Original Writing Thread

[Anonymous No.5478671]

Some post.
Some read.
Some do both.

[Anonymous No.5478675]

>>5478671
Why not post yours, OP?

[Anonymous No.5478680]

>>5478675
Since you insist.

For your consideration:

The Vampire Trilogy Chronicles
Trilogy -1: Revengenesis

The saga continues...

[Anonymous No.5478705]

>>5478680
Haha.

Happy?

[Anonymous No.5478706]

>>5478705
>Happy?
Never.

[Anonymous No.5479027]

Bumping with more adventures of Flashbird and friends.

[Anonymous No.5479032]

>>5474240
Come on man, we don't need two.

[Anonymous No.5479113]

>>5479032
Can't delete this one.

Missed that other thread when I made this one, and it's about the OP offering his personal critique, but then failing to provide any.

[Anonymous No.5479264]

“The next station is Green Park. Change here for the Picadilly and Jubilee lines.”
The tube slowed to a halt and the blank faces of those departing and those clambering on in their usual jostle merged in an indiscernible blur of motion. Despite the overflow of early commuters Ahmed was sat slouched in his seat taking up both armrests and his feet pushed lazily away from him so that the woman standing before him was forced to stand closer to another than her glance in his direction suggested she cared for. He didn’t care. Judging by her outfit, blouse, excessive make up and perfume – attire that suggested retail and not office – she would be getting off at the next station. Like the rest of them, just another body in the amorphous tentacle that would slither its way up the escalators and spill out of the doors to reconnect with its gargantuan mother. Briefly he wondered whether she shared her home with the crowd too. Seven to the bed. Elbow to crotch. An awkward speechless mass before the bathroom in the morning.

He moved to play with his beard watching his doppelgänger do the same in the opposite window. They shared shrunken eyes that were low-lidded and bloodshot. Below, between the back of the woman he had spurned and the paunch of a suited elderly man, the face of a girl swayed side to side in time with the train. He watched her play idly with her phone, flicking at the screen with a finger. She was pretty he decided, a poster girl from this angle despite a thickness in brow that defied western ideals of beauty. Delving his hand into the loose pocket of his joggers he retrieved his own phone and selected an application on his home screen that would allow him to use his camera without the signifying red light. He positioned the camera in her direction and vaguely pretended to be reading the fake message that had appeared before him. As he filmed he felt the familiar twinge in his loins and the sudden desire to sit up straight. The girl scratched absently at her neck revealing the smooth and supple skin of her chest. She glanced towards him as the pre-recorded announcement called the next stop, returning her phone to her handbag and preparing to stand up. He watched the station approach, still filming, rows of faces appearing like a wave of unfettered orange peel.

The girl rose and he found himself standing too. They filed off slowly, Ahmed positioning himself behind the girl and colliding shoulders with impatient commuters as he stepped into the musk of the station. She had turned right down the platform towards the Bakerloo line and he followed her. The crowds had thinned somewhat and he was able to walk behind her his view unimpeded, his camera focused on the backs of her legs and the tight skirt moulded around her firm buttocks. His heart was racing, as always. He didn’t know how long he would follow her, he never did.

[Anonymous No.5479287]

>>5479264
>The tube slowed to a halt and the blank faces of those departing and those clambering on

[Anonymous No.5479332]

>>5479287
I wont lie, that image was present in my mind I was writing this.

[Anonymous No.5479399]

>>5479264
Bad and tryhard, next time try editing before posting

>Despite the overflow of early commuters Ahmed was sat slouched in his seat taking up both armrests and his feet pushed lazily away from him so that the woman standing before him was forced to stand closer to another than her glance in his direction suggested she cared for.
see what I mean? terrible

[Anonymous No.5479458]

>>5479399
The lack of punctuation?

I'm torn between thanking you for responding at all and telling you to fuck off for your entirely useless critique. Tell me it's 'bad' if you must, but at least have the sense to explain _why_ you think it's bad. Otherwise I'm only going to assume your judgement is as baseless and pedestrian as your ability to critique. And surely the idea that the piece is at once 'tryhard' and unedited is oxymoronic. Which one is it?

[Anonymous No.5479483]

>>5479458
your writing is way too shitty to be calling people pedestrian

get over yourself and try again

[Anonymous No.5479510]

>>5479458
Getting defensive?

> Despite the overflow of early commuters Ahmed was sat slouched in his seat taking up both armrests and his feet pushed lazily away from him so that the woman standing before him was forced to stand closer to another than her glance in his direction suggested she cared for.
Have you tried reading this pretending someone else wrote it? It's a fat sausage of a sentence with too many clauses and two subjects, without any break. You could at least have put some punctuation in there, but it would still be shitty.

> Despite the overflow of early commuters Ahmed was sat slouched in his seat taking up both armrests. His feet pushed lazily away from him. The woman standing before him was forced to stand closer to another than her glance in his direction suggested she cared for.
Three periods, infinitely more readable, but all of those sentences are still awkward.

Get over yourself, keep practicing, realize you're not good enough to get a deep critique yet

[Anonymous No.5479531]

>>5479399
>>5479458

Not sure if you will be reading this, third opinion here.

The sentence has some interesting information, says Ahmed was taking up all the room he could and the people around him didn't like him. That's good, shows a lot.

The problem is that the sentence seems a little long winded for me, some word combinations don't flow well. say "direction suggested" out loud, almost a tongue twister.

Try making the sentence tighter, say the same amount of information in fewer words, cutting it up would be a bandaid.

[Anonymous No.5479532]

Sorry for being offtopic but I have a question, being a really hobbyist writer.
Do/should you use writing as a form of catharsis? Whatever I write comes from a place of complaints, weaknesses, fears, fantasies.
I know some writers fully embraced this and promoted their work as such.
Will the literary merit drop? Is it possibly a ineffective method, both psychotherapeutically and literarily?

[Anonymous No.5479549]

>>5479532

Using your emotions can enhance writing if used in small doses, but for the most part you need to stay calm, collected, and inspired.

Sometimes extreme emotion can cause genius thoughts, and when that happens write it the fuck down. but don't pass it off as literature. it's a source of passion to be tapped into later.

In short, yes live every emotion, passion, fantasy, complaint and weakness in your writing, but they must remain a background otherwise you will have no love for your work. Writing is also a fantastic way to get complicated thoughts out of your system.

[Anonymous No.5479562]

>>5478680

> cackled laughingly

excellent

[Anonymous No.5479617]

>>5479510
That's a lot more helpful thank you. And, yes, I do see your point it is a mouthful. Perhaps I should have edited before I posted it.

>>5479531
Thank you for your input anon, it's appreciated.

[Anonymous No.5479677]

>>5479332
I won't lie, you just inspired a brand-new trilogy in the saga of the Vampire Trilogy Chronicles.

[Anonymous No.5479747]

>>5479532
Yes, definitely instill emotions in your writing. It is cathartic as much as it is motivational. A lot of writing comes from the desideratum of purging unwanted emotions or certain emotions actually inspired you to write. If anything, writing is art and a lot of emotion should be put into art.

>inb4 artfags

[Anonymous No.5479797]

>>5479677
>this government is literally worse than Hitler
This is exactly the kind of hard-hitting social criticism I demand from modern literature.

[Anonymous No.5480003]

>>5479483
Lol harsh bro.

[Anonymous No.5480040]

literally just got done writing this, haven't written anything it a while so it might be shit. anyways, let me know what you think.

yes, its a spider land reference, i was too lazy to think of a name

[Anonymous No.5480042]

It was a dark foggy morning, the bells struck five times. A man stood in the street. He was wearing a red wooden shirt, tight shorts showing the shape of his belongings. The shape of the belongings was not as impressive as yesterday - a hot day - for today was coId. His transparent socks complimented weII with his leather boots which had previousIy walked along the humid pavement. In his right pocket he could feeI some coins from 1854 given to him by his grandfather before he collapsed and was buried one shiny day, surrounded by many acquaintances. In his left pocket was the picture of a girl long forgotten from his high school days. The girl in the picture had brown hair and green eyes and over her head was a piIe of books. She was wearing a crimson sweater with a hoIe roughIy 10 centimetres away from her chin, south east from that point. The streets were empty but there were many things the man could observe. For instance the shop sign of the local fromagerie which was painted yellow and the letters black.
That was on the left of the man. On his right he could see an oId library where he once bought a novel titled Untitled by the irish author from Ireland. He recalled that day he spent reading it in his room. His room was rather big but it was littered by magazines and books he had bought over the years of his life. The door of his room was brown and seemed to have been used quite a lot. The man then took a step forward. He could now see everything he had seen before but something had changed. He was now closer to the things he had seen, excluding the things in his pockets which remained at the same distance from his eyes than before. He wondered if he took another step what the things he had seen would look like now. His foot slowly raised from the ground and going at an angle of about 45 degrees to the ground it went forward. The foot was now in the air but slowly and sureIy it hit the ground about 20 centimetres ahead of where it had previousIy been.

[Anonymous No.5480154]

William sat half on the recliner, the other half of him was thrown over the arm rest haphazardly. Waves of dirty blonde hair tumbled over his eyes tickling him. Small shadows were beginning to creep up the floor towards his chair as the last lights of day were compressing into nothing. Will had been lazing in the the sun for the better part of an afternoon and he was sad to see it fading. Sometime in the last hour it'd occurred to William that he should do something, it also occurred to him that there was nobody who expected him to do anything this afternoon. And so he'd made a compromise calling up his friend John inviting him to go out later, and then lazing around.

The last of the sun faded over the edge of his balcony and only a faint glimmer of light was left in the living room. William pulled himself upright in the chair and rolled his shoulder stretching. Several small pops along his upper back made him shudder in enjoyment. He rolled his shoulders again trying to repeat the visceral feeling but it was gone. He tensed his slender frame, released and sank into the chair. It was a comfortable chair but Will had been laying on it for close to three hours and restlessness had taken hold. He tried to stop fidgeting but nothing could make him comfortable.

He sighed then said to the darkness around him "It was nice to have a lazy afternoon for once".

William extracted himself from the chair and flicked the light switch on. The room went from dark to a fuzzy golden yellow and Will shut his eyes tightly against the sudden brightness. When he opened them again he took survey of the small living room, moved three piles of junk items to less conspicuous places and then felt pride for the job he'd done. Will turned around and went into the kitchen through the small arch connecting the two rooms.

William lived in a decent apartment for a person like him, there was ample room to host friends but not so much room that the accumulation of clutter was a problem. A one bedroom apartment with a modest kitchen was all he craved for and the building on Wicker road had been affordable enough for Williams student budget. With a few house warming gifts from his parents and a few nights of parties it was made comfortable and homely quickly enough.

Will moved himself to the fridge, reached above it and opened the cupboard. He took down three bottles of wine, made a quick calculation of what he felt like then choose the two bottles that were fruiter. It was Thursday and heavy wine wouldn't hold well in his stomach, especially not if he went partying with John. William moved back into the living room, set the bottles down on the coffee table returned to the kitchen for two wine glasses and then set those down next to the bottles as well.

[Anonymous No.5480252]

>>5478680

why are you writing this shit...

why not write something better

[Anonymous No.5480266]

"SHIT! SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!" screamed Jack Welsh as he spiraled towards the futanari nudist colony.

[Anonymous No.5480277]

>>5480042
You start out with two comma splices in a row, you unimaginable bastard.

[Anonymous No.5480309]

>>5480266
Could more minimalistic prose

[Anonymous No.5480546]

>>5480252
>...
Opinion utterly discarded.

[Anonymous No.5480584]

>>5478706
this is great

[Anonymous No.5480585]

>>5480309
"Shit" Jack said. He was going towards naked people.

