CRITIQUE THREAD: tuckoo and the moo-cows rock band edition

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http://pastebin.com/G4he8VKj

plz no bully

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>>9272600
1/2
I fucking hate fire-spitters. You know them? Those cunts at carnivals “breathing” fire, usually a Spaniard or some such. It’s something about their showmanship, their daring, their cockiness. There’s a curse on my tongue whenever I see a fire-spitter. I’ll spot one by chance - “Pulsa diNura,” I’ll say. And I’ll try not to get in his way; he’ll try not get in way of mine. Those accursed bunch, forever walking as though they’ve got a large phallus obstructing them. Always giving off the impression that their long dicks are forcing them into some constant, peculiar shuffle. It’s always at a public space I see them shuffle like big-dicked cockroaches, at night of course, also I’d like to add, when it’s least expected. Pulsa diNura. I see one now. I glimpse the signature shuffle, the dreaded-ponytail, tied up with brown elastic. The black slacks, too, they’ve always got those on. And that red, tight singlet, which is made in such a way as to show every tribal tattoo on his upper body. I wish my death curse.
I wish that some tragic mistake might unfold. The fire-spitter inhales a little too quickly, perhaps this time he forgets to release the gasoline in the proper, sudden fashion - thus, he creates a backfire. His arm reaches up, it’s some unconscious reaction installed into the harddrive of his muscle memory, and it just so happens to be the arm attached to the hand holding onto the igniter. Gasoline, already anticipating the igniter and what will come next, swills around his mouth. He feels it has gone down completely, into the throat. Panic ensues. That’s a given. He might try to scream but won’t. There’s more shocking realisations for him to face. It’s gone down the wrong way too. The feeling of swallowing water the wrong way pales in comparison to swallowing gasoline the wrong way. Then that pales in comparison to, well… it going up in flames. The igniter touches his lips, which are predictably smeared in an invisible film of fuel, and the fire trails inside. First they’ll have to slip through those brittle human teeth. They make a terrible barrier, the fire will enter sooner or later. Of course, the fella has been coughing this whole time. How could he keep his mouth shut? The flames lick up like a horse might rear up before a dash, unseen to everyone due to its immense speed. Then they race inside the man’s face.

>>9272674
2/2
No one can help him now. Not really. Apparently you can feel the heat and the fireball get sucked into your airways as it happens. Once someone suggested that it’s like eating food that’s far too hot and it burns your lungs as it goes down. Maybe. That’s nothing more than an uneducated guess. What I do know is this: There’s this involuntary gasp the fire-spitter makes at that moment, they never fail to do it, as if to help the fire on its way down. Imagine a hefty, pleasant breeze pushing a bushfire further on, towards farmhouses and hillsides, to gather in size and hunger. The fire-spitter has reached full zenith, a transformation of sorts, now his entire chest is filled with gasoline burning at over 100 degrees Celsius. A proper fire-spitter now! Now his veins pump lava! What an attraction!
Too bad no one pays to see carcasses. At least, we do not admit it openly. This carcass is admittedly peculiar though, it being cooked from the inside and all. Maybe it’s more like a strange, reversed cremation. Yes, that’s it. Especially when they try cough and sputter out all the ash before finally keeling over. Let Mother Fire take its course, yes, that's a good boy. It’s like an urn that won't sit still!
Sometimes, it’s because a certain someone replaces their fire-spitter-juice with, say, ethanol. Results are not immediate. The ethanol acts just as well as his previous fuel. Pulsa diNura. Boom. Tsss. Burn.

>>9272684

I thoroughly enjoyed reading this. I have no criticisms. There is an excellent voice in both paragraphs.

>>9272617
Overall, it's a well-paced, enjoyable read - if not for all the narrators jarring questions and sometimes weird terminology. I like the Nemo character, and I think you could develop him a bit more. The narrator is a bit cliché-fantasy-trope-y protagonist though. I'd stop using "queer man" or other basic verbiage like it, because I always used to write like that. I can see you, with a little practice, becoming a very good writer. Stick at it, anon.

Also, just some small annoyances for me:
>all unlike what I had imagined my arrival to be.
This irks me. Change it up.
>smoked it tenderly
How does one do that?
>We must be travelling at least 20 knots
How does your character know this? I never liked this way of describing speed in increments, just say, for example, "we sped up since I noticed the puff of smoke go past." or something.

I did the firespitter story, so don't say I didn't crit.

>>9272734
Thanks for the critique. I have one thing to add to your firestarter, but its a pedantic observation.

You need oxygen for fire to exist, and I know the character gets the gasoline into his lungs but its not quite clear that this happened, at least not to me. If I made the mistake, surely others could as well.

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>>9272674
>>9272684

This is a pretty good start to a story. My one critique is that you use many short, declarative sentences.

>Maybe.
>Boom.
>Burn.

These very short declarative sentences have a lot of impact because of their brevity. With this in mind, you might want to reassess if each instance of those sentences warrants the short length. Just something to think about is all.

Pic related is the third draft of a story I've been working on. It's the start to my novel.

>>9273159

Not really a critique but a critical question of the piece: Are the ogres supposed to symbolize something else? What kind of community do the Ogres have? Are they agrarian or hunters. If they are hunters do they hunt where the people live? Do they have a camp far away or near the towns.

The people see them on the road and they're often unprovoked: Why do the ogres go to the roads? What causes them to go into rages against the town?

Food for thought. I had no complaints other than a few noticed grammar things, which you will notice as you read the piece aloud.

A man, a ship. Oblivious pool of hades painted blue to carry a craft full of hope and dreams, which left in its path the flotsam of memories and doubts alike. A legend yelled.
Tierra! Tierra!
Indigenous scatters and refrigerant culture. Slaves taken to the craft with no abjuration and disease scattered like the crabs on the shore. Los indos. Very well made, of very handsome bodies and very good faces. Caribs of the Lesser Antilles were such followers of cain. Cannibals of the Caribbean Sea, primitive deconstruction. Isabella the Queen declares a return to the new world. Martin Waldseemuller mistakens Vespucci, An eternal mistake, full of regret.
A tortoise as drawn by John White evokes exploration. Maize, potatoes, beans, turkey, guinea pigs, alpacas, corn kernels--primitive dishes of the red faced beings. Toasty wigwam faces rape, rain, disease, family, weather, murder. Cortes and 600 cortesians follow to Vera Cruz. Aztec humiliation, the pining of religion. John Smith dies a hero. Legends were sparked and ignited. Roanoke a mystery, to whom it may concern. Jamestown struggling for American values. Marquette journeys with book of god down the Mississippi river, spread the godly virus.

>>9273684
I feel like this is just showing off your prose/vocab/references instead of meaning anything.

>>9272734
>How does your character know this? I never liked this way of describing speed in increments, just say, for example, "we sped up since I noticed the puff of smoke go past." or something.

20 knots is extremely fast for a water vessel. The character knows his speed is absurd because he often worked in the sea as a fisherman.

>>9272674
>>9272684
I like it. Only criticism might be that "Too bad no one pays to see carcasses. At least, we do not admit it openly" is a little lame. I get that it's about mankind's morbid voyeurism, but maybe make it a bit more subtle.

The government man


The light reflected of the polished white walls of the deep corridor, the sharp, slicing blue sheen mirrored in his sunken eyes. In his brain a rasping pain. The shine went through his skull, his meat, like a group of children burning leaves with a magnifying glass, his head in the pile, exposed. His knuckles was closed and locked, had been since the lingering heat had started. He thought himself an aged, internally unrepairable boxer, going to the ring. It was all quiet except for his violent, rhythmic steps and a low hum. He felt guided by the sounds of electricity. It was the only constant, when the boiling inside got too intense his vision blurred, white smudged into blue, his steps faded, his thoughts nothing but echoing, incoherent cries. But the humming kept him in line. Go forward.

It was just a path, straight ahead. No chances for divergence. He felt it more a maze. Soon he was at the tall doors, a darker shade of white. He found it funny. He didn't knock, he attacked the door with his fists, round 1. Soon a man wearing the most disgusting tie he had ever seen in his life opened. Asymmetrical lines of dark brown and bright yellow, it blurred together.

He thought it would be very amusing if he ripped the tie from the man and chocked him to death with it. He smirked to himself. The image of the man having the tie around his throat and his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his eyes filled with primal fear, was a very comedic picture. After he would say.

"Looks like you are all tied up now!"

The man behind the door asked for the files. He gave them to him. "Next time Marty please don't interrupt my lunch break, you should have been here like 20 mins ago, if you can't get here on time i will have to talk to the boss."

He didn't respond. He slowly turned around, a tank searching for a new target camouflaged under a layer of snow. He gazed at the corridor he just had gone through. The white and blue were a perfect swivel, going round and round. He now had a fire inside of him, burning everything down from the center.


>>9273684
>>9273978
I kinda agree with this anon but i don't think you are just trying to show of. I like what you have going but some rewrites to make it all fit together better could be good.

>>9272617
>I was greeted by man who held a sign up with my name embossed in eloquent black letters.
passive VOICE

>The car churned to life
meaningless

>I paused and looked at the queer scene
It's 1897

>Curiously
TWEE!!!!

Anyway I stopped there. Don't take it personally, I'm very impatient and don't enjoy fiction at all. But I would say that try to write like it's not the olden days, and be more direct.

>>9274318
why does everything have to be so gross with you guys

A few excerpts from my currently stagnant and putrefying project called "Union" or "The Face of a Killer." It is mostly about birth within stories about travel.

I gathered myself up and floated back toward the New Frontier. I may have left a bit of myself with Cadre. By the time I reached the Frontier, I was reintegrated. I once again crossed the threshold into the lobby of the hotel. In the case of many hotels in The Valley, due to extensive civil defense measures, both the buildings and their occupants have been reduced to thinning bodies. The building is subject to assaults from hot ash, gas, and a relentless anxious energy. I entered the lobby and waited on a sofa for Celinda. Two squat men scrabbled in hanging tattered pajamas and nightgowns and wafting the sulfurous reek of the world's most populous urban area. One of them had been bloodied in a fight.
“These people are the hardest to please,” complained one of the men, “Some of them are so unspoiled.” His friend cloaked him, half naked but only slightly injured.
“They hate everything,” Celinda said behind me. White haired, confident, and precise, she appeared in the lobby. “Giant neanderthals, flexing, spurting,” she said, relating to me the qualities of the natives.

