/lit/ - Literature

“Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?” Holy shit. Did I just say that? His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly.
“No, Anastasia it doesn’t. Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck… hard. Secondly, there’s a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could still run for the hills. Come, I want to show you my playroom.”
My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so… hot. But why are we looking at a playroom? I am mystified.
“You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask. He laughs, loudly.
“No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come.”… Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocks yet another door and takes a deep breath.
“You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on stand-by to take you whenever you want to go, you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It’s fine whatever you decide.”
“Just open the damn door, Christian.”
He opens the door and stands back to let me in. I gaze at him once more. I so want to know what’s in here. Taking a deep breath I walk in.
And it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.
Holy fuck.”
― E.L. James, Fifty Shades of Grey

>>2903608
Wwwwoooooowww.......


So I can contribute:
"
And at the last from inner Egypt came

The strange dark one to whom the fellahs bowed;

Silent and lean and cryptically proud,

And wrapped in fabrics red as sunset flame.

Throngs pressed around, frantic for his commands,

But leaving, could not tell what they had heard:

While through the nations spread the awestruck word

That wild beasts followed him and licked his hands.

Soon from the sea a noxious birth began;

Forgotten lands with weedy spires of gold;

The ground was cleft, and mad auroras rolled

Down on the quaking citadels of man.

Then, crushing what he had chanced to mould in play,

The idiot Chaos blew Earth’s dust away. "

>Waves of light
no
>sapphire cellophane
no
>alliterative alliteration
stop being a child
>glazed
like doughnuts, or like clay pots?
>Slender runways of black metal and textured glass partitioned the walls
what in the fuck are you trying to say here?
>with elegance
oh just fuck off
>They fired up parallel streaks and spilled over at their apex to serve as translucent platforms for a symphony of lightly churning ceiling fans...
it hurts to live

>>2903635
trying too hard

>>2903646
but I'm trying too hard with elegance.

The rest was just a colorless blur. I felt as if I had been walking in a foggy maze. The last thing I remembered after the incident was her. Her breath on my bare chest. The feeling of her cool ear stung my sternum, but the warmth of her touch calmed my nerves. I asked her, "What are you listening for?"
She said, " A heartbeat, a pulse, a murmur."
My chest chuckled in and out like I wanted a small grasp of air.

>>2903578
OP, you can't mesmerize your reader by using embarrassingly baroque prose. It detracts from the imagery. I have no idea what you're trying to describe. I have trouble getting passed the "shields of sapphire cellophane". It's so bad I'm almost laughing at it.

Not everyone has to be Hemingway, but use some economy for Chrissakes.

>>2903659
>My chest chuckled in and out like I wanted a small grasp of air.

>my chest chuckled?
You chest has a life of its own now, does it?

>>2903578

Ah, so you want to be Cormac McCarthy...

>>2903709
If you got Cormac McCarthy from that, kill yourself.

>>2903718

Excuse me sir, but I did not say it was worthy of or even similar to McCarthy. I was implying the writer was attempting to imitate the baroque, dense descriptive language of McCarthy and failing.

BUT WHO WAS PHONE?

Outside, the storm raged. The valley was a bowl, and the bowl was filling up.

>>2903578
>Waves of light filtered through shields of sapphire cellophane. Sheets of shy and shimmering blues glazed the marble tile. Slender runways of black metal and textured glass partitioned the walls with elegance. They fired up in parallel streaks and spilled over at their apex to serve as translucent platforms for a symphony of lightly churning ceiling fans...

>>2903741
Oh. Not the first example I would have jumped to, but my bad.

Don't kill yourself.

>>2903635
I like the alliteration

Also:

The black sky, littered with the diamond residue of a thousand stars, hid the mechanical bird like a conjurer of old. This night, like so many others, not so subtly washed over one like a deep blue wave in a wrathful sea.

My imagery is bullshit, I know

Albert the bear clawed his way up the sheer interstices of a switchbacking trail. The stones protested, clapping angrily as they rolled away down the mountain. The bear didn't care. The rocks didn't matter. Up the switchback, over the ridge, the bear clawed up the side of a sheer granite fist.

There it stopped for breath, and two dwarfs on its back gaped in awe. Surrounding the valley were ten-thousand foot storm-walls, seething at their top, folding in on themselves, and then out over the valley. It seemed as though the whole sky were a tapestry being unfurled perpetually upwards, until there was nowhere left to go, and the tapestry tore in half with a crack of thunder, and then it turned out the tapestry had been holding up an ocean.

But the rain wasn't the problem: it was where the rain landed. For the valley had no trees, and now, looking out over it all from atop the granite fist, the two dwarfs watched in slack-jawed awe as the sky came washing down every mountain, bringing rivers and mudslides. At the bottom of the mountains, in every gully and dip and channel, the earth had become rushing water.

The valley was a bowl, and the bowl was filling up.

And when it did, it sent a torrent of water a million gallons strong stampeding down the riverbed. Every lava flow it crashed over exploded into a twenty foot column of steam. The heat had nowhere to go, so it fired down into the rocks, through the sandy dunes, and then back out: a dozen stony hillsides exploded, one after the next, like bombs going off.

>>2903578
The referee, who had been busy cleaning herself up from all the spunk in a backroom, suddenly storms out and plants herself at the center of the circle, her nude red body trembling and shivering in arousal. "Alright, everybody in a single line! It's time for your butt-fuck reward."You jolt in surprise as everyone stops talking altogether and yells in a single, thundering, thrumming voice, "BUTT-FUCK! BUTT-FUCK! BUTT-FUCK! BUTT-FUCK!" It never seems to end.Your body tenses and each of your shafts hardens at the perspective of a collective anal orgy. You yell in lust like a minotaur in rut, "BUTT-FUCK! BUTT-FUCK! BUTT-FUCK! BUTT-FUCK! BUTT-FUCK!" along with the others. As they shout rhythmically, they start forming a straight line, their position in the line reflecting their rating.You meekly place yourself at the end of the butt-fuck wagon, knowing you'll have to endure the thrusts of everyone else. In your shame and lust, all you can see is a member of enormous size, trembling in arousal, waiting to lodge between your ass-cheeks. With apprehension, you place yourself in front of the creature with the large cock.

>>2903867
It grinds against your back in impatience. You ready yourself up as everyone puts themselves into a proper butt-fucking position, cocks pointing to anuses.The referee shouts, "LET THE BUTT-FUCK TRAIN BEGIN!"You almost instantly feel firm arms groping your large, brawny backside and the tip of an erect dick knocking at the door of your colon. It slowly massages your rectum, and you can't help but giggle a bit as you feel a tingle of pleasure passing through your body. You prepare yourself for the crazy butt-fuck train, with you being at the end of it.You suddenly hear a muffled moan from behind. Someone is probably being penetrated at the back of the train. You brace yourself for the imminent anal-fucking... and here it comes. The dong is projected at full force into your big-but-fit butt then all the way inside your colon; you're protected only by the copious glaze of precum its bearer had been applying. You are pushed face down to the floor, bumping your ass against your anal partner's crotch, impaling it further on that fat erect meat. Hands roughly dig their fingers into the soft flesh of your cheeks as their owner gives you another mad, uncontrolled thrust, an avatar of the train of lust behind him. Probably the force of thirty people butt-fucking into him was too much for him to bear, so he passes it on to you. But unlike him, you don't have an asshole to reach and bury your freakish cock into, so you are smashed on the floor again, and again, and again. It hurts, yet it feels so... powerful, so strong. There is only one dong pounding your large, muscular ass, yet it feels like you're being ass-fucked by thirty people at once. Propelled by the might of thirty thrusts, the huge shaft is tearing its way inside your poor moist ass and, needless to say, being the end of this line is probably the hardest butt-fuck you’ll ever have.

