CRITIQUE THREAD. Post all of your shit, and it probably is shit,

A stripped-back short story I wrote.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/19MXZ7NHkc1g-1ij6UJCLorphJU7tAvgPGJKBVVTvBh0/edit?usp=sharing

I would post part of my shit but I dont consider myself good enough to actually critique other writers so I will tap out.

>>7518325
It's annoying as fuck, mainly. Painful to read.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZYYXQc9eFyY7cs8U9sCeG6hvFiZt2ZRbm6CWwWts8PU/edit?usp=sharing

>>7518434
Post it anyway. OP is a faggot, fuck his rules.

About 8 years ago, my wife (now ex) and I were active members on an amateur poetry site where folks would submit their poetry and get feedback and friendly criticism from other members of the forum. At the time there were approximately 1000 members and maybe 100 who contributed and commented on a near-daily basis.
The community was overall a non-pretentious bunch with the glaring exception of two members who thought their shit didn't stink and took it upon themselves to shit on everybody else's work at every turn. Typical internet know-it-alls with a nasty penchant for putting people down and making them feel bad for sharing their poetry with others. Over time, we noticed members were not returning, particularly after being on the receiving end of one of these asshole's criticisms.
We got tired of the community being torn-apart by these guys and hatched a plan: we created 5 new user accounts. One contributed nothing but lesser-known poems by Sylvia Plath. Another nothing but obscure William Carlos Williams. You get the idea. The others were e.e. Cummings, Ralph Waldo Emerson and T.S. Eliot.
Over the course of three months or so, these users regularly contributed their "poetry" to the site. As usual, most of the community was positive in their feedback and a few were genuinely impressed. We even had to PM a few users who were hinting at being suspicious and let them in on the joke.
However, the two aforementioned almighty warrior neckbeard "poets," just as we knew they would, shit all over the work at every turn, even offering their own "improvements" every now and then. It was hilarious to see these guys offering their 'critiques' of poets like T.S. Eliot and Sylvia Plath as if the authors of these poems were just anonymous, unenlightened and angsty teenagers on the internet.
After three months of this we finally unveiled the truth in a lengthy post that referenced every single poem and it's true author. There was a day or so of futile and desperate justifications by the two overlords of all-things-poetic. They tried to make the distinction that there was a reason these particular poems were not-well-known by the general public, but, the laughter shared by the rest of the community became too much for them and they eventually gave up and never returned. The site went on for another couple of years until it was inexplicably shut down by it's creators. Every once and a while an asshole or two would show-up and try to belittle people, and, if it got too bad we would pull the same stunt.

>>7518446
On the seemingly infinite vastness of the writhing and throbbing wall of flesh, a single crevice opened itself, like a festering tumor splitting open to reveal its rotten insides. From this discolored maw lacking any coherent shape, it spew forth a stream of bubbles that on the dead and dry soil. When the slimy and oily surface of the bubbles spread out on the ground devoid of life, they broke with a sickening splash. Accompanying the pungent stench that came from those burst bubbles, you could hear whispers. These maddening whispers, lacking any words pronounceable by the human vocal cords, enticed, invited even, to plunge to the fleshy orifice, to become one with the filthy mass beyond the comprehension of the even most learned scholars. With each popping bubble, the purpose of your own precious flesh and blood became more and more meaningless. The whispers and unimaginable words were from a mind crossing the reality itself and knew the purpose of your form better than you could ever realize. You cannot resist it, your true purpose, from a real master of the existence. Flesh becomes flesh once more, with the slimy bubbles breaking matter into a sludge that is fed to the shapeless orifice.

It's just a snippet and most likely nothing great, but I am not a veteran writer either.

>>7518325
The dynamic between your characters reminded me of the Joker and Harley Quinn. I suspect you got inspired by that. Especially Mr. J(oel)...
Anyway. Her parts are very annoying. Which is what you were going for I guess. His parts are a bit too edgy in the beginning. Decent at the end.

>>7518455
Full of bitter crude language typical of a 4chan schizoid

>neckbeard
>"poetry"
>shit
>asshole

>>7518457
Way too many descriptive words for my personal taste... a lot of which don't make sense if you analyse it properly. Flesh isn't seemingly infinite, slimy + oily things don't splash, they ooze. Also you're telling the reader their reaction rather than triggering it, seems a bit cheap to me.
Two things you can do to improve it:
1) rewrite the paragraph and just describe things as they are and the emotions should happen naturally
2) write from a perspective of someone who witnessed it and how they felt

>>7518455
this is kinda cute and clever

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>>7518457
I like your prose. Your choice of words is good, I like how you use assonance and alliteration.
Your flow is off in the center. Very good in the last sentences though. Can't quite put my finger on it, but in the middle it's just off sometimes.

Heres the start of something im writing, would you read more?

I awoke from a sleep that I did not remember taking. Slowly, almost at a glacial pace, I opened my eyes just as wide as the honey-like mucus surrounding them would permit. And that was not very wide at all, for on this day the temperature felt particularly low, so that the syrupy rheum oozing out under my eyelids turned even more viscid. I did, however, manage to part them slightly enough so that a sort of crack appeared between where both my eyelids met, that is, a small, yet faint opening that allowed me to see just exactly where I was. And it was through this very oblique slit that I saw that all around me was a very deep darkness accompanied by a silence equally as terrifying. This blackness was so pervading and unusual that for a moment I had indeed thought my eyelids to be shut the entire time, and that perhaps I had simply erred in the supposed seeing of any crack or rent in my vision. For a moment I thought this, and only a moment, because just then the eery quietness had disappeared and a great and powerful roaring took its place. All at once I was surrounded by conglomerate of rip-roaring sounds; tree limbs moaning and thrashing, wings beating and flapping, leaves stirring and scraping. The night was no longer dead, but instead breathed with a liveliness just as beautiful as it was baleful. Where I was, I could guess now, was perhaps a forest of some kind. But the why was still left nebulous. I was trying to both string together my prior memory as well as shield myself from branches and twigs plummeting from above when the wind targeted itself directly onto me. Then, without warning, a tumultuous rush of air bursted through my definitely-not-closed eye slits redounding in a sharp and sudden pain, to which I recoiled and blindly thrusted my head forcefully backwards, where it met the trunk of a sturdy Oak tree. And so my conscious said good-bye, and I was left in a state of unconsciousness upon the forest floor, vulnerable to whatever may inhabit this ominious forest.

>>7518325
girl is annoying and guy is pathetic.

>>7518497
This is actually pretty good. You just need to strip the narrative back a bit. "Tumultuous" stood out for me as a cliche word, but there are others: "that is", "syrupy rheum...even more viscid". There are other words though that I really like the use of, "baleful", "pervading and unusual". Reads kind of like Sherlock Holmes.

>>7518325
I think it's wonderful what you're doing for the autistic community. The worst thing is really the word choice, which must have taken a good deal of time even if you were shooting for laughs - how exactly does someone "gallop", and why is SHE going like some fucking yo-yo? At least we're there in the moment, getting nauseous with Joel. Within the context of the story - and only within the story - the caps and hyphen-stuttering weren't as ridiculous as you might think. You pulled it off quite well, on that front - but compliments end there.

>>7518444
This was very well done technically (that's not "technically, this was well done"). You have talent for cadences and sentence structure, and I think if you really thought about your dialogue you could pull a story off brilliantly. The dialogue is the problem. "Our mission is to win the war"/ "And we are to do that by..." doesn't convince me these are people to care about. Ground it in trivia. Give it context. Abstractions like missions and decommissioning, regardless of movie trash, are not army-speak (from what I know). It's always on the task at hand, in a context - you're half way there with the trousers. Plus, 'Gotten' should never appear outside dialogue.

Keep going with it - it really will be great. Reminds me (to flash the /lit/ credentials) of the Tim O'Brien story "The Things They Carried", I think it's down to the nicknames. You might want to give it a read.

>>7518777
Come back when I'm near death, then ask me. Goodbye, Mr. Trips.

>>7518497
has potential
borders on purple prose though

>>7518944
Very well written

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http://themostevercompany.com/Twilight%20Princess%20A%20Total%20Eclipse%20of%20the%20Heart.pdf

Mock romantic fanfic of LOZ: Twilight Princess written in a vague homespun pastiche of James Joyce. Part of a competition among roommates to write questionable Zelda romance fics

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>>7518997
http://themostevercompany.com/Being%20Mario.pdf

Short sketch of life in Brooklyn

A short sketch of the life of Mario

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>>7518944
This is bretty good, anon. Paced well, good use of imagery that's vivid without dragging the whole thing down. Not too sure about the italics, though. Maybe that's a personal thing. Fuck italics. But I like it. Would read more.

Anyway, this is a thing I'm writing at the moment, for fun rather than art.

http://pastebin.com/XC0dCs1f

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>>7519006
http://themostevercompany.com/Art%20the%20White%20Elephant.jpg

A poem regarding modern life

mellow melodrama
I can only fuck prostitutes
Fassbender's shame
my love can't fuck me
but we kiss and caress
complicated comes to mind
but coming comes, nevermind
not a heartattack, but broken
I'm swiss so accept my cheese
I love pertetual contentness
making up words like lebenkunst
but my sadness plunges deep sea
landing a dead tuna infested with lamprey
profound or profane: fuck love–
don't deny its pertinence, impermanence
all i hope for is that you can pick up
something from this like the grocery store
that somalis and Shuar indians can't
but–I won't even try, xanax won't allow it–
I'm sad, and that's me being succinctly honest
like saying 'fuck you' to a bad driver
or remembering again the girl you love
think you're too young and
with whom you're sexually incompatible
because intimacy denies my spirit love
and my cock cock-a-doodle doesn't
when I'm afraid of getting close
to the girl for whom my broken heart vies
open arms and the sanctity of cliches
take your pick like pickpocketing thieves
of whom my futile love is one–
but we're only talking sexually
and in the context of "it's complicated"
so I'm sure the longings for all
won't be fulfilled by this emotionally pried
diatribe concerning a spoiled brat's
discontented and conflicted heart
of which I now want no part.

Don't take me seriously,
only deliriously.

And she just texted me,
which is to say vex and hexed me.
But I don't beg for pity
just for things to be less shitty.

Profound and profane:
I find my heart rains...
but will it ever reign?


Ignore the rough edges,
the polishing will come at cliff's ledges.
before the plunge
into the unkown.

I'm just human,
who wishes for a human home.

Bye–I love you.

>>7519041
You. Are. So SMART. So talented. So smart and clever. The ennui! The fuck-it-all inconsistencies! Wow!

>>7519064
I can't tell if you're being sarcastic, at all. Did you really enjoy it or not?

I'm going through an emotionally jarring time right now, my friend, and I really don't need a jaded netizen flogging my dead-horsed soul.

>>7518444
congrats it's complete shit

Brushing aside a black tarp revealed an ancient elevator built into the concrete wall. Sprite scrambled to hit the down button, but Ezzi held him firmly back and pushed it herself. The gears began to turn, accompanied by the soft whistle of hidden contraptions which ferried the metal container to street level. It cost the gang a fortune to get someone out from mid-town to service it, but who else would know how to figure an elevator. Certainly not a Black Cat. It was reliable and secure so they paid the mechanical piper and called it even.

"Ezzi, what're you going to do?"

"I'm going to find the tin man and help him."

Sprite squatted down, waiting for the elevator with his weight on his heels. His laugh was forced and poorly concealed a nervous tension. "You think they're going to give you the ok-ok on that?"

"It doesn't matter if they do or they don't."

The doors buckled open. Inside it was dark, painted black and laden with glow-in-the-dark stickers. As they descended Ezzi cleared her mind. The descent was long and labored, near two minutes with no stops but the last.

"I always feel like we're going real deep into the sea, and these are all the little creatures down here at the bottom." Sprite's hand ran over the dimly glowing stickers. "Living their magic lives in the dark, where no one can see."

He paused. "Sometimes I want to eat them." And then he was quiet, fixated with the little creatures, absorbed by his thoughts.

The kid would be alright, Ezzi thought. In the short term anyway. The long term, nobody knew about nobody. That final feeling of unknowing, the sublimity of what-was-possible flowed through her as the elevator let out an optimistic ding and opened into a dim hallway. Bass thudded dull beyond the walls, omnidirectional, lightly vibrating her skin.

Sprite slipped ahead and made to dart away, but she caught his forearm with steel fingers. She was calm now, the gray caps having taken hold of her pupils.

"KK told me to let him know when we got here." Sprite offered.

"Why don't we go tell him together."

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>>7519111
Just kno that I'm wearing a silver lamé leotard, know 0, &c abt psychology, am not laffin at yr dead-horsed sole—I too was once a humid planet w/waterfalls & rainbows, now atmosphereless, burnt or freezing, &c...

Do you like William C-Word Burroughs II? You sound like you would like Naked Lunch.

>>7519011
not as good as it wants to be, variations of this have been scrawled by teenagers forever. you can't just say "life is shitty" - no one cares. you have to SHOW why life is shitty, make someone connect with something, a feeling, a something. not just "yeah man, life is shitty" or whatever you're saying about modern life and art and how it's just dumb and fat and shitty

>>7519139
NL has been collecting dust on my dorm shelf for far too long–will dive in come next semester!

Also anticipate a nice fusion of the profane and profound, like much stand-up can be [smileys]

>>7519011
>>7519150
True, it's not a good poem.
But if it were a good poem, it would be even worse. It feels like a baby scrawled it, and it makes me sick. Thanks anon, mission accomplished imho

>>7519139
Also: in your Rorschach test, I see the following:

Two pink seahorses
A goat's skull crowning the image (baphomet?)
Two beige rats
Two blue crustaceans
A wishbone
Two orange Icelands
And overall: an extraterrestrial sternum

Do you have the the list of analysis meanings?
I'd be interesting to probe my problematic mind.
And what do you see?


Do you have the

>>7518997
>>7519006
>>>/out/
or rather >>>/v/

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>>7519190
It's projection. You interpret random data all day everyday. You can figure what the connections are on yr own, there's no list. Sea animals, rats, bones, an 8ch board? Sigur Rós Island?

>>7519230
two dudes about to mouthfuck slaves they keep underground with only holes for their heads & necks to slip out getting shot from behind during a slave uprising

>>7519230
Beetle face, bow, bunnies, praying-mantic/woodpecker hybrids dancing, and ox's face.

this is a poem and it's called "couscous". i know it sucks because it's just a matter-of-fact description of what happened to me, except with line breaks.

i wanted a chicken-fillet roll with jalapenos
but it’s 02:30 and the deli isn’t open
so i thought maybe a fried-egg sandwich
but we didn’t have any bread
so i found some couscous
the recipe said ‘add hot water’
it said you could add butter too
the couscous seemed to expand
and greedily absorb the water
we didn’t have any real butter
so i used margarine
i did not want to eat it
so i put it in the bin

>>7519404
fucking rad
i'm serious, i don't know WHY i like it so much but i do

===

i never told you how after my mom picked me up from the hospital
uh
i guess it was after i stopped having trouble walking (my brain didn’t jump, static–
sharp like a frog in shallow water)
because she let me sit on the curb outside the Holiday Inn

i needed a cigarette
it was drizzling, but i walked to the gas station anyway
and i put on grouper as i went
but something went wrong and when i got to the Chevron
i collapsed into myself on the pavement

you know you told me to listen to her on the bus the week before
when i hadn’t taken those pills yet

Somewhere a couple dances, shades in a darkened room within a motel risen from the desert sand all for them. Elsewhere a woman, merely a girl, watches her kid crawl for the first time, smiles of gold turned liquid as bright as the sun on either, and then elsewhere still a man in front of a crowd letting all hear the fire boom from within.
Yet here He sits, not the man, not the couple, or mother, but Him, watching them all within the moment, dreams but real, effects of a drug that dissolves reality and makes all be seen.
He feels it all from the darkness of His world. The hearts of the couple beating as though to burst out in a splendor of technics and bombast, filled with flowers and clouds, and warmth, and daydreams. The eyes of that mother so proud, willing to give the Apocalypse it all, earth and everything, to see that smile upon kid's face even once more, that thing of beauty, of her own production, that can crack ground and render unto Caesar enough to split an empire, a smile of fields far forgotten where the wind can sweep all day and the grass is soft; or the man filled with fire, wanting to unleash it all upon the world for better or worse.
All connected somehow. But how? He sits in His vision, and ponders as the miracle within his belly burns for another night, the addiction finally sated once more.

It has been over ten years since Anon's romantic relationship with Inertia had taken over his life. It was self-sufficiency and the reinforced realization of above-averageness which had prompted this relationship.

The first few years made for a seamless ride. Anon loved how Inertia would fuel his utmost personal desires without ever having to articulate them. At the same time, Inertia wasn't too clingy and was very permissive when it came to Anon's worldly pursuits. After all, genetics and above-averageness enabled Anon to be a good student and a respected individual. Lightness was considered cultural currency in Anon's teenage years so he was admired for the effortless manner in which he dragged along his above-averageness through society. Anon's peers loved Inertia, which in return deepened Anon's love for her. He would pamper her with his undivided attention and coddle her ego with poetic nicknames like Freedom and Idleness.

