ACTUALLY GOOD WRITING THREAD

[Anonymous No.6152046]

RULES

1) only post works that you believe are good
2) only post works that you have edited and drafted to a reasonable level of your abilities
3) no beginners or amateurs

this criticism thread is for writers who have demonstrated some commitment and who have (hopefully) moved beyond the elementary stage

there is a general critique thread here >>6148279 for all writing

[Anonymous No.6152061]

99% of everything in the general critique threads are from beginners

[Anonymous No.6152063]

>ITT: Narcissism

[Transgendered Buttery Farts !T4fCYU9f1Q No.6152064]

Fart said the Italian as he let out a screamer
Poop said the ogre as he plopped one into the white bowl

[Anonymous No.6152069]

So, are you going to post some of your work OP?

[Anonymous No.6152074]

>>6152061

which is why it would be nice to have a critique thread that avoids that trap

there was an iteration of this thread a few days ago, and the quality of writing was marginally better, with 3-4 pieces that were actually decent/showed potential

[Anonymous No.6152080]

The beginning 250 words to a 5000 word short story that I'm about 70% done with

I have... mixed thoughts and feelings about this, so I'd love to hear some feedback

[Anonymous No.6152144]

I look through the porthole
I sail into the sea
the depth of any soul
left a hue in me

I watch with affection
to part blushing from blue
it is my affliction
my one restriction; you

My eyes do the calling
why do we turn apart
I can part the Red Sea
but can I break a heart

[Anonymous No.6152148]

>>6152080
so bad it's worse

[Anonymous No.6152167]

>>6152080

first line is fairly intriguing, but this discussion of the mailbox seems a little... trifling?

>red flags, blue skies, green depths
I can't tell if I like this or not. probably keep it, cuz I don't think it's actively bad and it's interesting(ish)

>The land I was living on should not naturally exist, just as my abomination of a mailbox should not naturally exist.
pretty awkward sentence, and you're stretching the mailbox thing a bit too long now

ehhh your prose is fairly cleab, but does seem to just veer on the wordy/pedantic on some occasions

[Anonymous No.6152190]

Dicks, dicks, everywhere.
One's pissing in my sink.

[Anonymous No.6152200]

>>6152190
I have known this feel and needed a poet in these moments. Thank you, sweet bard.

[Anonymous No.6152201]

>>6152080
I'm going to take a guess and say that you're going for comedy here. The problem I see is that due to the tone the humour isn't immediately apparent, reading this I just had that feeling of 'oh wait this is supposed to be funny isn't it'. Maybe as part of a larger piece is works better but this excerpt alone feels really stilted to me, the tone and the absurdity of what the narrator is talking about just don't work together. I think you need to establish the narrators character better so the reader knows that he's a fool like I think you want him to be. But as someone who avoids first person for this very reason, I don't know how you would introduce him more strongly.

[H.Q.S.$.G No.6152208]

>>6152144
ew nigga. Normally I encourage rhyming in verse but in your case it makes it even worse

[Anonymous No.6152226]

My name is Lazarus, of Bethany. I spent my death peering
through the cracks in a tomb.
I liked the sleep. I liked the dark dust–
no, I did not care, or even ask to be raised
from the peace of death–Jesus wept– Martha wept
as she removed my damp wrappings

of linen. In the night, we burned my wrappings
and I could not stop peering
into the smoking fire pit. Still, my sisters wept.
They thought I was lost to the tomb.
Even as we added branches, and the fire raised
the flames still smelt of fabric, and the dust

of death. In sleep, I still smelt dust;
In my dreams, constricted still by funeral wrappings.
In the morning, when I was again raised
from a kind of death, sleep, I faced the new sun peering,
covering eyes against harsh light. The tomb
upon the hill was open still, where Jesus had wept


and had pried me out. I too then wept
not for Jesus, or my sisters, but for boats of dust
built, scattered round river Lethe like floating tombs.
As I poked the ashes of my burned wrappings,
In the distance I spotted converted Jews peering;
down at me, the good souls who had not left for the Pharisees. I raised

my arms, and waved back to them. They knew I was raised
from dead– I was the man for whom Jesus had wept.
Animated again, brought to life, spent peering
into the emptiness of death–the Kingdom of dust–
that had healed my rot– I can still smell those wrappings–
and how sudden light burned my eyes from the darkness of the tomb–


Now, life is death again, and I sleep in my tomb.
Resurrected every morning, yawning, raised–
blankets and furs slide off like funeral wrappings
after chilled Bethany nights. When my sisters wept,
thinking I was rot, decaying bone, disintegrated dust;
they should have known that one day we will all be peering


into nothing but our own funeral wrappings. Yes, they wept
over my tomb–misplaced faith– amazed as I was raised;
I am sorry Martha– Sorry Mary– it is into dust–that we are peering.

[Anonymous No.6152239]

>>6152144
I would advise against using the word "soul" in a poem unless you work really hard to make it not cliche. Throwing "soul" in without some context is pretty drab. The poem is small, and it's ok, but it's not nearly as interesting as it could be. The poem doesn't really go anywhere

[Anonymous No.6152287]

>>6152167
yeah, I was ambivalent about the mailbox--might end up rewriting it to flow better

>>6152201

not going for comedy at all/not trying to portray the narrator as a fool

the story does leave that topic after the intro, with the narrator receiving a letter that catalysts the plot

[Anonymous No.6152294]

>>6152287
>not going for comedy at all
Well then you need to spend less time on the mailbox hate, its just a bit too ridiculous for a serious piece.

[Anonymous No.6152297]

>>6152239
What do you think it's about?

[Anonymous No.6152351]

>>6152080
>>6152287
>>6152294

hmm, I've attached the next bit of the short story

I think the writing is quite good here and much closer to the tone/style that I'm going for than the first 250 words--I would appreciate any thoughts on this matter

[Anonymous No.6152367]

>>6152351
you have the tendency to get bogged down in details

[Anonymous No.6152381]

>>6152144

first stanza is quite strong

I would suggest doing something more interesting with "Lazarus, of Bethany"--maybe splitting the lines?
I do like the emjambment in the first line though

>Jesus wept- Martha wept
I can't say I like this line. "Jesus wept" is practically a cliche. You could poetically describe Jesus crying without losing the underlining meaning but with a better execution

>In the morning, when I was again raised
from a kind of death, sleep
I feel like the poem is dragging a bit here. You've mentioned "death" and "sleep" too many times

also, at the endf ot eht hird stanza, I'm understanding "Jesus wept" as a refrain a little better. I still feel like the first use via an interjection is fairly week though

5th stanza: things are dragging on quite a bit

I understand the parallelism you're trying to go for, but it's really quite zzz dust sleep death weeping

final stanza is ok, and the final line is good

I would say that the poem is a bit too long--it feels like you explore the same ideas too many times

all in all, easily one of the better poems I've read on /lit/

[Anonymous No.6152391]

>>6152080
shit
>>6152144
shit
>>6152226
shit
>>6152351
shit

[Anonymous No.6152425]

>>6152391

>projecting this hard

[Anonymous No.6152426]

>>6152351
There are someredundant and awkward phrases like
>'It had my name and adress hand written in a cursive and flowing script on the envelope.'
Why not just
>'On the front was my name and adress in a flowing cursive script.'

[Anonymous No.6152434]

>>6152381
thanks for the critique. part of the clumsiness and dragged out later parts of the poem is because of the form-- it's a sestina-- so at some point i'm gunna cut it up and splice it into a more concise freeverse poem...or tweak the form. i suck at forms, but practice is good, right?

[Anonymous No.6152437]

>>6152391
Please be constructive.

[Anonymous No.6152442]

Upon A Bleak Winter Night

Why the sudden incessant need to go out on a night such as this? Was it perhaps the full moon radiating through the trees and bestowing itself upon the snowy landscape? Could it be the renowned cabin fever manifesting itself in my mind and seducing me to not enter, but depart?

At any rate, I laced up my boots and trod out into the neighborhood streets, now indistinguishable from the once-vibrant yards wherein whose homes lay man and woman asleep, waiting out the cold. How simultaneously eerie and majestic this realm was, so silent after the transformational storm. The streets of the city lay barren, untouched by mankind yet disturbed by the creatures of the night. My boots crushed deep into the snow as though it were glass being pierced, or rather shattered into oblivion.

For what purpose did I embark on this venture and wander out into the unknown? For the supposed quest to purchase some trite food and drink at the local convenience store, or so I told myself. Its abundance back at my house was no deterrent from this plan. My soul yearned just to explore this frozen atmosphere, so different from its day-to-day appearance as when I drive through and past it on my way to work, school, or some other distraction.

You see, upon my arrival, the convenience store was closed, as I perhaps knew it would be all along. But I had lied to myself to gain some momentary sigh of relief, a break from the peaceful tense, or rather, tense peace, back at the house. My return trip lacked all charm of the initial expedition. It seems as if some of the ice had given way to burdensome slush, which I painstakingly strode through. Two lights permeated over the top of the distant embankment, as they grew closer. A lone 18-wheeler emerged from the void, heading my way steadily. I wondered if its driver had a destination in mind, or if he was simply running from something in a desperate attempt to escape its grasp.

As it approached closer within view, the driver took notice of me and nodded before passing and slowly fading out among the horizon. Part of me wishes I had jumped out in front of that truck.

How content it would be, my surreal surroundings accepting my descending body with arms open wide as the snow encompassed me, as warmth flooded my veins and sleep overtook me. Now this, this is home.

[Muck Bulligan !!ryE2gEjGbpu No.6152444]

>>6152425
no, an example of projection would be if he had said someone was projecting because he is aware that he himself projects often, perhaps more than is normal

[Anonymous No.6152459]

The Odyssey of Telemachus
The last Achaean left, untouched by this capricious world of gods and men, had grown old and frail of body, but his witty eyes were just as sharp as the arrows he fired long ago. From his palace he stood, in a place just below the heights of great Mount Olympus; this was renowned son of Laertes and seed of Zeus. The wine-blue sea, his old friend and enemy clashed horribly against the hardened stones, polishing them into the precious foundation of the Ithaka Odysseus had molded by slaying those treacherous suitors.
Odysseus knew he had won the battle, but had he won the war? As he glories and revels in his past where he was considered by gods and men alike as like a deity; he suddenly begins to weep bitterly. The guise of the adorned god-like man, dressed in purple and gold, who was ready to devour sheep, was no longer there. This was not the weeping of the wry wolf, but that of the old man Aithon, the Cretian who spoke of the strife that the wolf had endured and the depth of his desire for his Ithaka. He, who had spoken of the love for noble, circumspect Penelope and his precious and powerful son Telemachus.
“Oh how great and mighty a man was I, a man of many ways. Alongside Agamemnon and the other Achians I fought, and through deception, we brought Troy to its delightful end. I defied the allure of Golden Aphrodite, supple Nausikaa, heaven itself, and even the goddess Calypso. All for my Circumspect Penelope, my only Aphrodite. I was the nobody who dared rob Polyphemus of his eye and Poseidon in his own domain. I was the one who caused the kingly Alkinoos, grandson of Poseidon, to defy his God for me. The water that morphs in all vessels, wears away stone, and rusts iron could not be like me. Not even the god of the sun, Helios could match me, nor could Ares. My mind is superior and with the Aegis of Athene, my sharpened sword, and un-stringable bow I took all that this world had, and gave it to my Ithaka. There is only one god who can truly defy me; Hades will be my end. Oh how I wish that I could die by the hand of a greater foe, but all men die, don’t they? Such a perfunctory end to my terrestrial reign. Athene! What guise do you now wear? The poets will string tales of The Wolf, and the bards will laud his taunting teeth, but for whom will they sing after my time? My Palace will stand and my tales will be immortal, but soon the wily one will descend to Hades. It contents my weary heart that my journey concludes. After all, a good story loses its luster once it has been sung so many times... Vivid and brilliant, circumspect Penelope, weep not for me. For thorough Telemachus, the hallowed prince, will live on for me. His spear is not like my ruthless arrows of cunning. But rather, his ever-reaching spear is able to pierce the hearts and minds of friend or foe alike.

[Anonymous No.6152468]

The name is Jeffro, I cut hair. I am a barber, people come to me from all over the city. This one man popped in one day claiming his name was Crow. He said "gimme the usual Jeffro" and I winked and sat him down. Then he dropped on me something that blew my mind, what he said was "Hey Jeffro, you ever wonder why we are even here". I replied, well Crow, we are simply here because God wills it. Crow stood up quietly and walked out. That was the last I thought of the incident for some time. Weeks past and one day I found myself raking the first fall leaves of the season. I bent over to pick up the leaves and I heard a noise that sounded like a cat. Confused I looked around and seen nothing. When I finally bagged the leaves and brought them to the road I heard it again. "meeaaaw". I quickly looked behind me and I seen it. Two homelessmen were arguing. I went up to them and asked what seemed to be the problem. "nuttin" they both replied. Then it hit me. I asked them "why do you think we are here". They were quiet. when they finally responded they squeaked out the same old answer "god wills it". I nodded with content and walked back into my house.

