critique thread

Confound with proof yet no belief
the ghost who condemns youth to flame,
to compost, sapling – care for it; an oak
is promised by a leaf.
In winter acorn bread will fill you;

drink juice from the sun's bitter fruit
brewed warm to heart's content, and with
an heir's pride of nigh estate watch dawn
paint green on copper leaves, and from
the wind's first breath catch secrets in
a birchbark chest to bury when
it's summer and the tree is bare.

>>8452467
>an oak is promised by a leaf
>not a seed

I skimmed through foundations edge. Its the closest ive ever come to finishing a book. I like how theres a machine thaf calculates particles to predict the distant future.

>>8452471
the sapling starts to grow = eventual tree
a seed might not sprout, so there's no promise there

>>8452471
also
>seed

>a slight breeze moved through the screen escaping darkness. a cat on the sill felt his fur shift in the wind as he peered outside.

I smeared thick, chunky shit in ropes
Over Christy's hairy thighes; her choke
Set pounding symphonies, rippling ships
Streaming to my fingertips.

After, I strung her body from a bridge,
And it dangled sadly, knocked by rocks
Chucked by kids whose smattered socks
Once were white. They smack their lips.

I passed through glades and smokey fields
And reached her silent, silver-black pond, knelt,
And deeply, flatulently shat.

>>8452523
wow

>>8452523
Edgy as fuck

>>8452534
>>8452527

thanks guys, I'll add it to my Iowa portfolio

In the Age of Jazz and Rumrunners, there was a godfather of no small renown who twisted the unsleeping city beneath him like a rope of golden threads. He was ruthless, he was efficient, and he was clever, but he was not however the star of this story.

In the City of Carnivals by the River of Steam there was a mansion of sweeping green brass surrounded by weeping willows and birch. Within lived a girl with hair like ink and eyes of pale grey like two stones polished by the tongue of the river. By the light of day she read by the edge of the river and ate slices of candied ginger undisturbed by the alligators who found her too fair to eat. At night she danced in the endless parades or stared off into the majesty of the night sky. For all the years of her life this, the home of the don's only son, was all she had ever known, and then one day her grandfather died in his sleep.

It was a peaceful death, as good as any man could have hoped for, but in his wake was uncertainty, and a vacuum which needed to be filled. The family of families split in two, and on that day her father left to take his father's place in the Unsleeping City

The schism that followed the death of the godfather was more a jagged cut than a clean slice, and for the first few months their organization dealt more in blood than in wine. Fearing for his daughter's safety, the godfather hid her away in a tower above the medial park, and forbid her from ever leaving, but long after the heat of the moment chilled and frozen over she remained there against her will.

>>8452467
This is really well written, but the imagery makes it sound like an advertisement for a walden-themed brunch spot in the hamptons

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>>8452426
I'm working on a short story where a Syrian refugee breaks into the rectory of a priest and decapitates him. Obviously, it's rather inspired by true events, but I wanted to frame the killer sympathetically, with some inspiration from Kierkegaards' take on the Abraham story in Fear and Trembling and the Knight of Faith metaphor.

This is just a quick paragraph I whipped up, I know the metaphor for the uncles movements being both watery and like a scimtar are too much, and the scene might be a tad purple, but I 'm very interested in feedback, particularly dialogue, pacing and character. Most crucially, are you interested in what you're reading? I want to hook the reader from the start, and then hopefully only build things with the murder.

>>8452467
God, my skills in poetry are so lacking. I really enjoyed this poem however, particuarly
>"a birchbark chest to bury when it's summer and the tree is bare"

Very nice and controlled rhythm.

>>8452523
Thank you GRR Martin.

>Read this out loud to yourself.

‘The The’ LP was laid on the the table with ‘The The’ poster glued on to it.

‘The The’ fan was THE ‘The The’ fan. She had been thethere, done thethat, bought the the-shirt. So much of a ‘The The’ fan was she that the word ‘the’ on it’s own has lost the meaning it once had.

‘Can you pass me the the teapot?’, she asked me, deaf to the repetition.

‘Who was your favourite band again?’, I coaxed.

Theresa looked at me, incredulous. How could I ask such a thing?

‘How could you ask such a thing? You know the answer; it’s ‘The The The The’.

“Theresa-”

She slammed her hand on the counter.

“Don’t you Thetheresa me!”

The the dirty plates, the the dirty dishes shaking from the the sudden slam.

”The The The The The The’ are the greatest band ever, what must I do to show you?’

She walked over to the stereo. She takes a disc from ‘The The’ collection. She places it in the tray. It closes. The hit ‘The The’ song, ‘This is The The Day’ came through the the speakers. Thetears on Thetheresa’s cheeks.

‘Thetheresa?’ She was shaking. Was she OK? ‘You’re shaking, are you OK?’

”The The The The The The The The’ saved my life! The-The-They are the the the teh eht only band that mather in the world the.’

‘Thethetheresa, stop, you’re the scaring the me.’

Oh no.

‘Thetheresa, I don’t even like ‘The The’.

‘The? The the who?’

”THE THE’! I DON’T LIKE ‘THE THE THE THE THE THE THE’, THETHERESA! THETHEY SUCK!’

Thetheresa pulled the the knife out of the the drawer in the the kitchen and thethethrew it at me. It spun thethrough the the air. It hit me in the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the face.

The the end.

>>8452590
I'd polish her two stones with my tongue, let me tell ya.

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>>8452592
>but I wanted to frame the killer sympathetically

Literal cuckold lmao kys

>>8452617
>not pitying a lonely boy's desperate grab for some absolute in a foreign society where nothing is real or true

At this time the young man named Matthew discovered a certain kind of sunshine unlike Sacramento's, which to say fiercer and more withering, one of time's best weapons for degrading newsprint yellowish-orange and wrinkling people before their time; once upon a certain August which measured somewhere below far and gone in his ephemeral existence he had been hitchhiking south from Susanville and was set down in Redding where he waited five midday-girdling hours at an on-ramp whose dusty blackberry brambles were actually dripping with melted black sun-made jellies; but in the strange cool May of this current year as he hitchhiked north toward Redding the sunshine had shifted to an opposite otherness from Sacramento's, being somehow greener in its goldenness and more wild, as if the mountains were tinting it. The truth is that Matthew had sought sublethal sunshine in which to hide from his father, expecting most Reddingtonians to be lurking indoors in the fashion of Mohave, Calexico and Mexicali; he too would lurk, while perfecting his disappearance. On triple-digit days in Sacramento, the hardiest of the homeless trundle into thickets and culverts; those who remain sit stupefied, with heads hanging down, or else lie on the sidewalk, while flies crawl slowly over their faces. Richer souls shelter behind drawn curtain, listening to their air conditioners; and I for my part believe that the city to be sustained by invisible armies of sweating, hollow-eyed air conditioner men. The sun clangs in everyone's ears; even police veterans can get deafened. . .

So it should have been in Redding, but this wild green sunshine changed everything. And by "green" I do not mean what you might think this color should convey; it had nothing to do with the restful or menacing green glooms of Oregon. Venus flytraps and emeralds were as far away from it as palm fronds. Yes, it was green, but not exactly. It refreshed Matthew because there was nothing of him in it. No one in Redding would put a spoke in his wheel. The complementary consideration was nobody would help him, but as long as the green sunshine kept on, what could he need from this world?

In his boyhood he must have seen something that made him want to go way out into America, to find out what our country was, but whether he had been enticed by the best golden loneliness or hounded by the loneliness that lives in our homes and gnaws misunderstood children, or perhaps heard something about faraway hills in a bedtime story, whatever had provoked the wish was lost. He himself was not lost, except to his parents, who troubled over him with loving bewilderment; nor did he feel in want of anything; thus as I begin writing this I myself cannot tell you what he was going to find on what Thomas Wolfe called the last voyage, the longest, the best—in other words, the only voyage, the one toward the grave. And so, hitching a ride, Matthew left behind all the other times of his life.

>>8452645
Hi Volman.

>>8452616
I don't mind you leching on a 10- year old girl since she's not real and all, but would you at least offer some critique?

Man, I don't give a fuck what you are. May be some frigid shovel-faced cow who thinks she's the monolith of seriousness, some inwards-shitting drill-seargeant who jerks it to twink porn in secrecy after getting a boner screaming at the face of the american cracker boys standing in line or some stoic autist little shit who never manifests emotion no matter how fucked the ordeal seems to be even though he's dying to go out screaming like a fag since he's such a hysterical proto-woman. The moment a belt of 50 caliber explosive ammunition starts being discharged towards your direction in the open field, everyone turns into a paralyzed doe-eyed immobile little bitch.

There is nothing as cute as a doe-eyed bitch by the way. I love brown-eyed women way better than any other eye color. What I'm drinking right now, from what seems to be a whiskey glass, is actually a Black Mary. A Black Mary is nothing but what happens once you mix Vodka and Pepsi-Cola (forever superior to Coke, fuck you) in equal parts, add a lot of a squeezed lemon, then sugar, then any mint liquor, and voilá. It would also be great if you were able to serve it in some kind of Bloody Mary glass, otherwise you done fucked up. As you may realize, I did fucked up (I did fuck up?), because I didn't have said glass at hand. What I had though, was a lot of luck in this unlucky ordeal, because I was able to find a lemon (old and brownish ugly motherfucker, but it did it), Vodka (I brought it with me), liquor (it's orange but what can I do), Pepsi and some sugar, and I did this aberration that would make the blessed original creator of the Black Mary, also known as yours truly, shoot whoever did it to the face, and seeing that I'm having to deal with sitting in the same room with a gunned down fat spic (don't look at me like that hoe, I am a spic, so I can say it) that was hit by fifteen 45 caliber explosive bullets shot from a double-stacked magazine loaded into a Colt 1911, not even five minutes ago, I might get drunk enough to convince myself to eat a bullet. If I still had any.

I just hope Black Mary's toxicity is enough to take me the fuck away from here soon. I'm already feeling light-headed but I think it must be because I suffered some kind of stroke with how ugly that lemon was. Also, I'm pretty sure that I should change the name of this drink to “Black Betty”. I always hear Spiderwolf's version of that song in my head when I'm downing one of these ladies. As soon as I get another pistol I'm calling it Mary-Bettie. The gun I have right now is named Eliza. But that is a whole different story, that I'm going to tell later. Or maybe not, whatever.

Man this Vodka is shit.

>>8452665
It's beautifully written. Nice language, images, and velvety sentences. However, I feel like its essentially expository, and thus keeps the reader too distanced to really engage with the story and the characters in it. It reads like a poetic and smooth table of contents of the story you actually want to tell.

But, again, you can obviously write. I'd just work in getting more of the details down without worrying so much about stylistic melifluity. You can rewrite content stylishly, but it's hard to shove content into prose poetry after its already been written.

>>8452592
Going to sleep now, critique would be welcome.

>>8452594
Funny, good punchline.

>>8452677
Well written, but I think over-detailed and too heavy-handed in the cursing department to the point that you just clutter things a bit. The style is so rambolic you barely move the scene at all, and I haven't been given enough sense of character to justify it.

>>8452590
>he was not however the start of this story
Sounds a tad cliche, otherwise good. I've used very similar similes to you in the past, which is slightly odd.

