General Citique

Air slipping through the partially declined window carries a cool dampness with it. Most of the heat from the day already left the car as evening washes over fading daylight. Parked away from any of the other vehicles in the lot, the car's lone occupant pulls to his driver's seat a thin, fleece throw-over from the backseat, covering his lower body. Already with his head to pillow, the driver's seat is fully reclined and receded. His face is reflecting a faint blend of yellow street light and luminous phone screen. The passenger's seat carries an old, worn green-plastic laundry basket filled with a blend of clean and dirty clothes alike. The floor below it supports three pairs of shoes. Among the shoes there is also an assortment of used books and plastic bottles, mostly water and coffee. The backseat is divided in two; one side is stacked with an additional blanket and pillow, a backpack containing more books, as well as toiletries and grooming supplies inbetween. The other side is empty, save a large portion of the seat being covered in a fuzzy green mold.

A woman's voice from outside the partially open window pulls the man's attention from his phone. "... yeah, he's just sittin' here. I've seen dis nigga the last few nights and I know he been stayin' inside sometimes too. Don't know why da fuck he be sleepin' in his car if dis creep got some nigga ta stay with. I got a child, I don't need ta worry 'bout some snatcha comin' n' snatchin' up my baby, Lord have mercy I'd kill that muthafucker. Been thinking 'bout calling the owner n' lettin' em know some nigga be trappin' n' makin me feel uneasy n' shit. Don't need a muthafucker poking round my business neither though. Might get Squeaky here ta take things into his hands. That nigga don't fuck around n' I know that shit'll definitely fix..." The voice fades away.

The man in the car locks his phone and reclines up after waiting a moment. He takes the pillow and blanket, returning them to the others in the backseat. Moving up the seat, he takes his keys from the laundry basket and starts the car. He has no idea who Squeaky might be, but the he has no intention of finding out. Driving his way through the convoluted streets of the apartment complex, he eventually reaches the exit and makes his way to the heart of the city, unsure of where to stay next. He pulls out his phone and begins texting someone under the name 'Shaunmanuensis': Won't be in the lot tonight. Some nigger being a nosey piece of shit spooked me off. I should be fine though. I'll be around tomorrow night. Got any idea where I can stay for like 40 bucks a night that won't get me shot or robbed? Was thinking the homeless shelter but I don't want my books or headphones to be stolen. Or am I being too racist here? I know things are worse in the city, but I just don't know how bad man, it sucks.

1/2

2/2

Four intersections had been driven through before he finishes the text, and he honestly isn't sure if they were all green. He drives another few blocks further into the city before he gets a response on his phone: Don't really know Herm, sorry dude. Have you tried Barney? I know she has a bf, but maybe she'll let you crash there for a night. I doubt you'll find a place for 40$ though, you might have to go to the shelter.

Herman reads the text and sighs. He knows there's no way to stay at Bethany's with her bf. It'd be too weird after her and his few hookups in the past. Looking to his surroundings, Herman sees a McDonald's nearby and stops to enter. He asks for a soda and hands the cashier eleven dimes, telling her to keep the two pennies change. He sits in the farthest corner of the building, drinking slowly while looking up nearby motels and shelters to stay at. Sixty-five, fifty, fifty-nine, seventy--all the motels he can find are just out of his range. Hotels weren't even viable. There are three homeless shelters, one of which is in the western section of the city. The man messages Shaun asking him about what kind of neighborhood Willow Knolls is. A short response of 'Don't go there man" is all he receives.

>>9599443
>General Citique

I'll give your thread title a 7 out of 10.

It's concise, direct, and pointed, but the spelling error does knock it down a few pegs from greatness.

I don't bother asking questions like: "how did I get up here".
A turbulent breeze rockets past my face.
The face I cannot cover. My arms a little busy at the moment..
I'm here now and more inclined to work on what I'm going to do next.
I have no time in my life to dwell on the past.
Where should I go?
The soft rolling hills over there look endearing.
That might be a good spot.
Ooh-Is that a worm?!

with a swift movement, she ripped down the curtain. obviously, that hasn't been the initial intention and that was made clear by her aghast expression and the awkward try to fix the mishap by bunching the fabric upwards.
her face grew dark in anticipation of the turbulences this one hasty gesture will cause. with a weary sight she got down from the step, gathered her skirt, only to come back with a messy box filled with needles, thread, scissors, buttons, measuring tapes and more sewing sundries.
with a busy forehead, she got to work. one could essily tell that she was a skilled seamstress. her fingers found the needle's eye with ease and she only needed seconds to think about how to arrange the fabric. it took her all of 4 minutes and nobody would have been able to tell where the rip was, unless they knew what to look for.
after she has put everything back in the box, she paused a moment to look at her work, a short smile crossed her mouth, before she was gone again.

the beginning of a short story. Pls tell me if it sux or not so I can scrap it and move on, or keep it.

Evan started to smile now pleased with this recurring coincidence and his casual racism. She was wearing a wide brimmed summer hat. Her arms bent at an awkward angle to adjust for how close she sat to the steering wheel - and her hands being at ten and two. It was easy to hate her. Hatred is safe and controllable, asian drivers are not. How evan hated Interruption. He was on his way to a family gathering. The last event he had attended had ended with the neighbor boy running out, crying. Perhaps Evan had had too much to drink, nevertheless he knew himself to be rather abrasive. Something similar was bound to happen again, although he dreaded it, he would do nothing to prevent it. Selfish as it was he knew in order for him to enjoy himself, others had to not.

As he merged onto the freeway a ping of self-hatred erupted in his stomach. A black hole that sucked his organs into the very center of his being. His expression remained unchanged though. The black hole did appear every other day, and it really shouldn’t have been a surprise. He lit a cigarette and rolled his window down just enough to let a current of air escape from the car. His foot became heavy on the gas pedal, he was anxious to arrive. A feint petrol smell crept through the current. Evan lived near an industrial power plant, where the smell must have originated. Occasionally late at night the loud sound of a torch blasted through the nearby neighborhoods. Each time, for a few seconds, he assumed a nuclear fire would engulf him, before remembering the emergency steam exhaust plans.

>>9599446
>>9599451
this is confused. It's written like YA for girls, but at the same time too offensive for young girls. I don't really know the audience for this.
>>9600227
>one could essily tell that she was a skilled seamstress.
I would cut this sentence

THE IDEA IS TO CRITIQUE so lets do so to keep the thread working. Nobody will contribute if you don't critique each other.

>>9600227
You get straight into the story which works well to spark an interest in everything else you have to write. You deliberately leave parts of the story out which creates a suspense and drive to find out more. You have a poetic way of describing things, I especially liked 'busy forehead'. My only complaint would be the ending, there is no attempt to suggest something more is going on or going to happen. Yes there is an air of mystery to the character and what she was doing but that mystery is left incomplete in its infantile stage.

>>9600273
Didn't have a clear story line, wasn't hooked on the character and somethings just plain didn't make any sense.

Would appreciate a critique on mine
>>9600147

>>9600317
you're right. thanks for pointing it out!

poopy poopy
my butthole
so poopy
i wipe but
it still
itches

>>9600327
the idea i had in mind whilst writing this was a maid with a very strict mistress. she will surely get in trouble for being late with the rest of the work she had to do.
i imagined a story about her, admitst the pompous air of the family, showing the side they would never show to people they care about. depending on how elaborated the story would get, i might have incorporated her finding out a secret about the mistress, suddenly putting her in a position of power over her, which would change the dynamics completely.

my crit for your work:

what i liked:
the face i cannot cover. my arm's a little busy right now.
>i like how that makes you think of why it's busy

what i would change:

the ... and the ?!

and you could easily leave stuff out. for example, the soft hills or the rolling hills instead of both. also, turbulent, breeze and rockets seems oberkill. how about a turbulent breeze or a breeze rockets instead of both?

"in my life" could be left out, too.

still, i would want to know what keeps those arms busy.

The small girl pedals
on the bumpy sidewalk.

Training wheels
just removed

Mother five steps behind
glances nervously at passing car

Girl looks back and frowns
Continues her path

>>9600389
what am I supposed to take away from this?

>>9599446
>as evening washes over fading daylight
This phrasing is redundant. It being daylight is already implied by fading. Just say light.

>a thin, fleece throw-over from the backseat, covering his lower body
First comma is unnecessary, and I'd consider changing to: a thin fleece thrower-over from the backseat.

The last part isn't really needed. It's already implied that he's putting it on his body.

>Already with his head to pillow, the driver's seat is fully reclined and receded.
Very awkward. Consider changing to something like this: He rested his head on a pillow in the fully reclined and receded seat.

>the floor below it
Drop the it.

>plastic bottles, mostly water and coffee
Comma splice. Use a dash if you want to keep the phrasing.

>The backseat is divided in two;
Use a colon here.

>Lord
Lawd. Have to keep your dialect consistent now.

>It'd be too weird after her and his few hookups in the past.
Exceptionally awkward phrasing. The subjects are already implied. Just say: It would be too weird after a few hookups in the past.

There are more things I found issue with, but those are the main offenders. It's decent overall, I suppose. I'm not too sure what the point of it is, though. Reading about a homeless bum is not very interesting.


>>9600227
Really really bad with grammatical issues attacking me from all sides. I guess i'll just go through the biggest offenders.

>Obviously that hasn't been the initial intention and that was made clear by her aghast expression and the awkward try to fix the mishap by bunching the fabric upwards
Should be : That was not her initial intention, which was made clear by her aghast expression and an awkward attempt to fix the mishap by bunching the fabric upwards.

