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. Lastly, PLEASE do not start a fifty post argument with another poster; doing this will ruin the thread for those trying to get and give advice.
This thread is all about trying to steal my ideas for a Novel. For example, I have a novel I'm writing, and its about our existence and experiences being controlled in all aspects by a computer system run by aliens that landed here because of black hole that we previously tried to enter in order to enable interstellar travel because our earth was turning into a dust bowl. Things looked bleak until two NYPD cops who don't play by the rules got wind of the human matrix computer and went in there and disregarded all constitutional conventions, all the while doing it while using drug cartel cars, and colourful stylish Miami type of clothing. One scene I'm working on the main character, Crocker who lives in a RV with a large lizard enters a building with his cop buddy and both do the good cop/bad cop on the architect of the building.
Don't steal my shit, OP.
This is a portion of a short story I am working on.
and here is a tiny story: Sunset
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 panels from all the money mom has been sending us, but they can only really power the TV.
My last excerpt was well recieved. Here's another excerpt.
Up the coast of the New World the shop bearing ten million bananas ground out its course, every minute the waste heaving brokenly around it more brilliant as the moon rose off the star-board bow and moved into the sky with effortless guile, unashamed of the stigmata belmishing the face she showed from the frozen fogs of the Grand Banks to the jungles Brazil, where along the Rio Branco they knew her for a girl who loved her brother the sun; and the sun, suspicious, trapped her in her evil passion by drawing a blackened hand across her face, leaving the marks which betrayed jer, and betray her still.
The motley riffraffs loiter around the edges of the parking lot in delusional ambulating circles like inebriated guineafowl, and howling and barking and yelping like a family of hyenas. They are the timeworn vagrants of eons of neglect, forgotten souls who restlessly and savagely roam about the harmless, vacant lots of upright suburbia, kicking cans and leering at folks or making many faces and verbally abusing the children as they squat perched on the curb, tweaking and twitching like heinous fiends from the dark ages when the mentally insane were maltreated and mishandled. You may not believe me but they are our heroes, our light and our hope. They may even lead us to a future unlike any other, a world of beastliness and barbarity; adorned in cheap tattoos and donned in ripped jeans, the heartless subhumans may one day walk the earth, bestial and proud, vandalizing and tormenting the good, tender earth with their manic, unintelligible wailing.
Good practice? No, good practice is taking your work to be reviewed by your professor or Uni's writing workshop, not to some critique thread on this Thai ladyboi online emporium, you dumb faggot
Puerile, yet I laughed at the end. Should be shorter, with more matter-of-fact oddness.
I made the mistake of reading this twice and now I have a brain tumour. I could feel the poison spreading through my head as I was reading, yet I could not stop. This is not just a sentence, it's an evil spell that dismantles the mind of the victim and breaks its will to live and read.
It's got a bit of something I love even when not well done, which is using the sublime to describe the ridiculous. More of that, less commas, clutter.
This is what I've been thinking about for the opening of a novel I have a rough idea for:
"One early morning where the dreary realm of this sphere was particularly depressing, he dragged a hand rolled cigarette with too much space between the leaf and paper. As the smoke dusted that clouded atmosphere with an even more oppressive grey, he sat on the freezing concrete of his apartment building's roof and thought about the odd sector beneath him."
Me. Although, for the first time ever I've been able to write a poem in one sitting. I've always wanted to write a poem about using people for art and how artists cheapen their personal experiences. David Bowie died, and he was a big part of my development, so I did it. Here's a poem called David Bowie.
I've got shingles in my bed
I've got bodies on my roof
When I suffer for the world
you will suffer something too
Aren't you just the type of girl
the ground would go split up for?
I refused to spit you out
"let me keep her in my mouth"
If she's not in your spit there'll
be no love, they sang above.
If I swell then someone burns.
And you went and turned, turned, turned.
It's also really confidence boosting when you get good feedback and have no University Prof to send it to in the first place.
I have such a shit grasp of grammar that I'll just avoid commenting on it. I dug the image you painted of a post apocalypse filled with the wailing working class.
If its a paragraph excerpt and not a standalone, I'd hope they're the focus of the piece/chapter/whatever because if not, you're rambling.
Preparatory to anything else Mr Vale brushed off the greater bulk of the shavings and handed Kim the hat and ashplant and bucked him up generally in orthodox Samaritan fashion which he very badly needed. His (Kim's) mind was not exactly what you would call wandering but a bit unsteady and on his expressed desire for some beverage to drink Mr Vale in view of the hour it was and there being no pump of Vartry water available for their ablutions let alone drinking purposes hit upon an expedient by suggesting, off the reel, the propriety of the cabman's shelter, as it was called, hardly a stonesthrow away near Butt bridge where they might hit upon some drinkables in the shape of a milk and soda or a mineral. But how to get there was the rub. For the nonce he was rather nonplussed but inasmuch as the duty plainly devolved upon him to take some measures on the subject he pondered suitable ways and means during which Kim repeatedly yawned. So far as he could see he was rather pale in the face so that it occurred to him as highly advisable to get a conveyance of some description which would answer in their then condition, both of them being e.d.ed, particularly Kim, always assuming that there was such a thing to be found. Accordingly after a few such preliminaries as brushing, in spite of his having forgotten to take up his rather soapsuddy handkerchief after it had done yeoman service in the shaving line, they both walked together along Beaver street or, more properly, lane as far as the farrier's and the distinctly fetid atmosphere of the livery stables at the corner of Montgomery street where they made tracks to the left from thence debouching into Amiens street round by the corner of Dan Mervin's. But as he confidently anticipated there was not a sign of a Jehu plying for hire anywhere to be seen except a fourwheeler, probably engaged by some fellows inside on the spree, outside the North Star hotel and there was no symptom of its budging a quarter of an inch when Mr Vale, who was anything but a professional whistler, endeavoured to hail it by emitting a kind of a whistle, holding his arms arched over his head, twice.
I am a stone, slipping into a timestream
and I suffer as the current sloughs atoms
from my bosom.
Once I lay close to the shore,
with a bit of my top half poking out, wide and smooth,
and people found me useful to step on.
Now I have drifted deeper
into the churning waters, clouded with silt
and decaying plants.
The people still come
and step on rocks, but I am not there for them,
and they do not miss me.
I spent a tidal lifetime
hoping to be a stepping stone again,
disregarding my future as a river rock.
Here is my long-ish piece from last thread:
I honestly haven't wrote since high-school, but I feel the need to contribute so here goes nothing
It was completly unimaginable to think it could have got this bad. I lay on the ground, anxious blood pumping throughout my body. My thoughts flutter chaotically, after one idea replaces the other, I realize I am getting nowhere. How can one man exist for so long and never feel alive, to never understand being human beyond a rudimentary level. If I were abducted by another life form and questioned about the finer aspects of the human condition, I would be at loss for words. I'm merely taking in scenery, and throwing out unprocessed thought, and yet still I managed to secure a position in the upper elite. How has no one ever noticed or called me out on this.
There was a wharf and there was the smell of the sea. The air was humid but it wasn’t bothersome. The sun was high in the air and Jack felt happy. He could feel the mist from the waves below upon the skin of his arm. In the distance, between the Ferris wheel and bumper carts, Justine emerged holding two ice cream cones. She looked as beautiful as ever in her summer dress and white thigh-highs.
“Double scoop for you as always.”
“Thanks,” Jack said relieving her from one of the cones, “What did you end up settling on?”
“Why don’t you try some, see if you can guess it?”
Jack took a bite and savored it. “Mmm, Pecan.”
“Not just pecan. Pecan pie!”
She laughed, he laughed. They found a nearby bench and both sat down.
Taking a bite of his ice cream Jack asked, “So you want to ride the tilt-a-whirl or should we call it day?”
“I can’t ride the tilt-a-whirl.”
“W-What? Why not? You always ride that one?”
Justine turned to face him, he could see she had a look of nervousness about her and smiling she said, “Because I’m pregnant.”
The months flew by. First there was the baby’s room, which meant emptying the space of all the storage boxes and dusty blankets that had sat there for eons. Then there was the painting and the crib and the appointments followed by mood swings along with joy and nervousness. Then came the crib and clothes and diapers and parties and congratulations and before either of them knew what happened, they both found themselves in the labor room. The doctor stood above her accompanied by two nurses, she had decided to go against the use of an epidural and now seemed to be paying dearly for her decision.
I posted this in the last thread but got no response. It's the beginning of my short story/novella depending on how things pan out
I understand that this is a short story, but I can never accept:
>The months flew by
Even if you're just skimming over the details of the months, do more than that; that's just lazy writing. Decent otherwise.
PLOX CRIT MUH STORWEE
Trying to practice combat writing. Not many books I read have lengthy combat and I felt as if there was a reason for this after trying to write a fight scene of my own.
One peep down the gangway resulted in a pink bolt roaring past his head. He was coming. Beim’s fist slammed down on the door controls once, then twice before descending into wild hammering. The futility hit him with a final, loud clunk and waft of alien stench. It was here. Before Beim could even turn to face him, a swing of the Bodyguard’s blaster cannon smashed the boys blaster clean from his hands and sent it flying towards the control console. Beim stumbled back, wild hands shooting to his knife as the gargant tossed its cannon aside.
‘Hah.’ its voice gurgled, ‘Little boy.’
A metal fist smashed against Beim’s cranium, tossing it against the wall like a fruit. His visor smashed on impact. The hit separated mind and body, leaving his conscious hurling futile screams for action. Another metal fist hurled forward as he tried to reclaim control of rubbery legs. It hit like a sledge, decompressing his midriff like a fat man on a couch. He couldn’t even wheeze as the other hand tossed him across the room.
‘Hah!’ bellowed the gargant. It tugged bizarre axe bladed blaster from its belt. All the while it mocked him, waiting for the boy to get up, ready to finish him.
He struggled to see now, blood clogged his smashed visor and the corners of his vision were fading with each agonising breath. The mocking laughs drowned out any distant blaster fire as Beim finally managed to remain on two feet, blade held firmly in hand.
‘Little boy!’ howled the Bodyguard, as its fat, metal covered finger squeezed the trigger. The blast popped Beim’s breastplate like bubble wrap, hurling him across the room with yet another breathless scream. He crunched against the control terminal, dropping to the floor alongside the workman’s corpse and his weapon. His fingers weakly pawed for it as he watched his attacker joyfully switch his grip on the weapon. It was too far. He was forced to watch as the gargant broke into a run, leaning to one side as to no doubt catch his neck cleanly.
It let out one laughing pullback before the swing allowing Beim to fill his ravaged lungs and do the opposite. As the swing sliced through the air, the boy hurled his body aside, and cast out his hands for his blaster. The blade aimed for his neck crunched against the terminals metal shell, sticking there in the split second Beim used to get a hold of his blaster.
‘Hah!’ gurgled the beast, yanking the hatchet free with ease before turning to Beim once more, ‘Little boy pla--’
The little boy squeezed, lancing a red beam through the spit covered mouth piece and out the other end. The Bodyguard toppled instantly, leaving Beim alone to the sound of distant blaster fire.
Okay, so seeing as I shat up the thread with my Star Wars fan-fic stuff, I figure I should do my community service.
>Before meeting Victor ... of his friend
I hear keeping the slow pacing is important but the second half is pretty wordy. I'd have thought you could do something along the brutally simplistic lines of,
'Before meeting Victor ... rather jovial mood. His friend(Victor?), however, was not.'
>William followed reluctantly
'William grunted but followed nontheless'
Its a minor, but I find adjectives with ly at the end that can be easily detailed with actions should be avoided in favor of being detailed with actions.
As for the rest of that first sentence, it felt like a bit too much to throw in one sentence but the information itself is interesting. Just find a more subtle, spaced out way of including it.
>The room was ... clutter and parchments.
Just cut that last bit(albeit clutter and parchments) and you've got a solid sentence. In that sentence alone you've told us about this guy's whole house.
I think your issue is a lack of faith in what the reader will pick up. IMO(And I suppose if I HAVE a style, this might be it) its better to say little than a lot, after all most of reading is filling in the visual gaps.
You do those issues I highlighted above a fair bit but I dig a lot of it too.
Assuming this is a first draft, so I won't mention any grammar bs. I wasn't bored while reading, but I am wondering where this is going. You did well establishing your setting and your characters. I'm confused as to who these people are and why I should care about them, but I think you deserve the benefit of the doubt since this was only a few hundred words and you seem to be shooting for literary fiction.
The reason not many books have long fight scenes is because they get boring after a while. Fight scenes are there to address a promise made earlier in a story or push the story along.
Either way, you really shouldn't have ten pages, or even half that describing the same sequence of things. It's boring and pointless.
Very few genres have extended fight scenes because fights rarely last more than a few minutes. Keep them short, sweet, and to the point, and it'll feel fast as it should be.
Two gentlemen who were in the lavatoty at the time tried to lift him up: but he was quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the stairs down which he had fallen. They succeeded in turning him over. His hat had rolled a few yards away and his clothes were smeared with the filth and ooze of the floor which he had lain, face downwards. His eyes were closed and he breathed with a grunting nose. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Well the section you've posted isn't too long, not at all. The actual fighting was only a few paragraphs long, I'd imagine anything before that would be buildup. You ended it cleanly and quickly. A sudden rise in tension, built up over a couple of pages, then the fight scene answers it quickly and cleanly. GJ M8 i r8 it an 8/8
Basically the shape of the story will be a conflict between the ritual the kid performs with the women of the village and the mysticism the old man uses to enforce his power over the men.
What the first paragraph here is supposed to be edging towards is that the old mystic summoned the storm that killed the kid's father and is now going to summon another to kill the kid and punish the village for his sexual manipulation of its women.