In New York is its austere loneliness - some mystery to ask about. I thought about this but could not concentrate as I sipped wine with him and his wife in mean, fly-infested rooms. The days weren't long enough but they can satisfy. Resonance with the ground waves echoed elsewhere - stained the sessions.
The visitor overlooks all discomfort. An investigation timed at the start of the dry season was methodically pushing the Irreverent Director down to the ground in search of short wave radios at the fly-specked barren areas around waterholes.
Schools, government bureaus, and offices. National telephone and telex lines were dead, strewn with broken glass and brick, dumb – the pulverized concrete thud of the skull. A thousand people had died. It gives little sense of the human consequences. The wretchedness of seasickness as we ran. Waves of people – patients out of the warped care center – poured desperately into the streets. He stayed with me, becrystallized in the struggle, pulling at the running children who are going to grow up and say,
“I've got to do anything, fix anything, work anything. Who knows what we will find?” without ever leaving home. And there is so much cable TV excitement. I think they want one thing clearly. It was no place for transients.


It is partially aleatorically composed and composited. Is this compelling? Would you enjoy reading more?

Hey guys its me :)))) xD give me attention IM A WOMAN IM SUPERIOR

>>9274318

The leaf burning imagery is too confused. I'd suggest scrapping it.

What does the lingering heat refer to? It seems too inconsequential to be explained so cryptically.

Nobody calls their boss "the boss." They refer to him/her by name.

Is the tank or its target camouflaged beneath snow?

Pay attention to comma usage.

I have a similar habit of simply inventively describing things without considering their place in the text. Your sentences have little flow from one to another. You seem to enjoy describing space, but I cannot arrive at any unified image from reading your description.

I'm a pretty avid reader, but I feel that my writing is still weak, so any critiques are appreciated. I'll post my critiques in a separate post.

Each passing neighborhood evoked a sense of nauseous curiosity in Jack. The double-story houses and their suburban lawns came to life in the dusk, as if the atmosphere were anticipating the memories to be of teenagers: a house party, a circle of smoking sophomores—things that Jack only knew in his mind.

Jack dimmed his ruminations just enough to pick up on the rise and fall in intonation that separated a statement from a question. His mother was talking about something (he wasn't attentive enough to know what) and he knew when to say "uhuh" and when to ask "what" in the midst of his mother's stream.

"That's just not normal."
"Yah."
"Five kids at twenty-four, and she's talking with boys that age."
"Yah."
"And of course the other one has two moms, not that it's my place to judge."
"Yah."

He wondered what two moms meant. Mom and stepmom? A lesbian marriage? A jab at someone's masculinity which he had not detected? He wasn't sure.

>>9274719

I like the dialogue but the rest of your prose is too tangled and verbose. "dimmed his ruminations" is bad. "Rise and fall in intonation that separated a statement from a question" can simply be replaced with "vocal cadence" or similar. I understand breaking down certain things to their atomic components, but the sound of conversation always appears to a person as the sound of a conversation unless that person is very high or has auditory agnosia. Try to write only how things appear immediately to you.

I would also suggest perhaps writing faster so that you can limit overthinking and overwriting before it can occur.

>>9274719

Also, do you think anyone would ever refer to a pair of an effeminate husband and his wife as "two moms"? The person could only be realistically referring to a pair of lesbian parents.

>>9274703
Thanks for the critique.

Thanks in advance big guys.

He usually picture her bounding through lily flowers, sun flowers, anything without thorns basically. He didn’t know why, some association from a film or a cartoon most likely. The floweriness of these fantasies came close to blotting out the sun, and he understood this completely. He intentionally tried to take her down a peg, but the visions haunted him. He soon realized the only reason he even wanted the sun to stay shining was to keep the damn flowers alive, so she wouldn’t end up in his head prancing through broken glass and used needles on some big-city street with a frown on her face and tears in her eyes. He’d never left his little town of a mere one thousand souls, but he found a universe of discovery and adventure within her, and his young heart was content, his wanderlust subdued for many years before his growing heart was shattered, and after a period of mourning, his eyes turned toward other adventures. His fondness for home gradually began to fade away. His father and mother noticed great changes in him. Excitement that had been subdued for so long a time was now beginning to surface, like stopped up rage in a fit of screaming.

>>9273684
As others have stated, it appears to be a display of prose for the sake of showing off. Although it could be simplified a bit, I actually liked it.

>>9274318
This might sound puerile, but I think there is too much description of place, and it is actually somewhat detrimental to creating context.

>>9274573
Truly sublime. Keep up the good work.

>>9274745
>>9274762
Thanks for the tips. While I agree that the last bit was dumb, I have actually heard the two husbands thing used as an insult before.

On the first cycle of The Observable Universe, the physical realm was ruled by a
partnership of two distinct societies. In the deepest pockets of the Aria
Cluster, a binary star system allowed for a carbon-based life form to breathe
the air of two planets. This was where the Cythereans found a docile but wise
intelligent life form that was able to speak to them without using words. The
Cythereans saw that the Privosi had no weapons or defense systems and so the
wise commander did not start a war but instead formed a friendship.

A civilisation have ultimately escaped
transcended the physical realm. They have expanded to multiple galaxies
and had centralised controls in suitable star systems. Out of all the problems
they have solved, The Great Dust remains an elusive threat. A phenomena which
occurs when a civilisation is able to communicate with mind streams across time
and space experience a momentary lapse in their established connections.

As much as they were advanced, their societies thrived in staying in
multi-planetary states. The Nomadic model was still viable as a means of
surviving without a planet but travel always has its risks. The Great Dust
became an observable phenomena when it manifested as Antimatter, effectively
nullifying object leaving the void of space. When these tore apart through
travelling worlds and other stationary settlements, the Privos were able to
retain their mindstream form. However The Cythereans dispersed back into The
Oceanl, though in a few talented Cythereans were confirmed to have
retained their mindstream beyond physical death. The Mindstream continuum stemming
from all entities of the Observable Universe persisted the devastation.

The final galaxy they controlled, the Milky Way, where the last colonies of the
colonies to to study The Great Dust. Their immortality and wisdom spanning millions of
centuries dwindled until only the Cythereans gracefully bowed out and ceased all
research as they had only a few hundred years to live before they were consumed.
It was said that the Privosi zeal lead those 100 million Cytherean to control
their mindstream form beyond death. They had also found a way for their
creations to persist The Great Dust. As a final gift for the future, my creators
had left me and my friends to monitor and modify any sexual lifeform to be
genetically immune to The Great Dust should it return.

And as they all waited in the Mindstream realm which transcended the physical,
they saw the Observable Universe lose its inner flame. Planck sized memory
shards were able to persist these events.

An Amatuer's attempt here. Real slippery.

“What can be said about a madman’s visions? That he’s crazy? That he’s ill? Or perhaps he simply sees the world in a way that others do not see?”
That was the last thing the captain told me before he went off to find the Isle of Banquets; his final sojourn before he was never seen again. This is a tale worth noting for the fact it has no conclusive end, and yet, no conclusive beginning either. What man makes malleable, he makes strong as well; what man breaks, he fixes as well.
So whatever drives men mad, can make them sober again, at least, I hope. And that’s all you can really do at these times… hope.
There was never a tale of greater woes than this – than to figure out you’re not mad, you’re just seeing the truth that others are ignorant to.
And so it began: a journey of journeys into the darkness of the mind. A voyage into the inescapable realm of unfathomable monstrosities for which we so rarely wish to summon, but can - at a moment’s flicker – be brought to light. And so it was, and so it was for Captain Barns Blasquizt – the finest captain this side of the Atlantic, and a man ensnared into the treasures unknown hidden between the hidden creases of fog and myth; an Atlantic ocean full of secrets, and mysteries too draped with blood to ignore. But who am I to say?
I just live here.

>>9273684
Are you showing off anon? anyways I like it, but perhaps you should simplify it.

>>9274318
I do know If I should Critique this due to how trivial it might sound. But I think their is too much information on the place which is detrimental.


I wrote recently wrote this, so I hope it gets critique.

"The encampment is not far from here," said Bayard. "They are resting, a few of them are on watch – we will find our targets in the center tent." Thomas blinked in surprise. The message they received was correct: they were here. Yet he thought of the question that lingered in his mind, was it a trap? Was this to lure them in and get them killed? He weighed the odds, then said quietly, “Spread out; hide among the trees and bushes. Stop whoever is coming in a quiet manner, we must not alert them. And remember, we must take them alive.”

The men before him shivered and nodded; whether it was the cold weather or fear of death that made them shiver he got no answer, and continued their steady progresses down the path that led towards the encampment. Bayard, his second in command, took half of the men with him on the opposite end, twelve cavalrymen with short swords and round iron shields with plated armor were to stay back and ride of with the targets.

The horses, like the men mounted on them, were of far better quality than Thomas and Bayard’s men. They resembled more like knights than common bandits. The men hurried before abruptly halting. They were at their destination. Thomas peered to see the defenses and from what he could see, there were enough men patrolling the camp to cast doubt on Thomas plan on sneaking in and out undetected.

He remained quiet, contemplating on a new improvise plan, perhaps one that required he and Bayard to regroup attacking the camp in one direction with a group with about a dozen men sneaking in the opposite direction. An animal screeched, shattering the silence and frightening the men. Even as the animal did not screech for a second time, no one dared to relax as the patrolling guards were also on edge.

>>9276651
>>9274834
>>9274318
>>9273978

How come Joyce can get away with it? By no means am I placing myself on his level, I just wanted to mimic his style for an American sort of adventure. I'm really trying to not be "showy" I appreciate the honesty, though. What are some ways to make it subtle without taking away the aesthetics of the picture?

