Give me a quote, or short excerpt, from something you wrote

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Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:37:55 2015 No.7265716 [Reply] [Original]

Give me a quote, or short excerpt, from something you wrote

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:39:31 2015 No.7265725 He

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:39:54 2015 No.7265728

I've only been writing for a month or so, so it's probably not very good.

Trees shivered in the wind, their boughs outstretched arms waiting for the embrace of something lost, not knowing what that something was, only that it was once there, that they now hurt, and that they must wait, maybe for It, maybe for death, but they will never know for certain: they will live, never understanding why or for what they suffer, until the end, dementiacs designed for sorrow….

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:40:10 2015 No.7265729 File: 90 KB, 442x481, 1378086419655.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>7265725 fantastic

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:44:14 2015 No.7265744 >>7265716 We've both been rejected by the world. We both feel the same threat. And yet...here we are, fated to kill each other in the end.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:46:51 2015 No.7265754 >>7265744 Pretty nice.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:48:05 2015 No.7265756 The

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:48:56 2015 No.7265762 >>7265756 Bland and unoriginal.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:49:09 2015 No.7265764 Old

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:50:29 2015 No.7265769 Nigger

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:50:41 2015 No.7265770 Man

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 21:57:59 2015 No.7265806

>>7265725
What? No female? Patriarchy!
>>7265756
Overused bullshit
>>7265764
She can be whatever age she identifies as. You should love her for being her. But not rape love. You should just love her as an equal.
>>7265769
Can't spell racist without "cis" you cis white scum
>>7265770
More sexism

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:18:00 2015 No.7265871

"No one counts the stars. Who counts stars?" the shift leader said. "We save cost and they still buy flags no difference."
"What about stripes?" someone asked.
"Keep stripes same. Too few, too easy to tell. But one, two stars, no matter."
"What if somebody counts and complain?"
"Then we say simple mistake, and replace flag," the leader shrugged. "Ten years ago, I work at factory making Bart Simpson doll. We ran out of blue paint for pant and switch to brown. Thousands of Bart Simpson with brown pant and never anyone complained."
"These are not Bart Simpson, these are American flag," one worker said.
The shift leader shook his head.
"I have family in America," he said. "They say flag everywhere. Hang from car, out of window, everywhere. And no one pay attention. The more there are, the less people notice. Car dealer have most flag of all. Car dealer! Car dealer not count star. Car dealer count car sale."
No one replied. The leader nodded.
"Very good. I think you all understand now. Fifty star not necessary. If we space right, less star will look same and save us money. Now back to work."

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:20:36 2015 No.7265877 >>7265871 this is real good

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:20:45 2015 No.7265879 >>7265806 You're as obsessed with identity politics as the people you try to mock

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:28:29 2015 No.7265902 >>7265871 im intrigued

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:34:48 2015 No.7265927 >>7265871 This is gold kid. keep at it.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:37:41 2015 No.7265935 "You're an alcoholic." "No, you're an alcoholic. I'm a drunk."

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:38:33 2015 No.7265938 >>7265877 >>7265902 >>7265927 >>7265877 >>7265902 Thanks. I just wrote it off the cuff, though the idea's been with me the last couple days. Haven't thought of a way to tie it into a bigger story.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:41:17 2015 No.7265944 >>7265871 Why would they be speaking in broken English and not in their native language?

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:41:58 2015 No.7265946 it’s like I’m beginning to like this all this suffering bittersweet.

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:49:24 2015 No.7265971

"Goddamnit Steve, get back into this house right now!" but I was too late, he was already out the door.

I took off after him. He tried to run across the road.

I will always remember that sound, clean and crisp, as a large head smacked against cold asphalt. I see it like a movie. My voice was away from me. "Oh God no" I cried. "Not now, not him."

Carefully I walked into the street, hoping I would not take the same slip he did. I dragged his body to the curb the best I could. He was still warm. No, it was still warm. There was no "he" left. The spirit had gone.

I sat myself down on the ice covered shoulder and held its head between my thighs. A true deep crimson stained my shirt as well as spattered tears. As lump formed in my throat, I tried to hum his song, the one he listened to every night before bed.

Goodnight Steve. Good night.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:50:40 2015 No.7265975 >>7265935 This is exactly something I would expect to hear from this old drunk who frequents the same pub as me. Except it would be yelled for no reason and come with a healthy amount of spittle. Oh and he just got banned from there again.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 22:57:06 2015 No.7265998 >>7265944 It's a pretty obvious caricature, both in speech and content. Definitely not striving for accuracy, and in a way I was channeling a mock-/pol/ persona when I wrote it. Plus broken English is fun.

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:00:11 2015 No.7266012
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"Which is why of all the galactic and imperial certainties in the world we can only know a few grand truths: The pursuit of knowledge is our god, and god speaks through Diet Coke and Mentos."

This is from an essay I'm working on. I'd love some feedback.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:17:06 2015 No.7266081 >>7266012 like a less funny version of Patton Oswalt

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:19:40 2015 No.7266097

"Welcome" spewed the butler who looked as if he had not slept in weeks and just woken up at the same. The butler was wearing leather shoes with brass buckles, which were beginning to wear down. His thick mustache and bald spot complimented the purple necktie he wore with his grey coat.
"Would you like a tour around the castle, mister..."
"Duke William of Kent"
"Yes, would you like a tour?"
"No, I will find my way around. Dinner is at eight o'clock correct?"
The butler paused almost as if he was pondering his very existence, his eyes dashed around the room, and then suddenly stared at one point.
"Yes. Yes, very so."
He paced away slowly then quickly changed directions.
> This was written just now, kind of as a test to what I've learned
> please leave any comment you have

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:20:35 2015 No.7266106 >>7265716 He waited for the acid rain to rupture the heavens. blister the skin, puddle the flesh, brown the leaves, and sap the ground; for everything to be melted in a liquid Pentecost to the fecund starstuff of creation.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:20:56 2015 No.7266109 >>7266081 But Patton Oswalt isn't even funny Oh I see.

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:21:36 2015 No.7266114

>>7265716
They moved into boxes.
Boxes of cardboard, pine, steel, plastic and polymer. Black tirades against the input of an infinite number of mobile broadcast towers crawling on the edges of pastel horizons; beams spitting the sound of mendacious and suited mendicants crying out from windowed boxes at seated families being fleeced of their folkish preening.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:22:10 2015 No.7266115 >>7266097 Wait... You've been worse than this?

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:24:24 2015 No.7266128 >>7266081 i'm depressed george bush is evil comic book stores

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:25:23 2015 No.7266134

>>7265716
I looked up, expecting to see some friend, acquaintance or even a lover, offering some kind of meaning to all of this banter from such confusion, but all I find is him.
Alone.

Sitting in another booth with just the same faux leather as mine, no less dirty or dis-repaired than any other. Staring at the window watching the patter-patter of freezing raindrops from an early winter storm that decided to blast hail mercilessly against sheets of glass in an anthem, battle-cry?, of other hail strikes.

Unknowing of the social contract I create by reciprocating contact, I ask, “What are you watching?”

“Window pains.”

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:26:23 2015 No.7266143

>>7265716
The earliest source of the Vortschafft Expulsion can be traced to a stack of tri-fold pamphlets placed between two tourist brochures at a small motor inn in Eastern California. Its holographic folds seemed to promise newness, though not rejuvenation, as most diets do, since that would imply the Expulsion was not a complete and total switch of one's entire philosophy. The Expulsion was not just a removal of grains, a dietary switch, or even an exercise plan; it was a complete rejection of stimulus– a mental denial of all the necessary connections that make life livable.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:28:56 2015 No.7266160 >>7265716 "and indeed possibly not only despite these reasons, but possibly because of those reasons."

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:30:05 2015 No.7266167 I want to feel at peace tonight. I want all my senses to laugh As easily as breezes blow. And cry as purely as the full moon rises. And sleep as soundly as the deer run fast From this unseen monster. From this car which I am in.

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:33:57 2015 No.7266189
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>>7265716
>Her quest being to “feel the most alive”, as the industry of leisure sells it, her moaning, her orgasms being such a epileptic seizure, her little brain sparkling such as a firework, offering thus the highest hedonistic yield, it is no wonder that the female thinks sexually, wants sexually, does sexually, is sexually. This strange little creature knows thus without a doubt why she is on earth, what her nature is; she wants to grasp her existence by the reaction of the reality onto herself, to feel alive, to “live her emotions” without serious danger, nor risk, nor effort. We see thereby that two types of woman exist: the one already feeling empowered in assuming her hedonism; the other one dreaming all day long about it, dreaming to be liberated by a man without any negative judgement, to be, more or less secretly, a frivolous little minx, if only in dilettante. This second woman is submissive in appearance; she is passive, fantasizing about waiting for at least one man who would reach her true self, for a few to the extend that he would irremediably unlock her, through what she would felt as a rapture. She remains the most nihilist of the two, for she wishes to live, to be woman, only on her terms and conditions, only when it suits her. Yet, she finds a few manners to live. Indeed, the woman wishing to be more woman makes love mostly with her mouth, through kisses, whereas the woman who is far more advanced in her being, do not hesitate to involve the rest of her body, to the same extend of her mouth, if not more. Unfortunately for her, most men fail to acknowledge how important, for her, is her mouth. A second illustration of the crucial divide between the two happens during the separation, sooner than she expected, between her and one of her lover: for the woman existing as woman as much as she can, a early separation is sign of defect on her part, especially if the man went for another woman, leading her to wonder what went wrong on her side for him to go away so fast; for the woman dreaming to acknowledge her nature, dreaming her will to be woman, the early separation is a sign of a fault of the man, especially if he went away in the first weeks of the relationship, be it due to her or another one; the woman wishing to be potent moves away rapidly form this failure in thinking that this man is nothing but a good riddance.

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:39:57 2015 No.7266214

>>7265716
Maybe there is no point but I really like this place

Tortuga lo miró, el golpe en su mejilla, verde, morado y sanguinolento; ella sabía que estaba inventando una nueva historia, como siempre; una aventura llena de trampas, magia y tesoros. A Elsa, le gusta mucho mirar los pequeños dibujos en la libreta de Antonio, mapas de lugares exóticos y prohibidos, ilustraciones de trampas y reliquias; todas ellas, algún día se borraran. Primero el grafito será niebla matutina, las hojas de papel tornadas en papiro, uñas salvajes; finalmente, un espectro. Tal pensamiento tenso a Elsa, como si de pronto hubiera caído en un estanque solitario y helado, donde la oscuridad es todo cuanto hay.
Al momento, ella cambió la hoja del manual de monstruos y sus ojos se encontraron sobre una ilustración a dos páginas de los Apiladores de cuerpos. Un agujero en las dunas, cual abismo; y hacia éste, los Apiladores empujan una enredadera de cuerpos ensangrentados, rostros infaustos, llenos de terror. Más uno de ellos, sonríe. Aun en la muerte, él sonríe.
¿De que ríen los muertos? Pensó Elsa, y el libro resbalo de sus manos, cayó al suelo y de un golpe se cerró.

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:40:41 2015 No.7266219

Let's do this
>>7265728
Perhaps a bit long, but it flows.
>>7265744
I like this.
>>7265871
This is interesting dialogue, but I need context to say if it works or not.
"Very good. I think you all understand now. Fifty star not necessary. If we space right, less star will look same and save us money. Now back to work."
This is brilliant.
>>7265971
boring
>>7266012
okay/10
>>7266097
shockingly poor
>>7266106
Good imagery, but the wordplay is a little much.
>>7266114
I actually really like this.
>>7266134
best so far
>>7266143
I'm intrigued
>>7266189
buzzfeed bait

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:46:44 2015 No.7266239 >>7266219 >>>7265871 is clearly illustrating the shift of a sweatshop laborer in China or some other such armpit

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:49:44 2015 No.7266252 >>7266239 I assumed that's what he was going for, but he should have a reason for the broken english.

