Critique

The fog was where I wanted to be. Halfway down the path you can’t see this house. You’d never know it was here. Or any of the other places down the avenue. I couldn’t see but a few feet ahead. I didn’t meet a soul. Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was what it is. That’s what I wanted—to be alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue and life can hide from itself. Out beyond the harbor, where the road runs along the beach, I even lost the feeling of being on land. The fog and the sea seemed part of each other. It was like walking on the bottom of the sea. As if I had drowned long ago. As if I was the ghost belonging to the fog, and the fog was the ghost of the sea. It felt damned peaceful to be nothing more than a ghost within a ghost.

In a way it had been fate. The Chesapeake was my mother--she fed me, guided me through life, and gave me her blue eyes. I cared for the bay more than any given aspect of my life at the time. She cared for me, too, I’d like to believe with complete trust. I hoped for the day I died so that my ashes can be scattered across the rolling waves of the bay and return home.
I’m quite protective over this home, too.
When you’re invited to my home by the ways of the river or the guidance of a horse, a gull shall alert me of your arrival--that or the whispers of the grasses. Whatever may happen, I’ll know of your presence. Don’t make too much noise. When you get to my house, you’ll know know it’s my house from the distinct green walls that climb the sky to the clouds. Open the yellow doors of grass and you’re in. Listen to the songs of thrush and relax yourself.
Mi casa su casa.

On your visit, though, I ask that you to be mindful of the house laws. I didn’t create them, they’ve always been etched into the bay’s history. They’re learned as soon as you step foot into the bay’s boundaries:

You must accept the pests for what they are and why they are. Yes, that is a bee hovering near your head. In fact, it is a European Honey Bee, an extremely hard worker. It has a family, a job, and a ruler, just like you. It has a home where it returns to day after day on a given basis, It will not harm you if you do not insinuate it, just as yourself. Instead, I recommend you look at it from afar and appreciate its work and its beauty.
There are pests of which the average foreigner to the bay will dismiss as disgusting, but you must know that this is quite against the natural laws declared by Earth. The Northeastern Tiger Beetle is one that you’ve probably (briefly) encountered, for, I’m almost sure it flew away from you just as quickly as you walked away from it. From the Patuxent River to the bay, they roam and keep watch over the sand. They hook themselves to the ground and survey a wanderer's feet. It is harder to appreciate a beetle, I must say. Unlike bees, they do not always have a job. They are often wandering the sand and hiding from those who seek them. They reproduce and they die. But then ask yourself: do you not wander at times? Like humans, they take a break from their busy schedules.
They’re a scientist's dream, and, like any curious man, your eyes may wander and catch the shifting movements of the beetle. When you see the beetle, don’t only appreciate it, honor it. Smile at it, to yourself, and continue your journey. Carry with you the memory of its painted shell and how gently it flew.

1 small section from a work of around 4000~ words or so. The work reads like this throughout. I'm proud of how it turned out, but I'd love to hear from another.

>>9399438
>The fog was where I wanted to be
Sounds misplaced. I'd add that later in the section.
Word limit is reached in this post, but overall not bad. You repeat often.

This probably sucks,I plan to cut, rework a lot of it/ Have you ever sat and stared at the inevitable? Something that you knew had to be done no matter what? We’ve have all had this happen to us, to do what we have to do. Ending a relationship to save yourself a world of pain, ending one life to save many, or something much more mundane.

Calling someone is one of Derrick’s biggest fears, to hold conversation with no way out, to create small talk with no escape route. He has always hated other people, even the ones he loved. “Why can’t they just know that I love them, why do they need constant reassurance?” he thought to himself as he scrolled through his phone. Today was Mother’s day and it was the day he had to hear her voice. He rarely kept in contact with anyone; parents, family, and friends too, as if he had any. He had to prep himself, he knew he had to do it.

“Hello?” a faint voice, not one of hardship or suffering. One of a gentle soul, who had given all her life.
“Hi, mom” He wished he had a better line, deep down he knew it would suffice. The thought gnawed at him regardless.
“Oh, Dairy is that you?” Dairy, he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Either way she seemed to like it, and that is all that mattered to Derrick.
“Sure is, I was just calling to say happy Mother’s Day. How are you doing?” Derrick wished he had more heart in it.
“Oh, good, good. Having a nice day at home. How about you? Did any of the colleges get back to you?”
“Same here mom, and no nothing yet unfortunately.” He hated lying to her, he never actually applied to anything. He never had a dream, no aspirations, no drive. He had wished he had siblings, someone to be the success, someone to make her proud.
“Oh, well….” He could tell she was covering her disappointment, her sorrow.
Keep on trying Dairy, I love you.” A tear glides down Derrick’s face and he had to wipe his face with his sleeve.
“I… I love you too.” Why had he hesitated? The thought sent shivers to his core.
They continued to talk, about the neighbors back home, his life in the big city, news she had seen recently. Derrick never contributed much to a conversation, if there was one thing he was good at, it was listening. Especially this conversation, he must have heard the whole thing hundreds of times. Mother’s day, May 13, 2012. He made sure to leave this conversation recorded, he had started recording his calls when he moved away from home. This way he could listen to himself, hear what he did wrong, all he did in the end was over analyze, over and over. Every year he would listen to this recording, the last time he wasn’t truly alone. Every year he would get to hear her voice again, to wish he was a better son, a better person, to wish he was there for her. He took solace in that he at least said “I love you.” back to her. But he had hesitated, he hated himself for this. “Why? Why did I hesitate?” a thought of both anger and regret.

>>9399438
the first line is the best, instead of cramming together so many thoughts at once, break down the process. What seems obvious to you isn't so obvious to the reader (as far as these long implications are concerned). take out the "even" before "lost the feeling of being on land." what sort of irks me is the fact that what you have feels strangely similar to what I'm working on:

>—That is because. That is because the earth, I heard a man moan from inside one of theses shrouded houses, that is because, that is because the. Who was he speaking to?; and di his voice continue when I was gone; and the house seemed to sway also with his voice, flickering between myself and what was obscure. I thought of his words, rolling beneath me, for long after we had passed his house there on the road. Letting my mind wander, I gave myself to the swells and ripples just beneath the surface of my life it would seem his voice was linked now to my steps and that my footsteps carved out measures of his voice which would jar against those lines already in the sidewalk and appear as two people dancing and eventually meeting at one accidental and harmonic moment before starting again. I too often find myself on these walks without remembering the moment I decide to depart on them, the decision seems distant to me, its responsibility another thing to dodge.

. Crawling in his head, a terrible swarm of thoughts ate him away, like locusts on the skin. Tearing and scratching. He was all she had left, her legacy. Her only son, her only mark left on this world. He wanted to make her proud, but he only had one constant prominent thought in his mind, eating him, destroying him. He had to make a new phone call today.
“Hello, this is Joe from Lifting Up Hotline.” “No way is that name real.” Derrick thought to himself, thinking it was too generic.
“Hello? Sir?” Derrick couldn’t bring himself to speak
“How are you doing sir? Hello?” Derrick hung the phone up, this is the 10th place he called today. And he did this every year, never saying a word back, always trying new hotlines. Derrick wasn’t sure what he was looking for and the chances of finding it grew slimmer day by day. He had hoped this place would finally have the answers he was looking for. He knew that he should go to an actual doctor and get help, but the thought of having to tell someone that he wanted to end it, that he was a failure. He just couldn’t.
Derrick couldn’t end it either. He never had it in him to do it. He never had it in him to do anything really.
Derrick looked through his list, a chicken scratching of various names and numbers, all of them crisis hotlines. Hundreds of names scratched out over the years, after a failed call Derrick couldn’t get the nerve to call again. What if the same receiver answered back? He knew it was irrational, but if he couldn’t respond to a fresh hotline then what hope did he have of overcoming his fear? He looked at the last number he had found. “Forgiving Friend” he wasn’t sure where he found this one, he discovered most of these online or in the local paper. He was sure it was from one of those. Surely.
>>9399488

>>9399461
"just as yourself" sounds a bit odd. I'm just nitpicking as I had a hard time finding a valid complaint. It's pretty good and I hope you shill here when it's all said and done.

>>9399488
This is in the tone of a bored 8th grader.

You describe really simple things like "a faint voice" with all sorts of additional information that ends up not meaning anything.
I feel like the narrator is observing an animal rather than human thought and interaction.

>“I… I love you too.” Why had he hesitated? The thought sent shivers to his core.

what the fuck. Delete this.
>Why? Why did I hesitate?” a thought of both anger and regret.
this too.

>>9399524
>ate him away
odd way to put that.
>Tearing and scratching.
fragment. If meant to be, it isn't exactly as effective as you might think.
The first "paragraph" (before the next indentation) could do without so many commas. Read it aloud--you'll be out of breath by the time you're done.
>He never had it in him to do anything really.
after reading this, I wanted to know why. Give examples.

Overall, your thoughts are at least organized, but you could pace a bit more responisibly. I feel like you're afraid to add additional information in some places because you'd feel like it'd make it seem too superfluous.

Tone seems a little playful for what you're going for. Maybe that's just me

The notion of a reasonable man is the most fascinating concept, as he (et al.) is the only theoretical figure that needs no definition, the way the reasonable man should act simply put, is expressed as a product of the times, to this end aptly fitting in every circumstance.

>>9399529
Yeah, both of those bits are pretty shit in retrospect. I see the animal observation thing too. Is because I'm doing the "Derrick did this and then he felt that." too much? I know it's shit overall.

>>9399567
How could so many things go wrong with a sentence.
1) it's too fucking long.
2) et al. is not even needed
3) >to this end aptly fitting in every circumstance.
what the fuck?
4) your word choice is concerning.
I hope you did not write an entire paper with sentences like this strewn about.

>>9399579
Yeah, I think you're nailing saying it's the Derrick did blah blah cause and effect. That's annoying to the reader and will undoubtedly obscure any other means of prose or effects in your writing

Santa came at last to the jolly elves,
sleeping now where they had worked - no merry tinkling bells.

"Resting?", he spat. "That's enough of that."
He roared and stamped his feet and threw down his fluffy hat.

The elves shrank back, and knowing what came next,
They pushed a weakling to the fore at Santa Claus' behest.

He snarled like a dog and grabbed its little throat.
He dragged it from the room, as it cried, then squeaked, then choked.

I wrote this when I was bored at work but I'm planning on expanding it in time for Christmas.

I'm a full blown /lit/ n00b and have never written anything like this outside of school so be gentle.

What do they think has happened, the old fools,
To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose
It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,
And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember
Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,
They could alter things back to when they danced all night,
Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?
Or do they fancy there's really been no change,
And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,
Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming
Watching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange;
Why aren't they screaming?

>>9399598
Oh boy, here we go:
>simple nursery rhyming
>shoving words to make them "flow"

This reads like a rap that was shat out by nas in 30 seconds, like a soundcloud rendition.
>I'm planning on expanding it in time for Christmas.
What is wrong with you. It's not even fucking summer yet.

>>9399602
the old fools is misplaced.
>And you keep on pissing yourself
What does this even mean.
>or sloped arms
okay what is this

I cannot relate to this, im afraid. My 45 years of writing poetry has not prepared me for this. What the hell are you doing?

Early sheltered hours
crept in like cats
and held our calls
below the window pane
looked through, a waxing moon
certain soon to wane
The tide bends to its powers
West down Hammersmith way
the same applies to flowers
coming and then going
two seasons in one day

>>9399607
>what is old age

>>9399563
>>9399563
the paragraphs got a bit "blobbed" when I pasted it here. The fragment is because I got scared of using to many commas. Which I went and did anyways. Would slapping a few "ands" in there work? Or do I need to rebuild the whole thing? Thank you

Gotta start somewhere, homie. I would have thought that with the basics would be a good idea.

Given that Nas is a professional (poet), it's no wonder he can shit out something vastly better in 30 seconds than a beginner can.

Thanks for taking the time to read and comment though.

From the shadows of the rain one man rode out. He raised his head and looked on ahead. A centuries old path left untended and mangled by the earth lay before him amidst forlorn glades and pitted white stones scattered about like discarded coffins and broken bits of bone removed from an extinct race of colossi. A long shot beyond stood high trees stern and formidable in their formation. As the man looked at those trees he saw their branches as they swayed in the stormbringer wind and thought they looked like reaching hands of starving men going for a bowl. There was a crack of lightning, and a resentful snort and stomp from his pampered horse. The man sighed. Another night under shower. He reached for the glove on his right hand with his left and pulled it off, then he reached forward with his naked open palm and he petted his steed.
"Sorry friend, it looks to be another night of wetness and misery for you and me. A shame that we've both become so soft and spoiled over the past few months, a little storm and a little bit of rain should be no nuisance to a couple of hardened veterans like us," The man smiled childishly as his horse chided him with a click of its teeth, revealing the relative lack of years lived by the so called "veteran". "I mean, think about it, remember in Caralybda? Where you and I and a whole legion wrecked our way through the smashed gate just in the nick of time for the double to come crashing in upon us!" The horse nodded. It still had a scar on its thigh where a spearman had thrust into him. The horse had fallen on it's back in pain and would have gotten another thrust through the ribs to the heart if the man hadn't have been there to cut the assailant down like a blood and pulp filled piñata.
"Ha, excellent! Those were quite some trying times, eh? You, me, dozens of our guys, hundreds of theirs all around, no place to run, no one to help us, our only option was to stand together and fight to the end. Fight we did, and no end came... for us, anyways," The man sniggered. It should be noted that he was not a cold hearted demon, but a warm and funny man who was always in the mood for a joke, food and good tales of the old fashioned sort, but if on the occasion you found yourself as his enemy, be it brought about from the personal or the political, then disregard the previous comment about him not being a cold hearted demon. He was a monster to his enemies.

>>9399608
Punctuation is a must here. So much so that, if you don't add a period at the end of one of your lines, it means something else.
>two seasons in one day
the good.
>looked through, a waxing moon
the bad.
> bends to its powers
the ugly
>>9399615
>he didn't understand it because he's old
Okay. Learn your craft more.

>>9399602
It does not read well mate. I can see the point you're making but it's definitely a bit hacky.

>crippled or tight
Been getting into Larkin?

