/lit/ - Literature

Hanging there in the starless night, it boasts of a world known but unseen; A mirror to the light of day, so that the stars of man know the brevity of their days.

Distilled dental grade anesthetic right there.

>wrote this five/six years ago
>tfw it was the last thing I wrote
Here you guise go:
(1/2)

“It shines when it rains and the sun knows nothing about it,” the grey man said gaily in his chair. “The big fire up in the sky is one of those guys whose whole prerogative is to lie in ignorance, you see. Not that he isn’t happy to be a star on-and-off the red carpet, ohnono, but the fact remains that he’s oblivious to the joys of the wet.”
Now you and me,” he leaned through the somber gleam of the roaring fire, “know how it is in reality.” He took a puff on his self-rolled cig and looked deep into the eyes of the young man on the other side of the richly furnished room. He exhaled almost as deeply and contentedly as he had inhaled. The smoke seemed to fly away on wings of eagles. He spoke again. “The rain is life, dear brother, pure unadulterated life which is the blood and breath of every living thing. Even the sun takes part in its elegance, ‘though he knows it not. She—the rain, I mean—seems to be in an unwilling sibling rivalry with her brother, the dry, cursed sun.”
Oscar looked at his friend, so curious was he in his funeral-like suit. Martin was at least twice the younger man’s age, at least he looked it, though you couldn’t be able to tell with his eyes, those eyes that were brighter than the sun it seemed and sparkled even more than his love, the rain, oh Good Lord that dear mistress of his, the Rain. It drummed on the far-off-above roof even now, speckling it rapidly and heavily and very tribal-like, oh yes! it was hypnotizing oh so it was. Martin was also twice of size as Oscar, who in turn was heavier and fatter than his thin waist deceived. Oscar was like one of those stars that are the size of a reasonably-sized bowling ball but which contain as much matter as a small galaxy, boom! there it goes, some day he’ll become even bigger than his starry-eyed friend. But for now, no.
Oscar squawked contentedly, the fire betwixt him and his companion dying down now from a heavenly shadow-banishing power to a thing that turned the gargantuan room into a flickering red-orange-and-darkcorners chamber.

That pretty little face of pretty wretched soul which appears itself in virtual inpersonal space. That undeniable divine hair, eyes, smile - whole body of indescribable appriciation flows through my mind. Litterally one second was enough to fill myself with ecstasy of admiration. In my recent time I have been asking myslef: "What is life for? What is the true point of it?". There is my answer:
- Man's life is strictly for love. That trerrific feeling.

>>9766959
In the failing light his brown eyes shone like rust-red quartz. The fire cracked and popped like a stone in the bowels of some behemoth reptile. Martin, meanwhile, brushed an ash from the knee of his stormcloud-grey pant leg and bit down upon the little stub between his thumb and forefinger. In went the cigarette, nearly eaten it was with the brute force of Martin’s inhale, and by jove! the exhalation could have re-lit that now-sputtering fire. The chair groaned as his massive body settled.
Oscar said: “Dear friend, let us take our leave of this room. Nothing’s to be done for the fire now, I suppose.” The two friends’ eyes seemed to agree. And so, Martin pounced from a sprawl to a stance only some helium-filled feline could accomplish; Oscar heaved his galaxy-filled body up over its too-small feet and together they made their way to the door of the ramshackle hut. They clasped shoulders.
The door opened, and as air escapes into the vacuum of space, in rushed a cold, wet wind. In, in, in, it tumbled and roared. Oscar being the good anchor he was, saved Martin from being thrown into the roaring-again fire and being roasted alive. Likewise, Martin, with some miraculous strength, held the heavy Oscar upon his own two feet. Giving the flames a last look, they turned their backs on their room. Like men thirsting for the water of life itself, into Martin’s domain the two men soldiered.

>>9766956
im laying on the ground not seeing the stars you talk about
nice anon

"Don't you see that life is mostly suffering?"
Her cousin laughs. She’s always laughing.
“What? Are you serious? Of course it isn’t, Charla!”
Charla shakes her head. She doesn’t understand why Chloe won’t listen to her. Chloe’s always been pretty stubborn. She thinks she’s gonna strike it rich in Los Angeles, Charla remembers.
"You do realize that our only guarantees in life are to suffer and die, right? Sensations like pleasure, happiness, and joy are always destined to be fleetingly short. They can also bring their own share of problems. Boredom, frustration, disappointment: these are what make up most of our waking moments, the state all of us return to after whatever good time we have ends."
"I don't agree with any of that. My life's been pretty good. Why wouldn't my children's lives be too?"
"So, if I'm to understand you correctly, you're willing to have children based on how good you think your life is? You just assume theirs will be too?"
"Yeah! What's wrong with that?"
Charla simply sighs into her palm. Chloe reaches over and runs her palm up and down Charla’s back.
“There, there. It’s okay. One of these days, you’ll see things exactly as I do.”
“One of these days, you’re gonna be found in a ditch. Your hellspawn are gonna shoulder the excruciating burden of your hubris.”
Of this exchange, Charla always said that she felt sort of prophetic, for Chloe was found in a ditch after all. The cause of death was rather cliché; she was strangled by the father of her own child barely a few weeks into its life.
At her funeral, all Charla could think was: Was it worth it, Chloe? Was it worth it in the end?
What of her child? The last Charla heard, the baby was living out its days somewhere in Northwestern Ontario.
Just my luck, Charla would always shudder whenever she thought of the girl. She named the fucking thing after me too.

>>9766966
is tha.....is that good?

im asking seriously, i want to know if this is something i can pass around as a legit piece of work.

>>9766987

It looks like the beginning of something pretty good. You got any more to share?

>>9766943
How about "the bottle she dropped too."

How does the light only reach the eye of the details dig into the mind? I don't like the "hate and hunger and stillness" not because I am always opposed to two ands in a list but because in this instance it is trying to communicate a depth and sophistication without trying to find a better way in this specific case. It seems like taking the easy way out because the rest of the writing has also been rather blunt with a few choice 'power words' here and there. Not terrible but very low risk low reward. "Feel it near my skin" do we feel things near to our skin? Same thing about the ending as I said to the double and. I could see some people on here loving this though.
>>9766962
You suffer from the opposite problem. High risk and not seeing rewards. Too many bloated phrases that you just want us to gloss over but which maybe don't make much sense. What is "ecstasy of admiration" is the feeling of admiration really ecstatic? Maybe it is. This would be a part where the reader would need a really good simile or metaphor to actually prove those two words have any business being next to one another.

>>9767001
I've tried to get to the place i was in when i wrote that before, but it always ends in dick. I don't possess the skill to deconstruct the style, so i'm left with a virulent shame at the thought of having written my best as a drugged teenager who had moments prior been thoroughly face fucked by two dental students. I'm working on it though, with all the professional effort of a parking garage attendee.

>>9767033

I know how you feel, anon. Sometimes I end up in the same rut. Best of luck to you. Hopefully it comes out the way you want it to.

>>9767020
9766962 here

Thanks for that, that is translated thing from my language, so i think thats the problem
also i dont feel safe in english, dont know that many power words and my grammar sucks
Any tips how to improve my lit eng language?

>>9767043
Here's to hoping

>>9767045
Besides the spelling errors it isn't terrible. When I say 'power words', I don't necessarily mean advanced words just words that will give us a visual. For me 'wretched' works as such a word. When I think of something wretched I think of some cackling bitch or some Bill Sikes type character. Everything about describing her is just a little too obvious for my taste. There's no real unique word combinations. Saying facial features are "divine" is just a little too on the nose, divine only becomes a useful word in my opinion when you write something like "divine trash" but that specific combination has already been done and it isn't anything close to what you are trying to say. "Man's life is strictly for love" is well said. The ending line "That terrific feeling" is it referring to "love" as that terrific feeling or having the knowledge that life is for love as that terrific feeling? Either way it is a sentence fragment in English and should be "That is a terrific feeling" if you mean to second option. Not everyone is going to agree with me.

Better English is going to come with reading English poetry. Even poetry in translation which people will not like my saying. Rimbaud to English, English romantic poets.

>>9767045
>>9767077
Oh and by the way, do not feel bad. Many native English speakers suffer from this same issue of combining what they think are descriptive and powerful words like "divine" or "ecstasy". Basically trying to figure out "what's the best word for what I want to describe?" but everything ends up being very 'in your face'/'on the nose'/the most expected route and their writing ends up being pretty uninteresting. You are actually somehow avoiding the boredom that those people will produce because you use phrases like "Literally one second" which seems a little juvenile but it's at least interesting and gives the writing a 'voice'. This makes it better.

>>9766943
So much broken imagery without heart or a point. I felt nothing reading it and feel I understood none of what you were going for.

>>9766959
I think you have a talent for good description, you just need to find a subject worth writing about.

>>9766962
What's the point of this?

>>9766969
Have you ever had a conversation like this with someone? The whole thing rings untrue and just a mouthpiece for whatever is on your mind. It is important that your characters have a voice separate from your own if they're to be authentic and better realised. There is also a lot of things like this "She thinks she's gonna strike it rich" -- Okay, why couldn't you work that into the story? This detail would be interesting to add in.

More than anywhere else in the last remaining days of my life I came to the same tall tree which resided in a nearby park not too far away from my home. I couldn't tell you what kind of tree it was. Only that it was quite old, though still healthy for a tree of its size. Over the past year as my condition grew steadily worse I had the pleasure to watch the seasons change. To see the tree in spring, summer, fall, and winter. Finally, now so close to the finish line, I got to see the tree leaves grow strong and green and rich like a full head of hair.


When I first came to the park I came with a knife and a purpose. One by one, with methodical precision, I stabbed my initials into the bark of each tree I could until my knife was blunt and my weak wrists were swollen to the point it hurt to pick up a glass of water.

I felt absolutely nothing when I finally stabbed my name into every tree in the park. I was surprised no one stopped me, but then the reason for that became clear too: nobody wants to get stuck talking to the elderly. But that's understandable, isn't it? Have you ever heard an old mummy-looking old fogey say anything to you of any lasting value? Or anything truly funny? My bet is on, no, you haven't, and that's fine, one generation replaces another and that's all there is to it.

"No one asks questions about getting old. I can understand that. If you're young what good is thinking about death? To be honest I wish someone would ask me what its like because I just have this horrible feeling inside. Like knowing there's a danger ahead which I can see clear as day but everyone else is caught up doing something else. They have no idea it's coming, and I just want to yell at the top of my lungs for them to look out. Be ready. Don't let it creep up on you. Because when it gets you there's nothing you can do to stop it. Nothing except be prepared."

Could someone help me with naming two factions in a fantasy setting?

They live within the same city and are cursed with magic to live together for as long as they exist. But they mostly hate eachother, and are culturally different.

One of them has a dark / black aesthetic and the other has a light / white aesthetic.

Could use help with the naming of the city too.

an octopus
doesn't worry about
how many trips it it will take him
to bring his groceries
inside

>>9767615
>dark / black aesthetic
the black stools

>light / white aesthetic
the white stools

>city
toiletbowlville

Every year around early December, the cold flows down from the Eastern Highlands and floods the Warrington Shire, creeping down from the hills like viscous lava. It’s always on some cloudless winter’s dusk, presaged by a rough gust which makes the gangling pines dance in that crazy way that reminds Dart of the airdancer outside the car wash on Jackson Street. Winter’s arrival is something Dart eagerly anticipates for no reason other than a desire for change—a change that he always bemoans in retrospect. As long summer days shrink and turn sad, Dart decides that the sting of hot bitumen is preferable to the bite of cold tiles, or worse yet, bed socks made wet by a frigid kitchen puddle.

I put this in the last thread and want some more feedback:

This is my first real time writing, and I want to start off on the right foot:
> A low, sputtering drone of machinery stood out. Accompanied by a light clink of a naked flagpole in the wind and repetitious cresting waves vaguely heard to the south-west made for a dreary symphony. A seagull cried out, a redundant reminder of solid matter's minority among the vast liquid and wet wind. The dome above was uniform gray, with illusions of different shades flaring in and out of vision. A brisk walk dockwards went routinely. Thick soupy fog failed to conceal the grand behemoths of stone, who have since time loomed erect against the beating sea. Red and white. Silent sentinels watch over the water, watch in every direction. Watch for the greatest watcher to set westward, initiating their vigil. By these candlelit nights the wayward find their way.
> Three past the hour, the boat arrives late, as was common. Grumbling and grumpy from being awoken from an evening nap, she tethered reluctantly to the dock. Soon, after departure, the solid white mass more violently grumbled across the dark gray liquid, hidden within a lighter gray mist. Unceasing wind fathered fighting waters. The experienced hull knocked and flew, but Joliet had a hardy shell not easily cracked.
> Each leap of the ferry brought a leap of the heart. Not of want or passion, but of uncaring necessity. The heart beat on without desire or fear. The heart beat against the hull of feeling, never breaching. That dark, absorbing tumult below gave a far superior reflection than the most crystalline calm any nation or ocean could boast. It offered a reflection to the very soul, the very heart. A calm wake left by Apollo himself could not stay that water forever. Yet a dock, slightly aloft, stood triumphant and untouchable to the feeble wetness. Likewise, in a life of storm and thunder, the soul became draped in gray, unable to feel sustained hurt nor terror, however also cursed to never feel passion nor love.
> Joliet churned yet. Her low moaning could not overtake the soft gray. Gray seeped into every crevice, into every fiber of being, wresting control of even the body, which could only now stare through engrayed eyes. The gray was repulsive and disgusting, or rather would be had the now preeminent grayness permitted repulsion. Instead, perception and feeling were awash and muffled; drowned by relentless grayness. All desire to reject the numb gray, all thought to tear the grayed eyes from their sockets and gouge grayed ears unto silence, was replaced by dullness and grayness.
> Land approached, and with it another watchman. The engine slowed, gradually giving way to gray. [all i have so far]

https://pastebin.com/j7ytLnSw

Here's mine, the opening scene of a 500-page piece I have been working on. It's unpublishable, autistic shit, but I still want to improve it if I can. Also is this thread for broader advice (such as what plot elements I should keep / remove), or just for prose?

