/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.5965677]

no critique thread in the catalog

some suggested rules:
- critique something else before you post yours
- don't post something you "just wrote" without asking for very specific feedback. you should edit and re-draft it yourself first so you're not wasting everyone's time
- don't post something incredibly short (less than 2-3 paragraphs) without asking for very specific feedback so you're not wasting everyone's time. it's not as striking or amazing as you think
- thank people who give you criticism. it's also normally quite nice to hear the author's thoughts and method a little, although ofc, don't bother defending yourself


just to get us started I'll 100% critique the first 5 texts posted

[Anonymous No.5966336]

>>5965677
Idgaf about this thread but that poem

>cuck-a-doodle do I hear her coo
>a fuck-u-thrice cockatrice

[Looking for someone to point o(...) No.5966342]

A man hides his valuables from a thief.

After the thief has gone, the man finds that they have been hidden so well that they are impossible to find again.

In time, the man forgets; resents the accusation that he has hidden his lost valuables; resents even the implication that he ever possessed anything of any value.

[Anonymous No.5966357]

They stepped out into the night, and he looked back at her. Her face was illuminated by the fire in the distance. He sniffed the air. “Smells like animal fat, or-” And he bit his tongue, suddenly ashamed of himself. He led her in, and she walked so quietly he couldn’t even hear her footsteps.
It was late. He hadn't seen the sun in hours. He turned away from the windows, pushing his cold fingers into the skin of his face and gauging the time it took the nerve impulses to arrive as feelings.
She lay on the couch and fell asleep. He pleaded with the expensive furniture, his voice high and quiet, “Can’t you please leave me alone?” cradled his shaggy head in his rough paws and cursed quietly to himself.
He turned back to look at her. A beam of street light had come through a slat in his curtains and was resting on her face, curving with her and rocking across her gently with the movement of her breath.
He trembled in silence, and his claws dug into his palms. At last, he could not even bear to look at her. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but even in that there was doubt, disgust, and double-guessing.
He opened his eyes and saw Satan sitting on the counter. He was just beginning to smile. He was clad in a bright red full body spandex suit, and he was spinning a plastic trident idly in his hand.
Leo recoiled, gasping. He shut his mouth quickly, because he didn't want to wake her.
Satan held out his trident, and Leo stepped back again, banging his heel on a leg of the coffee table. Jane stirred, but did not wake. It took him a few moments to understand that the devil was offering it to him. The devil's voice was somewhat rough and deep.
"You should stick her and cook her and eat her.”
Leo felt the world swim under him. He swallowed slowly, and spoke.
“You should buy a better fucking costume.” Leo glanced at her. “And don’t you think I would if I could?” A deep growl hid under his words, now, and Jane turned over idly, half-drunk, sighing to herself. “What is it?”
Leo took hold of the Trident, and the two struggled for a moment, each trying to wrest the weapon from the other’s grasp. At last, Satan let it go.
Leo was shocked by how light the trident was. He felt the point with his thumb, and laughed. It was only plastic.
Satan looked at Leo for a long time without moving. He had brown eyes. At last, he broke his stare, and looked down. There was almost some shame in his eyes.
“Well-” He began, and burst into a cloud of red smoke. Leo coughed and opened some doors. He didn't want to set off the smoke alarm. That would wake her. He had some sleeping pills, and those kept him still enough to sleep until the sun came up again.

[Anonymous No.5966437]

>>5965677
Last night I sat on the back porch of a house over twice the size of my own while a young girl of questionable morals performed fellatio on me while checking her Facebook on her phone.

[Anonymous No.5966447]

>>5966437
>questionable morals
too twee for mee

[Anonymous No.5966450]

>>5966437
I would change it from 'her Facebook' to just 'checking Facebook' I think it flows better that way.

Here's my contribution, critique away.

I live in a communal apartment complex with some of my friends. My two friends are Ray, I’ve known him since high school, my other friend is Johnny Knoxville. He’s not the famous Johnny Knoxville the actor he just looks and sounds like him. He is not a famous actor, he is just my friend Johnny Knoxville.