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:53:56 2015 No.7266265 >>7266219 >>>7266134 (You) >best so far Thanks man. I've just started this but the characters seem to be making themselves and the dialogue just follows

Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:54:22 2015 No.7266269

>>7265716

Dear Bryson & Bryson Cereal Manufacturers,

Greetings. You may consider me, Julian Panniker the Third, to be your most loyal customer. I literally have grown up on your products, specifically Coco Chews Marshmallow Bits. While I can say that it sure has been a blast, and that I wouldn’t trade my 12 years of eating your cereal for the world, I would like to inform you that breaking my morning fast with nothing but your product has led to a noticeable decline in my overall health. If you haven’t noticed, I am dictating this letter. I am blind. This condition, my doctors tell me, is a direct result from the consumption of your cereal. Do not ask me for proof of this; I can only tell you that my doctor, who went to a prestigious medical school, is quite sure your cereal is to blame. I am not asking for any kind of compensation, only your sympathy. Your condolences would be highly appreciated, and checks may be written to Julian Panniker III.

Sincerely,

JP3

Julian finished reading the letter and looked up expectantly at David. It was a dry and bright February afternoon, and the wind was making his eyes water.

“You actually sent that?” asked David.

“Yeah, I figure that they have to send me something if they think that I’m blind. They don’t want to get sued.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure they could sue you for lying to them and basically blackmailing them.”

“Either way, the letter’s pretty good, right?”

“Good at what?”

Julian sighed, “Do I sound all convincing and professional?”

“Uh, no. You told them you are fifteen.”

“Well they wouldn’t believe a fourteen year old.”

>>	Anonymous Wed Oct 21 23:56:02 2015 No.7266277 >>7266252 Non-native speakers? I thought it was a bit of an odd choice too, honestly the whole scene looks a lot better as part of a script in my opinion

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:02:05 2015 No.7266304 >>7266277 Yeah. We had people write short stories that were only dialogue in my CW classes. I always politely pointed out that, unless you're Gaddis, stuff that's only dialogue really works a lot better on film.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:02:36 2015 No.7266308 >>7266269 this is actually not bad dude.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:05:03 2015 No.7266323 >>7266269 Precocious children is overdone like a Perkin's steak but this is a good scene.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:07:06 2015 No.7266335 >>7266323 >>7266308 thanks. I wrote it probably 5 years ago in high school but i still kinda like it.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:12:49 2015 No.7266353 >>7266114 Is your a cock a thesaurus?

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:16:58 2015 No.7266373 >>7265716 "don't tell me, i know, 'this dirty jew t...'" "OP IS A FUCKING FAGGOT" finished the young man, cutting off his friend in his haste to express despair at the still-lying dreidel which he was once again unable to spin.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:38:34 2015 No.7266452 >>7266269 The writing style you used in the letter strongly reminds me of Kafka, not that it's a bad thing.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:40:33 2015 No.7266461 >>7266452 Thank you, i wanted it to be a bit off putting while still funny.

>>	bds Thu Oct 22 00:42:47 2015 No.7266468 “It may be custom,” he murmured for her ears only, “but I wouldn’t put it past some people to try to poison you as well as me.”

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:44:57 2015 No.7266473

>>7265716
A A Ron @ A A Ron
waiting for eric to take a dump he’s got the mudbutt :C #dirtyculo#thanksObama#Stopbullying

JenLen @ A A Ron
ewww gross don’t eat whatever he did lol #icebucketchallenge#Kony2015

xXxY0l0SwaGGodxXx @ A A Ron
tell im to hurry up cuz thoz hoes ain’t gonna fuck emselves #BigBootyBitches#theegreatestandhero

Puppies taking poops @ A A Ron
Ask him to take a picture of it before he flushes #thanksObama#ASPCA#PETAkillsdogs

Eric Lerner @ A A Ron
WTF bro did u really hav to tweet about this shit #autismspeaks#thanksObama#dicknipples

A A Ron @ Eric Lerner
Of course I did they had to know #shitlerdidnothingwrong#Gamergate#hashtag

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:52:44 2015 No.7266494 >>7266473 zeitgeistest

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:55:42 2015 No.7266501 >>7266214 Trabaja en tu puntuación

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:55:57 2015 No.7266502

And worse: it is the hatred of one forced into such reproach by him; it is pitiless anger radiating from the portrait he painted voiceless, her mouth a thin brushstroke; unopened and unopenable. She he made on canvas unchanging and unchangeable, glowing with the translucent pale of gentle, ideal femininity, scrubbed free of soul and breath. And he called it good. To him she was a woman only -- and woman he prefered to human. It is this which he cannot bear: that in her endless images she is coyly cruel, full of womanly urging and play; in reality she is a person.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 00:57:25 2015 No.7266508
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A pale 6'2 man stood in the corner of an insulated bunker. His face was stricken with with old age and fear from years of unbearable stress. The battle maps he looked over no longer impressed or discouraged him because deep down he already knew what was to eventually come of his and family dynasty. Bashar Al-Assad has been fighting to maintain control of Syria for almost 4 years; in those four years more then 250,000 people have died, his country has been torn apart and controlled mostly by Islamic Extremists. Bashar's government once ruled this oil enriched middle eastern country with an iron fist, but now he no longer remains in control of the very lake named in honor of his family's rule; Lake Assad.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 01:00:43 2015 No.7266520

>>7265716
I wrote this black out drunk

Prostrate, with head in toilet, Alexander felt the fire at the back of his throat turn liquid. This vomit was not a surprise, but the toilet was. It was gleaming and gold, and if Alexander had been in another state he would have been offering it, rather than dousing it in his bacchanal excess. Around him, the bathroom spoke of not opulence, but of something beyond it: a love of gold, an intense lust for auric substances and all they may represent. The handle, with which he flushed his Buffalo Trace. was of a slightly less carat. The top of the toilet was engraved with 'Please wipe both toilet and rear with separate baby wipes after use.' in large Helvetica script. To the left of the toilet was a sink inlaid with gold trim, above which hung an antique bronzed mirror. Reflected in that mirror was a man with no face. His blank, but not white skin, drawn taught over the eye socket were clearly focused on Alexander. Its black-gloved hand flickered down, unzipped its pants, and began to pee on the floor.

“For once, you could actually give me a hand,” Alexander sputtered into the toilet.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 01:02:52 2015 No.7266525 >>7266494 And it's in an actual thing that I put up for sale. Though by the time anyone gets to it they'll have probably been desensitized because of all the other weird shit in the book.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 01:41:54 2015 No.7266683

Third week of anti-psychotics.

The psychiatrist only mentioned once they were anti-psychotics, and he repeatedly told me they're also prescribed for anxiety. I wonder if they tell Ted Kaczynski they're also prescribed for anxiety.

The one thing no one warned me about were the side effects. Nothing exciting or dramatic. Not yet at least. So far these pills act like they're at war with my pipes. The worst are the farts. I've never farted so much or so vile in my life. No one admits it, but their standard fart is usually satisfying. And in private, that uncommonly nasty type, so foul it would make others dry-heave, is a rare thrill, a point of pride. But I've lost touch with that. I've grown so tired of my own constant farts that they're like someone else's, unpleasant and unfamiliar.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 02:01:16 2015 No.7266756 [DELETED]

Os was downcast today. The clouds had probably told him to be. Rain didn't fall though. Thunder didn't crack from the unseen. There was not even for a split second a line of lightning to appear in the sky. There was just a soft heaviness hanging everywhere. Perhaps it tinged the air Joe breathed. But he did not cry. Nothing cried, not even the sky. Perhaps that made things more sad.

He was watering the flowers, Os was, in his somber way. His movements were like a fatigued dance. His mind was somewhere else though; the lively yellow of the tulips were not bright enough to steal his attention. Then something happened to alter the quiet scene-- Os noticed with a monotonous shift of an eye, a raindrop land on a buttery tulip pedal. Like a crazed mob, the other raindrops soon followed, and within the minute Os was standing in a rain shower, and the watering can in his hand was no longer necessary. He dropped it onto the soaking grass. And then he cried with the sky.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 02:06:28 2015 No.7266771

Os was downcast today. The clouds had probably told him to be. Rain didn't fall though. Thunder didn't crack from the unseen. There was not even for a split second a line of lightning to appear in the sky. There was just a soft heaviness hanging everywhere. Perhaps it tinged the air Os breathed. But he did not cry. Nothing cried, not even the sky. Perhaps that made things more sad.

He was watering the flowers, Os was, in his somber way. His movements were like a fatigued dance. His mind was somewhere else though; the lively yellow of the tulips were not bright enough to steal his attention. Then something happened to alter the quiet scene-- Os noticed with a monotonous shift of an eye, a raindrop land on a buttery tulip pedal. Like a crazed mob, the other raindrops soon followed, and within the minute Os was standing in a rain shower, and the watering can in his hand was no longer necessary. He dropped it onto the soaking grass. And then he cried with the sky.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 04:28:54 2015 No.7267126 >>7266525 What its title?

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 11:00:12 2015 No.7267928 Bumping because this thread is less stupid than everything on the main page and I contributed

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 11:22:51 2015 No.7267979
File: 71 KB, 396x385, 1445188739479.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

She was tall, had a certain charismatic aura about her and knew which words to say to the right people at the right time. If I didn't know her personally I would think she was a soulless, calculating robot. The reality was that underneath that detached veneer she was an extremely warm and graceful person, and the feeling that I was the only one in the universe to know her true unconditional self, was like a torrent of monkeys playing yard-tennis in my stomach.

She was beautiful too, you should've seen her, the confident walk, the long black hair that fell beautiful along her face like a perfect sculpture by Bernini, and placed firmly were two intelligently searching blue eyes that if I stared into for too long a time, I would be lost; lost like a goat in a mountain pass.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 11:38:53 2015 No.7268027 >>7265744 edgy/10

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 12:15:05 2015 No.7268128

I have just begun writing regularly so all advice, insight, and critique is welcomed with appreciation.

