/lit/ - Literature

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Anonymous Sat Mar 1 20:16:17 2014 No.4620094 [DELETED]

>Critique thread

Post something you're working on. Write something on the spot. Whatever. Let's just have some OC to scorn.

There was no calm to be had living with Eustace. He was a faux-knocker. By this I mean that he would rap his cantankerous knuckles against the door and then, crucially, without pause, enter the room with immediate effect. He would throw open a door with the same manner in which he would throw open a window; earnestly, bracingly, ready for the world as though that which awaited him wanted to be taken. A proper gentleman, as he puts it, waits not for the lady to come to him, but for him to take to the lady. You see, to him, privacy was not a fixed state, but a mobile one, moving in time with the sway of his fickle mind. A man needed privacy only when he thought he did. His mock-knock was his gesture, a proffered token, to the poor fellow on the other side, the unwitting fool given little time to re-establish decency, that he understood the etiquette, and so from his perspective, as long as he acknowledged its existence, it mattered not that he spurned it.
The problem was that those that he caught unawares were rarely caught out twice. For they, in knowing him and his contemptible nature, became ever vigilant in his presence. Eustace is home, I better take to studying, or reading, or something innocuous, they thought to themselves. And thus, when he inevitably knocked and entered without reply, the occasions on which he found them with their trouser round their ankles or their noses filled with powder, were few and far between. So of course, poor Eustace had no chance to learn. The rules of communal living were, in his experience, as arbitrary as he thought them.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 1 20:19:16 2014 No.4620105 You want to see my cock?

Anonymous Sat Mar 1 20:31:16 2014 No.4620139

>>4620094
I enjoyed it, especially that someone else outside of me also finds this particular trait in people really fucking annoying. But "cantankerous knuckles" reads awkwardly since a person's knuckles don't have any emotion... Unless you're doing a "whimsical" thing and that's the point? If not, I'd suggest going with "He would cantankerously rap his knuckles against the door".

Also: too many commas.

Anonymous Sat Mar 1 20:51:16 2014 No.4620215

>>4620139
>But "cantankerous knuckles" reads awkwardly

You're right, it's a poor choice. I couldn't quite find the word I really wanted in order to convey the appropriate level of loathing felt by the narrator. In my exasperation I stumped with that.

>Also: too many commas.
Guilty as charged. It's something I often get carried away with.

Thanks.

Anonymous Sat Mar 1 21:32:16 2014 No.4620349

There is water cup in.

"Yum water good!" breathed out with voice of mine loud.

"Water is no taste" breath out friend.
"No! Is good!" breath me. No wrong is me, make mad. Water is wet on tongue, good like wet on genitals.

"Is good!" Breath I on two.
"Is not. Is like air. Is like dirt. Land is nothing of taste."
Friend has smart more of me. No fight.
"Aha! Is Apple no of taste? Water is of taste to it!"
Friend points eyes at me. Is scared. Friend runs away to trees.
"Haha! I is of smart now!" I go to make mad good on girl friend has in house

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 1 21:34:16 2014 No.4620353 Through the floral-patterned curtains, light from a blue sky infiltrates the room and evaporates any wisps of optimism brought alive by dreams of rain.

Anonymous Sat Mar 1 21:43:16 2014 No.4620387

The doctor slowly crawled into the dense foliage. The hunters would have a slightly harder time following him into the forest, as their neuro-implants were temporarily fried by the electro-wave. Breathing heavily, the doctor attempted to steady his hands to apply the salve on his gaping leg wound. "Second degree with tissue damage", the traveler unconsciously thought to himself. the experience from years spent treating wounds in the run-down hospital had once again proven useful. He pressed down on the bottle of salve, only to come up with stale air.

A bitter laugh echoed through the dense forest. A doctor who couldn't treat his own wounds, the hunters wound scoff. Wouldn't they get a kick out of that.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 1 22:01:57 2014 No.4620439 Hahahha you're wrong you fuck, where did you think she was, where did you start thinking, your arms are limp and your skin is limpid, your blood is slim, pi doesn't work anymore the circle is broken

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 1 22:11:55 2014 No.4620466 >>4620439 You have my attention Go on

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 1 22:14:58 2014 No.4620472 >>4620466 There is nothing in me to give to you what are you asking, did you even stop to think? The pallor and quivering didn't set you off? the meagre eyes and fleshy sketch of bones..its not a question anymore its a plea

Anonymous Sat Mar 1 22:22:57 2014 No.4620485

Behind the wall, the adjoining flat, there is a girl. She takes the cigarette out of the pack, disregards the warning, and inserts it. She does it for her eyes only, but there is something impeccable about the way she goes about it. Maybe it’s the shadow. Maybe it’s her lips’ lilac blossom. There is a soft appeal in between her plaster mouth. She needs to get away from the sounds behind the wall. She disregards the noises and picks up her lighter. Slow. It comes to action, the spark that she has needed all along in her life, but not from the man, from the machine that gives her the fix. It’s in. A breezy cloud leaves her and exits stage left. She pouts and leans forward, legs crossed. Shut off, but the direction of the smoke indicates otherwise. A part of her wants to visit the choir boy neighbor, but she knows to wait until tomorrow. The embers are burning, but not quite out. Her mouth unclasps the object and lets it drop, drop, drop down into the ashtray. Her ritual is complete.

Anonymous Sat Mar 1 22:23:57 2014 No.4620489

Mary could see her friends in the rear-view mirror which meant they could see her too. She wondered what she looked like -- and stopped. It was a thought she recognised and knew went nowhere she wanted to go. To forget, she drank a beer, another and then a third. It worked. 'I might have one more,' she said.

'Probably best you wait 'til we'ere there,' said Tim from the back seat.

That her boyfriend had replied at all gave her confidence. 'It should be fine. Can you pass one please, George?' In the mirror the car light turned on. George's hand and a beer appeared beneath it.

'You got it?' He said.

'Yeah.'

The light cut as she reached for it but grasped nothing. 'George?'

'You need a bottle opener?'

'I need a beer.'

'A fifth?'

'Just give it to me!' She felt Tim's hand on her shoulder.

'Just wait,' he said. 'I've got it. I'll give it to you at Marla's.

'Where a hundred more await!' Marla said. 'Here sweetie, eat this. It won't hit you for an hour and mine's only ten minutes from the next exit. You can give me money tomorrow.'

Tim said that was fine; Mary ignored him and washed the little white pill down with a swig of Marla's water-bottled vodka, passed the joint to her and put a second hand on the wheel of her mum's Corolla. The slow strobe of the highway street lights with the joint smoke made its interior look like a dance floor; Mary watched her friends wash down their own and turned up the car's stereo. The road ahead conveyed them toward the night sky it promised to become and she sung along. 'I hurt myself again.'

Marla joined her. 'Along with all my friends.'

Four voices: 'Feels like it never ends.'

Only the stereo and Mary in her head: 'Here comes the night again.'

A half hour passed and the exit was nowhere in sight.

Anonymous Sat Mar 1 22:32:58 2014 No.4620509

By midnight I’m coming back. By the grave-side;
Suicide: it’s her own damn fault; I don’t see why I have to cry –
I don’t really give a shit. By midnight I’ll be where these strangers cry –
Who are these people in black?
They don’t care,
I don’t care,
Why are we beside the stone and coffin?
Catholics wouldn’t have even buried her here:
They would have cuckolded her
Fucked her story in front of her body – so zealous in their spite
Do you hear us in hell
Mocking the soul for getting duped into a shitty chemical loan;
By midnight I’ll be here, again; I’ve made up my mind.
I’m painting a black X over her site,
So those pirates can find our treasure
Dig it up,
And kill her
Again. Oh Faith, you had no right to marriage
Perverse, and loving men;
They’ll keep you from the honeymoon;
Protest; hire a gardener
To pluck the flowers sprouting
By your grave-side.

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 1 22:37:57 2014 No.4620516 >>4620509 I like this, cut back on the use of "shit". I did like the part about the catholics cuckolding and fucking her. And format the lines better, it will flow nicer

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 1 22:41:57 2014 No.4620528 >>4620516 The lines are formatted differently. Copy and paste turned it into this squashed version.

Anonymous Sat Mar 1 22:58:58 2014 No.4620572

Be gentle, please. This is literally my first time in /lit/, as well as my first piece of writing that wasn't a college paper, or something.

I'll post a few critiques in a second.

In the coldest of nights,
In grimmest of plights,
Through the haunting darkness,
sit still the spirits that consumed his life

That at first he would fight,
With all of his might,
But eventually, eventually,
He would fail in his fight

The spirits’ warmth beckoned,
And in time, the man reckoned
“To what gain, in abstaining?”
That was his question

For many moons had past,
Since the cause of his task
Since his life shattered like glass
Like an empty bottle to the floor

And though he stood a better man
Fate denied his master plan
For all that was said, and all the occurred
No action could make them unperturbed

In time his mood soured, and by grief, he was devoured
Turned out in the cold by those once held dear,
He turned again, to the spirits
And when his discipline ceased, his consumption increased
And he slipped back into darkness, with no hope for tomorrow

In the darkness, now he wallows
His ghastly poison, down he swallows
In his soul, his only light
His most wretched, most hated, most shameful delight

>>	Anonymous Sat Mar 1 23:07:57 2014 No.4620590 >>4620509 I agree with the other guy that commented on the lines. It could flow better with a little more organization. Overall though, I like it. >>4620489 I really enjoyed the ending. It felt kind of bitter-sweet, to me.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 00:09:57 2014 No.4620703 File: 1.07 MB, 555x4998, ugh.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>4620349

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 00:36:58 2014 No.4620763 "A Six Year Old Canadian Hunting" Donny go Arrow, bow Caribou

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 01:21:58 2014 No.4620919 >>4620349 This is interesting, and I like it, but I'm not sure what actually happened

DJ Orwell !!BK/RnzYxLVZ Sun Mar 2 03:03:30 2014 No.4621147

She was somewhat shorter than me, so I had to jerk my head sideways and crane it downward slightly to align with her eyes. Eye contact. Locked-on. Constant, conscious effort. Her deadset gaze; her eyes were opaque reflections of me, like mirrors glazed over with steam. Her eyes terrifyingly blank, beyond sadness, having leaked all their morose moisture into the canyons of discontent encircling them. Spectral eyes that saw me, and saw through me, as though I wasn’t there, as if even my deceit and ill nature in being there was no matter anymore… and I felt so painfully alienated by her presence, a feeling far worse than ever felt being alone. I could not speak, but only stare back, seeking the slightest semblance of sympathy, something I could see myself in, something that made *sense*.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 03:06:30 2014 No.4621157

saw your haircut in a storefront
The choppy sides and perfect bangs
I loved the way it framed the models cheekbones
The blank expression on her face

So I stormed inside and asked to buy it
But I got told it's not for sale
I quit my thinking and I decked the sales clerk
Stole the wig and ran like hell

So I figured I should come and show you
So I kept running towards your house
Then I remembered I don't have his address
At least not the guy you sleep with now

So I headed home to get collected
To rid the red flushed in my face
Took out my notebook and I sketched you smiling
I like to think of you that way

And I hung your haircut on my doorframe
Beside your shirts and all those cards you sent
I turned the light out and I sunk in slowly
Counting sheep and breathing hard again

But when it comes it's way too quickly
And it busts apart the faith I've grown
See I can't stop myself from hurtin' you
So I guess I won't

>>	DJ Orwell !!BK/RnzYxLVZ Sun Mar 2 03:08:30 2014 No.4621159 >>4621157 This is a really nice and skillful depiction of a sentimental idiot.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 03:25:30 2014 No.4621175 >>4620094 >You see, to him, privacy was not a fixed state, but a mobile one, moving in time with the sway of his fickle mind not a great sentence, consider revising that faux-knocker thing in the 3rd-4th sentences was brilliantly done

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 03:30:30 2014 No.4621182

He lifted his foot off the pavement and back onto the skateboard. The wind was more tolerable in motion. Looking out at the revolving city, he shifted his weight, skateboard as if on a circuit of the parking lot. The windows from the closest buildings were clearly visible but nothing inside gave an indication of what sort of company it might be. People were small, nearly indistinguishable. Without facial expression or demeanour, one’s first impression was limited to their stature and clothing, bird’s eye view. The ability to see people in similar context as one could worker ants never lost its childish wonder, scurrying to their doors, avoiding each other on the streets. Above there were the array of metal buildings, windows, iron roofs, storefronts separating the cement of the buildings from that of the pavement. Do the businessmen parking their cars here day after day look out in this way? Perhaps it was unfair to assume everyone who parked would be a businessman. It was a large public lot, they could be chefs, janitors, bouncers -here to clock into their jobs and come home with their money. He couldn't blame them for not standing here scanning the distance, not under the burden of coming only to get by. Counting the stars and seagulls, watching those who stop by the homeless under the eyes of nobody. Do city workers look out romantically towards their city?

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 03:47:48 2014 No.4621217

This is for an application to an internship; I'm curious if the ideas I'm communicating make sense.

. In a constant state of self-examination whilst having no context to better understand myself I was becoming lost in my generational current. This current is very much one of a marginalized youth whose imagination of themselves is individualistic and circumscribed into values that despite rhetoric to the contrary are not our own. My only recourse for what I felt was a volatile time of self-examination was the council, unsolicited but tacitly accepted, of the teachers, parents, relatives and media. I say 'tacitly accepted' because whether you realize or not those ideas communicated to you sink in at a very fundamental level, the person you start to become looks a lot like what the people of import around you have tried to guide you into. It is only marginally relevant, but I am the son of Colombian immigrants and something happens to immigrants when they come to this country and this city, New York City. Their values become shaped by the milieu of this city, a milieu that values the want of status and all the little nuances that undergird that want. Well, I was unconsciously feeling the pressure of those values, but on a level fundamental to my personal identity there was something uncomfortable about my path being one whose interests were pecuniary and concerned with prestige. When I bought clothes, nice clothes, that I felt was the placard for this prestige I needed, there was a gut-feeling in me that this was not natural. I was seeing my peers get into jobs that could afford them the distinctions of prestige and I felt that I should pine for that same path to the prestige and so I got the job and bought the clothes, but in the midst of that aimless go-getting I got lost in the make-believe; my measure for happiness was in relation to others, and my happiness was subject to ebbs and flows as such. I certainly had fun in the make-believe, but all that I had to buttress that fun was a blissful emptiness. In any case, my nascent story, what little there is of it, is not of a guy who got lost in his own make-believe, but of a guy who came to be humbled by that 'sanctity of conscience'.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 03:48:48 2014 No.4621220

I'm bored, I can't sleep and it's midnight.
Hope you enjoy.