Things are going pretty great, I have nice friends, a nice place to live and a really fantastic collection of dvds. Except now I think I’m having a mental breakdown. I woke up the other day and I don’t live in my communal apartment complex with my friends Ray and Johnny Knoxville anymore.

I have been doing gay porn for the past month apparently. I realize this as a large black man is having anal sex with me and getting very angry at me for getting shit all over his cock. He wipes the shit all over my face, I make sure to cover my eyes so I don’t get conjunctivitis. It is very important to me that I avoid pink eye.
I’m not doing gay porn anymore. I’m going to go back to my old apartment complex, except no one lives there anymore. I’m really pissed off, my friends who aren’t my friends anymore; Ray and Johnny Knoxville, they took my great collection of dvds. Every last dvd. That makes me really angry.

I decide to go to the movies to blow off some steam. Johnny Knoxville is at the movies too, he’s seeing the same movie as me. We catch up on old times; I ask him why he stole my awesome dvds. He apologizes and tells me they didn’t know where I had gone and didn’t know if I was coming back and they didn’t want such a great dvd collection go to waste. I tell him that I understand and he returns one of my dvds that he took.

I head toward my seat and notice someone talking on their phone. This is very rude, the movie is about to start. I tell them to turn their fucking phone off and take my seat. I see the inconsiderate person walking towards the lobby, I know they’re going to talk to an usher and get me thrown out. I decide it isn’t worth the trouble and leave the movies before anything happens. Outside I see Ray and I berate him for taking my dvds.

[Anonymous No.5966453]

>>5965677
I'm just browsing /lit/ no writing experience or anything, pretty pleb too but here we go.

sight taken,
voice unheard,
my nature un-nurished
lone,lone,lone i walk
stumbiling,falling, screaming,
never heard,nor seen
one calls out
all others fall down
one makes whole
one can give back what was taken

Meh

[Anonymous No.5966469]

>>5966453
if you want us to critique it, you need to pretend you think it's good

[Anonymous No.5966471]

>>5966437
After this you should add:

>I had on neither shoes or shirt but still received service from this little nymph.

[Anonymous No.5966472]

>>5966453
Yeah, just read and write more.

[Anonymous No.5966473]

>>5965677
Damn that chick makes me hard as a rock

[Anonymous No.5966476]

>>5966469
I'm too self aware to take pride in anything I do, sorry.

I'm a video game developer and was thinking about having a pretentious dick bag arty character say this in game.

[Anonymous No.5966488]

>>5966476
Do other people hate you as much as I do?

[Anonymous No.5966509]

>>5966450
id maybe put "I've known him since high school in parenthesis, seems really awkward as is. also, maybe "they didnt know where i had gone, if i was coming back, and didnt want such a great dvd collection to go to waste.

so heres my (slightly shitty) poem

my illusions always lack me,
allusions of lability.
I was You once, maybe, and
that was too much for
me.

orange into blue, vermillion into lime,
follow Moon into sun with tin to chime.

unsteady scenery like a
Skull drifting through a garden.
now and then the colors blur
like sex or memory, so fine.
sometimes I see you in the ripples of
the Lethe, and we spend the night together.
but most times phantasos keeps me
occupied under the not-blue sky

[Anonymous No.5966510]

>>5966488
Absolutely. I wouldn't be good with anonymous haters!

That said, it is awful, and mostly by design. The point of including it was that people shouldn't forget the arts even in a post apocalyptic blah blah blah blah

[Anonymous No.5966514]

>>5966510
make the guy quote an old poem then

[Anonymous No.5966521]

>>5966514
Then it wouldn't be as uplifting.

Think about in 28 Days Later when Selina says that she realizes that she'll never see a movie that hasn't already been made before all that shit went down. People creating art, albeit shit, is a good sign.

[Anonymous No.5966537]

>>5966521
Then pick a good poem off of here and pay the guy.

[Anonymous No.5966547]

>>5966510
>That said, it is awful, and mostly by design.

And yet you posted it in this thread? You are insufferable, you should put yourself into your game so when I play it I'm able to kill you off, jesus.

[Anonymous No.5966569]

4/4

Bleak beaks dangling from the sky
peck at the pent-up plasticine throats
that enable steam-stacks to rise up
and deposit down-town with a frown.

