crit thread since the old one died :(

>>9404747
From my diary desu:

With the last gasp of Romanticism, the quelling of its florid uprising against the vapid formalism of one strain of the Enlightenment, the dimming of its yearning for the imagined grandeur of the archaic, and the dashing of its too sanguine hopes for a revitalized, fulfilled humanity, the horror of its more lasting, more Gothic legacy has settled in, distributed and diffused enough, to be sure, that lugubriousness is recognizable only as languor, or as a certain sardonic laconicism disguising itself in a new sanctification of the destructive instincts, a new genius for displacing cultural reifications in the interminable shell game of the analysis of the human psyche, where nothing remains sacred.

>>9404751
me likey :^)

https://pastebin.com/2cUJM9uj

>>9404751
shorter sentences and fewer commas

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.

The dad was a sort of gruff towering man with a noticeable bulge.

First sentence

>>9406116
kek'd so it must be good

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A reading of a short story:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVk3lxBOAOg


>>9404751
So nice I read it twice. Too verbose but a good articulation of a commonly critiqued phenomenon, though I hadn't considered the gothic aspect.

>>9405965
Lose the elipsis on "...god knows what". Also, capitalise God, heathen.
A good sense of place. You might want to slow down and pad out the description. I say this because I think what descrption you do give is mostly good, besides "four walls," which seems pretty unnecessary. Tell us what the four walls are like instead. Spend more time in that hall.

>>9406046
Capable writing but maybe a little grandiose in places? Tone it down, scale it up, maintain some distance.

>>9404747
Change "was to quickly expand" to "quickly expanded. Lose those semicolons. "Coordinate with my birthplace" is a little clumsy. Like the "fat and picking my nose." Not sure "patches" is the right word for groups of people coming bit by bit. Throw an "On" in front of "October 25th." "Encumbered" doesn't seem like quite the right word. Interesting twist with the description at the end (Ganesh?).

>>9404751
Written to show off to /lit/

>>9405965
World's instead of worlds (you make this mistake with other nouns too). Was instead of were. Lose the ellipsis before god knows what. Change "a month away" to "a month ago." Should be "had long since withered away." "Unseen's" is incorrect, as is "moaning's." Fuck man, if you wanna write stories at least grasp the basics of grammar. Give your character a name. Not sure what you're getting at with the end.

>>9406046
Lose all the "like a" "sort of" stuff. Doesn't add anything and it doesn't come across how you think it does. Great otherwise, good imagery.

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.

>>9404747
Here's a couple passages from a section of my book that i'm working on. They're more thoughts written down than something refined, but I think they're alright.

1. Heavy august air filled with nostalgia for the first half of the year where things bloom and grow and promise something crept through the expansive attic: crept through the attic like the shadows creep round the corner as the dying sun tucks itself behind the hundred-year old dogwood trees framing the dust-caked window. It is one of those attics where unlit hallways and unopened dusty doors promise a sense of mystery and dread in whomever occupies the space. Draped sheets cover furniture littered around the attic—as if the sheets can protect the furniture from the dust-nature of time taking hold and transmuting that furniture into something nostalgic and melancholic. Paint strokes on a large canvas near the center of the attic send a sound up to the decrepit rafters and echo throughout.

2. 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.

I'll critique in separate posts. I usually critique without posting anything anyways.

same one as always.

unrequited

She looked at me for a moment locked in time
eyes, emerald gilded sunspots through shattered glass,
this ore a boon, alloyed spirit held at length,
winds of change spewed from Eden's maw,
eyes now further than the stars littering the empty sky,
those eyes, now sultry soil.

>>9406736
the pacing is good, the rhythm too. there are some times where there is an accidental rhyme, which adds to the poem, a lot.
i don't like the last line. you're going to far from the average meter of a verse; you're slicing it in half. also, think about the last word in the verse, all verses before have a final word that's got stress when spoken. soil hasn't, and it disrupts the flow. even if intended, it could be bettered

Hearty swoon of balloon over a scape of times distant, lost to past, while that suave locus snuck ahead to every drifting paradise. These thumbs were not for murder; when every coffee-spun racking-ghoul sets Caesar to stencil, he'll remain.
The truth of matter was the internet. All he loved of orange sunglow spat off creeping ocean canals and onto spines of fourth-dimensional ancestors would choke if lost were this sacred touching point.
He wrote very like a /lit-eater, too: sweeping, peeping folds of innocent baby land with thick, strong oak trees thrust into the sky like knobs.

>>9406759
it was right before she left to go fuck him in the other room, i wasn't thinking all that clearly at the time, what with the meth coursing through my veins.

>>9406771
an addendum, i don't post this as an excuse for the ending, i love the poem, but because i could never edit the work, i'll never feel that way again in my life, that was a moment locked in time, as it says. it would depress me highly to go back and change it. I do like your criticism though, and can see how the last word lacks punch, I would say I probably began to wither into depression, couldn't bring myself to wick away the tears boiling up as I dealt with unreasonable affection for an utter whore.

PLEBS

>>9406764
Way too purple and convoluted.

>the truth of matter
Fix it.

I kinda understand what you're going for at some points, but it's just very poorly done and doesn't flow well at all.

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Well they closed down the auto plant in Mahwah late that month
Ralph went out lookin' for a job but he couldn't find none
He came home too drunk from mixin' Tanqueray and wine
He got a gun shot a night clerk now they call'm Johnny 99
Down in the part of town where when you hit a red light you don't stop
Johnny's wavin' his gun around and threatenin' to blow his top
When an off-duty cop snuck up on him from behind
Out in front of the Club Tip Top they slapped the cuffs on Johnny 99
Well the city supplied a public defender but the judge was Mean John Brown
He came into the courtroom and stared young Johnny down
Well the evidence is clear gonna let the sentence son fit the crime
Prison for ninety eight and a year and we'll call it even Johnny 99
A fist fight broke out in the courtroom they had to drag Johnny's girl away
His mama stood up and shouted "Judge don't take my boy this way"
Well son you got a statement you'd like to make
Before the bailiff comes to forever take you away
Now judge, judge I had debts no honest man could pay
The bank was holdin' my mortgage and they were gonna take my house away
Now I ain't sayin' that make me an innocent man
But it was more 'n all this that put that gun in my hand
Well your honor I do believe I'd be better off dead
So if you can take a man's life for the thoughts that's in his head
Then won't you sit back in that chair and think it over judge one more time
And let 'em shave off my hair and put me on that execution line

>>9407192
t. Pleb

>>9407909
another gem from the most overrated hack of all time

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>>9404747
nb, nb, felt the word "lumpy" was used too often


Lights, flashing.
The amber streaks pass by eyes
Little orbs appearing and disappearing in an instant
The moon hides behind the clouds tonight
And there is only silence.
He’s driving down a quiet country road
And the world revolves around him
As the wheels revolve below him
And the heavens revolve above him.
A car is incoming
Its orbs are closing in
Faster, faster.
They’re like two suns
Two suns brightening up his world
And then it’s over in an instant.

