of it.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 16:59:26 2013 No.3568281 >>3568241 It was more that the line breaks are absolutely pointless, they do not indicate any kind of emphasis or break, nor do they conform to any meter. They just seem thrown there to make it look like poetry.

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 19:40:26 2013 No.3568764

>>3567916
>>3567916
>some just read Catcher in the Rye

I read that like five years ago
Also, compared to Holden Caulfield my character is an idiot so I don't see the comparison unless you are one of those people that compare every "rebellious" type to Holden Caulfield for the sole fact that they aren't like everyone else. Really they are two different characters
And on top of that I actually haven't read anything narrative for a while now

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 20:16:26 2013 No.3568841

PAJOT
Oh, I would be privileged to attend Michel! (To Aubert) You’re a long time coming.

AUBERT
And you’re a long time leaving. But the state of this place means a tramp would be served if his pockets were heavy. Sometimes we even let the indigent work for their meals! So I should ask you, Mizz Pajot, what size hairnet do you take?

PAJOT
Not often you see a rude man with his hand out. Not long does one last either! Remember that it’s my consistent business that keeps the hunch in your back and the grease in your hair, Aubert. God forbid you be usurped by those diligent tramps.

AUBERT
Oh, no doubt Mizz! How rude of me. And may I observe that you give this lovely night a suited frame!

PAJOT
But.. it pours! My hair is drenched. My makeup runs. My dress is dirtied! It is a horrible night.

AUBERT
Well, you are still a suitable frame.

PAJOT
How very witty of you. Why don’t you go and fetch me a menu now? I’ll see what I want you to come bowing back with.

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 20:48:25 2013 No.3568904

Uuuuuuuuuu
uuuuuuuuuu
uuuuuuuuuu uuu ray light morning fire lynch yet
uuuuuuuuuu, yester-pain in dreams
comes again, race-pain, people our people our people
everywhere…yeh… uuuuu.yeh uuuuu, yeh
our people
yes people
every people
most people
uuuuuu, yeh uuuuuu, most people
in pain
yester-pain, and pain today
ooowo! ooowo! It must be the devil
oooo wow! oooowow!

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 21:08:25 2013 No.3568981 File: 11 KB, 194x259, 0102939393.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3568904 >>3568904

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 21:33:26 2013 No.3569074 >>3568841 first time i've seen a screenplay posted on /lit/

Also, how clear is this segment of my essay? I POST IMAGES SO PEOPLE NOTICE(...) Sat Mar 16 22:46:26 2013 No.3569244
File: 138 KB, 680x622, 1363483536859.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Imagine some of our friends are having an argument about stamp-collecting. They’ve broken the cardinal rule of friendship and, instead of avoiding discussions about religion, politics, and stamps, have decided to delve right into that latter topic—and it’s begun to get ugly.
On one side of this age-old debate are those who think stamp-collecting is a great hobby and that it has a lot of offer humanity. On the other side there are those who think just the opposite; that stamp-collecting is a horrible way to spend one’s time and that it’s a plague on the entire species. In the middle, there are those who don’t really think either one of these things, and who instead find both sides’ arguments to be unconvincing.
As a palliative for the heated passions and ugly words which are dividing our friends, we try and find some common ground for all three groups. Eventually, we do so: everyone agrees that, their particular views on the matter aside, everyone in the debate can be divided into two types of people: those who collect stamps, and those who do not. For brevity’s sake, it’s agreed that those who collect stamps should be called “stampers,” and that those who don’t should be called “astampers”—literally, “people without stamps.”

Reformatted because I dun' goofed on my first post I POST IMAGES SO PEOPLE NOTICE(...) Sat Mar 16 22:52:25 2013 No.3569254

>>3569244
Imagine some of our friends are having an argument about stamp-collecting. They’ve broken the cardinal rule of friendship and, instead of avoiding discussions about religion, politics, and stamps, have decided to delve right into that latter topic—and it’s begun to get ugly.

On one side of this age-old debate are those who think stamp-collecting is a great hobby and that it has a lot of offer humanity. On the other side there are those who think just the opposite; that stamp-collecting is a horrible way to spend one’s time and that it’s a plague on the entire species. In the middle, there are those who don’t really think either one of these things, and who instead find both sides’ arguments to be unconvincing.

As a palliative for the heated passions and ugly words which are dividing our friends, we try and find some common ground for all three groups. Eventually, we do so: everyone agrees that, their particular views on the matter aside, everyone in the debate can be divided into two types of people: those who collect stamps, and those who do not. For brevity’s sake, it’s agreed that those who collect stamps should be called “stampers,” and that those who don’t should be called “astampers”—literally, “people without stamps.”

Anonymous Sat Mar 16 23:06:26 2013 No.3569290

Posted this a while back, but thred was ded and got maybe 1 response on it, so here's another shot.