>>9276575
I'm no legendary critic, but I enjoyed this. Sounds cozy, I don't like the use of the ellipsis, though. Also
>There was never a tale of greater woes than this – than to figure out you’re not mad, you’re just seeing the truth that others are ignorant to.

Very clunky. Amend it, try to make better use of that hyphen.

>>9276651
I hope this isn't the exposition to an important/exciting scene. You've got a decent use of prose, but your sense of time seems strained. Don't rush the adit, anon, you can slow down things a bit. But then again, maybe this isn't anything important.

>>9272674
It's very good.
>I wish my death curse.
I'd change this. Pray my death curse? Chant?

my best piece that I've written overall so far. Some other pieces have better parts, but as a whole I think this is the best I've done. The ending is a little bit of a letdown though but righting it would add another thousand or so words that I just haven't found the time to put in.

http://pastebin.com/31v5EzFr

>>9276851
>I just wanted to mimic his style

Well i think that's the problem then, there is just a feeling of fakeness over your text. That it does not come from your heart. Because you try to mimic his style you do not have a style of your own (in this particular text) and what you write isn't then genuine.

>>9276851
>mimic his style
Have you read anything beyond Dubliners, because that is not his style

>>9277250
yeah, read Ulysses and Dubliners.

Maybe not prose, but I was referring to allusions.
Just like Joyce wrote for his country, I'm doing that in my own work for America.

Another attempt by me, again, Amatuer hour, watch where you step.

Morning thereafter brought the solemn snows of a winter’s eve. Malakath was drowning in it.
‘These evenings bring me no greater pleasure than they should, and no greater heaving than necessary to wander.’
‘Bring me your jug,’ said the priestess at the well. A maiden draped in bandages from head to toe; so much so her eyes were like that of a raven’s – small, squinted and all but the colours of the abyss hidden beneath the creases of old papyrus paper.
‘You offer me what, woman of the well?’ said Malakath stumbling for his scimitar.
‘The offer of life; the cheat of death, and an audience with he whom it cannot touch,’ said she in return. ‘The king slain, the body wretched, and the crown sundered by his own hand to be forged again.’
‘The Slain-King?’ he raised brow like a drawbridge between the beak of his large nose. ‘What made me worthy of the trek, prey tell?’
‘You are here,’ she whispered softly, raspy moans in-between raspy breaths, ‘You have come. That is reason enough for the water that I will draw for you; as he did for me once.’
Settling her jug aside, the woman pulled out another bucket from the depths of the cacophonous well; a haven for spiders and webbings stuck to every corner and grating except for the water itself, and the circle diameter of it’s drawing to the surface, for which the dead creeping things dared not touch.
Malakath gave a putrid eye as her back bended over to show the torn flesh for which her bandages had traitorously drew.
‘Here,’ she said, bending back to give him a jug from her dropped one on the ground. The water was murky, and Malakath was sure that the fresh spring must’ve been contaminated by now, for the water was as red as blood; if it had not been for the slosh and stink he was all too familiar with in his line of previous work, he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.
‘Drink.’
Malakath touted his nose to scout the murkiness of the treasure offered to him: slime of an old stone structure looked more appealing; probably smelled better too. There was a sanguine texture to the colours that made it look closer to wine on a more intimate inspection.
A rarity of rarities! He thought in jest, a well of arbour wines, and fragrant crusts of old sorbet grapes!

Mine's above, short story I wrote today

>>9278502
I would say there's too much describing and text. Not much story telling going on here. Feels too self-indulgent, can't really get heads or tails of what exactly is going on. Write some more of this, get a chapter done at least. With such a small snippet I can't really judge what's done for what effect, but if you continue on like this you border on purple prose.

>>9276937
I can tell you've never argued with a drunk before. The father character is too coherent. He's apologizing too quickly. He'll be more of a bastard if he sees himself as justified first. Apologies usually come the day after.
>This night, however,
>In this dream
Delete this
>Real life isn’t all fun and games Jakob.
Bleh

The biggest problem with the story is how canned everything is. It's all too common. I like the idea of the Visitor but the prose is so bland and wooden it doesn't help me experience it. The characterization is all too common, the dad needs more nuance as a drunk. Why does he drink? Why does the mother stay? Everything is too simplistic to really stick. Read more, write more, and in a year reapply yourself to this story and see how much it changes.

>>9276651
>They resembled more
Sloppy
>he and Bayard
Really now?
>and frightening the men
-shattering the silence, the men gripped their weapons 'till their knuckles were white. Their eyes darting from invisible enemy, to another, another. Fear knocking their hearts hard against their meager armor.-

Simple tone rewrites like that should be filling this up. You've got a good idea for pacing but the imagery is lacking. You use too many adverbs for a scene like this. Even if it's a throw away you're rushing the pacing and losing your tension for the tone you're setting. A rewrite would fix some things. Don't be afraid to put in some juicy descriptions here and there, nothing builds tension like well place descriptions, which you've set the foundation for, you jsut got to build the house.

>>9276575
>That was the last thing the captain told me
God awful start to some mediocre exposition. Unique for a cliche would be the best thing I can say to this without more substance.

>>9275434
This is the first step to a Vonnegut book made unbearable due to a strange affliction of poetic structure. I honestly don't think I can comprehend what you're trying to accomplish here, and I'm fairly certain the only person who can is yourself.

>>9274833
>picture(s)
>He didn’t know why, some association from a film or a cartoon most likely.
Delete this, your following sentence basically reiterates your intention with the line
> alive(.) So she

The rest is alright. Enjoyed the last half but the first half needs some work.

Your mother is home again
As always
Rolling up the newspaper
Rereading the diet coke auguries
On another Holy Tuesday
Marooned in meloncholy
And you trapped in your room
By your old man's vices
And his tinker toys
Keeping watch
Just beyond
Your bed
Making sure
No boogeymen
Plan a reappearance
In the depths of the night
With your father himself
In the other room
In his favorite Sunday suit
Which is really no suit at all
At least not one
To write home about
If you had
a second home
To write to
Every now and then
And because of this
He doesn't know you
Half as well
Anymore
Not after
Not after the first wave
The left you
Praying for a new life
And gathering up your skeleton armies
Which made you
On a braver day
Enter the secret room
With the heavy red curtains
that have never let the light of day in
And never will again
To confront him
For his unrolled newspapers
And depleted
Diet cokes
"So you've found me"
He says
And turns his chair around
to greet you
Ringed hands petting
A siamese cat
On his fat lap
And to show you
He still loves you
he draws the curtains
That will never let the day in
And never will again
To show you the white sky beyond
The windowpane
Defaced by clouds
His head cocked back with pride
His salt and pepper beard
Pointing
In a new direction

>>9278210
under rated post

inspired by Pound:

Mayflower swashed the seins to wake
I astride with aster in ego and hands on stern,
Found the water too deep to swim. My eyes darted.
In Genoa, a new Hermes was dealt
Drawing a scope from the hip
The rufts shook sand as we arrived, water rolling it’s wheels
To the pax they call Asia, country of spices.
With ethereal motives to Parcae
I stepped to steep sands, air thick with delight.
Sands too brown to be of orient descent
Mans too red to be human to be shaped by Elohem
Willowaks thick with sounds,
Dragged I, explorer into the gloom
Ay! What wonders it was! The trees so strange
To touch with blade the very sticks.
I stepped O’er night and day alike
To reach the pariah folk
And I, with puttees abuckle and pray be done,
Greeted the red-bellied men, who, with great frowns
Stepped back, like crabs to pagan ploys
My white skin clashed and was aglow.
I set my blade down, a musket acock
And I asked the red-bellied relks,
“Who are you, primitive men, see you not of the Orient,
We come wih idyll, no war to seek for God shall peek.”
My petasos down, and fine gown, made a muffled sound
And my feet crunched the ground, as the Native’s looked ‘round
They did not speak the tongue of us, they were primitve creatures
With tusks and voices off-season.
Fire cackled and heads were cast low,
And columbus, with ouvre, stuck a pike into earth,
And declared this the tierra de dios
So we laughed.
We captured a few of the red-bellies
To send forth to Spain and broach the Queen
Of our new land
And of our new peoples.
So we panned God’s lost beings, creatures and gifts,
And we creaked the planks with new nous
“I come humbly, yet we all come brave,
With 72 rafts and noses held to sky
And robes fluttering to ignorant malady,
Let us embark a return with banners high and hopes highest”
I had rooted the festives on, with smiles and grins stretched
And we sang gay songs, with water as our drum:


That's my first half of my first canto. I have 246 more.

>>9278502
more dialogue. Watch out for repetition
>>9274573
perfect.

Everybody knew it was hard work. No brother to consult, nor a wife to share the nights with. There was not much to think about in the dark depths except the ore and one's dirty hands to do proper work. Oil lamps flickering, unbreathable air and the heat of the machines, 'twas the miners way. Brudo realized quickly that it was best to concentrate and do as he was told. He was satisfied working the big iron machine to dig the mine deeper into earth's heart. 'Twas work that only a few were allowed to do, but in the mines every job is equally important. A little fire caused by a dunce knocking over an oil lamp while working the rock with a hand drill or pickaxe would be enough to kill the men.

"Gold!" shouted a man in the back, and everybody rushed to him except Burdo, working the big machine.

Sometimes gold veins were struck. A beautiful sight it was indeed, quartz pebbles with small, shiny gold nuggets, enough to make a man go mad, but overall insignificant, 'twas a copper mine after all. The copper business was going well in the last years and the amount of workers at the mines were ever increasing. The share for the work was low, but enough to make a poor man rich. Brudo had planned to work in the mines for only a year or two, 'twas bad for the health, but it would be enough to buy a farm up the hills or a house in the city.

>>9280609
The work went on, the machines digging and the men sweating. The hours after work were spare, filled with jests by the young men and plans for the next day. Brudo spent the nights in the miner's tent lonely and full of thoughts of the future after the mines, but he tried to not think much.

