Write thread/critique thread

>>8710258

I have nothing to say other than I really enjoyed this piece.

>>8710258
Rear Window, but instead of the murderer, one of the neighbours is HAL 9000!

>>8710258
The weather-beaten trail wound ahead into the dust-wracked climes of the baren land which dominates large portions of the Noregolian Empire. Age-worn hoofprints smothered by the sifting sand of time shown dully across the dust-spattered crust of Earth. The tireless sun cast it parching rays of incandescence overhead, halfway through its daily revolution. Small rodents scampered about, occupying themselves in the daily accomplishments of their dismal lives.

Dust sprayed over three heaving mounts as they bore the burdensome cargoes of their struggling overseers.

"Prepare to embrace your creators in the Stygian haunts of hell, barbarian!" gasped the first soldier.

"Only after you have kissed the fleeting stead of death, wretch," returned Grignr.

>>8710258
Manager? Don't you mean "landlord"?

>>8710258
>Unable to sleep, I turned to voyarism as a hobby.
>voyarism
>voyarism
>voyarism

r u srs

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You could just tate my piece i wrote on my brand new typewriter! I am on edge of alcohol poisoning right now and i need your help

>>8712376
>not being a voyer
Spotted the pleb

>>8710258
How does one write in Third Person Limited. Is there any Guidelines?

Rate this story I found in my old high school journal:

I’m letting the coat to set on the lintel. On my side at my settee at my lamp, hear the rain speak with the window, with breaks in taps with the window and the night there.
I pass a light to her hand with the smoke and she lets it up. Starting the cap and I pass the light and she lights her smoke and then she’s gone to the latrine she says. By a minute and I’m calm and watching the rain from the window and then I’m over the booth as the laws are
My tea, I suppose. Yes it is my tea. Green tea of little thew, but enough to keep me here. Awake, that is. But I’m not sure, its bine is at my thumb now. The index. I had dranken, drunken? Not certain. I let it down my side at my banker’s lamp, left at my settee.
I let the coat off the lintel and it starts to rain.

A bouquet of finger-less hands was delivered to her house, courtesy of Robert. The package was surprisingly light. The hands were de-boned and dehydrated. After signing the receipt, Fresca went to her room and stripped off her clothes. She yearned for pain, and now she felt worthy.

One of the hands belonged to an aristocrat - the left - fleshy handlebars for his throne-rings. During his thirtieth birthday, he decreed that this particular hand should never do the same action twice, and that the gesture should be indicative of his absolute prestige, wealth, and power. His checklist ran with the usual fare of hand movements, along with a corresponding direct object.

Sign a memorandum: de'Fleurs Royal Company should supply financially-challenged families with a standard-sized box of chocolate each week.

Tickle the Queen's rectum. I insist on really knowing the Lioness from the inside.

Conduct Levitsin's sonata that took him 40 years of composition in arboreal seclusion.

The aristocrat ran out of verbs. Curiously enough, the last hand the aristocrat shook was bundled with Fresca's gift. A small hole was drilled at the center of its palm.

While she was smelling the bouquet, Fresca noticed a note that says one warts, four leprosy. She never specified any precondition, but this should be better than nothing. Improvising on the melody, she mouthed an aria out of a Chicken Soup book: consider that all things happen and people come into our lives for a reason. Release feelings of anger, hatred and thoughts of revenge.When that love is not reciprocated or sustained, it can be devastatingly sad, like a death.

She noted each desiccated hand carefully, and smothered their flaking skin with her palm. After an hour of examination, Fresca chose the drilled hand purely for it's proportions. Even in it's pickled state, it suited her ideas of an ideal Grecian beauty.

An exquisite corpse, she breathlessly muttered.

When her father died, she inherited his bag of stones that he used to carry everyday, from and going to work. Lately, people seem to be generous with their gifts of pebbles. Although she's nearly bent double, carrying the stones somehow became a pleasurable chore. She's unloads the contents of the sack and makes a neat circle from the smaller stones among the collection.

She plays with the perfectly dead hand, sitting at the absolute center.

>>8713263
Superb

>>8712386
What language

A forsaken stallion lay astrew the newly agglomerated pile of men with dawn reaping the losses.
With a gallop, a cavalcade of grey and a mellifluous harmony of horns approached the wetted battlefield.
“It shan’t be continued, m’ sire. The Olrils have already set camp amongst the coast, and we cannot afford to repeatedly send these brave men to--”
“Hush”, the commander yowled at the sire, ceasing the symphonic horns of victory. The squadron of the Royal Vanguards began to dismount their steeds, placing the red and dusty brindles they carried with them.
The commander unsheathed his own blade. A panabay glimmered, embroidered in golden echelons and elvish scripture. The sky ahead was mournful, but of seemingly an ensorcced enchantment, the air was plenty dewy, leaving humectation upon the elve’s brow. As far as one could seize the mixture of muddled shapes and mountains, a lowly fog concealed the squadrons location. Most of them soldiers were taking rests and scavenging the fallen orcs of the Olrils kingdom’s pile. “Do you not reckon the Olrils would know we have just slaughtered a brigade of their elite men in the midst of their own country? How foolish, Egthow. . . You’re putting our lives in danger--your own mens’. To sally forth like this and to leave behind such a mess is not a mere statement, brother. It is a damned suicide note!” Tanyl protruded amongst the inebriate discussion of the high browed sinuous men. Of what started as galimatias out of frustration, Egthow eventually alleviated his anger, and replied, “Brother, I know what I am doing with my own men, my own life, and my own plans. This is no suicide, this is a conquest. There is no room for compunction whilst the ancestors we have proven worthy of progeny are being scoffed at by the Olril Kingdom.” For a brief moment, the chatter had ceased. The silence allowed the trees to imitate the rain, whistling with the small bit of wind the land had offered. The sand beneath the elven boots was of fine black sand, with skinks crawling about and insectoid inhabitants scouting the land. A small island offered diversity in both the ecosystem and war.


Starting a fantasy novel. Any constructiveness would be wonderful

>>8710795
I like it. I think the amount of adjectives can really jut an atmosphere, but with the first lone-line, I would ease off so it doesn't seem clunky.

>>8715313

Please tell me you're not serious. I mean I know you're not. But just tell me. Please.

>>8712376
thanks

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>>8715313
Dude you need to relax your language a little. Every sentence is way too heavy and you're using words with no real meaning in-context.

"A forsaken stallion lay astrew the newly agglomerated pile of men with dawn reaping the losses."

That could be a compelling image. But you need to make it starker. Why is the horse 'forsaken'? What does that mean? Never mind. Just tell us it's a dead horse.

"There was a horse at the top of the pile of corpses."

Simple and effective. You're trying too hard to be grandiose.

>>8713263
Pretty good. Whatever is going here I could go for more. But I'm a little confused about your tense shift at the end. Is that intentional?

Anyway, the start of my novel about sexy tank girls: http://pastebin.com/RHdxCYbm.

Start of a short story.

Down the dusty path four great femurs with feathered loins pedaled in meticulousness as a machine. The palanquin,gleaming brighter than god, moved as the heart of a mile long convoy; the damask vulva sighed here and here, exhausting wisps of perfume, cleansing the heat in way of her concealed prize. The boom a boom of a guiding bongo drum lured the great beast forward and the four broad shoulders padded on to the rhythm of the whispering silk curtains and the pulsing heat melting from their golden yokes. The earth, splayed bare in nearly unfaltering brownness splashed with whites and tans and already browning greens. Perhaps a stalking lioness hid her bearded fangs in the plain openness but the hoard trampled by unaffected by whatever majesty

>A street magician does tricks for a gangster. Scene one.

“Do it again, without the jacket.”

The kid paused, unsure of what to do, his smile frozen for a moment before becoming natural again, as if he’d been caught in some elaborate lie that he had no recollection of fabricating.

“That would expose my secret sir...a good magician never shares his secrets.”

A bemused smile, the man watching the routine shook his head.

“Don’t give me any of that kiddy bullshit.”

The kid still seemed uncertain and the man looked at him closely, unsure of why exactly his associates had seen it fit to send the poor kid here. He looked like he had been a legal adult for maybe all of a week and a half...perhaps he was still in high school.

Leaning forward the man carefully extracted something from his jacket pocket, giving the kid plenty of time to ogle a wallet fat with bills.

Taking one away he showed the kid the unsmiling face of Ulysses S. Grant.

“Would you really turn down a former President of the United States?”

The kid eyed the money for a moment, then took off his jacket, a stiff black Victorian getup that all the hucksters and quick fingered conmen calling themselves magicians wore these days. Underneath was a white dress shirt, but it was too light and the cuffs too tight to conceal any secret pockets.

“There you go," the man said, "now do the apple again, I’m curious to see that.”

The kid let his jacket fall to the ground and picked up an apple from his little pile of supplies. The man set the fifty dollar bill on the arm of his chair, watching the kid carefully.

“For my next trick,” the kid said, “I will make this apple disappear.” He made a complex motion with his right hand, flicked it in front of his left hand, where the apple was held, and just like that the fruit was gone…as though it had never existed in the first place.

The man smiled, more to conceal a growing sense of unease than anything else.

How had the kid done that? He had no secret pockets to stash the apple in, and he hadn’t put his right hand behind his back or anything, he had just made an open fingered twirl and vanished a piece of fruit.

It made no sense.

>>8715398
Good

>>8712579
Spotted the Sexual Deviant

>>8715361
So what's the story about

An idea for a short story:
There's an ex-military guy in a city and he slaughters gang members because he sees it as serving his country.
The police give him tacit approval since he's reducing their workload considerably.
He gets captured alive by a crime boss and endures several hours of torture before being shot in the head

>>8718270

So...Punisher with a sad(?) ending?

Sometimes he had to assure himself that the night sky was nothing more than a flat, painted image spinning inevitably away above him.

To ascribe depth to it, even for an instant, inspired a wild, helpless terror that he felt powerless to quell.

>>8718574
With a realistic ending

Christof readied his gun, pulled the trigger, and a bullet struck the snout of a large moose. The mountains towered ahead, casting long shadows on the verglass. A contrasting green and white made Christof stand out. The moose moaned, and a bevy of Quail immediately circled over the downed creature.
“A grim day, it’s been.” The sound of striding feet approached Christof. A young dominus, Lucith stood proud, a coat of fine furs and stockings that revealed a rather muscular figure. His hair was short, yet with coils that fell to his eyes.
“Nice shot you have there. Would you possibly be interested in a dinner tonight at the royal hall?”
“Lucith, do I look like a drinker to you?” A smile formed on the right side of his mouth, with the chilly air being seen in every exhale. “Besides, tomorrow is another mass hunt. I must be a good role model, for the kids, you see.” Christof reloaded his small musket, with gunpowder spread about his rough face.
“I insist, please, it has been seemingly such a long time, don’t you think?”
Christof hesitated and said, “I’m afraid I have no royal suites, vaults of gold, or barracks of men to flash anymore.”
“And that should be of no matter. Times are becoming difficult.”
A slight flicker sparked in the hands of Christof, and a pipe was revealed.
Christof gave a whistle, and his horse came galloping from the near steppes.
“A dinner it is then, Lucith.” His brow gave a slight wrinkle, as if deep in thought.
“Do not lose such dignity in yourself. Some battles are won, some are lost. A title, however, cannot be lost. Sclava.”


