/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.7111094]

Critique thread?
Post what ya got and we'll share thoughts

[Anonymous No.7111540]

I like you till the end of the days of my sorrow. I bleed with your blood and implore you to drench your pain with the alcohol of my bare soul..I ask to be the morbid excuse of a forgotten existence in your heart..

[Anonymous No.7111593]

I once played the clarinet for seven years, and it was those kinds of decisions that set the tone for much of my adolescence. For my graduating class, the whole band thing started in the fifth grade, and I think we were picking out our instruments at the end of the fourth. As with most memories from my school years, everything is chopped up with a white fog, each flashback lived in someone else’s shoes, some strange little boy being led around—asking no questions–from place to place. I was bright enough to avoid wandering off with honey-voiced strangers when left in a public place, but if an authority figure asked me to put on a pair of cat ears, cover myself in feathers and then climb into a big vat of strawberry jam, I’d probably just ask how long whatever we’re doing is going to take.

I’ve got the layout of that first tiny band room etched into my brain for the long haul. A row of little faces pours into a white concrete room, and inside dozens of mechanical instruments are laid out for observation. Expensive looking felt offsets the silver and brass, shiny things everywhere, and as with most days, I had no idea what I was doing here. The teacher explains that we’re to observe the instruments, ask any questions we had, then complete the form for our parents, who would then return with us that very evening to add to the reasons they regretted having children.

I ran my tiny fingers over everything, the long elegant trombone, the tight french horn, the simple snare, and the complex sax-a-ma-phone. When I was instructed to pick one that I thought looked interesting, the panic set in. “Was I expected to play one of these things? I can’t afford this, I’ve got like, three dollars in quarters from last Easter—surely that won’t cover it. Oh man, my parents are going to be so mad when I come home with a tuba, or one of those, what did they call them, wood wheats? I can’t play a wood wheat!” Riddled with tiny heart palpitations, I did what was to be the norm back then—give up. I stopped caring, orchestral future be damned, and did what would become a trend in my life—I based my decision on a girl.

[Anonymous No.7111600]

a kid saw a black jew
his mother, also a jew, let out a hue

[Anonymous No.7111611]

>>7111593
I didn’t know that I didn’t have to play, hell, it took me years to realize I didn’t actually have to be in the school circus. I was nine years old, and I thought the girl I liked said “coronet,” which I had misunderstood to be “cornet,” the actual horn, so I went along with her game. When asked which instrument I was interested in, I told the teacher, “The same thing as Nicky.” She pointed to a small case with black pieces inside, asking, “This? The clarinet?” I shrugged, “Sure.” The idea was that I’d get to sit next to her in band class, and this would naturally lead to our marriage. Later that evening we all returned with our parents, and when they saw the $400 price tag and the bizarre little woodwind instrument, my mother looked at me as if to say, “Really? Okay, I guess… Really?” In 1989, a number like four double-bagel wasn’t something to scoff at, in today’s money that’s something like seventy thouso-hundred dollars. We were as broke as a chocolate orange, so my mother signed up to pay down thirty smackers on the instrument for the next three hundred years.

Fifth grade, band class. We were all there, arranged by instrument or whatever mysterious organization they teach you at band teacher school, or whatever. The plan had worked, I was sitting right next to Nicky, clarinet in hand, and we were all staring at white pages of hieroglyphics that we were told would make sense at later dates. On the third day of band class, our teacher stands from her piano, and addresses the class on what chair arrangements are, and how we’ll be testing for them. That’s right, my grand scheme, the one that I’d given almost two minutes of thought, it failed. I sat next to Nicky for two days, then I was moved to last chair. When testing, basically, the teacher was preparing to arrange us in our seats by the following method:

1.) You will be tested on your grasp of your instrument.
2.) I will then arrange your chairs based on how much I like you.

She wasn’t a bad teacher, on reflection. The terrible brood of harpies that taught in our school were many, but for some reason this particular teacher never had it out for your humble author—and I was prone to earning it. She was replaced, however, the next year. Her replacement was a young first-time teacher who was thrilled at the opportunity to shape young minds, and in forty years, maybe—just maybe—we’ll all arrange a surprise retirement concert for him, dozens of students from all the years, each taking pride in their teacher and playing out his opus. Yeah, he was a prick.

[Anonymous No.7111617]

Aidan Wilson woke up one morning with a dreadful headache. The sun had yet to appear over the dusty desert, but Aidan did not feel the need to fall back into his restful slumber. He peered over his shoulder finding only his mother. “She must have come up stairs to my room to wake me up,” thought Aidan Wilson, but Aidan soon noticed that she had a worried look on her face that was quite unusual. He gave his mother a smile of compassion, however, his mother was not looking at his face, but the convoy of military-grade trucks outside of the window. “The sound of those trucks must’ve woken me up,” thought Aidan to himself. Suddenly a horrible thought occurred to Aidan, what if the figure before him was actually a spy sent by the Red Brigade! Aidan’s paranoia was too much for him to handle, so he slipped his hand under his pillow and grasped his shank; Aidan leaped from his bed and impaled his supposed mother’s eye. Her screams bellowed through the expansive apartment complex; the neighbor’s lights shining into Aiden’s bedroom created an almost artificial scene before him. Aidan’s mother fell back onto the wooden floor, her screams drowning out all other noises. Aidan removed the makeshift knife from her eye socket, with the eye coming with it. Aidan leaped backwards, unsure of his actions, however, he realized it was what needed to be done. Aidan grasped his bedsheets, and crafted a sturdy noose. Following this, he kicked the fragile window, which was destroyed with ease. Aidan tied the noose around the neck of the intruding woman, then connected one end of the bed sheets to the leg of the bed. Aidan grabbed his mother, and threw her out the window. She desperately tried to stop what was happening, but it was far too late. Aiden watched as the slack of the rope rapidly depleted as the intruder plummeted to the concrete below. Aiden ran to the window and watched as the rope fully extended, and his mother’s lifeless body bounced up and down like a human yoyo.

[Anonymous No.7111621]

>>7111611
The guy was beloved by nearly everyone but me, it seemed. He sported an exuberant youthful attitude, took pride in his tiny orchestra, and was quick with a great sense of humor to the pop culture. On our first day of sixth grade, he lined us all up to stand at attention and face forward. With hands clasped behind his back, the man slowly walked up and down his line of troops, occasionally asking us questions, and occasionally having us chant in unison. I can imagine him thinking about it all night, excited to do the drill sergeant thing, something he’d run past his wife a dozen times. He was certain this would win our hearts and minds, and before we knew it, we’d all be referring to him by his first name while playing frisbee golf. He’d have to schedule his entire summer fifteen years later very carefully, what with so many wedding invitations.

Not sure what I did to the guy. I tried hard to like him, I really did. I remember him joining in with the laughter in our group on several occasions, only to look sharply at me, drop his face, and walk away. It probably didn’t help that I never learned to play the instrument I was in his class for. The stupid clarinet never made any sense to me, it always felt like trying to hold onto two handfuls of nickels that I need to keep a beat with. Testing for chair placement involved heading back into an office in the band room, hitting record on the tape player, then attempting to belt out whatever music was left on a stand for you. I remember the last test I took back there. I walked in, sat down, hit the button, squeaked out a few attempts, then just leaned into the microphone and said, “I think we both know where this is going,” then clicked the recorder off. There were five or six of us playing the licorice stick, and even then, I wasn’t last chair. I was sitting in front of a friend of my brother’s who didn’t use a reed (required to play the thing), and the girl who ate her own scabs. I struggle to think what they must’ve done to fair worse than me on those tests. Perhaps they never actually took the test. Maybe when they started to play, the sheet music simply burst into flames.

[Anonymous No.7111629]

>>7111617
Aidan jolted forward against his bed covers, sweat running down his forehead. He released a sigh of relief, realising it was only but a spell. He pondered what truths the dream held about his life. These thoughts were short lived as he heard a knock on his bedroom door. Aidan ripped the covers off his soaking wet body; the sun illuminated his backside. As his body rose the bedsheet peeled off his back like an onion. He swung his legs over the side of his mattress preparing for the HOT day. The steam emanated from his body, creating a sauna of his small bedroom. The fumes were making his head spin, and while trying to get up he toppled over. “Frecking ‘ell mate” thought Aidan as he picked himself off the shit stained flooring. He rose from the floor in the same fashion a flame would from a fire. “Does the fire rise?” He wondered. “Of course” he answered himself. Aidan had a passion for fire, ever since his dog burned alive. He sauntered over to the old metal door leading to the main room of the prison he calls home. He began to twist the knob, feeling a slight burn against the palm of his hand. His sweaty hands lubricated the knob, forcing him to twist it more and more, until eventually forcing the door open. The only light in the hallway came from streaks of sunlight needling through the small cracks in the ceiling.

[Anonymous No.7111630]

>>7111621
I did the marching band thing too, God help me. I wore the funny shoes and funny hat, did the funny march and held the funny instrument, pretending to play. Same thing for “pep band,” sitting in the bleachers at school sporting events. I wanted to try out for “jazz band” once, not sure why. The band teacher told me that the clarinet wasn’t a jazz instrument—a right damned lie—and refused to let me audition. It took years for me to realize that band was an elective—the only elective—in my course schedule. I never thought for a moment that this wasn’t something that I had to do. Not everyone was in band class, and for whatever reason I never questioned where they were, or what they were doing instead. “Probably something awful,” I thought. “Probably just sitting in a room with the lights off.”

I hated the class. I couldn’t play the instrument, I didn’t want to anyway, so I spent an hour each day looking as convincing as possible. During my senior year, when selecting the few classes I was able to arrange on my own, I noticed that there was a yes/no checkbox next to band class. My brain seized up for a moment. “What… what happens if I don’t check ‘Yes’?” Does the band teacher materialize from a grey mist and throttle me? Will he repel from the ceiling, a beeping sound coming from his watch, and club me with sheet music? I checked “No,” and felt the world open up. My mornings next year would be spent quietly reading books for an early English class. I wouldn’t be in band, I’d learn more about literature, and my food would taste better. I would be free.

On the first day of my senior year the band teacher came stomping up to me in the hallway. “You didn’t sign up for band,” he shouted like a half corked question. I turned from my locker. “That’s right,” I replied. He gave me the same angry stare he’d laid on me back in the sixth grade when he’d lined us all up, then simply turned and walked away. I figured if that was his hard sell, he’s got more problems on his hands than a greasy seventeen year old band dropout. The instrument sat in the trunk of my car for the next ten years, when I’d found it wedged behind a worn Garfield blanket and a boat oar. I figured I could sell the thing, or maybe donate it, but when I saw its horrible condition, I did what I wound up doing with most of my school-day memories: I sat and gave it a once-over, thinking about our times together, running my fingers through the dust it’s collected. “At least I got those two days next to Nicky,” I thought. I took the case in both hands, outstretched, giving it one more eyeball and a tiny smile. Then I dropped it in the garbage.

[Anonymous No.7111643]

>>7111593
>>7111611

abandon any asperations you have of ever being a writer.

>putting simpsons references in your writing

[Anonymous No.7111785]

So it was and wood brought down pun his head and by and by and by again over a thousand and un resignficications reaffirming with themselves upon the humility ever vested in the dastard. Swarthy and instilled in stalwart ways his own ink pressed upon the fac of et and others and sending em back un and all alerations pun which rested the faculties of self and anchorship. Ere resetting a man othervested in grief and conversity etherwise known as Rolf Blaney. Oves not in him to rembrace those all steps taken hitherto but to impress them shorer and resent to another client, where and there and understand ought had yo have been fated tagalog. Wooden it then to recommerce he had right off. take of that the diminute poultry seminate and reinterest the base in a new constitute that had along been port of his ambitions. He took on the ambituate of those corrections writ racing the bank, following the path offed the bounty. How it was aclearing alto gather what had in rembrance lost.

[Anonymous No.7111806]

>>7111785

[Anonymous No.7111835]

>>7111630

Holy fuck is this completely uninteresting. What are you trying to say? This reads like a chain-email.

[Anonymous No.7111847]

>>7111785

Fun to read, as long as that's the whole thing. Pretty neat. If you wanted to keep working on it you might have something interesting, not sure what you'd do with it though.

[1 of ? No.7111869]

I heard her say it at least once, when she had reached across the table to touch his shoulder and give him one of those push-him-away-but-not-really shoves that a woman will give a man when he flatters her, or brings up an old memory that she pretends to be embarrassed by. He had the sort of name you had to get your lips around, something with a big B--it started crisp, and it finished wet, like a blood-red rhubarb: Belushi? Borscha?
And now he was into his story. I heard him say the word AFRICA, and he gave the emphasis of trumped-up importance that every Study-Abroad-Sophomore gives their target country: Spain (as if said while chewing a mouth full of rain and olives), France (as if God himself would have his cigarettes without fireproof rolling papers, [as it should be]), etc.
"We were melting ingots of tin into a make-shift forge that we'd set up on the deck of an old, one-ton flatbed," he said.
She held her head in her hands, her elbows resting on the table. I thought this assemblage of posture was something Akira Kurosawa himself might look at and say, That's a bit much; let's tone it down--yes, we’ll have you sink to the floor and allow your body to melt when to denote that you are sad, and we'll light a fire in the background to really drive this emotion home, but the head-held-in-your-hands level of attentiveness for a listener has been done so much already, let's think of something else. But there she was, her face expressionless an d steady, a good listener, one might say.
"Our guide--he had us call him Chappie--he tended the forge and was the one sweating over the cauldron. And Chappie had the worst of it."

[Anonymous No.7111870]

>>7111593
>I once played the clarinet for seven years

[1 of ? No.7111876]

>>7111869


He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. It was a hot, dark little room, busy enough that someone would stand out by standing still. Everything moved. The table buskers seemed to lunge from the kitchen to the opposite wall in three steps, the white towels tucked at their waist bands flashing like orchids in wind in moonlight. The cars' headlights through the window behind the couple swept the room in beams of dull, yellow light.
"He was damned-near naked. I guess he had to be. He was sitting on a milk carton on the back of the flat-bed, one leg stretched-out on the wheel well, the other working the billows, the forge right at his crotch. I don't know how he could stand it."
The man stretched one of his legs out and placed his foot on the woman's chair, just next to her legs. He lifted the other leg up and pedalled at the air. His arms made a circle around and above the empty plates and half-finished carafes of red wine.
"He was using salad tongs to lift a trash can lid from the top of the pot. When he thought he was ready, he slipped another ingot in to let it melt."
A gaucho galloped up to their table and flourished a cinnamon-sugar-glazed pineapple on a spit. It shone like an wet, orange blister. He wore cotton bombachas, a red and beige poncho, complete with a faux leather whip. This particular gaucho looked like a short Sicilian to me, but what do I know? The man kept half-heartedly pedalling his leg in the air, and his shoe was brushing up against the gaucho's bombachas, ruffling its pleats.
"Pineapple," said the gaucho.
"And Getty, you know Getty," the man said. "She was hovering around poor Chappie trying to ask him about smoke." The man's voice broke into laughter--a wine-soaked chuckle.
The Gaucho stood still.
"She was asking him about smoke, how we were going to make smoke, and how we were going to pump it into the nest!"

[1 of ? No.7111882]

>>7111876

At this, the woman laughed, too. It was terrible, the way they laughed. They threw back their heads and closed their eyes and put their hands to their chests and let loose. They filled the room with it. The gauchos with legs of lamb and the gauchos with bacon-wrapped blood sausage looked to their table. The old couple in the corner who hadn't wanted to add to all this noise looked, the old man turning all the way around in his chair to see them, their entire bodies taken by it, mouths agape, teeth flared. A sous chef clutched the door frame at the far end of the room and poked his head from around the corner, his whites miraculously lighted by the sheer, bright florescence of the kitchen.
"They aren't bees!" he screamed, and as if all the laws of the world had been suddenly reversed, the magnetism and the rivers and the skies all broken open, their laughter erupted again, louder, somehow, and the glass of the windows rattled in their sills, and the hardwood floors hummed alongside their new, impossible octave.
And like the death of a fire siren, and the ensuing wailing of the dogs of the neighborhood, their laughter wound slowly down. The skewered hunks of meat began again their orbiting around the room, from table to table the gauchos visited, sliced, plated, and moved onto the next.
"Pineapple," said the gaucho.
"No," said the man, as he flipped the plastic card at the edge of their table from green to red.

[Anonymous No.7111896]

>>7111785
I got very lost and I have no idea what this paragraph told me, but it was interesting to read anyway. I imagine that if it was more to it I might eventually find coherence in this style of writing, but it'd take me time.

[1 of ? No.7111911]

>>7111882

fin - I've posted this before but haven't received any critique. Hoping to have someone read it and give me some actual direction as to how it functions as a short. If I can get some vetting, I want to use this for my MFA application. Thanks.

[Anonymous No.7111914]

>>7111785

Or so they said and it seamed like a great furnaced flamed upon the minstrels of what gathered then to be earned by her. She sat amongst the midst of a monks of a kinds and she lipped—clear as a frog!—those words and sang the aria beneath.

Will you be the lass of autumn
And take it you will be,
And there, to sing, just be member
The altogether spree

Dooks and dances gathered swift upon the yellow chamber of altogether fantasy, fantasizing greatly an unorgical seemless web of interrelationships, and she was taking the d from all sides at once simultaneously. Gather up some holes! She had many put to use. The configuration of art seems to be alto gether the masterful chain of simply matching hard against hard and nevertheless it never gets to the interesting part that the syntax of the unconscious—whatever it may be!—(pattern detected)—might actually get to the interesting part(pattern detected(pattern detected)) of actually giving you shakespeare.

To put it simply put your monkeys to better use anon

[Anonymous No.7111923]

>>7111617
>Aidan Wilson woke up one morning with a dreadful headache

jesus christ

[Anonymous No.7111960]

>>7111923
elaborate anon

please don't hold back I'm looking to improve

[Anonymous No.7111986]

Lined up – Hall could feel the height markers drawing themselves in on the wall behind them, an office previously wrought with conviction facing conviction itself as complicit in the wrongful release of a most wanted man. Not a movement, not a word, an all too surreal juxtaposition – on the inside looking out. This was to last until they were instructed further, side-by-side, hands behind backs, awaiting judgement from the God behind the mirrored glass wall.

Each minute was an hour and they had been stood still against this wall for seventeen hours; they suffered little embarrassment for they could not see the looks on the faces of the people in the room adjacent. It could be worse – they could have made them stand at attention. Steve begrudged having to stand next to the defector of a partner he was shafted with, it was one thing to treat the criminals like they were people; it was another offence entirely to release one without having proper authority to do so.

Hall resented the proximity with which he was standing to Steve as well. For the two hours the higher-ups took to arrive on site it was a never-ending explosion of anger and disappointment. Leibowitz was on rift meetings with department heads and PR people representing the CIA, FBI and SS shoehorning our quiet little office into the grandiosely spun story they had cobbled together for a run on the media, informing the public that terrorist mastermind Deepro Gira was on the loose.

He thought of the Gira household, having to bear the sins of the father, so they say; his wife and children extradited from society in one swift blow, which Hall maintained, was an out-and-out lie. He could see them, in the coming weeks, bullied, broken, evicted and shamed into poverty and despair. What had he done to bring me and Steve there?

“Ladies and gentlemen, you are free to go.” A too-important-for-this voice whined nasally over the intercom. Everyone in the room breathed a sigh of relief; they had escaped the omnipresent eyes of the departments elite – everyone but Hall. No sigh escaped his lips, he was under no illusion of safety, rightly so, he thought, as the arms of two suited men wrapped around his back, in a way which you may embrace a good friend on a drunken walk through a desolate city-centre. He could at least try to make this a little difficult for them, if they would allow him that luxury.

[Anonymous No.7112002]

>>7111914
This is actually really excellent

[Anonymous No.7112015]

>>7111094
Fourth grade ended, and once the summer started, I took a vow to mold myself into the coolest kid I could possibly be by the time Fifth grade began. I anticipated the approval the other cool kids would have of me once I reveal myself as being similar to them, and I looked forward to it.

After about a year and a half of living in the house on Hatteras St. in upper West Hills, my father decided to move into an even better house. This time, all of us spent a day looking at open houses together as a family. We went with a real estate agent and examined some beautiful homes around Woodland Hills. My favorite one was a 3-story house on Llano Drive, in the Woodland Hills Heights, the most prestigious area of Woodland Hills that bordered Calabasas. It didn’t have a pool, but it had a sloping backyard almost three-times as large as our current one. The house had six bedrooms, and I took an intense liking to one particular bedroom that had its own bathroom and a personal balcony. My father showed extreme enthusiasm about possibly buying this house, and I became obsessed with getting that particular bedroom as my own room. When I brought it up with father, He said that the room would most likely be Georgia’s because it was closer to the master bedroom. They said that I would get a bedroom downstairs, one without my own bathroom or balcony. I was furious, and I threw a huge crying tantrum.

After the move to this new house, father would never move again, and he still lives there to this very day. I would have many important experiences there for the next decade, both good and terrible.

[Anonymous No.7112020]

>>7111960
Starting a story with a character waking up is an egregious cliche. In fact its best to not even start with a character doing anything. Here's how you start a story

God Tier:

-description of a mood or insight

High Tier:

-description of a setting

Meh Tier:

-conversation
-character doing something

Low Tier:

-character doing something routine

-Shit tier

-character waking up in the morning

[Anonymous No.7112023]

>>7112020
None of these awful advice is justified in the slightest and your list is arbitrary and worthless.

[Anonymous No.7112028]

>>7112015
Elliot pls...

[Anonymous No.7112031]

>>7112020
I see...

Do you have any criticisms of the rest of the passage?

[Anonymous No.7112039]

>>7112031
I didn't read it yet and furthermore I wouldn't make a point of writing it off like the other anon did. I was just trying to account for his reaction to your excerpt barely being one sentence in.

[Anonymous No.7112089]

>>7112031
Okay now I have read it and its shit. All your creative language seems forced like you were subconciously thinking "oh time for a literary device". There is no distinguishable tone to the prose, no individual voice. Lastly nothing depicted here despite the apparent gravity of the situation is very compelling. I hope you are young.

[Anonymous No.7112114]

>>7112089
I will try to edit out the similes and add more direct language

[Anonymous No.7112123]

Two men sat at a bench
In a park playing checkers.