The Evolution of Youth

Summer days, stretching into infinity, fill the lives of the youth. Hot days, melting ice cream, the cold waves of the beach. This is what summer is. This is what youth is. But just a memory now. Sand between their toes, music in their ears. Relaxation at its finest. That is all over now. Thrust into responsibility. Thrust into power they didn't ask for. Thrust into the real world, the long summer of their youth gone. Nothing ahead but the grim aspect of never returning. They trudge ahead, working towards some indeterminable goal, until finally, after years of searching, they return to the summer they once had. But it is not how they remember it. Now, for them, summer is a cup of black coffee in the morning, reading the newspaper in a slow swing, maybe even a round of golf or two. Their generation’s time come and gone, they relax in the infinite summer, and wait for the long sleep.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 16 23:25:26 2013 No.3569326 >>3569290 guys pls, pls love me ;-;

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 00:45:25 2013 No.3569514

Dance of the Libertines

On the bed was an unremarkable man, unremarkable by every measure—even in his misery. This realization washed over him like an irreverent tide, wearying boulders with its lapping tongue. The young man's unfitting limbs flowed over the mattress – I take up too much space, he half-mouthed into oblivion. Palms pressed to his eyes, his hands combed overhead and gentle brown hair leaked through his fingers. His scalp was well-forested, peppered with thick chestnut stalks that wrapped one round the other, rising to form a tangled canopy.

– What was that? muffled a woman beneath drowsy sheets. The man, in a supine sprawl, now placed his hands, one above the other, over his naked chest. The previous night weighed on his tongue, and a metallic thirst joined as if to provide company. The man closed his eyes, chiseled his chapped lips together and drew in a sharp breath. A stifling current of air shored over his body. He felt the beat of his heart against his hand, and shuddered.

Hours earlier, a buxom Romanian hairdresser would whisper sultrily into his ear. She fawned over his auburn tresses, a bygone fashion that no longer symbolized virility. In reality, his head of hair was little more than a glistening, voluminous tangle of dead cells. And to think, he had so many of them. Virility, a good joke that was. His beauty stemmed from the proficiency with which his body managed its own death. Those twisting stalks were hardly beautiful, they sprang from the rank wasteland that laid below.
And here he was, true to form, indulging in a sickening, banal brooding, and it was all very ridiculous. These thoughts—his thoughts—were trivial, as they were required to be, and he knew this, and this point inspired self-contempt at every pass, but self-awareness did little to slow their onslaught. So as quickly as they had been trimmed, those twirling vines resumed their old length.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 00:48:25 2013 No.3569525 >>3566836 Ok.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 00:51:25 2013 No.3569540 >>3566891 This intrigues me.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 00:52:25 2013 No.3569546

>>3569514
I think the hair thing is a little ridiculous, but I like the reflexive self-consciousness that permeates the piece. Your prose is not bad at all, although "would whisper sultrily into his ear" sounds kind of awkward and could use a revision in tense. Otherwise, one of the more honest pieces I've seen here.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 00:53:25 2013 No.3569549 >>3566836 If I added opening and closing passages like in Heart of Darkness, would that be as bad? How would I fix this?

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 00:54:26 2013 No.3569554 >>3569514 pretentious tripe. 0/10 please kys

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 00:56:25 2013 No.3569562 >>3569514 The ocean imagery is nice

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 00:58:26 2013 No.3569567

>>3569514
>irreverent
nope
>tangled canopy
nope
>in a supine sprawl
sprawled, supine
>as if to provide company
iffy
>chiseled his chapped lips
I don't understand
>they sprang from the rank wasteland
I think springing as they did would sound better.. or maybe not. change it.
>last sentence
wow. I understand that feel. Even with these awkward metaphors I would read this. I haven't read a somthing that I could relate to that much in years.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:03:26 2013 No.3569584

He walked. He walked to the marvelous chapel of a thousand different shades of the same, bland color. He glitters. His pompous walk enthralls everybody that even dares lay eyes on such a wondrous and beautiful being of unrivaled beauty that was born and will die beautiful and glittery.

He walks, every step echoing around the chapel. The chapel is pretty. So is he.

He meets a man. They talk. He speaks with anger. He leaves, his glitter blinding the blind and leaving the mute wordless.

The end.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:03:26 2013 No.3569585 Anyone in the mood for some simple, low brow sci-fi? It's has explohshuns. Really only looking for feedback on what you think of the story so far. http://pastebin.com/GNGxvpdL

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:07:25 2013 No.3569597 File: 24 KB, 402x503, crying asian man.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3569585 >wonton destruction

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:09:31 2013 No.3569605 >>3569597 haha woops, no edits yet. thanks for pointing that out, but now I might just have to leave it like that.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:10:26 2013 No.3569609 Throwback time, /lit/. I just dug out this essay I wrote freshman year of highschool under the prompt "Does God exist?" Do your worst. http://pastebin.com/CQrvsrU4