>>2903870
Ha.....GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY

"You said you loved me."

"I did love you. I... I ... but I love her now......."

"Who is she?"

"I.....don't wanna do this... you already sound fuckin' drunk. Why are you calling me?......We broke up like 2 months ago...?"

"Do you remember that promise you made to me?"

"What promise....?"

"You..you promised to love me and not ever break up with me.. "

"I never promised that...."

"Did you say, maybe I'm the one actin' weird?"

"I never said that..."

"Do you want me to remind you of another promise?"

"What promise...?"

"I promise to kiss you again. I promise to hold you again."

>>2903922

You know imagery and dialogue are two different things, right?

>>2903922

>...

Stop that.

>>2903924

I thought people were just writing things so I wrote something.

It was a tribute toward a trailer trash couple that decided to post their videos on xhamster and inspire my writing

It was a hollow tomb. Each wall displayed its own collection of tired, old posters, sagging off the plasterboard. Everything with a surface was dust-sown, and glittered. The items left all round on the dresser, the floor and the make-shift coffee table bore no pattern; beside a solitary can of Coke an ancient thermometer; a faded photo from some lost era held sentinel beneath a proud, hanging football scarf. The room ached time. Some objects, the pile of old books on medicine and first-class cricket, had not moved for nearly a decade. Some items, only placed there this day, might stay there for longer. The haze of light that glowed through the wooden shutters failed to penetrate the cluttered corners of the room. It made a warm circle of the centre, but would go no further. In one of these busy, dark corners, the man sat, a skeleton under a blanket, and squeezed his fingers, one by one, as if distracted by faint noise.

>>2903935
*by some faint noise.

>>2903847
>>2903935

Both of these are pretty good.

>>2903925

The periods were my only visual tool to exemplify the lurid sexual immaturity that they showed towards one another.

OP, you are really, really bad at writing prose. I'm sorry.

>>2903870
> being the end of this line is probably the hardest butt-fuck you’ll ever have.

I feel like this line could be a fitting epitaph for any 4chan thread.

The walls, floor, and bedspread are white. Everything else is black. That means you have 2 colors that constitute all of the 6 things in this one particular room. It was the black nigger on the floor that scared him the least because he was dead. Not that he wasn't morbidly curious, but he had no interest in looking at a dead nigger that didn't have any teeth.
The teeth weren't white, they were black. Someone had sharpied this dead nigger's teeth with a black sharpie. He didn't stay in the room long enough to find out what the third black object was.

>>2903974
Oh fuck what am I reading

>>2903974

That doesn't really work. I had to read over it like four times to even get what you were saying.

>>2903979

What doesn't work?

>>2903974

do you care to reveal what the 3rd object was?

>>2903984

The whole "six things with two colors" shtick. "the third black object". It just doesn't work. I read that "third black object" line and went "what the fuck?" and had to re-read the whole thing like four times.

> The were six objects in the room, but only two colors between them. On the one hand, the walls, floor, and bedspread were white. On the other hand, the dead nigger -- and his teeth, which somebody had sharpied over. That made his teeth almost invisible, set against the dark of his throat, and so he gaped up, dead and seemingly-toothless. It was unnerving. [Main character] left the room in a hurry.

>>2904001

My god. I'm not him, but the original was much, much better than what you did with it

>>2904001

That's too coherent. You should try making less sense. That style just doesn't fit with the material.

beyond darkness lies the slit nameless pests chirp through, a megaphone delivering their sounds into what room wants to hold them. not to say that every room does. take it as a product of unwieldy design, but each place in this shack catches separate frequencies. for instance, that bedroom on the far side, all away and sequestered and attracted to noises similar. magnetic magic, how ruffled owls hoot along attuned to the drawn corners and even longer faces in the blank black space, how mirrors tuned to outside black acquire its aurals. i can't believe it's even possible for some to sleep there, but what few repeat travelers grace these halls sometimes stop by, maybe as we're walking past a new lodging or extra refurbishment, and place solemn eyes on the doorway. on the place they found the night in at the night inn.

>>2903974

so a black man finds a black man dead?

if that's the twist that's nice tbh good shit hurr

reposting b/c mine sucked ass in the middle

beyond darkness lies the slit nameless pests chirp through, a megaphone delivering their sounds into what room wants to hold them. not to say that every room does. take it as a product of unwieldy design, but each place in this shack catches separate frequencies. for instance, that bedroom on the far side, all away and sequestered and attracted to noises similar. magnetic magic, how ruffled owls hoot along attuned to the drawn corners and even longer faces in the blank black space, how mortared mirrors imprinting outer emptiness acquire its aurals. i can't believe it's even possible for some to sleep there, but what few repeat travelers grace my hall sometimes stop by, maybe as we're walking past a new lodging or extra refurbishment, and place solemn eyes on the doorway. on the place they found the night in at the night inn.

>>2904017

If that was the idea, I didn't get it.

Frankly the whole "three black objects" thing just makes no fucking sense. Is it an omniscient perspective? Then why don't we find out what the third black object is? It is HIS perspective? Is he counting the objects in his head? How does he know there are three black objects without knowing what the third one is?

It just makes no damn sense, and it's so disjointed and clunky.

>>2904034
>I cannot into perspectives.

Things are more complicated than you make out. Limiting the range of perspective for the narrator has been a dramatic tool since telling stories began, dumbass.

>>2904034

Something tells me you'd have a lot of fun with Waiting for Godot

>>2904039

It's shitty. I don't know how else to articulate that.

>>2904046
Yes, but the problem isn't limited perspective. The problem is its a shitty half-baked piece of prose.

>>2904034

what matters is the 6 objects mentioned

what are the 6 objects mentioned? walls, floor, bedspread are white
nigger and his teeth are black
who else is involved/mentioned? the man observing them
apply hemmingway: the final "black" object is whoever is observing the dead nigger

it's disjointed but it's far from clunky
also have porn b/c fuck worksafe

Wow, I'm suddenly realizing how there is not one good writer on /lit/... Cant believe I have taken advice from you people.

>>2904053

>implying the writers with any kind of talent feel the need to post in these threads

>>2904053

smh @ filtering tripfags

sad you missed out on my immaculate excerpt? you gelatinous your pathetic anonymous genes can't hold up to those of the tripfag master race?

i wish i didn't have to troll /lit/ for insight but fuck it truth rides alone and without composure

>>2904053
I thought mine was semi-decent for something I shat out in about five minutes with zero inspiration.

>>2903867
>>2903870
>>2903847
>>2903935

All perfectly serviceable prose.

Blink once - no, twice. Draw your eyes to the morning-flecked blinds. Shiver slightly - you've left the air conditioner on, again. Peel back your brow and sheets. The caffeine-beige walls offer no solace. Morning beckons.