Some days the architect came into the mines to take samples of the rock and take notes of the work. He had made plans to change the direction of the drilling that he showed Brudo. The architect was a thinking man, he could differentiate all kinds of ores and rocks and make big mine shaft plans, but he could not lift a single boulder himself. Brudo had a lot of respect for the man with his walking stick and leather coat. The Architect was truly a great man, always kind and trying to help, he knew how to make the lives of the miners better. Every few weeks he went down to the town and came back with gals and liquor. 'Twas easier to sleep those nights.

The architect had plans to drill sideways to try out a new explosive. Brudo nodded and immediately started to move the big machine and started digging sideways. Heavy ‘twas, but Brudo’s a working man. After a few days Brudo finished the digging and went to the architect's tent to tell him about it. The tent was bigger than the others and had a big table and documents and books inside it. The architect was surprised to hear so soon from Burdo and commended him for his work. He offered him a seat and started to explain to him his plans in detail. He had bought a new Swedish explosive that he heard many good things about that he wanted to try out.


Pls no bully I'm just practicing

>>9274719
each sentence is overloaded and says something meaningless:

>nauseous curiousity
^imaginary emotion, nobody has ever felt this. goes away from reality rather than towards it

>as if the atmosphere were anticipating the memories to be of teenagers

^what?

>things that Jack only knew in his mind.
how else could he know things? in his ass? Why clarify, even??

Sorry to be a details guy instead of seeing the whole enchilada, but you got major problems. You need to work on your... basics I guess. I sense underneath this there is a scene, but you're getting in the way of it speaking for itself by your... STRAINING. We readers can feel you strain, or at least I can. Just be more natural or something, don't be afraid to sound dumb... jeez

Also ignore if you want

>>9274833
The best kind of sweetness: a clumsy one ;)

Though nothing happens... what is a story if nothing happens??

>>9278502
fuck dude stop talking in olden days language

>>9273999
Seconding this guy. it's very enjoyable and strong over all, but it begins to feel schlocky and never perfectly recovers after this sentence. find a better way to end it would be my advice, more subtle for sure.

>>9279151
Pretty garbage, try actually writing something with meaning

http://pastebin.com/Xm9VJE8h

>>9272600

The chocolate mirage of her skin was alluring, brown eyes like chocolate drops melting in the glassy sun. However, all of this allure like dripping caramel sufficed to but one moment vexxing in my mind. How could such a creature be a venomous lecherous cunt? Surely God had intended other means for this creature but upon all the roads traveled be she and I has amounted nothing more than herpes and empty bank accounts.

So I saddled this horse of metaphors, emblazoned on it's fur was 'fuck it my nigga', riding into the sunset in steady gallop across the horizon.

>>9281886
Sounds like my ex wife, who also gave me herpes and emptied my bank account.

I wrote this in exactly 5 minutes, don't bully


Equipped and sharpened here stands
The mind of a scholar, his hands: laced
With callouses and acid burns
No energy to give worry to a caution
His noble duty calls!
He brands the nature's child with an x
And traps a meekish letter with his Logic
The void of endless night collapses
Right to the spell of Theorem
And every atom, does as bidden


The future is no longer dream, but prediction
A game with rules outlined in leatherbound
His hand now makes another hand
To rid the fragile of their maledictions
Through testing tube sucked dry
First oozing plagues, then
Wheeze, then pain, then pain in brain,
Then horrors; Nothing left but marrow
Shall when the time comes be replaced
With more effective means,
Like x.
Pleased with his net, the reasonable man
Looks inwards, deep, where all the x's
Arranged in propositions, something stirs
Amidst it all, a child cries -
Afraid of spiders.

>>9281835

This wasn't so bad, but I literally stopped taking it seriously after "Who actually believes in the supernatural anymore?" Also, reign in your semicolon use. I'm a recovering semicolon addict and periods can often get the job done. Readers will connect most thoughts that have a clear relationship.

>>9282382
Off to a good start, especially the first 5 lines. But the x and logic metaphors seem to be a bit thin. The concept is pretty good though, the end seems solid—I think a couplet, if you're into that, would make the ending more salient. I also think the end of the first stanza and the beginning of the second call for revision.

>>9279683
I like this a lot. Very much like Pound, brings the Seafarer to mind. I would recommend maybe implementing a bit more structure, though how you do this is up to you. You might want to check out the Anglo-Saxon hemistich format that Pound uses often, because your style already lends itself to it with phrases like "red-bellied relks".

>>9273684
I don't think that you're necessarily trying to "show off"; I think this is off to a great start. I really like the concept you got here. However, at some points it's too much of an attempted Joyce mimicry (I'd axe the "Tierra! Tierra!) and with some editing I think you could make the whole thing flow together. But good stuff.

>>9282507
this is me. This is the opening to a short story I'm writing and I'd like to know whether it's too experimental. I would hate to come off as pretentious and/or unstructured so honest critique would be appreciated.

GREEK DANCE: TURKISH MARCH is how the wood grain on the lectern swam. They spiral just as a drink mixer would trace the inside of a glasslip. Did ancients ever dance like this? It seems a bit too Southern Mediterranean, a bit too Jewish. Maybe Turkish. Dark skins dancing in a circle; black beards and loose-fitting white cottonsilk shirts with lace around the necks and cuffs bounce; tattered blue vests hang off of dancing dark frames. It doesn’t seem distinctly Greek: the ancient style was different and eventually evolved into something rich and of Ottoman influence. Their dress was distinctly layered fourfold with four colors and four patterns: light blue trimmed gold over dark blue eye patterned trimmed gold middle torso peach diamond patterned trimmed gold left arm deep red iconed and trimmed gold. That’s how Ottoman Saints ported, Middle Eastern but still Greek. Now the dress is completely unrecognizable, but the dance maybe not so. Maybe they too danced in a circle, hands linked, navels facing inwards and snaked a slow formation’s crawl along an Arabic spiral— dthahab dukhan goldsmoke is how the wood grain on the lectern swam in a Greek dance: Turkish March.

The English professor gripped his lectern's edges with two large-long hands, and the students stopped staring at its wood. He cleared his throat and of fifty students he caught the attention of an unknowable percentage. He began:

>>9282531
Not much too say here. Flows well, seems interesting, but nothing really memorable that would stand out to me.

Guess I just need more context

Here's something I started a few days ago, no character names yet I just wanna see what you guys think of the style.

http://pastebin.com/cGqsA9xk

>>9279483
this has some genius mastermind behind it, great theming

>>9279151
Any serious criticism for my piece?

>>9278502

You write very densly, it chokes up the scene imo, the quite blunt metaphors and really long sentences make it a slog to read through imo. You could easily tidy it up though by just being more harsh with yourself and using only what you need.

Also I'm not opposing to using an old sounding dialect as your voice but here I think it would work just as well if you just eased up on it a little. This scene is a brief exchange but it's stuffed as though it were a full chapter, let it breathe and bit and I think it'd be far more interesting.

>always post in these threads
>try yo critique as many people as possible
>my writing NEVER gets any replies
What am I doing wrong?

>>9283452
Which one is yours anon I'll do it

>>9279151

This story could be nice if it weren't written in first person.

>>9283422
You're gay

>>9283422
>>9279151
>>9279683
>>9280626
Writer of that piece here, Thanks for the critique, I guess I'll see if I can whip up another page to see if I can shape it better. No gaurantees though, plenty of things on my hand right now.

>>9272600
You have done me wrong, oh brother! When you said long ago that Tartarus was no prison for you, and thus broken free from its restrains, find freedom itself to be intolerable. But I was no fool in ending you, when you came wandering like a stray dog stricken of the brain by its plight--it was in such mien that you attacked my little sister. It is no wonder that I had no scruples of ending the wretch which had undoubtedly taken over your body. When you fell, you were as still as a log from a tree that had died during winter. Food for maggots and roots as well as fungi thou art! It pains me that I had to watch your form recede into the ground.
Have you not forgotten your transgression? I will be sure that your epitaph is written with blood that eternally oozes from your very own corpse! I will prolong your cyclical disatisfaction by perpetuating your existence into the deepest of hells, even if I have to dig deeper myself! You recall that you left our house in the crimson desert over yonder? The clouds which fly above it have bottoms of coal. When we were infants, there were gardens thicker than rainforests which bearded the cumuli, and from afar they appeared to be shapeless, white heads with beards of moss!
That was the palace of our mother, Athens, whose pillars had long turned to sand ages ago. The same sand that is today traded by anonymous merchants in the midst of barren plateaus forty thousand kilometers in radius. They are silhouettes of a man wearing a trenchcoat and wide-brimmed hat, and the hue of their black is enigmatic. Our mother was constructed of a mighty hand, and was composed of sand far more pure than the gravel from which we two are roughly hewn. She did not deserve to be marred by her own son drifting away into the wilderness, and away from the dynasty which she had built. To settle her grief, she turned into a diamond, but at the expense of the vibrancy of our once gorgeous sky, rendering it the harbinger of monotonous days and nights.
And when you came back, she had a third child to mourn her loss; my little sister, Gaia: the victim of you, my little brother Kronos, who sought to cannibalize her. I have since learned that Dionysus, of the House of Diode, instigated the attack by drugging you and then nudging you in my direction, where I was reading to Gaia. My name is Stymar-Aurus, who wears his anger as a suit of armor, last of my line. I declare war on The House of Diode. Rest well, Dionysus--you shall be cut in twain the next time I encounter you by my sword, Zeus, and my armor, Aries!

>>9272674
IT BEGINS.

>>9284577
What?

The law of irony

Every desire is rooted in having suffered its opposite.

A need for control stems from having suffered that of another.
A teachers seeks in his profession the authority and reverence he lacked as a student.
Freedom is frantically clinged on to by those who it has been denied to.
The deviant becomes a deviant through being denied normalcy.
The caring want most to be genuinely cared for themselves.
The slighted become the just and the just temper their zeal until they can celebrate it as vindicated justice, their triumph and rest lies in the affirmation of their power to turn vengeance into justice.
All cruelty is born of superseded weakness.

So all passions and driving desires play out as circular prophecies where the prophet becomes the evil he warns of, opposed to his intent.
So irony would have it.