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:11:26 2013 No.3569616

>>3569514
Dance of the Libertines II

At any rate, the hairdresser’s flagrant innuendo, however gauche, lead him to where he was. A flower, a drink, the shuttlecocking of quarter-hearted compliments, ending in bawdy lust consummate. That was the contemporary order of things. He now found himself in a strange bed, alongside a strange soul, eyes strained and pitted by minor disgust.
Only now had it entered the realm of conscious apprehension, but it had a familiar quality. It had been lingering, slowly growing in size, at first as inconspicuous as a single snowflake that kisses your skin and dies. But now, the skies had opened, and that ephemeral snowflake, needing to be felt, joined with others, and in solidarity became a flurry, and that flurry became an avalanche. And so now the man enjoyed his heaping desserts.
Be he took pleasure from it, this frigid feeling. The sapping disgust reassured him his emotional treasuries had not yet hollowed. He had always harboured the most curious intentions, and so when he ascended those frozen peaks, it was most probable his desire was not to coast, but to suffocate.
Tonight’s paramour was exceptionally beautiful, in an exceptionally ordinary way. Her light hair draped over her neck like a waterfall suspended by the whisper of winter. He liked that her figure was not hard to the touch, like so many of the other obliging trollops who figured after knobby chairs, a supremely bizarre fashion at this time. This one in particular seemed spontaneous and kind—simple perhaps, and undemanding, and not terribly witty—but bubbly enough to ensure he did not have to be, which was a relief. In sum, she was a most satisfactory companion, to be held on one’s arm, if not in memory.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:14:26 2013 No.3569625 >>3569616 >In sum, she was a most satisfactory companion, to be held on one’s arm, if not in memory. Damn dog that's one fine ass line

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:15:25 2013 No.3569629 >>3569514 >>3569616 Goddamn this is good. More??

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:20:26 2013 No.3569641

>>3569609
Decent arguments. Be careful though, since you talk about theistic assumptions and yet are pretty quick to assume that only faith can be used in defense of God. But on the whole it doesn't come off as pretentious or militant, merely as a call for common human dignity. Cut the last sentence though. None of this "I" stuff

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:22:25 2013 No.3569643 >>3569641 I got a 48/50 on that paper, 2 points off for grammar I think. I had some balls writing that paper considering I went to a Catholic high school.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:23:25 2013 No.3569645

>>3566026
>>3566029
Since I guess no one read my other two, I'll try some poetry:

the thinner the thread
of consciousness runs, as the hours of night
are peeled away, layer by layer,
you will begin to feel more and more
like a tedious string
of unnecessary words—words parsed
into syllables
parsed into sounds, parsed into
the secret nothingness that lives in the hollow marrow of our bones,
and where was the love we were promised?

you will reek of squandered opportunity;
you will understand, at last
the odor of a life wasted,
and it will create a perfume so perversely intoxicating
that you will never breathe air the same way
again. but your eyelids will sometimes grow
heavier with a persistent ennui that withers in the antechamber of your soul.

i’m really nothing but a fraud;
i am a god of unnecessary words,
of words that tangle and trip over one another,
give up, curl up in the corners of my mind,
and lay there like limp fish—if you tossed my brain onto the frying pan, let it sizzle and smoke,
cooked my thoughts to a crisp brown, would i serve a porpoise?

bass or bullshit?
choices, choices.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:26:25 2013 No.3569649

>>3569643
I kind of figured that you went to a Catholic school or a religious school of some sort. Good on ya. And I tend to find that you're right, at the bottom of the argument it comes down to faith vs reason and neither are good enough for the other, but there are definitely some religious debaters out there who use or try to use logic instead. William Lane Craig, Dinesh D'Souza, John Lennox, although usually they only can make deistic claims with this logic

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:26:25 2013 No.3569652

This poem is about ADD and the inability to commit attention to anything worthwhile. The prose is a bit bombastic but suck my dick that's how I write.

Abridged

There, raised aloft, the sail of thought,
Affixed to spars, which wearily rot,
It billows towards what is sublime
And swells, until collected time

Will bring about that crushing fate
To spines which must capitulate.
Splintering staff, now good for tind—
But whose caprice, the wood or wind?

Thenceforth assailing vessel, broached,
Veers haughtily from its approach,
The captain, captive of his boat,
With scuttled resolution, floats.

Denied arrival to highlands,
Bent body beached upon the sands,
Once more, fixing a brittle mast,
Seeks where the winds of fate will cast.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:27:25 2013 No.3569653 >>3569645 Cut the "hollow marrow of our bones" line. I can think of a million things more related to secret nothingness than bone marrow. Other than that I liked it.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:32:25 2013 No.3569657

I've never studied formally or anything, just started writing recently, please don't tear me a new asshole or laugh.

Remember the place where the
houses stuck close like children
sitting, legs folded, by glass
windowed dream machines, their
eyes blinking blue red light?

Funny, the buildings would blink
blue red too sometimes, in the night,
but no one stared open-mouthed,
their ears would ring with wails more
piercing than an infants cry.

Remember, they were brown, or
some brown-like color with an odd
name, under the air’s grey mask?
And the tired black fence, and the naked
bushes, and all the white windows
and doors, oh, and the windows
would leak bright orange-yellow and
it was almost as if a secret was
revealed, because we never saw the
people inside but we knew they were
there.

I knew on the third floor there was a
child because his clothes decorated
the balcony like the garlands at the
festival we went to. I hoped one
would fall sometime, so I might
bring it to them and see strange
smiles. But when one did, I left it
there, and so did they. It looked
different, twisted, flat on the ground
like a light blue corpse. My body
shook when I stepped near the brick,
and I backed away.

I haven’t seen
the garlands again this summer but
the yellow red blue plastic toy faded
to white pink after being out all
winter and spring still hasn’t been
brought in.