>her face grew dark in anticipation of the turbulences this one hasty gesture will cause
Misspelling and grammar issues abound. Change to: Her face became dark with anticipation due to the turbulence that this hasty gesture would cause.

>with a weary sight she got down from the step, gathered her skirt, only to come back with
Comma splice. Change to: With a weary sight she got down from the step and gathered her skirt, only to come back with

>only needed seconds to think about how
To think of how.

>after she has put everything back in the box, she paused a moment to look at her work, a short smile crossed her mouth, before she was gone again
Comma splice. Change to: After she had put everything back in the box she paused a moment to look at her work; a short smile crossed her mouth before she was gone again.

You could put a comma after box and mouth in my rewrite, but they are not necessary. It's overall pretty bad and awkwardly written. Seems like the writing of someone who just started writing. Don't let that discourage you, though.

>>9600486
roast mine pls
>>9600273

>>9600486
>Seems like the writing of someone who just started writing.

pretty true. plus english is not my first language.

thanks a lot for the crit, it's greatly apprecciated.

>don't let that discourage you, though

i would be stupid to let constructive crit discourage me. how else should i learn?

>>9600273
>She was wearing
Introduce the subject before you refer to them as he/she. It is really confusing as is, since you are implying that Evan is a she.

>Her arms bent at an awkward angle to adjust for how close she sat to the steering wheel
Unnecessarily long phrasing. Just say: Her arms bent at an awkward angle to adjust for her position at the steering wheel.
Drop the dash and the following clause, because it's not needed.

>perhaps Evan had had too much to drink, nevertheless.
Comma splice.

>Something similar was bound to happen again, although he
Splice, again. Change to: Something similar was bound to happen again. Although he dreaded it, he would do nothing to prevent it.

>Selfish as it was he knew
You're actually missing a comma here, for once. It should be: Selfish as it was, he knew that in order for him to enjoy himself others had to not.

I won't go through the second paragraph, but just know that it read very awkwardly. Overall the short story is very trite and uninspired, poor technical writing skills aside. Just scrap it and move on. There's nothing there that I have not seen a thousand times already.

>>9600147
>A turbulent breeze rockets past my face.
this is tonally muddled
>The face I cannot cover.
Cannot lies in a formal register you don't use anywhere else.
>My arms a little busy at the moment..
*arm's
>I'm here now and more inclined to work on what I'm going to do next.
>I have no time in my life to dwell on the past.
>Where should I go?
To much statement. I don't need you to tell me, I need you to make me feel it.
>The soft rolling hills over there look endearing.
"look endearing" does nothing for the image, i'd just cut it and trust the image
>?!
unnecessary

final note: please enjamb it's give you work more to do and can allow subversions that'll heighten the piece as a whole

>>9600389
>on the bumpy sidewalk.
this image isn't used for anything, consider cutting it.

>Training wheels
>just removed
p good enjambment here

>glances nervously at passing car
nervously is already implied, and just bloats the line

>Continues her path
this sounds weird, not sure why

final note: I liked this piece as a whole, and appreciate the belief in your own imagery, just be careful about bloat, because cutting in a short poem is hard but important (even important than longer pieces i would say)

>>9600450
an image of mistrust

Help me guys:

Unnut the Bee-Keeper

There’s a shaman with a hand
wrapped around his eyes
like cloth. His hand folded
like a beggar’s shroud.

As he spoke I saw his gold
tongue, his amberous,
honeyed tongue. And it:


The sun reached down
with its rays and picked
my eyes like white flowers.
Do not be afraid.

The meadowind will guide me
with gentle hand. Spring-scent
will lead me. I will forgive
the sun in time.

The heart of my cattle
has been planted in the womb
of the earth-- to birth my help.

And I will tend this garden.


A gourd cracked open and
his bee crawled out, wet-winged
and trembling. Its quivering
polyhedral eyes shone.


[i'm playing around with the idea of fantasy lyric-poetry, so i'm working on trying to world-build while getting the point across]

>>9600547
Thank you the technical critique is very helpful. I was bored with writing it, and it comes across. I just started writing and this is one of the first things I wrote. A good thing to scrap early and learn from

A project I'm half-working on when I can't focus on my main project. I hate this character even more than I hate epistolaries, but let me know what you think about my diction and flow.


June 22nd, 1999.

The night air was palpable, the kind of insufferable muggy that clings to your skin and refuses to let go, drawing mosquitos from the absence. Above my head, a convenience store lamp flickers below a half-lighted neon sign. I'm uneasy, but I've grown accustomed to that sense. The clock inside reads roughly 2am, but it would seem its second hand had long been caught by the arm of the 7. Appropriate, I suppose — at these faint hours, these liminal spaces ought to possess the will to freeze time.

I'm with a man who stands barely 5'10" in leather boots. He's wearing tight-fitting indigo jeans, an aged leather jacket, and a ring he claims belonged to his grandfather. He gestures with a nod to a pack of Reds behind the counter, then flashes me a signature crooked smile before I dip into the restroom to roll a joint.

Although the outside is stiffling, with the top town the air inside is just on the chilly side of perfect. We're heading southbound down the 405, just slightly buzzed. The nearest car is maybe a thousand feet ahead, and city lights are fading from view behind us. I glance aside as he lights a cigarette and drapes one arm out the door, the other around my shoulders. My grip on the stick shift relaxes and my body begins to melt into his.

David Bowie plays on the stereo, slightly louder than the purr of the engine.

Closeness can sting.
November 1st, 1999.

Whatever notions of decency or self-respect last night might've left me with were summarily drained at the first offending morning glare through the blinds. The migraine overloads my senses nearly to the point of vomiting — a fate from which I'm saved only by the lack of available bodily fluid.

I stumble through the living area to the front door of a strange three-bedroom apartment. As I turn the knob, the lingering stench of vomit and stale weed gives way to the lifeless chill of autumn air. I count the steps to my car and fall asleep till evening, at which point the hangover has passed.


>>9600554
>>9600554

It reads dense, which is good, but I can't get behind the poetry aspect. Maybe it's a me-issue, but the style is distracting in a negative way. I'd love to read some of your prosaic worldbuilding if you don't mind.

>>9600607

Yes, I meant to add a few line breaks between excerpts.

>>9600486
Yes, reading about a homeless man isn't interesting. But it very quickly picks up immediately after where I ended here. My main interests were what you have critiqued so far, which I agree with everything you said, and if this is at least interesting enough to read before quitting. Because like I said, it picks mid paragraph following what I posted.
--.
To all posting, keep em coming. I'll be on tonight to give crits and I'll keep em juicy until I tire out.

>>9600607
>I'd love to read some of your prosaic worldbuilding if you don't mind.

I don't write prose really, but this piece tries the same thing in sci-fi (so i was easier) and is less affected, because I didn't feel it called for the same type of Semitic parallelism.

[Title Needed]

In Year DF847580 the sun will die,
and we will no longer deal in decimals.

Cold fusion will only be 40 years away
from keeping us warm and alive
on some jovial moon.

God will have came back to find
an empty planet and a note
laser-cut in gold saying
something bittersweet about leaving.

We’ll be burning up on Mars’s new beach
front property, huddled up against the blood-sun,
and everything will be red. And we’ll sleep
during the day. And nights will make us feel
strange about the new galaxy.

All the reanimated will have to be put down,
because we couldn’t afford it. Some will cry
when Elon Musk dies again. Some will cry
watching the frail, demented, currently unknown,
unread, undead poets struggle with their meals
and speaking. The process will be perfected
shortly after cold fusion, on some jovial
night. And we’ll dig-up the dead again,
as we always have. And we’ll have them read to us,
as they always have.

>>9599446
this is bad, and the attempt at dialect is embarrassing.

'They actually voted her in. I can't believe it!'

Ms. Tate was pacing in circles around the dirty tile floor.

'This can't be real..Oh my god, this is real..Oh, what the fuck is going on! Oh my god this actually happened..Fuck, I don't know what to do..'

It was recently announced Mrs. Tate had won the leadership campaign for Great Britain. Problem is she's..How can I say..One of those from a dying breed. Someone who took the Bible seriously, though unfortunately not only that, she took it seriously when it was read backwards

>>9600797
Funny because all that dialog is pretty much word for word as spoken from an actual experience. So... yeah. Don't know what to tell you brother.
---
Starting up some crits in my next post now that I'm off.

>>9600147
It's a bird. That's my crit. Don't know what else to say. It's short, and obviously self reflective. But nothing outstanding or noteworthy. Just something I'd expect to see in a writer's scribble journal.

>>9600227
>>9600486 gave you a great crit.

>>9600273
>>9600486 also gave you a great crit. I'd add to pay attention to tense when describing a scene. You say "Her arms bent" when it should be "Her arms bend". Certain actions, even in past tense, don't need to be in the past tense if the primary verb is in the past tense; "Sat" was in the past, so her arms can bend and don't have to be bent.

>>9600389
Simple and clear. Overall kind of flat. Though it's not bad, it's far from memorable. You also stop using punc after the first two lines, I'm not sure why. But it doesn't help that you stopped. Also, make the last line "continues on her path" or change path to someone more implicit such as "trek" or "venture".

>>9600554
Fantastic poem, I love it. Don't have anything else to say. Keep writing.