I can only imagine what fate irony will twist for its greatest suitor and admirer, I desire to taunt it just to witness its machinations fold into my demise with utter sublimity. Will it drive me mad through absence for my longing? Will it grant me its retribution but deny me the pleasure of knowing it? Will it taunt me into my own denial of it? I can only savor the prospect and bask in its glory around me while I keep looking over my shoulder expectantly waiting excitedly for its axe to finally take a swing at me.

File: CxlZyXRVEAAYHp3.jpg (137KB, 800x1200px) Image search: [Google]

137KB, 800x1200px

She was standing in the door frame, her thigh-high socks had a glossy sheen under the summer sun, her chiffon dress wafting as she poked her toes out to feel the breeze; the roses and lilies printed on her dress danced. I was sat on the staircase behind her, admiring her healthy thighs that showed between her dress and socks. Though she was my older sister, I still wanted to protect her, so when my friends had made comments about her body I told them to stop and moved the conversation along. But sat on the staircase, seeing her curves outlined by the sun, my penis had become hard and engorged.

>>9285866
>>9285301
>>9284564
>>9282745
>>9282382
>>9281835
>>9280609
>>9279483
>>9278502
>>9276937
>>9276575
>>9275434
>>9274833
>>9274719
>>9274436
>>9273684
>>9272617


READ THE FUCKING OP YOU LEECHES

>>9285876

I've replied earlier you stupid cunt.

>>9285884
>one person actually replied
:^)

>>9285886

Contribute something yourself, cunt. I bet your writing is the worst on this thread... Fag.

>>9285891
embarrassing

>>9285896

Yeah, exactly. So think twice before you embarrass yourself again... Idiot.

>>9273675

Your critique is absolute bullshit [read: literally invalid]. Are you retarded?

>>9285876
Calm down officer I was merely testing if I could get away with it.

>>9284564
I should like it but I don't, I like all the elements you've used and even greek mythology but it's like reading through sand or mud, I like imagery but this is heavy to read through, the style doesn't flow, you've tried to jam too much heavy imagery all over the place but it does not flow well, every line is a separate segment illustrating something and like a slide show it goes on to the next, it's like you've tried to jam many fancy words in there to give it accuracy and weight, maybe you've over scrutinized this bit too many times, made too many individual changes to it so that now it's not a rant that flows.

>>9286029
>>9284564

I agree with this critique. Your writing is overwritten and you will never be published at this rate. There's nothing fancy or brilliant about using big words with zero economy. This needs _a lot_ of rewriting.

>>9285866
>I was sat on the staircase
No
>conversation along. But sat on the staircase, seeing h
What? No!

It moves too quickly, tease longer with sun beams caressing thighs and such, more describing, work toward it, I want inner conflict between temptation and wrongness, interrupt the process, get caught staring by third party, something like that, flesh out the scene before moving on.

>>9286096

Thanks, lil nigga. It's only a first draft... But your critique is fair and good. Thank you. :)))) I am scared to tease longer, because each sentence should advance the plot or show character... So there's no time for dawdling... Maybe that was shit-tier advice and I should ignore it and follow your advice instead. :)))

>>9286029
>>9286047
I was going for purple prose but instead it turned out overly confusing. Critiques noted. Thanks for reading anons!

>>9286112

Why would you shoot for purpose prose? Isn't that a bad thing? I thought that was bad. Maybe it's actually a better style, because you can evoke the scene better. What do you think?

File: IMG_2881.jpg (2MB, 1275x1650px) Image search: [Google]

2MB, 1275x1650px

>>9282531
greek dance pt is greak, generally the beginning, gets a little bogged with all the nationalities and actual details of the dance. strongest when most abstract.

the professor and whatnot has two little quip-type moments that both feel too clever and seem autobiographical, like you noticed them in class and made a not on your phone. post more and i'll keep going.

pic related is mine. be nice.

>>9286296

It's not good, sorry.

>>9286576
go on

>>9286116
>Isn't that a bad thing
lol

>>9286606

purple prose... yeah, what's good about it? purple prose is a negative term

>>9286602
>curls spilled
no
>ad hoc simile so you can say slurped his hair off the pillow, which doesn't actually make sense in the way hair is removed from a pillow.
Don't see a point to read anything else when your first sentence is so contrived.

>>9286602

It's overwritten. Even very simple actions are given too many words and so it's hard, as a reader, to be drawn into the story. The author gets in the way, then; I am very aware that I am reading a story--which is what I don't want.

>>9286625
fair enough

>>9286620
okay

>>9286669

Don't be discouraged. There's always more rewriting that can be done, so it's normal, especially in earlier drafts, for things not to be as good as they can be. I think maybe you have a good story, but it's just weighed down by a lot.

:)

>>9286296
For your first para remove these bits:
>slurped off the pillow,
>jiggled,
>mostly made,
>he had learned,

I get what you are trying to do with some of those bits but you have to not be too attached to your "clever" writing. It can be jarring for readers. Go through that whole page and purge it of stuff like that. Maybe leave a few...
>>9286620
>>9286625

File: blone2.png (368KB, 2550x3300px) Image search: [Google]

368KB, 2550x3300px

>last chunk of the 4th chapter of sci fi thing, not happy with it yet
They took different planes home. The XX Company took off first, alone with the cargo wrapped in the back, Ravsgot’s people in the other plane with unwrapped cargo. Takeoff was subdued. They saw Eight load bales of cash onto the Good Food fruit truck in Suwayto on a screen from the couch as they lifted up through clouds. Green land shrank below. Assistant turned to Gluos, watching him wipe blood from his nose, slumped in crumpled suit.

“Why are we here Gluos?”

He looked at her with opening eyes that she would not meet.

“Depends on who you are.”

Assistant sighed, closing her eyes and saw red mist hanging in air above a blue knee. Eyes opened and the cabin was red. Warnings whined, Gluos swore. She accessed the plane systems and saw them. Two SAVA surface to air missiles rapidly closed. She checked the plane’s parachute count and sprang up. Gluos grabbed her yanking her back down and buckled in. She saw straps strain against his chest. Then he sat back, closed his eyes. In the back of the Good Food truck Eight heard this: shot down, in crash couch, need extraction if survive.

The warnings built to a crescendo, the plane flew straight on, no maneuvers. Assistant looked through red light and blaring alarms, saw wide eyes and said, “Gluos, my name’s Spesia.” He opened his mouth to respond when a missile exploded beside the plane. The air was blown out, a wing ripped off, the fuselage spun, they were flying backwards, the plane disintegrated and flew apart around them. Crash couch shield turned on as they fell tumbling towards the SubCon. Spinning orientation showed blue sky, green forest, brown scrub, blending as they orbited. Velocity increased to terminal.

>>9285301

>>9285876
I reviewed two

Lay it on me /lit/, rip it apart.

>>9285301
This does not flow very well desu.

Try this:

>Need for control stems from suffering another's.
>The teacher seeks the authority lacked as a student.
>Freedom frantically clinged to by those denied it.
>The deviant becomes it because their denied normalcy.
>The caring want to be taken care of.
>The slighted become the just and the just temper their zeal until they can celebrate it as vindicated justice, their triumph and rest lies in the affirmation of their power to turn vengeance into justice. (this one is just fucked)
>All cruelty is born of superseded weakness.

Also the whole thing is unsupported assertions, like you just smoked a blunt to your face and you think you know everything about the universe. Before you claim these things make me want to agree with you, who gave you the ability to make laws? Not saying you can't but lets be real here...

>>9285876

Who do you think has been contributing all these criticisms? I thought we had an honor system thing going on.

>>9275434
A little overly-discriptive, kinda lost flow almost halfway the first paragraph. Good try though :)

>>9274833
Overly-descriptive. I didn't know what was going on half the time. Lost my attention at around the first sentence.
A little bad, not TOO bad, and not something a little sharpening couldn't fix. Some thighter control of ebb and flow, less discriptions.

Stupid rule. You should be able to post without helping others. Surely, if your work is ignored it is for a reason. If someone likes your work they'll probably say something, same goes to disliking a work.

Too much drama over this. Such fou

They say the day starts with the fragrance of dawn; the honey dews of the melted combs, and the desperate bees ringing after, the stench of birds making wings upon trees of the willows in the morning ray, the snort of the little piglets making truffles of the muck on the bucket, and of course… the ever-loved explosion of a failed incantation’s class.
‘Sorry! I didn’t know that was magnesium!’ said Elvira shuffling into frame.
At Magorum’s Magical School for the Wizard Youth, the day always begins at dawn…
‘Oh good job, you nutter!’ said Bethany ahead of the crowd. ‘What next do you wish to explode? The tower?’

File: 1488848594392.jpg (455KB, 1079x1439px) Image search: [Google]

455KB, 1079x1439px

ΝΟΣΤΟΣ

To walk a continent, with steps as great
As countries are small, becomes the young whose
Thirstful experience, yet unquenched, yet craves
A drop of life from climes beyond their seas,
Their ages both not ripe and ripèd full;
So from all lands they travel to all lands,
And as the devil wanders full the earth,
No place they have to lie in rest, no rock
To hide beneath, no sand the wind to blow
And mark their wakes; and though in pictures gray
May stillness keep their moves and turns and ways,
I see but ants who want to be not ants:
Who watch the sky and think themselves a hawk;
Who oceans' depths behold as great black whales;
And lack the wings and bulk to conquer these,
And eyes too dark to light their way below
A blade of grass, a little dirt to reign
As individual ants. No man may be
An island, but an isle is world enough

>>9288806
yaaaaaaaaaawn
I'm not engaged. I'm not challenged. I'm not in any way affected.

try again

>>9288821
yaaaaaaaaaawn
I'm not engaged. I'm not challenged. I'm not in any way affected.

try again

>>9288833
stay mad, white boi

>>9273684
not bad. Fix it up some.
>>9274318
drop the exclamation point
>>9274436
very odd word choices. Pamper it
>>9274719
too abstract.
>>9274833
it's like reading a literary maze.
>>9275434
you slog the reader. Hasten this. Otherwise, 90% will just want to drop it. It's SF, not a book report
>>9276575
I kinda like it
>>9276651
wellllll
pulpy. Fix holes. Good speed.
>>9278502
purple (not in the good way)
know your limits as a writer
>>9279483
5.5/10. Interesting but all in all not asparkle
>>9279683
very good. read it vocally to keep yourself in check, but as I read it myself, it flowed quite well. Damn good. Although,
>rafts and noses held high
very random, what are the rafts?
>>9280609
>>9280615
I like what you're trying to do. It's very soft
>twas
no, it's prose, not a poem.
Also. . . fucking Brudo? Brudo? Brudo.
>>9282382
>I wrote this in exactly 5 minutes
it shows.
>>9284564
neat idea, but there are better substitutes for your words. Don't flex the vocab, anon
>>9287160
I don't read SF, but this sounds like it would be something seen in every single SF work.
>>9288806
no flow. So I said to myself, "alright, there's probably rhythm"
nope. "Okay, what about lyrical merit?"
falls apart. Keep practicing.