[Anonymous No.6152478]

>>6152459
As Odysseus finished his last tale of many turns, the Wolf began to stumble as a freshly born sheep reared by its mother, down first time down to the shore. He took one last look at his friend and rival, the wine-blue sea. As Odysseus’ sight began to fade, a wolf-like grin and a knowing glint in his eye replaced the solemn visage that had previously occupied his face; Athene gave one last sign to her champion without match. At the edge of the horizon, on a tiny island, Odysseus’ mythical un-stringable bow lay next to a powerful and loyal spear. Its shaft was crafted of an olive tree and its iron head, tied on with the string of the bow, was yet to be engraved with the stories of a man who wanted nothing but to be like his father, but somehow became more.

[Anonymous No.6152481]

>>6152434
You didn't write that I did it was the first poem I wrote where I actually counted syllables I tried to make good my scansion decent. I remember looking up another word for reddish on dictionary.com
It's flattering you pretended to be me but I still feel there are much better writers who's works you can claim but you should write your own instead of claiming my shitty stuff.

[Anonymous No.6152482]

I plucked the insects off the wall
they were plucking at,

antennae no more than
the fleshy digits of infants
we entertain.

The concrete was cold
and it didn't belong to summer,
and I didn't belong to anything,

standing, cradling beetles
in a blood beat palm
with leathered flesh,
all wanting warmth.

My hands were no more
than their summer bed.

[Anonymous No.6152489]

>>6152442
you've fallen into the trap of beginner writers using lots of big words.

[Anonymous No.6152500]

>>6152481
i don't want to get into a silly argument like this but the I Am Lazarus Poem is mine

the guy who critiqued had the the wrong poem in his qoute

[Anonymous No.6152504]

>>6152468
I like this. Never thought I'd see a Kafkaesque corn cobby chronicle

[Anonymous No.6152505]

>>6152442
Dude... You need to chill on the extraneous language, and work on creating plots.

[Anonymous No.6152516]

Instead of giving us paragraph upon paragraph of explanation, use the world and the imagery to tell your story.

The message here seems to be that the protagonist hates receiving mail, and I assume this is important to your story. Don't tell us flat out that he does. That first paragraph is boring.

Instead, have the protagonist look at his mailbox and describe in loathsome terms, much like the second paragraph, except do it better. If done properly it'll convey to the reader how much he hates receiving mail without you once having to outright state it. Maybe have the mailman come by at this point. Have the mailman be a cunt?

The third paragraph where he daydreams about a normal mailbox. Don't have daydreams. Have action. Have him with a pair of binoculars or something scoping out a mailbox across the street or in another area or something. Maybe it'll also tie into him wanting to be in that other area, at least that's what the reader will get out of it without you having to spell it out. Maybe this can segue into him seeing a beautiful woman through the window, or a beautiful woman getting beat to death, or a beautiful woman getting her pussy beat to death. Depends on what your story is.

One of the big problems I see in these critique threads is the tendency to just state every little thing for the reader, when simply having the character act the way he normally would can tell us a lot of things. Action is always more interesting than some dude telling us how much he hates junk mail.

[Anonymous No.6152519]

>>6152442
>trite food and drink
>not liking nerds ropes
>not liking gummy sharks
>not liking glacier freeze gatorade
>not liking flaming hot cheetos
>2015 year of our muthafucking lord

[Anonymous No.6152520]

>>6152516
This was for mailbox man up here:
>>6152080

[Anonymous No.6152523]

>>6152442
this is the kind of shit kids who sit on 4chan all day have to write since going to the convince store to get some mountain dew is their only life experience

[Anonymous No.6152524]

>>6152080
Cramped apartment building used twice too close. Otherwise fine besides fact that idgaf about his mailbox

[Anonymous No.6152528]

>>6152434
>sestina


ooooh snapppp how did I not notice this was a sestina??

explains the repetition of themes a little better I guess

but my favorite sestinas were always the ones where the meaning of the end words evolved as the poem progressed

something to keep in mind, I suppose (as a lot of your words can have multiple meanings, which is good)

[Anonymous No.6152529]

rend the mindful fabric
shredded malignant chaos
unseen transformation
breaking a body apart

every step cracks grow
cracks grow splintered
split bones through skin
merrily, verily, we all fall down

stall, some stay standing
staring death down still
unbroken static, inane chatter,
they remain unchanging matter.

Damned dust of stars
masses congealed to form
meaning devoid until instilled
under uncaring moon

nothing begets more
gore gears churn on
will you break the bagged meat
swallow your tail complete?

Strip the layers clean
let muscles and bone gleam
scream with that moon
begged alter comes soon:

reversion for the damned,
perversion if you can.
Change thy grinning skull
even with a sinning cull.

[Anonymous No.6152540]

>>6152529
Nice metal lyrics fag.

[Anonymous No.6152545]

Just realized that there no extant copies, digital or physical, of the only short story I ever wrote and considered okay. Shite feeling, lads.

[Anonymous No.6152552]

>>6152529
It's pretty clichéd and bad.
Try reading some Blake

[Anonymous No.6152553]

>>6152046
Don't give me memes,
Don't call me fedora,
'Cause of these bullshit excuses
I've heard plethora.

If you want to keep it sane,
this is my demand:
stop with the fucking fallacies
and contemplate the matter at hand.

4chan is a serious website
and /lit/ isn't for the stupid.
I guess shitposting is your thing,
So fuck the back off to Facebook.

[Anonymous No.6152554]

Thirst, sweat, dark
Glistening elsewhere,
Swishing tree branch topple,
Watchtower small piston.
Thumb blister.
Oh dear sister,
Where does the moon take the bars?

[Anonymous No.6152571]

>>6152552
From my upcoming emo-core album "Too many dicks, not enough time"
>>6152540
Blake is great. But aside from cliches and negativity, did you read any meaning from it?

[Anonymous No.6152580]

>>6152571
they're fine as lyrics
as poetry they're pretty bad

[Anonymous No.6152581]

>>6152571
It's about gains and ouroborous

[Anonymous No.6152587]

>>6152516
>Don't have daydreams. Have action. Have him with a pair of binoculars or something scoping out a mailbox across the street or in another area or something. Maybe it'll also tie into him wanting to be in that other area, at least that's what the reader will get out of it without you having to spell it out. Maybe this can segue into him seeing a beautiful woman through the window, or a beautiful woman getting beat to death, or a beautiful woman getting her pussy beat to death. Depends on what your story is.

this is terrible advice lol

[Anonymous No.6152588]

>>6152554
nonsense

[Anonymous No.6152591]

>>6152580
Cringe-worthiness aside, did you take any meaning away from it?

[Anonymous No.6152592]

>>6152587
Let me guess, you've got something better?

Maybe you're right though, if he's going for the Tao Lin crowd that is.

[Anonymous No.6152596]

>>6152592

"show don't tell" is timeless, but segueing from someone disliking their mailbox/what it represents to a beautiful woman getting beat to death is retarded advice

introspection is always necessary, particularly for the first person

[Anonymous No.6152621]

The background to this is basically that the Cathars survived the Albigensian Crusade and fled by boat to southern Portugal, where they established a kingdom. This kingdom would later become a major colonial power in the New World. The natives of North and South America were much more advanced than in our timeline, yet still less advanced than the Europeans. To separate them from their lands would be a much more arduous undertaking than in OTL. To wit, a military genius of the highest caliber would be needed to accomplish such a task. This is about the life of this man, narrated by someone recording his anecdotes on his deathbed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Guy de Achille-Lobo was, true to his name, a force to reckoned with. It would later be said of him (by the heathens of the new world) that he was carved out of Huitzilopochtli’s fighting arm, or that he sprang, fully-formed, from the dead god’s skull. The truth is far less exciting. But this makes his deeds all the more incredible.

When I met Monsieur Achille-Lobo, It was on his death bed. The rite of Consolamentum had just been administered to him, and I was to be his attendant. The duties allocated to me (and all people assigned to dying Parfaits) were as follows:

Do not, under any circumstances, give him anything to eat or drink
Cater to his needs otherwise
Listen to and record his stories, so the future generations will know our history

The third rule was only to be applied in certain cases -- such as his. Achille-Lobo was a general with some forty-odd years of experience. His exploits were long and storied; it was hard (at this point) to determine fact from legend. It was for this reason I was brought to him. The hope was that my experience with these matters would be helpful in determining the truth from his personal anecdotes and the mythology surrounding him.

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

The two main problems with this that I am having are:

How advanced do I make the natives?
What anecdote should I start with?

[Anonymous No.6152636]

>>6152621
Extremely good plot imo.

Interesting as fuck.

As for advice, I suck at it.

[Anonymous No.6152644]

>>6152459
>>6152478
How is my apocryphal book of The Odyssey?

[Anonymous No.6152647]

>>6152644
well the intro anyway

[Anonymous No.6152650]

>>6152621
>>6152636

No worries man, I appreciate the compliments!

[Anonymous No.6152884]

>>6152621

too many brackets

>How advanced do I make the natives?
>What anecdote should I start with?

I feel like this breaks rule 2 and rule 3

[Rocklin No.6152905]

David lived in the library from as long as he could remember, time did not apply at all to him, there were no clocks and he avoided most windows. Lights came on and then off, he spend most of his time in his office, chartering out a path to whatever facilities that he needed without wasting any feet or time away from his activities.

Surrounded by the vast knowledge of the college's vast array of books he delved into fields of study beyond the literature that he taught his students. Every day he was on a new planet, galaxy, or plane of existence. Traveling through time and space was easy as a Once upon a time. He wined and dined with the greatest minds of all time, brunch with Hardy, eggs with Vonnegut, and coffee with Mann.

[Anonymous No.6152992]

it's about psychics with telekinesis who play a game where they try to kill each other with a marble.

[Anonymous No.6153018]

>>6152992
wrong file

[Anonymous No.6153064]

>>6153018
Your writing is nice, but sometimes your sentences seem too short, especially considering the subject of the next line.
Try and perhaps combine some of them when they could truly be one continuous thought because the prose and wording you have chosen is very luxurious. And so stopping every so often. But seemingly far too soon. With any thought seems out of place. As it were. as i am doing right now.

Don't be afraid to make them fuckers longer.

[Anonymous No.6153073]

>>6153018
>"and the air around it warped from its heat"
make this active voice

>"and illuminated only the table..."
so many ands. just use ", illuminating the x, y, and z"

>"portly"
this word may be accurate, but the way it sounds throws off the mood. find some other way to say fat

>"...on his forehead as throbbing..."
ok, that would be the place to put an and

i'm... just going to stop there

[Anonymous No.6153079]

>>6153073
(cont.)
yeah, basically, this >>6153064

short sentences are fine, though; you just need to figure out how to make everything flow better so it feels less choppy.

[Anonymous No.6153091]

>>6152905
Come on, that's as polished as what just oozed from my anus. You can do better.

[Anonymous No.6153106]

>>6153091
>oozed from my anus

my god ur a disgusting human

[Anonymous No.6153112]

>>6153106
And apparently effective with words. Thank you.

[Anonymous No.6153115]

>I wonder if this short sci-fi stoner film-esque pulp shit is as amusing to anyone else as it is to me?
>excerpt from about five hundred words into the third chapter
>1/2

What?!” He jerked unsteadily forward, beginning to make his way to the bridge. He was unsure just how much time had passed since he’d last inhaled, but the soporific effects were still dragging him down, which lead him to a single conclusion:
That was some dank shit.
“Oui. They seek our aide concerning a theft by some brigandes, whom fled in le navire matching the descriptor of the Indica.”
“Shit.” Job screeched to a halt, “Shit! Where’s Urk?”
“Endormi, Capitaine.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Rather than tackle the translation problem head-on, he settled for a more subtle approach, “Yo Urk! Urk you cunt!”
“What?” His grating reply came from somewhere astern, “I’m painting!”
“Fuck that, man! Five-O!”
Great thumping footsteps reverberated through the ship as Urk ran forward, “Cops?!”
“You didn’t hear the fucking alarms?”
“I was listening to Joan Osbourne, I thought that was part of the track!”
“Who the fuck listens-... Man, we gotta hide the stash!”
“Shit, man. Shit. They’ll smell it on us anyway.” Urk began patting himself, “Where’s my lighter? We got to burn it!”
Job reached up and grabbed him by his rocky head, and pulled him slowly down to eye-level, “Man, you take a deep breath, and you listen to yourself.”
“Right, man.” Urk shook his head free, “Right. Maintain, gotta maintain.”
“Play it cool.” Job grinned, falsely, “We got out of worse than this, man. Remember Phlebas?”
“...No!” Urk jerked away, “Man I am way too fucking high for this.”
“Look, you hide the stash, I’ll go talk to the cops.”
“Can’t we just space it? Out an airlock?”
“They’ll see it!”
“Fuck.” Urk span and started thumping down towards the cargo bay, muttering all the way, “Fuck, man. Fuck. Phlebas? Fuck, man...”
Much to Job’s dismay, the officer running the cruiser was one with which he’d had prior run-ins. He recognised the face on the viewscreen a moment too late, and failed to pull away in time.
“Job? Job, is that you?”