>>9600607
>I'm uneasy, but I've grown accustomed to that sense.
Change 'that' to 'the'
-remove the comma after 'Above my head'
-its should be it's
-spell out seven
-in 'these liminal spaces' make -these- either 'the' or 'those'
-make 'a signature crooked smile' 'his signature crooked smile'

You've got a bunch of little errors like that throughout. But it's overall not terrible. You've at least got an idea of what you're doing. Watch the order if your descriptors though. When you described the guy in the second graph, don't start with his boots. Think about the order you'd actually notice his clothes. For most people, it'll be face/head, top, legs, hands/feet. So pointing out his boots first is strange.
Just a pointer.

>>9600840
This very meh. Doesn't draw me in, isn't very notable. Maybe if you had more? But I still doubt it.

>>9601906

I appreciate you taking the time, but you're a bit confused on a couple of points.

Most of what you gave me are stylistic issues, which I wasn't asking for. The possessive of 'it' does not have an apostrophe. That/these/those are dependent on the mood I'm trying to convey with the words that follow it.

The narrator notices his boots in order to draw attention to his height, and poor self-confidence thereof. I wasn't describing his clothes, but rather his person, and who he is—a man who wears leather boots, skinny jeans, a vintage jacket, and a pawned ring in order to make himself seem taller, cooler, and mysterious.

>>9601973
Yeah my bad on the its. But I stand by everything else. How does starting with his boots help establish his height? Comparing him to something in the surrounding would do this. Not pointing out his boots.
No kidding you are describing his style: "I'm with a man who standby barely 5'10". He wears a leather jacket, indigo skinny jeans, and leather boots; his (left/right) hand bears a ring he claims is his grandfather's."
You're trying to make all these correlations through his attire and it's not working man. Just throw in some little action on the man's or narrator's part that actually states what you intend to imply. Otherwise it just sounds like you're describing a 5'10" man in greaser attire. No insecurities.

Keep these then, but remove the these shortly before it.

First few sections from the novel I'm working on.


The frigid midnight breeze slithered into Cyril’s nostrils, where it writhed and seethed like a wounded viper. As if rejecting it, the specter-like vapors uncoiled from his lips and into the night, signaling the winter creeping nearer into the land. He sported a black long-sleeved jerkin with soft leather bracers strapped to his forearms. Scarred gloves served him well in the cold- just thin enough not to stave off the subtle tingling in his fingertips from the crispy air. His jerkin had been adorned with a satchel stitched at his hip that remained buckled tightly at all times. His black trousers possessed a small amount of padding in the thighs and calves for the unforgiving winter that drew ever nigh. He stifled a grimace; the breeze was seasoned with the scent of sulfur and stagnant water.

Cyril had a habit of checking the twin daggers that rested on his lower back. He kept them held securely in their sheaths by a leather holster that wrapped around his torso in a series of straps spanning from his shoulders to his waist.

He wore a cloak for the dual purposes of draping over the daggers so attention wouldn't be drawn to the unusual arrangement of his weapons as well as to keep him modestly warmer. His boots had been stuffed with cloth to keep his feet in working condition so that his concentration could be focused into the task at hand: the floorboards within the bedroom of the tax collector's daughter, which is where the weasley man stashed away a small margin of his day's collections. Nobody would ever think to search for such a thing within the woman's room.

Nobody sensible, thought Cyril confidently.

>>9602088

I establish his height when I tell you that he's barely 5'10". The boots indicate that he's somewhat shorter than this given the elevated heel.

I'm going for minimalism, here. Assume that what I'm describing and the way I'm describing it are crucial details. An aged leather jacket on a man barely out of his teens indicates he bought it specifically for the vintage aspect. Together with the boots, I'm suggesting he cares very much about what people think, despite putting on the 'cool guy' front with the signature smile and smoking habit. On that note, I would never include a word like 'claim' unless it was relevant.

I'm not trying to sound harsh or ungrateful, and I appreciate your input thus far, but I'd like to ask you to read the passages with the lens I described and tell me if you feel any differently about it. (Specifically, what you, as the reader, could infer anything about the main character.)

>>9602124
> The frigid midnight breeze slithered into Cyril’s nostrils, where it writhed and seethed like a wounded viper. As if rejecting it, the specter-like vapors uncoiled from his lips and into the night, signaling the winter creeping nearer into the land.

As the reader, I'm led to believe that Cyril is some sort of fantasy being, either a user of magic or something similar. You don't clarify that assumption in your piece, but perhaps you do later on. I'd probably enjoy a confirmation sooner, so I'm not distracted when reading the following paragraphs.

You get a bit redundant at times, but I think that's a symptom of your wordplay. You're at around a 7, trying to be Nabokov's 10, when you should be around 5 or so for a piece like this.

>>9602148
That is a valid crit that I have yet to receive concerning the phrasing which implies magical origins. I appreciate that. Redundancy is an Achilles heel of mine, almost as if I compulsively commit to it. I have to consciously scan every sentenceto be sure I don't make that mistake.

The goal is to establish that Cyril is an antihero with the atmosphere that he suffers as he undergoes his escapades. What's important is conveying that the anguish is a result of masochism or symbolic atonement. The later paragraphs lay this information out.

Again, thank you.

>>9602125
And before I read with your lens, I ask you to read without it.
I read it brother. I'm your reader man, and it just wasn't there. You're not going to try and sell this piece with a foreword that says "Please read this through my descriptive lens."
Of course since you explained your reasoning I understand what you're going for. But you really expected to see that man as is his teens by describing an 'aged leather jacket'? Obviously I'm paraphrasing, but only a little when compared to what you're trying to say to me. I tried to still give you tips, and if you're going to keep fighting them then just ignore me before I have to start ignoring you.
It's 4chan; no word here is law.

I received a good idea of the MC, but it just didn't work with the other guy. Sorry man.

>>9602181

I tend to get wordy and can always use some grounding to make sure I'm getting into purple prose territory.

I write with the assumption that any piece worth reading will be read by someone who's not an idiot, fully capable of finding meaning without having every intent spelled out for them. Keeps me in check.

Keep writing.

>>9602199

Understand I'm not trying to reach every audience. Reading and writing are both selfish activities. You mistook my request—for you to pose as the intended audience—as fighting. That wasn't what I was doing.

But, sure. I can see why it's relevant that we're on 4chan.

File: Screen Shot 2017-06-06 at 1.08.06 AM.png (161KB, 687x523px) Image search: [Google]

161KB, 687x523px

>>9599443

opening to the second chapter of this story im writing

it is a third person account of a birth already described in the first chapter in first person. also a brief description of a bus route into New Delhi and a description of diwali

many of the textual oddities have a purpose given the story as a whole

whaddyafuckers think?

>>9602244
I have kept writing. The novel is 750 pages. But maybe I can condense it with that idea in mind-blowing that my reader is competent. I find myself writing in a shifting manner to appeal to both ends of the spectrum, one where intelligence might not be required but you get a great deal more from the story if you can infer from what is presented. I'll take that into account. Thank you.

That might have not made sense. It's been a long ass day; rambling comes so natural when you're reduced to running on fumes.

>>9600607
>The night air was palpable, the kind of insufferable muggy that clings to your skin and refuses to let go, drawing mosquitos from the absence.
It is a sweaty night. I batted another mosquito away from my ear in irritation.

>Above my head, a convenience store lamp flickers below a half-lighted neon sign.
Are you inside a convenience store, outside a convenience store, or inside a bar?

I glance up at a flickering sign that spells LIQ-OR, with the U dark.

>I'm uneasy, but I've grown accustomed to that sense.
There is a weight in my stomach, as usual, but I've learned to ignore it.

>The clock inside reads roughly 2am, but it would seem its second hand had long been caught by the arm of the 7. Appropriate, I suppose — at these faint hours, these liminal spaces ought to possess the will to freeze time.
I peer in a convenience store window. The clock reads 2. It feels as if it will read 2 forever.

>I'm with a man who stands barely 5'10" in leather boots. He's wearing tight-fitting indigo jeans, an aged leather jacket, and a ring he claims belonged to his grandfather. He gestures with a nod to a pack of Reds behind the counter, then flashes me a signature crooked smile before I dip into the restroom to roll a joint.
I enter a building what all has a door and is a setting in this story.
A man whose cowboy boots do not hide his shortness moves his chin across the room and prods a box of cigarettes, giving me that seductive smile I know as well as his handwriting. It's possible that I just met this stranger, but god knows I could have just as easily been walking with him this whole time, you know, walking in this setting we have such a clear picture of. I go into the powder room and lay out my vanilla-flavoured snuff on a freshly laundered doily, and think about persons of colour passing away in their happy homes in their twilight years.

>>9602264
Nice, exactly my thing style-wise. I think short/incomplete sentences really add a lot of life to a text, but that's just personal preference.
Just, maybe don't type out accents, that's a little lazy. Describe the way the tourist turns all the hard vowels into something mushy and thoughtless, take a guess at where he's from and reference the clichés that come to mind when you think of that place; don't take the easy way out. And (this is really minor and probably super petty of me but) I don't think you should ever repeat a vowel more than once, "ooh" is perfectly sufficient, "oooh" kinda looks a little unprofessional. Speaking of professional, when you're spelling out what a street sign says, I'd suggest small caps, but again, personal preference. I'm just really into lil typographical details that don't actually matter is all. One more thing, caste names should be capitalized because they're names.
That's all I got in terms of complaints though. I love your style dude. It's so important to describe the ugly details when you're setting a scene, it really puts you there. You're going in a great direction imo, it shows you've been doing this for a while. Keep going where you're going, there's a whole lot of potential there.

>>9602327
aw shucks thank you. i just added the tourist dialogue a few minutes before I posted, the rest was from this past week.

