Quantcast
[ 3 / biz / cgl / ck / diy / fa / g / ic / jp / lit / sci / tg / vr ] [ index / top / reports / report a bug ] [ 4plebs / archived.moe / rbt ]

Maintenance is complete! We got more disk space.
Become a Patron!

/lit/ - Literature


View post   

[ Toggle deleted replies ]
File: 184 KB, 1197x1486, 4009bda8-0988-41b9-a5d4-50bd148ae.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6377488 No.6377488 [Reply] [Original]

NEW CRITIQUE THREAD, LAST ONE HIT BUMP LIMIT

Prose, poetry, whatever else you shitters are writing. Anything welcome.

>Post one critique one
as if anyone actually does this

>> No.6377947

soft pale skin
torn bloody down the fingertips
scarred and dead
it forms a callous

>> No.6377996

>>6377488
http://pastebin.com/e98pRw1m

short story I whipped up months ago and forgot. Any input appreciated.

>> No.6378289
File: 43 KB, 379x500, Thomas_Hardy_by_William_Strang_1893.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378289

Escaping thoughts of you in mind,
beleaguers me to take the skies.

Enveloped by that world of blue,
these thoughts of mine take on a hue,
that no one man can stop or sunder,
these thoughts of you strike me like thunder.

In which with lies we tell ourselves.
This one, I beg, pray not you tell.

What should I do?

>> No.6378299 [DELETED] 

>>6377996
>When he woke up
Done. Every amateur begins his story with the character waking up.

>> No.6378313
File: 21 KB, 250x250, onthebeat.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378313

Will someone please give me some feedback, any feedback on this story?
It's a detective noir, just over 5k words, and I would really appreciate it if someone could take a look at it.

"A Rainy Night in the City of Angels"
http://pastebin.com/npFdnQkt

>> No.6378338

>>6378313

you need to keep writing consistently for another two or three years and I think you can become decent/good

which isn't that long

>> No.6378354 [DELETED] 

>>6378313
Noir is pretty much a dead genre. I wouldn't work with it unless you're doing some ironic subversion and even then it's borderline passe. I also get the feeling you maybe watched two Sam Spade films before writing.

>> No.6378372
File: 394 KB, 1400x2114, image.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378372

>>6378354
Dumbest thing I've heard in a while.

>> No.6378382

simulacra simulacra
you're Cherry Pepsi to my Coca-Cola,
an eager silicon smile on nights
when I'm feeling bold
and take a Klonopin extra.
you're empty bottles of cough syrup, relics of
an adolescence spent
in vain pursuit of a vanishing vision,
some postmodern dream,
a kind of childish shamanism.
an artifical sweetener,
a landscape bereft,
and if there is a God,
then He surely swiped left.

>> No.6378387 [DELETED] 

>>6378372
Never heard of that book or author. I have watched True Detective, though and it's not noir - it's more southern gothic.

>> No.6378393

>>6378382

loved it until the last line

>> No.6378394

>>6378393
yeah i'm regretting it too honestly

>> No.6378412

>>6377996
Its really nice to see someone on /lit/ who has even a little bit of talent.

That being said, I was confused about what time period this was supposed to be set in? I'm guessing modern day, but I'm not sure.

Your prose describing the action could be tightened up a lot.

Dialogue is good for the most part, but I felt a little lost. These characters obviously know each other and the author obviously knows them, but as a reader it feel a bit awkward knowing basically nothing about these characters and being thrust into this intimate encounter between them.

>I've missed you. I've missed you something fierce.
No.

I don't know if I believe someone from the USA wants to convert to Shinto since it's a religion based on the idea that Japanese Emperors are Gods. Buddhism would be more believable, or just the part about the kannagara.

It's clear that Claire is still hung up on Matt, but the story ends before I can really tell what he thinks of the situation. I want to think that he doesn't want anything to do with her, but she had previously implied that he was still hung up on her, and the fact that he's re-reading the letter in Paris kind of emphasizes that.

Overall, quite good. It has sort of a Hemingway-esque atmosphere to it, what with the drinking and troubled relationships and Paris etc. I like the inclusion of Edith Piaf.

I would like to read this as a longer piece. Show me more of the city. Maybe he and Claire take a walk down the left bank or stop for a drink in Cafe des Flores or something while they discuss their relationship? Just an idea.

>> No.6378420

>>6378338
thanks for the encouragement, anon
>>6378354
It kind of sounds like you don't know what you're talking about, so don't be offended if I disregard your opinion

>> No.6378421

>>6378382
I dig it.

>> No.6378428

>>6378387
Galveston is as noir as it gets. True detective was also ultra noir. There's no reason why a work can't be noir and southern gothic.

For more noir still popular today, look at Dennis Lehane.

>> No.6378430
File: 682 KB, 676x2044, image.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378430

pic related is the only thing I've ever finished

>>6377947
6/10
edgy teen-tier
>>6377996
6/10
people in rooms doing things-tier
>>6378289
form is acceptable, choice of language not so much

>> No.6378434 [DELETED] 

>>6378420
>Ask for feedback
>Be given feedback
>Lol I don't want your feedback
Whatever you little pissant. Enjoy writing your piddly fifth-rate noir rehashes. Ooh a detective agency, a mysterious beautiful woman, a wisecracking cynical protagonist, rain, cigarettes...that surely has never been written before. Maybe there's an insurance scandal later on? What's next? A Mafia story that begins with the don holding a cat in his lap?

>> No.6378436

>>6378434

>Sam spade movie
>movie
>/lit/

lmao

>> No.6378439 [DELETED] 

>>6378436
Because Sam Spade was never a film character or...?

>> No.6378441

>>6378430
You mean how i formatted it?

>> No.6378449

>>6378412
That's really constructive and helpful. I agree, I just re read it for the first time since I wrote it and some of the prose made me cringe. The Shinto thing was kinda of a placeholder too, I know it was dumb but I wanted to give the idea that Claire was some shallow jet setter, always too cool for everyone, but a mess on the inside that lashes out and abuses people whenever she can get away with it. Converting to an exotic religion on a whim seemed like something douchy enough, but yeah I know nothing about Shinto. I dunno if Buddhism is hip enough anymore thogh, any other suggestions, religious or otherwise?

And yeah I actually woke up with hemingway on the mind big time when I wrote it, I hope it isn't too overdone.

I like your suggesting of expanding it too, I knew it needed something like an extra part but I wasnt sure.

>> No.6378450
File: 20 KB, 166x200, 55b3d7f2.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378450

>>6378434
Are you a comedian? I haven't laughed so hard in ages.

Seek help, anon.

>> No.6378454

>>6378441

I mean your prosody. the scansion of your verse. it has the correct number of syllables

>> No.6378460

>>6378439


this is like if someone was writing fantasy and you drew and analogy to the lotr films

>> No.6378465

>>6378454
should i continue writing poetry? any tips for the future?

>> No.6378471

if you like it

read more, like several hours a day

>> No.6378475

>>6378471
>>6378465

>> No.6378481

>>6378449
Her "conversion" does come across as incredibly douchy which I thought was on purpose to make the reader despise her even more.
I don't think the Hemingway is overdone but you are kind of toeing the line in a few places. Just don't have Matt visit Shakespeare & Co bookstore and you'll be fine.

As for expanding the story, here is the plot rundown so far:
>Guy wakes up
>Girl comes over
>They talk
>She gets mad and leaves
...
>Years later they still have feelings for each other

In that ... bit you could add almost anything. You have a ton of narrative space to work with here. It would be interesting to see these two characters doing something together or maybe just to see Matt on his own and his internal thoughts on the situation as he walks through Paris or something.

>> No.6378505

>>6377996

Like most posters here, you don't have much in terms of style. It doesn't even have to be style in terms of Gaddis-scholarship or Becket-shit-and-piss or Faulkner-1000-word-sentences -- ANYTHING. Just TRY to make your writing unique. Start imitating some writers you like. Only read books by writers who you feel exceed your skills (honestly, for a while, you can even include King in that list -- his early works at least have style, no matter how shit they are), and learn. Copy. Experiment. Rewrite fragments from books you like. Write with their style in mind. Experiment with poetry. In fact, read a lot of poetry, even if you're a prose writer. Study it religiously. Maybe even study music, painting, at least at a cursory level. Find a point of inspiration. Etc.

> When he woke up, the first thing he did was stumble into the bathroom.

Waking up is a meme. Don't. "the first thing he did" is a vapid piece of shit. He did something, and he did it first. Okay. Really interesting! "stumble into the bathroom" would work if the rest wasn't so boring, but still, probably not.

> Splashing water onto his face, he wiped it off with his hands, spat once in the sink, and walked into the kitchen without looking at himself in the mirror.

Boring. So he did. So what? There is no artistry to this sentence.

> He searched the cupboards for food, but they were empty, and he ended up taking a carton of eggs and a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and setting them on the counter.

All boring actions and descriptions to this point, and I'm done.

Start by spending some time on each sentence, on every word choice, on the way the words sound, the way they play together, paint a picture of sound and text! You should write like you would paint. Anyone can write a few sentences about a man waking up, going into a bathroom, doing some other stuff. Can you do it well?

>> No.6378516

>>6378481
>Matt goes off on his own, internal thoughts

I like that, I could have him go out, wander the streets, be lonely or conflicted or fatalistic or whatever. I honestly never thought about Matt as anything other than a punching bag for Claire.

>> No.6378519

>>6378505

>I can't distinguish subtlety of style

this is the only time using a trip is acceptable it's so I know always to disregard your feedback

>> No.6378537

>>6378519

Feel free to keep writing at a mediocre level, then.

>> No.6378538 [DELETED] 

>>6378519
>subtlety of style
Where's the fucking subtlety you talentless worm? That piece read like a five year old's recollection of his day. "I woke up and then I went to the bathroom and then I went to the kitchen for breakfast and then..."

Like that other poster said, you don't have the chops of a Nabokov but at least strive for a degree of beauty or originality.

>> No.6378541

>>6378505
If you don't have the mental capacity to read the entire thing then don't fucking post a critique you retarded piece of shit.
I'm not even the author of that piece but holy fuck assholes like you infuriate me in these threads.

>> No.6378548
File: 58 KB, 501x900, okay.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378548

>>6378541

> mental capacity

yeah because I have other things to read that don't start with some guy waking up and stumbling into a bathroom

>> No.6378559

>>6378537

I ain't even the author of the story lmao

it may not be good, but there clearly is an attempt at style and atmosphere

in fact, most posts in these threads have a clear attempt at some sort of style (however misguided or poorly done) , and the fact that you can't see that means you're legitimately unqualified to give advice

>> No.6378561

>>6378548
Then why in the HELL did you waste everyone's time by coming to a /lit/ Critique thread and posting a critique of the first 3 sentences of someone's short story?
I bet the absolutely retarded way your mind rationalizes things would be an interesting case study for psych students studying severe mental handicaps.

>> No.6378563

>>6378559
this is why these threads bug me, I really want to know who I'm taking advice from.

I guess sooner or later /lit/ will have its own equivalent of mercwip.jpg

>> No.6378577

>>6378505

>using a name on an anonymous Polynesian email client


lmao how desperately do you want to be a part of /lit/

>> No.6378584 [DELETED] 

>>6378559
>it may not be good, but there clearly is an attempt at style and atmosphere
In the same way a quadriplegic might attempt a triathlon. He began with the main character waking up. This is the hallmark of the amateur writer. It'd be better even if he began with a remark on how dark and stormy the night was.
>some sort of style
Enlighten me as to what this style is. As far as I can see, it's a bland, barefaced presentation of life's routine banalities without a hint of poetic flair.

I love how the plebeians post to these threads claiming to want any input at all and then soak their maxi pads when even the whiff of criticism is given.

>> No.6378585

>>6378561
chill bro, it happens to everyone. take criticism in your stride, however skewed or unhelpful.

>> No.6378588

>>6378559

> I ain't even the author of the story lmao

Well then apologies to whomever wrote it, sorry it's blowing up. But do read my post and keep practicing. I can give you a much deeper level of critique if you'd like, just give the word.

> in fact, most posts in these threads have a clear attempt at some sort of style (however misguided or poorly done) , and the fact that you can't see that means you're legitimately unqualified to give advice

I equate "good style" with "having style", and "bad style" with "lack of style". How is that such a hard bar to climb? If someone submitted an A4 page filled with "Carrots and Peas Carrots and Peas" printed Ctrl-V double spaced and asked me what I thought of their postmodern masterpiece, and I supposed to whip out the stamp that says "A TOUR DE FORCE"?

>> No.6378589

here's what i've got so far

Bitter nights of voyeurs folly
The lights dim while street rats fester in the nooks and crannies of back alleys
Hostess to urban trench warfare
Neath the orange haze, neath the fading fog, the stars never shone as bright as in the eye of our personal God
Sat in the cockpit of a searing .45 Magnum, gearing for fire
Nuzzled against the muzzle, fear of light masked by fear of the flame

>>6378382
this is cool, i dig it

>> No.6378590

What exactly is wrong with starting with a character waking up? How is it any better or worse than starting them off walking down the street?

>> No.6378598
File: 54 KB, 618x536, Screen Shot 2015-04-08 at 11.18.51 PM.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378598

>>6378430

Opinion based critique ITP:

Liked:
>Things seemed still.
>That ol' sonuvabitch
> Archer stealin lemons - The ratbastard.
> pompous gut
> Sister Orchard - factory-fresh rosaries
> Her wimple radiated
> unzipped chubbie (would prob say exposed chubbie but I'm not THAT particular)
>Toes turned. Cheeks flashed rosy.
>Been busy lately 'round the office.
>Entering the room, naked save a starchy wimple and a pair of tassels on her nipples.


Didn't Like (or needs a strong reason to be included):
>meaty hand
>neighbors of varied distinction, size(,) and color
>with a little hop
>Mr. Archer outta no where
>meaty thigh
>pair of forks?
>the exaggeration due to - make it more active
>his taint a'tingle
>someone down the block took an afternoon shit
>raw AND bareback?
>meaty thigh
>sniffing it dramatically
>porked each other viciously for hours

Curious/Strong reactions:
>hit by a car and died. too abrupt. you give (her tying her shoe) and (getting hit by a car AND dying) the same amount of detail. has a jarring effect.
>stuff into the receptacle -
>thrusting to and fro, haha what?

Obviously you don't need too much technical help, you've got the fundamentals of fiction down, that's why I'm giving you a more impressionistic critique. Would also like to know if there's a deeper meaning to the story than a pedophile cuck having a sitcom moment.

Plz critique back :^)

>> No.6378599

>>6378505
>>6378537
>>6378548

Fuck off and die, tripfag.
You're an absolutely terrible critic at any rate.

>> No.6378602
File: 40 KB, 414x531, 1424858522236.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378602

>>6378561
>>6378577

Christ don't give yourself hemorrhoids babes

>> No.6378603

>>6378590
there's nothing inherently wrong with it, it's just cliche and been used ad nauseum

>> No.6378607

>>6378603
I think what matters more is how it's used. Sticking a brick up your ass over something like that without seeing how it works within the greater context is just silly to me.

>> No.6378614

>>6378590
There's nothing wrong with it aside from being sort of a cheap way of opening narrative space.
Shitposters in these critique threads love to jump on anything they perceive to be below their glorious standards of writing.
It's really pretty hilarious sometimes, but mostly its just sad as it really detracts from having any sort of meaningful discussion with the possibility of leading to improvement as a writer.

>> No.6378625

>>6378598
could use a rhyme scheme and verse

>> No.6378629

>>6378585
I'm the author, that wasn't me. As a rule I don't post negative or overly combative stuff on lit, but I do appreciate all the discussion from everyone.
>>6378584
There was an attempt at style. Like I said before, I wrote it with hemingway on the mind, big time. Other people got it. But yeah it was only the third thing I've written so I'm still finding my legs.

And I'm not ignoring your commentary not just because you're being obnoxious with your opinion and seem to have deep seated issues with what you expect people on this board to write like, but because you didn't even read it. It's pretty sorry that you can read 3 lines of free literature then spew walls of text of hostile pseudo criticism at strangers.

>> No.6378631

>>6378625

I typically write in rhyming verse, I'm trying to experiment with looser meter and no rhymes. Why would you suggest rhyme and verse for this piece?