[Anonymous No.6153120]

>>6153115
>whoops, it's edited for A5 in my word document
>oh well
>2/2

“Hey, man. Sir. Been a while.”
“I had hoped for much longer.” Schweinnman rubbed his snout with a thick, four-fingered hand, “We’re coming aboard, Job.”
“You’re coming aboard, sir?”
“Yes we’re coming aboard, what did you think the blasted tractor beam was for?”
“Well, sir. I figured my pilot, he’s an amorphous blob, you see, and, lacking the requirement for balance that lends itself to the evolvution of a middle ear, he sometimes suffers lapses in judgement regarding momentum, and so I figured he might have been speeding, sir, so perhaps you were doing us a kindness and just putting on the brakes.”
“He’s a Slug?” Schweinnman’s pink skin wrinkled as he frowned, “Then why is he speaking French?”
“Well, he was born and raised in France, sir.” Job raised an eyebrow, “Would you be more comfortable if he spoke in an ethnic dialect, sir? I can order him to do so.”
Schweinnman’s frown deepened, “Sit tight, Job. We’ll be boarding presently.”
“Did you get rid of the fuckers?” Urk called from somewhere within the bowels and intestines and spleen of the ship.
“Nope!” Job charged off the bridge, heading aft to oversee his panicking buddy, “Maintain, dude. We’re golden.”
“No way, man!” Urk’s voice rumbled from some nearby cranny, Job span and dove into the alcove, searching frantically for the stone giant, “No way am I going back to a human prison, you people are disgusting!”
“Just chill!” Job finally found him, stuffing his artwork into the port trash ejector, “Why in the holy name of fuck are you doing that?”
“Thought control, man.” Urk gestured at the canvas, then bashed himself on the head, “If they can’t see what I’m feeling, then they can’t control what I’m thinking.”
Job examined the scrunched up canvas, noting the total whiteness, “Looks blank to me, man.”
“Your senses are pathetic.”
From somewhere far aft there came the uncomfortable crunch of a vessel docking, followed by the distinctive hiss of imminent fascism.

[Anonymous No.6153126]

>>6153018
Very nice. Keep it up. Maybe use this bit to hire an editor with? All writers need an editor.

[Anonymous No.6153131]

>>6152046
My neck
My Back
Lick my pussy
And my crack

[Anonymous No.6153138]

>>6153131
i hate it when you're watching a porn of some hot chick stripping and lap dancing a dude and you're like oh fuck this is gonna be hot, with a bunch of paper towels next to your dick ready to bust and then, the dude starts licking her asscrack...fucking bone deflater man, why do they do that shit, or the chick starts spitting on the guys dick, it's like, you can lick it fine but dont just hock up a lunger and spit it at the dudes crotch, wtf are you doing...

[Anonymous No.6153140]

>>6152351
>>6152367
Can't say whether there is too much detail or not without finishing the story. Since you've spent a few paragraphs going over the mailbox and the letter I'm going to assume that these are vital to the story and having a detailed description of them is going to be gerund to the story you're telling.

[Rocklin No.6153151]

>>6153112
That wasn't me.

[Anonymous No.6153159]

>>6153151
Send the message along?

[Anonymous No.6153189]

>>6153064
>>6153073

hm.. i see what you're talking about. i usually do try for longer sentences. i dramatically restructured this bit several times, and i guess the flow suffered from that. here's a second go if you're still interested.

>>6153126
thanks so much, glad you like it. though im not sure what you mean by "use it" to hire someone?

[Anonymous No.6153194]

I'd appreciate any comments on the next 500 words. I normally write in a much more maximalist and stylized manner, so all this feedback has been very helpful.

>>6153140

hm the mailbox is actually kind of central to my story--I have it written in my margins to make later scenes resemble certain parts of it

but I /kind/ of dislike how I wrote about the mailbox--I think I will try describing it more technically, going into dimensions, build, etc. etc. thanks for the feedback, going to try a new approach and see

[Muck Bulligan !!ryE2gEjGbpu No.6153212]

>>6152442
when i can cut out more than 1/4th of your words retain all of your meaning, you're writing poorly

i admire the attempt to use higher vocabulary, but you aren't using it well. you use words like "permeated" awkwardly while you use phrases like "once-vibrant" obliviously, and it makes for a very frustrating read. besides that, your prose is horrible and i can tell you have no grasp of the logic behind your statements, only how similar they sound to what you've accepted as quality work.

>>6152905
you write like a korean person who knows english as a second language

[Anonymous No.6153217]

>>6152046
I'd love some critique of this. Been working hard on it for the last week. My main concerns are how it is to read and if the classical references in the third paragraph seem forced. They are kind of essential to the joke and the overall point of the story though. Give me your thoughts anons, thanks.

[Anonymous No.6153252]

>>6153212
>you write like a korean person who knows english as a second language

ayy lmao

[Rocklin No.6153359]

>>6153159
What are you talking about? Are you telling me to send the message you said to the anon that retorted to your criticism of my piece?

I'm confused.

[Rocklin No.6153378]

>>6153212
What if I told you I am Korean?

[Anonymous No.6153386]

>>6153217
*fluorescent

[Anonymous No.6153764]

>>6153378

>mfw Rock Lin does sound like some Korean guy

[Anonymous No.6153789]

>>6153217
clunky prose. grandfather has no characterization.

[Anonymous No.6153824]

>>6153140
>>6153194
>I will try describing it more technically
why? it doesn't add anything to the character or plot. short stories are supposed to be written with economy and you're adding more insignificant details.

[Anonymous No.6153828]

>>6153386
ty
>>6153789
Thanks. How would I make my prose less clunky?

[Anonymous No.6153834]

>>6153189
i think you need more paragraph breaks. you have two walls of text with long ass sentences which doesn't give the reader a break.

[Anonymous No.6153842]

>>6152591
not a lot. you use a bunch of abstract ideas so i don't have a lot to grab onto. be concrete and specific. write about actual things. poetry isn't supposed to be a puzzle to figure out.

[Anonymous No.6153864]

He sits stiffly on the couch, smoking a cigarette in the enclosed living room—smoke swirling in pneumatic clouds around his clean soft face. The TV sounds in the near distance, his nose pointing towards the buzzing screen while his eyes, open, remain unaware of the constant flashing lights. No, they are transfixed elsewhere, somewhere beyond the decaying paint on his empty wall, past the cold waste of his compact world. His eyes are caught on the man in the desert, the rough hand which weighed upon his delicate touch with cruel mockery, 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 life.

It ended also 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 downed collar. He looks beyond the room, through the nimbus sun, over the sea. But he can’t see the rough hand anymore. He doesn't know the man is gone, that he’ll never come back. He only sees the empty wall, the static wails.

His show ends, an advertisement flickers. His eyes well with tears, stung by the smoke, isolated and harsh. Ashes fall, landing in pairs.

[Anonymous No.6153873]

>>6153828
>pale, sterile green
there's no object
>reminiscing of all that he had ...
reminiscing OVER all that he had
>fleeting
>absent in his grief
these adjectives don't work for me
>her husband's arms
i think you should place this after mentioning the daughter because the last female you mentioned was the old guy's wife which made me think it was her
>and like that
this doesn't work for me either
>she resumed the vigil...having cast her husband a sharp
you're saying this backwards. she can't resume vigil until after she looks at her husband
>he stumbled across the room now slick with embarrassment
this makes it sound like the room is slick

&c

[Anonymous No.6153880]

>>6153873
Thanks, I'll work on those things.

[Anonymous No.6153884]

>>6152080
Considering I don't know the context, all I know is this guy hates mail and his mailbox. This can easily be summed up into one or two paragraphs.

[Anonymous No.6154062]

Ugly Beetie whispered harder now, "Hey. Put your fuckin' back up." Underneath, Vic's face was gaining color, and small beads of moisture had formed along his head's skin shining even in the darkness. But he was promised his fair share of viewing time, so he tensed his body honorably, down with his forearms and knees taking the weight of Ugly Beetie. Beetie was his friend, and his only friend at that, said Beetie. I got you in with Melissa, said Beetie, you owe me this one. Ugly had a deep tan and yellow hair always slicked back. Vic led him in from the maintenance room. They pressed along the back slit of a corridor that was the space between the parking lot's wall and the cardio area, feeling along until the air disappeared and in its place came layers of dust-coated piping, valves, and WARNING signage. The sound of steam, sweet enough to breathe, thought Ugly. The women's sauna.

Atop Vic, Ugly Beetie worked at the screws of a vent madly, swiping his forehead and licking under his nose. He blinked quickly and tried to make the muscles in his neck feel OK. Vic focused on getting into his paradise space, his therapist's advice for when he came under pressure. The Vic Wheel paradise space was mostly white and sandy with floating transparent images of good-looking women gliding around. The porn star Christy Saint as well as a young Parisian actress often made appearances. The vent face came undone. Ugly snugly tucked it in his lower back with his uniform polo, then with his widened stance crouched lower and rocked and put out his arms. "Cowa-fuckin-bunga motherfucker." "Cut it! Cut it Beet!" They whispered more at each other. He patted Vic and stuck his face and all fingers into the lit rectangle.

[The Little Ones (1 of 3) No.6154084]

“Alana sweetie, do you know what kind of pancakes you want to try this time?” I smile, looking down across the table at my daughter.
“Hmm… Root beer!” she says, beaming up at me. The hood of her tiny jacket is pulled in tight to keep her ears warm in the early morning’s cold. Wrapped around her head like this, her face is framed to look even smaller. Her eyes and mouth fill the remaining space making her visage almost nothing but smiles. It looks ridiculous, but she’s too young to notice, or care even if she did.
The waitress scribbles down our usual-unusual, “Sounds better than the barbeque ones you tried last week,” she tittles. She nods and moves off to have out order made. Every weekend I like to bring Alana with me for a morning out. We shop or go someplace like an arcade or the aquarium; but we always start by making the short trip here to have breakfast near the beach, and I let her pick or bring something to have added in with our pancake batter. Our favorite so far was Tootie Fruities cereal. She somehow liked them made with soy sauce, and mayonnaise-pancakes made us blech in synchrony, letting the mess fall from our mouths right back onto the plates. It was enough to keep us from using it in our sandwiches for a week.
I watch and we talk a bit while she colors on a drawing pad we brought along in that indelicate crayon-in-fist manner. It’s a mix of sea and beach life. I reach over and point at a group of flattish red circles with claws and three short legs.
“This is really close, but crabs are decapods. That means they have ten legs, including the claws.” She looks where I’m pointing and I can see her counting the legs in her head.
“Oh. Thanks daddy!”
After adding two legs to each of her crabs she stops and has to use both hands to lift her large cup of ice-water and take a sip. Placing it back down she turns her palms up to examine them, looking at the moisture on them and the cup.
“Daddy, why is the outside of the cup wet? Did they spill some when they filled it?”
“No sweetie,” I say, “it’s condensation.”
“Con…con-den…”
“Close, with an ‘s’, condensssation.”
“Oh.”
I pause trying to think of a way better way to explain it. “You know how the yard was wet this morning when we left? It’s like that.”
Her eyes widen. “Like the Faye?”
Groan. Some seedy idea watered by her mother, I’m sure. I love my wife, but I would prefer those British notions of myth and fancy she got from her own mother were taken less seriously.
“What do you mean, sweetie?”
“Mommy told me about them when they were in the mouse-wizard movie. They wake up in the mornings and cover the grass and flowers with water drops ‘cause plants need water.”
Ah, Fantasia. “Well sweetie, remember how when we made spaghetti you could see the water, the steam, coming off the pot when it was boiling?”
She nods, and gently pulls on the stings for her hood.

[The Little Ones (2 of 3) No.6154086]

>>6154084
“Well, that was a kind of evaporation. Because the pot of water was hot, it was putting water into the air, even though you can’t really see it unless there’s a lot. Condensation is like the reverse. Sometimes, when things are cold they pull the water from the air and it will stick or rest on things, like the outside of your glass.”
“Oh,” she says, “but what about the plants?”
I’m about to come up with some answer when our pancakes come and wipe the whole thing from her mind.
After we eat we walk along the beach back to the car in another lot. It’s not that far but it can take some time since we often we move at strolls pace, and stop to look at things, or play.
Alana comes running back to me from a short ways ahead and grabs my hand. “Daddy look, it’s The Little Mermaid!” She raises her other hand and points at an outcrop of rocks a little ways out. “It’s Ariel!”
“Sweetie,” I start, but when I catch what she’s pointing at I stop. My vision doesn’t tunnel, so much as become very pointed. All I feel is a small pocket of warmth, her hand in mine.
In a moment like this, you don’t notice the sudden absence of details from the outside world as much as it’s jarring return when it comes flooding back— the smell of the ocean, the sound of the waves—I hear my daughter crying out Ariel’s name.
There’s the figure of a pale young woman. Lying mostly on her back and turned away slightly on the jutting rocks, just above the breaking waves, she’s topless with a sangria hair and Kelly green leggings. It’s difficult to tell from here, but her head seems to be turned too far to the side, bending away at an odd angle. I feel as though a great iceberg was squeezed into that small frame out there among the rocks; a deep, cold thing to gaze upon, filling me with an urge to steer away.