The close-stuck houses are less lonely, I think.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:34:25 2013 No.3569661 >>3569652 >Splintering staff, now good for tind— >But whose caprice, the wood or wind? So you are essentially asking whether ADD is a personal or a cultural problem. Niiiice

anyone can write poetry, bitch nigga Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:41:25 2013 No.3569672

>>3569645
the shorter my dick
the longer it takes to cum
i have noticed that the cold
tends to shrink my balls

i swear to god that life is unfair
why can't someone just make a heater
for my testicles?

drip, drop, plop
my cum is all over my socks
why has no one made a special chemical
to make my socks soft again?

oh god please let it be known!
women have all kinds of stuff to shove in their vagina
all i ask for
all i pray for
is something to cover the smell of semen
that hangs so heavy in my room

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 01:44:25 2013 No.3569676 >>3569672 am i suppose to b offend

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:24:25 2013 No.3569723 >>3569652 This is good! >wearily clunky, maybe read'ly >collected time collected seems like a filler >but whose caprice I think "by whose" would work in this instance >broached are you a sailor? that's some nuanced knowledge of nautical terms

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:34:25 2013 No.3569738

People sicken me. I loathe each and every single one of those impudent, spineless fiends who walk the earth everyday with a false God on their lips and evil in their hearts which they have so successfully grown to hide.

Gone are the days when people were admired for their mastery of a single field of intellectual activity. Gone are the days where the admiration of a person was tacitly granted. Whereas now, awe is begotten by a multitude of mundane and cheap factors which, when taken in isolation in are frowned upon.

Oh I weep for the tragedy which has befallen humankind. With heavy hearts and bloodshot eyes, I weep. Praying for deliverance. Longing for it. Wanting to taste freedom, I weep.

Then I ask myself, who do I pray to? To whom are these doleful utterances aimed at? Is there anyone listening?

Then, all too soon I grow weary of this insipid monologue. I tire of it.
And as I give up and quell my final words with a sigh, I gaze upon her sleeping form. The delicate curves of her neck, slowly bobbing up and down as she breathes, a beautiful reminder that she is alive, and adds to the beauty of the world with her mere presence.
And as I gaze upon her, I am smitten with desire. I slowly brush strands of her soft hair away from her cheek, and I stroke her soft skin. She responds to my touch, and I see the ghost of a smile etched on her lips.
She then opens her eyes and she meets mine. She looks at me and instantly divines of my troubled state. She enquires of me. I do not reply.
And she pulls me down into a warm embrace, which I gladly sink into. Relief then shoots into my heart, and for a brief and beautiful moment, I am at peace.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:36:25 2013 No.3569743 File: 84 KB, 595x387, 1359292537241.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3569738 >People sicken me. I loathe each and every single one of those impudent, spineless fiends who walk the earth everyday with a false God

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:40:25 2013 No.3569749 >>3569723 No, I'm not a sailor. I'm a depressed as fuck undiagnosed misanthrope/ADD-addled undergraduate who would never admit that to anyone. I also wrote the Dance of the Libertines piece which I'm not terribly fond of >>3569514

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:41:25 2013 No.3569751
File: 72 KB, 565x600, my jimmies are fine.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>3569738
This piece made me remember more of my teenage years than I've ever wanted to, or ever will want to.

You are no bastion of original thought, Anon. You are just another person who believes that contempt grants them superiority over others. You have a good command of language, but you squander it by forcing yourself to write in a jarring, archaic style.

The love you believe you feel for your icon is not truly love, but worship. One day, both you and I will know a truer love, a stronger love, that reciprocates, and does not draw it's beauty from the dark around it, but sees the light in all things and makes itself a part of us.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:42:25 2013 No.3569752 >>3569749 You win best in thread (so far). Hopefully this will lull you into complacency for long enough for my own writing skills to catch up to yours.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:44:26 2013 No.3569755 >>3569752 this is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in the last 5 years

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:46:25 2013 No.3569756 >>3569755 Your suffering is the spark that I will quench with my praise.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:49:25 2013 No.3569760 >>3569652 >Will bring about that crushing fate >To spines which must capitulate. >Splintering staff, now good for tind— >But whose caprice, the wood or wind? Reading this stanza was like having sex with words.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:49:26 2013 No.3569762 >>3569756 Can I watch?

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:49:26 2013 No.3569764 >>3569751 Thank you very much for your thoughts fellow anon. I shall save your critique of my piece. I wish you well. Wherever you are.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 02:58:25 2013 No.3569780

let me off the ride
theres that call that never came
"im about the fuck up my life"
said the pioneer to
no one in particular

Where have I gone
Herr Doctor says...something...
cancer of the soul
early stage...easily treated
"you should consider yourself
lucky"

"Ve have great success vis cases such as yourself"

But doctor, im about to fuck up my life

"Boys vill be boys" will be boys
will be boys
boys

boy, I wish someone like you'd
come and deck me,
square in the jaw;
I want to see stars
and maybe, if it's not too much trouble
mother mary herself.
"It's okay, I know you're busy
with somebody else"

It's been too long since I last
got punched
I dont remember it, so I guess
it was a good one,
ha ha

free admission to the ride of your life
is a sweet deal, you agree?
"I do"

"Sugery is neccessary, of course.
ve must take every precaution in
ze saving of your soul"

that was months ago, Herr Doctor
and I'm still
on the
waiting
list

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 03:11:25 2013 No.3569788

Wrote this with a body fueled by caffeine at 4 AM. It's the first thing I've written in a long, long time. Basically just the description of the people and emotions in a futuristic pub. Tell me how badly I fucked this up.