Years passed and adulthood crept in unnoticed. Above-averageness was now measured in functionality and Anon's potential could only come to life through hard work. This bothered Inertia, as it reminded her of the previous boyfriends who have cheated on her with Labour. Inertia knew she was more attractive than Labour, but was also conscious that Anon's folks and most adults would rather have Labour come over for dinner. Fights became regular and Anon would degrade Inertia with names like Laziness and Sloth. He decided it was time to end the relationship. He would still have his above-averageness, he thought. He then started having a few one night stands with Labour, but he couldn't commit to a steady romantic relationship, as Labour was very straight forward and he feared that she might reveal the fact that Inertia had in fact been a gold-digger, only in it for his above-averageness.

"What if Inertia spent all my above-averageness and with that took away my dignity when she left?" He was proud of having the courage of being so blunt in his self-analysis. Sure, he was an emotional wreck, but it was Inertia's fault and he still had his unbiased analytical mind. His thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. It was Inertia. She was saying how sorry she was and how she wants to make up for everything. She said she knew that Anon always had a thing for her sister, but never dared mention it. It was time for a confrontation. The three of them just sat there, glancing upon each other on Anon's doorstep. Inertia, Anon and Narcissistic Self-Pity, in a self-sufficient never ending love triangle.

>>7519404
This is really good.

>>7520316
Too obvious for me, and you've distilled an entire novel worth of conflict into 3 very dull matter-of-fact paragraphs. Show don't tell

The midsummer sun stood high and trees swayed gently under the wide blue skies above as their green crowns sang the same gentle lullaby that had always calmed my worries and ires alike over the years.

But try as they might, the leaves couldn't soothe me this time as I stood there by the road, a mere yard from my childhood home, and looked down into your innocent eyes doing my best to tell you a convincing lie. Doing my best not to make you sad.

It really shouldn't be this hard; I'd been lying to you almost daily since you were born, and even though it got you in trouble you'd kept listening to me with those big, dumb eyes and that perpetually excited smile of yours.

But this time I wasn't trying to swindle you for sweets or convince you that our donkey could actually talk and just didn't find you interesting enough to bother.
This time I had a rifle slung over my shoulder.

With a weak smile that anyone but you would have seen through and a trembling hand on your head roughing that little mop of yours up one last time the words finally got out.

"I'll be back before you know it."

He noticed the embroidered alligator on the Lacoste polo worn by that young man with glasses and neatly trimmed beard who, kneeling with his fingers clasped behind his head, babbled and groaned words which tears and secretions derived from weeping made impossible to understand. He unsuccessfully tried to look away from the barrel of the rifle, mesmerized by the sight of that thin metal tube that had suddenly broken into what he had imagined as another night devoted to frivolity and which now stared at him, implacable, only a few centimeters away from his face . As he reveled in the sight of that naked and pathetic embodiment of terror, the alligator on a blue background placed on the left of that stirring and shaking chest evoked the rifleman past times.
--Damn, make your thing fast! They coming!—Hakim yelled. He was carrying a rifle just like his, searching for survivors hidden among the theater sits and joining the sound of his fast and strong footsteps to the whine of the polo guy into a mournful bitonality that broke the silence of the theater.

>>7520437
>He was carrying a rifle just like his

Up a little ways off the coast was the wreck of a Spanish mission, in full candlelight, filling up with muckmen and make-believe statesmen in overcoats. It was a slowly resolving 'county', still growing out Greeley's 'country' - they couldn't have numbered more than thirty. Some carried children. And there were indeed several Greeleys among them, too far wandered out their 'circulations', their paper dioces and chains of corporate rosary; they hesitated out around an oil lamp, and they called on Jimmy Quinine to come slip them small reserves of Laudanum, against protestations he also dealt out free.

And suddenly, swelling up over the next hill came several iron brown men under a log. They reached the top of the hill and rolled the thing down, neatly and bizarrely till it settled by by the Little Red Wagons. . And just as this was going on somebody was crying, behind the others who were cheering, catching their breath under the weight of the air, children ripping one another out their collars; a woman walked out, having exchange her baby for a bottle. A squat cackling sort threw himself up against the tree and started poking for a hole.Then they picked it up, and erected it along with its passenger, now howling, up to its height. The whole congregation broke into "A Great and Mighty Wonder".

"Cope - Cope, didn't you know? It's Christmas." Kitty said, but she slipped out again into his jacket, while between his Devils and the deep blue sea, and stars just out for the season, he went to flip a coin, found he had none, and went to beg at the only open door available.

>>7520633
That makes sense in its original language, I swear

>>7518814
Can you elaborate?

>>7519135
Some nice atmosphere and rhythm, but pretty cliche overall.

Just kidding, this is mine.

I have found three treasures in my life.
One was an ancient roman coin
on a beach in France.
The second was a raw oysters pearl
that I chomped down on, in the Alps.
The last was a girl who made coffee
in the cafe down my street, in Boston.
I misplaced all three, and it hurts.

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>>7518325

Insufferable. Reads like a bad anime.

>>7518434

have a le upvote

>>7518444

Better than last thread, but suffering from many problems.

* Echoing:

You're repeating (sometimes verbatim) a lot of the same words and information in rapid sucession. E.G "overlooking" , "Encampment". The part about the encampment also brings to light the next major problem.

* Your narrator is talking to the reader directly.

"You could see". Who the fuck is You? me? You don't know me. Don't talk at me. This is not good imagery or exposition. Instead, you should cut down to something like "An encampment overlooking the canyon . . ."

* You don't seem to understand what a paragraph is, and when to break.

I can't teach you this.

* Info-dumping before plot

You've tossed me in blind to a "canyon" and now you're telling me that the battle is over and that shots had been exchanged. Wonderful, but between who? I have no Point of view (POV) character, I have no dialogue, I have sparce imagery, no context to time period or universe, etc. Frankly, I don't give a fuck about what happened. There is NOTHING HAPPENING.

* Expositionary tangents (also a form of dumping)

You split (abitrarily) a paragraph to describe what khakis are.

* Dialogue is attributed poorly. And the grammar is off.

Someone, for the most part, you've got the grammar down...Some common mistakes though, like using a period when it needs a comma before the dialogue / clause ends. However, the way you show us who is talking is amorphous and awkward. People speak into darkness (though we don't know who is in the darkness), and more important we don't know who is telling us "it was sarge".

Lemme just freestyle some shit at you:

>"Psst, Trousers," a voice called from the shadows.
>"That you, Sarge?"
> Sarge climbed up beside Trousers. {Physical description sentence here}. >"You know I don't sleep." Sarge looks up out of the canyon and pointed. "See those orange flashes?"
>"Yeah," Sarge {did something}, "what are they?"

See what I did there?

As the passing of the days brought changes in the weather, so did it bring changes in bodies of Hero and Princess. The smooth, almost roundness of the young man's abdomen and torso soon grew chiseled and firm. Whereas the brute strength of his sword's blows had once been enough to ward off most attackers, they now carried with them the technical expertise of someone prepared to bury an opponent in record time. The once timid, wandering eyes of the young woman were now calmer than ever, silently observing and calculating the surrounding environment, developing the quickest strategies to yield the most appropriate magical result. In addition to this, the nightly sparring sessions brought an unexpected quickness to Princess's blade. The mix of magic and maneuvering set an uneasiness in Princess's opponents, including Hero. Although still blatantly stronger than any of his peers, Hero's defensive tactics were tested to their fullest extent every time he faced the well-timed magic use and lightning-fast blows of Princess's blade. Whereas Hero was forced to internalize her ever-growing arsenal of magic techniques, Princess's physique grew leaner and faster with every round. She was quickly becoming recognized as a potential Polyth, a master of archery, magic, and swordsmanship, though these whispers only ebbed among the members High Elven Council and its Education Committee. Aside from Hero, none of Princess's peers hardly acknowledged her or her skill. Not even herself, really.

Since people are giving advice here I figured I might as well ask.

What's better stylistically?

>a few novels following the same characters with loosely related, but most self-contained plots

or

>several novels written with similar but distinctly different settings and characters tailored to fit the individual, completely self-contained plots of each novel

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>>7518455

I'm the guy who builds these communities and shows up to ruin the day on alt accounts. The comedy here is off beat. There is no investment in you, or your wife, or the community you describe. "Once upon a time, I was in a web community and there were two retards. They did retarded stuff; lol we didn't like them, no one did. One day we tricked them by making them look stupid and they left. The end :). Then one it didnt matter anyway so i made this reddit comment"

>>7518457

You're trying too hard to impress. You need to make your descriptions less superfluous, and the imagery more concise. This means no ambiguity like "seemingly" or "vastness" (no context). Writhing and throbbing are so similar it's almost pointless. Slimy and oily etc. These are just modifiers, not imagery.

>>7518497

Great another waking up confused and dazed and slowly feeling through the universe(TM) shit show. How about instead of starting a glacial pace, you stop wasting my fucking time.
I've seen this a million times. Start writing something of substance.

>>7518944

That long pseduo-intellectual introduction/note from the author can get cut. The character is a nobody. He is a name that took drugs and while that might be compelling, you've done nothing to back him up as a character with personality. The grammar is not the worst thing ever, but a lot of those full stops seem like splices. You certainly (perhaps as a stylistic choice) have a lot of sentence fragments pervading this. Consider spending less time trying to impress the reader, and more time describing the events and setting of the story itself. You have a 30% story 70% shit.

>>7519006

I just don't think this is how Mario and Lugi would act in any universe.
>>7519009

The bastard child of Shakespeare and teen angst. I don't really get what i'm supposed to take away from this. I guess I just don't understand it. There was some interesting imagery, but taken holistically, it doesn't read with a cohesive arc. The character is bleeding. Woe is him. The end :)

Try this on for size.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1P9cRfKQ-OvP9_n7zyE6pcXfT80f_K2KKtYjJj-m2WoI/edit

>>7521105
Oh, wait, here's shareable link:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1P9cRfKQ-OvP9_n7zyE6pcXfT80f_K2KKtYjJj-m2WoI/edit?usp=sharing

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>>7519011

Settle down the Dylan/Klebold.

>>7519041

This reads like one of those poems you'd find when you show up at your poetry writing friend's house where they have those words on the refrigerator, but half the words are being used and you don't want to disturb their poem, so you resign to just make the best of it.


>>7519135

I really like brushing aside a tarp. I don't know why. You were doing great until you started the rapid-fire in-world terminology and names. We don't know who is fixing things, we don't know where street level is, we don't know about the gang, we don't know mid-town etc. Is this information DIRECTLY relevant at this time? The grammar is spot on mostly, the prose could (always) be improved, but they're not bad at all.

Tin Man reads like a proper noun. Capitalize.

"Inside it was dark" is a lame sentence. I didn't like the sentence after that. Dimly lit is better than dark imo.

You break dialogue paragraphs in strange spots. It's difficult to tell who is talking. You need to fix this. >He paused. "Sometimes . . . " I'm not sure why that's a new paragraph.

>Bass thudded dull beyond the walls, omnidirectional, lightly vibrating her skin.

Purple.

Dialogue punctutation on "KK told me . . ." needs to be a {comma} and I don't care for the word "offered" because you don't offer words.

This has a lot of potential. I think the most important thing is which details need focus and elaboration and which are trivial. The rest was mostly syntax and clause ordering -- much of which is subjective. Keep going.

>>7519251

this is a style I rarely see with amateurs. I'm not sure if it's just the formatting or if you actually don't understand what a paragraph is. From an editor's perspective, there are things I'd cut, but there is nothing so drastically wrong with this that I wouldn't continue reading (save for the fact I don't like it). My biggest gripe is the strange shifts between flash-back narrative and current exposition. I think this should be about 35% shorter and remove a decent bit of the flashbacky stuff.Characterization at some point cannot come from telling me the past.

>>7520390

What anon said.

>>7520427

has anyone ever described the sun to you as "standing"? I'm impressed that you know your colors, anon. You missed pink in that first sentence. I don't know what the rest of this was supposed to signify or teach me.

>>7520641

Grammar wise, the first sentence has too much stuffed in. I don't know what most of it is either--same goes for the next and the next sentence. The entire first paragraph is gibberish to me.

Why are you starting a paragraph with "and suddenly". You use a lot of pointless modifiers like "neatly" "bizarrely" which tell me very little. You start two sentences with AND in a row, the latter being a poorly edited run-on.

This needs editing and your dialogue attribution (uses the wrong punctuation) is a train-wreck run-on

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> which he had unwittingly inherited from somewhere, some person, maybe even something, not necessarily genetic, although that wouldn’t be excluded from this calculation, more this divine spark, this innate capability that marked someone out from everyone else

>>7521105

Is this trolling? This is trolling. If not please put your thesaurus down and stop trying trying to impress the dumbest of all readers. Children will find this boring as as foreign language, intellectuals will find it insufferable/laughable, and the rest of the average reader with find it grammatically intolerable.

>>7521126
>>7521096
Who is this guy? The ultimate idiot?

>actually listening to critiques from the retards on here

It's like you want to actively make your writing worse

>>7521171
no he's an editor, he's still getting some stuff wrong, but not wrong enough to not be helpful. who the fuck are you

We disembarked from our Signal Inverter ZX 200 at approximately the same time the expansion of Universe 45,052 YT contracted by a fractional slither of 0.000001 LY’s squared by minus fifteen-hundred-and-six to the power of eighty-one. Kreppelfink had subverted the much-maligned Zoo Hypothesis - or so named by the biophysicists here on Crapsular One TN355 - in order to get his hands on the latest volume of a blasted comic book.

- You sycophantic shut-off, I sneered, beguiled into bartering away our break-time by the prospect of pictorial pornography.

- It ain’t porn, he retorted, you maleficent fucktard.

Kreppelfink was delighted with his knowledge of Crapsular One TN355’s expletives, and would frequently entertain himself by suffixing the more well-regarded “swear words” onto the slightly less regarded and more regional ones. This irritated me.

- ‘ere it is, he announced.

We regressed through the final five dimensions of our journey. A large tower-clock confronted us, chiming rhythmically, encircled by a number of the native inhabitants, many of whom were situated inside antique-looking metal vehicles painted red and containing two stories.

- This ain’t a-facking Tokyo, he screamed.

Kreppelfink’s knowledge of Crapsular One TN355 was confined almost exclusively to the consumption of a particular style of comic practised almost exclusively in an archipelago signified by a red dot on a blank white surface. My own derived largely from a collection of hymns an old friend of mine had radiographically transmitted to me in jest, and were apparently composed by a diaspora of people who traditionally wore small black circles on the crowns of their heads.

- Flustering thimbles, I enjoined, by the might of Mephistopheles this isn’t Jerusalem either.

>>7521134

The narrator is supposed to be insufferable. I suppose it's difficult to achieve that effect without alienating the reader.

I am nervous and deja deja deja vu and big red brick and crimped by selfconsciousness as if watching myself from the outside in and seeing a fool and not just a person who has made unwise choices or acts in a manner that betokens the absurd but rather a truly pathetic actor in a comedy that provokes not so much a laugh but a sneer and a really contemptuous one at that the thought of which instead of humbling me drives a pitchfork through my heart and makes me think I should return home and strive for dignity in a deep and meditative repose that lasts a whole week only the inner narrator wishes to delve into this story board of one yellow fevered schmuck and two unprepossessing Chinese girls one of which with artfully dyed and stylized hair reminds me at least aesthetically of a Westernized Asian but is in fact a definitively in both ethos and attitude a girl of the Orient meek and holy not in the Christian sense but in a deeper and more realized fashion though the quietude is more a reflection not of a personality type but indeed of fish on dry land speaking a language unfitted to a tongue so musical meaning the sing song rhythm of Mandarin is flat lined to accommodate the language of the Anglo and so comes out monotone rendering our interaction stilted and false saved only by the delicacy of her mouth and hands the latter of which as I sit before her masticating a mouthful of lamb strike me as perhaps the closest approximation to perfection as represented by the mathematical figure of phi that I have ever seen the sight of which leads to an emboldening of my anatomy prompting a trip to the toilet where I stare at my pale visage in a big unblemished mirror smiling ironically and despairing that I should never cross the gulf the globe has riven between me and the middle kingdom and its salacious and sincere daughters two of which as I exit the school of the blind with them take a commemorative photo beside me after which I hesitate for a hug that mutates with my willing into a contrived pat on the back and yellow fever yellow fever yellow fever forever unfulfilled

This.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/13paYyfM1UUW85zL4UgHmZ_6jMHhTcGy5Kg1PX363mHI/edit?usp=sharing

>>7521096
The 'waking up dazed and confused' thing is overdone, I agree. I knew that from the start but I tried to deviate it from the cliché as much as possible, and again I'm nowhere near the end, so it's really not fair to just throw your hands up in the air and have a sperg episode "SEEEN IT SO MANY TIME FUCK YOU BLAHAHA" without focusing on the actual writing. The 'waking up' prompt is so popular because it can be very interesting if done correctly but many end up writing a predictable and unremarkable pile of shit. If you can support your reasoning behind why or why not my particular deliverance is shit, awesome, I'll stay away from the prompt, but instead you read the first sentence and judged the whole piece off that like an autist expecting me to draw some sort of conclusion out of it.

