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>>7480538

The man sat and imagined. Shuffled sails bit the catch of the wind at last, as he tottered along each glaze on the sea, hitting the swollen vessel with foam and billow. The passing bubbles hiss with such great sanctity in temperance that the sea cries to see them absorbed. The waves too. Those waves that are there and seen, are really there. They only last a moment and then they're gone, only 1/4th remembered by the man who's seen them, and the rest unseen and unpurposed. Rough beaches of a dash of pebbles, and sweltered rocks come first, from there, there's a small piece of level ground until much of a hill. Heather and thorn, the plants to which massochistic children touch, swap here, and after that there are no more seen. The mountain after cannot be described. It is too big for detail. The only describing words are that it is green, it stands behind hazes in the summer, and it is like a god. The close ones are domineering, and the far ones are longing. They are to be explored. The man had the picture in his head, so vivid, that the hard sea air almost seemed to crack his greasy hair behind him.

The man snapped out with resolve and clear-mind, before living out the day again. He took some time, and walked to the small citadel in the county, and the last two hours of evening. The tracks there were fraying, and the tops of his feet were sprinkled with rustic mud. Once, they even sunk into one particular flapping hole, making a spurt of Irish grittle on his legs. The fresh cold was nippy, and frost crept behind the man. When he saw the town it was just a mass of wood, on a hilly slope. Smoke billowed from one house and another, and dotted people swarmed round their tiny nests, of wattle and dawb. There was a warm, tainting smell in the air, and the man waned forward, into the sea of sounds and small people with small livestock. The local brewery was a hive. There were 10 bearded, bawdy men all devoted to ale-cookery there, one he followed to the chieftan's court for the night's work.

>>7480539

Hollow floors and dusty space occupied in the hall of northern immaculation. There were no omissions and each beaded goblet lost itself in the face of each berserker. One man and the next, drunk with rigorous conviction and wrecking lust for a chaotic world to be comprehended in sedation. The hall was spacious and had lofty great pillars, carved out of the oak that grew on the foggy brooks around the city. The walls were bare and dowdy, and the only ornateship were in the rafters and beams of the high ceilings, where friezes of dragons and abstract whirls had been whittled away. The hall had been festooned with a warm, brown hue. The richness in the crisp skin of each feted hog or goat or hen were salted and paper-like, running with the juice of grease. Frivilous cheeses were passed round, blunt in taste. Men fought in droves, burying lists as they pounded each opponent or were pummelled thenselves. Women served, and bared bosom high and supple, and a fire pummelled an absolute swelter of heat around the room, along with the breath in each battler.

Our man burst forth tones, writhing from his belly. Though his weakling structure led others to believe he had the voice of a fowl, he sang with great bass sounds. As his voice swole up, his ribs shook through his pale, rubbery skin, and others around him opened their eyes or lifted their brows. Some notes were consequential, booming, between lulls of sound. Art moved everyone. Ancient as the hills, the songs had mindsets: the love ballad of heart-fluttered and late-night walks came first; next was the slow air of beauty, to the tune of small natural elements. The third was the war-song, heavily requested. A chanson about virtue, with hero honest, kind, unemmutable, who was handsome and muscle-packed. And the last, a god-praise to those who controlled all fates and much of everything else.

And when his voice weakly drafted off, the man stood up and walked away. He walked behind the burlers, eating and drinking, and one even lurched behind him to gently hit the man's leg. This act of painful kinship, stung the man's thigh in little ripples, while he still shuffled on. The room was densly hot, and as the man had endured glowing cheeks, embers to the touch, the cold out the door sent a powerful punch. The fresh cool meant all to the man, until his walk was out the citadel. After that, his stroll was becoming baltic, and the cold pulled up spots and pimples on the man's pale skin. The black was penetrated through by a shillelagh that touched for each beaten obstacle on the man's way home.

>>7480542
The sky cracks with the pale sunrise and it felt to the man like he had almost watched the plucking dew grow on the valleys and fens. The grass ran deep down through the crispen morning, brisk and clear. Sweet woods had been passed now, and the turns on the claggy road looked foreign and lush. However, each person has a home and a compunction to run to it, so the man kept plodding, donkey-like, until he found some similarity in the fields and woods he passed. Sometimes tree-trunks would have a slippery coat of frost on their dark, thin, being. This frost permeating on top of the sleek bark, in rings and spots, like a winter canker.

In the shadowy comforts below the hedgerows the dark warmth was sanctuary from the flanking, white cold. The frost stings, then your skin is doughy and numb. The pale man warmed his lanky fingers in his armpits, until he had to take them out, and they again grew stingy and cool. But he walked for hours, once nor twice passing through short villages and hamlets. Small, threaded veins connect the pulsating green in Éire, but the tracks are crusty over the soft mud as the frosty day wakes in crisp suit.