He looked on towards the abyssal forest that neared towards them observing the mass of shivering verdigris leaves and then looked back as the storm cracked and howled in endless repetition. It's bleak depths were less like a storm and more like a blackened castle of astonishing magnitude. It's flashes of lightning were like shrieking bolts from a host of cross-bow wielding titans. It's towers rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell, and they rose and then they fell again and again and again, never ever ending and from the great plumes of solid black came the conquering rain that pelted the land like rocks flung from hidden beams and billowing rafters. "Do you think God is angry with us?" The man asked," looks like he brought us a damn siege! Alright then, on you go, we need to find some place to hide this night. This ones going to be bad to us..."
As he spoke there was a crack of lightning that smacked nearby and a great flame fractured the earth as if some hell beast had ripped it's flaming body from the ground and sent it's burning pieces across the land in a shower of mineral and fire. The horse shrieked and raced away from the blast, nearly throwing the man from him like an unwanted doll as he did. The man clung to the horse with fear and desperation for in the moment when the lightning had reached down to the earth in its murderous arc he had become like a child absorbed in fear. When he regained his senses, he was unable to ascertain how long he had lost them. It may have been just a moment, but it could have been an hour for all he knew. When overcome by panic time becomes a forgotten quantity.
"Alright boy, you had your moment! Get your shit together!" the man called to his horse as it charged through the alien wood where the trees stood like faltering sentries trembling at an inestimable adversary with death on his mind and not even a dream of remorse to pester him when he slept over their lacerated corpses.

The rain caught them, it pelted them and froze them and would not allow them one second that was free from profuse suffering. The trees ripped at the companions manically and blindly and with so much ferocity that the man could have sworn that those trees had hated him with all the resentment and jealousy of a spurned lover. "Do you think that nature can hate, friend? This storm is making me wonder." The man stared in wonder and fear as heavens blitzkrieg shot it's bolts into the forest with a ruthless fusillade, blasting the lambasted topiary into moribund bodies of burnt coppice and shrubs. One by one they fell, like soldiers in a line, like stars falling from the sky, like rocks as they descend from the mountain onto the climbers unwary heads, like an acrobat that missed his trapeze, like a drunkard who has lost his footing, as the man watched each of the trees meet its destruction, he saw that they fell in their own way. "Much like people," he thought.
The explosion came right behind him. In a hawk dive upon its prey, the lightning arced across the sky like some luciferian serpent and launched itself into a great oak so fast as to be instantaneous. In one moment of incineration the tree burst asunder and threw out thousands of shrapnel bits like tiny flying daggers. The man was thrown from the blast like a tepid boney leaf and hit the ground hard. He lay motionless. The horse became like a paranoid demon and charged off as fast as the storm wind, leaving the man alone where he lay, small and vulnerable in the shattering maelstrom. He was bleeding from the head in a light trickle that washed away in the rain into the mud and he lay there, dreamlessly, motionlessly, slightly breathing, but so slight... If he lived, it would be a miracle.

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In and after 10pm
the tube rush had its round
and circle lines slow down
at quiet stations.
The lights of streaming alleys
from the seats,
orange haze and hailing
taxis in the streets.
Distant night buses,
when night commuting, stare
at buildings strange to sleep.

>>9399622
Your very first sentence reads awkwardly. Why not say, "one man rode out from the shadows of the rain." ? Then the second sentence is redundant (arguably) as it can be inferred that the raising of one's head allows them to look forward.

I skimmed the rest: so purple it suffers from thrombosis! ok not that purple, but you could definitely tighten it up a lot

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>>9399432
Be lethal, please.

>There are possibilities here. Possibilities, that's all. Now don't get too excited. You're getting to know James, who knows Shirley, who knows Sharon. James is the boyfriend of Shirley, and Shirley is a good friend of Sharon. You could almost call yourself a friend of James at this point. Could you? Maybe not. Just calm down for a second. James Ramirez has hung out twice with you and your friends. James Ramirez is the boyfriend of Shirley Schumacher. And Shirley Schumacher is a good friend of Sharon Flannery. A good friend? Seems like it. Well, a friend. There really are possibilities here. James Ramirez is a friend of Sharon Flannery too. No, no. You don't know that. Maybe he secretly hates her. But it is highly doubtful that Shirley Schumacher hates Sharon Flannery. Sharon Flannery is a nice name. It is one of the nicest names you have heard, and you used to hate the name "Sharon." This is all very good. Tomorrow you can go for a walk. Yes, that sounds like a plan. Get some of this energy out. A nice walk. And plenty of nice things to think about. It hasn't been like this in a while. And it is spring outside. Who cares about the pollen. Tomorrow you can go on a nice walk. It is much too late to do that today. It is 10:54 PM. You ought to get to bed. But there will be some nice things to think about as you fall asleep. Plenty of nice names. It hasn't been like this in a while. A year, maybe? Even the worrying is nice. It is nice just like it was before. You can worry that James Ramirez has already begun to secretly hate you. A great thing to worry about. No guilt, no shame, no fear, no philosophizing, nothing pitch-black. What a good type of worrying. It really hasn't been like this in a while. The best kind of worrying. So adolescent. Maybe there is still some time left for adolescence.

[REDACTED]

Earth, the mother of birth,
pregnant, sleeping on her stomach,
cuts the moon's umbilical—
chords dissonantly ring
around the rosy the pocketfuls
of gold coins dredged from the deep.
She leaves grocery bags on the door
and spanks dead children
whenever they tiptoe in the lukewarm dark
imagineering the padded walls as lullabies.
The frenzied skullduggery sunk courts
settle centuries old lost dogs and cats
libel suit; Jehosaphat's gavel bites
the teeth off a hung jury of mice
breathing one minuet together
under mother's bosom, apart.

>>9399617
I wouldn't say to rebuild the whole thing, but I also wouldn't say throwing a few ands in there would fix it.
You just have to plug things in and read it to yourself. I know that's vague. I'm sorry

>>9399619
Just read more. Learn metre, write poems just for the sake of metre, and then try some
nas is also a rapper, not a poet.

>>9399625
>He looked on towards the abyssal forest that neared towards them observing the mass of shivering verdigris leaves and then looked back as the storm cracked and howled in endless repetition
Congrats, you've already lost your reader's will to read anything else.
Fix this, please. I literally beg you. You have some decent stuff thrown in there. Salvage it
But you need to make things simpler. Not everything needs to be described. Be humble.

>>9399637
the good:
Distant night buses,
when night commuting, stare
The bad:
??
The ugly:
??

Not bad. I guess the rest was just sort of "eh" to my mind. There are words out there with greater effect. Seek them

>>9399642
Here's my critique:

>There are possibilities here. Possibilities, that's all

>>9399642
>>There are possibilities here. Possibilities, that's all.
No.
>Now don't get too excited
No.
>You're getting to know James, who knows Shirley, who knows Sharon. James is the boyfriend of Shirley, and Shirley is a good friend of Sharon. You could almost call yourself a friend of James at this point. Could you? Maybe not. Just calm down for a second. James Ramirez has hung out twice with you and your friends. James Ramirez is the boyfriend of Shirley Schumacher. And Shirley Schumacher is a good friend of Sharon Flannery. A good friend? Seems like it.
I don't care.

>What a good type of worrying. It really hasn't been like this in a while. The best kind of worrying. So adolescent.

Me no like. Me think it bad. Me hate reading this.

>>9399643
aesthetically abhorrent.
You made English look like German.

That aside. . .
It's got interesting imagery. This one's just too odd for me I guess

>>9399646
I'm this guy>>9399625
>>9399628
>>9399622
So I'm not completely hopeless, then? I'm aware that my writing could use some tightening up, I just don't know when to hold back and when to go all in. My intention was to come up with something melodic and rhythmic and I'd like to develop that style I had in mind. I'm still a long way away from perfecting that style, a very long way, but any specific points or tips that you would have would be great and I'd be grateful to receive them

Hate Sand/ It should be banned.

We're running out of sand I've heard
but I don't care, I know its there.
It lines the foreign coasts
and between you and me,
let river bends and beds
go bare, empty desert air.
Undo the undersea.

>>9399646
No need to be sorry. You've been very helpful.

>>9399685
too short to really care, but fix your caesura at line 5. Ruined it for me
>>9399677
not at all hopeless. Though, I am worried when you say you don't know when to hold back. Writing is streamed, not crafted. At least it shouldn't be.

Biggest tip to give you right now is to patch your obscure words. Yes, I know you know what they mean. I do too, as many intelligent people do, but Joe doesn't, and Joe may like to read.
Also, some of your word choice ruins the mood. I chuckled at the pinata mention. Just really make it feel natural.

>>9399689
>well past noon
I don't know, 17 minutes isn't so much time in my opinion

I'm not feeling the jumbled reporter's writing style here. Can't say much else

first time, i'm no good but:

Twelve-seventeen, well past noon; yesterday’s rain still imbrued the sidewalk. A trio of spiders lay overturned in the grass, legs clasped inward in silent sermons. Some blades of grass remain caught under the husk-abdomens. They wait.
The final canals of rainwater resign themselves to the edge of curb, whistling through grates into the sewer. The deep bellow of lighthouse foghorn, a rich A note trumpeted far behind the scene. A fellow in a bright blue car had passed through here, hours ago, when the oldest recorded human died at one hundred seventeen in her rocking chair, but he heard nothing of it and would not until the following day. This thought would reoccur to him in the future, each time the same story, sometimes shrouded in the bleeding heart of nostalgia, but occasionally thundered by the bitter horn of real doom. He vows to beat one seventeen, by a long shot. The foghorn thundered on, the water trickles.

>>9399720
Well this not my first draft, this is my second. I could show you an excerpt of my first. It's very unpolished, but it's also simpler than the second, so it may sound more natural.

>>9399675
i screwed up on some of the punctuation, revising that might help with clarification/readability

anyway thanks for the comments

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Letters lean left and right
down the drain and up the flight
of stairs strewn with lego pieces
married to my mother's nieces
like a kite to keys and streams of light
that hide away at day and live at night
buried with treasures tried and true
across and deep that yonder blue
where origami hearts fold and fold
whispering deadly stories now untold
till the youthful ears of children turn
towards the mighty voices of the urn
that dies away with laughter new
and sinks down further yonder blue.

here's the beginning to a novel i'm working on. please don't hold anything back in critiquing it:

A relatively small sphere of rock and iron orbited a comparatively large sphere of bright fission-fueled gases somewhere on the outskirts of a collection of clusters of similar spheres called by certain lifeforms the Milky Way®. On this relatively small sphere of rock and iron, during the year of our Lord 2020, there lived two lifeforms who identified, quite colloquially, as human; however, rather than human, these two featherless bipeds preferred to present themselves with the appellations, Tom and Jerry, respectively. To them, and their 7 and a half billion fellow members of the species Homo sapiens, binomial nomenclature proved to be of the utmost moral, and legal, importance. Coincidentally, Tom and Jerry happened to have been making their way through a second, more microcosmically oriented, milky way of sorts: the birthplace of milk chocolates, the mecca of cheese, a land nobly named Schweizerische Eidgenossenschaft. To foreigners, it was simply called Switzerland.
At this time, they were traveling by locomotive through this archipelago of cottontail mountaintops towards their fateful destination, a small tucked-away town called Gstaad, endeavoring to complete a work of moving pictures, known as a documentary film. It is here their story begins.

>>9399769

II/II

“Tom, we can’t open the film with such an obvious exposition dump.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying we should provide some sort of wide-angle point-of-view to open it up. Something that provides quick context.”
“I get it, but we don’t have the budget to rent a helicopter, and we don’t have David Attenborough’s voice to legitimize that kind of shot. We agreed: we’re making a quaint film, therefore we should open it quaintly.” Jerry let the point settle, looking out of the train window at the now quickly moving scene of Swiss countryside. “Anyway, it’s called The Land of Milk and Money, and it’ll be advertised as a film about Switzerland. People aren’t going to need a bird’s-eye-view of Switzerland to know it’s about Switzerland.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying rather than begin it in media res with a shot of the cheese factory or the cow-fights, we begin with some footage of the country itself, a montage of Swiss things, something big.”
“Okay, but I thought that we agreed that people, whether they know it or not, are far more interested in the particular, rather than the quote-unquote universal. The high-res picture comes after we give something specific for the audience to grab on to.”

>>9399769
these types of things are unecessary
>called by certain lifeforms
>to complete a work of moving pictures, known as a documentary film
>identified, quite colloquially, as human
i understand that its intended to be a sort of alien disinterested abnormal type of feel but the whole Sartre pointing-out-absurd-concepts thing never plays out well

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Here's a short story I'm working on.

>>9399769
Why use the words "relatively" and then "comparatively" when you already have the words "small" and "large" which imply the same fucking thing? Get rid of relatively and comparatively.

>however, rather than human, these two featherless bipeds preferred to present themselves with the appellations, Tom and Jerry, respectively
>Tom and Jerry, respectively
That's not how you use "respectively." There are not two things to distinguish between, you just present two things so there's nothing to attribute "respectively" to.

And why the fuck are they called Tom and Jerry? Cat and mouse? Cheese and chocolate? What the fuck are you even talking about?

Scrap this and start over with something less pretentious. Also check your comma use, you have a lot of useless commas.

I'm being overly harsh because you requested it but seriously this is bad.

>>9399785
Your dialogue is much better than your intro.

Consider making this your intro, the intro you have now is too messy

>>9399850
the first line of dialogue was meant to act as a response to the italicized proto-prologue (which is a macro zoomed into micro cosmic viewpoint of the events to come, and meant to be seen as funny (though the execution clearly needs some work based on your and the other anons comments here: >>9399829 >>9399792)).

Anyway, I really appreciate the feedback: any and everyone's responses are different and equally important.

>>9399912
Ah ok, that makes more sense now. That is pretty funny.