>>7521039
>>7521096
>>7521126
This guy critiqued one of my texts. It completely killed my desire to ever write anything again.
>fucking pussy
Okay.

Denise at 16, was a pretty girl, if it weren't for circumstance she may have been happy. Wiping yesterday out of her eyes she awoke with the tenderness only youth could bring, groaning with a sound that will be lost in time, but for now there is no alternative. There is no person on the dying earth that can forget the sounds of their development. Her feet hit the floor with the soft grainy slide of accumulated dirt of the summer months. As she walks to the bathroom, she squints at the clock but can't make out the time, months before she had decided that time is of no consequence to her anyway; for now. Looking in the mirror, she sees the years before when the mirror was so much bigger, her face so much smaller. The daily facial routines of a girl her age , it is well known, can be obsessive, though time had been kind to her vessel and only minimal care was needed. She knew on summer Sundays, only boredom awaited her, but bordom did not scare her, only the fear of becoming idle would warrant any sort of reaction in her typically stoic face. In learning of the weather of the day from the clock radio in her room, her clothes nearly chose themselves.

>>7521126
>Dylan/Klebold
Did you mean the slash to infer some shit about the ACTUAL Dylan? Or are you just too hip to handle the latest poetry schizos?

Some refrigerator you had. Mine just about had room for >>7519011

Maybe Tin Man is a proper noun - we are, after all, not in fucking Kansas anymore. We're in Shitsville with Cowardly bloody Lion.

Speaking of nouns, blaring out "Punctuation" at each perceived error doesn't hold much of an argument - and those who "gripe" often have gout.

I'm in the dark - sorry, dimly lit place - as to where you're coming from and what you're hoping to achieve by shitting over everything and everyone. Half our grammatical faults are viable stylistic decisions and every time you scream "punctuation" you say little to back it up, other than append on some other crock shit jargon.

You keep telling yourself cynicism is shortcut to some idea of genius, when really it's a shortcut to fame (this is where you earn the name "Bloom babby"). You're some hack editor who could only benefit off a big pushable button to cull of literature quickly as it took the Doctor to circumcise you. I really think that's your problem.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1alxmbkB9JoLVSuBYKjroZK45lg-sLaaE-jUVE7gcjKo/edit?usp=sharing

>>7522024
Prettyshit, just saying. Nothing for a reader. The sentences have no allure - even the first sentence, which was meant to be suspenseful just felt dull. Sorry anon. Try again.

On Tuesday we decided to learn the Beaufort wind scale. I downloaded a piture, printed it off, and we suspended it infront of Tom's desk fan, reading off the ochre drawings as the page flapped around somewhere between slight breeze and windy. Tom was a great person to be sat next to. He was my good time buddy, and I wanted to take him everywhere with me wrapped up nicely, and well fed in my breast pocket, so when I was feeling down, or a man on the bus shouted and scared me I could open up my jacket and there would be Tom in my pocket. He would look up with his narrow ratty eyes and say something fun, and I could laugh. The shouting man would look at me, but the happiness on my face would pacify him. His cheeks would drop. His eyes would soften. His whole person would droop into laughter, and his risk of a heart attack would be lowered while I was smiling, he was smiling, and Tom was making it all happen.

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>>7521292
That's a beautiful piece of work; it made me feel. I wish I could read more of your work.

>>7521956
You wouldn't have written anything serious even if he'd commented positively so don't sweat it.

>>7522024
A lot of stuff that is unnecessary. I've edited it for you but it still is pretty bland. You write like you are not a native speaker of English, I don't even really understand your second to last sentence (what nuance you trying to invoke between boredom and idleness is not clear) so I stopped editing there.
>At sixteen, Denise was a pretty girl and she may have been happy too, but she wasn’t. Wiping yesterday out of her eyes she awoke with the tenderness of youth. Her feet hit the floor with the soft grainy slide of dirt that came with the summer months. She walked to the bathroom, squinting at the clock unable to make out the time. Months earlier, she had decided that time was of no consequence to her anyway and passing by, she swiveled the clock to face the wall with a sense of satisfied finality. Looking in the mirror, she remembered when the mirror was so much bigger, her face so much smaller. Common among the fairer sex, her facial routine could be obsessive, though time had been kind to her and only minimal care was needed. She knew on summer Sundays, only boredom awaited her. But boredom did not scare her. Only the fear of becoming idle would warrant any sort of reaction in her typically stoic face. In learning of the weather of the day from the clock radio in her room, her clothes nearly chose themselves.

>>7522152
You seem angry. Although you think you're clever, you are not. I am not that editor, but any criticism that makes you look back at your work is worth something. No one signed a contract to provide mamby pamby cheerful "that's great!" support for all the deluded writers of /lit/

>>7522250
This is pretty good, but disjointed from the action and the exploration of how the narrator feels about Tom. It reads like the middle of an introductory scene on someone rather than the beginning of one. It might be your style to keep on extending the metaphoric language (jumping form how Tom makes the narrator feel, to Tom's effects on the shouting man), but the risk of a heart attack being lowered stretches it a bit far. Would consider cutting that part or revising somewhat. Still, it seems like you are capable.

http://pastebin.com/eDCpj62G

>>7522478
Rather deluded writers than deluded "editors". Pissing people off just makes them indignant, or stops them writing altogether. There're plenty ways you could do that - like shooting them.

>>7522478
>You wouldn't have written anything serious even if he'd commented positively so don't sweat it.

Wow. Can you even be more of a asshole?
>You will never do anything with your life no matter what happens.

>>7522514
If you'd received a positive compliment on your writing you'd just have gotten a rush of approval which would have forestalled the need to actually work and accomplish something. It would make you feel like you've done something, when all you've done is post to 4chan.

>>7522564
Sounds like you are reflecting pretty bad dude.

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I'm really trying to get as much criticism on this as possible, so anything will help.

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>>7518242
Just a neighbor, call the owner, worried. Sure, it's fun to his father, in the UK, I think I have been removed from the state's all I can do better than in the hustle and bustle of the city. Mr. Field sampling, we have a section couple in the devastation of between 1 and causes. Partner! The second is as it should be, and says the problem is because of my finger to my jealousy, walked eyes and eyebrows, suspected to stop, and how, because it is not thought warmed my heart as I am the best.

>>7522509
People should get thicker skin, no one is saying they must make these changes or even insulting people. Maybe people offering criticism are wrong.

As always, keep writing. If you need your hand held like a baby then that's your problem.

>>7522664
There is a difference between good critique and bad critique. The wannabe editors in this thread dont give good critique.

>>7522664
"You wouldn't have written anything serious even if he'd commented positively, so don't sweat it."

Isn't exactly criticism. It helps no-one. The only "wrong" criticism is that dealt from a technical position, and when the "critic" is wrong with the technicalities, or just won't lay down concessions for style, it's apparently impossible for him to admit he's wrong. The best examples are a swipe upward. Everything else is A-OK; you can trust people to take it on the chin.

It's not about hand-holding or tit-sucking or any or any of the "literary" crap passed about. There's a way of speaking to people if you really want to be helpful, and that's just it. I don't believe a small number of "critics" on here are trying to be helpful at all, when they can't even allow a little common decency. If you can't get that, maybe that's YOUR problem.

>>7522701
Except I wasn't critiquing his work. I was responding to his reaction (never writing again) to what one of the other people said. Since he didn't specify which work was his, can't know.

>>7522725
I would consider "never writing again" rather serious, if that's really what you were getting at - especially if you didn't know the context. You latched on with a comment going nowhere, regarding a subject that isn't particularly light.

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>mfw I get to the bottom of this thread to see a bunch of faggots getting whiny over their shitty writing skills and other faggots stating as such

>>7522753
If the guy is going to quit writing even because someone else straight up insulted his work, he would never write anything good anyway because the world is difficult and he would quit because of something else was my point. If you think that is too harsh then we have a difference of opinion and I'll leave you to your cotton candy reality while I continue to critique stuff as I please.

>>7522761
Why did you even bothering clicking on it?

An opening bit from a sci fi story I'm working on.


Somewhere nestled between two imposing peaks there lies a tiny village, walled on all sides by the thick foliage and gently creeping shadows of the black Maurian jungle. On rainy Tuesdays or lazy Sundays the warm wind cascades up from the valley below the village, and the moons have a habit of hanging just between the twin slopes of Brahma and Siggarta. The sunsets were long, like the days and the nights, and they seemed to anybody watching to last forever. On a warm spring evening the sun would balance on the tip of Brahma's summit, like a dancer on the head of a pin. On days like these the sounds of nocturnal creatures flowed out from the impenetrable blackness of the jungle, growing ever louder as the sun grew shy and hid itself behind the great mountain.
It was during such a sunset that a new sound began to flow from the jungle's depths, but there was nobody there to hear it. The village was abandoned, little more than a shabby collection of tiny thatched shacks, clustered around a sour well. Little plumes of white dust danced and whirled alongside wisps of dry weeds and dead grass, caught up in the warm up-drafts of the valley breeze, carrying with it a foul smell.

>>7522762
Don't give me the "reality is hard" bullshit. The whole thing escalated from critiques that weren't really critiques, or were pretty substandard as these things go. If you went for an editing position in your cold hard reality you'd be blown apart, namely by people more proficient than yourself. You can't piss around on an image board and claim to be a seasoned critic of the big bad world. Cotton candy is usually carried by screaming kiddies soiling themselves.

>>7522250
I really enjoy this. It's always been a guilty pleasure of mine when the writer overextends a hypothetical, though, so take that for what you will. I would caution you to be careful if this is part of larger work, though. This kind of quirky writing could grate on a reader rather quickly when done indescriminately.

Here's my opening:
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.

The doctor approached and Mary tried to lash out, but she found that she was bound.
She didn’t feel the syringe pierce her skin.
The doctor kneeled down by the bed. “You are pathetic,” she said to Mary. “Your parents were pathetic, too. Do you understand that? I will try to speak so you can understand, as a child and a slime. You are not like me. You are a slime, a mudslime, daughter of Muslims, who were evil by their own choice. It would have been wrong to let them live. But you were useful, Mary. You were a good girl. Your body’s willingness may save real lives.” She punched Mary in the stomach, causing Mary to contort wildly. She saw blood burst from her own mouth. The doctor continued. “You are evil by nature. Do you know what evil means? It means immoral. Bad. You are bad, Mary, and you deserved nothing more than you got. You will be dead soon, Mary 327. Gone. There will be nothing more for you. You will be nothing, having always been nothing but bad. And you know what? I’m glad that you’re going to die. I hate you. You killed my parents in L.A. You killed my wife in Syria. Your kind is evil, immoral, bad. I can see the evil in your eyes. If you had lived freely, no matter what, you would have become just like the rest of your kind. You are not human. Good fucking riddance, Mary 327.” She said all this calmly. Mary thought detachedly that she probably repeated it over and over in her head.
Mary saw that the doctor’s name tag said “Liz”. Suddenly, pain erupted in her arm where the needle had entered her. Soon the pain spread through her body, searing, like hot, dull knives sawing her flesh slowly. She hardly felt it, only saw it, as Liz stabbed her with a scalpel again and again, like an angry robot. And then Mary died.

Liz stood up, dumped the scalpel in a sanitizer, and left the room. She walked across the lobby to Brooke’s desk. Brook looked down briefly at the blood coating Liz’s scrubs, but seemed to ignore it, probably intentionally. Liz asked, “Are we on for tonight?”
“Sure,” said Brooke, “I might be getting off early. See you at Gate B?”
Liz nodded and went to her office, already devising plans to avoid working for the rest of the day, and daydreaming about romance.

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>>7522502

The first thing I've written since highschool. I just tried to rhyme and keep the pen moving. Pls be honest senpai.

What do I do, where do I go
here or there, to or fro
It is all a blur, this journey I can not explain.
I know not who I am, but I know my name.
Inconsequential though it must be, in discovering what is in fate for me.
And for fate, a little quip, what evidence is there for it?
"The kind you make" some will say, and that grows clearer by the day. "But then why?" I must ask "should we be forced on this fruitless task?"
"there is no reason" the obvious retort "but to build ourselves a fort"
"of good thoughts and happiness to wash it all away; the hell we face here everyday."

>>7522790
2nd sentence is a run on

>>7522878
it's totally not, dude. every clause has a conjuncion.

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Short Story Intro:
The camera in the library is gray and perches on a dusty metal strut twelve feet in the air, with its lens trained on the bare stucco wall between two bookshelves. From the back of its plastic casing runs three cables, one gray, one black, and one of a bright teal-ish color with a red streak that traces along its length. It lives (and so do I, to an increasing extent over the past few months of my investigation) on the third floor of the University of Texas library, and the two bookshelves between which its gaze is fixed contain the alphabetic Bo-’s, with bookshelf #1 going from Heinrich Böll to Jorge Borges, and bookshelf #2 from Herman Bosman to Kay Boyle. But the camera is not interested with these texts, these corpses. It is fascinated solely in the wall between them. It is also worth noting that the camera is utterly unremarkable as a piece of surveillance equipment. Nothing in its shape that would suggest the dread and confusion I have come to associate with it. In fact, it is a downright quant little gizmo. One of those obtrusive and boxy heist-movie relics, with a nose that turns sniffingly, a lens that sparkles like a spall of polished obsidian, and a gear that grinds loudly as it rotates so that there is no question of when you are (and when you aren’t) being monitored. Except that over the course of a semester of daily trips to the library I have never once seen the camera divert its attention from the barren wall, never once witnessed its nose swivel by an inch (with the exception of the two special occasions which marked the beginning and end of my vigil, the latter of which we may or may not get to in this journal, depending on how well I believe I have made my case and whether I feel that I can describe my observation without sounding psychotic). But yes, what I mean to say is that this particular camera, taken in a vacuum, is nothing to be concerned about. The object itself is not the source of my dread. It looks like a child’s toy. Cheap plastic, Made In China, not for use by children under the age of eight. Nor am I any kind of scopophobe. Not at all. I take selfies with my shirt off, I keep the flow of information on my twitter account regular, make sure my photos are tagged, and I sometimes walk through people’s family pictures on purpose, just because I like the idea of it. So what we have here is not a camera issue, and just to further illustrate this, let me take a moment to count how many of them are currently situated around me as write this (on a University-owned computer on floor two of the library, in a squeaky office chair, 11:55 PM Central Time—benighted windows, people sleeping, fluorescent lights dying overhead like workers in their cubicles, people speaking Japanese, people browsing Facebook, printers vomiting helpfully, incessantly, a librarian drinking coffee, keyboards chittering like jungle bugs, and the bleary-eyed security guard who I know is capable of terrible violence).

I could feel the wind on my ass. Time froze. I stood with an agape mouth, my eyes glossed over. I looked down to see my pants wrapped around my ankles.

The children laughed. The girls took their index finger and thumb and made a hurtful gesture. I died on the inside.

-Some shit i just made up

>>7522836
>What do I do, where do I go
>here or there, to or fro
bad

Please be no bully.

I'm outside. I bend and contort my body, corresponding to that of a feline, and gaze upon the sky from my posture. I'm starting to undergo a feeling of colossal petiteness and unease. I'm afraid that the gravity of the Earth will invert and I'll be consumed by this malicious blue vacuum. Plunging and descending until I am unable to distinguish up from down. I dread these voids that exist in our world. With this sentiment lingering in my gut, I go inside.
I am suddenly enduring a levitation as the gravity around me has ceased. There's broken glass close by. I seize it and sever my tissue. And blood begins to float above my head.

>>7522955
>petiteness... is barely a word
>Desperate need of editing. Allow me.
I came out. I bent corresponding to the cat, and twisting my body, you can see my position at the sky. He began to change dramatically and insecure. I fear reverse gravity, which is harmful blue-load consumption. I fell, and I can not be reduced to discrimination by the following. I, in our world there is a will, you are afraid of such blanks. Echoed this sentiment in my heart, and I will go to research.
And suddenly exposed to dangerous flying around me disappeared. It is close to the broken window through. When I caught and put my organization. And will start to float to the top of my head the blood.

>>7522965
Wow that is a lot better. Is it okay if I take credit for your edition?

>>7522933
It's not bad T B H

>>7522972
You can just go ahead and credit google translate.

>>7521247
A legitimate fucking editor.

>>7518242
>>7522618
>>7522761

who tf keeps posting anime and kpop in here, you autist

>>7521247
Agreed.

>>7521126
>This reads like one of those poems you'd find when you show up at your poetry writing friend's house where they have those words on the refrigerator, but half the words are being used and you don't want to disturb their poem, so you resign to just make the best of it.

Thanks for the critique–!

Is the thread dead or are we still posting critiques?

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>>7523042
Yeaaaahbuddy.

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>>7523042

>>7523102
It's dead.

>>7523172
quit projecting

>>7523039
Well, that makes two of us then so.

