Talk shit, post lit!
Last one at 3 hunna
Here is a short story I recently finished.
"TFW NO GF!" Howard Roark shouted from the roof of Reddit's towering Los Angeles headquarters, his hands outstretched, and his throat strained. The screaming helped to relax his nerves. It wasn't that Roark had a difficult life, no: he enjoyed his days, scanning the internet, his metaphorical hand, guided by mouse and keyboard, scanned, outstretched waiting to pluck the innocent flowers of nubile memes (which he pronounced "mee mees") and bring them home to his benevolent superiors. No, it was by no means any difficulty in Roark's life that led him to this dark place, but rather, his critical mission. In those days, Reddit's black octopus arms were just beginning to stretch, off of the crisp white pages and into the outside realms, out of the limits of the website itself and across, over, all abound in the internet, from imageboard to social media platform, and on the agenda of its total invasion, Roark was charged with the most difficult task of all. Moments later, as he sat back down at his computer, huffing exhaustedly from his afternoon of vocal purgation, he opened up his browser, and carefully typed the address that represented his destination: the physical entrance point by which he would propagate the revolution. As the pale blue light of 4chan's /lit/ sparkled on the coarse brim of his fedora, he smiled. The shitposting was about to begin.
This is an experimental comedy short story. It's pretty bad so I scrapped it, but I'd still like to hear your thoughts on it.
Two, tiny tales that I hope you find enjoyable if you take the time to read.
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 me. It happens every day; when I step onto the bus at 7:33 AM, there are only two seats available, which are 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 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 fluffy 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.
Harold Harvenmire was a man who was short in both stature and temper. Old and uneducated, Harold would spend his waning days watching reruns of game shows and disapproving the current youth. The Maddison boys would speed around the streets on their loud, clunky dirtbikes; Harold would shake his fist indignantly. He often sent in articles to the local paper, usually on the same subject: the shamelessness of the current youth. “Kids of this generation do not understand the core moral values anymore; they simply run amuck, only thinking about their phones and their drugs!” He would write, never getting any responses. Before bed, Harold would have his saltine crackers dipped in chocolate milk. He looked at the picture framed in black ivory that hung up on his bedroom wall and sobbed indignantly. In the glossy photograph was a picture of Harold as a young man, the corners of his mouth pulled upwards into a sincere smile by the warm hands of hope; he missed those days.
I present to you all: A scene of nonsense
Light that lantern Tommy. If I had more than 30 fingers I’d light it myself. What’s that? You’ve only got 10 yourself, then we’ll work together to find another 2. You’ve got to admit, under threat of scrutiny, that we’ll be needing 42 fingers for this job. The latern of Perobaxlion demands to be touched by no less and no more than 42 fingers. Have you got that horses head? Good, we don’t need it, but I know I picked the right prupup. Seven silver dollars!? You’ll have your silver on the S.S Regards. But it’ll cost you your mind. The half that counts atleast. So how’ll you count your 7 silver dollars without the piece of mind that you can count on? Riddle me this, and you may have 7 golden dollers, with buxom breasts and hot-heady breath. A wink is all you deserve, now go find me 2 fingers!
How do you expect to improve your writing through criticism if you don't understand what you're trying to say?
If you didn't have a message then you had nothing, just pointless drivel.
Opening to a thing I started today.
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.
The first little bit of a short story I'm working on. Would love thoughts/advice/critique on what I have so far.
The sun momentarily rested atop the eastern horizon, the sand of the Great Desert glittering in the early morning. A group of shadows shuffled about the huntress’s camp while she lulled beneath her makeshift tent.
A slight misstep of a bandit stirred the pale visage beneath the long flowing blonde mane. Anticipating the inevitable, the shadow hiding beneath the silver mask signaled with a wave and collapsed the shelter.
The woman rolled and grasped for her prized possession only to grasp the sand beneath where it once lay.
The slender shadow that had moved towards the sun upon the signal removed the short cylinder from her cloak, took aim at the girl, and then watched her crumple to the ground following the short *whiz*.
The huntress sneered in the sand, paralyzed.
The mask inched forth, tauntingly twirling the broken sword of the girl’s father. He whispered an apology, but the eyes beneath the mask only reflected an abyss of sadistic joy.
The man turned on his heel, waved another signal, and a boot promptly impacted the left half of the young woman’s visage, sending her into a black void not unlike the eyes behind the masked shadow.
This isn't a dup post, g00k
I see a man
Holding his love
Wrapping his arms around her
A blanket wrapped around her legs
keeping her safe.
His head leaned forward,
pressed against hers.
He has a stake stabbed through his eye.
He is mortally wounded
(as physically as wounded)
He fought for her
to protect her
-to win her love-
I know its awful please suggest me to make it better
ok anon, i can't help you to make it better but here's what i saw:
>Wrapping his arms around her
>A blanket wrapped around her legs
>keeping her safe.
Same thing said in 5 lines. Protecting her and keeping her safe. 'Symbolizes him' - could not visualize what this added or meant? Meta shit??
>His head leaned forward,
>pressed against hers.
Saw this image in my head but it's a bit cliched.
>He fought for her
>to protect her
Same idea again, anon.
The mall was not crowded but it was noisy. Inside the food court were even fewer people and more closed shops. Teddy led forward for a vacant table beside the K.F.C., but Simes sat first on the chair facing the entrances. Teddy did not seem to notice. Simes placed his coat on the third chair and headed for the sushi place without another word. He did not see but could feel Ted’s worried glance after him, chasing him down like a nervous grasshopper leaping from crop to crop in the pursuit of some vermin objective.
At the sushi place he ordered the sashimi, then he ordered the noodle udon bowl, and then when the cashier repeated the order back but forgot the sashimi he ordered the sashimi again. In the process of transaction he asked for two Cokes as well and the cashier regretfully repeated some action on the register. Simes paid by debit and waited by the chef. The chef was bent down, hands busy on some piece of light meat. Teddy said sushi was food made of alien meat but did not object to sashimi. Simes remembered that Teddy also preferred diet Coke, but did not want to speak to the cashier a second time.
The noodle udon bowl came with beef, although Simes didn’t think he ordered it with beef and did not know if the noodle udon bowl came in beef anyway. He carefully lifted the tray with the food and drinks on it and made his way to Teddy. Teddy had his arms crossed and seemed to be looking out of the corner of his eye in Simes’ general direction. When Simes got closer Teddy turned his head the other way. Simes put the tray down in the middle of the table and sat down.
“What’s up?”, he asked/said. Teddy would say “Nothing,”, glance at Simes and either smile or
It had been summer for four years now, and Henry was finally accustomed to the cicadas. In the days when he still had a future, he hated their trilling, because it was so loud and so piercing that he could scarcely think about anything else, which posed a problem, especially on the days when he was taking an English exam and could hear those cicadas on the other side of the classroom window, like he was a zoo animal and they were the humans, and they were mocking him, and he would get so angry and so distracted that he would inevitably fail his test. Although, if Henry were being honest with himself, he would admit that he was never really any good at English to begin with and that the cicadas weren't actually hindering his academic performance in any way.
So far so intrigued. Referencing KFC feels awkward to me, perhaps don't name it? Repetition of noodle udon reminds me of Erdedy's chapter from Infinite Meme, and the short sentences and high detail remind me of some other chapters from it.
I really like the first one. Nice subtle humour that added to a sense of absurdism/surrealism. Favourite line:
>It is as if she only rides the bus to give me a long and thorough examining.
Any more to the second one? I feel like I'm missing the core element of the tale. Nice tone otherwise.
Last year, a man I had known since we were boys stuck a Remington 870 Express shotgun into the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger. Before he did so he wrote a stereotypical suicide note in which he failed to adequately explain just why a man with a wife and two sons could see it fit to paint the walls of his office with his own blood.