I was 9 years old when I found out my uncle died
He was twice my age and driving home from a party, I found out.
My mother never took me to the hospital
She never took me to the funeral
She said it was no place for children
And so, I never got to say goodbye

I was his age when I was in my first accident
We were at a junction and the light had just flickered amber and the car edged forward
I saw the car before it hit us, hurtling down the street as if being chased by the demons of hell
I didn’t cover my face or protect myself
I was frozen to my seat
When they pulled me out, they told me I was going to live
They told me I had lost a lot of blood but I was going to live

Have you ever been in a car crash?
Fighting for whatever life waited for you
I wondered what my mother would say and how worried she’d be
I was crying and the paramedics told me I needed to stop
I couldn’t
I remembered my uncle
I remembered his face
His smile
His voice
Goodbye

There is something of the mountains and mountain roads and the limitless peace of Route Two in the nighttime. Firs dot the slopes and birches line the rivers frozen at the height of their fall ecstasies--the crystalline flows jutting like jagged flowers. Ease around the turnarounds and steep first-gear-only roads flanked by snowbanks that glisten under the lights of Eastern Homes: Banks that never shrink through the duration of winter. Penetrate that darkness further and further and further, rising over the summits of sub-mountainous hills, reaching the peaks where the shadows on reverse hillsides recoil in high-beam light. Shrinking, receding towards the wilderness that lines the highway as the rays level upon them--Assimilating to the uniform blackness under the leafless shrubs and waiting for the interloper to pass.

STEVEN was the smallest out of the five brothers, but they were all no more than a couple of years apart. Mum had kept trying for a girl, his brothers told him, and she'd stopped when she'd had one, they said, laughing. It worked out okay for Steven because nobody gave him trouble, except his brothers, anyway. He was Mum's favourite. She made extra porridge for him in the morning. Maybe she thought that would help.
In the mornings after his brothers had already left Mum straightened up his collar, and said to him now Steven, you pay attention to your lessons. Don't go around kicking a ball like your brothers all the time, thinking you're something smart and clever. You'll see soon enough how they'll all come undone, but I know you're a bright boy and you'll do this family proud. Go along Stevie, and stay out of trouble. He promised to do his best. She kissed him on the cheek.
They lived on a street full of houses all the same. At the end of the road was the chippy. Steven walked past flicking his finger through the railings on the way to school. He was lost in thought so much that he didn't see the bike come screeching towards him, bell ringing, until it almost knocked him over, and someone was shouting:
“Ding ding! Wake up sleepyhead! Check this out!”
Danny, the eldest of Steven's brothers, was riding a bike up and down the road, trying to do a wheelie. He hopped onto the curb and rode around Steven, ringing the bell, but the bike looked too small for him.
“Where'd you get that?” Steven asked.
Danny shrugged. “Christmas present.”
“Fuck off. You nicked it.”
“Finders keepers, losers weepers!” said Danny, riding as fast as he could up the road. He stopped at the end and rode back at him, braking at the last second.
“You'll get in shit for that,” Steven said.
“No I won't,” said Danny, “But you better keep your mouth shut. Got enough problems without my own brother grassing on me. Understand? See you later, runt!”
When he saw Danny later at school the bike was gone and Danny had a busted lip. Steven knew somehow that the two were related, even before he heard that Jake Elmore's bike had gone missing and that Jake's brother had come up to the school looking for it. Jake's brother was into heavier stuff than stealing bikes. Steven didn't say anything about the bike or the cut lip.
“Who's done that to you, Danny?” Mum asked when they got home.
“Don't know,” Danny said, “Kid at school.”
“Kid at school. Just comes up and hits you. What'd you do?”
“Nothing! I swear!” Danny looked at Steven, who kept his head down.

>>9410521
high school/10

Amatuer's attempt here, watch your step folks!

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.

>>9404747
this is nice

>>9404751
This is copypasta, right? Pretty sure I've seen it before. If it isn't, then I'm impressed, because I don't think many human beings actually write like this

>>9405965
kinda cliched, sorry

>>9406046
this is nice, a bit too flowery though. It definitely feels genuine, I'm guessing it's based on your experience?

>>9406116
pretty nice sentence

>>9406640
The meter is dreadfully inconsistent, sorry. I can't find any sense of rhythm, the flow is everywhere, it's just a really awkward poem. Verse is really hard to write, so I kinda understand

>>9406695
Sweet, but also kind of pretentious. With a lot of these works I feel like sometimes people lose the plot of what they're writing about. Why do the trees frame the window? Why do you put so much emphasis on how the house is unoccupied, with the dust and unlit hallways, but then use a phrase like "whomever occupies the space"? Why is the sun dying, but the trees old? I feel like you're saying a lot of things just for the sake of saying them. I like the blue line bit though, it sounds nice.

>>9406736
what is Eden's maw? How are can the eyes, which you represent as light (sunspot, star), be soil? There's only so far you can stretch imagery and metaphor, things still have to make sense. The whole emerald, gilded, ore, alloy thing feels very forced, and then you suddenly shift gears to wind and sky? It feels cliched and ingenuine. Maybe there's some sort of dichotomy about sky and earth at play here, but really it just feels awkward.

>>9406764
>sunglow spat off creeping ocean canals
is nice, but I don't really like anything else, sorry. Like some of the others, it feels like you're forcing meaning. 'sets Ceasar to stencil' feels very constructed, even contrived.

