/lit/ - Literature

>>6696848
Lizard is a pretty rad album

Captitalism has destroyed the nuclear family. I was down by the lake helping wrinkly conservatives get their hips off the paddle boats and into their walkers when it dawned on me that I’ll never experience the equal warmth of freshly baked loaves, or the anticipation thereof when my mother would yell from the back porch at me while I was in the barn lighting army men on fire or running from the rooster who was a bit of a fuck— “the bread’s out of the oven!”. Or the smell of the mint tea that we brewed from the leaves that grew in the pasture across the road, and the adventure that came from the subtle parental disapproving of my tactic of seeking the plants that were closest to the grazers, and inevitably running away from the spotted moos or merrs or hoarse mohuuhs who would sort of gallop after me in annoyance, a bundle of their favorite green in my hands and barefoot other than the dung stuck between my toes, and I would never worry about snakes or spiders but I was keen to every prickly grass patch within hundreds of yards of me and nimble about adjusting my footwork to avoid them, or, a jolt of electricity rising through my foot, adjusting my weight off of a miscalculated heel that would later require the schoolyard-surgery of pinching my callouses until thorns dropped out; if things got worse, I’d go to mom, who was a mercenary with a pair of tweezers—this was reserved for the outstanding circumstances, though, because I knew that was going to hurt.

DE TRAGÓDIE AUF ROMAUO ANDUM IULIUAT
~ by biliem “benis shake ” shagspear ~
BROLOG
Ender Goras
GORAS
dwo households :DD both alige in dignidy :DD
In fair berona :DD were we lay our szene :DD
From anziend grudge breag do new mudiny :DD
were zibil blood magez zibil handz unglean XDD
From forth da fadal loinz ob deez dwo foes
A bair ob sdar-grossd loberz dage deir life;
Whose misadbendured bideouz obertrows
Doth wid deir death bury deir barends sdrife XDD
the fearful bassage ob deir death-margd lobe :DD
And da gondinuanze ob deir barends rage :DD
Whigh :DD bud deir childrenz end :DD nouchd gould remobe :DD
Iz now da dwo hours draffig ob our sdage;
the whigh if u wid badiend earz addend :DD
wat here shall miss :DD our doil shall sdribe do mend XDD
Egzid

>>6696888
good trips, needs more emojis tho.

>>6696856
Is there more to this?

posted this in the last thread, was told the beginning was bad. Made some edits
http://pastebin.com/tea2Bw2e

1/2

I took the car off the road and brought it to a stop. Over the crest of the hill we saw the entire city. The blinking lights of thousands of lives lived in unison. The evening sun hung low to our left, casting its light over the paysage of tightly packed buildings and the surrounding mountains, long shadows streaking eastwards across the flat lands that humanity had not yet claimed. My hands lingered on the wheel as I looked over at Jane. The mellow sun bathed her face in a warm shade of yellow, her eyes glinting as she took in the view, her lips perched in a shallow smile. I knew this was the right place to bring her. Her apparent joy grew as she turned to face me, her eyes meeting mine in a show of acceptance. I smiled back at her, before taking another look at the city below.
I saw beauty in a microcosm of civilization born out of communion and community, the same beauty I saw in Jane that evening, as if we were springs of this same human spirit that communal life was built on. I felt a clammy hand take onto mine, pulling down to the space between us. I looked at her again. This time her eyes held less conviction, almost meek in her shyness, and she couldn't help averting her gaze as I turned mine to hers. She peered down at our joined hands, eyes half closed and a wry smile. I knew she felt uncomfortable, but only because of the strong feelings she was trying to contain. This was the moment I'd hoped for. For a second I was filled with nervous excitement, but I took hold of myself, knowing what I must do.
First, though, I allowed myself to savour the moment for a little while, even as Jane squirmed slightly in her seat. With her face still turned downwards, she looked up at me almost expectantly. This was it. I took my other hand and brought it towards her, softly caressing her cheek before resting my fingers around her nape. My thumb took its place under her chin, feeling the warmth of her tender skin. I started squeezing. Softly at first, just enough pressure to make her question my intentions. I took pleasure in her frown as she struggled to figure out what I was doing. Then I took full control, shifting my body weight and forcing her head back against the seat. I pressed hard now, my hands fully locked in around her neck. Her eyes widened, fear mingled with disbelief, ever glinting delightfully in the sun. I could feel her rasping, struggling to suck in some breathe, my own hands blocking the way, her hands clinging onto mine with a feeble grip. I brought my face close to hers. She dared not to look away, her eyes stuck to mine as if pleading for a return to the pleasant moment which, for her, had passed. I wondered how many other men she had looked at with those eyes. It didn't matter, she was mine now.

>>6696970
2/2

More than a minute had gone by, I could feel the life draining from her, her face slackening, her eyes rolling upwards involuntarily. She stopped moving, but I held on for a while longer. Finally, I let myself rest, slumping back in my seat and basking in the gratifying permanence of what I had just achieved. The sun had almost set now, as if the bringer of life himself could not bear to witness the cruel extinction of one of his own. I couldn't help but laugh.
My gaze turned again towards the city. I could imagine the multitude of people, rushing around in collective haste, all working together to extend human life's reach over the world and time itself. I could live for two now, I thought, Jane's essence a part of me. I wondered where her parents were among the flickering lights. Would they love me, as they had loved their daughter, if I presented myself to them as the holder of her last living memory? Would they want to look for her body? I looked over the corpse to my right. This was not Jane any more, I thought. Jane had escaped through the gaping mouth, nose and ears as I'd pressed. No, this was but a shell. A beautiful husk once inhabited by a tender soul, but now left destitute. It had no use any more. I took it upon myself to get rid of it, to return it to the earth which had borne it, where it would be reclaimed. I started the ignition and set myself on my way, down the hill towards the place where this journey had begun.

>>6696970
Purple

>>6696848
Stopped writing a long time ago but here's something. I'm sure it would be much better without the overly dramatic language in the middle but I've only the image.

all these posts asking for their work to be critiqued without bothering to critique anyone else's

so what else is new

>>6696970
>>6696975

>>6696848

I look at my internet browser, the application. I feel a sense of ennui. I google ennui. The robot tells me it is pronounced änˈwē. It sounds like ennui. It feels relevant to my situation on a level I can’t understand. I google ennui again. I giggle. I google. I giggle.

>>6696856
Good, I don't like the start. It feels heavy handed, after "I'll never experience...." you say what you wanted to without beating the reader over the head

>>6696888
I like this

>>6697015
>>6696888
I also do not understand German, so I cannot really provide a critique.

>>6697027
Love to skim things and provide critiques, and talk to myself online

>>6696970
all just suggestions so take them as you will.
>Over the crest of the hill we saw the entire city
I could see this sentence being more effective as a descripton of the city rising over the crest rather than a description of the people seeing the city, if that makes sense.

>the blinking lights of thousands of lives lived in unison

I'm not sure exactly how to say this without sounding overly critical... Without rewording this statement, it seems like you're putting a lot of weight on this sentence. It's clearly meant to have an impact, accentuated by the individual sentence being a sort of punctuation to the last sentence. One of the biggest mistakes authors can make, I think, is putting too much weight on a sentence that can't carry it, because what ends up happening is the reader is told "look at this great sentence!" and the reader says "eh, it's okay" and when people start thinking that way they tend to put down the book soon after.

here's a great example of a sentence that can carry it's weight, if only for its descriptive strength:

"...and the mountains in their blue islands stood footless in the void like floating temples."

fucking great.

>the evening sun hung low to our left
evening and "hung low" is a little redundant and necessitates cluttering the sentence with what might be unnecessary punctuation. I'd just say "the evening sun cast its light..."
mostly, though, scratch "to our left". Readers fill in such insignificant details as these. whether something is to your left or your right is usually one of the most pointless and boring things you could write.
>paysage of tightly packed buildings...
this sentence is a little redundant, I suspect you might have been looking for an opportunity to use a fun word like paysage. But in effect this reads:
"casting its light over the landscape of buildings of tightly packed buildings"
I'd cut buildings and just say "tightly packed paysage" or maybe even something like "dense paysage"

>long shadows streaking eastwards
The visuals of mountain shadows is a pretty great thing, don't waste it with a description like "long shadows". Also I feel like streaking isn't the most appropriate verb to describe the shadow of a mountain.

>humanity had not yet claimed
See comment about "weight of sentence"
Mostly its the use of the word humanity. I'd just say unclaimed flat lands.

>her apparent joy
I don't like this. But I don't know how to say why, so what do I know.

>civilization born of communion and community
First off, you're bringing civilization into the picture and then describing aspects of civilization. We all know what civilization is. If you want to highlight a particular aspect of it, you don't have to use a broader word to transition to it. Just say microcosm of ___ and leave it that, especially because communion and community are too similar.

hitting limit, I'll finish in a bit. God, critique is exhausting.

>>6696983

these are me >>6696979
>>6697063

>>6696848

(Obstacles to a peaceful, consonant reading:)

a) Artificial sounding use of language "o zênite figurando estrelado e magnânimo"

b) Unnatural associations/similes, not obvious and familiar and thus lacking development "Carros impulsionados por motores iônicos e rotores antigravidade trocavam pistas, vertical e horizontalmente, como em uma dança sem fim."

c) "inatural"

d) verbs that do not contribute to an intuitive visualization of the scenery "orlavam" "meandravam" "perfilavam-se" etc.

e) Inconsistent writing tone "Ninguém temia ou fazia perguntas acerca do funcionamento do sistema de trânsito do subterrâneo. De fato, se alguém se interessasse por tais questões logo perderia o interesse quando as explicações se mostrassem demasiadamente longas e complexas." [slightly detached tone] "A população não se interessava por tais coisas. Bastavam-lhes os hologramas e os simuladores de realidade. Alguns créditos gastos e uma pessoa teria um dia inteiro de entretenimento sem sentido." [judgmental tone, it's like you are forcing your views into the text "entretenimento sem sentido". you seem to want to denounce these attitudes but it seems forced. It's not like you shouldn't but just remember Oak's voice "now is not the time to use that"]

f) Interesting but annoyingly undeveloped (if you can't develop them just don't mention them, unless you plan to leave the reader confused or you want to create a tension or whatever) ideas:
-"se alguém se interessasse por tais questões logo perderia o interesse quando as explicações se mostrassem demasiadamente longas e complexas."


-"colocavam-se a fitar o asfalto, como crianças travessas que não querem ser pegas, ainda que não soubessem exatamente o que tinham feito."

