POST LIT GET HIT
Post excerpts from what you are currently writing and get roasted by other /lit/erary gentlemen.
Try to critique one before you post one.
About some guy I know.
Trill your ramble to the walls,
Evanescent ghastly beast—
Hear when your sweet hopper calls;
Have the tongue in tongue raunch feast.
Be wild and dumb when you speak
To me, to the fat boys' friend—
Be so pensive, placid, weak
When she comes, hold your crude sins.
Stomp the huddle, all the meek
And plain and fool – tease with wrath—
But when some brown bovine seeks,
Go your slumbered gentle path.
One of my coworkers from my old job really left an impression on me; this writing is inspired by him.
If you do take the time to read through it - or some of it - I'd really appreciate some feedback of the sort.
I posted this in the last thread pretty late, so I figured I'd give it another go. Also I apologize for any discrepancy, mobile right now.
You feel sick. It feels like a knot of steel cable has formed in your gut, and like some terrible snake it tightens, releases and tightens again. You take a breath of air, but fight the sensation to gag on the foul air. The stench is carrion in texture of modern war. It tastes and smells of sweat, rot, human odor and waste and diesel. You look around at the modern implements of war, a maze of pipes, dials, wheels, levers and switches and boys, boys who are young enough to marvel at the deepness in their voice. The human forms that look like men in the dim red light are still in their 20’s. Another gulp, you want to protest but you dare not let out a peep. Not unless you want to sentence you and 43 other men to a cold dark grave. Soft mechanical ambience, dripping water, labored breathes and the occasional whisper of commands were the only noises in the vessel. You take another breath hoping it’s not your last.
You rub your eyes. Your tongue plays with the film on the front of your teeth. Deep down you know mother would be disappointed at your lack of hygiene. At least you don’t have to shave, the red stubble on your chin and upper lip hardly warrants such a chore. You turn your head to the sound of a man, trying to be quite, climbing down the ladder in the center of the room. The captain, the oldest of the crew at 30. The sleeves of his tunic rolled up revealing a long scar up his right arm, it looks like a pure white lightning bolt arcing its way to his fingertips. He’s stroking his beard as he gives a whisper to the Chief. You feel calm slightly rest your shoulders as you see the flash of his icy blue eyes, stout figure and hawkish face. A born hunter in the belly of his steel Hippocamps. The captain takes off his white cap and rubs his scalp; the stubble of blonde hair looks interesting in the red light. You look at the Chief, a dower man with hairy arms that are more like cannons. You recall at the sight of the man, feeding some pestilent pilot his teeth, something about a woman? Then again it usually is. You have no woman at home, no better with flesh as soft as snow but a heart of fire. The only woman who will miss you is your mother. Your brother would miss your death you were close with him. You remember a crisp October night, sneaking down to the steel mill to play in the machines. But his body now rots in a burned out tank outside of Keiv. That’s what your mother told you. You fight back tears and are about to choke when the most horrifying noise in your life comes from outside the hull. Ping.
You feel a current of electricity coarse through the air. The hair on your neck stands to attention as more, slow pings follow. It is the enemy, the dammed foe. Gott straff England you think, a silent curse, your only means of protest to the situation.
A sharp whisper from the Captain, the Chief repeats the whisper to the two boys siting in front of him. The play with their wheels and angle the creature downwards. You think you hear a soft cry from the stern, you wish to yell at the culprit for such stupidity. But you fight your tongue and count the space between the pings. They are getting shorter, the enemy has better scientists, and didn’t you want to be that, a learned man? A sharp voice from the front, it’s the hydrophone man, and he hears splashes. You clutch at the pip at your side; hoping that it will protect you, maybe you can slide between the pipes, wiggle yourself through all the machinery like a snake, and communicate with the machine spirit of the weapon to let you free. How far is it to the surface? More splashes, and the thumps from outside and the constant pinging. The captain has fear in those eyes as his mind races, you close yours hoping to shut out any evil. Ping, splash, thump, ping, ping, ping, splash, splash, splash, thump, thump BANG! No longer thumps, bangs now and they are tossing you and the men and coffin from side to side like a toy. Pipes burst, dials smash and lights spark. Was that a command for full speed ahead? Deep down that little voice says pointless now, your bladder agrees with that and you feel the warmth crawl down your leg. You want to cry but your mind and body sputters as your arms hold on for dear life. Shadows are racing to and fro trying to control the chaos as the world outside and inside turns into Hell. An explosion above, water rushes down the hatchway. Fool you tell yourself, let go of the pipes but your body refuses. The coffin takes a sharp dive to the bow as the water rushes and rushes. Your body grows cold and numb as the room fills up and lights go out. A final image courses your mind. It’s your brother and mother, you are all at the dinner table and it is snowing outside but warm inside. You remember her soft voice say grace. You peak open your eyes, she sneaks a look as well at you and your brother and mouths the words “I love you.” Then the world goes black as the man with the white horse takes you to true peace.
I write original, primarily. There are two stories that take place in established universes. Second story is at 10000+ words, really I treat it as an excersise, something to keep writing in to avoid a rut.
I can assure you I didn't do it out of some act of pretentiousness, I was just curious to see if I could do it, plus I never wrote in second person before, so I thought it would be interesting to try. Last thread a gentlemen enjoyed it, so I guess it payed off.
With a conclusive, right-handed shake a few pale, golden droplets drizzled onto the toilet seat. And being a gentleman with a female roommate – which is why he never bothered lifting the seat in the first place – Teddy was not one to leave such a mess, plus, he could not tolerate seeing another one of her scathing, passive-aggressive sticky-notes appear on the closed porcelain lid. But what if he, rather than she, was the next person to use the toilet? Additionally, the amount of exertion required to, without injury, bend over and wipe the oblong seat made Teddy timorously apprehensive, besides, the droplets could dry before anyone used the bathroom again. While contemplating this ethical dilemma he had made a realization while looking down at his feet and, unthinkingly, raised his leg to wipe the seat, effortlessly – compared to the alternative, with his left sock. Triumphantly, Teddy walked across the bathroom – left, right, left – and without washing his hands, opened the door to return to his natural, isolated habitat – right, left, right – leaving a fleeting, damp imprint every other step on the old, creaky hardwood floor that moaned under Teddy’s girth.
You should probably just do a proofread. It seems like all the issues come from things that you would be able to pick out yourself if you read it over again.
I enjoyed some parts, like "Her face made you miss old friends and stop watching porn," but there were just some easy fixes that you'll notice when you read through it again.
I can't give good feedback because I wrote this >>7558846
Someone please rip into it.
But I gotta say I liked the character as a whole and I found myself reading it like I was reading a book, something really rare on this board.
With this stuff, you have a fully fleshed out character who you could write some shit with but as it stands, it's just a smooth to read diary entry(Which I'm sure you intended).
Only things that bugged me were things like this...
>You see, I never knew my father...
It came at me odd, like a switch up in mannerisms of speaking. This was a problem that popped up a few times like referring to Alexandria by name and not by role(why not girlfriend?) and writing it is when it felt like the 'is' didn't feel needed to make the point('It is usually raining but only timidly').
So really, just nit picky stuff I suppose. I enjoyed it for what it was though.
I'm thinking of entering a slam poetry competition because reading Invisible Cities in speech apparently doesn't qualify you for provincials.
I fucking hate slam poetry, here's what I have so far.
A letter to slam poetry
For the sentimental, soul-sucking pieces
For white girls who consider Catcher in the Rye their Bible
and tumblr is their Jesus
For the fact that whitewashed rapping has become the way of telling the people
That “Yeah, everything sucks”
Sure, no one is equal
We tried that once with Marx
it didn’t fucking work.
How does one improve there writing /lit/? as someone who wants to write more what advice do you have to offer?
I made a poopy.
It was a good poopy.
I look at it.
It smiles back.
It's a good poopy.
I wave farewell as I pull the lever.
Sending that poopy to it's receiver.
It runs and runs in circles.
As it falls down it's path.
And the last words it's spoke.
That's Reddit's Trash.
Two short stories that I most dearly hope you enjoy
I have a baby face and think about sex often. Come sunrise and the tent is pitched; petrified wood buttresses wooly sheets. In the morning, I’ll make toast, read the paper, and possibly meditate. After my morning ritual, I’ll masturbate until my little, freckly hands start to ache. You see, people see my baby face and presume I don’t have sexual urges, but the truth is quite the opposite. I have very intense urges and very wild fantasies; babies don’t have urges like I do, but people still group me in with them. You see, all I want in this life is to release these urges with an older woman, preferably in her forties – again, you wouldn’t expect this from a baby face like myself. I want her to suck my engorged phallus while I admire the coordinated symphony of atrophied facial muscles contract and release. Her age-driven insecurities would be cast asunder as I cherish the gentle wiggle of cellulite about her hips; her head oscillating North and South like a spring. This is my fantasia and ecstasy, but to my deepest dismay, I am yet to find a woman of mature existence who finds my rounded face attractive. Older women are drawn to the handsome men with stubbled jawlines and heavy, worn brows. My jaw is gently encased In a cushion of puff and my brows are lifted with an everlasting expression of infantile enthusiasm; I am cursed with a certain desire and a face that ensures I never actualize it, a true tragedy. All that I can to do is masturbate until my little, freckly hands ache and my tiny, freckly heart nearly gives out.
Last evening, after a day’s work, I sat up on the hill at the end of the grapefruit orchid and watched the sunset; it got stuck. At first, I thought I was just weary from old man Harold’s task but after thirty minutes of gradually building suspicion, I knew for certain that the sun was stuck. I ran back to my house as fast as someone could after working for that old fuck, Harold. My mom wasn’t home, they let her off from work when the sun goes down (you know how strict corporate policy is), but my dad was watching dickball like always. Out of breath, I explained to him that the sun was stuck over the horizon and that he needed to see for himself; he only got up because it was halftime. Outside on our lawn, we stood together and I eagerly awaited for him to discover the validity of my claim. After thirty minutes, he raised his eyebrows with mild enthusiasm and said, “yep, that’s a stuck alright.” The sound of dickball called him from within, he tripped over that fucking yellow hose on the way back to the couch. After three weeks, we all just kind got used to it. My dad bought some really big solar pannels from all the money mom has been sending us but they can only really power the TV.
"T-thanks for the chocolates Cindy," I stammer, grinning in a forced, sheepish, slightly moronic manner. "Oh my pleasure," she replies, placing her delicate hand on my knee, her crimson red nail polish causing me to lose eye contact with her emerald green eyes and stare down at her hands. "Perhaps we can do lunch sometime?" she asks. "S-s-saturday at 4?" I manage to blurt out. "That sounds great, I'll see you then" she replies, and with that we say farewell and part ways.
As I enter the elevator in my apartment building, I suddenly recognize the other man in it. It is the actor, Leonardo DiCaprio. "Aren't you that actor?" I automatically ask without hesitation. With a significant, exaggerated, loud sigh, he looks up and simply nods, his blue eyes meeting my gaze. He doesn't open his mouth, but his face is saying a thousand words. His mind is racing. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Can't he just leave me alone? Doesn't he know that I recently bought the penthouse and don't want to be pestered by every little fan in the world? I should have never became an actor, I want to die. "It's a real honour to meet you," I say, extending a hand to shake. He takes it, without eagerness, and quietly says "thanks, it's always cool to meet someone who likes my work." The elevator dings, and stops on my floor. I slowly walk out, and turn around. As the elevator is closing, I say "good luck with Mission Impossible three, Tom." Leo's forehead wrinkles. Visibly distressed, he is about to open his mouth, but the elevator door shuts and I walk to my door to retire for the evening.
Read lots of different things. Don't just read from one time period or author. Also, don't imitate an author. It's cheap and you'll never be as good as them at being them.
Get an education. Reading can only get you so far. Take classes, or pay attention to classes you're already attending.
Listen to criticism. The reader is normally right. After all, you're writing to be read, not to masturbate with language (I hope).
Write with feeling, not calculation. If you're obsessing over the most effective way to explain your complex magic system or struggling to describe a certain part of an imaginary spaceship, you're writing incorrectly.
Don't envision your scenes before writing them. This just bogs down the creative process. Your works will never be seen in a form other than words on paper or a screen. Even if it's popular enough to receive a film adaptation, your mind's eye will not be directing it.