Lucith almost clenched a fist, feeling a push of anger make way to his eyes. Lucith was turned to him, calling to his own horse.


“Are you still alongside the Klan, Lucith?”
Lucith had been looking at the ridge of the mountains that were strayed in front of him. He lowered his arm that shielded his dark eyes, and gave a brief snort as if mocking the question.
“And what is this to you, may I ask?”
Christof felt the tension within the small radius they stood in.
“It is only a question, do not be so alarmed.” A grim silence struck, broken by the slight unsheathing of a blade from Lucith.
“Lucith, what are you doing?”
A finger rose to his lips. Both men stood in silence looking around. Christof slowly wielded his rifle. The two were back to back, making slight turns in all directions.

>>8718908

I like the idea of a story centered less around the violence and more about how the characters within the story convince themselves to commit said violence. Whether it's out of patriotism (like the veteran) or simple anger and economic necessity (like the mob boss who kills the vet in the end). Could be really interesting if done right.

>>8710258
I'm currently outlining a 6-part military historical epic centered around the life of this exceptionally long-lived soldier.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Thurel

While his individual exploits aren't that notable, he was a part of an incredible expanse of history, offering a worm's eye view of the decline and implosion of the French empire.

The writing style will be the literary equivalent of the Starz Spartacus series, aiming for 1/3 plot/history, 1/3 gratuitous sex, and 1/3 over-the-top violence. There will be tons of historical embellishment, since most of his life is unknown.

The first book deals with his early life and extensive peacetime training, leading up to his first actual combat at the age of 38 in which is he dramatically shot. (book 2 begins with his convalescence)

What would really set this book a part from other attempts? I'm considering including some supernatural, but in general I avoid bandwagons, and don't want to be percieved as being a part of the whole "Muskets and Magic" thing that seems to be happening right now.

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I currently have a project on writing a series of books , a magnum opus on which I intend to spend almost all my career, about the life of Roman Von Ungern Sternberg. I also have an idea about a short book which is basically A Fistful of Dollars only set in 90s Yigoslavia and with an Italian Gunman as protagonist.

>>8710258
Peter Stamm wrote exactly the same story as you did, but with a woman and a lamp in the other window. Look it up.

>>8719928
>Roman Von Ungern
Looks fun. What drew you to him?

>>8719928
Sternberg is definitely a good person to get a magnum opus out of. I mean, Jesus, the man took over Mongolia at one point.

And the guy who eventually captured Sternberg and had him shot was none other than Konstantin Rokossovsky, who would go on to smash Nazi Germany with Operation Bagration and contribute to winning the battle of Kursk.

A lot of historical richness there.

Not a writer but did this today on the train. I am aware it's a bit over-the-top, I was having fun

My eyes widen.

I have been noticed. Trapped in their accusing gaze.

My chair is a bed of cinders, yet I am a solid block of ice. As my predator gradually prowls towards me, I can feel my body melting.

No time to prepare. I find myself facing my reckoning point-blank. Drenched, I stare helplessly up into two desolate black voids, searching without hope for a speck of light. At last I force my eyes downwards to register the command.

With trembling, bloodless hands I present my paltry offering, silently pleading for mercy.

A glance, followed by a slight frown. It is not enough.

A terrible, insatiable glare nails me to my seat as I writhe, drowning in trepidation. The mouth opens again and I vaporise, braced for that awful, inevitable question:

'Can I see your rail card please?

So ambiguity it was,
That itchy, sanguine liar,
Whose wayward speak the dead leaves burned
And set the woods on fire.
My Scylla and Charybdis now
Are faith and hopelessness;
If you love me as I love you,
Let faith blaze fatal bliss.

Dogs who bark at me never bark again.

My first try at a short story. I'm really new to literature and my inspiration for getting into writing, if you couldn't guess, was DFW. I'm still trying to find my own voice but until then, I really like his. The '1!' is the footnote that's listed at the bottom.

On a gray and lifeless Tuesday afternoon She sat at Her computer desk composing an e-mail for Her son. She, our protagonist, seldom used a computer in Her day to day life. The day prior to today, Joanne, who we assume to be Her next door neighbor, assisted Her, Her being our protagonist, in setting up an e-mail address which was to be used with the sole intention of communicating with Her aforementioned son (But also extended family, I.E., Grandson, I.E., Daughter-In-Law, I.E., -Etc., which She made a point of to Joanne so as not to seem as if She would be only sending messages to one person.), not, under any circumstances to be used lackadaisically on, and we quote, “Those G.D.'1!' HSN Hyenas, though but they most definitely have not heard the last from me for damn sure, Joey”. (Joey, we should mention, was the pet name that our protagonist gave to Joanne.) And after crossing herself, she would mosey on to the kitchen to fix Joanne and Herself a cup of coffee. Two cream and one and a half sugar; the usual concoction so as not to over do it and give Herself the jitters, as She would call it; She would then spend the remainder of Her afternoon learning and threading the cybernetic ropes that bind and connect Her to a distant nuclear family.


'1!' Raised in a household of devout Catholicism, our protagonist tried to shy away from using blasphemes as best she could, with the exception being the utmost frustrating or strenuous circumstances. It was the HSN Summer Savings Event 2009 that had provoked her to break the third commandment not only on this specific instance, but also anytime her memory recalled the countless hours she spent on the phone with the technical support number listed on the product she received but did not know how to effectively use. Though a story you would have to ask her in person, she would always prefix the event with what we interpreted as an ironic gesture of repentance for her misuse of the name of The Father by enacting the signum crucis.

The dead air lingered until the driver, granted bravery by his guilt, finally spoke. "Look, uh... I understand why they're upset. I can't say I agree with them. But still-- the way I see it, I have a job. I'm going to do my job, and not worry about the people. That's just how I like to do things. And I feel as though if I do my job, and do it well, they're going to have a hard time getting rid of me." He forced a chuckle on the last syllables to lighten the mood, but nervousness bled through and the trainee didn't buy it. The trainee, concerned look on his face, sat in silence and wondered if his partner was human or some sort of paranoid robot.

The girl of my dreams changed, the night I skipped sane pills, the night I figured out the key to dream lucidity.

I learned how to fly, and how to move anything tele-kinetically, and how to adopt and talk to manatees.

A pale and cleopatran catgirl skated circles on the open ice of my old schools cafegymnitorilobby.

A place lucidly known to be made by only me, yet I'm glad I knew that the only one controlling the girl was she.

Familiar eyes ... fur makes the lines... But, appointed fiction... made all finishing diction... not easy.

Peripherally there was nothing left but her, and I approached with tenacity I had never felt amass in me.

She knew full of her scent and mine and what we did to we, and gazed at me as if we weren't both moving so distractingly.

She asked me who I was, and 'fore I was standing on ice, I fell, avoiding gaze, and said, "An asshole, apparently."

To get the permission to find out what entails| being one with a tailed| girl with just hair where human ears should be.

To swallow your throat and despite frightened, the girl losing her mind as you clutch where her real ears are's enlightening.

I gave away that I'm a god when I'm clever, after that we were together, and when our bodies severed, agony.

I tasted her mouth and it tasted like memory of a thing only dared of me or perhaps repressed and forced on me.

Before then it was simple... I'd recall very little. But I knew when it when would get ridiculous I would just call in nukes.

I Accidentally thought of it, and looked around for it, and couldn't warn her before needing to kinda make dimensional soup.

Her ears rightfully pointed backward in decline- as she knew she should've died and was instead floating in regular space.

I looked the girl, in the slanted pupils of her eyes, and told her why we didn't just die, and saw terror transforming her face.

I swallowed my throat and despite being frightened, nearly losing her mind, I made her assured that her thoughts were only hers.

My face alight with fear for her clarification, understanding changed her face, and now I can't forget embracing...

For we did a whole lot of traveling where my thought's would unravel and never before have I been as scared for not just myself.

But by the time I felt lucidity escaping, I should have woken up in a bed, and in this new world I was enveloped.

My sight went white to bright to not where expected, a princess sobbing, and peasants sharing what remained of strength of their souls.

Some kind of excuse was needed to keep my head from retreating, and in a world she made herself, her wish was treasured the most.

Obvious eyes... my first 'her' in disguise... and she'll be more than confused when she feels like I called her out on a dream.

We shared the gypsy's syndrome of wanting no kingdom, so the throne room gets distorted when two lucid minds are trying to leave.

Her soul was stripped of it's limits with time and space; she didn't start anthropomorphic but never the less collided with me.

Her one attempt to stop me leaving made reality fluid; and our abilities stupidly blew out more than logic breathes.

To think you've finally blown your top because a presence clutching tightly shouldn't be among reality and riding it.

To treasure that oneness despite being frightened, her spine will just tighten as you master the ears you had some practice with.

Sorry for everything, she promised we'd not meet again, just stroked my hair and disappeared, effectively erasing the fling.

I know we could've raised a thing that ruled the planet, but... The fact she cares too much for life lived out as human just...

>>8720269
i like it. a lot.

Doran woke. He was hungover, and mentally mutilated. He rolled over. An empty spot next to him.


Right. Of course.


The kitchen was equally empty. Same with his coffee supply.


Fuck, whatever.


He was still wearing jeans. He put on a fresh shirt and stumbled out. Twilight.


What time was it? There are people out. Must be evening.


City bus roamed by. It rumbled Doran’s brain. He clutched both ears, shut his eyes.


Fffuck fuck! It hurts.


Starbucks gloomed into sight. The siren called. It was busy. It was always busy.


Its so noisy. My head hurts.


This store moved slowly. Slow minutes of agony ticked away.


Gimme the large dark roast.


Another minute. She almost had to force the cup into his hands.


Still too hot! I guess I’ll let it cool.


Doran shuffled to the outside door. It opened into him.


Jesus Christ! Fuck!


Coffee spread pain across his hands and a surprised stranger. “I’m sorry sir!” he sputtered. “Let me buy you a new one. I’ll make it better.”


Nothing can make it better.

Languid breath poured from rose-pallor lips into longing palms.
To warm them was the test. The wind cut coldly to and through him
in a sheet of pins. The tree to his left, of some type he didn't know,
had largely let it's leaves leave it by this time, this November.
The Sun sung an uninterrupted amber light half past North at half mast.

