Critique thread

[Anonymous No.5081269]

Hello I'm writing a novel , I was inspired yesterday after read "The Fellowship Of The Ring" I'm only 2 pages in but I know it will be 1'000 pages by the end if the summer I will post a reply to this thread with for the second page of my manuscript give me honest thoughts please :)

[Anonymous No.5081270]

>>5081269

[Anonymous No.5081292]

>sweg

[Anonymous No.5081293]

>>5081269
It's so obvious it hurts.

[Anonymous No.5081306]

>>5081293
What?

[le trole faec ಠ_ಠ !Avm1fqtITk No.5081312]

>>5081269
>my people, the Dur

O I am laffin

[Anonymous No.5081317]

>>5081312
Oh sorry I forgot to include this

[Anonymous No.5081334]

>>5081312
It's spelt the Dúr. Anyways why are you laughing the first two pages of The Lord of the rings are about the same.

[o No.5081337]

>>5081334

Do you think that that might partly be the reason?

[Anonymous No.5081339]

>>5081337
No The Lord of ring is a masterpiece so why would it be bad

[o No.5081343]

>>5081339

Because we've already read the Lord of The Rings, and no one cares to read its pitbull remix.

You can't milk a dead cow.

[Anonymous No.5081346]

>>5081343
Well this might be the new game of thrones so give me feedback and I can include you as a character.

[Anonymous No.5081352]

>>5081269
8/8

[Anonymous No.5081354]

Whats the plot meant to be

[o No.5081362]

>>5081346

Stop trying to be the new something would be my advice. Have a nice day.

[Anonymous No.5081363]

>>5081354
It's obvious maybe you're too much of a plebeian to understand. It is my original take on the classic fantasy setting. It includes complex themes of racism,sexuality,death and redemption.

[Anonymous No.5081370]

Awful. The first sentence derailed from a lack of commas and a list of places without reference and the you started info dumping.

I believe you when you say you'll reach 1,000 pages, but maybe you should exercise restraint instead of putting in every stupid cliche that springs to mind.

[Anonymous No.5081376]

>>5081370
The reference is before start of the story, I sent it as a reply

[Anonymous No.5081390]

>3 years, 8 weeks, 2 days and 3 hours had passed. Jean Valjean had been sent from Paris in the East a prison in Marsailles in the far south of the sea of the mediteranian, in Europe. Imprisoned due to loaf snatching and hatred of the peasentry, the miserables, he has been left to rot in the depths of the chateau d'if, the most notorious prison on the continent of Europe.

There's a reason no one writes like this.

[Anonymous No.5081404]

>>5081317
The rare but unspoken rule of "tell all, show nothing"

[Anonymous No.5081428]

>>5081390
Why are you copying me

[Anonymous No.5081436]

>>5081390
Isn't the Chateau d'If from Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, not Les Miserables?

[Anonymous No.5081439]

what program did you use to compile this? looks neat but also doesn't look like TeX

[Anonymous No.5081441]

>>5081439
Pages on my ipad

[Anonymous No.5081453]

>>5081269
Hey OP, what font is that

[Anonymous No.5081459]

>>5081453
Times new roman or Baskerville

[Anonymous No.5081555]

Anymore critique?

[Anonymous No.5081571]

I'm starting a biology related blog. I'd really appreciate some "literary" criticism. You don't have to read the whole thing.

http://talkingbiology.com/shorter-people-live-longer/

[Anonymous No.5081578]

You're telling us too much at the beginning. I can't process all these foreign names and places in any meaningful way, so it comes off as word salad. Introduce them gradually.

Also, as trite as it sounds, you're doing an awfully lot of "telling." Check out Gravity's Rainbow to see a master of "showing"; the entire novel is more-or-less a set of connected vignettes that drift seamlessly from one to another.

[Anonymous No.5081624]

>>5081578
If I've never heard of them they probably aren't good my teachers say I write like Tolkien and I was inspired last night by him.

[Anonymous No.5081633]

>>5081624
>my teachers say I write like Tolkien
What else would they say to a fantasy-gobblin' autist?

[Anonymous No.5081637]

>This entire thread

[Anonymous No.5081652]

>>5081624
Why even make this thread if you're going to dismiss valid, non-aggressive criticism?

I've never read Tolkein, but if it's true that you do actually write like him, I will make sure to avoid him because he must be shit.

And "If I've never heard of them they probably aren't good" ... I really hope you're trolling.