The first man gathered
From where his pieces
Were placed upon the board
That his losing the game was certain,

So he said to the second man,
If I am to lose, who is to win?

The second man said, I can see what
You are attempting to do with me, but
It is known
That your questions
Are challenging

And if it is in your hopes
That I may answer you incorrectly
And thus be shamed before you,
Then I must thus assure you

That I am a learned man
And have studied under
The wisest of tutors
And the learn’d instructor,

And furthermore I have at my
Disposal the entireties
Of many matters
Big and small
And I will incontro--
Vertibly

Persuade you
That I am both right
And true too
In my answering.

And as the second man went on
Answering the question,
The first man moved his pieces
To more advantageous places

Upon the board upon the bench
At the park in which they sat

[Anonymous No.7112162]

>>7112123
A man is losing a game of checkers and threatens to force a draw but the other guy talks him out of it?

[Anonymous No.7112211]

>>7112123
I'll give you a chance to defend your poem...

[Anonymous No.7112283]

>>7112123
Why do people
imagine poetry consists of taking
prose and chopping
it up into stanzas and verses
and thus by this trickery
transmuting a paragraph into an entire page?

[Anonymous No.7112474]

this is a snippet of a short story im writing about a perfect neighborhood where one of the respected neighbors is actually perving on everyone. inspired by my room mate who this happened to.

There was a light tapping on the bathroom window, but Beth had her music playing loud in her room so she didn’t hear it. Even if she could have she knew all too well that Bower Brothers homes made all sorts of house-noises, so it’s not like she would have checked it out or anything. She was getting ready for a party at a classmate's house. There would be alcohol there and more than likely marijuana depending on who showed up. The first big party of junior year, and since the senior girls had pretty much moved on to hanging out with college guys, it was a chance for Beth to get noticed by some of the senior guys who to her might as well have been James Dean. She was naked aside from a pair of panties which were not the type of underwear a girl puts on unless she planned on taking them off later. The tapping quietly persisted. It could have easily just been a tree limb blowing in the wind. Beth had her dress for that night hanging on the door of her bathroom, but she preferred to get ready in the nude because she was sloppy with applying her makeup. It was dark outside, and very light inside, so looking out the bathroom window was like looking at an oily black canvas.
Beth’s phone vibrated, it was a call from her friend Tammy.

[Anonymous No.7112477]

>>7112474
“Hello?”
“...”
“Um not really, am I supposed to be?”
“...”
“No what the fuck no I thought you weren’t coming until you picked up Astrid.”
“...”
“Okay well then I’m hurrying but you may be waiting outside for a few minutes. You know you could have called me when you left, right? You always do this.”
“...”
“How do you still not know? You’ve been here like a fuck ton of times, it’s 79 Mills Drive.”
“...”
“Okay I need to finish getting ready if you’re that close, bye!” Beth said in a voice that was both excited and annoyed. Tammy really did have a tendency to drive to Beth’s neighborhood unannounced, only to call her and ask for the house number when she was five minutes out. Beth had wanted to spend some time on her hair, but she figured fuck it, not enough time, and so she threw it into a high ponytail. The high ponytail is a convenient ‘do for teenage girls on night’s like this, where the introduction of alcohol essentially transforms their outing into a game of which-one-of-us-will-puke-all-over-ourselves russian roulette, and obviously the high pony eliminates any chance of hair being added to that equation. More inaudible tapping at the window. The bathroom smelled like perfume and what must have been a toxic amount of aerosol. Beth looked her mostly nude self over as Tammy pulled into the driveway.
She was looking in the mirror, the bathroom window visible just over her reflections right shoulder. As Tammy made the slow turn into the driveway, some light shone through. Beth saw there, out of the once pitch dark window: a grown man sitting on a tree branch, his ski mask covered face pressed up against the window, with isotoner covered fingers silently tap tap tapping on the pane; Beth could not make out a body. A split second later Tammy’s lights were no longer illuminating the window, and Beth’s fight or flight response triggered and it was almost overwhelming. And yet, she did not fight, nor take flight. She just stood there, nude, frantically thinking of ways that that did not actually just happen.
As the man slipped silently down the tree he had been perched on and disappeared, a text came in on Beth’s phone, it was from Tammy.

[Anonymous No.7112543]

Well I guess this is what results from reading too much Emerson and Swinburne for a week, some sort of lame bastard child. Back to Shakespeare and Whitman to clean out my colon I guess.

A Season falls and makes it ours
Concerned, for interest blooms by time.
Gather not in our arms its green-sapped leaves
And other words relieved
Of petals shall fill our younger hours.

If gardens could be found within
The earth, or poison caps, unearthed
Might satisfy a bucket in the soul
With only papers full
Of gangue constricting empty tin--

Then might we tear the dying ones
And give to weather misfit suns.

[Anonymous No.7112544]

I am seperate from humanity; my being, a relative performance art; my thoughts, up and away from the day to day people are bound to
I am insane. I abuse women and those close to me; I've emotionally and physically abused even my mom. The dumb bitch now pretends to be afraid to see me when in reality she's just no longer enchanted by who I am

I remember when I had my ex over. I was living in a dingy warehouse filled with tools and old crap (and a lot of quasi interesting artwork); living in a "rat's nest", sleeping on a couch cushion that because of my sweat had a little mold growing on the wicker mat underneath. I told her about how I wanted to brainwash people; described how I could have them in cages in the warehouse, mentioned funny nuiances, mentioned my friend that no one would miss. She told me that she wasn't attracted to me anymore and I laughed. Later that day I briefly saw my mom who was jealous I had a girl over and called the cops on me for "attempting" (more like trying out) suicide recently, at the time.

I'm watching the movie Frank and the movie Frank is a great commentary on what art is and what art is is what you make it; there is greatness in every corner og everything and it takes greatness to make it cum out, greatness bourne from confidence birthed from passion about the world and oneself - bare experience taking pleasure. I think sex is the final frontier

The last time I was in jail, domestic violence - no charges, the other whites were all teakers thar knew eachother. Yelling at my mom to tell my girlfriend at the time to go to the policr station and retract her statement in the hopes I'd get out quicker I broke the already broken phone, this was after a warning on the phone's delicacy. People were angry, I was mildly afraid but aggressive in that it wasn't my yelling that broke the thing, someone told me that I was different and that especially the younger guys already wanted to hurt me because I was different. I realized that not only was this guy a lying bitch but that I could, if I wanted to, thrive in this environment. A year before I had seen one of the younger tweakers there, though he didn't look it at the time, in the psychiatric hospital I was committed in (over a girl). He had seen me beat the fuck out of someone before I was moved to another unit, and him and another Asian guy seemed friendly and welcoming - we planned to see 22 Jump Street within the half hour of jy arrival. I think the world is a woman to be fucked; a kitten waiting to be pet

[Anonymous No.7112813]

He thought to himself that this was the very end of a very long journey. He had labored half a mile, trudging up and down the sloping hills, disregarding the crosswalks laid out for his convenience; wading through the dying light of autumn suburbia.

He paused before the glass pane, eyeing the fading advertisement before sitting down on the bench, surrounded on three sides by glass and a blue signpost that marked the name of the stop. The trees leaned into the breeze, the streetlights claimed eminence before the glare of stars.

how did I get here

He leaned back and rested his head against the glass; the apartment complex across the street was quiet, not a light shone, not a car passed. There was nobody out there.

I am nobody

He walked, closing in on his destination; he was getting closer, the divide between worlds, the remedy to his malaise. The forest that threatened to swallow the sidewalk rustled, the plants and the leaves stroked and tickled each other. A dirt path lay open; his gaze lingered on the opening, the depth of the woodland visible in the final vestiges of blue evening light. But he passed it by.

let’s go in here dad

He was rounding the corner; a car was stopped at the streetlight. There was a woman inside, he looked down at the cracks in the pavement but was soon overwhelmed. It was her head that was down, bathed in the glow of her smartphone.

He barely glanced at the white paint on the ground or the button attached to the pole.

press and wait press and wait

There was a time when this was all wild. When the wilderness was untamed and the stone was not manmade; there were more twigs, more branches, more trees. There wasn’t a tiny field here, not one where you could stand in and sit down and lay surrounded by grass with the trees behind you and the cars rolling on in front and the cement just barely touching the soles of your shoes.

It was a long walk. But he was running and there were no headlights to be seen. It was a dangerous road. This wasn’t conventional and it would be sure to cause an embarrassment.

there shouldn’t be so many cars at night

He was coming down to the road, his feet should have been burning but they weren’t. He felt strong, his legs felt strong. The wind was blowing through his hair and yet it stayed in place. There was a road to the left, one after all these years he had never learned the name of. It was never important, it was always incidental.

There were the cries of youth echoing through the air, the distant thud of – what – firecrackers maybe.

we used to sing here

Rounding the corner; he loved the forested areas of the neighborhood. They were never in the way, boxed in by a collapsing fence; they were there to tease, to welcome curious explorers with open arms. Invite them to create a playhouse of memories.

fighter of the night man

“whoa”

[Anonymous No.7112818]

>>7112813

They had climbed this same hill. The trio, deep into the early hours of the morning, wandered the same hills and swaggered through these same haunts. Where were they now, where they now. He was navigating the devastation time had wrought.

He wanted to leave; he wanted to leave so badly. Traverse these streets and experience the lowliness of this presence. There was more to life, there had to be more than this insipid existence. Just go, down the street, down the driveway, out the door.

Home. He was home.

[Anonymous No.7112842]

“The very talented dog”

The dog spoke Norwegian. Its owner felt jealous because he was not cultured. He only liked to watch TV.

He brought the dog to a trainer. “Bring this dog to heel. He is starting to put on airs.”

The trainer shocked the dog when it spoke. After the one hundredth time the dog finally stopped. He went over to the dog. It was crumpled up. What happened to the dog.

The dog did not speak Norwegian anymore.

[Anonymous No.7112855]

>>7112842
There was a faggot who couldn't mind own business.
He got trolled hard and now has a warped sense of reality.
He thinks not being a retard is airs.
What a gay lord.
I suck dicks but I call you faggot.
Look at your life man.
Sad.

[Anonymous No.7112864]

>>7111869
i really like it, but

> push-him-away-but-not-really
> Study-Abroad-Sophomore
> head-held-in-your-hands

you use that device too much

[Anonymous No.7112879]

>>7112031
Isn't the name Aiden a genre cliche in the same vein as giving a character purple eyes?

[Anonymous No.7112887]

>>7112114
Similes are the least of your problems. There is no style, no insight, literally nothing but actions that don't mean anything to anyone. The last sentence made me laugh out loud. Everything happens way to fast and without reason or set up or consequence.

[Anonymous No.7112889]

>>7111869
Need to go to sleep, so no time for a detailed critique, but this writing is really solid. Fuck, I wish I could write like this

[Anonymous No.7112897]

>>7111593
I can see that you have a style developing. It gets a little too cutesy for my taste. My biggest critique is probably the most difficult to fix. And that's that I just couldn't get into it. after the 2nd post it became a huge chore to read and like others have said, it's just an uninteresting story.

You're using this sort of sardonic and mature tone to tell the story of small children. It may work on another demographic but I don't think there is anything here that will interest your average reader on /lit/

[Anonymous No.7112983]

I keep going back and forth on whether or not this is actually of any worth and if I should continue

[Anonymous No.7113014]

>>7112544
Ugh I'm so sick of this. Writing from the point of view of a sociopath (even if that's your shit life) and solely using that as your draw is really getting old. It's not interesting or exotic or art.

[Anonymous No.7113020]

>>7111785
Not bad for stream of consciousness

[Anonymous No.7113028]

<Warning: Spickish>

“Hasta mañana, Saritah”, me dijo mi jefe, don Augusto. “Hasta mañana, don Augusto”, le conteste yo, terminando mi día de trabajo. Rápida por la noche, mirando la calle ahora casi vacía pero llena hace demasiado poco, caminé pegada a la pared más cercana hasta la estación de tren. Esperé unos minutos, y cuando llegó entre en el primer vagón, donde logré encontrar asiento con solo pequeña desesperación, entre gente que ya no recuerdo. Durante el viaje no ocurrió nada notable, se me pasó rápido leyendo un libro.

Habiendo bajado, llegada a destino, me dirigí a casa, sintiendo que me observaban; no me significo nada en aquel momento. Una semana después, empecé a sentir lo mismo cuando salía de trabajar: El tren nunca llego (la izquierda había organizado un paro que empezaba la noche del día previo al establecido), me quede sin cómo volver a casa. Volví a mi lugar de trabajo, el jefe no estaba. Use la llave que me había confiado para entrar, resuelta a dormir allá aquella noche.

A unas horas de quedar dormida, un ruido orgánico me hizo levantarme del sillón sintético: Una vocalización faríngea proveniente del exterior, por la puerta, después por la ventana. Prendí la luz, y hubo silencio. Busqué algo con qué defenderme: un cuchillo. Esperé; quizá no era nada. Viéndolo, un hominino peliblanco de cabeza desproporcionada, quise huir; me quede paralizada. Me buscaba, olfateaba el aire sin nariz, brillándole los ojos saltones. No sólo la postura tenía erecta; recordé que yo estaba ovulando.

Creo que comenzó a reír cuando me localizó. Caminó hacía donde estaba escondida, las largas extremidades penduleando. Corrí sin saber hacía donde. Me agarró un brazo, traté de acuchillarlo, agarró el otro brazo, me retuvo contra el piso. Me babeó la cara con la lengua gruesa. El falo filoso, sanguinolento, estaba listo para penetrarme. Una extraña voz humana lo retuvo: “Vlayxan ya nenu’.” El simio respondió: “Urt uhman ik?” Vos le contestastes: “Ezmama bux atlay fa.”

Noté el desmesurado espadón que llevabas; sólo una pequeña parte de tu cara era visible, usabas anteojos metalizados. Eras un varón enorme, tu presencia lo ponía nervioso. Te acercastes, rugió. Te pusistes en guardia, atacó. El claymore le penetro uno de los brazos a medias, y un grito agudísimo acompaño el derrame de sangre. Le rebanastes el hombro, luego el abdomen. La espada entraba y salía, la carne nunca acababa de separarse. No pude soportar la escena, y perdí el conocimiento.

Cuando volví en mí, vos te lo comías crudo, tripas esparcidas por el piso. Estabas casi desnudo, cubierto de sangre a medio secar. Pude ver que tenías el cuerpo tatuado, la piel pálida, el pelo castaño. Tus irises negros eran completamente opacos. Te distes cuenta de mi vigilia, me miraste sin expresión, y dijistes: “Mujer: ahora tu vida me pertenece.”

[Anonymous No.7113107]

>>7112983
Wow I think this has real potential. You have a really interesting style

[Anonymous No.7113109]

Sam shivered as he leaned against the splintered wooden wall of the barn. His shoulder ached from his fight with the demon spawn Mar-Delok and his clothes were soaked from the cold rain which fell outside. He let the knife fall into the dust and turned to his brother.

Dean was shaken up. His chest was heaving with exertion and his shredded shirt was barely clinging to his muscular frame. Sam could see he was hurt.

"Hey. Are you ok?" Sam stepped closer and put his arms around Dean. "We're going to get out of this, they can't keep us here long."

The brothers huddled together in the dark as the sound of the rain drumming on the roof eased their fears of pursuit. Despite the cold outside and the demons who, even now, must be approaching, the warmth of their embrace comforted them.

And then Sam caressed Dean's clavicle.

"This is wrong," said Dean.

"Then I don't want to be right," replied Sam, in a husky voice.

[Anonymous No.7113119]

>>7112983
Wow did you read White Noise or something?

[Anonymous No.7113163]

>>7113107
Thanks that's nice to hear
>>7113119
No I haven't.

[Anonymous No.7113224]

>>7111785
Were you trying to do the shittiest imitation of James Joyce ever?

[Anonymous No.7113251]

>>7111986
It sounds like a poor man's DFW

[Anonymous No.7113266]

This was a mistake. Even in his craze, Franklin knew that much. All his life, he grew up hearing people around town telling him to stay away from the crossroads at midnight.

"The Devil come that time of night," his mother would tell him, in one of the countless bed time cautionary legends that would blossom into a lifetime's worth of nightmares, "Come to take the souls of men who don't know they're selling gold for pebbles and ash."

He wasn't sure if he believed it then, but now, standing at the crossing of two old country roads about three and a half miles out of town and with five minutes to midnight, he felt much more convinced. The earth held a sort of pent up potency to it, hard and tense beneath his feet, seemingly ready to explode forth with tremendous energy at any moment. The air, meanwhile, settled cold and dense inside his lungs, sinking to the bottom, pregnant with expectation and the faintest taint of dread.

For not the first time that night, Franklin questioned his resolve. He had been so assured as he set out earlier in the day, when he still had the warmth of the Sun on his back and the comforts of home just a few steps away. Now there was nothing but the slight sliver of a moon to light his surroundings, and the call of dark, deep forests as his only companion. He checked his watch again; there were now just three minutes left. He considered turning back, returning to the safety of his bed and pretending tonight never happened, but some part of him already knew it was too late. The only way back to town was through the road he was expecting to see his visitor come down.

But even aside from that, he knew this was the only way. By his estimation, Franklin had nothing to lose anyway. His mother had passed away years ago, and his father had left long before that. No siblings, an aunt and uncle two counties over who'd shoot him dead before welcoming him inside their home, and no other family to speak of. No real friends worth a damn, no love besides a night in warm bed and a morning's dash out the window, no real prospects to speak of that would take his life anywhere. He owed too much money to too many people to leave town without the law following his trail, and whatever money he held on to at the end of the week ended up being drank away by the time the month was over. This may have been a mistake, but so was doing nothing. Whatever fate awaited him in his next life, it couldn't be more dreadful than scraping by for the next sixty years in this one.

So he waited. And before long, he heard the faint ringing of the town's bells in the stagnant night's sky. His watch confirmed that midnight had finally come, and for the first time the fear drained out him. His mother's words rang in his ears again.

"At the crossroads, all's a man got to do is shut his eyes tight once midnight come, and by the twelfth ring of the bells, he'll meet the Devil face to face."

[Anonymous No.7113273]

>>7112855
Samefag please...

[Anonymous No.7113291]

>>7113266
Franklin did as he remembered, closing his eyes shut as hard as he could. If there ever were, there was no chance of going back now, and that finality gave him a sense of purpose that beat out the panic and hesitation that had swallowed up his heart just moments before. He'd walk back home a damned man, but one at last free to chase the life he dreamed of, and in that moment nothing else could matter. As the final bell rang and then faded into the evening, he breathed deep and opened his eyes back up.

There was nothing there. Uncertain, Franklin blinked a few times, hoping perhaps that it would somehow kickstart the process that had gone awry. When that didn't work, he stopped his breathing altogether, and tried to listen closely for any sounds breaking the cold stillness. His efforts drew nothing at first, but after another moment of concentration, he swore he could make out a faint rustling, though from where he could not tell. Looking back down the road, he searched East like his mother always said, then West to be sure, then back to the East again. On the second try, he thought he saw a figure take shape in the distance, but it passed as soon as it had come into vision and the horizon was once again flat and lifeless.

His heart beating once again, Franklin checked his watch. The time was a minute past midnight. When he looked back up, there was nothing but the long road home before him.

[Anonymous No.7113328]

I.

The condition on board the spaceship were better than I had imagined. There was were bathrooms and showers, air conditioning, decent food, and even milk and instant coffee. On a wall screen, shielded by a pane of glass, we could see our trajectory across the solar system; the blinking dot was our ship and the curving green line was the course plotted for us. There was yet another screen that displayed in-flight protocol and what to expect on arrival. They gave us pamphlets, which were placed nicely on top of folded garments: cozy polo shirts and underpants in gray and navy blue. We all kept quiet. The children didn’t even make a racket or disturb their parents. Maybe because it was we were all nervous, uncertain of our destiny and the children sensed that. The entrance of the ship had a narrow crawl space and we felt like we were entering a trap. It was cold inside and we huddled together like one big family, and when they fastened us to our seats and shut the doors and launched us off into space, the terror really set in.

Just that morning, staunch square-faced men in red uniforms had escorted us to the docking station from the detention camp where we were taken selectively and suddenly. Are eyes grew wide when we saw the gleaming ship. It had the emblem of the Interplanetary Red Cross on it, a gorgeous big red cross with a circular orbit spinning around it. We knew what it meant and we had waited a long time for it. Many of us had learned to wait. Waiting was in our blood. We picked up our suitcases and formed a line leading to the ship and waited some more. It was not long ago that each of us stood in a long line at the immigration office, trying to obtain clearance to proceed for our destination to the egalitarian planet of Svendivan, only to be refused and sent to the detention centers.
We were well out of orbit within ten minutes and we could see the planet receding away until it became a swirling, gassy marble.

We couldn't sleep that night, wandering around the cabin, looking at the illuminated stars across our ship. Many of us dreamed, longed for this moment. We went to the windows often, almost as if we had to reassure ourselves that it was happening.

[Anonymous No.7113344]

Richard Mohoney and Maria Setz had made a reputation among the less frequented branches of the burgeoning underground folk-parody movement in the mid 90s. This particular lane of joke-music, or 'parody-pop' as it was eventually named, was the product of laughable apathy among the progeny of California hippies and surfers who found the overly earnest and melodramatic confessionals of unshaven young men that were dominating the recording studios of the 90s to be exactly the type of meat they could dig their hungry teeth into. It began slowly as a spattering of largely unassociated acts in settings that many reporters called "the absolute polar opposite of everything college towns are thought to be." These shows were generally held at blue-color mill-bars and were attended by haggard men waiting for the next whistle to blow. They were not well received nor did anyone throw protest to the artistic vomit of hyperbolic emotions and bizarrities. They simply were the gig that this type of saloon could grab and they perpetuated on for many years this way. Not until 2 years after the first unmerry men took their stages was the performance piece that was unfurling reached the eyes of some less-than-dead. The concept project "Fuck My Stupid Ugly Shoulders; Let's kiss" headed by Mohoney and some dwarves he had coaxed into breaking circus contracts in order to be live-in furniture around 20 months prior. The band specialized in describing body parts, proclaiming how ugly those parts really were, and then sobbing on each other and demanding women in the audience to eat their mouths. This was typically followed by an warm and nostalgic full-chord progressions on sanded balsa guitars that contained the single word "HOMEMADE" burning across their necks in dayglo brown. Mohoney was becoming disillusioned with his anti-fanbase that consisted of three yellow eyed ol' boys at the Leavenworth, Kansas "High-Noon Saloon Tavern and Sleeping-While-Seated Area" who often would sit physically on stage drinking coffee mugs full of beer foam and largely remaining ignorant to the sobbing and the phantomly accepted offers of mouth rape occurring a few feet above their heads. After one lively evening, a true "anti-fan from the beginning" lit a dwarf's guitar on fire with a bic and proceeded to use the resultant inferno as a source of ignition for an unfiltered, home-rolled faggot.