Modest and humble the wind is during the night, flowing coolly through the fields of wild flowers and the groves of quiet, reserved trees. Slumbering men rest peacefully with a hand on their heart and the other comforting their paramour, in all of their forms. A refreshing presence surrounds those in company of the moon; these are the lunatics, those asleep assume, for what purpose do they have to be up so late? But they are not so fanatic and those that assume so know themselves why the few enjoy the night as they do. They've all listened to the gentle invitation to gaze into the spangled majesty of the indigo sky with awe. Some may have even been in their passionate youths these very lunatics but now have simmered into kindling hearths, shelters for their young. A different passion comes with age, each day being a new one to begin again.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 12:23:09 2015 No.7268142 >>7268128 Pretty good but it's a tad purple.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 12:29:12 2015 No.7268156 >>7265744 eugh

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:01:39 2015 No.7268253 >>7266502 >>7266508 >>7266520 boring

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:03:07 2015 No.7268259

>>7268142
Thank you for the feedback :) Is there any adjective to describe the night sky in a way that equally illustrates its color and transparency? That is if you were referring to my choice of pigment. I think that indigo more accurately identifies the transitioning hues from sunset to night.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:04:10 2015 No.7268264 >>7266683 okay. >>7266771 good, yet not great.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:06:04 2015 No.7268265

little tommy pynchon is the boy who lives down the lane. tommy pynchon is a waiter who is bothered. who is waits to wait. sometimes, little tommy pynchon goes down to fetch water from a lovely little baabaa blacksheep. he has a neighbor who is very nice and her name is oh let me see her name is mrs. rumplittlebottom and she owns a very nice moocow who is also very nice and all the four of them are all very nice all the four little tommy pynchon and his neighbor and the baabaa blackbitch and the milkcow. and sometimes when little tommy pynchon is going down the lane with his neighbor who is very nice he gets bothered by a little prickprick in his little prickprick. when that happens his neighbor who is always veryvery nice will maybe quickly put her soft hand down his pants and rub him in his private spot so that he isnt bothered anymore. that is what makes her so veryveryvery nice. sometimes when she isnt in her house and little tommy doesnt know just what to do with his very little self and his very little prickaprick he waits to wait till he can maybe stickaprick it in the mouth or that other spot in the baabaa blackcock or the very nice boobcow. little tommy pynchon sticks it here there everywhere. hitherthitherfuckerfuckherFUCKME. hitler. little tommy pynchon is a very nice waitingtowait waitwaiter waitover who reads mein kampf and he is veryvery postpostmodern. sometimes little tommy pynchon plucks out his eyes apologize apologize plucks out his eyes. aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH. that is the sound he makes when he plucks everything out of little tommy tomtom mouth. first the esophagus, then the stomach, lungs, and all those slimy little things. he does this because he is a very bad boy. he is a writer. a very bad boy. writer. tiny tim. tiny tom. tiny ticklicktickly timtom. timatim. tickatick. prickprick. when he gets very hot and bothered he maybe straps on a tiny bombardissimo vest the very nice lady who FUCKS him off made for him because she is very nice. it goes a little like this: BIGBAGBOMBARDISSISSISSIMOBENABENBINGBONGBONGBONGBRITAINALLMENTHISDAY. hee. hee.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:11:41 2015 No.7268277

"Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo". He thought to himself as he lay in bed.

"Yes it does make sense, you fucking shill". He said out loud to no one in particular

It did make sense after all, only the fucking idiots he was usually surrounded by didn't get it.

The next day he walked to the bar that he'd started working at. He took a deep breath and went up to the girl he had developed a crush on and said:

"Colorless green ideas sleep furiously".

She looked at him uncertainly, eyebrows knit with confusion. After a short pause he announced:

"OH MY GOD, AHAHAHAHA, YOU DON'T GET IT. IT TECHNICALLY FUCKING MAKES SENSE YOU SHILL".

He immediately left the bar ignoring his manager saying something about his shift having just started.

He had to take some time to come to grips with this. He laughed to himself the whole walk home, he simply could not believe her shillery.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:12:47 2015 No.7268279 File: 1.08 MB, 560x460, 1432507911545.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>7267979 >mfw nobody even cares what I wrote I guess I should quit coming to /lit/.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:17:39 2015 No.7268286 >>7267979 >>7268279 It's because it's not that intriguing of an excerpt, tbh. Make the reader care about the woman, be mystified and drawn in by her, and rely less on cliches to describe her.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:20:55 2015 No.7268296

>>7265871 > >>7266143 > >>7266771 > >>7266683 >>7266114 > >>7266269 > >>7266106 > >>7265728 = >>7266468 = >>7267979 = >>7268128 > >>7266189 > >>7266502 = >>7266508 = >>7266520 > >>7266134 > >>7265935 > >>7266012 > >>7266097 > >>7265744 > >>7266473 = >>7265946 = >>7266160 = >>7265971 = >>7266167 > >>7265725 > >>7265756 > >>7265764 = >>7265769 = >>7265770 = >>7266373

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:24:18 2015 No.7268304 >>7268296 > implying >>7266269 isn't the most pleasurable passage here.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:24:56 2015 No.7268308
File: 931 KB, 2048x1536, 1396497570694.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

She watches him. Through the highgrass he wades, with the care of a hurrying blindman his straw hat sagging at the sides and his glasses glinting in the sunlight. She sets her hands on the tree branches that frame her observations, he pauses, dries himself with a red scarf and continues. Carefully, she moves along the woodline, as he moves on the open field, a thrush of wind moves among them.
A large tree has grown at the center of the field and she realizes that is where he is headed. He arrives and slides his bags down and stands in the shade looking up through the leaves, the light poking delicately. He unrolls a blanket and then replaces all his supplies there, removes his shirt and sits down against the tree. She can see his eyes are closed.
After moving further along the woodline she is now directly opposite from where he approached she leaves the shade and steps out on the uneven grass. Her vision bumps with the hard dirt, always keeping her steps light and arms out.

this started as a dialogue study but I decided to continue it, the dialogue is still shakey

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:25:28 2015 No.7268310 >>7268304 yes I am implying that, thanks for noticing.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:27:34 2015 No.7268315 >>7268310 Overall it was a good ranking. nice job

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:27:38 2015 No.7268316 >>7268286 Well, thanks for the reply though, I'll try to make it more palatable.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 13:29:21 2015 No.7268322 >>7265871 why is this meant to be good

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:24:24 2015 No.7268479 >>7268296 tfw three of yours are in the top five.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:28:51 2015 No.7268495

Wake up. Nose feels clogged, head hurts. Fucking head hurts again. It does allthe time lately. Check my phone. It's past ten. Five hours sleep. That's okay. No new messages, thank God.I go to the bathroom, look into the mirror. I look okay. Tired eyes. Tousled hair.Go through it with my fingers, wash my face. Blow my nose into the sink. It'sbleeding again. I feel vaguely worried about it. Touch my nose, feel my septum.Feels solid. I laugh for some reason, though I feel like shit. Go into the shower to wash off the filth, all of it. Water is still cold. At least itkills my tiredness. Think about a girl. She looks like Jenny though Jennyprobably looks different now. Head still hurts. I leave the shower, towel myself off. Wonder what to wear. Does it matter? Isuddenly feel frustrated, don't know why. Choose an anthracite suit with ablack shirt, grey suspenders and a violet tie. Windsor knot today. I need some80's shirts, white collar and different colour for the rest of it. Might go to thetailor today. Tie the tie on my way to the next room. Look for pills. Can't find any. I turn onthe music to distract myself. Huey Lewis. Did I listen to that yesterday night?Don't remember. Too much whisky, not enough blow. My nose is itching. Not sure if I'm overdoing it. And my head still hurts. Searchharder for pills. Find some, finally. Take two, swallow them dry. I close my eyes and wait for them to show any resemblance of effect. Nothing.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:37:08 2015 No.7268528 Creative and rational thoughts, perhaps, but never to get a practical application due to the mans tendency to ignore the nagging sensation of purpose.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:39:56 2015 No.7268540 >>7268296 Uh. To be clear >>7266683 and >>7266114 are equal to me. Pretty good thread tbqh

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:40:35 2015 No.7268542 >>7268277 best in thread

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:41:57 2015 No.7268547 >>7268296 Good ranking. I may be biased because I'm 3rd, but the top 2 are spot on I think.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:42:18 2015 No.7268548

”Every time I try to write the letter, no matter how clear the message in my mind before I grab my quill, it stops before it has time to begin.” The man said quietly, creating ripples on the undisturbed surface of the silence. But a body of water is never completely at standstill, the movement of the air is constant. The underwater currents, no matter how peaceful, keep moving. In the room, after the ripples of the man’s words had subsided, the slight breeze outside kept the world spinning. The sound of breathing and the other sounds from the remarkably silent human body kept the continuity of the currents alive.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:42:59 2015 No.7268554 >>7268495 This is really annoying to read

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:43:25 2015 No.7268559
File: 49 KB, 500x375, 1380173449732.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>7268279
>mfw nobody even cares what I wrote

I was pretty sure you post was bait because of lines like
>was like a torrent of monkeys playing yard-tennis in my stomach.
>lost like a goat in a mountain pass.
What the fuck man... I had to pause reading for a second. Never use animal similies ever again until you improve your style or make clear if it's a comedy or not.
Otherwise not bad, but not enought to work with. However your characterization is kinda conflicting. Does the mysterywoman primarly appear "charismatic" (a.k.a warm, approachable, open) or "a soulless, calculating robot" (i.e. cold, professional, distanced)? Can't have both, stick with a coherent first impression.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:46:28 2015 No.7268567 >>7268495 too hacky. see what you were going for but write it out a little more even if it's meant to be a tired/hacky monologue

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:47:06 2015 No.7268570

Invariably these conversations end up with Layla becoming flustered and skipping out, walking back to her domicile covered with coke cans, dirty clothes, strewn video game covers, and so on. But yet she comes back religiously. There never seems to be a direct, linear conversation that ends up her getting what she seeks. Every conversation meanders, transgresses, the closer she gets to the thing of itself the wider the picture gets for her. She transcribes each interaction carefully and has a list of questions to ask each retired citizen, though she deviates frequently. Typically she gravitates more toward the men, though of her contemporaries she exclusively consorts with the same sex.
The upcoming visit is on a sunday morning. Once a month she skips church services to visit the disillusioned elderly that face the final years of their lives in stubborn refusal to seek comfort in communion. Her visits are less untoward the stalwart nonbelievers but rather the bizarre sects that label modern church theology as somehow perverse, who would scoff at asking for the prayers from heathens, who will try, maybe unsuccessfully, for an orthodox, traditionalist clergyman states away to deliver their last rites.
Her sunday visits always involve one of her favorite girls, Ms. O'Flannery, a spinster who insists the Vatican has been empty since 1958. After 3 hours of daily Christian meditation, gospel study and prayer each, she was allowed the rest of her sunday tending to her garden plot outside the community room window, clad ankle-to-wrist in a beige cotton garment, on her knees, her silver cross swinging to and from her breast. Layla thought she was very clever indeed for bribing Ms. O'Flannery with her help in the garden but soon realized Ms. O'Flannery actually loved company and would talk to pretty much anyone.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:50:44 2015 No.7268578 >>7268554 >>7268567 I was trying for a kind of Bret Easton Ellis-esque sort of writing, in both theme and style.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:51:18 2015 No.7268581 >>7268479 really fam which ones

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:52:10 2015 No.7268586 I sat there almost enjoying my anger . . .

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:54:27 2015 No.7268596 >>7268559 Mind giving me some feedback? I'm >>7266134 Super green to writing but I want to become better

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:56:32 2015 No.7268601 >>7268296 tfw the top 7 are all mine :D

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:58:42 2015 No.7268604

>>7268570
>Layla becoming flustered and skipping out, walking back to her domicile covered with coke cans, dirty clothes, strewn video game covers,

Layla is covered in coke cans, clothes, and video games?

>walking back to her domicile (by the way, why domicile?), WHICH IS ...

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 14:59:29 2015 No.7268606 >>7268601 >>7268581 >>7268479 no way fam!!!

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 15:08:41 2015 No.7268636 >>7266012 Don't start a sentence with "which"

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 15:19:13 2015 No.7268699

I spent the next three hours in the classrooms, trying not to look at the clocks above various blackboards, and then looking at the clocks, and then being amazed that only a few minutes had passed since I last looked at the clock. I'd had nearly four years of experience looking at these clocks, but their sluggishness never ceased to surprise. If I am ever told that I have one day to live, I will head straight for the hallowed halls of Winter Park High School, where a day has been known to last a thousand years.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 15:22:55 2015 No.7268719 >>7268699 Refreshing

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 15:26:53 2015 No.7268743 >>7267126 You've probably seen it posted here before but since you asked it's called The Magnificent Third Rail.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 15:30:35 2015 No.7268768 >>7268743 >late-night channel surfing through the mind of a homeless man.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 15:34:17 2015 No.7268785 >>7268768 I needed to make the fact that it's weird as fuck, explicit, somewhat nonsensical, and most likely offensive clear and that seemed like a way of describing it that would convey all of that without literally saying it.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 15:41:22 2015 No.7268819 >>7266114 >>7266143 >>7266106 these three and this one >>7266520

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 15:42:23 2015 No.7268826 >>7268819 was meant for this >>7268581

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 16:06:51 2015 No.7268912

>>7265716
One day, on his way back from work, he decided that he would disappear. It was hard to remember which day it was exactly, but it must have been a Tuesday, since he remembered the distinct taste of chicken as he was sucking on his teeth. He must have gotten the daily chicken special at the filthy restaurant next to his work. Like every Tuesday.

