Critique thread

teset

>>8877504
wut

>>8876431
Generally you've got a few spelling erros and there are some points where you seem to have missed out words. Early drafts and all that, but watch out for those going forward.

Broadly speaking, whenever I read sci-fi I always feel a little lost. This is purely me so I won't call it a problem, but I appreciate when a writer eases me into a sci-fi world a little more gradually. For instance, what does a mag-car looks and/or sound like? The hallway is descrided as just a hallway, but later it is a hallway of light, so establish it first so I have a clearer picture in my head. Introducing me to this world needs to be done step-by-step. Unless you give me a reason to I'm going to base everything off real-world examples, so don't let me go too far off target. Guide me.

The pamphlet feels like it's used too early. I'm going to assume this is going to be a longer piece. Consider either using it later or not letting your protagonist read the whole thing. It drags the pace down a bit. The point of it is that we learn Montern Solutions is interested in consciousness. We can get that info from a lot less.

There are few places where some cuts would be beneficial:
'“Aw, all this for me, you shouldn’t have,” I joked. The guard wasn’t amused.' Cut "I joked." What he says does the job of the tag.
“I sure hope there aren’t any cameras in here.” He says this out loud to himself, or seems to. It seemed odd. I'd cut this line and replace it with the character looking around the room to find cameras.
'We were greeted by a red door against an all white background'. I wouldn't use "background", it shows too much that you're thinking of this like a film in your head. Doing so is fine and helpful, but say "wall" or something else. People don't often think of things they are seeing in person as being a background.

Give Dr Roberts more of an entrance. I'd use the strangeness of the room here, too. You give a good sense of what the room looks like and mention the glass in the middle. The glass is important so elaborate a bit on it. Let the character be intrigued and examine it and then Dr Roberts appears, arresting the character's attention. This might even be an appropriate moment to have Roberts give the speech the pamphlet does earlier, since it's now much more relevent.

On the whole, shows promise. Keep at it.
---
This is something in the early stages of drafting. Any and all advice/criticism is welcome and appreciated.

http://pastebin.com/szYpxmG9

It's a bit long, but here you go.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1h4Hy005NvMhWROb49AbejNNYS3Jl5B5_jcpWkcCImjg/edit?usp=sharing

Written in response to a prompt about a Neolithic fantasy story. I would have written more, but the word limit is 6,000, though I'll probably write another, longer version.

Style is deliberately basic and restrained.

New

From long melancholy comes crystal vitality:
Joy! Breathless, newness! - working at the layers
of a decomposing facade - maudlin affectation
over warmth and anticipation.

The world perfect, airy and amorous.
I leap into the gap between teeth
of smiling endless people, all beautiful,
and collapse into sweet decomposition.

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>>8877516
I meant to write 'test', I've never posted before and I wanted to try it out.

I'm too lazy to read the whole thing, so here's what I think about the first paragraph

>The lighter in my hand kept slipping as I pushed myself back against the sofa. Getting shot through the tendons tends to do that to you
This makes no sense.
>Piercing through the night’s heavy fog the iridescent neon lights reflected off the pool of blood.
Write something simpler, this is jarringly convoluted, especially from a perspective of a dying man. And then you wrote..
>My hazy eyes could barely make out the mess of glass and guts in front of me.
..right after that poetic and precise observation on the play of colours in blood?
>Slowly, but steadily the marching grew louder and started to drown out the ringing from the gunshots.
Just my opinion, but I'd do away with "slowly, but steadily". Who cares? Not every noun needs a double adjective treatment, and you do it all the time
>An almost palpable tension weighed heavily on the already murky ambiance.
Same problem. Almost, already, these are the empty words you should avoid using.
>Right as I felt myself slipping away
>For a split second everything went still
>Just as I raised my hand to wipe the blood from my eyes, every gun sprang into action.
You don't need to reinforce the time frame at the start of every sentence. We get it, some men bumped into the room, it's hectic
>My final memory would be the sight of a thousand bullets tearing through the damp air from all directions.
This is just a bad line, sounds like edgy fanfiction. People make fun of "only one enemy remained" for a reason.

And then you went on about some post-ironic 2deep about consciousness, hello PKD

>>8876431
>http://pastebin.com/2T2v9HNx
>reads freud and other pop-psy once

>>8877594
>>8877594
>Breathless, newness!
i dont quite understand what you mean
>>8876431
i like beginning nice suspnce you managed to keep
i would like more exposition on consciousness as i like theme but note fel underwhelmed
“Uhh, how much more to my room?” i was kinda confused reading that
there is some tech-nonsense at the end that feeled not entirely explained

Here is mine i post again, bilinguical version
translation
http://pastebin.com/y1PWibix
original
http://pastebin.com/TwsaNxLA

This time i corrected some errors caused by google that seems most jarring. I still apologise for errors, i just need quick glance on idea or whatever

>>8877594

I tend not to like uplifting verse, however this isn't bad.


i agree with other Anon, I'd edit the "Joy! Breathless, newness!" part.

My rule of thumb for poetry is cut dead wood. Go over every single word you've written and determine if you need that word at all or if there is a better, more specific word you can use instead of two or three words.

>airy and amorous

alliteration makes me moist ;^)

I guess I'll just post this again, since all I got in the previous thread were odd posts.

http://pastebin.com/ZSuKFriL

Here, my first ever prose paragraph. Intended to be the first of a full length novel.

A man walking in the woods is like a king amongst beggars or a star sat in the center of a galaxy. But when two men (or in this case a boy and a girl) walk in the woods, the woods themselves cease to be anything but a backdrop, a piece of painted canvas before which the gods perform their play. Now that's just what we were , a man and his lover in media res. The second act of our existences but the third act of our love.

>>8878037
>A man walking in the woods is like a king amongst beggars
False. Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes anon, I live in the woods. there's bobcats out there.

>>8878037
- pretentious, meandering
- sets neither tone nor gives any idea about things to come
- bad phrasing. two men (or in this case a boy and a girl) - ????

>>8878037
>media res
easy there lit

If I recall correctly, it was raining.

In fact, it was raining so hard, I’ll go out on a limb here and say it was pouring. Because of this, you wouldn’t be able to tell that some of the water on my face came from my eyes instead of the sky, and that some of the sniffles and shivers I was making weren’t just because I was cold.

The blood of the man on the ground behind me mixed in with the water falling from the sky, trailing down the sidewalk and into the sewage grate. On this night, it was so dark that if it weren’t for the streetlights, you would seldom be able to see anything. But that holds true for any night, doesn’t it? It’s hard to describe, but because of the pure bleakness and density of my situation, I felt as if it was darker tonight than other nights in recent memory. Croquet mallet gripped tightly in my left hand, one of my victim’s arms in my right hand. I forget which arm I was dragging him by, but it doesn’t matter.

When the man on the ground suddenly let out a quiet groan and started to mumble, I became startled, screamed, retracted my right hand, and put my left to action. I remember that part clearly; that’s exactly how it happened. If you look closely and rewind the tape, maybe play it frame by frame, you can see the exactly moment his skull gets smashed in from the momentum of my wooden tool. But on the bright side, a split second put him out of the misery all of his other injuries were causing him.

This part is kind of hazy, but I faintly recall letting out a scream as his lifeless body rested on the ground, and I ran.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. My heart was racing. The first time I had ever killed a man. I admit it’s a first that not everyone gets to experience. It’s a first that not everyone wants to experience. I know I didn’t want to at the time. Despite that, the exact moment I first took a life, and the moments leading up to it played in my head twelve hundred times before morning came.

Reflecting on the man’s body, and how I just ran away, leaving it in the middle of the sidewalk, my mind was now riddled with questions.

Rose Petals

I can imagine at least two
things I could be doing right
now and neither of them involve
wearing an apron or
drinking wine from a jar.

I can’t even drink half a bottle
in one sitting anymore.

What I can do
is lie awake until six in the
morning and let the circles under
my eyes get darker (like it’s a
point of pride).

I can also neglect doing laundry
for a pretty long time if
I set my mind to it.

I can admit when I’m wrong
(sometimes). Life probably
has a lot of meaning. Maybe
I just fail to see it. It
definitely lacks direction
(although maybe that’s just me).

***

How many cigarettes did I
not smoke on her balcony?

How many times did I make
her bed?

How many times was I
angry when I didn’t have to be?

And if a fish was sea sick,
how would it know until it
swam onto the sand to die?

intro to my lovecraftian short story


I

The surface of the Atlantic split and gave birth to the surfacing lighthouse keeper. He pulled down the fly-like goggles and spat. Salted spit flying through his moustache.

The water was bruised purple and shifted in the rough winds knocking him to and fro. He focused ahead on the metal spire of his island. Without him, the lighthouse was dark and the house silent. The keeper started kicking.

Tired and sore he stumbled onto the speckled sand. It stuck to his face and seal like suit and it took a few moments before he could steadily stand on the battered muscles. But tied to a green rope around his waist was the prize that made diving out into the freezing waters worth it. Two whole green baskets of lobster, a hook full of screeching red squid and a beeping red sphere left by researchers for him.

The keeper pulled the catch in after him. Dismayed that something had taken a bite out of the squid, but glad that it hadn't gone for him.The lobsters clicked angrily in the baskets but that was the only sound on the entire island. The wind screamed, spraying the sand into a storm and making the metal of the lighthouse moan. But his ears were so used to the sounds that they didn't even register.

At the door to the lighthouse, he had to stop. The keeper focused. Had he closed the door? Had he kept the door open? It was such a repeated action he hadn't paid attention. But it was open.

Casting a dim streak of light into the dark hallway, his eyes were drawn to a sprinkling of sand on the floorboards. A blast of wind hit his wetsuit and he shivered. With a long breath he took his first unsteady steps inside. Slamming the door on the black troubled sky. The clouds were verging on a full storm

>>8878141

>wooden tool

call a spade a spade son

>>8878476
i'll call it a spade, just for you my dear <3

>>8878482

i always knew my true love would blossom in a lit crit thread

>>8878457
>The surface of the Atlantic split and gave birth to the surfacing lighthouse keeper.
Terrible. Either you were going for a spoopy disturbing imagery and didn't follow it through, or you just couldn't help but open with a purple stupidity like 'the surface of the ocean gave birth'
Other than that, I'm confused by some grammar and narrative cohesion
>he stumbled onto the speckled sand. It stuck to his face
??? sand ???
>Dismayed that something had taken a bite out of the squid, but glad that it hadn't gone for him
subject?
>that was the only sound on the entire island. The wind screamed
that wasn't, maybe?

>>8878712
nigga calm down, that prose wasn't even that jarring.

here is something I wrote instead of doing my CS assignment...

http://pastebin.com/HEXytWnC

>>8878037
>star sat in the center of a galaxy

It's a black hole, not a star. Unless you can see gamma rays, but then you'd be blind.

>>8877684
whatever, i started to write another story

http://pastebin.com/S3khWxnb

>>8877522

Your prose is (for the most part) readable enough if uninspired.

But by far, the problem here imo is the pacing, the tone, and the plot.

First of all, the beginning is fine: there's a strong hook and sense of mystery.

But there are no real stakes or consequences when the man catches the guy sneaking there for the xth time

And then there's nothing to make us care more about these two characters - they're just a landlord and a tenant.

Also, the plot moves too conveniently. Everything just falls into place for the 'mystery' to be solved.

And the pace/tone becomes so scattered: horror/mystery at the beginning, then some weird romance/modern tone, and it finally finishes with an anecdotal last line.


So yeah, I think this is very unfocused and requires a lot more work. But the general readability (emphasis on general) is there so you're already ahead of most of the other posters

>>8878712

>purple stupidity

I don't think I've ever heard that phrase, what do you mean ?

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Pic related is my attempt at starting something I'd like to write. The entire piece will be in the format of an interview with a director, in which not only details of the director's film become apparent to the reader, but his mindset and mentality are also exposed.

>>8879061
>Upon seeing him, my mind would always conjure up the image...
This whole paragraph comes across as too verbose. I feel like what you're trying to put across could be done with less writing.

>His seemingly perpetual discomfort was funny in a way...
I can't quite express why, but I feel like this paragraph just isn't needed. The text leading up to it and the text following it both portray the two characters well (and through different methods, introspection and observation, which is good) but this paragraph feels a bit obsolete.

Overall I'd say I would be interested in reading this so long as this kind of passage – not to say it isn't well-written – isn't too common, or else I feel it could be quite hard to carry along a narrative.

Brutus is totally inconsistent imo. Either you have him discuss things like a total /lit/ fag or you dumb him down with things like

>um

>well yeah

>>8877522
I read this story months ago. You need new material.

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Branches & Leaves

you gave me seeds
and I took them.
tiny little seeds.
I took them all, thought
I had them all.

I buried them
in me. I dug and dug
and buried them under the
blanket of wet leaves
into the soil.

no vines came,
and there was no warmth,
for no sun came.

all that’s left
is thick green moss
that covers this
damp forest floor.

>>8880351
>purple
>1: regal, imperial
>2: of the color purple
>3 a: highly rhetorical : ornate
>b: marked by profanity
>Examples of purple in a sentence
>The book contains a few purple passages.
>Her writing was full of purple prose.

To Bird

For you, I have everything
To say
And nothing at all.

Clasped at the throat.
Choked,
With thoughts that falter

They slip through as
Broken wispers,
And half-formed words.

Damned walls break.
Alone,
I turn to you.

You with your
Erudite eyes
Soulful and sweet.

To feel the joy that pours
From you
Like Euphrosyne's spirit.

These hollowed words
I write
Will never truly suffice.

Though to say nothing,
Is not
What we've worked towards

These passing months.
Longing,
To feel something more

Than the just the numb.
I know,
Things will not change.

But damnit I want
To live!
And cry and laugh

And love all there is
To love!
Yet I'm still silent

Now more a stranger
To myself,
Than I to you.

All I wanted
To say
Is that I'll be okay,

And so will you.

>>8880919
>>8881066
>DUDE LINEBREAKS AND ENJAMBMENTS LMAO
Fuck off

Only my English teacher and a friend have read it so far. Here's the first chapter of my on again and off again novel
http://pastebin.com/wuMLee6p

>>8879135
Cheers, fella. I didn't really know where I was going with this when I wrote it and it shows. Good notes, they'll help me straighten it out and get some focus.

>>8880797
I posted it the best part of a year ago shortly after writing it, but I have a terrible work ethic and just left it (along with some other shorts) for ages. Decided to go back to these old pieces and spend some time getting into a habit of redrafting to a bit of a schedule.

>>8880959

more you know.

>>8880919

i like it/10

>>8877972
The format is pretty silly, which is probably why most people aren't responding. But if you really dig it, maybe you can get some graphics person to do something with it.

No you shut the fuck up. Now you let me tell you something. When I was about 14 I played an mmo called mystic worlds that was made in RPG maker 2000. It was the project of some guys on this forum full of sprite comic makers. There was like 10 users at most on at any one time, and several of the users were friends with the admin and had the strongest weapons. One kid we played with named Brandon wanted really badly to be given the same rights and weapons as these other guys and they would always kill him for fun and make him cry. He finally had enough and stopped playing for a long time. One day I logged in and the world was all messed up with the wrong sprites and someone kept killing everyone and kicking them out of the game. one of the users, helix7392, private messaged me on the forums and said to me: someone hacked the game. I kept trying to join the game until I was finally allowed to stay. the hacker teleported me to him and his sprite was pacing back and forth as he told me the story of how he was once weak and now he was the strongest in all of mystic worlds. That was when he revealed it was him, Brandon, all along. He then proceeded to gank me and steal all of my weapons and ban me permanently from the server. So yeah, actually, I DO have a pretty fucking good idea of what it’s like to be in a school shooter situation.