>>2904066
Oh second person, you so sexy. This one is kinda nifty.

>>2904066

Not bad.

>>2904069
>>2904071
Th-thanks g-guys. I'm sure there's a big word for this but the idea was to use a lot of misplaced allusions but I got super lazy (draw - eyes - blinds, peel - brow - sheets - breakfast, caffeine - beige - morning coffee obviously).

>>2904060
>>2904032
I saw it, and it was quiet faux pas. Clunky, run on sentences, and this pretentious aura that defecates from the works of fail writers.

They're working their way past the alley and down the block, the girls, asscheeks jeanswathed and bouncing rhythmic like apples in the hands of elder gods. Cockeyed sleaze and meatjawed slime come looming up like thunderheads and watch sly their asses like ravens with buckled knees for worms. Pitter, patter, sounds the dropping of the first of storm and the eyes of the girls see heaven and the sun at dusk. A corner's turned. The eyes of the loveless draw back shrieking into hollows for the nightstay. The cornerlights jump from red to green. On crawl the scattered autos. Solomon lights a smoke.
[...]
Donny Kilroy has his eyes on the corner just half a block down westward. They had moved from sight to the onrushing, the girls. They had seen the sun and they were now far from the knowing, some corner out yonder they had passed and would pass again, further out and all lost to the knowing. Past the yawning gutter streets and the inner city hollow where the blues lay nightly like a blanket over aching heads, they were far and growing farther.
[...]
Donny feels he hears the cresting of the carpet's fingers as they're lashed to bending by the footfall of the old man's leather shoes. A lockstep one-and-two like march-band's metered drum, he feels he hears the footfalls and the cresting of the fingers bent, undertoe, metric, patterned, a step each draws the phantom closer to the knowing and further down the miles spacious empty of the cavern and the hall. The ghost he feels is smiling. The wind breathes like a lanternjack, glowing eyes all green, some dutchman flying in on nights of cold and wind, culling in the children and lashing out in footfalls strident.

>>2904074
And by breakfast I meant "fruit", as in you peel fruit which would be breakfast. Oops.

I guess I can post this again seeing how I change it slightly each time I do.

So deep
I am so deep,
Inside her...
Inside her anus.
I am a monkey;
She, my prostitute -
And she shits blood
I swim in it.
I am a mushroom flower,
In bloom an atrocity.
We, destroyers of the earth,
Rape the seeds that grow to feed.

And over there
My land whale whore dies on the
Hourglass beach, time becomes
Different.
I stick my dick in her blowhole and
She looks at me and moans...
"Is the even sex anymore?" I ask...
I find myself amongst nature.
I curse the sun and stick my dick into the earth, raping mother nature,
Adding myself into the mixture.

Leaves,
Leaves bitch,
Fucking leaves.

I hope for rain.

>>2904075

now if i had not been a tripfag would you have actually said that?

or evaluated it as a normal human being?

ball game

>>2904076
A little too wordy and to be honest opening with ASSCHEEKS JIGGLE HARDON COCKS makes me think it's pornographic or just hard to take seriously. I like "A lockstep one-and two"

>>2904086

Well, they're all cut from a chapter of a novel I'm working on, so the context isn't really there

>>2904080
actually your trip-faggotry has nothing to do with it, I was just going to ignore it like I ignored every other post in this thread until you said something about it.

Regardless, my opinions on your piece remain.

also holy shit half the people here have fukkin turrable tastes

or should i say criteria they judge writing on, it's like shit strip out all of what makes books work as books

take this faggot here >>2904086 shitting on what's probably one of the best things posted in this thread but ~ooOOOoo~ good lord you mention that workmen love butts! instantly hard-ons baby, let's get jackhammas on that pussy STAT!

fuck outta here nerd birds, u ppl need to evaluate your aesthetic

>>2904095
>>2904076
agreed, this one actually was actually really good.

But yours still sucks :p

>>2904095
That guys piece simply had too many notes.

Someone posted a poem. So here is a poem:

Euston

red, blue, yellow
triangles, boldy sung
gleaming windows, barbs and pillars
today in the sun

in the night, lamp light
cold plastic held together
temporary walls
a pay check, thats all
and now in a square, forever

i sat alone on the bus again with three people scattered in the seats in front. The first, a stereotypical white haired lady reading the newspaper with one hand and holding a cane with the other; the second slouched against the bus window, partially obscured by his seat and oversized hoodie; and the last standing in anticipation of his stop, with grocery bags and a small child in tow.

The bus stopped and the man with the grocery bags got off. I looked back down at my phone.

>>2904101
Submit to TAR.

>>2904076
The prose is messy, too busy. Words falling over each-other, makes for difficult reading. On top of that, its kind of clunky. But there is definitely some potential in there.

>>2904104

The small child doesn't count as a person?

>>2904105
Who or what is TAR? You make it sound like your robot overlord.

>>2904104
Think about not using
>stereotypical
That's just shit description.

A faint breeze leftover from a storm swept over the weakened Fall boughs in a forest circumscribing a cabin, encouraging the soaked, leafy branches to hit the other ones competing for the first sunshine they've witnessed for nearly thirty hours. The wind was indiscriminate, as were the trees, whose limbs clashed in dissonance more so with their own than with the neighboring trees' limbs. It was chilly, or so it seemed compared to the promise of the cloudless sky, even without the stagnating remnants of gusts. Its only use for miles was to dry out the exterior of the cabin until it became as desiccated as the logs used to build it were dead. It was a weathered yet sturdy cabin, neither glaringly senescent nor impervious to weathering. A few errors in its construction led to permeable gaps once the ceiling logs became soggy. It was a lonely cabin, inhabited by a lonely man, with a lonely forest blockading sight, burgeoning from the ground in a thwarting natural harmony starting five yards from the perimeter of the cabin. The forest was dense, though with effort, navigable. The interposition of the trees and the sparse undergrowth was as daunting as near-zero visibility is to a pilot. Not only is it impossible to see more than twenty feet into the woods, it's impossible to tell what lies beyond those twenty feet.

/thread

>>2904113
It hurts to live.

What is this abomination?

>>2904116
Go outside

>>2904109
Found another one, a poem all about imagery. Lets see if it works (I've never worked out how to make the last line work though)

Winter


Every winter belongs to her
Sweet Janurary crisp distinctness
White sheets of cloud fade through to blue
sometimes in woods of bark and thicket
Cold Cornwall in the winter time

When every thing is so distinct
When my kiss did reach her parched and purpled lips
and Converses did crunch crystaline grass
When we were thieves who hid away
our love on walls held above creeks
and hands did rest, beloved hips
flotsam on water clear as glass;
And so each winter through her shall pass

>>2904113
oh jesus, I remember this shit from like, months ago

>http://fuuka.warosu.org/lit/thread/S2760089

yep. still shit.

>>2904113
Someone has a thesaurus.

Mike was engaging the thrusters which would send our ship out of it's stable orbit, spiralling along a lazy logarithmic surface towards the alien moon. The display glowed and buttons sparkled pseudo-randomly while he focused with pinpoint precision and whisked his hands across the confusing array. The ship contracted and moaned around us as fuel was diverted and unnecessary processes went dormant. Comforting harmonics began resonating from the thrusters and permeated the cabin and I enjoyed the undulating tones while Mike's head filled with Bessel curves and fourier transforms.