>>7522955
pls critiuqe me

>>7523279
Your spelling is not very good.

I had an idea for a story. I'm not a writer but maybe it's worth fleshing out.

Basically, it would be about some NEET 20-something that has a breakdown of some sort that transforms him into a Don Quixote/Ignatius Riley type of character who then decides to get into politics.

Basically a fanfic for my delusions of grandeur

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>>7523360
Careful,
If you're too accurate to real life, you'll be laughed off the page.

>>7523279
I'm sorry, but I don't really understand what your paragraph is saying. I don't know if you do either. Try again with a firmer idea with what you want your paragraph to say.

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pls critique

>>7523410
This is all over the place. Requires focus.

>>7523418
thanks senpai

>>7522924
This was very hard to read. The narrator's voice (and thoughts) take over and overpower the significance of the camera.

>>7522818
>The doctor approached and Mary tried to lash out, but she found out that she was bound

The doctor approached, and Mary tried to lash out, but . . .

>Mary thought detachedly
Adverb sticks out like a sore thumb.

Wasn't bad I guess.

>>7522784
Not bad. Just objectively boring. Setting openers are tough to pull off.

>>7522599
The parallelism of the objects in the opening line worry me. Would this sentence make sense if it were rewritten: For the fallow, there is left one yard of wheat, one yard of barley, and one field. You don't want to say things like: I am a good writer because I am smart, witty, and I also go to school. The third object should be an adjective to keep the parallelism of the sentence.

Careful with passives: "seemed to be," "would have thought." Unless this is intended, it may be better to use active verbs.

>>7522924
I would avoid using "teal-ish" either change the color, or call it teal.

"these texts, these corpses" sounds a bit odd. I understand what you're saying, but it doesn't read super smooth to me.

Avoid using what are called throat clearing phrases like "it is also worth noting" or "in fact" or "just to further illustrate." Just tell me. Even if you are trying for a colloquial feel, these are crutches and clunky ones at that.

That the camera is unremarkable would be better right at the beginning and sets the scene a little better. "The camera in the library is gray and unremarkable. It perches . . . It is fascinated solely with the wall between them. Nothing would suggest the dread and confusion I have come to associate with that camera." In my opinion, it would be better if you could include a lot of the camera description at the beginning instead of sprinkled throughout. Think of other ways to trivialize it rather than redescribing it.

I like the word "scopophobe."

Finally, I am a little unclear on who the narrator is. Is he or she a security guard or a student? And where are they? Are they currently in the room on the second floor and when you say "how many of them are currently situated around me" do you mean how many are being broadcast to monitors around the narrator? Or is the narrator on the third floor and the description of the monitors is just a kind of device?

Overall, I like the direction it's taking, but I think you will need editing for clarity later. I'd watch over use of parentheticals. But for now, make sure you finish the story.

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>>7518325

>>7522818
The dialogue (which is the bulk) is poor. It reads like a video game cut scene. I kind of envisioned a resident evil thing going on here. And your contrast of Liz (her willingness to kill what she perceives as evil and an otherwise normal life, a comment I guess on the banality of evil or something?) is extremely abrupt to the point of it being crude. This is an idea that you could develop into at least 3-4 pages to make it worthwhile though.

>>7518457
dude nothing happens here. It's jut a bunch of thesaurus abuse and gross imagery

>>7518497
It's really bad. Awkward & pointless + the "waking up" beginning is way overdone.

>>7522784
rainy Tuesdays/lazy Sundays sounds goofy but may work if you're trying for a kind of fable feel, not taking itself too seriously. i think this is a good beginning, but i would have expected you to more explicitly tell me what the sound/reason for abandonment is/was.

>>7521273
This shit would probably annoy the vast majority of people, but if you could actually carry this on for 100 pages with a legitimate arch, I'd read it.

>>7520437
>derived

>>7521956
if you had anything worth saying you would have kept writing anyway. pussy

>>7521060
whichever one is good

(neither)

>>7521107
nah

>>7522618
Wow, this is kind of cool. Brief feeling of reading without reading

>>7522788
He was the one likening you to a cotton candy eater, you salty autist.

>>7522790
>In the days when he still had a future

you're missing a had, you cad

>scarcely

>>7522955
visions of bad anime/r/writingprompts

Let's recap this thread:

>autistic kids posted writing bordering on the illiterate.
>A "real" editor (despite themselves never claiming so) shows and rapes the thread
>mfw all feedback is spot on
>autistic kids get butthurt and call editor bad and DEMAND better feedback
>editor doesn't show back up (probably because reddit showed up)
>mfw no one can refute the advice given by editor and one faggot rage quits proclaiming "I will never write again"
>feminist tumblr whore shows up to defend soft core faggots
>redditor fedora dweeb shows up to intellectually debate and still
>mfw both look foolish shit posting but not actually adding anything productive
>mfw it's probably all samefag
>mfw /lit/ can't handle 1 presumably legit editor (or at least the best feedback I've seen on one of these threads all semester)


P

>>7523547
How about you critique the actual writing as oppossed to the plot.

>>7523692
>oppossed

it's really awkward. just read it out loud

>>7523455
"for the fallow" means that a field is being used for animals to graze on. It is not a descriptor for all of the fields. Nevertheless, thank you for the rest of your advice.

>>7523692
The writing was worse than the "plot." At least the idea (which is a better word than "plot" here) may have been interesting if it had been communicated clearly or in a way that was actually understandable, but for most part your writing was a barrier to that. It was almost as if you chose words at random and the person who rephrased your work barely did it any better. But maybe you're a genius and I'm not. As always, just keep writing. Have to go through thousands of pages of shit before you start getting good.

>>7523691
I think you are a better fit in /v/ than /lit/ with your buzzwords.

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Mine was started earlier today, so is still in its natal stages.

>>7519251
As mentioned by the other anon, your method of 'flashing back' is quite peculiar. Far too much italic, for me.

>>7523455
Thank you for the critique!
>>7523456
Thanks for the suggestions. I can certainly make those changes you noted. While it may be a bit difficult to integrate gracefully, I will also try to more clearly establish the layers of the Library before I demand that the reader distinguish meaningfully between them. The narrator (who is a student, yes, which is also something I will try to emphasisize better) is writing on the second floor (a more general area) while the camera is on the third (a silent and unpopulated area). I go on after the end of the first paragraph to (hopefully not too hamfistedly) characterize this character through his response to the multitude of cameras around him while he is writing the text, and how his experience of them is different from the one on the third floor.
But you probably didn't want a rambling explanation. In any case, thanks very much for a constructive critique

>>7524047
A good idea, but I feel as though you need to spend more time in description instead of constant exposition. I realise it's just beginning but I personally enjoy small bits of exposition being broken up by description or narrative.

>>7523473
Thanks for the critique.

It is a part of a much larger deal (novel-in-progress); this particular story is 6 pages long, so I only posted the climax. Liz is one of the three main characters in the novel, but this is her first appearance, so I'll work on the contrast.

To give a summary of the novel, its three main characters are a doctor (Liz), a policewoman, and an unhappy wife, all living in post-WW3 America. Brooke is involved in each of the characters' lives as an intentionally passive witness.

I'm a 19 year old physics student that likes to write short horror stories.

Let me know what you think?

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1SC-er_eyWhYb6lmPDVPzRDwvL1p_I5nLPRquUnbQi_0/edit?usp=sharing

>>7522599
This is probably going to make me sound weird, but I believe there is such a thing as being too descriptive

You're great at creating imagery, but sometimes it's best to only describe it in one way, and leave the rest to reader imagination.

You can keep someone reading a lot better that way.

>>7519404
>>7519404
I.. I mean, I'm open to "avant garde" prose but I mean, what did I just read?

I'm not trying to sound rude, but this leaves the same taste in my mouth that "modern" art does when I see it.

>>7524296
Nice blog post. Where's the horror story?

I wrote this just now to practice comma usage.

Something has been eating me up at night, little house hold critters. I have three swellings and four little scabs across the wrist. The newest bump itches, and, while I avoid scratching it, I keep looking down at it. The marks spread across my hand like a road map, full of intermittent stops, to the center knuckle-bone.

I want to add a line here comparing my veins to water. Suggestions better than these?

If I make a fist, I can watch my veins stream down like tributaries to where the marks meet.

My veins cut across my hand like river lines.

My veins appear like tributaries, meeting where the bumps lie.

>>7524747
in that google doc

>>7524786
Reading Tolstoy, translated by p&v, can help with comma usage. Although it can be clunky when used inappropriately, comma usage, when used effectively, can provide a more detailed and nuanced description. This is what I've really been enjoying about Tolstoy... I'm not sure if that his style, or if it's part of the translation. Some authors avoid commas at all costs though... It all depends what you're going for.

As for your line... I'll throw my effort in:

Like tributaries, veins sprawl across my arm when I make a fist, culminating where the bumps lie.

>>7522599
This is much improved. I still think your sentence constructions about thinking if he would have thought and I think he thought etc are forced wordplay.
The plants climbing the mast are untenable for sailors to do the work of controlling the ship.

>>7523455
>>7522599
I agree with some of your criticism but you have a misunderstanding of passive and active voice. Seemed is a participle and would have is conditional.

>>7522924
I liked this a lot. The idea of this seems novel to me. Good job.

>>7524980
Thanks man, really glad you enjoyed it.

>>7524296
>mythos
why didn't you just say myth? stopped reading there.

>>7524786
Your first sentence reads awfully & 99% sure it's grammatically incorrect. At least you know you need comma practice. Also, the word is "household"

Critique Me

For each and every thread I see
Of this specific type
I print a page. Or two. Or three.
And then my ass I wipe.

>>7525490
thanks yoda

Baby prose for sale. Never revised.

>>7520255
only use elsewhere once, and I'm not a huge fan of the word bombast (but thats just me). I thought this was actually pretty good , congrats m8

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she’s bare
dreaming of sweet summer

her whispers
delirious beneath the sea

a symphony of shadow
shines on her lust

sleep
the girls a bitter storm

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Please feel free to smell my shit


My childhood was a relatively happy one, there is no complaints. I lived in a modest house in a modest suburb, my parents had divorced awhile back; my father had full custody. The house was small and somewhat sad, it was old and needed quite a few renovations but none the less provided me with all that I needed in order to exercise my childhood imagination. I loved to play with Bionicle action figures, after coming home from school, I would spend all afternoon mercilessly manipulating the great collection I had amassed through many holidays. I would act out great battles, long episodes involving tragic heroes and shameful defeats took place habitually on the cracked concrete patio stage, the tiny black ants would swarm over legions of the dead. In the evening, after dinner with my father, I would retreat to my room and continue wherever I left off, now on the stage of “the great shades”, as I would call it. My room was small and even more sad than the house it lived in. I had one window, and the shades that covered the window were broken, something was wrong with the mechanism that controlled their operation but I could care less. My father would always watch TV at this time, through my door I could hear the sounds of muffled voices speaking with various inflections intertwined with impotent musical notes. At this time, the sun began to set.

>>7526313

cont.

The sunset was always fascinating, I don’t know what quite caused this but it was always so vivid. The blue sky would was gutted, and orange filled every corner; through my window shades this color emanated, it was halfway magical but the show wasn’t over yet. The sun would desperately cast out its final rays before finally being submerged under the jagged horizon, this would vigorously alter the sky’s previous orange gradient to a deep red that was almost palpable. For the brief time that the sky was lit in this hue, something peculiar would happen, without fail. My shades would appear a glowing red, as if they were being heated to brand, rays of light would seep through into my room to take residence upon my walls, and a dark silhouette of a man would appear. The outline was very clear, there was no doubt it was the figure of a man that stood behind my window, but the figure stood so rigidly and unflinchingly that one would think it were a statue and non-living. I remember never being scared, never fully comprehending what it was that stood behind my window, and never being struck with enough curiosity to peek through the shades, but I do remember looking at him intently, matching his stolid interest. As I looked without from within, he looked within from without. I never heard any footsteps, he came with the twilight of the sunset and left with the fall of night.
When I was seven, my father got a new job in a distant city, we moved and I never saw the window man again. Twenty three years later, while living in my studio apartment, I caught wind of a news story that made me recall this peculiar instance of my childhood with great unsettlement. A man was murdered in my old modest suburb, in my old modest house, the murderer had came in in through the window.


this is all there is to it. its a small horror story. I need to fix the ending, its really weak. Anything constructive (or destructive) would be awesome

>>7526313
The sentences are a little clunky and your punctuation is questionable.

For one, I would put more thought into your punctuation. Colons, commas, semicolons, periods, and dashes all have, in a way, their own personality, and you need to consider them and choose which one to use accordingly. When you string independent clauses together with commas, you create a frantic and rushed feeling which does seem to match what is happening.

For two, you should play around with your sentence structure and length more. Think about how one sentence is connected to the next.

For three, you really need to think about the words you are using—how they act and sound in context.

>>7524786
>Something has been eating me up at night, little house hold critters.
This is not how to use the comma.
>>7523410
As another anon said, it requires focus. While you are writing, think about why you are writing; think about what your writing means to you, what it means to others. While this isn't required for good writing, I find that it provides clarity and coherence; helps with coherence, cohesiveness.

>>7526390

> Colons, commas, semicolons, periods, and dashes all have, in a way, their own personality

hm, that's really interesting. I do feel that unpleasant brain fog when splicing together my sentences, the frantic feeling was not intentional I simply thought it as the best way of writing the sentences. Seems, I need to study some more books/analyze the sentence structures and what not. I do want to be able to write well, its fun.

>For three, you really need to think about the words you are using—how they act and sound in context

IT seems I am still to much in the mindset of lab report write ups, using words for getting the point across better and not artfulness.

thanks for the insights
cheers m8

>>7526446
No p, friend. Happy New Year.

“No he di-n’t!” Justine said.
Beatrice’s eyes bulged a bit and she stuck her chin forward. “Oh, yes he did! He forgot completely. All he has to keep track of is a date. That’s it!” She sighed and rubbed her neck. “Christ, I need a massage.” She knew that her neck felt fine, and she hated being seen undressed, but massages were in.
Justine sipped her coffee-flavoured beverage vindictively. Beatrice was still waiting for her concoction to cool to a palatable temperature, something she unconsciously believed to be 70% hot, although in the meantime she tipped the cup to her lips, allowing a bit of coffee to exit the void of the cup and rub against the little plastic opening while marking it with lipstick.
Light music, easily ignored, floated through the neutral air. Or was it slightly too cool? Beatrice counted five other patrons - two couples and one individual on a laptop. The single bothered her for some vague reason that she forgot about completely as she realised that Justine was puking words. She was saying something very… black.
Was Justine her friend? No. Beatrice was Justine’s friend, and on the surface Justine was Beatrice’s friend, but in the depths of herself, Beatrice knew that Justine was nothing to her: nothing but the black friend she needed to keep up appearances.
Black people smelled funny, like muscadines. Beatrice felt uncomfortable around them. Statistics don’t lie. Black people were dangerous. However, being the progressive mother she was, Beatrice raged against the statistics, proclaiming tolerance or equality or whatever-the-fuck but knowing deeply that she was superior to them.
Beatrice parted ways with Justine soon after, pretending that her drink had been emptied but really tossing most of it with the cup in the recycling side of the bin. Recycling was important to “Beatrice”, the Beatrice that Justine and the rest knew. But Beatrice, the real Beatrice, never felt the effects of recycling, and believed - somewhat, she admitted to herself, cynically - that the recycling side went to the same truck as the rubbish side.
The ride home was quiet and calm. Her head was sensitive from the bit of caffeine she had imbibed and this made her uncomfortable. She turned on the radio at a stoplight and bobbed her head to a shitty top 40 song to appear light-hearted, just in case someone she knew were to be stopped somewhere in sight. “Beatrice” is lighthearted, carefree, green, tolerant, progressive.

>>7526599
Well, I want to punch Beatrice in the throat, so I think you achieved what you were going for. Maybe a little bit too on-the-nose, though. Does Beatrice consider herself to be a psychopath? I like her being such a creep, but maybe tone it down just a tiny bit. Seems to stray into caricature. Overall, I enjoyed the writing a great deal.

First chapter of Horror/Weird/Torture Porn novel (slow build):

https://docs.google.com/document/d/17OQHsaSiJ8qI5-BVb2R8SaD1HcSQImKKc549DYCWBBQ/edit?usp=sharing

>>7526761
I cannot bear it when the central character of a story is a writer. Cheap, imho. Think your King?

Do you describe, even? Now you're Pahluniak.

("Swami mommy" did make me grin, however.)

A FEW HAIKU

For me she smiles,
feigning chills after showers,
dancing on tiles.

Arching a bare spine,
she cocks a grin, winks to aim
her line of fire.

My name on her lips,
in muttering slumber spills
my sleep just a sip.

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First shot at writing (satire). Don't hold back:

>I am what society likes to refer to as crème de la crème, although they fail to recognize me as such. At their loss, I suppose, because a genius unrecognized is a genius lost; any knowledge which I proclaimed have gone unheard over the senseless shouting of the masses which both surround me and run at the sight of. It is because of this I sometimes wonder whether my thoughts are worth the effort of expressing.