>>8881223
Gold

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>>8877522
>and the landlord was a DJ all along!

>>8878156
The only stanza of interest is the last one

You all niggas need to run your story through this before posting your drafts.

http://writersdiet.com/?page_id=4

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>>8881155
>and the perfect object of representation for the moment,
Nix this. Have some more faith in your audience (and yourself).

>unquestionably the shittiest thing a person could ever do
Telling us way too hard how to feel instead of showing it.

>This said with a look toward the three uncomfortable, balding, Adult-Men-Dressed-In-Children’s-Sailor-Uniforms, who had congregated in the dwelling beneath the stairwell mere hours earlier to discuss plans to send their father to The Home where he had sent their grandfather, and their grandfather’s father before him, to continue the family tradition of locking up the unquestionably insane members in the mini mansion up on Dwine’s hill, known only as The Home, much less sad that way
I wrote sentences this way too during my studies of Infinite Jest and Faulkner.

>Riley Ignatius Toole!”
And this is where I stopped reading.


tl;dr Anon's story suffers from pretentious nitwiticism. Your prose is clear for the most part, but you're letting your inner-intellectual ruin good storytelling. Please rewrite and cut out the homages/references, the not-so-conventional-use-of-hyphens, etc (the long sentences aren't awful if they don't meander too far from telling the story)

>>8881090

I'm sorry, buckaroo :^(

>>8881340
How do I save myself from this?

>>8881155
>responded the incredibly confused and possibly equally angry driver whose once crisp $5 Dollar bill was now a crumbled jumble and the perfect object of representation for the moment
I hope your english teacher slapped you across the face for writing shit like that

>>8881687
Keep reading and writing. Just don't be a cheeky cunt. You'll be fine though.

>>8881687

not OP crit but I think if you stood away from that story for a week or so. And tried to read with a fresh set of eyes you'd notice the pretentiousness radiating through the lines

With a slurp, he stripped of the black suit and let the water flow down him and into the boards. His body although old was still taut and bristled with bull like muscles. The skin was pale from living on the island without a glimpse of sun for months. And a red and blue railway of veins pumped visibly from beneath.

He changed into a fresh covering of white wool and strode through his house. Setting to the kitchen he bent over the small stove and scratched a spark from the flint. After a few belches of black smoke, the fire crackled a spread an orange light across the tall ceiling. The light pushed the shadows into the corner and with a rumble, his pipes started spreading the warmth across the entire house.

Now with his cheeks flushed red, the keeper gave a grunt of satisfaction and lit his pipe.The spark burned an orange circle into the tobacco. When the grey smoke started trickling away he allowed himself a long drag that should his body. The fire grinned, the pipes clanked and with the cosy pitter patter of rain lashing on the window panes. The lighthouse seemed like a home. But now it was time. To go upstairs , from where he'd been hearing the creaking of wood against footsteps. He lived alone, he lived hundred of miles out of shores way. He knew that there was no possible way for something to be in the lighthouse. But , the keeper was also a pragmatic man. And he'd realized that something was waiting for him up the stairs.

>>8881698
You hit the nail on the head with the infinite jest thing. I took way too much from that and A Confederacy of Dunces.
>>8881700
I've taken breaks from it and gone back only to still think that it's complete genius. I worry that I'm just hopelessly awful...

>>8881716

>I've taken breaks from it and gone back only to still think that it's complete genius. I worry that I'm just hopelessly awful...

said literally every writer ever. don't let it get to you just keep grinding away.

And remember to take all criticism with a grain of salt.

>>8881716
Infinite Jest is cancerous for fiction writers because it makes you think bad writing is good. It took me a few years of reading outside of /lit/core to actually get past that.

By no means are you awful (as a writer). If you really think it's genius, then there must be something in it that you just haven't been able to convey to us, and I would encourage you to keep working on it.

Ask yourself: Is it the ideas in the story that you think is genius? Or are you proud of yourself for writing a lot of clever sentences? You can probably find a balance between these two.

>>8881742
I think it's just the cleverness of the sentences...there's definitely some interesting bits to the story, but nothing really that original or groundbreaking

I saw the best minds of my generation
destroyed by call centres,
Data entry and misappropriated dreams;
Starving hysterical, souls naked
in the six seconds swing
Between cold-calls that link Monday through
Friday in a loop around the throat
Where screams die, anguish quenched by
pill-popping weekends chopped
Into white powder dawns that defy time with
the stretching of inhibitions and wages.
Dragging themselves through the suburban
streets at dawn
Never wanting for an angry fix, always
available to mainline
If not prescription or addiction,
Then mere cavalcades of enhanced, superseded
glory and infinite division.
Angleheaded hipsters in our minds, burning
for the ancient heavenly connection
To the starry dynamo
in the machinery of night,
But unavoidably severed from its motion,
Blind to the deus ex machina,
Who belly-fat and dream thin
Watch unimagined repetitious attempts
To mount the steaming cunt of destiny
And take her for a ride worth living in;
A life like the one they repeat endlessly
on nostalgia TV channels,
Yet more drugs for the eyes
and for the ambitions.
Medicated until the world is no longer
worth sinning in,
Forgetting all the pent-up energies
of our half-religious parents
In the bare carefree moments of beginning
we call 'week's ending'.
And oh, they end endless,
Always finished just before
the dawn of Monday
Calls us to the factories
in which our minds are chained.
Up chain-smoking in the supernatural darkness
of multiple occupancy flats
Contemplating techno and
electronic abstractions,
Who bared their brains to Michael Moore and
Tony Blair, only to be colonised
By Thatcher from beyond the grave,
forced by guilt
To believe in a passive aggressive liberalism
that hates its own existence,
Those who see Mohammedan angels
Staggering on tenement roofs illuminated
Call the terrorist orange alert hotline,
inspiring dawn raids
(1/3)

>>8881857
And the bloodied, sundered chests
of those innocent, bearded idolators
Who perversely cling to the sacred,
even though we have
Profaned it with our politics,
Our need to stay afloat above extinction:
It does not matter who got there first...
Who passed through universities
with radiant cool eyes
Hallucinating Barthes,
dying to be as cool as Kerouac
Among the scholars of war;
which became everybody's discipline
The moment the need for tragedy
in our own existence
Polarised the blind from the indifferent.
Who were never expelled from the academies
for publishing
Obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
too nervous even to graffiti
All but meaningless phrases,
scrawled importunings and failed seekings,
Who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear,
Worshipping their money in wastebaskets
As debts mounted like
a terror through the wall:
Perhaps another dawn raid,
Who will they come seeking
at six tomorrow morning
Armed with ASBOs and deportation orders?
Who got busted in their pubic beards
returning from Bristol with a pinch
Of marijuana for friends, and perceived
the steel reinforcement behind
The self-reflexive culture,
the facism behind its borders
For us, no Paradise Alley, death!
We purgatoried our torsos night after night
With dreams, with drugs,
with waking nightmares,
Alcohol and cock and endless balls,
Incomparable blind;
streets if shuddering cloud and
Lightning in the mind
Leaping towards poles of London, and beyond,
Illuminating all the motionless world of
Time between
Pointless solidities of halls,
backyard grey life
Turpentine dawns, wine drunkenness
among the degraded vegetation
Peeping between the urban cracks like vomit
fresh from Saturday's carousing,
Storefront displays vandal-crashed
by joyride neon Neds in luminous Pumas
Blinking traffic light, sun and moon,
grey, featureless concrete
Simulated vibrations in the roaring winter,
compact disks
Of Brooklyn hip-hop ashcan rantings
kind verses
Perverted by the fact of isolation
on this island,
Who chained themselves to bus seats
for the endless commute
From one nameless suburb to another,
drained and weary, no longer high
Until the noise of wheels and children
brought them down shuddering,
Mouth-wracked,
Battered bleak of brain
all drained of brilliance
In the drear light of Monday morning,
and another shift
In the mine of information.
(2/3)

>>8881857

literally not a grain of original thought in that it's the same

OH WOW SOCIETY IS SHIT

line we've been fed by ever "woke" artist

>>8881863
Who sank all night in the submarine light
of a million style bars
Pumped with soulless house music,
peopled with cocaine hairdressers
Floated out and sat through
the stale beer afternoon,
Despolate, to Fugazi born, but instead
listening to the crack of doom
On the hydrogen jukebox,
which only displays the manufactured
Inverse images and sounds
of faked perfection.
Lost battalion of platonic conversationalists
without the urge to speak
So dulled, that they cannot see the chains
ever being un-shackled
Un-coupled, and themselves let free to roam.
As though Ginsberg never happened,
and no sixties existed
Perhaps they never did,
Just a collective unconscious hippie dream
Or the reverse mysticism
of misty-eyed parents.
I have a dream where we wake up
electrified out of the coma
By our own souls' airplanes
roaring over the roof
They've come to drop angelic bombs
on the decomposing cities
The night illuminates itself,
imaginary walls collapse,
Oh, skinny legions run outside!
Shock of mercy, the eternal war is here
Oh victory forget your underwear, we're free,
Free to die as the promised nuclear flash
brings oblivion.
In other dreams, a fish walks
dripping from the sea
Upright on un-evolved legs,
and with a glimpse of prescience
Sighting the sightless, deaf dumb,
shut-in existence of his descendants
He flops fish-like back into the liquid
And dares not trouble
to seek the shore again,
His legs diminishing back into protein
And empty seawater, only amoebic thoughts
of cell-bonding ever to occur.
And perhaps we would never become,
for want of ambition,
Slaves to our desires,
yet never bold enough
To take what we really want.
I salute my failed generation,
We are too timid to ever deserve freedom
Our masters know this: it keeps us cowed,
as some imagined apocalypse
Festers in our masturbatory musings.
We await death with breath baited,
always hungry never sated
Our howl is empty, merely sound,
an expression of agony
addressed to an unfeeling moon
That one day shall serve as a prison
for our children,
Moon-bound in lunar offices,
trapped in the six-seconds swing
Between cold-calls that link Monday through
Friday in a loop around the throat
Where screams die, anguish quenched by
pill-popping weekends chopped
Into white powder dawns that defy time with
the stretching of inhibitions and wages.
(3/3)

>>8880575
very helpful, thank you!

>>8881709
>bull like muscles

you keep doing this, you need more confident descriptors. "Oxen muscles"

>fly-like goggles
No clue but I'm sure you can research the piece of equipment you're visualizing here and put in a more suitable descriptor

>seal like
You can describe this for the audience in a more meaningful way.

Also, as a whole you need to structure your writing better. Group descriptions together. You flit back and forth between describing different objects, actions or ambience. The opening sentence of a paragraph is most important and all that follow are auxiliary that support the "subject" you've introduced. Your paragraphs seem to be chosen fairly arbitrarily.

I like the subject and the scene you've set.

Curious if anyone here wants to make a writing group for both fun and constructive purposes. I have some ideas for a weekly fiction contest with fun win/loss scenarios and turn based judging/prompt making. I've done this kind of thing before with non /lit/ people and it's fucking awful the kind of trash they produce, but it would be cool with fellow Anons. I don't want to create a thread for this kind of request, so I figure I'd post in this thread. Email me if interested [email protected] or you just wanna swap writings in general.

>>8882535
As if I'd sucker myself into getting my work plagiarized.

>>8882535
HAHA YOU GOT IT CHAD

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R8 my rap lyricism.

Listen along

https://soundcloud.com/kolstinguyen/the-identity-theory-pt-2

Uh, the buildup is long but the payoff is medium
Full version coming soon, when? Don't be greedy dude
I'll never run out of money as long as my mother loves me
I should probably be a better son or something
Ah, fuck me; feel like Gordon Ramsay
Grown child with pubes don't shave but eat candy

Well-meaning white devils acting like they're Macklemore
Fratting with some actors getting wasted like an apple core
Fuck you think I'm rapping for? To crash the fucking SAG Awards? Uh
Is that what you think all the bragging's for? Uh
Like there's a million hapas tryna smash down the back door?
Dad said work smart, not hard like a ten speed
Took a few shots I'm fading, Nowitzki
Damn I feel like David Lipsky, that was in that movie with Jason Segel
You know I've fucked your girl if you catch her doing kegels
Hegel. Hi-gel. Hegel. Bagel?
I'm the Big Dipper you're a fucking ladle, bitch
Know your niche, at best I'm a 6 and I talk with a lisp but hey
I feel like Marco Rubio, the closet is the studio
Now here we go

And I know what I need and what I want
And I know what I am and what I'm not

Uh, semi-pro meme lord bitch call me Igor Stravinsky
Flowing nimbly as if I'm footspeed of Frank Kaminsky
It just hit me, I feel like Jo Embiid, TRUST THE PROCESS
Strawberry skim milk TRUST THE PROCESS
Lai See money bought some carbon offsets,
Le becomes se that's the indirect object, uh
So is he novelty or Socrates, the hapa on the Flocka beats?
White girls on their knees like Aca-please
And it ain't sexist if I only hate white bitches
Yellow light, intersections bitch know the white difference, uh
Is he Pachelbel or Taco Bell, the hapa jock Bianca Del? Uh
Rap game Ricky Rubio, go under on the pick and roll
I need to know what I can't do just turned 19 I'm getting old

And (I, I-I, I I, I I I)
Know what I need and what I want
And (I, I-I, I I, I I I)
Know what I am and what I'm not

I've been uninspired since Big Chen retired
If you're looking for the one now you're done kickin up tires
In the closet studio kicking back with some me time
But who am I kidding, shit it's always me time?
I fuck with cheap wine but not with weak rhymes
When I first heard the beat I said to P, "bruh, that beat's mine"
My raps were coming flat as asses on Boston girls
Closer to Common than Earl I needed to get higher
To tap into the part of the mind that breathes fire
I managed four bowls from one round in my grinder
When I found her on Tinder I was home for the winter
It was 15th of December, damn right I remember
Getting lit with K and cough and her and her tall dude and
Almost ended in lawsuits, she was all over my girl
Next thing you know she's all over me
Next thing you know man they're saying shit about me

>>8882941
No flow, Jo.

>>8882941
Is this what you've been doing in your absence? I don't know anything about rap but it sounded cool. The board misses you.

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I feel clammy sharing a piece of writing, but I'd really like to know how this piece fairs.

>>8880919
>>8880919
No technique

>>8881696
kek

>>8881709
What I'm wondering is how the man managed to avoid sun on an island

>>8881857
I liked the first part

Would people be interested in a writing criticism discord?

>>8883185
Yeah but I think we should use Slack or Skype.

>>8883185
Depends on moderation of server.