Have you posted anything? I'd be happy to read it

>>9602310
Already 10x better, though I feel like you're describing coke over weed in the end.

Don't know if it's you or another critic, but you gave him the crit I wish I had the effort to give.
When I rewrite for people on here, I just feel like my time would be better spent writing for myself. Sometimes before becoming emulsified by reading these posts, I will rewrite for people. But that's usually a -very- brief settlement.

>>9600554


>There’s a shaman with a hand
>wrapped around his eyes
>like cloth. His hand folded
>like a beggar’s shroud.

I like the language, but the images seem to contradict each other, and that's a frustration. His hand is shielding his eyes while simultaneously being clenched, or are they literally holding his eyes? And it's a bit like a bad romantic love-scene, where you're not sure which hand is doing what.

>As he spoke I saw his gold
>tongue, his amberous,
>honeyed tongue. And it:

Nice linebreaks. Be aware the verse is saying the same thing three times though.

>The sun reached down
>with its rays and picked
>my eyes like white flowers.
>Do not be afraid.

Liking this very much - it depicts a religious experience really strongly.

>The meadowind will guide me
>with gentle hand. Spring-scent
>will lead me. I will forgive
>the sun in time.

Not sure if this means the writer is literally blind, or figuratively - as there are clear images later on. The language here is beautiful though.

>The heart of my cattle
>has been planted in the womb
>of the earth-- to birth my help.

>And I will tend this garden.

And out of fucking nowhere is this cow's heart being sacrificed. Except we didn't know the narrator owned any cattle, or had just slaughtered one. Also womb-earth is cliché. Sorry.

>A gourd cracked open and
>his bee crawled out, wet-winged
>and trembling. Its quivering
>polyhedral eyes shone.

Loving this picture of rebirth though. The writer has become one of his bees? The polyhedral eyes suggest all-knowing. Again,be aware that trembling and quivering are saying the same thing.

Overall the piece is technically good. There are just some loose ends that I'd want to tidy.

wings of scarlet on my tongue. slaked, her virgin cherry cunt. the sound of barrel when i'm done.
street in morning is empty, cold. my prick's throbbing, thrumming; dense.
dense. like a log. or maybe a brick.

This is easily the worst thing to ever happen in my entire life. That’s my first thought. I should be screaming louder. That’s my second. Although I don’t think it’s possible given human limitations and lung capacity; was the third, oddly. Honestly a lot of things are going on in my head right now but it’s mostly just panic, a diamond pure amount of it. Am I going to die? If not then where am I for a start? Is it a portal or a wormhole? Why is there no wind? Am I falling or being pulled? Shouldn’t there be some wind, is there is no air? If there’s no air will I suffocate? That’s a horrifying thought. The only thing that is certain is that I must be moving or I’m falling or I'm being pulled. Never mind I’m not certain.

These questions are pointless at the moment. But what else am I supposed to do while falling though an endless portal formed with purple rings? Call for help? That’s not going to do anything for me. It’s also impossible. No all I can muster out of my mouth is "Oh my God!" Those are the only words I can really understand myself; everything else is just your standard generic screams and assorted gibberish. The usual sounds people make in these situations I’d assume.

The view isn’t giving me any positive feelings toward the color purple either. An endless ever lengthening, purple ringed portal isn’t a great view at all; I’d call it a visual terror. A purple terror isn’t something I’d ever expect to ever see in my life but here it is and it’s made of rings like an anus that’s got a lot of explaining to do. Purple shouldn’t be doing things like this, purple is a regal, imperial color, not a color of terror unless you’re Bulgarian, Basil II is nearby, and you still have your eyes.

I don’t even have the decency to flail my arms like any sensible person would. All my body can manage is be stiff as a board, eyes open wide in terror, staring down at the encroaching purple hell while my mouth does its best at removing all the air from my lungs and maybe a few organs too if they’d so kindly dislodge themselves and kill me.

Then I see it, something strange, something green. The ground, covered in familiar grass, moving in my direction at a speed that’s probably going to kill me. Thank god. This was getting tedious. There’s plenty of worse ways to die I suppose, but I’ll admit dying will be a bummer, a huge let-down, but hopefully a quick bummer.

What's substitute for 'and'?
Can I use '&' without being a "pseud"?
Whenever I read 'and' I always read it, and I hate that word. (Not when used like I just did).
But if I put a '&' there instead, I can "skip" it, so to say.
>...merchants and traders haggling...
>...merchants & traders haggling...

>>9602612
>This is easily the worst thing to ever happen in my entire life. That’s my first thought. I should be screaming louder. That’s my second.
Sounds superfluous.
>Easily the worst thing to ever happen in my entire life. I should be screaming.

>>9602124
>The frigid midnight breeze slithered into Cyril’s nostrils, where it writhed and seethed like a wounded viper.
Unless this breeze is some kind of malevolent spirit, you have no reason to immortalise it in song.

The frigid air burned Cyril's nostrils.

>As if rejecting it, the specter-like vapors uncoiled from his lips and into the night, signaling the winter creeping nearer into the land.
...and his breath came out in clouds.

>He sported
He wore

>Scarred gloves served him well in the cold- just thin enough not to stave off the subtle tingling in his fingertips from the crispy air.
His old gloves were thin enough for grip, but too thin for warmth.

>His jerkin had been adorned with a satchel stitched at his hip that remained buckled tightly at all times.
A buckled satchel was stitched to his jerkin at the hip.

>His black trousers possessed a small amount of padding in the thighs and calves for the unforgiving winter that drew ever nigh.
His arse cheeks were grateful for the thick lining of his upper trousers.

>He stifled a grimace; the breeze was seasoned with the scent of sulfur and stagnant water.
He nose wrinkled at the smell of sulphur and rot on the wind.

>>9602125
>Assume that what I'm describing and the way I'm describing it are crucial details.
Not to beat a dead horse, but what building you are in is a more crucial detail than the age of someone's leather jacket.

>>9602345
>Already 10x better, though I feel like you're describing coke over weed in the end.
Thanks. I was just amusing myself at the end. Snuff = snort-tobacco, comically old fashioned and chintzy.

>>9602447
>the sound of barrel when i'm done.
This phrase doesn't communicate anything to me, probably because I don't know what a barrel sounds like.

>>9602612
What is this, an episode of Bakemonogatari?

I think your sense of humour would be better suited to dialogue than monologue. You would need to snap right out of your self-absorption to write play-like dialogue though.
t. equally self absorbed but slightly more self aware anon

As grand pianos stand, and they often do, the one that stood in the center of my living room, adorned with pictures of me as a child, decorated with my many accolades, and decorative plates and chalices, was first-class. The room around it followed suit: colorful pictures of vibrant valleys ravaged by thundering storms, painted by long-dead men, hung on walls covered end to end with small, winged, wallpaper men standing on golden canoes and surfing rampant waters, their eyes mad with greed for a land that they would never reach. The furniture was equally fanciful: each piece came from some foreign company that overpriced its products because it knew that we could, and would, pay. So each time I sat at that piano and opened my sheet music to begin my lessons, each time I lay on that sleek leather couch to relax, each time I passed through the pomp on my way to the kitchen, I was faced with pretentious ‘beauty,’ so tediously put together it brought my stomach to its knees. The older I grew, the less amused with beauty I became: my excitement manifested itself in repugnance.
I sat on the edge of the dock, tapping my fingers rhythmically along the grime of the aging wood. I hung my legs below me and kicked as water brushed against them in sporadic patterns. Rain feathered down onto my head, each droplet disturbing me more than the last. The boards of the dock groaned behind me, prompting me to turn with a jolt. There Sam stood, staring at me in the distant way he did. “Follow me,” his eyes sank into rugged, sandy skin, his lips scraped against each other and chiseled the fronts of yellow teeth, “it’s going to start soon.” Sam backed off the dock, turned onto the busy street, and began to hurry down. Startled, I had had to half-jog to catch up with him—the way pedestrians do when a car lets them pass.
“So where exactly is this place?” I asked, sweat already racing down my cheek.
“Not far now.”

>>9602124
In regards to this piece here, I noticed you set the atmosphere and environment before you got into the story.

Couldn't this put readers off by not grasping their interest immediately?

>>9602181
Not him but I dont agree with his critique of your piece one bit. There is absolutely no implication of magic and your atmospheric personification of the air was great.

>>9602264
>Dripping air burning
Awesome. Powerful meaning, you know exactly what that would feel like!

Great descriptive words for things, It makes the piece come off as intellectual, and it is very clever how you word your sentences. Great talent. Would read.

>>9602612
>like an anus that’s got a lot of explaining to do

>>9602771
Great! It's direct in painting a picture, the atmosphere comes from the implications the items you described hold. I'm more used to atmosphere being built by feeling, this one is more visual and conceptual (If you know what I mean), and that makes it intuitively easy to read.

I especially liked Sams sunken eyes, you get this cartoon-esque image of a solemn Tim Burton character. Just that tiny description on it's own carries massive implications as to what Sam look likes and the kind of person he is.

Loved it!

As a critique I would say, one paragraph like this is fine to read but I'd expect more intellectually-stimulating content coming straight after, and by that I mean: The story progressing at a more rapid pace or something that stimulates the senses.