[The Little Ones (3 of 3) No.6154094]

>>6154086
My daughter continues to pull toward her, waving and calling out for Ariel as I begin to see that the mermaid’s hair looks as though it were melting, spreading out from her head and being slowly washed away. A salty and coppery taste hovers over my tongue.
I don’t want the Disney version. What I think of is Hans C. Anderson, and how in his tale, when the little mermaid falls into the sea, dead, she turns to foam, leaving nothing to stumble on the next morning.
I stop and squeeze my daughter’s hand firmly. “Alana, honey; she traded away her voice, remember? She can’t answer.”
“Then why doesn’t she at least wave?”
I swallow, trying to pull back the particulars of each story. My heart thumps quickly and heavy, a sickening combination. “She has to keep an eye out for her prince. It’s very important she finds him, so she can’t be distracted right now.”
Without letting go I start walking perpendicular to the beach, I can feel her softly resisting, trying to think of something to say to get us to stop. “She doesn’t look like she’s looking for anyone, she’s just laying there. Maybe she’s still sad her dad broke all her treasures?”
Glancing back I watch the sea foam licking at the mermaid, without it ever swallowing and taking her from sight. That’s someone’s daughter too drifts through my mind. I struggle to think of anything to say so I just keep trudging away from the beach. “Dads don’t always know if they’ve done the right thing sweetie, but I’m sure he’ll realize what’s happened and try to make things better.” She looks away from our mermaid and up at me as we walk then gives one last quick look back before letting me lead her away.
I hear the gulls cawing overhead and I can’t help but want to think of them as daughters of air.

[Anonymous No.6154118]

Sometimes I am in Kansas
where the wheat shuffles
and where the people
also shuffle.

It is no disgrace
bending the gold grass
out of your way
when searching for foxes;
ruffling the hair of the world
is no crime.

In fact,
I have a strong suspicion
that he likes the attention
and that the gift
of seeing the locusts arise at daybreak
(the cloud of the godbuzz, the wind-whim)
is as sacred as any
haircut.

[Anonymous No.6154127]

>>6154118
i'm not a fan of the godbuzz and wind-whim together, you're starting to get too poetic. otherwise, good job.

[Anonymous No.6154145]

>>6154094
decent but i the last line wasn't satisfying for me. gulls are scavengers. they would be eating ariel.

[Anonymous No.6154147]

Chemo

Take
your hands and lay them flat on your ears
like you're trying to stop them from
hearing.

Then,
move those hands slowly in front of you like
you were holding an invisible
iceblock. (Good.)

Now,
that space in between your palms
is where everything goes
down.

Everything
you're gonna experience and think
is going to go on in
that little chunk of air.

Don't
forget this, son because
I'm going to have to go away
soon.

If you can carve a little space out for me in that space,
That's where I'll always be.

No matter what.

No matter goddamn what I will be there if you let me.

You just gotta spread your palms.

[Anonymous No.6154156]

>>6154118
The last lines (what are these called in english again?) are golden. Don't care for the rest.

[Anonymous No.6154161]

>>6154156
Stanzas?

[Anonymous No.6154165]

>post your work in thread
>it's neither good enough to garner praise nor bad enough to attract disdain
>alright then

[Anonymous No.6154168]

>>6154165
link and i'll crit

[Cake No.6154276]

I made a poem about roguelikes.

Go down the stairs, show them your might
Anger the other and give them a fight
Update your haul, down one more flight
Deeper to darkness then conquer the night

Vanquish the boss, enter the vault
Killed by a demon lord, player is fault
Player is fault. Player is fault.
Git gud 'til next time, it's always your fault.

[Anonymous No.6154320]

we made us then and all along
beyond white rush of water
and all the living sons of father's daughters
made them homeward with a shrug

the veil was lifted,
bridled linen torn
a shroud to drown away the outer:
hands in ash and cupping cheeks
the sigh of mothers

Babel's tainted, sooted drawers
the air in teak and leather
saintly heather for the altar
for the lain about the floor

again the rain's let in
the flood's all drew
the babble shook the roots from out her clasping

seven daughters swung to farther
lain as heather at the door,
no longer dancing

[Anonymous No.6154549]

[Anonymous No.6154550]

>>6154549

[Anonymous No.6154553]

>>6154550

[Anonymous No.6154774]

>>6152442
>5 replies and noone gets that this guy isn't being serious

[Anonymous No.6154794]

>>6154549
>>6154550
>>6154553
Jesus that's depressing

[Anonymous No.6154830]

>>6153864

[Anonymous No.6155181]

>>6152442
>>6154774
then it looks like he failed in his attempt at humor.

[Anonymous No.6155188]

>>6154830
Que?

[Anonymous No.6155257]

>>6154147
>If you can carve a little space out for me in that space

I see what your going for, really, but it sounds clunky.

I like it a lot otherwise, although it might be more poignant to just end with "That's where" or even "No matter what" but its still very effective.

[Anonymous No.6155270]

>>6154549
Don't start with such a silly cliche, just beginning with the second sentence says a lot more.

[Anonymous No.6155276]

Fierce night squalls cut through mortal frames, indifferent to the breaths they steal. Old and dead wood howls in protest at every shift in stance. The dark of night stretches out and moves within itself beyond the dim glow of a gaslamp. The weakening glow does some good in diffusing the dread which creeps up and out of the expanse of shadows, but is now sputtering its final flame. Laughing spirits dance at the edge of the dying glow, waiting for their chance to haunt. It is the order of night that only the dead can remain here now, exerting its massiveness upon any who seek to defy. This weight, and the realization that no one can be invited inside when no one is inside to begin with, signaled a movement into the house.

[Anonymous No.6155283]

>>6155276
Inside coarse light shifts, providing contrast under which shapes can be examined. The sagging furniture undisturbed for just short of eternity clings to just enough shape to keep from being indistinguishable heap. Moving more inward now, slowly as to not disturb the room from its ruin, more details come into focus. Dust pervades every inch of every surface, becoming ubiquitous with emptiness. The room offers a sense of what was once a home, but now only an echo. Stairs with no first step stretch to nowhere and doors with no handles lead to nothing, both existing in a space close enough to be seen but far enough that they will never be reached. The light, despite its shifts, fails to cast itself upon one corner, and in that corner the darkness is absolute. Turning away from it is useless, the way it exists so definitely, there is no way to fool oneself into believing it would not soon envelop all. Despite the inevitability of the darkness and of the ruin, the room continued to exist.

[Anonymous No.6155287]

>>6155283
In a moment where all the strangeness of the room culminated an overwhelming sense of clarity struck, "I am dreaming," and at once the fluidity and normality of the dream was ripped away from me leaving me bare, but lucid. It was violent, the insanity of the room that I had once accepted now left me blinded. When I regained myself the darkness had crept over what was once visible and I turned further from its approach. I continued to turn until the room was whole again, the ruin had retreated in time and the echo of the home was no longer an echo but the fresh sound of life. In the room a mother and child existed. I was very emotional, the mother and child held such implicit admiration for each other and the room seemed to glow with such complete joy. The feeling of safety and compassion intoxicated me, and I became dreary with contentment. Turning my head I could see the child older now, and turning further I could see the child growing much taller and stronger, and turning furthermore I could see the child towering over the mother in stature. Turning back though was impossible as the darkness had began to envelop the room where the family once lived, and only by turning more and more could the ambition of the darkness be evaded. The child held the mother now, and then the child was alone. Terrified, and spinning wildly now, the darkness was complete and could no longer be escaped, shouting, and then nothing.

Just wrote this about a lucid dream I had last night. The plot may sound pretentious but its really just what I experienced.

[Cake No.6156132]

Naked feet tread through dreary vaults. A solitary pair, attached to the legs of a young woman. She knows of where to go, and of what fates await her. Determined. Lips form prayers to deities of days gone, lost to memory. This is what it all comes down to. The dreamy madness and dreadful truth, together suspending this single moment in strings of faulty time. Attached to space such as this no less. Formidably forgotten gargantuan halls and hallways. Official government grounds before its obsoletion. Once a bustling bureaucratic metropolis, now empty save for the decay and this single soul. Yet others gather, appearing out of view, moving just in the peripheral. Shallow shades follow the framework of the fallen hall, seeping through cracks and pores. Spilling out on to the stage. On to a new page. Her steps are followed, semi-thorough and all throughout. Out of sight and touch, of space and time. Never knowing, only needing. Not alone. Never.

I know not how it was before this moment. I’ll assume that she was born and raised much like her peers. That she lead a life with friendly faces and the sordid commotion of everyday trivialities. I hope that she experienced many delightful things to hold dear in her memory. And perhaps a handful undesirable evenings, to make those fond thoughts all the brighter in comparison. Of course, I do not know of any of this. We cannot know. The only constant is change, and our only truth is hers.

The light, pulsating from the paper lantern hanging low from the ceiling in the centre of the room, flickers. Not in a notably ominous way. But maybe ominous nonetheless. Clothes and books chaotically cover the floor along with a handful plastic mugs, a pile of pop-sci magazines, and a single monolithic server standing erect in one corner. The bed is unmade. Pale light pushes through the blinds, clashing with the fluttering glow of this system’s frail sun, casting curious patterns on the untouched walls. TV’s on. Static. The trash can is filled with wrappers and scrapped ideas. To its right we find a spit clean, pristine, immaculate desk wired up to the hottest thing on the market. In an equally impressive chair sits she, diligently working her way through gates and guards and god-knows-whats. A further fluttering is added to the room through the action on her display and the buzzing of the other screen. And from a set of headphones flow muffled wubs and dubs of electronic music. Dance-kind.

>These are the first 3 paragraphs for a short novel I'm working on. More importantly than anything else, does it catch your interest?

[Anonymous No.6156169]

>>6155270
Thanks.

[Anonymous No.6156217]

>>6152046
I'm trying to learn script. Not particuarly seriously (I'm sure my story conveys that) but with an interest at improving.
----

CUT TO GAME OF POOL, THAT SPANISH SONG FROM BREAKING BAD IS PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND
---

SAM: You ever thought of just starting your own religion?
MARSHALL: You mean a cult.
*Lines up shot, curls lips*
SAM: Well yeah. Interchangeable I suppose.
*Marshall sinks his ball, stands straight and looks in mild annoyance*
MARSHALL: Milky, why are you asking this?
SAM: I don't know. Just considering the option.
*Marshall walks over to white ball, continues to focus on the game*
MARSHALL: Don't be an idiot Milky.
*Again, Marshall begins to aim*
SAM: Why not?
*SAM throws off Marshall's shot, stands up again in even greater frustration*
MARSHALL: Why not?
SAM: Yeah. Why not?
MARSHALL: Why not? Christ your a moron.
SAM: Okay. But why not?
MARSHALL: Because it's stupid. The whole idea is stupid. You can't just decide to start a religion. And even if you did you would be terrible at it. You can't even get a girlfriend.
SAM: That's your opinion.
*Sam picks up his stick, begins to walk to white*
MARSHALL: That you don't have a girlfriend?
SAM: No. Not that. That I'm stupid. That's just your own subjective value imposed unto me.
MARSHALL: Are you on something mate?
*Sam carefully aims his shot, and chips the white off the green*
SAM: No. I could be. If I was really on something, I may not have even remembered taking it. But I don't think I am.
*Marshall walks over to Sam, for the white ball*
MARSHALL: Why do you want to start a religion anyway?
SAM: Why? Why not?
MARSHALL: Sam, seriously.
*Marshall sinks his next shot*
SAM: It could be fun. Just me, a few mates, some beers and a couple of hundred devoted followers.
MARSHALL: What would it be about?
SAM: I wouldn't tell them.
MARSHALL: You wouldn't tell them?
SAM: Yeah. It would add to the suspense.
MARSHALL: So what would you do?
SAM: Whatever I'm doing right now. I could be the religion, Marshall.
MARSHALL: Your not exactly an inspiring figure.
*Pockets another ball*
SAM: That's because I haven't started a religion yet.
*Marshall is focused on his next shot*
MARSHALL: Two more to go.
SAM: Jesus was a carpenter. He didn't have a girlfriend either.
*Marshall sinks his third shot in a row, triumphant now."
MARSHALL: Don't be an idiot again Sam. Please. Just let me beat you at pool.
SAM: Although he did hang out with that prozzer. And the whole water to wine stuff would have made him pretty popular at parties.
MARSHALL: Aren't you a Catholic? Actually, wait, don't answer that. Let me hit this.
*Silence, music switches to Dookie, Marshall chips his ball but narrowly misses the pocket*
SAM: Yeah. Jesus was a Jew though.
MARSHALL: Can you stop with the Jesus stuff?

[Anonymous No.6156222]

>>6156217
SAM: Sure. Let me lose to you at pool first.
*Sam hits his white, it completely goes off course and lands, without touching anything, at a perfect angle to Marshalls yellow*
MARSHALL: That's two shots to me you moron. You really want to start a religion?
SAM: Sure. Why not?
MARSHALL: Stop saying why not.
SAM: Sure.
MARSHALL: But your still serious about starting a religion?
SAM: Oh, I'm not serious about it.
MARSHALL: So why are you talking about it?
SAM: Because I'm going to start a religion.
MARSHALL: Your an idiot, you know that? An idiot. I don't know why we even play pool. You're terrible.
SAM: Jesus was arguably a terrible man as well.
*MARSHALL now slowly makes his way to white, confident he can sink both shots*
MARSHALL: Shut up. My shot's coming.