[Anonymous No.5081658]

OP, I think everyone here is just jealous. This is really great writing, better than Tolkein in parts. You should finish your novel and seek a publisher, or self-publish on Amazon.

[Anonymous No.5081663]

>>5081269
Thanks for the laugh OP.

[Anonymous No.5081672]

>>5081663
Your obviously jealous and trolling

[Anonymous No.5081706]

>>5081363
It's not very complex if one of your first sentences blatantly says that the conflict is centered around racial conflict. Not very subtle or nuanced.

[Anonymous No.5081709]

>>5081624
>If I've never heard of them they probably aren't good...

Op if you're as well read as you'd like us to believe, I think your prose would be... well, less awful. In order to write well, you should read more. A LOT more.

[Anonymous No.5081735]

>>5081706
First draft, I'll also be writing a prequel on nanowrimo

[Anonymous No.5081750]

genuinely hilarious, i wish all trolls put this much effort in

[Anonymous No.5081751]

>>5081658

Good one

[Anonymous No.5081761]

I just don't get that detail about the small red patch hidden under dark hair. Sounds like a mysterious, soon-to-be-discovered vagina on their heads.

[Anonymous No.5081764]

>>5081269
I'll bite.
>Low numbers written as arabic numerals
>Explanation of plot is not done through dialogue
>Explanation of character appearance and character background not done through dialogue
>1'000 pages

[Anonymous No.5081765]

>>5081761
Would read. Expectations of brains being fucked.

[Anonymous No.5081771]

Excellent apart from you continually changing tense OP. I would buy books 1-18 in the series probably.

[Anonymous No.5081772]

>>5081750
What the fuck are you on about , this is a serious project I'm working on over the summer my brother is going to edit it for me when I'm done
>which will be hard since it is going to be 1'000 pages

[Anonymous No.5081777]

>>5081436
Yeah, Dumas (lol so relevent to this thread) uses it a lot in his books but it's a real place.

[Anonymous No.5081778]

"He's a Ballchinian".

[Anonymous No.5081797]

OP, you can't start with world building. Cut the first paragraphs IF you decide to go on. Your idea is underformed. I suggest you read more outside of fantasy to improve your craft. Tolkien did it. Check out these titles:

Beowulf (Tolkien's favorite)
Crime and Punishment (Your story will lend itself to the inner monologues in this)
Infinite Jest (The best worldbuilding out of fantasy)
Gravity's Rainbow
On the Road
Les Miserables
Don Quixote
The Sun Also Rises

These are all tailored reccomendations to you specifically. Your style is honestly decent. But no one can write anything but shit on their first try

[Anonymous No.5081803]

>>5081797
Thank you

[Anonymous No.5081810]

>>5081764

Also this

[Anonymous No.5081829]

>>5081803

Of course. We all started there. And please don't limit yourself to fantasy. It stunts literary growth; only 10% is even worth your time to pick up the copy.

[Anonymous No.5081881]

>>5081777
But Hugo wrote Les Miserables anon

[Anonymous No.5082237]

I have a side project which I've finished it is a story which takes place far away from the isles of lukda. It is lovecraftian horror story named the blue year

[Anonymous No.5082257]

[Anonymous No.5082262]

[Anonymous No.5082264]

Obvious bait. OP probably thinks he's a real rusemaster.

[Anonymous No.5082266]

>>5082264
How is this bait , I what criticism

[Anonymous No.5082437]

>>5082237
>>5082257
>>5082262
Any thoughts on this story?

[Anonymous No.5082503]

what kind of fucknard rights, you autistic fuck

[Anonymous No.5082515]

>>5082503
You're the autist

[Anonymous No.5082682]

>>5081269
I appreciate the effort you put into this b8.

[Anonymous No.5082865]

>>5081269

I've been working on a fantasy-esque novel for a while now and I've been fretting over the quality and having doubts for a good while now.

Thank you for reassuring me. If this is what publishers are seeing every day then I'm in the clear.