These are good subjects. If you won't elaborate them, don't mention them.
__________


Ok. It seems more like a passage than a scenery. I mean, you put a lot of statements that seem personal judgements or evaluations of the scenario.

>entretenimento sem sentido.
>era impossível não ser tomado por uma inquietação ao lembrar-se que tudo que o rodeava era produto da mais avançada engenharia humana.

Overall it has a slightly non-objective tone to it. If that is what you wish, good for you. If it isn't, I don't know, read wikipedia or academic articles. Notice some evasive linguistic strategies they use to avoid doubt, so as to be merely expositive. You could try and evoke visual elements of the urbanized environment, but maybe a cold, descriptive tone could help emphasizing that idea. Also, don't be too wordy, it'll annoy people. On the Internet you have hyperlinks and google, but most people won't bother pick up a dictionary. If it can disrupt the flow of the reading, just assume it will.


sorry for this mess of a reply, it's possibly contradictory but idk

>>6697008
meh, the opening sentence isn't supposed to be summed up by that particular paragraph
>inb4 'it's part of a bigger piece' excuse given in every fiction workshop ever
but i copy/pasted it from the middle of something.

The wounded mob my soul to be
demands a triage, it seems to me.
The wailing rage, a fount does spray
a blinding mist, red and restless days.
The wind sweeps the festering sores
under the trampling feet of silent wars,
under the sore feet of tramping whores,
under the broken arms of semaphores;
(a whip from the west, a sting today;
a kiss from the east, our dream's do pray.)
The leaves whisper to listless passersby,
inveigling idle hands to ignite the brittle sky
with atomic matches cut by Lucy's knife
at midnight, the King's most loyal wife.
So, rustles die with their crickets' chirps,
the town drunk's soliloquy: a dozen burps.
Moonlight siphoned, all drained of white,
into the rabid jackal's mouth that is night,
wakes the carriage holding a dapper light,
the quotidian son: a beast without flight.

>>6696856
I like this. There are a few run on sentences I might try to break up a little but overall the lengthy sentences work for the piece. A vivid and effective presentation of a person and a perspective as a child.

>>6697083
No problem, anon. I really appreciated what you said. Thanks.

>>6696940
there's a whole novel before this and this is in the first chapter of the second book :^)

>>6697089
understandable, it had that feeling. I hate it when someone gives that excuse and it doesn't even work on a small level, let alone big picture

>>6697109
yeah to be honest that first sentence is in there for a jarring effect that would make you look around the close context for relevance, and the bit about the old conservatives is in there just because that's actually the situation that leads the narrator to think about that (he was doing other things there before, and this is just a random fleeting thought)

personally i'm really digging this selection. it came out so much more naturally than i anticipated and fits in well with everything else going on in the story.

i fucking love writing.

To tie the laces of some other's shoe,
is to bow and bend and end. To do
without an gasp of glowing air is to
snap the singing necks of didgeridoos.
Love at first swipe, Cupid shoots to pierce
a score of Tin men's heart's prematurely fierce,
begging the future's unlit words: I do.
And sparkling go the flames of rapture's woe,
trickled down from crown-less head to shoeless toe,
greedy in the wake of deathly throes,
the desperate wish to banish all foes:
Dr. Faust, Dr. Phil, and Dr. Dre,
all heal themselves, ignoring they:
you, me, we all struggle at bay
where wakes slap our face every which way.

>>6697119
personally I fucking love science

And he sits with his hands on his knees, and he lips the cap of his bottle. Baker's dozens, the Krispy Kreme's glaze spools down the lips down the cap in drools; the cap is soaked and poked in cheek. A cut calls blood to surface wounds, and he dies and dregs out at noon. "Slap it! Spring it! Skin it, too!" Zdravko screams at apprentices, dentists dead. The lake, still at night and rowdy midday, bubbles with a crackling mist in lieu of day. Birth, plenty placenta pooled below, grants death a daily check made out to who knows. And he sits and sits, lipping away at his cap, denying the world a safe, safe strap. Late, early to be, never today. I can't watch him sit, and sit all day.

>>6696851
Wake your reason's hollow vote.
Wear your blizzard season coat.
Burn a bridge and burn a boat.
Stake a lizard by the throat.

>>6696848
Here's a short story I wrote about fat people.

http://pastebin.com/WMkLZTDs

Kodak moments, can no longer be;
Stevie Wonder, wonders and sees.
The queen bee, in love with me;
Oprah's fried okra, turnt to doody.

It is a conviction of Solomon's that for a man to excel in his industry he must make an angel of his judgment. Ultimately, after all, a man is hired for himself. Within the system of his work he must carve out his own empire. The common opinion is a powerful current, to be carried away is to dissolve into the mob's plasm, a slave to slaves.
There was a rat-like quality to Rubio when they had first met, but Solomon had trusted his judgment of the youth as enterprising and cunning. He had stationed him in an unused supply closet off the building's main servers; he passes it off as a breakroom to any inquisitive company men feeling like a stroll through the server room. Rubio does not involve himself in any of Solomon's ethernet security and manipulation. He is the secret weapon, the praetorian sword at the emperor's throat. If a man must be an arm of the powers that be, he will not suffer to die with the body.
Rubio specializes in cyber espionage. Hunched over his Terra-imported stim-water every morning, he peers into the bathrooms and bedrooms of the gods of Mars. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, Thunder's Vice-Director Mich Collins has a penchant for electric shocks in those very same bedrooms. Koilos, a famous Vogue club promoter, spends his weekdays hiking in the colony's more provincial areas with a scrambled face mask. A love of nature is death to the reputation of shamans of light and sound. Three different Municipal Police divisions have been tasked with a cover-up of MXM production in the Vogue's shadier residential areas. MP Chief himself is a notorious hardass but can't get a date sober to save his life.

If anyone writes in spanish im willing to criticize.

>>6696979

>I wish I had taken the time to-?

Stop here. It's an interesting little thought, but if you explore it too deeply you risk being 'overwrought'.

>forgetting myself in my thoughts like sleep.

What does this mean? I don't get it.

>She said they were expensive

Who said who were expensive? I like jumping into the middle of this scene, but eventually you gotta clue the reader into exactly what's happening, and I think this is the spot to do it.

>lifetimes to a dead man

I get you're being abstract, but I don't think this works.

Ok, I'm being too nitpicky on what's probably a first draft. Let's get macro. You're trying to be prose-y. I think you missed the mark with most of these. I either didn't understand what idea or feeling you're trying to get across, or just plain didn't like how you put it.

I was okay with everything in the block that starts with "It is quicker than they say", though. That stuff works. Except "A silence passed" (>implying that multiple silences can pass), or "The storm lurked calmly closer" (storms ain't calm), which fell flat.

The dialogue with his mother might be plausible, it might be poetic, but I still hate it. It's too conspicuous. I feel like you're cheaply bonking me over the head with character exposition. There's just gotta be a better way to have this character encounter the concept of mortality.

Ok, now someone do mine:

http://imgur.com/M5V2mSM,alFew4X,7ozVZje#0
http://imgur.com/M5V2mSM,alFew4X,7ozVZje#0
http://imgur.com/M5V2mSM,alFew4X,7ozVZje#0

>>6697367

First draft btw, so the prose is going to be revised.

>>6697063
Thanks a lot for the critique. It's my first time writing like this, so feedback is especially helpful. I think I should just read more well written books before attempting anymore myself. Thanks again.

>>6697276
hola me llamo jon

>>6697276
I never write, but the other day I had this idea I noted in my phone. Would be nice if you gave me your opinion about the style.

[...]Los pigmentos de su enrevesada composición pictórica se vieron humedecidos por una lagrimilla que él aprovechó para retirar con su pulgar, gesto con intención harto romántica que sin embargó derivó en la desfiguración bufonesca de su segundo rostro. Con una mueca de asco tras olisquearse la combinación de colores enfermizos del dedo (gesto puramente intuitivo), se deshizo del indeseado colorido rascando disimuladamente la yema contra la pared de ladrillo.

Kick an arsonist in his arse,
bat a barrel of bats with a bat,
kill a swill of krill with your bill,
and listen to me christen and glisten:
run from fun undone in the rum sun,
and deteriorate, ameliorate, conflagrate.
Great.
Great.
Grate.

>>6697276

Genial.
I already shared this two in another thread so you might have already seen them, I don't think I changed anything big enough for anyone to notice.

http://pastebin.com/R4yMAR1m

http://pastebin.com/wWss6zdL

>/lit/ consistently hurls vitriolic criticism at even authors that are considered to be masters of language
>yet people have the courage to post their own work here

how do you do it, guys?

>>6697490
this threads are pretty hugboxy. On one hand we have different standards for classics and nodobies, on the other we take care of our own people.

>>6697203
>didgeridoos

a bit off

>>6697490
Getting your work insulted along side that of the masters of language gives it a certain dignity.

>>6697367
Thanks for the feedback. Before I can offer critique on this I need to know your target audience

A gentle summer breeze hits a man's face in such a way that that causes the hairs on his entire body to stand up. “I am the mother”, he says, a wide grin smearing across his face until it is wider than the face which accommodates it, “I am the mother and I'm here to stay”.
With a thump, the man falls into a sitting position, his drop cushioned by the thick grass, bristles tickling his legs in a manner that is not quite unpleasant. He finds himself in the clearing of a forest. Around him are trees, flowers, insects; the various trappings of a natural world which the man has long since abandoned. For a moment the man's gaze lingers on a beetle, making its way up the trunk of a particularly narrow tree a few paces away from where the man sits. The man is entranced by the peculiar order in which the beetle moves its legs, and the exquisite shine of the beetle's well polished carapace.
Suddenly, the man's body goes limp. He is left lying on his back, his mouth agape, facing up towards the glaring afternoon sun. The man's eyes stay open, absorbing the full strength of the sunlight. Sensing an opportunity, the beetle leaps from the tree, spreading its wings and deftly landing on the man's lower lip. The man did not know that beetles could fly, but if he could've seen how it had flown just then, he would have learned.
The beetle crawls determinedly into the man's mouth, a long journey ahead of it. Onwards it goes through the moist cavern of the man's throat, not quite conscious of the instinct which propels it, until finally it reaches the stomach. The beetle peers into this vast chamber from an advantageous position at the edge of its opening. The bottom is filled with a noxious yellow liquid, churning with terrible volatility . The beetle instantly knows what it must do. With a short burst of flight, the beetle hovers momentarily and then surrenders itself to gravity, falling to the bottom of the man's stomach. The beetle had not thus far questioned its purpose, but as it slowly disintegrates, the beetle is filled with a euphoria which can only mean it has fulfilled its mission.