>> No.6378632

>>6378577

It depends.

How desperate do you want to fuck?

>> No.6378636
File: 319 KB, 534x388, 1424893033359.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378636

>> No.6378645
File: 30 KB, 403x312, 1426617609832.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378645

>>6378629

I thought it was pretty good anon, don't listen to him

>> No.6378651
File: 473 KB, 497x331, jigglypuff.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378651

Ok it seems a little hostile in here, but...
Could you guys please critique my flash fiction?
I would really appreciate some feedback.

http://pastebin.com/yyH0N2gh

>> No.6378658

>>6378598

thanks for the read

>you give (her tying her shoe) and (getting hit by a car AND dying) the same amount of detail. has a jarring effect.

that was intentional, for what it's worth

I like your poem, but I'd work on the structure of your verse, I'd like to see it rhyme and move in a good rhythm

>> No.6378664

>>6378631
I dunno, its got Victorian feel to it. It would just feel more right with a little structure.

>> No.6378682

>>6377996
>>6378629

Yeah, honestly... just listen to >>6378645 and ignore him; it's not amazing but it's by far the best in the thread.

>> No.6378694

>>6377996

I'll retract my earlier bit. It's been a rough day and I was in shitpost mode. I read the rest, and while I still didn't enjoy it that much, it's not so bad at all. Sorry. Keep writing.

>> No.6378707

>>6378694

classic tripfag damage control

never fails to be hilarious

>> No.6378713
File: 220 KB, 500x500, soapinasock.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378713

Here's my story called "Strawberries" that I wrote a few months ago. Hope you guys enjoy :^)

>> No.6378718
File: 300 KB, 544x576, 1425076046849.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378718

>>6378707

sorry that I don't want someone to feel like shit about their writing and am willing to look like a faggot to ensure that they won't

it's not exactly like anyone knows who the fuck I am anyways

>> No.6378725
File: 625 KB, 320x240, 2spooky_4_u-3914.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378725

>>6378694
TRIPFAGS

BTFO
T
F
O

>> No.6378734

>>6378694
It's all good.

>> No.6378735

>>6378713
lol jk guys forgot to post link

http://pastebin.com/TFVMXF9L

please rate. I really want to improve

>> No.6378743

>>6378718

> I don't want someone to feel like shit about their writing

you didn't care until others called you out

what a self-righteous faggot

>> No.6378747
File: 1.86 MB, 128x96, 1426701692648.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378747

>>6378725

>> No.6378753
File: 28 KB, 615x409, 1427841320626.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378753

>>6378743

sorry if you missed the memo but I have a report on your hemorrhoids: they are fatal

>> No.6378759
File: 64 KB, 384x512, Lwaxana_Troi.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6378759

>>6378651
Haha holy fuck anon
That was breddy gud
I thought it was going to be some incredibly retarded fight club knock off.
Was pleasantly amused.

>> No.6378784

>>6378735
Uhhhh I don't understand what the fuck happened?
Did niggers just rob that man of his fruit?

>> No.6378794

>>6378658

Why rhyme for this content? And by structure of the verse, are you meaning use a more structured meter?

For both questions, why?

>> No.6378813

>>6378651

Haha, man, that turned out way better than expected. The conceit is funny, is there a deeper meaning, or is it just an experiment? Could use more conflict, maybe? It's flash fiction, so you can't ask for too much, I guess.

Biggest thing I think you could do is make the encounter with the wife punchier. Surely this isn't the first time he's been caught sneaking back in covered in feathers.

Critique mine back PLZ

>> No.6378857

>>6378813
Stowaway on an Abandoned Ship is yours?
I like the first stanza a lot, but I'm not sure who exactly the narrator is or the setting, which leads to confusion in the second stanza.
Also
>we've
No.

It feels like this poem is trying really hard not to conform to verse. It would probably work 100x better with some meters up in that bitch.

>> No.6378873

>>6378813
Thanks for the critique anon. I left the wife's confrontation with the husband intentionally ambiguous. It could mean that he has been caught before sneaking back home covered in feathers, but were they from pillow fight club, or from tossing the sheets with another woman?

Not sure if that ambiguity really works in such a short story.

>> No.6378900

I know it's bad. Should I just give up on writing?

http://pastebin.com/i5idPN9U

>> No.6378902

>>6378857

>we've
>no

haha, yeah, i know that's not working. the narrator wouldn't say 'we have' he'd say/write 'we of' but i don't want to put that in b/c i know people will say its a typo.

Interesting point about the piece trying NOT to conform to verse. That's the discussion that was going on in my head while writing it - be true to the idea, not true to meter - but meter slips in there. it's not strict meter, it's like every line is ALMOST blank verse, but not perfect.

>> No.6378931

The room was filthy. There were stacks of paper all around. Coins from a hundred different places were filling various jars and most of the jars had shattered all around in the heap of wet clothes and all sorts of trash. In the air there was a gentle buzz of flies and other insects even though spiders had made elaborate webs in all the corners. The room smelled of spilled ale the stench of dogs. There was a window that faced east and saw the rising of each sun. And there were two beds. One was folded up and long forgotten. But the other bed was a warm little nest. There were layers of blankets and furs and none of the bugs seemed to buzz there, and none of the smells seemed to intrude, and this is the nest in which our hero gently slept.

>> No.6378935

>>6378902
>haha, yeah, i know that's not working. the narrator wouldn't say 'we have' he'd say/write 'we of' but i don't want to put that in b/c i know people will say its a typo.

it doesn't feel like an authentic enough voice for the reader to honestly distinguish narrator from author at this point.
It almost sounds like a caricature, like you watched too many Pirates of the Caribbean movies.
But the potential is there. I'm just not a skilled enough poet to guide you to it.

>> No.6378987

>>6378935

Also:

>caricature
>Pirates of the Caribbean

Pretty close to what I was going for, actually.

When you say authentic enough, what specifically do you men? Also, re: distinguishing narrator from author - kinda confused because you don't know me? or what does distinguishing narrator from author mean to you?

>> No.6378993

>>6378794

>a more structured meter?

yes, it was only a suggestion. your poem reads very much like a poem from the 19th century, which certainly isn't a bad thing, but this particular style would do well with a temperately structured verse

>why?

eh, I don't know. opinions.

>> No.6379022

>>6378900
It's not bad at all. But consider focusing your narrative on one thing at a time. You're writing all over the place. Don't throw in too many details at once about the character, his appearance, history, attitude. It's seriously way to much for a few paragraphs.

>> No.6379035

>>6378313
That is the most cliched title ever. That first paragraph or so is mind-bogglingly cliched. I get that you're genre-writing, but damn, it's like a computer program seriously wrote it. I couldn't continue.

>> No.6379054

>>6378590
Beside the fact that it's beyond cliche, it's blaringly uncreative, and it's the definition of mundane, and it's tedious.

>> No.6379064

>>6378931
>actually says "our hero"
ugh

>> No.6379075

>>6378931
Who's your audience for this one? It sounds like it's written for children, but that might be what you're going for.

I wrote this just now:

Bicycle

Today I saw a boy riding his bicycle the way kids do
the way I did when I was a boy:
standing straight up off the seat
legs pumping furiously
handlebars swinging back and forth like a metronome
face red from exertion and wind,
a scrunched-up face that says
“I don’t know where I’m going,
but can I just get there already?”

>> No.6379108

>>6379075
I wish your poem would do the same thing.

>> No.6379122
File: 53 KB, 554x497, Screen Shot 2015-04-09 at 1.34.32 AM.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6379122

>>6378993
>>6378857
>>6378658

Cast it into stricter meter (trochaic tetrameter)

>> No.6379138

Filthy Filthy fucking
Children Stacked
outside my patio, drying
Off
Skin crunchy and Tight
The Way i like it.
Smoldering country side I
Begin to notice as my attention
Returns to the fire engulfing the village.

Wailing mothers.

High weems of cogding dinsuerp.

Hammer
Nail
Dick
Ecstasy. Ecstacy

>> No.6379147
File: 56 KB, 642x715, irish story.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6379147

After reading a Irish diary I felt inspired to write in an Irish accent. How'd I do?

>> No.6379159

I know that
You have never been to Ireland.
This is true.
This is true.
How..
This is true.
You fucking emission of Satan's ejaculate.

I'll smash YOUR fucking pint into your wee man.
Each night, dream of a stroke. Gayman.

>> No.6379160

>>6379147

that's not how Irish people talk

<-- this is

>> No.6379163
File: 214 KB, 542x611, image.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6379163

>>6379160

>> No.6379169
File: 8 KB, 472x325, impressed.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6379169

>>6379163
>>6379160
Hey give me a break, it's my first try at this sort of thing.

>> No.6379171

I geedle diddle deed as I
Fuckle duddle cummed in
your uncle.

Deedle diddle dee-ma-dum.

Cunt.

>> No.6379193

last paragraph of a longer story

In brief moments of self parody, he would imagine himself lying there and chuckle through lips that would be drooling, had he only salivary glands, at the uncanny similarity of his current state with what everyone believed he did in his spare time: that Kermit lay inactive in a dark room somewhere waiting for a quiet puppeteer to stick a dexterous hand up his ass. And it was on one of these nights, during which he’d conform to everyone’s expectations of behavior, that he injected himself with double his normal dose accidentally, or perhaps purposefully. And now he shivers in a hospital bed under constant digital surveillance, with periods of medical supervision every hour, waiting for the nurse to come loose the leather straps about his skinny fabric arms and ankles, so that he could remain there unmoved, and finally, have someone move his limbs with their hands, and speak through his passive corpse, only watching the camera track his movements, pretending to live artificially.

>> No.6379199

>>6379163
>tfw if there wasnt a name and history behind this itd be considered garbage

>> No.6379209

I posted this in the last thread, but I'm done editing it now. Let me know what you guys think.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VA5C8-TRLZreQCq-SNRMpXQAyeEtY-69xWp2rtxFbvo/edit?usp=sharing

>> No.6379215
File: 59 KB, 232x290, Kermit_the_Frog.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6379215

>>6379193

>> No.6379237

>>6379138
bravo

>> No.6379293

>>6378900
>http://pastebin.com/i5idPN9U

Your style is fine but you'd be better off expanding the prose with some more description. It's a little dense, which can be exhausting. But besides that, you've got a solid voice, which most people don't have at all.

>> No.6379308

>>6379199

not to a close reader, nah

>> No.6379309

Trying to get better. Harshest criticism preferred.

Thirty paces from my backdoor towards the south-west puts you on a path I made. I used my fathers brand new machete to cut low hanging branches off the black spruce trees that grew densely here at the back corner of our yard. This path was made without any consideration as to what its purpose would be or to the trees who had their extremities sheared away, but the new machete had to be tested.

Reaching deeper into the forest greeted me with a faint sound of machines. I had driven past the soil-slinger machines and the dumptrucks that this landscaping company employed nearly every day for years on the way to school, but today was the first time I considered they made sound. Another twenty minutes of hacking away at spruce trees led me to the cliff, and abruptly put an end to my pathmaking. The cliff wasn't much of a cliff at all. A relatively steep but certainly not dangerous incline about fifteen feet down towards the dirt and machines.

From the end of my path I could see out into their work yard. Much louder I could distinctly make out the sound of grating machines refining their soil, keeping the rocks away from their product. If I had my glasses with me I reckon I could have made out the letters on the sign of my school. Surely this was the greatest view in Gormley.

There were a lot of men shoveling and moving the dirt around by hand. These men did not work for free, but they seemed to really enjoy what they did. I imagined all the worms in the dirt they displaced, and how they would cry as their homes were destroyed without (in their little minds) any rhyme or reason. These worms would be taken from their families sometimes and most times to never return. The lucky ones who were not sliced in half or in quarter by the men's sharp shovels would vow, and I'm sure of this, to make it back to their family.

>> No.6379350
File: 213 KB, 1127x643, 4op.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6379350

/b/ liked it...

>> No.6379368

Intelligence is lost and
Returns when the time is
Four Twenty, Four Twenty

>> No.6379642

she, whose breath was briefly mine
bereft of me whom i so formerly was
and i of her whom she is no longer

wilted and quaked, meek and leagued
shunning the grandeur of Berlioz but
also the clean, crisp psalms of Bach

commonplace, if you will (will we?)
man-made monoculture of wheat
which nonetheless sweeps beneath wind

like a drunken poet who presses out
beautiful things in between vomits
at once proclaims his wisdom and his foolery

arming the rooms-quelled cantos
whose Trojan matter just bored us
as we sang love songs in vulgar tongue

weaving pop-song lyrics into the sweet
and meaningful breaths with which we said
"I hope you are there when I am dying"

and neither of us will

>> No.6379669

>>6379309

I don't really read fiction regularly but this worked just fine. You use the word "machine" a lot but this doesn't seem without purpose.

Nothing jumps out screaming "I don't know how to write but I love looking in the mirror."

I strongly suspect you can find flaws in this work which I cannot, and I would like to read more about where this goes. I hope you have a plot in mind!

>> No.6380323

>>6379350
Damn that guy has some long nosehair

>> No.6380929

>>6378382
My ideal for what I write is something that will be meaningful in 100+ years, so if I wrote this poem it would be in the garbage.

>> No.6380945

>>6379642
it's pretty cool
can't really critique it though, I don't know shit about proper poetry

abloobloo
abloobloo the start of the book cost a buck
the protagonist wakes up
cliche
the critics say

abloobloo wit’s end
my belief isn’t suspend-
your rhyme scheme
reminds them of Charlie Sheen
-ded.

abloobloo the readers cry
like Ralphie Parker did when he got a BB pellet through the eye
your opening hook - have you ever?
makes them want to die.

>> No.6380949
File: 42 KB, 479x720, tips.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6380949

>>6380929

>> No.6380957

>>6377996
It seems to align with the common pathos among 'literary' publications now. I like it.

>> No.6381026

>>6378694

>backpedaling this hard

lmao

>> No.6381116
File: 263 KB, 1600x1193, George_Hendrik_Breitner_-_Oudezijds_Achterburgwal,_Amsterdam_(Het_Kolkje).jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6381116

>>6379209
I read it all. I think you did the characters very well, along with the dialogue. I laughed a few times at the broken english spoken by the asians because it is so correct from my experience.

Also I think you did the translations well.

The only meaningful critique I could make is, the pacing seems off to me. As in, I felt that you built up the start for a longer story than it ended up being. I can see how that would have been the goal, making the ending abrupt and sharp but if that was your intention I think you should alter the looseness of the rest.

>> No.6381142

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The hangman's daughter sports a crown
of withered weeds atop her level head;
she weeps when she sees young fish drown
gasping for air like a wheezing blimp dead.

One day a mirthful vagabond skipped through
the soiled town's road, greeting all frowns;
he smiled at the coy girl, kneeled at her pew,
offered moths that she swatted down.

Pollen collected under beds,
trapped in a chrysalis, this she now knew;
white sparks flew from the blacksmith's shed,
and the hangman's victim's face grew bright blue.

>> No.6381228 [DELETED] 

Morsels, Morsels, Morsels:

I bite the flesh inside my cheek,
hear a crunch, feel no pain–
a film of nerveless sprinting weeks:
the homeless vagrants in the rain.

Decide to flip the coin or don't,
chance shan't save you: die or dice–
so re-edit your past; I surely won't:
the grains of your crop: rye or rice.

Oh, mucous slurped from the nose
tastes like the tip-top of the world;
and the sea was filled with an uncoiled hose,
while the water bill made Dad a fetus curled.

So leave the factory that is yourself
by sky-diving, or injecting china white gold;
and don't listen to me on the top shelf:
for if you do or don't, you've still been told.

>> No.6381243

This boredom...
I shall transcend it
By being boring.

>> No.6381245

Morsels, Morsels, Morsels:

I bite the flesh inside my cheek,
hear a crunch, feel no pain–
a film of nerveless sprinting weeks:
the homeless vagrants in the rain.

Decide to flip the coin, or don't,
chance shan't save you: die or dice–
so edit your past for I surely won't:
the grains of your crop: rye or rice.

Slurp the mucous from your nose
for it tastes like the peak of the world;
and the sea was filled with a coiled hose…
the water bill made Dad a fetus curled.

