Critique thread! Post any poetry, short stories, and parts of novels. Maybe they'll be shit, and maybe not, but probably they will be shit.

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Anonymous Fri Feb 27 21:33:35 2015 No.6203562 [Reply] [Original]

Critique thread! Post any poetry, short stories, and parts of novels. Maybe they'll be shit, and maybe not, but probably they will be shit.

Anonymous Fri Feb 27 21:36:18 2015 No.6203572
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Writing now, I think off all the good and the bad. I reminisce, pondering the days far before this. My childhood was a much happier time. I fluttered about town upon my bicycle, spinning the wheels upon the dark concrete. I meandered through the greenery of the woods behind my house, spying on salamanders who would make their travels eastwards towards the creek. I remember that creek too… It rushed from a reservoir on the top of the mountain and passed the eastern side of my house. I could barely stand in the creek without my toes turning into ice. Further back in the woods was a place. Little rocks stacked into altar sat in this small opening surrounded by tall oaks; my friends and I would play around this mound pretending to be Aztec priests cutting out the hearts to offer up to the gods above. The gods never answered, but we enjoyed the game still. We would always find ourselves around this stone altar -- if not playing-- talking. The oaks listened to us discuss the sorrows and joys of boyhood. Dates, rejections, lies, punishments, pranks, triumphs, curses were all among the spells we conjured up by that stone altar. From after school to dinnertime, we would be there, everyday, until we graduated school and went our separate ways.
By now I have lost touch with all of my childhood friends.
After the days of yore, I began my studies at Mountain State University. My troubles there arose first when I could not make up my mind about my major. The first year at the University, I saw myself split between riches and passion, love and success. I consulted my father, wishing he would point me towards the right path; however, instead of telling me what I wanted to hear, he told me to do what would make me happy. My fathers words consolidated my lust for direction, and led me farther from happiness than I would have imagined.

Anonymous Fri Feb 27 21:37:54 2015 No.6203581

>>6203572
cont.

Happiness in this case was a skewed being. A material happiness versus an intangible one. I would be happy in one way or the other, and I was fine with that reality, yet a part of me felt by choosing one desire I would be betraying the other.
I would sit in my room at night sometimes contemplating all of this in my head, yet it lead me nowhere; divided, wrought by this momentous decision, I would think and think and pray that the mist fogging my mind would clear. I wished that I could somehow just fan all the fog out of my way, and that what I needed would be in the clearing. It never came! The truth clouded over would never shine upon me! I knew it was there, I kept searching, but still, to no avail, I would fail. I imagined my self, always, trapped in a cage of misfortune. How could I escape? How could I grab the keys to unlock what I needed?
I knew not back then, now I see, the lost fool which was me. I know now (which I did not back then) that if I chose either material happiness or internal happiness, that I’d probably be happy now, but I didn’t choose either. Tortured by making a choice and I chose neither of the options. I opted out for an easier, and more stable route than either of my two choices and became… an accountant.

>>	Anonymous Fri Feb 27 22:19:06 2015 No.6203734 nate dogg haiku: just like my bowler i can tell your chorus needs a snug, stylish fit

Anonymous Fri Feb 27 22:53:09 2015 No.6203873

>>6203581
>>6203581
Nostalgia porn morphing into trite reflection. Very much not my thing. You know how to form a sentence, anyway. Several uninspired images throughout: "toes turning to ice," "the oaks listened," comparing your conversations to spells (though within the extended altar metaphor this is forgivable), the mist/fog/cloud/shine bit, the "cage of misfortune". These have been played out for quite some time; change them. Last paragraph is awkward (despite that, I chuckled at the punchline). The parenthetical is unnecessary. The "and" in the second to last sentence shouldn't be there. There are more problems, but I trust you can find them. One last thing: is Mountain State University a stand-in for Montana State University?

Anonymous Fri Feb 27 22:55:11 2015 No.6203880
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The curse of the nurse is those of which they treat, of which they care and took care every day and every night. Molly Molly was a nurse, a young nurse I should add, twenty-years and there she was, in the ward, near the field.
It was a time of worries, a time in which the ward was filled with nothing but sorrow and most people hardly had a tomorrow. Every laying man and dying one had its eyes fixed on the door, the small wooden door of the entrance (cracked, broken), through which a few men would come every day. Pain for the patients, hope for the just injured; too many people with not enough care. It was not secret even if not spoken out loud, every person did not want more to come and wished they'd rather die on they field that come to their side. They were selfish and more than they should, but not intentionally much more less than they tried, for laying with the sick in war ward was not as healthy as it should and those diseases you did not have you will share with your ward-mates now or later.
Now Molly didn't have any training, didn't have even will. She was there, at the ward, merely because she was already there before. All of it just happened around her, without her knowing at first, without her wanting at last. On the day of the cupid is that she broke, suddenly, without warning at all. No training nor knowledge she had so she couldn't do much, and she didn't she knew. But it was a matter of time, to grow up just like she did. Not the best for sure, but the only she had.
They call it maturing, they call it puberty, they call it whatever. A progress, like a line, in which every one take part. But it doesn't happen that way where she was, maybe it was rejection for self-protection or maybe it was conscious and self-deception. She was there, in the smoke, in the flash of the day and the wake of the night; knowing who you are may not be the best there, may not be the best to ask and to pray and to wonder "why am I here?". So she didn't ran the line and stayed instead, like a cheap bloom which didn't grew much but filled just as well. The day out the cupid it happen'd, not like a ha but like a snap, like a bomb in the head that explode like a bam. Shaking hands and crying eyes she had that night as fire through her nerves seemed to run, night that if she were to be taking care of her duty she'd have been sent to the yard, light a smoke and return, something she learned at the very late age of thirteen just there at the ward.

Anonymous Fri Feb 27 22:56:45 2015 No.6203882

>>6203880
>The curse of the nurse is those of which they treat, of which they care and took care every day and every night. Molly Molly was a nurse, a young nurse I should add, twenty-years and there she was, in the ward, near the field.

reminds me a bit too much of that chapter Major Major Major Major from catch22 but not bad

>>	Anonymous Fri Feb 27 23:05:42 2015 No.6203915 >>6203880 i don't care how clever you think you are

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 01:31:12 2015 No.6204364
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The crudely formed hole in the ceiling hadn't yet stopped smoking. Soon the person living in the room below would seek out the landlord complaining about a leak coming from the room above. Used bowls rested amongst murky water in the kitchen sink. The television set buzzed at top volume with some incessant story about a multi-story fire that had displaced some eight people. The plants on the windowsill had been watered just this morning and he'd made sure to leave the front door ajar only an inch. If the short and defined burst was not yet enough to alarm the neighbors, the smell that was sure to escape the room within the next few days would creep its way out of the apartment and linger by the doorways of the other residents. In the corner of the room, an excuse for a desk lamp flickered twice over a paper and pencil set neatly beside each other. In the air yet unstartled, the smell of iron began to settle in.

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 01:40:58 2015 No.6204387

>>6203880
>No training nor knowledge she had so she couldn't do much, and she didn't she knew

Think about why you wrote this sentence the way you did. Is the way you wrote it supposed to sincerely trigger some kind of estethical enjoyment? Like a real authentic sense of beauty that hits you when you come across a rare thing of beauty? I'm sorry but I think people write sentences like that for people to marvel at how ingenuously they are constructed. But all you have to show for in the end is a sentence that people who just read a literary text to be immersed in the experience will have to stop and read three times, just to get what the hell is going on.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 01:42:25 2015 No.6204392 >>6204387 ingenious*

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 02:16:44 2015 No.6204516 >>6203880 I would read more of this

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 02:39:26 2015 No.6204567

When I was a child,
my vision was refined in certain skies;
my face is the product of every nuance.
All Phenomena were aroused.
At present, the eternal inflections of the moment
and the infinity of mathematics hunt me over this earth
where I experience all civil successes,
respected by strange childhood and devouring affections.

I envisage a war, of justice and strength,
of a logic beyond all imagining.
It is as simple as a musical phrase.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 06:58:14 2015 No.6205065 >>6204567 Awful.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 07:01:57 2015 No.6205074 >>6205065 It's not that good.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 07:45:20 2015 No.6205157 File: 103 KB, 496x620, 1423565675337.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6204567 tries too hard to be clever

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 08:06:42 2015 No.6205175

Looking for honest critique. I know it mostly sucks. Hell, you can even mock it, i might find it funny.

"In the silence of the night,
someone has lost a fight.
Someone has lost a dream,
Inside you hear a scream.

It is not i who will cover your face.
It is not me you will embrace.
When the moment came for the dance,
There was a pause, there went your chance

At first, i thought it was true
This dream of me and you
But in my hand, just grains of sand
Told me now it is the end."

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 08:08:50 2015 No.6205183 >>6205175 oh come on now, these are middle school poems

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 08:11:19 2015 No.6205188 >>6204567 just saying the first reactions i get: refined feels pedantic. The child "you" wouldn't say refined. civil successes just sounds unfortunate. Find a synonym of successes will less "ss".

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 08:13:30 2015 No.6205191 File: 46 KB, 468x725, larrikin.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6205175 >tfw no gf, the poem. pic related: what you're trying to do, done right. PROTIP: read poetry if you want to write poetry.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 08:22:32 2015 No.6205205 >>6205191 lol done right? yeah ok...

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 08:38:10 2015 No.6205224 >>6205205 It's better than yours. Really.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 08:44:40 2015 No.6205245 >>6205205 Done right or not you get the point

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 08:46:16 2015 No.6205248 File: 105 KB, 460x276, larkin_has_got_a_shitty_bike_look_at_that_fucking_thing_look_at_it_and_laugh_its_a_girls_bike_ffs_fucking_queer.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6205205 >thinks he's better than Larkin ultimate kek.

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 09:45:36 2015 No.6205458
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>>6203882
I wasn't thinking about Catch-22 when I wrote it but I kind of see what you mean.

>>6204387
I didn't try to marvel anyone with the construction of the sentence, I only was trying to make it sound good and nothing more.
Reading your comment I agree that it should be changed, I'd like to write something that can be read fluently instead of having to stop and being read several times.
Since I'm not a native speaker some sentences probably sound different in my head than in the ones who have it as a first language.

>>6203915
Now this is a comment I don't understand.
?

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:00:12 2015 No.6205489

First couple of paragraphs from a science fiction short story in which a guy fucks a robot prostitute

Frank found himself glancing down at his wedding ring. It had been five or six years since he thought of it as a shackle, since he referred to his wife as his ball and chain. Now it was like an extra bone in his finger.

The website said her name was Claire. Her room was shielded from view by an oriental style folding screen- the kind you went behind to change clothes. The screen glowed and flickered, illuminated from behind my candlelight. There was a pot with incense sticks smoking away inside it atop a night stand. They made the air heavy with lavender and exotic smells.

Frank stuffed his hand into his pocket, and then withdrew it.

Someone sat up behind the screen, aware that there was another person in the room also Frank had yet to make a sound. “Hello there,” came a voice. “Are you Joe Miller?”

“Yes, that's right,” said Frank. “Are you Claire?”

“Yes,” said the voice behind the screen. “Would you like to close the door, Joe?”

Frank was glad to be asked. He hoped the rest of the evening could proceed like that- Claire making the suggestions and him agreeing with them. He was glad to be able to shut out the sounds of the place, the sighs and grunts from down the corridor that sounded like a string orchestra warming up before a concert.

The incense did not help Frank to relax.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:23:27 2015 No.6205571 File: 31 KB, 408x389, 1422538246471.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6205489 I honestly like it and how you don't comment on him giving a false name, makes it sort of subtle

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:30:03 2015 No.6205604 >>6205571 Thank you, kind anon

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:36:28 2015 No.6205628

Lo, the paper skin of early murder
Is risen from a baby's cot
Thus, the saintly soul does rot
As the sun yearns north

As the blood red lakes do run
No, the priest can preach to none
Atop his winter perch
For, in a special purple house
Waits a dying, lonely crow
A black, scarred crow
With mangled feathers and claws
That tell of homicide
Homicide early in the morning
Homicide without proper warning
Why, a young daring soul
Must be wise to this
A soldier biding time
Has no time for this

The peasants do not know
Of the dark airs since arisen
Of my doleful dreams of prison
Prison - prison for all!
Only the crow, in its despair
Knows of the homicide to come
The murder of this age's soul

Lo, the paper skin of early murder
Is spread upon the youth,
Thus, the saintly soul does rot
Innocence is hence forgot
And they stand, indifferent,
To the horrors of the modern age

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:45:01 2015 No.6205658 >>6205628 >Lo Dropped

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:46:39 2015 No.6205662 >>6205658 He does it twice. No idea why. Probably thinks it looks poetic or something. Only really makes something look poetic if it's attached to a poem though, not this doggerel prose in short lines. I think it's about abortion, so well edgy.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:46:52 2015 No.6205664 >>6205658 But it sounds nice

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:49:35 2015 No.6205671 >>6205664 It sounds better without the Lo. If there is no Lo in the poem don't add Lo to the poem.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:49:59 2015 No.6205672 File: 23 KB, 246x374, 1421794390720.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6205628 CRINGE R I N G E

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:52:08 2015 No.6205677 ~1200 words: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xDOH9ROatP1IJ83-2EgoF0m7HN-lBOrvBqJuMNlKHp0/edit?usp=sharing I know the first paragraph has problems, especially that ungodly run-on halfway through, so please focus on what comes after that.

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:52:52 2015 No.6205681 [DELETED]

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introduction to a short story I'm writing it's my first attempt at writing a narrative after college, so serious critique would help. i know it needs alot of work

The Orange Box

10:10 am

a drip from his nose. the light ringing pressure behind his eyes. the single light reflected off a cold windshield on this mostly overcast day. As ray assessed his surroundings, the back of his mind prepared his real thoughts, the ones that would shape his 13,000th morning. Although Ray Asfault was practically standing at the corner alone waiting for the clunky orange box in his commute to work, thinking the cold wind was against him and only him was a bit pompous. There had to be others like him, this thought popped into his head every now and then but more so on cold days. Standing there shifting his weight between both legs on the desolate corner, decorated by seemingly endless dead leaves, crumpled drink cups and art gallery programs from last nights’ art festival, was there another Ray out there? is he also deathly afraid of a painful cancer death in a hospital?. "I should have gone to one of those galleries"-he mumbled to no one, but then remembered he didn’t understand art at all. Ray hated the orange box, the sights and smells it came with and what it represented. Life or the absence thereof, it’s insides physically full but devoid of any essence, or maybe the essence of something which he couldnt see or feel, either way he wanted no part of it. it gave him a cold sweat and bothered him enough not to make eggs or pour himself a bowl of serial that morning in fear of the “non-essence's” vomit inducing vibes.

after about twenty minutes of waiting, he noticed a shift in the wind, for a second it seemed to be picking up and pushing the dead leaves and dust particles harder than ever, then suddenly stop entirely and as if the axis of the very ground he was standing on were reversed, the leaves, dust, and other smaller debris started moving in the opposite direction. he’d seen this before every morning and realized it was no mere natural phenomenon. with nauseous anticipation he felt an acrid smokey smell reach him and immediately a heavy feeling of dread filled his stomach, the orange box had just turned the corner and headed in his direction, as soon as it straightened out on the road it let out a loud and low fog horn-like scream, that felt even deeper since they were nowhere near any body of water, which the retracting leaves and wind now started to sound like, some far away and exotic shore on a warm lively island, where the orange box didn't pollute the soul or burn your nostrils.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:53:44 2015 No.6205684 >>6205628 It just seems like you're trying too hard. Not that this style can't work, just that if it's not perfect, it's gonna sound like you're just pretentious and a douchebag. And, like all the rest of us, you just haven't got it with this one.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:55:54 2015 No.6205686 >>6205684 How do you get that pretentiousness out of your writing. No matter what I write it just seems immature.