Two coyotes chace a gang
of badass racoon bandits
up LaCienega and the bay and cry
are roared over by the redeye
to LAX from, wherever.

The racoons reach the dumpster fortress
and taunt the street thug howlers
with Crazy Sauce in plastic ramekins.
Four yellow glow-marbles smolder.

A bus trundles past
and it's a wipe transition -
the coyotes as if edited out,
made their clean getaway
and the raccoons ain't rats.

In a square of dingy light
a shopkeep watches
from his stoop. He howls.

"They not far. They never far,"
he says.

"What did you say to them?"

"Shit man, what I always say.
Split up. Post one at the dumpster."

"Why do you think they don't listen?"

"They do. They just too much in love."

"Maybe someday then."

"If they live long enough."

A raccoon chattered and dove deep.
Another licked her paws.
A third gazed at the moon
shimmer in a puddle
and said a prayer for love.

>>6697490
Most people on 4chan are toxic shitheads. If you can actually get a good critique thread going, though, the people involved are more even headed. A good critique thread happens when the more decent and reasonable people come together... I think. Ultimately any author has to be ready to disregard critique as well as consider it. I have always received directly contradictory critiques on my work, they can't all be right. So if someone is being venomous I just ignore them. In fact, a fools critique can still be insightful. If a stupid person doesn't like something, well, you may have done something right. It's a difficult balance to maintain though, consideration and rejection. its hard to be objective

Two coyotes chase a gang
of badass raccoon bandits
up La Cienega and the bay and cry
are roared over by the redeye
to LAX from, wherever.

The raccoons reach the dumpster fortress
and taunt the street thug howlers
with Crazy Sauce in plastic ramekins.
Four yellow glow-marbles smolder.

A bus trundles past
and it's a wipe transition -
the coyotes as if edited out,
made their clean getaway
and the raccoons ain't rats.

In a square of dingy light
a shopkeep watches
from his stoop. He howls.

"They not far. They never far,"
he says.

"What did you say to them?"

"Shit man, what I always say.
Split up. Post one at the dumpster."

"Why do you think they don't listen?"

"They do. They just too much in love."

"Maybe someday then."

"If they live long enough."

A raccoon chattered and dove deep.
Another licked her paws.
A third gazed at the moon
shimmer in a puddle
and said a prayer for love.

>>6697529

18-35 yr old, familiar with literature.

>>6697428
Basically, too much purple prose. While some of it sound ingenious you charge the text too much with these words and it becomes difficult to read.

>>6697381
10/10 masterpiece

>>6697482


>La Caja

While is not completely bad, there are a lot of mistakes especially at the beggining. The dialogue could be more interesting and it has too much exposition. Some sentences could be way better too.


>the other one

Better than the first, but also kinda a mess. Perhaps because it shows too much in too little. Some sentences could also be worded better. In any case, your style and mine are somewhat similar.

>>6697566
>it was hard to feel guilty, since she pulled it out of a waste basket

I'd like to address this intermingling of characters thoughts with the narrative. Without examples that I'd have to go looking for, I'm hoping you have a solid grasp of what I mean when I say this, and what it would mean to avoid it. If not, just let me know and I'll try to better explain.

In third person narratives, this is a common sign of a new writer, though it is not at all exclusive to new writers. On a personal level, I find this style of writing lazy. It is how just about everyone thinks to write before they develop any sense of technique, and giving everything to be absorbed from your writing to the reader in a neat little box with a ribbon on top isn't appealing. It is difficult for me to assess this in the context of the writing, however, because we really just have one paragraph of the "true" narrative and the rest is the delving into the book.

My personal taste aside, this is one of the reasons I asked for your target audience. This style of writing is virtually nonexistent in "serious" literature (however much I hate segregating any art form into "serious" and not). The only places I can recall seeing this technique employed is:
Authors who have just begun to try and write
Generic Genre fiction like a detective story or an RA Salvatore book
The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy
and, by far the most often, YA and Childrens books, though YA generally expresses thoughts more directly than simply suggesting a characters thoughts by slipping their description into the narrative.

It's not like people never do it. But if you want to write "serious" literature you may want to compare literature for younger audiences with respected adult literature to see if you can spot the contrast I speak of.

Now, as for everything following the first paragraph..
This is the main reason I asked your target audience, but it's also difficult for me to critique because rather than a reflection of the narrative style as a whole it could easily be an isolated piece of prose, given the context. I'm not sure what your intentions were here, so rather than go into specifics, I'll simply sum up my thoughts briefly and go into more detail if you'd like.

Basically, I found it all to read very, very much like a book intended for children. But like I said, in context, this could have easily been intentional. So I feel hesitant to offer much atm.

>>6697658
I'd also like to add that if you are determined to maintain this style, you may want to consider whether or not you want idioms (perhaps not exactly an idiom but you get the idea) in these thought-in-the-narrative-insertions. for example:
"it was hard to feel guilty" is something someone would say but the phrase is particular to conversation, and letting the habits that pervade our casual speech pervade our writing is often considered a no-no

>>6697667

So you don't like emotional description in the narrative? Ok, yeah, I can see how it's a little unnatural and lazy, thanks. Are you still breaking it down? There's no need to go into such detail...

>>6696851
kill ur self my man

>>6697708
Yeah, I don't. Actively contrasting works that do and do not do this, I think, will be a much better demonstration of why I might feel this way than anything I could probably say.

I can break it down as much as you want, but this
>>6697658
and
>>6697063
is the level of scrutiny I like in a critique (I didn't even make it past the first few sentences in >>6697063) so I feel obligated to offer it as well. Good luck!

>>6697726

But you only read the first two sentences... lol

>>6697746
I read the whole thing but reached the post character limit. Not sure what you mean.

>>6697749

Oh, cool, thanks. What did you think of it? Were you entertained? Why or why not?

>>6697791
I don't feel very comfortable giving "big picture" critiques because its so subjective without the specifics of analysis, and so its so easy to come off as a pretentious ass when critiquing. But if you want the answers to those questions:

>what did you think of it
I did not enjoy the writing style at all. I thought there were many sentences that tried to be something special but held nothing so special as to warrant their structure (like what I said about a sentence not holding its weight). You try really hard to impose what you feel about this scene on the reader, rather than letting the reader come to it themselves. The weight of the work should happen naturally, you shouldn't have to put it in there yourself... I hope I'm making sense without pointing to specifics and giving examples. I found the line about enjoying the "gratifying permanence" to be an interesting idea.

>were you entertained
The only moment I was entertained was the moment of surprise when you realize he is going to kill her. But otherwise, I'm afraid not. The content surrounding this is some pretty simple stuff happening, but its also delivered in what strikes me as an overwrought and hackneyed package. "heavy" scenes are, imo, almost always better presented in a minimalist and direct fashion. When our emotions are handed to us we tend to go "yeah, yeah, okay." To be fair, though, the only times it DOES work is in the context of a larger work when severity of the event relies upon established emotions.

A little context since this is extracted from the middle of a chapter. The setting is a college campus in late winter, the narrator is a bit of a narcissist and this imposes itself a bit on the text/word choice (however, please let me know if any of the words break up the flow or if anything strikes you as particularly grating).

>>6697842
I don't generally feel comfortable critiquing first person. Just wanted to let you know since I've been trying to be helpful to others.

>>6697839

lol... you know you're wasting way more of your own energy jerking me around than you are of mine, right?

>>6697839
Writer of the post you're talking about here. I'm not sure if the Anon you're replying to was trying to talk for me, or if he was looking for your opinion on a different piece.

Thanks for the criticism anyway. I'll keep it in mind. I wasn't even thinking of the reader at all while writing it, only trying to translate the images in my head. I'll have to change my perspective in the future.

>>6697856

That's cool, though I would be curious to know why that is (and I would still of course welcome any thoughts you felt like sharing, even if they were just to say that you don't think first person is viable, either here or in general).

>>6697863
Jerking you around? I'm not sure what you mean. I definitely am "wasting" a lot of my energy though, like I said critique is exhausting. What exactly are you trying to say?

>>6697878
Yeah I was confused... and am.
>I'll have to change my perspective in the future
That helps a lot. I can't tell you how much developing my perspective as a writer helped my writing when I still wrote. I mean absolute worlds. That and studying different techniques and styles and the merits as described/analyzed by their particular supporters/enthusiasts/etc. Good luck, know that it is truly insane how much better you can get at something, even writing, if you keep practicing and studying and learning and developing.

>>6697886
When I still wrote I developed my writing by studying styles intensively. Third person is what I wanted to write and it is what I studied. I have read almost nothing in first person and have no real experience developing it. So really I guess that's it. I just don't feel like I have any idea what I'm talking about when it comes to first person, even though I wrote >>6696979
way back.

I might read over it and give you some general thoughts in a bit. I just feel that anything I have to say about first person is of little value to anyone.

>>6697878
Also, don't let what I said in >>6697839
bother you too much, without specifics and detailed explanations I feel the opinions aren't very useful, unless you already understand why I'd have them. Sorry if it sounded harsh, that's why I prefer to avoid such "big picture" questions

>>6697626
Gracias por chequear.

>first one
>dialogue
Yeah, it's one of my weakest things, or at least it worries me as much. I'll try to clean up some exposition. I was trying to go for a police work kind of thing, that is mostly structured through expositive dialogue, but I may have gone full blown cop drama and TV dialogue doesn't work on paper.
If you want to pin point some sentences I'd love to see what you think works and what doesn't, and why. If it's too much work that's fine too.

>second one
Someone before mentioned it feels like it tries to have structure but just doesn't, and I'm pretty sure it needs some sort of point besides show casing elements of a weird world.
Do you think switching to more free narrator that expands each character to the past and the future would work?

>somewhat similar
Post your stuff, or link to where you did, if you want. Maybe we can learn to be more original by comparing similarities.

>>6697658

You sound super duper butthurt that the guy didn't like most of your passage.

>>6697984
El auto quedó inundado (por el) murmullo del motor. Mario lograba ser de nuevo un escucha comprensivo. De haber salido al aire el elogio (él) hubiera respondido (afirmando que tal cosa) no era un talento o un mérito, /hubiera sido un elogio comprado y no le gustaban esas cosas/---->NO TENGO CLARO QUE SIGNIFICA. Era mejor dejarlo así.
Hasta que no estuvieron a escasas cuadras de su destino no hubo ningún interés en revisar puntualmente qué era lo que tenían que hacer. El informe incluía las múltiples denuncias acerca de la caja (que obstruía) el uso del muelle; transcriptas en un lenguaje técnico diseñado para permitirles saltear(se con facilidad) la mayor parte del contenido. Más allá de las formalidades, no parecía haber contenido.