But yeah the execution needs some work lol

get on with it
pull the lever
sling the rope
slap the pink
spank the drought
touch the beams
dream the seas
can the breasts
slam the wheat
back the front
break the back
gut the krill
make the bat
mull the mill
tear the shore
yank the chin
chain the links
skin the yard
plant the vine
nab the tune
and tie the nought
all before they
find you out

break it, the kit kat, split it among the herd
of troglodytes called Earthlings or
Terrans tearing a warpath along pieces
of peace betwixt twin Twix pieces
and snap into it like a slim's factoid cap
drink and snuff up some tobacco
designed for insufflation by the nariz
in France's idea of Niger or Australia
before it had a name or live game
liek Duck Hunter autocorrected to fowl play
before arm's get up for armageddon
sometime in the near future or present
3 thousand so-so years ahead or sew
after we reap grimly with norMandy and Bill
Clinton, where good and evil are just words
spoken by cousins named Good and Evil
underneath the cracks of morality in sin
where light can only outshine the darkness
inside the recycled man of heartless tin

>>9399721
>yesterday's rain still imbued the sidewalk
Awkward, and it doesn't make sense because hardened concrete can not be "imbued" by water.

I'd pick apart each sentence individually, but they're all awkward and just awful overall. None of them seem to have any importance. You also seem to attempt to personify everything in an, I assume, attempt to describe it well, but it just ends up being awkward and juvenile. There are also a ton of grammatical errors/spelling errors and words accidentally left out. You should really proofread thoroughly before posting.

>>9399763
I hate it. all of the forced rhymes just makes the poem seem like something written in a middle-school English class. If you insist on rhyming, at least learn what half-rhyming/slant rhyming is to make it less cringe and juvenile.

>>9399995
I read this like it was some heavy metal screamo lyrics where they scream out each line along with a guitar and pause briefly in-between for dramatic effect. This doesn't seem like a poem to me. I'm not really sure what you're going for, but I don't like it.

>>9400002
It's not that bad. I don't really like the metaphors used, though. And the poems meaning isn't really as deep or profound as the poems language tries to be.
Here's mine, let me know what you think; more thoughts for a section of my book that i'm working on than a refined passage, but I think it's alright. Might change the phrasing of a couple sentences to not be so long-winded for better flow.

A cross-hatch against a cross-hatch of stars in a line against a line in nothingness and nothingness and something. Something? Something—it is there sometimes, in some centuries in some years but it is not here in this year or this century else I would not be a blue line echoing against the dark. Else I would not be a misguided star searching in that nothingness for that something and finding something only to be cast away by a cold gravity into the cold void devoid of something. If it could just be something in that void once more! If I could just be something in that void: in this darkness against these decaying boards against decaying boards separating me and father.

you are 2 dimensional
like paper, loose leaf
you hold your x and y, but no z
you are nothing but pen strokes
folded into wax covered boats

yet you feel and you think
you love poetry and the ice rink
your opinions are just
your cause is a must
for without protest,
how will we change

you write music
note by note
you are art, music, science
more than a paper boat

on a screen we see just blood and propaganda
counterarguments, but not enough stanzas
you are real, you are blood
you are flesh, you are bone
my soul yearns to meet yours
no brother is alone

run with the bulls
board the paper boat

*
so,

i’m going to need you to suspend your hostility toward hippies for a moment, because when i say something, like for example, “hair can contain positive and negative energy” and you roll your eyes like what i am saying is worthless, is unbelievable, is not applicable to you or anyone else’s lives, let me ask you if you have ever heard or experienced what the phrase “good hair day” means.

because maybe we are talking about the same thing, maybe you already know what i mean, you just haven’t thought of it this way. maybe looking at things as possessing energy is an obvious fact we overlook, maybe our moods determine this energy more than we want to believe.


*

feelings are powerful energy
how we translate them into the real world is important

depending on the feeling we have
our translation or lack thereof can cause the feeling to amplify or dissipate

like two waves crashing against each other

when we have a feeling
how we choose to express or not express that feeling will determine whether or not we release it or keep it
like a bird, like a heavy block of marble.
do we keep this feeling and tend to it, do we release this feeling into the world?

if this feeling is good then, please take up a chair and carve a beautiful statue to yourself that you may share with others, please tend to the bird and it will sing for you and will sing for others for it is happy and cared for

if this feeling is bad, please bring the bird to a window so it can leave you and the smell of unclean birdcage may be swept out with it, please pay no mind to the large slabs of heavy rock along the path, for there will be many and you do not need to carry any of them.

how you choose to express your feelings will determine how those feelings continue to be expressed by you.

do you understand?

*

>>9400127
i think the term you're looking for is "bad hair day," and it almost always refers to the superficial aspect of someone's hairdo, not state of wellbeing.

>>9400066
I like this, but probably needs the context for a full critique. That said, I know you're trying for the repetition, but I feel it might slightly be overdone, perhaps change some of the words. Solid ending though.

Here's a poem of mine, wanted to write a haiku but with a limit on words rather than syllables (I think I read that idea somewhere, but no idea where anymore...)

Autumnal leaves, crackling, flee trees
While native leaves cling, enduring in desperation —
Dear, my heart attempts both.

>>9399432
A publisher near where I live only wants LGBT submissions, seriously, so thought of this short story:

>A struggling writer is on his way to submit his work, its about the Scottish Highlands.
>We follow him on his walk, he walks past a GAY PRIDE parade, and is disgusted.
>You get the impression he is a homophobe.
>Reaches the publish house, his work is denied.
>"sorry we're not really looking for this, it's LGBT+ only, I don't think you satisfy our criteria, we're looking for pro-lgbt, pro-minority gender fiction"
>Steps back outside, his boyfriend is waiting in his car to take him home.

What do you think?

>>9400369
They'd probably reprimand you for being a smarmy smartass, though the point of your writing would be completely true.

Here's my work of the night:

Devon sat outside feeling nothing. No letter, no call, no nothing. He was a failure. Dancing blades tickled his resting hands, but he did not notice them. "I'm stuck here forever," he thought," tell even that is taken from me. Then I'll be stuck nowhere." A cricket chirped by him, but he did not hear it.
He got up, reached for his discarded hat and put it on his shaven head. At 5'11 he could almost be considered tall, and with close set eyes and a nose like a squash he was not handsome. Devon tread slowly through the empty field. He looked at nothing and made no sound. All sights to be seen and all sounds to be heard he had experienced many times before, so the beet red sun that sat cusped on the horizon behind pinkish clouds or in bloom dandelions that fell apart in the breeze had no effect on him. Their wonder was undone by their repeating of the cycle. For a man like Devon, the idea of an unbreakable cycle was horror itself.

>>9399461
>>9399488
>>9399524
>>9399622
>>9399625
>>9399628
>>9399438

stop projecting your sad lives into your characters

>>9400384
It's 4chan

>>9400381
you need to be more descriptive, blades of what? Knives? 'Sitting outside on the grass'. You do what I do, and that's assume the reader knows what you know. Spit it out, son.

>>9400381

Stop projecting your ideal of yourself, it's just sad and so easy to spot. Create an original character.

>>9399622

stop using so many words you think are cool and start describing events properly.

> He reached for the glove on his right hand with his left and pulled it off, then he reached forward with his naked open palm and he petted his steed.

First you add some stupid unnecesary crap about how to remove gloves, then you proceed to tell how he positions his palm to pet the horse, but dont even say how he pet it, gently? firmly?

You're too focused on using big words making you lose coherence.
You can add semantics later, knowing words doesnt make a good writer, being able to clearly express ideas does.

>>9399829

Dont use literally incorrectly when writing please.
"literally retarded" "not like down syndrome retarded"

so? which one is it

https://pastebin.com/pfrrbJRD

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>>9399432
Your friendly, neighbourhood Shillderman, reporting in.

J N Morgan

>Living amongst the Dead
Realistic and nitty-gritty zombie survival novel with emphasis on survivalism. Proper firearm terminology and handling.
>When her No means Yes
Short erotica novel, practically a novella, easily my worst-selling.
>Firearm Valhalla
Action and sort of post-apocalyptic novelette, only 16,500 words.
>Another One Please, to Dull the Pain
Drama novella, wrote it in the span of less than 5 days, I think it turned out pretty good.
>Living amongst the Dead: Dark Days
Sequel to Living amongst the Dead.
>3rd instalment to the Living amongst the Dead series
Working on it, about half way finished, wrote over 4,000 words yesterday which is quite good. Quite a few racial issues are being addressed thus far and I'm kind of thinking of including a Muslim character to see how my take on Sharia Law and all that nonsense goes. I'm more of a 'discovery writer' than an 'outline writer', so I just kind of take an idea and roll with it when I write.

Can start copy/pasting one of my books here if anyone would like to critique and/or talk shit about it. As for OP's pic, I've actually been checking out David Foster Wallace's interviews, and he seems like a pretty cool guy. Reminds me a bit of myself, particularly the twitching and, to an extent, the social paranoia.

Pic related is the old cover for LatD. Yup, pretty damn basic, I think my new one is a bit better but I have to be honest; I still kind of like this one.

>>9400524
I have no idea why anyone would want to read, let alone write, any of those turgid genre-fiction novels.
What motivates you?

I bore holes into her cheeks with my dumb stare, the moisture of my eyes soaked up by the maniacal farce of the foul display before me.

Once again, she inhaled another gulping mouthful of liquid cheese.

After the last of her smooth dairy fists descended, she plopped the can back on the shelf and continued to scan the display, then let out a pained gasp.

“It’ll be the death of us Bready… these endless fucking rows of comestible wank. Might as well liquidate it all and blast it directly into her mouth through a tube.” Murray whispered to me contemptuously, as he slapped a pack of king-size Roadies over the scanner and into a large paper bag.

The woman, her limpid, crusty brown hair now stiff with flecks of splashing cheddar, continued to gently hover down the aisle on her scooter, unfazed by the repugnance of her drive-by refuelling.

“I swear to you, if it’s not a council health indictment that drops her in the pit, a sizeable solar flare would burst her heart like a plum in a centrifuge.” He chuckled, passing a small stack of change and a note awkwardly to a small man whose boyish features, thick rimmed glasses and heavy stubble made him somewhere between 10 and 45.

“Thanks for shopping with us, godspeed and have a good day.” He added drily, as the stubby man wobbled off with his cigarettes.

“What do you mean a solar flare? I'm pretty sure that's not how solar flares work.” I responded.
Carefully I watched the woman tenderly finger open a box of Schweaties with curiosity.

“Y'know, solar flares. At any time one of those bad boys could pop off and emit this huge gravitational pressure on the earth.” He paused a moment, then punched in the number of a stubborn bar code for a danish pastry.

He continued, “but by the time it actually gets here, only the febrile, delicate among us will implode. Everyone else will just get this crazy migraine. I saw it on Kamflesch TV the other night.”

“I see. Is this like yesterday's dog Hitler thing?” I replied, wiping residual sleep from my tear ducts and blinking under the harsh ceiling lights.

“Man you don’t even know the half of it. I’m telling you, Hitler and his boys trained so many dogs during World War 2-"

"-Boys? Really?" I interrupted.

"Fine. Nazis, whatever." .

"Anyways the dogs were trained to sniff out and attack Jews so often that it became a genetically inherited trait over the years, passed down over the generations. There are still dogs even in this very town that have that hard-wired anti-semitism.” He trailed off brusquely.

A woman Murray was serving cleared her throat in disapproval.

"What's your problem? I didn't say it was a good thing, some of my best friends are Jewish... I just don't want them to get mauled by dogs is all." He added to her, incredulously.After staring at her for a few moments in silence, she soon scampered off in a fuss.
(1/2)

>>9400542
I love to write, and I very much enjoy fiction. I also have a passion for firearms and thus far I've managed to include them to one extent or another in all of the books. In spite of the tragic nature of its use in 'Another One Please', I find it quite comical, because the main character knows basically nothing about firearms. In /k/ terms, he's a lifelong noguns.

I also have a passion for survivalism, and have been into zombies since I was a young teen, so that explains why I started out with zombie survival. I've wanted to write a realistic and survivalism-focused novel for years and years, finally got around to doing so last October and now it's soon to become a trilogy of sorts but I'm certain I'll be writing more instalments once this book is finished.

To each their own, I guess.

>>9400574
He turned to me again.

"Honestly ask Dumpy, one of Mr. Benson's pugs got into the synagogue down on Finch and went batshit... Went right for Rabbi Peter's face he said" Murray added once more, mimicking the dog's jaws by jabbing his hands in Bready's face.

"For some reason I get the feeling the Nazi's weren't using pugs as instruments of war. Not even sure one could reach Rabbit Peter's face." I replied.

"One could definitely bite a Rabbi's dick off though, probably why they lost the war." He said defiantly.

"Why did you feel the need to call it his Rabbi -" I began, before hearing the screech of tires on tired linoleum.

In a sudden and largely baffling movement, the floating woman revved her scooter and drove full speed into the confectionery shelving before the till. She was now directly facing the counter where Bread and Murray stood slouched and listless. Staring deep into their souls, her mouth became agape and slightly canted, lips caked with an unknown sauce.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, she lifted a shaking fist towards the two of them, followed by a bizarre, hollow hiss that fell out of her mouth like a gentle breeze.

“Can… can I help you maam?” Murray probed.

The hissing grew louder, and her squamous, flaking skin began to fly from her arm like a wet dog in the sunlight as she shook it with more intensity. Another pause. Then, the noise began to morph into a moist gurgle, rising and catching on her throat until she abruptly coughed and dribbled a thick black liquid down her front.

“What… the fuck. Is that.” I gawped, rushing over to her.

"Woah, woah, woah, Bready slow down... she could be toxic." He warned.

On closer inspection, her eyes had become inky and filled to the ducts, as if the retching fluid had been diverted directly to her brain. Her head began slowly tilting back and the liquid ebbed and flowed once more from her mouth, softly at first and then jilting with every gasped breath.

"Maam." I probed, poking her shoulder with my finger.

The skin gave way as I pressed against it, breaking apart like film on a day old bowl of soup. A thicker, rubbery black substance lay underneath and began to creep out.

Before long, the skin began to crack and separate like tectonic plates, perniciously deconstructing and sparsely covering this Pangaeac blob.

In a matter of seconds, she had devolved into total amorphousness.

Murray and I stood silently and then slowly backed away from the nightmarish puddle of black covering the mobility scooter. On the far side of the puddle the furthest reaches of the liquid began sidling itself, almost autonomously, into a small crack under the shelving unit.

The sound of sirens blared outside, and as we turned to face the automatic doors, an almighty SCCCCHKKKKWWWWWUMP snapped our heads forward to find to an immaculate floor and scooter, as the last of the puddle descended forcefully down the hole like a trapped octopus through a slit in a ship's hull.

(2/2) idk.

