Critique thread: Review more than you post Don't post anything bad or slapdash

File: 9 KB, 542x350, 622x350.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 03:50:49 2015 No.6022311 [Reply] [Original]

Critique thread:

Review more than you post
Don't post anything bad or slapdash

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 19 03:53:04 2015 No.6022320 first post gets an in-depth extended critique/discussion with OP imagine, someone earnestly paying attention to you

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 03:57:19 2015 No.6022336

'You're awesome, Barbara. Really. Never met a gal like you before.'
He settles deep into his leather roundback, shuffling through numbers on a screen.
'Uh huh. You're bold. You're beautiful. You're brave and strong.'
Barlowe's yawning, quickly shielding the receiver from the bellows.
'I've told you once before. I'll say it here again: you are a good person, Barb. A diamond in the rough. You're worth it, honestly. This comes straight from the heart, you understand?'
'I'm listening,' an old voice calls out, quiet, from the other end.
'So am I. You have to hear me, babe. It's not a joke I'm telling. You are wonderful. There's something in the way you are. It's lucid. Subtle. Something real. It's not imagination.'
'I've heard this all before,' she says. 'what's your deal, again?'
'It's simple, Barb. Let me explain. It's worth explanation.' Barlowe takes a sup of burnt cheap coffee, mouthing to the window: kill us. kill us all
'What we do here, Mrs. Peckingham, is profoundly straightforward. I'm speaking to you earnestly. We specialize, my team and I, in reaching out to clients like yourself. We've noticed you are one among the precious few who've qualified for expert rate assistance. Your interests, like our own, are contingent, and as such are subject to the grammar of the institution's structure, its condition and its operation. Your payment histories are lacking, Ms. Your credit is in disarray. Affairs are out of order, Ma'am, and all we're here to do is come to terms with that.'
'It's credit repair?' Barb Peckingham is belching privately.
'Effectively. Our offices in California here are branches of our syndicate. We're something of a subsidized conglomerate. VistaLife Incorporated's printed on the banners here. My checks come from The Avalon.'
'So what about my credit?'
'There's a lot to learn here, Barbara. First I've gotta say your voice is sweet as honey. Corporate's interests are not limited to credit. We're a living work of human interaction. It's our job now to insure that you've been treated well and fairly. In addition to our tertiary services we network very closely with a wide and varied range of nested real estate and virtual affairs. You're lovely, Barbara. Tried and true. You'd do well with a Rent-To-Own. Let me transfer you to Douglas. He'll take care of all the rest.'
'What's my credit, doc?'
He shuts the line off briskly, transferring the call to dispatch out in Utah. Barbara will be on the phone for hours. Barlowe yawns again. His coffee's getting colder. Gladswitch finishes the round and flicks old Barlowe heavyhanded with a slap across the neck.
'Sell yet?'
'Transfer.'
'Interesting. We'll wait and see.'
A sharp guffaw and curlyheaded Gladswitch shuts the office door. MICHAEL BARLOWE reads the gilded text in capital inside a dream. He'd never have an office. God forbid he'd ever have a door.

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 19 04:01:05 2015 No.6022347 Ten big dicks up your ass

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 19 04:06:53 2015 No.6022367 >>6022336 >What we do here, Mrs. Peckingham, is profoundly straightforward. this whole line rings fake. otherwise dialogue is great. I'd say more, but I'm not really qualified. It's great, really. Head and shoulders above most crit thread submissions.

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 04:59:37 2015 No.6022450
File: 284 KB, 1161x869, TrueGent.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Magnum Optimus:

I’ll usually find myself in damp, dark corners or whatever crawlspace I can manage to scuttle to in order to avoid the harsh judgmental eyes of the general public as I flick my tongue and lick my lips while racing through pages of Lolita as my pants tighten and my eyes widen but ultimately resisting the urge to release the culminating pressure without the cover of nightfall to conceal my morally misguided actions. “Repent! Repent!”, I’ll shout to the onlookers, the passersbys, the Heavens! as they turn a blind eye to their witnessing of a man commit such feverish sin. The authorities may come. And let them. They have no right, God given or man-made, to interfere with the realization of true art through the criticism of its haters or admiration of its lovers, the completion of its purpose found in the eyes of those that may hopefully receive some semblance of erotic throbbing in their scepters or caverns of passion from gazing upon it, the gift given by its opportunity to be coupled with its antithesis in a moment of concurrent opposition and consummation. This is my contribution to the commendable field of classic literary smut; made enveloped in the crusted wall, cardboard enclosure which frees me from socially constructed norms as a butterfly is freed from the confines of gravitation, which had once forced upon it the humiliation of a life spent crawling on its belly, groveling in the dust and dirt before its self roused release to the heavens, yet it binds me to my mindful burdens in a cruel, ironic twist back to fate.
At my celebratory cremation ceremony, a pastie-clad President will ask me before my victims, “¿Why?” and I will tell him, “One day, you too may be graced with the ability of comprehending true literary genius as I do, appreciating the synthesis of exquisitely harmonized prose and plot as I do, realizing the burden of the knowledge of understanding of the incomparable ecstasy of the burden of knowledge as I do. One day you too may be patrician. Rock’n’roll 2012”.

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 19 05:03:30 2015 No.6022459 >>6022450 too many memes

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 19 05:50:56 2015 No.6022562 >>6022450 not my bag

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 07:43:13 2015 No.6022755

“Christ be named, if I wasn’t supposed to be a good influence I might have praised you a little there boy but I am supposed to be a good influence. Listen here Brian, you can’t just go and punch every ‘C’ and ‘P’ in the face, it just isn’t how it works. Not even the ‘A’s.
“Wait.”
“Hmm?”
“What’s a ‘P’?”
“Urmm, it’s like an ‘F’ but more slangy. Anyway, that isn’t the point. The point is, Brian, that your problems won’t go away with the addition of violence, violence just acts as a catalyst, lowers the requirements for a big mess up and trouble always accompanies.”
“I know that Greg, it’s just that. The poetry. I work real hard on tha’ shit you know. Harder than anybody. Harder than everybody. And because I work so hard I just can’t stand it when somebody tries to devalue my work. When they devalue my work then they devalue my time, my energy. The energy I’ve spent and the energy that I’m going to spend. They’re mocking past, present and my future at the same time. It’s like they’re saying a big ‘fuck you!’ to my way of life. Like they’re waving a big red fucking flag to the bull of my soul and telling me to eat shit and dirt and rot. And that is something I just can’t let pass. ”
“Even so, you can’t just go around hitting people you barely know. I’ll be praying for you my boy but please try to harness your temperamental fervor and learn to keep hold of the reins or at least keep the bull in it’s pen.”
“Thank you Father. I’ll try to put some of what you’ve said into action, see if it helps with the sinnin’ and whatnot. Be seeing you next week, most likely.”
“Don’t thank me, than-“
“Yes, yes. I know. But still, thank you for your time”. I slowly open the door to the confession compartment of the box, a shy, not entirely endoresed guilt reflected in my movements. I give the pastor a short motion of respect, a slight bow with the wave of a hand. The right. I make my way towards the entrance, soon to be exit, of the building and as I steady my pace I am hit with epiphany. I turn viciously, with an expression of insane ecstacy on my face.
“Pastor, I get it now! ‘F’ for faggot and ‘P’ for poof, yeah!?”

>>6022336
Dialogue is good, doesn't feel fake except for Barlowes first few lines.

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 15:21:49 2015 No.6024274

1/3

The coveralls Raul wears to work are heavy and coarse. They are the smallest size of the garment he could find, but are still much too large for him. The cuffs hang down to his fingertips and the legs must be rolled up so that he does not trip on them. He does not bother rolling the sleeves, though, because he likes the image it presents. Forlorn and outsized and misplaced. Speechlessly foreign and pygmoid. He likes the looks on their faces, his clients, and how they try so vainly to regard him as a fellow human, a fellow American, an individual worthy of respect. He likes watching their friendly demeanor straining for purchase, for common ground with this meager person at their doorstop. What is there to say in greeting to such a man as Raul? The airless pause before they say “Hello” or “Oh hey, you the bug guy?” is his greatest source of satisfaction, the moment where he feels most realized and powerful. This instant of disorientation as they answer the door and look down, amazed. Yes, it is the fact that they must adjust their gaze for Raul that traps them. He also likes that they are always quick to look away, that they suddenly seem so ashamed. Ashamed of their homes and of their lives and bodies. Almost hesitant to let him inside to do his work. He feels that he is spreading some sort of wisdom. Raul is a blunted, paunchy man of muddy complexion. He is bald and beardless. His eyes are like watery stones or a rabbit’s eyes depending on where he is, depending on what he is doing, and when he smiles his teeth are marble tablets, evenly sized, evenly gapped, and bare of all etchings or portents. He is 5’1 and in his brown coveralls he looks like a child playing at adulthood. He is 5’1 and in his coveralls he feels like a nugget of shit stuffed in a burlap bag, waiting to be lit on fire and stomped out. He rings the doorbell and waits for them to answer, for them to look down in unguarded confusion and natural revulsion: stomp it, stomp it quick. But his coveralls are flame-retardant, so all there is for them to do is stare.
“Yeys, I am ta bug mayn,” in his embellished accent. Un muy Meyhicano munchkin, watching as they nod and sign his form. But he has of course lived in the states his entire life, and is really only half Columbian, and speaks not a word of Spanish.

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 15:22:55 2015 No.6024280

>>6024274
2/3

The woman who answers the door is middle-aged and lovely. Her hair is pulled back into a taut pony-tail that trails to the top of her spine and is of a flaxen blond color with thin veins of white runneling through. She wears a navy tracksuit with an emblem on the chest he does not recognize, but not for lack of scrutiny. Her breasts are heavy and matronly-wise and she has allowed them to droop somewhat, to hang lazy and overripe in the suit’s pouches of soft cotton. Distending faintly downward like fat, blue raindrops on a window. She is probably around 5’10 and easily towers over Raul in his coveralls. She smiles down from the entryway of the large home and he thinks immediately about raping her, as he fantasizes of doing with most female clients of a certain age. He is not so sure he could. Not only is she taller than him, but also broader and more robust. Her eyes are bright with the élan of a woman who has mastered her children, has struck them lovingly and with the proper force. Willful eyes, a mother’s strength, not easily cowed. And her thighs are thick, so thick that they strain against the tracksuit’s leggings, their muscles faintly visible through the fabric, and he cannot imagine forcing himself between them. He sees them crushing his pelvis to splinters in the attempt. He sees them clamping down like the jaws of a massive, fleshy nutcracker as he screams out in agony, pushing desperately at the back of her legs in an attempt to free himself, then going limp with the slow crunch of his bones shattering inwards. She would then stand up with a mother’s tsk to look down at the wreckage of his body, this bug man dying in his coveralls, his waist a crumpled accordion leaking blood and thick marrow, his breaths coming shallow and faint, and she would stoop to retrieve one of his erupted testicles from the bed of gore. This she would pop cheerfully into her mouth, chew once, swallow, and then go to the kitchen in search of a mop. Maybe first dash upstairs for a change of clothes.
“Sign pleece, mam,” offering up the clipboard and pen, clicking it for her as she slides it from his fingers then smiles down at the form. Her voice comes mousy and girlish from behind the board which quivers slightly as she autographs her name, then passes both tokens back to him with, he thinks, a rank air of noblesse oblige. He is terribly, uncomfortably aroused.
“Well, just thank god you could make it. And thank you and your boss for the special accommodation, though I really must imagine this is about as close to an ‘emergency’ as these things can get. We’ve been having a bit of an incursion over the past couple days.”
“Incurshon, mam?” with his blankest stare.

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 15:23:56 2015 No.6024287

>>6024280
3/3

“An invasion, I mean. See, we’ve been under siege, umm Raul. It’s been nothing short of guerilla warfare between us and them for the past week. . .Hard fighting with the fiddle-legged menace, hmm, the songful invaders. Our grouting runs thick with their ooze and broken bodies but still they come, come, come against us in their whistling droves. Black as Nazi SS commandos and spry as the Viet Cong, as selflessly zealous in their assaults as any kamikaze pilot or suicide bomber, and each individual vermin possessing a domestic terrorist’s capacity for ingenuity and lone-wolf-ish maneuverings.”
Raul notices suddenly that this woman is leaning quite heavily on the doorjamb as she speaks to him, and as she lifts her arm to scratch at her wrist he hears the distinctive rattle of pills in their bottles emanating from the tracksuit’s pockets.
“Ah mam, so what you say is that-”
“We have fought them on the stairs and in the bathrooms, in the garage and in the kitchen. Terrains we thought we knew. We have chased them leaping through paddies of shag, their bodies kicking up tall, writhing parabolas all around us as we scramble after a chosen target on hands and knees, our tennis shoes held high. The thump, thump, thump of hammering soles on carpet” a noise she replicates by butting the heels of her palms together “I’m sure not so different from the sound of British cannon fire in the Congo. So impotent, so foolish. Say, ever read that book? You really should. You can borrow it if you’d like. Anyway, this steady wallop of iron balls slamming against the trees and the cliffs, beating uselessly at the savage continent, and the Officers saying they are routing the belligerent natives, saying it with a glazed lunacy in their eye I now know all too well. I have seen it in the faces of my husband and my children as they peek beneath the rim of their shoe and watch the insect they thought surely dead leap out with a happy chirp. Not an antenna askew.”

Critiques coming once I run a few errands.

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 19 17:55:03 2015 No.6024875 >>6024287 >>6024280 >>6024274 Pastebin.com

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 18:16:09 2015 No.6024968
File: 22 KB, 533x477, pepe2.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

It was in the summer, before shades of red and gold began to metastasize through the trees like an inappropriately vibrant type of cancer, that Aldo’s romantic situation grew desperate. Not that it wasn’t desperate before—he wasn’t delusional—but the month of July brought with it, in addition to the influx of bulky A/Cs poking out of apartment windows and buzzing away, a new milestone for his life.

Along with the Friedrichs and the Frigidaires came a night of sitting alone in his studio apartment, masturbating longingly to memories of old crushes in high school and college, to what-ifs and what-could-have-beens, his efforts illuminated only by the dim light of twenty-five waning candles. The candles were for the cake. The cake was for his birthday.

He was a quarter of a century old and he had done nothing and he had loved no one. Actually, that wasn’t true, he thought. He had loved many times. Starbucks Girl. Fifth Floor Neighbor Who Had Moved Out Last Year. Haley From Ninth Grade P.E. Aldo himself had loved many times, but he had never been loved back—not once. And what was love, really, if it went by unnoticed, unreciprocated? If it ventured forth into the void with no response from the other side, just an endless and uneasy silence, what was it? If it hung in the air, frozen, like a raised palm waiting for a high-five that would never come, what was it? It wasn’t love. He knew that much.