He was waiting for the bus to come and beckon him, "Morning," he'd say
to the man. Behind him, enclosed by a glass-plastic composite and under
the arched advertisements of a bus shelter, was a woman of such mass that
he did not trust the integrity of the bench that she had mounted her and
her multiple folds upon to carry his small self on that tiny shelf as well.

Soon he found himself finding a hatred for her. It came suddenly and unfiltered.
She looked the type of woman who is "very healthy thankyou very much," and this
was the mindset, he concluded, of the egotistically obese.

Stalking on boardwalk
black foam reaching red clouds, never touch
the sun’s fallen, and I’ve spun every angle
Without Looking
until I’m dragged too. The snuff of seaside echoes between each ear.
Will you let me fall?
…I’d like that.
Crashing again, rocks jagged, and me: asleep.
Elsewhere from beating hearts
that I could feel in my neck
and ice that the brawling sea lets flow.
Am I in your arms now?
On a peak’s edge.

Here's my opening write up for my new villain 1/3

Phillip's has slipped into insanity slowly, like tipping a tentative toe in a hot bath before carefully submerging oneself inch by inch. Most would have realized they were going down a dark path and clung out for something to grab hold of, to keep their head above water. Instead, Phillip felt he was glimpsing the truths of the universe and, instead of shying away from them, was deliberately running further and further down that rarely taken road.
He first glimpsed what eventually came to think of as the Real Reality in sophmore math class. Phillip had been half asleep when the teacher loudly called his name, startling him to attention. His head jerked up to face Mr. Langdon, the middle aged tightwad who had been trying to teach him algebra all year. Only he was not greeted with the sight he was expecting.
In Mr. Langdon's place was a large spider. It was humanoid in shape and even wearing the tweed outfit Mr. Langdon usually sported. It's eight eyes were all focused on Phillip. Spider limbs protruded from the coat's sleeves and Phillip could see the bulge of other concealed limbs beneath the jacket.
“Phiiiilliiiip,” hissed the spider.
Phillip shouted in astonishment and jumped to his feet, startling the students around him. But now that he was on his feet, the image of the arachnid man had receded, leaving him facing the visage of plain old Mr. “You need to study harder” Uptight Asshole Langdon. Everyone was staring at him, their concerned thoughts evident on their faces.
“I need to use the bathroom,” Phillip had declared, fleeing the classroom.
Anyone else would have either dismissed it as a half-asleep hallucination or flight of fancy, but Phillip was a different type of child. He had never had a close friend in his life, unless his mother counted. More than that, he was cured with an eternal ennui. Everything bored him to tears and he was always infinitely jealous of the characters in the books and comics he read who were able to shed to boredom of regular humanity to go on magical quests and become friends with elves and superheroes. To Phillip, this spider-man he witnessed was his first chance at finding something better, something more, something grand in this bland landscape of plebeians and drones.
The more Phillip searched for signs that there was another reality than his own, the more he found evidence of it. Initially he only caught quick glimpses of it. Some things he saw out of the corner of his eye. He would walk past a student in the halls and see centipedes crawling over their face as they went by. When he would turn to look directly at the bug-covered child, they would look normal again.

2/3

Sometimes he would feel things, like short legs skittering over his own face, or hot breath on the back of his neck, breathing deep and harsh, growling, spraying spittle on him until he was almost ready to piss himself. “This is what I wanted to find,” he would tell himself as he sat paralyzed in fear, imagining what unseen beast was waiting behind him, possibly preparing to pounce. “There's more to this world.”
Phillip had taught himself to stop acting terrified when confronted with the Real Reality. He knew that society was constructed in a manner that would lead to those who could see the other side being hospitalized for “insanity”. It was a global conspiracy to make sure only those in Power knew the Real Reality was there, a way to make freaks and prisoners out of the rare, enlightened few. Phillip had long ago learned to suppress shrieks when the walls would bleed thick sludge the shiny color of spilled oil, or when worms would crawl out of the nostrils of the student sitting next to him in English class. As long as he was aware of the conspiracies existence, he could avoid falling into its obvious traps.
Now, Phillip had moved past seeing Real Reality in drips and drabs. He now lived there 24/7, and it was the false reality that he only would occasionally glimpse now. Phillip would walk down the street on a summer day and see dark, gelatinous, veined monstrosities where the rest of the sheeple saw mere trees. The blue sky to him was a violent looking shade of purple and the sun was a menacing red eyeball. Phillip had come to realize the red eye was the God of this world. He knew this was no Christian God, and he doubted it cared one bit for the fate of the species that crawled this planets surface, but he still made sure to drop to his knees and pray to the angry eye in thanks for his salvation. It never did more than glare back, but Phillip liked to think it could hear him.
He kept his eyes trained on the ground all day, not wanting to look at the faces of his fellow students. Everyone around him looked rotted or deformed, like victims of heavy radiation poisoning. Flesh felt melting from their faces and he often wondered how they could keep from noticing. Phillip had not looked in a mirror in months now, knowing that he would look just as pitiful as the rest of the sorry species. That was the one thing he almost missed about the false universe, the pretty girls, but now he realized that he couldn't pick and choose which parts of the world he wanted to keep the fake sugar coated pretty wrapping paper on. For indeed, he had ripped the skin off reality and now saw the bloody underbelly of it all, guts and entrails and bubbling bile in full view.

3/3 rough draft full of errors but just critue the general style

Phillip was growing to regret his descent into Universal Truths. He almost never slept these days now that he could see the snakes crawling around his walls, immune to gravity, slithering the ceiling above him, waiting for him to drift asleep before dropping down upon his chest and startling him back awake. He was severely dehydrated now that all water took on a piss-yellow hue. Food all looked like rancid meat. Sandwiches looked to have human turds and live baby mice in them, still pink and hairless and squealing for their mothers milk. When he saw others eating these mice sandwiches, he would hear those mewling cries cut off in sharp crunches as the students ground their soft mouse flesh against their hard human teeth, pink skin getting caught in gory chunks on teenage braces.
Phillip's sanity was long gone. He still presented a sane front to the people around him, but that facade was destined to fall, like a house of cards facing a hurricane warning, a storm of insanity brewing on the horizon to blow all barriers away.
The ultimate downfall of Phillip was his fear of being touched. He hadn;t liked human, skin on skin contact even when he still believed all the lies his eyes told him. But now that he had opened his third eye, he saw skin for what it was: sticky and rubber-like. When he saw people who were holding hands let go of each other, thick, glue like liquid would stretch between them, dripping loose skin all over. When couples kissed, chunks of their face and tongue would come apart when they dislodged from locking lips.

My soliloquy about how society punishes the pursuit of hedonism as the meaning of life

Ok, this is ABSOLUTE fucking bullshit. I went to see Cars in the theater yesterday, and when Lightning McQueen got HOT with Sally in Radiator Springs, my boner engaged. When Lightning McQueen said "Ka-Chow!", I couldn't help it!!! I closed my eyes, and I TORE my dick to shreds, using whip like motions and pulled with great force. That was one of the best nuts I ever had, just thinking about it now gets me riled up. Thing is, I nutted all over the kid sitting right next to me, and his mom got all pissed at me, screaming at me for jacking off on her son. I told that bitch to shut the fuck up, and that jacking off is a natural, artistic, and beautiful process. You should BE HAPPY that my semen is all over your son, maybe he can learn a lesson or two about the culture and art of jacking off. HOWEVER, the movie theater managers didn't agree with me. They KICKED ME OUT of the movie theater, and I didn't even finish watching the Cars movie. Not only THAT, but they made me clean up my semen after it already dried out and solidified on the seats. THATS TORTURE!! Do you know how hard it is to clean semen after its dried out? You CLEAN semen after its FRESH out of your cock, not an hour after you fucking nutted. This is a fucking OUTRAGE. Do you really expect me to not whip out my cock and jack off when i see a HOT sex scene in a movie? Either don't ban sex scenes in movies, or LET ME jack off in your theater, assholes.

>>8721246
I'm somewhat reminded of J.G. Ballard's Atrocity Exhibits. Especially the one about Ronald Reagan.

>>8718263
It's about the most beautiful woman who has never been seen by any living person. She's being married off to a king halfway across the world who will be the first to see her. I don't have a lot more but I'll post the next bit if you're interested

Description of a monster

As I looked up, the salty air buffeted me once more. But I barely registered any other fact than the sight of what I have been referring to as the beast. I know not what it should rightfully be called, and little do I care. That thing deserves not a name nor existence, but yet it does.


It stood in frame of the door, not yet within the building. At first many details eluded me, besides the basic shape of the beast. It bore the silhouette of a man, but with many off putting peculiarities. The hands too big, the head flattened.


Then I gazed upon the eyes. To call them deformed was to understate the vast bestial nature of their very existence. They were unblinking orbs of an amber yellow. The pupil the smallest of pinpricks. Thought they were foreign to my sensibilities and soullessly leering, there glimmered a cruel intellect.


By the time I tore myself from the hollow depths of its eyes, I discovered what truly made this beast not a man, let alone an ape. Firstly and foremost was the skin. Sore ridden and tumorous, it bunched and rolled over its thighs and stomach. It seemed to excrete a thick slime, either that or the bunches of seaweed and mosses that clung to its skin were rotting off the beast. I don’t like to dwell on what the truth in this matter may be.


Its thumbless hands extruded like flippers. The thick sausage like fingers bound together by a greenish film. It had no nose, but a triangular slit that parted even the lips. Its teeth were browned needles with great gaps. These doubtlessly had rotted right out of the beast’s mouth.


In the flickering silence of the landing we both stood staring at each other. Neither of us moved trapped in awe of each other. Though I wish not to humanize this monstrosity, but I do wonder if he thought me a grotesque invader as I did to it.

File: susanna hoffs.png (2MB, 1199x837px) Image search: [Google]

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I'm 18 and this is the first time I've written more than a sentence in years and the only time I've ever written a poem. How do I improve my basic literary/grammar/punctuation skills? Can't even define what an adverb is or use a semi colon correctly. Is this the right place or will I just get laughed at?


I take a step
a leap a bound
The first of many,
how profound

sun brings play snow brings presents
I knew, or at least I knew they knew
My favourite this my favourite that
Nothing is expected when everything is new

He sees

I kiss I love I lose
the laugh the cry
if the world is mine
perhaps I may even try

Stub your toe no longer tears
for pain is greater once you feel
thoughts of Venus, abyss divide, terrify
I'll stare and wait, hoping to make it we'll

He watches

I take a step
a creep a crawl
Uncertainty looms
but on I trawl

Impatient to anxiously excited
dare I say now simply anxious
do it for them, but say it's for me
once praised for being, now left so thankless

I see

more to say less to do
now that thinking's easier
What if? If only?
Would I have been happier?