I was a tulpa

when I was little
at night I used to be scared of ghosts
blankets pulled faced the wall sleeping
now I wander the dark not see anything
listening to Radiohead and losing myself in the eyes in the cupboard
I is another whispered a familiar apparition
play Dedalus in Ulysses
unfitting
astral cars in Mahabharata sparkle in the eyes

his eyes are my friends
on the Sagittarius' wavelength
I don't want to be alone
when I was little

>>8883185
ya but only if the good are allowed

i.e: NOT this guy:
>>8883193

SLACK? SKYPE? foh

>>8878141
>In fact, it was raining so hard, I’ll go out on a limb here and say it was pouring. Because of this, you wouldn’t be able to tell that some of the water on my face came from my eyes instead of the sky, and that some of the sniffles and shivers I was making weren’t just because I was cold.

dis is too reddit, too cute, and too coy
be a man; be a man; be a man; be a boy!

>>8879061
stopped after 2 paragraphs, none of that stuff seems to have a connection with reality

>>8881223
sublime sparkle at the sprite pacing back and forth!

Get back into that mood man

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the poetry meme isn't enough

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if you examine the book of Ezekiel, Chapter six sub-section six word number five (i'm off my lithium) you can clearly discern a reverse mucnhausen acrostic that reveals a secret spell of Chaos Magick attempting to enter this world. I know the demon's are close. but I right to bear arms till the end. the kabbalah still has so much to teach us. Look friends, if you dare, to chapter 41 of psalms (legacy burn edition), if you examine the codex gygax under a close light, microfilaments will reveal LORD ILLUMINATI WARNINGS for the Georgia Guidestones, 98% of world population must die !!! Georgia guidestones real new earth government? I was in the denver airport the other day and I must admit government... schmovernment. But imagine my surprise when a hellion out of bosch himself reared up to face me, bearing a blood soaked sword and waving the banner of nations'.. my first thought, of course, was that the aroma of aunty annes pretzels could not help but to override all over intimations of that moment, arch-eschatonic as that may have been. but thought number two, my friends (followers of David Garcia Awakened Thoughts DeFOO freedom Greyschat webring, click to read more) was simpley this: would it be so hard to imagine, my friends, that the craven globalists, flitting from perch to perch like bats in an attic, these very same (hold on, currently eating the pretzel) might not have included a masonic network of hyper dense symbology across the world to signal to their friends (chinese rolex discount 90% off comments disabled) that here would be a great place to wait out the ensuing biopocalypse? As a sovereign citizen, such thoughts as these are always in my mind. to say nothing of that fuckin sclerotic horse out near the entrace. or that huge black box (a shard of the lance of longinus). just watch this 2hr youtube video to find out more. video codecs DO NOT look like that I am a VLC junior developer and I ahve seen every video codec from m.264 to microfiche! and that right there is NOT a compression problem (thanks dave), not a mere artifact of the youtube encoding process, but an actual reptilian's eye 'cloaking' over the regular human eye. at certain moments their powers of confusions fail, especially in crowded areas, and it takes an especially sharp mind like my own to suss it out when it happens. thanks dave. THANKS DAAAAVE (Tower 7 fell on its own. ya sure. and big agricorp didn't buy 2500 acres of the brazillian rainforest to develop a chinese cloan army for a hostile takover of the US. Greys are real. ok nieces and nephews are here, gotta log off for now. fingers crossed i can get a word in edgewise before the bluepill kicks in -- Dave (freeminds.org)

>>8877684
>>8879100
bump

>>8880743
What could I do to make him seem unsure of himself, possibly insecure, without having to make him sound dumb?

I never realized how much more poetry than prose there was on this board

Yuletide bump

i would really appreciate if ANYONE would read and rate my works

>>8880575
bump

>>8883362

Excellent work

>>8883340
Discord is literally for fucking autistic weaboo erotic voice listening faggots.

"Ahhhhhh fuck!" I exclaim, leaping out bed. It's five in the morning and I'm ready to kill myself. I look down at the gently breathing form of my wife, and stifle the current of anger that runs through me. Dumb bitch deleted four seasons of Dirty Jobs just to make room for her cooking bullshit.
I stumble outside of my bedroom, tripping on the match-box car my son left lying on the ground like a fucking animal. I clench it in my hand, glaring at his closed door. I choose not to burst into the room as I so often to, flashing the lights and pounding the inside of a trash-can. Child Protective Services had shown up, and I had barely been able to throw them off. I blame my daughter for calling them.
My daughter. My rage pulsates even harder, thinking about another day of her complaining about her new boyfriend or girlfriend or shit-licking animalfriend she's paired up with now. Why can't she just smoke pot like a normal kid.
The shattering of glass breaks me from my thoughts. Snatching my old tire-iron that I always have nearby for such occurrences, I head downstairs, praying it's another Negro.

Circuit spike and senses expire
We are all but black boxes in sunken planes
A gear set to notch and ticking away
What can we be but sleepwalkers
Trying to keep warm in the bleak December
One time looking into mother's eyes I remember
Is there something else on the other side?
A receiving node like I, Myself
Just as warped as father
Who extinguished his inner flame on a spring day
in a field of wheat; shot himself in the chest and expired
retired to the blackness of death
I wonder if he feels as sublime as he did before birth

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My first poem; this definitely isn't the final draft.

Unrequited Love
This is as when a swine is caught
in its proper hunter’s trap,
by god it knows there’s left for it
nor mercy nor the unjust,
but still it bleats, and screeches, squeals,
its heart runs free of filth blood.
~laus musæ dei

>>8885959
>proper hunter’s
what does this mean, what makes the hunter proper?

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TRYST:

I remember holding hands
And [blank space]
You said, "I'm sorry I put you in that position."

I remember [blank space]
Then I woke up with awful skin
And a body like cement.

I remember three bodies
And you leaning over
To ask Tom if you could fuck me.

I remember your silhouette
In the morning and always behind his back,
Looking over your shoulder like they do in perfume ads.

I love your smile; I love you.
I love you and I don't want to lose a friend
To awkwardness or unfaithfulness.

But at the same time I don't want to forget how much fun we had.

I remember, I said:
"Swept under the rug?"

You said:
"Water under the bridge."

thingsbyvanherk.tumblr.com

Black comedy/murder mysteries

>>8886344
The hunter that is 'proper' to the swine- that is, the hunter laid the trap for boar, not for deer or anything else.
The point is that there's no mistake here- the hunter knows what he's doing, and he has every right to do it. Just as the beloved knows that the lover loves her, and rejects him, as is her right, knowing how he'll suffer.

>>8886355
I dig this. I feel like there is a spoken word vibe to it. Do you slam?

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Sam felt and held the listlessness still inside his mind. It felt like, to him, a storm of television static, one that clouded any clear vision of intention or thought or action. So he concentrated it all into a ball and lay his face against the bed sheets - staring forward, tacitly into the static.

Then somebody else stepped into the dormitory: an old, old man who looked to be in his nineties. He had no shirt on and instead wore a gut that protruded out from beneath his bent over frame. His loose white shorts looked like those that old men wear in swimming pool locker rooms. He appeared so incongruous inside the dorm with its sixteen beds, its cracked and cock-roached walls; but Sam knew why he was here. Sam’d seen plenty of men just like him, men who walked down the dusty orange streets, with women, a quarter of their age, hanging off their arms. This old man plodded achingly slowly over to a bed, alone, and sat down and stared at the ground.

He hated the sight of the man. He reminded him of his own uncle, who was not yet as old, but whom Sam suspected had engaged in a similar type of vile touristing. He thought of his sagging skin as a foul exterior to what he imagined as a rotting, corrupt and lustful soul: a soul, that like a conman, preyed on the vulnerable and which inhabited a man who was willing to throw away decency at the behest of superficial companionship. Was the man a prisoner to this quack soul or had he bent his soul this way himself?

In the humid emptiness of the dorm, where neither body moved or made a sound, Sam realised how little he knew of the stranger before him and how strong he had been. He began, instead, to imagine an aching loneliness perched a top the old man's two two tinder-stick legs, who sat like a bug, still staring at the ground, exuding a sense of having lived far too long. To be this old and this far from home, Sam thought, he must have had outlived all his friends.

In the heat and the sweat and the silence, Same wondered where he himself might be in seventy years.

Taking off his coat, Gladwell asked, “Still a gin man then, Alan?”

“I’m sorry?” Alan replied, his smile wavering. <i> Shit — I forgot to brush my teeth. </i>

“That’s a London Dry, I’ll wager.” Gladwell was looking over Alan’s shoulder.

It took Alan a moment to understand. “Oh!” he said, turning to follow Gladwell’s gaze. The half-empty glass stood exposed on the bench. “Yes, you’re right.” He turned back. Now his voice wavered. “It’s uh, a nice day for—”

“Still a bartender then, James?” asked Ryan. Alan turned away.

“You don’t have to serve drinks to know Alan drinks gin,” answered Gladwell. They laughed.

“It’s a nice day for drinking.” Alan had retrieved a bottle of Gordon’s from a cabinet. He began to fill the glass.

They exchanged glances behind his back and were silent.

He kept pouring until it nearly spilled over, and then put the bottle to one side, leaning in to take a sip.

Ryan glanced at the door. It was just like Alan to overreact like this. He might even down the entire glass out of spite. Ryan knew Gladwell was thinking the same thing. They had looked at each other and rolled their eyes. <I> How pathetic </i>, was the message. </i> Here we go again </i>.

>>8880919

Those haters seem caustic. Without getting carried away, it's safe to say your poem is actually pretty good. Especially for /lit/.

>>8886596
first sentence is backwards

>>8886626

Shit, thanks.

>>8881090
shut the fuck up you incompetent piece of shit

>>8886584
Ignoring the terribly written first paragraph, it's okay. As a suggestion, the words in brackets could be either removed with little consequence, or replaced with something better.

>(Then) somebody else stepped into the dormitory: an (old,) old man who looked to be in his nineties. He had no shirt on (but?) instead wore a gut that protruded out from beneath his bent over frame. His loose white shorts looked like those that (old men wear in swimming pool locker rooms - shitty simile desu, old man's shorts looked like shorts of old men, hurr) . He appeared so incongruous inside the dorm with its sixteen beds, its cracked and cock-roached walls; but Sam knew why he was here. Sam’d seen plenty of men just like him, men who walked down the dusty orange streets, with women, a quarter of their age, hanging off their arms. This old man plodded achingly (slowly) over to a bed, alone, and sat down and stared at the ground.
>(He - considering you use the same pronoun to refer another person in the next sentence, perhaps a proper name instead?) hated the sight of the man. He reminded him of his own uncle, who was not yet as old, but whom Sam suspected had engaged (is the uncle dead?) in a similar type of vile touristing. He thought of his sagging skin as a foul exterior to (what he imagined as) a rotting, corrupt and lustful soul: a soul, that like a conman, preyed on the vulnerable and which inhabited a man who was willing to throw away decency at the behest of superficial companionship.

I've got a blog where I examine game design: http://rasterradio.tumblr.com/

I don't have much experience with essays so I'd appreciate feedback.

III

First, he steadied himself to the daunting task by slugging down a tot of black rum. The alcohol burned a hole of courage in him and the keeper strode to his living room. Above the fireplace was the gaping skull of a shark.The bone polished to a white perfection gleamed angrily at him. In its mouth rested the harpoon-gun that it had been slain by. He picked off the slab of iron and felt its weight strain his arms. It was well kept, lubricated properly and without a single spot of rust within. From a leather bag he pulled out a barbed harpoon, it's tip smiling in the fire's light. And slid it with a click into the gun. A long breath in...and he went to confront the upstairs.

The stairs were plunged in darkness and un-invitingly steep. At the very top of them, the keeper's door. The heavy oak slightly ajar. And though there was no lights lit, some dim yellow presence was casting shadows. He swallowed hard, feeling the rum press against his stomach and lurched onto the first step. The wood creaked in protest. He did so again, and again and again. With each step getting closer to the door. The sounds from behind his bed grew growing louder and louder. Creaks and scuffles and bumps.

He leant against the knob and with a powerful kick sent the door flying in its hinges. Something leapt off his bed. At the sight of the creatures scurry he skipped a breath and discharged the harpoon in fear. The mechanism slammed and sent the steel six inches into the wall. The thing didn't react, but he did once he saw what it was.

A girl, barely out of infancy. Six or seven he would have said. With a gaunt skull covered in papery skin. Wide black eyes with pupils so huge they barely flickered to look around the room. Her body was frail and her bones on display. Her hair was golden and tumbled from her head to her feet. She glowed. It was the only way the keeper could have described the flickering, ever-changing aura that surrounded her body. Although she was very nearly human, looking closely at the imperfections sent shivers down the keeper's spine.

http://pastebin.com/i3WamBWE

this is my latest story, It'd be awesome if I could get some constructive feedback

>>8888601

I gave up quiet quickly tbqh , just because I'm not a fan of the smarmy directly talking to you super cool and quirky protagonist.

Also not to be too harsh , but your description of this seedy town is way too cartoonish and what I imagine a soccer mom would think it looks like

>>8888639
yeah, I can see how that would be, I'll try to make it more accurate and real. thanks

>>8888664

I mean, the reason why I said why I don't want to be too harsh is because it can go either way. You could be going for this very strong sin city-esque over the top city. Or go and model it after something like compton.

>>8888670
I don't really want to make it seem like an over the top sort of concept of a bad town, but like a more accurate depiction of a bad town, smaller and like the outskirts of a big city thing. like an actual place you may here about, so I think I will build on making it more accurate

>>8882941
Too ironic for my taste but it bangs as a song

>>8878156
I liked it

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>>8876431

>>8886626
Why did you tell him?

>>8889990

writing erotica is for losers

>>8890848
Thanks for the critique

>>8877526
Very effective.
Some interesting worldbuilding; I particularly like details like Red Deer (or her husband/mate) inheriting her father's spear, and the "whooping women" are intriguing and could be worth developing, both for their cultural importance and to add significance to Sky Egg's comment that he cannot whoop. Tribes are hard to make original, but things like this help.

Please write "My mother had recently born her second child", not "birthed" (page 3). That irritates me a lot.
Other than that, well done.

>>8890848
But we get quick cash

>>8889990
I became harder. More?

Markus Hirsch, newly anointed with the fragrance of recognition, strode through the bordello door. It was lit by a candle, whose meager efforts half revealed a endless, many doored hallway, arterially stretching back into the building, and half revealed a fat and lazy arm swirling a cigarette. Markus spoke only to the cigarette, which responded: "Many. A fair one, a brown one, a young one, a French one. No Africans here today. I'd recommend the French one, if I were you. She's very passable." Passable as what, she did not say, and any implication was lost on him- he was a dilettante in such matters. Still he nodded his ascent; the French one would do, your choice, whatever you like, dear, for a celebration was immediately necessary. It had been a beautiful week. His novel, his first novel, that which was born as much from his loins as from his brain or quill, had been lauded, quite positively received, albeit mostly locally. And so, yes a celebration- he felt as if the only end to such a week was something thoughtless and daring, something that would reaffirm his very present and portent by being so drastically unlike him that it cast him into high relief. What better way to kill such a week as that, what apotheosis could he ascend to? Before, Icarus-like, he could fly too high, he had to remember who he was, and had to end the week. Not just end it, but drown it in the whore's mouth.