But all that is probably pretty opaque at first blush, so I can see how it wouldn't come across. In any case, thanks for the critique.
no, the months flying by is not lazy in this case. he curated the rollercoaster imagery and then put it to use as a literary device to describe the pregnancy.
maybe you are tired of the term, but he justified its use.
eating bad takeout indian in the same garden i smoked in when you're parents weren't home. the same garden where we once shifted for hours. the same garden where i would later feel your tits up, your parents only a stones throw away in the kitchen. it's an orange summer afternoon and i am eating bad indian takeout that is way, way too fucking spicy. we'll joke about it later. i'm feigning modest and actually really nervous. and you, you beautiful woman, treat me like i'm an incontrovertible and obvious part of it all, evn though you can her the shake in my response whenever your mom asks me a perfectly innocent question. ed is a fussy eater and drifts in and out of the garden but he likes me in that entirely futile way that thirteen year olds will always like someone five years his senior. your dad sits next to me and he doesn't speak much. you once told me he called your mom a bitch at the dinner table. i never really understood what the deal with that guy was. how you specifically felt about him and why, whether or not you and your mom and maybe ed left in the end. charlie the fatass cat, who was there for me in the bedroom when i just couldn't turn the charm on, is slinking along the garden fence. your mom offers me a peroni and i accept. she bought peroni because you told her that you knew it was my favorite. how perfect. later on we will watch the eurovision with your mom and ed and then occasionally your dad will drift in to see what's going on. and during the breaks we will head to the kitchen and we will feel each other up and be terribly excited at the prospect of someone catching us. and now i'm sitting on the couch with you, ed and mom. laughing at some fucking oddball act from a country whose name i can't pronounce.i am now secretly kicking myself for being so anxious on the walk to your house. we are holding hands beneath a pillow. later, in the back of your dads care, we will hold hands beneath a pizza box. i've crashed at brian's so many times. listening to "idioteque" whilist hungover on a train in a summer swelter. i'm friends with cian now. i'm balls deep into my college course. i am making friends and i can barey remember your voice. i'm with you on the couch and your hand is soft in my hand. they fir each other perfectly, like how we used to joke about my weirdly small hands. this living room, these people, sat on this couch forever and ever. better than happy. ready to face the world the the sorta We've Just Done Something Real Bad shit-eating grins on our faces.
I want to write simple entertainment fiction. Not a native English speaker, and my language is probably not great, but here's a short introduction:
The first nightwatch at a new place is always a thrill, but this was something special. I had been stationed at the city museum, a stately old stone-brick building, which had supposedly been built on the partly ruined foundation of an even more ancient castle. Or so the caretaker had informed me, spitting at the checkers of the marble floor and wiping his mop through the slugde. He didn't seem to care much for the place, despite his job title. Said it was a bad place of terribly ill omens, but his overly generous use of synonyms didn't make much of an impression on me. I just drew up a pale and formal smile, hoping to hurry up the process. I already knew how the security systems worked – they were installed by my company, after all – and I couldn't wait to be left alone in this palace of mystery.
Finally, the caretaker rounded up his introductory speech, muttered something or other about evils and omens again, before he spat once more and left without cleaning up his mess. I didn't mind; This was what I'd been waiting for. That triumphant feeling of being left all alone in a secret treasury, with all the keys at my disposal. More importantly, the feeling of knowing that I had the right to be there, all by myself in the dead of night. What an overpowering sense of freedom it is. I can scarce begin to tell you how good it feels; It's the beginning of an adventure, the silent moment at the top of the rollercoaster ride and the guilty pleasure of a successful steal, all baked into one tremendous sensation.
At first I hadn't really expected much of this job. Having a degree hadn't turned out to be worth much after all, and I just applied to all sorts of unqualified work to keep me and Holly fed. I have no idea how I managed to land a job as security, with my spindly physique, but I was in no position to turn it down. Besides, at the time I was happy to have found a job which required very small amounts of actual labour – beyond just being somewhere – and which also left me in the company of my own solitude for most of the working hours. Although I still retain a certain degree of disdain for most forms of human interaction, my appetite for life has grown considerably since those early days working as a night guard.
Standing here now, in the great entrance hall under a vaulted ceiling of intricate reliefs and paintings, I felt like I was dragging deep breaths of life itself down into my dusty old lungs. Beautiful patterns on lattices and and rafters cast distorted shadows of pure black on the floor and erased white checkers, melting together with the black ones. The eeriness of this old haunt just added to my feeling of excitement – It all begged to be explored!
Rocknick begins to express an excited countenance. He rests his head on his arm, fully absorbed. A sheepish smile slyly begins to form.
"Rocknick, now that I have your attention my dear, you do understand I am one of the most prestigious entrepenaurs state wide..?"
rocknick obligingly nods, careful not to insult his newly fond mentors acclaimed credibility.
"And you do understand you would not be here without me.. Correct? I am your investor, I'm here to help you. All we need is a couple of recruits. Think of the cost to you... Practically pennies!"
Rocknicks focus begins to drift into a daydream. He can clearly imagine himself in a suit and tie, walking towards the entrance of his billion dollar enterprise on a brisk Sunday morning, coffee in hand. The coffee spills as someone begins to shout "Rocknick are you even listening!?" The day dream ends.
"I'm offering you a chance to start over. I don't care who you were before... I care about who you can become. Let's focus on the future not the past.. Right!?"
Suddenly, Something falls from the mentors pocket. A letter a note. The mentor doesn't seem to take notice.
"We'll meet here on Wednesday. I know you aren't sure right now, but just wait until I bring my primary investor. He started this shag selling his own shoe laces. Now look at him!"
The mentor raises to his feet, leaning over he shakes to rocknicks hand good bye, while staring intently into rocknicks eye, as if to entice him subconsciously further. Then the mentor turns to leave and makes his way out of the building.
Rocknick sits at the table with ambiguity. He is uncertain, and apprehensive to take a leap of faith in the world of business without any prior knowledge of entrepreneurship. Suddenly he remembers the fallen note. Reaching towards his foot he slowly picks up the folded piece of paper. It reads:
"Dr. Montergusto, it is with great pleasure that I inform you our sales have shot up an astounding 50%. We are seeing a staggering increase in our popularity on a global scale. Keep up the good work champ. The more suckers we can bring into this thing the fatter our pockets. Next Christmas I'm buying you a Ferrari for your birthday.
Your old time friend and confidant
Final fantasykilla663 "
Furious, rocknick sets down the paper with the grace of someone who has found out something terrible but is so angry he has yet to express it. Blow boiling, he can feel it happening. The words of his mentor begin to echo "I don't care who you were..." Rocknicks fury begins to mount. His face has become so red passerbys begin to take notice. The pressure is building, he cannot tolerate anymore. Suddenly a giant rock begins emerge in between his scapulae. It pierced through his skin.
"First stage huh..." He thinks to himself
Convention is the doorway to the temple.
The men of the symphony and their instruments are seated on the stage. And the crowd in their most reverent costumes are waiting.
Slowly the bow brushes over the steel wire producing opposite tension which dances together and emerges into a single celestial tone. It is not seen in the air, nor felt in the ear, but spoken to the heart.
In the temple convention hides from the sacred. What is public is shared in each meek spirit privately. The convention, it's fog which glosses over the public eye melts in the fire spoken by the mouth of beauty, by her.
In the temple we are reverent, the substance of private beauty doesn't dwell in unholy places.
The hermetic veil has fallen and she rises from the ether, for all to witness, and light flows freely through her movement, her naked and blue skin is the substance of vitality, clothed in transparent silk, light, her movement his worship, it is her reaching.
And In the temple we are reverent.
Bowie is dead and no one posted in response to it last thread. I hope no one else is having uncontrollable fits of rage and tears today. Anyway, these are the most recent adventures of coker and bobby. This time it actually almost sounds natural and like a screen play instead of a stage play.
Coker leaning against a car in a parking lot at dusk. Bobby is scrounging around in the car and finally closes the door.
What are we doing here man?
I told you we were here to support RIP-Roarin’ Booger Penis’s first show
Are you kidding me, Kyle stuck with the name?
Y’know I kinda like it.
Bobby pulls out a pack of cigarettes and struggles to light the first one he takes out.
It sounds like an eight year old said all the bad words he knew in a row.
I think that’s the charm of it.
BOBBY Exhales smoke.
I still don’t want to be here, I have no idea why you dragged me along, I already heard them at band practice when they thought of the stupid name.
I get it Coker, but we're here to check out their stage presence. Let’s see if they would be a good opener for our shows.
Do I have any vetoes left? I’m vetoing that.
No, you used your last one when Staun was mastering the EP and wanted to put in sounds of him scratching his beard.
Ugh. Then the real question is do I have any whiskey left. This is gonna be a long night. Let’s get this over with.
BOBBY stomps out his cigarette while COKER pulls out his flask. The two walk away from the car towards the show taking place in a small strip mall bookstore.
you're going for a "heart on the sleeves" approach and it kind of works, given the subject matter (teenage romance). Some of it does read a bit like a circa2008 Bright Eyes or My Chemical Romance lyric. There's a nice balance between oddball details and declarations of romancethat make it feel real and urgent. Prose is all over the place in terms of quality though. too much cliche. clean it up a lot and it will have a Less than Zero narration style to it.
“So long as you’re up for it. Better to do it now before we get drunk.” I sipped my champagne and she pressed the pink lever on the co2 cannister and inhaled deeply from the little tube protruding from one side. She reached across the pear, her outstretched arm like God’s and mine like Adam’s to meet it in the Raphael masterpiece. The receptacle was cold in my hand, a consequence of the released co2, but I put the straw to my lips and pressed the trigger, the gush of air filling my lungs. My face and head and body felt pressure and I held my breath until my whole body felt like it was vibrating in a manner that was vaguely reminiscent of orgasm. I exhaled just as Emma grabbed two more cartridges to refil the canister.
We won the first game, thanks to my early defeat of the Persians and ruthless expansion against the Saracens. All the while the pile of discards began to grow into a little metallic heap, each canister good for a minute or so long high followed by an indefatigable craving for more.
Our plan was to stay in the whole night and get drunk together and play Age of Empires but Emma had gotten in touch with her friends Mary and Nick at some point. Just before midnight we finished the GH Mumm and called an Uber, taking a shot of Becherovka and doing one last round of whippets before we headed out.
“It’s not as busy as I thought tonight,” our Uber driver told us as we sat down in the car. HE had a thick African accent.
Emma asked him where he was from in the disarming, polite tone of voice she used to talk to service workers. Her mother was from Sweden and she identified as Swedish, despite having lived the United States for most her life (the other was the year she spent in Switzerland during, the time we were apart, and in retrospect had damaged our relationship in fundamental , irreparable ways) and she always considered herself very worldly (which she was) and sympathetic to the plights and experiences of marginalized colored people.
“I’m from the newest country in the world,” the taxi driver replied.
As if playing a game of trivia at the bar, Emma and I fell deep in thought, combing through the thousands of hours of information we together had consumed over the past few years.
“South Sudan,” I suddenly blurted out, remembering back to the semester of high school debate when our class worked on campaigns to help Darfur, a region of Sudan where over 300,000 non-Arabs were killed in an ethnic cleansing campaign carried out by the Sudanese government.
“That’s right,” the driver said, sounding a little surprised. Next to me Emma beamed with approval, thrilled to be with someone so politically conscious.
It's spelled "entrepreneur." Tons of random typos, idiosyncratic punctuation (Why use two periods back to back? That doesn't mean anything), loose grasp of grammar. Strange and interesting twist at the end, but the writing is basically unreadable. "Rocknick did this, Rocknick did that." Very little variety in your sentences, no flow, lots of pointlessly wordy phrasing.
Good stuff, mostly have little nitpicky issues with it. Would probably say "with their instruments," as instruments can't be seated, and I'd join that line all into once sentence with a comma after stage. "Producing opposite tension which dances together" etc. is clumsy; I get what you're getting at but there's probably a better way to say it. Did you mean "it's fog" as in "it is fog?" Can't decide if it's a mistake or not. Comma splice in the fifth paragraph.
Profoundly unfunny, and obviously written by someone who doesn't make music or go to shows. Mastering doesn't involve recording or adding any sounds.
>Profoundly unfunny, and obviously written by someone who doesn't make music or go to shows. Mastering doesn't involve recording or adding any sounds.
My life in one post anon. Thanks for reading.
> Would probably say "with their instruments," as instruments can't be seated, and I'd join that line all into once sentence with a comma after stage. "Producing opposite tension which dances together" etc. is clumsy; I get what you're getting at but there's probably a better way to say it. Did you mean "it's fog" as in "it is fog?" Can't decide if it's a mistake or not. Comma splice in the fifth paragraph.
Thanks senpai, I made the fixes.
Glad to help.
No problem. I'd recommend getting your shit together.
Inhaling canister after canister of CO2 will literally asphyxiate you; whippits are nitrous oxide. Awful, awful, awful shit though. Cheeky, self-aware, twee. Can't tell if it's supposed to be satire or if I'm actually supposed to find these knobheaded yuppies likable. Riding the parentheses a little hard here.
Short, sharp, sets a scene. Like it. I assume you mean "grunting noise," yeah? Few other typos here and there.
Any true group of friends, incompletely gathered, will usually find those absent to be the conversational topic of choice, and Greg, convelescing in his black-draped canopy bed, was unwittingly in the crosshairs. Chuck and Casey had spent the study hall envisioning a series of vignettes contrasting the ease of his relatively privileged life with the pangs of his tormented posturings. These, in the grand tradition of making fun of one's friends, were luridly exaggerated with a boffo sense of parody. Here was the Marquis recieving a massage at some spa underneath a window overlooking the Alps, glancing up for a moment to murmer: "You don't understand my pain." There he is again, zipping down Sunset Boulevard past the palm trees in his BMW convertible, raising his sunglasses and regarding us: "The darkness of my soul is unfathomable." At last, we find him at a roaring '20s gala event (they had recently been assigned The Great Gatsby to read, after all) pinstripe-suited, a flapper on each arm, smoking a cigar and backlit by fireworks while a rowdy Charleston played in the background: "When, O Fates, will my torment cease?" When the harsh buzzing of the period bell rang Chuck greeted it with elation. This was the first time since perhaps kindergarten that he had interacted with a female peer free of the halting dumbness that draped over his speech and mannerisms like a translucent pall.
I hate the way she looks at me, with her small, beady eyes; it makes my morning commute an absolute dread. Every time I ride the bus, she will sit down opposite and facing me, and then stare her little eyes out. She looks and I look away, but the sense of her gaze set upon my face makes me consider hurling myself out of the bus window - the thought of my body tumbling on the wet gravel like an epileptic flounder soothes my weary heart. It happens every day; when I step onto the bus at 7:30 there are only two seats available, the same two seats as always. I’ll pick my poison, but it doesn’t matter either way, since these two seats are always facing opposite one another – it’s some sort of sick destiny, a relentless nightmare. At the next stop, she will climb aboard, nothing in her hands and not dressed for any particular sort of profession; It is as if she only wants to ride the bus to give me a long and thorough examining. As she walks in her eyes have already discerned and locked on my presence, she could see me from outside the bus, through the steel sides and stickered advertisements. My neck aches from always turning astray, but the pain is tolerable in comparison to that deplorable locking of eyes that ever awaits me on this south city metro ride to work. It has happened a few times; I may be taken by a pensive thought or pleasant memory, and in my aloof state of mind happen to forget the pair of beads that seeks to interrogate my very being. My head will drift over and I’ll see them, those little, black specks, those soulless moles on top of white sclera. I’ll feel a sudden warmth throughout my body, my testicles start to ache, and my ears start to ring; for a few seconds, I feel the black robes of death wrap me up in a gentle embrace; I am ready to die. It takes a great amount of will to break from her fixation, after which, I find myself gasping for breath and my clothes damped with sweat. I hate her.