>>9400524
Just did some more writing. It seems that I consistently am in the mood to write early in the mornings, even sometimes before coffee. Reached the 40,000 word mark on my 6th book, the 3rd in the Living amongst the Dead series. It's coming along quite well, lots of stuff happening, one of the characters has unfortunately died but it's pretty inevitable for stuff like that to happen. Another might die before the book is finished but I dunno, we'll see, I have some things in mind.

I woke up from the same sound that had roused me for the past two months. From the noise of the people working the morning shift when they scraped and shovelled the snow from the nearby gates. Occasionally one of them would hit the chain link fence and let off a metallic rattle. Not exactly a pleasant alarm clock but it did its job. “Hey Stan, wake up and let’s get moving I’m freezing my fucking ass off” Cooper bellowed. “I’m already up, give me a few seconds.” I replied and zipped open my sleeping bag. The stale freezing air of the tent hit me instantly, it had been unusually cold lately and not getting any warmer. I fumbled around for my clothes, the aviator jacket Cooper gave me, the pants from home I’d padded with newspapers and my beat-up sneakers. I zipped open the tent, stepped outside and looked at Cooper. As per usual he was wearing his old army jacket, two sets of jeans and a giant pair of homemade boots. “Took you long enough dipshit, if we move out now we’ll barely make it in time.”

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Ol' Greasy Fingers. Ralphie. Moonface. He went by many names. But when he kicked in the door of that dilapidated pub by the river, he was Dan, plain and simple.
“Fuck me, its that cunt again”, said the barmaid.
“Awright, darlin'” slurred Dan, tumbling toward the bar and catching it for support. “Pint of ale, would you kindwy.” He gave her a gummy grin and he slid a moist twenty-pound note over the counter.
The young girl picked it up with a pair of chopsticks and stuffed it into the register.
“Keep the change, luv.” said Dan, smacking his lips.
The girl poured the pint soberly, and handed it to Dan.
“Cheers” he said, and walked precariously over to his usual corner, a faint smell of cheap Shiraz wafting behind him.
He slumped into his chair flatulently and slammed his pint on the table, the foamy liquid spilling over onto his grubby hands. He threw his head back and screamed.
“Nonono No – No place I'd rather beeee! Nonono No!”
The barmaid went on cleaning glasses. The patrons largely ignored him. Though some looked up and curled their upper lips, most had grown accustomed to this. The year was 2027 and the world had gone to shit.
“Proper fockin' good tune, that.” Dan said to no-one in particular, sinking further into his seat. “Back in my day we had some proper fockin' bangers.”
He gulped his pint down in one, slammed it down and shouted: “Another!”
Wordlessly, the barmaid brought him another pint of Farage Ale. Dan held out another twenty-pound note and groped her slim fingers as she took it.
“I was your age, once” he said. “Before all this. Before they come and took over th'bloody country. Before they took away our knives and forks and replaced them with chopsticks. Before the nanny state.”
The girl pulled away and took her place behind the bar again.
“Don't fritter it away.” he called. “You get one chance. That's from me to you, that.”
He pulled out a thick brown stick from his pocket.
“S'pose you don't even know what one of these are” he said, brandishing the object. “We used to smoke these in every pub in the land, before they took them away. Lit them up and sucked them down. We didn't know why, but we didn't need to.”
A glint in his eye of times past.
“We did things for the hell of it back then. Before all the rules. Before the Chinese came. We did it for freedom.”
All eyes were on him now. No-one dared speak of the Chinese overlords.
“Got this from a friend at Callais. Sometimes all a man has to do to start a revolution is to start a fire.”
He lit a match.
“Down with the nanny state.”
An explosion so loud it was almost noiseless.

First day students at AAME are always filled with a precarious cocktail of both empowered self belief and shit-their-pants fear of the unknown. Each student, as they pull up in the passenger seats of their parent's cars and unload their various instruments and equipment, has a kind of glassy-eyed distant gaze, not dissimilar to new recruits on their first day of boot camp. There's like a chilled heat hanging in the air around the building, a tension that grips the parents and the students alike, and undoubtedly the staff too, though you wouldn't know it from looking. The air around the building on this particular day has a smell of sickly freshness, sweet pangs of lavender drifting along from the gardens out front on a light breeze, soothing but also slightly jarring and misplaced, tickling the nostrils harshly. It is the first thing P. Pritchard notices as he enters the school grounds, everything else sort of refuses to take any meaningful form, the nerves making it too hard to process anything. He sits awkwardly in the passenger seat of his Mum's Volvo, gripping his saxophone case to his chest as if it were protecting him. The sun's light forms annulus shapes that glare through the window, catching his eyes in a way that makes him want to sneeze. He squints as he tries to take in the world around him. The school building is monolithic in a Neo-Gothic sort of way, sort of church-esque, with its swathes of sandstone, and its arched portal with doorways separated by an imposing trumeau, and its large windows that stretch along the facade like shadows, and its jagged parapet that sits like a lofty crown on top. There is an alien element to its layout though, a large glass section that protrudes from the rear, honeycombed with large reflective panels that gleam in multiple colours. It looks like an infestation, like something has dug into the school’s skin and taken nest there, ballooning out in a kaleidoscopic cyst. P. Pritchard looks through the window of the car in slight awe, wide-eyed. Tons of kids, for whatever their age they are kids again here, all arming themselves up against one another, instruments in hand like weapons, trying to lessen their own frenzy of intimidation by imparting the same feeling onto their peers. They will soon learn that the American Academy of Musical Excellence is no place to exert yourself as in anyway superior; the tutors will see certain that everyone feels equally like one another, worms crawling helplessly in the dirt of Music Theory.

>>9400698
>its that cunt
>its
This is probably a typo, but just pointing it out, in case.
Overall, good slang/voice on the protagonist, it's silly but not cringey. "Particular" should be slurred, too many syllables, maybe "Par-tick-yalar", Great Expectations by Dickens has heaps of good representations of lower class twang. I'd enjoy it more if there were more repetition or nuance, your verbs are somewhat generic, but that's my only complaint. 7.5/10 enjoyable

>Also
Farage Ale lol, is this supposed to be Brexitland in 10 years?

>Here's mine, slightly similar:
https://medium.com/@JPosadiss/today-when-nuclear-revolution-began-99aaba1fde97

>>9400869
Thanks. I just smashed it out in 10 minutes last night for a friend of mine called Dan for a lark. The Farage ale was just a jab at my friend, who is obsessed with both Farage and Ale and complains about the "nanny state" e.g. how you can't smoke in pubs anymore.

>https://medium.com/@JPosadiss/today-when-nuclear-revolution-began-99aaba1fde97
>“Whether you like Minecraft or not,”

Kek. I like this daft hyperbolic dystopia type of writing borne out of exaggerated political memery. It's reminds me of some of Will Self's work. I'm not sure if there would be a market for a full novellette of this but I'd certainly read it myself.

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Recently started working on a dictionary of historic slang. Pic related is the first page of the current (early) state.
I'd like to hear some critique on the design and the way I quote the sources.
At the front of the book there's a bibliography listing all the sources and their short names (A1, A2, B, B2, etc.) and I might change the short names later on, maybe even including years, so a short name might be "A10 1822".

>>9401010
And where would this be published?

>>9400887
Lets write a book together, a-anon...

>>9401105
Hit me up if you're serious. I need to hone my writing chops.
[email protected]

>>9401100
Probably Buske, or maybe not at all. Does that really matter?

>>9401010
this has already been done. Neat idea, though. I looked into it and there are already 4 or so mass produced

>>9401010
Your citations cloud up the page, making it difficult to get at the substance. Some definitions (like the one for "blow off the groundsil") are nonsensical.

>>9401155
Obviously I'm currently gathering all the sources, so I can see who copied from whom and made which mistakes. If I just skipped those in the first place, the dictionary would be worthless.
You obviously have never looked into a good historic dictionary of an obscure language.

>>9401155
Youa re right, the definition of blow off the groundsil was missing a "you". Fixed that.

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Rate my essay

>>9401197
Unreadable

>>9401197
"Humans are pattern seeking animals and we are adept at finding patterns whether they exist or not" (adapted from Michael Shermer). (title)


“If you put your baby tooth under your pillow, a tooth fairy will replace it with a reward at night.”

“Wow, what kind of reward mom?”

“Something you can use to get yourself some ice cream!”

“ICE CREAM, I want to go to bed now! *giggles*”


This is the start of a propensity to believe in patterns. The parent has done a good job in allowing the child into the right way of life. Whether believing in patterns is useful, is up to contention. This TOK question suggests that humans naturally seek patterns and propose that we are good at it, even though we know not whether the patterns exist. So we begin to wonder:1) Why do we search for patterns? 2) How adept are we at finding meaningful patterns? We will be exploring these nuances of the question in the AOK of mathematics and religious knowledge systems.


Are patterns in mathematics and religious knowledge systems inherently different? Simplistically, patterns are recurring phenomenon; these type of patterns are prominent in mathematics. An example of this are arithmetic sequences in math, which is defined as a string of numbers having the same difference between any two successive numbers (e.g. 3, 6, 9, 12). These type of patterns are less meaningful than patterns which we ascribe a certain meaning to. For example, a pattern can be a certain experience that causes us to believe in something. If someone felt uneasy when he was somewhere dark when he was young, and experienced something that he thought to be connected to the supernatural, he would likely believe in ghosts. Succinctly, there are two types of patterns in these AOKs.

>>9401197
More like ass-ay can I get a high five?

>>9401210
Why do humans seek patterns? One reason for this is it makes our lives easier. Imagine doing a different job every day, the inconsistency of such a life would challenge even the greatest of men! Patterns make our life easier as it helps us in our future endeavors either by allowing us to prepare beforehand or use it to our advantage. In earthquake prediction, seismologists identify geophysical patterns that might precede a large earthquake to be able to alert the public of impending calamities. Based on previous patterns of the sky in her life, a housewife will know that it is about to rain when the sky turns dark and therefore not dry her laundry outside that day. On the other hand, mathematicians seek patterns simply for the beauty of it. Say you are given the problem of finding the sum of the first 1000 numbers. You could arduously add the numbers: 1 + 2 = 3, 3 + 3 = 6, 6 + 4 = 10, etc. But if you realise that you could pair the numbers front to back: 1 + 1000 = 1001, 2 + 999 = 1001, etc. so that we get 500 pairs of numbers that sum to 1001, you could easily find the summand of the numbers, which is 500x1001=500500. We can therefore say, that the sum of the first n integers is ½ n (n + 1). The beauty of this way of counting is not only entrenched in its ability to ease computation, but the power to generalise for multitudinous numbers of n. To conclude, people search for patterns to make their lives easier and for the beauty of them.

In religious knowledge systems however, people search for patterns in order to assert their beliefs. I find that every time I pray, my worries start to alleviate. This is one of the main reasons why I started believing in God; I have faith that He is with me when I praise him. But a logician would laugh at my WOK which led me to know God, for faith to him, is based on little evidence. If he were an atheist, escape not he the inclination to search for patterns as he is likely to find patterns to disprove God! Based on these two examples, we have found out that we find patterns to prove that we are right. Does the fact that we chase patterns, independent if they exist or not, tells us we value favorable societal views on ourselves? Is the quest for seeking patterns intrinsic,or imbued as a need to seem superior to others? We all like being correct, but why do we feel this way? It could be because of the emotions we feel whenever we are right. For if the next time my worries ease after I pray, I would be happy to know that this pattern exists and this will in turn strengthen my belief in God, and cause me to find more patterns. This cyclic relationship between patterns and emotion causes humans to endlessly find patterns, for if he is right, he would be perceived as intelligent and receive a boost of ego, but if he is wrong, his perceived intelligence may fall but its cost is marginal compared to what he could gain from finding a meaningful pattern, so onward he goes on his quest of finding patterns!

r8 poem

to lie with you on rainy days
your head resting on my shoulder
convinces me in many ways
of things inside me that are older

>>9400524
>>9400672
At this point all you're doing is marketing

>>9401213
Some may say since the force that compels us to seek patterns are so strong, then we must be adept at finding them. But one should guard against such reasoning as “being adept” could be only one of many reasons we seek patterns. Yet the KQ “How adept are we at finding meaningful patterns?” is too substantial to overlook. In Michael Shermer’s TED talk “The pattern behind self-deception”, he states two types of errors humans are liable to make in the search for patterns. A Type I error, or a false positive, is believing a pattern is real when it is not (finding a nonexistent pattern), while a Type II error, or a false negative, is not believing a pattern is real when it is (not recognising a real pattern). An example of a Type I error is the pigeon in the box experiment as conducted by B. F. Skinner. Skinner put a pigeon in a box and it has to press one of two keys. The pigeon will try to figure out what the pattern is, and if you give him a little reward in the box — if you just randomly assign rewards such that there is no pattern — they will figure out any kind of pattern. And whatever they were doing just before they got the reward, they repeat that particular pattern. That's called superstition, and is something most of us are liable to, where we believe in good luck charms and associate certain attributes with dates such as friday the thirteenth being an unlucky date. To sum up, humans are not that adept at finding patterns as we have the tendency to believe in superstition that is connected to the supernatural or AOK of religion.

>>9401228
A counterclaim to this is that humans are adept at finding patterns because of the countless theorems mathematicians have discovered. An example is the fundamental theorem of arithmetic which states that “every integer greater than 1 either is prime itself or is the product of prime numbers, and that this product is unique, up to the order of the factors”. To elucidate this theorem, we will look at the numbers 2, 4 and 30. The theorem states that every number has a unique prime factorisation, which means that it is composed of a unique set of prime numbers. For the number 2, its prime factorisation is just 2 as it is a prime number itself. For the number 4 and 30, their prime factorisations are 2×2 and 2×3×5 respectively. The factorisations are unique as only these numbers have the number and order of prime factors when arranged in ascending order. This theorem is a great discovery and not obvious, but requires great perception and familiarity with various mathematical ideas. The theorem has led to the concept of the lowest common multiple which is useful in maximising efficiency such as being able to send a space probe to Mars that covers the least distance possible. Although we think of distance as static, this is not the case for outer space as the space probe would be under the influence of gravity of all the planets in the solar system. According to Oxford Dictionaries, a theorem is defined as “a general proposition not self-evident but proved by a chain of reasoning; a truth established by means of accepted truths”. From this definition, it is clear that it is no mean feat to discover theorems. Consequently, it implies that humans are adept at finding patterns.