[Anonymous No.5480589]

>>5480040
don't start with your character waking up because people will not read further

i did not read further

[Anonymous No.5480590]

>tfw work up courage to post writing
>tfw no one critiques it

[Anonymous No.5480591]

>>5479532
It should be a way of making your emotions even worse than they are - exaggerating them and stuffing them into the page, where they can grow

[Anonymous No.5480596]

>>5479677
>middle rail
amazing

[Anonymous No.5480598]

>>5480590
>courage to post writing

There's where you went wrong. You're supposed to feel mildly ambivalent about posting anything here.

[Anonymous No.5480599]

>>5480585
"Shit! Ow! A penis"

[Anonymous No.5480607]

>>5480266
oooh

[Anonymous No.5480618]

>>5480599
"Shit. Penises."

[Anonymous No.5480639]

First piece of writing I'm posting here.

The newly assigned land captain walked into his badly lit and scant office, removed his jacket and hat, and then sat down at his desk.
“There isn’t too much paperwork here is there?” said the captain.
His assistant was quietly eating some biscuits and drawing small doodles on a sheet of paper.
“There is, but I’ve taken care of it already”. The assistant was pointing to a stack of paper that had been neatly placed in several trays marking different departments in the Avarga municipal government.
“That was quick, I wouldn’t think of you as the sort of person to be that diligent” the captain replied.
“Well I really just shuffle the papers and put them into each tray randomly before they are sent off”. The assistant then leaned back in his seat, which creaked loudly. He continued:
“The people in Avarga do the same thing with their paperwork. As for those in the capital, I’d have to ask them where they send it”.
The captain pulled out a drawer and removed a bottle, removing the top, and said:
“Well, I suppose as long as the people here pay their taxes and keep quiet then there isn’t really much to report on is there?” He began to drink, his throat burning slightly from the strong taste.
His assistant coughed slightly and began: “Well apart from lists of people and what they get up to. The locals here get angry whenever we want to know their private details and who had an issue with what but nobody even reads this stuff. Maybe they are annoyed nobody reads it”.
The assistant got up and randomly pulled a piece of paper up, clearly a letter complaining about something because it was written in block capitals:
“Sir, I would like to complain about lord Korros who fenced off the village green and ploughed it all up. He is not only taking from us what we held in common for so long but-“
“Oh for god’s sake they’re still going on about that?” interjected the land captain. “The nobles have been fathers to their serfs until the old custom was abolished and the swine complain about the compensations to their old fathers?”
His assistant spoke: “I’m afraid of them when the police aren’t around here.

[Anonymous No.5480659]

>>5480618
10/10 Hemingways

[Anonymous No.5480671]

And the most disgusting thing of all is that I cannot flaw this consumerist, fame-obsessed complacent society. I hated them all for building this monument to delusion, and hated myself more for not buying into it myself. Who is more flawed, the one whose extent of understanding the western world doesn’t even breach basic economics, or the one who understands all this and yet rejects it; removing the floor from which he stands and ceiling which shelters him.

[Anonymous No.5480861]

I know I need to add a lot, but this is what I have so far

I have always worried about what would become of me after my death. Now, I do not mean that I am worried about what will become of my body. I know that it will be buried deep underground, and covered in a heavy mound of earth, and the flesh will slowly wither away till I am just bone. Then in a couple hundred years (or so) my bones will powder, and nothing will be left of my earthly form. However, I am full of dread when I start to ponder about what will become of my soul.
In my younger days, nearly twenty, I was not a religious lad. In fact, I was the antithesis of a religious lad. I caused many problems in the town which I lived in. I would often find myself in drunken quarrels with other lads my age. I visited the bar quite frequently, drinking anything in my path until I could not take a single step without falling flat upon my face. If my pockets were empty, and I could not fund my drinking, I resorted to thievery. My main methods were stealing from beggars on street corners. They always had enough for me to pay for my next drink. I remember one incident when I stole from a beggar. This beggar looked nearly seventy the time I stole from him. He had a great unkempt beard, and patches of silver hair on his head. The gentleman would sit on a corner in his tattered clothes, and beg for money day in, and day out. I would walk by him often, and peek into his collection bucket. From what I observed he had procured a fortune of coins. After a week of observation, I decided to attack him. It was a foggy Saturday night, sometime in the middle of fall. I crept up through an alleyway behind his corner. He sat there on the corner, sleeping heavily. As I walked over to him he began to stir. He startled me, so I took refuge in a shadow. I waited for a few minutes before continuing to make sure he was asleep. After those eternal minutes I pounced. I quickly ran over, and grabbed his bucket. However, when I was ready to escape I felt a tight grasp on my leg. The beggar had grabbed me, and pulled me to the ground. Being stronger, and younger than him, I began to bludgeon him with my hands hoping his grasp would break. The old fellow screamed, and shouted as I hit him, but he would not let go. I became infuriated, and started to hit him harder. Still the poor man would not let go! So I began to choke him, and smashed his head against the pavement. Only then he released me, and he did he let out a heavy gasp of air. It reeked of something foul. A disgusting breath of hatred for the crime which I committed.

[Anonymous No.5480866]

Part two:

After the scuffle I turned over, and sat still for a minute. I thought to myself, ‘Was he dead?’ I reached over to check his pulse. I felt nothing. He laid there, dead. A wave of loathing came over me. I stepped to my feet, and felt a sickening feeling I have never felt in my life. I was frozen in utter repugnance for the crime I had just committed, but soon I regained a sense of normality, and reason. I was not about to be locked up in a dank prison cell for murdering that poor beggar, so I grabbed the bucket and trotted off.
That was twenty years ago. Twenty years! In those twenty years I have tried to repent for that sin. That horrid, horrid sin. I find no solace. A cloud of anguish haunts me from that point till now.
Last year I began feeling weak. I noticed that walking up the stairs from my kitchen to my bedroom became a struggle. Each step left me tired than the last, and when I reached the top I could barely breathe. As months passed I began to feel even weaker. I would wake every morning in a coughing fit. I would find blood in my handkerchief. A sharp pain would flow through my chest with every breath I took! I knew I was dying.
Today is the pinnacle of my suffering. Today shall be the last day I feel this earthly pain. Even though today shall be the last day I feel bodily suffering, I know I will be haunted, and cursed with this pain for eternity. God does not forgive sins such as mine. Mine was a sin out of pure evil, and greed, and I know I shall be confined to the fiery pits of hell for all of eternity. God how I pray. How I pray! I beg for forgiveness, but I know I shall not be forgiven. I can feel the fingers of Satan slowly pulling me towards him. How they feel warm!

[Anonymous No.5481102]

>>5480866
It's not all that good. There's a lot that's useless drivel, and a lot that gets buried under useless drivel. It's fine to pose thoughts or questions but you need to trust your prose enough to let actions speak instead of spoon feeding the reader.

[Anonymous No.5481206]

Just stumbled across this word document I'd forgotten about. I'm not particularly happy with the writing itself, but I think it was more of a slightly more fleshed out record of an idea. Penny for your thoughts. Would it make an interesting story? Am I unintentionally copying something someone else has done?

PT1

Hair stood on end. The air itself crackled. The strange, oiled stick danced in the hands of the man, who seemed to be conducting the monstrous storm overhead. His wild grey hair and thin frame gave him the look of a prehistoric shaman come to sunder the earth with lightning. In actual fact, he was a carpenter.

Battered by fearsome gales, he struggled to stand his ground as he goaded the wind into a fury, his skin pricked by stinging rain. A moment's lapse in concentration here could spell his death.

Minutes passed, and eventually the angry stormclouds now descended from the mountainside, venting their anger on the valley below. Their journey was only just beginning.

His duties completed, the man left his rocky vantage point over the valley to head home. The energy which had surrounded him had now dissipated, and the stick in his hand looked no more or less remarkable than any other.

Upon arriving back in his village he unceremoniously dumps the stick in a small, thatched shack. Its power could not be harnessed at will by anybody, and it sent no malicious temptations to the villagers in their sleep. Those who sought to steal or misuse it would be treated to a fatal taste of its power.

It is the duty of this village to conjure the storms when the time came. Another village has a stone which must be used to tear the unwilling land apart with earthquakes; another for conjuring the freezing north winds which blanketed the land in winter's ice and snow, and so on. These tasks fell to the humans, as in this world there were no longer gods to oversee them.

The legends disagreed over the exact causes of this. Some said gods were men raised up by belief to heights of such great power that their minds eventually failed them, and they were slain by heroes until none remained. Others suggested that the gods became bored of their creations, and simply vanished. A few maintain that they never existed at all, and that these duties were theirs always, as the undisputed masters of the realm.

The truth is that this land has been forsaken. These people are cursed to conjure up the fearsome and terrifying forces of nature themselves. They create the storms which will claim the lives of their sons at sea; they force the volcanoes to erupt and cover their own homes in burning lava; they summon the deathly winters which invite starvation into their homes. Yet if they should neglect to carry out these tasks then the balance shall be destroyed, and the world will tear itself asunder, as had nearly happened twice before.

[Anonymous No.5481208]

>>5481206

PT 2

As the last living immortal, I witnessed the truth. I saw the gods, and I knew them. They were not fair, and they were not just, but it was only when the last one was slain by the hands of its believers that man realied his folly. Suddenly all the duties of godhood were shattered, divided and thrust amongst humanity. There was so much they did not understand, yet they brazenly believed in their right to challenge the divines. Now the world is broken beyond repair.

Each storm is fiercer than the last. Each winter harsher. Every beast fiercer, every man more foolish. The balance has been broken, and the world knows it.

I am half human, half divine. It is solely I who can take these fragments of the old gods and try to fix the world that has been created. This shall be the sole statement of my intent, kept only for the purpose of being the last remaining source of truth in this world. I go now into this village to take the power of storm for myself, and to slay any who stand in my path. The world will begin anew with me at its helm, or it shall be destroyed forever.

[Anonymous No.5481212]

>>5481206
I really like the idea but your style needs a lot of work. Your trying very hard to be clever, to work your prose into something lyrical. Do that after the fact, just write what you want to say for now and write metaphor when inspired. It'll be cleaner and go faster for it

[Anonymous No.5481271]

>>5481212
Thanks, I appreciate the comment. I was deliberately trying to write in a different style here, so it's actually kind of nice that you picked up on that even if it's because it needs work!

I'm definitely getting my enthusiasm back for this one, though. I think I'll pick it back up again and see where it goes.

[Anonymous No.5481281]

>>5481271
If you clean it up and repost I'll be more than happy to reread and bitch again.

>tfw monitoring a thread where no one reads your rough work

[Anonymous No.5481298]

>>5481281
That's very kind of you, but I don't know if I'm in the best frame of mind to pick it apart properly right now. I think I want to go for a pretty drastic rewrite to solidly develop the narrator's character and give a more rounded introduction to the setting... and fix the style, of course.

Having said that, I'd be more than happy to offer some thoughts on yours, if you'd point them out to me. I'll have to post the updated version another day!

[Anonymous No.5481321]

>>5481298
Nah if I point it out that would defeat the purpose of posting it to an anonymous board. And as for your rewrite, get out of this idea that you need to be in a frame of mind, that's what editing is for. Write even if it's shit because you may come up with one clever idea and that could be used later

[Anonymous No.5481359]

>>5481321
Fair enough. I do appreciate the advice. I'll take another look.

[Anonymous No.5481367]

>>5478680
lmao at the flashback

2good

[Thelostcup !!qaqXYBhmuQ/ No.5481444]

Something I started several years ago and forgot about:


Many, many years in the past, the laws of nature worked quite differently than they do today. In fact, one could argue that they weren’t laws as much as they were guidelines that were only loosely followed.