I don't miss her. But talking to her was good.

I don't care for her. But knowing if she's okay would make me happy.

I don't want her. But having her in my life wouldn't be so bad.

I don't need her. But i don't like living without her.

I sometimes think of her. Doesn't mean I still love her.

Tachanka. Some say it’s like a wheelbarrow. Others liken it to a certain carriage of Czech origin. It doesn’t matter really. But when you stand next to one, you realise it’s just a carriage drawn by two horses, with a machine-gun sitting snug inside. The chariots of Ancient Egypt come to mind, their big wheels – the turning spokes of Death – powered by black thoroughbreds. Instead of arrows, there’s repeating rounds of lead. All you need is a couple Blacklegs to man the snug blackened basket. And you’re set, pretty much.

>>9767937
I've definitely read better love poetry. Try "Rapture" by Carol Ann Duffy for inspiration.

>>9766943
Sounds like writing from Sunless Sea.
Presented without context it's nonsensical imagery. Impossible to judge.

I'm working on this short story, but my writing is beyond nightmarish, and I'd love some advice or constructive criticism
here's the doc:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/11PGjOwZLG3Mir8VL4sK6arPd3shiGqI-5ZDfY1IeeJw

>>9768309
I hate to be negative but wow. You're main character is awful, just being a bullied loner isn't going to make us like him. Acknowledging how stupid a name is isn't going to change the fact that it is incredibly stupid. Also, "its red" then what? She just left? You could improve your story tenfold if you main character wasn't a generic "fuck society" archetype and actually had some redeeming qualities. I would honestly start over.

>>9768343
He's going to end up shooting up his school. You aren't supposed to like him

>>9768351
I should at least be interested in him then. The thing is, hes unlikable but also completely uninteresting. I only read past the first page because I felt obliged for some reason. Start with him getting bullied, sympathy points will keep us reading, then develop his views throughout the story, and don't make them so overtly edgy. You're story is shaping up like an edgy middleschoolers revenge against society fantasy. You're writing isn't the worst. You can pull it off, just make the character worth reading about.

>>9768382

Agreed. One of the characters in my novel is a student who goes on a shooting spree herself, but I've made sure to show why she turned from an adorable yinzer girl with a crush on Jaromir Jagr to a coldblooded murderer talking about revolution.

You have to make his descent into madness interesting to read, anon. Consider Humbert Humbert for example.

Fucked in the head? Sure.

But everyone loved to read about it.

Try to find the fine line between overtly edgy and cartoony.

I began my career as a gas station clerk at age thirty-six. I applied and was honest with the fact that I had two college degrees and plenty of work experience, but I was unemployed for the last ten years, I’d been through two rehabs this month, I was capable but unwilling to do physical labor, had fifty grand in defaulted student loan debt, no interest whatsoever in working at a gas station, and was only interested in the job as an attempt to stave off the suicide inducing boredom I’d been experiencing.
The owner, an older man named Dell, asked why I wanted to work at a gas station during my interview. I told him I didn’t, and that I mentioned that on the application. He laughed, wrote something in his notebook, then said I was hired. Later he told me he didn’t care what I said, but out of the ten people who applied, I was the only one who didn’t look like a transient.
He immediately gave me the rundown of how the store functioned, and I drowned out his speech with thoughts of pornography and car accident videos, while I nodded and repeated what he said to make it seem like I was listening. He introduced me to the day shift clerk, an odorous lady with greasy hair who nodded unenthusiastically to me, and proceeded to show me how the cash register worked through pantomime. She didn’t need to as the register was designed intuitively and I thought most animals could probably be trained to use it.
Dell said I started that night, at midnight, and left. The lady, who I came to know for over five years and I never bothered to ask her name, asked why I wanted to work at a gas station. I tried joking, saying I was obviously mentally impaired. She nodded and said nothing more to me, ever again in fact, and we both stood awkwardly in silence for several minutes. This was when I realized she actually was mentally impaired, so I awkwardly left and went home...

>>9767937
You still love her anon, don't lie to yourself. It's healthier to accept that you will always love her rather than living in denial with shitty writing.

Henrietta sat in the corner of the room, muttering incoherently in her honeysuckle sweet voice as Marcus' sorrow filled stare permeated her eye sockets."Yo bitch what's wrong," he said before noticing the slight pricks on her arms as though they were hickies from an overly excited and clumsy vampire.'Dis hoe methed out' pondered Marcus.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/11PGjOwZLG3Mir8VL4sK6arPd3shiGqI-5ZDfY1IeeJw
Is there hope for this or should I just start over?

>>9768597
You already got crit you mong. Why are you posting twice.

>>9768309
The character doesn't really come off to me as being a realistic depiction of a school shooter.

When you look at most school shooters they aren't people who constantly talk about how much they love survival of the fittest and act as though they'll blow up at any second. That's just cartoonish.

One of the major features of almost every school shooter is that they were always quiet, so I would say instead of giving him this "Nothin personnel kiddo" kind of attitude make him where a social mask.

From there you can make more of his shocking comments thoughts rather than actions. It would make it more disturbing as the people who try to interact with him don't know about what he's thinking about them, but we as the reader do.

>>9768874

I agree. You could also try a descent into madness. Light turning into darkness, and no one can comprehend it until it's too late.

Is the second sentence too long to be published?

Not much had changed about the interior of the academy since he'd last set foot there nine years ago. The same walls still needed repainting, the teachers' lounge still stunk of coffee and cigarettes, and the coat hooks were still covered in decades of stickers and glitter and ink and anything else kids used to personalize their tiny bit of property.

Not a crit, but I want people to read a sentence from this piece out for a project. Will critique your piece in return

https://pastebin.com/GNb1JruY

Final product will sound like this (but better)

http://vocaroo.com/i/s1wv1ejrcsnU

Please record whatever one you want and send me a vocaroo. It'll be in a taktak.nu video and I'll let you know when it's out

>>9767670
>viscous lava

mate we already know that lava is viscous cheers

>>9768452
thatsthepoint.jpg

>>9766932
Posted this in the last thread. Just a taste. I upload the whole thing if anyone wants more.

>>9769125
wrong
https://www.universetoday.com/31387/lava-viscosity/

cheers though mate

I'd still like some feedback on this.

There's something less than human, that's walking down the street.
It's hiding it's emotions, from everyone it meets.
You'd think this creature tragic, but it feels quite content.
It lacks the means to regret, the time alone it's spent.
Daily it meets it's demons, but takes hardships in stride.
It's awfully hard to break down, what's been broken inside.
It cannot feel temptation, there's nothing that it wants.
Envy and greed escape it, it has no wealth to flaunt.
The vain would call it worthless, the wise call it a fool.
It calls itself a witness, to people turning cruel.
If all lives need a purpose, a goal for each to crave.
Are you driven by success, or are you now it's slave?
It's something less than human, or maybe something more?
If it's life lacks a meaning, what am I living for?

>>9767615
You could play with the Blanc/Black meaning. They are opposite words that come from the same origin.

Here's my shitty french writting: https://pastebin.com/4HYRU6QU

What do you think /lit/? Just the opening section of a short story about a group of lay-people who fall for a phone lotto scam on their lunch break, thinking they've won a major share in a national casino chain. They hurry up across the city to claim prize, doubt sets in, they end up waiting for something that'll never come, etc.

Will do crit for crit.

Wrote this 4 months ago. Just a little flash fiction. Any feedback would be appreciated.

>>9770248
In the third paragrah, the time mention feels out of place. Rework the sentence, like:

At eleven forty-four, Jack, cheking his watch constantly, thought soberly yadayada.

The swear feels out of place too, but if it's a reccurent thing in the full version then that's just fine.

I know exaclty how it feels like to dart a city street like this, and you make it sound fun, I like that.

The tux part is yet another mention of how this day is a great day for them. I hope that, in the full version, you keep on lingering on how this very moment is a lifechanging thing in their mind, just like you're doing. Good luck, it's a good read desu and I would enjoy reading more in a pastebin.

I wrote the french stuff, but if you don't speak french that's ok, I still want to read more of your story.

>>9770282
Am I reading a police report? So stoic.

>>9770292

I'm guessing that isn't a compliment. I will say that rereading this now, I see a lot of room for reworking certain sentences, but I like the distance in the tone, which I think is making it seem "stoic".

>>9770248

I like the structure and your character building here. There are a few sentences I would revise or remove. Not sure if I like the "And what a time it was" - I kind of like the grand renewal as the end of the paragraph.

You also used the word "strode" twice in this passage.

Overall, its good. The voice is coherent, it feels realistic.

I'd like to know if this is a good opening for a story, or if I should open in on something better:

Whenever I looked into the mirror, I saw my father’s eyes.

I'm not quite sure when I first made the connection between my eyes and his, but there was once a time where I couldn't even remember an occasion in which I passed a mirror and didn't discover that part of him staring back at me.

I always admired my father, so one could imagine the absolute empowerment that overtook me each time I caught a glimpse of my reflection. One also might be able to imagine the devastation I felt on the night he died.

fair trade deals are the name of the game, critique mine and ill do yours.

The Masochist

I want to feel my guts eviscerated,
My eyes plucked from their sockets and squished
My mind seems consumed by self-hatred,
Oh go ahead and add this to the list.

My lips filleted open, left bloody and raw,
My fingernails removed slowly one at a time,
You’d want the same if you saw what I saw,
I deserve to be punished for all of my crimes.

My skin should be twisted, sliced and torn
The flesh underneath boiled down to bone,
Don’t let anyone try to cry or mourn
We’ve got to do this on our own

Who knows why I’m like this, guess I’m cursed,
So what are you waiting for? Do your fucking worst.

Would really appreciate any comments whatsoever on this. It's the opening paragraph of a short story I've submitted as a writing sample to a creative writing seminar at my university, taught by a reasonably acclaimed novelist. Still waiting on whether I get into the course or not.

>>9770893
I kind of hope that you're not actually trolling

She had skin made of a pale porcelain, soft angular cheeks, and dark blue eyes that were bright towards the center like frost building on a deep puddle. Jet black hair flowed past her shoulders that curled towards her at the bottom. She was a combination of things that I could only describe with cliche terms like divinity or purposeful. When she spoke, her voice broke through years of my built up endurance towards anger and depression and I hated her for it. In the moment I wanted to break her nose and stain her face with purple bruising. Maybe then I could stand to look at her without wanting to cry. Maybe then I wouldn't want to scream at her "What gives you the right to make me feel like anyone could tolerate me?".

>>9770914

You got any actual criticism or...?

>>9770893
haha poop

>>9770893
I liked it actually, like the fact that he's thinking about his shit while waiting for his date is very humanizing, also the detail on his boring ass job is good

This is a small part of an overarching narrative. I think I could really use some criticism before I press on.

>>9770951
It's perfect dude, turn it in.

I'm beginning the prologue of a story, and I'd like to know if it's going well so far.
Here's the link:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-B52TIMPCSZ9fxZLIrA2kOK2JSjiGrho_viQiL1H840
Any constructive criticism is appreciated.

>>9771033
Quite enjoyable but unless it got particularly innovative from there, I'd need you to stop writing about the sweater to hold my interest

>>9768197
>>9768452
Thank you both for reading it all. That was my first ever attempt at wtiting anything.
I'll read the poetry thanks.

>>9768351
>You aren't supposed to like him
what if you LIKE him and he end up like this

>>9770932
OH MY GOD I KNOW THAT GIRL EXCEPT SHES BLONDE

>>9769677
It's pretty good, but in my opinion, if you changed some of the last lines it would look even better.
I really liked it. This is one I'd expected to be found published in a book.

>If all lives need a purpose, a goal for each to crave. Are you driven by success, or are you know it's slave?

At the beginning you were talking about this "less than human creature", and these lines feel like a change of topic, as you're not longer talking about it. Maybe if you make them talk about the "creature", it would fit perfectly in the text.

>If it's life lacks a meaning, what am I living for?

Here you end by talking about yourself, what am *I* living for, when you've started the sentence with "If *it*'s life lacks a meaning", and you've have to decide who are you talking to. It can be a question to the reader, so it makes them think, or maybe about the "creature", even it can be a question for yourself, but you need to define that clearly.