The man's legs drowned in lactic stings and warm pains. The swarthy, baggy breeches swaddled up his hairy, thin and pale stumps. Hung over the belting: a little blue piece, that flapped in washing winter. And that tartan cloak again, hung over gorgeously bony little shoulders, overlooking the collarbone-dents.

He was padding a road past the rushes and sallys, fields of unwound creels. Hollyhocks, ramblers, all wild flowers surely drove through. Past the wild heaths. The heather spindly and yellow as yock, between the fog. Clouds and clumps of rocks on the bump-lands, where you can almost hear the wooden pipes play, or see the older Fíanna roam. The weak willows, flanking the open, still in the morn. They would flop up from the clobber, and wind a circuit over the great lands.

A tough-man walked on the opposite way down the track. When you're nervous you rub the sweat off your palms and clear your nose. Then your head ferments, and decomposes before you bind down that heart-beat-tick and the feeling to empty your bowels. Stomach curls and you smell a stingy, sanguine scent. The man coming our man's way, was bearded and mean, but prepossessed little in the way of raw muscle. This scared our man, as those with a smaller being have much more to prove.

But then, scary men and beautiful nature. Isn't the drowsy lot for the folk, on the good island? This was Gaia's dainty flower, that lay in the swathing oceania and home to all that our man has seen. Aye, sweetness and light, if not that the wear and the strain of it all is the man's. Tossed and turnt by pithy life here, he knew that while he was walking, he had all he had. Wallet and clothes of new jet, even broach and lyre and shillelagh. Walk then, shall we? And with that cool thought, the man dreamt once more of the isles, and with weak legs, ran.

>>7480545

Chapter 2

Thalassa! Thalassa! Clambering out, between two trees of a vast straight row, there was the eastern straits in front of him. Northern man, going north; he whiled his way up the roads to the crash-curves of the northern expanse, where the sea and sky compact blue to white into the horizon. The blueness of both flanks the white shell, and here, the fertility of sods meets melting rocks and the sea's washing winds throw the will to sleep into a man's heart.

The dotted splashes were rough huts of the typical wattle and dawb, but people flew more freely through them, as ants. They left bulidlings with rubbing salts; choppy loins and robes, textured as if your body was a clod in a sack; and the hearthy goods arrived ship by burling ship, offered unto the bay. The small hub of trading ran like a bustling, nothern Venice, energetic in the sooth of ancient depravation. So the man's eyes watered and his mouth grew to smile at the people going past. He greeted them as he cocked his brow up and put on a little smirk, while the shore inched ever closer.

Step by blesséd step, each one feeling like a season while the bare wind shook the berry bars, and left the man rustled into a small inn-cabin, which would serve a neat and tidy resting spot.

(This is as far as I've gotten, so far)

>>7480538
>As he slipped the laxing cloak over his shoulders, the little pockets of heat in the gaps made his body warm.
The first thing I noticed - and it continues through the rest of your text - is that you use too many adjectives. It clogs up your sentences, makes the reader stop/stumble over your prose, and adds complexity to what are often quite simple ideas. If you omit them, nothing of importance is lost.

eg.
>As he slipped the cloak over his shoulders, the heat in the gaps warmed him.

>>7480568
Such good advice. So many people do this. I used to do it, sometimes still do. But a piece is so much better when it's just simple

>>7480568
>>7480582

Yeah, I think that's pretty sound advice, I'll get to some editing

Waves swelled softly, littering the long and empty beach with the ocean's unwanted acquisitions. Among the seaweed, sea shells, octopus eggs, and other detritus lay a great bundle of cloth, once white but now stained to a murky mixture of grey and brown. The owner of this once clothing brought himself up slowly, first onto his hands, and then onto his knees, coughing out dizzy handfuls of seawater. It was a warm, overcast early afternoon, but the beach was unfamiliar, and he wasn't sure how he had arrived here. His last memories were of a debate he was having, about... something weighty. He searched his memory and found an outline: about the likely destination of a trip upon which the state of Athens was sending him.

A kindly enough gesture, surely, but now Poseidon had claimed the ship which had been commissioned for the task, and undoubtedly the lives of her men as well. The man felt a tinge of guilt. 'There's no cause for that', said a voice inside his head, and he was instantly relieved. It was true, of course. The ship likely went the way it did regardless of his interlocution; and besides which, this entire chain of reasoning sprang from all too great an inference. Perhaps he was simply swept overboard during a storm, or knocked overboard in an accident, or brought into the water by his own despair or madness, or by some other fantastical development too great to guess. At any rate, he now knew that discerning his location was a curiosity that preceded his voyage, and hence it felt like a reasonable starting point, marking as it did an intersection between practical and personal concerns.