>>8893678
sorry for spelling errors, cranked this out just to see if people like my style

A thousand generations of wind have carried to
Persepolis the dust of every nation in the world
to cement every cranny, every cleft,
every accidental slip of the chisel,
to slide under doorways to mortal grottoes
and mix with the clouds of breath in Cyrus’ mausoleum.
Cyrus is dust now, his words
with the breath that carried them
are dispersed to other throats, to alien tongues,
perhaps whose sinewy lines could never twist
in Cyrus’ peculiar way, Persian Achaemenid
with Median blood bespeckled, blessed by fire
and ram; perhaps to channel oxygen to limbs that broke
with powerful strokes and zealous convictions
the decadence of Persia, and inhaled again
and exhaled thereafter,
until it return to Persepolitan gates
with dust from every nation in the world.

>>8893678
learn to spell dipshit

No, I don't count God.

>>8893681
Wr don't

>>8876431
A crow walks into a bar. The bar dissolves like a cube of sugar thrown into the sea. The crow is left in a puddle of what was once a bar. Or was it a bar? What was the bar? Was it a place where drinks, especially alcoholic drinks are sold and drunk? Or was it a long, thin, straight piece of metal? The crow doesn't know, but it doesn't need to know either. The bar has dissolved into nothingness, it has ceased to exist and will never again come to life.

"Caw!" is all the crow can say after all, it wouldn't change much if it did know the difference between a bar and a bar. Caw, caw caw!

“Dan, come on,” a voice broke through the air, snatching Jess out of her reminiscing.

“What’s the problem, man?” Jess could tell the voice was drunk, although she didn’t know yet what he was yelling about. Knowing Dan, it could be anything.

“What is the composition of all of it?” Jess called out playfully when she got into the kitchen, hoping to diffuse any tension that might be lurking. "I think part of this, we do not think should be having fun?" Dan turned suddenly and his face broke into a grin when he saw Jess.

“Hey there! Our little bee workers, behind the nest!” Dan cooed as he walked towards her with his arms outstretched. The person with whom he had been arguing slinked away after Dan was obviously not going to engage any longer.

Jess couldn’t help but smile and roll her eyes. “You say that every time I come home Danny.”

“We loved it, so it is not pretend you do not,” Dan insisted as he enveloped her in a hug. Dan always had warm, welcoming hugs. He smelled like a soap she could never find at the store and, unsurprisingly, rum.

"Yes, yes ..." Jess muttered, still smiling into Dan’s shirt. “So,” she said, pulling out of the hug. "What are you doing here, having one's happy to raise their voices to you, hmm?"

"Oh, you know, the usual, push button man," Dan teased. He really did get into an astonishing amount of arguments with people over seemingly insignificant things. Jess always warned him that one day his mouth was going to get him in trouble, and Dan would always respond by shrugging it off and telling her that he knew where the line was.

“Of course that’s what you’re doing,” she said with a laugh. "You do not push the wrong person, right?"

>>8894504
“Yes, mother,” Dan replied. "Now, please tell me to come to this kitchen for something different to chastise me for having my fun."

"In fact, I was in for a drink."

"Offers, our small Jessie? Drink? In a school night?" He teased.

"An employer or, thank you so much. I'm a grown man. And as an adult, I can get a drink if I want!"

“Why of course you can! Here, I’ll do the honors!” Dan jumped to make her a drink and Jess immediately tried to wave him off. His drinks were always much too strong for her. As much as she did think she deserved a drink after a long day, she didn’t want to have too much and make herself miserable the next day.

"Danny is good, really. I grabbed something out of the icebox."

"No, no. I want to make a drink. In addition, all we have left of beer shitty and you're not a snob about beer not complete, and will just going to throw it. I forgot to buy them cider pleasure when I hit today's market, " he said apologetically. Jess couldn’t really argue with him, she never really liked the taste of beer. When she drank it, it was usually because she was already too drunk to care that it tasted horrible. Soon enough, Dan had a drink in hand, insisting that she try it. Admittedly, it was a good drink, although, predictably, too strong for her taste.

“Alright,” Dan clapped his hands together. "Let's go together!"

“Yay,” Jess replied with mock sarcasm.

Dan rolled his eyes at her and steered her towards the living room. Soon, Jess had drank just enough to be a little more relaxed and her rehearsed smile was replaced with a genuine grin and a slightly louder than normal laugh.

“Excuse me,” Jess said with sudden urgency. “I need to pee.”

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"It will see you now read."

The wall dissolved and Reddin snapped a salute."Inquisitor General Stevens! Quality One Reddin report for duty." Behind a massive desk, a high-back chair revolved, revealing the man Reddin had read stories about in history class.

"Enter, stage one." The general’s skin was healthy and his spine erect, but something around his eyes made him look ancient. In his hands was a mana-reactive slate displaying a red-texted emergency dispatch labeled HIGHEST PRIORITY ∘ IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED ∘ DO NOT SHARE.

Ploymark knew how to get his attention when he wanted it.

Reddin took a few steps and then slowed to a stop as he gazed across the room. “That ... is a vision."

Beyond the gas and through the massive concave transparent rokani wall was a glorious panorama of color and motion, from the riot of flora and fauna in the Imperial Botanical Gardens fifty floors below to the whitecaps on the cloth red, wind-swept Wyrmblood Bay beyond. Across the bay, the sphere of sports stretched out before the palace, and all was housed in the light of the sun that was just starting its fade into the coming evening.

"Sit in the chair for eight years, will be used everywhere." He motioned towards a hill of white hair standing behind the well-appointed bar just inside the door. "Hold a drink and take a seat."

Reddin said “Thank you,” and then added, "uh ... man?"

Stevens corrected him while reviewing the brief. "Military personnel are sirs, no matter what the organization which they sent, one of the situations."

"Left. I'm sorry. Sir."

"I do not understand what could have been in my head," Antony's mother started again after stopping at a red light. Even from the backseat, Antony could feel the vibrations of her disappointed word's. Standard play in this situation was to keep quiet and keep both eyes glued to the window.

"It was no concept of money. You do not understand. You do not. Why is not it working to the Lord-for-saken-to-day. Staying in all day. unless you go out. to God knows what. And I do not ask. I give you that. This is a freedom that I give you. I give you respect. I give, and then you think you can do. Takin 'my life. Where'd you learn that? Huh? "

The red light lasted enough for his mother to squeeze in another couple paragraphs, unformatted and directionless, as Antony assumed she did to fill the silence. When the light turned green, Antony muttered a couple words, half-hoping his lies wouldn't make it to the front of the car over the old, rumbling engine.

"What's that? No, go on, say it," the mother of Antony said with a feigned politeness.

“S'for a pizza.” Antony's voice only recently developed such a low pitch.

The mother of Antony stared through the rear-view mirror, holding for a couple seconds while accelerating down the street.

"Twenty dollars for a pizza? You know what pizza is? Bread and cheese. The place pizza making a fortune to go to children with arthritis and wasting money, they would buy the bread and cheese. Parent. And tomato. I'm not saying you dumb, but what you did was dumb. Cheese and bread. foolish. not you. not mad. and some fucking oregano. They sprinkled gold there? what they have those little bottles? gold dust? that what you say twenty? in the fucking gold dust? I do not know where'd you get the idea. "

They passed the pizza joint where Antony decided he would allegedly have spent twenty dollars on a pizza.

"You have to change? I'm waiting for changes. It took what was left and put it in the bottle changes. Did you tryna be all-real-istic? Keep the change, Dam. Sir. Girls."

A bump in the road cut the radio, leaving static to dominate the conversation till they got home. The car's spokes scraped into the curb in front of the less than modest condo, racking up marks . Antony preemptively unhinged his seat belt and prepped his confident voice.

"I think we'll have a Lil 'extra money since we have a little mouth to feed." Antony's voice cracked as he dashed out of the car. Though the words were mostly benign, the hurtful intent was there, at least, enough to spur sudden feelings of cowardice.

>>8877621
Oh dear, that sounds awful. There's just something about the first person narrative mixed in with present tense that makes me wish I was illiterate whenever I see it.
thanks for taking one for the team and reading that rubbish, anon!

>>8894536

learn to fucking spell first

>Why is not it working to the Lord-for-saken-to-day

>The place pizza making a fortune to go to children with arthritis and wasting money,

>>8878037
>A man walking in the woods is like a king amongst beggars
Confirmed for never having been in a forest ever. Forests are humbling, especially if you're out there on your own. Next time just write 'glorified park' instead.

>>8878141
>Because of this, you wouldn’t be able to tell that some of the water on my face came from my eyes instead of the sky
>"I like walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying."
Go back to myspace.

>>8878457
>He pulled down the fly-like goggles and spat. Salted spit flying through his moustache.
Ugh, what is the point of breaking up sentences like that? To what end? And the tenses you use, past participle in one and then switch to a present continuous in the next? It is confusing and also insulting to the reader.

>>8881709
>His body although old was still taut and bristled with bull like muscles. The skin was pale from living on the island without a glimpse of sun for months. And a red and blue railway of veins pumped visibly from beneath.
It is now my dream to see a body bristled with bull like muscle. Especially taut ones.
Also, what is it with so many of you not understanding the use of commas and how to for sentences that flow in a coherent and cohesive manner?

>>8894693

google belgian blue bull

>>8893700
Really interesting.
Could you explain the meter and, perhaps, the writing?

reposting in full

http://pastebin.com/GGG6C8RN

rate my short story, this is the first draft

Charls Carrol? Yeah I know him. Hell, I worked with him in Korea. He had a different name, though. Back then we called him 'Gook Gutting' Carrol, because he never came out of a tunnel without a scalp, an ear, or covered with blood.

Most would call him insane, but that is why the green berets trained him. They saw potential. It wasn't until they learned his methods that they truly realized what a monster they created. You see, most guys that go tunnel clearing take guns. Not Charls. No, he took knives, hatchets, sometimes nothing but his bare hands. After a few missions I got a chance to talk to him, in the mess. He was wearing his blood stained hat, sunglasses, and combat fatigues, smoking a pipe and drinking johnny walker black. It was contraband, but you NEVER told Charls what he could and couldn't do.

I asked him why he never took guns with him. He lowered is head and took a long slow draw from his pipe, pulled off his sun glasses and looked me right in the eyes, piercing my soul.

"I do it out of respect. Respect for the white race. These slant eye'd scum bags don't deserve the mercy of an American made bullet, but the slow torturous death of the hands of an American man!"

In a flash he pulled out his weathered, but razor sharp knife and stopped just short of sticking my gut. "The look in their eyes when I slip this baby into their swollen, rice filled bellies is reason enough. To see the last lights flick off in their heads as they see a real killer work."

>>8886584
>that pic
Do you live in that place?

>>8893828
holy...

Can I post in spanish?

>>8896836
I kekked.

>>8896927
My endgame was to make the Charls Carrol persona and his story frightening, not funny, but I guess producing an emotional response, whatever it is, is better than nothing, so thanks.

>>8896948
If you actaully think that your /tv/ Raimi pasta would be frightening, then you're a fucking idiot.

>>8896978
>your /tv/ Raimi pasta
What?

>>8896986
You really didn't knowingly base that off of /tv/ memes?

Getting back into the flow. For some reason it seems so much easier to add to the middle than to add ti the beginning

Eve took off towards the bathing area by the living cars. The women had been allotted a tent for their modesty but to her great displeasure the men's was a more alfresco affair. The inside of the tent was dim and rather muddy, due in part to a number of leaky washbasins. Given the conditions Eve could not help but doubt whether anyone in this circus managed to remain clean for more than a few blissful seconds.

Given that the alternative was disrobing in what felt a rather public setting, Eve settled for draping terrycloth over her nightgown and pouring lukewarm water over her hair, face, and any other body parts she intended to see the light of day. Her hands, still ink-stained from signing paperwork the previous day, required several minutes of vicious scrubbing before any progress became noticeable. She quickly abandoned this task in favor of changing into her uniform, and headed back towards her show tent with less than a minute to spare.

Rachel was there to greet her, with all the emotion and eagerness of a two-week old carrot. Her rehearsal was not as easy as she expected but not as difficult as she had feared. If Rachel knew of her sight she did not make a point to acknowledge it, instead fixating on proper speech patterns and body language. Actual understanding and interpretation, Eve soon found, was of very little consequence when performing tea readings or tarot cards. While a pamphlet of common interpretations was provided along with the props, the only tricks seemed to informed guesses and intentional ambiguities alongside a certain level of professional panache. Performance anxiety or stammering were straight out, while controlled eeriness and restrained blinking were encouraged. Finally, and most importantly, Eve was to remain in her tent for then entire hours of operation, barring any alleviating circumstances such as a fire or sharknado. Bathroom breaks were likewise prohibited, but towels were provided for conveniences which Rachel did not bother to elaborate. By the tine rehearsal ended she was thoroughly prepared, and was dismissed and permitted to grab something to eat.

>>8896921
yes, but I can't say whether it will hurt your chances of getting critique. /crit/ seems fairly multilingual though so I have seen it happen

>>8894522
Not bad, your narration is decent but your dialogue seems unnatural, both in the sense that it's poor english and in the sense that it doesn't make sense for the setting. If Reddin had been through basic training (and I don't see how he'd have a rank if he didn't) he'd know to call a superior officer "sir".

Also, "Quality One" doesn't sound remotely like a real rank, even for a fictional military. It's actually dissonant enough that I got confused for a minute

>>8894488
I doubt this was serious but I like it. It's very atmospheric in its weirdness

>>8896921
Since no (You)'s, I'm going to do it anyways

Se sube, ni apurado ni relajado. Paga el pasaje y se dirige frente a la primera salida. El bus comienza a moverse; de los metales cilíndricos, con su mano derecha obtiene el equilibrio. A mitad del trayecto, algo remece su petrificada mirada y, después del temblor, la enfoca en su mano; es un impulso extrañísimo el que lo lleva a hacer esto, desconocido, pero antes de que pueda reflexionar sobre lo que siente, se percata de la frondosa, compulsiva y viva flora que da rienda suelta a su existencia, ciclo de vida y muerte, en la superficie pálida y tensa de su mano, mano que le brinda la estabilidad necesaria en el viaje rutinario. El epicentro exacto del milagro, la tierna superficie entre los dedos pulgar e índice.
Los pequeños matorrales y árboles germinan, crecen y se marchitan velozmente en un círculo vicioso y expansivo de vida, reproducción y sequía, fenómeno madre y padre de la tierra mineralizada. Las diminutas flores comparten el mismo destino. Las maderas y tallos se expanden y retuercen en un arbitrario patrón, perfectamente planeado. Débiles riachuelos fluyen por donde pueden; algunos roedores dejan sus rastros de luz apagada, borrosos, al correr entre las sombras de las rocas y el paisaje de los intentos de bosque. Verde que inhala y exhala.
El bus se detiene, los ojos cambian de dirección momentáneamente y cuando vuelven, en busca de la nueva vida, solamente hay tradicional piel. No es el más peculiar de sus días.

>>8896989
No, I dont lurk on /tv/, the last time I went there (this was like a year ago, maybe a little less) there was a webm of a mouse. I didn't click on it but I knew something fucked up was going to happen to him. It gave me nausea.

>>8897070
>tfw no one tells you your short story is shit

>>8897070
>Since no (You)'s
what the fuck am I then?