>>8452699
Which is to say: start with the girl in the tower. What does she want? What does
see? Does she think shell ever escape? write her situation in a way that makes the reader want to know about all the backstory. And then filter in expository elements seamlessly into the action, instead of info dumping.

>>8452711
third guy here. The narrator is an angry, drunken latino who always coons out all he does (case in point, he uses fifteen explosive bullets against ONE person), and rambles about everything. It's a scarfacey crime comedy

I write fiction, not poems. Don't be gentle.

I felt in terms of color
I had more than my share
But I left my Red in London
And Yellow met her there

Pink ran off to Dallas
Purple hates my guts
Khaki claims he lost his phone
Beige says I'm a putz
Orange says he's staying home
For Teal won't help him up
Grey won't even take my calls
Since Charcoal came to sup

Brown no longer has my back
Same for Lemon-Lime
So all that's left is blue and black
Call back another time

>>8452965

No discernible talent.

>>8452970
Thanks bro

>>8452523
you should start a pornogrind band

i feel the heat of my own body,
yet i am only a pantomime in a glass box,
bereft of which is only you or them.

It goes: i glass box it.
to crack the glass, to let the yolk of the i flow into it, you, them,
would be like being sucked through the hole of a dime-sized aperture,
first the skull, then the brain, and so on.
i might be different then.

Lying in a chunky brown-red pool amongst everything,
a dispensed, unprepared charcuterie,
i bereft of it and it bereft of me.

>>8452791
this is cute I like it a lot

might even save it to read later desu

I wanted to make it longer but the more I try the more I feel like I should leave it at this and that it conveys what I want to say enough

Lmk that its shit, its one of my first attempts writing poetry

To accept it is to abdicate a love cultivated for years
But the armies have long approached, and who but a fool did not have the foresight
Who can hear the broken man? Who can understand his tears?
Ever tempted he drank from the Sun’s bitter fruit, then threw it up one fleeting summer night

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The contractor got the job the way they usually do: family friend, barbershop, church, etc.. Kurt is tall and looking down on him in the mud cursing the people who dreamed of saving the places like this. They thought that some trees down by the watering hole might mean ‘never again’. But now Gary is making calls, far off like Redford, silent in an unfocused desert shot, and here we are: thinking that setting a cigarette on the bank of dug ditch might mean something awfully low, or lower than we are...Kurt says a thing or two later about the poor bastard that makes me think we are above it...here, in the sun, unashed (for the time being) and somehow unmanufactured feeling, because we are indeed good men. And that thinking of myself as opposed to industry is like a deja vu of the television program I watched as a child. It was something about kids in an industrial place on the outskirts of town, with synthetic background music always discordant, like the web of pipes that of course no child could understand, except for the fact that there was something to their blue-grey nature that said, “Don’t forget your family’s special word...Don’t go with strangers...Say no to smoking or you’ll whither away and die,” like the dinosaurs.

We joined Bob in the vanishing point where he had stood, taking a phone call as we looked over the trench and felt big, with our guts that were still holding shape. Bob told us about how nothing would be getting done until Tuesday ‘cause this motherfucker had a whole plot’s worth of trench to dig: all the shit from here to there. Bob left us without sentiment, to whatever matter rose into today’s importance; Rich arrived late, sharing a fair piece of chew with Kurt, and a story about the waitress from the steakhouse in town, from whose home he had arranged a stump be pulled with company money, and how his going to see “just how happy she was” was interrupted by a call from his ex-wife, and how he told her some horseshit about his replacing cigarettes with tootsie-rolls, and his staying of desire, and his newfound discipline, and how it was all shit that she ate up, “She said, ‘that sounds so good baby!’ and I was gonna tell her, ‘you know what sounds good to me? The two of us having sex, and me smoking a cigarette right after.’”

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>>8453165
kind of purple, with no music

don't force it into rhyme, but try to make the words seems brutal, like the pre-existed in the universe

for example, 'abdicate' is a word almost totally devoid of music; 'abdicate' sounds like a rock, but hollow, or woodlike, it's clunkly

also, most writing abt girls breaking up w dudes is pretty cringey, so don't worry, just start writing abt more compelling things, feelings or observations that you think have never existed, but be brutal, don't fluff it

>>8453188
thanks for the advice m8, will consider all of it

>>8453188
any examples of brutal words? just so I get a feel

>>8453214

ex. phrases:

>They did it like the dogs
>The faye moon
>Cry over the milk
>That cannot win in the Earth

these are just a few examples that I feel are really 'heavy' and 'immediate' in terms of aesthetic effect, which can help your poetry hit, and not just slide over the ice of language, all clunkly-like

>>8453244
interesting, thanks

I definitely have a better idea of what youre saying

mind if I borrow some of your phrases to brainstorm with? lol

Slushpile material - to be rendered down again later. - extract 1

It began with voices; distant and crackly like a broken radio.
I knew I should have asked what it was and how much to take;
I snorted a quarter gram which I was later told could have killed me.
It was then I realised that the tiny spoon in my hand was alive with power, vibrating in resonance with my body; conducting heat away from my burning palms,
but still seemed icy to touch.
I felt suddenly drunk, and the world became large as if seen through a convex lens.
About two feet off the ground in front of me was a tiny loop in space; like a loose fibre that hung semi-transparent between the edge of the table and the floor
Like a part unpicked stitch.
A curiosity seized me and with the spoon; charged with my chi or orgones or whatever you call the fields of invisible energy that emanate from and
permeate your body, I began to tease at the loose fibre.
Carelessly I let myself topple forwards and fell from my stool in sick giddy rapture; the spoon's wide blunt head widening the hole.
It caught and ripped and I immediately knew I shouldn't have done that, because now I could see a hole in the air; and behind the hole there was an eye.
and it looked at me and the crackling voices stopped as if I had intruded upon a private conversation.
I looked at it and it looked at me; it was very much like a human eye.
Despite myself a terrible urge seized me and I picked at the edge of the hole I'd made; the substance of the tear seemed different;
it had lost it's pliability and the edge flaked away like an eggshell, complete with translucent living membrane
The eye withdrew and the hole darkened, then the membrane stretched towards me
and I knew that whatever had seen me was now working at the hole from it's side.
This instinctively terrified me, and I made perhaps the only wise decision of my life and rolled away from the widening tear.
The world of the squalid abandoned garage squat shot away as if it had been picked up and thrown by an angry god.
The full winter moon glowered down on me as I stood outside the perimeter of a great dark welt in the air,
which had insinuated itself into my living room, coarsely tearing the armature of the building in two, without so much as rustling a newspaper.

My sleeping room-mate turned on his pile of coats, flickering tendrils like like flaming verdigris snaked from the rip,
one licked his ankle and he grew still and grey.
The tear crowned the welt like a septic pore, and spindly black and white TV shapes began to pour out of it like termites from a mound.
I ran out into the winter night; leering monochromatic demons harried my pounding feet.

>>8453275
Slushpile extract 2

Two miles through endless snow choked streets and rime diamond forests of obscure signposts, not a sound of a scream or cry,
all my breath spent in blind flight through the empty shopping arcades and business districts, no people or cars to be seen,
pursued by crawling flickering terrors that would not give pause.
I fainted clawing my way up a white hill sunk to my waist where the snow piled high at the foot of the steep incline to the church, totally spent.
When I came to I was on fire with emerald tongues and the shapes; green-white lightning sometimes moving like men and sometimes like animals,
with indistinct features flickering over the grainy unreal surfaces of their un-bodies, cavorting and fusing and dividing again, uncountable,
leaping like sparks and crackling with roaring static
They spoke, and told me that they were demons, and that they would chase me forever because I had broken the world,
and that if I ever stopped to rest I would die.
So I ran until the drugs wore off.

End Example.

Basically I've taken to writing mid-length short out of context stories and piling them up in a text document, gradually editing them all over time to be reflective of a similar theme, and I can then cannibalize them piecemeal for parts I want to use in a project piece.

>>8453165
changed it up:

To accept it is to relinquish a feeling cultivated for years
A drunken haste to occupy the most absent state of beauty
Visceral, a feeling that cannot win in the Earth!
But the host have long approached, and who but a fool did not have the foresight?
The slaughter of the spirit, the dimming of man's fire
Who can hear the broken man? Who can understand his sorrow?
He drank from the Sun’s bitter fruit, then heaved it one fleeting summer night.

But to cry over the milk is a defeat of its own, for what was lost was not collective
The boy lost someone who will continue to glide over the ice of emotion,
Who could imagine it would ever break! Brush-off the splash, continue.
A fool would rub your sonorous words in the dirt, burn any memory, and continue.
Why then must the pain of prudence keep me awake?


stoles some phrases from anon>>8453244
because I'm a loser and I thought they sounded cool

>>8452592

I would say learn about Syria if you're going to write about Syrians this kind of gives a very off putting vibe, it's racist but that's not the problem, it's transparently racist I can see all of your shortcomings in what you've written here. Syrian kids don't just fucking brandish scimitars their whole lives.

>>8452426
This picture is art.

>>8453275
>>8453283
I enjoyed this a lot, actually. Your prose is nice and descriptive, though it bothers me as a former degenerate hedonist that the drug you describe doesn't exist, as far as I know. The closest I can think of that would achieve that visceral of an effect is Peyote, which you obviously don't snort.

Waking horror has more impact if it stems from real-life situations, in my opinion; I might consider cutting the drug angle altogether, and making it more unexplained as to why the character is experiencing all of this. Corruption as a whole is also a terrifying concept, so you might dedicate some space to describing changes to the environment, or to the room-mate. While his dying helps to illustrate how alone the protagonist is, as well as the perceived danger of his situation, it's a bit one-off and doesn't add much to the story as a whole. For example, if you don't mind me borrowing your style,

>My sleeping room-mate turned on his pile of coats, flickering tendrils like like flaming verdigris snaked from the rip, one licked his ankle and he grew still and grey. He turned, and behind his eyes sat Nothing, and it spoke to me in rhyme.

Simply something to add to the surrealism of the situation while making him more relevant to the overall arc. I'm a sucker for this sort of thing, but you have real talent. Have any more?

>>8453450
I think you're really correct here. My issue is that I've only spent a small time in Egypt and really wanted to use the priest-murder as a framing device, and kind of cramped in all this evil unnecessarily. I'm not a racist man at all, in fact I was quite shocked at the language my Arabian friends would use towards Jews and Africans, which is why I put it in that rather tasteless dialgoue at the end. The aim of the piece I'm writing though, is to have the West come across as the real evil, to the protagonists eyes at least, and if my character is already a racial stereotype then I've failed at that from the start.

You are very correct on what I've written: people aren't just getting raped and throwing swords around. Perhaps I should stick to what I know, rather than a cartoonish depiction of a topic I'm trying to force.

Is it, at least, written reasonably?

>>8453745
Not that guy, but honestly I don't think you should be too concerned with the racism. Having spent time in the middle east, you're leagues above 98% of the people who frequent this board as far as actual experience. As for the writing -

First off, the uncle ought to be introduced with a name, so that you can call him things other than "the uncle" or "Faizon's uncle" throughout.