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:56:09 2015 No.6205688
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Intro to a short story I'm writing. it's my first attempt to writing something outside of college. I know it needs alot of work.

The Orange Box

10:10 am

a drip from his nose. the light ringing pressure behind his eyes. the single light reflected off a cold windshield on this mostly overcast day. As ray assessed his surroundings, the back of his mind prepared his real thoughts, the ones that would shape his 13,000th morning. Although Ray Asfault was practically standing at the corner alone waiting for the clunky orange box in his commute to work, thinking the cold wind was against him and only him was a bit pompous. There had to be others like him, this thought popped into his head every now and then but more so on cold days. Standing there shifting his weight between both legs on the desolate corner, decorated by seemingly endless dead leaves, crumpled drink cups and art gallery programs from last nights’ art festival, was there another Ray out there? is he also deathly afraid of a painful cancer death in a hospital?. "I should have gone to one of those galleries"-he mumbled to no one, but then remembered he didn’t understand art at all. Ray hated the orange box, the sights and smells it came with and what it represented. Life or the absence thereof, it’s insides physically full but devoid of any essence, or maybe the essence of something which he couldnt see or feel, either way he wanted no part of it. it gave him a cold sweat and bothered him enough not to make eggs or pour himself a bowl of serial that morning in fear of the “non-essence's” vomit inducing vibes.

after about twenty minutes of waiting, he noticed a shift in the wind, for a second it seemed to be picking up and pushing the dead leaves and dust particles harder than ever, then suddenly stop entirely and as if the axis of the very ground he was standing on were reversed, the leaves, dust, and other smaller debris started moving in the opposite direction. he’d seen this before every morning and realized it was no mere natural phenomenon. with nauseous anticipation he felt an acrid smokey smell reach him and immediately a heavy feeling of dread filled his stomach, the orange box had just turned the corner and headed in his direction, as soon as it straightened out on the road it let out a loud and low fog horn-like scream, that felt even deeper since they were nowhere near any body of water, which the retracting leaves and wind now started to sound like, some far away and exotic shore on a warm lively island, where the orange box didn’t pollute the soul or burn your nostrils.

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:56:36 2015 No.6205689

>>6205489
>Frank
That name just does nothing for me.
>Found himself glancing down
How about "glanced down"? Action reads so much better like that.
>the kind you went behind to change clothes
"oriental style folding screen" makes this clear. SHOW, don't TELL (mostly).
>they made the air heavy
how about "the air was heavy with..."
>also Frank had yet to make a sound
what happened here?
>Frank was glad TO BE ASKED
PASSIVE VOICE. NO. NEVER.

That last line is actually a good one, but how about, again, showing something about Frank not relaxing than just saying it?

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 10:57:13 2015 No.6205693 >>6205628 why do you try to sound like you were born in the 18th century?

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 11:00:31 2015 No.6205703

>>6205686
1) write as though somebody is literally speaking everything that you say. While this is a little less true of poetry, it still helps immensely: every poem has a speaker, after all. Pretend that this person is just talking to you in an everyday conversation, and imagine how they would convey the images you're trying to get across.

2) READ YOUR STUFF OUT LOUD, TO YOURSELF. And to others, for that matter. A really good way to see if stuff sounds bad is to just hear it with your own two ears, or what others think. If it sounds awkward or pretentious, it is.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 11:01:48 2015 No.6205708 >>6205677 alright it's about death and all, but you have a serious case of bla bla your writing style seems a bit forcefully witty but other than that it's not bad

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 11:02:53 2015 No.6205713 >>6205703 Thanks

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 11:03:56 2015 No.6205718 >>6205708 Thanks, and yes, it is clearly a bit forced. I wrote this for a contest in like a day because the deadline was soon. What would you say is its biggest flaw? The construction or the prose? Or something else?

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 11:20:30 2015 No.6205747

>>6203562
Oars pulled effortlessly over glass sea. The rower leisurely leaned back and forth silhouetted by dawn's yellow horizon, and the boat advanced slowly towards the city. It rose serenely out of the water, floating, defying the eye to find the land upon which it stood. The two other passengers of the boat watched silently, deceived by their senses that they were still and the city was moving towards them. As they drew closer they could make out men on wharfs, on tethered boats rocking gently, leaning out of windows, at stalls. The subdued early morning murmur of those who wake before the sun broke the silence and the oarsman sped up.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 11:26:27 2015 No.6205763 >>6205718 I'd say the biggest flaw is the whole theme itself it has been done over and over again and it's basically impossible to stand out with it

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 11:48:15 2015 No.6205817

>>6205689
This is really helpful, thanks.

Frank was just a name that came into my head when I thought of a guy in his mid 40s going through a mid-life crisis. I might change it or maybe not have it as the first word of the story.

I agree with everything else. I'm not surprised that there's sloppy writing in there, it takes me several drafts to get down to the nitty gritty of tweaking syntax.

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 11:56:51 2015 No.6205852

>>6205688

You have some nice phrases and ideas dotted here and there, but a few things let it down.

>the light ringing pressure behind his eyes. the single light reflected off a cold windshield on this mostly overcast day
You use "light" twice here in two different contexts. I would change one, recommend that you look at the second.

>Although Ray Asfault was practically standing at the corner alone
>decorated by seemingly endless dead leaves
> it’s insides physically full but devoid
>and immediately a heavy feeling of dread filled his stomach
> then suddenly stop entirely and
You can cut out -ly words from your prose and it will flow better as a result. Try it and see?

You also need to CAPITALISE

I like the second paragraph a lot better than the first.

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 12:16:36 2015 No.6205906 [DELETED]

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it will turn out that he is a worse serial killer than albert fish and ted bundy combined. there will be a body of a young girl found in every state he performed in.

tortured, mutilated and bearing strange marks akin to some sort of pagan death ritual excluding one curious carving of a mapel leaf; these bodies will number in the hundreds and open another hundred cases in connection with macdonald.

in desperation he will flee to the place of his birth; canada. there he will hide in the mountains of quebec; in a cabin he crafts for himself. he will read jack london and tolstoy and soon take on a visage remarkably diffrent from his persona. he will think deep thoughts and cultivate meaningful solutions to mankinds problems.

he begins writing his memoirs. knowing they will not be published legitamately, he orchestrates a national letter bombing campaign. he forces the newspapers to print his stories and releases more inscrutable documents to the internet.

he will live out his days quietly watching the wildlife and the tossed stars in the sky. comtemplating suicide; he ponders on all those who loved and respected him and theories this:

well; at least i won't have to do that damn podcast again

a shotgun blast sounds in the quebec woods and all is silent for a moment. a bird chirps and the wind rustles the trees. a grass fire starts somewhere off in the distance.

which all gos to prove my theory; that norm macdonald is a ^ <

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 12:29:22 2015 No.6205948 >>6205906 >Breaking_Bad_Real_ending.txt

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 12:35:47 2015 No.6205974

The night was as quiet as only a mid-autumn Wednesday evening knows how to be.
If you were to walk in this street a few hours ago, you would notice a few lanterns burning in front of taverns and brothels, illuminating small patches of dirt under them, attracting all kinds of flying bugs.
But at this hour there was only one still glowing, barely strong enough to lure in several tiny souls with its dim promise of tomorrow’s sunlight. This lantern was, however, aiming to attract a different kind of insect.
Now, if you were foolish enough to try and scratch your curiosity’s itch, you would find yourself in a tavern oddly named the Fat Wolf.
The first thing anyone, who hadn’t been in this lovely establishment before, would notice was the thick mist that made unversed eyes tear up. The room looked as if a cloud fell asleep in it. Only this cloud smelled of tobacco and dragonroot smoke. Or maybe that’s how all clouds smell? Who would know.
Anyways, the first thing anyone, who was a regular at the Fat Wolf, would notice was who the Watcher was that night and how many unoccupied tables there were.
That night, the answer to the first question was the reply no one ever wanted to hear - Tom. The reason why no one liked Tom there was not because he wasn’t doing a good job, but because he was doing it too damn well. His boys and he were getting paid to do two jobs: prevent trouble and make trouble, if need be. Some said that he had the Bolevan Academy degree. I wouldn’t go as far as that, but he was certainly brighter than his other colleagues.
Tom had an oddly strong sense of justice, especially for someone whose job description included breaking legs behind the tavern.

A beginning to a short story.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 12:39:22 2015 No.6205986 >>6205689 >PASSIVE VOICE. NO. NEVER. what's the problem with passive voice?

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 15:29:26 2015 No.6206675

>>6205948
It bores the hell out of readers and can mask important information. We happen to know who asked Frank here, but imagine an expository scene that is told with mostly passive voice--no exposition or development would actually occur. It's slooooooooooooow.

As with all rules, there will probably be times where you want to break this rule, but eliminating passive voice from your grammar will instantly improve your writing by transforming passive description into gripping action.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 15:30:26 2015 No.6206683 >>6206675 whoops, meant to reply to >>6205986

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 15:30:27 2015 No.6206684 >>6205986 Idiots who think they know more than they do say you should never use it. It's nonsense of course, but you've got to be pretty careful with the passive.

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 17:36:45 2015 No.6207173

Oh wanton light and dance and bend of wave and snowy crest

Under violet arctic night

Oh darling pinwheel face - let me spin you,

By the grain-sand shore and wave-crest blue

Ah, darling star in galaxy wide, let me keep you by my side

Explode with hydrogen liquid ball metal cool down to melt into the fore…

And the condensed heat of love was primed to blow a hole of steam

And forever expand from star to star through cold diffuse spaces and melody die and echo dampen

The blessed heat and pant and stifle me darling!

My head nodded like a statue and I felt bronze sweat trickle down my face into a pool of crystal spring

(Squeaking wheel - there he goes!
Go, Jimmy, where your lover roves!)

Ah - the path is well shaded, don't you think? Look how the dappled light plays on the cracking leaves. Isn't it delightful? Crush my head, now.

Fall backward to Pluto into a cold damp basket

Oh Jurassic shore, oh bubble gum lake, oh halcyon calm, oh June wind, oh rafter, oh sea below me. Hello, hello, hello.

Hello, hello, hello! I'm sailing now, to a land I do not know - what strange chain of rocks?

A sea bird espied me circling overhead from west to east and cackled to his mates!

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 17:41:15 2015 No.6207183 >>6205191 jesus

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 21:01:31 2015 No.6207949

>>6205688
Capitalize your shit. Don't give any bullshit high-concept reasons for not doing so; you aren't a great avant-garde. It's "cereal," and please don't use you the word vibes.

>>6205974
Why does this fantasy world use the same days of the week as reality? Your voice is inconsistent. Compare, for instance, the sentence that begins, "But at this hour..." with the rambling stuff about clouds. Never use the word "anyways," or mention stuff like "dragonroot" if it's inessential to the story. Drop the "you" and "I" shit. It's quite clear that all the action is going to play out in the third person, and the narrator's interjections aren't funny or interesting at all.

>>6207173
Lay off the weed, or at least edit sober.

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 21:48:51 2015 No.6208120

“Why?” Once again his father did not look up to address Reiner’s inquiry. He rocked the glass in his hand, staring into the whirlpool forming in the centre as the water swirled round before drinking again. Reiner sat down and watched as his father continued this cycle, swirling and drinking, his eyes blank as the liquid spun endlessly. Soon the glass was drained and he sat back, angling his gaze towards the windows. His eyes seemed blank now; the anger that had been so clear had faded and given way to a void that now seemed to dominate him.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 22:15:31 2015 No.6208244 >>6207949 >lay off the weed How can you tell? ;)

Anonymous Sat Feb 28 22:59:47 2015 No.6208430

>>6205458
because sometimes you try to be clever
> the ward was filled with nothing but sorrow and most people hardly had a tomorrow
but you're fucking not
> its eyes fixed on the door
> the just injured
> every person did not want more to come and wished they'd rather die on they field that come to their side.
> merely
are all examples of pleb tier writing without even rhythm to help. so it's weird to read something that swings between "trying to be clever (and sometimes doing it)" and "shit". so either punch up the shit, or stop trying to be clever.

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 23:06:10 2015 No.6208446 >>6204364 >>6205489 /lit/ loves a sad cum

>>	Anonymous Sat Feb 28 23:08:39 2015 No.6208455 >>6205458 > not a native speaker i suspected

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 04:22:37 2015 No.6209385 An optimist will look at a glass of milk and say it's half full. A pessimist will look at a glass of milk and say it's half empty. I look at a glass of milk and say it's sour.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 04:29:23 2015 No.6209399 >>6203734 >not knowing all the parameters for a haiku

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 04:33:19 2015 No.6209412 >>6209385 wow, way to only put in 33% of the work there. the "gotcha" moment isn't even noteworthy you wouldn't be able to tell the milk is sour by looking at it. so it is just another way for you to say that you are a pessimist .

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 04:35:50 2015 No.6209414 >>6209385 sucks, boring, a truly gay ass waste of time 0/10

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 04:38:20 2015 No.6209422

>>6208120
That's a lot of words to say a guy drank his drink. Tighten it up. Unless there's some deep meaning to the way he's swirling his drink. Which there isn't. And don't tell me his anger has faded and given way to a void. That's boring and unbelievable and stupid. Show it to me in dialogue, or his actions.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 04:45:05 2015 No.6209441 >>6203581 What're you, some kinda gay nerd? This is boring, nobody cares about Your Historical Goofs in Generic Terms. This is journal entry-tier. Please fuck off if you're not going to bring something at least not punishingly dull to the table.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 05:08:55 2015 No.6209484

>>6208120

This is something I see a bit in amateur writing. You have to be aware of the images you are creating. I imagine everything you write. So when you describe something in an extravagant way I picture your character acting crazy or flailing about. You see it mostly in descriptions of body movements. Zadie Smith is bad for it - in one section she says a character "bellyflopped" onto the bed. She chose it because it's cute but that raises in me the image of a wrestler or a fat kid jumping into a pool. It was really inappropriate.

So in this line you have a guy swirling his glass so much it forms whirlpools. Go and do that now and see how much swirling is involved. Your character looks like a 4 year old when doing this.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 05:21:21 2015 No.6209511

>>6205747

>and the boat advanced slowly towards the city

The "and" makes this kind of an awkward sentence. One thought one sentence is usually best for fiction.

>It rose serenely out of the water, floating, defying the eye to find the land upon which it stood

What was the boat doing? Flying? Floating... like a boat? Was it moored on a beach?

>deceived by their senses that they were still and the city was moving towards them.

I get what you mean - they were moving towards it but it looked like it was moving towards them. It wasn't expressed that well because my first assumption was that they weren't actually moving.