>>9766943
The Tryst
Tragic Romanticism
3097
General impressions, criticism of style, all welcome.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Bq-fN2Zuhq7XguK3MnniD0IgYwAcG6s5lQ_yo5TGu8A/edit
Sample first paragraph:He arrived into the dimly lit foyer, the stench of alcohol on his lips. Solemnly and slowly he hung his dreary coat. He grazed his hand across it. Rough, dry, bumpy with lint. This was no way to present himself. He had been lucky enough to be invited to such a distinguished event and yet he still disappointed his peers. Appearance is everything; that is the law of business and even life itself. What does it matter to feel when you can fake it just as much? He wasn't a professional nor as suave as his peers. He imagined them now, at the backyard of the wide expanse that was this mansion, underneath the yellow lights, brows shaded and teeth gleaming, grinning at some obscure joke told in such elegant accents, their forms intermingling until they became indistinguishable and eternal. No, he wasn't professional nor suave and he could not fake it. A woman should've dressed him, but he had no wife and he could not live with his mother at such an age.

I'm writing a scene for a story, and I was wondering if I could have some critique on it?

A hand collided with my shoulder, pinning me to the lockers I had been walking beside. I writhed under the iron grip of whoever decided to grab me, but my lanky figure failed to do me justice.

The boy I had been unlucky enough to encounter, a boy whom I didn't even know, towered over me. Our eyes met for a brief moment before he raised an unforgiving fist and extended it to meet my nose. My nose began to bleed almost instantly, as it wasn't long before I tasted iron.

During the beginning of freshman year, I figured other students might see my dilemma and be compelled to help. I soon learned passers-by preferred to laugh or simply watch instead.

"Faggot!" the boy chortled. "Why don't you cut that hair, huh? Does your boyfriend like it like that?" He grabbed a lock of blonde hair from the top of my head and tugged. A crowd had formed behind him, the majority uncontrollably laughing at each comment he made.

Instead of fighting back, I allowed my mind to wander. This was a common technique I used when it was clear I couldn't win. It wasn't very good for my physical being, but mentally, it took me away from whichever pimple-faced senior that had decided to use me as a human punching bag.

I imagined pulling out a shotgun and pointing it at the unnamed boy who decided to target me today. I pictured him letting me go, apologizing profusely, and attempting to back away. I imagined pulling the trigger.

Back in reality, my assailant continued to have at it. Out of all the beatings I'd received throughout the past two years, this just might have been the worst. Even in the darkest situations, I tried to be positive, but I couldn't see my face totally recovering from this. In between punches, I caught glimpses of others watching intently, some even smiling.

In an attempt to preserve my face, I once again pushed against the arm holding me down, failing miserably. Over the hallway's ambience, I had no trouble hearing the sickening crack of my own nose.

>>9770893
Of all the things I've read in this thread, this is the best by a large margin. Ironic given the subject of the passage. I would love to read the rest of this short story.

Man I hate this. Been banging my head against a wall for a long time now, got some flow finally and there's this.

Now I open it and go to start again and all of a sudden the read through is painful. I hate this part, everything I write eventually makes me cringe, at that point I post it here and usually most posters agree.

Anyway I'm only 1000 words in and so I'm procrastinating/looking for validation/being a masochist tell me how shit I am.

https://pastebin.com/5vVu1rUs

>>9771022

When I look in the mirror I see my father's eyes.

I don't know when I noticed him but soon I couldn't pass a mirror that didn't contain him. And of course it was him there, I admired the man, think of the strength he gave me being so ubiquitous, and think of the way I felt when he died.

I was awake when the Police knocked. Fixed to a horror movie, focused like a predator in Dad's armchair, my bed-time forgotten. I jumped at the sound of them and would have screamed if Mum hadn't been sleeping.

I turned the movi off and darkness submerged me. The doorbell rang, more knocks followed.

>>9770932

Save that, go and read some more, come back in a year and read that, proceed to feel the appropriate amount of shame and then grow as a person. Or else repeat the steps.

This is a small section of the first chapter. I think I could really use some criticism before I press on.

>>9770893

Maybe a bit too much verbiage when you're explaining the cafe to us, from what I'm seeing it really doesn't matter what it looks like, I feel like the moment you tell us he's at a cafe and he's under a canopy that's all we need to know, we know what's going on. The way you tell us is not so bad but feels sort of like you're aware your own slightly above average skill (not being a cunt aren't we all?) and you're taking a few bits of scenery as an opportunity to let us all know.

The parts about the shit make me think you've read some DFW recently, or you're feeling like frankness for its own sake is just going to beneficial. Again like the parts about the scenery I can't see a reason for it, it feels pretentious, like "Whoa this'll really shock the squares man!" but I'm thinking maybe this guy's autistic or obsessive compulsive by the third mention so maybe that's how you're telling us in which case I got it.

Anyway I liked it mate, keep in mind I'm just a shit kicker, take whatever I say with salt.

Made a shitty poem:

I feel ashamed for loving you.

It comes and goes in waves, and when I think it's done it knocks me over again.

I'm an imposter. A shell. You deserve better.

And you got it. You got it all and everything was perfect.

But I see your eyes glaze over. Your mouth twisted in a frown.

and I wonder

if I dared unmask myself

would you come to me?

and let the world crack in half.

>>9771825

Posting from my phone so I will give you a few short rewrites, greentext is your work revised by me.

>Civil war is coming soon. It was enough to send a shiver down Gawain's spine...

No need for "those thoughts", it's in italics, the reader can guess what you're doing, plus you tell them it's a thought when you say it makes him shiver. And there's no need for "a shiver of fear", again we get it, don't waste words.

>The flames lit the chamber.

Flames are bright, we know that, you can comment on the clarity if you feel it's necessary but again remember to keep things clean, remember the reader doesn't want everything told to them, part of the fun of reading is putting it together.

>From when the king stormed the castle, he told himself, only years ago, could the castle sustain another battle?

Here a main take away should be: had. Be careful of this. Had is dangerous for new dangerous, it takes us out of the action and serves no purpose in many cases, try watching some YouTube videos about "passive voice".

Any resources on improving one's writing?
Stuff people here have used.

>>9772127

Read and write

He came to the park with a knife and a purpose. With methodical precision he stabbed his initials into the bark of each tree until his knife was blunt and his wrists were swollen. I found him resting on a park bench. He was easy to spot from a distance. He wore a puffy black rain coat even on a hot day. I approached slowly, spotting the knife in his right hand. Both his hands were trembling from arthritis. I sat beside him. Further along a community officer road his bike in from the park gates, cycling round the concrete path on his daily route. Stanley had made a good show of ignoring me up to this point, but then he turned to face me, looking at me from beneath heavy brows, his thin wrinkled lips making a sulking gesture.

“You’re not going to try and take it from me then?” he said.
I shrugged, “You do whatever you want.”
He sniffed, and for a moment I was distracted by how many white hairs were protruding from his nostrils. He held the blunt knife out for me to take.
“Go on then.” he said. I took the knife, wary of the community officer who could come cycling by at a moments notice. I chucked the knife over my shoulder where it landed somewhere in a large bush. I said, “You’re having a fucking laugh, aren’t you?”

Stanley laughed chokingly with the flem making a hacking sound from the back of his throat. A few seconds later the community officer eased to a stop in front of us.

“Have either of you seen any kids playing with knives?”
Stanley’s face stretched, his turky-neck wobbling as he shook his head.
“Should we leave here?” I said, feigning worry.
The officer sighed, “No, you’re alright. Every bloody tree has been marked with an ‘SB’ the little bastards have been doing it all week. Alright, have a good day.”

The officer rode off out of the park, the moment he was out of sight I could hear Stanley chuckling.

Continued here -> https://pastebin.com/58uwECxG

>>9772153
You should learn how paragraphs work first.

"Much of my life is spent studying the rich cultures of these various worlds, the complex languages they communicate in, the local customs which one should obey if they wish to ingratiate themselves to another people. With this great love of learning, the overwhelming passion I possess for the various threads that make up this great patchwork of our somewhat rotten Universe, with all this vast knowledge I have attained, it is asked of me that I use all of this to destroy these world's. To sow mistrust, deceit, paranoia, betrayal."

"That's one way of looking at it I suppose" remarked Ekko, proving to be ever the optimist.

"It's the only way of looking at it. Any other is merely an attempt to reconcile our dishonour with our conscience. We lie to many people, Daggerhand, but to none more so than ourselves."

Ekko proceeded to take another swig at his jug of rum, recognising that any attempt to interrupt Ildric was futile, as he had entered into that state men often do when they finally reveal their true feelings on a topic they have suppressed for so long. He was going to have to feign enthusiasm for the conversation, which he realised was going to ruin his evening.

"Ah, yes. Yes indeed. All men eventually reach a crossroads where they must sacrifice one principle in order to save another", replied Ekko, having no idea what such a statement actually meant, but his weak contribution served to soften the tension of one man pouring his drunken meanderings to another.

Ildric gave a half-grin.

"Norrengard's finished, one way or the other".

Ekko, erring with more caution than his distressed colleague, gave a quick glance to his surroundings before committing himself. Nobody in the vicinity had a clue as to the magnitude of events they were discussing.

>>9772127
stephen king- on writing

>>9772133
If you're not happy with your work, change it.

Funny story, I've actually cut and pasted excerpts of stories that I've actually had published on here. Nobody has even commented on any of them.

>>9771806
I appreciate the criticism man but I can't exactly take anything from it if you're not at all constructive in the least.

>>9772348
I've come to notice that two types of posts are often skipped over here. Those that are good, but unrelated to the interests of the board/posters. And those that are really, really bad.

Talk about a coin flip.

>>9772127
Struck and White.
The Tao of Writing.

Otherwise constant practice--constant searching for symbolisms, metaphors, ideas, characters, metric foots, aphorisms, monologues, etc. Compare your shit to great writers and see where they are better than you. Learn from your mistakes and keep looking for the best ways to present the ideas to wish to covey and/or the stories you wish to tell.

Took me a few years of constant practice, but I'm finally writing poetry with a fair amount of skill. Though I'm still not at level with like Prufrock or Inferno, when I switch between reading one to one of my works I'm actually happy with how well they hold up structurally. Which is my way of lastly saying never give up if writing is what you truly wish to do. You'll get there, it just takes time.

>>9771896
Bad advice to be honest. Hope he doesn't follow your advice

>>9771832

Damn, thanks. You're pretty much spot on– the story and style are pretty Wallace-derivative. I'll think about cutting some description; the general justification for it is that it juxtaposes with the shit sentences nicely. As for "aware of your own slightly above average skill," I don't know about that (I've basically never written creatively), but it's true I definitely like and take a lot of inspiration from writers who make it clear how much smarter they are than you– Wallace, Nabokov, etc.

The guy is OCD, or something like it. The shit sentences serve a few purposes:

1. Shit gags are easy, and I like the juxtaposition of shit and kinda pretty description

2. It's a writing sample, (mildly) shocking seemed like a way to stand out.

3. OCD/ internal state compared with external one. The eventual point of the story is that John meets this girl (not quite a date– girl just needs someone to talk to about her life collapsing in a gag-filled but hopefully also tragic way), and although his exterior state is perfectly compassionate/sincere he's internally obsessed with mental games, the last time he's taken a shit, etc.

Anyway, thanks a lot for the feedback.

>>9772541

Yeah, that's what I've found too. Actual good and bad stuff is ignored, but mediocre, meandering purple prose bullshit is often praised, probably because that's what most of lit is capable of writing.

Didn't know how to end this desu.

--

Miraba al viejo tirado en la cama y pensaba que los últimos años que el doctor había prometido parecían cada vez más últimos días y que la cálidad de vida que había pedido parecía cada vez más irreal, más imposible, más fuera de mi alcance. Puras ficciones de hospital.

Y salía de la fétida habitación impregnada de un agudo aroma a meados, tristeza y tiempo perdido sintiendome vació, consumido por el vacuo de mi propio arrepentimiento, compartiendo con mi padre el mudo sentimiento de no haber pasado el tiempo entre la vida y la muerte juntos. Quizá no siempre uno al lado del otro, pero sí más cerca, al menos más cerca de lo lejos que habíamos pasado estos años.

Pero ya era muy tarde para disculpas, o para salidas, o para discusiones reales y no de compromiso. Ahora la verdad me arroyaba: mi padre estaba muriendo. Dentro de esas cuatro paredes aquel hombre que alguna vez me pareció la alquimización de la hombría y la intimidación era ahora un alma caida sobre la cama de la muerte (casi tan muerta como él), acompañado por una fría y gris maquina que lo mantenía vivo, su única compañía, pues todos sus amigos estaban muertos o lo odiaban; su esposa, es decir mi madre, lo había dejado una semana después de mi nacimiento, y parecía que había muerto en Chile hace quién sabe cuántos años.

Y solo quedaba yo. Su distante hijo. Una cara sin cara que solo podía sentarse a su lado, preguntarle si había mejorado, si quería algo y fingir calma cuando le respondía que sí, que se sentía mejor y que no, que no tenía hambre, que tal véz más tarde.