As he came to the decision, or more accurately the sudden realisation, that he was going to disappear, he was standing in an overcrowded train, the back of his head comfortably nestled in the armpit of an oversized gentleman in a wool sweater. For a moment the finality of this fact was so overwhelming, he had to take a deep breath. He breathed in the smell of the train. It wasn't a particularily pleasing smell, but it was at least a familiar one. The musty smell of the seats, mixed with pathetic attempts at covering bodyodour with cheap deodorant or aftershave. Here and there he smelled some highlights, a glaringly sweet women's fragrance or, on rainy days, the smell of wet dog and dirty leather jackets. Almost comforting.

As the train arrived at his stop he loosened himself from the stranger's armpit and squeezed himself by several people who tried to ignore his presence in the most polite manner possible.
Finally at home, he scanned his modest apartment for what could be thrown away first. It would take a while but first he would get rid of all the junk and donate his furniture and clothes. Vacate his apartment. Then terminate all his contracts, close his bankaccount, delete all his accounts on several silly internetcommunities. Finally quit his job. He wasn't gonna thoreau it in the forest like some fucking hippy. He had a plan. But it had to happen quietly. Step by step.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 18:02:54 2015 No.7269583 >>7268636 >>7268636 Thanks for the advice. But it was alright?

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 18:10:20 2015 No.7269619 >>7268296 I'm eighth anon on your list. How should I improve my writing?

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 18:10:59 2015 No.7269623 >>7268819 well you already know how I'd order those out, a and tbh got damn fam p nice. potential.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 18:12:01 2015 No.7269630 >>7269619 'Trees shivered...' ?

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 18:13:10 2015 No.7269638 >>7268548 2/10

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 18:16:01 2015 No.7269661 >>7269630 Personification. It butters up the reader for the rest.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 22:18:49 2015 No.7270763 >>7268296 Hey, I'm >>7266134, can I have a touch of feedback? I want to better my writing

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 22:44:26 2015 No.7270867 [DELETED]

Meant to be somewhere between first and third person.

Context: After losing his virginity to an older girl, a twelve-year-old boy is woken by his father to go kill a spring lamb as a rite of passage.
Rough and calloused hands gently lift him and, always invisible, lend small assistances in dressing. Cheap clothes. Tense and expectant silence.
Bread, no egg, nothing else at the bottom of the stairs, magically provided. Hair, neck, splash water frozen
Not much help, but now there is a Face, always hiding between him and the oil lantern. An even noise, distant.
Walking quickly through the tall grass. Dew...
There is a black oilcloth coat billowing in front of him, silhouetted only by the lantern, and it would melt into the night without the fiery halo. The noise grows to a peak.
They are at a pen, and the world and everything that has happened in it comes back to Bobby, and he knows where this is, and he thinks for a second that the Face knows, his Father knows what happened last night and that this means punishment.
There is a glint in his father's hand, and the son is confused when it is passed to him.
The giant figure that blends into the sky scoops up Bobby's lamb as a gentle machine would, and Bobby’s eyes go dark. The small white doll’s compatriots continue their constant and thoughtless lament.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 22:45:39 2015 No.7270871

>>7270867
Fucking 4chan and its line-deletion. MOOOOOOOOOOOOT

Rough and calloused hands gently lift him and, always invisible, lend small assistances in dressing. Cheap clothes. Tense and expectant silence.
Bread, no egg, nothing else at the bottom of the stairs, magically provided. Hair, neck, splash water frozen
Not much help, but now there is a Face, always hiding between him and the oil lantern. An even noise, distant.
Walking quickly through the tall grass. Dew...
There is a black oilcloth coat billowing in front of him, silhouetted only by the lantern, and it would melt into the night without the fiery halo. The noise grows to a peak.
They are at a pen, and the world and everything that has happened in it comes back to Bobby, and he knows where this is, and he thinks for a second that the Face knows, his Father knows what happened last night and that this means punishment.
There is a glint in his father's hand, and the son is confused when it is passed to him.
The giant figure that blends into the sky scoops up Bobby's lamb as a gentle machine would, and Bobby’s eyes go dark. The small white doll’s compatriots continue their constant and thoughtless lament.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 22:46:41 2015 No.7270878 >>7270871 Context: After losing his virginity to an older girl, a twelve-year-old boy is woken by his father to go kill a spring lamb as a rite of passage.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 22:47:56 2015 No.7270883 >>7265716 immanence is the only thing one should be striving for currently. lasting impressions... have never lasted more than a fleeting moment.

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 23:03:49 2015 No.7270944

It all just feels bland. To say it feels like “nothing” is cheap and pretty much wrong, it just doesn’t feel yet: You’re floating again, you’re floating but always without the comfort of water at your skin. Even when you’re grounded there’s no liquid comfort. Your lips are dry and smell bad and taste bad. You stay in bed for a long fucking time, man. You pull out your laptop and think of ways to kill yourself with that, but it’s not sharp anywhere so you have to accept that maybe a laptop computer isn’t the best way to take your own life even if you feel like that screen and every other screen is obviously killing you, in some stereotypical neo-millennial sci-fi fear of the singularity eventually engulfing all that “society” has carried itself to, the screen knows, giving you cancer, or sending various regions of your subconsciousness into retrograde, whatever that means, and you can feel it happening each day.

>>	Anonymous Thu Oct 22 23:34:30 2015 No.7271058 4chan blocked all my posts because I was on a VPN, just wanna say that there's some genuinely good shit in this thread. some posts that have no replies to them are still good. love that mobile towers one. ok

Anonymous Thu Oct 22 23:39:15 2015 No.7271066

and I could continue forever, until I was only a voice. Not even a voice, but the memory of a voice. Not even a memory, but the dream of that memory. Not even a dream, but the bare raw emotion of that dream, summoned forth by involuntary recollection—bursting from the surface like a dark and beautiful leviathan, breaching from the utmost distant extremities of the ocean, from the darkest and deepest of the darkest depths, glittering in sea-froth and barnacles in the instant of moonlight that illuminates it before it plunges down again, rushing soundlessly to the remotest reaches of the universe.

In that moment we would be neither male nor female, neither happy nor unhappy, neither in freedom nor in bondage—our names would be obliterated and irretrievably forgotten, stricken from all records—

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 10:22:45 2015 No.7272394 >>7271058 >moving towers Thanks man.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 11:04:20 2015 No.7272506 I feel detached from this realm, where consumption is religion, and i don't want anything. It's shit but i'll put it out there, maybe because i don't normally write in english but this, i did.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 11:09:24 2015 No.7272517 >>7270944 I liked it up until >Your lips are dry and smell bad and taste bad. Everything after just feels bland. Cool first couple sentences though.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 11:11:49 2015 No.7272527 >>7268699 fuck, this is simple and good.

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 11:26:49 2015 No.7272580

>>7272506
i feel ya.
i got what i need, its hard to find purpose, always losing myself in waves of life where i forget time blissfully distracted by my own momentum not thinking things all the way through letting intuition put me in another direction. what is life other than what my addictions and habits push me to do.
i feel like a few words can't describe my general though patterns... who knows in a few weeks i will be in a different habit, might go to the gym..

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 12:39:49 2015 No.7272788 There's some ridiculously good stuff in this thread. I'd love to read the finished work of a lot of these

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 12:54:07 2015 No.7272821 >>7268322 Because I wrote it :) I agree with the criticisms that I've received so far, but I'd like to hear what you think and return the favor if you posted anything.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 12:57:02 2015 No.7272827 "I will awaken the universe, then put it sleep. Forever."

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 13:03:05 2015 No.7272845 Once you become a disapointment, it's hard stopping being one. It kinda becomes part of your identity y'know? "There goes Bob, the Screwup" - It becomes something expected of you, and you find it conforting, in a really pathetic sort of way.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 13:05:06 2015 No.7272851 File: 62 KB, 256x144, ninjaerror.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 13:12:28 2015 No.7272868 "There is no such thing as magic", I told myself as I held her cold legs, futilely trying to get her body to stop floating against the ceeling.

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 14:04:25 2015 No.7273008
File: 104 KB, 750x1061, 1420154269992.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>7265716

This way my first time writing for myself out of creativity. Pls no bully.

"His knuckles slid from the neck of the bottle. Roused from his complacent sedation, he rose, and strode to the house with self-assuring rigidity. The receiver now in hand, the high-inflected voice of insincerity ululated in his ear: “Hey Charles, how’s your weekend going?”. A momentary slip of composure, but no recoil as of yet. “Great! Y’know how it is, spending time with the wife and son in the sun, ha-ha-ha!”. How hypocritical to project such insincerity, But it’s easier to use the distant flame of resentment to feign the warmth of some type of sentiment he thought. Great. That’s great Charles. Great-great-great. So, would you mind just quickly ramming your head against the dry-wall a few times for me? Wait. “— just see the receptionist Sunday and you’ll find everything you’ll need, thank you so much”. “Yup. Got it (I didn’t). I’ll get right on that (like hell I will). Bye! (Fuck. You).”
Another weekend paints its resignation on the bathroom walls."

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 15:15:53 2015 No.7273254 >>7273008 Purple and inauthentic. Write what is beautiful, not what sounds smart.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 15:20:57 2015 No.7273275 >>7273008 are you an Indian ?

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 15:23:35 2015 No.7273283

*the big important lawyers eagerly rush home to browse their racist discussion board*

A flurry of suits and ties pile into the commuter rail as it zips out to the exurbs where educated, well-dressed white men enthusiastically hop into their sedans and gun it home where they stampede into their bedrooms, only to find the laptop under their beds, open it up, and type that magical combination of keys into the address bar ("ecks-oh-ecks-oh-h-tee-h...") to find the real thing they work for instead of their large paychecks: community, solace, freedom.

They loosen their ties as well as the white collar decorum on Friday night as they excitedly debate about naked weightlifting, school prestige, and the whereabouts and social escapades of an autistic ginger they once indirectly knew.

They grin and cackle and gasp in their dark caves, illuminated only by the sterile glow of the screens in front of them.

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 15:24:13 2015 No.7273286

>>7273275
No...? Why?

>>7273254
I wasn't going for "smart" so much as whatever I though fit the description best. Figured that having a fair balance of vulgarity and repetitious dialogue balanced it out.

But things can always be simpler I suppose, I really like Hemingway and I aspire to have very simple syntax.

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 15:34:00 2015 No.7273330

Edmond Savoir bought his little ounce from a gypsy witch in Norwich digs. Stella Smith had kicked college but stuck around, organising an occupation with friends in their final year. She had made every front page in Britain, breasts bared, mock copulating with Churchill's face in Parliament Square. She couldn’t kick ket though, and was mad as fuck. As Edmond slid the cash between two pint glasses Stella sang “money for nothing” along with the jukebox, the cough as she finished as thin as paper, her lungs destroyed at 25 chasing smoke off aluminium cans in a Portsmouth bedsit.