No, Michael had not practiced this nöel before. Digging his black boots into the pre-trampled patch of snow, he struck ice, and proceeded to bend at the knees to find his balance on the slippery border of dead grass and concrete walkway. Tonight's chorous rang from the voices of his fellow youthgroup members, fresh-faced and windburnt, with eyes halfway shut to block out both the biting cold and the flouresecent grocery store brightness, beaming from bulbed branches that lined the unshoveled path on either side, simultaneously beckoning visitors to both enter and leave. It was a rule in this gated community, like so many others, that its residents (comprised mostly of aging doctors, drunken divorcés, and golf enthusiasts) string up at least *a couple* of strands for the festive season. Not too much to ask. Hairless hands fidgeted in coatpockets and Mr. Nice, standing at the front of the gaggle of singing boys. He held his lantern up to his chest with dry, cracking fingers, illuminating his bespectacled nose and angular lipline like an ivy-league Dracula, allthewhile casting a frosted shadow about the hollowed black space where his eyes, hooded by thick brow bones, sat scanning. The captain of this band of bored teenage boys searched about the front door for a red bow, wreath, or - maybe if they had left the land of the Gentiles upon turning back at the stop sign to walk down Culver Court - a Star of David or 'X' painted in lambs blood.
They had walked silently through oily and gray tracks of slush to this very point. Michael wished instead he was home next to the fire, listening to his mother and father argue over the order in which their dinner dishes would be cooked in three days time, should it be ham first? the dressing? (hm, certainly she would start by blanching the potatoes while her husband half-assed the pie crusts) But, here he was, out and about the clusters of homes bordering his church, clutching a book of hymns and responding only to Corey and Nico, the boys to his left and right, with distant yes-or-no grunts, as they marched down the streets and past the mailboxes, like some insurrection in the suburban Ardennes, armed only with their pubesecent voices and a coffee can to collect the tithes.
It was with great gusto that Mr. Nice, who, throughout the night had seem to grow more and more agitated at the overall success of the pious mobile concerto, promised the lot of young men a great and rewarding time. Here he was now though, brooding, shoulders rounded and electric lamp swinging loosely, as if he had once been a crypt keeper, checking in on the house in front of them like it was a famous tombstone that had, in years past, attracted several graverobbers who would drop their shovels and canvas sacks and flee back to the sooty and smoked out thief dens from which they came, only because of his aptitude for casting a meanicing glance, visible to all tresspassers thanks to that portable ball of divine light. He approached the door with the choir's condensated breath flowing out behind him, the condensated exhalations serving as exhaust fumes for his aging body - a delivery vehicle carrying the Word. He knocked once, twice, three times. The arc of the lamplight trailed his torso by fractions of a second, illuminating his motion as if this pre-conductorial movement was fixed in a superposistion, quantum, traditional, and ordered by the birthday boy himself. Mr. Nice raised his cleared his throat, and they all began in unison.
*Once in royal Davids city,
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her Baby,
In a manger for His bed:
Mary was that mother mild,
Jesus Christ, her little Child.*
Then there was a gap in the wall of sound. The group, not anywhere near sophisticated enough to classify one another as tenor or alto, bass, etc., sounded hollow. It was Michael, ceasing to be tonal and noiselike, forgetting the next verse, and refusing to remove his hands from the damp pockets of his wool overcoat so that he could read from the pamphlet of notes and lyrics. He instead simply stared at the peers surrounding him, lost in their apparent disinterest, a prisoner aboard a ship adrift at sea, one who might lend a hand if only he wasn't shackled in the hulk's chapel, or, if managing to free himself from those barnacled chains, had any clue as to how to navigate the currents near Antigua. A real prisoner keeps their mouth shut, though. Not out of fear, but in order to absorb as much information about their surroundings as possible. And by saying nothing, he learned he was not the only prisoner. The enitre ensemble, conductor included, simply did not want to be there. For the past seven years, exactly half of his total lifetime, his parents had orphaned him out on this night in December. And with coat, hat, and gloves, he had traveresed this very terrain with his Sunday School classmates, only to now realize, no one had even asked them to.
The song had ceased entirely and Mr. Nice, feeling in his bones the absence of Michael's timbre, knocked once more upon the door then performed an about-face, staring the boy down through his foggy lense, glinting with flake. "Are we feeling all that well, Mr. Michael?" he asked.
Half of the boys glanced sideways, the other half began little conversations of their own. "Oh yes," Michael answered, "I just forgot some of the words."
"I handed you a hymnal back at the church, did I not?"
"I must've dropped it somehwere."
He hadn't. But without hesistation, as if he was a doctor handing over the documentation for some experimental drug, barbittal in nature, but not strong enough to anesthetize Michael entirely, Mr. Nice drew out his own songbood and said: "Well then, just take mine."
Under the sound of falling snow, and at the command of the conductor, a new song started and Michael joined back in, forgetting about the warmth of his house or the food he would eat, about the actuality of his situation entirely (he somehow managed to find comfort in that prison ship), and how their stops before this one, under the leafless hedges and brambles, yielded small results. No one came to their doors in sweaters the color of pine, smiling and blessing the little oratorios. He had remembered the previous years much differently, as had Mr. Nice. Lost in the annals were the sights and sounds of the season, replicated now only by movies on the television that they all respecitively watched on a couch next to the family tree, sitting in silence, where viewers spoke up only to request a change in volume or a pause so that they may grab another blanket from their bedrooms, or so the adults could fix another drink. But they carried on and silently hoped for the clan that sat just beyond the threshold in front of them to break the trend of drunken socialites pitching only a penny into their little coffee can, a basket that Jochebed herself wove out of steel reeds.
Lifting their voices to the smattering of stars, the ones left visible behind the dusky winter clouds, their carols rose up, and floated out somewhere untouched by boots that covered frozen toes. They waited in silence. Mr. Nice frowned, shivering under the pale fire of porchlight left on by accident. Michael tucked the hymnal into his coatpocket, situating it against the one he already had, longing in some ways, to double his knowledge despite their contents being the exact same. And Mr. Nice set the lamp at his feet and knocked on the door one last time. But no one was home.
Here you guys go.
I'll review a couple posts after I get this posted.
Spreading out like a tumor, the shadow falls long behind the car. The sun a sinking ember, on a sky of grain. The tarmac is hot and empty except for the lone sedan. The driver slowly coasts the car to a stop. With the engine off, the road is void of sound.
After several minutes, the crowding silence is broken by the door opening. The sunlight gleams off the dirtied chrome trim, reflecting the light that is left. The jet black body of the car sponging the rest.
The driver sniffs the air. It smells like a recently extinguished match, it smells like sulfur. He knows he is close. Through a gap in the trees, where the ground was blackened by flames, the rooftop of a skyscraper can be seen. Jagged metal exposed on one side of its twisted form.
A horrendous groaning begins from behind the car. His reflexes are quick, but not quick enough. He turns in time to see a highway sign bounce off the pavement, the sound rolling over the asphalt like thunder. The mounting still looming over the road like a hangman's pole.
The driver snatches a dark object off of the dash in the car and clutches it like a vice. Time and decay could be responsible. The sign is rusted and worn. Yet if not, he'd rather be ready in case death decides an introduction is overdue.
The wind begins to blow.
The hip high grass on either side of the asphalt whispers in gentle response.
I'll end it there.
I always write "original work," I take heavy inspiration from other pieces, but fanfic isn't my style.
Hahahahahahahahahaha subtle shitposting. So bad it's good. The caricature of the cane spinning, fedora tipping author with a pubic hair beard is astounding. It's like ACoD but Ignatius is just off the page. Fucking brilliant. Each sentence points exactly back at this 'author'. Wow am I laughing up a hurricane.
Sounds both very contemporary and somewhat Victorian. I like it though. I wouldn't call it a masterpiece as it seems slightly too plain for that, but it is quite good in my opinion. While there are big words perhaps the meaning of the poem is too obvious is what I'm saying. Not bad at all though.
It isn't the worst I've heard, and you'll more then likely get a lot of snaps at a slam poetry convention (or butt-hurt feminists, or both). But I wouldn't call it stand out. Sounds like dozens of other things I've heard.
Sounds like a futuristic novel set on the shores of the Mississippi and written by a black woman. It's certainly interesting. I wouldn't call it bad either, but I'm not entirely sure if I like it. I'd need to read more. I'm unsure if I find it interesting due to the stylistic approach, or if that very approach is all that separates it from plain old predictability.
Not shitposting. Although your post certainly seems to be. Assuming it isn't though, your criticism, from what I gather, is the rather purple prose I use and perhaps antiquated and overused cliches?
I can visual easily off of your language without it being overly simple. That being said, depending on the story itself it could become simple genre fiction like tom clancy or clive cussler. But, I have a soft spot for their work myself so, regardless of the truth of that, I would look forward to reading more of your work.
>the rather purple prose I use and perhaps antiquated and overused cliches
You're fucking w/me.
GENIUS, I LOVE IT!
If you meant it, you're to be laughed at as an ass, a braying dolt. If you are classily tickling us, you are a cool motherfucker. We can all agree which is better. May I suggest continuing with:
Squintingly, he grimily scans the tree line, there are no leaves nor bushes nor place hide amongst. The only greenery exists on the scattered pine and fir trees, their dark silhouettes fawning upward, heavenly, but there is no heaven to be had, all is barren.
I just shit this out. It's a conclusion to the story of a boy's summer and how him and his friends made everything bigger than life.
"Beyond the trees there was light, glowing in a thousand shades of orange, falling like a great giant upon the town until everything was suspended, warm and fragrant. Gasoline, grass clippings, sweat. Perfume railed through the nostrils, a drug you couldn’t buy, better high than anything on earth, feeling all at once in a thousand homes, a thousand places across town all in being in one small patch of lawn grass. This was the summer he felt, the love he knew there was, proof of the God his parents prayed to. The world was right here, constant and fertile with life. When the mole hills became mountains and the days distilled down to lights and sounds he would recall that summer, and etch it onto the stars."
Scarily accurate lad. This is the remainder of the prologue. You got it almost perfect.
>Probably because you saw when I posted this before a few months ago
Squinting, he scans the grim tree line, there are no leaves nor bushes to hide amongst. The only greenery exists on the scattered pine and fir trees. Their dark silhouettes fawning upward are yet almost barren. A last glimmer of light between the tree's illuminates his features. A hawkish nose embedded on a wide set face. Gray eyes that look into the shadows and see past them. Surrounded by a lions mane of dark hair an unkempt beard.
A twig snaps. He stops moving. Another crack. From the other side. He tightens his grip on the iron device. Turning in a circle, he makes a deliberate path to the door of the car.
A shriek begins in the distance. Somewhere between a train whistle and a scream, it grows in volume. Another shriek starts, closer. Another, and then another. Soon the grotesque howl is echoing everywhere among the dead forest. Grasping and clawing at his ears.
He gets in the car and slams the door in one motion, moving quick, gracefully and sans panic. He turns the key. The engine purrs to life, almost unheard over the doom cracking the atmosphere. A large snap over the left. His eyes follow. A tree begins its descent into the dirt, embraced by the earth and hammer fallen. He doesn't stop to look for what caused it. He doesn't have to. It's shadow is already growing in the tree line approaching.
He puts the car into gear and takes off. Leaving only the sound and smell of seared rubber in his wake. Streaks trail with all the emotion of mussed mascara.
He glances into the rear view mirror above him, only to find it staring back at him. It's dark eyes piercing and singing even at the distance. It smiles, acknowledging his gaze. Then waves before disappearing back into the woods.
Not a neck-beard boss.
I like pain, love of food
And if you ask: "Out of barbarians."
- You will die. It is the love of his life
It is bad and it is very important for fear mixed body.
The humor of pain and frustration by Clara dispute.
Fatal hourglass is empty
My heart is torn familiar world.
I love kids enthusiastic artist
I hate curtains annoying obstacles ...
Finally, cold facts.
Of course, in light of the terrible taste of death, those who do,
Is concerned. - What is it? What is it?
Art is always clear.
Coming from screenwriting, which is the most infantile non-writing there is, this thread has convinced me that I'll never be smart enough to write a novel. I've been wanting to get away from screenwriting because I find audiences are too dumb. Meanwhile, I'm too dumb to actually write. A sad fate.
That's the idea.
Mostly inspired by Zafon.
He has some of the most overtop descriptions and writing and yet I love his work.
