/lit/ - Literature

>>7235869
These always turn into a clusterfuck at one point or another.

> It is important in life to accept that what has meaning to one's self has little meaning to anyone else.

Good, because that whole excerpt is meaningless.

Hey /lit/ is this sentance any good:?

"I was there, and I looked at her and I felt like I was her and she was me, mine and my, mine. I loved her, and her she me the mine I me mine my I felt feel adamant and superfluous and I my your eyes rarely scan printed trees fucking admit it lit. Maybe pictorial accompaniments will enhance its qualité?"

>>7235893
Fucking shit dude, did you just type a few words and let your phone write the rest for you by automatic suggestions?

>>7235893
kot

>>7235893
I thought the first sentence was very good, but past that it's unreadable. It's too unlike regular speech/writing to be understandable even as a concept.

>>7235893
this is a joke and the little accent over the "e" is the punchline

Tokyo drift
/lit/

Kek

>>7235884
It's definitely meaningless. I'm trying to write in a comfy style. Paint pictures, not plot

>>7235911
*tips sherlocka*

What are some good surnames for a female character whose first name is either Kirsten, Evelyn or Brooke?
When writing stories I get extremely hung up on names, I can't just have them sound passable or even realistic, they need to sound good in the context of their full name.

OP, it didn't really interest me at all honestly. Not horrible writing but not intriguing in any way.

> [apartment building]

This is an interesting device and I wish this excerpt involved it a bit more. Some would consider it gimmicky but if you can have that play into a story it wouldn't be bad.

Overall, what I'm getting from this is that you enjoy writing exposition, and that's fine, but you honestly need to be a much better writer to get by on exposition alone. For now I think you need a more compelling story and characters.

>>7235893
10/10

Okay, here's the first couple pages of the first draft of a story I wrote recently. If a few people can give me good critiques I'll return the favor. If you think it's shit and can tell me why that's fantastic.

>http://pastebin.com/yBEEBDVW

>>7235923
Those names all sound like white college seniors who pretend their tinder profiles aren't just for hooking up. Good surnames are Jones, Anderson, Lee, Hall...

>>7235923
Names are literally one of the least important things friend. That said

>Kirsten Mary-Johnston
>Evelyn Margaret
>Brooke Schneider

Of course I have no idea who these characters are or anything about your story so this means nothing

>>7235931
>>http://pastebin.com/yBEEBDVW
bad phrases:
"found it's enthusiastic father"
"Well I'm Jack"
"shook the rice out of his beard",
"fuckin"

otherwise the dialogue is pretty good. afaik vultures don't really land on church steeples in the middle of a city.

>>7235955
Thanks, you pulled out some lines I was worried about, the "enthusiastic father" one in particular.

As for vultures, see my pic related, was in the city in question

>>7235955
>>7235969

Oh, and what's wrong with "fuckin"? I know overused that sort of thing can sound silly, but it is how a lot of people talk.

>>7235893
>your eyes rarely scan printed trees fucking admit it lit.
Yes, Anon. I admit I do not scan printed trees.

>>7235971
This made me think a bit. I originally thought fucking would have sounded better, but all it really needs is a fuckin' apostrophe. It'll look better because it fits the correct grammar of the rest of the passage

http://pastebin.com/CNUQEiss

Posted a bunch of critiques in the last thread but only got one semi-decent comment on my work. My professor says after a little polishing up I should submit this story to some competitions.

Here are the notes I have down already:

It’s slightly confusing who is who in the beginning; clarify between the boy, the man, and the narrator. Change “ammo-carrier” to something that makes more sense. Start with “the boy” instead of switching between “a” and “the.”

Switching from an interior point of view to an
exterior point of view needs to be more fluid. Clean up your subjects.

Need to clarify the sequence of injuries.

Make the two time frames linear.

1) Take the cannonball scene and put that in the beginning or 2) make the writing more clear to clarify when the cannonball scene took place

Tap in to the boy’s feelings more; really play more on the fear part and describe his other emotions. Describe the injustice that the boy feel being sent to die and fight someone else’s war.

The voice shift when describing the minnie is good but weird because it is the only time that happens; maybe do it again.

She didn’t believe that 17 year olds were that young.

Clear up on prononouns; make it more clear who you’re referring to.

>>7236080
>The Union flag flapped, slapping

dropped

>>7236083

I've changed that line since my first draft. Can you provide some notes, regardless of how scathing they may be?

or are you too consumed with trying to sound superior to anonymous strangers on an online Mongolian nail painting forum?

>>7236080
The descriptions of certain people in this are strange. The man from Michigan doesn't need to have a bulbous head, the nurse doesn't need to have a large mole. It just distracts. Also, use fewer hyphens, and cut it down a bit. You go over each idea a bit much. But it is really good, and I can see it winning competitions if you take a step away and then come back to it.

>>7236107
Don't be an ass, just laugh along with him. If he doesn't want to critique in depth, he's not going to.

How's my style?

The sibilant swish of his trousers followed him through the hall, into the kitchen, where a small light painted shadows with its sodium glow and the faint scent of coffee hung in the air, resurging as it poured to pot like liquid earth. After transference, he lifted it, more by reflex than conscious thought, to his mouth. Warmth in the throat, through the mug and in the stomach, residue in the cusp of his upper lip, another lap, the taste reaching maturity, unfolding, blooming across eager buds to spark up the whole tongue. A wipe of the mouth and then the hands, a quick sip of orange juice--his morning routine was finished: move to commute.
The wind blew through twisted boughs, outstretched like arms--fingers still sprouting. Worms did the shrink-n-stretch across the sidewalk, some under his shoes, sticking to their bottoms as he followed the yellow novas that burned through the mist. Stronger wind: dead leaves skittered. He walked further into the unknown, staring into it--unsure if it stared back.

>>7235937
>>7235943
These sound a bit generic, I like Mary-Johnston but that one seems too eccentric

The green of the course was suffused with gold peering through the clouds as tiny men swung their metal clubs that whistled through the air before meeting tiny ivory spheres that rested in the grass, filling them with their energy, propelling them into glorious flight.

>>7236197
Really nice and very fun.

>>7236197
I think it's a little pretentious

>>7235869
Two steps , that's all he needed today. Just enough to get over the sill, past the doorjamb, push on the mutin, grasp the nob,twist with sweaty fist until the shank engaged the lock button, causing the latch to slide within its assembly and to swing the door open just enough to allow his hand to slide into the mail box , desperately rooting for paper, panicking at the thought that it could be that eviction notice Charlie Frissell had claimed to issue last week at the tenant union's meeting. It had been made in proximity to facetious jibes, but the way Charlie had lifted the water to the corner of his mouth (a way that seemed to be a deliberate change of the physical tone of the preceding conversation, a deliberate method that seemed to be the equivalent of the Nazi boycott in 1936, a calculated maneuver into seriousness).
It was only two steps.
One.
Two.
The knob was in hand. The push was made. Now, the rooting: oblong rectangle, no plastic window (possible letter from mom)– oh no. The next folder was unmistakeably, always going to be manilla.
–This is it, this is the end of me, homeless, listless, directionless beyond a gradual tilt toward bottom.
Jonathan's arm retracted back into his hole, a spider having grasped prey too large.
–Oh Charlie, I should never have made that joke. Nazi, German. It was the blue eyes! The Blonde Complexion! Sleeping with the land lord. Penis in leathery flesh. I need to vomit, where's the toilet.... why is this black?– Jonathan's eyes stilled; the springs stopped.
It was dark. The envelope was a hole, nothing could escape its pull. His attention, layer by layer, was being drawn to this fuligin envelope. It took all his energy to flip it over– checking for a return address. He found one, printed in an auric shade of white.
4902 West Horselover Ave
Apt 1138
His address.
All was silent. His chattering mind reduced a few ellipsis, as if searching for lost time. He glanced up, expecting his vision to be cut away to Rod Serling, or even the first few bars of the X-files opening. None came, and Jonathan Leslie Stevens felt just that– a name alone.

OP again - is this character interesting enough to make a story out of?

http://pastebin.com/uHhjKVD4

>>7236184
Well, it sounds good. Nothing about it grabbed me besides that. I might be the wrong reader for this (considering this is me >>7236299
).
I appreciate the unity of sounds and adjectives you evoke, and the contrasting imagery of awakenings with the tiring world, but this wouldn't work as an opening,

>>7236080
This is like Tobias Wolff's Bullet to The Brian without the layered themes and a more Victorian style. Nothing else to add.

>>7236328

Someone told me the exact same thing today actually (the Tobias Wolff part)

>>7236345
http://pov.imv.au.dk/Issue_27/section_1/artc2A.html

>>7236197
>>7236266

Definitely pretentious. Not necessarily bad but you better be able to write a good story if you're going to write like that

>>7236310
Thanks for the feedback. And it isn't the opening, thankfully.

I've never shared anything before. I'm terrified.

Rachel and Ali sat with Edgar commenting on Rachel tongue being stained blue by a fifty cent lollipop. 'It's like a smurf came in my mouth'. Squinting her eyes, drooping her tongue out and shaking her head, teasingly looking at Edgar. He was simultaneously repulsed and attracted to the comment on smurf cum. At the self awareness Rachel showed that she would, as a girl, swallow cum. It made him angry at her acceptance and want to have a Cock in her mouth. Her, along with all other girls no matter how demure or oblivious; they all accepted the thought of swallowing a load. Any load without anyone in mind. Repulsed by the pathetic will to please, and how unhelpful they are towards themselves yet so self congratulatory. This memory stuck with Edgar even after he started Fucking Rachel in the form of a relationship a few years later, after she had swallowed his cum hundreds of times and how he wanted her to. And it stuck with him when it came to his perception of women, and all other relationships after.

>>7236602
don't write about smurf cum man what is this shit I'm going to bed

Marston crossed the border by the northernmost railroad and a superstitious paranoid dread filled him. He whipped his pistol out and pulled hard on the reigns, pushing down and away on the [shit the feet go into] while pressing the gun on the horse's head; staring savagely at the thing, daring it not to obey. Before the horse came to a stop his head was snapping around to take in his surroundings, beads of sweat forming on the back of his neck and forehead, still holding the gun to the horse's head; the tension in his muscles causing syringe scabs to pop from his arm, blood trickling down to his wrist.
>Nothing
Eyes still darting, scanning his surroundings - without thinking he put his bloodied wrist to his forehead and glanced at the sun, telling a prayer to himself
>Nothing
He begin to move his horse around slowly, head moving back and forth quickly; he was not a fool.
He heard the sound of a man approaching - his gun hand and face simultaneously snapping in the direction. A gunshot fired in his mind as soon as he caught sight of the man, a mexican
"WHO ARE YOU AND WHO SENT YOU!"
"Oy Amigo, I need a ride into town!"
"THERE'S NO ROADS HERE WHAT ARE YOU DO-"
He realized the mexican was running toward him, getting close
"STO-"
The word caught in his throat. The mexan ran up to him, frozen with terror as the man grabbed his clothes and yanked him from his mount. He closed his eyes and felt warm piss on thigh as he landed on the floor - fist clenched and gun still in hand.
He heard the mexican mount his horse and begin to ride away. He pat around his bellu as heMarston crossed the border by the northernmost railroad and a superstitious dread filled him. He whipped his pistol out and pulled hard on the reigns, pushing down and away on the [shit the feet go into] while pressing the gun on the horse's head; staring savagely at the thing, daring it not to obey. Before the horse came to a stop his head was snapping around to take in his surrounding, beads of sweat forming on the back of his neck and forehead, still holding the gun at his horse's in his head; the tension in his muscles causing syringe scabs to pop, blood trickling down his wrist.
>Nothing
Eyes still darting, scanning his surroundings he put his bloodied wrist to his forehead and glanced at the sun saying a prayer to himself
>Nothing
He begin to move his horse around slowly, head moving back and forth quickly; he was not a fool.

>>7236702
He heard the sound of a man approaching - his gun hand and face simultaneously snapping in the direction. A gunshot fired in his mind as soon as he caught sight of the man, a mexican
"WHO ARE YOU AND WHO SENT YOU!"
"Oy Amigo, I need a ride into town!"
The mexican was running toward him, getting close
"STO-"
The word caught in his throat. The mexan ran up to him, frozen with terror as the man grabbed his clothes and yanked him from his mount. He closed his eyes and felt warm piss on thigh as he landed on the floor - fist clenched and gun still in hand.
He heard the mexican mount his horse and begin to ride away. He pat around his belly as he realized his soul had not been taken from him and whistled for the horse; it bucked the Mexican off.
Marston had a grin on his face and murder on his tongue as he rose. He began to walk toward the Mexican, watching him.. watching -it scramble to collect itself. He spin the pistol in his hand as it searched for its own gun - it found what it was looking for and he stopped in mid track and shot the metal from its hand. 3 yards away. He sprinted to it, shooting his knee out and feeling its jaw break from the force. It slumped on its back and he stomped,-aiming just past its face; stirrup
realized his soul had not been taken from him and whistled for the horse; it bucked the Mexican off.
Marston had a grin on his face and murder on his tongue as he rose. He began to walk toward the Mexican, watching him.. watching -it scramble to collect itself. He spin the pistol in his hand as it searched for its own gun - it found what it was looking for and he stopped in mid track and shot the metal from its hand. 3 yards away. He sprinted to it, shooting his knee out and feeling its jaw break from the force. It slumped on its back and he stomped,-aiming just past its face; spur cutting into its neck. It held the wound and looked in terror without realizing the wound was not fatal. He stomped into its face, breaking the nose.
"OYYY!"
He hogtied the thing and put it on the back of his mount, riding off while holding his pistol to its head
"Ye fall off ahma shootchye"
He rode to the river and dumped the hogtied Mexican in it; ensuring himself safe passage this side of the border

t1d1.tumblr.com

>>7236730
My phone fucked that up a little but
Imersion kill

>>7236698
my fuggin sides

Complain that the last thread was shit: new one is hilariously shitty. Kek XD le sides lololol 4chan!