––––––

Engorged, on the porch in a scorch,
I, as in you, leap–without having wept–
into the asphalt hallway of tired cells,
blood reins in the salt stuffed pebbles.

––––––

Somber tones skip across fish-less ponds
and a honk echoes between sub-shops,
and echoes between sub-stops,
and echoes between sub-plots.

––––––

An astronomer tickles the night sky,
with his feathered instruments afloat,
and watches swaths of colored gas
drop and rise, dying on the canvas.

[Anonymous No.5966573]

>>5966342
It feels a little too wordy. I think you could get the idea across much more pleasing to the ear in even one or two sentences.

Heres my poem, 'Captured Muse'

dance for me O Muse,
with your little bound feet
naked, except for your pale wrists
obscured with dull gauze sheets

move in ways only I can see,
with your bones, so delicately arranged:
swirl your arms and blur your torso
and put your finger to your cage

pleasant odors of saffron waft from your body
but yet I can smell your soul rotting

you are unhappy here, in my golden palace?
a dream built by hedonist architects
every pleasure but a call away.
but still you whimper:
clasped in ivory chains

[Anonymous No.5966582]

r8, h8, rough draft possibly, inspired by fires close to my home

At first there was silence, a loud crackle, then came the smoke, it seemed to flood in over the hills and into the gully, like a great tsunami of smog, the smoke was hot and made the air thick and heavy, it smelt like smouldering sap and gum leaves that had been swallowed by flame. animals limped helplessly from the charred flora. a light rain began to drizzle, as if the angels looking down on man and his misfortune had began to weep, screaming out to their god, like the people of the small town had been doing for hours, but god didn’t answer and the rain did little to help, the fire burnt so hot it turned to steam the moment it hit the glowing earth, panic ensued, sirens rang through the streets, the moans and cries of people the screaming of young girls and young boys, the metal on metal clang of cars filled with people so eager to leave they worried not about the banalities that would normally concern them, only escaping the seeming conscious fire that hunted them down and engulfed them, singing their nerves so quickly they felt little pain.

[Anonymous No.5966610]

>>5966573
pls how?

[Anonymous No.5966614]

>>5966547
Made my night, peace /lit/!

[Anonymous No.5966659]

>>5966610
>A man whose name I can't recall once hid his valuables from a incoming thief. After the thief had gone, the man found he had hidden them so well he could not retrieve them; indeed, he forgot even hiding them in the first place, resented the accusation he did so, and resented the very implication that he ever possessed anything of value.

Idk, I toyed around with it. Re-writing it I realize my problem may have been with your changing verb-tenses

[Hold The Gayo No.5966693]

bump, I like reading all your guys' stuff

[Anonymous No.5966733]

>>5966569

Hmm. These are fun little pieces and you're definitely playing with sounds and images well, but I'm not really getting much of a meaning out of them. What are you trying to say? Are these all supposed to be part of one poem?

Stanza/poem 1:
--"enable" really isn't working for me, as it totally throws off the rhythm of the whole verse (try reading it aloud).

--"pent-up plasticine throats" I like this image, and it has a lot of potential

2:
I'm not too sure what it is, but the first two lines aren't doing too much for me and I'm having trouble connecting them to the second two lines--which is a shame, because the second two lines are solid

3:
Not too many comments here. Its fun, kind of clever, but I'm not really sure what the point is.

4:
This is the strongest one for certain, but again, I haven no idea what you're trying to say.

[Anonymous No.5966737]

The cat dreamt that the dog devoured him.

Later, the cat told the dog about his dream. The dog thought that it was absurd.

Your knowledge of cats should make it easy for you to predict what the cat did next.

[Anonymous No.5966745]

Scarstruck Nebula.

Peeled scabs are bleeding
constellations. Space-splintered
skin. Their red-eyed orbits spin
like solar skill-saws.

The ankles you’ve been warping
for twenty years are pulsing

When you reach the bones you may
find Voyager’s lost components

Marrow—dripping cosmic oil,
slow burning, iridescent—

echoes. Tongue-tied like stars
to telescopes. Orion
is only wearing a belt
from parsecs away.