Fuck it, here goes:
Right as he walked into the apartment, Siobhan greeted him.
Oh, you still have some makeup on your face. What were you?
Zombie again. I’m gonna use your bathroom.
There’s ibuprofen in the left cupboard under the sink.
Len walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, not exactly sure why. As he washed the spattering of green makeup off his face he noticed that he also had some on the backs of his hands. It wasn’t green though. He smelled his hands. Dried up, caked on vomit. He had had dried up puke on the back of his hands the whole way to Siobhan’s place. Len took two ibuprofen, then, a third, and left the bathroom.
Hey, Len! “In space, no one can hear you cream.”
Subtitle. My idea for the subtitle if they ever did a – maybe they have – porn parody of Alien.
And they’d have to shoot it in space or do the zero-g thing with airplanes. World’s first zero-g moneyshot.
You could argue that Alien is pretty much like porn already.
I guess. It’s too rapey though.
Not many people are into the whole rape thing.
Yeah, nonconsensual sex isn’t for everybody... nonconsex.
Nonconsex: For when you wanna talk about rape but not have people immediately realize.
Len surveyed the room. Hi everybody. Hi Steve.
Oh, Everyone, Len – Len, Everyone.
The coffee was hot and burnt Len’s tongue, slightly reviving him. He stood half in the kitchen, half in the living room. His feet were sore but all the chairs in the apartment were taken. Everyone else at the party was overly chipper, almost all talking about work. Steve walked over to Len.
Gonna talk to anybody?
Why have a party the day after Hallowe’en?
Siobhan’s idea. Her friends don’t drink like our friends.
You seem fine.
Hair of the dog.
It's not horrifically bad but it's not that good either. I'd go over it with a fine-toothed comb and remove what sounds out of place - "old haunt" "I can scarce believe". Give it more pop. Just keep reading and writing, though, and you'll come into your own
Those bursts of love driving through the city at night, windows down in the cold, the quick crystalline rush of being, being-here, that I can't take with me when I talk. I imagine the mass of life around me in a flash of streets and cul de sacs , see the smokers outside of the bars, the crowds stuttering to lone couples and the lonely in the deep city, a turn and a walk from all the noise. It's here where they work in the day. Now the office buildings stand tall and electric, quiet as dying in your sleep. Sometimes there's no sound for blocks but then clicks of heels.
I see the thin streets lit for no one, strangled between skyscrapers looming up to a starless glow. I look forward to these moments all week, but always when they arrive nothing changes. I bring a loneliness with me like a shadow. One day I want to catch the ghosts as they're leaving.
The beginning of something I'm writing.
306 words so far
"Epileptic flounder" is incongruous with the tone of the rest of this. A lot of superfluous words here. "Sort of" is filler; cut it. This whole piece is overburdened with adjectives, but "deplorable locking of eyes" etc. is the prime example.
In order to successfully flaunt convention (in this case, using quotes and identifying speakers in dialogue) you have to be really good. Unfunny, tries too hard. Speaking of trying too hard, don't spell it "Hallowe'en," it makes you look like a knob.
Better than most who try to do the maudlin loneliness thing. I can't comprehend what "those bursts of love" might be, given that they're driving with windows down. Interesting choice of descriptors. Sometimes it works, others it doesn't. I like "crystalline rush of being" (might cut "quick," though), but "office buildings stand tall and electric" doesn't really evoke anything for me.
Get rid of the first two paragraphs. Might as well say, "Here is the theme of my story. Did you catch that? Are you sure? Well, here it is again just in case. You got it? Okay, good. Now, I can start." Phrasing is clumsy throughout, as if English isn't your first language.
I had my first run-in with a hipster girl from Seattle, this was my experience
Subtle monologues of vacuous intent permeate the natural resting silence in the room. On the floor, I sit lotus position, and try to doge the incessant barrage of incoming penetrating waves. Following the flow with the least coherence I can muster, I stare openly as my mind recedes into its own corners of solitude. This never-ending squawk box, who sits beside me, resides in Seattle, naturally. With her eyebrow cut bangs, and soft pale complexion offset by her dark thick rim glasses, I could tell Hell has no bounds. As imagined, her major was English, and without the prerequisite skill or fortitude, fate has slotted her a teacher. My ears become tender to the touch, similar to the sensation following ejaculation. Completely underwhelmed and over stimulated, I place upon myself a wool knit hat, a jacket grossly ill suited for the current climate, and the firmest intentions of never returning to my beloved Seattle.
On the back way to the woman’s house that night, they thought to take a hit or two from the bowl, just to stir the imagination. It came on slowly, but by the time they pulled into the drive, chattering like birds about the Carver-Lish drama, both felt too high for other humans and were thankful for an empty house to linger in. They walked up to the door, Joseph trailing Dana who slid the key into the lock.
Someone called, “Hello,” from within.
Dana looked back at him. “I thought she’d be gone,” she said.
Joseph muttered, “I’ll go back,” before skulking under the hedge to the car. He whispered over his shoulder, “I can’t be a guest right now,” and smiled, though he was sure Dana neither heard nor saw him. Measuring each step’s volume, he managed to pull open the car door and ease himself into the seat without causing a ruckus. Joseph nonetheless slammed the door shut and curled up into ball shape in the dark.
He began to regret not going in, leaving her to go it alone, probably worse off than he was. But in his state social interaction tended to sprawl out of control, and his antics could have damned her. So, after several minutes debating if it were plain cowardice after all, Joseph finally decided to read his retreat as finding himself a chance to be left in uninterrupted self-contemplation. It was a rare combination of conditionals: high and alone. That is to say really alone: no books, forums, instruments, to entertain him; but in the sense of company, too. Due to a number of his failings keeping him from affording a car, getting high had since college been a two-man operation. Pilot and copilot. He briefly entertained the question of who was whom between his girlfriend and he, making a point of mouthing “whom” when the time came. Before he knew it Dana was back and his analyses had not made much headway, mostly crowded out by an overpopulated psyche. As the streetlamps passed in time with “Layla” from the radio on the way back to town, Joseph wondered how he would attain that truer form of loneliness, when even the self vacates, and the gaping hole you called yourself finally comes to light; when, confronted with a void where a personality was thought to be, the guy doing the thinking freely dives in. But even that implied too much about what remained.
Torturing himself like this, Joseph was relieved when they reached the Chinese place and he was able to test bodily functions other than self-castigation. Standing and walking checked out. Fine motor skills proved themselves when he opened the glass door, as did the sense of smell as he walked in. But he articulated himself poorly when asked for his name, and was quiet, awkward as the woman dropped sauce packets and chopsticks into the bag containing their order. He stuttered over his request for extra napkins, and turning his head he saw Dana staring at him with contempt. Just paranoid, he told himself, robotically carrying the bag of food back to the car. And when at last they arrived at home, having consumed but half his meal in silent mastication he made a fool of himself when he placed his scraps of napkin and fortune cookie packaging directly into his General Tso’s. Dana’s fortune was, “ Not with a bang but a whimper ,” while Joseph’s had nothing printed on it—a desperate impulse to be rid of both malevolent omens compelled him to bury his blank ticket in the sauce at the bottom of his combo meal.
“What are you doing?” said Dana, reaching over to intervene.
“Oh. I don’t know,” Joseph said, and removed the plastic wrapping and slip of paper from the orange sauce. He dumbly looked around the table for something to do with them, Dana palpably staring, before he rose, walked to the trash can, threw them out, and retired to the couch in the den. There he fell asleep, having strange dreams. He dreamed about a huge baroque chapel hurtling across the sky, revolving about on its axis, orbiting low around the earth. Chunks of stone fell from it, demolishing houses and people, though it did not seem damaged. The gargoyles shrieked. Before he knew it he understood that he was inside the flying object; the place, a formless lake of fog occupied by a single oak sapling, did not resemble the inside of a chapel, and he could not recall walking in. As Joseph carefully drew towards it, the plant’s branches started rapidly growing like tentacles, ensnaring him and burrowing holes in his feet. It was very painful, and he could feel their barbs stinging up through his tibia and under his kneecaps, but by an act of will Joseph kept himself from screaming, or waking up. Eventually they let him go, but the holes remained. Later when he looked inside, he found his feet had been hollowed out, turned to terra cotta. Though he could not see for sure, he suspected the same fate had befallen the rest of his body.
Joseph woke up alone. Static from the TV, snow falling outside. Grey everywhere. He excavated himself and got ready for work.
"Elected" seems a little bit strange. Otherwise, pretty good. At first it seemed flowery, but I think it worked.
Interesting... a few typos and other basic errors, but overall entertaining.
Fairly good. I would normally say the use of modifiers is excessive, but somehow it could work here with a little bit of reconsideration. I think you misused "donned", though.
Brand new adventure of Beatrice, hot off the George Foreman Grill:
In case anyone wants to read the full thing so far:
I took your advice into consideration and revised a bit.
I hate the way she looks at me, with her tiny, black eyes; it makes my morning commute an absolute dread. Every time I ride the bus, she will sit down opposite and facing me, and then stare her little eyes out. She looks and I look away, but the sense of her gaze set upon my face makes me consider hurling myself out of the bus window - the thought of my body tumbling on the wet gravel soothes my weary heart. It happens every day; when I step onto the bus at 7:33 AM, there are only two seats available, which happen to be the same two seats as always. I’ll pick my poison, but it doesn’t matter either way since these two seats are always facing opposite one another. At the next stop, she will climb aboard, nothing in her hands and not dressed for any particular sort of profession; It is as if she only rides the bus to give me a long and thorough examining. As she walks in, her eyes have already discerned and locked in on my presence, she could see me from outside the bus, through the steel sides and stickered advertisements. My neck aches from always turning astray, but the discomfort is tolerable in comparison to the alternative, that is, the locking of our eyes. It has happened a few times; I may be taken by a pensive thought or a pleasant memory, and in my aloof state of mind happen to forget the pair of beads that awaits my vista. My head will drift over and I’ll see them, those little, black specks, those soulless moles on top white sclera. I’ll feel a sudden warmth throughout my body, my testicles start to ache, and my ears start to ring; for a few seconds, I feel the black robes of death wrap me up into a crescent roll; I am ready to die. It takes a great amount of will to break free from her fixation, after which, I find myself gasping for breath and my clothes damped with sweat. I hate her.
i thought i might know who you were if your name really was beatrice and you visited /lit/ and were russian (to some extent). but having read your writing i don't think you're the same beatrice.
I licked my lips as my leaves were fuffled in yr oratory winding wind words.
Top notch notary notes pitched with the ache of a true humane being. Something often rarely seen, a true commodity.
SO fucking clever it blew my 9/11 gasket—My love for Bowie (poster on my wall, &c.) was just overwhelmed by your allusiory textical tesitcals, just light & energy IN MY FACE
A poetica rushing over my face like the stream of modern consciousness boiled & burnt into the small percent of truth—something burrowing until my bones burn & now bleached under yr light, they know the truth, the capital W truth (W for Wallace as in David F (Foster) Wallace, the suicide-carer-move king—king with a capital K)!!!
Like, soooooooooooooooooo goooooooooooooooooooooooood. [The spoiler is b/c it's porn, good porn—2 dykes pussy fucking each other, & it's NSFW so don't click unless ye understand what yr getting to (a boner or rock fucking hard clit)]
I was going to tell you to get a day job but the pun 'gay job' seems more fitting.
Ok so like Sunday? That's the day when you don't vampire the Endless English language like a fucking retarded Ignatius J Reilly. Sell-ibrate! Isn't that what you want? Fame before you die? FUCK OFF FAG
There were seven of us there in that hole. Beside me there was an elderly man who didn't speak any language that I was familiar with, and a girlish looking man with the figure of 4chan, the internet hacker, and besides us there were 4 girls who I don't even know. So when you think about it, the weirdest thing was that there was this big fucking hole and then the next weirdest thing was we were in it. By the time the sun went down, John had lost an arm, and the four girls were totally not interested in me.
"Don't forget your lunch."
"I'm going to be hungry,"
Literally anywhere. By the way, it was a tuesday.
Honestly I kind of like it. It's nothing really new, and it doesn't make me think, but it creates a visual, and makes me feel some kind of relation. In other words it did it's job, and that deserves some attention.
This is way too lofty and overwrought for the subject matter. It makes me think of some sweaty neckbeard trying to be all disdainful and dismissive and i doubt that's what you're going for.
"It's sexless... tragic... the way we act... you," she said as she turned to look at him, noticing his discomfort and impressed nature. "and..." She bit her lip and winked "me..."
He had had enough of these fucking GAMES. He stood up, slamming his penis into her vagina.
"FUCK!" she said, cumming.
He pulled out of her with a grin of satisfaction and pleasure spread across his face. He had his pants pulled up now, and sat back down. Fuck yeah... He thought.
Its fuckin' come to this.
"I’ve been here almost a month now and after lifting so many tables, and pushing so much metal I’ve begun to develop the barrel chest, the stout and ineloquent mark of physical toil, animal strength that won’t be found in a gym or on a field. When I walk I have to do strut because of it, and I can only hope it looks as respectable as it feels."
Cherry blossoms bloom, pink and red, lay upon my fingers. The window creaked open, letting the sea breeze gently kiss me with its aroma. The flowers bloom in hell, while the birds hop up on the waterbeds. A dreamer in life, to see the cows grazing once again. The dissonance grew louder until I awake there. An unsettling sun eclipsed over the red horizon, growing aloft and glutton day by day. A grotesque feeling is immanent, gross and vile. A being who has lost the meaning of existence, for that to breathe upon the maize. Yes, for this is the bread given, nor wine served.
Unfortunately no, just wanted to reply to yours.