[Anonymous No.7113352]

>>7113328
You have almost the exact same writing style as me, and on reading it I can't help but confirm it's a good style. At least in my arrogance.

[Anonymous No.7113364]

>>7113328
Not very good. You really need to re-read this and identify some pretty odd reoccurring grammar issues. Other than those, it is a pretty forgettable piece

[Anonymous No.7113383]

>>7111882
Really not bad. I enjoyed reading this and think you have a good skill of translating mental images into language

[Anonymous No.7113389]

>>7113364
I disagree.

Minor grammatical issues. Theme is interesting.

[Anonymous No.7113395]

>>7113352
Thank you! It's funny because this is a very old story of mine, and it is far simpler and more streamlined than any of my current stories, which are dense and wordy. I may just go back to this style.

[Anonymous No.7113398]

A thick suspension of crystalline mist strangled the ankles of a small group of children trekking up the forested knoll. Their soles sunk longingly into damp pine as they made their summit. It was dawn and the air was a layered blanket, obscuring the world and tempting a walker into a careless wander. One of the children, a blonde girl of uncertain age, untied the leather knots that kept a sheath secured to the freshly sharpened blade of a double handled saw. Rhythmically, the silent elves labored on in their dimension of fog. The saw slid into the damp and fibrous gray of the living tree effortlessly with slight hisses and snaps. The earth shook in harmony with the motion of the great blade as countless teams completed their morning chore all over the island.
“Hold.”
The children ceased their motion and sat on the wet woven mat of the forest floor. Small wormlike digits dug deep into the straw waiting for the wave of sacred completion that would soon reverberate outwards from a distance.
“Now.”
With one final pull and push their tree fell, causing some of the midget workers to fall to their knees as a climactic ejaculation of bleached leaves rained. The shake came and they were finished. A return trip would have to be made at dusk in order to reap the harvest of their manual exertions. The embroidered sheath was tied back onto the edge of their instrument and the handles were shouldered by two of the smaller ones. They walked back onto their footprint-path and exited the thick grove hours or maybe minutes later.

[Anonymous No.7113400]

>>7113395
Remember that the average reader isn't a /lit/ cunt, so simpler is better. So many asshats here use too many adverbs and try to fancy up like some overstudied author of days gone by.

Punch through with your style, write in a way that excites you and keeps you going. Write what you wanna write, fuck everyone else. Seriously. They will try like all hell to discourage you and I'm on your side.

[Anonymous No.7113406]

>>7113389
Eh, in my opinion it's fairly cliche as far as sci-fi goes. I could see it being a component of a larger story that has potential but I don't think it stands alone very well.

[Anonymous No.7113416]

>>7113406
Cliche yes. But it's gonna be part of something bigger if it matters anyways.

Cliches are comfy, people like it in certain themes. That old familiar display we've seen in shows, the ideas we can already imagine. Pick where you care to expanded the ideas and play. We're all gonna go mad if we try to dodge the cliches other authors have erected. Accept what you can, clean it up and make it shiny.

[Anonymous No.7113424]

>>7113416
You're right: some structural aspects of stories are to be repeated. My problem with it is that you take one of these moments and don't add anything new to it. You present it the way I've seen it presented time and time again. It's just not very interesting. I don't think you're a bad writer but I honestly did not like your story

[Anonymous No.7113429]

>>7112983
>>7113398
These by the same person? I really enjoyed both of these. Tasty prose and interesting tales.

[Anonymous No.7113431]

>>7113424
Oh I'm not the author hahahaha. Just a supporter in the fight against the current ubercuntiness of /lit/

[Anonymous No.7113446]

>>7113431
Ok

[Anonymous No.7113453]

>>7113424
Hey, author here. You make a good point, I totally agree with you and its exactly what I try to do with all my sci-fi stories, use the conventions of the genre only structurally but inject it with realistic, human experiences. For example this piece, which is much longer, is really about the surge of desperate migrants from Africa to Europe.

[Anonymous No.7113460]

>>7113453
Yeah I kinda got the parallel. The part where the humanity really bled through was the last line, which I liked, but I didn't really feel it otherwise. Not trying to put you down or anything...

[Anonymous No.7113487]

>>7113460
It's no put down at all. That was only the beginning of the story. There is certainly more to it then that.

Continued:

During the long stretches of time before sleep, all the noises of space could be heard. There was a ghostly humming that I listened to while staring out the window, my forehead pressed against the glass, considering the intensity of the blacker-than-black void that enveloped us. There was comfortable, undisturbed sleep all around me and no one to talk to. Then I saw a man in the darkness also leaning against the glass alone by himself. We stared at each other for a while before acknowledging each other. I nodded my head at him and he nodded back. In the shadows I could see he was a thin, affable middle-aged man, with smokey-grey beard and wistful eyes. He turned to look out the window again and began to sing. I couldn’t understand the language but I felt the emotion. He sung his terse poetry with melismatic longing, and in between verses he would pause and look at me, the silence falling upon us, and then begin singing again.

“What are you singing about?” I asked him in the quiet darkness.

“All the men whom I won’t forget. The men from whom I bummed smokes for free,” he said smiling. “What are you drinking?”

“Tea,” I replied.

“In the detention camp there is no food but there is lots of tea."

[Anonymous No.7113491]

>>7113453
Those poor space dindus

[Anonymous No.7113496]

>>7111869
I thought it was very impressive. Having blown that smoke up your ass I am really curious what the fuck is going on within the story-within-a-story. Is it even supposed to make sense?

[Anonymous No.7113513]

After school I went to her house out of town. In her living room there were wall to wall windows that looked out on the mineral ranges, and a pastel fossil lake.

The heat of the desk lamp quickened in her cells...her nipples brushing against the inner fabric of her nightshirt generating static... and these two electrictic currents meeting in her fresh slicked pussy...

During encrusted remnants fragmented girl. invisible life old webbing state. She deep, featureless having swamps and the sprawl of breasts, like oil-sanctuaries underlit neon.

Her pan-eyed delivery.

She stops to operate a more situated orgasm. I felt it subtly, turning red an invisible splinter just under the skin of my shaft.

[Anonymous No.7113515]

The wood was a soft grain. It was heavy gray and most likely contained the word “sandle.” The trees from which it were birthed grew thick on the shorelines around this region for thousands of years and were regarded as entities of power and respect by the local tribes. When the first ships began to thunder on the sands and remove these fixtures violence and upset erupted. The tribes and their odd eroticism for those grooved and gray trunks died off and were replaced by low budget time shares. Slowly businesses cropped up to support gambling addictions and dry cleaning and no more was the moon reflective on the black waters. The last traces of the respect and honor of these beliefs were in the beach houses that used this wood. The creak and fiber of the decks and the vibrating stilts painted a landscape of bleak survival that slowly degraded into odd fratricides and sibling rivalries. The vacations were nightmarish escapes that were embarked upon with no regard for conversation or pleasantries. It was an obsession with the old wood and business that drove this migratory wave onto gray sands and desertous stilt walkers that evoked imagery of herders in the dutch regions of europe. It was on those bleached decks that one would find starving brothers and sisters reaching for dried sea oats and wondering if salt was really worth it. The discomfort and knots that the trunks brought were driven hard into the minds of children and classes to venerate these cubist angles were created. Slowly but surely vacations ceased being temporary. Jobs were quit and wives were murdered as abandoned gas stations became universities and sanatoriums became restrooms. Sea water was carbonated and was consumed by these dreamers as "pop" and calories were counted by the trillions.

[Anonymous No.7113516]

It has been of late that I awake from several hours of dreaming the weirdest and most terrifying nightmares that I require several minutes of steadying and masturbation before I can go on with my mid-afternoon smoke of cannabis. It was on one of these odd and pine-scented wednesdays that I happened, after not shaving for several days and listening to the trumpet section from old Phil Elverum cassettes I had bought online for next to nothing from the artist himself, upon the comedic styling that I have come to assimilate to be “post-jazz.” It was an infomercial style dream of the shabby 1970s late night kind that would haunt the childhoods of insomniatic midwesterners. These dreams always begin the same with an unveiling of a product, draped in musk and general antiquity. Then the testimonials would start of people who “owed their existences” to the mildewy product of yore. In this instance of dream the folk interviewed were comedians describing how a collection of words and dialectal slang saved their careers and very lives. This collection was, of course and wide acclaim, “[post]post-jazz[in the sense or groove orientated].” “When I received a mix-tape from Jamie Foxxx in where he interviewed suffering weed sm0kers about how corporate jazz-funk had ruined the neighborhood,” began a dying Bill “Handcock” Clinton, “I knew I had come upon the greatest diarrhea of the soul and viscera” The dream was promoted by these words several times over as the sleep-attenuated evening marched. A shabby Larry David then appeared and told of a drunken Mike Meyers yelling Moby Dick in a London marketplace. He said this act inspired much of the first post-jazz writings in a crypt fantasy blog by hacker and activist G0rdon. A death fetishist, G0rdon spoke of how he discovered post-jazz writings from whalers in nantucket who often frequented brothels and spoke of their heights and girths. They spoke of a post-dialectual catch phrasal lingua that existed among soul funk artists who hid in Lofts and smoked jazz weed. This language, which is derived from a herbal click-language found in parts of burnt african history tomes, was thought to have inspired much of HBO’s documentary series “VICE” and is also the cause for several of Microsoft Windows file error codes. “To say a life - or object is post-jazz is to say a life - or object WAS spent with much care placed to those prefixal apostages that plague academia; it is a curse and castration but we wear it’s marks of crucifixion and write our comedies after those ill-tongued words. It is post-jazz and we speak of it in the haziest cappuccino bars on the haziest of wednesdays.” It is with these epitaphic words that began the pregnancy of post-jazz in the mind and weedspace of a creator in Atlanta Georgia.

[Anonymous No.7113526]

[Anonymous No.7113531]

>>7113526
I really like this. Good work.

[Anonymous No.7113532]

>>7113526

[Anonymous No.7113537]

>>7113531
why u lyin?

[Anonymous No.7113545]

>>7113516
Haha you're crazy man. Entertaining though

[Anonymous No.7113566]

>>7113515
>grew thick on the shorelines
good stuff, sentence should end there, the stuff about tribal entities should be a separate sentence
>thundered on the sands
nice
>violence and upset
works better if it's just one of these words
the stuff which follows about the tribal ways being replace happens too fast and doesn't really work. what do you mean by "eroticisim" and how long did it take for the newcomers to take over what was like that
>that evoked imagery of
you should be evoking the imagery, not stating its evocation
>jobs were quite and wives were murdered
i don't understand what murdered wives means it breaks the flow of the story and the mood a lot but the rest is nice apart from
>calories counted by the trillions
way too obvious, "pop" was really funny better to end it there

>>7113398
painfully overwritten
so much description it evokes nothing lucid a lot of these terms have no relation to each other and you've packed it so full of them there's no room for surrealist juxtaposition like even the first sentence
>A thick suspension of crystalline mist strangled the ankles of a small group of children trekking up the forested knoll
what are you trying to convey here? each descriptive word suggest something different? like does suspension strangle why is the mist crystalline? what does that have to do with the forest or the ankles i dunno i really didn't like this tbh

[Anonymous No.7113578]

Shining with rain, the ruins overrun with little waterfalls, temporary pools in the pits and crags where rubble met.

The sharks rolled over each other, their skins moving like lubricated foils

He knew the dry years wouldn't last and had fantasized over the filled bulk of the landscape.

He intuitively mapped the surface which was soon to be covered.
He felt attuned to the waters tide and spread.

arousal pulsing wet. overnight pursue...--- the thought-forms

his throat open.

[Anonymous No.7113581]

>>7113578
This looks comfy as fuck

[Anonymous No.7113623]

>>7113566
The murdered wives part was just enforcing the drastic nature of these decisions and how one has to untether themselves from normalcy in order to set out for the opposite. I agree with you on the calories thing. Thanks!

[Anonymous No.7113627]

detergents colliding, growing shapes in the cross-fertilization of fluids

a blob of gelatin bubbles and plumps, forming a mucous delta on the sidewalk.

the first slimy vertebrates rising on the peaty shores of a coal-age swamp, black wet face caked in silt.

the motionless sex curves of soft yellow leaves.
soft-technologies

perfection remains the coursing river


and the unfathomable flow of geological events through deep time.

[Anonymous No.7114083]

Here thing:

He'd been christened Matthew, but Christ was a symbol of oppression to traditional European culture, so he'd renamed himself Auðbjǫrn. Auðbjǫrn didn't look into the meaning of the name (which loosely translated into something like FATE BEAR) meaning to the Nords his name was the equivalent of those shorts your uncle would bring back from Bali, which chucked together a few English words like HAMBURGER THANK to pass off as fluent in Tourist.

It was difficult to get anyone to actually call him that. His mum, having named him and all, struggled to break free from the routine she'd built up over his seventeen years of mostly National-Socialist free life. He didn't have the same issue in school, but they just called him "cunt" instead. Auðbjǫrn's goal for Year 12 was to unify the völkisch people and foster a return to the pure Aryan line.

Only issue was, he lived in Adelaide.

[Anonymous No.7114100]

>>7114083
Pretty bad.

[Anonymous No.7114106]

>>7114083
This reminds me of how I used to write, I'm not saying I write better now just if this was in one of my old folders it would fit in perfectly.

Write longer. It could be cool.

[Anonymous No.7114154]

>>7114083
umm

>>7113344
to edgy

>>7113328
workmanlike prose

>>7113109
hot

>>7112983
really bad

[Anonymous No.7114164]

>>7112983

The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked climes of the baren land which dominates large portions of the Norgolian empire. Age worn hoof prints smothered by the sifting sands of time shone dully against the dust splattered crust of earth. The tireless sun cast its parching rays of incandescense from overhead, half way through its daily revolution. Small rodents scampered about, occupying themselves in the daily accomplishments of their dismal lives. Dust sprayed over three heaving mounts in blinding clouds, while they bore the burdonsome cargoes of their struggling overseers.
"Prepare to embrace your creators in the stygian haunts of hell, barbarian", gasped the first soldier.
"Only after you have kissed the fleeting stead of death, wretch!" returned Grignr.
A sweeping blade of flashing steel riveted from the massive barbarians hide enameled shield as his rippling right arm thrust forth, sending a steel shod blade to the hilt into the soldiers vital organs. The disemboweled mercenary crumpled from his saddle and sank to the clouded sward, sprinkling the parched dust with crimson droplets of escaping life fluid.

[Anonymous No.7114395]

>>7113014
I don't know how much to trust the opinion of 4chan and either way this is what I like to write about
The writing will eventually get more congruent but right now it's just going to be scattered monologues or whatever I decide on a whim; read it or don't

[Anonymous No.7114579]

>>7111617
Screw the haters on here.

The idea you're writing about is interesting, and the main character intrigues me. The execution here is the problem. There's some clunkiness to your writing. Mainly adverbs, word choice, showing not telling.

For example, you say "The neighbor's lights shining into Aidan's bedroom created an almost artificial scene before him." Why is it artificial? What does artificial look like for Aidan? What does it remind him of? Etc. Now I'm not saying to add a large amount of exposition to answer these questions, but what I am saying is that you need to be specific on how you describe them. Artificial may be the word to use, but right now, I don't know where you're going with it.

Continue writing, keep reading, keep cutting down what you don't need and polishing.

You'll get there.

[Anonymous No.7114598]

One year ago. The room is an icebox. Cool, unforgiving, constrictive. We’re sitting on the couch in her new run-down apartment, two dolls with stiff appendages on opposite cushions. Our body language has as much warmth as a snowstorm on the top of a mountain. Crystal won’t look at me, and she looks like she’s trying to burn a hole in the carpet with lasers generated from her eye sockets. Like an old man’s hand reaching for an object, her voice quivers. “I feel like we’re on two different pages.”
“But that’s still means we’re side by side in the same book, doesn’t it? We’re not that far off.”
“Mike, don’t. Now isn’t the time.” She recognizes my joke with a tiredness, a weary-eyed librarian whose patience shushing her patrons has all but worn out. Her glasses hang on the bridge of her nose.
“Well, what are you saying?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” Three heavy words with thousands of connotations. My mind whirs its cogs like a detective’s; photographs of possible meanings are connected by yarn on a tackboard in an office. I stare in impatience at the evidence, trying to make a conclusion. I have to respond and retreating into my mind is always dangerous. There’s a huge gap between the passage of time between my own mind and the outside world. If I don’t reign it in, my mind travels on a spaceship at lightspeed and my body remains on earth, years older. I am a living example of Einstein’s relativity.

[Anonymous No.7114601]

>>7111617
>>7111629
The idea is mildly amusing but the prose is absolute horseshit.

[Anonymous No.7114622]

The failure of the machines barely came as surprise to Conrad Hertz. It had been twelve days since his daughter had visited, and last time she’d only stayed for fifteen minutes or so. A vase of wilting irises, hyacinths, and orchids was the only decoration adorning his veiled chamber, having been brought against his will and its own by a vapid, chattering cadre of ex-students. And the attractive nurse was recently moved to a different ward, so for the past week he’d been attended to by a brusque, polite young man. In light of all these cruelly conspiring events, it only seemed logical that the life support would give out without much fuss, that no one would appear, phantasmal, as they usually seemed to upon his waking from anesthesia. It was mere tautology to him that death would begin to approach at an exponentially more zealous rate, that he would be cast out of senselessly serene slumber into the wakefulness of chronic discomfort. Throughout the remaining few hours of his existence, as his physical form tore recklessly, no longer confined by modern medicine, towards obsolescence, as the individual cells of his body began one by one to lurch their way towards necrosis, his mind took on an almost hermetic quality. It became sharply crystalline, and seemed to be immune to the unfamiliar vagaries of daylight--he had decided to make his way outside, feeling that, all things considered, it might be the most prudent choice. Rather than being absorbed and processed, all stimuli passed through him, were perceived for a moment and then refracted out and away. He didn’t think it strange at all that on a fine, fresh Wednesday morning there would be no people, no cars, nothing moving at all except the breeze.
It was a ten-minute walk from the hospital to Volkspark Friedrichshain. As he made his way along the street, Hertz felt an electricity running through his body, beginning at the top of his head and in his fingers as the sunlight met them. With each step, he transferred the current into the pavement as his feet struck it, and the warm air around him burned with bright radiation. The desire to break into a run was overpowering, but there was still some sensible part of him left that knew his bones would shatter, that his muscles would tear, that he would fall and be abandoned writing on the hot asphalt. So he continued walking, and each storefront he encountered was like the first he’d ever seen.
(1/2)

[Anonymous No.7114629]

>>7114622
The fountain was iridescent, but not in such a way that it stood out. Indeed, nothing in the park really seemed three-dimensional or real. Hertz felt as if he were trapped in a beautiful painting, or a blurry photograph. Leaving the path, he walked onto the grass and felt his feet sink into its cool dampness, lying down in the grass he felt it all over and let out a breath, without ever taking one in again. As the days went on and the fallout began to settle on Conrad Hertz’s corpse, as the sun was hidden by thick clouds of ash, as winter began to set in, as the trees in the park were deprived of light, his process of decay and theirs continued in unison--like children skipping arm in arm under early stars on a clear fall evening.
(2/2)

[Anonymous No.7114722]

[Anonymous No.7114737]

>>7114622
>>7114629
I think this is great. I really enjoyed the detached, matter-of-fact, almost sardonic description of the approach of death. Nice description without approaching the pretentious.

[Anonymous No.7114749]

>>7114598
I'm not sure how genuine of an effort this really is, but it's littered with banal cliches. The only sentence I really liked was
>My mind whirs its cogs like a detective’s; photographs of possible meanings are connected by yarn on a tackboard in an office.
Not because it's a particularly great sentence, but because it's an idea or image that can be opened up and explored. Describe these metaphorical photographs and explain these hypothetical meanings. Most people have been in the position you're describing, so the truly original part of this scenario is in the minds of the people involved here. That's where I'd go to mine intrigue.

[Anonymous No.7114879]

>>7111593
This is awful and I'm not trolling.

[Anonymous No.7114883]

This is a fun poem I wrote in January, I was really depressed and it was good break from writing dark poems lol. My writing style has changed a lot and I'm glad I wrote so many poems because it made me more experimental and ballsy with my work.