>>7236773
Yeah I give up its pretty hopeless

>>7236773
I wrote a Red Dead Redemption fanfic just for this thread I think that exempts me from needing to critique

>>7236080
This is just overal fucking retarded; there's an autistic air when most people try to write
You obviously suffer from overwriting but beyond that the story you chose is just fucking gay

To be constructive: why does everything feel so detatched from reality. Instead of 'they all ran past and not one looked back...the boy could not make a sound' go in depth on something. Did the boy think they were coming to save him at first? Did he try to be saved? Did one of them notice him, look at the [lead soldier] and do ultimately do nothing due to some herd-standby mentality?

The lack of humanism in the characters, to me at least, pushes the humanism to the narrator - it's like I'm reading some 96 iq gay man narrate

>>7236773
Now critique me

bmp

I'm stuck at a line. I'm trying to describe this character as a blatant pervert who jerks off so much that, to him, there's no reason to even care about trying to hide his sex life anymore. The story's basically about him ultimately realizing that even after jerking off so much, physical stimulation among other things are material and pass in mere moments, it gets kinda crazy and existential and shit but whatever-

"I'm not particularly reserved when it comes down to talking about the intimate relationships I ____ with my hand and my porn collection."

What word can I fill the blank with? "Have" is too simple and boring to me. What can I use in place of "porn collection?" Is "relationships" in plural proper in this setting or should I use it in singular to describe the character's hand and collection as one entity? Do you guys have any suggestions for rewording any other parts to it? This is only the framework for this sentence, but it's kind of an important one to me so I wanted to take extra care with it.

>>7235869
Why not. Wrote this a couple of days ago. Please defile me and set my entrails to the birds.

>>7238616
Let me try "I'm not particularly reserved when it comes down to talking about the intimate relationships I collect with my hand and my porn stained hard drive."

bamp

>>7238616
Maintain, cultivate, enjoy

I have a few weeks to be able to get the first time and the best for the next year and the time for your time for a little while the next to be able to be in the first of the first.

As being considered doing exactly for getting home I just know lance me now on post quick reply since the update via wire XML, your Zhang

>>7235869
Don't shit on Tokyo Drift, mate.
I swear to god I'll beat your fuckin face to ugly.
BEST
FAST
AND
FURIOUS

Haven't touched this story for a while. Want to get back to it tonight.

The thing's tendons snapped and stressed as it pulled a thousand tonnes of muscle and bones through the city before it. The caustic green of the things skin burned my eyes. A scream erupted from bellow my home's balcony. Miss Aziz was losing her mind. I couldn't blame her. The thing was huge.
The thing continued its noisy motion throughout my city as a reseeded into my home. Breaking news was coming in on my television detailing the approximated circumstances of the ongoing tragedy. I was tempted to sit and watch as I would with any other national tragedy, but the thing stomping about not five blocks from my home made the news feel a bit too secondhand compared to what information I could gain by just looking at the thing.
My neighbor was running past my door as I left my home. He was Benjy, a kind of pudgy guy who thought of himself as a survivalist. He trudged through the hallway, his stuffed backpack slapping against himself as he went.
“Hey there, Benjy.”
“No Benjy here friendo. Can call me King Siap. New world calls for a new name.”
“New world?”
“Yup. Monster down the road told us what we already know. America isn't gonna be around much longer. Someone's gotta rebuild. Might as well be me.”
“Huh. You wanna like, stick together through this? Strength in numbers?”
“Absolutely. Gotta start my court with someone. May take a while to find new members though. We'll be like A Boy and His Dog for a while.”
“Okay.”
“Lucky I found you, friendo. You would-” Benjy was cut off by something horribly loud screaming from very far away. It hurt my head. Benjy fell to the floor as a great rumble shook through our buildings foundation. The Thing was getting closer.

—Vrrom Vrom, Joyce said, I dirft und I draft and Nora fart's on me cock, boyo!

>>7240173
>>7240189
You're a jackass.

>>7240722
*your

>>7240806
*ur

Been thinking abt the premise for a sci-fi short story, I'll get it on paper eventually, I just need to get it more together and honestly it's fun to think abt, possibly evolving to a novella, then may e a novel, like NYT bestseller, probably at least, I hope, he thought hopefully.

...but I'm afraid it's been done before and I don't want to be a hack... such a thought never occurs to young Brian.

Let's have a look at what he IS thinking (he's still going on):

... and and w/o going too far into the plot, the premise of the text is to analyze the growth of humanity from the primitive stages to the space era by using an extrasolar (I'll explain to Mom what that means) human colony and and I also aim to juxtapose these comparisons with the the the human mind through the main character, (me, basically) a human colonist with little knowledge and has to repopulate humanity and when I post this later on reddit and lit I'll put a semicolon right abt here; as well as with the workings of government, portrayed by a military satellite that orbits the colonial planet as like a commentary on how things are here on Earth now but like taken further for maybe like to highlight all the hypocrisy or w/e the word is... Hegemony?

And and as an additional metaphor, and and something of a callback to the like retro sci-fi the likes of Heinlein and Steakley, the story will be framed in the life cycle of an insect, with the final stage (typically the wing-bearing stage) coinciding with the main character's venturing off of his home planet. I just got to develop it a little more in my head. I think that's enough to post but just in case...

And so Baby Boy Brian McGillicuddy adds a too long didn't read tag to his too long post:

So tl;dr sci-fi story about a boy on a colony planet being overseen by the government acts as a juxtaposition of human progress, our minds and our constructs, within the frame of an insect life cycle.

Would anyone read this?

No.

Waiting to grab up some more retro sci-fi before drafting to make sure I'm not treading old ground.

Just fucking do it or it will never happen.

The real life stand-in for Brian (who is whose stand in? Hehe!) considers the previous sentence and realizes it's probably true. He pushes away from his desk, the laptop's light fades from his face, and heads for the john AKA the crapper, but for a piss and a few thoughts, another go around on the short story idea, how to fit the insect cycle into a few pages guess that's for the novel huh well... And so right when Brian's stand-in goes to flush the toilet AKA the head, to purge it of his musty wee wee pee pee, he notices the face looking back at him: that ain't me! The face in the toilet water is Simpson's yellow and crawling w/flies and both Brian's stand-in and his Simpsonesque counterpart collapse into each other, eyes rolling up, the impact making—

>>7241246
Brian's stand in's parents wince awake seemingly tied somehow to the hard wet sound of their son's head smacking into a pube ringed college toilet. Is he even in college, we don't know! so let's open up an alternate timeline where he's in his parent's home, see, he's not yet a butterfly free to drop fake acid or be in the library or w/e plus now: sci-fi! And Mom whispers to Dad "go check on him" and Dadoo groans and flipflutters the covers off and walks down the corridor to the bathroom between yr rooms—or they lay awake and yr in college: Honey? You awake?

Either way yr out, dude. Yr body slides back and out and back o the head to tile w/a click o th teeth—awake but which timeline? Brian—no longer a stand in—grunting, gets up and in the mirror is a Milhouse Van Houten looking motherfucker. Wha?

Suddenly the door splinters KA-CRkkkk and a gaggle of giant scorpo-mantises with suits and big ass LASER guns funnel into the room—wha? Oh ho ho the acid was real was it? Where am I yr thinking—Mom? Dad? And Dadoo's cradling yr unconscious body shouting BARBARA and the nightlight lit bathroom smells like urine and yr Daddy's heart is pounding like a bathroom door abt to be kicked in by scorpo-mantises: Brian McGillicuddy, yr under arrest for probable science fiction plagiarism! Two SMs having LASER cuffed ye, their leader shoots a LASER portal into yr hallway wall, making an intergalactic unfunny wordplay word I'm not going to type.

Jim! Yr Mom panting gets to the door frame and yr Da-da's head curves around flat eyed to yr Mom and she sees the body. A mannequin. A crash test dummy. Dad freaks out and drops it like a load of bowling pins and backs to the door, yr ma grabbing his arms, scared and confused...

Turns out trans-dimensional travel isn't yr thing and after a split second of body shivers ye vomit all over the new place's floor, ye haven't even seen it yet, let me describe it:

>>7241251
Art Deco is the word ye'd use but yr a sci-fi enthusiast and don't know it so steampunk occurs to ye maybe, w/e ye'll work on it—big intricate arches glass instead if gold, shit, fuck, the mantis ppl are pretty rough—they're dragging ye, feet scrambling to speed walk w/em... Their leader marching in front turns his head to ye, big red composite eyes, yr horrified face reflected back at a thousand different angles. The mantis thing shakes his head at ye. Through the panic haze ye remember... drugs... datura? acid? what was it? Wha?

YOUR MEMORY HAS BEEN ERASED, the lead mantis scorpion announces. All plagiarism suspects have their organic dynamo memory drives erased until an outcome has been decided by:

beep......beep......beep......wha? Someone's hand is on yr arm... Are ye in a hospital bed? What the? Mom?

>>7241261
>dfw you listened to criticism from this guy

I want a fukken refund bucko

r8 my prose:

"I have been in touch with the following link from another website and its attachments, and the family, and a few days ago. I think I am not sure how much you want me to do with the best, and a few days ago. I think I have to do it for the first place, and a few days ago. I think I have to do it for the first place, the first to see you again for the use the same. I have to do it for the first place, and a few days ago. I think I have to do it for the first place, and a few days ago. I think I have to do so by the way to go on to you by your doctor if they are in the next few months ago by the way. We are a few weeks. The list below. The comments for your help. We will not have a great time. Gas the Jews."

It's a stream of consciousness thing.

>>7241290
>tapping the autosuggestions/10

>>7241295
It's autoliterature. You wouldn't get it.

>>7241281
>magic-soldier-boy/10

>>7241246
It's fun, I won't deny you that, but I can't see myself reading this anywhere but 4chan.

>>7241290
Awful.

I watched the finals of a fighting game tournament last night. It was cold in my room, since the heating hadn’t gone on yet. The stream was pretty bad: the resolution was maybe a quarter that of the game itself, and the sound and image took turns cutting out. I never had a TV, but I yearned for one right then. Not as if the match would be on TV, but whatever was on would be far more watchable right then.

After forty minutes of back-and-forth matches, souda fell to Hiro, his pink-haired, sword-armed avatar falling prey to Hiro’s slender Russian spy once and for all. The camera cut immediately to the real world, waiting not even a millisecond: maybe the cameramen were counting frames, just like the players. The image slowly zoomed out as Hiro got up, leapt from his seat as if a second more in it would have caused him physical pain, and ran to be congratulated by his friends, all slightly pudgy Japanese guys in their mid-thirties. Then, after a full minute of just Hiro, souda came into view, still in that seat, head at an acute angle to the table.

Was souda crying? Silly question: of course he was. I didn’t have to see his face to tell: neither did the cameramen, which is why they stayed safely behind it. Which loss was it that really set him off?

How much could one man be expected to sacrifice for a pink-haired cartoon girl with swords for arms?

On a banner, above the where both contestants had sat, but where only souda now remained:
ARENACADE2013: E-SPORTS ARE A LEGITIMATE BUSINESS.

Perhaps Hiro should have been crying too—or perhaps he really was, his tantrum more explosive than souda’s corner-stage implosion, his tears hidden by the stream’s third-world TV quality.

Maybe everyone in the room was crying for Hiro and souda.

Right then, to cry for souda was to cry for both contestants, and to cry for either contestant, provided that you knew who they were, was to cry for yourself.


I went to sleep shortly afterwards. I didn’t have to see the matches’ analyses. I’d never played that game, and most likely never would.

>>7241281
>not listening to yr guy

Learn from this man, he's insane.

>>7241261
opinions on the hypersphere anon?

>>7236080
I liked your shit man, only read the opening paragraph because I'm in a rush.

Don't listen to most of the people here.

>>7241290
Work on redundancies.
Lot of fucking shlock.

>>7241885
Boring.

yo what up guys i wrote something

http://pastebin.com/pKVa1H4H

>>7236299
tfw no critique

The Cyclicality of Dialectic

Behold! a Thought in all its majesty:

It walks alone throughout my waking Mind.

But soon Thought comes to dreadful Tragedy,

By which Thought’s Contradiction Thought may find.

Negation is the Sin of this foul kind!

Does Reason’s thoughtful Objects’ union break?

Though Spirit sews these fragment Thoughts entwined,

And new Thought Spirit’s powers work to make,

Soon Thought’s rent again separate by Negation’s quake.

>>7241246
>>7241251
>>7241261
youtu.be/f31m5-5-xUY?t=3s

>>7242052
Interesting.

>>7240722
rude

>>7242121
thanks anon

>>7242128
no u

>>7242052
Hey, this has cool.

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

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

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

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

rate mine:

[Enter WHORATIO and MARCELLULITE]
WHORATIO #friends 2 dis ground.
MARCELLULITE #And leegmen to the Dane. Kek
FRAN-CIS lol - Give you good night.
MARCELLULITE Oh, fairwell, honest soldier:
Who relived u?
FRAN-CIS 100100100111 1001011
Give you good night.
[Exit]
MARCELLUS !!!?!?!?!!!! Bernar d o .
BERNARDO Say, Say, Say, Say,,,,,
What, is WHORATIO - there? - there!
HORATIO coll.map{case(x,y) => x.value.foreach{case(x) => x.values}???

>>7236197
as two dudes before me said it's a tad bit pretentious but i like the atmosphere it puts you into

this is something i wrote out of boredom, not suicidal myself but it's about a dude who's about to off himself. hit me straight

___

I didn’t know what to write in the note. I wanted to jump and get it over with but people need closure, right? Would be pretty shitty to keep the “loved ones” guessing. What to write in the note, though? That I didn’t feel “right”? That not even I could understand what was going on in my mind? Everything is everything. Everyone is everyone. Some people are some people, some things are somethings and I am myself. The days that pass so fast fade into my back of my mind. It’s as if anything memorable is just out of reach, like those bright specks of white on a melancholy night. So close… but ultimately distant.