Do you have another paragraph to share?

the first part to a short story.


prot:
elin and marc


issue: be loved

theme: rejection, love

plot: elin has a fling, catches feelings and wallows in selfpitty over the rejection. marc has given up on love due to past hurt and only wants sex. he desperately tries to keep his distance, even thought he really likes elin.
they dance around each other but never find together.
elin awoke abruptly. the glance she took at the room around her seemed alerted. only after she noticed the unfamiliar body lying next to her, she calmed down.

waking up next to strangers wasn't new to her, but she never really got used to waking up in a place that wasn't her own.

with a sigh of relieve, she let her body slide back under the blanket. there, her leg found another leg and she buried herself as close to that body as she could. elin took a deep breath, sucking in the smell of sleep, sweat and sex.
the hairy chest tickled her nose, but she only pressed her face in deeper.

for a short moment, she was allowed herself to drift off into fantasies she had long given up but she could already sense the morning dangling over her.

she knew what it would bring. awkward "good mornings" and insincere offers to grab a coffee together.
for her own sake, she silently got out of the bed. over the years, she has become a master in the art of getting out of people's bed unnoticed.
it was a matter of minutes till she had gathered her belongings; pants, underwear, shoes, shirt. she hadn't come unprepared. in her purse waited fresh underwear, a deodorant, a toothbrush and everything else she needed to feel clean again. on the train station was a convenient toilet, that will be her next stop.

before she closed the door, she looked over to the messy bed one last time. the man inside it stirred, so she hurried up.


-

marc had observed elin in silence. he had strategically snored and stirred a few times, to make sure she was sure he's still fast asleep.
he had hoped she would stay a little longer. it must have been around two in the morning, when he woke up to get some water.

as he returned to bed, he paused and looked at the girl stretched out on the sheets. her rips slowly expanding with every breath. he waited a bit too long, the nightlamp started disturbing her sleep and she turned on her back.

he hadn't noticed the scar that went from her collarbone, between her hand sized breasts almost down to the bellybutton.

her mouth had a peaceful air and he felt a sting when he remembered how long it had been since someone looked at him with such a lovely expression.

>>9603001
Its got a great flow to it, so it's intuitive to read. I like how you jump perspectives, I've never come across that before (don't read much) so it's wonderfully refreshing.

You do a great job of conveying what the characters are feeling and what their motives are.

I would of read if it were more than a romance..I just don't like the genre and that's my only complaint, otherwise everything else was captivating!

__________________________________

Here's my attempt, below.
__________________________________

My smokey wooden desk is my favourite place. My sturdy solitude, my palace. I'm one of those types that likes to keep some of the old world, and by that I mean: I write on pen and paper. Alas, it's not only that, I spend a good deal on my pen and paper. Ivory textured A4 and my scribbles flow from an artisanal fountain pen, the kind you need to dip into ink to use. Would you be surprised to hear these are my most expensive possessions? The only items I own I thought were worth paying for. I still stand by that notion.

I start my day with a deep whiff of cold morning air. It almost tastes sweet as it rolls down into my lungs. I love the mornings! The feather balls are whistling their 3rd movement and the world is bathed in morning glow. What colour is that? I've never been able to assign one, all I know is it feels clean. Whirling steam carries the scent of my roasted black coffee, decorating my room, and a dozen ideas bombard my head as I sit down at my sturdy wooden desk.

>>9602435
at the risk of seeming defensive,

>I like the language, but the images seem to contradict each other
I'm attempting to use the same type of parallelism used in Ugaritic myths to help create a very specific type of religious feeling, close to biblical, without ripping out of the KJV. Here's a bit from the Kirta tablet that'll make this affectation make more sense to you hopefully.

>Take a Lamb in your hand
>a sacrificial lamb in your right hand
>a young animal in both your hands

would you say my use of parallelism and repetition evokes a similar cadence?

>And out of fucking nowhere is this cow's heart being sacrificed. Except we didn't know the narrator owned any cattle, or had just slaughtered one.

do you need to know beforehand? if so I'll try to figure out a better way to handle it for sure.

>womb-earth is cliché
I'll try to fix that, thanks.

I don't want to seem ungrateful, thank you so much for the reading! I just was curious how the Ugaritic text info would change your mind.

>>9603109
First sentence 'comes off' weird. I would say it's your solitude and it's a sturdy palace. Here it's getting pretentious. Alas, might just be pompous. And? Really, you choose and? A bit inconsistent there buddy.
>On ivory textured A4 my scribbles flow from an artisanal fountain pen... (although, wtf is ivory textured A4?) No, I didn't think it was that expensive. Do you live in a big barrel?
>deep whiff
Novelty for the sake of novelty is no novelty at all. Especially with all this inconsistency. Why not use 'adore' instead of 'love' while were at it? ...

>>9603248
No merits at all?

Could you elaborate on what exactly was pretentious and what did you mean by novelty for the sake of novelty?

Roast me pls. Im not really good but i try
"Gorgeous, large tits that made me say my graces?" says Don "That girl always gave me a chub". He reaches for his Superman sippy, pulls off the lid and shoots the contents in his mouth.
"You placed cinnamon in it?" Don say, smacking his lips and gagging.
"I thought you'd find it revolting with the apple cider and Jacks" I say with a grin.
"It was not so bad but real weird"
He passes me his empty cup, shaking it once.

I take it as I turned back to the cold chest, Good O'le Donny and his fucking money. You should see his car. Range rover, paid over the counter, three year insurance, and grey suede interior. Installed inside was top dollar sound system that would make any audiophile cum in his pants.
"I call this one Orange Jack!" I smiled as I fill my Batman sippy cup.

We toast above the sleeping city
"Her name was Cassidy"
"Who?"
I flash the photo again, saying "Tiddy girl"

>>9603318
Try hitting 2,500 words and then ask for a crit.

>>9603109
thanks for the feedback. are there no weird sentences? english isn't my first language, so it's a bit hard to tell if they sound right.

kek, i didn't meant to include the plot and such.
whilst writing, i though i'd have to spruce this up a notch to not let it get too boring, so i agree with you on that. i don't really like romance myself. that's why i thought it would be a challenge to try my hand at it.
maybe i'd incorporate some crime elements. but it's not a very serious project. basically what i came up with during lunch break. i might continue it just so i finish something for once.

my crit for your post:

it instantly evokes vivid images. what i like in particular is how the first and last sentence string everything together. not sure if it would enhance the effect if you used "sturdy" both times. especially since a smokey wooden desk doesn't automatically make sense to me.

the question was a surprising twist! caught me off guard and i loved it.

the bit about the mornings, birds and coffe seemed a bit much clichée, i also stumbled over feather balls.

all in all, i would really like to know more about a person who's most expensive belongings are pen and paper.
great job at making the reader curious about your prot in just a few sentences.

If I posted here the painting analysis paper that I've been working on; what are the chances of my professor running it through a plagiarism-checker, and it returning results to this thread?

Also, do you any of you have tips on writing art analysis papers?

>>9603346
well, if he has any brain cells, he will be able to recognize the circumstances and realize you didn't plagiarize.
i've never written anything like it, but i guess a lot that applies to writing also applies to your work. might be worth a try.

>>9602715
>>the sound of barrel when i'm done.
>This phrase doesn't communicate anything to me, probably because I don't know what a barrel sounds like.
meant to be a gun shot, but you're right, the vagueness doesnt justify the assonance

>>9603346
Just look up a respectable guide on term and analysis papers.
Really, unless he gave you a particular theme or idea to pull from the piece, try your best to allow the piece to evoke something within you and remind you if something. From there, you can draw correlations from the piece, the artist, past and modern themes, and how all of it is still applicable today.

>>9603001
The lack of capitalization throws me off a little, but I suppose it's a legitimate stylistic choice. The prose seems fine to me, it flows well and you can sense Elin's ennui as she sneaks from her fling's bedroom. Keep working and refining your style, it'll take you someplace.

>>9603465
ah, that's because i wrote it on my phone. i would normaly use correct capitalization.
thanks a lot for the heads up!

>The start to a historical fiction story set during the occupation of Japan

Lieutenant Conway didn’t see the dead boy at first, hidden as he was by the flickery dimness of the station. There were lights, but they were failing, filaments glowing uncertainly, drawing and redrawing an ever shifting map of shadows across the grimy platform.

Before the war this had been a grand place. Conway had seen pictures of the Tokyo subway system before, and could echoes of the past all around him. Colorful tiles, dulled by grime and neglect, adorned the floor and spangled the cracked ceiling like stars. Pillars stood in orderly rows, some slivered and half crumbled from the shock of bomb blasts up on street level.

The boy was leant up against one of those, spindly legs stretched out in front of him, chin tucked into his skeletal chest. He looked to be dressed in the filthy rags of a patriotic youth uniform.

If we’d had to invade, Conway thought dully, I might’ve had to kill him myself.

But they hadn’t, and so he hadn’t. Hunger had taken the boy instead of a bullet or a bomb. Whatever difference that made.

For a moment more Conway observed the dead child, then turned sharply away, feeling ill. The boy hadn’t been dead long, the flies had not yet gathered. He had certainly been alive this morning, had greeted the dawn along with everyone else who still drew breath. Or had he swum into a dim state of syrupy lethargy before drifting slowly back out? And when had he done so? A few hours ago? An hour?

Had he died at all?

Suddenly Conway felt an intense rush of fear roll through him, heart clenching into itself. Had he been sitting here, sharing a ruined subway platform with a dying child for all this time? The fear curdled to guilt. Perhaps the boy knew he was here…but remained too weak, too diminished, to muster so much as a whisper for help.

Slowly, Conway got up. Took a tentative step forward.

“Hello?” He asked. Tried to summon the Japanese equivalent to his mind but failed.

