/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.4060730]

General writing criticism thread?

Post what you've written lately, or just come in to judge others attempts!

[Anonymous No.4060740]

So I'm writing a story about several people who live on a single street (but really don't know each other,) after a neighbour dies. The names are meant to reflect what they call each other when gossiping and talking about their neighbours and so on.... The basic premise is that although the neighbours are all sympathetic and pledge to help, they are all wrapped up in their over the top magical-realism lives, kids chasing buried treasure, adults internet-dating russian spies and so on, that they fail to prevent the widows subsequent suicide.

Every summer, three, or sometimes even four times a week, (to, it ought to be said, much hushed amusement,) The Late Mr 43 would – tanktop baring thick veins on sagged, wrinkled arms – haul a large red bucket of water out of his house, and clean his car. This is what he had been doing on the afternoon of his death, outside - when he was simply smothered by the sun, arched back, gasping for breath with the heat striking down to pop the veins in his head one by one. He died with a sodden, thick sponge still in his hand, gripped so hard his hand formed a perfect fist and the soap-scum water spurted between the fingers. And after that, The Widow kept the same sponge by her bedside table, with its permanent impression of his large and fat fingers – wedding ring included, and each night she would close her eyes, and rest her right hand in the mould he had created of his left.

[Anonymous No.4060749]

>>4060740
Is this white american suburbia? Please don't make it white american suburbia.

[Anonymous No.4060754]

>>4060749
It's actually rural British, set in a small town (write what you know!) And not all the characters are white. Is that better?

[Anonymous No.4060756]

> I suffer from heavy insomnia
> this was written after a rather long conversation with a
> friend in another timezone

"I hope you get some writing done, that's what not sleeping is for",
she wrote before disappearing from my side.

13 words in that sentence, a really bad sign, and as my mind started
to crumble over the deeper meaning I froze. Not that I wasn't freezing
before, I was, I always am, but now my whole body went into a full
state of chock.

When a drop of water hits the surface of liquid nitrogen it almost
explode into a still copy of what once was a moving spirit, and
similar to that drop of water, in that given moment, I became a
photograph of my outer self.

How much should one write if one wasn't to waste their life, I asked
myself while realizing that at least three hours was wasted just this
morning, nine hours yesterday, and many more last week.

I couldn't move, nor could I think, I sat in silence burning my
fingertips on the mug of coffee in front of me. It was obvious that I
hadn't been writing enough, and this state of nothingness sure wasn't
helping.

An endless cycle of not writing because one must write, an infinite
stream of questions because one cannot answer, an eternal loop of
condradicting thoughts. I will never write if I don't write.

endless, infinite, eternal, never. words the common mind cannot grasp
but they are still part of the common vocabulary. we use them with
ease and rarely reflect upon their true meaning. we lie to ourselves
as if we understood the universe.

The "infinite" stream of questions undoubtedly came to a stop
eventually and my mind was finally free, but I was still lost. I was a
former slave given the chance to leave his master without knowing what
was on the other side.

I looked down on my fingertips which were now glowing in a shimmering
red, the same kinda of red I imagine love would have - if it was a
color and not a reflex why don't understand fully.

Another reflex, that normally aids us in not touching what will bring us
pain, kicked in but it sure didn't help since the mug of coffee was now
cold to cause any further harm.

I rolled myself a cigarette and started to waste time.

one must not write to write,
I told myself as I blew smoke out the window.

[Anonymous No.4060764]

>>4060754
Fuck yes. Have you posted about this on /lit/ before? I have a vague recollection of an anon explaining they were writing a story in a small British town.

Anyway I like the concept and your familiar, sort of colloquial, choice of style seems appropriate. Would read more.

[Anonymous No.4060765]

>>4060764
I haven't posted this before, the idea only came to me last night, and I haven't wrote anything in ten years prior to that - thanks very much for your feedback. Unfortunately, the style isn't a choice, I've just read too much Celine to write in any other more formal way.

[Anonymous No.4060816]

—Does it hurt?
—I wouldnt know. Spose not. She's clean.
The boy stood in the doorless arch of the whitewashed flat, the wooden stairway up to the first floor freshly scaled behind him. Outside, above the trees, the sky was fading to black. There was a low hum of insect life, and distant birdcalls.
The man leaning on the wall turned his eyes from the night and looked at the boy.
—Want to fuck or not?
—Yeah.
—You got the pesos?
Hands shaking, the boy pulled twenty bits from his pockets and gave them to the man.
—You got until moonshadow hits the balcony here.

The whore lay slumped on the bed, a look of deepest boredom on her madeup face. She placed an extinguished pipe on the table beside.
—You a customer?
—Hopin to be.
The whore looked over the boy's features with curiosity.
—How old are you?
—Sixteen.
—You look young. You lyin to me?
There was no reply from the boy.
—Ten? Twelve? Come, come here.

And each fearful step toward that bed was that of some drunken tightrope walker suddenly consumed in darkness matched only in profundity by that of the abyss below. Slowly lifting her white nightgown over her head, the whore spread her legs, and with an upward gesture of the head, beckoned the boy closer.
—It dont bite. Go down first, then put it in.

—You a man now?
The boy sat in silence at the end of the bed with his legs crossed, watching the moon.

[Anonymous No.4060840]

>>4060816
Such a cliché. Unoriginal. Clumsy.

I still liked it somehow and would like to read more.

[Anonymous No.4060856]

Aged strangers,
we chased
the same girl,
for shared reasons.

Her face,
divine, of
notes &
shapely legs
of rhythm,
woke in us
a horny beast.

& while her
bosom,
warm & rich
of timbre,
bounced &
swayed,
we drooled
in streams.

A step
out of cadence
a union
annulled,
our odd trail
forked &
we parted;

With bags,
full of lessons
upon our
shoulders;

A cycle died
& was born.

[Anonymous No.4060914]

>>4060856
Come on people, critique this piece of... Please.

[Anonymous No.4060921]

>>4060816

Kind of like some weird cross between wannabe Cormac McCarthy and wannabe Denis Johnson. But not bad, I'd read more of this.

The clip and cadence of the dialogue is alright, but it's still intertwined with awkwardness and rookie mistakes.

>The boy stood in the doorless arch of the whitewashed flat, the wooden stairway up to the first floor freshly scaled behind him. Outside, above the trees, the sky was fading to black. There was a low hum of insect life, and distant birdcalls.

The stuff about the sky and birds feels tacked on. Who cares? The boy is not considering this shit. He's nervous and at the threshold of a whore house. All he cares about is what's to come.

>You got the pesos?
Sounds unnatural. I feel like people don't talk like this. When was the last time you heard someone say "Hey, man, you got those dollars you owe me." You just say cash or money.

>You got until moonshadow hits the balcony here.
Again, sounds unnatural. Who talks like this? This guy is all business and would probably just say something like you got thirty minutes.

>a look of deepest boredom on her madeup face
"of deepest" is a little too elevated of language for the overall mood and setting here, I think.

>The whore looked over the boy's features with curiosity

How about just, "the whore looked the boy over"

>And each fearful step toward that bed was that of some drunken tightrope walker suddenly consumed in darkness matched only in profundity by that of the abyss below. Slowly lifting her white nightgown over her head, the whore spread her legs, and with an upward gesture of the head, beckoned the boy closer.

Too ramble-y and elevated (profundity of the abyss?) for this setting and characters and the overall mood you've established through the clipped dialogue and dingy setting.

[Anonymous No.4060928]

>>4060914

Shitty. Wanted to quit reading after mention of her "divine" face and her "bosom." You're a 20 something dude in the 21st century. Not Lord Byron. Cut this shit out.

[Anonymous No.4060929]

>>4060921
Thanks! I really should redraft stuff before posting it, but then I wouldn't get great crit like this

[Anonymous No.4060936]

http://pastebin.com/Bfqhpyvk

It's a story about a manchild who attempts to "legitimize" himself within a warped social strata of alt-lit hipsters without really changing a single thing and ultimately being accepted and enabled as the shitty person he is. It's my first attempt at writing while sober and I'm only a fraction of the way through so I'm mainly just concerned about whether or not it's coherent and readable so far.