[Anonymous No.5082910]

>>5082865
there are big gaps between terrible and ok and publishable

[Anonymous No.5083057]

Shoe-slapped tarmac black-slabbed and scuffed. Pebbledash mustard walls dripping sadly, and murky potholes like rockpools - of rain, gravel, country muck. Inside, green-carpet fuzz and tables low, copies stacked and ticked , and stifled clock ticking beside Jesus red-hearted. The rain drums grey on sogged swards and in depressions pools squelch water-brown.
'Liam, it's your turn to ring the bell,' from perfumed teacher stooped low, so you take it and hefty it is, coarse wood handle and broad bronze bell. Pendulous clapper cold in hand to stop mistaken music with your steps. Then in the courtyard you stop. Heave it skyward pealing and ringing plummet, the clapper-tongued cry of it. Inside with you then, chairs upturned on tables and hoisted bags, pale fingers button fastening, then hands clasped in moist-palmed prayer.
Children spill forth then, across the yard, weekend's hum swelling and humming between them, down the steps to moving canopy of dripping umbrellas, and underneath, mothers, always mothers, waiting, gossiping. You will walk though. With James, to his house, and kick stones along before ye, standing in to the ditch to let cars pass, and wave if you know them, past the crippled man who sells Christmas trees in Winter, and in your hand tearing flowers and slicing long leaves with your fingernail, right along the vein. Talking. Then you're there, bundled laughing in the door, and 'lads, ye're drenched. Off with the shoes,' so they come off in little puddles, then pizza slapped cheese-bubbling on plates and that slow lisping fizz of Coke bottles opened.

[Anonymous No.5084534]

Bump

[Anonymous No.5084550]

>>5084534
Are you OP?

[Anonymous No.5084559]

>>5084550
I wrote the piece just above

[Anonymous No.5084577]

Here is some incoherent ramblings without context
>He realized it then. He was in love with time. Not the concept of it like some philosopher fantasizes about or the human representation of it you’d find in childhood fiction. No, he loved time. He fell in love with memories and parts of his life that he would never truly relive, constantly personifying them into whatever he could rationalize in his head. He raised women to these pedestals to represent to him his childhood, happiness, and countless other emotions he never truly understood. To represent all the good times he had long since left behind. It was selfish, he realized. He remembered the first girl he could ever say he loved. Her name was Emily, a sweet girl filled innocence and ignorance of the world around her. He remembered when he moved, how he would visit and how he would use her like a tool to go back to those wondrous days of childhood. No, he loved her as one loves a memory. He felt for her as one would feel looking through a photo album. All the women of his life fell to the same fate, to represent a point in his life. One which was never truly as great as it once was. Loneliness represented by sparks of hope, anger represented by moments of clarity, and apathy mistaken for the gaining of maturity. He was helplessly, head over heels, and blindly in love with time. Lost time, spare time, old times, and new times, but god damn him if it wasn’t the good times that were slowly killing him.

[Anonymous No.5084578]

>>5084559
I like it. It reminds me of kindergarten. A whole lot of imagery packed in. I'd probably go insane if I tried to read a whole book like that but it works well for a short story.

[Anonymous No.5084741]

>>5084578

Here's a less wordy one I'm also working on:

Diving then rising in black the bird the cleaved the horizon, swooping low solitary, dipping a wing and cutting a curve against azure sky, softly swooping. Faces under sun-shielding hands followed his progress, up up, higher still until, reaching his crest, he tipped forward, wings taut, and adrift on a gust, slowly sailed to rest on the sand of shore below.
Further along the beach, beyond the seaweed and silver wetness of the shoreline sand, the bathers warmed, bronze backs to the sun. One pair lay apart from the rest, a fluttering windbreaker separating them from the other bathers.The girl lay on her front, toes digging absent-mindedly in the warm sand, occasionally turning a page of her book. Her white bikini clung close to tanned skin and golden hair ran along her nape and lay draped between her raised shoulder blades, spilling into the gentle valley of her backbone. A pale lad was lying supine to her left, drumming his fingers on his chest. He turned to face her and pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose, elbow pressed into the sand, palm supporting his chin.
She turned the book face down in the sand. ‘Any idea when the others get back?’
He shrugged. ‘They were walking, I think. Could be a while.’
‘I wouldn’t have bothered coming if I thought they’d spend half the time trying to get served. Coming for a swim then?’
‘My shoulder’s still at me. Go on yourself though, I’ll watch.’
She was quiet for a second, then hopped up and bent over slightly, brushing some grains from her thighs, and, tipping her head back, caught a handful of blonde hair and tied it loosely behind her head. He said nothing but watched her go. There was, he was sure, a deliberate swivel to her hips, teasing him maybe. She turned and waved when reached the water. Light blue and coruscating, the surface crisscrossed with whispers of wind, sharp and fresh against her skin but not cold. Under wide sky the blue sea expanded uninhibited, stretching from the curved shore all around from the right and gathering somewhere in a merging blue, skyline and sea indistinguishable. Along the horizon grey mountains bit like teeth into the sky. She propelled herself forward, arms outstretched, and went under. One, two, three, four, then she was up and caught her breath, moving swiftly forward.
After a few minutes she reached a pontoon. It was wood-decked and wide with a dozen blue barrels underneath keeping it afloat, bobbing gently astraddle rolling waves, its growth of green seaweed fringe splayed like tentacles. She pulled herself up and relaxed. The bobble was gone and blonde hair pooled about her head and shoulders, and already she felt the sun playing on her body, the heat against her eyelids, the wood warm and dry under her back. Soon the only wetness was a tiny pool in her navel, gently rising and falling.