The boy offered no reply.

Conway couldn’t see his face from where he stood, the light was too uneven,and the boy’s slumped position didn’t help either. His hair hung in front of his face, brittle and unwashed, a beige cap lying between his outstretched legs like a beggar’s bowl. It was empty.

Crouching down just in front of the boy, Conway reached a hand forward. Hesitated an inch short of ratty beige fabric and sallow brown skin. He still felt uneasy, torn between an instinctual fear of the dead and an all consuming pity for this poor thing.

“Hello? Kid?” He tried again.

No response.

>>9603470
Not that guy, but as a future note, try and refrain from posting something you know isn't fully edited or complete. If you want the best critique, you've got to post your best effort. It may hurt more if you didn't do great, but you'll know for certain what is lacking rather than being told the obvious, such as lacking capitalization.

>>9603489
Yeah, that wasn't thought trough. It didn't even cross my mind, desu. I'll only post completed stuff next time.

>>9603341
Absolutely no weird sentences, it was all incredibly intuitive!

Thanks for the critique, I just jotted that down in 5 minutes after I had reviewd your piece. I am still very much a noob trying to make something impressive.

Hopefully one day my writing will be so good I could write a poem that would make my reader cum instantly.

>>9603518
kek. so you are the guy who writes about that girl he wants to marry?

Perhaps we had it coming. We put our gods in our mouths and filled them with our insatiable blackness that is our greed and emptiness, our void for riches and expansion and conquering our neighbors for filling our cups with the blood of the conquered. It happened much as anything does: suddenly and with every intention of altering the very fabric of history. The sky tore open like a dagger to a pig's throat and fire and shadows poured from it as if the ocean had given way at its deepest trench and birthed its blackest children into our skies, introducing to our eyes the race known as De’zím: the demons of Maléfor. Fugitives they were, and from an evil whose name they would not speak. With the De'zím came many a creature: wìvryns, cerberi, haunters, vampyrs, scyllas, wraiths, and many more to be revealed in the centuries ahead. The De'zím brought with them many a confounding method of living, most prominently witchery, which the humans took to calling witching. Curses, energy manipulation, hexes, charms, illusions- all a means of power that only the demons were able to perform. These fugitive demons were both good and evil, in their humble opinions, and so many resumed their ways of causing turmoil among humans to feed on the negativity they sewed. This practice perpetuated the primordial dreadborne abstraction that has kept us so afeared of the dark and the unknown: we are prey. It was these intentions that spurred the demons Säelorvorscroedon and Maçpenvarcrímsäovonin to establish the order known as the Wyĉyrí- a demon’s term for “slayer of mine likeness”- to keep balance in the realm that they had taken residence in, later allowing humans and the rare elves to join if they so wished. With the laziness of men to learn such an intimidating and “unpronounceable” tongue did the mortals address the order as the Watchers, for that was precisely what they did: they oversaw the darkness and the shadows within the shadows. With reluctance, the elusive wìvrí agreed to aid the order, and so it was that the Watchers were forged in the heat and pressure of coalition to maintain equilibrium in a world they unbalanced.

>>9603472
>coffee's kicking in

Lieutenant Conway didn’t see the dead child(1) at first, hidden as he was by the flickering(2) dimness of the station. The lights were failing; their filaments glowing uncertainly, drawing and redrawing ever shifting shadows across the grimy platform.(3)

Before the war this station was a grand place. Conway had seen pictures of the Tokyo subway system before, and could hear the echoes of the past buzzing around him in harmony of the dying light.(4-5) Colorful tiles, dulled by age(6) and neglect, checker the floor and spangle the cracked ceiling like stars.(7) The pillars around him stand in orderly rows, some of which are slivered and half crumbled from the shock of bomb blasts above.(8)

1) Boy sounds strange the way you worded your sentence. Unless the gender become an important point of progression, keep it neutral.
2) 99% sure flickery wasn't a word. Even if it is, don't use it. Flickering works fine.
3) Your wording and punc was all over the place at the end of the first graph. Plenty of unneeded words that were cut and clarification of the image was needed. Plus you passed a good opportunity to combine images as I've done in the following graph.

4-5-) There again was unneeded punc and words. Removal and tightening then allowed for easier sustenance of the image.
6) Using grimy before already established a fine enough image. Making the second use of grime 'age' helps retain and expand the image without using repeat words.
7) You started to used the past tense unnecessarily here, so I returned some of the words to their proper tense and tightened the image yet again. I added checker because I'm unsure of your use of spangle. The tiles are described as grimy yet spangled, which is a little contradictory. I went with what I believe you intended, but I may be wrong.
8) Again, more tightening of wording and removal of awkward punc and sentences.

I could keep going, but I believe there's enough there to get an idea. It's not bad, and you had a decent start. Just have to try and use the best word choices and remember descriptions you've used so you can build onto of them.
If you have any questions, please ask.

>>9603572
>7) You started to used the past tense unnecessarily here,
What fucking irony

>>9603540
Relating the ocean trench to the sky's bloody wound doesn't work. It's too contradictory.

You should break this much-too-large paragraph when you introduce the two specific demons by name.

Otherwise this isn't bad. I'd keep reading unless it became overly cliche, as the "demon hunting demon for the benefit of man" is already dangerously close to this.

>>9603109
My smokey wooden desk is my favourite place. My sturdy solitude.(1) My palace. I'm one of those types who(2) likes to keep some of the old world; (3)and by that I mean I write with pen on paper.(4) Alas, it's not only that.(3) I'm inclined to spend a good deal on my pen and paper when I resupply. Ivory textured A4 paper, while my scribbles flow from an artisan(5) fountain pen--the kind you need to dip into ink to use. Would you be surprised to hear those are my most expensive possessions? The only items I own I thought were worth paying for.(*6) I still stand by that notion.

I left some note markers where I made my changes. If you have any questions please ask. You have some issues with punc and sometimes word things awkwardly. I starred my sixth note to show that I didn't change something there. But the way you have it written would require a question mark to follow the sentence, or else the removal of the previous question mark for a semicolon or comma. Or an alteration to both phrases altogether.

There are errors in the second graph also, but I believe the edits of the first graph should give you an idea. "Feather balls" is just weird though, far to whimsical to be practical. Just use birds unless you absolutely feel it's necessary to the character to describe them oddly. I'd still avoid feather balls though.

File: muh1000faces.png (210KB, 808x744px) Image search: [Google]

210KB, 808x744px

>>9603658

Hello, Skyler.

I see you in these threads a lot. I wondered if you have ever had anything published before? A short story in a magazine, for instance.

I ask because you speak with a lot of authority about the writing offered for critique here.

I also wonder what you get from offering so much critique. Maybe you are doing so selflessly.

>>9603340
Opening from a short story i made

The end of the world started at a lazy afternoon at the humble home of the Winters.
Mrs. Winters at the kitchen. Pulling out her freshly baked apple pie with large red mittens, while ominous dark clouds gather at what should have been a sunny day if the weatherman on Channel 3 was right. She sets the pie by the dark marble countertop just beside the new chrome sink that Mr. Winters installed after the accident with the Cooper dinner night. Mrs. Winters still thought of it as thoughtless spending, they could just not invite anyone who had no idea to operate their faulty faucet. Mrs. Winters went back to her seat to nurse on her grey earl.

A loud moan exploded across the house, followed by many more, varying from range and tone sharing only the sound of pleasure. Mrs. Winters sighed and reached for the remote and turned for the animal channel, raising the volume enough to drown the noise.

A young gazelle who had strayed too far from its herd was being chased by a cheetah in an African savanna, a placid naration and the beat of tribal drums kept the moans at bay, though the pauses let a torrent slip through every now and then.

'They skipped out lunch, they should be famished' Mrs. Winters thought and altogether left her china and gathered a can of biscuits, a bag of bread, two buckets of fried chicken and a platter of chicken nuggets, she ordered earlier for lunch, in a hug, forming a tower that goes over her head. The tower teeters cautiously as she moved her way to the staircase and into Paul's room. His door was an old oak wood with a brass knob just like all the doors in the house was, and even with his teenage angst, Paul hadnt thought of putting up stickers on it, she would be disappointed if he does so. She gave the door three raps and let herself in.

Mrs. Garcia was sprawled naked infront of the door and asleep. She has been here since Monday night and its already Thursday. Yesterday her daughter came knocking on the door in search of her and Mrs. Winters just gave a shake of her head and comforted the troubled child who was looking for her mom, sending her away with an apple pie and a few cans of beans. Mrs. Winters did offer her the guestroom where they usually sleep or fuck. Sadly she didnt take the bait, and went on back to their trailer, hoping for her mother to come back saying "She probably on some odd job, thanks anyway Mrs. Winters" .

Coach Fredrick was tied to the bedpost, gagged and blindfolded. Piled over him were the missing Lenning Twins, Ms. Denimoore, Paul's biology teacher, and three passing tourists.

>>9603821
I spend my free time reading and mostly studying writing. I come to these threads to offer what knowledge I have. When I attended college for a brief two years, I helped my English professor grade papers. While I don't have an incredible depth of vocabulary and history, nor education, I know enough and grasp English well enough to want to offer help here. I just like helping people, with the added benefit of getting better at writing when I crit or rewrite for people. My crits are never perfect, I try my best to be general so as not to make too many mistakes or overpower what the writer truly intended. Looking over the reply you quoted, I already see a few other adjustments that could be made to improve the piece still.