>>9407909
I thought it was a good song, even though I don't listen to much Springsteen

>>9410521
is this a song? It would definitely make for a better song than a poem

>>9410587
There are some nice bits here, and some not nice bits here. How are flowers jagged? I don't think you need to write further three times. I kinda like how something is happening in this paragraph, because there's often very little action or pacing in most of the pieces here. At least when there's movement it's not too hopelessly bloated. You should probably tone it down a little bit, and just write like you normally do. You don't need to force it

>>9410599
This is nice

>>9410613
There is so much going on here

And so I'm not too much of an over-critiquing prick, I post something I wrote today. I'll do it in a new post because I've run out of characters here

>>9410660
It definitely needs more drafting, and I don't like how it ends very much:

Looking down, the stairs would spiral in a perfect circle, leaving an empty space in the centre. He often looked down, and imagined the space to be solid- a pillar which rose from the bottom of the lighthouse to the top. He would imagine riding down this pillar, like a fireman on a pole, sliding all the way, until he reached the ground. It was air, and to slide was to fall, of course, but he dreamed of it nonetheless. He was terrified of the pillar. He was terrified of its emptiness. He was terrified of falling, tumbling and flipping through the air, until up and down became one, and he would forget whether he was descending or ascending. Sometimes, when he was outside, he would wonder what would happen if gravity were to just suddenly reverse. Would people drop into the sky as quickly as he would fall? As if the ground was pulled out from underneath them, and for a single moment they would be floating, stationary in the air- confused and clueless, like the coyote in those roadrunner cartoons. And they would plummet, suddenly, abruptly, upwards into the atmosphere. He imagined himself plummeting- past the trees, past the skyscrapers, past even the tallest mountains and hills, past the very top of the lighthouse. He would fall through clouds where he could not see beyond his own body, and a deep fog would envelop him for so long that he would forget that he was falling. Then, just as he would become comfortable surrounded by the soft white, he would burst through even the highest of clouds, into the deep, dark sky, where night and day stop mattering, and there is only black and cold all around.

“Okay, always okay, that’s all it ever is with you.” Then she was shouting, “You’re impossible! You’ve never once been angry, jealous, afraid. It’s always the same placid phrases! It’s like you’re… you’re…” she turned away, eyes tracing the curbs and grates, as if in hope of finding the unspeakable words written upon their beaten surfaces.
“Sal.”
She continued to stare across the lot, perhaps taking inventory of the piles of gravel, and then at the ground as she stamped out her cigarette. She did not look back up.
“Solway.”
She cringed at the utterance of her birth name, as she always had, but then she turned to him and was smiling. It was the same dimpled closed-lip curled bracket that he had known in the past, but her eyes squinted tight, as if the sun had come out behind the prevailing greyness. There was the usual melancholy in them, but something more lurked in the expression: a knowing pity for R.F. in all the things he lacked and did not or could not understand. To him it verged on sinister. Gazing into that visage, he realized a resemblance to the girl in that grainy Kodak print taken near that bay of the Irish Sea, The Solway Firth, for which she had been named. Abruptly the lot was that emerald Scottish marsh beneath that innocent lass and R.F. could almost picture that white and obscure figure rising up somewhere behind her, all at once menacing and unassuming. Faceless.
“It’s like you’re—“
“Sal, I understand.”
She paused. “I’m sorry R.F.”
He was the ghostly bystander, the Cumberland Spaceman: An accidental overexposure given far too much attention. Motives the subject of interpretation and debate but ultimately absent. A cosmic visitor with no role but as an observer, an expressionless neutral party of all things on these verdant shores. Sal had known this, but could not possibly have conveyed it to him and compromised his neutrality. R.F. thought of offering forgiveness but realized there was no transgression to pardon. Instead he told her goodbye.
“Bye, R.F.” The pity was gone from her face, and what remained might’ve represented acceptance.
The embrace seemed a permissible formality; it was brief and stiff, and both their bodies were cold. She stepped back into that green station-wagon, and he watched her drive away, standing under the light, smoke down to the filter but not noticing. Lingering and humming at the edge of the driveway, he doubted she was looking back at him. Pulling away, she left a bud of exhaust, a cotton-bur of perfect pure whiteness that clung to the cold pavement. Into the winter air, it unfurled its fibrous petals, and dissipated.

>>9410660
>The meter is dreadfully inconsistent, sorry.
that's okay, i did a really rough translation, so maybe the meter is lost. or it maybe never was there. thanks for reading, anyway.

I woke up and saw a second sun in the sky.

>>9410613
Seems interesting, I feel it almost gets too purply at times and then switches to common speak that jars it for me.

Here's mine so far.

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

>>9411443
You have a lot of tense shifts throughout this.
>pressing his lips to the corpses forehead and closed the vacant eyes
Is one of them. You also have a few comma splices that are very obvious.

A kid crosses abandoned tracks. It is snowing. Now, of course, it was never her idea to leave and get this far away. But, she is here now and she will keep going. At the moment it is better than the convent. Like I said it is snowing. She only has the pair of shoes she is wearing right now and they aren’t suited for the snow. In fact the only things she has are the things she is wearing right now and none of her outfit is suited for the snow. As she walks she has time to think, not like she didn’t have time to think before, but it is a different kind of thinking when you are in her situation. In the convent she had time to think, too much of it, but they were limited thoughts, thoughts that were able to be distracted and didn’t stray far from any situation at hand. The thoughts now are deep thoughts, they stretch as far back and as far forward as possible. It was hard thinking forward, though, but she tried to keep optimistic. When she thinks back she thinks of how she came into the convent. How she was abandoned. Somehow she got the idea that her family couldn’t care for her. Someone must have told her that in a way where it sounded like a fact so that is the way that it stands in her mind and in history as far as it is important. Thinking about the past doesn’t make her sad and she was perfectly happy in the convent. There was a world out there that wasn’t as disciplined and she knew that. But, the life she had was; and so she kept going.
She had never had to brave the cold like this before, and it was never an option to turn and go back to the convent, it was a long way away now anyway. No one would come out and look for her either. Somehow she knew that.

The Toasting Point
Throughout my existence I have been many things. From the humble beginnings of a grain, I sprouted in the fertile soil of the field, amongst my brothers and sisters. We endured harsh weather there in the field. Some of us were delivered not to the scythe of the farmer, but to that of death. They lay [-==unsung in the soil, their only requiem a chorus of growling bellies. Finally, when it seemed our time in the field would last all eternity, he came. The farmer worked diligently, his entire being put into his task, as our beings would be put into him. He stored us in a silo then. Away from the sun and the wind. Little by little we were freed, until one day, I was taken out. I was ground down into a fine powder with others of my kind, my form destroyed so I may become part of something new, something of use. I was baked into a fine loaf, the model specimen. They cut our new body into pieces, and packed us for departure. We drove across this country by day and night. Each finding our place in the world. Today, I was unpackaged and made into a ham sandwich. A respectable achievement, to be sure, but I can not help but wonder if perhaps I could have been more. If I could have been tested further in the fire. To harden into something else. I am soft now, an ingredient in a composition. If I could have been warmed further, I may have achieved more, been something of note. But, it is doomed never to be. I am left to wonder at the vast possibilities that are no longer within my grasp. From grain I grew to a stalk. The stalk was reaped and ground. I was tested in the fire until they believed I had reached my limit. I long to be tested again, but it is never to be. I am simply bread.