I did only that because im never sure how much i can put in here because of the character limits the post has. I can go on with more if you wish. I would erase the first dialogue completely tho and create it again.

About the other question, no i think its precisely the opposite. You need a focused narrator that could reveal all the details little by little, making the readers understand everything correctly without drowning them with info.

Here is a fragment of mine, feel free to criticize:

Esta había sido una de esas noches, a juzgar por cómo había llegado a su casa golpeando la puerta impaciente, como un mensajero furtivo, pidiéndole entrar a un Bullwe aun medio mosqueado y haciéndole una pregunta que su subordinado sí que no esperaba, al tiempo que tomaba asiento frente a la mesita dispuesta en la cocina, las manos sobre las rodillas y la espalda bien erguida, como cohibido.
-Bullwe, ¿tienes esposa?
Tenia tanto sueño que tardo en contestar, rascándose la barba rala y restregándose los ojos. Definitivamente aquellas no eran horas de interrumpir la quietud nocturna con chucherías, pero se abstuvo de decir nada por respeto a su general y al terror que lo embargaba, que ambos sabían próximo.
-No.
-¿Alguna amante? ¿Un hermano? ¿Familia?
Suspiro, incorporándose para hacer algo de café dentro de aquella casucha pequeña y desorganizada en la que vivía. Yeguilex espero su respuesta paciente, como si fuera de vital importancia.
-Visito los locales del puerto en Dropedam ocasionalmente, como todos- al decir eso, viendo los ojos violetas del capitán, pensó que Yeguilex no encajaba en ese “todos” acaparador- En cuanto a familia… Un par de tíos viejos en la zona este, que veo esporádicamente.
-Es decir- continuo su idea Yeguilex- Que aquí no tienes a nadie importante.

http://pastebin.com/4bvP6suq

Just getting back into trying to write short stories. Criticism and comments are very appreciated, and all feedback will be returned. This is the first page of a story based pretty heavily on my time in an American Legion Patriotism camp as a teenager.

>>6698023
I assumed someone would think so. But it is what it is. Sorry.

>>6698118

Sorry for what? I think it's hilarious.

Opening paragraph for a personal essay sort of thing:

> It probably goes without saying that when writing for a general audience, it’s a bad idea to include any math, much less at the beginning. Aside from being synonymous with difficulty, math is also deemed to be a special kind of boring not even attributed to watching grass grow and paint dry, which can actually be really interesting say, when observed under a microscope, in a time-lapse video or in both at the same time. That is, where watching grass grow and paint dry can in a certain context evoke the idea of another universe nestled within the one afforded to us by the naked eye like a kind of cosmic matryoshka doll, math on the other hand seems so deliberately fine-tuned towards formality and abstraction as to be completely antithetical to the kind of subjectivity that defines emotional appeal. Hence, when you say you like math, there’s some condescension, bordering on outright disgust, when people ask why. It just seems vaguely inappropriate for the subject to be <i>liked</i>, to be the object of personal investment beyond getting a grade. For starters, such people have obviously never heard of the Pythagorean cult. So let's talk math.

>>6698290

Bumping for my shit.

>>6698336

You forgot to critique someone else's work.

Most of these threads are shit. There should be a rule in which you cant post your stuff unless you make a critique to another anon.

>>6698350
Years back I started such a thread and gave everyone a critique that first critiqued another, and only accepted thorough, thoughtful critiques. It was pretty much the most successful critique thread /lit/ ever had and I had many posters echoing those thoughts. Unfortunately I also encouraged people to continue reviewing the works of others so we could all continuously get critiques from everyone but most of the time they just offered one. Still, it was a good thread, and some people did participate thoroughly. Maybe I'll do it again now that I've just started browsing the board again

>>6698362
I remember those threads. /lit/ was a different monster entirely back then, more pretentious and much better

>>6697658

He was completely right about your writing, too. You're never gonna get better if you get this buttflustered over honest criticism.

>>6698290
Good stuff. Not much to say other than that I would be happy to read on from there. Maybe remove "For starters,"

You wouldn't happen to be that guy that posted the short story with the hunchback graphs, would you?

>>6698350
>trying to force thread rules on 4chan

Why even post that? Who cares?

>>6698369
I'm actually really happy to see how much it has improved.

>>6698374
>>6698141
I'm starting to suspect that you are the aforementioned author. But I could easily be wrong, just as you could be. Whether or not he was correct about my writing has nothing to do with it and I won't pretend to think something I don't just so I don't look "butthurt" to you, or anyone. This will be my last reply to you.

>>6698398
>why even post that? Who cares?
It's been done and it's worked.

>>6698414

this is some fucking bullshit drama ayy lmao /lit/ ladies and gentlemen

>>6698414

He was right, though. Your prose isn't even good enough to be considered ostentatious. "Is this the very feeling of death?!" Come on, anon.

>>6698398
I do care. Rules make things work better. Right now this is just a wankfest.

>>6698466
I'm assuming you're a different guy due to the lack of... I'll call it immaturity.

Yeah, it's bad. Most of the middle, I think, is pretty bad, I said something similar when I posted it. I mean how about "what wonderful reprieve" or "You there, see the tear that I can still summon!" or the phrase "for young lucy" or the cliche-ness of "sapping the life from me"
I could go on.

This is a modern person after all, but they're speaking as though the author imagined himself writing an epic or something.

Maybe we can lay this misplaced vitriol to rest now?

If you're the same guy as before, I'm so sorry for breaking my promise.

>>6698398
>hunchback graphs

Nope. Wish I knew what you're talking about though. Sounds interesting.

And thanks for the offer, but I'm still working on the thing.

>>6698496

Oh, you're a troll. lol... not bad, but there's no way anyone would ever write like this. You're laying it on a little thick.

>>6697250

I'm pretty sleepy rn, but I don't get the dystopian thing that's being implied...obese people are being forced into work camps or something like that?

I also feel that the narrator's voice kinda changes throughout. I thought he sounded casual but not a total dumbass at the beginning but then you got more formal and articulate towards the end.

>>6698597

Oh, and the identity of the attacker at the end wasn't all that surprising since the character was introduced very near the end and wasn't even fleshed out.

>>6698345

>>6698597
>>6698601

People do what they do, more often than not, blindly. They go about their days, bagging groceries, filing taxes, giving out grades, prescriptions, hand-outs, and car keys, without realizing their exact place in things–things, being the state of affairs as they are, and forever will be. During prehistory, man was not man, for he lacked the word of man, the cognitive sticker to place on the incubative fridge in his mind; his only way was in seeing. Now, in what might be considered the age of industry, humans live on train-tracks; we talk in terms of right-angles: diplomas, gridlocked streets, free-throw elbows, building faces. The structure of our world has seeped into the structure of our language, of our (oh boy, a witty reference!) thought. Youngsters have become so inundated with the vast wealth of digital and psychic data pouring into their senses that they have begun to be swept away in a shallow sea of incoherence and irrelevance and vapidity. Adrift atop this frothy surf, they've even begun philosophizing on their own on online image-boards and forums filled with like-minded bastards of the inbred, pseudo-intellectual e-lite, where standards mutate daily and the status quo is whatever the viscera draped in graduation garb mandates.

Look–though, you probably won't considering the fact that your'e just another human–one of them is even doing it now, right before your eyes. Do you see: the bombast, the raised eyebrow, the imaginary leather-creased armchair, scotch an all; the semicolons and jittery shoulder glances? How will you react? By asking yourself how you might react? playing with various outcomes like some tangible pick-your-own-adventure manifested in your deeply shallow mind? Sure, sure thing, the others will say, about anything, anything that has offered to particularize itself in digestible context. No, bullshit, surely. But where are you left? Sitting, lying, lying, shitting, wondering what will come next and how you'll react. Do it, the slogans say. And you do, you do and then you'll realize you've always just reacted and reacted and reacted, 90% of your being just reacting. Thoughts about recursion, metadata, or possibly even Slipknot might creep up into your brain-cage at this 'moment,' and if they didn't naturally, they've been preempted. Either way, you probably haven't realized that this is the first paragraph you've read since the beginning of the rest of your life, so unto death (as the baggervances shall sing).

>>6698362

look at this faggot looking back at his "golden moment" on an anonymous pan-asian doujin forum LOL

>>6698837
look at this faggot making fun of a seemingly pleasant, nice anon because of his own lack of accomplishments and insecure faggotry LOL

>inb4 "look at this faggot..."

>>6698888
look at this faggot saying the truth

there

>>6698837

look at this faggot acting like an ill-mannered pleb on an anonymous central-asian lapidary enthusiast message board LOL

>>6698966
He received the message already anon. See >>6698915

>>6698997
>implying I wasn't just using it as an excuse to meme-post

As time slithered away Wayne's face had grown to resemble the arid soil he trampled on. His skin was browned by the years of sunlight. His knuckles were rocks on calloused fingers. A thin layer of dust could never be washed off his skin. Cracks ran all over this forehead, circling under the eyes and meandering further to parched lips. Long hours of clicking and pressing, dotting and cutting, slashing and mending, laboring away for stray pennies at the feet of terrestrial demigods left many marks and snatched away every fiber of vitality. Time stole what other men had not. Friends, relatives, pets, all departed. Each loss left another crease on the old man's face. Yet hope still glistened through his eyes.

>>6698813
I like this but the sentences are really long, especially in the first paragraph
The 2nd paragraph is pretty good though

She pressed right up against his nose. She dug her shoulder into his.

“I want to do it again.” Anna spoke to Dylan.

“Do what?”

“Last night.”

Anna couldn't contain herself. She was giddy. Her black, now villainous eyebrows danced for Dylan as she spoke and the shake of her nerves shook him strong.

>>6699136
Villainous eyebrows is a good one.
>the shake of her nerves shook him strong
I think I understand what you are trying to say, but swap out the first shake for something else like "rattle" maybe...or possibly reword the entire bit

>>6698966
>>6698888
Wow, /lit/ has improved. Sorry I'm not critiquing guys, I've got a friend over and he's keeping me occupied.

>>6699136
>Anna spoke to Dylan.
no

otherwise, like it. like the other anon said, the very last clause is a little too awkward but you did a good job of mixing a clear/simple scene with enigmatic phrasing. Just a touch more of subtlety

>>6699060
I think it's good. I'd suggest moving the line describing the cracks of his face to behind the first sentence; you open by remarking on his face, so start there and then move towards the rest of him. "Terrestrial demigods" feels very out-of-place to me.