He forced himself to rise to his feet, which he held with some difficulty. Surprisingly, he felt less like a victim of near drowning and more like a man who drank too much of something the previous night. There were no discernible signs of other human beings, but since he presently stood observing a cliff face and hence nothing else, this didn't amount to much. He headed for solid ground before turning right to follow the cliff towards its lateral termination. Even if his passage on the far side was obstructed in some way, this would at least give a notion of the size of the island. As he rounded the edge of the cliff, he was startled and gladdened to see another man not twenty feet from him! The man wore robes not terribly dissimilar to his own and seemed to be of about the same age or even a bit older.

>>7480606

I think you could express points more clearly? Also the line "about... something weighty" is a little cringey imho

Cranreuch

Hoarfrost, crispen hoarfrost;
That slaps the crossing east-wind,
Over sea and leaf-helms shorn-lost.
Who, to make hoarfrost, has sinned?

High the poplars, solemn bare,
That peek the grazing mist over;
Sweet the shining shadow's swear,
Of boats, Calais to Dover.

For slicing buds of dew on fens,
That sting the numb-swamped face.
Dough-skinned, the harshy hoarfrost lends
Speed to a deathing race.

Those poplars swallowed, by the grey;
The boats of docking do
The throw of rotting cargo. But stay
The ship, no ventures new.

Yet, switch the hoarfrost on the day,
There! New breathen light!
But morning only lasts so long;
Just wait till there is night.

>>7480606
Exorbitant amounts of purple prose

>>7481623
Purple prose?

Awoke upon the hill upon his namesake. Fjord of the river where the serf made him a wolf.

>>7480538
requesting name of this painting

reverse search aint workin but i know its pretty famous

did this for a short story for my english class

http://pastebin.com/3CJZgSas

File: 1450468439031.png (2MB, 1680x1050px) Image search: [Google]

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Any feedback is hugely appreciated. Enjoy your Christmas

>>7483447
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isle_of_the_Dead_(painting)

File: prologue.png (61KB, 600x881px) Image search: [Google]

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What do you guys think of this?

>>7483621
What word processor are you using?

>>7483687
Word 2013, why do you ask?

>>7483689
The layout looks really nice

>>7483693
Ah, thanks. If you want, I can tell you the dimensions of the margins if you want to get a similar layout.

>>7483697
Yes please pal

File: margins.png (3KB, 384x101px) Image search: [Google]

3KB, 384x101px

In Page Setup, I've set the width of the page as 6 inches and the height as 9 inches.

I'm not sure if it'll be any different, but for the Layout tab, I've ticked the "Different first page" for Headers and footers and right under that I've set the header and footer to be 0.5 inches from the edge,

Pic related are the margins.

>>7483713
meant for
>>7483707

>>7483713
>>7483718
thank you

Waves swelled softly, littering the long and empty beach with the ocean's unwanted acquisitions. The colour-sweet tartan swore out sweat-patches and little puddles that dripped of melancholy dew. The owner of this once clothing brought himself up slowly, first onto his hands, and then onto his knees, coughing out dizzy handfuls of seawater. The conviction of fresh air shook the skinny man; he held up his cloak over his thorax to defend himself from this, as the pikeman holds up his leather and bolt-nutted shield to the blade. His last memories were of a debate he was having, about... something weighty. There was a plodding valley, cut deep between two ground-waves, that harboured wisp frost as the man wiped his burning-cold nose in the stinging winter.

A kindly enough gesture, surely, but now Poseidon had claimed the ship which had been commissioned for the task, and undoubtedly the lives of her men as well. The small glints and lights flighted on the pig-gut, those had hit the instrument from the vestal in the middle of the room. 'There's no cause for that', said a voice inside his head, and he was instantly relieved. The smoke-desert smelled of sweat and steam, and coughs were let out by a man, so rarely sweetened by the swinging nature of warmth. The ship likely went the way it did regardless of his interlocution; and besides which, this entire chain of reasoning sprang from all too great an inference. In the air were desires, to run, play and work words, but the first was the most forcible, only that he had numb feet, bound him to clodded ground of home. At any rate, he now knew that discerning his location was a curiosity that preceded his voyage, and hence it felt like a reasonable starting point, marking as it did an intersection between practical and personal concerns.