>Nevertheless, I suppose you are more interested in my traits than my accomplishments, if you are anything like me. The name is Fern. My last name is of no concern to you regardless of whether you are curious or not. I throughout the majority of life have a thinker, a tinkerer, and a tractaculator, but I have always suffered from one issue: when I present the flaws, I receive the blind eye. When I state the mistake, I in turn receive the deaf ear. They call me foolish, but they do not see what I see, and it is at their loss.

>Ironically, said loss pains me more than it does them. It is like seeing a drunkard in the street - he knows not of the pain that I feel watching him swinging his arms wildly and laughing maniacally at the light of life. I bring this up to assure you that I, despite any initial eccentricity I radiate, am just as normal as you. To be normal is to fit into the status quo, and the status quo is the reflection of people’s beliefs. Beliefs are a representation of faith which live under the guise of “rational justification”. Be it damned, “rational justification” is as rational as worship of chaos.

>>7526925

I think, if we are believe that this man is a genius, there should be that nuance to his speech/writing style: cut all technical errors, raise the level of diction, etc. That way, when he does or says anything foolish, it's funnier.

>>7526947
My idea was that he's delusional about it and acts like he is a genius of some kind, but he's actually a pleb.

Will consider (and probably implement) that for subtlety, though.

>>7526947

In the following, what works? What does not work? Suggestions for revision?

>The most significant place I’ve been to is the bottom of a bottle at the end of a long day out with friends after having hung out at a party I shouldn’t have been at. Down at park in Woodside, the neighborhood where I lived, we were drinking. It was frosty that night, and there was snow on our shoes. Take this drink, they said. And this. And this. It’ll take that ice chip right off your shoulders. Very quickly, I hit my limit. But I kept going. The need to fit in felt primal; it felt natural. It told me stories: about human history and human nature. I listened; I believed. This is the way things are supposed to be—this is what it means to be alive. That’s how I found myself staring down the inside of an empty bottle, no reflection on the other end, just a distortion of reality, and an echo chamber for my thoughts telling me to keep going. So I did. And did. I did it until I found myself stumbling over the garbage canister right outside of the church. I threw my insides in that bin like a human sacrifice. My friends carried me home from both sides. I made it home that day a holy ghost.

>>7526761
Thanks!

I'll definitely work on toning it down a bit. I'm not yet sure how self-aware she should be; so far I'd say she probably knows that she fits the definition but doesn't care.

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>>7518325

absolutely dreadful

>>7527230
lookit all those dots. dots everywhere.

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There's a reason to this Madness
and there's Truth in every Lie

There's a reason to this Madness
and there's more than meets the Eye

There's a reason to this Madness
it tasteless like apple pie

There's a reason to this Madness:
acknowledging the "why"

Static lines across digital times, we're lusting for obscurity
Re-programming our minds, our crimes, pursuing absurdity

There's this curve-ball that's been thrown at me
Asking "why do I have to make this call?
No, not that one, not any one in particular now that you've asked and made me think.
I'm not sure if I'm even talking about the telephone or decision-making.
It's 'Why, why, why?' all the way down.

Isn't there a kind of romance in the life of hikikomori
some sort of siren song in their solitude?
Have you seen that Facebook meme:
Would you take $2 million to live in this cabin for 30 days with NO INTERNET?

It made me wonder:
Would you take a lifetime to live in this room with a high-speed Internet connection?
I think I might…

Isn't there a kind of romance in a library
some sort of siren song in the smell of books?
Have you seen the sign in every such establishment:
Quiet Please! People are reading

It made me want to shout:
What are you reading today?
Why are you reading it here, instead of at home in privacy?

There's a reason to this Madness, I'm sure you see it too
The reason for this Madness is, simply put:
The "I" in me likes to glimpse the "I" in you

------

First draft, just finished it, please rip it to bits

>>7527885
lmao. no words.

>>7527893
so there are no redeeming parts

>>7526962
Person seems like a loser who doesn't have anything interesting to say.

If I were to continue reading this story, I would expect it to be depressing, highly introspective, and spin its wheels a lot without actually going anywhere.

>>7527885
I want you to ask yourself these questions when you write: why did I write this? what does this mean? and why am I writing how I am. Don't just spit out perfect rhymes (which is, by the way, gross); don't just say random shit because it sounds cool; don't just write to write. You need consider each word's meaning and connotation; each line's flow and effect.

Here's what you need to do right now: look this over and think about what you are trying to express, what you want this poem to do. Then, you need to analysis every aspect of it and judge whether you have achieved your goal. If not, revise it until you have.

>>7527885
So much cliche imagery

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>mfw

>>7518497
it's obvious you haven't any idea what your story is about yet. very bad. read more.
>>7518457
>but I am not a veteran writer either.
and you won't be if you just throw a bunch of adjectives that lead nowhere on the page in place of an actual story. read more.
>>7519135
this is the opposite, you have a scene in mind but you don't have control over it entirely. Not good at all but you're not a retard I suppose
>>7519251
I think it shows you're definitely not a retard but you have a lot more to read before you write more. "titanium song" is cliche but dropped in there nicely, so I'll let it slide.

but you don't have control over your scene. you jump from sentiments into a corpse and car double team act. Your character having flashbacks and fondness for his father don't make up for the fact that the action of trashing the car is entirely emotionless. "forgive me" in italics doesn't make for an emotional response. "cringing" doesn't do much, but it's a bit better. Certainly you could describe the MANNER in which he throws the bottles? how the MANNER of throwing them, rather like being "as a soldier's chest" which doesn't really lead anywhere, maybe how his form deteriorates in the throwing? The crack of his arm? Does he snap the wrist with a pause, or is the pause an afterthought? A storywriter needs a good eye, and you clearly wear thick lenses around the house. Learn to look. I would suggest reading Flaubert slowly, with a pen nearby, at a slow pace, to see just what I mean with "observation". You don't have it yet, but you're not a retard. You have an idea of your scene, somewhat.

>>7519404

I have never seen a good poem on lit ever and today won't be the day

>>7520255

all of this is alienating, impersonal, and poorly written. read more

>>7520316

you don't have any ideas yet, check back later. read more

>>7520437

you're writing words about a scene, but the scene isn't there. read more.

>>7520641

too compressed, expand and make it real

>>7521052

read more

>>7521292

read more things that aren't 70's "experimental" fiction

>>7522024

> Wiping yesterday out of her eyes

cliche, barf

also you don't know your character, there's no chemistry between you and your creation

>>7528466
you little fucking oik who elected you mayor of loserville

>>7528475

whoever's paying the internet bill that allowed me to click on this piece of shit board and into a piece of shit critique thread where all but one person lacks any writing ability, and even then he probably won't read the right things to improve and will be a retard in time as well

>>7528480
That one person being who?

>>7528547

who was the one I wrote more than a short sentence to?

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>>7528475
>gets mad online about critiques in a critique thread

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>Make a writing sample for the sole purpose of getting critique over writing style itself
>BAWW WHY ISNT THERE A STORY YOU FUCKING PLEB

>>7528805
Because style is meaningless if it isn't trying to convey a message or at least a emotion, you dumbfuck.

>>7528812
Sure buddy.

>>7528805

well if you were one of the people I reviewed in >>7528466 then your "style" is garbage and you just don't know how to write. Anyone who uses the "style" excuse is laughable. It's like someone showing up on /ic/ with an anime trace who goes "but it's my style!" when they tell them to read and practice loomis. That's what I'm doing the /lit/ equivalent. Instead of loomis though, read a work of literature. And actually read it.

>>7528466
Getting called not a retard by this guy is like a Nobel prize, on my way to a book deal over here. But I'm a little pissed that you have that other nonretard way more feedback. Step up your game

Daddy please hear this song that I sing
In your heart there's a spark that just screams
For a lover to bring a child to your chest that could lay as you sleep
And love all you have left like your boy used to be
Long ago wrapped in sheets warm and wet

Blister please with those wings in your spine
Love to be with a brother of mine
How he'd love to find your tongue in his teeth
In a struggle to find secret songs that you keep wrapped in boxes so tight
Sounding only at night as you sleep

And in my dreams you're alive and you're crying,
As your mouth moves in mine, soft and sweet,
Rings of flowers 'round your eyes
And Ill love you for the rest of your life when you're ready

>>7528466
so jaundiced 66

Today I had the world's greatest idea.
I felt like I invented the wheel.
The edges are still ruff,
but the core of it is reel.

French writer here, anyone to judge me ?

http://sebsauvage dot net/paste/?6b586c98c5139a9b#+ELOo51lYdBnCUt/tJ2vs4I2r4UtAWOvkosz9WLnqCg=

I'm a total fucking wanker.
I'm a total fucking wanker.
Why'm I such a total wanker?
I'm a total fucking wanker.

So there Jack sat, just him and his drink in his hand. He could see the snow was coming down quite heavily through the window adjacent to him. “Figures,” he thought. “I gotta walk eight blocks home in this shit. I didn’t even grab my good boots. My feet are gonna get all wet in these boots. If only I’d had worn my other ones I’d have been---” And as Jack sat there thinking about being miserable and all the things in life that made him miserable, there came the sound of the loosely attached bell to the tavern door jingling as a customer let themselves in. Jack didn’t turn to look at the new patron, but was soon made aware however, as the patron plopped down in the chair directly next to him.
“What’ll it be?” grumbled the barman.
“Let’s do a whiskey.” The man said. “No wait! Make that on the rocks.”
The man had a look of vagrancy to him. His face hadn’t been shaven in quite some time and his clothing was tattered and worn. He wore a frayed brown Russian trapper hat with shots of red hair jutting from a few of the holes and he adorned a faded green parka. His fingerless wool gloves looked like they were more rags than anything and his boots were an exhausted gray color. Despite all this, there was a genuine joy in his demeanor and when he talked, one felt their spirits lifted. His eyes glowed and his teeth shined through his dirty lips. At first Jack thought the man was mad, but soon concluded otherwise. The good natured vagrant turned to Jack and nodded.
“A good day for drinking, eh?”
“What day isn’t?” Jack chuckled. He slammed the remainder of his drink and motioned for another, holding up two fingers to signal a double. If he was going to walk home in this weather, he thought, he might as well do it drunk.
The jolly vagrant smiled, “It’s been that kind of life for you, has it?”
“You don’t know the half of it.” The barman slid Jack his drink. Jack took a swig and set the glass down lightly, reflecting on his past misfortunes. He must’ve shown it in his countenance as the vagrant replied.
“Believe you me, I have seen my fair share of woes my friend.” He paused. “A fair share of them indeed.” He turned to Jack and smiled. “And you know what? Oftentimes what people think they need to be happy isn’t quite what they need and what they need is usually already available to them, they just need to rediscover it.”
“Sometimes it ain’t as simple as that.” Jack said.
“Yes. But sometimes it is.”
“We don’t always pick our struggles. Sometimes God takes a shit on us and there was nothing we could do to move out of the way.”
“But,” The man said, “it’s up to the one being shit on whether or not they wash it off or whether they sit in it, isn’t it? That’s the difference.”

>>7528935
So you objectively dont know what makes for a good writing.
>>7529085
Seems to be correct. I think you need to learn thing or two first about critique and literature. Read more than Moby Dick and Great Gatsby.

They walked along the cliff face.
A long drop and then some sea crashing onto the rocks below and that was it.
Enough was enough and she was going home.

“Stay” he said.
For four months she had done that.
She said as much, too.
“For four months I have stood by you; I have stayed by your side through what has to come and
today I’m sick of it”.
She turned and he grabbed her by the arm, crushing his thumb on her pulse.
“Please trust me this really is it you have only to stay and continue”.
Her eyes salted and there was nothing she could do.
“Please just let me” and it was once too many.

Having walked miles from their town without rest, she collapsed to her knees.
The rough granite and the grass burnt the skin of her shins and legs but she did not groan.
It hurt but that was because she wanted it to, she told herself.
“I just” but he interrupted, waving her arm in front of her without any weight behind him.

The sea was below and the waves crashing drowned out his plea.
She looked out towards the horizon.
Grey with dark grey cascades and the traffic of the gulls.
She panned to her right and down into the flotsam of the ocean and there was a bird dead belly upwards
rolling back and forwards into jagged now bloody rocks. Its feathers were matted and its eye sockets were empty but there was no skull. No bones protruding from the dead animal.

She looked back at the man holding her hand and she listened.
She could make out please on his lips and the wrinkles on his forehead and the cheeks she had seen so many times telling her once more that it would be fine.

Of the sea and the everything she had had enough.
Of all of it, she had enough.
All of it.

>>7529359
>So you objectively dont know what makes for a good writing.

oh fuck are you under 18? can we get a ban on you?

>>7518455
you got this from reddit my man

>>7529466
yeah but read my story please

>>7529324
I hate do say "show don't tell" but really you would benefit from actually showing who the vagrant is instead of just telling us. You do a pretty good job of showing who Jack is by running us through his internal monologue that makes him sound like a glum asshole, but the vagrant should be characterized more by his dialogue and actions rather than brief description. He goes from being a random bum to being a "good natured vagrant" in about two sentences without him having done anything. Try not to rely on glowing eyes and gleaming teeth to characterize somebody also it strikes me as amateurish. Some of the description also becomes unnecessary because his dialogue characterizes him as a person with a positive outlook. Maybe you could cut down the description of him when he is first introduced to just the points that can't be revealed through his dialogue (really just his physical description)

http://pastebin.com/k8e3e0RF
I'm one to talk though I feel like the first couple paragraphs of all my stories always attract a few mentions of "show don't tell"

File: Cheesee.jpg (287KB, 1600x1200px) Image search: [Google]

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>>7529466
please read my story

A faint ray of light brightened the room, making visible to the unadjusted eye a number of neatly arranged bookshelves filled to the brim. As to what sort of literature occupied said bookshelves, it was still too dark for one to see and read the titles to find out. It was evident however, that books of various shapes and sizes were stored here in this small 'library'. More facts would have been made evident if only there was another source of light other than a low-powered flashlight.

Slowly a man, with as little noise as effort may allow, stepped into the room, closing a wooden door behind him with his free hand as his other held the only source of light steady. Miniscule bits of dust was visible wherever the ray of light shone through and the air was stale with age like wine it was not tasteful to inhale.

A small tremor shook the ceiling and immediately, the man closed his flashlight and stood unnaturally still. He waited. For what exactly, an onlooker may not know but if someone was to haphazard a guess, he was waiting until he was quite certain no more tremors would follow. It didn't. The man unpaused and let out a heavy exhale.

"E-espionage really isn't my thing, damn." His lack of breath forced him a stutter and as he turned on the flashlight again. "I swear to god, if it isn't here..."

Excerpt from a satire project I started today. I've decided on some major motifs and themes I'd like to approach, but it's still very raw, and I'm no experienced writer (as you'll soon see, if you read on)
Eviscerate it. I came here to learn.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The suspension rope was all but invisible now. The snow had begun to fall fast enough to obscure any part of the mountain save for the patches of snow directly in front and behind us. In war everyone and everything hates everyone and everything else. The storm was just nature reminding us that we were not exempt from this rule.
"How high do you think we've climbed?" Joseph yelled over the blizzard.
Jo hadn't said a word in over 10 minutes, so the question was startling. Even if the interval had been smaller, the question would have still surprised me. Jo hated everyone.
"Hey Wallace," a slightly deeper voice called from above, "how high up do you think we are right now?"
"How should I know, Luther? Jo's asking me the same damn thing." I said.
"Well if Jo's askin', I don't need to know. Probably a stupid question, anyway." Luther said.
"What? What's that piece of shit saying about me?" Jo yelled.
"Nothing," I yelled back "he wanted to know how high we are, too."
"Well?" asked Joe, after a short pause.
"Well what?
"How high up are we, jackass?" Jo asked, annoyed.
"Fuck if I know. Take a guess."
I immediately regretted my response. Honestly, I should have received some accolade for this accidental display of bravery. Officer Joseph Briggans may not have been the brightest of the company, but he was notoriously thorough, and those are the ones you have to watch out for. Jo attacked the problem using the tried-and-true Fermi method of approximation:
"Well," he said, "How long is this rope?"
I rolled my eyes "Why do you care so much?"
"You know, Officer Morris could tell us without even thinking about it." Luther called down.
"So what? You think Morris is better than I am, huh? That metal-head is just a walking computer, like the rest of them."
Jo was thorough because, as one of the only members of the 42nd Infantry Division without a NeuroSync, he felt it was his sole duty to demonstrate "the irreplaceable strength and ingenuity of the natural human spirit." No one took him seriously, especially since he himself was outfitted with two mechanical replacement hands, after having lost them 16 years ago in the 2058 invasion of Kuwait. He never get them aug'd, though, and he always wore gloves.
"Wallace," Jo started again, audibly frustrated "how long is this goddamned rope?"

>>7529724
fucking shit.

now you do mine

>>7529729
Obviously. I already knew that, some elaboration would help.
Now, where's your shit?