So overall I'd say it was a bit overdone. Something like "The subdued early morning murmur of those who wake before the sun broke the silence" isn't really that poetic and doesn't make the image any stronger. It's no better than "early morning murmur". I'd probably advise to generally avoid your more complex sentences and to not be afraid of leaving something more naked. You don't usually need lots of adjectives. If you want to describe more then describe more don't just pile on lots of descriptors to one thing.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 05:25:25 2015 No.6209523

I was in a diner at the neckline of Kalamazoo. Dipping my shitbaked sneakers in the 131. It was a tiny gaff, shedlike exterior and nothing but bar and stool inside. I was spitroasted on my stool by two workers - plumbers or builders. Maybe unemployed. I ordered off the chalkboard, "one special please", like a shitlord off the telly. $2 less without fries. With a slice of latex cheese and tax it came to $3. A second refill of cherry cola from the big-titted waitress. She gave me more ice and a new straw. She said, "there you go baby." My slacks smelt of bonfire and I could smell myself from the counter. The burger was okay. It wasn't McDonald's good. They have wi-fi at McDonald's, free wi-fi, even in the black McDonald's. For $3 I woulda had a shovel-full of fries. I fucking hate McDonald's. I asked for a refill. Learning how to piss yourself again is an important part of growing up. America has taught me convenience. Two hours till my pants are dampened in a vend diagram of cherry colas and a Canada dry. I tip $2. My last two dollars. I only have 74 last dollars left.
It's 36 metric here and I want to go south. I had a bus to Chicago but the printer had jammed smears all over the second page of my ticket. The first driver would take it but the second wouldn't. I got to Kalamazoo but not Chicago. This city is bricked up red - big fat Wizard of OZ bricks - it's like Blackburn or Manchester only clean and full of buckaroos. I walked in the city's shadow, on meaty pavement till I came to its edges and it petered out like a child's drawing into flat belly roads.
I kept walking along the road while I waited to get picked up. My Wal-Mart pumps felt thin and the inside heels were darkened menstrual black with dried blood. I'd left my boots at the campsite. I stuck my thumb out whorewise, flicking my hip at passing cars. Hoping for a drunk driver, a hungry trucker, horny teenagers, a plump family. I'll do whatever you want - man the radio, beat your kids, hand jobs. We could shoot holes in street signs or take pictures of me in a pair of pantyhose. Most people just wanted to talk - how they were drowning or American or bored. An ex-schoolteacher had told me about his trip around Greece and Turkey, getting the clap from some Macedonian tart, the woman who used to live in his house. Another chap had spent the length of Pennsylvania telling me about OCD and intrusive thinking. He was an fag or a snob or something. Feeling like pushing a woman and her baby on to the train tracks is normal. Feeling like pushing yourself on the train tracks is normal. Feeling nothing else is not.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 05:34:04 2015 No.6209547

>>6205688

Like the other guy side just punctuate it properly. This needs to be slowed down. Give me a description of what is happening. Tell me what is going on. I don't care about you or your story. You can't assume I do. I don't know where you are, who Ray is, what the fuck is happening, or what the orange box is.

You say you haven't written since college which leads me to suspect post-college "writing the shit out of everything" syndrome. If you want to be Sebald or Proust you need to be a master of grammar and sentence control. Don't make a sentence go on too long. If you've got more than three commas (or whatever) and no parenthesis in that sentence is probably way too long. You're also being a bit too descriptive but that might work in a wider context.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 05:43:29 2015 No.6209574
File: 38 KB, 440x346, crying1.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

"He was a coward. He let stronger men die for him."

I didn't say that aloud to the curious boy in front of me,
looking so hopeful for tales of adventure and fun.

I thought of the innocent question again,
"What was grandfather like in the war?"
I can’t think of anything but of that craven hiding in the dirt while the brave dropped around him.
Telling the truth was out of the question. How could I disappoint this boy?
He didn't need to know or fear that he had the blood of a gutless man within him.

I lied.

“I was… lucky.”

And that wasn't a lie.

I look now at the precious innocent life in front and my beautiful family surrounding me,
I am lucky.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 05:49:15 2015 No.6209595

>>6205489

The prose is clear but your thoughts are a bit less so. Which is an easy fix. So for example, what does it mean that it had been 6 years since he'd thought of his ring as a shackle? Was he now in love with his wife?

Some of your syntax is a little goofy.
>The screen glowed and flickered, illuminated from behind my candlelight.
I really hate sentences like this. They don't read naturally at all. They don't, read naturally at all. Also things shouldn't pop up in a story. I shouldn't be like "he has a candle? What?" The order of information is important.

But it's clean. I like that. Make an interesting story. Make some of the description more vivid. Avoid using dashes too much. Don't call a character Frank...

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 06:05:08 2015 No.6209623 http://pastebin.com/MLgcCsfy

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 06:05:29 2015 No.6209624

>>6204364

I'm not really sure what is going on yet and therefore do not care. You need to vary your sentence your length to make it less sluggish. Some of the language was a little too stuffy.
>burst was not yet enough to alarm the neighbors, the smell that was sure to escape the room

If you use a word like "incessant" you have the voice of a professor.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 06:14:53 2015 No.6209638

>>6203880

Well firstly proofread. Some of the sentences dragged on too long.

I think it's clear you are a good writer. Perhaps you're being a bit too clever.
>She was there, at the ward, merely because she was already there before
This kind of Gertrude Stein affectation often doesn't add much to writing. If you can get it to work for the story then it's great if it sticks out like a clever thought you had then you might need to kill it. Definitely don't power it up too much with clever shit either. I'd also be inclined to remove some of the older sounding language as well. Something like "of which" is a bit of a boner killer.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 06:21:35 2015 No.6209649

>>6209574

>I can’t think of anything but of that craven hiding in the dirt while the brave dropped around him.

This is awkward. The word "craven", "of that craven hiding", the syntax.

I think something like

>I could only think of him hiding in the dirt while braver men dropped around him

Works better. I know what the hell you are talking about. Don't drop mention of your subject because it's artsy.

>the blood of a gutless man within him

This feels good to write but it's cringeworthy to read as a modern audience. It sounds like a pirate or someone with a ridiculous sense of adventure. This guy wants to be real and raw about fighting and war but he says some cowboy shit? It's not how people think.

I liked the "I lied. That wasn't a lie bit".

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 06:40:14 2015 No.6209683 >Jethro Vanderbilt swaggered down the boulevard. "Hey, nice get-up baby" shouted a beautiful buxom babe. "Thanks toots, but I gotta dash! haha!" he quipped, unfolding the micro scooter he had been concealing beneath his cloak.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 06:45:10 2015 No.6209692

I am bowled back to myself, wallowing hollow my life,

paternless grain, a nail, the handle of a knife.

but for now all that I take into my chest is air

and as I lay down to rest, that version of my
recedes,

just enough not to care.

>inb4 shit
>inb4 rhyme

i know

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 09:07:19 2015 No.6209993 >>6209523 i like this. would read

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 09:58:27 2015 No.6210096

>>6209692

I want to give you a good critique but I never read or attempt to write poetry so I really don't want to comment on too much. I will say though that it's kind of shallow and doesn't really say much - a disillusioned youth who is trying to find a reason to care, or just doesn't care at all, this theme has been done to death, but honestly what hasn't. Sorry I can't say more.

>Now to submit the beginning of my short story, that something of a coming-of-age story, another theme that has been ran into the ground.

We stepped cautiously, holding our breaths in hope that we might reduce the weight of each footfall. The rocks underfoot were sharp and ran many layers deep; their frustratingly stubborn edges that dug into the soles of our feet made every step a painful thing. I wished bitterly that I had taken shoes, not only were the rocks agony (with several long metres yet to travel) but they were also cold, worsening an already frigid night – but I could not have worn shoes, my house was old and anything other than flat-footed assuredness ran too great a risk of rousing my parents who had trained their ears to the distinct sound of creaking wood even in the deepest stages of sleep.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 13:28:28 2015 No.6210721 >>6203734 Haikus can ONLY be about nature, pleb

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 13:35:10 2015 No.6210740

On the street is where I'll be, Lord help me keep time, it slips away inexorably
And still how slow It goes through my perceptions. In the dark, give me one star to make a path

Sounds of a distant highway, families traveling. Visiting families, hot dinner
And I, with only myself, no one else I'll find.

A glimmer of light, don't let this be a dream, Oh that comfort gleam
Hope is found in darkness I hear, those who say that haven't been here. The light is sadness, and darkness despair

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 19:52:04 2015 No.6212285

Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my sear daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.

GAYBOYGAYBOYGAYBOYGAYBOYGAYBOY Sun Mar 1 21:41:46 2015 No.6212701

'Gay boy'
'Go away'
'No you gay boy, make me'.

The two 11 year old boys were sitting in their first chemistry class. The one of them had been singled out from day one as victim; his own making, as the teachers saw it. The other was a popular bully.
'Please go away'
The bully poked him.
'What you gonna do gay boy; gonna cry'
He turned his head towards the front: the teacher was gone.
The bully apologized.
'What's your name'
'Simon'
'Nice to meet you Simon'. The bully shook Simon's hand.
'So what do you do for fun?'
'I write'
'You do?' said the bully: 'so do I!'
Simon turned his head in amazement.
'Really'. Simon was excited.
'Yeah. I mostly like writing YA novels, but I'm prone to Joyce'.
Simon did not understand.
The bully continued: 'I've considered mucking it with some import literature and post-colonial texts, but my mother warned me' - the bully looked at Simon 'what about you though; any preferred style for your text'?
Simon was confused.
'I-I-I...' Simon did not know what to say.
He could hear the teacher's words circling around and around in his frail little head-box. The bully could almost HEAR the thoughts, and had to turn to prevent himself from laughing.
The teacher entered the room.
The bully shouted: 'Teacher teacher, Simon's never read Deleuze! Simons - '
'So? This is a chemistry lesson you impudent child, not a class for continental philosophy'. The teacher snorted 'Come Simon, fear not boy. We practice nothing but post-Kantian notions of the thing in itself, perhaps you'd like to make up for your day by reciting Schopenhauer's wor-'
Simon ran out of the class.
He ran to the headteacher's office with tears in his eyes; she can help me. The headteacher, a middle-aged frame of pig-iron buffered with sympathy, had said in the assembly: 'if you have any problems, please do not hesitate to come to me'.

He came. Running through the door (and nearly making a Simon shaped hole) he burst through. The headteacher, sat in a faded cream sofa, did not stir.
Simon swallowed his sob. 'I have a problem'
'You do?'
'Please help me. I was in a chemistry class when everyone began talking nonsense. They laughed at me on my way out and I have no idea what to do!'
'Calm down boy. Sit' she entreated the boy to the chair opposite.
'Now, take deep breaths, and tell me - ' Simon was elated 'what your problem seems to be'. Simon explained. He told her about the events of the day, and how he had been ridiculed. Without stopping, it all slipped out, without Simon's trying. He couldn't talk to his parents like this!

'So', the headteacher asked 'would you say the fault of this exists in - '
'No, it's me, I know, but I'll work on it'
'My dear boy, let me finish. Would you say the fault of this exists in the CAUSATIONAL, and thus an axiomatic manifestation of the given, or merely the' she snorted 'the will as SPOOK'. She chuckled.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 21:46:01 2015 No.6212715

Shake the white hand of the full moon--

there is a door, it is deep in the dirt,
it is covered in moss;
I opened it, and I found a spirit,
sleeping, mothered in midnight--- yes,

a Revenant, a haunt with whispy legs---

a campfire story to scare,
something to see in a dark room,
something to materialize and chase

something to remind you that there is prey,
and remind you how to be scared.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 21:49:03 2015 No.6212726 >>6212701 What awful prose.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 22:03:55 2015 No.6212779

>>6203880
I like the rhymes
I like the way you write. It's very clear that you're not a native speaker but you are thoroughly understandable and the weird bits sound quirky in a good way.

The long bit about the soldiers is annoying and feels pointless to me.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 22:09:10 2015 No.6212801 >>6212285 do you go to emerson?

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 22:10:30 2015 No.6212806 File: 18 KB, 530x397, Untitled.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] goddamn i write good

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 22:16:10 2015 No.6212828 >>6212285 why do you keep posting anne sexton poems ....unless anne sexton goes on /lit/???? L O N D O N O O D O N

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 22:19:22 2015 No.6212837 >>6212806 Seems too purple.

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:09:07 2015 No.6213021 I came in through the doors in haste. "Where does she lay?", I say. No time to waste, he points the way. The man in the corridor shows me the location of her room. My lady on her bed entombed. Nothing but an empty womb. 'Loss' - Timothy Buckley

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:12:15 2015 No.6213042 >>6212806 Love it. Fantastic flow of prose. Excellent metaphor of inside wall:outside wall::inside the empire:outside the empire. >>6212837 Hurr

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:14:06 2015 No.6213050 >>6212806 >>6213042 samefag

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:21:33 2015 No.6213087 >>6210096 Anything for me? I know it's only short, but I'll post more if not enough to form an opinion

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:25:49 2015 No.6213111

Tell me what you think (it's a part of a monologue in a story I'm writing called "Journal")

Probiotic hormones deliver us from evil: my gut tells me this abandoned applause, pleading for a double-dose of gooey pie. But these innards are not alone. They form a highly connected infrastructure where the rich beg and the poor burn down impossible edifices that house the faces of mistresses and half-chewed dog bones. And in the impasse between left and right and wrong, the writer hums a static volume of somber, keen sounds from that deeply hidden compartment where he keeps his childhood souvenirs: these deal out deposit slips for the pre-afterlife matinee, scenes between stutters and sleep. For, his is a wedding of intrinsically paternal skydiving down to a rock puddle of needles and marshmallows and that look women give your rushing blood cells, cells of backwards DNA. Down these boulevards of inexplicable terror, confusion, and love as we have here in the graying dark, a level of scaffolding collapses and renovators hold on for better climate. For, man is his own institution, one fed back, inside and out, to self-sustain and maintain good posture for posterity's needs, and more importantly, for his own justifiably unruly wants. Raise or be razed: success' alma mater is no institutionally bound labyrinth of right-angles and handicapped ideas, distilled to a framed scrap of pulp to be flaunted like diamond studded grills, but of experiential digestion––the constantly unfound sharpening of battered machetes to sell for displaying to the jungle. And so, now for what? What exactly, other than that at the end of this thought, is the point? Well, to pump the spigot to water the plants of course. As always, that' all. See you again tomorrow.

Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:29:13 2015 No.6213124

>>6212715

Interesting style, relatively cohesive imagery, though, the ending seems particularly weak to me. Try something else with it and you'll have yourself a fine little poem.

>>6212285

>watched the lights copying themselves

enjoyed that line quite a bit my fellow Bostonian

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:29:53 2015 No.6213126 >>6213111 >Probiotic hormones dropped

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:31:22 2015 No.6213134 >>6212806 That actually is pretty good samefagging aside. Of course people will mock you on here for writing fantasy which I assume this is

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:32:06 2015 No.6213136 >>6213126 >dilettante dropped

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:33:14 2015 No.6213142 >>6213134 I WASN'T SAMEFAGGING and ugh, I only write lit fic, but honestly, this is essentially fantasy :\ (hopefully in the spirit of coetzee's waiting for the barbarians though)

>>	Anonymous Sun Mar 1 23:56:56 2015 No.6213242 >>6209523 entertaining

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:02:20 2015 No.6213257
File: 21 KB, 250x250, onthebeat.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

I just had a couple pieces selected for publication.
>Feels good man.
Here's one of the short stories, called "Mr. Haversham's Augury" (about 1300 words)
http://pastebin.com/RrMbz1eG

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:02:59 2015 No.6213260 I'm a capital 'I' you're a lowercase 'l' I was born in the sky you were aborted from hell. So who are you? And who am I? Well, we're one in the same as far as anybody can tell.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:14:01 2015 No.6213297 I'm a capital 'I' and you're a lowercase 'l'. I was raised in the sky and you were aborted from hell. But who are you? and who am I? Well we're one in the same as far as anybody can tell.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:16:52 2015 No.6213310 >>6213257 >tfw I'm also writing a short story about a mysterious job interview >tfw my story is way better seriously though that was very novice where on earth are you getting published? tiny local journals that only have an online presence?