Sleeping through morning, the man woke up to the white-noise and static of rain, stringing in strong groves over the Irish inlet. Surprisingly, he felt less like a victim of near drowning and more like a man who drank too much of something the previous night. There was an old virgin, whose ropy face hung off her skull, and whose old lamb-features meant her whole face was full of curls and bumps. He headed for solid ground before turning right to follow the cliff towards its lateral termination. Her elder character gave her liability to ramble in speech and country. As he rounded the edge of the cliff, he was startled and gladdened to see another man not twenty feet from him! He ate it fully, before he flew the blanket around himself.

>>7483850

I love you

>>7483850
I enjoy this

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394KB, 1280x1920px

>>7483535
bump

>>7483535
I actually enjoy this, I think you limit your prose quite nicely and there's good flow, your atmosphere hits home fairly well

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you fucking dumb faggot
oh man niggers niggers niggers
I'm a stupid nigger
cuck cuck cuck
my joints hurt
is this long term?
I thought I was too young for that
not like it matters
if I keep letting them do all the work around here they'll die quicker and I'll have something to inherit
whatever
may as well kill myself anyway or at least when things go south
haha deep south
like my dick and my disproportionate bush covered in cum that I can't get out
soiled not even a few hours after I showered
who cares
no one's going near that anyway
would you read this? I wouldn't read this
fucking garbage, not compelling, but isn't that what they go for these days?
modernists are fucking liars because their mundanity is so fake it's just a lie
there is nothing extordinary about the ordinary, it's all boring and that's why no one actually writes about it
sultana snack pack
ARE YOU THERE, FAGGOT?
I'm done.

chase the boyfriend
I'm out of boyfriends
there is no beginning and there is no end
den-dedede
whatcha gunna do when ya get outside
uh-uh
whatcha gunna do when you get out of jail

nah that would be forced as fuck
gary's faggy lyrics

itchy
uncomfortable
shouldn't have eaten that peanut butter and jelly sandwich
KNEW I should have saved the pikelets and had convserve on them instead
what a waste

pretzel tomorrow
with sauerkraut
I looked up how to spell that
and some dijon, a batch that has been surprisingly hot
and some pickles, another two, make my teeth feel gritty
like shake

whatcha gunna do when you get outside
dodo-dododododo
uh-uh

>>7480538
>>7480539
>>7480542
>>7480545
>>7480547
>>7480568
>>7480582
>>7480600
>>7480606
>>7480934
>>7481607
>>7481623
>>7483435
>>7483441
>>7483447
>>7483454
>>7483535
>>7483574
>>7483621
>>7483687
>>7483689
>>7483693
>>7483697
>>7483707
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>>7483850
>>7484005
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>>7485200
>>7487223
>>7487706

>seeking validation from insecure, angsty NEETS that spend more time than they probably should on the literature section of this Thai ladyboi online emporium

I've always wanted to write. My teachers in school told me I wasn't half bad at it. I've won little small time awards for my short stories and essays, so I figured there must be something I'm doing right. Of course, though, there's a wall erected directly in my path. It's made of brick and there's a big dick spray painted on it. The dickhead has a frowny face and that face says "Nobody gives a shit what you have to say. What can you tell them that they haven't been told by other socially awkward self-absorbed pseudo intellectuals ad nasuem? You, your thoughts, your feelings, none of which are unique nor important. Go home."
It's quite discouraging, that big cynical wall. Whenever I had some sort of epiphany I would feel unbelievably smart, proud even, like I solved some sort of grand puzzle of the universe. I thought I was real hot shit, but that big wall was there to remind me that I felt quite the same way when I figured out long division as a kid. Can you imagine some guy trying to publish a book going into great detail explaining the absolute miracle of putting one foot in front of the other to facilitate getting from location to location? He'd be aptly called a jerkoff before realizing the error of his ways and labeling his work as 'satire'. Some people would believe him, most wouldn't.
Today (I assume it's today, I haven't seen the sun in what is starting to be a worryingly long time) is the day I ignore that talking dick wall. I'm rather embarrassed that I didn't think of just going around it this whole time, as the wall isn't that big at only a few proverbial feet wide. I tightened the Velcro straps on the light up shoes my mom bought me and went on my journey to the other side of the wall. It was strangely silent this time around, pleasant but frightening, like being home alone on a day you've skipped school.
On the back of that wall was a mirror, with numerous cracks running through it dividing the image into clear and distinct sections. I could see numerous partial reflections of my face, my ugly mug being thrown back at me far more times than I was comfortable with. Each of the shards had something written on it in black marker. “Quietly suffering intellectual” was on one of the bigger ones, so was “angry political manifesto”. A few of the smaller shards read “angsty individualist poetry”, “ranting on emotional disconnects” and “the obsolescence of the supernatural”.