In this beautiful city, the roads were paved with rocks and gold dust, the huts and dens decorated with trinkets like jewelry that sparkled to the eyes, water was poured out from the lips of golden pots.
But then the king died, and a foreigner took his place - thanks to the absent objections of the people. This foreigner with his foreign fears and foreign desires cowered around these people and feared his own. He loved the city, it's shine, the bronze and the gold, the air of fortune and gleam.

So he tore up the roads so that no one may find this place. Then he took the people and their trinkets and stored them in his palace as to shelter them. The pots were destroyed as well as the huts, what could not be broken was taken to the treasury. So the foreign king uprooted the city and took it all in, all the shine, gleam, glitter and life, and crammed it into the pocket of his treasures, just for him to see.

The great kingly palace, bursting with it's hoard of all things beautiful, collapsed. In it's place a sepulcher of crumbled rock where no light passes through for if it did then another sun would bloom in the ground.

The foreigner returned back to Spain with a golden cup.

This is the end of El Dorado

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 03:51:47 2014 No.4621225 >>4621182 Kafka-esque on a modern perspective, I like it but. You can't see stars in cities is my only peeve, light-pollution and all that.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 03:53:47 2014 No.4621229

>>4621217
>volatile time of self-examination
turbulent? I get what you mean but volatile does not seem the right word

could do from putting down the theasaurus and opting for clarity a couple times

the make-believe is references three times but not elaborated on enough any of the times to make it a powerful statement

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 03:54:47 2014 No.4621230

>>4621217
Write like a person if this is for an internship. You're trying too hard to sound clever. Don't make it so difficult to read. I understood what you meant but if I was hiring I would roll my eyes at something like this. Write the way you would speak at a job interview (conversational), or just slightly better

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 03:55:47 2014 No.4621233 >>4621229 Can you expand on the clarity part.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 03:59:48 2014 No.4621242 >>4621225 hey thanks man i remember seeing stars last time (small city) but i may be mixing memories. will go up again soon and confirm

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 04:05:47 2014 No.4621249

>>4621233
mate if you are smart enough to write like that you must be smart enough to realize when it deviates from the norm, and how some sentences could be simplified

of course im thinking from the perspective of somebody who would want their work being accessible to people who skim through applications, that might not be the impression you want to make

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 04:08:47 2014 No.4621253 >>4621159 Thank you.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 04:13:47 2014 No.4621263

>>4621249

Shit. I understand what you're saying. I read a lot (duh, this is /lit/) and when I see these authors express abstract concepts they use these words and to me it's like "Wow, I didn't know there was a word that could so precisely express that thought"

I'm going to rework it in order to make it more accessible, but I am always wracked by the thought that even if a word is a synonym it doesn't have the same effect, or connotations rather. :/

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 15:30:42 2014 No.4622569

>>4620572
I don't know much about poetry (Read: anything) but the rhythm seems to be off slightly.

>>4620485
>and inserts it.

Where does she insert it? I mean I presume it's her mouth but it seems an odd way of phrasing it.

>the spark that she has needed all along in her life

This doesn't seem quite right. I would drop the 'in her life'.

I like how it flows though; you have achieved a nice rhythm by your use of different sentence sizes.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:06:46 2014 No.4623035

hey lit this was originally for /cog and gonna copy-paste what I wrote

ok /co/ here what I have bear with it I tuped it on my phone. I got it from one of the prompts, don't know where I'm going with it no characters just the title

> New Ferris(don't know why)

The nights grew colder in new Ferris city. The river freezing over, amd people freezing on the streets. Trying to cling to the only life they had in this god forsaken city. Crime was rampent drugs everywhere there was no hope for this city. I had known that for years now.
I leaned over the pear gazing at the bright city-scape. There bright lights creating the only beacon of light in this city. But those businesses that brought light were just as bad as the criminals below.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:10:45 2014 No.4623045

What kaleidoscopic liquor haven't I tasted?
I've traced every sad scar of bleeding reminiscence
and sucked from every sugary flower a mountain- ecstasy's dyes!
Blood and bliss, I savored alike.

Across abysses of atrocities, on silver clouds of compassion
I have drifted idly on tears and laughter to the absolute extreme
where the ink waters, corrupted by every strain of humanity
tumble into the crypt, the inscrutable cosmos that no mind can penetrate.

Only the vague soul, unattached from its dumb vesicle, ventures there,
unleashed, born again into inconceivable mystery, hellfire or harps!
Soon enough. Patience.
The key's mold awaits in me. Listen. A tapering heartbeat, born to fail.
A key.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:12:46 2014 No.4623050

and maybe the reason I'm telling you all of this is so that you might understand me better but what's much more likely is that I'm doing this for me.
Anyway, it all probably started in my living room when I was sixteen years old and there were good shows on MTV that week and my grandma was staying with me because my parents were out of town and I had actually been kind of living in the living room because for some reason all the lights in my room went out and I couldn't figure out how to turn them back on. I was on the phone with Maxie and there was a guitar lying on the couch and MTV was on and I had my yellow hoodie on and I was telling her about how I had gotten drunk the previous weekend and we hadn't talked in a while but everything just felt kind of right. Like she was taking me seriously for the first time.
I wanted to fuck her but I never did and I think that's kind of how life goes. But in a good way. Because if I had, it would've been cheap and awkward. But in my mind it's something like me stroking her hair and feeling her shiver slightly. I'd slide through her impossibly, and this adjective is important because this is all taking place in my imagination, slick hair until I reached behind her head and then I'd pull and she'd look up at me and I'd bite her bottom lip. But I wouldn't have done that. Because I was sixteen and timid. So it's a good thing I didn't try.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:13:46 2014 No.4623053

Journey of the poet, in three parts.

I. Discovery

I was living like a child,
carelessly caressing, whole world
was under my possession.
My days flew by, as pleasant
as a feather's touch,
they were soft and cosy,
just like your mother's bed.
I would spend my lazy time,
living in well-ordered mess,
up until when I discovered,
the guilty sights of woman's breasts.
My world dispersed, I fell in love,
Sleepless nights had cast upon my head,
I found myself becoming restless,
With keen desire to acquaint unknown,
I knew my search was endless,
I'll never get enough to know.
I started looking for a magic potion,
I sought the way to break this spell,
after years of searching I discovered,
there was a way, and it was death.

II. Suffering

I am tired, my body is craving for sleep,
yet I persist to sit in front of
my notebook, trying to explore the
depths of my soul, writing it all down.
But the words I spit out, they seem
so alien, so far away, I gradually,
find it hard to breathe,
having found myself so empty and vague.
I look back, I see
the same old walls, with no inspiration
I am being enslaved by my narrow mind,
forcing me to hide, and to run far away.
My thoughts repeat like days after days after days
of a prisoner locked in a cell
vainly living in imagined future,
filled with fake freedom and beauty.
My thoughts repeat and my words,
once supposed to blossom and bloom
for the sake of my soul have become
a gravestone for its scattered corpse.
So, here I sit, witnessing the pain
of my burning, unfulfilled desire,
having my poetry written with blood
dripping from my nose.

III. Revelation

I'm talking to you, young promising poet,
choking for wise words in front your notebook,
constructing a lie that
your world and your poems are in harmony,
showing your empty hands, hiding your face
behind words someone else said,
trying and hating, and tearing yourself apart.
Wake up! Wake from your illusory thoughts
which make you forget what you have,
and slowly abandon the beauty around you.
Wake up and see, alone in darkness,
the moon, like a mirror, becoming our Sun.
Look at the moon and let someone inside you
scream and dance, surrender to madness and kill.
Kill slowly, with your bare hands if needed,
to see the suffer, the pain you have caused
in the eyes of your victim.
So celebrate your noble liberation
and don't forget to learn,
learn a big lesson each time
you ruthlessly kill someone unborn,
because out of those corpses you
start building your own heart.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:19:45 2014 No.4623084

>>4620387
Is the doctor also the traveler?
Anyway, the main problem is that you've got too many adverbs and adjectives. "Slowly crawled" "dense foliage" "Breathing heavily" "run-down hospital" "stale air" "dense forest (repeated dense, too)" Not all of them need to go but not all of them need to stay.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:20:46 2014 No.4623087

founded through motion&commotion
3 “s” words

i no longer hang
whinging over
open doors-
i rip up window
sills, but still
fuck me please!
we can’t be less than
lovers
buried in my back garden
where even evil realized deriding
the sky
and don’t stop mourning
from becoming the
day
slowin’ serpants
in side out,
slitherin’ where we sleep.
staring+weeping
for reality, i sleep
in re-convents.
as i repent.

night is coming
with my cries
& my eyes seem
use less.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:21:46 2014 No.4623091

>>4620485
massive point of view slip here,
"a girl" "the cigarette". it should be "a cigarette", unless it were "there is this girl with a cigarette" and then it could be "the cigarette"

The other problem with the point of view is that your narrator/point of view is behind a wall, so there's really no way for it/him to know any of this information.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:27:45 2014 No.4623113 >>4620349 Are your characters cavemen?

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:31:45 2014 No.4623130

>>4621147
>I could not speak, but only stare back, seeking the slightest semblance of sympathy, something I could see myself in, something that made *sense*.

I feel like you may have just slightly - just mind - overcooked the alliteration.

You write well but the whole passage seems overwrought in all honesty, though maybe that's because it's being posted out of context. Would be interested to know why you decided to describe the eye contact in so much detail.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:41:45 2014 No.4623166

This was under a prompt "take the first sentence of a famous work, and the last sentence of a different famous work, and write the middle", so I did Plato's Phaedo and Orwell's Animal Farm

I haven't done any editing yet, so it's a little rough

http://pastebin.com/g3c8VbbL

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:44:45 2014 No.4623180

For the first few days I stuck close by my hut, taking short walks up the hillside and staring out at the sea. The unchecked line of the horizon, the rampant scrub brush, the slate gray sky, the blandness of the potato and wild onion soups I cooked in a soot-blackened pot over an open fire – all of it was in perfect accord with my desire for anonymous austerity. For the first time in years my mind cleared and I was able to sleep, untroubled by ominous dreams. The smallest things filled me with happiness. A goat bell carried on the wind. Sunsets of no special character beyond their celestial mechanics. A regiment of ants returning with their spoils. I envisioned a life of silence and open country and found its ideal. But I knew myself too well to hope this mode of existence would keep me occupied forever. Little by little I expanded my habitat to include the flatlands below, where squat men in baggy pants and tall boots tended their tomatoes and grapes. In time I came upon the old Roman port, thrust some eight meters above sea level by one of the tectonic upheavals that has plagued this island with humbling consistency. Down a dirt road I discovered a stone-cut throne of indeterminate antiquity. From the way it stood unmarked and forgotten, obscured by thorn bushes that formed a natural wind break against the shore, one would have thought it held no more value than a discarded mattress. Most scholars attribute it to the Phoenicians. Later still I would learn its true origin.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:46:45 2014 No.4623185 >>4620349 sheer virtuosity

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:47:45 2014 No.4623191 >>4623180 has plagued should read have plagued

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:50:45 2014 No.4623199 >>4623180 I liked this so much I had to google it to ensure it wasn't an anon posting an excerpt from a well-known work in order to 'troll'.

>>	SNOT© !BML8daE2ok Sun Mar 2 18:50:45 2014 No.4623202 >>4623087 babby's first sibilance

SNOT© !BML8daE2ok Sun Mar 2 18:53:45 2014 No.4623206

My Generation

Today Bobby already ate his oats.

---Already ate my oats Mom…
And then out into the Phoenix beauty
alive, digging thru the trashcans
like a ravenous animal, searching
through the textbooks of the living,
down to the cinemas and the crackhouses
on Camelback…he waits for school to start
and the pavement to sun, festering.
We’ve landed a man on the moon,
but the streets are still sparse,
there’s still scavengers starving,
still suburbs…and wretched Phoenix,
Bobby’s bosom, the world’s asshole,
still here…ageless, beckoning
like a salt’d lover…..Off to class.
The teachers, they’re all alcoholic breath
and nostalgia, big stuff happened
when they were alive. But what’s happening
now…recuperation, Iraq’s over, time to play puppets,
a decade to forget. Left in the dust…
growing up staring into the blank, dreary eye
of an iPhone…

And none of us will know what to do
until we’re too old to do it.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:53:45 2014 No.4623211 >>4623199 Thanks. It was the opening paragraph of something I started a while back and abandoned. Just found it again and wondered whether it was worth continuing.

>>	SNOT© !BML8daE2ok Sun Mar 2 18:54:45 2014 No.4623216 >>4623206 fucking 4chan ruined my stanza breaks again. The breaks are after: "oats" "festering" "class" and "iPhone"

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:55:45 2014 No.4623219 >>4623202 >sibilance nah not what i was aiming for. babby's millionth use of "babby's first"

SNOT© !BML8daE2ok Sun Mar 2 18:57:45 2014 No.4623222

Dad

I’m a cliché…we all have to face it
sometime, son.

Look at Maricopa, resting her tongue
in the barren, oiled sky.
The stars dot the landscape, the house,
the dreams…I’m a sinner.

Are you a sinner? We’re all a sinner,
boy, now get back in that fuckin room
and do ya math homework…
Pops is a nice man. He drinks whisky.

He’s a strange man, though, and occasionally
his eyes crust over like a burnt pancake
in the summer sunshine, pulling weeds in the yard,
blue eyes basking in serpentine rhythms of Suburbia.

He got shot in the Gulf, Saudia Arabia, 1991.
Calls Muslims camelfuckers, no matter what/why/who
they are…like Preacher, basically a good guy.
He screamt in the dawn, and the men carted him off,

half-crazy and raving and leaking mustard gas
from the ears.

Methinks I couldn’t pull weeds and mow the lawn
and eat meatloaf and pot roast for dinner
if my brain was tucked into a tough pocket
of poison gas, and insanity.

But Who knows

I'm pretty sure the line breaks on this are fucked up as well. DGAF Sunday tho

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 18:58:45 2014 No.4623225

He let out a laugh, dry and unpleasant in the darkness, “Time controls us. We are rocks, eroded to grains of sand, crushed under the weight of the surf, swept away by the rolling oceans, to be deposited elsewhere, far from our choosing.”

“Must you be so cynical?”

“Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you don’t fear for us.”

“If we spend our time fearing what might be, then we forget to enjoy what is. Why do you stress? Why can we not simply exist?”

She was slipping from him. Like a sea devil, lost and confused in the depths of his darkness, wriggling from his line, squirming from his netting. And he was the mad fool, ensnared by her bioluminescence.

“Because the sands shift; what is, soon becomes what was.”