In fact there was just a single line which seemed to even attempt to address the question which any half-decent suicide note should tend to. He wrote: 'I have lost the will to live.' That was the why of it, if he is to be believed, and he was generally an honest man, though you must question the honesty of a man willing to end his life so dishonestly. It is one of those things your mind wanders to of its own accord. That is, unfortunately, the way it is, and it is why I am writing these reflections.
‘Beneath me here in stinking clumps
Lies Lawyer Largebones, all in lumps;
A rotten mass of clockholed clay,
Which grown more honeycombed each day. See how the rats have scratched his face? Now so unlike the human race;
I very much regret I can’t
Assist them in their eager ‘bent’.’
Filled me up with exploding fractal yawns. 'asked/said' ← why would you do this? Who are you? Why are you here? How did you decide to write this? What can you do to make it better? Who are you? Why are you here? How did you decide to write this? What can you do to make it better? Who are you? Why are you here? How did you decide to write this? What can you do to make it better?
I just started a new chapter of my gritty cyberpunk pulp noir detective novel...It's going great so far.
Short Samoa sat at the bar silently...Reflecting on everything that had happened. The dim neon glow from the signs lit up the area around him. Short wasn't so fond of the clientelle that this place catered to, but it was the only place he could get a drink in this city. He craved the scent of a woman in heat at this point, but all he saw were the faggots and the ladyboys dancing to the minimalist music blaring from the speakers above.
If this was a joke, it'd have stopped at 'sat at the bar silently'. Besides that, 'ladyboys' seems like a passing maymay word. Then again, it's the shortest way to say 'underage asian prostitute tranny'.
"Ladyboys" as a term probably predates "trannies", certainly in popular usage and absolutely wrt Asian sex workers. There are no connotations of age in it though. You're talking out your arse.
are the strippers dancing to Steve Reich and Philip Glass? Or do you mean like "minimal" the house genre? most readers who aren't clubbers or /mu/ nerds aren't gonna know what that means...just say "sparse techno" or some shit...yeah, minimal is a genre of house, but for the sake of non-shit prose the difference is
And yeah, fine, Thai male (boy) child prostitutes dressed as girls are what you are referring to and 'ladyboy' is the best word for that. Or you mean something else?
Anyway, 'ladyboy' had a surge of usage in the 1920s that's hard to see on the chart.
I'm the first little cunt, there are two apparently. So you wrote 'ladyboy' and you are arguing about 'กะเทย' or 'kathoey'.
>I have not written shit about what kinds of sneezes asians make you little nigger
I don't know about the accuracy of that chart but while there may have been a few mentions of "tranny" in the context we mean it (prior to the 80s it referred to a car's transistor), ladyboys meaning kathoeys has been a popular term since western sailors started to encounter them on a large scale. Certainly it was in the lexicon circa WWII and in a big way after the Vietnam War.
I feel that a new home requires a new journal, like opening a new book, perhaps literally.. Which is why I exchanged the old, red one to this new green one. The old one was filling up, anyway. As with the last one, an introduction is in order. My name's Daniel Seffaran. Like practically everyone in my family, I'm writing journals, not only for my own peace of mind, but for the generations to read aswell. Speaking of generations, since my uncles' untimely death, I am the oldest remaining Seffaran. While most of his money went to his own adult children, he had decided to gift his estate to me. And how could I say no? I had visited this manor many times, in fact my earliest and most powerful memory is sunset over the swampland, dousing the usually murky grounds in bright orange sunlight. I'm not from around here originally, but this might as well be a second home to me. In fact I'm from the north, from Boston more specifically. My father was a jackass, but my mother, while not a real Seffaran, was more interested in his -no, our- legacy than she was in her own completely average family. And I presume that my uncle found our loyalty to the history of my family more important than blood bonds. Even though his children are very nice people. Four of them, and a mother. All of them scattered when the father, that is, my uncle, died.. I wouldn't have minded sharing the manor if they had asked. It's a very spacious place. I'm writing this as I am sitting on the balcony, peering into that golden twilight again. It's.. Well, it's damp. Damp, but at the same time beautiful. Due to the large hill the estate was built on, and the elevation of the balcony itself, I can look out at the canopy of trees from above, seeing a few clearances where the swamp yields to a mushy 'lake' too watery for proper trees to grow on, or a more proper river, cutting visible gaps in the seemingly unending willow trees, no doubt infested with spanish moss.. Or perhaps a lonely village, only hinted at through the way I see them now, or a winding gravel road, overgrown to the point of small bushes sprouting between the tire tracks.
Not sure what style you're going for in this piece. I could see it being more of a YA type story but the language is a bit too flowery for that. I'd say try to really focus on your audience a bit more and refine it a bit. Kind of played out story but finish it anyway and see how far you can take it.
That etymology site generally seems reliable but it doesn't really matter. 1: I'm pretty sure I've come across tranny in older texts meaning something other than transexuals, 2: it's in a cyberpunk piece and almost certainly means kathoey rather than anything else, 3: while some children might be kathoey, the word has no actual connotations of being underaged and 4: the writing we're discussing is a piece of shit anyway.
Let me try!
>Short Samoa sat at the bar, frowning as he focused on the half-empty glass infront of him. The repetetivee thud-thud-THUD rhythm blared at him from the dancefloor, which he had his back turned towards. He had given it a glimpse when he first entered, but despite his own lust, he couldn't bring himself to grind on some obnoxious little faggot, even if that faggot tried his best not to look like a pubescent and rebellious boy, even though sweat was gathering on the patch of poorly shaved whiskers above the teenagers bright green lipstick.
She was jiggling her hips and the man watched intently, studying the hips, thinking to himself, "Hmm, hips, how interesting." He had never seen hips like these before. They gyrated before him, like a massive machine, rotating endlessly. It was hypnotic. He couldn't look away. He felt something happening in his pants. What was this? The hips were doing something to him. He was changing somehow. Perspiration was gathering on his forehead. He had never experienced anything like this. Downstairs, he was becoming engorged with blood. It was filling up, like a glove full of water. He wondered what would happen if he stick a pin in it. Would it burst? Would blood spill out everywhere? Would it all go all over the place, all over his slacks? These questions haunted him. He was troubled by them. It was the hips. There was something about them. He was fully engorged now, and he filled with the desire to put his thing in her, and to lick her vagina. He was salivating now. The woman drew closer, her hips spiraling crazily in a kind of helix motion. No, she was going too fast! He worried for her. What would happen if she went even one eighth of a mile per hour faster? Something disastrous, he feared, something worse than death itself.
The woman looked at him, peering into his eyes which in term peered at her hips. There was so much peering going on, it was hard to believe. "Hey baby," she said, her red lips going all over the place, all over her face... to be frank, he wasn't sure what was happening at all. These were not ordinary lips. "You come here often."
The man smirked at her. Ha! He'd been asked a question. A funny old thing that was, to be asked a question. He tried to remember the last time he had been asked a question such as that and... he couldn't. He couldn't think of a single question at all. He was horrified. How was this possible? Aha! That was a question! Finally, he had done it. He gave a small fist punch in celebration, The woman noticed the punch and smiled. "Us ladies are more perceptive than we seem," she crooned, and he suddenly felt self-conscious, as if he had been found out.
"It's nothing," he said with a boyish smirk. "I was just punching the air. It wasn't any big thing."
She raised an eyebrow. Then she raised another eyebrow. Then the rest of her face raised to match her eyebrows. Then the rest of her body raised to match her face. She was a foot off the ground now. How had this happened? He couldn't understand it. Was she a magician? Some of magic woman? Some kind of witch, perhaps? No... he pushed the thought out of his head. It wasn't possible. It was those hips. He was being driven insane by those damn hips!
You lost me completely because it doesn't seem at all like you know anything about the type of life in which someone would have an estate or be worried about marriage bonds. That said, the overall style is poor and writing a story as if it's the character writing a diary is obnoxious and overdone.
