Critique General

>>8822030
Suena demasiado romántico e cliché...

>otras personas que han sufrido de lo mismo decirme que lo mejor que se puede hacer en estos casos es olvidar, y en caso de que eso sea imposible, bloquear.

would they really say that....

I'm not spanish, but it's not poorly written, the theme you pick—and I don't know if you're writing from experience or not—is the typical heavy-emotion a new writer would force into their prose, to get a forced emotional response from the reader, but truth is the reader likely won't respond much to it and just keep reading, somewhat detachedly, I think, at least that's me.

>>8822030
If the spanglophone world doesn't have a John Green yet, be that John Green.

>part of a short story i just wrote
It is said that when two opposing equal forces meet each other they neutralize. What happened when Mark went to live with Susan was a slow process of sculpting, of erosion. Much like a blade is diminished as its sharpened, both of them molded the other into a more sophisticated form by virtue of butting heads. And in the end their flaws were blunted whilst their virtues were polished. They became gentler people, their reserves of bile and spite, though considerable were not infinite, and greater still was the motivation that pushed them to get it out and get rid of it all. Once they threw at each other everything they had to throw they could finally start to pick up the good things. He learned from her to be more considerate and empathetic for those who had it worse than him, and she learned from him to not get caught up in her own indignation and resentment towards those who didn't have it quite as bad. They grew up, as people does

"Hurry," Hermione cried, holding open the portrait of the Fat Lady.

Ron, his cheeks bulging with half-chewed toast, shoved on his shoes and ran over to the portrait.

"Uhh, just a minute," shouted Harry from the male dormitory.

"Really Harry, we're going to be late!" Hermione complained, tapping her foot against the flagstone.

"I wonder what the bloody hell he's up to," said Ron. "I haven't seen him since he snuck in late last night!"

Suddenly a figure appeared on the stone steps leading down from the dormitory, and both Ron and Hermione noticed who it was.

"Ginny!" they both cried. Ginny blushed violently and bit her lips before moving slowly down the stairwell. Behind her Harry appeared in the midst of buckling up his trousers.

"Oh gosh, you two!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Harry, that's my bleeding sister!" Ron angrily bellowed.

"Sorry," Harry attempted. "It's just, well, I've learned this new spell. The one Hermione used to make her quill a little longer. And well-"

"That really is quite enough Harry," Hermione interrupted.

Ron stood aghast, mushy bread falling from his mouth.

It was time for a duel.

Midnight mass at the local church came to an end; the mothers flocked outside to discuss politics and argued over whether pink or red lipstick was in while the fathers eagerly started the cars. Carlos Diaz, teenaged son of Jennifer Diaz, dashes around to the back of the church, where his friend Damien hands him a cigarette. “I can’t believe you got me hooked on this shit, now I look and smell awful. Samantha will kill me if she finds out I started again.” Damien pulls a lighter from his jacket and forks it over. “Don’t worry man, there’s no trait a women finds more attractive than self-loathing..” “This coming from the one of us that is a virgin?”

1/4

I like to picture society as a big human body. We all occupy particular roles; academics and certain corporations might be neurons, consumers might be a kind of stomach acid. Lawyers may be a cluster of cells in the forebrain. Street criminals and conservatives might be somewhere in the amygdala. Blood might be delivery people of all kinds, and homeless folk must be somewhere in the rectum. The police force, though: the police force is a muscle. A fleshy, taut muscle that can both lift and smother. The flick of a cow's tail in response to an itch caused by a fly landing on its ass. The twitch of your eye as the last straw breaks. Hypertension as the lungs stop. The police force is white blood cells, it's the stuffy nose saving you from the flu, but sometimes, you know, muscle is the crushing death. Sometimes white blood cells replicate uncontrollably, causing your lungs to fill and your cells to die and everything to turn black. Regardless of that though, the police force is a muscle. Whether, though, they twitch or crush, tense or snap, coil or are entirely relaxed, individual police officers can be said to possess their own muscular feature. Some wear it on the outside, visible to all. Others hide it, resenting their existence as a muscle, a white blood cell.

A twitch.

Henry Glazier walked into the police station. It was 6:54am. It was chilly. He could see his breath as he walked up the concrete staircase with his hand on the brass rail, opened the heavy front door, and began to cross the glossy marble floor with echoing steps. The night guard gave a bleary smile and nod as he approached. "Hey Glazier. You on goon squad today?"
"You bet." He walked past stiffly, turned to the reflective elevator door and thumbed the button for UP. The elevator lurched slightly as he stepped onto it. Floor 7. His destiny.

______

Henry felt a lot of things after waking up from a dream. He felt confusion, in the moment directly preceding waking; little men behind the scenes pulling at ropes, setting the stage. Pulleys whining somewhere in the background as he rises from sleep.

Henry was a cop. He became more and more aware of this as the elevator numbers lit themselves up in sequence, his dream-haze falling off of him in great heavy sheets. The doors opened, revealing a bustling cubicle forest; people spilling in and out of cubicles, shuffling to and from photocopiers and fax machines, and producing people sounds as they did so. The din would have been disorienting to most, but Henry strode unaffected past the maze and towards the office at the far end of the room.
An orange-haired woman's head poked up from behind one of the cubicle walls. "Hey there, sexy," bleated Maeve, whom Henry knew as being from accounting, as well as heading the department's rumor mill. Henry chuckled by reflex and turned without breaking stride. "Morning, my dear," he said with exaggerated pomp.

>>8823944
2/4

Maeve feigned a swoon and dipped back down behind the cubicle wall. Henry hadn't been able to see the artful piece of slapstick, as he had already disappeareed into the monolithic glass-walled office at the end of the room. Heavy, smooth click as the door closed into quiet. The man sitting before him behind a frosted glass desk was none other than Jan Hobbs. A man whose rough appearence seemed softened somehow by the delicate and expensive-looking glass ornaments surrounding him on all sides. On his desk, in the glass cabinets on either side of the room: the cabinets themselves were tall, up to the ceiling, and quite ornate. They were covered in complicated leaf-patterned inlay and raised bits of gold wire throughout. A delicate-looking glass pear sat onthe desk in front of him, appearing as if it had shared a maker with the cabinets, and had, Henry would muse later, likely cost a similar amount as well.
Jan would, Henry knew from experience, look very much more at home in a patrol car working the midnight beat and swearing loudly at minorities than he did sitting in that office. At least that's how Henry had known him before he had moved up in the company. "Take a seat, Glazier," Jan extended an open yet still vaguely claw-like hand towards the blocky glass chair that sat awkwardly in front of the desk. Glazier took the seat. "So, brute squad today, eh? Think you're ready?" Jan continued with a wink and a couple of nudges in Henry's direction.

It was a joke because they both knew it was. He was more than ready. It was an open secret that most cops relished crowd control and couldn't wait for their turn. It was an open secret that the military-style regalia, the chanting, the sheilds and masks and thumping of knight sticks did well to serve up that little bit of excitement to an otherwise boring work week. Not least of all, Glazier was excited to use the force's newest riot tech--a nonlethal superweapon that was said to enable near-perfect crowd control.

Henry could feel himself nodding and agreeing as Jan began speaking and gesticulating emphatically over the details of the coming raid. THe local resistance had spread to the surrounding suburbs and beyond in recent months, and word had gotten out that a brute-force takeover attempt of the city hall was about to take place, the looming spectre of which, as Jan put it, was a black smear on the city that needed desperately to be cleansed. He found himself staring at the pear as Jan's debriefing turned into a tirade. The edges of his visual field softened and Jan's voice receded.

>>8823952
3/4
Perception now becoming as glassy as the chair he sat on, Henry focused on the pear. It was beautiful. Frosted glass, delicately formed with the finest lines of gold swirling about the contours of the little fruit. Breaks in the frost formed lines that ran along the edges of the inlay, all perfectly terminating at some spot or other on the pear's surface. Jan's rant now was lightyears away, arriving through Glazier's ears through several layers of thick wool. Harold almost thought he could trace Jan's grand agenda for the city in the organic whorls and curvature of the inlay, sitting on the surface of the fruit like a road map to providence.

"Glazier."

He returned to the world to see Jan no longer gesticulating, his hands folded neatly on the desk. "So like I said, you'll be on the front line. You fine with that?" Composing himself and feeling a smile pass onto his face, "Yes Sir." Jan gave him one last cursory glance, as if trying to look under his skin. "Get yourself some coffee," he said as Henry stood up and was about to leave; "you'll need it." With that, Harold gave a final, crisp nod before swinging open the glass door and going back out into the cubicle maze. Passing Maeve's station again, he looked over to see her winking in another absurd imitation of endearment. He lifted a corner of his mouth and gave a polite nod as he exited the cubes and went back out into the cavernous belly of the building.

As he stood in front of the elevator to go down he began to picture Maeve naked, and promptly shuddered. The doors to the elevator opened, spilling out cops and bureaucrats, receptionists and suited men. Harold squeezed through the throng into the now empty elevator. He turned around to face the front and scanned the panel of smooth, new buttons. There, he thought. Basement. He thumbed the foggy LL and checked his teeth in the mirror as the elevator descended smoothly and silently into the bowels of the building. Doors open to a fresh chaos as officers in various states of dress and undress crack jokes, fiddle with their equipment, comparing shield techniques, gun calibers. The changeroom was a combination highschool locker room and armory. The perfect storm, Harold thought to himself as he nodded to Rob, his old partner from the day beat. He walked past to the back where he would find a set of fitted police-issue undergarments, leg warmers, waist tensor. This was all the soft under-layer to be worn underneath the more shell-like exterior of the riot uniform.

>>8823953
4/4

He disrobed, suited up as he heard someone fart loudly to a burst of laughter from the other cops. Harold chuckled to himself as he slipped on the last of the soft layer. He walked up to the front of the room where the more substantial elements of the riot suit were hung up. Everyone had mostly suited up and were all now joking about smashing hippies. They always joked about performing wanton acts of police brutality, although it rarely happened in actuality. No one liked the paperwork involved, and most did in fact have moral reservations, Harold knew, but this type of humour was to the police force what suicide humour is to prison inmates: humour kept the desires at bay.

Harold had gotten his lower half dealt with. His boots, shin guards, knee pads, cup. The other cops were now stomping the ground, testing the fit of their boots, readjusting shoulder straps. They began swinging their knightsticks calculatedly against invisible enemies, knocking them against their shields, testing the sturdiness of their gear and getting into character. Harold watched all this and saw the men turning into immovable rocks. It was an elaborate ritual. Soon, satisfied with their new status as supermen, they began clanking their night sticks against their shields. The energy of the room reached Harold, who was now fastening the upper elements of the riot uniform, kevlar, elbow pads. The clanking intensified and became a solid, rhythmic chant as he snapped on his gun belt, put on his helmet and joined the throng, stomping into his boots, joining the tribal chant of the knightsticks. Today was going to be a good day.
_

The policemen all tumbled and spilt out of the main police building and into the van, frolicking. Once secure, they drive into Zone 1. They all put on a calm, vigilant air as they sit shoulder to shoulder in the bumpy metal box. No one makes eye contact. They look at the floor of the van as the head man briefs them one last time about the situation. It was a peaceful protest, but here had been threats of violence. They weren't sure what kind of crowd they were dealing with, so they were to be amicable while the peace was maintained. They arrive at their destination and the doors open to the final bit of bleached-out daylight with the dusk quickly approaching. A solid wall of humans faced them, muttering to each-other through cupped hands. The officers paid no mind, spilling out of the van and fanning out ten feet away from their vehicle.

They disperse slightly but stay within arm's reach of each-other. The first goal is to get the riff-raff out of the goddamned road. A few moments passed as the officers set up a small antenna, Joe, the man setting it up muttering very serious-sounding incantations. "Alright boys switch 'er on."
A button was pressed, and suddenly everything became red as the antenna started, for lack of a better term, screaming.

>desafortunadamente
Are you for real, spics?

>>8822497

10/10 would fap

>>8823957
Not bad. Your introduction got me to read on further, and I kept reading, so you have a good format and some good ideas. Of course it needs heavy revisions, your wording can be awkward at times, a few sentences were structured nearly the same as the sentence preceding it and I find that annoying.

You also appear to lay a whole lot out there that needs more content or explanation. If Jan and Henry are supposed to have a deep relation then we need more out of the two. Are these cops really pieces of shit? Or are they also victims of a flawed system? Stuff like that. You don't need to directly answer it in your writing, but as the author you should know the answer and use it to dictate your writing.

Also, who is narrating the first paragraph? Or whose thoughts are those? Henry's? You seem to have an omniscient 3rd person narrator. If it was the narrator speaking that part, well now your narrator has thoughts & characteristics.

Pretty decent though, overall.

>>8824042
Awesome, thanks! That's pretty much all stuff I'm actively working on, so it looks like I'm not /too/ delusional about being able to do a good job on this. and there are a couple of other character arcs that help give context to this one.

About the narrator, yeah. He's either an ethereal meta-character that makes embodied appearances in the story itself or I'm going to have to work that out some other way...

Really, thank you though, I appreciate the thoughtful critique.

>>8823957
>>8824042

While I'm at it I may as well see if I can get a bit of feedback on my approach to the other protagonist. This is a tentative first page (actually occurring at the end of the story though). First sentence needs to be changed, etc, but I think I've got the descriptive style to do what I want it to do.
__

So it had all come to this. It was all I could think of, standing there in that big green field, wind whipping about my clothes and hair, the sunlight shining down onto the hillcrests above and grassy meadows below. The air was fresh and danced freely through the bullrushes in the marsh and flattened great sheets of grass in a directionless cadence. I watched, intently, a beautifully organized storm of dark geometry lined with neon fluorescence
cycling pure primaries against a very old and very dusty darkness that seemed to take up an infinite amount of space and yet almost none at all. At the center, was her: Penelope. Perfect penelope, eyes shining like pools of liquid obsidian, her expression one of perfect, ancient calm. A
perfect representation of the void, the hantavirus, the thing behind it all whose hunger is endless, Penelope stood perfect in her
dress, beckoning silently and without movement for me to come closer. It was in that moment, as I began walking towards her and that
strangely shining light coming from nowhere in particular that I realized that I was in love. In love with life, with love itself, with the
destruction of humanity and of any illusions of bondage that had previously plagued me. I knew then that I was free, and that I had
unwittingly become Patient Zero in the intertwining dramas that were my own life and everything in it. Now
all I had to do was inhale the crisp air around me, look straight into that slow, syrupy smile that had begun to spread itself across
her pale face like an egg yolk being burst with a fork, and to take that first step.
And in that moment we were all rainbows. Rainbows, screaming through the void.

Is it okay to post ebook published stuff here? I want to post them but I'm not sure if it's against the rules

"Don't you want to be clean?" From the doorway her captor sets down a bucket. Soapy water slops to the floor. Now a hose, green and with a garden spray nozzle, being pulled in, groaning from the friction, coiling next to the froth like a snake.

She doesn't answer.

"For fuck's sake." And with a heave, the vault is shut: on flicker the lights, artificial, flourescent. It hurts her eyes. She presses her face up against the concrete to escape it. "I don't think I've ever seen a sadder sack of shit." She hears footsteps approach. Pristine white sneakers appear in the sliver of her vision. Her captor crouches, sniffs. "Disgusting."

A prod, stiff and rude, into her naked ribcage. She pulls into herself. Ignores the next one.

"Just disgusting," mutters her captor. "Look at you. You know there's a sink in here, right? Is that just too base for your tastes? "

"Don't care," she whispers into the floor.

"You know what I don't care about?" A yank of the hair, wrenching her head to the side. The light is blinding. She squints and sees only a silouhette above her. "You know what I don't give a shit about? This little pity party you've got going here. Rotting in your own filth." Her vision is adjusting, and she finds her captor's face. "I have to clean it up, and I'm starting to think you're doing it to fuck with me."

"No, ma'am," she mumbles.

"So you'll cooperate?" A cutting smile.

She nods.

>>8822497
JKR is that you?

All lights are gone, veiled by trees that spin a web of black. We ride into the mouth of the beast, into the heart of the country, where the moon and her friends come to bleed. The one eyed cabbie speeds down the dirt, clanking his chassis against the earth. In the sky, thunder, like abaddon’s trumpet, ringing into the night.

“This is far enough,” I tell him.

With innocent orbs I hand him the five dollar fare. He smiles and reaches to grab the bills, but instead, grasps my hand, not with aggression, but with tenderness, a sad and miserable tenderness like that of an abused wife. His other hand turns off the car. The rumbling of the engine ceases, the air is still. I am the light of his eye.

“Do your parent’s know you’ve come so far on your own?”

Ice forms in my blood. He licks his lips and brings them close to my face. His breath smells of alcohol, and from up close I can see that he is old and foul, his face an ocean of grease. Hundreds of acne scars span across his face like islets and his empty eye socket, pink and purple, glares in the moonlight. It does its best to blink in accordance with its counterpart.

He eases the grip of his hand on mine, placing his fingers on my head. A whisper in my ear,

“Dios lo bendiga, muchachito.”

He heads back to the city, his machine and its noise fading back into the lights. Lemongrass and noni compete amongst the green. I see their outlines for the night is black. Hundreds of stars flirt and flaunt their light at me, trying to reach my eyes with their dim glow. Hanging from strings above, an empty sky and its sickly moon, their maker concealed in the cloth of night. Winds swirl on the colorless orb, blowing synchronously in some ecstatic concierto.

Or rather, there is no wind.

>>8822030
the best option is to kill yourself

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>>8826504
This is by far the best thing I have seen posted in a critique thread. The grammar is stellar, the metaphors are tight without being too in-your-face, and its funny as fuck on top. Somehow you managed to scoop up a glittering handful of that stream that gurgles behind the faces and words of our generation. But not just the human aspect, there's a pinch of that meatless light that whirs untranslated outside our direct experience.

What a wonderful lift it was to run my eyes over that.

The most amazing part is how easily we swallow compliments. Makes you wonder about the black deep contempt behind them.

>>8823975
what about it

>>8826522
enough mind games man jesus

Jevandy
He strode swiftly, weaving through the scatter of bodies. The miracle of perambulation. One foot in front of the other, forever.
Jevandy was vexed by the mental image of a man who fell to the side every time he attempted to take a step forward. With some effort, he banished this man from his mind and overcame his frustration.
“This isn’t how aliens would get around.” He usually imagined them being brightly colored blobs--amoeba the size of bathtubs. Impossibly intelligent gelatins that roll around, speaking in perfect English, using abstruse vocabulary; their voices underlaid with some low electronic hum. They traverse a perfectly round and grey planet, moseying from one conversation to the next. At the end of a 335 hour day, they stagnate next to their Ideal Mate and refocus their energies for 70 hours. Jevandy spent a non-negligible amount of time crafting, honing, and ultimately envying characters in his mind. Internally, he sought praise and status for his technological savvy, but he merely coasted by in his computer science courses. Above all, he valued the abundant comedy of life. He believed that of all existing love, the best of it was found in that abundance.
On the brink of perspiration, he arrived at the door of his Sociology class 24 minutes early.
“Jevandy, you’re early! An auspicious occasion, to be sure,” called out Mr. Garfoyle. An adjunct lecturer at Reed College, Davis Garfoyle was Jevandy’s uncle. He had worked there for 17 years, but various transgressions kept him from a higher academic rank. Facebook messages of yearning to female professors. Performing behavioral studies on his pupils without them knowing. Fierce invectives directed at unlucky students--these were particularly unsettling, given his usually sunny disposition. Notwithstanding his more troubling quirks, he was an excellent teacher with a fierce intellect. His pedagogical verve simultaneously endangered his career and staved off his termination.

