/crit/ - Shitposting and Critiques

I sighed, feeling myself exhale. This was not easy. it was time to put him out of his misery.

I remember when I had first heard that phrase. I was a young child and walking with my dad along a dusty country lane near a village we used to stay in. A faded memory of a time long gone to the annals of unwritten history. At some point we discovered an old, worse-for-wear rabbit lying beside the road. It did not look good. My dad went over, crouched down and examined it.
“Well”, he said after a moment, and sighed, “thought as much.”
“What is it dad?” I asked, taking a look. The rabbit had sores all over its body, it lay docile and weeping.
“This rabbit here has myxomatosis. That’s a viral infection, son. It’s man-made. It was introduced by Australians in the 1950’s to curb population growth. There were too many rabbits, so the people needed to cut them down. So they made this. The disease creates a terrible skin condition, the rabbit goes blind. It has no hope and it will live in constant, agonizing pain until it dies.”
“Dad, that’s horrible!” I yelled.
“I know, son. That’s why we need to put it out of its misery.”
“What do you mean dad?” I asked, as he put a plastic bag over his hand from his pocket, and leaned over and picked up the rabbit by its hind legs. It twitched slightly as my dad walked with it over to a dry stone wall.
“Stand back, son”, he said, and suddenly he lifted the rabbit up high, and then swung it down hard against the wall with a loud and gruesome crack.
“Dad!”, I yelled, as I watched him toss the rabbit’s limp body over the wall and into a field.

David was going to be that rabbit, we had already caused him enough pain.

>>8514827
It's fine but it feels like your sentences are back to front, and I'm not /lit/ enough to explain why.

>>8514827
Your phrasing should be simpler. I get the feeling you're trying to seem clever in stead of writing cleverly.

>>8516234
Sighing implies feeling yourself exhale you dolt. Spend more time thinking about what you want to communicate to the reader.

>>8516260
What if the pro-ta-gonist is supposed to be an autistic chosen one like Paul Artreides?

>>8516234
This just seems underwritten. You should read more, just generally hone your craft and work on your style, it's very basic.

>>8516273
It has nothing to do with autism, it's just overwritten. Be less descriptive, do a couple more rewrites, the piece is unfocused.

>>8514827
The first sentence is about four words too long. Too many adverbs. Feels like I'm impeded by descriptions. Consider "Despite her simply clothing she held herself straight." as an example of what can be left out. Also, and here I may be out of bounds having read two pages- but having a character awaken from a dream with a serious mood, to a scene with a goofy mood (apple munching, joke cracking) really kills the tension. If you plan on writing a light hearted novel that's fine, but from there on the story may lack intensity.

>>8516304
>simple clothing
Awoops.

http://pastebin.com/EsRN3Bhi

An unfinished "poem," which was meant to be a journey through a village with protagonist telling people it's raining - retraces his past life in little segments. I don't want to "write" any more of it.

sunburnt man, on sun strewn sand,
said, to sunborne Anne:
what a day to lie here with you
and plant our toes in grains of silica
and run to and from those ocean tides
and love you until the waves don’t crash
to love you evermore

And sunborne Anne, with voices grand
said, to sunburnt man:
what a day to lie here to you
and speak of the great untruths
and keep you from the world away
and protect you as best I can
to love you evermore

posted this before, didn't get any responses
I just want to know if I'm headed in somewhat of the right direct ;_;

>>8514827

I couldn't get past the first sentence. It reads something like:

>It was a dark and stormy night...

You get points for actually starting something and taking time out of your day to practice but you really need to re-write at LEAST the first paragraph.

>>8516462
I personally find this fascinating, and would definitely read more if you wrote more (although I see why you might want to stop.)

You're being way too hard on yourself, or at least the tone of your post would lead me to believe. This is 100% a really weird and unique medium, so struggling with it makes sense. However, you accomplish with it a really nice sense of building chaos, and the little asides work very well.
I think the crowning achievement, which I've kinda said already, is the atmosphere of the piece. The dialogue, "sound effects," and especially the formatting makes it read like an actual town.
Despite it being much coarser, there's a distinct Crazy Cat and Ignatz vibe to this. That might contribute to my enjoyment your piece, because I adore that strip, but that doesn't really matter, this stands by itself just fine. If you're looking for inspiration/resources, I would recommend checking out Crazy Cat and Ignatz, it's a wonderful little comic
I think you should write more, partially so I might get to see more of this, but I think you've got something going with it.

>>8516937
Thank you. I discarded the poem you read to work on a more serious poem. As of recent I read an article about an artist who decided to burn all his possessions and thought to myself that I must write a "final" poem, burn my bridges and start anew. The idea was to invest all my grotesque ideas of space, marginalia and causality into one "poem," then abandon poetry altogether. This was my first attempt, but I find it too kitschy, not that I hate it (in fact, I feel sorry for needing to abandon it.)

The poem I am working on involves heavy deconstruction, akin to what you saw in the draft but nothing to resemble it.

And thank you, I will look more into Krazy Kat and Ignatz. I take great pleasure in all things unorthodox.

>>8516937
And if you feel my poem resonates too strongly with you, I will be glad to finish it for you and those who would like to join you.

>>8517050
I'd love to read anything more that you're willing to post, even if it's only your prose that holds between them :P
There's something so romantically appealing that the first poem (if you do continue in this vein) was meant to be the very last one.

If you want to buy some Krazy Kat (how could I have forgotten the K's?) and Ignatz, but don't want to sink almost 100 dollars into the complete collection, this is my favorite, at least of the ones I own
https://www.amazon.com/Krazy-Ignatz-1941-1942-Ragout-Raspberries/dp/1560978872

>>8517063
As for finishing it, it's your work, and therefore your decision. If you DID finish it, that'd be awesome, and I'm sure at least a couple other people feel the same.
Despite how experimental the poem is, there is one concrete criticism that I forgot to mention in my first post: Drop the two instances of "dude." The entire poem has a biblical/reverential theme, if corrupted and perverted at times, and "dude" stands out so distinctly from that theme.

What would line?
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>>8517115
Well done! I had to re-read the poem before posting it - seeing as I left it sitting idly in a text file for over a week - and I really did see your point.

There are only three more poems I can share. These are very old poems, from over a year ago perhaps when I was getting around using the English language. I am not particularly proud of them, but maybe you can find more worth in them than I can today, maybe capture a divine light that once inspired them. I do remember loving these as if they were well-tempered children.

http://pastebin.com/kH4XNNSe

I'll think about completing the poem, what harm can it do?

>>8516251
>>8516260
>>8516304
>>8516913
Cheers for the feedback, my takeaway is go for simplicity, don't try to be pretentious, and convey a consistent tone. I'll start again from the top.