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:18:16 2015 No.6213312 >>6213297 "I" like it

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:18:50 2015 No.6213316 >>6213310 Post your story then bitch nigger if it's so great.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:20:20 2015 No.6213320 Cross-posting this from a similar thread on /co/, this is a working (still pretty rough) script for a comic I'm working on. Mostly playing around with an idea for a character for now http://pastebin.com/dh6ZkMQq

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:20:34 2015 No.6213321 >>6213316 >delicious tears >terrible writing

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:24:11 2015 No.6213333

>>6213321
>i'm writing the same story except better!
>too afraid to actually stand behind his own words
>lel u mad bro?

If you're going to say that you're such a better writer and pan my work without actually giving any reason, then you better show me this "superior" story of yours, or else your opinion goes straight into the garbage where it fucking belongs.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:29:38 2015 No.6213353 >>6213257 which publications?

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:29:49 2015 No.6213354 piping mary's apple core with my fucking cock fucking slap the fucking whore and tell her get on top hearing deathly metal roars while i kill her twat leave the her on the fucking floor her body left to rot

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:38:57 2015 No.6213376

I divine pleasure from a variety of things,
intertwine leisure with a society of strings,
at the end of which is a cast of puppets,
(specifically Muppets) the type to rise an inch and plummet,
rummage through past pictures
transfigured on the last figure.
Nonsense is never past tense: a profound noun:
I confound the average hound, me, the pro-noun,
professional crown bearer: I inadvertently scare her
with my pertinent pussy tearer: Terror.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:42:49 2015 No.6213386 I have the memory of a sponge and I just filed for moral bankruptcy. Here is my obituary: I have the memory of a sponge and have a brother who doesn't know CPR.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:48:44 2015 No.6213410

Your mother loves you,
dead or alive, you she loves,
unless you're an orphan
or pink, dried sea sponge
used to clean nuns' anuses,
you know, where the Son sure don't shine.

Anyway, in any case, don't fret
because I love you,
I don't know you (other than as a reader)
But you I love, unconditionally,
under the condition however that you're not Sigmund Freud
because he's a real motherfucker.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:53:03 2015 No.6213416 >>6213354 >leave the her that's a whole new level of objectification

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:53:32 2015 No.6213420 >>6213376 First three lines are promising then it quickly crashes into slam-poetry shit-tier.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:55:51 2015 No.6213425 >>6213416 didnt mean to include 'the'

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:56:09 2015 No.6213426

Absorbing a scene of nature,
any scene: the grand canyon
Old Faithful, the Swiss Alps, Heaven's falls:
pastimes of olde.
Now the sights of nature
encompass modern architecture
physical and technologically ephemeral.
Where does one go at their desk?
From China, to monuments ideas, to kiddie porn.
The beauty of natural phenomena has become an echo.
(echo, echo, echo, echo: reverberations)
bounced of the walls of wires and prepubescent societal
constructions created out of thin, electromagnetic air
as with the digital letters screen in front of you.
Desperation, this word is the last forefront
of vapidity and the world brimming with unliquidated
cash settlements that don't involve cash, but
the catastrophe's of modernity: the last benchmark of yesterday.
Sticks and stones will break my bones but words will annihilate
the tendency to pursue individual nature hidden by invisibility,
for distance isn't restricted by physical separation but
the very fact that social enmeshment defies camaraderie
between not only people but statistical love sucking
the life out of life which is a thing that defies being
a thing. Love thy neighbors, they say.
But the thoughts manufacturing the words
are hardly ever anything more than impulsive nonsense
as dictated by generations of crippled perspective
wrought on by a mirror of relationships between
not only people, but the multifarious influences
that categorically ignore the labeling of a disparate
but wholly homogenous mixture of deceit
that is documented by the receipt of a loveless
desire to be a part of a whole that is riddled
with craters that formed through the absence
of thoughtful defense and the hope that hope
can someday because more than a dirty 4-letter word
but a means to follow aspirations that spawn
from the thing inside your mannequin mind
crafted by a global factory of profit managed
by crippled bosses that like to stroke
more than their secretaries. No,
in the end, there is no end,
only the beginning of an inexplicable something else
that may or may not serve up ambrosia.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:57:42 2015 No.6213433 >>6213425 not him but it's better with 'the'

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 00:58:04 2015 No.6213436 >>6213420 makes sense considering I originally wrote it as a rap. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure why I posted it. Anyway thanks

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:00:29 2015 No.6213445

We stepped cautiously, holding our breaths in hope that we might reduce the weight of each footfall. The rocks underfoot were sharp and ran many layers deep; their frustratingly stubborn edges that dug into the soles of our feet made every step a painful thing. I wished bitterly that I had taken shoes, not only were the rocks agony (with several long metres yet to travel) but they were also cold, worsening an already frigid night – but I could not have worn shoes, my house was old and anything other than flat-footed assuredness ran too great a risk of rousing my parents who had trained their ears to the distinct sound of creaking wood even in the deepest stages of sleep.
I turned to my cousin to share in mutual grievance:

“This is killing me!” I shouted

“Shut-up! We’re close now”

His scorn always stung more than from anyone else, he was older than me by some years and I liked to pretend he was my elder brother. We spent almost every weekend together and he played the role well, in all things he was my guide and role-model but in situations such as these where he too was out of his element his wisdom would give way and I oft became the outlet for his frustrations. He liked to pretend that these outbursts would stem from a protective desire, that when we walked into dangers such as these a harsh authority was necessary, but I always knew he was just as scared as I was.

cross posting from other threa(...) Mon Mar 2 01:02:41 2015 No.6213451

Despair, despair, O head of beast,
Fret not, for growth once more at least
Is able to reform thy case
Reform unknown though is your place
So carry on through Hades' steed
And with the Gods thy need not plead
And whether through a wint'ry hell
Or through the boughs of dead who tell
That life is ne'er once more to want
Remember 'spite the leaves of gaunt
And 'spite the pillars of dead ice
Of those reborn not once, not twice
That God is not upon Olympus
Nor Life is that which dwells in sky
But God is that which dwells within us
And Life is but what stole thine eye

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:07:05 2015 No.6213464

There were bodies on each square inch of the field.To his left,to his right,behind him,on top of him,the dead multiplied like a lethal bacteria.He stood too long from cover,and when he was hit he fell flat on his back,clutching his chest,the blood seeping through his fingers.He screamed, and the scream was lost in the roar of rifle cracks and artillery fire,in the yells of fury and the screams of agony,all coming together like a sick,morbid orchestra of death.

Don't really know where to take it from here.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:09:05 2015 No.6213469 >>6213464 take it to the trash

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:19:07 2015 No.6213494

I asked Miss Communication when our homework was due
and she replied: "No, I won't do your homework for you."

I passed Principal Uncertainty in the hallway and asked him how his day was.
He just smiled, shook his head, and kept standing between the girls' and boys' bathroom doors.

At lunch, Mr. E had been found dead in the janitor's closet,
but nobody knew whodunit,
I think that she, Mrs. Me might have.
It definitely wasn't Nurse Hearse.

Anyway, that was Tuesday.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:23:01 2015 No.6213503 Suicide "I've had enough of this," said Mr. Snuffleupagus.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:23:19 2015 No.6213504 >>6213469 Yeah my fiction's awful. Gonna have to get a real job soon.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:24:25 2015 No.6213508

Posting on 4chans resident literature board, a thread in which we were invited to post our writing appeared. I gleefully opened my documents folder and navigated to a recent piece of mine. A piece of poetry to be exact, and one I was rather fond of. I quickly entered the copy and paste commands on my keyboard and rattled of my captcha. After a couple of seconds the familiar and somewhat whimsical affirmation that I was in fact not a robot was displayed, and there appeared my poem on the very walls of 4chan itself.

As time passed however, not a single comment was passed on my poem. It seemed odd, as the offerings of other posters both above and below my poem were discussed at least once and often at length. Yet there sat my modest poem, as if it had never been posted.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:25:22 2015 No.6213510

Here goes, hope I get a response.

April 18, 2014, Windows of Heaven

Throughout the course of my childhood, I experienced a few moments of fleeting euphoria. These moments were brought on by times I would find myself alone, usually in the mornings, engaged in some favorable childhood activity like watching cartoons or playing with toys. Even then I knew moments like these would be special forever. As I entered adolescence, these moments vanished almost entirely. I thought I’d never experience them again, until this morning. Here, on this denim couch in an apartment in midtown Manhattan, through the police sirens blaring, construction crews hacking away eternally, and the occasional yips of the neighbor’s dog, I find the same tranquility that visited me in childhood all those years ago. The glare of the sun through the window and the artificial shine of the light bulbs bathe the white walls and turn them into a reinforced cradle of alabaster, instilling in me with security and comfort akin to that of a newborn child in the arms of its mother. Hung upon these great stone walls are the still images of flowers and people who come alive, just a little, for but a second each time the frigid morning air passes through them, gently raising them from their home in suspended canvas. And amongst all this is insurmountable evidence of friendship: games and playing cards strewn across the floor and table tops, waiting to be played with once again, meals atop the stove, half eaten, knowing their fate, to be consumed or discarded, and chairs, taken from every table arranged in all manners each to accommodate the preferences of the user. But the discord is euphonic, for in every miscellaneous trinket, be they tossed about casually or set in place with the utmost care, there is a picture of good times had by all. And although it is said that all good things must come to end, it also holds true that good times will always Begin Again.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:25:28 2015 No.6213511

It was a hundred years old, an upright with cast-iron insides and dark chestnut faded-varnish on the outside. The keys were battered, chipped under-replaced and yellow ivory. The middle G sometimes wouldn't work though he'd opened it all up and tried to fix the delicate woodwork which sprouted from under the keyboard and threaded up to the string - though he hadn't the knowledge or the tools. he'd often step away from the piano feeling revitalized, and unable to not tap the familiar beats and whistle the melodies he'd been creating for the rest of the day. ordinarily not a great singer, he sung boisterous and confident through the small massachusetts colonial. It sounded good to him, as if he had been placed in key by spending so much time with the instrument. Like a tuning fork. This seemed an obvious analogy, if metaphor at all. But he also thought of more than key, what if for example it could affect timbre? Maybe his singing would become tinny, imperfectly pretty - like a rusted railroad tracks in Concord. The piano, who was only in-tune with itself given limited, if not terrible, upkeep, could have this affect on him, he thought. And it might be same with other musician's wouldn't it? Where did Ella Fitzgerald's rain temper voice come from. The gentle, the sometimes showering melody.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:30:59 2015 No.6213533 >>6213508 That's when you samefag, so you can sleep at night.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 01:33:11 2015 No.6213541 >>6205664 but the tip of the tongue doesn't take a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Just one melancholy knock, just plain Lo.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 04:24:40 2015 No.6213934

>>6213445

You're sentences are a bit too long. Pointlessly so. Some of them anyway. You might need to take control of your voice more. It's a bit lofty at the moment "his scorn", "I oft became", "rousing my parents". Smells a little like a college student that has read only fiction pre-1970. What are you going for? Is it meant to be some gay kid? The narrator and the character aren't the same but you are setting the tone.

If this isn't a period piece or the voice of a snooty brat then tone it down. You're a good writer you don't need to rely on that shit. There's some good detail and psychological insight. Maybe try reading more contemporary fiction.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 04:30:24 2015 No.6213947

>>6213934

Thanks a lot, I thought that "oft" might come off sounding that way, but I was just trying to make the sentence flow better so I thought one syllable would be easier than two.

I didn't realise that scorn and rouse were particularly old words though? The story is about a child but I was trying to tell it through the voice of an adult who's talking about his past. But obviously I'll have to make that a little clearer.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 04:34:21 2015 No.6213959

>>6213111

One. Avoid colons outside of comedic fiction: they're very formal. It also means you are in the habit of writing something then explaining it. It doesn't sit well with me. Confuse the reader if you like but not if you don't want to.

Two. Write about something. I think you have a lot of potential but it feels lost because you're not telling a story. This is more like poetry. I know it's a monologue (although I'm not sure if it's from a human) but it's still very dense. Once you begin to write an actual story you'll probably fix a lot of issues you have. You need momentum and clarity.

Third. Tone it down and make sure everything you write has meaning. It doesn't all need to in the long run if it evokes strong feeling but you don't want to write gibberish.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 04:38:55 2015 No.6213973

>>6213947

They're not archaic words or anything but I don't think many people would say "I can't stand my bosses scorn" or "I need to go rouse Robert from his nap". There's nothing wrong with them but you should be aware of the voice you are creating and have a good feel for the words you are using.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 04:49:55 2015 No.6214006

>>6213510

I liked it overall. It's quite nice prose. It needs trimming and maybe dumbed down in places. Some of the generlisations make the story feel inauthentic.

>Throughout the course of my childhood, I experienced a few moments of fleeting euphoria. These moments were brought on by times I would find myself alone, usually in the mornings, engaged in some favorable childhood activity like watching cartoons or playing with toys. Even then I knew moments like these would be special forever. As I entered adolescence, these moments vanished almost entirely. I thought I’d never experience them again, until this morning.

This whole section doesn't sound true because you've made such huge statements that can't be true. I also find it's much stronger to use examples rather than types. So for example "like watching cartoons or playing with toys" is better as watching Tom and Jerry and playing with legos. It's one of your few fleeting memories after all. Or " Hung upon these great stone walls are the still images of flowers and people" would maybe be better as "still images of tulips and kids holding degrees". I suppose that is a preference thing but I think it is a lot more powerful to really paint the image and give it a personal touch.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 05:03:24 2015 No.6214051

>>6213511

I had no idea what an upright was - so this was lost on me completely. I am also in general ignorant of musical terms so a lot more was lost as well. Maybe it was intentional - I don't know. Some of the description seems overdone and the ordering of adjectives is odd.

> dark chestnut faded-varnish on the outside
Works much better as "faded chestnut varnish". Why would it be dark if it were faded?

>The keys were battered, chipped under-replaced and yellow ivory
"The yellow ivory keys were battered and under-replaced"

Part of the issue is just too many adjectives. Too much description in general. It could all have been said much quicker.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 05:06:47 2015 No.6214055 >>6213959 >Avoid colons outside of comedic fiction Go fuck yourself with your made up bullshit rules.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 05:21:40 2015 No.6214086

A hand in the mock light holds a newspaper,
the pipes groan in the public bathroom.

A woman with a net bag holding oranges
previously placed a kettle beneath a darkened oak,

slept on a white stairway
beside a field of blossoming apple trees,

touched a man by the cliffs where he became a withered fig tree,

put his cotton shirt smelling of water, of wind,
into a blue, tin washing machine from Riga,

and passed you, and passed you.