It was a lot more fun to write this than serious, intense or gruesome poetry. I might've found my niche or style with it. Anyways -

'Teddybear':

Grasping her massive teddybear’s paw,
Fearful it may be their final confrontation
With the forces of darkness in the outer realm,
The little girl and Ursaka marched into the
Dragon’s shadowy lair,
Her sword gripped firmly in the other hand

They had felled many a foul beast in their
Extraordinary adventures,
Behemoth snapping turtles
Who nearly ripped Ursaka’s arm clean off
With their gluttonous chomps,
Fierce and prideful lions,
Their roars resounding within their very bones,
But alas! Ursaka stood some thirty feet in height
And she was an adept swordswoman,
Their combined might unmatched by
Any heathen creature they had thus faced

She and Ursaka had been knighted by
Queen Elizabeth II herself,
Held membership cards for the CIA
And were tasked with the lofty endeavor of
Protecting President Barack Obama with
Life and limb,
For it had been he who ambitiously sent them
On this onerous crusade,
For sadly the dragon had slain
Many of his close friends

[Anonymous No.7114886]

>>7114883

Drawing nigh to the heart of the cave,
She and Ursaka were suddenly bombarded by
Hordes of fierce lizard-men Their rank breath
Filling the air as Ursaka began to heavily
Wheeze in pain, for he was afflicted with asthma

Seizing the opportunity to protect him
Brother in arms, she cut down lizard-man
After lizard-man, til their bodies littered
The cold floor of the cave
But when it seemed they were making headway,
A furious bellow came from high above
And the wicked dragon descended from an unseen
Alcove and made his way into the fray

Their ultimate battle was now upon them,
The little girl valiantly climbed her way up
Ursaka’s back and mounted his shoulders As though he were a destrier,

He charged forward,
And tail, claw and steel meet in
A violent clash
In a flash it was over, justice and all that is
Good had prevailed, but at a dire cost;
Ursaka had received a fatal blow and
His stuffing was now flowing out of him,
The very matter of his life force draining from
His scarred body

The little girl began to sob for there
Was naught she could do to save him;
For the sake of mobility in this most
Dangerous of fights, she had left her
Sewing kit at home!
So she bent low and whispered words of love
Into Ursaka’s torn ear, a weak smile
Forming on his face

The little girl called Obama and her Dad
On her cellphone so they could come pay
Their respects to her fallen comrade
Obama was busy in a meeting but he
Told his associates they could wait,
For the bravest of warriors needed honoring,

So he sprinted to the helipad,
informing the Little girl he would arrive in 10 minutes
Her Dad said he’d bring a large canoe

When they both arrived, the three of them
Lifted Ursaka’s broken body into the boat
and set it sail on the still, subterranean lake
The little girl gave a sorrowful sermon,
Then shot a flaming arrow into the canoe,
For Ursaka would’ve wanted
A Viking’s Funeral

Obama’s face was sullen as he lit a cigarette, T
he smoke mixing in the dank cave’s air
With that of the funeral pyre’s
As Ursaka floated off to Valhalla

[Anonymous No.7114889]

>>7112020

i fully endorse this

[Anonymous No.7114964]

"So you do what you do when you can't sleep"

"I think I know what you mean" He said, and smiled.

"Yeah, so I slipped it outta my trackies. It was cold. Just rolled on my side and wanked."

"I wonder what the penalties for doing that at a playground are."

"It was night there weren't any kids."

"Yeah but I mean, just randomly. What would the penalties be?"

"I don't know. I never really thought about it" I said. "But I did sleep on barkchips next to a puddle of cum."

[Anonymous No.7114969]

*He said, smiling.

[Anonymous No.7114984]

unsure of how long of a piece this will be a part of. I have some more of it written, but no idea where I'm going with it yet.
Just writing something when inspiration strikes.


Tim sat across from me, he was shooting eat shit looks at me. His eyes, glazed over like a piping donut. Irises saying, "I hate you," and, "Nice tie jerk-off."
Not about to engage his fantasy by dining on fecal matter, I ignored him. Or rather, I pretended to be too idiotic to notice the seething beam he focused on me. I could feel it, boring like a laser into the skull of a lab rat. Though I judging by the look in his eye at the time I doubt he would even have had such a high opinion of me.
He was wanting me to react, to do something that would satisfy his base needs. I chatted nicely with the ladies, asked the try-hard waiter for another cocktail, who then asked Tim if he wanted one as well. His expression said, "I want this fuckers head on a platter," but his lips said, "Make it twice as strong this time."
I had no idea why Tim was acting like a psychopathic child. I knew that there was no way he was aware I was fucking Sarah, his wife. I'd been very cautious and very thorough. Whenever we did the deed, I even made sure to put on a few spritzes of Tim's awful cologne, so Sarah wouldn't smell like another man.
I bit into the prawn appetizer, after thoughtfully squirting some Lemon juice on. Would Sarah have told him? No, I concluded, chewing the crustacean. If he knew for a fact anything was going on, he would have already used his steak knife on me.
This begged the question. Was he going to order Steak? Maybe if he needs the knife for a sirloin, he'll be more reluctant to stab me.
And, more importantly.
What had I done? Or rather, what did he think I had done?

[Anonymous No.7115192]

>>7112887
How can I improve?

[Anonymous No.7115195]

>>7114579
Thanks for the advice anon, I will do all those things

[Anonymous No.7115198]

>>7114601
How does one go about fixing their prose?

[Anonymous No.7115233]

>>7111629
>"Does the fire rise?"

For you.

[Anonymous No.7115679]

>>7115198
by doing the thing no one on /lit/ seems to want to actually do: reading

[Anonymous No.7115725]

>>7115679
Not the guy you are replying to, but I read for at least an hour a day.
I also read it out loud. It helps with the harder pieces and honestly I just like it.
I make sure to re-read whatever I write out loud because of this. It helps my notice something that I may not have otherwise have noticed. And helps me refine my work.
Though I write some days and what I write needs minimal revisions, and there is other days what I write I revise over a couple days. But I assume that is how it is for most.

[Anonymous No.7115757]

>>7115679
How do you now my prose is bad and other prose is good?

[Anonymous No.7115840]

When I was twelve I went on a hunting trip with my dad. After a day of no luck we set up our campsite and started a fire to cook dinner. Once it got a little darker, we began hearing noises in the woods around our camp. Wolves attacked us very suddenly. They pounced on me, knocking me into the fire. The wolves ate my front while the fire burned my back. My dad tried to shoot the wolves and save me but most of his shots hit me by mistake.

A few months after the incident my dad couldn't stand looking at me in my condition and decided to go on another hunting trip to get revenge. He got a large group of local hunters to go with him as they were upset about the attack as well. My grandfather and eight-year-old brother went along. The hunters combed the area and couldn’t find any wolves. They set up many traps and tree stands, though. On the third day of the trip my little brother fell into a hole with punji sticks in it and was skewered, but alive. No one was around but my grandfather, who slung his rifle over his shoulder and jumped into the hole to pull him out. He struggled to yank him off of the sticks without killing him but finally managed to do it.

He proceeded to climb out of the hole, but his shoestring got caught on one of the punji sticks. This, combined with my brother’s crying, screaming, and squirming, caused him to trip. He landed on top of my little brother and his elbow jammed into the trigger on his gun, firing it. The bullet ripped my grandfather’s head apart and rained blood and brain debris onto my helpless brother. He shouted and shouted for help as my grandpa’s stump of a neck flooded blood into his face. By the time anyone could get to them, my brother had drowned on my grandfather’s blood which had been pushed into his nose and mouth. The hunter who dug the trap was sentenced to three years for manslaughter and my dad began drinking heavily.

(cont)

[Anonymous No.7115845]

>>7115840
Seven months later my father had lost his job. His whole life revolved around alcohol and looking at videos of wolves dying on the internet. At Thanksgiving dinner I dropped my fork and fell out of my chair while trying to reach it, which flipped the table and ruined the meal for our whole family. My mother sobbed and my dad angrily mashed the turkey in a drunken rage as my family looked on in horror and I lied there in the mess. My uncle yelled at my father and my dad tried to hit him. My uncle punched him in the face and left. My dad stopped drinking after that and got a job working at McDonald’s. He decided to save up some money and go on another revenge trip. After several months he had repaired his relationship with his brother and earned enough money for quality gear.

This time he took only my uncle and my fourteen-year-old cousin along. They had a very difficult time finding any wolves and so resorted to doing everything they could to attract them. They made deer tracks and used deer scent spray to try and lure them in. They used deer calls to sound like a wounded buck. They wore all camo so the wolves would have a harder time spotting them, with no orange at all.

Another group of hunters fell onto the scent and saw the fake deer my dad had set up outside their camp. They opened fire and hit my cousin in the neck and head, and my uncle in the liver. My cousin was killed instantly and as soon as the hunters realized their mistake they fled the scene. My dad tried to save my uncle and did everything he could to keep him conscious. He slung him over his shoulder and began carrying him on the nine mile trek through the mountains. About halfway there, they ran out of water and my dad was completely exhausted.

(cont)

[Anonymous No.7115850]

>>7115845
That's when they heard a howl. A pack of wolves had finally taken their bait and was tracking them. They started running toward my dad and uncle. My dad used his remaining stamina to sprint as far as he could but soon tripped, too tired to go on. He gripped my uncle's hand as the wolves approached and decided he had to leave him. He got up and looked down at my uncle, who realized what was going to happen. My uncle said, "I will never forgive you for getting my boy killed." Then my dad ran away, leaving my uncle to be devoured.

My dad sat in his car for an entire day wracked with guilt. After almost twelve hours of sadness and shame, paranoia set in and he realized no one would believe him about the incidents. The police would assume that he killed my uncle and cousin himself. So he decided that he had to go back and hide the bodies.

He hiked the four miles back to my uncle's corpse, and found that the wolves had not eaten as much of him as he had expected. However, he realized that he was starving and needed some kind of nutrition. So, through tears and unspeakable guilt, he ate some of his brother's raw remains in order to extract any nutrients he could. He buried what was left of the corpse in a shallow grave and hiked back to the camp for my cousin.

His body had not been touched by the wolves, but blood was all over the tent from the gunshots. My dad dug a large hole for my cousin and the incriminating camping gear, then set out for home. He had only told me about this trip so no one knew. My aunt reported my uncle and cousin missing and the police began searching. They questioned my dad and after that he became increasingly paranoid and withdrawn.

(cont)

[Anonymous No.7115853]

>>7115757
You write in cliches. You're a cliche monkey. Sniffing after cliche money. There is still hope or maybe not. Who cares? C.R.E.A.M.

[Anonymous No.7115854]

>>7115850
The search spanned several months and the police finally declared it a potential homicide investigation. They put heavy pressure on my uncle’s shadier friends and eventually someone told them about the Thanksgiving incident, which my uncle had been very embarrassed and upset by. This was made worse when my dad repeatedly called my uncle’s place of work and made gagging noises over the phone. They eventually made up after my dad let my uncle burn “69” into his forearm with a cigarette.

This information led the police to more heavily question my dad and they learned that he had over the years gone on many hunting trips with my uncle. They didn’t have any real evidence against my dad but did find him very suspicious. They decided to begin combing the areas popular to local hunters. After a few weeks of searching they found my uncle’s half eaten corpse, but could not identify it. So they had to send the dental records in to the closest city’s police department so they could try and find a match. This would take several weeks, and my father began preparing for the inevitable.

During the next few weeks they also found my cousin at the campsite, as well as the ridiculous amount of DNA evidence left behind by my dad. The police finally identified both bodies and issued a warrant for my father. They rolled up to the McDonald’s where he worked and went in to talk to him. The manager told them he was cleaning up a huge diarrhea spill in the restroom and would be out shortly, but they did not have much patience.

Two detectives burst into the bathroom and startled my father, who whirled around and tripped in the diarrhea, launching his mop bucket at the policemen. One of them dropped his gun and the other accidentally fired, shooting his partner in the bottom jaw. My dad struggled to get up but kept slipping on fecal matter. The two detectives started freaking out and tried to stop the bleeding. My dad saw his chance and when he finally stood up he rushed them. The three of them fell down and the gun went off again, blowing off the kneecap of the wounded detective.

(cont)

[Anonymous No.7115857]

>>7115854
My dad’s face was pressed into the bloody, exposed tongue and throat of the policeman and he accidentally got a mouthful of tonsil goop and shattered teeth. He managed to stand up but was nearly pulled down again by the other officer, who also stood and the two began grappling. My father pushed him away and scrambled out of the bathroom. The officer tried to shoot him but slipped in the diarrhea. He dropped his gun as he fell and when it hit the ground it went off again, shooting three of his partner’s toes off. My dad got home as fast as he could.

My dad, covered in blood and a fat Mexican’s spaghetti-and-watermelon diarrhea, sprinted into my house and down to the basement. He loaded up his hunting rifle, shotgun, and revolver and put on the black ski mask, flak vest and helmet he had bought in preparation for this event. His black cargo pants and military fatigue jacket had been fitted with metal armor plates and he had been wearing in his combat boots and gloves for the last few weeks.

His final piece of equipment was a bag full of pipe bombs he had built out of household materials. He turned on the gas in the basement and ascended the stairs. My mother, upon seeing him, screamed in fright and ran to the phone. He stopped her and explained, “This is what has to happen, Edith.” She began crying and sat on the kitchen floor. My dad locked all the exterior doors and set up various ammo caches around the house. He emptied several gas cans around the house and placed propane tanks at strategic locations.

(cont)

[Anonymous No.7115864]

>>7115857
The police had gathered a SWAT team and were preparing to assault the house. They had blocked off all the roads in the neighborhood and surrounded the place. The sheriff began trying to talk my dad into surrendering over a megaphone. My dad refused and yelled for them to leave. The sheriff tried to get him to let my mother out of the house, but he also refused. My mother made a break for the front door and my dad shot her in the leg.

The police assumed that my dad had opened fire on them and let loose like a firing squad, destroying the majority of the first floor with hundreds of assault rifle rounds. They essentially bounced off my father but my mom was shredded with bullets and her blood painted the walls, ceiling, and floor of our kitchen. My dad returned fire and shot the sheriff in the neck. The SWAT team began breaching the house and my dad retreated upstairs as they busted through the side door.

My dad was shot in the back of the thigh as he rounded the corner on the staircase. He fell and flipped over, firing his rifle and blowing a SWAT officer’s face off. He got another round off to keep the officers at bay while he made his way up the stairs. Things grew quiet as my dad huddled in his bedroom and the police crept around upstairs searching for him. Our beloved dog, Arnold, was shivering in fear in the same room as my father. He yelped and an officer shot through the wall and severed his spine. Arnold, wheezing in agony but unable to truly scream, bled to death in front of my father, who had rescued him from the side of the road as a puppy and nursed him back to health from the brink of starvation.

This set something off in my father and, in a rage, he emptied his rifle into the wall and killed a few officers. He switched to his shotgun and busted through the damaged wall. He walked around and killed the rest of the officers upstairs. He reloaded the shotgun at one of his ammo caches and went downstairs. My dad was met with several shots to the chest, which only stunned him. He emptied his shotgun and killed several more officers, clearing the bottom floor of the house. Ten more SWAT team members climbed in through the back window and shot him in the arm, actually wounding him. He pulled out his pistol and managed to take out seven of them before running out of ammo.

(cont)

[Anonymous No.7115873]

>>7115864
At this point he had his left hand blown off with a shotgun and tackled one of the officers, jamming his stump into his mouth and stabbing him in the forehead with his combat knife. He turned and stabbed another officer in the neck before being tackled by the last one. They wrestled and my father managed to smash the officer’s head into the ground enough times to stun him. My dad tied the officer to a chair and strapped him with pipe bombs, then opened the basement to let gas seep in. He then opened the front door and taunted the remaining law enforcement (now reinforced by National Guard troops) by masturbating in front of them. They shot his penis off but this did not deter his furious jerking motion. In fact, the pain and blood seemed only to add to his arousal.

He then lit the pipe bombs on the surviving officer and ran upstairs to the attic. The National Guard and police force swarmed into the house and were met with a horrific explosion that killed the majority of them and wounded the rest. My dad survived by hiding in a lead box he had bought specifically for this occasion. Descending into the smoldering remains of our house, he finished off the burning officers one by one. Looking out and seeing no one, he sat in our living room and stared at the charred corpses he had created. And somewhere, deep in his stomach, he got a feeling he hadn’t felt since the disastrous hunting trip with my uncle and cousin. That was the last time he had been weak enough to do anything for nutrition. That was the last time he got the hankering for human flesh.

The rest of the police arrived to find my father gorging himself on the bodies of their compatriots and began throwing up. Just as the chief of police was about to execute him, my dad looked up from his meal and started to speak. Unfortunately, though, he couldn’t get his last words out because he started to choke on a police officer’s knuckle bones. Desperate for air, he began shaking and grasping for any salvation he could get. None would come, as the police watched him die a slow, pathetic death and felt much satisfaction. Then I got home from school.

Four years, seven months, and fourteen days ago I buried what was left of my family. I inherited massive amounts of debt which cancelled out all of my government disability aid. I currently live as a massive burden to the state and yearn only for death. Every night I try to throw myself down the stairs but it has become such a routine that the attendants always stop me. I’m saving up my medicine to eventually overdose, but I’m going to need to convince one of the mentally handicapped patients (the only people I am allowed to have contact with because everyone else is too rude to me) to help me do it. I think I might bribe them with oral sex. All of my teeth were broken or bitten out of my mouth so I’m confident I can give great head. If all goes well, I will be dead by Christmas.

(end)

[Anonymous No.7115875]

Canyon Road House on the Upper East Side serves a delicious honey pecan ice cream with Belgian waffles. It soon became your mother’s favorite. Sitting over one of those plates, with the cream slowly melting and sinking into the buttery waffles was a pleasant enough experience to distract your mother from the draining image set before her: her parents. It was the night we decided to tell them of her pregnancy, and our choice to keep you.
Your grandfather, as always, was distant from the entire affair. He seemed to side to my opinion of things, as usual, much to his wife’s discomfort.
“There is absolutely no way the two of you could handle anything like this in the state you are both in,” she scolded.
“This isn’t our decision,” said my father in law. “It is their marriage and their life. Let them do what they will. They are adults.”
Your mother gave a nod, expressing a strong “thank you Dad,” while your grandmother only leaned closer over the table.
“The fuck they are,” she responded to her husband. “They’re still kids. Kids playing make believe. The reality here is that in any scenario, the two of you having kids is a warped charade. Factor in the health problems, and I just don’t see how this isn’t threatening to all of us.”
“She’s going to beat this,” I calmly told her. “And we will have a family.”
“And what if she doesn’t? What if she passes before the child is born, huh? Do you want that unborn child on your conscious? Or what if the pregnancy itself kills her? Or she dies shortly after, leaving us with the burden of not only her death, but your child as well.”
“My child will not be a burden,” I lied to her. “And the threat of death should not stop people from living their lives. People can die at any moment. Doesn’t mean they shouldn’t buy a car or a house or have kids. If anything, it’s incentive to do those things.”
Your grandfather nodded at me, agreeing to my lies, while your mother, lost in thought, called the waiter over to ask for more syrup.

[Anonymous No.7115895]

>>7115840

Fuggg... pastebin is you friend

[Anonymous No.7115898]

>>7115757

By reading a lot and having natural talent, I'm sure neither apply to you.

[Anonymous No.7115899]

>>7114984
>dining on fecal matter

Its a story, not a 4chan post.

[Anonymous No.7115981]

>>7115899
It's both.
Also BEE proved you don't have to sensor shit to get published.
Not that my goal is to get published anyway, it's to write what I want.

[Anonymous No.7115985]

>>7115853
It's supposed to be one of those YA novels, I wouldn't say it's really cliched though
>>7115898
Teach me your ways anon

[Anonymous No.7116239]

I was walking when i saw a rock at the middle of the path. Why such insurmountable obstacle was resting silently, breathing and loving the sun, the moon and all else was being something that i gladly refused and disliked? A impertinent naughty rock that made me go all the way back just to encounter it again and again in a perpetual trance of chocolate stained paths and ratty tongues.

[Anonymous No.7116265]

http://pastebin.com/fha6Uis9

This is taken out of the middle of a larger thing. Trying to figure out if the prose style is too tortuous/headlong. Any critiques are greatly appreciated.

[Anonymous No.7116323]

>>7115985
>>7115985
>Teach me your ways anon

I was just trolling I didn't read your story lol.

Here's the thing, just read all the fucking time. If you have natural talent for words, and with practice journaling and writing prose/poems, you will pick up on it intuitively.

You should have a "this is shit gauge" in your head when you write.

Also, letting things sit for a month or more and going back and editing is your best friend.

You will see things from a different perspective as you let them ferment with time. Don't make things overblown or too cheesy, because no one likes that.

[Anonymous No.7116351]

Urethra, I'm beneath her;
she's sitting on my face.
The muscles, contorting;
for piss myself I brace.

My throat is at attention;
my hands, stretched left and right.
Enveloping her giant ass;
her folds cause me no fright.

A discharge - is splashing
and bouncing off my tongue.
Inside of me its flushing;
all around its being flung.

I think there's somthing brewing,
an extra chewy goo.
I hope in just a moment
my mouth will fill with pooh.

[Anonymous No.7116390]

>>7116265
>Eastwoodian face

Who are you, James Patterson? You can do better than that

[Anonymous No.7116441]

>>7116390

Didn't like that? Alright, I will look back at it. I kinda liked the idea of turning celebrities into adjectives. Did the other stuff flow alright for you?

[Anonymous No.7116489]

Anon secretly lusted for the ability to be profound while also maintaining a distance between his work. The was expressed in the acts of sending in anonymous editorials to the local paper or giving sage-like advice to friends urging them to say or do things that Anon himself would find impossible. A smile that broke into a chuckle always accompanied Anon when he witnessed the fruits of his sowed seeds. Along with those fruits came a rot, one which Anon knew existed but consciously ignored. His work always possessed a sarcastic prose, a subtitle irony wove itself into every paper and essay. Never could his written word truly express his honest critique of the world, because he had no position to call his own and no struggle to work for.


Meanwhile at the local publisher.
“Hey Mary, did you get the weekly letter from our autistic friend in black?”
“Oh I forgot to tell you. Turns out that we get to double dip today. He dropped off a 'submission' two days ago, and also today.”
“Ha, well I'm just about done with Charles' Op-Ed; I'll take a break and read some of this gold with you.”
The two co-workers gathered around the letter like early man gathered around fire. The envelop rippled and was torn open by Mary who with surprising delicate skill pulled the computer paper out of its container. The carefully folded paper shifted open, as it had been opened for the past seven months on each week's Friday. The ritual began anew, starting with smug smiles, shifting to chuckles, finally erupting into the two friends clutching onto each other. Both caught by eminence laughter.

[Anonymous No.7116496]

>post your crap
>never read anything anyone else wrote
>refresh the page every few mionutes to see if someone replied to your post.

[INTJ !j7ls9NGWQI No.7116513]

Damn I wish these came around when I didn't have exams the next fucking morning.
I'm not posting as I don't have time to read other's work and I'd just be taking and not contributing.

Hope you all do well, see you in the next thread... hopefully...

[Anonymous No.7116534]

>>7116496
I mean I like your essay, it is short and to the point. But I would implore you not to become to addicted to these short and direct statements. Try not to becomes a Hemingway clone, everyone is nowadays.
Still, I like the theme behind your post, 8/10.

[Anonymous No.7116559]

>>7116351
Oh come on guys. This doesnt make you laugh?