His expression had left her still. She felt a world away from him, her gaze falling on the silhouette of the Siren’s tower. This evening the skies were clear and a blanket of stars gave the night a different feel to the last. It was now or never.

“Ophelia-”

“-You would risk it all?”

His stride broken he let out a slow breath, “Yes.”

“Then let us do so. Let us call a meeting of the Elders -”

“-We can’t,” He rushed forward to take hold of her forearms, surprised at their delicacy. He shook them, he shook her. “Do you not understand? It will not happen that way.”

“It’s not unheard of,” she looked tired. “How will we know if we do not even try? What would you have us do instead? Dance to the rhythm of whimsy? Climb her tower and become, what - immortalised?”

Her words were like stone. Her feelings immovable objects in the face of a storm.

“You’re just scared.” She wasn’t listening. “A little scared child, caught in the night!”

His yell ran in the wind, echoing in the gloom. He wanted to turn, to see who stood behind him raising his voice to her. Closing his eyes he waited for the darkness to swallow him.

His brow tickled, the touch gentle, soft, her voice a whisper, “Why are you so insistent?”

Without opening his eyes he turned away from her, “I’m promised to another.”

He heard her sigh, wondered what she was thinking, wondered what she thought of him. To whom? Does it matter? Of course it matters. He played out the conversation in his head as he waited for her to speak. Or to shout. Or to leave.

It was unbearable, the hush, even the tops of the trees seemed to have stopped their mindless chatter. “The sands...” he began, faltered, started anew, “The water it constricts us, filling our nasal passages, until we cannot breathe, until we cannot speak against it, for fear of drowning.”

He was facing her, just the two of them alone on a darkling plain. She searched his eyes, as though she saw something new. It was in her, he realised, a spark, a glimmer, a vow.

“Then,” she paused, “Let us cut our own path through the surf; let us become the wending waves.”

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 19:01:45 2014 No.4623241

We rose up on the highway—barren, dull, and marvelous as it was—and as we mounted a steep hill, which had long ago been corrected from rugged shrubbery by method of concrete, the sun’s brilliant light flooded the car, turning dry leather seats burnt orange and giving each window the appearance of yellow luminosity. I remember this image particularly, because, in an inappropriate and self-conscious advertisement for his vehicle’s exceptional ability, Weston had floored the car and sent us hurdling over the hill at a ridiculous speed, but also because our group, four naïve, talentless young men that we were, had engaged in a peaceful silence. The details are uncertain in my memory—perhaps a poorly outlined comment had brought a sudden halt to all the half-conscious, drooling banter, and left us suspended in its quiet aftermath. But I know that we were able to shut up for that moment alone, without even the incessant boom, boom, boom of the stereo to distract us from the world at hand.

Having climbed the hill and embarked on its downward lurch (which Weston, braking prematurely, had made a slower trip than the incline), Matt, perhaps unaware that he was speaking aloud, resumed the conversation with a consideration of how little he wanted to cover the early shift at the grocery store that next day—a comment uttered, seemingly, apropos of nothing. I pried my way in gormlessly, reminding him that I’d drive him home before his shift started; in the morning I would feel light and happy, as I basked in the fallout of the previous night’s exorbitant leisure.

Matt lived in a lower income suburb. On barely hung-over Sunday and Saturday mornings, I became accustomed to driving him from my home in Meyer County, through the city’s ineptly constructed and elaborately tangled bowls, and then down another stretch of highway, until I came to that little suburb. It was like I felt when I went to the mall and let myself pace the great marble complex, marveling at the people and judging them all alike. The suburb should have been beautiful, a little feat of engineering and architecture among its gleefully awful residential zone, but instead took me to dark places in my mind. Little could be said for Matt’s house itself, a tiny modernist nightmare, all cramped corridors and shared bedrooms and harsh light.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 19:02:46 2014 No.4623245

oh time!
please draw
near catawba & hear
our bold crow’s
caw-caws of
hopeful truths.

bbq here + fill
us with sooth!
please soothe
our sorrows!
quill down tomorrow
your reasons
to kill & drown men
taking a leak & seeking
power in cairo.
crown us
with lessons
& less sons!
will this patriarch
to go down in
this stark town!

will these quiet
matriarchs to make
their mark & riot.
never to reach down
on these ugly
leeches any longer!
we’ll suck down
Your seamen in
our wild waters!
beseech those mean
men, who sought
to attract tactful
tarts as wives, to die
in the wars
they thoughtfully started.
as years decline hate
mongers’ lives + will
will be departed!
—-

1/3ish

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 19:04:45 2014 No.4623252

(continued. 2/3ish)

drivin’, we dive
into wailin’ walls!
The coward Saul
timidly prays.
“Grace!” he cries
as frigid tears
roll down tightened
tight ropes of lace
where spiders laid
down eggs.
here he begs
on two bent legs!
“all Day wants is Night
to be
the cure & hear
honey-sweetened
longingsongs. jasmine tea will be
had if she sings
jazz with me!”
he said, quite sad.

shiftily shift the timin’
+ pull in woolen stars
You made them for Us!
We were just babes
locked away. may closed
closets opt to open
up time — we plead
to finally shine!

bright emblems
embalm & embeam us!
You lightened Us upwards
to tread new roads
leading towards Our
Garden of Eden.

We are pleadin’
to You, Creator.
Create Her! Mend Her
& send the end of molding
anniversaries that anoint
those goading
cold adversaries!

Want is deadened
tomes written down
in thought of tomorrow.
Need is lifelong
moans brought up
in the heat of sorrow.
saturating hidden marrow,
He lurches you
to nurture your muddied
budding flower.
He gives you flour for
the bread you bake,
that is his body & you
throw it away. He decays
in the gutter when you
stutter over His name.
THE COSMOS KNOWS
MOST
OF ALL
THAT YOU
ARE A
FUCKING COWARD

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 19:05:45 2014 No.4623255

(continued 3/3)

please care!
o hack
eve up with lovely
hatchets. she’s ratcheting
your soul into place.
so place her on a pedestal
she fucking deserves it!

will the lonely week
mend lovers sent in
atonement? or will
attornment reign &
our queen be slain?
treason is the reason
for Hapshepsut’s queasy gut.
in easing Tutankhamun of
hegemony, he stripped her
hedge, stomped on her
pouring pink peony.
manscaping
should be a fucking
felony.

Meta for
give cold titles of
yore. Meta for
give our vital old lore.
You set me up
on your old
teak door frame
hinges cringe & creak
sad omens.
oh man
oh
God
oh
Me! Be free!
PLEASE SEE!

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 19:22:45 2014 No.4623305 >>4623245 if no one wants to read here's a read version. i'm a bit wonky with this one because it hasn't been read aloud in like a lean learning year. http://vocaroo.com/i/s117W9QgWkf4

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 19:36:45 2014 No.4623346

I wasn´t in my flat anymore, inhabited small space now, welfare, flatscreen TV, molded pizza. Empty skull, hollow thoughts. Angst of the overflowing postbox, always willing to drown me in a flood of reminders. The flickering, etheric blue of the screen as a diffuse source of light, struck down on the dirty carpet, existencial angst fantasies on the highest niveau, in HD quality. The cigarettebutt in the side of my mouth wiggled, slipped, threading saliva down with it, burning a searing hole into the stained matress. It smoulders, producing yellowish smoke, like pus from a wound and then ..eventually..spark, flame.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 20:02:45 2014 No.4623430 >>4620094 >>4620094 http://pastebin.com/c4rdpvDC I liked it for the most part, there were some phrases like "cantankerous knuckles" that didn't read that smoothly though. Keep it up.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 20:19:24 2014 No.4623479 >>4623346 you used angst twice in a way that I didn't' feel was intentional enough. other than that, it was pretty good; maybe a little dry, though.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 20:35:24 2014 No.4623525

>>4623479
Yes, the first angst should be replaced I guess, I translated this passage, and gave little thought to it.
It is part of a small daydream through the head of the protagonist, I guess it´s okay that it sounds a little dry, it´s just the way it passes by in thought.
Thanks for the critique anyway.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 20:54:41 2014 No.4623589

I grab the gauze out of my jacket, loop the bandage around my right thumb, cover the hand with back and forth crisscross between my fingers, layer the knuckles a few before spinning the last section of fabric around my wrist. The grasp of the knuckle wrap tightens in my grip.

Joe's chugging the last of his beer and he's got his eyes shut. His pack's laughter shifts to murmurs. One of Joe's pals taps him on the shoulder quick enough for him to see me crack my fist through the drinking glass. I take a few seconds to squeeze the shards into his wet booze lips. I pull back and the front of his [cubic] seat slams back onto the floor.

His crew sits silent watching Joe sway around in his stool like a boxer conscious enough to dread the next round. He's got his lip jutting, eyelids covering his pupils and glass shining purple stage light. The right hand falls. His fingers loosening the glass handle of his mug and it hits the floor with a mute chime.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 20:59:40 2014 No.4623605 Is it better to stop thinking if you have a tendency to self-sabotage? I just know I'd be in depression half-way through a paragraph and I've been feeling pretty good for weeks now.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 21:00:40 2014 No.4623607 >>4623605 Write drunk, edit sober.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 22:26:41 2014 No.4623818
File: 88 KB, 2367x1080, Bad.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

George and Martha Evans sat in their gray Chrysler z while they waited for the traffic to move forward. They were stuck in a line for a toll booth. There was a line of 20 cars between them and the actual booth where George would toss in a nickel and have his car recorded in a log book so the government could tell who was going where. The Ohio state police and National Guard were stationed at each tollbooth/checkpoint and had been ever since a man stepped out of his car and shot the toll collector two years ago. Along with the cops and soldiers they had made every checkpoint one lane both ways so that fewer men would be needed to guard them. This was the cause of most of the traffic jams.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 22:28:40 2014 No.4623821 >>4623818 >File Deleted Here's an idea, type in Courier on your computer instead of using a typewriter in 2014.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 22:55:40 2014 No.4623882 >>4623821 No.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 2 23:02:40 2014 No.4623895 >>4623882 JusxtXtxxrxXxxXing xo bxxxXe Just trying to be friendly.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 23:19:40 2014 No.4623926
File: 5 KB, 252x219, pooh.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

“People are just little games. I play them just like you played me” she explained, “Isn’t that what people really are? People are just toys to be played with, pulled apart, and thrown around”. She leaned back in the passenger seat and sighed. “Children don’t play with the same toys forever you know. Eventually, they get bored. They get new toys, and where do the old ones go? They go in a bin, stored way up in the attic. They lay there forgotten and collecting dust.”

I just started writing and reading books often. Give me your worst and point me to ways I can improve or resources I can use.

Thanks /lit/.

Note: Inspired by actual dialogue between me and my borderline PD ex-girlfriend.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 23:41:18 2014 No.4623964

>>4623926

I liked it, but wanted to change a few things;

“People are just like games. I play with them just like you played me,” she explained, “Isn’t that what people really are? People are just toys to be played with and thrown around." She leaned back in the passenger seat and sighed. “Children don’t play with the same toys forever. Eventually, they get bored. They get new toys, and where do the old ones go? They go in a bin, stored way up in the attic. They lay there and collect dust.”

I think it sounds better this way

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 23:44:18 2014 No.4623969

>Tfw writing and eventually everything loses its structure and starts to be total shit

This is as far as I got last time before that happened:

>I read an article in The Guardian earlier this week, or possibly last week. It inspired me to write, and I shall endeavour to write the truth. Time may occlude attempts at objectivity, but I am only human, and I hope that you who are also human will forgive me if I, at times, succumb to unwitting subjectivity.

Anonymous Sun Mar 2 23:47:18 2014 No.4623980

>>4623926
EDGGGYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.

Holy fuck, lets just rename this board fucking Tumblr. Christ alive.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:00:18 2014 No.4623991 >>4623980 Please do not shitpost Thank you

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:07:18 2014 No.4624000

>>4623991
The only shit being posted in this thread is your god-awful writing. You will never ever be published, nor will anyone ever take your hilariously inept attempts to 'create' seriously. This isn't tumblr, this isn't Reddit, this isn't your grandmothers house at thanksgiving where your mother will make you read your latest piece of so-called creative writing and everyone will applaud at the end and tell you how wonderful and bright you are and your aunt will say "oh anon, I can't wait to read your first book when you grow up!". Nobody is going to jerk you off, nor will they pat you on the back and tell you how gifted you are, people are going to tell you the truth, and the truth is that you fucking suck.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:15:18 2014 No.4624018 >>4624000 Sounds like you're mad.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:16:18 2014 No.4624020 >>4624018 It's definitely a possibility, but at least I'm not a moron with delusions of talent.

Anonymouse !7tLDpBrPEk Mon Mar 3 00:21:18 2014 No.4624027

Despite the good reverend Prester John’s patient trials, the Square’s population of truants and peripatetics remained stubbornly disinclined towards ecclesiastical matters. Two hours after the Sunday bells rang in Saint Leonard’s Presbyterian and the good reverend had shook the hand of every exiting parishioner, he and his dour deacon Myrna would gather up their stacks of pamphlets and begin the campaign for popular salvation anew. Starting from the tip of the Square’s frequently chaotic three-way traffic flow, Prester John -- eschewing the habit for pale khakis, sneakers, and what he believed to be a congenial, slightly disheveled button-up -- visited with each assembly lazing in the shade of the subway entrance, on the steps of the boarded-up travel agency, and outside the gate of the Abbot-Abbot Grammar School. As he and Myrna approached, the travelers would often subtly bunch their backpacks, instruments, and animals closer together, as if their compacted matter could create a social membrane thick enough to exclude his earnestness. The travelers’ faces were uniformly tan and constantly appraising like sailors coming to port. Their dogs, most often young and lithe, had the vacant, earnest expression of toddlers learning math and the pure black eyes of sharks sniffing blood.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:21:19 2014 No.4624026

>>4624020
This was never about getting published, just getting input from other posters. In fact, you're the first poster to even type out the word "publish" in this thread. You're getting incredibly wrung up over ideas that originated entirely in your mind.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:24:18 2014 No.4624030
File: 48 KB, 600x366, 1384821472423.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>4624020
at least we're not stupid enough to call another poster edgy and then spit out this gem
>>4624000

if you're talking about being published i've read my fair share of shitty books, so using publishing as a benchmark for quality writing is laughable

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:24:18 2014 No.4624031 >>4624026 >Implying I'm wrung up >Implying being wrung up is even a thing >Implying I wasn't preemptively shutting down the pretensions that the person I originally responded to would eventually have developed

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:25:18 2014 No.4624032 >>4623926 It is very much how my one BPD friend treats relationships.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:25:18 2014 No.4624033 >>4624027 just stop putting in 'good reverend' its good other than that thats fucking annoying

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:25:18 2014 No.4624034 >>4624030 My point was that their writing was worse even than the dreck that is often published.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:27:18 2014 No.4624040 >>4624034 >You will never ever be published, wow man thats totally 'this is worse than a fucking airport novel' or any other variation of 'My point was that their writing was worse even than the dreck that is often published.' right buddy

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:27:18 2014 No.4624043

I kinda feel bad (or sad?) that most of the things anons post here don't get replies or critiques.