Sabía en el fondo, en la parte profunda que prefería ignorar, que el dia que iba venir más pronto que tarde yo iba a suspirar tras la llamada del hospital, le diría a cualquier puta con la que me estuviera acostando que era de esperarse, que el viejo ya tenía 90 años y estaba mal, que era natural y que había vivido hasta demasiado (gracias a Dios) y quién sabe cuántas pajas más.
Me despediría de la ya mencionada mujer cualquiera, iría al hospital, le agradecería a la enfermera que me llevara al estéril cuarto, ella me miraría con lastima vestida de empatía, me diría que se va, que a lo mejor yo quería privacidad.

Y tras su partida, yo quedaría solo con mi padre, y lloraría. Lloraría en silencio, como si me hubieran quitado la voz, y lo abrazaría. Con mi cara ahogada en su pecho, lloraría como alguna vez lo hice de niño, pidiendole perdon, preguntandome ante él y ante Dios por qué habia sido un cabron tan irresponsable, que me perdonara, que lo quería, que por favor me perdonara, que no era justo, que lo lamentaba, y, yo, roto, pronunciaría lo que nunca le dije en vida, con ojos de vidrio en medio de un silencio asfixiante, al fin siendo sincero:

Papá, te amo.

>>9766932
Does anyone here having self published stuff they'd like to share? e-books, blogs, printed papers...

I'm curious to see what /lit/ has out there.

A hand collided with my shoulder, pinning me to the lockers I had been walking beside. I writhed under the iron grip of whoever decided to grab me, but my lanky figure failed to do me justice.

The boy I had been unlucky enough to encounter, a boy whom I didn't even know, towered over me. Our eyes met for a brief moment before he raised an unforgiving fist and extended it to meet my nose. My nose began to bleed almost instantly, as it wasn't long before I tasted iron.

During the beginning of freshman year, I figured other students might see my dilemma and be compelled to help. I soon learned passers-by preferred to laugh or simply watch instead.

"Faggot!" the boy chortled. "Why don't you cut that hair, huh? Does your boyfriend like it like that?" He grabbed a lock of blonde hair from the top of my head and tugged. A crowd had formed behind him, the majority uncontrollably laughing at each comment he made.

Instead of fighting back, I allowed my mind to wander. This was a common technique I used when it was clear I couldn't win. It wasn't very good for my physical being, but mentally, it took me away from whichever pimple-faced senior that had decided to use me as a human punching bag.

I imagined pulling out a shotgun and pointing it at the unnamed boy who decided to target me today. I pictured him letting me go, apologizing profusely, and attempting to back away. I imagined pulling the trigger.

Back in reality, my assailant continued to have at it. Out of all the beatings I'd received throughout the past two years, this just might have been the worst. Even in the darkest situations, I tried to be positive, but I couldn't see my face totally recovering from this. In between punches, I caught glimpses of others watching intently, some even smiling.

In an attempt to preserve my face, I once again pushed against the arm holding me down, failing miserably. Over the hallway's ambience, I had no trouble hearing the sickening crack of my own nose.

>>9772803
>"Faggot!" the boy chortled.

>>9772748
No.

>>9772803
This is actually fucking awful. No really. Jesus fucking Christ what made you write this?

>>9772655
No está mal, pero hay partes que no me gustaron:

>> parecían cada vez más últimos días
>> la cálidad de vida que había pedido parecía cada vez más irreal
>> Y salía de la fétida habitación impregnada de un agudo aroma a meados
>> tiempo perdido sintiendome vació, consumido por el vacuo de mi propio arrepentimiento

No sé si el español es tu primer idioma, o quizás sea así como se habla en Chile(que es de dónde asumo que sos) pero me parecieron muy extrañas esas frases.

Aún así puedo ver que tiene sentimiento. Te recomendaría que si vas a escribir acerca de tu padre, leas a Kafka, más específicamente la carta que le escribió Kafka a su padre.

PD: Arreglá las tildes que no sé porque las escribiste así (VacÍo, mÁquina)

>>9772212
>"That's one way of looking at it I suppose" remarked Ekko, proving to be ever the optimist.
If you have to tell me that Ekko is an optimist you either haven't done a very good job of writing him as an optimist, or you're assuming the reader is too stupid to understand that the character is one.

>Daggerhand
I chuckled at this

>he had entered into that state men often do when they finally reveal their true feelings on a topic they have suppressed for so long. He was going to have to feign enthusiasm for the conversation, which he realised was going to ruin his evening.
This is quite good. You've done a good job of capturing the essence of the drunken ramble.

You're prose isn't bad, but it's not necessarily great either. I'm not saying that to put you down or anything. It's good, just not incredibly unique.

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

I've been trying to get into poetry lately, so I still have a lot of practice to do. Wrote this one after I got home from dancing and drinking last night:

Dead sweat on the skin of newfound drunks,
Stumble into the night with no regard of the
Footwork that served you so well inside.
Who are you? Again,

I’ll let dark air cool my skin, let it hit the back of
My throat with the blue steam of tobaccos and sharp
Breaths in of forgotten names and remembered hurts.
Who am I? Again,

I’ll stumble my way down this avenue, open
Chested. Let the world see my black scars and exposed
Bones. She never saw this colar. We never saw this night.
Who were we? Again,

You’re you, I’m me, he’s he, we have no leg to stand on with
Romance. It’s a dead art replaced my stamping feet and drooling
Lips. I haven’t felt that since my blood was a simmer.
Where am I? Again.

>>9773965
*yawn*

>>9773992
Your poetry is bad.

>>9773992

should end it with:

I am Kermigula

>>9773998
That cat is good.

You have any criticism beyond "bad?"

>>9774007
It's like a giant cloud of shit smacked me in the face, and then I was raped by a 400 pound black man with herpes.

>>9773965
That's pretty spot-on, anon. I'm not a native Spanish speaker, but I've been living in Chile for two years.

Thanks for the critique and the recs. I've only read The Trial and The Metamorphosis, but I'll def check out the letter you mentioned.

>>9774013
Yeah. Got that. Why?

>>9774031
you have the poetic skill of a spastic with half his brain on the outside of a his skull. Stop, drop, and neuter yourself.

>>9774048
I'm not sure I understand

>>9774051
you wouldn't

>>9774067
What are you trying to say?

>>9773992
>You're prose isn't bad, but it's not necessarily great either. I'm not saying that to put you down or anything. It's good, just not incredibly unique.

Thanks man. I've literally never written anything before, so it was a complete ramble I copy and pasted onto here.

>>9774313

Don't do that in future it's rude bud, why should we critique or edit your ramblings? Write a story, be serious and actually edit it yourself first, make it worth everyone's time.

A sesta rima I had to write about Sir Francis Drake a while ago in the style of the Elizabethan poets. Cant tell if its absolute shite or almost decent. Didn't take long anyway.

A dragon unfurling his canvas folds
Glides o'er the plains of the verdant sea
To fuel the furnace of his fiery holds
With gathered gems of gold and infamy.
Child in the wind; old man below the tide.
Wed thou to life; let death become a bride.

>>9774372
>Drake was known as 'the Dragon' to Spaniards btw and was buried at sea.

I got critique on the first version of this story earlier. Thanks to some constructive criticism and a couple comments on the doc, I was able to fix it a bit. Obviously, what I have so far still has a long way to go, and I'd love some help or critique on it.

Here's the doc: https://docs.google.com/document/d/11PGjOwZLG3Mir8VL4sK6arPd3shiGqI-5ZDfY1IeeJw

If you need critique on something and do mine, I'll make sure to help you as well.

Cannonball gumdrop earrings and a Jerry curl
caught the last hound to Tucson.
The predator flew out the starting gate:
gait like a swollen pigeon,
stride like torrential sheets
(books cooked)
with banana peel feet
and a dried stick of meat.
The armchair cacti waved their cuffed hands
as they sang with the belly-dancing route 23's
skidoo jingle in the school-bus dungarees.
They were grateful to be listed in the credits
at the end of the never-ending slideshow.

And the pilot bound himself to the mastodon's mast
(we're still on the omnibus, to be sure)
gnawed at his tobacco rinsed gums
and ate the salt of his tired trajectory
looking up lost lovers in the directory
(he had none. Or was it one?)

A few recycled coughs, panoply of pardon-me's,
one invigorating brushing of the knees
(Oh baby won't you be my venereal disease):
now comes the melodically choreographed party favor
sleep.

Somewhen, a star is born.
NBTORSP
(think primetime television).

The sweeping corona, a Tourbillon yawn,
a rush of sweetwater from God's gills,
keeps the bookkeepers bookkeeping for Sunday's obits
as the uncut pinky hangnail tips Charon
and the cowboy saddled satellite tips
his hat as the chorus filibusters "My Sharona"
as they nosedive feet-first to Arizona.

>>9774512
>Oh baby won't you be my venereal disease

>>9774538
you love it

>>9774675

>>9774696
just because this website is classified as an imageboard doesn't mean you're restricted to communicating via images anon

>>9774705

>>9774707
>doubling down this predictably

well whatever, but now that i have you anon, do you mind actually sharing any feedback you have for me vis-a-vis my poem?

>>9774732
Reads like you've taken a dictionary and a tv guide, mashed them together, picked out a few words and then randomly put them together.

>God's gills
What?

>as the uncut pinky hangnail tips Charon
and the cowboy saddled satellite tips
his hat as the chorus filibusters "My Sharona"
as they nosedive feet-first to Arizona.
Sweet baby Jesus...

Cant tell if you're just taking the piss really.

Like a dog with a missile up his ass, Jimmeny launched himself fifty feet into the
air and landed himself ontop of the sorority home. His dick was the line between his
thoughts and his actions, and this line erected itself twelve inches long, glazing the
roof tiles as it dripped his bitter white spunk.
Looking up at his busty banana, Fontana visioned his deviant ass riding Jimmenies cock,
which Jimmeny could sense telepathically. Jimmeny immediately jumped into action with the
force of a thousand hitlers and blitzed Fontanas ass with the fury of a diesel engine on
petrol.

Is this a decent beginning?

>>9772633

Happy to be of help, if you could look at mine? >>9771757

>>9775214
Copy and paste it. Nobody wants to copy down your writing to help edit. If it's not greentextable nobody's gonna touch it.

Lmao okay ur right.

The outdated film projector displayed an equally outdated war movie. The mix of both the old projector and film destroyed any chance of the class paying attention. Even Lucas, with an interest in World History, couldn't have named whatever abomination he and his classmates were currently viewing. He sat oblivious, much like his peers.

It was only when the movie’s first gunshot sounded that anyone glanced over at what played before them. Another shot sounded and finally the film had their complete attention. The class gasped when a bullet went through the body of a soldier. He died. Lucas sat still.

Some sort of emotion appeared to flicker on every other face but his. Even with the lights shut off, this was obvious. Confused, he took his eyes off the film and fixated on a girl who sat in front of him. Although she had sat in front of Lucas for quite some time, he knew the back of her head better than her name. She, like most everyone else, watched, motionless for a moment. Then another shot rang out, amplified by speakers that were undoubtedly competing in terribleness with the film. The girl flinched. Out of the corner of his eye, Lucas caught several others doing the exact same.

He raised an eyebrow. What about this was so frightening? Sure, he understood that watching someone get shot wasn't the most pleasant experience in the world, but this was a movie. Movies weren't real. The soldiers they were looking at weren't really dying. Its fakeness paired with its terrible actors should have had everyone calm by now, perhaps even laughing. However, the disturbance on Luke’s classmate’s faces remained clear as day.

Is this a decent beginning?

>>9775249

No fuck off you've posted this like 5 times we're not your editing team, it's shit go and write something else

>>9775313
I'm just taking the advice I was given on this thread and fixing what people told me to

>>9771896
Truth be told, I hate these kinds of advice.

Authors should give more room for characterization for characters and the location they are in, and establish them how familiar they are with it.

The last part is right though

>>9771106
I couldn't think of anything more interesting about a sweater that wasn't a magical sweater. I guess the transition is that he puts it on and does something.

Staring blankly into the dim, flickering projection, the autistic millennial, dismayed
at having to hold his own attention for more than six seconds sought refuge in the
faces of his equally retarded friends, who unlike himself, had already completely absorbed themselves
into their iphones, ritually updating their statuses and perpetuating their satanic addictions.

The millennial, eager to spend some time on his phone thought to himself that this was a great
opportunity to text that underage twink he was seeing, and so he proceeded to take out his latest iPhone
and began exchanging a conversation with the little juvenile pervert, who began sending him back pictures
of himself in his sisters dirty underwear.

Feeling his cock throb to this degenerate sight, the millennial completely betrayed to his own
animalistic instinct looked around and slowly but surely began unzipping his trousers in a subtle and quiet
manner. Unglueing his cellphone radiation scarred hand from his phone, he proceeded to submerge it
into his faggy tight jeans and gave his trouser snake a good old rub.

Suddenly, complete and utter silence begat the room, and immediately, the fucking millennial took
a second to notice the flurry of message alerts flooding his iphone. Fumbling through his notifications
with his impotent left hand, he struggled to open his facebook app as he continued to pump up his jam,
oblivious to the fact that his degenerate exploit was being recorded by his classmates.

