critique thread

Ava bit back a scream as she heard her father hit the floor. Even through the thick walls, she could hear her mother panting “oh god, oh god, oh god.” The floorboards crept as one of them, presumably the frog-like man, moved towards the bedrooms.

This was the only chance she was going to get, Ava realized. If she barricaded the door with her dresser she could bide her time and scream for help, but the odds that the mahogany was bulletproof didn't strike her as very high. If she hid, they might not realize she was there. Maybe Luca would assume she was out with friends, or maybe he would be cautious enough to double check. She couldn't risk it.

Her mother was screaming as someone's foot hammered against the door frame. Ava got out and made her bed as hastily and quietly as she could. If she was going to be hiding, there was no sense in making it obvious. It had to look un-slept in.

“A bit of a strange time to be making your bed now, is it not?” Ava nearly lept out of her nightgown when she heard him. It was a third voice, male and rather emphatic despite the fact it was whispering, as if it were quite used to speaking into a megaphone and irrationally worried about getting out of practice. She turned to face a man in a powder blue suit who appeared to be leaning through the window. He was not much older than her, with auburn hair fell in a sheet of sinusoidal waves that just crossed what appeared to be the beginnings of somehwhat tasteful mustache. He wearing a pair of sunglasses with curiously round lenses which struck Ava as a tad inappropriate for this time of year. “Is this a bad time? Should I come back later?”

“Who the hell are you?” she gasped. “What's happening?”

“Ava,” he said, “Listen to me very closely. I can explain everything in due time, but if you want to get out of here, you will need to hold your questions and do exactly as I say.” His sentence was punctuated with a loud slam as the door to her parent's bedroom snapped open.

“Mom,” she breathed. More gunshots.

“I'm sorry, it's too late for her, but it's not for you. Quickly Ava, take my hand and hold on tight.”

There was another brief exchange in the hall. Luca was coming. At a brisk pace, Ava walked over to the man and took his hand in hers. With a little assistance she stepped onto the window sill and out to the night beyond. It was at that point she remembered she was on the twelfth floor.

To the man's credit, the fact that he was hovering 120 feet in the air did not seem to bother him, Ava was gracious for this as she was bothered well enough for two. “Go-ing down” he declared, holding her tight against him. It seemed gravity had come back from it's coffee break. The first 11 stories went by in the blink of an eye, but at the last few feet the two coasted to a stop, as such their landing could be better described

>>8692171
I entered the mall, like The Man, and walked toward the kiosk which She was working at. Starbucks, my favorite. "Hello dear", I said, "venti negro, madam, and what will the lady be having, my sweet sweetness? extra cream, as you stir into the coolness of my stark soul". She laughed, lovingly, and turned around to prepare.

"excuse me lovely", I shouted, "make sure to make it extra hot, though that must be natural for you", I smirked with a wink.

When she finished she seductively carried my beverage to my whereabout, and I slid her a hundred dollar bill, while placing another in her apron strap a la spaghetti.

"what time perchance, wouldt twone saieth ye gotteth offeth le labor m'lady?"

it was at this moment I was apprehended by two terrible creatures, Brutus Maximus Guardis Securitus, by which of course I was cunning enough to quick drop to the floor and in one riverlike motion roll while grabbing my trusty Android 7™ and declare to the delinquents they were being recorded and detained, I was performing the righteous duty of an citizens arrest for charged battery as they contacted me like a horny ram.

What I tdid naught notice wasseth my chalice had begun to topple in le commotion, and the steaming hot slow motion slurred torwords the most precious possession of mine face.

>>8692385
Sophisticated

>>8692385

Even if facetious, there is good talent within thine post. Lost it at the android 7 tm. Good prose.

He, Stanley, stood standing. Stanley's standing stood outstandly. And he, Andy , fancied Stanley. So Andy stood with Stanley standing. Thus, Stanley's Andy's and Andy's Stanley's fannies fanned away with manly canty.

bumping this shitty thread

It is approximately 7am on the 7th of July 1977 and the first rays of morning light are beginning to trickle lazily through the curtains of Jonathan Swinburne’s south London flat. Photons rapidly flood the room and start to illuminate various items scattered throughout: old magazines, stained coffee mugs, carelessly strewn items of clothing. A passing observer would be forgiven for mistaking the lack of order in the room as a deliberate – whether conscious or subconscious – act of rebellion, a carefully concocted artistic statement intended to paint the owner as some kind of carefree hippie free from society’s expectations of a clean, organised homestead. It is safe to assume that such a person does not know Jonathan Swinburne.

A sudden high-pitched series of bleeps punctures the air, destroying the tranquil silence that had descended upon the bedroom. Beneath the formless mass of blankets atop the large double bed in the centre of the room, slight motion can be detected as a long, spindly hand is extended outwards, grasping the alarm clock responsible for the unwelcome outburst of noise and pressing a button on its side. The bleeping stops immediately, not quite restoring the tranquil silence but replacing it with a kind of awkward nothingness, the room seemingly unsure of how to proceed after such a shocking intrusion, as if frightened there might be more alarm clocks hidden away in the shadows.

I took the mushrooms on the bus, didn't start tripping till I got home. I tried to watch the season finale of dexter, couldn't get into it because I could see their make up, also when I closed my eyes I could still see the show but through this weird matrix outline. Then I went to the bathroom for like 3 hours, turned on the shower and just laid under the falling water, fully clothed. It was dark but I swear I could see the light trickle into each individual falling droplet-- it felt like I was traveling through hyperspace but with wet jeans.