[Anonymous No.5084896]

>>5084741
>>5083057

This is good shit.

[Anonymous No.5084925]

I'm absolutely shocked by how many people thought this was serious.

Very funny, OP. Thanks for the laugh.

[Anonymous No.5085686]

>>5084741
>>5083057
good for short bursts but tiring when overused. not every moment needs to be heightened with flowery prose. save it for the important bits.

[Anonymous No.5085712]

>>5084896
You realize it doesn't really say anything, right?

[Anonymous No.5085753]

>>5083057
Mmm, hefty it is.

[Anonymous No.5085940]

>>5085712
What do you mean "it doesn't say anything"? It describes the end of a school day and the journey home, told realistically through the eyes, if not words, of a child. I was trying to capture the novelty of experience we feel as children; all is new, all is intriguing. We're also in thrall of our senses at that age. My recent memories pale in comparison to those of my childhood. They lack a depth and vividness that we lose with age. Maybe that's just me. If so, what better vessel than literature to share my recollections? It's an opening to a story. I love words, their sound, their precision, their connotations. But if you're an ideas-man, hang in there. There is a story coming.

[Anonymous No.5086017]

>>5085940
Or maybe I'm more suited to poetry

[Anonymous No.5086038]

>>5081637
>This entire faggot

[Anonymous No.5086064]

>>5081337
>>5081343
>>5081362
AUTISM SPEAKS

[Anonymous No.5086082]

>>5081709
>>5081652
i believe u lads are being had

[Anonymous No.5086140]

>>5081269
There is a 90% chance this is bait, but fuck it.

Paragraph 1: No one writes like this. The opening sentence by itself is okay, but the next two are shit you learn in writing 101 to NOT do. Here's why: if you want us to be invested in Uldi, don't tell us why he's in prison. this brings mystery to the character. There's a reason why at the start of the shawshank redemption, stephen king left it ambiguous as to whether or not andy was guilty of his crimes. It creates a mystery and immediately gives us reason to invest in his character. Granted in this case the opposite is true and he's guilty of shit, but don't tell us why he's in prison. Second sentence: this is such spoon feeding exposition, it hurts. There's a reason after the scrolling wall of text in star wars we learn gradually about the world around us. Lukes home, the federation, the rebellion, so on. We learn about them gradually rather than being told off the bat what's what, who's who, and so on. Shit, look at GoT. Did he start the first book with 'okay these are the duuur, they're evil'
No he starts off by throwing us headfirst into this mysterious place 'beyond the wall' and these bitchin 9ft tall frozen zombies, whatever they were. We learn gradually about the different races, places, and so on. You instead, take the third sentence of paragraph 1 and most of paragraph 2 to shove this information down our throats. I'll skip paragraph three as all the criticisms I just said apply to it. Now paragraph 4: you have given me zero reason to thus far be invested in these two escaping prison. What I just said may seem contradictory to 'no spoonfeeding exposition' but it's not. Skip all that shit, and instead, have them escaping right off the bat. I might not be invested in the characters per se, but most people would at least be interested and say 'oh cool, a prison break'. Everyone can get behind a thriller.

I won't bother critiquing the second page.
If you're serious, rewrite it completely.

[Anonymous No.5086286]

A Eulogy for the Fallen; or, Sweetest Elliot.