Tapping onto his group chat, the split second black screen reflected back to him an image of his own ecstatic face
with his mouth gaping as he was about ready to let it rip. Immediately, reality sank in when he found out that the
torrent of messages was none other than his classmates sharing a video of him jacking off in class, and laughing
at his dumb ass.

This >>9775398 was meant 4 u >>9775249

>>9771757
>>9775219

Alright, I've read through it a couple times. I think it's fairly strong; the highlight for me is the way the narrative slips into mimesis of character voices.

Some Notes:

Your sentences are a bit on the long side, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. It does mean there are a bunch of cases of unclear pronoun antecedents, eg:

> tall weeds grew along the fence from lazy dug pits of sand and it blew everywhere in the wind and scraped the ground beneath their thongs.

In cases like this, 'it' usually refers to the subject of the sentence, not the object. Substitute 'which' or 'that' for 'and it.' (Assuming you mean the sand blew everywhere, not the weeds).

Sometimes I think the sentence length gets out of control:

>They had different visions for the future then, and although it happened eventually that the town erected long walls of concrete across from them: government departments, banks, energy companies; this was not until she was late in her teens, and when she went down that road, she could still project memories of family and siblings frolic on the yard that now fell into itself, there had once been a fence, and the front deck that was now half decayed, she could remember, had once been half erect when she was only a small girl, built by her father within a year.

This one needs to be split up, unless you have a very good reason.

> She had not gone to see it now that she thought it was gone

I just think the two uses of 'gone' here are kinda awkward.

The way I see it, the main point of power in your descriptions comes from the tension between the literary and slightly sentimental narrator and the colloquial voices it inhabits. I think this works best when the contrast in styles is clear.

It's very strong in points like this:

> The gray evening rested on her backyard and seemed to authenticate her old shed and the wooden palings up against it, pulled from the fence by her grandson who stopped by every so often when the family went up and down the coast.

(though is authenticate the best verb here? idk) And then the next sentence:

> To say they had raised him wrong would be too easy because they were so embarrassed when they saw what happened and they flogged him badly in front of her to make sure she knew that He doesn’t get away with this sort of nonsense Mum, I’ll fix it up for you right now.

I think you run into a bit of trouble when your voice seems caught between these two modes. In this sentence, in particular

> and went at it in the street with the childlike hatred that was funner than hell.

the 'funner than hell' feels really incongruous. I get what you're trying to do with it, but the line doesn't really feel like it's coming from the narrator or any character, and it does harm to the contrast between voices.

In general it's pretty good, I'd focus on making sure your sentences run more smoothly, they can get a bit long and muddled.

>>9774757
yeah so what im hearing is that you're intellectually frustrated and jealous

it's cool anon, v common. Galileo was also besmirched and vilified for not being understood—such reactions are only natural

>>9771841
>I feel ashamed for fucking you
>It comes and goes in thrusts, and when I cum I knock you up again
>A cum dumpster, a skank, it's a good thing you're cheap
>You got it, you got your hourly rate and everything was perfect
>But I see your eyes glaze over, your mouth twisted in a frown
>And I wonder
>Dare I think of it?
>Is your pleasure for real
>Or is my dick too small

>>977082
Is he talking to himself?

>>9766932

I can’t believe I woke up today, where the stigma of yesterday never left its place, it’s stuck. As if I never learn how to forget. Forget about the plague that places over my head or the detachment that never found its bed and the sadness that can only see regret. So tell me where I can find a place to rest, a place that only shows me the best. Where my dreams are always me falling, where I’m never just stalling, they say dreaming is an escape and that is what helps me create.

And it suits what I feel is best, when I fall I feel relived and when I kiss her it makes me unable to breathe, this a world I can call my own, a reality called me. To those that cannot find peace, please just go to sleep and dream of world that is beautiful which lies without deceit. Never learn to cope because that is when you’ll lose hope and to cope is to accept and that acceptance will become a sadness, you’ll never be able to escape.

tell me what you guys think:

She paced back and forth in her room to calm her anxiety, and, seeing as it made no difference,
laid in bed and seemed then to pace in her mind, swaying to and fro with the thought of him as the film between two worlds, both vast and unfamiliar.

Oh and the words, the lost words— they were but the dim expressions of the passengers on the bus tearing past her, some half remembered average of a thousand blurred faces.

first serious writing, since like, ever. rip it to shreds boys

Nick Stoneton usually woke up around an hour before noon. Snow washed heavily against his window, his beautifully pale eyelids locked shut about as tight as a vault. His phone buzzed violently against the underside of his head, however, pulling him from the deep sleep he was savoring before. He silenced the device with an aggravated sigh. The slim boy sat up, silky blonde hair obstructing his view from his otherwise very plain looking room. A desk, a bed, and a laptop. Nothing too special or out of the ordinary. The walls were adorned with old movie posters and old pictures of his family back when he was younger. His green eyes glimmered to the side once he was finished admiring the drywall, checking out the snow that violently whistled past the glass.

“Jeez.”

The clock ran by as Nick got ready for the day. He dressed up in a black button-up shirt, tucked into some belted jeans with a pair of fitting, black work shoes. He swung his thick padded coat around his arms and headed out to his day job. Nick yawned tiredly as he trudged across the snow laden sidewalks, having gotten used to the frequent blizzards that came with living in the winters of Indiana. He greeted most who were brave enough to be walking or driving out in this sort of weather, giving small waves and smiles and nods as people passed by. The wind seemed to grow worse as minutes crawled by.

He didn’t have to worry for too long, however; as a little shop came to view with a sign hanging from two chains attached to an iron bar just out of view. The said sign was violently throttled by the wind, giving various noises of slaps and creaks as it was tossed mercilessly by nature. The sign, despite being in constant motion, read “Books n’ Coffee”. He breathed in relief, an icy breath of air washing from his mouth and past his tender skin as he moved to open the doors to the coffee shop.

>>9775875

Honest opinion, pulling no punches: Typical of the bad stuff posted to /lit/.

The problem, of course, is that it's entirely pointless. It's a little fragment about a boring autobiographical stand-in doing absolutely nothing. The descriptions aren't good enough to warrant pointless writing. I don't care that you wear a black button up and jeans. I really don't give a shit.

Your more figurative language isn't any better. "locked shut about as tight as a vault" is about as meaningless as clichés come.

Here's the same story condensed into a single sentence: As the snowstorm worsened, Gary Stu went to the coffeeshop.

>>9775930

desu the "silky blonde hair" "beautifully pale eyelids" and extensive clothing descriptions suggest the writer is either a girl or a gay and probably poor Nick is xir fap/shlickfic subject

not that it's impossible to put a Gary Stu into a fapfic, but it takes a special kind of mind to make the Gary Stu into the subject of the fapping

>>9775930
>>9775954

noted. i haven't really thought about much of a story for it yet, i'm just clearing up some writers block for a real, invigorating story.

i'm just trying to burn out some of these characters i've had bouncing in my head for a looong while. this isn't anything too serious, and it is, like >>9775954 said, a fapfic.

appreciate the feedback though, guys! will come back with something that'll knock your socks off :)

>>9775975

Fuck off with this half baked shit then. If you don't mean it don't post it. We don't want to read your writers block excercise.

>>9775413

Hey mate thanks a lot this was really helpful, I can actually see where and when I'm cringing so much now I was having a shit time trying to pin point the parts that were fucking me up.

>>9775875

Here's the opening to my "historical" fiction adventure novel. Think Pirates of the Caribbean but in North Africa.

The port of Algiers roared with life. From that covered bazaar to those rooftop gardens, each of its corners buzzed to the beat of the city. Tradesmen in turbans hawked goods from their storefronts, mothers in hijabs watched children at play, and carpenters in almost nothing at all worked on half-hulled pirate ships. Masses on masses of people - so many of them that hardly a soul saw the Venetian Wind drop anchor in port.
Aboard the ship, Mateo kept his eyes on the city and his hands on the twelve crucifixes around his neck. They blazed his fingertips with the heat of the desert sun. He smiled, partly for his pain and partly for the penance drawn from that pain, but mostly for his plan to reap number thirteen. His smile withered away when a sailor came forth and said:
“You’ve got me and my crewmates talking.”
After slipping the chain in his surcoat, Mateo turned toward the sailor. As was so often the case, he needed to drop his chin to make eye contact. Over his forty-odd years he learned the taller one grows, the sorer his neck becomes. And on most days he thought his neck to be the sorest in town. He grumbled through his teeth, “Talking about?”
“Settle a bet for us.” The sailor rested his elbows on the banister and conveyed half with his lips, half with his fingers, “We figured it either takes a stupid man with money or an even stupider man with loyalty to voyage this far from home.” He leaned toward Mateo as if to plot a mutiny. “So which one is it?”
Mateo barked a laugh so deep it made the sailor jump. “Stupidity has nothing to do with it - not in my case. It takes a loyal man with bravery to travel halfway round the world.”
The sailor cleared his throat and hocked a brownish glob into the sea. “Bravery, stupidity; spade and shovel. They’re two sides of the same coin, my friend.”
“Shovels? Coins?” Mateo’s head began to hurt more than his neck. “For heaven’s sake, man, drop the poetry and speak plainly .”
The smirk that crossed the sailor’s face made Mateo’s blood boil . He had that expression seen such slyness on more faces than he cared to recall. It was the look people gave to simpletons, that knowing little smile that said, “You’re a moron .” Moron they might call him, but let it never be said that Mateo the Catalan was a coward. He was about to say as much when the sailor preempted him.

>>9777217
“Alright alright.” He fanned his arms as if to cool Mateo’s temper. “Let me ask you this one question, then: What is a loyal man with bravery doing in a city of pirates? Captain’s sealed his lips tight as a clam.”
“As he should,” responded Mateo . “Now if you don’t mind-“
“Might I have some of that?” He pointed at the canteen hooked to Mateo’s belt.
Mateo wrapped his fingers around it. “Now we’re all manners, ey? I thought you were done with questions.”
“This is more a request than a question.”
“Again with the word games. Can’t you just get some of your own off port?”
The sailor shook his head mopingly. “It’ll be a dry run all the way homeward, you see. We’re heading out as soon as the wind permits. No sense lingering in this corsair hive any longer than we must.”
Pirates were the least of the Mateo’s concerns. Still, some part of him gloried in the idea of braving those dangers feared by lesser men. The rest of him wanted the sailor to go away. So he unhooked his canteen and handed it over.
The sailor halted mid-sip to remark , “Gads, man! This thing is nearly empty! I thought you filled it just this morning.”
“That I did,” growled Mateo. He then pried the canteen from the sailor’s fingers and added, “Perhaps I should provision it better.” Without another word, he disembarked from the barge and set foot into world separate from his own. A world of adventure, he fancied . A proving grounds.
First he needed to find a place to stay. This seemed simple from the start, especially since the captain was kind enough to recommend such an establishment. However, Mateo discovered that navigating the district was no easy feat . Twice he found himself at the same whitewashed street-corner. By the third time, he used it as a landmark for guidance. One sunburnt scalp later, he happened upon his destination .
The building in question hardly stood out from its neighbors. Mateo would have missed it had it not been for the signboard hung above its entryway. Though he could not make heads or tails of the letters, he did recognize the picture above them. The chipped paint depicted a bird of prey attacking a tower. Mateo knew the bird to be a Roc of Arabian legend. Any Cazador knew as much. The Spanish Inquisition expected nothing less from its witch hunters.

As I looks upon the myriad sufferings of the world,
tears stream down my cheek.
And each droplet that falls down,
becomes and expansive lake of love.
When I surrender to this sadness,
which feels like millions of needles stabbing deep inside my heart;
there is a sudden glimpse of gold light, more brighter than trillions of stars, no longer it seems helpless.
The pain in me doesn't go away, but at least it becomes bearable.
Knowing that you're with me to stay.

Testing out writing dialog for verse. Aiming for: still keeping the voices natural; and distinguishing persons through devices. How's it working so far? Just a rough test start here.

"Sarah, please, come with me--
you've gotta listen hon:
This shit's kinda scary,
I know, I know.

Now, what needs to be done
is for us not to panic--
Do you understand me?
What needs to be done is for us to leave."

Sarah stifles her crying. "Nick,
please, what place is safe?
We were out in the open,
You saw the explosion!

Wait! Where's my mom and Dave?
We were split by the crowd!
It was all so loud.
She must've called my name!"

"When did you last see them,
Maybe we can find them."

"After the blast the last
place was past the campus!"