You're correct about the purple prose - not everything needs a descriptor, or a fancy simile. That being said, you have talent as a writer. The dialogue in particular is well-done. As a generalized piece of advice, you should strive to make each of your sentences build towards an overall idea; as it stands, it seems to me that each is largely a self-contained thought, with little flow to the ones before and after. Try to group ideas by paragraph. As a small example,

>... as real as giggling jinns. Faizan stops sipping as a finger grows suddenly towards his face...

Do you see what I mean about there not being much connection between sentences? You can help alleviate this by referencing the previous ideas:

>... as real as giggling jinns. Faizon can see this now; his uncle's cup flashes to the table, and a finger springs to his face.

An example I didn't put much effort into, but hopefully I'm making myself clear.

The description of Faizon should also happen earlier, or at least with more of an introduction - as it stands, it comes somewhat out of nowhere and feels forced. The description could come after the first three lines, and be separated entirely from the background of the rape. However simply introducing the description better would be fine, if you want to keep that as the lead-in to the rape story. For example, you could switch temporarily to the uncle's perspective, having him internally comment on Faizon's troubled appearance, then explain these features with the story of the rape.

Overall anon, it is certainly written reasonably. I'd encourage you to workshop it around with people you know, and if you find my advice worthwhile I'd happily critique more of your work.

Rate me, from a semi complex short story I wrote

As the hunk of steel vibrated rhythmically as it turned in the chuck of the lathe, it flickered in the subtle light of the early morning. With the hypnotic glistening Vespers mind wondered back in to thought, this time to that of philosophy, well versed and well read in the philosophy of eras past. He wondered how Plato and Socrates applied to him, a modern day philosopher, he realised how pretentious it was to liken himself to the greats of yesteryear, he wouldn't dare do such a thing out of the realms of his own thought, he was quite the quiet and reserved fellow. Although it was the topic of his philosophical thought, he thought of how it was applicable to him. How was a man influenced by his environment as a whole? Some would argue not much, how a man incarcerated in a prison will read and write his memoirs or even how he himself is covered in grease standing in a workshop pondering some of the best.

But he wished to disrepute this, does a poet who experienced the horrors of war write about the beautiful fields before they have been turned into sod? Does he write about the flowers which rarely and sporadically sprout fertilised by the blood of Lance Corporal Jackson, tragically wounded at the battle of the Somme?

If a man is not the product of the his environment than how is anyone to explain himself a man driven into brainless monotony at work, escaping the lathe and mill into a world of art and thought, but yet again one could argue if he wasn't a product of his environment, if he wasn't bound by the hi vis shirt he was wearing he would be in a university or library studying the works, the literature of many and than reflecting upon them, just like he is now at the workshop

>>8452592

Maybe I'm wrong, but why do you think modern Syrians speak like this?

Sorry I'm not good with quotation marks and the grammar that follows. They always confuse me.
“Shite fucking stinks.”

“It’s a dead body; they do that.”

“You sure she’s dead?”

“It’s dead, retard.”

“What if she’s, you know, fucking about or something?”

Dave stared at the red snow for a second or two before continuing:

“Kids, you know?”

“It’s fucking dead,” Alain replied calmly, as expected of him.

Dave kept staring at the body in unjustified anticipation, and she only stared back. She must’ve dressed up in the morning already in mourning of her death; black wool shirt, black pants, and black boots covered her pale skin. Her hair was conveniently darker than any shade of black she could ever wear, and her head rested over six feet of snow, certainly in no peace.
God knows Dave couldn’t have stayed silent for more than a minute:

“I read about this shite, you know, I must be in the denial stage, you know what’s next right,” Dave continued as Alain sighed, “PTS-fucking-D, you’re going to pay for my therapy, I want a Le Canian therapist, fuckface.”

“I think we’ll have to cut it into pieces,” Alain replied.

“You know who Le Can was you uneducated prick, aye, the only true Floydian to ever exist, wait what?”

>>8453790
I like your ideas, and what you're going for. However, it seems to me however that you're simply using this Vespers fellow to espouse your own thoughts - there's nothing wrong with this, but you have to make sure that there's an actual story, and not just your dialogue on philosophy. Try to work in more references to what he's doing as he thinks, perhaps describe the area/people around him, or the man himself. As it stands, Vespers is a non-entity, and you've written a mildly interesting essay framed in the third person.

I took the liberty of rewriting with an eye for grammar, with some clearing up of prose. I hope you don't mind, and tried my best to maintain your style.

The steel vibrated rhythmically as it turned in the chuck of the lathe, flickering in the subtle light of the early morning. Entranced as he worked, Vespers (either Vesper's or Vespers') mind wandered. As a student of academics, his mind turned quickly to philosophy.
He was an amateur, a student of academics, a “modern day philosopher,” and held his thoughts in high regard. He smirked as he worked, amused at the pretension of his own mind.

A modern day philosopher, perhaps, but he realised how ridiculous it was to liken himself to the greats of yesteryear, and wouldn't dare do such a thing out of the realms of his own thought. He considered himself a reserved fellow, and not without cause. He took a moment to consider his own thoughts - how does the philosophy of the greats apply to him, to the state he's in?

How is a man influenced by his environment as a whole?

Some would argue not much; a man incarcerated in a prison can still read poetry and write his memoirs. He himself - covered in grease, standing in a second-rate workshop - was pondering some of the best.

Seemingly sound, but he wished to dispute it; does a poet who experienced the horrors of war write about the beautiful fields before they have been turned into sod?
Does he write about those flowers which sprouted by chance, fertilized by the blood of Lance Corporal Jackson? Does he even know of the battle of the Somme?

How can a man explain himself, if not as a product of his environment? Here stood a man driven into brainless monotony at work, escaping the lathe and mill into a world of art and thought - but who could say he wasn't a product of his environment?
If he wasn't bound by the shirt he was wearing, he would be in a university or library studying the works, the literature of many and then reflecting upon them - just as he did now, in the confines of the workshop.

Keep at it, anon, the world is certainly not overwrought with people who want to add perspective to philosophy. I like the framing of a man thinking to himself in a workshop, and I think you should explore that idea a little more fully. Good stuff, overall.

>>8453779
Anon, I could kiss you. Thank you deeply for this advice, particularly in regards to building each sentence towards an overall idea. I'm so young such a thought barely even clicked to my mind. For Faizan, I was trying to use the "I'm neither ugly nor lucky" as a way to introduce his looks and the unfortunate results from that.

This purple prose phase of mine must stop, I get carried away and start enjoying myself too much and before I know it I've bogged the reader down with too much of too little. I feel the moment I finish GR I might have a chance.

I have one piece that I was really enjoying but scrapped for that exact reason. I was reading how Camus had tuberculosis and was smoking in a hospital bed, and I wanted to use that smoke as an absurd motif for abstraction. Of course, it wasn't character driven, and there was almost no plot or pacing, so the whole story became very boring, even in my stretched attempts with a dual narrative with a second person reader on a train, and all my attempts to fiddle with it didn't really solve the core issue. I think some people might have seen it a few weeks ago, I called the man "Barnaby Suez" (which I was also told was pretty stupid, and agreed with somewhat, although I was really still rifting off Pynchon there).

Again, thank you very much.

>>8453799
From my time around Egyptians, Indians and Pakistanis, I found they possess a weird contradiction. They're take such a conservative and moderate view of life, that anything that stops matching it makes them barbarically vitriolic. Middle-Eastern and Indian swear words are some of the most filthy I've ever heard, and are largely concerned with sexual dishonour (goat-fucker, sister-fucker, this-is-the-dick-that-fucks-your-mother etc [for some quick Hindi and Urdu ones])

>>8453844
I really appreciate what you have done, I hadmt actually edited the grammar yet, grammar is my weakest point and I end up just fixing it up at the very end

it's quite a story so there isn't much of a plot. It pretty much describes some of my feelings, projected by the main character and it becomes apparent he is mental unwell by his thoughts. Care to have a a look at some more of it?

>>8453835
The dialogue needs work. Try to write with an eye for idiosyncrasy when the work is so dialogue-heavy; if not for the back and forth nature of it, I'd not be able to tell which character was which. You should also either cut the eye dialect or go full bore with it, as it is it comes off somewhat half-assed. Look up people talking in the manner you want your characters to talk, and try to transpose that dialect directly to text. That being said, the actual content of the dialogue is good and feels natural. Just the way the words are written should be changed, in my opinion.

Your grammar, however, is fine (aside from a small quibble - "God knows Dave couldn't have stayed silent for more than a minute" should end with a period). The description of the corpse is also well done, and the excerpt ultimately left me wanting to know more. Keep at it, anon, you've raw skill but seem inexperienced. Be sure to read.

>>8453857
Quite a short story
Well maybe a man is defined and sculpted by his thoughts? Which then in turn influences his actions, his thoughts now on the philosophical, a desire to produce not simply consume, thoughts being quite vain, he noted himself as capable, maybe that's why is he currently standing in a workshop watching a lathe spin, he needed the experience of the real world, not the shelter of a library to create something on par with his old friend Socrates. He began to ponder again, on top of this, it wasn't a crazy idea that maybe he was suffering at his current job and in life to make himself well rounded. But a man being defined by his thoughts? He really delved into this, as evident by his current train of thought, he was quite sporadic and bordering on lunacy, at least he realised it, deluded he began to think? Yes a man is sculpted by his thoughts, but what if the premise of his thoughts is legitimate and relatable but he thoughts riddled with lunacy from the tragedy of living such a life as he is, well maybe this is the reason why Plato never worked in a Machine shop.

Ahh Plato? Was Plato simply not bothered by his surroundings? Plato may of worked in a machine shop, but just never wrote about it, he was a philosopher after all, not a hack blog writer, maybe for one to achieve such a level they need to supersede the qualms they have about work, has the young fellow already achieved this? Has the qualms he had with work been put aside to tackle more seriously problems with the modern life? He had passed the point of even thinking about work, work, well his employment was no longer his work, thinking began to be his work. Would he ever be as great as Nietzsche? He didn't have to bore himself in a workshop and had more time to refine himself by not really bothering with the whole nonsense of making a living. But what If the time he spent in the workshop was not in vain, no, a philosopher tackles the problems at hand, and for many men and he thought the most prolific problem facing a generation or two of people was work. What if his great work was not about overcoming the problem earning a living and becoming a great but failing to do so and the constant struggle one was go through to pursue their intellectualism and they way it manifests itself when one must be always chasing a dollar and doing so by being held in tethers in a low caste job. Maybe his thoughts weren't so sporadic and crazy, maybe they are the thoughts of a level headed man, but just that of a level headed man who is bored into oblivion at work and depressed into a sheer terror at his homestead. A man is influenced by his surroundings and environment after all.


I've tired to be a bit erratic and weird, he is suppose to be a bit of a nutter after all

>>8452483
Nice.

(Sorry I have no meaningful criticism).

>>8453857
Grammar is a bitch whom I hate passionately, so no judgement here.

>>8453865
This is all obviously very rough, but I'm still enjoying the ideas thoroughly. I'll take a better look later on, I've been without sleep for a while now.