[Anonymous No.4060966]

I wrote a continuation of Hemingway's Hills Like White Elephants, just for shits and giggles.

http://pastebin.com/bCWgFX2K

[Anonymous No.4060970]

I'd really appreciate feedback on this. Thanks, brahs, do your worst. It's a sample from a story I'm writing titled "Ashram"

http://pastebin.com/0EL844j7

[Anonymous No.4060974]

My first proper attempt at writing. All criticism is welcome, no matter how much you destroy the work, as long as you argument it

http://pastebin.com/PyeyBER4

[Anonymous No.4061006]

>>4060970
>http://pastebin.com/0EL844j7

>barking for probably no good reason.

I'd put "probably" somewhere else. Or not. You can't remove it, and you can't quite place it anywhere else.

I like your style. I think it's good writing. I didn't read the whole thing but that shit is tight.

Keep at it!

[Anonymous No.4061153]

>>4061006

Thanks, I appreciate the comment. Honestly this whole part:

>I had lunch alone in the park by my office. It was hot, even for August, and the cicadas droned endlessly in the trees. The playground’s seesaws were tilted over, unused, and the asphalt courts warped the air. Somewhere, a mower started and a dog was barking for probably no good reason.

seems a little heavy handed and description, description, description to me. But I'm not sure how else to handle expressing a pleasant idle, some time passing, before the woman comes other than describing things. I suppose I could just say "I was eating lunch in the park when a woman came up to me," I think that would work okay, but I'm compelled to emphasize the atmosphere here and touch on how hot it is.

[Anonymous No.4061164]

>>4060966

Heh, not bad. Pretty nice job at seamlessly sounding like Hemingway. I'll have to go back and read that story again.

[Anonymous No.4061237]

>looking through old notebooks I kept when I was 10 before throwing them away
>find this
what was wrong with me

on this ancient land treads one who walks with greateness he turns his head and smiles at the nothingness which follows him through anicent ruins and temples and shrines and palaces he walks through the fields with nothingess trailing behind is footprints on the ground showing a path through the ancient moors where ruins of forts and castles lie the nothingness persists its trail it's getting closer now closer to the smiling man who walks with greatness across field and marsh it follows with caution but the smiling man who walks with greatness does not look to see the nothingness turns round and round and round and spirals and circles and swings around the man who smiles and walks with greatness who does not see the nothingness in its dance the nothingness is angered but cannot speak or see or touch or smell or move or kill the smiling man who walks with greatness in setting sun which blazes like flame but is slowly going out down towards the horizon and the nothingness is something and it kills the smiling man who walks with greatness and gnashes and tears and leaves the rest for the crows the nothingness continues on its way without the smiling man who had walked with greatness but walked and smiled no more as his lips and legs were eaten by beasts of carrion while the nothingness continued STOP

[Anonymous No.4061281]

Oh dear, here it goes.
http://pastebin.com/Hdwvr5sB

[Anonymous No.4061291]

>>4061237
3deep5me

[Anonymous No.4061294]

>>4061153

One thing you may do to dilute the description is describe something that HAPPENS with these elements. Maybe some stupid bug flies from one thing to the next, maybe a kid stares at one of the elements.

Don't worry about describing the surroundings to a degree. I don't know anyone who hates a few lines of description. In general, I try to describe things as an aside for an action.

You can describe things as the woman walks next to them or something.

>I saw her through the seesaws of the playground...

[Anonymous No.4061438]

First bit of something I'm working on.

October was the month of the olives. They would be growing silently since May, perhaps April, you could see them week after week taking shape. from just white flowers on a dirty tree to tiny beady sprouts bunched together were scared of the sun, hiding one behind the other. He would carry me up the hill. I could walk if I wanted to, it wasn't that steep, but I prefered to be in his arms, and so did he. The jingling of the bucket's handle marked the pace of dad's long strides, and when we reached the plateau we would head for our favorite tree, the one with the lowest branches for me to reach easier.
We filled up the wooden bucket, heavy itself and made heavier by the olives. We did it without any consideration of time, without a rush. Songs would interrupt our labor, old spanish songs about lambs and farmers sung in dad's deep baritone voice. Fruitless butterfly chasing; I was too young to realize you can't catch a butterfly running around a field with your bare hands.
The olives were just an excuse, like most things we did, to be together. Grandma told me years later that the first three years the olives we collected went sour a week later, dad always put too much salt in them. But he went to the market and bought a bucket's worth of good ones, and every weekend when I'd visit him he pretended to serve me the fruits we had gathered together.
At the end of the day our hands were covered in a thick mud, a mix of the oil from the olives and the dirt we picked up from the ground, but I could wipe myself on dad's shirt and he didn't mind at all. Walking back to the car with the sun going down on those autumn Saturdays, I was the happiest girl alive. A day full of laughter and stories we could put in a bucket and, back home, weigh and put in a jar, to be savored the following weeks.
The certainty that I would spend the night in bed with the man of my dreams. I was still a child, my notion of time was faint. I couldn't anticipate the next day I would wake up, everything just as it had been the night before, so I tried to stay awake for as long as I could. On Sundays we both tried to be cheerful like the previous day, he made jokes at grandma's expense, and we both forced our laughter to come out. I hated goodbyes.

[Anonymous No.4061442]

>>4061438
and this is same story, towards the end.

One Saturday night I went out with friends, and when the night ended I went back to dad's apartment. I wanted to at least spend that Sunday with him. I walked into the living room and he was sitting there on the couch, the whole house was dark but for a reading lamp. The Book of Disquiet was sitting in his lap, closed. I must have looked at him really angry, he felt the need to defend himself, "I was just waiting for you, wanted to make sure you got home ok".
I knew my hair was a mess and my stockings were torn above the knees and it all enfuriated me, having him see me like this. I took off my shoes and hurled them across the room so hard I almost fell down to the floor. Dad got up and walked towards me, I started crying. I didn't want him to smell the alcohol in me, didn't want him to see my red eyes. But he just kept walking towards me and when put his arms around me I collapsed. I buried my head under his chin and kissed his neck, feeling all his beard brush up against my cheeks. "It's ok, Isa, it's ok. You're not a little girl anymore, it's ok".
He carried me to the couch and I sat me in his lap, half-drunk and swaying from side to side as he rocked me in his arms and he rocked from side to side and I fell asleep, slowly, and the last thing he told me was everything would be alright.

[Anonymous No.4061450]

The new kid had fallen asleep just like the old new kid, now down back with the others. Everyone of them all the same, no one was awake like he was, no one would ever be so awake. Fuck pothole. Whatever he'd seen it, no harm done if he hit it anyway, not his bus.
The lines stayed steady in front of him, white as solid and still parallel. The road stretched as far as he could see, not far to be fair, but getting further from where he started as he quickly got further from where he was when he noticed the lines.
He liked the new kid. Had a heavy darkness written into the lines on his face and the bushy eyebrows reminded him of his father, standing over him. Funny that a kid who couldn't be more than twenty, reminding him of his old dead dad. Old dad, not a lot of him left but for that faded set of eyebrows framed forever in the heart of his memory and here pasted onto the runaway in the rearview.
Asleep now anyway, picked him up to keep him up and there he was down, both. Heavy brows thick in the rearview became bushy brows deep in his memory wrapped in those white lines swaying, swaying. Dan threw his head up upon realising his own state of sleep. That would have been nice had it ended, but it didn't, just another almost lost between the parallels, his dad's eyebrows watching over.
Fuck Dad, the guy was nothing to him but eyebrows. Dan took a swig from the bottle between his legs, keep him awake. Dad's what were they anyway.