Starbucks Girl had been there one day. Then another. Then one day she was gone, and a large black man had taken her place at the register. The first (and last) conversation he’d had with Fifth Floor Neighbor Who Had Moved Out Last Year had occurred in the small lobby of his apartment building. He had gone downstairs to check his mail. She had gone downstairs to check her mail. They had stood next to one another by the mailboxes (their shoulders slightly touching since 5B was right next to 6A) checking their mail. She had said, I feel like a sardine. He had blushed and said, Yeah. She had closed her mailbox and gone upstairs. He had closed his mailbox and gone upstairs. Then she had moved, leaving behind no trace of her other than some glue-ish residue on the mailbox where the sticker with her name had been before someone peeled it away. Haley From Ninth Grade P.E. had been in the same gym class as Aldo. She had smiled at him once when he’d tripped over his own feet during a dodgeball game and sprawled onto the floor. She had smiled again, a few weeks later, when he managed to eliminate himself from the game by dropping the ball on his foot. On the last day of classes before Christmas break Aldo had thrown the ball at her but she had not been looking and the ball had hit her in the face and bloodied her lip and she had had to go to the nurse’s office and she had come in the next day with five stitches in her lip and she had never smiled at Aldo again.

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 18:21:22 2015 No.6024992

>>6022755
>>6024968 Here, reviewing this. I googled it and found nothing so I'm guessing it's a half-serious submission. Your characters are distinct, as is their dialogue, but your punctuation needs some fixing (e.g. period goes inside the quotation marks; put a comma between here and Brian, put commas around boy in the first sentence, etc.).

Also this is a personal thing I guess but I think you should convey accents and whatnot through word choice rather than actually accenting the words with apostrophes and different spelling and whatnot.

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 19:30:18 2015 No.6025356

>>6024968
As a perma-virgin myself, I like this quite a lot. The only thing I find a little chafing is the "Fifth Floor Neighbor Who Had Moved Out Last Year". I find that thing intolerably cutesy and obnoxious. The rest, however, is well done.

I'd read more

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 19:40:04 2015 No.6025404

>>6025356
Thanks for the feedback, anon. Is the past-perfect tense grating to read or is it okay? I had a bitch of a time writing this since it's pretty much a flashback with more contained flashbacks and alternating flashforwards and getting the grammar right is a pain in the ass.

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 19:45:43 2015 No.6025429

Things are getting a little NC-17 (I like, well actually, hmm (hmm maybe (wha- (Just (the best track on The Bends (the 1995 Radiohead (a collective for whose discernible talent is nonexistent so as to its superindustry (as per literary/musical critic piero scaruffi (a critic whose place as the voice of /mu/tant music was supplanted by Kolsti Nguyen’s Yeezus copypasta (see the archive at rbt (rebecca black tech (a title which dates the archival service as much as it betrays its partial inherent (vice (kekekekekekekekekekek)) ironicality)))))) album (of which the dust (as in jacket (as in letterman (as in David (as in Goliath (as in mammoth (as in large (as in the size of my dick))))))) has not yet settled))))) like mah “BLUE IS THE WARMEST COLOR”)) in here.

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 19 19:46:51 2015 No.6025434 >>6025429 annoying

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 19 19:49:30 2015 No.6025450 >>6025429 phuc u.

Anonymous Mon Jan 19 19:56:33 2015 No.6025479

You light me up like a cigarette on a cold day & I burn for you, even if it’s just for a few minutes because I’d rather feel your lips on me briefly than not at all.

And you’ll disappear again & I’ll watch the seasons change while I wait for your call.

I’m patient because I know that you’re the one but while I’m waiting, I’m taking shots until my body is numb because I know that you’re not as sure..

And that’s why you’re with her half the time & with me the rest;

Often I make poetry out of this confusion but really, there’s nothing beautiful about being second best

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 19 20:02:33 2015 No.6025508 >>6022311 dubs

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 19 20:25:57 2015 No.6025610 >>6025479 seems good but I've never been in a relatioship

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 00:40:06 2015 No.6026569

1/2
From the perspective of the top step, life seems frantic, unnecessary—but comfortable. Cars speed by, cars appear. Disappear. Guided by some unknowable, a hand dedicating its existence to the guide of metal machines, machines measured in horses.

People too come, people too pass. Sometimes, even, they summit the three small stairs, crossing the building’s threshold in seconds. Or crawling in minutes, assisted and held—at least it seems this way to the stairs, their backs erect in unwavering posture. The grey ones always took longer, hobbling helplessly, helped by their hobbled legs and walkers held by their helpless hands. They made their pilgrimage daily, the stairs their Sinai, their Kailash, their Olympus. Soon they would rest with their domestic gods.

Sometimes the people pass together, hands and arms locked in a familiar embrace. Family. Two bodies pulling in order to likewise draw together their souls, draw them close. Close until they are one, until the gap between two is closed.

But more often the people come alone. Pilgrimages, afterall, are best experienced in solitude. This happened noticeably more often, the stairs noted, when the skies raged and roared and displayed their natural prowess over man’s unnatural companionship. The rain had long ago admitted defeat against man’s creations. It now sought to strike the soft skin of fleshy man with its torrential assault. Downpours washing over them, the stairs took pride, swelling in dull-grey exuberance over their rocky-strong skin.

More than anything, the stairs found the behavior of certain individuals to be noteworthy. Their strange characteristics intrigued and confused the cement trio. First was the one who was always talking, talking, talking. He spend every moment with his mouth in motion, pouring words endlessly about someone or somebody, or rarely—some body. His mouth moved so quickly, so often, the stairs had long ago reasoned that soon his jaw must simply break off from his face and demand retirement, escape. It must find life so unfair, watching the ears work so little while it never rested.

The stairs found this behavior strange.

Another person came home each night with what appeared to be a new companion, one who always escaped before the Sun came up the next day. This one seemed to leave the building each morning red, puffy. Their walk was less each morning, steps emptier. But heavier, too. As if they were composed of less than before, with their feet only growing more. But each night, another acquaintance appeared.

The stairs found this behavior stranger.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 00:41:10 2015 No.6026575

>>6026569
2/2

A different resident left in the morning as the Sun rose. They returned in the evening, long after it had set. Leaving with warm mug, tight suit, and bag slung over their shoulder, they returned empty, tighter, sagging. Optimistic each morning, unhappy each night. Soon this optimism faded, little by little each day. Why? the stairs questioned. What could be worth pouring without refilling?

The stairs found this behavior strange each morning, until the morning came when he did not leave. Nor did he the next day. Nor the day after. On the fourth day, many new steps covered the stairs, heavy boots in a rush no matter which way they went.

Then nothing, no steps.

The stairs found this strangest.

They, of course, paid no mind to the occasional person who rested on them, supported by their proud cement pedestal. Why would a structure reliant upon its neighbor’s unwavering support question a man seeking his own support?

This is only natural, they knew.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 00:44:42 2015 No.6026591 >>6025479 This hits so fucking close to home I want to cry. >can't cry >don't know how >only the gods know catharsis for this pain

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 00:49:22 2015 No.6026613

- by the time i noticed them, everyone else had left and it had been dark for a while. The first thing i saw was the light from the fire. there were four at first. The tall one was wearing a black jacket, the kind gym teachers and track coaches wear. His hair was short, and he looked like he didn't care about anything, especially not the girl he was with. every time she said something he just gave her this stare like he was trying to will her out of existence. I couldn't really blame him. All she wanted to talk about was herself, and birthday cake vodka. She kept mentioning birthday cake vodka, and i think the tall mean boy told her there would be birthday cake vodka. I didn't see any. The other boy was short, and his hair was longer. He smiled a lot, but it wasn't a nice smile. The girl he was with looked asian, and didn't say very much. i think she might have been in love with him, but she just looked tired and a little scared. He would talk to her sometimes, but he never kissed her, and most of the time he talked to the tall boy. You could tell they had known each other a long time. The short one was mean to the girl who came with the tall one, but the tall one didn't seem to mind. She had blonde hair, and i think she only came because she thought there would be birthday cake vodka. The tall boy put some more wood on the fire, and they started smoking a blunt the asian girl took out of her purse. I could see the short one's hands shaking, and i wanted to follow him when he left, but someone else came. Cont. 1/2

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 00:50:27 2015 No.6026620

2/2 It was two boys this time. One was black and one was white. The tall boy must have known the black one, because he smiled at him, and didn't look at the other one. They smoked another blunt, and then the short one came back. these new people knew him, or i think they did. they smiled when they saw him. But he didn't smile. he said something quiet, and pointed at the blonde girl, and the tall boy laughed like he was uncomfortable, and the blonde girl started to cry. The black kid and his friend left, and the short boy gave the asian girl a cigarette. they sat there for a long time without saying anything, until the blonde girl stopped crying. pretty soon another boy came through. this one was pretty strange looking. he didn't move right. as soon as he showed up, the tall boy and short boy gave each other some looks, and took a bottle out of a bag, and the blonde girl looked so happy i thought it had to be the birthday cake vodka she wanted. they all started drinking from the bottle, but the blonde girl and the awkward boy drank the most. she was drinking because she wanted to, but he was drinkinge because they made him. pretty soon they were both falling over. the tall boy took something out of the bag and handed it to the short boy. then they both pulled black masks over their heads, the kind with a hole for the mouth. they tied the boy and the girl to a tree, and i saw the tall boy carve something above them, it looked like a little person with a sideways moon on top. the awkward boy got scared and started talking really fast. the girl was still giggling, until he whispered something to her, and then she started crying again. the short boy was holding a knife. he started walking towards the girl, but the awkward boy said something and he stopped. he cut the awkward boy loose, and watched him run away. the girl laughed, and then he put the knife in her stomach. i didn't hear her cry or anything. the tall boy put a bag over her head and put out the fire. the short boy gave the asian girl another cigarette, and finished the birthday cake vodka. then they left. i didn't see them here again.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 01:07:22 2015 No.6026699 >>6026569 >between two is closed please change to "between the two is closed" >He spend every spent Quite good. Interesting conceit, as well.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 01:09:04 2015 No.6026706 >>6026620 strange. not enough details for me

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 11:12:17 2015 No.6027372 >>6024287 I liked it a lot. Were you the guy who wrote about the anthill some threads ago?

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 11:26:50 2015 No.6027423 "I'm still having trouble recognizing the foreign scribbling, but I see you in each unfamiliar word I manage to discern. You are the marshmallows who soften and sweeten my Alpha-Bits and I'll be eating it up as long as the sun still rises." -ML

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 11:47:33 2015 No.6027485 >>6027372 I was! That is uncanny. How did you know?

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 12:00:46 2015 No.6027539

>>6027485
I'm that guy who asked for more of the anthill stuff.
Didn't really knew how to respond to the second part, honestly.
I thought it was as good as the first part, but that seemed redundant to say.

The opening sentence on both those pieces are catching. Overall, for what it's worth, I think you've got a good style going for you.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 12:26:25 2015 No.6027636 >>6025479 damn thats some shit from james franco romcom epilogue >tfw no gf

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 12:52:56 2015 No.6027726 >>6027539 Thanks, man. I really appreciate it and wish you well.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 13:38:59 2015 No.6027883

It's a cold night outside of this coffee shop with metal benches and pressed coffee. She's sitting across from me reminding me of a statue made and shaped from the most perfect material known to mankind. She's telling me that our lives are short, and while nothing would make her happier than spending the rest of hers with me, she needs to see what else there is. The wind comes up and blows her hair back and she shivers, and I wish that I could reach over to her, hold her just a little to stave off the cold, but our days of holding and loving are over. She's moving, she tells me, she has friends with a place somewhere warmer, somewhere that she won't need jackets like the one she's wearing now. She says she needs the warmth, she says the heat will help her find out who she is. I say words, but I tell her nothing so that she won't think I care any more than she does. I make a joke about the heat melting, not tempering. She doesn't laugh, she just looks at me with eyes that hold a little sadness. I tell her it's okay, that she knows I do fine even when she's not around, even though we both know that I don't. We say goodbye, and I tell her that maybe I'll go to the bar to try and evoke something from her, something primal, something other than small pity that lets me know this isn't all a bullshit farce and that she really did care as much as me. She just says okay, and she leaves. As she's walking away I have the urge to yell at her and tell her I don't want her to go, to tell her that I love her more and that she's the reason that I do anything. I don't though, and I sit there at the coffee shop for two more hours staring at her chair as if trying to conjure her or some apparition of her back to me so that we can continue our lives like none of this ever happened.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 14:27:49 2015 No.6028105 >>6024968 Purple bullshit fluff in service of a shallow concept. "Before shades of red and gold began to metastasize through the trees," give me a fucking break, guy. Vapid bullshit masquerading as something meaningful.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 15:46:48 2015 No.6028426

shadow of an iguana gracing MY floor
tiles agloom in the artifical light beams
stalk or hap, true or not is to the subject
form unknown, left to guess, is blesséd, lovely
dumbly out from the center like a radar
weird security guard of his own prison
scales untelling of true intention, if be
mystery leaves no clues to say for certain
therefore, i live with kindness towards the shaded
mere shadow, as it is, you can be either
whether spy or a docile mechanism
be my guest, for unknown is always welcome.

wrote this in latin hendecasyllable, i hope the wording conveyed that well enough that it didn't have to be specified

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 16:04:59 2015 No.6028488 >>6028426 I like this, and I have absolutely no reason why.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 16:12:14 2015 No.6028514

"She cast her voice upon a canvass and photographed it in the sunset, taking ample time to ensure its beauty reflected her own. For when she finally, through her own will, delivered her spirit to him, she would be looking him in the eye for the first time this moon. The new light shone in her own eyes with the courage that bloomed from within her, the passion held deeply within him and the love she gratefully spied between them. In memory alone lie the reservation of her hand. She knew now how to extend it to him and it wouldn't be amid the crashing shores or their fans. Her moonlight was his now too."
-ML

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 16:53:09 2015 No.6028634 >>6022311 "whenever passing places of settlement in transit I always imagined what it would be like to grow up, to live and die in that place "

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:11:32 2015 No.6028707 >>6027883 Try rewriting this in third person so that I don't have to fight over whether I need to cringe or vomit.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:14:31 2015 No.6028718

Standing in the shower Donny thought of a right sick joke. That slut in the bedroom might have run out the night before but Donny kept regular and his shits were had like the sunrise each morning. Donny finished scrubbing up, then with raised right leg he laid a stinker into his waiting hand, snipped it with a clench, and a perfect brown batch of yesterday's Pasta con le Sarde awaited its tiled canvas.
He exited eagerly and announced it was Becky's turn, grabbing a clean towel, with a grin.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:24:11 2015 No.6028748 >>6022347 A little short but I think you pretty effectively communicated your intentions.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:31:11 2015 No.6028783 Spanishit http://pastebin.com/FD790u6J

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:40:08 2015 No.6028827

>It's about the afterlife.
>MC is an executioner.
>Btw, dogs run shit here.