>thoughts on my prose, /lit/?

A dark blue vest lain out on the floor, fraying cloth appropriate to the decaying slabs of wood, hiding nothing but its own shadow as the sun fails above it. We stare out that window, and we know what came before us. Scratches inlay the posts of the bed, and the sheets bleed through its edges. A single pillow sits on top of our mess, molded by our hair and stained by our sleep. We didn’t drink coffee. We didn’t smoke. We didn’t take a breath and bite down, hard, on the concrete gutters by this home. We didn’t watch the milky gray water drift into sewers. We didn’t leave our skins on the sidewalk.

We left bottles of Grey Goose shattered on the way to the deli and stared Mr. Proprietor in the face every second we spent there, and I took out my wallet but you took out the money, and I took the BLT out of its wrapping but you took it out of its misery.

>>2904161

>contd.

So I told you the truth. How all my dreams about you became dreams about shadows. Shapes I don’t even recognize anymore, and I see them grow long and thin by the passing of time, I see them doubled and mirrored by the lamps and hook lights at night, and for all that color there’s nothing I remember but shadows.

It’s still unsettling when I see you look at me now. The crevice in my head that keeps me from having a solid idea of what I am throbs when you look at me. The face I imagine is dissolved by a torrent of rain and a dozen paintbrushes, acrylic painting over my features as clamps pull them – I am the fifty year old married man, unshaven, walking his children home. I am the six Technicolor hoodie teenagers bombing past taxicabs in their elevated high. I am the cardboard wreath on the homeless man sleeping beneath the corners of the outside world.

In this way I am sluggish and stretched thin. You see an individual, and with your eyes immediately carve him into the pre-fitted shape that fits closest. I fold away the violating limbs and extremities, mold myself and casually fit myself with the array that is most pleasing to you.

>>2904086
>>2904095
>>2904097
>>2904107
>>2904098

Some more, in case there's interest

A patch of greylight through the dusted glass and flying came in three young doves in white. Two of them leapt bellyup and swollen out the window, falling down and out and without moving came to nothingness at ground. The remnant dove danced left to right in pacing starling stasis. Not a breath. Not a breath. Wind came rushing through the window. Lanternjack and Spiderskin. An evil blowing wind.
[...]
Warm inside and like the heat of lucky summer, thought he then. That shelter only's there when one ain't got his eyes out for it. Only there before the storm and in it's eye. That you'd be up there spinning with the dandered brush like pinwheels in the sky, and fly on up past Babel, up past day and evil night. Where eyes won't look. Where eyes that look won't see. Where devil's eyes can't keep they evil sights set right on me. Let the tempest never come.
[...]
Though the wind will come as always. Clatter like the shots from out a muddy trigger: ruddy bloodied mess, the hounds of hell with teeth all bared for gutting: the city in her sorry virgin sleep. All deaf and beltlashed naked, she. Come sorry wind what may. Keep calling out for something sorry other. Paint them as you painted home. Dust and plenty of it. The men in rushing trip on each the other, stacking high a kneebruised lot of three men tankershouldered. A clatterlurch in back of church. Firstrain on the mayearth.
[...]
Yes. And the old story:
So it stays until old Gabe comes leaping from his morning shit to blow the dusty horn from out his window. And God says eidi-eidi-ho. The people dance down under, all feathered tarred and soggy, clucking jestbells for a nightstay. Asscracked maggots dustin' they jackets, clean like city faggots, bustin' they ass for a spot in line:
The Great and Gilded Welfare Line in the Sky.

>>2904181
it's like james joyce deciding to reveal his weird fetishes to the world and embellishing them in his writing

She pluralized the air with the elongated S-curve of smoke wafting from the cigarette hanging limply from her hand.

>>2904181

its* eye

sorry

3:30 a.m. 70 mph. Open windows. Heavy winds. Loud music. Smoke. Drink. These are the makings of a bad night.

I'm in the passenger seat of a brightly-lit, tightly packed BMW, smiling and bouncing in the seat like an excited child, shouting indiscriminate remarks. Similar morons surround me on all sides, all intoxicated with the bliss and ecstasy of an unsupervised late-night roadtrip. And alcohol. And ecstasy.

The pitiful designated driver misses out on all the fun, making up for it by drowning out the car with unwisely loud music. He tests his expensive throttle, slowly driving faster to the delight of we passengers. The black world we drive through becomes even blurrier, the lights of other vehicles turning into constant streaks. His face is stern, determined, like someone angry and sober.

His bad vibes start to become uncomfortable. My drunk body tries to maneuver off the drunk body sitting on my lap so I can move to the back row. I 'stand' up and put my foot on the center console, suddenly feeling the laws of physics punish me.

WOOP WOOP

>>2904233
WOOOOOOOOooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Suddenly, chaos. I tumble into the back while the car wrestles me. I get attacked in the eye and feel liquid splashed on my head. I start punching bitches out of fear and anger. A blanket of overwhelming despair suddenly covers the car. "KILL USSSSSSS!!!!" I hear. I start crying. We're all crying. A bump underneath us notifies us that we've entered a bridge. The driver drives off of it and we tumblr.com into the water. I break my neck and ribs. Three or so people die instantly. Then water rushes into the car. Shit feels good. I can't swim though, so I drown. Dying in the water is cool. Way better than dying on land.

>>2904186
"She pluralized the air"
not liking the use of pluralised like this at all
too awkward

>>2903578
ITT: Try-hards fall on their faces.

The Dirt Road Prince surveyed his domain with a toke of the blunt, the smoke from the expertly-rolled implement lapping at the sagging red headliner of the F-body. World-weary, with a laugh like a sigh and a cough, he tried to convey his approval. The world was as it should have been more at this time, five in the morning, than at any other. Even if he wasn't. Sleepless.
They'd picked up styrofoam platters of biscuits and gravy from Micky's moments before and would have devoured the contents instantly had they not stopped to render the beige gravy pink with the sour smell of packet Tabasco. His eyes, nose, and mouth watered with release, sinuses shedding. Snot-nosed was not a point of embarrassment though, where Tabasco was involved. The biscuits burst between the molars and became floury dust, despite having soaked in the biting pink sausage lard. None better, he remarked. None better, his friend affirmed. Five, and as it should have been.

>>2904257
Nice.

>>2903578
Just a thought, not coming from any experience or book-learnin': maybe trying to describe objects and places is the absolute worse way to practice writing? I mean, plenty of authors get away without doing it at all. Seems like something like OP's could lead to all kinds of baaaaad writing habits unless it's swiftly slapped down. Although I guess /lit/ has administered that slapping down, so... maybe it can work.

>>2904331
>absolute worst
Goddammit.

"And a screaming comes across the sky"

all the description you'll ever need

>>2904345
>and

>>2904109
http://theaprilreader.wordpress.com/

I didn't post that initial recommendation, I swear

The sounds was like a backhoe stirring a swimming-pool of noodles.
In the waiting room there was three chairs, a coffee table full of magazines, an old plant in a jar to big for it, some sort of yellow yucca, a small blue armchair with tiny cars printed on it, a child armchair, soft and full of foam. On it was a child with no arm or leg, dressed like Spongebob Squarepants and saying "Doozy ! Doozy ! Doozy ! ".

