Critique Thread

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He hates all the people on the street in dirty everyday clothes, advertising their belief that the world arches over a pit, that death is final, that the wandering thread of his feelings leads nowhere. Correspondingly he loves the ones dressed for church: the pressed business suits of portly men give substance and respectability to his furtive sensations of the invisible, the flowers in the hats of their wives seem to begin to make it visible; and their daughters are themselves whole flowers, their bodies each a single flower, petaled in gauze and frills, a bloom of faith, so that even the plainest walk in his eyes glows with beauty, the beauty of belief.

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I'm trying to write this piece as "simply" as possible in terms of purpley prose and what not.
But also going for visual metaphors within the story itself.
Think somewhere between Hemingway and a less complex Dickens. That being said, unless you're extremely knowledgeable (and for some of them, know what happens in the rest of my story) they won't be immediately obvious (I don't think).
“I think I’m gonna puke,” he moaned, draped over the bronze railing.

Lucy grinned. “You’d better get used to it cupcake, the Arkragas isn’t a cruise liner.” She gazed over the choppy water, slitting her eyes against the rays of sunset. “You know, when I first started, I hated the trip too.” She sighed gently and paused for a moment. “I’ve always appreciated the rides back home though.” She turned to face him, and wore a pensive expression for a few seconds, before asking. “What made you want to do this kind of thing anyway?”

“I’m still searching for the answer to that myself,” he replied. He closed his eyes and let the wind surge around him. “All of my friends think I’m crazy. Even my mother told me, “Eustace, you need to let what happened go.” But. No matter how hard I try, I can’t.”

She looked away once more. “Peace of mind is the last thing you’ll find out here.” The seagulls overhead cast shadows on the ferry and silence was all they spoke.
>>9549570
I'm not sure what this is a set up for but I really enjoyed it. Something about the way it is written gives it an ethereal feel.
and not just because the setting seems to resemble heaven.
You have a very nice style of writing.
It is both elegant and simple.
And very understandable as well.
>>9549640
Not bad. I'd probably keep reading but there's an almost calculated feel to your wording which makes it feel somewhat artificial if that makes any sense.
& though I suspect you're aware of it and that it is a deliberate choice, the last sentence is somewhat unwieldy in length.
That being said the characterization of "him" is interesting and makes me want to know more.

>>9549570

I like the last line very much. "And talk" is a nice way to cap the piece. I don't like some of the adjectives in there overall. I think words like "lavish" and phrases like "twist and turn like a maze puzzle" can be tightened.

Overall, I like the direction. I think it's a good move to emphasize how grand this scene is to bring the payoff to "and talk". It makes it a sharp, human kind of scene.

Troy sat down in his chair. Troy sat in a room of silky light brown wood and wall paper of sad blue flowers on a yellow backdrop. Repulsive and tacky were no words short to describe the chewing gum that resided underneath the desk that Troy rubbed his dry fingers on top. Troy worked alongside a zainy character of mountainous hairline, blond hair that went often undetected and remarkable blue eyes. His little pink nose of rubber would shine proudly as he would bend his head graciously down. His name was Seth. They ould never talk. They would only say "Hi" and then awkwardly shuffle in their uncomfortable chairs until their idiotic job was complete. They collected information seemingly useless, like a garbage man collects the spoiled food in pouring rain in the ghettos

I've heard zero negative appraisal of it so far; people have critiqued it, but not insulted it. I don't know if that will suffice as evidence that I'm intelligent. I'm done with it, though, because I'd rather defend my maturity, since it's what you've spent the most time attacking. The following are some examples of my morals and ethical code. I believe firmly that everybody deserves a future. If we were to capture Hitler at the end of WWII, I would be against executing him. In fact, if we had any way of rehabilitating him and knowing that he wasn't just faking it, I'd even support the concept of letting him go free.

>>9549640
Boring. Doesn't seem to lead anywhere. So whst if he likes or dislikes what general type of wear people are wearing? Is it significant? Seems like you put it in to wank your own character, if you get my meaning.

>>9549570

You know it's customary that I don't read your shit and you immediately read, anylize, and respond to mine in a matter of minutes. Snap to it. Or that's what I'd say if I wrote a piece to critique. Also black people aren't scary, no matter how "thug" they look. Your picture is gay. I'd catch a bullet and laugh knowing if send the guy away. If someone held a gun to me Id say: do it. They'll hunt you for the rest of your life, and if you don't, I'm about to clock your fucking face with the gun. Pull that trigger, I dare you.

"Paul, do you take Allison to be your wife? Do you promise to be faithful to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love her and to honor her all the days of your life?" I smile weakly at Father Bradley. "Well, padre, I have cancer. So maybe just in sickness." A low murmer of nervous laughter ripples among the pews. Through the veil I catch a tear beginning to manifest in those gorgeous blue eyes. Ive seen enough of those to know that this time its not from grief. No, this time is different. This time its tears of joy.