[Anonymous No.6156325]

>this criticism thread is for writers who have demonstrated some commitment and who have (hopefully) moved beyond the elementary stage

>implying there's a single person on /lit/ that can wrote a decent sentence

>implying /lit/ isn't completely filled with bottom-feeder day dreamers thinking they're the next DFW

>implying you have enough credibility to discern good writing from bad

>implying a set of rules will curb the inevitable torrent of shit that will flow down from this page

Get real m8, this is 4chan after all

[Cake No.6156340]

>>6156325
>shitposting instead of giving constructive criticism

You are part of the problem m80.

[Anonymous No.6156341]

>>6156217
>>6156222
if you're a high school sophomore who won't shut up about Tarantino, this is really good :)

[Anonymous No.6156343]

>>6156132
Gotta be honest anon, it didn't really, and I think I gave it a fair shot. I don't hate it and some turns of phrase were cool but I wasn't motivated to read the 3rd paragraph. Take this with a grain of salt though cause I'm just another wannabe il/lit/erate writer.

[Anonymous No.6156346]

>>6156132
>A solitary pair, attached to the legs of a young woman.
>Determined.
>Formidably forgotten gargantuan halls and hallways.

Using short, deliberate sentence fragments to communicate the presence of an object or a mental state is probably the laziest, most pseudo-literary technique imaginable. Whenever I see this, I can hardly contain my rage because I know that whoever is writing it has read enough literature to think that they're entitled to use this sort of experimentation, but too self-deluded to realize that it's a complete shit technique in terms of syntax and rhythm.

>Spilling out on to the stage
>On to a new page

You can't be fucking serious.

[Cake No.6156349]

>>6156343
>>6156346
Thanks for the honesty. In to the trash it goes.

[Anonymous No.6156350]

>>6155287
>and at once the fluidity and normality of the dream was ripped
>fluidity and normality

>starting two consecutive sentences with "Turning"

Anon, OP asked for writing that you have actually edited. Not only did you ignore that, but it's dreadful.

[Anonymous No.6156361]

>>6156349
There is hope for you if you stay humble. I'm only being an asshole because the internet is the only place you can be honest, while the whole writing class/MFA culture is afraid to say anything negative.

My advice to you: focus on developing a simpler, less illusory style. See how writers like Dostoevsky, Borges, Flannery O'Connor craft imagery and character with relatively simple word choice and syntax. Best of luck

[Anonymous No.6156368]

Like many people, Paula Austin Bayer feared what she did not understand, which in her case meant that she feared almost everything. But, as she would tell anyone willing to listen, all her fears were founded on common sense, and that was something most could not say. Simply put, she had an intuition better than anyone else’s of how just any situation could turn dangerous, even the ones that appeared innocent at first. For instance—and this was the story she always used to prove her point—it was this intuition that saved her home from being crushed by a tree. When she and Henry first moved to New Wansaw, there was an old oak (or maybe a pine) outside the house left from the previous owners, and after taking one look at it she knew it had to be cut down. Even though it was healthy enough, she just didn’t feel safe around it until it lay in piles chopped up by chainsaws. And sure enough, two months later a windstorm swept through their suburb with such ferocity that it knocked down several trees, including one that fell on their neighbor’s house. “Imagine if that was ours,” she said to Henry as they stood watching cleanup crews sift through rubble at the crying side of the family. “That could have easily been our tree.”

[Anonymous No.6156500]

>>6156341
I actually based it off Catch-22.

It's my first time with script but I'm happy you took the time to say anything.

[Anonymous No.6156508]

>>6156325

>projecting this hard

;)

[Anonymous No.6156521]

T-thanks for making me feel a little less self-conscious about my writing, /lit/.

[Anonymous No.6156533]

>>6156350
Thanks for taking a look. I am very much a beginner so I appreciate you taking a look even if you think its shitty. :^)

[Anonymous No.6156539]

>>6156521
Why not post some then!

[Anonymous No.6156543]

>>6156539
Maybe if I ever get past the first chapter without scrapping it all and starting over.
Seven pages in this time, so it could happen soon.

[Anonymous No.6156547]

>>6156543
Post the first few lines, you're anonymous, you don't even have to come back and look at what people said. If you're still afraid realize you're never going to be able to send your work to a publisher if you're too afraid to send it anonymously.

[Anonymous No.6156550]

>>6154549
bretty goud

[Anonymous No.6156554]

>>6156543
post the best sentence in it then. even if you already think it's shit, why not let us confirm it? stop being a little bitch.

[Anonymous No.6156562]

>>6152046
Marie traced the rim of the glass to steady herself. These fingers, she thought, these fingers are circuited to this glass. This glass, Marie thought, can cut and will not unless I strike it. We are symbiotically ensnared. Marie liked the glass. It was domestically threatening; disarmingly see-through and prickly if cracked. She did not realize the similarities. Marie merely liked it.

Marie was drunk and infatuated with the nearly empty glass. She had put on her mother’s albums and was listening to St. James Infirmary Blues. It was not a happy song and Marie enjoyed it. Marie had situated herself within leaping distance of her open apartment window and lurched and churned at the ugly lights of cars and rooms outside. Marie imagined the lives of every person below, poorly, and wondered if they too really felt so similarly to she. Marie wished that people would have the decency to die after her. The bad wine had left her with mildly entertained thoughts of suicide and Marie swayed by the window, taking in the minted breaths of wind and alcohol.

If I leapt, Marie thought, I could hold onto this glass. We could shatter together, she thought, and people would think, “Oh. Another silly drunk.” and that would be it. Marie gave this situation a great deal of imagination, allowed the tragedy to develop in her head. The passer-bys, Marie thought, would be so mildly shocked and at work they would look out of their own windows and think of what the jump would feel like, the thoughts and concrete that would slam into them and crack out their vesseled lives. And then, Marie smiled, more dreamed passer-bys would see the imagined bodies and they too might give thoughts of their own jumping. Marie was pleased with this analogy and her drunken thoughts forgot the glass in her hands and it blew with a crystal smack.

Marie leapt and nearly put her postulations to proof, as shards and wine mixed below her bare tights. Closing the window, Marie hopped to her sofa and cradled her left foot, cursing and biting her lip. Marie fawned over her toes, tracing the rim of her nails to steady herself as she pulled out splinters of glass. Marie reached for the bottle of Fairbank Pinot Noir 2013 and slowly poured a small thimble worth over her most damaged areas, hissing and cursing again. I’d like to, Marie thought, just once she mused, really try and jump. Just to see if I have it in me.

[Anonymous No.6156586]

>>6156547
>>6156554
"Consciousness was circling above me as a I fell to life. The floor was unwelcoming but nice, speaking with muffled voices. Nothing inside me wanted to move so I lied in paralysis."

Pretty much right after the intro which I'm still meh about. Not my best because I really don't know what is.

[Anonymous No.6156590]

>>6156562
Competent, but uninteresting. If I were you, I'd go for more of a free indirect discourse style and get rid of all the "Marie thought." What you have introduced about the character is alright (I take her to be an immature, impulsive person), but I had no sense of why she was thinking of killing herself (even if she was completely not serious about it). Overall--meh, but you might have something here.

[Anonymous No.6156596]

>>6156586
Relies too heavily on unclear metaphorical imagery. The floor is "speaking with muffled voices"? What does that mean? You're trying so hard to be literary you abandoned being clear.

[Anonymous No.6156600]

>>6156596
That's pretty much my whole style I've taken to. And it just means people are talking downstairs.

[Anonymous No.6156603]

>>6156590
It was my first proper time with third person so I sort of tried to cross breed Camus and Hemmingway.

I have a similar piece where I try dialogue if you'd be cool enough to critique it.

[Anonymous No.6156610]

>>6156600
In that case, something like "the floor spoke the muffled voices downstairs" works better while retaining the image. I don't even really like my own example, but you probably get the picture.

[Anonymous No.6156611]

>>6156562

>Marie traced the rim of the glass to steady herself

To steady her thoughts.

One is inclined to imagine she is about to trip over, and the only way to regain balance is to trace the rim of a glass.

Also try not to repeat words and phrases too much in section - por ejample ;steady herself' and 'thought', also more similes and less thinly veiled self loathing and suicidal ideation.

[Anonymous No.6156612]

>>6156368
I like it anon. Can you post more?

[Anonymous No.6156614]

>>6156610
It makes better sense with more context, I just really like esoteric imagery.

[Anonymous No.6156617]

>>6156603
>breed Camus and Hemmingway
>Hemmingway

If there is anything that isn't Hemmingway its what you wrote.

[Anonymous No.6156621]

>>6156603
If it's not too long, go ahead.

[Anonymous No.6156627]

>>6156612
Appreciated.

Untold numbers of disasters had been averted due to her instincts. Given the simplest household items, her mind could derive endlessly the ways each, by itself or in collaboration with others, could maim or kill in just the right circumstance. This was the universe’s nasty secret: everything had the potential to kill. Even those products touted as “safe” harbored all manner of hidden dangers, like baby toys that could be choked on or electronics that could course voltage through their users or the very real possibility that most surfaces would prove poisonous if licked. Statistics, which usually tried to argue that she would never experience these disasters, were of no use to her. She held the firm belief that her family was extraordinary, which meant that it was perfectly reasonable for them to be involved in some extraordinarily unlikely accident. Life was a precarious balance between innumerable forces competing for her and her family’s demise—only her vigilance guarded them from lapsing into fatal carelessness. And they were grateful for it—after all, they were still alive.

[Anonymous No.6156629]

Submission to computers is not submission to computers but surrendering to an elite power. Computers cannot themselves read your emotions, do not themselves analyze data, do not themselves wish you well. Nay, computers are a dead object following command after command, command written to it by one, or multiple persons. They suck data – memories, faces, actions, words, and feed it to a central database - no; that database is neither it’s own entity; merely a vessel, a tool - the lens through which the people who control you are able to see into your living room, work place, every breathing air space. Once they know you, once they watch you, they can govern actions by safely predicting reactions. The essence of global control lies in the ability to mobilize swathes of people. When we strip down the individuality of the individual he is more likely to submit to the group in order to obtain self-identification, self validation, comradeship. We see idolization at every corner – look to the idols of youth! Mass media conglomerates are the collective soul who decides who is worshiped and at what time. In this way it is able to parse the youth into categories of identification and lead the direction in which these once individuals now group seekers are to take.
When you see how mass conglomerates father the youth you say that’s all well and good, it is only mild directing and for the greater good; the greater good being the survival of a great economy i.e the ability to provide for the sick and vulnerable. One might say it is harmless fun, and another might choose to agree, but when you see the methods put in place to harmlessly lead the youth into buying ‘things’ and apply those methods to transactions of faith you suddenly have quite a volatile package. Here we’re speaking of religion and absolute faith, and the true ridiculousness of a multi-faith society. Media conglomerates are successful due to their ability to mobilize persons into submitting their thought and will to their will and thought. Religions are successful due to their ability to mobilize persons into submitting their will and thought.
One may argue both institutions are merely giving people what they want, but for them to keep a steady profit they would gain from having people think in the same ways; If they think in the same ways, they want in the same ways; when they want in the same ways, they consume in the same way, they act in the same ways – they are driven by the same thing. Once control of that drive has been gained, an unstoppable force is created; a juggernaut of elitism grips the force and directs it for its own profit and its own profit only.

[Anonymous No.6156633]

>>6156621
Cheers man
-

___Ayo

__
----------------------------------------------

Marie smiled to herself, watching her teeth move as she spoke to Mark from the empty restaurant bathroom.

"I don't see what the fuss is about. Honestly, it's all worry."

She heard Mark's distant reply from behind the door, ignoring the croaked concern while she followed her eyes in the mirror.

"I don't know. People are worried though. It's odd, Mary, it's just odd."

Marie's dry hands reached to turn off the tap as she walked out, scolding Mark as she left into the bare yellow hall.

"It's Mar-ie now. 'ey' . Like the french do it."

Mark and Marie walked back in silence, the buzzing orange of the lights above stinging Mark's eyes as they sat. Marie played with her food, prodded and poked it as she drank.

"So you finally got me out."

He paused, then sat firmly as he talked. Marie followed his face, amused by the tightening lines folding around his mouth.

"You can't live like this. You don't get to shut off."

"I can," Marie paused while she gulped, holding her eyes to him as she poured and talked, "Do whatever I like. How I like."

"With your methods, Mary, you won't be doing it for long."

Marie smiled to herself. He had seen her absence as a cry for help. Mark was dumb with concern and Marie watched as her teeth moved and dug deeper.

She raised her eyes, glass and pitch as she tucked in, "Methods?"

"You don't go out. You don't eat. You don't talk. Mary, please, what the hell is so wrong?"

"Mar-ey, Mark. As in, 'Merry-go-round'. Like the French say-"

"I don't give a shit about the French, Mary," Mark started and grew his jaw out as he continued, "Marie, I give a shit about you. You're a mess."