The street-music of a forgotten city
of someone’s body hums in the tram.

Someone whispering: return, return, as they pass.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 05:24:07 2015 No.6214101 >>6212806 stop samefagging. This isn't very well structured and the metaphors are skin deep (deep as a leper's thin skin) and fall flat. Needs a lot of work.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 05:45:14 2015 No.6214149

>>6214055

Seriously? You posted something in a critique thread and got upset with some constructive criticism? I didn't even make fun of what you'd written and it was kinda awful.

Clearly what I said was my opinion and I explained why I said it. Colons have their uses and are very good for creating comedy. But pick up any novel and count how many colons you see. They're very formal and a bit antiquated. They do create good rhythm though and if you used it well it doesn't matter that you've killed the dream a bit. The problem with a colon over say a semicolon is that you're using it to explain the first part of the sentence. This often means you are creating a confusing sentence for readers. If you use a colon three times in two paragraphs then you are being obtuse.

Whatever you're a little faggot that can't write. Go be a baby somewhere else.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 06:00:59 2015 No.6214177 >>6214149 >You posted something There's your first mistake The rest of your post is just angry whining, like a hornet in a tupperware box so I'll invite you, once again, to go fuck yourself.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 06:02:51 2015 No.6214184 >>6214006 Ah, I get your meaning. A few specificities makes a clearer image for the reader. I'll rethink the line "until this morning". I think that might be the source of the un believability. Thanks for your critiques, it's appreciated.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 06:08:12 2015 No.6214201

>>6214177

I really don't believe that it's not you. I can only imagine if it's not that you use lots of colons in your fiction. Otherwise I'd imagine you'd tell me why it is such offensive bullshit to advise against using colons in fiction. You'll notice it's not mentioned in style guides because nobody fucking does it. It's common sense really.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 06:11:39 2015 No.6214203

>>6214201
>I really don't believe that it's not you

I honestly don't care what an auto-didact, uneducated piece of shit like you thinks or believes. Fuck off with your bullshit "rules" and read an actual grammar before you post on the subject again you ignorant garbage.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 06:17:31 2015 No.6214212

>>6214203

Uh huh. Feeling a little bit embarrassed are we? It's okay. I didn't really mean what I said before. It is kinda awful in its present form but there is potential. You'll need to man the fuck up though. If this is how you react to someone telling you to cool it with the colons you'll probably kill yourself if you try to progress with the writing game.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 07:17:03 2015 No.6214357
File: 33 KB, 614x718, 4e19d36046a4cd0291502804ec4049e5.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>6212779
>It's very clear that you're not a native speaker
Reading it back I noticed a few grammar mistakes, that aside, is there something else that would 'reveal me' as a non-native speaker?

I suppose sounding more like a native speaker would improve the writing?

>The long bit about the soldiers is annoying and feels pointless to me.
I agree. The plan was to made a description of the place in which the first moment takes place, but I feel it was dragged to long.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 07:19:37 2015 No.6214362 >>6214212 >he still thinks I'm the one who wrote whatever he was critiquing I haven't even read what you were talking about dude. I just think you're a twat.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 07:26:09 2015 No.6214380 >>6213111 I feel the whole thing is pointless. I don't know what you're trying to convey, but you're not doing it.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 07:34:03 2015 No.6214410 How long would it say it takes you guys to write 1000 words?

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 07:39:23 2015 No.6214420 >>6214410 A week. I'm not even joking.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 07:40:23 2015 No.6214422 >>6214410 depends. probably half an hour if I were just shitposting on the internet.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 07:40:50 2015 No.6214423 >>6214420 haha good. me too

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 07:45:49 2015 No.6214432 >>6214410 When I was at university and school, I used to have to write 1500 word essays longhand for exams, and I think I used to get three hours to do them. So about 2 hours, because I often used to finish before the examination time was up.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 07:57:22 2015 No.6214455

>>6214410

depends. Good prose, a rough draft, what?

I always perfect a sentence before moving on. My main focus isn't the paragraph, but the sentence as a building block and the flow between sentences. Of course I always go back and perfect them more, because it's still a rough draft at that point.

Iunno, I can spend between a minute and an hour per sentence? Sometimes sentences are a few words and sometimes dozens, and length doesn't have a whole lot to do with the amount of time I spend.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 08:18:13 2015 No.6214505 >>6213410 i don't care if this is a joke, it rules

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 08:19:49 2015 No.6214511 >>6213541 this post has more merit than 90% of the stuff posted here. i could recite it in my head for days <3

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 09:04:45 2015 No.6214628 >>6214101 >>6213050 >>6212837 samefag

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 09:09:19 2015 No.6214633 >>6214628 nice try, but no, that is at least two, and probably three unique people who think your work needs, well, work. Get to it and stop shitposting

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 09:30:46 2015 No.6214685 [DELETED]

File: 169 KB, 341x388, 1424891732994.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

This is supposed to be a bit of a parody if that isn't immediately obvious, specifically Lolita.

Ripples molested the surface. They cancelled, waves falling flat as an untrained chest.

-- Look upon portside!

All attention careened to the portside. A beauty in the dock: harbored in V formation, with pink nylon fastening firm to shore. My eyes rapt at her seamy fasteners, nearly bursting at the seams. She lay tenderly etherized upon a spine board, buoyed as a ship against Norfolk sunset and oyster shells. I envied the one who would take her on a virginal voyage -- how I wished for shakedown! To cast off those ropes, spill decks with blood of the hunt, spill with blood of the enemy seafarers, blood of a battle -- V formation coagulating with my spine, now W formation! W formation! Legs locked against spine! One and one making one in the water! Blood of the fruit in the water! And then to cast it off as soiled spoils of sport (mutiny aboard the Bounty!), spoiled pink nylon upon seedy surface tension, tending to an escape, escapades in a court martial, serving a prison marshal behind bars for twenty to life.
She molested my attention. Waves canceled around her form, now propagating flat as her chest (which would sadly grow parallel her emotional maturity, sprouting cantaloupes within the year.) My Profanity hitched a ride from Norfolk to seedy New York: I wanted to have sexual intercourse with this fourteen year old girl. I wanted to have sex with her In the water. I wanted to fuck her while others watched without merit, and I fucked without mercy. I wanted to tear the greater of her two evils, her two piece swimsuit, the bottom of her two piece swimsuit, tear it like a parent rips boxtops from the child’s box of Kellogg's, set it afloat with the ceaseless woes of a Parent Teacher Association short on boxtops, her mother pacing with a baggie of boxtops in a Parent Teacher Association meeting while her dropped-off daughter train to be a lifeguard in the water, her mother ignorant of her daughter’s pummel as she concerns herself with middle school funds scraped from boxtops, her daughter’s sinful V transvertebrating with my loins in the water. Her daughter’s tongue would make a trip of two steps down to my palate, recycling my used air, filtering it through gentle pubescent pheromones and venting it through her turned-up nose. I tasted my breath, cupping two hands around my mouth and filtering my air through two nostrils. Coffee. Could a fourteen-year-old’s pheromones percolate a morning’s coffee-breath?

-- Look upon hindsight!

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 09:43:56 2015 No.6214713 >>6214101 >>6213050 >>6212837 >>6214633 samefag

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 09:45:46 2015 No.6214716

>>6214697
you've got some seriously sexy and fun lines going on here. the problem is, they're so densely packed as to be nearly impenetrable. even nabokov's prose had some straightforward lines so that you could tell what the hell was going at first glance. clarify some sentences, and the imagery and neat phrasing will sparkle instead of getting lost.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 10:23:53 2015 No.6214845
File: 169 KB, 341x388, 1424891732994.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>6214716

thanks! You're absolutely right with all of those points, thanks for the advice. I wrote this a few hours ago at like 3am and because of it I couldn't go to bed. Soon going to hit that 24 hour awake mark, probably won't get a chance to get into bed until the 30 mark. Oh well, worth it. removed accidentally. For those who missed it:

This is supposed to be a bit of a parody if that isn't immediately obvious, specifically Lolita.

Ripples molested the surface. They cancelled, waves falling flat as an untrained chest.

-- Look upon portside!

All attention careened to the portside. A beauty in the dock: harbored in V formation, with pink nylon fastening firm to shore. My eyes rapt at her seamy fasteners, nearly bursting at the seams. She lay tenderly etherized upon a spine board, buoyed as a ship against Norfolk sunset and oyster shells. I envied the one who would take her on a virginal voyage -- how I wished for shakedown! To cast off those ropes, spill decks with blood of the hunt, spill with blood of the enemy seafarers, blood of a battle -- V formation coagulating with my spine, now W formation! W formation! Legs locked against spine! One and one making one in the water! Blood of the fruit in the water! And then to cast it off as soiled spoils of sport (mutiny aboard the Bounty!), spoiled pink nylon upon seedy surface tension, tending to an escape, escapades in a court martial, serving a prison marshal behind bars for twenty to life.
She molested my attention. Waves canceled around her form, now propagating flat as her chest (which would sadly grow parallel her emotional maturity, sprouting cantaloupes within the year.) My Profanity hitched a ride from Norfolk to seedy New York: I wanted to have sexual intercourse with this fourteen year old girl. I wanted to have sex with her In the water. I wanted to fuck her while others watched without merit, and I fucked without mercy. I wanted to tear the greater of her two evils, her two piece swimsuit, the bottom of her two piece swimsuit, tear it like a parent rips boxtops from the child’s box of Kellogg's, set it afloat with the ceaseless woes of a Parent Teacher Association short on boxtops, her mother pacing with a baggie of boxtops in a Parent Teacher Association meeting while her dropped-off daughter train to be a lifeguard in the water, her mother ignorant of her daughter’s pummel as she concerns herself with middle school funds scraped from boxtops, her daughter’s sinful V transvertebrating with my loins in the water. Her daughter’s tongue would make a trip of two steps down to my palate, recycling my used air, filtering it through gentle pubescent pheromones and venting it through her turned-up nose. I tasted my breath, cupping two hands around my mouth and filtering my air through two nostrils. Coffee. Could a fourteen-year-old’s pheromones percolate a morning’s coffee-breath?

-- Look upon hindsight!

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 10:58:30 2015 No.6214960 >>6214511 goddamn you're a pleb

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 11:35:14 2015 No.6215083 Fa/tg/uy reporting in, need to be told why I'm shit, not that I'm shit. Rolled for a random page out of my novel, editted it quickly, and threw it up. Someone want to give me a hand? http://pastebin.com/FZFYVakG

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 11:38:28 2015 No.6215089

>>6215083

Too much dialogue and too little action. Let's be honest, nobody would spew a wall of text like that in real life. Conversations usually end up a transfer of one to two sentences at a time, or less.

Show us more of what's happening, less of the dialogue. And the condense and edit both down.

Also all those made up terms without context makes this sounds a little plebby

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 11:50:07 2015 No.6215127

>>6215089
I'm really fucking conflicted right now because my gut reaction is to defend myself, but that's how I end up in my own echo chamber of shit.

But I'm not sure how/if I should be showing more action, because the context of this page is a meeting between the three smartest people in the military to give a report on what just happened. Them discussing what happened and what should be done about it is the action of the scene.

On the other hand, I basically wrote this whole thing just so I myself had it straight in my head of how things actually happened, what conclusions people are at, etc. etc. and I might be able to just cut this whole thing if I can figure out how to get the information elsewhere.

>all those made up terms
It's page 112 of a sci-fi. It's unavoidable to not have named things like the city, the robots running around, and the main source of conflict, all with "plebby" names.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 11:52:58 2015 No.6215138

>>6215127
>I'm really fucking conflicted right now because my gut reaction is to defend myself, but that's how I end up in my own echo chamber of shit.

no, please defend yourself. Feedback is a conversation, not a lecture

> But I'm not sure how/if I should be showing more action, because the context of this page is a meeting between the three smartest people in the military to give a report on what just happened. Them discussing what happened and what should be done about it is the action of the scene.

perhaps hint at their moods by how they move about the room? One nervously and looking around, one arms in a cross, etc.?

> On the other hand, I basically wrote this whole thing just so I myself had it straight in my head of how things actually happened, what conclusions people are at, etc. etc. and I might be able to just cut this whole thing if I can figure out how to get the information elsewhere.

That's fine. First drafts will always be overly produced compared to the final.

>>all those made up terms
>It's page 112 of a sci-fi. It's unavoidable to not have named things like the city, the robots running around, and the main source of conflict, all with "plebby" names.

makes sense, but the number of words seems a bit excessive. But that's also a subjective claim tbh, others might be fine with it.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 11:53:03 2015 No.6215139 >>6215083 >Fa/tg/uy >uy uy?

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 11:53:39 2015 No.6215144 >>6215127 Naturalistic dialogue is a spook, don't listen to him. However he's right about the names. Does everything need specific names?

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 12:01:12 2015 No.6215173

>>6203880

It's quite plain you are not a native speaker. Some of your constructions are unusual, which isn't necessarily bad, though there are quite a few grammar mistakes.

>those of which they treat
those whom, those which they treat
>of which they care
for which or for whom they care

>every laying man
every lying man

>had its eyes fixed on the door
had his eyes fixed on the door

>it was not secret even if not spoken out loud, every person

better: it was not secret, even if not spoken out loud, that every person . . .

>they were selfish and more than they should
and more than they should be

> but not intentionally much more less than they tried
this one perplexes me, what are your trying to say?

>laying with the sick
lying

>sick in war ward
sick in the war ward (though the noun phrase war ward admittedly sounds unusual to me)

>as it should
as it should be

>you will share with your ward mates
you would sounds better

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 12:06:33 2015 No.6215199

>>6215139
Fa/tg/uy, Elegan/tg/entleman and Ca/tg/irl are /tg/ specific monikers.

>>6215144
I need to name the city. (EDEN)
I need to name the drones hunting the main character (Kuzuri)
I need to name the AI causing the problems. (ADAM and ADAM Prototype)
Cityboarder is just slang I felt would be weird if it didn't exist.

>>6215138
At what point does establishing their behavior become redundant? The point of view character doesn't have much description because he's focusing on the other two. I've had five pages in this scene before the page you read, which established that Chase is stressed out, Lockheart is mildly high as a matter of course, and Shultz is stereotypical too-old-for-this-shit cover his own ass by pointing fingers elsewhere.

Perhaps I should just shorten the dialogue, but it's tricky to do that because a lot is getting explained in this. And I really need to explain these things at some point because it's the explanation of how the antagonist is a credible terrorist threat, which is going to be enacted a few chapters later after the government fails to contain him.

Can I just post the entire chapter? Claiming I'm doing something reasonable doesn't mean I actually am.

http://pastebin.com/we4tXKt8

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 12:26:43 2015 No.6215261 >>6214362 >>6214212 >>6214203 >>6214201 >>6214149 >>6213111 here. Thanks to the guy who critiqued the excerpt I posted. And fuck the guy berating him. You're a fuckwit if you think being an auto-didact is anything but respectable.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 12:28:02 2015 No.6215266 >>6213503 favorite of the thread

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 12:30:19 2015 No.6215272

>>6215261
>You're a fuckwit if you think being an auto-didact is anything but respectable.