[Anonymous No.4061455]

Darkness was a curious thing. To the mind of humans, and possibly animals alike, it had become a powerful concept. It had been personified, worshipped and feared in vast collections of scenarios. This was understandable, too, for darkness existed where light could not reach the retina. Without the ability to perceive wavelengths of light and to interpret the shapes that reflected it, the world would have forever remained in darkness. Since the day an animal found the ability to access its exterior with vision, darkness would always be received as a threat. It was a coat, a blanket, the accessory to predators and treacherous ledges. It was illogical to see darkness as a ‘thing’. It was a lack of light, nothing less. It was nothing but a deficit. Even before the Mental Connection was made, and the Phenomenon struck, it had been acknowledged in such ways. The brain had generated darkness and the evil that lurked inside it, and from this a person could learn a great deal about their ancestors and the evolution of their minds.

[Anonymous No.4061511]

>>4061455
the fuck is this shit?

[Anonymous No.4061513]

>>4061438

>line break
>no intendation
>no blank space

[Anonymous No.4061776]

>>4060966
This makes me want to read the original. Ought I to do so?

[Anonymous No.4061873]

>>4060928
Makes sense, thanks.
Care to point out anything else that makes it shit?

[Anonymous No.4061948]

>>4061513
he copy/pasted from word, nigger. none of the format is transferred. lrn2/lit/

[Anonymous No.4061953]

>>4061776
Yes, it's one of his best stories

[Anonymous No.4062042]

Here's the start of something:

A WAY OF LIFE SO NATURAL THAT IT BORDERS ON THE EXCESSIVE


In the darkness of the city lights are hiding. Behind the wretched walls and the cold black brick, coloured lights are rocking over smiling faces. The sound of toasting glasses is there, squeaking clean chairs, humming stereos, swallowing oscillating throats are there. The rolling laughter of the semi-friendly, breaking ice, half-remembered jokes and finely shaved, softened faces are there. And then there is the hot spot, the centre of the thing, where all thoughts of time or the next morning are forgotten, and who you were when you walked through the door is forgotten, and being conscious of what you are wearing and the sound of your voice and your friends elsewhere is abandoned, and that small room becomes wonderfully unpredictable and strange.
And here I am, thought Harris, walking past with yesterday’s paper.
Perhaps not behind that wall, but somewhere about here that red light is swinging and that house is a landscape of talking and I’m just walking by. I will head home and watch the television or read this paper again and, to me, it will be like nothing has happened anywhere else, ever. Apart from the disasters. The disasters keep happening and I stay up late, while elsewhere lights swing like nothing’s happening out there, in the big wide. I still sit in my small room and listen.
The wind speaks in whispers, and voices must carry on it, laughter and sobbing together. November has come with icy fingers, and socialising, too, is brisk, and the results are too cold. Harris walked with tight fists in pockets, knuckles on thighs, the paper creasing and sliding out of itself under his arm.
The key entered the black door, he sat. The wind pushed at the windows and licked through the locks. Across the road through a letterbox window a pair of children, still awake in their bunk beds and talking madly under their breath, saw him lurch onto the couch in his dark coat and sit up, silent. He’s a psycho. He sits alone and stares.

[Anonymous No.4062053]

I was in high school in Arizona when the Red Menace heaved its mirror surfaced beachball into the Autumn night to fall forever. I was thinking of cars and beer and the sweet smelling fuzzy secrets girls hid under their lacy white underthings. These were secrets they kept easily in those days, and smiles and winks always seemed to inply so much. It was a good time, October, '57. Hot in the fall, as I rolled out with the Sun Devils on my silver Indian. Down through the canyons and the backroads at a breath shaking sixty two miles per. In town you had to stay below 25. Not enough to raise up a breeze. I worked unloading cases of soda pop and hucking green melons into the backs of trucks driven by smiling Mexicans who knew what heat was. I was a man, but did not think about wars, space, russians or death. Anymore than any of us did in those days at least.
We worked and fucked and fried in the heat while up above us Sputnik rolled endlessly in the stupefying darkness.

[Anonymous No.4062063]

>>4060856
Why ampersands instead of regular "and"?

[Anonymous No.4062068]

>>4062053
I like this, apart from "mirror surfaced beachball" which just seems a little weird? And the last two sentences in the first paragraph might work better joined up, or connected by an emdash perhaps?

But as I said, I really like it as a whole.

[Anonymous No.4062085]

>>4060740
I'll add to this a general overview of the planned plot:
It's going to follow a group of local kids who witness the man's collapse and believe that he must have been killed by a curse (a local urban legend about cursed treasure,) so seek out on the kind of quest that occurs when you're twelve to find the treasure themselves. A internet shutin a few doors down who is internet-dating an ex Russian cosmonaut, who shows up and is incredibly and unbelievably attractive, and a Lebanese-Jewish immigrant who works as a commissioned 'artiste-espionage' - who designs paintings and pictures to be hung at global political conferences and summits to subliminally place ideas into the minds of the host's guests. When the kids get digging and discover an old Cold War listening station below the ground, the Lebanese man immediately succumbs to paranoia and threatens the Russian cosmonaut - forcing her (through threats and subliminal imagery,) to leave the street with her boyfriend. Meanwhile, the Widow is slowly ignored, and quietly takes her life. Hopefully I can fit another couple of characters into that story and give them bizarre arcs of their own.

[Anonymous No.4062146]

Opening paragraph for an existential sci-fi novel:

Head bowed and scanning the back of my hands, I felt a discerning gaze from across the table scorch my skin. A question bounced around my head.
“Why are you here?” asked the man across the table as he was settling into a plush leather chair. His face, dominated by a thick, dark moustache was aged no less than half a century yet his eyes betrayed an enthusiasm and curiosity more commonly found much earlier in life.

[Anonymous No.4062192]

http://poemersimpson.tumblr.com/post/59429768000/what-happened-to-the-habit-of-st-francis-it-was

[Anonymous No.4063205]

>>4061511
That's a bit harsh calling it shit. What's wrong with it?

[Anonymous No.4063305]

Opening of a scifi novel about a POUM militia style military organisation in civil war Europe:

A mass of flags fluttering outside what had once been the Austrian Parliament in Vienna, over the barrel of an idling Leopard 2A5 MBT. Nervous flags distraught with worry like the parents of wayward children meeting with the teacher who's going to tell them how much they've messed up. Germany France Denmark Austria Slovakia Poland Hungary the Czech Republic Belgium, both English governments, Scotland, the nominal Italian leadership. All here all singing all dancing. Almost as many stars in the sky as there were sovereign or provisional or claimed governments in Europe, thanks to that thick carpet of cloud rolled in from Asia free of charge the week before. Gloom and doom. Grand imperial statues with nothing to do, overshadowed by the aforementioned Leopard 2. The tank's commander rested his thick khaki arms on the edge of the cupola, folded over one another, his lips clutching a fat cigarette. Ash dribbled upwards into the night.

Geometric shapes flanked the Parliament building and spread outward from there along both sides of the Ringstrasse until they were all there was of Vienna, until the city was a mishmash of modern European whiteness and cleanliness and uniform orthodoxy pockmarked by war. Here in the very centre was something different, history. Checkpoints severed all of the limbs and soldiers held the struggling remains of Austria in place.