Fresh cut grass enticed the gleeful sparrows, who in the wake of the large machine bore witness to a sea of delicacies. Beetles, mites, spiders and worms scurried amongst the chaos of a reclaimed habitat; the once tall grass cut to inches or matted low by the wheels’ weight. Eager and hungry, the host of sparrows soared high and low, swooping down to the earth to claim their sustenance manifest.
Frank looked back as his trail of small scale destruction provoked a ballet of flight and laughed. His laugh went unheard under the thundering tractor.
When the field had been entirely cut, Frank stepped out of the craft and gazed upon his work with priggish satisfaction. In a matter of minutes he had quelled nature’s inevitable urge to grow and fulfill. The aftermath had laid a feast before the mooning birds whom he knew were forever in his debt.
“They’re so happy,” said a passing young woman. “I wish it was that easy for all of us.”
She smiled at Frank and Frank smiled back, irked that no clever response entered his mind in time to impress the girl. He knew this field and these birds better than most, yet when at hand, his thoughts went blank. All he could do was smile.
As she walked away he could see the sun beat down on her bare legs, drawing sweat from her soft skin that clung to the dust kicked up by her feet.
Frank slowly became engrossed in the young woman’s delicacy and beauty, his desire to stare becoming ever more insatiate. In reluctance he returned to his motor and with a simple flick it bellowed in glorious power.
On his way to the Southern field he couldn’t stop thinking of the woman. Her face. Her voice. How he had nothing to say.
“I could, uh, I’m sure I could make it that easy,” he uttered to himself in a whisper, imagining the suave tone in which he could have responded. He quickly laughed at himself for such an unlikelihood as he pulled up to the field of tall grass, sparrows lazing in the cool dirt of the main road.
“Me too,” is what he should have said, Frank thought to himself. He agreed with her; if only it was this easy. For him to change the lives of these sparrows so quickly and simply was nothing short of a miracle in his mind. “She probably wouldn’t think so. I sound crazy.” He laughed again at himself to reassure his normality.

>>8453878
All good, I'm mainly getting at wether the prose and theme of some weird guy being a weirdo about philosophy could be workable into an actual story, the plot would mainly be around his shit machinst job

How long of a paragraph could one of you write that stays coherent using trump mannerisms?

>>8453853
No need to thank me, critiquing work is a hobby of mine. When I first started writing, I also had a real thing for purple prose - it fades with time, in my experience. Try reading literature with more stark and rough-cutting style, if you want to accelerate that process (I'd recommend specifics but nothing comes to mind at the moment). As an exercise, try writing an extremely simplistic story - start with a clear idea in mind, and only add parts that work towards that idea. After every sentence, ask "Was that necessary?" The story will probably come out extremely boring, but in my experience it helps quite a bit with cutting down the fat.

I actually like that idea, by the way. Nothing wrong with extremely cerebral pieces; in fact, I'd say drop the pretense of a story at all, and frame it as free-verse poetry. Barnaby Suez deserves a piece. If you can stomach the pretentiousness of it all, of course.

Keep writing, anon, and feel free to keep posting your work.

>>8453861
>Try to write with an eye for idiosyncrasy when the work is so dialogue-heavy
Do you mean I should add some parts describing the characters' appearance and tone after each of them talks? I hope you could give an example so I can understand.
>eye dialect
I also don't understand what you mean
Yes you're right; I'm inexperienced and not very well-read, but I like to write.

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thinking about entering this for a competition this Friday.

I once met a girl who was actually a sun.
Her light, though warm, hadn't the chance to nurture a soul (for very long). A heavy hand of days were spent splashing beautiful lights where most couldn't see, if anyone - but I did. God knows 'I did'. I can see the colors on the insides of my eyelids and I can feel it in my dimples when I smile.
But, like all suns, there came a time when enough became too much. The gift of nourishment lost in the erosion of time, {she couldn't see me enjoying the heat} leaving her expanding to burst.
And then it was gone.
It was gone with the force of a bomb, a thousand bombs, and then it was gone. Who knows how long it will take for everyone to realize the light they've sauntered in has long since been vacated, lost to echo in the remainders of spaces of those who were willing (there) to feel it.

She was a sun and I am blind.

KM

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

I plan on speaking on gravity and 'knowing only of light'

-

"but what's cold water to the hottest of flames?"
"what's a puddle to a nova what's a hurricane to an ocean?"

these two are from others I have considered throwing in there.
this is a rough draft; please critique

>>8452594
keks all around

>>8453899
Sorry, let me be more clear. And let me clarify that I liked the except, so forgive my harshness.

I mean more that you should add mannerisms and trends to the characters' dialogue that helps differentiate them - eye dialect (See here for examples and a better description: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eye_dialect) is more or less what I described, which is writing how the characters speak. You did this a bit with the inclusion of "shite," which is why I bring it up; basically, write in such a way that if you read it out loud, you're speaking how the characters sound. An easy way to make characters distinct from one another is to give them radically different ways of speaking, and write to reflect this - that way your reader will never be confused as to who's talking.

Don't be discouraged, it's good stuff and you should keep working at it. Have any more?

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http://pastebin.com/RtfmNaT7

would you read something like this?

>>8453930
Ah yes, I see. I tried to do that, and maybe add even more differences which separate the two. For example Alain used 'it' and Dave used 'she/her'. I tried to make Dave's tone naturally angry, it seems it wasn't ever obvious. I think if I add more, the differences will rise since one is vulgar and simple while the other is calmer and seems apathetic. The point I try to show is how two opposite people can have identical end-product in their different train of thought and reasoning.
I'll add more later if this thread remains alive. Right now I don't have a lot to add.

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>>8453965
No
and I didn't

>>8453915
>I once met a girl who was actually a sun.

Everything else aside, this is a fantastic opening line. It's vivid, unique, and clear, and I enjoy it thoroughly. It could work as a book title.

A small quibble: our Sun is distinctly named, everything else is just a star. Leading off of that, the line

>But, like all suns,

Should probably be "but, like all stars."

However, another way to take this would be to say that the girl was THE Sun, and rewrite with that in mind. This would help to clarify how important she was to the speaker, and connect better to the last three lines. Saying that the speaker has lost his only Sun, and not one of many, helps add to the air of loss and despair.

>She did not see me, basking in her heat; the gift of nourishment was lost in the erosion of time, leaving her expanding to burst.

Is how I would work that line.

I would also change

>Who knows how long it will take for everyone to realize the light they've sauntered in has long since been vacated, lost to echo in the remainders of spaces of those who were willing (there) to feel it.

To something more along the lines of

>How long will it be before the masses realize the light they took for granted has been vacated, lost to echo in the husks of those who were there to feel it?

>She was a sun and I am blind

Is a very good line. However, fitting into what I said earlier, maybe

>She was my sun, and she has rendered me blind.

It needs work, but it's good. I won't try to work your extra ideas in for you, but once you do I'd be interested to see the result.

>>8453965
tldr; but I do like the vibe you set. if it were my writing, I would explain maybe the walk to work a little more, maybe leave out the Pokemon Go bit, but I like it. would read

>>8453930
>>8453930
>>8453930
>>8453930
>>8453930

>>8454003
I really appreciate this, thank you. I will take these into consideration, but I figured any one star could be a sun? you're right though, if she were the one sun it would make it more personal. thank you anon!

>>8453987
You're definitely on the right track, and I agree with adding more. The characters will become more defined the more you write. If you're going for British (shite), here's a good resource to get down how people from around thereabouts actually speak.

http://dialectsarchive.com/england

>The point I try to show is how two opposite people can have identical end-product in their different train of thought and reasoning.

I'm interested to see what that conclusion ultimately is. As it stands, link back to this post when you post more, I'd like to know how it all turns out.

>>8453915
beautiful

>>8454016
>I figured any one star could be a sun?

The Sun is the proper name of the star the Earth orbits around, but I forgive you for thinking otherwise. It's practically a colloquial term for a star at this point. I wouldn't have even bothered to bring it up, but if you're submitting to competition you never know what the judges will get uppity about.

No problem, anyway, it's my pleasure. Be sure to post the finished piece, I'd like to see it.

>>8454029
thank you anon

>>8454038
okay, no, I hear you. you're right with that, I've never entered a comp. so I hadn't even considered something like that.

I can't promise anything! I have bugs to work out with it, but I'd be more than happy to have you read the near-final piece

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>>8452590
>This is really well written
Thanks
>but the imagery makes it sound like an advertisement for a walden-themed brunch spot in the hamptons
pahahahaha oh dear

Yours sounds very fairytale-like, like a storyteller is reading it. It seems pretty concise.

>but he was not however the star of this story.
nah mate.

>>8452592
Thanks!

Hmm. I think your descriptions are a little stilted; you have the vision but haven't quite executed it. The first big paragraph should be split - most of it should come before the dialogue; the last sentence of it should stay in place. I think aiming for shorter descriptions would help you.

>>8452677
I like your tone but the scene is kind of laboured.

>>8453159
>and so on
*schniff*

>>8453275
>>8453283
Pretty good. Sounds kind of dissociative to me.

I'm thinking of entering pic to a competion themed "moments" - thoughts?

>>8454087
Despite my inherent hatred of freeform poetry, this is very, very good. You do well with the imagery; I was able to picture the scene you set out in my mind with little to no difficulty.

The verse in which the speaker things about the hibernating bear seems somewhat disconnected from the rest of the poem; it's pretty, yes, but the rest of the work concerns what's physically happening to the speaker and his moment of thought isn't alluded to after it's over. I would try to personalize his thoughts, adding references to what he's thinking about throughout - why does he collapse from reverie? Not from the bear, surely?

But I'm reaching. The poem is good, and I'd submit it to competition.

In a bitter evening wind, a silent figure sweeps across the street, with flickering lampposts casting arched shadows across a decayed ivied house. Approaching the deep oak door, steps muffled by damp gentle leaves, murmuring can be heard within. The door gives, faintly illuminating the hallway, thin strips of light emanating from the kitchen framing him along the hall.

A slow hum of electricity permeates through the house, allowing to quietly usher closer to the door, the voices are clear, one older, one younger. He peered through a small gap in the door and saw a squat worn kitchen table, set on tiles cracked and polished. Two chairs, wooden and simple are sat at opposite ends. The room is clammy with condensation clinging listlessly to the window pane. The man is seen peering into a hollowed out child, carefully departing his thin drink, only to be met with an empty glance in return. His fist slamming down, shuddering the boy, searing dead life into the room. His pale bald head turns towards the door, black eyes melting far into the countenance, sodden, tar-stained lips crumple, forming a pursed envelope from which speaks a voice coated in ash, “I thought you’d never come”.

>>8452467
Very well written. I'd read more of your stuff.

>>8454108
A little too purple. Cut down on your adjectives - try to describe the scene as a whole, rather than each individual part. Remember that not everything needs to be described; anything you leave blank the reader will fill in.

I would also suggest switching to past-tense in the story, simply as present-tense adds unnecessary complication. You slip up your tenses a few times, as in

>He peered

Which indicate that you'd like to be writing in past tense, but are forcing yourself to write present (or possibly just screwed up, but present would make the story flow better overall in my opinion). Disregard this entirely if you're writing in that tense for a specific purpose, but take care to maintain a single style throughout the work.

As an example of what I mean about the adjectives,

>The man is seen peeing into a HOLLOWED OUT child, carefully departing his THIN drink, only to be met with an EMPTY glance in return.