'Bed'

I know there must
Be spiders (two)
In my bed for I
Saw speeding specks
Beneath un recueil
de Poe on the sill.
I have proof: the bites
That span my feet.

There's a thematically chosen borrowed line in there, woop de doo.

>>6697658

>that passive aggressive ass devastation

A baby bird screams at my feet
I panic
he's frying on the concrete

his legs are broken, the bones poking out
I can't think
he's screaming so loud

If I touch him his mom won't take him back
If I love him, maybe it's best

In a crack of thunder, the fire snaps up
I can feel the orchestra speeding up in my gut
The sky spills down in a gush of red
The waves are violent and slam against my head
It's hard to see, but I can see just fine
Little baby bird is out of his mind

The ocean turns cool and the lava turns hard

Then I sit back and
Everything is black now
I feel better
I hear silence
I see God's hand

Then the colors steak and fill the sky again

>>6697272
This was highly intriguing and your voice seems to be developing well. Just keep at what you're doing but don't get swept along too much with the Palahniuk-like datastream because it might unmoor the reader from the reality of the text. That being said, that feverish narrative is fascinating.

>>6696856
I really like this. It flows really nicely, which in my opinion is the most important. I like the structure as well, and I think the emotions conveyed are powerful.

Taking for granted objective reality, yours is a definite position within that, and it should go that there is a definite purpose for a person
I think it's evident and something we unconsciously strive for, but consciously ignore, or even shun
To quote the hebrew book of creation - there is nothing in goodness above pleasure and there is nothing in evil below pain
Pleasure is the purpose, and it's something most efficiently gained through power
It's a quality unique to life, and I believe life's purpose to strive for power - the end goal, and personification of which, being omnipotence. Godhood

If everything is God's will, then God could best be defined by nature. This is unconscious and decidedly lacking
I think our purpose is to bring consciousness to God, effectively becoming it

The book of Samuel is really telling; when Saul became anointed, he spoke to the crowd with God's words, and the crowd moves as one. Being annointed is, simply put, like being God, and it comes with the ability to unite people under you, effectively becoming an extension of you; becoming you

The purpose of man is to unite other people (which are, coincidentally the biggest source of power. Remember power being a purpose of life), changing oneself in the procees, becoming more like God and effectively making others do the same

>>6699717
Absolute worthless drivel.

>>6699755
Because you disagree, or because it fails to go into detail

Michael is a priest.
Michael dies of testicular cancer.
Michael was a saint.

Cassandra is a prostitute.
Cassandra overdoses on heroin.
Cassandra was three lines in the obituaries.

Dave is a dick.
Dave dies of dysentery.
Dave was a good friend, great boss.

Lucky is a happy dog.
Lucky gets hit by a station-wagon.
Lucky was an unlucky dog.

Mr. Jenkins is lonely shut-in.
Mr. Jenkins passes away in his sleep.
Mr. Jenkins was a lonely shut-in.

Grace is a schoolgirl.
Grace gets murdered by a serial killer.
Grace was an helpless victim.

The last human is nameless.
The last human dies of asphyxiation.
The last human was snake-food.

We are alive.
We will die.
We will become our best selves.

>>6699063

Hey thanks, glad you liked it. And you're right, the sentences do drag on a bit. Will take care of. Cheers.

How is it possible
that fortune has bestowed upon me
so many nines
like a German rape victim.

–Royce Da 5'9''

>>6699999

'The Mysteries of Existence' by le christposting anon

The chasm of life: a pit so deep
It eats and swallows thought and Truth.
It haunts us in our age and youth.
It chides us as we walk and sleep.

I shift and shake and fear the fall,
My eyes ahead and my heart below,
Until I leap and stretch my arm
And find the loving hand of God.

>>6699999

>>6697093
no, work on rhythm
>>6697203
no
>>6697254
no
>>6697445
no
>>6697564
maybe, inclined to say no
>>6699460
no
be wary feedback from amateurs
>>6699509
no
>>6699984
Lawd no
>>6699999
impressive, or it would be if lit weren't as slow of a board as it is
>>6700050
no

>>6699999
Amazing

>>6699999

>>6700073
>Lawd no

Why didn't you like it, anon?

>>6700068
>Rottingbytes

>>6697842

Any critiques for this?

she lives in the town of the skyscraper

i live in the thoughts of the fallen dew

- we cannot conversate.

>>6700221
bro that's so deep dude yo pass me the joint breh

>>6697842
What is the point of this whole paragraph?

>>6700073
Are you retarded? Actually critique or get out.

>>6700221
I'm not saying short things can't be meaningful BUT HOLY CRAP YOU GUYS Stop making three line poems and acting like they're all deep.

>>6701035

Just to describe and introduce a character.

Alyssa flew in, shoulder-length brown curls flowing and bouncing, pushing the already ajar door wide open with a bump of her knee.

"B, look at this freaking caterpillar I found outside!" she said as she pushed her cupped hands toward me. A pea green, spotted caterpillar crawled slowly about the bumps of her upturned hands. She cracked into a fit of laughter, bouncing her legs up and down one at a time and scrunching her face as she fought for a chance to speak.

"HA-IT-HAHAHA-IT TICKLES!"

She did not say a word more to me for the moment, separated from reality by one of those stomach-boxing chortles that posits itself abdomen and all in the brief blur of a simple joke or happening inherently hilarious. She flung her head back, mouth agape and eyes pinched, her skin crawling with pleasure. Unbounded amusement. All the while, even as she danced over the clothes and pieces of trash that lay scattered across my bedroom floor, she held her hands at ease still cupped and bent just below her waist. I had never seen this sort of thing before; the kind of character so spirited, so pure at heart, so enthralled by this world after the fourth global world. Her laughter was fiery, doused hopelessly with intermittent snorting. Life was her fuel--standing there, as beautiful as I have ever laid eyes upon her before. Life at silly heart, life in soft, precious hands, she ignited a appreciation of life in angry me. Here we sit a thousand miles off the west coast of the economically, socially, and structurally collapsing United States of America, in a military safe-house designed and proposed by Grandpa Lt. Welsh. I have Alyssa, a 17 year-old, wild creature of benign nature. I could not express the length of gratitude I feel to God or fate, whatever brought her to me 8 months ago in one of California's last refugee camps. I fell in love in the midst of destruction. Hunger, anger, fear and death. Religious corrections and holy-men with conviction so outright neurotic I had to pray for them. Gunfire. Blood. The limb-to-torso product of explosive warfare. I found whole body and peaceful mind in a ripped medical tent, her body sprawled on red-stained stretcher.

"Fuck.....hey, you! I need your help, this girl is about to die." a man in medic attire commanded in my direction. Milroy, a small but active town of 300 or so people had just been raided by a German task force. About 5 minutes east of our Camp, Wilton, if you take the highway. Apparently, the task force was moving through to a higher priority target, but under authority of the German Army General the squad was ordered to fire at any citizen of the state. Alyssa's home, a property of about 3 acres supporting a 4,000 square foot house sat on the east side of town. She told me it was a gorgeous place; a few thriving willow trees in the backyard on luscious grass. A large, stone, 3 bowl fountain in the front yard, spitting quietly under a flagpole.

>>6701200
This doesn't deserve more

>>6701347
>posits itself abdomen and all
>happening inherently hilarious
>unbounded amusement

Too many clunky and ungainly phrases like the ones above. It comes off as a tad forced, which it may very well be considering the fact that you have several grammatical and spelling errors that tell me you haven't edited this very closely, if at all. But your writing isn't bad. I would just suggest to try to keep your word usage as concise as possible; tighten it, trim the fat. And also, find a way to create tension, a sense of urgency between Alyssa and the protag, a reason to keep reading. Right now, there's no bait to bite on to. However, you do have some nice lines, "holy-men with convictions so outright neurotic I had to pray for them" was particularly funny.

>>6696848
>Writing Workshop
>Portuguese
where

>>6701412
They posted a link, dongo

>>6701404
Great. Thank you so much

>>6701361
Then if you aren't going to explain why and give constructive criticism, you have no reason to post. You just said so yourself.

The dragon cradled particular villages, showering them with billowing, burning love. This was his way. Reaching out the leathery expanse of wings until hard air current snagged and fired the beast through sky; altering delicate musculature, tipping right or left, and swirling midair over particular country swaths. Keening with his good eyes through the murk and air; identifying particular color spots. Familiar dots, baling hay; chasing females; sharpening blades. Coating the land. Somehow, particular movements and scents elicited the dragon's affections. Some of the dots, he followed; returned to; cared for from above. So Henry found wolves, long plaguing his herd, fried and piled at his stoop one morning; fluffy Dolly milling about their singed bits, mildly curious. So Amelia, knelt on the rooftop and imagining her field's dull cricket's buzz to be the roar of affectionate crowds, saw fiery plumes barrel through black sky, cutting and loosening the stars; marveled at the scales glinting past. And then, occasionally - in other, less beloved and distinguishable places; grayer places - the dragon landed. He fed, and found close contact; then, the dots were not land-bound abstractions or childlike ideals, but liquids and meats. Nourishment. Those places existed. But having left, the dragon rarely ever thought on them again. His mind turned to the dots, quilting the country, loving and dreaming.

This here is a poem
about xylem and phloem
they transport H20
and also food you know.
They're like botanical arteries
enmeshed in acres of Arbor trees.
And unlike veins in you and I,
plants can't cut them, just to die.
This is why I love xylem and phloem
and why I decided to write this poem.

>>6701612
lame

>>6701498
I like it a lot. I cant give a good critique since english is not my first language and im afraid ill fuck up, but i really enjoyed it. What is it about?

>>6701612
>>6701740
Seconded.

>>6701867
Thanks man. It's a reinterpretation of biblical + greek myths set in the middle ages, mostly naturalistic with a few magic elements. The dragon is a recurring minor character.

>>6701740
>>6702112
c'mon guys, I tried

>>6702230
It's all good man. Pick yourself back up and try again.