The lump bounced and jostled, jingled in pocket and rattled in combats for three days of sun and music, all weekend it smouldered until an eighth remained, until wet grass spilled him drunk on his ass. The dope, sliding down the crease of fishy smelling fabric, plopping into a crescent of crushed paper cup, then kicked away as she helped him to his feet.

He sensed his loss as they were walking back to his tent, and they fought as he grubbed in the dawn hopelessly. Sunshine vibrating at the horizon, they wrote off their loss and caught four hours sleep as the site stirred to the news that Cliff Richard had died.

As he drifted through sweat and funk in sunshine carriage, his hand in hers, he became the last man on earth. In the field, sun vibrated in the cup like a trapped bee. In the heat and polymer reek, the sweet smell of sugar and dead apples, the rattle of ant legs on translucent carapace, and the final rattle of grass blades and blown out air, as tongs tossed the cup into a blue plastic bin bag.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 15:35:48 2015 No.7273335 >>7272821 I don't know what it's saying that's interesting or insightful and I don't think the prose is great either. It's quite nice but I don't see why it's better than the majority of things here

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 15:49:38 2015 No.7273409

>>7268495
I actually like this a fair bit. There's no way I could read a long passage of this, but in short stints it has a different feeling and sort of percussiveness.

>>7265744
Not really useful without context.

>>7265871
Nice, I like it. Good idea, simple dialogue.

>>7265971
A bit cliche imo, "a lump formed in my throat" doesn't feel too authentic, and I don't think the description is proportionate to the events. You can go for the bare-bones shell-shock type and reduce everything, or go into hyper detail to really, but this is sort of inbetween imo.

>>7266269
Ha, nice.

>>7270871
Decent, although i think you'd want to stay consistent with the minimalism rather than the "melt into the night without the fiery halo" which is a much less grounded, more poetic image.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 15:50:43 2015 No.7273415 Dear Dairy,

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 15:52:16 2015 No.7273420 >>7265871 I like this

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 15:53:44 2015 No.7273426 >>7268495 Your prose is good, but the text seems a bit empty / try hard. Did you write this on the fly?

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:00:40 2015 No.7273458 >>7266683 Tight, clean and logical. Unshowy. Not sure your own farts would ever seem anything other than your own navel, but I'll assume you've been on these drugs and noticed these farts become alien? Really like your style anyway.

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:01:28 2015 No.7273465

Further on, the knight found what appeared to be a service desk, blanketed with a mink coat of dust, equipped with a computer of a cubic beige construction lost to time, behind which sat a nearly broken chair. Behind the desk, behind the ‘I’m here to help’ sign sat a dirty skeleton, its only personal affect spared the slow conceptual death of decomposition was the plastic nametag bridging the gap between two ribs; It read ‘TODD’. The gamesome knight asked the remains where he could find an exit. It said nothing, the receding shadows in its eyes seeming to say ‘I’m on break’. The knight was indignant, and he voiced his indignation as loud as his closed visor could allow. The skull’s blank expression bathed in unrepentant light held no patience for the knight, as if he were getting off break in ten minutes and nothing would make him work until then, because the union fought hard to get longer breaks and so long as they took dues out of his paycheck, he would use these breaks to their greatest length. While this brought a pang of empathy into the knight’s chivalrous mechanical heart, he simply wanted to know where the exit was. He didn’t even have to get up, just point in a direction - not even that, just give some indication so long as it didn’t feel like work. Although the skeleton didn’t move to direct, his posture was loose and slouching, as though he had given a sort of concession to the knight, and that he would help him because being on break for too long was boring anyways, and he didn’t care so much about standing up for himself because he’d died long before his body stopped living. The knight was very pleased, and told the skeletal figure that the man he’d met was right, that after all, Todd was a nice young man. The skull’s easy, flowing and unknitted brows dispelled any aura of bitterness or spite, and his silence bespoke of a shyness and soft gratitude at the compliment. He’d become easier to work with. The knight asked again where the exit was, to bring the question to the forefront of the worker’s mind, to get a straight answer. A scurrying came across the floor under the desk, the chair’s wheeled bottom rattled, the seat rotated to the left as a mouse crawled up the chair and onto the desk. The skeleton’s eyes now rotated were struck obliquely by the light, the angular shadows giving them a directed, inquisitive look at the knight’s face, seeming to ask if that was all. The knight told him it was, thanked him, requested he have a good day, and walked off in the direction the remains turned to.

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:04:44 2015 No.7273485

>immediately prior her crush has appeared to reject her

She decided to take a hot shower, disrobing and stepping in. The water felt good on her clammy skin. She pretended like she was in a space pod sterilization quarantine, cleaned by the scalding hot water coming harshly out of the apartment’s crummy showerhead .Erika pretended it was a debrider, removing infectants. She felt dizzy; she’d been too relaxed, and had stood up too fast. She steadied herself with her hand, pretending to be taken by the infection. She turned up the quarantine showerhead, impressed by it’s geodesic alien structure. Metamaterials from carbon and magnesium and ytterbium. She was in the future. They didn’t have men in this time, she remembered with a shock. They had only women, and a consequence they were dying. The sun had swelled and exploded and the earth had been consumed. The women had seen it coming, and wanted to leave but the men did not, and they waved goodbye while the women flew away; blown on a cosmic wind like leaves across the galaxies. Alone.

And so they’d sent her into the past, in their time machine – to earth early in the second millennium, to gather sperm from viable males, to get pregnant, to bring life into the future. But she’d just been pulled back, time up, a failure. And she’d been contained, separated as a result, would never be able to be with her mothers and sisters and daughters again. She’d failed; she’d been cast back into the past, forever removed from her real family— the distant future, or past. Her real family stretched their arms and hands out from the darkness, palms on the windows, all the windows she saw around her now, octagonal cells, hands pressing against her cell in solidarity.

Erika slowly stopped thinking, became aware of the feeling of the water dripping around her, coursing down her legs and into the pipes below her feet, out into the sea. A lingering feeling of oneness.

Her phone buzzed and she was in the shower again, head clearing. She heard her phone again and stepped out of the shower carefully onto the little fuzzy blue mat before she realized, dripping, that something was wrong. Where was her phone? The counter was empty, she’d had no pockets in the little crumple of clothes.

Plip plip plip, drops on the floor. She remembered throwing the phone on the… bed? Yeah. She listened for the ring again.

Plip plip plip.

She stepped back in the shower, wondering where her head was at.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:05:21 2015 No.7273490 >>7273283 fascinating

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:06:26 2015 No.7273497 >>7273286 Your writing 'sounded' as if English is not your first language and your pic of savitabhabhi. Maybe it comes from being your first try.

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:07:56 2015 No.7273503

Translations from a little article I wrote on post-apocalypse.

To leave what surrounds us to the routine of their means letting opinion become dogma and reinterpretation become heresy.

Or

[...] the post-apocalypse becomes time after the end of Time, the territory of the unknown; and in the act of narration, [...] Man becomes the aedic protagonist of his projected afterife.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:12:06 2015 No.7273512 >>7273503 The routine of its meaning is to let* Fucked up

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:13:36 2015 No.7273520

>>7273283
Lawyer here, this is amazing. Going to kill myself now though

>>7265871
Excellent, perfectly executed

>>7266134
It's pretty close to good, you're wandering in your sentences just a little bit. I have the same problem. Tighten it up, you've got good concepts and the ability to write, just need to refine your editing, I think.

>>7266269
Yeah, I don't know. You've got something, but it needs work.

>>7266143
>>7265971
>>7266097
There's something terribly sad and banal about these.

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:23:24 2015 No.7273548

As i looked at the blank wall. I started to wonder what happened, the soft glowing rays of my childhood to the drug fueled neon lit haze of a requiem to my teenage years. My pointless rebellion, the fight against the absurd, that which cannot be comprehended much less beaten. I look now out the window of my own silent asylum, wishing to scream at the boredom. Tell it to let me free, only to feel complience and type more reports, get more money to spend on nothing.

But I understand through the cathartic rememberence of days gone by, I can make a choice, I have all the tools to do so. I can finish it all, put my final stand in rebellion to the everday consumer appliance powerhouse.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:35:46 2015 No.7273573 >no one ever comments on my writing. give me attention damn it.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:41:52 2015 No.7273584 >>7273573 You do me >>7273503 and I'll do you, just point me to it.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 16:41:56 2015 No.7273586 >>7273573 Which one's yours?

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 17:23:37 2015 No.7273758

>>7273520
>It's pretty close to good, you're wandering in your sentences just a little bit. I have the same problem. Tighten it up, you've got good concepts and the ability to write, just need to refine your editing, I think.
>actual feedback from someone
Holy fuck, thank you! I've been rereading the rest of it cause of your point and it all seems to have that problem so I'll cut the slack. Thanks mate

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 19:11:19 2015 No.7274170 >>7273330 I'd really appreciate any kind of comment on this. It's from a short story, first thing I've finished in twenty odd years.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 19:21:40 2015 No.7274218 >>7266771 Nice, reserved, very melancholic. I'd like the read a bit more. >>7266269 Yeah, you write well, and it's pretty funny.

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 19:24:24 2015 No.7274224
File: 13 KB, 255x237, 1411595281489.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

I make obnoxious wordplay:

they knew, they all knew, or at the very least they suspected. He was not one of them, not good enough to be allowed what he craved. The craving the problem, carnal encouragements cut off to halt that all-encompassing cave in.
That darkness he could see and the coldness he could feel. Eyes set on the path ahead he walked as a ghost through the croud, knowing that his shivering, chilled soul sent frisson from each person, centre to centre.
Iron stiff he walked, hemoglobin pounding through his heart, constricted by iron.

I'm sorry.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 19:26:00 2015 No.7274232 >>7273548 >'that which cannot be comprehended' nice try, just reads a little edgy in theme. can you edit the vocab to be more focused on having a specific effect on the reader?

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 19:27:41 2015 No.7274245 >>7273465 > It read ‘TODD this change in length is really effective. I like the theme of everyday death, is that linked to a wider theme in the work?

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 19:29:09 2015 No.7274253

>>7273283
> They loosen their ties as well as the white collar decorum on Friday night as they excitedly debate about naked weightlifting, school prestige, and the whereabouts and social escapades of an autistic ginger they once indirectly knew.

is nice but make them worse, it feels like I should be revulsed by them and I'm just not feeling it... IMHO though

Dream I had last night Fri Oct 23 19:29:23 2015 No.7274256

It started out as a Bernie Sanders rally in some auditorium. I was sitting in front of some shelf backstage which had a container of kerosene on it that read “made to eliminate Bernie Sanders”. It made me feel nervous and uncomfortable.

Then the dream transitioned.
I was a part of some large group, who were all getting into disguise except for me. We were on some kind of mission, but I knew the last part of it was going to be a failure so I abstained from joining them in the disguises, and there weren’t enough for everybody anyway. They tried to infiltrate… some kind of closed down mall and they all got apprehended by the police and escorted back to where I was. They said it was fun but they wouldn’t do it again.

In the last part, there were actors in a movie portraying some pro smash players, but I only remember the people who were playing as Mew2king and Westballz, and neither of the actors looked anything like them. I don’t remember any other specifics, other than the fact it took place on the roof of a very tall building in a city.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 19:30:10 2015 No.7274260 >>7272868 lol, nice. Are you going to keep up the whole magical realism theme going? also, I think it's 'ceiling'

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 19:48:01 2015 No.7274322 >>7274245 Sort of. It's more about everyday concessions of humanity, but death definitely has a part there. I'm glad that you could give me such a nice comment!