Marie swayed back, taking in the sickness of the drink and light, the silence of forks,spoons, plates and the still of the cars parked outside. She had him.

"Maybe I am a mess. Maybe that's just how I should be. I'm a mess of evidence. A testament to a second rate author."

Mark said nothing, stirred the ice in his glass and spoke to the table.

"You need therapy."

Marie stood with her mouth full as she walked out, pretended the last drops of wine were blood in her lungs. Mark was still stirring when she left. He had bitten too.

There was cold outside and Marie let the wine and blood smoke out from her pursed lips. Marie had no money and no car and stumbled quickly past the restaurant, the glazed yellow of the lights stinging her eyes as she moved. The idiot, Marie thought, the idiot really does think I need help. Marie felt the cool dry of the outside frost her lungs as she made her way home, her hands and nose already a tinted rose.

[Anonymous No.6156637]

>>6152046

How's this for a character introduction?

Sol was laying down, both hands cushioning his head, feet crossed at the ankles. The racing thoughts that often plagued him began to drain away from his mind, like blood draining from the face of the newly bereaved, or greasy dishwater disappearing into an unblocked pipe. ‘These were the holistic qualities of nature that were so frequently celebrated.’ He thought as he consciously felt his heart-rate slow down as he began to examine the different species of tree he could not identify. He closed his eyes and began to take stock of his life. A smirk flitted across his face as he thought: ‘It is only when one removes himself from his life that he can gain perspective on it.’ The irony amused him. Irony had always amused him.
Like the blood that had previously drained from the face of the newly bereaved, but which would return in the midst of a playful phone argument with a close friend over the superiority of one experimental rock band over another, or like the sink which showed its potential to, without warning, regurgitate sewage in a torrential stream, nervous thoughts returned to Sol. He thought about how his whole life laid ahead of him, every decision having an exponential effect on his future.

[Anonymous No.6156678]

>>6156633
I like the dialogue itself. You avoid the major downfall of most amateur dialogue: having the characters divulge too much. I liked how at first Mark was trying to be more tactful about mentioning her mental illness (good choice on not mentioning it directly.) It's pretty good throughout, but the end needs tightening--the line "I don't give a shit about the French, Mary. Marie, I give a shit about you," is honestly pretty cringey imo, a sore thumb sticking out amongst otherwise good dialogue. Sounds like you just tried to be a bit too clever for what the situation needs.

That being said, you have way too much prose in between your speech. If you look at how it's formatted, you'll see that after almost every line of dialogue, you have a sentence of description that's longer than the previous line. This makes it hard to follow what was just said by the time you get to the character's response. Don't focus too hard on the environment--if you need to, introduce the important details before their conversation. In terms of character action between lines, cut until only what is essential (i.e. what cannot be communicated by their speech alone). For instance, "Marie's dry hands reached to turn off the tap as she walked out, scolding Mark as she left into the bare yellow hall" can be shortened to, "Marie's dry hands reached to turn off the tap as she walked out," because we know from the tone of her response that she's scolding him. I'd even get rid of "dry" because it confuses me that she wasn't washing her hands. What was she doing then? You don't explain, so I'm left to wonder, which distracts from the dialogue.

Anyway, I liked your dialogue a lot better than your first post. Just focus on what the characters are saying above else. You've got enough skill to provide insights into their character from how they're talking, which is something many writers fail at. Focus on this strength.

[Anonymous No.6157035]

>>6154320

anyone? I know I've posted this a thousand times before

[Anonymous No.6157325]

meh

[Anonymous No.6157498]

>>6154320
>>6157035
i'm not sure what you're trying to say. poems aren't supposed to be puzzles to solve. you need to rethink your approach.

[Anonymous No.6157513]

>>6157498

read more

[Anonymous No.6157528]

>>6157513
that's not going to fix your poetry

[Anonymous No.6157537]

>>6157528

it doesn't need fixing

[Anonymous No.6157540]

>>6157537
good luck with your writing

[Anonymous No.6157541]

>>6157540

good luck with your reading

[Anonymous No.6157550]

>>6157541
>asks for criticism
>can't take criticism
ok. have fun with that

[Anonymous No.6157553]

The Easter Rising of 1916 was one of many revolts that occurred in Ireland under the British Crown. The revolt was a major attempt at establishing an independent Irish State that was free from British influence. Notable uprisings like the Fenian Rising, and Irish Confederate Wars all failed. What made the Easter Rising different from the massive amount of former attempts at Irish Independence? The Rising failed at its goal of independence, and in fact inadvertently lead to a short term crack down on Dublin City. The thing that set the actions of the men during 1916 apart from the other revolts; the leaders of the revolt caused a shift in the average Irishman's opinion on Britannia. John Maxwell's brutal crack down on the leaders of the attempted revolution created resentment and anger toward the British in Ireland. Groups like the Irish Volunteers and Sinn Fein started to gain popular support1, where before they had lacked any real political power. This particular rebellion would become a successful failure, due to its impact in starting the Irish Revolution.

[Anonymous No.6157557]

>tfw my OC was ignored in another thread
I know it's kind of shit, but I wasted way too much time writing it to not have least have a few anons tell me to kill myself.

>>6156476

[Anonymous No.6157558]

>>6157550

'It's too complicated you need to change your approach because it's not easy enough for me to read' isn't much of a criticism

tell it to Faulkner and Pynchon and Joyce

[Anonymous No.6157561]

>>6153864
Sum1 pls (only response is questionable)

[Anonymous No.6157584]

>>6157558
i've read faulkner, pynchon, and joyce. you fancy yourself comparable to them? ok.

[Anonymous No.6157592]

>>6157584

not remotely. I'm curious as to why your '2deep4me' criticism only applies to poetry on /lit/ and not to well-established literary authors

[H.Q.S.$.G No.6157600]

>>6157558
Here, I'll tell you why you should kill yourself in a nifty little rap because I'm slightly drunk.

Listen, you aint no Faulkner, you aint no Joyce,
Trashin' your poem is your only choice
It's pure shit, filtered poop
It's clear from your poem that you're a poetry noob

Ambiguous periphrasis is your game
Anonymous homo faggot is your name
This dude can't rhyme, his imagery is whack
This poem looks like it dropped from between my crack

The veil was lifted? How cliché
I know where to go if I need lessons in being gay
Nobody cares about your poem
And all the gay shit goin on in your dome

If you can't handle the bantz, get the fuck out
Cause my bars are heavy and they bump real loud
Your poem tries too hard and you shouldn't be proud
It's like whippin out ur tiny dick and expecting us to be wow'd

[Anonymous No.6157621]

>>6153864
>>6157561
I have only niggling complaints with your prose, as it's actually quite nice and appealing to the eye. I don't think it's necessary to mention the living room was enclosed, as 99% of people would assume a living room would be enclosed anyway, I'd recommend dropping that line and just have the character enter his "trance" or daydream or whatever the fuck's happening in this passage, only to be "awakened" by the sound of the smoke alarm in his apartment, which would still convey to the reader that the living room was poorly ventilated and filled with smoke without sounding too awkward while simultaneously breaking the MC away from his daydream. Of course, I could be missing the point of the passage entirely and the MC could be doing hallucinogenic drugs, in which case you're more than welcome to tell me to hang myself with an extension cord. It's really hard to critique that small of a passage as I'm not entirely sure what his daydream is alluding to, but I will say what little you gave me is fairly intriguing and relatively well written.

[Anonymous No.6157673]

>>6157621
Holy shit, I'm genuinely retarded, I didn't realize he was watching a TV show, I somehow gathered that he was just staring at the wall and daydreaming with TV noise in the background. In that case, I'd add a line about the little man being unaware of the fact that he's being watched by a boy in a smoke-filled room to clarify he's watching TV.

[Anonymous No.6157676]

>>6157621
I mainly included that part to demonstrate his feeling of entrapment, but I can see how it's unnecessary. I could easily demonstrate that some other way.

The part about him daydreaming is correct, but it's mainly about his homosexuality, and the alienation he feels because of his distance from the one he determined was his love, even though it is both clearly unrequited and possibly an idea rather than a reality.

[Anonymous No.6157689]

>>6157600

fuck off moron
your routine is nauseating

I'm not surprised that nobody can handle a decent poem itt

[H.Q.S.$.G No.6157696]

>>6157689
Hate the game not the playa. It's not our fault your poem is fucking garbage.

[Anonymous No.6157708]

>>6157676
Fug, I'm really confused now, is the MC watching television or is he daydreaming, as I initially thought? If he's daydreaming then I'd definitely reccomend have something "awaken" him other than an advert because it gives the impression he was watching a television show that was cutting for a commercial break. If he was watching a television show, reaffirm it by including the line about the man in the desert being unaware of his audience, or something to that effect.

[Anonymous No.6157718]

>>6157592
i can tell what they're trying to say.

i'm not saying you're deep. i'm saying you lack clarity. you might know what you're trying to say but we don't.

[Anonymous No.6157724]

>>6157708
He's both. He's watching TV, but it's mainly just a program playing in the background. I'd say it's more of a distraction from his pain.

The desert man is meant to be a man he loved, who was in the military, who is killed. But even as his love dies, the main character has no effect on the dying man's life, which is supposed to show his alienation. It's a bit short, I'm not surprised if it's ambiguous at best.

[Anonymous No.6157729]

>>6157600

LOL THIS IS BAD

[Anonymous No.6157730]

How does this go as far as 2deep4u poetry? I'm not the guy from before.

1/2

[Anonymous No.6157735]

>>6157730
2/2

[Anonymous No.6157743]

>>6157718

I don't see the point in writing poetry to spoonfeed a reader who can't think

maybe that's just me, I don't cater to the need for clarity of an imagined audience.

[H.Q.S.$.G No.6157745]

>>6157729
it's supposed to be, I wrote it in like four minutes and I'm not sober. u lookin to have a rap battle m8? i'll give you the heavy bars if ur lookin to get bodied sonny

[Anonymous No.6157759]

>>6157724
Oh well, as I said before, your prose is respectable enough barring a few awkward lines (sitting stiffly? uncaring heaviness?) but I really think the passage you provide is far too small for any reasonable critique beyond what I've already given you.

[Anonymous No.6157771]

>>6157557
I didn't actually read it, but kill yourself anyway you fucking fruit loop.

[H.Q.S.$.G No.6157780]

>>6157743
1. you're not important enough for anyone to dig through your ambiguous poop soup of a poem to find whatever gay theme you"re trying to express
2. good poets are able to find a balance between clarity and ambiguity. keep the reader interested without blowing their fucking craniums wide open with bullshit. keeping it on the tip of their tongue, so to speak
3. poems aren't the literary equivalent of puzzles. they're not meant to be solved. you shouldn't have to do any spoonfeeding nor should the reader habe to do any piecing together, or in your case wading through. if you want to write puzzles in verse form the by all means go for it but don't be surprised when nobody reads your shit because it's not worth their time. any theme or idea you're trying to express has been expressed with more clarity and more eloquence by plenty of better writers before you and I so what do I gain from working my way through this thing from some noname writer? absolutely nothing

[Anonymous No.6157788]

>>6156562
>passer-bys
Passers-by is the plural
>dreamed passer-bys
Dreamt passers-by

Otherwise, stet. 9/10

[Anonymous No.6157806]

>>6157743

When somebody is saying you lack clarity, they're saying your poem's language isn't interesting enough to warrant extended thought, ala the many, many mediocre poets in the Little MagazInes across time and America, or the ideas behind it are such a shambles that the poem ends up meaning nothing despite evoking phrasing, ala T.S Eliot imitators. Of course, most poets on /lit/ can't even write decent prose, so I wouldn't expect them to be capable of clear, coherent systems of belief, let alone systems of belief that permit the profound vagaries and ambiguities of great poetry.

[kitty !kitty/EnNg No.6157807]

>>6157730
>>6157735
i like what you are trying to do even though im not sure if i like the result, the second part is better, regardless it's all way too puzzling

[Anonymous No.6157822]

>>6157806

BTW your poem reads like a shitty version of Bells for John Whitside's Daughter. And by that I mean you sound like John Crowe Ransom's minor work, but you lack his well-tuned ear and sense of irony.

[Anonymous No.6157823]

BOOM! THATS THE Sound of YOU LOFE ENDINF? GONE IN AN INSTANT, VICTIME TO THE POWER OF A .45 slug delivered from a 5.5 inch barrel. that's how long it takes to kill a man, and Lance Corporal Gunner Sargent MacTacisvish of the 145th airborne division in the British Royal Navy was no stranger to killing people, and his dreams were of haunting because of his kills.

[Anonymous No.6157849]

Starting in about the third paragraph of a short story, only about 5k words. Does this do anything for anyone, or is it super overwritten and fucking stupid? I'm critical as fuck, you should be too.

[Anonymous No.6157876]

>>6157849
>yellow safe-haven
Anon…

[Anonymous No.6157882]

>>6157743
there's a difference between spoonfeeding and being deliberately opaque. you're obviously a beginning writer. you're going to have to learn how to take criticism and not blame readers for your writing.

like i said, good luck with your writing.

[Anonymous No.6157894]

>>6157876
Yeah. it's bad. that's why I'm asking. more clarity then? less rewording for simple concepts?