The air was full of alcohol and regret that night, gathering in one place and congealing into an odorous syrup. It slowly but surely entered the nose and offended all the senses. The almost tangible viscosity of it was present amidst the haze of smoke and various other questionable vapors that gently wafted their way around you. This dingy film was pierced only by the dancing neon lights that rhythmically bounced from one corner of your vision to the other. The only distraction keeping you from totally succumbing to this vibrant hypnotic blur is the boom of indefinable music. As physical as it is audible, the song quakes the room with an aggressive resonance. You feel the harsh vibrations that reverberate through the cold steel floor travelling up your legs. It's all just rearranged sound these days and you no longer care to pay any more mind to it. A grasp at the nearest thing to you and your fingers meet the wet, smooth translucent surface, dripping with the condensed poison that it contains. Clasping for the handle of your beverage and pulling it towards you, you take a deep breath. And you taste it before you can even bring the glass to your lips. The alcohol and the regret, sloppily swirled together into something sharp and unpleasant like a poorly mixed drink. The flavor of the night is on your tongue.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 03:12:25 2013 No.3569790

>>3569788
You taste the smoke of the man in the far left corner. His thoughts and worries sail further into the distance as he exhales each puff and draws from the shimmering metallic cigar to produce another. Whatever it is, it certainly isn't legal. And that exotic, unrefined exhaust will be the last thing he partakes in before the man at the bar puts two in his chest. A real professional looking fellow, every inch of him laced in a million dollars. Fully equipped with cold, uncaring eyes remaining unseen beneath the opaque black shroud of his sunglasses. That piercing gray stare occasionally reveals itself as he pulls down its veil to engage in a quick but methodical scanning of his surroundings. Definitely not the kind you see sipping lukewarm liquor in a dirty pub laying just beneath the freshly shined shoes of his brethren.
You taste the tears of the woman at the table beside you. Salty and bitter. Your eyes follow the trail they leave running down her cheeks, like pale painted trees against a wrinkled canvas. With each imperfection and branching in the path you piece together the story she feebly tries to conceal. A husband bleeding in a casino's shady backroom on the other side of the city and an infant screeching for help in a lonely crib. The dark of the creeping night encloses itself upon him as his mother sits at a stranger's table and sips her escape from a hot pink twisted straw. Her fear of waking from the drunken daze shines through the sparkling reflections of each droplet that resigns from her face to the floor.

That's all I got so far.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 03:43:25 2013 No.3569820

>>3569788
>>3569790

I liked this, really did. You can definitely build a scene. I would be interested to continue reading something like this.

If I can 'critique' something, maybe watch out for slipping into present when you were writing in the past, and vice versa. It happens to me a lot too.

Happens around here I think:
>This dingy film was pierced only by the dancing neon lights that rhythmically bounced from one corner of your vision to the other.
>The only distraction keeping you from totally succumbing to this vibrant hypnotic blur is the boom of indefinable music.

But still, good job.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 03:51:25 2013 No.3569825 File: 1.89 MB, 286x210, 1344915509260.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] Pour me some whiskey Throw me a smile Make me forget I'm alive for a while. 'Cause life just don't seem like a blessing to me I'd count myself blessed if I never did be.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 05:07:26 2013 No.3569878 >>3561922 So I'm guessing this sucked..

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 05:42:25 2013 No.3569907 File: 171 KB, 548x618, NOFUCKOFF.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>3569738 top lel

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 05:47:25 2013 No.3569914
File: 703 KB, 1125x1600, tarot 10.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Wrote this today, part of a larger story:

In time the lower clouds settled into a sweating mist upon her face, her hair. Not a living thing for days of searching. Huge shells of varying shapes abounded. A great purple conch washed up by the tide of a thousand years, bigger than herself even, encrusted with ocean parasites, barnacles.
An arthropodic creature emerging dirtied with blood Flapping wet and pale , tearing apart in it's frantic effort to reach sea. Vapid limbs falling apart in the sand. An inky eye trickling out in the heat.
So she watched it struggle. She kept a slow pace as it lost it's last tentacle, and it's useless lump of a body tumbled and landed in a shallow pit. It lay there, wheezing and bubbling in death.
Now she sat down in the wet sand.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 05:51:25 2013 No.3569916

>>3569825

Also, I wrote this one the day I decided to leave college.

I try to reach profundity
but all around make fun of me
for living life with simpler goals
like learning and tranquility.