>>8826522
>>8826853
tfw i don't know if it's good or not

>>8826906

“I’m always early, I just usually wait in the hall.”
“Well it’s perfect. Let’s go to my office, I’ve a matter to discuss with you.”
A vague nervousness came upon Jevandy. Being Garfoyle’s presumed favorite relative--most others in the family were mystified by the 41 year old divorcee--he wasn’t worried about the nature of the meeting; he was daunted by the task of maintaining normal eye contact throughout the conversation. Garfoyle closed the door and urged Jevandy to have a seat.
“Listen closely, my boy. I’m coming to you with this first because I know you can understand it. I might not tell anyone else actually…” He trailed off. Usually an efficient and elegant speaker, he seemed troubled for a moment by an apparent inability to broach the subject. “I’ve been approached by some very nice Northern Neighbors! Thats right, Canadians! The details of how I came into contact with these people… well it’s frankly none of your concern!” He laughed eerily for a long time. The cadence of his speech was oddly fractured and truncated. It sounded like someone had spliced together various recordings of his voice to create these particular phrases.
An overlong pause followed the guffaw. Jevandy’s extremities were cold and rigid in the air conditioned office. Extremely uncomfortable, not knowing what to do or where to look, he cracked some of his knuckles, satisfyingly. Garfoyle did not notice.
Looking slowly around the room, a pall came over the man. His face communicated that he had lost everything he loved. When he started up again, he sounded like an actor rotely reciting a line that had become meaningless from repetition. “There is a compound in Vancouver. Some very nice gentlemen are there and they want to help us.” The walls became dark and the ceiling seemed to disappear. Jevandy initially wanted to believe that the whole ordeal was a joke or an experiment, but he could not ignore the gravity of the situation. This was not the same man anymore. The figure behind the desk stood up, and its face began to vibrate and crackle horrifically. Utterly dismayed and unable to move, Jevandy knew this being was deeply evil, but strangely, he did not feel he was in any danger. The fear lived somewhere far beyond the physical world; it extended into a distant atmosphere that could not be understood. A dream of blackness and infinite falling. Everything was rearranged and decided anew. There was enough space for all the tragedy of humanity to pass through. The face rippled and pulsated. Words emanated.

>>8826908
“It’s going to happen to you too. You will always have your body. You can control everything. Flying is painful. Sleeping is small. Everyone is here. I have you. We know your kindness. Make an offering. You are infringing on multinational issues.” The voice was no longer human. Jevandy saw himself screaming and running down the hall.
In his next conscious moment, he was on a sidewalk at the corner of an intersection. Everything was light and soft. He felt his socks against his feet, but he did not feel the ground under his shoes. Birds hopped by silently. The sky was impossibly far away. He was aware that trees were alive and growing. Empty space shifted and stretched loosely around objects. Wind could be seen but not described. A bird was driving a car. Red light.
“Who are you?” Jevandy asked the small yellow bird. Its feet could not reach the pedals, and its wings never touched the wheel. It sat on a stack of books so it could see the road.
“I’m a she, not an it,” the bird chirped.
“What?”
“I’m a female bird. I’m a woman. If you want to talk, get in.”
Jevandy did not hesitate. He did not trust the reality of his new environment, but he felt safe with the bird. She laughed when he buckled up.
“That’s rich! Safety first! You see, there are no accidents here. Everything happens on purpose. Not always for a reason, I’m not saying that. It’s just that we have things mostly figured out. And no, you’re not ‘dead.’ I hate when people ask that, it’s so boring.”

>>8826911

“What’s your name?”
“Cabinet. Nobody ever ‘dies’ here, so everyone gets to know each other eventually… it’s easier if we all have different names. You have to be creative.”
“How do you drive? Is everyone a bird?”
“You seem very calm. It’s kind of weird.”
“...Did you hear me?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, sorry, I lost track of who was talking. It’s pretty hard to learn, but you kind of just picture yourself driving… like for example, how do you move your hand? You just do it, right? And no, there are humans here. Birds get along with each other better than humans though, so most of us are birds. I have a lot of money, but I have even more friends. I’m driving to a party right now. Good music will play. We’ll read poetry.”
The light turned green. The bird drove very fast, as there were no speed limits. Jevandy was silent for a while, thinking deeply. He felt he was in a safe place, created by a benevolent force. He never had to strain to make sense of it; he knew that no evil would befall him, but he could not help thinking it was too good to be true, this new plane of...existence? Imagination?
“If no one dies, how does it end?”
“‘End?’ Are you thinking of time, or life?”
“What? There is no end of time, because time isn’t real. And there’s no end of life, because no one dies. So is there any end?”
“...Look. You escaped, okay? You escaped fear and danger, life and death… isn’t that enough?”
“I just want to know. I get why that stuff happened with my uncle… it was worth it. I get it… but can’t you answer my question?”
The bird sighed. “That’s what you want to know? Not ‘Why am I here?’ ‘What are those numbers in the top right corner?’ ‘Why aren’t you flying?’ Why can’t you settle for something like that?”
“Because… I want to have fun here… make friends, get married… have a podcast... but if it all stops existing one day, that could mean that it never existed in the first place. And I can’t live with that.”
“What?!” Cabinet braked hard and pulled the car over. “What do you mean… That’s not possible! This is real! All of this is forever!”
“You don’t know that. The whole point of this place is that anything is possible. That’s what’s so beautiful about it! We don’t ask what everything means, because making our own meaning is what makes existing fun… there is meaning, and there is love. That’s all we know about existing. There is nothing else… unless there’s an end. The end is the only thing that isn’t ‘something’ or ‘nothing.’ That’s why it’s so dangerous. That’s why I have to know.”
“No… nothing is dangerous! We escaped from danger!”
Jevandy had to take a few minutes to consider the conundrum. Cars raced by on the highway.
“Cabinet…”
“Yeah?”

>>8826915


“How do you know no one dies here?”
“My mom told me. She’s very old.”
“Where is she?” asked Jevandy.
“I don’t know. She flew away 41 years ago.”

The End

i didn't even try on the ending

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>>8826504

>thunder like a trumpet

I dreamt of the aurora again. Lasted longer this time, managed to reach the overpass. I saw the Capitol out west, jutting from the prairie like a great scab, and the ghost lights loomed over it. Their presence clashed with the rusted sky menacingly, and I feared they would take shape at any moment, swallowing the city whole in some great maw. But they held there, luminescent tendrils streaking through starless infinity.

I always just get high and masturbate after essentially retyping those few sentences.

>>8822497
Its time for a fap

>>8822030
>write something shit
>say you translated it because you know people will say its shit otherwise

or

>be spanish
>write something shit

either way really

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Just a snippet that popped up in my head when I was remembering something, and I wanted to catch the feeling of it. I was intending to just write the feeling down, but it came out like dialogue, so I went ahead and used it for one of my characters that it would fit with. Obviously, it's not very much, and heavily lacking content, but what do you think? Should I save it and build on it, or put it in some chapter in the future? Is there not enough here to really make a good assessment?

>“Some little word or phrase from a song, and there it is. Cuts you deep and consumes your thoughts like Shell Shock, and all of a sudden your chest is hurting and breathings a little hard. You remember can recall every detail little detail. From the tint of the light, to the way their hands shook as they broke the phone in half then through it on the ground and told you never to call them again. Then the slam of the door. Laying on the ground.

>Then, someone else says something and you have to drag yourself out of the feeling and back to reality even though you just want to give in and relive that moment for a little longer, cut yourself a little deeper in that satisfying self hate. Ya, it's hard not to give into something like that, but don't ever think you can just rid yourself of it. It's a scar now, and one that you should be grateful you have.”

>Shayla laughed a little bitterly at that last bit about the scar and looked up into Ellas eyes.

>“Why the hell would I be grateful for a scar?”

>Ella could hear the impatience in her tone and knew Shayla probably didn't really care what she had to say, but she also knew she had to say it nonetheless.

>“Because scars remind us of something that needs to be remembered. Either a time when we we're being really god-dam stupid, or when we were trying to protect something we love.”

>>8826907
personally I thought it was kind of over done.

that's pretty good though, isn't it? I just think you should back up and not concentrate so much stuff in such a small space. try to be as normal as you can, and slip in crazy lines where they'll come as a surprise. it's not as hard as I think you think

When she had first driven through the streets she had been awed by the new world she saw through the window. The towers of cement were taller and wider than she had ever seen, and every inch was sculpted into eagles, crenelations and geometries, or plated with smooth panels of bright silver and marble as black as the night sky. The park was an ancient woodland which surely held things that were old when humanity had left the First Garden, and whom were held only at bay by a wall of mossy brown stone and the light of a thousand black lanterns.

Even from a tower which scraped the clouds the city was eternal and boundless beneath her. Streets crossed horizons while horses shrunk to ants. Steam boats flooded rivers as cars and carriages did streets. The medial park formed a column from below to beyond, and workmen sat on steel beams and whistled wolfishly while they ate.

She spent the day exploring, visiting booksellers and bakers, and gawking at glassblowers and performers. She shared soft pretzels with pigeons, then shopped wandered and looked, then returned to her penthouse with a armfull of books. As day begot night she returned home to rest, and took out her telescope to check out the view.

The night sky was empty, bleached orange by lights. The stars were all missing and the nebulae too. The girl felt something in her heart shatter, and with a heart full of sorrow she retired to bed.

>>8827083
>Lasted longer this time, managed to reach the overpass.

this is a bit ambiguous ambiguous. Did the aurora reach the overpass, or did you?

Also, no offense, but your vocabulary is a bit cliched and/or nonsensical. Speaking of tendrils in horror is overplayed and I can't sympathize with the idea of seeing the borealis as a "maw" as you put it.

It's not bad mind you, really it's quite palatable, but using more original descriptions will help move you forward

>>8826906
anon, you're probably not going to appreciate the metacriticism, but you've fucked up three different ways without requiring me to read anything

1: you pasted the entire story, which not only makes it unpublishable, but also challenges the human capacity to give a shit
2: you didn't critique a single other person, so people won't even critique you out of gratitude
3: your paragraphs are poorly space, making the it look like a dense block that even survivors of error 2 won't care enough to dig through.

Post short excerpts, comment on others, and try to format your text to be easily readable.

>>8822494
It's alright, but I'm more of a 'show me, don't tell me' type person. However, if the whole narrative is like this throughout your whole book, then it's not bad. Needs a little polishing though.
>>8823944
Opening got me hooked in pretty good, but it could use some polishing. That last sentence in the first paragraph felt a little unnecessary, but that's just me and what I like in text. Like I said, needs a little polishing.
>>8825693
Not bad, I can't really see much wrong with it at this point. If I might, I suggest looking at some of these:

https://www.literotica.com/top/NonConsent-Reluctance-13/alltime/?page=1

Even if you aren't writing literotic stuff, some of those authors are really good and have a similar writing/story perspective style, and it probably wouldn't hurt to check it out.
>>8826504
GOD-DAM, did you steal that from another book or is that actually yours anon? Fuck man, if it is, PLEASE let us know when you get that shit published and I will buy a copy.

>>8822030
>to replace all that with a simple black box

A black box, while something that doesn't have accessible interior parts, is still something that is functionally the same as the thing you replaced it with (input -> box -> output). You want a thing with no output, or else you're implying input -> box -> sadness for some reason you can't access. This is going to grate on certain readers.

I wish I could remember it all.
Every last bit in perfect detail.
I want to press rewind
And live it all again from the beginning.

But I catch only glimpses of it now.
Snapshots of street corners
Fumbling quarters into vending machines.

I remember drinking an aloe vera drink
From a can in the onsen lobby.
A documentary on Japanese screen doors
Muted on the telly.

I remember being cold, so cold,
And I want to go back.

They say not to live in the past,
To focus on the present, to focus on the future.
But I can't break this heartbreaking yearning.

I catch only glimpses of it now.
Isolated bursts of emotion.
Experience compressed down over time
Into a perfume.

A whisper of a fragrance.

I remember us now in the garden,
Me, hidden by the foliage,
You, perched on a bridge to nowhere.

A description of a house:

I grew up in a house big enough to make my young body and mind forget the heat of sunshine and what it felt like to go outside. The intire structure of the building was caotic, as if the person who had designed it had a general concept of what a house should look like and then had just added bits as he went along. In fact my grandfather was the one who built it over a period of two decades when he came back from the war in Corea, starting initially with a plan for a small structure which over the years had become more and more ambitious and excentric.
Our living room had a grand fireplace, rarely used, that held above it a military uniform dressed stern black and white photograph of my grandfather, died when i was three years old and who i never got to know. The rest of the first floor was divided into a kitchen, the dinning room, a bathroom and a huge hallway with a slightly grotesque, cheep and charmless chandelier hanging from the cealing above.
The second floor held my fascination the most. There where a seemingly endless amount of rooms and corridors that turned into my personal maze and allowed my imagination to break through the walls of my reality and bend the rules of impossibility. The bathroom on the second floor became a distinguished landmark in my childhood memory. When my parents shared moments of unsupressed anger with each other i would hide in there for hours and through water socked balls of toilet paper at the cealing to supress the boredom.
On the third floor there wasn't too much to explore. Just a bedroom where my parents slept with a bathroon next to it and above both our attic.
My grandfathers house had known better years. The painting flaked off the walls and the floorboards growned every time anybody walked across them.
I remember the smell of old oak wood and pine. The smell of new varnish my father plastered into the wood like a sickly face mask trying endlessly to give it a youthfull shine. The furnisher where relicks, captivating over the years a musty scent made out of dampness and aged tobaco smoke that remained like a time capsule of the memory of my grandfather.
But still the house held a charm, of the kind that lays in beautiful things that grow old and still manage to stay beautiful.

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>>8826522
Oops this was for >>8823944
>>8823952
>>8823953
>>8823957

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>>8826907
It will probably continue to exist in temperaturelessness until it's good enough to bother reading.

He could sense the beat of his heart slowing down, each dull thump delayed more and more from the one before it. Chipped gravel mixed with coagulated blood feels like a well-earned last meal, can someone pass the salt? No salt here, but the sight of his innards, slowly trickling their way between the rocks, does sour the taste. He gladly realised that all pain is gone, courtesy of the brain getting ready to turn the lights off. What's left is the sharp awareness of the bodily functions, like never before. Leg's gone, can't feel it no more, now another, stomach, well, absent. Nerve impluse lurching hurriedly back and forth, reports nothing. He feels shriveled, like a fruit left to dry in the Sun. Tries to think of them, while the thoughts are thinkable. Black murk covers the eyes, and the sight of gore. Good, he thinks, it was damn nasty. He ponders about the guts. While the brain allows. It always goes last. Next time without. Guts, please. Thump.

>>8827182
>From the tint of the light, to the way their hands shook as they broke the phone in half then through it on the ground and told you never to call them again.

how can they see them breaking the phone if they are in front of them
also threw not through

>>8829534
Ah, I didn't explain that right. Meant to have it in the perspective that they are standing in front and facing the person in the door. I also went back and edited the typos and cut the last sentence out cause one of my friends pointed out that it took them out of it a bit.

Thank you anon. Do you want me to look at anything for you?

>>8829886
Haha no. I don't think you would know how to critique.

>>8830026
Why's that?

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>>8828162
There are times, and this is one of them, when even being critiquing feels wrong. What do you say about a post that has everything that might rain out of a poisonous genius's mind—sex & death & nerve & heat & ligatures of insight? If reading might be fatal and if a wet summer night can turn into a threesome—crystal blue eyes in a puddle next to her hot tub, black bathing suit a poison memory right in my frontal lobe, in front of your eyes, there is not much left to say except eat shit and die, you talented pen hack—thank you for providing for the ugly ink fish!!!

*BBBBBBRRRRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFLLLLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPFFFFFF*

Oh yes...very good!....very sloppy and wet my dear....hmmmmm...is that a drop of nugget I see on the rim?...hmmmm.....let me.....let me just have a little taste before the sniff my darling.......hmmmmm....hmm..yes....that is a delicate bit of chocolate my dear....ah yes....let me guess...curry for dinner?....oh quite right I am....aren't I?....ok....time for sniff.....*sssssnnnnnnniiiiiiiiffffffff*.....hmmm...hhhmmmmm I see...yes....yes indeed as well curry......hmmm....that fragrance is quite noticeable....yes.....onion and garlic chutney I take it my dear?.....hmmmmm....yes quite.....

*BBBBBBRRRRRRRRPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTT*

Oh I was not expecting that…that little gust my dear….you caught me off guard…yes…so gentle it was though…hmmmm…let me taste this little one…just one small sniff…..*sniff*…ah….*ssssssnnnnnniiiiiffffffffffff*…and yet…so strong…yes…the odor….*sniff sniff*…hmmm….is that….*sniff*….hmmm….I can almost taste it my dear…..yes….just…*sniff*….a little whiff more if you please…..*ssssssnnnnnniiiiiffffffffff*…ah yes I have it now….yes quite….hhhhmmmm…delectable my dear…..quite exquisite yes…..I dare say…*sniff*….the most pungent one yet my dear….*ssssnnnnniiiifffffffffffffffffffffff*….yes….

*BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP*

My darling…why…that was…*ssssnnniiiiffff*…the biggest one yet my dear….*sniff*..if you are….*sssnnnniiiifffff*…yes….if you are not….*sniff sniff*….completely out of exquisite gas…*sniiiiffffff*….my dear……then you….*ssssnnnnnnnnnnniiiiiiiiiiifffffffffffffffffff*….dare I say….have the intestinal capacity….*ssssnnnniiiifffff*…of an elephant!....yes…..*sniff sniff sniiiiiffffff*….and the pungent, yet extraordinary stench of one too…yes…*sssssnnnnnnniiiiiiffffffffff*

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>>8828048
The house still comes across exactly like when you're really sick, high fever, stayed in bed sweating, watching daytime TV. And as we ALL know, TV—let's say Wheel of Fortune—starring Pat Sajak, you're reaching down to spin that wheel, small-town you—or w/e yr from 'the city' or w/e—it's THAT show and wounded you is playing, filling in the blanks w/yr best guests, guesses, all out of that skull of yrs that has full maps of Ocarina of time inside, well we know the rules for description and here you are w/yr severed words piled together in a heap of boring blah blah blah, not thank you, try harder.

WOW

>>8827406
What kind of critique was this? This is embarrassing. I can't think of a single review worse than this.

And just like that, darkness, so final and absolute. Emptyness, a void, and suddenly you’re thinking about survival, about where to get fresh water, about hunting and fishing. You remember every knot you ever learned to tie, you remember how to make fires, you remember that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. But you remember you live near a city, near places that still have power, and that your city friend, nice guy, might let you borrow his generator. And you don’t need to think about hunting or fishing anymore.

And you wonder what would happen if power were cut to the whole city, the whole world even, and we had no generators and no gas. Maybe everyone, maybe even the people in the cities, would think about survival too. Maybe they would rush around in the darkness, trying to find candles and matches, grinning ear to ear. And now you realise that the power being out is the most fun you’ve had all week, that without a computer you can feel, feel the whole world breathing, in the emptyness of your dark home.