My master is sitting to the left by the trash heap, snorting up flotsam bits of pork fried rice greedily from the paper carton he wears on his snout, precarious. Burnt onion bits and spurnt marijuana hits smatter his sweatervest, as the hairy little libertine rolls among discarded roach papers and fries and notices of IOU from sanitation department guys. I wheel my eyes on track with his, whose lids are slipping downwards and yet inwards, and tearing tears rabidly outwardly, like two elderly and rapturous labias at the sound of The Price Is Right; so intent they were in the peristaltic pleasures of his Korean cunnilingus.

I hand him a biscuit, and he wags his tail abashed.

“So what's the work today boss? A loiterer perhaps, or a gambling man 'oo losta cointoss?” I say.
Coughing his visceral fat into jolly bundles, the Pembroke Welsh struggles onto his hind legs and into an air of fiscal authority.
“Very little, Soro', very little indeed!” Bespectacled bug-eyes belie girth of mirth and filial surprise.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:47:28 2015 No.6028864

>>6028827
Don't use words that you need to look up. Don't use incorrect syntax for the sake of it. Don't write like your readers are familiar with context that exists only in your own head. Edit yourself before expecting others to waste their time doing it for you.

It's shit.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:49:57 2015 No.6028879 >>6028707 But why can't you do both, anon?

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:52:55 2015 No.6028895 >>6028879 Try making a cringing expression then mime vomiting. It's pretty uncomfortable doing both at the same time.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:54:05 2015 No.6028902 >>6028707 Or go Joyce and write in first and third person in the same paragraph.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:55:35 2015 No.6028910 >>6028902 Don't ever again try to compare these shits to James A. Joyce.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:58:00 2015 No.6028918 http://pastebin.com/HzP2iefC What do you think of this, stylistically? It's an unfinished first draft, I plan on extending the story to include this teachers homelife (Vegetative Wife, Nurse named "April" whom he is in love with).

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:59:24 2015 No.6028926

>>6028707
It's a cold night outside of the coffee shop with metal benches and pressed coffee. She's sitting across from you, reminding you of a statue made and shaped from the most perfect material known to mankind. She's telling you that lives are short, and while nothing would make her happier than spending the rest of hers with you, she needs to see what else there is. The wind comes up and blows her hair back and she shivers, and you wish that you could reach over to her, hold her just a little to stave off the cold, but your days of holding and loving are over. She's moving, she tells you, she has friends with a place somewhere warmer, somewhere that she won't need jackets like the one she's wearing now. She says she needs the warmth, she says the heat will help her find out who she is. You say words, but you tell her nothing so that she won't think you care any more than she does. You make a joke about the heat melting, not tempering. She doesn't laugh, she just looks at you with eyes that hold a little sadness. You tell her it's okay, that she knows you'll do fine even when she's not around, even though you both know that you don't. You say goodbye, and you tell her that maybe you'll go to the bar to try and evoke something from her, something primal, something other than small pity that lets you know this isn't all a bullshit farce and that she really did care as much as you. She just says okay, and she leaves. As she's walking away you have the urge to yell at her and tell her you don't want her to go, to tell her that you love her more and that she's the reason that you do anything. You don't though, and you sit there at the coffee shop for two more hours staring at her chair as if trying to conjure her or some apparition of her back to you so that you can continue your lives like none of this ever happened.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 17:59:29 2015 No.6028928 >>6028918 >What do you think of this, stylistically? >Mr. Borowski didn’t have much of a neck. Well, he did, but Kill yourself.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 18:00:37 2015 No.6028936 >>6028910 >pleb doesn't know Joyce's middle name is Thundercunt.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 18:01:05 2015 No.6028940 >>6028926 This is second person, you imbecile.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 18:02:18 2015 No.6028948 >>6028918 I am trying to give this a somber tone but feel like I'm failing

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 18:04:25 2015 No.6028960 >>6028940 He's probably joking...

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 18:05:53 2015 No.6028965 >>6028960 Thanks for standing up for him. That was really nice of you.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 18:06:42 2015 No.6028969

>>6028940
It's a cold night outside of the coffee shop with metal benches and pressed coffee. She's sitting across from it, reminding it of a statue made and shaped from the most perfect material known to mankind. She's telling it that lives are short, and while nothing would make her happier than spending the rest of hers with it, she needs to see what else there is. The wind comes up and blows her hair back and she shivers, and it wishes that it could reach over to her, hold her just a little to stave off the cold, but its days of holding and loving are over. She's moving, she tells you, she has friends with a place somewhere warmer, somewhere that she won't need jackets like the one she's wearing now. She says she needs the warmth, she says the heat will help her find out who she is. It says words, but it tells her nothing so that she won't think it cares any more than she does. It makes a joke about the heat melting, not tempering. She doesn't laugh, she just looks at it with eyes that hold a little sadness. It tells her it's okay, that she knows it'll do fine even when she's not around, even though it both know that it don't. It says goodbye, and it tells her that maybe it'll go to the bar to try and evoke something from her, something primal, something other than small pity that lets it know this isn't all a bullshit farce and that she really did care as much as it. She just says okay, and she leaves. As she's walking away it has the urge to yell at her and tell her it don't want her to go, to tell her that it loves her more and that she's the reason that it does anything. It doesn't though, and it sits there at the coffee shop for two more hours staring at her chair as if trying to conjure her or some apparition of her back to it so that it can continue its lives like none of this ever happened.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 18:08:02 2015 No.6028971 >>6028965 Thanks anon. My mom was right., I'm a very good person.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 18:09:03 2015 No.6028977 >>6028969 10/10 Delete your posts and contact Penguin Publishers immediately. You're going to be famous.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 18:18:20 2015 No.6029014

>>6028969
It's a cold night outside of the coffee shop with metal benches and pressed coffee. She's sitting across from them, reminding them of a statue made and shaped from the most perfect material known to mankind. She's telling them that lives are short, and while nothing would make her happier than spending the rest of hers with them, she needs to see what else there is. The wind comes up and blows her hair back and she shivers, and they wish that they could reach over to her, hold her just a little to stave off the cold, but its days of holding and loving are over. She's moving, she tells them, she has friends with a place somewhere warmer, somewhere that she won't need jackets like the one she's wearing now. She says she needs the warmth, she says the heat will help her find out who she is. They say words, but they tell her nothing so that she won't think they care any more than she does. They make a joke about the heat melting, not tempering. She doesn't laugh, she just looks at them with eyes that hold a little sadness. They tell her it's okay, that she knows they will do fine even when she's not around, even though they know that they doesn't. They say goodbye, and they tell her that maybe they will go to the bar to try and evoke something from her, something primal, something other than small pity that let them know this isn't all a bullshit farce and that she really did care as much as they. She just says okay, and she leaves. As she's walking away they have the urge to yell at her and tell her they doesn't want her to go, to tell her that they love her more and that she's the reason that they do anything. They doesn't though, and they sit there at the coffee shop for two more hours staring at her chair as if trying to conjure her or some apparition of her back to them so that they can continue their lives like none of this ever happened.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 18:35:00 2015 No.6029102

>>6028969
>It's a cold night outside of the coffee shop with metal benches and pressed coffee. She's sitting across from it, reminding it of a statue made and shaped from the most perfect material known to mankind. She's telling it that lives are short, and while nothing would make her happier than spending the rest of hers with it, she needs to see what else there is. The wind comes up and blows her hair back and she shivers, and it wishes that it could reach over to her, hold her just a little to stave off the cold, but its days of holding and loving are over. She's moving, she tells you, she has friends with a place somewhere warmer, somewhere that she won't need jackets like the one she's wearing now. She says she needs the warmth, she says the heat will help her find out who she is. It says words, but it tells her nothing so that she won't think it cares any more than she does. It makes a joke about the heat melting, not tempering. She doesn't laugh, she just looks at it with eyes that hold a little sadness. It tells her it's okay, that she knows it'll do fine even when she's not around, even though it both know that it don't. It says goodbye, and it tells her that maybe it'll go to the bar to try and evoke something from her, something primal, something other than small pity that lets it know this isn't all a bullshit farce and that she really did care as much as it. She just says okay, and she leaves. As she's walking away it has the urge to yell at her and tell her it don't want her to go, to tell her that it loves her more and that she's the reason that it does anything. It doesn't though, and it sits there at the coffee shop for two more hours staring at her chair as if trying to conjure her or some apparition of her back to it so that it can continue its lives like none of this ever happened.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:02:44 2015 No.6029214 File: 28 KB, 403x293, 1421266251802.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6022311 http://pastebin.com/VC4CDPK9 I've yet to modify the text since its composition.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:03:46 2015 No.6029217 >>6029214 >I've yet to modify the text since its composition. It shows.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:05:58 2015 No.6029226

>>6029217

How so? There's one line that's indented as an anomaly, although that's syntactically trifle, unequivocally.

Really though, are you insinuating that you've read the entirety of the post or have, to some extent, read to the degree to where you're able to pragmatically conclude that the story itself is of some low caliber, and manifests no DEFINITIVE LITERARY MERIT?

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:10:02 2015 No.6029241

>>6029226
You don't have any awareness of your own narrative voice. You, like so many other amateur "writers", have no idea how to use punctuation, to say nothing of the content. It's just embarrassing to read.

Scrap this and start over with a blank page, there is nothing here to salvage.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:13:25 2015 No.6029260

>>6029241

Would you kindly highlite a region of the text wherein I (verbatim) "...have no idea how to use punctuation..."?

Narratively, what compels you to assert that I'm unaware of my own "voice"? What do you even mean by that, exactly?

Ambiguity in critique nullifies the critique.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:17:26 2015 No.6029275

>>6029260
>Ambiguity in critique nullifies the critique.
Only if you are in a deep state of denial can my criticism come across as vague.

Read what I wrote then try reading, at least one time, the garbage you wrote. If your shortcomings aren't immediately evident practice writing for a few more years before expecting another human to waste their time helping you.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:19:36 2015 No.6029286

>>6029260
Not >>6029217, but after reading the first two paragraphs seems to me that the first comma is misplaced.

"At first, there was utter silence."

What's the argument for a pause after "At first"?, why now "At first there was utter silence" instead?

The same goes for "It was getting closer, now."

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:20:55 2015 No.6029294

>>6029275

As far as I'm aware the only thing you've hitherto accomplished is an unsubstantiated value-judgment and a demonstration of a proponent of arbitrary standards that the text allegedly lacks.

I really don't care to the extent to where I'll plan on continuing to inquire over vague semantics, seeing as how you've illustrated an absence of professionalism and clarification.

Provide a few explanations and maybe I'll start caring again.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:22:47 2015 No.6029299

>>6029286

It's totally presupposition and unwarranted to prescriptively postulate an "Argument" for the arbitrary usage of a comma.

Fundamentally, the implementation isn't intrinsically incorrect, syntactically, and so I'm content with its usage. Ditto for the other quotation; it's just an arbitrary employment of the symbol that I utilized for the flow of the narrative, regardless of whether other criticizers detest it.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:24:23 2015 No.6029311 AY THIS IS PREEMPTIVE SO I DON'T GET ROASTED, but I did mean to ad an 'al' w/ "presupposition".

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:24:41 2015 No.6029312

>>6029294
What's amusing is that I'm trying to help you improve as a writer but your ego is so sensitive you are actually trying to turn this into an argument. If you didn't already care you would have never responded to my first post.

Everything I've said is completely 'substantiated' by your terrible writing.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:25:40 2015 No.6029320 >>6029312 My reply wasn't egotistical or argumentative; I treated, however, your critique as propositions, and clarification is a rather monumental factor contextually, wouldn't you agree?

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:27:01 2015 No.6029325 >>6029320 You keep adding fuel to the fire and I'm doing my best to ignore it but oh lord the temptations are powerful.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:28:33 2015 No.6029330 >>6028718 please respond

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:28:34 2015 No.6029331 >>6029312 ...it's also not "my" writing in the sense that it's "my" intellectual property; rather, it's ostensibly just writing that was produced by me. Also, I never said I did not care from the outset; that's just a misconstrual, bb.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:30:03 2015 No.6029339 >>6029331 Good. I'm glad.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:31:19 2015 No.6029342 File: 1.99 MB, 300x225, 1421247332452.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6029339

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:48:04 2015 No.6029417

There were two naked people on the queens size matress. One a large breasted asian lady, her rigid body shook in violent convulsions, eyes rolled in the back of her head. The other guy was pick of the litter in a jobba the hut look alike contest. Understandably it took him a moment to notice us.
"What the fuck is this?" He said.We could've all been asking each other that question. I think he was in the middle of trying to give her CPR or something.
"Shoot him." Magnolia hissed.
"You the guy that limp dick fuck sent after me?" he got off the bed leaving the pale lady foaming at the mouth. His blubber sloshed around like watered down jelly in a plastic bag. The mattress made a sqeaky sound of relief as it was released from the strain of the mans gerth. "Marcus getting his flunkies from the school yard now? You his little choir boy, faggot?" Now that wasn't nice.
"What are doing? Shoot him." Maggie said again. Standing so close tome the whisper tickled my ear and neck. Close enough to take my hands and pull the trigger herself. I knew what i was suppose to be doing but my body wasnt responding. My brain told my finger to pull the trigger but it was a no go. Communications error. Only moments until complete system failure. Intiate evacuation protocols.
The big guy pointed at Maggie "And what the fuck are you doing here?" Oh, these two must know each other. What a surprise, more shit that might've been helpful to know. "How many dicks have you been sucking?" He said it like his was one of them and he just wanted to know who else was in the club. "I bet you lost count."
"Shoot him goddamn it." That last part must have struck a sour cord for her.
"Oh no, this kid's a fucking ice cube. he's so far out of his element he's on another planet." The Blob lumbered towards me. Flaccid phalice swinging like a pendulum. Man boobs sagging in a meaty disgrace. His proky the pig belly glistening almost reflective from sweat or oil. Fee fi fo fum. He'd feel real stupid if i shot him right now. I didn't of course. Instead he slapped the gun out of my hands, sending it clattering to the floor. His right hook sailed past my nose and I heard magnolia take the hit. She did some floor clattering of her own.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 19:57:27 2015 No.6029447 >>6029417 >punctuation needs work >descriptive prose needs work >shitty colloquallisms need work (i.e. need to fuck off) >dialogue needs some work >characters seem okay so far >events themselves seem pretty cool Fix your writing, nigga.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:04:09 2015 No.6029479

>>6029447
thanks, bro. most time puncuations slow my process and to much precision can throw me off. I tend to go back through it and try to fix it.