If in religious knowledge systems we are incompetent at finding patterns but in mathematics the contrary is true, what then is the verdict to the answer of the aforementioned KQ? It can be said that we are adept at finding meaningful patterns if we work hard as one is only competent in finding patterns in mathematics if one dives himself deep into the ocean of its knowledge. For those who easily believe in superstition without the need for evidence, it is them who freely indulge in believing their made-up patterns.

We have identified that there are many reasons in wanting to search for patterns but one of the basis is for easing men’s life and inflating his ego and outwardly appearance. We have also determined that humans are adept at finding patterns if they put in the effort or else, their efforts to find patterns would most likely be like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. With this knowledge in mind, we must strive to search for meaningful patterns as they are the doorway to an easier life of regularity. But careful we must be towards being too routined by patterns for the flame of creativity and curiosity which fuelled us to find the patterns in the first place will be doused by our own actions, or inaction in the case of not realising this fact

The truck slammed on its breaks. There was a barricade rising through mist. Rolls of tires and red clad children emerging. The truck stopped close enough to see them clearly. Two figures began walking forward looking at them through windows. The right window lowered and Gluos’ head stuck out as he leaned on the horn and yelled, “get the fuck outa the road.”

He pressed into the horn for several more seconds as the pair bracketed the vehicle, Assistant rolled down her window and accepted a thin red scarf from a youth. The other walked up to Gluos now gripping the steering wheel.

“My name is Colum,” he said to Gluos while moving closer to whisper, “and we’ve been watching you.”

“You know it's nothing special to look away from the stream.”

Colum grinned, “it’s child's play.”

“You going to let me get on with this then?” He nodded up the road.

“We can’t stop you.”

They backed away from beside the truck. The third of their party, who was perched on the towering barricade, jumped off and away. The MOART squealed forward ramming the wall, tires tumbled, truck gained purchase on top and rolled over the pile of rubber circles. One of the youths threw a bottle as the MOART clambered over tires, it smashed on the roof. Gluos muttered, “mother fuck.”

There drove on, hands on the wheel. City all around. Blone below. Cruise missiles en route. Mayor’s hideout ahead. Gluos pressed down on the gas, cutting through fog, straight to the point on the map in his head, thinking of youths with faces of red.

In the gov district a launcher sitting in a parking lot fired a missile which had been designed at Wrathion Corporations and assembled in City by robots and people wearing hairnets working 3 hour shifts. It had been purchased by the Worldender government from a NorCon weapons brokerage, and set up last night. The disposable launcher spat out an eight and a half meter long missile with wings, vectoring turbo jet engines, and 500 pound conventional warhead. The CM-54 Scrub arched towards the Taipan and fell, steadied then coasted 4 meters above brown water at 1000 m/s. Mil sec scanners lost contact, until it arced back into the City. Rushing above streets, searing past windows, into a City square with mid-sized buildings and a MOART driving into the center.

The MOART stopped with a screech in the square facing the mayor’s hideout. Inside the truck Gluos put the sun visor down. Assistant said, “AI gives us 50 percent chance of being the target.”

The Scrub whipped its turbo jet, tilted its wings, and made a huge braking turn through the square slamming itself directly into a building that was still highlighted by the MOARTs windscreen as the Mayor’s hideout. All the windows in the building blew out, followed by an expanding fireball of exploding Scrub.

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I embarrassingly tried to portray this used book store I go to. I suck shit at writing but at least I tried.

Figures danced, unclean and unshaven, around the labyrinthine wooden shelves, the door propped open with a single brick to the hot wet street. One shriveled lady fiddled with a radio set on top of a stack of lithographs while a younger man next to her with dusty clothes and a dusty face opened a roll of quarters into the register. The sound of coins filling the plastic interior of the cashbox coincided with the first bar of Mendelssohn's 'Reiterliede'. The shriveled lady, now satisfied with the functionality of the radio, returned to her perch on a tall stool behind the checkout counter. Her sedentary position obscured a few old engineering textbooks. The man began writing something with sharpie on a neon yellow strip of paper. The smell of yellowed paper was amplified by the fresh humidity, the stale nostalgic stench overwhelming any other odor. The lack of sufficient spacing between the roughened plywood bookcases could easily suffocate the claustrophobic. The languid browsers, perspiring in the wet heat of summer, stopped here for varied and distinct reasons, yet they all performed the same dance. Crouching to observe a heavy tome, head-tilting while perusing a wall of German plays, strategic movements neccessary to navigate the necropolis of a nearly dead medium of entertainment: these small performances were on display from all. And through this writhing pit of small-time commerce one could observe the behaviors displayed by drug addicts, neurotics, and the like. In the same way, this dusty hole-in-the-wall provides optimism and hope for those with a complete and irreversible addiction. And so the addicts will continue to dance.

https://pastebin.com/2cUJM9uj

>>9399432
A sleeping genius
Waiting to be told
His stories of nothing
Watch him glaze over the countless memory
of childhood and transition standing
on his own two feet

He stands there alone
His mind, a companion
but truly he's alone
Only the untold give him life
Meticulous, his worlds are perfect

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I wrote this comic quatrain in a writing-meeting with friends. The subject of the poems was the guillotine. I will post the translation of the poem I wrote first, and then the Portuguese original.

The original is a quatrain of four equal rhymes – AAAA – and 12 poetic syllables per line.

Here the translation:

Who at one finger snap teaches the road to the afterlife?
Who makes of homicide an elegant ballerina?
Who tames in a gentle swan the beast of carnage?
It is the queen of France, the illustrious guillotine.

And here the original:

Quem num só estalo a estrada para o além ensina?
Faz do homicídio uma elegante bailarina?
Quem doma em cisne a besta da carnificina?
É a rainha da França, a ilustre guilhotina.

God, these critique threads are awful now. Everyone is just posting their shit without providing any critique for others. Which might be a blessing, actually, because most of this stuff is garbage. I usually give out a bunch of free critique, but I'm not going to bother with all of you that do not even show common courtesy.

>>9401859
Relax dude, I posted mine during a bus ride to work. I cant do a full critique right now, but i shan't let my dues be unpaid nor my unspoken ink be forgotten

>>9401859

In my case my English is not good enough for me to critique the work of others with honesty. I am able to write small posts; I am able to translate my own writings with patience; I am able to read books in English with a dictionary, but it would not be fair for me to say what I feel and see by reading the works of others here.

I always translate my original Portuguese writings to English. If someone post works that are originally written in Portuguese I would be happy to help with some insights.

On Saturday night, my husband and I went out to dinner with friends in a suburb about 25 minutes away. We were enjoying a restaurant featuring an eclectic menu of Asian fusion food. Sitting at the next table were a father, his adult son and daughter and their significant others. They were all in their early twenties. Before they arrived, our conversation had been briefly about politics, our synagogue, our kids, and upcoming holiday plans.

Once they were seated, it was immediately clear that the father was loud and opinionated, and full of liquor. I overheard him razzing the two young women at the table for voting for Hillary Clinton. According to him, she should be in jail. Then I heard one of the women say something about her right to choose and I silently high-fived her in my mind. But then their conversation took a left turn from typical political discourse to ugly hate speech. The father said, quite loudly and for the entire restaurant to hear, that all of the information these women were hearing in the media was incorrect because, “it’s common knowledge that the Jews control the media.”

My jaw dropped. I looked at my friend’s husband across the table and asked if he’d heard what I just heard. He nodded. I turned to my friend and then my husband. We fell silent listening. The daughter did offer a response to the Jewish media comment, but it was inaudible.

Our dinner conversation, now speaking in muted tones, turned to the question of what to do. Do we confront this man and declare that we are four Jews that do not control the media? Do we joke and say that we are Jews and are all in the media, and we now plan to “out” this man as one of the “deplorables?” My mind raced: even if we said something in jest, or casually, or in some way to call out this bigot’s anti-Semitic opinions, he could be carrying a gun. Remember carry and conceal? And then I thought, how could I not say something? But you know what? I couldn’t. I froze.

I haven’t personally witnessed blatant anti-Semitism since I was a kid in the seventies, when every now and then a friend’s parent commented about “the Jews” or a kid would ask me why I killed Christ. I don’t think I ever did much to stop it other than say that no, I did not kill Christ, and felt belittled and uncomfortable. I did have a horrible anti-Semitic roommate in college during freshman year. But since I had to live in the same space with her, I waited until my belongings were packed and I moved out before calling her a classless pig to her face. It would’ve been better to say it earlier in the semester, but I felt trapped in the living situation.

>>9401835
Line breaks seem arbitrary. Very little in the way of poetic devices.

>>9401884
Since the election, it seems that those who long held racist, bigoted, anti-Semitic beliefs have been given the approval to make it public and proud; this is a new situation and new reality we must confront. This was not some fake meme or some “liberal agenda” trying to scare people: I witnessed, firsthand, a very happy Trump supporter asking people who they voted for, bullying them if they voted for Clinton and spewing anti-Semitic tropes loud enough for other people to hear.

We were so surprised. So stunned. So caught off-guard. We paid the bill and got the hell out of there. It’s very easy to say what you would have done in hindsight. It’s easy to judge us for remaining silent and not standing up to a bully, but this is a new situation within our culture, and we were utterly unprepared. None of us are passive or push-overs, and I’m sure we would handle these situations differently in the future, but this slap of reality stung. Although I live in a blue-state, there is plenty of red folk among us. I can promise that from now on, I will be vigilant against anti-Semitism, but I am also sad that this is our new reality.

>>9401859
It's Easter break, man. Just ride it out

>>9401294
ever heard of damnation alley?

>>9401859
I provide critique in separate posts usually

I was recently watching a Zizek talk where he, in reference to Hegel, claimed that in our current capitalist society man is defined not by who or what he is, but rather by what he produces, how he efforts against himself, the effects of his efforts to develop himself,etc.

The necessity of a king is that, by having the highest authority rest on a purely corporal being which IS, rather than BECOMES (compared to the President, which is a super human institution that temporarily embodies itself in lofty political actors), is that it grounds all effort and ambition on a more human scale. The corporal embodiment of a thing is thus free from existential dread, as its assured of its place within the world based on its own inherent being, rather than some external factors. The radical end of such a philosophy being the Indian cast system, in which various casts embody various corporate identities within society.

All this reminds me of the following quotation of Julius Evola:
“Being and stability are regarded by our contemporaries as akin to death; they cannot live unless they act, fret, or distract themselves with this or that. Their spirit (provided we can still talk about a spirit in their case) feeds only on sensations and on dynamism, thus becoming the vehicle for the incarnation of darker forces.”

Which, I argue, illuminates a striking (if unintentional) contrast between the American dream (of tragic success, as reflected in the movie Scarface), and the Canadian dream (of building a life not just for yourself but for your people free from the persecution of the old world, in some vast and wild frontier).

Tribalism is a factor in Canadian life in a way that it isn't in American life. We often call ourselves a mosaic, compared to America's melting pot, and this is strikingly true. One needs only to walk down the street to see the way in which Sikhs, Amish, Quebecois, Natives, and so on constantly affirm their traditional ways of life.

This is similar to the ethnic diversity of many Kingships during the middle ages, where different ethnic groups could find freedom from persecution under the protection of a monarch. The settlement of Jews in Prague under Maximilian, is an obvious example. By embodying its authority in a person, rather than a peoples, monarchist lend themselves to a form of multiculturalism inconceivable under democracy.

Therefore when Justin Trudeau said earlier this year that we are a "post national" country, he might just as well have claimed that we're a "pre national" one.

John Stalvern waited. The lights above sparked out of the air.

There were demons in the base.

He didn't see them, but had expected them now for years. His warnings to Cornel Johnson were not listened to and now it was too late.

Far too late for now, anyway.

>>9401910
>damnation alley
Nah, what makes you think of that?

>>9401933
seemed a bit more than vaguely similar, it's got the same proto-mad max thing going on, if i understood your setting properly. that said, i'm hardly an authority on the subject but i think you're a competent writer, though i couldn't shake off the feeling that i'm reading a michael bay script, not that it's necessarily bad.

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>>9401920
This also begs the question as to whether or not a truly environmentally friendly country would have to be a monarchy, or even have a strict hindu style caste system, in order to stifle ambition.

>>9401947
Setting is sci fi, I guess this section has a lot of overlap with mad max type shit, a big theme of the whole thing is vehicles and driving around. Noted about the Michael bay thing, I feel like this chapter is one action set piece after another which I might need to tone down.

Also reading the reviews of Damnation ally on its wiki was too real: . "an interesting novella converted to an unfortunate novel," faulting it as "a mechanical, simply transposed action-adventure story written, in my view, at the bottom of the man's talent."

Hope mine does not go the same.

>>9399769
>lol i describe everything in an overly-literal and simplistic fashion, look how quirky i am xD
Fucking gas yourself my dude.

>>9401982
who cares, it's not like you're ever going to be remembered for it or significantly influence art as a whole, it may or may not become a shitpile but the only way to know is to finish it and at the very least find solace in the fact that even if your novel isn't 2deep4u philosophy student jackoff material at least it's a part of you that you willed into the world

>>9402021
oh yeah I don't rly give a shit, I'm 20k words and in got the rest planned out, will get it done this year just so I have something to read that I like.

Ah-
The banging and the mandari-
na duck blue in my belonging
shout and scream to the camels
on the floor an aestaethic in a
mimik of ironik exxistence.
Eh-
I'v been before (with IVs
) on the couch and like then
I feel nothing
Oh~
another one of those,
?

>>9400369
I like this a lot. Please write this, anon.

gobble gobble
neigh neigh
tu-whit tu-whoo
cock-a-doodle-doo
bakaw
pretty Polly
baaa

>>9401993
why so triggered?

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wrote this while drunk and about a girl I met on holiday in iceland.

A lass of Belfast
holds fast my eyes with hers,
and in that bar, paneled with timber,
her laughter, pure timbre.
Her voice, music to me,
a treble clef to every locked door.

>>9400694
I think
>and not getting any warmer
Could be touched up a bit. Other then that it's alright. I am pretty interested in what'll happen so that's a good sign. I'm real terrible at picking out the technical stuff, so I could be missing some other error.