What's /lit/'s thoughts on modern fantasy anyway? Is the genre played out?

XXXL

__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raymond_Federman
__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gillian_Rubinstein
__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nick_Offerman
__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ludwig_Wittgenstein

__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danger_music
__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Situationist_International
__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Touch_Me_I%27m_Sick
__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Divided_We_Fall

__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bondage_pornography
__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Roses_(1940_film)
__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Willie
__https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neuroscience_of_free_will

____https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shit
____https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_41-Year-Old_Virgin_Who_Knocked_Up_Sarah_Marshall_and_Felt_Superbad_About_It

>>8517466
I-it's an actual thing...

I am forever exporting myself

My mind is not in me, instead
I am the work unfinished, the friend

The song's refrain in a half-dream
Restlessly returning

I am forever exporting myself

>>8517501
is this an insult or a compliment

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>>8516880
the initial alliteration is off-putting, which is frustrating, because you have strength of diction in the following lines

I get what you want to do, but maybe tone it down a tad.

>>8517517
first couplet is weak, second couplet is really strong
the repeated line is interesting and make me want to convince you to turn it into a palindromic piece (think Trethewey's poem Myth)

here's mine (pic-related)

itt: no discernable talent

>>8517677
eh, I think I'm talented

>>8517654
I meant the last Wikipedia link.

>>8517705
ooh yeah

shit movie btw

Been working on this one for awhile now and today I'm just disgusted by every sentence it's hitting me like a brick wall.

Is this shit unreadable trash??

pastebin.com/aN8kW9rw

draft i'm workin on

http://pastebin.com/yPF8pmN8

>mfw a post I intended to be a shitpost is now being worked into a novel
>mfw it will be a huge failure and I will die forgotten
>mfw I'm the next franz kafka

>>8514827
I like it, blacksmiths and dragons are always fun. There's a few things I wasn't sure about.
Would he know what ozone smells like?
You wouldn't crunch on a brown apple, cause it would be rotting. Unless there are magical brown apples in this world.
>>8517463
I don't think fantasy is played out, but I think the bar is set extremely low. Having a decent MC and a coherent plot is better than 50% of the new fantasy books coming out

>I posted this in the other thread but here goes

To behold your face crumbles every bone in my body
Acid in my stomach whirls, spitting over the sides
Flesh tightens to petrification, my limbs are paralysed.

Europe and the Pacific become one another,
the sun looks away, moonlight covers the earth
Stone melts into the air, covering the ground like snow.

Through hunger and cold my spirit stayed at peace
As Nirvana remained my heart, the world was one with me
Until I caught sight of your face there was nothing else to be.

Do I sound like a faggot?

I liked writing, so I wrote privately. I didn't even let my closest friends read my work, but I typed a lot on the computer, or noted things down, most it being about what annoyed me that day or in the recent past. I couldn't imagine writing about something which didn't annoy me in some way or another, but I would twist it into being funny instead, as it wasn’t so morbid, I wanted people to understand me. Writing was hard but it was cool.

I knew there was a writer's elite in town, but I could not for the life of me even think of attempting to join something like that. It did not connect with me at all, despite the poorer areas and their ilk, the 'arts' as they liked to call it in my region was heavily dominated by the middle class. I wondered why that was.Until it hit me one day that it was all politics and money.
Normal people had to eat, so they worked jobs to feed the kids. Whether they worked in a sawmill or had a position of responsibility like my dad who worked as a project manager in some engineering company, the gap was filled by middle-class housewives who could afford to stay at home to write shit prose, and old men in their 60's who wrote poems about, I don't know, waves and shit. It was awful. I didn’t like the monopoly they had. There was no outlet for a 16 year old boy who wrote about class.

There was a girl in the year below me in school who was lauded to be the next JK Rowling, but I looked at her holding her books close to her chest, with her meek ginger hair and wondered how she could even begin to know anything about life at all. I thought about it often, what made a writer, or an artist, or anything. Maybe she was lonely. Maybe that was why she wrote. She didn't seem to have that many friends. She could have good material.

I always thought if you didn’t write to survive, then you shouldn’t be writing. Unless it was for an academic reason. If you were hitting for emotion, you had to punch hard. I looked at the local newspaper that my parents bought. Another fundraiser, another essay by a cardigan wearing lady at a ‘lovely’ tea morning. It was so tepid. There was something about it which got underneath my skin, I felt like I was in the middle of a grand conspiracy theory. It was like they were trying to cover up the real goings on in my town. No one wanted to look outside the bubble they were in and address the real issues, like the poverty, or the drug epidemic .... they enjoyed their comfy social status too much to risk that, so they had endless coffee mornings instead.

>>8517930
>Muh class war against the arts

>>8517930
>Do I sound like a faggot?
The better question is: are you even trying to hide you true faggot self. Also write this character as a schizophrenic.

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Need someone to tear this apart for me real bad.

>>8518538
>Sebastian lifts his head from the grass and blinks (his eyes), (then) feels his heart jump at what he sees.
Remove things in the brackets.

>...of her hair so startling against her pallor...
I think this is more economic that what you said.

Everything after and including
>her high-boned face...
needs to be replaced.

>>8519459
Appreciate the critique. Not sure I quite agree with the substitution of pallor though. I think it has some necrotic or at least unhealthy implications that are not quite romantic, no?

>>8519478
Yes.
I meant to say 'her paleness' instead of 'paleness of her skin' as it's more economic. I am posting from a phone, it has autocorrect.

It's also only my opinion; your idea is fine too. I just like using fewer words when possible.

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In the past I've made the mistake of imitating too much and being too purple. I hope I'm making some sort of amends to that mistake without going full Hemingway.

Rich, poor. Smart, dumb. Both the accomplished and the disappointed, all find love. All love. They may never change, but they all feel love - at the least sometimes. What does it matter what they do in the petty world? They will all fall in love's embrace.

And love's embrace is the same whether you buy it on the cheap or steal it. It's the same formula, usually at the same concentration. Drink it, kiss it, grope at it. Love is the forgetting of difference.

Between the gray and living, love makes the difference. The shrinking of vast distances with arms stretching like bridges between the known and desired. The moment you forget love is the moment you enter the petty world, isolated by distances that leave you indifferent.

>>8519876
http://mythcreants.com/blog/four-functions-of-amazing-opening-lines/

This might help you

>>8514827
I stopped reading when I saw a comma splice in the second sentence.

>>8517858
I like it. Could use some polish but it's interesting and real. Keep up the good work.