>>8694110
>A passing observer would be forgiven for mistaking the lack of order in the room as a deliberate – whether conscious or subconscious – act of rebellion

this line has several things wrong with it. Putting aside the fact that nobody assumes messiness is deliberate, you can't do anything both deliberately and subconsciously. They're mutually exclusive, at least enough so to pull the reader out of the moment.

Then again, maybe pulling them out of the moment is a good thing, since most high literature becomes high lit by doing so and forcing the reader to interpret rather then sense the environment

That said, you executed present tense quite well. usually liminal contexts like that are pretty risky

>>8692180
Not bad. Interesting but watch your punctuation a little. And don't ever use the word "sinusoidal" in a sequence that's supposed to be tense and exciting - it doesn't fit. But it's exciting for all that, and I'd read more if you had it.

>>8692385
Masterpiece. "She seductively carried my beverage" legitimately made me laugh.

>>8694123
Are you Tao Lin? Not written too badly, in fact the style seems decent, but what's happening here? Why are we interested?

And my own writing, the opening to a novella about a sentient tank in the Beijing Military Museum: http://pastebin.com/8pbESeZD.

File: 4c here i go.png (107KB, 1336x2440px) Image search: [Google]

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>>8692171
I'm throwing this one here. Sorry for any grammatical mistakes, I'm not a native English speaker.

(was too long to post, will reply with the last part)

Your cigarette smoke filters off into the night sky, illuminated by stars too numerous to count. They’re like billions of little eyes looking down on your planet, your Earth that rotates without a care in the world. Billions of little eyes, all of them watching one big city filled to bursting with skyscrapers, roads, sidewalks; cars, advertisements, people.

Everything is relative to time and space in real life, except right now there’s not much real life to work with. You’re watching the headlights flicker and wave and you’re watching the brake lights streak like wet paint over the canvas. The big city captured in a photograph for only you to see.

You’re listening to the night sounds: rumble of cars, maybe two or three, sometimes four; the hum of billboards buzzing away at all hours like flies who can’t find the open window. The city never sleeps, and you’re welcome to enjoy it, take it all in. Inhale it through your nose, exhale it through your mouth. You can taste the air on your tongue. Even through the nicotine and tar it’s chilled, sits nicely. Caresses it. You’re wondering if it’s always felt like this, if you ever had the chance to really appreciate like this before.

It’s not much, but it’s home. An apartment in an area of town that no one cares about. Where people live their lives and don’t interfere in other people’s business. You catch the odd blue lights every now and then: sirens illuminating the dry brick and mortar. The balcony overlooks the bridge connecting your island and the next. So close and yet so far away, you feel as though you could reach out and hold that island in the palm of your hand, hold it close to you, make it a part of you. Amazing, isn’t it? You’re the same country, but you are worlds apart. You wonder if someone else is sharing this exact same moment as you right now, 11pm and a cigarette in a city that never sleeps. Brings a smile to your lips.

The bridge is always lit up like a Christmas tree. Somehow it manages to not be an eyesore, and instead is a thing of beauty, like one of those models in one of those paintings you’re fond of. You know the kind. The way the bridge makes the light reflect off the water, it makes you think about a dance. You don’t know why, but you imagine two humans dancing on the water’s surface, like magic. Like fantasy within reality. Like a metaphor for love and other such warm feelings.

A breeze.

It makes your loose-fitting shirt flutter, your skin raise. Little bumps, your hairs stand on end. You close your eyes, bask in it. It takes you back to a time when things were simpler. Childhood. You smile again, cigarette hooked in the corner of your mouth. You’re young again, if only for a moment. Before anything could touch you, back when you were invincible. Back when you lived only for you. Yeah, simpler times.
The breeze passes within seconds, but lasted
for a lifetime.

>>8694329
You pull your cigarette away from you, tap it gently. You watch the ash disappear over the balcony’s edge and into darkness. Streetlight down below is still busted, when are they gonna fix that? You place it back between your lips and take a drag. Hold it. Exhale. More smoke travelling up into the night sky to join the stars. You make a noise, a satisfied huff. You’ve spent too much time in your fantasy world of 11pm and a cigarette in a city that never sleeps. It’s time to head to bed.

And after that, it's back to reality.

is 190 words to few to go from running for your life to catching your breath an crying?

>>8694411
pace it how you want faggot it doesnt matter

>>8692385
Confederacy of Dunces in the 21st century

>>8694415
Pacing matters, an abrupt shift is noticible and detracts from quality

twixt whortaku weeb and phony juts Her /Clit/ Expanded and brimming with pseudointellacial auguments and Sterner still phallocophags...


nvm, this shouldn't see the light of day

>>8694325
Dig it, dont kill yourself, but thats some nice writting

The world spins,
And I turn.

Ode to 4chan


Why am I allergic to joy?
I am lying to myself
to write this, to write anything;
to document such a charade

as my livelihood:
humiliation and degradation,
I would imagine
poison the waters of potential beauty.

Operating, at all,
breeds distaste that lives with me
like a disease,
breeds nothing in me but contempt.

The truth is painful and elusive,
I cannot help but repress it.
One's eyes can be too open.
It is not worth it.

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Shit-tier poem, but its the first one I ever wrote