>>9401925
Not enough there to give full judgement. But it seems to be good so far. "Were not listened to" sounds odd. Maybe it could be reworked a little.
Cornel Johnson had ignored his warnings and now it was too late.

>>9402241
Pathetic

The Highwood Pass is highest paved road in Canada. It runs along the Misty Ridge in Kananaskis Country in the eastern foothills of the Canadian Rockies. Depending on snow, the road is closed to motorists between December and June, and, in the shoulder seasons, enthusiasts cycle its length, having the full breadth of the asphalt entirely to themselves. If you're afraid of the woods but not of bears, there's no better time or place than April along the Highwood Pass to watch the brown ones eat garbage. Sometimes they moved like dogs. The high caloric values of the corn based human food helped keep their bellies fat. When they woke up from their big sleeps, they were so, so hungry, having dreamed of brightly colored litter all winter long.

Teeth from the mountain's jaw devoured the sky. Maybe we are the tongue of a bear. Lance waited for Clara on the closed side of the gate. She said she drove a Jeep.

>>9400127
This had no effect on my feelings whatsoever.
>>9400369
I might just steal this idea and submit it as a short story so that I can win.
>>9400524
nobody cares.
>>9400574
Your dialogue is robotic.
>>9400698
not bad
>>9401197
it's trash
>>9401373
very dramatic, weird phrases snuck in
>>9403469
I enjoyed it.

She left. First I drag my dusty barstool form the living room placing it in middle of my bedroom. Next, I need my lamp. I take it with me to the middle of the bedroom; removing it from is old position: near my hoard of unvaluable valuables amassing on my corner shelf near my bed. Finally, I pray not to die; which was a nervous mistake. I want to die. Sitting on the barstool Lamp in-hand, I stare straight ahead at the balcony window. I'm ready now. I cut off the lights and it appears.


A breathing black silhouette; barely a human one. It's formless as if one were to turn on the light one would realize it was only objects stacked together vaguely resemble a man. Even worse was the presence it had, an horrible prolonged indeterminate feeling similar to being caught stealing in a grocery store waiting for your fate unsure if you're going to jail or going to be scolded and let go.


Watching, all it does is watch. Always late night. Always in the dark. It's been watching for about two years now, after a bad situation. I first looked upon it, I screamed and kept screaming until I blacked out and it was morning. Form then on, the ongoing months was a cycle: it would appear, I would proceed to lose my shit for weeks, I would manage get shit together; obtaining a glimmer of normality and suddenly, as if to bring me back to madness, it would appear once more. Repeating the cycle.


But Why? Why me? Questions like that always linger in my mind; Ignoring the fact I could be insane. But at the point in life I rather be crazy than stuck in some ward; Which is why I haven't told anyone about it. Does it my soul? Like soul are some divine currency demons can turn over for a comfortable spot in hell. Maybe i'm destined become some type of slave for all eternity, if so I question my demons tactics for it's a display is magnitudes less effective than a needle of something good or even TV. Perhaps, it's relaying some profound message? Could be it's a being that died and needs me to bring it closure, because obviously it appear out of thin air but, it can't pick up a phone and call has the public deal with it's issues. I'm being punished? That's my assumption; but the real question is it going to kill me?Hell, I'm betting on it doing so.


For Life has gone downhill for me. I am gambler and a addict who owes money both my dealers. I played the game of life wrong. All in with little bit money, but all of my soul. That's what gamblers do. They deal with the devil and hope god is gonna save them. But if he was gonna show up, he would stopped the at the first sin. At Temptation. He probably let's us gamble for prayers; prayers of gratuite form winning or the pleas for salvation. But the devil gets the real good stuff; he gets to punish all the Prometheus's who seek shortcuts to heaven. He gets to enjoy our struggle, to see a man's unbreakable faith smash itself again and again against the wall of a predictable destiny until they shatter. I shattered.

>>9399769
>A relatively small sphere of rock and iron orbited a comparatively large sphere of...
Try and avoid using adverbs. You could just say a small sphere of rock and iron orbited a large sphere of bright fission-fueled gases and it would sound fine.

>The first sentence
Seemed to run-off. I lost clarity around where you said clusters of similar spheres. I had to read it a couple of times to understand what you were saying. I would maybe say instead of: "somewhere on the outskirts of a collection of clusters of similar spheres called by certain lifeforms the Milky Way" -- "somewhere on the outskirts of a collection of similar spheres that some lifeforms refer to as "the Milky Way.""

>>9403459
Yeah man, I know. I just liked the wordplay I can't remember coming up with.

the dilettante

a hobby, a passion
i'm gaining perspective
a lantern a radio
i'm gaining perspective
every horizon has another horizon waiting behind
i'm tired of gaining perspective,
yet another interest, another obsession
another collection, another argument.
a bottled rat, a wall scrawled with reviews,
my boredom is never subdued.
another day, another fuel,
another night of wasted affection
for an object too expensive,
an object worthless in my hands.
i have become obsessed with cursory research.

It was a standard suburban home with nice red siding and white picket fence out front. With a second floor with ample space for the family it seemed the perfect family home, it was in a quiet neighborhood with no crime and within a drug free zone, but alas something was happening within these middle class walls. Something gruesome.

A terrible conflict of two near identical nations, one green and the other tan. Since the birth of these nations they have been locked in a eternal conflict. Neither side gained ground but instead, merely exchanges. As the Green's army took the tub, the Tan overtook the dresser. A constant war and a world that never knew peace.

Everyone was birthed from a machine. A terrible whirring machine, a monstrosity of gears and bolts. Towering over the 2 inch operators below it at a stunning 12 inches. It pumped it’s green goo into the mold tray below it, a constant thick stream, never ending. The men were born from this ooze. As the goo hardened and became flesh, the green boys suffered greatly. The event of birth was a painful endeavor not for the mother but for the sons.

As the goo formed so did the conscious. To be formed piece by piece was an ordeal and as a each limb formed the pain of not being whole took hold. One would think the head would hold the comparative brain and that removal would cease the pain and life of these men. Instead the life force is formed by a threshold of pain, the pain of not being together. These men were nothing but plastic; no brain, no heart, no nothing and they didn’t follow human conventions. Death didn’t start with a organ failing or blood loss. It starts when the threshold is breached, to suffer so much that they could only fade away. And birth was the first right of passage.

Pvt. Michael was starting to form, little by little. His torso formed first and his life took the reigns. His torso wiggled and squirmed as his limbs began to attach and take hold. The phantom pain was unbearable, and he violently thrashed in protest of his circumstance as he could do nothing else. He wanted to scream but he no head, he wanted to punch but he had no arms, he wanted to kick but he had no legs. And when his head came to fruition, he screamed as hard as he could but his distinct cry couldn’t be picked out from his brethren. As there was hundreds of them, to feel pain in Union would prepare them for the horrors ahead. He was complete, a whole man with a plastic rifle to match his skin. A whole man with a purpose to fulfill.

Going to rate every single work posted here out of 10. If you disagree, let me know and argue it. I'd especially like for someone who isn't the author of a work to disagree or confirm. It makes you a better writer, and makes you question why something isn't as enjoyable as it could be.

>>9399438
5/10
>>9399461
9/10
>>9399488
4/10
>>9399524
6/10
>>9399567
3/10
>>9399598
.33/10
>>9399602
5/10
>>9399608
6.5/10
>>9399622
too passive, 6.5/10
>>9399625
5/10
>>9399637
3/10
>>9399642
2/10
>>9399643
7/10
>>9399685
?
>>9399721
4.5/10
>>9399763
?
>>9399769
4/10


To be continued

>>9400698
this is the best thing i've read on lit in a while. destroy it, rewrite it and make it longer and do it over and over again.

>>9403550
A 4 is higher then I expected. Gimme a 3 dude. I wrote the Derrick one.

Two, tiny wheels rolled against a concrete sidewalk, connected to a miniature frame, a cramped deck and two pocket-sized handlebars, propelled by a boy who looked a little too big to be riding such a paltry scooter. His body towered over the handlebars. His feet awkwardly stuffed onto the deck, with one foot edging up where the frame and deck connect, and the other in a tip-toe position when it wasn't pushing. His weight alone could drive this scooter into motion.
He didn't do this, this being riding such a tiny scooter, because he was too poor to buy a bigger one, nor was it because he did it as some kind of joke. No, instead, he rode such a minuscule scooter because he found solace in it -- solace in knowing the pressures of his life couldn’t attack him while he spent his time as a recluse on a scooter.
The route the boy used for his commute of solace was an escape of its own. The sidewalk passed through tunnels of trees that held millions of autumn shades, grass green as the producers of life coated the fertile ground. Special surprises, gardens, bordered the high rising, uniform apartment buildings. The sidewalk itself wasn’t much too special. Little potholes dotted the bleak concrete canvas, accompanying frequent patches of gravel, sand, dirt, and the occasional obscure fruit..
The boy weaved through the potholes and fruit. He knew every obstacle like instinct. The sidewalk remained almost frozen in time; every fruit fell the same from the tree, every pothole remained untouched by repair, and every bit of the ground failed to change at all. Most people didn’t bother to stroll along the concrete path. To them, the beautiful trees and well-kept grass were a requirement in scenery, not a compliment to the stroll, the uniform apartment buildings were monotonous and got in the way of, “Real, scenic views.” not a place to be grateful for, for sheltering wonderful people and their families, the potholes that dotted the sidewalk were hazardous, not a sprinkle of character. To most people, even a simple stroll had to meet high expectations, everything had to be grandiose. Clothing had to be name-brand, restaurants had to be rated five stars, stores had to cater to their every need. And when these pieces of clothing, restaurants, and stores didn’t meet their needs? They threw a fit. They isolated the clothing brands, neglected the restaurants, and hated the stores. Something the boy could relate to. The sidewalk was his friend, the only one he knew he shared troubles with.

>>9403647
>Two, tiny wheels rolled against a concrete sidewalk, connected to a miniature frame, a cramped deck and two pocket-sized handlebars, propelled by a boy who looked a little too big to be riding such a paltry scooter.

Tell me, what looks better...that or this: Two tiny wheels connected to a miniature frame and an equally small deck held up the relatively big boy who controlled the contraption.

You try to cram far too much unnecessary detail in (for example, you don't need to mention that the sidewalk is concrete, as that fact is already implied) and it ends up reading very awkwardly. You also run into grammatical errors such as comma splices frequently.

I'd show you examples with other sentences, but it's more or less the same thing throughout. One of the biggest problems that people run into on this board is that they try to use overly complicated syntax, which causes sentences to read awkwardly and heavily detracts from what they're attempting to describe or convey (on top of causing huge grammatical errors in the cases of the less experienced).

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Lord Dickington caressed his onyxian sceptre as he considered the grovelling peasant at his royal feet. Slippered in opulence, they snatched themselves from the grasping appendages attempting to pay homage.
"What does this creature want, so filthy, i shall be forced to purchase a new rug!"
Bennington, his grand vizier looked squeamish from the refined scent of ordure and booze replied in a whisper, "he seems to want you to stop burning his village, he says the smoke burns his eyes quite dreadfully."
Stop, a word unfamiliar to Lord Dickington, he measured its abruptness as the blonde serf mopped her perfumed brow, her lips soft on his bulging member in full view of the court. The Lord, with a wave of his hand, had the peasant bundled into the rug and sent off to the gallows to be dispatched with haste.
"Burn the village, and release a few of the chimaeras to make the survivors run a bit."

I'm not cutout for much.
I used to think I was cutout for writing,
but the more I write, the less I think that's true.
I keep thinking I'll improve
with each 1000 words,
but I just seem to get worse,
my flaws magnify
and my strengths get buried.
I've yet to run out of ideas
because I've yet to have any,
that's why I'm writing this
about writing
knowing very well
nobody wants to read about a frustrated writer
who can't seem to write
about anything else but his own frustrated writing.
It isn't relatable
or interesting.
People don't really care about someone's problems
unless their problems are pretty.
Mine are ugly
like that dude from Mask.

>>9403928
ok
>>9403966
live a little

The woman wears round,dark frames, wich hold a set of tinted lenses. In a way unsuggestive of any prior attractiveness her cheeks slide down the sides of her face like porkchops fastened to a loose layer of skin [to her gums?]. "We learn from his writings-" she begins,a hand brushing the inches of dark curls falling from the ever-widening crevasse of bald. She giggles. "that he was a,that he had a very idiosyncratic way of speaking to us,in his writing." A man yells cut. A set jockey takes a note:brown background in post,blue eagle scene follows.

Ruthless had I felled the Forest of Abandon
that so eerily snatched my student unawares.
Indeed I go forth and tramp upon these most beauteous flowers of heavenly blue morning glories in order to make weep the willows scattered round about.

Willow: Snatch what life you can base primate!
Your bloated corpse I will feed upon with outstretched roots all the while fungi taunt you with wretched mauve! May hatred alone speed the rate at which your vitality is ripped by my tearing your hide strip by strip!

Human: Your corpse will become my home ere You have relieved yourself the last vestige of life Force. Parley!

*The human draws a scimitar and slashes his opponent, the wooden centurion; whereon blood oozes like sap down its brazen bark, followed by a shrill scream, and silence.*

Human: How now? That wears my brother, Edward, as an armor, and cloak him thus, to make me my brother's slayer? As I mentored him during a walk into the forest, a vile imp made its avatar this wicked plant, and contort it into a marshal? Vanquish me, for to know that he is dead has killed me instead, and the grave will be waited on early.

Willow: So be it. I am not the wood which was fashioned into the cart that dragged Hector's body: have your brother back, and let this serve as a warning to your wandering mammal tribe that this place is not for them. Begone.

*The spirit departs from the willow and a funeral is arranged several days later.*

>>9403969
caused physical damage to my brain/10

That penetration dirt butthole anal cock in my slipping-in reverse shit WOW what a thrill but also painful but also stimulating but also (ful)filling what a ride riding this cock of my well-too-do-doo-doo-endowed lover from another brother's mother, the brother being me, myself, and I. We are the barbershop anal-fuck-prince-dog-fuck-shit quartet but I only receive because I don't want his shit on my cock only my shit on his cock in my mouth. Stinky! It smells good but also bad mostly invigorating there is a thrill to smelling and tasting your own shit especially when mixed with the semen that isn't your own or is your own either way it's indescribable but best described as earthy yet sweet though I suppose it depends on your diet and maybe the diet of the possessor of the semen who I would hope does not have aids but if he pozzed why neghole who could blaim him in all honesty to be honest tbqh. Then the final reward comes where he puts the lube on his arm and arm in my butt and fists and arms and fists and arms and grabs on to my insides scratching them with his nails punching that little nub the prostate until a bloody violent dribble comes from the top of the half erect chode that belongs to me. What a rush! What a thrill! What an adventure! What a lifestyle!