So I've used the same approach for this particular work.
I use different writing styles for all my projects though. I use a variety of influences for each piece.
Lathnos het faltern on the high stump
Tious masses rustling their coats in root-eaves below
while Istern hordes trample in a growing spiral
on gods' faces, antipodal.
Sammandrion, sivy settled Satremonger
he may be, lends animate to callowed, mallean Prentics
and holds barred many a mangled law-tracer
but has no heed of his brother
Taphylos, who's none below but the deads' hands
agaze to the primate roil past halted lands.
I critiqued last time and didn't get any response, so I'm drunk enough to just post without crit this time. Sorry friends!
~A Page From Hemingway's Book, My Lover~
You ruin yourself in the name of a spool of thread,
One stitch tighter than the subtle curve of that iliac crest
Like a lilac
Lavender, you smell the way grass does in summer
The tabac you burn
Does it take a prayer over a champagne flute to solve your problems?
The humps of spinal column are temporary
Until you set them in stone.
You are a petrified forest of hollow bone.
Ten: Drunk or displeased
Nine: How do you take your coffee?
and a side of those chalky chemicals you take, you crane your neck to make sure no one is watching
Eight: A stutter, staccato insecurity
Lose track at seven; wine dulls,
Your body an
He comes to pay his respects.
A lie: I OD’d in the parking lot at Target
And you rode up on your bike
And carried me to the emergency room
Slung across the handlebars like a piece of silk
A lie: One time, you left a bruise on my back
In the shape of the state of Massachusetts.
We watched it change color with the leaves that fall–
Dull grey to violet; it never quite reached the color of your eyes.
A lie: I saw your face,
Your cracked lips moved like a fish gaping for air.
You did not know what to say at 3am,
and I didn’t love you.\
Vignette about spoiled mostly-white city kids.
What process do you guys use for coming up with ideas to write about? I suppose I should just be more thoughtful. I'm thinking about just writing about something shitty like an assassin robot or fallout universe crap just to give me an opportunity to practice.
>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.
would you like some prose with your commas?
>He’s had people over every other day this week:
should be a semi colon here I think
Jesus, it just goes on. You really need to read some more. There is such a thing as punctuation beyond the comma my friend.
I was going to comment on your cliche, pseudo edgy "dude rich white kids lmao" dross but your awful writing ability is punishment enough.
For my creative writing class
Polishing minds to be obedient and sleek,
Education involving a four-year venture,
Pupils are exhausted and undergo little sleep,
Evidence hidden behind jovial attitudes . . . completely censored.
The bell tolls and the cavalcade of warriors storm in,
A procession of prospects practiced and eager,
Their donned armour consists of a russack . . . wherein,
Lie graphite blades and sticks to measure metres,
Bounteous arrows ascend into the blue,
The mentor's speech in a garbled tongue,
Terror and turmoil promptly begin to brew,
Blades still sheathed and bows unstrung.
The fletched pinpricks swiftly find their marks,
Even wounded, the champions portray unparallelled gumption,
Suddenly, the terrible deciphered truth dawns on their hearts,
Test next class on logarithmic integral functions.
A passage about an angry shitposter I made purely for this thread. Would like a better suggestion for rotund that more heavily implies obesity, and also general comments on prose etc.
Thump. Thump. Thump. The keyboard wheezed under the storm of clammy, rotund fingers bearing down upon it. The rubber domes struggling to shift the key back up after each clumsy, bottomed out stroke. THUMP. A mighty fist crashed down upon the keyboard. The typist let out a scream of impotent rage as he flung it to the side. Years of masturbatory fluid and dorrito dust had pushed the sorry keyboard to its very limit. It simply could no longer function under such stress. The burden of years of internet arguments and caustic, paranoid ravings had finally caught up with it.
hot dog fingers?
Tense changes, should be "struggled"
Change "masturbatory" to "sugar-base" it's a joke semen is mostly sugar but tastes salty
Pick one or the other. Not both.
I read your poem on Reddit this morning and liked it so I guess the World's a really small place that wanted me to take the time to say: nice. that built up the feels perfectly before that beautiful rubber band snap crescendo promised all along by "a lie"
>I stopped reading desu
I know for a fact that I didn't type 'desu.' Seriously. I typed another dumb meme, granted, one that I've cringed at a hundred times but one that has lost its currency and therefore much of its most irritating qualities. It's the one with the letter T, then the letter B, then the letter H, but lowercase. There has to be some kind of scripting/filtering here.
Also, check your spelling and grammar. It's atrocious and messes with the reader. Lastly, something positive; I like your use of conjunctions. They mostly seem to fit well and there's just enough variation.
It's filtered now?
baka desu senpai
Practically all I do is read.
Anyway—your criticism is definitely valid, and I'll cut down on the commas, but I don't think that using punctuation more complex than a comma would work for this subject matter. Besides, semicolons carry a certain prestige, and I'm nowhere near good enough to make it seem anything but gratuitous.
Also, I don't think a semicolon wouldn't work in that specific example. The two clauses are far too interdependent for that.
Writing something especially for this thread. So please be mean. My native language is German by the way.
The pavement's reflections of Mecon's neon lights pave my way to Splyce's Casino. I am certain I'll be at least fifteen minutes late - to a meeting with Bruno Splyce - all other members of his inner circle would be terrified right now, but today, i am lucky. Trying hard to wipe off the smug grin that has formed on my face i continue down the alley with a fast-paced walk, not wanting to push my luck too far. I am guessing its about midnight but Mecon's twentyfour-seven lighting makes a timepiece mandatory for determining a rough estimate of the time or if you should even be seeing daylight at a given moment. My uncle Niels always doomed the central districts of Mecon because of this - the "neverending light, makes a fella mad, I tell ya, one day, Jared, one day ya mind be gone like ya threw it 'way". I can hear the weird and somehow discomforting glottal sound he makes while saying away in my head while i almost trip over a bum lying on one of central Mecon's countless vents. His slurred and wet-sounding remark gives me a nauseous feeling. He is, if I still got all my senses together, a CPZ addict. The legal, but from 3 pills and upwards euphoria-inducing psychopharmaceutical is the most popular drug in all of Mecon. It's high is... natural. It feels natural, like you've been made for feeling it's rush, it's euphoria. The fact that Cepto has kept it legal as an alleged antidepressant is proof of how massive companies' influences on politics have become in the past few decades. I am not happy with politics, but you couldn't say anyone's ever been. Like, in all of history. As far as i know at least. But fuck, how can I even be sure of my education; how can anyone be sure of their education these days? Suddenly, my thoughts stop drifting as I spot Mike, the humongous bouncer at Splyce's backdoor. We have had some... differences in the past, so I try to stay low and sneak past him, not granting him enough time to figure out that I'm late but still weirdly missing an expression of panic. Luckily, i get nothing but a aggressive growl from Mike while hurrying into the casino's back door.
Holy shit, thanks so much. Ever since my ex bf and I split, I've just been writing poetry constantly and it's a less self-destructive outlet so it's good to know other people like what I have to say.
Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently, and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death. Whenever you read a cancer booklet or website or whatever, they always list depression among the side effects of cancer. But, in fact, depression is not a side effect of cancer. Depression is a side effect of dying. (Cancer is also a side effect of dying. Almost everything is, really.) But my mom believed I required treatment, so she took me to see my Regular Doctor Jim, who agreed that I was veritably swimming in a paralyzing and totally clinical depression, and that therefore my meds should be adjusted and also I should attend a weekly Support Group.
This Support Group featured a rotating cast of characters in various states of tumor-driven unwellness. Why did the cast rotate? A side effect of dying.
The Support Group, of course, was depressing as hell. It met every Wednesday in the basement of a stone-walled Episcopal church shaped like a cross. We all sat in a circle right in the middle of the cross, where the two boards would have met, where the heart of Jesus would have been.
I noticed this because Patrick, the Support Group Leader and only person over eighteen in the room, talked about the heart of Jesus every freaking meeting, all about how we, as young cancer survivors, were sitting right in Christ’s very sacred heart and whatever.
So here’s how it went in God’s heart: The six or seven or ten of us walked/wheeled in, grazed at a decrepit selection of cookies and lemonade, sat down in the Circle of Trust, and listened to Patrick recount for the thousandth time his depressingly miserable life story—how he had cancer in his balls and they thought he was going to die but he didn’t die and now here he is, a full-grown adult in a church basement in the 137th nicest city in America, divorced, addicted to video games, mostly friendless, eking out a meager living by exploiting his cancertastic past, slowly working his way toward a master’s degree that will not improve his career prospects, waiting, as we all do, for the sword of Damocles to give him the relief that he escaped lo those many years ago when cancer took both of his nuts but spared what only the most generous soul would call his life.
>this post gives the reader cancer
outside of that I can't be bothered to care about the narrator and wanted to quit reading because it's not interesting. the quips bring the whole piece down and make it a pain to read. i wouldn't have read it through except for the critique/post requirement in the OP
This isn't very good writing. If you were going for the "detached, spiteful apathy of a toxic pseudo-intellectual" feel, there's still alot of work for you to do. Try to sound a little more genuine.
Don't give up, just keep reading and writing.
ironically the only thing more boring and trite than a college-aged white girl who thinks she knows anything about poetry is a college-aged white boy thinking he knows how to criticize it.
The day was night,it seemed to me that the end is near.
It was dark,even under the scorching sun,it was like the land of the dead,people were going places here and there,everyday,the same pattern,the same endless loop.
Life was a merely a vacuum cube for some,and people were particles of that room,performing a play of never-ending organised Brownian motion,they could not breathe in this room,they only saw what's inside the room,nothing out,they only saw themselves.
I looked out of my small window into the cube,and watched people just like i would do any other day.
My window seemed to be foggy at first,but no,it turned out people were foggy,and every thing's that around them,they had the same faces,they wore the same clothes,a red tie and a black suit,my fingers were respiring the cool breeze on my window,and it was a great feeling,how one could still feel when others couldn't.
So i decided to go down the street - or the cube,actually - and watch all the pretty things,once,are now wooden toys with nothing left on the inside.
No body cared about the other,
Nobody saw the other,
Heard the other,
Felt the other.
Indeed,this is the time when I ask myself, why?
Why is the world like this?
Why can't I get out of this cube and confront the gods?
Why can't I smell the fresh air anymore,except taking small bits of it inside my small room?
Why can't I feel anything,nor anything can feel me,except if it's the breeze dwelling on my window?
Why can't i wake up one day and find myself somewhere,where clouds are vertical,slopes are always green,without having any grey dull roots around?
I Don't want this small world.
I Don't want to be the one who breaks the silence.
I say this in a deep lament,in a spiritual anguish,my heart's color is fading,it's becoming black,i don't even know why.
I was on the street watching people,but suddenly,people were watching me,I began to feel a bit dizzy,it seemed as if time has stopped for a moment,and everyone froze,and so did I,my vision was fading,everything was turning into black objects here and there,people became black objects,
Then it seemed that timed started running away,buildings were tumbling on themselves,people were apathetic to the effect,they just kept walking,and walking,in the same way as they did when they were observed from my window....buildings falling down...people walking....buildings destroyed,people still walking,
And it turned out I was doing the same ritual as well,my nose didn't have the tiniest bit of air in it,my ears were silent again,my lips were so dry I couldn't close them on each other.
Out of the blue,something was shining,a strong light was brightening up the air,everything seemed so yellow,I couldn't see anything else except yellow everywhere,yellow black objects,it was a peculiar landscape.
The light has gone away,but still,everything was abnormal,the ugly things I used to remember are now a great collection of abstract art masterpieces,but I couldn't fully absorb the effect,because I'm still stunned from the yellow light,but I was very sure that this was a fact,because someone was conversing with my mind about it,people were no longer black monoliths,whispers are no longer,they are shouts now,someone was shouting in my head,it was shuddering,it gave me an inertia,I couldn't do anything about it,except waiting for it to die down.
But then I realized,nothing was like it seemed,it turned out that I was one of those particles.
And my room was in that cube.
I was in that cube.
Please be nice. I normally write poetry in French.
THE TALE OF THE POND
There was once a tiny pond on a tiny glade under a tiny blue sky. A pair of ducks had landed there, some winters ago, and had never flown away. Three ducklings had then sprouted from the clear water.