I really liked the rest, but those felt so juvenile in a way. Unsure how the rest will make sense with those lines gone, but best of luck
Jessie Jacobs was a girl I should have fallen in love with when I was young. During some days in the summer, when the wind would soothe the Southern California heat, we would hike out to a little pond under old man Henry’s great oak tree. We would throw rocks into the stream, look for those black summer beetles that cling to your screen door at night, and then take turns kissing each other on the cheek. I was very young, but I still remember how soft her puffy cheeks were and how her curly, blonde hair would be brushed into my eyes when the wind came by. We only kissed cheeks; we were trying to understand what kissing really was, trying to figure it out. They were gentle kisses, the kind of kisses that only kids can do – free from passion and free from loss; My mom would kiss me on the cheek before bed, but her face wasn’t as soft as Jessies and her kisses felt heavy and sad. One day, near the end of summer, we went to the little pond, threw rocks in the stream, found some black summer beetles, but didn’t kiss each other on the cheek. I asked her why she didn’t want to kiss at all; I was eager and felt like I was close to figuring it all out. She was crying, and said, “I’m all out of kisses; I kissed my mom too much this morning.” Upon hearing this, I became shocked, for I realized I had kissed my mother too many times that morning as well. But, I also realized that I hadn’t given my mom any hugs that morning. I took Jessie in my arms and we hugged, just as innocently as we had kissed. Dry leaves covered her fluffy dress and wind blew her curly, blonde hair over my ears.
Triton was in complete darkness. Our Solar System had never seen a power outage of this magnitude before, and the overall lack of preparedness was beginning to show itself. Cities and nations had gone without electricity before, sometimes months – even years before power was restored, but this was the first time an entire inhabited astronomical body had been removed from its power grid at once.
“Both of us know, now” the Vice President lead on, “You are going to have to face the reality of the fact that as it stands, there isn’t anything neither you nor I nor the military nor the local corps can do to better the situation until the expected aid craft from the planetary union arrive – if they do arrive.”
“If the contingency that was agreed upon by the planetary union years ago when it was first formed is being followed suit properly as one would hope and expect then that would mean by now the P.U. should have directed 13 large sized shuttle buses towards us from the European Union. Until they get here, we have done absolutely everything we have the physical capability to do. The little contingency infrastructure that we have on this planet is being stretched thin as is – Triton was never prepared for the event that the entire planet would find itself powerless – We have pointed our fingers in any direction we can and demanded all we could of local emergency relief corps and military personnel. Earth is already having a good amount of their own problems as is, and god knows what the research base on Ariel is dealing with right now. Everything is fried, there’s no ships to send out no calls to be made and unless you want to send crews of men out to manipulate the aging morose code reflectors, in which case good luck getting the word out any time soon, because we have zero electronic communications here and of course that would be a great plan only if you were to assume that anyone from earth were watching or that anyone would even bother to be watching.”
The ride is almost over!
Is this a joke?
As you can imagine, no I did not purposely intend to sound like a neck beard. But the feelings of disdain were very real, both in occurrence and in writing.
You see, I was visiting at a friend's house and had preceded to become intoxicated on liquor and various dissociatives. When in walks his friend, visiting from Seattle. She quickly dominantes the conversation, of which I find dull, and wholly uninteresting.
This is where my dilemma occurs, I'm not sober enough to leave, so I must endure this rambling for the next two hours. Then you add the fact that I did not find her remarkable in any reguard, and yet, if the opportunity were to arise in an off chanced weakened state, I would defile this girl all the way back to the west coast.
Oh just saw this. Thank you!! Someone told me recently thatI write absolutely nothing but clichés. So I'm working on stripping the actual word-for-word cliché phrases out of my work, and next I will attempt to cover subjects that aren't boring and cliché with my new and improved unique voice
>miles to go before I sleep
The driver, having observed through the gusting low clouds, candle-lit Windows in the Distance, now notifies those of us below, that we are approaching an Inn. The Ladies begin to stir and pat, lean together and discuss. Men re-light their Pipes and consult their watches,— and, more discreetly, their Pocket-books. The rush of the Weather past the smooth outer Shell, a surface lacquered as secretly as the finest Cremona Violin, smoothly abates, silences, to be replaced by the crisp shouts of Hostlers and Stable-boys. We observe Link-men waiting in a double line, as if at some ceremony of German Mysticks, their torches sparking intensely yellow at the edges as they illuminate the falling Snow-Flakes.
In the partial light, the immense log Structure seems to tower toward the clouds until no more can be seen,— tho' the clouds at the moment are low,— whilst horizontally sprawling away, into an Arrangement of courtyards and passageways, till likewise lost to the eye, such complexity recalling Holy Land Bazaars and Zouks, even in the wintry setting,— save that in this Quarter nothing is ancient, the logs are still beaded with clear drops of resin, with none of the walls inside attached directly to them, the building having not yet had even a season to settle. The pots in the kitchen are all still bright, the Edges yet upon the Cutlery, bed-linens folded away that haven't yet been romp'd, or even slept, among.
This new Inn is an overnight stop for everybody with business upon the Communication, quite near a rope ferry across Bloomery Creek, one of the thousand rivers and branches flowing into Chesapeake. Waggoners are as welcome as Coach parties, and both sorts of Traveler, for the time being, find this acceptable. There's a long front porch, and two entrances, one into the Bar-room, the other into the family Parlor, with Passage between them only after a complicated search within, among Doors and Stair-cases more and less evident.
It was not the knocking on the door, but the creaking, twisting knob which retracted and released the latch loudly, that woke her up. Her daughter, the eldest, and her son peaked into the bedroom excitedly, but timorously. With a smile they were welcomed in, and the door swung open quietly as they rushed toward their smiling mother who, although still groggy, was happy to have them. At the same time, she noticed her husband was absent and felt a flicker of anxiety. He must have left earlier after lulling her back to sleep, she thought to herself. The smell of bacon and pancakes flowed into the room now that the door was open, and she imagined her husband, with a mug of coffee steaming nearby, cooking at the stove and was joyfully relieved.
Turning her attention back to her young son and daughter, just now jumping onto the bed and crawling toward their mother, she instinctively pulled the comforter up and under her arms to cover her breasts. Fortunately, this morning, she was wearing undergarments as she normally sleeps naked. And she did sleep naked throughout the night, but after giving into her husband’s virility earlier with a feigned, playful disinterest, she dressed in some comfortable undergarments before going to the bathroom. Remembering her early morning fondly, she relaxed her arms and the blanket crumpled down toward her waist. And the children, who never even considered the idea that their mother might be naked, nestled into her arms, one on each side, and held her tightly. As the children spoke to her, she replied lovingly, but pensively. It was almost as if she were watching from another perspective, appreciating what she thought might be, the best morning of her life.
Smiling, she brushed away her son's light brown hair from his forehead and gently pressed her lips to it. The daughter, being mischievous in the most loving way possible, kissed her mother on the forehead, and smiled as if to say, "why didn't you give me a kiss, mother?” She made her mother laugh with this gesture and kissed her back. They are like angels in this moment.
>trying to write women
A lot of the pieces in here are noticeably written by teenagers/young adults. This isn't. This is well written. It's simple enough, and doesn't try and show off. The writer (you) is more or less invisible, which is a good thing. Keep it up
Wrote this a little while back. It was the last poem I wrote. Don't think poetry is my strongest medium
step out at once from your bastardly crevice,
come, and take in your surroundings,
better yet, look out this window
and see the horizon falter in mist.
follow me to the balcony
and feel the rain on your skin,
do not cower from its wetness,
look beyond the grain of the wind.
take off your clothes as I am
and we will bask in the mud below,
no, we shall venture further,
here is too much like home.
grab nothing and lets go
and do not look back behind you,
you trust me, yes?
it is time to leave.
let our homes crumble and ruin,
lease it to the seeping rain,
who’ll awash the decor
and drown what once was.
let bicycles rust in the garden
and let the greenery reclaim her land,
she’ll unfurl from the fissures
and wrap her fingers around
any facet of our older self.
i’m not mad, do you believe me?
life is simpler than we make it to be,
but desire is not unlike the late tide,
and back into the mind it retreats,
like the hardened sand do dreams crystallise
to be windswept again the next day.
close the window now it is cold,
if you need me i’ll be in my shadow.
imaginary excerpt from a missionary's travels.
The truck is covered with a collage of Hindu deities, various blue-skinned, six-armed avatars wielding a large assortment of poky things, necklaces of skulls are draped about their necks, and all of them are grinning their fearsome grins, their taloned feet planted firmly upon the necks of their adherents. These colorful depictions of local gods and demons are plastered upon every surface
( And are adorned with no small amount of sparkles, mirrors and glitter! ) the tiny windows of this juggernaut, already far from adequate, are further obscured by more hindu imagery, pin-striping, dangling tassels and the inevitable "No-Time-For-Love" sticker. All this gaudy decor masks a rusting hulk of uncertain maintenance. Not a encouraging sight.
The truck we hired is now a motorized bomb; Two thirty-five litre cans of petrol, six heavy steel canisters of precious propane are packed into the bed of this ramshackle beast, with all of our belongings tamped in around these fuel tanks as wadding, one good fender-bender....and the whole lot goes up in a explosive conflagration, fragments of cheap furniture and kitchen implements imbedding themselves in the surrounding countryside, and a lovely charred crater to commemorate the location of our demise. Not a pleasant thought.
We leave today for Pokhara, six hours of treacherous curves, three high passes, and countless deep ravines, in which rest the silent, scorched hulks of many such vehicles. Why subject ourselves to this degree of craziness?
A long while ago, a man was given into the custody of a roman centurion, confined with him, chained to him. For a time this guard was, for all intents and purposes, a captive audience. Please pray for our driver Sunil....its a long drive to Pokhara.
"And some were persuaded by the things which were spoken, and some disbelieved."
A lot of the pieces in here are noticeably written by teenagers/young adults. This isn't. This is well written. It's simple enough, and doesn't try and show off. The writer (you) is more or less invisible, which is a good thing. Keep it up!
>A lot of the pieces in here are noticeably written by teenagers/young adults. This isn't. This is well written. It's simple enough, and doesn't try and show off. The writer (you) is more or less invisible, which is a good thing. Keep it up!
I posted this in the wrong thread, sorry lads
The barking of chained dogs hammers through the rooftop complex. Around corners, reverberating against walls and breaking over makeshift barricades. They don’t know what it is, but they can feel it and they do not like it.
Psychic backwash rolls back in return. Something hears them, and it gets off on their dumb terror. It doesn’t care for the dogs. It doesn’t even care for the men scattered through its sensory net. It just enjoys the sensation for a moment. “They know I’m here.” It grins. It luxuriates in cold concrete under its feet and unhurriedly picks its way through the complex, shivering as its flanks brush angles and the ashen snow sings upon its back.
Stories play out in its vicinity. Blocks away a squadron of hard men lock eyes one last time before rolling onto their backs and eating their guns. It sniggers inwardly: it wasn’t looking for them. Pulses of cerebral panic and abrupt stoppage flicker across its ‘tongue’. It loves the ones who suicide even as it disregards them. Like flies gone mad as a man walks past unwitting. A couple, two people with a child, kiss for the last time and pitch themselves into the street below. Alas, it thinks, still grinning.
The one it wants is storeys down, sleeping. It can feel the thing’s dreams going murky with its presence. It finds an unbarred access door and stops for a moment, no need for a rush. It collapses on its back and finds a thrill in the rough surface, half in and half out of the stairwell. Close one eye; red emergency light indoors. Close the other, stars against a sky like pitch. The dogs are at the end of their respective tethers now, chewing at their bonds and one another out there in the night somewhere. It loves the sky. It fucking loves its job.
Sir John’s visits began now to be numerous at Dilworth Castle, each visit serving further to strengthen the link of relationship, and bury, in the heaving breast of seeking solace, the dull delight of the weary past. As the weeks wore on, he reckoned them only as days, when comparing their loving length with those of the bleak years he tried to enjoy alone, before taking such steps—yes, serious steps—as those fancied by the would-be bachelor.
At first he was careless and indifferent to the flowery harangues of mothers who paid him periodical visits, with their daughters, of apology, and firmly retained the obstinate qualities of an autocratic ruler, until softened in the presence of one he found he was learning to steadily love. He believed now that the chief stripes, viz.—observation, inclination, advancement and accomplishment, in the well-spun web of matrimony, must harmonise with the groundwork of happiness, without which our lives are not worth an unstamped coin.
Love’s path, on which Sir John was known now to tread with the step of intensity, seemed smooth as the ice of Inglewood. There were no obstacles in his way of which he was yet aware, save imagination; this, also, was chased from his mind by the evident and ample return of Irene’s polished affection, the foul gloss of which he failed to notice, and whose pretentions were so cleverly carried out as to defy detection.
Neat concept, but I think it could be written better.
>Psychic backwash rolls back in return
I like 'psychic backwash' it fits with the rest of the piece well, but the rest of that sentence is just bad writing.
Maybe something like 'a wave of psychic backwash rolls over them/it/whatever" would be better? Just a thought.
'Careful not to trip on anyone’s toes,’ she whispered, and edged down the row to her seat, hauling herself along using the tops of the seats in the next row. I followed, apologising profusely to the occupant of every seat I passed, since I felt indistinct bumps and lumps under my heavy boots. I could feel their stares burn right through me, as though they could somehow watch the movie better if they glared with sufficient intensity at the man blocking their view.
I sat down. To my right was my wife, noisily slurping the dregs of her Coke. The movie was already past the halfway mark, and hence completely incomprehensible to anyone who had just walked in. No matter.
A tall, buxom woman loomed fifty feet high before me, terrified, a drop of sweat running down the side of her face. Her eyes bored a hole into mine. Then suddenly, she became a grey-haired man, the black hole of his gun barrel pointed at the screen. He flexed his trigger finger. In the bowels of the barrel, a small speck of light ignited, exploded, and surged outwards. An almighty bang echoed in the auditorium.
Then a moment of silence, as a body slumped to the floor, a bullet hole in its temple. In my hands a long, slender, smoking gun.
It wasn’t until I had opened the auditorium door that the first audience member discovered the gruesome surprise I had left: a woman’s scream, a cry of “what the fuck?!” I didn’t know where I had shot her—perhaps the shoulder?—but that I had killed her, I had no doubt.
‘It’s all my fault,’ she keeps sobbing. ‘All my fault.’ Occasionally, she quiets down enough to reveal some detail about her husband; so far she has told the police his name, age, and address, and given them his photograph. They are confident they will have him by dawn.
The deceased was fifty-seven, part of a group of seven that had occupied the middle row of the auditorium during that fatal screening. It was his wife’s birthday. She spent its last few hours in the hospital outside the ICU. It had seemed at first that he would pull through.