There were no constants; absurdities such as physics were scoffed at by celestial bodies that only behaved in certain ways because they felt like it. Gravity? Planets only stuck around stars to leech off the excess energy that really only served as some sort of bizarre social status. Each planet in turn had its own unique society that depended on the different elements on it. For example: places such as Jupiter had gradually grown into overcrowded metropolises due to the abundance of your two garden variety gases, hydrogen and helium, that ironically got along despite their conflicting natures (hyperactively violent and easy-goingly passive, respectively). While places like Mercury tended to be a lot more laid back thanks to the surplus solar energy they were getting.

cont'd

[Thelostcup !!qaqXYBhmuQ/ No.5481449]

>>5481444
On Earth, things had separated themselves into three separate realms: one of land, one of sea, and one of skies.
The elements in the sky and land mostly kept to themselves. The lands gradually but unwaveringly moved about and mingled as time continued to progress. The skies on the other hand loved to clash with themselves and kept a quick pace as they went about their day to day business.

The seas operated quite differently from the other two, as their main inhabitant was a peculiar little thing called water. Instead of individual parts having their own free will and determination and acting as part of greater whole, water had a sort of collective intelligence which caused it to act much more uniformly than other entities. In fact it acted so strangely that the sheer measure of liquid water on the surface set Earth apart enough from the other planets that they’d often make jokes about it when he wasn’t listening.

cont'd

[Thelostcup !!qaqXYBhmuQ/ No.5481450]

>>5481449

Here was another strange thing about water: it would often leave the confines of the seas and clump together as those vaporous masses we know as clouds. Of course, a good number of other things did that too, but the water variety was unique in that it became its own self-aware entity by doing so. Back then clouds weren’t as transient as they are today, so their newfound independence gave way to them creating their own society in the vast expanses of the skies.
The original inhabitants of the skies did not mind this at all, in fact the Nitrogens welcomed the first colonial clouds with open ions. Some might say that the skies were a bit too eager for some new blood, since within a relatively short time span clouds had completely overrun them. Clouds now came in every shape and size you could possibly imagine, and even more that you could not. They had their own personalities and aspirations. They formed complex relationships with each other and interacted in unique ways. They were endlessly intriguing but at the same time, to the seas they were leaving and the heavens they were settling, increasingly terrifying.

[Anonymous No.5481459]

>>5481450
Also another good idea, but I think of you relaxed a little and let some imagery flow it would work way better. These are natural elements, don't constantly personify them otherwise you lose what makes nature special. My 2 cents

[Anonymous No.5481501]

why do people write fantasy

everyone knows slice-of-life is the only patrician way

[Anonymous No.5481521]

>>5481501

magic is exciting

[Anonymous No.5481532]

>>5481501
Because it sells and I like to eat food.

[Anonymous No.5481541]

>>5481501

is writing something realistic with a single fantasy element in it ok

like, say if i had a work about dragons but it went into detail about how they integrated into an otherwise realistic society for instance

[Anonymous No.5481547]

>>5481541
I hate unoriginal people like you.

[Anonymous No.5481557]

>>5481501
because most of us live in a world so hateful we try to escape from it every fucking day.

[Anonymous No.5481569]

>>5481557
escapism is for the weak

[Anonymous No.5481627]

>>5481547

thats not very nice

[Anonymous No.5481660]

[Anonymous No.5481675]

>>5481569
so why are you reading fiction? escapism at its finest

[Anonymous No.5481760]

>>5481501
I know nothing of the real world, and I don't care to, so I just make up stories. It makes me happy, anon.

Aren't I allowed to be happy?

[Anonymous No.5481999]

>My grandmother, a solid, small woman, shriveled up like a chicken molting. The intermissions between sand paper breaths was just enough to wonder, if that was the last. Rocked back to the small of your proverbial seat, recomposed to the tune of harsh air dragged.
Pacing about, thinking back 8 minutes ago. He had just completed a mid term for his British Literature course, and coming out of the computer lab, reflex reached for the phone, looking for the time. Instead, there was a voicemail, left by his mother, accompanied by 2 missed calls. A heavy iron feeling beset him, he couldn’t remember the last time something was important enough to be left by vocal words, and not just a half hearted string of characters. The ceremony of such a thing, portends dreadful thoughts and darting eyes.
Wandering further into the library, despite the absolute policy against cell phone usage, he awaited the connection to crackle in, passcode typed, dial tones to count. Multitudes of personal doomsdays have come and go in the short time, the gnawing of not knowing.
“Hey, i’m down at Kaweah Manor with your father, it looks like your grandma had a stroke last night, and they say she hasn’t got much time left. If you have time today, it’d be nice if you came and saw your dad down here.”
While he didn’t feel good about it, a gentle vindication settled in him. A path, a destination.
The manor was down the street from the college, about two street lights, not blocks, blocks denote an even spacing and portioning of the streets. Instead, streets can and will wind as long as they damn please, labeling one of these treks as a block will only mislead the directionless. A new term should be devised, street lights is clumsy nomenclature, but it works for this one instance.

[Anonymous No.5482080]

Yearning for criticism bump

[Anonymous No.5482114]

1

His fingers tingle with anticipation at thought of his body being flattened by the torsion applied as flesh meets concrete. Or is it simply the wind passing through his fingers? It’s hard to tell these days. There’s a stirring behind him as the latch to his apartment door clicks.

“What are you doing?” She says as she approaches wearily. He notices her perky breasts shimmying under the black and white checked cotton fabric of her summer dress but tries to push them out of his mind.

“You weren’t supposed to be back for a couple hours. I was hoping for a little privacy”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“I don’t know, an hour or so… just contemplating.”

“Suicide?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you want to fuck me or something?”

“Jesus.”

“Because I’d prefer to just let you fuck me than have you kill yourself.”

“God, you’re so vain. The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Really? You didn’t want to fuck me? Because I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

“Oh, I’ve wanted to fuck you.” He moves toward her. “To grab you by the arms,” closer, “bend you over that counter” he points, “to rip your panties off” she withdraws preparing for the worst. He stops and stares directly at her eyes for a moment and then turns away from her. “But, that’s not what this is about.”

Her face flushes crimson. “Y-you … no one… why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He laughs, “I feel that way about everyone. I’m addicted to sex, a nymphomaniac.”

“So you don’t love me?”

“No. Absolutely not. I more have an innate seething hatred of you and possibly your gender as a whole, but hate sex is always the best anyway.”

She looks at him and then puts her head down and her and her hands behind her back before leaning against the wall. “Well, I’ve wanted you.”

“No you don’t. You want an idealized unrealistic version of me. I’ve seen you watching those fucking Meg Ryan movies.”

“You liked Kate & Leopold.”

“I’m bisexual, I understand romantic fantasy but I also know human nature well enough to know that there are no fairy tale endings.” He walks over to a wall and leans against it, crossing his arms in front of him.

“So, if you’re a sex addict, why have you never tried to fuck me?”

“We live together and you would be bound to assume we were exclusive which is pretty much impossible for me to do.”

“You know I’m more complex than that. I’m not just some naïve chaste maiden waiting for a man to express his will. I’ve had my share of partners.”

“Are you serious? Sexual experience doesn’t make you mature or emotionally stable. It usually causes the opposite. People mentally build up relationships as grand poetic adventures while simultaneously acting as if sex is the only important element.”

“Maybe but it’s definitely the most fun element.”

“The hedonism of our generation is disgusting.”

[Anonymous No.5482122]

>>5482114
2

“You were always trying to be so philosophical.”

“I was never able to have a relationship around which to base the meaning of my life. I had to fill it with other things.”

“Sex?”

“Thoughts… and drugs. Not that they helped. The sex was always a burden. I got really good at manipulating people into sex though. My degree in psychology helped there.”

“Really? How would you do it?”

“Well, let’s take you for instance.” He walks over to her and looks her up and down. “If I didn’t know you I’d ask a few questions. What do you do?” He stares and asks again, “What do you do?”

“Uh… I’m a waitress at a restaurant in Hell’s kitchen”

“Oh, that sounds interesting. Do you like working there?”

“Well, it’s okay but it doesn’t pay that well and I feel like I wasted my time getting a degree.”

“There. An insecurity. Then I press it for more information.” He says “What’d you get your degree in?”

“Communications”

“A communications degree shows that you believe you have natural likability and will respond positively to reinforcement of that opinion. What would you do if you could have any job?”

“I mean, I’ve always kind of wanted to be an actor.”

“What stopped you?”

“My dad was never very supportive of it.”

“A father complex. You see?”

“So you don’t find me attractive.”

“Oh, I’d fuck you but like I said before, we live together. It would have ended in disaster.”

“What would you have done to me?”

“You have a rape fantasy, right?”

She blushes. He smiles.

“I’d push you up against that wall you’re leaning against and lift you off the ground with my left hand, while my right would hastily go up that cute little skirt you’re wearing.”

Mouth open , staring hungrily she asks, “Then what?” Her hand reaches down.

“I’d grab hold of that pert heart shaped ass of yours, lifting you over my shoulder and taking you into your bedroom. After throwing you down on your back I’d flip you over and slide down your panties in one swift motion and then christen that tight little asshole of yours while pushing your head down into your plush pink bedspread to muffle your screams for help.”

Her hand dives into her panties and begins rubbing. “You’re making my pussy wet.”

“Oh, does it need a lick?”

[Anonymous No.5482128]

>>5482122
She stops rubbing. “I want you to fuck me before you kill yourself.” She grabs the bottom of her dress by the hem and lifts it over her head and then tosses it to the side revealing matching pale green thong and bra trimmed in white lace. She stares at him with a hopeful stare.

He stares back at her lithe body. The soft glow of white light diffused though the rustling curtains caresses her crests and valleys. He notices her teeth biting her plump gloss stained lips. Blood flows away from his brain and toward his penis. “This won’t make you more complete and you’ll hate yourself for it.”

“I want your cum in me.” She says sashaying over to him and grabbing his wrist with one hand and his belt the other.

He stops her. “Don’t you want to know why I’m going to kill myself?”

She looks back at him and into his eyes and says softly “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“I guess you’ll find out eventually anyway.” He removes his shirt and belt. She pushes the button on the top of jeans through its cloth loop and unzips the fly, dropping the pants to the ground. They both head toward her bedroom but before he enters he turns back to the living room for a second and thumbs through his music shelf. He selects his “Knife Play” vinyl and puts it on the turntable, placing the needle at the beginning of track four. With a downward tug he removes his boxers and grasps his cock. “I cannot wait to die. Can’t you tell?” he says, closing the door behind him as he follows her into her room.

As the door closes it sends out a light breeze across the room which rustles a few papers sitting on the coffee table. A tri-folded letter from Mt. Sinai Saint Luke’s flutters and for only a second the letters HIVAIDS are visible. As he enters her, the song’s chorus begins.

