TALK SHIT, POST LIT
Post excerpts from what you are currently writing and get roasted by other /lit/erary gentlemen.
Try to critique one before you post one.
Wrote this 4 years ago when I knew nothing about literature or writing.
The man stood on top of the hill watching his home burning. Shadowy figures danced around in the glow of the flames below. The figures took turns tossing liquid into the fire and for each splash the fire grew and erupted outwards in horrible cascades of shining flares. He could hear the sounds of cheering, laughing even. Tears streamed down his cheeks - but it was his own fault that he didn’t pack up and leave. As the flames turned into smoke a brilliant plume of ashes flew upwards.
The falling cinders made no difference on the landscape.
pic related is the accompanying illustration
Probably still shit, the setting is very different and I'm not trying to cater to pseudointellectuals on a cantonese ladder construction blog.
I'm not going to post it but here is some more old shit
It’s a damn shame that shopping carts don't have wings.
The dry desert air whipped my hair behind me and stung my face as I sailed down the half-cobbled, dirt road ahead of me. The road continued down the edge of the sandy hill, ending abruptly in a sheer drop. Stones in my path shook the cart, letting off a familiar rattling noise that was deafened by the whistling wind in my ear. I turned and saw the biker following suit. His black leather jacket and scruffy grey beard billowed behind him like parachutes, but his shirt was too tightly stretched over his belly to do very much billowing at all. His bike was some make of Harley, the black sheen of which was shining under the desert sun; it was perfect condition, sans the broken headlight. The biker appeared to be shouting words so foul, that I imagine only bikers and sailors would use them.
This is quick draft of a short story I'm thinking of expanding
>His black leather jacket and scruffy grey beard billowed behind him like parachutes, but his shirt was too tightly stretched over his belly to do very much billowing at all.
I like the quick description of the biker which calls to mind all the Harley riders I've ever seen, but the last line ruins the paragraph by being totally empty of meaning.
>The biker appeared to be shouting words so foul, that I imagine only bikers and sailors would use them.
>The biker shouted words only a biker would say
The sentence before it was a decent way to end it as it reinforced the image of the Harley rider with a hardly used bike, and concluded with the apparent reason for his pursuit of the narrator.
>The road continued down the edge of the sandy hill, ending abruptly in a sheer drop.
Abruptly could just be cut out, but that doesn't matter as much as some adverb haters would have you believe. What might serve you better is a quick description of just where it drops off to; mention of a cliff or a ditch would change the scene remarkably.
>Stones in my path shook the cart, letting off a familiar rattling noise that was deafened by the whistling wind in my ear
This bugs me in two ways, first you the way you describe the noise of the cart seems clunky, and second that you describe a noise that is apparently being swept away by the wind (which you describe using a cliche). Really what does this add to the paragraph which was at its strongest when it was describing the biker? Maybe separate the description of the biker with the sequence of action.
I told him it would benefit him
He said no
I told him it was for his health
He said no
I told him he was being mistreated
He said no
I told him I was a bad influence
He said no
I told him leaving was the right thing to do
He said no
I told him I was going to do it tonight
He said no
I told him I would treasure what we had
He said no
I told him I would miss him
He said no
I told him I was cruel
He said no
I told him I loved him
He said no
Im trying, thank you though
made some of your changes, and it continues...
It’s a damn shame that shopping carts don't have wings.
The dry desert air whipped my hair behind me and stung my face as I sailed down the half-cobbled, dirt road ahead of me. The road continued down the edge of the sandy hill, ending in a sheer drop. The ditch under the drop had cacti in it, that much I knew. Stones in my path shook the cart, letting off a familiar rattling noise that was deafened by the whistling wind in my ear.
I turned and saw the biker following suit. His black leather jacket and scruffy grey beard billowed behind him like parachutes, but his shirt was too tightly stretched over his belly to do very much billowing at all. His bike was some make of Harley, the black sheen of which was shining under the desert sun; it was perfect condition, sans the broken headlight.
I turned forward again and saw the edge of the road ahead of me coming closer and closer, and I figured I would rather die by shopping cart impact than the impact of a very angry, very large biker. When I looked back again, I saw through the clouds of dust that the biker had turned away and slowed to a halt. He looked me straight in the eyes (or at least I'm assuming he did; his glasses matched his jacket in darkness) and shouted out something that starts with "What the" and ends with one of those biker words, his arms raised in a mixed expression of frustration and disbelief. That's when the cart reached the end of the path, and flew off the cliff ahead. I looked down in fear at the empty space ahead of me.
Humans constantly dream of flying, but I can tell you, it's a bit overrated. As I was airborne, I thought two things; the first, "Am I going to die?" and the second, "how did I get here?" I suppose the former is answered in me telling my story now, the latter is going to take some explaining.
brb killing self
>the latter is going to take some explaining
The biggest problem I have with this is that ultimately it's about somebody riding a shopping cart away from an angry biker. The style it's written in isn't too bad, but the content just invites wry "clever" writing. This is just my personal opinion, but I think just a verbal confrontation between the narrator and the biker would be interesting by itself.
combining some of these critiques I made this
The dry desert air whipped my hair behind me and stung my face as I sailed down the half-cobbled dirt road ahead of me. The road continued down the edge of the sandy hill, ending in a sheer drop. The ditch under the drop had cacti in it like everywhere else in this damned desert, that much I knew. Stones in my path shook the cart, letting off a familiar rattling noise that echoed in my skull as I bounced along.
I turned and saw the biker following suit. His black leather jacket billowed behind him like a parachute, but his shirt was too tightly stretched over his round belly to do very much billowing at all. His rugged face was hidden behind a great grey bushy beard. His bike was some make of Harley, and probably new. The fresh black coat of paint was shining under the desert sun; the bike was in perfect condition, sans the broken headlight.
With this, I'm not trying to blow a kneecap off the world. I'm writing what I want, a magical realism story of kids growing up in a small town, where everything is "larger than life".
I actually feel very happy so far about this
>Humans constantly dream of flying, but I can tell you, it's a bit overrated. As I was airborne, I thought two things; the first, "Am I going to die?" and the second, "how did I get here?" I suppose the former is answered in me telling my story now, the latter is going to take some explaining.
Lovely. The first part of your piece is rather quick and dry, but I kinda like that. I don't need someone to to vomit color all over for me if you can write clever little bits like that desu.
>The fresh black coat of paint was shining under the desert sun; the bike was in perfect condition, sans the broken headlight.
What's the importance of the condition everything is in? Thematic or is it just to describe the scene.
Can we all agree not to post things that we "think are shit"?
It's dishonest to post here while pretending that you don't think that the things you wrote are good enough for someone else to read.
If it's actually bad, then you shouldn't post it. If it's actually good, then you shouldn't pretend to be humble.
Thank you, and I figure having a new bike is more of a reason to get mad that it had just gotten damaged. And I know this wasn't included in the piece, but contextually the setting is a small, old, run-down town located on a large highway, so the contrast of the beat-up environment with the shiny new bike could contribute to the idea that the biker was not from around these parts, that the same good natured treatment the protagonist would get from another townie isn't going to apply here, that it makes the anger something more to be afraid of because the enemy in this case is foreign.
but i'm just pulling shit out of my ass
Prose is ok, but tossing liquid fuel into a burning house is not a good strategy for burning a house down. It's a recipe for self-harm. Therefore I can't believe your story.
How can you see the biker's jacket billow if it is behind him and you are in front of him?
How can you see his belly if its view is obstructed by the handlebars?
Do you want me not to belive the narrator?
Here's a literary fantasy work I've been working on for the last few months. This is the climax. I know fantasy isn't really /lit/'s favorite genre, but I think this is better than most fantasy works you all probably read. So, without further adieu, here it is!:
Vin pointed his sharp sword that was, as mentioned earlier, crafted by a legendary dwarf blacksmith of the blood of five other legendary dwarf blacksmiths, at Jorn. "You are not getting away this time!" screamed Vin, angrily.
"Oh, but I am," said Jorn, calmly.
"You will never be forgiven for what you've done. You burned down five villages and threaten to destroy the world. Why do you do this, traitor?" He pointed his very sharp blade closer to Jorn.
"I will become the strongest man in the universe. The loss of a few lives is of no concern. Goodbye, Vin."
Jorn suddenly teleported behind Vin and threw a fireball at him but Vin was resistant to fire as he was wearing the charm of Aesgir that Lokir gave him, which surprised Jorn and gave Vin time to end Jorn's life once and for all, thus saving the kingdom. Vin stabbed Jorn three times and then cut off his head, and the kingdom was saved.
Vin thought to himself, "Eldehwen... I did it. Forgive me for being unable to save you."
Suddenly he heard Eldehwen's voice. "Save me!"
"Eldehwen, is that you?"
"Vin? Jorn trapped me under his tower. Please save me."
"Don't worry, I took care of Jorn. I'm coming to get you now."
Vin rescued her, and she hugged him so hard that he felt kind of uncomfortable. She looked him in the eye and said, "Thank you."
He said, "I lo-lov..."
"What was that?"
"Nevermind. Let's start heading back."
>this is better than most fantasy works you all probably read
This one's good. Would def. read/10.
>Close to five-thousand fine young sons and daughters of America’s breadbasket, born under the amber waves, fierce defenders of their rifled and holstered arms, know not to speak or say the name of the man who walks the roads of Elmsen.
>Close to five-thousand fine young sons and daughters of America’s breadbasket, born under the amber waves, fierce defenders of their rifled and holstered arms - and they know not to speak or say the name of the man who walks the roads of Elmsen.
Give your long sentences a bit more structure, a dash might help. But I'm not a native speaker.
Not terrible, but it's unfocused and lacking in direction.
There's one or two punctuation errors, but, otherwise, you seem to have the basics down. Now, work on developing your style and ideas.
Out of context, this is too much.
>but I think this is better than most fantasy works you all probably read.
It's not; somehow, it's worse.
She’s pulling on the sheets to get me closer. The white fabric folds above her shoulders with goosebumps poking through. The air is fresh. A sweet, pleasant smell; the perfume I bought her for her birthday. 12 hours since last sprayed but my nose is still collecting what’s left on her neck. My hands are cold on her skin but they warm up as her heart pumps and my fingers touch on hairs and soft raised flesh.
Some nights, when the air is still and the insects are silent, I have horrible, crippling dreams. These dreams are far too visceral and lucid; these dreams are of a hell, a realm of surreal terror in which concentrated fear comprises the medium that hideous images flow through in epileptic waves. These dreams are of writhing, human-like figures that twist and contort in completely unpredictable and incomprehensible ways. These figures are helplessly controlled in an extremely violent, puppet like manor by an indescribable but present force that has complete freedom of manipulation; this power is abused to a deplorable extent and at the expense of my fleeting sanity. Though these figures vary greatly, some with necks that stretch double the length of their torso and some with legs and arms fused inseparably, the screams that escape from their contorted bodies are of the same haunted bellowing. I watch these figures from a perfect lucidity; restrained in a floating seat from which my eyes are rigidly fixed upon this deplorable theatrical presentation.
My grammar is shit
It's different because my shit drafts are legitimately horrible. That's why didn't post it. I'd be torn to shreds. I'm just here to read all the cool short stories, maybe critique if I have time.
Even tough he was there - not sure if he had the oven turned off- Sgt. Percloth would look at everymen's faces and nod at the minor malformation; bad drawn lips, cheeky cheeks, over the edge ears - even googly eyes gutted his well-cultivated sense of sterility. He should have turned the oven off when the chance was had. And, into the ever coming flux of faux-Godlike pseudo-perfection reflected in the retina, Sgt. Percloth turned three sixty degrees and went for a word with Ms. Seward-Percloth, PhD.
One day in the morning Saul was on the road to Damascus when Jesus Christ The Son of Man pulled him over in his police cruiser. Jesus Christ Son of Man got out of his police cruiser and the bright Syrian sun was glinting on his police badge and his fancy aviator sunglasses. Then Jesus Christ Son of Man knocked on the window and motioned for Saul to roll the window down. "Hi, Saul," he said, blowing him a kiss. "I've been waiting for you all this time." Saul did not say anything. "Say, Saul, what's that in the passenger seat?" He motioned toward a conspicuous bag of pot. "Is that a bucket of weed, Saul? Saul! Get out of the fucking car, Saul. Right now!"
And Jesus Christ ripped the door open, grabbed Saul by the arm and pulled him out of the vehicle and made him get on his hands and knees in the middle of the highway. "Did you not know it is illegal to get born on Wednesday, Saul? Now you will know the full price of insulting Jesus Son of Man!" he unzipped his pants.
When Saul began to cry Jesus Son of Man cracked a wide smirk. "Perhaps we can arrange an arrangement to be arranged. Saul, if you convert to Christianity tomorrow, I will let you keep the bucket of weed."
And so it was that Saul, his face drenched in tears of holy penitence, received the baptism from Jesus Son of Man's own police-gloved hand. And having converted to Christianity he went on to establish the first Apostolic churches, spurring the early development of the faith while formulating its most significant doctrines. 2000 years later a gay man in Iowa succumbed to social pressure and killed himself.
It's the first time I'm really going deep with descriptions. Can someone rate? This is a first draft, unedited, unaltered, virgin as pure.
The three of them left the Banquet Room not through the door that leads back to the Feasting Hall, but through the other door that leads into a spacious hallway with large windows to the outside. Although it was cold, dark and snowing as it was normal in this time of the year, they left the wing into the central courtyard and straight towards the other wing in which the revered Paramours were housed. Being dressed the way they were, they could have easily passed as famuli in case they were questioned, but that never happened, the courtyard being empty.
This wing, locally considered to be more of a palace, was easily the largest building of the entire complex. It included the labyrinthine living quarters of the Paramours and their famuli as well as many others rooms and halls of unknown purposes to the outsiders. The gardens on the other side of the building stretched as far as the eye can see with an orangerie on the western edge, an arboretum and botanical garden dedicated to the collection and display of mysterious, often alien-like plants.
The main hall behind the heavy wooden doors was of an astronomical size, heavy with details and adorned with riches from across the dominion, paintings with golden frames portraying past Paramours, beautiful and enchanting beings that looked so dangerous. From the ceiling, painted blue with cherubs dancing and playing various musical instruments the likes of which have never been seen since the creation of this painting, hanged chandeliers depicting beasts of legend and exalted blood from across the world. Like the tentacles of a giant stone cephalopod, stairs stretched into every direction stemming from the center of the room, some scrawling up the walls, some coiling around great pillars, each of them leading into different directions.
Fin. I hope I was able to offer a clear image of this building. I wanted to show that it's truly grandiose and complicated without repeating myself in the future every time some characters comes through here. My inspiration was the Schönbrunn Palace.
This place is filled with proles and pseudo-intellectuals now. It always has been, but not to this extent. Thanks for the charts and good discussions, /lit/. The charts are about all this place is good for now.
. Movie Idea .
Terrorist attack planned and carried out by an angry man who vents his rage online.
Involves a major TV station being held hostage by the man with explosives. A broadcasting of an internet forum is demanded.
Marty, not entirely to his surprise, received a lukewarm reception from his sweetheart who, standing at the door, smoothed her white apron with her wet hands and leveled her gaze with his.
“Paula,” he said.
A look of dismay touched her face as she heard her name. Marty tried to look startled by this reaction and straightened his back and held his breath as if to say something, perhaps an apology. But she simply looked at him as if he were a filthy mutt that she had abandoned but somehow returned to her.
“Paula,” he repeated, this time with a heavy sigh that sounded more like a pneumatic wheeze. “I’ve missed you,” he said. As the words left his mouth he attempted to imbue them with tenderness and grief and regret all at the same time but the result was a growing confusion and a look of scorn on her face.
“You’re back,” she said uncertainly.
“That’s right I’m back. Don’t you miss me, too?” he asked and raised his arms half-heartily.
He was trying to apologize to her, trying to get her to understand how embarrassed he was with his own behavior but she was utterly unmoved. He looked for a clue in her body language that might indicate that she still cared for him, anything that suggested longing or even desire, any gesture of the hand that betrayed her growing contempt. But there was nothing.