>>9550005
Corny and yet i want moar

New story I'm working on still a pretty early draft


https://pastebin.com/DbwL3rQC

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“Please enter the office. Good luck, Ms. Alexander.”
Her heart felt like it was about to explode out of her chest. Breathing was getting heavier and more laboured. She hoped she wasn’t sweating. Last thing she wanted was for her face to look greasy. She turned the handle and opened the door.
Papers were strewn across the floor, and piles of them were stacked everywhere. Bookshelves in the corners were covered in cobwebs and looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in months. A bald-headed Williams was reading over some notes, not seeming to notice her.
“Um, Mr. Williams?”
“Please, sit,” he said, still not giving her his attention.
She pulled out one of the leather chairs and lowered herself onto it. She looked at the clock and was five minutes late. Better than being late, she thought. The weather outside had gotten worse. The rain got heavier and the wind started blowing it hard against the window panes.
“Ms. Alexander. Welcome to the FBI branch of this wonderful city. I look forward to this interview.” His eyes were a piercing bright blue.
“Thank you for the opportunity.” She pulled at her collar.
“So, lets have a quick chat.” He leaned back and let out a sigh. “Why do you want to work here? What made you pick us?”
“Well… I’ve always wanted to serve my country. It’s given so much to me and I thought it was time to give back.”
“That sounds like the diplomatic answer. I get that a lot. Besides that, what else?”
“To be completely honest with you, I also got kind of tired for doing the tax returns of the farmers back home. Mind numbing.”
“So, you decided to come here and capture frauds and con artists?”
She smiled and nodded. “I think I have what it takes.”
“Do you?” He typed her information on his laptop and pulled up her information. “You have a degree in accounting. Perfect GPA. Do a lot of auditing work?”
“I did what I could.”
“You passed our test with flying colors. But that’s all just academics. How do you think you will perform in the field?”
She drew a blank. Before she could answer, Williams cut her off. “You seem a bit inexperienced. Maybe in a few years.”
“Please, give me a position here. Anything. I can get you guys coffee. I can type up your files. I can mop the floors.” Did I really just say that?
“We have all of those positions filled. I’ll give you another chance. Let’s try again. What skill, what one thing do you bring to the table that no other accountant can? Take all the time you need.”
Chloe tried to think of an answer. She was never good with interviews, and it seemed like Williams already decided not to hire her before she walked in. Think, Chloe. You gotta have- “I can shoot can of beer with a pistol from a hundred yards away.”

A brief scene:

Amy steps outside. There is cold air to breathe once more, as life-giving as water. She looks up for once, the act of lifting her head ritual-like.

Tonight the stars are washed black. Stormclouds swell grey. A great sheet of web-lightning shatters the sky, lingering in after-image of brilliant white wonder, and is gone.

Time had stopped for that moment, for ever that moment. All possibilities hung possible, at each ghostly fork was frozen the freedom to choose any foreseen direction, all taken whitely at once. How possible is anything! Amy’s heart stutters.

Gallantly lagging thunder rolls in overhead. It implodes, huge subsonic rumbling down to her core. Movements of massive of air, more massive than her. Settling giants. Suddenly you understand why the Greeks did it. With a tingling in her fingers, Amy becomes an ant, nay, smaller, a mite. And the hillock becomes an entire cosmos of limitless direction she can never reach the end of, can never find the meaning of. Vertigo swoons her head. Her eyes roll. Weak-legged, she kneels, overcome by faintness, some profound weightlessness, something almost religious, and for a fantasy of a fleeting moment, almost raises her arms in surrender to the sky and devotes herself to unfathomable Gnosis. But she would never come back.

Flinching, she returns, to the now. Jaw hanging, unattended lock of hair swishing over her eyes, chest rigid, sphincter slack, she breathes worldly air, vaguely underwhelming oxygen. Molecules. Explainable in terms of explainable terms. Electrons and nucleus components. Outer shell 6e, inner shell 2e, nucleus of 8p and 8n. Diatomic non-metal, electron configuration 1s2 2s2 2p4, atomic number eight. Strength returns to her limbs. Blood — erythrocytes carrying bound oxygen, leucocytes feeding on pathogens, plasma carrying all sorts of goodies, thrombocytes/platelets with nothing to clot just yet — circulates. As a matter of fact, Amy stands. There’s some grass clinging to her knees, itching. She brushes it off and looks over her shoulder at the yellow-lit doorway. No one’s there. But the glass-clinking, the bantering, the chair-skidding, the table-knocking noises of joviality rollypolly out. They sound oddly near in the motionless night air, with nowhere to go, like they’re right behind your ear.

>>9549905
The first two sentences start the same: with hte MC's name. Was that intentional? If not, it comes off as annoying.

>rubbed his dry fingers on top
Do you mean *atop*?

>blond hair that went often undetected
Reads correctly if you swapped "went" and "often"

>like a garbage man collects the spoiled food in pouring rain in the ghettos
"in" is recycled twice. Imo, it would work better if it read something more like "collects the spoiled food *under* pouring rain in the ghettos

>I've heard zero negative appraisal of it so far; people have critiqued it, but not insulted it.
That's because there are only nine sentences to judge. One needs more than this.

>>9549934
Interesting.

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>>9549920

fuck you're retarded