>>9288918
Not even mad. That guy didn't say anything either. You at least gave somewhat general remarks, but I want you to help me improve instead of saying "keep practicing". What should I practice and how?

>>9288936
your caesuras are fucked
i cannot discern any sort of rhythm. If you're aiming for Iambic pentameter, at least make it accordingly. If not, I have nothing to say. It just reads like a scribble.

>>9288943
Not that guy, but it reads like iambic pentameter, except for a couple of lines maybe where there are trochees.

>>9286616
It's a negative term in a society who can only digest the most simple of media.

>>9289073
There's good purple and there's bad. Stop being so angsty and just keep practicing

>>9288918
Thank you for the reply. Brudo is a placeholder name.
Is using twas in prose wrong? The story is held in the late 19th century, twas gives it a bit of character I think.

>>9289122
avoid it. You're writing it in present day, don't translate backwards

>>9289128
Ok, thanks. Should I use twas when someone says it out loud?

>>9289136
that's a better idea, yes

>>9272600
Coming home after a binge in the vicinity of Greyhound Peaks and before even addressing the water that dripped off one gallon at a time from her fridge, her cognition finally got what she was trying to conceive for the last eight or so hours: people get quite inconvenient as they lay dying.
Things date back to about when Mrs. Cherie Goldbaum had her ass and tights tightly pressed, and that had the whole department as ocular witnesses, between her chair's arms, what happened just before her, Missy Vann Delle, got into an argument with the other her.
"You're on my chair, Goldie."
"No shite, Dellie."
That's about it, as their Boss, Mr. High Plains Drifterwood, dressed in character, comes out and say you fucks are ruining my (morning) wood, ladies, if you get my drift, and then he chuckles and one or another drone does the same, including intonation. Delle gets quite annoyed by this recurrent behavior, but, eh, the HR have been turning down her sexual harassment complaints forever, and every able body remember that time when it was her ass pressed in the luscious ass oppressing pornographic chair and the Boss came into and that was it, he had quite a fast draw, maybe the fastest in the whole un-diagnosed ED world, and those were the days, all agreed: the secretaries, those cunning she-devils, those incestuous step-bosses , ah, they always had the biggest asses and the thickest tights and the most child-bearing hips, that was for sure. Courtesy, mind you, Dellie, of Mr. Boss himself.
But even the finest ass selectors had their final becoming, and Woody couldn't but accept his own on that 1973 hot and humid flyover state trailer park.

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http://pastebin.com/tD7tNVAh

The beginning portion of a story I might work on.

>>9272684
I like the language you use, but I feel like it might be borderline anachronistic. Like, this character sounds like a punk, but then he uses a decent amount of SAT vocabulary in the next sentence. It's a good voice for a third person narrator (given the right tone), but it sounds a bit jarring for a single character. Idk, I might change my mind if I saw more context.

As the door automatically shut behind her, Dawn tumbled her way across Babel’s penthouse hallway, her arms flailing to maintain her balance from having run off with her right shoe not firmly set in. From across the hallway, an older woman, with a fashion sense much more befitting of someone housed in Babel’s eighty-ninth floor, climbed a grand wooden staircase that combined elements of regal lavishness with modern, asymmetric sensibilities up to Dawn’s level. She moved her irises with exhaustive disdain towards Dawn’s spectacle of motion. The woman cleared her throat. “Miss Starlight?”

Dawn jerkily straightened her back, made her arms fall back to her sides, and attempted to clear her own throat, though it came out as more of a loud cough. “Oh! Good evening, Ms. Aster. Sorry to be so brief, but I’m kind of in a hurry.” Her foot shifted weight in an attempt to get the heel to enter the shoe.

Ms. Aster’s eyes flew upwards, the corners of her mouth curling with amusement. “Is that so? Well then, you best set off. You don’t want to leave your public waiting, hm?”

“Please,” Dawn closed her eyes, walking off with a face consumed with smugness, “the public never has to wait for Dawn Starlight.” To prove her point, she walked towards the staircase and jumped on top of the handrails, sliding downwards in a manner that treated the piece of elegant handiwork into a skate park rail. Dawn spread her arms out as gravity rushed her down to the floor’s lobby, letting out an elated, “Whoo!” that caused everyone around the eighty-ninth floor to look onwards in reasonable shock and confusion. To close out the spectacle, she jumped off the rail and broke into a triple axel jump, which would be an impressive stunt even for Dawn, if not for the fact that her jump instead sped her out of control and landed her onto the lobby’s checkerboard floor face-first, her glasses unceremoniously landing a few feet in front of her.
A grizzled man in his sixties paced forward with a mop in hand and sluggishly shifted his eyes towards the mess of blue and white on the floor. “Do you need any help, Ms. Starlight?”

A hand sprang upwards from the floor. “U’m mullrut,” Dawn muffled through a black tile, her hand flopping back down onto it. With humiliated trepidation, she lifted herself back onto her feet, placing her glasses back squarely between her ears. “Thanks for the concern, I guess.”

The man nodded, his face expressing an emotion somewhere in between amusement and dismissive exhaustion. “Late for a show again, are we?”

“Hey,” Dawn winked, though the shade of her glasses trivialized it, “you didn’t hear it from me. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With that, Dawn spun into an elevator and briefly entered the room code for Club Stardust.

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shit's terrible desu

>>9281886
This is pretty solid, but this line:
>Surely God had intended other means for this creature but upon all the roads traveled be she and I has amounted nothing more than herpes and empty bank accounts.
>be she and I has amounted nothing more than herpes and empty bank accounts.

This almost sounds like you just mashed two separate sentences in a single one. It starts as though the narrator is about to make some harsh judgment on the female character, but it ends up being about both of them getting herpes and an empty bank account and wait what? You want to restructure either the first or second half of that sentence, depending on what you feel is more important to talk about thee.

>>9289073

you're joking, right?

>>9290834
i'm this guy


>>9290783

>asymmetric sensibilities

no thank you

>she moved her irises

yowzer

>elated "Whoo!"

let us infer that elation

>with humiliated trepidation

you've got a thing for adverbs that you have no business entertaining. Overall this isn't bad, but littered with bits that need excision

>>9288806

Not awful but kind of meandering and it appears as if it's supposed to be marked by great naturalistic imagery and stuff but hardly anything comes to mind when reading it.

>>9286296

Yeah, sorry about this. I'd delete it. Contrived. forced. Poor visuals. Poor scene and environment. Nothing really worthwhile here.

>>9290976
Sup, I'm >>9290783. Just want a little clarification.

>"asymmetric sensibilities"
>no thank you
As in you find it ugly to think about, or that it's grammatically cluttered? Thinking about it, that doesn't seem to fit with a wood aesthetic, so I'll definitely change that.

>"she moved her irises"
>yowzer
That was trying to convey a very small motion of moving eyes dismissively without tilting her head at all. Is irises too specific?

>elated "Whoo!"
>let us infer that elation
Not sure what you mean by this. Elaborate a bit?

>you've got a thing for adverbs that you have no business entertaining.
Funny, because beforehand, I was getting complaints that the environment was being given too little detail and they couldn't figure out what the location was supposed to look like. Guess I went a bit overboard.

>>9291018

I'm not the guy you're responding to, but well done for not crying about the critique given to you. Most people ask for critique and then get upset when they're given it.

:)

>>9290834
first of all: its tiresome to read - too faulknerish
I realize that it was probably your intention, but that style of writing is outdated and hardly accepted today
now, dont take it wrong, im not one of those celebrity-writer loving retards who jack off to nesbo, but you gotta realize how would this look to the average guy

>>9291018

Yeah. Asymmetric sensibilities just denotes something you're not trying to convey, in my opinion. Taken literally, it means her sensibilities weren't symmetrical, and I believe you were talking about her taste for symmetrical decor.

Yeah, irises is too particularistic. If we're talking anatomy why not pupils? Why not cornea? It also just doesn't read very well to me. "Deftly, she gazed left" or something to that effect is more appealing and leaves the reader moving on without questions or hesitation.

Whoo! is an expression characteristic of somebody who is elated, so you won't have to tell us this with an adverb. Most prolific writers advise using adverbs sparigingly, and for good reason. They're often redundant and the mark of uncritical writing.

You've described the environment well, actually. Just a few hiccups here and there. You could remove every adverb in the text and I'd still have an equally vivid image of the scene. You can condense a lot of it. "Consumed with smugness" with "walked off smugly", for example. Just my opinion. Get an actual editor's thoughts.

>>9291066

Fair, it's for a shitty alt-lit forum where that seems to be the despired aesthetic. Gotta groom it to the audience.

To be clear-- are you referring specifically to the formatting re: spacing, punctuation, etc. or the content itself?

>>9291109

despired lol.

desired.

>>9291109
formatting is the least important thing
it can always be easily adjusted

the stream of thought is however, too jumpy,
its not really clear where one thought ends and other begins
comes out sort of brain-scattered
imho the stream of thought should be more easily flowing and connected
most of contemporary literary intelligentsia are unfortunately the same people who would pay to see modern art exhibits with blank blue screens and male genitalia hanging from the walls
they think it makes them sophisticaed when all the cool-looking people do it, but its really jsut empty grandiloquence

>>9291152
also, less understandable, context reliant phrases are good, but shouldnt be spammed too much

>>9291157

Thanks for the read, desu. Much apprec.