Oh, to have flourished in such wonderful May! To surge forth with such power from the bud! And how the black blossoms did fall with your passing, my prince. May! Is it coincidence, five and eighty-four years prior, that the French bitch, object of wayward idolatry, was arrested? You did part from us too soon. If April, forsooth, is the cruelest month, what’s to be said of its successor? It is left unto we mere plebeians to conjure you so readily before us today, that we might glean from you your great tenacity, and such higher thinking! Let us please, oh Elliot, tell of such heroics born from such injustice; let us speak that glorious Rhododendron of your loins which, uncultivated by such malicious whores, did strive to sunder forth to the heavens with red reveries in its petals, but which, inevitably, did wither, but not before poisoning all else they held dear, my deft Elliot! But how, by what weakness of the female species did they scorn thee so? These false purveyors of even falser beauty, that are charmed by lies and brutality, the sophomore fare that you refused, that you scorned, clutching thy breast and holding fast your truth and love and such unfathomable justice! Oh, but we’re not worthy.

And what did thee term thyself? The most supreme of Gentlemen; nay! Nay, twas Odin the day your burst from the womb (and never again sullied yourself with that cursed inverse, perverse equipment of that sex!) that did name thee. The supreme gentleman! And no greater truth e’re had been uttered. For what gentler creature of god’s earth would take upon such magnanimity, to euthanise them in such glory they did not deserve, to be penetrated so by your seed of veracious metal, sweet Elliot, which you fired on them with such repeated fervour, you must truly have been the most adept patrician among us. Nay, but my words are inadequate! Impertinence abounds! Thou wast a pharaoh, the true last of that holy lineage, and all the earthly furnishings gifted upon you were but nugatory offerings. Your chariot, my golden skinned, Ra kissed Isis, was also but a rudimentary hearse. A crime it is that no pyramid has been crafted along that area of coast! It is a lucky Muslim who does find you among their paramours in heaven, my glorious one.

[Anonymous No.5086288]

>>5081343
>no one cares to read its pitbull remix
9/10 lold hard

[Anonymous No.5086289]

I wept for you, my prince, I did, I did! That arrows soared on you from all sides, from even those stitched to thy genetic tapestry, shall be a transgression remembered. The injustice! That guiltless Gertrude who did resolve upon your estate, and who spoke to you with such impertinence, it forever remains a pity she was not smote with the rest! Your bedfellows, too, that they should have scorned you so is unfathomable! And your brother, so gifted with thine guise but never with thy mind! Seven summers old, so you told, were the happiest of your times; ignorance, I say, is a gift withdrawn too soon from you, but I am a lesser man. But what am I saying? The intricate weaving of such divine a day of retribution, such artistic display demanded these years as prerequisites! To have achieved it all at a tender twenty-two, my unsullied love, will forever haunt me: again, I am the lesser man!

We shalt feast to thee in snows, my supple one! We shalt see to it you are not dead, and shalt never die! By our liturgy today we have resurrected you, oh most supreme of gentlemen, in the construct of language! We imagine you the mediating wonder, thrust sweetly between the meaty abstract and real, absorbing and processing the experience of both. Yes, you are language itself! You are alive in the most patriarchal order: la langue! Alone at the vanguard, you did stridently march, and we latently follow! With swords in hands, swollen with such righteous passion, we shalt beat the femoral hordes back to their suited subordinance! To you, forever, oh noble prince, who lays untouched in flowers, we do drink.

[Anonymous No.5086346]

>>5086286

[Anonymous No.5086606]

>>5085940
>>5086017
not that guy but there is too much dissonance between the prose and a child's pov. the prose is actually distracting in how it breaks immersion which is what you want in narrative. you are more suited to poetry unless you can tame your technique.

[Anonymous No.5086761]

>>5084741
I prefer ths one because I can actually understand it

[Anonymous No.5086816]

>>5086761
>Preferring works based on comprehensibility and not prose
>Being this pleb

[Anonymous No.5086839]

>>5086816
>pretending to like that guy's first post because it's complex

[Anonymous No.5086856]

>>5086839
>Being this much of a philistine
I bet you hate Joyce too and think his admirers are pretentious

[Anonymous No.5087890]

>>5084577
A short piece of writing I'm still working
>There is a certain beauty, I think, in the impact of simple actions. A small wave, a nod, a handshake. Such small, nearly unimportant, actions carry such a weight that one could not even imagine. A smile, oh dear Christ a smile. I wonder to myself how many lives have been saved by a smile, how many have been ended by one, and how many ruined.
A small smile across the train fills you with a happiness so unique, so itself, that you don’t know what to do with yourself. You smile back, and in that short moment nothing matters. Not your dead end job, your boring social life, or your ever stagnating mind. In that moment you are free, you are happy, and then that moments gone.
And yet that same action can bring you such a haunting pain. A sad smile fills your heart with a cynic’s solidarity, the heart of the downtrodden. In that moment you feel the full force of empathy bearing down on you. You’d do anything to help, but that moment passes to and you simply continue with your life leaving others to theirs.
There certainly is a beauty in the impact of simplicity, whether it be a small wave, a nod, a handshake… a beauty in the fact that a smile can change the world.