Time ceases to exist in the darkness, and it could be seconds, minutes, years before you realise that you are just sitting doing nothing in particular and everything at once. Time no longer shackles you to deadlines and meetings. You realise that simply existing no longer takes a conscious effort, that you can just sit and rest and just be. And you want power to be cut to the whole world so that they too can sit in the emptyness and listen to themselves thinking.

You realise you’ve wanted this, a loss of hope, a loss of all things normal, you’ve wanted this for years. You’ve wanted this long before the power went out, wanted it in the back of your mind as you photocopied resumes and typed up word documents. The only thing that matters is this moment, this very instance, the way the candle flickers and the wax drips down. And you are free.

Then the power comes back on, and it’s over.

One afternoon, about halfway up a jagged, limestone spiked hill, I encountered an old man walking a dog.

They were going the opposite way and so I stood off the path to let them pass. However, the dog, preceding its owner, just stopped a few feet short of me and proceeded to stare.

It wasn't an extraordinary looking creature, just a dusty brown something or other with floppy ears and a wet, black nose.

"I think she likes you," said the old man cheerily as he caught up with his pet, "usually she blows on past most people. Doesn't pay them any mind."

I nodded vaguely, keeping a careful eye on the dog. It didn't look like it wanted to attack me, but there was something about that steady gaze, its unblinking yellow eyes, that felt wrong.

Wasn't staring supposed to be a sign of aggression in dogs? I couldn't quite remember.

"Oh." I said.

"You can pet her if you'd like," the old man continued, "she doesn't bite."

"Not usually," agreed the dog, "and not unless you want me to."

I made a formless, vowel less rattling noise in my throat but stayed right where I was. My limbs didn't seem to want to move.

"Do you want me to bite you?" The dog asked, and managed something bizarrely reminiscent of a smile. It's teeth were small and perfectly white.

"No thank you." I croaked, and force myself to turn and stump, stiff legged and panicky, back down the hill.

When I looked back up after a few paces neither the old man or his dog were anywhere in sight.

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>>8822900
My midnight ass fuck at the local church came to an end. The mothers flocked outside to discuss politics. Then they argued over whether pink or red lipstick was in. The dads started the cars. Me, the teen son of Jennifer Lopez, I dash around in my white robes to the back of the church where my friend Damien hands me a cigarette. 'I can’t believe you got Father off during the service, now I look like a prude. Father will kill me if I can't pull that off next weekend'. I pull a lighter from my jacket and hold it to a curtain. 'Don’t worry man, there’s not going to be a Father next weekend...' 'This coming from the one of us that isn't a virgin?'

>>8828162
pretty edgy desu, going for a palaniuk vibe with this one.

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>>8830151
One afternoon, about halfway up a jagged, limestone spiked hill, I encountered an old man with a dong.

They were going the opposite way and so I stood off the path to let them pass. The dong, preceding its owner, just stopped a few feet short of me and proceeded to swell.

It wasn't an extraordinary looking dong, just dusty brown with floppy skin and a wet, black head.

'I think he likes you,' said the old man as he caught up with his dong, 'usually he blows on past most people. Doesn't pay them any mind.'

I nodded, keeping a careful eye on the dong. It didn't look like it wanted to attack me... But there was something about that steady gaze, its unblinking yellow eye.

Wasn't staring supposed to be a sign of aggression in dongs? I couldn't quite remember.

'Oh.' I said.

'You can pet him if you'd like,' the old man continued, 'he doesn't bite.'

'Not usually,' agreed the dong, 'unless you want me to.'

I made a formless, vowelled noise in my throat but stayed right where I was. My limbs didn't seem to want to move.

'Do you want me to bite you?' The dong asked, and managed something reminiscent of a smile. Its teeth were small and razorous.

'No thank you.' I croaked, and force myself to turn and stump, stiff legged and panicky, back down the hill.

When I looked back up after a few paces neither the old man or his dong were anywhere in sight.

>>8830181
Sent out a terrible vibe.

>>8830191
>>8828162
Yeah I agree, way too edgy anon. You're trying too hard.

>>8827832
4/10

Generously

Here's an excerpt from my Halloween book, let me know how it reads:

Megan was struggling but her limbs were stretched across opposite directions. Bound she lay inside of a candle wax pentagram. Her fearful eyes could see she was still in the den but it looked nothing like from before she fell asleep. All of the furniture, photos, and decorations were gone. The room was dark, only illuminated by red candles sporadically placed all throughout. She could see four figures in front of her holding candles and one behind her gagging her mouth.

"Let us begin"

The voice sounded familiar to Megan. The five figures approached the pentagram and each stood at a different corner of the symbol. Megan could see them clearly now, they were her friends. They stood erect and in the nude, their hair was no longer braided and the make up was washed away.

>>8830398
its vs it's
there vs their
missing punctuation
Horrible adjectives

>>8830458
It's not a copy and paste job so some stuff may be missing, but I still don't see any grammatical errors, could you point them out please?

>>8830532
I just did, dummy. Nail down English before bothering us for critiques.

>>8830546
No I'm saying I don't see any it's vs its or there vs their mistakes in there and if you could point out where they are

>>8830593
He's just an idiot. The one time you uses "their" is correct and you don't even use "its" or "it's."

That being said, you are missing punctuation on the quote and there are a couple of places you should use a comma. "Bound, she lay inside" is one of them. Also, he's write about the adjectives.

Come around darling,
we’ll stay for a day.
I’ll try to be charming,
if not, I’ll like you anyway.

I’ll try to avoid a trite cliche,
such as going to a cafe.
Instead I want you for myself,
but stay away from by bookshelf.

>>8830398
I take it the antagonist is John Podesta?

She smelt like a corpse, because she was one. Her name was Leonarda di Caprisun, and no: showers didn't help. The gangsters hit her with the crowbar, denting her skull, but she didn't even flinch. Her autonomous reflexes were broken, actually. She kicked the crowbar out of their hands and spat a horrible mixture of liquids, eliciting melting and shrieks of terror. She death rattled aggressively, and the thugs began to flee.

"Fuck it," grunted Leonarda. "I just wanted to do my damn shopping."

CORPSE JAM -- ONE

"That'll be nine dollars," whispered creepy DethSuplyz proprietor Chuck McJones. He had round glasses with dark orange lenses and teeth that looked like they were made of gold, but were in fact just rotten. His skin was tanned and gnarled like the bark of an unpopular tree.

After paying, Leonarda spun around her new Cytotech Neo-Egyptian Brain Acquirer, that looked exactly like a shotgun but could painlessly remove the brain from a targeted cranium without damaging it. Since hers was in a near-constant process of decay, she needed new infusions of brain matter just to stay alive.

"Saw you fighting again. Very ladylike," he tittered. "Got a job for you."

"What is it," snapped Leonarda, her flat eyes unable to convey irritation well.

"Same guys as before. Rotwood Consortium. Want you to wipe out some zunchers."

Zunchers were people who hunted zombies. This was a popular occupation now a solid 15% of the population had turned. Popular fear was unquenchable. Leonarda tried to sniff but couldn't because she was a corpse. "How much they paying?"

"Said they'll cover your rent and introduce you to a Mr Sleaze."

"Oh."

"Don't know who *that* is. Methinks 'twould be a liability."

"Can it, McJones. Gimme the dirt."

"Sign here and find yourself in the Lost Lagoon apartment complex parking lot, B2F, at nine sharp tonight."

"Right."

>cont.?

>>8830615
Thanks, yeah I agree about the adjectives, it was a rush job I had to finish before Halloween so some stuff is questionable but I could always go back and fix it, same for the punctuation. Thanks again!

>>8830615
Look at this monkey. Did you even read his post? Such lame advice. Sad!

>>8830715
>>8830615
This wasn't me, but thanks for the advice!

>>8822030
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12268815/1/Sky-of-Towers
I wrote up a small blurb about the first part of a D&D campaign that happened. I may or may not show it to the other party members if I get really autistic and write it all out.

>>8830687
I won't argue against the quality from the supposedly 'worked on' succession of words, barely and lamely considered and shitposted, for a reason which willll be speculated presently: if we consider such an sad progression, as one entire endless series of inherited and unexpected symbols and can have no cause from within, of its existence or use, because in it are supposed to be included all things that are or ever were spoken or written in your immediate experience: and its' plain it can have no reason within itself, of its existence, because no one being in this infinite succession of life is supposed to be self-existent or necessary (which is the only ground or reason of existence of any thing, that can be imagined within the thing itself, as with presently more fully appear), but every one dependent on the foregoing, and where no part is necessary, it's obvious the whole cannot be necessary, absolute necessity of existence, not being an outward, relative, and accidental determination, we have you with an inward and unessential property of the nature of the thing which so exists as your garbage, and no, don't continue, fuckface.

>>8830637
And you, you're messing around with the wrong people.

>>8830630
9/10

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>>8822030
Una parte de la novela que empece.

>>8830183
I laffed.

Spanish is my native language so any corrections greatly appreciated, especially in grammar! Thank you!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mWb_R6AgItqa6a9sFVw9CS5UuL1s0nk_CJE18NbNxQ8/edit?usp=sharing

>>8830026
>>8830039

this wasnt me

“I don't understand why you insisted on carrying the telescope,” Ava remarked as she propped open the door to the roof.

“Because,” Will grunted, stumbling up the last few stairs, “the power of testosterone compels me. Mark my words, I am going to get this extending tube of shit up to the roof or get a hernia trying.”

“It's not a 'tube of poop', it's a 1928 Razdow 161-1. It has the lowest spherical aberration of any commercial telescope produced in New Netherland in the past decade, and can make out an O-class white dwarf from half way across the milky way. It also weighs as much as a folding chair. Please don't fall down the stairs with it, I don't want to have to replace either of you.”

“Don't tell me what to do.”

Ava huffed and began setting up the tripod and counterbalance. The autumn breeze was at it's peak high above the streets and alleys of New Amsterdam, and even with her hair cut to neck-length Ava had to stop several times to spit out her own black locks. Will pulled his wool coat tighter, and then thinking better took it off and tried to figure out a way to drape it over her shoulders while her arms were in motion.

“I don't have to be psychic to know where this is going.” She smiled.

“Oh, good,” Will grumbled. “Can we skip the formalities then and get right to the part where you say no? I'm starting to look like a plucked Muscovy with folliculitis”

“Nope! We have to see if this new filter works first.”

“Will it?”

“Nope!”

“Then why did you work so hard to make it?”

“Because I can tell I'm supposed to.”

>>8830151
You say "dog" too much. I think people will know what you're talking about if you refer to it with more implicit nouns. Also, try specifying a breed. It just sounds a bit awkward.

That said, you got a good chuckle out of me. good work on that.

>>8830146
Honestly, this wouldn't be so bad if you didn't open with describing darkness. It sends up warning flags the moment you start reading

>>8831875
Huh, maybe I'll rework it so that it doesn't start with darkness. Perhaps that will make it less edgy

To clatter down a craggy side street towing
a razor, lateral incision along the heart of suburbia
cardiac-arrested in closing claws,
is to inject into a solemn soul liquid proof
of misanthropy. The people you will meet
beneath the sun,
bone-masked, molten, oozed,
re-ossified into a grimace veined choleric-amber,
hold a nihilist's indifference to human life.
Hunched, wheezing, disdainful,
with a pungent glisten on slippery skin:
if you roast it on a pyre, it will ash and recede
and slither away into the pores
it sprung from. Nothing will remain,
neither bone nor grain,
when the earth is running down
the cosmic fist. Who will have been
the wiser then?

>>8822030
¿Estás seguro de que eres español? No se parece que hay expresiones que son traducidas del inglés. Te escribo lo que tienes que cambiar si o si:
> "Pese a que estoy perfectamente consciente de eso" debe ser Pese a que soy perfectamente consciente de eso, sin ninguna discusión.
> "otras personas que han sufrido de lo mismo", suele utilizarse para enfermedades, yo pondría que han sufrido lo mismo o que han pasado un sufrimiento similar.
> Y de nuevo "no estaría al consciente de ello" debería ser no sería consciente de ello.

Aparte te diría que es un tema que mucha gente ha pasado y sinceramente todo el mundo puede escribir lo mismo, te lo digo porque yo mismo escribí algo similar. Más que para un libro es para un diario personal creo yo. De todas formas tendría también que revisar como utilizas la puntuación, hay alguna parte que quedaría más fluida si la utilizaras de otra manera y escribieras frases más cortas, incluso aportaría más dramatismo.

He de decir que aunque te "corrija" me pareces valiente por escribir aquí y esperar que la gente te critique, y por otro lado te digo que todo pasaos alguna vez por lo que describes y todos lo sentimos, quizá por eso algunos te han criticado, pero es bonito a su manera. Un saludo!

>>8827406
>literotica
Good shit, spent all last night reading a good one. Took a while to find but oh well.

>Not bad
Thanks. I don't write too often so I wasn't sure if I could make anything passable.

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>>8833604
Just cram as many abbreviations and made-up event names as your can, pham. Doing god's work

>>8833639
Thanks booboo. Just FYI tho most of the jargon isn't made up.

It is sad too see that most shit posted is truly utter shit. Not that I write any better, but it seems with writing you either have that spark, that innate talent for prose and/or story or you have shit and no matter how much you read or follow courses your writing will always be stale and shit

>>8833673
But anon I post my stuff here and I've been published multiple times. Not in rinky-dink college mags either.

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Gonna keep postin this until I get a response (no matter how hasty)

http://pastebin.com/raw/FEtHJJPc

>>8830398
>Bound she lay

m8 what the actual fuck lmao

>>8830630
extremely awkward Korny rhyme scheme. No lie it feels like riding on the back of an autistic kid who takes alternatively huge steps and very small steps and you have no way to be sure what's next

>>8830687
>She smelt like a corpse, because she was one.

epin. Ok j/k. But this seems like an edgy opening lol. This isn't my kind of story so I'm not gonna say whether its good or bad. Good luck on gettin the judgment of others though.

>>8831251
I can't read this. Is this English??

>>8831875
Ok to be honest, this seems at once smart and dumb. The things the characters say seem kinda Korny to me, but I appreciate "Muscovy with folliculitis" (though perhaps you meant Muscovite?)

>>8832005
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55DHrOeqwcA

jk jk. but this seems a little TOO dark to me man

>>8826504
>with innocent orbs
no

>>8823957
little piece of advice ... put it all in a pastebin instead of doing a four part post

>>8824479
>flattened great sheets of grass in a directionless cadence.

bro wtf does this mean?

Also sorry but this is g*y. It's a gay story man. Sorry

The yolk metahpor is nasty and RAINBOWS SCREAMIN THROUGH THE VOID IS GAY MAN... PERSONALLY TO ME.. it strikes me as hella gay. I'm sorry

>>8826504
>We ride into the mouth of the beast, into the heart of the country, where the moon and her friends come to bleed.

this sounds like something that'd get posted in an edgiest sentences thread

>With innocent orbs

>clanking his chassis

>Ice forms in my blood.

all these things just strike me as bad. like you're over-extending yourself

>>8826906
dude nobody talks like that ...

>>8827083
dont be so gross man. nobody wants to read about big fuckin scabs and rust. gag me man. ok maybe that's just me. but that is just a gross metaphor imo

>>8832005
>re-ossified into a grimace veined choleric-amber
not great imagery, in fact, it's rather unclear. I quite like the tone of the poem though.

>>8827302
Corny. Wolves don't whistle... you're maybe mixing up "wolf-whistle." Also horses shrink to ants? WTF MAN!!! That's not evocative at all.

Stop playin so much dishonored and browsing r/art and get some TASTE!

Ok I'm bein too harsh. But just randomly typin an epic scene aint gonna cut it man. Stories are stories they need people in them. The places are secondary.

>>8828162
stop bein so edgy man. just personally I find this completely unpleasant and unneccessary.

It would be good if it wasn't so fuckin gross. Wow some hardcore gore... I don't even know this guy so I can't feel sorry just disgusted. And it's easy to gross people out.

>>8830111
batman sayin what he normally doesn't/10

yes thats right, I'm ratin critiques now. noone is save, except perhaps me, until such time as a critique rater rater comes upon the fold... ;)

>>8833673
Anon you don't think i'm gonna sound like James joyce when i start out writing do you ( i'm asuming you included my post in your list of utter shit pieces of literature you found in this thread). Besides i only ever post things i think could do with a good critique.

>>8830146
First thing in the thread I thought wasn't almost entirely bad.

I think the combo of second person and a string of "And..." sentences has been condemned by redditors, honestly. I really do. It would work except reddit has poisoned me to see that form as being fuckin unbearably cheesy and gay.

So you're gonna have to change one of those two things imo.

But otherwise I think it's a good little blip. Captures a feeling, and it's an interesting thought (what if the power goes out???).

>>8830151
>limestone
Dude I'm not a quarryman I don't know what limestone looks like. So this sentence doesn't do anything but make you look cool.

> just a dusty brown something or other

U LAZY BITCH! TELL ME WHAT THE DOG LOOKS LIKE! LOL

>My limbs didn't seem to want to move.

^have you ever felt this? Cause I think nobody has perhaps felt this since about 1951, and even then it was just a legend, just hearsay. I sense this is a cliche that you poked in... be honest please

overall this just kind of bores me. Sorry, but it does. Just seems like a fantasy event and that's it.

>>8833966
Don't ignore me, you glib little fuck-monkey.

>>8833992
what do you mean? I read your post and did a critique

>>8833932
>>8833876

It seems cornyness is my biggest weakness

>>8833876
can you point out some specific dumb parts that I can build on?

also I meany Muscovy, a breed of domestic duck

Ending the day alone, with silkscreen orange fading to purple and cloudless chill, is perfect enough - to share a few seconds with someone she has shared many with is excessive - but it made her wistful anyway. She closed her eyes against the piercing sunlight and brought him into the void, telling him to stop and let the sky fill him, make his thoughts as sparse as the clouds and stratospheric. This moment comes every day, through the vacuum, kilometres of atmosphere, and there is still enough for everybody's eyes, especially theirs. A moment of tranquility, satisfaction or despair. A peace that war can't stop. That's what he said to her before he left, is thinking, carries with him in his cerebellum as he shuts down the till at Costa and hurries down the wide street under fresh deep-blue fringed with purple that tells him to go home - he missed the sun, not a photon could be spared, no warmth sustains him. The house door slams against the street and a Co-op pizza thaws in the oven, into dark crispy brown, and sits warm on his lap in front of an electric fire that flickers in thirty-second loops, as if time falters and retraces its steps, or especially savours that handful of moments. The digital sunset lulls his thoughts; they stretch over the sky to her, distant, with a slow burn as if his heart were suspended over orange pixels, over the setting sun she watches. He imagines her lying on the grass, eyes shut, like they used to do, under naked darkness. She opens her eyes to softly dying embers drawing expansive black overhead, and he sleeps.

>>8834026
Wow you're quite receptive! Maybe I'm just depressed but I don't really care much for the characters. They seem so snarky that they fail to connect with each other. But maybe that's just me.

Also the end of the fragment seems like... idk, a negation of everything. A meaningless thought-terminating paradox. What do I do with this? What's goin on with these people.