Nothing's perfect, now I'm learning
Expect no big, build from small
This is the constant compromise of
Bittersweet nostalgia times

I watch

I see the picture now
rough and ragged
no form or meaning
finally ready yet no paint can be added

Head full, body empty
The sand's movement signals his coming

We go

>>8715398
i like this.
more?

>>8713204
I really like this, anon

Anyone want to talk about Thomas Pynchon books with me in person? I have a Bee Gees record (Size Isn't Everything, 1993, Polydor Records) and some hermetically sealed French fries from the local PBurger that need a one-time PB pin code to unseal and will remain hot and fresh for up to 24 hours. Also we will be meeting in a busy public library (during high traffic hours) where we will identify ourselves to the library staff before sitting somewhere in plain view so they can alert an appropriate government service if risks occur. I have two sets of unopened, sealed-in-box Sennheiser HD 800 S headphones with which we can listen to the Bee Gees record or others from the library's substantial collection. I am HIV negative, HPV negative, and have received the full range of vaccinations recommended by the World Health Organization as of November 2016. I am well-known in the community, of good reputation, and the consensus of a character study undertaken at my behest by the thoroughly independent Truthmirror Psychological Company using its esteemed ReflectMetric® attitudinal questionnaire system describes me as a 'reasonable, circumspect, and responsibility-oriented citizen well-armed to contribute to the contemporary interconnected world.'

i dont know why or how i write

short story I'm working on. All critique welcome, friends

http://pastebin.com/8rh0s1FT

>>8722098
The image of that dog dying is very detailed. Very dark... it reads well

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>>8710258
>voyarism

>>8710258
The great
trees losing the small dignity they have left
everything taken, everything taken
the world doesn't change,
equal input, equal output
gray is the day, the cold creeping
we live vaster, we live in desaster
let the trees be coated, and my belly be bloated
death is coming, my friend.

>>8720253
>whose wayward speak the dead leaves burned
hmm.. is this supposed to be ambiguous?

>let faith blaze fatal bliss

clumsy.

>>8720502
started good but I lost interest as I continued reading

>>8720723
Good, but I can't imagine reading a lot of this.

>>8720845
Imagery is a bit jumbled

>>8721706
Keep trying... and read some bloody poems

I've been sending a few poem-texts with my new JCB (drop-proof)


while the raincloud drags its grieving head over greying heather on stern cliff faces upon which fragile mirrors shatter, grim reflections of seconds past swell rivers with urban decay and drops patter through namefree recollections, fictions, steel.


time is relentless like sunday boredom. lying in the garden with a pile of nettles beside me and mud all over my hands and knees, shower broken for a ray of the day’s name, no-one to call mine, to pull me towards meaning from drifting. because when you only know yourself you know nothing.


Rain on tuesday is perfectly mould-grey, expansive cerulean covered by patches of polluted lichen, phosphor-boned trees snatch drops to feed their addiction until they fall, and lightning may strike the same place one day or two.


thoughts lie unopened, cover-to-cover unread, gathering dust bedside beside an absent mind long left for dead. but this is how it always seemed. inspiration mutely seethes behind waste and utter failure.

Tu sonrisa me escapa del pozo
La curva exquisita que mis ojos recorre y de la que mi corazón se adueña
Que sin hablar te escucho decir esas palabras
Apaciguando mis colores, invitadas al festejo de mis sentidos
Y aún, no puedo ver tu rostro más que en imágenes vacías
Mi condena es ser ajeno a tu perfume
Admirar de lejos tu agraciado cuerpo
Morir de sed sin el sereno rocío que tus mañanas me daban
¿Por qué ha de ser el tiempo tan cruel,
Cual abandona nuestro lado en la cima de la montaña,
Y cambia nuestras alas por pesadas manos,
Que apresuran el descenso inminente,
Hiriendo el alma al tocar suelo?
Me queda de tus memorias un triste deseo
Y solo buscar nostálgico el calor en máscaras de papel
Quemando la verdad que febrilmente ocultaré.

Jeje

First time writing something and finishing something in English. I haven't revised it, and some images and phrasing do not convince me, but let's see whay you guys think.


Were you to ask me now, I would not tell
The road I took to go from Primrose Hill.

Instead, I could tell you about its sky,
The blue behind the grey, the hasty clouds,
Impatient as the rain that came and went,
Announcing itself as it left the stage.

Indeed, I could tell you about the road,
The other one, that leads to Primrose Hill:
The riverside that outlines Camden Town
And extends the hubbub of its market;
Tunnels, bridges, graffiti on the walls,
And boats resting on water black from dirt.

And even more I could tell you: the church
In the corner of a street, made of stone,
Its frame as bible black as solid cloud.

And I could tell you about Primrose Hill:
The green darkness of the grass, moisty earth,
So soft it yields under the children’s feet
Yet budges not to hawthorn or foxglove,
Nor to the oak with the weight of the crows,
The shadows of its leaves, another cloud.
Nor to the Hill itself, whose mighty bulk
Supports the stony sky, and grants a view
Of London’s skyline, limiting the earth
To the perspective of the horizon.

And as it gently rains I hear the crows,
The roaring wind, the voice of William Blake,
The graveness of his tone recalls his talk
With the spiritéd sun at Primrose Hill.
Yet I remember not the sun, but night,
The night of New Year’s Eve, my first night here
In stranger’s land, among far stranger tongues.
But Primrose Hill distinguishes us not;
It shoulders all: the sky, the clouds, the rain,
Three hundred people there, a bench, myself.

But were you to ask me what road I took,
I wouldn’t tell, I could not tell, for I forgot.

posting on pastebin because too much of this story is already archived here and I want to get it published. Don't worry, it's short.

http://pastebin.com/L2Z6a4up

>>8723573
This is beautiful. some of the best writing I've seen here. In the interest of constructive criticism I'll give you a few minor tweaks but this is great!

>The road I took to go from Primrose Hill.
"to go from" sounds a bit clunky. It works, but I think "out of" is a bit smoother

>Its frame as bible black as solid cloud.
the first "as" might be unnecessary, but the "solid cloud" needs to go. the first thing you think of is white clouds, which causes you a moment of confusion before you remember storm clouds are a thing, even then, you have the disconnect between hard stone and fluffy clouds. it's just a bad comparison

>>8723094
The bad news is this is awful poetry. There's no rhythm to it, no pulse or haze. The good news is it's terrific prose. Keep at it. Not every good chef is a good baker, and visa versa

>>8723573

I'm gonna disagree with >>8724046, it isn't necessarily the ideal grammatical choice but I think your original "to go from" sounds far better than "to go out of" and is a better fit for the poem

>>8724069
not "to go out of", just "out of"

Emptied words,
Forbidden trust,
Who can say
You are one of us?

Write a verse
Behind the other;
Dungeoned light
Will damp and smother.

Sight and sound,
Sense and smell;
What joys are these
May you we tell?

Iron clapped
From nature's chain;
Here's a ring,
Your bond to name.

>>8724046
>>8724069
Thanks for reading it! I agree that "go from" is not the best choice, but "to out of" does not convince me either. I tried using depart or leave from, but the do not sound as good.

As for "solid clouds, I'm gonna defend the image, since there is a previous mention of rain and grey skies, and storm clouds are usually bulky and black, that's why the church seemed to me a solid cloud. Since it creates a contrast of hard rock and ethereal clouds, it is not commonplace and further develops the idea of earth and sky being extensions of one another (the crows in the branches of the oak are another instance of this).

>>8724046
I read your excerpt. I rather liked the narration in the first paragraph, the "catalogue of nuts" was very well written, but the dialogue seems affected, and some of the narration of characters' actions too. As it lacks context I cannot tell anything else, but I would read more of it.

Also, the last paragraph ith Ava's inner turmoil could use more subtlety, that is to say, do not put is so plainly (I think).

>>8724177
Thank you for help, it felt a bit fake to me too. My idea was that Ava was supposed to be a bit of a mad scientist, but it doesn't really get worked into the context of the story so I had to shoehorn it in. The entire time she's an angsty doormat with very few redeeming traits, so I thought making her at least seem brainy would at least make her slightly endearing, but I guess not

>>8724177
actually, I'm sorry to ask this but could you clarify which lines and actions seem affected? I want to know which ones to fix

>>8723121
Say something

>>8724269
The dialogue in general, though I understand why. In context it might not sound affected, but as a fragment it does. As for actions, it's mainly Ava's inner turmoil.

>>8723121
Afectado y sentimentalista, muy florido sin decir nada, lleno de lugares comunes.

>>8724355
Gracias por la opinión. Ese era uno de mis poemas escritos no mucho después de empezar con a poesía. No sé si habré mejorado

>>8724348
Did the scientific explanation stand out as a major example of that? It makes sense at least for the guy since his speech patterns are in fact affected, but for her I need some frame of her intellect. Maybe this will work better:

http://pastebin.com/JjVK2UJw

When I’m woken in fireflies’ wings of mist,
the cold dresses me in my black sweater with the white trees and jerusalem crosses,
and I trolley into the gloom, as the train pushes clouds around.
No one wants to say anything at all, but the trumpets play and the guitars
are shocked, wet, and distorted.
Carried away

warm and electric

static faux rain hovers outside every window
no one needs anywhere to go.

fuck, just the other day my writing felt so good. Now it feels like badly written cartoony crap, and many of the things I want in there just don't belong.

What do I do?

>>8724633
Realize that now you're thinking like a true creator

>>8724642
It's no comfort. I want to feel like I've gotten better over time

>>8724448
>http://pastebin.com/JjVK2UJw

That's much better in my opinion, though I would recommend using more free indirect discourse instead of just putting the characters thoughts like that. Again, just my opinion.

>Her friends of her own would not take it well. Will the sodajerk would not take it well, though if he knew from miles away his unappreciated culinary aptitude was helping her make small talk it might give a brief moment of peace from frothing at the mouth.

Her friends of her own sounds weird and obnoxious, was it intentional? It sounds off considering what comes after. The last sentence is very weird too, perhaps you were in a hurry?

>>8724681
You're right, that was pretty awful. Here's my final crack at that last part. also yes, that guy is supposed to be obnoxious

Ava blushed. “Not really, no. I just had a friend who liked to test recipes on me.” A chill ran down her spine as a thought dawned on her. Had Luca realized she was there that night? She wasn't exactly quiet, and Luca was nothing if not thorough. If he had known she was there last night he would come looking for her, and he could suspect anyone she knew of being a refuge or confidant.