>>9403983
please explain

>>9403990
i am now suffering a severe aneurysm, and will promptly die as a result of reading what you have posted.

>>9403969
>live a litte
this is a writing critique thread, not a lifestyle critique thread

also, youre on 4chan, remember

>>9403969
Allow me to explain instead of the previous anon

>The woman wears round,dark frames, wich hold a set of tinted lenses.
Just say the woman wears tinted glasses.

>In a way unsuggestive of any prior attractiveness
What? Horribly awkward wording. Just cut this out entirely and start with "Her cheeks..."

>"We learn from his writings-" she begins,a hand brushing the inches of dark curls falling from the ever-widening crevasse of bald. She giggles.
This is also awkwardly worded.

Work on condensing your writing and making it easier to understand.

Two lasses, staring at a naked dick, waving in the air between them
and you. The dick closing the gap, wavering, wagging, getting closer. Then the Iips touch
the glistening head
a lightning stroke on your dick
two preteen tongues lapping for milk, and it soon comes.

>>9404044
thanks

>>9404049
are you same as >>9403984

>>9404049
T. Rupi kaur

Reply to what you think is the best excerpt in the thread.

No samefagging.

>>9404104
best itt

hands down

The woman in the beauty and makeup department knows.

A man with adult acne wearing the wrong concealer goes into a store to buy concealer and the woman in the beauty and makeup department asks him if he is okay and can she help him with anything today and he says

“oh no thanks i’m just buying this for my wife”

but not only is the woman who works in the beauty department a professional and highly attuned to notice makeup application because it is her job and most likely also her hobby or area of personal interest or activity of habit or ritual as it has led her here to the job as an employee in the beauty and makeup department of the store, but also that the store itself, the beauty department specifically, has been lighted with such beaming redundant efficacy as to render even the most poreless sealed and buffed being (the woman who works there obviously) vulnerable to inspection and judgement by even a small tired child milling around the aisles while their mother tries to find the right eyebrow pencil to match their shade of eyebrows and even more importantly vulnerable to an inspection of the self and to the inevitable personal self doubt and worry that precede and follow it - really, this is why there are so many small mirrors in the beauty and makeup section of stores, this is the entire point of the store itself, to create a place that makes you feel so uncomfortable with who you are and what you currently have while staring at what seems to be some kind of answer, no not answer, some kind of escape from this feeling - that those lights in the beauty section shine purposefully white in the same way teeth that are bleached white could never occur like this in nature, in the same way that a tooth that is not unnaturally bleached by chemicals always looks yellow after you have seen a bleached smile, and this woman can see that this man with the adult acne and the very clear yellow undertoned spots of concealer covering each inflamed pore and cluster of inflamed pores surrounded by pale lilywhite skin of cold bluish undertones and a pink rosiness acutely highlighted by the medium olive toned concealer meant for warm yellow medium olive undertones is choosing the same medium olive toned concealer.

This man is lying to her.

This man is not buying this concealer for his wife.

This man is a very worried, lonely and sad unmarried man.

The man is buying the concealer for himself and the woman knows this deeply. She also knows deeply this concealer is having a paradoxical and inverse effect of doing quite literally the opposite of its job.

>>9404220
could have just skipped that wall of text in the middle for a better effect.

the dawn breaks through shit brown eyes
staring up at the sky through
the ochre plastic of a cheap cider bottle
the lily white gorged member recoils
from frantic facsimile amours
saccharine amber drizzles down the drainpipe
Hephaestus working overtime in your forge
Somnabulance beckons, throws you in the shallows
Half drowning in torpor, you'll greet the day parched

>>9403491
>>9400574
how do i write better dialogue anon

>>9403561
Yessir

>>9400730
A-number One. But watch your run-ons and overloading your sentences

>>9404908
What does the first part mean? Positive or negative haha. I know I have a tendency for long sentences, it's something I quite enjoy but it's something that needs a balance for sure. Cheers

>>9404608
Her Dan Brown's eyes,
Look up at the sky
Apple juice is cheap and saffron plastic bottles
Ankara is a member of the lily filled
Fax love jasmine side relationship
Saccharin, amber, sprays, low steam pipes
Hephaestus increases the working hours of coffee
A Somnabulance wave in shallow water
Hello, my half sleep is dry drowning

>>9404220
Judges Small, Women's Hormones Lightweight Sponge Benefits Sponge Fatigue Beauty Eyebrow Pencils Proposed, Alice Lee Dr, Professional Entertainment, and Environmental Benefits and Possibilities of Electricity su Surava Dies A Trust of Missing New Eyebrows In Claims Industry tries shadow sculpture farmers and its protection as well as Icariatik - No. These sexy yellow Ma te ri a Laino - for whatever reason, for example, or the reaction of fine prints to the production of limited electricity if you can, sorry, you know, the answer is very easy, I want to find. If you can not see your home through the street. You know, I knew there. Other areas on the road? I never saw the first legs. I did not meet a soul. I heard that it was not possible for the report. Did nothing. Walking along the coast, and I would like to see the heart of the world, the road to safety. Sea Mist is part of another. This is like walking at the bottom of the sea. The Old one drowned. A ghost will love misty fog over the sea. Wood and wood frantically violent blind, two anger, hatred and violence must promise to ignore. "On PSE upnikka a natural hate Do you look me up in the air, do not think it," the transfer fall from the sky like Rocky path losses bending miss are located in the hills to have one of the soldiers went one line, therefore, combined With mount want to see the destruction of the factory fell on its way. Ratchet can throw knives ruins of smoking less. And shooting from the tree to throw the leaves on the floor, like a bear moderate. Starring Omar. Funky is paid only by a horse, a giant, and soon, the wind, storms, etc

>>9403497
Thoughts anybody?

>>9402861
anyone want to check this one out?

>>9403518
trash. 0/10

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>>9405602

>>9405620
oh fuck off, i should know, i wrote it last night.

Eight figures were gathered in a dank, dark prison cell. Their hands were bound together with several lengths of rope, and a blindfold was firmly in place over each set of eyes. They were clothed in the ragged tatters of what had once been magnificent clothing, suggesting that their jailer hadn't even bothered to strip them of their regal apperance. One of them, apparently the leader, spoke.
"I was expecting Judas to betray us, as has happened before. Has the Void become more cunning?"
Another, clad in what was once an elegantly tailored robe, responded. "Unlikely, Crow. The Void has never been a particularly subtle foe, as evidenced by Mordred's onslaught. It is likely that we simply pushed Mordred over the edge, and the Void took advantage of our mistake."
The one named Crow said in turn "That's a possibility that I had considered, but I find it unlikely. Something was off about Mordred even from childhood, as if the Void had tainted him at birth."
A third person spoke up. "I had noticed that too. I had warned all of you about it from the start, but nobody listened to me, despite it being my job to keep an eye on things like this."
"Enough, Hare." said Crow. "None of us are innocent in this affair. The Ninth Wave is coming, as it has before, and as it will again. We simply have to wait it out. I had thought my attempt with Arthur might avoid this outcome, but my attempt failed. Now all we can do is ride the storm."
At this, the rest became silent. The guards posted outside of their cell heard none of this exchange, and continued to patrol dutifully.
Forgive the formatting

>>9405640
lies

>>9407160
lies? why?

>>9405713
>it's another start in prison story

>>9407177
They're going to get banished later in the 'day'. Should I skip to that instead?

>>9407185
Please. If this is only the beginning of another chapter, though, just keep it. I'd be worried if this was your first paragraph

>>9407235
it is my first paragraph
This is the first time that I've ever written something that wasn't for school, so I appreciate the criticism

his crumbling greedy notepad scrabbled deeply with the scratchings of middlebreathing slandermouthed constables of inclusion, it appeared that the rat was afoot, the great scheming screaming bahamut of reason annotated with the diecast protocol of solitude.
his black box was ready for extraction, pulling the scalding gold out of the rectified rectums of rambunctious rapscallions, unreasonably shuffling their cards while their mirrors placate the masses. their upskirting mannerisms only breeding deep chains of slathering lust callously pulsating under the rapid absconsion of the tiny balls of feces that clung to his beard in retroformal irreverence, postulators agreed that many tribulations were ahead of all involved in the matter. Towards the end of the event there was much mention of the tractability of the wenches being questionable so the movement of the food was essential to establish a reign on the clubfet spaldrings, cramming themselves into lines waiting for the meat chopstress and her scowling grimace, the taint of cannibalism, her.

As they were staying on for a while to breathe the lipstained marbled meat flaying their umbrella'd hairs, waiting to twitch with this bump and that, crabby only on thursdays but when the reality struck, it wasnt anyone's guess, since there wasnt anything to see to begin with.

I couldnt create the beginning without starting at the end so we have to establish a base ground before i can let you in further, i can't allow you to think i'm some sort of irregular introspective voice, narrating some acid trip without menacing clemency in the triapsing of the elves, cacophony is a tasty delicacy in the artistic world, and clamouring for the dice to roll for your fortune is a clamour indeed. Sometimes sand gets locked in your head and you make it into a human pearl.

Preach on brother, your manacled legs are only sources of extreme freedom for my thirsty tum to quench itself upon, reeds climbing high as my barbed velcro chest clings to the loops of the woolen spear, unheard of in societies hindered by reason and law and climbing reeds, high reeds with men with barbed velcro chests running about, messing everything up for the rest of them. you cant be expected to maintain consistency when there's nothing to say in the first place, so when there's really nothing to say the only consistency you can maintain is the disinterest of those involved, and that is a measly way to treat a preferred customer, one who has already bent forward for my probing ground of time wasting lacklustre nonsense, and only one who has the merit to listen to this has the glandular fortitude to accuse the world of anything that has to do with jelly beans or gummy bears. i think the fact that you're reading this now is that you're either involved or amused at the mistakes.

>>9407254
Too many adverbs.
>his crumbling greedy notepad scrabbled deeply with the scratchings of middlebreathing slandermouthed constables of inclusion
Jesus... almost stopped reading there.
This is forced.

>>9407257
i forced nothing at all.

>>9407257
it's a pastiche of myself as i was writing the lines themselves, you wouldn't understand.

>>9407259
okay, well then I take it back--it's shit.

write what you know, every one of your sentences meander. There's no rhythm to it. There's no flow. It's a cornice on a purple mountain.

>>9407263
It's shit. Stop trying to make it something it is not.

>>9407264
that's a shame you don't like it!

>>9407268
i don't think it's shit at all. and as the creator i have every right to make it whatever i wish it to be, i wrote it, didn't i? what does it matter to you that it's a pastiche of myself as i was writing it?

>>9407254
>reads house of leaves once

>>9407273
i've never read house of leaves, actually. I was watching a cold war documentary at the time, and the chopstress was looking at me.

>>9407254
Your sentences are too long. I'd recommend cutting down on the adjectives and breaking them down into multiple sentences.
also somewhere you switch from 3rd person to 1st person and its not clear to me why

>>9407271
>request criticism by posting in this thread
>receive criticism
>"you're wrong, its good"
why?

>>9404643
You talk to people. There's something uncanny about someone just saying to you "I swear to you, if it’s not a council health indictment that drops her in the pit, a sizeable solar flare would burst her heart like a plum in a centrifuge."
It's unnatural and inhuman.

>>9407280
i would like to quote joyce on the factor of perspective.
—Lessing, said Stephen, should not have taken a group of statues to write of. The art, being inferior, does not present the forms I spoke of distinguished clearly one from another. Even in literature, the highest and most spiritual art, the forms are often confused. The lyrical form is in fact the simplest verbal vesture of an instant of emotion, a rhythmical cry such as ages ago cheered on the man who pulled at the oar or dragged stones up a slope. He who utters it is more conscious of the instant of emotion than of himself as feeling emotion. The simplest epical form is seen emerging out of lyrical literature when the artist prolongs and broods upon himself as the centre of an epical event and this form progresses till the centre of emotional gravity is equidistant from the artist himself and from others. The narrative is no longer purely personal. The personality of the artist passes into the narration itself, flowing round and round the persons and the action like a vital sea. This progress you will see easily in that old English ballad TURPIN HERO which begins in the first person and ends in the third person. The dramatic form is reached when the vitality which has flowed and eddied round each person fills every person with such vital force that he or she assumes a proper and intangible esthetic life. The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid and lambent narrative, finally refines itself out of existence, impersonalizes itself, so to speak. The esthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of esthetic, like that of material creation, is accomplished. The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

what i do in this is the opposite, i noted it when i did it unintentionally during my future predictive essay called "The Laundromat", and in this work, i did it once more but in the reverse, becoming less developed.

>>9407282
i'm sorry, i don't accept your criticism of "it's shit". maybe try a bit harder next time?
>>9407280
this guy has a good criticism, i agree with him that i make run on sentences quite often, i can't seem to ever stop them. i fear the flow of thought will stop with a period.

Maria had been reading a chryselephantinely overwritten book called Moll Flanders in the coach, and very definitely she thought the somber, passionate, tragicomic and picaresque story was most absorbing, and certainly presented the dark, sinister, underground side of English life in a vivacious and veridical manner that carried conviction, but she wished Mr. Defoe were not so in love with ornamentally excessive adjectives and long, stentorian, and somewhat inchoate sentences that, even by the standards of the time, seemed to twist and turn through curlicues and arabesques and wind on and on through ever-increasing clauses and sub-clauses, including abrupt changes of subject and total non sequiturs, even if he did seem to be making a unique effort to understand a woman's perspective on the world, which was all to the good, of course, and it was less monochromatically monotonous (she had to admit) than the other one he wrote with virtually nobody in it but that one ingenious mechanic on the island, living in total isolation until he found that mute but ineluctable footprint; and yet it could all be told as well and be more pleasant to read if those sentences did not get so totally out of control and sprawl all over the page so often in positive apotheosis of the lugubrious style, and then she wondered if reading so much of such labyrinthine and arabesque prose for so long in the hot carriage had affected her own mind and she were starting to think like that herself, instead of just enjoying the shade of the oak trees and resting from thought in the dense cool quiet of the mid-afternoon English summer.