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 20:01:23 2015 No.7274375 >>7273485 >nobody reviewed mine

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 20:21:10 2015 No.7274440 >>7273520 >There's something terribly sad and banal about these. Well, DFW imitation is better than nothing.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 20:55:16 2015 No.7274517 I feel like I've seen this thread before, in another time.... 2012................ Sigh..................................................

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 21:00:52 2015 No.7274534 >>7274517 Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I'm the op and posted this on my first visit...not sure if I broke an unspoken rule or not

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 21:01:36 2015 No.7274538

>>7274534
Sigh.........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 21:04:26 2015 No.7274548 >>7272517 thanks, i feel the same about the ending

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 21:04:59 2015 No.7274551 >>7274538 So a bad thing I made this thread?

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 21:08:37 2015 No.7274565

>>7265716
Sitting lonely and wet and sticky under the rainpiss morning (roofhole above as big as an ass widestretched since some mocking mockingbird tapped the rotten rooftop wood till got such hole done) I turned the MacBook on (stolen at Starbucks, negus-dressed ghost-pale hip left it on his cheap-ass table while he went for another Costa Rica Finca Palmilera) to get on that website: Four Leaves Place (see four threads and leave the place), well-known website now - internet's clearing place for the mentally ill.
Putting on the Occulus Rift I bought with my never-spent college funds, I prepared my anus for a surreal experience. Four chan occulus integrated – a man's dream come true: browse through all forty-eight plus sixteen boards in a single never-forgettable night. A one time-wasting online spree to remember, I know counter-earth-momma would be proud.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 21:13:52 2015 No.7274580 It's as if our feathers were wax, when I thought we would never last.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 21:59:40 2015 No.7274718 >>7274218 Thank you. I'm thinking of developing it into a short story, I just randomly wrote that excerpt one day on my phone, sadly that's all I've written. >>7270871 This is really, really beautiful writing; one of my favorites on this thread.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 22:08:50 2015 No.7274747 >>7265716 ...and there was cum in his eyes too, making them burn almost as much as his asshole. «Oh God, the cum...» cried Moot. «There's so much nigger cum.» Giganigga smiled.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 22:24:11 2015 No.7274800 >>7274747 Too bad dubs killed the giga

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 22:55:43 2015 No.7274872 >>7273520 What kind of lawyer? I want to go to law school. Where'd you go?

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 23:16:21 2015 No.7274936 File: 3.65 MB, 370x283, 1442803580656.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>7268296 >mfw I stole mine from someone because I thought it was great >mfw you still put it in the lower middle Heh

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 23:37:51 2015 No.7275000 >>7274936 which one tbh

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 23:39:28 2015 No.7275004 >>7275000 Check'd also this one >>7266160

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 23:44:09 2015 No.7275013 >>7275004 you thought that was great?

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 23:46:28 2015 No.7275020

I’d consider myself a realist, but in philosophical terms I’m what’s called a pessimist. I think human consciousness is a tragic misstep in evolution. We became too self aware. Nature created an aspect separated from itself, we are creatures that should not exist by natural law.

>>	Anonymous Fri Oct 23 23:48:56 2015 No.7275031 >>7275013 I woiuldn't call it a quote of the century but I thought it was clever and wrote it down so if I ever had an appropriate moment to use it in my own work I could. I like the way it flows. Hard to describe but I like the tone to it.

Anonymous Fri Oct 23 23:54:42 2015 No.7275045

Her face screwed up like the air was sour. We laughed again so she left her number on the inside of a little white envelope. She licked it shut and I stared as it slid into my pocket.
It was heavy. It dragged me back to my little apartment where I could sit in the wicker chair and wish I were back at my chocolate countertop. When you call someone your eyes fixate on some object like a floorboard or bottle of aspirin because eyes search for things that will love them back. When you call someone all you want to do is find something to love you back, but all you can do is say, “meet me in The Mailroom at 7.”
I could tell you a lot more about her, like the way she used to read upside down off the end of the bed or the time when she changed all the old light bulbs in my mother’s house. “It opens the space up,” she said, more to herself, “it’ll be much easier to sell now.” She fell off the end of the bed once. The house didn’t sell and a falling branch cracked Mom’s grave.
If the sun’s right, I can still see a little brown pen flagpoled in the mud of an old subway grate. If it rains on the patio I’ll put up the old plastic umbrella and watch the plink plink plink off Ulysses’ head. It’s hard to stay on those days, when everyone wants to be inside. The rain paints your little bubble and nobody comes and pops it into nothing with their big, brown eyes.

this creative writing stuff is hard

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 02:49:52 2015 No.7275464

>>7275020
>I’d consider myself a realist, but in philosophical terms I’m what’s called a pessimist. I think human consciousness is a tragic misstep in evolution. We became too self aware. Nature created an aspect separated from itself, we are creatures that should not exist by natural law.

That's effing ridiculous my fine friend. I think what you mean is you're depressed. We are the eyes the universe uses to perceive itself, you can't do your job better than most and not know what it is :-)

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 04:24:59 2015 No.7275694

>>7273485

You have done some nice writing here. The everyday descriptions are good but maybe need some taming. I think you are mixing things up though, so the stuff with her showering doesn't benefit from the plotting - they feel kind of thrown together and they really dont flow naturally from one to the other. But both are decent and intriguing. I would say keep writing, discipline yourself a bit.

BTW, not a single comment on mine either! Feels bad, man!

Also, I don't know what a debrider is, but that could be my problem!

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 04:39:18 2015 No.7275720

He had a habit of boiling himself. Most times he got out of the bath, it felt like he had washed twice, once getting in, and then at the end, when he would have to soap the pungent sheets of sweat away from his arms, neck and back, where it collected endlessly in the thick steam, and continued to stream after he’d got out, sitting in his room with his face a deep red, breathing away the pulmonary frenzy like a dog.

But today he took his time, he had been rattled at work, so he stayed, enjoyed the water, smoked the joint, hit up some jazz on the radio, and piled through Javascript - The Good Parts by O’Reilly press for nearly two hours until the water was luke warm and the radio had been stalled for a good half hour, the app finally stumped by the flakey WiFi.

He was in those final, stretchy minutes, promising he’d quit the tub at chapter end, before ignoring his own advice and ploughing on, another cigarette lit, when he heard the pop. It was barely noticeable, like a soap bubble, but he knew instantly where it had come from. He shifted, ass groaning across plastic, water sloshing, tossing the book to the floor, and lifting his foot, grabbing the ankle and bending it towards himself, seeing the fungus for the first time.

He started draining the bath, wrapped himself in a towel, and trod gingerly to his room, where he inspected the wrinkled, puffy flesh in the late evening summer light thrown by the bay window.

It looked similar to his thumb, which hadn’t really altered. His big toe had the dead texture of dim sum, and in the middle, along the bottom and side, was the same red crescent, only this time it stood out dramatically against the wrinkled, soaked skin.

He probed at it, felt it tingle, calling from within to be purged, so he pushed it gently between the flat of his thumbs, seeing it swirl from red to purple, something within rising up. The pressure built, his brow furrowed as he pinched as much strength as he could into the boil, and then they appeared, seeping through the lattice of pores, perfect, tiny spirals the colour of bone, breaking through the skin like puss but spinning like drill bits, each one a shockingly perfect shape.

He brushed at them, expecting it to break and ball like snot or puss, but each one just broke away intact, a collection of little sucker cups on stems, the pores they had broken from welling with pale pink water.

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 04:47:56 2015 No.7275737

Clouds hang over brick buildings. Jamie's eyes follow their movement. Raindrops leave streaks of water on a giant window Jamie is leaning against. He looks into the eyes of his own reflection in the glass. Two transparent, pale brown dots. Jamie looks down and cars are beetles and people ants on wet streets down below. Jamie has vertigo. In the dizziness-induced darkness, he sees himself falling down 76 floors and splatter onto pavement among all sorts of cars and yellow cabs into a mass of flesh, bones, and intestines. Jamie imagines his skull cracking open and his brain splitting. His cerebral functions would stop and all the demons hiding in his mind would vanish too. The darkness dissipates. Although the sun is nowhere to be seen, clouds lit by daylight are bright enough to make Jamie's pupils contract. He walks backward to plunge into a sofa filled with silicon that surrounds him like a womb. His eyes are still fixed upon the window in which the shining clouds and building rooftops are visible.

He thinks of smashing the window with a hammer. Then he ponders on the difficulty of sneaking a hammer into his room and the hardness of fortified quadruple glass. He thinks fortified glass shatters into harmless, pebble-like pieces but in his mind the glass nevertheless shatters into a thousand pieces big and sharp enough to be lethal. Jamie sees the gravity-fueled glass raining down on unassuming pedestrians.

Jamie would not mind making his maternal parent pay astronomical amounts in compensations but he imagines the innocent pedestrians, their heads pierced by sharp glass, moaning and bleeding on the ground. Jamie sighs. He does not want to hurt them, people who wanted to get to their school, work, friends, lovers, family, etc. People who breathed freely, people who looked without fear.

Jamie would never want to hurt them, even though they are not like him.

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 05:21:19 2015 No.7275812

>>7274551

I'm starting to feel it is, but only because there's a lot of stuff, mine included, which doesn't garner a single comment. Maybe it should have a post one rate two rule or something, and a condition that you post something already written, or perhaps already completed. Alot of these are just misery doodles and you can tell there is nothing else to be read - I'm not sure it's healthy to have that standard of writing permitted when it just amounts to a sort of grand standing shitpost.

Also, holy fucking shit one comment would be nice you fucking spergs. God I hate to say that Reddit has a better 'book's board. I mean I'm a /pol devotee so that really sticks in my fucking craw.

I dunno, maybe an age limit? I really can't into teenagers with megaphones.

Fuck it, maybe I should stop pissing and whining and start my own thread with some more rigid rules on the writing. Any thoughts on what good rules would be?

TLDR No, I think this thread idea is genius, just needs to be filtered down somehow.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 05:51:55 2015 No.7275858 >>7275737 Fucking teenage shit. Get over yourself or kill yourself. That aside, you have some ability writing, it's just you're writing about your anus.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 06:23:22 2015 No.7275925 >>7275858 But they say write what you know.

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 06:27:08 2015 No.7275933

>>7275925
yeah, whatever, cunt. Way to go reviewing other peoples work (you didnt)
fact is what you know is bupkuss. You saw a building on TV, and you felt sad.

But that abuse aside, you at least can write in fairly neutral English, which is what seems to escape most of the posts here.

But again, this thread is for reviewing other peoples work, and you didn't, so fuck ya.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 06:36:12 2015 No.7275948 >>7275045 This is pretty good. Quite bright yet disciplined. The only snag was the the line about looking for things that love you back, didnt make any sense to me. Worth working through again, and untying the snags.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 06:44:13 2015 No.7275965 File: 52 KB, 638x583, 1443977082001-int.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] "Strife makes man great."

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 06:54:19 2015 No.7275979

I met a girl from another country. We talked on Skype every night for a few months. Our conversation was mostly frivolous, but she gradually revealed a lot about herself, and, though I was a bit cautious at first, I began to love her. When she told me she had sex only once before, giving her virginity away while she was in another country on exchange, I asked her if she regretted it. This question upset her so clearly she must have regretted it to a degree, but I reassured her soon afterwards that, though I think she shouldn't have done it, I didn't think anything less of her for it. This was somewhat hypocritical of me however, as we shall see. We eventually confessed our feelings to one and other. From her country she sent me a lock of her hair sprayed with her perfume, tied in a pink ribbon. She came to my country to study, but she was still miles away and travel was expensive. She came to me and we spent two nights together in a hotel. We said a lot of stupid things. She said I was her first love, and I still believe her in this. We talked about marriage and babies. She ended it very soon afterwards, saying that she was missing me too much and that we couldn't see each other often enough, and that she was afraid she would cheat on me while out drinking with her friends while wishing I was there. I had to wait a couple of weeks to say her face to face again. I was upset during those weeks, but as soon as I saw her it was like we had never broke up. We held hands walking up a hill where we could be alone. We kissed a lot. She had to go; I agreed we should just be friends as it wasn't going to work. She was young and selfish and had little intention of controlling her passions, but she had made an effort to be kind to me when she broke up. I saw her crying and she said she would always love me. Though I can't put much weight in what she said, I know that she was sincere, and I don't resent her.