[Anonymous No.5088551]

>>5081797
>But no one can write anything but shit on their first try
That's not true at all. OP gave us comedy gold.

[Anonymous No.5088554]

>>5082237
>thrown from the womb
babyzooka.jpg

[Anonymous No.5088569]

>>5083057
Very tactile. I dig this.

[Anonymous No.5088580]

>>5085686
>Not every moment needs to be heightened with flowery prose

Fuck you nigher Pynchon only has like one book left in him. Go anon>>5083057
become all you can be!

[Anonymous No.5088587]

>>5086140
>after the scrolling wall of text
The most iconic cinematic opening is, quite literally, info being dumped.

[Anonymous No.5088603]

>>5086839

[Anonymous No.5088611]

Is one guy literally same fagging this entire thread?
>>5088603
>>5088569
>>5088580
>>5086856
>>5086816
>>5086017
>>5085686
>>5085712
>>5084896
>>5084741
>>5084578
>>5083057

[Anonymous No.5088623]

>>5088611

>>5088569
>>5088603
These two are me, so, nah.

captcha: helps WEETARD

[Anonymous No.5088632]

IF J.R.R. TOLKIEN WROTE A BOOK, YOU CAN

(that bastard makes boring-as-hell descriptions of the envyronment)

[Anonymous No.5088658]

>>5088623
Alright, because either this guy is samefagging, or /lit/ has gained ridiculously shitty taste in this thread

[Anonymous No.5088811]

>>5088658
I wrote the "shoe-slapped tarmac" and "diving then rising" pieces, and I haven't been samefagging

[Anonymous No.5088820]

>>5088811
Then see the second option.
No offense but the overuse of adjectives doesn't give off a child-like feel, it just gives off a feeling of overuse of pointless words. It's bad writing at average, abstract writing at best, and abstract writing is just shit covered in chocolate.

[Anonymous No.5088941]

The Captain's skin was ice, his hands, sleet; his breath, frost; his blood, thunder. His fingers twitched for the flask of watered grain alcohol at his hip, before his mind caught them, and sent them instead to the shoulder of the Lieutenant at his side. The Lieutenant was a good man and loyal, a veteran of all but three of the Captain's campaigns, and so the shock on his face at the Captain's orders lasted only an instant. Even that instant was enough to set yet another worried thought atop the mountain in the Captain's mind; if his stoic of a Lieutenant held reservations, how many of his men would balk at the apparent suicide he had just lain down before them? He did not fear a revolt, not from these men who knew him, but enough doubt would cause hesitation, and hesitation could drive his gamble into being the very suicide his Lieutenant had feared. His fingers twitched again for the flask.

>First piece of creative writing done since early university; please tell me how terrible it is, and why.

[Anonymous No.5088951]

Pick some better names.
Your names suck.

[Anonymous No.5089327]

>>5081797
> Crime and Punishment (Your story will lend itself to the inner monologues in this)
Several page long monologues out of nowhere are a mostly dead feature for a reason.

[Anonymous No.5089333]

Why don't you write something new?

[Anonymous No.5089339]

>>5088820
>>508894 This is very readable

[Anonymous No.5089677]

>spend the day planning plot/theme/character ideas for a story
>realize at the end of the day that its almost identical to huckleberry finn

[Anonymous No.5090887]

>>5085940
As long as you only use this style for opening/closing/crucial paragraphs

[Anonymous No.5091795]

First draft of the closing paragraph of my short story:

As you stand, you become aware of the ground underfoot as one whole throbbing mass. Trees solidify bark-flaked and sturdy, and moonlit grass trembles gentle before fallow fields unfolding. Lugworms slime blindly beneath rock and gentle moss, and the green surface throbs alive. Thick-twined roots burrow deep below coiling, heaving flower-rot and briar-growth, uprooting soil and seed. Deepening hum resounding, thudding vital and low,past decaying fruit, once ripe, compost of the dead and the growing yet, bogsodden in fertile heft. Lower still, sinking through silt and turf rich, reaching deepest of all the putrid-pulsing flesh of equal fodder: animal and man. Beneath you, the earth throbs eternal.