This is what people tell themselves as they sit eating crisps and shouting the answers to University Challenge, telling anyone who'll listen that they're much more intelligent than these Oxford types, if only they'd had the opportunities.

And for what it's worth, your colon riddled writing is fucking garbage, and my only problem with that other guy was his made up "don't use colons" rule which is complete shite, which is, just to re-iterate, what your story is.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 12:36:54 2015 No.6215299 >>6214505 Hey thanks man

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 12:41:13 2015 No.6215314

>>6215272

>getting this mad about colons

You must quite literally be butthurt about something. What it is, I don't care. And I also don't care what you have to say about my writing, just know this: you will die a cold, miserable death, and you know it. I can taste it through my screen.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 12:43:45 2015 No.6215331 >>6215314 lmao being this bitter your writing is atrocious and you seem like a poor human being who is incapable of improving :/

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 12:55:11 2015 No.6215386 >>6215199 someone?

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:00:46 2015 No.6215407

>>6215331

No, I'm not bitter. It's just easy to tell when someone is unhappy as you are. Content people don't argue over such petty nonsense. You could have made your point without being an asshole, but you chose not to. And speaking about improving, you should work on that. It's immature, even for 4chan.

Anyway please, have the last word, you know you want it.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:10:05 2015 No.6215434

>>6215127

I wouldn't worry too much about long dialogue. People regularly give longer speeches and reports. Especially in work environments. I would be tempted to break it up a bit. Splitting long dialogue with a pause works well.

"bla bla bla," said Anon quietly, "bla bla bla". And you can also just throw a line to another character.

"But we can’t exactly send soldiers to their deaths," said penisman

"What can we do?" said the clueless idiot.

"Until we get our hands on the codes being used, there’s nothing we can really do to protect our soldiers. "

Also if the characters are experts just split the dialogue up between them.

I really wouldn't sweat it though.

Having said all that the passage didn't really do anything for me. I'm not sure why you chose it. Only thing I could add is that describing what people are doing is sometimes a bit unnecessary and distracting.

>Chase folded his hands together

I mean, neat?

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:11:50 2015 No.6215438

>>6215407

that was the first time I've replied to you

I haven't properly read that long conversation but if you're honestly answering someone giving you criticism (no matter how badly) like that, you're probably not going to improve as a writer

and your writing really is objectively poor (not irredeemable so though) but you're probably just going to ignore this and keep doing what you do ie bad

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:12:02 2015 No.6215439 >>6215314 >I also don't care what you have to say about my writing >but I still posted it in a critique thread >but I'm going to ignore the h8rs and negatives >I don't want to improve my writing, I'm a self-satisfied dickhead.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:20:08 2015 No.6215460 >>6215434 >I mean, neat? You make a good point. Guess I should go back to the back end grind and progress the plot.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:26:26 2015 No.6215480 it was a dark and stormy night

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:28:39 2015 No.6215485 >>6203572 nigga thats gay

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:29:31 2015 No.6215487

>>6214845
np! are you the original infinte jest author reaction pic guy, or one of the imitators?

also, an interesting note; when i read lolita, the main colors i got were shades of sepia, dusty pink, fawn brown and slate blue. your parody is strongly coral, white, caribbean blue and sunshine yellow; it probably doesn't influence the work for anyone but me, but i like those colors.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:31:45 2015 No.6215491 >>6215299 the mawkishness at the beginning of the stanzas sliding into skepticism and then grinning irreverence made me :)

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:43:46 2015 No.6215514

>>6215487

Synesthesia, eh? I attribute weakly colors to keys/notes similar to Scriabin (of course just not on his level) in music -- what type of trigger words help encapsulate your palette? Or is it Syntax? Or both? Very genuinely curious, thanks for sharing

Also no I'm an imitator, though I've created a lot of my own decks to participate in DFW duels, along with the first mixed media DFW trading card: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lwk-apo0_uM

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:53:56 2015 No.6215538

Von rushed over, dashing through the unforgiving rain. Getting to his hurt friend was everything. The stretch felt like betraying the convention of an escalator, each stride burning his innocent soul accompanied with desperate, struggling bellows. He damned himself with crucifying anguish for his inability to move swifter. The fear inside was very much evolving into dread, not unlike the final moments of the tragic coup of Steel city. He made haste and slid to his knees as he neared Lake, violently grabbing his friend's wrist as he sought for a sign of life. His other hand hewed a highly tensed unopenable fist which hammered down onto the hushed heart in front of him. There was nothing. A short while of nothing. Von looked up and peered to the heavens with a seething glare, as if giving God the most belittling revile before he buried his head into Lake's chest and grieved regretfully.

But like the resilient lilies of devastated forests, Lake endeavoured for another breath. “9/11 was an inside job, Mozart is still alive, allahu akbar” were his last words as he departed towards to peace.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:56:01 2015 No.6215544

His thoughts churned up inside him, silt clouding a pool of water. Humans were so circular; they lived the same slow cycles of joy and misery over and over, never learning. Every lesson had to be taught billions of times, and it never stuck. How arrogant we are, Adam thought, to deliver babies who can't walk or talk or feed themselves. How sure we are that nothing will destroy them before they can catke care of themselves. How fragile they were, how easily abandoned and neglected and beaten and hated. Prey animals were born afraid.

He had not known to be born afraid, but he had learned.

Maybe it was good that the world forgot every lesson, every good and bad memory, every triumph and failure all of it dying with each generation. Perhaps this cultural amnesia spared them all. Perhaps if they remembered everything, hope would die instead.

Outside yourself, Persephone reminded him.

It was difficult to tear himself away; there was a strange, hideous comfort to wearing the edges off his interior.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 13:57:38 2015 No.6215547 >>6215544 not bad mane

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 14:02:45 2015 No.6215563

>>6215438
>>6215439

I didn't respond to the guy giving me a critique. I responded to the guy arguing with the guy giving me a critique! I obviously want to improve. It's just insults like "your writing is atrocious" without any actual advice are just insults, and honestly piss me off. Anyway, thanks.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 14:09:28 2015 No.6215584 >>6215563 >It's just insults like "your writing is atrocious" But honestly, it is. >without any actual advice take up painting maybe?

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 14:10:42 2015 No.6215588 >>6215584 And if your painting is terrible as well, try politics!

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 14:13:42 2015 No.6215593 >>6215588 I sieg vat you did zere

A Finished Intake Mon Mar 2 14:18:01 2015 No.6215600

It's midday and the bed is wide awake. More so than its occupants, eyelids open chink-like, ching chong, now that'd go well with most breakfasts: light-hearted jokes are what they need at the moment. She does that, he smirks, understandably we do too, what a pair of silly buffoons they are! Then again:

A heavy night of drink preceding today, the room stinks, or is it their breath? Either/or, une cherie avec un marquis de la petite bourgeoisie, uma menina e um filho da puta, eine Katze und ihr Kater, so to say, he's not about to shut up, never ever, no, speaking (or pretending to) eight languages, he's wrapped her around his fingers (initially just one, naturally, disregarding them purposefully washed out jeans of hers) with unspoken promises his eyebrows seem to posit. Their mouths occasionally colliding, they're ignorant of their present odorous milieu. Her -- more than him: his chest a pleasant cushion to her head, her halo spread amidst his hirsuteness, sandalwoody still: that her nostrils cannot ignore. Invade me, they say, flaring up.

Boa tarde. Gee. A position most enviable for the cigarettes freshly extracted, two of them. Puffing away, they are jealous of the fags, crane your neck, Captain Kek, shuffle up, buttercup, his eyes water from the smoke woowooing from her mouth, but he soon shuts the valves, and a wet sound follows.

They sigh, one after another, puffing. The bedroom reeks of 60s, and it's time yet again to speak French, but neither of them knows how.

A breakfast is suggested, waveringly enough to warrant a response in the negative. His mannerisms are imposing enough, a real cadet à la Steve Jobs in the making, sans the my-mom-buys-my-clothes getup, but now even he's not convinced by his own words. A smoke or two should be enough, and maybe, just maybe, now his voice retains the well-remembered manner (partly because of which she spreads her legs for him), they should pluck a coupla hairs off the dog that's bitten them.

The chinks having departed, with the laptop on his stomach (the scars covered up, against her unconscious wishes; if you'd only seen her face happening upon them for the first time, her eyes, her blue (or were they green? in that light, it's a question he asks himself now, staring at her sun-powered reflection in the mattes, colorless, odorless) eyes, expanding, was it lust? was it a realization of sorts that maybe he's not as full of shit as she'd thought him, not that she's ever had a problem with that, but), her yet remaining atop her den of relaxed muscle and flab, they're watching a movie. It's not a film (nor, echoing his parlance, a piece), their minds are blank and drifting.

Two eggs sizzling in a frying pan. A spatula is brought in, and oh so very gently, the membranes of the yolks are pierced. The yellow surges out, and a second's wait later, the mystic utensil returns to do its bidding.

He kisses the whorl of her hair and holds it. It's like he's stuck.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 14:18:49 2015 No.6215606 >>6215600 skamba gėjiškai

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 14:21:53 2015 No.6215617 >>6215600 > LSD the story

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 14:26:11 2015 No.6215634 >>6215617 >tryhard the story >>6215600 >breaking the yolks like a cunt

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 14:57:27 2015 No.6215725

GOLDEN BOY

How did your soul become so comfortable
With this betrayal, with his betrayal
This certain feel for opportunity
The killer instinct, the killer instinct

Big talkers networks deals priorities
The blood on your hands, the blood on your hands
Enough to ruin what seemed inviolable
Almost sacred, almost sacred

The right time, the right location
The right plan to sell yourself
All these broken human beings
All in wait to be impressed

I cannot stop hurting you
I cannot stop hurting you
I cannot stop hurting you
I cannot stop hurting you

I can't stop hurting you
Until your ideology is
crushed and broken
crushed and broken

I can't stop hurting you
Until the hurt pours out of me
Can't stop till you're
crushed and broken

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 15:10:13 2015 No.6215757 File: 92 KB, 551x404, gidorah.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] If one would be so kind, needs a few more whacks with an editing stick but I feel it's in a state where it can be critiqued. >inb4 pic related http://pastebin.com/k9Y4w7PR

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 15:16:02 2015 No.6215773

Gale dropped the basket and clutched his stomach as he fell to the ground, writhing and rolling on the dirt. His belly was swollen, and he groaned in pain. A sinister churning tormented his core. Short eructations escaping his mouth in a putrid, black cloud forced a burning, bitter acid up his throat. A mucous-like black liquid dribbled from his lip and nose as he released a series of bubbling retches. His belly stretched and tightened as the pressure inside of him grew. Gale futilely struggled for breath, only to pull the black liquid into his lungs. With an agonized, hacking cough he sprayed black onto the wicker basket which sizzled and disintegrated from its touch. Finally, like hopeless victims to a volcanic eruption, the village watched in an awed silence as a black vomit fountained from the young boy’s mouth. The market smelled of rotten flesh and bile.

hows the language and narrative for this particular excerpt? does it seem too le edgy and should it be toned down?

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 17:02:40 2015 No.6216195
File: 29 KB, 600x397, 27572163_l_57cfe82c9f02fb9c8a56b85ac5b8add4.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

I drove my car with the awareness
of never being able of violate any driving rule
and, accepting this condition,
I violated the physic rules that regolates it:
for being with you some minutes earlier
and reach your love domain,
a blonde alcove with the scent of a siberian church
inside your perfume vial.

Your sick child body resembled fabric
and made me realize I like things not beautiful most of all.
The void you created around you, the exclusivity you seem to grant,
which I enjoyed.
It was all sad, but fulfilling.

I tried to hate you, and you also did
but we ended up being fond of each other
because we didn't really care.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 17:08:23 2015 No.6216228 >>6215584 >>6215588 you guys are buttholes

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 17:09:50 2015 No.6216232

I'm a success today because I had a friend
who believed in me
and I didn't have the heart to let him down.
And I can fight only for something that I love,
love only what I respect,
and respect only what I at least know:
Until you're ready to look foolish,
you'll never have the possibility of being great.
So,
Let us read, and let us dance;
these two amusements will never do any harm to the world––yet:
When this monster entered my brain,
I will never know,
but it is here to stay.
How does one cure himself?
I can't stop it,
the monster goes on,
and hurts me as well as society.
Maybe you can stop him.
I can't:
When I was 14,
I was the oldest I ever was.
I’ve been getting younger every since.
Yet despite everything:
I am the me I choose to be.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 17:18:24 2015 No.6216265

The memories I've left in the cupboard
discuss inventory of amenities with the Indian:
"shall we ignore the over-abundance of toilet paper?"
The chieftain asks.
"No, flush it with the re-used floss; flush it with the rest."

The Senegalese safari spirals tossed footballs,
out of control: the precipice of giddiness
where high-pitches belong to smiling cheeks
and up-clenched fists meant for peace-mongering.
When will the fog dissipate so that re-tracking can occur?
Must it occur? Strategically: are we doing the right things?
No, but we're doing them right, at least.

And there goes Disney World, and the rest, too.
Playa Del Carmen, first, fourth, eighth graduated cylinders down the pipelines to where the mole-people dream of resurfacing on the cracked-egg of Easter for one more

stanza of human interaction;
exegesis of trace-lines back to lineages lost in the cupboard,
but not lost lost.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 17:36:11 2015 No.6216345
File: 200 KB, 810x1936, scope.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

ok so not really a literary piece, but have to submit a project proposal and initial scope this week and need a fresh set of eyes to evaluate it. it seems decently written but i'm not sure if its a bit wordy and the sentences seem to run a bit long

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 18:09:39 2015 No.6216469

>>6215514
it's not true synthesia, i don't think, just a general visual association with non-visual stimulus. the colors i get aren't solely based off of trigger words or sounds, but memories, alluded-to concepts and surroundings.

for example; in this case, the sunshine yellow is derived from the exuberance of the syntax, the reference to "morning's coffee-breath" and swimsuits. this colors my perception of the rest of the story's palette; the metaphorical waves now have to be a caribbean blue, not steel or dark green, and the references to ships bring up ideas of bright white yachts and cruises. coral is more interesting; a shade of pink would make sense given that its explicitly mentioned as being part of the poem's central figure, but it's orange-tinted because of the non-serious nature of the work, denoting that its a satirical take on lust and desire and not the serious thing. i hope that clarifies things somewhat ^_^

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 18:34:52 2015 No.6216560 Ah, my works finest, I am the perfect artisan carrying out the swift words of gods Typing away for culture I seek on this message board; sub-thread critique Please oh please justify my vowels is it want or need in the repliers eyes

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 18:48:17 2015 No.6216642

>inb4 no one critiques it

As with most prolonged eye contact – it can become a strain on the brain, a sort of a tingling sensation at the back of your head, as if an intrusion is underway and, not looking away will feel like they really know your thoughts; that something in your mind has crossed their subconscious mind, and a visceral response of alertness evoces within them – rendering them confused, uncertain of what those thoughts meant – but nonetheless, following their gut and telling themselves in form of the conception of the modern usage of the term “vibe”; that they better be careful, alert, ready.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 18:57:58 2015 No.6216694

http://pastebin.com/67fjtuuC

>>6215600
>narrator is a white supremacist
>nonsensical
>constant lapsing into languages you don't speak >memes

there is so much wrong with this I don't even know where to start

>>6215544
Sorry if this comes off as rude anon. it's well thought out, but the reflective part is really overdone and pretentious to the point of being a little ridiculous. Maybe you were going for hammy, but I would recommend the character more casually.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 19:01:17 2015 No.6216713 >>6216642 i started reading because i can relate to finding prolonged eye-contact uncomfortable, but my gosh is this a long sentence. this would be a lot more pleasant to read as separate sentences.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 23:05:37 2015 No.6217674 >>6213257 >"...when a strange thing happened >six lines later >"when a strange thing happened >published me cago de la risa.