>shitty colloquallisms need work (i.e. need to fuck off)
elaborate
>descriptive prose needs work
you mean like describing, for example, how the Asian lady was a hooker.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:04:58 2015 No.6029485 >>6022311 >that photo disgusting not because of MCD but because of that composition

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:17:08 2015 No.6029535

text message
sent at 2:46 a.m
"sam just called me and tried to kill himself over the phone. i called the police. i’m so fucking scared."

you told me that you've thought about killing yourself since you were 14 - that was 5 years ago. and now you’re 19, but you’re still a kid.
you told me that i wasn’t the reason you finally decided to kill yourself. you said the reason was because since i left, there was no more reason to continue living.

i am the reason you decided that you weren’t worth saving.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:20:53 2015 No.6029550

I stepped out into the sunlight, the blaring bursting day. My hands went to shutter my eyes immediately, without prompt by my brain or my body. The grass was still wet, but the pavement was dry; anyway, the porch is protected from all that. Protected from the day, from the Sun, from the world.

Cold air, sharp and piercing, for the first time in weeks. The house was warm, sheltered me for the last two weeks, held me as my body broke, my self with it. Its roof stood tall over me, even when no one would.

But I left yesterday, I walked out for the first time. The sunlight, the porch -- they're all distant now, just symbols of my own acquiescence. I've rejoined you, the world, everyone. But part of me stayed there, part of me faded away when my body broke.

Part of me is waiting in bed, waiting for you to care for me again. Part of me needs you, needs you to hold me and save me. And darling, you won't come by.

Maybe I'm not worth checking on, let alone saving.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:22:49 2015 No.6029560 >>6029550 >I stepped out into the sunlight, the blaring bursting day. I laughted

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:23:24 2015 No.6029563 >>6029535 >>6029550 I think that you two should fall in love and write together. Both of you have an unique taste to your writing, simple yet complex. you two should fuck already.

>>	H.Q.S.S.G Tue Jan 20 20:23:51 2015 No.6029565 >>6029535 >>>/tumblr/

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:25:27 2015 No.6029571 >>6029563 Woah. I wrote >>6029550 on the spot, just spitballing with something, then I read that >>6029535 Weird shit, man.

>>	H.Q.S.S.G Tue Jan 20 20:25:49 2015 No.6029573 >>6029563 >complex nigger what are you mentally handicapped? legit question, I mean no offense

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:27:31 2015 No.6029585 >>6029565 I was trying a style that I liked, based on a relationship that I was in. I guess that is very tumblr-esque.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:34:33 2015 No.6029608

The time had fled faster than leaves withering under the winter's dying day. It was nothing really. Poising my particular poison between my lips --- a sigh, a drag. What would she have thought had she been alive? Perhaps nothing, perhaps nothing at all.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:50:20 2015 No.6029671

>>6029608
not bad for a one liner.

"Here's the deal kid," the bum reached for the inside pocket of his filth stained duster and took out an apple, one of those big teacher pleasers. "for every year you go back in time, a year gets taken off your life span." He wiped the apple on that coat sleeve for what to be effect because it wasnt sanitary reasons. Biting into the red delicious, juice ran down his dingy beard. His lips we're chapped, almost cracking. His face was dirty, scarred and tired looking. but his teeth? perfect. Straight and white like some Hollywood actors. Through a mouth full of food he explained the arithmetic "So if you're suppose to die at 50 but go back 5 years, your new death age is 45. If you over shoot it," he swallowed "like if your 25 and your death age is 40, say you go back twenty years." He rolled the fruit acrss the tops of his knuckles and back into his palm. He held out his hand and presented the apple to me. I thought he wanted me to take it but it began to rot, it sunk into it itself, the bright red turning into a grimy brown mush. Tossing the mess behind him he wiped what was left on the same sleeve as before "Since you don't have enough years to compensate for the 40 you die at 25. You get to play out the chips you cashed in but your game ends early."

He smiled at a thought he had, those pearly whites glimmering so hard I thought I was going to hear a bling sound like in a cartoon.

"This one old guy tried to cheat the system." the vagrant took a rolled cigarette from out of his dirty mane. No doubt it was tucked behind his ear. "80 years old with 6 years left. Fucker tried to go back all 80 years, you believe that? Like we haven't been at this for centuries. Like wiser men then him haven't tried more foolish things then that." He shrugged it off and said, "It worked for a second." With the cigarette in his mouth he snapped his fingers. There was a spark then his thumb caught on fire. With the smokeless white flame flickering from his opposable digit, the stoggie ignited. Ok, now he was just showing off. "the fool was conscious when he died in his mothers womb. His children, grandchildren, they don't even exist now. His wife is married to some schmuck in new Jersey."

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 20:53:53 2015 No.6029686 >>6029608 This is nonsensical and poorly written.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 21:41:07 2015 No.6029857 >>6022450 >Arbor Mist Seriously though, tone it down a bit. This piece has a voice, but damn is it a fake one. Stop writing to impress and you just might find you have something worth saying.

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 21:55:18 2015 No.6029920

Will be writing critiques in a separate post - and sorry if the formatting is messed up.
She seemed relieved when the waiter came. That which is indubitable is that I was too.
"The lady will be having the Snapper Ceviche, and I the Quail"
Her blue dress hung off her shoulders and draped low across her chest. I looked into her eyes, the table top candles reflecting back into mine. I couldn't do it, she was too beautiful. Taller than me too. I don't know if she had noticed yet, I had stayed behind her on the way in, but she was sure to see me going back to the car, was I to hold the door open. Transfixed by her figure, tactically walking behind her, I hadn't even checked whether it was the heels. I don't even remember the noise of her shoes crossing the pavement.
"So, what sort of music do you like?"
It was enough, I watched her eyes and mind return from their journey across the restaurant and the ends of the universe, and back to the table.
"Oh, I dunno, I listen to everything. I like the Beatles"
"The fact that..."
I stopped myself.
She looked up at me expectantly for the first time, blue eyes matching the dress, one strap just barely hanging on her bare shoulder.
"The fact is... The Beatles are a great band. Yes, a great band." I spoke with more conviction the second time.
"Do you like the album Magical Mystery Tour?"
"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I've listened to it.” She looks a little flustered.
“I mean, I'm sure I've heard it, but I can't remember the songs"
"Oh"
She smiles at our mutual understanding of what she has just said. I try to reciprocate the honesty, pleasantness emanated, and manage a half smile, I think
"Um, so you teach at the University?"
"I guest lecture sometimes, but I mostly write at the moment"
"Oh really? Like, an author?"
"Sort of. I write articles, music reviews, poetry"
"Oh for like the paper? A journalist"
"For my own website"
"A blog?"
"More like a knowledge base. It is quite comprehensive, it has been written about in newspapers before. The New York Times, actually"
"That's so... interesting!"
She really stressed the last word, interesting, raising the tone of her voice, childlike, or as if she was asking a question.
"I thought that your profile said that you were a professor?"
Ah! I felt sick. This was not my gorgeous future, and she was not to be my beautiful wife. I looked out for the chef, Luigi, or even the waiter, for comfort, solace in our empathy, both in the restaurant under false pretenses, with false hopes, for something that was never to be.
Guess the Theme

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 21:58:56 2015 No.6029940

>>6029671
More grammatical/syntactical mistakes than I care to wade through. Superfluous language everywhere - why filth stained instead of just filthy? Cut the stupid "like in a cartoon," "schmuck in Jersey," all that kind of crap. Concept is alright but is kind of meaningless without context.

In other words, prune it and learn how to use apostrophes.

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 22:02:12 2015 No.6029961 >>6029920 Tense changes and hackneyed attempts at humor. Also the narrator is Pierro Scaruffi, right?

>>	Tallis !!y+12CeFwYOo Tue Jan 20 22:02:22 2015 No.6029964 >>6026613 >>6026620 Liked it. >>6028634 Beautiful sentence, iktf. >>6028969 R.L. Stine???

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 22:09:56 2015 No.6029996

... It came as an unwelcome surprise, then, when Mister Carbonetti arrived with a Christmas gift, his mouth spewing out a thick, high pressure stream of Christmas cheer. "Where's the tree, where's the candies, such a beautiful time of year," and so on. Jamie was glad to be left out of this bizarre romantic encounter, and sat at the table next to the living room playing World of Warcraft on her laptop, while Sam, Alex and Mister C sat on the couch and drank the Kaluha he had gifted them. "So where would you two beautiful girls like to go tonight?" he said.

"Our bedroom," Sam said. Mister C was agreeable. Alex started to roll up a joint. "We have some fetishes, though. Is it okay if I call you daddy?"

Mister C's lips spread beyond the boundaries of his wiry mustache. "Sure, baby."

"Okay Daddy."

They all laughed, except for Jamie. She was listening, though. She had no other choice. Her right earbud was all fucked up. It was a punishment from God, she decided. He wanted her to hear this.

"And I want you to call me 'Buddy'," Sam said.

"Uh... aren't you supposed to be a girl?"

"Not yet, daddy. Tonight I'm gonna be your little buddy, okay?"

Mister C swallowed his spit.

"Okay, there's a few things we want to do for us. It'll be like a roleplaying thing. This is gonna decide whether we ask you back for a repeat performance." Sam finished her drink, and poured herself another one. "We're both gonna go into our room and dress up. Alex'll let you know when we're ready. You'll come stand in the doorway and watch me. I want you to watch me for a good, long time, okay? I'll just be in the dark, under the covers, so, just humour me. I wanna feel you watching me. That'll get me nice and warm. Do you think I'm pretty, daddy?"

"Y... yeah..."

"I'm also gonna be wearing a diaper, so... I hope you're not weird about that."

Jamie focused on the direct center of her laptop's monitor, avoiding Mister C's glance for help.

"Then I want you to come in and sit on the edge of the bed. Get in close. Ask me how I'm feeling. Kinda, like... put your hand on my head, and then my chest, and then my belly, like you're checking my temperature or something. Then I want you to push your fingers into my ass." Sam finished her second drink, smiling like a hyena. "Just ignore everything I say. This is the hottest part, so don't fuck it up. I'm gonna reach up to stop you. And I just want you to put hand on top of mine... and just gently push it back down onto the bed. Then you can do whatever you want to me, okay?"

"What's Alex going to do?" Mister C said. "Can she suck my dick or something?"

"She's just gonna watch from the doorway. Oh! At some point she's just gonna ask you what you're doing. Just tell her to fuck off and go away. Okay?"

Mister C said that there were a few things he wanted to get in his apartment before they got started, and left. He didn't come back. Alex and Sam laughed their heads off all night, and wondered to each other what it would be like if he ha

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 22:11:11 2015 No.6030006 Get

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 22:12:34 2015 No.6030013 >>6029996 >"Where's the tree, where's the candies, such a beautiful time of year," and so on. sniffs

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 22:22:22 2015 No.6030062

>>6029671
>He wiped the apple on that coat sleeve for what to be effect because it wasnt sanitary reasons
sentence needs reworking

>dingy beard
odd choice of adjective

>"like if your 25 and
from what ive read of the character, he would not preface this with 'like'. maybe 'say one is'

>pearly whites
do not use this, except maybe in speech. the sentence needs reworking.

>>6029671
>His children, grandchildren, they don't even exist now.
how the hell did they ever exist, is there cross timeline travel, where alternate universes can communicate with one another? how could anyone confirm this story? I just want you to be aware that this comes across as a myth, not an anecdote.

Also, how does one know their death day?

Mostly needs editing, weaning off a few cliches. I'd cut down on the adjectives but it might be your style. Not sold on the time travel, but i'm not a huge fan in the first place, so don't take that to heart.
i was unfamiliar with the teacher pleaser expression, i enjoyed that and the bums showboating

>>6029417
>We could've all been asking each other that question.
the reader can think this on their own, not important for the inner dialogue

>His blubber sloshed around like watered down jelly in a plastic bag
interesting comparison and good that its entirely new, straying from cliche - and im understanding the meaning, but im struggling to see blubber 'slosh'

I got halfway through, but you really should have edited this before posting here

>>6029214
>A nearby rabbit witnessed this event, shuffling slightly
pedantic of me but when the word witness is used, one imagines some sort of understanding or comprehension, and even at the level of a rabbit, the response is not to shuffle slightly. at this moment i am more than ever aware that i am just satisfying the deontological duty of giving critiques as per the good faith arrangement of posting in this thread

anyway, a few things could do with fixing, the low click 'popped' into the night? deep dark forest
I would also say that less things need description, the nearby grass can be nearby or stale, im not sure it needs to be both if its just being eaten by a rabbit.

anyway, it does need going through again, although judging from your replies i doubt this pedants critique will be the one to convince you of that

>>	Anonymous Tue Jan 20 22:25:31 2015 No.6030081 >>6029961 Where are the attempts at humor? aside from "the fact that.." Also yes

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 22:43:45 2015 No.6030155

>>6029920

My issues with your prose aside, I don't think your dialogue is good enough to take center stage like you're doing here. Your little back and forth about The Beatles was dull.

>She smiles at our mutual understanding of what she has just said. I try to reciprocate the honesty, pleasantness emanated, and manage a half smile, I think

Holy crap no. First of all the prose is messy as fuck. Secondly, you're going way too deep with your character blocking. Nobody wants to read that a character was slightly pleased about the topic and gave a slight incline of his head as they both realized together that blah blah blah. It's filler.

Yeah, your dialogue ain't so hot. I understand if you're trying to paint a picture of a tedious social function, but if that's the case, you run the risk of coming across as tedious to read. You gotta commit to your premise. If you're actually taking us through the scene, word for word, you gotta give us a scene so tedious to get through that it would make Sisyphus cry. Otherwise just describe it in the past tense. "We went to dinner and tried at some lame music discussion before moving on to the thrilling topic of our work."