[Anonymous No.5482140]

>Shitty short story I wrote awhile ago, didnt bother with going back to it.

http://pastebin.com/wtz5EFzE

[Anonymous No.5482161]

A puddle of consciousness:

Sequestered souls in an ocean of abundant activity reach for the gutters during times of passive persecution that is persistently wrought in mirrored images and noodle out sweet, treasured sewage; and so time flies and people die deaths dealt in an absence of grief, leaving places with vacuous holes that are interminably filled with translucent emptiness. The sidearms of police officers shine through the trousers of the proverbial "man" and the sole spirits, unsyncopated and rhyming, stick up and out through the cotton leaves of a tormented city compiling dreamless lives and the hopes of a new past or a future that has become past due. And so abstractions collapse in on themselves and become the concrete structures that we impose so much import upon, laying foundation to the mental edifices of undisturbed convalescence that only remain to relapse back into a cancerous sludge of dregs that cannibalizes itself like the ravenous pursuit of a rabid hyena rung loose in a crowd of crippled rodents that only have until June anyway. But what month is it now? How will the wrecking balls rust, and how will the last building collapse? Time and weather will be the only sayers of such evidential truths, truths not held to be self-evident, bullets not seen nor felt by the receiver but laid down into the souls of those who watch the atrocities ignored by their epicenters, the quakes of our tectonic spirits whose volatilities only beg to beget a sinister sense of false love that is imbued upon the lackluster veneers of our masked faces ingrained in rabbles that form to make nothing but crumbs of bread to be spread by old men in parks, old men too traumatized to speak of past bloodshed and shed exteriors. And so, the sun sets on an ungrateful city, and a brass bull sparkles amidst a flurry of spit particles flung by beleaguered tongues of fatherless daughters and motherless sons, a troupe of siblings we've long abandoned since the dawn of a time created by green eyes set on an elemental set of letters too sacred to say with the lips, a sinful horde of crystallized imaginings, a desperate plea for improbable improvement: bellowing a ballad for the fall of New York.

[Anonymous No.5482191]

hate it or love it

Sequestered souls in an ocean of abundant activity reach for the gutters during times of passive persecution that is persistently wrought in mirrored images and noodle out sweet, treasured sewage; and so time flies and people die deaths dealt in an absence of grief, leaving places with vacuous holes that are interminably filled with translucent emptiness. The sidearms of police officers shine through the trousers of the proverbial "man" and the sole spirits, unsyncopated and rhyming, stick up and out through the cotton leaves of a tormented city compiling dreamless lives and the hopes of a new past or a future that has become past due. And so abstractions collapse in on themselves and become the concrete structures that we impose so much import upon, laying foundation to the mental edifices of undisturbed convalescence that only remain to relapse back into a cancerous sludge of dregs that cannibalizes itself like the ravenous pursuit of a rabid hyena rung loose in a crowd of crippled rodents that only have until June anyway. But what month is it now? How will the wrecking balls rust, and how will the last building collapse? Time and weather will be the only sayers of such evidential truths, truths not held to be self-evident, bullets not seen nor felt by the receiver but laid down into the souls of those who watch the atrocities ignored by their epicenters, the quakes of our tectonic spirits whose volatilities only beg to beget a sinister sense of false love that is imbued upon the lackluster veneers of our masked faces ingrained in rabbles that form to make nothing but crumbs of bread to be spread by old men in parks, old men too traumatized to speak of past bloodshed and shed exteriors. And so, the sun sets on an ungrateful city, and a brass bull sparkles amidst a flurry of spit particles flung by beleaguered tongues of fatherless daughters and motherless sons, a troupe of siblings we've long abandoned since the dawn of a time created by green eyes set on an elemental set of letters too sacred to say with the lips, a sinful horde of crystallized imaginings, a desperate plea for improbable improvement: bellowing a ballad for the fall of New York.

[Anonymous No.5482232]

>>5482122
Read the first three lines or so here.

Your dialog is awkward as fuck. The protagonist (or male character I guess) just sounds... icky (sorry I can't do better than that). He has absolutely no charisma whatso-fucking-ever and yet you expect me/us/readers to believe that this girl is going to want to have sex with him. And this whole scene just feels edgy for no reason. Protag wants to kill himself, ends up indulging in a rape fantasy. I mean, what's the point?

[Anonymous No.5482241]

>>5482191
I like this a lot.
But I think it could benefit A LOT from some structure.

[Anonymous No.5482256]

>>5482140
>http://pastebin.com/wtz5EFzE
This is on par with John Green.

[Anonymous No.5482388]

>>5482232
It was a response to writing prompt from a post on here a while ago which was:

"Man stands on a balcony ready to jump. Girl walks in on him. What do they say?"

Almost all of the stories were about the guy wanting to have had sex with her but her not realizing it and trying to console him. In my story she's not a good person, and I mean he really isn't either. He's not supposed to be Ryan Gosling. How non-icky did you want a man driven to suicide to be? By the way, the girl is based on someone I know that is literally that awful as a person.

On dialogue, I agree. I need to get better. I still haven't got good dialogue writing down yet and additionally, I just straight up do not understand prose or how to write it.

[Anonymous No.5482436]

>>5481541
>is writing something realistic with a single fantasy element in it ok

>asking for permission
>to write about things
>on /lit/

I'm genuinely smiling at my computer right now. Sitting alone in this room smiling at my monitor at 7.26AM after another sleepless night. How does that make you feel?

[Anonymous No.5482489]

>>5482436
>smiling
Did you ask permission?

[Anonymous No.5482543]

Crippled midget whore was a regular—in a long remission from appendiceal cancer, which I had not previously known existed. Crippled midget whore said—as she had every other time I’d attended Support Group—that she felt strong, which felt like bragging to me as the oxygen-drizzling nubs tickled my nostrils.

Without looking over at me, Mcfagget said, “You’re killing my vibe here, Bitchtits bumblefuck Grace. I’m trying to observe young love in its many-splendored awkwardness.”

so crippled midget whore took me to see my Regular Doctor Kike, who agreed that I was veritably swimming in a paralyzing and totally clinical depression.

He towered over me, but he kept his distance so I wouldn’t have to crane my neck to look aids ridden faggot in the eye. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Bitchtits Bumblefuck.”
“No, your full name.”
“Um, Bitchtits Bumblefuck Grace Lancaster.”

[Anonymous No.5482556]

>>5482543
Shawn Wunjo pls.

[Anonymous No.5482570]

What do you think?


you can taste it if you try:
if you are under crumbled sand-castle mountains
stabbing the sky with bleeding yellow light
and you are driving
through the desert with warm wind blowing
on your skin and yellow lights in the distance
and the road moving under you, sucking you up
carrying you like a friendly creature, slick and swelling sound
beneath your tires. And the mountains blooming morning light above you,
the morning air whipping around you reminding you that things do move
and promising you freedom
and the strength you need, your backpack in the trunk says:
when the world rumbles beneath your feet
and it all has gone away and the stage-curtains
are catching fire, the mountains still will be there
to rustle your hair with breeze,
and now you’re flying down the dark
desert road in the flat strip between
the mountain ranges. Soon you’ll be in
a town -- the best kind of town
where you’ve never been and no one knows you
and you can sleep in your car and wake
when the light cracks over the crooked
peaks to the east and that light will fill
you with hope and you will shiver
when you start to drive
and it will be you and your friends again,
the backpack and the creaking car and the one-lane road
and the mountains slicing the sky on either side.

[Anonymous No.5482575]

>>5482570
I'm a sucker for poetic car rides and SHTF scenarios, so I like this.

Didn't get the conclusion though.

[Anonymous No.5482581]

>>5482570
Also, you're not really "stabbing the sky" with your headlights. Not unless you have them pointing up instead of down onto the road.
In which case you need to get your headlights repaired.

[Anonymous No.5482585]

Please go outside, /lit/, if you never pass on your special literati genius skills they will be lost forever.

"...cultural variants are lost by chance when their practitioners are not imitated. For instance, the most knowledgeable net maker may not be copied because he/she is poor, unsociable or dies unexpectedly, and thus her special skills would be lost to the population."
Kline M., and Boyd R. (2010) Population size predicts technological complexity in Oceania. Proc. R. Soc. 277: 2559-2564.

[Anonymous No.5482605]

>>5482581
The mountains are stabbing the sky dumbass

[Anonymous No.5482607]

>>5482605
... with bleeding yellow light?

[Anonymous No.5482700]

>>5482570
>crumbled sand-castle mountains
>stabbing the sky with bleeding yellow light
>mountains blooming morning light
>light cracks over the crooked peaks
>mountains slicing the sky

Shiny mountains: the poem.

[Anonymous No.5482701]

The last gargoyle-ogre lay among his slain kin, bloodied and panting heavily.
“Curse you, hunter! I will wear your hide and”- KASLUNK
A stake passed through the creature’s face and pinned the back of its head to the earth
“You’re gonna need it, I hear the netherworld is cold this time of year”
The demon-mage hunter, Ai’leorio, laughs at his own witty remark, licking his snout with a shit eating grin.
Ai’leorio slid another bolt into his crossbow as the queen vampire floated out of her castle and across the battlefield.
“Ai’leorio, we meet again. I’m impressed a lone half man, half wherewolf, half demon could take out an entire army of gargogres”
“You forget, queen Aizlianalia, I’m also half dragon”
Aileorio threw back his overcoat to reveal a magnificent lizard body. The Queen of Vampires was unable to help herself from the prospect of drinking dragon blood.
She sucked vigourously at Ai’leorio’s waste, but little did she know, dawn was upon them.
Ai’leorio watched the morning light spill over the foggy marsh. The Queen felt a sting on the back of her head, but it was too late. She let out a wet gasp before combusting in the thick rays of sunlight.
Ai’leorio blew his corrosive dragon load over the Gargogre general and flicked down his circular steampunk sunglasses, which he needed because he was also half vampire.

posted this earlier but got no feedback

[Anonymous No.5482709]

>>5482701
Lame and derivative.

[kitty !kitty/EnNg No.5482712]

>>5482701
>Ai’leorio slid another bolt into his crossbow as the queen vampire floated out of her castle and across the battlefield

well it looks like a description of some chess party. ai'leorio was probably a rook (possibly a queen or a pawn which turned into a queen) which took several pawns (gargoyles) and the enemy queen

[Anonymous No.5482756]

>>5481999
it`s ok
write more and think more

[Anonymous No.5482768]

>“There is, but I’ve taken care of it already”. The assistant was pointing to a stack of paper

would`ve liked it if you described how he was still munching on the biscuits

[Anonymous No.5482774]

“Hello my friend!”

“What the fuck, who are you?”

“My name is Joh–”

“I don’t care who you are.”

“Then why did you jus–”

“No.”

“Wha–”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“Fuck off cunt.”

“Excuse me?”

“Excuse you? What the fuck?”

“Please stop this!”

“Who are you even?”

“My name is Joh–”

“Oh-kay, I think I’ve heard enough.”

“You won’t let me finish my name.”

“I already know what it is.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“How?”

“Various methods.”

“Various methods?”

“Yes, various methods.”

“Alright then, what is my name?”

“Josiah?”

“–”

“Jobodiah?”

“–”

“Jolly-Jim?”

“–”

“Jong Jing?”

“Those were the worst guesses I have ever heard.”

“I do know your name.”

“My name is not Josiah, Jobodiah, Jolly-Jim or Jong Jing!”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Check your ID then –”

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID.

“– read it.”

“‘Josiah Jobodiah Jolly-Jim Jong Jing’ – oh dearie me.”

[Anonymous No.5482779]

>>5482774
That's just a bad joke.

[Anonymous No.5482785]

>>5482709
is it not obviously satire?
>>5482712
that's an interesting interpretation, it's meant to read as cheesy fantasy

[Anonymous No.5482787]

>>5482785
>is it not obviously satire?
Absolutely, and as such it's lame and derivative.
You even ripped off south park.

[Anonymous No.5482790]

>>5482779
you know what fuck you my story is good fgucking faggotrr43 reported

[Anonymous No.5482791]

>>5482787
where did I rip off SP?

[Anonymous No.5482792]

>>5482791
>half man, half wherewolf, half demon

[Anonymous No.5482795]

>>5482790
bait/10

[Anonymous No.5482801]

>>5482792
oh shit I didn't even realize, def stole their joke subconsciously

[Anonymous No.5482821]

>>5482801
It's also the only funny thing in that entire bit.