>>4624027
>Two hours after the Sunday bells rang in Saint Leonard’s Presbyterian and the good reverend had shook the hand of every exiting parishioner

There should be a comma where the and is, it feels awkward if with the and.

Your writing is smooth, I like it - but at the end, the bit about the dogs seems too descriptive in comparison to the travelers.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:31:18 2014 No.4624050 >>4624031 >Implying being wrung up is even a thing It's called a hyperbole, son. Maybe you'd understand it more if I went for the simpler "twisted up" instead.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:32:18 2014 No.4624052 >>4624018 He might be mad, but he can't be wrong with those trips

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:32:18 2014 No.4624053 >>4624031 He means you're getting you knickers in a knot over a little paragraph, sonny

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:32:18 2014 No.4624055

>>4624040
How about if I'd said "reading this is about as enjoyable as rubbing a cheese grater vigorously on my teeth or planing my dick"? Would that have made you happy? How I choose to deride delusional 16 year olds on the internet is entirely up to me.

>>4624050
Being wrung up isn't a fucking phrase, Jesus Christ, and it's definitely not fucking hyperbole.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:35:18 2014 No.4624060

>>4624055
>Being wrung up isn't a fucking phrase, Jesus Christ,
Shit, you're right, I just checked the 2014 ed. of the United States List of Approved Phrases, and it's not even listed there. FUCK!
Being wrung up isn't a fucking phrase, Jesus Christ, and it's definitely not fucking hyperbole.

>and it's definitely not fucking hyperbole.
>Webster's: language that describes something as better or worse than it really is
So you really did get all twisted up. Fuck, man, how are you even typing right now?

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:35:18 2014 No.4624061 >>4624055 you're just backtracking because i called you out on your bullshit, its okay anon >Being wrung up isn't a phrase just top fucking lel

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:36:18 2014 No.4624064 >>4624055 >"reading this is about as enjoyable as rubbing a cheese grater vigorously on my teeth or planing my dick"? >and it's definitely not fucking hyperbole. uhh

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:41:18 2014 No.4624072

>>4624061
>>4624060
Fucking google "wrung up". There isn't a single fucking mention of it anywhere, and I just asked my housemates and none of them have ever heard the phrase either.

Getting 'twisted up' is a phrase, but is also not hyperbole. A figure of speech, yes, but not fucking hyperbole. Referring to something like a towel as 'twisted up' would be hyperbole if it was, in fact, only a little bit crumpled. But referring to a person as 'twisted up' is not, though again, I will acknowledge it as a figure of speech.

>>4624064
"reading this is about as enjoyable as rubbing a cheese grater vigorously on my teeth or planing my dick" are two examples of hyperbole. I was referring to this new phrase regarding being "wrung up" when I was mentioning things that weren't hyperbole.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:43:18 2014 No.4624078
File: 76 KB, 227x251, 1393818306677.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

"Man, I miss Nujabes. That guy could rival Mozart or some shit like that in terms of musicality."
"Yeah, I miss him too. But, you know, musicality is the wrong word here."
"Wait, is it? Huh. Whatever man, you know what I mean."
I never write.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:44:18 2014 No.4624080 >>4624078 And you never should.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 00:51:18 2014 No.4624095 >>4624078 hey at least you're better than DFW

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 01:07:18 2014 No.4624116 >>4624072 >and I just asked my housemates Tell me more.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 01:08:18 2014 No.4624119 >>4624116 Why? Are you still having difficulty understanding what simple words mean?

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 01:09:18 2014 No.4624122 >>4624119 No. That was my first post within this thread but you've revealed something of yourself that interests me. So, please: Tell me more.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 01:10:18 2014 No.4624125 >>4624122 wat

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 01:13:19 2014 No.4624138

>>4624125

I like to imagine the personality of the person behind the monitor based upon what is shared to us in regards to actual aspects of their life, and how it might relate to the demeanor they adopt on the internet. I don't mean to say that I'm trying to build evidence to insult you, or to try and belittle you; but you've written with extreme aggression from the onset, and I was reading through the exchange and wondering at the reason for your aggression, and when you mentioned the housemates I figured you were either a college kid or someone living in a cramped space.

Just innocent curiosity. If you feel the need to be cautious, don't be. I only ever intrude when the personality interests me enough to make a post. Mostly I sit back, admire the spectacle, and if inspired enough find myself well-stocked for a brief scribbling of a narrative.

Now tell me more you little fucking homo.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 01:15:18 2014 No.4624145 >>4624138 I-i don't feel comfortable with this turn of events.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 01:20:09 2014 No.4624171

>>4624145

Ah, well. Then my work here is done. For the record, I thought "wrung up" was a nice expression; had I encountered it in a book I wouldn't have made a double-take, as the imagery and intent is clear.

However I can see why it wouldn't make sense being said aloud, as people might think you were comparing them to groceries being paid for. In writing, though, it isn't so bad. The language allows for creativity, and I thought the other poster's contribution was nice.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 01:32:09 2014 No.4624193 >>4621147 I like your writing itself a lot anon, but I think it's just too much making more than one statement about her eyes. The steam glazed mirror simile is my favorite of the ways you described them.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 01:42:09 2014 No.4624204

>>4621263
I had that problem a lot in high school, and looking back on some old essays, I can see why I annoyed my teachers so much. It is frustrating though, having to use a general term when there's something so much more relevant to what your want to describe.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 01:47:09 2014 No.4624213

>>4623050
I like this but I think a little tweaking would serve you well. I think your run on sentence is on purpose since the protag is pretty off-beat, but I think it would be a good idea to make that a little more obvious, but I don't have the context of more story. Your details are nice.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 02:29:09 2014 No.4624263

All the bustling of the city shouted to the world.
The sky speared by the glass and steel that scrape across it, and the earth strangled by the networks of rust and pipes. Construction continued to the day the inhabitants were deafened and erased by the nuclear weapons.

That was when the earth sighed and the sky coughed.

Anonymouse !7tLDpBrPEk Mon Mar 3 02:43:28 2014 No.4624272

Her beauty was not in her face so much as her gesture; she was a woman with a beautiful shadow. In the few photographs I saw she displayed the innate aptitudes of dancers and athletes, always striking a lithe pose. While there was an alluring distortion in the eyes, both warped and engaging, the real magnetism was her natural inclination towards grace. A woman you wanted to stand next to, to buy a drink, to twirl with out on the floor. I could see how -- despite all abundant signs of genuine lunacy -- she managed to continually attract lovers and friends.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 03:02:30 2014 No.4624293 >>4624272 The first sentence was good. The subject matter isn't. Why write about women? Everybody writes about women.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 03:13:30 2014 No.4624308
File: 765 KB, 499x649, hula.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

We lost the baby, and with it we worried that we’d also lost hope. But there would always be hope. As long as we had each other, we would survive.

I stayed with Maizy at the camp for the next few days, and let the other two couples deal with the burden of hunting and scavenging while I maintained the camp. Maizy mostly slept, and sometimes cried softly.

We met during our flight from the city out into the wilderness where it was still safe. Dan and Marissa had joined us shortly after—they were good hunters, and knew the woods. We had met Ben and Sarah a year later, holed up in a collapsing old cabin rotting on its foundation. They weren’t outdoorsy people, but they were educated, and good at repairing things.

Maizy whimpered again and tossed in her sleeping bag. I wish I knew what to do.

She was weak, and had lost a lot of blood during her miscarriage. Her body was spent, stretch marks and loose skin across her abdomen, and sagging breasts that leaked to feed a baby that wasn’t there. But I was most concerned for her mind, and I was worried that she might give up. I couldn’t continue without her.

Ben and Sarah arrived at the camp first. They didn’t look pleased with themselves.

“No luck today,” said Ben.

Sarah plopped herself down exhausted beside the fire, her mess of tangled blonde hair evidence of how long we had been outdoors.

“We’re too far from the roads. If we can’t find a road we’re not going to able to find anything,” said Sarah, running her hand through her hair. “God, I’d kill for a bar of soap.”

“You know the roads aren’t safe,” I said.

Ben rubbed his temple. “Well, if we go another day without food we won’t have a choice. It’s find something or starve.”

He was obviously agitated, we all were. I think they were unhappy that I had stayed in camp with Maizy as long as I had. But they were right. When we first took what little gear we could muster and escaped to the woods we had venison for the first few months, then raccoon and rabbits, and then squirrel, and now nothing.

Even before the event I wasn’t much of a meat eater. If it wasn’t for spicy chicken sandwiches I may not have eaten meat at all. But as the climate got colder we noticed the decline in the wildlife around us, and even the trees began to turn gray and slump sorrowfully as the earth beneath them died. It was nearing the point I would eat anything.

“What’s to the north?” I asked looking to Ben.

“There’s a stream, we can follow that,” said Ben. “But we’re going to have to risk the roads eventually to resupply. We can’t go on like this indefinitely.”

I looked over to Maizy. I wasn’t ready to risk it, not yet. We’d be safe out here.

Screaming broke my focus and I panned the trees surrounding us, lifting up an old camp shovel to defend myself.

It was Dan, his bright red jacket stuck out between the green of the dull trees, and he had Marissa in his arms.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 03:17:30 2014 No.4624310

The stories of the Patriarchs certainly possess a plausible historical core. As has already been shown, migrations of nomadic groups across the Ancient Near East were common. Matthews posits that Abraham's migration “indicate[s] that... the Israelites have their origins in Mesopotamia and northern Syria” (BHAI p. 5). Beyond this, there is little that can be conjectured with any level of certainty. Matthews states this difficulty plainly: “...it is not possible to say with confidence that Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Joseph, as well as their wives and children, were real persons. They are shadowy figures as far as historians are concerned and may be composites of several persons or tribal leaders” (p. 4). Currently, it is not even possible to date when these events might have occurred (p. 13). It would seem that the biblical authors themselves were faced with this problem, as the well known anachronism describing Abraham's native land as “Ur of the Chaldees” (Genesis 11:31) betrays.
In the broader context of the Bible that includes the Exodus, the story of the Patriarchs contributes little beyond the distant memory of origin Matthews describes.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 03:18:31 2014 No.4624313

>>4624308

“Jesus, help us!’ He screamed as he weaved through the branches towards camp.

I froze and watched as Ben retrieved an old blanket for Marissa, and Dan laid her down on it. She was shaking, and slick with blood.

“It was an Ambush, man. A goddamn ambush,” cried Dan, his face red and eyes swollen with tears.

I was nearly knocked down as Sarah blew past me with the first aid kit, and fell to her knees, tossing the kit to Ben.

“How did this happen?” asked Ben, his hand on Dan’s shoulder.

Dan ran the back of his bloody hand across his nose, sniffling and in a trembling voice said, “There was a bang, like a bomb went off, and she got hit. Save her, man. Save her.”

There were nails, many bent and rusted, driven into her side from her chin down to her waist. As Sarah and Ben began removing them, Marissa cried out.

“You need to keep her calm,” pleaded Sarah. “They’ve pierced her lungs.”

Dan went quiet, and shut his eyes hard, forcing out tears, and he pulled back Marissa’s bangs, smearing blood across her forehead, and kiss her gently. He whispered that she was going to be okay, that she was going to make it. I had never seen him lie to her before.

She passed out not long after, and Dan kept a vigil with her the rest of the night as she slipped away.

I buried her while the others packed up camp. Her grave had to be shallow because the cold ground was too hard after a few feet. Once the camp was packed we met at her grave and Sarah said a pleasant eulogy, and then we took turns saying something nice about her. I said she was an excellent runner. I should have said something better.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 03:19:31 2014 No.4624314 File: 175 KB, 462x435, 1360379788156.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>4624310 >Ur of the Chaldees >No, UR of the Chaldees >NO U >NO U

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 03:21:33 2014 No.4624316

They're all
so bored with
living and
save themselves to
rupture life's hymen
on eternal bliss;
to bleed away
procreating angels
whoring
suffering ascetic
cigarettes
for cancerous
society's final blow:
Lipstick stains on the
cock and collar
orgasming moans
the final words
of men so
bored with
living.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 03:43:33 2014 No.4624339

Violence:
Wide eyes, gritted teeth. Blood flowing, spraying, bruises exploding onto skin. Bright lights, cracked bone, slashing, stabbing, pulling the trigger once, twice, again, again. Movement, sweat, white hot pain, desperation fuelling the fire. Heartbeats drowning out the screams.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 03:44:32 2014 No.4624340 >>4624339 Just pretend the formatting didn't fuck up there.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 04:24:32 2014 No.4624371

As time swept over the house like sand sweeps over the dunes of the desert, changing their very shape by simply rolling, rolling, and again rolling over them, the house kept changing, changing, and with every sweeping motion changing even just a little bit, until one day naught would be left of it but sand, flowing over itself and disappearing over other dunes in an attempt to change them also.
But for now, the house stood tall as ever, seeming at that moment to be eternal, not affected by the grains of sand that fell, one by one, slowly into the bottom of the hourglass.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 05:39:39 2014 No.4624448

>>4624339
I understand why you try to give it hastiness, and it fits. But your choice of words is just repulsive. It sounds like the lyrics of a deathcore band composed of 18 year olds. Just kind of childish. I think the violence theme gets its strength from more abstract wording, with the title you made clear what it´s all about, so every word, metaphor or similie you use is tainted with association.
Make it a "Rush", a wild hunt, not a stattering stumbling over words who seem to fit.

Don´t just "pull the trigger", make the barrel bite, flesh,skin torn aside.
In my sense violence has something more primal than a gun fight though.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 05:49:39 2014 No.4624462

Amanecía.
Asustadas las sombras intentaban correr, en su inútil intento de escapar a la luz.
Se estiraban en desesperación, arañaban el pavimento con sus largos dedos,
buscando despegarse de sus raíces captoras.
Era mediodía, y las sombras ya cansadas se habían ido encogiendo poco a poco;
resignadas se escondían bajo los cuerpos que las proyectaban.
Más tarde, cuando el astro terrible emprendiera camino a lontananza nuevamente,
se asomarían de a poco, tímidamente, para salir y jugar hasta la vuelta del
amanecer.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 06:14:39 2014 No.4624498

I just recently got into poems (like, three minutes ago) here is one I thought of:

You are the spark that lightens my soul as bright as a star, without you, I am but a fool wandering in a dark.