So now I'm leaving all I've got
to quest for my own Camelot.
Requiring only books and pen
I'm setting off to find my spot.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 05:54:25 2013 No.3569920
File: 11 KB, 170x238, 136268300214.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Na minha ausência sente,
na minha presença se nega a gostar.
Na minha aproximação desaproxima e mente,
do meu espaço tem pesar.
Na minha maneira de agir você não entende,
no meu interesse sobre seu tedioso cotidiano se poem a fascinar.
Da sua vida não quer que pergunte,
a cara se fecha e o passarinho começa a bicar.
Da sua admiração pelo amor de meu querido ente,
queria que eu fosse o que tanto queria consumar.
Da sua imperfeição evidente,
não sei o que me motiva a lhe desejar.
Queria tanto largar o batente,
nas noites te esquecer e poder voltar a batucar.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 06:24:25 2013 No.3569935 Inspired by Jack London. No happy ending though. http://www.booksie.com/travel/short_story/elijah_hill/end-of-the-path/chapter/1

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 06:57:25 2013 No.3569967 >>3569935 Bump

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 07:02:26 2013 No.3569974
File: 41 KB, 412x516, 1349745543584.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

You always can tell a person wants painkillers long before they actually ask you for them. Their walk has a completely separate style to that of the average customer. They adopt a purposeful stride that is unbroken from the time they enter the store up until they leave, where they subsequently rip out the aluminum tray, desperately push the little white tablets out (never less than twelve at a time) and choke them down with a Coke Zero. It’s less a clinical process than it is a subtle art.

The novice codeine fleecier won’t just strut to the dispensary, stare down the face of an unsmiling 50-year old pharmacist and ask. This tactic, whilst bold and heavily used, can be too forward and comes with the very real risk of losing an available supply. So to prevent this, a cover story and false behavior is invented. They need to look as convincing as possible. They might pick up at a bottle of moisturizer, ask an attendant about a range of cosmetics or for the best type of Strepsils.

None of this matters because the next question is almost always;

“Could I also grab a box of…”?

If there’s nonchalance in their request it’s only thinly veiling the deep current of desperation that fuels it.
Steve Band was not a novice though. He knew the game. He knew the loopholes and he exploited them with a cool efficiency.

“Ohh mate, as long as I’ve got my lollies I’ll be set”, he jokingly whispered to me once after I told him to have a safe weekend.

No one else was that cavalier about it. And the only reason we continued to serve Steve was because he was friendly enough person and not nearly threatening as his extracurricular activities would lead you to believe. Despite having the tattered appearance of a junky, he never acted like it. This, we all figured, was because we were his main source of ‘goods’.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 07:09:25 2013 No.3569977 [DELETED]

O the precarious gestures of devilish chaos and vigorous howls of genius;
A tangible manifestation of a selfish and twofold will that I seemingly am,

For a brief moment of indulgent curiosity,
For what it is to be truly tangible,
As it is the intimate interaction of benign touch,
Able to grasp the primordial derivative
Of one's own, long-cherished fruit.

Departed from time,
A reflective spectrum of boundless love
Permeated the illusory unison of capricious floundering and crude yelling,
Now radiating a cryptic tongue of mutually anticipated epistle,
Greeting the eternal companionship.

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 07:18:25 2013 No.3569981

>>3569974
Are you in the UK?

Codeine has a strange status here. Most drugs are either GSL (General Sales List), which means you can buy them over the counter anywhere, or POM (prescription-only medicines). Codeine is P (Pharmacy Medicines), which, while it is legal for the customer to buy without a prescription, the pharmacist is required to act out a routine.

You can shuffle in and ask casually, but you are met with "Is this your first time taking them?", "Are they just for you?", "What are you taking them for?", "Do you know they cause addiction if taken for longer than three days?" and a few other uncomfortable questions. You will only get your tables after a thorough interrogation.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 09:03:25 2013 No.3570077 >>3568841 nothin' lit?

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 10:02:25 2013 No.3570145

Valerie clung on my arm and we swerved around the streets. The sun shone freely as a lamp freed from its screen. Spring had come. A cat paw spirit came out from behind a corner and stroked around our legs. It was pitch black and if you looked closely at the cat you noticed how dirty it was. The cat appeared to have been around a lot. Valerie knelt, grabbed it at the front legs and peered.
"Yep, a female. Com'ere Com'ere .." she said, and let it crawl under her corduroy jacket. Between her breasts, it looked like a military taking a glance out of a tank.
"You're not going to keep it?" I asked.
"Her, you're not going to keep her." she corrected me, "and no, I will not, but don't you see that she's cold? Imagine running around naked all day, how fun would that be?"
"Pretty fun. Moreover, cats don't freeze."
"Of course they do!"
"Not as people, not now anyway. If there had been snow on the streets she would have been dead and rotten late last week of frostbite." I said and she fell silent.
The cat meowed mildly and we went off to Montmartre.
"I'll name her Helene, it suits her well." she said.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 17 10:31:25 2013 No.3570182 >>3569974 more!