I stood over the ledge, peering below. The urge to jump was dimming by the second as if in the moments closest to death, we begin to appreciate the worth of life… the worth of living.

>>7236107
>Hand rubbing intensifies.

>>7242052
Wow, this has legit potential in my opinion.

Keep going. It's really interesting. Don't think I've ever read anything much like that.

>>7242503
this is a basically large themes of an entire story put into just a couple sentences. I think you should just stick to one element of that for a excerpt so short

Re-requesting good surnames for "Kirsten"

An excerpt from something I'm writing. The protagonist is an American OSS agent who has been imprisoned in Mauthausen-Gusen concentration camp. At the moment he and his fellow inmates are being forced to play leapfrog (which, as surreal as it sounds, is something that actually happened at Mauthausen).

1/2

“Faster!” Unterscharfuhrer Prellberg shouted suddenly. “You can go faster than that!” And the torment hurled onto the inmates by the SS suddenly got even worse. Belts were taken off and used to strike men as they tried to vault, and more than once Taylor caught sight of a man tumbling to the ground, only to vanish into a maelstrom of swinging rifle butts and stomping boots.

One of the men ahead of him was sobbing even as he crouched, and one of the younger SS troopers hung nearby, watching him with open contempt. Taylor did not know the crying man, not even his number, but his heart soared out, filled with anguished compassion for his suffering. For everyone’s suffering.

“Look at the Jew,” the trooper jeered, “broken down already. He’ll be smoke by lunch!” This earned a chorus of laughter from a few others and the trooper aimed his carbine at the man, eyes wide with exhilaration. Taylor expected a flash of flame, a solid cracking wall of sound to punish his ears, a spatter of bone, brains and blood to further stain the mud. Yet none of this happened. Instead the trooper just stood, eyeing his target, waiting for him to give him an excuse to shoot.

Taylor leapt once more, ducking his head under the rain of blows, dodging a kick that would have sent him tumbling into the mud. The SS jeered and promised that they would kill him next time. Taylor said nothing, just continued to stare down at the ground. He felt sore and weak, his heart hammering from exertion as much as fear now, his arms and back ached, and he could feel a headache throbbing dully behind his eyes.

But none of this was very immediate, the adrenaline dulled it somewhat. Eventually that would fade however, and leave him at the mercy of his own weaknesses. He hoped that Prellberg would tire of this sick game before that happened.

2/2

Another man leapt over him, but even as he did so the young SS trooper, the one who had been taunting the crying man, jabbed him in the chest with the barrel of his carbine. For a moment the man’s hands tried to grasp onto Taylor’s uniform, but he lost his grip and fell gracelessly to the ground with a strangled squeak of a cry.

It was in fact the crying man who had just fallen, Taylor realized, his stomach lurching as he looked up to where the young trooper was trotting around the front of the line, his gait light and carefree, a happy, pleasant grin on his face. The crying man was still sniveling but his tears had mostly stopped. He stared up at the face of his death with wide, red rimmed eyes.

“Please,” he gasped, “I can keep going, I can stand, I can walk.” He tried to struggle to his feet, but something had happened to him in the fall. Whether he had wrenched his knee or broken his ankle Taylor could not tell, but his left leg could not support his weight. The trooper looked down at him and then very casually shot him in the calf. The crying man howled, his mouth stretching wider than Taylor had thought was humanly possible, issuing a formless, shrieking cry of agony.

“Get up then,” the trooper told him, “you can walk? Show me then you fucking kike! Show me!” The crying man scrabbled desperately at the mud, made it to his knees and then paused, gasping. Blood pulsed from his leg, in quick, energetic jets, and Taylor watched as it puddled in the mud. He wanted to step over, help the man up, but didn’t move. What purpose would it serve besides getting both of them killed?

The trooper backed up a step as the wounded man lurched momentarily to his feet, then fell down again, sobbing anew. He laughed and clapped sarcastically, momentarily letting his carbine fall down onto its strap. Then he was aiming again, and with that same endlessly entertained grin shot the crying man’s other leg out from under him.

“You never seemed to be much good at walking,” the trooper said, looking down at the wounded man, who groaned and snuffled in the mud, “so how about you show me how you crawl?” He aimed his carbine once again and the agonized eyes of the crying man widened, determination to survive pulsing through him. He scrambled along like a crippled crab, the trooper stepping alongside him, keeping pace easily.

“You’re not much good at this either.” The trooper sighed, and shot the crying man dead. He looked up from the ruin that he had made of the man’s skull and stared blandly back at the surviving nine men in Taylor’s line, mentally assessing who would be next.

>>7244542
What sort of books do you usually read?

Such as the letter X oscillates in molecular structure, my room does also; in microcosm inverting the letter and thus vibration of all other rooms inwards. All points having merged against each other from some sort of 'center,' the room extends boundaries into isolations. On the walls an edge seen only by itself in X dimensions, another edge reflects it, constructing one another in succession. But as in all bodies of X dimensions, these links are perpendicular: as inverted as the room, their parallel to me degraded-- diffusion otherwise efficient in air, here easier in solid.

I have closed myself in. Iev' colesd msleyf in. I fedl a downwards vertigo. I feel a downward respiration, synthase of sense in a downwards matrix, of which I have little understanding outside its terminology. Clarence asks me when the 2072 statement report is due.

"2.05 weeks." "Well..."

I head to the break room. Vent to porosity of coconut rocks which I meant to thank for their brainfog substrate.

"Tired?" I nod.

I decided to invite my dad down for a coffee at the shops, as his sister had died just last week. It's a rare occasion for it to be just the out of us going out. This occasion marked perhaps the second or third time all year. It was a sunny day and only a fifteen-minute walk, so we walked off around mid-afternoon. I didn’t ask a single question for the hour-fifteen we were out.

He talked about a range of topics: the house for auction at the bottom of the street, the wall being rebuilt on our route up to the ships, the proposed government road, the new footpath; many observations. Given that they were statements my responses varied from mmm, ahh, maybe, yes and no. If I were a better person I might’ve redirected them into stories I had once heard, but instead I waited. For a time I clenched my hands and wanted to hit him for no reason at all, but that too passed.

We arrived at the shops, but had an errand to run first. The proposed government road was attracting petitions and we walked to the town hall to drop ours off. My father loves systems and plans; he looked at the proposals and talked to the local government member for the next fifteen minutes while I stood nearby not wanting to be involved.

We finally sat down for coffee, things finally turned to personal questions but still with a distant slant. Travel plans, exercise, my job-seeking status, what my trips to the pub with friends had been like; I began fiddling with a sachet of sugar.
“Anything interesting happening in your personal life?”
“Nope.”
At one point he asked whether I had any online dates lined up, a long-standing secret of mine. I feigned ignorance and he explained he was simply talking about events. Perhaps he was. I wanted this to be an enjoyable experience for my father but for some reason I could not break my silence.
“You used to love boxing back in high school, a-“
The sachet burst and spilled sugar all over my hands. I quickly dumped it into my empty cup, ashamed at my rare lack of control.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I was just playing with it.”
“I suppose we should go then.”

The walk home was much quieter. There was mention of new internet infrastructure coming in, but the main event was my father’s question.
“When you invited me out for coffee I figured you had something to say, but in fact you’ve said nothing at all. Are you not in the mood? Did I not ask the right questions?”
“I don’t know.”
I felt an immediate flow of empathy; I was acting like a lifeless date while my courteous father felt an obvious discomfort at our lack of connection. I had plenty to tell him, but saw no advantage in doing so. I began clenching my hands again, but this time in shame.

Nothing else was said until we reached our house and he thanked me for the invitation.

>>7242476
Utterly brilliant - a true testament to the valueless post-modern attempts at prettying up an abortion. A grab-ass insight into pure bullshit - perfectly in time with this generation's desperate struggle for originality teamed with the wonderful 21st century assumption that: "... if it's random incomprehensible gibberish than it's O.K". Fantastic, 10/10.

>>7244722
I understand the concept, but it's execution falls rather flat. The writing isn't bad, just uninteresting. Nothing is really happening, the language has no truly positive qualities of description or evocation, and the structure seems clunky at times. It is, however, not irredeemable; it's not bad, it's not illiterate, and it has plenty of room to improve. Try to humanize both characters a bit more, try to depict time in a more natural manner, as well as depicting the world more naturally; as it is, those things seem forced in order to fit the story within a fluid context.

Mine is pic related, sorry if tense isn't very consistent; I was editing it a while ago, and I'm not too sure if I made the verbs match up again.

>>7244788
Joke's on you, it's non-fiction

>>7244792
That almost makes it worse. Very bad if context feels so fake that even reality seems unreal. Or good, if that's what you're going for.

>>7244798
I don't think it matters what I'm going for

>>7244808
Since it's a short piece I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt in trusting your judgment. Your direction is important, as you could use the strange style to your gain if you extended this piece.

an excerpt - I've since stopped writing and lost interest. Have received good and bad reviews - may pick up again soon. Thanks

http://pastebin.com/DrBDJaSk

god i want u on me dik so fuggin bad get to me girl i need it now so sick f your skinny shit bones n ribs n all that snake like jamming on my squamates need the thick rolls u been accumulating of late love the feel of ur belly how it all go ur tits and up and down ur ass like a squeezed stick of toothpaste (hot darn and FUCK) i need that ass to roll with cellulite like molecules of butter molding around my skeleton white fingers like glue and shoot my piston dick up ur crotch like sticky as fuck bitch suck it and call me daddies forever and please please lick the tip as u jiggle me balls

girl this not all about me im so sorry i want u fat so bad its a dreadful sin on me ma's side (im sure but w/e) want only to have your wet puss dripping down my face the strain of my neck (can't stand to look up u as i eat it, would look like a gremlin (like from the movie) and that is that suck my dick) feeling like it's gonna snap it two split out my ears and fuck into your summery puss for mine for now i want it so bad wrap your tits around my dick like a swimsuit and say:

"i'm ur fat bimbo bitch want ur dick so much"

n den i say:

"luv u so much bb im just a stupid lil slutboi who needs his mommies milk"

ur hpot splashing titcum boiling in my cheeks swelling with, gushing, out my eyes in tears and in my ass as shit (rilling) cumming out my ass as you pour yr finger nails into my man-clit i want it so much you gotta get fatter girl u too skinny need them roll, bread and butter for breakfast pushing hard on your uterus, pressurizing your ovaries and forcing them out in the splash of pioss and worms of a golden shower on my sun-soaked face

then we ate raisins and some got in the bed :/

I'm not going to even attempt to write this with a visceral or interesting narrative; just want to get it out

I went out with a 'wing' from the pua community. He's new, unskilled and he's also trying to be a coach - this wouldn't be that annoying if he didn't try to talk to me like I was a student. He also happens to be a compulsive liar (lied about his age which is sad) and he told some guys we were talking to in line that he was a dating coach, saying he'd give them tips which was fucking embarrassing

With his biggest success that night, I wash heavily leeching and I think I messed with her more than him. At one point I awkwardly grabbed her ass (usually I'm able to do that with more finesse) and he acted like I sexually assaulted her or something lol, and she kept kissing me on the cheek/holding my face by the chin

Talked to a few girls but I was awkward. Kind of got a girl stolen and I'd walk away like a bitch - I just did not have any intent with me whatsoever

Twice he made a show of telling me to hit on the girl, so that it was obvious to her what he was saying. In one case I did - she's about a 7, pretty cute face and thick (I'm okay with that). I was getting pretty physical with her, a lot of heavy petting etc. I kissed on her cheek for a second, we'd squeeze hands when before I'd walk away but I was too nervous to kiss and my breath tasted like stale alcohol at that point
And I'm pretty sure she was there with a dude. Guy looked jealous when he saw me but she told me through text that he's a "neighbor" and "like a brother" so in other words they're having sex as I type this
I'm going to basically try to have sex with her for the sake of practice, I'd say I probably will but we'll see

>>7244836
I like the special way you're playing with words. was that intentional? If so, keep it mint, mate. If not, maybe I'm just reading too far into things. But that's what I got from it. You have a nice expository flow BUT... probs too much of it tbh. As entertaining as you exposition is, I did get bored of it. There was just too much... :^(
I'd say either cut some of the exposition down, or condense it further if you don't necessarily want to bin any of it.

Well ya should’ve seen the blood and pain all spraying and splatting out on the dirt all black, sort of tar, but damn if his giving a shit wasn’t all there, ‘cause now he was in it,he was in it, no getting out of it— neither was the chinky on the ground all curling up, now. All there was to kick was his back, and so damn if Kane didn’t pry him open all like one of them juicy yams so Attica could boot and tear that messy inside into a half wrecked chinky clutt. Night, good-night, freaky chinky, Kane was saying, all rolling his limp yellow head side to side like a medicine ball and slappin’ it, clapping it— and wow, but pow, right in the sleeping gob going swelled now— damn if we shouldn‘t curbstomp the cunt right here, he says. But yea, but there was nothing in it for him, nothing for it, nothing but now the two of them rolling freaky deeky good chinky down the bushes and vacating, slapping their gloves ‘gainst their wrists and slipping them off to drop them in the shovel from the dank boot and lighting them— ah but fuck why not? chuck the whole fucken lighter in! and damn if it weren’t a nice puff of flame that did catch in that shovel, all lighting up their eyes to shine pale neon like savage red dingos flashed by the camera.
They watched the gloves burn late into the night, burn down to grey ashes, grey fallen dead stars of the coming dead dawn.

>>7245246
That's wild. I really like it, the rythm is awesome.