I know it's bad so a harsh feedback and improvements would be fine, and I mostly came here to learn more about poems and literature, any suggestions on where to start? generally in sounding romantic.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 09:55:34 2014 No.4624756 >>4624498 suck a tit thats what i would do.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 09:59:35 2014 No.4624761

something i'm working on editing right this moment. ideas?
------

<b>crop circles</b>

my wish for life circles
through silver and gold
i never wish to marry though
i'm already a wife living
a life of ditchin'
the husband's cross.
the universe stichin' him
closed the wounds i'd inflicted
in conscription.
as we slip together,
i cool us off too much
it splits bolted hot heads open.

it doesn't happen often
but when it does i make him
go dark and i overshadow the
world. humans look up at me in
awe. they love the idea of
nighttime, the tunes they can
shine when the sun isn't
glaring at them, daring them
to sing something blinding & yellow when
all they want is beautiful, blue and mellow.
to lull them to sleep after
a good long weep after the wolves
ate all their sheep. they're gonna
go hungry, sun, don't you agree?
'who cares' he glares,
though grows grains under the
shield of going westward lest word
got out that he shows affection
to those other than me, his wife to be
until the next election, though he knows
that i am perfection as i make him glow.

------

i'm starting at the top and working down. i know the end needs a lot of help

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 10:19:34 2014 No.4624788

The moon above us held a godly figure. In that moment, it was the only thing which perceived us, yet we remained uncomfortable. Patrice and Sonya lit up the fire as I contemplated the sky and all it held. We sat in a circle around the fire attempting to warm our bodies by throwing our hands at the fire, but quickly drawing them out after slightly burning them. It was fun for a few times, but it made me confused a bit. The fire was well-done and had an elegant touch to it, perhaps a women’s touch you can call it. We sat rubbing our arms together for warmth. I could hear Samantha’s teeth clatter and chatter which was always a massive turn-on for me. I had to hit on her in that instant to force something out of silent Mike.

“Oi, don’t stop the rubbing, Sammy, I’m almost there.”
Cheeky whore only rubbed harder. Mike gave me a strong look with an arrogant smile. We barely talk, but it only takes us a look to get it all out. Little Mike had a little crush on little Samantha a long time ago, but I still keep it mind. Something about making him mad forces a tremendous amount of pleasure on me. He’s not the brightest, but he knows that, and it makes all the difference.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 10:34:34 2014 No.4624804

Turned to his buddy, replied,
"But nobody on 4chan reads, and if they read they do not type."
"Fuck your read," said Gern angrily, "and fuck your type. 4chan cannot be simply-"

No need for anymore words. It was a devilish snake they contended with, no words to be put to it.

"For shame!" said he who did not know the touch of a woman. "We should never have come here in the first place!"
"Aye," said the first, "it is truly an abhorrent place, filled with the land's scorn. Is there no place we can call home?"
"Home in eachother is as good a home as any."

The touches were in someways wonderous taboos forming themselves upon his brow, though for the life of him he could not place where the pleasure was birthed and so did nothing to stem the tide of feels.

"Feels?" said the giant.
"Feels indeed," said the plebeian. "It is where we were conceived, and we shall return to its bosom concurrently.
"Such is the way of post-ironic finger-bait. Shall we await the second dawn?"
"Aye."

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 10:39:35 2014 No.4624810

Seven dead cockroaches,
Nibbling at socks cannot do much against mine own avarice
The world I say!
It shall be yours, said she with eyes a-flutter with the lust of aphrodite.
Cone, cone and triangle, I'm sure it will suffice.
We are scientists! No cones, no triangles! Trinkets and rulers!
No more must cometh, no more.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 11:06:34 2014 No.4624838 >>4624810 If tongue-in-check, admirably recondite and allusive. If sincere, overstuffed and distractingly archaic.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 11:46:44 2014 No.4624929

enigmas thrashing

defragmented & systematically
augmented, a lost cause weeps
for months lost. format me,
i got a chip on my
shoulder blades are less
sharp than they were
once upon a time, sun, you
made me fill with water,
i drink only for you
to heal me with blue.

i got a retrovirus —
mrsa killed me as
a heterovirus filled me
up again.

i’m an agent of latent
colors left out blatantly in
the sun. i’m a daughter
of the moon and a son
of yellow shinings.
-------

please help with this one?

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 15:12:15 2014 No.4625463 >>4624756 Yes sir.

DJ Orwell !!BK/RnzYxLVZ Mon Mar 3 15:19:46 2014 No.4625486

>>4623130
>>4624193

It's a paragraph from a prologue.

You can read it here: https://www.dropbox.com/s/wyuo5t84qo2ip1t/Prologue.pdf

Or you can listen to it here: https://www.dropbox.com/s/rzubnigazvfz2n1/Prologue.mp3

Would appreciate any comments or criticism!

>>	DJ Orwell !!BK/RnzYxLVZ Mon Mar 3 15:29:46 2014 No.4625513 >>4623926 So basically you badly quoted one of the Toy Story movies. Cool. Pixar had existentialist dread and disaffection right on.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 15:52:46 2014 No.4625557 File: 11 KB, 221x228, opinion.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>4623980 Note: Inspired by actual dialogue between me and my borderline personality disorder affected ex-girlfriend. Of course it was fucking edgy you mongoloid.

Short story, just for fun. The goal was to incorporate a pot, a pretzel and a butterfly Anonymous Mon Mar 3 15:57:46 2014 No.4625568

A butterfly flew into my window one day as I was cooking a pot of stew. He said to me,
“Hey buddy, what are you doing?”, to which I replied,
“Oh well I’m making stew for my family.” the butterfly looked confused,
“But doesn’t stew take several hours to cook on a low simmer? It doesn’t really need tending to, I mean, it just seems inefficient. My name is Jeff by the way, Jeff Grid.”
As Jeff became confused, I too grew confused. How could a butterfly express confusion through facial expression, their faces are too tiny for that, and how could they communicate these emotions through social nuances of verbal communication? It was beyond me. He was right though. I was wasting my time standing in front of the stove watching the viscous liquid boil, slide and shift under the surface of the glass.
I finally broke the silence, “Look, I’m sorry, I just don’t feel comfortable.. You’re a butterfly, I’m…. not. I just don’t think that this is going to work out. I mean, I’m not even wearing any pants.”
“Well, would you look at that.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just- it’s just not a good time. I mean you flutter in, questioning my stew making abilities, and expected something to happen, but I’m just not feeling it.”
“No, I understand, it was rude of me. I feel bad now, can I make it up to you in anyway?”
“I appreciate it, but I think it would be for the best if you just left for now.”
So Jeff flew away, and I served the stew to my family that night. The next day there was a knock on the door, when I opened the door, there was a pretzel, on the back of it, written in tiny mustard butterfly letters was a note. It said,
I’m sorry
-Jeff
I never saw Jeff again. A few months later I saw his name in the obituaries, monarch butterflies have a life cycle of only about nine months. I’ll never forget Jeff, he was a true friend.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 16:12:47 2014 No.4625604 >>4624788 What do you think, people? Is it worth continuing?

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 16:22:47 2014 No.4625630 >>4624788 It seems a bit odd, I'm not too sure what you're trying to achieve here. I feel like it's a bit all over the place.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 16:25:48 2014 No.4625637 >>4625630 What ideas should I peruse, among the ones mentioned? I know I'm all over the place, but I don't like to dwell.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 16:25:48 2014 No.4625639
File: 20 KB, 260x165, catbreathing.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>4625604
>>4624788

>The moon above us held a godly figure

Held a godly figure? Was it holding or resembling a god? I assume you mean "the moon was like/was a god"

>yet we remained uncomfortable

I would get rid of that, it isn't necessary IMO

>all it held

You sure like holding thing. I get your sentiment, replace this word with something better like "contained" or anything else.

> Patrice and Sonya lit up the fire as I contemplated the sky and all it held. We sat in a circle around the fire attempting to warm our bodies by throwing our hands at the fire, but quickly drawing them out after slightly burning them.

Patrice and Sonya lit the fire as I contemplated the sky and all that it contained. We sat in a circle around the fire trying to warm our bodies. We threw our hands at the fire, drawing them back whenever we felt we would burn them. >It was fun for a few times, but it made me confused a bit. The fire was well-done and had an elegant touch to it, perhaps a women’s touch you can call it. We sat rubbing our arms together for warmth. (Scrap that, it doesn't make sense, nor does it sound intelligent. Nobody rubs arms together too. Also, why would they rub their hands together if the fire was so big and hot that it kept the whole crew warm? Maybe you should detail how cold it really was outside. Was it snowing? Was it in the Arctic?)

Are you Australian? lol

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 16:29:47 2014 No.4625644

The fallen leaves came across the fairway fleeing the wind, stampeding like beautiful creatures. Thousands, such innumerable thousands, and flighty as the herds of the plain that mimicked them. Flying the endless colors of desiccation they charged upon hole-5, a long, broad straightaway, and as the wind tired they tired and when its screech came they broke once more into frenzied life. They eddied like gulls and scattered like antelope, they leapt and tumbled and swirled about one another in that rich chaos beneath a clear winter sun. The nervous chorus that accompanied their migration was the sound of them shattering against the very hard ground and the air rattled and seethed with it. You stand upon the shore, Domingo; you stand upon the savannah and amidst the tempest. They could not be called dead when the wind took them. His practice swing was fluid and subdued for it was there that he considered his form, careful to swipe the grass only lightly. You must never gouge the earth on a practice swing. The pocked, white ball sat engulfed within the passing leaves as though beneath the surface of a river, stark in its motionlessness, waiting for him, moving only with his consent. They were going the same way as the leaves, but at his pace, not the wind’s. The drive had not gone as far as it would have once, but it had flown clean and landed where he knew it would. Veins that knew their routes well charted hands that couched the 4-iron in their calloused groove, feeling it through the grip with a phantom knowing. Two shuffling steps so he stood before the ball. The wind was screaming, hectoring them on, but Domingo made it wait a moment longer. The leaves are like a river; yes, exactly like a river. Or a stampede. His swing was clean and its music ruled the moment. An avian rush that produced a resounding crack midway along its flight. He allowed himself to look. Riding the wind, his white speck floated through the blue and barren sky, descended steeply, bounced twice, then settled neatly on the green near enough to the flag. He nodded twice and shouldered his bag.

Too purple?

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 16:34:47 2014 No.4625651

>>4625639
>godly figure
I meant that it was the only one beside the characters there, and it was huge like wow

>holding
Yes, you're right.

>rubbing
By rubbing arms, I meant pic related. I do it, and I think most people do so as well when they're cold. I used the wrong expression probably. Language isn't my first English.

>Australian
No, but I met a couple of Australian women a few months ago, if that counts.

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 16:37:48 2014 No.4625658

>>4620094
In Kilmainham Courtyard Eire brings the Cup to his Lips
He stood proud and tired
Between those four stone walls
And before those men had fired

In that sprawling garden
There came an apparition
A land that seemed so far then

Her eyes with time worn loving
Her limbs thin with rebellion
Then his red lips curving

Along chains that soaked her skin
In a pale smile round the cup
He sinned the sunlight in

Eyes wet with disapproval
She boxed him round the ear
He still thought her beautiful

He wrote of blood and guts and all
Though knew of these things none
But as he lay in lime and stone
She rose up as the sun

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 16:37:48 2014 No.4625659
File: 115 KB, 653x490, feelintothesunset.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>4625644

It helped me expand my vocabulary. I appreciate the word "desiccation" in this context. "Dry colors" is really great Fall imagery.

"They could not be called dead when the wind took them" was very beautiful as well.

I shifted my focus from the wind, to the ball, to the 4-iron. But the wind remained the primary subject. Some would call it superfluous, but this was the most beautiful way to describe a drive unto the green I have ever read. For me, if I have to stop and visualize the world that the writing it trying to convey, the writer did a great job.

;tldr

You have a talent for vivid imagery.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 16:41:48 2014 No.4625666 >>4625658 That initial line is the title

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 16:54:47 2014 No.4625684
File: 66 KB, 800x560, shitty essay.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Trying to get into essay writing for a bit of practice. Here's my first attempt at an essay. It's not finished. I think it's pretty bad though.

>>4620703
>Are you a water-chip?

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 20:53:34 2014 No.4626398

Hi, first time ever posting on /lit/. This is just the beginning of a short story I've been working on. Be as harsh as you wish.

Nobody, not even the hardest mutts in Glesga, could stand the interrogation room. It was nothing, really; just four walls of cracked plaster. In its center was a pair of plastic lawn chairs that groaned when you sat on them. A flickering 230-volt bulb hung from the ceiling. It lit the small space adequately. An unremarkable room it was, really; except for the door. A steel-banded slab of driftwood, held fast by two rusting hinges, separated the interrogation room from the basement of the police house.
Officer Fergus lay prostrate on the tough ground of the interrogation room, waiting for the suspect to be brought in. He was the only guy he knew who ever liked the room; at least, he though that he liked the room. Maybe he had just gotten used to it after a while. What Fergus did know, though, was that he liked the smell. The scents of ancient brick, mildew, and blood came together nicely.
“Oi!” barked an unfamiliar voice from the other side of the door, “open up!”
“Shut your gabber, Killy!” bellowed Fergus in a stupor. Lurching to his feet, he reached into his jacket pocket and plucked out an iron key. “I was ‘avin a good nap ‘til you showed, shoutin’ at me about ‘openin’ up’ like I were your doorman.”
“Who’re ye talking to, Fergie? Just lemme in, I’ve got Good Boy out here.”
With a practiced flourish, Fergus slid the iron key into the door’s padlock and twisted, hard, yanking the heavy door inward. By the dim light emanating from braziers along the basement walls, he could make out Officer Killy standing before the threshold. A stout young man in ill-fitting civilian clothes, Officer Killy always looked to Fergus as if he were about to spill his nerves all over. Beside him sat Good Boy.
“So,” Fergus mused, “this is the Good Boy?”
“Folks like to call ‘im ‘Fido,’” replied Killy with characteristic zeal. “I think it suits ‘im!”

i've reviewed now you review, yes. yes? Anonymous Mon Mar 3 20:59:34 2014 No.4626413

the selection committee appointed you to behead me. you usually dread seeing me but today your gray hair popped in early after smokin’ a joint and using the company gym to get the adrenaline pumpin’, surely.
burly men get me hot & i got memories of the times you’d lick my tangy clit. at least i know i’ll go down with a bang and a nice slit - ‘cross my throat that is.

man, this is some miserable shit. i’ll serenade you with it beforehand all delusional, get your ax hot and heavy so it’ll land unafraid per usual.
i guess i wish i’d stayed in bed that day they decided i only led to trouble, but that’s a story i may have to delay. sorry folks, i need another double! and maybe a few more tokes, but i’m broke and you’d never smoke me out.
i’d lay there and pout and you’d say ‘hey baby you gotta put out first, i’m about to burst!’ then you’d press your lit cigarette against my thigh and i’d sigh and show you my tits.
and it’s too bad i gotta die but at least you’ll be the one to kill me. you were such a catch, you lech, but you know you still thrill me.