One day, the first duckling saw his feathered reflection in the pond and learnt that it could fly with the dawn. He landed in a great empty lake. Loving the lake and its invisible shores, the first duckling forgot the pond and remained in the great lake.
One day, the second duckling saw his feathered reflection in the pond and learnt that it could fly with the dawn. He heard himself called by a small lake where miss duck lived. Blushing, he dived under the sunset and surfaced in love. Finally seeing his reflection out of water, he forgot the pond and remained in the small lake.
One day, the third duckling saw his feathered reflection in the pond and learnt that it could fly with the dawn. Tired from flapping his wings, he set foot on the ground. He followed the songs of a barnyard, which door had been left open to him. Dozing off with quacks and crumbs all around, the third duckling started dreaming away from the pond and remained in the barnyard.
So, mother duck and father duck flew away to resume their long journey, smiling over the great lake and the small lake and the barnyard. In the pond now swims alone the feather of one duck.
For a student retreat we lived in the forest for a week. I didn't want to go on the retreat and the recreational students said "what is wrong with this student?". I forced myself to do the retreat. One night I took a huge shit in the forest. Wolves sniffed their way to it and started howling around it. In translation, I knew what they were saying, they were saying "one of us, one of us, google goggle, one of us". So I ditched the students and started living with the wolves. The wolves one day caught me masturbating to a corroded magazine. The wolves howled, "what's wrong with this wolf?". I felt just as alienated with the wolves as I did with the students. I left the wolves too. I took another huge shit in the forest. Dung beetles came crawling to it and sniffed, and I knew what they were saying, "one of us, one of us, google goggle one of us", so I went to live with the dung beetles. I was scared of them and their enthusiasm for feces and anuses. Because I was revolted by feces and anuses, the dung beetles looked at me and thought "what's wrong with this dung beetle?". So I left the dung beetles. I became so alienated and lonely I decided to die. I went further into the forest, and started sleeping inside a tree log. I took a shit in the tree log. It stank and no one came. I died smelling my own shit.
"You have to cut true. Deep circle; ream it. Bore into it. You see what I mean? Nothing to be gentle about."
The child stared in unblinking silence. His hands moved with a graceful efficiency, responding simultaneously to the instruction.
"Start below the breastbone. Move down, keep it just below the skin; cut the stomach, and I'll break your fingers. I'll make you clean it with your own fucking mouth."
The wind bit into him like obsidian flakes; tearing, seeking the blood beneath with an igneous ferocity.
"All the way. Watch them; careful with the pull. Alright, get the throat out. Don't slow down. Step back, step back."
The knife was traded for the axe; leather-wrapped steel to wood. It was a solid certainty when gripped in his hand, a monolithic bastion of comforting grayed hickory. The strike was clean and sweet in its resounding, sending a few drops splattering onto the child, running down his face to drip from his chin. Three shards of stained white, remnants of the heart's once-sturdy shield.
"Get them out, get them out."
A rhythmic chorus. Fingers slipping on the pale and red, blade ripping with the speed of hunger. Secrets well hidden, blue-veined and still warm.
"Tear. Don't be soft with them."
They fell into a neat little pile, each perfect, divine. The coils of gray and white spoke to him in kinder tones.
Lips set, the tall one did not speak as he finished inspecting the emptied cavity. For the slightest moment, a glimmer of hope in the child's death-mute gaze.
Your right, editing is something I greatly still need to work on. Guess my problem is some form of impatience I guess to be done with something. Nonetheless thank you, and also glad you enjoyed at least one thing.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not money, I am become as a sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not money, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not money, it profiteth me nothing. Money suffereth long, and is kind; money envieth not; money vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. … And now abideth faith, hope, money, these three; but the greatest of these is money.
You have to say what "it" is. You're a good writer, but there's no point to be ambiguous about what is being cut into. The vividness of your description falls apart when such a major textual element cannot be visualized by the reader.
I understand that you want to produce a solitary story, sort of, but really I have no interest in the world, which has a description that's confused because of all of your adjectives and overwrought prose.
I liked the verse in the middle.
Try to have some characters, dialogue maybe to introduce the story. For me, the stream of consciousness is just not cutting it and I can't see at all where the story might be going.
Also, is this the start of a short story, or the start of a novella or novel? If it's a short story it should be starting much quicker, and even if it's a novella or novel you should start with something more interesting.
If you're gonna continue, keep intermingling the verse with perhaps foreshadowing or deeper insight into the themes. It's a good element.
I was pretty immediately interested in this, thanks to your descriptions such as "the multilevel concourses and atriums of Manhattan" ... As far as I can tell it's the start to some sort of cyberpunk story, and the archivist(main character) has some sort of ability to absorb information. Promising. I think the little flashback to the girl was a bit quick, though, as I was reading and still absorbing that he was going into New York. Just a bit more space before introducing that would be nice, I think.
That's only a part of the story but yes I agree that it lacks base, I think it lacks because I hadn't planned anything and sort of just began to write - so I couldn't say whether it's intended to be a novella or short story
I stopped writing this months ago and just recently remembered it as I sort of enjoyed writing, I would like to see it through till the end but have no idea how - any recommendations?
Here is the rest of the story if you're interested - I didn't include this in the first post as I don't think it's very good and am considering deleting it and restarting from the first
cheers for the reply
This is a scene from my recently-finished novel, a surreal revenge story set in modern day Tokyo. I've posted about it on /lit/ before and people have liked the idea so here we go.
Quite sincerely one of the worst things I have ever read. Is English even your first language? Or is this supposed to be some sort of joke?
Try to think of it all as a learning experience instead of a waste of time I guess.
nigga that was awful
That was like reading the text on a deviantart hedgehog picture.
I've critiqued a few but now I need help with a paragraph of my own:
There is nothing on the desk to free him, short of the candle. But as he goes to try and burn the rope off, the sound of every person who had ever scolded him as a child goes off in his head. Instead he sees a plate of butter and half eaten bread and has an idea. With his back to the table Beau, held the plate in his tied hands and carefully brought it over the fire. He could feel it getting hotter, and just when the heat began to burn his fingers he put it down as gently as he could. He could see Owl-Eye rustling on his bed. The assassin sleeps too soundly for someone who has a prisoner in his house. Perhaps it is old age that keeps him sleeping deep. Beau picks up the plate once it has cooled, and with a flick of his wrists, he splashes the warm melted butter over his hands and arms. Then, with the rope tightly pressed between the table and his body, he cups his hands to make them as small as he can, and tries to pull his hands out from their bindings. Once...twice...and on the third, he pulls his right hand out followed by his left. Then again he does the same for his arms, and once they are free he unties his feet and legs.
You're relying too much on words like 'reptilian' and 'primordial' to set the scene. As if the scene were supposed to be those words themselves. And the action that comes from it doesn't justify it--makes it seem even random.
and before anyone mentions my tensing problems here it is again with that fixed
There is nothing on the desk to free him short of the candle. But as he brings his hands forward to burn the rope, the sound of every person who had ever scolded him as a child goes off in his head. Instead he notices a plate of butter and half eaten bread and has an idea. With his back to the table Beau holds the plate in his hands and carefully brings it over the fire. He can feel it getting hotter, and just when the heat begins to burn his fingers he puts it down as gently as he can. He can see Owl-Eye rustling on his bed. The assassin sleeps too soundly for someone who has a prisoner in his house. Perhaps it is old age that keeps him sleeping deep. Beau picks up the plate once it has cooled, and with a flick of his wrists, he splashes the warm melted butter over his hands and arms. Then, with the rope tightly pressed between the table and his body, he cups his hands to make them as small as he can, and tries to pull his hands out from their bindings. Once...twice...and on the third, he pulls his right hand out and then his left. Then again he does the same for his arms, and once they are free he unties his feet and legs.
You rely a lot on atmosphere, but it should buzz your intended audience.
I feel like you present too many images, so that they have enough weight behind them, except with how they coincide with this atmosphere you're creating. Amongst all these images without any weight, you still use these strong words which don't feel appropriate.
'rich with laughter'
'clattering and banging'
I was going to quote the rest of what I found of tropes like these, but they constitute your entire piece. I don't recognize the writing in it.
There are better ways to make describing action great, than purple. Sometimes, unless we have access to something we usually wouldn't, there isn't much to say about a scene, rather than awkward analogies. Add to the story about them, or tighten up the prose.
Reads like notes for an actual story. Don't list all the symptoms at once, they potentially give you material to tie action into the theme. If you just list them out at once you give the character nothing to do in exposition or transition. The thoughts of the character also come off more like exactly what you were thinking about things the moment you wrote. Laziness.
You should extend this into a full-blown story, because the material you provided has the potential.
Extend the first paragraph especially . It gives us a basic idea of the man, but I don't believe it's what he has to say about it. Like the writer putting words in the character's mouth. The rest of the story has the same problem.
>Harper slithers into my ear.
Don't do this.
So much of this is devoted to being true to the experience of living there.
Firstly, it flat out doesn't do the job. Too clean.
Secondly, it could be done with much less. I'd make it more vulgar. This is currently an elder writing about the city.
For some reason, this reminds me of that one picture that's been floating around that compares ancient Roman graffiti to the casual shitposting that goes around on 4chan.
Something about how we're all pretty much the same and stuff when it gets right down to the core of it.
The Wheel Zone. A holy ground for tokyo drifters, NoS racers, greasemonkeys, robo teens, musclegirls, drift punks, juice heads, juice boys, and other assorted street scum. Cyberjocks and Anime junkies alike had come together in the aftermath of Vietnam War III to build it – a sprawling expanse of neon-highlighted straightaways ending in acutely graded turns, adjustable ramps, halfpipes, fullpipes, and trash pits on fire. Many obstacles such as 10,000 GV tesla coils and Wu-tang guillotines had been set up randomly around the premises by the more enthusiastic carnage kiddies. There was usually a very atmospheric rain falling on the area and Bladerunner blimps would cruise overhead projecting lo-res holo-ads for Cybercola and Anime pills.
A few years ago, Megacorps had installed Beats by Dr. Dre© Porta-speakerz® every 50 feet all around the Zone in an attempt to push their corporate-brand tunes. Within 36 hours, the local Hacker guilds had them blasting the latest indietronica and cyber-trap bangers 24/7 from a pirate radio station DJ-ed by a self-driving car that had been hacked to only do donuts and wheelies also 24/7.
Ezekiel opened his lustreless eyes and thanked his benefactor with a wane smile. He felt pure and good and virtuous now that he was part of a subset of humans well-furnished for the catastrophe. The messiah would come and usher in the species of delight and do away with the old defective, unsound humans. The Guru was like a father, kindly and caring, but also unknowable to all. He sat on a cushioned seat in front of Ezekiel telling him about how in the fulfillment of this prophecy there would be a delightful dance when all of their unencumbered feet would happily stamp away the past.
“How do you feel,” he heard the high-toned voice of the bearded holy man ask.
“I feel as if I have just died and become new,” he trembled in a low soft voice, his vacant eyes imagining sweet and enchanting vistas.
The Guru smiled with the greatest pleasure, tossed his head back and brimmed over with mirth. “The dying of the old self is difficult,” he said and then, looking at Ezekiel, cackled enigmatically so all could hear his sonorous laughter and be filled with its mystery. The believing audience listened and watched eagerly to all he said and did.
But his expression suddenly turned serious and Ezekiel found himself gazing into a fiercely bearded visage. “Death means death. One cannot symbolically die. No, more is required, much more... because one who truly dies cannot return to life. Do you understand?” he asked swiftly.
Ezekiel timidly shook his head. He did not understand. The understanding was beyond him.
From behind his seat, the Guru revealed a shining case containing a jewel-studded dagger that flashed and gleamed dangerously. “Death is final,” he said. Shock gushed forth from the audience in a wave of stifled gasps.
Ezekiel felt a sudden discomfort, even actual pain at the side of his ribs seeing the dagger. The spotlight was on him and the hotel conference room fell silent and the sweat dribbled down his forehead.
You anthropomorphize too much, and maybe it's out of context but it feels too sparse as well.
Generic, boring as fuck and just stupid.
Solid opener for some pulpy cyberpunk, maybe delivering a bit too much too early in terms of his sort of internal monologue, especially with the girl.