>>	sagbe Tue Jan 20 22:46:10 2015 No.6030168 >>6029996 >Mister Carbonetti fucking dropped

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 23:36:29 2015 No.6030383

>>6030155
>Nobody wants to read that a character was slightly pleased about the topic and gave a slight incline of his head as they both realized together that blah blah blah. It's filler.

Perhaps I did not convey it correctly, but I find it hard to see that you actually read it as they both realized together, should I have written faux mutual understanding?

Anyway, thanks for the criticism, I'm rereading, and it was necessary

Anonymous Tue Jan 20 23:57:00 2015 No.6030455

Through the peephole he can see a majority of his building’s foyer, much of which is occupied by the community stairwell. Looking out his door, he sees the navy stairwell in profile, sloping upwards from left to right. The foyer’s walls had been white, but now are eggshell white. In the corner there had been a potted ficus, but now there is a plastic, potted ficus. There had been a bike, but it was stolen. A storage room is housed underneath the stairwell, accessed by a wood louvered door, directly opposite his apartment. The louvered panel on the door is painted black.

The peephole is a tunnel far longer than the physical thickness of his door, sparsely lit by concentric aberrations of light from an incandescent light bulb mounted to the foyer’s high ceiling. The tunnel egress is blocked a fish eye lens.

The peephole looks like a fish’s eye itself; the distant foyer, viewed through the circular lens is the eyeball. The navy stairwell, framed by walls and linoleum floor is the iris. The louvered panel is the pupil. Holding the fish eye lens in place is a thin, plastic mount, which resembles a fold of skin. The eye is always open. Fish don’t have eyelids because their eyes stay moist underwater. Snakes don’t have eyelids, but he doesn’t know why. The tunnel, devoid of focus, is the fish’s face.

>>	Anonymous Wed Jan 21 00:03:59 2015 No.6030481 >>6029996 what would they have done had Mister C went along with it? I like the dialogue and i actually really like the line "her right earbud was all fucked up". but I think it's cheap to dismiss the scene so shortly after setting it

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 00:18:29 2015 No.6030557

>>6029671
rework the actual description of the time travel theory. i like the concept a lot but it's not as clear as it should be. tighten the description of the apple - you could reduce the 4 sentences at the end of the first paragraph to 2. don't leave so much space between the lines of dialogue, the thread tends to get lost.

i second >>6029940

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 00:54:49 2015 No.6030696

>>6029331
>>6029320
>>6029311
>>6029299
>>6029294
>>6029260
>>6029226
Jesus Christ, look at how you're writing. You're using all these big fancy words to sound superior.

>The only thing you've hitherto accomplished is an unsubstantiated value-judgement and a demonstration of the proponent of arbitrary standards that the text allegedly lacks
are you serious, nigga?

Value-judgement? Hitherto? Proponent of arbitrary standards? Quit. You're obviously a new writer. I bet the other 14 year olds in your English class think you're super mature. No wait, they wouldn't, because the moment you try to speak like that your mouth foams with shit and the word "um."

>>	Anonymous Wed Jan 21 01:18:20 2015 No.6030791 >>6030455 >the the the the the

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 04:29:41 2015 No.6031491

>>6022755
I really enjoyed it, it was short and clever for what it was. Pleasant read, would've preferred to see something more serious in your writing style.

Or at least something more important to you. Other than that can't critique, I like your banter.

>>	Anonymous Wed Jan 21 04:33:11 2015 No.6031504 >>6026620 I really didn't enjoy it, didn't feel like I was reading anything. Just blatant fact by fact. Really quite shitty to convey any sort of emotion or situational awareness.

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 04:34:16 2015 No.6031508

Restless and burning, bound by sense, experiencing elapsing time. A billion times cut off and still, beyond human magnitude in grandeur, than any war crime or revolution; beyond discovery and inquiry, ascending a splendid work of autistic god's intent of mortal expiry.
Hail the sky that now bleeds it's ambition on you, a metric ton of exhausted boiled skin, defeat in reigns of fire, hail the breath of the nonpartisan devil's and angel's kin.
The consciousness brought on by willing delusion, quieted by the impartial catharsis, look to the blinding intrusion; and to heaven, under the weighted gape of the angered sun, in awe at the sky speckled with fleeting impressions dissipated by a scalding shun.

The gravel that has bite at your feet no longer bears the affliction of organization, among the feverish attempts to bring order to the carnation of abstract carbon chaos, lyrical is the heated sun a midst self entitled pertinence lost.

Gravity heaves her burdened labor and hurtling goes the metaphysical apprehension and transient sentiment. Savored only by the objective pointlessness, purposeful manifested actualization and the angered sun.
Gasps of heaven cracking uninspired lips and dull tongues. An orbit inhabited from the notions rejected from a gelid ground and fertile realism, weaving into a cyclone of art lost to those caught in sin and skin.

Hoisting the mold and forgiving his own relevance, prodding a populous that no longer bares format, satirizing popes and overthrowing autocrat.
Arisen from the ashes of aristocrats and panting it's inflation, inflicted damnation, a dictation of vehemence from the objective giant.

>>	Anonymous Wed Jan 21 04:48:45 2015 No.6031547 >>6029214 Christ, if only you'd put as much effort into your problematic negative attitude and thread posts as you did your writing.

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 05:22:03 2015 No.6031626

He wanted to be a travel writer, but he travelled to lands too distant to return from, lived through experiences too alien for anyone to understand.

There was too much between him and his publishers for his manuscripts to arrive intact; the fragments that survived were stained with the rains of a thousand continents; they had been gnawed on by creatures that no man had ever seen.

At last his feet no longer even touched the ground, his lungs no longer took in breath, his eyes no longer saw the world.

In spite of all this, he continued to write—perhaps out of habit...

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 05:33:13 2015 No.6031647

>>6029214
this anon is correct >>6029275
real writers edit. all rough drafts require changes. if you'd read your writing, you would already be aware of some things to fix.

>>6029294
>there was utter silence. little could be heard.
if there's utter silence then NOTHING could be heard
>It sputtered slightly, like the tossing of a stone into an entirely still pond.
a stone into a pond would splash but definitely not sputter. the resulting ripples wouldn't sputter either.
> the dark, deep forests
redundant. it's night so obviously it's a dark forest. how are there TWO or more forests?
>rough, rocky path.
redundant. a rocky path isn't going to be smooth
>rubber wheel
is this an ancient car? steering wheels aren't rubber.

i'll stop because this is only the first two paragraphs. overall, you're trying too hard to be descriptive and not getting the details right which makes your voice unnatural.

>>	Anonymous Wed Jan 21 12:29:10 2015 No.6032530 For sale an evening prayer that can be filled with air Dictionaries of your needs with bookmarks where you please Call me, at office hours or send a letter afterwards I promise, I won't answer it's where my loyalty shows

>>	Anonymous Wed Jan 21 16:28:57 2015 No.6033360 >>6028718 please respond

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 16:31:55 2015 No.6033374

>>6028105
That is a beautiful sentence and you can choke on my average-sized dick that is admittedly on the small side.

I fucking hate people who see one poetic sentence in a story and go "hurr purple prose" because they themselves are incapable of writing anything in a fresh and original way.

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 18:17:17 2015 No.6033823

>>6033374
Right, "fresh and original." Content-wise that story was basically just a rom-com. Stylistically, it's attempting to hide the shallow characters with needlessly florid writing.

The mood you try to evoke is painfully obvious and forced throughout. Oh, it's autumn, and it's our young protagonist's birthday, and he's alone. I don't need to choke on your dick because I'm already gagging on the obtuse writing.

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 18:21:26 2015 No.6033837

>>6033823
The metaphor was fresh and original, you fucking dickhead. As for the story itself, you're right in that the premise is absolutely not original, but wrong in that it's supposed to have flat characters. Aldo is an autistic retard whose proudest interactions with girls are one word conversations in lobbies. It's funny, but I'm not surprised you don't get it; a bad sense of humor is a sign of autism, isn't it?

>>	Anonymous Wed Jan 21 19:18:10 2015 No.6034102 >>6025479 goddam

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 19:32:37 2015 No.6034172 [DELETED]

i remember

i remember my crammed shoulders rubbing
against the fabric
of another boy’s tuxedo,
both of us stuffed
in the front seat of a limo,
eyes red and shot.

i crossed my arms,
to give him space. the boy
sniffled,

i took a moment of rest.

i opened my eyes. we were driving
down the highway, in the middle
of a motorcade, behind the hearse,
the roads tinged pale gray with salt and
ice. the flashing lights of three police
cars danced in front of me like stars.

i remember
carrying the casket, sleek, fresh, with
mahogany finish,
thinking, frantically, with fear,
i can’t drop it, joshy’s in there
can’t drop it, joshy’s in there

i remember standing at your grave, that open wound
of earth, dug deep. i remember lowering you in, with the light
snow coating my peacoat like dust, and
wondering

frantically, with fear
are you in there?? really in there, are you in there??

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 19:37:12 2015 No.6034185

i remember

i remember my crammed shoulders rubbing
against the fabric of another boy’s tuxedo,
stuffed in the front seat of the limo, eyes red and shot.
i crossed my arms,
to give him space. the boy
sniffled,

i took a moment of rest.

i opened my eyes. we were driving
down the highway, in the middle
of a motorcade, behind the hearse,
the roads tinged pale gray with salt and
ice. the flashing lights of three police
cars danced in front of me like stars.

i remember
carrying the casket, sleek, fresh, with
mahogany finish,
thinking, frantically, with fear,
i can’t drop it, joshy’s in there
can’t drop it, joshy’s in there

i remember standing at your grave, that open wound
of earth, dug deep. i remember lowering you in, with the light
snow coating my peacoat like dust, and
wondering

frantically, with fear
are you in there? really in there, are you in there?

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 19:41:41 2015 No.6034202

>>6028827
You are trying entirely too hard to be good, and it's only making it worse.

>>6034185
Second stanza (excluding the one-liner) needs a lot of work. It doesn't flow as well as the rest of the poem and the simile at the end is entirely too cliche.

The poem itself is decent. Slightly juvenile, perhaps, but not garbage.

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 21:23:39 2015 No.6034640

Mary stood alone in the kitchen, washing the same dish again and again. An hour had passed since her retreat from the living room. She stared into the clock and willed its hands to slow their movement.

The football game was close to its end and so was Albert's 12-pack. On these nights, Mary increased her effort to avoid him. She winced as Albert’s voice boomed through the house, making it clear that he placed money on the wrong team.

Mary wondered how it must feel to be trapped inside a speeding car, unable to do anything but watch the approaching cliff. She told herself she already knew. 'But tonight will be different' she told herself. 'Don’t be afraid this time. You have to do it.'

Albert staggered into the kitchen. Mary shot her eyes toward him before returning them to the floor. She tried to steel herself as she felt the words begin to slip away.

Albert stopped. “You got something to say?” His face begged for a reply, for anything to justify what would come next.

Mary stayed silent.

>>	Anonymous Wed Jan 21 21:26:44 2015 No.6034651 >>6034640 ignore the repeated use of "she told herself." Made a last second edit and missed the redundancy

Anonymous Wed Jan 21 22:33:38 2015 No.6034868

Hey /lit/

Just put some polish on this, wanting to see if it paints the image I'm hoping for. This is just an opening to a scene.

Setting is feudal Japan.

Wooden boards creaked under heel. I stepped out to a patio before a garden entrapped by walls with undulating spines. The air chilly, scented of ginger, a spice of jasmine.
Lotus flowers float to the ponds’ rhythm, their roots a tangled mass beneath the surface; and from rocks lining the water’s edge sprout blue orchid arching over polished stones. A footbridge crossed the pools, its aged planks bending to my weight. To the right, a gazebo veiled in shoots of bamboo basking in the shade of a willow weeping violet vines.
A man chiseled in serpentine loomed over his pedestal at the far end of the courtyard. His arm outstretched, fingers reaching to heaven—the dragon coiled around his wrist spewing jade fire into skies still blue.

Is it too blatant?
I'm trying to go for a peaceful, yet eerie feeling. Does my word choice imply this?

>>	Anonymous Thu Jan 22 00:12:24 2015 No.6035337 File: 315 KB, 2400x1350, her-joaquin-phoenix-41.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] You guys are stuck in the past. http://pastebin.com/Rx5ia45x

Anonymous Thu Jan 22 00:17:47 2015 No.6035369

It isn't finished, I'm just curious as to how people receive this passage

Like fingers on a mantlepiece, your clock
Trickled down the hours to that final return.
From a quiet pocket in the space of my room
Swarms of bees reached once, and then again,
And then indefinitely, into the recesses of my mind
And your mind

And we awoke disgruntled, naked bodies
Shaken into the whirr of cogs and mines;
Timed into a momentary frame from that which
Came before, and never came again.

A gentle kiss, soft and appreciative was exchanged,
As we rose and hastily dressed for duty, hers
Demanding more flair than my empty day
Just like every other day
Her skin glowed in the faint morning light.

Anonymous Thu Jan 22 03:34:20 2015 No.6035972

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

I am not ready for repentance;
Nor to match regrets. For the moth
Bends no more than the still
Imploring flame. And tremorous
In the white falling flakes
Kisses are,--
The only worth all granting.

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

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

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

>>	Anonymous Thu Jan 22 04:02:03 2015 No.6036004 >>6035337 >infodump infodump infodump this is not the correct way to illustrate a character

Anonymous Thu Jan 22 04:10:19 2015 No.6036019

He wanted to be a travel writer, but he travelled to lands too distant to return from, lived through experiences too alien for anyone to understand.

There was too much between him and his publishers for his manuscripts to arrive intact; the fragments that survived were stained with the rains of a thousand continents; they had been gnawed on by creatures that no man had ever seen.

At last his feet no longer even touched the ground, his lungs no longer took in breath, his eyes no longer saw the world.

In spite of all this, he continued to write—perhaps out of habit...