'i'll see you in hell', i say in my vex voice (you hate that), then whisper again in your ear, as my final words, with my sex moist.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 21:00:34 2014 No.4626416 ey baby i no u mrried now but if u wana suck my cock sometim let me no i love u

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 21:03:34 2014 No.4626421 >>4626416 0/0

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 21:04:34 2014 No.4626424 >>4626421 so i shoudnt send

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 21:07:34 2014 No.4626427 >>4626424 well you did get full points, A+??

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 3 23:52:25 2014 No.4626852 >>4623166 I-is it acceptable to bump a post that wasn't critiqued? Cause I'm doing that

Anonymous Mon Mar 3 23:57:25 2014 No.4626867

>>4623166
reads like a mytho-detective story at first but then it got me giggling. i'm not sure if all of the facts are correct or whatever, but i really enjoyed it for what it was. no real things to complain about.

do mine?
>>4625568

i have a few poems in here too but everyone hates poems apparently.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 00:05:26 2014 No.4626881 Has /lit/ written anything epic-like? Length-wise, not in quality. I'm about 5,000 words in, and it's starting to get hard to organize/keep track. Help would be appreciated.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 01:33:26 2014 No.4627139 more critiquing should be happening here. i've done my fair share and would like others who've posted their work to help out their wound up writers.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 02:06:36 2014 No.4627189

I've never felt smaller
so little to compare,
to adjust my senses
as my neck cranes upwards.

Mouth agape, pupils endless,
with no loss percieved
and no knowledge gained
in this vanity of my sanity.

And the truth turns round
endless in motion
no lies here, no commotion
sure-footed steps marching.

And I realize now
that what I feel
is the only thing that is real
science and logic be damned

I know not where I stand,
but I do know that I know not
the gist of life's great plot
and I am not special or grand.

There's comfort, there,
in this humble agreement
in which I lack the wit
to concieve it.

And when I die
I will be as I was,
hopeless, swaddled,
with hope in the sky.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 02:24:06 2014 No.4627229 >>4620094 what if seinfeld was depressed your style is overlong

DJ Orwell !!BK/RnzYxLVZ Tue Mar 4 03:41:25 2014 No.4627366

>>4627139

I'd like to, but a lot of what's being posted right now is either poetry / lyrics (which I can't really care for unless set to music, since most poetry and especially what I'm seeing here is too sentimental to stand on its own), or really experimental fiction-bursts with horrible formatting which repels me, or just... really bad shit, that I can't find any constructive way to critique since the whole of it is more or less irredeemable.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 04:24:58 2014 No.4627414

He didn't really like bars. In his 30 odd years of life, he'd never acquired the taste for them, as so many others tend to do. They get caught in the back of his throat and filled his nostrils, making him sick and irritable. Tonight, that didn't matter. He was feeling too healthy for his own good lately.
The bar was clean, but freshly so. The perspiration on the surface of the waxed wood was uncomfortable. No one wants to rest their arms in moisture, at least not before they get a few drinks in. He'd wished it'd been a little sticky, rather than so clean. He could just about see his reflection in the grain and he wasn't prepared for it.

2angsty?

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 04:26:58 2014 No.4627418 >>4620349 >>4623166 >>4624804 i'd very much like to hear more

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 16:13:38 2014 No.4628652

I'm a hack shit writer, so I did this in about a minute with my eyes closed trying to break through writer's block. Tell me how to improve/kill myself.

...

He couldn't believe how greatly he'd scored.

The logs came at him like wave of fire, burning though the grid with the brightness and intensity of liquid supernova. The cache was undoubtedly valuable, lifted directly from Mitsuyuba's primary datacore. Project research. Keycodes. Bio-metric data on employees. A veritable treasure trove of information any corporate competitor would value more than life itself.

Fortune. That's what his mind now fixed on. How quickly would Mitsuyuba unleash its hounds? Seek to take back that which he stole? It didn't matter. By this time next week, the currency account made in his name would be large enough to hire a whole host of guards. He'd bounce out, decked for first-class on some hot suborbital towards the relay station. One quick jump and he'd be gone, outbound on a colonial flight, never to return. They couldn't touch him out there. The militias wouldn't have it.

Fuck you, Earth, he thought, with a certain smile of satisfaction painted across his face. The place of his birth, his prison of youth, would soon be behind him. A burnt-out cinder floating dead in the cosmos. A mere footnote from his past.

"Reyes, it's me. Open up," someone said outside the interface pod. A woman's voice.

"Fuck you, cunt. I'm working here." He hadn't meant to say it that way, but those were the words which elected to come out in his breathless moment of revelry.

A loud thud on the side of the pod. A boot. Maylin's boot.

Shit.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 16:35:38 2014 No.4628738 >>4620094 http://pastebin.com/JdBb6NpR Here's a cyber-punk story I'm considering expanding into a novella.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 16:36:38 2014 No.4628740

>>4627414
Nah it's not angsty. If he hates bars though, it'd be better if that was consistent rather than changing based upon how clean the bar is. That just makes him look like a gay prude.

Better to be like "I hate bars, but fuck it, because I'm in a bad mood and I don't care." Extrapolate that somehow.

"He hated bars. In his thirty-odd years of life, he'd never acquired a taste for them. Something about the way they moved. That stench, that dead atmosphere. It filled his nose and burned his throat. Caused the bile to rise up in side. There was a certain tinge of contempt he felt for the people there, knowing none of them came voluntarily. Bars were merely their refuge. Shelters built specially for the weak and pathetic. People who chose to dull their senses in an attempt to hide from problems and everyday personal insecurities.

He was above them. Beyond their uncontrolled decadence. His presence there was merely proof of his own obvious superiority. What problems he had were firmly under control. He wasn't like the rest of these poor fools."

Something like that, where he hates the place and hates himself, but tries to play it off like he's better than everyone while attempting to mask his own insecurity.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 18:47:08 2014 No.4629332

>>4628652
>He couldn't believe how
You can think of a better way to say this.
>A veritable treasure trove of information any corporate competitor would value more than life itself.
Get rid of "a veritable treasure trove." If you're going to do exposition, then make it more concrete. "A corporate competitor would x,y,z"
Lots of cliche phrases "than life itself." Try to purge these from your writing.
>a certain smile of satisfaction
What variety of satisfaction exactly? You're deferring description that could be interesting.
>which elected to come out
This is nonsense.

I think this'll really help you:
http://litreactor.com/essays/chuck-palahniuk/nuts-and-bolts-%E2%80%9Cthought%E2%80%9D-verbs

>>4628738
Any takers?

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 18:52:57 2014 No.4629357 two fingers without a ring painted nails with every colour for twenty minutes my heart sings while she keeps my very last dollar

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 18:55:58 2014 No.4629375

I am thinking about suicide. But don't worry, I can't hurt myself; I've tried before with a knife (classic way to go out), but my atrophied muscles couldn't muster up the strength to drive the knife into my pale belly. Now the only remnant I have of that incident is a shirt with many lined holes.
I am sick. I am very, very sick. People do not look at me and see a person, or even a monster. They see a boy who has given up on life.
These geese are staring. One is stretching.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 19:22:56 2014 No.4629485 Niggers all around me, In the dark, Glistening, blood-thirsty, taking, taking without Giving a shit but their own shits, aids, poverty, Everyone suffers as long as niggers Riot and rave, raping the pure and virtuous, Xenophobic xylophone.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 19:32:56 2014 No.4629527 Has there ever been a /lit/ short story competition? It would be pretty cool, even without designating a winner.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 19:40:56 2014 No.4629548

re:7

early may flowers were just beginning their wilting days when he strangled me until i forgot to try and breathe again. my last supper was still stewing in my intestines; he wanted to chew them up while they lay strewn in my belly. he wanted my magic, and i wanted to tell him that it didn’t quite work that way but i was dead so it was not quite happening. the sun fell into the trench of a null wave.

we were in a place where the laws of silver were all that was at stake. we were scared because bad ones lived here and we thought we were good but we were not. we killed and gave birth a million times in a second; saturn devoured me out and about and when i came i became we and we became devoted to manic moon magic and the spinning of gaia.

shadows of meadows of yore flung into cells where sickly shadows were imprisoned for centuries. our mother was satan and our father was pan but we were the only thing that had gathered for aeons. it’s a mess of dress up plays set in places that never existed or even wanted to. the underworld became our temple and it preempted the outerworld of which we threw up in.

shackled by guilt of things that never mattered we set about a journey to go back into our house near the sun that burnt out the moment i died (there was still an “i” at that point near that pond we were dumped in). while sowing rotten apples on this cottonwood farm, lace pebbles grow into spider stones for little girls to eat. you tread upon dead ground where a flower forgot to ride here. it dies still and stopped hoping to have a drink of fluoride water. you were trapped in the underworld, upon a granite alter, where you galvanize the things i steal. with gall before my eyes, we withdraw behind tired lies…

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 19:42:57 2014 No.4629556

feelings in late August--

curls and cuts of leaf-like fabric
poke from the tree stumps brown.
a mist surrounds it all.

everything is bound to autumn:
the final bath in menstrual blood--
the dark forbidden glitter

when lovers consummate.--
tongues tremble in another’s mouth,
moaning; they close their eyes and die;
whiteness completely surrounds them.

I alone sit by tree stumps and watch this,
playing my lonely flute songs

and the vegetation now becomes red and brown.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 19:44:57 2014 No.4629562 Dear God. Everything in this thread is utter shit.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 19:48:57 2014 No.4629576 >>4629562 post something that isn't, then.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 20:04:57 2014 No.4629624
File: 32 KB, 438x392, original-1.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>Antagonist, Smith, is speaking to the protagonist on their third meeting, discussing his motivations.

“There is no joy in taking lives, son” Smith responded, billowing smoke wafting from his lips as he spoke, shrouding his face in a brume, “You may see me differently, reasonably so, but I am no monster, but an advocate. I stand for the people, because they are either too frail or unwilling to stand for themselves. They shake their fists, hoping to start a hurricane but merely tire their arms. So they live with prejudice, and like the fox with his grapes, they convince themselves that the world they have is the world they want.”

With each inhale, there was a fleeting glimpse of his face in the burning tar. I memorized all that I could. He was older, certainly, perhaps early 60s. Bad teeth and overall stench proved him weak to vices of smoke and drink, just like his friend Donovan. A passing silhouette of his face showed either bald or slicked back hair, perhaps even in a braid of some sort. No scars, no marks, and the world’s most anonymous beard. There wasn’t a fucking thing I could use.

Smug son of a bitch knew it, too.

“I am not motivated by conflicts of ideology, or something so fleeting as revenge. My vendetta is not a personal one, but universal. The world is objectively improved without their blight. We all pay for our sins, Donovan. Even you. Even I. It is a necessary evil, one that shelters from another like scum on a cesspool. If we allow these miscreants life, we take on their demons. And we will not survive. So I decided to use mine while I still can. Today is not my last. But for him, it is a countdown.”

“And you think you have that authority? You think you can determine whether a man lives or dies?”

“Yes,” was all he said in response.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 20:17:57 2014 No.4629656 File: 238 KB, 1190x1688, accordiononepage.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 20:31:57 2014 No.4629703 >>4629562 hahahahahaha, nothing is better than someone ripping apart others for looking to make there work better. Guess your balls haven't dropped yet by the way in which you snicker from the side-lines.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 20:32:57 2014 No.4629705 >>4629703 and yes, their, I know. Don't bother.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 20:40:57 2014 No.4629750 You are quite right, sir. I did have a good snicker at your expense.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 20:42:58 2014 No.4629765

>>4627189
Seems like you wrote this without thinking about it. Too disorganized and without a clear meaning.

>>4626413
Why?

>>4625658
I didn't get any real emotion out of this. It reads like a sterile hospital, with the tange of disinfectant in your prose. Though I think you can work on it, I couldn't say in descript terms how.

>>4625644
You ask if this is too purple, but I don't think that is the the problem. It's that this lovely prose does nothing but reads nicely. I feel no other thought than you tried to impress me.

>>4625568
I have no idea why I like this, but I do.

>>4624929
The only help I can see with this is to stop trying so hard. As I see it, a poem is the concise expression of feeling through words. I have no idea what you're feeling, here, other than inexperience and bull-headed audacity.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 20:47:58 2014 No.4629780 >>4629750 How very petty of you, but if you feel self-worth through the degradation of others, well then that's your problem. Good luck with that.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 20:50:57 2014 No.4629788 It's just what I'm reading, by and large, is not very good. Why is that so painful to you? Here's a tip: learn to self-criticize so you don't get butthurt.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 20:53:57 2014 No.4629808 >>4629765 >Why? because it's hella hot and reminiscent of brazil.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 20:57:57 2014 No.4629831 >>4629808 Shit, if this is a real opinion then fair enough.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:02:57 2014 No.4629849

>>4629788

Way to make valid points on making what has been posted better in your opinion. Learn to criticize, because, from what I've seen, it's you that is butthurt. Your comments aren't painful to me in the way you think. It pains me that someome can be so full of spite and cinicism that they have to lash out in a forum such as this. It pains me that we live in a world where projecting negative feedback for the sake of feeling superior is a valid option. It's not that what is posted is great, that's the point of posting, to get better. I guess you're too good for that, though.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:03:52 2014 No.4629854 >>4629831 yeah that's what i was going for. that feeling when you watch the end of brazil and you're all "aha!"

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:08:51 2014 No.4629874 >>4629854 I have to ask, then, why the appalling grammar? Is this for a reason? I get the vibe, not the delivery.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:11:51 2014 No.4629884

Behind her, the noise escalated: Unintelligible shouting, the sound of a fist hitting flesh, glass shattering. With a smile on her face, she walked briskly to escape the din.

Sarah knew she had escalated the situation. It scared her, but deep inside, she was satisfied. These men fought over her. She had power of them, influencing their emotions with nothing more than a look and a single utterance: I love him more.