[Anonymous No.7116565]

>>7116559
High school ended for me like half a decade ago dude ;^D

[Anonymous No.7116580]

I've finally found the perfect girl
I could not ask for more
She's deaf and dumb and oversexed
And owns a liquor store

[Anonymous No.7116587]

>>7116513
Is the mythology of the chibi loli inherited from the Double Act theatrics of Abbot and Costello?

[Anonymous No.7116602]

>>7116565
You should always stay a kid at heart.

[Anonymous No.7116606]

>>7116565
Also, farts are always funny.

[Anonymous No.7116635]

>>7116602
I am actually a kid in every respect except for at heart

[Anonymous No.7116641]

>>7116635
Why though? You will have plenty of time to be old.

[Anonymous No.7116661]

Just imagine Kant or nitzsche chuckling when they heard someone farting...
What, you think they didnt?

[Anonymous No.7116695]

>>7112543

heh guess nobody's gonna touch it. merci anyways

[Anonymous No.7116712]

>>7116641
Because I am an inept loser and this leads to a gradual worsening of circumstances, potential and sanity which in turn makes me bitter and depressed.

This is pretty common round these parts

[Anonymous No.7116726]

>>7116661
farts weren't invented until 1916

[Anonymous No.7116761]

>>7116661
Kant didn't he was a humorless robot.

He never even laughed except to appear social.

[INTJ !j7ls9NGWQI No.7116778]

>>7116587
I have no idea. I just thought that WebM was cute and finally had a semi-decent opportunity to upload.

[Anonymous No.7116787]

>>7111094
>Idea for a shitty sitcom

Meet Rudy. The serious, brooding handsome devil who's all work and no play. Well, until he moves to the big city! With new friends, crazy happenings, and WACKY adventures, this big bad boy will have to learn how to have a good time! AND if THAT wasn't enough:

Rudolph Amselherman is an undercover Nazi spy, cryogenically frozen for seventy years at the end of WW2 to ensure the Third Reich will survive in the disciplined, perfect soldier of a youht. After waking up in modern-day San Francisco, learning that everyone he loved is dead and all he fought for is now hated by the world, Rudolph must assume the guise of a German exchange student at the local university. As he hunts down the descendant of his American Nazi contact, he must struggle to live in a world where time has abandoned his ideals, everyday trying to keep his dim hopes of a reborn Nazi regime alight.

Meet Petey! This fun-loving, vodka glass-half-full party animal is one cool dude! Whoa! Baggin' the ladies, doing KUH-RAZY stunts, havin' a blast at class and living life! AND if THAT wasn't enough:

Peter Belsky is an undercover Soviet agent, also frozen to infest the American youth with Communist ideals through his friendly and charming personality, starting with his peers at UCSF. While the Berlin Wall has fallen, Peter's hope never will, and though harrowed by the alienation of his homeland and the oppression of a money-obsessed America, like Rudolph, the intrepid Russian will make the west run red with the blood of pigs and the flags of communism.

[Anonymous No.7116791]

>>7116787
But WAIT! When these two guys need a place to stay, and who are their roomates?

That's right! Rudy and Petey gotta live in an apartment TOGETHER! AND IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH:

Both boys, though having different attitudes towards their situation and life itself, are akin in that they are both the last surviving members of their long dead empires. Will Rudolph overcome the crushing depression that everything he loved is now despised by billions, or even be able to bring back the Third Reich? Can Peter, despite his positive outlook on life, live, laugh and love in this new world without forgetting his old one?

One thing's for sure! Neither of these kooky kids did NAZI this coming! But if their dreams are gonna have hilarious hijinks, freaky friends and all the fun under the sun along their way, then SOVIET! You'll be so RED in the face with laughter, you'll wet your PANZER!

Tune in to watch America's two rascally invading foreigners in:

RUDY AND PETEY!!!!

[INTJ !j7ls9NGWQI No.7116847]

>>7116791
I thought this was an interesting premise at the first part. But at the second part it became too absurd for me to do anything other than laugh.

This is a joke. Or, a metaparody as a parody of rediculous Sitcoms within a sitcom.

If either, it was enjoyable, I copy-pasted. Fill me in on where it goes XD
[e-mail] (Spam Email with fake name)

[Anonymous No.7116859]

>>7116847
Thank you, friend.

It started as a joke, but I wondered a couple of times if it could work as a genuine dramatic-comedy.

[INTJ !j7ls9NGWQI No.7116879]

>>7116859
You'd have to explain why they don't kill each other.

Oh, I know. They could be forced to work together from the masses outside... right? Both of them realize that the only way to progress and maybe possibly fulfill their goals is with the other's help.

Take it and run, I guess. You can reply with more ideas that you need, I'm interested now.

>Captcha is tricycles

[INTJ !j7ls9NGWQI No.7116969]

>>7116859
I've recollected my thoughts.

In the first message, it MIGHT work as a dark comedy or dramedy.

In the second, the only way it would work- easily- would be as a dark-comedy parody of stupid contrived sitcoms. Which would be welcomed by a lot of smart people... maybe not the LCD and the people who made Big Bang Theory into a shitfest of faggotry.

Your idea is relatively creative though.

[Anonymous No.7117307]

>>7112544
I lost any desire to read this after the second sentence. Your cramming your character's sociopathy down my throat.
This would work better if your character didn't realize he was different from other people (as is the case with many sociopaths), and instead it was left to the reader to pick up on the signs. It would be easy to throw in little queues to your character's illness since this is in first-person.
Or, alternately, you could make your character aware of it without having him come off as a twelve year old who's read too many Jhonen Vasquez comics.

[Anonymous No.7117389]

>>7116580
Nice misogyny, m8.
I thought unfunny, offensive epigrams went out of style several decades ago.

[Anonymous No.7117397]

>>7114883
My critique is that you have shit taste in anime.

[Anonymous No.7117408]

>>7116580
I enjoyed it.

>>7117389 is a faggot.

[Anonymous No.7117409]

>>7113513
If you want me to be disgusted, you succeeded.
And while I appreciate your effort to make cliche imagery feel fresh and different, you tried to hard and it just looks pretentious.

[Anonymous No.7117414]

>>7117408
Are you kidding me? It was the literary equivalent of a fart joke.
Even if I hated women, this wouldn't be funny.
>hurr durr, women should talk less
>also I like beer and sex

[Anonymous No.7117433]

>>7117408
I liked it too

>>7117414
Shut up you effeminate faggot, don't you have a bear to be sucking?

[Anonymous No.7117449]

>>7117433
I don't know why disliking cheap, witless writing makes me gay, or for that matter why theoretically being gay makes me wrong, but alright then.
The fact that you can't actually back up your opinion with anything but insults makes me feel vindicated enough.

[Anonymous No.7117530]

I just wrote this up a few minutes ago, first time ever giving writing a shot. I'm just curious as to whether or not it's an awful to start out a novel according to you guys. I intend to make it a story which is quite easy to read and more entertaining than heavy. Possibly a cyberpunk adventure. Just want to get the ball rolling, as they say.

Three figures stood as still as the uncirculated, dry air surrounding them. The place was cool almost freezing, and dark to the point that you could barely make out the vapour of their breaths, dissipating and then softly re-emerging again in a steady, asynchronous rhythm. A hushed voice near the center of the room spoke “John, how much longer do we need to stand here? If I haven’t lost my mind yet, I will soon.”. “Aaron you little shit, shut up or I’ll punch your dumb face down your fat fucking neck. It’ll take as long as it takes I tell ya.” a voice quickly fired back from somewhere in the darkness opposite him. “I didn’t say shit, it was Dave, damn it.” said the third voice from the back of the room. “Well both of you shut the hell up, it won’t be much longer.”. As his sentence came to an end two strips of soft, coral blue light filled the room from one end of the room on either side, gently tracing the wall beside them slightly above the height of their knees until they finally rejoined at the end of the of the room opposite from where the light originated from, dimly illuminating the room. “Would you look at that!” exclaimed the shortest one in the trio. “Dave, I’ll rip your tongue out if you can’t be quiet, I swear it.” Aaron, the tallest of the three brushed away the long strands of dark brown, almost black hairs covering his tired gray eyes with the back of his forearm and spoke “Paul, is it okay to move yet? My knees are killing me.”. Paul glanced over at him without moving his head “Give it a minute, I don’t know how long it takes to shut off completely.”

[Anonymous No.7117533]

>>7117530

awful way*

[Anonymous No.7117541]

>>7117530

Fuck, already see some errors, oh well...

[Anonymous No.7117786]

The holotype necessitated strategic dissection.
In order to access mineral between the phosphatized plates a scalpel was drawn between them, taking care not to damage the object inside.
The separated panels were then carefully "unscrewed" around the solid core.
The fossil root of an iguana's eye, perforated where the final neurons burst and filed off. Rolling the little object between finger and thumb he read these nodes like braille.
the bathroom evaporated in a waft of tissue scent and cream plastics. The crown of the toilet was built up with stilt plants.
the path of the rivers ancient coursing indicated in rings of it's former freshness
The fossil waters traced the after image of faded delta's in the sand, fingering the old pathways like lost midribs.

deposited bodies leave depressions in the sand, creatures like mirage shades move in the shallows.

she became distinctly sensitive to life, burdened by the unbearable moving of insects, by the succession of elements against each other, crumbling toward the end-of-the-world

[Anonymous No.7117793]

>>7117530
i misread it as
>strips of soft, coral blue eyes
nice and good either way
there is a bit much dialogue also "uncirculated" breaks the flow of the first sentence but suits the story

>>7116791
>>7116787
painful

>>7116580
dads of 4chan

[Anonymous No.7117801]

>>7117793

Thanks for the critique, I'm going to trim and reword the dialog a bit. And I agree, "uncirculated" does stunt the flow of the sentence a bit, glad you pointed it out to me.

[Anonymous No.7117807]

>>7111094

My girlfriend and I have recently had to move to different states due to my Dad's gambling addiction and I now live surrounded by corn and apple orchards at my grandmother's house. We've decided that instead of just writing to each other, we are going to pretend to be characters caught up in historical events and intertwine our personal lives with the characters' stories. We are using real mail and I'm even dying the paper using tea or coffee to make it look authentic.

I'm being slightly referential/plagiaristic/authentic to time period but it might be a bit too much. Wondering on people's thoughts.

[Anonymous No.7117815]

>>7117807

Pretty cool idea, but you sound like dirty hipsters regardless.

[Anonymous No.7117823]

>>7111094
>>7117807

Sept 14th, 1914

My Dearest Annie,

I know you might not know the particulars of what has happened, but a Serbian mad-man has assassinated the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne only recently in Sarajevo. All of Europe is in Chaos, even as far away as damp-old Scotland. Who thought I would wake up one morning to a peaceful field only to fear being sent to a bloody one?

The Austrians have decided to humiliate Serbia and have invaded their northern border with their entire army. This is of course unacceptable to the Russians who have demanded a full retreat and apology. This will certainly never happen.

The Germans likewise have taken this opportunity to expand against the West under false pretenses. Using lies, they have invaded France via little Belgium and have occupied Flanders.

It makes my blood boil that they did this knowing we swore to protect Belgium under any circumstances. Are they so presumptuous that they think we will not react just as strongly as they act? But yet we have not acted fast enough!

As it stands, they are only 40 miles from Paris as I write this letter. It may be over by the time you receive it.

Every major nation is now committed to war and I have decided to follow my duty to join up. I can't begin to explain how happy everyone is to avenge ourselves and teach them a lesson. Strangers walk up to me and shake my hand. They beg me to bring them back a spiked German helmet as a souvenir. Personally, I'm a little wary of those spikes, but most people are raring to kill a German or ten. And of course I am afraid. It's perfectly reasonable and anyone who says otherwise is a liar or delusional, but as they say, "Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori." I know you can't read Latin but it means "Кpacнa и cлaдкa cмepть зa oтeчecтвo:", in your native tongue, at least I think it does. Personally, I think it's sweeter to live for your country. And even better to drink to your country.

[Anonymous No.7117824]

>>7117815

We are refugees from the Soviet Russia and Iraq.
I love American showers. They don't have salt water.

[Anonymous No.7117825]

>>7117824

Cool.

[Anonymous No.7117833]

>>7117823
>>7111094


As for me I have been assigned as a 2nd Lt. to the 2nd Company, 87th Brigade of the King's Own Scottish Borderers. Our Division, the 29th, is known as the "Incomparables", but since there are at least 4 other divisions of 100,000 men being trained alongside us I am not so confident in our epithet.

As an officer life is very agreeable. I have my own quarters and a lady who comes to clean on a regular basis. The other officers are very friendly and we even have a pint of beer or two in the evenings. Usually we talk about our fears, expectations and those we have left behind. There isn't much physical work, but I have learned how to shoot a revolver. I'm not a great shot but I think I can hit a target if I need to. Otherwise, most of our time consists of marching, drilling and learning how to address our superiors. I have had at least one request granted that my cousin, Walter Turnbull be transferred to my platoon. He is an excellent sergeant and a closer friend. I can rest easy knowing I will not be alone overseas.

I can't prove it but I strongly suspect we will be sent to Egypt or possibly Lebanon. We anticipate the Turks to take advantage of the situation as they have imported German Battleships into the Black Sea (чepнoe мope). We know that they can smell the Russian blood even in those depths and that they certainly desire the smaller nations of the Caucasus. The only question is are they bold enough to act on their arrogant ambitions?

I suspect you have heard enough about logistics and I have heard very little of you, or your current location or even your health.

You must keep me informed as it is hard for me to be so alone. It's not every day, but most days I think on how lucky I am to share my life with you and reminisce over our crystalized memories.
You are the most wonderful girl I have ever met. Your mind is matched only by your determination. You fascinate me and inspire me for the better. Without you I do not think I would wake up in the morning to face the everyday tasks of life. But with you, there is no challenge I cannot overcome.


I love you with all my heart, my sweet kitty cat. Never wander too far.
D Stuart

P.S.
You can reach me at (redacted) until training is over.

P.P.S.

I don't know how often we can write each other, or what access you have to good paper/mail service etc. You must fill me in on all the details of your life.

And say hi to Grisha for me. And although I don't want to say it, I am afraid of what may come. I guess we will have to wait and see.

[Anonymous No.7117852]

of aquarium owners dumping exotic pets when they get too big to care for properly. It is not thought that the tropical piranha would be able to survive the cold weather of winters in the Great Lakes region, but they could possibly survive near the warm water discharge from power plants.

Tissues in the ash tray, and curls of white-blond pubic hairs.
After sitting there for a while, he picked up the photograph on the counter tip and turned it over.
It was a girl in side-view, the shot framed by two drained reservoirs accumulating sand-seas. Her face was unafraid but she was not safe.
On April 22, 1922, a huge ball of fire with an incandescent trail flashed over southern New Jersey, gushing clouds of foul-smelling gas. Observers were compelled to cover their faces with moistened handkerchiefs for 15 minutes until the powerful, irritating stench dissipated (Lewis, 1996).

[Anonymous No.7117853]

>>7117833

Here's a version made with tea, it's a little weak so I think I will use coffee as a die.

Otherwise, put () around lines you don't like or even words. Other advice is also welcome, but remember this is not high lit, it's lit to make a girl feel happy.

Also replace kitty cat with koshka. I prefer the vibe.

[Anonymous No.7117951]

>>7117853

Yeah, use a proper ink pen, a little more neater writing and coffee stain it and it'll look a lot better. In its current for it doesn't look far off from being scribbled notes from class or something along those lines. Cool idea though.

[Anonymous No.7118050]

Eggplant in a room. She hadn’t said. They were there. Havoc. She repeated. Havoc? She questioned. The mirror was black - the colour of the room. Usually the room wasn’t black, it had often been avocado and white. Patterned walls, juxtaposes the combination of green and blank (the assumption being that white is an absence of colour). The wallpaper was blank and, in that moment, due to the absence of light particles, it was a black blankness.
There was an eggplant in the room. She didn’t know it was there . On the mirror in bioluminescent pigment were a set of geometric characters that they recognized as Havoc. Havoc? She repeated. Havoc.
December 24th 2003. That was the last time she’d thought about suicide. She had finally decided to go for a night drive. Not finally as in:
I have been thinking about eating the final slice of cake all night. I will now eat it.
But rather:
I have been thinking about killing my neighbour since fall. I will now kill them.
As she drove she didn’t think. It was strange. She had spent 763 days thinking. One of those thoughts she had been thinking was that she should go on a night drive. A night drive seemed a peculiar act. An act that was unexplainable, as unexplainable as any other unexplainable act, but peculiar in its provocation.

[Anonymous No.7118051]

>>7118050
She had, however, finally decided to go for a night drive. When she was 15 - and again when she was 17 - she had given suicide some serious thought. Unfortunately she had a ‘failure to launch’ both times. At 15 her meddling parent’s refused to leave her in the serene peace that led to an open wrist or a stomach pumped in futility. Luckily, at age 17, she was given enough room to breathe. This breathing room was soon filled with sparse but present evaporating tears and noxious fumes.
At age 17 Annie ran into the street. She was dying. Her lungs were no longer filled with oxygen. In fact they were filled with a novel combination of methane, oxygen and their friends. The street was not where Ann wanted to be but it was where she was. She wasn’t dying. Rather she was going to the emergency room. The psychiatric ward. The home. The away.
She liked being away. Maybe the appeal of the night drive was that it was the most tangible away. The light was her home; that why she shied away from it. Little did she realize the effect the fear of the light had on her.
Annabel Hanover lived in a house. Her job was with the police. She had never been promoted. Once she got away with murder, temporarily. The night drive had betrayed her, she had thought. It hadn’t, her behaviour had.
It is very difficult to perform suicide in a mental asylum. Even if, like Annie, you weren’t actually insane. Ann drew pictures of her SUV. An SUV that was no longer hers. It was black, in the drawings she drew it in black. She remembered it was blue. At night it was black though, so she drew it as night. She didn’t draw the night time. She used a crayon. Death was more away than a night drive.
For six weeks, for 42 days, Annabel thought about the night drive. Not the particular night drive, though. It sounds like a unit but it is not. It is not an event. It is a vibration. A vibration which thanks to her deduction was closer to away than the alternative, or so she thought.
Francis Hanover was often in her garage. There were white strip lights that illuminated the emptiness in between grey breeze blocks. Central to the space was a car. A black car. Black when the lights were off, black when the lights were on. Francis sat there. She considered the night drive. Her and her sister had been close. Frankie laughed. Annabel and Francis were old names. Old laughs about old names erupted. Franny wasn’t old. She felt old. Not in a way she could describe as old. A vagrant boy in India may feel similarly after his sister succumbs to her illness, he holds here as long as is pragmatically viable but knows more than the powerful think he should.
Francis’s husband wanted her to come in from the garage. The car started.

[Anonymous No.7118705]

>>7117951

It''s a little sad. I am using a pencil for historical acc but I would prefer a fountain pen.. and I have mild parkinsonism so I will just have to take my time. I think I will write it in cursive.

Pic is first draft for proof of concept.

[Anonymous No.7119510]

If any sort of divine being exists , it probably doesn't concern itself with the day to day life of any one individual .Managing an entire universe must be more than enough work , even for a god .At least that's what I used to think .But it seemed all celestial affairs , no matter how important , had been put on hold these past few days and all the might of heaven had instead focused on making my life as miserable as possible before ending it in what I expected to be a painful and undignified manner .I could find no other way to explain the streak of bad luck that had brought me to this damp dirty cellar tied to this damp dirty chair with damp dirty ropes which cut into my skin and smelled like someone had sprayed perfume on dead pigs.My two captors were taking a well deserved break from playing all sorts of fun games on my face and body , most of them involving punching and /or kicking One of them , a tall middle aged man in an elegant although somewhat ruffled suit , was telling what he obviously considered to be a very funny story about the time he broke someone's arm while he himself also had a broken arm.The other one was listening intently , occasionaly slapping his knee and making a loud choking noise which I assume is what laughter sounds like when your muscles are so big that they are crushing your esophagus.

[Anonymous No.7119514]

>>7119510
I tried to organize my thoughts and figure out why they had brought me here .This was made considerably more dificult by what I vaguely remebered to be more alcohol than I could actually afford.Bingo?
"Listen , if this is about money ..." and that was all I could mutter before the middle aged man turned around and made a loud disaproving sound.Obviously i had interupted a crucial part of his hilarious anecdote and now I needed to be punished for standing in the way of such comedic gold.
"Ritchie ,break one of his fingers!" Ritchie obliged.I screamed.My brain instantly poped from the shell of alochol that had been numbing my senses up until now and I clearly felt my hand exploding. I yelled and wheezed facing the celing convinced that if I looked down I would see a bloody messy pulp where my hand had once been.
"Hey, look! It's like he's flipping you off in reverse.He's flipping you on!".The comedian struck again.I steeled myself and looked down.My middle finger was bent upwards already swollen and visibly pulsing.I could hear music.
A small well dresed man had entered through the rusted metal door and sounds from the night club above filtered in after him.
"Billy , I thought I told you to do this quietly"He spoke softly and slowly.He obviously didn't need to raise his voice,the other two men had instantly grown silent ,all drooped shoulders and downcast eyes.
"Sorry , we thought..."Billy tried , but the newcomer cut him off.
"It doesn't matter, things have changed.Untie him and bring him upstairs."
Billy and Richie jumped to his command and busied themselves with the ropes.
"And fix that finger! I don't want the others to think he's flipping them off."
Richie grabbed my finger and straightend it. I faintend.

[Anonymous No.7119823]

>>7117951

Don't have a photo but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. It's much neater now. And I even found a stamp that looks like its from the 30s which is only 15 years out.

[Anonymous No.7119833]

;-; this thread is awful

[Anonymous No.7119837]

>>7119514

> money ..."
> down.My
> "Sorry , we thought..."Billy tried ,

What the fuck mate, do you not understand how to use spaces properly?

[Anonymous No.7120853]

>>7117852
I like this one

[Anonymous No.7120910]

The top of his head shone brightly and was picked loosely with ashened hairs that fell to the sides. His face in general had the form, the spell of dishonesty. The low-sitting brow, the obscured lips, oval chin or charging, nose, it was anybody's guess as to what it was that gave me this stone in my belly about him. I couldn't pin it, but the deception sat there, it did. Between two shoulders it did. He hunched, he smelled, his head hung low and he chewed the skin from the inside of his lips and gnawed his cheek all under a single quiver, one jagged fleshy bounce under the shade of his mustache, and so there was never anything specific in it. Just one big, beating lie. I hated him.