Anonymous Thu Jan 22 04:12:39 2015 No.6036020

TWO DOLLAR SUNSHINE
SCENE I
AT RISE:
(Summer evening. A roadside petrol station. Cold, sterile, fluorescent. The station belongs to Sunshine Gasoline. The sound of crickets and electronic humming. Two rows of shelves heaping with sundries, the gas pumps, the counter. JAKE stands behind the counter, furiously writing with pen and paper, a staticky, broken television beside him.)
LIGHTS OUT.
(Pause.)
LIGHTS BACK ON
(AMANDA has appeared in the store, where previously there was nothing. Jake isn’t alarmed. She approaches the counter.)
JAKE
Hey, welcome to Sunshine Gasoline and Electronics. But don’t get too set on either, or you’re gonna be disappointed.
AMANDA
Nah, I just want some chocolate or something, just a little pick-me-up. I’ve been driving all day.
JAKE
In this heat! You’re braver than I am.
AMANDA
At least this place has air-conditioning!
JAKE
It’s an oasis.
AMANDA
After six hours driving flat-out in Tennessee heat, you bet it is. So, uh, how much is this?
JAKE
Two dollars. Everything’s two dollars. Even the gas, not that you’re going to get any.
(She buys the chocolate bar and begins eating it.)
AMANDA
You keep saying that. What’s wrong with the gas?
JAKE
We haven’t got any, tanks ran dry a couple of weeks ago and no-one’s bothered turning up to re-fill ‘em. I tried calling corporate, you know, to tell them what’s going on, but all I got was some kind of answering robot. Tried to get through to them time and time again, nothing. Gotta wonder if there’s anyone actually in that big shiny building down in Memphis.
AMANDA
(sardonically) A gas station without any gas.
JAKE
Must seem weird.
AMANDA
No denying that.
JAKE
Yeah, I don’t get many customers. I mostly just sit here listening to the TV.
AMANDA
That TV? But it’s just static.
JAKE
Wasn’t always that way. Used to be able to pickup everything. Then just the public access, and then this. Still, occasionally you hear something in it. It’s sorta fun after a while. Like searching for a diamond in a muddy river. Sorta.
AMANDA
You’ve got an interesting idea of fun.
JAKE
You know, most of the folks ‘round here know this station’s dry. You’re from out of town?
AMANDA
Not so far. West Virginia. I’m here to make a delivery.
Thoughts?

>>	Anonymous Thu Jan 22 04:13:44 2015 No.6036022 >>6035337 Is that the guy who isn't Sheldon on the Big Bang Theory? Love that show.

>>	Anonymous Thu Jan 22 04:17:48 2015 No.6036026 >>6036020 deceptively simple. catch influence of perhaps delillo & zizek?

>>	Anonymous Thu Jan 22 16:18:07 2015 No.6037863 >>6028718 please respond

>>	Anonymous Thu Jan 22 16:24:46 2015 No.6037884 >>6022311 >Don't post anything bad You realize this prohibits 99% of all posts then? There are like 4 people who actually take writing seriously on this board.

>>	Anonymous Thu Jan 22 16:36:19 2015 No.6037917 >>6025429 That's not how you use parentheses. Go read some E.E. Cummings. You have to end the thoughts not just confuse people you fucking faggot.

Anonymous Thu Jan 22 23:58:56 2015 No.6039168
File: 301 KB, 500x216, lonelystitch.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Here is a short story I've written. I'm thinking about submitting to a few places. I would really appreciate some feedback.

"Buck"

It was late December, but I was burning with sweat. The small pile of dirt was all I had been able to dig out of the frozen earth so far. My wife and daughter were standing in the snow, crying. Lucy cradled Buck's body in her arms, which had been wrapped in an old bed sheet. He had not struggled against going to the vet this time. Maybe because the growing cancer over past eight months had left no struggle in him. I struck the ground again with my pickaxe and hit a root as thick as my forearm. I cursed, and my wife shouted my name.
"Well, this isn't easy, Karen," I said back.
I didn't want to go into the garage to get the hacksaw for the root. When he was healthy, Buck would always come out into the garage with me while I worked on our family's cars. He would sniff around and pant, just happy to keep me company. I would talk to him as I changed the oil or replaced a headlight. Instead, I hacked at the root with the pickaxe until it was splintered enough to be torn off.
I grabbed the shovel and scraped the loose dirt out of the hole and onto the snow. I could still see yellow spots around the yard, but I tried not to think of that either. I just focused on the digging, and the blisters, and the cold wind that bit at my sweaty face. It was my duty as the father to do the burying, and I knew that I had to be strong for the girls.
Karen rubbed Lucy on the back through her parka. "I know it's sad, honey. But he was in so much pain and now he's gone to a better place."
Eventually the hole was deep enough. Lucy handed me the bundle of sheets. Buck's body felt so light as I knelt down and set him inside. I tucked the sheet around him, as I had tucked Lucy in to bed each night. Karen placed his dog food bowl on top of him, and Lucy set his favorite ball and some milkbones at his head.
"Bye, Buck. Thanks for being our dog." Karen choked out between her sobs. She held Lucy tight as I picked up the shovel once again and began to toss the frozen dirt and clay and snow over his body.
Afterwards, as the girls headed inside to make hot cocoa, I crossed the snowy yard to put the tools away. I closed the door, sat on the ground, and cried.

Anonymous Fri Jan 23 03:23:50 2015 No.6039687

He sat stiffly on the couch, smoking a cigarette in the enclosed living room — smoke swirling in wispy clouds around his whiskered face. The TV sounded in the distance, his nose pointed north towards the magnetic screen while his eyes were unaware of the flashing lights. No, his were transfixed elsewhere, somewhere beyond. His eyes were on the man in the desert, the rough hand which weighed upon his own soft touch with cruelty, with uncaring unnoticing scorn. There wasn’t hate — not that there wouldn’t be if the rough man knew. No, there was only dissonance. There was only distance. To the rough man his hand was only a touch, casual and meaningless, but to the smoke-drenched boy it was more. It was a chance at revival, a shot at life. A shot.

It ended with a shot, a bang, a burst. The rough man had burst in the desert, but the soft hand still gripped the hot cigarette, ashes resting on his collared shirt. He looked over the sea, but he couldn’t see the rough hand anymore. He didn’t know that he was gone, he would never be back. He only saw the olive wall, bathed in electric glow.

His show ended, an advertisement flickered. His eyes welled with tears, stung with harsh smoke.

Anonymous Fri Jan 23 04:05:49 2015 No.6039738

>>6039687
Sorry for this shit. I didn't realize how badly written that was. This is an edited version:

He sits stiffly on the couch, smoking a cigarette in his enclosed living room — smoke swirling in wispy clouds around his clean soft face. The TV sounds in the near distance, his nose pointing north towards the magnetic screen while his eyes, open, remain unaware of the constant flashing lights. No, they are transfixed elsewhere, somewhere beyond the peeling paint on the purposeless wall and the wallowing waste of the wordless world. His eyes are caught on the man in the desert, the rough hand which weighed upon his own delicate touch with cruelty, with uncaring unnoticing heaviness. There wasn’t hate—not that there wouldn’t be if the rough man knew. No, there was only dissonance. There is only distance. To the rough man, his hand was only a touch, casual and meaningless. To the smoke-drenched boy it was more. It was a chance at revival, a shot at existing.

It ended with a shot, a bang, a burst. The rough man burst in the desert. The soft hand still holds the hot cigarette, ashes falling from his trembling lip onto his bright collared shirt. He looks over the sea, but he can’t see the rough hand anymore. He doesn’t know the man is gone, he’ll never come back. He only sees the eclectic wall, bathed in electric wails.

His show ends, an advertisement flickers. His eyes well with tears, stung by the smoke, isolated and harsh.

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 04:12:01 2015 No.6039748 I should have been the autumn leaves, and you the quiet autumn sky You should have been-- and I, You were what was, I was the rest. The rest-- The dawn! The dark! It makes no difference.

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 04:20:15 2015 No.6039764 >>6039168 Eh

Anonymous Fri Jan 23 04:28:33 2015 No.6039779

The story of Romeo and Juliet present day.

There was a woman of high esteem who was queen of the high celebrity. She roamed America with followers galore, and pictures to prove it! One day she noticed a comment on her wall. :"Youa re so beautiful! =)!" it read.

But there was something about this reply. Something to say I'm the one. Maybe it was is shirtless pic showing off his 6 pack abs in the corner. AMybe it was the way his face made it look like he said hs comment in a hushed toned. But it was probably the abs. In any case, the woman of high esteem needed someone to investigate.

"Who is this boy?" She asked her management team of three. "I want him here ASAP. I want to meet him." And off she went shmoozing for the boy on the phone all day long

Cont?

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 04:29:41 2015 No.6039781 File: 7 KB, 209x168, grrreat.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6039779 someone finish plox

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 04:37:32 2015 No.6039798 >>6039748 >6039748 >>6039748 >you were what was >you were what was >you were what was

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 04:38:34 2015 No.6039803 >>6039748 >>6039748 >6039748 >>6039748 >you were what was >you were what was >you were what was

Anonymous Fri Jan 23 04:41:08 2015 No.6039812

I wake up
I was dreaming
Dreaming of a space in time
where I was
lifted

Lifted in the skyline of the trees
Seeing all the birds and every leaf
Basking in the glory of the sun
In the now
forever
all alone

flying in the sky so pretty
made life feel like diamonds
and then i awoke beside my bed
with my shirt peeled off
and i was naked
molested

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 04:50:43 2015 No.6039837 >>6039798 >>6039803 Did I offend you or something?

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 04:51:26 2015 No.6039840 >>6039837 no

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 06:49:59 2015 No.6040123 >>6039812 It's good but it's garbage tier for being un-metrical

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 06:52:09 2015 No.6040138 >>6040123 This was meant for >>6039748 you were what was is great, ignore that pleb anon

Anonymous Fri Jan 23 09:18:08 2015 No.6040529

Birds flew overhead; he could not divine the breed from the swarming mass of colour and sound above him. Across the park sat an old friend whose name escaped the clutches of memory, he pretended not to notice their presence and went on his way, briskly and avoiding the gaze of those who wished to talk, whether it be to peddle scams or in earnest to inform about the salvation of the universe, he had no patience for such things. It was 11:30 am, if he was a respectable man he would be well into the day’s work by now, but he of course was not a respectable man, he was a writer.

He held out his book at a distance while walking, to provide his eyes a chance to perceive without assault from the burning stone in the sky. The title was smudged by excessive handling and the oils involved in such actions but it still arrested the gaze for the beauty of the artwork. The gold coating of the text reflected painfully into his eyes, the distance was useless in the end, though he did not care for valuing processes by the final outcome, he thought such a practice typical of the dishonourable role of politician. Necessity though, dictates that certain things will remain in this world, regardless of any individual’s contention with the fact. He knew this of politicians, frauds and religious freaks and found a calm dissatisfaction to be the most suitable response. So he continued.

Consumed with thought he absent-mindedly collided with another heading the opposite way down the path. “Oh, sorry” he offered as an indication of apology and lack of malice, the other just nodded silently and continued, it is to be asumed, to wherever it was he was heading before this brief interruption.

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 12:13:33 2015 No.6041057 >>6039168 >baww: the short short story you'll do well with sentimentalists but there's nothing original or unique here.

>>	Anonymous Fri Jan 23 20:15:51 2015 No.6042524 >>6028718 please respond

Anonymous Fri Jan 23 22:11:51 2015 No.6042895

>>6036019
Lukewarm. Writing is so deep innit guys?

>>6039168
Christ man, that's corny. You're trying so hard to evoke sadness that it just falls flat. Burying a dead dog with cancer in a snow storm? "He's gone to a better place?" Pardon me while I gag.

>>6039738
Why do you think that's better? Honestly, I prefer the first one. At least it's free of logorrhea like, "He only see the eclectic wall, bathed in electric wails." Alliteration like "the wallowing waste of the wordless world" is gimmicky in most cases.

>>6040529
>he was a writer
What is it with you guys? Making your protagonist a writer is such tired shit. It's especially grating when the actual writing is garbage like this. Stilted and awkward throughout.

Anonymous Sat Jan 24 05:53:13 2015 No.6044109

Kicking stones of gold down the coldest roads alone
I stoked a tricky, sticky chick and chilled her right down to the bone
And whispered 'Get your fixes quicker if we'd sit over a pitcher'
Mixing melancholy candor with an ominous tone
We dripped a witty bit of quip and ticked some shit off of the list
But this bitch hid some kids inside her shifty little fists
I spoke and sipped and laughed and lisped and broke into repose
And chose to fit the type of list that wished those children pissed
A fitting little pit of bliss that sticks it to the lunatic
A pushy pitch, a city slick, some wicked fickle pricks
I slipped a hit or four into the twitchy shits' own 'dro
We tipped their hips to fit the floor that picked up when they hit
I sent a slit-eyed wink and had another bitter drink to get
He kicked a gin and tonic with a little bit of Dis'
Yo' kid jumped a midget, bid a bill and rolled one up to go
Straight flipped a bitch and sold his soul and never thought to quit

ML

>>	Anonymous Sat Jan 24 05:57:42 2015 No.6044119 >>6044109 >some kids hid inside her shifty little fists*

Anonymous Sat Jan 24 07:44:54 2015 No.6044303

he imagined the seen from a bit earlier. Her long wet blonde hair hung down as she put the undergarments into the dryer, the small wink the blank stare, camera pulled in, focal length adjusted, focused-in and he was being now, the hair was blacker, a devilish grin oiled the music, tuned-in his hand, coiled, fingers danced grabbing a love-fat-handle and a chunk of to the wet hair and now he was inside moving slowly now and picking up momentum moving with the rhythm of the washing machine, he pulled her from behind and the cycle was in motion cha chunk ch chunk ch CHUNK it was a heavy load, the type that bounced around and shook the sides of it, making you jump sounding OUT OF her pussy now it was oozing blasting out all on the speckled polymer floor in vociferous amounts FROM THE LABIA a bubbly mass of whiteness, a water soluble agent, oxidizing disinfection, two-for-one pack cleanliness that when mixed with water created these iridescent globules, the wetness blasted everywhere as she moaned the machine grinder to a halt and and BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP

>>	Anonymous Sat Jan 24 07:48:18 2015 No.6044311 File: 34 KB, 363x390, gina.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6039168 Barely a short story. Not worth submission anywhere but another forum or imageboard. You pathos was contrived as fuck and completely ineffectual.

Anonymous Sat Jan 24 10:43:48 2015 No.6044746

It's only a fingernail-paring in length, I'm really only concerned with how the voice comes across. Any impressions welcome.

Let me tell you a story. One of those allegory things. There’s a guy – a kid, called Yuri. Lives in Moscow with his dad, who runs a shop. And this is back when they had Communism, right, the State owns everything and tells them what to sell. And people just sort of show up and buy whatever’s there, right? There’s no expectation, no why-haven’t-you-got-this, nothing. Whatever’s there is there and that’s what’s there. And Yuri’s going to take over the shop when his dad retires, so he’s learning the trade as he goes.

So Yuri’s dad retires eventually, when Yuri’s about grown up. And Yuri goes to open the shop on his own for the first time. But just when he opens the shutters, a man from the Government arrives.