[Anonymous No.5482884]

Behind him I could see the twin apparitions of Government and Big Business, slavering and gibbering, faces twisted in equal measure lust and hunger (what's the difference?), marking on his sinewy back which choice cuts they would tear out and consume.

And, on a clear night, you can climb a radio tower in Tullamarine and look north, and watch the lights flicking off one by one, many for the last time. The price of prosperity.

How much time had passed since we had arrived? An hour? Two? Or had centuries, millennia, passed beyond our notice? Outside the fairground, had civilization fallen? Had another risen? I posed the question to my associate, who responded with, “Don’t tell me this shit man, not now, not-“ before vomiting on the side of the Cucumber.

But instead, the cattle rose to sing, “Take us back! Take us back!”, which the ranchers ignored. “How rude,” I thought.

these are excerpts from my "gonzo journalism" book "Strange Rumblings from the Graveyard of Australia: the Magpies Scream for Emu Flesh". Totally unedited, the entire thing is basically a tribute to Hunter S. Thompson. A portion of it is based on true events. Please criticise me, I'm glad to talk more about it, and post more.

[Anonymous No.5482887]

>>5482884
lolsorandumb

[Anonymous No.5482912]

>>5482887
lol one bad comment and op deleted

[Anonymous No.5483192]

The Fantastic Adventures of Flashbird & Friends: trilogy 7.

The big showdown with Flashbird.
Or is it.....

[Anonymous No.5483197]

Two girls sat across from her, in the middle of the carriage. One of them had a black eye. Madeleine pretended not to notice and stared out the window.

‘That fuckin’ rat,’ she heard the other one say, ‘deserves a bottle to his head.’

‘Shut up about him,’ replied the black-eyed girl. ‘He didn’t know what he was doing.’ Her voice was directed at Madeleine, who felt four eyes on her too. Silence. She didn’t blink. The whole train seemed to focus onto her — until the girl spoke again. ‘It’s cos he was pissed and seen his dad do it to his mum, I reckon. Even though he hates it.’

The voice had swung back the other girl. Everyone refocused on themselves. Madeleine’s heart rate slowed, but she felt like throwing up. The train door opened. She almost made a break for it — and regretted it when she didn’t. Wanting to get the fuck away, her hand scrambled for her phone and she thumbed hard and fast through Facebook. Damien Lissie’s status was ‘pissed’ and twenty-two people had liked it. Madeleine did too. Shit, he was cool. You would have to give almost zero fucks to get away with a status like that, yet still cop so many likes. A new panic rose up in her chest and brought the other one back to life. Her heart went quick as a hailstorm. She was freaking the fuck out. Now she did throw up. All down the side of her seat, her wretch inhuman, a dying animal’s.

‘Ew! Fucking gross!’

‘There’s munt everywhere!’

She got up and staggered toward the nearest door. Next stop, Lilydale, the train speakers said. A few people laughed. The two girls were hysterical.

‘You chat bitch. Hey, look over here!’

Madeleine could not think. Her brain was drowning in embarrassing. Little smiling people were in her head tearing her thoughts apart as she tried to construct them. All she could do was obey the command.

The black-eyed girl was holding a camera.

[Anonymous No.5483217]

I'm writing a short story in which a guy self harms by inducing migraines upon himself. Just throw some words at me

[Anonymous No.5483222]

Get ready for a three-trilogy marathon of the Fantastic Adventures of Flashbird & Friends.

Part 1: Rhyce updates his journal.

[Anonymous No.5483224]

>>5483222
Part 2: the epic showdown with Flashbird.
Or is it...

[Anonymous No.5483233]

>>5483217
Sonic

[Anonymous No.5483237]

>>5483224
Part 3: A rare moment of contemplation amid the violence that is Rhyce's quest to avenge his nemises (and brother) Flashbird (who killed his girlfriend in front of his eyes.

[Anonymous No.5483295]

‘He’s such a dick!’

The camera nodded.

She counted the things he was on her fingers. ‘A liar, a cheat, a manipulator, a… a…’

‘A dick,’ the voice behind the camera offered.

‘A dick!’ Her hand fell flat onto the table as she said it, her voice furious but restrained like the growl of a muzzled dog. It lay there for a moment. Then it rose and brushed at the polish, slowly, brush, brush, brush, as though there was dust there that could be rid of and prevented to return, so long as she kept at it.

The hand resigned to the other one in a neat interlock on her lap. All that belied them were her eyes, still fixated on where she’d swept. They seemed to search for something the camera could not; some sealed and hidden dust that her gaze might penetrate and resurface. But the surface stayed clean. In time, her eyes resigned too, and returned to the lens — like her smile, suddenly, when she saw and remembered it. ‘Oh, I’m over him though, of course.’

[Anonymous No.5483520]

>>5482436

do i have permission to ask ????

[Anonymous No.5483553]

>>5483224

>mysterious loner

oh anon

[Anonymous No.5483566]

>>5483553
He's also a vampire.

[Anonymous No.5483640]

'A wave of euphoria both fleeting and everlasting consumed the hero. For an indeterminate period of time, be it minutes or millenia, he simply rode the endless torrent of unabased positivity that entirely consumed him.

Was this effervescence a particular emotion dragged out to an inhuman interval; or an eternal contentedness compacted into the short experiences one might expect in mortal life? It seemed as pointless to consider such things as one might pontificate the nature of eternity while constrained within mortal life. Both appear wholly absurd when viewed through the lens of each other.

It is equally absurd to attempt a transmission of these thoughts to an Earthly narrator, though the hero apparently does not mind the inevitable gaps in intent that will result. Or perhaps he does, and the humble narrator will never be capable of recognizing this.

Regardless of intent, everything previously stated has been invalidated by the lack of apparent time to the hero. He does not experience brief moments nor endless waits. Or rather; he did not, and will not experience such things? All of this worldly pedantry merely serves to contrast the experience of the eternal with the state of life on Earth. Our hero has instantly become a close acquaintance of the infinitesimal and the infinite.

Within the introductory 'moment' of his stint in eternity he has already considered and experienced every possible thought and emotion. This exhaustion of mental resources would make any soul on Earth immediately buckle at its knees in terror. Life is a gradual accumulation of various thoughts and emotions, so to experience the entire journey before one has taken a mere step would induce apathy and despair.

However, the fluidity of eternal bliss turns this predicament on its head. For while our hero experiences the entirity of perception within a moment, he also experiences the bliss of such a moment for eternity.


>tfw this is the first thing I've written in a long time

yeah, I woke up an hour ago or so and suddenly felt compelled to describe what eternal bliss, Heaven, Nirvana, etc might feel like. obviously this comes off as pretentious twaddle or something, but maybe there's some worth in there somewhere

I guess the point of me posting this is to ask /lit/ whether they can sense any sort of worth in my writing? It's a path I might like to pursue if I have any sort of talent (probably not much, if any), given that my experience with both reading and writing is small (but I'm finally re-discovering that I enjoy doing both)

[Anonymous No.5483648]

>>5482607

It's poetry faggot.

[kitty !kitty/EnNg No.5483653]

>>5483553
>>mysterious loner
n44, mysterious loner :3

[Anonymous No.5483714]

>>5483653
>n44
what?

[Anonymous No.5483736]

>>5483640
This kind of wordy and vague stream of consciousness is good to stretch your literary muscle, but it's absolutely worthless as actual reading material.

[kitty !kitty/EnNg No.5483746]

>>5483714
oh, i always forget that for some reason that novel was published in its birthplace in a very short edition, i read it in translation in this one
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mysterious_Stranger#No._44.2C_the_Mysterious_Stranger:_Being_an_Ancient_Tale_Found_in_a_Jug_and_Freely_Translated_from_the_Jug

>>5483648
*mine* mountains bleed with spears of yellow light directly into the dark skies, i see them that way? :3

[Anonymous No.5483766]

Along comes Zachary, creeping noisily up on the high central dome with its flanking campaniles in which no bells have ever rung, as they are only disguised ventilation shafts designed to suck the rotten fetor from the asylum . . . Along comes Zachary . . . avoiding the unseeing eyes of the tarnished bronze statue that hides behind some forsythia – a young man clearly hebephrenic . . . his face immobile forever in its suffering, the folds of his clothing plausibly heavy . . . for he looks altogether weighed down by existence itself. Along comes Zachary . . . chomping beside the arched windows now, and the arched doorways, and then the arched windows again. He admits himself into this monumental piece of trompe l’œil not by the grand main doors – which are permanently bolted – but by an inconspicuous side one – and this is only right, as it begins the end of the delusion that he will encounter some Foscari or Pisani, whereas the reality is: a low banquette covered with dried-egg vinyl, and slumped upon this a malefactor, his face – like those of so many of the mentally ill – a paradoxical neoplasm, the agèd features just this second formed to quail behind a defensively raised shoulder. A hectoring voice says, You will be confined to your ward and receive no allowance this week, DO YOU UN-DER-STAND? Oh, yes, I understand well enough . . . which is why he continues apace, not wishing to see any more of this routine meanness . . . Along comes Zachary – and along a short corridor panelled with damp chipboard, then down some stairs into the lower corridor. Along comes Zachary – and along – he has clutched his briefcase to his chest, unfastened it, and now pulls his white coat out in stiff little billows. You’ll be needing one, Busner, Whitcomb had said – a jolly arsehole, his long face a fraction: eyes divided by moustache into mouth – else the patients’ll think . . . Think what? Think what?! But the consultant’s attention span was so short he had lost interest in his own phrase and fallen to reaming the charred socket of his briar with the end of a teaspoon, the fiddly task performed inefficiently on the knobbly topy tops of his knock-knees. – Why were the staffroom chairs all too low or too high? Along comes Zachary – and along . . . his splayed shoes crêping along the floor, sliding across patches of lino, slapping on stone-flagged sections, their toes scraping on the ancient bitumen – wherever that was exposed. Scrrr-aping. He wonders: Who would dream of such a thing – to floor the corridors, even the wards, of a hospital with a road surface? Yet there is a rationale to it – a hectoring, wheedling, savage rationale – that explains itself via the voices that resound inside the patients’ bony-stony heads, their cerebral corridors and cortical dormitories . . . because these are roadway distances – a hundred yards, a hundred feet, a hundred more, a North Circular of the soul. No signs

[Anonymous No.5483777]

The Thief:
http://pastebin.com/g7weCkZD

[Anonymous No.5483780]

>>5483766
>dat deep purple prose

[Anonymous No.5483788]

>>5483777
Unfuck your grammar.

[Anonymous No.5483810]

>>5483788
I will, besides that, how was it?

[Anonymous No.5483873]

>>5483810
It reads like YA literature.
It also has clichés like "her eyes always gleamed". Which is fine for YA.

Is it intended as YA?

[Anonymous No.5484089]

>>5483873
Yes.

[Anonymous No.5484107]

>>5483873
>>5484089

>YA

Anyone using the term should die.

Young adults meaning children. Fuck right off.

Everybody reads YA, it's like the accepted shit version of anything that both kids and adults can read without feeling bad.

[Anonymous No.5484269]

>>5484107
>Young adults meaning children
Those are not the same.

Some literature is targeted towards young adults. Not adults, and not children.

Deal with it.

[Anonymous No.5484282]

>>5484269
It's a meaningless marketing term. Deal with it.

[Anonymous No.5484321]

>>5484269

People claim the difference between YA and adult fiction is a) content and b) vocabulary. But, late high school is where you're cementing the final entries in your vocabulary; people don't learn new words when they're adults in the working world. Adults and young adults have access to the same dictionaries, but young adults have the further benefit of having access to an English teacher. There's no good reason to dumb it down for them.