The chief inspector has ensconced himself in his office. He has taken a special intellectual interest in the case. Through the glass doors, the other officers can see him, hands under his chin, brows gathered in a storm of confusion. One of them hazards a guess as to what he might be thinking:
‘Maybe he’s planning his moves. Wondering if he could replicate this the next time he’s out at the movies with his wife.’
This is met with cold glares from the sleep-deprived officers. Another, gazing intently at the chief inspector’s frown, as if hoping to glean the wisdom beating behind it, says:
‘Or perhaps he’s wondering why someone would shoot a man—’
Came days of drifting, chased he said, by an old face, a bounty killer. Through the badlands he traveled, and found himself chasing the fading gold of the western dusk. He talked at night with the coyotes, the only creatures more alone than he. He'd often wondered whether he'd been raised by a pack of these scoundrels. It would not have surprised him.
At night, near his fire, he called the coyotes forward. All he could see were brilliant sets of green eyes glimmering brightly against the dark, like the silver stars above. He took a bit of biscuit and threw it at the eyes, Moments later, from out of the pitch, came the skinny little dog. Crouching, the young man moved forward like a crab.
"What's your name then?"
The wiley coyote did not look up, so focused was he on his treat.
"We'll mines Kit. Though nobody calls me that no more. That- my childhood name that was. People call me the Oklahoma Kid. I've heard now and then. So, how 'bout you?"
The little critter looked up at the young vagrant and contemplated the shadows the dancing the kindle made on his face. The coyote then turned, back into the night, forever lost into the cold and anonymity.
from a short story im working on , "Pale her feet with veins of blue"
Taking a two
You could imagine how strange it was to find someone doing something else as strange as I as the whole central reason for the strange thing that I was doing was that I did not believe that someone could possibly be doing something as strange as myself. Well of course given my luck someone happened to be doing the very same strange thing as I which created a whole new strange atmosphere which was the very sort of atmosphere that I was very much trying to avoid. When I checked to see if there were two of us while taking a two, I happened to see that he too was checking to see if there were two taking a two. You could imagine the shock of us two when we found out that each was doing something so completely strange, as to believe the other wouldn't be strange enough to do it too, that the very strangeness each of us believed the other not to posses, was the factor that allowed us to be so strange as to check on the other to see if the other was in fact taking a two. When I slowly decompressed my crane-like neck attached to my spine which sat in this very moment between my squat legs to see underneath the stall, and craned my neck underneath the opening to check on the other I saw a large gray mustached man staring back at me with the same grotesque oblique neck-cranking required to check on the other beneath the stall. My reflexes immediately brought me back to the upright position as if I was somehow the one who was peering in on him staring at me under the stall. The ridiculousness of the situation had not yet sunk in. Each of us sat in a tense vibrating languor waiting for the other to begin their two. Neither started and ten minutes had passed. It was as if the other had hoped that the other had forgotten about the other, although the irony in this all was that if one actually believed the other to have thought that one did not exist, it would allow for the commencement of one's two. After twenty minutes of trying to be excruciatingly silent as to make the other think that one might have forgotten about oneself, I contorted the upper half of my body while consciously keeping my lower half inert, and swanned with the crescent of my back to check on the other underneath the stall. How strange it was to find him doing the same exact thing as I yet again! Each at this point now knew that the other did in fact exist which made for a strange environment for two.
This is another excerpt revolving around the subject of this one. Also,
pls no bully.
He let the colour fade to a morose grey, the light pouring from the machine of Paris obstructed his potential view of the stars, stubbed out his cigarette and returned inside. The consistent demand of living in such a metropolis left little time for such pleasures as watching the sun bid the city farewell. He was thankful for the for the slither of balcony his fourth story apartment had, and as he ate his little soup with stale bread, smoking another cigarette he thought of how lonely in the world he was, calculating just how long it would take for his body to be found if he decided to end it all.
Please someone rate and help me with this. My syntax/grammar is sub-par because I write like I think. The idea is a guy contemplates suicide in 1900s Paris because he's nihilistic but never does it then accidentally gets shot in the head and wakes in in the life of someone who "has it all" but realises the feelings come from inside not circumstance so he kills himself (novella length).
Pic goes for the mood I'm trying to convery.
Three sentences in and I've already hit a block.
A boy with no name wandered the dense coniferous forest that had sprouted from the dirt in a single night, the same night a grand aurora had encompassed his world and made strange the Earth that had raised him. Of the life he lived before those bizarre and beautiful lights in the sky, he remembered little. It was like trying to recall a benevolent dream after the wake; fleeting in its detail, but the imprint was still there, lurking in the murky waters of his subconsciousness.
Spur of the moment. I was browsing /wg/, saw pic related and somehow stringed that together. I want to write something that cultivates the same surreal, creepy vibe but through the lens of a child's sense of wonder.
I don't know, man.
Quite good. Id like to read more of this. Very easy to read style, which is refreshing compared to the garrulous, tumescent writing people post here as if their only purpose is to prove they are smarter than you
That's what I'm always afraid of whenever I write, making shit too complicated. I need to get over this block before I lose momentum.
For anybody looking for ideas, I highly recommend just browsing /wg/. A picture can spark the most profound things in your mind.
Everything was going great until "...Smoking another cigarette he thought..." Classic example of show don't tell. The calculating how long it would take for his body to be found is a great idea though; you should be able to write a couple hundred words from that one sentence. However saying that someone is lonely and "decided to end it all" is cheap and juvenile. It should take many pages to show us a sketch of his loneliness. Also the first couple sentences while great, are paced too quickly and I would actually enjoy it more if you took the time to describe what he is seeing while smoking his cigarette and getting inside of his head. The good news is that you are good at describing things, although very raw and sparse. I think your style may be suited towards more decadent, but you can still keep it macabre and gray. If that makes any sense. Keep it up
just keep exploring the layers of how the writing makes you feel. Keep trying to find more words and more emotions for how it makes you feel. If it doesn't provoke anything at all it probably is not very good.
Subject matter is pretty cheesy but I like your style and semi-stream of consciousness thing. If the main character is developed into something more than the run of the mill "Stranger" type this will be pretty good, please keep working on it.
Here is where I am with a short story right now if anyone is interested:
Being honest is no means of survival, avoid your inner-feelings like the plague,
This is what it takes to comply with the images this structure will accomodate,
But things aren't what they seem when they're partially hidden behind walls of pretence built for peace of mind.
The barriers between us are forever maintained by our acceptance of the roles others choose to define.
In a world of competition life's portrayed as a contest where we're forced to live by making gains at others expense,
But no-one's really gaining when perpetual conflict's the result of our relationships based on pretence,
We don't need this cultural cosmetic division it upholds the self-interest on which the system feeds,
A deconditioned consciousness of mutual respect is the only way to cure this cosmetic disease.
I worked on your points, how does it sound now.
He let the colour fade to a morose grey, the light pouring from the machine of Paris obstructed his potential view of the stars, stubbed out his cigarette and returned inside. The consistent demand of living in this vast a metropolis left little time for such pleasures as watching the sun bid the city farewell. He was thankful for the for the slither of balcony his fourth story apartment had, and as he ate his little soup with stale bread, his cigarette smoke performed the dance of a young child’s ribbon as it made its way to the painfully bare bulb that cast the darkness in the room astray. He thought of how lonely in the world he was, calculating just how long it would take for his body to be found if this were to be his last breath.
No one checked on him. No one visited him. His rent was paid for the next while but he couldn’t see his landlady breaking the door down in any hurry. His father was long in the ground and he had lost contact with his delusional mother many years ago. He was easily replaceable at his job and his friends would presume his ignoring of their letters was intentional. This all crushing down made him think about what his place in the world really was, he’d nearly proven the discovery of his dead body would only be due to a stench problem. He thought about his infinitesimally small worth, not as a fraction of those currently living on the Earth - not including those that would have died and been born solely during his pondering - not as a fraction of all of previous humanity and those to come, but of this cosmic insignificance that he faced. Would it matter how long until his body was found? The coroner's eyes on his death certificate being the last to ever read his name, and possibly the last man to ever ponder his existence. Life would not halt, nor would it even consider slowing for his passing. And that would be that.
Boom, a whole paragraph:
A boy with no name wandered the dense coniferous forest that had sprouted from the dirt in a single night, the same night a grand aurora had encompassed his world and made strange the Earth that had raised him. Of the life he lived before those bizarre and beautiful lights in the sky, he remembered little. It was like trying to recall a benevolent dream after the wake; fleeting in its detail, but the imprint was still there, lurking in the murky waters of his subconsciousness. He didn't want to dwell on that just now, for voices had risen from within the shroud of mystic pines, ethereal yet familiar, and they lulled him forth like a moth to a flame. The Sun, content in its westerly throne, let its lazy auburn light peter out under the eves, no longer interested in illuminating this boy and his trivial tale of boyish curiosity.
Alright, no more updates until this thing is five hundred pages long and worthy of a Pulitzer.
I like it as an introduction but I don't know if/think you can keep this intense description whole time without it ruining the story or running out of adjectives of the same caliber to keep it interesting. Also watch that your grammar flows and makes sense. Don't just throw in ';' for the sake of it. Otherwise not bad.
Excerpt from a second draft, fucking give it to me.
Robert was still basically happy. His places of contentment then became his sanctuaries; he gardened, he fished, he smoked, and he did for his mother what he had always done before. By now he had aged himself too, and hastily. At fifty-four he was in pain. He ached, he was sore, and his injuries and self-destruction had left him in an agony that only waned when he was still. From sitting he had watched his brothers pass him by his entire life, some more successful than others but all more successful than him. He accepted this though, he knew who was to blame and was content with things as he always was, not having the will or the reason to become distraught or show it to anyone outwardly. Working less now he spent most of his afternoons alone in the sun, painting crucifixes on kites and flying them when a breeze would come by, not really bothering to think about anything in particular or worry about anything beyond the field he was standing in.
You have a definite way with words which you showcased very nicely here, but I'm not sure if you really got at what I was saying. See, to you the man you are writing about is very real and has real emotions which are somewhat an extension of yourself, and therefore you feel this consciously or subconsciously when writing about this man; you have some direction for where you want to take him and its powered by the entire power of your brain and subjective experience. However to me I am only able to see what you are putting on my screen, and it is not very much and it is all surface level. Your goal is to try to make me feel like I know this guy you are writing about. But instead of showing me his idiosyncratic movements, what the building he lives in looks like, the colors of what he sees, what his interior dialogue is like/how it's structured, you're giving me cold and hard facts, like I'm reading a baseball card. I don't want to read a baseball card. Now I know what you can show me is restricted by the format of the website, but I think you're trying show me entire themes of what you want to write, and that just shouldn't be present in seven lines of text. In something that short I need to see a dense representation of someone else's world. For example you talk about how his father is dead and then immediately talk about his delusional mother. You're listing information about me. Why is he thinking about his father? What happened to him? What was his father like? etc... You're also trying to be too deep too quickly. Loneliness is a heavy theme that has been explored at great depths many times. Themes like this need to be ruminated on for many many words and pages. For example: "...Infinitesimally small worth": what does this mean? What did he think about it? I think you need to really think deeply about your own interior dialogue and how its structured and that will help you, because what you wrote is not anything close to how a human thinks. I hope you don't think I'm being harsh because I took the time to write all of this because I think you have something for words. I suggest reading some James Joyce.
ok I'm just gonna write sumn right now
a wondering mind left behind
before time come and spent sore I field my ties
I woke to love less but could do less
so would you have reaped your toll
moreover, when I did what I thought was when
and now the same should be again
but did good or is that subjective
match my perspective
sentimental I was not longing but lost
It feels well-enough written, but rushed. And somewhat in a too-realist way, which I feel isn't viable anymore. The more specific problem is the lack of emotion it forces me to invest, though this could simply be due to the brevity of this excerpt. I do enjoy your writing style when it comes to examining the motives for his actions -- I'd advise further probing of his mind, and further depictions of the world rather than his actions.
Personally, I feel actions are overrated. Too obvious, too difficult to describe with any sort of lightness and beauty. They always end up feeling like ersatz images of the real thing.
My piece is pic related. Anything helps, but for some background, the piece is about the failings, but beauty, of memory. In a style attempting to be semi-ee cummings-ish
Honest critique please senpai:
Vast, mysterious, and dark. Space was our final frontier. Ever since the unification of the world powers, mankind has finally achieved what we thought was impossible. We’ve reached the gas giants and Pluto. But, we have yet to find anyone else. We are still alone. Everyday satellites broadcasts messages across thousands of frequencies and everyday that is all we hear, ourselves.
I am an engineer and I worked on these satellites. These massive machines litter our atmosphere and I keep them in working order. Everyday I depart from the ISS to work on nearby satellites. It’s dangerous, but it pays well and has some perks.You would not believe how beautiful it is up here. I’d show my wife, if i had one. Not many opportunities for dating up here. Honestly, I’ve always hoped that by working on these things, I would be the one to make first contact. After 5 long years, all I’ve heard are the sounds of stray radio signals from Earth, and silence.
I really only have a peripheral relation to poetry so take this with the consideration of that naivety, but I have to admit, in the months I'd interned at a publishing house there wasn't a poem submitted that was nearly as well crafted as yours that crossed my desk, and I say that sincerely.
My only real qualm would be with the last stanza. The ones that preceded it felt lyrically cohesive in a way that was both pleasant but undistracting, but once we reach that area the rhyme of "fine" and "mine" feels jarring and simplistic, and similarly with the repeated "now."
I assuming this is an excerpt, but even given that there isn't anything particularly noteworthy stylistically or semantically here. Try to expand some of the lines and their ideas outwardly (this would probably also help to vary the somewhat static sentence structure).
This is honestly the single most helpful thing I have ever read. Thank you so much for taking the time to write it. I completely understand what you mean and aim to change my writing to reflect precisely this.
Thanks for the compliment, it really does mean a lot. I've been losing confidence in my writings lately, so anything like that means the world.
As for the critique, I agree completely. I actually changed the rhyme from 'fine' and 'memory divine' to the current one, so it comes as no shock to hear that it was a mistaken change.