>>9404747
It was Jack's first day at demigod acadamy and he was very very nervous. He had gotten lectures from his father the day before and this just made him more nervous. His father also happened to be Odin Allfather and he had the power to shoot fire from his hands. but at the cost of his eye. The students all glared at him, their likeness that of their own parents, some children of posidion or fener or even ra. that was when a kid walked up to him and pushed him, this made Jack very angry.
"haha what are you suppossed to be? a son of PLUTO?????"
Jack shot a fireball at him and went to his class.

I have more if anyone is interested

Out of the water came something with long, greasy, stringy black hair, parted in the middle over the rubbery skin on the top of its head. The skin was pink like a white person's. They have two giant black eyes – almost perfectly round – that emerge when their top and bottom eyelids – tight and thin skin – roll back. They blink at a rate much slower than humans. They have no control over their eyelids. They blink involuntarily. They have no eyebrows. Their eyes are only either blinking or staring straight ahead. It is impossible to tell what emotion a mermaid is trying to convey by looking at their eyes. Their mouth and nose are a naked, hairless dog muzzle, complete with canines of a similar size and shape. They have small and narrow, bony shoulders, but also a barrel chest. They have no breasts; they are flat-chested. Their nipples are constantly erect. Their arms are equally thin and bony as their shoulders. Their belly is distended. Their tail behaves no differently than any other fish tail. That is, there is nothing graceful about it in the classical sense. It violently whips back and forth in response to being out of the water. Constantly running from predators, the mermaid swims around rapidly in jerky, unpredictable patterns.

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 shoveled 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 stinging air of the tent hit me instantly felt like pinpricks on my skin. The freezing weather had been unusually intense lately and it was getting colder by the day. I fumbled around in the dark for my clothes, the aviator jacket Cooper gave me, my grey hoodie, the jeans 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 his old pair of homemade boots. “Took you long enough dipshit, if we move out now we’ll barely make it in time.”

>>9412851
Eh, feels too YA for my liking. Also, *Poseidon; pls use capitals when referring to names and the speech is just... Jilted. Try rewriting and I'll give it another look

>>9413153
>long, greasy, stringy black hair
this is a horrible phrase, completely convoluted to the point of idiocy (no offence).
>the skin was pink like a white person's
Sorry, i'm not reading more after that. Perhaps read some more and see how the development of characters with adjectives is shown in the opening paragraphs

>>9413625
second sentence isn't great. Reword or place it into the first sentence. Conversation is boring, characters therefore feel boring and wouldn't read anymore. Seems like the idea may be good to carry on with though. Would like to read a reworded version of this opening.

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Part one of my short story. I have the rest if anyone wants to see it.

Something is wrong with me.

Sitting in a van with my close friends; I have forgotten their names. We're heading to a what could be our last late night beach party. The party marks the ending of our young-adult lives and a step forward to promising careers and busy family; fulfilling our long-awaited childhood dream, to live a lifestyle with all the certainties of safely, enjoyment, happiness. These are just old dreams to me now. Thanks to the help of few Individuals I bear the gifts of the success from starting my own business; far exceeding the net-worth of companies my friends will be working for next year.

Besides saying goodbye to the past these friends of mine hope partying will do me some good. In their words this party is a “step to forgetting what happened and a chance to deal with the pain” but it's too late. Something is wrong with me.

As we approached our destination I look around to get a feel of the area.

We drive into the new-money hollywood-hills styled gated community, full of esoterically designed mansions all packed together upon an giant hill overlooking a well-maintained private beach and miles of forest further ahead.

however the view isn't picture perfect: dirty red rooftops of abandoned properties within the forest stick out like a sore thumb.


Finally, we arrive. The van pulls up to the beach house, It's mix of a new fangled camper's lounge and condo built for an old long-divorced bachelor.


The beach house was surrounded by vans, some parked even in the middle of the street more outlandish was mass of intoxicated bodies, dancing to the music blasting inside the house so loud it can be heard loudly from outside.

Me and the others head towards the beach house, and enter the drunken crowd. I put on my best smile and proceed to cheerfully greet my old cohorts, peers I remember vaguely from high school, old flings, more and more strangers,

I distanced myself from my friends within the crowd and headed towards the entrance of the beach house,

I felt annoyed, this was no step "to forgetting what happened" and, in addition, the beach house haunted me; I've been to this beach house before but,when? in front of the I approached entrance.

Until I saw her. My inmate acquaintance Claudia.

He lays on his bed, listening to Fela Kuti, the record his Daddy bought him. The rhythm jitters out of the speaker, hypnotic. He has a whole heap of records now cuz his Daddy always brings him a couple when he comes round, which isn’t often, maybe once a month. Always artists that Taylor ain’t ever heard of before: First it was Kuti, then Sun Ra, then Pharoah Sanders, then Labi Siffre, Lonnie Liston Smith, Thelonious Monk, and so on. Each record like a slice of the cosmos pressed on wax, transporting him to places far beyond the rust-coloured streets and the sweltering, swollen cities, and up past the clouds and the blue of the sky. His Daddy only comes to give his Momma a bit of cash, and to see Taylor briefly; his Momma never wants the money though, at least she says she don’t, but his Daddy insists every time, taking the notes from his wallet and putting ‘em down on the table. He’s a wise looking man, Taylor’s Daddy; always knocks on Taylor’s door, three light knocks, and when Taylor opens it he’s always got a smile on his face, big gleaming teeth shining, and he never looks any older, not in all the years Taylor’s been on this earth, and he stands there a moment staring down at Taylor, before presenting him with this month’s collection of records. Taylor always scans through ‘em, inspecting each one. They always have these covers with a man on the front, instrument in hand, some of ‘em all colourful and psychedelic, some just a picture, all of ‘em looking serious and cool and wise; men who look a bit like Taylor’s Daddy. And every time he says ‘don’t tell your Momma’ and smiles an even wider smile, and rubs a hand through Taylor’s hair. And then he walks out again and closes the door. Taylor don’t play the records straight away, he places them softly and carefully on his bed and goes to the window and opens it up as far as it will go so it scrapes the metal grill surrounding it, and he sticks his head out to look into the sizzling street, the baking sun hanging overhead, to watch his Daddy walk out the house to his car, his Momma’s voice carrying from the doorway after him: ‘you ain’t gonna keep coming here, you ain’t no father’ she says, and Taylor can smell the musty funky smell of weed as it drifts up through his window from the spliff his Momma’s just lit, and his Father don’t look back as he slams the car door with a ringing thud and then leaves, the car’s engine rumbling as he pulls away. ‘Listen naw’ Taylor’s Momma always says, ‘Yo Father ain’t a good man. Maybe you think he is cus he comes round here all nice and dresses all smart but let me tell you he ain’t shit. He ain’t raised you, I raised you. He give us money cus that’s the least that he should do for us.’ She says this as she lights another spliff. ‘Yo Father’s a loser, you understanding me, nigga?’