>>7529579
I feel like for all the words you've used, established very little, maybe you should make this longer? I like where you're going and I'm intrigued enough to keep reading. You should also replace "bits of dust was visible" with "bits of dust were visible."

I'm working a bit on suburban isolation, since it's what I know and want to write about. Willing to take suggestions on the name of the main character, Chester sounds overtly nerdy which is fitting but that sort of disgusts me.
-----
Chester was locked in, surrounded. On four sides of him were bumpy white drywall. He was trapped from beneath by dry, dirty polyester carpet. Above, by that hideous popcorn stucco, the kinds that’s supposed to be good for sound control. It was inconsequential, he could have been trapped in a room of silk or gold or marble, he was still trapped in his own paradise.
It wasn’t like he couldn’t leave, a well worn, cheap white door was precisely behind him, white paint chipped, peeled, and scuffed, curling up from the bottom edge. He’d gone through it often, and would go through it again, likely, but he was still trapped.
He leaned back in his squeaky computer chair, well worn from hours of rocking, sitting, curling up, and occasionally masturbating. Some day the hydraulic cylinder would give out and shoot Chester's asshole like a shotgun. He’d seen it happen online, but the fear wasn’t enough to deter him from his mission, his reason to be, and his shackles.
While most young people were determined to go out and live life, to go on adventures and fall in love and start careers and lives and families, Chester had no such ambition. Leaving home terrified Chester. Talking to girls terrified Chester. Getting a job and buying a car and making the regular monthly payments to build credit terrified Chester. Chester had it all figured out though, he could stay at home and avoid all that stuff until it was too late to try, and he would be excused from the risk, failure, and damages of daily life. Chester, truly, had built himself a paradise.

>>7529724
The writing is good, but it takes too long to come up with a conclusive estimate of how high up they are. In other words, it gets boring and makes me want to stop reading. You should sum up his estimate after the line "Fuck if I know." IMO.

>>7529757
Thanks, anon. Appreciate the feedback.

>>7528872
I'm afraid he's right.

>>7529724

There are a lot of very dull sentences that pause to tell me stuff. Joe hadn't talked in ten minutes...so it was startling. How about instead you have a character react surprised or startled. Fully anytime you can replace a telling sentence with something more active you should.

You're using a period in your dialogue syntax and it needs to be a comma. "Hey," I said. Unless the clause has ended entirely. "Hey." I walked away. If attribution follows, use a comma. More manuscripts die to this simple mistake than just about anything else.

You should consider breaking dialogue mid way through so that every single one isn't the same boring algorithm of "Words in quotes," attribution said. The one time you tried this you missed the punctuation (I yelled back[ , ]). Scratch that you actually got it the second time. Just poor editing. However, the "I rolled my eyes" that follows is missing punctuation, and the sentence after that is again improper using a period where a comma was needed.

As for the story and events, I don't really understand them. So it's a blizzard and they're climbing? You need more to keep pace than just dialogue. Dialogue should drive this, but you're lacking imagery desperately, and these "people" are just floating voices. Consider adding in some sentences like wind howling or snow blowing or ice falling or echoing or really anything I guess. You have nothing.

As for the characters they're all exactly the same person and I don't know how to elaborate further on that. They all respond with the same bro-dude attitude.

There isn't much more to say because its short.

>>7529169
You're kind of interesting

This is a horror short I haven't edited in months. Does someone want to critique it for errors? I know it's shit, etcetc. I don't write enough and I know my dialogue needs work

http://pastebin.com/K7xEGpyL

>>7529738
Where does this go? I really couldn't stand to read much more of "Chester's trapped, scared to live his life." Even in this short sample there's a lot of redundancy, as if listing words was a substitute for actual descriptive content. Some awkward phrasing. Try, "and would likely go through it again, but..." instead of what you have.

>>7529579
A lot of long-winded blather that doesn't do anything here. Takes too long for you to say that the faint ray of light is coming from a flashlight. Cut or rework all the description of the bookshelves (of course the books are of various shapes and sizes, of course there's not enough light to read the spines by, why is library in quotes?).

We get it, the flashlight is the only source of light. Bits of dust WERE visible. The ray of light shone through what? Sentence is a run-on, and unravels at the end anyway.

Misplaced comma after immediately, you don't close a flashlight, unnaturally is a weak word here. You mean "hazard a guess." Also, the ambiguity here is pointless.

Is English your first language? This reads like something a child would write.

>>7530144
>http://pastebin.com/K7xEGpyL

Superficial errors mostly, nothing that concerning. A few times you use "he/she" when it's not immediately clear who you're talking about, even if it can be reasonably inferred it's still technically wrong. Antecedent shifting. ^

On a similar line of problems, you start the majority of your "character action" sentences with pronouns. While it's not technically incorrect, it's notably repetitive.

Your imagery is decent mostly, but a few places just lackluster, falling on adverbs like "raggedy worn guitar" this isn't characterizing. You should give explicit details if they matter--e.g. chipped from the time blah blah.

>like," Jocelyn settled

should be a period ^

>she smirked, crossing

I would go with and crossed otherwise it seems like smirked is being done by her arms crossing.

"It was large" is a shit description, but the sentence after that was pretty damn decent with the light and window. Actually the rest of that paragraph is the best writing I've seen on this sub in a very long time and I'm the anon who caused the shit posting in this thread...

>paints were

change were to hung.

> unpack." She replied

Line 45. grammar problems there.

45. I'd prefer strands of her hair falling not bits.

line 47. I don't care for the em-dash being used, more specifically the follow up to that sentence. It doesn't read like an interjection and so that grammar doesn't work for me.

(I just noticed the lines were numbered)

Honestly all of 47 reads like sloppy erotica. Not good.

51. Again I don't really get the use of the em-dash.

53. "a noise sounded" is awkward. This entire sequence is pretty awkward honestly, you should just scrap what you have and start over. It's a big moment and the sentences you've got are pretty weak.

57. skin went paler is awkward. Consider just "blood rushed from her face" or something. We can infer what that means.

You completely lose me after this. It could be because I keep hitting the blunt when it's passed to me, but also I don't know who these characters are. Some shit just went down that I can't keep up.

Overall, this reads like a first draft, which isn't to say it's a bad thing. It's going to need editing, but I think you should which is a lot more than I can say about 80% of everything I've read here in the last few months.

>>7530218
Thanks anon, I was looking for some thorough critique. Much appreciated, I'll work on everything you've stated. I decided to leave it alone for a long time, so I could go back to it later with a fresh mind. I still haven't gotten back to it, but now would be a good time

Old dusty church with layered pews the number of seven in sets of three across seating more than enough to commemorate the life of old venerable Todd, accountant and family man extraordinaire while he was living and rotting sac of formaldehyde in an oaken castle at present. Father Jean sacramenting, microphone tapping, shuffling feet, sweating at the nape, armpits, and groin. Homily in five, four, three, two…

>>7530360
DRECK.

File: 7J7C9263-copy.jpg (219KB, 1200x800px) Image search: [Google]

219KB, 1200x800px

>>7518242
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-IyTBB7FAddHYpZyLTMBpgjaMk8PWFokXxBATshyL14/edit?usp=sharing

The detective awoke to a cold and damp snout trickling noisily in his warm and dry ear, and it’s whiskered mouth brushing against his face with its hot pungent breath, panting eagerly. He elbowed and gently pushed the dog away and sat up stiffly in his bed. Glancing around the cold, dark room he felt the unchanging presences of emptiness. It was a kind of subdued predawn malaise that always came over him this early, always made him feel like things were disjointed and unreal. It was if he were seeing the room for the first time, and everything in it. He pulled the curtains wide open and patted the dog and walked to the bathroom with worn out legs.
He looked into the mirror. “You’re old,” he told himself. He curled his lips and inspected his gums then pulled down his cheeks and look at his wet, glassy eyes. He saw there the decrepitude, the feebleness, the old age. He thought of the years gone by, the marriages, the many aches, the many deaths, and then he shaved himself with a clean cold, wet razor.

>>7530713

A modifier is a word that does nothing but modify another word. 25% of this entire thing modifiers. The other 25% is shitty descriptions that needed the modifier, instead of strong descriptions, imagery, comparisons, exposition, etc. The remaining 50% is grammatically unstable. Word of advice, pick words that aren't out an ESL students study guide.

>>7527885

WORST poem I've ever read which is saying a lot considering I took a poetry workshop in high school.

File: -pESpZn3NsmxBraB8ZQTvDCG5xQzNE37UbW040.jpg (102KB, 640x640px) Image search: [Google]

102KB, 640x640px

I'm a new writer. Please don't be harsh.

He'd always known. Yes, he always had. Nobody could deny it, he thought to himself. They'd be foolish to. He chuckled to himself. They'd always known he would kill them. It was inevitable from the beginning.
"Please, John," said his wife, on her knees, holding their newborn baby.
"Don't call me by that stupid name," John said. "You don't want to piss me off!"
She quivered and the baby quivered too in a kind of "chain reaction" effect. They were all quivering. Even he was quivering a little bit.
"So, what should I call you?" she asked.
It was a good question and John was not ready for the answer. It was his name, after all? Wasn't it? Hadn't it always been? Things were unraveling in his mind. He had never felt this way before. His bones felt like they were made of steel. His skin felt like it was also made of steel. It was indescribable.
"What happening to you?" asked his wife as the baby screamed, but he couldn't give an answer, because it was indescribable.
Suddenly, John stopped. He coughed and then touched his nose several times. The wife just watched. At this point, the baby had stopped screaming and it watched too. If John wasn't already himself, then he would have watched him too. There were so much watching going on that it was impossible to describe. John raised the axe above his head. A look of horror came over the face of his poor wife, whose name was Sue.
"Poor Sue," he said, continuing to raise the axe. "You'll never understand why I did this, will you?"
Sue supposed he was probably right.
He wished he could describe. He wished he could tell her about the visions and the voices and the strange feelings that consumed his being... he wished he could say that, but he was simply too lazy, and couldn't have been bothered saying that whole thing. He was still raising that axe.
The wife begged for her life but he wouldn't listen. No, he was too busy raising that axe. She wished something would happen, that some God would intervene, that he would be suddenly shot like in the movies. But it didn't happen. None of it happened.
"Arrgh!" cried John as he continued raising the axe. Soon, soon, he would lower it. He looked down into her helpless eyes and felt a funny old feeling, like a combination of extraordinary power and deep, hidden shame... He felt like a drug addict, needing that next fix, going from one fix to another, addicted to "fixes," which I assume is slang for drugs. No, he had procrastinated enough. The moment had finally come.
The axe came screaming down.
"Aaahh!" she screamed.
"Nothing you say can save you now!" said John, the axe sailing through the air towards her head.
"Please, please John, there's something I never told you..."
But it was too late. The axe was already in motion and headed toward her skull.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, and a part of him actually was.
"God help me," said the wife, even though a part of her suspected that none of us have anything to look forward to. "I guess this is really the end..."

>>7531061
The real estate agent led the fresh faced couple into the main section of the room. They were followed by their teenage daughter, Beshy. Their names were Billy and Bubsy.
"So," said Billy, "what is the price for this house?"
"The price?" said the real estate agent. She chuckled to herself. They wanted to know the price? The price of the house? She chuckled to herself again. She couldn't believe that they would ask such a thing. She couldn't stop chuckling. Then she noticed they were giving her weird looks.
"Yes, ahem..." she said, looking around. "So, about this house..."
"Yes, I was asking about the price," said Billy.
"Oh, the price, yes." The real estate let out one last chuckle. "I'm sorry. It's just that I heard a funny joke once asking the price of a house, so whenever that happens to me, I can't help but laugh."
Billy and Bubsy gave each other awkward looks.
Beshy (who is the daughter, in case you forgot) said suddenly, "This is the house of my dreams." But what she really meant was that it was the house of her nightmares. But she wouldn't realise that until later.
"I'm starting to think I like this house too," said the real estate agent.
"What do you care?" Billy retorted. "You're not going to be living in it."
The real estate lady waved her hands around, as if to excuse herself from the discussion. "It's just that, well, back in my day, real estate ladies were allowed to have their say."
Billy snorted. "Well, it ain't your day anymore. Times have changed missy. Ain't you looked out a window? We've got horseless carriages, lights which require no flames, 9/11... can't you see that things a different, old woman? Don't you see how this is just how it is?"
The real estate lady looked ashamed. How could she believe anything anymore. Her entire world of being a lady and practicing real estate had been thrown into disarray. How could she go on living after this, this...?
Billy gave her a pat on the back and a smile. He draped a blanket over her shoulders and passed her a mug of hot chocolate. She was grateful for this man, the one who had provided these things.
"Tell you what. What if I bought this house?"
She looked at him with a look unlike any you have ever seen. This look was so utterly beyond description that any attempt to capture it in prose would be completely foolish. To attempt such a thing would be to prove oneself to be utterly impaired.
"You..." she began. She was having trouble collecting her thoughts. They were going in a thousand directions at once. "You... you really want to buy it."
He stared so deep into her eyes that they began to water. He could feel the power building inside of him, those surging emotions. He had never felt this way. It was like he was possessed.
"Pass me the contract," he said with a devilish grin. "I'll sign it right now."
With a trembling hand, the real estate lady passed over the contract. There was something very strange going on with this man, but a sale was a sale... or so it seemed.

>>7531092
"You know, they tell some tales about this house." That was Henry, Beshy's new boyfriend. They got along extremely well. He didn't even mind that she was named Beshy.
"What kinda tales?" She looked at him, intrigued. Who was this strange boy? Where had he even come from? Was he dead? Was he a ghost? A thousand questioned swirled around in her mind. How could she be sure that anything but her own thoughts were real? And were even they real? She decided not to think about it.
"Strange tales," he replied, about twenty seconds after she had said her part. "Tales about ghosts an' demons. Yep, you'll hear some strange tales 'round these parts." He spat his chewing tobacco into one of those tins, those ones that make the noise when you spit into them. "Yep."
"Please," she insisted, looking pleadingly into his eyes, palms together in a praying motion, while she jumped on the spot for reasons that were not evident anyone. "Please tell me."
"Well," he replied, sighing so loudly that they could feel the tremors throughout the house. "Well f'starters..."
"Yes? F'starters what?"
"F'starters... they say a man killed his wife and child in here!"
At exactly this moment, lightning stuck and thunder clapped. An old crone cackled in the background. There were scary sounds everywhere.
"No... no.... it can't be true." She was starting to question everything now. Was anything real? "Please, tell me it's not true, that somebody was killed in this house..."
"I would," he began, giving her a look so intense it would completely blown everyone away in literally any situation, "but I don't want to lie to you."
She was almost weeping now. She couldn't contain all of her emotions. She was trembling. She was sweating too. Her clothes were baggy and sopping wet. She smelled to high heaven. It was the worst that Henry had ever seen her.
"But that's not all." He was apparently not finished. He spoke, then, with the utmost seriousness, words she had never heard spoken before, not in the entire history of her life, one in which she had previously thought she had understood, but now she realised she understood nothing and that everything was in question. "Yes," he continued, in case you forgot he was the one who was speaking, "it's true, there is more to the tale to tell."
She inhaled suddenly, eager to hear the words that would follow. Whatever he was going to say next, she was certain that it would affect her profoundly, and that she would never be the same after hearing them. She prepared herself, but she knew that no amount of preparation would be adequate. Whatever was coming next, it would shake her to her core. And she didn't want that. No, she didn't want to be shaken. Never, shaken, no, shaken... please! she thought, please don't shake me...
But her thoughts were heard by no one. She should have spoken then aloud if she had truly wanted to shield herself.
Then, they came.
"This place," he said... "folks say, folks say it's HAUNTED."

>>7531120
Billy was looking around the new bedroom. "I can't believe what a bedroom we have!" he exclaimed. Never had he exclaimed anything like he exclaimed that. He wasn't even the kind of guy who exclaimed things in the first place. Frankly, Bubsy didn't actually care that much. He had just said it for something to say, but somehow, the way he said it, it had made him seem way too enthusiastic.
"I think I know what you mean," said Billy, with a grin. "I'm going to leave you alone for a moment. I have some matter to attend to. Don't have too much fun without me."
Bubsy gave him a look. Then he gave her a look back in return. They Bubsy gave him a different look.