[Anonymous No.6157902]

>>6157730
you may know what it's supposed to mean but to us it's mostly random.

[Anonymous No.6157919]

>>6157882

your critique is shit and you don't know how to read, I'm sorry

>boo hoo it's deliberately opaque! brevity and clarity are key for great writing!

step up faggot

[Anonymous No.6157922]

>>6157919
like i said, good luck with your writing.

[Anonymous No.6157926]

>>6157780

>clarity
>eloquence
>the poem should flow good!

just stop, you're an embarrassment

>>6157806

>a poem has clarity if the language is interesting enough for the reader

what are you even saying?

[Anonymous No.6157929]

>>6157922

good luck with your shit reading and your blanket criticism, as I've said

[Anonymous No.6157946]

>>6157929
let us know when your first collection comes out

[H.Q.S.$.G No.6157947]

>>6157926
i take solace in the fact that i know that nobody beyond your own mother (and even that's questionable) will ever enjoy anything you ever write and if they say they do I know they're only saying it because they don't want to hurt your feelings. haha

>my critics are all saying the same thing
>they're wrong tho lol they just dln't know anything
I rememeber when I was seventeen too lol

honestly it was a 5/10 at best, at least you tried

[Anonymous No.6157948]

>>6154320

You need to re-read for spelling.

Bridled linen torn should be bridle linen torn, if you're referencing the hymen.

>doesn't need fixing

Faggot.

[Anonymous No.6157953]

>>6157926

You missed the "or."

Let me spoonfeed for you: phrasing such as your critics indicates

1. Your poem's language is boring.

OR

2. Your poem is incoherent, though some of the language MAY be interesting in itself.

You don't seem to be interested in finding out what this person is feeling, rather you just dismiss them because you feel you only belong to the elect reader (who you almost certainly define as "the sort of person who likes my poems.")

Your response indicates that you really want praise, not criticism.

[Anonymous No.6157961]

>>6154553
i liked it, I even read it all

[Anonymous No.6157964]

>>6157961
>I even read it all
That's a first for a /lit/ critique thread

[Anonymous No.6157975]

>>6157948

the linen is bridled. it's not bridle linen being torn. it's bridled linen.

[Anonymous No.6157988]

>>6157953

I can't really disagree with anything you said
I'll take a fresh look at my approach
thanks

[Anonymous No.6158004]

>>6157975
Not whoever that is just jumping in....I'm not sure how, or why exacly, one would bridle linen, apart from perhaps in flax form? A bridle of linen itself bridling more linen seems like an image which would require a strong context regardless.
However, I believe you meant "it's not bridal linen being torn.", as in a trousseau, rather than the unusual material "bridle linen", which one assumes must be sold at ren faires and fetish events for those ill informed on horsemanship or with collector interest.

[Anonymous No.6158246]

>>6157948

I am a faggot for not re-reading my own post for spelling.

Coorection: >bridal linen torn, if you're referencing the hymen.

[Anonymous No.6158298]

>>6152080
I think it should read "the reasoning for this was twofold"

[Anonymous No.6158308]

>>6152144
god fucking damn this is so cliche and stupid.
>left a hue in me
so many syntactical errors
the color things are an attempt at being cute
the tone shift on line eleven doesnt work

[Anonymous No.6158311]

>>6152080
I THIS. I THAT. I THIS. I THAT. I. I. I. I. I. I. I. I. I. I. I.
thanks for the fucking history of mailboxes as well.

[Anonymous No.6158316]

>>6152351
>that simile in the second paragraph
you already overly established the image, you dont need to establish it again. everyoneknows what a fucking envelope looks like. you have to explain the color? fucking white? how fucking boring, say eggshell or some shit.

your narrative distance is at an extreme close up. fucking back up and give the reader some space.

hsong is an awkward name to read.

the language is not interesting at all , its some guy talking about paper for two pages. give the reader a reason to read

[Anonymous No.6158321]

>>6152516
this guy knows what is up

if you dont like the specifics he is basically telling you to show and not tell your reader what is going on.
telling: THE CAT IS BLACK, THE CAT PURRS THE CAT ALSO JUMPS.
showing: the cat then jumped off of my lap leaving black hairs across my khaki pants.
some shit like that

[Anonymous No.6158323]

>>6157849
i like the voice and attitude, but you are trying too hard to be vague
also the dialogue isnt believable

[Anonymous No.6158327]

>>6154320
this is fucking boring

livings sons of fathers daughters

what a stupid way to say grandfather and mother.


"my foots cases underwear need to be cleaned."
WOW

[Anonymous No.6158335]

>>6156614
well you can like it but it doesnt work lul
you still have to make it readable.
mix that stupid shit in.

[Anonymous No.6158338]

Wedding Vows

I take you, my angel
whom I have endulged my true essence.
For years we’ve been matched so strong

A beautiful home built our love,
little puppy helped grow the love
Purity, has been our threshold

This beautiful ring, represents us
soon becoming one.

Internally flawless stone,
A grade below lacking color
Brilliance unlike another
FIRE, radiates from your finger

You will now be mine
Forever forth,
And each other’s first
You, me and our pup,
Side by side
I will hold on to your soul.

Children we shall bare.
Welcome into our hearts.
Half of what is mine,
Is now graciously yours

We separate, only but, for one night

Buddie is perched and panting,
in his charcoal coat tails,
I put on my velvet bowtie,
An etched vest, to match
your vanilla silk dress.
Hundreds gather,
To witness our allegiance.
White Wicker Chairs,
Pomegranate scented candles.

I place my soul
Onto your finger
You look into my eyes, a teary bellow,
“I DO.”

“Are there any objections to why
these two shall not be wed?”

Our justice of the peace proclaims.

A moment of silence.
A buzzing anticipation of joy.
A bead of sweat percolates on my brow.

“Then, by the power invested in me, I now
pronounce you man and wife.”

Grandma’s hazel eyes glaze over
Rice showers over us, followed by
The clank of aluminum cans.

Now that we are wed,
and head to our chambers
I tenderly place you on the
burgundy heart-shaped bed.

As you shed your white gown
an aura illuminates the room
just as I place my soul into you.
Our flowers finally bloom.

this perfect moment,
together we become one
and reach the peak, collapse,
hold each other close.
our breathing softens,
lay the most beautiful kiss
together and snuggle as our
hearts beat in unicen,
my hands trail your body
a kick drums inside your stomach
now grinning bigger than ever,
Our lives are everything we
Have hoped for.

[Anonymous No.6158354]

>>6157919
>>6157929
>>6157743
you are a fucking idiot
everyone is giving you decent advice and you wont take it.

there is a difference between attempting to be clever and actually being clever while still being interesting and understandable.

[Anonymous No.6158372]

>>6158354
I don't know who you are or what he posted, but that is the worst way to give advice. You simply give input, and if you whine if he doesn't take it, then you're a little bitchboy who is sad that you couldn't affect someone else's writing.

[Anonymous No.6158397]

>>6158372
if you find the paper trail you will see how butthurt the author is over constructive criticism. i was commenting on their argument

[Anonymous No.6158417]

>>6157961
Holy fuck I'm flattered with the responses I've been getting, and appreciate the criticism I got as well. Thanks /lit/.

[Anonymous No.6158438]

>>6158417
I think I'll keep posting.

[Anonymous No.6158446]

>>6158438

[Anonymous No.6158451]

>>6158446

[Anonymous No.6158455]

>>6158451

[Anonymous No.6158458]

>>6158455

[Anonymous No.6158464]

>>6158458

[Anonymous No.6158468]

>>6158464

[Anonymous No.6158471]

>>6158468

[Anonymous No.6158474]

>>6158471

[Anonymous No.6158476]

>>6158338
>Children we shall bare

Don't post pics, or the FBI will be round.

[Anonymous No.6158684]

>>6158354

I see no decent advice

>>6158397

or constructive criticism, just basic aphorisms about 'clarity' or 'eloquence' that don't really mean anything

[Anonymous No.6158841]

>>6158684
Your writing is bad and you should feel bad. When people try and help you, you get super defensive, I wonder what a sad sack you are in real life. They're right you know, the writing is trying too hard to be deep and no amount of posturing can make anyone think it's good.

[Anonymous No.6158858]

>>6154320
sounds horrible phonetically

[Anonymous No.6159334]

>>6158323
thank you, this is very helpful.

[Anonymous No.6159489]

>>6158684
u r gonna make it big in the world. what is ur name so i can keep my eyes out when i look at the oprah best sellers list.

[Anonymous No.6159566]

>>6152434
am I reading the same poem? this is not a sestina

[Anonymous No.6159573]

>>6159566
he meant to reply to
>>6152226

[Anonymous No.6159585]

>>6158308
What's wrong with the syntax?

[Anonymous No.6159728]

>>6159585
the flow is awkward
if you carry a sentence onto the next line it would make the rhyme less heavy.

id recommend just starting a new poem

[Anonymous No.6159748]

>>6159728
Thank you

[Anonymous No.6159790]

A brief character introduction I've done

[Anonymous No.6159791]

>>6156637

Can someone critique me pls?

[Anonymous No.6159839]

>>6159790

>His aesthetics emphasised intellect
Trying too hard, use words that feel at home in fiction, not in academic papers.

>many, many
Awkward. Be straightforward.

>he thought to himself
When is it that you think something to someone else?

>collected himself
duplication of verb + himself

Do intellectuals typically have skin hardened like leather?

Other than that, passable.

[Anonymous No.6159864]

>>6159790
>Arthur, still hovering his desk - was in the process of sketching something with a worn pencil.

You can't change how you separate the clause like that. Either you have a comma on each side of 'still hovering over his desk' or a dash on each side. You can't start with a comma and end in a dash, it makes no sense.

[Anonymous No.6159867]

>>6159790

Can paper be intuitive? 3/10

[Anonymous No.6159901]

>>6156637
i'm bad at this but i'll try

use a different word for draining in the line starting "The racing thoughts that often/ plagued him began to drain," as a rule of thumb try to not use the same word twice in such a close proximity. I also feel like you don't need two examples here; of the two, the dishwater one is more interesting.

Would someone really think like that? Who celebrated the holistic qualities, and why did they stop? Unclear. I also feel like you're painting this character as someone who gives insight, but his thoughts are kinda vaguely philosophical and don't have much weight. Why do we care about his insight? If this is an introduction, it's way to early to drop this in.

>Like the blood that had previously drained from the face of the newly bereaved, but which would return in the midst of a playful phone argument with a close friend over the superiority of one experimental rock band over another, or like the sink which showed its potential to, without warning, regurgitate sewage in a torrential stream, nervous thoughts returned to Sol.

This sentence is 62 words long. You're going to lose the attention of so many readers if you don't split this up and remove words: it doesn't have the flow or cadence to support its length.

Last line is ok, but I didn't learn anything about the character. Why should I care about his problems if I'm just meeting him? I don't know what makes him tick, what he's like, anything like that.

[Anonymous No.6160046]

Redpill me, O Tennessee

Some guys like women and to fuck them. - you don't
You want to fuck men.

Just Ask your friends to put
on a little more perfume.
Wouldn't it be great to fuck real human beings?
You want to fuck men, and so do I.

And I'm not gay. Not in the least.
Just that one want's to fuck men,

And that's what you should do,
Real soon, and I'll do it too.

[Anonymous No.6160137]

>>6158841
>>6159489

you guys are unoriginal
just repeating what other anons have said for the sake of posterity

[Anonymous No.6160146]

I know it's shitty. I just wanted to post something on here. I tried to input a lot of things in the story after I had written. not sure if it'll effect anything. Just wanted to post so here.


"Pull the mass" yelled men as the waves crashed upon the deck of the boat.
Men scattered hoping to reach their positions before the next wave crashed. They screamed warning others of the incoming wave.
"Rouge wave!" Went their voices in unison. As the wave crashed against the ship smashing men overboard. The men were unprepared for such horrid waters. They had expected smooth sailing away from the Wetlands.
Tellam walked from the Tavelers quarters swaying with the ship. Tellam was a man of few years, average height, and dark grey eyes thay clashed with his short golden brown hair and ruggid facial hair. His face displeased, scowling. Water soaking his boots and linen cloathing. He wasn't dressed for the sea. He had just realized this now.
"Captain!" He screamed hoping his voice would reach the captain over the voluminous sea. "You promised me safe passage across this sea, if I recall you said that my feet would touch the sea"
He breathed.
"From where im standing, captain. I definitely see water in my boots."
Tellam walked across the deck to the captain's wheel. He avoided the seamen strapping themselves down as his boots squeked. He barged in. Staring at the antique captains room.
"Captain Lyn, do you see my boots?" He pointed at the soaked leather.
Lyn was a stocky man. He resembled the average southern wetlander. Bronze skin, clean shaven not by choice of course, and the man had presence. Which Tellam seemed to ignore.
"What did I say boy?" He looked up from the wheel "If you stayed in the travellers quarters you primsy little boots would be just fine"
"That's funny Captain, seeing as the travellers quarters are flooding"

[Anonymous No.6160152]

>>6160146
Wouldn't*
Me again.