>>8519323
Not really a fan of this. The prose and voice could use some work to be more interesting, and the real killer is the slow start. I imagine that there's a hook in there somewhere, but after the three long paragraphs I read, I've just been bogged down with seemingly-unimportant details. Why go into such detail about the paper colors? Why write the note verbatim in the third paragraph? Couldn't the teacher's speech at the start be condensed? The reader gets the gist of it long before the paragraph ends. If some of these details are important, they don't feel like it. I would recommend you get to the important stuff before you bore the reader.

Since many writers post here, I'd like to raise a question: how do you come with plot for short stories?
I'd like to write some as an exercise of prose, but my bar of quality is set a little high; that makes me insecure when getting down to it.

>>8520579
Depends how you work. Try writing a short story with a plot developed on the go and see how it reads. Then write another but plan out the plot beforehand and work your writing around that.

1/2

Chapter 1
I looked over the reedy dune as a blanket of flame swept across the horizon and slowly ignited the beach below. The scarlet flood leaked onto the glossy black stone, and I could feel my unblinking eyes dry at the fiery horror slithering, spreading, and pulsing towards my grassy bulwark. The air smelled like a nighttime hanging, and she spoke:
“What do you see, Daniel?” Like simple syrup too sweet to swallow. “Tell me what you see.”
The lessons took over, and my memory pricked me until my thick throat sputtered a few overly-conceived words. I see a great, brilliant serpent coming to consume us only because it would consume everything. It never left where it was and only moved by enlarging itself. But what I said was:
“It’s Fire.”
She told me to relax months ago so my tension would disappear gradually but automatically whenever this would happen. Telling someone to relax doesn’t make it so, even if it happened at another place and day. We had learned how the mind makes all points in space and time connect, so she may as well have been whispering it in my ear right then, just as she’s doing now. I tried to smooth out the bumps on my arms while the square, windowless, concrete buildings to the north all by disappeared behind a curtain of red. In moments we were surrounded, the coil slowly moving in on us, but she did not flinch. She must have noticed my cowardice.
“Daniel.” He voice was fresh strawberries in tapioca. “It’s real. What your seeing is happening, has happened, and will happen. But remember, it’s not here now. You have the eyes, so you see it, but you do not have the touch, so it cannot hurt you.” We were on fire by that point, and her words made sense when I felt a stream of sweat slide down my naked back, cooled by the morning spring breeze gliding off the ocean. It wasn’t a rivlet of acid, but a salty, cold tear. Even so, breathing became my every effort as I watched my flesh resist bright fangs that enveloped us both. But I did not succumb this time. I did not scream or faint or tear off strings of flesh as I had done in the past. I had finally passed the trial.
The world of light disappeared as a cottony darkness came over my eyes, and I could feel the Mistress of Arms turn my bare shoulders so I was now facing west. Experience told me I was sitting almost an hour before the veil came off and first revealed a hazy sky that rippled like a sea of cobalt butterflies over the dense, green treeline, then a pair of calloused but graceful hands offering a red stained wooden container with frayed edges and a simple brass padlock hanging open from a metal loop. It sat heavy in my hands. As I pulled the latch and lifted the top open, I listened to the words I had waited the hear for ten years.

>>8520793
2/2

“Daniel, with the degree of control you have established over your unique abilities of the auspicium class, you have given me the distinct pleasure of granting you the rank of Adept in the Order of the Knightly Seers. You are charged with keeping the blessed weapon before you, one of our most sacred wands, the Virgin’s Thorn. Do you accept, child?” Lying is a bed of soft, white hay was my wand. It was a crisp, almost opalescent metal that gleamed like a rainy kiss goodbye. The grip was wrapped in a coarse, frayed linen layered to fit the contours of my fist, and a few inches of spare strands dropped from not knot at the bottom. Shallow etchings in elongated, deep scarlet gothic along its length read: ‘When you go out to battle against enemies more numerous that you, do not be afraid of them, for God is with you. Amen.’
I placed the box on the uncharred grass and clasped my hands together, finally looking into the hood before me. The Mistress of Arms was aged, not weary but worn, and her thin lips gave a modest and confident smile when our eyes met. Her green gaze was bordered by lines of experience, and she always looked as though she had complete control over her affairs. Her skin was pale and thin, and a meager few strands of platinum hair curved across her forehead towards her ear. I mirrored her calm and recited words I had learned long before:
“I take this wand, this sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God. I put on righteousness as a breastplate, bear faith as a shield, and wear salvation as a helmet. I am a servant of God and a weapon of this Order in the name of God. Until I fall, may God make me worthy of his calling, and by his power may I bring to fruition your every desire for goodness and every deed prompted by faith. Amen.”

>>8520793
>>8520803

Ugh, sorry about the paragraphing. It didn't format correctly.

An escape. That's what I sought. Though not the escape that leads to the new, the distant. Nor did I seek an opportune escape time.
Geographies and chronologies; both of which I had exhausted were now distant. They appeared alien. Where do you go when everyone has gone? Moreover, where does one go when everyone has gone everywhere? I couldn't answer these questions because I hadn't been many places myself--not for a long time

I looked up the man you told me about. The one who was a Buddha. How he focused his body into dying, so perfectly, immaculately. It was a miracle, they said, that he was untouched after so many years. Immortal, in a way. Just sitting in that body, watching, and waiting. I'm sure you're still alive like that monk. In some husk somewhere, watching the world turn around you. No flesh left now to burn, no fuel to consume. Just the immaculate turn of the world and the slow thinning of the air.

>>8520793
Trying too hard. "Simple syrup too sweet to swallow" I mean come on with the alliteration man. Your first few sentences especially are just overwrought as fuck.

>>8521308
>>8521341
Too short to give meaningful feedback on.

Can anybody critique my poem? Thanks


I wake up

The heart dashes.
With the wall of real it clashes
As bit by bit the dream flashes:
The smile, eyes, lush eyelashes.
The dream i'm supposed to live in crashes,
And burns to ashes.

The heart aches.
Running away from past mistakes,
Seeking refuge in the smiles he fakes,
Though he can't ignore the heart as it breaks,
Goes ahead, tries, does whatever it takes -
Then turns and flakes.

hey /crit/ I'm having trouble getting writing done because my attention span limits me to 3-4 page stories and my ideas are so much bigger and more intricate than that. What do I do

>>8519876
i wish you'd uploaded this as a file or as text so I could go through this line by line. I single you out because I can tell you're thinking about writing as opposed to the rest of the shit in this thread. However as of right now this is really bad but I think I can help you. Is this supposed to be as surreal and nightmarish as I'm envisioning?