[Anonymous No.5091817]

C-can concepts be criticized, too?

http://pastebin.com/WG5hxpHB

[Anonymous No.5092014]

It is not uncommon on the reasonably sized bluish-greenish planet called Ourth for a criminal to commit a felony and then travel back through time to when his crime hadn't been realized yet. In fact, the practice of time travel (or colloquially "zipping") is fairly commonplace in Ourthan society. Although critics might rag on the activity of spacetime distortion for its use preempting "paradoxes" or "tax evasion," its practice is widely accepted - mostly because no matter how much an effort is spent to stop the production of time travel devices, somebody will preserve them somewhen else.

This is the case with a ratty citizen of a town named Zot on the western side of a massive continent surrounded by many miles of inconveniently non-potable water who calls himself Berty Keese, a petty murderer who’s stuck himself in a terrible situation by accidentally traveling back to the exact house and time of his victim’s twentieth birthday. Now accidents like this happen here and there and most people accept it and have their surprise guest on their way somewhere else, but in the case of Pavel Surring, the victim, the invader was more than welcome to stay a while. After all it was his birthday, and nothing should go wrong for anyone at such a wonderful time, he thought.

>if you can guess who i was inspired by, then i lose

[Anonymous No.5092149]

>>5091817
>kitsune
so it's some furry erotica?

[Anonymous No.5092244]

She was a busy woman, but by no means was she busy enough– nor was anyone– to not have noticed something off about the 6 o'clock news she left on as a tinny background of informative noise when tending to her securities research.
The background of the news was torn– black canyons tore between paper buildings, splotches of blood left the torn city in a static rainfall, a river seeped from under the desk, flowing, ever flowing off camera into the unknown of reality.
Her face moved as he body did not, betraying concern. Eyebrows scrunched, and teeth clenched, she half wondered where Jim was. This was it, this was how it was going to come. Just two weeks ago the city had been clean, fresh, vernal, small dogs had walked along concrete sidewalks as their owners had dictated the fate of so many nanoseconds. Now it seemed as if the dogs were biting, and the owners were drooling over a locked fire hydrant. The dogs had risen, and they were preaching hygiene.

[Anonymous No.5092264]

Beginning of a second chapter in short novella I'm writing about two people in the midst of fascist american uprising.


She was a busy woman, but by no means was she busy enough, nor was anyone, to not have noticed something off about the 6 o'clock news she left on as a tinny background of informative noise when tending to her securities research.

The background of the news was ripped bu black canyons tore between paper buildings, splotches of blood left the torn city in a static rainfall, a river seeped from under the desk, flowing, ever flowing off camera into the unknown of reality.

Her face moved as her body did not. Eyebrows scrunched, and teeth clenched, she half wondered where Jim was.

This was it, this was how it was going to come. Just two weeks ago the city had been clean, fresh, vernal. Small dogs had walked along concrete sidewalks as their owners had dictated the fate of so many nanoseconds. Now it seemed as if the dogs were biting, and the owners were drooling over a locked fire hydrant. The dogs had risen, and they were preaching hygiene.

[Anonymous No.5092290]

>>5092264

I dont like that sprawling first sentence

I also dont get it, but thats not surprising I have no context

[Anonymous No.5092456]

By a peninsula the wanderer sat an sketched
The uneven valley graves. While the apostle gave
Alms to the meek the volcano burst
With sulphur and aureate rocks...
For joy rides in stupendous coverings
Luring the living into spiritual gates.

Orators follow the universe
And radio the complete laws to the people.
The apostle conveys thought through discipline.
Bowls and cups fill historians with adorations, -
Dull lips commemorating spiritual gates.

The wanderer later chose this spot of rest
Where marble clouds support the sea
And where was finally borne a chosen hero.
By that time summer and smoke were past.
Dolphins still played, arching the horizons,
But only to build memories of spiritual gates.

[Anonymous No.5092467]

A land of leaning ice
Hugged by plaster-grey arches of sky,
Flings itself silently
Into eternity.

"Has no one come here to win you,
Or left you with the faintest blush
Upon your glittering breasts?
Have you no memories, O Darkly Bright?"

Cold-hushed, there is only the shifting of moments
That journey toward no Spring-
No birth, no death, no time nor sun
In answer.