Anonymous Sun Mar 17 22:34:25 2013 No.3572539

“I hope you ain’t a Frenchman,” The man snarled. Francis rose to his feet and the man watched, the rifle held steady on Francis where he stood.
“I am not,” Francis said, the pistol still clutched in his hand. If the man considered Francis’ weapon or even saw it, he made no sign.
“Well then what are you?” The man asked. The wind howled for a moment and stirred the man’s beard from his chest. When the wind settled and the howl vanished, Francis answered.
“I’m not sure what it is you’re asking.” This seemed to fluster the man, and he took a few steps, adjusting his stance and looked away into the forest.
“I mean what mud did your daddy’s daddy’s daddy leave to come to this mud and then somewhere down the line see himself in you standing knee deep in snow on the other end of my rifle?” The man spoke in a dull and imprecise way. Francis could not tell if the words he heard came from the forest around him or the man before him. A feeling of sickness welled deep within Francis.
“I can’t say where,” Francis started, ignoring the sour taste in his mouth, “But I know that I was born in this country to a mother who spoke English so that’s what I speak.” The man paused at this and Francis could not help but bend over and vomit the contents of his stomach into snow before him. The spew bored a hole in the snow and vanished in its crater where it’s only sign was the stink and the steam rising from it.
Francis straightened and wiped at his mouth with his free hand. The man had stayed where he was in silent observation.
“At least you were born,” The man said, ignoring Francis’ impromptu and unexplained sickness, “I seen men west of this place who were just dirt who got it in its head to get up and start walking and fucking and all that.” Francis flinched at the man’s words and the man drew closer. The dog kept pace with the man, staying at his side.

Anonymous Mon Mar 18 03:06:25 2013 No.3573238

>>3559568
>this was beautiful. If you really wrote this, congratulations. You were able to express such a simple sentiment with such eloquence! while I do agree with your other critic, and would even suggest culling the first 2 paragraphs altogether, they are amazing in their own right, so i am torn

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 18 03:08:25 2013 No.3573241 >>3560886 I'm not certain that Japanese Kintsugi was intended as his main subject, but more of an example

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 18 03:08:25 2013 No.3573242 >>3560886 I'm not certain that Japanese Kintsugi was intended as his main subject, but more of an example.

Anonymous Mon Mar 18 03:20:26 2013 No.3573259

While I drempt, asleep in bed,
a shadow swept above my head,
I need not ask which way, instead,
My eyes stayed shut, by darkness led,
back into slumber, my dreams would beg,
surely my wife had lumbered in,
a scuffling noise I heard right then,
I had a thought, through gleams of light,
to speak to her as she crept by,
but then the gleaming turned to dread,
as I lay tucked into my bed,
behind my eyes white turned to red,
ran painful memories in my head,
my dear, but surely not, I said,
my dear, my love, was long since dead.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 18 04:22:25 2013 No.3573303 >>3558933 Made me want to keep reading. Little thing, a sentence like >She was the scientist on the journey, and Jens was the pilot just kind of breaks it up unnaturally. All of a sudden I realized there was a narrator again. Show, don't tell.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 18 05:48:24 2013 No.3573419 >>3573259 >While I drempt >I drempt >drempt what's the purpose of the first block of 5 rhyming lines? and then at the end? just seems to break up the poem to no end

Anonymous Mon Mar 18 06:20:30 2013 No.3573435

>>3573259

This is quite cool actually. I don't know what rhyme pattern or meter you're using but it is pretty effective. Reminds me of Edgar Allen Poe. Good turn at the end. Feels like it could continue into a longer narrative poem.

I agree with the other comment that you should keep the rhyming pattern.

There are also some lines where the stress falls on an uninteresting word.

the line beginning 'surely' doesn't fit rhythmically and I don't like the image of your wife lumbering in. What is she, 350 pounds?

Anonymous Mon Mar 18 06:24:25 2013 No.3573440

You, reader
you are a walking corpse!
WHERE
when did you put away your morals and hollow yourself out for the world’s
kool-aid and snickers to fill in?
(2 candies together taste terribly)

does your reading
(these words are frozen in your head)
satisfy you?
you need to take a breath and go back to work
are you becoming real yet?
I liked what you did with words yesterday
you’re good at making up sounds
you are making the world a better place.
(Crayola and granola bars A train is filled with fake Burberry marketers is this neo-commodity where it’s no longer necessary to affiliate to advertise? will you buy my CD-ROM
I will be gracious and assume your PC DRIVE)
(metal bars on the Canal Street sidewalk are slick with rain if you stay out here any longer the Black & Hispanic & dark & unknown will see you and call you out
this is no paradise or something you own to yourself you do not belong here.
down the grime and stairs and homeless men with doughnut sugar crusted jackets watch you)

you wish the Kowloon Walled City was never torn down.
you want to be encased in a vat of human grime that burns into your lungs with the dense burden of freedom and weightlessness
(the world can’t catch up to the Mastercard numbers you’ve almost memorized when the Sun won’t ever dare reach you)
YOU THERE! I was a carved block of cement made of ten thousand years of human effort! the man who made me sleeps in your history books! step on me lightly for I am Atlas
(and the effort cracks me and so I must call up the garbagemen of the Department of Sanitation to wash away your sins)

Anonymous Mon Mar 18 06:26:25 2013 No.3573441
File: 82 KB, 496x1349, 1363395112871.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

I use to live on an island far away from everyone,
Day after day I wondered if anyone would wander its shores with me,
Each night I spent there was colder than the last,
One night she washed ashore,
Without a map she guided me,
She said her name was Sanity,
Nights with her felt warm,
We use to tell stories to pass the time,
Sanity's smile confirmed that my stories interested her,
A connection was made,
Love and Happiness were born soon after,
Time rested its weary for a while but eventually awoke,
One night Sanity took my treasures and walked into the sea,
On the same night a newcomer washed ashore,
The man had scars across his chest and looked identical to me,
When the man awoke he looked at me with a cold stare,
Your name? I asked,
Despair he said,
Despair was his name,
Sometimes he helps me write poems in the sand,
Despair tells me that the nights are getting colder,
I agree.
-Anon