Harold surveyed the spectacle below and shut his window to the noise. He pricked his tongue with the straw and washed down the blood with thin saliva. The memories seemed to him an echoed tragedy of his childhood, some profound misfortune that floated in and out of being and scampered away under a microscope. He strained to recall the face of the drowned boy; dark eyes, to be sure, but how far apart? The poetic immortality of death was illusory, a cheap afterlife as smoke not grasped, and the boy’s existence fell to a brief unpleasantness upon recollection. Tossed by the tongue, the straw rested on the teeth. A gentle gnawing of timorous thoughts not yet realized in language had begun within him. He saw her then, lips blue and cold to the touch of latex gloves, and a crust of dried vomit on her chin and philtrum. What had happened? The needle, buried in the static vein, flashed in his memory with a cruel gleam, yet her name escaped him. She was zipped inside a black bag, and then she was gone.

When I first held your hand I was scared you would mind mine being so sweaty. You didn’t. Instead you wouldn’t take that darling smile off of your face, and those opaline eyes off of me. You would talk and I would listen without discerning the words, I would take it all in, like the most alluring aria in a language beyond the comprehension of any living soul, resonating in the surroundings and melting my thoughts.

>>8522569
rhymes too much
the rhymes are forced
no meter

work on meter before anything else, even if you plan to write in free verse, it'll give you a stronger sense of rhythm
t.
>>8517667

Apathetic, witless, fearless. Listless. Luger. Impressions unfounded were heard throughout the hall: a girl with mousy hair poked her head into his office and asked what the number for the factory floor was. He told her.

What gives a man the right to live? Life in nature is based in homicide. For one to live, another must die. Then why must we be different? Why must we submit to an injustifiable, antiquate an anti-natural law? We are no different from the pig we eat.
Murder has always been present in human communities, since Cain killed Abel. And why were we told to not kill? So we don't become savages, and society remains intact? Men was born savage, e nothing can alter it's nature. Law and Society are like shackles to a man.

I'm writing a novel about a guy who gets addicted to killing. This is the opening. Thoughts?

i’m all out of spirits and the corner stores are gone

my fears are in these riots
night keeps stretching right through dawn
it sounds as if the sun is slowing
if you listen - close
our eyes as we kiss up to men
who set fires while we sleep.

(please keep my bed warm while i’m missing.
i’m in this way too deep)

Somebody offered great criticism on the second stanza of this a while back, and like an idiot, I forgot to copy their notes anywhere or make alterations to the original. Posting in the hopes that they're puttering around still.

---

Slick rush in the nose, head back, to the mirror—
catch it drop by drip by splash till it slows, look up.
Red stream wetting the desert, iron taste seeping
down into the mud to nourish and be reclaimed.

Fingers of the unsullied hand, dip into cupped,
precious gore now lost but given new purpose—
not to fuel the vehicle of flesh but challenge
the master, with shape and spiral traced on skin
unsunned and hidden but for here, where letters
dredged from nothing spell words said nowhere,
but in the corners of the mind– lorn and fey–
that no thoughts reach.

Sedent in the dark now, decoration done, painted,
in that ink shared common to beast and borne.
Cryptic signs play and whisper as they dry,
set in memory without meaning, so now to rest,
to nest, to lay in the dark, to chase those mad signs,
to dream.

>>8522596
Force yourself to write anyway. Also try making an outline.

>>8524697
There's a /lit/ archive so just search for a line from your poem there.

>>8524787

Forgot about the archive, thanks man.

i wrote this about my ex during a major setback in our relationship where we broke up for a week. i never showed it to her because i was always intimidated by her literary ability. when i showed it to her after we broke up a few weeks ago, she told me she didn't like it. she was the love of my life.

This one was at some asian-fusion retro bar,
She sat with her legs crossed hands in lap.
I asked her if she had the time
When she smiled and looked down she saw her watch had gone missing!

My face surprised painted a destroyer–
‘Let’s find it! We have no time to waste!’

A small child running in circles,
Als das Kind Kind war

Just like everything I think,
My feelings were disjointed
The minute hands on her clock flew,
But we were yet to find it

Do you know that feeling at the end of the night,
When everyone parts ways with hugs,
Or maybe just a wave and exclamation,
Or maybe just dismissal without eye contact?

Oh god, and the next day,
When you lay in bed criss crossing the ways she existed there
The way she smiled? The way she felt?
Do you lay in, lazy sundays, the thought of her,
Pure, innocent thoughts that only lead way to
The destroyer within us all

But this one lost her watch,
And I hadn’t the time nor intentions
To keep her from looking,
So so simply,
I let her on her way.

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>Keep stressing so hard I can't ever write anything without wanting to die
SOMEONE END THIS SUFFERING

I feel like a fucking retard. My vocabulary is lacking despite being a native English speaker and having read lots of literature over the years. Whenever I try to write something I always feel at a loss for words, and the things I write always sound fucking retarded. Yeah, I know, "keep writing and you'll get better," but I feel totally hopeless.

so do any of you listen to music while you write?

I find it's good for inspiration and brainstorming but during the actual of process of writing I like silence.

However I have been feeling pretty writer's blocky lately and music normally gets the juices flowing.

>>8522962
It is meant to be surreal. I didn't have nightmarish in mind but whatever people interpret is fine by me. Here's the text:

The light from a single door spilled orange light out into the darkness of morning. Although it was three a.m., in a quiet part of the city, footsteps followed down to the house and sounded a tiny rhythm amongst the silence of their surroundings. When the walker drew close enough, the door opened silently and a woman stood in its archway. Upon recognising the face of the man who approached, she stepped aside to let him in.

“Hi,” she said. You’re early, she thought. The man and the woman were the kind of friends that were friendly enough to hold a conversation, but not quite friendly enough to start one. As such, the man took quite an amount of time to hang up his coat on the banister, so as to slightly shorten the discomfort of the silence in the entryway. His mind tangled up in subconscious thoughts, he missed his target and the coat fell to the floor. And as he bent over to pick it up, there was a knock at the door he had just entered. He knew who it was who was at the door, so he went to answer it himself.

The man opened the door and an elderly lady (who stood as upright as a young lady) stood before it. She said hello as she helped herself inside the house and hung up the man’s coat that was still on the floor. The woman came out of the dining room which she had been in to welcome the old lady: “Shall we all go through, then?” she said.

The three of them walked into the living room, which was a loose circle of mismatched armchairs surrounding a wooden coffee table, two of which had their backs facing a lit fireplace that provided the only sound in the room as they entered.

It was fortunate that the old lady finally started some conversation in the house, but unsurprising as she was always likely to be the most confident person in any group.