I'll breathe out never, and then I'll own my weathers. Didn't mean that to rhyme, but god oh god mine sweet lady god, why do all these waterbottles look like birds around me, there is nothing avian about their shape and they are transparent, but I still call them a murder, and I am here in my atelier-aviary surrounded by a murder of transluscent crows and the black bitches are beyond my window caterwalling, cat her wallin, catch me balling is what they are singing a song I don't know, they have flung all their windows open and are pissing pink lemonade into the tall grass in the rain and fucking like monkeys, I want to hide from them and I want to call them niggers, but I settle for poking my dick through the blinds and mashing it against my window. theys now screaming hellish and they are shooting up into the skin like missles and where's they going? ain't going nowhere booooiiii as she crashes through my cieling and wrenches me from my chair by my testicles, and I dream of what it must be like to be an ant-ten-a. There must be some kind of reason behind this. There must be some goddam thing that makes me wanna write this but oh jesus oh man I can't help but think about why all these water bottles and beer bottles look like birds, what is it with me and birds, I don't really care for them and one shat on my head once but now whenever I try to describe something I always describe it as avian so god what the fuck, there is shit in my hair there is shit in my brain, there is shit in the nooks of my brain, the crevices, gyrencephilization, coprophage is me, weee, I can feel it white and cool behind my eyes and I am lastly wondering what kinda fucking animal has cold shit, what skies doooth it fly, cool waters? fish?

>>6702664

Really hard to follow man. If you're an unknown and you're doing avant garde at least give us some line breaks.

“No, but I’ve been appreciating all of this a lot more.” I gestured at the surroundings, but I’m sure she received the message. There’s an uneasy feeling in my stomach that my mind is telling me would go away if I were close to her right now.

Why would she punish me by being? Why would she inspire a stomachache and be my only medicine. It’s sick. She’s twisted and I’m sick, and she’s ferocious and I’m completely enamored. Let me be close to you.

She would never think that my inner monologue plays out like this; here I, the club rugby player, slender and muscular with broad shoulders and thick legs, the one that you met with the black eye at the rugby drink-up, you were the only girl there and it was so full of testosterone and you might associate me with that, with the aggression, and here I stand, lost in your eyes, creating poems and symphonies and portraits altogether, just wanting to be something that could bear a resemblance to you. And worse, I’ll later drown myself in sonatas in the hopes that I might have a flashing glance at your face in this sunlight again in my mind’s eye, that I might be able to recall this moment we’ve shared just as it happened.

>>6702741
I don't like this very much; if you'd like me to give a close reading, tell me whether it's an excerpt or a free-standing passage.

>>6702664
Kinda randum xd spork feeling

caterwauling fyi

>>6702739
valid

>>6702664

>>6702759
here
forgot to add that I dig the opening sentence.

>>6702753
it's an excerpt where the narrator is on acid, throwing frisbee with a girl he's never met before, and she doesn't know he's tripping.

>>6702822

The first problem is purple prose. Very common for young writers. IE
>>I'll later drown myself in sonatas in the hopes that I might have a flashing glance at your face in this sunlight in my mind's eye

You'll get better at appropriately shifting between 'high' and 'low' registers the more your read and write. Poetry can help, if you read a huge amount of it.

The second problem is that you're failing to tell us something interesting about your character. 'Student-guy on drugs who immediately falls in love with a girl' is a perfectly legitimate scenario. But you have to use it as a base to show something funny, shocking, interesting, etc. 'It's surprising that I create poems despite being a rugby player' is cliché unless you're doing something atop it, like mocking the character for being so conceited.

Third problem is that people on LSD sound nothing like this.

>>6701498

I assume the relative lack of the word "the" is part of the dragon's voice? I like it.

Have you considered though, not at all using the word "dragon," the same way the humans are referred to only as "dots"? That'd be cool.

>>6702152

I would read the fuck out of that.

>>6702865
Thanks man. I'll think about that for the non-dragon POV sections.

I know a retired dentist who only paints mountains,
But the Masters seldom care
That much, who sketch them in beyond a holy face
Or a highly dangerous chair;
While a normal eye perceives them as a wall
Between worse and better, like a child, scolded in France,
Who wishes he were crying on the Italian side of the Alps:
Caesar does not rejoice when high ground
Makes a darker map,
Nor does Madam. Why should they? A serious being
Cries out for a gap.

And it is curious how often in steep places
You meet someone short who frowns,
A type you catch beheading daisies with a stick:
Small crooks flourish in big towns,
But perfect monsters - remember Dracula -
Are bred on crags in castles; those unsmiling parties,
Clumping off at dawn in the gear of their mystery
For points up, are a bit alarming;
They have the balance, nerve,
And habit of the Spiritual, but what God
Does their Order serve?

A civil man is a citizen. Am I
To see in the Lake District, then,
Another bourgeois invention like the piano?
Well, I won't. How can I, when
I wish I stood now on a platform at Penrith,
Zurich, or any junction at which you leave the express
For a local that swerves off soon into a cutting? Soon
Tunnels begin, red farms disappear,
Hedges turn to walls,
Cows become sheep, you smell peat or pinewood, you hear
Your first waterfalls.

And what looked like a wall turns out to be a world
With measurements of its own
And a style of gossip. To manage the flesh,
When angles of ice and stone
Stand over her day and night who make it so plain
They detest any kind of growth, does not encourage
Euphemisms for the effort: here wayside crucifixes
Bear witness to a physical outrage,
And serenades too
Stick to bare fact: 'O my girl has a goitre,
I've a hole in my shoe!'

Dour. Still, a line refuge. That boy behind his goats
Has the round skull of a clan
That lied with bronze before a tougher metal.
And that quiet old gentleman
With a cheap room at the Black Eagle used to own
Three papers but is not received in Society now:
These farms can always see a panting government coining;
I'm nordic myself, but even so
I'd much rather stay
Where the nearest person who could have me hung is
Some ridges away.

To be sitting in privacy, like a cat
On the warm roof of a loft,
Where the high-spirited son of some gloomy tarn
Comes sprinting down through a green croft,
Bright with flowers laid out in exquisite splodges
Like a Chinese poem, while, near enough, a real darling
Is cooking a delicious lunch, would keep me happy for
What? Five minutes? For an uncatlike
Creature who has gone wrong,
Five minutes on even the nicest mountain
Is awfully long.

After such unfortunate divorces following time spent separated, the remarriage of head and pillow had nearly consummated when a coinheaded robot’s shriek issued from the shadowed ceiling’s corner, its red eye winking familiarity and reassurance. Haxac freed himself from the ivy bedspread curled about his legs, rolling to the floor pushing against its shag solidity to raise himself like fish from ooze and scramble through the bedroom door to Tartarus’ dull glow. His lungs and eyes agreed in the caustic fog, obscuring the barren walls seething with comehithery knives aglow and tufts of luminous cochineal scrub, belching cauldronsmoke and consuming. Through the maze he stumbled towards the only exit, with his shoulder transmuting wall to blades ejecting him through cutting hail to the blazing deck over coals it seemed to surrender his mass to gravity, bringing his limp and smoking body down to shatter a plane of liquid glass glowing from within. Beneath the shimmering shower of shards of water he sunk back into the womb at precisely 80℉ sheltered from blazing heat by hazy placenta, the lesser of two evils. His eyes turned skyward and through the distorted lens of liquid he saw, above the settling ceiling the brushfire beast barely lapping the edge with its blindly searching tendrils. The deck caught too, it seems. Dry season. Maybe the lawn next. He couldn’t remain in this haven, the building pain in his bronchi was quick to remind. He kicked the rough wall above which he fakir floated, sending his pale form knifing up seamripping space until he crowned from a rippling gash, wasting no time to lunge grab and mount the endometrium wheeling over to his knees crawling then to his feet across the browned corpsegrass throwing his dripping porpoisebody as feet followed feet and he formed his one-pronged pincer attack on the inhuman bleating and abduction lights from around the corner in front of the dying manse, more a man creaking its death throes keeling over consumed in ire, its gutted face a black nucleus in the ragged waving mane now lionizing its demise. Between the ground’s bristling spines stalked the stockingsupporting archenemy, two dull blots of ink on a badly baked baguette, blind, looked deafly on its latest meal ablaze with sweet-syrupy oxymoronic apathy, caring that it didn’t care, continuing to crawl along unsuspect. Behind, the percussion of impacting leaves belied the quick escape of billowing black cloth, shades retreating jerrycanned into the bosom of their patron copse, to a moonlit grove of refuge ringed by handholding hardwoods, in which they cavorted and cried incantations every wednesday night, when their bosses let them out early.

>>6702853
A appreciate the close critique a lot, Anon. This is definitely a purple selection but it's a very small excerpt from a 35k word novel with a wide range of floridness depending on the situation. And I actually wrote this on the climax (or one of them) of an acid trip; this is really a description of a situation done first-hand by acid-me.

This selection is definitely not stand-alone nor close to it. In a way I do mock myself throughout the story, but I think the character has a lot more depth than is present in this sample.

Don't take me kinda dismissing your critique as an insult, though. Those are legitimate points, and the fact that I feel I've addressed these problems in the larger piece helps me realize exactly where the piece is.

I love that like three users actually critique on here, and they're quite active about it. Kudos.

>>6702950
No problem, I'm glad if any piece is useful to you.

>>6702563
Thanks for being a kind human amigo

>>6702989

He doesn't actually care about you, anon. He is a karmic gold-digger.

>>6700221
no
>>6700221
lol no
>>6701612
no
>>6702923
no
>>6700098
sorry anon, keep practicing

>>6703000
Flower dude you just rejected a section of Auden's Bucolics. Your taste is suspect.

I have seen you there, prostrate
on the ambivalent floor, hair spread out
across your shoulders like veins who cannot circulate
but instead loose your blood to fertilize the bedroom air.
You have broken your spine for that deity
who pieced us together from the breeze long ago--
is not not time that to stand up, swaying,
and claim for yourself that must you go?
There is a cruel distance, a mindless deceit,
which permeates your humble silence.
You are in service of those pale, bitter saints,
to reap that remedy which discolors their paints.

Your search for life is the only one which escapes this place;
it ascertains whether life be breath, or a grasping for grace.