Hey call me Blorx. Me and my friends like to hang around at the old yard. This is a story of something that happened to us once. I hope y'all are gonna enjoy it. Hey listen everybody. I'm trying to relate to you on a personal level by talking to you like you're just one of my bros. Do you understand what's going on here? Could you even understand anything like this? You fool. You stupid idiot. You could never understand this masterpiece. You might as well just give up reading now. You're too stupid to handle it. Anyway, like I was saying. Me and the boys were hanging out a the yard.
"Yo Blorx," said Jiblor. Ha, it was classic Jiblor. He was always saying things like "Yo Blorx." If you knew him, you would see what an archetypal moment this was.
I looked over my shoulder. "Yeah?"
Jiblor made a face. Now, this face was impossible to describe, but I laughed uproariously when I saw it, because I thought it was funny! Probably if you saw it, you would just think it was stupid or something, but if you understood the relationship we had, then you would see why something like that would be funny. Anyway so Jiblor made this face.
"Cut it out Jiblor," I said.
That afternoon, it started raining, and this caused the mulch to be washed off a corpse, which we all saw, and it had no head, and there were maggots on it.
"Jesus man!" said Benny. "When I heard about this dead body, five seconds ago, when you called me over to it, I was anticipating something cool like in the movies, but this is disgusting man... just fucking disgusting, but we are all changed by this experience... it's an important part of our 'coming of age'..."
You thought he was going to say more but then he didn't. Anyway that's the story. Maybe one day you'll find out about more stories from the yard. Please review me and tell me what I can improve. Thank you guys, it means so much to me that you read stories like these. Sometimes I don't know what I would do without you. Sometimes I just think about ending it all. Anyway tell me what you think.
Thanks, I appreciate your feedback. I realize it's not exactly a rewarding piece to read... and I'm trying to work on making the prose more potent, without getting too tumescent.
I can't write stories right now.. Far too new to this..I'm just working on describing the scenes and scenarios from everyday life. To put it memely: I'd like to describe the banalities of life sincerely, without clichés or platitudes.. I.e write something relatable
It was 11:48PM. I walked past all the houses on my street. I saw all the lights in the windows, I heard people laughing and conversing. Simpletons.
I saw a chubby girl with a party hat standing on a porch. She saw me walking down the street alone, although I had my hood up and was focused in my zen mode and stealth walking calmly but she saw me and pointed at me, and slurred something before laughing loudly. I lost my calm and gave her the finger but I am not sure she saw it since my sleeves covered my hands and it was dark. I bet you thought that little party tiara makes you pretty? Guess again.
I was not drunk. I do not imbibe as I think being drunk is ugly, it makes you ugly and lowers your IQ and I believe in being aware of one's surroundings at all times.
I made it past the houses towards the woods. A big stretch of dark pleasure, hundreds of thousands of trees. I switched on my head lamp. I can see fairly well in the dark but I did not want to take any chances tonight. New Year's Eve was a special ritual for me, a way to reset myself and embrace my true mind from every angle to mentally prepare me for the coming year. I would grow wiser in these last 10 minutes than all of the 12 months that came before it. Trust me.
I walked down the narrow pathway, over sticks and rotted logs. It was cold, but not too cold. It was wet. The forest was quiet and yet felt alive at the same time. I felt like the earth was ready to give birth to an unexpected child: me.
After several minutes of walking, I reached "the spot". I looked at my watch. 11:54 PM. Plenty of time, as my zen state could really slow down my perception of time and I can taste every last moment of this bitter sweet year.
I sat down on some moss in half-lotus position. I took off my rucksack and pulled the two small candles and matches I had brought with me. I set both candles down and lit them carefully and stared at them. My watch read 11:57PM. It was time to begin.
I continued to stare at the candles and indeed time slowed down. The candles flickered silently. I entered the zone. I felt all of my mistakes and wasted time from the year, all of my regrets float out of my soul like perspiration. I began to feel lighter and freer. My body meant nothing. My mind meant nothing. All that was left was my energy and the two candles, bouncing back and forth across each other in the middle of this dark forest, in the middle of oblivion.
All of the sudden I heard noises: not close by, but far off in the distance. I started to come out of my trance. I looked at my watch. Of course, it was 12:00AM. It was 2016. The noise I heard was the simpletons yelling and cheering and kissing and fucking like apes. Lighting off firecrackers, honking horns, smashing bottles. Disgusting.
Cont. I thought about them, about the chubby girl who laughed at me on the way here to my sanctuary. I found myself growing a bit erect. What if that bitch was actually trying to hit on me when she slurred at me? I bet I could have taken her here and fucked that fat mouth of hers with my sweaty cock. I suddenly couldn't control myself and stood up right there and took my big erect penis out and started to jerk it dry. The thought of fucking that chubby girl right in her clit was too much for me and I groaned and shot my semen all over the candles, extinguishing them as if I was extinguishing the two fiery eyes of that fat horny bitch.
Immediately I felt guilty. I had given in to my monkey brain. Was I just like the rest of those apes? Maybe. But I thought further and realized, I could not ignore my body. My ejaculation was simply the final expression of my spirituality. The final expulsion of energy composed of ambition and anxiety. It was a communion with myself, and my orgasm was the extreme pleasure of my soul.
This was also my first cum of 2016. I was ready for the New Year.
The brilliant wall of white stood some twenty yards before me. No longer could I bare to keep walking past it, gazing into its brilliance while my mind grows abyssal. My inner monologue possessed by the unknown world I've conjured, stalking me just on the other side of the wall.
The dirt and dust below my feet quietly crunch as I take a step towards the wall.
But this time, it is different. In a void, anything, even absolutely nothing, can become something. A mind wired by fear projects holograms, impressing where nothing may be molded. The truth of light misinterpreted by its own interpreter.
I extend my arm. My open palm rests firmly where the damp stone beside me begins reflecting the white. It's strangely cool. The faint light embracing the rest of me: gently warming. Chills run down my spine.
I had the loveliest dream last night. Indescribable. Everything was so vast. Much like the familiar darkness born from these lifeless walls and dead dirt. The difference was this vastness did not feel condemning. No...
I stare intently into the wall of light. Vague figures form and dissipate within. Almost as if dancing. My eyes swell and blur.
... It wasn't the same. It was clearer. This vastness was grandiose. Radiant and enlightening. It was embracing me, not containing me. And only one other thing had stirred feelings in me as those beforehand.
When I had awoken, and my eyes opened, I felt something was missing. I searched through the winding halls and rubble of my dingy abode.
The soft impact of the droplet kicked up a small cloud of dirt before beading up. The small, moist streak along my cheek wrinkles. A smile.
At first I was lost, searching aimlessly through my web of tunnels without knowing what I was looking for.
But then I saw it: the illuminated hall. Quarantined typically, but I walk towards the corridor and carefully look around the corner towards the white.
At the sight of the light, a mild déjà vu flashed me back to my dream. And In that moment, I realized what it was. I wasn't missing anything at all. I understood. I understood something I realized I had known all along, all these years.
I look up from the damp craters in the dirt. There was no hesitation. My feet confidently guide me forward. My fingers delicately brushing along the cold stone I had grown so familiar with. Slowly they pull away. And at that very moment, all I feel is warmth as I cross wall of light.
>Threw this together tonight while thinking about how depression works with fear and anxiety. It's just a quick, insightful anecdote
Thoughts? I don't write professionally, I do it mostly to help myself and clear my mind.
What disgrace! What fury, what anger I throw against myself! It's reasons so obscure, as if underwater I see and hear, but the sounds are nothing more than distorted and uncomprehensible words. I understand nothing, and I feel nobody does. They don't understand and don't care, these happy ignorants! Silent judge, voice of the soul! Everything you see and everything you hear. With these penetrating eyes you judge me. Why don't you talk? Answer! Your judgement is like a flame burning inside me, I try to extinguish it, but I can't. When will you finally open your mouth?
A section of my essay I wrote for JROTC, I never got any feedback on it. Is it a facade of eloquence or is there some quality writing here?