As for content, I don't see the use in sheltering late teenagers from disturbing concepts. If you want to have a problem with YA, start with the fact that it's designed for people EVEN YOUNGER than those it claims to be aimed at. I wouldn't give a YA book to anyone older than 16.

[Anonymous No.5484543]

I think I might have crossed too far into edgy territory in my story. I just had a character dislocate another characters jaw so he could throat fuck her slack jawed mouth.

Is there a line, or should I just keep pushing it?

[Anonymous No.5484679]

>>5484543
If it's a hardcore brutal rape fantasy go ahead, anything else fuuuuuuuck no

[Grindcore, embrace it No.5484684]

>>5484269
they're both dip shits, so who cares?

[Anonymous No.5484704]

>>5484321
>>5484282
I'm Belgian, and YA literature is huge in the Dutch language.
Some of my fondest school memories involve reading stuff by Thea Beckman or Aster Berckhof.
This stuff is too harsh an advanced for kids, and much too childish for adults, both in language and subject matter.
It's a very specific and effective category in its own right.
Isn't this the same for English YA?

[Anonymous No.5484759]

>>5484679
Is it bad that I want to blur the lines between the two? The character that's doing it is living out a brutal rape fantasy, but I think it's a very satisfying climax to his character arc.

[Anonymous No.5484809]

>>5484704
>I'm Belgian

So irrelevant then?

[Anonymous No.5484820]

>>5484759
Actually not bad then. I remember reading a bdsm book I found when I was like 13 that had this idea, basically the girls this guy seduced did more and more depraved shit until he accidentally killed one of the sisters. Shit was fucked but not a terrible read

[Anonymous No.5484859]

>>5484820
I really feel like sexuality should be explored a lot more in writing. It's such a huge part of the human experience, but is always portrayed so narrowly.

[Anonymous No.5484996]

>>5484859
Yeah, that's what people need: MORE focus on sex.

[Anonymous No.5485011]

>>5484996
This is what I mean. Sex should be a regular, natural part of everyday life. Why do you still associate so many negative connotations with sex?

[Anonymous No.5485021]

>>5485011
I think you're preaching to the wrong crowd man.

Non-virgins are this way,
>>>/reddit/

[Anonymous No.5485026]

>>5483766
Reminder of what some il/lit/erates thought of this excerpt the first time it was posted:
>>/lit/thread/S5373084#p5381092

[Anonymous No.5485032]

>>5485021
You don't have to have had sex to write about sexuality. If anything, we're far more equipped to put the spotlight on deviant sexuality here. We've spent the most time thinking about it.

It's actually such a rich vein of ideas and thoughts, and it's almost completely untapped.

[Anonymous No.5485036]

>>5485032
No one wants to read about that time you shoved your dog's turd up your japs eye and came brown.

[Anonymous No.5485046]

>>5485011
>Sex should be a regular, natural part of everyday life.
It very much is.
The negative connotations I have regarding sex have to do with excessive focus on sex in entertainment and media.

[Anonymous No.5485059]

>>5485046
This is what I mean. It very much isn't a natural and normal part of your life if you feel uncomfortable when you see it.

[Anonymous No.5485083]

>>5485059
Shitting is also natural, but I don't want to see it or hear about it 24/7.

[Anonymous No.5485159]

>>5485083
The fact that you're associating sex with shitting further proves my point that you think of sex as a dirty shameful act to be done in secret.

[Anonymous No.5485283]

>>5485159
I'm not associating sex with shitting, i'm comparing sex with shitting.

[Anonymous No.5485295]

>>5484859
Dude the shit in this book was not healthy. One character was getting fucked by a dog, then there was chuck holding and the one sister died by car battery to the nipples. Not really the focus people should take
Like I said fucked up, but well executed.

[Anonymous No.5485357]

>>5478675
>>5478671
>>5478680
samefag

[Anonymous No.5485364]

>>5479027
>>5478706
>>5478680
This is a sterling example of deep irony.

[Anonymous No.5485389]

>>5479264
The sentences are bloated, which is fine when it's packed with imagery, but a huge no-no when describing something. I'd suggest a rewrite, because the concept and core feeling that you're trying to convey is very interesting.

[Anonymous No.5485391]

>>5484321
>people don't learn new words when they're adults in the working world

Get your facts right

[Anonymous No.5485418]

>>5485295
This is what I mean. You don't always have to explore the healthy, normal parts of sexuality. We're in a prime position to explore the parts that most people don't even know exists.

I'm not just talking about people with a fetish for enslavement and mind breaking, I'm talking about the psychology of how a person develops these urges and how it effects them as a person.

Who better to write about this then us, who have these fetishes personally? We can offer a perspective nobody else can. We won't elevate ourselves above it and cast judgement. We'll be right down wallowing the middle of the filth and show what's like through our eyes.

[Anonymous No.5485487]

>>5484704

Maybe I snapped to judgement. Most of my resentment comes from seeing people who should be reading adult literature reading YA. It pains me to see literature used as a force of infantilization. I don't have any problem with the concept, just its practice, and I wish people would get away from it sooner.

[Anonymous No.5485888]

The pancake hissed as it hit the floor of the pan. "Well hey, wasn't that just awful, about the Nielsen girl?" Ms. Martinson could change topics with the snap of a finger, or the flick of a pancake. Berenice had often reflected upon her talkative prowess. "That girl, no, I din't see much of her ever, but I'm sure, I'm sure she was not bad enough to get hit by some car." Perhaps that was why she had a lot of daughters, but no man. "I tawk'd to the Sandy Hollers woman about it and she think the same. Always nice people die and bad ones stay but you already knew that huh, she said." Berenice looked towards the cigarette stub looming over the batter bowl. This conversation was enigmatically similar to many others Roberta Martinson held before. Indeed she had a talent for taking a topic and replacing the wrapping. A lingering tone of compassion always had some role in whatever she spoke of. Perhaps it had to do with the late father of Berenice, God bless his sweet soul Mother Martinson would say. Regardless, this quality had always been lost on Berenice who tapped on her phone.

[Anonymous No.5485973]

>>5485011
>Sex should be a regular, natural part of everyday life.
why do you want to make sex boring?

[Anonymous No.5486295]

Slowly putting his palm forwards, Felix felt the hard shell of the egg sitting in front of him.

“How is it prepared again?” he asked.

“After hatching, you need to be careful. Grip the neck and squeeze before you do anything else.” replied the head cook Gillette. “Clean it, hang it over the bowl, and I’ll take care of the rest”.

The egg was slowly cracking, drawing the attention of several of the staff around. A small hole grew in the side, out of which a talon poked.

“Be careful, these little bastards have sharp claws”. Now the whole kitchen watched with some interest, especially when they saw the top of the egg being pushed off by its occupant. A small orange head poked out, covered in slime.

“Should I do it now?” asked Felix.

“Lift it out now and wipe that filth off first” she replied.

He carefully lifted out the small dragon and rubbed it with a rag, before turning it upside down and holding its neck still.

It squeaked “I’m the wrong way up”.

Felix jumped slightly at this and accidentally let go, allowing the creature to drop. It quickly got up on its legs and looked at the kitchen staff, most of whom stepped back.

“It can talk!” shouted a man halfway through gutting a lamprey.

“Do I grab it again?” asked Felix.

“No, I’ve never encountered one that could speak before” said Gillette. Everyone stared dumbstruck at the small reptile, which began walking unsteadily around tasting everything with its long serpentine tongue. “On second thought grab it again, Martin find me a basket”.

Felix walked over and grabbed the dragon, which was clawing at him and squeaking loudly. Martin brought over a basket and Felix shoved the dragon inside the basket. It tried scratching its way out and biting at the sides.

“Robert, call the lord, this is important” Gillette shouted at one of the kitchen staff. He quickly ran upstairs to alert him, and several minutes passed before they came into the room.

[Anonymous No.5486687]

St. Annie sits on the bathhouse bench wiping bruises off her forehead, clanking her chainmail and platemail pieces, red from rust and red from old paint. Imran is in the bathhouse, poor guy doesn’t get any from his modest wife.
St. Annie, pretty girl of 23, washes all of the shoes. The whole village loved her, grieved for the burden she bore, not the burden of child, but the burden of an empty uterus, no smile to brighten her day, she was an eternal daughter, never thought that she could ever be a mother. She never desired a little baby, not what with Imran and his drunken songs during the nighttime.
The Tax man walked up the gravel toward the wellhouse, plain tunic waistlined by a plain rope, parted with an Anatolian bronze. St. Annie leaned up against the whitewashed wall among the townspeople.
“Excuse me. Names,” the Tax Man recited in a ritualistic foreign drawl from an unrolled shag of sheetpaper.
“Are these for the taxes?” Some young voice echoed from last month’s tribute.
“This is for the benefit of the people.”
The whole town groaned in response. The Tax Man began reading names. After each name, the clomp of compensation at his feet. The curve of his voice, the countours of his straight edged breathe saying names stifled the normally natural air.
The Hat Man dropped his coin in between names, and cut a circle into the sod with a bird emblazoned shoe tip around the pile of coins.
“Who are you.”
The Hat Man stared.”
“He doesn’t have a name, we just call him the Hat Man,” Crazy Chester croaked.
“Oh.”
After a string of names another man came up and dropped a coin in between names.
The Tax man stared with still eyes. The silence in the air begged for noise.
“Oh,” Crazy Chester adjusted himself on his cane, “he doesn’t have a name either, we just call him Quiroilopinio.”
“Queer Oil Opinio?”
“No, no, no, Quiro Ilopinio.”
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Someone yelled.
Crazy Chester started chuckling and was taken to the ground in the space of an eyelid closing. He hit the dirt, still laughing, hit with angry arms by the Hat Man, his hat now on the ground.

[Anonymous No.5486706]

>>5486295
>replied the head cook GIllette
should be
>replied the head cook, Gillette
Why are you writing a dragon novel is this written in the same absurd ironically melodramatic fashion that OP's story is written in.

[Anonymous No.5486714]

>>5485973
The Romans were always open about sex, and even Latin countries today are still open about sex. It's just the Celts that were closed about sex, and saw homosexuality as taboo. It wasn't really Christian guilt it was Celtic guilt but that's all for today really. I don't really know what the fuck you're saying right now you little scum fuck rock and rolle r admins ban me now! SHOW ME YOUR THUNDER SHOW ME YOUR LIGHTING I WILL BE TURNED INTO DUST1 AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH YAH YEAH YAH AYIGHAAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

[Anonymous No.5486718]

>>5486714
Are you
>>5486687

[Anonymous No.5486720]

>>5486718
"What?"-Richard Nixon

[kitty !kitty/EnNg No.5486726]

>>5484321

do you speak any other language except english? if you do, try to read a ya novel and then a classic novel in that another language, you will quickly and clearly see the difference in the vocabulary, its abundance and quality

also reading generally increases your vocabulary as adult

[Anonymous No.5486736]

WAT U THINK????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

[ANONYMOUS !!brlWzCDSZB4 No.5486744]

>>5486726
wHY ARE YOU SO MINIMALIST? HUH?