>>8897295
sorry, my man, i didnt refresh the page
you are cool dude, i hope you luck and happines in your life

bump
harold please critique me

hopeless last bump

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1t9h1JgcTfmgwkcNl3aXy0vpA4mGxuTYpBVlsG4EmImI/edit?usp=sharing

hoo boy here we go

>>8897024
Not too bad. Good vocabulary. A few phrases seemed a little out of place or unoriginal, and you could be more creative with them.

>remain clean for more than a few blissful seconds
be more creative
>intended to see the light of day
cliche
>emotion and eagerness of a two-week old carrot
lolsorandum. a one-day old carrot also has no emotion or eagerness. let your metaphors actually mean something, give them weight
>barring any alleviating circumstances such as a fire or sharknado
unnecessary line and the sharknado thing is pretty cringey

You also have a number of typos which I'm not going to bother pointing out

>>8897874
Fixed everything except the last one. I really feel I need a ridiculous joke there to retain some humor

>>8897024
You use a lot of dull language here and there.

>The women had been allotted
> due in part to a number of
> settled for
>required several minutes
>became noticeable
> likewise prohibited
> permitted to grab something to eat

etc.

They're too jarring and formal. You're describing a character in a circus tent with the tired language of a high school assignment.

Besides that: show, don't tell. Don't tell me that she scrubbed her hands and then resigned to putting on her uniform, write a scene where that occurs. Don't tell me the rules of the tent. Introduce a character who tells her. You're never going to end up with compelling characters -- or a compelling narrative at all -- if you can't surmount what is a fear of scene-writing. Perhaps I'm being too harsh and perhaps what you've posted here was intentionally abbreviated, but I see this sort of thing often.

>>8894970
Thanks! There isn't an overarching metre; it's free verse.

The poem is about how every rush of air we inhale has been inhaled by other people before it ever reaches our nostrils.

>>8893700
fug thats good

>>8893700
Interesting, in the style of the Modernists without sounding trite or kitsch.
My suggestions:
>Cyrus is dust now: his words with the breath...
And expand on the line "the decadence of Persia", considering the tone of the piece I'd love to hear more on that subject. Just suggestions though.

>>8898734
Forgot to include my stuff for critique:

Dash the waves against the faces of a tired England
Down in Dover, where the chalk-white cliffs
Hide a longing for permanence. White is destined
For temporaries, and stains almost willingly;
Lustful oceans seek to steal this pale innocence
For themselves, and spit weak imitations
In crest-spray from behind the defences of jutting rocks.

You're watching, hoping
To feel a connection with this place still.
The white flag that was flown
Stained almost instantly; now the rags are at half-mast.
Have the waves that crashed around you stolen
All your innocence in ocean-beats?
Did the irregularity of sea-spray force you
Into submission? Deep canyons have been carved out
In that tired face of yours, that hides
A longing for permanence.

First thing I've written in a year. It's going to be a short story about a writer that lives like a rapper.
http://pastebin.com/3Wt3qeXz

He pulled out his keys, grabbed the cupcakes, frosting semi-mushed, and stepped onto the driveway towards the backyard with the card and the cupcakes.

"Hi honey, Brent!" said Julie’s mom."It is behind Julie's trampoline and children."

“Hello, thank you."

Julie, bounced barefoot, her cheeks stretched in a smile like those of the popcorn bowl of kindergarteners surrounding her. Her shamrock green t-shirt stood out against the sky. The movement in Brent’s stomach made him feel both delighted and dreadful.

“Hey Julie.” He said through the safety mesh between them.

“Hi Brent! Come on in!”

"Of course, I hope we can talk for a minute."

"Well we can talk and get on the same time."

He paused. “Julie...”

“Alright, alright, I’ll come out, ya spoilsport.” She grinned as she climbed out and stuck her tongue out at him. His own facial expression remained uneasy. He adjusted his pants from the jumping and caught her breath.

“What’s up?”

"Well, red .." He paused again and looked down. He took a breath. He looked back up. "I think about the times we spent together over the summer, and-"

"All Alright, the cake time!" called the mother of Julia.

“CAKE!” pealed the herd of kindergarteners as they swarmed past Brent towards the picnic tables. Suddenly, Julia was among them.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU... the song was slow and awkward as parents and children alike belted out a cacophony of flat, slurred birthday notes. (HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU..) Brent was caught on the opposite end of the table as Julia, who leaned over Jackie’s shoulder, celebrating the chaos with her. (HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR JAAAAKIEEEEEEE) The cake’s candlelight flickered in Julia’s eyes in the same color, and the gleam he saw there was no different than the appropriate level.(HAAPPY BIRRTHDAYYY TOOO YOUUUUU)

FOOF. The candles blew out.

Brent walked around the table and tapped Julia’s elbow to retrieve her attention.

"Yes," he said, "is the same .. I want to say I really enjoyed all the time we spent together this summer, and-"

"Honey Julia?” her mom called, “can you serve the ice cream?”

Repeat performance. Brent followed her over to the cake-and-ice-cream table, where kids were quickly lining up. His paced had quickened. He climbed before a child holding a green balloon. Julia started scooping the ice cream into a bowl.

"Julia. What I want to say that I am very happy to be with you and-"

“Here you go, sweetie.” She said, sticking in a spoon and passing the bowl to the boy.

"Julia! I want you, but I can not continue to do this if this relationship is only gonna be one way."

The little boy let go of the balloon to grab the ice cream.

“Oh no!” he exclaimed as he watched it shrink into the sky above.

>>8898603
Since it's free, a few of the line breaks feel a bit odd- I assume one is meant to have some pause at the end of a line.
This'd feel a bit more natural to me:

A thousand generations of wind
have carried
to Persepolis
the dust of every nation in the world
to cement every cranny, every cleft,
every accidental slip of the chisel,
to slide under doorways to mortal grottoes
and mix with the clouds of breath
in Cyrus’ mausoleum.
Cyrus is dust now, his words
with the breath that carried them
are dispersed to other throats, to alien tongues,
perhaps whose sinewy lines could never twist
in Cyrus’ peculiar way, Persian Achaemenid
with Median blood bespeckled, blessed by fire
and ram; perhaps to channel oxygen to limbs that broke
with powerful strokes and zealous convictions
the decadence of Persia, and inhaled again
and exhaled thereafter,
until it return to Persepolitan gates
with dust from every nation in the world.

It's really good stuff. May I ask why you chose Persia as your theme, rather than any other ruined civilization?

File: David Platt [JACK P SHEPHERD].jpg (37KB, 615x409px) Image search: [Google]

37KB, 615x409px

The boat sped up, puffs of smoke emerging from a small stack on the back of the vessel. The man called again, "If you can hear me, show yourself."

No one answered.

"You're trespassing on a commercial sector," he hissed, "you know he will not go back to you and you in half or continue to the harbor, I made clear to myself? "

Nothing.

"Listen here, if you refuse to comply, it will sink into the area," the man called a few more times but he eventually gave up and ventured into the wheelhouse.

The boat caught up to the ship, pulling along side. The man re-emerged from the boat’s interior, joined by several others. Each was dressed in pristine white naval uniforms, numerous ornate badges glinting against the light of the sun. The man who originally called out was now wearing a commander’s cap. Two more men emerged from the wheelhouse, carrying a rope which was fastened between the vessels. A further three men came out carrying a rope bridge which was thrown over the side of the other ship and tied down.

The men walked across the bridge and stepped onto the ship, each firmly grasping the hilts of their blades. “At ease, gentlemen,” the commander said, looking around the deck, "It seems abandoned long this ship. Quell and Boe, and enter the boat show returned to the port of we intend to sink the ship. "

The two men nodded and scurried back over the rope bridge.

"While the rest of you, I want you to find every inch of this ship, any war will bring to me and if you are found stashing anything of will take with you, understand? "

“Yes, Commander,” the men said in unison.

The commander strolled around the deck, stopping every few feet and tapping his foot against the rotted wood. He continued doing this until he had nearly done an entire lap of the deck, and then, finally.

Crunch.

A large piece of wood gave way and revealed a hidden cargo hold. Two beady eyes stared up at him. "Oh, hi there. It made a break below deck were you?"

The eyes moved forward into the light of the cracked wood, revealing the face of a dishevelled man. "I actua'y tryin 'to' ide by many."

"Left. And who are you exactly, sir?"

"I jus' have already lost a sailor. S'pose I should righ 'close to this land many pokin' round."

"Oh, you are a wise one is to you! To lose sailor I Setton Commander of the Royal Navy and Eudasian effect declared dead thirty seconds ago."

“‘Scuse me?”

"I'm sorry, sir, but maybe if you give your real name or an important event we will have a look better in your situation."

"Listen, before you. I do have a name. I'm going to 'righ' in fron of 'ya.' "

"Knowledge of real joker! I think I will finally meet 'righ your brother behind ya," the Commander said, mocking the sailor.

>>8899303
Goddamn, that does read much better. Thank you very much.

I don't know, I really like Persian culture and ancient Persian history. I was looking at a picture of Cyrus' tomb when the idea came to me. It's desolate and abandoned, but it still retains its structural integrity.

>>8899328
I was always struck by how small and humble it seems for such a great king, especially compared to the tombs of his successors.

http://pastebin.com/GGG6C8RN

>>8899303
>whats caesura, how should I know where to pace myself without linebreaks
Reading prose must be painful for you

>>8899286
You write like an autistic person

>>8876431
“I don’t want to do this,” my friend clutched my little 12-year old arm, “it’s scary and cold.” I could not really blame her; I mean I could feel the wind whip through my skin, and a cold shiver run through my body as I looked at the cold slabs in the graveyard, almost like a ghost has just gone through my skin. Even still, I was a curious little boy, and I wanted to try to at least stay for a few more minutes.

“Don’t worry so much,” I assured her even though I was mostly talking to myself, “we just are in a graveyard, looking through it. There is no such thing as ghosts anyway…” My friend just sighed and continued to clutch my arm and held it there. And we continued walking.

It was at this time that we saw a certain gravestone that really piqued our Curiosity. It was almost 10 o’clock PM. We were told to leave the graveyard after around 10:30. The evenly spaced patterns of stone slabs lay straight before Us, mocking our complete fear of walking through this. Maybe watching that ghost movie the day before we walked through the graveyard was not the best idea. We did not really want to stay there any Longer, but I noticed something there that stayed with me since then. A gravestone with a man’s name embedded, a human name of a man who either fell in conflict, disease, or a strange combination thereof. However, it was the year that truly makes me think back, the time that this man died, the time of 1778.

“Wow,” was all that my friend said, “He looks really old.”

Old. That word rings through every Southerner’s life. Old is what makes the South the South, even when the North was made a lot longer than the former. We care so much about our heritage, from the positive like the creation of the South and the revolutionary war, to the negatives like slavery and the Civil War. And even though we had negative experiences, the most important thing is that Southerners have a richer heritage than Northerners do. A great example of this is the Civil War. Nearly all battles of the Civil War took place in the South. And because of that, there are many gravestones that symbolize the men’s faithful death during their time on the war. These remnants of and to the war can be found all over the South, yet there is nothing there to show off what the North’s past. All the North can boast about is the founding of the New World and maybe the Revolutionary War. Southerners can boast a cacOphony of different historical and symbolic arenas that can be truly tapped into.
That’s why when I went to the gravestone I smiled. Because I understood who I was and where I come from. The gravesTones were a symbol of the South’s great history. And I learned that it is probably a culture that I would love to be in.

>>8899669

> “we just are in a graveyard, looking through it. There is no such thing as ghosts

why can't any of you fucks spell check

Im going to keep bumping until someone makes a comment on my short story

Drive

The dark road stretches,
and like a muddy dale it swallows me.

Blinking
in the eyes of my headlights, bright
divisions appear on the road: hovering,
sodden phalanges.

My car's hood writhing and dull.
They shine because of me, such
illusions so entombed.

Ahead, the sky grows against the horizon,
and, like an egg sinking in the dark ocean, I
flicker inside of the shell.

>>8899669
>These remnants of and to the war can be found all over the South, yet there is nothing there to show off what the North’s past. All the North can boast about is the founding of the New World and maybe the Revolutionary War. Southerners can boast a cacOphony of different historical and symbolic arenas that can be truly tapped into.

What are you talking about?

>>8900098
>stretches
>swallows
This hurts my mind's ear

>>8900198
What do you mean?

File: 1460510568468.png (2MB, 1080x1920px) Image search: [Google]

2MB, 1080x1920px

>>8900098
>This is really good. I enjoy the setting and imagery, as well as overall writing and word choice.
______
Here is something I threw together a while ago but decided on how to end it today. It's not long, only about 300 words or so. I'm playing with structure as well mixing prose and verse to highlight states of mind.

http://pastebin.com/PchZbyDn

>>8900198
I know freeversefags are deaf and allergic to rhyme, but would using something like "the dark road falls/crawls/calls/unfolds" not make it better?

>>8898916
I like the dialogue and the character's writing. Your first sentence is passive voice and it kind of sucks.

>took to his writing
is a little too verbose and formal
>The nearest girl situated herself alongside the star with a salacious glance paid to him as their hips touched before she began to scan
This sentence is trying to do too much and could use some punctuation
>Milton, his cousin/assistant said over the musical stylings of Gucci mane
You're doing too much with this sentence also. It seems like you're trying to cleverly insert details, but it comes across as a little clumsy.

File: death_of_trielle_pixel_larger.png (6KB, 384x300px) Image search: [Google]

6KB, 384x300px

http://pastebin.com/XdPv1uWk

Out of context, it's a scene where one of the characters dies, part of a much much larger story, but it's a scene I'm working hard to get right.

I struggle between writing it like Tom Clancy (he shot X, he stabbed Y) where it's more kind of saying what happens, or trying to do the whole flowery "his rifle cracked with a flash, and blood spattered from the enemy's wound..." etc etc drawn out description. I go for something in between usually: writing as plainly and simply as I can, and sprinkling "vivid" words in when I can.

Anyway, this is taken completely out of context, but I am curious what you think of the writing. What the hell.

>>8900390
It feels like what you're saying, that you're sprinkling in descriptions. I'm not really familiar with action scene writing so my opinion might be shit, but it feels like there's not enough intention with many of these descriptions. Some could be cut, and some could be elaborated on. Also, the whole "You're hurt so we have to take you back" "No we must complete the mission" bit really stuck out as a by-the-numbers cliche and if you want it to matter, you have to go more into the motivations of Myron for changing his mind than just "Trielle said to go on so now I'm going on."

As far as descriptions go, maybe the best thing you could do is analyze them as to the extent they are cliche. Cliches tend to be thrown into writing without intention, and you need more intention. Here are some cliches in just the first paragraph:
>screeching metal
>face clenched in discomfort
>white knuckles
>sounds filter in

I recommend you rework these or cut them entirely in favor of more simple prose.

>>8900390
Didn't read it because I'm at work right now. Will read when I get home. But based off your brief description, it sounds like it will be all over the place. It's nice to experiment. But to really draw readers into your story, following a consistent style which has great pacing is going to be a must. Otherwise it feels scattered, and more of a simple story than an investment

______

http://pastebin.com/tE3cAyEC

Here's another one of my older poems. I went back and altered a few key words and punctuations to hell the feel and flow. This was really experimental and I'm still unsure of how much I like it. But something about it keeps telling me to put it out there. Again, it's fairly short. Only about 250 words. Style is very key for its rhythm, hence why it's in Pastebin

This is an excerpt from a book I'm writing.