[Anonymous No.5966776]

First time posting. I'm just getting into writing and thought I'd share a little something. If its complete trash pls no bully.

(P 1/2)
------------------------------------------------------

Great this coffee is stale. I can fucking taste it before it even really hits my mouth. It's 5 AM and I'm the only one up which means this liquid let down is reheated stuff. Great that means nobody else to blame. This really sets the tone for this morning. Although, If I'm being honest I'm looking to feel shitty. It feels good oddly enough. That's why I have Rocket Man playing on repeat. It got me choked up and bothered the first few times playing it, but now it's just as bland as this coffee.

My ass is sore, I'm scared I'm starting to develop hemorrhoids from all this sitting. That's what I've been doing for days now. Sitting and typing. Sitting and drawing. Sitting and masturbating. Sitting and crying. Sitting and drinking. Fuck, If I could have sat in the shower I probably would have. That is, on the days I finally decided to take a shower.

I look out the kitchen window. I dread the sun coming up. I like this early morning dark. It feels like I'm not actually in the mean boring reality I face otherwise. Everything is calm and cool outside. I'm either outside in my car gazing at the sky through the sun roof smoking or I'm doing what I am right now. Inside indulging my caffiene vice. This is my parallel universe where it seems only the dew and I exist. And the dark. But not in that emo bullshit evil way. Its like a comforting blanket that hides me if I decide to go for a walk or something.

Fuck, burning my tongue on this hot brown well water breaks my tranquil state.

This early morning dark otherworld is getting invaded. The first sign of headlights. I hate living next to such a busy street. I've now counted around 5 more pairs of headlights since typing this sentence. Off they go. The contributing members of society. I wonder if they see the dim kitchen light on. I wonder if any of them know I'm going to do absolutely nothing productive today. I wonder if they're jealous. I wonder if they know part of me is probably more jealous of them. Fuck, who cares? Fuck I need to stop swearing. Fuck I swore. Fuck.

I look at my snapchat story. I check to see who has viewed it because I'm a narcissistic cunt. Damn...Cass hasn't. I'm always thinking about her. Sometimes not in a yearning way though. Sometimes just her name comes to mind and it gets stuck in limbo there. Its a sobering feeling when it gets stuck there. I guess I need more buzz from this alleged coffee.

Rocket Man is still playing. "And I think its gonna be long long time, till touch down brings me round again to find, I'm not the man they think I am at home'' plays over the speaker. Its a bit unsettling. Way I hear it, it's telling me its going to be a LONG time before I get my shit together. Before I get over Cass. Before I beat this addiction.

[Anonymous No.5966783]

>>5966776
P 2/2
addiction. It has been only a handful of hours since my last fuck up. Vicodin. Generic. Whiskey. Canadian. A marriage made in heaven and a honeymoon in hell. And no amount of this ''breakfast blend'' is going to supplement a successfull divorce. Sir Elton is reminding me of this. What a faggot.

I think its going to be a short short time before my little brother gets up to witness the latest pity afterparty thrown by his brother in the kitchen. I hope he doesn't know what exactly is going on. I know he has an idea. Fucker is sharp. Its admirable. I tell people he's twice the man I was at half the age. I wonder if its because I used to hit him when he was little. When I think about that shit, reflecting on it, I always feel like a worm curling under the sun of guilt. Unless it toughened him into the determined, smart and charismatic guy I know today. If it did then in that case you're fucking welcome bro.

I need to take off this hoodie. I don't know if its this coffee or the whiskey and vic I had earlier, but something is making me heat up. Is it stress? Fuck. Am I going to start losing my hair? Breaking out? Stomach ulcers? This shit sounds like a laundry list of side effects for some old people medicine. Great, I'm missing the necklace my little cousin gave me. A little wooden heart. Stained and everything. She gave it to me over thanksgiving. I remember having it earlier today before falling off the wagon. Now I'm just trying desperately to draw a paralell between losing her sweet little gift and how this addiction is hurting my family. Poetic aint it? But unlike the solution to the bigger problem, I can probably just dig around and follow a trail of smelly clothes to a corner of my room and find it there waiting for me. Not gonna lie, it looks sexy as hell around my bare neck. Note to self; I need to start coupling wife beaters and that necklace more.