“The Government has fallen,” he says. “Communism is over. We are like the West now.”
“Can I still run the shop?” Yuri asks.

“You can do whatever you want. But,” - and the man gestures behind himself – “there is a new shop across the road. And one on the corner, there. And another on the other corner. And they will all be doing the same as you.”

Yuri looks and sees that he’s surrounded by new shops. People will always have to pass at least one just to get to his.
“What shall I do?” he asks. The man claps him on the shoulder, jabs a finger into his chest and tells him: “Compete.”

Anonymous Sat Jan 24 13:37:54 2015 No.6045258
File: 132 KB, 1024x679, 1421600549717.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

What am I? or who am I should I ask? I have no being and this much I know. No self for I do not exist. I am something yet nothing. Two worlds and in between, there I lie in the gap that is left. Between existence and non-existence, therefore I am but I'm not. Here I exist, but no fact I produce into the world where I am.

Every day in every morning I woke up as something different, sometimes human, sometimes not. I've been human, I've been a dog and a cat, I've been a desk and a fridge and a bed. I have no esscence aside of identity itself, aside of the thin layer that cover every being and makes a boundary between what it is and what is not. I am what holds existence together and avoid everything fall appart.

I don't do anything as you may expect, and I can only observe how people behave, how you behave. Here I observe, and I wonder why and why not, I see them and I see you but I cannot know nor understand or even ignore.

Do you understand yourself? Do people understand themselves? What's the meaning of "hello" and why people say it? Are they aware of how they grew just like a machine constructed by the world? Are they how they are because someday they'll no longer be?T Tomorrow I'll no longer be who I am yet still be and a tomorrow I can always expect to be what I am not, but can you say the same about you? What if, what if I were humand and every day and every second I lived not only will no longer be but also means a step forward to the grave and fade into nothingness?

I observe, and what it is is not but a continuous state of decay. Everything falls appart at a slowly but steady pace. Every second your cells die, your body rotten and your skin gets old. You will not know for you can't see the difference of what you were yesterday, but I - the ever changing being can, and someday twenty or maybe thirty years you will look at yourself and ask, "What am I?"

You are dissolving into nothingness, that I can tell. Forgotten for ever, you like every being. Do you remember every moment of you life fifteen years ago?, what about twenty or even forty years ago? Can't you remember? Tha'ts you being dead. You're not one but many and many of which no longer exist, not dead since then you could remember, but lost into the void of existence itself to no ever come again. And now, will you be alive tomorrow? Do you think you will remember this very moment in every future of your life? Will you remember the sun, the rain and the world as it was in these last days of your life?

How does it feel knowing that your life as a continumm will be forgotten forever, only to remember scattered piece of old pictures? Very soon and way before your body colapses, you will be dead, and nothing of today or yesterday or tomorrow you will remember

Today I'm a mirror. Tomorrow you will not see me again.

>>	Anonymous Sat Jan 24 13:52:35 2015 No.6045314 This thread still alive?

Anonymous Sat Jan 24 13:56:33 2015 No.6045332

Water runs to cleanse
Just watch it run over your hands
Remember walking over rocks in rolled up pants

You're carrying your tennis shoes and socks
And trying hard not to get caught (with stiff legs)
Never let me see your knees get locked

You drop your fathers camera
Right there, right where you were standing
You pick it up and it cant remember how to flash when you pull the lever

So you strip off your shirt
And start to rub away the dirt
But the lens is fucked, the screen just doesn't work

So you run hard thru the mud (all the way home)
You put the camera where it was (then on your own)
You tell you dad what happened
He says it's not so bad
But next time, try not to let goooooooo

Anonymous Sat Jan 24 14:31:13 2015 No.6045447

>>6022311
The December frost coddled ruins of the last apartment block on K street stood as a crumbling testament to John Bergeron's belief in the unflattering nature of new. . Built in June of the year it is now as a building designed to decay with the utmost grace. Elements were taken liberally, though secretly from the books of Albert Speer– the architecture ones, not the equally vital, and perhaps more important work, Inside the Third Reich. John had been a longstanding fan of the Arms' minister's, admittedly Fuhrer influenced, drafts for a new Berlin. In private company, such as the party on New Year's Eve of 1989, when the drinks were pouring just about as freely as the money from the upper class to the poor, he would be known to say things like “The last will and testament of the Nazi Regime ignoring, of course, the peculiar anti-semetic notions of purity was the desire to be remembered, and out of that emerged Ruinenwert.”

>>6044746
I get a brooklyn impression, and not a good one. If you were looking for that, well done. Otherwise a little generic. You at least know how to write a sentence.
>>6045258
You lost me with those first three sentences. I had to force myself to read more, but, it doesn't get any better. Very indulgent.

>>	Anonymous Sat Jan 24 14:47:13 2015 No.6045511 >>6045447 >I get a brooklyn impression, and not a good one. If you were looking for that, well done. Otherwise a little generic. You at least know how to write a sentence. Cheers. I was going for London but that's not the important part.

>>	Anonymous Sat Jan 24 14:54:33 2015 No.6045543 A haiku I wrote: The silent snow lands softly, blankets the hard ground, resistant to the violets.

>>	Anonymous Sat Jan 24 15:56:15 2015 No.6045732 >>6045511 Can you critique my opener?

Anonymous Sat Jan 24 15:58:37 2015 No.6045738

I shook my head. It was all so much to take in. The insatiable need to have Rudolf becoming a permanent resident atop my rear was on my mind. So too were my new and visibly aroused companions surrounded our welcome to the herd ceremony though, and it didn't take me long to realize they too would become future residents of that soon to be oft mounted backside. Most of all however was the minty cum coated cock callously careening countless times deeply into my new body. Finally I climaxed. It was just too much pleasure to announce with a cry or a moan. All I could do was shudder and thank Rudolf that my flying abilities kicked on before my legs could give out. I flailed my new hooved feet exhaustively as my balls emptied themselves onto my belly fur and the snow. It felt like hours as I was introduced to just how many minutes long a Reindeer can find himself in the midst of a climax. Two and a half minutes of the most intense orgasm of my life convinced me that I wouldn't mind the lack of thumbs much at all.

That smug red nosed bastard can still read me like he could back then. The moment I started to lose myself was the exact time he decided to go all out as per my new body's wish. Feeling me clench at him tighter and tighter he showed me just what an experienced flier was capable of. Holding on tight with those ruggedly handsome forelegs of his he must have hilted and rehilted himself entirely a good three dozen times in the span of twenty seconds. Spurt after spurt of his seed filled me up. If the pre managed to leak out before I knew full well that he was going to end up making a mess of me. I was never so glad to be right in all my life. I was blushing so bright I felt as though I'd be able to take his job. It rushed from my backside and washed back over that wonderful set of equipment with a surprising force. I could sense that both our inner thighs were drenched with his cum and we were both reveling in every second of it.

Still all I could do was kick and shudder beneath him as he emptied the last of himself into my tailhole. I looked back and felt myself falling for him all over again as we both relaxed enough to touch down in a less cum covered patch of snow. The last of his seed spilled ouf o me as he pulled out. I felt nearly naked without that buck atop my back, and if I'm being honest that feeling still holds true today.

As a result I became a fast favorite of the team, which is mostly composed of males as dominant as Rudolf with the occasional switch like Dancer or Prancer to help relieve stress from time to time when either one is in the mood for a little tail raising fun. That's one couple I gotta say I'm a little jealous of, watching them make out with one another while they both get fucked is simply the cutest thing I've seen since moving to the North Pole.

Anonymous Sat Jan 24 16:06:02 2015 No.6045757

>>6045332
Usually not a fan of poetry but I liked this one. Probably because I'm going through some rough stuff with my father now. Could probably use a mention of the father's camera earlier on, but it's so short that it would be hard to do that without mucking up the whole thing.

>>6045258
I think being familiar with those themes takes a lot of the potential punch out of it. Feels like the piece sort of wanders aimlessly over how insignificant everything is.

Anonymous Sat Jan 24 16:16:26 2015 No.6045792

>>6045757
>Feels like the piece sort of wanders aimlessly over how insignificant everything is.
That's pretty much the idea. I wrote it a few days ago when I couldn't sleep and I was out of lexapro which I take to feel "normal".
It wasn't good, but I suppose I can't do much better right now.

>>	Anonymous Sat Jan 24 16:18:39 2015 No.6045803 >>6045732 The first sentence is overloaded. Maybe remove the specification of the apartment's location. I think the second is missing a word (presumably a specific year). Minor fusses about grammar and punctuation aside, it's otherwise fine.

>>	Anonymous Sat Jan 24 17:55:34 2015 No.6046167 >>6040529 Whenever I see something written like this I immediately think, and hope, that it's a troll. If it isn't, quit trying so hard to be poetic, it's not working.

Anonymous Sat Jan 24 21:33:25 2015 No.6047107
File: 58 KB, 400x316, orangeroses.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

(tl'd (hastly) from Spanish)

Anton Stroem was a strange guy. His face was beautiful and handsome, his physique sculpted and svelte, he had blue eyes, and long, voluminous light brown hair that was the envy of any woman. He was calm and pleasant, but knew how to be humurous or serious when the situation called for it. Outside of his excessively apollonian looks and the few times he seemed to lack any kind of common sense, there was nothing of him that could be critized. And this fact wasn’t accidental, but rather, his persona as a whole was deliberate.

It ocurred that young Stroem had a simple yet aberrant dream: to marry a redhead. It wasn’t because redheads themselves were to his liking, but due to his near fetishistic obsession with the color orange. He drank almost exclusively orange juice, all his meals had carrots, pumpkin or sweet potatoes, he loved spaghetti with meatballs, and as dessert he always mango or tangerine. Just because of the color of the balls he played basketball every other day.

He’d had this atraction since he remembered and although, and although he hadn’t understood it, he hadn’t questioned it either, so he’d just accepted it as natural, though he knew feeling drawn to a color over everything else was not a normal thing. So with that mindset, our dear Anton had created his life, being sociable and popular, going from girlfriend to girlfriend (none of them a redhead), from romance to romance, winning experience and repute so that, when the right one showed up, there’d be no room for error.

He also happened to practice real magic, but this wasn’t that important, as his real essence laid on what we have already explain; he could very well had been an accountant or businessman, instead of a mage, and he’d have been the same person. But if he weren’t, he wouldn’t have met her.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 11:41:10 2015 No.6049725 B-b-bump

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 12:37:45 2015 No.6049978 >>6033837 >Posts in Critique thread >Has a fucking mental breakdown at the first sign of criticism

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 13:16:05 2015 No.6050152

Ages have come and gone though I do not remember when this blight fell upon us. I do remember the despair I felt when its evil cast over the land the shadow of a great eclipse. I remember the creatures of our realm seeking us out for hope, guidance, comfort and I remember for the first time in all the years of our watch being able to provide none of those things.

The Eldest Sage came from his home and spoke of one who would come to save us. He said the coming times would be the most difficult since the dawn of this world, said we would need the patience of a dam that holds back all the weight of a mighty river but endures it nonetheless. He said we may have to wait so long and witness so many terrible things that it would feel like we must break but that if we kept our faith and our hope and our resolve, a person would come to make all the evil go away and mend all the damage it will have done.

Because the Eldest Sage had never been wrong we waited and watched as the eclipsing evil bathed the world in its darkness but, after a time, when it seemed beyond hope, seemed like the sun would never again show its face, the others couldn’t bear the terrible things anymore and they forgot and one by one they left. They knew it meant their own demise, that every step or beat of a wing they took from this place brought them further from the source of the life and power of the Great Spirit and that it could not sustain them. Still they left in search of the one who would save us because they could wait no longer and to them dying was better than staying and seeing and hearing and feeling the terrible things.

I alone stayed because I remembered that the Eldest Sage had said someone would come and that in all my long life the Eldest Sage has never been wrong. Because I stayed I saw the tear-streaked, hopeful faces that looked to me for strength and guidance but found none even when I told them what the Eldest Sage had told me. I heard the cries and whimpers and screams of those faces in their last terrifying moments when the last of their hope was taken away. I felt their pain as keenly as did they for that is my gift. Still, no matter how terrible it became to see the faces and hear the cries and the screams and feel the pain I waited. I waited for so many days and so many nights. I watched the moon change it’s face, saw countless seasons come and go. I have had many old friends perish and made new friends and watched them perish as well but still I kept my hope alive because the Eldest Sage said someone would come and the Eldest Sage has never been wrong.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 13:28:42 2015 No.6050212 >>6047107 Post the spanish version

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 13:46:53 2015 No.6050299
File: 3.38 MB, 2592x3872, fuck you.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Forgotten Love - A Poem

You cunt
I was there
merely watching
your flat ass

You asked favors
even books for me
which you never returned
and when you did
they were full of dog-ears

And you were always watching
and wonder why I didn't say anything
It was because I'm a retarded aspie and was out of meds

I used to regret
but I no longer do
because now I know
you're such a slut

And I fucking hate your fucking smile
fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit yeah
always there where I am because I thought
because I thought you woudln't be there
and you come and go whenever you slutty ass want to

Now I don't go to classes
I only go to tests and exams
and do it I by myself to avoid your old face

Burn in hell, you cunt.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 13:51:39 2015 No.6050321 >>6050299 Is this a parody of some sort?

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 14:05:41 2015 No.6050388

>>6028105
>Vapid bullshit masquerading as something meaningful.
It's not, though. The cancer metaphor transcends the text itself to describe also the thread it is posted in. Like the terminal illness from the source domain, it spreads throughout the fabric of its host, encompassing ultimately the entire flesh of the text, the original post, the posts that cite it, the critiques and ripostes, even my meta-commentary. It's all cancer now.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 14:29:41 2015 No.6050514 >>6050321 If I say yes would you like my poem?

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 16:20:08 2015 No.6050973

>>6025429
Oh, you're the parenthesis guy. I can't stand your style unless your change your theme, honestly.

An atypical style only is justified if the main theme of the writing is atypical as well. Writing garbage in an unique way doesn't go to far, like House of Leaves.