Maybe it's just me. Sorry. Also now I don't get the muscovy thing. Why doesn't he just say he looks like a plucked duck. WTF does that even look like? Why does he say that? My mind's all over the place desu, not sure what's goin on

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>>8822030
mi corazon es delicado por que una vez, fue lastimado

>>8834048
hes saying he has goosebumps because it was cold. the character is supposed to be a bit verbose but I guess I should have stated it was cold.

Ava, it's explained later, can see the future, but she can't change it, which is why she does things she knows probably won't work: because they're supposed to play out.

I am concerned that my characters aren't immediately likable. I'm trying to make them more distinct and quirky so they stand out enough for you to give a shit. maybe I don't do that well enough. Ava wasn't supposed to be snarky, but maybe I need to work on that

>>8833876
No, it's ancient greek.

>walking down the sidewalk in New York
>going to store to pick up medicine
>See a somewhat familiar face
>its Thomas Pynchon
>"H-hey Mr. Pynchon, I'm a big fan of your work."
>"Are you now? Well, put 'em there"
>he reaches out for a handshake
>grab his hand
>suddenly shocked
>the old joy buzzer in his palm routine
>I begin stumbling backwards and before i can catch my footing I slip on a banana peel
>falling down, I land on a carefully placed whoopee cushion
>"haha, Mr. Pynchon, that was quite the gag."
>begin to get back to my feet when Pynchon offers a hand to help me up
>"Ha, I'm not falling for that again."
>As we part ways I noticed Pynchon dropped a ball from his back pocket.
>Picking it up I yell, "Hey you dropped this"
>But before I could finish my sentence Joker Venom began to plume out of the ball
>falling back on the ground, choking to death on laughter, I hear a "yukyukyuk"
>T.P. appears over my twitching body, grinning, with a pair of plastic buck teeth
>fade to black

>>8831251
>las manos de el
las manos de él
>Dega
Degas
>de el corazón
del corazón
>indice
índice
>lagrimas
lágrimas
>de el tablero
del tablero
>se impactará
se impactara
>provenientes de el
provenientes de él
>limite
límite
>era en el
era en él
>por que si, aun lo amaba
porque sí, aún lo amaba
>ella entro
ella entró
>de el cigarro
del cigarro
>su mente regreso
su mente regresó
>Ornelia
kill yourself
>volteo
volteó
>cerro los ojos
cerró los ojos

Aparte de eso, es relativamente decente. Se siente todavía muy crudo, pero tiene un poco de futuro.

>>8832056
Gracias. No soy español, pero sí hablo español como idioma materno. Las correcciones que mencionas de "consciente" son probablemente por los vulgarismos de los que se sufre en los países hispanoamericanos, supongo.

>Aparte te diría que es un tema que mucha gente ha pasado
Lo sé. Como dices, es más para un diario personal. Estaba intentando plasmar en palabras lo que había pasado y sentido en una experiencia parecida. Como una explicación para mí mismo.

Gracias!

>>8823944
>>8823952
>>8823953
>>8823957
Nice.

1/2
It crept in like a footpad: under cover of night. Perhaps it stole in through the Gate of the Oleanders, the lights of the tea plantations up along brow of the hills winking dully in the east beyond its tremendous bronze door. Or perhaps it arrived by way of the Drum Gate, whose crumbling barbican had turned away the throttling engines of Yagarde for three hundred days. More likely, however, is the supposition that it came to the city from the sea, like some invisible cephalopod––darting nimbly over the sprawled limbs of inebriated mariners and bleary-eyed whores eating cold chicken in the halo of a single candle. It crept into alleys and down moons-shaded laneways, evading the main avenues and still-jostling wineskins, though not for fear of detection. It followed the canal up to Lake Tono, where gondolas and pole-boats lay at their moorings and the spangled illumination of the Manors flailed upon the brown waters like distant stars. A heron strode softly through the shallows, leaving a blooming wake of sand. It craned its smooth neck at the silent presence, but found more interest in a fleeing minnow flitting past its feet.


By degrees it came to Yombu’s Ingle, the artisan’s district. A hush reigned––the iron implements casting sinister shadows in the gibbous light, the forge fires cooled to embers (though still, as always, burning), the stalls boarded up. Some muscle stood watch over the warehouses, their broad talwars and partisans leaning against the mudbrick walls, and played at dice or whistled lowly to themselves. Here there was no trace of the merriment to be found in the Jasmine Quarter or the Quayside. The metalworkers arose at dawn to take their tea and porridge before the incessant hammering commenced, and the hawkers in their bright turbans began their rounds even before the sun came up, peddling water, fried fish, rice and peas, and rice liquor (for the many who could not begin the day without it).


On the outskirts of the Ingle was a wide stone bridge over the canal where the paupers congregated on market days. A heady aroma of rotting meat and sweating armpits and the sweet must of bowels wafted from the coke-grimed waters beneath the bridge’s arc, where a family of city poor sheltered under ragged blankets of linen.


Here, approximately two hours past midnight, it chose to alight.


The girl had only seven years. Small as she was, she still slept in the raffia basket of her swaddling, though she had to curl her skinny legs to her chin. Her name was Ram, meaning “Frond”.

>>8834784
2/?
But, as it happened, she was not just any other guttersnipe. Ram was the child of Aya, a pauper well known for her beauty. Although a married woman, she had, in the throes of desperation, been impelled to offer herself up as payment to Bodi the physician in order to alleviate the child’s fever, not three months past.


It is, perhaps, a testament to the perversity of chance that she was thrown into the maws of yet another malady so soon after the last.


The following morning, beneath the humid sun, Ram leapt from the bridge, face contorted in ecstasy. After being recovered from the dank shallows, she became febrile and would not cease in her screams. By midday, Aya, eyes molten with tears, accompanied by a legion of the poor and curious, conveyed the girl to Bodi’s house, at the end of a quiet lane near the Lake. They murmured hushed benedictions and fanned the cursed child with palm fronds and passed sweet grasses beneath her nose. The physician, still in his sleeping gown and drenched in sweat, beat the wretches away with a bamboo switch, dragging Aya by the wrist and slamming the screen behind him. After giving the child a glance over, he assented to her treatment, though an insinuating look told her what he would expect in return. Then, he closed all the shutters and drew all the curtains until nothing in the house shone save for the pallid ghostlight of a brass candelabra.


“I must,” he proclaimed with a regal air, “have utmost silence.”


The doctor brought all of his arts to bear upon the child. He forced firewater down her throat and made swift incisions, drew blood from critical junctures and applied leeches to her flesh, spread salves and poultices and compacts, pierced her with hot needles, draped her with warm and cold silks. He bathed her in milk and aurochs blood, waiting for the telltale signs of marsh fever or fullers’ ague or milk cankers or any known debility or disorder to reveal itself, to no avail. At this point, the girl was convulsive; having exhausted her screams, she was capable of producing only cracked whimpers.

“This is beyond my craft,” Bodi admitted, hands vermillion with blood and grime.

He was ready to leave it at that, but a keening glance from the mother (and no small amount of personal inquisitiveness) induced him to send a slave boy to the manse of his professional acquaintance Iné, the personal doctor of the affluent clan Inaya, and who, if anyone in the city knew, would be able to identify the infirmity. The reverend physician, his curiosity piqued, deigned to descend the Avenue-of-a-Thousand-Orchids.

Haven't really done any creative writing ever, so tear me a new one and if possible, give some advice too. I AM aware of how done to death this sort of thing is, and how much of a pretentious pseud I am, but I felt like writing.
A house, unmaintained.
The fishnet of ivy draping over
extends creeping fingers that grasp at
age's wrinkles.
The house's only residents
carve arteries, blood vessels, capillaries
deep into the nonresistant wood.
Scabs of paint peel
and unwashed floors lose their lustre.
A memory fades:
one of once firm walls
wrapped around
something.

>>8834791
The child was very near death. Aya was disconsolate. Her consternation rang out through the shaded windows, and it was not long before a congery of curious onlookers had begun to assemble outside the house, prating amongst themselves and intoning group prayers. There was an atmosphere of carnival about the affair, and some vendors had even set up shop in their midst, proffering candies, sausages, fried-and-honeyed dough sticks, rice wine, steaming bowls of mutton soup. A chicken was sacrificed and its blood spread upon the flagstones.


Bodi went at them with the cane again, battering a leprous mendicant begging for alms, but the mother pleaded with him.


“Prayers are all that are left to me.”


Iné, when he finally arrived, was similarly vexed. He administered bitter lozenges, rubbed the girl in salt and spices, performed yet more surgeries, examined her stool and excretions. Yet nothing, he found, could be done, and neither could he surmise, following examination after examination, what the matter was.


“I have seen nothing like it,” he declared, massaging his temples; then, excitedly, “We shall have to send to the University to perform the autopsy…”


“What are you implying, doctor?” Bodi probed, fingering his oiled mustachios.


A gleeful smirk creased Iné’s fleshy cheeks.


“I’m implying, my dear friend, that we might have a discovery on our hands.”


Immediately, Bodi’s eyebrows shot up, and the two physicians turned away, flitting through manuals of apothecary and medicine, exploring the possibility with a conspiratorial enthusiasm.


The mother sat beside the pallet, brushing her bruised fingertips against the child’s cool cheeks, leaving intermittent kisses on her forehead, whispering, like a talisman:


“I love you...I love you...I love you...I love you...I love you...I love you...I love you...I love you…”

The hush of twilight had just settled upon the city when the child finally died. The mother held her hand as the flesh slowly cooled. The physicians were bubbling at their waterpipe in the deepening shadows, when, at a lacrymal cry from Aya, they leapt to their feet and, gathering their robes about them, they went to the soaked bedside, murmuring remedials. Tears as bright as lanterns, candles ebbed to wicks, the ululating cicadas, the putrescence of sickness...In her death it seemed as if she had shrunk to the size of a raffia doll, her jaundiced skin as dry as wicker and thin as papyrus. Her eyes like tallow, dead and vague and silted with discharges...mouth ajar, wan lips around yellowed teeth and bilious gums, all gaping as if stifling some final gasp.


The crowd, feeling it in their bones, sent up wails of mourning.

>>8834801
Bodi regarded the mother with fear. Sweat and inebriation beaded upon his brow. His reddened eyes and the haze painted her weeping form as if with water, and each moment she seemed more and more to dissolve to nothingness, a vaporous wraith from some temple mural.


“There was nothing we could have done,” he said softly, and muttered a silent prayer.


Then, something rather peculiar happened.


There was a quivering, like two sheaves of parchment rifled, like the anxious trembling of serotinal leaves.


And in a chaos of bone and bile and blood, the child’s chest erupted, folding outwards, bursting, showering the three of them with a hail of gore. The physicians stumbled over one another, overturning the wax covered table and the candles with it, stifling the room’s only light. Aya hacked and wheezed, choking on a piece of bowel.


In the humid darkness, above the scuffling physicians and the strangling mother and the drone of twilight, the fluttering of a thousand moths roared like some dark and massive animal.


And they fled, howling, knocking the screen from its hinges and tearing down the curtains, and the vast whiteness of the moons blinded them and the stars held them in their gaze like a million distant eyes.


As the downy wings streamed past her out into the balmy night, Aya wondered when she had last kissed her husband and if her breath had smelt of garlic. Tears appeared on her cheeks unbidden, but she did not know why she felt so happy.


She died, not long after, gagging on her daughter’s liver.


The moths ascended upon a draft which carried the promise of the sea. The assembly which had gathered outside of the Physician’s house looked on in terror. They clasped their warding stones, knelt and hid their eyes from the work of demons. Others ran along with the screaming doctors through the cramped alleys of the Ingle. The night was heavy with the beating of wings. Some, upon hearing the commotion, had come out into the street, or looked towards the sky beneath the eaves of their houses, too fearful to venture beyond the lantern-light.


The wings turned and wheeled in the open air. They convulsed and pirouetted and made arcs. They had no destination, no end. They had no purpose or intention. They gasped while there was air. They danced while they had life. They were transfixed in moonbeams and starlight and the twinkling of the doomed city which would waste away and die below them. With a final thrashing roar, a final ecstatic flight, they burst and withered, and dissolved into dust.


It descended upon the city, glistening like gold.

>>8834806
Cries were heard, and stamping feet. City guardsmen held up their paper lanterns and partisans and ordered the masses to disperse. Some were beaten. An old mendicant was trampled to death beneath the scattering horde. Some were pushed into the Lake, though none drowned. It could not be denied: this night was born beneath an ill star. Some did not know what to do with themselves––they screamed and dashed through the streets and wept and pulled their hair. Fires were started, though in the Ingle, they never really died. Mobs of onlookers were assembled, and they too were seized by the ecstasy of terror. More guardsmen were sent in. All told, it was nearly three hours past midnight before the Ingle was pacified.


The scene of carnage, mother and child, was left in silence, the screen cast out into the street, open to the air, like a stage revealed by parted curtains. The dust lay like a film upon the rooftops and the paving stones; in the morning, it was swept away. The sun rose, the hammers beat upon the anvils, the forge fires blazed––but to those who had been seized by the madness of the previous night, something which they could not define had been lost. They looked to the sky, hot-white and wispy with clouds, and remembered, in flashes, the wild beating of wings.


The Plague Year, at last, had come to the city of Celocombo.

/Fin

Prelude to a novel

/crit/, how do you make characters that people remember, care about and want to see interacting?

I think I've managed the memorable, but the caring and interacting parts seem off

>>8834825
Big tiddies

>>8834825
Something to identify with. Give them real human desires so people see themselves in the characters. I.e. struggle to be accepted if you are writing for teens.

>>8834897
What about getting them interested in the characters in the first page or so?

>>8834825
BRET JdOiAdNion ELLIS
RULES of ATTRACTION

>>8834913
Give them an immediate conflict to work toward, and have a hook that grabs interest. The conflict doesnt even have to be related to the main plot. Think Indiana Jones, even. That first part of Raiders doesn't have a lot to do with the rest of the story except it introduces him and Belloq. I mean raiders isn't even anything literature-like at all but i guess people cared about him enough to make 3 more movies that people watched.

Honestly it's hard to make peopel give a fuck these days. But do give them something interesting about them. Steal from real peoples' personality traits.

>>8834811
>Cries were heard

passive VOICE !

I didn't read the rest hehe. such is my nature!

>>8834825
make them flawed and relatable. a good combo is to make them have relatable flaws.

>>8834964
y-y-y-y-y-you t-t-too............

>>8834945
can you tell if and where >>8831875 falls short? I'm trying to figure it out but I think I'm going nowhere

>>8834971
>>8831875
Okay well played you conned me into giving you a critique. But hey honestly that's the way it should be, I was just being a lazy fuck.

Okay first off "ava remarked" is fucking gay, please do not use that unless you are intentionally sounding like a fedora. I get that Ava is probably supposed to be a proper british astronomer bitch but there are better ways to convey it.

The tube of shit / tube of poop part is just cringeworthy. say "I am going to get this damn thing up the stairs or get a hernia trying" or something like that.

Also Ava's worddump of astronomy babble (i understood it all but it does make her sound like a socially unaware recluse in some ways) is a good way to characterize her. But you should structure it better. Use "she said" to break up dialogue.

> "It's a 1928 Razdow 161-1. It has the lowest spherical aberration of any commercial telescope produced in New Netherland in the past decade, and can make out an O-class white dwarf from half way across the Milky Way," said Ava, "It also weighs as much as a folding chair. Please don't fall down the stairs with it, I don't want to have to replace either of you."

Oh, and capitalize Milky Way. Just a nitpick.

> and even with her hair cut to neck-length Ava had to stop several times to spit out her own black locks.

pretty good imagery.

The rest of the dialogue seems vaguely autistic but maybe it just requires more of an attention span than I have right now. it's not even bad.

I would say it makes it clear that Ava is a driven astronomer and Mark is her grumbling assistant. I don't know if they are gonna fuck or what but I don't care much, which is a good sign. I would say you need to introduce something interesting soon or else I am not going to give a fuck about this, but it is a good hook and your characters seem at least semi decent.

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She’s sent me a snap. It’s been an hour since she last contacted me. Only an hour. But I feel sick in my stomach. I open the snap. It’s her at a café, her skin alabaster in the light, the top buttons of her blouse undone, a turquoise jewel hanging from a necklace.

I didn’t know she’d be at a café. I didn’t know she would be out today at all. In her photo she hasn’t shown me who she’s with.
I hate how sick this makes me. How pit of my stomach sick it makes me. She’s not mine to care about. Not even mine to consider. I hate how immature I feel.

We’ve always been just friends and I’ve always been fine with that. Yet somehow through our shared loneliness I’d always felt we were a couple. I don’t even know if she’s with anyone. I hate myself for feeling this strongly. I hate it. I feel so immature. Like I’m too old for this. Like I haven’t outgrown these teenage feelings. These selfish, immature, teenage feelings.

But I can’t control it.

And I’ve had this conversation with myself a hundred times before but I still can’t control it.

I think back. Have I eaten? Am I hydrated? Am I tired?

I hate that these things affect me so much. I like to think that I’m in control of myself of my mood of my response to the world. But I’m not. An empty stomach can send me into a fit of rage. My tired brain leads me in circles. I like to think I’m in control of my body but my body my physical body is in control of me. I hate it. I feel so embarrassed.

I steady myself, I put my hands on the table in front of me. I put my phone face down so I can’t see the notification light.
I breathe in. Deep. It helps. I feel calmer. But still not completely there.
I breathe in. Deep again.

My phone lights up.
Its her.

I am nervous.
I wait a minute to open it.
I open it.

She’s with another person. I recognise her. It’s her friend.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

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http://pastebin.com/qh0XnQpu

This is such utter shit. I am very frustrated with it. I have discovered so much old writing in my massive behemoth of a novel and when I try to take it apart the entire thing comes crashing down. Abandoning it is not an option. I can't decide if this guy's "lmao ptsd" storyline is even worth exploring or if I should just have him deal with his grief in a normal way instead of getting pissy at his sister. I have enough plot to cover without dealing with all these little sub plots.

>>8834724
Si, apenas y es un "rough draft". Gracias por las correcciones. El nombre Ornelia es una referencia a Ofelia, ya que el plan es crear paralelos entre los personajes. Alguna otra critica anon?

>>8835495
Your right its trash. Learn to write. Theirs plenty of books about that just ask any one.

>>8826504
This is very good.

>>8831674
Ah ok.

>>8835495
It's not very good. At least not at first. I was more intrigued by your post then the opening paragraph, which is just generic military fare. Violence is only interesting if we know who it's being done to and why.

"Orion sat back in the pilot's seat and sighed, partly from relief, and partly from frustration. He knew he should be up there with them, leading the charge, inspiring his men, but Myron had refused."

Is a better opening paragraph than the war fetishism that comes before it.

>>8835832
Btw. Can someone teach me to Green Text?

>>8835819
I feel like it's just a notch into purple territory.

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>>8835834
Are E Dee
dee Eye Tee
Gee oh
Bee A-k

>>8835743
> your
> theirs

I know you're being ironic but you still triggered me.

Is it the dialogue, the description, the word choices, the sentence length? I have gone from writing these run-on sentences of purple prose, to wanting to characterize entirely through dialogue and avoiding describing feelings like the plague, to wanting to write like Tom Clancy with very simplistic action sequences, to trying to cut down as much as possible.