Marty thought for a moment. Perhaps he had been rash; that little slip-up that had torn them apart was his fault. He would admit to it. It had laid him under for several months and he was sorry for that. But, darn it, he liked her, he liked everything about her... her tasteless attire-- the white blouses and torn jeans, her off-color humor, her smutty lipstick, the dimples on her cheeks, the birthmark on her ass-- that lovely little imprint that he loved to kiss.
He could stare at the ceiling like this until the sun burned out and almost be content. He had the habit of getting inside women and thinking they'd fix him. Pathetic.
Wrote this a couple years ago. Haven't done much prose lately. Been writing scripts.
Working on this book-thing about naïve teen "artists" in gentrified NYC. I'd love some critique of any kind, but I'd especially like some advice on the sequencing if anyone's down for it. Any sections between asterisks can be freely moved around.
The only readable segment of another section of >>7535112 so far:
Somewhere in Williamsburg, in the second story of a little house in a row of others just like it, a high school freshman sits, waiting, staring into space. He’s had people over every other day this week: they can’t break the trend now, can they? His chair facing the corner, his body too heavy to be worth lifting, he stares directly into the peach-colored, ash-stained wall that was once white. Yesterday, a group of fairly attractive girls—or women, he couldn’t really tell—came over and smoked with him, copped some pills from him. That particular day was pretty busy, busy enough that these matrons of the arts certainly didn’t expect to be remembered the next day, but now this freshman, who has already stopped going to his zone school entirely and reserved his one-way ticket to Village Academy, has gotten fairly bothered. Right now, he is staring at the sign that one of them left—oh, but they were such teases! Tripping on a combination of something and something and something else, a particularly desirable one had snatched a sharpie off the desk and drawn a large labia on the wall behind her, slowly at first, then in broad, vigorous strokes, giggling with all the nervous confidence of a newly initiated nudist. Dropping the sharpie, she had scanned the room, then locked eyes with the freshman as if to ask for approval. No words were exchanged—she briefly clutched her belt, he let out a quantity of drool—not a lot, but enough. She giggled, picked up the sharpie, added a few hairs, and left, sharpie still in hand. He kinda wanted it back, but he could get another.
How long has it been since one of the really cool ones let him fuck?
He moans a bit, scratches his chin which is just now beginning to sprout its first hairs, and falls into a slump.
— Yo, Thorman! Where you at?
He pulls himself back into proper posture—or the closest to such a thing that his body can manage.
— Thor-MAN! We gonna fuck you up, bro!
He bravely jolts to his feet, the first time he has stood today.
— Thorman, schmaaaaacked boi!
He hurries out of his room, briefly winces from the light, and stumbles downstairs.
— Aight, Thorman, time’s up, we hear you!
He bursts out of the door to the main hallway, adjusts his glasses, and meets the crowd with a wide and bright yet blank grin. Several seconds of expectant silence ensue before all those present burst into laughter.
— Throman, bro!
The tall kid in front with the skullcap hugs him, some guests who he doesn’t have the time or willpower to look at slap him on the back, and they all head upstairs.
Let's f--- now. Put the book down beside your bed and grab whoever is next to you. I am doing this as I'm writing with the non drunk sexiness I found in the lobby. And just get lost. Get lost in her eyes and just pound away. Think of yourself as being in a porno and just ram ram ram, but gently, nicely, time yourself, pump pump or ride ride and moan.
I know your sex life right now is boring, because you are reading this nonsense, but get him or her hard as you joyously rock the casbah. I love it. She's moaning so much, as she should, and it turns me on even more. I tell her that my ears are the most sensitive and she licks them and I get goosebumps on my arms and my neck and she pulls the hairs off of my chest and she slaps me in the face, and I f---ing love it. I don't even know what to say, so I tell her that, this is f---ing hot, you're hot and I want to come with you on this bed, surrounded by luggage.
O Ave Maria, O Saskatchewea,
The King of the corn and his children of plenty
have appeared at my door, most aged two-and-twenty
In outfits of colour and rackets of murder
with balls of their father and head of the mother
in orbits of habit and love.
A sign has collapsed, and a cosmic prolapse
has sprung some religion in Venice, which asks:
"What of the road, and the thirsty black toad
out flat on the freshly laid road?"
They've stolen the sign, and taken it with them
So the new and the old and that thirsty black toad
race and around and around in their cars.
End of the world! And end of my finger!
Smelling of shit shall point our light-bringer
to the end of the road, and the thirsty black toad
shall conclude with a well-known zinger:
It was not the best of times and certainly not the worst of times; some might describe it as "thoroughly lackluster" or "a drab" and just utter the words "comme ci comme ça" and get along with his day, but in these uninspiring times are the seeds of zest sown and there will come a day where we reap what we have sown.
She began spreading her ass cheeks while staring into the mirror. The great mass of cellulite felt cool in her dainty hands. As she gazed into her gaping ass hole it seemed as if she was staring into the very eye of God. The poop encrusted hole appeared so mysterious to her, and she imagined it to be a portal to another dimension. "Elizabeth it's time for judo training!" Jackson cried from the other room while fumbling over his whiskey. "Ok" Elizabeth replied. She duct taped a triple strength maxi pad on and pulled a pair of adult diapers up to her waist.
Several miles down the road a group of gorillas congregated in the local zoo. Benjamin the gorilla was different from the other gorillas. You see, Benjamin was a communist. Benjamin would often mash his own shit between his fingers. "God is dead" he would exclaim as the doo doo residue gathered beneath his fingernails. The end.
He entered his apartment, dropped his bags, and there it was, glittering in the gloom, the reason he’d bought the place. The twinkling London skyline stared back with indifference though Simon's large living room window. On such a clear sombre night, it was hard to tell where the stars ended and the lightbulbs began, so the scenery gained a kind of beautiful homogeny. Home, he thought, this is home. Simon let the bags fall to his feet, and gaped at the stillness of a million people living their lives, all with their own passions and worries, hates and desires. The faraway sound of a gentle siren thickened the silence. Ambulance, maybe. Police, probably. He tapped his feet against his hardwood floor.
This is just a thesis statement of an essay I'm writing on JFK's inaugural speech. Don't know if its any good
John F. Kennedy’s artfully crafted inaugural speech aimed to unite the citizens of the USA and blur the invisible borders between them while also legitimizing himself as their new president, all with skillful usage of tropes and schemes (such as zeugma, anaphora etc.), resulting in a myriad of different persuasive elements that contribute to his credibility and ultimately his purpose.
not that good for a description of London really. The use of indifference seems to really clumsily clash with your character's optimism and sense of being at home, and I would never use "stillness" to describe a bustling metropolis like London. Sombre, as well. Juts out. I don't know the wider context so maybe you wanted a contrast but this just doesn't fit with how Simon is feeling and what he is experiencing at all.
>On such a clear sombre night, it was hard to tell where the stars ended and the lightbulbs began, so the scenery gained a kind of beautiful homogeny.On such a clear sombre night, it was hard to tell where the stars ended and the lightbulbs began, so the scenery gained a kind of beautiful homogeny.
Rewrite this entire sentence. If you really want to think of a way to mention the blurring of the skyline and the stars above, you need to take a different approach. Very awkward to read.
Reads like middle school. Don't revise, just delete.
>Being dressed...being empty.
One of the worst sentences I've ever read. Otherwise not terrible, but mediocre at best.
Pretty good other than that.
What's with the f---ing? It feels juvenile.
10/10, very arousing.
Glad to see this again. The other anon has some good points, though.
Continuing the wacky adventures of Beatrice:
In bed that night Beatrice thought about the laughter, reliving it repeatedly with more detail each time. The closet, the laughter, the silence. The fucking silence.
Gradually, she realised that she had enjoyed Bridget’s intrusion into her mind. In the same way that she was turned on by the idea of being raped by a large black man in a disgusting alley, she wanted nothing more than to talk to Bridget again and have the layers of her falsehood ripped away like thin clothing.
Beatrice did not sleep. In the early morning she made some espresso and changed into running clothes. Unlike some of her friends, and perhaps against normality, she actually exercised to control her weight. In her teenage years she had purged to accomplish this, but she had vomited blood one day and decided to try exercise instead. She found that it helped her to control her thoughts, and it was physically pleasant.
Today she jogged a complex course around her neighbourhood. The route was intentionally convoluted so that a modification to avoid passing close to an unpleasant neighbour would go unnoticed.
She hated dogs and the people who walked them through the neighbourhood. She always thought that if an unleashed dog were to chase her, she would kick it in the snout. It would be very cathartic if the dog were small enough.
No dogs interrupted Beatrice that morning. She found that she had not sweated, which was unfortunate; to have truly exercised, she would have to sweat. She turned on the shower to maximum heat, then masturbated furiously on the floor with a dildo as the steam from the shower thickened. This generated plenty of sweat, and she quit masturbating and turned off the unused shower before orgasming.
After pulling her pants back up, Beatrice left the house again and drove over to a store to buy something to drink. At the store, she happened to meet Poppy. Some primal, masochistic urge forced her to ask about Bridget.
“She’s staying with me and Rob for a week,” Poppy said. “Isn’t that lovely? She’s just so lovely. You seemed to get along well with her last night,” she said.
Before she could stop herself, Beatrice asked for Bridget’s number.
This is the best thing that I've read in one of these threads. Reminds me of Night of the Hunter—totally immerses me in and makes me feel instantly familiar with a world that I was sorta deprived of as a city kid. The constant references to spirituality and the bounding between the huge and small really make it for me. I like it a lot. Drop a link in one of these threads sometime if you publish it.
The memes are real. This is joyous and wonderful and makes me feel instantly like I know the place. Seriously good work here.
I found this old document and I'm wondering if it's worth expanding on, what do you guys think?
The subway continues to decelerate, the wheels turn and grind against the rails. The wagon I am in shakes and I suppress a frown as the tremors inadvertently put me closer to the man next to me.
I am experiencing a dilemma. I don’t want to touch the security handles, (I can’t touch the security handles) but I don’t want to bump into the man standing at my side. I throw away any effort at looking complacent and frown heavily.
There is a woman at my front, and my nose crinkles as I observe the dead bits of skin in her hair.
To my left is a school girl, holding a big bag with her school books in. I haltingly remember kids tendencies to pick their nose and get dirty; I gradually move a bit more to the man standing at my right.
I hadn’t expected to have to take the subway home. I usually walk home, but the neighborhood I usually walk through is under construction, the subway was the shorter option.
And like the wheels grind against the rails, I grind my teeth as I acknowledge the fact that there are still seven stops until I reach my apartment. I take up my bag and relentlessly root through it, balancing on my feet in order to not accidentally squish the man besides me.
I was originally not going to use the gloves, I thought I could stand and conserve glove quantity and therefore money, but I accept the fact that the subway is so crowded at 6 pm that I don’t have a choice. It’s a pair of standard white gloves.
I pull them on, ignoring any offended looks of the other passengers (if there are any, I don’t want look at them). I feel remarkably better, but I know I am still on edge. There is an uncomfortableness in the wagon we are riding in. I feel crushingly self-aware of my existence and pray to whoever is listening (no one is) that none of the nearby passengers try to engage me in a conversation.
I hold the security handles and suddenly feel dismayed when I realize that the woman with the dandruff in her hair said something to me, and is looking at me expectantly.
“What?” I asked.
“Please step aside.” She replies, looking hostile.
It’s only then that I notice that the wagon has come to a halt, and I’m standing in the way of the woman. She could have asked someone else, for instance the man besides me, but I recognize that she may find him intimidating due to his stature, me ; being her closest match, considering the school girl besides me, would seem like the best option.
I doubt she thought her reasons through, it comes most likely as a social instinct. (Which I lack)
I sidestep away from her so she can get out.
6 stops left.
My childhood was a relatively happy one, there is no complaints. I lived in a modest house in a modest suburb, it was quite alright. My parents had divorced awhile back, leaving my father with full custody, In turn, I never really saw my mom. The house I grew up in was small and somewhat sad, it was old and needed quite a few renovations but none the less gave me all that I needed to be a happy kid. I loved to play with Bionicle action figures, after coming home from school, I would spend all afternoon mercilessly manipulating the great collection I had amassed through many holidays. I would act out great battles; long episodes involving tragic heroes and shameful defeats took place habitually on the cracked concrete patio stage, the tiny black ants would swarm over legions of the dead. In the evening, after dinner with my father, I would retreat to my room and continue wherever I left off. My room was small and even more sad than the house it lived in. I had one window, and the shades that covered the window were broken, something was wrong with the mechanism that controlled their operation but I could care less. My father would always watch TV at this time, through my door I could hear the sounds of muffled voices speaking with various inflections intertwined with impotent musical notes.
At this time, the sun began to set.
The sunset was always fascinating, I don’t know what quite caused this but it was always so vivid. The blue sky would was gutted, and orange filled every corner; through my window shades this color emanated, it was halfway magical but that wasn’t all. The sun would desperately cast out its final rays before finally being submerged under the suburban horizon, this would vigorously alter the sky’s previous orange gradient to a deep red that was almost palpable. For the brief time that the sky was lit in this hue, something peculiar would happen, without fail. My shades would appear a glowing red, as if they were being heated to brand, rays of light would seep through into my room to take residence upon my walls, and a dark silhouette of a man would appear. The outline was very clear, there was no doubt it was the figure of a man that stood behind my window, but the figure stood so rigidly and unflinchingly that one would think it were a statue and non-living. I remember never being scared, never fully comprehending what it was that stood behind my window, and never being struck with enough curiosity to peek through the shades, but I do remember looking at him intently, matching his stolid interest. As I looked without from within, he looked within from without. I never heard any footsteps, he came with the twilight of the sunset and left with the fall of night.
hold up, everyone's just jerking this guy off without giving him any criticism, so here goes
It's alright from what of read so far, but the abrupt transitions kinda throw me off. Like when you switched suddenly to Douglas, I found myself having to reread those few sentences twice to follow what was happening.
And I know it wasn't just me not paying attention because fuck, I am on a TON of vyvanse right now
"Rebecca, don't you ever look at the town? At that flicker of light over there?"
"I have looked at it."
"Well, that's a public school. And in it, there are children, just like us."
"How can children go to school on a flicker of light?"
"From public school, your house is just a flicker of light. Don't you want to go out? All you do is stay in your house and study."
"What else would one do?"
"Love, for one thing."
"And what is love?"
"Love...is the most important thing on Earth. When boys and girls feel love, they kiss."
"What means kiss?"
"When a man and a woman feel...love, they put their lips together."
"Oh, you mean a mate. When it is time to increase the herd, my provider will select one for me."
"Rebecca, in public school, we select our own mate. In public school, men and women get together, make each other happy."
"You certainly come from a silly place. Still, I would like to try this...kiss."
Thank you so very much for the kind words. I'm just happy to be doing it.
All we are is just memes in the wind, anon.
And you're absolutely right and I'm very glad you're doling out some criticism. So it was the jump from the town to "Douglas wanted to-" that got you?
Do you know of a better way of doing it? Reading it over I see what you mean, but I can't think of a smooth way of introducing our main character without inserting him a little earlier in the story of talking about the kids of Elmsen.
I used to be a naïve teen-artist type, there are lots of those to go around, and they typically enjoy thinking about themselves and wallowing in self-pity—which happens to be exactly what I'm doing to an extent by writing that.
Absolutely loved it until the part where he says "love.... is the most important thing on earth"
It sounds a bit cliche, and just generally goes a bit downhill from there. But love the first half.
Here's mine; written almost exactly 1 year ago. (Give or take a few days)
Maybe one day tk snaps.
Maybe one day tk' is working his day job at the bait and tackle.
And maybe one day a customer comes in with a balaclava and a primed harpoon.
Maybe the customer wants a copy of his tax invoice for some items he bought a couple of months ago, that he forgot he could claim tax on.
Like, maybe he teaches a fishing class for the local special school, and he spends hundreds -- no -- thousands of dollars a year on fishing-related consumables.