Having that many descriptors back to back makes the story seem unnecessarily flowery, and interrupts the flow of the work overall. However,

>searing dead life into the room

This is definitely a proper use of proper prose, and a good example of what you should be aiming for. It's interesting, and has a point other than just sounding pretty. Same with "a voice coated in ash," good description.

Pretty good, anon. Just write a little more stark, a little less pretty.

>>8452523
Hilarious/10. Would raff again.

>>8454019

The wind toyed with her eyelashes, which only made her eyes look even more alive. Dave’s gaze never left them. One can say he was studying them, but he’s probably scared of that word.

“I think that’s a new green,” Dave added.

“What?” asked Alain.

“Her fucking eyes.”

“I didn’t notice.”

The silence Alain anticipated dominated. Questions of no right answers popped in their heads. Questions on whether the questions they were asking are right questions popped in their head. Questions of what is Right popped in their heads. Their heads almost popped on the spot. But they knew they were in the hands of all that is wrong.

“We shouldn’t cut it into pieces.”
“Shame; was looking forward to that,” replied Dave, and then mumbled, “fucking pervert.”
Angry disgust rushed across his face. It was always the case after any remark Alain made, but it fades quickly. Everything about Dave was round. Even his hair was curly. It was golden and heavy, something right out of a magazine. His eyes were perfect rounds deeply carved above his red cheeks. Even though he’s stocky like a bastard Alaskan, he could only shiver. Perhaps it’s the coldness of death. Perhaps it’s the dead eyes She and Alain shared. Perhaps it was the eyes which made it personal for Alain. Nonetheless, he knew there’s no escape from responsibility, regardless of its fragile reasons.

“Bring the tent, we won’t move tonight,” Alain ordered, “and we have a visitor.”

“I hope you two have a lovely night together; I’m not getting in there with a dead body ya filthy minge,” Dave shook his head left and right in dismay and continued, “what type of stuff are you creeps into back in Constantinople or wherever the fuck you’re from?”

“Have you ever considered you’re a necrophile who just haven’t met the right body yet,” smiled Alain.

Dave took his eyes off Her for the first time in over an hour with his jaw dropped and eyes fixated on Alain.

“Just get the tent,” Alain added.

“Fucking Sarmatians,” Dave mumbled again.

>>8454204
I like this. Especially

>but he's probably scared of that word

And the whole bit about popping, culminating in popped heads, actually got a real chuckle out of me. I'll do something more in-depth later, but as a preliminary this except does a much better job of establishing your tone and voice. In particular, your narration is very nice.

>>8454241
>except

Excerpt. I've done this twice, but it is not intentional.

"Weaponmaster"

So, we sat. After one of his students brought out a vessel of wine and a couple of small, round cups, he began speaking.

"Firearms lack conductivity. The real and only gun you need is here."
An arm rose at his side and he craned a finger to his forehead.
"This, your frontal lobe. All you do is point and shoot. Like the firearm," he said. I had placed the FAMAS rifle before him, and he surveyed its contours as he spoke.
"What do you mean by conductivity?" I asked him.
"Consider the difference between the artisan and the machine directed to produce. One hones his attention to his craft. The other has no attention to pour on anything. It is blind, mindless construction of construction. A dead end by itself. The grand artifice of computer-guided manufacturing is nothing without the human element of its creation. Guns, and the men who become guns; they are the same way."
"And yet they are the most efficient at their purpose as weapons. At killing. An artisan creates beauty, but a machine can produce ten times the amount of work," I said back to him.
"Resolution is the aim of war, not death. And this is easily forgotten when your hind-brain inflames itself at the sight of blood, or the taste of mounting fear in the mouth."
"Conductivity," he continued, "is the current of man to weapon. The impulse of electrical thought, the consciousness of timing, spacing, swinging, breathing, feeling, seeing, swording. You practice until your fingers ingrain themselves into the hilt and pommel of the sword as neuronic roots. We wield the weapon, and relinquish our arm, wrist, hand, elbow in the process. We consummate our marriage to the sword, the spear, the axe, the lance."

As he finished speaking, he rose to his feet and stood even-shouldered.

"My sword cuts completely, past flesh and bone. See its masterly steel, and how it hisses as air deigns to clumsily split upon it!"

I endeavored to sit still and straight-backed in the face of this claim. I responded to him.

"But.. you are not carrying any blade!"

"So it is."

>>8454241
Thanks friend. The things which worry me most when writing is not sounding natural (since English isn't my first language), grammar, and not being able to implement what i have in mind clearly. For example when i was talking about dave, her eyes were alive, but when i mentioned alain, her eyes become dead. I hope it's clear that it's not a contradiction but a representation of each character. I do this often and even i get confused.
Thanks again friend.
>except
Forgiven

>>8454124
Thanks! I do have a blog

>>8454103
Thanks. The bear bit is basically the hibernation instinct kicking in.. wanting to get home from the cold. I see what you mean..
I've added the line "of wasted days when time was young" before the reverie line, is that clearer?

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http://pastebin.com/dcfyas5D

Please feedback. Does this interest you at all? Catch your attention at all?

>>8454549
I liked it. The prose was clearand concise, if not a bit stale for my liking. I will infer from your writing that your talent lies in hood plot weaving, and indeed that little segment leaves much to the imagination. I want to know more about Harling's will yo Peter, and the boy's future. Write MORE. Present a longer work next time.

>>8454204
An interesting read, well done anon. Was that necrophillia line yours? Bastard Alaskan was a good touch also.

>>8454848
It's an old joke i read somewhere when I was a kid. It was "Have you ever thought you're a paedophile who just haven't met the right child yet?"
The rest I made up.
Thanks friend. Shit'll get tense in the tent soon.

The December sun had hidden its dull rays behind the huge rocks that rose monstrously high west of Dunfern mansion, and ceased to gladden the superb apartment Sir John occupied most part of the day. They had withdrawn their faint reflection from within the mirrored walls of this solitary chamber to brighten other homes with their never-dying sheen.
As the dull, grey evening advanced to such a degree as to render a look of brightness imperative to the surroundings of its sole occupant, Sir John requested that his favourite apartment should be made bright as possible by adding more fuel to the smouldering ashes within the glistening bars which guarded their remains. This being done, three huge lamps were lighted, and placed at respectable distances from each other, when Sir John, with his 14 accustomed grace, began to peruse some of his evening papers.
Though a man of forty summers, he never yet had entertained the thought of yielding up his bacheloric ideas to supplace them with others which eventually should coincide with those of a different sex; in fact, he never had bestowed a thought on changing his habits and manner of living, nor until fully realising his position of birthright, that had been treasured by his ancestors for such a lengthened period, and which, sooner or later, must pass into strangers’ hands, did the thought ever occur to him of entering into the league of the blessed.
The clock had just chimed nine when a maid entered with a note, neatly laid on a trim little tray, which she placed on the table close beside her master, and then retired. It was rather unusual for him to receive letters so late in the evening, nor until he was in full possession of its contents he could not form the faintest imagination of its worth.

>>8455000
started bit blue. cut some 'the's and 'which's, it makes the sentence a bit weak IMO. not bad T B H it kept getting better. Notice how when there aren't lots of 'the's and 'which's you sentences just flow smoothly. gg tho

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i wrote this in class today

pls dont be too mean, its the first time im posting any of my stuff on here ;-;

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Pic attached is beginning of a piece I wrote. Anyone with Beckett experience have any comments on whether it reads too much like a copy of his?

>>8455054
Feels like big words for their own sake. Not horrid, but not good either.

>>8455000
Too descriptive. Also a bit heavy on cliches.

>>8454549
The conversation and its effect on the characters feels contrived, but not bad writing overall.

>>8454758

Here is some more if you want to read more: http://pastebin.com/8wL8EcdQ

Also I find it interesting that you find my prose stale.... I was told last time I posted here that there was too much purple prose and it needed to be simpler. I also like simplifying lately anyway because I hate my old style of writing. I will work on adding some nicer description though , to spice it up.

I have 330k words written so far, this is only the very very beginning. Sad thing is I am still nowhere near finished, seeing as that 330k is spread out over dozens of scenes over many years that I wrote to get around writer's block.

Thanks for reading it, by the way. If you reply to this with a pastebin I will try to reciprocate.

>>8455237

Any advice on making it less contrived? Because I agree, it feels like dumb-ass "prophecy" scene, but I want to make it a bit less so. A little more subtle.

>>8452426
It circles the department store’s Christmas tree all day,
Into and out of a tunnel made of papier-mâché.
It’s a passenger train, but something queer,
A freight train caboose brings up the rear.

It’s a freight train with a yellow star,
And has a Michelin yellow-star dining car.
Sleeper compartments under sweeping-searchlight guard towers.
Hissing Zyklon B gas showers.

In God’s department store at Christmastime are many choo-choos.
Chuff-chuffing to their death are many Jew-Jews.
And then there are the Hutus,
And Tutsis vastly murdering them, producing Hutu boo-hoos.

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Here's the start of my short story.
>inb4 dead space, warframe, cast away, etc. references. (The names are placeholders.)

Thoughts? And any suggestion on how I can advance my plot aside from Deus ex Machina approach?

>>8456237

I'm bad at cropping.

Last time in Irishman had bad crops, they had a potato famine.

“What would you do if it happens to you?”

“Well, at least I don’t have to write reports anymore, if that happens.” The guard smiles through his helmet. “Anyway, we better get going now. You better change your passcodes while you still can, though. It’s still default for the ships and the caches. Good luck.”

>>8456183
A freight Train is repeated at the stanza's last line and the next's first with no evident literary devices. Consider changing.

>>8454246
Will anyone critique this?

>>8456280
It's hard to distinguish the time period where the story is set. Is it around the 1980's or so? (Judging from the FAMAS.) If so, then "Weaponmaster" is a pretty weird title or position.

If else, it would've been better if it was some mass-produced musket or firearm. Ask /k/ about that. The FAMAS broke the immersion.

I like the writing style, though. Props to that one.

>>8455237
I haven't read Beckett, but I still say that your prose is powerful exposition. Lucid and clinical, full of information. Are you fond of this way of writing? I think if you honed its craft further, its already good execution would be improved. Sleek it out. Ditch or consolidate wordings. The verbosity serves the style well, but threatens to drown the reader in description.

>>8456293
Thanks for reading. Yeah, the gun choice seems off, even if for a post-apocalyptic world hundreds of years after a cataclysm. It is purposefully anachronistic, since it is the encounter between a reclaimer of lost (modern) technology and a martial artist.

>>8456237
>>8456252

Will anyone critique this, too?

>>8456237
>supposedly immaculate walls
Clumsy. Fix that. You can convey contradiction better, especially in relation to the prior sentence.

Otherwise I say it is written well. You seem to have a good grasp on your fictional world, as well as its theatrics. Even if the conventional cliches are employed. I wouldn't mind reading the full story at all.

>>8456382
Thanks for taking the time to read!

I'll be changing that part to something better. It does sound off, to be honest.