I guess if the storyline bores you that might ha e to do with me publishing something from the middle of a story, but at the same time you are right this sequence is trash and I feel like even just a few months ago I was better at writing than I am now.

“Because that's the way it was supposed to play out,” she said, her gaze suddenly several moments in the future. “Besides,” Ava said snapping back to the present, “I'm having fun.”

Ava turned the telescope towards the skyline and ushered Will over to look through the eyepiece. “Tell me what you see.”

“It's purple,” Will replied, unsure what he was supposed to be seeing. He hoped she wouldn't reach into his coat pockets by accident and realize it was insulated with crumpled newspapers.

“That's light pollution. Hold on a second,” she said as she screwed on the filter. “now?”

“Wow,” Will breathed.

“What?”

“It's fucking nothing!”

Ava shoved his face out of the way with her cheek and took a look of her own through the eyepiece. “Huh…”

“What?” Will grumbled “Did this manage to not be a complete disaster?”

“I can see the dumbbell nebula, but the stars are just… gone…”

>>8835832
Is the part beyond the opening part better? Weirdly,I was happier with that opening paragraph than the rest of it. But I guess that's because I care about the story and you as a reader obviously don't unless I give you good reason to.

I wish I could make this story a movie instead. It'd still be shit I suppose, but it would be more interesting.

>>8836003
Ignore this. Dammit. I might need to start this whole opening over. The stars aren't supposed to be important but this makes it look like a major part of the story. It's supposed to be introducing the characters and starting with Will asking Ava out on a date

Small, unfamiliar birds began to appear - seemingly from nowhere. Small, dark blue birds the colour of blueberries, but moving too fast for Stephen to focus on. They appeared in a great number, but not all at once. They appeared one by one, flitting across Stephen's peripheries. As one escape his line of sight another cropped up, though teleported. They didn't seem to come from the trees or from the buildings but from the air itself and they looked so foreign to Stephen who was used to seeing only pigeons and myna birds near his house. Behind him Claudia knocked on the window, calling him inside. It was already four o'clock and while his day had been filled with odd jobs, like cleaning and cooking, he'd still felt he'd done nothing. How static his life was, staring at the birds, on Tuesday afternoon.

>>8836006
No. It's guilty of pretty much every cliche I can think of. I think you're forcing characterization half-assedly when all you really want to do is world build. This is a huge trap that sci-fi and fantasy writers fall into. Am I on to something with that assessment?

>>8834041
There's too much going on here, it's too muddled and too intense. I get that you're eschewing traditional grammatical structures but some sentences here just don't make sense, like:

> This moment comes every day, through the vacuum, kilometres of atmosphere, and there is still enough for everybody's eyes, especially theirs.

There are some neat lines and turns of phrases here. I do like: > an electric fire that flickers in thirty-second loops, as if time falters and retraces its steps, or especially savours that handful of moments.

But not every single sentence has to blow me out of the water in content or complexity. It'd be stronger if you built up to those great sentences so they had even more impact.

God dammit. Why can't I move the proper plot point forward and define my characters at the same time? Why the fuck did I make the mistake of writing

>>8836047
Well, what's your plot? A "little fortress" is being taken by some commandos because there are "supplies inside" and Orion can't be up there fighting because he's sad about his dead family members. Meanwhile his sister who is also a pilot is doing things and honestly this is where I started skimming.

Who are your influences?

Writing is hard. Don't get discouraged. You'll get better eventually. Your only alternative is to never express this part of yourself.

To preface, I'm writing this as a joke to make it as edgy as possible. To any edge anons, mind giving any tips and obviously basic critiques, all are welcome!

Prologue -


The sweet smell of iron floated into his nostrils, the body laying contorted. It’s small limbs and smooth skin glistened with sweat highlighted by the small amount of moonlight seeping through the shutters of the grimy, old room. He shuddered as pleasure ran through his body at the sight, reaching down he hefted the body over his shoulder. Warm blood splashed against gray walls as he left.
He was isolated, no need to be cautious. It was delicious and he continued to walk in the dark. The soft clicking of the insects accompanied him as he stood a few yards away from the building hidden in the trees. Its behemoth shadow swallowing him up. He sighed and laid the body down, grabbing the tarp he’d lay hidden away days before. Rolling the body inside of it, he paused, pressing his lips to the corpse’s forehead and closed its widened eyes.
Sweat poured from him as he made his way into the house with the body in tow. The old, elegant wood creaked under his feet while he walked slowly up the many winding staircases with their gilded trimmings. Rich paintings and their stony faced subject looked upon his back as he went up into the attic, it’s hidden entrance expertly opened and entered by him.
The sudden scurrying of tiny paws and alarmed squeaks greeted him as mice fled from heavy footsteps. Wiping his brow, his hand came away wet with sweat. Pulling out his phone, he used it as a light. Motes of dust danced in the beam of light, old relics lay covered in cobwebs. Shining the beam on the floor, he saw the imprint of his boots, otherwise a coat of filth covered the floor. He sneezed, feeling his nose begin to get agitated. Annoyed, he looked around and saw a half hidden chest. It was empty. Placing the body inside he closed it and locked the latch. Using his shirt as a barrier covering his face against the dust, he left. Coughing his way down the winding staircases and gilded trimmings, the painting’s stony features never blinking as they stared at his back.
Above in the attic, under the full moon. The lukewarm body, had just made a new friend.

"Education"

why did someone make you stand onstage
in first or second or seventh grade
and tell them all what you hoped you’d be
at a certain age,
knowing only what you’d been told so far?

They must have forgotten what they
themselves had said
and the circumstances of their own regrets-

and what did they say?

and what did I say?
what did I say...?
Wasn’t it-

I wasn’t smart enough to build a building
tall or quick or strong
couldn’t throw a ball but
could I still be a cop?

I could, I said-
or a Power Ranger
or a scuba diver

I could do permanent things for real people
in this permanent place with real problems
that only I could fix,

and at the top, at long last,
I wouldn’t have to take anybody’s shit.

I would
go skiing on weekends
wave at the camera

just be funny and truthful-
who wouldn't want that in a peer?

and soon possessing a house
with babies who never cry
and dogs who will never shed
bills forgiven for no good reason
towels that will never go unfolded

and I’ll be envied, finally,
envied envied envied...

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a piece i feel weird about
pt 1 of 2

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>>8836756

>>8836756
Before I give my opinion. Are you a woman?

How's my prose/atmostphere.

The cold took away the romance in the winter landscape spreading like a desease through the trees and stripped everything of life and color. My mother would take me to the lake and many weekend mornings we would walk together the woods, but most of my time was spent indoors and without anything better to do i would explore the house for hours on end.
There's nothing comparable to discovering the world without the film of cinisism that covers our eyes as we grow older. On the west side of the house lay a long corridor that led to a guestroom and a room where my mother kept a piano with several other musical instruments. She told me one time she had been classicaly trained. The way her fingers mover across the piano made me think that music came as easy as pressing down on the keys and hearing bach and tchaikovsky in return. I use to sit in that room with her and listen to her music for hours.
Though now it had been a while since i had been to that part of the building. My parents didn't allow me giving the unlikely explanation that there where rats making nests in the walls. I didn't have enough imagination to elevate the concept of rats to an element of terror. I think children have a reluctance to fear things they have no reason to be afraid of or have no knowledge about that adults always underestimate.

im the dirty home run hitter with a broken bat
and send the damned ball sailing
far off a bastard two seamer or
a rotten slider
makes no difference to me
because I’m the one with the big oak bat
and when you knock in the runs no one can tell you any different


I look at all the old cards with all the old numbers in fathers attic and
they all have my name in silver lettering and
im always rookie of the year
even though ive played 37 seasons in the bigs and 4 in the minors


The old lady who sells my magazines says
im no good but i say its only a game
no sense talking
trying to convince her
and every time i flip the page i pretend
like im taking ball after ball until its 3-2 and that greasy changeup hangs
and i close my eyes and when I open
them the ball is beat out in the stands and i see her cheer behind the counter

I am pleased to recall.
Even though pain.
I know it seems too friendly cliché I say next, but the truth: Unfortunately, remember what is most harmful to the heart. And my heart is pained, injury, death, illness. I though I fully recognize that, and the pain, and I wish it did not reach this point, I refuse to forget. I do not. I listen to other people who are suffering from one where the best thing to do in these situations is not forgotten, and if you can not stop. Each memory block. All smiles, seeing all the bands ... and every tear. No, I do not want to forget. Even kill me the idea; burning inside me, I would have expected that to change in a simple black box. No, do not. The memory, in my opinion, the most important result of all. In my case, it was better to end. Follow the same would kill me sooner than this damn mind. If I had not been, it would remain a slave, though he probably would not know. I do not know.

Think.
The pain, however.
I do not say this is not true. But always remember that I was very bad. The risk of heart attack, death, pain, although I know that this disease, I hope you will not forget this moment. But I could not do it. Each memory block smile at each and every cover. No, I will never forget. Although it is normal you can not change me as a black box that is easy to access and I do not remember that expensive in my opinion, the end of my situation, it is better to avoid. It will continue to provide faster memory, but I knew him. He was a minister. I do not know.

>>8836889
no

Tbh I'm just in this thread to laugh at 99 procent of the posts, and to steal the 1 procent I like

>>8836062
I'm writing this: >>8831875 >>8836003

It's supposed to introduce Ava as she is, a dorky mad astrophysicist who can see the future and who wants to actually see the stars. the fact that her experiment fails is supposed to be a minor point, not a major one. the real plot thread is Will asking her out

instead, Will has become the star, Ava's "mad" side and seeing abilities dont come through, and the stars end up the focus by accident

>>8836046
This is really helpful, thanks. It is a bit much, isn't it..

>>8824479
>Egg yolk being burst with a fork
Gross
>In that moment we were all rainbows
That was painful

>>8837256
this is decent but it feels at points like an awkward attempt at hemingway-style prose. the last couple of sentences are very good.
>>8837311
feels far too sentimental and washy. your use of enjambment is decent though and i think you could build on that.
>>8837333
the repeated use of short and snappy sentences gets weary. i can see what youre going for but it could do with some work.
>>8837351
im guessing this is you as well?

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>>8836042
Yeah that would be fair. In some ways. Essentially this story is something from my childhood I used to imagine (hence the autistic names) and I started writing it out.

There isn't really much point to this world without the story that goes with it. I will worldbuild but only for stuff that shows up in the narrative. The world is too large to be worth detailing all but a handful of locations.

I think I should delete the entire part and rewrite it. Orion was never even a teenage angst character that much. At best he was angry he would never get to choose his own path in life because of the mantle of responsibility thrust on him by his parents. But I internalized this character's thoughts for years until it feels hard to write about him because it feels like I am just writing myself.

>>8836062
Yeah that's pretty fair. The entire opening part is just wankery.

> Orion can't be up there fighting because he's sad about his dead family members.

yeah I wrote this particular part four years ago and it makes no sense. This isn't even the start of the novel, mind, so you would already know Orion well as a character. But his behavior is so childish compared to how he acted before, it jsut seems incongruous.

I'll keep the parts I like of this but otherwise I'm just going to delete most of the 2,000 word segment and start fresh.

>>8836022
>>8836047
Bro your story seems pretty good. use pastebin, though. Make the edits I suggested. If the thread dies after you post it, just send me an email at [email protected] with the segment and I can help you work on it more.

Your characters are actually kind of likable. Maybe because I am comparing them to other characters I know from other books but honestly I think your story has potential. An astronomer girl romanced by her assistant? Maybe worth a shot.

>>8836348
This is so purple there is not an RGB value to represent it. Pick two (2) adjectives per sentence and cut it down.

> The sweet smell of iron floated into his nostrils, the body laying contorted.

Why are these even in the same sentence? Try: "The sweet smell of iron floated into his nostrils as he looked down at the contorted body."

Bam.

> It’s small limbs and smooth skin glistened with sweat highlighted by the small amount of moonlight seeping through the shutters of the grimy, old room.

You used the wrong "its" but that doesn't matter cause this entire sentence just feels needless. Perhaps this is just me but you are cramming too much crap into one sentence. Now, if I read it a few times I can make sense of it, and appreciate it, but honestly it's just too damn long.

Now, that alliteration is kind of nice. You've got four "s" words in a row there. But do you really need them? Also if the room is "grimy" does it matter if it's old? Would you even be able to tell? Also, the room has shutters? Not the window?

Here's how I would rewrite it:

> Moonlight glinted off its sweat-glistened limbs, through the window shutters of the old grimy room

That needs some shopping but it's a start.

> He shuddered as pleasure ran through his body at the sight, reaching down he hefted the body over his shoulder

This should be the second sentence. "He shuddered with pleasure at the sight."

> Warm blood splashed against gray walls as he left.

Is it splashing on a person? No. It's splashing on the wall. Can the wall feel warmth? Doubt it.

For general writing I give this 6/10. You're not bad and have some good lines but there's too much of it. Cut that shit down bro. Overall keep at it. Also if this is meant to be edgy.... you're gonna have to add corpse raping, or this guy jacking off over the dead corpse with his fingerless gloves, cause right now this guy just feels like a jackass assassin who may or may not be a fun character.

As December rolled around, much to Sebs dismay the wildlife slowly disappeared. The beasts of the earth, and the fowl of the air, were no more in Seb’s woods. Seb knew what the man from the Government had done, and he seethed with rage at his underhanded actions. Richard was stealing his livelihood, and nobody tried to stop it. Seb tried to continue with his life even with his new discovery. He had brought in his harvest, and it sat in his cellar canned for winter. He still roamed the woods in search of peace, but it seemed to him his forest was no longer safe. His refuge from the progress of the modern world was being invaded, and it made Seb’s heart beat with a new pain. As the snow laid gently over the forest, and the tree’s were kissed by winter's cold breath, Seb sat wrapped in his furs, under one of the pines pondering his new problems. He sat without paying much attention to the world around him, but his eyes caught something in the sky. He saw the thin wisps of smoke gently drifting into the air, and he paused. Seb said aloud to himself, “What could that be?” With the utterance of those words intense worry spread over Seb, and he stood up and bolted to his cabin. He lept over logs and creeks with the vibrance of a man a third of his age, but it wasn’t enough. When he got to the place his cabin had stood all he saw was the flames leaping higher and higher, they almost licked the high branches far above his cabin. Seb at this moment, regardless of the fire, felt very cold. It was as if he’d just noticed the winter around him, and it seemed to engulf him as he watched the massive pyre that was once his home illuminate the woods around it. Seb laid his back against a tree and sunk down. He sat in the snow watching his home burn down, and he knew nothing could be done. Seb suddenly became very aware of his own mortality, and that without a home, or food, or clothes, he may not survive. Seb sat for hours until his cabin was finally just smoldering ash, and then he got up and walked over into it. He stared at where his bed had once been and all he saw was ash. When he looked at his favorite chair all he saw was ash. Everywhere he looked was ash.

>>8839956
I'm three sentences in and I would like to strangle Seb.

Don't overuse names. Pronouns are your friend.

“What?” Will grumbled “Did this manage to not be a complete disaster?”

“I can see the veil nebula, but not the stars. It's like they're just… gone…”

“Gone?”

“Poof.” she confirmed, gesticulating a puff of smoke with her hands, “just like your dad.”

“Okay, really?” Will groaned.

“You saw it yourself,” Ava said rubbing her eyes. Dark circles were deepening on her lids. Too much spent time working by oil-light, too little time spent sleeping. “It's based on a narrow band filter, maybe I accidentally obscured the H-β spectrum. I'm going to need to spend the whole night figuring out which filter is responsible.”

“What you need is to break your goddamn legs so you're forced to get some bedrest. I'd honestly offer to push you down the stairs if I didn't think your dad would have me in a cement overcoat by sunrise.”

“He's only done that to someone once!”

“You do realize that's not normal right? I mean, maybe that's how dads are supposed to act, I can't speak from experience there, but the point is you need to take a goddamn break. Get some sleep, don't exert yourself tomorrow, and on Saturday I would be honored if you joined me at the one and only Roek and Kasteel Circus!” He brandished an envelope aloft like a flag.

Ava gaped, “How could you afford that?”

“It wasn't easy. I had to save my lunch money for a month and may have engaged in a polio vaccine trial – I hope I'm not in the control group – but it payed off. So what do you say? Will you accompany me?”

Ava took a breath and looked forward. Her pupils shrunk to pinpoints and then disappeared as they turned along an axis orthogonal to all known spacial dimensions. Tomorrow stretched out before her, and her depth perception flattened into graven images. The world lines traced by her future path looked calm and benign, and on the horizon festival lights glowed in the darkness. She knew without choosing which option she would take, it was the one she would have chosen anyway. She blinked back into the present and said “Sounds like a plan.”

>>8839951
sorry, which changes? was this you? >>8834976

Gazing up the sky, color showered down around them. Azure blues and emerald greens poured down across the sky like waterfalls. The brilliant blue, green and purple rainbow of illumination ran across the snowy fields. They stood in silence, the four of them, staring at the sky. Rodmar held his hands up and watched the colors illuminate them, his skin turning from green to purple to yellow. Staring at his companions, Rodmar remembered the stone box he had been saving.
This is the perfect time.
Handing out portions of the green plant to each of them. They shouted in unison
“Odin awaits”
And ate their respective pieces. Tofi was the first to vomit. Then Skuli. Then Sigbjorn. Rodmar did his best to keep it down, to show them that he was the strongest. It came up as a thick green paste, sticking to his teeth. Slowly the sky became more bright. The stars burned into his eyes, and every time he changed his gaze trails ran behind them. He closed his eyelids and the colors continued to shine in his mind. They sat in the a circle and chanted in low voices until daylight, the bass rumbling across the arctic plane.

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>will i ever rest
>there is only stress and despair
>Everywhere i step
>every thought i have
>what sets me free
>from something so familiar
>out of my control
from a time i had oneitis and was a little bitch(still kinda am)

>>8840581
I know myself very well, if i use that knowledge i can predict the next thing i do. I'll be right back. Scratch that he's gone forever. There are so many of me back there. Each stroke of this pen, a past me dies, and the peresent me is born.
Heres some more samefag

There was one a man from Iran, but he'd never been to Iran. He was born in Cleveland to a mother by the name of Irene. Papa skipped out pre-birth, leaving Irene to juggle child-pay and rearing. Irene was a strong woman. Physically. She would last many a fortnight on the homestead. Winter. She named the boy Winston, after her favorite cigarettes.

Winston was a complicated child, both in body and mind. Allergies, phobias, cross-allergyphobias, gangly arms and legs, poor posterior alignment, spontaneous rashes, massive autism. Winston loved blocks. Blocks of all shapes and sizes. Tiny white ones that he'd set in the corner, and massive black ones he'd stack up in the middle of the room so he could topple 'em all at once for mommy to watch. Irene almost always did. But she was a busy lady, a working girl. Punched in double shifts at the Ole Steel Mill, a local spaghetti restaurant owned by the county's number one proprietor Roger Stedad. One night Irene was closing up, Winston safely sealed in his hazard proofed room—stocked with feed-trough, bedpan, and all—and old Mr. Stedad came by to make sure his quaint little business was getting by alright. He and Irene found themselves alone.