>>7487774
I was starting to think I understood. I flipped the mirror over in the hope of some sort of validation and unfortunately that's exactly what I got. Written in the same black marker in big bold letters read “NOBODY GETS ME”. I once again felt smart for a brief moment before the shards of mirror fell from it's frame due to my clumsy handling. What the wall was telling me had pierced what my childhood doctor remarked as my particularly thick forehead. I kept wandering up to it thinking that I finally had something unique to say but that in and of itself was making me just like everyone else. As of literally right now I am referring to this as the Snowflake Conundrum, the problem of you being different just like the others.
The wall then piped up, it's voice much calmer than previously. It was rather soothing, albeit somewhat spoiled by the large ass painted on the back in much the same style as the front.
“Except...”
“What?” I said in a way that would warrant a synonym for being confused.
“Except... everyone.” It replied.
“Again, what?”
“Well, I hate to say it, but your thoughts aren't your own.” It said with a sympathetic tone of voice.
“Yeah, I get it now, my thinking myself unique is what made me like the others.”
“Correct, but think for a moment. If you didn't originally have this egocentric mentality in the first place...”
The word 'egocentric' struck me rather hard. I didn't think of myself as anything short of humble, but then again that is a positive trait to have and considering myself humble could be egocentric. That miniature revelation right there convinced me that the ass end of this wall could perhaps teach me a thing or two, and I probably should have been listening to it instead of contemplating my own ego just now. I guess I just proved it right twice in one thought.
“I'm sorry, my head was stuck up the wrong ass here, could you run that by me one more time?” I said in a semi-apologetic manner in the hopes of retaining some of my ego. Shit.
“I'll give you the short version.” The wall exclaimed, a bit louder and faster. “You read a lot of books that you considered to have valuable knowledge to separate yourself from those you thought of as below you, as a herd of sheep. You failed to see the irony in memorizing someone else's words and thoughts to promote your originality. This whole time you were just as much of a sheep, only with a different herder.”

>>7487778
I found myself sitting down around now. I don't know when I sat down, the sound and visuals of my memory are a slight bit out of sync at this point. The wall continued to speak with me transfixed on the mural crudely sprayed on the back, not from lust or anything. I was hypnotized by the combination of the increasingly soothing voice and undeniably steadfast and simple logic it was presenting. I was gripping the mirror frame tightly in my right hand, my left arm was somewhat numb. I didn't realize at the time that my shoes were missing, and I still don't know what happened to them.
“You stereotyped the rest of humanity.” It continued “You thought your mind far more complex than your peers. Your personality was a labyrinth of wisdom, insight, clarity, and so on that only someone you recognized as an intellectual equal could navigate. But you were wrong, so painfully wrong.”
My gaze slowly dropped. A feeling washed over me that I don't know the name of. It felt like shame from my arrogance, disappointment at my failure to recognize the glaring flaw in my thinking, pain from the shards of broken glass penetrating my feet, confusion at where my shoes had gone and probably a few other things. I looked at those big black words on the back of that mirror's frame, seeing a reflexion of myself far clearer than I ever could have in the glass.
“You were a common archetype. The self-important fringe thinkers are more easily replaced than their tin foil hats, and the rest of your species knows it. The many who lived simply and didn't bother with trying as hard as you did to think outside the box didn't necessarily do it because of a lack of mental capability, just lack of interest, lack of utility. But they knew you and yours repeated the egotistical behavior with such regularity that predicting every nuance of your thought became child's play. Your religious beliefs, your political views, your take on climate change, your thoughts on organic food, your opinion on gun control, your everything was discernible from one or two properly worded questions and a single look at how you dress yourself.”
My vision was blurring somewhat, getting a bit darker as whatever unknown light source that illuminated wherever I was reflected off of the slightly shiny black ink. I had long since stopped recognizing what I saw as letters and words, instead seeing the entirety of the mass of conjoining lines that formed a shape or symbol created entirely as a testament to my idiocy. The reality which I occupied was tailored to make me feel like a failure. I'm sure my dad would have gotten a kick out of it. I was still staring at the writing.