The conversation starts light between the old friends and they talk of how things have been for them since they last met the previous autumn. Thomas's side is rather limited since it amounts to "I grew plants this summer," but Uriah more than makes up for it discussing the comings and goings of Carveil. Nearing the end of the story about his summer Uriah tells them about the elves that attacked the town. The fighting was bloody, but closely matched. No siege was enacted, as the elves appeared to be on their way somewhere else, only stopping to sack quickly for supplies. They came and went in less than a day, but still burnt about half the town to ash, killing hundreds.

"I wish you were there Gordan. You pretend at digging in the earth these days, but I know you miss swinging your blade. We could have used a good man leading the guards." Uriah takes another drink while Thomas stares down at his nearly empty mug. "You say you want to learn about farming from this giant do you Sam? Ha! You should get him to train you with a blade instead."

"Is he really that good with it?" Samina asks, genuinely intrigued.

Uriah’s eyes gain a sparkle as he realizes he can change the subject to better memories. "Ten years ago, this lad was in line to make a mark for himself in Storach! His family had been guards for generations, and he was showing that lineage powerfully. His form, perfect! His strength, prodigious! His harem... numerous!" Uriah laughs to himself loudly before mocking a toast and taking another long draft. Thomas has gone dark red again at the mention of a harem, and Samina makes a mental note to ask him what that means. "I remember when you broke up that brawl on Facing street. Just a young sixteen year old fighting fist to fist with a Bogin! You took your licks, no doubt about that, but you won! Knocked the bastard out cold on his last punch. His eyes were black and his ears like cauliflower for days afterward, but nobody questioned him about it. Yep, you would be captain by now for sure Gordan!"

Samina is watching Thomas as she listens to Uriah tell her more stories of his exploits. He flexes his massive fists when Uriah mentions any fights, but otherwise sits peacefully. His expression seems stoic, but she can see behind his eyes he is replaying the memory of the events to himself happily. In the stories, he is a brash leader, confident and aggressive. Today he is a quiet person, more willing to agree than speak his mind.

(1/2) (reformatted cause first post was hard to read)

God, this is feeling a lot more boring than it was yesterday. I'm just about to lead in to a big exposition but I can't care less. Maybe it's just that i was writing about her bathing in the previous post

“Closed?” she whispered sheepishly, “what about all the food?” After being dismissed from rehearsal, Eve had set off to satisfy the heavy growling in her stomach with something other than spiced nuts and chocolates. Grave's end, she found, as well as the surrounding neighborhoods of Coney and Brighton had very little but beaches, warehouses and railways. What few restaurants she came across (mostly russian diners and delis) seemed to operate at bizarre hours catered mostly towards nightlife. It seemed few people came here save for the circus and beach, and at noon on a late autumn weekday there was little reason to stay open. If Eve was going to eat anything satisfying, she would have to take a train into the city proper.

Grave's End was one of the more remote neighborhoods in the city of New Amsterdam, separated from metropolis by sedimentary layers of immigrant enclaves, ripe with colorful imports and befuddling accents. Even given the city's density and state-of-the-art subway systems (a term which stuck despite much of it being located above street level), Eve knew it would be most of an hour before she again found herself in a place where she could read menus in legible Dutch. She wanted sorely for a book to keep her occupied for the haul: maybe pulp novels or star charts, even a dentistry pamphlet would do. It was while she rifled through her coat pockets, hoping for a paperclip to uncurl, that she came across a folded book page that was not there before.

>>8900982
"By the gods, I miss those days. But, of course it all changed." Uriah sobers up a bit as he continues. "When he kept growing the duke got scared. Not his growing reputation mind you, just his body. Congress was coming up again and the presence of a Valoren* was not what they needed. Duke had been building the walls around his city in secret the last two years but they would need at least another two before they were completed. The people liked Thomas, but it was too much of a risk. A blasted shame. In the end, it didn't save them anyway. Four years later the damn elves laid siege for a month before they broke in. At least thirty thousand souls were lost that week before the elves picked up and left." Uriah glumly finishes his drink and slams the glass down. "Storach is half the size it used to be now. But, at least they have peace. Bah, forgive me, I've soured the mood again. Gregory! Another round while I take a piss!" Uriah noisily stumbles away heading outside.

"You were incredible when you were younger Thomas! You saved people, and caught thieves and killed murderers and all sorts of things! You could have kept doing that for sure, even if you weren’t in Storach! Why did you start farming?" Samina asks after Uriah is gone.

"Because I killed somebody who didn't deserve it, and I didn't want to be in that position again." he responds simply.

This answer surprises her. "Oh. Why did you do that?"

"They were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Samina doesn't question him further. Thomas is a far different individual then she had thought from their interactions over the last couple of days. She has no doubt in her mind she's safe around him, but he's definitely a changed man now from what he was just a few years ago.

* A valoren is analogous to like captain america, just randomly born.

I would appreciate someone to rate this >>8877684

>>8901034
Whoops.

There are more than several posts* which still need a review. It can not be hard to rate and critique at least one along with your post, c'mon

>>8901003
As far as the english version goes, it's totally fucked man. You shouldn't have even posted the english version, it's so fucked.

>>8901034
just for clarity,
>>8900993
isn't part of the other two.

And yes, I'm attempting to critique a few others. Gathering notes.

mine >>8900993

>>8900997
avoid present tense. Samina's dialogue seems like bad flattery. Also you're moving a bit too fast for the intended mood. Otherwise it's solid writing, it just needs some tune-ups

>>8900979
It's really hard to get a grasp of how this sounds because it's written down. the variety of rhyme schemes doesn't help.

I somehow perceive the tune as a metal song that's being whispered under one's breath, I don't know if that was the intention

>>8899669
> “we just are in a graveyard, looking through it. There is no such thing as ghosts anyway…”
I kind of like a lot of this, but this one line is just awful, particularly the very beginning. I'm going to guess that you're not a native english speaker because this is a really awkward way of speaking. make it something like

"It's just a graveyard. There's no such thing as ghosts"

>>8901092

hey man mind reading through mine ?

http://pastebin.com/GGG6C8RN

>>8899669
>I could not really blame her; I mean I could feel the wind whip through my skin, and a cold shiver run through
Couldn't flows better and remove "I mean". End the sentence at "my skin".

> My friend just sighed and continued to clutch my arm and held it there. And we continued walking.
Awkward phrasing on the first sentence. Also remove the And on the second sentence.

>numerous seemingly randomly upper case words
Curiosity, Us, Longer, cacOphony, etc.

>“Wow,” was all that my friend said, “He looks really old.”
Combine the two spoken lines, or change the connective tissue. Otherwise, "Wow" was quite obviously NOT "all that my friend said".

>that whole last bit
Needs a lot of reworking.

Over all though, decent enough ideas. I could be interested in the direction the story is going, but the flow is constantly interrupted by errors. With a rework, could be pretty good.

>>8901120
crit others before expecting crit yourself. that's the rule here

>>8901092
I made the accidental choice to use present tense early in writing. I did it for a reason, but I admit that reason doesn't seem to hold water in retrospect.

Yeah, she's supposed to sound like bad flattery.

Too fast for the mood eh. Interesting. I will think on this.

>>8901135

I've created a lot of others other the past few days that this thread has been up. But it's mainly been poetry which I don't claim to know anything about so I'll drop a comment or two on the short stories but it'd be counter productive to comment on most of the recent posts

>>8877609
Welcome, my friend!

Stop using it in your mind.
non-blossoming of the flowers in the shrine of Prometheus is a rose, but of the concrete clay has grown and flourished.
losing touch with nature, and there is no health for you, the fogging clarity fills the sky galaxy.
of my excuse upon me, but your imagination is the greatest tragedy,
beat the beast, do not speak, all of whom know and sorrow.
and when to eat for the soul. so I sleep not thought.

>>8876431
ed eccoci qui, finalmente pronti, con la stanchezza che
ci cola dagli occhi arrossati e l'orologio da muro fermo alle ore 22.13: c'è Benjamin, Rudy dalle tette pluri-controllate, il dr Matsumoto, Bobby e la non meglio identificata signorina delle pulizie con la gonna sollevata dalla maniglia della porta e la sigaretta accesa stretta tra le labbra nere di trucco cheap. In bilico sul punto di non ritorno intuitivo il cervello altamente motivato della sezione ricerca e sviluppo sperimentale del CUDD ha ora la fronte corrugata dalla tensione e lo sguardo puntato sulla spugna di Merger adagiata alla bell'è meglio sul tappeto ammuffito della "sala delle scatole chiuse". Al di là dei computer nulla osa muoversi, tutto è in attesa. Benjamin si alza tenendo alto il dito medio della mano destra a dimostrazione del fatto che sa perfettamente che cosa sta per fare e si avvicina al grosso cubo di plastica al centro della stanza, seguito nevroticamente dagli occhi del dr Matsumoto: può leggere le sue intenzioni suicide senza alcuna difficolta - mi permetta - mi pelmetta dottole -ribatte prontamente Benjamin tirandosi le palpebre all'indietro coi polpastrelli- ah beh se la mette così -non era la prima volta si intende-non è la prima volta che viene meno al suo codice signor Benjamin -le sto dando fastido? - gli stava dando fastidio - mi sta dando MOLTO fastidio professor Benjamin - Rudy li fissa, fantastica di una ipotetica linea elettrica che possa congiungere organicamente i due laureati attraverso il sistema endocrino - le ho chiesto se mi permetteva - vuole toccare il cubo beh si accomodi, non voglio impormi è solo che ci tengo all'integrità del tappeto.

>>8900993
>Grave's end, she found, as well as the surrounding neighborhoods of Coney and Brighton had very little but beaches, warehouses and railways.
Comma use in weird spots, and missing in others.

>separated from metropolis
missing "the" between from and metropolis.

<She wanted sorely for a book to keep her occupied for the haul: maybe pulp novels or star charts, even a dentistry pamphlet would do.
"maybe a pulp novel" or "maybe some pulp novels. Adding a conversational epithet to the last part might help too. "...charts, hell, even a dentistry..."

I think i would need to read more of your style to get a real grasp on how you write. From this snippet, I enjoy it.

>>8901120
Let me just do your first two paragraphs. Maybe it'll give you an idea of some things you could work on.

>The surface of the Atlantic split and gave birth to the surfacing lighthouse keeper
surfacing is redundant here. It also might be good to describe what he is surfacing on, because you don't describe it until paragraph 3. I had a hard time visualizing the situation, personally.

>Salted spit flying through his moustache.
sentence fragment.

>The water was bruised purple and shifted in the rough winds knocking him to and fro
how does water get bruised? If you want to compare its color to a bruised plum or something, do that instead. Also, you could use a comma after winds.

>The keeper started kicking.
Yet at the start of the next paragraph, he's stumbling. Is he stumbling or kicking? Or is he kicking and stumbling? I can't tell what image this is trying to create.

>>8901289

thanks, I had the image clear in my head but looking over I can how it might not be clear

>>8901092
I can totally understand why you could hear this being a metal song. It was supposed to have that intense, almost punchy rhythm to it because of the masturbation theme.
And I can understand why itd be difficult to find the rhyme scheme. It's very freestyle, and the rhymes and syllables are supposed to create the rhythm without using a strict scheme. Though all the stanzas have an underlying mathematical scheme which playing into the overarching theme of Logic

Thanks for the advice

>>8900979
Well it's part of a 500 page piece (which itself is very scattered and fragmented in some ways). So I will go back to my flowery 17 year old writing that I haven't looked at in 5 years and end up deleting swaths of it. That said I usually rewrite it pretty quickly so I'm not just removing, I'm replacing.

>>8900905
Good spotting. This helps a lot, I will make these edits ASAP. Thanks. I don't like the idea of "telling" internal thoughts, I like to hint at them in the dialogue, but extended dialogue in the middle of a combat situation doesn't make sense when most people are through the roof on adrenaline. But, this is melodrama anyway, this scene at least, so maybe it doesn't matter.

>>8901425
lets see the ones with the most rhymes

>>8900979
Pretty good poem, I am not a poetry person but I do appreciate some of it. The indents are nice. Maybe show some evolution by changing them up? The shape? I don't know. I don't know the meaning of the poem so that's just a shot in the dark.

>>8901217
someone rate this

>>8901443
Actually, a pretty good idea. It might be difficult to implement because of the very rigid structure, (see >>8901374). That's why the last stanza was slightly altered from the beginning. Great idea though, thanks for the advice.

>>8894488
reads like a parody of spoken word you'd hear in the background of a cartoon

>>8895034
you gotta pull back man. I know what it feels like to "overflow" and want to look very cool. But you gotta tell a story before you baffle people with metaphors.

>>8897024
>took off
this way of describing walking or going or whatever makes me think of an autistic kid running with naruto arms

>The women had been allotted a tent for their modesty
PASSIVE.... VOICE

>The inside of the tent was dim and rather muddy, due in part to a number of leaky washbasins.

this is a boring longform way of trying to say what you want to say

>>8897813
>trash in mexican

Personally I don't get why people would leave the earth in the dust.

>>8899286
this is fuckin nuts. never have I seen such a weird mix of good and bad

like the other anon said, this is true savant autism writing right here

>>8900993
dude enough of the corny steampunk bullshit

>>8901480
illegible fragment out of ten

>>8900256
Still critiquing a few,
but also still hoping to get a word on this. I got an opinion on my other post, but I was a little more invested in hearing about this

>>8901891
idk man it just comes outta nowhere and goes nowhere

>>8901899
Did you get to "Yet..." then start reading from the top again?

I feel compelled to post an excerpt or something from my novel I'm working on because I've never gotten any critique on it but I'm really nervous. Not because I'm afraid of critique (if my work is shitty please say so) but because I've always had this inner fear of letting others read my work.

God, I'm a faggot.

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>>8893494
>I became harder. More?
here.

The clouds, like puppets attached to strings, were cast from the rule of a sun.
A man rolled out of bed. “To awake and smell every blade of grass is but a myth, but to fill my very nose with every worry in my mind is somehow rational.” Lincoln was a talker, one who can seem as if he were a celebrity with his proud tones and an ironed vest. A leaking faucet obscured his mumbling, his wife unable to decode each stammer. She lay in a tight nightgown, her eyes wide and her breath shaking like a gentle breeze. A tear may have been forming, she probably couldn't even tell herself.
"The mortgage is fine."
"No. It's not 'fine,' it's what's come between our lives. Like a fucking wall."
One of those meandering walls that a kid can stand beside and think of each person that had to haul each and every brick.

"Sweetie! Time to take a bath!"

"GodfuckingDAMNit, Mom, stop castrating me! Don't you know that everything is the --will-to-shower--? God Jesus fucking damn this matriarchy we live in," he grumbled, undressing and getting into the warm bathtub nevertheless. "I'm 29 years old! You have to stop giving me baths!"

"Mother knows what's best for you," she said, inserting the binky into his mouth.