Note to self; I need to shower later this morning. Note to self; I need to get some fresh coffee grounds. Note to self; I need to shut the fuck up if I really have nothing to say. I'm quiet in most everyday situations. Why the fuck not now? Do I think the keyboard wants to take the abuse my taciturn sorry ass keeps pent up otherwise?

[Anonymous No.5966798]

>>5966776
>Great this coffee is stale.
Great. This coffee is stale.
Great, this coffee is stale.
Great: this coffee is stale.
Great; this coffee is stale.

Any of those would have been fine. Grammar is crucial to writing. There is no division between what you write and how you write it - how you write IS what you write. That's why grammar is so essential, and that's why you definitely need to improve yours. Just from that one sentence I can see that you need to improve yours. That's far from the only grammatical error in the work.

The easiest way of improving grammar that I've found is to just read more. The more you read the more you understand how things should look once they've been written. You don't need to know the formal grammatical rules. You need to reach a point where you just implement them subconsciously, so that even if you don't know why a sentence looks wrong you can still feel that the grammar just doesn't support it.

That's my two cents. As to the content of your writing I have no real comment.

[Anonymous No.5966802]

>>5966798
Thank you. I'm an absolute retard when it comes to grammar. Cheers.

[Anonymous No.5966810]

“Where the hell are the hot dogs?” Wayne barked into the freezer.

“They’re at the bottom, man.” The cashier said, quickly glancing at his partner to signal a storm brewing in the frozen foods section.
Sifting through the hamburgers, breakfast sausages and pizzas, Wayne found his favorite Stanley Brand Beef Weeneys hiding in the corner. Leaning down into the freezer his feet briefly lost contact with the ground, and he reemerged with an icy bandolier of tubed meat. Slamming the freezer door he strutted to the checkout counter.

“I’ll take him,” the first cashier whispered to his partner as Wayne approached the counter. “Got everything alright?”

“Why do you make these so hard to get to? If I have to get inside the freezer to find my dogs then something ain’t right.”

“Sorry. We’ll see what we can do.”

“Yeah ok,” Wayne scoffed.

“Alright, your total is $1.30, would you like a bag?”

Wayne’s eyes widened. “What did you just say?” he asked with a swooping crescendo indicative of an apocalyptic catastrophe.

“Your total is $1.30, would you like a bag?” the cashier said in exactly the same tone as the first utterance. There was an audible changing of gears within Wayne’s brain. He looked up at the green numbers displayed on the register: $1.30.

“Last week they were $1.15,” Wayne said, pausing to let this fact sink in, “What in god’s name happened?”

“I don’t make the prices, sir, we just put the stickers on the packages and stuff ‘em in the freezer.”

“I don’t give a shit what you do, boy. I asked you to explain why these hotdogs are fifteen cents more than last week. Can you do that?”

“No I guess not” the cashier said, looking sheepishly again at his partner to defuse the tension.

“Don’t look at pudge here, I’m talkin’ to you boy.” Wayne hammered out as the cashier torqued his head back into Wayne’s sights. “I’ve come in here every week for the last four years to buy these hotdogs. Four fuckin’ years. Shit, I probably keep Stanley in business. I only ever see the stack of dogs go down by one every week, clearly I’m the only person buying. Why would Stanley do this to me after I’ve been so loyal? Can you answer me that?”

The cashiers stood silently watching Wayne.

[Anonymous No.5966824]

I look down
At the plane
In the city
Of the valley

On to work
To school;
A town dead
Mirth at suffering

Shithole, I say
Spell it out
This town
Is worthless

In my journal
I notate
"Germ trap and
money pit.

This place
is only there
to accept my
hardened abuse."

As I wrap
The journal
I walk away
Facing new lands

[Anonymous No.5966884]

>>5966357
>There was almost some shame in his eyes
Too wordy
>He trembled in silence, and his claws dug into his palms. At last, he could not even bear to look at her. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but even in that there was doubt, disgust, and double-guessing.
He opened his eyes and saw Satan sitting on the counter. He was just beginning to smile. He was clad in a bright red full body spandex suit, and he was spinning a plastic trident idly in his hand.
Leo recoiled, gasping. He shut his mouth quickly, because he didn't want to wake her.
Too many times you use the word 'he', try rearranging your sentence structure to give it some variability. It felt like I was reading a list of things "he" was doing, as opposed to a cohesive flow.