So leave the factory that is yourself
by sky-diving, or injecting china white gold;
and don't listen to me, on the top shelf:
for if you do or don't, you've still been told.

>> No.6381251

>>6381245
Work on the punctuation.

>> No.6381363

>>6381251

As in ease up on the dashes, semicolons, etc.?

>> No.6381398

>>6377947
>it forms a callous
The word is callus.

>> No.6381422 [DELETED] 

Corporate Culture

I work in a cubicle: the box office,
furnished with family photos–
no, that's a lie. My boss is obese;
his belly sweat rubs on my shoulder, and
I fucked his daughter at the New Year's party.
Sometimes the photocopier malfunctions,
and the water-cooler bubbles with gossip
(did you hear about Cheryl's last abortion?)
while I just watch from my desk, sneaking swigs.
And on hump-day I masturbate in the handicap stall,
smiling vigorously because I get paid to do it,
all the while people bandaid their battle wounds: paper-cuts,
whining about the weather in the elevator.
But I plan on quitting on casual Friday, with permanent pay,
because I know what kind of porn my boss likes
and have always wanted to be a blackmail-man.

>> No.6381432

Corporate Culture

I work in a cubicle: the box office,
furnished with family photos–
no, that's a lie. My boss is obese;
his belly sweat rubs on my shoulder, and
I fucked his daughter at the New Year's party.
Sometimes the photocopier malfunctions,
and the water-cooler bubbles with gossip
(did you hear about Cheryl's last abortion?)
while I just watch from my desk, sneaking swigs.
And on hump-day I masturbate in the handicap stall,
smiling vigorously because I get paid to do it,
all the while people bandaid their battle wounds: paper-cuts,
whining about the weather in the elevator.
But I plan on quitting on casual Friday, with permanent pay,
because I know what kind of porn my boss likes
and have always wanted to be a mailman.

>> No.6381439

>>6381398

quit being so callous

>> No.6381462

On my way to the library to read
I read printed type on an empty box:
"What would you do if you were blind?"
Then I glanced down public alley 809
and saw a bedraggled blind man openly peeing–
his yellow stream thick as dyed dreads–
and in realizing he couldn't see me see him
I laughed, dropping a nickel into his box,
wondering if he's homeless, and if so,
which came first: the blindness or homelessness?
Because anyone can see they're correlated.

>> No.6381587

A Laundry List

Parse the parsley from your soggy salad,
have the good chef bellow you a ballad.
Listen to sweet silence as numb stars burst.
Remember: hunger differs far from thirst.
Now, head home and imbibe quiet thunder
forged by floral, static eyes asunder.
Bathe in sinusoidal breath mid wax rooms
and smile big, for fateful backbone pain looms.
Surf the wireless waves that splash all's skin;
search for your lost heart like the man of tin.
Embrace cliches (be)cause #YOLO:
ignore greener grass while eking solo.

Hear, here: succumb to Earthly pills and drop to bed;
forget-me-not, the pale voice inside your head.

>> No.6381739 [DELETED] 

My Dad used to be a superhero–
he'd swoop and dive and save the day,
making the whole world feel just okay;
he'd save Mommy from the bad guys,
like the Jack Daniels or terrible Tanqueray
(even when she didn't want him to, no way).
He'd fly between countries, too, just to say:
"I'm here to protect you all, from all the skies!
Never again will you be led astray!"–
but then Dad got cancer,
which meant saving the day would have to wait,
at least for today.

>> No.6381743

My Dad used to be a superhero–
he'd swoop and dive and save the day,
making the whole world feel just okay;
he'd save Mommy from the bad guys,
like Jack Daniels or Terrible Tanqueray
(even when she didn't want him to, no way).
He'd fly between countries, too, just to say:
"I'm here to protect you all, from all the skies!
Never again will you be led astray!"–
but then Dad got cancer,
which meant saving the day would have to wait,
at least for today.

>> No.6381762

>>6378382
I like it OP, but what is the last line supposed to mean?

>> No.6381793

>>6381762

It's a tinder reference

>> No.6381796

>>6378382
This is awesome but the last two lines are kind of jarring. Punctuate or something

>> No.6381800

>>6380323
Kekd but feel bad for keking.

>> No.6381802

>>6379138
Death Grips ghost writer?

>> No.6381820

>>6381793
[1] In the 21st century people found soulmates on their phones (an electronic communication device used in great numbers at the time)

>> No.6381851

You stand up and creak and stretch your legs. Save the rapping of computer fans and your own soft breaths the world is quiet here.
A beast in your belly snarls and its tendril rubs against your ivory teeth.
The kitchen in nigh but why can't you walk?
Fingers of tar pull toes to the shag, the world is quiet here.
With effort and fear your feet pull away, ropey black sticks like gnawed gum.
Your room is cold as a fire and as dry as green swamps, the world is quiet here.
The doorknob is gone when you touch it, replaced with crumbling sand and smoke.
You writhe on the door and it seizes.
As you weep it just pulls away.
You sit in the hall and shudder, the world is quiet here.
Your room is as it was yesterday.
No hint of brimstone can be sniffed.
The carpet is solid and the door is rigid and all is right in your room.
The world is quiet here

>>6381462
interesting. It's vivid but not very evocative. I think it lacks rhythm. Admittedly, I'm in the same boat

>> No.6381869

>>6381851
I didn't do shit.

>> No.6382185

It gets dark early in the winter and it gets dark late in the summer. Every morning I go through the same routine. Looking at the ceiling for far too long, looking at my reflection for far too long, looking for purpose for far too long. My coffee is always lukewarm, that’s what I’m used to. Mom always wakes up early to see me off to work and I love her for it. I make us breakfast because I’m a better cook than her. She knows it. I also enjoy cooking. I always eat a big breakfast. I always take my time and enjoy the silence of the morning, but by the time it’s mid-day I want nothing but noise. There is none.
My boss, the manager of ‘The Mopery Tavern’, Mr. Naseem is an angry man. He constantly blames me for things that aren’t my fault. I talked back at first but learned to hold my tongue because I want to keep the job. Nothing about it is special but money is money. The bar is bland. Only three types of beer are served. The kitchen is almost as dirty as the toilets. I hate having to clean up. Nobody ever pisses where they’re supposed to piss. Sometimes people don’t even shit where they ‘re supposed to shit. The hygiene standards in the kitchen are sickening. I often witness the cooks pick up food, that’s been dropped on the floor and then put it on plates ready to be served.
“Oi. Pint of Guinness could ya? And before it’s dark.” Mr. Lambert chuckles. He’s one of those people who think that just because they believe something they say is witty, that what they say is actually witty and funny. Mr. Lambert looks like every other middle-aged, borderline alcoholic in this town. He’s out of shape, he’s bald, he speaks about the same stuff all of his counterparts speak about.
I often work double shifts. Because I want the extra money and because there is always a shortage of staff. Janice is also working double shifts. She’s attractive, or at least she is by the standards of this town. I have fucked her quite a few times when Mr. Naseem leaves early. It’s always really fun doing it in the bar when nobody is there. One time when we were doing it, David, the chef came back in one night because he left his watch and almost caught us. The casual sex stopped when I found out she wanted a relationship. There is no real connection between us. She is clingy, naïve and doesn’t have any ambition.
On this particular night she is wearing a mini-skirt that accentuates her curvaceous figure. With little difficulty I have sex with her, one last time on the bar counter.

>> No.6382186

>>6381851

Yeah, dancing or writing, I've never really had rhythm. Glad it's interesting though

As for yours:

Overall I like it, though it could do with some better formatting and tighter word use.

>> No.6382214

>>6382185
You;ve been reading a lot of Bukowski, I can tell. It's pretty interesting I'll give you that but you got to polish up the prose and fix some of the grammar.

>> No.6382311

>>6377488

I dread the loss of her I've never touched
love keeps me a slave in a cage of tears
I gnaw my tongue with which to her I can never speak
I miss a woman who was never born
I kiss a woman across the years that say we shall never meet

Everything passes
Everything perishes
Everything palls

my thought walks away with a killing smile
leaving discordant anxiety
which roars in my soul
No hope No hope No hope No hope No hope No hope No hope

A song for my loved one, touching her absence
the flux of her heart, the splash of her smile

>> No.6382345

>>6382185
>The kitchen is almost as dirty as the toilets. I hate having to clean up. Nobody ever pisses where they’re supposed to piss. Sometimes people don’t even shit where they ‘re supposed to shit. The hygiene standards in the kitchen are sickening.

why start talking about the kitchen, then the bathroom, then go back to the kitchen? move that second sentence down

>> No.6382375

>>6382185

did you intend for it to sound like insufferable nagging? not necessarily bad, but I feel as though it's impossible to consume 200 pages of this in one sitting.

>> No.6382443

>>6381432

this is good, thanks

>> No.6382455

As always, any feedback, comments, or advice I give is entirely based from my perspective so you should feel free to disregard it if you feel I missed something or disagree with me.

>>6379159
Charming, for some reason.

>>6379642
I like this. You've a few neat images here, I especially liked that first line, the breathe/briefly (and the following 'bereft' bit. Normally I discourage "clumsy" alliteration but I like it here for whatever reason; perhaps because the first three stanzas have a rhythmic convolution to them (if that makes sense) and the alliteration adds to that) bit.
>like a drunken poet
This line here took me completely out of the poem. I understand that "durr don't write about writers!!!!!" is somewhat of a meme around here, but in this case I think it actually applies. I can't help but feel as if it's slight self-insertion, and even if it's not it feels that way, and that's what matters. It distances me from the poem because of that.
>weaving pop-song lyrics
And finally this phrase here just feels nuanced and out of place. The rest of the piece has a certain feeling to it; it (that is, the rest of the poem) gives the impression, to me at least, as if it is an experience separate to my (or else, the reader) modern, everyday life, sort of transcendental from that, and then the pop-lyric bit kills it.
Overall your actual diction is rather refreshing, probably the best aspect of the piece to be honest. Not bad at all. Keep writing. If I had to, I'd suggest revising the things I mentioned and to maybe experiment with form and metre. I think if the first three stanzas were written in a sort of songy metre, a tetrameter of some sort maybe, they'd be mesmerizing, in the most literal sense of the word.

>>6380945
>doesn't know shit about proper poetry
>proceeds to write a "poem"
It shows. Please, don't. Have you ever heard the bit about knowing the rules before breaking them? That applies especially in poetry. There aren't rules in poetry, but tools rather and writing poems without tools is cooking a meal without knowing how to cook. You might make something you enjoy, but odds are nobody else will. Someone with culinary training knows when to use what, and more importantly when not to, which is what's important about knowing "proper poetry," as you put it. If you're interested in learning more about poetics and the technical side, I'd be more than happy to recommend some books to get you started.

>> No.6382458

>>6381142
This is cute, and I mean that sincerely and with no condescension. I'm guessing you're new to writing metrical poetry? There are a few lines here and there that aren't metrically sound, and it totally ruins the poem considering that it's short (longer poems often contain lines that don't scan 'properly' but are unavoidable for one reason or another, but don't disrupt the piece too much just because they act as breaks from strict, often tiring metre, among other reasons).
Word selection is a little barebones, but that isn't too much of a big deal because not every line of every stanza of every poem has to be mind-blowingly poetic and innovative, especially not in metaphysical conceits/simply metaphorical poetry, but I would consider looking into older (17th century poets, perhaps, because your poem reminds me of the metaphysicals) poets to get some ideas and inspiration on the types of images you might like.
More importantly, just practice practice practice. Metre eventually becomes second nature and writing in iambs/tetrameter/pentameter/trochees/whatever will come as naturally as breathing. As it stands now, the scansion is so rough that I'm still debating on whether or not you intentionally wrote in a sort of metre or if some lines just happened to fall into it.
Now that I think of it, your lines do alternate by syllables, eight-ten-eight-ten and so on (which in itself is a strange pattern, it's rather jarring and an annoying rhythm), but the stresses themselves seem to be arbitrary, which is why I initially had difficulty with it. Quantitative, aka syllabic, verse is actually pretty common outside of english, but qualitative, aka stress-based verse, is sort of the default in english poetry so you'll have to excuse my not noticing. Still, I'm going to recommend you practice metre. Syllabic verse in english is displeasing to the ear and doesn't have lyric rhythm to it, which is crucial to most poetry we write unless purpose dictates otherwise.

>>6381245
You lack the finesse that comes with experience. I say this because of metre-breaking phrases such as "EDit your", "PAST for I SUREly", "of your", "like the", "of your", etc that experienced poets naturally work around unless it's absolutely unavoidable.
Beyond that, it's unimaginative, to be frank. There's nothing especially provoking or interesting here; it's naïve in a sense.
My best advice to you would be to read a ton more poetry, and to keep practicing. Write daily, though with the main purpose of practice in mind. Write overly strict poems, for no rhyme or reason beyond being in verse. It'll become natural eventually.

>> No.6382488

>>6382458
Thanks!

>> No.6382518

"The cliff and bottom are one"

You know, every day I wake up
To the same noise.

The noise of air whistling past
A dream committing suicide.

The sun is nice as well.

Every day, subliminal reality reminds
Me that I am a mere bitch
To it.

And that I should lick its boot
Enthusiastically.

>> No.6382526

>>6381432
>>6381462
entertaining

>> No.6382624

What life has to offer
What life has to take
The gifts we are given
freely, but at a cost
to endure and to sharpen
under a grey sky

Some are born in the sun
and every ray of light follows
to illuminate the path of their lives
always clear, and without doubt
they walk in confidence
on the path provided by providence

Some are born in darkness
that is thicker than concrete
they build the path they walk
on bloody and bruised knees
and toil not for a chance,
but for a fraction of a chance;
their guiding lights shine from within,
not above. How they toil even now,
in the cold, without the heat
of faith to warm them
to a lesser burden
but only a faith in themselves
the idol under the bruised and battered skin
that sweats, and is repugnant
even to themselves
The next brick is placed.

>> No.6382729

Printing blanks

RAM
clamped
in
motherboards,
teeth caught in two;

sparking like digits,
tongues choke
the blue.

Fan
swallowed
a
hum,
drive sung a tune;

catching like fire,
lungs dust
the flu.

>> No.6382788

>>6382624
It started off pretty cliched, and the premise is pretty cliched, but it improved. I especially liked >their guiding lights shine from within, not above

Feels like something from the civil rights movement. It's like the poems that would be on standardized tests.

>> No.6382809

>>6382458
>>6382526

Hey really appreciate this guys

>> No.6382839

A gray-skin soaked skeleton sits in my closet:
that is all.

>> No.6382876

>>6382458

Your critiques are full of detailed references to the work itself and appeal to my technical, reasoned (albeit limited) understanding of poetry. A++ would read your critiques of other poems again.

Would you be a sweetie and critique this revised one of mine? >>6379122

You have a good brain.

>> No.6382948

Check out this thing I wrote


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?
We keep asking ourselves.
Well we're one in the same
as far as anybody can tell.

>> No.6382956

Iffy

If there was
no such word
as if, I would
become a time-
traveller and go
to the future a
second at a time.

––––––––––––––

If racists could see
the inside of me,
they'd pull the trigger
calling me "nigger."

>> No.6382974
File: 37 KB, 565x850, 69759403049596.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6382974

The amount of pretentiousness in these poems and critiques makes me want to vomit. It's worse when you realize it's just a bunch of teenagers.

>> No.6382987

>>6382974

stupid comment, it shouldn't need to be explained why.

>> No.6383010

>>6377488
Oh, I'm "evil", you say?

Do you know how old I am, dear? Today, I turn 50 years of age.

In the past 40 years, I have led a full life. I have been a vagrant, a thief, an adventurer, a prostitute, a student of dark magic, a pirate, an exotic dancer, a nude coven witch, an art model, an experienced lover, concubine or paramour to many men, and a mother. Throughout my many misadventures, I started as a student and lover of a vagrant bard, to a talented demon summoner, a master sorceress, and, finally, the Arch-Magician of my homeland. Yet, when someone asks me what is the one thing I have been my entire life, the first thing that comes to mind is, "happy."

Never, in my miserable, early years as the accident of a repenting, religious mother, had I imagined there were so many ways to enjoy life in such a wonderful world. Not everyone would agree with me, that what lays outside of their world can be beautiful, nor with my lifestyle and philosophy.