Maybe this man walks into tk's shop and threatens to fire a 4-fucking-ft harpoon right through tk's 'useless fucking skull' if he doesn't provide the appropriate taxable receipts.
And maybe tk snaps.
Maybe tk grabs the 4-fucking-ft harpoon, and fires the 4-fucking-ft harpoon right through this customers useless fucking scull.
Maybe he panics, and drags the customer off to the back room, and puts him in with the goods inwards and covers his face in frozen shrimp.
Maybe he closes the shop for a day -- the first time in 32 years -- and maybe spends his remaining shift contemplating suicide. He considers firing the 4-fucking-foot harpoon through his own useless fucking scull.
All I'm saying is maybe tk snaps.
People snap all the time.
I don't get it. Is she autistic?
If I woke up one morning
and saw the clock's hands flowing backwards,
I would live in zealous anticipation
of the day you broke my heart.
If time were flowing backwards
I would be religious in my observation.
If the current was disrupted once,
it stands to reason it may be again.
If time were flowing backwards
I'm not sure my heart would feel more whole.
I want a chance, that's all I ask;
once hope is mine, I'll find the inspiration.
anyone polish there? Its beginning of novel i dreamed about, plot is about middle school pretentious boy (someone like young humbert humbert) who found a way to create alternative reality where he could be ruller and bully just by being pretentious and well-read. Idk i think its shity, but it was fun to write as far
-Nie obchodzi mnie to
Centralnym motywem zycia Pawełka byla szkola w Tyrach, małej wsi, nad dopływem Dunaju, na południowym wschodzie kraju. Była
sensem jego życia a także jego największym przekleństwem, szlagiem, kulą u nogi. Okropnie wykształcony i oczytany Pawełek
nie mógł znależć wspólnego języka z resztą dzieci, jego jedynymi przyjaciółmi był Mateusz i jego pies Kołowrotka. Każdego
dnia Pawełek powstawał ze snu z ogromnym brzemieniem na sercu. Uwielbiał nauke i chociaż repertuar rzeczy wszelakich
nauczanych w publicznej szkole w Tyrach był nieco poniżej jego poziomu, wyraźnie zarysowujacym sie wokół jego Wolnomyślących
kolegów, to jednak chodziłby do niej chętnie gdyby nie Szymek i jego banda zatruwająca mu życie jakoby nieoczyszczony
metkatynon nielotnym ukrainskim nastolatkom.
-Nie obchodzi mnie to
-Nie musiałem tym razem sie zgłaszać, masz w tym racje, jednakże dlaczego robisz z tego taką...
Nie dokończył. Pięść Szymka poszybowała gotowa z pozycji znad lini barku w dół niczym samobójca po usłyszaniu Brzydkiej
Niedzieli, twardy bruk zastąpiony został przez twarzyczką delikatną, wymuskaną nie przywykłą do ulicznych bójek. Zaiste
lotnisko nie jest stworzone z materiału miękkiego jak kołderka! Twarzyczka Pawełka nie została stworzona do przyjmowania
samobójczych pięści, lecz do czynności znacznie przekraczających możliwości intelektualne dziczy która właśnie sie nad
nim znęcała! Oczami wyobrążni zobaczył siebie na podium, głoszącego mowe po uzyskaniu nagrody za przełomowe badania nad
łaciną, a jego twarzyczka niby zwierciadło skupiała na sobie światłą reflektorów i zachwycone twarze i całusy od dziewcząt
rozanielonych samym przebywaniem w jego towarzystwie! To było właśnie prawdziwe przeznaczenie jego twarzyczki! Och
dlaczego, dlaczego jego koledzy nie potrafili zrozumieć jego milości do języka włoskiego i piękna literatury? Nie mógł tego
pojąć zupełnie. Siedząc na brudnej podłodze szkolnej, czując krew na licach, zastanawiał sie nad powodem miłości Szymka
do krótkich, żółnierskich repetycji, i jego niezmierzoną pogardą do przemyślanych, złożonych wypowiedzi.
my bf is polish besides me, I showed him this post since he likes /lit/ but he is too angry and drepressed over his life since I popped a zit on his forehead.
pierdol sie! he replies
Decent. Only the second sentence made me cringe.
Overall, it feels like a more emo version of American Psycho.
Super Deluxe Homo Housewife continued:
Calling Bridget was a terrifying ordeal. Beatrice waited for a few hours, showering in the meantime. New sweat erupted from her pores as she entered Bridget’s number into her contacts. There was a minute of intense consideration as she wondered about Bridget’s surname, but eventually she surrendered and left her as “Bridget”.
“It’s Beatrice. From… last night.”
“What’s up, Beatrice?”
Beatrice was not sure how to respond to this. It was a question that only younger people asked one another, and even they seemed confused about it.
“Are you still there, Beatrice?”
“Uh… yeah. I just… had to do something.”
Beatrice read anger into this and began to worry. She could feel sweat trickling down the insides of her arms. What was she doing?
She asked something, stuttering unbecomingly, about lunch. She realised after the exchange about lunch that she did not remember what had been said, and there was a moment of panic before she realised that she had written a note.
Lunch was to take place the next day at one. Until then, Beatrice felt only fear, pure fear, and she realised that she was experiencing true emotion. Bridget was disturbing things but Beatrice wanted to be raped by her eyes again. She missed another night of sleep.
Beatrice wore excessive layers to the restaurant to cover any sweat spots that might appear. The layers would increase sweating but decrease visibility. She was there to have her mind fucked, not her body, anyway.
At one-thirty Bridge still hadn’t shown and Beatrice closed the apps she’d been using to distract herself. As she was pulling up her contacts, Beatrice heard someone approach.
Bridget sat down across from her. “You have my name wrong,” Bridget said. “It’s not Bridget. B-r-i-g-i-d. Brigid.”
Beatrice didn’t know what to say and began to form an apology but Brigid seemed to be amused so she smiled instead. Brigid gave her one of those ironic squint-and-smile looks and Beatrice swallowed some saliva.
The rest of the conversation was pleasant enough. Lesbianism wasn’t mentioned. After lunch was eaten, Beatrice knew that the meeting had to end, but something nestled within her coxa told her to prolong it, and eventually Brigid was the one to initiate its closing.
Beatrice tripped on the way out and Brigid caught her by her arm with surprising strength. The feeling of Brigid’s hand digging into her arm, compressing the muscles, was exhilarating. The contact only lasted a few seconds and Beatrice wanted more, so much more.
Beatrice ate dinner at home with Jim and Jack. It was unpleasant, and she found herself reliving the experience of being touched by Brigid rather than trying to make conversation with Jim. Jack was being a brat again and Beatrice felt the urge to skin him with a particular kitchen knife.
After spending time with Brigid, Beatrice felt that Jim was completely dull. She recalled the many times that she hadn’t been able to distinguish him from a group of his peers. His understanding of her was so shallow compared to what Brigid could see in a minute of conversation. Beatrice wanted so badly to see Brigid again that she found herself touching her crotch during dinner. Jim didn’t notice.
She recalled that wives were supposed to talk endlessly while husbands pretended to listen, so she began rattling off random sentences about her friends. She was a good wife, or at least she was good at playing a mediocre one.
That night she took a sedative and fell asleep to the sound of Jim masturbating to teen porn. The girl said, “Oh yeah… yeah… harder, daddy… harder...”
The following afternoon, Beatrice sat with Justine in the coffee shop. Justine was very dominant to the point of being brash but Beatrice found her easy to manipulate. The coffee shop was the ideal place to meet a designated black friend. It was open and busy, ensuring that the maximum number of people would see Beatrice’s love of diversity. The place was very crowded today, and Beatrice did not try to count the other patrons.
Justine was talking endlessly and very loudly about her husband and something about a knife. It was very African. Beatrice didn’t really care and thought about Brigid. Today she removed the lid from her coffee cup to speed the cooling process. This was a risky move, because it gave Justine the ability to see the level of coffee remaining. No faking today; Beatrice would have to drink it. Even if she put the lid on before “finishing”, Justine would have seen the level already and would be able to keep track of the sips to determine that Beatrice was lying. Beatrice dreaded the caffeine headache and the dread began to give her a headache.
People began to stop and stare and Beatrice realised that Justine was on her feet yelling, making a scene. Beatrice tried to scoot her chair back far enough that she would blend into the crowd but it made a horrible screeching sound so she stopped. Justine was taking off her dated jacket and the crowd grew quiet as it saw that Justine’s white shirt was covered in large patches of half-dried blood. Beatrice felt a little disturbed and began to pay attention to what Justine was yelling.
“...He never remember a fucking thing about me and he tried to have sex and I said ‘Nuh-uh’ because he didn’t deserve it didn’t fucking deserve it so I took this knife and cut off his penis and-” She stopped, producing the knife from her purse. It was a kitchen knife, similar to the one with which Beatrice had wanted to skin Jack. Justine’s eyes widened and she said to Beatrice, “Better run, white girl.” The designated black friend lunged toward Beatrice and somebody yelled something but suddenly Beatrice was deaf.
Ringing. Beatrice had covered her eyes. She lowered her hands. A group of police surrounded Justine’s body. Beatrice pretended to be upset and did not remember much else of what happened between then and her return home. She thought that perhaps, on some level, she was actually upset. She made a cup of mint tea and predicted that tomorrow’s headlines would be about a white male police officer shooting a strong black woman who dindu nuffin wrong. She decided that she was not upset.
A man with no skin walked the desolate stretch of highway that wound around the Capitol like a great Ouroboros, his bloodied soles soiling the pavement with crimson tracks that seemed to glow sickeningly as they dully reflected the light of the setting Sun. Rattled bouts of air escaped his lungs with each step, the steady easterly gusts carrying their sounds ominously so that they could be picked up by human ears half a mile down the empty lanes. There was no pain to be felt; the nerves embedded in his exposed dermis had been long dead and the sensation came to him now only in vivid flashbacks of a life he couldn't be sure was his.
Pretty nice. I can't really think of anything to change. Good job.
Feels like it's trying a little too hard. Is self defense really considered "snapping"? If I'm following the sequence of events correctly, tk is working, a customer comes in and threatens to kill him, and tk kills the customer. Hiding the body is odd but doesn't really constitute snapping.
The line about the "steady easterly gusts" was a little awkward toward the end but I like the passage as a whole.
I like the idea of the sounds being heard at a distance, but maybe it should be
>Rattled bouts of air escaped his lungs with each step, the steady easterly gusts carrying their sounds for half a mile down the empty lanes.
Maybe keep "ominously" in there somewhere, but I don't think it needs to be stated that the human ear can pick up the sounds.
Not really an excerpt so much as a rant I posted on Facebook:
I haven't been around very long; twenty-two years is just enough time for me to realize how ill-prepared I am for adult life and I like to think we're still children until the age of twenty-six anyway, but I've been around long enough to witness some pretty crucial moments in human history. Whether these moments be technological breakthroughs, tides of political and economic change, revitalizations in art, science and literature, atrocities and virtues of our nature or natural phenomenon in a world we are just now starting to understand, I've noticed that after each consecutive moment that the tension between ourselves and other sects of humanity has steadily mounted as we try to cope with these universal shifts life throws at us. We have little tolerance for each other these days, we get vitriolically angry at one another over things both big and small and the desire to find middle ground and build on whatever shared perspectives we have has been replaced by this primal impulse to wholly eradicate opposition and shout until our esophagus bleeds and every ear has been rendered deaf. Perhaps it's always been so, but the dilemma of whether or not it can really continue is fast approaching us. Republican or Democrat, Conservative or Liberal, Socialist or Libertarian, Christian or Muslim, Theist or Atheist, whatever group or concept we hold claim to, there's an underlying truth that is mutual between all of them: We want what's best for our species. In acknowledging this, there will always be room for compromise and when we don't make that room, we're not the ones that suffer for it. Not really. It's the generations that will inherit the Earth when we're six feet under it, our children who have no notion of pride or hatred and the souls that have yet to witness the beauty of this life, that will bear the burden that we've been deliberately building upon since the days we crawled out of our caves and became the masters of our own destiny. This is the reality that we've never been able to face and we are not better off for it. With the state of the world being what it is, how long can we tread down this path? How much heavier can this burden be until we buckle under the pressure? When will come the time when we grow up and unanimously call for that middle ground for the sake of a bright and better future we all want to come to fruition? We haven't been around very long. This universe would not miss us after we erase ourselves from it.
Let's keep this in mind during the upcoming election year, and all the years, months and days that proceed it.
>Vin thought to himself, "Eldehwen... I did it. Forgive me for being unable to save you."
>Suddenly he heard Eldehwen's voice. "Save me!"
Fucking hell, I almost pissed myself.
>dear friends on facebook, have you ever considered about this: why cant we all just get along??? call me a crazy visionary prophet or whatever, but just what r we gonna DO for the future generations huh??????
I feel like it's the sort of thing that one of your parents and maybe a sympathetic friend would like, while everybody else ignores it because you're not really part of their lives and they're not really sure why you're friends with them. They probably make a mental note to delete you later because they're too busy to do it just then.
I Wrote this on the toilet...
My Uncle's Purple Pussy Lips
My uncle's purple pussy lips were spread wide. There were old trail mix bags scattered all over the room. Those chapped lips of his clam trap were always alluring, one day I will stick my little acorn inside. I can produce a good amount of seed, there's little soarness after ejaculation. Ever since mom and dad gave him my bedroom, the bathroom is now where I rest. It's got everything I need, sink, toilet, and a hot plate. He just sits there twirling his pussy lips, some chapstick would do them well.
I think he has psoriasis on his pussy lips, he's always peeling the skin. Mom tells me not to look inside when he's "singing dixie", but now that I've seen; my acorn has taken control. Dad said my penis looks like an acorn, he said "How do you go to the piss house, boy?", "It's just a little acorn!", I said " sorry sir". The whole family teases me about my acorn, but I bet if I sowed my uncle's pussy their thoughts would change.
It was a crisp winter's night in London, England. It was that particular time in late January where there was no longer any front, but simply biting cold air in what felt like a completely empty atmosphere.
Dan was walking down the road, his tall back silhouette cast shadows from the artificial amber glow of streetlamps. His breath formed swirls of mist with every exhalation and he decided to slide his exposed hands inside his coat pockets to retain some warmth. The street was empty at the time and his footsteps echoed up and down around him, only interrupted by the cruising him of a taxi driving past. He wasn't totally alone after all. Dan had time to think on this journey, time to think about what had happened the night before.
I wrote this after I had a sharpie in my butt
is probably what most songs would say
if they had to be honest
Dear professor, here's my research paper
a big part of my process was
masturbating between edits
particular pg.s 14-16
That's what the computer people do
walled up. alone.
let's experiment. and
then compute something
in any haze
it all seems okay enough
because no has to say
ya, I did write this with a sharpie in my butt
Alta silently watched the small streams of crimson liquid make their way down the front of her visor. Blood. FCL blood. Human blood. Her knees gave way as she collapsed to the floor, hyperventilating. The blood. She couldn’t rip her eyes away from its grasp. The crimson fluid dripped onto the ground, spreading its territory, destroying the sanctity of anything it touched. There was no doubt in her mind that what the FCL prisoner had cried out was true. This was human blood. The FCL were human. Just like her.
Hey, I've tried to improve it, hope you like it:
Do not silently watch the small streams of crimson liquid makes its way to the front of his visor. Blood. FCL blood. Human blood. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, gasping. Blood. She can not tear your eyes out of control. Crimson liquid dripping on the floor, extended its territory and destroy sacred thing touched. There was no doubt in his mind that the prisoner had shouted FCL was true. This was human blood. The human LCF. She wants it.
Given yours a shot buddy, enjoy:
It was a clear winter night in London, England. It was at the time at the end of January, when it had no view, but simply biting cold air, I felt empty feeling.
Dan walks on the road, shadow silhouette tall artificial amber light from the street lamps. His breathing was formed swirls of mist every exhalation, and decided to slip into a pocket jacket unprotected hands to keep warm. The streets were empty at the time, and his footsteps echoed up and down round, but lost his cruising taxis drive past. It was, after all, only. Dan had time to think about this trip, it's time to think about what happened last night.