"Stop infantilizing me," he thought, but did not say, for the binky was in his mouth. Then he took the binky out of his mouth and said, "Googoofuckinggaga I am a huge baby please love me oh god I need to be loved I'm not a numale THEY'RE the numale fucking low-test beta scum aaargh allahu akhbar," thrashing and flailing about in the water like a beached whale.

He had done what he had wanted to do --- Mother pulled out her strap-on, angry look on her face, and the rest was darkness.

>>8902595
10/10

>>8902595
The only fucking decent piece of writing on this whole god damned board.

>>8902142
I think your inner fear is a fear of a critique, fear that it wont be as good as you think.

It's indomitable, as tough to deal with and as intractable as heterosexual love. But you gotta power through it in order to live. I promise the reception will be tepid, but you have to begin at the beginning, in hell, before you can advance any further.

>>8902313
It sounds like you're trying too hard.

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·Oh emerald on the rain
·You hear footsteps far away on their way
·But you learned no gain no pain
·Distinguished from dirt you may

·Stains of rain already blocking you
·Causes grief and stay ¿what is wrong with you?
·You can claim it's okay but fake news aren't new
·It pours the skin but pain isn't noticed
·Gets rough and mean but acid rain is ignored
·Unable to follow, gives up on the dead body
·Unstable it's sorrow, the storm storms out the corrody

·Oh star on the mud
·A reign upon the smug
·Oh emerald ununderstood
·Nothing but a kissless frog

>>8900997
This scene happens quite a bit later. They're trying to escape the town after getting attacked by a bunch of villagers and take a wrong turn.

“Stop where you stand Thomas!” Sheriff Braag yells at the pair. He is standing in the road next to a couple of halflings that Samina recognizes from the crowd in front of the tailors. On his arm sits a young falcon that watches the sheriff intently, then flutters off when he raises his arm slightly. “You’ve grievously wounded some gentle folk! Submit, and we will set this right!”

Thomas has stopped moving a good distance from the sheriff. “What will happen if we submit?” he asks cautiously.

“You shall both be given trials for your crimes.” The sheriff has waved the away the couple citizens around him. He pulls his gloves and unbuttons his vest for comfort as he talks. “If indeed you have been enchanted, you could not be held reasonably accountable.”

“Enchanted? What do you mean?” Thomas asks.

“She cast a spell upon a trader this morning. Surely you knew?” Sheriff Braag replies.

“I-I didn’t!” Samina is incredulous.

“If you submit, you shall recompense the injured, but will likely be found innocent, and you could go home.” The words drip from sheriff Braag like a molasses; slow and heavy.

Thomas’s face is unreadable for the first time since Samina met him. He pauses for a second, considering his response. “And Sam?”

“Her harlotry and witchcraft is evident. She will meet the fire but your fate is not yet sealed.”

Samina has no idea what the sheriff is talking about. But she gets the idea her life is in sudden severe peril.

Thomas stands very still; all except his eyes which are hurriedly checking the people around him. Samina’s heart is starting to sink. <i>Is he going to submit?!</i>

Thomas turns and places Samina on top of Bunt. “I’m sorry Sam,” he says to her quietly. Samina is shaking her head in rejection and he sighs heavily as he places his hand softly on her back for just a moment. “You deserve better than a poor reject like me.”

“Thomas! What… do you mean? What’s happening?!” Samina’s voice is hoarse and panic stricken. She grabs at his arm, but he pulls away quickly.

Thomas takes his sword harness down from his shoulders and draws the blade with his right hand. He then reaches into one of the buckets hanging from Bunts shoulders and pulls her new dull short sword out with his left. Both weapons in hand, he turns back to the sheriff.

Thomas closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before taking a practiced fighting stance in front of the ox. His giant sword is held perfectly steady pointed towards the sheriff while his other hand holds the short sword reverse-grip. “Then seal my fate Isaac. You’ll not touch her while I’m here,” he says in a deadly serious tone of voice.

>>8902249
last sentence of first paragraph is super hard to follow. You have missing commas, extra commas in inappropriate places, and almost every paragraph as at least one run-on sentence.

Story is ok. Descriptions are fine. It's your sentence structure that needs serious work.

>>8903210
oh, Bunt is an ox they own.

>>8876431
I just started my first short story like 20 minutes ago so I'll post the first few lines:

Marc was making his way home from the cafe where he had bought the pack of cigarettes he was clumsily extracting a dart from. It was raining hard enough that he gripped it with his thumb and hovered his fingers over the cigarette as he brought it to his mouth and followed suit with the lighter he quickly fished out of his pocket.

>>8903234
Or first two lines I guess

I decided it was time to write a book despite being a dyslexic piece of shit. Been working hard on this, and would love feedback.

“Jules. . .” I said with a slightly upset intonation. He did this almost all the time. “Jules. Jules, don’t you dare,” I warned. Not that I’d be able to do anything, mind you.

“Allan. . .” he mimicked me, saying my name with that same upset intonation. “Allan. Allan, I do dare.”

I rolled my eyes at Jules, but he kept his smug grin straight on me. He grabbed a large bowl from the cabinet and placed it on the counter.
Jules was that guy, the one who, while not the most popular with friends, still acted like he was “the shit.” At first, you’d think it was so he could feel better, like it was his only way of feeling included; but if you’d stayed with him for six months in the South Pole like I’ve had the pleasure to, you would quickly come to realize that isn’t true at all. Jules was just that confident in his own charismatic, semi-self-deprecating and semi-boasting way.

With a glint in his eye, he picked up the ladle in the soup pot, and proceeded to put my soup--now his--into a large bowl, taking as much as possible.

“Huh. Chicken Broth,” Jules said after a quick look. He followed it with slurping the soup from the ladle. He smacked his lips with a pleasantly surprised smile. “Mm. Nice.” He poured the soup into his large bowl, placing the now dirty ladle into the soup pot. His spit was in my soup now. Only Jules.

“It’s Chicken Noodle,” I sighed. “And you just contaminated it.”

>>8903247
First reaction: I like it!

I'd move the "He did this almost all the time" to before you say "Jules...".

>Jules was that guy, the one who, while not the most popular with friends, still acted like he was “the shit.”
Take out "the shit" from that sentence and end it there, then add another sentence for "the shit". Something like
>Jules was that guy, the one who, while not the most popular with friends, still acted like he was. You know the kind, someone who thinks he is "the shit".

Maybe say something like "if you'd been stuck with" instead of "if you'd stayed with" but your way is fine too.

Over all, keep it up!

>>8903247
this is garbage. why would i want to read about two gay lovers slobbering over each other's soup. also more generally, you describe too much: "with a slightly upset intonation," for instance, is unnecessary, as we can pick up the intonation from what he's saying. Similarly, the whole "Jules was that guy...semi boasting way" bit is unnecessary, as we should be able to pick up on that from his actions, his manner of speaking, and Allan's responses. Keep it up.

>>8903267
Okay, thanks man. Been working pretty hard on it and I don't know where to get good criticism. It's also hard to know choices to make and how well each sentence goes together when you can barely even comprehend a word. It takes me a ridiculously long amount of time to just write a reply alone. Dyslexia is suffering.

>>8903276
It's part of the first chapter so I thought I might establish his sense of character, but I guess I should have tried to show rather than tell. I just want to improve my prose, style, and all that good stuff. Thanks for your honesty though. I'd much rather people be up front like you.

>>8903247
cool story bro ;p

>>8901836
ty

>>8896860
nah it's just some random alley in Hong Kong if my memory serves me correctly

>>8903234
Alright, I've finished this for now and touched it up. It's the first piece of fiction I've written since I was a teenager so tear it to shreds:
http://pastebin.com/t2wJu624

Lime came from a barren land far east of any civilised country. A land of mist shawled mountains and frozen peaks where travellers can go for months without seeing a single flicker of life. Forced to traverse through the ragged stone valleys more often than not they get lost in the labyrinth of peaks.

Lime's family was one of irrelevant nobility that held only a small wooden stronghold carved into the mountain face and below it an even smaller village of cabbage growing peasants. Out of the seven citrus children he was the youngest. As tradition dictated for the youngest at the age of 13 he was sent away to the Cathedral of the church of Neetdom to study the way of the sword.

The Church of Neet is an elusive religion , practised by few. The long abandoned shrines to its mysterious god that lay devastated across X ,their purpose was forgotten decades ago , serve as the only reminder that it exists. The holy texts are sold in underground networks for exuberant prices for those wishing to learn the powerful sorceries within them.
Walled in by the cold blue-black sea that marks the end of X sits, the Cathedral . It's never ending towers beaming over even the highest mountain. The grounds are the size of a small city. The entire structure is built of a golden brick that has been beaten and weathered of the years to a dirty yellow ,stained glass windows both in and out hold beautiful cryptic art of the religions history. Reaching it from the outside is a awesome feat performed by only the hardiest of explorers.

It was there that Lime , along with hundred other nobles boys went to learn , due to his impressive size he was trained to wield with a great-sword the size of a man.High priests in red cloaks taught combat while priestesses with harsh blue eyes and cloaks that mirrored the sea taught alchemy and the arcane He learned how to ride destriers over the steep mountain paths and to shoot a longbow. He excelled in the churches tourneys jousting and fist-fighting his way to victory. So he lived in the halls of the Cathedral for seven years with the church guiding him until earning his full armour and being proclaimed a defender of the faith.

But after three years of guarding an empty land with only the occasional bandit to sort out ,he grew bored. Begging the Grand Bishop a wrinkled man of a hundred years that was the only in the Cathedral with the honour to wear a golden cloak for permission to leave the country and spread the word in a one man crusade. After three moons and much pleading had passed the Grand Bishop relented seeing it as an opportunity for the young warrior to earn his red cloak which he wouldn't have been able to receive due to his ineptness in the arcane and scientific arts.

That is where Lemons journey began with only his heaving great sword on his back and a red cloak flapping from underneath his golden armour....

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I'm interested in writing a book that's like a biography of multiple people who are all comparatively normal - they haven't had a huge adventure or saved the world or run a country, etc
How is it going so far?

>>8878156
real nice but it's not a poem, it's chopped up prose. Only the last "stanza" is really approaching poetry.

I only took five subtle steps until I received appraisal, shouting and a swarm of hands. The noise only grew, like a bottleneck of sound. Each head wanting me to do something, casting both smiles and frowns on my stage. They're all my fans, and, without braggadocio, they'd probably die for me.
Two glazed heads were to the left and right of me, each constricted by black security uniforms, hands neatly cradled behind their back. My security guards-- could die for me, they just don't want to. At this point there's a break in the noise, as if the crowd agreed upon settling for my voice. The Mike, with a fuzzy trail, got to my mouth.
I’m the showman. Give them a show.
“ARE.” One exaggerated syllable, ripping my throat. The crowd usually jump with each of the three. Then the next two: “YOU.” “READY.” Don't ask them the question, state it. I already know they're ready. Otherwise they wouldn't have paid the couple hundred just to come to a lucrative circus for the performers in the middle of nowhere.
After some screaming, I grabbed the microphone again and began the show. I was a bit of a one hit wonder, rising to fame only thanks to some connections with my guitarist, Sam. Sam was always the hunk, the big old attraction. Sometimes I wondered if it was him that was the show. I only knew to sing. I saw the two guards forcing each hungry fan back, like herding sheep. I already herded them though, hadn't I? I made them think that they would be rewarded somehow by coming out to some small town in California to see some roadies play some songs.

>>8876431
http://pastebin.com/24W8r71E

Still fairly new to writing, so I want the harshest you can throw at me. It's the only way I'll learn.

Freedom is a word
To use when you're not that free to be
Chasing the dream on the summer road
On the wings of cabriolet's wheels
I don't care about Alabama, we have such a long way to fly
You call me 'baby', but I know that you're not mine

>>8903978

using second person doesn't make it art

*Static cuts across the television screen, causing the camera to cut to a shot of Georgia International Plaza in Atlanta, Georgia. It's evening in Atlanta, but the area is very well lit from the surrounding buildings and structures. In the background, one can see the towering Georgia Dome and the under-construction Mercedes-Benz Stadium. After a short look at the stadiums, the camera pans left to reveal Syndicate, wearing his black leather jacket, white t-shirt, and blue jeans, looking up at a sculpture of a gymnast. The Philips Arena, site of Final Countdown 2016, can now be seen behind him.*

Syndicate: Wrestling is like gymnastics. I contort my body in various ways, I try to outperform my peers in every category, and we compete for gold. Pretty similar in my mind.

*Syndicate glances over his right shoulder at the camera.*

Syndicate: Atlanta's known for gymnastics. Hell, they hosted the damn centennial Olympics back in '96. But they're also known for professional wrestling.

*The Los Angeles Outlaw looks across the plaza at the Georgia Dome and extends his right arm towards the stadium, pointing at it.*

Syndicate: Two months ago, I walked into the Georgia Dome with a promise: to win the 2016 World Series match and secure a spot in the main event of Hall of Pain for the third year in a row. I promised that I could defeat the entire WWX locker room in one match. I promised that I would prove, once and for all, that I am exactly where I deserve to be.

*He smiles to himself.*

Syndicate: And I did it. I defeated some of my closest friends at that time, I outsmarted the great Tommy Lipton, and I won the match. That match was what brought about the "Wrestling God" claim, as well as marked the beginning of my march to Hall of Pain. The Georgia Dome played host to what some would consider the best moment of my career up to that point.

*Syndicate lowers his arm and turns to his left, now looking up at the Philips Arena.*

Syndicate: So isn't it appropriate that I have a World title shot here in Atlanta, this time at Philips Arena? Isn't it cool that I get to make history this Sunday right across the street from where I made history two months ago?

*The two-time World Champion chuckles.*

Syndicate: I think it is, at least, but Phelen Kell might disagree. See, Phelen wasn't here when the WWX made the trip to Atlanta in October. Sure, he had signed with the company, but he wasn't anywhere NEAR the World Series match. No, no, no, our UNDISPUTED WORLD CHAMPION spent the formative months of his WWX career sitting at home, doing nothing. Typical. Maybe this guy is more like the old-timers of this company than anyone realized because he sure does act like them.

*Syndicate sticks his hands in his pockets and meanders around the park, looking at the soft grass underneath his feet.*

>>8903997

Syndicate: Entitled. Cocky. Disrespectful. These are all words one could use when describing Phelen Kell. Sure, the man won three titles in the span of just a few weeks, and that's impressive. I can't deny him that honor. However, I can deny him the respect that he does not even come close to deserving. Like I've said plenty of times before, I've put my time in. I've worked for my opportunities, and while I don't make excuses for my losses, I've been able to come out of those losses stronger than ever before. Phelen, you haven't had a true test yet. All you've done is defeated near-rookies for a few belts and then won the big one over a weakened, injured main-eventer. Again, that looks good on paper, but in practice, it makes you look pretty damn weak, buddy.

Syndicate: The point, Phelen, is this: I'm the strongest that I've ever been. I know more about winning a championship match than you, and I've been in this situation far more often than you ever have. I know that right now, you're too busy making googly eyes at your belt to think strategy or look to the future - specifically, this Sunday at Final Countdown - because I was the same way last year when I won my first World title. It's a special moment, and you should take advantage of it, but that's the problem, Phelen: it's just a moment. Right now, it's back to real life, and whether you like it or not, you're going to have to defend that World title against the best of the best, the greatest men in this industry today. It's too bad that you have to go up against the BEST of the best this Sunday.