It is an undeniable fact that JROTC is military training. Instead of teaching toward a just and peaceful world, military training emphasizes dominance and nationalism. As Albert Einstein once said in "The world as I see it" printed in 1934, “I look upon myself as a man. Nationalism is an infantile disease. It is the measles of mankind." The military discipline and minor training are not necessary to be a respectable and complete citizen. We are completely fit building up our own reputation as fine men and women without ranks on our coats.
There is a quote by Sun Tzu I often hear, "All warfare is based on deception." This quote has lead me to question when war begins; when are we involved. We have been deluded that we are being built into proper citizens, when in fact we are being bred for war. Of course we have never faced the fire, nor fear that war so proudly spouts, but we have been taught to love it.
I am tired of being taught a world built asunder, though I know war is inevitable; such is man. In all of recorded history, man has been at complete peace for just eight percent of the time. We thrive on false dichotomies, purposely separating each other with petty differences also made up. We put ourselves above others; we call others animals and forget both our own beastly behavior and relations. We create Gods to fight over. Like children, we’ve built forts to close us in, thrashing out at whoever tries to join; putting up signs like no girls allowed, or perhaps just no blacks, Japs or Jews. We have forgotten how to love. Perhaps we never learned.
Yesterday at least we knew our purpose. The message was clear and the job got done, no matter the reason. Today, we lie. We forge our weapons under cover and paint them innocent. Tomorrow, there will be rubble; our walls will fall upon us; death has no segregation.
Good effort. All those questions though... Doesn't work.
Took the laughs rght outta my mouth—just period coming, drooling from my lips—wiped away w/a tissue covered in fresh-picked boogers. That laugh that was yours, the laugh alone in the dark January night loped out and I fell asleep dreaming of Jiblor... just classic Jiblor...
What the FUCK is up with all the semicolons?
You start right out running from the bush with 'It is an undeniable fact' which is just fucking shit.
I mean, the giveaway is your question right at the start: Is it a facade of eloquence? No, it isn't, but that's what you were going for, otherwise why ask. It's just bad. Like something written for JROTC. Why are you on /lit/? I'm actually curious.
First time posting on this board, lemme know what you think. I had fun writing it high as fuck a few weeks ago. I know my commas are all fucky I'm working on it.
I wrote this a while ago when I was fresh on semicolons and didn't really know how to use them that well.
This is a section from my essay, I didn't start with "it's an undeniable fact", I had a good 400+ words prior to this explaining it.
To be honest, I'm just some guy wanting to be more. I guess I could say I'm above average for most the people I've met, but I just keep chasing that intellectual pedestal I'm afraid I'll never reach. I'm left being pretentious with good intentions which, of course, means nothing. So I read (and write), I come here to see what you guys read, try to mimic, fail, and think about my life.
Well, here it is. I've actually finished the whole thing but it needs editing pretty desperately.
It's a strange phrase – 'I have lost the will to live.' It evokes a very visceral response yet I have a very explicit problem with it.
For something to be lost, surely it must be possible that it could be found. Even the needle in the proverbial haystack could be found if one was to search for long enough. And so, the stereotypical phrase evokes the stereotypical response – could I have done more? The answer to that question inexorably is yes. Any other answer would be too easy. Of course there were people closer to the death both physically and emotionally who perhaps are harder pressed by this question, and I truly sympathise with them. His wife, left alone with two young sons whose early childhood will forever be pocked by the untimely and intentional death of their father, of course has the hardest mental burden to bear in the wake of the suicide. But I can't help but think of his secretary.
What must it have been like to have found him there with half his face gone? The disgust, the guilt the sadness, the horror. To arrive at work ready to take calls only to be dropped into this horrific tragedy, to be confronted with mortality in its most gruesome form. When she recalls him does she see his face as it was or as it became? At the funeral did his ghastly image not burn through the closed casket right into her soul? They are questions I am glad to never know the answer to. But they are questions that still constrict the mind from time to time.
Three nights before I arrived, I had a dream about Chip Kelly’s nonexistent daughter. She had no name, but she was giving me a handjob under the dinner table (over the pants at first, then she found her way under). Chip was giving me the ‘she’s touching your weiner, isn’t she?’ look, so I told her to stop, but she wouldn’t. Dream things happened, and suddenly she’s on top of me, and I’m on my back, and she’s grinding on me, and I see Chip Kelly over her shoulder at the end of a dimly-lit hallway. “Stop.”
I awake in the dark, feeling slightly better but now bound to a pole. Light shines down in rays from the floor boards above, footsteps cause dust to fall and I admire the beautiful music; Mozart, is it? Maybe Beethoven, Bach? Ah, I don’t know the slightest bit about classical music, but it’s nice to pretend. It reminds me of Analiegh, Oh! Where is she, more importantly where am I? I’m tied up but I’m surprisingly calm, I always wondered how I might react in this type of situation, but I can’t seem to focus on the meaning of this. The music stops and there’s a slight creak as a door opens at the top of the stairs, the light revealing part of the room. A grand piano, a table and chairs, and a bed are shown. A very tall, thin man walks down the stairs lazily, when he reaches the bottom of the stairs he looks over at me and smiles, I smile back. He has dark circles around his eyes, a large nose, thin lips and a strong jaw. He walks off into the shadows and by the sounds made, appears to be searching for something. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a visitor, the last one, Susanne I think it was, she screamed for hours” there was a long pause, him still being unseen, “She was from Kentucky, I loved her accent, but she ruined her throat. All that screaming would do none any good. I say that sound can shatter the windows to the soul and fill one to the brim with both the beauty and sickness of life leaving a feeling of bliss and desire, the desire of course being for more. Ah! Here it is.” He walks into the light holding a chair and a guitar, he sits close to me and takes a pick from is pocket then closes his eyes, I prepare for a beautiful song but as he begins to strum, a terrible sound is made as if he were a toddler finding a musical toy. I wait for him to laugh, for him to say it was a joke, but he continues. When he finishes he sees that I’m not impressed, “Well, I hope I kept you entertained, whether of my benefit or not. What would you like for lunch?” I look at him confused, out of humor, I say, “Lobster” His face doesn’t change, and there’s an awkward silence as he stares at me. “Well, I may have to visit the market; if that’s what you want, but that’s a pretty strange lunch if you ask me”
Clockwork orgami, to fold meaning into syllabic expression and presented for the sake to impress. Now I am lost in a world of ethereal sensation. Words, which used to resonate so clearly and strike at the tender, worn psyche are now distant and vague, stimulating little of the imagination and provoking no reason to improve. Is this the end? The passionate craving for vibrant perfection has calmly submitted to peace with the brutally underwhelming.
Had to stir up the pot with an ugly stick to invigorate the blood, but yet now I'm faintly sorrowful that these words hold no more bearing on my pervasive tranquility.
NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER
Giggles. Description. Rambling.
You're all too busy with points.
first time writing since high school
I think the action is good
First time posting here, pls go easy. This is very rough draft, so would love to hear critiques :)
In the dull morning, cloudy and grey as it always is in the wintertime, I would wake from a dreamless sleep; wooden mouth, heavy eyes, stench of sweat and alcohol fumes from an empty bottle of tequila, or scotch, or brandy that lay next to my bed on the floor. It would have been full the night before. Then , having slept for 1 or 2 or 3 hours at most I’d trudge into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth (and my gums would bleed) and sometimes shave and even rarer take a shower. I didn’t like the way I lived, I despised myself because of it. When I looked in the mirror I saw a foul beast staring back. But I saw no way out. I’d be like this for years, but time never really seemed to past. I was aware of the time only when the faint church bells chimed on the hour, but those became meaningless. And every Tuesday, though I never knew it was Tuesday, the government check would come in the mail, and I’d go downstairs to the bottle shop where the man at the counter knew me by name. He’d be my only company for the week.
My last paragraph or monologue of some sorts:
By those ends, I hadn't worry about a master anymore. Frederica, I, must finally take some closure in. It was time for me to take a person leave. Raising my soles on the chair, resting my head, I nudge the curtain a little further. Please, let the curtain, this one last time, finally draw to a close, and for me, only for myself, to rest, just for a little bit.