Took a shot at making it better, hope you don't mind:
If you woke up this morning one day
Clock ran backwards, I saw his hand
We live in serious expectations
From that day on, my heart broke.
If time runs backwards
My observation is not a religion.
If the current immediately affected,
This is understandable, it can be again.
If time runs backwards
I do not know if my heart will feel more full.
I will have the opportunity to hear;
When my faith, I found inspiration.
Since I'm on a roll I'll do yours.
Very satisfied with my young, you do not have a complaint. I was completely in order to live in a modest neighborhood of modest homes. When I do not really look at my mother, he at the same time, to leave my father's custody, my parents were divorced. I is small and old, a little sad, I grew up in a house, you have a number of reforms, no, I have stated that there is a need for children to be happy. Action figures of Bionicle, I like home from school, was chosen to fight against mercy holiday collection can be played back and spend the entire afternoon;. And, on the small stage of the cracked concrete courtyard embarrassing defeat of the tragedy of the hero of the long section was smashed through the ant horde dead dark twist. In the evening, after dinner, I go back to my room with my father, I do not have left, the future off. And it is sad, but also in the house, it was my little room. Shades of the cover broken windows, something I, but have the operation control mechanism, I will not be able to worry too much. I listen to music note my father always this moment, a variety of songs of the back door for the deaf, my voice of the story gives the helpless, you watch TV.
It began the time-date.
Although Sunset really do not know whether the reason is what, it was still orange that you can write a bright blue sky, it meets every corner that it was always interesting;. Through the main color of the shade of my window, it's magic two It was a week, it must have been. In front of the red sky very end of the basic water under the sky be deployed in under the last light of the sun, in Orange, there is a possibility that the strong side has been observed many changes. Timely, strange things can happen illuminate the sky in this short period of time. Red hot, which was supposed to be taken from my tone, a light radiation to penetrate through the walls of their room, shining brand, will come out of the dark image. It was like a statue to be careful behind the window of my camera, the number of boldly hard, to your life, What do you think was clear there was a doubt. Remember I'm afraid, never mind, never to understand whether it is enough, I have a strong mainly curiosity, the background color of the warning the window, hit, and I meet the bud of her son It has. inside he saw me, he looked outside, on the inside. That night, I did not hear the footsteps and the dark night fell.
A PRELIMINARY REPORT BY THE UNIFIED BOARD OF AMERICAN PSYCHOLOGICAL AND OPTOMETRIC STUDIES (UBAPOS)
The uniquely selective and degenerative eye condition of Mr. Lucas Doctorow (a condition which has, for the first time in the history of either profession, brought the fields of psychology and optometry into close collaboration and occasional conflict, necessitating the creation of this board) began during the subject’s second year of enrollment at the Colorado Film School, specifically beginning its onset during Doctorow’s ill-fated final project for a course called “The Nascence of Modernism in Film: A Conversation between Vertov and Eisenstein.”
A survey of his professors, roommates, scattered (and uniformly underage) girlfriends, and classmates has produced that Doctorow was a student of no particular ingenuity, directorial vision, or talent — indeed one seeming to lack even the most basic personal engagement with the art of film, being described by the instructor of the relevant class as “lazy and late, loud and stupid and sempiternally stoned. A rancid, racist little [epithet excluded]” When pressed by the psychological wing of this board to give his opinion as to whether Doctorow’s condition could perhaps be attributed to some kind of anomalous traumatic blindness, resulting from a passionate young artist’s over-engagement with his work, the professor proceeded to produce for the board a series of samples of the subject’s prior work for the class, which we will catalogue for you now:
Item (A): An introductory assignment for the class in which students were asked to list for the professor the following facts about themselves: 1) Their three favorite films or directors 2) One or two interesting things about themselves which they would like the instructor to know 3) Why they chose to take the course and what they hope to get out of it.
The subject’s responses to these questions are reproduced below.
1) - The Pokémon Movie 2000.
-The “I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up” commercial
- Citizen Cane [sic]
2) 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420 420
3) Because I heard it was easy. And I don’t know, a good grade???
My friend and I write for our own ongoing epistolatory short story collection. Here's one example that I wrote recently.
Dear Tim, my charismatic, companion,
I generally avoid the bar as a place to seek romance. The immediate, shallow, self-gratifying lust cultivated within is not what I desire. The bar also requires a bit of social finesse, and I am not a proficient conversationalist; I am prone to stuttering, shaking, and sweating when speaking to new people. I have exhausted all other modes of finding true love, however. Thoroughly dissatisfied with my current prospects, I am willing to try anything that might show a hint of promise. So I set out on my own to tread unfamiliar territory.
The night was cool and comfortable as I strolled down the block to a nearby bar that I heard was popular among college seniors and recent graduates. In the otherwise dark, cloudless sky, the moon and stars shone brightly. I hoped it was a fortuitous sign for me. Nervous excitement built as I approached the entrance of the establishment.
After showing the stocky bouncer my ID, I entered and was immersed in a sea of air, muggy with sweat and body heat. Blaring dance music pounded my ear drums. I looked around at the patrons of the packed bar, mostly populated by provocatively dressed women with smatterings of tall, handsome men. What fortune Tim, tonight was ladies night. It appeared I had good odds as the ratio was in my favor, however upon seeing all these people I succumbed to the typical symptoms accompanying my social anxiety. Despite my feelings, I strode on. I would not let this night result in failure.
I slowly and unsteadily made my way towards a group of girls near me. As I approached, my heart raced, and my shaking increased accordingly. Only a foot away I was a sweaty, convulsing epileptic.
“H-H-H-Helllllo,” I stammered barely above a whisper.
Nobody in the group heard me. Disheartened, I sulked away from them. Glancing around, I noticed the bar counter in the center. Individuals were sauntering up to it laying down their cash for cold libation. Of course, Tim! The key ingredient I had been missing: the great social lubricant! Hopeful, I slipped through to the counter. After 30 minutes of trying to get the bartenders attention, I was noticed and ordered a shot. I downed it quickly, suppressing my gagging at the unexpected noxious taste, so that I might get back to the task at hand. I had no time to waste.
My next few attempts went as before, pathetically. So I decided I required more drink. I reordered from the bartender and this time purchased a beer to wash down the bitter, unfamiliar taste. I opted to open a tab since I did not know how much of this elixir I would need, but I could feel my confidence rising.
I turned around and spied a gorgeous golden haired vixen in a tight black top just several feet away from me with her girlfriends. She withdrew from the communal conversation to text on her phone. My window of opportunity had opened. TBC
So I walked over to her and tried not to overthink my opening line.
“Hey how’s it going?” Perfect! Nice and simple, the alcohol must be working.
“Oh… Hi. It’s going alright. What’s up with you?” she responded politely enough.
Oh shit. Throwing the ball right back, OK. It is in your court, you’ve got this. “Oh I don’t know, just decided to head here tonight, see what people get up to in here. Just one of those nights.”
“That’s cool. Did you come with friends?”
“Nope just by myself.” Shit, I look like a creep.
“Riding solo. Very brave.”
Oh…She digs it. Hell yea I’m fucking brave. “Oh you know, just one of those nights.” I already said that. Say something else quick. “Are you single?” FUCK
“Sorry no, I have a boyfriend actually…”
A boyfriend? She is clearly lying, why would she be here if she was indeed in a relationship? Are we not all here to find someone to go back home with?
I felt my heart sink into my stomach. This was a terrible loss. I could not bear the shame, I needed to exit the conversation but not before speaking my heavily air-quoted peace.
“Ohhhhh, that’s nice. Since you’re sooo “attractive” I’m sure your “boyfriend” is very fond of you. I’m soooo “jealous”. Have a “great” night.”
I stormed away and ordered three more drinks. It helped numb the awful feeling left from my rejection. This was a serious blow to my confidence, but, for better or worse, I was not ready to give up yet.
After several more failed attempts and many more drinks, I was undeniably drunk. I was growing weary of this endeavor and feeling put down. By now, the feelings of humiliation had increased so that I was becoming sexually aroused. It gave me the motivation for one last try.
Leaning on the the counter, I slid over to the nearest young lady. In my state at the time, I considered her beautiful, but I am uncertain as to whether this was actually the case. My was arm stretched out before me along the countertop, I was slouched forward, my face almost touching its surface, staring at the back of my targets head, breathing heavily and laboriously only inches away. I grinned at her, waiting for her to notice me as I bided my time to muster up courage, and the balance required to stand.
“Um… Can I help you?”
Can I help you? “Can I help you?” she asks!? I’m just here trying to start a nice conversation, maybe meet a nice girl. You don’t need to condescend to me bitch!
“F-f-f-f-f-f-f-f FUCK YOU!” I screamed as I grabbed my beer bottle and stumbled off towards the bathroom.
At the urinal, I was losing it. This had been the last straw. As I slammed my head against the tile wall, I asked myself, was it me or them? Am I no good, destined to live and die alone? Or are woman a terrible gender of people, who enjoy ignoring nice guys like me? I continued slamming my head as blood blotched the tile, and I heard my skull crack as I realized the latter must be case.
As my abject dejection transformed into enthusiastic rage, I was inspired. I quit brutally mutilating my forehead and slipped my dick into my pants, ignoring the realization that I was not quite finished urinating. I exited the bathroom and walked back into the bar.
In the middle of the room I noticed a billiards table that would make for an excellent podium. I climbed up on it and proceeded to make my address.
“I-I have something I’d like to s-s-s-say,” I said.
Some people nearby heard me or at least noticed a drunk, sweaty, bleeding man standing on the pool table in the middle of a crowded bar, but for most, my voice was drowned in the general clamor of the bar and they kept going about their night.
I reversed my grip on the bottle I was holding and flung it at the wall. It shattered piercingly.
“H-Hey, listen up f-f-f-f-f-f-fuckers, I said I have something to say!” This certainly got their attention. The bartender picked up the phone to call the police. Although unable to stand or look quite straight I began my teary-eyed speech.
“T-tonight I came out to this bar to meet a nice womun. She didn’t haf to come home with me. I didn’t wan sex. But you allusumed I did! I just wanted to meet someone new ‘cause I’m s’lonely. And you treated me like shit… you…. you b-b-b-b-bitches! An I couldn take anymore without…”
“Hey, who is this drunk stuttering asshole?!” a fraternity brother interrupted, his arm slung around a buxom blonde.
“Is that pee on your pants, faggot?” someone else shouted
The crowd erupted into booing, laughing, and jeering, throwing half-finished bottles and glasses at me. I had never been so humiliated. The shame was so great that even through my inebriation, I found it uncomfortably arousing. I basked in it. I closed my eyes, raised my arms at my sides and let the booze rain down upon me.
“Ew what the FUCK?!”
“Oh my God, what a fucking perv!”
People stopped pelting me with their unfinished beverages. I was curious as to why their ridicule had turned to disgust. I looked down and saw the culprit. After leaving the bathroom I had forgotten to zip up my fly! A critical error. Due to the humiliation and shame amounting throughout the night, a massive, throbbing erection had presented itself to my audience.
At first, I experienced more embarrassment, but this only turned me on further. A crooked smile graced my face, and a burning desire glowed in my crossed eyes. Never had I been more humiliated, but never had I been more turned on either, Tim! At least, I could try to get some gratification out of the night! I gripped my red, veiny penis and started energetically stroking it right then and there, standing atop the table.
The bar resonated with frightened shouts and screams. Some ran out of the bar, while others looked on in horror as I furiously continued.
Soon the door burst open, and in stormed several policemen. Upon realizing what I was doing, they aimed their firearms at me.
“Freeze! Stop what you are doing and put your hands in the air!”
Continuing to masturbate, I raised my free hand.
“Both hands where we can see them!” one commanded.
“One… second!” I replied, not changing my course of action.
“I said put your hands up!”
But I was so close, Tim! I was struggling desperately to reach orgasm. If not for all my imbibing, I would have released my ejaculate long ago. I would not end this night unsatisfied.
“I said hands up!”
I could not stop now. I just needed a little more time.
The boys in blue each fired multiple shots at me; bullets ripping holes open in my torso, intestines, and throat and tearing gruesome exit wounds. The force of the blasts took me airborne and knocked me off my podium. I landed hard on the floor, gasping and gurgling as I strained for breath. I could feel the intense pain as my collapsed lungs tried to suck in air through the holes in my chest. My mouth rapidly filled up with blood which streamed down my cheeks. A cough sprayed it over my face as I choked on it. A red pool spread about me.
I like it. I'd take out the 'with a well-known zinger" part, though, and just do 'shall conclude: The Aristocrats!" It's much more shocking.
I like the listlessness emphasized by the tapping of his foot. The use of 'homogeny' seems a bit awkward but it works.
John F. Kennedy’s artfully crafted inaugural speech aimed to unite the citizens of the USA and blur the invisible borders between them while also legitimizing himself as their new president, all with skillful usage of tropes and schemes -- zeugma, anaphora, and likewise -- resulting in a myriad of different persuasive elements that contribute to his credibility and ultimately his purpose.
There's still more you could do to improve it but that's a big fix right there.
My submission. I tried writing a prose poem and this is what I've come up with so far.
merci beaucoup!!! screams the man of ill repute and poor respite, screaming, laughing, chasing the end of night, robbing, shopping, sobbing all the way, cart trains spilling over, clothes racks so effay. Flamenco fandangos are lead out windows, a beat drops four stories, flying, crying, dying: merci beaucoup!!! Ashes red, solarized, launch out speakers; necks are cut with piano strings. The buzzcut boy grins, thinks about trivial things, and drinks Port — truly, all is frivolity in the court. Bread, pork, he is fed, words grazed upon his head, they drip: merci beaucoup!!!
The boys in blue is a bit cliched but you can make it work.
I don't feel the pain the character is feeling.
Also, really, the bullets knocked him back? I mean, if realism isn't your goal here, sure, but otherwise -- you should do more research.
translated, bit google, bit me
-I do not care
The central theme of Paulie's life was a school in Tyrach, a small village on a tributary of the Danube, in the south-east of the country. It was the meaning of his life and also his greatest curse, burthen, chain. Terrific educated and well-read Paulie could not find a common language with the other children, his only friends were Matthew and his dog reel. Everyday Paulie rised from a dream with a huge burden on the heart. He loved science and repertoire although all sorts of things
taught at a public school in Tyrach was slightly below its level clearly which emerge from around his Slowlythinkers colleagues, he would walk to her willingly if not for Simon and his gang allegedly poisoning his life crude methcathinone non-sharp Ukrainian teenagers.
-I do not care
-Not this time I had to report, you have the right, but why are you doing this so ...
He did not finish. Simon went wide fist from above the shoulder line down like a suicide after listen to Gloomy Sunday, hard pavement has been replaced by a gentle countenance, sleek not used to street fights. Indeed the airport is not made of a soft material like quilt! Paulie's little face was not created to take
suicide fists, but to perform much higher than the intellectual wilderness that just over
He abused him! Mind's eye he saw himself on the podium, proclaiming speech after receiving the prize for groundbreaking research about
Dante, and his face was like a mirror focused on his headlights and delighted faces and kisses from girls delighted just by being in his company! It was the destiny of his little face! Oh
why, why his colleagues could not understand his love for the beautiful Italian language and literature? He could not
understand completely. Sitting on a dirty floor school, feeling blood on faces, he wondered about the reason for Simon's love
for short soldiers repetition, and his immense contempt for thoughtful, complex expression.
“If only I could pierce this shroud. The veil is right before my eyes, as if it were coating them directly. If only I could reach it, if only with a pin, and burst thesoap bubble that surrounds all clarity.“
“Well haven’t ya had quite enough, Dean.” A blurry figure seated itself on the other side of the table. The music was beating. Dean Deane – that was a pseudonym he used almost jokingly – nonchalantly focused his eyes on the newcomer. He needn’t really have done so, as he had clearly recognised the voice of Flannan Fion. They had been introduced. Quite a bit more than that, actually.