[Anonymous No.5966899]

>>5966582
>r8, h8, rough draft possibly, inspired by fires close to my home
It'd be a great rule in these threads to only post edited work. There's no sense in critiquing something even the author deems as incomplete, especially when the piece in question is visibly incomplete- i.e. there's no capitalization at the beginning of sentences. Also, that whole thing is essentially one sentence cut into pieces with commas, was that intentional?

[Anonymous No.5966900]

>>5965677
Heres a small exert.

Oh, where have we gone wrong, the tentative lies forever maneuvering out of the politician’s mouth effecting the entire tone of the great blue sphere, stay at home mothers infected with a buyer’s terror, commodity fetishism as Marx would put it, a mad pastor’s brother wondering of a floating thought, to slice his wrists and embrace the silence, standing, staring into the sentient aquarium, wondering if the fish felt the same existential pain as the fisherman… “My brother! The fool! Hooked and drawn by the line of god!” before forgetting his thought in a moment, biting down on a small rubber fish.

[Anonymous No.5966930]

m8s, for those of you writing novels, how much are you able to write in a day?

i can't get even a page done. my novel is literally going to take years and years ffs

[Anonymous No.5966944]

>>5966930
You're not alone, though writing little is better than writing none at all.

[Anonymous No.5966980]

>>5966944
Is it, though? Isn't it better to let your humours accumulate ala nofap until they spurt out all over the rug and drapes?

[Anonymous No.5966992]

FOLLOW MY WORD CHILD, The sun will rise tomorrow, though, do not forget, untie her from the rain worn tracks and mend your rope burnt hands with cloth for the sun will always forgive and forget and bring with it a new day.
“NO” He shouted to the man aloof, as the screams of coal smoke and running gear nauseate the air while, she, without a name, struggles under stress and pressure of the braided rope, her faceless brother laughs with a cynical smile as he shadows her body from the light of stellar fire.

[Anonymous No.5967038]

Thomas woke up at 8:33am on Saturday with no signs of a hangover. His first movements had him feeling the dry tug of flannel sheets. "Where am I," he thought.

Last night reoccurred in a flash. The Irish bar, flirtation, her (what was her name?) ginger complexion and brown eyes, her smile and her laugh and the drinks and the fun and the sex; perfection.

He places his bare feet on the floor and sensed his surroundings. Differences seemed most obvious. Thomas hadn't noticed the water stains on the ceiling, nor the slight odor of cat piss. He stood up, causing the wood floor to let out a groan. He looked at her. She was faced away, on her stomach, curly red hair abound. Thomas smiled, felt the tightness of his unstretched body and hobbled into the bathroom to take a piss.

He had already seen the future. He had no future with this girl, besides, he was wooing Gina, who was much prettier. "You don't seriously think this will be anything, I hope, reddy" he thought while he pissed. He realized he should remember her name before saying goodbye.

"Jennifer.. no.. Jenille.. Je.. Jacqueline, that's it," he said while criticizing his muscles in the mirror. He washed his face and straightened his hair. "Jacqueline," he said again. Jacqueline stirred in the other room. Thomas stepped to the door and leaned in. He smiled widely when he saw her face.

Thomas felt instant shock. Her eyes were too wide. Her eyes has bags. Her jaw was too narrow. She was not very attractive.

"Hey Jacky," he said. "Yeesh, fuck," he thought. "Hey Thomas," she said. Her tone was absolutely pleasant, a tone not cerebral. "Have I done something wrong here," he thought. "She shouldn't be this genuine. This means she is getting into the interpersonal side." Thomas walked over and climbed on the bed. She went for a kiss and he connected, despite the alarm in his head. He was being stirred by her deeper into a pot of emotion, and it made him uncomfortable.

[Anonymous No.5967059]

why even fucking bother writing if it all ends up like TV shows?