Acted on previous criticisms. Still tweaking and leaking.
Any advice on how to improve the interruptive device? It's supposed to be jarring to the POV character and by extension the reader, but I feel like it's still kind of clumsy.
Hey /lit/ how's my stream of consciousness?
The thing looked neither man nor woman although it was male and the child beckoned it into his home speaking to it like a friend, come come friend and wipe the pus from your sores and the dust from the cracks along your feet. The day you must have had, my gods, surely you're a tired old thing, and with that the thing entered and sat on the cushions that lay sprawled across that sopping ground like flotsam and the child pulled the highest lever on the wall, all the while watching the thing and grinning, and warm soup spouted from the grid neighboring the circuitry and filled two bowls, one labeled guest. Here friend, said the boy, here friend. Tell me of your day. The thing looked into the bowl as it was passed and wished, wished like a stranded man wishes for water, that it could speak.
Opening to something I'm working on. I obviiusly haven't named the mc yet, hence why there's a splattering of [name] in this.
The smell of smoke still hung in the air. It was quiet now, the steady din of sirens had subsided, and the firefighters and police officers who throughout the night had maintained a steady din had now retired to their homes. Their work, though brave, had failed to save the old schoolhouse, and [name] knew that soon the early spring morning peacefulness would be replaced with the sounds of the demolition crew, reducing what remained of one of Market Weighton’s oldest remaining buildings to rubble.
Standing on his front lawn, drinking his first coffee of the day [name] saw a small fragment of ash that had blown over during the blaze. He bent down to examine it more closely - a force of habit - and could just make out the end of a name, and a date - 1967 - among its charred remains. Turning it over he could see the school’s stamp. “Probably from a notebook” he thought. The local school had been using the same type of generic blue lined book when he was a student, and probably continued to right up until it closed ten years ago. He wondered how many notebooks and student records had been kept there, a time capsule of the town’s youth, now lost forever.
He took the fragment it inside, placing it in a small tin that his wife, Emily, would otherwise use for sewing pins, or other household nik-naks. [name] didn’’t feel any great affection for his school days, but he didn’t like the idea of history being erased, even in small measures. By tomorrow all traces of the school would be gone, the sirens and shouting would have moved to some other emergency, and on the other side of town the new secondary school would be adding to its own time capsule. Soon the developers would move in and build something on the site. New residents would move in, have families, and in time pass away. But that small charred fragment of notebook would remain.[name] thought it would remind him of his school days, or perhaps of this morning, stood on his lawn, drinking coffee, the stillness of a spring morning belying the chaos and confusion of the night before.
What it ended up reminding him of though, was the night that Jack Rosenthal and Clara Philipps died.
Too crafted. It's almost like you're addressing an audience. Wow. Woof woof barke barke.
Is using comma splices actually bad, or is it just some arbitrary prescriptivist rule? After looking up the concept I realized I use them pretty often, but my writing style has always been kinda spoken.
Lathnos het faltern on the high stump
Tious masses rustling their coats in root-eaves below
while Istern hordes trample in a growing spiral
on gods' faces, antipodal.
Sammandrion, sivy settled Satremonger
he may be, lends animate to callowed, mallean Prentics
and holds barred many a mangled law-tracer
but has no heed of his brother
Taphylos, who's none below but the deads' hands
agaze to the primate roil past halted lands.
I can't tell you anon. I write every morning, but before I go for cohesive story telling I write some stream of consciousness.
That is the result of that, I don't watch many movies, but I'd hardly be surprised if there was one with a similar lunatic conversation.
(Have mercy on me /lit/.)
Flags of red, everywhere. Even with the windows shut and the drapes down the red seeped through the fabric and gave the room a rose tint.
“Do you think they will die down?”
“Comrade everyone dies, but cancer can replicate forever. So I cannot say.”
Red flashed across the wall. Fireworks or fire?
“You know, I'm amazed that you can still keep up this weak banter even while the world is bleeding out beyond that wall”
The walls (while normally white) gave off a red glow, transforming to a shade of black in the cobwebbed corners of the candle lit room. The man whom called the other man comrade put down his pen and lit a cigarette.
After his second exhale he said, “We comrades have to keep our wits about, think of what would happen if we didn't.”
“I would have a full belly?”
“Perhaps, but not a full mind?”
“As long as some tobacco is on hand I could get by.”
“A head filled with smoke?”
The two men stared at each other over the sound of red for several moments. Then one chuckled, leading to the two engaging in a hearty laugh.
“See, even in this treasure trove we can't come up with any wit.”
“What do you want me to drop some quotes by Kropotkin or something?”
“Ironically I don't think they would even appreciate that kind of speech outside.”
An explosion boomed out in the red vacuum, the two men took cover under their desks as if bullets were flying by. The comrade-less man brushed off his suit even though the explosion had been set off blocks away from the room. “I'm starting to think that this outside realm is becoming a kind of demigod.”
“I can smoke to that.” After a short pause, “But don’t tell the demigod.”
I don't think I have enough written for a sample yet, but I wanted /lit/'s advice on a piece I'm writing.
Basically, it's a science fiction story that involves aliens, but the aliens only figure into the plot later on in the story. I'm worried that incorportating them late (and without much precedence in the story, for that matter) will come off as cheesey, lazy, or out-of-place.
How can I avoid this? I can provide more information if necessary.
I really liked this but I'm not sure what you were going for the red works that well, and the "or something" feels a little off. I think reign the extended metaphor in, trim the dialogue, and you'll have yourself a great section.
Opening to an ss I'm working on; opinions?
p.s f-22 s a placeholder until I research derby racing a bit more.
Kate worked in an antiques shop, which suited her down to the bone. She’d taken the job with the idea that the quaintness of the place might do something for her pursed features, make them haughty rather than sour; add a dash of regality. She bent to examine herself in a low ovular mirror, it was only her eyes and nose that were affected, her lips bore no trace of meanness, they were plum and generous, and if any criticism could be leveled at them, it was that they were so eager to please, that they appeared a little slap dash; David had once said they were smeared across her mouth like strawberry jam, and she had given a little giggle which she later thought rather disgusting.
They were both well aware of her vanity, but, precisely, because of it, the subject could never be raised, and so if David wanted to give her a little prick, all he had to do was pay her a compliment that implied wonkiness, or painted a picture of her that was out of kilter with the image she cultivated.
She worried sometimes that he might brow beat her with so many of these backhanded compliments that she would reach the point of tears, and for vanity’s sake, would be able to give nothing more in return than one of her disgusting giggles.
For his part, David was exceedingly ugly; she knew it; he knew it and in that they were alone, for all the girls made a fuss of him, and the boys carried round his image on movie posters tacked to the walls of their jealous hearts.
It was the racing. Untangling himself from his f-22 David looked like nothing more than a prince: gangly limbs turned sprightly and pockmarked muddled face screeching rebellion. The racing took each imperfection and turned it into it a towering heroic feat.
Have the characters in a situation that involves some overbearing powerful force that dominates their actions, but is without physical form and appears only in social interactions. Then just use the aliens as a metaphor for said conflicting force.
How do you practice writing in tenses?
He is old and sits silently beside the hospital bed.
Sunlight swims across the white cotton bedsheets draped
along her body and he sees the pale skin and
the deep set wrinkles beginning to black.
She is dead and he closes his eyes and tries not to think
but it is no use and he opens them.
"Margret" he says "are you asleep".
He stares at the wall opposite.
Large words and small words are
written on leaflets but he cannot read them.
He did not bring his glasses.
"Margret" he says "do you know where I've left them".
A parade of doctors following their senior pass by.
"Excuse me" says the old man.
"Excuse me" he says "can you help".
The senior is caught in his momentum and
rotates like a compass.
Picking up the chart at the end of the bed,
he examines it, and passes it to his students
"What would the problem be" the senior says,
crossing eye to eye with the old man.
"I can't find my glasses I know they're
somewhere about here". A few of the students
shift the weight on their feet.