>>	H.Q.S.S.G Sun Jan 25 16:25:22 2015 No.6050993 >>6050514 do you want me to critique your poem like it's an actual poem written as an attempt at having some sort of worth or is it just some joke

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 16:27:52 2015 No.6051006

Well, this wasn't written in english, and originally as lyrics, but we never used them 'cause the phrasing was sketchy to compose.

the rule written in steel
in god's last slaughterhouse
is the essence of your dignity

in the end all is well
everything, always right
as your time slides down the drain
and your leisure turns to offense

another day for little atlas
sleep serene in thy pillow
those feathers* all yours
such a clean conscience, deserved

and as the snake rattles
the hole is covered with more asphalt
the line or production remains, ragnarok adjourned
up until the next council meeting

*the word for feather is the same for sentence in my language, so I guess this was lost in the translation

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 16:40:33 2015 No.6051065

"A blowjob of a dog oh my job to blow a dog, nanana nanana" sang retarded uncle Joe as he step through the woods. He is paid to kill old dogs, I am paid to be sure he kills nothing else.

Both Joe and Niz were walking between the bushes making their way to ol' Lore Lyre's house which was near the zugzwag route past the pawn shop attended by Timoty Thomson. Both of them walk until they found a river with too many fishes (Joe's mouth was full of water) so they walked along to find a part where they could cross. I thought that Niz was being overly cautious as I could easily jump over the river and grab a fish midair for dinner.

"You shore we wank this way?" I asked but she didn't answer. Little brat, never learned to respect her elders. It didn't took a lot to realize that we were lost, and retarded uncle Joe who didn't know he was retarded kept looking at the stars thinking he could use them to find his way through the woods.

"Uncle, shut the hell up". Accordingly, he went farther into the woods to get food for both of them just as his Niz ask him to do. He shot several times to animals but hit none. I was sitting steps behind waiting for my uncle to finish doing the fool and stop shooting to trees.

The night was cold, and Joe used his clothes to cover his niece and protect her from the cold and the very morning after, told Niz he laid against a tree naked protecting her with his shotgun. He lied, and was secretly waiting for her to die so he could rape her dead body.

(cont. (someday))

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 16:54:46 2015 No.6051135
File: 3.12 MB, 2592x3872, url.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

For my fans, here is the sequel of the best poem ever!

Where the heart lies - A bloody poem

I lied and I was there at the party
entered and I saw you wasted
blowing two guy and my heart broke

I went to my house to sleep and cry
and god, I cried a lot
I still cry, my love, why are you a skank?

I asked Stan, did MJ was like that?
"Yes it was", you now know why Peter is fucked up

I asked Heisy, "was sky a slut?"
"You're goddamn right she was, she even fucked her boss"

How can I cure myself, how can I?
I went to /r9k/ for hope, and I found nothing but poop.

For God and For Chan
I know not what to do
I want to cut my phallus
with my toe sharp callus

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 19:07:07 2015 No.6051776 >>6050152 Bump.

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 19:43:34 2015 No.6051920

>>6050212
(late and I'm realizing all the mistakes I made in the other post but here it is)

Anton Stroem era un tipo raro. De rostro hermoso y apuesto, cuerpo esculpido y esbelto, ojiazul y de largo y voluminoso cabello castaño claro que era la envidia de toda mujer. Era agradable y tranquilo, pero sabía ser cómico o serio cuando fuera necesario. Pasando de su aspecto en exceso apolíneo y las pocas ocasiones en que parecía faltarle todo sentido común, no se le podía reprochar nada. Y esto no era porque sí, sino que su identidad entera era premeditada.

Sucedía que el joven Stroem tenía un simple pero aberrante sueño: casarse con una pelirroja. No era porque le apetecieran las pelirrojas en sí, sino por su obsesión casi fetichista con el color naranja. Bebía casi exclusivamente jugo de naranja, en toda comida ponía zanahoria, calabaza o batata, adoraba el espagueti con tomate, y de postre siempre se comía un mango o una mandarina. También jugaba día por medio al baloncesto, únicamente por el color de las pelotas.

Había tenido esta atracción desde que tenía memoria, y aunque no la comprendiera, tampoco se la cuestionaba, solo la aceptaba como natural, aunque entendía que no era una cosa común sentir atracción hacia un color por sobre todo lo demás. Así que con esa mentalidad nuestro amigo Anton había hecho su vida, haciéndose sociable y popular, pasando de novia en novia (ninguna pelirroja), de romance en romance, y aumentando su experiencia y reputación para que, cuando apareciera la indicada, no hubiera margen alguno para el error.

También sucedía que él practicaba la magia verdadera, pero aquello no era tan importante; bien podría haber sido contador o empresario, en vez de mago, y habría sido la misma persona. Pero si no lo hubiera sido, no la habría conocido a ella.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 19:44:08 2015 No.6051923 We are insects Worms crawling under the constant wickedness I raise my head, higher than the moon Until I can no longer see you, pitiful beings

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 19:51:34 2015 No.6051950
File: 7 KB, 298x169, michael scott wayne gretzky.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

So my first Creative writing class starts tomorrow. We have to write two poems for class. I just wrote this, is it at least okay?

As we stared intently at a raging fire,
Our spirits soared,
Our hearts burned with desire.

the glowing warmth kept us strong.
We rested well,
come morning we push on.

This is not our home,
nor a place for long rest.
We must journey forth,
and bare all to world.

For Finding freedom is our only goal.
No matter the cost,
and no matter the toll.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 20:29:52 2015 No.6052095 >>6051950 Not much into poetry, but sounds good. I'd take the our in the third verse (hearts burning with desire).

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 20:33:26 2015 No.6052109 >>6052095 That's the one I stopped reading at

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 20:35:05 2015 No.6052115

>>6051950

Not awful. You won't get laughed out of your class. No point offering critique, because that's what your class is for.

This semi-literate faggot >>6052095 may have a point, if you can be arsed to squeeze the meaning out of what he posted apparently by mashing his face into the keyboard.

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 20:37:45 2015 No.6052130

>>6050388
Top laugh

>>6051006
Lemme guess, you listen to prog metal.

>>6050152
Well, you can write a sentence anyway. That's a start. Pacing is kinda off. It's okay to write a short sentence every once in a while, and it might actually help to build tension if you did so. I assume this is to be the beginning of a book. I hate books that begin this way, with the ominous yet ambiguous past and the obvious foreshadowing. Very video game-y. After a few sentences I unconsciously started reading it in the voice of the guy who does the trailers for action and epic fantasy movies. Ultimately, I think that's the problem with this piece: it doesn't feel like a beginning; it feels like a commercial.

>>6045258
Indulgent pap. Read Beckett's The Unnameable to see how something like this should be done.

>>6044746
Awful voice.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 20:44:45 2015 No.6052170 File: 262 KB, 300x300, 1416519900073.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6052115 You seem upset.

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 21:40:59 2015 No.6052433

>>6052130
I'm >>6050152

Thanks for taking the time to read.

It makes sense that it would sound that way since I was more or less inspired while watching a movie trailer.

Anyway, here's a pastebin that should be less video game-y. Please let me know what you think.

http://pastebin.com/L7N0rYk2

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 22:55:05 2015 No.6052767 >>6051950 too nebulous. there is no context. why is any of this happening? be concrete and specific.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 22:58:58 2015 No.6052780 >>6051135 This is perfect for being a portrait of /r9k/, which I assume is what it is. The sloppy shittiness plays perfectly into the presumed narrator's characterization. Well done.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 23:01:30 2015 No.6052791 The Alpha and Omega Are arrayed about the void, To bring about existence. They spoke before and were not Followed, leading to the Enemy's resistance. But now things are at ready, So they say, “Let there be Light,” And the darkness parts insistent.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 23:03:44 2015 No.6052800 >>6052130 Nah, not really, I hate pretty much anything with prog in the name. It was meant to be a Nation of Ulysses, Dischord thing, but it never worked.

>>	Anonymous Sun Jan 25 23:06:59 2015 No.6052810 >>6052130 >Read Beckett's The Unnameable That's the third part of a "trilogy" according to wiki, do I need to read the previous two?

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 23:20:32 2015 No.6052856

>>6051923
you win a gold fedora

>>6051135
>>6050299
u mad: the poems.
read some poetry before you try again.

>>6045332
this shows promise. i don't think you need to make the last word artificially longer. keep writing.

>>6044746
sorry but this isn't actually a voice. all you're doing is including verbal fillers: so, and, right, etc.

>>6044109
"full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." you're losing meaning by focusing on just the sounds.

>>6040529
you're trying too hard. pare the language back.

Anonymous Sun Jan 25 23:26:00 2015 No.6052881
File: 52 KB, 600x800, ihopeyousuckasnake.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

The final part of the legendary trilogy.

Whispers of a broken heart - A new hope

And I left you there
on the floor below my cum
whore, now I fuck fuck you

/adv/ helped me
to become a Chad
and now I am TEH CHAD

All of you sluts I'm gonna fuck
and fuck over because of what you did
and then you'll ask "Why he's a bad guy?"

Because of whay you did you fucked me over
and now I'm no longer good guy Nano but bad one
because all of you fucked me over

And for god's sake wear a sweater
if you don't want males looking your titties

And for god's sake stay at home
if you don't want to hear me calling you slut

>>	Anonymous Mon Jan 26 00:15:45 2015 No.6053010 >>6045803 Thanks. I was trying to avoid specifying the date the primary action takes place in.

Anonymous Mon Jan 26 01:33:42 2015 No.6053303

Poem Draft
Mind Body Oulipo or Mind is Body Oulipo
Or is mine body 5’9 confuzed gringo
Whose nein let led quickfoot tiempo

But I here! Infinity books read races
Are mine rambles sweet y reveries spacious?

Don’t go Dosto HisNotes es teary
Lol Poe! Let uce laugh! Till feel y dreary
This poem has room for more stanzas, and I think the last stanzas are a little too vapid. Any questions or comments would be appreciated

I immediately regret everythin(...) Mon Jan 26 06:29:14 2015 No.6054038

I don’t know how to fucking start a personal essay (apparently that’s the polite word for rant) because I can’t even start to pretend my life isn’t in media res and doesn’t have so much baggage that any opening statement falls pathetically short of anything resembling an actual introduction. Of course, all lives are like that, but I’m still closer to the narcissistic end of the spectrum than the altruistic. I don’t really even think that’s a dichotomy.
Anyways, it’s 4:44 on a Monday morning (Sunday night? I’m pretty sure it’s all relative) and instead of doing a few math problems so that I can at least walk into one class today (tomorrow?) prepared I’m trying to ramble about myself (and mostly failing). I don’t know why, but I’m going to chalk it up to restlessness from Adderall withdrawal and insomnia from fucking sleeping all day like a lazy asshole. It’s a good thing I’m not an aretaic, because I’d have no chance of behaving according to my standards. What standards I do have are pretty fucked up anyways: mostly lower than congress’s approval ratings (cutting topical political humor, Zimbabwe!) with the only one of note being my rule of thumb for dating (I won’t date any girl that’s willing to date me. Mutual attraction is a turn-off. That sounds less hoplessly romantic and more rapey than I ever intended. Oh well). I just spent a parenthetical aside (is that a redundancy?) talking about girls, so I might as well get to the point of why I am writing.

I immediately regret everythin(...) Mon Jan 26 06:30:39 2015 No.6054042

>>6054038
I wanna talk about waifus. Specifically, me and my waifu. I don’t usually feel like showing the depths of my shameful degeneracy to people, but earlier today (yesterday? I don’t like using midnight to differentiate today/tomorrow, that’s so fucking arbitrary) I realized I know my waifu’s birthday (February 7th, the Sunday after next) but not my mother’s (March… something? Easter was on her birthday a few years back, I think? So would that make it in April? Fuck me). That’s almost terrifying. I have her (my waifu) birthday marked on my fucking wall calendar, and all my friends here think that it’s the birthday of someone who died or something and they’re being really gentle around me (that’s a misunderstanding I won’t bother to clear up anytime soon). That shocking revelation (insert Chiaka face) didn’t actually bother or surprise me, and that revelation was also meaningless, but the realization that I didn’t care that I didn’t care that I knew more personal information about a fiction blind girl than my own mother really bothered me; like I know I’m supposed to feel indignant but that was one too many levels removed.
As a side note, I really hope this all doesn’t come across too much like that one Asian hipster who jerks off onto a page and slaps brackets around it. I know I’m meandering and tangential as fuck, but I’d hope I’m only masturbatory when there’s some choice intersex anime babes on the computer screen, and not a word document.

I immediately regret everythin(...) Mon Jan 26 06:31:51 2015 No.6054046

>>6054042
Basically the point I’m trying to express that I’ve finally become what I always hated. I stayed up all night playing video games and reading Kierkegaard (and not even really that, I mostly just read commentaries) while drinking Mtn DEW™ (proud sponsor of sleep-deprived weeabo wannabe philosophers. Buy Call of Duty Advanced Warfare for the Xbox One today! Copy that) and listening to anime OSTs (TUMBLING DOWN TUMBLING DOWN TUMBLING DOWN) and I really am just letting me down. I’d make some Japanese pun instead of simply quoting song lyrics like I was 14 again but I don’t fucking speak moon runes. But what really lets me down is not that I’m unhappy (if I didn’t get some pleasure out of all this, why the fuck would I do it? It’s not like my nicotine addiction, even if anime is just as cancerous as camels dohohohoho), again it’s the fact that I don’t dislike liking the things that I like. It’s an objective knowledge that there are in fact better things I could be doing with my life, but I’m not and I sorta feel ok with it.
I dunno. I didn’t call my parents today (yesterday? Fuck) either. I had nothing interesting to tell them, which means it’s a perfect time to call (nothing interesting I do is the kind of interesting that you want your parents to be interested in). I just like to hear their voices, and feel like there’s someone who’s not a fictional character that I could love without being constantly uncomfortable. My dad told me once that his greatest fear at my age was that nobody would love him, and that he would never love. When he said that, he was implying I was a homosexual, but the general sentiment is/was appreciated. Then again, he lived in an all-boys academy before the internet, so he had an excuse.
April 19th.

Advanced search
Text to find
Subject [?]Search by post subject. Leave empty for any.
Username [?]Search for user name. Leave empty for any user name.
Tripcode [?]Search for tripcode. Leave empty for any.
Email [?]Search by email. Leave empty for any.
Filename [?]Search by image filename. Leave empty for any.
From Date [?]Enter what date to start searching from. Format is YYYY-MM-DD
To Date [?]Enter what date to start searching until. Format is YYYY-MM-DD
Image hash
Search in	All Posts OPs Only
Deleted posts	Show all posts Show only deleted posts Only show non-deleted posts
Internal posts	Show all posts Show only internal posts Show only archived posts
Order	New posts first Old posts first
Capcode	All Posts Only by Users Only by Mods Only by Admins Only by Developers
Results	Posts Threads
Action	[ Simple ]

/lit/ - Literature