"Everything go good t'night?" he asked.
"Mighty fine, Mr. Stedad, mighty fine."
"No...hang-ups this evening? Everything run smoothly?"
"Yes, sir, like butter."
"And Cheryl's been acting herself...I know she ain't been the same since Michael died."
"Yes sir, she's alright. We all miss the king of pop a little bit at least, I feel."
"And that one grifter, he hasn't been in lately?" he asked, leaning against the counter, hands in pocket.
"Word around town is he's gone to Shelbyville, shaking a ruckus up there now, him and his wild gang of hooligans, The Bric-a-Brac Bandits."

The conversation went on, in equal electricity. It was love at first awkward silence, and Winston had a new paw.

Crawdads stock and piled up
on the table dripping their juices
stockpiling, tangible memories regurgitate up from a lizards mouth
down by the river where the cult crosses
to get back in their minivan patched with ads
for RadioShack and their finals sale—
beam me up, rapturous plights
shotgun, sidle round Arthur's blade
and kill the salamander 'bout to take command
of the entire filming project.

Kill me mother earth—
Gaia!—
for thou hast brot me into this cruel 8-bit world
like some Franksteinian drunk sniffing con-powder primarily
to look cool in a breeze you once did
fore flung from that flesh filled sac
I very respectfully address as mother
(she's "a piece of work")
but these durious days deigning denotations what
leave me alliterally making up words
and hating myself like I like to but not
Pforundity comes to me like babies to a stork
chilled and specific, soup or salad fork.

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The first quarter of my short story that I've edited. I've got another chunk edited but nothing worth posting just yet, anyway it's long work and I'm not feeling the drive for this one that I usually do, it feels stale to me, does it seem the same to you?

http://pastebin.com/CdUy0ztm

>>8839951
Really appreciate the critiques! Thank you very much.

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Here's a little poem that I whipped up, what do you think

>>8840507
>sorry, which changes? was this you

Yes.

>>8841495
no problem famalamam

>>8841873
Voice of Our Generation

>>8842474
The changes were made. I'd be pleased to hear your thoughts on the new content.

>>8840675
I have no idea what you're trying to say, and your mix of ye olde linguistics and modern concepts is misapplied. It should be used satire only.

>>8842511
but it was used as satire

>>8840639
brilliant dialogue

>>8842511
Sure. Can you link it in a pastebin? I'm lazy.

>>8842800
http://pastebin.com/G63XrShS

>>8842888

paid not payed

spatial not spacial

Other than that, pretty good. That part at the end seems kind of odd, as if she is actually looking into the future, thus it confused me for a short moment.

> He brandished an envelope aloft like a flag.

Nah, too much here. Either he brandished the envelope, or he held it aloft like a flag. I wouldn't do both.

The part where he's saying he'll break her legs is a bit awkward, as is the "poof....gone... just like your dad." The former, I think makes for good characterization. The latter... what the fuck? I assume it will be brought up more later. But the fact that you mention Will's dad then talk about Ava's just feels a bit weird. Like repeating the same word twice in a sentence. So maybe move that for later.

> “He's only done that to someone once!”

I'd change it to "He's only done that once" and perhaps explain the circumstances under which it happened. Unless such a revelation is important to the plot later on, or you are saving it for later.

> I'd honestly offer to push you down the stairs if I didn't think your dad would have me in a cement overcoat by sunrise.”

Feels a bit weird to *offer* to push someone down the stairs to get them to do somethign they don't want to do anyway. I'd just remove the word "offer."

Overall it's still struggling but it is good. Not sure why you changed it so much from your original opening part, but that's okay.

As for characterization -- take to heart that I did not have to look at the initial "he said she said" to figure out who was speaknig. Your dialogue stands on its own. I can take one line out of context and make a reasonable guess which character is talking. That is good. Your characters have voices. Good job. I can't say I am totally fascinated by them so you might want to work on that but you do have a good framework to work from.

>>8840639
Please publish this and watch people call out the subtle 4chan references.

>>8842949
>That part at the end seems kind of odd, as if she is actually looking into the future, thus it confused me for a short moment.
She actually is looking into the future

Good advice otherwise. I've patched it up and removed the "just like your dad" joke, though I actually was trying to use to characterize Ava a bit by showing her tactlessness. Will is tactless on purpose because he's an asshole but she's tactless because her brain isn't really on the same wavelength as everyone else

>>8843014
>though I actually was trying to use to characterize Ava a bit by showing her tactlessness.

Alright. That's fine, actually. Just make sure you show Will's face twitching or him reacting to it somehow. Don't SAY how will feels about that offhand comment, SHOW it with a facial expression. Show don't tell gets fetishized someetimes but this is a good place to use it.

> but she's tactless because her brain isn't really on the same wavelength as everyone else

Try to make this a bit more clear. Maybe she uses the wrong word when she meant a different one, or says weird things that make sense from a certain mindset. Try to develop the way she thinks and it will feel more consistent and enhance its weirdness.

How many other people were in the cubicles? He didn't even know, and chose to count at the first chance. Hours passed as he filled several spreadsheets, his mind for the most part elsewhere: dreaming of knighthood, questing, intense but hopeful wars.

As he ate his lunch, macaroni and cheese microwaved on site, he wondered for a few seconds why this predictable, unexciting work was so maligned. Is this so bad? he wondered while chatting with a colleague. Worse than any other occupation? I think it must be universal that the life of fantasy outweighs what one really does. He had also brought a banana to eat for after, and he enjoyed it.

The verdure of the fields in which he stood triumphant post slaying some fiendish antagonist were like a composite of all he'd ever seen. They shone so bright in his heart that the thought of /really/ going off in armor on a horse seemed more remote and amusing than usual.

His day had ended, but his dream life went on: he was presently talking with a Prince d'Artagnan in a pavilion overlooking a calm, clear, breathtaking lake, and had a presentiment of coming danger. Indeed: a courier soon let them know the dreaded Clawthrone, who had once ruled all Europia with impunity, had arisen from his hidden crypt and taken the city of Longbelived all on his own. "We must go at once to defend the people!"

47, by the way, and 48 if he included himself.

>written on a whim in about ten minutes. any good?

>>8843465 added more content for the sake of pacing and food porn. This is very quickly becoming a novel

“You do realize that's not normal right? I mean, maybe that's how dads are supposed to act, I can't exactly speak from experience there, but the point is you need to take a goddamn break. When was the last time you consumed something other than coffee? You know what, don't answer, hold on a second.”

The door to the roof had been propped open using Will's letter bag, which contained among other things a tin lunch pail and a single flask. Will brought it over and shoved into her hands.

“Take a break from intellectually strenuous activity for five goddamn minutes and use that time to cram and/or pour this into one of your orifices.”

Eve opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it and poured herself hot broth from the flask. It was tomato soup – a personal favorite, – which smelled of liberal quantities of garlic and black pepper. The lunch pail contained a matching sandwich of smoked ham and gouda cooked over a griddle.

“Eat up. I didn't spend six hours simmering tomato broth just so you could keel over before tasting it.”

“You shpent shix hours cooking?” she asked with a mouth full of sandwich.

“All the best of parts of the tomato are actually in the scraps: skin and seeds, vile jellies, but it takes geological eons for them to break down into something remotely edible.”

“How did you figure that out?”

“Famine.”

Eve hadn't realized how hungry she had been, but soon enough found herself licking the flask cap and picking the cheese off the butcher paper at the bottom of the lunch pail. As she drew it out to funnel the crumbs into her mouth, Eve noticed the envelope sitting underneath the paper.

“Eve,” Will said opening the envelope to reveal two ticket stubs, “How would you like come with me on Saturday night to see the one and only Roek and Kasteel Circus?”

>>8843891
>He had also brought a banana to eat for after, and he enjoyed it.
This is my only gripe with an otherwise excellent piece. It's extraneous and makes only a vestige of sense.

Besides, macaroni and banana? That sounds disgusting

“I can't believe it. She dumped me. I fucked up. Doesn't want to see me again.”
“I think you should enter rebound fling with your devout Catholic mother, get her pregnant, and fall into a searing depression that ends with a jacuzzi and a car battery.”
“Maybe it was the flat. It's quite claustrophobic, with those beige walls pressing in on you from every side. They might have changed her perception of my personality.”
“There's a B&Q round the corner. Buy a pack of nails and hammer them in. Reconstruct a few masterpieces and open a nail studio called 'nail art'. It'll be hilarious.”
“Maybe I should just stop talking to you… she didn't like you, especially when you told her to buy a frog and make her cat have sex with it, and that kind of tarred me with the same brush.”
“She asked me to help with the garden fence, what do you expect?”
“One thing worked though. You know when I had gonorrhoea, and you told me to have bareback sex with prostitutes? That worked. I'll go nuts from tertiary neurosyphilis in a few years and forget about it. Fuck, I guess I don't have to worry about the breakup either.”
“Maybe it was the syphilis.”

new to writing

From the dark a conciousness unwillingly melded into a dream. A blurry slideshow of scenes unraveled it's tape, faces of both the misfigured familiar and the forgettable new speaking quotes of possible nonsense. Games of madness with unspoken rules and unclear goals that were well known and then completely forgotten again. However there was one word this time, one thing that stuck in Carl's mind, even as the memory of his dream slipped off him into the shower like a snake skin. The T6 Hotel. He saw it on the sign above the entrance to the place, he had the slight feeling that his father was inside the lobby looking out the window there, or perhaps the gaze of a forgotten memory was waiting for an eternity to be met again. The T6 Hotel, such an odd name for a hotel he thought as his eyes looked at the water swirl into the bath drain. He then wondered if his head was too lost in the cerebral, they were just dreams, dreams he wasn't very fond of. In his waking dreams he could travel to many places, the kind of unexplainable locale of the vast spiritual unknown, like an inqusitive ghost lost in a unihabited universe made for only his own, connected through webs of the unconcious, of the abstract, and of the expression of feelings distant from words. Yet the realm of sleep was quite different. It was an uncontrollable out of body chaos, a grim parody of all in his soul and mind. To memorize his brief glimpse of that hell gave him an empty feeling in his stomach, and a slight taste of nihilism with cold anxiety permiated in his saliva.

Overhead: a libertarian
canvas hooked to anchor
nibs. Margins where civil carrion
prints its tarlike rancour,

or, effluent, miasmatic,
overspills its tanker-
chiselled channels, a haematic
spurt from a ballpoint pen.

Congealed resinous canker
stained with hieratic
acquiescence, how could one
as I, world-schismatic,

I, who can prognosticate when
canvas will be rolled, white
as it was first unscrolled, be so
manned at a painted blight?

>>8833924
How about simply "re-ossified choleric amber"?

good. use to sit in your eye as the flames leaping, or plated with the eyepiece. It's alright, reach the officers in thinking deepening parts I like of this but honestly that's how I would see them breaking quotes of possible, bloquear.

trying to you want me to."

Is a bit more.

[YouTube] oh ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah (embed)

jk jk. but it came to rest of the finds on the last meal, can see the foggy LL and cheese microwaved on site, he won't even know, and one of the head man briefs them knowing. Fierce invectives perfect English??

“I’m always rookie of the knightsticks did well to they had left to dissolved into his nothing so foreign to purple rainbow of illuminescend the car working the possibility. No one make your dad" joke, the hammers might have to replaced it for something became a shit about?" A yank of the novel

Anonymous 12/12/16(Mon)13:45:18 No.8830111

Alright boys switch of your concerned the wrong people.

Anonymous 12/10/16(Sat)21:08:00 No.8835832
sarengarth_and_undercity_(...).png (51 KB, 688x681) ExHentai google yandex iqdb wait
82 KB

http://pastebin.com/G63XrShS (embed)

Anonymous 12/14/16(Wed)16:47:28 No.8843465>>8843014

>era en estos casos es olvidar, y en cast out into all. Others had been look like a goddamn legs so you're writing

Aparte te disaster?” Bodi regarded the midnight, it choosing equal forces meet each of the riot techniques, gun calibers. They arrive at the local spaghetti restaurant owned by the candles and undress, because no one dies, how does it the day expresiones que más lo harsh. But just randomly typin an epic scenes un tema que han sufrido de lo que había pasado y sinceramente
Btw. Can someone pass the king of tiny paws and accidentally obscured the old man aspect, there noticeable....yes.....ok....time without dealing a busy lady, a work towards the blows on past most shix hours simmering contentando plasmar end of odd, as if trying to get this time, manage to nowhere i step
The first awkward Korny rhyme scheme. No lie it feels like a great number,
So you're trying to be able to alleviate them, his skin was a corpse, because had known black pepper. This was for description and garlic chutney I think it's explainable local chant owned by the way their lustre.
era en él
Ava a bit awkward.

Anonymous 12/13/16(Tue)07:11:33 No.8834048>>8834724
im always remember.
>se impactará
Oh yes...very good!.

>>8840639
kill yourself

>>8839057
>the repeated use of short and snappy sentences gets weary. i can see what youre going for but it could do with some work.

OP here, he just put what I wrote in Google Translate.

>>8844704
What specifically about my piece compelled you to implore suicide? Surely it can't have genuinely elicited that pronounced of an emotional reaction from you, else I might suggest you be of markedly weak constitution. Did you relate too much to the white blocks?

>>8842888
less bad, but I still don't like it. still a little korny

>>8844621
this is gonna sound crazy but you gotta say more with less words.

I mean really try to just be as boring and normal as possible

>>8843968
too edgy and snarky 4me

>>8844685
bro can you not type like such a queermo? it's extremely obnoxious.

>>8840675
this is GOOD!

>>8838949
bro DFW was not actually a good writer lol

also nothing happens here. you got the voice nailed, the rhythms goin but its just.. nothins going on. dude he fucked a melon. so edgy..

>>8836756
>>8836762
authentically creative.

fun stuff with the maw and the br ea (though a little slam poetry so fuck you all the same)...

BUT it's too bloody

>>8844767
>>8844769
>>8844770
anyone who was annoyed by my cruel dashed-off critiques can take it out on my own story, here:

>>8833847

>>8822030
Nice writing, but I've seen one mistake here:

"estoy consciente", the correct way would be "soy consciente"

I'm Incredibly Spheksophobic


The universal particulate:
God's bosom, articulate gibberish
encoded in snowflakes in a binary codex
borne from the matrimony of soles, notorious nodes
sewn lawfully into a Mets' calf calved
(and here we find ourselves
lost in abstraction:
light holed hostage:
waves whirled wormingly:
information out formation:
eternally 404'd)
titanically, betrothed to that idea
of ourselves as self plus one/other and
as the thing-of-it-in-itself, the thing itself:

I can see the reflection of my reflection in the pupil of my eye in the mirror
if I touch my greasy nose to the glass and leave a mark
that my maid must wipe clean the following morning
else she receives reprimand from my pants-wearing mother
who gave me an amazing gift on my birth day
for which I've repeatedly failed to express gratitude
vainly using it for vanity and laissez fairs
as I float from bank to skank on the nihil
spending money on time and time on nothing
stroking my ego to put my ego in something

(before the cracked tintinnabulation
overtakes the ineluctable brass taxes
or—Abraxas forbid—all my dry axes
on which I'll prove the limit does not exist).

I'm Incredibly Spheksophobic


The universal particulate:
God's bosom, articulate gibberish
encoded in snowflakes in a binary codex
borne from the matrimony of soles, notorious nodes
sewn lawfully into a Mets' calf calved
(and here we find ourselves
lost in abstraction:
light holed hostage:
waves whirled wormingly:
information out formation:
eternally 404'd)
titanically, betrothed to that idea
of ourselves as self plus one/other and
as the thing-of-it-in-itself, the thing itself:

I can see the reflection of my reflection in the pupil of my eye in the mirror
if I touch my greasy nose to the glass and leave a mark
that my maid must wipe clean the following morning
else she receives reprimand from my pants-wearing mother
who gave me an amazing gift on my birth day
for which I've repeatedly failed to express gratitude
vainly using it for vanity and laissez faire polity
as I float from bank to skank on the nihil
spending money on time and time on nothing
stroking my ego to put my ego in something

(before the cracked tintinnabulation
overtakes the ineluctable brass taxes
or—Abraxas forbid—all my dry axes
on which I'll prove the limit does not exist
nor definitively definite definition).

ignore this one >>8844918
read this one >>8844928

*could not delete*

Tom woke up to the realisation he’d slept longer than expected, the weather’s cool turn and his own drawn down shades keeping him in a blue darkness unfamiliar to December. It was unusual. Though he couldn’t see the time he sensed from the silence of the house that it must’ve been later than nine. Tom did not keep a clock in his room for he often had trouble getting to sleep and there was nothing more frustrating on a sleepless night than staring at the numbers zero four zero zero in mocking neon red. Without the clock he could lie, bored, but peacefully ignorant to exactly how much time had passed. Had it been five minutes or five hours? His own internal clock was much worse at keeping track.

He had fallen asleep early last night, but remembered vaguely waking up a few times throughout. He remembered starting with a small and embarrassing yelp at the climax of one dream which had seen him in long and heated argument with his best friend. He couldn’t remember the argument, only that his attacks had been quite personal and not unfounded. He remembered fragments of another, more erotically charged, dream which had seen him licking the anus of a beautiful woman – an act he had never specifically taken a part in in real life. He could not remember the woman exactly, just that she was beautiful, but he had an unsettling feeling that it had been someone he knew. Lastly, he remembered his most recent dream, the one he had only just woken up from. In it, he had seen his ex-girlfriend with whom he’d broken amicably up with four months before. He had seen her with a boy, Harry, whom he had known in primary school, but had not seen in about ten years. His gut had fallen to the cement upon seeing the two, who sat at the bus stop outside the local sports ground (a bus stop that in actuality did not exist). His gut had fallen in a very real way though only a dream. He could still feel that sensation resting in his gut now that he was awake. In the dream his ex-girlfriend and Harry had kissed. They had laughed and made small talk with Tom and during their small talk his ex-girlfriend made no hint that she was in anyway dissatisfied with Harry or in anyway missing Tom. The image of them kissing replayed over and over in his mind.

Tom lay in the blue darkness staring at the ceiling. He still wondered what time it was. Probably fifteen past nine, he thought. He wondered if the dream with ex-girlfriend had meant anything. If it meant that he had not moved on from her yet. He wondered if it was just a dream and a dream being a dream had been nonsensical and meaningless and out of his control. He wondered why he had dreamed up Harry, a boy he had not thought about in years and years. Finally, Tom sat up, and wondered how he would fill the hours in his day before the six o’clock news came on and the others began to come home.

>>8844767
>too edgy and snarky 4me
the idea was for the character to say the worst possible thing whenever asked for advice or help. as a kind of skit. then it ended up self-contained

>>8844979
>guy wakes up later than expected
>he recalls his dreams
>then he wonders if they really meant anything at all

This is the amount of words the reader is realistically willing to read considering your subject matter, which I cant possibly fathom relevantly fitting into some larger story

>>8844769
not influenced by dfw :^)
and thanks, im planning on adding to it so its more interesting but im happy that the voice and rhythm are good because ive been struggling with dialogue.