[ANONYMOUS !!brlWzCDSZB4 No.5486748]

>>5486744
>>5486726
FILENAME

[Anonymous No.5486761]

my thoughts for others
roots formed in my mind
create branches which grow in countless directions
twisting, trudging (digging through desolate storms)
persisting, relentless

and one may wonder how i keep track
but somehow, i do;
the nature within me is interested (almost) always in
others,
how do they work, why do they work, tell me your reasons;
and why would it be a burden?
no one asks me to; they don’t have to.

yet still nature needs nourishment,
and my mind is bone-dry:
for aspiration, for endurance:
how do i work, why do i work
let me tell you my reasons; i know them all.

and they say they care
they want to listen:
how am i feeling, what have i done;
but when
i
am growing trees and
they
plant daisies,
i wonder how will i ever be nourished; renewed; fulfilled;
and then i remember:
no one asked me to.

[Anonymous No.5486763]

>>5479027
Nice

[Anonymous No.5486866]

Title:
A place-holder
A declaration
A reason to live

[Anonymous No.5486915]

>>5482388
Well, I think part of the problem with your dialog is that I can hear the 4chan in it. Get off here and read more!

Also, I don't think you understand what I mean by "icky" (how dare you!). I meant that it feels inhuman and "writer"-ie. Like when protag says, "My degree helped with that." It just feels lazy. And who would say that? Let US figure out that he has a background in psychology OR tell us. But don't have HIM tell us because it doesn't sound natural.

[Anonymous No.5486973]

>>5486706

idk

[Anonymous No.5487130]

oh my god i just got back into my old facebook account after 5 years and i'm reading some of the short stories i wrote. ahahaha, they're so bad.

[Anonymous No.5487158]

>>5487130
this is probably the best one

She was falling. Falling. Falling. Falling. How far? How long? She struggled to a rough estimate. If she was correct in her assumption, she had been falling for six seconds, meaning that she had less than two seconds to pull her ripcord and descend safely. She fumbled with the cord and just managed to pull it. Brooke Thomas had just become the first woman to sky dive blindfolded from ten thousand feet and survive. When she landed, Brooke jumped up and let out a yell of triumph. Her dream was realized. Reporters flocked to her landing site. Microphones and tape recorders were thrust in her face. "How was the jump?" "Were you frightened?" "Did you enjoy it?" Questions upon questions. Brooke pushed past the reporters and looked for her boyfriend, Mike Hunt. Mike had attended every one of Brooke's dangerous stunts. From across the landing strip, she saw him. He was waving his hands. A smile stretched across his face from one ear to the other. Brooke ran to him. Mike ran to her. Time slowed down. It seemed like the entire universe was fixated on this one moment. Brooke embraced Mike. The two of them shared a long hug. Photographers snapped pictures of the memorable moment. Then Mike let go of her. He looked her in the eyes and said, "I love you." Right as he said this, the wind began to blow hard. Large gusts blew through the area. The sounds made hearing anything impossible. Brooke looked at him and asked, "What?" Mike replied, "Brooke, I love you." The wind wouldn't die down. Brooke was still unable to hear him. "WHAT?" she yelled. Mike cupped his hands together. "Brooke Thomas: I LOVE YOU." Brooke never heard this. She made the novice mistake of forgetting to remove her parachute after she landed. It blew her all over the place. Up, down, left and right. Then the most powerful gust of wind ever recorded blew through and lifted Brooke up into the sky. She kept going up and up and up until she wasn't visible. Brooke Thomas was never seen again. Some say she fell to her death and the body was never found. Others believe that she made it into space. But still others believe that she is still flying through the air, waiting for someone to pull her down from the comically strong wind that propels her around.

[Anonymous No.5487201]

How do the rest of you beginners out there get over the thought that you think your work is bad (if you do)? My prose just doesn't come out well a lot of the time and it bothers me that I have an idea of what I like but can't replicate it at all. I assume I just have to keep working at it until it stops.

Any books that would help? I know Elements of Style is good, but what else? I have this book called What If? that I might try out, but I doubt anyone here knows it considering it's not on wikipedia. Are there some famous/common writing help books I could find at a library?

[Anonymous No.5487211]

>>5487201
i don't know about any books but my problem in terms of thinking my work was bad (it was a little bad but not nearly as bad as i thought) was i kept comparing myself to writers i loved, like steinbeck, poe, or coleridge. even if your work is bad, it's never going to improve if you don't keep writing. i don't know if that helps or not.

[Anonymous No.5487224]

>>5487211
Well yeah, but this is because the only authors I've read are famous ones. They make having a great style look easy and natural, which is almost demotivating. You're right about needing to practice to improve, obviously, which is why I haven't given up.

[Anonymous No.5487242]

>>5487201
my writing is bad until i rewrite it. do you even edit?

[Anonymous No.5487337]

>>5487158
This is pretty funny.

[Anonymous No.5487443]

Time for a fresh batch of the Mischievous Misadventures of Flashbird & Friends.

This time, Rhyce gets an unexpected and spooky visit from from someone he knows very well...

Let's find out what happens next in the all-new Trilogy 11: A Dreamy Encounter.

[Anonymous No.5487456]

things aren’t getting worse, he said, lets cast out that woefully tired and mundane notion, no maybe things are getting better, so good and anethesized and bland, all rounded edges, brushed metal and clear see- thru plastic, bubbly bouncy colorful well-designed fonts and brushed metal, young actors so lifeless you can’t feel the slightest sign of personality in there airbrushed faces, dressed in a hodgepodge of styles of days passed, dancing around in increasingly convincing synthetic backdrops, (aware of their syntheticness but that notion of acknowledging that has long since come to pass) placed graffiti on walls, small place guards for the history of the universe and archaic icons of the 20th century, jfk-marilyn dolls and warhol soup lunch boxes, the 20’s look there roaring king kong gatsby flappers, the 50’s with a picket fence a clean cut and a curved edge, down to the diner drinkin’ that milkshake bouncin’ to that new beat leavin’ it for beaver, the 60’s a flower child costume with those circle glasses, hair down to the knees swinging and picketing next to a few wah-wah blues licks, the 80’s a drum machine jumping around neon jumpsuits in vhs workout tapes, a garish look to the future, the 90’s are wearing flannels, people in khaki pants and large glasses staring into clunky off-white semi-rectangular boxes, i hear they called those things computers, look that there was called a floppy disk! a world no longer limited on the backlot, because everything now resembles a soundstage, a new suburban shopping complex, with its faux-authentic exteriors of wild west towns, venetian alleys, and roman forums enclosing a chosen few…

[Anonymous No.5488919]

bumb

[Anonymous No.5489040]

http://pastebin.com/Lezwqrns

Sorry for formatting. Short story I'm gonna flesh out a bit mroe.

[Anonymous No.5489592]

>>5478671
I posted this in a critique thread a little while ago and I don't know if I polished or ruined it.

"He's dead, Will"
The group stared down wordlessly at their fallen comrade, a corpse in the sand.
The Scavengers were not ones to give a moment of silence to a mere cadaver. Desensitized to death from birth and chasing it ever since. Blissfully unaware that they, like everything else, must succumb to it. They believed themselves to be the masters of it, making a life out of that which took it away. The Scavengers saw what should be mourned and stripped it to the bone, using it to the advantage that few others could, or wanted, to see.
They just never expected one of their own to be on the other side of it.
Eventually, Ed spoke the thought on everyone's mind:
"Well, I guess we should eat him now."
". . ."
"What?"
"He's right, Will. It's what we do."
"We can't just eat him! I mean, can we?"
Will fluffed his feathers nervously as he spoke to the group, Ed was busily pecking at an unseen bother on the ground, and Clark was re-settling his wings.. The sun was going down fast, soon it would be to dark to hunt. The flock hadn't eaten yet today, and if they didn't make a decision quickly they would go without a meal.
The vulture named Clark replied.
"Of course we can. What? Don't tell me you've gotten sentimental on us?"
"You can't seriously tell me this is at all normal."
"Well, maybe not entirely normal. But a carcass is a carcass, Will, and eating a carcass is normal."
Ed nodded helpfully.
"Look, it's just wrong." Will said, trying to convince himself. "We don't even know if vulture is good for other vultures. What if it tastes horrible? What if it's poisonous to us?"
"I've seen you eat a rat out of a sewer outflow pipe."
"That was completely different."
"One of my hawk friends told me vulture tastes just like opossum." Ed chirped.
The trio's stomachs let out a hungry growl in unison at the thought of opossum. The sun had just about crossed the horizon, the feast was to begin now if ever.
(cont)

[Anonymous No.5489599]

>>5489592
"See? It's fine." assured Clark, "Let's eat."
"Should we trust a hawk?" Will blurted.
"Wow, Will."
"Out of line."
"Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean that." Will said, sincerely. He set his mind in motion, looking for any reason to ignore the free dinner the Reaper had placed at his feet.
"So what if it tastes good then? What if we love it so much we start eating each other? Eating ourselves!"
"Please, we've never killed a thing in our lives." Clark said, "Not even an opossum, especially not a vulture, it's not in us."
"You can't hurt the dead." Ed added.
"It's disrespectful."
Will instantly thought himself foolish for saying this, the other two birds' laughter suggested they thought the same. 'Reverence' was simply not a word in a vulture's vocabulary.
When they had calmed themselves, Clark said:
"Well, I don't know about you, but we're starving. Ed and I are going to chow down, and you can go back to the nest hungry if you want."
"But-"
"I know Tom was your friend, Will, he was ours too, but it's just the circle of life." Clark said, a little solemn.
Will opened his beak to reply, but Clark cut him off.
"What do you think he would want? To get eaten by flies or eaten by vultures?"
Will looked to the rapidly declining sun and pondered this until his hunger brought him to a decision.
"Fine, we'll eat him. But I was closest to Tom, so I should take the first bite."
The others nodded in agreement, it was only fair.
With some hesitant self-coaxing, Will finally made himself tear a chunk of flesh from Tom's leg and gulp it down.
A long moment of apprehensive silence passed, when Will suddenly shouted:
"This tastes even better than opossum!"
The other two reached out and took a sample.
"He's delicious!" Clark said.
"If I had known we tasted this good I'd have let him die sooner." Ed commented.
As the last rays of sunlight settled themselves behind the dry Earth and eased the parody of a funeral into a comfortable darkness, The Scavengers finally allowed themselves to the day's meal, putting Tom to rest at last.

[Anonymous No.5489628]

>>5485357
You'd think that, but no.

[Anonymous No.5489858]

How do I into interesting dialogue?

[Anonymous No.5489870]

>>5489858
You have to get out and listen to people talk. Go to bars, go to malls, go to public places. Soak up conversation.

At least, this is the advice my friend gave me, and it seems to have worked- subconsciously, but effectively.

[Anonymous No.5489921]

>>5489858
Continue writing dialogue and when you start finding your own interest and fascination in it then others will too. Generally a good rule of thumb in all aspects of writing.

[Anonymous No.5489943]

She didn't have stuff to do, though. She had just realized, then and there, that she hated guns. They scared the shit out of her. She put her pistol away and went home to work on her accordion instead, to see if anger could make a noise more beautiful than a gunshot.

The arrangements in her beginner's book ran the entire range of accordion styles, from 'oktoberfest' to 'please pay my monkey', so she went to the internet to find a song that expressed what was inside her, that also had accordion sheet music written for it. Maybe something a nihilistic, chain smoking Frenchman might want to play on the streets of Paris. The accordion was a soulful instrument, but only for a certain kind of soul, one long buried in European history. She opened up the first page in her search, www.ernozoborski.hu.co, where an image of the aged Hungarian Mister Erno Zoborski greeted her to an online collection of music written by none other than the Hungarian accordion enthusiast and retiree Erno Zoborski. Browsing the song titles, most of them sounded like inadequate vehicles for her self expression: Autumn Breeze, Prague Waltz, 1886 overture, Ugrat Ugrat, Romanian National Anthem. Then one jumped out at her. 'Political March'. The title was so stoic and defiant. If it had the balls in it to get the Bohemians to rally against Parliament and risk a deadly sabering, then it was good enough for putting up a big middle finger to mom and everyone else at the Logview July Social. They'd get thirty minutes straight of Laura's favourite Bible verses, read over a deafening PA to the accompaniment of Mister Zoborski's Political March, and they'd just have to learn to fuckin' like it.