[Anonymous No.4063314]

I write in spanish

[Anonymous No.4063317]

I'm just starting out /lit/.
I want to write, I suck at it but I love it, and I want to be better. Don't be gentle

One evening weekend I was in the mess hall with some friends and my girl.
There was always this one table where I liked to sit because it was a great place
to people watch but it was off to the side so no one could really give you
flak for staring. On this particular night though my table was occupied, so we
sat down at a nearby table. Didn't stop me from watching though, and I had my eye
on one man in particular. He was a big man, with an even bigger forehead and a sort
of bellicose aura to him. While listening I had discovered that forehead had
supposedly never lost at a match of arm wrestling. Of course when a claim of
such great boast such as that is made, it is almost blasphemous for one to let it sit
unchallenged. I would not be the first to volunteer though, I was halfway through
my routine bowl of stale noodles and I knew a brave fool would soon step forward.
One did, lost, then another. A few more pieces of rubbery prison meat down the
tubes and I could feel it was my turn. I walked over and sat down next to the
lumberjack, hoping the combination of his exhuast and my foolish determination
would be enough to win the day. Arm extended, sweaty hand locked, the battle
commenced. It wasn't a grand spectacle, I fought the good fight for around 2
before I caved, but it was enough for me. I shambled back to my noodles and sat,
with a bellyful of grit telling me I needed to become stronger or else it would
turn to rust. My girl turned to me and asked "whhy did you do it, you knew you
were gonna lose". At that moment, I didn't really think too much about what she had
said. But years later it would come back to me as a reminder that it was good that
I left her. I really loved the girl in some ways, really I did. But a person
who would ask a thing such as that will never understand a man like me.

[Anonymous No.4063324]

>>4063314
post something anyways man

[Anonymous No.4063326]

>>4063317
I jotted this down in a windowed notepad, sorry about the format. I haven't proof read it or anything yet either.

Anyways I'm glad /lit/ is my new homeboard, I've been browsing /v/ and other shitty boards since 06' and I don't even play games anymore.

[Anonymous No.4063366]

I'm not a native English speaker, so pardon my grammar.

She panicked and squirmed. Wolf wasn’t. He use his left hand to reached down his legs to adjust the encirclement, while squeezing his two thighs together Maya’s face turned blue in a quick instant. But she was still standing tall, trying to shake him off. Feeling a sense of urgency, he pulled her arm to left, then used both of his arms and pulled her head downward to create even more pressure. With her entrapped arm to the left, she clenched it with her left hand, which had let go of the sword. Mustering all her might, she violently slammed him head first to the ground. He groaned, as the combination of pains from the sword getting pushed back and his head meeting with the hard ground below blended together. But he didn’t let go of his grip. Maya however, wasn’t done. She hold him back up, her back upright, ready to deliver another dose of pain to Wolf.

Then blood flow stopped, as her eyes rolled to the back of her head, her knees gave away and she dropped herself like a sack of potatoes. Wolf growled in pain, as the drop to the ground inadvertently pushing more of the sabre out of his body. Needless to say the blade was rather bloody. He quickly let go of his legs, then pulled out the remaining of the sword out of his body. He breathed out in relief. It missed his heart by inches. His gauntlet flashed red.

“That is a bit late, don’t you think?”

[Anonymous No.4063373]

The student standing at the podium was the type that a few years ago people would have assumed was gay because he dressed like a fag, but the emergence of metrosexuals in recent years has added confusion to the public perception of his orientation. These types are queer, in the archaic dictionary sense, because in the past they were the ones who kicked the asses inside circulation restricting jeans and bashed the heads draped in deep V-neck shirts displaying copious chest hair. Despite this, the current fashion trend among them was met with little irony and perhaps that is owed to the preexisting homoerotic overtones within their fraternities. A tendency–apparent in their overly physical confrontations, their drunken makeup hugs that too often broke into song, and their super secret tushy spanking initiations–that now hid in its own, shall we say, flamboyancy

[Anonymous No.4063378]

First page of my Chris Brown fan fic:

By the time I let her head fall back onto the plush hotel sofa it was almost four AM. There was nothing but small moans issuing from her mouth now, which had ceased to be attractive to me. A broken tooth was lodged in her lower lip and her top lip, plump before we started, had swelled, seeming to encompass the entirety of her face, obscuring her black gums. Small bubbles of bloody saliva were issuing from the corners of her mouth with a quiet whistling sound that put me in mind of a washing machine, or perhaps a fox. There was little better about the rest of her. Her nose no longer retained its delicacy and had swelled unpleasantly where I had broken it making me want to hit it again just to get it into a nicer shape. Her eyes were similarly swollen in a pattern that was beginning to bore me as I surveyed her whole battered head. Some of the hair had been ripped out at the root on the right side of her scalp, it seemed to me that it rather suited her, giving her hairstyle a jaunty asymmetric feel that you could probably pay a celebrity barber a thousand dollars to achieve. It was maybe one of the few positive changes in her appearance from the evening, although the bleeding would probably need to be fixed if it were to be accepted in public and some sort of gel or spray applied to the rest of dark silky locks to give it some consistency. I brushed her hair with my hand a few times trying to push it into the shape I was imagining to see if it really would work. The limp sweaty strands flicked back irritatingly, a few more tries and I felt that old rage that had been pursuing me all evening returning. I spat on her head angrily and proceeded to rub the spit into her scalp vigorously. She gave a low moan which somehow managed to have a high piercing tone to it, very fox like. With the spit I was able to get her hair into an approximation of what I imagined. I sat back to survey my work but the face and residual bleeding from were the strands had been ripped out really did ruin it. Bored again I looked down at the rest of her body which seemed like a cold static on the warm trendy patch works of oranges and pinks that made up the sofa. Her neck and collarbone stood grimly against clashing tones of her face – the usually soft brown of her skin had become a whitish grey like soft iron, papery and parched thin, hanging off her shoulders. Below this stagnant area lay her breasts which still held some sexual interest for me. I reached out absentmindedly as I looked at them rubbing the underside of the left one with my right hand, my elbow catching on garish leather of the sofa. Most of the damage I could see was on the right breast; an unpleasant pattern of tiny blood vessels on its side were I slapped it over and over again and the nipple, which had sagged now, was ripped were I had pulled and pulled to punish her earlier.

[Anonymous No.4063379]

>>4063378

I began to get an erection from the renewed contact with her and cast my eyes down further to her vagina which was devoid of pubic hair, a good sign that she still cared enough about her appearance to wax properly. But, I conceded, which caused me lose my erection, not enough to properly tan below her neck. In a half-hearted attempt to rekindle the brief feeling of sexual desire I let go of her breast and pressed my fingers against the lips of her vagina. As I pushed forward teasing them apart and hoping for the erotic warmth of her body, which had been quickly fading from her breasts, I was treated to a gush of blood pouring past by fingers out of her. I jumped back to other end the sofa shaking my hand furiously causing fine flecks of blood to spatter onto both our torsos and faces. I stopped after a new moments realising that I would not be able to get it off but realising the softness and warmth of the substance on my fingers. I put them in my mouth and gently sucked off the blood. It tasted like iron and calcium in ice and like her vagina. I watched her in disgust from the other end of the sofa, licking my fingers clean as some more blood dribbled out of her. Once I was sure that my knuckles and nails were clean I sat back and looked her over one more time. The blood from her cunt was draining onto her legs and the sofa, straining the leather below her. I wondered if the hotel would charge me, or my agent for the cleaning. I hoped it would be my agent as I doubted I could afford such an expense if I were to go on living.

[Anonymous No.4063383]

PASTEBIN MOTHERFUCKERS. DO YOU USE IT??

[Anonymous No.4063524]

I love how everybody's posting and nobody's reading/critting. I posted my shit, but fuck, I ain't gonna read somebody else's shit.

[Anonymous No.4063550]

>>4060856
Poem! Yay!

>>4063379
sucks

>>4063378
sucks

>>4063373
not enough sucking

>>4063366
suche

>>4063383
TL;DR

>>4063524
I'm done. Eyes are bleedin. No moe critiqin.

[Anonymous No.4063558]

Hey, i wrote this poem yesterday and i need some honest opinions, don't usually write stuff like this:
We love,
And the rain makes no difference,
Because in his arms i am fearless,
Beneath his smile i am free,
And everything in my world becomes harmonious,
But he does not solve my problems,
He does not fix me,
Or make me complete,
Instead he shows me,
That it's okay to be broken,
And that i have always been whole.

[Anonymous No.4063564]

>>4063558

Wholly broken.

No, not that. I like it, save for the last line. That last just does not seem to really fly.