>>7245271
What, for real? I literally wrote that at work not even half an hour ago for something I'm working on. I thought it was punching above it's weight at best.

Thanks heaps anyway. That's real encouraging, friendo, matey.

The Call (1/2)

“Thank you for holding Mr. Wroclav, I’m very happy to tell you that your request has been approved. By the power vested in me by the Department of Public Services, I now declare you and Mrs. Wroclav man and wife.”
“Thank you, thank you so much. You have no idea how delighted we are!” the groom boomed into his phone. Screams of joy could be heard on the other end of the line. Mrs. Wroclav had evidently hit the tequila. They hung up the phone, and Gary’s status was reset to “available”.

Moments like that almost made his job worth it. Being a drone, a single speck in a call centre floor of over nineteen hundred souls did little to ease his feelings of insignificance. The silver lining was that the work was relatively easy and well-paid. Carrying out public services over the phone is a great job, in theory, until you bring the public into the equation.

Barely ten seconds had passed when Gary heard the “beep” in his headset telling him a call was being connected. “Hello, thank you for calling the Department of Public Services, this is Gary Farrell speaking, could you please state your Citizen ID Number and code of the public service you require so that I can deal with your query?

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone. “One seven dee nine eff ecks nine eight nine one eight six gee you oh kay three”, the caller said. On Gary’s screen, the account appeared before him. Marty Sullivan. Thirty. “Code is eight five kay jay ecks”. The computer screen blinked. Gary heard the clicks of the processor inside speed up ever so slightly as it parsed Marty’s utterance.

“Ok, Marty, today you would like help with a…” Gary paused as he waited for the words to appear onscreen. Marty said them a split second before it came up, striking Gary with is visually and aurally at the same time. “Corpse disposal”.

Gary’s mind froze like a computer dealing with too many tasks simultaneously, practically whirring. How was something like that even on the system? Surely this was a goof. “Uhm, OK, let’s see here…” He read through the page, and the text boxes he had to fill in. It was an odd array of questions to be asking anyone, but he ploughed on regardless.

“What is your current location?”

Instead of an address, as Gary was expecting, Marty gave him GPS coordinates.

“Reason for, um, corpse?”

“Self-defence.”

“Method of corpse, um, creation?”

“Steak knife.”

Gary’s heart jumped. “What is the, uh, po-lit-ic-al sensitivity of the corpse?”

“Maximum”

Gary was unsure what that meant. “What branch of the central government do you work for?”

“Department of Internal Security, WSRG Unit”

>>7245276
The questions went on like this, and Gary transcribed line after line of highly sensitive information. At the end of the call, he began to read the script as it appeared to him on screen after he entered Marty’s request.
“Thank you for calling Marty, your request has been approved and disposal team is on its way to the coordinates you provided. Before you hang up, for the purposes of secrecy, please call out your personal authorisation code in order to terminate the agent who dealt with this call. Wait, what?”

“Sorry Gary, my bad. I lost my satellite phone so I had to call this line. Ecks One Butterscotch Peppermint.”
Gary’s computer blacked out, dead. He stood up in shock, his headset falling from him as the cord went taut. He looked from side to side in hope of some friendly eyes, some reassurance that what he thought was about to happen wasn’t going to happen. Met with dead gazes all ‘round, Gary wasn’t afforded any such comfort. A hand clasped around his arm, gripping tight.

It pulled him around, and he was met with the frowning sunglassed face of a government Official. Towering above him, muscles barely contained by the suit he was wearing, he did not seem the type of person you refuse. He pushed Gary, and without a word he knew he was telling him to move.

Through the aisles they walked, Gary growing deaf with fear and panic among the cacophony of nearly two thousand people typing and talking. He could see their destination. The Red Door, at the far end of the room. A common feature in most government buildings, it was the type of door that you never came out of when you stepped inside.

Gary was uneager for such an untimely and unseemly death. He ducked, managing to escape the Official’s grip. He hopped up and darted again down the aisle, away from any Officials he could see. He would very quickly need to find a way out; the idea crossed him to break the window with a computer and jumped to freedom, til he remembered what floor they were on.

In that moment of thought, he took his focus off the lane in front of him, not seeing the outstretched leg that felled him. He was grabbed again by the bulging Official who dragged him to his feet. “You’ll be getting a raise.” The Official said to the person who had tripped him. As he neared the Red Door, he turned around and managed to spot a new person being led to his computer. His face was dull, almost dead.

His last thought before being pushed through the Red Door and getting tortured to death was nothing profound, or worth quoting here, but deep down he felt a sort of contentment. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with any more stupid phone calls.

If mine >>7242318 is shit please tell me why it's shit.

>>7235869
>"It was like a pathetic shadow puppet play where he was both entertainer and audience.

>>7244575
Looking at my bookshelf now, I can see a whole lot of Stephen King, lots of biographies/autobiographies of famous figures (Lincoln, Churchill, Eisenhower, etc.) and since I'm writing about the Holocaust and the concentration camps there's a focus on those subjects as well. I tend to read about what I'm writing, whatever that is at the moment.

>>7244468
Kristin C. Unsplit

>>7245698
Could be interesting if you included Kabbalistic elements.

There was a man who ate only plantains. People complained about his habit of eating only plantains. They said, “Man who eats only plantains. Eat something else.”

He ate plantains fried. But the people still complained. “Man who eats only fried plantains. That is cheating. Why can’t you eat something that is not plantains. This is a circumcised order from the court. You have been warned.”

The man was strong as a railroad. He had a shiny face that sang with liberty. The liberty of eating only plantains.

But the people would not let him be free. No matter how much he fought. And he ate plantains frozen. But the people said, “Man who eats only frozen plantains. Eat something else. This is your second warning. You have been registered on the big list.”

One day the man who ate plantains stood by the ocean eating plantains. And he smiled because he was so happy because plantains.

A riotous crowd came surging out of the water.

“Man who eats only plantains. This has gone on long enough. Eat something else. Eat something else or suffer capital punishment.”

The man did not listen. He just stood there and ate the plantains with a dreamy face. Then the people surrounded him and dragged him into the water. He never learned to swim. He only ate plantains.

>>7236602
I like it, because I'm interesting in the /r9k/ mindset. (not being ironic here btw.)

>>7245887
That's not a bad idea.

>>7245991
But why tho

>>7236328
Just read that, and watched a movie version, and listened in to a discussion.

I liked it. But I don't see why it has been written in the first place, what the authors intention (for writing about that change in a person character) are. Why do you like it? Why is it known?

>>7245991
Why are people mad about it? There's no reason.
Sounds like a generic "muh societal pressure" metaphor tbh.

>>7246589
>dat chart

You're 28 and you're still here?

It was true then
>you're here forever

>>7246666
some people browse the facebook history tool, some browse reddit, I think I can justify it. I'm also banging a 19yo, which helps keeping my mentality on teen level

>>7246691

lmao nice end comment, real cool!!

bumbp

>>7245991
Would make a good facebook post or something. I don't mean that in a condescending way. Short story and accessible. There's some beauty in there.

>Mine
I typed it out yesterday when i was pretty drunk. Sorry for some typos. Didn't feel like doing anything about those. I'm also not a native speaker obviously. It was just some practice for me and I'll appreciate your input.

>>7235869
hot dog
I am thoe dogh aodf hat
i am drunkkkkkkkkk
kkunk a dunk
spelunk
skippity bee bap I scat a tat tat
jack
and her face rusted
by salty expressions
and lost on me
were half-hearted confesssions
and free at last
my misplaced obssesion
I fell asleep

Through the open window flowed sunbeams of gold, illuminating the motes of dust ever present in the air of the room, a present of those great beings living on the mount, a blessing, while birds circle on high as if they can't decide on which tree's branch to alight and he takes it the wrong way. It gives him a feeling of melancholy. He can't quite describe the feeling, or rather he can't find the will to describe the feeling that has so long plagued him, the truths he thinks he's found during those long nights laying in bed staring at the ceiling as if it were written there in invisible ink, his series of anxieties and failures, and of course, the vain attempts to improve himself which he has undertaken as of late, but it has been much longer than that; it's because he can only think of the current, to think in the past is the act of a blantant masochist, and to think of the future is to come face to face with uncertainty, something he has long taken measures to avoid. He figured all of this was the reason his coffee tasted so bitter in the morning.

>>7248423
10/10
This poem really express what it means to be a white middle class male in th 21st century.

is it okay to get critique on a plot and not a complete story?


>1950s
>Son of an American Rabbi goes to fight in the korean war
>gets shot in the leg and sent home with a purple heart
>while in bed recovering, best friend comes over. Shows off photos of wedding he missed while at war
>sees a hot bridesmade and asks about her
>after friend leaves, soldier grows bored.
>looking for shit to read he finds rabbi-dad's journals on jew magic and starts trying to decipher them
>next day gets a letter from the cute bridesmade who introduces herself.
>her dad is a wealthy industrialist
>sends letter back introducing himself, mentions he's been bored
>girl responds, sends him a block of clay so he can pass the time sculpting
>they chat for a while as he recovers. he learns her father is kind of a bastard. He keeps practicing with the clay and mostly gives up on the magic. He sends her little sculptures, mostly birds
>leg gets infected
>large chunk of thigh surgically removed
>she stops answering his letters
>remembering the magic, the soldier makes clay bird golems and sends them to look for her.
>they find her and the two realize her father was intercepting the letters
>they talk for a while
>birds stop coming home
>friend comes by, mentions girl has been missing
>soldier scouts with birds and finds out she's been locked away in her mansion to punish her for consorting with a jew
>rescue mission
>soldier saves the girl on one leg
>flee to the other side of the country
>and they all lived happily ever after

>>7248449
The first sentence is cringeworthy, the rest is okay. The problem is that it tried to wax poetic in a way that's not at all poetic, but more a parody thereof.

>through the open window flowed sunbeams of gold, illuminating the motes of dust ever present in the air of the room

There's no metaphor to this. It's blunt and vivid but you could get the same image in much fewer words and you wouldn't have to say it like that. It sounds like the work of a shakespeare in the park actor, by which I mean a shakespeare actor who sleeps in the park.

I'm sorry, I'm being more harsh than I should be, and it's rather rude of me. Try to be more succinct, and when you describe, try to use clever comparisons (as befits the mood) rather cliches.

something like:
The light from the open window brought the dust motes into focus. They wove and bumbled like goldfish swimming in a tank of pale ale

>>7248449
>>7248536
>>7248423

No it's not okay. If you post rate at least one work. Fucking newfags.

>>7248576
I'm the middle one. I didn't have enough space to rate in my post so I did here:
>>7248573

>>7248536
How do you type while rubbing your hands?

>>7242318
>>7245338
Because no one has read it. Did you try mom?

>>7248423
When spoken aloud loudly the words float out into a further dimension. It's great how the consonant sounds shift from kicking clicks to puffy plosives.

>>7248757
is this supposed to be antisemitic? I honestly can't tell

Her laugh is pure. Unhinged and innocent. With her headphones in, she distracts herself from the rest of the world and the rest of the world from her. Spread thin, she claims space and arrogantly shoves in my face the joy and brightness of the world. All a lie, laughter in sadness as she swallows two pills at the same time daily. It infuriates me. Its a reverie, a set painted with colors that will fade and chip. "It's hard to picture things ever being different than they are now," she indirectly jabs at me. Her happiness disassembles everything I thought I knew about myself. Another bout of childish giggling. Another punch deep into my psyche. Held together by duct tape and loose change, I wallow without speaking up. Like the art projects of other kids to mine, her life is appealing and meaningful. The clay mug in the back of the kiln with air bubbles left in too long, I'm crumbling and caving on myself. Imploding and exploding. No beauty in this disaster. Her headphones are too loud, they almost drown out my self pity. It's late at night and we should both be a sleep. Another giggle. A coffee keeping her awake and her keeping me awake. I sink deeper into the couch and myself. "But they can change if you seek it out." She said, mocking me with every syllable, no, every letter coming out of her mouth. I'm filled with rage enough to stay quiet. I'm happy to stay quiet. It's the only thing that keeps me insane. And without that, I'd just be on the floor, distracting myself with a cookie cutter comedy keeping myself awake with a coffee and someone else awake with self hatred.

>>7248777
MODS

>>7248783
Dude, are you lost? /pol/ is over here
http://boards.4chan.org/pol/:

>>7248783
chill dude, I was asking if it was a reference to that meme pic of that goblinesque jewish stereotype rubbing his hands together

But so in his four fragile words and all her yesses like the yesses of Joyce, the love was made and given that night, and so late at night a week later he’d gone on his walk to grin to himself, lose himself in dreams boiled to hallucinations and the skippings of his pulsing heart spreading lovely fire ‘cross his veins. And the thought of her now, like the first one again, all over again. The thought of her. And he grinned so.
In the suburbs it was quiet and still and eventless. But at twelve o’clock at night he came across two people in a car on the side of the road. Then it was twelve o’ one, and it happened.
It was quiet and still. His footfalls like thudding clock-hands scaring crickets into silence in their sleeping silver gardens.
It was quiet. He was coming up to a small white car facing him and looking filthy even in the moon’s dim grey. The lights were on inside and the doors were open. The driver’s side was empty but on the passenger side a thin young man sat slouched with his legs swivelled out into the open, and in his hand was a bottle.
Attica looked at the ground and slid his hands into his pockets and crossed the street to pass them.
When he stepped onto the path and looked up he saw someone standing in front of a bush in a garden with his fly down pissing. Attica cleared his throat and walked with his head down. When they heard him they looked up, still pissing.
Attica gave a distance. “How ya goin?” he muttered.
The man was young and he was swaying a little. He did his fly up and turned to watch Attica pass with head pivoting and gaze clinging. He could feel it on his neck. No words were said.
Attica walked past and walked on and didn’t look back. Looking back is a paranoid thing. He heard footsteps. He didn’t look back, looking back is a paranoid thing. He could feel the muscles on his neck twitching to turn. It was quiet and there were footsteps, and he didn’t look back.
Three words sounded across the street and the footsteps got fast. He didn’t look back, looking back is
He turned—
A silver fist came out of the black and something metal hit his neck and there was so much pain there was pain inside the pain, and the edges of the world blurred into a sweeping speed gone mad with light and the thing was hitting his neck again and the black sky spun to the side and the ground hit the back of his head—the t the black sky twiiiirled for him and grew and stained all the whole world in black ink,

>>7248780
I like the concept. I'm in the character's head, and see his torment. See it, but don't FEEL it.