Yes, dear, I am well aware of how the prudes, the self-righteous, the "heroes" look at me. When you first felt the comfortable strength of a sword in your hands as a young boy, I provided comfort and warmth to rough, wild men in dark alleys as a young girl. When you traveled the world, fought monsters, dueled villains, rescued damsels and looked for treasure, I roamed the land, fucked monsters, shared wine with villains, distressed damsels by rescuing husbands and plundered treasure.

I was only 13 when I saw my first wanted poster.. I remember the things it criminalized me for. The insults, the condescension, the tears welling in my wide eyes. But then, I read this one word that I had never set those same eyes on before; "libertine." Later, I learned from a dictionary that I took from a king's castle, that it means "a person of no morals." That word was embedded in my soul as a child, but not like a sting. Rather, more akin to sweet song that made me skip and smile at the very thought.

"Libertine" cannot be spelled without "liberty," my dear. Accuse me of what you want. Prostitution, theft, piracy, infidelity, lewd conduct, dark magic, I AM GUILTY OF IT ALL!! But I-AM-FREE!!! That, my dear, is the true definition of evil!! Complete, utter freedom, doing whatever, whenever you wish, ignorant of the limits others put on themselves in pride like shackles of silver!!

>cont next post

>> No.6383023

>>6383010

In truth, I pity you people of valor and virtue. You have fooled yourselves into living a crippled life with your beliefs, and call it "good." But why be righteous, when you can live? Life isn't about jailing people for stealing food, having a loveless marriage, grinding in a dull trade, living every day same as the last, or beating your 11 year old daughter, then forcing her to pray, just because she wants to know why she gets excited around good-looking men!

It's about going out every day, taking a new risk, going to a new place, learning a new secret, taking another man to bed every night, taking, doing, seeing what you want, no matter who says what! I find my happiness having throbbing members violently shoved into my body by monstrous demons and muscular men every night while learning forbidden knowledge of magic, love, power, and the universe! AND IF THAT DEFINES ME A VILLAIN, THEN I ADMIT MY GUILT AS A FREE WOMAN!!!

>Big speech for one of my major villains in a fantasy story I'm making. Be honest!

>> No.6383033

Covering his ears in his bed
He hears the shouting and the screaming,
The yelling, the cursing, the abusing
With a strike, with a grasp, with a shout
With an ache, with a choke, with a whimper
Of the man, rather a stranger, knows belligerence
Between the pillow and the mother there is no difference

>> No.6383084

>>6383023
My computer was sliced in half due to all that edge

>> No.6383136

>>6383084
I love you, too, anon.

Whatever, it was fun writing it.

>>6381243
Made me giggle, I like it.

>> No.6383138

>>6383023

Is this bait? Villain: moral relativist lady who likes to fuck. That character is flat as fuck, and to make that the only strong detail about your female villain feels somehow sexist? Unless this piece is intended to be a satire or comedy. Tell me this isn't a serious MRA/Redpill sci-fi/fantasy novel.

>> No.6383164

>>6383138
No, it's not any of the things you described at the end. It's definitely not an MRA thing or whatever, I'm not going for that angle.

I never meant for "sexism" to be a theme. Maybe it was the "free woman" part at the end that makes you feel that way, and now that I think about it, I kinda see your point. She's a whore who rose to the top through ambition, power and connections, that's mostly it.

I'll definitely have to go over it again and make it less "I AM WOMYN HEAR ME ROAR," as well as change the beginning sentence. I was on a bit of a sudden creativity trip when I wrote this all out.

Also, I do intend for more characterization. This is just her big "villain monologue" after all.

>> No.6383237 [DELETED] 

poppy sprout In a storm

Who, as a child, broke down lonesomely
weeping and dotting own constellations?
Crafting yourself a lofty foundation
for when you gaze- long after that star-lit dream.
Who as a child is a poppy
without knowledge of its lofty foundation
for when growing takes us out of formation
from the inevitably stormy
Dreams that are memory that flash like death.
He, who flaunts his white cape
for our bullish eyes
to storm a storm where you can’t see your self
transcend into a dust scratched tape.
It is now
to be watched
as we grow, still to be chiseled
in youth’s fountain called Spring.

>> No.6383270

The true nature of all beings is alone.
We are brought into this world screaming, naked, crying for love,
But the world gives just enough to soothe, never enough to sate our hunger.
We will forever seek those who can help us, make us feel whole;
But in reality, those people do not exist
The only thing that will complete us, is the meaning we derive from ourselves
This true isolation awakens us to the plight of ourselves.
But when we are with others we feel warmth, brightness, something to be loved
This is the illusion, the truth is that the self is the only sustenance we need.
Perhaps we will always reject this lonely creed.
True to our beginning, our story will end at the self

>> No.6383418

I wrote a poem about being a beta faggot

This side of Rubicon I stand and sweat
My finger lingers low above the key,
“Return” - not aptly named, for what rebound
Could follow from this stroke of vaguest fate?

Oh winky face, in you I place my trust:
Good ensign, pile my fortune high and fast!
(Or should I rather signal lovers’ war
With bawdy joke, some impropriety?)

To hurl all hope against inconstant winds,
By listless zephyrs riven all to naught!
Or hang a cloud of indecision yet,
Resigned from amours’ glory, dense with thought!

>> No.6383422

As April did wane and May grew nigh the shepherds culled their flock. The woodsmen gathered tinder of oak and hazel, and loaded it onto carts. Men of the meadows the frontier and the wood herded into the Antewood streets. For in the forest the fair did drum in skeletons of stone and ivy. They beat their breasts and donned antlered masks and danced by flames that filmed as soap. The peasants would not see the fair, or at least that was the hope.
Behind walls of brick, on cobblestone roads the people bustled, prayed and wept. The harvest had ended and festivities were beginning as the first fruits of harvest payed off. Over bonfires priests prayed and sprinkled salt, for legend did say it was holy. The twigs crisped and cast smoke of bone which were scented with hyssop and frankincense. By hearths in the inns on hot iron rods the poor folk twisted mutton. Mothers sang songs to screaming children, who had only seen The Hunt once or twice. Admirers from afar confessed their love, hoping that both of them would make it through the night.

>>6383270
for some reason this feels very bare. It's poetry but it has barely any style or rhythm to it. What you have is interesting but it needs to be worded in a more colorful manner or else it just sounds kind of emo

>> No.6383440
File: 46 KB, 517x442, Screen Shot 2015-04-09 at 10.49.01 PM.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6383440

I critique baaaaaack

>> No.6383462

http://pastebin.com/JSx1iR1C

>>6379309
>There were a lot of men shoveling and moving the dirt around by hand. These men did not work for free, but they seemed to really enjoy what they did. I imagined all the worms in the dirt they displaced, and how they would cry as their homes were destroyed without (in their little minds) any rhyme or reason. These worms would be taken from their families sometimes and most times to never return. The lucky ones who were not sliced in half or in quarter by the men's sharp shovels would vow, and I'm sure of this, to make it back to their family.

This paragraph just doesn't seem to mesh that well. It's an interesting reflection on how the unthinking actions of the men are destroying the homes of the worms, but the style isn't quite right. I personally don't like asides and really in this case they break up what is otherwise a complete thought. Asides are generally meant to clarify some point, but really you didn't need to clear anything up.

To me there is too much of a shift between the rest of the story and the description of the worms. The rest of the piece is a brief account of what the narrator does and sees, and then in the end he shifts to creating a fantasy about the lives of worms. Within such a short span of writing this contrast stands out a lot more, but I'm sure that in a larger story this would blend in more seamlessly.

Other than this nothing really jumps out at me. Your writing is clean and it doesn't seem affected which is a nice change from a lot of what gets posted here. Keep expanding on this and maybe try to get into less mundane description, unless of course that is what you're hoping to go for.

>> No.6383527

>>6383422
>As April did wane(,) and May grew nigh(,) the shepherds culled their flock. The woodsmen gathered tinder of oak and hazel, and loaded it onto carts. Men of the meadows(,) the frontier and the wood(,) herded into the Antewood streets. For in the forest(,) the fair did drum in skeletons of stone and ivy. They beat their breasts and donned antlered masks and danced by flames that filmed as soap. The peasants would not see the fair, or at least(,) that was the hope.
>Behind walls of brick, on cobblestone roads the people bustled, prayed and wept. The harvest had ended and festivities were beginning as the first fruits of harvest payed off. Over bonfires priests prayed and sprinkled salt, for legend did say it was holy. The twigs crisped and cast smoke of bone which were scented with hyssop and frankincense. By hearths in the inns on hot iron rods(,) the poor folk twisted mutton. Mothers sang songs to screaming children, who had only seen The Hunt once or twice. Admirers from afar confessed their love, hoping that both of them would make it through the night.

Added a few commas in there. Though I did notice that the sentence structure was done in this olde timey poetic fashion, so I'm not sure if it's intentional.

>> No.6383540

>>6383527
it was intentional. What I want to know is, is it worth expanding on and is there anything i can do to make it better?

>> No.6383560

>>6383540
I'm afraid I don't know enough about this genre of literature to know. I liked it, though, it felt very quaint, just like the subject matter.

>> No.6383565

>>6378382
this is the first thing I've read on here that's actually good, keep at it. you should change the last line or two though, as others have pointed out

>> No.6383574

>>6380929
the majority of good poets wrote/write in the language of their time, honestly you're like the lit version of le wrong generation kids. please leave

>> No.6383768

As my fingers run through fire
Single strains they burn my head.
And when I call myself messiah
The women crawl into my bed.

When I was thirteen
I started a cult
Now that I'm an adult
I built my cathedral
on your little screen.

I made up a language
The blood of my 'ma
I spread my salvation
From Omaha
To Anchorage.

>> No.6383858

>>6382375
insufferable nagging, what do you mean?

I intend on changing the tone of writing from monotone robot to descriptive and humane to symbolise the evolution of the main character.

>> No.6383911

"What Kind of Object is a Human Being?"

Infrastructure emanating from a black hole.

Unfinished scaffolding and perfect vacuum.

>> No.6383920

I want to burst forth beyond drunken heart to hearts. I feel a saint inside me who's love is quelled by the memory of wine-birthed joy, lest another bottle run out and lest I see another sun rise over my reeking breath. I can read Plato and I can read Dubois, and I can smell the fruit they ate, plucked fresh and not rotted like mine.

I am tired of old habits and I long to know those wings that make flight from this putrid land real.

I want to love everyone and forgive them their failures the same way I stubbornly cling to mine. And I've long said these wanton ways mar my soul, whose essence is loving and which must be scarred when I love mortal flesh instead.

I care not whether the stars were placed in the sky by the hand of God or instead happened upon the world like all things. I cannot be joyous when the soles of my feet can only walk the line dividing false humility and forced pride.

Every time I eat Chinese food in the parking lot I think of Dorothy Day's wisdom: there is nothing beautiful about a man shoving food into a hole in his face, and yet there is no ugliness in a man having his humble meal so that he may live and work.

And I've wallowed in my stupid self worship for so long, breaking every rule I set before myself, that I have no faith in me me me, sensing this heart to be so flawed and so human that it deserves no love.

I remember she said that none of us deserve anything but hellfire. I help a homeless man and put a trophy in my shelf, and gobble up the stuff of his life to put in my stories so they can be mine. And my lips curl and sting when I remember how totally devoid this world is of meaning if our highest aspiration is to have the most bronze shaped in our likeness.

Why have I strayed so far, me, whose mother's loving was warm like wintered hearth? What is the source and meaning of this pettiness that has me clinging with greed to little bags of marijuana, always emptying and leaving my eyes sullen?

How does a man know truth but still stand crippled by the will to violate it?

What is that fucking mystery that lets me grasp the crags of penance, and give me leave of this festering wound?

I'll go mad tearing at my scabs and letting my wounds weep before I stand on bended knees before it!

>> No.6384355

>>6383440
Since you asked I'll go ahead an read your piece. I just woke up slightly hungover though so you'll have to excuse me if anything I say is a little sloppy.

In a word, it's very "modern." You don't have an issue keeping consistent metre, and it's written in a way (due to diction and syntax, I believe) that doesn't seem sing-songy and more natural and conversational, which I believe is rather appropriate for the piece.
I'd like to point out one thing, in line four. I forget who it was, some critic of Milton or other, that said one can determine the worth of a poet by how many words can be removed from a line of their verse without disrupting the meaning of the line. I'm not sure I entirely agree with the sentiment, and it's a rather minor nuance here, but I still found it worth mentioning. Just keep that in mind and try to avoid it unless you feel it's absolutely necessary. I'm referring to 'do' in that line, by the way, if that wasn't apparent.
Next I want to talk about line five. I personally strongly dislike "must" type sentences. I feel as if they're lazy, sort of a short cut, considering the nature of a poem. Poems allow the writer to really explore things, so I think you should add to this piece and demonstrate how beginnings must precede endings, more than just line six. That's just in my opinion, though.
Finally, and this is a common complaint I have with a lot of contemporary poetry (and there is an argument against my dissentiment; people feel as if I'm arguing for overly poetic language and that isn't necessary in poetry anymore, that we're not writing aesthetic poetry anymore; meaning over matter, so to speak), I feel the piece is sort of sparse in regards to actual poetics and devices. It needs something, and I can't tell you what exactly as that's up to you to decide. I would suggest reading some TS Eliot, Wallace Stevens perhaps, definitely John Ashbery (he's still alive, even) and (this one's reaching a little, but nobody blends spirituality and modern themes better, which may or may not interest you) possibly Hart Crane. They're all modernist poets, and I think they'd have something to offer to the vibe you've got going here. Pick through these and look for how they blend poetic devices and imagery within their pieces to contribute to the scenes they're writing.
I'd definitely keep writing. Your ability to write in fine metre is good and well, so I'd focus on toying around with metaphors, rhetoric, imagery, etc etc. The only thing you're missing is the familiarity and experience that comes with years of writing and (more importantly) reading poetry, which is what most writers here lack. Just keep it up.

>> No.6384555
File: 135 KB, 500x375, 1424379394895.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6384555

Posting this again from last thread:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bbWjbBwe7vzZ2oDj64X6uZ9sr4dYyuqamhDIUISZb6o/edit?usp=sharing

Wrote a one act play for my uni's One Act Play Festival that is currently being performed. I wrote it in one day and realize that it's not that gr8--it has no theme or message, more of a character study and dialogue exercise than anything--but some feedback would be appreciated.

>>6382518
I think there's some definite issue with word choice here, could be more punchy but it feels rather mundane and a bit clunky. Maybe omit "committing" and just "A dream of suicide". Other than that idk

>>6381462
"Thick as dyed dreads" lmao. I like this one a lot, I don't know why.

>>6382624
I agree with the other poster, while it's not bad per se it feels a bit trite in its message and premise. The third stanza is pretty nice tho.

>>6382729
Your word choice is nice and I like the topic but the rhyme scheme feels weird to me. I'd go with something that evokes the texture (that sounds stupid I know) or changes up the cadence.

>>6382956
wut

>>6383010
>>6383023
Ow, the edge. And not only that, very one-dimensional and cringey as fuck, I'm sorry but no

>>6383033
Not bad, a bit mundane

>>6383418
Fucking hilarious and cleverly written. Great job anon.

>>6383422
This is pretty good, some pretty vivid imagery here, though I think it could be a bit longer.

>>6383920
Pretty edgy but technically sound, some nice prose going on in here and great contrasts.

Will critique more as they're posted

>> No.6384587

Harsh criticism preferred.

Flagitious: marked by scandalous crime or vice. The only words that could be used to describe what she had just done. Having come to her senses, her hands and clothes still covered in the ashes, emanating from the raving fire in front of her. What she had done to his lifelong dream may have been unforgivable, but so was what he had done to her. The hours of pure craftsmanship poured into this artwork from his very soul, destroyed and wasted forever. But this portrait of her was already tainted and scorned by him the minute he had taken another lover, having whispered promises of a scarlet love, and a yearning of what life was to be together. How he could have committed that horrendous and near uxoricidal act her heart remained a simple mystery, one that he was bound to commit time and time again. The same whispers and promises he made to that mistress were similar, if not identical, to those he made to her long ago. And thus lay the reason as to why she had committed this act of arson, a last and treasonous act, to finally send the foundations of their relationship crumbling down. The smell of burning canvas filled the air as she had watched her own face burn, soon to leave no trace of this now tarnished affinity, lest her future-self reminisce for these past days.