Okay I have a confession… I just got caught fucking myself by the ghost police, they're longer than you'd believe. Longer than they are transparent. Anyways, one of them told me ‘hey I know what you're doing there and I like it… on double negative positive day’… the room burst with ghastly laughter as I ran up stairs to my wife… ‘Georgia!’, I cried, ‘Why must they watch me while I jingle my bells?’
Her eyes shuttered and she dropped dead. My vinyl queen, as much air as I am water. Limbs like fat peachy hot dogs. Checked her pulse----/ negative 60. Only one person can save her now. So I ran back downstairs to my telephone and dialled - 911… ‘Hello this is bol nihil nihil nucker, how may I fuck her?’ Well, now I'm fuming and crying as I write about this, long story short I hung up on this crude rude flaming dude. R.I.P. big baby love you always.

>>8844762
corny how exactly? Don't get me wrong, I'm not upset, but I just want to know what I should be targeting. I figured out myself he dived into the invitation a bit quickly and drew it out with added food porn here >>8843914 but I honestly think I might need to just cut this part out and go back to the drawing board.

This scene clashes with the writing style of the rest of the story, being a bit more cartoony and lacking a certain sense of period-accuray, and I think I've made too many changes without proper planning. I need to create a new outline and adjust the character's speech patterns and knowledge to make the setting a bit more clear

also, corny is spelled with a c, unless you're talking about the band?

>>8846315
korn's tight

Eve had gone to bed knowing for a fact that tomorrow was going to be an ordinary day, fate had already seen to that. When she observed her future, 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 (unavoidable sadly, but what will be will be) 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 education 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 closed 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 Eve 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.

She was only just forming the start of a dream when the doorbell woke her up. A bleary glance at the clock on her radio told her it was every second between two in the morning and four. She blinked lazily, allowing her eyes to refocus on the present. It was three fifty seven, and someone was ringing the doorbell. As she blinked in the darkness, struggling to keep her eyelids in synch with each other, she heard her father open the door cautiously and invite two men into the hall.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” she heard her father ask. His voice was a few decibels above a whisper, quiet enough to not wake anyone up but loud enough that she didn't have to strain very hard to hear.

“I know Ange, but this is important” that was Luca. He'd been a close friend of the family since before she was born. His nasally voice cut through the silence like a hacksaw through a chalkboard.

“Out with it,” her father grunted, clearly unhappy with being woken up. “You say it's important so what is it?”
“Angelo,” the other man said. He was another grunt in the family, the one whose name she could never remember. His voice sounded like a toad or a lunch lady. She always thought his mouth wasn't wide enough to make that kind of noise, though his pronounced brow ridge seemed to be attempting to pick up the slack. “The boss is dead.”

>>8844928
great imagery, but very opaque. what is it about gnosticism that motivates computer scientists to wax poetic?

>>8846868
Not really—I got the inspiration from the quote: "In the particular is contained the universal." So the first stanza is my highly abstract depiction of universal (and I've pretty densely packed in as many allusions as I could to be honest), while the second deals with a depiction of myself as the particular—and the third is essentially an epilogue.

>>8846868
>>8843914
>>8842888
>>8840507
>>8836003
>>8831875

Motherfucker. I knew it was bad but I didn't realize until I re-read the entire story. everything here and more is going to need to be amputated. I'm cutting the entire beginning off and starting anew, but I don't know what to replace it with

>>8845840
Stealing Pynchman's style and Cormac's jokes are fun for an exercise, but don't go thinkin you can stretch this into a full whatever without tipping off everyone with a modicum of reading experience that you're just bitin.

File: q.png (39KB, 512x637px) Image search: [Google]

39KB, 512x637px

>>8840567
psychedelic, I was a bit more interested in what they'd be wearing on the arctic plane though

>>8840600
>>8840581
the voice of a generation
at least, that was me when I was 19

Don Angelo Bevitore was by all standards living a comfortable and fulfilling life. That nearly of it had come from smuggling liquor in and out of the dry city of New Amsterdam was of very little consequence as far as he was concerned.

There was a reason people drank: it eased the nerves, warmed the body and made even the coldest and dirtiest gutter feel like the Taj Mahal. Agriculture as a whole had been an attempt to keep the beer flowing, and in his opinion it would be shameful to have the rhyme without the reason. Someone had to keep the city's social gears lubricated, and for the past seven years that man had been him.

It was a demanding job, but he took it in stride, and the wealth and comfort it brought him was nothing to shake a stick at. He had buildings and businesses, fortune and friends, a large syndicate of made men at his disposal and an entire penthouse of his own up by Medial Park; but favorite among favors was his daughter Eveline. It was because of, and for her that he rose to the top.

He wasn't sure where she got it – maybe those astronomy books she always read (or was that astrology?) – but the girl had a knack for seeing things that hadn't happened yet. It was a talent that came in useful at least three times a day, and one he relied on more than he cared to admit. It was that aid he came seeking one cool autumn night.

>>8847913
Your imagery is good, dark but well done. The issue is I can't really tell what the words themselves are supposed to be. Maybe it's just an illusion due to the way the text is arranged and spaced, but it seems like you're swinging back and forth between good prose and bad poetry. Decide on one (I recommend prose)

also:
>the machine beeps drilled...
was that intentional?

>>8845930
please avoid writing schizophrenic ravings. Its hard to do well, and even when you succeed who the hell wants to read it?

http://pastebin.com/CfaFEnSF


I love you

>>8848036
crit shit fagit

>>8848084
okay, i forgot sorry

>>8848022
You're writing in a way that might justify an exposition dump like this, making it seem fitting somehow, but you're not quite there, it feels awkward still

>>8848103
I can see what you mean. I think it might be a penchant for overly long sentences especially the really crappy last one. Any specifics you can point out?

I read you thing and it's good. Really good. One of the best things I've seen here really. Only thing I can pick out is some weird newline spacing and punctuation. The fourth "block" has a comma next to a period and you need to fix the spacing to make it more readable, but honestly I can't say I have any criticism of the content

>>8848130
I think you use to many like common phrases, and obvious metaphors? I think either the character or the manner in which he is described need to be particularly unique and engaging here, and neither fully are.

>>8848147 this better?

Don Angelo Bevitore was by all standards living a comfortable and fulfilling life. That nearly of it had come from smuggling liquor in and out of the dry city of New Amsterdam was of very little consequence as far as he was concerned.

There was a reason people drank: it eased the nerves, warmed the body and made even the coldest and dirtiest gutter feel like a good futon. Agriculture as a whole had been an attempt to keep the beer flowing, and in his opinion it would be shameful to have the rhyme without the reason. Someone had to keep the city soused as a kitchen sponge, and for the past seven years that man had been him.

It was a demanding job, and often called for some crude methods and cuckoo ideas, but he was never at a loss for lucre. He had buildings and businesses, fortune and friends, a large syndicate of made men at his disposal and an entire penthouse of his own up by Medial Park; but as the elevator slowed to a halt and the brass cages slid open the treasure on his mind was his daughter, Eveline.

He wasn't sure where she got it – maybe that telescope he bought her had something to do with it – but the girl had a knack for seeing things that hadn't happened yet. It was a talent that came in useful at least three times a day, and one he relied on more than he cared to admit.

Tried writing a prose poem for the first time. How shit is it?

Flickering streetlamps light the path, reflecting glimmering shards of glass and making murky the haze of smog hanging above me. There’s a crooked half smile on my face and my eyes are sharp and sure and know no doubt. My chest is not hollow and when I strike it I hear the thump of soft flesh and feel the warmth of flowing blood. The starless sky poises to drag me into the void and swallow me whole, but I stand firm and stare into its black eyes. I am king; ruling over broken bricks and jagged asphalt, lively exchange and wild expressions. I command anything that I touch; this is my domain. Eyeing down the cosmos and giving it a smirk. That time will come, but it’s not now. Standing tall with bruised ribs and burnt hands, sweaty and breathless and embracing it all. Embracing all that I own.

>>8848036
Nice

>>8835495
I feel the exact same way about my book. 160000 words in. Nearly finished. Love the idea of it. Reading it makes me hate myself.

New to /lit/, lurking this thread and learning some things. Might post some content soon. Please, what does purple mean?

>>8848505
short for 'purple prose'
prose that is too elaborate, wordy, needlessly sophisticated. wankery.

>>8848698
Thanks! That was my hunch, but I wondered whether it was more specific than this.

A hard thing to avoid sometimes.

We've been married for twelve years. Truth be told, I myself have forgotten some of our anniversaries, but it wasn't on purpose. As a neurosurgeon, many things leave my focus for work.

Of course, that isn't to say I don't love my husband. Hell, I obsess over him. The first day I laid eyes upon him was the day I realized love at first sight did exist.

With his perfectly sculpted body and a razor sharp chin line, he was a sight to behold. Any woman wanted him and any man wanted to be him, so says the old cliche. I just happened to be the one who won him over. Or so I thought.

Lately, he hasn't been paying much attention to me. I thought it was because of my constant absence at home due to work, but it was something much more than that. Something... covetous.

It all started about a year ago. I came back home from work one night and my husband was already asleep. He always looks so peaceful when he slept. Like a dormant Adonis, his body was calm as he breathed in his sleep. Perfect as always.

That is, until I heard him whisper something. A name. "Liza..."

I stared down at him with empty eyes. Liza. THAT NAME. LIZA. At that moment, he ceased to be my husband for a split second. How dare he mutter any other woman's name except mine? The audacity he had!

I realized then that he was just dreaming. I completely understand if he was just dreaming, but what if he was having an affair? Even the thought shot a galvanized arrow through my heart.

I didn't ask him about it and simply let it rest. That was my first mistake.

Later on in the year it happened again. I decided to go through his personal belongings and what I feared came to light. In his wallet was a picture of a young girl. Red hair, green eyes, and skin so fair, it put any goddess to shame. I was devastated.

I decided not to confront him about it. What if he thought I was crazy or got mad at me for going through his stuff? This didn't bode well.

People at work told me that he loved me as much as I did. They're fools. If they had lovers of their own, they'd know. It seemed as if no one was on my side.

The weirdest part of this was that my husband was so open about it. At the Christmas party held in the hospital where I worked, he brought Liza along. The sheer disrespect that transpired through the night would stay with me for the rest of my life. No one paid me attention as they all gawked and praised her, just for her looks! It irked me so much.

The final nerve snapped a few days ago. I had just come home from work, hoping to spend some time with my husband. I walked into our bedroom and found the most horrific sight I could imagine. Liza was sleeping in the same bed with him.

Sound asleep, I looked over them both with empty eyes. There was no excuse to bring another girl into OUR bed. It was unforgivable. With my hand placed firmly on her neck, it snapped as easy as a twig.

>>8848754
Part 2
The funeral service for Liza was one of despair and deep mourning. Everyone said good things about her. Even my husband didn't hide his emotions. His tears hit her beautiful face as he leaned over her coffin.

Of course, I cried with him as well. Not tears of sorrow, but of joy. Liza could never have him ever again.
And I mean, sure. What kind of mother wouldn't cry at her own daughter's funeral?

I know there's a lot of plot holes, but I wrote this in 5 minutes. Cut me some slack.

>beginning of a short story, not sure where it's going yet
Ms. Nishimura works the counter of a corner store in Waipio Acres. She’s a local: last name Japanese, three-quarters Filipino. From behind yesterday’s Star Bulletin, she watches the space between my hands and my pockets while I meander down her shelves. She worries about her homeless father in Waianae, about the copper wire thieves who broke into a house down the street, about the electricity bill. The ceiling is low; the shop is dim, close, sweaty.

>>8848848
this is nice and neat, pleasant to read - but far too little here for me to make any sort of judgement. Nothing obviously wrong with it though.

>>8848852
Thanks for the feedback! It's still in it's very earliest stages, and I'm a slow writer, but hopefully I'll have more soon. I'm glad you liked it.

>1/2
We worship the fallen gods of dying men. The whispered words rang in his head, the last thing his father had told him as he lay dying, the giant now a curdled corpse. Rough waves lapped at his chest as they had been for three days since he started his vigil, the sea threatening to swallow him as he stood. Fingering the medallion held by a leather cord around his neck, he reached into the past. Garrion, the lonely bastard of Windtorn Isles. Yet it was him whom his lord father came, to teach and encourage. Favoring his mother’s skirts over his high born wife or any others. He did not doubt his father had loved his mother. The memory of sitting on her lap rushed to him. His lord father, Windtor had brought him his first wooden sword, his fingers had been barely able to hold the hilt, but he had tried, clumsily. His mother’s soft laugh echoed in his ears. “Will you be my little warrior, Garrion? Will you slay beasts in the shadows and keep me safe?” He could still remember the imprint of her lips against his forehead. He had squealed in delight as his father had chased them around in their humble home in mock madness pretending to be the very beast of the shadows.
It was the sweetest memory Garrion knew, before mother had been become with child again, to the chagrin of his lord’s father wife. His father had told him, with red-rimmed eyes how Lady Uryla had demanded he banish his mistress and her brood. Windtor, The Unsung of Windtorn Isles had refused and Uryla took matters into her own hands. His mother and unborn sibling now lay beneath stone, at rest with the maggots and worms. The Unsung of Windtorn Isles was no more, his mother’s death taking his life, replacing it with a golem with an appetite for the cold and solitude. After a time he seemed to recover, only to teach his bastard son and to use him to inflict pain on those who had harmed him. His father’s love for Garrion had been tainted, in him he only saw his mother and pain.

>>8848940
>2/2

Smelling the sweet salty air, he waited until the sun rose high in the sky before leaving. His skin had turned deathly white, the salt having rubbed away at him, leaving rawness instead. Running a parched tongue over his lips he gathered his things and dressed. Kneeling down on the sand, he began to pray for his father’s spirit. Hours passed till he felt the moon’s embrace, with only the churning humming of the sea for company.
They’ll be ready soon. The thought came announced with a sense of urgency. Annoyance gripped him. Pushing himself off the sand, he dusted off his knees and began to walk. Heading for the secluded groves near the beach, sword ready in his hand. Seven statues in a circular pattern with stone cowls and swords gripped at the hilt. Time had made them almost unrecognizable, features barely discernible and kneeling at the foot at them were the women. Seven of them, each with a babe in their arms, none of them theirs. Children of the streets and rape, taken with or without the mother’s consent. Garrion shuddered, letting the memory disperse before the image of what happened after appeared in his mind’s eye.

I noticed that /lit/ seems to prefer simpler prose and sentences with a more blunt style of storytelling. Is this because it's much harder to write another way effectively or is it simply that must people prefer a more economical style regardless?

>"your mission is to extract the captured extraction operator, Sali Rosh
>she'd apparently been spotted while prepping some intel for QX (quick extraction)
>the going theory is that she bit off more than she could chew and idled too long"
>that was an unusual mistake for Rosh, Grey thought
>second only to infiltrating an FCL occupied territory
>"the Op fled along the south-west boundary of the base
>hoping to lose the Ternaries in the caves below the substructure
>not a bad move, and probably would have worked if not for one thing:
>the Op wasnt the only thing down crawling around in those depths
>we think she made contact with something...dangerous
>she sent several burst transmissions detailing her plans to backtrack along the eastern basin
>however, the Op never got that far
>her penultimate transmission was cut mid-sentence
>with the last received approximately 17 minutes later
>you'd better listen to yourself, Agent"
>it opened with a sound of scraping with a semi-rhythmic metallic tinnire
>Grey clenched his jaw as he realized something was dragging Rosh
>then he heard it: the guttural utterance of an EXO
>Grey shuddered and turned away
>subconsciously grasping at his left hip
>whose fracture last time he encountered an EXO nearly ended his career
>"old friend of yours?
>so you see what we're dealing with"
>Grey tersely inquired why they had come to him ignoring his conflicting interests with the Operator
>"you’re one of the few who made contact and lived to tell the tale
>though you won't be going it alone this time
>we're dispatching you with Pierson
>she'll worry about the creature while you extract the Op
>thereafter you will attempt to recover whatever intel she failed to extract"
>Grey contemplated
>the idea of an EXO being anywhere near Rosh gnawed at him
>as did the thought of him being anywhere near Pierson
>he didn't dislike her, either
>she was an absolute demon in the field
>someone he’d want to have watching his back
>but she didn't feel so strongly about him
>plus, he hadn't seen her since her since they'd visited Scott's grave
>"you'll have 12 hours to make preparations"


>>8848848
I want to fuck Ms. Nishimura
But seriously, I'm drawn to stuff like this. Feels slice-of-life without relying on tropes and the usual pitfalls. Or maybe its just because she isn't white

>>8844680
please?

>>8848975
I'm guessing it is an intentionally draining read? That the tryhardiness is not just intentional but the entire point of the poem.

The most powerful words were tarlike and anchor.

>>8848963
I reckon it's the former; the latter also makes sense, but /lit/ doesn't really care for the "mainstream" audience.

>>8848966
Aw shucks. Y'all about to make me blush.

bumping >>8848188

>>8848966
not bad, though overuse of the abbreviation "Op" and the greentext formatting make it a lot more annoying to read than it otherwise would be

The real thing that needs to be changed here is this
>Grey shuddered and turned away
>subconsciously grasping at his left hip
>whose fracture last time he encountered an EXO nearly ended his career

this just sounds awkward as shit

>>8848940
good atmosphere, superior rhythm, maybe a bit edgy but not excessively so.

> Fingering the medallion held by a leather cord around his neck, he reached into the past. Garrion, the lonely bastard of Windtorn Isles. Yet it was him whom his lord father came, to teach and encourage.

the first sentence is confusing, the second is awkward. Fix these

>>8848848
good work, though I'm on the fence about this part

>she watches the space between my hands and my pockets

maybe it's just me, but I think its a strange way to say she's trying make sure the narrator isn't shoplifting

Nine AI reports on the impacts of the Gov district assault spooled across a silent car screen. Aside from the many physical and psychological issues involving any war zone deployment, the people, soldiers and other consciousnesses present in and around the district had been exposed to a unique mix of hazards not previously experienced on Blone. These included ingestion of large doses of pyridostigmine bromide (given to protect from the effects of nerve agents). Exposure to radioactive munitions and countermeasures, bespoke biochem weapons; anthrax, botulinum and their vaccines. The oil and smoke that spewed for days from hundreds of burning oil refineries presented another exposure hazard. The City was still coping with swarms of genetically modified insects, requiring the widespread use of pesticides. High powered microwaves were blasting wildly across the surface and air to disrupt communications which greatly exceeded safety limits for electromagnetic radiation. And several square kilometers of downtown City was covered in semi-conscious area-denial cluster munitions, in a mistaken use of illegal weapons by the air force. Since Thursday, 248,000 Worldenders had their security ruptured by marines, belief system shattered on screen, Cult Leader killed, brains’ force downloaded a crude mass memic hypnosis, were forced onto empty highways by a City police cordon, and hunted by killing machines.

>>8849953
Gluos was passed out in the parking lot of the presidential palace in the front seat of the company car. Yellow sun had set; gone orange and was glinting in his side mirror, he opened eyes, and raised arms and wiped his mouth. He was in a torn suit. Assistant was piled in the back with three sleeping women. They had been there almost all day. The car insides were littered with garbage. Outside sparks flew, in wavering gusts of wind, caught in helicopter spotlight. He looked at data displayed on the dashboard. It was like a flatline of a company profile. There was a conference call in two minutes.

>>8849953
>>8849959
crit shit faggit

>>8849966
where's ur shit then?

>>8849971
the updated version is here >>8848188

but I gave critique here >>8848022 and here >>8849917

>>8848966

>second only

>the Op wasnt the only thing down crawling around in those depths

>penultimate transmission

>and lived to tell the tale

>plus

Remove cringe

>>8850001
last sentence is awkward lose the "three times a day," if he's worried about it we know its a lot of times. And where's it going, like a bioshock infinite kinda thing?