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 23:18:16 2015 No.6217717
File: 2.88 MB, 600x400, JCSsmall7.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Girls with daddy issues and guys with beard
Get out of here, before it gets weird.
Drug dealers and librarians
Both sell wonders, both make amends.

Cars and Houses on my mind
I see so much I might as well be blind
Walking through a sea of Neon
Signs shouting "Greet the new Aeon".

A decade made of tiny choices
Days spent in between
Locking in on the screen
But it all it shows is static noises.

All it shows is a reflection
Of the thin thin intersection
Where the mind meets the dream
And the madman learned to scream.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 23:21:41 2015 No.6217730 >>6217717 There's one 'it' too many in the third stanza. Forgive me, it's early morning

Anonymous Mon Mar 2 23:34:46 2015 No.6217784

A HAPPY clown a joyful beast
Paris is a moving Feast
My bandwagon is moving too
Past the old towards the New

By siren song I put to sleep
The shepherd and a dozen sheep
I killed the capt'n and the crew
No more bold they sink into the blue.

A sad Pierrot a lustful shiver
The sinner is the best forgiver
Come to him to make amends
He introduces all his friends:

The small, the big, the true and yellow
Some play guitar and some play chello
They ask me to play the blues
So I'm putting on my bluest shoes.

A morning pure
A night so short
I trample down this dirty road
The bus is coming, it is due
Past the old Towards the New.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 23:38:59 2015 No.6217802 >>6217784 There's no h in cello, friend.

>>	Anonymous Mon Mar 2 23:50:17 2015 No.6217855 Marita. Please find me. I'm almost 30.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 00:05:09 2015 No.6217936 >>6217855 sup Leonard Cohen

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 00:08:37 2015 No.6217951

The flowers follow the flow, the hollow, the show; the meadow
The, black, bourgeois, widow swam and drank the water
Cupped it with hands that would but once falter
Under the altar, a man laid with web and holy water
Never once wishing he could alter the hollow snow; the cold, red meadow

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 00:20:45 2015 No.6217990 >>6217951 I actually really like your strange rhyme pattern and meter. Fun poem

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 00:55:54 2015 No.6218078
File: 92 KB, 873x529, Crotchety-Old-People.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>6203562
Was it retribution for last tuesdays incident? miss Jennings the retirement home matriarch, now wheelchair bound, taciturn, dying, but still commanding the respect and obedience of residents and staff alike. Or payback, well deserved payback for five years of degradation and negligence? It started innocently enough. Hermenegildo 'meme' Antunez, known for flatulence and confabulations about old havana. family's estates in mayabeque. calls you, an emergency. You ask him, what's the matter? Sounding at once servile, sadistic and condescending, like always. you've always been the most hated man on staff. they need you. remember his shit eating grin for the rest of your life. A small room, many shrunken dark figures surround you, their shrunken hands grab you and force you down to the floor. you have been tied down to to a bed, immobilized where did they get all the viagra? where did they get all the viagra? NO! A wheelchair is thrown over you. A shrunken man 95 years old, no teeth, drooling. Never heard him speak, assumed him too far gone into dementia. So deteriorated They can't even eat on their own, but Horror! they can still fuck. and they fuck! and they fuck! withered members violate your every orifice, as wrinkled toothless faces watch on malevolently... an obese woman, with drooping pale tits looms over you, suddenly, she strikes, her cunt having gone stale decades ago. it is big. your whole face engulfed in it! no! no! a stench which has gone beyond fish and into rotten eggs, onions and week old garbage!

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 01:32:34 2015 No.6218208 The little girl on the plane Who turned her doll's head around To look at me.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 02:58:45 2015 No.6218392 Anyone in this thread or is it too late/early?

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 03:03:23 2015 No.6218397 >>6218392 lit sucks around this time on weekdays

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 10:43:18 2015 No.6218629 >>6218397 > posting past around midnight EST > posting before 10am-ish EST that's your problem mate, a huge majoriity of the posters are either britistans or americunts on the east coast for college. We're asleep.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 11:06:35 2015 No.6218678 >>6218078 >your whole face engulfed in it! dude

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 11:08:51 2015 No.6218682 >>6218208 Hm. Don't really have any critiques for it, but I like it.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 13:26:56 2015 No.6219010 Why do I even post in these? My posts never get reviews...

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:13:27 2015 No.6219315 >>6219010 Maybe your writing is shit and we don't want to be mean? What's your post anyway?

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:21:51 2015 No.6219358 >>6205628 First stanza, ABBC? I really don't like that rhyme scheme.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:25:13 2015 No.6219368

I wrote this a while ago and I kind of detest it now...

The wind doth ne'er o'er mountains howl
Nor betwix't crags doth water crash
Upon the barren shores and under a grey sky.
Our lands are flat and full of life,
Sharing an equal temperament of the arts;
And through many an unforgotten century
We have unto our name thrust the pride of a country.
Ne'er to render our unknown fame
We have created without shame
An envy of all other nations:

We are but one together and thousands apart,
And tho London may be an age away,
My heart doth lie within our home:
Every field, fence and hedgerow long,
An inspiration for my every creation.
Undyingly we seek that which we see only vividly,
In our transient, languid dreams,
And tho many choose not to see and seek,
We all within us hold a faculty so great and untold,
Which can be liberated by the beauty of our country,
Forever and always in sun or rain.
Through the brevity of human life,
Upon man, time is pressed:
The eternal hinderence and ethereal blessing
In which man strives to succeed.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:26:14 2015 No.6219371 >>6219315 Nah, my writing is better than most I'd argue. Though it could be in here, because I only post leftover poetry. >>6217717 >>6217784 go on my hat, while we're at that.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:39:17 2015 No.6219420

The room is filled with brine. Soft, wet music, vibrations on my body, sweat on my back. Everything drones: the sound, the room - its walls, thoughts and feelings. Thrumming blood brings sensation to the cool. Backache and the nonexistent creak of bones yawwing for comfort. I can't help but curb my enthusiasm. Raw vibrations.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:41:24 2015 No.6219428 [DELETED]

Poem for k (quickly now)

supine,
you emit gray in wafts casual.
of ash and orange fire—
marble smoke floating
like an artifact

the eyes: jade
they hide their mute tint
in screens from the throat
'breathe it in' 'like this'
on the chaise longue, my muse
in blue, in black, in supple pale
tones at the tips of bare toes, to
the end of mischievous digits

knowing all her worth:

the grin comes steely, unaffected
grows and sterns, breaks and flattens
in amusement tapping to the air with
a sole. stay still, my muse,
my slight heart's tremble at dawn
my noon's lowly hunger
pale blue star guiding
me

in circles

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:48:04 2015 No.6219455

>>6203562
Why do all of these start with "The blah blah blah" or "It was blah blah blah" or "There once was blah blah blah."

Jesus, can we be a little bit more subtle with our exposition? That's like the kind of stuff you write at a very very young age, unless your the Grim Brothers.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:49:13 2015 No.6219461 >>6219455 You're ruling out starting anything with 'the'? What the fuck? That's retarded.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:49:16 2015 No.6219462 >>6219455 I was about to say (actually I wasn't, but I was thinking it.) I can't think of much good writing that begins "the blah blah"

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:49:23 2015 No.6219463 >>6203572 >>6203581 I for one enjoyed it. I thought the second paragraph was a bit disjointed, but the nostalgia paragraph produced clear images that I think most people would be able to relate to.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:51:53 2015 No.6219470

Tried to write something as good as Shakespeare. Idk, what do you think?

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning Time, whose million'd accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;
Alas! why, fearing of Time's tyranny,
Might I not then say, 'Now I love you best,'
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe, then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:52:39 2015 No.6219474

>>6219428
>Poem for k (quickly now)

>supine,
>you emit gray in wafts casual.
>of ash and orange fire—
>marble smoke floating
>like an artifact

>the eyes: jade
>they hide their mute tint
>in screens from the throat
>'breathe it in' 'like this'
>on the chaise longue, my muse
>in blue, in black, in supple pale
>tones at the tips of bare toes, to
>the end of mischievous digits

>knowing all her worth:

>the grin comes steely, unaffected
>grows and sterns, breaks and flattens
>in amusement tapping to the air with
>a sole. stay still, my muse,
>my slight heart's tremble at dawn
>my noon's lowly hunger
>pale blue star guiding
>me

>in circles

Because they deleted it and I'm an asshole.

Sounds cool. Bit angsty. Pick better subject matter.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 15:56:31 2015 No.6219496

Gypsies come and Gypsies go, my mother used to say. Well, this one seems to be here to stay.
She came at night, leftover from some afterparty at Terrence' place.
She smelled like sweat and incense, and when she asked whether she could take a shower, I was in love.
A couple of days she stayed, and I fed her tales of paranoia and gave the mold of her madness a ground to grow.
When she left, it was in a police car.
Some guy had locked her out after she attacked him with a knife, Typical.
She screamed all night, and I wanted to let her back in, but they wouldn't let me.
The neighbours called the police, and I haven't seen her since.
The guy with whom she came tells me she's back at her mothers' place.
Dreadful.
Maybe I ought to go there, but when I call the mother tells me to piss off, she doesn't want her daughter to fall back into old habits.
As if I'm an habit you could just shake off. Either way, I ought to dance. I'm packing my finest shoes, and I am, am , am , floating.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 16:04:50 2015 No.6219535 >>6219470 This is pure shit. Will you PLEASE stop trying to write like you were born 400 years ago? This isn't even convincing.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 16:07:59 2015 No.6219549 >>6219535 >falling for the bait http://www.nosweatshakespeare.com/sonnets/115/

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 16:10:41 2015 No.6219560 File: 24 KB, 632x450, yfw hal and gately dig up JOIs skull.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6219549 Top kek always google b4 you critique, m8, especially if you don't know shit about the medium

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 16:16:05 2015 No.6219596

Seeing as I don't get crit, I might as well give crit to you critters.
>>6219368
I'm not into modern poetry imitating archaic language, and no offense, you're not doing it that well. I like the first two lines of the second stanza though.

>>6218208
This is eerily interesting.
#
>>6218078
Don't like what you do to capital letters. I kinda like the idea, though it doesn't flow as nicely as it could.
>>6217951
Fun poem.
>>6217855
sup Cohen.
>>6217784
>>6217717
Fantastic, probably because I wrote them myself.
>>6216642
I kind of like how you transpose the 'strain on the brain' into the very structure of that sentence. Because it is very long and unreadable, which strains my brain.

>>6216560
your vowels and bowels are now justified.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 16:23:25 2015 No.6219637 Get get get get Got got got got Blood rush to my Head /lit/ hot lock Poppin' off the Fuckin block knot Clockin wrist slit Watch bent thought bot

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 16:58:02 2015 No.6219761 Paranoia provokes the pansy In me, though I rather fancy A duality of fragility and fanciful, Fulfilling actions seeing chances in monotony with which I ponder the anxiety which in I often see atrocity.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 17:33:07 2015 No.6219920

>>6219470
Decent imitation.
This is a good enough demonstration actually - which is to its merit - that it is able to demonstrate the flaws of Shakespeare's sonnets, which is that they have these sickly mix of metaphysics and sensual imagery that never sits right.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 17:51:05 2015 No.6220009 >>6219560 >needing to google a Shakespeare sonnet Come on guys.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 17:52:12 2015 No.6220010 File: 1010 KB, 233x226, 2much4me.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6219920 >Decent imitation.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 17:55:14 2015 No.6220028

Hey, I did this same thing earlier in this thread, grabbed a random page and editted it. Got some food for thought out of it, fishing for more. Here's another page if any of you want to read it and explain to me what I'm doing shittily.

http://pastebin.com/zju284Jx

Or you know, I could be doing things right.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 18:38:38 2015 No.6220248

Pages upon Pages
Of unread rhyme
Sentence by Sentence
It crawls up my spine.

Wonder if they wonder
If they'll make it
Ponder if they ponder
If it's all just shit?

And I feel sad for all these words
Had to be spoken, but nobody heard
So this is their home now, an internet thread
Very depressed, i now go to bed.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 18:53:27 2015 No.6220329 File: 762 KB, 1000x2022, melissa.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6215173 Damn, I had a lot of than I could expect. I probably should use a grammar checker before posting anything. Thanks for the corrections.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 18:58:29 2015 No.6220364 [DELETED]

File: 500 KB, 1280x1707, 1424934814766.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

This is the intro to a story about magic and it's called Wizard People

“Spells?”
“Yes.”
“Rituals?”
“Yes.”
“Aliens?”
“No idea.”
“Crystals?”
“What do you mean? Like, gem stones or crystal magic?”
“Crystal magic.”
“Kind of, but not in the way you think.”
“What does that mean?”
“It's hard to explain but like, anyone who tells you they know how crystal magic works, probably doesn't know how crystal magic works.
“How do I know I'm not just crazy?” She snaps her fingers, and a flame erupts above her hand. “That doesn't prove anything.”
“Yeah well, you kinda gotta be a little crazy to date me.”

*

Her name is Sara—short for Serendipitous. She says it's her parents' way of saying the condom broke. We met about a week ago, at a party held by a mutual stranger. We had crossed paths a couple times earlier in the night: at the drink table, in a smoke circle, standing around looking for someone to not talk to, etc. She was the sort of radiantly beautiful girl that is frustratingly common in the city, so of course I barely said a word to her all night, until much later, when I was much drunker.

I was outside, behind the building, trying to smoke a cigarette. I don't normally smoke cigarettes, but I do when I'm drunk. The air was damp, windy, and I was using a lighter I picked up off the ground earlier that day, so it was going about as well as expected. Then she came out.
“It's a fuckin' boiler room in there, man.”
“Tell me about it. Hey, you got a light?”
She gave monosyllabic assent, and rummaged through her purse for a lighter.
“Nice pink dolphin,” I say, referring to her lighter.
“Fuck you. Pink dolphins are that real shit. They're fuckin' magical.”
She held the lighter to my face and started to strike it, but the air had made the flint wet, and the wind blew out whatever fire it did catch. She tried over and over, but after probably a minute of futile striking, she muttered a curse, threw the lighter to the ground, and snapped her fingers.
And then there was light.
Neither of us spoke for a few heavy seconds. Then a realization struck her.
“Oh shit. Fuck-shit-piss. Sorry. Don't tell anyone I did that, please? Please?”
“Did what?”
“Exactly. Just like that. You're drunk—we're drunk; nothing is supposed to make sense right now.”
But then I got cocky.
“I dunno, I'm not that drunk. Maybe if we got coffee together it'd help me forget.”
“Are you fuckin' blackmailing me?”
“What? I—no, I mean—yes, I was but that was dumb. I'm sorry. Won't tell anyone. I mean it. I just—you know—coffee? Wanna do?”
I still remember, in blurry visions, how her face transformed insulted rage, to a wide-brimmed, drunken grin.
“Sure,” she said. “Coffee wanna do. Gimme your number, cuz I will not remember any plans we make tonight.”
Her name was Sara—short for Serendipitous.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 19:02:26 2015 No.6220380
File: 762 KB, 1000x2022, melissa.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>6215173
I knew I had a few mistakes when I re-read it, but it looks like there were many more that I didn't even noticed. I probably should use a grammar checker before posting anything.