[Anonymous No.7121215]

“Get on your hands and knees, you filthy nigger!” Hand bent back behind him, powerless to move without getting it broken off, he did as he was told. “Now, I've told you not to come skulking around here. I've fucking told you! But you do anyway, in the bleak hours of the morning, no less. What's your excuse this time, huh? Taking a shortcut home from work? Getting your baseball back from my garden? I'm sick and tired of your fucking blatant lies, jerome!”

His wrist aches, contorted as far round as it could go without severing nerves. Tears stream down his face, falling onto the forget-me-nots beneath him. He cannot see her face.

“Product of one's environment my ass! This neighbourhood is no fucking ghetto, so why'd you turn out this way? 19 years old, and still acting like a fucking punk-ass kid, trying to commit petty crimes, and failing!” Her grip tightens. “Do you like my TV in there, jerome? 65 inch plasma. Sure, it has some burn-in issues, but the blacks are so crisp! I bet you'd like to take it, wouldn't you? Yeah, I bet you'd love to pry open my window while I'm asleep, then proceed to clumsily fall onto my floor, waking me up, and try to steal my TV. And when I come in there, rifle in hand, instead of surrendering, you'd decide to make the brilliant choice of lunging at me. And then I'd shoot you, jerome. I'd blow your goddamn skull apart.”

“I'd-”, he began to say, as she brought the but of her knife down upon his head with tremendous force. His vision goes blurry. “And then what, jerome? You'd be dead, but I would have defended my property valiantly. I'd call the cops, be compliant, explain everything that happened. But that wouldn't be the end of it, would it? No, I'd be charged with a hate crime! The killing of a minority, even though you porchmonkeys are the fucking majority here. Yes, I'd be hauled off to jail, and you'd be laughing your ass off from beyond the grave. The sassy white girl got what was coming to her for killing my disgraceful, unambitious, unemployed, black ass!”

She grabs his other hand, wraps a plastic restraint around it, and locks both hands in place. “Well, that's not going to happen to me, jerome. I'm not going to this liberal utopia's correctional facility for defending myself, and getting rid of this nation's dead weight. No, I'm staying right where I am. But you're not, jerome.” She begins walking him across the lawn. “You're going someplace special! Someplace new!” Their pace staggers as he tries to brake away. She slices his open palm, grabbing his hair and throwing his head back, bringing his ear an inch from her mouth. “They're not going to find you, jerome. You're going away! You're going away, and nobody will mourn you. Nobody important will care.”

[Anonymous No.7121224]

>>7121215
Behind the old victorian-era home lies two white wooden doors, leading to the cellar. She heaves the boy to the ground, landing him violently on his back, blood staining the ground-level hatch beneath. For the first time this evening, their eyes meet. “Please, miss! Don't kill me! I'm so sorry for trespassing! I'll never do it again if you let me go! Please!” His eyes pour tears, causing his face to glisten from the distant illumination of the streetlamps. He continues to beg while she sifts through her pockets in search of the cellar key. The volume of his pleads never raises above a whisper, out of fear of further mutilation. “I won't tell anyone, honest,” he continues to say, as she brings her boot down upon his chest. “You're not talking your way out of this.”

“Fuck you, white cunt! Get your fucking boot off of me before the brothers lynch your ass! You do realize who you're fucking with, right? You're not going to be able to walk to the grocery store without looking over both shoulders, and it still won't do you any good!” Flames were in his eyes, as his voice raised to a fierce shout. “You're going to regret this! Your kind doesn't do well anymore in court, or on the street! You have no friends!”
She plunges her knife into his throat, silencing his cries. His eyes well up further with tears as she cuts along his neck, blood sputtering up from the growing gash. Desperate gasps for air are made, but to no avail. “I told you, you're not talking your way out of this. In fact, I'd prefer you not talking at all.” Her voice is scratchy. His eyes roll up into his head, his face contorting to some perverted visage of horror and regret. Does he regret, she wonders. Does he care at all? A society so obsessed with diversity and progress produced this creature in front of me, she thought. A cultural and mental regression of all honest virtues and precedents. Morals twisted past the point of any recognizable logic or reason, people exempt of any true freedom to be hurt, to have their ideals and opinions cast aside by their fellow man.

Suburban lights flicker on around the property, heads peering out of the warmth and gazing into the darkness in a vain attempt to locate the noises they heard minutes prior. The cellar door shuts softly as the negro's carcass is dragged down the steep dilapidated steps, down into the murky, vacuous area below. Fluorescent lights line the ceiling above, flickering to life. A confederate flag hangs proudly next to a blazing red and black swastika. Pictures of George Lincoln Rockwell and Malcolm X sit atop a mahogany dresser, beside a leather-bound copy of Paradise Lost.

[Anonymous No.7121227]

>>7119837
He's probably french or something

[Anonymous No.7121231]

>>7121215
>>7121224
The lifeless corpse is heaped upon a metal table in the centre of the room. Various tools of dismemberment are scattered about on an adjacent, smaller wheeled table. Her expression, for the longest time neutral, quickly settles into a sullen scowl. They always say that the first victim is the hardest, but they never address the difficulty should it be an ideological killing that loses it's meaning halfway through. She intended to kill him. It was murder, not self defence. But, she expected to despise the act, despite her reasoning. To her, it had to be done, but she had no intention of enjoying the act of murder as much as she did. In the midst of carving his supple flesh, the ferocity engrossed her, and the principles of her killing were no longer present.

Her hands wrap around her face, gripping tightly to warm blushing cheeks and frayed blonde hair. This was the right thing, she thought. It needed to be done. Nothing done right was ever easy, especially when the odds are against you, and what you value most in life is at stake. Her face wet with tears, she regains her composure, picking up the bone saw, and settling in for the night.

[Anonymous No.7121479]

>>7116489
If someone writes a profound post, yet is ignored, does it still mean such a post was profound?

[Anonymous No.7121490]

>>7112020

>Describing a mood from an insight.
>...while waking up.

top kek. I see your point though.

>saving this list.

[Anonymous No.7121522]

The coroner laughed
The mason cried
There was no crowd
No viewing
Just three halves of a man and a heap of iron
The shadow reached to me and asked,
Where is your humanity?
And I said: My other head is my other head.

[Anonymous No.7121537]

>>7121522

Vagueness can be so profound, but only when the author is clear on what he wants to share.

That's the only "new poem" I've read that's worth a damn, to be honest.

[Anonymous No.7121580]

>>7112020
Where does this fall on the spectrum?

STATELY, PLUMP BUCK MULLIGAN CAME FROM THE STAIRHEAD, BEARING A BOWL OF LATHER ON WHICH A MIRROR AND A RAZOR LAY CROSSED.

[Anonymous No.7121598]

Reading Lolita I wonder what would hurt more, plucking my eyes out or finishing. Can this thing be anything but a hyped thing? I suffer, tedious never meant as much as it does now. That's saying something, any millennial is accustomed to grinding. What was everyone talking about? Sure, I expanded my vocabulary. There were some enjoyable play on words. Nabakov is crazy, though, if he thinks his mundane tale is worth the attention it takes to make sense of his narcissistic self-references. I will finish, on principle, and never trust the authorities again.

[Anonymous No.7121632]

>>7112020
Shit tier novels start with the character waking up? Try In Search of Lost Time. The first couple hundred pages (half of the first volume) take place during the handful of seconds between the narrator waking up and realizing what room he's waking up in. While in between he walks us through the process of his brain recalling the entirety of his human experience as context in order to do so.

A good writer can make anything profound.

[Anonymous No.7121646]

>>7112544
I'll be blunt with you, the content is crap. Grammar and structure pretty sloppy too. Keep writing. Read more. Expand your pool of authors. You clearly need more to draw from than this (again, being blunt) schlock.

[Anonymous No.7121662]

>>7121632

>"What's the secret word of the day?"
>PROFOUND.

Oh god. Serves me right though for using it twice. Sufficent for an image board though.

Anyway.

I actually think "Waking up" isn't a universalized description. It's is most common form, but I think there are other versions just as cringeworthy.

>Shit Tier = Nothing happens?

[Anonymous No.7121682]

Just finished writing this thing
http://pastebin.com/jyAzQZrb

Tell me why it's shit

[Anonymous No.7121699]

>>7121682

I get it. She's angry. That could've been compressed down to one paragraph.

Also. There are alot of things she is angry about. But a theme isn't established. Where is this going? What is the author trying to say?

When describing emotions, what's important is to alternate views if the emotions themselves are static. One can take a character's feeling, and evaluate it in several ways. Preachers do this to great effect.

Also. Don't let "features" of a plot count as progress. The writer from True Detective made that mistake, when he kept adding to the plot without changing the emotional stances of the characters.

Only when characters REACT to the plot, does that actually count as progress.

I find the prose fine.

>Pic related.
>Best advice you could ever get writing fiction.

[Anonymous No.7121723]

>>7111611
this sort of cute cynical faux-joke style makes me almost.. angry

[Anonymous No.7121726]

>>7111611
>That’s right, my grand scheme, the one that I’d given almost two minutes of thought, it failed.

why are you writing about this? what would interest the reader? "haha i don't care, this story is of no concequence aren't I great and funny?!"

just stop

[Anonymous No.7121741]

>>7121699
She is going to beat someone because fondling brass knuckles fills her with something relatable with lust. She anticipates satisfaction she has never felt before by actually using them, perhaps one that would fill the void of her barren womb and nonexistent lovelife.

I assume I didn't make that evident. Perhaps if I gave her a bat and wrote that she went out clubbing, it'd be plain as day.

[Anonymous No.7121877]

I never believed in love at first sight, hell I had never believed in love altogether. It was foreign to me. The "love you"s and "you too"s I'd sounded all my life meant nothing. I never could recognize what I lacked in myself, there was nothing, in fact there could never be anything to compare it to. My experience is private. But my self-transparency had been shattered the moment I saw her. I simultaenously realized what I never felt through feeling it. She was something other. As if natural selection had been guided toward aestheticism by the men chasing beauty. Are things beautiful because evolution has instilled in us feelings of beauty when presented with a mating opportunity? Is it nothing but gene competition? Or is beauty transcendental, and we find things beautiful because they are? Women have been selected by males over the generages for their beauty, resulting in something of transcendental aestheticism.

She wasn't something to fuck, she wasn't a mating opportunity. She hadn't even mensturated yet. And yet she awoke in me something I never knew existed. Sexual physical romantic desire, possession. I wanted, no I craved, I must have her. She was to be mine. Her parents didn't deserve her, wrangling around their "snot-nosed brat" the stupid cunts wouldn't know a good thing if it came in their ass. Fuck. Sex, it's on my brain. The buddha said desire is suffering, to dissolve desire and reach tranquility. Here I am high on meth, that bald head chink shit is not for me. She is.

So I took her, and her screams were muffled and her tears wiped and her tears bled as her hymen ripped and she screamed and begged and I came and I panicked. Did you know a human body, using a suitable accelerant, when placed upon a spare tire can turn a body to teeth crumpled bones and ash in less than 5 hours? Less for a 5 year old. She was gone and yet she was mine. I had her and I have her and I fucked her and I loved her and nobody can ever take that away from me.

They say the first haunts you the most, but it's a lie. It's the first I seek, I want it again, like a hit of crack. I want that high so I fiend, hit, withdraw fiend and hit again. I've tossed 7 so far, like jack tissues, like trash. It's beautiful to destroy. Transcendental.

[Anonymous No.7121883]

This is the first sentence. Here's the second, and next the third. This is it. In the most basic sense of the phrase, I don't care.

[Anonymous No.7121950]

“We’re going to need a name for her,” she said as I looked over two models of baby monitors online, comparing prices and features.
“What’s that?”
“A name. Kids need names, you know?” It was one of the first times she consulted me in a decision concerning you, and I do think it may have been my biggest contribution to your being other than my DNA.
“How about Sarah,” I said, half paying attention.
“I don’t know how I feel about biblical names,” she said. I shrugged, and continued scrolling through the webpage before me.
“But I do kind of like Sarah. It has a sort of… calming ring to it. Sounds very non-threatening, which is very important when it comes to names. Yeah, I think I like it.” She nodded her head, and from then on, your name was set. Once again, it became harder for me to deny you. Now you had a name. Sarah. It was the title to all of the horrible feelings that had resonated within me for the past few months. Sarah. Now I could direct my anger and my frustration to a singular entity, and now that entity could haunt me even further.
And haunt me you did, my little honey bear. Just the thought of you was enough to keep me up at night, twisting and turning and dreading imagined future scenarios. I felt as though the many lies that I had been living, both concerning your mother and our relationship, and the private ones that I saved for myself, had now physically manifested itself into a human embryo. And now that embryo was growing, maturing, becoming complete. At points in my life I could convince your mother that we were happy, and convince myself that I was a person who, while not too strong and not too smart, was brave and honest and good. But could you swallow those lies with such ease? Could I trick my own daughter into thinking that I was worthwhile?

[Anonymous No.7121974]

>>7117307
>>7121646
Ouch
The content is true. I've always loved sociopathic monologues and that's my own; thinking I was interesting enough to do a monologue about nothing
I'll never do something like that again

[Anonymous No.7121995]

The first paragraph of a short story I'm writing. Do your worst.

After my sister Karla died in September, I was left to myself in the apartment every night. My parents worked nights and would arrive home at sunrise, only to sleep during the day while I was at school and until they departed for their shifts again later in the evening. My mother was a night custodian at LaGuardia Airport and my father drove a van delivering bread in Jersey City. Shortly after Karla’s death, my mother, aggrieved, burned all photographs bearing my sister’s image over the stove. She was soon after the videotapes, which were home-movies my father had made when my sister and I were small girls, but before she could get her hands on them my father hid them away under the pretense of having destroyed them. Afterwards all mention of the tapes and Karla soon disappeared in our household. Two months later on one of these nights alone I found my father’s old VCR and the videotapes behind his tool-box in the overhead shelf of his private closet, all wrapped in a trash-bag. My father would keep the closet-door padlocked but he had forgotten the key still inserted into the lock before he left. I hid the bag in my bedroom for a few weeks until the early days of December when, feeling assured that my nights would be spent alone in the apartment without running the risk of my parents, particularly my mother, coming home at those late hours, I brought the videotapes from their hiding place and set up the VCR in the living room, and almost every night I watched the footages, the television screen suffusing my mesmerized face—I’d catch a glance at the mirror nearby—and the small reaches of the dark room with pale light.

[Anonymous No.7122044]

>>7121995

Two things I'm not a fan of, although this has to do with preferences only, is the first first person narration and just unloading information on reader straight up instead of conveying it through actions or letting it naturally unveil itself. I like it when authors explain things without you understanding that the author is telling you things, rather that the story itself is telling you things, it makes books more immersive in my opinion, forgetting that the author is even there. As I said though, this is just my opinion.

Also:

> but he had forgotten the key still inserted into the lock before he lef

How does the character know for a certainty that his father had forgotten it there, to me it would flare more imagination in the reader if you imply that he must've forgotten it or perhaps he'd forgotten it. Makes the reader think of scenarios on their own, it also stops you from questioning how the protagonist knew something like that so surely.

[Anonymous No.7122055]

>>7122044
I see what you mean. This is my attempt to write in a style influenced by Joyce's short stories, so I do understand how that the point of view could be jarring since the narrator (if I'm doing it right) is telling the story at a later age looking back, similarly to Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby. The first paragraph serves to frontload information that won't be touched upon in the main parts of the story where the narrator begins to remember back to when her sister was alive.

I absolutely agree about your second point. Thanks.

[Anonymous No.7122056]

>>7121995
>>7122044

But the premise seemed interesting, so keep at it mate, it'll probably turn out well.

[Anonymous No.7122089]

>>7121974
>>7121974
>>7121974
I rewrote it
Please tell me what you think

I remember when I had my ex over. I was living in a dingy warehouse filled with tools and old crap (and a lot of quasi interesting artwork); living in a “rat’s nest”, sleeping on a couch cushion that because of my sweat had a little mold growing on the wicker mat underneath. I told her about how I wanted to brainwash people; described how I could have them in cages in the warehouse, mentioned funny nuiances, mentioned my friend that no one would miss. Probably coming to the realization of what I am with the context of my living situation she told me that she wasn’t attracted to me anymore and I laughed. She quickly forgot. I’m watching the movie Frank and it’s an interesting commentary on what art is - Tao Lin says it’s subjective; DFW says It’s difficult. Without offering an alternative I think that both of these are copouts; I can only assume it reflects life and so art must come from some great struggle.

[Anonymous No.7122093]

The last time I was in jail the other whites were all teakers that seemed to know eachother. Yelling at my mom to tell my girlfriend at the time to go to the police station and retract her statement in the hopes I’d get out quicker, I broke the already broken phone; this was after a warning on the phone’s delicacy. People were angry; I was mildly afraid but aggressive in that it wasn’t my yelling that broke the thing; someone told me that I was different and that especially the younger guys already wanted to hurt me because I was different, and to basically look good. I realized that not only was this guy a lying bitch (I sensed a want to get to know me from the guys my age) but that I could, if I wanted to, thrive in this environment. A year before I had seen one of the popular younger tweakers there, though he didn’t look it at the time, in the psychiatric hospital I was committed in (over a girl). He had seen me beat the fuck out of someone, the third time I had done so, before I was moved to another unit and I doubted he had thoughts of making an example out of me. People are generally the same everywhere you go but the intricacies involved in actually connecting to people - who’s epitome is personified, to me, in women - is an art that because of my mental condition I’ve never had much luck in. Before this stint in jail I had hit the girlfriend that was supporting me at the time, but it was different; I never cared and was hungrily seeking how far I could take a general destruction of environment. I never cared until I did. Until I introduced her to my mom; got complacent in her care; my mental condition gave way to an obsession that she might want to fuck other men - no longer in an empowering way that ultimately led her to say ‘but you are crazy’ with an affectionate sadness after I quote that song and ask her if she’d still call me superman, but in a desperate way that made me unattractive and fearful. Art must be a love of oneself that gives a Dionysian affect of not giving a fuck. Or maybe just an ability to get close and not be so fucked up.

[Anonymous No.7122098]

>>7122093
You want to know real raw and aggressive prose? Try James Baldwin's stories.

[Anonymous No.7122175]

>>7122098
I'm mostly looking for a template rather than some else's journey (finishing an irrelevant non fic tomorrow and starting Bed; I want relevancy and think sensationalism is important)
But I think it's necessary to read this guy very soon so thanks

[Anonymous No.7122200]

Als ich Michaels Wohnung verließ war ich voll im Eck.
"Du fährst eh nicht Augustin, gell? Du baust sonst fix einen Unfall.", kann ich mich noch an seine Worte erinnern. Vor seinem Wohnblock torkelte ich also über den Bürgersteig und lehnte mich an eine Wand um nicht das Gleichgewicht zu verlieren. Ich dachte mir "Was soll's?" und beschloss trotzdem zu fahren. Mein Moped konnte ich leicht finden, es war neben einen Laternenmast geparkt und stand in der orangen Aura nächtlicher Straßenbeleuchtung.
Ich merkte schnell, dass ich mir mit dem Fahren gar nicht allzu schwer tat, und war plötzlich gelaunt für eine nächtliche Spritztour. Es war halb Fünf, allerdings im November, deswegen schien noch keine Sonne und die teilweise beleuchteten Fassaden der Hochhäuser Wiens überragten den Horizont als ich Richtung Donauinsel düste.
Auf der Insel wollte ich eben eine einladende Gerade angehen, wurde aber von einem blauen Licht erschreckt. Ich drehte mich um, konnte aber die Quelle dieser Erscheinung nicht ausfindig machen, da mir Bäume und Gebüsch die Sicht versperrten. Sicher war nur, es kam näher und machte Geräusche, die genauso gut von einem Motor wie von einem wilden Tier hätten stammen können. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt war ich immer noch verdammt dicht also versetzte das ganze mich in Angst. "Polizei!", dachte ich mir und "Geister!", dachte ich mir und blöd wie ich war beschloss ich Vollgas zu geben. Mit gut achtzig Kilometern in der Stunde, während ich von allen Seiten von herbstlichen Winböen ausgepeitscht wurde, war ich auf der Flucht.
Mit großem Entsetzen stellte ich fest, dass das Licht begann aufzuholen. Ich versuchte aus meiner Maschine herauszuholen was nur möglich war aber mein Vorsprung wurde immer geringer. Es war jetzt direkt hinter mir, irrsinnig Hell und irrsinnig laut, klang wie Polizeisirenen und Höllenhunde. Auf einmal spürte ich nur noch einen Ruck, wie den einer Vollbremsung, und alles war Blau.

[Anonymous No.7122203]

>>7122200
Ich wachte auf, an einem nicht ganz identifizierbaren Ort, womöglich einer Grube irgendwo auf der Donauinsel. Zwar lag ich bequem aber ich war eingenebelt von einem fürchterlichen Gestank. Das lag vermutlich an dem komatösen Obdachlosen, Schnapsflasche inklusive, unter mir, und über die blasse Gestalt neben mir, mit der Spritze im Arm, wollte ich mir erstmal gar keine Gedanken machen. Noch wusste ich nicht so recht, wie ich nun mit dieser Situaion umgehen wollte, da erschien eine Kreatur vor mir, bei der es sich eigentlich nur um den Tod gehandelt haben kann. Ich rede von einem Skelett, in einer abgetragenen schwarzen Robe, dem kleine blaue Flammen aus den Augenhöhlen leuchteten.
Ich sagte: "Ich nehme an, ich hatte einen Unfall?" und der Tod bejahte. Ich wollte auch wissen warum er wirklich aussah wie in den Sagen und Klischees, aber darauf fragte er mich nur ob ich glaube, dies sei der rechte Zeitpunkt für eine derartige Diskussion. Irgendetwas, vielleicht die Tatsache, dass die anderen Sterbekandidaten bewusstlos waren, und ich noch stehen konnte, veranlasste mich, die Hoffnung nicht aufzugeben. Ich nahm also all meinen Mut zusammen und forderte den Tod heraus zu einem Spiel um mein Leben. Dieser schien etwas überrascht, doch nicht im mindesten verunsichert und fragte mich, in was wir uns denn messen würden. Viele Talente habe ich ja nie besessen, aber das Spielen auf der Geige beherrsche ich, und deshalb entschied ich mich für einen musikalischen Wettstreit.