>>6703018
I really dig when plebs embarrass themselves this way

>>6703000
>>6703018
>>6703068

>>6703018
auden's section is a no

radiance of a fire burning, scorch
scorching
rotten fiery torch
light a fire

Two men were looking at a house.
The house had three windows; two were darkened by night; light emerged from the other; it gleamed on the front-yard evergreen shrub. A distant modal jazz flagrance could be caught floating in the occasional gust of wind. Truly, the men were confortable under the night sky, standing on a small, healthy grass patch. No, it was rather their minds that felt uncomfortable, their overstimulated brains spinning furiously inside their masked heads.
As a matter of fact, these fellows had a plan, carefully concocted over the course of the last three weeks. Said plan involved hoods, knives, a locksmith and running shoes. The items had previously been acquired — therefore, it was time to proceed. Interrupting their ceremonious onlooking, the two figures approached the destination. It felt as if no one was around — as a matter of fact, no one was. Door opened with great care. Men entering said doorway. Look down: men not wearing shoes. Part of the plan; leaves their step silent as a turk. Ceramic feels cold on bare feet. Blurred sound of television from somewhere, left resounding elsewhere. Rapidly fading in the dark corridor corners.
Two men reached the bedroom door.
Two men’s stares met.
One’s eyesight was saying: “If we must go onwards, it is our destiny that we will never see the world in the same way again.
The other’s was quoting Socrates’ Apology: “If you had waited but a little while, this would have happened of its own accord. You see my age, that I am already advanced in years and close to death.”
The other’s eyes blinked in agreement: “This is the reason the first had to be elderly. It’s only rational.”
Their eyes had no telepathic connection and none of the four could quote Plato; but, for an attentive onlooker, this is what could have been glimpsed through them.
The door slid and the air stood still. The masons could be said to have greatly contributed on the execution of this plan (this thought passed through one of the two silhouettes’ mind: he mentally noted to send a thank you letter at the builders’ attention).
Like a pastoral yell from God, the old woman snored. A sign, a declaration, a holy decree. The eleventh commandment, immediately imprinted onto their inner, cancelling any and all justice. Acting up and crashing down, thunderous, a decrescendo of nasal sound waves pulsing, exciting. Murder could be justified in purgatorio, as it had been for hundreds of year by the Church. Surely God understands His own messengers’ work and witnesses Himself through it. The resounding, intermittent sights were the final justification for murder, proposed by the old woman herself.
The knives came out and the yelling began. The eye-rolling, sight-inducing, overacted yelling they had only heard in movies.
Two men were looking at their achieved work, smiling.

>>6703409
I've never been critiqued in all of the threads in which i participated. I critique people often. I'd appreciate if anyone had anything to say :) thanks guys!

I'm scared but okay here goes:

You fill yourself up with bits of meat until there isn't anymore. Glazed and bloated, you slump your head into your palm and stare at the empty plate. Your mind drifts back to the cat. What would Melanie think if she had tasted herself? She certainly wouldn't like the act. But past that, would she like the flavor? Of course she would. You are an excellent cook. How long could you harvest from her before she died?

Questions swirl in your head, like the fluff of spring flowers at first. But they build and they spin and they start to buzz. You thread your fingers into your hair and grasp your head with both hands, your eyes wide and deranged. Why are these wasps following you? One crawls up your ear and into your skull. You yell and slam your first onto the table, but the wasps don't hear you. You try to get control of yourself, you try to ignore them. You stumble to the mirror and talk to yourself. You watch as a wasp wiggles out from behind your eye. You grab him quickly and hold him by the wings, examining him. But the longer you hold him the louder he gets, until your eardrums are about to burst. You shove him in your mouth and crunch him up. It tastes terrible and bitter, but the buzzing has stopped. The buzzing has stopped! You smile at yourself in the mirror as you grind your teeth together, ripping him apart.

Finally you swallow. The whole world catches fire as a thousand tiny hooks fasten into your throat. Together they pull, ripping off chunks of meat. Your throat is clogging up with it's own meat and blood. You can't breathe! You choke and flail, but you don't make a sound. Everything is drowned out by the buzzing again. Louder than it ever was. Louder than you can stand. And it keeps going too! Louder, louder, louder! And hark! The angel comes to you! She snaps your head like flea! In a hurricane of red screaming fireballs she crushes your skull, splattering your eggs and innards.

>>6703409
I'm not any kind of writing wizard or anything so take this all with a grain of salt, but
>a distant modal jazz flagrance
what

and then everything else just kinda goes along those lines. Seems overly pretentious and tryhard.

>>6703122
you're a no

>>6703418
As a general rule, submit stuff shorter than this...it will be more likely to be looked at...but thanks for the line breaks. I will look at it.

>>6702997
Nah mate. Kama doesn't exist. I'm just doing what I'd like to happen to myself. Nobody else is going to.

>>6703489

>>6703409

Feedback is very similar to >>6702741

Purple prose bloats this passage. One or two sentences flow properly, and then it becomes painful to follow.

The passage focuses on a dramatic event. Good choice. But there are no stakes. We are never made to care for the criminals or worry for the victim.

Decide on your story and characters. Once you've done that, you'll have a sense for where an audience will care to hear flowery detail and where the audience needs character activity.

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PurpleProse

>>6703039
>but instead loose your blood to fertilize the bedroom air
>is not not time that to stand up, swaying
what?

Aside from that it's sort of okay. It's up and down for me. As in, a few lines I really like and a few are, like I said, 'what'

Disclaimer: I'm not trying to make it seem more like a stream of consciousness than a book.

I saw the girl again today. The one with the pretty blonde hair and blue eyes that always comes down to the bench in the park in the morning. She just sat there dressed as she always did with a smug expression on her face. She’s good looking and desired and she knows it, dressing in these tight dresses with leather boots as if silently screaming ‘notice me’. Subtle mockery like this pisses me off so much. Sometimes when I'm out and I see a pretty girl showing off her body in tight clothes, I just want to make her pay for making me feel like I do. I know it’s not her fault how weird I feel, but it is. I know that sounds crazy but bear with me here. She means to attract both the gods of the sky and the scum of the earth. She destroys the scum then runs back to the embrace of said gods. She likes to do this. Who is she to stir up these feelings knowing I will never have a chance with her? I hate these flamboyant cock-sucking sluts.
I hate her so much. She’s so perfect it hurts. Each time I see her I’m legitimately caught off guard by her beauty. It shouldn’t even be allowed for a girl to be this beautiful. I know I shouldn’t do this to myself, falling for a girl I’ll never be able to have, but I can’t help it.

>>6703537
I meant to put I AM trying to make it seem more like a stream of consciousness than a book.

I fucked up.

>>6703516
My prose tends to be a bit purple, I agree. Thanks for the tips.

>>6703498
Ok, will do. Thanks.

>>6703537
>I know it sounds crazy but bear with me here
I thought this was a stream of thought. I don't know why he would tell himself this.
>She means to attract both the gods of the sky and the scum of the earth. She destroys the scum then runs back to the embrace of said gods.
I hate all this, it's stupid get rid of it

That's as constructive as I can be sorry

>>6703543
This is similar to the two preceding prose posts, in that it's bad and longwinded.

If aspiring writers want feedback more detailed than 'oh, I see you have a totally adequate handle on grammar' they need to post passages that have some payoff. Even if it's an excerpt, it has to work as a unit.

This starts relatively strong, in that it gives me a few clear images. No vague 'eight sentences of mood-setting babble.'

Then it devolves into a single joke played over continuously. I get it; misogynists exist. You're supposed to take that premise and show me something interesting or at very least don't slide back into
>>I just want to make her pay
>>I hate those flamboyant cock-sucking sluts

cliché.

Oh and you need a comma after 'flamboyant', unless you intend to say something especially revealing.

Hope that's not too rough anon, you really do have solid spelling and grammar. If you're handling an ugly topic you need to be especially skillful.

>>6702741
I like it, it's clean and simple and descriptive. Not murky and heavy like most people here like to be.

>>6703620
Don't tease us two preceding posts, give us full reviews c:

>>6703620
Thanks for the critique anon. This is exactly the type of feedback I need.

>>6703656
Shit. meant to respond to >>6703626 not myself.

>>6703661
Wait, no I did respond to you. Ah, fuck me, I need sleep.

first two pages to a 20 page short story

just a heads up, my writing style is pretty simple sounding

http://pastebin.com/1HupGmnb

>>6703919

meh there's absolutely nothing to draw the interest, and the prose and dialog isn't good enough to carry it

you need to hook the reader's interest

your first paragraph is /shows potential/ but it doesn't mesh at all stylistically with the rest

>>6703537

vomit really

like this writing is so self-indulgent/navel-gazing/narcissistic that it's actually pointless

it had almost no value

>>6703467

meh some interesting imagery (and some very hamfisted imagery) but it's too scattered and xd randum to have any real meaning

also just don't use the second person (unless this is a prose poem, in which case it could actually be quite good, but you would need to work a lot more on the poetic nature of the work)

>>6703409

>Truly, the men
ehhhhh this sentence is very awkward

this is actually quite good

I would cut out the Plato, eleventh commandment, purgatorio, Church, God references in the last couple paragraphs

it comes out of nowhere

if you really want to explore the topics, there should be hints much earlier (e.g. one of the men fingering the silver cross on his neck)

the Socrates' Apology bit was quite good though, as a one-off

also don't listen to the other critiquers who are saying this is purple prose: it's not.

>>6702947
you need to use paragraphs

A women had seen
me and spoke
unusual, and done unusually
her pigment
had been misplaced on
key points on
her body, face,
forearm,

this was at the cafe
coffee had dribbled
from my mouth
onto my thigh,
before she spoke,

she points at the
spot on my
thigh, the
coffee was cold,
then pointed at her
forearm,
her face had worn
an expression of
warm connect

until I wiped the
coffee away

His father was a drinker
And his mother cried in bed
Folding John Wayne's t-shirts
When the swingset hit his head
The neighbors they adored him
For his humor and his conversation
Look underneath the house there
Find the few living things
Rotting fast in their sleep of the dead
Twenty-seven people, even more
They were boys, with their cars, summer jobs
Oh my God

Are you one of them?

He dressed up like a clown for them
With his face paint white and red
And on his best behavior
In a dark room on the bed he kissed them all
He'd kill ten thousand people
With a sleight of his hand
Running far, running fast to the dead
He took of all their clothes for them
He put a cloth on their lips
Quiet hands, quiet kiss
On the mouth

And in my best behavior
I am really just like him

Look beneath the floorboards
For the secrets I have hid

>>6704058
>>don't listen to the other critiquers who are saying this is purple prose: it's not.

>> were darkened by night
>>distant modal jazz flagrance could be caught
>>Truly, the men
>> items had previously been acquired — therefore, it was time to proceed.
>>television from somewhere, left resounding elsewhere
>>Two men reached the bedroom door.
Two men’s stares met.
>>a pastoral yell from God

>>purple prose

>>6704079
w-wait, where have i heard this before?

>>6704079


sick Acid Bath song bro

seriously though i enjoyed that

>>6704087

it does occasionally meet the mark but the imagery and metaphors used are, on the whole, fairly original and strong

>>6704079

>>6703467
>>6704058
Thank you so much, anon!

I think it would have read better and seemed less xd randum in context. But you know, didn't want to post too much and put people off from reviewing. I disagree on it being scattered, is there something specific that makes you say that? And I would love if you could point out what imagery seems hamfisted.