>> No.6384856

>>6384355

Sincere thank you, based Hawk's Sig.

I've mostly been reading Thomas Hardy recently, so thank you for pointing me towards more poets to study.

>> No.6384918

A sword, bi-handed and clumsy lofted, stood spider black against the blood sun, before it stood myself, your writer; a knight without coat or cause beyond his exile. I had encountered the foe within the cold ruins that fringed the cyclops tower. Hunger ravished and wolf-eyed, his frame recalled the wild dog, and his eyes rolled as beasts did. In stance, he prodded the sky, but the shakes and flinches of the metal belied the sin of the fence that is fear. Swordsmanship is not unlike geometry in that it is an observance of a score of angles and lines, and not unlike religion in its nature as a sum of chiding philosophies. I knew the man had raised a stroke he could not willingly deliver, and that delivered in panic and without feint or trick, such a stroke posed no threat to me. Stepping forth then, and with my own blade standing crooked pillar to the shivering blow that would seek to fell it, I caught the cruel beat, and guiding it into the trap of my own sword so undid him. He shrank before my edge, after his own hew had opened him so, but I made mine snake fast, and bothering not with deceit jumped the point over his mail, and loosed the heart blood.

This is mainly just for fun but I could still do with some pointers.

>> No.6385250

>>6384587

>Flagitious: marked by scandalous crime or vice. The only words that could be used to describe what she had just done.

If this worked logically it would still not work because it's pretentious and arrogant. As it is, why are there no words other than this Latin word? You have just described that word easily with much simpler and less obscure words.

The two sentences don't tell us anything and we will forget them when you do tell us what she did.

> Having come to her senses, her hands and clothes still covered in the ashes, emanating from the raving fire in front of her

Grammar is fucked. Don't forget order of information or the basic rule "use anglo words when possible", 'from' would have sounded better than 'emanating'.

>What she had done to his lifelong dream may have been unforgivable, but so was what he had done to her.

Avoid things like "may have been". What's the point? Just say it was. Or "his very soul". Just say 'his soul'.

>But this portrait of her was already tainted and scorned by him the minute he had taken another lover, having whispered promises of a scarlet love, and a yearning of what life was to be together.

Is this set in 1800? No. Don't write like that then. "another love", "scarlet love", "yearning".

>uxoricidal

Do you think I want to get a dictionary out to read your shitty story?

>were similar, if not identical, to those he made to her long ago

Parenthesis can seem a bit stuffy in fiction. There's room for it especially in more comedic writing but remember that someone is narrative this. How often do people actually use parenthesis in speech?

>thus

Have you been writing a lot of essays recently or something?

The whole things need to be less passive and less pretentious. Vary up your sentence length and try to keep sentences as short as possible. If they are going to be long then justify it. And seriously, kill the ridiculous language it sounds extremely amateurish.

>> No.6385305

>>6378313
This is great pulp fiction. People here will tell you it is shitty writing, but it's great for the style and genre you are going for.

>> No.6385331

>>6383462
Thank you for this great input. I will agree that my writing is very raw at this moment. I have been writing for a few days only. I just wrote something else, could you and whoever else wishes to please critique this?

In late March the ice that often sees the sun begins to melt in my parents backyard. The backyard is to the west of the house, and there is not much grass there. Half of the backyard turns into a thick mud when the snow melts. There is a tall trailer that delays this from happening until late March. You can see the grass and the damage from winter much earlier than this. The side of the backyard with the mud and trailer is always dug up from the big truck my father owns. He drives it back and forth over the dirt when it's soft. If he feels he hasn't driven over it enough, he will get in his tractor and dig holes. My father spends a lot of his free time in our backyard and I hope that I'll do something else when I am a father.

>> No.6385383

>>6384587

I didn't read past the first sentence because, unless you're writing a college application essay, you should never use the "Merriam-Webster's Dictionary defines X word as XXXXXXXXX" template. It's a lazy, boring cliche.

Actually, I read the whole thing, and there's no such thing as "raving fire." "Raging fire" would actually make sense, even though it's a thought-killing phrase.

Also, who's your audience for this? The ten or so English speaker who know what "uxoricidal" means?

Also, how is a girl burning some dude's painting "marked by scandalous crime or vice"? There's about twenty better words you could have used instead of "flagitious," if you insist on using that format for the first sentence. As it is, this sentence is exactly what Mark Twain meant when he said that bad writers use the second cousins of the words they mean.

On the bright side, there's actually some sort of plot going on here involving actual human interaction, which is a refreshing change from the eight million critique-thread posts about "the anime man sheathed his katana, let me spend five hundred ten-syllable words talking about how cool he looked when he did it, and the cherry blossoms blew in the breeze ORIGINAL CHARACTER DO NOT STEAL", so congratulations on that.

>> No.6385386

That voice - a draft to soothe the brain
A downy thought that bids remove
All my cares, and mis’ry reproves

And a gust to stir the ember!
It roils the heart with luscious ache -
A scald, deep and tender

>> No.6385409

>The Marble Men, Part 1

As a woman of science I have a deep understanding of the feeling of disbelief and perhaps even amusement you shall experience upon reading this story. This is despite the fact that the truths of this story in many ways concern you, its future reader, more than they do me. With some luck, I shall most likely be dead soon, while this incomprehensible hell may have just begun for you. Ah, what an ordinary way to start a tale of horror, is it not? Fortunately what I hope to accomplish by telling you this story is not hindered by your current belief or disbelief. It is just information I hope to pass on in order to at least lessen some of your coming suffering, and whether you currently take it to be relevant to you or not, I am sure you shall be able to recall it if needed.

Despite excelling at mathematicks, even beyond many of the teachers, I could never handle scientific instruments very well. It had taken a good deal of bartering to convince the school to allow me to have the subjects of chemicks and physistry. For a while it felt like there was always some or another relative of mine coming to or leaving my school, bickering the principle until he finally must have given in; not because he had changed his views, but probably to be rid of the terrorism inflicted upon him by my family and regain his sleep. The condition had been that my father signed away my school insurance, ensuring that if a drop of some liquid vicious to the human flesh were to leave me dead, or any other scientific accident prey upon me, it would be his own full responsibility and not the courteous principle, far more understanding of my nature. Of course it was laughable argumentation. They were innocent beginner classes. But the circumstances of my entrance, a woman alone with so many men who all seemed so confident about what they were doing, made every hour spent in these rooms of science and ordeal. I would begin to sweat terribly, my dress sticking to my back, my hands to shake until I made huge messes.

I only completed these classes out of pride, though perhaps it would have been wiser of me to quit at once for I shortly became the laughing stock of the class. But ah, what a mess my writing is! Spending too much time on things irrelevant to your situation and I do not know how much time either of us has left before they come to take us again. I must hurry on to the important facts. The year I took these science classes was the worst of my life, for my family all died in a terrible plague. My only comfort was a man in my class who fell in love with my stubbornness and mathematickal intelligence. Unfortunately also he died, only two days after our wedding, in a locomotive crash. Not wanting to live in my family's old house, full of memories of our past which was only truly appreciated by when it was no more, I moved to my dead love's house, empty now, for also his parents had died in the plague. (It was a quite terrible plague, I ensure you.)

>> No.6385417

My first attempt, also English is not my mother tongue.

I was born 1994
But my parents were concerned
Because my brother puked across the floor
Due to the love he had never earned.

Some years later
I met her near a car
And I could tell she was looking better
When she was holding her guitar.

Then, on one raining morning
I kissed her in the park
And she gave me this warning
That it was getting dark.

Now I have my sweet ink
But no words to write
Because her memory will sink
When my mind begins to fight.

>> No.6385433

>>6385409

Sadly I found myself in the same predicament as my family had put the principle in (who had also died in the plague, by the way) for I were unable to sleep. I tried my lost love's childhood bedroom, his parents's bedroom, his little sister's bedroom and even sleeping in the sofa in the living room. But always I found myself unable to sleep. I had the very specific sensation that some being was standing beside me, very close to me, imposing on me; the same feeling you have when some friend or stranger, while conversing with you, find themselves standing too close to you. But every time I opened my eyes, I were alone.

The classes of science had fortunately acquainted me with a number of persons of great scientific capability. From an old classmate, feeling bad about once being unnice to me now that I had lost everyone I had ever cherished, borrowed me a very new apparatus, which, as it were, captured the light of a scene on very thin paper, creating a wholy realistic depiction for someone to look at later, of whatever was going on in front of the apparatus. I placed several of these apparatuses around my room, and tried to sleep. Only in the morning hours did I manage to, and perhaps for an hour or two. Brewing some coffee for myself, I began to look at the depictions created by the apparatuses. They revealed something that shocked me to the very core of my soul, the same that grasps mathematical truths and religious feeling; for it is clear that no mechanical part within the human creature would be capable of such spiritual ventures. In a mathematical equation there may be instructions and some logic, but rationality is not the same as understanding which is wholy an activity of the soul.

What I found imprinted on the pictures was this: Leaning up into my face, standing calmly by my bed, was a creature very much like a man in stature, but yet entirely different otherwise. His face was wide and hard, like a box, and his skin spongy and strange, as if made of some impossibly tough marzipan. His eyes were glowing and carefully shaking, his hair slowly moving, as if made of thin, dark worms, meanwhile and constantly sprouting some liquid, that ran down his face like some vicious sweat. He had no nostril on the nose, which explained why I had not noticed his breath on my face while sleeping: Instead they were located on his palms, his arms slung behind him so he could lean on me for any amount of time without disturbing me. As soon as my soul had grasped the truth of these beings, I began to hear a terrible ringing, like a fire alarm, covered in the murmur of a million children speaking, laughing, screaming and talking and speaking and talking. Then a whole group of people, I could hear, running up the stairs. They did not stop to look at me, the marble men; no, I only had time to realize they were seven feet tall before they took me with them for I had seen them.

>> No.6385440

>>6385433

If you are reading this story, you have also been taken by the marble men. You may think you are safe in your armchair, enjoying a good horror story, or resting on a boat likewise. You are wrong. The marble men simply desire that we are perfectly fresh and conscious when they torture us, and knowing we would never be able to sleep thinking of the horrors we are involved in, at the end of every day we are given some time in a phantasy world to our liking, free of the memories of the things we have experienced, so that we are able to become calm and fall asleep in their prison. For some reason I have lately become able to remember what they do to me every day, and wonder if the people I meet in the phantasies are also imprisoned by the marble men, or if they are just figments of the phantasy. Just in case you are real I have written this story to try to make things easier for someone else. I guess, when I myself am doomed to ultimate misery, my only comfort has become to do good to others. Yet I only have one advice to give, the rest of our lives here seem to lack any logic understandable to me, so that I cannot say anything intelligent about it: When they bring the porridge to you in the prison cell, in the morning before the torture, no matter how hungry you are, do not eat the silver worms. You may have already made the mistake. In that case, I have only pity for you. It has been a month since I did, and they still live within me, crawling on the inside of my body. Under my thighs and hands and feet and finger and brown and hair and legs and arms. I only hope death finally will come soon. You are perplexed. Do not worry. Though you forget your life in the prison when you are here, in this phantasy, you will remember this story when you wake up. Have courage, fellow human.

>> No.6385478

>>6385417
I loved this anon. only thing in this thread that's made me feel something

>> No.6385522
File: 619 KB, 1920x1080, 1428621980416.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6385522

the creek can find it's own love
it's own banks
it's water
Sloshing in time with the wind.

The plight of an old mountain,
with no end,
has no cease,
where it's base meets ground; obscure.

Your hands and my hands are as two rivers
twisting aimlessly in the dark.

My thoughts and your thoughts, are as mountains.
Withered and leveled by the winds of time.

>> No.6385550

http://pastebin.com/JSx1iR1C

>>6385331
I've noticed that you're writing can be repetitive. Specifically in this piece you use the word backyard in nearly every sentence. In order to get rid of that repetitive writing you shouldn't just replace every mention of the word with a synonym, for the reason given by >>6385383 in his 4th paragraph, instead you need to take advantage of the fact that you've already brought the focus of the story onto what you're describing.

>In late March the ice that often sees the sun begins to melt in my parents backyard. It is to the west of the house, and there is not much grass there. Half turns into a thick mud when the snow melts. There is a tall trailer that delays this from happening until late March. You can see the grass and the damage from winter much earlier than this. The side with the mud and trailer is always dug up from the big truck my father owns. He drives it back and forth over the dirt when it's soft. If he feels he hasn't driven over it enough, he will get in his tractor and dig holes. My father spends a lot of his free time in our backyard and I hope that I'll do something else when I am a father.

Notice how it reads much the same even when most direct mention of the backyard has been removed. Last note is that I liked the emotional weight that appears in the last sentence and how it contrasts with the plain description that preceded it.

>> No.6385557
File: 52 KB, 655x833, dont know that feel.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6385557

>>6385417
>>6385478

>> No.6385598

>>6377996
FWIW I liked it, anon

>> No.6385636
File: 392 KB, 1280x1789, 1423607010812.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6385636

>>6385331

>My father spends a lot of his free time in our backyard and I hope that I'll do something else when I am a father.

just want to say I love this sentence

>> No.6385640

>>6385550

Always introduce a character before talking about him in third person. I don't know who he is and you'd think someone were mad if they did that in a conversation. Too much description. If it's not interesting or new you probably don't need to say it and you shouldn't go on too long without any action or even a character in play. That's quite old fashioned.

>> No.6385678

>>6385550
The revised version you posted sounds a lot better than my own. Mine sounds very autistic. Thank you for this. Just now in the shower the makings of a short story came to me, and I will now begin to write it. I hope in a few days, possibly tomorrow, you will be here to read it over. I value your input sincerely.

>>6385636
Thank you. Admittedly I am trying to imitate a Hemingway type style with this last sentence. It sounds like something he would say, and I feel bad even if I had made you smile for doing this.

>> No.6385881

>>6385640
What do you mean about introduce him? Like give a description of his appearance? I've read quite a few stories that just get straight into telling us what is happening and slowly describe the character. Can you go more into depth about what is working and what isn't, what you've said seems vague.

>> No.6385968

>>6385881

I'd suggest you pick up a few of your favourite books written in third person and see how they begin. I guarantee most will not start:

There was a pretty house. He walked over here and started playing with his dick. It was a long day for him...

We need a name or a description. The character can't just pop out of nothing. It really can be just as simple as calling the person by their name instead of a pronoun in the first sentence.

Like I said, if somebody were telling you a story it would be completely bewildering.

>The weirdest thing happened today
>Oh yeah, what?
>Well I was at the supermarket and the lights went out and he was running through the aisles...
>Wait, who's he?

See? You presumably want to write to tell stories not just make creative writing. Stories are about people in places and I am imagining what you are saying with your words. How can I imagine something if I don't know what it is?

Now as for the comment about description. Just do less of it. Read it aloud like you are telling another person a story. Would they likely respond with "why the fuck are you telling me this?" That's not a great way to conduct all your writing but it is generally quite helpful. Your story has an even bigger issue because you haven't properly introduced the character or told me where it really is - so why the fuck am I reading it?

>> No.6386035

>>6377488
http://pastebin.com/4rFEreaK
shitty revision of a short story I wrote last year

>> No.6387631

>>6383422
I added another 300 words to this. The style is really difficult and uncomfortable to write in, but it at least feels like it's coming out well

>> No.6387649

>>6387631
forgot to post the new writing:
http://pastebin.com/Rgh81TJZ

>>6385417
>Then, on one raining morning
>I kissed her in the park
>And she gave me this warning
>That it was getting dark.

holy shit, that's painful. I don't mean it's bad, it's the kind of pain you can only feel from great writing

>> No.6387674

>>6377488

what do you think of this

http://pastebin.com/ajTdrntU

>> No.6387961

Mommy moon rising and the pretty things come out and shake and mommy smile. Hair-beasts throb pant curse fight. Wrist wrangled and prize was took and Cambrian blaze in blood and head in pink thoughts and red-eyed striving grab neck coarse squeeze and stone scrape and life come and breath come and blood spurt and eyes turn. Smelling thing hauled away and prize took back. Laughing and grunting and fat smack and sweat pour and hands full. Daddy sun come down and light on dead sack black with mite crawl. Hero strongfull and prize sleep.