I talked to a wise man afterwards about what had happened. He had a beard, he was very wise. He was so wise that I felt that I could tell him everything and that he would not react emotionally, but would be able to tell me exactly where I went wrong. So I told him what had happened in every detail, and he listened very calmly. Then with a placid face he informed me what I already knew in my head, but when he said it entered my heart: that I had let mere passion define our relationship from the beginning, and that it was to be expected for it to end as soon as the passions went in another direction, as passions always do. He said that in your life you have to handle all things with prudence, wisdom, that if you act like a fool you will reap a fool's reward, and that only a fool let's passion define any of his actions or relations. Then he told me to let prudence be the foundation of my next relationship, because it was not fair to me or to my partner to encourage two broken hearts.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 07:20:23 2015 No.7276035 >>7275979 the cuckening. You write very well though.

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 08:11:40 2015 No.7276144

>>7275979
I have decided to keep her hair tied in a pink ribbon. There's quite a lot of it, as she has very long hair. It is curled inside a little black jewellery box which is itself wrapped in a silver ribbon. It sits on top of the envelope she sent me, which once smelled so strongly of her perfume that it made me smell of it for the entire day. She knew I was a romantic, and that I thought it was a beautiful gesture. Nobody in my family understood how beautiful I thought it was. I had to debate with myself whether or not I would send it down a river, to finally wash my hands of and forget about her. I was unsure at first whether I ever wanted to see her again. After some reflection, the truth came to me. Though I had known her only a short time, because of the nature of our conversation, I knew more about her than most other people I have known. It made no sense to harden my heart against her and turn one passion into another. Though I couldn't possess her in the way I wanted I still felt some loyalty to her. I do not delude myself into thinking that we will be together in the future, but if that did happen I know it would be beautiful to show her that I had kept it her gift, the best gift someone has ever given to me. I have not been able to give her a gift so precious to me, and I would like to one day. It's true, however, that when I look it at sometimes I already feel a kind of resentment for it, in that it reminds me of a stupid passion that never came to anything; when I imagine myself in bed with her again holding her I feel weak and self-pitying. Yet, there is another, a better, emotion that comes to me. When I stop desiring to possess her and remember who she is in her person, I feel a selfless love for her soul that makes me strong and noble. I no longer want to possess her body for my own comfort, but above all want to see her happy; it's no longer a stagnant lust for her body, but a true and abiding love for her soul. Even if she opened up her soul to me only for the briefest of moments, I must love her forever because the soul is eternal.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 08:33:01 2015 No.7276178 >>7276144 just.fuck.off. all of you. me.me.me Fuck christ I'm not reading anymore of this shit.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 08:52:19 2015 No.7276199 >>7275979 >>7276144 Tl;dr

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 08:58:33 2015 No.7276211 >>7266106 cool but stinks of Mccarthy, don't get me wrong I like his smell - stuff like this is worthless picked out put it somewhere

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 09:01:50 2015 No.7276216 >>7266771 enjoyed this, would read more

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 09:08:57 2015 No.7276234

>>7273330
liked it

>As he drifted through sweat and funk in sunshine carriage, his hand in hers, he became the last man on earth. In the field, sun vibrated in the cup like a trapped bee. In the heat and polymer reek, the sweet smell of sugar and dead apples, the rattle of ant legs on translucent carapace, and the final rattle of grass blades and blown out air, as tongs tossed the cup into a blue plastic bin bag.

This felt incongruous to me. It didn't fit.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 09:11:41 2015 No.7276239 >>7266269 >tfw you find out that this has been on here for a while, and took this long to be appreciated https:// warosu. org / lit/thread/ 4808098 >mfw I have no face

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 09:13:13 2015 No.7276243 >>7268912 well, someone's been reading too much Murakami

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 09:48:38 2015 No.7276297

Breaking out like youth in splendorous light to falter in age, in terrible age, in terrible age in breaking light. Opportunity is a terrible word. The man sits in the psychiatrist's office but he is a man only by age and opportunity. Love and even genitals are now points of theory and he does not know if love for this type of state employee is encouraged or mocked. A lot of mockery is online, now. He looks bad through looking sick and that through neglect and some mineral and vitamin deficiencies as plainly cured as everything else in a nation with free healthcare supported in all politics.
'Why do you want that?' asks the psychiatrist.
She is a woman and pretty with eyes that are kind. She wears some makeup and looks pretty in it though it is not excessive. She will have children though youth in her time did not inspire in her any notion of it or in many others until the point when it comes either way and then spoken about over coffee as if it were something new. As something either accidental or essential and hopefully the latter depending on childhood and family previous and such things. She will have children, the psychiatrist, and note her education and profession and raise the children accordingly and her husband is unknown thus far but the cycle of education is a quick one and whatever revolution - sexual or internet or cultural - it is forgotten, and whatever the internet it is all vitally displaced by common notions of life. They both cried at that, the husband most passionately, because he had tried helium suicide by the designs of a colourful and comically captioned image. He was involved in spiritualism, he called it, after that. When he twenty-one he mediated in a man's house for free on Wednesdays but didn't smoke weed with the group after. He wanted children so much. Politics is how we raise our children, she thought, and in university she thought the same but with a very different intuition. That kind of awful time was passed now and as women of her temperament and good quality do she chooses a husband of the same mind. To the credit of the man is the personal and specific choice of a high quality and reasonable woman; no man benefited in a revolution.
The night is sickly outside and the room is late for a psychiatrist and when he was younger there was a party and girls ran across the road across from the house to where he and two friends stood smoking and the girls held hands in a bond of unfathomable triviality. There was another girl standing with them, not pretty, and not for a second could she understand what the pretty ones bounded in, and the strident boys dreamed in, and what was for them the essence or reason of youth and then the vital excitement of life.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 11:16:18 2015 No.7276496 >>7276297 >She is a woman Why do you do this

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 12:55:18 2015 No.7276835

>>7276234
>This felt incongruous to me. It didn't fit.

Thanks for the feedback. Yeah it's not quite right. The story is actually about him and the lump of dope over a period of about thirty million years.
I definitely have no excuse for saying rattle twice.

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 12:57:15 2015 No.7276846

>>7276297
>Breaking out like youth in splendorous light to falter in age, in terrible age, in terrible age in breaking light. Opportunity is a terrible word. The man sits in the psychiatrist's office but he is a man only by age and opportunity. Love and even genitals are now points of theory and he does not know if love for this type of state employe

stopped reading there, just who the hell do you think you are? You're crowbarring a bunch of stuff you know nothing about into a space it's got no place being.

You can write well, stop the bullshitting, you know fuck and all and know you know.

Good otherwise.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 13:00:13 2015 No.7276856 >>7276144 >that it made me smell of it for the entire day. NBo it fucking didn't, what are you a fucking homeopath? Jesus fucking christ, this is /lit not fucking /sob. Go for a beer you cunt.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 16:00:48 2015 No.7277474 >>7276846 yeah it's fucking shit sorry

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 16:04:21 2015 No.7277492 "I never quite understood how accumulation genitals from the opposite sex constituted a virtue for one but a sin for the other."

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 16:49:46 2015 No.7277656 >>7277492 >"I never quite understood how accumulation genitals from the opposite sex constituted a virtue for one but a sin for the other." bollocks. I don't understand it either.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 16:59:46 2015 No.7277687 >>7265716 I love God when there's money in my pocket.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 17:02:42 2015 No.7277696 >>7277492 hint: it's because men want to have sex more than women do you fucking retard

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 17:04:38 2015 No.7277708 >>7272868 fuck off reddit

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 18:40:39 2015 No.7278172 >>7277474 No man/woman it's naive is all. You write well, and you are saying a lot that translates into reader interest. Just chop out the flowers. Noone here is gonna fuck you. Rape, yeah.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 18:55:03 2015 No.7278246 >>7277696 >hint: it's because men want to have sex more than women do Source?

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 19:12:17 2015 No.7278309 >>7276239 hahah, I do remember posting it before, I must have blocked out the negative feedback. Out of curiousity, what made you search for it?

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 19:17:16 2015 No.7278327 >>7277687 >I love God when there's money in my pocket. garbage. fuck off.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 19:22:37 2015 No.7278345 >>7268912 I kissed this earlier. You write well. you get a bit lost describing the smells on the train - you are repeating all of them you remember it seems.

>>	Anonymous Sat Oct 24 21:28:27 2015 No.7278828 >>7275948 thanks, friend

Anonymous Sat Oct 24 22:35:36 2015 No.7279052

>>7266269
expanded this to 1300 words, thinking of making it into a short novel for my 12 year old sister. would appreciate feedback on this very very rough draft.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/19hXv3qjkmKRNsNsQUu0gyMmoPI0_tmwys8WYfBV08dM/edit?pli=1

>>	Anonymous Sun Oct 25 00:35:30 2015 No.7279437 Give to me your secrets so that i can be.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 01:20:31 2015 No.7279553

Politics, in itself, should leave the brine of your conscious shattered by an infinite, quite burning. If you aren’t experiencing the decadence of your sanity the moment you’re mumbling the headlines, you aren’t thinking quickly enough, and you will find yourself stepping on the wrong side of the stadium. My son, don’t drift so quickly, melancholy is just another guise for life. Open your arms, because these prisoners are nothing but the Eastern debutants that Western compromise promised. Our righteous brothers at the orphanage may as well be hosting the next war effort too, because a child without a father can only love the Motherland. The existentialism you so shamelessly cater to is nothing but a cry for council, and I will be the answer.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 02:04:08 2015 No.7279683 [DELETED]

It was the fourth year of Mindcarving, but not the final fourth. Still, my friends had been through a lot in those four years; they had gone through change both physically and mentally. Their muscles had grown to endure the hard work of farming, their minds and senses had adapted the art of driving. They had learned how to communicate with the horses, the birds, the dogs, the foxes and the snakes-- well maybe not snakes, but at least they knew how to spot one slithering in the grass. They realized which trees they wanted to climb, which apples they want to pick, and the basic color too, and the parts of this vast garden they wanted to harvest. No doubt their plans would change a million times more, and that would be even more time spent forming their minds and eyes, making the crucial decisions that would shape their entire lives. But at least the wheels in their minds were turning like a car's, speeding down the main highways. But I do not know those highways. I have been too busy fighting a war in my neck of the woods. No, not some silly wargame that most of the boys play with the old rats. Not the noble, brave, scary wars that the big old miners and farmers, like my father, have almost died fighting in the oceans-- wrestling with the strange fish of the far abysses. My war takes place in the same indescribable path I've been walking most of my existence. I can't help feeling special knowing that my friends haven't explored this path, but then I remember I can't even see where it forks, or turns into a sunnier, breezier atmosphere. So many soldiers stand in the way. Sometimes they even block out the sun, and it's so scary because I don't even know much about the sun, except for the fact it's bright, and warm, and makes me want to dance in its presence. But when they block out the sun, I don't know if I want to see it or if I'm too comfortable cowering in their shadows; them pushing me back into my little hole on the side of the road, where it's even more comforting, and most of all, familiar, than the disposition of that great star. But that hole is so cold, so very deep down into the earth, that upon entering it, climbing down the root-infested, frozen soil stairway, I forget the air and the trees and the flowers and the rain and the sun. All that I know is the numbness, the surrounding frigidity and solemn air void of sound and movement. My insides would freeze, slowly dropping to temperatures unendurable for my pulsing blood or racing heart. My mind and soul would fall into the beginning stages of a comforting slumber from it's brisk lullaby. This part of me feels wrapped up, like in a soft, tight blanket; squeezing my lungs, but giving just enough air to my brain for processing the ominous song. Sometimes, as I lay resting on the frozen cave floor, I wonder if my vivacious flesh and organs are the only part of me that is living; if my mind and soul have already died.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 02:08:31 2015 No.7279698

It was the fourth year of school, but not the final fourth. Still, my friends had been through a lot in those four years; they had gone through change both physically and mentally. Their muscles had grown to endure the hard work of farming, their minds and senses had adapted the art of driving. They had learned how to communicate with the horses, the birds, the dogs, the foxes and the snakes-- well maybe not snakes, but at least they knew how to spot one slithering in the grass. They realized which trees they wanted to climb, which apples they want to pick, and the basic color too, and the parts of this vast garden they wanted to harvest. No doubt their plans would change a million times more, and that would be even more time spent forming their minds and eyes, making the crucial decisions that would shape their entire lives. But at least the wheels in their minds were turning like a car's, speeding down the main highways-- I do not know those highways.