I hope to be published one day. But I lack the time and knowledge right now to sit and write to the full extent I'd wish. I need to read more first. I only rarely write for others to read.

>>9603821
Also, idk if you wrote that, but it's very good. Concise and well articulated.

>>9603832
Better, now that there's more.
I'm eating and reading my book at the moment. I will return in an hour or so and give you a crit.

>>9603472
>ever shifting map of shadows
Orgasmic. Unfortunately most of your descriptions lack this level of artistry, they are quite bland (see below)

> "Colorful tiles, dulled by grime and neglect, adorned the floor and spangled the cracked ceiling like stars. Pillars stood in orderly rows, some slivered and half crumbled from the shock of bomb blasts up on street level. "

>rhetorical questions - 2nd para
Does a great job showing us how the protag thinks.

>Suddenly Conway felt an intense rush of fear roll through him, heart clenching into itself
Every 3rd person narrative does this factual description of what is happening to the character, and it's boring.

>Conway couldn’t see his face from where he stood, the light was too uneven
Brilliant

Not as suspenseful as I would like, but your descriptions have potential when they are made artsy.

>>9603212

You have nothing to be defensive about - the poem is very strong technically.

Also the context is useful, although incredibly obscure. It is amazing you are researching into this, but I daresay 99.9% of your readers won't be able to keep up. My opinion on repetition is that if it is to be used, do it wholeheartedly, with the same words: i.e. 'Do not be afraid, do not be afraid.', but that's just an opinion. The way it is now just seems to me like one of those annoying people who say what you just said in a different way. Plus I reckon it would tie in well with incantations and the shamanic subject.

As for the cow, maybe if it was 'a' cattle, rather than 'my cattle', it would be less jarring. The way it is introduced it's like it's presuming the reader knows the cattle is there already, and the reader is like, 'eh?'

Definitely sounds like an interesting project though.

*had to repost because I didn't realize you had a line break*

>>9603832 #
>The end of the world started at a lazy afternoon at the humble home of the Winters. Mrs. Winters at the kitchen. Pulling out her freshly baked apple pie with large red mittens, while ominous dark clouds gather at what should have been a sunny day if the weatherman on Channel 3 was right. She sets the pie by the dark marble countertop just beside the new chrome sink that Mr. Winters installed after the accident with the Cooper dinner night. Mrs. Winters still thought of it as thoughtless spending, they could just not invite anyone who had no idea to operate their faulty faucet. Mrs. Winters went back to her seat to nurse on her grey earl.

The end of the world began on a lazy afternoon in the quaint home Winters'. Mrs. Winters, the housewife, is currently operating the kitchen. She is pulling from the oven a freshly baked apple pie using large red mittens. Dark clouds are gathering outside the bay window on what should be a sunny day--had the Channel 3 weatherman been prescient. Mrs. Winters then places the pie along a dark, marble countertop beside the chrome sink her husband had recently installed after the Cooper-family dinner incident. Mrs. Winters believes it thoughtless spending--they could just as well not invite over anyone who was incapable of operating the damaged faucet. Mrs. Winters returns to her seat at the kitchen table, waiting for the pie to cool, and nurses her lukewarm mug of earl grey.

Compare those graphs to get an idea of the grammatical editing you should thinking about as you write. As for the story, I mean, I'm interested. It's definitely out there and is definitely strange. So, if you wanted to get readers hooked, that should at least work for someone who enjoys the bizarre.

If you have anymore questions, please ask.

>>9603832
>The end of the world started at a lazy afternoon at the humble home of the Winters
Lazy writing, and a couple mistakes. Having started be an antithesis of end is atrocious. The proper phrasing should be: The end of the world began. And overall, the sentence should look like this: The end of the world began on a lazy afternoon at the Winter's humble home (or abode, as that's the classic phrasing for a humble house--and still used often despite being archaic because it flows well).

>Mrs. Winters at the kitchen
Exceptionally awkward sentence fragmenting, especially when following the introductory sentence, and grammatically incorrect aside from being a fragment to top it off. It should be linked to the following sentence and look like this: Mrs. Winters was in the kitchen, pulling our her freshly baked apple pie with large red mittens as dark ominous clouds began to gather on what should have been a sunny day.

The last clause of the sentence can be omitted due to the foretasted weather being easily implied beforehand.

>She sets [...] Cooper dinner night
She set. And don't allude to prior events if you don't plan on giving the reader some indication as to what happened. It is only acceptable not to if the event in question is a cultural/historical reference. Or if the short story is in a collection where references are shared between the stories. I know that you do attempt to clue the reader in with the following sentence, but it is really not sufficient and should just be omitted entirely because it leads to much awkwardness.

>Mrs. Winters still thought of it as thoughtless spending, they could just not
This is a comma splice. And the rest of the sentence contains quite a few grammatical errors, but I do not wish to point them all out or rewrite it.

>In an African Savanna, a placid
Another comma splice. Just add a period.

>His door was an old oak wood with a brass knob just like all the doors in the house was, and even with his teenage angst, Paul hadn't thought of putting up stickers on it, she would be disappointed if he does so.
A ridiculous amount of grammatical errors, and again comma splices. It should be like this: His door was made out of old oak wood and had a brass knob like all the others in the house. Even in his stage of teenage angst, Paul had not thought of putting stickers on his door. She would be disappointed if he had done so.

There's honestly a lot more issues with this writing besides what I pointed out. There is something grievously wrong with every sentence. I am just honestly not going to spend more time line editing than you apparently put into writing it. Learn what you can from this and then burn it.


I'll critique more stuff in this thread later. This one took longer than I thought it would and I have to head to the gym in a few minutes. If anyone wants me specifically to look at something, just give me a (you). But please at least proofread it a couple times first.

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Absolute beginner with non English native lang here

can I have a crit so I can stop being so shit?

thank u

>>9604788
>Lazy afternoon in the quaint home of Winters'
Should be: Lazy afternoon in the quaint home of the Winters'. Or: in the Winters' quaint home.

>Mrs. Winters, the housewife
Omit housewife, because it breaks flow and this fact is already well implied. (as well as being unnecessary to the narrative).

>She is pulling from the oven
Super awkward. I'm about to be pulling you out of that chair at your writing desk. Should be: She pulls a freshly baked apple pie from the oven with her large red mittens.

Next sentence is ok and comes down to personal stylistic preference more than anything. But again, the clause about the weatherman is not needed.

>Mrs. Winters then places the pie along a dark, marble countertop
The comma is unnecessary and just breaks flow, leading to clunky prose.

>Mrs. Winters believes it thoughtless spending
Believes it to be.

An improvement from the other anons, but still not very great. You try to have prose that flows well but end up ruining it with unnecessary punctuation and awkward phrasing.

>>9604893
".. lazy afternoon in the quaint home Winters' " is grammatically correct. Idk where you got the of from.

I agree, housewife isn't needed. With how he had it originally worded, 'she is pulling' is better. It is easing the reader into the image rather than plastering it in front of them by saying 'she pulls'. Sort of like the narrator 'is pulling' the reader into the kitchen. I laughed at your turn of phrase though, not gonna lie.

I actually agree with the weatherman clause. I thought prescient would help, but it really is not needed. I also wish I would have combined the sentence with the previous as you had done. Much better flow that way.

I agree with the comma. Doesn't need to be "believes it to be thoughtless spending" though. We know she is talking about the new sink, so saying "she believes it to be thoughtless spending" is like saying "she believes the new sink is thoughtless spending". Which can still be correctly simplified to "she believes it thoughtless spending".

I agree that I still have hiccups. Definitely never claimed to be perfect. My whole goal is to show basic improvement and not to make it perfectly edited. That way they can infer what must be done and make connections themselves through their own style instead of form fitting my own over theirs and not really developing.

>>9604817
Copy the text in a reply and I'll give you some edits and tips. But right now I can tell you that you need a lot of work. Punc is sloppy, grammar is weak or all over. Nothing to be too ashamed of if you're ESL. But you definitely need to slow down, compare your work to others, and do multiple read-overs across about a week. Leave enough time between each read-over to lessen your own intended imagery in your head. Also try reading a normal book between and before your read overs. Get yourself into a good rhythm that you can carry over into editing your own work.

>>9605023
I actually agree with you on the thoughtless part. That's how I would have written it too. Not sure why I wanted the to be earlier. I think i thought it slightly awkward to leave out when taking the following and prior clauses into consideration.

>>9605063
It happens. Earlier in the thread I told someone to change their correct use of 'its' to 'it's'. Blew my mind when they called me out on it.

>>9603832
I disagree with the criticism you have received, so here is my own take.

>The end of the world started at a lazy afternoon at the humble home of the Winters.
Delete. Please don't listen to the people advising you to pile on more chintz and "classic" cliches.

>Mrs. Winters at the kitchen. Pulling out her freshly baked apple pie with large red mittens, while ominous dark clouds gather at what should have been a sunny day if the weatherman on Channel 3 was right.
Mrs Winters slid an apple pie out of the oven with red mittens, and put it on the countertop just as lightning flared at the window. When she closed the oven, thunder boomed in the distance. The forecast had been for blue skies and sunshine.

> just beside the new chrome sink that Mr. Winters installed after the accident with the Cooper dinner night. Mrs. Winters still thought of it as thoughtless spending, they could just not invite anyone who had no idea to operate their faulty faucet.
Delete. Unless you want to tell the story of how a leaky faucet can explode or destroy an entire sink, it's better not to leave the reader puzzling about it. What, did Mr. Cooper try to arm wrestle with the thing? You didn't offer him whisky chocolates after dinner, did you? He's been on the wagon for a whole month now.