Before the senior has time to reply
the old man is up and on his knees
ducking under the bed.
"I think they might have gone".
Unsure, the senior asks whether
he has asked the office.
"I'll try that" and the old man thanks
the senior and they part ways.
He slumps back into his seat
as the last of the doctors move on
from view and he is alone again.
"Margret" he says "I'm not sure where they've gone".
Our world had become too porous and transient for simple introductions by the time Terry's oral presentation on the French Revolution was do on October 5th, 2013. Therefore, he started at the end of the story, and proclaimed the 21st Century Incarnation of United States of America to be the resting place of 20th Century Europe. He was given a D- and kicked to the ivory curb of Z. Suit Private High School.
While sitting outside that godforsaken prep school, Terry felt an itch deep within the golden hairs of his skull. The itch was generated by nothing so petty as the displacement of certain molecules in his epidermis which generated an irritation, but by the much more noble injury of an epiphany. Right then and there, the seventeen year old New Englander tore the opressive garments of lower Higher Education from his flesh and ran naked into the pines which charm those rich folks of the North West into giving their children the most expensive indoctrination America could conjure at that time.
Terry's parents arrived in their limo quite some time after the boy had finished his schooling, and they were rather upset at the Z. Suit faculty for doing no better in their policing. It was their job as educators to dictate a student's life to them, even long after they had left the school, after all and they couldn't even do this! "
-The first three paragraphs of my novel. If it's bullshit I should get rid of just tell me I haven't gotten any further than this and its been three days and I can't decide if I should start over with something better or if this is good enough and I should just keep going
You're welcome. Stop doing that weird double period thing. It's really annoying and makes me not want to read anything you ever write ever again. It makes you seem like a dumb nigger or an 11 year old goth girl.
First of all, you don't get to decide if what you wrote is insightful. I will tell you that it's not.
As for the actual writing I think you tend to focus too much on the actions and not enough on the actual emotion. I sense no feeling of dread, fear, anxiety, depression, etc. It just feels a bit like a disjointed scene. I would so go back over it again with a very heavy-handed editing technique. Pull it away from this weird in between place that it exists now where it reads like it wants to be poetry but is written as prose. Choose one and do a complete rewrite in the appropriate style.
You sound like you own more than one fedora. If you think you're above the average person you've met then you have met some pretty dumb people and clearly never left your little town in Bumfuck, Middle America.
You should stop writing while high. You should also stop getting high in general but that's besides the point of this thread. Straighten your life out. But if you're going to stay here, please don't post again.
The first paragraph doesn't seem to fit stylistically. I'd give it a rewrite. Still, pretty solid overall; like you said, it needs editing.
Also, it doesn't take long at all to find a needle in a haystack. Just burn all the hay first.
It's happening too frequently and too steadily to be jarring. It just comes off as mildly annoying. You're also allowing yourself to complete thoughts before it interrupts which makes it simply flow (annoyingly) along.
It feels like you're trying too hard to convey a specific emotion to the reader. Reword this with different language about the relationship between your MC, the school building, and possibly Emily rather than just telling us how he feels directly. Make the reader find and then feel the emotion for themselves. It will provide you a bigger impact.
- The longest word isn't always the best word. I can tell you're trying to sound eloquent. Try writing in your natural voice instead.
- On that note, you have a penchant for long, under-punctuated sentences. It makes it confusing and arduous to read your prose. Try varying your sentence length more.
- It seems unrealistic that someone would take a limo to pick their kid up from school. If the parents are that fucking rich, their chauffer can drive them around in a standard-length car.
- No one needs another story about Holden Caulfield. I know, I know - it's so hard growing up in an affluent family and going to a good school. It's hard, and no one understands. But unless you have something really new to say about it (and you probably don't), you should try writing about someone who isn't basically you.
Sorry to be harsh, but after a couple workshop courses, it gets tiring to see people rehashing that stuff. Don't think I'm saying that you have no potential or that you should give up.
Definitely not bad, but can a barista really afford an apartment alone in Melbourne? Also, the office working clean-shirt part, are the working poor really talking in such a way about about normal people? Seems a bit far-fetched.
The rest of the story is actually a
thriller about the guy joining an insurrectionist anarchist groupso the Holden Caulfield criticism isn't really applicable but other than that I appreciate your feedback. I don't really understand how to write in a "natural voice" in the third person though
Well, that sounds considerably more interesting. Sorry to fly off a handle or whatever; like I've said, I see Holden Caulfield types a lot, so it's become a pet peeve.
I used to struggle a lot with writing stilted, over-complicated prose. It's a hard habit to get out of, but I find it helps to ask myself these questions while writing:
- Is this the most precise word, or just the one that sounds most interesting?
- Am I sacrificing clarity for literary aesthetics? (I think it's alright to do this sparingly, but be careful.)
- Is this how an average person would tell a story?
- Do I have a good variety of common and uncommon words?
Hope that's useful.
it is very helpful but I have a question. And PLEASE don't take this the wrong way as it's kind of a pretentious question I guess, or could be seen that way, but why do I have to worry about whether the prose is how an average person would tell a story? Doesn't it make sense that if you want people to be interested in your writing it shouldn't just sound like the average New York Times bestseller stuff?
Again I'm not saying that not sounding average automatically makes it good or anything I just don't see why you should try to be more average. I'm sorry if this is a naive question I'm not in school or anything I am just trying to discover how to write something I won't throw out three days later.
Nah, that's a perfectly reasonable question.
I guess a better way to say what I was getting at is, "is this how a person who isn't ridiculous would tell a story?" Having a unique voice is important, but if it's too unique, you're probably gonna sound like a dick. If you find your sentences are excessively verbose and complicated, you'll look like you're putting on airs.
In short, there's a happy medium between Dean Koontz and the dude in pic related.
this is like the bar graph of the imperial system (next to the sane one of the metric system), but here the disproportionate bar is your lexicon.
It's through the fuckin' roof, man. Not for me, but I can't deny that I'm impressed by whatever the fuck you're saying. Unless you're fakin it
Bart Boniface was more than a little unnerved at the anonymous forum-goer's unsolicited outburst. He sipped at his Latte Macchiato Supreme Deluxe (Starbucks Brewery, MSRP: 4.99) and crinkled his inter-brow rectangle in frustration.
I'll have to discipline this profligate. He thought, and began to type.
Is this supposed to be insulting?
I critiqued that anon, too, and I didn't give them glowing praise. However, you'll notice that I actually offered suggestions instead of acting like a 12-year-old on Youtube.
This is good, I don't think it needs to be rewritten like previous commenter said. You could potentially drop this line
>didn’’t feel any great affection for his school days, but he didn’t like the idea of history being erased, even in small measures.
It is a nice part of a sentence though, I think you write well.
Nice work in the present tense.
Nah. Too juvenile.
Nah. Too uppitty. Need more character interaction. Get out of your own head it is too claustrophobic and despotic in there.
Need a larger sample size.
> The itch was generated by nothing so petty as the displacement of certain molecules in his epidermis which generated an irritation, but by the much more noble injury of an epiphany. Right then and there, the seventeen year old New Englander tore the opressive garments of lower Higher Education from his flesh and ran naked into the pines which charm those rich folks of the North West into giving their children the most expensive indoctrination America could conjure at that time.
It comes across as trying way too hard. Like, it is good and bad in alternating turns, but the writing style -- it sounds like John Green for the literary crowd. Although it can be clever, so not wholly without potential.
Mine is pic related.
If you guys have never googled small samples of your work, I really recommend you try it. You often get links to the last things that you've been reading, often to an eerie extent.
Google is becoming conscious.