>>7531132
Never had there been so many looks in such rapid succession. It was completely unlike anything that had ever happened before.
"But yes," he continued, "I suppose I ought to be going to do that thing I mentioned."
Bubsy was sad to see him go, but on a deeper level, she felt she understood. Now that he was gone, she was able to dwell on her own thoughts. What was the meaning of life? she wondered. Why are we all here? She shook her head. There was no time to be thinking about that. And then she laughed. She just found it funny all of a sudden. There was no explanation for it. It was so arbitrary that she couldn't help but laugh again. But then, before she knew it, she was sick of laughing. What had happened? What had changed? She didn't know. She just didn't feel like laughing anymore.
Then, a figure appeared at the doorway. it was him, Billy, but he was now clothed head to toe in a black rubber suit.
"What this?" asked Bubsy. "What kind of suit is this that you are wearing?"
But the man in the suit said nothing. In a way, it was quite rude. In another way, it was quite ominous and creepy. In yet a third way, it was seductive. This new suit, the black suit, something about it made he become wet... fluids were sloshing all around her. She'd never felt anything like this before, never felt this kind of sexual intensity... nothing, never, never had she felt anything like this... no, she kept thinking about it, but the more she considered it, the more she because certain: yes, indeed, I have felt nothing like this before. She had no doubt about the matter.
"Please," she moans, feeling her flaps engorge. "Please penetrate me with your rocket... your hot red rocket."
The man inside the black suit made a "hnngg!" sound that voices his approval. The woman's hands caressed his hips. He felt his member engorging. They were both engorging. He took his engorged member and popped it twixt her slacks, into her hole, her engorged hole.
"Oh baby..." she said. She had never felt anything like this before, never, not in her entire life.
"Hnng!" said the man in the suit. He, also, had never felt anything like this before.
Then, suddenly: KPPPLLSSH!!
The man ejaculated.
His semen splurged inside of her "ta-ta." She felt the liquid rapidly filling her parts, like a tube of toothpaste being emptied in reverse.
"Ooh!" she croaked at the emotion she was feeling. She had never let any man do this to her before... never had she been abused in the way before, by any kind of sexual partner."
Suddenly, the man in the suit appeared embarrassed. He slipped his schlong back in his rubber trousers and hightailed out of there. Then, a mere twenty seconds later, in came... the husband, carrying a sandwich?
"Wow, you changed out of that suit quickly," said the woman.
The husband was confused by this statement, because, of course, it had not been him in the suit, but a ghost, but nonetheless, he simply agreed, like he always did when his wife said something.

>>7531157
They were at the hospital.
"I can't wait to see what the baby looks like," said Beshy, rubbing her hands together. "Will we get to find out its gender?"
"No," replied her mother, "we will let it assign its own gender later in life."
Beshy smiled at her mother. Her mother smiled back. They smiled like that for a long time. It made both happy to see each other smiling so they just kept smiling like that. Everybody thought it was a bit weird but it's not like it was doing anybody any harm. It was just a mother smiling at her daughter, and her daughter smiling in return. Nobody had ever seen anything like it.
"It's good to smile sometimes," said Bubsy.
"Yes," said Beshy to her mother. "Sometimes it is good."
Just the thought of this sentiment made her smile more. At this point, she would have smiled at just about anything. 9/11, the Holocaust, anything. Honestly, she was having trouble imagining how anything could ever change this mood of hers... but then it changed, in a big way. Something came over her and... she didn't feel like smiling anymore. It was like something had completely shifted inside of her. She had never felt anything like it before. But then, as quickly as this had come upon her, she felt happy again. She was smiling -- she had never stopped smiling -- and so was her daughter. It felt so good to smile, so what exactly had been that strange sensation. She couldn't figure it out. It was one of those mysteries she suspected she would never be able to solve. She had never quite pondered anything like this.
Somebody cleared their throat. It was the nurse. Everybody's eyes widened when they saw her. They couldn't believe it. It really was the nurse. A part of them doubted it. Could it really be, though? Could it be her? Could it not be a hallucination or a mirage? No, it was impossible... a nurse, here, standing in front of them? Why wasn't she in front of a patient? Why wasn't she helping to deliver a baby? Nurses didn't just stand around. They had work to attend to. And yet, she was, standing there, completely still, looking at them with her eyes, staring at them, waiting, waiting for the moment their attention shifted... Yes, when she knew, when she was certain that they were paying attention to them, then she would speak, then she would impart what she had to say...
It was Billy whose head turned next. So, that's what his wife had been looking at. The nurse. Standing in front of them like some kind of demon or spectre, bequeathed in a nurse's outfit, staring at them, staring with those nurse's eyes...
Next came the daughter, Beshy, who also noticed the nurse. Ah! It came as a shock to her at first: a nurse, and she was really, truly here in the flesh. Never could she have conceived of it. She was in a state of complete and total disbelief until it dawned on her -- what if she really WAS there? What if it actually, really, truly was a nurse standing there in front of her?

>>7531183
"Good," said the nurse. "So I've got your attention."
They couldn't believe what they were hearing. Good? So? I've? Got? Your? Attention? They had never heard words like these before. They leaned in. What words were yet to follow? The possibilities were all but limitless.
"Follow me," added the nurse.
This was no problem for them. They had been following people their entire lives. They had been following leaders without even questioning... why? why hadn't they questioned? But now they were following something else... the nurse! That's right, her, the nurse, the one who lead them into the room, where the mother would get the sonogram. Who? Who could have concieved?
The father grinned. "I'm looking forward to this sonogram."
The mother smiled back. "Yes."
The daughter could only smile in agreement. The nurse looked back at them and smiled too. From then on they were known throughout the hospital as "The Smiling Bunch." Nobody had ever seen smiles like theirs. It was like something out of a different reality. Everybody -- doctors, patients -- nobody could believe what they were seeing, these smiling people coming down the hall.
They were led into the sonnogram room.
"Here we are," said the nurse.
"And where is 'here' exactly?" said the father smugly.
"The sonnogram room," answered the nurse.
Nobody could understand why the conversation had even taken place. The nurse and the father agreed to pretend like it had never happened.
"The doctor will be here at any moment."
This had not occurred to any of them. The doctor would be coming? Oh, and what then? Who else would show up? Probably the whole Spanish Inquisition, wondering all about here baby, asking all kinds of questions about it. She hated them, those imaginary people. She hated them with everything she had.
After a few minutes of waiting, the doctor's head appeared in the door. He looked like blues musician "Blind" Willie McTell.
"Hello everybody," he said. "I'm a doctor."
Everybody applauded at this statement. Wow! A real life doctor. They had never seen anything like it. It was all so amazing to them.
"I'll be doing the sonnogram toady," he said, smiling politely. If there was anything to be said for him, it's that his bedside manner was good. "Bedside manner" means how well a doctor acted towards you. Anyway the doctor got the equipment ready.
"I can't wait for this sonnogram," said the mother, arching her eyebrows. Her daughter arched her eyebrows in reply and soon everybody was arching their eyebrows. It was like some kind of weird competition. Nobody had ever seen anything like it.
"Anyway," said the doctor, "let's perform this sonnogram."
So he put the gel on her belly and scanned it with the machine. On the screen appeared a baby who smiled at them and gestured towards his dick. But it actually wasn't his dick, it was the umbilical cord. Fetuses don't have dicks.
"Wow, what a beautiful baby!" said the mother.
But then the baby made a face that revealed it was actually... evil.

>>7531204
But then it was seven months later at the birth. Everyone was in attendance, everyone from the series. They were all standing around in the haunted living room, chanting for the baby to be born.
"Baby be born! Baby be born!" they chanted. It was a chant unlike any chant anybody had ever seen. They chanted like there was no tomorrow. They chanted like there was nothing in this world sweet enough to match a good chant. They chanted like their lives depended on it. Then the baby started coming...
Its head peeked out. Oh, and what a head it was. An amazing head, one beyond description. This was followed by the body, which was a little weaker than the head, but still pretty impressive. Overall, everyone was impressed by the baby.
Then, the mother noticed something strange. Among the ghosts were... Billy! her husband, and... Beshy! her daughter, and... Henry! that weird boy her daughter was always talking to. She couldn't believe it. They were ghosts! She felt like she was seeing stars. Everything was going crazy. No, no, she thought. How could this be happening to me? Little old me? Ain't never done nuttin wrong and now look what happen. She began to cry, but then she remembered the baby. Where had it gone?
"It's our baby now!" said the ghosts, cackling like witches. "Don't you remember when you promised us earlier in the story?"
"Oh, yes, of course," said the mother, "who could forget that part."
"You see," said the ghost, "so it all ties together."
The mother could not fault this logic. She had lived such an incredible tale that it couldn't have been made up... and if it had been made up, whoever did it must have been a real genius, and a really good writer, and very attractive. But of course, it wasn't a story. Or was it, how could she know? How could she know she was not a fictional character. It was a vexing question and it made her think long and hard about everything she had previously assumed. Anyway the ghosts had taken the baby.
"I might as well kill myself, so I can be with the baby." Did I mention the baby was stillborn? So they could be together forever.

THE END

>>7518457

Hello again Mr. Burroughs

>>7530360
>>7530691
how come

>>7531236
who?

>>7530924
Pretty lovely poem, I don't sense any pretentiousness so I would say it's honest.
As for your real talent, I couldn't judge by a few lines so you'll have to provide more lengthy samples. Anyway, good luck;

>>7518242
What's this semen demon's name?

>>7530924
It's sweet, but not sickly sweet. As the other anon said, it sounds genuine.

https://brophwords.wordpress.com/2016/01/02/superstorm-medard/

Here's a story I wrote about climate change.

He could see it now, the blurry shadow of his spacecraft on the blue sand. The dark shape was moving towards him, getting bigger as he descended through the thin wispy atmosphere. It was possible to land using only the instruments in front of him and he knew that ship's computer was already fully aware of how far above it was over the ground but Ben only felt completely sure of his altitude when he could see the shadow of his ship.

Mira was sat behind him, staring out the window like a dog in a car, the padded acceleration couch she occupied strained to retain her as she shifted to take in the alien landscape. Truthfully the autopilot was capable of landing on its own, but Ben found it enjoyable to do it himself.
The sandy ground was close now, harsh unfiltered sunlight made the dusty plain shine a faint turquise shade of blue. The dimunitive little vessel shook slighly as it touched down. Plumes of dust fell from above, rustled from their resting places by the effector drive. The ship shifted, synthetic muscles in the landing legs flexed and moved as the small craft settled into its new home.
"We're here" He said with a smile on his face. "Better late than never!" Ben added as he unbuckled his restraints.

>>7531934
Shit.

"Mira was sat behind him"

"Turquise"

"He said... Ben added"

Overall, on a less tangible level, the use of modifiers feels very high school.

>>7532056
Thanks, what would you say I should change most of all in my writing? I'd like to improve.

"You have to cut true. Deep circle; ream it. Bore into it. You see what I mean? Nothing to be gentle about."

The child stared in unblinking silence. His hands moved with a graceful efficiency, responding simultaneously to the instruction.

"Start below the breastbone. Move down, keep it just below the skin; cut the stomach, and I'll break your fingers. I'll make you clean it with your own fucking mouth."

The wind bit into him like obsidian flakes; tearing, seeking the blood beneath with an igneous ferocity.

"All the way. Watch them; careful with the pull. Alright, get the throat out. Don't slow down. Step back, step back."

The knife was traded for the axe; leather-wrapped steel to wood. It was a solid certainty when gripped in his hand, a monolithic bastion of comforting grayed hickory. The strike was clean and sweet in its resounding, sending a few drops splattering onto the child, running down his face to drip from his chin. Three shards of stained white, remnants of the heart's once-sturdy shield.

"Get them out, get them out."

A rhythmic chorus. Fingers slipping on the pale and red, blade ripping with the speed of hunger. Secrets well hidden, blue-veined and still warm.

"Tear. Don't be soft with them."

They fell into a neat little pile, each perfect, divine. The coils of gray and white spoke to him in kinder tones.

Lips set, the tall one did not speak as he finished inspecting the emptied cavity. For the slightest moment, a glimmer of hope in the child's death-mute gaze.

I have encountered the iconography of the hangover cult on a few seperate occassions. The most recognizable symbol is often found in trendy bars, or houses which often host parties. A sun, mouth wide, vomitting rainbows. Each instance i've encountered occurred in different places, and a few were in seperate states. I have no reason to believe that the artists were aware of the other's work, and yet they all found the same symbol. The lifegiving sun, sick with color.

Lesser solar symbols also repeat, particularly in commercially purchased curtains and bedding. A crecent moon, whose circle is completed with the image of the sun on a dark blue background. Both have faces, and there is a sense that these are two different faces sharing a space. Moon as sun, sun as moon. The sun looks smug, and the moon seems crafty. A two faced god.

Let's take what we know, and imagine the order of the day which brings the hangover cult to the repeating symbol of the vomiting sun. I spent some time in this cycle in college so I'll relate what I remember.

After class and work, there was a definite sense of waiting. Gathering in the clique, watching movies and getting ready for the sun to set. Drinking a bit before the fun started. The slow loosening. Leaving two hours after the nominal start of the party. The party without external cause. The party for it's own sake. The party as third place, a gathering of people. Outside is dark but inside there is light and heat and noise. You've brought your own daylight. The people you only meet here. The music which is always a little too loud. Alcohol, and the sensation which you always have to have some in your hand The trickle of people leaving, and the stumble to bed.

The sun in your eyes wakes you. And you want to roll over and go back to sleep but your head is split in half, and if you move you'll throw up. And soon, if you don't move you'll throw up. And so you stumble to the bathroom through the brightly lit hallways and kneel before porcelain and you call colors from inside you. Tears blur your vision. You try to remember drinking anything blue, but you can't pierce the fog. You don't know how you made it home in once piece. You choke down toast and drink as much water as you can until your vomit is crystal clear. You drag through the work for the day, and meet with your clique. What a crazy night, you say. And you share stories from after the split. You wait until the arival of the third place. The night which is not night. The people and the party. And you do it again.

I wrote this sample chapter a while ago for a /pol/ board of another site in order to test my abilities, so keep in mind that it's slightly political and is by someone who's less than new.


Watching the skies is a luxury often overlooked by civilians. Yet come the calm winds of summer, keeping a glazed eye on the wild blue yonder is all but a formal tradition to the men of the Reichate's air fleet. Whether it's a lazy afternoon getting lost in the clouds between assignments, or a night of admiring the stars before lights out, there are few more compelling reasons for the spike of morale come the first balmy day of every year. And few skies were better for this pleasant waste of time than those the air fortress Galahad hovered through as of late.

So pleasant was the resulting deployment that even Preuben could often be found slipping away from his busywork to observe the air fleet's favourite passtime. One such lazy Sunday brought him to a surprisingly empty control room, starboard side. He spent the hours in a relaxed daze, taking in a slightly clouded skyscape. So dazed, in fact, that it took him an embarrassingly long time to notice a Randal shaped figure trying to catch his attention.

"Hello?" mocked Randal. "Is anybody home?" Preuben almost jumped out of his seat as he shook himself back to reality. "Sorry, Mr. Ace Pilot" Randal remarked jokingly. "At ease, private" Preuben jabbed back, hoping to distract from his faux pas with Randal's pet peeve. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that".

It worked.

"This seat taken?". Knowing Randal, it was less of a question and more a statement of intention. He took the seat and threw Preuben a beer. "How's life treating you?" Preuben questioned. "Isn't it your grandpa's birthday today?". "He's my dad you asshole. And yes, it is his birthday. Not that my gift's even gotten to him yet. Postal's crazy these days". Hearing Randal blabber on about family life reminded Preuben of his own, in a strange manner of contrast.

"Have I ever told you about my father?". Randal thought it over for a moment. "Wasn't he the White Baron way back when?" Randal questioned back. "Depends", Preuben began, preparing to answer Randal's question with yet another question. "Does ’back when they used jets instead of mech gears’ count as ’way back when?'" Randal was taken aback for a moment. "You kidding? That's more like ancient history!" Preuben gave a light chuckle. "Well my father was about as good as it gets in the cockpits of those late generation jets. Even his personal craft was famous. ’The Solar Aurock V2’, he called it."

Preuben officially had Randal's undivided attention.

Continued in next comment.

>>7532091

I don't completely hate this, but I definitely see why someone would. It clearly tries to be more interesting and stylized than it is. I'd definitely work on being more vivid and unique with your imagery (i hope you meant to make people roll their eyes at "vomitting rainbows", which should be vomiting if you really want to stick with that). Seperate should be separate, etc. You'll want to work on spelling (run stuff through an highlighting autocorrect at least).

>>7532117
"What was the V1 like?" Randal asked, obviously getting far too excited, as he is like to do. "That's the exact question that drew some of the biggest crowds in air show history. As soon as his name was attatched to a show, people would come from all around just for a snowball's chance in the Mojave to see it. Myself included, by the way. He even made me buy my own tickets." This was all besides the point for Randal, as he only had one thing on his mind (Again, as he is like to do). "Did you ever see it?" Randal practically begged.

"No, I never did. In fact, nobody did, because it never existed in the first place. V2 was just something he slapped onto the end to hook the crowds." Randal was devastated, and it was as obvious as a good poker hand in a game between children. "You serious? You must have been pissed as all hell." "And I was" Preuben replied. "It was like learning Santa wasn't real all over again. But eventually, I realized how gullible I'd been. The whole gimmick was ridiculous when I thought about it honestly. Not that you'd have resisted the urge yourself back then." A friendly punch to the arm followed. "I've gotta hand it to him, it was a lesson really worth learning the hard way. Even if it was just a side product of his ego".

>>7532067
Make it concise. It has a nice sort of warm atmosphere, but i don't think stripping it a little would diminish that if you do it correctly.

Also, proofread. Errors like "turquise" and "dimunitive" are objective and easy to correct.