[Anonymous No.5092476]

As silent as a mirror is believed
Realities plunge in silence by...

I am not ready for repentance;
Not to match regrets. For the moth
Bends no more than the still
Imploring flame. And tremorous
In the white falling flakes
Kisses are,—
The only worth all granting.

It is to be learned—
This cleaving and this burning,
But only by the one who
Spend out himself again.

Twice and twice
(Again the smoking souvenir,
Bleeding eidolon!) and yet again.
Until the bright logic is won
Unwhispering as a mirror
Is believed.

Then, drop by caustic drop, a perfect cry
Shall string some constant harmony,—
Relentless caper for all those who step
The legend of their youth into the noon.

[Anonymous No.5092552]

>>5092290
The moon was down on Broadway, though no one could see it through the black smoke undulating towards the clear sky from the burning marquees set aflame by the rampaging Browncoats– well aware of the irony in burning these postmodernist churches of the people. No one was quite sure of just how America's fall came to be. Spengler would say that it was just winter turning to fall, but it was as if the springtime of the east had passed on into summer before the branches had thawed. The west, ever seeking smaller units of time in which to do business, had become lost among the nanoseconds of the present, ignoring what may have come beyond the next ten until it was far too late. Sure enough, the money– really, the concept of money, no one really had money once people began to adopt currency as a religion instead of a replacement– had kept flowing right to the end. Jim Corrigan had helped it along. Jim was currently in the second floor bathroom of the NYSE clutching a shot gun holding a max of eight shells, two of which were embedded in the skulls of two Browncoats. Another was scattered among the shattered remnants of a porcelain toilet whose brown water was crossing over the blue and white tile to swirl together with Corrigan's blood into a brown mass, ineffectually being pulled, pulled down the drain only to cling to the sides, like mud to a lonely corpse among the desecrated poppy fields of Ypres.
His mind, as all young dying minds do, thought not of the past, but the future, of the opportunities lost. As his inner eye began to drift over a landscape whose sculptors proclaimed its brown wastes a triumph of the will, a suited man pontificated from a balcony on the morality of action, the need for the Great Cleanse that swept away the filth. The eye drifted over long lines of people marching in vast ribbons, spread out vein-like amidst the ashen wastes. Their faces were obscured by mirrored respirators whose scratched surfaces would only ever reflect what was in front of them. Corrigan's pale mouth began to curl, smiling brightly at the emptiness of it all. The sight is the first to go, yet Corrigan in his final moments was able to make out a glimpse of sunlight refracting through the cracked window, its energy slowly coagulating the acrid liquid that was beginning to seep under the pellet filled door. His smile began to fade– thoughts crossing from relief to posterity ridden dread. It was not sunlight; it was a bulb, made in China.

That's the start

[Anonymous No.5093873]

>>5092149

No?

Where did you get that from?

[Anonymous No.5094278]

I really enjoy stream-of-consciousness style, and I wanted to try it out. It's the start of a scene based off of the "wake up and look in a mirror" trope.

>Slices of light cut a dim crepuscule of half-forms and soft edges, a heavy fortissimo shatters the dead air. Thin blanched sheets blanket indistinct bodies stirring with indistinct thoughts. Bedsprings creak, heavy steps upon French oak, and a sharp tug to exorcise penumbra. Bright blinding brilliance rushes to fill a void of absent shadow and all is white. Blink, and again the world filters back, defined geometric Euclidean lines revealed beneath a soft haze. Broad light raises windowpanes, exchanging stale breath for cool air and birdsong, thudding engines, rubber on tarmac. As with edges, so too do coherent deliberations emerge from quietly muffled consciousness.

How does one look with an unbiased eye upon his own work?

[Steki !!YZ75WBx2rxh No.5094293]

holy fuck how is this thread still alive what the fuck

i thought everyone left after "my people, the dur"
shit that was funny

[Shakespearean Bromance !Zerw5vaH8A No.5094314]

>>5092476
This is a gorgeous poem. The language is baroque and there's a great sense of rhythm. I love the circular structure and how the images make their own metaphors.
>For the moth bends no more than the still imploring flame... And tremorous in the white falling flakes kisses are
The dead moth is a kiss as it falls. It reminds me of Icarus.
>But only by the one who spends out himself again.
I will chant this at the onset of existential despair.
This is absolutely beautifully. too bad you didn't write it.

[Anonymous No.5094369]

>>5086286
Truly magnificent. You are the Shakespeare of our time.