>>7487780
“Nobody understood you...” It sighed after a pause so long that I had enough time to build a clock from scratch in order to start timing it.
I clenched my hand around the frame hard enough to draw a small amount of blood from the tiny remaining shards lining the inside as I felt a feeling of a puzzle piece sliding into place inside my skull.
“...except everyone.” The wall finished. It's almost too many words struck a chord, I think it was E minor. Of course the feeling of some sort of enlightenment arose like bile in my throat but I suppressed it, learning that such things were less important than I could comprehend.
I had several questions, and I told the wall.
“I have several questions.” I told the wall.
“Still? I thought that was pretty comprehensive.” It was starting to sound bored with me.
“Yeah, that's my first question. You said you were going to give me the short version. What could you have possibly abridged?” I said, my voice somewhat slurred as if the enlightenment literally was bile.
“There were several paragraphs about how much you've let down your family, but that really was just adding insult to injury.”
“So the rest of that was absolutely necessary? I needed to hear all that?”
“I think so. You didn't take the ounce of prevention, the only option was a pound of cure.”
“What are you talking about prevention? This is the first I'm hearing all of this.”
“No it's not!” Yelled a familiar gruff voice from the other side of the bricks.
“If you'd have listened to him, you'd probably be far more successful right now. Gotten that software development degree you kept talking about, started working up on the slope with your brother maybe. He makes good money.” The ass told me. It was starting to sound like my grandmother who visits during the holidays and keeps asking me why I'm not in a relationship, and she could set me up with one of her friend's grandchildren. I haven't found a coin to flip yet to decide which situation is more uncomfortable.
“I don't just want good money. Material things are nice, sure, but I'd trade everything to leave my footprint on the universe. I'd rather be great than contented.” I said with some confidence as feeling was re-entering my various numb extremities.

>>7487783
“Of course you would, which is why you're here.”
“Doesn't seem to have done any good. I wanted to write, I was hoping that whatever secrets I needed to do well were behind this wall. All I found was more immature artwork criticizing my entire existence.” I believe I stood up at some point during this line. I at least know I was standing before the silence was broken again.
“It's done more good than any of those English teachers of your past.” It said with a somewhat sly tone of voice. “Those fancy pens with some congratulatory words etched into the side are nothing compared to the monuments to your ability yet to be seen.” It was sounding excited now, it's voice bellowing. I could tell from how it spoke that if it had a mouth, it would've been smiling broadly. The image of an ass with big white teeth appeared in someone's mind just now and I pity them.
“I'm sorry.. but-” I was going to make another pointless exclamation of my bewilderment and general lack of ability to understand everything that was happening when I was interrupted by another feeling of a puzzle piece snapping into place.
“Wait, earlier, did you say I was a common archetype?” I said, emphasizing ten percent of the words in that sentence, and one hundred percent of those same words pertaining to when something happens relative to the present.
“Yes, I believe I did.” The wall said, dragging out the word 'yes' and making a return of that sly tone of voice.
“As in I am no longer a common archetype?”
“I think you're starting to get it.”
“I now know that attempting to rework the brilliance of others with my own packaging makes me just as bad as any other jackass with a big ego and a keyboard, but does that really qualify my writing as something worth reading? My words as something worth hearing?”
“You can't appeal to everyone no matter how hard you try. Part of why you developed such a messiah complex is because you yourself have seen plain and simple fact being ignored by some. No matter how true or false your words may be, everything you write will be at least one person's favorite and one person's bane.”

>>7487786
“So... What does that mean for me, practically?” I asked, trying to sound as confused as possible so it would dumb down it's lesson for those of us not made of the smartest bricks ever created.
It let out a sigh like I had dragged it out of bed before saying “Turn around, look behind you.”
I did so, hoping that whatever magic was being employed to facilitate what was happening here had conjured some sock puppets that could put on a show and illustrate the supposed drastic shift that had transpired in my mind without my noticing, maybe by way of song and dance. There weren't any of those things though, neither socks nor educational musical numbers. Just nothing, continuous nothing, the same nothing I and my new found teacher were standing in rolling into the distance. Or not, there could've been anything there and I had just not seen it. I'm letting you decide because of what you're about to find out I had just been taught.
Once again, disappointed that I hadn't seen any childlike whimsey, I turned back towards the wall. I used my senses before speaking this time, something I don't do very often now that I think of it. The wall was blank, as if nobody had painted it. However, there was a donkey standing in between the two of us.
“Some things will be unclear, some things should be unclear.” The donkey spoke, it's mouth moving awkwardly to form words. It had the voice of the old ass wall, and I briefly thought 'Oh, I get it. Is there more to it or is this the whole punchline?'
“Much is left to interpretation, as is necessary.” It continued, and I resolved that there wasn't any more to it.
I would continue telling the story, but it was literally several years before I stopped all the voices in my head from this incident. I wrote this to convey the lesson I was taught by this non-corporeal being (or multiple non-corporeal beings, I left a voice-mail but nobody's gotten back to me on that to confirm) as it was, minus health risks.
It also explained something about some alien species able to survive the heat death of the universe that's literally older than what we know as time. It mentioned they may have something to do with our evolution, I'm not sure, I was unbelievably high at the time.