As far as you disliking second person, that's personal. Just because it's not popular doesn't mean don't do it.

>>6704058
Thanks anon. I'll work more on the prose/dialogue. The real conflict starts around page 3-4 so I'll have to hook the reader efficiently

>>6704105
>Tfw that's one of favourite paintings

>>6696959
Grammar error in sentence 3, my man. C'mon. It's "its".

>this letter appears in my story as something found by the main character, with no contecx given other than it was in a desk in a bombed-out military base

Brigadier Benjamin Simmons
4/9/36

Sir,
Having received the recent announcement that the ‘L.A.L.’ project be expanded I am compelled to write you personally to request that such expansion be postponed. I am aware of the breach in the chain of information and I take this very seriously but I must express the gravest of concerns over the ‘L.A.L.’ project as both a participant and a commander of participants for whom I bear responsibility.
I am not alone in my head anymore. I think, and my thoughts escape me into the manifold that demarcates my mind. An instant later my thoughts return - fully formed; perfect in their complexity and yet instantly understood; better than I could do with a hundred years of deliberation - just as intended. I can plan an operation in the blink of an eye. I can read, comprehend, and incorporate a new report into that plan before my colleagues have even finished the first page. I can do things others wouldn’t believe if they had not seen me do them. I understand what Lieutenant-Colonel Howard told me at the outset of the project: that I, and the other Officers who participated, will be the next evolution of warfighting. I am not concerned about the efficacy of the manifold in this context. I have no doubt that it confers a significant increase in effectiveness if even one Officer in a unit carries a manifold. The rollout may even be fast-tracked and expanded to include Lieutenants and senior NCOs if the Lieutenant-Colonel who heads procurements can be believed. He has high hopes.
It is when I am off the battlefield - or the training ground, to be precise - that I become concerned. In theory the manifold can be shut down but I am not assigned to the test group which is studying the effects of that. I understand that the outcome of those tests has been contrary to expectations. I have not disabled my manifold or attempted to do so because it would be damaging to the integrity of the trial but I have the serious concerns about whether such an action is even within my power. Recently I have begun to experience intense revulsion at the consideration of such an idea, similar I imagine as to what an ordinary man might feel at the prospect of committing suicide in a particularly undesirable way, and I cannot identify any specific origin for these feelings. Furthermore, my sleep has become disturbed by strange and alien dreams that often wake me outright or leave me particularly unrested. When I am relaxed I am struck by a sudden feeling. It is not unpleasant, but further than that I cannot describe it. I have further concerns that these phenomenon are not a product of my own mind. I have recorded all instances of this and other phenomenon under my own initiative and copies of these records can be posted upon your application.

>one of two

>>6704627
I have applied to Dr Rasmussen, who is my appointed psychologist, for additional sessions, but he has been at AAF Tindall for the past two weeks in support of returning soldiers from West Papua, and Dr MacCready remains in recovery in the infirmary. Thus I am compelled to apply to Dr Lucas who is a capable professional but understandably busy. Consequently I am motivated also to write you Sir, in the hopes that additional psychiatric support can be allocated to this post for the duration of Dr Rasmussen’s absence.
All of the above being the case, I must directly report you that I am as of yet unsatisfied with the safety of issuing a manifold to an Officer or any other rank. I am aware that as a participant and not an overseer of the trial the final decision is not mine, but I am again concerned that in light of such positive early results some concerns are not being raised - this I have also written a report on which I can provide you. I am happy to discuss this further by telephone or in person; please contact me through the usual channels. It is my sincere belief that manifold technology holds great potential for driving the evolution of on- and off-battlefield effectiveness, but I believe due consideration is not being given to what else may be evolving alongside it.

Your servant,
Captain Matthew K Amos
1st/16th Horse Lancers Division
Australian Armoured Corps

>two of two

>main concerns: does it flow naturally. does it sound too formal (bear in mind that a brigadier is vastly superior to a captain). does it sound purple-prosey. does it sound too poetic for a letter.

>i know it sounds a little "poetic" because a dry report is too boring to include in full and skipping over it misses the nuance, but it does also have to sound like a mundane letter to a senior officer

>>6704627
>have the serious concerns
Omit 'the'.

>>6704158

>As far as you disliking second person, that's personal. Just because it's not popular doesn't mean don't do it.

well, yes, almost all criticism is subjective, but using the second person is almost always a bad idea because of how difficult it is to do well and how easy it can ruin a work....

>>6698676
bumping my two paragraphs
any comments will be very much appreciated

>>6702664
I didn't understand a lick of this, but I still had fun reading.

>>6699984
Somwhere between

>Michael is a priest.
>Michael dies of testicular cancer.
>Michael was a saint.

and

>We will become our best selves.

it goes off the rails, and I can't tell you how, exactly. The unit of transformation the last line explicates is substantive, and will support the poem this becomes, as poetic. Which is to say, worthy of verse.

I am trying to drill into my sense of not-quite-there-ed-ness, and all I can come up with is I am put off by how on-the-nose is

>The last human is nameless.
>The last human dies of asphyxiation.
>The last human was snake-food.

>We are alive.
>We will die.

These five lines I feel confident enough to identify as the opportunity to remove and revise. I want you to evoke an image of such apocalyptic despair and simplicity as to rupture my solar plexus. Then give me:

>We will become our best selves.

...which must remain exactly what and where it is.

>>6696848
>"olhava para o céu"
>não havia céu

Seriously?

>>6705258
>Just because it's not popular doesn't mean don't do it.
>Just because it's not popular doesn't mean don't do it.
>Just because it's not popular doesn't mean don't do it.
>Just because it's not popular doesn't mean don't do it.

>>6705258
wowow that is dificult. lets not evn do tht ok. how abt just nobuddy does anyhing different and we all write harry potter fanfics instead

>>6706007

Thanks man.

And just to be clear, you didn't like the last human lines, despite being 'on-the-nose'?

First paragraph to a story I'm writing, trying out a completely different style than usual (just finished a lot of nabokov books, maybe that's why.) Thoughts?

I wasn’t saved by Alban Berg (a century-old composer who aged like an apple: crisp but tart as a young man, who dropped and bruised himself, wrote the opera Wozzeck, died young -- how he garbaged those sonorities of Wozzeck down our gullets, god bless our ears! He was born sometime in those 1880s before the world hit color. Entertainingly inferior to his peer, Webern) and his inimical sonata, which flayed my fingers to velcro and tendons. I remained a mediocre composer, player, etc. despite my unending scholarship towards his works. But here I am! -- somnambulist, pianist, svelte and smoother of Berg’s bumps. Those bumps I’ve gorged in the musk of my office, and only in my office, coupled with nice glasses of tea and occasional hors. No piano in the room I’m afraid! Berg is studied, not played, and for good reason: the trichotillomania on page consumes me, stimulates me in terrible ways, makes me tear out my hair. I cannot play the sonata; that is, with the intended grace. But I certainly know Berg’s labyrinths, understand his pains in life: the latter are spelled out in the former, and printed in bars and stripes on paper.

>>6706921
I did not like them because on the nose. I like the direction. I like the idea of projecting all the way forward. I like the encapsulation of all and everything. But I want, and here we detach into example, which is to say, the non-specific intangible of association, I want Wilson the Volleyball, I want Burgess Meredith's broken glasses, I want Jason Robard's bald head after the nuclear holocaust. I want Phillip Dacey's bloody fudgesicles or Shelley's heart, plucked from the ashes by Trelawney on the beach, the ashes still hot, the tendrils of smoke still rancid.

There is something concrete, quirky, idiosyncratic, even idiodialectic that can be done in that amount of space which airlifts the whole piece into wow territory. I just can't say what it is for you.

>>6707147
Needs a little more polish; read it out loud.

>>6707147
> garbaged those Sonorities of Wozzeck down our gullets
>flayed my fingers to velcro and tendons
>somnambulist, pianist, svelte and smoother of Berg’s bumps.
>the trichotillomania on page consumes me

WHEN WILL YOU PEOPLE GET THAT EVEN THE GREATEST WRITERS DON'T USE THIS MUCH OVER-THE-TOP LANGUAGE AND EXPRESSION.

Half the posts in this thread need to tone it the fuck down

Any and all comments appreciated. Last week my writing was critiqued as tinny, and having no rhythm, so I tried to work on making it a bit more interesting to read. Thank you!


There was a thick fog above the frothy, frozen waters of Bogle Bay on that early winter morning. The wet sea had crept under my bedsheets and into my toes when I awoke. What had been in my dreams left me uneasy and I felt I could sleep no longer. Three weeks out from my home of Milford. The bustle of the rural township began before sunrise. I lit a nightstand candle to the smells and chatter of an early breakfast.

Outside the misted porthole window, in the docks just past Bay Street, large men in beards and high-necked brown sweaters smoked while younger, patchy-faced whelps scurried about the ships like spiders. Standing above them all on a pile of wooden crates menaced the wharfinger, who bellowed at the younger looking men, spurring them to action. The captains formed tight circles with the embers tobacco pipes reddening their cheeks, likely speaking the good - or bad - news of their daily hauls.

I lit a bowl of tobacco for myself and wrote a few lines in my notebook, but stopped shortly. The night before I had spent at least half of a candle wrestling with my words, but it was no good. So far I had yielded nothing from my supposed writer's sabbatical. I couldn’t work, and it seemed that each time I sat to start my mind turned to milk.

There was a sudden pounding on my door as I stood to dress.

“Ho, Chuck! Do you plan to sleep all morning?” The voice belonged to Philip, my dear friend and classmate. He barked his laugh, which made him sound like a seal. It was perhaps the one thing of his entire character that did not endear him to our classmates. “The boatman leaves at nine, with or without us!”

I begrudged his mood but smiled despite myself. "That's right, Phil. I'll mind the inn, you go have fun, now."

I finished dressing and strode into the hall sporting my new fisherman’s pullover, purchased just for the occasion of our fishing trip. Wearing it, I felt proud and beautiful. The wool was rough against my neck and the fabric weighed heavy upon my shoulders. Coils swirled into a Celtic design upon the breast, one which belonged to my family name - or so I had been told. I wasn’t so certain of this part, but it was a nice touch which helped me swallow the price. When I wore it I imagined I struck a noble figure and would look quite manly sailing across the foam-green with my pen and paper and pipe.

Over a modest breakfast of tea and fresh biscuits we decided our loose agenda for the day. First it was agreed upon that we explore the town. Philip insisted, in his fashion, that I should have no misconceptions that this part of the day was purely reserved for trying to find where the local and eligible fisherman's daughters spend their time. ...