[Anonymous No.7122205]

>>7122203
Mit einem Fingerschnippsen beschwor der Tod zwei Geigen aus dem Nichts. Er reichte mir eine, die ich als ich sie betrachtete sogar als meine eigene erkannte, und einen Moment später begannen wir zu spielen. Es war eine heftiges improvisiertes Stück, natürlich weniger Duett als Duell. Zwei Stunden lang spielte ich durchgehend, und ich war bereits kurz davor zu einem schwitzenden Häufchen Elend zusammzubrechen, als der Tod mit einem Ruf der Entrüstung aufgab.
Wieder erlebte ich ein Erwachen und diesmal fand ich mich am Ufer der Donauinsel wieder, knapp einen Meter vom Wasser entfernt. Ich hatte einen schlimmen Kater und Schmerzen im ganzen Körper, musste mich wieder orientieren. Mein Moped lag zerkratzt auf der Straße aber ich war am Leben, wunderte mich, freute mich, und sah mir den Sonnenaufgang an.

[Anonymous No.7122500]

>>7122089
I've seen your posts so many times. Please leave, you're horrible and you need psychological help.

[Anonymous No.7122567]

It is an incredible feeling. The warmth that comes after is almost addictive. I feel like I’m in control, like I’m no longer playing god in my head but rather I am god. I never thought taking a man’s life would do this to me. I needed more and back then it was easier. With technology growing it’s like we are always being watched. So my current exploits have to be carefully planned. Even years in advance.

It started when I was a college student at the University of Massachusetts. I was in school for Art Therapy. I always loved how simply drawing a picture could heal someone. It seemed like t0he life I wanted. I was an Intern for Dr. Drecowski, the head of the psychology department. He had me meet with student to help them work through their problems. One man in particular intrigued me, Matthew Harlow.

Matthew was a hard working kid but he had a problem expressing himself. He always seemed like he was in a funk. Every time we met he would refuse to draw for me, even refusing to talk some days. Finally he opened up and began to tell me he felt like life was slipping from him and he needed to end it. Obviously I talked him down every time, telling him it would get better. But that changed on the eleventh day of October in 1998. He came into my room and was visibly shaken. IT had been about a week since our last meeting, where he seemed relatively okay.

He sat down and told me of his woes. How he was no longer sleeping and every time he closed his eyes he saw it, his death. I handed him a sketchpad and a pencil and asked him to show me what he meant. I sat quietly as he moved the pencil with lightning speed. Within a few minutes he threw the drawing to me. IT was horrifying, I felt sick to my stomach looking at it, but in a way it was beautiful. Matthew knew exactly how he was going to go. Suddenly my mind was drifting to the moment that life left his body, his sobbing in the chair across from me made no impact on my thoughts. I tried to calm him down and eventually our session ended. I laid awake that night and thought about him, thought about how he was going to die. I thought about how I could help him, by bringing him there sooner.

[Anonymous No.7122590]

hot vein-engulfed spicules pools
her scientific match becomes
a deadening clam on the backburner
counter-clockwise and rigid
canned fish again, dear

[Anonymous No.7122607]

Fantasy incoming:

It was the Seeding Moon when we first set out across the Eastern Sea. The land my family has worked for generations was fresh and welcoming after the winter, and our ploughs turned the black earth with ease as snowfalls gave way to mists of rain from over the mountainside. This was not my future though, nor was it for many others as it would seem, when the Oracle told of another land across those dark waters. Make no mistake, we loved our homeland every man. The green, rolling pastures that raised our livestock and our children was the only home we ever knew. The tall forests held the memories of our childhoods and the calling of the birds, where we would run with the wild until the ebbing sun sent us home. So too did the cold, countless lakes of my land welcome you into their icy grip, a much welcome embrace on a summer’s afternoon. Above all stood the mountains to the west. Infinite and icy they stood as a sheer wall of rock, and here they took their silent vigil over the land of my countrymen, caring little for what went on below.

[Anonymous No.7122616]

>>7122607
I don't usually read fantasy but this seems promsing. Can't give you much feedback though, except that I subjectively enjoyed it.

[Anonymous No.7122622]

>>7122616
Thanks! Just reading through it myself I already see a few things I need to fix (using welcome twice in the same sentence for one thing)

[Anonymous No.7122667]

>>7122200
>>7122203
>>7122205
German/10 would stare blankly again

[Anonymous No.7122696]

>>7122667
Your reply is humorous and captures my reaction to those posts perfectly. I too stared blankly at the text, and marveled at how weird the text arranged itself and how it differed from english. Much less homogeneity, much more irregularities with all those capitalized letters, lots of 3lettered words, mixed with contrastingly longish compound? ones.

In short, a keen perceptive and well-timed review
Congrats

[Anonymous No.7122697]

>>7122696
T-thanks.. Read this one >>7122607

[Anonymous No.7122713]

>>7122696
>>7122667
At least ein few Antworten

[Anonymous No.7122733]

>>7122696
>>7122667
Also, as Hegel said, German is the organ of languages.

[Anonymous No.7122785]

>>7122607

>It was the Seeding Moon
The Seeding Moon it was

>This was not my future though,
But this was not my future,

>The land my family has worked for generations was fresh and welcoming after the winter
My family's land, worked throughout generations, was fresh and welcoming after the winter

>and our ploughs turned the black earth with ease as snowfalls gave way to mists of rain from over the mountainside.
and as snowfalls gave way to mists of rain, from over the mountainside, our ploughs turned the black earth with ease.

>was the only home we ever knew.
were ( ? ) the only home we ever knew.

>Infinite and icy they stood as a sheer wall of rock
They stood infinite and icy as a sheer wall of rock

but I like the "content" and I like nature, and anything relating to it shines a pleasant light, so just keep doing your stuff and posting please

[Anonymous No.7122796]

>>7122785
Thanks lad

[Anonymous No.7122799]

>>7122785
how are those sentences hard to read

[Anonymous No.7122805]

>>7122733
is that good or bad?

[Anonymous No.7122822]

>>7122805
German is my mother's tongue, so I'm probably biased, but I'd say generally good. There are just so many possibilities for combinations and structures.
Although it depends on the style of course. Thompson and Burroughs for example just work way bether in english.

[Anonymous No.7122830]

>>7122733
wait a sec Hegel was deutsch tho, u hack

[Anonymous No.7122834]

>>7121632
that's an exception for literally all the reasons you just explained, a character waking up is never going to be as monumental an opening as that

it's not only that he's a good writer but the story without that would've taken a hit

[Anonymous No.7122840]

>>7122830
Oh nein, he is onto uns. Hermann cut deine connection.

[Anonymous No.7122847]

>>7112544

I liked it.

[Anonymous No.7122855]

please someone review my writing how will i ever get better

[Anonymous No.7122862]

>>7122855
how many people did you crit? HUH!?

[Anonymous No.7123146]

>>7122862
so fucking many actually
its been the most depressing critique thread of my life

[Anonymous No.7123263]

>>7122822
i agree, but i feel like it's a very ugly language.

[Anonymous No.7123404]

>>7123146
ikr
maybe our Voice Of The Generation is lurking, awaiting a time to speak and post and rescue this thread so
bump

[Anonymous No.7123618]

>>7121479
Did you find it profound?

But, I assume it isn't profound. I mean (not to do a pretentious name-drop) De Tocqueville thought that people believe that if something is popular or given attention then it must be good or have value. I suppose that is the nature of critique threads on /lit/.

[Anonymous No.7123645]

>>7123618
Sometimes I don't reply to posts I like and even maybe screencap them because I can't think of a way to add anything to it

[Anonymous No.7123666]

>>7114984

Good

[Anonymous No.7123742]

>>7122567

What's your aim for this? What's the story you are going to tell me? It doesn't seem like you really know because it's a mess at the moment.

Try not to be vague unless you are certain it is working. The first paragraph just doesn't work for me because I don't know who is talking and it's not original. The whole thing just needs some life in it. Some color. Some interesting detail. Think of this sentence:

>It started when I was a college student at the University of Massachusetts. I was in school for Art Therapy. I always loved how simply drawing a picture could heal someone.

You could tell us so much about the character here but you tell us nothing instead. So I don't care. Does he like being there? What's the character of the place? Why is he so fucking boring?

Those two things are what you need to evolve to make compelling writing. On a smaller note. Ditch some of the fancier words, they're doing you no favors. Also shake up the sentence length. Reads like a telegram at the moment.

[Anonymous No.7123757]

A Humble and Sincere Apology for Blowing Up the World and Killing Everything on It, Every Fish, Rock and Tree

“It was an accident.” I’m sure, ladies and gentlemen, that that is what you’ve presupposed I would say. “I didn’t mean to,” or “I did it the throws of passion,” and “Please forgive me.” Would it relieve you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, to know that that is not part of my defense? That I can confirm I knew full well what I was doing the moment I shifted my weight onto the proverbial plunger of that blast detonator, and did so not under the influence of any psychoactive agent, and without the help of any diagnosable mental deficit? Would you believe me if I said I only did it out of love? My fair young misters and mistresses you must! For love is the only force that could ever drive a man to such extreme measures, given he knows what he did was right, which, if I may add, I do.
My beautiful brides and grooms, I am not a passionate man. Lust has never been in my nature, as is the case with the majority of second-rate men such as myself. Ah, but Lust’s odious corruption, her blind, retarded stepsister Love, well, I’ve always been prone to that. The very moment my hitherto unsoiled eyes were met with the bouncing, the caress of gym shorts on her buttocks, the perforated tank tops on her budding breasts, the scent of the sweat which clung them to her 8th grade anatomy, I knew I could not possess her, that playful, neotenic Lust. Once a boy comes to terms with this, he must settle for her crippled, inbred sister, and I fell right into the gaping wound between Love’s bruised and battered legs, and she kept me there, writhing and suffocating in her womb.
Kittycats and puppydogs please listen to me! I was waiting for a bus, a bus that never came. Inside the bus were all manner of individuals, but what they held in common was the state of being all beautiful and always having sex. And so I sat, or stood, stranded in this wasteland, waiting for that bus for what seemed an eternity, until I realized something so dire, so distressing, that not even copious cigarettes and pornography from the nearby convenience store could calm my nerves. The passengers had been born on the bus! Whilst I was being c-sectioned in a local hospital from the quivering abdomen of a woman not designed to give birth, the passengers were birthing and dying in perpetual ecstasy, no doubt very young and beautiful in both instances. What was I to do?
Well, my little cupcakes and studmuffins, what I did was, I found a computer. In a nearby cyber-café there was a desk and chair with my name on them, and I plugged in. For a while things were even okay. I found a community of people like me, who had not been born on the bus, and we talked about things only those whom did not know of its sex-reeking interior could talk about.

(cont.)

[Anonymous No.7123891]

Emma sits adjacent, Megan opposite. The former wears a loose t-shirt, the latter is objectively more attractive than the former. There’s a right-angled point, that’s me. Affecting an accent, joking. Demonstrating a point. They both laugh. Megan with sincerity, Emma with a sort of self-conscious, confused delay. It’s foreign, to me. There are mirrors on the wall, opposite. I glance routinely, judicially. Engaging Emma in the conversation is difficult. I’m trying, most definitely trying. Briefly averting my gaze to her throughout the given anecdote. You're there. She wants in, I think. Caramel nachos are ordered. Semi-ironically, semi-curiously. Megan questions my actual speaking voice. I laugh. Then a negating witticism. There’s an uncomfortable shift somewhere. Barely felt, it’s nothing. Her boyfriend’s friends do a lot of drugs, Megan tells me. I tell her about the time I did acid. When she asks I tell her that I was too high to remember how it all felt. I don’t have hallucinations. She’s going soon. The caramel nachos are a let-down. Nachos, simply with caramel powder and onions. Where’s the novelty? That is the topic of conversation for five minutes. Megan leaves. Objectively was the key word, you understand. Emma is not unattractive. She’s very hot. No boy has ever called her beautiful. If they have, they didn’t mean it. A slight butterface. An Instagram account with a lot of followers. The semi-nude Snapchat screenshot. An interest in “beat generation” poetry. An embarrassed sexual history. I’m self-conscious of my speaking voice.

[Anonymous No.7124215]

The almost dreamlike glow of red draped across the room; accompanied by a sound resembling screaming children trapped in a deep crevice. Actual children grabbed onto each other, as if holding tighter would result in increase safety. Their caretaker, a young girl herself, perhaps only in her early twenties, tried to keep the young ones at peace via song and story. Still both students and teacher knew that these distractions served only as a candle in a wild snow storm, something that may be convenient for a while, but could never withstand the winds for more than an hour or two. The most terrible part of this tragic picture lay in the fact that the glow and raging sounds only increased as time passed. Foot steps rang throughout the building, starting as soft patters, eventually rivaling the apocalypse outside. The classroom's door fell within the first few thuds against it allowing strangers to enter unopposed. Two men in quasi-military uniform armed with rifles jogged into the room, both looking over the children and their instructor.
“Hello comrades” the school teacher feebly said in a weak voice.
“You part of the cause?” One of the men asked.
“These are intelligentsia, correct?” The other man in red said gesturing towards the children.
“Well no, these pupils are part of the new government's education program. They are simple poor boys and girls, attempting to gain an education equal to the bourgeoisie.”
“We don't need equal, we will have better. But anyways do you have any documentation?”
“Umm, well I don't have anything official. No one really has anything official anymore anyways.” The school teacher cringed after she read the two faces, realizing that the half-joke was not taken well.
“No, that will not do. These bourgeois will be taken to the local court and held until they can be identified.”
The teacher lost her breath for just a moment, almost about to protest. But her wits stopped her, she had nether the will, or withstanding to put up a resistance.
“Yes comrades.”
“Oh, and we will need to have you identified to. We know it is inconvenient, but we must make sure that you are legitimate, you understand?”
She snapped, she begged and began to plead for herself and the children. The latter being more of a placeholder than a definite foundation of her argument against the two men. The fire and sound grew more intense, almost egged on my the instructor's passionate fight.

[Anonymous No.7125117]

>A Dramatic Pictorial Reading of "Tarantino and Uma Thurman Dancing on the Red Carpet" WEBM.
>(a study on pot, poetry, photography and paranoia in caps lock)

SERIOUSLY GUYS

TARANTINO AND UMA DANCING ON THE RED CARPET
BUT FROM INSIDE THIS HELLISH CONTEXT, HE BREAKS A SMALL SOCIAL BODY MOVEMENT RULE AND DANCED IN A VERY TRUE WAY FROM HIS OWN AND BROUGHT THE HONEY QUEEN FROM THE CROWD TO HAVE A TRUE SPONTANEOUS LAUGH

ALL ELSE IS, OTHERWISE, ORCHESTRATED

LOOK AT THE GUYS ON THE LEFT

A NEW GUY EMERGES FROM BEHIND, GRABS EVERYONE'S BUTTS, STOPS AT JASON STATHAM, WHISPERS SOME SHIT, BUT JASON DOESN'T LET HIM GO

LOOK AT BRIDGET JONES OR WHOEVER THAT GIRL IS

SMACKING FER FACE, PULLING IT IN FROM THE ANUS, TRYING TO BREAK THROUGH THE CROWD ON A LINE AFTER AN HOUR MOVING AT 1 STEP PER MINUTE UNDER THE HARD LIGHT OF THE SUN AND A THOUSAND MORE FLASHES, BOSSING THE FUCKING NOBODY GIRL WITH THE CURLY HAIR.

LOOK AT FUCKING JOHN TRAVOLTA THERE

HE TAKES THE CAKE

ALMOST JOINING IN BUT NOT KNOWING IF IT IS THE RIGHT TIME, BREAKING HIS OWN TENSION BY JUST POINTING AND POKING HIS REAL BOYFRIEND IN FRONT OF HIS DATE
(HIS DATE IS PRIORITY NUMBER 4 THERE AND REALLY HATES BEING IN THERE)
I CAN ONLY IMAGINE HOW HIGH THEY ARE FROM THE PILLS AND THE COKE AND THE JOINT, THEIR LIGHT MAKE-UP WARM AND DRY UPON THEIR FLESH, STUCK INSIDE BLACK SUITS, JOHN CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE, BUT HE THINKS HE CAN, SO HE IS ALWAYS CLUMSY RIDICULOUS LIKE THIS,
"LOOK THERE, HUH, LOOK, I DANCE UMA, QT DANCE UMA, FUNNY, HAHA I'M TOTALLY INTO THIS RIGHT NOW"

THE WHOLE BUNCH OF MAFIOSOS TO THE SIDE, THE LITTLE IMPATIENT MAN, EAGER TO START TALKING ABOUT BUSINESS ON THESE PAWNS AROUND HIM NOT EVEN KNOWING WHO THE FUCK THEIR OWN BOSSES ARE. HE LOOKS DOWN, SCRATCH EAR, SMACK LIPS, TRAVOLTA'S BOYFRIEND GENUINELY LIKES BEING THERE AND DOESN'T GIVE A FUCK EITHER WAY, HE IS THE ONE WITH ALL THE POWER TO WANDER AROUND THIS CELEBRITY MADNESS, LIKE BEING THE ONLY TALL MAN IN A TOWN OF MIDGETS

THE CHERRY IS THE PHOTOGRAPHER

GLAD HE MADE SOME BUCKS FROM THE PICS IN THIS COVER

[Anonymous No.7125786]

>>7111540
>Death Watch tier

>>7111593
>>7111611
This is a weird and strange style, but it is unique. The writing itself is tone deaf and it flows like pudding. However I would abandon the first person view entirely until you've got third person down. Only pursue first person if you have a sincerely great character's voice to tell it, not something that more than 1% of the population has done. Always remember an audience wants to be entertained, not re-told their life.

>>7111617
This is some of the worst prose I have ever read, I am not lying and I've been in critique threads for years. Learn to space your work out, bricking is never a good idea, much the same in music production.

>>7111785
Reads like a modern Joyce, really enjoyed it

>>7111869
You over use hyphens way too much, over all of your descriptions are vivid and on point. You have a weak start and most of the story flow is sort of slow, however in full form I believe that it'll go off fine.

On to the bottom
>>7123891
Don't try so hard for the love of god, if you're making a point you need to make it immediately, then elaborate the point, not bumble around and scare away potential readers.

>>7122567
Should start in with 'Matthew was a hard working kid,' then work in the other details, or separate it with a prologue with way more detail than the two paragraphs.


http://pastebin.com/Ehnrx2vd
There's probably a mis-spelling or an odd sentence here or there, only did one read through to fix major errors.

[Anonymous No.7125897]

Life has no meaning. I hate most people and those that I do not hate I can only tolerate. I think I used to be normal but somewhere along the way I stumbled off the path and never found my way back. Now I’m hopelessly lost amid the miasma of my own thoughts. I can’t make out in this dense fog the light I should be reaching for. I’m alone. I’ve always been alone. Nobody can connect; nobody even tries. Everybody else is fully caught up in their own stories. Full of beautiful people and beautiful sights rimmed with beautiful memories and beautiful feelings. I am left with a story of my own creation. It is ugly, rancid. It resonates a twisted melody. The highs and the lows contort in the air and pierce the ears with a sharp pain. It is disgusting to look upon. All who see it revel at its homely majesty. It is a spectacle; a side-show attraction that demands the tepid gaze of all those who dare to look upon it. On its face reads misery. On its spine reads despair. It is hunched with the burden of existence. Nothing is easy. Nothing is happy. Nothing is good. All that there is within its crinkled pages is an indecipherable message of black. It covers the page from bottom to end. It reads no words yet it speaks of the soothing oblivion yearned by all those born out of the sight of God. It is nothing but a malformed monster, sickly and timid, unready for the world. I am the beast from which born is this horrible book. A read so boring most wouldn’t bother. By the first flutter of my eyes I am to bear upon my shoulders the yoke of being; cursed with the Sisyphean task of mechanical motion, shuffling along, blinking in and out of meaning. Lost and afraid I am alone. There’s nothing in this world for me.

[Anonymous No.7125907]

Nothing can grow here; nothing can survive here. There is no more wilderness—even to find a mortal panther stalking in these reaches would be cause for tearful celebrations.

But there are no more panthers. There is not even the wilderness that could have once accommodated them—not here, or anywhere else.

Not to the ends of the earth.

[Anonymous No.7125913]

>>7125897
>Full of beautiful people and beautiful sights rimmed with beautiful memories and beautiful feelings.

keep going this way and don't overdo it, even if it comes natural

[Anonymous No.7125915]

>>7124215
awful.
just awful.
Stop trying to be clever.
Stop trying to be "artistic"
and just give me the fucking scene.

The first sentence needs to orient the reader just as much as it needs to capture their attention.
Yours did neither.

[Anonymous No.7125917]

>>7125897
you can't be serious.
Look at how many redundancies you've got in here.
>Alone.
>Always alone.
>No one connects.
All basically the same thing.

Stop trying to be clever.
Tell me something.
Then tell me something else.

Do not just sit and tell me the same thing over and over.

[Anonymous No.7125919]

>>7125913
>keep going this way and don't overdo it, even if it comes natural
I'm not sure what you mean

[Anonymous No.7125923]

>>7125919
I mean even if it comes naturally, it's still possible to overdo it and write old timey even if that's how you naturally think

[Anonymous No.7125932]

>>7125907
I don't like how you're repeating "There is no wilderness" twice, but it's alright otherwise. I'd continue reading on.

[Anonymous No.7126107]

>>7111593
>I once pastured the clarinet for seven years.
Kek. Stopped reading there.

[Anonymous No.7126116]

a paragraph from a story im working on

In the office sat his dad and a wide wooden desk with the principal on the other side. Next to his dad was a chair for him and a chair for Mrs. Terov. He was not informed of what the meeting concerned; he had recieved concise instructions from Mrs. Carls to report here before afternoon recess. Her crickety voice clarified: you are not in trouble. The reservation he felt at those words now filled him meeting eyes with his father, smiling in his scrubs, and principal Dellinger with his large jowls. He did not smile. Mrs. Terov pulled the seat next to his dad. Tom sat down at her invitation. Thier aged faces, the knotted desk, all the medals decorating the office made Allen's idea of ditching this for Spaceman Spiff echo in his head, and he lamented his sensibility.