She felt compelled to cause pain everywhere she went. It was a sickness. Sarah found herself unable to sleep at night if she hadn't been eyed covetously by a beautiful person at some point during the day. She needed to see the blink of an LED on her cellphone, a reminder of the stream of messages professing love and affection.

It all started when she was a girl. From the age of five, she was constantly reminded of her beauty and its evil power. Sarah found that a fluttering of her eyelashes or a bashful curtsy would give her any treat she wanted. Her classmates fought one another to claim her friendship. Even to be close to Sarah was a joy for them. At first, she didn't encourage such behavior. However, what began as an incidental power became a hobby, and soon thereafter, an occupation. To be wanted was Sarah's only goal in life.

Sarah often thought about her conquests of the human soul. She remembered her fourth grade classmate Daniel, her first 'boyfriend'. She enjoyed seeing his beaming face when she spoke to him kindly, but the visible heartbreak she inflicted by simply ignoring him brought her even more pleasure. She knew Daniel was caught in her web. He allowed himself to be broken and built back up repeatedly. The rare moments of affection made him endure her treatment.

She thought about Janice, a young lesbian who thought she had found a partner in a sea of pubescent confusion. Sarah would often invite Janice to quiet, secluded spots in the woods with promises of sexual promiscuity. Sarah, having no particular inclination towards any sexual orientation, would berate Janice in these secret places. She would call Janice a freak and a weirdo and an evil little girl. She threatened to tell the whole school of their trysts. Janice, inevitably in tears, would beg Sarah for a reprieve, promising to do whatever the beautiful sadist wanted of her. Sarah would suddenly change her mood and allow Janice to partake in her, drying her tears and once again filling her with false hope. This process was repeated for years until Janice decided to end her life.

Sarah's entire reason for being was to be wanted and to hurt those that wanted her.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:14:51 2014 No.4629895 >>4629874 you're supposed to read it hecka fast. like this: http://vocaroo.com/i/s0ToTSRZ9WGs

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:28:51 2014 No.4629948 >>4629895 But the medium still exists, The pauses are punctuation. Why the disregard?

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:29:52 2014 No.4629953 >>4629948 i don't want commas holding shit up. i mean she's about to die for christ's sake.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:33:52 2014 No.4629967
File: 32 KB, 720x306, bmw.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Birth

The hazard lights of a new silver 1986 BMW 535is blink intermittently as a soft mist falls from the overcast sky. The car is parked haphazardly on the shoulder of an interstate just outside of Philadelphia with its rear passenger side door open and no occupants inside. The owners of the car, Alexis and Marjorie Clairaut, are in the patch of brownish grass between the car and the highway’s noise reduction wall. Marjorie lays on her back in labor atop one of her husband’s sport coats as Alexis attempts to coach her through the birthing process.

He’s not good at calming her.

She keeps pushing and he continues reminding her to breathe but in a tone far more panicked than reassuring. Every few seconds he looks over his shoulder toward the road with a look of desperation for the paramedics he’d phoned 20 minutes prior to arrive. Marjorie notices his apprehension even with all the pain she is in and tells him to focus on her.

The cervix is fully dilated now.

Alexis is even more panicked than before and yells for her to push harder. He glances behind himself again and can see red blinking lights in the distance and the faint wail of a siren. Marjorie gives an extremely forceful push which results fetal expulsion. The child’s wailing cries match the ambulance siren as gets ever closer to the couple and their son. Alexis looks at the child whose face shows distress and fear but whose eyes seem almost steely and disaffected.

Marjorie calls to Alexis.

He brings the child closer for her to see, minding not to stretch the umbilical cord. She looks at the boy with intense serenity in her face but Alexis notices her head wobbling slightly as if she will pass out at any moment.

The ambulance arrives and paramedics rush toward them.

Marjorie’s eyes are rolling around and her eyelids are drooping as she fades in and out of consciousness. Alexis tries to bring his wife back to lucidity by grasping her shoulder.

“Marjorie?” he says.

Her attention returns to Alexis and she replies only “Sécuriser Claude” (Keep Claude safe.) as she faints. The paramedics arrive and begin to check the child for physical maladies while Alexis stares vacantly at his motionless wife.

The hazard lights continue to blink indifferently.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:41:52 2014 No.4629990

He thought, softly, as to what it'd be like. To have that smile that shines and soothes and comforts a wild spirit such as her.

But he lacked such passion.

The feeling existed, his pressing erection against the zipper of his pants condoned the truth of such though. She tantalized, with her eyes flashing under mascara and push-up bra, but what did he feel? Was it true, was it real?

Did it matter?

She left him weeks ago, Rachel, with a wild suddeness that left him weak. Valid words she spoke upon her departure made the rift evermore wide. He should forget.

But Rachel crept behind this new girls eyes, and every sentence she spoke was compared and scrutinized to what he has heard before. Such sweet syllabols ringing out over their overpriced pasta and two glasses of wine that you could find at any 24 hour liqour store.

He didn't care, though. What he saw in her, what she saw in him, nothing mattered. There was only the feeling, the lustful pressure below, to ease progress of conversation, despite the lack of interest.

And maybe this was the reason why, in Rachel's eye, she had left. Did anything matter besides the uncomfortable pressure down below, with release as it's final gratification?

He decided it did not matter. Not now, not here, Not as others dined in their selfish bravado, displaying what he lost, no, what he was robbed of.

Rachel.

Her name was hers, and nothing mattered after that.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:44:51 2014 No.4630004

>>4629953

The lack of proper grammar holds you back, in my opinion. You can still convey urgency through long and verbose sentences, but when you display your work in this amatuerish way it negates the form in which your trying to display and leaves in it's wake doubt of validity.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:46:51 2014 No.4630010 >>4630004 all i do is break the rules. learn the tools, fuck the schools.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:46:51 2014 No.4630012

>>4629953
Your experiment in punctuation is a failure. Correctly placed commas don't actually slow down the text. If grammar is done passably, then it actually makes the text read seamlessly because they que slight rests in the text that let your working memory process, and we're used to these ques. When they're not there, you end up stopping a lot more, reading more slowly, because all the modification piles up and the conventions have been lifted. If you want things to move fast, use simple, short sentences, that can be processed quickly.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 21:48:51 2014 No.4630018 >>4630012 run along, i'm a run on sentence sentenced to death.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:00:51 2014 No.4630055 >>4630010 >>4630018 A real Hart Crane, aren't you.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:01:51 2014 No.4630059

(This was farted out late one night. It isn't part of anything larger I'm working on, there was just a frozen moment from my memory hanging around in my mind and I wanted to let go of it so yeah here it is):

Young man, a recently-returned veteran of armed conflict.
Young woman, more a girl. They are married but soon they will part ways with empty hearts.
Apartment, small and old. Dimly lit. Gray morning light creeping through curtains, unsure of itself.
He is sitting on an old sofa. It is green and made of frieze. A decorative sheet covers it preventing further rip and ruin by the claws of their two small cats- sisters. Pretty things.
Leaning forward, elbows on the coffee table with left hand clasping right fist. Knuckles white. Hands meet the forehead and his face is cold stoicism fending away the anguish encroaching.
Dust dancing on the beams. The moment hangs and it will stay with him, asserting itself when it serves well to remember.
Her cast shadow envelops him. She stands in front of the man, beyond the table. The floor is smooth wood. Her naked feet are cold. She wears soft garments meant for sleep. An expression of confused hurt is framed in flowing blonde hair darkened in the absence of sun.
Through the window, evergreen. The trees surround and though he will leave tomorrow and never return he will know they remain and somehow the thought brings comfort always. Outside the city sounds fill damp air. Streets are busy with people who are all silent.
Time begins shifting. Sharply this memory takes root.
Young man moves to raise his head. The lovers' eyes meet. The lovers' hearts swell with sudden knowledge that hope is lost to them.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:13:51 2014 No.4630083 >>4629765 Could you please expand on what specific aspect(s) of >>4625644 left you cold?

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:15:51 2014 No.4630089 >>4630055 >Hart Crane don't be rude.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:16:51 2014 No.4630092 >>4630083 Your words read well, but it seems like an over-description of the meaningless. This is most likely due to the fact that this is a larger work. Don't take this criticism to harshly, I don't know what you're tryin gto accomplish

>>	Guru !M2clACoxQA Tue Mar 4 22:18:51 2014 No.4630099 >>4629895 I actually enjoyed the poem which was read, was it from someone in this thread?

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:20:51 2014 No.4630106 >>4630099 it was from me, the person who read it?? lady whose tumblr you were confused about.

>>	Guru !M2clACoxQA Tue Mar 4 22:22:51 2014 No.4630112 >>4630106 I suppose somethings sound better when read? Not sure, enjoyable!

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:22:52 2014 No.4630114 >>4630106 Why did you write it? What pursuaded you to make these words? And in such an anti-establishment vibe of 'I don't care', an interesting approach.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:24:52 2014 No.4630119 >>4630106 I'm still hung up on the grammar of this. The why makes me wonder.

>>	Guru !M2clACoxQA Tue Mar 4 22:28:51 2014 No.4630129 >>4630106 Tumblr, would you read one of mine?

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:30:51 2014 No.4630135

>>4630092
Not at all, I appreciate your candor.

The piece is an introduction to a short story I am working on, the central theme of which is the golfer (Domingo) and his relationship to the natural world. Specifically, how he sees himself to be superior to and exempt from the strictures of nature. To that effect I thought a good way to introduce both the character and that motif would be through kind of a fluid transition from the wind to his swing.

I would be interested to know if you though the paragraph made sense given this context.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:33:51 2014 No.4630146

>>4630112
most things do, imo. and thanks. i'll read one of yours but i have had 12 shots of espresso today and am in a glowy headspace.

>>4630114
i was thinking about the film brazil and was high and annoyed about some past experience or something.

read re:7 and review it for me. it's of the same vein.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 22:37:52 2014 No.4630155

Ho ho! Good day to you sir!
I see you have taken an interest in my cauliflower!
Have you ever laid eyes on anything as ludicrously satisfying?
Why, this cauliflower has brought me only the best things
What's that? You'd like to hold my cauliflower?
I'd be rather opposed to your request thank you very much sir and I think you must be on your way.

Guru !M2clACoxQA Tue Mar 4 22:55:52 2014 No.4630211

>>4630146
Alright, here goes nothing.

It only takes a moment
for me to collapse into tears
and you wrap me up
in your arms and I
want to take my sweater off
so I can feel your scars pressing on
my back
and you mutter things to make me
stop crying
and I don't know if you mean them
when we pull away I can't look
at you directly
I keep bowing my head
I can feel
your frustration
you have your own problems
you don't want to take care of me
like a child
but you do anyways
to look the way honey tastes
so later I can fall into your bed
or onto your floor
and you quell my suspicions
by pretending you don't want that
but there's a hunger in your
movements
your hand lingers too long
truthfully
I would like to fall into your bed
or onto your floor
but I want some other things to
which you can not grant me

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 23:01:51 2014 No.4630226 >>4630211 i don't read the poems first or listen to the recordings ever. here you go, have at it: http://vocaroo.com/i/s0EgQGz5yyXO

>>	Guru !M2clACoxQA Tue Mar 4 23:07:51 2014 No.4630240 >>4630226 Thank you kindly. It's nice to hear it in a different voice/style than my own.

Anonymous Tue Mar 4 23:15:51 2014 No.4630256

I have been having some weird dreams lately. I'll just write what I see.

And in an instant I was back in that place. It was the second night I saw it, but this time it was so empty. Except for the chairs, which would always remain there. Yet despite its emptiness, it seemed smaller. It is almost like the lack of people somehow emphasized its more dull points; I could see the clear plastic at the base of the walls, and even though I was standing at the back I could clearly see the front of the room. The arrangement of the chairs all pointed to a single one in the center, amplifying it in my eyes like a telescope or a fish might see. So many things had occurred in that room, so many memories made. The director had often sat in that center chair as he tutored us in the ways of music. When we worked, we stopped being individuals.

Out of the corner of my eye I could tell there was something lurking. I turned to face it, only to come to face a girl from my past. "You came back for us!" she exclaimed as she put her arms around my neck. "You remembered." Her smile was brighter than I remembered, and her blond hair had an unnatural otherworldly sheen to it.

I gave her the change in my pocket, which was only a few small coins. "You know I'll always love you." she said as we looked into each others eyes. But when I looked into her eyes I saw nothing. "I'll always love you all too." I reply. She was a strange creature, an abstraction. I wasn't talking to that phantom, but all the

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 4 23:16:51 2014 No.4630265 >>4630256 people I met in that room. But they are gone now. Please help me figure this out, /lit/. I'm a goddamn wreck that can't sleep. What the fuck does this all mean?

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 00:46:17 2014 No.4630481 >>4630135 It does, but at the same time the context must be present in its original form. You don't have the luxury of explaining your thought process to the reader other than the words you write.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 00:47:17 2014 No.4630490 >>4630265 Dreams are meaningless. Not because they have no meaning, but because whatever meaning they hold cannot be comprehended. Don't waste your time on actual interpretation. Inspiration, on the other hand, is an endless well.

Anonymous Wed Mar 5 02:16:09 2014 No.4630699

Take a while to sit and think and you may come up with another persons reasoning, but you will never leave what you have found to be so comfortable. This place has stolen you away, told you who to be. It keeps you captive in a dark secluded place, full of judgement although there is no need. Reality is all there is to see and denying another’s reasoning is the end of all things. The right to protest, taken away as your mouth seeks to scream, “This is only a dream! I could wake in another place and I could be me, not trapped in this eerie place. Grey clouds forsake all that is yet to be taken away, stolen by thieves and drooling creeps. Day in and day out the clouds remain, and when they are not there this dark place stays. Then comes the next day and the next day, for years you remain in this place withering in space time locked in place. Dwelling, this place inside of who you are in reality, dwelling, doubts faced everyday, sometimes they fade, sometimes they stray, until you can escape. Light in the grey, that this is not the way things need to be, your free. This place can suck a dick and leave me be.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 02:24:10 2014 No.4630717 Each night all answers to my life elude. When better I should sleep I lie and brood. I ponder and I think, but do not sleep. and write this poem, which is not very deep.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 13:30:43 2014 No.4631843 Bump

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 14:29:32 2014 No.4632000 Bump Also, anyone care to critique or say something in regards to my post from last night? It's this one: >>4630059

Anonymous Wed Mar 5 14:44:32 2014 No.4632037

To fall.
To see yourself plummet to the floor at such a rapid rate, the air rushes from your ears.
All sound gone, yet you still hear the Grave of an unforgiving year.
MONTHS
DAYS
MINUTES
Gone
To amount to nothing, to fall.
Tell me of yesterday, how the clock ticked and saw me at the table.
Head lay in my arms, spasms, anger enveloping me.
What am I to become?
The brutal Hay-Makers of life, bashing me into submission of normality.
A technicality…. I do not want to become “normal.
I want to be great, fight, dance, or fight dance!
Tell me of yesterday, when I was told I could be anything, and then told in an educated prison to be realistic.
Do they want me to succeed?
No, they want me chained to the walls of defeat!
To struggle. To foam at the mouth with anger and sadness, hostility and to seat myself in a throne of mediocrity.
I am destined to express Me and forever be monochromatic.
But I need to get up, to move and add variety.
I know what I am, I know who I am, I know where I am.
I AM ME!!!
YES ME!!!!!