Dean did not yet bother greet his comrade, instead, his attention shifted inwards, again. His thoughts floated to the blood that circulated through his veins and it suddenly began to dissolve the contents of the syringe that lay emptied on the table before him. His mind cleared quickly enough for the pause before his “Heyah” to be seldom noticeable, at least to an unsuspecting observer. All that because Dean Deane was a vampire. And because some of that “handy” blood, no more than a tiny droplets few, had run through the veins of his predecessors for almost four thousand years.
Flannan sighed and patted Dean on the shoulder. “I told ya, partner. I wont help. The other eyes only lets ya know more of the same, restricted stuff. Some get the spleens after using it, not before like you.” Flannan shook his long hair in frustration. “I shouldn’t have taught it to ya.” Dean grinned “Don’t let it bother you, I asked for it. Had to try it. But this spleen is older than me. If it runs so far back, how then should I fight it?” To that Flannan could only reply with silence blotted out by the the music’s peaking crescendo.
pretty interesting narrator, but I can't know if the tone is appropriate without context (for example: the sardonic comment about his girlfriends makes it sound like him, but other more eloquent "documentarian" parts don't make it sound like his character).
It does make me curious to read more, so you've succeeded at the fundamental of writing.
also, too many 420s
unreadable, sorry. You lost me in the first paragraph and every sentence thereafter. It's information dumping without a purpose; I don't have any interest in any of these descriptions and nothing interesting is happening. Not even when things start happening.
This was okay - I like the attempt at what you're doing, but its falling a little flat. I think the problem is that you're not letting the reader discover things for themselves, you're just laying reality out for them (although you're trying to do it vaguely, that's not what you should be doing- it just makes for flowery, poor writing). Don't lay out reality, lay out *experiences* and let the reader try and figure out what the reality is.
now someone read mine please:
wait, re-arranged it. Here it is:
Erika hung up the phone. The restaurant was empty – it had only just opened again for the evening and there were no customers yet, and she took a moment to walk over to the big broad windows to glance up and down the street. All seemed quiet; Le Cafeteria’s place on Shropshire Ave gave Erika a good viewpoint of all the little shops and restaurants packed against the edge of the Carson campus, and she eyes could only find a pleasant sort of urban activity taking place before her. It was a late summer afternoon – only days before the start of classes – and students walked in little groups up and down the street. Boys walked about in tight canvas shorts and popped collars, girls flocking like little birds nearby, tittering flirtily in skirts so embarrassingly short she couldn’t look at them.
She scoffed. Stupid typical freshman insecurity bullshit. She wasn't like that anymore, she remembered.
Lights changed and empty sidewalks filled. The real freshmen were nervously migrating, skirts and collars flapping with the breeze, in clumpy droves headed towards Oaxley Hall. Orientation, probably. Erika felt the dim lighting of the restaurant, the weight of her uniform. They were free, out on a nice day, probably catching up with their friends from their first year at college, or making new ones.
A heart attack, alone at home:
My grandfather worked ‘til death.
Heavy tractors, their yellow sheens
Chipping paint from the rocks
Falling on the old machines.
My mother said he’d go with fear
Of dying every time he’d leave.
The money came. Their house: so nice,
And though his wife was full of pride,
The home still smelled of a swamp.
My father’s love for cars was never lost.
His hands were callused, scarred and worn.
And though its love that gave them cost
Exhausted minds all tend to scorn.
He painted them to make a few:
As skilled he was, they looked like new.
He seemed to have a fear he’d fail,
So much his anger took his mind.
So now that pain has made him wail;
.I’ve heard it only still behind.
While mother ran the used car lot,
She raised me lonely; near her heart.
Her only tears have left a spot
To tear the last esteem apart.
What the hell, feel free to rip this apart, /lit/. It's part of a series that I'm not actively working on right now. Hate, rate, masturbate, whatever, but if you have criticism, at least keep it constructive. I'm trying to improve as a writer.
the window. the sea. the flood. the fire. the boat. the man. the island. the wind. the woman. the fire. the house. the lamb. in the place. through the gate. under the chair. the boat. the color of the boat. the friends. the friends! the light of the moon. the devil. I broke the window. It was a bad year. It would break your heart. moon. the moon. I saw the moon last night. Best wishes, friend. a drink. a church. a funeral. a casket. a corpse. worms. winter. playing, of music. a poor heart. a calf. a Shepard. a heart.
Competent scene setting. Nothing here offends (with the exception of the word "flirtily," which feels clumsy), but nothing is especially gripping either. That said, the setup is promising and the introduction (if this is the introduction) has the cozy kind of slow-start feel to it that you don't get to much of in contemporary fiction. If you'd like to post more, I'll read it and expand my critique, but based on this alone, the writing is fine (and also subdued/readable enough to remain consistent for a whole story) and the character seems close to resolving herself.
Reluctance was, I suppose, the Defining characteristic of Martin’s nature. A reclusive intellectual, Marin would spend lifetimes in his room; He was as permanent as the naked white walls or the withering shag carpet. Martin was predictable, a paradox, and an enigma. We always knew where he would be but we never really knew what he was doing, it wasn’t for us – for anyone – to ever really know. We often tried to lead him out, always in vain, he would decline as politely as possible with as few words as possible. All day, maybe all night, save for kitchen runs, he would remain in his room. One rare occasion, when Martin was away for some familial occurrence, I snuck into his room to see what mysterious force held him so tightly within his small boundary. To my disappointment, I was met only with the big textbooks and a pile of thick, intimidating binders filled with esoteric notes, It seemed as if that was all he ever needed.
On some mornings, he would come into the kitchen while we were all eating, grab a carton of orange juice and return to his room. He wouldn’t utter a single word and his eyes appeared as if they could see through walls and flesh; he held a complete and professional indifference, deeply preoccupied with his own thought, it was if he was telecommunicating with other sentient life. Of all the flatmates in our summer compartment, I was the only one Martin ever spoke to, little as it may have been. One night around three in the morning, while I was watching Aliens, I heard someone walk into the kitchen. I looked back and was pleasantly surprised to see Martin looking intently at the screen, before I could say anything, he spoke in his calculated, inflectionless voice “Bishop is the only alien in the movie.” He then grabbed what appeared to be a carton of eggs out from the fridge and took off towards his room. I spent the rest of the night thinking about what he had said and it took me awhile -years - to really understand what he meant.
No, it's just a mistake. The rest of the piece is boring and pretentious, not to mention rife with grammatical errors.
You mean Martin.
>would spend lifetimes in his room
That would literally be decades of time. That makes no sense.
>predictable, a paradox
Those are completely different things.
You've stressed what a weird person he is up until now, but he goes to visit his family like any normal person? Make up your mind.
What kind of notes? "Esoteric" is not enough description. We have no idea what kind of notes they are, nor what kind of textbooks they are. Who is this person that we're supposed to be interested in?
>grab a carton of orange juice
Is he tripping on acid constantly? What is his motivation here?
>his eyes appeared as if they could see through walls and flesh
How is anyone perceptive enough to pick up on something so bizarre?
How is indifference "professional"?
>preoccupied with his own thought, it was if
Run-on sentence, and you meant "it was AS if"
Compartment? Seriously? It's either an "apartment" or a "flat". Choose one and stick to it.
>looking intently at the screen, before I could say anything
Comma splice. These are two independent clauses. Separate them with a period or a semicolon.
What the fuck is that even? How does a voice lack inflection? Maybe 'monotone' is the word you were looking for. Further,
You need a comma between "voice" and "'Bishop'". Basic grammar study would do you well.
>it took me awhile
A while. As in an extended passage of time. "Awhile" means a short period of time. They are different words that mean different things. Goddamn, learn English.
That's just sloppy.
>to really understand what he meant
You never EXPLAIN what he meant, so WHO FUCKING CARES. Goddamn, this is so amateurish it makes me sick. Go back to jacking off ten times a day, because you suck at this.
That's my professional opinion. Go fuck yourself.
hey /lit/, this is part of the opening to the novel I'm writing
it's a detective novel
Richard hammered the break with his foot and yanked the wheel, throwing his piece of shit Acura past the pick-up waiting at the stop light. The tires skidded, bald as they were, and he hydroplaned, gliding into the railing with a jolt and a terminal crunch. The wipers continued their idiot pattern, scraping at the dry windshield. A man’s voice, slow and banal, droned from the speaker.
“…And, by the end of this audiobook, you will have learned how to reconnect with your son or daughter. My goal is to strengthen not only your relationship with your child, but your relationship with yourself. Flip the cassette now, to continue with…”
The voice seemed loud to him in the hollow silence. Richard poked the eject button and the tape slid out. He stared through the windshield. It had stormed earlier, and the sky maintained its previous angry gray. Mist coiled around the tree trunks of the woods beyond the protective railing. He looked into the rearview mirror back at the rusted blue pick-up still sitting at the stop light. The reflection of the sullen sky obscured the drivers face, but he had an idea of who it might be.
He sighed and let his head fall against the seat. It was only at the last moment that he had seen the glowing tail lights of the pick-up. He hadn’t even seen the truck itself, just its red lights, floating in empty space like two baleful eyes speeding towards him. He had been lost in thought again. Too much time spent in his head. He was getting in trouble for it at work and now it had almost caused irreparable damage. Too irresponsible, his father would have said. Too unmindful, his mother would have said. He needed to get his damn head back on his shoulders, they both would have said. He could almost hear them both in his ears, as if they were sitting behind him right now.
The clock on his dashboard said 7:14. It was later than he had thought and a needle of panic poked the back of his mind. He hoped Benjamin was okay. Being home alone terrified the boy.
A sharp tap at the glass startled Richard and he rolled the window down. He recognized the grizzled cheeks and long gray hair immediately.
Why is everything in present tense? Why are you missing apostrophes where you truncate words, such as "round"? Why are you ending sentences with ellipses?
>Queens drag and non, an errant hen night
What in the goddamn fuck does this mean? Is this English?
I genuinely tried to read more, but I can't take anymore. This is fucking garbage.
So the road is wet.
So he's dead.
What the fuck is an "idiot pattern"?
>scraping at the dry windshield
So it's not wet? You just said he hydroplaned. "Hydro" as in "water", as in "the road was wet and he hydroplaned". What the fuck are you trying to say? The night was moist? You have to describe the conditions before you blatantly contradict yourself like this.
>Richard poked the eject button
You don't "poke" buttons. You might hit them, jab them, slam them with your thumb, or even punch them, but never "poke" them. That sounds unbelievably stupid.
>Being home alone terrified the boy.
I understood what you were saying after a few readings, but this is confusing. It sounds like a sentence fragment. Try throwing in an adjective, like "the poor boy" or "the young boy". It helps focus the reader on what you're trying to say, rather than hanging them up on the awkward way you're saying it.
gee, you might as well have not commented, anon, for all the use that was
also sometimes people write in the present tense
No, people don't sometimes write in present tense. They only do that if it actually makes a difference to the story. Does present tense matter to the form or style of your story? From what I see, it doesn't. It doesn't add anything.
Think about it from a narrative perspective. Who is telling the story? If the story is in present tense, someone has to be telling it to someone else. There is no indication that that is happening here. You're writing what should be a past tense story in present tense for no reason other than to write in present tense. That is simply bad writing. Don't do it.
Sorry if I came off extremely harsh. I'm drunk and no one has commented on my story yet, so I'm lashing out at other people who make similar mistakes as me.
Road is wet, and a windshield usually dries a lot faster than the road. To be fair, in the next little segment I didn't include I make note of the car's bald tires. So. My fault for your confusion.
Terminal crunch is overwritten, I'll concede that.
Your issue with the word poked is unfounded.
If you need me to throw adjectives at you to help you understand a simple sentence, you likely need more help than I am able to provide.
>thread for posting WIP and early work
>"fuck off until you write something worthwhile"
You're supposed to be JOKE pretentious on /lit/, man. It's a meme. You're not supposed to actually be a friendless unpleasant faggot.
Don't fall for memes!
I write in present tense because I like the immediacy it adds. That's all. It's just part of my style sometimes. It's okay if you don't like it but
c'mon man don't be a dick just because you're drunk.
You got too defensive. Let me clarify.
"Poked" is not a strong verb. It's extremely weak, actually. You poke the person next to you to get their attention. You poke the girl you think is cute because it's not offensive. You don't "poke" a button. You hit it. You jab it. Think about it. Analog buttons respond better to stronger input. "Poking" a button implies a weak and, therefore, ineffectual motion. You need to be more forceful with your verbs, at least when it comes to this kind of situation.
As for the last sentence, it's just awkwardly worded. I know what you mean now, I'm just trying to help you clarify it a bit so it reads well the first time. Saying something like "the poor boy" helps that. You could also work it out a bit, like, "The (poor) boy was terrified of being home alone."
Remember, if your reader misunderstands you, that's YOUR fault. Never, ever, ever blame a reader's misunderstanding on the reader. That just makes you a worse writer. Always write clearly and concisely in order to immediately convey your message. Confusing syntax and grammar just obfuscates your intended message. Avoid it whenever possible.
I'll be whatever I wanna do.
I write in present tense sometimes, but only if I feel like it's necessary for the story. If you're writing in present tense, you have to be very aware of who the narrator is, and who the narrator is speaking to. Present tense is extremely tricky to use well. There's a reason that most stories are written in past tense.
Yes, present tense has its use, but it's rare, and it's difficult. I recommend avoiding it unless there's a legitimate need for it.
Fair enough. I did get defensive.
Your advice for that last sentence makes sense. I see what you're saying.
However, I'm sticking with "poked." Richard's POV has an intentional kind of apathetic feel to it. That becomes more apparent the longer you read. But I do see what you're saying, and it's sound advice.
I've used it for my last two novels, so maybe I should give it a rest. But this kind of style comes almost automatically to me for these kind of projects now; I tend to default to it when I'm writing something flippant and colloquial. It could be a bad habit by this point.
Not yet, no. I only really write for my own enjoyment. I've posted bits from both of those novels on /lit/ before and they usually get either positive responses or "what the fuck is this?", so I'm sensing a pattern.
Quantum dickhole, here. I've been ripping on everyone's writing so far. Figured I'd point out which of the many posts was mine
Please feel free to rip it a new one. I'm just looking for feedback. I will take everything extremely personally and learn nothing. I just added a trip so you can filter me from now on.
Is my sarcasm too thick? Maybe I should dial it back a bit. Please critique my posts as well.
You should aim higher. I'm in the same camp as you, but I'm striving to get published one day. If I ever actually finish my novel (fat chance), I'm going to do anything I can to get it published.
Dream big, but live bigger.
>>7542441 here, I feel really bad now. I was gonna read this over but got lazy. Anyway, I'll give you what I thought of it if you want. Being ignored in these threads sucks.
I like the idea of the scene, and the actual discussion itself is kind of cool if maybe a little clunky in places. I think you could do with using some more description, perhaps - and some of the description you do have is a little more show than tell, like describing someone's eyes as "brilliant". But it's interestingly weird, that's for sure. I'm uncertain about a guy named "Johnny" and a guy named "Silvanus", but maybe that's part of what you're going for. All in all it's not bad, just needs tightening up. That's what redrafts are for, though, right?
This is great, really, thanks.
Im sure you don't really care but there is a few places where I would like to explain myself (to you and to myself)
>How is indifference "professional"?
A professional in anything is thorough and qualified. Now that I think about it, it was really weird to use that as an adjective to describe something that doesn't require attentiveness (is the complete opposite really).
>How is anyone perceptive enough to pick up on something so bizarre?
"she saw right through me!" He has a blank, thousand yard stare, that's all I was trying to say. It doesn't really work at all now that I think about it.
>What the fuck is that even? How does a voice lack inflection? Maybe 'monotone' is the word you were looking for
That was what I was originally going to say but I wanted to be a bit more descriptive since Martin hardly talks and this would be a chance to detail one of his characteristics.
>You've stressed what a weird person he is up until now, but he goes to visit his family like any normal person? Make up your mind.