[Anonymous No.5967103]

>>5966776
>>5966783
Like the other response said, work on your grammar. As for the story itself, I was quickly bored by it. Right off the bat it's obvious exactly what type of person the narrator is, and the extra detail reassuring this personality drones on and is not interesting to read. When the female character is introduced I felt like sighing. It comes off as very forced and I have no interest in reading anything of this woman or even your character.

That's the fundamental issue with it I have. The prose is messy, but that's to be expected if you are just starting out. Read more and try to steer away from such typical Fight Club-like personalities. Try mixing some different aspects together to create a person no one's read before.

[Anonymous No.5967148]

Homebrew stout tastes like brain damage. To dumb to be a writer so I'm clawing at strings stretched on a plank, punching air into an impotent mess. Mike Tyson got nothing on me son. I bought a kazoo for the novelty and realised the humour was in the talent and the finesse, that was a little fucking infuriating/enlightening. Can I smoke weed out of this thing, or...what? What the fuck is WordPad and why doesn't it have spellcheck? Is Spellcheck a real word or is it two? WordPad isn't a word. Wordpad is not Word. I want to make something honest but I don't know what that means. I want to write lyrics, but I hate my voice and am to self absorbed to write a song that can be used as a vehicle as another person. My parents probably hate me for all the write reasons. Tao Lin can suck my dick. If Tao Lin is reading this I would like him to contact me and buy my kazoo, email me @" [e-mail]". Both of my bands are fucking terrible.

You might make me happy, or at least, at ease.
Let's get drunk enough to get asked to leave.

I want to make make something honest but I don't know what that means.
I hope you can settle for fifty cliches high and sixteen beers deep

I want to be Bruce Springsteen for you, but I'll never be Bruce Springsteen for you.
I want to make something honest but I don't know what that means.

I want to be Bruce Springsteen, but I hope you'll settle for me.

[Anonymous No.5967405]

>>5966776
When you start talking about women and snapchat my desire to read ends

[Anonymous No.5967418]

>>5966776
>>5966783
You have much to learn. Start reading more, classics especially. Move away from cliches, unnecessary swear words, and unnecessary words in general.

[Anonymous No.5967433]

>>5966810
any more?

[Anonymous No.5967501]

>>5966810
Please keep going, I don't have any criticism, but I'm damn interested in Wayne's plight.

[Anonymous No.5967683]

The streets were lined with blood and bone and brown. Various wools and pelts, mired by the opposition of their previous occupants, were stacked ontop of one another, forming ziggurats in the back of their respective sellers’ paikups (a derivative of pickup truck, the native languages employed a lot of lingual appropration In this sense). Young boys failed repeatedly to entice any interest in their furry wares, hollering at passerbys, shaking the skins with an unreasonable impatience, bringing to mind the image of a baby with a rattle. They yelled out, ’200, 200, 200’, and when that failed their cries returned, unashamedely, ‘180, 180, 180’. Or so Rasputin’s guide had told him. The yells of the sales boys synchronised in shrill harmony with the gleeful chatter of the children scampering about the multitude of stores and stalls, all with their gift-money in hand, the stores and stalls adequately equpped in anticipation of the puerile horde. Children scuttled about, igniting little crayon-shaped explosives, splashing water at each others faces and snacking on chilled juice cartons, all this while the adults chatted amongst each other, passing along bags of meat and gratitude and wishing prosperity on friends and family. The second day of the Islamic festival of Eid-ul-Adha was coming to a close.
His gut despondent from spending an afternoon gulping cups of black and green tea, Rasputin cautiously followed behind his guide, making sure not to step in any of the neglectedly disposed goat shit, presenting itself ubiquitously in the dingy single street market district of Qala-e-Nazir. Wary of opening his mouth, lest he attract the attention of, well, anyone, Rasputin made his guide aware of his fatigue through a series of poorly choreographed hand signals. Satar,the guide, led him to a nearby kebab shack, insisting it would be an adequate place for respite and feed. He had not come to trust Satar, the shade in his eye a fickle, nauseous green, he exuded an aura of malaise however Rasputin’s hunger had overcome his suspicion. On entry, Rasputin was faced with a veil of cheap beads and dangles and fandangles, plastic ornaments slapping him coldly on the cheek as he made his eager pace, finding accomadation toward the back of the meat-house. Satar stood in queue, with the order.
4 skewers. The dirt roads had been forced to accommodate a large flow of red, making for a slightly uncomfortable tread. Trudge. Our boys were starting to get hungry.
Two pilafs.
Two Pepsis.
One cup of yoghurt. Satar's.
One bowl of some carroty broth. Rasputin's.
One episode of body swapping with an ancient egyptian manservant. Also Rasputin's.