*Syndicate looks back up at the camera, smiling.*

Syndicate: There's going to be no excuses, no escape, and no surrender for you, Phelen. I intend on teaching you a lesson, just like I was taught a lesson last year. I flew too close to the sun, and I can see you doing the same thing right now. It's time that you get brought back down to Earth. Welcome to the Syndicate.

*Syndicate turns and walks towards the Philips Arena as the shot turns back into static.*

The next morning he awoke to Dust standing over him with her canine smile.

"Do not look so smug. I say, I do not pokephile but .... But some sex best I have. Remember our secret, right?" Dust simply walked away with an exaggerated gait to her walk. They arrived back at the poke-center after making a detour to get another shirt from the poke-mart. Dust greeted her fellow pokemon with an excited bark, she didn't need to say a word as the scent of both of them was strong. Each of the females and a few of the male pokemon focused their gaze on Jim, a female meowth with a cast turned around to raise her tail at Jim.


Jim felt like he had a spotlight on him as the meowth let out of a sultry purr while he closed the curtains around his injured pokemon, his pokemon immediately focused on him. Gnaw gave a tired hiss before he reached onto a table to eat some of the fresh meat the center provided for him. He gave a soft shrug and didn't seem to have much of a thought on his trainers activities. In Gnaw's mind it wasn't his asshole at stake so he didn't care.


'Jim...' Walt said with his telepathy, Jim could hear him sigh even in the mental speak, 'If I do not have much in the way of doing and how to teach us, I have to get in your mind that each of us can smell your scent all dust. They can smell you can see the satisfaction on his face.' The kirlia gave a smirk that was laced with ill intent.

'We are not happy but there is a strong interest. I would not mind having a chance at the lead dust, since I can not read his mind and happiness in his eyes.' Walt snickered in the elegant voice that was common of the ralts line.


Jim placed a hand on his face feeling flush with both embarrassment and shame, "Shit..." He turned to Dust and rubbed her head with a defeated sigh. "You know what you get with me?" Dust simply gave a small huffing noise that resembled laughter as she turned to give him a slight wink.

Our blood will gasp for air and swell our veins,
in sinews clarify, and trickle down
a honeycomb of fleshy pores to rain
some sultry rivulets to ridge the frown
that, straddled barefoot, careful not to rake
with toes or ford with feet the bog
of our commingled sweat, a stump to break
it shall we drive therein, and soil unclog.
Where shielding plaster walls from coastal sprays
will make the coldest corner of the room,
our tethered hearts will rub in warm embrace
and spark a tongue to lick the hearth in bloom.
So long as stands the shaft that freed the soil,
there will be aged passions left to roil.

>>8903996
I appreciate that, but it wasn't used to try and make it art. My intention was using second person to have the audience immediately feel some connection to a non-human character.

Do you have any feedback on other aspects, or was the rest not even worth commentin on?

>>8901166
>>8877609
>>8877516
>>8877504
What is this, r/books? Fuck off.

>>8904164

besides the 2nd person being a bit jarring to start off I certainly wouldn't call it worthless, there's potential in the idea but I think you'll need to move away from 2nd person to perhaps third or first later on if you want to develop it into something more

>>8904176
Fair enough, I'll see how it translates into third. Thank you for the advice.

Would be helpful if u rate mine. The first chapter I made of a short story.

The Great Magi's enchantments were hard to unravel but not impossible. Junri took the lit lump of wax off the marble pedestal, avoiding the trail of slime that she had applied on the resting frost wyrm.
The wyrm curled at the marble's foot, lashing out its tail, and snapping its snout with eyes shut.
Junri thought of what dreams did the pickled purple sunflares brought to the frost wyrm and shuffled silently out of the study of the Great Magi Jones through the busted metal window, made possible earlier by her familiar Poncho.
The Little Red Devil was resting at the roof, its golden eyes seeking any sources of sound and magic in the moonlit grounds of the Great Magi's manor.
"Poncho, job's done" Junri whispered.
Poncho nodded in response and spread his reptilian wings, making a loud shrill before taking off into the night.
Junri pulled herself into the roof with the candle chucked in her loot sack. She steadied herself and laid down for awhile to catch her breath.
"I fucking did it" she said and chuckled, brushing off the sweat building at her crown.

Mother would be proud of me.

She reached for her broom, Tempest, a broom fashioned from the bones of every rider it had. Junri planted her bossom at the bicycle seat, installed during the early years of her witchhood, and donned her black helmet, gloves and a pair of googles, and thought of what Master Moli told her long ago during a flight accident that cost the sight of her dear friend Suzie. "Magic can't fix everything, now wear those googles or you would go blind just like lil Suzie over there"

"I am beyond earth's reach" Junri chanted, a habit she learned from her mother, and ran off to the edge of the roof and the broom plummeted to the ground riddled with bloodymaries, their bright red petals promising death even with the slightest touch. Junri's dinner rose into her throat and felt the acid reach to her mouth.
"Shit! Fly!"

So this is how I die, it'd make a pretty good joke.

Tempest might have read her mind, as it rose into the night and cracked into a laugh.
Junri clutched hard at her mother's sternum which was now part of the broom's shaft and recited the names of the former riders and thought of how they died in the hands of this bitch of a broom. Somehow the ritual calms her down, just like it does to the broom which stopped from taking sharp turns.

The witch smoothly sailed into the night, above the cityscape of Voullene. The chilly winds nullified by one of the many charms of Tempest.
"To where we go lil Jun?" Tempest asked.
"Back to Foundel's Spire, Suzie is waiting there with the cake"
"Will be done"
The broom zoomed towards the looming black spire, prompting Junri to tighten her grip.

>>8876431
trying my hand at fantasy romance. how is it so far? this is a new territory for me so I'm not surprised if I fuck it up, and I'd appreciate some tips.
it's a pdf

>>8905624
link?

I did a thing so read it please thank.
http://pastebin.com/2NVQErNV

trying something new.

http://pastebin.com/ZmFZSC9x Probably the best thing I have written

>>8905654
oh and I used italics for both emphasis and thought which hasn't been an issue as of yet but do tell me if it's confusing.

>>8905659
oh anon

>>8898799
Can I get some critique pls

>>8905686
If it means anything, I like your word choice. but sadly I'm not much of a poetry fan so what the fuck do I know.

File: Sample Scifi-page-001.jpg (416KB, 1240x1754px) Image search: [Google]

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My try at Cyber-Punk

First time writer too, haven't published anything so be prepared for a beginner's work.

Page 1/2

>>8905979

right of the bat two issues flare up for me

>Inconsitent narration - I have no idea who's perspective i'm looking through

> Show don't tell i don't want the nerver users manual ideally it should be slipped in through out the story

File: Sample Scifi-page-002.jpg (361KB, 1240x1754px) Image search: [Google]

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>>8905979

Part two at my Cyber-Punk attempt

Page 2/2

>>8905979
>>8906003
This is like 2000 words of exposition, which tends to be a no-no. A good guideline for storytelling is to begin with a character and a conflict and to work your exposition in through that. An audience doesn't connect to a world through facts about that world, but through a character living in that world.

>>8906031
Thanks for the tip mate!

But is it like... an interesting world to take in?

>>8905979
Promising stuff. An individualist society clearly moving towards corporate post-humanity, and a slow build of exposition describing that from both a personal and impersonal perspective. In my opinion, as a sci-fi reader, the universe seems good.

What I'd work on is the use of italics. Maybe restrict the use to Tri-Corp advertising slogans? When they're used for both that and emphasis it starts to confuse the reader.

The second thing I'd work on is sentence breaks. In the second set of work the writing could use a few periods. Maybe try a sentence break at each new idea, to start with, then experiment with how they affect the flow of the writing?

Taking away the unnecessary italics and adding a few more full stops should make it flow far better. Try that and post it again, I'm interested in this universe.

File: Jack and Lute-page-001.jpg (410KB, 1240x1754px) Image search: [Google]

410KB, 1240x1754px

Another piece from me, tried to be a little more character-driven from the get-go, but who knows, maybe it's better this time.

Going for a kids-friendly version here.

>>8906003
This is unreadable, dude. Please use periods

>>8906341
Thanks for the opinion man, compared to other genres like Fantasy, I'm fairly new to Sci-Fi myself so I don't really know what to expect from this genre, but thanks, I'll get tot eh improvements right away.

>>8906341
I'll get started with an improved page right away,I'm curious as to how I can improve in this writing.

>>8905668
it's confusing because italics don't show up on pastbin, anon

>>8906350
pretty fucking awful. try actually reading a book

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>>8906341
So I tried again, I tried to write it out like a Preface to excuse the Lore-Building, so it's like an Optional thing at the start of the Novel, is this an okay thing to do?

File: Scifi Sample 2-page-002.jpg (412KB, 1240x1754px) Image search: [Google]

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>>8906658
Second page to the "new and improved" page I tried, again just the Preface if that means anything.

are exaggerated or cartoony characters intrinsically better than realistic ones? I feel like cartoony characters are more recognizable and memorable, and allow readers to care more about them and their struggles

>>8906453
fuck I didn't notice.
gonna have to get a Google docs link.

>>8906658
>>8906664
How many Made Up Things That Start With Capital Letters Can I Cram In Two Pages

Nigga do you honestly think anyone's going to bother remembering it all?

>>8907073
exaggeration would probably appeal to a wider audience because the extent at which any one reader interprets the extremes varies. you can stretch a character to an extreme and let the reader run wild with how they think the character would behave, which relieves you of some creative responsibility as an author.

memorability of realistic characters is heavily influenced by just how well you can convey detail believably. this is comparatively more burdensome to the author because the responsibility of creative accuracy and making your character fit with the world is more prevalent. in this case the reader only has the details you provide, which makes it easier to notice gaps or flaws in their design.

...at least in my experience.

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>>8903881
bump - slightly edited version in pic related

Not hurt to try again. Its about fictional character that come to life, to humiliate author
http://pastebin.com/ChzbWRQd

>>8907381
Fair point senpai, but the writing? What about it I can do to improve? Does the story or the 'Preface" to it at least seem interesting?

I climb onto the bed. Mina is spreading her legs as wide as she can and her eyes are closed. I get to her, treading the sheet with my knees, and touch her pussy lips with the head of my dick. Mina flinches at the sensation. The hole is already wet, gaping slightly and drooling.

I tell her, "Open your eyes."

Mina opens her eyes and her gaze moves right onto my huge Celtic dick teasing her vagina.

I hold the shaft with one hand and rub the head on her clitoris. The pace of her breathing is escalating and her cheeks and pussy redden at the same time.

I ask her, "Is it big?"

"Yes."

"Is it bigger than your boyfriend's?"

"Yes. Much bigger."

I bend over her body and steal her lips. I slobber and make her open her mouth with my tongue and taste her saliva. It's sweet like tree sap.

At the same time I finger her. I slide a finger into her hole and sense that it's already hot and slippery with her pussy spit. I straighten my body and aim her hole with the tip of my dick and apply pressure. My full, pinkish dickhead starts to bury its head in her disgusting brown gook vagina. At first there is usual resistance. Then the tightening gets really intense as her hole senses this is something different from what it used to get. I manage to get the head and the beginning of my shaft in her but it is so tight that I have to keep applying pressure to keep it in. Mina squirms in pain.

I ask, "Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

I start moving the dick back and forth in her. She wriggles at the each movement and instinctively tries to close her legs but I gently press on her thighs with my hands and say, "No. You better keep it as wide as you can manage. It is going to hurt."

Having understood, Mina spreads her legs wide open again, closing her eyes. I see a hint of tears between her eyelids.

I keep moving the lower half of my body back and forth. My dick keeps moving, gradually increasing intervals. This will allow her tight gook cunt to adjust to my huge superior white dick. Although she is yet another cum dump, I don't want to hurt her.

I can manage a third of my length into her now. It's funny that I keep touching her cervix every time I push in. Every time her cervix has retreated a bit further, as if to be weary of what will come next. Her cunt is not used to anything like this. My shaft is glossy with her pussy spit. The flesh around her vagina is red.

"Tom. Stop. Can't take it more." Mina moans.

"No. Think about it. Babies come out of this hole. You can surely take the entirety of my dick." I push it in a bit too hard this time. The head of my dick rams into her cervix and she cringes but does not say anything. She knows that resistance is futile at this point. She can't move, impaled by my young and virile superior white cock.

#36
I long for a country that is not mine
One that is free of American swine
Where trees are green and rivers flow wine...
I speak,
of course,
Of Palestine.

>>8910341

I am pounding Mina. I am plowing her. I surround her little body with my strong white man's arms and keep pounding, up to the hilt, into her gook womb fully tamed to the whole of my masculinity. Her cervix has retreated to the farthest it could but the head is pressing it every time it rams into. I know it adds to the sensation. Good for her.

Mina is crying. She is wincing and frowning and her face is messy with tears. Then, when I least expected it, she cums. She squirts hard several times, showering my crotch with warm and slick liquid. I stop, letting her enjoy the first few spasms of pleasure without interruption. The wall of her vagina contracts all around my dick at each burst of pleasure. Then I start plowing again. She screams at the heightened sensation. I know that her cervix is open due to the way it feels softer against my glans. I accelerate my pace. Each thrust stronger and quicker than the one before. The springs of the bed are moaning all around us. I see Mina's face and her eyes are all white but before I get to worry, pleasure sweeps over me and I close my eyes and drive my cock deep inside her and I cum, cum, and cum with each tsunami of pleasure. The powerful jets of my cum hit her cervix, flood her pussy, and fill her womb through her open cervix. I cum and cum as if Mina is nothing but a plastic masturbation doll. I fill her inferior gook womb with my thick and hot superior white man's cum, gracing her inferior body with superior genes. If she gets a baby, which I am sure she will if she's ovulating, the offspring will be a less inferior being thanks to my mercy.

I keep my dick inside her even after I deposit all my seeds into her, to make sure that most semen gets to rest in her womb.

I embrace her with my whole body. I squeeze hard the little gook slut's body with my arms and legs and lick her face and whisper into her ear, "You are mine now."

She answers faintly, "Yes."

#17
Jingle bells ring down the halls,
as I hang my Christmas balls.
Grandad's groans grow more intense,
as he tries to scale the electric fence
But at least we can drown out the bastard,
With songs of snow so alabaster.
and drinking eggnog to forget,
that grandad's dad
are wrapped up shit

>>8897070
Me gusta la estructura, pero no tengo idea de qué está pasando más allá de subir y bajar del bus.

Posted this in the other thread as well but fuck it might as well post it here as well, I know it's pretty garbaggio and needs a revision but some pointers on it would be nice
http://pastebin.com/WVKVpDGG

Hanging there in the starless night, it boasts of a world known but unseen; a mirror to the light of day, so that the stars of man know the brevity of their days


thought it up while riding in the back of a van through the city after a root canal operation, opinions?

Walking

Jutting from the grass,
like a bodega, the sidewalk
is alabaster beside the greenish
sea. Of fingers, like a deadened

lover I imagine on this very night
to reach towards me, bluntly.