They are in college, I don't see how seeing ones family on a rare occasion makes someone any less weird. If anything being with ones family too often could be seen as weird since college aged kids want to get out and as far away as possible.
>Compartment? Seriously? It's either an "apartment" or a "flat". Choose one and stick to it.
Trust me, I meant apartment. I kekd when I saw this.
>Is he tripping on acid constantly? What is his motivation here?
I was just trying to add to his weirdness, It wasn't really supposed to make much sense but I didn't do a good job of making that clear.
> Go back to jacking off ten times a day, because you suck at this
I could never break six, it starts to really hurt. anyways, I come from /ic/, I spent alot of time trying to better my art skills and now I want to get some grammar and writing skills (This will require alot more work considering how far behind I am).
Heh. The name "Johnny" actually came about incidentally. That gets expounded upon in the second of the several stories I wrote for this little microcosm, but yes, it is extremely "normal" for this kind of story.
To be perfectly blunt, I never intended this story to be a launching point for anything more. It just kind of happened. I want to go back and write an actual story, using this and the other shorts I wrote (mostly as a writing exercise) as a foundation rather than as canonical material. But I've got a lot to write before I can do that.
Could you clarify what you found clunky? Not that I necessarily disagree, just that I'm trying to streamline my writing as much as possible, and knowing what trips people up helps me do that.
As for the description of "brilliant" for Silvanus' eyes -- I genuinely couldn't think of a better word. I needed something that conveyed brightness, but since eyes don't naturally emit light, "brilliant" was the best I could come up with. I guess it makes sense in the context of the larger narrative, but here, it does come off a bit...forced.
Anyway, I'm still writing, so keep throwing shit my way. I need criticism.
Vin pointed his sharp sword that was, as mentioned earlier, crafted by a legendary dwarf blacksmith of the blood of five other legendary dwarf blacksmiths, at Jorn.
Are you trying to me laugh? Jesus fucking christ, as mentioned earlier; what's that, getting edgy with the fourth wall.
Sorry for being excessively harsh. I hope it wasn't off-putting. I can be a dick sometimes.
>He has a blank, thousand yard stare
That's actually better than what you originally wrote. Consider using that description instead.
Personally, I think describing a voice as "monotone", "flat", "robotic", or "monotonous" is better than saying it "lacks inflection". Maybe it's just me.
>They are in college.
I didn't get this from the text. Could you add some lines to point this out? All you mentioned was that they are flatmates. That could be anywhere from high school to middle-age. Bring more to drive the whole "college age" thing home.
>I didn't do a good job of making that clear
Mostly I'm left wondering why he's weird. We don't see much into the character himself. He does weird things because...he's weird? That's not motivated. Give us some insight into the character. Let us understand what drives this weird person to do these weird things.
Anyway, sorry again for being a douche. I need to lay off the juice. Your writing isn't bad, it just needs some touching up.
The theater of desire is dark,
Resounding loud with voiceless loves
Releasing fervent shrieks into
The night, as hopeless idols mount
The stage – a breast, a hip, a foot,
A tender cheek – encircled close
In blinding, shining mists - such warm
And lovely things that race and whip
Our blood, distract our thoughts, and seize
Our hearts with single-thoughted love
Such desperate hopes, now given living
Form inside the furtive theater of the mind
Its okay, friend. I always knew you were a sweetheart. I've been through the whole "work your way up from the bottom" with my art endeavors over at /ic/; ive built a thick hide.
thank you for the good insights best of luck to your writing endeavors.
I think you could definitely get something out of this. It's interesting for sure.
As for clunkiness, this sentence is a prime example: "They took hold of the reigns bridled to the shadowy steeds that materialized beneath them as the last vestiges of light disappeared over the rim of the world." It's a cool image, but it's a very information heavy sentence. "Shadowy steeds" works well, but it needs to be an image in isolation. If you could split it up a little, let the image of the steeds and then the very dramatic image of the light disappearing stand on their own, it would read easier, I think.
Anyway, I have to go to work, but good luck, anon! I hope you can expand this into something really good.
The small, to assume a large butterfly net. And I passed by, and he lifted up his hand to put on or competition is, if the first glance do not have confidence in you.
Its a loud roar. All the boys whistling. Of the Child, as well as the natural spirit of the whistle. However, this a boy or a strange thing happened to whistle. It should be known that there are two only are associated with one another.
Earlier Tuesday, the boy will be. Very pleased with the possibility of the check, so that the children of the earth, and pierce his ear, at which they shall not say that Mars is not.
Secondly, how does not seem very childish bent misaligned domestic cats.
"Hey, when you can not be sufficient," I said. "What have you of dew?"
Cut off contact with the two stopped walking because if you pull the Whistle Stop change. And he took up his face, and I have seen with my eyes.
"You may conclude," his voice was very young was very calm.
psychopath: a person with a psychopathic personality, which manifests as amoral and antisocial behaviour, lack of ability to love or establish meaningful personal relationships, extreme egocentricity, failure to learn from experience, etc.
Beatrice stared at the definition on the screen. She thought for a few seconds about whether or not she was a psychopath but she became bored and looked for trendy crafts instead. It was better to follow instructions already made because the people who created original things wore floral patterns and were too pale but people who said that they saw the craft online were considered productive.
Paleness was acceptable now as long as you were not pale in a hippy granola way. Beatrice was somewhat pale and most - now maybe all - of her friends were, too. Tanning was seen as belonging to the slightly older crowd, and all of the members of the slightly older crowd had strange freckles on their shoulders. Tans were normal after summertime vacations but tanning on purpose was out.
Beatrice considered methods of giving herself cancer and then she realised that she actually was a bit off. She looked at a clock and saw that it was still well within the bounds of afternoon. She changed into running clothes and realised that the shirt she had gone out in had blood on it so she threw it out rather than trying to wash it.
She jogged and tried to think of something solid, anything stable, but her mind kept drifting off onto cancer then videos of off-duty Brazilian cops shooting criminals in motorcycle helmets and ISIS beheading infidels and she wondered if she should become religious. Her group of friends already had a “Christian one” but maybe it could use two. Islam acceptance was in, but being Muslim was not. Was there a god? Probably. She didn’t really care and soon her mind drifted onto other things.
After an hour Beatrice noticed that she was still standing in her driveway. She went inside and made more mint tea. After it had steeped, she sat on the front patio and watched an old woman walk her cat. The cat was on a leash but was not walking in a straight line, instead running in odd patterns until it reached the end of the leash and then jerking back toward its owner.
Was this trauma? Probably not. Trauma was for people who cared. Maybe the gunfire had given her a concussion. Was that possible?
She was still sitting on the patio when Jim came home. He smiled at her and she may have said something.
After a few minutes he came back out and sat down next to Beatrice. He touched her but she didn’t respond and he lowered his hand. He said, “The nanny told me you were standing in the driveway.”
“Yeah. I… had cancer.”
“I mean, something happened and I don’t feel well.” She considered faking tears but felt too drained.
Jim stood and said, “I’m sorry sweety.” He went inside.
I like it. Better than a lot of professional genre stuff, anyway.
Again, I liked it. I might do some actual critique later as I have for others in this thread but I just wanted to say that somebody is reading, considering, and enjoying it.
If you want to critique me when you wake up, I'm the femanon posting the Beatrice story.
I'm still awake for now, but not for long. I promise I'll come back to this thread tomorrow, assuming it's still going when I'm off work. I'll read your stuff and try to provide constructive criticism.
Hey, I think there are many reassons why present tense can be better than past tense. For example I'm writing something that has as a key element that the plot suddenly switches from a character to another, having it in present tense makes it easier to include new information that I justify a few sentences later. It's also a good way to avoid the implication of a narrator
>If the story is in present tense, someone has to be telling it to someone else.
that's idiotic writing 101 that doesn't correlate to actual writing. you can have an ominpresent narrator in any kind of time, it makes no difference, but having it in past tense makes it sound like the main focalization is the one telling the story since it all already happened.
You contradict yourself. First you say that present tense rejects the need for a single omnipotent narrator, then you say that a single omnipotent narrator can deliver narration in present tense.
From a purely stylistic perspective, present tense always implies the protagonist, or at least the focus of the story, is telling the story to someone else. This is problematic if you intend the main character to die or otherwise be incapacitated. You have to consider these kinds of contingencies when deciding on your voice.
Anyway, present tense is certainly doable, it's just much harder to do believably than past tense, because of its much more personal nature. Please keep that in mind.
No editing done yet. The only critique I've received so far was on the first "chapter"; an anon said that he enjoyed the writing but that I should tone Beatrice down a bit.
It was not the knocking on the door, but the creaking, caused by the twisting knob which retracted and released the latch loudly, that woke her up. Her daughter, the eldest, and her son peaked into the bedroom excitedly, but timorously. With a smile they were welcomed in, and the door swung open quietly as they rushed toward their mother. At the same time, she noticed her husband was missing and felt a faintly present sense of worry. He must left earlier after lulling her back to sleep. The smell of bacon and pancakes flowed into the room now that the door was open, and she imagined her husband, with a mug of coffee steaming nearby, cooking at the stove and she felt at ease again.
Turning her attention back to her young son and daughter, just now jumping onto the bed and crawling toward their mother, she instinctively pulled the comforter under her arms. Thankfully, this morning, she was wearing undergarments as she normally sleeps naked. And she did sleep naked throughout the night, but after giving into her husband’s virility with a feigned, playful disinterest in the morning, she dressed in some comfortable undergarments to go to the bathroom. The children nestled into her arms, one on each side, holding each other tightly. As the children spoke to her, she replied lovingly, but pensively. The majority of her attention was spent appreciating, what she thought might be, the best morning of her life.
Smiling, she brushed away her son's light brown hair from his forehead and gently pressed her lips to it. The daughter, being mischievous in the most loving way possible, kissed her mother on the forehead, and smiled as if to say, "why didn't you give me a kiss, mother?” She made her mother laugh with this gesture and kissed her back. It's amazing how joyous children can be, she thought. They are like angels in this moment.
Something I wrote in the "describe your ideal morning" thread. I edited it a bit more here... I never write anything, that's probably obvious though. Kind of reminds me of Matthew 19:14 "...but Jesus said, “Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them; for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.” but this was unintentional.
>tfw want to post your genre fiction for review but can't because you're stuck reviewing daddys home
>mfw the guys who wrote the script will make more from it than anyone here will ever make from their writing
First few paragraphs of my opening chapter.
Haven't edited it yet. Just interested in what anons thing of the style and if they'd be interested enough to keep reading if there was more to be read.
Hey guys, I'm the author of (>>7532862) here. I've been showing this to a lot of people and been getting some really positive responses. I was debating writing more for this but I decided I would!
So I was hoping you could take a look at this and say if it fits with the first Pastebin. It literally starts right after they leave for the creek, so a continuation.
Also, one more thing I need from you guys.
What the fuck is hail? Please help me, this part needs an answer.
Without question, the first one. You're a fantastic writer. Seriously good stuff here. The little bit where you compared the storm to a song and gave each component an instrument/part? Loved it.
What I found a little jarring, was the exposition. There was a lot of it, in the first one that is. It's beautiful exposition no doubt, but I found myself skipping some lines here and there. The tense changes were also a bit irritating, but could be forgiven.
In short, it works. It really does. It flows like honey though, but it works.
>Haven't edited it yet
Don't do this please. PLEASE edit it a little before showing us.
Anyway: Who is your narrator and why does this person sound so angry? I'd find a new word instead of "IED maker" because that's a little obvious. Something more colorful perhaps?
Your prose is gritty and wonderful, at least in my opinion. In the transition from character to character I can almost see a digital camera panning towards them in gray stagnant lighting, their described actions accented and accentuated with grossly distorted sounds. So, basically, you're not telling flat bullshit, you've actually got some roll to you. Some step. It's a dilapidated house of druggies and low-lifes effectively. Been reading Fight Club?
I couldn't find too much that I was unhappy with minus the first part. Ignore people who will call you an edge lord. You've got an angle and very obviously know how to work it.
>Don't do this please. PLEASE edit it a little before showing us.
Yeah, sorry I'm a bit of a lazy cunt. I'll polish my turds before posting them next time.
Cool to hear someone likes it. I think I'm gonna stick with this one and see how far I can take it. I need to write some shit fast cause I'm out of booze money.
Once there was a guy, stood very tall and in the sky he saw a man named Joseph- yonder for he spoke but no response alas. The man wept, and grew brooding seeds within the temptress of the gargantuan seeds within the ground. The groudn, a blanket for soft spots, was akin to wrapping a piece of woods around one's membrane.
I haven't written a poem in months and I wasn't good to begin with but here goes.
I gaze across the pallid desert, vast
Contamination, both color and sand
Lukewarm. I kneel and sprawl and build
A pillow for my head and my closing eyes.
Anyone here tried getting published, and if so how did it go?
I'm interested in trying to get some of my poetry out there, but have no idea where to start.
What are some respectable journals, magazines etc. worth checking out?
He did not call him to the door, removed the eyes caused by twisting the knobs problem is to wake up, slide back strongly. Her daughter, large, and his son, shy, curious, one in the bedroom is reached. As the door opened quietly admit that they are running out of her mother's smile. At the same time, she felt when I was a little concerned, realized that her husband was gone. After soothe you to sleep on your back, you should leave earlier. Bacon, open the door, the smell of the plate, that is now flowing into the room, I feel he is more comfortable turf steam dish in the kitchen and her husband, who is close to the cup of coffee, imagine that.
Turning attention to young children and girls, he naturally now and then pulling her mother, jump on the bed, threw a blanket arms. He usually sleep naked Fortunately, this morning, because she wore underwear. After he Nehadaka night, some of indifference, pretending to wear comfortable clothes for fun in the morning, and gave her husband's manhood, go to the toilet. Strong to each other, hand, children, flocked to the two parties. Listening to talk to her, but she's unforgiving, children who are responded to with affection. I think the best thing in your life to be grateful for the care she had been spent.
Her smile, I slowly turn down the light brown hair on his forehead and lips. Daughter, smiling in a way you love have kissed her on the forehead, there is much to be naughty, "why not give Mom told me a kiss?" Do not kiss her back, in her mother laughed. Has amazing how the children to be happy. They are like an angel on this occasion.
Decision in a dark theater,
High-end obtuse love
An excited shrieks Release
Night, idolatry Mount Hope
Stage - breast, river, feet,
Competition cheek - surrounded Close
Hot like - without shining blinding mist
And a great sense of ethnic and whip
Our blood, to distract his thoughts, and hold
Our hearts a love thoughted
Such desperate hope, now is a paid service
Mind theater curtain Form
"Hey how are you?" Perfect! Nice and simple, and alcohol should work.
"Oh ... hello. He's fine. What's going on with you," she replied? Quite politely.
Oh shit. Throw the ball back, OK. You are in your backyard, and you have it. "Oh, I do not know, just decided to go here tonight and see what people get up here. Just one of those nights."
"This is cool. I came with friends?"
"No, just for myself." Shit, and it looks like a creep.
"Ride Solo. Very brave."
Oh ... he digs it. Hell yes I am brave ridicule. "You know, just one of those nights." I have already said it. Said another quick thing. "Are you single?" Fuck
"Sorry No, actually, I have a friend ..."
Friend? It is clearly lying, why would they be here if it was really in the relationship? We're not all here to find someone to go home with?
I felt my heart sink into my stomach. It was a terrible loss. I could not bear the shame, and you need to get out of the conversation, but not before my tight cited peace speech to the air.
"Hehehehe, which is good. Since you are sooo" attractive "I am sure that your" friend "is very fond of you. I am soooo" jealous. "Be on the night of the" big "."
I stormed away, and ordered three drinks. And helped horrible sensation of numbness left my refusal. It was a serious blow to my confidence, but, for better or for worse, and you are not ready to give up yet.
After several attempts and several other drinks failed, and I was drunk can not be denied. I was growing weary of this company and feel put down. Feelings of humiliation now increased to the point that I became sexually effects. He gave me the motivation for one last attempt.