I have a feeling that's got to do with some of the minor cliche's you've got going on in there. I think that, if you put some more work on being original with your analogies/metaphors/etc, you could really glean something worthwhile from this.

Keep it up.

>>7245276
>>7245279
I chuckled at times. Really inventive dialogue, especially with how the alphabet letters are spelt phonetically. There was a sort of Pynchonesque leer of mystery in there which got me interested.

All I can really say is to watch your descriptions. Sometimes they're a little generic in their wording. Be inventive and don't be afraid! How else do you think Joyce, Pynchon, Shakefag, Fuckner and the like acquired the authorial flare that they have? Be inventive. Make your own style, but keep it beautiful and readable. <-- But that's just a value statement, I guess.

Otherwise, this has potential for both narrative and prose excellency. Keep going m88.

Aw man I wanted a Vector so bad when I was fourteen.

rate this short story opening
it's short

http://pastebin.com/vpqDQYVs

>>7248792
I don't like this forced "musicality". You know what I'm talking about.

>>7242318
this is the only decent thing in this thread

well done would read more

What do you think about the opening of my cyberpunk novel /lit/? Do you want to keep reading?:


"The hum started right on time. Low and buzzing at first, like a swarm of bees grinding their teeth, it pulsed louder and louder until Davis could feel his walls vibrating like a giant tuning fork. That was the trade-off of a cheap apartment though, areas within the seismic zone (or “humming zone” as the agent had craftily advertised it as) cost about four times less than your standard house. So when the listing had come up Davis had eagerly put down the 6,000 credit deposit, and after being warned about the noise, used the savings to buy a pair of earplugs and congratulated himself as a financial genius. That smugness had lasted until the next morning, when he found himself being woken up like a rat inside a blender. Nobody had warned him about the vibrations that accompanied the grinding noise, a pair of flimsy foam plugs did little to guard against the rattling of his apartment that made his skeleton try to dance out of his body.

Of course the vodka didn’t help either, it was noxious stuff at the best of times, made of a synthetic soy substitute that made your mouth oily and the hangovers unbearable. With a groan Davis pulled himself out of bed."

>>7249010
it's just more boring muh depression oh agony

>>7249243
That doesn't necessarily make it bad, just incompatible with your values.

http://pastebin.com/HTb3QFYr

a bit long, I know. But I appreciate any and all comments! :-)

Will critique other posts when I get home.

>>7245991
That was one surreal, funny-ass story. Just straight up silly. I think since you tell us he was strong as railroad you should at least briefly show us how he resists the plantain-haters physically before he gets dragged into the sea. Maybe also tell us more about this anti-plantain society. All this would be expanding the story, though. Good job.

Standing in the paneled hallways of the subway station, staring at the grime tinged reflection of the young kid busking with a rusted trumpet, the sound hunting out sympathetic ears with its dissonant bark, I contemplated the end of my career.
Before we continue, that penny flattening noise you're hearing, that little head to the tracks voice telling you a train called suicide is rounding the bend of this plot, you can tell it to fuck off. I don't pedal in that bullshit— I'm not sensitive enough. Instead, how about we all agree that Goethe covered most of it? If you're looking for that kind of pathos look elsewhere. The window dressing trumpet kid won't give you any either.
I was too nervous to stare back at his puffed out eyes, straining out against the tetanuspiece at the end of the trumpet. How much of it was design— The canvas jacket, twenty dollar bill just falling out of the chest pocket, cardboard box folded out in front of the empty payphone boxes whose exposed dot pattern looked like a couple of stacked dice. It was obviously all a story, prefabricated. The question of its honesty was one that required a movement beyond reflection. Still, the mirror bares more to me than his face will ever see.
When you're anxious, everything's a story.

Just two hours ago I saw my agent, tweed suit furled and fraying like it was trying to escape the knife points of his bony shoulders. He was informing me that my book was missing.
“Look, Jim we don't know where it is.”
“Did it disintegrate, fall into the ether, magically vanish into the genital gobbling fuck hole—“
“Jim, I won't have you talk to me that way.” He eased back into his chair, voice falling off like melted butter. “ The truth is that it's just gone.”
“Great, I'm living Kafka's dream.” a lone warbling light began to strike through the clouds outside his window, “ Tell me,how does one lose a book.”
“Server's get fried. Angry employees; you've made plenty of those.”
“I'm swarthy, not some unjust Easton Ellis celebrity obsessed with pissing into the customer'so mouth just to make them feel something.”
“I know Jim, I know.” Lower jaw jutting into the musty air causing his tumescent front teeth to buck under his pallid lower lip. I wished they they drew blood. He was certainly drawing mine: blood pooling under cheeks creaking them out from my skull. The master copy was back west, but that was a flight away, and the click-clacking of bureaucrats (buttervoice included) ensured that I'd lose my publishing date, be forced to come out alongside some bestselling crossover fuck who's intelligent witticisms and sterling moral sense had the critics dropping his texts into laminators and those people who cast awards a shortage in Arthur Catskill nameplates. What did buttervoice know?
Did he know then that my copy was gone too, my house, my home, or did he just know that he lost the copy that mattered.

One day a boy went to school. The boy was good at school. The boy said hello to his friends at school. His friends said hello back to him. This made him very happy. The boy had three teachers. The boy liked all three of his teachers. The boy’s teachers taught the boy about many things. He was glad to learn about so many things. The boy liked a girl in his class. The boy wanted to kiss the girl on the lips and say I love you. The boy stared at the girl in class. The teacher told the boy off for not doing his work. The boy tried to do his work. All the boy could do was look at the girl. He thought the girl was pretty to look at. Later on he played with his friends on the playground. He pretended he was a character from something on the television. He saw the girl and kissed her on the cheek. She ran away. He chased after her. He caught up to her and kissed her on the lips. Her cheeks went very red. He said I love you. She laughed and ran away. She told her friends. He didn’t care. He went home and told his mother what happened. He had his dinner. He later went to bed. He dreamed about the girl. He was quite happy.

>>7251522
——————. ——————. ———————. ————————. ————————. ————————. ————————. —————————. ————————. —————————. ——————————. —————————. ————————————. ————————. ————————. ——————————. ——————————. ———————————. ———————————————. —————. ——————. ——————. ————————————. ———————. ————————. ———————. ———————. ————————. ————. ——————. ————————. —————————.

but I envy him and i do believe he was quite happy

>>7249246
Ok. It's still boring. Whiny. Objec

I'm in the early stages of a sci-fi screenplay. Posted synopsis here last week, I think. Themes nailed down, characters to express them, and a solid beginning and ending, but what I'm really struggling with is how to deliver the exposition. The second act will build up to this so I can't write that 'til I know how I'm gonna do it.

In brief;
>Woman's life is saved by man
>First act follows their courtship and marriage
>He is hinted to have telepathic abilities of some sort with the way he predicts things or is able to make circumstances work in their favour
>He eventually reveals he possesses a device that allows him to manipulate matter to a degree, essentially making him able to decide the outcome of issues of probability
>Second act builds up tensions in their relationship and his massive insurance business; since the beginning he's been shown as somewhat possessive and manipulative and this is revealed more and more to be a major problem; she has dreams of a different man she's never met; a business associate goes missing
>Towards the end there's a big reveal and it turns out the device he uses works by destroying the universe and replacing it with a copy every unit of time, except for the user; the female protagonist realises she is dying and being replaced repeatedly with a copy who has memories including of the previous moment; Philip K. Dick existential crisis time.
>After a bit of cat-and-mouse stuff she steals the device from him, has a bit of a freak-out as she has no idea how to harness the abilities of the thing at first, and ends up deleting him, and the device, from existence

Now, there are two ways I can deliver the twist. The first way can be that she finds a video left by a previous version of herself, led to it by horror-movie-style messages left by herself, explaining where she can contact the scientists who originally created the device- He can't manipulate what he doesn't know about. He can't do anything to the creators because he needs them to maintain the device, but he will 'reset' them if they try to intervene. She goes there and has the caveat (and some limitations etc.) of the device explained to her.

Or, alternatively, she one way or another forces the truth out of him. He's from far in the future, and as a rich old man almost on his deathbed, felt he hadn't experienced 'love' (or his asshole-minded idea of it). We learn his motivations etc. (in more depth than that) and learn also that the device can manipulate time. He goes back far, falls in love with the woman, deletes her fiancée from existence along with all memory of him, and engages in a long-term campaign of manipulation, including manufacturing an incident to save her from, in order to experience ~romance~.

The second approach feels more accomplished, but doesn't giving the device the ability to manipulate time as well as matter just turn it into a more generic, time-travel-based movie, where the matter-manipulation becomes secondary to the time travel?

>>7235923
Tell me more about the character and maybe I can help.

>>7236080
>>7236083
>>7236118
>>7236328
>>7237201
The blatant jealousy in these threads gets me every single time.

>>7236197
http://www.online-literature.com/carroll/2822/

>>7252559
She's a professional whitewater rafter. Her best friend is Jolene. Her typical comeback is 'Good tip I can probably use that!' She dreams about being on the cover of Women's Health and Reader's Digest. She's going to be the literary incarnation of victimhood and the struggles that come with that. She often marvels at common things. She was at the beach today, the cool fall air raising goosebumps on her skin, the air pulsing with seagull laughter. The sun throwing her shadow along the beach in the shape of a giant cross. A man is walking his dog. She is thinking about how she should have used 'Good tip I can probably use that!' earlier when her boss told her not to be late again. Sometimes she feels like a snapshot of frenzy.

But often emptiness rides her.

At night she dreams about a long road in the darkness. When she goes to check her watch, it has turned into an insect locked around her wrist.

I'm thinking of using: Kristin C. Unsplit.

The wake for Roberto was very depressing. People were scattered throughout the room and huddled into awkward little groups. Some of their faces were stone-still, while others quickened with nervous laughter now and then. Roberto was just lying there in the hard yellow light, looking more stiff and rigid than the erection he would never again have, because Roberto was dead. Roberto will not get laid ever again.

“That’s the thing.”
“Oh, I know.”

Everyone was thinking something. Norman wanted to watch Jeopardy! The old woman with a flower in her hat was thinking how she was through with that deliveryman, always mixing up the damn packages. And she felt so alone. Roberto was not thinking about anything, because Roberto was dead. He will not get laid ever again.

“He used to smoke on the porch.”

In the front row was a young couple. His eyes downcast upon the floor, the man caressed the woman’s leg tenderly. She stared straight ahead at Roberto’s great figure lying in state and gripped her purse.

“Funny seeing you here.”

The funeral home people put a little shrine together for Roberto. It had carnations and photos of him as a young man. He had this confused look in all the pictures. He looked like he had been caught off guard. I wondered what was going through his mind when the camera snapped all those years ago.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Roberto’s wife stood close to the casket, as if guarding his body. In her mind flashed the image of a young girl standing in front of a mirror. Her flush red face was framed by young, lustrous brown locks. She began to pace up and down the room with her chest fluttering fast. Roberto was standing on the front porch in the dark with his clammy hands stuffed into his pockets. His hair was freshly cut and slicked with pomade. He stood there in the gray glimmer of street light, stammering to her father.

The last thing he had said was that she was too young to be a widow, and that he was sorry.

I heard more timid laughter. Then there was the slow, final sound of a cane rapping against wood. One, two, three knocks for Roberto. Three cheers for an everyman.

“We had a good time together. We did so many things. Maybe we could have done more.”

My head began to feel very light. One, two, three knocks for Roberto. Three cheers for an everyman. Then I looked at Roberto’s face, his gaunt, timeless face, and falling on the floor, my eyes crowding with fire and tears, I wept for the long long time of oblivion.

>>7252582
The dude's a fine writer, but it is a tad overwritten. Not to say that I could write something at that caliber, but still overwritten.

>>7252614
Kirsten C. Malary?
Kirsten C. Kiavijk?
Kirsten C. McCenna?

Idk, Kirsten C. Unsplit just sounds weird to me.

>>7251887
Just my opinion but I feel like it's really strong up until the device bit. You have this great 2 act set-up with a lot of tension, good characters, and just a little bit of sci-fi, and then you jump the ship and turn it into a boring concept sci-fi story.

Good sci-fi isn't about "how" the magic happens, it's about what that magic says about people. In my opinion, don't bother explaining it. My ideal ending to that story would be something where the woman, feeling manipulated, starts to manipulate him until he no longer does his telepathy or whatever, and she fools him into thinking he's safe. Then she kills him or something.

>>7252628
I, having read yr post, grabbed it and put my gun to its head—pls no, ye whisper'd. It's for the greater good, I said. I pulled the trigger on yr darling→, I wept for the long long time of oblivion. Suddenly yr story became very good and we danced and laughed into the sunset—me firing shots into the air like Yosemite Sam.

>>7252638
I forgot to mention the following:

Whenever she stands up, she swears she can feel the blood searching through her veins, and there is an avalanche of prisoner's cinema. She has gone to the ophthalmologist and there is no mechanical explanation for it.

Every morning sh watches the sun go lifting, silently roaring, up from behind the obscuring Earth.