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waddup /lit/ the start of some magical realism fetish shit i'm writing for fun

http://pastebin.com/sLG5uHsF

bumping this thread for those who haven't been critiqued yet

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Yesterday, my professor from the creative writing class asked the whole class to pick a gender, a name and a number. The class collectively chose female and the name Victoria. Then he ask us to write a 15 minute story for that person at the age of the chosen number. Finally, everyone would read their stories as if the character lived her life from age 1 until age 110.
It was interesting. If anyone knows Spanish and cares for my part, here it is.

"Colorless green ideas sleep furiously' he said.

They all looked confused and contemptuous. Some directly communicating it with a look, some looking away, trying to conceal it.

Only he knew. He laughed internally at their idiocy. Only he knew.

>>8457193
>>r/iamverysmart

>>8457250
>he doesn't pretend he doesn't use reddit when on gimpchan

Baka desu t b h

There is a noise upon which all else is built. That same quiet anxiety, that flickering static that is always in the background, that is always present, always dripping with discomfort, this is the song of the dead. Press your ears to the hollow ground, dip your feet to wet your ankles and listen; this is the sound of bodies trembling in their ill-fitted graves and the soft trickle of sacred rivers overrun and clotted with ashes that were once people who also kneeled, who once bled and listened also. Do not listen for answers-- for you will find none. Do not listen for music even if you find it. Listen because soon enough you will join them in requiem, and that one day you will only be able to speak as they do: in desperate half-echoes that thirst for walls to remind and warn the still living.

>>8454257
>>8454204
Sorry, I got busy.

There's some minor issues with grammar, as in

>...One can say he was studying them

Ought to be

>One COULD say he was studying them
or
>One MIGHT say he was studying them

But since English isn't your first language, and many native English speakers have a hard time with tense, I won't bother with it.

By adding phrases like "but he's probably scared of that word," you're drawing attention to the narrator (you, the author). What I mean by this is that you're adding in a thought that neither character had themselves, meaning that it came from you personally. There's nothing wrong with this - see Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, or A Series of Unfortunate Events by Jude Law (AKA Lemony Snicket). If you like that sort of thing, I'd try it out more. Being able to interject your personal opinions is nice, and if done well can be fairly funny.

The bit where you describe Dave and Alain was well done (Especially "Everything about Dave was round,"), but needs more of a lead-in. You could perhaps add something like

>Alain took a moment to consider his friend.

To give it more context with the overall story. I like the dialogue, and the way the story is going. All you really need to work on is your grammar (which will come with a better understanding of English), and maybe try making your sentences flow a little better - there's quite a few periods at the moment, which interrupts the pacing in the reader's head. This works well for the comedic bits (such as the part about popping) but should be avoided otherwise (such as the paragraph starting with "Angry disgust rushed across his face,").

Feel free to post more, it's easier to critique larger bodies of work than small parts.

I don’t know if my eyes are adjusting to the colour, or if it’s becoming deeper, but new shades begin to emerge. The browns giving way to deep greens, the blacks revealing themselves with navy, Pain’s Gray highlights. The chin that originally seemed to be held aloft in condescension now appears powerful; the two pipped eyes of a miser now show a considered knowledge and a proud stoicism. This is not a lambasting, but a tribute; Rembrandt in his twilight - hands clasped and hair white - reflecting on his lifetime of genius.

>>8456525
Your commas (and grammar) are a bit screwed throughout, such as in

>They did judge her beautiful, the menfolk of St. George – of pale skin and waist-length dark hair, she resembled, in her shy countenance, half a shadow, and with features too soft and girlish for her size, with freckles upon the bridge of her nose like a child, she was oddly erotic in the manner by which the incongruous design of her appearance was twinned with her morbid occupation (many dreamt of being decapitated by her), long of limb, monstrous, true, but nevertheless assuredly feminine, her late, human, mother having gifted her with abundant shape where important, scaled up dramatically for the sake of proportion.

Which is a single long run-on sentence, and should rather be broken into several discrete sentences, like so.

>They judged her beautiful, the menfolk of St. George. Her pale skin, dark hair, and shy countenance made her appear as if a shadow, yet her features were too soft and girlish for her size - in particular, the freckles upon the bridge of her nose made her look like a child, yet her arms were long and strong enough to crush a normal man. It was oddly erotic, the manner by which the incongruous design of her appearance was twinned with her morbid occupation; monstrous, perhaps, but nevertheless assuredly feminine - something she doubtlessly inherited from her human mother. She was, in short, a beautiful young lady - who happened to be over 7 feet tall.

Not to say it should be written exactly like that, but as something more along those lines (in particular you should use less hyphens, but it's a cheap way out and looks better than loads of commas). You'll notice I also removed some of the descriptors. My reason for this is that I believe erotic works should leave more of the details up to the reader - establish what you need to appeal to their specific fetishes (tall, muscular, feminine, hair/eye color, etc) but leave some details to their imagination to prevent becoming too specific (as in the type of armor she wears, maybe the freckles, the length of her arms can be deduced by her overall size and probably isn't helping anyone get off).

While I don't find this particularly hot, as it isn't my fetish, it would probably serve for someone who's into the scene (which is all that you're aiming for with that kind of work). The ideas and the execution (no pun intended) is good, what you mainly need to work on is the technical aspects and finding your own voice/style. As always, post more.

>>8454398
>blog

Post it.

I see what you mean now about the hibernation instinct kicking in, and retract my statement. That addition would indeed add context to the reverie line, and I think it's a good addition.

Minor thoughts I put no real stock in:
What happens to the coffee after the finishes it? Maybe he throws it on the ground, or does he carry it? You could add a line about the coffee going flying when he falls, or a line about him desperately hanging onto it. Neither are necessary, but add a bit of atmosphere and a pleasing allusion.

Since he is aside a street, something about cars passing by. As someone who often goes for long walks at night, I can say that there's something uniquely sinister about the approach of bright lights, which pass you by impersonally. I sometimes imagine that there's no-one behind those tinted glass windows at all.

As a question, how did you decide when to break your lines? The meter is all over the place (by design, I assume), and they do not seem to be grouped distinctly by thought. I agree with having the poem all in one verse though, considering the small amount of time over which the events occur.

>>8458371
Is this a description of the Happy Merchant?

>>8452467
Did you write this as free verse? I ask because your poem scans as somewhat iambic and is written mostly in tetrameter but there is enough variation on both these aspects to make me unsure of any underlying metrical scheme.
Further to this, do you have a working knowledge of prosody or have you simply wrote what you felt? If the latter is the case, how do you decide when to end a line if not arbitrarily?

>>8452594
I kekked heartily up until just past the 9th line when it got a little stale, but hey I'm just one guy

also where are you from that you pronounce Theresa with a the not a ta?

>>8452791
My analysis could be taken well or not depending on what it is you wanted to achieve with this poem which is obviously beyond my ken. Tis a poem of contrasts Anon; the short, jaunty meter and sing-song rhyme scheme don't gel with the moody tone. This could be A) a lack of prosodic skill giving birth to a poem failing to be what it was meant to be or B) an ample amount of prosodic skill lending itself to wryly comedic verse not unlike a hateful sonnet or a dry limerick

>>8453206
>>8453214
Study prosody my man, practice various metrical schemes, and you will get it. The driving force of poetry is the quiddity, the essence, the whatness of a thing, it is about precision in all aspects; it is not simply a spaffing your approximate feelings onto a page and dividing the mess into neat looking lines. You would not expect a pianist to translate his emotions into music by mashing the keys so treat poetry the same way. Knowing what makes poetry poetry and not prose or anything else is very freeing, to be no longer daunted by the oppressive blank page!

In media res:

But by then something had resolved on the horizon and a different sound was building over the engine roar. A shadow detached itself from the mass of the island ahead and came buzzing toward our boat—lilting grotesquely, shattering the air. The yacht was suddenly full of shouting. Men differentiating themselves, coming untangled, calling each other awake. “Helicopter! Helicopter! Wake up, you sorry bastards, load your guns! Blast him out of the sky!” No more time for dreaming. The chopper bounded forward through the wind, as huge and horrid as a Jurassic mosquito bloodseeking in the dark, and there was Fidel’s voice barking high above the others, telling the helmsman to turn us in towards the shore. How have they found us? Have we been given up? Iscariot who, where? Amid the confusion of frantic bodies, levered rifle actions, battle preparations in the gloom, there was the outcry of a yelp and splash: Man overboard, sang someone in a mad falsetto. Roque, our ex-army navigator, had been sucked away into the saline abyss. I saw his form go tumbling past from my position on the side of the boat. Luminous in his terror, I watched his body flung raggedy over the gunwale as his arms reached up toward his comrades. A second of this midair desperation and then a wonderful crash through the scalloped veil of the ocean, his body seeming to roll across the surface once, twice, then gone utterly. “Cut the engine,” came a voice by my ear that sounded like Almeida’s, “We must fish the poor fucker out.” The Dominican at the helm decreased our speed but did not stop. “Idiots! Round us back to Mexico. Batista will be waiting on the shore to slaughter us,” fluted another, but was quickly silenced by an arm which caught him around the throat and squeezed. “Ready your arms for war,” came Che’s unmistakable argentine accent, “We will take the pilots hostage. Sell them for weapons.” I myself was busy doing the best I could to search for any sign of Roque out there in the water, but could make nothing out through the darkness and the salt-wind which pricked my eyes. “I shall gather up the man,” crowed a tall, broad-shouldered figure to my left as he pulled taut a bowline knot about his waist, “take hold of the end there, brothers, and I will be back in a moment.” But no one had heard him, (well, no one except me), and the figure leapt off with an expert dive into the Atlantic Ocean as the unmanned coil of hemp began to unwind and unwind, until finally the last nub slipped over the edge and was gone, vanishing as quietly and stupidly as the man’s own life.

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Grand Central was unusually quiet the Monday morning Emily met her first, and perhaps last lover. She left from a recently renovated railroad station, a project Metro North had insisted be finished quickly. The old bricks gone and replaced with bright new red on white concrete structures, the refurbished lamps and signs hung lowly, affixed with dim lighting Edison bulbs.

"I don't really get why they try so hard to make it look like it did. Either leave it or demolish it. Feels like I'm looking at a failed abortion every time I see this damn place" Emily thought to herself, as she made her way to the upper platform.

Many Yonkers, Ludlow, and surrounding city residents shared this train station, and with this came the many faces of the people working in New York. The short Spanish women with three little kids hobbling in pursuit, the tired White businessman with a coffee mug in one hand and a cellphone in the other. Even the Black men who came from the homeless shelter, would convene at this solitary station. Emily was making her way to a data mining facility, where she was promised a wage of twelve dollars an hour for her Portuguese speaking skills. For the past month they had her in the English program, due to a lack of Portuguese work to be done, and so she was paid minimum wage like all the other degenerates working there.

But this Monday, August 1st of 2016 would be the last time she would eat at the diner across the center. It would be the last time the homeless men would insist that she smoke with them. It would be her last time making cold calls from four o'clock in the afternoon to one in the morning, because she would be meeting her lover,

for the first time.

I wrote this a while ago just as idea. Let me know if it's actually worth continuing.