I know they want to see me rise from the ashes!
RISE LIKE A PHEONIX AND BECOME!
BECOME WHO I AM!
…
But still I sit here, pondering.
Am I the cause of my own fall?
“Tell me of yesterday, Clock.” I said today.

Anonymous Wed Mar 5 16:11:54 2014 No.4632245

Will critique others later.

'Drumaroan Road' was what the sign said at the bottom of the hill. If you looked it up on a map you would see it labelled as a thin line, supposed to represent a winding, dead-end road snaking along the cliff faces. If you lived on the winding, dead-end line you called it 'Turnaroan Road' and hated anyone who felt they had the right to look it up in the first place, let alone make a curious one-off visit. For here lived a small group of farmers and one doctor, all out of the way of the busy arterial route Drumaroan was connected to. The farmers were happy toiling the land day and night; the doctor was happy to watch the work and Rathlin Island draped like a cloth over the pulsating dark sea. The farmers' sheep trod the ground they were shepparded into and they constantly searched for a way out. Always, the farmers caught them and brought them back, furious as to why the sheep weren't happy with what they were given. Coal mining and fishing was also, once rife. He remembered the wooden structures of the coal pit; he once walked as far into the dark as he dared and tried to stick a knife in a pillar. They were thick and he could barely scratch the surface. On the shores he would scour the sea all day for kelp. Once, with his horse and slipe, he worked all day and gathered a good load. Suddenly, a strong wind struck up and all was lost to the water. He was flung onto his horse and they swam to shore. Until the end of his days, he would tell this story to anyone who listened. And all over the country communities existed like this; farmers carrying on with what they knew, rearing children and passing on their recycled knowledge. From the heavens, looking down you would see their houses scattered like white atoms, and you would see them forming the townland called 'Carey'. Everyone worked hard and everyone knew everybody.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 16:16:53 2014 No.4632265 >>4632037 Ok >>4630717 Superb >>4630699 What >>4630256 Mary Shelley didn't dream Frankenstein in full. Inspiration >>4630240 It's good!

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 16:18:53 2014 No.4632277 >>4632265 >Superb Thanks for the feedback!

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 20:43:07 2014 No.4633034 >>4620349 I'm stealing this is making it a book. 2015 will be a beautiful year. Screen cap it, folks.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 20:50:05 2014 No.4633044 A Dwarven Boy Loses His Home A dwarf without a beard is a creature we all at some point have feared. A child without a beard taken by goblins and reared. A dwarf consigned to his tomb once he left the womb because of his lack of a beard. 1/?

Anonymous Wed Mar 5 22:24:05 2014 No.4633358

metacle marijuana wannabes always got friends they turn to when they want joints joined together with spit and placed in purple plastic coned containers. i collect any thing that contains myself, i so need some help sometimes. these are plastic party purses, perfect for placing chemical collages college chem teachers cook up in labor lodges.

bubble gum doesn't do it for me anymore, gotta gum down acid or i feel acrid. the smell of desperation perspiration. at least i don't smell like junk most days, unless i'm with my jazzy funk friend fumblin' on the keys, bored. ya know what? i only fucked up 1/of/2 times i tried it.

once i hit myself ten times without whining too much. i did a lot of singing while drinking black coffee down then puking them back up. they all stared at me while i was being the world, beating my old medical records. sure i welled a bit but who doesn't while strung out 'n stimulated. i kept vibrations inside of my roots, chalkin' it up to a soiled water table. i was never very stable anyways i gotta get golden now. i'm not low-brow, you follow fellas?

------------

meow meow kitty cat outtie

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 22:44:31 2014 No.4633435 >>4633358 This is very illusional. Unusual in the sense that I can't tell if I hate it or not. Maybe you should keep your writing to yourself next time.

trickyricky Wed Mar 5 22:48:31 2014 No.4633446

>>4620094
My short story completely inspired (maybe ripped off even) from Breadcrumb Trail by Slint.
I had spent the duration of the day wandering around the Kentucky State Fair chain-smoking cigarettes and suffering from anxiety at the possibility that I might run into someone I knew or end up embarrassing myself. As I walked back and forth across the fair, smoking and slowly drinking the cheap malt liquor I could manage to get I began to feel bored and decided to look for some sort of game to play. While walking around, I passed a small blue tent that had an undeniable air of mystery surrounding it.
I walked towards the tent, polishing off my beer and finishing my cigarette, thinking that it would be rude to bring them into the tent with me. I lifted the flap thing and walked inside where I was confronted with a girl about 16 years old, sitting in front of a table with a crystal ball and wearing a dopey-looking hat. She had dark brown hair and light blue eyes. She smiled when she had noticed I had come inside. I couldn't whether the smile was from being eager to see me personally for whatever reason or because a customer had finally come inside. I was plagued by a sudden rush of anxiety at the prospect of talking to a girl I found very attractive.
I sat down at the table and was told it would cost two dollars to have my fortune read. I sat still and silent for a moment that seemed like an hour and finally decided on asking her if she wanted to go ride the rollercoaster instead.
We rose to the top of the rollercoaster, eagerly awaiting the drop. I felt a spike in adrenaline at the thought of speeding who knows how many miles per hour nearly vertical. We were nearly there, sitting on the edge pretty much.
The girl grabbed my hand. Immediately after I felt the beginning of the descent down as I closed my eyes, waiting for it to be over.
As we arrived at the bottom I noticed the distinctively strange man standing in front of a ride, spitting and giving everyone that passed him an intense look of loathing. As we climbed out of our seats and walked through the ride's exit, the girl began to hurl.
About an hour afterward, as the sun began to set, we walked together to the nearly empty parking lot and managed to be polite despite our mutual exhaustion. We approached the gate I realized she would likely go off to her tent now that I was leaving. I lit my last cigarette and said goodnight. It was dark but I could tell she was blushing.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 5 23:48:32 2014 No.4633616 >>4633044 nice.

First serious thing I've written Anonymous Thu Mar 6 00:25:31 2014 No.4633692

Begrudgingly, Ven rose out of his bed to sit on its side. The bed itself was connected directly to the floor, and was made of brass, the finials expertly curled into waves. The room in which he sat was beige, from the walls to the ceiling to the floor. It was in the shape of a funnel, leading towards the main door. Other than the bed, a dresser, desk, and faucet populated the room, each tinted a deep shade of mahogany. The dresser was Ven’s personal possession: a family keepsake of sorts, passed down to him. It was aptly crafted; the metal drawers, connected by gears to the frame, were smooth and gave a slight gleam when opened.

As for the desk, Ven had crafted it himself. One of his first projects, the rickety, amateurish structure showed just how genuinely inexperienced the crafter was. Bumps and dents lined the sides, while the surface was incorrectly cut, creating a crevice at the lower right corner. On the surface, a great number of plans lay, each on top of the other. The lower cabinet to the left would seldom open correctly, the gears having to be coaxed to align properly. Its stubbornness was justified however, having been reduced to a mere wastebasket, storage for failed ideas. The roof of the room harbored winding metal pipes, from which you could faintly hear the sound of flowing gas and water. They formed a semicircle across the ceiling and led out of the apartment, save for one leading to the faucet, positioned at the foot of the bed.

Anonymous Thu Mar 6 00:40:24 2014 No.4633729

And from the sky came a crumbling of sorts. A rumbling and a startled humming from which a shry wrinkle left its imprint upon the world. A spear. It fell from the sky. And what it hit. No one knew why. For the day had come, that the earth be split into two. For humanity was done. All was due.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 6 00:50:24 2014 No.4633755 Why am I so cripplingly afraid to write? I can actually feel my brain start pulsing in pain just thinking about it

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 6 01:30:25 2014 No.4633818 is it poor form to re-post a piece in the next thread if you havent had much criticism?

Anonymous Thu Mar 6 01:46:57 2014 No.4633841

First part of short story.

Donald looked down at the stack of letters resting on his kitchen table. They were almost unnoticeable amid the used plates, shriveling oranges, and half-empty beer cans that littered it. The weekly grocery specials clung to the dirtied plastic table-top as Donald lifted up the mail. Donald sighed, bringing his glasses up to his nose. He shuffled through bills and offers promising him unredeemed prizes until he stopped, coming upon a manilla envelop with no return address. Handwritten in the top left corner was “Donny Baker.” Aside from his parents who had passed away years ago, the only person who he had ever let call him Donny was his wife Marlene.

Seeing that dead name of his brought back images Donald hadn't thought about and hadn't tried to think about in a long time. The empty driveway. Lonely clothes hangers dangling in the flung open closet.

“Marlene you crazy bitch,” said Donald, laughing to himself. “I'm not gonna entertain you just yet.”

Donald put the manilla envelop back down on the kitchen table and shuffled over to grab his keys off the counter. Walking to the living room couch, Donald sat down, staring at the gray television screen. He could almost make himself out in its empty screen. His wire rimmed glasses reflected light off the bare kitchen bulb, his lined forehead was framed by thin snow-white hair. He licked his fingers and ran them across his head, bringing up a comb he took out from his pocket and neatly parting his hair as best as he could.

Donald looked down at his watch, then out at through the living room window. It was nearing 7 o'clock in the evening. Sighing, he gave his reflection in the television screen a half smile and made his way to the door. Donald paused for a second before stepping out and looked towards the manilla envelop resting on the kitchen table. Bending down, Donald woke up his scruffy dog who was sleeping out on the porch and petted the slackened skin hanging down from his jaw.

“C'mon. Let's go Rex.”

Donald stepped out through the steel-link gate, giving Rex a few seconds to catch up. Rex's legs waddled under his thick, patchy-haired belly.

“I haven't taken you out for a walk now in a while haven't I Rex?” said Donald, Rex's pink, watery eyes looking up to him. “No excuse to let yourself go though Rex.”

“I haven't been out in a while myself. I'll keep it nice and slow for your sake boy.”

Donald crouched down and rustled the shaggy fur around Rex's neck as Rex let out a waning yawn.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 6 04:55:22 2014 No.4634117 >>4633818 Welcome to /lit/

Anonymous Thu Mar 6 11:40:44 2014 No.4634819

I find these threads aren't really all that helpful, mainly due to everyone's rampant ego. I know it's 4chan and it's cool to be a hipster/undercut the competition, but in truth, no one's writing style must cater to your particular tastes. If every story was written the same way, then there'd be no need for critics to exist in the first place.

You guys should really be focusing more on content and motivation, less on your personal pet-peeves. I might hate your writing style, but that's completely irrelevant to the feedback I give. I just might not buy your book, is all.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 6 11:44:45 2014 No.4634833 >>4634819 technique and the syntax of a narrative is much more important than the actual ideological content.

Anonymous Thu Mar 6 11:51:44 2014 No.4634858

>>4634833
And 90% of the time, that's wrong. There's plenty of books on /lit/ people pretend to enjoy that are nearly illegible. Does that make the content or the motivation of the characters/author invalid? Of course not.

"Green Eggs and Ham" might be written differently than "Gravity's Rainbow", but they both tell a story and should be judged on that merit. Same with people's stuff on here.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 6 11:58:45 2014 No.4634878 >>4634858 just because something seems ill-constructed superficially doesn't mean there isn't killer superstructure underneath. not all stream of consciousness flows downstream.

Anonymous Thu Mar 6 12:02:44 2014 No.4634886

>>4634117
>Anons checklist on how to become successfully integrated within the community of /lit/ - Literature [Read: self-deprecating and snide pseudo-intellectual]
>[ ] - post a passage from a well established authors work in a critique thread, pretending it was yours
>[ ] - Create your own Sunhawk trip and start a thread with an image of 20 or so covers of pop-lit and essential classics
>[ ] - Explain to someone how you are so mature you can't possibly relate to the character Holden Caulfield, nor see how anyone else could ever do so.
>[ ] - Pretend to be Tao Lin
>[ ] - Post that one slightly more attractive [Read: still a hideous hag] picture of Ayn Rand in a 'Literary Waifu' thread
>[ ] - Explain to someone over the course of seventy-two post exchanges why Freud was a hack.
>[ ] - Reply to a post using the words 'Babbys first existential crisis'
>[ ] - Ask /pol/ to 'please go'
>[ ] - Jump into that 150+ replies and counting thread about ASOIF Vs LOTR to succinctly explain that Fantasy isn't proper literature anyway and they're all essentially plebs arguing over which turd smells slightly less disgusting
>[X] - Respond to someone who expresses a desire to understand why PEOPLE DON'T CRITIQUE IN A CRITIQUE THREAD with the phrase 'Welcome to /lit/'

Anonymous Thu Mar 6 12:03:44 2014 No.4634888

>>4634878
Not saying it is. Grammar should of course be critiqued. Sentence-structure should of course be critiqued. But I'm seeing shit in this thread, like people getting mad because they don't like someone's choice of verbs. It's critiquing for the sake of critiquing.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 6 12:05:44 2014 No.4634896 >>4634886 Don't forget to call some random and well-known author a "talentless hack".

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 6 12:09:44 2014 No.4634912 >>4634888 All critique of art is self-referential, the art is not conceptual before critique, its conceptual framework is given by the critique.

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 6 12:20:44 2014 No.4634938 >>4634888 i guess i just feel that finding a way to exude symbolism + stigmatism without having to spell it out, all spooky and showy, is mostly without its criticism .

Anonymous Thu Mar 6 12:56:45 2014 No.4635015
File: 7 KB, 272x186, images.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

little johnny arsons pulled out his gun, swung it arround the room, "now who the the wants to fuck with me?" tears where roling down his chin "what? you want something?".
the people arround him just stared,"i said who the fuck wants to start shit" no reply. little johnny arsons went up to a tall man. he shot him in his face, the surprise turned into an expressionless stare. the little boy cried. the people arround him panicked one was trying to sneak to the window, a bullet hit his left hip and johnny already stood over him before he fell, he wiped his tears off and shot him in his chest.

to be continued....

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