Maxwell seemed to notice and remained silent until she finished. “Anyway, enjoy them while they're warm. Let's see if we can talk somewhere more private.” As the two walked back in silence to hanging train yard, Ava thought of all the people who she would probably never see again. Her parents certainly, but their associates and their friends: most of whom were now willing to kill her. Will the sodajerk would not take it well, though if he knew that miles away his unappreciated culinary aptitude was helping her make small talk it might give him a brief moment of peace from frothing at the mouth.

>>8724774
No, no, I meant the phrase "Her friends of her own" SOUNDS obnoxious, not the actual friends.

>>8724774
Forget it, I just realized that "Will" is a name. My bad.

Apart from that, it's quite good. Keep up the good work, Anon.

By the way, what do you think about my reasons for keeping the "solid cloud" image here? >>8724140

>>8710258
> Out of curiosity I looked up who was listed as owner of that apartment, but it was listed as vacant.
ofc it was

>>8724827
Thank you. In regards to your work, the fact that you have a strong internal logic to it is something I understand entirely and appreciate. That said its often hard to see that internal logic from the outside. It might be better discuss the idea with someone else and see if they can wrap their head around it.

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I'm posting my junk again. I've posted it a couple times in the past, some months and months ago, and have extensively revised and edited it.
It's the first couple chapters from my novel about space bunnies(and rural poverty/drug use).

http://pastebin.com/kJV6yAWC

Sorry if the formatting is a little fucked.
Please tell me what you think.

In the whorl of ancient spires, in the core of Duragh Sin.
As a sparrow's beak on the mount of eternal day,
the Knife whispers on thought made flesh made thought made stone—
to pare what need not be from that which must cohere.
And Heaven's withered eye shall stare a thousand times
as it goes to one who must be, from one who has become,
In the whorl of ancient spires, in the core of Duragh Sin.

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>>8721706
Slightly updated version:

I take a step,
a leap a bound
The first of many,
how profound

Sun brings play, snow brings presents
A time when I knew, or at least I knew they knew
My favourite this, my favourite that
Nothing is expected when everything is new

He sees

I kiss, I love, I lose
The laugh, the cry
If the world is mine
perhaps I may even try

Stub your toe no longer tears
for pain is greater once you feel
Thoughts of Venus, abyss divide, terrify
Stare and wait, and soon the kneel

He watches

I take a step,
a creep a crawl
Uncertainty looms
but on I trawl

Impatient to anxiously excited
dare I say now simply anxious?
Do it for them, but say it's for me
Once praised for being, now left so thankless

I see

More to say less to do
now that thinking's easier
What if? If only?
Would I have been happier?

Nothing's perfect, now I'm learning
Expect no big, build from small
This is the constant compromise of
bittersweet nostalgia times

I watch

I see the picture now
rough and ragged
no form or meaning
Finally equipped but unequipped

Head full, body empty
No time for shame or blaming
No time for much at all
Unexpectedly, more predictably,
The shifting sands herald him

We go

http://pastebin.com/0D1huVF7

Someone posted about how confident they were that they weren't crazy so I got the guts to write this letter about when I lost my shit completely. Hope you enjoy

>>8725206
Good stuff. Be proud that you're writing, and be proud that it has Meaning

>>8725491
Shit, thanks man. Hoping it's not sarcasm haha

>>8725508
derision

>>8725966
That was mean

chuj

>>8725966
oh

falling

If what I show my love to be
In your hands burns like scalding iron,
Release me; don’t hesitate for a moment.
For in that distance between your heart and ground,
Falling is but a recourse for me.
Had we stayed much longer
Those mad, mad winds of mine
Against those stone, looming walls of yours—
Which one would first fall?

Writing for Nano, a bit worried that my writing is leaning into purple prose territory though

There is an unnatural darkness hanging over the small town of Hillbury. A darkness that lingers in every corner, every pond, and every street. It lingers deep within the darkest recesses of ones mind, yearning for you to go deeper and to explore fathomless knowledge of perverse obscenities that only those with a sanity far beyond the reaches of humankind can possess.
I write this, illuminated by an antique railway lamp, in fear that I have delved too deep into that which I should not know. The antique lamp being my only safe haven as torches and electrical based equipment are but mere trivialities to what malevolence stalks me. Who would have thought, that candle light would provide a most stable light source in the twenty first century.

File: Piro 1.png (104KB, 650x829px) Image search: [Google]

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>>8725469
This is a really good piece anon, I'm glad you had the guts. I loved the eels imagery and the breast jiggling, and what you wrote struck meas dark and funny without sacrificing honesty.

Every woman and man has a price, it's just decided in hindsight.

>>8726787
Not crazy about your last line, it lacks a lot of flow when it should be hitting hard.

>>8723573
I rather like this.

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>>8726961

File: Piro 3.png (80KB, 629x821px) Image search: [Google]

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>>8726961

File: piro 4.png (35KB, 672x389px) Image search: [Google]

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>>8727124
This isn't the end, although I think what I've written before is perhaps a bit too long. I'm tempted to scrap the billboard part. I'm going to have Piro run over by a car under the silver maple after they argue over him preforming a funeral without being confirmed.

>>8726961
>>8726965
>>8727124
>>8727127

this is good but it's like a DFW tribute act

File: 701010d4f39d2c1eb590b8517e6dcae1.jpg (57KB, 479x721px) Image search: [Google]

57KB, 479x721px

http://pastebin.com/SMsrT9cC

>>8726961
There are some fun riffs here but this tastes like empty calories to me.

>>8726953
Yeah man, this would be purple. Start with a concrete scene or image and build up to ornateness.

>>8721821
This is gibberish, but high-quality gibberish.

>>8727177
Yeah, I feared as much. This opening is supposed to be present tense but the rest of the story is past tense. I guess I've been reading too much Lovecraft and its really bled into what I write.

>>8726961
Thanks man. I'm meeting J&R for breakfast this week as a result of this letter. I'm optimistic (and trying not to like every single thing they post for the next few days)

>>8726961
>I rather like this.

Thanks for reading it! Any other comments or suggestions on how to improve it?

>>8726953
Stop reading Lovecraft and toss that garbage into the fire where it belongs. His shtick was histrionic melodramatics a hundred years ago and it's even goofier now.

>>8726953
Too much lingering. This is only good if the malevolence ain't a spooky monster

Working on a new horror project about a teenage mental institution. My villain is a kid who initially appears to be suffering demonic possession, but it is later revealed that he is actually a psychic and using his mind reading and telekinesis to fuck with everyone's antiquated religious fears. Eventually he starts driving the doctors insane and the inmates take over the asylum. The main characters will be the rest of the patients as they try to escape a mental hospital on lockdown under control of a psychotic psychic and his followers who all worship him as the anti-Christ.

>>8727651
Stephen King pls go and stay go

“Can’t get the puppies in the furnace… looks like we’re stuck eating cheesesticks for a while.” Bill poked his head up from under the deck with the dumb oblivious look Tony had come to know him for. At least, he’d had it as long as he could remember, which apparently was about thirty minutes or so. He shifted in his hammock to look down on Bill as he began to pull himself topside. He didn’t really have anything to say to him; he just wanted to watch him struggle to twist his gelatinous gourd-shaped body through the comically small hatch. Amid the din of Bill’s dumb expression rotating around in his peripherals under the soft lamplight, a certain feeling, almost a discomfort, began to set in. It was like dread, but somehow seemed far away, like watching a wind slowly approach from across the field by the swaying grass.

>>8727735
If I opened a book to find this drivel facing me, I'd close the book and find another

I write sometimes in bursts but I rarely finish my ideas, mostly because I grow to dislike them

I wrote something recently mostly in one sitting with little forethought, but I felt as if the main character really had no purpose to be in the story. and the entire thing was too linear.

>>8727788
There was something about the air here, the deep humid scent that perforated the city of Calcutta, there was no place in this dreary landmass that truly matched it. There were many who simply could not take India, and Calcutta chewed them up and spit them back to England soon enough; often rife with malaria and fever if alive at all. India was hard country, and it loathed the English constitution. Even the Moslems stuck to their palaces and dry soothing temperance, while we found ourselves stuck in little more than the arse end of the Ganges, the endless swamps of Bengal. It was in this place however that we built a city of our own, it may not have been Deli but it was here that the East India Company made its headway during the turn of the century. It was here in Calcutta where I found myself, a proud young man of affluence and grace wound up in the far east of the Empire in lieu of my brother’s inheritance from our father. India had a way with people, those who survived the heat and the insects found themselves almost as kings themselves in this virgin land where back home they would not have been allowed to even shine the shoes of the nobility. For those like myself whom came from privilege, it felt more like some sordid hell, but at least it offered a second chance for the second son.
The ride in was difficult enough, months as sea and myself unaccustomed to either the churning of the waves or the incessant equatorial sun. I had made quite the laughing stock of myself, the clean cut Eton boy amidst these rough sailors and Hindoos, puking his guts out as we approached Calcutta’s Diamond harbour. Though repulsed by this tropical air I was more than glad to finally be on dry land, I was never much one for the ocean. Calcutta was a strange place compared to London, it had all the pomp of a provincial capital and the demeanor of an overgrown fishing village. It had come a long way since Cornwallis had taken over as Governor, he had built this city up from nothing, dragging it out of the swamp with all his cruelty and foresight. Cornwallis was; for better or worse, the man who built British India, and for years managed a peaceful balance with the natives. Though he personally loathed them in the typical sneering Tory way, what he managed to create was a little corner of India where was some understanding between the British and locals, both socially and culturally. My father always had a bit of an Orientalist streak himself, his plan for me always seemed to be in the East. I had brought his translated copy of the Persian poet Saadi’s Gulistan along with me mixed in with my various official documents, though considering my sickly journey I had not yet touched it.

>>8727744
Aw man. Why

A wheel turns in Cammanaugh,
the file tore to fray.
They kneel for a punishment,
forever and today.
A deal drums out gluttonous,
all sound and good to they.
My keel breaks a harmony,
the Devil looks to say-
a Wheel turns in Cammanaugh.

>>8727805
Sorta nonsensical, and not in a fun way

>>8727844
Guess I'll make it more nonsensical then

>>8727798
>>pretending to be old fashioned

Dont

>>8727849
No wrong make it more fun

Confessor strike, leave your mark.
The gyre of pilgrims burning
in their hearts your words to hark.

Accused forth, Confessor speak.
Tall rouser stand to eagle's beak.

The hounds will know your sentence, on barren fields they bellow.

Judgement unto the rancid file,
and mark upon the severed hile.

Confessor kneel, pull your hair.
This gyre of pilgrims burning
in their hearts your flesh to tear.