I'm guessing that since the actual emotions of fear, anxiety, and depression aren't supposed to be felt but are more metaphoric. I wanted the cave to feel fuzzy and vague in your mind because he's supposed to be in his own mind. So the 'cave' isn't really there. They're 'placeholders' for me because he holds those emotions in the light. Because he knows that he would be happy and okay if he crossed it yet his fear hinders him from trying. The cave only was supposed to feel real in the present descriptors (bars 2, 4, 6, 8, 10) and fake in the others because the cave (and himself) wasn't real. But as he approached the light, he was leaving his false securities for his true ambitions(happiness/light) so everything started to become more real the closer he got.
Maybe that will help you understand the emotion behind it? Here's the story without the parts you (ironically)said we're odd. That's no coincidence though. You aren't supposed to feel them. This is what you're supposed to feel. The evens.
The dirt and dust below my feet quietly crunch as I take a step towards the wall. I extend my arm. My open palm rests firmly where the damp stone beside me begins reflecting the white. It's strangely cool. The faint light embracing the rest of me: gently warming. Chills run down my spine. I stare intently into the wall of light. Vague figures form and dissipate within. Almost as if dancing. My eyes swell and blur. The soft impact of the droplet kicked up a small cloud of dirt before beading up. The small, moist streak along my cheek wrinkles. A smile. I look up from the damp craters in the dirt. There was no hesitation. My feet confidently guide me forward. My fingers delicately brushing along the cold stone I had grown so familiar with. Slowly they pull away. And at that very moment, all I feel is warmth as I cross wall of light.
I wrote this neither as a short story or an excerpt but as sort of a teaser trailer for the story i want to write, a sort of test run to see if i could handle the themes and style of the story i wanted to write. as a result, i do admit the prose is pretty purple, for trying to cram so many concepts into so short an excerpt
The odds tell this story, which is the vessel for this memory being narrated by himself. He only remembers how he thought about himself and has no real detail of the cave before his realization because it wasn't real. The story starts with this because both parts of the story are contained within it except for the last bar. The 10th bar is outside the narrative, and also contains he's triumph and escape.
The brilliant wall of white stood some twenty yards before me. No longer could I bare to keep walking past it, gazing into its brilliance while my mind grows abyssal. My inner monologue possessed by the unknown world I've conjured, stalking me just on the other side of the wall. But this time, it is different. In a void, anything, even absolutely nothing, can become something. A mind wired by fear projects holograms, impressing where nothing may be molded. The truth of light misinterpreted by its own interpreter.
I had the loveliest dream last night. Indescribable. Everything was so vast. Much like the familiar darkness born from these lifeless walls and dead dirt. The difference was this vastness did not feel condemning. No... it wasn't the same. It was clearer. This vastness was grandiose. Radiant and enlightening. It was embracing me, not containing me. And only one other thing had stirred feelings in me as those beforehand.
When I had awoken, and my eyes opened, I felt something was missing. I searched through the winding halls and rubble of my dingy abode. At first I was lost, searching aimlessly through my web of tunnels without knowing what I was looking for. But then I saw it: the illuminated hall. Quarantined typically, but I walk towards the corridor and carefully look around the corner towards the white. At the sight of the light, a mild déjà vu flashed me back to my dream. And In that moment, I realized what it was. I wasn't missing anything at all. I understood. I understood something I realized I had known all along, all these years.
the minimum wage is $22 an hour for a barista so it can be done, but Sam lives with his girlfriend. Perhaps the description makes it come across to luxurious, especially considering the way he's talking about white collar workers.
Thanks for the feedback.
Hunger was something the Huntsman knew well, as did all Children of Winter. He knew it, but did not welcome its incessant gnawing on the body and mind. The void in his gut conjured a wrath that boiled his blood, coerced his limbs to tread through feet of fresh snow at an impossible pace. He'd lost his prey's tracks after the Sun receded from its azure throne, but its scent lingered in the air like the pungent smoke of a pyre unseen. It clung to his nostrils, inciting an unconscious snarl of the upper lip as his stomach responded with a savage growl. The ghostly luminescence from an aurora above reflected off the sheen of the white sea surrounding him, sparing enough light to surrender any movement his trained eyes could catch. Ahead of him, a cluster of pines sprouted from the Earth, silent guardians standing their forlorn vigil in a world bereft of bounty. Stagnant, frigid air nibbled his flesh as he approached them, anticipation sharpening his senses to a keen edge. Through the soft thuds of his own footfalls, his ears picked up another sound: shrill cries of pain. They were faint, but distinct in this dead land. He came to an abrupt stop, sweeping the trees with his unerring gaze as a gloved hand reached for the ornate handle of his flintlock. Ripples of a fresh scent greeted him, metallic and enticing: Blood. The prey was wounded. A primal surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins and he made for the trees in a frenzied sprint. Premonitions of meat filled his mind and his vision reddened. He would not bed with hunger again, not tonight.
It's like a western in the city. 1k words.
>The dirt and dust below my feet quietly crunch as I take a step towards the wall. I extend my arm. My open palm rests firmly where the damp stone beside me begins reflecting the white. It's strangely cool. The faint light embracing the rest of me: gently warming. Chills run down my spine. I stare intently into the wall of light. Vague figures form and dissipate within. Almost as if dancing. My eyes swell and blur. The soft impact of the droplet kicked up a small cloud of dirt before beading up. The small, moist streak along my cheek wrinkles. A smile. I look up from the damp craters in the dirt. There was no hesitation. My feet confidently guide me forward. My fingers delicately brushing along the cold stone I had grown so familiar with. Slowly they pull away. And at that very moment, all I feel is warmth as I cross wall of light.
By removing those other parts you have made a far more compelling narrative with far more emotion attached to it. The even lines do nothing but detract.
Something about Japanese lesbians maybe is it the start to a novel who knows?
No you cock gargling ass. Because your entire story will turn out like shit at best and at worst will come off as fetishism and still shit. You can't properly write about any other culture you are not a part of and have it come off as genuine.
First feedback I've gotten on it in a while.
While I'm pretty sure I'm not "faking it," the verse does tend to assemble itself in in the back of my mind in an amorphous kind of way, without much input from me. My subconscious then prods and bothers when it feels like there's enough substance to work with- usually when I'm trying to go to bed- and I'm stuck trying to put the right lines and words in order. The right words occasionally aren't real ones, so I have to dig through root dictionaries and glue together etymological monstrosities.
Not the writer, but you can build a pretty decent novel out of insincere fetishism as long as you acknowledge the fetishism by criticizing and deconstructing it in the background of your primary narrative.
Nah, the correct its is used (assuming you're referring to the underlined one, which is possessive rather than saying 'it is'). I can see the try hard aspect, but I feel as if that's remedied by the length of the story, which is nearly 10 more pages -- although I do question the place of the air-conditioner as well.
Muchas gracias para su ayuda.
Even if that is the case it's a very strange use of its and doesn't make much sense. If you have that same style for 10 more pages it's nor a remedy but just compounding the problem.
In serious need of proofreading. The tone is uneven at best and the dialogue is horrible. Not totally hopeless, but nothing really is, so that doesn't say much.
I believe that only maybe three people were reading this, but in case anybody who was interested in it didn't see in the last thread that it had ended, here's the completed "Beatrice":
Okay desu, tell me if this is a stretch of devices.
>Female character who doesn't understand male character at all
>She wears gloves (she's an actress)
>They're having an angry stand off
>Male character has a newspaper clutched in his hands
>He punctures through it
>I describe it "Like a glove too small for his awkward fingers"
Does this convey their failed connection? Am I just reaching too hard on this?
I definitely didn't hate it. The whole body horror power armor thing was well done, the aliens felt like aliens. The bit about the Cynx's eyes being like shark teeth was fantastic. If you wrote a whole novel of this quality and let an editor get their teeth into it, you might have a bestseller.
>three arms and two legs (or is it three arms and two legs?
Beatrice is a hyperbolic representation of traits I observe in suburban women, including myself. She is not a straw woman, just an exaggeration. I bet you didn't read the whole thing, anyway. The tone changes drastically after the first few psychopathic sections.
>Feel good about something
>Try to edit it
>Feel like I'm ruining it
I can't keep doing this to myself. I can't. Writing is all I have.