“I had a dream yesterday, about a desert island. And a bird, like a seagull, and every day the bird flies from its nest out to this tiny desert island where it spends the rest of the day. But there are no fish in the water that surrounds the island, and there are no other animals to keep the bird company, and so all the bird has left to do is to pick at the sand with its beak and spit it out into the ocean.”

The man and the woman looked at the old lady with expressions that they hoped were inquisitive.

>>8522569
I agree with >>8522569, it rhymes so consistently that it is hard to focus on anything but the sound of the word

>>8526082
>using light twice in your first sentence
>"darkness of morning'
>"single door"
>is the door open or closed or what

learn to vary your sentence structure.

>footsteps followed
>followed what?
sounded a tiny rhythm what the fuck is a tiny rhythm

what kind of door in a city has an archway?

Thick orange light spills into the morning darkness; light footsteps break the morning silence.

She opens the door and lets him in. "Hi," she says; you're early, she thinks. He busies himself hanging his coat. She leaves to the kitchen without another word. Neither starts a conversation.

There's a knock on the door; the man moves to open it.

write elegantly. if you can't, read until you can.

>>8526114
good criticism, i feel like i've had my eyes peeled open.
which word would you recommend for the rectangle left in the space where an open door was?
as to how you've rewritten it, i feel like personally it might be a bit too concise for me –though perhaps i'm making a mistake in saying that.

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Finally got my hands on a couple of short stories written by classmates that I have to critique

I'm excited for the garbage, but at the same time holy shit these people don't even spellcheck
If I find anything mindblowingly hilarious I'll let you guys know

>>8526485

Upload if digital, scan and upload if hand-written.

Don't just keep the goldmine to yourself, man.

>>8526187
if you want to build up, cut down first. know exactly what every sentence is doing; aim each word and syllable (if you can) so that the whole is tightly focused. use grammars appropriate to the situation. fucking flense it.

simplicity is a virtue.

I met an old man
He scratched his head, he had a lumpy cranium
He spitted when he talked
He opened his mouth when he chewed
Much like a child
I thought he was two

His pack was heavy
When he carried he squirmed
Pull out his cup
And begged me for money
Now I am not one to disappoint
Sure I had the money
But I knew a joke so sweet
I tossed in a coin
A 1 cent penny
The distraught look on his face
But he laughed in tears
When I told him "Dont spend this all in one place"

Of course I give the charity
So I handed dollars of money
And as I walked off
I heard him speak chokly
His squally voice called
"God bless you, buddy!"

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The Merman
this was it's name
and there was never any other name
for this animal

He was an old yellow retriever
right now likely sixteen years old
with both eyes covered by the greenish
milky coverage of blindness
some facial scars caused by fights
and some sort of leprosy that had
taken over a good chunk of his muzzle
and face

The most characteristic trait of this animal
other than the wounds on it's skin and the
living exposed flesh on it's sores all over
the now more white than yellow fur
was his obvious and blatantly deficient
only rear leg

One only leg, the right one
as the left leg was born atrophied
as right aside the right foot itself
there is the left foot coming out
one to each direction
much like the tail of a mermaid

And with how stretched back
that tired leg is, it was always dragged
like a second tail, behind the Merman
as he walked, then lied down
with the thick chain around his neck
with a slave-like metal choker around
his neck, tied to a wall of concrete

Eating pieces of raw meat
three times a day
from his big dog plate
with “MERMAN” written on them
in big letters with black ink
painted on it with brusher

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The motive, animal; the brighter lights
of titans, guiding hand to mouth
by the better angels they harbor

Of those, lesser spirits of our nature
sliding, spoken, but not yet sounded
forward, tilting at the hilt

And unbuckling, the most great
temptations that bind the artist
to the colours and the easel

>>8526957
Your writing is worthless. You will never publish anything, will never produce anything worth another living person's time or thought. I would say stop writing, but the thought of you actually investing your life producing trash like this and having it rejected ad infinitum is just too fine a piece of poetic justice for me to speak out against. You are shit and I want you to live trapped inside your own abject brain forever.

>>8527291
>tfw i will never be this mad

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>>8527291
Jesus christ anon.

>>8527291
Chill, le master critic

>>8527291
>abject brain

>>8527291
>abject brain

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http://pastebin.com/n1ZigwXW

wrote a short story here, just slightly too long to post though

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>>8527398
Crit for crit?

http://pastebin.com/fyHJ7gji

I've got the beginnings of a fantasy series I hope to write, set in a world I've been working on for years now. I've done a lot more worldbuilding than actual writing though this is what I've got so far.

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When I was a child and witnessed my mother crying, I would ask 'feelings?' and she would respond by farting to bring comedy to an otherwise tragic situation.

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>>8527291
Ha-ha ooh boy, all criticism is autobiography.

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>>8527398
Mnkay, >>8527850 poster here.

So a couple things, first off I'm getting a pretty rough feel from the whole piece, the action and description both feel a little dry and almost technical. Maybe that's what you're going for, if so more power to ya, it certainly keeps the story moving. Personally, I'd like a little more flavor.

I'm always glad to see a story getting told from the point of view of a goblin or any other non-human fantasy standby race that usually ends up being marginalized. Imagining a dragon using profanity and dying in such a simple and undignified way was simultaneously funny, refreshing, and underwhelming. If you can keep the tone consistent, this is something I wouldn't mind reading more of.

Although I was left by the end wondering what happens next, the piece as is feel incomplete in more ways than one. You'll also want to proof read for a few minor grammatical and syntax errors. But over all I don't regret the read.

>>8526187
>the rectangle left in the space where an open door was
...........................................doorway?

>>8526114
You seem constructive as fuck, could I trouble you for a crit over here?

>>8528012
forgot to tag post.
>>8527850

Melting, I ran as quickly as I could to the nearest shop, half a mile away. At the time I had forgotten a quote my father told me long ago. "The harder you run the quicker you'll melt". Half way there is when I met her. She froze my playdoh heart. We didn't say anything, she didn't even look in my direction but I knew that if I could just say it, just have a word break past my now mushy throat, we would be one forever. But it would never come. The candle waxy substance that was my brain kept clogging any hole that sprung open. Giving up, and being the equivalent to vanilla pudding, I slogged the rest of the way to the store.

>>8517466
Meta-modern garbage. Here's my piece:

Rufus Wainwright, Rascal Flatts, Morgan Freeman, Marvin Gaye

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Get ready for Genre Shit
ROUND 2!!!
It's better this time I promise...

pt 1 of 3

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>>8528070
pt 2 of 3

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>>8528075
pt 3 of 3

I tried emulating the writing style of Glen Cook's Chronicles of the Black Company in which I tried to write in the style of a journal or a logbook.

Still an amateur though, don't expect much.

>>8528070
>>8528075
>>8528089
Holy.... I want more....