>>9413819
Thanks for the critique. Trying to write a post-apocalyptic novel that's set in the USA during a nuclear winter, prot and others have to go south if they don't want to freeze to death.

>>9413969
i'm guessing you're the last one i reviewed. Good that you have a premise, reminds me of The Stand (which I didn't rate after that ending jeez) but as long as you have your characterisation on point, or at least partly, then I'd probably give it a read; keep us posted on how it goes pls

>>9413880
i hope this is a summary...
don't like the start of it. Feels awful to read. The whole concept seems like a highschooler wrote it because hurr durr no one understands me, man, everyone is only temporary in my life
>>9413914
>‘Yo Father’s a loser, you understanding me, nigga?’
literally kys this isnt /b/

>>9413914
Really good. You can feel the emotions of mom and son, and you made me wonder what kind of man his father really is.

>>9414000
>this isnt /b/
What?

>>9414007
Cheers, there's quite a lot more to it and I'm currently working on this section of the book but I couldn't fit it all here and didn't wanna be overbearing. Basically Taylor's a mute, and his communication and expression is tied up in the records his father brings him

>>9414000
It's a horror story. Should I make the character more likable or is the tone really too edgy.

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I stroked the dogs dick, he farted and I suddenly got hard. His giant red rocket was throbbing, ready to fly to the full moon in a echoing howl. Slowly my lips got closer to the tip of this delicious cherry popsicle and I began to lick it. Oh! Those tender moments of ecstasy, in those times I wish the moon under it's silver glory would turn me into a canine. I am all but the devil, the furless demon, but in these moments the earth takes me back into it's clutches and I am one with the wild, where my soul belongs. Take my soul now if it means to spend my years in threshing love of the wood. To spend my short years with the pack, and to smell the scent of blood and pine, thick in the cold air. Of all the worlds layered upon the bed of reality, let me be in the one of primal instinct, a pure and free life lavish in the ignorance of death. Free of all that we know and think we know, living only for the kill and stench of love and birth and death. My mouth is around his shaft now, and he yelps in pleasure, his paws shake the bed I have him strapped to, and all is align in my miserable life.

>>9414009
change that end, it makes the whole thing feel comedic

>>9414066
I don't actually have a problem with that, but the section carries on so in context it's different. Also people do really talk like that to their kids

>>9413983
I will, it's a new project though so I probably won't have anything concrete until this fall.

I dreamt about my anger
Like a coward

I dreamt about infidelity
Which makes me bad.
A figure in the diner we argued in asked,
“Why are you being so calm?”
I let my face run red, let spit leave my lips
My veins bulged against down feathers

I dreamt about spite
Which makes me mean

I looked at a stranger and we sweat
And the mirror fogged.
Revenge is a lovely thing
When it doesn’t count,
Anger and pleasure mix well
When rules don’t apply

I dreamt about living alone
Which makes me afraid

A bag filled with one coat
Is all I have
75 miles takes 9 hours with my eyes closed
I’ll allow myself bravery in a sleeping bag
Leaned against a tree
I’ll never get to see

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>>9413880

Part 2 of my story.


Her name was struggle for my clouded mind to remember, but not her presence. Claudia demanded attention. Long dark hair down to her waist, naturally pale face with rosy cheeks, prominent cheekbones, and beautiful green eyes combined with the perfect eyeliner, this and more layers of makeup was enough to hide the deep dark circles of stress under her eyes. Perhaps, I am the only one to notice.

I remember now. This was one of father's homes, the old divorced bachelor would allow us to relax here entire weeks on end.

Is this why my friends made sure I went? She must be the host of the party. I move closer. Claudia Is smiling, warmly greeting everyone she walks past, we used to share feelings of love before, for five years...I wonder if she still contains those feelings, even now after what had to be done that day.


Me and claudia lock eyes, my eyes beckon her to come, she obeys, running towards me with open arms. "Wow Love, you showed up, you look amazing like always" she says while hugging me tight.

Mustering up words that I used to say with emotion and using gestures that used to come instinctively in past, I managed to respond with a smile "you're here, you can't expect me not to come, invite me inside, let's catch up".

"Definitely, let me say hello to a few more people, after that let's talk about what it's done to us" said Claudia. I nod my head and go inside.

Inside, the party is in full swing. The meat was entranced by the almighty power of music, it commanded them to move in degenerate ways: gyrating, grinding, kissing, laughing, consuming, it took their minds away and replaced with some higher. I observed with my back against the wall, I did not want to maintain a facade of sociability any longer. The meat music had no effect on me, for the coldness in me has grown, it's has own a song now. It is calling me; however, my mind was elsewhere. Claudia. Why I am seeing her just now? What happened to her that day, is there something wrong with her too?

While lamenting over our fate, I sensed fear and overwhelming the desire to hurt. Within crowded room 3 bodies are headed towards me.

The bodies approach me.

The first body looked into my eyes and became nervous, as if I was a demon. Remember his face. I sinned against him. I committed a large amount of damage to that body that long day ago, perhaps have they come deliver revenge?

The second body seems prepared for whatever the other two will do, his hands are behind his back holding something.

The last the body, another remainder of that day. I have left a mark on his soul, his eyes have not left my face, great fear and courage emits from his mind. More so fear, revealed by the shaking of his disfigures had hand gripping the cross on his neck.