Have at me, force the shit down my neck!
It wasn’t the first time I had experienced a doppelganger being discovered, but it wasn’t mine before. My sister Kendra goes on about these guys using her. She’s smarter and a lot more attractive than I am: more of what men want I suppose. Kendra was kept for perceived years with these two guys. One had spent it married to her for lifetimes. Him and her, in a dainty cabin, with children, a quaint garden, dim sunlight pestering the brimming tree line, all over centuries: a perpetual moment of bliss.
The other kept Kendra only in his bedroom. She was completely obedient to him. He’d live his life outside, going to his job, maximizing his stress, and she was his release. He’d come home to Kendra, completely subservient, waiting, obeying, and stunningly pleasing him.
After being informed of these men, my sister was a celebrity. Pouncing about with high self-esteem, gloating of these men’s obsession with her body and mind, spirit and personality. Every detail of her form a perfection to them; every flaw: a delicacy. Their lives gained purpose from her existence alone.
Or at least that’s what she kept spouting on about.
My letter came in the mail, similar to hers. Stamped with my name, address. Coated in a plastic sheen, shimmering in the dull light. Embroidered with a slight bit of frill around the edges. ‘Life of Me’ stamped across in a light ink. Insignificant, rare, and any person would’ve just thrown the letter away. But my sister’s voice popped in my head, threatening me to open the letter, and I was forced to crack the envelope. Folded thrice, printed nicely save the photo-copied signature at the bottom, and a website address clearly printed as the closer to the letter.
If it's what I think it is the noodles are cooked directly in that black bowl and then placed in the wooden box for easier carrying.
That's not true, anon. You also probably have sharp objects you could use to cut lengthwise down your wrist or possibly rope or chain or maybe even wire to tie around your neck and then a supporting pole as you jump off a balcony.
Basically everything I submitted for every class was written an hour prior. I would stream of conscious an entire 10 page paper then do a quick google search and add in random citations that support my claims no matter how dodgy they appeared.
I'm not exactly sure where this is going or if it's going anywhere. I decided yesterday to set a goal for myself to write about SOMETHING at least once a day and refine it as best I can. I've spent the last fifteen minutes or so try to get this down to a satisfactory level, so any feedback helps, at this point I'm focusing on writing better prose before I actually pursue something with a big plot:
"He loved the aesthetic of a dried out tea bag. Often he made tea knowing it wouldn't be consumed just to feel that wonderful welder's hand roughness which develops on the fabric after the bag dries. The few remaining companions constantly jeer at his purchase of the cheap stuff. With as smug a smirk as any recent entrant to adulthood can muster, they repeatedly scolded with, "Whole leaf in an infuser is so much better. Cheaper in the long run, too!" Every time he just shook his head. So what if they thought he was naive? They didn't understand and he didn't need them to. An obsession such as this is necessarily solitary, this much was understood."
Generally not bad but it raises a lot of questions. The biggest of which being who are these companions? Why are they jeering him for his purchase? Is he in some kind of tea club? Are these people friends? Normally forcing the reader to ask questions is good but not in the case presented where they're simply asking for basic information. Prose wasn't terrible though.
Well thanks. I am trying to work a way to portray an early-adulthood isolation but in a way that is nuanced and not John Greeny or some shit. Like, I want to portray a group of people between the ages of 19-23 who don't really want to be friends anymore since high school is long gone and the natural process of them drifting has started but feel obligated to because they're too scared to try and make new friends. So they use a constant one-upsmanship or "professionalism" about the stupidest shit to try and maintain power in the group dynamic. I want this to be shown gradually though, cause if I try and describe it all at once I'm sure it will sound like a YA novel, which I am trying as hard as I can to avoid
The tea thing kind of came out of nowhere, though I enjoy the same feeling of dried up tea bags IRL
Can someone help me improve this extremely horrible mess of a sentence? I am at loss
The Sun Also Rises also illustrates the way World War I changed the traditions and morality aspects of society which changed men’s traditional place in society and left them feeling insecure.
“I was driving your car today. Mom dropped mine off for an oil change.”
“I noticed your windshield wipers were pretty bad.”
“You don’t want bad windshield wipers when winter gets here, heh. Let me tell ya.”
“Also, I noticed your dome light doesn’t come on when you open the door.”
“Yeah. I just turn it on when I need it.”
“You’re the master of your domain. Heh. You know the Seinfeld episode that’s from?
“So I got you new wipers.”
“You want good wipers in the winter.”
“Also, your headlights don’t come on automatically.”
“Yeah, I turn them on manually.”
“You’re the master of your domain.”
“Anyways it was fifty for the wipers.”
“Thanks. I’ll write you a check.”
“Sure. Whenever you get a chance.”
“How are your tires holding up?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Heh. You’ll need good ones for winter.”
“It’s pretty cool—I don’t know if your car does this, but it’s pretty cool—there’s actually a message that pops up on my Honda’s screen if my car’s got a tire that’s low. Well, I guess your Focus wouldn’t have a screen like that. The screens are newer. What year is it again?”
“Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t have a screen. Those are newer. How many miles are on it these days?”
“Like, eighty thousand.”
“Not bad. That’ll get you through winter.”
“I could’ve gotten cheaper wipers, but you really don’t wanna go cheap on those.”
“Yeah, it’s in pretty good shape.”
“You know when the last oil change was?”
“Ooh. Yeah, you definitely wanna know that.”
“The engine goes, you might as well get a new car.”
“Oh, I did notice a weird rumbling. Have you noticed a weird rumbling.”
“Yeah, sometimes when you’re stopped. Not when you’re braking so much. A low rumble.”
“Maybe just something loose in the dash?”
“Could be a belt going or something? I think I read somewhere that the Focuses have an issue with that.”
“I guess it could be wear and tear? Maybe from last winter?”
“Maybe the muffler? I don’t know.”
“Heh. If it was the muffler going you would know for sure, bud.”
“Yeah, there’s no doubt about it when the muffler’s going.”
“Could be a belt going.”
“Nothing lasts forever.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic.”
“You want me to write that check now?”
“Whenever you get a sec.”
“I have a sec.”
“Hey, that looks cool. What are you watching?”
“A Frank Zappa solo.”
“Why is it froze?”
“As long as it’s not froze.”
“Your internet connection been okay?”
“Great, great. No problems or anything?”
“It’s very reliable.”
“What a beast.”
“I never cared for her.”
“Never cared for them.”
“I do love Yes.”
“Isn’t he like King Crimson?”
“Aren’t they like ELP?”
“I saw King Crimson live actually.”
“Did you have Quicken going on here yet?”
“You gotta get that going, bud.”
“No, you do. You’re frugal and doing fine here, but when you move. And when you have kids.”
“I’ll get it going.”
“Any babes at your work?”
“Do you talk to any of them? That’s the first step, bud. I learned that one the hard way. You have to approach them and THEN talk to them. Don’t shout across the room.”
“I don’t shout.”
“Good. You’re halfway there. Get all the way there and you won’t even HAVE to shout.”
“Oh, I know, bud.”
“You want that check now?”
“No, no. Just put it by the coffee pot when you’re ready.”
“But get Quicken going.”
“I’m just trying to help you, son.”
“No! I know! I’ll leave it by the coffee pot.”
“I’ll see it there.”
“You won’t miss it. I’ll get Quicken going too.”
“It’s a helpful tool. See where all your money’s going. You’re pretty frugal now though.”
“I’m pretty content I guess.”
“You want a woman though.”
“I want a woman, dad.”
“And smile. When you talk to them. That shows that you have confidence.”
“Welp. I’m turning in. Love you, bud,”
“Love you, dad.”
“So what solo is he playing?”
“Willie the Pimp.”
“Oh, good one!”
“I know! So good.”
“Just leave the check by the coffee pot whenever.”
“I’m writing it right now.”
“It’s good to be on top of stuff like that.”
“Yep. Good night.”
“I came in here to ask you something.”
“No. It’ll come to me later.”