Manlay sprang from the loins of Berber, Berber from Lebsalon, Lebsalon from Tyko, Tyko from Ynverite, Ynverite from Mucardio, Mucardio from Poular, Poular from Glag Glād, Glag Glād from Tyko, Tyko from Betamax. Manlay was a faggot.

>>8528012

Ikkabod always had an imaginative mind. So imaginative in fact, that he was occasionally forced to wonder whether or not he was still dreaming. Once again, this was Ikkabod’s immediate and sole concern when he first awoke.

Am I dreaming?

Adrift, in a fog, alone; if he had gotten around to opening his eyes yet, Ikkabod would have seen that he was all of these things and very little else. Instead, he was gently lulled into consciousness by the soft, steady, and distant roll of meandering waves finding their shore. The back of his eyelids were not bright, but still seemed to be a lighter, grayer, shade than their expected pitch black.


>Ikkabod always had an imaginative mind.
that is pretty much the least imaginative way to tell us so, but sure. you probably ought to stick another "had" in there, so it becomes "Ikkabod had always had an imaginative mind."

Ikkabod's a dreamer, then? not in the sleep sense, but in the head-in-the-clouds sense?

>so imaginative in fact
first off, this is missing a comma after imaginative.
that's not a full fucking sentence.

>So imaginative in fact, that he was occasionally forced to wonder whether or not he was still dreaming.
say that shit out loud. it does not jive. you're trying to write like you talk, and actual soundwave person-to-person voice is full of ums and ahs and Once agains that fuck written prose up something fierce.

also your content is wrong. having imagination, even oodles of it, doesn't mean you occasionally wonder whether or not you're dreaming. wondering whether or not you're dreaming is a symptom of having watched Inception and thinking it's deep or being some kind of solipsistic Omg Nothing Is Real redditor, and I'm going to do you the courtesy of assuming the first rather than the second.

you used dreamer in the sleep sense earlier, and that fucks it all up.

what (I think) you're trying to say is that Ikkabod is unmoored from reality or habitually disconnected or not all quite there or the kind of dude who prefers to dwell on his own thoughts, not "imaginative."

that word forced really rustles my jimmies. how the fuck does having a lot of imagination force one to wonder blah blah the rest. forcing wonder is not really a thing that happens to somebody like Ikky here whose thoughts don't seem forced at all; the wonder that gets forced is a question that a situation forces one to consider. you're leaning on idiomatic language without understanding it.

>lulled into consciousness
how the fuck do you lull someone to consciousness? that is the exact opposite of what lull means. do I open the door closed? do I speak my mouth shut? do I wake someone to sleep? no, you obtuse dunderfuck, because even though I am a tranny I am not as enormous a fag as you.

git gud.

>>8528006

>>8528188
wait shit I fucked up. it's late. disregard the dreamer stuff - but the rest still holds.

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Tear me to shreds you dirty /lit/erators.

pls, /lit/, pls

Way out west, past the desert and the mountains and the great thirsty valley, there’s a long and lonely highway clinging to the coast for hundreds of miles north-to-south, balanced precariously there on a cliffside between the continent and the Pacific vastness of the sea. It twists and turns like you wouldn’t believe, dipping and climbing and sometimes seeming to vanish around a corner into the great blue beyond. On a clear day you almost cannot tell where precisely the ocean meets the sky. Like all the great places of the world this road has character, if you care to see it. It’s in the foundations, imbued with the blood and sweat of the enshackled men who laid them. You can see it close-up in the facades of the Castle, assembled piecemeal from the opulent fragments of the Old World. You can taste it in the air in the sea-salt and the red sequoia tannin and the incense burning against the biting coastal night.

>>8528286
join last two sentences with a semicolon

>>8514827
Hey /lit/, how do I get better at writing when I'm a complete pleb?

I mean I can't even get into proper grammar.

>>8528304
A good writer doesn't need grammar. See: literally fucking anyone. I'm entirely convinced no one grasps grammar completely.

>>8528312
Okay okay, how do I get better at technical writing for work?

>>8528316
Clarify.

1/2 I am prone to anxiety. Yes, I understand it’s rather pathetic for man to be this way but it's how I've always been. But maybe you can know the anxious thoughts in my mind, and sympathize with me. They arise spontaneously, as vivid daydreams. I am always daydreaming, though I only call it that out of convenience. They’re better described as nightmarish reveries. For some reason my mind won't allow me a nice daydream. A nice thought of the future, while laying on the grass, looking up to the sky through the foliage of an old maple tree, watching the boughs sway gently. No, instead those boughs must break and fall and impale me. I imagine the most horrible things -- the worst accidents and biggest mistakes.

Just now I was on the recliner trying to relax. I was reading, which does nothing but aggravate my imagination. Perhaps I should give it up for my own safety, but these things become habitual. A daydream struck me in the middle of a passage, and I dreamt as my eyes continued to scan words thoughtlessly. The wife of the protagonist, The Gentle Creature, she held a gun to his head while he slept and I began to imagine myself there. This is how these daydreams often start. But the story always changes for me. I am too well aware of my shortcomings. If that gentle creature held a gun to my head, I would have surely made a blunder of it and got myself shot. Or, perhaps, just maybe, I could have kept my eyes shut, unflinchingly, like the husband did. Only to, at the most opportune moment, surprise her and...and then... I would have the gun in my hand by some maneuver. I would hold it to her head triumphantly and grit my teeth as anger overcame the elation of triumph and anxious sweat would drip off my brow and splash on her cheek. She would flinch and, because I have no experience with guns, I would flinch too. The mess. Oh the mess, but not necessarily the bloody mess, but the mess my life was about to become. These stories do not end so nicely in my dreams, at least not for me, the protagonist. I could practically hear the sirens on the streets and, to be sure, the gunshot had been heard and promptly reported. They were coming and I would be found here at the scene. How do I explain it was an accident? They would laugh at me. No, they might shoot me! They'll see me with a gun and like a fool I'll raise my hands, holding the gun, and I'll be shot. But they didn’t kill me, having shot my leg, and I live out the rest of my days doing calisthenics, walking with a painful limp and daydreaming like this all over again?

>>8528319
I have to write proposals to clients all the time and the language I use is lacking and/or incorrect.

>>8528341
2/2

That would be torture. I have these waking nightmares all the time. I can't even imagine fornicating without also imagining getting the lucky woman pregnant. And she was keeping it. Or, if I am on some high precipice I always have to hold onto something, or stay clear from the edge. I fear a flash madness might overtake me and I’ll throw myself over the edge, or that the abyss will draw me in headfirst until I lose my balance, or that the world will uproot itself and throw me over. This is my pathetic nature.