She often stifles the lost little girl that tries twisting out from her lips. And she does her self up in a manner to arouse envy and a brook of imagined whispers from the women that see her. The women that wish they could be her. 'You can't touch me but you can tickle me with your whispers.' is a tattoo she will never get, she thinks, drying off her hair in front of her bathroom mirror. 'I exist in a matrix of other people's decisions. Some of those decisions are about me, but most aren't.'

She also has very nice cunt lips. That's why I think that name works best.

>>7241894
I'll look @ it when it's done. I don't like sci-fi.

>>7252650
What is wrong with "darlings" exactly?

>>7252648
Yeah, I understand your point entirely, primarily I wanted to do it to reveal just how much the guy's willing to sacrifice to fulfil a self-defined idea of success, and the banal evil and cognitive dissonance it entails. That he could just magic up money, but he prefers to go a more roundabout way of doing it instead. That he could just mess with her brain and make her fall in love with him, but instead he engages in a years-long mind game to get in her pants because he wants to experience 'the thrill of the chase'. With the subtext being that both approaches are equally arbitrary, but he's allowing himself to be fooled into feeling some sense of achievement despite no real effort being needed on his part.

I guess it would have helped to have provided a deeper explanation of the themes and characterisation I'm aiming for but I had run out of space. But yeah, the aim with some kind of twist was never for it to be about the technology as such (just a couple of handwaves here and there about, e.g., how he can't mess with more than a certain amount of matter at once because it's limited to the size of the machine the device is basically a remote for) but rather to reveal deeper characterisation for this guy so he's not just a two-dimensional abusive partner antagonist and to aid the themes. It felt like the best way to transmit that information but I agree, it makes that third quarter of the plot feel far more generic and muddy.

posted this in the other thread too

trying to learn latex so i made this

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B0WRgczvQg8OekU3S3EzOER0ajg/view?usp=sharing

critique on the poems or the formatting are both welcome

>>7251522
the lack of diversity in the sentence structure is obviously intentional. but i would say the effect is not worth the cost. you can keep the simple feel while still incorporating a lengthier more descriptive sentence. and the lengthier sentence will gain more weight from being surrounded by simple ones

Here is some stuff. I will not press the backspace bar while I am writing this on the fly, so everything you see from the end of this sentence on is what I typed:
Being funny is a curse. If you take everything with a good esense of humor, there is no suffering in that, and they are inherently better than the rest of us suimply because they can brush off how they are feeling, but this only applies if the intenal and external people are the same, or ate least coincode with one another. If they aren't happy with how they are living their life, at least they arent a burden to the rest of us who make it known.

>>7252943
What happens is they sound great and deep and resonant to yrself but like nails on a chalkboard to everyone else. Ye wanna minimize eye rolls. Think Rolls Royce not a custom IROC-Z.

The harder it is to part w/it, the more of a darling it is. I usually make a sep draft w/o it and keep the original. It makes parting easier.

>>7253129
I really, really, really like this pic tbh.
Is there a book with this kind of dialogue?

>>7253136
My diary, tbh.

>>7242052
>http://pastebin.com/pKVa1H4H
you have talent what the fuck are you doing here

>>7253151
T'show you fux how to write like real men.

Notice how plain n simple it is: it duznt get up its own ass w/rhetorical bullshit n uncommon words.

>>7253171
I'm not th' auth btw.

>>7252971
Hmm. Well, even considering that the device can be done in a way that doesn't seem like sci-fi porn (which it easily can), I'm wondering if the added characterization brings enough to the story to warrant the extra complications. I would think about it, if I were you.

Otherwise, I'll say that, in answer to your original post, the second option was a lot better. Her going to the creators of the device might be a little much of a tangent for a screenplay, at least that late in the story. The way I'd do the whole thing is just have to stumble upon the device while she was cleaning or something. Then, maybe she uses it on accident and discovers what it does by herself. When the eventually confrontation comes, she can have a plan of action beyond just learning his life story.

Also with respect to the concerns of time travel, I'm in favor of keeping the device vague enough that its exact mechanism are unclear. Anyway, sorry if none of that was helpful. Just my feelings. I think it's a really strong plot already, so keep up the good work.

I posted this before. It's been revised from suggestions, and then some. I still don't feel good about it.

http://pastebin.com/MySYR90V

>>7253422
Still p good. Find time to read it out loud, it'll burn off a layer O awkward from it.

>>7242270
>>7244017
>>7253151
thanks guys! I've kept writing it since then partially thanks to nice comments like these. maybe it could be a novel? I don't know, but it's very fun.

>>7253422
this is pretty interesting. like the other anon says you need to try reading it aloud because some of it is a little awkward, but it's effective at getting across a mood, and I think that's what you're aiming at, right? I like those opening few sentences especially.

>>7253004
sorry, I'm a purist

>>7252650
You're an absolute joke of a poster. You offer assistance only by way of masturbating this exaggerated persona you're pioneering (pioneering by obscuring a few sentences here and there saddled with some "out-there" bullshit simpsons comics (the novelty of which seems to lull some younger anons into thinking this facade is of some mysterious value)). Your sense of humour, like your critique, is a fucking insult to read, almost patronising. I can only imagine you're a queer living in NYC who wears clothes describe as "strange". Am I right in assuming this?

I would honestly fight you if given the chance you half-wit goo-spouting vehicle of pure pomo novelty. Please stop posting - you're corrupting younger anons by implying value by obscurity. If you wish to wave your erection around by way of posting how you are go ahead - but don't subject us normal posters to your flamboyant trite.

O.K - all the best,

D.

>>7253821
Saved

From a distance, it looks like everyone's asleep. Only when you're really close—close enough for one of them to reach out and grab your ankle—you can see that they're not asleep; they're paralyzed.

In fact, you could wear expensive boots and stamp at them, making disgusting noises—treating them how they ought to be treated—and even the most forceful kicks to the most sensitive places wouldn't have any effect on them. What keeps them alive? Just an infinite feeling of spite—as patient and as powerful as the forces of geological erosion.

Better to leave this country. Nothing can grow here—nothing can survive here. There aren't two stones stacked on top of each other for miles—or as far as you can see when you shade your eyes with your hand and look out at the country.

>>7253821
Woa there, woa there, wat! ar ye kiddin', or just middlin'??? Mysterious anon's tongue of babes is the spice of life, the yowza-powazo of this thread and all threads like it... oh damn oh damn, wait. Godfuck, I know. I see now; ye only been all squirmin beneath the envy of distinction all this time, all blamed on how ye couldn't distiguish yr voided style from all the other clumps of words blockin' yr own words on th screen -- cos by th sight of it, ye mayn't even own one! yowza, ye can't just go running off spoutin an' spunkin' ye own value statements all over anon's cosmic works, yo. Mysterious anon's on another plane o' logic, ye fool, ye glutton, ye seemingly spiralled-in poopposter.

>>7253821
Nah, but to be seriously honest, this could be some decent pasta.

>>7253821
I will make it so. It seems the lights went on w/a loud CHUNK, dim lights, 2 b sure, in th' empty socket of my head. Ever since my Bat Mitzva back in '10, I've failed to find a real man & I've been takin' it out on here lately. I'm tapping this final farewell from an iPad w/LTE as I sit in the grass by a stream. & while I don't dress weird—J Crew Sweater (cream), J Brand jeans (black—J Brand isn't related 2 J Crew), and Tori Birch flats (also cream), I did walk out here on my hands, but I'm a gymnast, not a realist.

I didn't kno I had cast an insult forward into the face o' such an argumentative man. So much like an eagle, gath'ring the lil frogposters under his wings away from th' slut that disliked his post!

Ye haff persuad'd me. I will stop posting.

>>7254317
Ah, but pls, nay! wait, please--var snäll och vänta--or so the Swedes say in their lingo rollin' from tongues like bubbling brooks mayhaps like th one ye sit @ right the moment these keys be pressed. And so, with me sittin here aping yr debatable style, when yr last words went rolling in through my light-receptors all fumbled and all a mess, speaking in some other logic, laddered up to one up, I couldn't see it, but feel it I did, ya!-- and damn oh damn, but why, if I is to cognize that ye words r comin' to their cut-ribbon end, it makes me own dim lights inside me skull clunk shut with a warehouse echo that, oh no, there'll be no more.

>mfw pls don't leave

>>7254317
Pls don't

>>7254350
>>7254415
shamefags

>>7254317
O.K in all honesty I posted in half jest, half unnecessary rage. Though I do find your posts valueless it would be an exaggeration to suggest they insult me, and likely others.

I've taken it a habit of mine to go on these Buckley-esque tirades and share such repartee back and forwards w/ other posters and so I posted that in hopes you would reply in such a manner as you write. That would have been fun, wouldn't it?

Anyway - do as you wish. I'd say the less time we spend and the less thought we invest here the better - but who am I to dictate your postings.

O.K - moderately sorry,

D.

>>7253821
wew

>>7253821
took the words from my virtual mouth

>>7253821
My sides, good post lad

>>7254605
Yr sincerity and anger seem'd to have mask'ed the possibility that yr post meant nothing and was simply laffd at—y would I take th' protector of the lil frogsposters seriously?

Consider the things that tie yr identity together & how easily they can come apart at the seams—teeth & fingerprints are easily taken very far away, washing up near the city of Ontoganon, yr skull found in a fireplace an abandoned house, they reconstruct the face, but as a female, and th' police would likely match these remains to a missing local prostitute, it is very hard to recreate the source of remains, Lake Superior having eroded yr trackable ID—And back @ home a cousin's suicide could take precedent over yr family's search for wha happen'd—yr things eventually all donated, laptop in storage, years later thrown away, got 2 move on.

:DDDDDDDDDD

>>7254605
>>7254631
>>7254635
>>7254642
Those post times follow the wait spiral. Learn patience samefag.

>>7235869
what kind of car is that? it looks really cool.

Stench from corpse conquered the rain. Could not help but pinch nose as I approached. Ethan Truman wearing an ink black suit that might have fit once; now it hung loosely from his
corpse, like David Byrne's suit in Stop Making Sense. His body lying face down on concrete sidewalk, head propped nose down on a large tome. Blood, and ink appeared to be mixing under the corpse. A small stream of inky red fluid ran down the rain soaked pavement between my plastic covered boots. They were streaming to a larger puddle where it became indistinguishable from the water.
The crime tech told me we could flip the body over. Lifting it we could feel how emaciated the corpse was. One could imagine an American solider carrying a holocaust victim too starved to move1. Once flipped, three roman numeral gashes in his stomach were visible and still leaked onto the wet pavement. Small sub-lacerations marked the edges of the wounds, muscles fibers sticking out of skin like veiny hairs. Wounds appeared to be made with a serrated bread knife the responding officer found next to the body. Self inflicted wounds are the most likely possibility.

>>7255014
Subject hadn't left home in months. Accusations of spying six years ago drove him into hiding.
The coroner's van took away the bony corpse. Rev of the engine silenced in the torrent of the rain. Looked over at the leaking book, it's thick, deckle edged; the cover is dark, but not really, it seemed to suck in light, it must contain an immensity of light. The rain bent and circled around it.
It was suddenly in my hand. I am inside the inn. I do not remember entering. The lights are out in the lobby. The interior is carpeted green, walls painted white with brown crown molding. It is done in the style of a 19th century southern plantation, complete with grand stair, and shattered chandelier cratered in the floor. Six columns, three on either side, rise up to the vaulted ceiling where drips of water come down from an unseen roof. Drip drip. They patter and cry. Flashlight beams arc through the shady damp illuminating the drops after they have slithered through the latticework remains of the ceiling; they stay in vision only for a second. Ask an officer where the last drop he saw went and he'll point to the floor, ignorant of the wind– rhythms of the air driving water about– you can never step in the same river twice. A detective's duty is not simply to extrapolate from one point, but to synthesize a thousand; and though some points may remain illusive, a guess should be nothing less than educated1.
Like a schizophrenic's tin foil covered house, the inn spoke about its owner: walls torn open by hammer strikes, piping, wire, and phone parts scattered across the floor– the inner workings of a building revealed. From those holes I felt a warm wind going in and out. If I stared long enough at the windy holes, the splintered wood seemed to smile. I shook it off as tricks of the light— though a faint calling gently spun from the hole. Despite this, I took a seat behind the lobby desk, wedged my flashlight between chin and shoulder, opened the book and began to read.

>>7255004
Its from Vector motors. They sorta died in the 80's because the owner was insane

>>7255014
>>7255016
shit

>>7255016
>>7255014
Use D-terminers. It will lighten th' cognitive load on the reader.

>>7255392
I know, I was just trying to create a rushed feeling. This is supposed to be from a brief section of a story told in detective's notes. The numbers are footnotes.

>>7255030
ah. thanks, anon. when I was a kid I had dreams of a similar car but the size of a go kart. I would go racing in fields and do doughnuts and do dukes of hazard style jumps over creeks. seeing it kind of brought back strange memories.

Soft sunlight streamed through a wide window, casting beams across a long, hallway-like office, illuminating a portrait. The portrait, like the room, was large in its dimensions. It pictured a smiling man, standing behind a desk with a hand outstretched in welcoming. The dark-haired man had the warm features of one who had lived to see their dreams fulfilled. At the opposite end of the room, at a desk not unlike the one in the portrait, sat it’s subject.
The hardwood door of the office, swung open, breaking the serenity of the scene. Two men entered, conversing at first but then silencing themselves as their voices echoed in the ecclesiastical atmosphere. One man, who appeared to have been leading the other, wore a grey pinstripe suit. He was bald, and had the unremarkable yet irritating presence that was typically reserved for the elderly and particularly small children. The other was an imposing youth in a snow-dusted military greatcoat that was devoid of any indicator of rank save for an insignia.
“Premier?” The Suited Man called across the room as if there may not be a listener.

>>7253853
If phrased and organized more in that direction it could actually be quite a nice poem. It's short, concise, and gives a feeling of lasting mystery. It would also be good to place in the middle of a spooky short story, for example.