Alan was on his way home after a day spent trying to convince his ex-girlfriend Heather to give back his teddy bear stuffed with cocaine because he needed it for the safe return of his pet dog who was also called Alan from the Colombian Mafia who held Alan (the dog) at ransom as revenge for Alan (the man) using Heather as a decoy for the Mafia to fuck silly while Alan was meanwhile stealing every illegal substance that lay within their compound to trade for a kennel in which he hoped the doggy would take happy residence, when he accidentally wedged his foot in a drainpipe.
“Lamentably,” sighed Alan, “this wretched day drags on.”
He could not dislodge his foot. Heather could see clearly his predicament from the window of her apartment, as he hadn’t progressed far before becoming stuck; Alan could hear loudly her guffaws from the open window, as it was just gone twilight in the peaceful suburban neighbourhood where she lived.

As this took place, Alan the dog was meanwhile being subjected to a most ironic torture at the hands of the gangsters: they were, with every good intention, offering him food with the exact dietary requirements for his particular breed (a terrier). However, due to his owner’s poor quality of care, doggie Alan was in the habit of eating nothing but cola-flavoured, gelatin-based candy, so he refused to eat anything that the Mafia gave to him, and thus was starving.

>>8458699
alright man, I definitely will
thanks

>>8458649
Thank you. I would like to think I was aiming for the latter, but your input is appreciated nonetheless; I've largely ignored poetry in favor of fiction (in both reading and writing), and only recently tried my hand at it.

Im wide open
Made an air for embrace
Flossed for the fawn
Oh my muse
Bargan this soul, its not used
And your lost
On the landslide

My best poem in progress

The gator grinned despite his missing lips. He had not been wrong about this one. “My name, young lady, is Giupater, and you were quite right about me. I am not an alligator. No, not anymore. Alligators are small things in the scheme of things, and I was born smaller than most. They grow, they thrive, and within 25 short years nearly all of them are dead. I suppose I made quite a rebel of myself.

The runt never lasts long. That was an unspoken among our race. Our size is our boon, our pride, our destiny, and it is something a runt has not. A runt would never wrest a doe from the shore, or disguise itself as a log and wait for a meal to tread poorly. Cleverness was a runt's only salvation, and thank the lord of all serpents that I had brilliance in spades.

I was not the first of clutch to die. That alone was a shock. Another sibling passed on and surprise came anew. Then another, then another, then another again, and before long I had outlived them all. 25 years went by, and I had lived on. 25 more and I outlived the spawn of my siblings. 25 more and 25 through, until one day my first century had dawned.

They say that wisdom does not come at once, that it sneaks up on you, only to notice when it has joined you in the shallows. Whoever said that had never been a centenarian, I assure you of that. I had not counted the days, or the moons, or the shifting of leaves, but on the first dawn of my second century, I knew I was different. My claws moved quicker, my thoughts flowed cleaner, and for the first time I could see all that lay ahead and all that lay behind. I saw the future dear girl, and the past and the present, and I was no longer an alligator as I had once been. No, being ancient had changed me, making me stronger and smarter and granting me magic as well. I am a drake, a spirit of stars, and for the first time I saw my own size.

Time is vast girl, far longer than most think. Gators are measured by feet alone, but every second spans two hundred thousand miles, and I have lived since your kind wore powdered wigs!”

“And yet,” said the girl stroking the scales of his back, “you are a prisoner here. Just like me.”

>>8459121
not to sound like a middle-school english teacher, but run-on sentences are bad mm-kay. Punctuation is there for a reason: commas and periods are stand-ins for verbal pauses and contextual separations that are otherwise lost in the conversion from text-to-speech. In their absence, we mentally the text as a single uninterrupted stream. Worse yet, while reading we only breathe at the perceived gaps in the sentence, so not only to run ons blur conceptually into oblivion, reading them is physically exhausting because you're compelled to hold your breath the entire time

>>8459066
not a bad first, though fixing S1P3 is a must.
>Many Yonkers, Ludlow, and surrounding city residents shared this train station

how about this

>Many residents of Yonkers, Ludlow, and the surrounding cities shared this train station,

Wide eyes and warm shoulders
My beautiful friend
Pay no mind to the looming coroners
But to the heart that’s in bends

A feeling lost at sea, amidst heavy storms and heavier doubters
Who but that old enmity would take the wheel, steer us astray
Into the pole, or into the tree, or the eye of the storm
Or perhaps into separate valleys, where we were meant to carry on, where that sweet separation would keep us at bay

>>8460004
there should probably be a place in the poem for alcohol

thinking of replacing "enmity" with "ethanol" but I dont want it to seem like the poem is about drunk driving

>>8458352

I fixed it a bit and added more. You've been really helpful.
The last time I wrote something was a long time ago, and this is helping me develop a voice again.
This is all I have now; I'll more at the end of the weekend. I hope the thread remains alive.

This has the parts I already poseted, plus the new parts I added. I hope I didn't ruin it.

http://pastebin.com/KuutW014

>>8452645
Even before I saw Wolfe mentioned I felt like I was reading a bad imitation. Not to say that there's a good one.
>>8454246
>Tips inner-Katana.

>>8452791
i like it but it seems kinda gay. agree with A) here >>8458649

>>8453915
that last line is pretty freaking great fampai

tell us how the competition goes

>>8459824
This was quite enjoyable, and thank you for the critique. I would continue reading this if it were a book, especially sometime near the opening. You sound like the narrators in the random books I read, but more captivating.

>>8460004
I don't feel the need for rhyme when the poem seems to have a free form feeling to it, as in counts of beats, length of sentences, etc. Regardless, enjoyable. Keep writing.

>>8454246
I could retort with
"Weaponsmaster, what you say is true. However, despite the lack of artisan craft when it comes to the mass production of these guns, I believe a consummation is required on the battlefield with them. Perhaps one that does not go as deep as a physical manual weapon, but consummation nonetheless. A vile sort of consummation, where the weapon holder affixes himself like a leech to the weapon, and becomes 'one' with it. Infantry must know their rifle, that their rifle is theirs, that there are many like it but that one is theirs. They must know the operational distance of the rifle, and using experience and training, be able to gauge such distance through iron sights. They must account for environmental factors to make sure their fire is straight and true. They must feel with the gun, every round that leaves the barrel, how many rounds are left before reloading, how accurate the sights are, the recoil of the gun, and so forth.

Resolution is the aim of war, however through death this is achieved, much, much death. Death makes man think to himself if this war is truly worth it, it makes man think to himself 'why do we fight?', it makes man feel their mortality, their frailness, and at the same time, it empowers them. After death, or rather the natural teacher is done giving man his lesson, man is left with only the truth, and nothing but the truth.

Artisan beauty does not belong on the battlefield. It belongs in fictitious works of literature, film, and the like. On the battlefield, the only thing that truly matters is making sure the man at the other end of your rifle is down before you are down. And so through much death, there is finally a temporary floating peace, for no man wishes to see the truth of war, or their mortality.

And so, I remain consummated to my weapon. While there is truth in what you've said, I cannot cast my weapon aside. If you truly believe in your own philosophy, I ask of you weaponsmaster, make something new. A hybrid of artisan craft and deadly mass produced weapon, something that by nature, will seek resolution through any means necessary through the hands of its wielder. Thank you for your time, and the wine weaponsmaster, I shall leave you be. I am sure there is much you must consider."

>>8460360
>Regardless, enjoyable. Keep writing.
thanks man, I appreciate that

new to this whole thing, just trying things out

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>>8452426
http://pastebin.com/1drdEpNq

please read and shit on

>>8459824
Not to sound like a bratty middle school student, but the long run-on sentence is written like that on purpose. The idea is to introduce as many absurd ideas at once that follow a single thread of logic that continually builds up, before finally going back to the present of the story. A bit like the opening line of Satantango.

Thanks for your opinion anyway. I like the idea in your writing about telling the story of an alligator. It looks like the backdrop to some kind of fairy tale, perhaps? The only thing I'd say is that, since most of the text is spoken by the alligator, you should begin each paragraph of the long dialogue with opening speech marks and end the last paragraph of dialogue with closing speech marks. That way it's easy to tell that the alligator is still speaking.

>>8452426
The child, her wonder and The Fish

Its 8 o clock in the morning. Istanbul takes a collective shit.

I mimic the infant
straining eyes
searching hands

Orrorin
Orrorin

Toddler because of your gait, the manner in which you swim, through thick Silurian swamp.

These passageways in thicket are signs of small antelope feeding at night.

This one will not be feeding any more.

Lonely cadaver of the bush, speak to me.

I live in Caves.

Icthyostega because of your flesh, the manner in which you sinew.

nerves and nerve endings.

big daddy?
big daddy?
big daddy?

>>8461069
I have no idea what this means or represents. It reminds me vaguely of Sarah Kane, if you removed the depression and replaced it with obscurity.

>>8458471
disappaear.tumblr.com

I only started writing recently so the old stuff might be shit. There's a bit of angst if you go back too far. I didn't start it with just poetry in mind.



>I sometimes imagine that there's no-one behind those tinted glass windows at all.
Same. It freaks me out.

>>8458494
>>8458471
I have no real knowledge of prosody, only musical experience (I play violin and listen to a lot of music). Basically I go with what sounds right. If it doesn't sound right, I change it. Line endings are not arbitrary -- I don't know about prosody, but I do know about rhythm, and I'm aware of how emphasis changes.
All my poems are free verse in spirit, even if they don't turn out that way. Maybe it's down to ignorance, but I don't like the idea of being constrained by a particular scheme; I also don't like the idea of complete irregularity.

bump for critiques and new material

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>>8452592
Okay, I've worked on my piece a little longer, really appreciated the advice so far. I'm still feeling my way across the scene, and will definitely extend the dialogue, but would love if this anon >>8453779 could tell me if it's heading in the right direction.

I'm going to take a piss and review then next few pieces above me.

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>>8462722

>>8461069
I don't understand this piece at all yet I really like it.
>>8460403
Is this for university? It's very interesting and well-written, and I like your conclusion, but it's a touch too personal for an academic paper.

I agreed with all your points however.

>>8460360
This was a much better re-write than the other. Other anon, pay attention to the differences between them.
>>8453915
>God knows I did
Alarm bells started sounding in my head.
>Gift of noursihment lost in the erosion of time
Too much, sharpen it

Otherwise good. Perhaps more sun metaphors? You can't look directly/ get too close/ it's the centre of a system/ eclipses/ blackholes ???

>>8453894
Minimalist. I like it.

>>8460004
>admist heavy storms and heavier doubters
Too much
You're last line is too much either. Your first stanza is better.
>>8459824
A deeply interesting opener. I like the slight surreal feel a lot. One quibble, "spans two thousand miles" has better assonance than "Two hundred thousand miles".

>>8462722
This one's me by the by.

>A deeply interesting opener. I like the slight surreal feel a lot. One quibble, "spans two thousand miles" has better assonance than "Two hundred thousand miles".