Everything from that moment happen quickly. Something is spoken and I respond with "Ahcjruejk" as everything becomes joyously black, feeling once more, something is wrong with me.

you look out the window

you look out the window
kids playing pretend
you look out the window
black belt in chrome, dances
of course you look out the window
is it your aunt’s epiphany?
look, now: the window,
jean crutches in the doggy darn lobby
window window window
do you name me christopher?
do you name that window green?
can you name something so hard it becomes inedible?
my name really is rivulet.
polly mines for ugly tubes.
jingly fried egg tomorrows,
windows calling other windows soft.
is it soft when you see out the window?

you needed a cherry pie and so you ordered one

mama spooks had to throw out the old processor because it began inventing new colors. individuals sending smells as attachments. pal derby walking in circles chanting “the stoned guardian angel flowers on.” man. another day another world. cobweb killer my throat is the enemy of 40 nude baristas. london brother your hair is covering the mantras of tuesday acorns. la-doo. crumbling band-aid brain winds up discovering the pixelated beaches of californ-aye-ay. klingon secretary for short times my evening blossoms toward you. doo-la-lee. lily trundled to the best spot we got we got the best spot we got. billiard bubba blow my french silk balls when you can. “politely,” i plea; “politely,” i plea. apply leeway safely to the lever that struggles you up without failing. porta potty princess my lisp welcomes you home. yes my vest vexes me. minty monday leavin’ it up to drew barrymore. winter of suckitup monuments. lit candied drugs you errored there. live me again and again. song to song freed me into a good time with a real brother man tomorrow i will scoop the grass all finger-fed green. everyone in jumanji had hazel eyes. eradicate this indecision silas of the sovereign hills. who said to me “cherry pie grave digs the most ludicrous appetites.” minion of the yellow river you want it and you want it gone. i do things, making a simple offering. simplicity is blue, you know. it rains in front of me sometimes. surround sound meteor. pour me a churning rhythm over that plangent little sock. frocked we run amok. who cares to take stock anymore. keep on whispering “someone’s gotta do it.” see where that gets ya. the jubilee man frowns in yesterday time. nantucket! i knew i put my...yes the million machine. landis port sings in swims of softly gauze. no one knows what to do when the blue whale chirps. god tried to make a world in my stomach. gods do that. sometimes you prescribe a certain amount of staring to your routine. rudy farmweather samurais himself into the oblivion of just one good night, finally. reggae bobs and apple blossoms. until now there has never been mouse clicking in the persian islands.

>>9415539
crestfallen lithium froth wave storming into the empty denny’s demanding pink lemonade. i won’t be serving my purpose until i create children. FLIP/FLOP. orange peels in profile descending under starlit ufo’s. morbid jungians tessellate a game or two before losing their bodies in a bet with horus. blanket statement puzzle gaming into the silvery mist that befuddles the pathologers. mondo filming grey bricks because why not. okay look. there are a few dynasties left in the bucket. what i’m going to do is take one out, soak it in warm butter throw it down the bowling alley. is that okay with everyone? i’ve announced what i am going to do and i plan on doing it okay? i’m doing it now. alright alright. calm down. this is what you wanted. yes. i still need you.

>>9414885
man this is too literal for poetry, stick to prose. enjoyed the content a bit though.

Written for a prompt in a writer's group.

Prompt: "We provided our own entertainment by singing and reciting poetry"

Poem:

Treading water
The fragments of our ship
Sinking around us or floating away
The water too cold
Any wood too small
We were going to drown.

Keeping close for warmth
Through chattering teeth he spoke
"My life was so much better
When I was flat-out broke"

We all were caught off guard
For each of us had smiled
And then we all remembered
That we still had a while

Our tongues began to slur
But formed each stanza clear
And bit by bit we soon forgot
The end was drawing near

We shared our poets through the night
Each word warmed up the gloom
And when my arms began to fail
I said "I must be going soon"

My head sank beneath the waves
I began to feel forlorn
But as my ears both dipped below
I heard a new ship's horn

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>>9414065
I could feel the dog's dick in my mouth. Well done.

>>9413625

>The stinging air of the tent hit me instantly felt like pinpricks on my skin. The freezing weather had been unusually intense lately and it was getting colder by the day.

repetitive weather description, I would drop one and keep the other

>As per usual he was wearing his old army jacket,
>>He wore

Avoid use of passive voice at all costs, it disengages the reader.

Over all readable and sounds like it's going somewhere! Progress/10 anon

>>9411443
Some talent present but pace is too slow for me (bogged down with adjectives at times)

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>>9404747
I find this well written, save some of the intentionally antiquated, verbose prose, but these aren't problems if you are trying to write a piece set in the past or some fantasy place. Watch out for repeating points and redundancy. "My father was disgusted. He could not stomach the sight of me." Perhaps this was written for effect, but if it was, i think it would be more effective this way. "He could not EVEN stomach the sight of me."
>>9404751
Purple. More purple than Prince drinking grape juice.
>>9406046
This reads more like a journalistic story than than the fiction I think you intend it to be. It's fine to have a journalistic style, but I thought you should be told if you haven't yet. Otherwise, you can do for some lessening up of your sentences, not every sentence needs to be full of drama, subtle is pretty too.
>>9406116
Bulge where? Be more specific.
>>9406695
I write like this sometimes, and I end up hating my work, thinking it is too flowery. I think this is good, but too garnished. Maybe try putting the important information in, and then spicing it up? Just my thoughts.
>>9410587
Sounds as if I am reading a tributary to some place you think is really beautiful. If the book isn't directly about the place, this is just grating. It's a little generic in it's imagery, but otherwise fine prose.
>>9410599
Dialouge is forced, but the prose is rustic and simple, which may do you well for the piece.
>>9410613
Cliches and Cliches. You ought to read more. Once you do read, you'll find your way. Please don't be angry at me for saying it. Nobody is perfect.
>>9411443
Far too much description destroys any feeling you are trying to give the reader, rather than enhance it. It's not bad at all, but you can't shove it all in there and expect someone to settle in and work through it.
>>9412409
If this is first person, you should research the voice you are using more. If not, you shouldn't be so personal, in my opinion.
>>9412828
Curious to why you wrote this, and though I think it pointless, you could liven up your inanimate bread with more passion. Make your bread care more about what is being used for.
>>9412851
Fanfiction. Read much more.
>>9413153
I'd cut some of the details, and add some sentences about what the mermaid is actually doing.
>>9413625
This has life in it, but I don't like descriptive dialouge peices like bellowed or replied. replied is obvious, and bellowed, you can make the reader see that if you write the scene well. The scene itself may do better with some description.
>>9413880
You don't need to separate every sentence. Just when you want to diverge from a certain point you've made. You can do better on placing your characters emotions for the places he's seeing. Claudia is a name you've picked because you think it sounds elegant. It is not exactly realistic imo.
>>9413914
Ignore >>9414000 You've got something here, but it isn't beautiful prose. It's honest and smart though. I would read more of it.