>>7255936
it's pretty generic, but I cant find many specific things wrong with it. Wouldn't be bad as "filler-prose" in a action/mystery oriented book.

>ecclesiastical
not quite the right word, based on the excerpt.

>>7254698
please tripcode so I can remove all of your posts.
your identity is what you jerk off to anyways


It was green in the spring, so much greener than the winter. The winter began slowly, with its yellow grass and brittle branches. The spring came all of a sudden. I was walking down the street and it was so very green, and my head turned from one green tree to the next and then down at the green grass and then back up. The chill of winter was still in the air, but only if I stopped walking. I saw a man sitting on the curb. He was across the street from me and wearing a nice shirt and nice shoes, and pants that went well with the shirt. He was crying but it didn’t bother me.

People cry for so many reasons. It was always easy to make them cry one way or another, even if you didn’t mean it. That wasn’t any of my business. Spring had come all of a sudden, jumping out its hiding spot in the snowdrifts. Or maybe it had been up in the grey winter clouds. As I placed foot after foot, I thought about the leaves and grass and everything in between. I didn’t care about why the man in nice clothes had been crying. I would never see him again. Hell, this wasn’t even my neighborhood. I was just walking to see the spring in its green glory.

I made my way all the way down Elderberry, and turned left onto Silver. Silver was where the city started to pull on the suburbs, a cruel uphill that made you feel it in your legs. When I was small I had raced cars down the sidewalk with my neighbor. I’d never done it on Silver but I bet you could’ve just given the car a little push and watched it roll all the way down. And Silver was long, too- it reached from near the end of 16th all the way to the old schoolhouse. I remembered hearing a story about an insurance man who had been robbed on Silver, but I wasn’t scared. You can’t scare a man who has miles of green and blue skies and an ocean of air. I had to rest halfway up, but I wasn’t scared.

>>7256163
I was looking for a word that described a cathedral-like serenity and it was the best I could come up with.

I was walking on the street the other day when I saw her. Her beautiful long and dark hair, her angelic face bathed in a sea of milky tonality with a boat of black frames and thin glasses laid between two tender and dark brown isles.
When I lost sight of her in the crowd, I knew that she was from a place whose name meant "beginning", because that first meeting was the beginning of a love story that I will have the pleasure to tell you some other day.

pls critiq8

>>7256201

>>7256201

>>7256201

>>7257086
>>7257132
>>7257191
Nice

>>7257081
>describing your beloved as boat-like

>>7257447
She was a good boat.

>>7254698
Once again, words fail you.

To such an extent that you imply murder in response to criticism - your inability to handle condemnation after teetering your very own ejaculated criticism upon others is a testament to you as a worthy poster.

>>7254782
I'm not going to bother. If you want to disregard compliments I received it's no skin off my shoulder.

Reinhardt, the church custodian, stood in the front lawn gazing down at the shattered remains of a beautifully painted glass window. It was not yet light out and he stood there in the predawn darkness like one of the oak trees-- not making a movement-- but wearing a woolen cap, gloves and high boots instead. He was bleary-eyed and tired, and his damp nostrils sniffed the cold air. Reinhardt glanced around in search of a solution to this inexplicable problem, but there was none to be found. His naturally slow and deliberate movements in the early mornings were made even more slow and awkward by his thick coat and sleepiness. What was he to make of this? Who had done such a thing? He tried to work out the cause through his mind, but he was too cold and tired to think of anything except the nice warm bed he had abandoned. He suddenly saw himself there in that bed; still tucked up, sleeping and dreaming happily, with the heavy covers barely covering his chin, and his hands and feet buried deep beneath the sheets. This problem would have to be taken care of later, it was too lonely and dark right now.
Reinhardt shuffled along absentmindedly, unlocked one of the side doors and headed for the custodian's supply room. The empty halls of the church echoed with the carpeted thuds of his boots and the hefty jingling of keys at his belt. He briefly made his way through the hall without turning on the lights, but it was okay-- he could recall every section of the church even in the dark. In the supply room, he brushed the sleep out of our eyes, tugged at his sleeves and removed his coat (but kept the layers of sweaters on). Tossing the coat aside, he immediately made himself coffee with lots of milk or sugar. Reinhardt did all this and hurried along to begin the day’s work. He had already forgotten about the fragments of shattered glass.
He waddled down the church aisles and, though he was a big man, he felt small in the very empty space of the silent church. He noticed that the parishioners had decorated the chancel and nave of the church with plastic fruits. He crossed the empty nave and stood before the altar and glanced down at the fake berries and wondered whether they were edible things. He was tempted to find out for himself. He bowed down and being naturally unable to resist, he plucked one of the grapes and took a small bite. He chewed it slowly and cautiously until his face stopped in disbelief at how very hard and inedible the object was. He spit it out and tossed the partly chewed grape that was wet with saliva into the waste bin. Reinhardt closed his eyes and shook his head. He wouldn't let it happen again.

>>7257606
Sour

>>7256201
>It was green in the spring, so much greener than the winter.
There must be a better way to say this. "So much greener than the winter" says effectively nothing, as winters are not green at all. You can be talking about the visceral effect that such greenness has on the viewer, but if that's your angle just say that instead (After the long winter, the greenness of spring [reaction you want to evoke]).
>I was walking down the street and it was so very green
"I was walking down the street" isn't a very good point of revelation for the character. Even just saying something like "I first noticed how green it was, on Elderberry street[...]" is a little more evocative.

It gets better after that, but you could generally use a tweak to the language used.

>>7255936
>illuminating a portrait
I'd go with "Terminating on a portrait" or something like that. Illuminating feels redundant.
>The portrait, like the room, was large in its dimensions
The Vonnegut school of writing would say "Large in its dimensions" is three useless words-- I don't really care about that but you should take greater pains to tell us how large, and especially how large it feels rather than how large it is. I know what you're going for, what with the (fairly archetypal) image of a great vacuity of wall sucking your focus in onto a big old portrait in the center, but since we know what to expect from the imagery you need to detail elsewhere.
>It pictured a smiling man, standing behind a desk with a hand outstretched in welcoming.
Fairly basic, it's not bad but I'd be more inclined to put the verbs right on the subject and go "Its subject held out a welcoming hand and smiled from behind his desk" or something like that, which is probably what you'd hear from the Stunk and White stans.
>The dark-haired man had the warm features of one who had lived to see their dreams fulfilled.
Something about this feels like a premature ejaculation to me. It's a good description but I don't know if you can just open up with it as the first thing you learn about a person. Unless you were to be a cheeky bastard and have the immediately comparable man show the exact opposite emotion in real life, but I don't get that picture.

>>7257606
Self shilling after having your story about a magic kabbalah soldier was disregarded?

My sides, they are gone.

>>7258631
Haven't posted a story ITT, friendo

>>7257081
> I knew that she was from a place whose name meant "beginning", because that first meeting was the beginning of a love story that I will have the pleasure to tell you some other day.

Dangerously cheesy. But if written in character for someone who's a lovestruck youth with pretentions of poetic skill, it's pretty spot on.

>>7256163
Sanctity?

>“LICE ARE THE ULTIMATE SYMBOLS OF SUBSTANCE. THE ONES WE FIND AND GRASP WE LEAVE BEHIND. THE ONES WE NEVER SEE AND NEVER HOLD, WE CARRY WITH US. UPON FINDING A SUBSTANCE, MAN’S INHERENT NATURE IS TO DEFILE, TO DESTROY AND TO RAPE IT BY FORCING AN IDEA UPON IT. TO MAKE ILLUSIONS OUT OF THE REAL AND NATURAL PURE AND BEAUTIFUL. THE WORLD MUST BE AS UNCAUGHT LICE. EVERYTHING IMPORTANT FOUND FROM HERE ON UNTIL 3.6 TRILLION BILLION YEARS IN THE FUTURE WHEN THE HANDS CLASP AND THE UNIVERSE CLOSES TOGETHER, MUST BE KEPT SAFE FROM THE GRUBBING HANDS OF THE CRUDE UNISON MIND OF MANKIND. IT MUST BE LOCKED IN A NAKED IRON BOX AND KEPT SAFE. SAFE AND PURE.”
>“That is not for us to say, those are the thoughts of the pallid masked one, the one we do not name.”
>“OH YES, OH YES, I WAS MERELY MAKING INTRODUCTIONS, MERELY TELLING TALL TALES, MERELY LETTING MR PHFAALL KNOW MUTUAL ACQUIANTANCES, MUTUAL FRIENDS. BUT I WON’T SAY HIS NAME NO NO NO THAT IS HOW HE CRAWLS IN, HOW HE DEVOURS AND DEFINES EVERYTHING BY HIMSELF. THE BANDAGED ONE WILL NOT PAINT WITH HIS PAINT INSIDE MY HEAD, OH NO.”
>“Mr Phfaall has not yet been introduced to the pallid masked one, nor I believe, his bandages. We should not speak of things that have not yet come to pass.”
>“YES YES, IT WILL RUIN AND SPOIL THE SURPRISE AND THE FEAR”

>“Once, I read a fairy tale.” The Tyrant begins “The Prince wants to marry a Princess. But her father, The King, does desire such, so he sends his daughter away to live in a tower on the middle of a small island, accompanied only by her 7 handmaidens and a small dog. The Prince hears of this, and in his fury he puts the country to the torch. He kills The King, takes to the throne, and every seventh man in the realm is hanged. The Princess, meanwhile, sits in her tower on the island with her 7 handmaidens and her little dog. The first year; they survive on their supplies. The second; they eat the dog. The third; the eldest of the handmaidens takes her own life, and the others sustain themselves on her flesh. Each new year, a handmaiden is sacrificed for the survival of the others, until only the princess remains. She escapes, and finds herself back on the shore. She sees the men hanging from the trees, she sees her father’s naked skull, mounted on the castle wall. And do you know what The Princess does?”
>The Tyrant flashes a big alligator smile and stares me straight in the eyes.
>“She marries The Prince”

He stood there, outside her bedroom door listening to it all. The moans, the fluids, the sound of her cousin's meat wrench hitting against her beloved one's pale skin. The skin that he so carefully caressed during happier times was being ravaged by someone who shared a blood bond with her.

"Your eyes are so beautiful" he heard her say on the other side of the door. He turned his head towards the mirror in the end of the corridor and looked at his own eyes. Two deep and dark brown eyes with a terribly saddened expression stabbed into his very soul. He felt the despair, the fear and the loneliness of having lost the only girl he could call "love" but not only that; he had lost her to a guy whose only redeeming quality was the slightly blue tone in his eyes.

Memories of his hand holding hers flew through his mind, memories of the sweet-flavored kisses, memories of that one time they skipped school just so they could stare at the starry sky that preceded dawn and made out like two lovestruck teenagers. It was time for him to let go of those memories, but he couldn't, he didn't want to, but he HAD to. As a result of this mental fight where reality clashed his sword against the shield of the past, tears began to flow down his face. Tears that he had saved for six years, tears that he had not shed when his little kitten was mauled to death by the neighbour's dogs, tears that he had not shed when he was beaten to an almost-dead state by his classmates back in middle school. They were released as if they were coming out of a faucet. He fell asleep on the floor and dreamed.

He dreamed of buildings made of flesh and viscera, cars made of guts and bowels, people made of meat chunks and decomposed organs. He saw how his very own flesh decayed right before the only eye he had left and his poor rotting body was helplessly sprayed on the bloody sidewalk. It was not a nightmare, no; it was the reality he was currently living in, and he had to accept it. He was woken up by the cousin's footsteps. "'Sup fucko, Mary said you should give her a call when you stop being a lil' bitch." He stood up and wished he had never woken up from his dream into this bloody nightmare.

All that stood in the entrance of the building. Oh, water, food, sports, family, and my pale skin. Love, family, flushed skin, and they share a happy time in your life.
"The eyes are beautiful." He said he heard the other side of the door. I see the glass at the end of the tunnel. Two brown eyes, pierced his heart. However, it is not afraid to lose it in the name of life, you come to the music a little blue eyes and a private "afraid of love."
A dance school in the morning air with one hand on his conscience and remember to warn -edyer cardboard tin hit as if it requires it to be, you can taste sweet kiss. This memory came time to leave, but I think it is not. The war is war, and especially to protect the water, you can start streaming down his face. He said his dogs were injured and six years of life will wipe away the tears, and it teaches the history of the land in particular, in school, do not tear the cats were killed, was beaten to death, he said . They are located in the muscle. He died in the sleeping area.
And your dream car, intestines, feathers and food, it is a rich man. Body, spraying the leaves decay estrangement seen before the collapse of the way. It's not a dream, is now. He hypertension. Whore "friend, tulip, Mary, of this. What is looking for fun" "But it's hard to sleep with a smile and looking forward.

>>7258739
Why green text?