In the overgrown grass
on the grave of someone past
a young man did recline
and his world was simply fine
In the overgrown grass
on the grave of someone past
a young man did recline
and his world was simply fine
In the overgrown grass
on the grave of someone past
a young man did recline
and his world was simply fine
In the overgrown grass
on the grave of someone past
a young man did recline
his world no longer yours or mine
this is genuinely great, i really like this.
some really novel ideas, 'sunset' is great, 'baby' is a little weaker...it seems to be conflicted between writing in a matter-of-fact tone and a flowery tone. for instance, the tone is nice and simple until the line " I want her to suck my engorged phallus while I admire the coordinated symphony of atrophied facial muscles contract and release", which comes off kinda clunky and awkward. sunset is brilliant though.
here an excerpt from a short story or novella or something i'm writing just now
Writer here. It's a swabian dialect in the german original. I didn't know how to translate it. Also, the text is not exactly translated but very close to the original. It's the beginning of a post WW 3 novel I'm writing. Any more critique maybe? Please?
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 our understanding 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 filmmaking, 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 hysterical 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
3) Because I heard it was easy. And, I don’t know, a good grade???
Grade: None Given
Item (B): The first major assignment of the course, an essay requiring the students to give a brief (4-5 page) analysis of the Odessa Staircase Massacre sequence in Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin and its significance to the montage theory of filmmaking, as well as to the greater insipience of modernist filmmaking in Soviet Russia. Doctorow’s paper (which the professor produced for the board only after providing a lengthy and highly incensed explanation of the virtuosity of the film’s techniques and the Odessa Massacre sequence in particular [intending, the board posits, to communicate how sacrosanct this particular piece of subject matter is, and thus how abominable Doctorow’s treatment of it should be judged by the examination committee, delivering this polemic despite the board’s repeated statements that our purpose was not to censor or punish the subject, merely to analyze him], at times even wagging the subject’s essay in front of our chairman’s (Dr. Voleman, distinguished sitting member of the APA) face and sputtering incoherently; said paper, when it was finally handed over for inspection, being found to reek strongly of cannabis and to have been at one time folded and used to clean beneath the subject’s fingernails) consists of a single page and its thesis reads as follows:
“In this mastapeace [sic] of transgressive filmmaking, Einstein [sic] hazards his audience with what is not only a fresh conception of time and filmic/narrativistic [sic] emphasis, but also a radically subversive (and cognitivitally [sic] dissonant) character situated as the scene’s emotional core. By placing some kind of weirdo bull-dike as his main POV lens (the screaming lady with the mustache/inexplicable child (like, who even fucked this thing??)) or transsexual or hermaphrodite or whatever, the ability of the audience to relate to this creature is called into challenge, and the limits of our empathy are probed. Through his marriage of the sexually grotesque and the politically violent, of the temporally ungrounded and the emotionally weighty, Einstein [sic] limns for his audience that most essential and demanding of modernist questions: Is this what all women look like in Russia?”
Grade: F (Conference requested/Paper never collected by subject)
A piercing cacophony.
Me, me, me!
As the ray of light calls,
it will prove to be as fleeting as it is dim
and the rodents will trample their siblings
and cannibalize their mothers for the chance to bask again.
Ernest never thought he’d hear crying from Jack’s place. Hell, he never thought he’d be going to Jack’s place.
If things hadn’t blown up the way they had, Ernest wouldn’t dare come anywhere near Jack’s den, not unannounced – the place was probably booby trapped, or Jack’s pistol would shout him back out the door. It’s the crying that unnerved him – had someone got Jack? Some passionate disagreement? He didn’t know, he didn’t know Jack, not outside of work. If they’d gotten a double hard bastard like Jack, they could certainly get him too.
Call out, or just go on in?
“Jack? Hey, buddy?” He wavered, clearing his throat as he slowly pushed the thick wooden door open. The light from the gas lamps outside pooled onto the floorboards, the broken glass, Ernest’s jowly reflection in its three-piece suit staring back at him. Gotta lay off the pasties. He caught motion up ahead. He saw the grey desk, the heaving mass in the chair, the shining pistol-
Ernest went still. “It’s Ernest, Jack, it’s okay, I’m here buddy, what happened?” He said, his voice soothing. At least he isn’t pointing it at me.
The sobbing slowed as Jack’s eyes flashed in the dark, puffy and red. “I killed her.”
That threw Ernest. “And? Did the wardens see you? Did things get complicated? What happened, Jack?” He asked.
Jack shook his head.
“Okay, so no-one followed you, no-one other than the mark got dead?” Ernest asked.
Another shake of the head. Really? That had done it?
“Well, good, but I gotta tell you, you gotta leave. Your number one fan has something solid on you. He’s coming tonight. Tonight Jack – buddy, please, get ahold of yourself!” Despite the danger of the pistol, Ernest had crossed the floor to get a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“I killed her.”
“I know, I know buddy – Listen, this is it, though! You’re out of the business now. No more bludging, no more bloodshed. You’ve got plenty of money saved up, you must do, you’re the careful type, you can live wherever you want. Wherever you want. But you gotta get it now, okay? Get your money, so we can go now.”
If things were good, Ernest would expect questions, terse and to-the-point, about transport, payment, details. Tonight though, all he got was a nod. “Good, good man.” He murmured as he helped Jack to his feet.
In solitude I rest, no peace
Will come to me, instead
A burning pain of hate and ire
Consumes my soul like wildfire.
Mercy please, oh God above
Witness to the sins I've done,
So shamelessly, I cower with my pride,
Away from your all seeing eyes.
I whisper now, into the wind,
Burdened voices, filled with sin,
They scream of acts throughout the times,
That would make Sodom turn its eyes.
Use more diverse words that aren't so predictable and convey more meaning
In solitude I rest. No peace
will find me here. Instead
scorching pain of hate catches,
wildfire upon my soul's sprouts.
Mercy, bear witness to my sordid
sins committed without shame.
I cower beneath my pride,
hidden from your omnipotent visage.
My whispers sink into the wind,
burdened voices, whipped with weight.
They plead for blinders, curtains
to shade them from Father Sodom.
I can sincerely appreciate your diction, imagery, and other literary elements but unfortunately I have a limited vocabulary as I've never studied English in University. While one doesn't need a University education to learn these things, this input appears to be University level.
Could you please recommend a book to me, so I may learn to write the way you do? Of course it doesn't have to be an explicit step by step guide, I mean a book that uses these literary elements. It would be up to me to practice in the end.
I've recently picked up reading again after a hectic time in my life, hence the lack of exposure. 19 years old, plenty of time to learn.
And of course, thank you! The reply alone was a great step forward in the right direction.
Change the period after cacophony to a dash
"As the ray" is a bit awkward
calls to something more interesting, perhaps beckons or tempts
the "and" device in the last two lines doesn't work well for me
siblings to litter-mates?
I quite like the last line.
Ok I gave people some crit, now someone do me
My seeking tendrils are ensnared by a sprightly sapling
I found leaning off-kilter, silhoutted and offset by a glade
of glacially deposited mineral hunks defined by shattered
glimpses through splotchy leaves.
Grace befalls him naturally.
The gentile branching of his twigs offers sappy sandpaper resolutions
to my soaped-up skin, and his needles are barbareously effective,
comparable to a swiss army knife or spork.
Our roots flirted, skirting pebbles and sandy spots and
selectively searching out each other's sapience,
Now we are root-bound and shaded,
lacking the nutrients to grow
The stone-studded path does not rejoin its maker
but propels itself
Not that guy but R. Crumb was an underground comic writer/illustrator who did a ton of really sexual work about the counterculture. He's most famous for Fritz the Cat.
He did an illustrated version of the book of Genesis a few years ago that's actually quite good
My attempt at being edgy, will drop my stories as soon as they are readable. Can't attempt non ironic poetry.
"Highschooly" pastedonthewallofacanteen turgid shit.
Alphabetic reorganisation as a form of futurist liturgy by means of which uneducated unemployed pieces of plastic, alloy, metal, glass, people'd computers, wired cities, piss [ochsenfjord] and dried semen pretend they are carrying sables. Pieces of bound tree as ammunition through which criminals shoot in to the crowd, lazily and with eyes closed. Earthworms think of Earth and nothing else. They secrete their juices over unseen places and meld in to the walls, carpets [ochsenfjord] and cities made of vomit, climbing over each other and dripping from the bottom of bins, frightening the girls. They don't eat at the café, nor eat with knife and fork [ochsenfjord] and have no goals but to wriggle and decease [yet even when you try and cut them]. Consider abandoning participation. Why have ears when there is nothing to hear? What does the dribble that is spat in to the webbed wasp's aural cavity and is dressed up as conversation matter? Contemplation has ended where contemplation is nothing but repeated platitudes and uninspired banalities. "Why had we even walked here when we could have stayed at home?" Familiar? The life that has already ended requires no general practitioner nor consultation. Why leave the cave? Metal and Plastic reality has already seized our cities with a klang klang boom and we've made good use of her clowns and whores. Isn't Marinetti standing amidst the humming wires that sit like the nerves of the city above the tram tracks and glass? Hadn't we imaged ourselves storming throught this or that alloy manifestation of electrical paralysis?
Hadn't we been lodged between these two buildings before and had let their glass and alloy grow like lichen upon these ivory shapes? What is wrong then with letting metals and plastics [and thunder channelled through copper] infect the other end of this sinking platform? The mental faculties are in disrepair and there are no more aphrodisiacs with a strong enough poison to make extension erotic to these yellow crusted eyes. Aren't there those weeks where upon our paralysed motions and upon our turgid reflections sits the illusion of transcendence, naked and white with a little death around the eyes? [And that we know that our only chance at fucking the whore is in doing something reprensible]. Wasn't the aphrodisiac a boredom of listlessness? For bowmen who sleep on the roof in winter there is only that and nothing else. The rest is merely dressed up pieces of cardboard. Is it right to drink the nectar? Or wrong? It would seem one day both and the next day neither and if only the latter then it is the most necessary of aevyls. There is no charity but in giving absolute hegemony over extension toward yourself. It can not be shared with anything but the smallest of audiences who stand on tippy toes to hear for something that may very well never come. [And how could I possibly share the steps that lead to the illusion of transcendence with anyone but someone who is willing to understand it even if it is wrong?] Splendour is only available to those with the weapons necessary for its acquisition [one for the dagger and one for the sable] or an infinite amount of daggers and no sable? [For who can really say they are Achilles?] Consider[...] nowhere is paradise written but in the non-sequacious dribble that drips from gutters, old bridges and train stations in disrepair [only in drinking these poisons do we imagine we have seen Zarathustra in the rusted metal chassis swinging beside a half-broken stone gate near the metal tracks and pebble stones]. That is paradise. Because that is all we know, we will continue to commit crimes both literary and otherwise, through humiliation and embarassment. I've seen veneration of a leaf, but this is not to be praised. This is to be feared.
It waits to be ripped down by some fuccboi.
YA Fantasy Novel Trash below:
“What does this stone do?” She asked pulling out her long necklace, and at the end, in a special wire cage, was the opal stone given on her fourteenth birthday. She undid the clasp and held it out for the witch.
The moonlight made the stone glow and Galinda’s mother looked surprised but then schooled her expression into boredom. Annie was insistent.
“You know! Tell me.”
“I am not obliged to tell anything to you, little girl, just because you are friends with my daughter does not make you a friend of mine.”
“You would hide secrets from your princess?”
“I did not pledge my allegiance to your father, do not use that against me.” She gestured to the stone and Annie suddenly felt protective of it and clutched it in her hand.
“Who did you pledge allegiance to then? If you live in my kingdom you-”
“Have you ever wondered...princess, why your father has a sorcerer in his employ instead of your father being a sorcerer?” Galinda turned back away from her, a long drag from a long pipe.
“No,” shot back Annie quickly, her mouth moving faster than her mind “Who wouldn’t serve their king?”
“And why is your father king?”
“Because....” oh, that was a difficult question “because his father was, our whole family has ruled over this land for generations!”
“It’s late, and Galinda will wonder where her friend has gone. Keep that stone and your business far away from me, princess.” Galinda’s mother turned over the pipe and ash fell out onto the ground “or you’ll find my hospitality less than royal.”
Annie couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night, afraid that after her questioning Galinda’s mother would kill her, or worse, steal the stone the gypsy had given her. She had begged her mother to allow her to come here so she could get answers, but now Annie just had more questions.
I dunno if this is bait.