Thanks for point them out. It really helps me a lot.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 19:06:03 2015 No.6220396

>>6203562 Please critique, need to know if the autism levels are reaching critical.
Wrote this last week, since then I've given up. I'd much rather read books than write them, for now.
I'm 18 now but when i wrote this last week i was 17.
A navy-blue wool quilt is knocked from above his back as his arm extends to turn himself toward the rooms center, addressing bodily discomfort worsened by melancholy. The weather is bearable as it’s the shorter end of winter, still he repositions his quilt to surround his legs before confirming Gobi’s comfort. She lays curled under the quilt, awakened by his impetuous movements, her short, dark golden, hairs pressed flat against his thigh. Her stench buffered by her navy-blue quit. A floor fan hammers air into the small depth of his room from its position on a tall black table planted long, parallel to an open window; perpendicular to the head of Brands bead. The sound of wind emanating from the fan, albeit artificial, soothes Brand with the subliminal memory of simple youth and linear existence; a vassal of those with answers.
Brand perceives a seemingly infinite wave of air and sound throughout his room, saturating his perception with rhythmic waves of imaginary light interacting with items around his room; worn clothes lazily spread about, open containers filled with miscellaneous objects that would have little value anywhere else in the city. Similar to a dream, he watches incandescent waves drench neglected clothes lazily strewn across a dirty carpet, saturating, resonating, indicated by light that radiantly dwarfs reality of his boring habitat. Illusory waves enter containers and dissipate or become ripples doomed to eventual destruction as they batter the stronger, younger generations of waves oblivious to lives of lessons destroyed, forgotten.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 19:35:26 2015 No.6220540

Alabaster blonde, pride in her vulgarity,
felled early in the century, died in her scarcity:
a well-oiled machine broken down in flames,
or Black Friday, resurrected holiday for shame.

Carpel Tunnel, syndromes for the masses,
eye in the sky, the umbrella storm now passes:
people dine on liver and onions, hope for checks,
check their hopes, douse their livers with Beck's.

But no, medicine can't be bought in the store,
not by the meek, the lone, the poor:
cash made out of bras on Broadway
deliver audiences a veto on doomsday.

So go public with it, someone might tell you
in public privates privy to public safety do
think not the public entitled to privacy
but a barrel of grains in the front for primacy.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 19:46:17 2015 No.6220591

It felt, as I lay back, that I had undertaken some impossible question in my sleep. The flat light of morning shone upon the lids of my eyes. Beneath them my mind labored, pursuing the idea, the who or what that I’d searched for, whose elusion had so exhausted me. I retraced my thoughts and arrived at a faint feeling of dread.

My eyes opened to a hotel breakfast, dimly reddened by the glow of an alarm clock. 8am. In a motion, I swung my legs over the bed’s consuming bloat and grazed my toes along the carpet. I had shut the windows in the night, and I'd drawn the curtains so that they now braced themselves against the sun. With a weak hand, I parted the raspy brocade of them, picturing how the light would dance on the dust of the room at my back. I scanned the beach. A fine, grey mist blanketed the sky, an uncanny relic of the night that had not yet vanished.

Newly restless, I jerked open the window and paused to let the sea's acridity fill my lungs. In the wash of frigid wind, I shrugged off the night’s pajamas and strode to the shower. I unhooked my swim-suit from the curtain rod, the fabric of it still sopping with the brine and sand of a prior day’s swim. A visceral sickness struck me, and I imagined sea water seeping in and out of the thin nylon, trapping against my pores all the unseen filth and rot of the ocean. In the unbearable silence of the bedroom, I dressed.

It was a short walk to the shore, but it required of me nimble footing around broken bottles and straying seashells, and I was relieved, however briefly, when the cement gave way to sand. Distracted, I wandered to the place I had lain the day before and smoothed out my towel. Rough winds began to blow, kicking up sand, coaxing the bleached paint from seaward walls and rubbing raw the flesh of my calves. Each crest of wave filled me with that unquenchable, burning thirst of the morning. Tiny rivulets traced lines into and out of the spume, carrying its heady froth from the first depths of the Gulf to midtide.

My mind returned to the question. Hoping to grasp a useful memory, I studied the last few pages of what I’d read the night before. None of it evoked anything further than the vague annoyance of the already seen. I settled into the sand, grinding my soles into the frigid wetness of it, brushing it off of my legs where its wind-ravaged grains clung to me and threatened to blow into the binding of the book. My desperation surged. And then—

Without prelude, in a moment that scarcely happened, the sky broke and the sun poured from it like liquid gold, warming my face. The irreverent sand sustained its chill and hardened to ice against my back. For a time, I lay there, freezing on one side, burning on the other. I began again to watch the waves, my mind now free to roam, trusting that the sun would settle my stomach.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 19:53:01 2015 No.6220629 >>6220540 I like this one.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 19:54:58 2015 No.6220643 Surely some of you people have less on your plate than me and can muster the energy to critique in a critique thread, right?

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 19:57:06 2015 No.6220654 Ibsen Strindberg

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 19:59:07 2015 No.6220663 >>6205175 It's so bad that it's actually great. It feels authentic, which is probably the rarest quality on /lit/.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 19:59:31 2015 No.6220665 File: 71 KB, 639x595, 1240393095655.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6220654 Beautiful. Post more.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 20:13:15 2015 No.6220723 >>6220629 Hey thanks man

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 20:27:45 2015 No.6220792 [DELETED]

This is me:

I do drugs:
warm blanket opiates,
lubricating booze,
multitalented Mary-Jane strains,
various powders and acronyms too.

Though I'm lost, people smile at me,
and sometime's I'll nod,
thinking of how I look to them
and what they look like naked––
not just butt naked, but naked naked
like a newly hatched baby octopus––
because I'm a hypocrite:
I solicit prostitutes for sex
but can't be naked
yet my urges run rampant.

My mother loves me,
but she's a bitch;
and I love my bitch more than most,
her wrinkly rolls smell like merry mud,
her barks the sound of security.

But I'm here now and in the past
because here is how my life will last,
at least that's the man's forecast,
the silent man behind my child's mask.

I also enjoy food,
but I'm chewing
so don't want to be rude.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 20:30:40 2015 No.6220810 ITT smoke

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 20:32:46 2015 No.6220829

This is me:

I do drugs:
warm blanket opiates,
lubricating booze,
multitalented Mary-Jane strains,
various powders and acronyms too.

And though I'm lost, people smile at me,
and sometimes I'll nod,
thinking of how I look to them
and what they look like naked––
not just butt naked, but naked naked
like a newly hatched baby octopus––
because I'm a hypocrite:
I solicit prostitutes for sex
because I can't be naked
but want sex.

And my mother loves me,
but she's a bitch;
and I love my bitch more than most,
her wrinkly rolls smell like merry mud,
her barks the sound of security:
the best dog I'll ever have.

But I'm here now and in the past
because here is how my life might last,
at least that's the man's forecast,
the silent man behind this child's mask.

Oh, I also enjoy food,
but I'm chewing now
and don't want to be rude,
so I'll tell you later.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 20:34:27 2015 No.6220834 >>6220810 Then add fuel to the fire to keep us warm oh venerable Prometheus

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 20:37:45 2015 No.6220857

>>6203562

A few men report they hear thunderous drums from below, while others can only hear their own breath as we descend. I'm a rational man, though I've reconciled with God after the miraculous birth of my lovely twins I have not gone back to ignorance. I'm by the accounts of those still sane; making good descions and staying grounded while others silence their inner dogs. But why then, can I hear my children cry off in the distance when I close my eyes?

Honestly I'd critique you guys but as you can tell from my own post I'm not that good so I'd rather not give my own awful opinion.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 20:53:33 2015 No.6220971

>>6220857

Well, I'm not quite sure what your scribblings are about. There isn't much clarity or specificity, like when the few men here drums "from below," I don't have a sense of where in space that is. Try to paint a clearer picture. Also, punctuation, grammar, etc.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 21:01:40 2015 No.6221021 http://pastebin.com/8kcSyKen Posted other times but I didn't write anything recently so here

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 21:37:54 2015 No.6221161
File: 49 KB, 460x276, 1422543145256.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>6220971
Yeah I understand where you're coming from, and this is an inner monologue from a medium that isn't written word so it was stupid of me to post on /lit/ which is you know, a fucking board for books.

>>	Anonymous Tue Mar 3 21:57:16 2015 No.6221247 File: 28 KB, 530x469, Untitled.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>6212806 fuck I write well I can't wait until I eventually finish this

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 22:48:49 2015 No.6221450

>>6220829

Why the fuck would you think that anybody wants to read about this shit?

You can talk about the magnanimous and the beautiful without sounding cliche, and you can talk about the everyday without sounding mundane. You can even talk about yourself in an honest way without sounding self-indulgent.

Don't you EVER write something like this again.

Anonymous Tue Mar 3 23:23:25 2015 No.6221588

>>6221450

Wait what do you mean? Are you saying that this 'poem' (because lets be honest that very label is questionable) is cliche, mundane, and self-indulgent, or that there are ways to write about the things you mentioned without being cliche, etc.?

And just to give you some context: all these things I've written are true, if that means anything

H.Q.S.S.G Wed Mar 4 03:22:57 2015 No.6222183

>>6217717
1/2

> Girls with daddy issues and guys with beard
"guys with beard" is improper grammar. if you don't even proofread your own work, don't expect anyone else else to read it either. if you dropped the s on purpose for an exact rhyme with your next line, that's hamfisted and bad writing. beyond that, this line is a pretentious way to start a poem and left a bad taste in my mouth already. it's bland and what I'd expect from a beginner; poetry is largely figurative and rhetorical language and this is frank and boring. It just feeds me the information outright, and that's no fun. Maybe expand on "girls with daddy issues"
> Get out of here, before it gets weird.
The rhyme is heavy-handed and feels forced. Also, the rhythm in this poem is near nonexistant. i'd rather it were tbh because it's unpleasant to read the way it is.
> Drug dealers and librarians
> Both sell wonders, both make amends.
Okay, so here you have a couplet that doesn't rhyme after a couplet that does, followed by the rest of the poem that rhymes. Why? This is just lazy, sloppy writing. Not to mention the context isn't here; these lines come out of left field and have nothing to do with those before them. Also, librarians don't actually sell books.
> Cars and Houses on my mind
> I see so much I might as well be blind
The first line has rhythm to it with the trochaic tetrameter, which I know wasn't on purpose, and then the second line ruins that rhythm. "as well be" in particular kills the flow of the couplet, and it's really god awful to read. I also have issue with the second line in itself. See so much you might as well be blind? It's not imaginative at all and most readers and going to say "lol blind people don't see fagt" because nobody cares to remember that you're seeing them "in your mind."
> Walking through a sea of Neon
> Signs shouting "Greet the new Aeon".
Probably the best couplet of the poem, which isn't saying much seeing as it's cliche and ineloquent. "A sea of neon" is something that you hear or see every time there's a scene in a movie or writing in which someone walks the Vegas Strip or any other big city. It's been done. "Signs shouting "Greet the new Aeon" is really reaching. I get what you mean but "greet the new aeon" is awkward diction and seems like you're just trying to get it to rhyme.

H.Q.S.S.G Wed Mar 4 03:24:02 2015 No.6222187

>>6222183
2/2

> A decade made of tiny choices
> Days spent in between
> Locking in on the screen
> But all it shows is static noises.
Okay, so the last two quatrains both had AA schemes, and here you decided to do internal rhyme because...? And then the next quatrain goes back to normal. The rhythm in this stanza at least is good and wasn't awkward to read, so there's that, but it would have flowed better had you kept up with the original rhyme scheme because with the internals, you're breaking it up. The language here is decent too, but nothing new. I mean really, how many anons do you think have written about tiny choices and wasting time with "days spent in between locking in on the screen"? It's rather common. And again the context is out of nowhere. Keep it contextual and coherent.

> All it shows is a reflection
> Of the thin thin intersection
> Where the mind meets the dream
> And the madman learned to scream.
"thin thin" simply to keep the flow is sloppy writing. I don't get the final line. Why would a madman not already know how to scream? What significance does the scream have, what does it represent in this context? I have a feeling this line is only here because you thought of rhymes for "dream", found "scream" and then fashioned the rest of the line around it and it happened to sound good so you kept it.

overall, this piece reeks of beginner. 4/10 at best. there's nothing inherently wrong with that until you start saying things like it's "fantastic, probably because it's mine" and that your writing is "better than most" because it's really, truly not. at all. put a lid on it and practice, and keep in mind that you're an amateur. read more poetry. you should be reading more than you write, even if you write twenty poems a day.

really, there's nothing I despise more than beginners that think they're hot shit. and if you're not a beginner then you've got some real issues and should consider putting the pen down because writing's not for you.

also, stop complaining about being ignored. look at how many others are ignored, a lot of it better and more deserving of feedback than yours, and they're not whining. it's the way critique threads work, unfortunately. some get skipped. honestly I'd ignore this too had you not opened your flaps, but you got your attention, so there you go.

>>	H.Q.S.S.G Wed Mar 4 03:26:47 2015 No.6222195 >>6222183 oh, one thing. rereading "librarian/amends" I can see you wanted it to rhyme, but that would require some wrenching, which is sloppy writing.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 03:30:17 2015 No.6222209 poems are just shitty prayers to nobody

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 06:59:26 2015 No.6222618 >>6222209 That's one of those things that sounds like you're saying something meaningful but it doesn't actually make sense.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 07:40:39 2015 No.6222690 >>6222183 >>6222187 This person is a supercilious, pretentious piece of shit. However, this critique is very fair and more thorough than the poem deserves.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 07:53:33 2015 No.6222707 Can I post stuff from my short text adventure that I'm making while learning the very basics of C++?

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 07:56:18 2015 No.6222713 >>6222707 no

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 07:57:12 2015 No.6222715 >>6222713 why

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 07:57:25 2015 No.6222717 Small talk. Here's a lie Toungue tied times fly by Oh goodbye.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 08:51:52 2015 No.6222823 >>6222707 Post your C++ code instead.

Anonymous Wed Mar 4 09:42:44 2015 No.6222990

Cherry-caressing I
before vanilla-sorrowed whore of emotions.
Bottomless ; deep unrest. Russian raven sings
a song of hopelessness, violently aestheticised
and with bleeding estuary.
Revelational life explanations
are seeken in vain on Heaven-reacher's street.
Simplikios : if motion is
then why am I static?

this is translated from my mother-tongue, so bear with me

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 10:22:13 2015 No.6223125 >>6222187 >>6222183 Thanks mate, nice to actually work on this.Love you. And in retrospect I agree, shouldn't have uploaded those and bitched about it. I'd blame it on the vodka, but we all know that's just excuses. Thanks.

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 10:24:32 2015 No.6223131 >>6222707 no you can't jared

>>	Anonymous Wed Mar 4 14:43:49 2015 No.6224283 >>6221247 god-tier

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/lit/ - Literature