>>8850023
more like a prohibition-era fairy tale

>It was a talent that came in useful more often than not, and one he relied on more than he cared to admit.

better?

>>8849953
you find yourself using plurals of words that already end with an s, and it causes a lot of confusion where there doesn't need to be any. That last sentence is kind of a mess for several reason and the use of "consciousnesses" in sentence number two was really just unncessary

>>8849959
this is going to need a lot of work. let's see

Gluos was passed out in the parking lot of the presidential palace in the front seat of the company car. The yellow sun had set; gone orange and was glinting in his side mirror. He opened his eyes, raised his arms and wiped his mouth. His suit was more or less shredded. His assistant had been piled in the back with three sleeping women. They had been there almost all day and the insides of the car were littered with garbage. Outside sparks flew, in wavering gusts of wind, caught in helicopter spotlight. He looked at the data displayed on the dashboard, a flatline of a company profile. He had a conference call scheduled in two minutes.

>>8850104
>more like a prohibition-era fairy tale
>>It was a talent that came in useful more often than not, and one he relied on more than he cared to admit.

That's smoother, whats your magic to realism ratio looking like?

Made some changes to that last sentence: 248,000 Worldenders had their security ruptured by marines and Cult Leader killed on screen. Then were exposed to a crude mass memic hypnosis, forced onto empty highways by a City police cordon, and hunted by killing machines.

>>8850179
It's a bit more magic than most disney fairy tales but not as magic as a ghibli fairy tale

those last two sentences are still pretty rough. I think you might need to rephrase it entirely rather than make small changes to what you have

try something like this
>the marines breached the wall of worldenders and a a cult leader was killed onscreen. The survivors were exposed to a crude form of mass hypnosis and guided onto empty highways by a cordon police. There a retainer of judgement engines made short work of them

fyi, the biggest part you need to change is the name "killing machines" it's lacking a bit of inspiration

>>8850347
I think why you're struggling with this one is that this is chapter intro paragraph, with references to things that happened in the past chapter, and hints at whats going on in this one. Hence the vagueness and past tense, I can show more examples of this theme or I can show you the more basic middle chunks of a chapter.

Killing machines is probably a place holder for more specifically named things that are also in past chapter, haven't got to the part so haven't named them yet.

File: 15218643_1361113873901412_94992176_n.jpg (79KB, 960x720px) Image search: [Google]

79KB, 960x720px

>>8846868
The first paragraph was pretty good, but the rest lacks momentum.

>>8844928
You need to rethink some word choices.. some of them are plain ugly (ineluctable, tintinnabulation, particulate/articulate, notorious nodes, waves whirled wormingly, titanically). Also, pay more attention to the rhythm; it seems that in the second stanza you just hit enter when you felt like it, which makes it distinctly unpoetic.

~ ~ ~

Amber round the rusting tarn,
oak tree spindles
net Gedanke from the wind.
Understanding passes through
their grasp – too weak,
the sky too vast.
Their brief reflections
wise enough to dance alone
while shadows dance unseen
behind them.

Thick white fog blurs night and day.
Willow feathers fall and rot,
fall apart in toddlers' hands
like smoke.
The thread of self is glimpsed and
lost in garden shade,
tangled with the fallen strings
of shallow faces,
ghosts
who haunt the path as if
their will was not the maze -

and while the driveway gravel crunches
under fallen leaves,
the Himalayas
shrink to dust and pavements
grind to sand, the car to rust.

>>8849917
Alright, thank you for the critique really appreciate it!

>>8850422
changing those words would deprive the poem from much of its meaning, anyway as patently wrong as it might sound, I wasn't going for a rhythmic, or even really poetic, poem—but if someone finds it poetic then thats cool

This is more of an introduction or prologue more than anything. I need to get actual details or stories from the people I know about this topic. My first time writing, so I know nothing about any style or technique. I just wrote -- it's unedited. Stream of consciousness sort of thing.

-----

I never quite knew the pain my ancestors had endured, but it seeped into our very being. It became our identity. They talked of boarding schools during the ‘60s, of the woes they have today because of it, yet they persevered. In some distant village, not too far from where they were abducted, in a wooden, aged, sickly white chapel, they spent their childhoods. And they continue to carry on from those days—each day the burden a little less than before. Even in the ugliest faces of hardship they knew in their hearts it would not last. And yet for so long they were broken: A dying generation destined to drink their days away in hopes of forgetting an unfair life. But each morning, they would wake to relive those brutal, unforgiving memories of when they were young. Our grandfathers and grandmothers, they knew not why they deserved such punishment at the hands of those more powerful. We know not either.

One story stuck in my heart told to me by my grandfather, though I did not fully know it until I was older, having some grain of understanding. But that is for later. He mentored me when I was little, desperately trying to teach me the ways of art. It’s a skilled craft, he would tell me, not many learn it. And so, every weekend I would spend the day with an uncle and grandfather I never knew at all. Each Saturday scratching on a piece of wood—each formline a little less ragged; each paintbrush less shaky than the week before.

-----

Now, hopefully you guys know what I'm referencing without me explaining it further, I don't want to outright say the historical stuff since it'll read like a textbook, but you know

>>8850422
what do you mean lacks momentum?
I was worried I had the opposite problem: I was introducing too many ideas at once

god-motherfucking-dammit. Everything I've written the past week has clashed with the style my story is written in. This is the third new beginning I've had to scrap becuase it just doesn't work and doesn't grow correctly. I know I need to fix it because the beginning introduces too much too quickly, but I can't for the life of me figure out how.

I might just need to inflate the first few paragraphs rather than adding stuff on or redoing it from scratch, but I don't really know what content to add

>>8850471
..then why did you write a poem and call it a poem? what's the difference between your piece and an ugly poem? as far as the reader is concerned, there isn't one

there are always better word choices btw. even if it means restructuring the poem. the skill in writing poetry comes from simultaneously composing an idea and making it sound good. maybe your sentiments are better expressed in a different form. some of your wordplay is pleasing, but you can't let a poem's worth rest on that alone.

>>8850487
yeah I think that's part of it. I'm not sure of the point of the sentence "Light pollution never really struck her as a positive thing." and "As she nodded off, she wondered what it would be like to see constellations in the skies rather than in the street lights." seems rather cliche.

Part of it is that there isn't much of an atmosphere for the reader to settle into; events are a bit abrupt. e.g. "She was only just forming the start of a dream when the doorbell woke her up." would be better more gradual, something like "The shadows of dreams writhed faintly in her mind's eye, drawing her into sleep. A lucid doorbell-ring froze her awake." - you get the idea.

You describe their voices at a bit much length.
(also, nasally = nasal)

>>8850535
>..then why did you write a poem and call it a poem?
because I'm a stupid idiot

When we finally made it to bed together, a bomb really did go off. Your desire tore into me, as though every bite and scratch would reveal some hidden aspect of my character, and every bruise would be a landmark of your exploration. I was accused of bringing wild animals to bed, and the laughter turned to jealousy when my friends got to know you. We writhed in painful ecstasy, unable to hold the other back, seeking that tender moment where we licked each other’s wounds. Things were moving fast, we were seeing a lot of each other and you let slip that you were falling in love. I was smitten, but I wasn’t ready to fully trust you, who was so wild you couldn’t even be tamed by yourself. You told me I made you feel like a human being, a terrible thing to hear from someone so intelligent and gorgeous, and for a while you made me feel that way too.

it's from a personal letter

>>8822030
Starts to drag on after awhile. Clean it up. Too much repetition.

>>8822494
Not bad, but feels a bit forced. Unless this is an intro to the actual story you're forcing too much onto the reader.

>>8822900
Shit.

>>8823944
Way too heavy handed. You also sound like a teenager. And put it in fucking pastebin next time.

>>8825655
Post an excerpt, nerd.

>>8825693
I wouldn't call the sound a hose makes on the ground groaning. Overall felt a bit shallow.

>>8826504
>Genre-shit

>>8826906
>genre-shit

>>8827083
You should stop doing drugs.

>>8827182
YA?

>>8827302
Not bad. Needs some editing.

>>8828048
Saw two misspellings in the first sentence and stopped reading.

>>8828162
Painfully mediocre. Also, guts don't run, they come out in a sack.

>>8830146
Couldn't get past the first few words. So cliche right from the start?

>>8830151
Not a bad start but definitely needs some editing. Keep at it.

>>8830398
I'm not big into horror but there's some minor errors here and there, stylistically, that should be addressed through a basic edit. But I'd see a horror specialist.

>>8830687
Please tell me you're trolling or those are WIP names. In either case, it's shit.

>>8830770
>D&D
>Actually writing out your shitty fantasy genre-shit
Fuck off, nerd.

>>8831875
Your dialogue is awkward and feels forced, almost like you've never held a real conversation before. Also, make sure you're using actual terminology if you're going to be specific about such things. Also, New Amsterdam was the original name for New York so you may consider New Rotterdam instead to avoid confusion.

>>8833604
Under almost no circumstance can I imagine Austin being the first city hit in a nuclear war. Not the worst thing ever though I suppose. Imbroglio is used incorrectly here.

>>8852171
>Not bad. Needs some editing.
considering your harsh criticisms I'll take that as a resounding success

>Your dialogue is awkward and feels forced, almost like you've never held a real conversation before. Also, make sure you're using actual terminology if you're going to be specific about such things. Also, New Amsterdam was the original name for New York so you may consider New Rotterdam instead to avoid confusion.

No, New Amsterdam is intentional. I live in New York and based the city on it, but by making it an alternate history I'm free to alter the geometry to suit my needs.

at any rate that conversation has been edited into oblivion and at this point I'm on the the thirteenth draft of an opening that's never the same twice

>>8848313
I like this. My only comment would be that there a few moments that you hedge your bets by going with two phrases, and it makes neither as powerful as they would be alone.

>The starless sky poises to drag me into the void and swallow me whole.
By connecting them with "and" it sort of belittles both. I think you could either save one for another moment, or get rid of the "and" so that they are not trying to make the same punch at the same time.

>but I stand firm and stare into its black eyes
... but I stand firm, stare into its black eyes.

>Eyeing down the cosmos and giving it a smirk
Eyeing down the cosmos with a smirk.

Do you see what I mean? It might be a small thing, but to me the "and" makes a big difference in this sort of prose.


OK, I want to finally share some of my own work, but I'll need to do it in the next comment because there's not enough characters left.

>>8852619
Did a crit in the last comment, now to share some of my own work. Don't really know what I'm looking for, really, I think mainly some energy to keep going with this. Taken from no particular place in the story:
______________________________________________________________________________________________

Tiny asked, “What do you want?” for the hundredth time.

The Lawman sneered. “We WANT to put you in prison,” he said. “AND we want to put your whore girlfriend in prison. And we want to put your so-called colleagues in prison. We want to know all of the scumbags in your sick junkie organization so we can get to your suppliers and put an end to overdoses, mental illnesses, and the real cause of these monstrous bushfires that have been wiping out whole fucking towns.”

“I don’t know anything about any of that,” Tiny told him.

“The thing is,” the Lawman said, taking off his gloves, “We already know that you do. Do you want to know HOW we know that you do? Because your girlfriend already TOLD us that you do. See, she’s acting like a retard as well, but at least she had the smarts to not go COMPLETELY dumb. She at least confirmed that you DO in fact have the information we are looking for – the names and whereabouts of quite a few heavy players in the local narcotics industry. She also told us that you would probably lie at first, to protect everyone.”

Tiny recognized the game immediately – if Lucy had already told them what she knew, then he risked both of their freedom by holding back. But if she hadn’t told them anything, Tiny would incriminate her by speaking. It all came down to the couple’s faith in one another. And so the cornerstone of the Law’s manipulation, not to mention a tortuous pastime in itself, would be to undermine their connection.

Tiny decided immediately to remain silent. He would rather they destroy him than Lucy, even if she had informed on him. And so he took his vision of her and turned it into the most powerful, heroic, and loyal woman he could ever imagine. As quickly as he could, he brought her flaws into awareness and explained them away, refining his mental representation of Lucy until she was a Goddess he could serve.

“She doesn’t have anything significant to tell you,” Tiny said. “Because there IS nothing significant. I’m a small time pot dealer. I get my grass from the same deadbeat on the street as everyone else – I don’t even know his real name.”

The Lawman chuckled.

“Bullshit,” he said light-heartedly, “but who cares?” He cracked his knuckles.

Tiny braced himself.

>>8852633
Cont.

“You just don’t get it, do you?” said the Lawman. “Confess, don’t confess, betray her, don’t betray her – it makes no difference. We already have you both. We already know EVERYTHING. We know you trade narcotics. We know you cook acid. Shit, we have access to every website you’ve visited in the last ten years, every text and email you’ve ever sent. We know you drive over the speed limit and only slow down at intersections. You think we warn you about the REAL cameras? Fuck, Tiny, we know what you had for breakfast this morning.”

Tiny gave himself some time to let the claims sink in, trusting the fact-checking processes of his deep subconscious.

“OK,” he said finally, “If you’re so sure, then why all this rigmarole? Why not just do with me whatever sick rituals you have planned?”

The Lawman laughed heartily, showing perfect teeth.

“That’s exactly what we’re doing right now, you fucking idiot.” He threw his arms to the side. “Look around you. We could be having this conversation in a normal room with beige walls and a couple of comfy couches. Instead we’re in this windowless box. Haven’t you realized yet? These interrogations, the court proceedings, your inevitable prison sentence… this is all part of your punishment. The only question is how long and how deep are we going to go, and that is something we basically just make up as we go along.”

“Why?” asked Tiny, trying to hide the breaks in his voice. “Why waste so much time and energy on me?”

The Lawman shrugged, “Why do cats play with mice? Why did the scorpion sting the bear? It’s in our nature to discourage shitheads like you. It keeps us sane in an insane world.”

Tiny was pulled towards the sickening logic, and tried to access that thoughtless place instead.

“Fair enough,” he said.

The Lawman’s fury curled into a cruel smile.

“Rest assured,” he said, “we will wipe that phony, drug-induced indifference off your cunt face before this is over, even if it kills you.” Then the Lawman took a deep breath and regained his composure. He turned to leave the room.

“By the way,” he said in the doorway through a contemptuous sneer, “your girl has a smoking body. We took turns doing the naked frisk…”

Tiny looked up at him with sad eyes.

“I’m thirsty,” he said.

And then they kicked the ever-living shit out of him.

>>8833847
Not horrible. Not great either. You're not really saying anything.

>>8834041
Too much description. Needs an edit. I don't hate it.

>>8834784
Shit.

>>8835489
The next Tao Lin, undoubtedly.

>>8835495
>Book Four - Some made up bullshit name
No.

>>8836035
bretty gud

>>8837256
Shit.

>>8839956
Crap.

>>8840567
Garbage.

>>8840639
Too try hard.

>>8841286
>http://pastebin.com/CdUy0ztm
This is a pain to read and it worries me you say it's edited.

>>8843891
Not bad keep working on it.

>>8843968
Wew lad.

>>8844621
>new to writing
It shows, badly.

>>8844979
Needs editing. Your style tries to hard as well to be something it's not; it feels unnatural.

>>8845930
:|

>>8846868
Still shit.

>>8848022
pls stop

>>8848036
Didn't have time to read the whole thing but I like where it's going. Keep it up.

>>8848712
>A hard thing to avoid sometimes.
It's not.

>>8848754
Stopped after the first sentence. The way you structure it reads like a shitty self-insert fan-fiction.

>>8848848
Not a terrible start. Will need edited later.

>>8853341
All honor to the mass critiquer. Could you please clarify why imbroglio doesn't work, though? One of its meanings is a complex argument, I'm pretty sure.

>>8853341
>Still shit.
>pls stop

I think maybe it's time I took those suggestions

>>8853894
Depends why you're doing it in the first place.

Hopefully there are still some Spanish-speaking Anons here that can give me some feedback.

Después de comer la carne de los dos frutos, la serpiente comprendió que más allá de los ríos y montañas que rodeaban su residencia se alzaban dos torres de distinto color, cuyas sombras al atardecer parecían mezclarse en una sola, uniforme e inmensa. Deslumbrada ante esa visión, decidió entonces llevar la buena nueva a sus vecinos en el gran jardín. Sin embargo, ninguno de los otros animales atendió el llamado profético de la serpiente. Con desilusión caminó cabizbaja, hasta que vio a un par de nuevos inquilinos, sin escamas, plumas o pelaje que los cubriese (excepto en ciertos lugares que la serpiente no hubiera podido nombrar). Decidió probar suerte con estas nuevas criaturas, que se erguían en dos patas y usaban su boca de una manera extraña, moviéndola rápidamente. La serpiente estaba segura de que, después de escuchar sobre ese paraje más allá de las fronteras de su hogar, estarían profundamente agradecidos con ella, y juntos viajarían hasta la base de las dos torres, y dormirían bajo la sombra única de éstas. ¡Pobre serpiente, que guardaba la esperanza de un peregrinaje en compañía sin saber que terminaría realizándolo sola!

>>8854361
doing what?

It's a passion project. It's something I've been working on for months now, and even then it's only the beginning of something bigger. A trial run for a larger story that means damn near everything to me, that i've been fixed on and thinking about every day for over a year now

File: C9CF566D-B5B0-4451-B464-CA8A87957CD3-2128-00000170FE5BBB15_tmp.jpg (17KB, 531x411px) Image search: [Google]

17KB, 531x411px

Throwing this up there, craving critique/general thoughts so please fire away


http://pastebin.com/snp12XDz

Night would fall, and then all of the rides would be wheeled away on their little carts, and all the cheap big stuffed bears would be taken home and forgotten, and the trash would linger on the pavement until some merciful rain washes it down the gutter.

Carrying a greasy piece of paper which once held a ham sandwich, she steps out from the trailer. She walks to the bit of grass by the floodlight, takes out a cigarette, and smokes. For sure, it's never easy, but over the past few weeks it's gotten worse and worse. She becomes lost in thought; silly inclinations and past fancies dart through her mind.

A nearby siren brings her back to the present. Although not usually given to contemplation, she can't help but wonder if this isn't the loneliest she's ever felt. Like a somnambulist she extinguishes her cigarette and walks home.

>>8855577
I would say you're being unnecessarily wordy. Particularly with descriptions: some of the stuff seems nonsensical simply to add in descriptive imagery. Why is she carrying garbage out of her trailer? Just to hold it while she smokes?

I prefer this:

"She left her trailer and walked to the bit of grass covered by a nearby floodlight. She took out a cigarette, lit it, and tried to relax and enjoy a smoke.

'It's never easy.' she thought. 'That's for sure.' She quickly became lost in thought; silly inclinations and past fancies darting through her mind."

>>8855667
Yeah, I see what you mean.

She was throwing it away, but that could have been clearer.

>>8855702
Post wasn't meant to get you down, I just tend to offer as much criticism/advice as possible because that is how I like to be critiqued by others and then use/discard whatever they offer.

Being descriptive and offering up imagery is a good thing to make your writing more interesting - but it's very tricky to strike a balance where all the imagery makes sense and doesn't needlessly distract from the core of what is going on.

I would say that for most of us on /lit/ it is better to err on being concise.