>>2904345
But... that sentence is followed by a long paragraph of description.

>>2904331
First you learn how to describe. Then you learn how NOT to describe. Then, slowly, you develop your own voice, which will be somewhere in he middle, something you are comfortable with.

>>2905722
You only get to this point by READING FUCK LOADS, and writing just as much.

A 20-year-old in California stares at his computer screen. It looks like a computer screen.

Somewhere in Oklahoma, somebody tries to impress the 20-year old in California, and the rest of the goons on /lit/. "The night sky," she types, "is like a flowering flummoxing fanta, feigning f-words F-Fdsodsigjg."

The 20-year old scratches his runway and looks out at the night sky. Well, evening sky. It's six. And it's summer. Really, though, it just looks like an ordinary sky. Nothing special. Kind of greyish.

"Why in the world do people try so hard to make it seem so SPECIAL?" He thinks as he sniffs his fingers. "Diamond dust. Hah."

And somewhere outside a plane flew by like a plane. A bird flew by like a bird. Someone died. Because, you know what? That's what happens. Some idiot sat on his computer on /lit/ sniffing his ball-sweat smell: someone in Oklahoma pretended like things were more interesting than they were.

And all the while, great big refrigerators were suspended in the air, evolution had, similarly, suspended hollow bones and feathers, and the only known sentient things in the universe were becoming. . .well, non-sentient. Funny. Diamond dust.

>>2905800
I like it!.jpg

Bonus points for the irony of impressing me.

>>2904127
Psst, I posted this ages ago. What do people think?

OP sat back in his chair, pleased with himself. He had written a masterpiece.
"Just look at all the long words!" he said to himself.
"I'll be the next Shakespeare!"
Suddenly, OP's mother knocked on the door - "OP, dinner's ready!"
OP jumped. The dildo crammed up his ass slammed into his prostate. "Aaah! Coming mother!"
"OP? What is going on in there?"
"Nothing, mother!" OP stuttered. He couldn't imagine the consequences if his mother were to open the door, revealing him in his pink laced panties and frilly skirt, which he wore often as it helped him write.
Suddenly, OP slipped. With new-found force, the dildo in his ass burst through the walls of his colon.
Jumping, both from the pain and attempting to ground himself, he pulled the headphone jack out of his computer, allowing the deafening gay porn audio he had playing to echo around the room, and into the living room.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT BOY DOING." OP's father yelled, walking towards OP's bedroom. He slammed the door open, revealing a pathetic, disgusting sight.
OP had curled up on the floor in pain from his ass-rupturing, and was losing blood quickly. "PUBLISH THE BOOK ON MY COMPUTER AFTER I DIE!" OP moaned, ejaculating in his bewildered state, before completely losing consciousness. His mother ran into the kitchen to call an ambulance.
Kneeling down by his son's lifeless body, OP's father screamed out in lamentation;
"WHY COULDN'T I JUST HAVE A NORMAL SON! WHY DID HE HAVE TO BE A WRITER!"

>>2905870
Huh. Funny stuff, there.

>>2905870
Facinating.

>>2906070
>>2906075
Go to sleep OP.

>>2905870
Good one

>>2905821
I can dig it. Great sense of atmosphere up to 'when every thing is so distinct', but I'm not sure about what follows- the old-timey 'did kiss', 'did crunch' etc... feels a bit affected.

I like what you're going for with the last line. Feels incomplete, though- which you could make a feature by adding a hyphen. An alternative might be to switch it with the second-to-last line, like so:

And so each winter through her shall pass-
Flotsam on water, clear as glass

Also, bonus internets for reminding me of the Pulp song Trees.

[1/2]

She had been anticipating 11:00 since 10:30 and now it was 11:22. This realization came right after toenail painting, lipstick application, eyebrow plucking, and styling her grey hair in front of the bathroom mirror. :"I'm a hot slut," she told herself, a verbal form of self-therapy, a safe method of rationalization that was free from the opinions of others. She knew that this was the first step toward happiness and change. She wanted so many things. The world had chained her down and it was her only option to keep others chained down, as well.

[2/2]

She often wondered when the abuse would stop, when she'd find success, when she'd prove to the others that they were wrong about her. Also, she thought about finding herself a boyfriend. In particular, she wanted to hear from that boy whom she once patronizingly flirted with, but now found herself attracted and drawn to since he decided to stop calling her. No one had really heard from him in a while. She had unique interests that no one knew about, that she'd one day share with her real friends. "Once I meet them" she told herself, "it will be okay to be myself." Once she made real friends, the abuse would stop and she wouldn't have to do what she'd resorted to. She would no longer have an impulse to gather up the alley cats and bring them into her home. She wouldn't need to hold the sad cats in her arms and tightly press them up against her sweater for warmth and comfort. With enough friends, she wouldn't need to show the cats that they only have 1 life- not 18 or however many cat lives they were smug enough to believe they had. She had a large collection of cats, maybe 60 and they were piled in neat stacks underneath her bed. That's where they slept. She always kept a few broken cats alive to hear the sound of their broken moaning as a means of blocking out the night screamers.
Her old friends, who now slept in her basement cages and should have been fed 22 minutes ago, had been making all of the racket that so greatly disturbed her and provoked this realization.

>>2906147
>>2906143

Wow

>>2906166

What

And yet, the sun rises, and it sets. I cannot trace the inconceivable distance between the two. The simple essence of Time I once took for granted eludes me now. It slips and squirms between my mind's fingers, slick and slippery and altogether a concept now impossible to grasp. Once I spent a warm day watching that glaring orb of heat pass above me, hold for a ten-count (this is when I fold each of my fingers in succession into the palm of my hand) just above the horizon, and shoot across the sky in the moments it took me to blink. Such a beautiful, endlessly frustrating sunset. Such futile frustration.

>>2906198
>futile frustration
What does that mean?

>>2906201
Oh, frustration is always futile, isn't it? Hadn't realized that until you pointed out my mistake.
Thank you!

[1/2]

A traceur traces the layout of downtown in fulgurant images of himself, through railings and empty thoughts, with chalked, bloodied hands that left remnants of his ego behind every time he used them. The sleeping residents of the areas he passed by/over/across would have attributed the sounds he made to those of pigeons suddenly awaken from a peristeronic idleness. At the age of fourteen, the runner realized that his best friend might be the love of his life. With those deep brown eyes, suddenly deepening voice, and the way he tucks his Bieber-length hair behind his ear when he's interested in something--he's a dream. The runner is doing his best to avoid thinking about his straight, lovely best friend. He runs to avoid these thoughts. He runs to escape reality.

He jumps about six feet from a small railing to a low-level concrete ledge and tries to grab, but, oh shit, his finger just barely knicks the edge and he falls. Thankfully, the fall is only five feet, and he rebounds. But, his finger is bleeding.

And so, he decides to write his name on the wall, to mark that he was here, to recognize that, if he wants to do anything with his life, he has to let go of these emotional, frayed ties.