[Anonymous No.6160153]

>>6160146
this is actually pretty clever. Gotta polish it though, the end of >"You promised me safe passage across this sea, if I recall you said that my feet would touch the sea"
is either dropped or really awkward.

The dialogue actually seemed pretty genuine.

[Anonymous No.6160158]

>>6160146

>I know it's shitty

thank you for thinking so little of our time that you're OK with putting your shit in the good writing critique thread

[Anonymous No.6160159]

"Remember to ask for the author's permission before you use their work"

‘Row’
‘Row’
‘Row’
(i)The commander’s voice is lost in the wind.
A roar inflates the ships bowel’s;
the wood heaves and vibrates
Brine runs skywards, only to fall once more.
It slaps my skin and I wail.
Then I am quiet.(/i)
For weeks no months? we had been at sail.
Earth was beyond imagination and the men took to fight.
First for gambling, then for pleasure.
The day was filled with them.
Their battles yielded bodies collapsed from victory and defeat.
The feinted bruised and bloodied, the overboard a passing din:
‘Splash’.

Night occupied day, but so would our regime of jeering and pig grunting continue.
Inevitably, the commander came.
At first, he ordered ‘stop’.
It was just a matter of time.
Whenever the commander joined us in our dark sodden den, we would drum.
On our hands and knees, on the ballast and the mast.
We would drum the slumber from their sleeping,
for then the damned would drum too.
We would drum new thunder stolen from our skies.
We would drum until the storm came too.
We would heave at climax with a dance.

And like the breathless statues of civilization we sailed on a moving shore; to row, row, row.

[Anonymous No.6160185]

>>6160153
Thank's anon. I felt that way to I wanted to go for a lighthearted tone instead of the dark stuff I usually write.

Do you think the main character is too snarky?

I think something like that could really irritate the reader.

>>6160158
Im sorry anon. I won't do it again

[Anonymous No.6160233]

"There's something about the distance between work and residence that just screams HOME HOME HOME much louder than Home ever could. The excitement of not knowing whether or not it is your night to cook; whether or not you drank all the milk this morning and forgot to remember than between work and residence you should stop for some milk and you now have to run down to the supermarket because of certain breakfast necessities that you have. And you have to bring Sarah because Johann is too caught up in his work to keep an eye on her while you do this - grab the milk. And afterward in the parking lot, two fingers deep in pussy, with your daughter in the child safety seat beside you, all you can think of is 'Will this be a traumatizing experience for her?' followed by 'This is all Johann's fucking fault, being too caught up in his work to just fucking fuck me already - or even just keep an eye on Sarah while I finger myself in the Wal-Mart parking lot' or something to that effect."

[Anonymous No.6160350]

>>6159901

I appreciate this critique. The sentence is meant to be long and slightly overwhelming and the repetition of 'drain' is to emphasis the connection between the metaphor and the reality.

[Anonymous No.6160441]

>>6158684
Here is some advice: you need a title or throw in a name or do something give readers some explanation of what your poem is about. Your biblical references and water imagery do not come together sufficiently so your poem's meaning is unintelligible. Also, lose the line about the lifted veil because that's cliche imagery.

[Anonymous No.6160472]

He knocked on the door.
‘Just a second’ said a voice behind it.
He knocked harder.
‘Just a second’ the voice cried.
The door opened.
Behind it a fat, grey-haired male stood. His jaw was covered in shaving foam with lumps of hair clumped unnaturally together between the fat wrinkles drooping from his face.
‘Can I help you’ he asked.
‘Hello there, I’m just inquiring if you’d be interested in’ an outstretched arm presented a leaflet.
The door slammed.
This was not the first time. Or the last.
There was a science to it, he was sure.
An inexplicable set of laws governing an unseen world, yet to be discovered.
At each house he knocked, the response was always the same; a closed door.
“Hello (sorry for bothering you) I’m – ”
“Hello there I – ”
“Good mo – ”
“…”
Slam.
Whether he rapped or dinged.
Whether it rain or shone.
The door would close. And as it did, he would think of his wife.
His children. He could see their faces.
Sometimes, he thought, that behind one of these doors, they’d jump out at him.
“Surprise” they’d yell.
His face would relax, and they’d explain everything.
He loved his family, he thought.
He knocked on the door.
‘Who is it’?

[Anonymous No.6160494]

>>6160441

good advice, finally
thank you

[Anonymous No.6160528]

>posting your story as a .jpg

it is so fucking annoying to read shit this way it makes me want to steal your story regardless of how awful it is

[Anonymous No.6160538]

>>6160528
>wanting to steal bad things
For what purpose, m8?

[Anonymous No.6160672]

>>6160528
>Implying you can write

[Anonymous No.6160887]

>>6160472
the language you are using doesn't match your tone or setting. interesting voice tho. I would surprisingly read another page or two to see how it progresses

[Anonymous No.6160936]

>>6160528
It's so publishers can't find them in google search.

[Anonymous No.6160945]

[Anonymous No.6161122]

>>6160945

xd so le random

[Anonymous No.6161133]

>>6161122

fuck off twerp

[Anonymous No.6161140]

>>6161133

xd so intimidating and cool!!

[Anonymous No.6161195]

In a small flower shop grew a little bulb. This bulb was optimistic and happy, believing that she would, one day, bloom into a beautiful flower. And with a hopeful attitude, whenever the shopkeeper sold a flower, the little bulb would shout, “Just you wait, that's going to be me one day!”

The shopkeeper loved the little bulb, and so he would pamper her. Every morning, he would give her a little extra water to keep her awake, a little extra fertilizer in case she got hungry. “I'm going to bloom soon! I can feel it!” The bulb would say, and this would always put a smile on the shopkeeper's face.

But the flowers didn't like all the attention the shopkeeper was going to the bulb, and every day, whenever the shopkeeper wasn't looking, the shop's most beautiful flower would steal water from the little bulb. “I need this water more than you do, look at my beautiful petals, all 10 of them. Giving it all to you would be a waste, you don't even have one.”

But the little bulb was strong, and replied cheerfully, “Maybe not now, but I'm sure that one day I'll have 20 of them! But, gee, your petals sure are beautiful. If they really need the water, I'll be glad to give it to you!”, much to the flowers' annoyance.

And so this continued, with the portion of water the flowers taking getting larger by the day. And each time the bulb gave away her water, the more she would begin to droop. But the bulb remained hopeful, and continued to believe that she would become a beautiful flower one day.

And so this continued, with the little bulb drooping more and more each day. Many of the flowers saw the bulb's sorry state, and felt pity towards her. Through the annoyance and jealousy they had first felt towards the bulb, they now felt admiration. They begged the shop's most beautiful flower to stop taking the bulb's water, but were turned down every time they asked.

Finally, the shopkeeper saw how weak the bulb had become, and although she couldn't even stand straight anymore, she gave him her usual greeting in her cheerful tone. “Why are you crying?” The bulb asked. “I'm thinking of how beautiful you'll become when you bloom,” The shopkeeper answered, holding back tears. He left the little bulb in her little stand, and the little bulb let out a sigh. She was so tired, maybe she should take a little nap. She hoped the shopkeeper wouldn't mind.

[Anonymous No.6161207]

>>6161195
I enjoyed that

[Anonymous No.6161214]

(((((the bell of hours)))))
((((tinny and pure))))
(((eternal)))
((never))
(new)
does humanity exist
(((((the bell of hours)))))
((((no death no end))))
(((no reason)))
((endless))
(time)
without imperfection?
(((((the bell of hours)))))
((((tinny and pure))))
(((eternal)))
((never))
(new)
why keep track when
(((((the bell of hours)))))
((((no death no end))))
(((no reason)))
((endless))
(time)
life never ceases?
(((((the bell of hours)))))
((((tinny and pure))))
(((eternal)))
((never))
(new)
would Hell have been
(((((the bell of hours)))))
((((no death no end))))
(((no reason)))
((endless))
(time)
more interesting?

[Anonymous No.6161215]

>>6161140

damn straight
Godfrey's Garden is a high watermark of contemporary short fiction
there's nothing 'random' about it

[Anonymous No.6161263]

Crawling in my skin
These wounds, they will not heal
Fear is how I fall
Confusing what is real

[Anonymous No.6161293]

Into the flame, into the fire
With no regard for a thing, fuck that I'm the lord of the game
I rule this empire, I am the God of hell fire.

Lord of the game
Born to reign above all that you claim to know beyond a doubt
Cuz no one has came even close to the train
Of thought we drop like neutron bombs from the tower

Control this and bang this, then watch it rise higher
Than anything seen in your entire
Life spent in chains, sonic live wire
Electrified rain from the lips of the driver
Whippin the wheel
Flippin donuts to peel
Out on the face of the base, where's my lighter?
Need it to kill one more and chill while I feel
It so much my gut burns like the tires
Movin this movement of real shit inspired
By all that has come before this and was done
For the real ones packin real guns loaded with power
Shower the slums with power from the war marching drums that have come to devour
The weakness that runs when we come
Fuckin cowards

When they tell you you must make it
And you think hell no
Got a bad feeling and can't shake it
Hits so low

Lord of the game
Born to reign above all that you claim to know beyond a doubt
Cuz no one has came even close to the train of thought
We drop like neutron bombs from the tower
'Pon which we maintain
Like soldiers of fame
And fortune denied as to to get by without the
Bullshit coming at me from all sides
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide
Told me it was all good, but they lied
Don't wait to see whites of their eyes
Death to everyone who does not recognize
Wars never done, think it is you die

Where was I now
Like I said before
Hear someone knockin
At my front door
Who could it be, should I ignore
The knockin or see what could be in store
For me if I leave the safety of the shore
So many options, so little time
To do what I want 'fore the end of the line
Places its blade in the small of my spine
Is it paranoia, is it real?
How long can a man enjoy what he doesn't feel

When they ask if you can make it
And you don't wanna go

When they tell you you must make it
And you think hell no
Got a bad feeling and can't shake it
Hits so low

(Rather be stuck naked)
Than waste my time like the last time
And every time before that
Don't waste my time even one more time
When you know that shit is whack
Don't make me remind of you of the last time you
Said you'd never go back.

Fuck where you're from,
Fuck where you're goin,
It's all about where you're at

[Anonymous No.6161305]

>>6161293
Why did you post Death Grips lyrics

[Anonymous No.6161308]

>>6161305
I-I didn't

[Anonymous No.6161309]

>>6161214
I know what you're trying to do with the parentheses, but to me it just looks like you're trying to write LISP code.

[Anonymous No.6161551]

>>6160494
heres some advice: kill yourself

[Anonymous No.6161593]

>>6161551

you forget your hedgehog picture

[Anonymous No.6161675]

"My fire's hot"
"Well duh"

[Anonymous No.6161684]

>>6161308
wow already stealing before you get published

[Anonymous No.6161879]

>>6157948
Go back to sleep rummy

[Anonymous No.6161923]

>>6153864
Your choice of adjectives and verbs are grating.

You're fixated on stringing together observations rather than making something happen.

[Anonymous No.6162189]

>>6153194

This third post was really good, maybe the best I've ever read on /lit/ in this kind of Murakami-esque manner


inb4 murakami sucks. You have to admit that for what he is, he's good.

[Anonymous No.6162311]

>>6152046
I call it an ode to Jumi. The second to last stanza gets a little warbled. I'm not a beginner in terms of writing, but I'm relatively new to poetry and I need brutal criticism that can actually help me get better, not just "lol it sux"

Anyway, it's called An Ode To Jum̐i

I'm arrested in a dark-eyed smile
She makes me forget my world for awhile
Against a current of sin and trial
And there swam I, upstream

Here the tendrils of our affections grow
Lacerating me and all that I know
In a canoe of earnesty I roam
And there I have a dream

Of raven locks framing a freckl'd face
Even though I know it is not my place
My feelings are things I won't debase
To gain, here, is to lose

The stench of guilt covers my skin fetid
Its coating of my clothing is wretched
Though it's comforting, now that I mention
All love is a ruse

That's about half of it, it doesn't really get better

[Anonymous No.6162316]

>>6161133

[Anonymous No.6162368]

>>6153864
>the near distance
seriously?

[Anonymous No.6162423]

Dr. Evelyn Reid ran her fingers through her hair and exhaled. The student across the desk from her squirmed in his chair. He had launched into a clever and well thought out excuse as to why he was behind on his essay, but at Dr. Reid’s obvious indifference the prose quickly fell apart to reveal the skeletal scaffolding that was his main argument; he didn’t do the work. More precisely; he didn’t do the work because he was lazy. There was a long drawn out moment of silence in which the only audible noise was the student’s anxious breathing. Finally the silence filled the student to the point where he burst, verbally.
“Dr. Reid,” he pleaded, “I assure you I’m intelligent enough to complete the work, if you’d just give me ti-”
“Time!?” Dr. Reid roared across the desk with such force that her glasses fell askew on her face. She flicked her eyes to her bookcase, back to the student, then released her white knuckle grip on the side of her desk and straightened her glasses. Her voice lowered, “opportunity,” the words seemed to be spit through the spaces in her clenched teeth, “does not wait on the lazy, no matter how intelligent they are.”

[Anonymous No.6163732]

pls help

[Anonymous No.6163977]

>>6163732
why are you writing like someone from the 19th century?