>>7532141
Alright. I just wrote it in a jiffy for this thread in particular. I would post some of my longer work but I don't have it saved on this device. I'll try and keep things concise when appropriate.
Proofreading is something I really need to get better at.

>>7532126
Sorry, forgot to critique someone.
>>7532091
It's decent, imo, but I agree with the other anon. You've got to put more effort in describing things more fully and competently. If a concept seems like something that could take up a paragraph, don't be afraid to take two in order to flesh it out properly. That's the most important thing I can tell you from this. Good luck!

>>7532228
>I just wrote this for the thread without really thinking about it
I don't know how new you are to this board, but this is a bullshit excuse for sloppy writing that pops up in damn near every critique thread. Don't use it.

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My honest and sincere thoughts towards this thread: You write like a bunch of redneck asians which never opened a book in their lifes. Your writing shows you've never held a charming intellectual converastion before.

What the hell man. Just, are you for real? I mean I know 4chan is the sewer of the internet, but you're insanely bad even for amateur level. It seems like /lit/ is as much about literature as /sp/ is about sports.

I've seen genuinely better writing in erotic roleplaying and my little pony episodes.

>>7532470
>never open a book in their lifes
>lifes
I came here to laugh at you.

kill this thread, please.

>>7532486
This is why you're a failing country, Britain.

>>7532470
the people that post here are complete amateurs who've never read a book or taken a class on writing before.

i know there are better writers on /lit/ but they the kind that don't need to post in these threads to get a dubious crit (if they even get a response).

>>7532499
Personally, I'm just looking for feedback on something I'm thinking of taking up as a hobby. I've been reading religiously for years now, and this seems like the next logical step. There's some pretty bad writing here, I'll admit, but we've all got to start somewhere. Being hostile doesn't help anybody, but being honest and constructive will trim the fat and leave us with people who are serious about /lit/.

>>7532515
Thats retarded. You must tell others to never try or attempt to get better. Never try, never ever. You are human filth. Do not try. You should just kill yourself for not writing well enough at amateur level.

>>7531376
I don't know, it just seems cruel & a little gross.

>>7532590
that doesn't necessarily make it bad.

>>7531061
prose is pretty solid but the dialogue is crap

>>7531791
hard to read in the shadow of the gaze of the unibrow-morph manlet

>>7532091
Great. Best in thread I've read (so far)

Just the same there are some little rough spots here and there. Use more contractions; read it all out loud at different speeds to smooth it out.

>>7532117
Could someone please give feedback on this?

>>7532119
>>7532440
never tell a writer to be more boring & verbose you dumb cunts. this is horrible advice

>>7532637
Maybe this is coming from my DnD experience, but isn't it better to be over-descriptive than under-descriptive?

>>7532091
the beginning is much too academic and formal for the subject. stop trying so hard. the shift from first to second person doesn't make sense since the narrator is remembering experiences.

>>7530700
seems weirdly flat & rhythmless. the details are great and the story I'm sure is really good but I stopped after a paragraph

>>7532656
No. Are you trying to bore them to death?

>>7532637

How is asking someone to put effort into avoiding cliches and having pictorial imagery anywhere near telling someone to be boring and verbose?

>>7522924
I enjoy the tone you've got going here. I'd be curious to know where you plan to take this, though, and what the actual significance of the camera is supposed to be.

>>7532674
Competent imagery building doesn't have to be boring.

File: 17897581b1217ffd64a90c015e185a44.png (266KB, 622x566px) Image search: [Google]

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Someone willing to check something in spanish

long one
http://pastebin.com/L2eyRBke

short one
http://pastebin.com/N6vvvaSw

>>7532635
Prose is alright. Dialogue is difficult to read because of incorrect formatting.

>>7532798
What do you mean by formatting? I've heard different methods from every teacher I've had on the subject, so it gets confusing.

>>7532809
I think the main issue is that you divide it like direct dialogue while quoting like indirect

>>7532817
Please explain this to me at length. A lot of my formal instruction is contradictory, so I sometimes just wing it with this stuff.

>>7521292
this was pretty funny i liked it

>>7532809
Read any book with dialogue.

Basically it's

"Quote," Anon says.
"I disagree," Anon 2 says, "And ur mum is a fag."

If you're doing indirect quoting like

Anon said something normal, then Anon 2 said something retarded.

Then you write it like you would describe normal sounds.

>>7532851
Could you try to fix a part of my writing that breaks this format? It'd probably give me a better understanding of what you're saying.

>>7526599

That evening, Beatrice sat at her dining room table with her husband, Jim, and son, Jack. She always found it annoying that their names were alliterative but it wasn’t worth mentioning to either of them because they would both be confused.
It was strange that they were eating at home, at the table, together. Beatrice could not recall the last time this had happened but she did not let it bother her.
Jim was the manager of a small but reasonably popular restaurant downtown. He was balding and a little overweight. Beatrice thought for the millionth time that she should have an affair. Christmas was coming and the new year approached; would having an affair be a good resolution?
Jack was three years old. Beatrice was not sure whether he could speak or recognise speech. She saw him for about half an hour each day: she had hired a nanny who had received great reviews to replace her as his mother. The nanny, whose name was something German, was young and pretty, but made Beatrice nervous. She was always telling Beatrice that she should enjoy more time with her son, but Beatrice always gave her a subtle “Fuck off”. Beatrice hoped that the nanny would adopt Jack but didn’t really know how the adoption system worked.
Jack was trying to reach the table and crying when he couldn’t. Jim moved his chair forward, but he still had a difficult time reaching his plate. Jim left the table and came back with a large book that Beatrice had never seen to set on Jack’s chair. Jack did not want to sit on the fat book and instead cried and began to scream. Beatrice had heard that in some African tribes parents make small cuts under the eyes of their children to prevent them from crying. She did not try this tradition because Jim would be upset by it and she found blood repulsive.

>>7532874
Dude I learned this in school when I was twelve, you may want to get some basic knowledge about writing and just making sentences in general before writing.

>>7532874
"Hello?" mocked Randal. "Is anybody home?" Preuben almost jumped out of his seat as he shook himself back to reality. "Sorry, Mr. Ace Pilot" Randal remarked jokingly.
"At ease, private" Preuben jabbed back, hoping to distract from his faux pas with Randal's pet peeve. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that".

Honestly, though, I'm not sure who says that last line.

>>7532830
I'm not that guy, I'm just pointing a small issue I find on your dialogues. When you use indirect dialogue, i.e. putting it inside the paragraph as part of the narration, you get the strenght of reinforcing the narrator. The dialogue is a color added but nor a necesity.
When you want direct dialogue you isolate each line to make it easier to read because you want to make them important. If you're gonna present every line of dialogue show them off in separate sentences.

That "it worked" is particularly bothering.

>>7532892
The following night began far more normally. Beatrice and her group of friends were at a mid-priced restaurant in the suburbs. Justine wasn’t there which bothered Beatrice slightly; she did not like Justine, but a black woman would have added appealing diversity to the caucasian group.
Poppy, the unofficial leader of the group, stood as a young woman approached the table. She announced cloyingly in her cloying voice, “This is my cousin, Bridget. She’s from the country up north, where she works at a farm! Isn’t that just charming?”
There was a general murmuring of upspoken “Yeahs” and “Wows” and then everybody forgot and moved on. Beatrice realized that there was something odd about the way Poppy pronounced “Bridget” and decided to avoid using the name for the night. Bridget sat next to her and Beatrice felt a little annoyed. Bridget was off. She was not dressed like the rest of the group. She was wearing light jeans and a white t-shirt, which was unappealing with her bust. The other women were all dressed in tights and long, flowing tops, or exercise clothes. One of them whose name Beatrice could not remember was wearing a tennis outfit with a skirt, which was different, but did not stand out too badly.
Beatrice realised that Poppy was talking to her about Bridget and she kept saying “Bridget” weirdly. She was saying that Bridget worked at a farm that had cows and sheep and horses, but Bridget corrected her.
“Just horses,” she said. “Horses and dogs, I guess.” Her voice was normal, which was relieving to Beatrice. Bridget looked at Beatrice and asked something about a job which was largely drowned out by an uproar elsewhere at the table.
Beatrice did her best to respond to what she assumed was a question about where she worked. She said something about being a stay-at-home mom; she had repeated the same general line so many times that even she didn’t pay attention to it.
This time, however, it was received oddly. Bridget tilted her head slightly and smiled a little, communicating to Beatrice what seemed to be disbelief. Beatrice tried to move on to a conversation with some other women but something drew her back to Bridget.

>>7533019
Bridget asked, “Where did you go to school?”
“A small local place,” Beatrice said. Education was an unimportant topic to her peers, unless their children were in school. Beatrice had a master’s in mathematics from a university in France, but she always said that she went to a small local place to seem more normal. Beatrice is educated basically and believes basically, following trendy information crazes like homeopathy or essential oils just like her friends. The lie returned her to a state of inward composure, matching her exterior.
“No you didn’t.”
Beatrice felt distinctly uneasy and by this point any relief brought by Bridget’s voice was completely erased. She laughed in what she hoped was a disarming way and shifted the conversation to farming. Bridget complied, but kept sneaking in little ironic glances. Beatrice felt like she was going to vomit and a drop of sweat trickled down her back. She became afraid that her armpits were sweating through her shirt.
Bridget asked about whether Beatrice was married or not despite the obvious rings and Beatrice held up her hand and smiled as an answer. Bridget said, “How long did you have to wait, or did you go somewhere else?”
Beatrice lost her fake smile and felt completely confused, and suddenly the words flowing around her became overwhelmingly loud. How long had she waited for what?
She came back to reality as Bridget said “Closet. Gotcha.”
Beatrice felt suddenly with extreme distress that Bridget could read her mind. Her homosexuality had been forced so far down that not even Beatrice thought about it anymore. Then she realised how absurd it was to think that a farmgirl could read her mind.
Everybody stared at Beatrice and she had a cold feeling in her stomach as she felt the loud laughter in her throat. Silence overtook the entire table for a few seconds before tentative conversation resumed. Beatrice was horrified; this was the greatest faux pas she had ever made in this company. She excused herself to use the restroom. Bridget’s shoulders were shaking with repressed laughter.

>>7532899
>>7532901
So direct quotes need their own sentences, and single line paragraphs are only acceptable with direct quotes?

>>7533095
>So direct quotes need their own sentences
yeah, unless you add a comment before following that character's dialogue. see it as theatre.
>and single line paragraphs are only acceptable with direct quotes?
no, but they are hard to pull off while with direct dialogue they tend to happen a lot.

You can actually have both kinds of dialogue in the same story. Check a few Raymon Carver stories and you'll see him do that here and there.

>>7533127
You all have been very helpful on this subject. Thank you. Any other comments?

>>7533175
Be sure to indent each new quote.

>>7533219
Example? I thought indenting only happened at the beginning.

Long time ago, a guy was sick; he died.
End

>>7533240
4chan doesn't allow indentation. Basically, treat each new quote like its own paragraph.

The best thing to do would be to read a novel with dialogue and pay attention to the formatting.

>>7533270
Thanks.

>>7533270
In spanish the word for indentation is sangría, bleeding. I have no clue why, maybe because you cut off a part of the space to make it work better.

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>>7533278
Got an example if you'd like a bit more clarity.

>>7533330
One last thing. What's the determining difference between a quote that should break a paragraph and a quote that shouldn't?

>>7533346
only change in characters, obviously, it's hard as fuck to follow otherwise. that is in direct dialogue, in indirect you just put what they said inside the paragraph like a boss.

>>7533357
Again, thanks. Have anything to say about the story and writing itself?

>>7533346
Each quote should be in its own paragraph, even if it doesn't start it.

The simplest thing to do is to start each quotation-centric paragraph with the quote it contains: "What a wonderful ..."

In the above example, if the quote doesn't begin the paragraph, Eliot switches focus to the character about to deliver the quote and makes that into a new paragraph: "Celia colored ..."

This reads in the best possible way, and the quote has its own paragraph like the simpler form.

If you're looking for reading that features a lot of (good) dialogue, I would recommend Eliot or Wharton.

>>7533366
Character interactions are so intentionally casual that they're stilted. Throwing a beer, skipping the first words of dialogue sentences, punching on the arm, etc.

"It worked" - split off like that - seems more like the conclusion of an epic action plan than an indication that a conversation went the right direction.

When you say "as he is like to do", I think you mean "as he is wont to do".

"Besides" should be "Beside".

I'd say it's... alright. Aside from the obvious formatting issues, of course. I think it has potential.

Jonathan was an abrasive man, short of stature and of temper. He made a habit of attending the Children Of Manic Depressives club after work on Thursdays, a society he had formed alone. The meetings consisted mostly of him sitting cross-legged on a Burger King bathroom floor, quietly sobbing.
Stacey once told the entire office about how, after drinking five White Russians, Jonathan had told her that he secretly wanted to be a woman. Everyone laughed when he came into work that day. There was a change in his face when he walked through that alabaster doorway, welcomed by our muffled hysterics. I am not sure whether the others had seen it, but I had. He had turned his face away from us, as if he was more interested in the trinkets on the grey desks than his our twisted faces. I still saw it though, the convulsion of his jaw muscle, the sinews in his neck contracting, like he was trying to swallow something he could never hope to keep down inside him.

He entered his apartment, dropped his bags, and there it was, glittering in the gloom, the reason he’d bought the place. The twinkling London skyline stared back with indifference though Simon's large living room window. On such a clear sombre night, it was hard to tell where the stars ended and the lightbulbs began, so the scenery gained a kind of beautiful homogeny. Home, he thought, this is home. Simon let the bags fall to his feet, and gaped at the stillness of a million people living their lives, all with their own passions and worries, hates and desires. The faraway sound of a gentle siren thickened the silence. Ambulance, maybe. Police, probably. He tapped his feet against his hardwood floor.

Here's a literary fantasy work I've been working on for the last few months. This is the climax. I know fantasy isn't really /lit/'s favorite genre, but I think this is better than most fantasy works you all probably read. So, without further adieu, here it is!:

Vin pointed his sharp sword that was, as mentioned earlier, crafted by a legendary dwarf blacksmith of the blood of five other legendary dwarf blacksmiths, at Jorn. "You are not getting away this time!" screamed Vin, angrily.

"Oh, but I am," said Jorn, calmly.

"You will never be forgiven for what you've done. You burned down five villages and threaten to destroy the world. Why do you do this, traitor?" He pointed his very sharp blade closer to Jorn.

"I will become the strongest man in the universe. The loss of a few lives is of no concern. Goodbye, Vin."

Jorn suddenly teleported behind Vin and threw a fireball at him but Vin was resistant to fire as he was wearing the charm of Aesgir that Lokir gave him, which surprised Jorn and gave Vin time to end Jorn's life once and for all, thus saving the kingdom. Vin stabbed Jorn three times and then cut off his head, and the kingdom was saved.

Vin thought to himself, "Eldehwen... I did it. Forgive me for being unable to save you."

Suddenly he heard Eldehwen's voice. "Save me!"

"Eldehwen, is that you?"

"Vin? Jorn trapped me under his tower. Please save me."

"Don't worry, I took care of Jorn. I'm coming to get you now."

"You what?"

Vin rescued her, and she hugged him so hard that he felt kind of uncomfortable. She looked him in the eye and said, "Thank you."

He said, "I lo-lov..."

"What was that?"

"Nevermind. Let's start heading back."

"Yes, let's."

>>7533505
I like it. Obviously it's very short, but I couldn't find anything wrong with it and I want to read more. Good work.

>>7533521
Nice imagery but I'm not sure about the "gentle siren". Maybe "The faraway sound of a siren gently thickened the silence." would be better. Overall, I like it.

>>7533562
I wrote both of them, thanks man. Have a great week.

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Wrote this shit while taking a shit....

My Uncle's Purple Pussy Lips

My uncle's purple pussy lips where spread wide. There were old trail mix bags scattered all over the room. Those chapped lips of his clam trap were always alluring, one day I will stick my little acorn inside. I can produce a good amount of seed, there's little soarness after ejaculation. Ever since mom and dad gave him my bedroom, the bathroom is now where I rest. It's got everything I need, sink, toilet, and a hot plate. He just sits there twirling his pussy lips, some chapstick would do them well.

I think he has psoriasis on his pussy lips, he's always peeling the skin. Mom tells me not to look inside when he's "singing dixie", but now that I've seen; my acorn has taken control. Dad said my penis looks like an acorn, he said "How do you go to the piss house, boy?", "It's just a little acorn!", I said " sorry sir". The whole family teases me about my acorn, but I bet if I sowed my uncle's pussy their thoughts would change.

>>7533560
10/10, absolutely nothing wrong with this. Pure poetry.

>>7532605
Are you serious? It's all crap. That's the joke.

>>7532614
what you mean senpai?

Let's see,

Well first of all, never mistake love for love. There's always somebody that you love more than you actually love, say, your wife if you're a middle aged, moderately successful man, which you probably are. There's always that sister of her that when you go visit her, she welcomes you so well and the day is so warm that you feel enormously grateful for that and for her, and for a minute there her face is one of the few in your list of "things that make life worth living". But that's not love, you see. That's love.