As far as dialogue goes, it didn't feel that legit. Do you have fleshed out ideas of the characters? If you do it wasn't communicated and has really worried me about my own writing.
What exactly could I take from what you are saying to me? Niggard doesn't know what an elefant is the word's obscure. No.
>is totally devoid of cadence
This is valid, although I don't necessarily need it. It's not music.
>isn't reflective of the language at all
>language that [...] hovers somewhere in between its original historical sources and its contemporary twentieth-century articulation [...]
R-E-I-N-E-S-P-R-A-C-H-E [...] M-E-S-S-I-A-N-I-C-H-O-R-I-Z-O-N [of language]
[Ezra Pound/ New Selected Poems and Translations/xiii]
>I got tired reading this, not a good thing.
Were you running with your smartphone out?
How is this a criticism? No.
Mommy and Daddy are in their room again. I hear the door close and the lock slide just like it does when daddy comes home from work and closes the front door with weight. After the sound of the lock then the loud noises come. I don't like the loud noises because they make mommy sad. When mommy gets sad, daddy gets mad. When daddy gets mad I get hurt. I press my ear on the door just like I do to daddy's chest to see if his heart still makes moves after he falls down. Mommy always has me do it because she thinks that if I do daddy wont be so upset if he wakes up. The noises are still loud. They turn into footsteps heavy to the touch and I run away. I go into the room where the sitting beds are. I hear the door open and daddy says a word. Carlese. When he says that word I know I'm supposed to go to him. But I don't. He says the word again, this time it's heavier. I come to him. There you are Carlese. I wish he would stop using that word. I wish I knew what that word meant. Sometimes mommy and daddy say it to each other behind the locked door and it makes the noises even louder than they were before. He picks me up and we walk through the room with all the food into the one with the box that makes bright lights and loud noises. He holds me. I feel tight. He breathes. He smells like the one cabinet in the food room. He is always in that cabinet. It's his favorite one in the house. We need to talk about something sweetie. I know mommy is not sad because daddy is not mad. I know daddy is not mad because I do not hurt. Where's mommy? She's upstairs in our room. Why? She's just taking her clothes out of the drawers. Why? Because she wants to make sure there aren't any dust bunnies. He tickles me like that one time that made me feel good and to never tell mommy about it. But now I don't feel good, I just laugh. How would you like to come live with me and Uncle Charles for awhile? I like Uncle Charles. Whenever he comes over he always brings me candy. I run to show mommy the candy but then I remember she's gone at work. She's always gone when I want to show her the candy from Uncle Charles. He also brings me a coloring book. When I'm done coloring it I always want to show Uncle Charles the work I did but then I remember that I'm not supposed to bother him when he's upstairs with daddy because they're talking about work.
Oops, hurt the tripfags feelings.
Cadence does fucking matter. The spoken word is the origin of language, but even if you ignore that, written text has a rhythm, a flow. Even the long latin sentences or DFW ramblings in IJ have this, thats what makes it readable. Obscure words are okay if they convey the proper emotion or thought, not just to show you have a thesaurus. Unless you are on acid or psychotic, I would be sparse with adjectives.
Your "writing" is just words, they convey to us, the readers, no meaning or emotion. However smart you think yourself, as long as you are unable to express yourself, people will treat you as the retard you appear to be.
Okay, I like and I'd probably read a bit more but truth be told I think you'd be better off having this as a standalone paragraph or something like that, reason being this kind of style tends to become bothersome and heavy and annoying fast.
That said, it's nice. You've got some nice pseudo-sincere/tard/puerile lyricism going - like the footsteps heavy to the touch, that was pretty cool. It reminds me a lot of some of the more pov chapters of Infinite Jest, which is cool in my book. I just wish you'd maybe apply that to something other than abuse/disfunctional families. Why don't you try and write something like that about a playground scuffle? I'm serious, properly done it'd be heartwrenching. I'd read something like that.
Now, my thing. I wrote it a few months ago, and I'm meaning to pick it up and finish it properly - so I'd like to hear advice realative on how to go about doing that. Like what you'd change and what you'd keep, what works and what doesn't, especially considering that English isn't my native language and I don't want to make too much of an ass out of myself.
Being a tad too long, I'll post it below.
Sunset now and out they come, the bastard children of fuck it all ideology. They live the night, dusk till dawn, torn between ecstasy and the need to find a place to crash, drugged up and out of their tomb. They swarm the underpass to dance between trash can firelight and light pollution backdrop, this latter one going strong in the sky above the lagoonside factories. Venice burning by night if you look at the mainland. The water here reeks of shit and chemicals, looks oily, seems about ready to burst into flames. They’ve tried a couple of times, maybe they’ll do it again tonight if nothing happens, but there’s usually a concert nearby and the mosh is always a good place to get thrashed so here they stream into the venue, occupied tin shack already chock full of noise and feedback. “Live fast/Die Fast, deontology, banner above the door, final wisdom, why not?” This one is hardcore night so expect concrete jungle rhythms and screams of pleasure. The beer stall is up and working, but they’ve got their quarts. “Who’s gonna pick a fight with a mob of methhead vampires, black-clad and completely pissed as a ground state of being? No future as an aura, can go both ways pal, you and me, one man standing.” Thirty minutes in and they get booted out for the night, no real harm done, couple of lips split and a lot of black eyes but those you don’t see in the dark. “Besides, blood looks cool right?” Lick it up champ, it’s good for you. Trainbound now to Venice, last one in before midnight so it’s a one way trip. They’ve gotta roam the streets and knock on the right doors to get in before the spell ends, darkness fades and reality sets in, if you really want to be timeless and immortal you’ve got to keep up the trick and never see the sun. Empty city this one, if you count out the tourists and just sneak through the sidestreets. Crawl’s the word. “Besides, if we do find someone just smile and you’ll see they’ll offer us some nice cool beer somewhere.” Time’s ticking and choices numbered. Junkyard, occupied buildings, parks, damp cellars. “There’s an island out there, used to be a nuthouse, sounds good to me”. But vampires can’t cross running water, maybe this one isn’t running as much as slouching but it’s still a mile to the island,
Okay, I'll try to gentle kohai-chan...
My seeking tendrils are ensnared by a sprightly sapling
I found leaning off-kilter, silhoutted and offset by a glade
> just a comma instead of 'and”?
of glacially deposited mineral hunks defined by shattered
> too much either “glacial deposits” or something like mineral chunks
glimpses through splotchy leaves.
>splotchy? Or do you want to say “decaying””withered”?
Grace befalls him naturally.
The gentile branching of his twigs offers sappy sandpaper resolutions
> sappy is an awful word. “moist””wet” added bonus of erotic connotians
to my soaped-up skin, and his needles are barbareously effective,
comparable to a swiss army knife or spork.
>U dun goofed
Our roots flirted, skirting pebbles and sandy spots and
selectively searching out each other's sapience,
Now we are root-bound and shaded,
lacking the nutrients to grow
The stone-studded path does not rejoin its maker
but propels itself
> I like this part
Less is more, I like the emotion it conveys.
The grammar is terrible but I like the content.
>If our galaxy were assigned a co-ordinate, would that mean every event from the death of the smallest cell, to the immense power of the nuclear reactions within the largest star, were happening – relatively – in the exact same location, at least to any outside observer with an insufficient map?
It is meant as a reorganisation of the alphabet through which the reader who is standing on tippy toes may very well understand how it is he is meant to remove himself of his paralysis. Books are accumulations of schizophrenic activity which do more damage than good, their machines of production essentially producing the product with eyes closed. I am more Marinetti, Seneca, Schopenhauer, and Pound than anyone else. Why pretend you are Achilles when you are in fact a mollusc of weird abstract plastic and alloy shapes who is half awake? I think every now and again someone needs to just spit in someone's face and tell them that that is the case. Go to the café and spit in someone's face and tell them that that is the case. Why participate when noone is anything but a mollusc? Molluscs only need a wet area in the corner of the room and can live off the moisture. F-U-T-U-R-I-S-M-V-O-R-T-I-C-I-S-M-F-A-S-C-I-S-M: These words. The decaying/ accelerated city as a breastless maid whose "humming wires sit like [...] nerves above the tram tracks and glass". Decay produces character. Character produces acceleration. Aren't we crocuses who wish to fire our phalli upon the abandoned houses and proletarian slums like dew upon a leaf? Either way, life has ended and there is nothing else to occupy ourselves with. The broken urban city as the ideal image: anyone who denies this is a coward. The Geisha produces a spasm of words, either paying or not paying attention to the grammatical, syntactical etc. build up of the mess. The articulation rests somewhere above silence [hopefully its mammaries and general design are erotic enough]. People wish to see the peep show and through those crimes I will slip them Zarathustra.
As to some images, such as dagger and sable, among others, "elefant" is also obscure to some and its revelation would ruin the fun.
I don't hold Wallace in high regard.
>Obscure words are okay if they convey the proper emotion or thought, not just to show you have a thesaurus
This could be said by anyone to anyone. They are not "obscure". The fact that you find them obscure is your problem. I am not writing for the kiddy corner.
>they convey to us, the readers, no meaning or emotion#
>However smart you think yourself, as long as you are unable to express yourself, people will treat you as the retard you appear to be.
The only writer you mention is Wallace and think you can insult someone else, not to mention your constant rattling of this Hemingway-inspired drivel of DALONGWERD DATEESAURUS. Niggard. No. Enough is enough.
Elefant = German for Elephant.
Consider text that actually has a point. I've written that. You're welcome.
well I didn't under shit your post either
I kind of thought so too
>splotchy? Or do you want to say “decaying””withered”?
No, I wanted splotchy, to echo "shattered" in conveying that the leaves block the view, that clearly didn't work though so I will fix it
>sappy is an awful word.
but trees have sap :(
that's what I get for putting last finishing touches on stoned and not proofreading
>U dun goofed
you don't think the momentary "what" pause caused by "spork" grounds and prepared the reader for the ending?
I like it, only sometimes the line breaks
Sunset now and out they come, the bastard children of fuck it all ideology.
> great opening
They live the night, dusk till dawn, torn between ecstasy and the need to find a place to crash, drugged up and out of their tomb.
They swarm the underpass to dance between trash can firelight and light pollution backdrop, this latter one going strong in the sky above the lagoonside factories.
>They swarm the underpass to dance between trash can fires and the light pollution from the lagoonside factories as backdrop. You lost me halfway the sentence
Venice burning by night if you look at the mainland. The water here reeks of shit and chemicals, looks oily, seems about ready to burst into flames.
>The oily water here reeks of shit and chemicals,it looks ready to burst into flames.
>They’ve tried a couple of times, maybe they’ll do it again tonight if nothing happens, but there’s usually a concert nearby. The moshpit is always a good place to get thrashed , so they stream into the venue, a squat, a derelict tin shack already chock full of noise and feedback.
“Live fast/Die Fast, deontology, banner above the door, final wisdom, why not?” - Lick it up champ, it’s good for you.
> great stuff
>Trainbound now to Venice, last one in before midnight so it’s a one way trip. They’ve gotta roam the streets and knock on the right doors to get in before the spell ends, darkness fades and reality sets in. If you really want to be timeless and immortal you’ve got to keep up the trick and never see the sun.
Empty city this one, if you count out the tourists and just sneak through the sidestreets. Crawl’s the word. “Besides, if we do find someone just smile and you’ll see they’ll offer us some nice cool beer somewhere.” Time’s ticking and choices numbered. Junkyard, occupied buildings, parks, damp cellars. “There’s an island out there, used to be a nuthouse, sounds good to me”.
But vampires can’t cross running water, maybe this one isn’t running as much as slouching but it’s still a mile to the island
>Vampires can’t cross running water, maybe this one isn’t running as much as slouching and it’s a mile to the island.
Elefant was the only fucking thing I understood. Just because you're a tripfag I know you're not trolling.
I do like DFW, but I just mentioned him because he is able, unlike yourself, to make a page long sentence readable.
>Consider text that actually has a point. I've written that. You're welcome.
Ow,shit, you just went fully autistic! If people don't understand you ( and in your case don't even want to try to distill any meaning from the word flood) it means that you're a bad writer. Not that the readers are stupid.