Thank you, but that line is already a compromise. in reality a second is only 186,282.397 miles long. I rounded it up to be poetic

http://pastebin.com/YAzfisKN
A short story I've recently finished

Doing a Tao Lin-esque thing, though it's stream of consciousness.
----


Once a Girl at a Party came up to me and asked what i read and i said: Well, it really depends what you are refering to. Do you mean recently? Or in General?" And she gave me a look as if: You are supposed to recite something you Have learned Prior to this social Meeting, me man. And i asked her: Do you know who Yukio Mishima is? And she nods but i can tell she's lying and i ask her: That's okay.
Then she leaves the Party and i sit down on the Couch and an old man who is visiting this town for the first time sits down next to me and i ask him why he hasn't killed himself yet and he answers: I have no answer to this question. I really have no answer to this question. And then he sits there and thinks melancholy and i feel bad because before that he was in a good mood and felt included, part-of-something, acknowledged. I pat him sensitively on the shoulder and ask him to please leave the Couch because he's making me feel guilty

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This is a work I'm currently writing, but my head is burning from exhaustion from trying to think about it any further. If someone could give me some ideas for the writing, to maybe help me get unstuck, just tell me your thoughts, maybe it would help me continue.

>>8462722
>>8462729
You wrote this anon?

Let me tell you something. I have an unfortunate, natural apprehension to any form of literature that involves the middle east and specifically, its culture. My teacher was an SJW liberal arts cunt and "progressive" before the entire movement came about, I was a young highschool boy with a naive and closed mind set, more aware of the video games and chess board in front of me than the world around me. Beyond that, with a tumultuous household, my mind was far from school.

She drilled this philosophy into my head it rotted what little mental capacity I had left, I almost vomited upon a re-visit to our "discussions".

Yet you've managed to write something I enjoyed. I would read the rest of this, especially if it were a book. Thanks for the read.

Also this is me:
>>8459066
I've already made some edits but could use some input.

>>8462910
I'm going to be critical for your own sake. You need to read more. I'll only do the first paragraph for now because I'm packing for a move:
We stood on the platform, our hands tied behind our backs by itchy rope that was too tight.
>We stood on the platform, our hands bound behind us by tight, rugged rope.
Before us stood a hundred people, all of them waiting in anxiety. A wave of sweat rolled across my body, caged against me by the shrunken t-shirt and shorts that I was wearing—that we were all wearing.
>Before us stood one hundred people, anxiously waiting for something. I broke out in a wave of sweat, my shrunken shorts and t-shirt, the same clothes we all wore, clinging tightly to my cold body.
A bright green light pulsated from a wooden fixture above and behind us, illuminating the faces in front of me; their mouths were twisted and misshapen, their eyes completely focused on us, on me. The sound of footsteps emerged from behind, and from the tall, green curtain walked a short, stout man.
>green curtain walked forward a short, stout man.
His eyes sat uncomfortably on the top of his head and he had a stubby nose that took loud, fast breaths like a pug.
(Note: this structure is behind you but you could hear him breathing amidst 100 people while adrenaline courses through your veins from pure fear?)
The girl to the right of me began to mutter some sort of prayer. Her words stumbled over one another as she shook like a newborn calf. I looked down at the people before us once again, and my eyes met those of a young man with platinum blonde hair folded neatly upon itself like an envelope. He had a jagged scar to the left of his left eye that ran down the length of his face. He seemed to be the same age as us. The corner of his mouth cracked a devilish smile that mouthed the words, “I win.” It could have easily been him up here, on this platform, silently begging for a quick death. "Very funny", I thought.
You use touche but fail to describe exactly why its warranted, was there a competition or some argument where he won over this other boy? I changed it for now.

>>8463302
Thank you for not holding your dislike of the middle east against me - although I find the deep absolutes of Muslim society to be very fascinating and a real juxtaposition to the confusion of my own country. As for your piece, it's not bad at all(and neither is your taste in anime [unless you wouldn't fug Rei over Asuka]) and I like your "failed abortion" quip, but I feel there's a bit too much detail clogging it down. Do I need to know it's the 1st of August, do I need to know the racial identity of everyone there (you could just go with a briefer list form like: "haggardly Spaniardesses with three kids and little time, homeless mullattos, white buisnessmen with whiting hair in white collar job and white collared suits with a white coffee mug and one black friend". Then the repetition of "the last time" also seems a bit stretched too, after that exhaustive description. I'd also focus more on the other sense, the olfactory, the physical, the spacial and tasteful even. But ti's not bad. Also, I wouldn't put internal thought in speech marks, but that's a personal thing "I think".

I'm very happy to hear you liked my story, I intend to end it with him decapitating a priest, with a rather long Kierkegaard inspired conversation as he traps him in a rectory.

I've slightly tweaked the first page, would the italicised prologue of the style I've included be tacky? I'm a very inexperienced writer.

>>8463253
What's this piece meant to be? As a rant I like it (reminds me of my dear danish special K) and as dialogue it's natural and flows well, although certainly rambolic (never a problem with speech I find, we translate ourselves horribly).

Going to sleep now. Any last critique would be helpful, I'm always happy to help another anon too; except in poetry, which I'm limited to saying "yeah that's sound good".

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>>8463368

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Somebody i loved was shot. Shot dead in the forehead. Tonight i drink in remembrance and forgetness, five shots oughta do it, i’m a weak drinker.

-where is the bathroom?
-thanks

The mirror is one of my favorites. I rarely piss, i just like the mirror. This time i piss, the relief of it is another of my favorites, i flavour the moment with all my body.

Five shots did it, my mind is just ok, i flavour the moment is gone. Zip up. Reflection sure looks good through drunk eyes.

Oh look, a marijuana cigarette is somehow near-mint in my slim-jeans pocket, i blaze it.
Reefer Red eyes Rapid Rolling, am dreaming? This girl only exists in my head, so yeah, probably, but the stinking bathroom still surrounds me.


-Hello Sara. - My burning throat struggles to utter.


-Yeah… hi. You really did it this time Pete, you’re dying.
Her voice was bliss, i was hot.

-Sounds like a good excuse for a shag , eh?

-bye baby.

>>8463394

Jesus Christ

>>8452426
babump

>>8461116
this is the only way I can express myself

>>8454246
>>8455000

Had a giggle.

>>8456263

Repetition is a literary device.

There aren't enough m&ms in my trail mix.

>>8460054
bump for rates and critiques. do not be gentle.

>>8453165
Everything except the last line makes me think you're a fucking faggot

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Posting this again because I'd actually like some feedback

le epic bump :p

>>8464298
I skimmed it and it seems like a sincere ranting of an edgy high school kid. If that's what you're aiming at, it worked, but it's not enjoyable, for me

Anon wondered why he didn't try writing more. One million bad words in everyone, he read from someone quoting someone else, the first guy responding to someone else on an anonymous shitposting forum. Why not write, write, write. Illusion of productivity. He'd never submit this, he thought. Good. He began wondering if/how often he'd write more, and what it'd be about. Words comin' out, they've gotta come out. Illusion of productivity. And expression. And talent. He thought about (((Harold Bloom)))'s criticism of David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. "No discernable talent." What if the kike was trying to discredit Wallace's discovery of the Jewish scheme to sedate us all with crappy, uneducating, meaningless entertainment? What if. He paused, not knowing what to think of or write next. He was enjoying this, but it would have to end. What would he write about the next time he had this urge? He stopped writing. Didn't want to think about the passage of time or the meaninglessness of life any longer.

When the wind
Blows right in
And moonlight streaks the sky

The little creek
So soft and meek
Will flow with heavy sigh

"Tell me so
Oh waterflow
Why not thrash and flood

Rush with speed
Through grass and reed
And turn the Earth to mud"

"No," said the creek
So soft and meek
"My waters move with grace

The deer and frog
The stone and log
Will keep their restful place

I do not wish
To hurt the fish
Or flood the homes of mice

My waters flow
Oh gently so
And their pace will suffice"

So said the creek
So soft and meek
To the mighty sea

It will maintain
Through sparse rain
And what will be, will be

>>8465865
Always write. Even if it sucks or you think it'll suck.

>>8454549
Ya I like this. The story felt more real to me than a lot these other overwrought pieces of writing. Keep it up!

>>8463371
>>8463368
No italics! And thank you for the input. No italics. Its fine as it is, I enjoyed reading it the way it is. Makes it much more personable. You've left me with quite an impression. Much better than that kite runner "little boy gets fucked in the ass and killed then his son gets fucked in the ass" BS.

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How long does it take to write a good poem, /lit/?
Dickinson put out what, 2,000 of them in her lifetime?

I've written poetry, but I feel as if the short amount of time I spend on it (albeit they're intentionally short poems) is an indicator that it's probably trash.

>>8466545
I don't think there is a minimum time. It just depends on where you start from and how long it takes to satisfy yourself - how many areas you are looking at and how quickly you correct mistakes.

We went running in the predawn brush following deer trails. The sweat soaking through our shirts and dew on our brow. I looked at her and felt the spark of longing, my heart seemed to reach out past its cage to reach hers. Those big brown eyes looked into me, I felt them. The warm dank air smoothed the hair on our arms. The sun would rise soon enough and our huge pupils would serve as a reminder to everyone of last night’s fun. We sat in the thick grass across from each other. The heart pulled harder and harder, the mind pushed back in fear.
“How terribly strange it is to be” she said.
“How the more stranger it would be to not” I said, scorning myself for stupidity.
She moved towards sitting next to me and put her arm around my shoulder, I put mine around her waist. She moved closer, nearly sitting on my lap. I pulled her tighter, she pulled me tighter. She put her head on my shoulder, I put mine on her head. We sat there for moments as my heart beat like a jackhammer to my ribs. My hand began quivering like a newly caught fish, glistening with sweat. I focused its energy around her waist. I moved it up, gently, to her hair. I put my fingers through her short, soft hair. She turned to look at me with the moon reflecting in her drug addled eyes. The world stopped for a moment, I recoiled in beauty. Her chin rose slowly, revealing to me her soft pink lips, I brought mine closer. Nuclear fission was occurring in my chest I could feel the pure, primordial energy. We were within inches, she closed her eyes, I closed mine. Our lips touched as bursts of light exploded in my mind, blinding, beautiful, terrible, painful light. I grabbed at my chest, I could feel the engine misfiring. I fell back, as the last beautiful moon and face and eyes and lips and nose and hair and chin and cheek and pore evaporated. I then became weightless.
>I hate myself

>>8466260
Could you actually critique the work instead of responding to the character's thoughts please?

>>8466503

Thanks man. I have kept it up and ended up with over 300k words. Dunno if anyone will ever read it, but the encouragement is nice.

>>8458352
>A Series of Unfortunate Events by Jude Law (AKA Lemony Snicket).

What the fuck? I thought his name was Daniel Handler?

Did anyone ever figure out the unauthorized autobiography?

howdy folks

http://pastebin.com/ackBpFdV

Wasn't expecting to type this when I wrote it but I don't wanna forget, so I'll critique after I smoke (or in the morning) if that's cool

it's just a short thing but I like it

Sup, /lit/. I just moved here from Pacifica, California, which is on the other side of the bay from here. On the other side of the peninsula, which is probably the least hip town in the whole Bay Area. And you can get a nice ratty apartment there with a nice panoramic view for about $700 bucks a month. Anyway, this is something I wrote while I lived there. It's called Pacifica.

My balcony looks over Eureka Valley.

In the evening, I get to watch the land turn the color of brick, and then aluminum.

On the hills there are trees: eucalyptus and Monterey pine.

And in the sandy bed, a housing development.

Often, I catch my eyes, sliding easily - as if they rolled on bearings, or had been oiled - off the identical rows of houses of people, and back up to the more peculiar trees.