With a conclusive, right-handed shake a few bright golden droplets, a consequence of multivitamin use, drizzled onto the toilet seat. 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. He thought about several occasions where, in an act of embarrassed defiance, he ripped the note from the toilet and discarded it, only to find another one present in as little as an hour later over some issue or another. It seemed to Teddy that this was her main method of correspondence with him, not remembering the last time he actually saw her as he rarely left his room, and answered knocks on his unopened door with ominous grunt that seemed to scare her away. His roommates came to think of Teddy as the angry ghost of this haunted house, leaving pee on the toilet seat, eating their food, and making noise in an attic no one dared to enter.
On the other hand, the amount of exertion required to, without strain, bend over and wipe the seat made Teddy timorously apprehensive. 'Maybe the droplets will dry before anyone uses the bathroom again… ‘He thought to himself. He had hoped it would not be him. While contemplating this ethical dilemma he had made a realization while looking down at his feet and, unthinkingly, raised his leg to wipe the affected areas effortlessly, compared to any alternative, in a circular motion 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 even his frail frame.
You mean "Every day". Different things.
Otherwise - pure, unadulterated exposition at its worst.
>Being a ... porcelain lid.
"gentleman" was funny. Otherwise, the sentence is strange. "which is why" feels off, and I hate reading "plus". Split it into two sentences, maybe.
>He thought ... or another.
Overall, not bad, but "in as little as an hour later over" is clunky.
>It seemed ... her away.
Tenses feel strange because of the comma before "and answered ... her away". I think it should be split it into two sentences. Maybe, "It seemed to Teddy that this was her main method of correspondence with him. He could not remember the last time he had actually seen her; he rarely left his room, and answered knocks on his unopened door with an ominous grunt that seemed to scare her away."
>His roommates ... to enter.
Very entertaining sentence.
>On the ... timorously apprehensive.
Remove "timorously". It adds nothing.
>While contemplating ... left sock.
Way too long. Split it up, change it up. Don't use "while" twice like that. Also, isn't the rest of the piece in past, not past perfect?
>Triumphantly, Teddy ... frail frame.
Again, a very long sentence. I don't think either "left, right" bit is worthwhile.
Entertaining subject matter, but it could use some help.
And he never saw it in your eyes again. Green flecked gold. What could you know but what was alone in you, darling. You heard it in the empty city and you heard it in his laugh. You're not funny. You're not anything, doll. That night he drove you home it had rained. That blank look in his eyes, the streets wet-white in the headlights, so you couldn't tell if he was thinking about something or if there was anything there at all.
She can't tell if she loves him or not. That stupid inferiority in him that fills rooms like a gas. His awkward, rictus grin when they meet new people. She dreads those moments. He is lonely, she can tell. More and more she feels she is his shipwreck euphoria.
His body disgusted her now. His paunch, the long, curly body hairs. That was she she knew. When he stopped on eastbound coming from Bedford. She had to go. I can't stop here, babe. You should have gone before we left. The sleeping houses, she wondered at the families that swilled in them dreaming. He stopped on a long street that climbed a wooded hill. She got out without a word and walked to where she was out of sight. Leaves rasped under her feet. In herself she could see then wide land, the halos of street lights and the telephone lines snaking across the dim country.
This little man who would love her. How some are born and die mournless and how some brush the stars on their crowns.
The only time they danced he looked obscene.
What is it we can really do for other people, anyways. I am my heart only. Bright thing sweeping its wings out to the world. Who could I save from the wake of myself
When she walked out of the black trees he was leaning on the car smoking a parliament. He looked up at her. Her eyes downcast and arms tight around her in the cold. He flicks his cigarette, almost hesitates to speak. But he does. You see the Blair witch or something, babe? She says nothing.
My parents are still happily married and the kid isn't a psychopath, the whole gist of the story is that he grows up to meet the woman that his father left his family for who is no longer with him, and they fall in love, albeit ill-fated. So I take it it's pretty bad?
I remember thinking her a minor when I noticed the empty cocktail glasses next to her, speckled with insides; her food was also drenched. She jerked about intricately, in epileptic movements; wiping the bile from her tits . . . she raised her hand as if a child waiting to be called upon, still and insidious. Her acquaintances took no notice of her inebriation or the fascinating presentation.
Customers looked about repulsively, refusing to eat . . . people are always looking for some pretext to shade their unwillingness to pay. I turned to face Julie, the waitress I was supporting, who deserves special mention . . . a brisk, mouthy blonde without notion of her distinct pernicious cackling . . . despite the attempts to extend her likability with tight fitting garments; more or less negligee. In light of flagrant disrespect, she hasn’t her equal. After some time, I found her staring at me with a look of amazement. She seemed to be waiting for a response, “Well?”
She pointed in a most offensive manner at the previously mentioned table. “Shake a leg!” she barked from across the room, her head hung out from her neck at an angle, like a curious dog . . . ‘What a bitch.’ I thought. You really see the true ugliness of a person, working in the service industry.
“You're over serving people.” was my contention, removing my apron.
She smirked and rolled her eyes, “That's not up to you.” then turned to greet her newest table.
With special optimism, I interrupted her banter, “Clean up your own messes.”
Walking back behind the bar, I dropped the apron into a bucket of filthy rags. I collected my things . . . everyone knew I was pissed, veering through timorous glances, making themselves scarce . . . it was a desperate moment. I walked through the swinging doors and was alone on the bar side. Retrieving the tip box from underneath the hand-washing sink, I removed the envelope which belonged to me . . . empty, of course. I seized the temporary lapse of seclusion and my feelings of carelessness to knick a bottle of Glen Livets and several cans of beer, all of which fit neatly into the sleeves of my coat. I rolled it up tightly and casually tucked it under my arm. I had to hold myself back from taking more.
On the way out, I stopped Julie as she collected unattended menus, in an attempt to avoid a final confrontation with me. I felt generally despondent . . . I thought, what a contrast this behavior was to her usual manner of barefaced equanimity.
“I'll be here tomorrow for my tips.” I said, looking around self-consciously. I thought of the attention shifting from the girl to myself and wondered if I had imagined it or if I was actually standing there with my dick out.
Every time I finish a chapter I have grown a little bit more in my writing ability and I look back on it and feel disgusted with it. Which usually prompts me to rewrite the entire chapter all over again.
Couple that with the fact that I personally feel unqualified to write my own story and the fear that there's probably someone out there who can write my story better than me.
It's not bad, and I like the idea you just mentioned, but I just can't imagine a kid being so calm watching that, and seeing his mother cry. I think you have to show how much this affects him and his outlook on life in some capacity at some point in your story
Same here, except I don't really feel 'disgusted', more like "oh shit, I wrote it like this? It could be way better" and then make some modifications. I don't rewrite the entire chapter, ever. That just kills your initial idea and whatnot. The only time I could imagine myself rewriting an entire chapter word for word, it would be because I've completely changed the direction/structure/whatever of the story and it wouldn't make any sense.
>Couple that with the fact that I personally feel unqualified to write my own story and the fear that there's probably someone out there who can write my story better than me.
Fuck everyone else. Really, just don't give a shit about anybody else writing, and how good they write. Of course there will always be someone that writes way better than you, and could transfer your ideas to written form better than you, but what of it? It's all yours. They're your ideas, visions and writing. So just write, write, write and don't look back. It will become quite good when you really try, trust me.
You're right to say other people are likely capable of writing your own story better than you. But, no matter what venture you go into someone is likely going to be better, so don't let that stop you from enjoying writing.
Thanks a lot, it really means a lot, man. Oh yeah, it's absolutely intentional that the kid is mostly calm about the whole thing, as the story progresses, I'm portraying how much of a toll his numbness takes on him, especially when it comes to his relationship with his father's ex-lover.
Once again, thanks for responding and your input on my writing.
My favorite in the thread, easily. Yes, it reads like it was written by a young person, but that's the point aint it? don't be too flattered though... i'm definitely biased. if i could, i would only read stories of teenage romance in the years between high school and college for the rest of my life, or at least until i get bored. that's probably because i'm currently 19 years old and in college, reeling from a high school relationship prematurely ended awhile back because long distance just doesn't work, man, when you're this young and apt to change and none of us know where we want to be in five years, let alone where we WILL be. anyways, this comment wasn't meant to be a rant. but just from a teenage anon whose been in love to another teenage anon who looks to have been in love, i was grinning all the way through this excerpt. if you have any more to share, i'd love to read it. not gonna share any of the pile of sappy shit ive written about HER, because looking back, its all way too overdramatic (though at the time i didnt think it was, at all). i'd write something new now, ive actually been meaning to write down and document all of the memorable experiences in chapter form (this time without the hyperboles), probably in the second person (addressed to me), just so i don't ever forget it, but ive been putting it off indefinitely because it hurts to think about her.
His room was immaculate; nothing was out of order. It has been this way for so long he had grown some faint hope of seeing something out of place. John’s energy was depleted from the heavy course of the day, and having no drive to carry out any mental activities, he went straight to his bed. Prostrated across the sheetless mattress, he turned on the Television; Melvo appeared in all his overbearing enthusiasm, his shrill voice making John weary. He never liked Melvo, or games shows for that matter, In fact, John never felt entertained by any television programs; he only used the TV for functionality, practical means, and the occasional expository feature. He felt for the programmer in the dark, and upon finding it, entered the address for one of his favorite clips. It was a famous interview of Demetrius Henderson by Christian McMadsen on Inquiries during the height of the hysteria towards the coming advances In penis technology. John always became entranced by Henderson; his charisma and incredible wit was conveyed in such an earthly and fatherly manner. John watched with deep admiration; Even in his old age, the gleam of Henderson’s intellect and aura of wonder stirred some deep feeling of childhood curiosity within him; a feeling that was kept stored in some mental reserve, away from the droll of everyday life, and secreted on rare occasions when excited by the sense of possibility and imagination. In his profound and sagacious voice, Henderson spoke to an eager nation. “I've always found it beautiful to think that the perfect penis is within our grasp, waiting for us to access it to its full potential.” Laying as if paralyzed, John released a tear.
i have read Taipei, but thank you for the recommendation. I can see why you would recommend it, because Tao Lin is the only author i know who seems to be as obsessed and dedicated to having a significant other in their life as I am, but his writing style is just so cold to me. i know that's the point, but a lot of the time i feel like i want to know how he FEELS about the breakup, or about the first date, or that time he tries coke with Erin, but instead he glazes over the feelings and instead says things like "i went home and looked at the Internet for awhile on my Macbook" because that's the whole point of Tao Lin's post-internet, generation-y, "blognik" style.
it serves a purpose, but not exactly the one i'm looking for. again, i like cutesy shit like >>7574867
shit that makes you melt inside and genuinely think that if the world ends today it's okay because we'll always have love. i'm a huge romantic
The serpent eating its own tail, or the ouroboros, is a common symbol in a number of different cultures ranging from ancient Egyptian to Nordic traditions. It is meant as a symbol for the perpetual, the cyclical, for eternal self re-creation. All I could ever seem to think when I saw it, though, was self-destruction: "What's going to happen when the mouth reaches itself?"
I pause my consideration to pour more sparkling wine into my glass. Calvin's in the bathroom and the rest of us are telling ourselves that he's probably fine. On the television are four people I don't recognize standing on a platform in New York's Time Square, surrounded by hundreds (thousands?) more that I also don't recognize. Shoulder to shoulder, in matching outfits of red and black, there's something ceremonial in their performance. Maybe it's their faces, intimidating in their joy. Maybe it's the implication of the repeat performance due in three hundred and sixty-five days. I take another swig.
It's dark. I can't remember exactly how we got here, who stumbled forward first, pilots with our thumbs on "Eject". We kiss. Her sweatshirt drapes over my arm as I pull her closer to me, clumsily. Time consumes itself. I'm alone and awake in the bed, surprised that I'm not more hungover.
I spend the most of the next day grinning, content. This is a new start, a great new start. I piece together what I can; ten to fifteen minutes have been reduced to three or four fragments of memory, which I try my hardest to preserve. It feels like staring at the sun.
1) Her weight over me, warm and present.
2) Her wishing aloud that I was taller.
3) Her voice. I had never heard her before. She was typically outgoing, her voice crackling with laughter with little warning, but all of that was smoothed away to something just above a whisper, tenuous and alive, something dropped along with the ball as the hands of the clock met at the twelve.
Critique or rate is welcome
So as not to see anything any more, I turned towards the wall, but alas, what was now facing me was that partition which used to serve us as a morning messenger, that partition which, as responsive as a violin in rendering every nuance of a feeling, reported so exactly to my grandmother my fear at once of waking her and, if she were already awake, of not being heard by her and so of her not coming, then immediately, like a second instrument taking up the melody, informing me of her coming and bidding me be calm. I dared not put out my hand to that wall, any more than to a piano on which my grandmother had been playing and which still vibrated from her touch. I knew that I might knock now, even louder, that nothing would wake her any more, that I should hear no response, that my grandmother would never come again. And I asked nothing more of God, if a paradise exists, than to be able, there, to knock on that wall with the three little raps which my grandmother would recognize among a thousand, and to which she would give those answering knocks which meant: "Don't fuss, little mouse, I know you're impatient, but I'm coming," and that he would let me stay with her throughout eternity, which would not be too long for the two of us.
Feel free to completely ignore me and dismiss my advice. I wrote >>7588046 so you can tell I'm not great
I'm really not getting this. It seems really wordy and not in a particularly constructive way. Also why all the semicolons?
I think the "then immediately..." portion of the first sentence detracts from the passage. I like it overall though - it's got a sort over-the-top, flowery kind of tone.
it's not actually that bad
I feel like you should be drinking something heavier and you should definately read more (and watch how writers write)
also I would never make a numbered list for something like that
also the self-destruction point goes nowhere, there's no roundabout. You write anything and then hit the next paragraph
Thanks! I was actually pretty drunk when I wrote this but I will switch to something heavier haha. I was trying to get something going with the cycle of a new year, and of self-destruction (especially of memory) through alcoholism - do you think that could work with a more explicit tie-in?
Over two hours must have passed before I reached what seemed to be my goal, a venerable ivied castle in a thickly wooded park; maddeningly familiar, yet full of perplexing strangeness to me. I saw that the moat was filled in, and that some of the well-known towers were demolished; whilst new wings existed to confuse the beholder. But what I observed with chief interest and delight were the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and sending forth sound of the gayest revelry. Advancing to one of these I looked in and saw an oddly dressed company, indeed; making merry, and speaking brightly to one another. I had never, seemingly, heard human speech before; and could guess only vaguely what was said. Some of the faces seemed to hold expressions that brought up incredibly remote recollections; others were utterly alien.