The garden was decorated with two statues that squinted beneath the noon sun. Layla shaded her brow with a hand to ease her view. Neither sculpture was particularly remarkable, but the relief of shielding her eyes from the light coaxed her into a longer study. The connection between a relaxed state and a surfacing interest was not lost on her, and she approached the taller figure, a wide and muscled man, feet parted, left knee bent. She lifted her gaze from the knee upwards, still using her hand as a peak, which flattened accordingly keeping the piercing sun at a remove. Neck craned and her hand almost a blindfold she peeked into the grey eyes of the probably Grecian figure. She understood that feigning interest had led her into discomfort again, and in composed weariness flattened her hand over her eyes. She softly pressed her fingers into her face and pushed the flesh around. It was not a warm day, only a bright day in early spring.
The world will burn
I've seen it, in my dreams
Invasion of the West
Stole by thieves
The Army will march
Accompanied by a thunder
The black plague looms
A destroyed bunker
And then, on the final day
The sound of trumpets
The fear of the pundits
Because He was commanded
The Donald has landed
Thanks for your help! And while it may seem fairly stupid, what do you mean by "the line breaks"? Isn't that something related to poetry or am I missing something because of a lacking vocabulary
Don't know what you're aiming for man but this is neither interesting nor well-written. It lacks psychological depth while feigning it and there isn't any rhytm to it - every period washes over the other like the waves of the world thickest mud-ocean on a bleached, shapeless carcass. Reminds me of the duller parts of D'Annunzio's Pleasure, and I've never known anything duller. Unless you lifted from someplaace, but my criticism stands.
>If people don't understand you ( and in your case don't even want to try to distill any meaning from the word flood) it means that you're a bad writer.
That is quite evidently wrong.
>Elefant was the only fucking thing I understood
Then you are evidently completely unfit to be providing even incomplete criticism.
Don't reply if you do not have something to say.
Eh, didn't want to shit on it or anything, but it didn't really feel alive. May just be that I don't like that sort of writing, formally it was at least decent if not more.You got something else, I'd be happy to take a look at it and critique.
Haha that's alright man. I have thicker skin than that.
Why don't you read the rest of the boringness?
The grass was dry and bunched, but underneath a living dampness loosened the soil. Layla’s soft moccasins were already wet and darkened, and a little cold had already reached her socks. She dropped her hand to her side and stared into the crude frozen face, wincing in pain at the light for half a minute until she could take no more and scrunched her eyes closed. Still facing the strongest of the light, she relaxed her face and enjoyed the radiant hallucinatory stains that bled onto the back of her eyelids. Afterward she turned and followed a narrow set of stones lain as a path to the end of the garden. While she was certain that there were pretty things in the garden, it didn’t quite work. Pretty things need to be placed and calibrated, and the space itself should call for them. She wondered whether or not this notion was merely of a generic intuition caught up in the particularities of the garden. She felt pricked by her plausible naivety, and became suspicious and embarrassed of her judgement. A light wind passed into the end of the garden with her, and her back cooled as her jacket lifted and puffed. She marched back up the stone path and in through the open back door of the house.
Navigating through the low coffee tables and wicker chairs of a conservatory she was then in a kitchen with a large wooden table and a wall radiator that pumped out ascending folds of heat into the fresh cold air. She had allowed the cold of the outside into her friend’s home, and experienced a twinge of guilt, but it was small enough to resolve itself as a mark of camaraderie. She seated herself at the table and played with a coaster, holding it sideways between her thumb and fingers, spinning it clumsily. It was early, but Layla wished for bed. She slouched a little in the chair and crossed her legs. Sometimes the day took longer than it should to kick into shape, and when it finally acquiesced to being nothing, the long hours before sleep became a stupefying form of gained time. This morning she believed she had decided to venture to do something more, but arriving at her friend’s house it became apparent that she had been mistaken. She couldn’t bring herself to suggest ‘something new’, it at least had to be a specific plan. She was staring into these thoughts when she noticed herself staring into these thoughts, and she indulged her awareness, her eyes crossed and head drooping, playing up the affectations of daydreaming
Down in the desolate basement dwellings of the city, one of many, one of any, was our protagonist hunched before his notebook—scribbling with a thin pen gritty and scribbled scrawls of faces that were distorted by intersecting lines and spliced shapes—as ugly as anything and everything around him. It was one of those little rooms that were carved into the street, like little alcoves all along the pavement, except describing them as alcoves seems only to embellish them in some way, and it would probably be better to call them gutters, for they harboured all the streets debris, sludge and cigarette butts. He was flanked by two stairways that lead to the apartments above him, and his view was of a wall, where weeds would sprout from crevices and moss sprawled atop the slabs like ivy’s ugly sister. Above the wall, the legs of tall people and the legs and torsos of shorter people would elapse across the pane, and every time he would cast a sidelong glance to the passer-by and their legs. Not with any real purpose I underline, there was no salaciousness in his stares, only indifference—occasionally annoyance, like when a fly demands attention in one’s periphery, especially when these people happened to pass in moments of concentration.
At night it was particularly worse, his bed, although at the other side of the room, faced the window, and the paltry light from a streetlight above gleaned the thin blinds in a orange hue, so that every person’s passing shadow would project itself upon the pane like a film spool. And every time this happened, a spindly blackness would waver across the room, as flitting as a bird taking off. And every morning he is awoken by the same men on the stairwell arguing about the same ambiguous woman whose name is never mentioned. And so they quarrel, unabashed, with guttural utterances of morning’s phlegm. Soon, smoke travels with their voices through the window’s vent, smoke from cheap cigarettes, and exhaled from the most stagnant of old breaths until they are tossed into the pit below.
>stream of consciousness
Only it's not, so don't call it that.
Decay imagery does feature, yes. I am not sure how this is a criticism.
>vehicle for his vocabulary
This post is a vehicle for your lack of vocabulary. I am sorry my text upset you. Why would I confine my choice of words to colloquialism and only that? Why should I write that? What is the point when I could write something that actually means something? I refuse.
>can't handle criticism
I am still waiting for criticism.
I promise I've tried to offer some criticism. Please someone rate my attempts at writing.
The far door hissed open, letting a flood of both bass and thick orange smoke wash over them. Beyond that came a light show of saturated beams and writhing holo-images each casting rays onto the revelling, smog cloaked silhouettes that amassed on the expansive dance floor. Every now and then, a well aimed beam of light would highlight the face of some sweat glazed party goer or, rather unnervingly, the details of some dead beast caught off world only to be hung up as a mantle piece.
The room itself was massive and held a good dozen bustling booths with two equally busy bars. The far wall was, for the most part decorated with stacks of speakers and smog dispensers that were, Beim suspected, billowing a spice mist. A lone and well guarded staircase lead up to the owners lounge overlooking the main room. From the main room’s ceilings hung cages each holding a dancer, no two of which were of the same species. Beim even spotted one of his own, her long pony-tail snaked past a labyrinth of filed and jewel encrusted horns on its way down to the small of her back.
The dance floor revealed itself to be even more of a malaise than the frolicking silhouettes had suggested at first glance. There were easily one -- potentially even two -- hundred revellers dancing carefree among the smoke, not counting the masses in the booths and at the bar. Beim spotted men, women, inbetweens and indeterminates of all kinds of origins and colours.
I don't know if it is even a saying anywhere else, but it is saying from in my country about fishing "Not too fast, you'll break the line" You build up great momentum and then over do it, losing the train of thought. Even fast paced needs some, moments of rest, some "pacing"
what the fuck is incomplete criticism?
I gave enough constructive criticism in this thread. Even you. It is incomprehensible. I can't sugar coat that. I was trying to rewrite your stuff, but I gave up. You clearly write to impress. I write to express myself and expression needs to be understood to be of worth to anybody. I doubt you understand what you write. Yeah you can rationalize what it means, but can you read that from your stuff? I don't think so.
Some lit prof will undoubtedly get a mild erection or moist knickers from it, but it is still contrived, dead, and there is no discernible talent to be found in it.
I like this. You paint a really good picture of where he lives, though sometimes it kinda strikes me as a bit long winded in places. Trim it here or there.
>view was of a wall, where weeds would sprout from crevices and moss sprawled atop the slabs like ivy’s ugly sister.
Weeds and moss in this context can already be assumed to be somewhat of an eyesore. IMO, you could have written 'his view was of a weed covered wall' and I don't feel much would have been lost.
I really did dig the last paragraph though.
Your style works better in a longer format. There a few great moments that I genuinely liked, eg the mechanics of the garden and this bit >experienced a twinge of guilt, but it was small enough to resolve itself as a mark of camaraderie. These are pretty good, and the writing itself is reasonably nice - not really personal, at least it doesn't feel like it - but somewhat pleasurable to read.
The problem, at least I think, it's that for every nice passage you write, there are a couple periods of velvety, lush nothingness. the reader get lulled into innattention by the pretty writing describing, if you pass me the term, fuck all. And that's a pity, cos it obscures the better part of your writing. My advice is either to "make more stuff happen" or to considerably trim down what you write, like keeping the best phrase out of three.
Oh, okay. Now I get it, I was thinking about breaking a line like in breaking up a verse or something like that, which didn't really make any sense. Thanks man.
Nice imagery, if a bit standard- I appreciate the variety that tries to be more "fantastic" than how sci fi is usually done, for which I commend you. My only gripe is probably the overall way you describe the scene - it's remarkably nonchalant and devoid of emotion, for a weird space dancehall filled with bass and lights and smells and probably at least fortyfive languages and drunken people doing spacedrugs while looking up to that sweet astropussy. Now, I might have gotten a bit carried away but I hope you catch my meaning. Hunter Thompson comes to mind as someone who might help you spice your writing up a bit.
If any of the two people I critiqued feels like having a read and dropping a couple lines, I'd appreciate it! >>7568937
I would change the beginning, seems a bit overdone.
>The far door opened with a hiss, flooding them in a flood of bass and thick orange smoke. Beyond that emerged a light show of saturated beams and writhing holo-images each casting their rays onto the revelling, smog cloaked silhouettes that crowded expansive dance floor.
>what the fuck is incomplete criticism?
"too long". Anything that reeks of Hemingway.
>I was trying to rewrite your stuff, but I gave up
Why they fuck do you think you could, if you never even tried to understand it?
David Foster Wallace and Ernest Hemingway are not examples of worthwhile, and considering they both seem to be your main influences, why do you think you could make anything with greater acceleration?
>You clearly write to impress
I write articulations with erotic designs and attractive mammaries as a means of improving the reader [...] "People wish to see the peep show and through those crimes I will slip them Zarathustra."
So of course the impression is as important as the meal.
"Splendour is only available to those with the weapons necessary for its acquisition".
I wish to impress the people who have the ability to be impressed. What else would I do? There is nothing else to do.
>I doubt you understand what you write
That is a peculiar hypothesis and is also wrong.
>there is no discernible talent to be found in it
Thank God I don't take people who parrot lit memes seriously.
I said stream not stream of consciousness you fucking autist. Your writing isn't too complicated, as you seem dedicated to believing, it's simply boring and reeks of a high school Senior trying to show off that he's literate and brooding and has read some Pound.
You can say as the author that it "actually means something they just don't get it" all you want. Tripfagging already shows you're a delusional egotist anyway.
I have not been involved in this discussion but I just wanted to ask, have you read Hakim Bey? Cos you sound like a funnier, edgier version of Deleuze&Guattari and that's the same impression I got by reading him.
Thanks dude. You're very perceptive. It's not a serious piece, but I do write very blandly when I try to write prose. I just don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing. I have no thought process. I'm used to writing screenplays and poems. Prose makes me lethargic. I feel afraid to really say anything.
Just a story that's part of a larger work, in-progress.
You don't have to read the whole thing.
Yeah, I think I struggle with being overly concise due to a fear of boring readers.
That's two. I'll change it.
Would you be able to say what makes it awkward so I can avoid it in future or is it just one of those things that is without blatant reason/cause?
Damn, other guys included.
This positive feedback means a lot, thanks.
If nothing else, the narrator reminds me of my coke head history teacher who had a passion for punk rock. So, in short, it has character.
Thanks. The story revolves around a family that falls apart after the fathers affair with a man (uncle charles) is revealed. The first chapter is written from the pov of their young daughter. The second from the mother who is overly religious as she flees to go to her friend to talk about the sin of the father. The final chapter is from the father and how he tries to justify what he's doing as right since he is acting in self interest.
No, but he seems interesting so I may concern myself with him in the future. I'm fond of Deleuze.