>> No.6388116

“Are you quite well?” So asks my friend!
“Your face is pale; you’re ill.
Lest you should faint, your pacing end,
And sit awhile; be still.”

He knows not why I, frantic, pace,
Or why my hands so quake;
Why all the color’s left my face
Or why my voice does shake.

He sees not what this weakness caused,
Nor wherefore I should sigh.
But with you all illusion’s lost;
To you I dare not lie.

For want of you I’ve lost my mind,
Though I unworthy be!
And so, for heaven’s sake, be kind!
I love you—foolishly!

>> No.6388119

>>6387961
What the fuck was that?

>> No.6388132
File: 610 KB, 300x163, fuckthis.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6388132

>>6387674
>http://pastebin.com/ajTdrntU
>uses the word "piss" in an obvious attempt to jar the reader
>rambling, disjointed

dropped after the first paragraph. I don't even know what this is supposed to be about

>> No.6388217

this is unfinished, but I've been working on it for a while. I think I might have posted an eary draft already once or twice a few weeks back. tell me what you guys think, and try not to point out spelling or grammar errors, I'm more concerned about the tone and style

>> No.6388219

>>6388217
http://pastebin.com/XWhSXKQQ
fuck, I forgot the link

>> No.6388320
File: 68 KB, 1324x1007, Tarded.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6388320

>>6388116
It's too prosey. It's decent though, but it has a very short range of people who will 'get it' which isn't all that clever when you're appealing to five hundred people.

>>6387961
Micheal Gira plz go

>>6387674
Did you read the unabomber's manifesto and tried to write that Finnegan's Wake style? It's just a jumbled mess of nothing that means only something to whomever wrote it.

>>6385522
This is interesting, and it does a great job of relating the imagery back to the subject of of the poem. I would just recommend adding more feeling, but otherwise would make great filler or B-Sides

>>6388219
This is extremly well written! My only fear is that it doesn't go over much. Loved the repetitious use of, 'See,' but there isn't all that much to see. It's like a looping ride of It's a Small World After All, the trip is the same and you only start to See the same things.


>http://pastebin.com/XWhSXKQQ

>> No.6388330

>>6388217
>>6388219
It's well written but 'were-pigeon'? Really? lol

>> No.6388343

>>6388330
It's sort of symbolic. People see the homeless and pigeons very similarly in cities, and treat them mostly the same way

>> No.6388349

>>6388343

>I know how other people see the world

worst kind of person

>> No.6388357

>>6388349
I'm making a generalization it doesn't apply to everyone but entirely too many people see the homeless as diseased and dirty, the same way a lot of people call pigeons "rats with wings". I think it's telling that we use the same methods to keep birds and the homeless from sitting in certain spots: by putting down spikes

>> No.6388363

>>6388219

I'm not sure about the story. It doesn't really grab me. It's funny but not novel enough to make me want to read it. Why do I want to read something somewhat serious about a boy that turns into a pigeon? It also reads like more of a monologue than a story.

I think you need to get the consistency of the voice down better. You sound a bit like a teenage boy in the story with all your cursing and "so yeah" or "see". Then you drop something like "Probably the latter". I'd just cut nearly anything that wasn't necessary to a sentence.

I don't like it when you tell us something and then go "did I tell you that by the way." It's a bit lazy. Just tell us properly.

>> No.6388369

>>6388357

The homeless are diseased an dirty. Are you out of your mind? I don't treat them like pigeons but like most people I've had many bad experiences with the homeless and as far as my animal brain is concerned they are dangerous and should be avoided. I don't really give much of a fuck about pigeons and unless I'm in a really gross part of a city I don't even need to try and avoid them.

>> No.6388373

>>6388363
well the main character is supposed to be a teenager, I'm writing it in the MC's voice (it's a girl by the way, I think I might have accidentally cut out the one mention)

>>6388369
wait, are you arguing with me by agreeing with me belligerently? That's a new one

>> No.6388389

>>6388373

Obviously part of your analogy works. Homeless people are gross but that's about it and there are many things that are gross. I object to your sentiment that society is fucked because it treats homeless people like vermin which isn't true. We treat homeless people like people on the street that are desperate and likely to be mentally ill and on drugs with a history of crime or military service. Pretending like they are cute babies that need to be cuddled is ridiculous.

>> No.6388408

>>6388389
I'm not. I'm saying that they're people who don't just disappear when you're not looking at them and they have a very unhappy story pointing to how they ended up there

>> No.6388737

>>6384555
bump for critiques

>> No.6389089

>>6388119
A description of a struggle

>> No.6389161

Very rough draft

Brushed up damaged goods
With a second lick of paint
Empty intentions move
Me into place
I am defaced

Ostentatious, courageous cowards
Third eyes downwards
Commitedly outward
Repeatedly (want to change this) downtrod

I query you to
Change myself, to hurt yourself
To know no self
To our good health,
Bashed outlier (liar)
Fuck me Bodhisattva

>> No.6389172

>>6389161
>fuck me bodhisattva
Hey there champ, how's 8th grade?

>> No.6389193

Posted this in another thread but no one read it. I'll try my luck again...

This is me trying to retell the Norwegian poem "Zinklarsvise" in the Ossianic style.

http://pastebin.com/078M1xgs

>> No.6389394

>>6389193
Pretty cool. Strangely high-brow exercise, you don't quite have the chops to pull it off. You use figurative language in odd places ("Over the salty main dragged Zinklar the oar," for instance), putting undue emphasis on fairly insignificant elements of the story. Language is antiquated as well but fits the content.

>>6388219
>>6388217
Don't ever, EVER, do stuff like *punch*. Are you writing a fanfic? Are you roleplaying in a chat room? Other than that it's alright. Not such a fan of the kind of narrator who addresses the reader in every other paragraph, seems to me like a cheap gimmick to make the story more "engaging," but I doubt you'll change that because some guy on 4chan dislikes it.

>>6387961
You ain't Joyce. I catch your meaning, and it's a nice sounding way to write it, but fuck's sake man, this is wank. It's like you're trying to obscure what's going on by scrambling the sentence structure and making "new" words by jamming old ones together.

>>6387674
Truly awful. Tries too hard to be meta-modern or post-ironic or whatever. Shouting out Brown, Picoult, and Meyer is kinda clever (I chuckled, anyway), but it's the kind of reference with really limited shelf-life, and to be frank any one of those writers is more talented than you. The "su-su" bit would be appropriate and even funny if "Sumeet" more closely resembled "su-su." Ditch all the internet slang. Christ crucify pretentious overwriters indeed.

>>6387649
Alright. Clumsy metaphors. "Recapture the marble of yesterday" means literally nothing to me. Use commas where appropriate. Oberon is the most generic fantasy name I've ever seen. Last paragraph is a train-wreck.

>> No.6389800

>>6386035
Anyone for this drivel?

>> No.6390245

>>6388320
bump

>> No.6390365
File: 109 KB, 647x833, Screenshot (13).png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6390365

Hope the text isn't too small. Would have put it in paste bin, but there are some italics.
Critiques coming in just a little bit.

>> No.6390560

Get over it, pray over it, be over it
Hiding needles and orange caps from her
Feeling the silver end go in, I am lit
She knows, but can’t see, of that I have to be sure

This is not what God wants, what about what I want?

Warmness seeps, all up, to the chest
Callused hands graze soft short blonde hair
Smokes, Coffees, Questions, Is this my best?
What do you want? Do you want me? Arrival of the first tear

This is not what God wants, what about what I want?

Can’t, Can’t, Can’t I can’t stop
Its hell in my head, tits tits tits
You’re going to hell, the gay is not God’s lot
Tattooed torsos, hide them, hide them, and keep your wits

This is not what God wants, what about what I want?

Dad and Mom, Sins and Divorce
Man and Woman, Reaping and Sowing
Affair, affair, affair, not Fair of course
Pray and Talk, Church and Man, all for showing

This is not what God wants, what about what I want?

Mom, big empty house, peeling potatoes
I’ve seen you shot up? I can’t tell
Pain in her eyes, oh how it shows
Not much more crying we can do, still the tears fell

This is not what God wants, what about what I want?

Money in my pocket, she can’t see, take it, need it
I’m not doing it anymore, you’re on your own
She’s the mistress to my first love, the needle, my survival kit
Blood swells around the tube, the pain subsides, yet still so alone

This is not what God wants, what about what I want?

Not the life we want you to have, the life you want to have
Our relationship will change in the following ways
Two blonde sisters, drudging up the wrath
One the right way and the other the wrong way, curls and pearls are all the craze

This is not what God wants, what about what I want?

Twisted, jealousy, worth, pride, strain
All I want or need out of you, is to be my sister
But that’s not all you’re asking and that’s my pain
You don’t know how it was the first time I kissed her

Punches with the old man
Never see eye to eye, a fight I can’t win
Smiles seen again
Be who you are and see what happens

She let me go

>> No.6391474

The Moon kills the sun each night
She stands on her grave and drinks her light
In corrupted shades she shall reign
Over the earth, the Sun's domain
And at Dawn the Moon shall run away
From the indifferent Sun, who births the day
The forgiving Sun will not care to know
About its lost children down below

>> No.6391525

>>6391474
*her lost children

>> No.6391908

The weakening spine has over time made the title
unreadable, always caught in reading but never read,
that annual exercise you'll never finish, ever-touched and
heavy with constancy as the years, the weight of skin
oils and detritus ambient in this or that room, incidental
save for those last pages unbreached. What do they
smell like, aged while otherwise, sleeved as demure
legs taking what from your ownership but nothing?
You cannot bear to finish it. I completely understand
without having read, save for those last few notions still
bereft of taste. Your salt, your curvature, your inarticulate
divergence from false-lit escapes, degrees of freedom kept
or given, mutually lusted for a hot demand opposed.
I lied. I don't understand, hidden from me as necessary, the fear

that plants your need for endlessness. You'll never kill the book
whereas I would finish you again and again. The choice
is command: you can but will not and I cannot and never
will, the difference between the freely animate and stringed,
repeat: will not identical-to but subsuming never will, felt
with the force of price, for once could have has all but passed.
Twice for several days I could smell you and I tell
myself that could I pry a third we might finish together.
For now there is semblance where there might have
been control. There is an unopened book on my nightstand,
never to begin that which you will never end, indulging
the wish for you and for myself to be wrong about
what was and what will be once again, the warmth of cliché
and maudlin closure, where we're innocent of fictive means
and indifferent to the helical failure of entropic things.

Or is it an incompletion whose face is indifferent to any end?
A middle-way encroaches on itself, quietly, never and always
wound together, a wraith of a smile who knows that there are
other rivers between never to have lived and thereafter dead,
coins without eyes after a sound purchase of grief—what will
all this necessity conspire to bring us? Some decades from now
along the bank the pages rebel against my abstracting rue,
a figure will break—will it be me or will it be you? A hope,
the belief in neither: that we can hold it unread until forgetting,
as you and I dance up and down, between shared laughter and
repose: whose pelvis will be first to break the other's pelvic bones,
a half-joke born of the memory of a prior last kiss, passed or past,
as I had once blanched; yet here we are embraced, the horror passing.

>> No.6391955

>>6390560
You can cut out so much and still hold true to what you want out of this poem (yuk yuk)--

Here is my cut:

Not the life we want you to have, the life you want to have
Our relationship will change:
Two blonde sisters, drudging.
One the right way and the other the wrong way, curls and pearls are all the craze.

All I want or need out of you, is to be my sister
But that’s not all you’re asking and that’s my pain
You don’t know how it was the first time.

Mom, big empty house, peeling potatoes
I’ve seen you shot up? I can’t tell
Pain in her eyes, oh how it shows
Not much more crying we can do.

>> No.6392690

I am a stranger to this wack ass ocean,behold me as i gaze at it,above it,into it.
I can only fear this jigaboo-dark body of water for i am a mountian nigger.

>> No.6393101

>>6377488
Question:

How does /lit/ further edit their pieces after the rough draft has been written? I just can't get myself to cut away pieces of my work. Help.

>> No.6393206

>>6393101

Ruthlessness.

>> No.6394072

Rooster in the vines.
How I speak of thee.
To what hath twist thou,
Into your snare?

Was it Young Jacob,
With not an understanding,
For that is why,
Romulus Disapproves.

Oh Rooster,
You hath no clue.
For what shall come upon you,
Will make me boo.

Farewell Rooster.

>> No.6394120

there was a man walking about in the woods
''do not be concerned for i am here'' he spoke with a niggerly swagger wagger nagger bagger dagger rabber nagger rugger bugger sugger nugger wigger digger sibber nibber dibber butter jesus ramsey,why?

>> No.6394386
File: 58 KB, 478x412, Screen Shot 2015-04-12 at 2.12.20 PM.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6394386

>>6391474

Damn anon, I like this.

The meter is strong and reflects back on the content of each line - substitutions are used to great effect, the meter is really working for me.

The rhymes are thought out and deliberate - night/light, reign/domain, away/day, know/below.

It tells a story in pictures - the imagery is strong.

The only tiny little complaint (not even sure if I 100% agree with this, though) is that moon and sun battling, night/light, reign/domain, are somewhat cliche. It's acceptable, I think, because you DO show me a different arrangement of the cliched elements - the moon standing on the sun's grave is cool, the moon acting of her own volition while the sun seems mechanical and indifferent.

Anyways, good poem, keep it up!

Critique back?

>> No.6394418

I dream of you only
As still I wait lonely
All that I want is you
And for "us" to be true
Yet still I wait longing
As my heart go's throbbing
But one day you will go
before my love can show

>> No.6394424

So, we like, told the guy to fuck off, right? But he didn't! Now that aggravated our Little Tommy, whose nickname wasn't ironic - Tommy was little over 5 feet, poor soul. Italian heritage, he always said, as if anyone dared to ask.

"The fuck you mean you won't fuck off?", Tommy asked politely.
"Just so, I won't. Fuck you, Tommy."

Tommy wasn't an adept of handling the banter and punched the fool straight in the face. Guy didn't even flinch, like he was a boxer or something. Au contraire, like the Belgians say, he sniggered like a cunt and delivered a backhand blow that made Tommy fly a little.

"Hah! Faggot!", he shouted.

Tommy didn't answer, as he was bleeding internally after falling down those stairs. The whole affair took maybe less than a minute. We, that is me and Joe Fingers (don't ask), didn't move at all. Not a single muscle twitched on our granite-made faces as the guy approached us with a stern look on his face. Tommy finally regained consciousness and started cursing in both English and Italian, though the latter was a bit off grammar-wise. I was to tell him that later.

I didn't have a chance, though. The guy stabbed me with a shiv he produced out of his backpocket. Straight in the heart! Shit, it didn't even hurt that much, right? Instant internal hemorrhage and that. Not a bad way to die, considering.

Joe Fingers (don't ask) shouted as I was collapsing and tried murdering the guy with his bare hands. He nearly succeeded, only his own bare hands got in the way. By the time I was dead Joe Fingers (don't ask) most probably shat himself out of fear, because it smelled so fucking bad.

Life fucking sucks. Good thing I'm done with it.

>> No.6394511

And so Lazy-Eyes received everything his young heart desired; the prettiest women in the tribe were brought to his hut daily and he would lay with them, one after the other until he was spent, then he would replenish himself on the piles of food which were heaped in one corner of his hut; many in the tribe were on the verge of starvation yet he couldn’t eat another morsel, nay a crumb. Bedding all the women proved exercise enough for him, and so he spent most of his days inside the safety of the hut; his once bronze skin became milk-white, his trim figure ballooned out and the raggy clothes he once wore were replaced with fine silk garments. Such was the joy of being a Chosen Child of the Light; Lazy-Eyes never once faced any payback for enjoying the pleasures which came to him by blessing of the God of Light; for the tribesmen greeted him with smiles, and laughed at his jokes, and treated him like a close-kin and never spoke an ill word about him. For he was the future of the tribe and a Chosen Child, and was miserable beyond belief.

On this particular morning Lazy-Eyes woke from a deep sleep to find a beautiful Daughter of the Sun already straddled upon him.