I now stepped through the low window into the brilliantly lighted room, stepping as I did so from my single bright moment of hope to my blackest convulsion of despair and realisation. The nightmare was quick to come; for as I entered, there occurred immediately one of the most terrifying demonstrations I had ever conceived. Scarcely had I crossed the sill when there descended upon the whole company a sudden and unheralded fear of hideous intensity, distorting every face and evoking the most horrible screams from nearly every throat. Flight was universal, and in the clamour and panic several fell in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions. Many covered their eyes with their hands, and plunged blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape; overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach one of the many doors.
The cries were shocking; and as I stood in the brilliant apartment alone and dazed, listening to their vanishing echoes, I trembled at the thought of what might be lurking near me unseen. At a casual inspection the room seemed deserted, but when I moved toward one of the alcoves I thought I detected a presence there—a hint of motion beyond the golden-arched doorway leading to another and somewhat similar room. As I approached the arch I began to perceive the presence more clearly; and then, with the first and last sound I ever uttered—a ghastly ululation that revolted me almost as poignantly as its noxious cause—I beheld in full, frightful vividness the inconceivable, indescribable, and unmentionable monstrosity which had by its simple appearance changed a merry company to a herd of delirious fugitives.
I cannot even hint what it was like, for it was a compound of all that is unclean, uncanny, unwelcome, abnormal, and detestable. It was the ghoulish shade of decay, antiquity, and desolation; the putrid, dripping eidolon of unwholesome revelation; the awful baring of that which the merciful earth should always hide. God knows it was not of this world—or no longer of this world—
I don't think the ouroboros is a good way to start unless it is actually a drunken ramble about how your life sucks and everything you do ends up failing or whatever
like that cycle symbolism there needs to tie in or be replaced because you can't just use it and expect people to accept you saying "no its not that" alt. just flat out say it without mentioning the symbol
maybe have the character view the ball dropping as a metaphor for his life and then point out how the ball never falls onto the crowd. it always get caught hanging
from my experience being drunk it's always what I see or hear that drives my thoughts inwards, otherwise I just kind of don't
here's the first part of a short story I'm writing
Do you remember our last session?
Can you tell me what we discussed?
Alright. Can you tell me how many sessions we've had?
This is our Third session, Sherry.
Another week and Sherry Blattan, ugly and unclean; sat alone and absent-minded in a bleached and vacant room. One laid with soft blue carpets that contrast the greasy bowl mop on her head. Thoughtlessly staring at a pile of dated magazines, filled to the brim with women markedly more attractive than she felt she'd ever be. But it didn't bother her. Not yet. Not her yellow teeth nor passive leer. Her strange waifish gait or disdain for water.
And just like every other week. She is called in through an loud, echoing device mounted on the ceiling. Sherry enters the office of Dr. Marie Marchand, a tall and lanky foreigner fond of large dark glasses that obscure her eyes.
Why do you wear glasses, Dr. Marchand?
Oh...my...eyes have grown sensitive over the years. I've gotten used to it.
You don't look old.
I'm not. I'm only Thirty. You don't need to be old to have bad eyes, Sherry.
Can't you go to an eye doctor or something?
It's not quite that simple.
And she watched Marchand whisk through notes and files. Sherry sat on a blue couch, hunched beneath a large winter coat; even though it was warm here. Always is. And Sherry checked the strange red blotches. Those plastering the wall behind Marchand's head. They'd long since bloomed with orange twirling flowers. Were it not for the palette, Sherry wouldn't willingly go every week. The window in the room was stained blue and the shine of the white winter sky was blinding but not unwelcome. And the carpet of Marchand's office was the only one she had seen here that was a foresty green.
So, Sherry. Last week we started to get into your family when our time ran up. Unless, there's something in particular on your mind?
So, you live alone with your mother?
Tell me about her.
Do you have any thoughts or opinions on her?
"yet full of perplexing strangeness to me"
"seemed to hold expressions that..."
"stepping as I did so from my single bright moment of hope to my blackest convulsion of despair and realisation"
tone it down
"the nightmare was quick to come"
the nightmare came quick
"the inconceivable, indescribable, and unmentionable monstrosity"
you're not saying anything (which to be fair is the point)
generally calm down with the purple shit like jesus
I like it. You do a good job of building interest with all of the little idiosyncrasies. I might be slightly worried about the flow if you continue to alternate between dialogue and prose so evenly (especially with the dialogue being so regular as well) but as of right now I'd say it's fine
copy/pasting it fucked up all my indentations
this is how it looks in my doc
Seventh coffee in the van. Third pack of Dunhills. Surveillance is never an easy gig. Best you can hope for is monitoring from the van otherwise you're stuck on lookout outside in the freezing rain. Everyone one of them's numb to the marrow or they'd be shivering like a spastic kid having a fit to get attention, thereby compromising the whole set-up. They always skip these hours in the movies. Who'd wanna watch footage of some shifty looking sorts-
Crackle from the radio hisses in.
“Six, this is Eyeball One. Our guy is moving.”
The two in the van spring up and scan each static-stained screen. Bald one catches the sharpish blob alongside the unloading bay with a duffel bag.
“Be advised. Target is carrying a blade.”
“What? Say again?”
“Jesus, he's carrying a cleaver!”
The two look at each other.
“Be advised. Primary target is approaching from the south pier.”
“Roger that. Right, everyone stand by. Keep your eyes on him.”
Strong puff on one last cigarette if he's lucky. He leans back.
“Finally, we can get this bastard. All this year, fucking Terry Holden this, Terry Holden that. Out of nowhere and alluva-sudden he's number one on the list.”
“Happens once a decade,” the other sages as he nudges his glasses up. “Some low-life slips through a big arrest. Tells everyone he's a badass. Enough people believe it. Gets money, gear, names. If he doesn't get killed within the first few months then everyone believes it. The voice of a generation.”
Bald cop scoffs. “Fuck that. Let's just get him and go home.”
Huh, seeing it does kind of help. Cool
It feels a little cheesy/cliche, which I guess is not necessarily a huge deal depending on your purpose. Dialogue between cops on a stakeout has been done in so many cop shows and movies - maybe try to focus on the things that these can't capture, the smell of the coffee/smoke, the weight of their soaking, freezing uniforms, maybe internalize the Terry Holden stuff instead of making it dialogue.
Familiar sounds emanated from the outside of the eyes of the small, burnt feline. He couldn't hear, except by the miraculous vibrations reverberating and drumming on his eyelids. To boot, he saw in monochrome shades of midnight blue and the deepest green, the whole room, the heartbeats in the chest of the veterinarians and the breath moving in and out of his sweet owners' arms, exray echolocations of sight and sound. It was synæsthesia, good Lord, it was! only on a divinely-given, vibratic scale. His eyes could hear and his ears could see. It was a miracle on a massive scale, known only to this one puddy-tat.
He could see.
He could hear.
He could hear.
He could see.
The switch was symmetrical. One part of the body represents the whole, and as such one sense represents all the numerous others. He could see through magically- and divinely-given echolocation, and his sense of hearing was flipped on its skull by a holy fire, allowing him to use his eyes as biological machines, drumming out a pattern as in a boombox and in his no-longer-reality-based-brain.
This was the birth of a new being.
Aborted from the temporal realm.
Unaborted, thrust abruptly, yet with a majestic flourish, into the transcendental cosmic sea.
He had died.
He had fought the nihilist void and he had won.
He was a god now.
But he was not Yahweh.
This puddy tat, named Martin fourteen years ago by the loving owners that failed to protect him, the ones he loved now all the much more, smiled a Cheshire grin and fell into sleep.
I'm working on a gritty pulp noir style hard-boiled detective novel. This is the paragraph that I'm most proud of so far. Please rate.
He could smell that slut from a mile away. Her familiar pheromones gave him a raging boner, but he couldn't stand the whore. He couldn't even understand why he agreed to the job in the first place. All he could think about when she was around was all of the cocks she must have had since the last time they met. He tried to block out the bittersweet memories of when he was happy with her. When she was still the love of her life.
i don't really write, but i read a lot so take my criticism with maybe i grain of salt
it's a joke for /lit/ right?
the beginning and end are good, but what happend between 'he could see' and 'thus: reborn'? i think you're hinting and something that is important to you, but i can't really understand it because the middle just feels so fake and self-masturbatory
something i wrote out for the purpose of this thread
"how do you write a good love letter?" Jamie sat at the dining table he and his roommate, Kyle, bought together once they had moved to London. They had already shared a dining table while living together in Woodswick, but Jamie had come home early from his usually two hour long discrete mathematics lecture to find Kyle naked, on his back, his oddly hairless legs pointed to the heavens, and a heavy-set, yet otherwise very good looking brunette, tongue deep into his anus. It was a perfectly fine table - strong, heavy, dark-colored oak - but Jamie refused to eat there after the incident and demanded it be left behind.
"just send her a dick pic, it's still pretty early so the natural light will make it look less yellow and more pinkish - probably bigger too if you can get the shadows right." replied the aformentioned roommate, Kyle.
Jamie contemplated going to the bathroom and helicoptering his penis until it became only semi-flaccid. Helicoptering was his go-to move when trying to enlarge his penis because, while it did of course "wake his penis up" as he put it to himself, he believed it sent the blood to the head of his penis, resulting in a longer albeit slightly thinner penis that would be achieved simply by sort of half-masturbating.
i thought i was on a school bus until you mentioned the movie. anyway, i feel increasingly disconnected as i read down the post. maybe it's just the post, but i don't care about the shooter or the victim. feels like you're just putting words on a screen without any detail or caring about what happened.
try critiquing someone and linking your post for better results though, really
disgusting masturbation. if you're going to masturbate, try to make it glamorous, like so:
the rain was coming down in sheets. ken tore his gaze from the window and turned back to his work with a sigh. some three hundred pages done, and, he figured, at least a good three or four hundred to go. a few more days, maybe a week if he took his time, and the first part would be done. the first part was aways his favorite. the method was unusual, but no one could deny that the results were amazing. he faced the notebook and closed his eyes, and for a moment he allowed himself to wonder, once again, if one or another of the greats had once done the same. could he really be the first to have discovered it? it did not seem possible. but he was not here to daydream about the greats: he was here to join them. his brow furrowed in concentration, and in seconds another page was finished. with years of practice, he had mastered the technique. he almost had it down to a science, if you could call masturbation a science. he had never been able to understand how it could be that his writing was so much better after the pages of his notebook were seeded, but the simple fact was that the words practically fell off the pen, and even more amazingly, almost never had to be revisited, when the pages were properly prepared. so simple, and so elegant, like automatic writing, and even more pleasurable than the preparation. for a moment, ken allowed himself to wonder if anyone would pay money to read it. he smiled to himself. no, he could never sell his writing for money. he did what he did for love, and his saved his love for one man, and one man only. if anyone else came between his love for himself and himself, he would kill them: break their neck like a twig. if they even tried to suggest... but that was why they had put him in this room. this, as ken had always known, was the price of romance. it was a price that he paid willingly, gladly. ken was the kind of man who would do anything for love, even that. oh yes, that. absolutely. no questions asked. over, and over, and over again.
i keked, really i did
i really just want to write in a normal, every conversation sort of way and i think you did much better than i could have. do you have any other work in this thead?
your first serious mistake was trying to be taken seriously using second person POV
second serious mistake was dating yourself by referencing the blair witch project
it's all on the line between superfluous and nonsensical and it's about nobody at all
it also reads like you had a stroke whilst drunk
you need to read more or if you do, go back and study how books are written
but you get a +1 if you can even explain what this is even about
also switching POVs without prepping the reader is jarring
>so you couldn't tell if he was thinking about something or if there was anything there at all.
>She can't tell if she loves him or not
It would be better if it was a first person lament, maybe using quotation marks or starting the next paragraph with an action or break from what she has to say
"I'll never see his green eyes again. Nor will I hear his laugh or feel the dull thump of his heart. Not after he drove me home that rainy city night. As empty and glistening as what I see now.
And she knew her lamentation was in vain, staring out at the static city lights..."
maybe not that great but it flows better
lol you think I posted that to get feedback about my pop culture references? Sorry dude but your example is awful. I'm going for feeling and mood, who gives a shit about the pov jumping around as long as you understand it. "Her lamentation was in vain"? U trolling?
"Erzabet moaned, suckling at the warm teats of the elderly ewe. A pale hand traced the curves of her nude form and buried itself into her dripping muff, rapidly stroking her erect clitoris. Nose buried in the musky wool coat of her partner, the small frenchwoman rocked with the force of her continued pumps on the fat sheep's nipples."
I don't care if you don't like it. It's based off something personal, I don't expect you to feel what I felt writing it. I've gotten plenty of "mehs" about my work, I don't mind, it is what it is. But nonsensical? telling me i need to read more and then posting a cringey example you did? Nah. If I wanted to get softball crits like this I would have enrolled in a creative writing class
>That blank ... at all.
At first I didn't like this sentence, but on rereading it, it's pretty good. Maybe consider removing the bit about the streets, but maybe not.
The next paragraph highlights the primary issue of this piece: the POV swap. I get that it's intentional, but it's hard to follow. I was able to grasp it after rereading, but do you really want your readers to have to read something multiple times to understand that it's not garbage?
>That was she she knew.
I'm assuming that's a typo.
>In herself ... dim country.
Wide land doesn't generally have street lights.
>How some ... their crowns.
This is confusing. I think we're seeing her thoughts, but I don't see how this is relevant or why she would be thinking about it. To me, "brush the stars on their crowns" is overdone, but if you want to leave it in, at least exchange "on" for "with".
>Who could I save from the wake of myself
>You see the Blair witch or something, babe?
I can't imagine somebody actually saying that.
Overall, I actually liked it, but only after reading it three times or so.
Thanks. the point is it is a kind of awkward thing to say. And it's about a girl realizing she's to good for someone. Some people are born and lead boring shitty lives, others (like her) have "it" and are destined for something better, and if you happen to be a heart breaker like this girl, oh well it's not her job to save you and kiss your boo boos
I have some minor gripes but overall I'm a big fan of the writing
Boring cliche. Breaks my immersion. Find a different word or phrase. Preferably one word.
>obligatory screaming duel
kind of wordy, I think just screaming duel or something similar would work. Obligatory is sort of a meme word.
>I gazed upon my mother, who seemed shell-shocked. Her frozen figure seemed to be a statue.
I suggest "I stared at my mother, her frozen figure like a statue."
Shell shocked is redundant and less powerful than the statue image.
>If the sound of her quick breathing didn’t fall upon my ears, I’d think her body in stasis really had ceased to draw breath.