She once said she wanted me. I didn't think this could be so. We were young then, we floated through the long night streets like fishes. Then she said that was it. She mumbled, "everyone leaves" through her tears ("but you leaving I can handle"). That's all right, I said. How could she know herself as music after all. She did not know what others saw. She loved as snails do, as singed with the nerves of itself.

That's over now. On Thursdays Reno and I meet at Wellington Landing and take a blunt up to the parking roof garage. The city bright in the night. The clouds close the sky over like a shell. I think of pearls, the wonder, the infant wonder that must have been felt when the first man rolled the first pearl around in a salt-rough palm. Look, the universe, she is good. She gives the sky for our pain, the earth for our pride, she is Artemis in the gardens green and gold under the noon sun, she is the snake swollen with food. We pass the blunt between us and exhale into the cold.

On Fridays I put hours in as a bouncer McKilroy's, a sports bar/night club four blocks off the Copley station in Landsdowne. I see the strong gods of youth. Matter at the apogee of its careless play with itself. They joke and hit for emphasis. Always the hand on your shoulder. Reminder the male organism has species. In the bottom floor the lights are red as blood. GOT A LIGHT in harsh neon. I stand as observer. I see life gushing at the fount. Here we love ourselves. The weather channel on in an empty hospital waiting room. No one speaks of death. Four blocks away McKilroy's is a blacklit roar. We give our love staccato. We shout it to the alleyways and the sad dim trees in the streets where our parents bred. Those railroad tracks that yawned long long into the night gloom, the pale streetlights and moths flitting like fever dreams. We dripped cold across the empty spaces. How could you know what a man can make of his loneliness. How could you know.

Enough of that. Saturday is country night. Long limbs in cowboy boots. Sandy country accents. Bridgettes and Brandines. She's dancing next to the band. They don't mind, no one minds. The crowd woops and wistles. She lights the eyes when the drink is in you. That red raw pulse in your ears. And then

West Nile

The heater hums it's ominous tune
It takes all my will to not peer out the window
To just make sure that everything remains

For a second, I forget
What being stagnant does to you
Mosquitoes suck me dry

Each night the sickness wakes me in shivers
But is it the flu? The common cold?
Because I've had trouble sleeping for years

And when I'm in this room
I haven't visited for months
I'm paralyzed

>>7488230
Beautiful. I mean, I don't get it, but it sounds nice out loud.
>>7488246
Same, except I think I get this one.

>>7480538
>>7480539
>>7480542
>>7480545
>>7480547
Pastebin newfag.

>>7483621
I don't think I understand the thinking behind having a whole page dedicated to absolutely nothing. If you cut all the unimportant stuff you're left with
>There's this village in a place called Miyama, and they don't have shit

You Were a good person
but you weren't always human
because good intentions
reap mal consequences

pale skin and razors
can't save middle schoolers
from bad fasion statements

pluck the vanilla
from your insides
and boy there's a plenty
I'll meet you in fifteen minutes
maybe twenty

So we can exist
outside of time
where we'll feel empty
but we'll always be fine

>>7488246
not bad
>>7488230
would read a collection of your short stories

I put it in a pastebin in the vain hope that someone will help me here

http://pastebin.com/Mi1wYgva

>>7488638
Use less adjectives when the character is confronted by the wall, other than that it's pretty funny

>>7488686
>told by other socially awkward self-absorbed pseudo intellectuals
It does seem a bit long winded, don't know what to ditch though

>>7488765
cut both socially awkward and self-absorbed

>>7488849
Initially I was gonna have the dick wall personified too at some point and I wanted to drive home how petty the character was.

>>7488894
Keeping the dick wall as the dick wall makes it more absurd though, but I see where you're coming from

>>7488905
I wanted to expand on the story. Tried three different followup chapters, all blew dicks. Any ideas?

>>7488638
Enjoyed this massively, do you have anything else you've written?

>>7488997
This is literally the first story I've written that wasn't some sort of school assignment. Working on something new now though.

>>7489051
I was kidding. Just stop. Delete it.

>>7489070
Way to hurt my feelings, man. I'm pretty proud of it, not bad for a first attempt in my opinion.

>>7489070
>when you try and samefag but don't even use the same tripcode/name

Fuck it. https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11681073/1/White-Armour Feedback would be nice, this is mostly writing practice and all.

>>7489474
If I liked Star Wars I'd probably like this, that's as much as I can really say.