>>2906212
[2/2]

Suddenly, the image of his best friend Alex's cock appears in his mind. Strong and able. Ready to thrust. He does his best, but succumbs to his growing genitalia. He writhes, horny enough to fuck the concrete wall in front of him. But he decides merely to leave his name on the wall like he planned.

And so, over the wall and through the city he runs, trying to run from the truth. The truth is, he's a gay little teenage boy who won't amount to anything but tries so hard. Doing unnecessary flips wherever he can to show off to only himself, to try to console his soul with the idea that he is worth something, somewhere. At least in parkour, right? Maybe he'll never have a lover, but he thinks he knows the tricks of the play. The sun spills over the horizon and onto that concrete wall; on it, in small red print: OP.

>>2906130
Thanks! I never thought of switching the last two lines. That kind of works. The last line is the idea behind the poem (that every winter in this place is now connected to that girl, forever). It has a kind of cool flow if the flotsam line is at the end, though sort of gimmicky.

"READY!"

You eagerly seize the rod on your right side; squeezing it a bit in impatience. A little tingle alerts you to your left neighbor grabbing one of your pricks with an expert hand. Everyone around you quickly grabs hold of the nearest cock on their right side. Some of them are trembling because of the induced stress and arousal.

You firmly settle your legs on the ground, bracing yourself to the imminent handjob you're going to receive, and the one you're going to give. Your old warrior reflexes start kicking in and you ease your grasp on the cock in your right hand and start calming yourself. You feel ready when - "GO!"

You instantly wince a little as the hand holding your inhumanly distended cock starts rocking up and down energetically. By the gods, he's good at this, whatever he is. You suddenly remember your own hand has a job to do and you proceed to rub the shaft on your right, slowly at first and gaining more and more pace as you get more confident. Soon you're furiously stroking it, trying to match your left partner's rhythm in intensity. Since there wasn't any handjob stamina contest organized in Ingam, you're fairly inexperienced at this and try to imitate your left partner as best as you can, using the pleasure he's inflicting on you as a suggestion for how to treat your own victim. You rub the sensitive points, you tickle the urethra and give gentle squeezes with your palm as your hand slowly works its way up and down the massive cock it's stroking. Your best effort, however, goes into ignoring the hand expertly working your own bloated prick, massaging it viciously in order to pump the semen up in your urethra. Your erection gets bigger, if that is even possible; but you manage to hold off the incoming orgasm.

>>2906221
You continue stroking the pecker vigorously while trying to ignore the handjob your own cock is getting, and your efforts are rewarded: soon pre-cum starts dribbling from the tip of the tool you're jerking off, and your hand proceeds to smear that cock in its own juice; you notice it grows slightly bigger. There is a profound silence in the tent; you only hear a few soft thuds resulting from dick skin being stretched: FAP FAP FAP FAP FAP FAP FAP FAP... Occasionally a player will break the silence as their lips let a loud, pleasure-filled moan.

The pace accelerates more and more; in fear of losing, everyone's handjobs become rougher and rougher, each player hoping that they will make their right partner climax before thy themselves succumb. Everyone looks deeply concentrated, trying to betray as little as possible of their current tension, raging inside when a muffled moan finds its way through their lips. How long have you been here, handling a stranger's cock? You don't know, but the session seems to be coming to an end: almost everyone's dong is now flowing with pre-cum, and the faint jerking sounds are gradually replaced with squelching and slicking noises. There are other dick-girls in that room: cute face, jiggling breasts, curvy body, squeezable hips; they would almost look like normal females if it weren't for that huge precum-spilling, protruding cock. They seem as deep in concentration as the others, the only difference being their feminine fluids spilling freely from their wet cunts and the occasional girlish moans that escape their lips. The warm, musky smell of male genitalia starts impregnating the whole room as the temperature rises higher and higher and you find yourself all the more aroused. You close your eyes in order to stop torturing yourself with the sight of hot, horny, naked bodies. You don't know if you will be able to hold on much longer.

>>2906218
Yeah, it might be a little gimmicky. The other thing is I felt compelled to add a comma to that line for rhythm when it doesn't really make sense (it's obviously not the flotsam that's clear).

I was kinda thinking of the flotsam being the accumulated, messy, less important memories of each winter- under which lie the still, unchanging, perfectly clear memories of her. Style of thing.

I wrote some of that poetry.


She drank champagne
From a pair of gold slippers
Her name:
Charlemagne
Her last:
Von-Whishpers

>>2906221
>grabbing one of your pricks
Wut. Call me naive, but I thought even /d/ickgirls only had the one.

>>2906212

Damn, that was pretty impressive. lol'd

Be brutally honest, does my writing have potential? I wrote this just for the thread. I know I can write better, but let me know what you think:

The air inside the liquor store was always heavy and humid; it carried a smell of old, warm syrup and the air felt just as thick. The two freezers in the back never worked properly, as it was always either too cold or too warm inside of it. The restroom was never open to the public, it always had an "Under Refurbishment" sign stuck on the front. Whenever inquiries were placed upon the possible dates for the restroom's opening, they were just met with uninterested shrugs from the employees. The site was passable enough to keep in business, but one could always just feel the apathy about the place.

>>2906265

See

>>2906212

And replace his name with yours

>>2906273

Oh, don't tell me you consider our two writing styles to be similar, do you?

>>2906215

That punchline was just fucking marvelous.

>>2906277

Put your name in the place of the last word of >>2906215
and you'll see where I think that guy was getting at.

>>2906286

So it's that bad?

IS OTHELLO BLACK?

>>2906289

Well, your description lacks theme, inventive use of language, or any sort of purpose. The rusty, rustic aesthetic isn't enough to interest me. Nothing happens. That guy wrote a damn good opening sentence where shit happened and then, even though it dragged a bit, the punchline was worth it. Hell, there was a pretty deep theme about passion (work vs. personal) going through it. I felt educated after reading that, and I felt like the 10 seconds I used to read it was not wasted.

All I can say is read more. Stop trying to be a 'literary' writer and just write.

>>2906212

I'm American, and if that were a book, I would've clapped at the end.

>>2906265
Yes, you do have potential. I think you could be a good writer if you stuck at it, but you still have some way to go. Read more. Write more.

>>2906299
Bullshit. >>2906212 is just bullshit use of thesaurus.com in order to tell a (well executed) joke. The guy you are replying to's stuff is better.

>>2906309

How would anybody find traceur, peristeronic, fulgurant, or Bieber-length in a thesaurus? That's shit you'd just have to know.

>>2906318 again

Also, that joke was really fucking creative and engaging. The other guy's stuff is just a freshman level description of a place.

Finally!
A light at the end of this torturous tunnel,
An end to all the volcanic hate thrust upon us through no fault of our own,
A stepping stone to a realm more pure and snow white than this present mockery of justice and happiness,
Or a final sputter, a last breath, a last ray of sunlight, before gracefully falling into the warm, comforting arms of eternal nothing,
.....
This, is Death, and it awaits....

>>2906322
Exactly, I like the joke. But the obtuse vocabulary was just showing off. I love archaic or unusual wordplay as much as the next guy but in this case the words chosen disrupted the flow of the prose. They felt shoe-horned in. Over all it was just a mess and difficult to read, but as you say the pay-off of the joke was worth it. The whole thing was pretty irrelevant.