[Anonymous No.4063608]

>>4061164
>>4061776
Hah, thanks m8s.

[Anonymous No.4063612]

>>4060966
*but couldn't see the train

[Anonymous No.4063632]

/mu/tant here. I'm posting this on /lit/ instead of my home forum because most threads about lyrics, rate and be rated as they're known, never end up giving that much actual criticism and I figured that /lit/ would have good posters for the job.

I was pestering my old time worker
Sink had been running water,
Bookcase was filled with dusted pages,
Bed's sheets gone, leaving bare mattresses
Eating, reading and or sleeping
Those with eyes knew this place was a mess
I watched it become so long days and long nights,
Thank god,
House keeper was payed long days and long nights

Shadows eternally in her room
A tree housing birds blocked two whole sides' windows
No looking glass hole were in the others
Sleeping only after my feet were gone,
Dreams had running faucets, her diary said
Words were hard to understand,
There couldn't have been theirs'
It didn't matter, there were no minutes to edit,
No to look and care at or for these writings
Housekeeper was payed long days and long nights

Pleasing guests, watching wives' rings
Glare stuck through the glasses
Never were these newcomer's food burnt,
Sizzling pieces of the wall could still be noticed all over
Everytime, four half hours later,
Two whole bottles of wine will be gone,
Stairs had stenches each step
Finally as they left,
We could have a word by ourselves
Housekeeper had been payed long days and long nights

I'm not done with this yet as I hope you could tell. If anyone's wondering, the story is told from the house owner's perspective but listeners and/or readers are supposed to empathize with the housekeeper.

[Anonymous No.4063672]

>>4063632
I think you ought to consider being a poet rather than being a songwriter, though you still need to self-edit more. Your grammar leaves a lot to be desired.

[Anonymous No.4063704]

>>4060936
It seems to me that this is what all of /lit/'s stories are about. Have you read Notes to the Underground? If you haven't, you should. And afterwards you should consider whether or not you have anything to say that he didn't.

[Anonymous No.4063730]

Today I passed by that same place
Where we’d sat in the sun
I hoped we’d left some kind of trace
But couldn’t find not one

It was a different light
Another set of rays
It was without your face
And at a quicker pace
A futile wish to chase
That moment of your grace
No trace of you in sight
So I went my own ways

[Anonymous No.4063739]

>>4060740
I'm no professional but maybe you should cut down on the paranthesis, commas, and dashes.

[Anonymous No.4063762]

>>4063672
Thanks. Can I ask for more opinions?

[Anonymous No.4064027]

>>4063739
Reading it back, it does seem very heavy on those. Thanks very much!

[Anonymous No.4064218]

>>4060966
Best thing in this thread, so far.

[Anonymous No.4064968]

Here's a song I'm writing.


As his days got shorter,
He looked back on his punch-drunk life.
Young pugilist with such promise,
he saw the world through his swollen eyes,
Now 6 feet underground,
He once stood 6 foot five.
He spent his days as a heavyweight,
now the dirt weighs heavy on his eyes,
What's a busted lip,
What's a bloody nose,
What's a busted lip?
These things come and go.
feel the fragile grip on your garden hose,
Let the iceberg tip, this life is short and cold.

Oh his last day, thunder fell from the sky.
He dropped to his knees to pray,
there was nothing else he could do.
"Lord lift me up, to purer heights,
Where love comes easy,
and angels say Halleluiah!"

What's a busted lip,
What's a bloody nose,
What's a broken rib?
These things come and go.
Feel the fragile grip on your garden hose,
Let the iceberg tip, this life is short and cold.

[Three !!TqjBcCR1zwD No.4064974]

There are two congregations that go to my church, but in both services, the congregants are the same. The first and third Sunday of the month is for Anderson Apostate Church. The second is the Love of Christ Whose Mercy Embraces Us All Gloriously Church. The former is a non-denomination “Charismatic” lot, closer to Protestantism than to Catholicism, who sit firmly in the consubstantiation camp, and spend most of their time singing from battered hymnals and inviting Loose Women and Damaged Men from Greater Anderson to talk about how Jesus solved their problems. Boys with facial scarring and legless girls say, “I was at my most vulnerable when I discovered Jesus, and now I'm on my way to a whole new life.” or “I was about to end it all, when I heard His Words, and I knew that I would be saved if I begged forgiveness.”

The legless girl was fascinating. She'd stand on industrial stumps, ending in brogues or high heels but not too high as to be sluttish, but high nonetheless. I wondered how far the mechanics went, because her skirt went down to her wired ball-and-socket shiny-metal knees. The sheer perversity of showing her not-legs like that, it excited me.
“I don't want to pretend that I've got two legs.” she said, “Jesus loves me all the same.”
“People stare at me, and I don't care,” she'd grin, “Now that the Lord looks over me.”
“I used to wonder whether I'd go to heaven, whether people like me would go as our bodies are-” she stopped, Are poisonous. Are ruined. Are not going to be accepted by St Peter. My father's words floating through my mind “-are imperfect. But after that moment, that moment when I had been almost run over, I knew,” she laughed something that could have been fake, or simply the laugh of someone so totally damaged that everything is fake, “I knew that I was loved.”

[Anonymous No.4064975]

Name's Hank. Live right in the middle of nowhere, between two rivers. My house is closer to one than the other. I'm young, and let that ring with you how it may. I smoke, grow my own tobacco too. Don't see why I wouldn't-smoke it, mind you-there ain't no one around for a thousand miles. Let's see, I sleep the day in, and contemplate the rest. Yeah, I've got the paradise that God envisioned for me, right here, and it's terribly lonely.

[Three !!TqjBcCR1zwD No.4064977]

>>4064974
I wanted to hold her hands and tell her lovingly that she was a good person. “Now, now that I volunteer at the Sunday school, that I'm a Samaritan, answering phones for other lost people-” You feel better about yourself. “I feel better about myself.” Everyone would clap and she would sit down. My stomach did backflips into itself at the notion of talking to such a strange creature. Did her legs end at the knee? The calf? The thigh? Does she have robotic hips? There was a tickling feeling in my stomach, the same feeling that's got from looking at a massive seventy inch TV, the decision rolling in your mind whether to destroy it or not. The attraction to frailty. When people asked, red faced and sweating,
“Were you born with your...condition?” I wanted to ask about the state of her inside thigh, the spot where the leg joins the torso, the curve of flesh whose sweetness is immoral and disgusting. Whether she touched there. Whether she enjoyed it. Other people asked,
“Does your family know about your return into His embrace?” I wanted to ask about my embrace. She wasn't a crush, she was simply a collection of organs who danced onstage for the un-Hail-Marying audience, and then danced onstage for a more physical lot. I know the latter because Dad told me. Derisively grunting that she was a whore condemned to Hell, no matter what forgiveness she begged for.

[Anonymous No.4064981]

My morning friend and I,
Are always striding side my side,
He's such a goof,
Yet I'm so aloof,
And when I step,
He steps,
And where I go,
He goes.
But when he steps inside,
I'll take up a new stride,
with his neightbor George,
Who lives right down the street,
And then it'll be George and I.