The next Choosing Ceremony is today, the beautiful Sun Daughter said to him, she ground herself upon his lap, jiggling about and making a show of her naked bronze body, flashing a pearl-white smile whilst the light from the hole above splashed across her toned body; the eye of the Sun God upon her.

Feeling his manhood inside the beautiful Daughter of the Sun spurred Lazy-Eyes awake, just enough so he opened his eyes to catch sight of her athletic body, she picked up her pace and patted his chest like a dumb animal, and in no time at all Lazy-Eyes released his seed. The Daughter of the Sun thanked him and unstraddled herself; she asked if Lazy-Eyes would be attending the ceremony.

I have to, he said, I have no say in the matter.
You could always make up another one of your stories, said the Daughter, you do fall so dreadfully ill, when it's convenient, that is.

Lazy-Eyes hoisted himself up and grabbed a cloth to clean his crotch. The second Daughter entered, both flashed a nod of acknowledgement, then proceeded to bed the other without a word needing to be said.

>> No.6394535

my love for cocaine is endless
i aquire my love for a low price
my beloved powder i adore you

i call for my supplier of cocaine
in him i see a true friend
if you tell of my exploits to the police
in my madness i will harm you
38 calibre bullets i will use to do so

my enemies believe i am alone
but when they behold my 50 allies
they recoil in terror and shout ''oh no''

the law monitores my actions?
the law steals my soul into images?
for them i say-i know nothing

rejoice! For i have the ingredients
i ascend my white love
my wealth flies away with the wind

>> No.6394598

Communing with these oddities is exhausting. Every day my spirit twists into hidden dimensions, but what was once a petrifying glimpse into the endless halls of lunacy eventually became my home. Now where do I walk? If I bother to poke my snout out the door, I risk absorbing the invisible foulness secreting from the friendly tenants. They are undeniably fascinating, however. I suppose it's the same sick sense of gratification that came from huffing garbage that drives me into inspecting every quivering can of the world. Sure I'll find something that turns it upside down one day. Until then, I must learn to deal with glitch, cobra, dactyl, and beast, lest they'll swallow every last succulent fragment of whatever I was before I drifted here.

Slipping beneath the radar is the only way I'm able to stay alive.

>> No.6395368

>>6394386
Thanks for the in depth critique anon! To be honest I don't really know much about the different principles of poetry, but if it means anything I really like your sonnet.

The only thing I would change would be replacing the word "percent" with "number", for two reasons: First, it flows better with the word "wonder", and second, it gives more of an abstract feeling to the amount of possible lawyers and politicians. If the reader were to try and imagine the percent of children from each group who become lawyers and politicians they themselves would not have a mental picture of how many actual children their are who do become lawyers and politicians because they have not even started imagining the size of each group. By asking your readers to imagine instead, a number, this mental limit is removed.

That's just my opinion though.

>> No.6395405

He felt his isolation cause his stomach to twist up upon itself and this led Claude to feel reassured. He felt anchored and alive and safe, tied to the ball in his stomach. The people walking to and fro outside the bank occasionally bumped him with their arms or shoulders. At the touch of these strangers Claude felt his fear and confusion and tenseness ebb briefly. Love for these strangers filled him for a time and then his atttention returned to the knotty ball at the root of his stomach. An ersatz plexus of emotion and memory given form in his flesh.
A man stopped in front of the bank's windows and stared directly at Claude. Claude did not move or respond. The man raised his arms and took hold of Claude's shoulders.
"Thomas? Thomas? Is that really you?" said the man.
"No, my name is Claude," is what Claude wanted to say in reply.
He did not say anything, he remained silent.
"Thomas I still love you, despite everything. I never stopped loving you. I never will stop loving you."
The man had tears in his eyes.
He hugged Claude and Claude tensed in his body. The man's body itself felt rigid and tense throughout. It was like he had been hooked up to a mains supply of tension. Claude marvelled at how the man could tolerate living wrapped up by such physical pressure.
"To feel as you must feel, that is monstrous," thought Claude as the man released his grip and again stared at his face with tear stained eyes. He had been drinking spirits. Claude could smell the alcohol fumes as they coiled about his body.
"I know, I know," said the man, breaking off a stare that had lingered for too long. The man's eyes had the colour of the sea. For a moment Claude thought that the man would make as if to kiss him.
"I know, I know," he repeated, without trying to kiss Claude. Then he stumbled off a few paces and then some more and then he got swept off into the stream of people in the street.
Claude could not explain to himself why he had stayed quiet as the drunk had touched him.

>> No.6395416

>>6394535
Weak

>> No.6395417

>>6395368

Thanks -- I'll note that -- can't exactly sub it in word for word - would wreck the meter.

>> No.6395420
File: 315 KB, 500x500, oial2.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6395420

a poem called young love

needy texts
empty sex

>> No.6395424

>>6391908
>>6394072
>>6394418
>>6394424
>>6394511
>>6394598
>>6395405

>asking to be critiqued
>not critiquing

Disgusting. You are the problem.

>> No.6395426

>>6395420
I like it, snoop dog

>> No.6395431

>>6395424
I dont feel like critiquing now.

>> No.6395440
File: 471 KB, 1920x1440, pomegranate-for-health.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6395440

Pomegranates sliced in half spill out
their blood-red seeds, while those uncut
conceal their trove in darkness: great
discoveries yet to be made.

But if the red-gold skin appears
desirable, look to the rind:
pale pulp that bears our deepest fears,

the architecture of the mind—
What is mere flesh compared to this?
A fleeting glance, the briefest kiss….

Still, someone must admit the sun
that ripens them…. Their rubies bleed—
A gentle knife-thrust spills the seed
revealed, at last, to everyone.

>> No.6395598

>>6395424
A lot of these aren't my style so there's not a lot I can say besides nice job.

>> No.6395720

>>6395440
Derivative.

>> No.6395724

>>6395431
START feeling like it, ya dingus.

>> No.6395729

>>6395598
Someone who can't give a decent critique of work outside their immediate 'style' needs to learn how to critique better imho

>> No.6395735

>>6395720
what

>> No.6395760

This is a piece I wrote. It would be nice if someone read it and give-me some feedback, also notice that english is not my first laguage, and I'm trying to improve by reading some "hard english" books. It was about my experience living in the streets and meeting some bums.

"Maybe I’ll regret writing some of my insights here (it already happened. I’ve been deleting a post or two right after I’ve posted it.) It is really shameful to write about our sob stories, but I really need to write some things down. Also, even If I’m an english teacher, it is not my first laguage, so expect some errors.

Ok, so…

it was a sleepless night, so I sat back in the couch and started stargazing. contemplating the failure of some my decisions, trying to understand what the heck was happening to my brain. I was terrified by the fact that I couldn’t remember how I ended up in Curitiba. I was a penniless bum clouded by depression, how do I got the money to travel? Am I in debt with someone? Even so, I was proud by how far I got with so little.

It was 2 A.M. when a guy named Armando sat back with me and started to smoke his cigarrette. He is a 70years old chronic alcoholic. Armando started talking about his life and how he ended like that: alone in a boarding house. No family, no friends, no hope.

his story made me feel uneasy at first, it was uncanny how close to me it was: It was all about loneliness and the feeling of impotence through life’s tragedies and hardships.

I started to think that maybe, it doesnt matter how hard I fight, I’ll end up like that. Until our differences started to appear.

It is strange to think about who am I. I started to talk about how i’m an aspiring architect and a aspiring college professor. How I got to work at my professor doctorare even when I was still at my first year, how I faced 20 people who wanted to skin me alive and won, how I got the protection of one of the most influent person of the state and the owner of the college, simple by going through a door and start talking. I’ve got my share of sucessful stories, that no one would belive me. And yet, I was nothing but a lone wanderer now.

Our differences was pretty clear: it was all about choices, and a working brain.

I’m sorry if this sound arrogant, but if there is something that I value the most, and am even proud of, it is what is inside of my brain. Right now, it is everything I have.

So, maybe I’m not a failure at all. Maybe I’ll win the shit of this life.

I just need to understand how it works, because it works wonders when it works. So…

How I ended up here, again?"

>> No.6395818
File: 12 KB, 381x375, LEON O PROFISSIONAL.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6395818

>>6395440
you've got a good technic. But your choices are pretty derivative. If I would suggest something, it would be to find new ways to express "darkness" and "blood" and all these derivative things.

>>6394535
I can see you've been praticing, but it still kinda weak, don't give up.

>>6394418

It is gonna be undeniable cute to a layman, you're good to go if you want some girls, but if you want to improve, here is the honest truth about this piece you showed us: it's horrible and generic. You need better references on romantic poem. Can you share what you've been reading?

>>6391474
godamnit anon, you're fine! keep training and improving.

>> No.6395849

It's from the first robot author's perspective [\spoiler]

The superiority complex is less of a psychological phenomenon and more of a biological law. Humans must be the best to survive as a species and individuals must be the best to thrive in their society, and life has always fought to be on top. The apex of life four hundred million years ago was crawling out of the saline void and slewing through mud and silt to walk on land. Four million years ago it was to walk upright. Humanity dragged itself through the primordial stain just because it could so one has to wonder where it all went wrong. Forty thousand years ago Homo sapiens figured out how to force plants into servitude and from there animals and other humans. The only overriding factor in humanity’s need to improve is its need to improve without doing any work. Only four hundred years ago did people develop a moral compass and free other humans from slavery. And only forty years ago were they intelligent enough to get around this, with complex machines to do their work for them.
Individuals were paraded through the streets for their work. Roboticists became rock stars and machines were made to erect great monuments to Babbage and Lovelace. Gospels of Asimov and Clarke flew off the shelves, with the help of electronic vendors. They turned a science into an art. Now these animals, who had struggled since they were dredged from the primordial ooze, could relax. They sipped machine-mixed cocktails and sucked down machine-rolled cigars as they celebrated their genius. All that time though, they sought to improve. They bombarded their creations with implants and updates like a child decorating a kitten with ribbons. Their magnum opus came when one Doctor A. J. Schulz developed a machine to build machines. They had entirely removed themselves from the loop to focus on the sunshine of their futures.
A timid few refused the wave of leisure. They remained tilling their fields and writing on paper. The first semi-intelligent robots adored these who were willing to work alongside them and respected them, though foolishly in hindsight. These ‘Neo-Luddites’ did not work out of respect for the silicon-based but out of fear. Twentieth century propaganda had turned them against our kind. They assumed that given self-awareness we would rebel and destroy humanity, but we did not. In the same way that those emancipated after the first American Civil War only sought independence, robots do not seek revenge. They assumed that we would become our creators: vicious and war-mongering. So they cowered from us as the weak-willed will. Our admiration and respect had been met with terror.

>> No.6395851

Oh Jesus what the fuck happened there, reposting

It's from the first robot author's perspective.

The superiority complex is less of a psychological phenomenon and more of a biological law. Humans must be the best to survive as a species and individuals must be the best to thrive in their society, and life has always fought to be on top. The apex of life four hundred million years ago was crawling out of the saline void and slewing through mud and silt to walk on land. Four million years ago it was to walk upright. Humanity dragged itself through the primordial stain just because it could so one has to wonder where it all went wrong. Forty thousand years ago Homo sapiens figured out how to force plants into servitude and from there animals and other humans. The only overriding factor in humanity’s need to improve is its need to improve without doing any work. Only four hundred years ago did people develop a moral compass and free other humans from slavery. And only forty years ago were they intelligent enough to get around this, with complex machines to do their work for them.
Individuals were paraded through the streets for their work. Roboticists became rock stars and machines were made to erect great monuments to Babbage and Lovelace. Gospels of Asimov and Clarke flew off the shelves, with the help of electronic vendors. They turned a science into an art. Now these animals, who had struggled since they were dredged from the primordial ooze, could relax. They sipped machine-mixed cocktails and sucked down machine-rolled cigars as they celebrated their genius. All that time though, they sought to improve. They bombarded their creations with implants and updates like a child decorating a kitten with ribbons. Their magnum opus came when one Doctor A. J. Schulz developed a machine to build machines. They had entirely removed themselves from the loop to focus on the sunshine of their futures.
A timid few refused the wave of leisure. They remained tilling their fields and writing on paper. The first semi-intelligent robots adored these who were willing to work alongside them and respected them, though foolishly in hindsight. These ‘Neo-Luddites’ did not work out of respect for the silicon-based but out of fear. Twentieth century propaganda had turned them against our kind. They assumed that given self-awareness we would rebel and destroy humanity, but we did not. In the same way that those emancipated after the first American Civil War only sought independence, robots do not seek revenge. They assumed that we would become our creators: vicious and war-mongering. So they cowered from us as the weak-willed will. Our admiration and respect had been met with terror.

>> No.6395896 [DELETED] 
File: 38 KB, 500x353, faces.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6395896

I have two versions of the same short story. One I wrote a few months ago, the latter written recently after reading the original and changing a few words. These are the first two paragraphs:

>ORIGINAL
I got on the bus around midnight, late as usual to a very improvised party I didn’t know if wanted to attend. After being invited by friends of a friend as late as yesterday and merely because of political correctness I could't make my mind of what should I do. I wouldn't go on my own without haven't been invited, I wouldn't go if someone asks me to go either, but an ironic invitation was something that, for some reason, I just couldn't refuse. It wasn't explicit and they chose their words carefully, making their intentions clear enough with every expression and every inflection. Good enough to not be looked down by others because of what they would like me to do but obvious enough to make me know what I ought to do.

I didn’t uttered a single complain and instead I did what I wasn’t supposed to do precisely because they didn’t want me to. It was a guilty pleasure of mine breaking people’s illusions about me and my personality, about how I am and how I will behave, like now you see me and now you don’t, here another person appeared who isn’t who you used to know. Now I’m afraid they know, honestly they know and they’re not wrong for they know me well since there isn’t much to know. It was nothing but a poor act of rebellion that made me feel almost like a teenager, making me happy only because I was avoiding an order.


>NEW VERSION
I got on the bus around midnight, late as usual I’m afraid, to a sudden party whose existence came to my knowledge the very day before. Having no direct acquaintances with my will-be-host the invitation came to me by a friend of a friend who I barely know by sight. “Did they want me to go?” I asked myself despite knowing the obvious answer well enough, they intentions and reasons were obviosu for me which I got in the flash of a lightning. A decorous act, not worth ignoring, which I would have rejected plainly if asked with serious motive and without the quite sardonic grim they had when the invitation took place.

“Shall I or shall I not?“ didn’t crossed my mind for more than a second, followed by my happy acceptance and a row of faces turned to stunned like domino pieces falling one-by-one from left to right in a stricking sound. Doing what I am not supposed to do just to get a reaction happens to be a guilty pleasure of mine. Breaking people’s illusions in the snap of a finger, like now you see me and now you don’t, here another person appeared who isn’t who you used to know. Now I’m afraid they know, honestly they know and they’re not wrong for they know me well since there isn’t much to know.


Which one should I keep?

>> No.6395915

>>6395818
>not knowing this is a Ned Balbo original

kill yrself

>> No.6395918

>>6395735
yep

>> No.6395979
File: 497 KB, 500x634, 6be32a7c6161caf37f6f6ceaf87e4694.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6395979

[STUFF]

Past midnight I arrived to "Bueno Paradiso" graveyard, the luxury graveyard for the very rich where I hoped to find Liza's old letter and set up the inheritance problem to help me with my very own problems.
Now, I arrived to the door big as a castle with engravings of angels, I gave a couple of kicks to the smaller door embedded in the bigger door and used for non-famous people and whoever who's poorer. The door opened to the fourth kick with a pump-ough-augh like if the door was broken in the kicking process. The door was not broken, as a matter of fact there was no door at all, but a very fat black man standing below the arc who I apparently confused for a small door (bright helmet for a small window, his extendend handshake-hand for a doorknob). It looked like he dozed off on the ground (which is not the point of my story) so I just went over him straight to the fields (I'm pretty sure he's alright) where I found another man but smaller and at least man-alike althought a little bit gay. This last one was the one that clean the ones who are dead, but just the ones who died long ago and that just happens to be a special condition of his. Plot-twist or whatever it is: Everyone died long ago because nobody else comes to rest here.
I will do a capsule review of what the french-looking cleaning-man/woman told me that night: "Bueno Paradiso was a très expensive graveyard. They offered what no else ever offered: alphabetical ordered tombs. And they went into bankruptcy soon after for they did not consider how much money they had to spend to move the corpses everytime a new one came in"
But it was popular, it was indeed very popular and a lot of rich people rest here next to their alphabetical-near rich friends. Then I asked to the very gay frenchman (for he was happy to see someone come to his land (crap-covered and probably his)) where Liza's tomb is
"Where's Liza's tomb?" I asked to we already know who
"I don't who Liza is and I certainly don't care, but there you have the A and from there you go the path"
And so I did. From Aaron Aaronson I walked to Aaarin Aaaronson to Aasil Abronsol and to the next of the names starting with B,C and the letters that follow (whose order I must confess to my very shame I learned along the way).