[Anonymous No.5489949]

>>5489858

Aside from the previous two and effective suggestions, I recommend a little trick I didn't consider until after I'd become confident in my dialogue, after which I wondered how my writing might have differed had I tried this (some may rightfully shit on it, but here goes):

Are there any television shows by which you're mightily impressed? Movies? Next time watching one, turn on the option to view captions. Study the efficiency of the language and how it works to serve the character and/or move the story along, how it ties back into the themes the show or movie is exploring.

Of course, the rules of enunciated dialogue differs from that which exists solely on a page, but if you're fearful your dialogue is too mechanic, go ahead and observe conversations around you, while simultaneously observing how well-written dialogue (Mad Men has some good bouts), despite not always being believable, still manages to be an effective gateway between character and tale.

Return to books whose use of dialogue you've admired or envied and study what was going on behind the scenes. Practice your hand at what you believe to be the mechanism and make sure to have fun--fuck around, if you must. You'll certainly improve.

[Anonymous No.5490018]

>>5489040
Written well enough, but I lost interest when Myrtle showed up.

[Anonymous No.5490039]

I honestly think /lit/'s only problem is editing.


You all need to take the time and edit. And edit. And edit. Nothing here is bad, in the sense it couldn't be publishable without editing and getting down to the real message you want to convey. Stop trying to be super interesting or the next Joyce with your prose. As much as /lit/ loves good prose, its honestly not that important. It builds your entire story, yes, but writing prose is usually best done without trying. It shouldn't be an effort to read (really, who the hell wants to read another Finnegan's Wake? One is enough).

[Anonymous No.5490046]

>>5479677
What program do you use to write? Am I the only one that uses word?

[Anonymous No.5490056]

>>5490039
I agree on the editing, but I don't agree on prose not being important. Prose is an element of storytelling every bit as much as plot, structure, and character. If you have shitty prose, no one will be able to stand your story, no matter how good a story it might be. Or, they might be able to stand it, but it won't stick with them.

Now, great prose married to an awful story is likewise shit. But one can't exist without the other in a truly great work. All the elements must be present.

[Anonymous No.5490083]

At any rate, here's the beginning of a short story I'm writing. It's fantasy, but I hope that won't dissuade anyone from taking a look.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NyQVNiRaf-P-5YdjI2zbDdrm1hFQjcdRUG1PGA9dUwQ/edit?usp=sharing

[Anonymous No.5490084]

>>5478680
>revengenesis
this is the sublime that longinus was talking about

[Anonymous No.5490180]

He must have picked her up, kissed her, drawn the curtain. Some reflex. She
was wearing in her hair a ribbon of brown velvet. He remembered her hair as
lighter, shorter—but then it does grow, and darken. He looked slantwise into her
face, all his emptiness echoing. The vacuum of his life threatened to be broken in
one strong inrush of love. He tried to maintain it with seals of suspicion, looking
for resemblances to the face he’d last seen years ago over her mother’s shoulder,
eyes still puffy from sleep angled down across Laura’s rain-coated back, going
out a door he’d thought closed for good—pretending not to find resemblances.
Perhaps pretending. Was it really the same face? he’d lost so much of it over the
years, that fat, featureless child’s face. . . . He was afraid now even to hold her,
afraid his heart would burst. He said, “How long have you been waiting?”

“Since lunchtime.” She’d eaten in the canteen. Major Williams had
brought her up on the train from Dallas, and they had played chess. Major
Williams was a slow player, and they hadn’t finished the game. Major
Williams had bought her sweets, and had asked her to say hello and sorry he
couldn’t stay long enough to see Smith—

Williams? What was this? A blinking, tentative fury grew in Smith. They
must have known everything—all this time. His life was secretless as this mean
cubicle, with its bed, commode and reading-light.

[Anonymous No.5490479]

Terse experiment with N+7

All was still. The ocean itself was motionless in it's horrific anticipation. She was now returning, and as she did, the Earth smiled expectantly upwards. "My waxing bride, at last," he trembled from his mover to his mineral, from his mud to his minion. And so, at once, there was a terrible rumbling and shaking all about as the Earth opened it's coiled aromas to accept this most awaited of advocates. The air that had held the Earth since wept it's airs as its tears of screams and cries silenced as all man fell from his holy homeland...greater affairs than those of man were present; and thus all man, aesthete to ascetic, floated above above Hell's gaping maw; there is nothing to hold of nor is there anything to bind your body to; nought but the air between your chasmic vase and hell, and the ancient anchor of God to hold you thus.

[Anonymous No.5490683]

>>5490056
And a good way to get good prose is to stop caring so much about the prose. Its counter-intuitive but it tends to work more than it doesn't. The same can't be said about the rest of the elements of a good story.

Now of course, if you want to write something with amazing prose, it requires thought. And also a shit-load of editing. Edit people, edit.

[Anonymous No.5490703]

“I ache. Something, anything - we won’t get a taxi otherwise, you know. That’s what gets them. It’s horrible to say, but that’s what does it. If he tries to have his way with me, you’ll be there to intervene.” She pouts down at her shoes, then busies herself trying to unzip the suitcase. She rifles between heavy Bouffant articles, Peplum jackets and more modest emergency outfits. When she lays it down eviscerated with her fineries and delicates hung out in the sun, she takes a final rummage and eventually holds up this pair of slippers, laughs, chokes, and for the next five minutes tries to cram her feet into them. “People like that, I don’t think they care either way.” Says Júlio, but now she’s busy improvising with her fingers and the last dregs of blusher around her neck, padding where the skin’s grown thin and dusty and dead. “Everyone cares. It doesn’t matter when or what they are. They are themselves and they know themselves and as long as they can think, they know what they want.”

The train arrives at seven and they stow their cases in the rack and Júlio locates and reserves a couple table seats. But Lascivola isn’t moving. Something’s up. She stands rigid against the wall side-eying the bags, her spine congruent to the curve of the train, worrying, removing and replacing her fingernails. When a passenger boards and delivers his luggage onto the rack, she stops, looks like she’s about to cry, howling silent down the cars, into the distance, across latitudes. Then she reaches under, pulls out her case and brings it again atop the pile, goes to her seat but stops - more people come in- and she resumes her position at the door. “L.! There’s no point. Come on, come take your seat.” But she remains. The conductor comes and taps on the window of the door and she flinches, but remains resolute. “Señora, you will have to be seated now, or proceed to the lower carriages.”, he says in English.
“Oh. Sir, there are very delicate things in there. I can’t have it crushed.”
“It’s better to have it secure, L. It’ll slip about too much up top.” Júlio, who is ignored.
“They’ll be crushed, and I won’t have that. Not at all.”
“The boy is right, Señora. Either leave your case or go stand with it further down.” And he moves away.
“Maybe I will go stand...”
“It’s a fifteen hour trip.”
“I can sit on my case.”
“Sit down.”
“They’ll be crushed, o-or stolen, I know it.”
“Sit down. Nobody wants your damn things. If they want them, they’d have taken them on the platform. Sit down and compose yourself and stay that way. Sleep, if you want. Please, God, try sleeping.”

[Anonymous No.5490726]

Jennifer: 4:37 a.m.

Jennifer left the house. She felt sick as she stumbled down the hard, cement

stairs. The taste of whiskey lingered in her throat. It was like rotted oak. There

was still a small amount of cigarette smoke lingering in her lungs.

It was cold outside. Not a winters cold, but a mid-July cold. It was 4:37 a.m.

and she couldn't bare to think what waited for her when she got home. It was

that peculiar hour where you realize that the sky holds the same clouds, and the

same stars, and the same sun, and the same moon no matter what hour you

look up at it. It’s strange, the way we trick ourselves into believing that the

moon defines the night, or that the sun defines the day. In truth, these entities

are there no matter where we try to hide them.

Jennifer turned left. The sky was turning pink and blue. She hurried down the

concrete blocks of sidewalk. Her wind jacket pulled up to her neck. She passed

fifteen streets, then found the street she lived on.

She hurried up the wooden steps of the front porch. Each one crooned

beneath her feet. She slid her bronze key into the lock, and turned it. She

stared at her shoes while making her way up the antique stairs to her bedroom.

She slunk into her bed and stared at the ceiling for a bit.

"We’ll never be as young as we are right now." She whispered to herself.

"But surely," she added, "we’ll never be as young as we were yesterday."

[Anonymous No.5491149]

I'll try to be as plain and honest as I can. I'm at a point of confusion o disillusionment, where everything I've read is starting to accumulate and I'm finding it difficult to strongly support anything in particular. Indeed, the more you stretch your mind and wrap it around different concepts the more divided you become, being unable to really focus in any one direction. At the moment I'm reading Das Kapital, a book on Latin's transformation into Romance languages, Bede, St Augustine, a book on the French Revolution, a book on Prussia--and all I'm getting from this is that I'm fascinated in all this. Naturally it gives me a desire to be part of history myself, participate in politics or throw myself at some cause I'm impassioned about, but really there's nothing.

It seems a shame that I can't fit into the modern day as I want. The causes that are available really don't interest me. I think about whether, like Lenin and Hitler, I should just make my own party, take to the streets, distribute pamphlets, and utilize my apparent good ability with speaking to convert people to my own unique and personalized cause, which, admittedly, is different than those things that I presently notice.

But I'm also conflicted by the teachings of Plato in the Republic that the philosopher would never put himself in the shoes of a politician anyway because he wouldn't be able to rule effectively: the philosophical answer to political problems would render action impossible.

What do I want to be, ultimately? Do I want to live life as a silent bourgeois, gaining capital, simply fitting into society? Or do I want to change it idealistically, sacrifice myself to a goal and really try to leave my mark as accords with my mind.

I wish I had some guidance from a truly wise and impartial teacher who isn't politically-charged like nearly everyone in the world.

[Jetfire No.5491279]

>>5490683
Not caring will, sometimes, get you decent prose, maybe even good prose.

But great prose requires care, and I believe one should always strive for greatness. I've found this out through firsthand experience. I would write in my 'natural way,' and it was good enough. People liked it, I was content. But when I started reading works that had genuinely great prose- stuff like Melville and Nabokov and Shakespeare- I began to realize how inadequate I sounded when I was content not to care. So I began to pay attention to how words were put together, to realize that words are like puzzle pieces in that there are ways in which they are meant to fit against each other. And my writing improved. I wouldn't call it great- not yet, at least- but it's getting better.

[Anonymous No.5491352]

>>5490726
>mention the time twice

I thought it was kind of cool at first but you killed it by mentioning it again. Take it out.

[Anonymous No.5492426]

It's time for another instalment of the Vampire Trilogy Chronicles.

In this trilogy, Rhyce faces off with Flashbird in what promises to be a spectacular final conclusion in Rhyce's quest for revenge.
However, what happens when Flashbird gives Rhyce an impressive glimpse of his physical preparedness?
Let's watch...

[Anonymous No.5492618]

>>5492426
I'm new to /lit/, so sorry about the offtopic - but what's the program you guys use to make nice screenshots of your writings like this?

[Anonymous No.5492622]

>>5492618
In Word you go to 'view', and then 'full screen reading'.
Then you copy and paste the different pages together using paint.

[Anonymous No.5492632]

>>5492622
O-oh. I thought that it was more to do with some kind of magic. I feel a little bit retarded right now.
Thank you.