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>>9407296
i have some bad news

>>9407306
ha, well your alter ego does a better job than offering "it's shit".

>>9407310
to clarify, I'm
>>9407280
>>9407282

>>9407257
this guy is someone else

>>9407310
>alter ego
made me chuckle, I don't even know why

>>9407312
oh! i see! well, your criticism is very wanted. i don't believe the other understands that it's in a constant flux of being refined and unrefined. there are moments that are fully comprehensible. this is a work that i returned to again and again over the course of a week of depraved marijuana use and IRC abuse. most of it is clippings of conversations, but other parts are genuine articles of beauty, i feel. this is only a piece of it, the full text is about twice as long.

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Why does everybody in theses threads write in the same purple-way style?

>>9407353
Cause they're faggots that think using a thesaurus means that their writing is good

>>9407353
there are some diamonds in the rough:
>>9399461
>>9399628
>>9401844
>>9403497


Just look harder

>>9407357
>he has to use a thesaurus to fill his writing with purple prose

>>9407360
>implying anyone knows "chryselephantinely" is even a word that exists without using a thesaurus or a dictionary

>>9407366
If you weren't a pleb, you'd know it stems from Khrusos, or "gold" in greek.

Context clues. . .

The limousine pulled up to the parking lot, and several armed men ran up, heaving as the presidential motorcade made the daily loop for the secret service. "Keep those dogs running, i want them to be able to protect me," Nixon said.

Luring in the stamina of the campaign, the willows only sifted through a small percentage of the stench of the open sewer main upwind of the conference hall. Many of the staunch citizens approached their seats with a grimace of disgust and a gush of vomit splashing against the back of their throats, wondering what they'll have to agree to that day just to keep their fingers inside. Little did they realize that their hair cuts were in vain, and it was simply an execution of an aboriginal at the expense of the high royal society of Lieught Scleoupo. There was much revulsion at the sight of the bloody native, which always served to titillate the impressionable revolutionaries, who had so much to prove with so little power to do it, they typically backed down from dissenting parties on a rate of 30% after that, which is tweaked magnificently later on in life when stocks are established to their social secutiry numbers.

>>9407353
Why aren't people using images so we can properly read the sections with the correct formatting and typesetting? text is not supposed to be read in wide plain-text.

I wrote this almost two years ago and was considering continuing, so please be gentle~

Without hesitating, Leon started to pull his pants down and began to strip the rest of his clothes. Before he could even finish, his sister was already completely nude. Her body was more beautiful than he ever imagined. She raised her foot up to his erect dick and started stroking it. Her pale white feel playfully toying with his member. Leon could barely hold it together, but just as he felt himself getting close, Kamui stopped. "So you want me to marry you, Leon?"

He let out a knee-jerk response. "O-of course, Kamui! You mean the world to me!" She smiled, though this smile wasn't the same as the previous ones. This particular smile was more sinister in appearance. "Well, there's one condition, little brother." She pulled a half-gallon jar filled with a strange murky liquid from behind her back. "This is my cum. I want you to drink it, all of it, right now in one sitting."

>>9407533
it reminds me of Dostoevsky's early work in Poor Folk. very good.

>>9407533
I see shades of James Joyce. I like it.

>>9407533
Holy. . .

>>9407533
>>9407563
>>9407597
am I missing something? do I just not read enough smut?

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>>9407605
>he doesn't see the syntactical irreverence and the communicable expressiveness inherent in the gaps between the letters as they ebb and flow throughout the asylum of the characters' psyches, their struggles and remonstrances, their transformation, and the inevitable conclusion of the epical form that purges any sense of willingness to survive beyond the work itself

what's it like being a complete plebeian?

>>9407533
>Leon started to pull his pants down and began to strip the rest of his clothes.
That's a little redundant. You're saying he's starting to remove two parts of his wardrobe at once.

>Her pale white feel
I assume this us just a typo, but I'm just pointing it out.

>She pulled a half-gallon jar filled with a strange murky liquid from behind her back.
"from behind her back" is a bit ambiguous. Was there a specific container that had the jar?

It's promising.

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>>9407619

>>9407619
>not being able to read meaning into shitty smut means you're a pleb
ok

>>9407634
i do love calvin and hobbes.
>>9407636
man, calm down, it's just trashy smut, i'm yankin ya.

>>9407655
please be patient i have autism

>>9407684
hey, we all get yanked.

>>9407563
>>9407597
>>9407627

Thanks for the encouragement! I apologize for it being so rough but I'm just looking to see if I have any potential artistically and this is all I have on hand at the moment. Here's some more:

He took the jar from her hands and popped off the lid, the pungent aroma flew up into his nostrils, he felt himself feeling even hotter somehow and started drooling. For an act so disgusting, he was getting ridiculously turned on. Without anymore hesitation, he threw his head back and started chugging. The taste was vile, the most foul thing he'd ever drank. The closest description he could think of was a mixture of salty coins and milk. He drank it to every last drop, looked Kamui into her eyes and let out a smile, but something was off about her face. She had her hand on her mouth, as if trying to stifle laughter.

No, not as if. She WAS trying to stifle laughter, but she couldn't hold it together. She exploded into hysterics "Holy fuck you retard you actually drank it!? Oh my God you're such a pathetic little shit." Leon's face looked like a deer in headlights. He tried to stutter out something to say but was just in a perpetual state of shock. Suddenly, the door to his room bursts open and his older brother Marx walks in. "DID HE REALLY FUCKING DRINK IT?" Marx asked eagerly. Leon was dumbfounded, his older brother was in on this too? Wait, what exactly DID he just drink?

Kamui leaned toward Leon and looked him in the eyes, "So how did your big brothers cum taste, dipshit?" She said laughing "Good, I imagine? I mean it's the taste that I, myself, fell in love with." Leon was astonished. What did she mean by that? "I can see it in your face, little bro, you're confused. Marx and I are already getting married, you're a little late on the draw. Not that it would've mattered considering how much of a pathetic little dweeb you are anyway." Marx groped Kamui's perfectly round ass and started to kiss her deeply. Was this some sort of sick joke? A nightmare, perhaps? Leon felt his eyes welling up, but did his best to hold it back.

I wouldlike some input on this uh... poem I came up with

>Pink Zimbabwean peacock sodomizers are on the move
>shit winds are coming in hard over 9000 knots from the southwest
>Roger that we're gonna need reconnaissance intel
>sector Alpha
>in my bumhole
>execute protocol chingchong
>CONSIDER ALL BYSTANDERS HOSTILE until objective is secure
>we're gonna need naval suppo- correction: anal support out of port mcFuckajew
>if we don't rendezvous at rally point 32B by 0400 hours then well Billy
>just paint me black and call me a nigger
>Behold behold theres a butthole bac choi coming out from under the rcok,
>45.53 lbs of flesh and rancid cunt of the Sabbath.
>THE BYSTANDERS ARE NOT BYSTANDERS THEY ARE OF THE SAME CLASS AS WE

>>9407722
contd
>Brethren do not give up hope
>though the Mongolian cock parrots are fierce and hunger for your Übermenschwurst we have goebbels to guide us to the light and the sacred will of the mujahideenis BY THE WILL OF ALLAH and the prophet billy-bob >shitfuck the rancid cuntmonger of chinkville.
>For do not go gentle into that good night,
>anally-rectify your soul with the eternal light
>Theres no God like our God, hath a jew not eyes to see and an anus to be penetrated? do we seeketh the raw power of anal rectification? I think not, we have proven that the LOYAL ONES ARE NOT OUR OWN THEY ARE INDEED AMONG US IN THE ETERNAL CITY OF THE holy poop deck
>deck?
>ALL HANDS ON DECK
>his penis was hard and his hand was soft
>as he brandished his hard monkey cock like a glistening, freshly oiled sword,
>he commenced penetration.
>allah, allah says he
>i beg you're mercy as i ENTER THIS INFIDEL
>And lo did his penile device strike down with the force of a ten thousand mega-cum bomb, separating the vast jizz ocean so that his holy cuntemporaries and cumpatriots had a path to anal-salvation before them, and they went forth with much trepidation and fear until the firmament parted and a voice whispered into all their ears "let go, give your soul... give your soul to ALLAAHU ABKAAR TAKE ME OT THE HOLY LAND ALLAH" and so they did and the sacred jism المني of allah rained down from the sky like thick rancid black molasses into their open mouths and they orgied for 40 days and 40 nights until their anal cavaties were raw with the mercy of allah most high

>>9407719
brilliant, though, he should start vomiting or should at least feel the nausea of being cuckolded mixing with the nausea of drinking his bro's semen.

>>9407740
> "... Not that it would've mattered considering how much of a pathetic little dweeb you are anyway." Marx groped Kamui's perfectly round ass and started to kiss her deeply. Was this some sort of sick joke? A nightmare, perhaps? Leon felt his eyes welling up, but did his best to hold it back.

my PTSD from high school is acting up pls no

>>9407742
oops i meant >>9407719

>>9400384
you didn't even read what you replied to

>>9407719
I can't tell if the people praising you are just being sarcastic, because this is pretty bad.

>He took the jar from her hands and popped off the lid, the pungent
This is a comma splice. You have a lot more throughout.

The prose flows very poorly, and is not at all enjoyable to read.
>the closest description he could think of was a mixture of salty coins and milk
This is literally a meme.

>Suddenly,the door to his room
Never start a sentence with suddenly. Never do it, for the love of god. It's one of the most juvenile things you could do.

Your characters also swear far too much. Normal people do not talk like that. Abnormal people don't even talk like that. Only degenerate, braindead retards talk like that, and nobody wants to read about those people.

>>9407772
don't listen to this guy, he's simply jealous.

>>9407824
These irony levels are hazardous.
Telling a bad writer that they're good isn't going to help them improve.

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>>9407831
>help them improve
your hubris is astounding.

>>9407852
>Your hubris is astounding
Yeah, fuck me for participating in a critique thread with the purpose of helping people learn. What was I thinking? I'll just disregard all the knowledge I have and ironically shitpost instead.

>>9407874
good. i'm glad you've come to your senses.

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>>9407874
>all the knowledge i have
your hubris is astounding.

>>9407772
>>9407831
>>9407874
I'll admit, I wrote this almost two years ago so I expected harsh feedback as I was really inexperienced and didn't take much time to write or edit it at all. Unfortunately, this and two other stories are all I have saved for immediate critiquing and was just curious to see where I stood among people that actually do write frequently.

Here's the full story in case you or anyone else is interested. I can link the other two as well if people want.

https://pastebin.com/QXfKrV6X

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>>9407900
>"For someone so educated, you'd think you were smart enough to know when someone is truly a friend." Zero whispered into his ear "Did it not occur to you that perhaps it was us who ejaculated in all your books to stick your pages together, or broke the legs on your footstool? We've been the ones bullying you this whole time and only became your retainers to leave you none the wiser."

mfw

pure evil my nigga

>>9407289
tbf that guy is kinda meant to be a bit robotic / smarmy but yeah i get you

VERSIFICATION; or THE DEATH OF MAN

Old verse left burning cinders.
I transfer a flame in the Milky way,
I will ignite it, and create it, again;
I will spill milk, and break shells,
I will make more galaxies.
The skies are riddled with many, dead constellations.
They stoke as extinguished fires, as dead ashes.

Poetry is a battle with windmills;
All who sung, have also died,
But have left embers.
It is up to us to find suitable kindling.

If you need to sing, your soul will kindle,
Since dying, with or without it, is the same.
If you sing, even dawns will be noisy,
And during nights, night will awaken.
Once you sing, nothing but songs will be heard.

Not all dead have sung.
But those who sang, died -- even before them.

The moon glared into the golden ballroom, a hive of diamonds and frills twirling in a lake of white marble - the night soothing into the joys of the evening delights with the jamboree of music slaving away.
Trapped in the maws of sway was a young girl of pearl and silver, no higher than your leg, no thinner than a thimble. “Where am I?” she asked, eyes darting about for someone to whisk her away from the whirl of dancers. Confusion held her still, for a moment ago she was held up in drowse, face first into the books of an exam for the morn after.
“Can anyone-?” she tried to squeak, but her voice was but a whisper in the currents of high music: violinists, pipers, and pianists in a three-triad war for control of the evening.
She would’ve touched someone of course, had she not been of the withholding nature; speaking a second language to her, in place of breathing in the company of others.
But just as she made for the exit, a round of applause held everyone in track, a wall of pretty colours encaged her within the middle of the hued storm.
‘Good eve, good eve dear guests!’ announced an old fellow tapping his glass. ‘It would be nothing short of my honour to be able to announce this year’s Ember Queen, and my, my, you’ve all come looking your best!’
The girl found him queerly. “Father?” she said to herself, “What are you doing here?”
She knew him as a saint to the woods, a shut-in who kept to himself to avoid the blight of the “city people” he shunned eagerly. To see him with fine suited garments, companies of nobles, and a glass of red wine was nothing short of witchcraft to the eyes of this supposed city girl who had nought seen him but a year ago in protest of seeing him again.
“But we all know why we really came here, don’t we?” he grinned, the crowd seemingly with him.
The girl shuffled, lightly paddling her way through the sea of gut-clenching dresses and shoe-tripping cloaks.
“Father?” she said.
His eyes found her, and for a brief passing moment - they turned to poison.
“Disgusting,” he whispered.
Elvira woke up screaming.
She was in her room again, on a bed full of books and old scrolls she had nursed from moon to dawn, an embargo of clean rest for what was clearly something to do with an exam that is supposed to be happening that day.
Then she remembered.
She turned to see the sun sit snugly between the two summits of Mount Whitepeak, and Mount Senestra where she had recounted a moon in its place.
Her moons turned to suns, and like fire they burned awoken.
“I’m late!” she said, ascending from the sheets like a bird first blind out of womb to the tumble edges of the nest on high. A pack of clothes ruffled little feather, and a combing of short hair was little of flight, but a fix of proper powder? That required some flapping.

https://williamguppyblog.wordpress.com/category/two/