[Three !!TqjBcCR1zwD No.4064983]

>>4064977
The latter go to Church on the second and fourth of the month. Just how the more words describing how free a state is, Democratic Republic, People's Republic, Joyous Friends Republic, Free Republic of Cuddles- the less democratic it is. Mercy, apparently, was unmerciful. Same congregants. Same Jesus loving everyone for who they are- unless of course they're degenerate scum. Different pastor. People preferred their feet in ancient time, rather than in the Modern Era. Walking into Mercy was falling back a few centuries. Candles were illumination, whereas at AAC they brought up lamps from the crypt. We were told of the evils of sodomy, that the Pope knew best, and that that one of them was from Sowff Umerica was absolute heresy, that this liar of a pope was not deserving reverence nor capital letter. We were told that Jesus compelled the jets to collide with the World Trade Centre because of the tolerance in England of immigrants. As a girl, I lapped this up. Other girls from church would skip with a rope and sing, “Jesus loves me yes I know for the Bible tells me so, when the kikes come out to play, Jesus make them run away!” Not knowing what one was, never having seen one, as a girl I loved this.
I'd scream that the Lord was my shepherd. That I didn't want. That he'd lay me down to lie. That the only people going to Heaven came from God's Own country, who accepted Jesus as their saviour, and were whiter than the cream-coloured walls of the Church. Seeing as the pastor had married an almost black woman, I failed to see the importance. The wafer on my tongue was Christ, at Mercy. It tasted better than those at AAC. I asked Dad whether I was a cannonball, aged about eight, after my first Communion, where I got a shard of his wafer and a eye-droplet of the wine. He laughed and slapped me too hard on the back. He preferred Mercy to AAC. The previous were a bunch of weaklings, one of the Unsaved Believers that the pastor screamed about. It's always nice to have everything so clear-cut. That is, until you yourself become a degenerate.

I went to both Churches in my time. I wore a veil to the first and third Sundays. And a dress I'd only wear for the occasion. I'd never talk. Heeled but modest shoes, not to transform my walk into an erection sprouting shotgun-blast of movement, but a casual stroll. AAC wasn't real Christianity. They were mild heretics, too scared to say the things Mercy said, too cowardly to revoke their non-denomination, to face up and snarl at the political correctness of it all. The congregants weren't the same people, but just as well could have been.

I managed to find the legless girl onstage. Clarissa, her name was. Aged twelve, I pushed past the tall and dark guardians of the club with my father's word on my lips.
“I want to see the begenerate for what she is, father.”
“Of course, my dear, here's the word you have to know, the password, can you say-”

[Three !!TqjBcCR1zwD No.4064985]

>>4064983
They parted like the Red Sea, like a pair of black-suited and white-shirted legs. I found myself a comfortable corner with a decent view. The music pounded and she entered stage left, significantly less modestly dressed than before. Making pretty kissy faces at all the men in front. She stared into all our eyes, wearing an expression of impure ecstasy, an expression I had not yet known. That evening, she was dressed as a nun. Albeit one with a present libido, shorter skirts, no legs and a crozier dragging behind her. Centre stage, she sat on a stool and removed her habit, piece by piece. Unwrapping the coif, the shawl, she let it fall. It floated down like a rain of minnows, graceful, but urgent. Her gloves were long, and she placed a foot up on the font to remove them dramatically. Peeled them down to the wrist and allowed each finger to pop out of its hole. Licking the tip, sucking her carpel. Or was it tarsal? (My father thought it important that we knew the human body well.) Rubbing her body with her hand like droplets of rain. The other glove came off, and she shook her hair out, so her fringe flopped over her eyes. Men were silent as graves. She lifted her scapular from about her neck and guided it gently to the floor. I almost expected her to fold it. She spun around, her skirt jumping and flailing like epileptic dogs and her flesh-legs came down to her thigh, wrapped in white garters and a cute red bow, the sort of bow I'd wear to school. Her panties were pink and strawberried.
“Clarissa!” I yelled, “I thought you loved Jesus!”
As I was guided from the building, the guards only realising now that they'd let a twelve year old into a strip club without ID, just on the word of her father, she yelled after me, “I do, but I don't think he loves me!”
“But you said-”
“Then why am I doing-”
And the doors slammed.

[Anonymous No.4065865]

babump.

[Anonymous No.4065872]

I'm writing a gay romance story about two of my acquaintances DnD characters because I was commissioned too. Here is the first page and a half, please be real with your critique.


The light splintered through the pine forest trees. Patches of yellow beams lit the forest into a yolky haze. Tatsuo and Zaboo strode through on top of horses. Tatsuo was a pale young man, coated in a fine leather dyed red, to match those crimson eyes of his. His hair floated just above his shoulders, that silvery white that graced the wind itself as a breeze whistled through. The tip of his fingers caressed the hilt of his blade, which remained packed between his hip and the brown leathered belt.
Zaboo had been less graceful with his appearance, and some would tell that Zaboo had gnomish blood. Size did not favor Zaboo, well in comparison to the long stalk that Tatsuo is known for. Still, the qualities of Zaboo remained memorable, for his complexion tainted a tad by the sweltering sun of the western isles. His thick full lips that bore just above a wisp of hair he referred to as his mustache were quite well spoken of, or rather, spoken of frequently and not well. The bottom of his cloak dragged a bit, so the seams became tattered with the travels. Coiled around Zaboo’s waste had been a ragged rope well knotted such like the sailors ships, aye, perhaps he may have known a bit or two about those ropes.
The ride had been long for the duo had traveled far from the west in hopes of achieving a amulet of eternal life, so it is spoken to which whoever dawns upon the nape of their neck, and above the beating breast, would all that lives may never lie, for that which is eternal may never die. Tales like this one were as common as the birds of the forest, and just as loud. Although, a more common component to such rumor had been the failure of obtaining said amulet. Death remained the infamy of the adventurers unfortunate reward for failing upon this quest. So it is said, the amulet is guarded by a necromancer imbued by dark powers not known previously, even by the mages of OldBook.
Quests came and go for the two, though the challenge stuck to their bravery. A test for their hearts to endure whatever may spoil the valiant of many, and the righteous of all. They rode for another hour and a half before meeting a camp. Strange though the camp had been, for the flame still had a kindling just beneath a few ashes. Tatsuo halted his horse before the camp, and with a swing of his leg he dismounted. Zaboo quizzically examined the scene.

[Anonymous No.4065874]

"Bandits you think?” Zaboo had asked.
Tatsuo shook his head, “Out in this part of the forest? I don’t think so”
“Do not consider it so uncommon, that which bravery you do possess lacks the caution for death”
“I do not play with chance, though only the certainty of my courage, lest you have forgotten Zaboo.”
“Nay milord, I merely am uncertain to the disadvantage of fame.”
“Bestill your voice, beyond autumn trees do the crackle of leaves beget life, or so decay doth betray life with it fleeting fragileness. Have you heard the leaves?”
Zaboo listens for a moment to the space of the forest. Nothing. Though as he sort the words in his mind, the faint sound of footsteps crunch the autumn floor.
“Aye.” Zaboo said, “If not for Bandits who’s camp this be, might I inquire to your expertise”
Tatsuo smirked, “We may be ill of fellow company, or so those who seek the burden of competition. Whoever remains lurking, do so no more, for the acuteness of my ears may sense the pin drop among even these leaves.”

[Anonymous No.4065895]

1/?

“If it weren't for these god damn sweat glands of mine,” he thinks to himself, “then I'd be the one reviewing the damned reports and playing golf with the other executives of this wretched town, with their neatly-shaven red faces and well-earned bulging guts.” He observes the moist pit stains that have formed since he took his seat, and curses God for the dozenth time that day. By the time Musgrove's secretary tells him to come in, he's worked up such a rage at God that the creases in his bloated stomach have become damp with sweat and absorbed his shirt, leaving an unsightly stain encircling the two portions of his shirt that rest over the creases. He luckily notices this before he walks into Musgrove's office, curses God once more in his head, then put's on his suit jacket. (God damn thing is just gonna make me sweat more, but it's absolutely essential to hide the unnatural stains – the one's that people like Walter Musgrove know nothing about and would never expect of another person to have, especially one of their own employees. The jacket'll cover up everything aside from my head, and a man sweating around his head is considered perfectly natural, even if in a little excess like me. But sweat stains from your belly? If they see that, then they'll think they know for sure what kind of person you are, and that kind of person isn't someone they'll want to associate much with. For now, I think I got 'em all fooled.)

[Anonymous No.4065897]

>>4065895
2/?