Reposting becuase I've gotten some mixed criticisms. I can't tell if it's bad or just a bit inaccessible

Ava had gone to bed knowing for a fact that tomorrow was going to be more of the usual, provided of course she did what she was supposed to and didn't nudge the timeline out of place. When she crossed her eyes, she could see herself waking up and slapping sleep-blind at the radio to turn it off, followed shortly by the realizing that it was the phonograph in the kitchen and rolling off the mattress in a tangled heap of lethargic anatomy and linens. Her mother would burn the bacon (should she wake up early and make it herself so she didn't go to school smelling like a hog rendering plant?) her father would argue on the phone about what was almost certainly another late gin shipment (someone was going to end up sleeping in the Hudson), and her tutoring would form the flavorless bulk of an already unappetizing day. She couldn't be too sure about the phone conversation, but her father's world line certainly did not look pleased, and neither did hers or her mother's.

She uncrossed her eyes and then pulled the covers over them. The bright lights of New Amsterdam were a sight to behold, especially from her penthouse window, but Ava would have preferred to behold them when she wasn't trying to get shut-eye. Light pollution never really struck her as a positive thing. As she nodded off, she wondered what it would be like to see constellations in the skies rather than in the street lights.

>>8727735
reminds me vaguely of the earlier parts of John Dies at The End. The parts that are actually somewhat funny

>>8727837
not bad. sounds like a recounting of a war by þe olde barde. however
>A deal drums out gluttonous,
>all sound and good to they.
is complete nonsense and need to go. If your usage can't be found in a dictionary and you don't define it to the reader (which can't quite be done here), it's just a source of confusion

>>8727889
the same goes for this
>and mark upon the severed hile.

really, what are you even trying to say?

I'll trade u a crit

>>8727918
>>slapping sleep-blind
G o l d

See, I hate when people put me in a real place which they haven't been to (like mr Calcutta up there.) I like this piece though. what you've done is create a world with these thin shadings, and while I'm trying to figure out WHEN we are, you sucker punch me with the New Amsterdam line. Great.

I hope this isn't the opening scene of the novel though. People waking up doesn't draw people in.

>>8725469

>>8727850
what do you mean?

>>8710258
typo in first sentence. you don't give a shit about your reader so i don't give a shit about your story

>>8727932
opening scene of a short story. For reference I've lived 85% of my life in New Amsterdam, even if it hasn't been called New Amsterdam in 4 centuries. I just used the name so I can be as historically inaccurate as I want, and because Gotham is taken. I wonder how I'm going handle the characters talking with english-speaking characters

>>8727971
>Ava had gone to bed knowing for a fact that tomorrow was going to be more of the usual, provided of course she did what she was supposed to and didn't nudge the timeline out of place.

Got it. Is Ava meant to be a dimensional travelled? Or is the "nudge the timeline" meant to be metaphorical? Is interdimensional stuff a big part of the story? With that opening line, and the crossed eyes thing, maybe it should Be if it isn't.

Oh, and here's an image for the next draft. You know when you cross your eyes, and repeating images get stuck in a 3D configuration? Maybe show that as she's waking

>A fragment of a war story

"We're all brothers! Stop! Stop! We're all just human beings here!"

Werner, the new boy, had gone insane the moment the new Soviet attack landed.

Halle, watching this from a corner of the shell hole they had taken refuge in, closed his eyes for a moment. He had been concussed by a mortar blast some time earlier (an hour? He didn't know, all units of time seemed entirely indistinguishable to him) and though he knew that he should do something, like tell Werner to shut up ad fight back, he remained silent. Couldn't quite get the words to sound right in his head.

Hubble, the Unterscharfuhrer, did it for him. Landed an open handed smack across the back of Werner's helmet and rang the boy's head like a gong.

"Idiot!" He snarled, "what the hell are you doing?!"

Werner staggered, almost fell into the frost streaked side of the shell hole, rifle clutched uncertainly in trembling hands.

"There's no point to this!" He shrieked despondently, "to this fight! To this whole war!" He encompassed the battlefield with a jagged sweep of his arm. Hubble's lip curled.

"Fucking coward." The Unterscharfuhrer growled, words almost lost in the din of the battle.

Werner turned, and without hesitation he began to scramble up the side of the shell hole.

"Stop this!" He cried into the insane howl of the war, "everyone, let us stop this together!"

Hubble snatched for him but was a half second too late. Werner achieved the lip of the shell hole and cast his rifle into the snow beyond, balancing precariously on one foot.

"Oh goddamnit." Hubble breathed.

Werner threw his arms out, mouth open to air another utopian, achingly humanistic declaration, and was torn down in an instant by a storm of Soviet rifle fire.

He tumbled boneless backwards, crashing back down into the bottom of the shell hole, something akin to shock settling on his dying face.

Halle buried his face in the snow and tried hard not to weep.

>>8727918

1. Thought this one was pretty clear, but maybe I need to revisit it. The "deal" is the outcome of the conflict discussed, and that deal "drums out gluttonous," which is to say that it has consumed a large portion of the parties involved, which in this case is human lives. This deal is considered "all sound and good to they," which I feel is a very non-ambiguous line stating that "they" who are in positions of power concerning this deal are content with its ramifications.

2. Hile refers to a hilum, which is, in biology, an indent where nerves or blood vessels or other channels interface with an organ, seed, or other anatomical structure. In this instance, the "severed hile" is a human navel, because that's where the interface of the umbilical cord is cut.

Most of my stuff is written in the fog of a few day's worth of sleep deprivation induced delirium and hallucination. I don't remember writing most of it, but I can almost always parse it after a bit of consideration.

Not to say that I don't occasionally write nonsense, but most of the time, if you can't see the meaning of the lines, you're not looking hard enough.

>>8727989
no, no and yes. She can rotate her eyes in time time as well as space. it fucks up her perspective but she can see the future or past at a given location

In retrospect maybe I should make it a bit simpler and make her see the future, but I really want to hang on to a relativistic theme for her ability

>>8728028
>one eye sees the past, one eye sees the future. Crossing her eyes lets her see alternate presents

Pls r8 my letter

>>8728027
I was aiming for accessibility but it's clear that's not actually the proper direction. You need the help of a smug elitist, and I'm not saying that as an insult to you, that's just the target demographic.

>>8728066
That's actually an interesting idea, maybe I'll use it and say she can turn her eyes in a fifith dimension as well, allowing her to see through hypertime

>>8727177
Critique me, fuckers.

>>8728102
Word, back @cha
>>8725469

>>8727177
You should know that I audibly groaned when I read the first line. Figure out a better way to say that, because it COULD be a cool image

>>there are lightning bolts of mold on my day old coffee

Anyway, will read the whole thing and comment in the next post

>>8728102
>i have learned the hard way
No
Why are so many fictional, two dimensional girlfriends on /lit/ called Trish?

Hmm. So the narrator is in his room at the beginning. How does he see what's happening in the main apartment? So far, interesting setting you're building. That song thing is bad. Not spectacularly bad like you want it to be though, I think

The beginning is r o u g h but where you start talking about David and Jacob I'm fully invested. Work on the opening, maybe talk about the band more

>drunk and apocalyptic mood
This is what this story feels like. I'm enjoying it. The turns of phrase, the characterization is great. The introduction is bad (one by one, here is our cast of characters). We also don't get to see the narrator as much as we should. Just that he's not a very good songwriter. How did he react to what happened?
>end
I like it. It's not perfect. I think the opening is what made people not read it. You've got an exciting story here. I want you to finish it before you try to fix the beginning. More action-y open, less meditative reflections on poverty. When it started, I was like "oh boy, this is going to be one of THOSE stories"

>>8728069

Totally fair assessment, there.

I don't actually know how to write decent accessible poetry, I just let my subconscious mind churn out decidedly non-accessible stuff while the rest of me isn't paying attention at 4 AM.

>>8728186
Thanks hombre. I'll give yours a thorough read once this plumber I have over is done tearing up my kitchen sink.

Ava,” he said stopping her, “Do you believe in magic?”

“What do you mean magic? Card tricks? Slight of hand?”

“No, I mean magic, sorcery, toying with unseen forces and bargaining with strange beings. Enchanting objects and casting spells, that sort of thing.”

“I think it doesn't sound very rational.”

“That may be, but I'll bet you've seen some pretty irrational things in your life. Things you couldn't explain so just shook your head and said to yourself 'There's a perfectly logical explanation for this, but I'd rather not know'. The fact that we were hovering twelve stories in the air maybe?”

Ava resisted the urge to cross her eyes and look further or back. Her pupils looked flattened when she did that and she wasn't sure she was ready for him to know that about her. Assuming he doesn't already know. She pushed that thought to the back of her mind. “So the glasses are magic then? They'll make me invisible or something?”

“Yes and no, They're not quite that good. It's a trick I worked out a while back. They're called the Krypton Unfocals, and they've got elementals bound to them – I'll let you take a guess at what kind – So long as you're wearing them you'll never come off fishy or suspicious. Nobody would bother to scrutinize you, you're just a part of the scenery.” He tapped the shades of his own. “I invented these to get liquor through customs more easily, but they'll do for you in a pinch. So long as you work here you're perfectly safe.”

>>8728016
your narration is too frank and basic. It reads in the voice of foghorn leghorn. Try to keep archetypal speech patterns out of the narrative voice, at least for those regions and classes that are culturally perceived as less intelligent. As biased as it is, we don't want an explanation from someone who we subconsciously perceive as dumber than us

>>8728343
Ooh I don't like this. Just throwin in magic like this. Either make it a part of the world that people accept like in the golden compass, or delete this plot line.

Also your dialogue sucks

>>8728358
I thought as much, this is some of the worst in the story. It's made worse by the fact that she herself is magic but it's hard to address since she's a skeptic who has magic powers. She believes in magic but believes magic is just a name we give to things we don't have an explanation for. Let me try again.

>>8728028
Got a thing for cross-eyed girls?

>lazy eye
>omg guis I can see ur future I only luk tarded

>>8728358
Okay, I think this is better. Let me know what you think

“Now?” he asked. “Now you put on those glasses I gave you. I know they look a bit goofy but they're actually for a good purpose. Luca might come looking sooner or later, I figure these will keep you out of sight.”

“How?”

“That, dear girl is an industry secret, and you know our policy on those.” Ava's heart sunk. “Although,” he paused for effect, something he seemed to have much experience with. “I did tell you I'd answer to the best of my abilities, so I see no harm in giving you the general rundown. They're called snoreoscopes – patent pending – and they're a Damon original. Put those on you're suddenly the least interesting thing in the room! Nobody and I mean nobody around will suspect you of a damned thing, as far as they're concerned you're just part of the scenery.” He tapped the shades of his own. “I invented these to get liquor through customs more easily, but they'll do for you in a pinch. So long as you work here you're perfectly safe.”