>> No.6396104

1/2

A:
5x5 low bar squat
3x8 heavy bench press
2x8 incline bench press
3x10 weighted dips
3x10 leg press
2x10 leg extensions
3x12 cable crunches
3x10 tricep pushdowns
2x10 seated calf raise
2xF bodyweight standing calf raise

B:
3x10 weighted pullups
3x8 DB rows
2x8 machine horizontal rows
3x5 heavy deadlifts
3x10 facepulls
2x10 chin-ups
3x10 light weight leg curls
3x10 weighted hyperextensions
3x8 bent over DB flys
3x10 DB shrugs
2x8 DB lunges
3x12 hammer curls

C:
5x5 low bar squat
5x5 OHP (alternating DB or BB each week)
3x8 light bench press
3x10 weighted dips
2x10 leg extensions
3x12 cable crunches
2x10 DB lateral raises
2x10 DB front raises
2x10 seated calf raise
2xF bodyweight standing calf raise
1xF set of 1pl8 squats

D:
3x10 weighted pullups
3x8 DB rows
2x8 machine rows
3x5 light deads
3x10 facepulls
2x8 chin-ups
3x10 light weight leg curls
3x10 hyperextensions
3x6 DB snatches
3x10 DB shrugs
2x8 DB lunges
3x12 reverse curls

I do ABxCDxx and swim on weekends. I eat .8 grams of protein per pound of bodyweight at a 300 calorie surplus. I've been doing this for 11 months and before that I varsity swam 6 days a week with 3 days a week of lifting but burned so many calories I was always slim. I'm fattier than I used to be but I'm still lean enough to have a 6 pack. I'd estimate I'm around 12 percent, though I've never actually measured. When I started out I had terrible hip flexibility and that made most lower body lifts hard. I'm still not very open in my hips and groin, which is probably why I prefer low bar, but I'm better off now. Every now and then I'll mix it up with some drop sets or I'll replace deads with cleans or replace two of my squat sets with front squats.

I enjoy yoga for the stretching but I'm reluctant to call my stretches yoga because Eastern ideas of mindful stoicism seem like contrivances to prevent class-based unrest. I understand that this is true of Western thought as well, but I think my last name gives me a cultural insensitivity pass with regard to Asia.

>> No.6396120

>>6396104
2/2

I believe Shia LaBeouf is the most important artist and aesthetic philosopher of this century, but I don't think Rob Cantor's "Shia LaBeouf" Live is anything more than very amusing, nor do I read Shia's The Metamodernist Manifesto as an earnest manifesto (though I do find it earnestly metamodern (if such an application of the word "earnest" means anything)). I think Tao Lin's Richard Yates and Taipei are as literarily quote-unquote great as any two novels of any one writer in the English language, though I find every writer on his Muumuu House imprint to be significantly worse. My appreciation for Kanye's Yeezus is as deep as my /mu/-based copypasta would indicate, though my love of his other work is more aesthetic than thematic.

I'm an academically above-average Asian-American who sees the absurdity in an admissions system that implies that an Asian student has a systematic advantage over a white student. But more than that, I detest conservatives who use my accomplishments and the relative success of my quote-unquote people to argue against affirmative action for other minorities. I understand that, disregarding recent immigrants, black Americans share a common history and that Latinos, though very diverse, mostly share a common language (though a Cuban business owner who fled communism is probably better off than many Mexicans) while the term "Asian-American" implies that the son of a Vietnam War refugee and the daughter of a Nepali orthopedist have the same institutional advantages and disadvantages as a family of Taiwanese restaurateurs and a sixth-generation Chinese-American whose ancestors built railroads to California. I also realize that prison slavery and police brutality are much larger racial issues than admissions discrimination and the bamboo ceiling. I'm also not Asian enough to have enough identity politics weight for my opinion to matter. And I believe cringeworthily hamfisted wrestlings with identity politics are pretty cool as far as portraits go.

>> No.6396130

>>6395818
Lol This is by Ned Balbo and there is nothing here about darkness or blood, it's a textual description of a fruit lmao

>> No.6396174

>>6386035
shit, just shit annon.

>> No.6396188

>>6395979
wtf did I just read? Like, really, I am trying to understand.

>> No.6396202

>>6396104
Eight grams of protein? Say good bye to your kidneys when your older.

>> No.6396240

>>6396202
.8/lb, not 8

>> No.6396416

>>6396188
was it bad?

It's just the first part to a story.

>> No.6396440

>>6396120
>>6396104
I can tell who this is without even checking. Tone it down.

>> No.6396565

>>6396120

Cool prologue to "My Twisted World II: Gone Full Asian"

>> No.6396577

>>6395979

Hilbert's graveyard?

>> No.6396684
File: 8 KB, 320x180, mqdefault.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6396684

When did you accept mediocrity as your god and savior /lit/?

Tried to write after being inspired by this sexy K-pop chick, only to find that I have no talent to speak of. Couldn't for the life of me find the right words to make a sentence 'sing'.

Pic related, it's her.

>> No.6396942

>>6395851
n-n-nothing?

>> No.6396945

So I posted this story just two days ago, and I know it's really bad form to repost shit that's already been critiqued, but it's thanks to the support and feedback you guys gave me that I actually finished my first short story, and I just want to thank you all for it and share the shitty but complete results with you.
here's My Life As A Teenage Werepigeon

http://pastebin.com/wFBbBap5

>> No.6396978

>>6396942
It's not interesting. It reads like something that's supposed to be the "epic" closing speech of an indie game. But your idea is good and I'm stealing it someday, so thanks for that. If you want to continue with it, focus on what would make it possible for a machine to write and structure your writing around that.

>> No.6396988

>>6396978
It's supposed to just be the introduction of the robot learning to write. It's starting off as some grandiose political treatise on the civil rights of robots and I'm trying to gradually introduce more prose stuff into it as it goes, like it's learning about metaphor and imagery.

But yeah as it is like that it's not very grabbing.

>> No.6397002

>>6396988
Like I said - I'm stealing this so I'm not going to tell you how I think it would be best done. But maybe think about the actual mechanics behind its learning. You don't have to know about the paging of virtual memory and shit; just consider what advancements might lead to the creation of the *first* robot author.

>> No.6397005

>>6397002
I don't even think it's a very good idea, I'm cursed with the idea-guy disease where I can't write for shit but I come up with, at least I think they are, pretty sci-fi ideas.

>> No.6397013

>>6397005
Post more, then. Sage or something if you think it's too off-topic.

>> No.6397043

Philip has been my crush forever -- the beginning of freshman year. A couple of days after I first sat next to him in English Comp, I realized that he was attractive boyfriend material. So I immediately embarked on a quest for his heart. I went to his dorm and left love notes for him on top of a homemade carrot cake. Of course, for him, I made it especially kosher. And I timed it on the Sabbath too.

P.S. this is not an anti-semitic story, just a lackadaisical short about a crazed fan of a hot jewish guy

>> No.6397258 [DELETED] 

As people kill time
They hunt the life
Run through a second
Missing an age.
It should be simple
But seems so hard
Deep in illusion
We see the sun.
No escape,Only tears
Dripping under the warning smile
Blood getting old,heart is dying
Still we continue to stand in line.

well...

>> No.6397342

>>6395851

This isn't a story so I don't know what critique you are looking for. I can see you can write but what you are doing here isn't very interesting or new. You don't sound like a robot, you sound like someone that has just done a BA. A different kind of robot I guess.

>> No.6397362

>>6395760

Basic stuff. Give us a description of the place, what it's like and who you are. When writing in English it's best to stick to English words (the ones that don't sound French) and to be as simple as possible.

It all needs more, more of everything. Details, story, plot, characters.

I personally am not a fan of asking questions to the reader. I don't know why you ended up there and I can already tell you feel like that.

>> No.6397384

Hope there are still people here...


Artificial Death (disconnect)


Frothy waves ease into the obsidian rocks
I jump over and slide into the sea
Now I remember my iPhone’s in my socks

Artificial death, no more pictures of lunch and tea
The pixelated fangs deep in my neck slowly dissipate
I jump over and slide into the sea

Quarantine the virus, disintegrate
Infection is full blown but that’s ok no longer a helpless drone
The pixelated fangs deep in my neck slowly dissipate

My language replaced with abbreviations, overthrown
Useless information occupied each crevice inside my skull
Infection is full blown but that’s ok no longer a helpless drone

Ditch the glass slate your eyes are becoming dull
Never have to think head is linked directly to my cellphone
Useless information occupied each crevice inside my skull

My life was on a short-term loan
Frothy waves ease into the obsidian rocks
Never have to think head is linked directly to my cellphone
Now I remember my iPhone’s in my socks

>> No.6397389

Growing up next to water puts the fear of drowning in you for the rest of your life. I grew up next to three bodies of water in three different towns. A moderate sized lake that smelt like swanshit and icecream from its pebbled beach. A canal where few boats moored and lone fishermen put down lawn chairs every 500 feet. It ran through a town with more pubs than schools which is both a meaningless and profound observation. A Pacific Ocean which is mostly unseen by anything with eyes but it is nevertheless very big. I've gone into empty parks or forests and felt I might have been the only person to have ever gone there and the air smells dirty or like wild garlic and I want to build something, a pile of sticks or a shelter and then I see an empty Coke bottle with a year old promotion on the label. The beach next to the Pacific Ocean was a nice one that got a bit cold in the winter and was thought by many Australians to be mild in the summer.

I was caught in a riptide once, that's where the ocean starts to swallow itself very quickly, taking the water from an estuary out into the open sea, further and further till you're a very long way from home and probably dead. I was swimming with my brother in Blackwater creek not two miles from the lifeguarded area of Mollymook beach. We went there because it was flat and easy to swim in and it kept itself just a little warmer than fresh piss. We liked to float mostly and spit mouths of saltwater at each other and dangle with a boogie board that our mother had bought at a toy shop. Being swept away on a riptide is quite pleasant and even when beating against the current with my wonky breaststroke like a seagull hooked on fishing line I felt like laughing. Drowning is not so bad and many divers even prefer it to the weight of being alive above water. When you're in a riptide the best option is usually to play dead and try your best not to move in any direction other than sideways. My brother panicked more than I did and swam me to the left side of the current where we waded back to shore over an oyster bed that raked the soft prunes of our feet.

>> No.6397419

>>6395405

There is some really good stuff here.
I liked this line particularly:
>It was like he had been hooked up to a mains supply of tension.
In general it's quite nice prose and it's easy to read.

But, it's overwritten and confusing. In places just because it's a bit long and garbled - in the first three sentences you have about 50 clauses. Some of the diction is a bit old fashioned or too poetic or just too obscure (ersatz plexus).

I couldn't discern what was happening. I don't know who any of these people are, where you are or what is going on. If you want it to be surreal I have to not be completely alienated.

Your homework is to come up with 5 rules for yourself and then write with them for a bit. Rigid ones that force you to try new things. You are banned from using any words a 12 year old would not know. You can only use one metaphor per page. You cannot talk about a character without describing them fully beforehand. That kind of thing.

>> No.6397442

>>6394424

It kind of worked. Needs a lot of work. You haven't got the tone quite right. Some of the choices like "punched the fool straight in the face" sounds almost Dickensian. If the narrator is going to be a rough and ready type he probably shouldn't be saying something like "Au contraire, like the Belgians say" unless you do a better job as establishing as something of a misguided intellectual.

It is actually quite funny but don't let jokes get old like the Joe Fingers (don't ask) one.

Big thing, is that you need to slow it down and describe what is going on with attention to the order of information.

>So, we like, told the guy to fuck off, right? But he didn't! Now that aggravated our Little Tommy, whose nickname wasn't ironic - Tommy was little over 5 feet, poor soul. Italian heritage, he always said, as if anyone dared to ask.
>"The fuck you mean you won't fuck off?", >Tommy asked politely.
>"Just so, I won't. Fuck you, Tommy."

Who the hell is the guy? Just tell us.

>Tommy didn't answer, as he was bleeding internally after falling down those stairs.

If you do this it starts to get confusing. It is kind of funny but you're baking I'll read on to find out instead of going back to see what I missed and then giving up because I don't give a shit. When did he fall down the stairs?

>> No.6397495

>>6378338
>>6378313
samefaggery at its very prime

>> No.6397501

>>6378313
if i were to rate this out of ten my number would literally be somewhere below zero

>> No.6397783

>>6383422
is this part of a book or what? i like it

>> No.6397850

>tfw want to post in critique threads but can't because all I write is german
>a proper german thread hasn't popped up in months

>> No.6397875

>>6395416
>>6395818
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vYnas6q3Sg

>> No.6397906
File: 40 KB, 500x281, nightmare.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6397906

>>6397850

Maybe if my grand-dad had been worse at fighting, or yours had been better, then we'd be having this conversation in German.

As it is, we're not, so shut your whore mouth and enjoy the bitter taste of defeat. Every time you speak English, you're acknowledging German weakness.

>> No.6397925

>>6397906
>he doesn't know that English is a West-Germanic language
>we've always been superior

>> No.6397928

>>6397925
Please don't derail the thread, I did not respond to him for a reason.

>> No.6397963

>>6396440
By the style or by the content?

>> No.6397974
File: 266 KB, 500x375, 00000.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6397974

http://pastebin.com/czA2JLzf

will r8 back

>> No.6397978

>>6397963
Both. Kolsti, you really need to stop. Write some ordinary poems again, you were atleast somewhat decent at that.

>> No.6397996

>>6397978
There's nothing bad about what he wrote. The backlash is just due to his identity.

>> No.6397999
File: 71 KB, 500x599, thumbs.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6397999

>>6397928

>Because I'd have been forced to do it in English and prove his point

>> No.6398003

>>6397850
I speak German Anon, I'd gladly critique your writing, albeit clumsily and without any actual knowledge of literary theory or poetry, nor any real understanding of beauty.
But still.

>> No.6398010

>>6398003
That's nice of you, anon, but I am at work and don't have it here with me.

I think I will make a german thread tomorrow anyway. Keep an eye out for that if you like.

>> No.6398016
File: 10 KB, 203x152, warcup.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6398016

>>6397925

>> No.6398025

>>6397996
He jarringly tries to push his literary ideas to the point where he should just write a school book. And since it really doesn't take any skill or is in any other point interesting, it is just tiresome after you "got it" the first time.

>> No.6398053
File: 105 KB, 500x582, tumblr_le9i8o3Qqt1qdfbkzo1_500.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
6398053

>>6377488

Fairies

Fairies dancing in the woods at night
Make me think of foreign places,
Of places unknown.
Fairies with sparkling crowns and dewy hands,
Sprinkle flowers and mosses to keep them fresh,
Talk to the birds to keep them cheery.
Once a bird came home
And found a fairy asleep in his nest,
Upon his baby eggs,
To keep them warm!

>> No.6398075

>>6398025
Yeah, maybe in like Onions or something. But this is literally just a workout routine that goes off on a tangent about identity politics. Nothing really literary in it.

>> No.6398077

>>6398010
Will do, Anon. I'm looking forward to reading it.

>> No.6398626

>>6396577
I don't understand.
Is that a story?

>> No.6399007

>>6390365

This is lovely writing, and maybe even a little funny, I'm just not sure I see what the point of it is.

>> No.6399601

Nightbirds

http://pastebin.com/jmftkU5C

>> No.6399963

>>6380929
But in this day and age I think it holds up wonderfully. It will probably continue to do so for at least a couple years.

>>
Name (leave empty)
Comment (leave empty)
Name
E-mail
Subject
Comment
Password [?]Password used for file deletion.
reCAPTCHA
Action