Just a mimic of Dostoevsky's style after I read a short story of his called The Gentle Creature.

>>8528342
If you receive an e-mail or letter from your employer, try to emulate their structure. If you're unsure of spelling, the placement of a comma or semicolon, or even just confirming that you've worded something right, Google it.

>>8528237
You need to stop mixing metaphors man, that second paragraph is just awful. Some of them are good, "expanding the memory," for example, but you ought to slow down and just say what you mean to say instead of dancing around the point. "Eruption of joy from the fountain of youth," really? There are other occasions where, relatedly, you use too many words. You don't need to say it's peculiar that she named her overalls blue boys, that fact is peculiar enough as it is and the reader will think so without needing to be told.

I like the last descriptive paragraph a lot more, if I were you I would try to break down the preceding paragraphs to be more direct about what you are trying to say, if there is one word I would use to describe the passage as a whole: overwrought.

>>8528301
thanks fa.m

To elaborate: it's an introductory paragraph to an anthology about the Pacific Coastal Highway. I feel an almost religious connection with it and I'm trying to express that.

>>8528286
>On a clear day you almost cannot tell where precisely the ocean meets the sky

This is a terribly hackneyed visual. Describe it some other way if you really want to include that detail.

>Like all the great places of the world this road has character

This seems lazy as well.

It's a nice descriptive paragraph overall though.

>>8528035
Weird metaphor

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I wrote erotica. Critique so I can get better.
It's gay shit

Just some midnight ramblings...

There was a time when the ice would freeze and the girls would sleep with braided hair in the hopes of curls in the morning
When the antelopes were spring things and the men in dark suspenders bobbed and bowed twisting marvelous killing machines
All before the bombs and floods and washes of death and far before the jungled asphalt and muddied seas
Long ago summer people said darling words like butterfly and calliope that clung to the French doors until the fog lifted and the summer people came jalopying back over the frozen ice hills.

>>8528304
Grammar is just rules, man. Like the rules to a game. There are a lot of rules that most people don't know, so if you spend just a little bit of time learning them, you'll know more than 90% of people. Like, if you know some subject-verb agreement and what a run-on sentence is, you'll probably be better than most people.

And you don't have to post fiction here to get a critique. If you want grammar help, just post something asking for it and you'll get a response.

>>8516234
Like the other anon says, this is really under-written and needs more thought and texture. There's nothing to really contemplate, no aesthetic, nothing to consider in depth.

>>8527853
I like it :)

Critique my shit, bros. I have Goodbye, Columbus and Revolutionary Road on the brain, and I don't know if this is the start of a short story or a novella.

http://pastebin.com/6ABaAzJE

>>8528097
Are you being sarcastic?

>>8528778
Its better than the other works churn out by those Elitist

>>8528778
Yeah sorry, it's solid but needs some punctuation work imo. Other than that you could make some decent pulp

>>8528778
not him, but it holds my attention well. I don't know if this book would be my cup of tea, but if it were a finished thing I'd almost definitely binge another few chapters before deciding to drop it

It's good, keep at it.

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I wrote a poem today, constructive criticism needed

I gazed a sea of azure
As birds chirped merrily away
But chance sought to spook them
A violent fluttering dark and grey

A sea now wreathed in silence
I pondered that frothy spey
Of men of great defiance
Lost forever in its fray

>>8528391
>if i thought his ass was hot, his chest was definitely smoldering

say this out loud. where's the connection? you can get away with this in speech, but not in prose.

>it looked alive
no fucking shit, dickmongler.

>my heart thumping heatedly in my heart
heatedly? what the fuck is this limp-wristed bullshit?? also if your heart is thumping inside itself you ought to go see a doctor, preferably one who can pull your head out of your ass.

>penis suffering
my dick is suffering. if you're gonna write gay porn, write better gay porn. this reads like some fantasy off Nifty. stop describing sights; film is better for that. the strength of prose erotica lies in feelings of emotional connection. if I wanted to get off to a picture of a hot guy I would google one.

1/2

It was a cold July evening, and Montag
walked slowly through the sidewalk. The sky was orange, almost night. Near where he walked, were a small group of people sitting around a lit metal canister full of fuel. One of them, excitingly were telling a story, to which the others attentively listened. Near them was a sleeping stray dog. Scenes like this were common, small families enjoying the evening to warm themselves and have fun. They weren't real families, of blood, but small groups of people living together, separated from other people. Montag also were part of a family, but a big one, living together in a fixed place. Some could say that the way they lived was "communist", but that is debatable. They all liveed together, each in charge of a specific job to benefit the whole family. Montag was in charge of hunting, to get food for the family. Even though he weren't the only, he went alone that day.

Although most of the population lived in that way, that is, without a leader or group of leaders, fact that characterizes anarchism, some still lived in groups with leaders, but they were small, not remarkable, groups, practically unnoticed by most people.

The anarchism was installed in this country (and when I say country, I refer to the geographic localization, a chunk of land divided by natural or artificial borders) after an insurgency. Previously, the state imposed a dictatorship, which lasted several years. A rebel group, with many divisions throughout the country, organized an attack to the main points of power of the state, overthrowing the dictator and other big figures. Afterwards, they utilized a very smart method to completely eliminate leaders. Utilizing strong propaganda, through news, radio, and television, they stimulated the population, who for years nurtured strong hatred towards leaders, to attack every figure that represented power near them. The propagand was just the initial impulse, basically some kind of "permission" given by the insurgents, since everyone had at least a single reason to hate their leaders and executioners. Some, because they lost dear friends and family to the state assassins, others, for being separated, and some simply because of the lack of freedom of expression and action. Soon, what followed was grotesque carnage and savagery . The leaders, who used to hang rebels in public square, were scourged and humiliated by the people. Some, crueler, after days of torture, burned them publicly, to the joy of the people. All these acts, so absurd and inhumane, even today aren't briefly mentioned by those who participated. They fear themselves for what they did.

2/2

Although the coup d'etat was well planned and executed, before and after there was great confusion. Firstly, what would be done after the elimination of the state? Never had them witnessed such fact. The masses believed that, following the example of other overthrown dictators, the republic would be installed and they'd live like other countries. But the insurgents wouldn't allow such fact. They didn't elect a new presidents, but installed anarchy. The main reasons for anarchy to be chosen are still confusing even today. If you ask some, they'd say that anarchy was chosen because it is the natural state of men. Respectfully, I deny this affirmation and teach them what I think to be true.