The other kid's work was amateurish as you say but shows potential. It also flowed real nice. The other piece was someone showing off, and writing shittier prose than they are capable of as result.

>>2906332
* irreverent. I always typo that was irrelevant, hurr durr.

>>2906265
You're kind of shooting yourself in the foot here by writing about a boring, apathetic place. Could work fine as the setting for SUDDENLY, ACTION!, but it's hard to get excited about on its own. Also, that sentence about the freezers appears to not make any sense.

>>2905870
lawl

>>2906332
>the obtuse vocabulary was just showing of
>They felt shoe-horned in
I am 95% sure that was the idea. Anon was mocking the mountain of unnecessary words in the OP.

>>2906340
Sorry, I'm tired. So, you are saying the piece of prose that was purposely written to be awful is better than the one that is someone still finding their voice, just writing a modest little scene-setter? As a piece of bad prose it works, yes, because it is bad. A bit mean to say its still better than that other kid's stuff.

>>2906335
This is a thread about imagery, not ACTION EXCITEMENT first-page-of-a-novel shit. Nothing here has to be exciting, just supportive of some aesthetic.

>>2906346

It is better to be ironically awful than to be just awful.

>>2906354
It wasn't awful though. The guy's prose was perfectly serviceable, if a bit workmanlike. Awful is like...most of the writing on this thread. That one was okay, and at least showed potential. Almost everything on here has stunk of trying too hard, written by people with literally zero talent/clue what they are doing.

>>2906346
I'm not the anon who was saying it was good. It is more interesting, certainly, but that's because it's not just scene-setting.

As for
>still finding their voice
...how do you get that from a few inconsequential lines? Seems a weird assumption to make.

>>2906351

You like the image of a restaurant that never opens with freezers in the back that are never on in some humid place more than a young, angsty teenager running across the skyline of a downtown metro in the middle of the night, with soft footsteps who comes across an obstacle and decides to mark it with his blood?

Matter of taste, I guess.

>>2906346

I think it's better than the kid's stuff because it knows exactly what the problems are and satires it completely. First, there's the matter of exquisitely abstruse language that mocks purple prose but still sets up the scene better than OP. Then, it actually represents what the OP and people like him try to do with writing with the parkour metaphor. On top of that, it's funny as fuck. And I thought "He runs to escape reality" was poignant in a way.

It has a purpose, it does it well, and, I actually think it's a nice piece of work in itself. Sure, with the failure of verb tenses at the beginning, it feels like this guy spent 5 minutes on and then just dropped in the thread. But it was actually pretty engaging and funny.

>>2906351
Settings evoke feelings, and the feeling (deliberately) conveyed there is boredom and apathy. That makes it a strange choice for someone looking for positive comments.

>>2906367
Mainly from the writer's own lack of confidence in him/herself (I'm guessing him). Its clearly the work of someone who hasn't written that much, there are enough things wrong with it that an experienced writer would have ironed out. It's really just a list of things to do with this one place. The main problem is the rhythm: the piece is a collection of six identical sentences each with an (often redundant) comma in the middle. It reads a bit like a list.

That said I think there is potential in there. There is some inventiveness and imagination for a short piece about such a dull location.

>>2904257

I posted the above yesterday...anyone wanna critique?

>>2906371
Are the freezers never on? I'm still having trouble with that sentence. Or does 'freezer' mean something different in the USofA? In the UK they're containers for frozen food.

>>2906371
> more than a young, angsty teenager running across the skyline of a downtown metro in the middle of the night, with soft footsteps who comes across an obstacle and decides to mark it with his blood?

Hell yeah, because the second one is a cliché shat off the page of every comic book written in the last 40 years. They are both equally dreary, at least one is trying to be.

These kind of nights take me, like they always do, out into the city. On this particular night I sat alone waiting for my coffee at the counter of a small diner I had found. No specific name: just Diner. Whoever was tasked with the job of naming the place threw ‘food and grill’ on at the end but that part of the sign was burnt out now, surrendering to the bright neon glow of the large letters that preceded it: Diner. I guess that was good enough.
Good enough. Pretty much the story of the place really. Besides the bar where I sat it was just some scattered booths and an old jukebox. Not particularly clean, but not particularly dirty. Large windows looked out into the night beyond. Or maybe they let the night look in. I hadn’t quite decided which one yet when the waitress dropped my coffee in front of me with a clatter, spilling a few black drops. She didn’t say sorry. I didn’t say thank you. With tired steps she walked back to the kitchen, content in the silence that we shared.

>>2906374
That makes no sense whatsoever. So if Dostoevsky writes a depressing novel we aren't meant to react positively to it? What the fuck are you on about nigger. The thread is about IMAGERY. Pick an aesthetic, and try and write something that invokes it.

>>2906377
You have some nice ideas in there, but your sentence structure is chronically, terminally fucked. It's almost impossible to read. I'd advise sticking to writing, but reading a lot more as you go along. Try and use shorter, more simple sentences and work your way up. That piece is very messy but I think you have potential. Most people on this thread have zero by the looks of things.

>>2906383
What you getting hostile about, fella? I'm suggesting it's difficult to write about boredom in an interesting way. That's all.

>>2906389
Sorry, I'm kind of from /v/. I am used to everyone being an asshole. I withdraw my inflammatory remark.

>>2906385
Imma jump in here and say I liked it and didn't find it tough to get through.

The lucid glow of the screen settled into an indistinct blur, a face transfixed into the non-space behind the terminal. Ghost traces of the illumination danced gaily in his dead eyes, before disappearing entirely. Each ragged exhale (he had not eaten in days) was met with the soft ebbing of the machine's respiration. Fingers, ten meaty stubs on each hand, fused in perfect symbiosis with the interface at his fore.

It was here that he grasped immortality. But now he must depart that eternal place, for he had to sleep.

>>2906414
>using must in the past tense
Am I right in thinking you shouldn't do that? It never seems to work.

>>2906421
I don't really get it either. I've seen it used in historical description before, so maybe that's the feel he's going for?

If there was a God, the vaulting spires the builders of this this town had thrust into the sky must have pierced his kingdom, declaring open war on the Absolute. These cruel churches where daggers, a glorious armament of stone, clawing at the sky.

Far, far below the belfries and the parapets, there was movement. In the cool spaces between the blank towers, where only dust whistled, something was happening. It started with the scurry of a mouse, then the clattering of cat-claws, and the scattering of ravens, but somewhere in the shadows a change was taking place. Through that kingdom of ennui a wave of action was being introduced. Worms turned, and rolled around onto stones never before touched, beetles left their homes and made avenues of the cobble-cracks. The movement touched a thousand things. In the centre, the origin of these great flux, was a man. Tall and hagged, he seemed to be made entirely of dirty, wiry beard. It was not as if he were hairy, or furred like some great ape, but as if his beard, that long and hanging ginger growth, that hung off his protruding jaw like an extra limb, had somehow utterly consumed his body. Two blue eyes glowed faintly beneath a mask of filthied, impossible beard. Slowly, infinitesimally, this being that seemed as ancient as the stone made his path across the uneven cobble, his limbs jerking and snapping as he walked, progressing toward his goal with a zombie's determination.