[Anonymous No.7126150]

>>7125786

>>7125786
>"Don't try so hard for the love of god, if you're making a point you need to make it immediately, then elaborate the point, not bumble around and scare away potential readers."

Somewhat confused, albeit maybe I'm being obtuse. Wouldn't this advice put someome like Raymond Carver out of his job?

Mine is the Megan/Emma one. Would you mind elaborating on what you're getting at?

[Anonymous No.7126151]

>>7126116
I cant tell you how many of these critique threads have this exact scene

[Anonymous No.7126153]

My parents are worried about me, because I sit alone all day in my bedroom, naked. Only wearing a cock ring. Out of a tree I came to understand myself. I put my palm to its wood and felt its pulse echo through me. All at once we be-came one.. and for a moment I lived for an eternity.

[Anonymous No.7126187]

does /crit/ accept script dialogue?

[Anonymous No.7126193]

>>7126187
if it's good, otherwise the excuse of not /lit/ will be used to tell you to fuck off

[Anonymous No.7126554]

Sidney Baker sat down alone in the dark, carefully removing his swastika and laying down a grass-stained peacoat before crying briefly, nervously, and then counting his buttons. He had decided last month that he was not depressed but long talks on the veranda, Mediterranean styled houses with white bubbled walls textured like cave, cliff falls and sea salt air, sashaying footsteps of soft skinned girls, dry ground, unlit pools, forest fires, the chattering of insects: all of it was a slow irritant to his weak nerves.

In the quiet garden however, there was enough drink and solitude to move into a silent blur of a place, a thin embryo to escape back to, the twenty-buttoned-him-outside just holding sobs now, teetering nervously as a proud man of twenty eight now reduced to personal meditation while friends and others fucked the night into a husked memory. Five buttons later, he was undone, his murmurs just louder than the music inside, every note singing his private toneless song, an elegy for a girl removed.

It's a fancy dress party

[Anonymous No.7126689]

The next four weeks follow a similar pattern. Obligatory action by day, indulgent faineance by night. Fortunately the nightmare will end and the script will change. Though it was a new exhibition, it would be the same class, same group of people as before . He felt a force inside him start to choke his throat, raise his stomach and buckle his knees. It was a trial, but it was an opportunity.

[Anonymous No.7126969]

>>7126150
That's not a Raymond Carver style. I might say this is a stand up comedian version of Hemingway, a scrunched in Cormac McCarthy, or a Jack Reacher style on steroids. I can easily understand what you're writing, but I read daily, most readers, including the ones that purposely read difficult literature, wouldn't want an entire book that pans out like his unless the point, or theme, is to be revolves around difficulty. I wouldn't recommend starting with a style like this as there are lots of people who write in this style only to be different and not to write good fiction.

[Anonymous No.7127124]

>>7126554
Fuck, this one is without edits.
-----
Sidney Baker sat alone in the dark, carefully removing his swastika and laying down a grass-stained peacoat before crying briefly, nervously, and then counting his buttons. He had decided last month that he was not depressed but long talks on the veranda, Mediterranean styled houses with white bubbled walls textured like cave, cliff falls and sea salt air, sashaying footsteps of soft skinned girls, dry ground, unlit pools, forest fires, the chattering of insects: all of it was a slow irritant to his weak nerves.

In the quiet garden however, there was enough drink and solitude to move into a silent blur of a place, a thin embryo to escape back to, away from the half sobbing twenty-buttoned-man outside. Sidney squeaked, wounded by the chance sharpness of his last few months, scared in the dark, a proud boy of twenty eight now reduced to personal hysteria while friends and others fucked the night into a husked memory. Five buttons later, he was undone, his murmurs just louder than the music inside, every note singing his private toneless song, an elegy for a girl removed.

[Anonymous No.7127162]

>>7126969

Nice, thanks for the feedback. It's supposed to be a little thing on the value of self-perception, I guess. The ideas, to me, are/seem kinda intricate. If I felt I could express them in a more concise fashion, I totally would. Any suggestions?

[Anonymous No.7127205]

I've never written before but I'm trying to keep a journal about my life and would like to know how poorly it's written.
---

My childhood is one that is often recalled to me. An infant had learned to smile and laugh long before any other skill developed, and its contagiousness had wrought a fit of laughter on those who came in contact. A recording was made on a device older than I but its misplacement became the source of great regret for those who cared for me at the time. I would eventually grow to become an energetic child, but had always gone about my mischief with charm. Perhaps it's nostalgia's doing, but no matter how devilish a deed I performed, the retelling would always take the form of howling laughter when it had finished. Those who told the story would always be quick to amend that although the boy may have seemed a menace, he was a child of good. I sometimes see photographs of my time as a character in these events and wonder, with that smile, if one could even draw another conclusion.

It would be this ability, one I was seemingly born with, that would carry several more characters through a near-complete collection of drama, both comic and not.

[Anonymous No.7127216]

>>7127162
Just expand the prose, get the full scope of the scenery, but as brief as possible. Also space out your work. Make sure ideas are separate and not bunched together. Even if it's like you have entire paragraphs that are just a sentence it looks much better than groups of ideas in one paragraph. That also gives you an idea on what needs to be expanded and what might need to be reduced.

[Anonymous No.7127832]

I’m a shallow precious child happy with the sweeping sound of words
Sorry but I can’t go out tonight, I’m stuck loving this cell I’m meant to call home
– A single smile, impatient fingers and three words unheard
“I love you”
– I can imagine that in your voice, and I play it again and again
And again and again – a wilderness colonised on a cassette
I’m feeling sundown yellow unready for the rotten forgotten night ahead.

I’m a revelationist but you’re the revelation
I saw you on a screen, my internet sensation
You’re the tiger force at the core of all things
When I cry out in my dreams it is you that I see.

[Voice Of The Generation No.7127975]

>>7123404
Sorry, I'm busy masturbating.

[Anonymous No.7128159]

"I haven't smoked in almost a year now." I'm not telling him the truth. I broke that streak yesterday. But it doesn't matter. That's how you get free drugs. You just let people coax you into doing them so they can pull you into their world. He hands me an edible. I eat it. It tastes like peanut brittle. The soft crunch brings the smell that I know too well, but not the taste. He says these are high quality. The good shit. I don't particularly care. I care that it's free and I haven't been high in a long time. I can't remember if I enjoy it or not. I enjoyed it when she had introduced me to her world. But she was long gone, and I hadn't felt like being high on my own. I'm above all that now. I'm not telling myself the truth.

We go on to the party. People don't know me here. It's a bigger deal to them than it is to me. My friend reassures them. I'm not here to fight. I see a girl I'd met a few months ago. We had talked briefly in a bar where I left her while saying I'd be right back. I never intended to be back. I had left for another girl. She asks how I've been. We play beer pong against the friends I came with. I'm high now. I don't speak to her, and when I do it's brief. I don't care about her. I care about her body. It's the alcohol, and I know it. Her roommates start to leave the party. She tells them she found a ride.

She comes to my apartment. My roommate is asleep in the other room. We watch a movie on the couch. My mouth is too dry to speak, but that doesn't matter to her. She doesn't notice. She isn't here to talk. She pulls me on top of her. The movie ends. She tells me we can't sleep on the couch, inviting herself to my bed. There she pulls me again on top of her. I brush between her legs with a finger. She tells me I don't need to do that. She's already wet. We don't have sex. I don't have a condom. That isn't the reason. That's the reason I'll tell my friends. We fall asleep.

I wake up sober. I wake her up to take her home. I have a lunch meeting. It's not true. A lie feels more polite. She knows that, but that doesn't change anything for me. My friends from the night before come over. We sit by the pool, eating and telling the stories from the night before. I tell them about my lunch meeting. They laugh. It's not exactly a formal meeting. They ask if I fucked the girl who stayed over. I tell them I had run out of condoms, and a girl with that little self respect warrants protection. They call me arrogant to say that about her. They tell the truth about a half truth. In truth, it wasn't arrogance that held me back. It was a need. The same need the dealers have. I don't want sex with girls down at my level. I need to drag new ones into my world.

[Anonymous No.7128163]

>>7127975
t-this is brilliant

[Anonymous No.7128192]

>>7113516
i love it

[Anonymous No.7128203]

>>7128159
I liked it.

[Anonymous No.7128212]

>>7113516

How does it feel to try so desperately hard?

Yeah, we get it, you've read David Foster Wallace.

Good god, how you've failed at emulating him.

[Anonymous No.7128281]

Working on a prose sketch. Would appreciate any feedback.

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

The wind cried against the window with a sad, intelligent sound. The man was sitting at the edge of the bed looking at the floor.

“This again”, he said.

She was lying on the bed with her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes stared at the ceiling. They flitted back and forth and looked lost.

He shook his head and turned it and looked at her. There she was. A laundry cart whined through the dark from somewhere down the hall.

“It’s my fault,” she said.

She began to cry. She heaved soundlessly as a beached octopus on the surf.

“No, look.”

He shook his head and shimmied over.

“It’ll be fine.”

She shook her head through tears.

“No.”

“Don’t say that.”

He looked down.

“I’d be different”.

She wiped her face with one hand.

“I won’t be like that.”

They looked at each other. A crown of wet leaves brushed the window, waving gently up and down. He placed a thumb on her cheek.

“I’m sorry”, she said, wiping her sleeve.

“It’s not your fault.”

There was no sound. The window gathered wet beads.

He started to trace her arm. She thought about something.

“No.”

She pushed him gently.

“Anne.” He sighed through the dark.

He pressed harder. His touch had a potential frightening and strange. Awful and strange so strange. She flinched.

“No.”

He lunged at her neck.

“Don’t - touch – me!”

She threw him savagely. He rebounded off the bed and onto the floor, knocking his head.

He righted himself and rubbed his aching head.

“I’ve had enough.”

He grabbed his shirt and buttoned it slowly. His eyes were heavy and cynical.

“I’m going to have a drink.”

“Please”, she said. “Just leave me alone.”

He left. For a second the drone of the corridor lamp swept through the room. A rectangle of light shone and then fell into a long triangle on the floor and then collapsed as he closed the door.

His footsteps clapped on the sparsely covered, rotting wood of the hall. His receding voice could be heard breaking wetly along the hall.

Through the window the rain was coming in sheets. She sat in the bed and cried.

[Anonymous No.7128622]

This really isn't meant to be a novel, it's mostly for me. That said, I think it's a good example of where I want my style to go. I'll post the first paragraph. Thoughts?

An early life spent scraping through deep shadows of Havensport taught Attica and her caregiving sister Quin a fine lesson in the mechanics of the world. It taught them that food and moments of peace were things best stolen at dawn. It taught them that supposedly kind men didn't need to have wandering eyes to expect certain payments for their favors. Attica learned too, not to ask her sister what had happened to their parents or why they spent their lives moving and running and stealing. The questions eventually shriveled in the shadow of necessity, their minds, the both of them, focused solely on the impossible task of survival. The years moved on meaningless, measured by the slow dawning of the harvest festival and the looming threat of beauty blossoming on their bodies. Disguising themselves as urchin boys, for some years more they evaded the new threats of noblemen and the lurking of pimps until everything suddenly changed.

[Anonymous No.7128630]

>>7128622
I was happy with it until I posted it. Now it feels over-done. Fuck it, here's the next one.

Havensport was burning, grinding down under fear and terror. The Empire had attacked again, and this time they hadn’t been beaten back. Noble Havensport had fallen. In the early days, Attica had wasted tears on the futility of it all. To have survived so long only to be shot or enslaved by ... who? Westerners? Imperials? It didn't matter. They were marching through the streets, stirring up a thunderstorm of boot heels and black powder. They were showing their strength to anyone that still had fight in them. The time had come that being a boy was more dangerous than being a girl. So they changed themselves again. Attica took her skills at people to the new masters of the house. The tavern halls were suddenly filled with them, All swagger, black coats and chemical blades on their hips. It didn't matter how they dressed or how their swords worked. They were men, and they liked to drink, and they liked when Attica flirted with them. Havensporters were all trash under The Imperial boot, and for once Attica and Quin could bathe in the delicious feel of equality. It was a hellish occupation for most citizens of Havensport, but for those two sisters it was a chance at ascension. It was the chance they'd been waiting for.

[Anonymous No.7128638]

>>7128622
I mean, it's a bit confusing since you, before even posting the excerpt, ask for thoughts.

>It taught them that
bit of a tongue-twister. not sure whether a good or a bad, even if intentional

I think it's solid writing.

[Anonymous No.7128787]

The light bulbs were tulips and the blossoming began to bloom as streamers and poppers and confetti festooned–where? On the streets! Of course, the streets, where people meet and greet and deplete their woes and throes and lift up their noses, red and supping up dread reclined on a sunken in bed full of transmogrified debt. But Barry Bojangles didn't despise the despicable, the reverent relevance of all that has fallen before four score sweaty, unheady, unready, unsteady, barely Teddy's had before: you know: the more or less refined tongue stuck to the roof, black tarred and bubbling under Texan heat, avoiding the void by plugging steroids into nodeless noids like androids cloying toys, type. The rubble rounded rabble rubbing round ripples of rhubarb and babble like a dyslexic game of Scrabble here now dabble with sublimating something sublime if only for one time such as La Paz and a subdermal sin-soaked soul's rash– depression bound to glee and gaiety and–and spontaneity! "I want to but–" What? A velleity: the existence of two opposing forces in simultaneity: the lack of motion: the commotion prior to the notion of conation in the nation peeking down on the Haitians and all others without patience.

A funky bass line drops the ball into the bingo chamber churlishly charging our chest's best investment in vest's meant for protecting the elected, sadly uninspected, sanguine infected pump plump with red rum soon to be spilt and spelt in quill by a Scot in kilt–bagged, piped and hyped to the hilt–as murder (in the form of a four by four girder dropped like a bird's turd or entire curb or, in a sense, the essence of absurd).

So splat soon simmers and–suddenly! A sodden, sudsy, supple, simply syringe of a man plunges himself into the crowd, proud and loud, with what women would call a bombshell from hell–though they all speak gibberish like Nell. The 4th! So early to come as Barry has verily done ere above the sun trying to make a son with someone he has rung, fingered bum with thumb to gum some dung. Now! the limbs take flight and tensions run high with wind nigh green limbs of timber and the localized crowd turns to tinder, blocks of cinder: ashes to ashes, must dust settle at the crust again as dust? Evolution to lust, in physics do we trust? Fore and aft, before the draft tore the raft daft, man has meddled with metal in the middle of a medley of peddled paddles and medals, blackening the kettle, just to say that he can say he can say; such is science and the pious today. Anyway, enough. "Ditch the doggerel dashing up ruts just to ruff rough and stuff in a buff puff." And so he did, skidding back to kidding out of a women shitting but not quitting. Thus is the story of that hoary hairy, merry man named Barry who just wanted to world to think he was scary, though quite contrary.

[Anonymous No.7128791]

Sexuality is sin from
Ocean and belly deep within
From clang, clinging, clamoring so—
Sensual flagellation at the sound; weaving blood and beau.

With dust and withering stone floor
No one is asking anymore.

[Anonymous No.7128838]

1/2

The light bulbs were tulips and the blossoming began to bloom as streamers and poppers and confetti festooned–where? On the streets! Of course, the streets, where people meet and greet and deplete their woes and throes and lift up their noses, red and supping up dread reclined on a sunken in bed full of transmogrified debt. But Barry Bojangles didn't despise the despicable, the reverent relevance of all that has fallen before the four score and seven sweaty, unheady, unready, unsteady, barely Teddy's had before: the more or less un-refined and defined, mummified tongue stuck to the black-bubbling-Texan-tar roof avoiding the light by plugging steroids into nodes and noids like androids cloying toys drowning in the void, type. No, he stood as wood would if wood could: firm and fernlike like cement on the turnpike, or how a petrified worm might, with might ignited by heavy light and light nights. Breaths of death; dearth’s belated hatred from Earth: The rubble rounded rabble rubbing round ripples of rhubarb and babble like a dyslexic game of Scrabble now dabble and whittle with sublimating something sublime if only for one time or for one rhyme such as La Paz and a subdermal sin-soaked soul's rash, festering like a red-rimmed gang slinging meaner slang than the green gang called Gangrene from Panang–depression bound to glee and gaiety and–and spontaneity! "I want to but–" What? A velleity: the existence of two opposing forces in simultaneity: the lack of motion: the commotion prior to the notion of conation in the nation peeking down on the Haitians and all others without patience.

A funky bass line drops the ball into the bingo chamber churlishly charging our chest's best investment in vest's meant for protecting the elected, sadly uninspected, sanguine infected pump plump with red rum soon to be spilt and spelt in quill by a Scot in kilt–bagged, piped and hyped to the hilt–as murder (in the form of a four by four girder dropped like a bird's turd or entire curb or, in a sense, the essence of absurd).

[Anonymous No.7128852]

So splat soon simmers and–suddenly! A sodden, sudsy, supple, simply syringe of a man plunges himself into the crowd, proud and loud, with what women would call a bombshell from hell–though they all speak gibberish like Nell. The 4th! So early to come as Barry has verily done ere above the sun trying to make a son with someone he has rung, fingered bum with thumb to gum some dung. Now! the limbs take flight and tensions run high with wind nigh green limbs of timber and the localized crowd turns to tinder, blocks of cinder: ashes to ashes, must dust settle at the crust again as dust? Evolution to lust, in physics do we trust? Fore and aft, before the draft tore the raft daft, man has meddled with metal in the middle of a medley of peddled paddles and medals, blackening the kettle, just to say that he can say he can say; such is science and the pious today. Anyway, enough. "Ditch the doggerel dashing up ruts just to ruff rough and stuff in a buff puff." And so he did, skidding back to kidding out of a women shitting but not quitting. Thus is the story of that hoary hairy, merry man named Barry who just wanted to world to think he was scary, though quite contrary.

[Anonymous No.7128874]

[Anonymous No.7128888]

2/2

So splat soon simmers and–suddenly! A sodden, sudsy, supple, simply syringe of a man plunges himself into the crowd, proud and loud, with what women would call a bombshell from hell–though they all speak gibberish like Nell. The 4th! So early to come as Barry has verily done ere above the sun trying to make a son with someone he has rung, fingered bum with thumb to gum some dung. Now! the limbs take flight and tensions run high with wind nigh green limbs of timber and the localized crowd turns to tinder, blocks of cinder: ashes to ashes, must dust settle at the crust again as dust? Evolution to lust, in physics do we trust? Fore and aft, before the draft tore the raft daft, man has meddled with metal in the middle of a medley of peddled paddles and medals, blackening the kettle, just to say that he can say he can say; such is science and the pious today. Anyway, enough. "Ditch the doggerel dashing up ruts just to ruff rough and stuff in a buff puff." And so he did, skidding back to kidding out of a women shitting but not quitting. Thus is the story of that hoary hairy, merry man named Barry who just wanted to world to think he was scary, though quite contrary.

[Anonymous No.7128909]

Vulnerable voles love unlike moles,
spinning diametrically 'tween poles.
A spritz of divine daintiness, decry
barbed lips. Something's in my eye.
Curated affects accreted round a
letter to god reminding him: hey.
The slice of life–fuck it.

[Anonymous No.7128917]

It was the worst conversation I ever had with my wife. I sat her down and the kitchen after eating a bowl of harvest crunch cereal, maybe two bowls. She started with an apology as I washed my crunch littered bowl. "Too big?!" I respond. That's right, my wife cheated on me with 4'' cock cause she was tired of the tearing. "Typical" I respond.

When we first started dating she called it the thunderbolt since it would split her down the trunk. We tried everything; lube, more foreplay, even gradual dildos. But everytime I pounded it like an asian girl she'd tear and bleed, followed by that awful "stop stop it's broken". I wish I had a normal sized cock.

[Anonymous No.7128977]

>>7128917
sat her down *IN* the kitchen

I know dem /lit/cunts are always lurking

[Anonymous No.7129119]

>>7128791
nice meter, i like imagery too
>>7128909
not really sure what to feel about this one, i feel the "'tween" was uneccessary, just say between, it didn't help the flow or meter in any way.
>>7128917
keks

[Anonymous No.7129121]

>>7128888
>>7128838

neat

[Anonymous No.7129146]

Bedrest

I counted 1337 sheep fore sleep last night,
almost all of whom were named Rufus.
The cheddar moon hung by strappado
and 26-2 spun on wax in thin corridors.
Toe stubbed on the davenport aft the john
annihilated my opioid lack of pain, deft.
So I thanked the blessed transience, trotted on,
splashed my face, eluted the pus and tar.
The mirror reflected like scales of shad
pleat of pajamas, meat and hide draped on bones.
Soon supine warmth, darkness recompensed;
a tip to Charon, nod to Morpheus, nullified debts.
Silence drawn, lids lay down on eyeballs smiling.
When the ert firings of my mind expelled
more than just an arcade of electoral buzzing,
I submitted, vanishing in the supple mist,
and dozed off into the zen tribunal
centered in the basilica between two temples.

[Anonymous No.7129179]

Here's a list of things that I'm not:
mirrors, beer bottles, morphine lollipops;
the feeling that I'm being watched
by a faceless man, the Badger mascot;
the procedural brushing of teeth, popped zits;
my first, second, and fourth romances
(because I don't like to talk about the third);
the quarks in the atoms composing my body;
the food I eat, the gas I breath, liquid steam;
my parents, siblings, friends, white-washed genes;
Captain Ahab, Eric Cartman, Omar Little, Hamlet;
my social security number, IP address, or diploma;
a catalogue of memories, benign experiences;
the letters in the words in these listless (and lingering) lines;
or my first cry, my last breath, my loudest laugh;
oh, and also the name attached to my face–
I'm not that either.

[Anonymous No.7130364]

>>7127205
For someone who doesn't write, you have a good sense of flow and your sentences read well.

What you need to do is trim. I could cut half of that paragraph and have it say the same thing for far less the price. Cost is very important, remember that you have a very small window to grab your reader, not an infinite Microsoft word document. Focus on a sensation and use simple feeling adjectives like "sharp" or "cold", avoid unnecessary additions of information and make sure you have a clear point you want to make before writing, have a purpose to it, avoid banal conversational tones.

I'm the guy who posted Hitler with his story though, so take it with a grain of salt.

[Anonymous No.7130368]

>>7128281
Your last two sentences were your best lines. Cut the above, and start with that.