[Anonymous No.5967774]

In the winter of 1994, Zebulon Fink began to hallucinate. Or at least he thought he was hallucinating. When it first happened, Zebulon wasn’t really aware it was mind reading. In fact, for a good few months he was under the assumption that some of the ‘real dank stuff’ he’d acquired at a concert for one of his shitty boy bands he was following had opened him up to the path towards enlightenment. That was a dark era. He became wrapped up in fringe occultist buddhism, aspiring to change his name to ‘The Dalai Demon’, real embarassing stuff. Thankfully he ditched it. He didn’t change his name to ‘The Dalai Demon’ and he didn’t pursue melancholy bitter enlightenment. It still didn’t help him get a girlfriend. After a while he formed this theory. This theory that explained the phenomenon that had caused him to become a gothic buddhist for a good Autumn and a half. This theory was that the amber string coming out of everyones’ mouths, the amber string that only he could see, only he could feel, the amber string that only he knew existed and that everyone thought him crazy for, was a mental link towards the person whose mouth it was coming out of. And then he did something crazy. Not too crazy. Maybe a little eccentric. Slightly strange. He tried to eat it. He tried to eat the amber string that came out of the mouths of the people that weren’t aware of the existence of the amber strings. This string that only he could see. That has wasn’t assured the nature of. He ate it. And he was right in his crazy, eccentric and strange inferences and deductions. He was right. They WERE mental links. At first the strings only provided vague images upon consumption. To verify that this wasn’t all some profound hallucination caused by a toke a season prior, Zebulon had drafted a series of experiments.

>>5967683
a bit purpley mate

[Anonymous No.5967907]

>>5967433
>>5967501
One had worked at that convenience store unfortunately located closest to Wayne’s house for a year now. Over fifty times the seasoned cashier had watched Wayne barrel impatiently through the automatic sliding doors, stomping his feet like a spoiled child in the toy aisle just to get them to slide faster. Over fifty times he watched Wayne kick his way through the bread section to reach the freezer, and over fifty times he watched helplessly as that human blender tore it apart in his never ending quest for hotdogs. The previous workers warned him about Wayne, in fact they quit because of him. Wayne had driven the last cashier to the edge sanity, pushing her over three days ago into the murky abyss of reluctant unemployment. The second cashier took her spot despite receiving a sum of pleas and warnings comparable to that of a car owner’s manual.

“Anything boys?” Wayne continued, “Ah, nope, should’ve figured. You cashiers are all the same, stupid as a sack of hammers. I ain’t payin’ this shit. $1.15 or I’m walking.” He stood triumphantly, believing his opponents to be bound in a checkmate.

“Sorry, sir, that’s the price. I can’t let you leave without paying it.” The new cashier mustered quickly from behind the first, trying to impress the latter.

Squeezing the package of hotdogs near to the point of bursting, Wayne reached into his pocket with the other hand and withdrew three nickels. Maintaining eye contact he held them high above the counter and flicked each one individually from his fleshy paws, the nickels clanging as they rolled onto the floor and into a dusty abyss under the candy rack. “You fellas have a good day,” Wayne said smiling sardonically. Sliding the greasy package across the counter to leave a streak, Wayne took leave. On his way out he grabbed the top of the magazine rack and pulled, spilling its contents into a heap on the floor where they joined the nickels.

“Jesus, what the hell’s that guy’s problem?” asked the new cashier.

“He’s just an asshole,” said the veteran one, leaning to find the nickels.

[Anonymous No.5968579]

>>5966899

that's literally a rule in ops post but no one follows shit they just wna post their brain vomit and get validated by strangers on an anonymous Malaysian cartoon forum