>Your writing isn't too complicated, as you seem dedicated to believing
It isn't complicated to me because I know what the sentences meant to me.
I'm saying others will have to stand on "tippy toes" if they want to fully understand my epiphanies.
>trying to show off that he's literate and brooding
I am not aware how literate I am but I will try to appear that way, of course, my hypocrite brother.
Was never my intention.
>read some Pound
How is this bad?
>You can say as the author that it "actually means something they just don't get it" all you want
And I will continue saying that until you bother to concern yourself with it.
Thank God I don't take people who parrot lit memes seriously
>Thank God I don't take people critique me seriously
You tried something and didn't pull it off. You can either rewrite it or keep telling yourself the rest of the world is wrong and you are right.
>Anything that reeks of Hemingway.
I fucking hate Hemingway, but you seem obsessed with the beery fagot. Daddy issues?
>So of course the impression is as important as the meal.
No, the sentences are the meal, the story the garnish and the words mere ingredients. You just dumped white truffles, beluga caviar and salt in a blender and think you earned a Michelin star.
>That is a peculiar hypothesis and is also wrong.
You keep keeping coming up with reasons why someone should understand it. I don't look at writing or any art as merely technical. If it doesn't work its bad, despite all the theories behind it.
Different guy here. Listen mate, I don't doubt your an intelligent person, but you really need to think about your audience when you write. Your writing is purely self-indulgent...I can't think of any type of person who would seek to read that kind of stuff save maybe pseudo-deep tumblr posers. I think you should use the talent that you evidently have, to make simpler, emotive pieces.
Also, stop attacking other people's criticisms. You seem to think your writing should be read by others, as if it is beneficial for US to read YOU. This won't get you anywhere, your not John Reith
It's a sci-fi story
"For any variation in a Universe, it dissolves and creates several new paralell universes for each of all possible penalties. It is an endless process of ramifications which flow into a boundless Multiverse. One would probably be surprised by the assertion that all the alternate versions you could find of yourself in this cloud of matter would probably exceed the population of one's own Universe, with equally rich variety of persona. One would surely respond to these doppelgangers as foreign. Alternative selves with delusions that they are the only one of its kind, armed with fabricated memories when in fact they may be only a few moments old."
>critique me seriously
Please do. I am still waiting.
>You can either rewrite it or keep telling yourself the rest of the world is wrong and you are right.
The rest of the world is wrong.
Rewriting something to use some hip colloquial terms and americanisms is pointless. I spit in your face.
>No, the sentences are the meal, the story the garnish and the words mere ingredients
>If it doesn't work its bad
If it doesn't work, you're bad.
>Your writing is purely self-indulgent
True. I think I am looking for an ideal reader who doesn't really exist.
>I think you should use the talent that you evidently have, to make simpler, emotive pieces
For what purpose, though? I genuinely have something to say that could save the willing reader from paralysis. "Simpler, emotive pieces" don't have the capacity to convey a message like that. Aside from that, there are an infinite amount of those pieces out there. If I were a painter, I would paint a futurist or cubist piece, not a landscape or a cow or something. There's no point.
For any variation in a Universe, it dissolves and creates several new paralell universes for each of all possible penalties.
It is an endless process of ramifications which flow into a boundless Multiverse.
> superfluous. Plus, doesn't Marvel own the world multiverse?
One would probably be surprised by the assertion that all the alternate versions you could find of yourself in this cloud of matter would probably exceed the population of one's own Universe, with equally rich variety of persona. One would surely respond to these doppelgangers as foreign. Alternative selves with delusions that they are the only one of its kind, armed with fabricated memories when in fact they may be only a few moments old.
>read a lot of PKD? Doesn't appear logical.Too much assumptions and info
Alright, thanks man. I reworked it a little to try and trim things up so it reads smoother.
As for setting the scene, it's not really an introduction within the text, but I suppose its good to try and make sure it reads well from any starting point.
>I would paint a tired, derivative futurist or cubist piece then accuse anyone who criticized it for being tired and derivative of not understanding it because it's abstract and means something to me so it must be good
I get where you're coming from, but at least a cubist painting is interesting to look at, at least it is immediate, visual, and the colours and textures tangible. The problem with writing so abstractly is that there is no such immediacy. At least in this piece here...I mean, its filled with interesting words and there are snippets of images, but there's no single concrete strand which exists across the whole story. When I'm reading a lot of it all I see is words, and an impression of you the writer. I do not see a story or a message. I guess what I'm saying is, you can still write abstractly, or dadaistic or whatever you want to call it, but make sure there is something underneath it all that can be grasped, that is tangible, else your search for this ideal reader is in vain
>>If it doesn't work its bad
>If it doesn't work, you're bad.
>>You can either rewrite it or keep telling yourself the rest of the world is wrong and you are right.
>The rest of the world is wrong.
Rewriting something to use some hip colloquial terms and americanisms is pointless. I spit in your face.
Seriously, try to control the autism. You keep making straw men (Hemingway, "americanisms", Elefant) You don't want critique, you want recognition from your peers. Yes you may spit in my face, but we are still peers; strangers on a fucking imageboard and not getting published or accepted by society. Hate me all you want, I know you hate yourself more.
>there's no single concrete strand which exists across the whole story
It is not a story. There is more than one strand.
>I do not see a story or a message
I see the messages.
>I guess what I'm saying is, you can still write abstractly, or dadaistic or whatever you want to call it, but make sure there is something underneath it all that can be grasped, that is tangible, else your search for this ideal reader is in vain
That does exist. I remember the meaning of what I wrote. I have the sentence and then I screw it and reshape its angle as opposed to not because it would be pointless to simply say the words. I might as well write philosophy and I don't want to write philosophy.
>you want recognition from your peers
I don't want anything in particular, but I wouldn't mind someone "getting" it, interacting with it in some way, being improved by it. If you are that upset by it, move along and find it again in the warosu archive sometime in the future.
>I don't want anything in particular, but I wouldn't mind someone "getting" it, interacting with it in some way, being improved by it. If you are that upset by it, move along and find it again in the warosu archive sometime in the future.
No single person can "get" it. If dissect it we might find out what you wanted to say, but like I and others have said, it does not invite to be read. It is abstract, dense, cephalic, cold. You overdone it. You can't make people like or "get" it. It does not "entice" or attracts. Unintelligible is not the same as complex, just as genius is not the same as autistic fuckwad.
Alright, I actually read all of this. There's some good stuff in here but you got too wordy and sometimes lost the rhythm, as some other posters have pointed out. And you have refused to acknowledge because you seem to think that in skill as a prose stylist you're the next Pynchon.
>You start with 2 sentence fragments
This does not help the reader get into the text. In fact they seem to not relate to the text at all, which doesn't help. I would say scrap them but if you really like them at least cut them down a bit.
Cut that down to one word.
plastic, alloy, metal, glass, people'd computers, wired cities, piss [ochsenfjord] and dried semen pretend they are carrying sables
Cut down that list a tad buddy. And please tell me what the fuck a sable is.
Next two sentences aren't too bad.
They don't eat at the café, nor eat with knife and fork [ochsenfjord] and have no goals but to wriggle and decease [yet even when you try and cut them].
What does decease do that die couldn't? In addition, the fragment in brackets is completely incomprehensible. Please check it for some fundamental writing mistake.
I'm guessing "Consider abandoning participation" is about the author's decision to abstain from the decay and laziness he perceives in the world, but I don't really know. It's cryptic and I wouldn't see it as a mistake if the rest of the writing made sense.
>What does the dribble that is spat in to the webbed wasp's aural cavity and is dressed up as conversation matter?
Too much distance between predicate and subject. Too many prepositional phrases.
> repeated platitudes and uninspired banalities.
Choose one, or better, make a new, more efficient phrase.
After that it's not bad, aside from a few spelling errors. Until this:
>For bowmen who sleep on the roof in winter there is only that and nothing else.
It brings in an image that seems entirely unrelated to what you're speaking on.
this is stupid
I like your parentheses in this later part, it seems an interesting part of your writing, especially in the character of the narrator who seems to be obsessively rambling and would want to explain every detail.
I like the sentence starting with "Consider[...]". Strong imagery in that sentence, I even like the word "non-sequacious" in it, and then the parenthesis "only in drinking these poisons do we imagine we have seen Zarathustra in the rusted metal chassis swinging beside a half-broken stone gate near the metal tracks and pebble stones" is pretty awesome. I liked the more solid imagery than earlier in the piece.
The rest is okay but I'm not sure if "Leaf" is really the symbol and word you're looking for in the penultimate sentence.
Ultimately, the ideas you have are not suited to this medium. Writing challenges the imagination more than any other art form. Other forms are much more sensuous. For instance, I can listen to Tim Buckley's Starsailor, have no idea what he's saying, but still I can HEAR something which moves me, which interests me. I can look at a cubist painting, have no idea what it is, but still I can SEE something which moves me or interests me. The same goes for surrealist film, except you can both hear and see. The problem with writing is that it is not as overtly sensuous, and so your ideas aren't tangible, moving or interesting in any way; their not immediate, the demand the reader to imagine and dissect. If you want to pursue these same ideas, think about a change of medium
>accept critique or come back to what you've written in a year and try not to kill yourself when you realize how dumb you were
>They want me to write about how mary went to the store and bought an ice cream
Or become deluded in thinking selling bottled piss to minors is a decent way of making a living.
>And please tell me what the fuck a sable is.
I made it up. It's Sabre and Säbel in one word. Dagger/ Sabre. Get it?
>What does decease do that die couldn't?
>In addition, the fragment in brackets is completely incomprehensible. Please check it for some fundamental writing mistake
I was going to add ellipses, but I hate ellipses.
>I'm guessing "Consider abandoning participation" is about the author's decision to abstain from the decay and laziness he perceives in the world, but I don't really know. It's cryptic and I wouldn't see it as a mistake if the rest of the writing made sense.
The reader should consider abandoning participating in "the dribble that is spat in to the webbed wasp's aural cavity and is dressed up as conversation".
>Too much distance between predicate and subject. Too many prepositional phrases.
>It brings in an image that seems entirely unrelated to what you're speaking on.
It's a reference to Pound.
Yeah, "leaf" is shit. I'll give you that. Thank you.
>If you want to pursue these same ideas, think about a change of medium
Hmm, no, I think I'll stick to writing.
sorry senpai, I will halt my quixotic endeavor and let the autistic rage of Twinshia, the misunderstood, the smart, the abstract, go unchallenged. T'is a pity, as I genuinely admire
deconstructivist writing. The barren, skeletal might be more beautiful than the cheaply painted and voluptuous harlots of modern entertainment. Alas, sometimes (always the brightest) lose track and themselves. Lost in internal monologues,spitting and biting at strangers who dare to confront them. Blinded, self imposed ignorance and arrogance. Pointless raping of the senses. The muses look on in sick disgust. Will it never stop? On and on. No death or distance can stop the terror. No human mind survives the onslaught. AGAIN. Reperte. The sins of the father. No sacrifice. No absolution. Only the self. Alone in the dimming light.
Someone critique my opening line please. I've got nothing but my own thoughts
Paltry was any effort to stay awake amidst the somnolent atmosphere of the Bismarck University library. The warm white light seemed to thicken the air, accentuating the stifling feeling experienced by many a student who dared attempt to study.
>I made it up. It's Sabre and Säbel in one word. Dagger/ Sabre. Get it?
The window creaked as the wind blew gently through the night. I croaked at the vague memory of her laughter. Her soft smile embedded in my mind. I clutched the glass in my hand; almost breaking it. I had lost people in my life. Not many though that left me with a debilitating sadness. Tonight marked the anniversary of her departure from my life. Careless mistakes on my part brought this upon me. She felt lonely, sad and depressed. Life became a burden to big for her to bear. My shock seeing her dead on the ground where she had collapsed over a pool of her blood. Her hand lapsed over a revolver and the other turned upward with the neck of a bottle of port. She whimpered as she took her last few breathes. The ambulance made it well too late but nothing could be done. I found later a note in her drawer. A envelope with drops of tear now evaporated and my name written. Her writing looked pedantic and scratchy. Which always meant she was in a hurry.
i thought Sunset had a really good setup in the first half but the ending was disappointing, i expected something less normal & predictable. i guess i suspected something equally paranormal as the sun getting stuck.