"Hurry--the faster we run
the better chances we'll find 'em."

cater to the audience
pander to the critics
bend a knee to the queen
and everyone in between
they'll love you to death
killing you with kindness
they'll burn you at the steakhouse
spitting as they chew you
gritty gravel gives way
and I finally die today

>>9777524
pretty good

check my digits
the basement dweller says
with his teeny peener fidgets
screaming for mom to bake more cake
while roasting femanons at the stake
for neither showing tits or getting out
gaining only marginal cyber clout
every page his porta-potty
savoring being so naughty
he writes "come at me bro" so haughty
knowing full well loneliness his hobby
social capital he knows not above ground
believing all women to live at the pound
his world is flat and belly so round
time to work out his mind over body
and tell the crowd to check his digits
while with his depression he fidgets

check my digits
the basement dweller says
with his teeny peener he fidgets
donning his fedora style fez
screaming for mom to bake more urinal cake
while roasting femanons at the stake
for neither showing tits or getting the fudge out
gaining only marginal ephemeral cyber clout
every page his porta-potty
savoring the feeling of being naughty
he writes "come at me bro" so haughty
knowing full well loneliness his only hobby
social capital he knows not above ground
believing all women to live at the pound
his world is flat and belly round
time to work out his mind over body
and dissolve the mountain range of mounds
and tell the crowd once more to check his digits
while with his depression he fidgets
(his favorite widget)
calling all the school kids mental midgets

check my digits
the basement dweller says
with his teeny peener he fidgets
donning his fedora style fez
screaming for mom to bake more urinal cake
while roasting femanons at the stake
for neither showing tits or getting the fudge out
gaining only marginal ephemeral cyber clout
every page his porta-potty
savoring the feeling of being naughty
he writes "come at me bro" so haughty
knowing full well loneliness his only hobby
social capital he knows not above ground
believing all women to live at the pound
his world is flat and belly round
time to work out his mind over body
and dissolve the mountain range of mounds
and tell the crowd once more to check his digits
while with his depression he fidgets
(his favorite widget)
calling all the school kids mental midgets

They’re good people, Timothy and Bernhard. We’ve only met each other a few days ago but considering how we all got in the same predicament one way or another, there’s closeness between us. Like the wolfpack snuggling against each other for warmth, allies are a necessity of survival in Haron’s encampment. Groups formed between the pitfighters and you either take a side or one is given to you. Supplies, training grounds and general quality of life are dictated by how high you stood on the ladder. Kissing ass is one way to climb up. Overthrowing Elliot or Iasper is another. Marcel, a once well-respected loyalist to Iasper, is one of the people who took that leap. He was part of Iasper’s inner circle. In other words, it’s redundant to state how much influence he already had. Being the megalomaniac he is, he decided that Iasper outlived his position. Iasper showed him just how much of a fool he was. In his defence, Marcel is a short man, and Iasper quenched his thirst for looking down on people by binding him in the center of this morning’s breakfast field on a 10-feet pole. I ate my pudding, taking in his despairing visage. At noon, Marcel’s thirst will be a thirst for something more tangible. His tears, pleads and the burning sun will only worsen it. When the moon settles in the night, Marcel will be nothing more than a shriveled up remain of the man he once was, bruised both inward and outward. At that point, Iasper usually deems the punishment enough, lest he end up on bad terms with Haron. Haron might call himself our patron, but our lives are as bound to him as the brothel whore’s to the fat pimp who takes lapdances for free in order to ‘assess their performances’. He had our balls, and he let everyone know.


God why is my writing so pretentious?

>>9777779
anthem of /b/.
sadly you did not get the sextuple.
>check my digits tho

>>9777796
> why is my writing so pretentious?
Because you are. And your write what you are.

>>9777832
How do I outgrow puberty?

>>9777796
>Like the wolfpack snuggling
Please use different diction and a less overused image. Also it should be part of the preceding sentence and the next sentence should start with "Allies..."
>Groups formed between the pitfighters and you either take a side or one is given to you.
grammar
>Supplies, training grounds and general quality of life are dictated by how high you stood on the ladder.
Wow really? The higher your status was in a social setting the better things were? Fascinating!
> In other words, it’s redundant to state how much influence he already had.
No it's not. I have no information about who's important.
>In his defence, Marcel is a short man, and Iasper quenched his thirst for looking down on people by binding him in the center of this morning’s breakfast field on a 10-feet pole.
This sentence is such a clusterfuck.
>Haron might call himself our patron, but our lives are as bound to him as the brothel whore’s to the fat pimp who takes lapdances for free in order to ‘assess their performances’
What the fuck is this sentence? You're making such a reach with this. You don't have to explain why the fat pimp is a piece of shit. He's a fat pimp. He owns women, he's glutenous. It seems like you're giving exposition to your weird analogy because you don't expect the reader to grok what you mean by the relationship of a whore to a pimp.

Also you keep changing tenses.

>God why is my writing so pretentious?
Pretension implies that you've affected a style to convey greater classical knowledge or writing skill than you actually hold. So don't worry, it's not pretentious.

>>9766932
This whole thread has me cringing.

>>9777883
Thanks, I wrote the scene in past tense but tried to change it in present tense to post here.

>>9777903
Your whole past has me cringing

>>9778119
If we were twelve years old, just like your writing, that burn would be sick.

>>9778119
>If we were twelve years old
Then only 4 more years before my burn can be sick.

Has anyone written fantasy? If so, which are some tropes/cliches that need to be avoided?

>>9778798
I think fantasy is a genre basically made up of tropes and cliches at this point

>>9778798
>fantasy
>avoiding tropes and cliches
That's impossible, because the fantasy genre is already played out. Your only hope is to come up with a good story and have amazing prose so that people do not care about all the cliches.

>>9777217
>>9777225

I would say this seems competently written, nothing about the prose leaps out as terrible or amazing.

>each of its corners buzzed to the beat of the city.
is a little cliched
>He had that expression seen such slyness on more faces than he cared to recall.
is unclear

Hard to say much about the plot because not much is revealed here. I would suggest reading Pratchett's Discworld series to refine the art of deadpan comic dialogue, Captain Blood and Howard's Conan stories for refining description of action and fight-scenes, and Stephenson's Baroque Cycle for both, as well as a setting and topic which is overwhelmingly relevant to yours.

It was the summer going into my junior year and above all it was hot and I was questioning quite a bit of my life. Temperatures were well into the nineties. Questions rolled in my head. The heat made the questioning worse with its torrid urgency. The summer before junior year is a rare moment when you are struck by such a wide variety of career options that you begin getting slight heart palpitations at the thought of the networking and cover letter writing still to be done. The beautiful insularity of Freshmen summer, which any prescient elder will tell you is to be spent much like a high school summer- waiting tables and getting drunk on homebrewed cider and taking corners too fast in your rich friend’s car- gives way to real work. Anhedonia. Or, at least you’re in a city.

>>9777796
>God why is my writing so pretentious?

read more to write better.

>We’ve only met each other a few days ago
>We have only met each other a few days ago

Wouldn't it be "we'd" "we had only met"

>Groups formed between the pitfighters
>between

Among?

>Iasper

I get what you're doing, but it's just an unpleasant word to pronounce in one's inner monologue, it becomes grating especially since it is repeated so often.

>In his defence, Marcel is a short man,

Manlets, when will they learn

>taking in his despairing visage

Try "grimace" or something, "visage" is almost impossible to use in a way that doesn't sound like it was the only synonym for "face" that you could think of.

>His tears, pleads

"Pleas" or "pleading" or maybe even "pleadings" if you want to embrace pretentiousness.

>a shriveled up remain of the man he once was

Remnant would be more appropriate here.

No, this isn't "proof-reading" general, but your piece was interesting enough to trigger my editing-autism.

Krul took another sip of his wine. The balcony door of his chambers was open, letting a swift breeze throughout the room. His eyes gazed upon the grey and black clouds looming in the nightsky, hiding most of the moonlight illuminating Maidenharm. Just as he finished his last glass and was ready to enter a world of dreams, a sudden knock on the door interrupted his plans.

Krul approached cautiously the door on his finger toes. What was a knock became a sudden series of sounds that could wake even a dead man.

"Who is it?" asked Krul with a voice full of caution.

"Sir, this is urgent." replied the voice behind the door.

Krul searched for his key inside his crimson red coat. When he carefully unlocked the door the sight of an old man with a scruffy, tired face. His chestplate bore the emblem of horse standing on its hindlegs.

"Let me guess, another brawl that those incompentent guards are unable to deal with?" said Krul with a bored look, without looking away from the man's eyes.

"No, sir, s-sir Warden I meant. It's just that the Marshal has some news to share. News from the scouts sent North".

Following Krul's silence the man opened his mouth to talk again, but the sounds of men shouting and singing interrupted him. When those ceased, he spoke once more.

"I heard rumours that Councillor Voros has persuaded the rest of them to fund for an expedition" said the man, his eyes finally meeting Krul's and revealing an ugly grin.

>>9778798

The most cutting-edge cliche is to be painfully edgy with massive amounts of homosexual and pedophiliac rape-scenes explicated in loving detail.

>>9778891
Pretty good, I would be more descriptive though.

Rate my sonnet:

If the flowers be true and men more so,
Have they the petals of a tale told not?
If Mother Nature doth convict its sew,
Then the orchards of pale may apt be rot;
A flower is fully the root too rash,
Nude in her form and of amorous tongue,
And oaks are too turgid, it’s roots too brash,
Too vain in the sun with silver boughs strung.
May the scythe of Time clash blades of the grass
May the culprit of air be laid justice--
Have the moon glow unto the backwood mass
And plow the land in concord of truth’s bliss.
Chained to the earth has every stem been made,
And recognized by beasts the laws She laid.
>>9777524
Weak imagery, taut prose
>>9774512
too lolrandom for me, but I like your second stanza for some reason
>>9771841
I can feel your pain but I can't see your time you put into it. Maybe that's what you're going for, maybe not.

>>9778851
Thanks anon, made a note of those

Bump for you guys.

>tfw get to that point where i'm constantly editing what i've written and can't move forward
not sure why i bother senpai, it's all complete shit

>>9779642
Yeah I feel this sometimes. Just keep pushing and then edit

Never see any non-fiction here but i'm going for it

The encroachment of the megalopolitan at the expense of the pastoral is analogous to the imposition of an unnatural wordview – that of humanist “progress” – at the expense of Man-Nature symbiosis, of human rights over natural law. Similar to the erosion of wetlands by urban sprawl, it is the destruction of a natural habitat, paving the way – quite literally - for the displacement of one type of organism by another. In this sense it is more accurate to consider the Lebensraum not geo-politically, but biologically – as LIVING SPACE. Not a mere territory but a biome, a single living organism in which all the forms and expressions of Life – biology, politics, culture – were bound together in cosmic unity, each reinforcing the other. The degeneration of any single member, anatomically speaking, is a threat to the entire body politic. This corporeal vision of society, as a biological totality, was shared by Walter Schönichen, director of the Reich Agency for Nature Protection, who emphasized the need for inculcating “an understanding of the civic importance of the 'organism', i.e. the co-ordination of all parts and organs for the benefit of the one and superior task of life.”

>>9766943
is this a pasta now? seen it before

>>9779731

I posted it once in the last crit thread

>>9779725
yuck

“Hello. My name is Heath. I stopped by this office about two weeks ago and something went terribly wrong with my operation. I’ve been meaning to call for a while now to ask you a few questions but I’ve just been forgetting. May I sit down?”
‘Sit down? Right there? Do you know where you are?’ His thoughts held this interesting little rehearsal at a standstill. The exhausted young man cleared his throat and fixed his weary gaze back on his own eyes, through the mirror in his hotel bathroom. He traversed the squishy wet terrain with his (and its) line of sight, crossing into the mirror’s parallel world. Good God, look how shot with blood that left one is. That poor man on the other side! The blueish skin sagged beneath his eyes from his erratic last few weeks.
With an inhalation, Heath started again. “Hello. My name is Heath Weatherly and I have a question about an implant I received last month. Yes, from this clinic. It’s been bothering me. Actually, more than that, it’s been scrambling my thoughts. I think I have a faulty unit. No, it’s not a feature, I seriously doubt…”
They wouldn’t continue like that, he thought. No, they’d probably schedule me in for an appointment. An appointment? Oh, yes, for my – for the – right!
“I feel like I’ve received a faulty unit. I have my papers right here with me, my operation summary, may I schedule an appointment? Tomorrow does in fact work with me. I’m not busy at, say, 3:42 in the afternoon. Perfect, thank you so much, I will….”
Tomorrow? From then? No, I would need it that day, as soon as I could get in, I need to have it looked at right away. It’s bothering me, it really is! Weren’t you listening? YOU try thinking in this haze! This utter white noise!
“Today, rather. I can do an appointment as soon as there is a time for me, sometime today. Yes, I can wait. Of course I can wait!”
That’s it. That should do it. Give yourself a quick recap, this is important. Are you listening? Appointment today, faulty unit, difficulties with thinking. Appointment tomorrow, of course, but in conversation, tomorrow, it’s “today”. Heath wondered for a second where exactly this was meant to be said. Of course, the Biotech clinic on Farnham! He pulled out his mobile device to commit some of the important bits to writing. To his surprise, the phone wouldn’t turn on. It was drained of all battery life. He remembered why though, or at the very least, he had a revived recognition of the situation. Remembering something like this was a good feeling. It was a regular old breath of fresh air. A thought! he thought. From the grave! Welcome back, my dear friend!
the first little bit i wrote. gonna be some sci-fi thriller about technological brain implants and artificial intelligence but it's just for fun.