Leaning on the counter, and I slipped on the nearest young girl. In the States at the time, I thought her beautiful, but I'm sure if this is the case in reality. I had the arm extended in front of me along on a flat surface, you are folded forward, my face almost touching the surface, look at the back of my head goals, breathing heavily and laboriously only inches. I smiled at her, waiting for her to notice me as I waited for my time to beat the courage needed to stand up and balance.
"Umm ... Can I help you?"
Can I help you? "can I help you?" Ask? I'm just here to try to start a pleasant conversation, and maybe meet a nice girl. You should not condescend to me bitch!
"FFFFFFFF Fuck you!" I cried and I took my bottle of beer and fell to the bathroom.
In the urinal, and you lose. That was the last straw. I slammed his head against the wall tiles, and I wondered, was me or them? I'm not good, destined to live and die alone? Or is female gender terrible people, who ignored the nice men like me? Continued to hit the top of my ability that the tiles speckled with blood, and I heard a crack my skull as I realized it must be the case.
>removed the eyes caused by twisting the knobs problem is to wake up, slide back strongly
>Her daughter, large, and his son, shy
>As the door opened quietly admit that they are running out of her mother's smile.
3 grammatical errors in the 3 first sentences, come on man.
ah i kept reading and realized it was a troll post, nevermind.
Timmy flinched reflexively as he did every minute when the dusty Panasonic™ flip clock/radio changed its numbers to indicate another period of time had passed. He read the numbers carefully. Seven-oh-nine. Not time yet. He lay there stuffy and uncomfortable in the lumpy twin bed next to his snoring grandfather, feeling the coiled unyielding springs press themselves into his back in tempo with each rasping, sour breath Papa Will took. The smell was simultaneously familiar and foul, making the stomach queasy while filling his heart with joy. The odor, of course, meant that Papa Will had been at his bottle of Dewar’s, which Timmy’s grandmother malevolently said made Papa Will’s breath smell like sewers. That didn’t matter now. Mimi and Papa Will didn’t live in the same house anymore. His grandfather said loudly and often that Mimi had made him choose between his hooch and his cooch, and that he had made the correct choice.
Where Papa Will lived now was a ramshackle rust-brown and white trailer, which was half supported by crumbling cinder blocks that swayed perilously when a gully washer came through to wash out the empty liquor bottles that occupied the intervening space between them. Within the perpetually half open door, moldy lime shag carpeting strained betwixt non-insulated, faux-wood paneled walls. “No great shakes”, Papa Will would ceremoniously intone before shaking the sawdust out of his tattered overalls upon arriving at his humble abode, “but I never wrote home about anything anyhow.” There was an air conditioning unit in the living room window jury-rigged into place with duct tape which his grandfather refused to turn on, especially now that Indian summer had passed, bringing somewhat cooler temperatures to the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. Timmy lamented this, thinking that the sound of the unit would drown out the terrifying sounds of the floor and walls settling like an old man into an armchair and the whippoorwills in the adjoining fog-laden forest crying “whip ol’ Will, whip ol’ Will”, forever promising beatings without pity to his grandfather.
Trying to do "Ulysses meets Candide in 19th century America"
Here, juvenilia—you, some sticky chile, offering the linty gummy bear from his lil pocket to the stranger—the strangers crowding around the edges of yr vision, just to the left & right periphery, the fleet dancing shadows of oblivion always waiting to wash over you with the slightest misstep. They don't want yr babyboy candy.
Salesmen are a funny bunch.
Some are bald; some have a thick mop of hair. Some have dark, incisive eyes brimming with experience and devoid of all imagination. It is as if they’re seeing right through your façade of interest. Others have the novice’s eyes, still alive in the hope that they will make a sale. They all bob up and down in a crowd and shove their products right in our faces. Some have enviable moustaches, others no facial hair whatsoever. These salesmen, they come in all shapes and sizes and are of different types. Some sleep on the job, some are energetic and enthusiastic (these are the new entrants, mind you) while others just don’t care enough.
Like I said, salesmen are a funny bunch.
But oh so much funnier are we, those who actually buy the things they sell.
It begins thus, your man is seen hopscotching to a liquor store promoting a new brand of whiskey, cups are out for sampling and it is crowding by the second. What the unsuspecting aggregate of drunkards don't suspect was the owner doctoring the shots with caramel Listerine, but as every soul is bankrupt of their mirth they couldn't but mind swig. The bunch are wild intoxicated, then one takes to our man's zipper and makes an odd, sexy onomatopoeia I cannot put precise as the year is [CURRENT YEAR] and must renew my trigger licenses. They all hop in a fucking 1976 Monte Carlo (wow!) and schlong-bong-bangalong for three hours straight, thirteen minutes and a quarter of a second until someone pops the green balloon everyone was using simultaneously for protection. Our man, nameless be his name, suggests a scavenger hunt, offers $23.56, a ball of lint, a square ebony coat button, a pair of jizzed pants (his) and a passionate kiss for the first person to photograph 13 mailboxes with '420' on them, bokeh ball photography for double points, a clean dissection of the carotid artery of a dog for triple, and a picture of Elysium for seven hundred (John, the mad-hatted trickster, was waiting to play his Polaroid still of him bedding a Haitian newlywed on their honeymoon for this very occasion, he was cocksure (wink) he'd make leeway with that (just as he did in bed erstwhile)). So everyone ventures for a noble endeavor that and agree to meet at Walmart Aisle Four after closing. Y.H. Way (third generation continental rapper and first blurple congressman) is first to show up with:
8 pictures of mailboxes with '420' on them.
A coffee-stained 'Les Fleurs du mal', signed by Toni Morrison and inscribed "Viva la Ferguson!"
The innocence of Quentin Tarantino.
23 blank CDs, a permanent blue sharpie and a functional 1100 Watt microwave.
Mickey Trismegistus. Priest, dear friend and hot Latino lover.
A double ended TMNT vibrator.
And he paints dung swirls lovingly with glitter and the color of vomit, awaiting with penis-tingling urge an arcbellied swarm of fun to march over the watchlady's dead body please-before a light wisp smooches the rude sky, playing Knucklebone with the ghost of Marley Marlowe (who?) with loose Skittles (only reds, you maniac) and a superball (not red, to avoid categorical philosophistication). John comes with twenty horny tomboys with thirteen physical mailboxes, having not taken heed of the instructions. The naked tomboy squad scrambles to find anything to take a picture with, but in vain (since this is, after all, Walmart). The only camera in store was Pee-wee Timothy's but he, in wake of his budding x-uality, disassembled the concoction and pissed over the compartments in hope of discovering a new fetish.
Enter nameless, he stands defeated. An ache in his tummy begs him to collapse, escorted to a nearby horror circus he gives birth to a baby genderless, xe is baptized in lysergic acid, and metamorphoses into a golden dragon.
Thanks for reading. Unfortunately I think I'll be sticking with the second link but I'll try to fit some of the prose from the first into the second.
>Our man is seen hopscotching to a liquor store promoting a new whisky. Cups are out for sampling and the place is crowding by the second. What the aggregate of drunkards don't suspect is the owner doctoring the shots with caramel Listerine, but as every soul is bankrupt of mirth, they couldn't mind but swig.
This is how I think it would make your story more readable. You need to be less wordy. Like "what the unsuspecting aggregate of drunkards don't suspect..." of course an "unsuspecting" bunch isn't going to suspect. You're just repeating yourself and making it difficult. I also changed "your" man to "our" man since that's what you call him later. Don't change your references or you'll confuse the reader. Not sure what kind of story you're writing, seems anarchic or something.
Remove the last part. Too unsubtle. The reader isn't dumb. They'll make the connection if you just put the protagonist buying something right after.
I'm digging it.
Last part could be funnier. I like the Citizen Cane [sic] bit.
what the fuck
i love it
merci beaucoup!!! screams the man of ill repute and poor respite, screaming, laughing, chasing the end of night, robbing, shopping, sobbing all the way, cart trains spilling over, clothes racks so effay. Flamenco fandangos are lead out windows, a beat drops four stories, flying, dying, crying: merci beaucoup!!! Drips red, solarized, flush out glasses, necks are cut with piano strings. The buzzcut boy grins, thinks about trivial things, and drinks Port — truly, all is frivolity in the court. Bread, pork, he is fed, words grazed upon his head, they drip: merci beaucoup!!! sweating, drowning, gasping: merci beaucoup!!! Why, why — the carpet will not dry! Grenault dances, the jester prances, the golden chandelier falls. The king is not present, in his throne sits a peasant, hacking, wisecracking — literacy lacking, even he can shout it: merci beaucoup!!! Ilyich dies, the corpse attracts flies, they buzz: merci beaucoup!!!
Been working on a poetry compilation, please give me shit for this. I need someone to tear my writing apart.
Prescribed isolation is our antidote of preference
Gradually inching towards surrender and acceptance
Hiding all the evidence, numbers coughed on pages
Line them on conveyor belts to send into the cages
A malaise that has caught your friends in the web
Projects bursting at the seams with dread
The pavement absorbing the dead skin left
Suppress the market, devoid of regret
Fingers contort from the overwhelming stress
This mess compressed until there's nothing else left
Prison blocks vacant, no kids ever play
Rather let the satellites lead them astray
Choking on wires, poisoned by my memory
Running through hoops like croquet for a century
Cross eyed from dots that spiral round like worms
Malevolent moments that you cannot discern
Minds all Medusa'd and then rearranged accordingly
Cerebral forgeries are more essential than authority
If you're feeling pensive you can wipe the fogged-up pane to peer down onto the sidewalk, below and across, where a freshman in a peacoat strolls with the girl from your composition class at his arm, the one you almost talked to, and their faces are ablush with enthusiasm and disinhibition, as they laugh, and sing, hug friends they run into out of sheer repeated coincidence on the street, which slopes all the way down from college hill to frat row, and you reckon there's hundreds like them out there, thousands, weaving in and out of neonlit musical houses seemingly impervious to the visual noise, the gauche oppressiveness of it, the visceral disjunction of man and place, which seems now to be absent: and for all your insight, you've never been able to explain why now, as a spectator, this scene seems so natural, so bucolic, as to well up some vestigial discomfort in your chest: the itch of suppressed movement or perhaps the moment of a caged animal. And though art may be reality's dialectical counter, aesthetics is mere suggestion; and though your spirit can sail as far as it may, the argument of the physical realm will weight down on it, too, as it does you; and just as hunger atrophies the will, isolation dehumanizes, leaving behind not an actor but a spectator - a loveless spectator of things not just to be seen, but to be felt and held and written about, real things like the scene outside your window, or the dull suggestive pain in the negative space of your fingers.
Try using periods more often. Sounds like you're just droning on and on without really building any imagery.
I'm guessing this is some kind of choose your own adventure erotica novel? Pretty neat.
Cześć anon, nie wiem czy jeszcze tu jesteś, ale pierwszy raz widzę polską prozę w critique thread więc postanowiłem odpisać. Ogólnie to nie wiem, czy masz jakieś poważne aspiracje do pisania, ale jeśli masz, to długa droga przed tobą. Dziwny dobór słownictwa, błędy interpunkcyjne i nieporadność składniowa, tematycznie głupie to, czyta się z trudem. Jeśli rzeczywiście masz zamiar coś przyzwoitego napisać, rób to używając prostszych zdań, nie szukaj synonimów na siłę, jeśli nie wiesz, czy dane słowo idealnie oddaje to co chcesz powiedzieć, to go nie używaj. Czytaj dużo, przywiązując uwagę do tego, jak buduje się zdania, opisy, dialogi. Nie próbuj pisać powieści na tym etapie, napisz kilka krótkich opowiadań, zaplanuj je i edytuj po napisaniu. Nie wiem czy w ogóle to przeczytasz i obchodzą cie moje rady, ale i tak życzę powodzenia
Beatrice-poster here: I reread your contributions and I have a few thoughts.
Two lines about Johnny's face strike me as being a little poor:
>Johnny raised an eyebrow slightly. It was the most emotive facial movement that Silvanus had thus far seen on him.
>The incredulity was more apparent than ever on Johnny’s face.
In the first one, the second sentence is a little clunky and seems very formal, kinda faux-gothic. In the second, "than ever" implies (to me, anyway) that Johnny's face is always incredulous, which is not the case, judging by previous descriptions. I can't think of a way to change them effectively without being you, but I'm sure you can think of something.
Overall, my feelings toward the story are still very positive.
The philosophical discussion feels natural, which is a rare achievement.
The characters have different voices, which is also rare.
The fantastic elements don't feel forced. I like how you leave them vague; a faux pas I often see is when writers become obsessed with their "magic systems" and whatnot and launch into long descriptions about them. You avoid this with grace.
Well done; if there's more, I'd love to read it.
Look at me. My stomach is shaking.
She turns away like she wouldn’t see me.
Look at me. You don’t have to come here just give me a wave.
I’m so naiv. I’m just a scratch on a train’s window.
I’m the hair in the soup.
The ash which burned the trousers.
The torned piece of flesh from a thumb.
I’m the one who stands there across the street.
Look at me. We fit each other I know.
You will be the hand I will be the glove.
You are like a freezing breeze at dawn
For some it’s unbearable for me it’s pleasant.
Let’s be the mould on the tub together
Let’s be the unchewable peanuts
The stucked piano keys
The string which brakes on a concert
Rouge on the teeth, let’s be together
A mosquito which stings
A cigarette which burns the mouth
You, a spilled wine spot
Me a coffe spot
Let’s be together nothing, everywhere
I dont really care.
Just look at me.
rate this for me pls
Thank you very much for the feedback. I love that the two lines you pointed out are the two lines that most bothered me, though I was unable to pinpoint exactly why. You nailed it. I'm definitely going to go back and rewrite those bits.
I also have to thank you sincerely for your comments about not being overly-involved with the "magic system" of the world. I was recently working on a new story for this little series and was severely off-put by it, to the point that I had to stop writing. I couldn't figure out what was wrong until this post. The problem was that there was HEAVY exposition about the way the lighthouses work and the powers of the characters and so on and GOD it was boring. I personally love that stuff, but it's way out of bounds for this series.
Anyway, thank you. I do have more and will post it later, but I promised to read and critique your stuff, so I'm going to do that right after I eat dinner.
>My stomach is shaking.
as in butterflies or are you a bally dancer?
>She turns away like she wouldn’t see me.
wouldn’t or did not?
>The ash which burned the trousers.
ash does not burn shit.
>brakes on a concert
I rate it 3 out of 10.its badly written but gets the meaning across. if Im interpreting it right you want to get pegged by a girl you have a crush on or at least be noticed
thanks for the feedback.
>can be both
>can be both
>naive, yes it's not by native language
>ash can burn if it falls down from a cigarette
>stuck and breaks again not native language and I was quite young when a wrote it
Hey y;all, check out this unfinished excerpt and let me know what you guys think.
Carlo jerked awake, his face moist against his makeshift pillow. His eyes strained to see his surroundings and slowly his senses returned to him. He was curled under an abandoned car, too burned to sit in but just big enough to conceal his frame and keep him out of the rain that came down on the side of the road. Slowly he felt for his knife and began to take mental stock of where he was: 90 miles north of what used to be a vibrant southern city and heading south. His stomach mewled for something of substance but after feeling around in his pack he found nothing to eat. Groaning he looked out from under the hulk of the burnt out SUV, the rain had let up some from last night but its noxious aroma warned him not to expose himself to it if he could help it. That was one of things he had learned ever since Then. It had been several years since Then and he had learned so much in the time since, he had had had to or he wouldn't be alive enough to care. Taking advantage of the rain delay, he inspected his knife and finding it satisfactorily sharp he placed it in its sheath. The knife belonged to a young boy who used to hunt, when hunting was a weekend activity; each day now was filled with hunts for food, shelter, supplies and if he was lucky a place safe enough to light a fire. Those were his favorite, he could almost feel a glimmer of Back Then when he sat in front of a fire. But fires are dangerous now, they make you more visible to the real hunters. He would have plenty of time for fires once he got to the Boat. With that thought in mind he unfolded his poncho and after putting away a pocket compass he set off south on the road. The swamp on both sides was a dull green colour interspersed with the red, white, or black chassis of abandoned vehicles. It was rare to see one of those moving on its own power, and if one did come along Carlo would make himself rare: anyone who could keep one of those running would surely be a bandit or Federale. He preferred neither and despite the fact that one had the backing of the State, they were just as likely to rob you as the other. As he walked the dull roar of cicadas began to rise in noise, those also reminded him of Back Then of a childhood spent on green grass and brand new concrete. The road he walked on hadn't been maintained in years even before It happened, even calling it a road was being generous the harsh weather since turned the grey asphalt snake into a mosaic of concrete slabs and dull yellow stripes. The dullness of the hours wore on him until at last he saw the first signs of life in miles, a small campground with a few fires burning.
its not my native but ash can't burn(at least not the trousers), it can only stain( you could work it in) also
>You don’t have to talk to me,just give me a wave.
could be better
>I’m so naiv. I’m just a scratch on a train’s window.