>>8728516
No, I'm not Dan the Man. A slightly different version was originally planned for a much more unsettling character in a different story, but I realized with her it might look really creepy to turn her entire head in four dimensions so I just limited it to her eyeballs. The problem was there's not really a word for moving your eyeballs so crossing her eyes was the closest thing I could mange

>>8728577
This is better. Throw in a wacky pseudoscientific thing and you've got it. But keep in mind, you're getting closer and closer to magical realism. I feel like /lit/ doesn't like that, but I've got no clue. If you're going to go magical realism, go for it fully. In that, it's ok to have a DEVICE which does THINGS which MEAN THINGS. Read some thinkpieces about it to get the hang of it. It can be very fun.

Also, I want to see more of new Amsterdam

>>8728588
I thought magical realism was second only to epic

also, thanks. I got to change that from snoreoscope or snoroscope. snoreoscope sounds like it has a cream filling

>>8728608
>>8725469
No worries. Now READ NIGGA

>>8728636
Sorry man, missed your link. I've read it through and here's what I think

I liked it, it was good. Realistic ramblings, legitimate emotions, but there's a crucial flaw to the first half that needs to be addressed. The entire first half seems to have nothing to do with mental illness and everything to do with the fear that your friends don't even want you around. As a guy who's been told that outright, it fucking digs in deep, but from the sound of it, that wasn't want you were going for.

Maybe I'm wrong, maybe it was, but in that case you have a new issue: the delusions seem to come up too abruptly. There's a missing step in the logic between "My friends hate me" and "prostitute conspiracy". Granted, my own path through mental illness hasn't touched on paranoid schizophrenia [yet] so I really can't tell what's going on. Maybe that's what makes it so scary

>>8728751
This was addressed to someone who knew the score. I wanted to show them my perspective.

I'm considering sending a pitch to this American life. According to their submission page, it's like 2-3 pages. This might be a good starting point.

>>8721698
You lose momentum when you over-describe like that. Incorporate it in the story. "As it moved toward me, it's leathery skin rolled over its haunches" or whatever

>>8713204
This is amazing

Okay, I think I overdid it on the design porn considering there were already three paragraphs dedicated to her previous outfit (most of it being her mocking it) that it seems quintessentially animesque does not help matters


To her surprise they fit, at least well enough to stay on. She expected eyes to look distorted and huge; that is if she could at all through the engravings. As it happened she could see quite well through them, and if anything, her eyes looked small in comparison. She had always been on the small side, but wire frames dwarfed her face, making her look and feel like a girl in a halloween costume. It dawned on her that it wasn't far from the truth. She yesterday she was a summer away from being in a sorority but this was her first time on her own. She had never gone away to a boarding school, she had never held a job or sent out a resume. She had a more profound understanding of science than most of her teachers, but she wasn't even sure how to wash her own clothes.

She became aware maxwell was leaning over her shoulders, scrutinizing her – and himself – in the mirror. “Hmm...” he murmured and plucked the handkerchief from her head, transfiguring her short-cropped hair into a mass of cowlicks. “Needs more turquoise.”

The remainder of Ava's day was devoted almost entirely to introductions, accommodations, instructions and explorations. Wordless at times, and monotonous at others, Frankie showed Ava the boxcar she would be living in from here on out and the several other women with whom she would share it. She had a mattress of hay and a chest at the end, which contained next to nothing save a toothbrush and towel.

Her tent was much nicer, though dusky and dim, with dark walls that glittered with tritium-paint stars. The fabric beneath was brushed with curls of pale blue and white, forming quasars and nebulae she had only seen in her dreams.

Next came some measurements of her height shoulders and bust as a costumer designer found her an outfit that fit. It was tailcoat like Frankie's, with an ankle-length skirt, and a black ribbon bow that tightened to the brink of asphyxiation.

http://pastebin.com/Ra8Uyqbs

Please critique. I just want to know if it's too sentimental a start.

>>8710258

"Enough!" shrieked Ivan, springing out of his old, wrinkled brown leather chair. "I will not be taken for a fool. I will not be be deceived!" he screamed, throwing the empty glass bottle of vodka across the living room of flat 519. Simultaneously, as it shattered against the white wall, Alina stiffened and threw her pale thin arms up in the air. Attempting to hold back tears she reached into the pocket of her red floral dress, and with one hand, slowly withdrew an envelope with the words "To Ivan" written on it. "I swear my dear Ivan," she sobbed, "the news is true! I have never lied to you, and why would I ever lie about something like this? He is dead I tell you, dead! Has taken his own life with a revolver. Delicately stepping forward, she extended the envelope to Ivan. Breathing heavily, with the stench of alcohol on his breath he took it from her hands. Struggling to compose himself, he opened it. Finding a letter, he began to read.

"Ivan,

It has not been easy for me since that horror filled night in the depths of what we can only call hell. I have tried to return from agony, I have searched for answers to my problems. But alas I have found the only answer. It sits in the drawer of my desk. Hope in this life will forever be futile. I think I shall take a nap now. A nap for eternity.

-V. Sokolov

Upon seeing the familiar signature of his dear friend, Ivan collapsed to his knees in front of Alina. In what can only be described as pure sorrow, tears began to stream down his cheeks. He knew his only friend and mentor was gone. In despair, Ivan buried his face into Alina's dress. She put a hand behind his head and ran another through Ivan's unkempt brown hair. Getting on her knees the gaze of her kind blue eyes met his. "He was an honest man," Ivan whispered in a hoarse tone "an honest man...honest man." Alina placed her soft hands on his harsh stubble ridden, unshaven cheeks. "I know he was, my dear Ivan, I know." As she embraced him, his sobbing stopped. And on that cold, fateful, night in Novgorod, nothing but silence came from flat 519.

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>>8720502
>>8720510
yo man this is very good for my kinda of imaginative mind, maybe only my kind will like this a lot.

>>8729386

>Simultaneously, as it shattered against the white wall, Alina stiffened and threw her pale thin arms up in the air.

That's clunky as hell

>As it shattered against the white wall, Alina stiffened and threw her pale thin arms up in the air

>Alina stiffened and threw her pale thin arms up in the air as it shattered against the white wall

Are better alternatives

More to the point, you don't "stiffen" if you "throw your arms up in the air".

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>>8729386
This isn't very good at all. Sorry m8 just being honest.

>his old, wrinkled brown leather chair.
Too many adjectives. Always cut down on your adjectives.

>In what can only be described as pure sorrow, tears began to stream down his cheeks.
Cringe. You don't need to tell us he was really sad, let your images do that.

>Ivan's unkempt brown hair
Again too many adjectives and this sounds especially stilted--this is not the time nor place to allude to his hair as being brown. If at all that should perhaps be at an initial description or some time when it might be more relevant or worthy of focus.

>harsh stubble ridden, unshaven cheeks.
If his cheeks are harsh and stubble ridden we know they are unshaven m8.

I don't know what era this is supposed to be in, but dialogue like this
>He is dead I tell you, dead! Has taken his own life with a revolver
Sounds really unnatural. I mean alluding to the gun by specific type just doesn't ring true really.

>cold, fateful night
Eeeh, describing a night as "fateful" is pretty cliche.

>>8725469
interesting read. All the best friend.
from asia

It’s the tender touch, of cold fingers sliding across heated and feverish skin -
If only, for a brief moment two worlds collide

Fleeting and silent in the daylight -
And aroused to fruition in the whispers of the night

The few and the many -
But, for they all experience it as one.

The underbelly of the beast -
Only to rise up under the gloom of the moon

Like a fish coming up to breath -
Breaking through the soft waves and cascading ocean sprays

Only to disappear back in the abyss -
Forever hidden and only glinting at the never ending

The soft callings, tempting and tantalizing -
To bring awareness into the daily life of the mundane and soft

Yet shied away from, for how would a fish respond out of water? -
It thrashes, contorts and sickens with rot.

It’s the bubble of civilization, the mask that hides -
The cruel, the evil and torn.

The abominations that dance with glee at the slashes accompanying a knife -
Takings of an innocent life, virtue and humanity. From the young, old and the in between.

It’s the sorrow that says a small hello behind the crinkle of a smile-
Or pain accompanying the joy of laughing eyes.

Yet the eyes stay shut -
For what would a fish do, out of water?

To witness the midnight streak, from the upper tiers of life, and glance behind the facade-
And come out, still whole?

The mundane and soft -
Turned brittle and stricken.

It’s the tender touch, of cold fingers sliding across heated and feverish skin -
If only, for a brief moment two worlds collide.

Yet, what is there to do, when the pursuers of filth reign, high above in the skies under the blazing sun.
What am I to do, when I’m out of the water?

>>8729884
That made me laugh. Ah, domestic bliss...what would writers ever do without you?

Love, she is sitting, waiting; with her perfect blonde head propped on her fair palm. Delicate wee fingers crawling from under that soft chin, resting on those plush lips also perfect. One long leg folded over the other as she sighs like a breeze, easy yet restless. Love, she is sitting, waiting to be rescued like a rotten green polluted sky, littered across the heads of all, and none can unlock her blue.

Love wait no more!

I leaped up. Gusto! Trotted to my flower, held her in between my fingers, closed my eyes, and blew. Her pollen woke across the field, and I placed her petals between my lips, nuzzed them with my nose. How much infatuation I held within me. I wanted to fulfill her, anger her, consume her! Just to experience a moment, a still moment. A gaze into her eyes with and equal to a pause. Because with her, I knew what it was like to smile into a moonbeam.

Love wait no more! The sky is blue love! Look and see, the blue sky above our heads? SEE!?

She did not see, she was not there. She was sitting…waiting.

bumping >>8728961

>>8731215
I like the third paragraph but everything else is pure cringe

>>8729884
Weird, funny, comfy writing. Only problem is this is too informal for an impersonal narration. If the narrator is addressing someone and describing it to them it works fine, but written with time to prepare it sounds sloppy

>>8729863
This is ripe with cliches. At the least stay away from describing skin as "feverish"

A Knew

A man drunk. He went in strokes. A shadow was on the glass, and the drink on the shadow, teeming in the light. A ring. He let himself stay. The casedrawer was drawn, the ices in lorgnon teeming.
‘What happened to your hand?’
‘A fight.’
His lame. It gave him an ache, the sun.
All about. Going here and there, most never arrived within his sight. On a catalyst.
‘You can’t keep up like this.’
A man drunk.
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
The berm was ill devised. His throat was warm with drink. Tippled, astir, the shopcases all a dim. There was pink, little else. He called him up. Neath a splintered pilaster, coming down to the telephoneclip. Some watched as they went. He placed his coins in the slot. Taking it by the ban. A ring. A dialtone.
He came to a tributuary, a crutch over it, teeming. The man sat awhile. He would remain there all day.

Tell me what you think before I kill myself.

>>8731529
Thanks. For the critique. Any ideas on why the cringe?