>>7488582
And if you cut all the unimportant details of every book there is, you're left with a 3 page review.

Fuck of

File: tumblr_m4fsi2HJyc1qee12to1_1280.png (816KB, 1024x768px) Image search: [Google]

816KB, 1024x768px

>>7489678
Chill dude, I'm not saying it's bad, just making you aware that some people prefer their content with more density. Although I'm not the type for superfluous detail, what was there was very well written.

“Safety tests have been completed and verified” the powerful voice boomed, “Commence countdown”.

All my life I've been preparing my self for this moment. I've spent far to long looking up at my obsession. I doubt I'm the only one too. She is the diamond among the stone, the perfect among the plentiful, the fruit just out of reach...

“60... 59... 58”

Ryza is the mystery which has perplexed my people since we've had the capacity to do what we take for granted today.

“52... 51... 50”

Ryza has always been there. A beacon of hope that reminded of us that there was and is more to this universe than only us.

“41... 40... 39”

The moons in the sky are plentiful. There are so many in the night sky that if one were to go missing I doubt only the most skilled and attentive astronomers would notice that it's ever been there and has since then disappeared. But not Ryza. Ryza is different.

“28... 27... 26”

A beautiful blue tone, one which rivals the bluest water my eyes have ever seen, and lights. Lights that we believe are in no way natural. Lights that inspired us to make lights of our own. Lights that inspired our people to become the powerful people we are today.

“17... 16... 15”

I wonder what awaits me on that planet. A powerful blood thirsty civilization, a civilization which looks upon us with the same sense of awe as we do they, or even mindless luminescent creatures.

“9... 8... 7”

Whatever it is, there's no turning back now. The hopes of my people and my own curiosity are the only things pushing me to do this...

“4... 3... 2”

And I'm in no way disappointed.

“1...”

The world holds it's breath as the space ship shutters and whines. All of a sudden the engines roar to life and propel the crude rocket higher and higher into the sky. No words or cheers are to be heard, instead tears and looks of awe fill the faces of the people.

There is so much on my mind but nothing on the page. I’ve called myself a writer before, how pretentious it seems now. Still the feeling sits, yet not still at all. It churns and stirs, welling in my chest fit to burst at any moment. You’d think the bowl would empty with all its needless thrashing, you’d think something would spill from this chalice of the heart. But the climax never peaks, the story never changes and the words stay firmly held away from me.
Time fights and reassures, both and enemy and a friend. It tells me it’ll always stay just before it leaves again. What a show, what a trick, what an absolute scandal. What words were writ, what goods exchanged that forced me into this contract of wills? Why must I be the one strung along by heavy chains into an uncertain dark? I’m done waiting for time to help me I want to set my own terms, setting my own pace that time in all her obnoxious punctuality can keep up with. I say my piece and scream my song to the sky and all around, but again as always I’m pulled along by the fierce yanking of my collar.
I take a look at what I’ve wrote, surly I must have filled books, no, libraries worth of script by now. Lexicons will pale to the crafted excellence that la on the paper I’m sure. But looking down at my page I’m disappointed as always. Another minute, hour or day it doesn’t matter. It’s all the same length, there’s no progress had here. Half a page and nothing, no distance travelled no epic had. The end of the page seems so far, a monument of my failure in the distance that laughs in spite at each glace. Beasts like this need to be brought down with fire and steel, heart and mind. Of which I have neither. A hound fights to get out of this cage without knowing there’s no key to open that without a lock.
Another sunset, another day of pitiable work.

>>7488246
>it's ominous tone

>>7488615
teen love and becoming more mature is the theme?

>>7487714
>thai ladyboi emporium

Heh.

From a land afar
O'er steppes and plain
Beneath heavens blue
Through fields of grain
Ford Carp'thian peaks
Greet Ottomans' bane
Thence here they settled
Yet foreign in name
From a foe they flee
Hunnic brutes - infame
Forsaken the Orient
War's fought in vain
Europa, her beauty
Her grace, and her flame
Accorded yet refuge
To men of no claim
Her great land of beauty
Withal wilderness tame
Onto butte and knoll
Midst gorge and glen
A home of great 'lure
Was built thus therein

Let's see if you guys can guess what I wrote this about.

>>7489687
Sounds interesting, if a little trite in all of the our our people this, our people that. How much do you have completed?

>>7480600
But actually do though. Don't just say you will. Writing is about communicating your ideas to someone. Not impressing them with word combinations unseen or dazzling them with a comparative metaphor. Your writer should never be a slog of images the reader has to conjure up as the previous comment stated. Make your adjectives special and your work will breathe. gl