>>9775930
dude, he want to paint the pic
why not showing the reder how does MC looks like

>>9768410
this is fine piece anon
ive been thinking about it and story about this guy could be like :theres no country for an old man"

The room was silent but for the sound of angry cars, muted by the glass window. Two players sat at an ebony table, the resting place for a chessboard with pieces of rich mahogany. To the unsuspecting observer, it would look like an ordinary game; the more experienced player: a somewhat normal variation of the French Defence. But it was neither. From the sweat on their brow, to the way the first man bit his fingers, and the suited man behind him, with shades and greased-back hair, his shotgun loaded; it was no ordinary game.

>>9780767

Write a screenplay instead

>>9766932
i don't write prose, monsieur, i write art

>>9778891

Painful.

Read Gene Wolfe, read some Dune, fuck read LOTR and go back to basics. Read some Gormenghast because this is a teenage trope fest.

Did you give any thought to the name Krul? Or did you just make up a fantasy sounding name?


>"Let me guess, another brawl that those incompentent guards are unable to deal with?"

If you don't read this and cringe you haven't read nearly enough.

>>9781001
Harsh, but fair critique. Yes, I'm not a native englishs speaker so my vocabulary is terrible and this is one of the first passages I've written so I have virtually no experience at all.

Krul is named that because Krul is the deity of wisdom in his culture and it is a common practice for one to name his offspring after Gods and other religious figures

Bump

There was a blister on his toe. An hour ago he had felt the begin of it, the rubbing of his flesh on the sock with each step, and what he had done wrong he did not know. When he put on the boots this morning he had smoothed his socks real thoroughly, and he’d changed them to a new pair after his afternoon rest. He knew just how important it was to take care of your feet. But no matter how, the sore was there now and even though he knew better, he had tried to ignore the dull pain for a while.
He would have liked to persevere until he got beyond the flat open section of the trail he was marching on right now, where the sun beat down on you like a hammer and everything, even the simple act of setting down the backpack and the rifle and removing a shoe devolved into an excruciating ordeal. But it was no good. With every other step he took he foot flinched involuntarily from the ground. The pain grew worse and worse. He couldn’t bear it anymore. No one could have had.

The backpack thumped down with an extricating thud, the sound odd somehow in the positive silence that lay above the deserted path. Heat ripples rose undulating from the ground, blurring the distance. Thick beads of sweat collected the dust on his face as they rolled down from his forehead or dropped from his nose, dark and ephemeral on the thirsting ground.

As he bent down to his shoe he thought his back would snap like a dead twig. He knew his backpack was shit, a tattered old thing that had already been slack and falling apart when he bought it from a wretched boozer on the flea market for ten bucks. But the way things were, it would have to do for some time to come and never mind that it was like assault and battery on your back.
He kneeled down clumsily, his legs stiff from walking all those many miles, and he unlaced the boot and took it off ever so timidly, anxious to keep the chafed toe from touching the edge of the shoe. By then he knew that he’d been stubborn for too long. Some sort of moisture exuded from the sore and darkened the sock. As he set the boot aside he overturned it and out fell a tiny sharp piece of flint which he picked up. He looked at it. He spat. “Fucker!” he yelled.

Two birds rose from a solitary tree beyond him, uttering their indignation in long, high-pitched cries. He turned his head and watched them fly over the harvested fields about and vanish in the cloudless glimmering sky above. He hurled the flint onto the plowed meadow that extended out on both sides of the trail. Then he took off his sock, trying to keep the weeping wound from getting dirty. The foot was swollen and stank. A rank hotness smelling of fermentation. He sat there contemplating it, disgust on his face as he peeled off sheets of dead skin from the ball of the foot. The toe looked bad. It was abraded and inflamed and hurt badly when he touched it.

>>9777345
bump

>>9779976

I've actually gotten this piece published, I just posted it on here to see what's lit's reaction to it was, which is basically what I expected

>>9770932
eh

>>9781883

I don't find it completely unbelievable that a full-length survival genre novel could have a "my toe hurts really bad" section, but I would hope this is somewhere around page 150 and the whole of the novel isn't an attempt to be as vividly disgusting as possible (believe it or not, readers don't actually enjoy that as much as you'd believe -- they want the story to continue).

"Thick beads of sweat collected the dust on his face as they rolled down from his forehead or dropped from his nose, dark and ephemeral on the thirsting ground."

This is a really garbage sentence. You just described sweat as "dark and ephemeral on the thirsting ground". You've got to know when to turn up the description knob, and when to just state what's happening.

Also, you have some awkward/broken sentence construction, like "No one could have had." and some passive voice, ("...he overturned it and out fell a tiny sharp piece of flint which he picked up,") which disrupts the flow of the story.

Overall I give it a C+, I can see the effort. Work on your sentence construction, that's the biggest part.

The dark green eyed man sat alone in what use to be a dinner. He was outside in the ravaged world again to remind himself how everything was now. His gaze on the five across the cracked street, all huddled around a man all skin and bone as he stood trembling and sucking on his thumb. Green Eyes could hear the withered man scream in his mouth as one of the four, a small man with no eyebrows, said good good good loudly as he petted their victim. It's surprising no one hasn't ripped off his rusted golden cross.

In the dinner conversation continued. 'Human beings' talking about how shit could be used as a soap if it was dark enough. Talking about how jackets and shoes were the same thing and using sharpened toothbrushes as a way to increase self pleasure. The two clean looking men and smiling woman in the booth in front of him bet the retarded withered man would be one of the four's boyfriend. It wasn't always that word but whenever it was spoken, it sure as fuck was going to happen. It meant the retard was going to be sewn to the man or woman who claimed him.

Green Eyes knows this because on the day the world and everyone changed, his wife had stumbled home in torn clothes. Finding her husband lying on the floor and suggested exactly this in her sweetest voice. He stood up and centered himself a moment before shaking his head. She nodded and hissed silently, turning and running out of the house. Green Eyes went as far as the door to watch her run through dying grass and the blue sky overhead slowly turning red...only watching her. Before going to their room and coming back to the porch swing with his Kimber .45 in a white knuckle grip, waiting for her. The red haze was slowly replaced by the darkness of night and the quarter moon over the still yellow sun. His watch had stopped working, but if he guessed it had been after three am when he finally saw her shape crawl from the shadows of the alders. He stood.

>>9781909

Who published it your college?

>>9783008
nope, lit mag

I can't fucking copy and paste for some reason, pic related is my work. I live in a desert.

>>9783277
why would you italicize how? If anything you'd think you'd do exactly. Try saying the sentence with how emphasized and see how dumb it sounds.

Other than that, it's shit.

>>9783290
I appreciate the read through. That's just the way I did it. It doesn't sound that strange to me, and people I know say it like that, but maybe it's a regional thing.

Ode to Lauren Southern

I love Lauren Southern.
Her soft voice let's me melt away
and makes me want to shove my hard cock
in her tender mouth.
I just want to bang her like
'bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang '

>>9783307
bang!

>>9783307
what's the significance of the 22nd bang?

>>9783481
To emphasize how much I want to bang her.

>>9783486
oh ok. I got all the others but that one.

>>9783307
Pynchon as I live and breathe!

>>9783307
bong!

Gelopo was at the intersection of valuable fluids. Oil and water flowed around the sand swept town. It’s dense packed light brown buildings now home to insurgents. Surrounded by empty highways, fields of wellhead fires and the exclusion zone. Which did not end at the edge of Gelepo, where the urban wall gave way to desert, rather the exclusion zone took a bite into and all around the town. Drones by the truck load had been shipped and hovered, overwatching streets and alleys, sensor bug swarms infiltrated, sitting on every wall, room and sewer. All connected to each other by tight beam. Their eyes called ordinance on those who tried to come and go from the cordon. In the afternoon sun, a handheld missile launched up at a drone buzzing with the others producing a constant low frequency noise that ran through headphones down spines. The missile curved above with a bursting black cloud. Four more drones took off and replaced it, firing arm sized missiles toward the culprits, the buzzing intensified.

I call you cuckoo -- born of earth and die to due. Join me and a following harem of naughty sailor boys, my son, and i'll take you on one hell of a journey, one you shan't in all your days ever, ever forget. We will yourself into surpassing the limit of body, transcending earthly function, and in doing so meet mast-first the white whale of my pale, fading monolith. Engorge, engorge, engorge.

And when all is said and done, we'll become hobbling little Catholics. We'll limp down the nostalgia blurbs of past, considered the very essence of all thought: chasing apparitions every which until until our hearts give out. We knew from the start that there existed no devil outside of our own curiosity, yet we didn't have the foresight to kill him off, did we? He laughs, every jutted chuckle a reverb into our own gaunt frame sadness shakes, which precede at all our misstep to and fro, every little tick of the beat and heart-hammer gone a pace too fast, a beat too slow.

I myself can only count so many dolors before the numbers phase into black and white blobs, without form; indecipherable. It belies in the mannerisms of all sneaking little madness: how we clutch at ,modern petticoat, straighten the hair follicles in order to be presentable, eat every day (three times a day), breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There is no presentable order to the narrative of your own life, so take solace in that. Take solace in that you'll always be able to veer away disgusted at your man-made end, just to find another chain and ball. Some say there are an infinite number of these - I say that only weighs down the world so much more.

>>9771757

I'm sure you're gone from this thread but I'm saving this, it has the imagination and sense of life that few authors capture and fewer more can manage. Work on your polish, not the language, but don't lose your charm m8

Do any of you assholes talking shit to these writers actually write anything yourselves? Or do you just come on here to post smug anime pictures and feel superior?

>>9783658
>Do any of you assholes talking shit to these writers actually write anything yourselves?

Yes.

> Or do you just come on here to post smug anime pictures and feel superior?

No

It is a bit of a long read, but I hope it will be worth it, it's a chapter in the earlier part of my novel.

Pls be gentle: https://docs.google.com/document/d/12zXrKp9-y-TCtoqu8sWeIGuV1-OezVcc1hYmlbUv70c/edit?usp=sharing

any French anon whocould show me the same kind of content in FRENCH ?

>>9783697

By that I mean a writing critique general (but it FRENCH)

>>9783703
why don't you find a FRENCH website, cocksucker?

>>9783712

I like and I'm used to the imageboard formating... Anyways I've never seen (my fault) anything like those tread on classic forum (but I may be a big n00b concerning those type of content...)

>>9783682
>“Marconi, I have standards to uphold as Imperator, if I cannot be distinguish myself in abstinence then how can I--”

distinguish should be distinguished


>>9783544
crit for crit

crit appreciated : pt1

The world hasn't changed for a thousand years. People havn't changed for oh-so-much longer than that. What made those ridiculous idealists think their shining exteriors, their bright smiles and outrageously extravagant attitudes think that they could change anything, let alone the nature of humanity itself. Constantly preaching about the good.
As if the good mattered. As if anyone cared if their rulers were moral. As if such a thing as good even existed. What would their damned goodness have earned them, had it not been accompanied with their unearned powers. Hunger, most likely. Hunger and dispair. To be good was a weakness. To deliberate, to consider, to philosophize. That wasn't the way to victory.
How could you kill an enemy soldier if you were truly good, through and through. How could you savage men, with families, children, without being so righteous as to know your opponents were truly evil at heart. Perhaps that is why they failed. Because they were not righteous. The did not sacrifice others for what needed to be done. And when their sparkling ruler, gem of ages, hero of huddled masses, went to strike me down...
He heard a child crying. My child. And he hesitated, conflicted. How could he take away a child's father. Surely I must be a good man, not deserving of death by his hand. Surely I couldn't be truly evil.
He was wrong.
Thats why I killed him. Because I, like all other men, am not good at heart. People... My People, do not need 'goodness'. Goodness will not sow the fields, charity will not harvest them. A strong hand, experienced, powerful, all knowing and all powerful and ruler over all of them. That is what they want. That is what people have always wanted. For the last thousand years, mankind has had nothing but. Who are these 'superheroes' to say otherwise! A minority, so small a voice... Why should they dictate a change which would alter the course of humanity for the rest of eternity. What right do they have to change such things. Usurpers, every one.

>>9784340
pt2

That is why they deserved to die, I suppose. Surely they did. They must have. What good could their meddling possibly have done. 'Freedom', 'Self-sacrifice', 'Democracy'. Such noble ideas. As noble as a starving man, too proud to eat. As noble as a priest, promised to never have children. As noble as a soldier who died to save a man he barely knew.
So noble and bright and proud. So good. And dead everyone, deserving of their fate.
"Sir, it is time to give your speech" An attendant said.
He sighed. It had been one year since he had established his rule, and nearly 10 months since he last addressed them. They had scorned him, of course. They hated him for what he had done. Hated him for saving their children from a life of misery and starvation. Hated him for killing their 'heroes'.
Sighing, he stood up and walked to the balcony to give his speech.
He was greeted with thunderous applause.
Mothers held their children out to him. The streets clean, the city rebuilt. Men with smiles on their faces. A world reborn out of the misery of the last decade. Reborn with blood and fire...
He fell to his knees, crying for the monstrous things he had done, the weight on his soul almost too much to bear...