Pic related: Mine

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Thanks for any feedback

The two left the ongar's villa and descended to Daigar's lower echelon, where the filth dwell in darkness. The white glare of marble sanctums darkened to begrimed wattle and daubs of the poor and teetering cantinas where within wantons flirt and fences lurk.
Henceforth the two would go daily to the cultists' lair via a network of dusty, cobbled alleys and grottos behind the rammed earth edifices. How the crowded streets and the stink of offal and piss did remind Karash of Tel-Dur. But more so than in Tel-Dur did the Athados sanctify their higher castes and condemn their lesser as per a cosmic will he never did grasp. He knew not of such poverty in Eos amidst all his studies here. None should meddle with god's intent, it still pains you to see them from thy pulpit of privilege but know it's not of your making but Theirs. Theirs not theirs. Every alcove he passed loitered beggars or skulking muggers, in every grotto echoed the groans of the starving and cries of babies suckling dry their mothers' breasts. And the insane milled in their minds, for the quamites lived there among them.
Everywhere eyes followed them. Whereas women shrouded their faces as was law, men did not. Thus the eunuch and the nimbus, without a doubt not women, hid no marks as outlanders wearing masks as they did, their dark pupils and skin like specimens among the multitudes of pale, gaunt faces. The nimbus caressed his dagger's pommel beneath his coat as they walked

>>9415721
Impressive fantasy writing. Be careful not to go higher than you have in terms of antiquity and verbose vocabulary. It's at a perfect little concoction of violet, not quite purple, but close. It's really good, and very inviting to your fantasy world. Keep up at it, I hope you finish it, or else get the courage to try and publish it, and I hope I can read it someday.

Mine here>>9415701

I don't write often, so I will post the latest.

https://pastebin.com/HESzrAd0

>>9415701
There is no healthy balance between the world - engulfing your protagonist - and the serpentine "it" that crawls throughout the narrative. I am trying to read it, but as I progress into the story the soda and its depressed user become insignificant to "it," this can easily be interpolated as a device but you use it so poorly that it clearly becomes third-person syndrome. Your omniscience is getting in the way of "showing" the premiere - and you start from musing by the windowsill and, as you begin to recognize your authority, raise your hand over the arch of creation and grab at women's dreams. If you want to be a despot, have at it, but you will have to become much, much more wicked than whatever shape you mold yourself into, Mephistopheles.

Anyone can simply ask my opinion of their work. There is just too much of it here that I won't bother sifting through it all.

>>9415774
How pretentious. Not necessarily wrong, but pretentious. What sort of narcissist enters a critique thread to say that he won't bother finishing. I will say, before I get to my critique of your piece, that your criticisms were valid, even if you are a bit self righteous.

What you've written is very beautiful and flowing. It's also very purple at times. Not surprisingly, carries a certain self importance.

It's obviously full of talent, but gangrened with cliche and purple prose, which I think you will have to learn to cut.

>>9415812
>What sort of narcissist enters a critique thread to say that he won't bother finishing.

It's been a long day, really just that.

>carries self importance
>very purple at times

Well, it is autobiographical. I do have a problem with words and their merit, but thank you. I don't think I mean to be self-absorbed, but yes, I do also have a problem with looking at myself in light of the big picture and, as a consequence, inflate myself. Flaws.

>>9415886
No excuse to be a bastard.

You may want to read Thomas Wolfe, or if you have already, re-read him.

>>9415901
True. Also never read him, might get around to that.

I wouldn't know what to recommend you, based purely off the excerpt you gave. You talk about transformative experiences. I think it's best to reveal the plot as it would to Koe Atlas, retrace her chronology to a time where she was bereft of a dream and, in an instance, hack inspiration into her and let the subsequent acts' volumes speak the story.

>>9415930
Thanks for that.

>>9415721
Wow this is... Not bad at all. Might be advanced for some pleb fantasy readers but i like it. Keep it up !

"The death you have dealt will haunt you! There will be no forgiving what you have done here!" The black robed preacher tore at his beard in despair, his eyes wet pools that leaked on his face. He wailed at the soldiers "What demons have possessed you!? What fallacies have you entertained! twenty young orphans dead! Their widowed mothers left to torture and depravity! I condemn you! I condemn you!!!" The captain arose from the nest of soldiers like a buzzard and approached with a slow tread.
"Have you ever been in a siege, priest? To fight and to kill, to lose ourselves in a war gods spell, and to move on afterwards as normal men again. If that is worthy of damnation, then all men are damned, for all men would do the same as we who stand here."
The priest stared with widened eyes. "Is this your justification!?" he gasped," You muddle headed brute, all men in your situation have not raped and killed the innocent!"
The man's eyes glinted and a sword was produced. It was filthy with gore.
The priest shook his head and stared at him with moon wide eyes," You truly are damned."
With an arc like a streak of lightning the sword fell. There came a wet SCHWACK as metal met meat and cloth. The priest fell to the floor and lay there trembling. His small wet coughs made him sound like a sick child. Blood ran out on the floor in a slowly expanding puddle that reflected the candlelight and the captains ashen face.

The captain looked to his men. Their faces were ashen to, with muck and dirt and tattered clothing that clung to them like rotting skin on a corpse. The captain sighed and his eyes wandered. After moments of silence he spoke.
"What we have done here... was not justified," the captain murmured,"...But it was not wrong either."
"Aye captain, FUCK that priest, this is jus' the way things is" a rough voice sounded off. There were other ayes and hoots of approval from the men.
The captain looked back and nodded. A smile grew beneath his beard. "Right you are Peiter, right you are. Though I have done wrong, it was only through circumstance that I have done them. For if it were up to us, there would have been no war! There would be no siege! Not a single person would die!"
" I don't know about that no war talk," a grinning man fondled an idols golden breasts," Any pilferings I get make war worthwhile, I think." There were nods from the men. The captain laughed and slapped his forehead.
"It's a good thing you are not king, otherwise we'd have wars like women have periods! ...But the man has a point, you've all been dragged here against your will, so why not make it worth it! Pluck every bit of gold, ivory, silver, food, drink or any other precious materials and take it with you! Take whatever compensates for the suffering you have endured!"
The men dispersed in a frenzy and picked the place clean in less than an hour. As they did the captain walked away from the priests corpse and strode outside to the steps. He sat on them and waited till he was sure that no one could see him, and he cried.

bump for interest in keeping thread alive

Bampin with pome:

Love comes in spurts as they say
It’s sex that’s soft and slow.
Just try and enjoy yourself,
Let waves come crash and go.

Slow down darling, don’t get
Carried away with what they say
Don’t be a selfish lover, bad PR.
You stallion you, no two pump chump
Here.

Don’t forget to breath. That heart
Is growing a heavy beat. Getting
Close are we? Point of no return, as they
Say. I love you.

I know.

Two month chump.

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Anon writing a historic dictionary of slang here again. Last thread told me it's been done before, but I don't care.

Is the layout clear? Can you correctly see which word comes from which source, etc.?

>>9418282
I feel like this would be better answered by a design board like GD.