The main reasons were, the ignorance and excitation of everyone towards the debunked state. After so many years imprisoned, living like birds in cages, controlled by the totalitarian state, the growing chorela towards the powerful minority led to a blind and ignorant hate. When you hate all kind of power, the inexistence of a form of power seems to be the perfect thought. Soon, blind by the thought of living free, they installed anarchy, and abhorred those who wished for order in society. Nevertheless, as the Grand Inquisitor said, "Nothing has ever been more insupportable for a man and a human society than freedom".

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I can't think of anywhere else to post but here, simply because I don't think the question deserves it's own thread.

I'm trying to create a female character who would be in her mid-20's in 1912, and I'm trying to do research to make her as authentic as possible, since in my story, she's gonna get dropped into the 2010's. Any recommendation on research articles I could read on the 1910's and what not to assist in her creation?

>>8529194
I looked upon a sea azure
beneath the crying of the gulls
the air was clear, and thin and pure
they roared the sound of waterfalls

a silence then beset the sea
as all the gulls had gone away
the sea remains, and so do I
this poems kinda really gay

azure descriptant's most cliche
and more so for the sky or sea
how anyway is an ocean wreathed?
i guess I'll not find out today

the subject matter's trite and done
anon that's totally okay
you've started down a fruitful path
make sure to practice everyday

describe the sea and drought of birds
a single sisyphean task
chip away at the diamond mount
and in warm light you then may bask

>>8529406
th-thanks. I feel the need to point out that wreathed does work though,
>cover, surround, or encircle.
So it's covered in silence. The rest of your criticism seemed valid, thank you for the encouragement. You're definitely right on the subject matter, but I'd been reading lots of poetry about men dying and the sea today, and it was that combined with being sat out there listening to the birds that made me write it.

>>8529490
np my dude.

>>8529519
Another question, is there any way to make subject matter original when your poem is reflecting on things like nature or beauty or death? Obviously things like current events can be used as fresh subject matter, but I'm not sure how I can find originality in such timeless themes. Any advice would be appreciated.

>>8529406
Milton rhymed like you when he was 16. Step it up. You don't need that shit to make your work worthwhile or in metre. Not that rhyming is bad, more like only really, really, really good writers can rhyme well.

>>8529639
>not fitting your content to the form provided

>>8529639
I think his point was structuring his critique in a form that satirised my original poem.

I'll drain my stagnant jars of piss,
For good boy points - they bring me bliss,
Tenders make my tummy grumbly,
For them I'll save my boy points humbly,
But when I hoard about enough,
My mom will see the awful stuff,
I emptied pee into her bed,
Dumped a jar onto her head,
She sings of patience,
virtues song,
But it can't wait,
I've saved so long,

I scream and bite and drool and stomp,
For mom to make my feast with pomp,
She toils and cries before the stove,
I brag about my treasure trove,
"Poultry and a blowey joey,
Sounds great right now,
Stop being mopey."

She waits while I rip bird asunder,
Her freezer I will surely plunder,
"Another round you slut," I say,
For her this is a cursed day,
She fills my plate with meat and mustard,
Oh how I love this godly custard.

Now blowey joey I demand,
So quick she takes me by the hand,
To the garage we swiftly sneak,
And then she goes to take a peek,
"You need to clean your testes mister,"
"Fuck you bitch," I softly whisper,
I go inside but she won't follow,
I see her eyes,
They are so hollow,
"Why look like that? That's not my mommy!"
"It'll soon be over" she states calmly,
"You've gotten big- you're twenty six
And still you yearn for chicken sticks."
Then from her dress she pulls a gun,
"I just don't think you'll grow up hon"

And so my mommy ends my life,
I know her own was full of strife,
She strung my body in a tree,
So now rejoice,
My mommy's free.


It's like a child's poem

>>8529709
>But when I hoard about enough,
Should be a new stanza desu

>>8529605
The time you live in is unlike any other in human history. It's drastically different from even 30 years ago. Whether you think the subjects are timeless or not, your perspective is going to be totally different from somebody's even 30 years ago. It might help to isolate these differences.

>>8529605
No

>>8530738
yes

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The two lovers made love in an empty field in the middle of nowhere, under a sky of dead stars a million light-years away and ago. While they lay there thrusting and smiling, in the ground zero of their lives, they managed briefly to convince themselves that they where the only people alive, and everything else was just dead stars flickering out of existence.

>>8532260
>thrusting and smiling

I was a total player in highschool, not only because I was on the hockey team, but literally too, I banged a lot of hoes . I'll never forget Mary, Veronica, and Tracy, never respected them tho. Pump five minutes till I cum, then role over. Thats how I treat these hoes.

How I treated them at least. When I was sixteen I met the woman of my dreams, Stacy. Took her virginity too, I know because she told me. We've been together the last six years, and let me tell you, I couldn't be happier. Sure we've had our differences, and sometimes after we'll fight she runs away from home, but she always ends up coming back after a couple days, or going to our mutual friend Chad's house. At first I didn't like him, but I knew they where friends so I respected that. Buddy has my back though and always calls me to come pick her up. And despite all our turbulence she's always been faithful to me, is she a keeper or what?

If there's one thing I don't like in this world, it's racists and just ignorant people in general. Take for example my friend Natalia. Her father being one of the richest bankers in the city, and going to an elite private school, so you'd think this would mean she'd have it pretty set up in life right? WRONG. She's a transanamalistic trisexual (if you don't know what that is, well, you're just part of the problem) and just for expressing her unique personality she's constantly harassed by people. Just the other day a bunch of construction workers where yelling horrible slurs at her while she walked past. It really makes you wonder about man's inhumanity to man, and how some people can be so disrespectful towards the struggles of others. I don't know anyone braver than Natalia.

Or my black friend, Blake McThomson, who was adopted from Somolia when he was 8 months old and raised his entire life in my suburb. I don't know many black people, but I know Blake and I can't think of a sweeter, gentler, less threatening, more soft spoken man.
It really makes me wonder what kind of ignorant assholes out there would be racists.

But don't get me wrong, people with accents are pretty funny. Especially when they try to talk, I can barely understand them LOL. Speak English, OK? And Muslims really need to tone it down with their stupid costumes. Just the other day I saw this Muslim indian man with a turban and knife walking around like it was all normal. Wtf? And we're just exposed to let these Muslims carry knives around because it's part of their religion. THINK OF THE CHILDREN

Wanna know a secret about me? I've always been kinda jealous about those nerdy people who are really good at computer stuff or reading. Like haha, not of them being nerdy, ya know, but like, wow, I wish my brain worked like that. I guess we're all made according to Gods plan tho

>>8517930
I like it. I'd love to hear you expand on this grand conspiracy.

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>>8532260

>>8524901
did anyone like this

>>8532456
maybe. I am kinda confuse on how I should feel.