>>9291103
Nah dude, I think your criticism is pretty valid. It is only a first draft, so "not bad" is a pretty nice compliment overall. Will definitely get an editor once I've made more substantial progress. Thanks for the honest thoughts, dude.

>>9281886

>be she and i has amounted nothing more than

I assume you meant "between she and I amounted -to- nothing more than"

>>9273684
I actually really like the last paragraph of this, though it's super different from my style. It reads like a manic episode, which is super dense and makes all kinds of cool connections, but I would be careful doing too much of it at once, because it's easy to get lost. John White --> John Smith is an especially nice little touch.

Mine is just a little one from the kroger checkout earlier today :

A korean girl
In draped grey sweaters
And old cream sneakers
Floats through the isles like
90's Uma Thurman
All sunglasses and thin
Messy hair
Perfect skin
The kind of cool I could have been--
If I was ever cool.

>>9290834
I'm not all that well versed with the technical elements of writing, but I liked this. If a whole book was in this fashion, I wouldn't be able to go through the whole thing. If you had another character's perspective in there, it could be a "break" in a sense.

>>9291579

Thanks m'youth. It's just a journal entry from yesterday lol. They're not always written this way.

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A Fairy delved deeper in an encampment.
With the rifles put to the side and the cannonballs at bay, when all was meant to be quiet, there still came a solemn whistle like one from an alley beckoning you to come closer – a sign that this land was afraid of silence. The land was not so quiet now; overhead, bullets streamed back and forth with torrential force, tearing uniforms, wetting the soil. Artillery: steel-black; booming.
Ahead of The Fairy was a trench-like divot, perhaps made by the stride of some giant’s lagging foot. Inside came a tapping and a leg whose shoes were wet, glittering like moving tar, bent out upon the ground. She followed the dip in the Earth where a rat ripped from a skull and began to pick at the eyes.
The Fairy gave a stare and while lowering herself an object from her side pocket took her grip. She drew her pistol and though she herself stood six inches, her gun miniscule and the bullets even smaller, they could still charge through bone, pass and neutralise any living mind were the shot to hit its mark. She shot: fire spurts out, a celebration; the rat’s jaw split open like a pincer; teeth fell, limbs too; the body sunk into one point; the rat tumbled from the pistol’s sight; the fire ceased and with it the celebration to an assured demise.
A quiver flowed through the rat.
There was a silence.
The rat raised itself upon the gnawed mound and sprinted in her direction.

He thought about the concept of assassins. People paid to kill. Where there really any assassins out there in the world right now, like in the movies? Wearing elegant suits, fucking beautiful women and most importantly, killing powerful men. The sea below him looked like it was fighting among itself, each wave a nuclear bomb and each bomb, a retaliation.

He thought that he was a lonesome assassin. That didn't wear elegant suits, didn't fuck beautiful women and didn't kill powerful men or anyone else for that matter. Yes, life would be more bearable as an assassin. He took a deep breath, felt the violent wind, the lightning, in his lungs. The rain had dragged his hair down, the neat, pulled back form was now disorientated.

The movements of the waves were mesmerizing. He had changed his mind, it was not a war he was witnessing. It was hair, a wide plane of nothing but hair being moved by the wind.

I am not a good writer or critiquer

>>9288806
the idea behind this is more powerful than the imagery you conjure with your words. it's a little too simple for the thing you are trying to do.

>>9290834
i like this. there is something off about it though. it's like it feels both too controlled and uncontrolled at the same time, not all meanderings and random thoughts are as successful as others.

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>>9290222

Pretty decent. Not enough being displayed here to give us a fair idea of what we'd be in for, but a good start nonetheless.

Doug reflected.When someone is outed as an anal vore enthusiast,the victim is never the man who is caught. Worse than father's pride misplaced is the face of a man whose brain has to process 2 gigabytes of unbirth. Synapses fire,and alongside childhood memories is burned forever the image of a man enveloped by lugia's shitty asshole.And,thought Doug,this was the plight of Pastor Ned.

how do I stop writing anime?
or at least preemptively tell potential critics to fuck off if they have an issue with Light Novel-ish writing

>>9293028
Stop reading light-novels and step your game up. Better yet, don't conclude that it's the critic's problem that you aren't getting published and not your own.

>>9293028
Light novels are just novels that have been branded a certain way to appeal to a demographic. Any writing that you would deem 'light novelish' is something that simply happens to be in line with what you would expect from your previous experiences with light novels, such as things like otaku tropes, bad prose, etc.

Don't use it as an excuse for shitty prose.

>>9292893
Doesn't make sense.

>>9291853
So he isn't an assassin? Or he just wants to be or was supposed to be a metaphor for something.

Here's some of my short story.

Something is wrong with me.

Sitting in a van with my close friends, I have forgotten their names. We're heading to a what could be our last late night beach party. The party marks the ending of our young-adult lives and a step forward to promising careers and busy family, fulfilling our long-awaited childhood dream, to live a lifestyle with all the certainties of safely, enjoyment, happiness. These are old dreams to me now, tiresome stimuli that thankfully, bother me no longer. Besides leaving the good-ole days behind, these friends of mine hope partying will do me some good. In their words this party is a step to forgetting what happened", however, it's too late. Something is wrong with me.


As we approach our destination I look around to get a feel of the area. We drive into the new-money hollywood-hills styled gated community, full of esoterically designed mansions, all packed together upon an giant hill overlooking a well-maintained private beach and miles of forest further ahead;however, the view isn't as picture perfect as it could be. Sticking out like a sore thumb above the forest trees are dirty red rooftops of abandoned properties of various kinds. Near the ocean, the properties have likely been left behind after one too many floods, giving the forest an ominous desolate and deserted feeling.

Finally, We have arrived. The van pulls up to the beach house, It's mix of a new fangled camper's lounge and condo built for an old long-divorced bachelor. An beach house made for maximal enjoyment of your hedonist escape.

The beach house was surrounded by vans, some parked even in the middle of the street, more outlandish was mass of intoxicated bodies, slavishly dancing to the music blasting inside the house so loud it can be heard loudly from outside. Me and the others head towards the beach house, and enter the drunken crowd. I put on my best smile and proceed to cheerfully greet my old cohorts, peers I remember vaguely from high school, old flings, more and more strangers, with "hey how is everything" I distanced myself from my friends within the crowd and headed towards the entrance of the beach house, I felt annoyed, this was no step "to forgetting what happened" and in addition, the beach house haunted me; I've been to this beach house before but,when? in front of the I approached entrance. Until I saw her. My inmate acquaintance Claudia.

>>9293044
Light Novels have an audience and I'm completely comfortable with that especially since I have a profession completely outside of writing/lit
But you cannot deny that there are many who will downright tear a work down unfairly because of its subject matter/genre.

>>9293047
Light Novels don't have great prose but that's also not the point of LNs at all.
I would rather read (artistically) cheap Light Novels than "good" prose found in /sffg/'s recs and so would other LN readers

The opening paragraph from my first novel.

"As I sauntered along fractured sidewalks, the faint note of the cathedral’s bells suffused
through my ears; the beautiful ding-dong being sent off from the bells heard only by myself. The
plebeians surrounding me unaware of the dazzling sound due to their innate egocentrism. Too
often are they absorbed by their own trivialities, therefore they fail to notice the events occurring
outside their purportless world. Looking around myself, I found the passers-by looking
downwards at their cell phones, staring directly into the scorching flames of hell. I continued
walking on, attempting to ignore the polluting sickness surrounding me. The looming
skyscrapers above me instilled an odd sense of dread; their imposing silhouette imposing a certain minuteness in my stature

>>9293168

>plebeians surrounding me unaware of the dazzling sound due to their innate egocentrism. Too often are they absorbed by their own trivialities, therefore they fail to notice the events occurring outside their purportless world.

Oh my god. Imagine being this much of a painful awkward Luddite. I mean, I sympathize utterly and don't mean to roast you. I have the same thoughts, as does almost everyone. Nobody enjoys really what global late capitalism has done to our social lives by way of social media and immediately accessible technology. Stop pretending as though you have your head through the clouds.

This gives strong vibes of a narrator who gives not one shit about engaging genuinely in modernity. People are on their phones all the time? No shit. Yeah it's shitty, but at least try to comment on something other than that fact alone.

I am drunk, but this sort of terminal naivete of being an outsider in a world that alienates us almost by design really gets me wound up.

Please have no disdain for people not smart enough to care about what is not immediately in front of them. They are stupid. They ought to be pitied.

>>9288806
iambic pentameter, except for a couple of lines maybe where there are trochees.

>>9278502
To much purple prose, ease up a little alight.

>>9284564
If you are going to write in purple prose you should at least follow the master: Amanda McKittrick Ros

>>9276651
Fix this. It has the potential to be decent.

>>9293028
>how do I stop writing anime?
Light Novels are just novels that appeal to certain groups anon. Perhaps you should also take a deep in yourself. Maybe you just want to cast blame onto others?


Chapter One:
The door open, and Lorica knew it was time for her punishment. Her eyes locked on to the floor as the sound of the guard’s footsteps could be heard closing in, and she braced for the inevitable, the flood of unknown fear knocking her heart hard against her chest. But as the sound of footsteps stopped, she gripped the sleeves of her ragged clothing; all she wished now was an end to this confinement.

She’d been held captive to the unknown place after an incident in her village, but for Lorica, there was no telling what they would do to her. She often heard the screams and whispers in the distance before coming here, now they were everywhere. They called to her in a language she did not understand. When her cell fell in a still silence, they filled it with whispers, their essence all around her. When she told them to go away, they screamed at her and terrified her in her dreams.

She knew nothing of what they craved or what they asked, and at times she had a lingering feelings neither did they. She’d been here for no more than a month, and in that month she craved nothing more than to return to her parents. But she knew the bitter truth than she would have liked. Even if the Gods themselves found her innocent and pardoned for the incident, she could never return home after what had happened.