Musgrove is sitting perfectly postured in his tall, leather chair – his eyes firmly holding on to Philibin throughout his every motion. His desk is kept in perfect order, with his own copy of Philibert's report on the Brinkley property resting limply in the center, surrounded by pictures of his family, a Ben Roethlisberger bobble head, and the blackened piece of a pipe used in the company's first fracking job out in Wyoming – an artifact he felt was representative of the incontrovertible success brought upon by his own hands, and more importantly, his own mind. His red, rubbery face is stringent with the typical ire that falls over him when he feels another man's incompetence has jeopardized his feeling of control, and Philibert recognizes this immediately. (At least this means he doesn't want a hand shake.)
“So now,” says Musgrove with feigned calmness, “this report of yours claims that the Brinkley property is simply not an option. That there is just just no way that this John Brinkley fella is willing to sell off his land to Musgrove Natural Gas.”

[Anonymous No.4065899]

>>4065897
3/?

“Uh, yessir, that is correct.” (Can't he just take his God damn eyes off me for a quick second? Just to let me breathe?)
“Now please, let me know if I'm bein' too naggy, but I'd like to know just how you managed to come to such a definite conclusion, Mr. Philibert. Because if ya ask me, you came to this conclusion awfully quick.” (Damn it all to hell, I knew this was gonna happen! I just fuckin' knew it! Why did I ever think I could slide one byMusgrove like that? I mean, it's not like I had much a choice anyway, because I can't possibly bring myself to go on doin' business with that wretched Brinkley family in that old rat's nest up north. No way in hell! Hear me out: I drove up last Thursday to try to do business with 'em, an soon as that horse-faced woodswoman of theirs let's me in the door, lookin' at me as suspiciously as if I were a crusty old hobo with a bloody axe in my hands, one of their little mongrel children runs up and spits on my leather shoe for not God damned reason whatsoever! Worst part about it was the father of the boy, some slack-jawed imbecile who looked like he hadn't ever seen a paved road before, didn't even pretend like he was disciplining the child. He just chuckles and says, “Come on now, Scoot, that ain't no way to treat a guest.” Up to that point I was already working up quite a sweat, on account of the fact that it's late in the summer, but by now I'm so incensed by them that I can feel my whole body gettin' damp, and when that happens I start to get an uncontrollable itching sensation all up and down my back. But it just gets worse from there -- much worse.

[Anonymous No.4065903]

>>4065899
4/?

The father of the boy sits me down in a chair that smells like old roast beef, and soon the whole yokel clan is gathered around, skeptically demanding what my business is. There was four of them, all at least twenty-five years of age and all apparently still livin' at this wretched old house bein' about as productive toward society as a dead possum on the side of the highway. Anyway, before I can even start to explain, in comes John Brinkley – who I suppose is the head of the family – with a God damn shotgun cocked and loaded and aimed right at me, and says in the meanest, most damning voice I ever heard, “We ain't interested.” then thrusts the shotgun in the direction of the front door, signaling for me to leave. Now, I'm frozen in place, as this is the first time in my life I had a weapon, let alone a God damn 12 gauge sawed off shotgun, pointed at me. I try to make words but all I can do is stammer as I feel the sweat gushing out of each and every pore on my body like somone'd just twisted a faucet in there, and the itching sensation on my back is so bad it stings, until finally the old man puts down the gun and the whole clan rejoices in a thunderous laughter that must've lasted two whole minutes. “What can we do ya for?” says the old man, and, still feeling extroardinarily uncomfortable, I say,“Well, my name is Tucker Philibert and I'm here on behalf of Musgrove Natural Gas and I'd like to make an offer to you folks for your land.” And he says, “Well now yer gonna have to make me bust out my shotgun fer real!” and I say, trying my best keep things in order, “We're offering you one point two million dollars, Mr. Brinkley.” I can see the faces of the boys, aside from the oldest [who I'll get to later] light right up, and I think for a second I might stand a chance of comin' out of this alive, but when I look back over at the old man, his face is lookin' harder then ever and he says, “Take yer offer right on back down to the city where ya came from and shove it up yer ass. We ain't interested.” and walks away before I can get another word in. I sit there a few seconds, still sweatin' like a mad man, with all of them just lookin' at me like my skin was green. Finally, the oldest one, Ben, speaks up and says, “Well go on now, back to the city with ya! You heard the man!”

[Anonymous No.4065904]

>>4065903
5/5

I actually feel relieved as I get up from my seat, even though I know I've failed miserably. Just then, Ben loudly says, “Boy, you sure are one sweaty sonuvabitch! My God, I'll tell ya, that ain't even natural!” No one, at least since my high school days, had ever openly mocked me to my face for my condition. I knew people probably said stuff behind my back, but that didn't bother me much. But never to my face. That's because outside of the boonies, we have something called manners, and empathy for the feelings of others. “I mean,” he continued, “You got it in all sorts a places! I tell ya, I've worked twelve hours out in the July sun and I ain't never broke such a sweat! God damn!” The rest of the clan started hollering like a pack of rabid dogs. I didn't waste any time hurrying out the door, not even thinking to say another word to the wretched bunch and hoping to God this would be the end of it. As I got to my car, I could hear Ben Brinkley's crude voice yell from the doorway, “You take care now, ol' Tuck! And just so you know, Mitchum's antiperspirant works wonders!” I drove away as fast as I could. Never in my life had I had felt so God damn embarrassed, and on account of a bunch of dumbass country bumpkins nonetheless. Those ten minutes or so I spent with that awful bunch of boorish loudmouths undid about ten years of hard-fought reduced self-consciousness. Before that, I was at the point where I could interact with strangers [strangers for fuck sake!] without even remembering I had a condition. The thing is, bein' that way helped my condition significantly, on account of the fact that my nerves were always feelin' good. But ever since then I've felt like that pudgy high school sophomore, too afraid to wear nothing but dark clothes to ensure that those nasty fucks wouldn't notice my pit stains and torment me to no end.)

[Anonymous No.4065919]

>>4064975
I'm interested.

[Anonymous No.4065923]

Fifteen stories up from where I double parked was my best gal Annie’s apartment, and in that apartment was her new boy toy making the run on her free of charge. I knew this cause one of my other best gals had told me that Annie was seeing some dude on the side, and that it was getting real serious. When I got a call from her later on that the deuce would be stopping by Annie’s abode for some in and out, I just had to burst in their before he busted in there, and make an example of the little fuck.
I like to think I get a sense for when someone’s fucking or not. Call it a pimp’s intuition, but I know when one of my gals is getting it and when she ain’t. I just feel it. Sort of a sleazy spider sense; and that spider sense was tingling hard right now. Annie was fucking, and I had to get in there and break the little dick’s prick to teach both of them who was really fucking who.
Now I ain’t got no problem with devoted relationships, and I ain’t got any problem with my gals getting it on with other guys for their own pleasure. That’s on them, and they’re free to do what they do. But what I do got a problem with is love; love is bad for the business, you see? When a guy starts porking a gal its fine, but when he falls in love with her, then the thought of another guy porking her just don’t sit right with him. He gets emotional, he gets possessive, and he gets to thinking that maybe that gal shouldn’t be porking any other guys meat but his. Now in all things considered, he’s right, but that there is where the problem lies. I can’t have my gals up and quitting on me cause some little shit out their thinks he loves her; I got to make bank and roll the dosh, let the green flow, you know? Hard to do that when my gals are running around swearing their done cause “Jack really loves me.” Worst part is most of these girls come running back the second Jack finds a new flab to bust in, their heart broken and still our looking for money. If anything, I’m saving them future emotional turmoil by prohibited long term relationships with other hustlers.

Its from a short story I started earlier today. Main character is a pimp. Not too sure where I'm going with it, but I think it will involve a vampire demon killing whores or something.

[Anonymous No.4065924]

>>4065923
Also, expect typos, I wrote it quick and drunk.

[Anonymous No.4065950]

>>4065872

I'm... just gonna ignore that premise.