I suggest, "If couldn't hear her shallow breathing, I would have thought she stopped altogether." Passive tense in the first clause and "body in stasis" is kind of overkill, in my opinion.
>I’ve never seen my mother play cards, nor have I ever been fond of that activity
"I've never seen my mother play cards, and I've never liked playing cards"
For a memoir-style like this I think you want to keep your language and syntax simple and understandable. It makes the author more realistic and really puts the reader in the world of the author's past.
>Torrents of tears came tumbling down on the ground, and her shaking skeleton fell on its knees. Sobbing and bellowing, the poor thing had painted a tragic picture of herself.
This all feels a bit flowery to me, like you tried to push the poetic imagery too hard.
>Even my twelve year old self seemed to sense that my mother would remain broken.
"seemed to sense" is clunky and awkward.
> reassemble herself back together
Just "reassemble herself" would work better ...
>as she said these words, I distinctly heard her attempting to say more, but a fresh explosion of sorrow prevented her from producing anything other than a mixture of sounds that’s hard to describe as anything other than heart-breaking.
What about "I heard her try to continue, (but she couldn't say any more) (but she started sobbing again) (new phrase that is more concrete than your original)
>Softly, I implored her to calm down, to regain the calmness that I so admired in her, to please come back to who she was before.
Could get rid of softly, and 'so'
I think you use a lot of unnecessary words and it breaks the story for me. For example, if you were given the choice between 'trying' and 'attempting' you would choose 'attempting' because it sounds smarter. However, 'attempting' usually doesn't add any extra meaning to the sentence, so it comes off as just trying to sound smart. You also use complicated and sometimes old and sometimes just awkward sentence structures and you need to focus on fixing that.
way overblown, you don't know what you're writing and it's obvious
same as above
juvenile and filled with cliches
Professors at a creative writing workshop are virtually all failed writers themselves. Maybe only exception is Robert Coover who I think teaches at Brown. Most successful prose writers never teach in their lives. Most successful, good, poets -- if they teach -- do what Geoffrey Hill's doing and teach their students about classic poetry and not how to "write their own"
"Good practice" is writing and then comparing your writing to that of your favorite poet/novelist, seeing you're garbage, and repeating. I'm only commenting in this thread because I just accidentally drank 200ml of caffeine and my legs are jittering and therefore I can't read like I wanted to this morning until it all tones down a bit. Besides, these people in the thread (almost surely) aren't going to stick with their writing or take it seriously enough (or have the talent enough) to go far. So it's all good fun.
not at all. I've put my poetry side by side with poems by my idols when they were my age and in many respects I'm either their equals or better. The hard work is getting better from there. It's harder to be original with your poems in the 21st century. But all my favorite poets in high school (other than Eliot) were beautifully formal, and my poems are incredibly formal, and there's this retarded movement coming up still called "new formalism" that might take my semi-blank verse poetry seriously without discarding it for having meter.
No, I'm actually really impressed with my own poetry. The problem is that it takes me a month per 20-line poem. The poems get far better every time, though. The current one I'm thinking of submitting to a decent journal to get my foot in the door, since I'm at the age most of my favorite poets were starting to publish things.
I've also read a lot of poetry. You need to read poetry for hours a day for a long while before you can write decent verse.
> Me. Although, for the first time ever I've been able to write a poem in one sitting.
Very few poets have ever written a good poem in a single sitting. The exceptions I can think of are Ammons with "The City Limits" (which he wrote after 30 years of writing poetry, so he was well practiced and read), Keats with "To a Nightingale" (and he was very comfortable with his style by then), and I'm sure a bunch of shitty confessionals.
Poetry isn't something you write on the fly. If you don't treat it seriously you end up with a cute, grade-school jingle with the word "suffer" in it like you did.
reads like a bad version of Mark Strand's poetry
try writing about something worth writing about and maybe it'll work out next time
I think there's a remote chance you might be able to write good poetry in the future. this isn't good at all but you're on the track
Your writing is pretty smooth but just two phrases just stuck out as really awkward
excitedly, but timorously
lovingly, but pensively
These are both phrases that have adverbs, which should be approached cautiously(heh) while writing. These phrases should just be replaced with one word or cut out entirely, in my opinion. You seem to have a pretty good hold on how to write other than those two phrases, and I enjoyed reading it even though almost nothing happens.
I'm this guy.
“What’s up, dude?”
The intruding roommate threatened the sage’s blissful state of pretending to be asleep. He didn’t respond.
“Oh, sorry,” The roommate said, seemingly oblivious to how loud he was, “Anyways Bertrand, Heather, and Gertrude are coming over later. If that’s okay.”
The sage didn’t break his silence.
“I’m gonna go and eat dinner, if you want to come,” the roommate practically begged the sage.
The sage doesn’t eat food. Only mortals require food.
The roommate’s long-awaited exit was heralded by the sound of the door closing behind him. At last the sage could find peace.
I actually am. Please don't respond with any trollish bullshit and derail the thread. I just like writing short funny things because I haven't found anything more serious or interesting to write about and I'm new to it as a hobby. So chill.
>There is a drought, but I saw the policeman coming away from the watering hole. Water for the thirsty. Rain water, river water, amniotic waters.
>He didn't see me. He staggered over to Monroe street and tried to hail a taxi. No-one wanted to take him. He was like one of the restless souls wandering along the river bank without a ferryman to take him across. I have some experience of what that feels like. Being hounded by those you nourished. Being rejected when for once in your life it is you who needs help. Discovering that you're being spat on and that you have no one to spit on in return. Quietly considering what you must do. The paradox is, of course, that the taxi driver who takes pity on you, it is his throat you cut.
What do you think, /lit/? Is my writing decent?
Fuck off you try hard faggot. Putting people's creative work down just to put them down is teenager shit. Be a dick but at least have something constructive to say instead of just trying to show off your epic burns ya fuckin prick
My sincere apologies. I really thought you were just baiting. I apologise for being a dickhead. to you.
But I need to be honest, I'm not a huge fan of your excerpt. Let me point out what I didn't enjoy:
>“What’s up, dude?”
This reads so .. I don't know, self-aware? Like, if I began reading your short story somewhere, it would break my immersion immediately, since I could only imagine you, the writer, trying to make this character sound as natural as possible. But honestly, you actually do the exact opposite. I hope I'm making myself clear here. Maybe try 'how's it going' or something similar. 'What's up, dude?' reads really artificial and, like I said, self-aware.
>the roommate practically begged the sage.
Did he? I didn't get that at all. I don't think any reader would get that. Maybe try to convey the urgency in what he says? "I'm gonna go eat dinner, if you want to come" reads very much like a statement, a matter of fact, and not a proposal at all. If you follow that with a description that says he's practically begging for his friend to tag along, that just seems weird. Like I said, you should try to convey the desire he has for his friend to come along in the dialogue, not in the description that follows.
>The sage doesn’t eat food. Only mortals require food.
I don't know if this is supposed to be ironic, tounge-in-cheek, or serious. If it's supposed to be comedic, I can see what you're trying to do, but it sounds very, very corny. If it's supposed to be serious, remove it ASAP.
>The roommate’s long-awaited exit was heralded by the sound of the door closing behind him. At last the sage could find peace.
This sounds a little pretentious and cliche-ridden. "long-awaited", "heralded", "at last he could find peace" .. I don't like that at all. Try to change these words to something less cliched.
Other than that, it's not bad. Just keep writing and getting better, do not give up. And once again, I'm truly sorry for assuming you were baiting.
What I put in brackets is how I'd rewrite your lines.
>“Oh, [sorry.” He seemed oblivious to his own loudness. “Anyways,] Bertrand, Heather, and Gertrude are coming over later. If that’s okay.”
>“I’m gonna go and eat dinner, if you want to come,” [he practically begged.]
>[The sound of the door closing was long awaited. At last, peace.]
[Context: a dying old man is giving this story to his two young adult sons.]
Humanity was once united in nomadry, led by someone whose wisdom knew no bounds.
They knew the clean water, the safe food, the coming weather, the terrain ahead, predators' approaches, and criminals' motives. Only the passage of time brought death: not an animal, not an accident, and definitely not infighting.
On their deathbed, the leader called for the very first person they saved, and spoke these words in their native tongue:
[None shall die alone or unknown. This is a divine oath that blesses a new person when its speaker can avoid death no longer.]
When that person learned everything they needed to know, the leader passed away, later becoming the origin of the word "confidant". The oath is our family motto for a reason.
My two boys, I blessed you with the Confidant's Creed. Coincidence no longer exists for you.
>Did he? I didn't get that at all. I don't think any reader would get that. Maybe try to convey the urgency in what he says? "I'm gonna go eat dinner, if you want to come" reads very much like a statement, a matter of fact, and not a proposal at all. If you follow that with a description that says he's practically begging for his friend to tag along, that just seems weird. Like I said, you should try to convey the desire he has for his friend to come along in the dialogue, not in the description that follows.
Eh. I want to sort of put forth the idea that the 'sage' is actually a massive dickwad. Which isn't very elegant.
I don't know if this is supposed to be ironic, tounge-in-cheek, or serious. If it's supposed to be comedic, I can see what you're trying to do, but it sounds very, very corny. If it's supposed to be serious, remove it ASAP.
Yeah, I'll probably change some stuff to try to make the 'sage' more of a realistic dickhead rather than this over the top meme character.
angsty journal entry incoming
It seems wrong to write about this now that it’s all over. Like a report about a crime I committed but can’t be tried for. What I did was a crime. And when I see love stories I have to leave, because they present love as a truth, an unstoppable force. But it wasn’t unstoppable when she faced me with tears in her eyes and told me she loved me, and I knew I didn’t love her at all. I knew I cared about her, but caring about her had worn me down. All the nights I had to intervene for her, for some dangerous situation she put herself in, just because she wanted me to be with her had whittled my once-tough bones to many pointed maces and daggers which dug into my skin from the inside. And then she asked if I was just with her for sex, the time when she screams and laughs and drags her claws over my back, and I told the truth and said no. But I didn’t tell her that I didn’t even know why I was with her. I didn’t tell her that I would never contact her again, for fear of losing myself entirely.
Just realized what I put in that first sentence was crap. What I mean is I want the close third person narrator to convey that the sage is stuck up and thinks that he is better than everyone else. Hence he misinterprets things as he sees fit to feed his own ego. But that would probably only come across if I wrote a longer piece
Is this short story worth finishing?
>hackneyed pomo drivel
Vague angst is boring and stupid. What did the guy do? Where exactly is all the drama coming from? You should either make this clear in the first sentence, or if you want to keep it a mystery, try to at least focus on the guy doing something more concrete that relates to the plot.
use adverbs/adjectives where the nature of an event is otherwise unclear - practice removing them all and reading it to yourself then add them only where absolutely necessary (this is why mulitple drafts are useful - the first is chock full of wordiness and the 2nd is more refined)
> Victor talked
where is le dialogue? dont be afraid of dialuge, even if it's long-winded, if it comes from a good character 1. that helps develop the character and 2. the reader wont feel lectured to directly
> one gets the sense
3rd person - is the narrator identified?
> William had no patience
> "...I'm not in the mood..."
this reads like a very early draft. all my criticisms are stylistic, so I'm not saying there's anything formally wrong here but I find it a boring passage/style
Haven't started writing it yet so I'll just set up the general premise of a story I'm thinking of
Basically, post apocalyptic world where all civilization is reduced to small tribes and villages. There are two peoples left on earth, people who fled to the skies in large airships, unaffected by the nuclear blasts, and mutant people who survived the blast but were permanently mutated into deformed versions of Humans. Technology is currently a mix between simplistic tribal stuff and salvaged technology from before the bombs dropped. Group of non-mutated humans find a Military base that survived the blast and decide to build a city around it, using the Technology and weaponry they recovered from within the base to dominate all the smaller tribes and villages in the nuclear wasteland. The guy who rules this city is a insane dictator who found a super suit within the military base that gives him a lot of pretty cool powers (immunity to radiation, control of electricity, immunity to noxious gas and smoke, etc) that allow him to control the city with a Iron fist. Main character is a guy from a small village of mutated people who are clearly mutated but still human looking and not very deformed. However, the dictator guy is trying to wipe out all peoples he deems "non-human" and the village he lives in decide to take a stand against him. Main character and the people of the village proceed to lead a war against the city by uniting all the tribes and villages together to fight the city.
Is this autistic/edgy or does it actually sound pretty cool?
He lurched through the door, bending his head as if he were too tall for it, and the group halted its discussions and attempted to greet him amiably despite their collective annoyance. Aware of this, he smiled forcefully, doing his part to ignore the present faux pas, and sat down on the couch with an exaggerated, and subtly aggressive, animation as if to convince the others he was relaxed and perfectly unbothered by the relative silence. ‘Sorry to be late!’ he said, attempting to resume the conversation in an impossible manner as if he had not just interrupted them unexpectedly. But they were uncomfortable and, being unable to resume their discussions naturally, became even more uncomfortable.
I didn't like the first two paragraphs, but I am curious about the family dynamic you set up in the third.
I think those first two paragraphs would be better in the middle of the story. If you open with them you are kinda telling the reader where their head should be instead of letting your story get them there naturally.
Just my two cents and they are probably worth less than that, but hey some feed back for ya!
Awesome, thanks for the advice m8s. I had not noticed before the extent to which I use adverbs with 'ly' at the end. I have made amendments!
>where is le dialogue? dont be afraid of dialuge, even if it's long-winded, if it comes from a good character 1. that helps develop the character and 2. the reader wont feel lectured to directly.
I originally had dialogue for this scene, but decided against it, for it felt long-winded and is not crucial to the story. I know it's hard to distinguish that when you only see a small portion of it, but there's a lot more dialogue after this excerpt. In fact, this is probably the the most I've ever used dialogue in a story
Forgot to comment on this. This is great, I have no complaints, you're definitely a superior writer. Hopefully with some more practice I'll get to a similar stage!
It's great to see that somebody still reads it!
It's almost at the end. I was actually thinking about leaving that last section as the finale, but I'll give a little more closure. Unfortunately, I've started on three different conclusions and none of them have satisfied me.
I'm starting to work on another story, so I'll begin posting that soon (probably in the next thread).
I've been trying to write words to a song before actually coming up with a melody. I tried:
Our passing moment
Buildings soar higher
Each widow remenisces
Days in the distant past
Only you can forgive
For the way you are
All our friends are in the sun
Join them down the line
But we will never meet
Alienated by eachother