>>9418299
You might be right, I'll try to check one of those boards!
With linguistics I often feel lost between /lit/, /his/ and /sci/...

A stone has qualities which make it attractive to compare ourselves to: they embody strength, resilience, patience: even when someone is referred to be as "dumb as a rock" there is a funny fondness to the sentiment.

Stones are beautiful because each stage of their existence we can learn something of their place in the world: apparently we originate from stars, as every contemporary young adult novel reminds us -- and I suppose so do stones: stones sit in riverbanks whethering the constant flow of water: over time a jagged rock will smooth: some of these rocks are smoothed just the right way to be perfect for throwing so they can skim and bounce across the water; to be forgotten once they leave the surface and sink to join the other rocks below water: is it there these stones are ground up to become pebbles or sand? I don't know enough about rocks to know, and I evidently don't care enough to find out.

Think about those stones which have sunk beneath the water: where not even sound can reach them; think about how many thousands of years could pass above water, all the stories and lives which live and die without the stone seeing any of it. Maybe there's irony in the fact, and I'm pretty sure it's a fact: no matter how much I think about the life of a stone, the stone never thinks at all.

>>9418282
are you gunna add pronunciation?
pdf?

>>9418319
Don't wanna publish a full pdf of the unfinished work, yet, so I only post samples.
As soon as I am done with collecting all sources, I might add pronounciation aids for unclear words, if I can make good estimates for those. Else I'll have to leave them standing as they are for following researchers.

>>9404747
https://pastebin.com/xxuFmEy9

>>9410521
>>9410604
>the world revolves around him
Heh. I'm also not a fan of this "orb" imagery. It doesn't fit, I don't think. Lots of other problems, the other anon got it right basically.

>>9404751
dude thesaurus lmao

>>9418302
I just feel like if readability is your main concern at the moment, a board that has something to do with design or typography would be your place.

>>9416111
>his eyes wet pools that leaked on his face
clunky. maybe "the wet pools of his eyes spilled over his cheeks" I think the clunkiness is coming from the word "leaked"

>With an arc like a streak of lightning the sword fell. There came a wet SCHWACK as metal met meat and cloth.

Really telegraphic in the last sentences. Consider pushing two of your sentences together like so in order to give it more rhythm. "Light glinted off the sword in its arc, like lightening, as it fell with a wet (crunch, other sound. IMO "SCHWACK" doesn't fit with the more serious and considered tone of your writing. seems out of place to me.).

an ikea salad

been bamboozled another by that moonslinging son of a whip-crack. one of these 3:36 pm’s i’m gonna wake with cake on my throat. speed racer earning some greasy simoleons, he does. grendall kirchner aimless and true mumbles his way into rightless eternities. my elbows grungy up to the idea of wingless avocadoes. please be told you are one buddy walleye in this fling-up parade. you are my rastaman from iceland with golden fingertips.

weightless birds with lego blood dance towards infernal burger joints. like 30 times the bunsen burner feeds the viagra babies in pepsi. with my lighter i set the mosaic mirror on fire. georgia peach in georgia font. keep on surgeon on for those mink iron answers. billy eyed bluebelly really ought to do something about this.

tennis elbow johnny manhunt lily willow steal this heart of water bells. the stream seems false. verify your freedom condition with your freedom identification. who do you think you are smoking space shuttles in the blossom pie night? the future takes you where? ablaze’n din and even ablaze’n lulls. the task manager is a task. go back to your home.

feedback appreciated

We will not critique excerpts for people who did not critique others.

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>d-does this interlude have potential?

I was born with waterproof skin. It is flexible and durable; it will not tear. If it were to break then it will heal if treated properly. I am not the only one who is like this. There are others but they are born with an extremely low intelligence, myself being the only exception. We are forced to work in factories and environments that would be particularly hazardous and lethal for the majority of the population. Out of necessity, working tasks that don’t require much intellectual exertion. I work in a factory that rounds the edges of building materials so that no one can be snagged on them. The whole city’s architecture is based on the circular, and if not then there is no angle that is sharper than 170 degrees as a precaution. Our rounded city is harmless to the inhabitants who’s skin is as fragile as a thin latex. A puncture is almost always deadly, as it expands to accompany the weight of the organs. A snag is even worse. The skin is easily peeled away leaving an ungodly mess. How then did such fragile beings come to rule, you ask? Due to their intelligence, they were able to manipulate their world to accommodate their bodies.

Should this character be writing about the people in his society in such a matter of fact way as though he is explaining it to an outsider. Or should he speak as though this is just common knowledge

>>9419413
I actually do rather like the style and what you are going for. One thing I would say is that you should remove the stark contrast, let it gradient into incoherent thoughts, but I guess that is what you are going for.

Anyway, here's something introspective I wrote a little while back, is this too pseud or nah?

It just started snowing, the first of the year. I’m in my apartment, alone, and it’s all I can think about. I’m staring out my window, looking at the little white storm. It’s not the peaceful kind, the kind that would be better to write about, that would pair nicely with my point, but it’s there, coming down hard.

All I can think about is how much I want someone to be here with me. Not to be in love, not to joke around or be dramatic, just someone who can look out this window and see the showers with me. We don’t need to talk, just acknowledge that it exists. It is strange the moments and places that make you feel alone, stuck in the city, surrounded by people, but I’m just in my little cubicle. I know there are people around me. I hear whispers of them, through the walls a laugh hints at a good time, a chair screeches above me somewhere, a group of boys yell down the hall.

I am in my apartment; it protects me from them. It protects me from the snow, too. I think back to the time I spent once in the wilderness, when it began to snow. I was afraid I might freeze, but I still had to spend a couple hours to watch the snow blanket the valley from my perch on high. I was alone then too, but I never felt alone. I only feel alone in the city. Man is meant to be alone in the mountains, but here, loneliness stalks me. I’ve been afraid out there, of wild beasts, of acts of God, of dark shadows, but I’ve never been so afraid out there as I’ve been here. People say all fear stems from death but my fear stems from having not lived.

It’s hard these days to get a moment to yourself, with all the entertainment we have. I don’t hate how connected the world is; I quite enjoy it, but still I have a deep fondness for those moments when you can get away. Those moments on top the mountain when the little snowflakes fall so slowly on the great little fields below. When you, still alone, share a memory with the whole human race, a memory of God. Then you have moments like these, that just hit you in the brief moments after you turned off your television, where you just look out your window and watch the snow fall swiftly down on the road and the surrounding buildings, the occasional passerby hurrying to get out of the storm your only reminder that other people exist, and you could not feel more alone.