>I wake up early Saturday morning to hear my glasses ringing against my end table. I blink convulsively for six seconds, trying to get my eyelids to open and stay open, before slipping them on and answering the call.
>"Hey, are you on your way?" It's Sadie. I look at my wrist and see the time projected in crisp Avenir Neue. Disregard my first sentence. I wake up at 2:15 Saturday afternoon...
>"Sorry, I'm running late. There was this toddler hanging off a fifth-story balcony and I just could not miss the chance to get a video of the landing at 3000 fps."
>"Get your ass to Cafe Duxelles in 10 minutes or I'm going to order for you." With a click the call window to my left snapped shut. My goal was to be out the door in under two minutes, so I just pulled on a pair of jeans and set my t-shirt skin to Pollock Pastel to camouflage the mustard stains. I would realize as I was running there that I hadn’t had a hot dog in three months. Quick thinking told me I could cut out the 45 seconds it takes to brush my teeth by using mouth wash. Two minutes later I had emptied the kitchen cabinets onto the counter and was rinsing my mouth with a bottle of vanilla extract.
>I arrived at Cafe Duxelles at 2:30 with Commissioner Gordon in tow. For the record, Commissioner Gordon is cyber pet, more specifically he was the first pokemon I had ever raised to level 100 as a kid, back when they didn’t even have rudimentary AI. Sadie loves animals, and her haptosis is bad enough that she can feel his fur when she petting him, so bringing him along was as much a calculated act of damage control as it was me taking him out for a walk. When I sat down, Sadie had that look on her face that said “I’m not mad at you, just disappointed.” IT was generally accepted fact Sadie would make a better dad than I would. Then again, her dad was a pharmacist and mine got arrested for jerking off onto a photocopier. On her plate was a half-eaten salad of heirloom tomatoes, watercress and some kind of cheese I could recognize but not spell or pronounce. Mine had a slab of real salmon coated with toasted almonds. “Is this the most expensive thing on the menu?” I asked.
>“They had a lobster bisque, but you aren’t allergic to anything in it.”

stop with the undeclared articles and pronouns you crazy teenagers

>>7261199
Bad habbit.

>>7261412
>I wake up early Saturday morning to hear my glasses ringing against my end table. I blink convulsively for six seconds, trying to get my eyelids to open and stay open, before slipping them on and answering the call.

You slip your eyelids on?

>>7263927
glasses.

>>7261497
You're not my dad. YOU CANT TELL ME WHAT TO DO.

>>7263997
Then fix your sentences.

>>7260774
Amazing.
Where did you learn to write like that?

>>7260774
personally not a fan of this. The mix of ambiguous metaphor and train of thought writing rushes you through a lot of images that aren't very clear. Not bad though

I'm trying to write something along the lines of Wicked for a less appreciated childhood tale. I'm a little nervous building on someone else's work so please don't be too harsh with the judgement

My name has been Willy J. Wonka for 91 years as of today, and at this point I’m fairly certain it’s going to stay that way. Sadly, it seems even the epilogue of my life is coming to a close. I’m not all that unhappy about it, I had a great run, but as always happens to people around this point in their lives, I’m starting to feel the weight of my regrets.
Now, there are a lot of things people seem to end up regretting. Missed opportunities, lost loves, humiliating talent show performances, and so on. Personally, what I find I regret most is that I never had the chance to be the target of a scandalous exposition by an esteemed documentary maker. It’s all the rage among reclusive billionaires these days. The Koch brothers have had them, Rupert Murdoch has had one, and Steve Jobs has a new one coming out every few months and he’s too dead to even enjoy it. I for one, do not want to miss out on my own public scandalization, so I’ve decided to cut out the middle man and spill the jellybeans. Hopefully as you read along, you’ll come to know a little more about me. Preferably, it will be more than you’ve even wanted to know.

I was born in 1924 to Wendy and Wilbur Wonka in a small suburb about two kilometers south of Cardiff. My memory on this matter might be a bit hazy however, as every time in my life I have tried to retrace my steps I end up somewhere in the middle of the Bristol Channel. My early childhood was very unpleasant as anyone who saw the 2005 film of my famous contest could tell you, though perhaps not as unpleasant was watching the 2005 film of my famous contest itself. For those of you lucky enough not to have seen it, let me give you a short run-through.
My father Wilbur was a strict parent and a dentist by trade, he also had a bad habit of blurring the lines between his home life and work, a trait I’m afraid I inherited. Sweets were banned from our household, an area of space that happened to include the four square meters of space surrounding me. I did not even know what chocolate was until I my sixth birthday when my school teacher gave me a piece as a present. The next day I was moved to a different school but at that point I was already hooked.
When I was nine, I conspired with my friends to sneak off and trick-or-treat for halloween. Sadly, my father noticed my absence, and when my childhood friends walked me home he was waiting. He seized our haul – all of it, not just mine – and tossed our burlap sacks of sugar into the fireplace. My childhood friendships ended on the spot, and soon after I ran away from home.

>>7266370
I really like it. I'm actually upset there's nothing else of it to read.

I feel it captures the dry, yet ever present tinge of humour and sarcasm from the original movie.

>>7266471
Now THAT is a review I'm proud of

>>7266370
I've added some more, hopefully the quality is consistent

My time on the streets was intended to be a permanent solution, but it was not well planned. Oh sure, I earned enough to buy all the candy I could eat doing odd jobs – shoe shiner, paper boy, paper shiner, associate doorknob licker – but the sidewalk was a poor excuse for a bed and I had only brought one change of clothes. After a few weeks, the weather took a cold turn, and I began to miss my mother and my warm, cozy bed. As I walked home I found it rather peculiar that I saw no missing posters with my name on them. I worried whether I would be welcomed home. Oh what a silly child I was. I had no reason to worry about whether or not I would be welcomed home, because when I got there, there was no home left to be welcomed into. Where my home had been – the ground floor of a lazy grey townhouse – there was only an empty space, as if the whole thing had been sawed out and moved elsewhere. The absolute worst part of it was that they took the stairs with them when they left, but not the upstairs neighbors or the flat they lived in.

With no home to return to I sat on the curb and moped to myself. As I quickly learned, moping didn’t take up much of my attention, so being an industrious boy I multi-tasked between moping and eating my last bar of chocolate. As I was picking off the tiny pieces that had stuck to the wrapper, I inadvertently read the words that would change the course of my life forever. Hess Chocolate: the wonderful sweet that’s fun to eat, product of Bavaria. Bavaria, I thought to myself, the name itself sounded sweet and indeed today it still does. To this day I can’t hear the word without picturing a custard-filled pastry with chocolate frosting, which is quite fortunate considering my experiences there. I turned around and walked into the barber shop that had always been next door to my house. The plump old owner whose name I can never remember was beaming when I came in. “Oh Willy my boy, I was wondering when you’d turn up! If you’re looking for your parents, I have their new address written down right here.”
“Never mind that,” I told him. “Do you know where Bavaria is?”
“Bavaria?” he said with the quizzical expression I have come to know in every sane person I meet. “Well, it’s in Germany I’m fairly sure. But why-”
“Thanks!” I said a bit too loudly as I left. It’s a terrible habit I’m glad to have overcome, thanking people. The next day I left my home town by train, never to return.

Now I get in the car. The steering wheel is where I put my hand nd nd— ands. Oh wait. Please Oh my shit “Not again ain ain ain ain ain ain ain ain ain ain ain ain ain ain ain— ain.” She is sitting in the passenger seat look ook ook ook— ooking at me me me me—. She says, Are you loop loop loop loop loop loop— ooping agai gai gai gai— ain ain ain again? I say, “—Y — — — — — —s — N— not now ow ow ow ow— ow, not again, please help it st st st st st stop op op op op op op op op op op op op— stop.” She is leaning across the steering ring ring ring ring ring ring— ringwheel and her hand going behind my head a░
She’s looking at my his face with her eyes all dark and frowned. “Alright now? That better?” she asksed. Her hand is behind my head for some reason, and she lowered it again. She was looked right at me him. “Are you feeling right?” she was askinged him me. “You look confused.” She has her phone in her hand and was looked at it now. She is started to pressing buttons. I’m asked her, “What are you going to startpressingbuttons you going to do?” She presses pressed som░e░ more buttons░é̸̛͡͡ŗ̀r͝͠ǫ̵̛͝ŗ̨:̧͘͢͡░ ̸̢́͠͡s̴c̷͘r̢͞i͟͟͟͝p̴̢͘͟҉t̢͜_̶́͟͠͡m̢͢i̶̢͢͡ś̷̢̡͝s̵̸͢͡í҉͘͢n͢͏g̨̀̕͢_̵̡͏0͟͢͝1̶̨c̴̛x̷̷̶̷͟0͏̸͟͠0̷̡͘͡͠0҉3̸̕6̧͘͢9͏̵͡ and looked back up at him and x̷̷̶̷͟0͏̸͟͠0̷̡͘͡͠0҉ i̶̢͢͡ś̷̢̡͝s̵̸͢͡í҉͘͢n͢͏g̨̀̕͢ her eyelids are all slack, and her eyes were all like empty 1̶̨c̴̛x̷̷̶̷͟ marbles when she lifts her hand, her hand is going behind his my head a░
She was looking at his face with her eyes all dark and frowned. “Alright now? That better?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” Alain said.
Leioza’s shoulders lowered a little. The souls of her eyes dimmed even as they were stuck to his. So she said not to worry about it and looked forward. She asked if he wanted to swap. He said alright. Then they each got out the car and rotated and got back in and they buckled their seatbelts on. She wasn’t talking when she dropped the handbrake and drove back onto the highway with the shrubs rushing low past the windows back in their place alongside the highway.
She drove.

>>7266973
It sucks balls.

bump tbh

>>7266973
>>7266370
>>7261412
>>7260774
>>7258739
>>7257081
>>7258069
bad

>>7260746
cuckboy strikes again! another shining illumination on the secret life of cucks

yr lifetimes nd lack'owit haf flailed to smother th empiddinezz of ye idoleogy

A year ago I wrote much like now to a girl she was very pretty for a girl her eyes a blue, cold boundless ocean: slippery and wet and cold. Tumultuous tides torn by ripples of life within, bare abyss shielded under nautical twilight. Depths extend below to pits of darkness impenetrable, but still life stirs and still life breathes. I would not look within. They are not accustomed to light; they are not pretty to behold. They are horrible behemoths that shamble in living death; monsters of the dark ocean floor unaware: crude, disfigured faces calmned by ignorance. Their life is wrapped in iron chains, and they are happy ugly little creatures. But here we swim in her eyes, those blue exposed oceans lit up by a setting sun, so far above the depths where writhe those hopeless creatures. A sorrowful storm is at sea: the tides churn not as they succumb to silence: the salt saturated by livid fervor taints the sullen and cold water. It is so cold here. It is freezing. A poor soul would freeze here: first legs, then spine, then heart, then one would drown. In treacherous depths we therefore keep to boats. As deep below there is nothing. Miles of bleak miles of emptiness suffocate the horizon. Perhaps it is the sun that maintains spirit. It warms the body and replenishes the soul and gives hope that far beyond there is land or something that we can find and reach and claim as our own and maybe we will find others there like us and maybe we will love them and maybe they will love us and maybe but the horizon is endless and empty and the ocean is endless and empty except for the frozen monoliths that hide beneath the surface that peak a little but keep their bodies hidden in the dark from each other and the others and their vastness is a private nude sensation that we should not see and do not deserve. But now the sun sets. The sky keeps lit, the seas grow black: below like below they are freezing dark. A horrible creature would be a gift from God to rise from its home and take me to its grave.

>>7271537
I had swum in her eyes and grown seasick. Broken and ashamed, my recourse words. Shifting living words, cut apart and sewn into chimeric fancies that sing songs and viol d’amore to humane graces. Lo, Lord let lyre babble about seablue baubles beneath silkblonde sinew and secrets: screaming secrets but hidden in plainsong and beautiful plainsong that keeps them intact and beautiful, not screamed but whispered with unmoving red. Red, a soft red but a striking red like a rose or a girl’s heart, not too cold but so beautiful in itself: beautiful like the plainsong that binds secrets to our Lord’s lyrical love-song neologisms and beautiful like her seablue oceans wherein sailed the hearts of no doubt a thousand others all captivated by the horizon of life: one look at’ horizon, one look at her eyes and, and all would be known. If the Earth were aware of my image these words would plummet me to its core and the flame within my heart would shoot out through the crust and raise a continent above the ocean and a tear above her eye in not joy or sorrow but revelation. As soon as it is it is not, and disgust would follow because the oceans would be so small, and the creatures beneath would be lost, and the horizon would end, and her eyes and the island would end.

She never read it and that was fine: I didn’t write to her; I wrote to God. When God read those words he smiled and sighed because God is a happy feeling. When God thought he understood because God is a mind untouchable. When God understood he forgave because God is good, and when God forgave my spirit became blessed.

In an interstice, an internecine altercation alters agents at the altar engaged by an agony, now known as the "aegean agon against the asians". Unallied and unalloyed against a game of flagrant gallantry, the gentry's entry entails that any entreaty be treated by betrayal. To rail but royally tomorrow on hoards of moors; us organized in rows and thrown into the throes of a war all aware of our weariness and armoured by amorous rustics with caustic prepossessions and propositions to dispossess us of our disparate dispositions and posit a position of procrustean standing in our miens. Menial men only matter en mass and a mantle amasses as missives addressed to mistresses are missed and misgivings are stressed by a fomentation of fiction of our figures forgetting our


Ah fuck this, its 4am

>>7271539
My god, Its fucking mauve

>>7235931
>http://pastebin.com/yBEEBDVW
Grammar errors and mild clunkiness of the dialogue, with multiple small sentences instead of one longer one (which is what I prefer but is not wrong in any way), is my only issue. Such as "it's" in line 5, which is wrong and very annoying.

Line 20 is publisher-worthy and ready.

>>7242318
Fucking phenomenal
Please go on

>>7271818
This is pretty cool. Makes me wish my vocabulary was developed enough to play with words like this

Here's the beginning of the same story in two different drafts. Could /lit/ tell me which they prefer?

http://pastebin.com/rgy69CF8

http://pastebin.com/xQ6eeFPh

(It's about a NEET)

Let me want for nout but peace’s enflamed tongue

Ocean be my sigh, exhume to fresh tides

So bitter shore crash on rocks

Escape me.

A thrashing betrothed

With evenings cooling spray

A breeze to carry the dirt

Cracking by the crescent

Permanant.

Let the cellar full

of warm light’s brief enlightening

every wave to each a life

a bloom to an endless summer

Glory! Says to glory!

But see him over there

Why does he see only death?

When all he can see is alive?

Blessings be to him who wills learning!

for he shall surely see!

In the meantime.

Let me want for nout.