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 18 06:27:25 2013 No.3573442 >>3573441 weary eyes* Just wrote this, sorry for that.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 18 06:41:25 2013 No.3573446 a poem i wrote today. http://pastebin.com/Jweuh3d3

Anonymous Mon Mar 18 06:44:25 2013 No.3573447
File: 186 KB, 1600x899, Dr Ian Malcolm jurassic Park Jeff Goldblum Chaos.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>3570182
We had just closed the shop and I was waiting outside the front of the store for my brother, when he came up to me. He was running late and although it was getting darker by the minute, I was content just sitting with my earphones in, looking out over the car park, which was very nearly empty. He called out to me, walking past the rows of shops that followed ours. I took my earphones out.

“Sorry, Steve, couldn’t hear you. What’s up?” I said, bundling up my earphones and shoving them in my pocket.

Steve walked over, a huge grin staring at me through the rapidly descending darkness.

“Fuck mate, I thought you guys were open til 9”

“Nah, we’ve always shut at 7 on Thursday’s Steve”.

“Well shit. That’s alright I think I’ve got enough to last me the weekend”

He cocked his head forward and started laughing into the ground, which is what he usually did when he was somewhere he didn’t want to be. He looked back up at me whilst fumbling in his pocket for something. I momentarily thought I was about to be placed on the business end of a mugging but all he did was pull out a silver tablet tray and wink at me.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Just my lollies”.

He showed me the underside of the pack and in the dwindling light I can barely make out the words ‘Oxycontin’ and ‘40mg’. No one is around so he takes them without ceremony.

Just as he does my brother arrives, his concerned face peering through the window. I give him a wave to acknowledge I’m in no trouble and say my goodbyes to Steve.

“That your brother is it? Hope he’s not like the rest of those P platers”.

He shook my hand warmly and I watched him wave frantically at us through the rearview mirror as we set out home.

Anonymous Mon Mar 18 07:05:26 2013 No.3573465
File: 74 KB, 754x927, SCREW_kirchner.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Secret: Jack paralyzed Kate with his tie. passed here, inna shadows. Tims da twit who never saw enough rape, and it's he who caught a glimpse. Each living human being copes with distinction of course. Let me put it in plain englsih. A troglodytes pale head, shaking, grinning, DVDs barely hanging from his jaws.
He is big hand. Many women of the neighbouring tribes had been made pregnant by him, . darkness like streams of black semen never stopped. thick, sloppy bubbles. The men started to wilt into their taut black seatbelts. heartbeats running, good.

(plsrespond)

Anonymous Mon Mar 18 07:09:25 2013 No.3573467

Oh yeah, it's the Plebfest poem I wrote!

in outmost
songstricken eyes curvaceous
words is autumnal sunlight and
your choral laugh
whose effervescence
echoes
nubile
in and out of weeks and wrapping around cobwebs in my clockwork heart and
O my spider my
cogs
turn
even
as your glorious venom thunders
through my veins i love you not for the grace of your beautiful polio spindle legs nor the pre-raphaelism of your face but the bayeux words you sew of faeries and virginal adoration O my saccharine spider your eyes and teeth invade my dreams the night tears up her dress in blind joy of your name sometimes i wake in dawn and morning chorus and you your face your body you spider are before me

Anonymous Mon Mar 18 07:09:25 2013 No.3573468

>>3573467
but then nothing but the fluttering of curtains that maybe hold your shape or could it be the wind? and when all done and burnt whatever is remaining but some threads a few used books and the eternal rocks beneath on whose shrapnel faces are emotions of bygone times? O my spider each injection brings my soul alive every agonising toxic drop makes days seem centuries makes fuchsias rocket like tarantella dancers and reminds old men and girls of how to love-

and such light which spins dropping faery dust and presents illuminates you best ii think but what does that matter to you spider with wrapping and silks and apologies with elegiac relish

Anonymous Mon Mar 18 07:10:25 2013 No.3573469

>>3573468
your spider body may not be what ii love best but O it is glorious and ii would discard manderly and the heights and the grange and all for one black moment with you spider for even a smile a twinge of lips
whose tongue spells greetings and foulnesses for even a second-long gaze would ii abandon all my spider all. Ii remember when our shoulders touched and O few days were brighter, few breaths sucked faster few smiles more relieved my spider even if it was cold it was a good day but was ruined by mislaid things and my excitement made you say all these things we did come to no end set fire to the library and slaughter the librarians O my spider ii love you more so consecrate oncemore these days these Chronos breaths whose roots are shaved by a stone sickle to lifetimes that i couldn’t enjoy without your jackets and sense of humour the on and off laughter like a quaking brook spider i remember when we first met and i was late and we talked about a dead girl and salutations and i went home

in my bedroom i lay on the floor and thought of your eyes spider your eyes and i was happy

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 18 07:32:25 2013 No.3573480 >>3573465 That pic.... why do i feel that that is a tranny?

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 18 14:32:30 2013 No.3574196 >>3569585 tangible

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/lit/ - Literature