>>2906427
>>2906421

I was conflicted when trying to place "immortality" in its proper context. I was hoping the presence of "non-space" before that would give a clue as to what I was aiming for (hinting at non-time), but I suppose language is just fundamentally temporal that one can't just surpass tense even when speaking of timelessness or eternity.

I don't know, it just sounds right to me, but feel free to point out to me if i'm committing some elementary faux pas..

>>2906427
Hmmm... doesn't work for 'should' either. These words clearly have too much to do with the future to be used in the past simple.

>>2906414
I'm just..not sure I understand what is going on. At all. The bit about symbiosis was nice though. More on that would have been lovely.

>>2906435
It's about a big fat dude on 4chan.

>>2906431
If you where deliberately trying to break the rules of the English language in order to get over a non-temporal aesthetic, you should have hammered it home a bit more, maybe one or two sentences mixing the tenses completely til they where meaningless. Might work, might not, but the version there looks a bit like a grammatical mistake and not a statement, sorry.

>>2906439
A fat neckbeard hasn't eaten for DAYS. Not even a snack? I don't buy it.

>>2906429

Two things stand out:

"ennui" and "zombie".

They feel much too modern for the setting you have described (the former bringing to mind existentialism and the latter Romero, quite an anachronistic pair).

>>2903635
lawl.
That is all.

>>2906451
I don't believe in the whole Tolkeinesque idea of keeping to the language of the characters for the prose. It is restrictive and utterly damaging for fantasy. I didn't think of the connection with existentialism with ennui, it is just a cool looking word. I wasn't sure about including it, and now I know why. Erm, any general thoughts other than those two criticisms? I had fun writing it.

>>2906464
>I don't believe in the whole Tolkeinesque idea of keeping to the language of the characters for the prose. It is restrictive and utterly damaging for fantasy.

I've gotta disagree. Tight third-person narration (including conforming to the narrated character's vernacular) is perfect for much of fantasy and scifi. I'm sure you're talking specifically about high fantasy and its Old English stylings, which are hard to use properly, but don't throw the approach away entirely.

>>2906222
You try to focus as much as possible on your right arm and the cum-tube it's holding, but the raw sensations are starting to prove too much for your needy monstrously thick cock, and your arm is starting to tire. You helplessly feel your shaft twitching on its own as pressure builds down your urethra. You try to count to ten in order to clarify your mind but the hand holding your cock doesn't allow you such leisure. Every time you try to hold a coherent thought, the hand twists your monstrously thick cock in a rough way, sending jolts of pleasure and pain across your whole body. Gods, it's too much. Your rod is... you won't be able to... that's it, you can feel it. It's too late. The flow of semen is gathering in your balls, slowly at first, but you know you don't have time. In a desperate attempt not to lose, you ferociously rub the shaft in your own hand, faster and faster as you feel your seed starting its way up your urethra. No! This can't be! You rub the pecker wolfishly, paying a special attention to the tip and pumping as much pre-cum outside as physically possible. For a moment, you think you're going to win, for the dick's owner lets out a very loud moan and starts shuddering, victim of your eager ministrations. You almost feel the liquid seed flowing through the cock veins; then, in a supreme effort of constriction, your right partner manages to hold off that flow. He won't orgasm this time. You have lost.

>>2906481
No, its shitty and it has dogged fantasy for over half a century now. Give me T.H White and Terry Pratchett over Tolkein and G.R.R Martin anyday. It promotes humourlessness and taking yourself far, far too seriously. I'd much rather have a narrator from our world, or somewhere in-between, that one that only speaks in terms of that world's lexicon. It's just horribly dull.

>>2906486
Which is not to say you can't have a narrator's vernacular conform to the character before them like you say, my point is _that is not the only game in town_. Tolkeinesque fantasy tries to make us believe it is, but it really, really isn't.

Here's a bit of description from a sci-fi short story I have. My aim was to invoke a cleaner kind of "Blade Runner" city image. (No, not PKD's city, Scott's movie imagery.)

"The smell of mist rolling in off of the lake assailed him as he stepped out the front door of the terminal, an organic and mossy scent that he could have never imagined. He looked up, reveling in his first experience of being outdoors. Cold, white buildings rose like tombstones of efficiency into the pitch black sky. No stars could be seen, and the sky was cloudless. The buildings glowed with fluorescence, and they cast a uniform border of pinks and greens and blues before giving way to God’s dark sky. Though these lights may have designated the building’s purposes, they didn’t glow with curvy bulbs like in a rainy Chinese restaurant window, but the white marble-like stone of the buildings themselves seemed to emanate the colors internally. "

Thoughts?

>>2906495
>they didn’t glow with curvy bulbs like in a rainy Chinese restaurant window
How does the character know what that looks like?

>>2906515
narrator can be anyone

>>2906495
Not terrible. Wordy and awkward, really, but you'll iron it out.

If you want an example of a "cleaner" kind of cyberpunk city (or, in this case, a post-cyberpunk city), check out The Diamond Age. Very much what you're going for, I think.

>>2906495

Stone seems to be an odd choice for cyberpunk. Concrete I can understand, if not metal.

>>2906519
Also: ACTIVE VOICE

and make sure when you have additional description via commas that the thing being described is the subject of the sentence.

>>2906518
So who is it? Who compares things to Chinese restaurant windows while apparently not knowing the word 'neon'? An eccentric old-timer?

'Gather round me, children, and I'll tell you a tale. A tale of cyberpunk.'

>>2906531

>'Gather round me, children, and I'll tell you a tale. A tale of cyberpunk.'

In all fairness, this sounds pretty awesome.

Imagine if cyberpunk was bombed to the stone ages, and now the remaining survivors mull about in a fantasy-like apocalypse setting full of superstition and idol worship at the remnants of barely-usable salvaged technology.

>>2906531
"Grampa, I don't get it. Was he a replicant all along?"
"Ah, child, that is a tale for another time."
[promptly forgets story]

Before the early days there was nothing.

On the first day there was everything.

What is meant here by “everything” is precisely that; everything. All the galaxies. All the stars that would inhabit them. All the planets that would rotate around them. All the sick people. All of the rotting crimson blood that would flow through their bodies. All the cancer that would eventually kill them. All the medical apparatus designed to prolong their suffering. All their tombstones. All the flowers that would be set on the tombstones as a display of beautiful mourning. All the ants that walk over the flowers to eat from their pollen.

Everything.

However everything was in a state that was yet to be. Potential waiting to be activated until a later point in time. Everything was dust fragments held together by the fact that, before time was, they were all the same part of nothing.

Feedback would be appreciated
I wrote this now so forgive me if it sucked.

This whole thread has got the wrong idea. If I told you that I loved your contribution, you'd be satisfied for a minute, or two. Maybe.

This isn't the, "Ask For Compliments From A Bunch Of Goons" thread. This is the, "Let's Mesmerize Each Other" thread.

Mesmerize me! Open me up! Make me cry, or laugh. Or think or hate or wonder or poop. I'm tired of scratching my nuts.

The sweat rolled down his forehead, glistening in the golden surroundings. The beings on the other side had a ghostly, almost ethereal quality. Once the decision was made, there was no going back. Time slowed, his lower lip started to tremble...

"I'll have a big mac please"