>>8731710
Generally speaking, calling someone "love" even once is grating. calling them love again and again is just plain annoying, as is trying to point out again and again that the sky is blue. The entire piece makes you think it's being said at open mic night by a guy who poses and prances too much.

>Love wait no more! The sky is blue love! Look and see, the blue sky above our heads? SEE!?

this paragraph alone is the worst of it.

>>8731529
Alright, well ignoring the cliches, is there anything else that needs to be worked on?

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First time posting in these threads. No mercy, please.
1/2

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>>8731810
2/2
I'd appreciate any type of feedback!

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http://pastebin.com/fJanXfij

Scene I revised just now. Try to ignore the autistic parts if you can. Main character's GF dies as they are trying to get back to a ship where their home city has just fallen and is being taken over. He completely snaps and goes full suicide. Curious how well I convey that, especially if I should change the end of line / paragraph 25 to:

> Emma was dead. Emma was dead, and it was time for him to die.

Instead of saying it later. I like the parallel of "she's dead time for me to die" but I also like the "nothing else mattered" because I was listening to Nothing Else Matters when I wrote a lot of their scenes, how they really only cared about each other in a hopeless war. Also I don't know what to write for the part below at the end of line 27 where it's "She was dead, Sarengarth was gone, and it was time for him to die".... it just doesn't have the same ring to it. So I'm not sure if I should switch it back, or try to come up with something else, or what.

Also just general opinions on my prose, it's structure, it's rhythm, etc. Readability is my biggest priority, as well as not being entirely cringeworthy. I'm going through a lot of my old shit and trying to shift away from the ultraviolet spectrum if you know what I mean. I like the idea of Ernest Hemingway and his straightforward writing. But I also want to describe the gunfights well, make them feel fast and furious like I imagine them in my head.

Will give critique if you post your own shit with your critique of me.

>>8731810
>>8731819

>implying any of us speak Taco

>>8731845
Fug :D

>>8731810
>primera oración
>no hay un solo verbo principal
>descripción lugarcomunesca sin imagenes interesantes memorables

Lárgate a leer más.

Orthodox, his neck lynched a cross on a supple silky string, glistening. His teeth shined when he smiled, whitely like light reversed through a prism, and his mouth let off an alcoholic scent, the heavy drinker. A sculptor, he made heads, splitting, chiseling marble, creating beige spitting images to be displayed in zoos of frozen people. His work, quite pricy, sold still well, featured—sometimes, as said—in museums even, here and again, lauded by curators and set in fancy rooms together for the wealthy to awe and caw at in their shared dilettantism. Other times he held art shows, sales of his own—rented out an office space and had people come—and from that enjoyed modest money and localized renown. Today he wore sooty boots with matched black trousers and a woollen coat to protect his torso, of apt dress what with the weather,—'s snowing,—on his way to some business, strolling through the sharp crisp atmosphere of cold: Winter's provision. On pavement walking he printed tracks on the cement now shifted a corner to a busier street turned his head around to check behind and a crack effected from his spine a pleasing feeling a fine wine corking himself. Dionysus. He spied what he wanted on the road and employed his arm to wave at the taxi flag it and stop it and opening the door shuffling in he sat buckled in and called politely:
—To the library! And step on it!
And the driver changed gears turned the wheel shoulder-checked peddled.

>>8729697
Thank u Asia

>>8732012
Overwritten cringecore. Relax m8.

I can tell you have a certain knack for discerning pleasing cadence but cadencefags always end up overdoing it and tripping over their twirly foofy sentences. What exactly does "winter's provision" add to things? "He employed his arm"? Come on man.

I'm basically retarded when it comes to writing, how can I get better. Specifically resources on reports and non creative writing.

>>8732586
By reading

>>8731750
Cool thanks. Also what's good about the third paragraph?

I'm re-writing some parts to make the themes of my story a bit more clear. Hopefully it makes the story better and not ham-handed


After 15 minutes of self-involved commentary, Maxwell arrived at a roasted nut cart with Ava in tow. Ava could not remember seeing so much variety. There were almonds candied with ginger and sugar and peanuts dusted with sweet paprika and salt. A bag of walnuts were being churned in chocolate and caramel. “What do you think?” he said handing her a bag of hazelnuts coated in musky sweet dust. “I pioneered this recipe myself! It's a secret blend of invigorating spices from the jungles of unknown Zanzibar. It's guaranteed to fortify your frontal lobe for two guilders a bag, but aren't you lucky this one's on the house”

“Oh, it's coffee,” Ava determined. Maxwell's grin faltered. “coffee, cinnamon, cloves and pepper, plus a bit of sugar.”

“Not bad. I didn't realize I had a cook in the audience”

Ava blushed. “Not really, no. I just had a friend who liked to test recipes on me.” A chill ran down her spine as a thought dawned on her. Had Luca realized she was there that night? She wasn't exactly quiet, and Luca was nothing if not thorough. If he had known she was there last night he would come looking for her, and he could suspect anyone she knew of being a refuge or confidant.

For a moment the silence that draped over them took a dreadful weight, bearing down on them like a blanket of lead. Ava forced herself to push past it, and soon enough the vacuum lifted. “What surprises me is how mild the bitterness is. It should be enough to make me claw my own tongue out, but I actually like it. Are you dulling the flavor with small amounts of salt?”

“Young lady, the more time you spend measuring the marigolds the less you spend enjoying them. Take it from me, one you know how a trick works it starts to lose it's luster.”

>>8732012
It's not bad, but those first two lines have a comically cynical air about them. It shows immaturity and teen angst. If you're going to do unhappy, go dull grey, not black of night, though the former should be done carefully and tempered with wit and intrigue to avoid becoming a depressing mess

>>8731636
chalk it up to style, but you're being a bit too brief and blunt there. Try varying the sentence sizes and speaking in more than short bursts

>>8732012
There is not an RGB value to show how purple this is. I would need to have that fourth dimension of rods and cones to even comprehend that color. If your goal was to write something indecipherable so you can laugh at people who can't understand it and jack off to your "superiority," you did your job.

Nah I'm just being a dick. Seriously though, cut down the run on sentences, I am getting lost in them.

> Orthodox, his neck lynched a cross on a supple silky string, glistening.

What the fuck is this even saying? A cross on a string around his neck? It's clever, potentially, but make it a little less cryptic unless you want it to be solely bait for literature majors.

>>8734274
You should say "as he handed her a bag of hazelnuts" or at least put a comma in there.

Do a new line for each line of dialogue. Some people skip what's in between to maintain the rhythm in their heads. I try to minimize extra sentences between dialogue lines. Except maybe "he smiled" or "she blushed" or maybe 1 or 2 adverbs. But those authors who decide to go off on some expositional tangent halfway through their dialogue, then come back to it and pretend I still remember what the fuck the characters were talking about, piss me off to no end.

> A chill ran down her spine as a thought dawned on her. Had Luca realized she was there that night? She wasn't exactly quiet, and Luca was nothing if not thorough. If he had known she was there last night he would come looking for her, and he could suspect anyone she knew of being a refuge or confidant.

This just feels too long. What do you think of:

> A chill ran down her spine. Had Luca realized she was there that night? She hadn't been that quiet, and Luca was nothing if not thorough.

Cut out the last sentence, I don't see the function it plays here. Is this the beginning of a story or what?

Overall it's okay but needs some work.

>>8734536
Only cones detect color. Rods are motion and fine detail

>tfw despite having characters who can see in minkowski space, and manipulate both light and color, not one of them is a tetrachromat

>>8734546
It's in the middle of a story. Luca is someone who knew her personally and who just murdered her parents the night before, now she's worried not only about herself, but anyone she knows, lest he thinks they're harboring a witness. I don't think that point gets across if you remove that part. Maybe it could be shortened though, or at least broken up.

I agree thought about the spacing.

here's what I have now

>A chill ran down her spine as a thought dawned on her. Had Luca realized she was there that night? She wasn't exactly quiet, and Luca was nothing if not thorough. If he had known she was was a witness he would look for her. Anyone she cared about would be suspected of hiding her

A hitchhiker with a rotten thumb walks with a stupor. The stupor, open eyed and wide jawed, held the microphone most of the time. But he had no idea why it was off. Never chalked it up to user error. Most don't, but good ol bad thumb knew there wasn't much to it, probably better off without the stupor but having a bad thumb made him want to be a tree. Little did he know some martyrs are just people who died. Who knows, maybe the thumb was a blessing, we'll see where it leads em.

>>8734593
Yeah that's better.

What is the Faculty? To what can it be likened? There is nothing like it on the Earth; its emergence showed the folly in that saying of Solomon, the old rascal, that under the Sun there is nothing new. For it indeed it new, or was. Now it is old as nothing else in this world is old. Older than the institutions of men or the life of any organism. The greybeard sequoias of the west are as insects to the Faculty, their lives passing in but a breath. Indeed, even the stones under our feet and the molten core of this planet are younger than the Faculty, for they are changing every day. Each rainfall, each earthquake, each passing moment of geologic change alters them into something entirely new. Similar, yes, to what came before, but entirely new. The whole Earth is different from the Earth of a moment ago, and unrecognizably changed from the world that our friend Solomon trod upon. The Faculty is not like that. It is steady, it is constant as only the nothingness between the worlds is constant. It cannot change as the void cannot change, since there is nothing to change.
But nothing has quite a lot of power.

"For Borges" -- around 600 words

https://bullshit.ist/for-borges-374d0d7dee9f#.1rkpimqsq

Okay, I can recognize this is ridiculously bad, but I've hit the limit of my attention and am forcing pure shit. Yes, these two retarded sequences are adjacent. It's that bad


Dinner was taken at a Russian cafe by the station, where Ava kept her mouth filled with pierogis so she would not be required to mingle. Even so, fractions of words slipped past the sound of her chewing, and before the night had ended she had a rough idea of which elephants were being moved from the stages to the concession stands and whose horn Sprinkles the Clown had been honking in the bearded ladies room.

That night as she rested, to tired to think, night terrors struck her and left her panting for breath. She woke up confused, agnostic and scared, recalling only pieces of her dreams and her sights. In her mind's eye she replayed again and again a vision of the sun consuming itself. It began with a black spot the size of a pea before draining and accreting and forming a lens in the Minkowski grid. The orb formed a ring and a halo of ionized gas, and the stars stretched to streamers of degenerate quarks. As the air and the soil were consumed by the sky she screamed noiselessly at an uncaring void. Her last sight was passing through the Schwarzschild eye, and then she bolted awake drenched in cool evening sweat

>>8735789
I am in no place to judge, but this is painfully pretentious without having much content. You're mixing the speech patterns of enlightenment-era philosophy and economics with 1980's-2000's lovecraftian horror terminology

Stick with a consistent speech pattern. It's not that mixing can't be done, but that you aren't doing it well and you're using it for purposes other than comedy