I'm writing an article for an onion-like newspaper, I know its dogshit and could use some feedback.

“Alma Mater to rush fall semester”

The Alma Mater has replaced her traditional robal attire for something a bit more modern: Jimmy Choos.

“I didn’t think I’d ever join a sorority.” stated the statue. “But after almost ninety years of being a GDI, I figured why not?

Concerns over whether the five ton bronze sculpture would be eligible to partake in formal recruitment were quickly dismissed by the Panhellenic council yesterday, stating that the statue was “more than welcome” to participate, and would be treated to the same rights as any other potential new member.

“Being in a sorority is about inclusiveness and accepting people for who they are.” said Jenna Albright, the current serving Vice President of Recruitment. “So what if she’s a statue? Sororities are a place for women who want to grow as individuals, serve their community, and experience true sisterhood. At the end of the day, we accept those who live and identify as women, regardless of the materials they are made of.”

Despite receiving approval from the council, not everyone is as happy with the statue's decision to rush. “It’s completely ridiculous” said one sorority member, who wished to remain anonymous. “It’s a fucking statue! Why is this even up to debate? Does she really think that she could join a sorority? She couldn’t even fit into our front door for Christ sake.”

The apparent hostility for the figurine did not appear to affect her spirits. “I think that the first round went really well” said the sculpture. “It was a little awkward at first, with all the singing and chanting, but I was comfortable with it by the end of the day. All the girls were super nice and seemed interested in what I had to say.”

“Yeah, I’m a statue. I know I don’t really fit the traditional “sorority girl look”, but I think I would make a great fit in any house. I’m smart, trustworthy, and my skin is more bronze than any of the girls that I’ve seen so far, to be honest.

The sculpture is “positive” that she will receive at least one bid, despite that fact that she is, in fact, a statue.

After the people divide
After the intruders arrive
After the street warriors collide
After the opposition subsides
After the homeowners are fined
After their equality is denied
After my children are no longer mine
Then, and only then, does the nation finally die

Such life
Sometimes you see her sometimes you don't
Don't smoke a cute Korean drama to be ugly head and start shitting everywhere the unexpected Journey of the people have most mainstream Reddit the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of both worlds are u doing anything before July to be ugly face fuck Mila the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected Journey of Bud the application process you don't need to see the drawback of Bud the application process you don't need to buy overpriced underwear and thus human desire and I acknowledgedthe unexpected Journey of Bud the unexpected but it was just planning early to cop them for the cessation of suffering through the best you can finally change the green colour on KISS since it's English ports of Japanese schoolgirl gets ounces of Bud a cute Korean drama to be calm and actually not that it was just mentioning the trade-off between mouse ergonomics to be ugly so Maisie is the only way to be some benefit more if we had just connect to your email him roam upstairs for the first woman who's given to do you think what feels good for homebuyers report their full health after Thanksgiving just like dark feautres. Also you can finally change the green colour on the unexpected Journey of Bud. The unexpected Journey through my firewall has detected motion at the same amounts of Bu to. what you think what is the best you.

>>9784492
Not too bad, I would get rid of the quote from the anonymous sorority member though. Good satire IMO is not supposed to pretend that the ridiculous is completely rational, and that quote kind of breaks that effect. Also 'up for debate', not 'up to debate'.

>>9782969
Hey man, I appreciate your critique. But you're vague.

I can see why you would say that I've overdone things when I described drops of sweat as dark and ephemeral and I think this is the important notion I take away from your post.

But I can't see how the passive voice at the mentioned part disrupts the story. Why is it bad to use passive here? The sentence is coherent and not overly wordy, no?

>>9784636
Semantic satiation destroys the effect of prolonged repetition. cut down the 'afters' and retain the rhythm

otherwise, i think the piece in general is a bit too vague in an attempt to be grand.

>>9779079
your meter suffers immensely, and the grammar is tortured anyway. write more sonnets and this'll go away.
also, i'm having a hard time discerning your volta

>>9777524
3/10 of your lines are verbatim cliches, reading and writing more should help this

pic-related is a WIP 1/2

>>9784884
WIP 2/2

Meadows and blossoms, wine and bosoms, a child’s laugh, an older one’s wrath, six years without a father, six years to go farther. A stack of needles with a parch of hay, anger resides to this day, the men beckon wars’ to come, it begins when you hear the drum.

Death and destruction, disease and dysfunction, a man's cry, his fate is nigh, six years into the fray, six years to this day, but yet there be not more to come, as the end has surely come, the vengeance of the eternals is today, if only we could prevent it some way.


This is a short poem that I just made that will be used to foretell the future in a book in a way, feel free to call me autistic and to kill myself ok thanks bye.

Waiting for you
Like a firefly waits for the moon
Ticking sands, watching shadows grow
In the middle of town there's a fountain
Waiting for you...
Like a sleepy child, yearning for a lullaby,
Miserable but hoping
Until you I see your smile again

>>9786160
Typo, last line should be:

Until I see your smile again

>>9786160
Quite nice, but you could add more drama or passion to capture how badly you are waiting.

Pic is what I am working on now

Pete was staring at me during class again.

It was certainly not the first or last time this would occur, but that didn't lessen my dislike of it in the slightest.

Sure, he had weaseled his way into my bed over a dozen times, and sure, there was rarely an occasion in which he didn't attempt to flatter me in every way possible, but did that mean I liked him? Absolutely not.

I did not like Pete Wentz, nor did I like any of the other boys who all but threw themselves at me.

Perhaps I did enjoy the attention and confidence that came with each new boy who spent a night in my bedroom. However, the boys themselves were different stories. They were either too boring, too attached, or too full of themselves. One thing they all had in common, though, was that they were only interested in how much sex appeal I had, and not me as a person.

I could only scowl under Pete's gaze. I felt his eyes trace every inch of me, and it left me feeling awfully dirty. A bit of a hypocritical statement to make about someone who I had slept with numerous times, I know, but despite the hypocrisy within it all, I didn't leave math class feeling any less dirty.


Unlike math, English class was something to look forward to.

While it did consist of yet another boy who would undoubtedly carry out the same staring routine as Pete, it also consisted of a boy who I would be staring at.

Although his cockiness was usually obvious after spending just a few minutes in the same room as him, the rest of him was definitely something to write home about.

I loved his dark brown hair, and I loved his chocolate-colored eyes. If only he looked in my direction just once, I'd love near everything about him.

It almost surprised me that Brendon Urie hadn't managed to acknowledge my existence once in almost three years, especially considering my reputation, but I figured he had spent an awful lot of time going from girl to girl, too much time to notice someone like me.

I knew it was quite likely that Brendon didn't even like boys, but that didn't stop me from dreaming.

I liked to consider myself a nice person. It was difficult to do so, though, when I was wishing death on Brendon's girlfriend every five minutes from the back of the classroom. The death wishes were nothing personal or too severe, but maybe Brendon would end up looking at me if less girls were in his way.

-
I had only been home for ten minutes when my phone began to ring. There was no doubt in my mind to simply ignore it, but when I leaned over to shut my phone off, I ended up accepting the call instead.

Given that I hadn't even seen the caller ID, there was no way to know who it was when I put the cell phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Ryan. Are you free tonight?" It was Dallon. I immediately frowned. He was just like Pete, and I was quite sick of anybody who had a slight resemblance to Pete Wentz.

"No, I'm not," I answered quickly. "Sorry."

"Alright, that's fine."

>>9784884
>Meter suffers

What? My man it's iambic pentameter

>>9786540
Thanks for the critique. I'll give this a read when Im free

The sun can’t break through the thick dark smog,
Life doesn’t end like a movie,
I don’t have a will anymore,
Not a wish, not a dream,
No one’s innocent,
I don’t want them,
Not a soul,
Hopeless,
Done.

>>9786757
here's how I scan your sonnet (imma use caps instead of notation so people don't have to look between the two over and over)

IF the/ FLOWer/ be TRUE/ and MEN/ MORE so,/
HAVE* they/ the PET/als of/ a TALE/ TOLD* not?/
if MOTHE/-r NAT/-ure DOTH/ conVICT/ its SEW,**/
THEN the/ ORCHards/ of PALE/ MAY apt/ be* ROT;

etc.etc.

*=this word and the word to its right feels rhythmically ambiguous (which could very well be my failing
**=this psuedo-rhyme-riche was really unpleasant

I understand how common substitutions are, but this piece is littered with irregularities that I think detract rather than improve the meter. Partiality because the actual sound and rhythm they create, and partiality because how many substitution you had per line.

I'm more than happy to work with you on this
>one of my sonnets so you know I've at least attempted the form

#9
I tried to paint the other day, to frame
a comet brighting through a greendark sky.
The blotched acrylic smearing dust and flame
across the cheap canvas. My artist’s eye
attached to cheap astronomy, my brush
with space unsubstantial; my hope of high
flung art had come to crash. When paint had hushed
the slop-wet shine, I saw the wreckage matte
and crack, and I loved it. I saw it gush
across the stage, and I loved it. The flat
azure burnt with hot-white, the emerald
black netting caught my gem mid-streak. The splats
of colour dropped by careless hand are jars
of light I made from plucking treasured stars.

>>9788683
I guess it just sounded better in my head.

Though I thought the riche was good. What would you do to improve it?

I didn't really "substitute," but I think I know what you're getting at

>>9788900
The problem with the riche (the way I scan it) is that, treating as a rhyme, it's the is wrenched. Stressed and undressed rhyming like that is super super difficult to pull off, and unfortunately I don't think this one is one of those rare occasions.

>>9784884
>reading and writing should help this

That's odd, because I've already read 8/9 of the entire western canon.

I am am no one hailing from a place called no wgere. Its familiar yet it doesn't quite add uo. Because you and I, my friend are one in the same and i have a yearning for something more. Something you will gain.

Now this is a poem, something i'm aching to do. Flip a coin, do you want to join too? Prose isnt what i feel right now in my deepest of hearts. Which is fine by me, where should i start?

Let me begin by saying i am flattered by my audience. Does it really even matter that i am 'all in'. I just wanted to write something or perhaps even fight thee.
Yes i mean you. I will give credit were it is due.
So ill take the heat, from anons, op and the neet. I just wanted to kill some time with the thrill of a simple rhyme. Freestyle is a bitch when its just a scratch to itch.

Well improptu. Its not prose but its something

>>9789006
Maybe 9/9 will fix it, or maybe you should hone your editing.

It takes a bit to get that distancing effect anyone attempting poetry needs. I'm not the best, but I've made some p big leaps in self-editing recently.

In rich meadows of shade do lie the lost,
Past lives still summoned by ghostly silence,
No heavens break for the soul still aghast
As farthest lands home the sweetest sessions.
From distant lands her torch rose, plush and bright
Asphodel flowers in hand; as night’s eye
Moaned at drowned fair souls and love blinded sight,
Grains resown; grey bed beckoned for kind life.
Heaven heard woe, yet fall claimed nature’s hymn
As life’s wrinkles fell fairer for burnt souls;
Foe of strife rode high,while darkness within
Left crescent light upon yellowed meadows.
If woe blooms in heaven’s fairest prairie
Her heart stays pure while my love won’t vary.

imma write a quick drunk rant(um opus)

it seems I am providing myself with "relevance" as to the ongoing narrative of the world, the globe, with my participation in this rather ephemeral way of the internet, digital and harsh. A part of me knows the irrelevance, but the other engages all the same.

I feel the center of all things. I mean, I feel like the center of all things. I exist, and what is it to exist, but to be the center of that which exists? Am I somehow existing and yet peripheral? How would that make sense? I am that which is, to me, and to what other standard should I hold myself up to, other than my own inner life, as it engages with that which is supposedly other than me? That whole wealth of past literature, fiction and non-fiction, mathematics, archeology, metaphysics, philosophy, folk stories, mythologies, ... Who am I in relation to all this? In relation to "my" ancestors? And how to I claim "my" in relation to ancestors? Simply the line of race and nation? Am I chinese or irish or german? These seem to not matter in the grander schema. I can't hold to these things as important. They are rather stylistic curiosities, that one may find delightful or not, according to one's soul's proclivities.

I wish to find the essence of things.

Paradoxes assault me, of which I've learned through studying Zen literature, if it can be called that, and indian and chinese mystical thought patterns.

The warrior or the laughing vagrant? Penniless, without a home, wandering hungry, raising his hands above his head for alms, ...who is more prosperous? In all the flaming fury of war, who gains the treasures of life in the life beyond life?

Jesus claimed the Meek inherit.

The Meek.....

I don't feel meek. Fuck Jesus, thereby. I feel inflamed with the passion of life. Though, I don't dismiss Jesus either. I could be wrong. And to be passionate about something which is in error, is this not also beautiful? Why should I feel so anxious about being wrong in my decisions? Do I not also exist? Am I not also a dew drop in Indra's Net? Interdependent, coexistent with the totality of all things? At what juncture in my soul can I successfully separate myself from the totality of existence?

I am floating, now. I feel this way, and that. My opinions waver. I am passionate this moment and morose the next. I am that which is. I feel, and feel good to feel. I am and that is good. I am. Happy to be. Sad to be. Happy and sad to be. To be.