I have been too busy fighting a war in my neck of the woods. No, not some silly wargame that most of the boys play with the old rats. Not the noble, brave, scary wars that the big old miners and farmers, like my father, have almost died fighting in the oceans-- wrestling with the strange fish of the far abysses.

My war takes place in the same indescribable path I've been walking most of my existence. I can't help feeling special knowing that my friends haven't explored this path, but then I remember I can't even see where it forks, or turns into a sunnier, breezier atmosphere. So many soldiers stand in the way. Sometimes they even block out the sun, and it's so scary because I don't even know much about the sun, except for the fact it's bright, and warm, and makes me want to dance in its presence. But when they block out the sun, I don't know if I want to see it or if I'm too comfortable cowering in their shadows; them pushing me back into my little hole on the side of the road, where it's even more comforting, and most of all, familiar, than the disposition of that great star.

But that hole is so cold, so very deep down into the earth, that upon entering it, climbing down the root-infested, frozen soil stairway, I forget the air and the trees and the flowers and the rain and the sun. All that I know is the numbness, the surrounding frigidity and solemn air void of sound and movement. My insides would freeze, slowly dropping to temperatures unendurable for my pulsing blood or racing heart. My mind and soul would fall into the beginning stages of a comforting slumber from it's brisk lullaby.

This part of me feels wrapped up, like in a soft, tight blanket; squeezing my lungs, but giving just enough air to my brain for processing the ominous song. Sometimes, as I lay resting on the frozen cave floor, I wonder if my vivacious flesh and organs are the only part of me that is living; if my mind and soul have already died.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 03:55:00 2015 No.7279947

>>7277687
I kinda like this. It says a lot about the character without intrinsically saying it. >>7279553
Seems interesting. I feel like this could become cumbersome to a reader if an entire work is like this but as a monologue or individual peice it stands well
>>7279698
If their friends are farmfolk (good chance they are too then as well) doesn't that lead to a sort of weirdness in your choice of vernacular? Farm folk don't discuss things with words like "vivacious"
I'd need to know more about this character to know if this peice is good or not

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 09:25:27 2015 No.7280471

>>7279698
It was the fourth year of school, but not the final fourth. Still, my friends had been through a lot in those four years; they had gone through change both physically and mentally. Their muscles had grown to endure the hard work of farming, their minds and senses had adapted the art of driving. They had learned how to communicate with the horses, the birds, the dogs, the foxes and the snakes-- well maybe not snakes, but at least they knew how to spot one slithering in the grass. They realized which trees they wanted to climb, which apples they want to pick, and the basic color too, and the parts of this vast garden they wanted to harvest. No doubt their plans would change a million times more, and that would be even more time spent forming their minds and eyes, making the crucial decisions that would shape their entire lives. But at least the wheels in their minds were turning like a car's, speeding down the main highways-- I do not know those highways.

I like this.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 11:57:11 2015 No.7280824 [DELETED]

File: 122 KB, 731x1024, 1430737543158.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>7265716
«Con sobrehumano esfuerzo me la quité de encima, y la acomodé junto a mí. El tacto de las almohadas y sábanas nuevas al moverme. El agradable tono íntimo de la penumbra, el cual invitaba a despreocuparse de miradas ajenas. Su delicada piel, ligeramente bronceada por el sol veraniego de la tarde. El olor a melocotón de su cabello recién lavado. Era mi turno.»

>>	Anonymous Sun Oct 25 12:04:40 2015 No.7280842 File: 54 KB, 152x281, checking from the side.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>7280824 Eh! Vos sos el nabocock castellano de esos hilos de /ñ/, no? Leí esa primer página como cuatro veces, decime que ya estás más avanzado con eso.

>>	Anonymous Sun Oct 25 12:08:24 2015 No.7280855 >>7280842 ¿Qué hilos? ¿Dónde lo has visto? Hace tiempo que ando desconectado de éstos lares. Avanzo, pero ya con un proyecto más serio de éste estilo.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 12:11:08 2015 No.7280863
File: 121 KB, 444x324, smile pointing.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>7280855
El año pasado creo, puedo estar confundida pero entre el pedo y el aroma a melocotón estoy un poco convencida.
Desconectarse de estos lares es la forma más sana de avanzar en cualquier dirección. Si querés postear algo lo leo con gusto.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 12:22:39 2015 No.7280887 [DELETED]

>>7280863
Si. Si que era yo. En parte me he ido desconectando por la creciente censura de contenidos e ideas que hay aquí. Pero también es verdad que no se puede tener tanta actividad en internet y ser productivo.

Estoy trabajando en una historia cuyo eje central son una chica de 11, y un chico de 22.

Una segunda opinión siempre está bien. ¿Tienes algún correo de contacto? Aunque te aviso que no sacaré algo pronto.

>>	Anonymous Sun Oct 25 12:31:12 2015 No.7280910 >>7280887 me encanta intentar dar una mano: ilovemybuilding@gmail.com No lo reviso demasiado porque es más que nada para 4chan así que puede que me tarde en contestar. Exitos!

>>	Anonymous Sun Oct 25 12:39:49 2015 No.7280946 >>7280910 Muchas gracias. Un par de preguntas, por pura curiosidad. ¿Con qué nombre debo referirme a tí? ¿Y hablas español de latinoamérica? Lo digo porque escribo en Español de España (Castellano), y a lo mejor te causa algún problema.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 12:46:29 2015 No.7280971

>>7280946
Hibari está bien, somos conocidos de 4chan al final del día. Sí, soy argentina pero 70% de nuestros libros son traducidos en españa así que la gente se acostumbra. Si en un momento intentás ir muy a charla de calle puede que no sepa decirte si suena creible o forzada pero no voy a dejar de entender.
But let's end this little chat here because I'm sure we're getting on some anon's nerves with all this spanish speak.

>>	Anonymous Sun Oct 25 16:04:21 2015 No.7281716 >>7266012 I like the picture of the doggie

>>	Anonymous Sun Oct 25 16:13:19 2015 No.7281754 >>7265716 >Getting tracked and targeted in the coming cyber war No thanks m8

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 16:43:24 2015 No.7281859

>>7265716
A scream.
He startled awake in a dimly lit room. He slipped out of the soft sheets that covered him and looked

around. A glimmering lamp revealed the outlines of the things surrounding him; to his right was a

large shelf crowded with books and various objects, on his left hung a large picture of bizarre

composition, and in front of him, stood a door. Everything seemed strangely vivid and palpable. A

feeling of uneasiness crept over him; that setting was unequivocally new to him, and yet he had the

impression of having been there before.
Another scream reverberated, this time right behind the door, and it finally dawned on him. The

latch turned, and as the door opened he vanished.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 16:44:10 2015 No.7281860

>>7265716
Dennis mckenna sat up in his cot and rubbed from his eyes twelve cigarette-related dreams' worth of gunk. It had been two days since he had snuffed out his last camel and left his porch with a triumphant hop in his step, and by staggering coincidence, it was also the third, fourth, and sixth day since he'd done exactly the same thing.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 23:04:24 2015 No.7283358

>>7279947
Well, for a bit of context, the whole thing is a metaphor for Depression actually. I wanted to use a lot of nature and primitive activities/occupations to take the focus off the technicalities of the setting and such; it's supposed to be very vague. I wanted to focus more on the emotions. So, yes, technically they're somewhere along the lines of farmers, but not stereotypical farmers. If you get what I'm trying to say? It's quite a different style of writing.

Anonymous Sun Oct 25 23:16:18 2015 No.7283412

"The old hate youth because it reminds them of everything they promised themselves they would do," the old physician said with a sigh. "And they hate remembering they were lying."

>>7265871
I'd read this - keep going. I would like more context though!

>>7268699
My favorite so far.

>>	Anonymous Mon Oct 26 00:12:22 2015 No.7283629 >>7266771 nice

Anonymous Mon Oct 26 01:07:13 2015 No.7283776
File: 513 KB, 525x539, ph'nglui mglw'nafh pepe r'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>7265716

Day, of the chicken!
Lo - to the Great Talkin'. Yes.
Funkin? Lesson. Greater? Less *than.*
For ye know not! The ways of the grays.
Aw. 2theYizeah. Whizz. 2theIzeah.
Pootie. 2thePeet. Fartcut. 2theBeet.
Dark is the suede that mows like a harvest. Yes.
...
...
REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

here in my car-

Anonymous Mon Oct 26 01:37:42 2015 No.7283850

>>7283776 >>7283776
Interesting. Very avant garde. Ienhoy you're use of both symbolism (or perhaps, obvious placement of symbols to convey people's need for symbolism (perhaps a mirror to people's feeling that they need purpose?)) as well as your artistic and free-filled take on spelling and form.
How you say "day of the chicken" seems like perhaps you mean there is a cycle, or that today marks the beginning or a new era for another farm animal (a reference to animal farm?) and then you use homophones like lesson and less than, which makes the sentence perhaps have a double meaning? Not to mention your destructuring of sentence structure showing a break in thought process, cycle, time and power.

I'd love to read the finished peice when completed

>>	Anonymous Mon Oct 26 01:40:39 2015 No.7283862 >>7283358 Re-read it with that in mind and it not only makes far more sense but I found it all round more enjoyable

Anonymous Mon Oct 26 01:41:12 2015 No.7283865

>>7283850

Irony run the fuck amok. There's no meaning at all in that passage. Just because it sounds like poetry doesn't mean a fucking thing. He posted stylish gibberish. Is this the hipster-ass depth /lit/ has sunk to nowadays?

>any fucking mention of farm animals = Orwell reference

If samefag, go fuck yourself. If two different people, go fuck each other; you're clearly made for it

>>	Anonymous Mon Oct 26 01:43:06 2015 No.7283871 >>7283865 >not realizing I was shitposting a shitposting

>>	Anonymous Mon Oct 26 01:44:55 2015 No.7283876 >>7283871 You're just shit.

>>	Anonymous Mon Oct 26 01:48:24 2015 No.7283885 >>7283876 >>7283865 you are mad.

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/lit/ - Literature