I don't see the correlation, where does naive come in when talking about being insufficient/disgusting
>She turns away like she wouldn’t see me.
imho, can't be both, you have to pick one.
>She turns away so she wouldn’t see me.
>She turns away like she did not see me.
>My stomach is shaking.
depends on what one are you going for. stomach shaking is usually associated with mirth of the one shaking but can be used to ascent the fact MC is fat but only if given set up and not used as first line.
>string which breaks on a concert
I don't think use of "on" is correct. IMHO there are too many "Im the fly in your soup"s you know like voltaire when you're evil, when you use more than 4, it gets repetitive
I mean you're talking straight to the reader right? Choose your adventure books do that because the character of the book is in part the reader himself. You keep saying "you, you, you", talking in the second person, so I assumed the reader is the main character.
IMHO may have extra words (mostly jumped out at me since I often see same scenes in other books) like
>began to take mental stock
just go with "began to take stock of his surroundings"
> he could almost feel a glimmer of Back Then when he sat in front of a fire
how do you feel a glimmer? use eco instead and "back when" instead of "back then when"
>had had had
"adequately" may be better
>It was rare to see one of those
if you want to make a play on "rare" use scarce in both cases.
> Back Then
is Back Then what they call time before the collapse?
>too burned to sit in but just big enough to conceal his frame
is Carlo bigger than an average man?
This is absolutely a real letter. I love to write fiction and poetry for fun, but right now I'm sending a letter to my college counselor/adviser person. There was a bunch of work I was supposed to do, but I always promise I'll do work, and then I'll go on a drug binge. So now I have to apologize.
I'm still reading, but here are my initial impressions.
You expend a great deal of effort on unnecessary descriptions. I'll comment on a few things I found awkward.
>she hated being seen undressed
Is she undressed already? What I've read doesn't suggest this. Why would she need to be undressed for a neck/shoulder massage? This seems weird to include.
Is it or isn't it coffee? If it's coffee, just call it coffee. You can describe what the coffee is like, such as "the burnt-black coffee with a hint of cinnamon" or "the milk and sugar mixed with a dash of coffee". You get the idea. Try not to be vague about your descriptions. If you have to say something about what a character is doing, say it directly and precisely. You draw your readers in more when you're informative about the world they're viewing. Just don't go overboard.
>waiting for her concoction to cool
Describing it as a "concoction" brings to mind something like a witch's brew. Something fantastic and exotic. You later mention that it's simply coffee. I would go with a different choice of words. Again, if it's coffee, just call it coffee. Not everything needs to be mysterious and fantastical. Don't be afraid to cut to the chase.
>something she unconsciously believed to be 70% hot
Giving a relative description like "70%" is weird when you don't have an absolute scale. "70% hot" comes off a bit awkward. What is "70% hot"? If this is indicative of how the character thinks, give us a little more information. If you mean that the beverage has cooled by 30% of its initial temperature, tell us that in a less exact way, such as "cool enough to be cupped in the hands while still providing a comforting heat". Or, if the character really does think in odd terms like that, draw it out more and make it a stronger part of who she is. It kind of seems out of place as it sits now.
>allowing a bit of coffee to exit the void of the cup and rub against the little plastic opening while marking it with lipstick
Saying "the void of the cup" is a bit heavy-handed. Don't feel the need to describe every little detail like that. The word "void" is extremely strong. It shouldn't really be used to describe the empty part of a coffee cup, unless your intention is to use the juxtaposition as a joke, which it doesn't seem like you're doing. Also, the sentence feels like it goes on a bit too long. I like the imagery of "marking" the cup with lipstick, but consider breaking the sentence into two. It almost comes off as a run-on, even your grammar is fine.
Anyway, I'm still reading, and what I'm seeing so far is pretty good. I hope this wasn't discouraging. You should definitely keep writing. Keep in mind that I'm a hypercritical ass. But I'll toss more thoughts at you as I read more.
It's literally just for a creative writing assignment that I've got to hand in tomorrow for my course so I'm not expecting to publish this or anything but meh.
Jim: Do you remember that Leah Amor girl who was murdered around here a few years back?
Tom: That 14 year old girl who went to Greendown yeah?
Jim: Yeah that’s the one, I’ve never told anyone this before Tom, but I met the guy who killed her on a night out, just a month before he killed her.
Tom: You’re fucking with me.
Jim: I swear on the life of my wife and child I am not.
Tom: How the fuck did you meet him?
Jim: I was out in Motion, it was just an ordinary night out, nothing particularly special and I just see this real tall guy, about 6’2, 6’3 standing next to me. And he’s eyeing me up, making me feel real uncomfortable like, but I just couldn’t look away, there was something about him if you get what I mean? And we’re both waiting to be served and he just leans up to me and says “I’ve been cleared of raping my own mother and 3 other girls”, he just straight up comes out with it. And I don’t know what it is, whether it was boredom or just simple curiosity, but I didn’t say anything Tom, not one fucking thing, I just stood there and listened to him. I’ll spare you the details, but he went on for about 10 minutes, just talking about how he did it and how he didn’t feel a shred of guilt for any of them. He literally told me that for him, he enjoyed the knowledge that he was going to traumatise them and that they were utterly powerless to stop him. The fucker even laughed when he was telling it to me. I wanted to glass him, there and then, I knew he was telling the truth, I could see it in his eyes, I wanted to pick up a bottle, smash it round his head and shank him with the glass, but I didn’t, I just stood there listening. After he was done telling me the story, he left, he didn’t even order a drink, he just got out of the club and left. Then a month later I saw that girl on the news had been raped and murdered and the next day I saw his face on the tv that he had been arrested. I always think back on that one moment, if I had done something, if I had gone to the police, would that girl still be alive today? Perhaps there was a twinge of guilt in him and he knew what he was doing was wrong and just wanted somebody to help him? Or maybe he could sense that I just wouldn’t do anything and he wanted to gloat.
Tom: Holy shit dude, that’s just… Wow, holy shit.
Jim: Yeah I know.
Tom: That’s just some really fucked up shit man, I think I would’ve decked the fucker if he said anything like that to me. I can’t believe that you managed to stay so calm.
Jim: Trust me Tom. Everything just seemed off about him, like half of me was thinking he was a bit unstable just from being around him.
Tom: I just can’t believe that you met the fucker, did he seem I dunno, cold?
Jim: Yeah, he showed no emotion for the people he fucked over at all. I’ve been wondering if I was the only person he ever told, or if he told other people as well.
Tom: If he just outright told you that this happened, I think it’s hard to know what his motives were, I mean, it’s hard to imagine what goes on in the mind of somebody like that.
Jim: I don’t like to think that anyone is objectively evil Tom, I like to think that we only just have varying degrees of good and badness inside us, but when I spoke to him Tom, I could just tell that there was nothing good about him. Nothing at all.
Tom: Why are you telling me this anyway Jim?
Jim: I’ve been thinking about my depression and when I started experiencing it, I know I’ve never always been 100% due to my shitty upbringing, but it was never this intense until that girl wound up dead Tom. I only met the guy once and perhaps there was an element of hope in the space between after meeting him but before she wound up dead, that I hoped he was just some random weirdo, a guy looking to make a scene or perhaps somebody who was so desperately seeking any kind of attention, even if it was negative. But after I found out about that, there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about it, I feel responsible Tom, I feel in some ways by me not doing anything when he told me that story, that I had a part in killing her myself, I know it sounds fucking stupid, but I just can’t help thinking that. I guess I just needed somebody to talk to about it man.
my main advice would be to pick 1 target. like that other guy said it sounds bit like a rap song since you strike at everything rich,media,prison system,general society,bit of drugs,etc. I like the general feeling of it but the amount of thinking need for dispersing would make it hard to read during an open mic(and for the audiance to get, without rechecking the lines, unless you read it super slow like beat poetry)
I think I got all of it but I have no idea what you are saying in these lines
>Choking on wires, poisoned by my memory
>Running through hoops like croquet for a century
>Cross eyed from dots that spiral round like worms
“The Institute is going to be pissed if we don’t leave now,” cried Winger-205, his lanky and ghoulish form hidden in the darkness of the makeshift shelter.
“Shut the hell up! We’ve got bigger problems than our timestamps,” growled Enforcer-658 from behind the slightly illuminated dark-solid mask. “There are still citizens trapped in the southern complex. We’re not leaving until they are.”
“Listen here you slimy muck,” the Winger said aggressively, quickly gripping the Enforcer’s slender but stout shoulder with a bony hand and pulling himself in close. “I got 30 units waiting for me if I make it back. I’m going to make damn sure those units get in my pocket, and neither you nor anyone is going to stop me.”
Without warning, the Enforcer’s opposite hand buried itself in the skull of the Winger, sending him careening onto the floor. The man gripped his head and muffled his cries of pain, but said no more.
The Enforcer turned to Lukas, the resident Nova and leader. “How’s Shield?”
“Not going anywhere soon. The flack rounds tore straight through the chest cavity, searing most of the vitals.” Lukas paused for a moment, not looking up. He studied the red characters on his HUD that overlaid his downed crewmate. DECEASED. “Had I gotten to him quicker, he might have had a chance.”
“No time for maybe’s,” Enforcer replied. “What’s our next move?”
Lights and colors danced over Lukas’s pupils, almost unnoticeable to the remaining two crewmates. “Most efficient path to SC is taking the garden path and through the industrial area in the overland.”
He finally looked up, his eyes focusing on those behind the mask of the Enforcer. Lukas almost admired the brightly colored irises of Gafs. He spent most of his time around Novas and rarely took note of the dark rings that made their ocular HUDs readable.
“When do we leave?” asked the Enforcer.
“As soon as possible gives us the best chance of survival.”
Silently, the Enforcer hoisted the Winger off the ground by his collar. The eyes beneath the mask sent a warning to him, and the soldier straightened up and nodded to the Nova.
“Let’s get a move on,” Lukas said. He followed the crewmates as the ducked underneath the rubble, casting one last look back at Shield. His dark eyes cast a look of pity but acceptance. The time for maybe’s was over.
The Enforcer turns out to be a chick, but dies immediately after the reveal
It's a metaphor for the distractions that we keep bombarding ourselves with year after year in order to keep us from thinking about our own reality.
Yeah, I'm heavily influenced by hip hop music and such, so that's why my words some across that way. I think you're right though. Perhaps there's a way that I could take out lines and put them elsewhere in other future works.
exposition is bit stilted. maybe im to used to tv stories but it may be better if you take out the rape and focus on physiological terror (assignment's with rape in them don't go down well with the profs)
>he didn’t feel
change "it seemed like he didn’t feel
part 2 seems "out of character" are these 2 buddies drinking or are they having an emotional moment at home(can' mix the 2) also call me a fool but it may be better with a generic twist of 1.Jim being the killer(in this ver guy is never arrested)2.Jim talks about how the guy looked like everyone else,nicest guy in the world till he opened his mouth and starting saying most horrible shit ever 3. horror movie loop, killer turned himself in after the last kill because he was cured/he passed on his urge to kill to Jim and Jim is now going to confess that he killed his wife and kid and it will end with Tom chatting up a stranger in a bar.
maybe add a bit of internal dialogue at the start like
(the bar was loud,my feet hurt,etc ,etc tv was blaring about yet another kidnapping which got me thinking about..)tv could name her age and school if you think its relevant,its a short story so contrivance of it would be forgiven
Jim:hey tom you remember that anthem girl that got murdered few weeks back
Jim:I met the guy who killed her on a night out, just a month before he killed her.
basically something to make it sound less like "as well all know"
Clamase, head hung, with no expression and still lay upon her noose. Her head rose, for her's to come upon mine, lifting her thigh aloft, with ankle bent, and thus, with grace, in the air into a formal ballet. Petite black shoes, skid acrossed the floor into her stumbles and agony to be continuous had ceased. Her frail arms, those which blue dwells within and purple throughout, there, rested upon my head that lies upon her lap,
"Tell me Clamase, how does such elegance flow throughout your spirit whenever you do a new?"
Clamase, from a delicate movement, pushed away the curly brown hair that blinds my ear, with a clear voice,
"Kadocelly, my love, for my life nor happiness wouldn't be due if you weren't here to joy with I."
Thanks for reading!
The undressed remark was referring to partial undressing during a massage. At least for women, you generally take off some clothes for one because they're normally not just given to one body part.
I'll definitely change the coffee descriptions. The "concoction" was due to a lack of editing; originally, she was supposed to be drinking one of the weird semi-coffee things ending in "-ccino" but I changed my mind partway through.
The 70% hot part can be changed, certainly, but I like the idea of thinking in percentages subconsciously so I'll probably try to make it a little more fluid rather than removing it.
Yeah, the void is a little much, and so is the sentence. I expected to see it come up, and I'll certainly work on it.
Thanks again, see you in the next thread!
I'm still here and still reading, so you're doing something right. All I can say is keep going. The worst thing I can say about your writing is that it needs editing, like any good writer's work. Seriously, keep at it. Hopefully I'll see you in the new thread. I'll try to give you more feedback and hope that you'll do the same, when I eventually get around to posting more of the Lighthouse series.
Timmy’s wide green eyes flashed expectantly towards the clock again. Seven-ten. Almost, but not quite plum, he thought, not quite understanding the phrase, but it was something his grandfather said as often as he could, so Timmy had resolved to use it as well. Only one more minute, but Timmy knew better than to rouse Papa Will early. They had spent the surprisingly cool, yet humid day at the saw mill where his grandfather was a foreman. Timmy didn’t know what this meant, but he thought it must have something to do with sharp talking the tar-black boys while they went about slab-cutting and loading logs onto the cacophonous tractor while waiting for the ancient replacement belt to come flying off at random directions and deliver a ghost whoopin’ on the flesh of the unobservant when a log turned sideways and jammed the blade.
For this reason, Timmy spent the sweat drenched hours reveling in the din and playing Matchbox cars in the sawdust well away from the tractor, which made him itch incessantly but he enjoyed it more than anything in the whole world entire. Papa Will would pause when the wind would shift direction to blow diesel exhaust in Timmy’s direction to excuse himself from his work to “check on the welfare of his blood and kith”, but Timmy suspected that it was just an excuse to dust off his overalls and take a long draw from his dented pewter flask and grumble about the lazy folk in his employ.
His grandfather worked hard keeping the boys in line, so it had been a special treat when, after stopping at Margaret’s Fill ‘N Fuel (Marge’s Pump ’N Dump, Papa Will would call it) for a bottle of Crush and a tin of Railroad Mills snuff, and to pinch the aging owner’s behind and get called a souse for his troubles, Papa Will sat Timmy in his lap in the driver’s seat of the green truck with the loud ass mufflers and told him solemnly that not only was he going to let Timmy drive, but was also going to take him out snipe-hunting at the old observation tower that adorned the crest of Lookout Peak. His grandfather had made him promise not to bother him while he took a nap, so Timmy had spat the sticky orange soda residue into his hand and extended it eagerly to seal the deal before the offer disappeared like Papa Will’s flask would when Timmy’s mother would arrived the next day to whisk him back home to normality and boredom.