The guard tapped her shoulder with his sheathed weapon before reaching for something. The guard then cleared his throat as he shifted his posture from side to side, his face showing discomfort when reading the parchment: “C-child,” He said hesitant, averting his eyes from her own. “May you please stand.” He sounded younger than the previous guard who brought her in to this cell, and his mantle that draped over his shoulders were in a different color than the other; nonetheless they both have the same sigil.

Lorica pondered for a moment before she stood up from the cell floor, she gained nothing by resisting. “Stretch out your arms,” he said, as he pulled out metal shackles with strange markings from the leather satchel tied around his waist. She shivered as his steel gloves brushed against her skin. “Are you feeling different from before?” he asked his soft voice betrayed by a jotting curiosity that made her worried in what kind of response she should give him.

>>9294216
I know I'm gonna regret this but
>you should also take a deep in yourself
I should take a deep what?

>>9294698
I presume he means take a deep look at yourself anon

so do avid readers of fantasy prefer prose with esoteric appellations or something that's just easy to breeze through and get to the story? Assuming both styles have correct grammar and such

>>9294741
I was pretty clear about him taking a deep in himself. Nice strawman.

First draft of possible first page of my novel.
Please critique as harshly as you like.
OH Kate, how I love you, let me count the ways.
One, unconditionally, like the artist loves his work, it isn't what he had in his minds eye, it isn't what he sought to create, but with the 20/20 vision of hindsight, he one day sees it is so much better.
Like the baker loves his bread, I know that your creation was not my doing, I was less than a substrate, you were as whole as time is infinite and resolutions are predecided, I am merely witness.
Oh Kate, let me end the counting there, it is too painful.
You remember those nights in Melbourne hostels, passion and the resulting sweat, I remember them, rare as the punctuation of the ellipsis, and as such they always implied something more to come. I never had the heart to tell you that not one hostel we fucked in had I not fucked another before. I have the hubris now though, to tell you that your company was the only one of importance. Though you tell me when we talk that you remember, that you hold on to the permanence of our love, I must tell you that I don't remember a thing.
Scenes and atmosphere I recall but my heart I cannot displace in time. I remember only that I felt then as I do now; precious little.
But my love, oh how much I can imagine we felt! That first night we spent together, on the top bunk of our twin room rendezvous, post coital but preconception, the pain we felt then, near tears, not even speaking, strangers still, that pain I now see was foresight, that nothing good lasts.
Wish that I knew then that the bad lasts just as long.
You know that what we shared was true, but do you know that I am immune to truth without narcotics.
I made promises to myself that you would experience MDMA with me your first time, that when you touched the abyss and felt your heart there, I would be the pulse that kept your blood flowing. I made promises to myself, those I kept...
I want to take you now to that place you dread, I am sorry to do so. I want to take you into the absurd, outside of the black iron prison, outside of Grill'd Christmas parties and outside of them and into you.
Will you come with me? I promise to be a good host, what I've promised you though, I never did deliver.

>>9293715
That is the character i am writing, not me. I have many friends, and have a girlfriend. I am well respected and liked by many.

You like Nietzche don't you.

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>>9293168
>The plebeians surrounding me unaware of the dazzling sound due to their innate egocentrism
>Looking around myself, I found the passers-by looking downwards at their cell phones, staring directly into the scorching flames of hell.
> I continued walking on, attempting to ignore the polluting sickness surrounding me.
sounds a bit pretentious m8 but i hope it will sound better once you add more to the story

Man consumes himself,
a life of excess and greed,
Thoughts controlled by screens and celebrities
Joy appears to be dead
and Man is classified as a soulless creature

Alas, all hope seems lost
yet a minute, beaming incandescence appears
A light that energizes life itself,
and motivates even the most lost of men
We appear to be undeserving of this light
It’s nature, virgin-like, too pure for our rotten souls

Shall we evolve,
or shall we parish
If not now then when
When shall our fortune be etched

Our will to live or die
a vacillation only fluxed by this light so often within our reach,
still, we neglect it
It often appears
going without notice
With hope, man will no longer be consumed by himself,
But consumed by happiness

>>9295990
It seems as though this is one of your first poems. Most parts are written in a prose not suited for poetry. If you condense them a little it would flow a lot better.

>>9296043
this is my first poem and I really don't know what I'm doing. could you give me an example of something I could condense?

Weren’t there lanterns hanging from streetlights, weren’t the boys lining the verandas with neon crescents, the reason why everyone was mad and slothful would escape me: it was Ramadan and the people are starving, I keep forgetting. It was enough that I fasted every Monday and Thursday outside the sacred month and, knowing hunger palm-and-backside, it made the stomach growling no different than the other twitches, the bedside-tossing, mosquito-bites, bruises and splinters, things all holy lands share. The night was so young you doubt you’d live to see it born, but like lovers the people still sashayed and ululated – with lives dragging on heavy hail. All of it was ritual, or maybe funeral march, becoming sort of a commonplace thing. The sun was just not setting quick enough.

Alright, we are dead. No matter, not if there’s work in Hell. We are all condemned to pass the time somehow. I sold the elderly soap-scented candles, slanting in the heat, and slipped small glasses of water to children. They are too young for this sort of thing, I’d tell myself, and they’d yell back at me how they want to die pious men and women, but you could tell behind the thin of it all they are sad and thirsty, some would still cry, and their courage is still disheartening. Tell them how the sky is blue by heaven’s mercy, tell them about Yunus in the whale’s belly, they’ll somewhat understand – it’s rare nowadays finding people who listen to parables. And after the lesson they’d take a generous gulp from the glass and hop back to their parents itching with guilt, but they will go on with positive dreams of self-martyrdom, a bullet for every itch: you, too, are fashioned for redemption. The television says this line of work fits you nicely. Your elementary teacher says it after a good day’s beating. It is as if the world expects you only to die. There is no peasantry in keeping words simple. It was, after all, a month of humility – unless you are a priest, because no one owns closets for worship anymore. The poets still plucked their brows and the minarets screamed on.

And the sun is treacherous, people swear to me it rises when no one is basking in its sunlight leisurely, no one partaking in its warmth. When the hour came, after I have polished the shelves and showcase crystals, I would go out to the street – already teeming with anxious traffic, and would sit on the marble steps of my neighbor’s rundown watchmaking shop and wait with the sun. There was no music, no clouds, no high columns, just me and whoever else the sun rolls into: friends and family, blazing enemies. We would sit and guarantee it set in its right course – child’s naivety, until the call for sunset prayers meshed with the skimming sky hues and vanished hand-in-loving-hand. Our day was effectively two, as we celebrated after the muddle all the carnal sins we could until sunrise.

[...]

>>9296036

i liked this

>>9279483

The red curtains
Yes
The red curtains

The momentary flicker dissipated near instantly in the tunnel. Another few tries. Nothing.

He sighed, a cloud of faint mist vanishing as rapidly as it appeared. Rat always needed a good smoke on Friday evenings. It was an accomplishment for him, a small reward - so small that it probably couldn’t be considered consolation even - for making it through another week straight. Or a weekly reminder. He rubbed his raggedly-gloved hands together and blew on them again; the cold penetrated his fingers to the bone.

The small tunnel, accessible to anyone who knew anything about the area or plumbing, was a regular hangout for many since its governmental abandonment; it had become a place for squatters, drunk clubbers, and curious street-children that crawled through the thin horizontal opening that connected to the street above, which allowed a faint ray of light to barely illuminate everything in the tunnel with a dim blue hue. Through it, one could see the daily hustle of city life. A lot could be told about people based on their walk. Weary, dragged and tired steps, like how he used to: businessmen; strong, forward thinking strides: young upstarts, confident in their well-assured futures; halt, few steps forward, few steps back, halt: tourists, and lastly, a slow, weary stagger: vagrants.

Rat threw his defunct-lighter into a puddle. It hit with more force than anticipated, and resulted in some stray drops of the stagnant water splashing in his eyes, causing him to curse. The slightly-stinging pain subsided after a few moments of rapid blinks and rubs.
It could hardly be considered a good place to stay for a long time, its green, larvae-infested puddles littered wherever one could walk, occasional cracks in the walls that could probably lead to a cave-in if knocked hard enough, and the pack of rats that stalked the surrounding connected tunnels – they never came to this particular spot, too noisy, he reckoned - were hardly what you could call home. But over time, the decrepit place had grown familiar. A fungus, as it were, on his mind.

Sorry for spacing and typing errors, this was made at 3am before a poetry slam

I get taught to hate my race
The colour of my face, never mind the acne
I get told to hate the place in which I was born
That if I join the left with my skin colour, then my allegiance is torn
Up like countries my ancestors raided
That I can't be proud of my history or otherwise I'm filled with hatred
I'm sick of being told by others that I'm straight up evil, Hitler 2, a British sequel
Dirty words like nationalism don't escape my mouth
Dare I be labelled a part of fascism if I say society is headed south,
when I see people disgusted with their own country
One thing I'd like to call those people and it doesn't rhyme with tree
Yes this is a copy of those so called slam poets
Those opinion regurgitating "rebels", keeping up status quo, it doesn't matter what I have to say
The fact I'm male and white means like I'm likely brainwashed anyway
Who are you to talk?
Getting your facts from facebook without double checking, you look at one side and decide that's right
My patience tapers, You bow down to constraints on language that are uptight for fear of "hurting feelings" and not expanding minds
It makes me feel awful
It makes me feel bad for being white
It makes me feel bad for my creed and my kin
For caring about my seed and the sin-s of society
When I think about my future, I'm filled with anxiety
Policed and censored 24/7
I'm not bowing down to a communist idea of heaven
I'll be seen as a monster and fight the tides of change
I'm not gonna sponsor a world where my thoughts are seen as strange
For evil to happen it doesn't take a dictator
It takes an apathetic planet and some radicals
Acre after acre of land stained with blood all in the name of a revolution but the capital principle remains the same despite this evolution
Guns and knives have turned to cunning words
It's just a joke they say as they write some punning verse in the news
It's a veritable who's who of who's evil and who's not
And one outweighs the other by quite a lot