You mention "forest" twice in the first two sentences, and the rhythm of the first three is repetitive. Bzzt. This is where I post a reaction meme involving trash cans and some smug guy's face. But for real though...

"... strode through on top of horses" doesn't sound right. The horses are striding, not them.

There's no need for the comma at "dyed red, to match"

"those crimson eyes of his" can be shorted to just "his crimson eyes". Simpler is almost always better. Your style is overly purple already, so work on toning it down into something less overtly flashy.

The wording of where his blade is packed needs to go; it's oddly disorienting and complicated. Just say that it's at his belt.

No need for the comma at "favor Zaboo, well in comparison"

"tainted a tad by the sweltering sun" ... Alliteration is fine sometimes. This isn't one of those times. "Sweltering sun" is the more offensive case here.

The next sentence is humongous! Split it up as such: place a comma before "that"; turn "that" into "which"; and end your new fabulous parenthetical phrase with another comma after "mustache". It'll be much easier to follow.

I don't even know what to do about that whole "aye" and comma splice... Use a semicolon, I guess.

The ride had been long COMMA for... Come on, now.

A amulet? ...A amulet. I'm done. Regardless, focus on delivering important details, not just throwing in as many details as you want because they fill up space. And pay more attention to the details of your own writing and its structure, because ... actually never mind, you're writing gay DnD romance fiction. Have at it.

[Anonymous No.4065949]

I read this story excerpt a few months ago on here in one of these critique threads and I was wondering if this guy ever posted any more of it because it was really funny and I want to read more.

[Anonymous No.4065952]

>>4065874
I don't completely understand it but I really really like it.

[Anonymous No.4065969]

>>4065919
Sadly, that's all I've got. It was written in the throes of a fever, so I don't expect myself to be replicating that kind of writing too soon.

[Anonymous No.4065987]

She was going to start college soon and did not know what to study and I said well then study anything. Art was what she liked and I said well study art then. The moon was hanging between the bell tower of the church and the side of the building next to us. A perfect gap and I saw it and pointed it out just so I could see the fire surface from her once again. A couple more moments of this joy did I claim from her. She said she had a brother who studied electrical engineering and he was smart and she said he was like me, although I was not so sure. More and more and more we talked and it turned into a blur of exchanged fragments and the pictures remained unclear but the night was growing and I never wanted it to end. I told her of my dream to own a bookstore and she loved that. She loved books just for themselves as was the exact opposite of me and this only more enthralled me. Her favorite author was Bukowski and I couldn’t even believe it, so I asked what her favorite book was and she said Ham on Rye and then I did believe it and I told her so. So right when I thought the talking couldn’t get more frantic and heavy it did and the night grew even more and I knew it could never end.

We walked back to the hostel and now I don’t even remember what was happening and the elevator ride does not even exist now in my mind. And we were there and all at once all of the words left her and me and left the room and left only the night and silence. Her eyes were there again and the fire was back, growing second by second and I saw my life in those eyes and I saw my redemption. and at the moment even the silence left because there was nothing else. That moment split me in two and removed a part of me that I will never be able to recover. It ripped out of me something I had lost long ago, a part of me that was hidden deeper than even my mind could go. I watched it go and I wasn’t upset because I guess I had always know that it would leave me at some point. It was only the logical way it could have ever happened. She looked at me and maybe saw what had happened but I will never know and then she looked away and said she had to go to bed. So I hugged her and she hugged me and I wrote my name down in her phone, but we both knew we would never meet again. She turned away after one more look and I watched her walk all the way down the hallway and that was the last detail I ever remember of her. Her name was Kaia and she had the fire and because of that I lost something in me that night and I will never get it back.

[Anonymous No.4066007]

His bar always smells of whiskey and smoke,
And it always looks so dark and morose,
Filled with he, the man, still unable to joke,
After that one woman whom he loved too close.
He acquires a taste for the bitter,
Although, the bitter's been there a while,
And he sits on a stool, he head all a-twitter.
Breaking out of ol' Love's jail, slowly, with a file.
And she? She and he sit side by side,
Both sad and mourning her dismal going,
Yet neither knows more than their drinks, the tide.
So they drink until the world is slowing,
The world slowed for them, sure, it did.
But did it slow for the father, his newborn kid?

[Anonymous No.4066026]

He switched on the Augmented Reality goggles, and became Ch0023r. A flash of chrome was all the warning he got before hi-jacking in. Scatterframes of nanobytes swirled around in cykene kinesis like foxtails, neon slipsteams racing through flow-wire circuitry, fraying the nanoform of iNet. A grayscale membrane saturated the tunnel-vision of the Augmented Reality stream, and then it was like a curtain being drawn back on a silverglass LCD holoscreen; a steamstack fringewire colossus rose out of the Linux universe like a motherboard metropolis, made of microchips and metacode, root programing streaming in beta like a thousand shooting lights across cyberspace.

This was iNet, the virus-plagued serial-world where malicious software came to die; annals of an archived version of the old internet that still existed in an IRC database now served as the garbage dump paintball arena for glitched profiles of the parallel shooter MMO to constantly replay their gruesome death-matches. Like digital zombies of dead gamers, the profiles existed locked in pseudo-combat eternally glitched in clan-battles that had been played out in the publicly released version of the game months ago. The games were fake, but the psion beams shot from pixel-deleting magna-weaponry was real enough to fry a console controller, hotwired to hell by overhacking and code-splicing, real enough to kill a wayward avatar, and delete the backtrail for an unfortunate hacker hi-jacked into AR to logout. This was the deathzone, accessed through fullmetal ICE programs classified above Top Secret, originally formatted by military-grade intelligence codecs, and displayed only by GraphX mods purchased on the Tokyo black data market in cold hard cash. This was illegal, this was stupid, this was suicide.

This is where Ch0023r would find the AXIS.

***Sry bout formatting, need to lrn2/lit/****

[Anonymous No.4066038]

I don't know what this is really (maybe a poem?), but I posted something similar in the 50 words thread.
Decided to expand it:


The ding that accompanies walking into that 7-Eleven feels like contentment,
A Pavlovian trigger tone concentrated at around 2 kilohertz
To make me feel alright, the prospect of which terrifies me.

I've walked in there too many times in the twilight hours
Pretending that I'm craving a pack of Stride and a small fountain drink
Instead of scoping out the cute brunette working the register.

The occasional sacrifice of $3.74, tax included, is worth it
To hear the words "Have a nice night" fall off of her bottom lip;
The value of the phrase I've calculated to be just below a dollar a word.

Today, she only said "Good night" after ringing up my purchase,
Maybe as retaliation for my decision to forgo purchasing chewing gum
And only have a plastic cup of ice as a front for our interaction

She doesn't know it yet, but I'm competing with her in my head to see
Who will be the first to break the standard customer-employee relationship
To say something inane and well-meaning like "How are you"

My bets are on her

[Anonymous No.4066051]

>>4066038
Could use a slight bit of editing, but I really enjoy this piece

some of it is too on point as an exaggeration of things I have done in the past.

[Anonymous No.4066052]

>>4066038
Hot damn, I like it. Do you have the original 50 word post?

[Anonymous No.4066057]

>>4066052
Now that I reread it, they're not that similar at all. The poem is better IMO

I was considering suicide the other day.
At this point in my life, it seemed like a thing that could happen and make sense.
I stopped myself, though.
Who would take care of my finches?
Also, there's that cute girl who works at the AM/PM that I'm currently competing with to see who outlives the other.
I haven't told her, but I'm betting on her. I hope she wins, too.

[Anonymous No.4066062]

>>4066057
Don't kill yourself, because you're going to die anyway, eventually. Why not live a little first?
They're different, and I really like them. If you reworked the 50 work one just a little bit, I think it would be better. Some things just don't flow together.

[Anonymous No.4066086]

>>4066038
Some parts could be pared down a bit
Brevity, man.

Other than that, it's a delightful depiction of the life of an aspie :)
That's a compliment