>Mrs. Winters went back to her seat
She sat down

>to nurse on her grey earl.
and sipped her cup of tea, brooding about the expense of her new faucet.
(Dislocating some of your other content.)

>A young gazelle who had strayed too far from its herd was being chased by a cheetah in an African savanna, a placid naration and the beat of tribal drums kept the moans at bay, though the pauses let a torrent slip through every now and then.
A lone gazelle was being chased by a cheetah. The placid voice of the narrator was loud enough to distract her from the moans, but there were pauses. When the cheetah tore into the gazelle the narrator stayed silent, and the moans came back to the foreground.

>>9604788
I'm the other guy. I have question.

>--had the Channel 3 weatherman been prescient.
How did you believe this was an improvement?

You seem to think re-writing consists of grammatical tinkering and swapping synonyms. You have to change the content.
I'm not even sure your synonym swapping is adequate, let alone good.

I don't think anyone who can talk about prescient weathermen has any right to give advice on style.

The Pig Who Couldn’t Participate
Georgy-Pig was a chubby young hog who simply could not participate. While the other pigs would root around Farmer Hob’s yard, Georgy-Pig preferred to rest in the shade. While the other pigs would bathe in the cool waters of the pond and chat with the farm ducks, Georgy-Pig would sniff languidly at his mud-sty’s trough and dream of dinner-time. He had tried to participate, once. Last summer it had been very hot in the mud-sty. It was so hot that the mud had baked into his skin, forming a dry and crusty coat that made him even hotter. He looked out to the pond and realized that he had no choice but to participate if he were ever to be free from this discomfort. Somewhat overweight, he lifted his considerable bulk from his straw-mat and carried himself out to the field where the other pigs had gone in the morning. As he approached the pond, he became aware of the attention he was drawing. The pigs and the ducks had stopped talking to watch him enter the water. But the second he dipped his little hoof into the pond, he was stung by its icy temperature. Immediately he retreated to the mud-sty, where the pigs and the ducks would not watch him and he was safe from the water’s sting. He recovered a store of slop from beneath his straw-mat and gorged himself. That most uncomfortable coat of mud would be worn until a rainstorm passed several weeks later.
One day Farmer Hob noticed that one of his pigs wasn’t properly participating with the others. He decided to take a proactive approach and integrate him into the herd by force. Come morning when it was time to root around in Farmer Hob’s yard, Georgy-Pig would be physically dragged from his straw-mat, screeching horribly. He would stand alone in the yard as the other pigs rolled about and scrubbed their skin against each other, but the second Farmer Hob turned his back, Georgy-Pig would scurry back to the mud-sty. As before, upon his return he would immediately gorge himself on that secret store of slop. Eventually all this extra eating made Georgy-Pig too fat to move at all. Even if he had wanted to participate, he could not.
“Wonderful!” said Farmer Hob, “Georgy-Pig has become a perfectly sized hog, just as I hoped!” And he and his son dragged Georgy-Pig out to the chopping stump, where they sliced off his head with a sharp axe. This time, Georgy-Pig did not screech even once.

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Breaking the shafts from his shoulder, the Danaan casts them into the water and the dear soldier is gone. His arm his new. His legs are steady. The ship’s rigging is trailing in the wind and slinging it hand-over-hand the Danaan finds the deck and surveys the shorehead. From where he stands alone on the prow, he can see a hundred torches burning amongst the ranks of men. The torch-carriers make for the ships. He works a spear ten strides long through the chest of one of them from his position over the beak and then another and a third, making red mud of them in the surf.
βάναυσοι (an,08), he cries, fire fire fire!
The long-spear is heavy but the Danaan is strong and twelve Troians are opened by him at the shoulder and through the belly and one split between the ribs and one through the back of the neck as he stumbles so the spear point passes his lips and he falls in the tide, dead even before the spit can be torn free from behind his jaw and the last thing he knows is the foam of the surf and the bitter shock of teeth clenched on bronze (an,09). Overhead the sun is tracking backward across the cloudless sky.
Behind, two hands red and fissured and running with water wrap their crooked fingers over the banister and the rotten face of the first of the dead is hoisted up into view. Sleep and death slide over the roughshod rail quiet like folds of linen falling from a woman's shoulder and and crumple into a heap on deck. The dead man retches up another wash of clean water and wipes their mouth with the back of one hand. His ears are leaking.
No, he says, making a dismissive wave of one hand.
No, no. Stand under the mainmast here--back a hand. On center. Like you’re a God and this is your home.
It’s no home for a God, there’s a column in the middle of the naos--
That’s why it’s like a God, not a God.
Like is good.
The mud around his mouth cracks in tall lines when they speak. His voice is dry and quiet, the whisper of the Danaan's father on his deathbed. His nose begins to drain once he's found his feet like a cup of wine turned over and poured out and they speak in tandem like twins.
If you stay on the prow, great lion, they will see you fall. And that's good. But it could be better, don't you agree?
That's right, that's right. Under the mainmast
Under the flaxen sail
Under that beautiful standard there
Let the Troians fall in a circle around you
Like the horizon
Like the sun
Like a shield
As wide as your spear is long
What a sight
And here you'll be found
Under the mainmast
Under the mainmast
What a pyre--Αἴας was given a warship
Twelve more dead in a ring
A sacrifice fit for a king
A warship!
Or a lover (an,10)
They won't see you fall
They'll see you felled
Oh, Διὸς the fire in their eyes
And in their hearts
The molten silver on their tongues

--
>>9603821
Your pic is well written. If yours, good stuff anon. Personally, I am not a fan of the author posing rhetorical questions to the reader--comes off a tad trite.

>>9605357
>>9605357
One, please read what I said here: >>9605023
I am not completely rewriting what they have given me for I do not want to alter their intentions and I do not want them believing they must mimic instead of learn from their mistakes. Yes, the way I edit is that I improve their grammar while attempting to not change their content. If I were getting paid to edit published material, I would edit the content as well. But the people here need to learn their basics before they need to worry about cliches and content. Basic, typical writing makes a piece uninteresting. Bad grammar and punc makes a piece unreadable. One is worse than the other. One paves the way for the other. Do you have a year of practice under education? Do you know how to properly educate and not simply correct and leave the student blind?
Should these people come to me with well edited pieces, I then look to their imagery, descriptions and writing style. But they have to show they know their basics first.

Secondly, the clouds gathering had a supernatural implication. Contrary to your literal correction. As I said, I wasn't pleased with my revision. But using the word prescient implied that the weatherman was not inherently wrong. That he would've had to have known the future to predict the weather right.

>>9605628
You thought "prescient" would help, and you still think people should take your advice.

Content is the basis of literature.

>>9600643

Under-rated piece.

The only part that bugs me is jovial moon instead of Jovian moon, which seems to be deliberate, except why/how would a moon be jovial?

I wrote a piece on a similar subject matter last weekend, which I'll post below. Make of it what you wish.

Space

The eyes of Hubble zoom
to the darkest point of the blackest square.
Galaxies sharpen from the gloom
and on this cosmic bloom
I stare.

The history of a trillion races
told within a tragic dot of yellow haze;
a smear of light two pixels wide
nine hundred quadrillion miles
from side to side...

I can nearly hear their voices.

The enlightened breed of alien birds
snuffed out by a single cosmic cough
and the fish-like beasts who dreamed
to fly between the isles of stars like beams:

Your screams have been observed.

>>9599443

You had to be a certain type of person to do what he was doing. The kid had guts, he'd make you think, 'Wow, I've never seen anything like this'. Almost like Rocky in a way, people would often joke that he could 'go the distance'. I guess you could say what it really was is that he just plain believed in himself, in his own ability, and that's what was the most impressive about him.
He was going up against bad odds, very bad really, I'd describe it as brazen and nothing less. He knew how hard it was going to be for him, he knew how much he'd have to suffer, to slug through the grind to find new friends; he knew all of this, but he knew also that he couldn't let Jane's stunt go unanswered. You see, it's a bit complicated; the two of them, they've known eachother for a very long time, and they don't talk much. Whatever is known between them is mostly proxy information via social media and their friends, but when shit hits the fan the whole crew is on board posthaste.
So when John fell on some rough luck, Jane took advantage of it, all the while pretending to be his best friend in the world. He trusted her, and he, knowing her since he was so young, could never imagine the betrayal that he would receive. He was sore about the whole ordeal, having lost his friends to a man (and woman), but he chuckled to himself at the silver lining he had found: Jane made a rather big mistake.
You see, girls have friends, and they all get together and have ideas that they think are grand and will work just fine. The problem they have is they don't consider the consequences accurately if they consider themselves to be above them, as so many popular girls do; if anything Jane was popular, and so was he, so their friends overlapped. Yes, Jane and other persons conspired against him, his friend for such a long time had turned on him. Accordingly, when John got his knife in the back, he took an opportunity to strike back; in just as much a cunning way. During one of their evenings listening to music and drinking beer, while Jane still wore the mask of a pretender and a friend, she had left her phone out while she went to use the restroom. He knew she must have completely forgot. So, taking the opportunity, while she was gone John went pushed a small usb device into her phone, and waited as he knew it was ripping all her data right out.

>>9606044

cont.

With a smug smile, he unplugged his device and tucked it away in his pocket, keeping safe the precious card that had her information on it. He'd soon find out all about the other Jane, the one she didn't outwardly present, and, he thought to himself, in a way he might find out who the real Jane is. He never could have known what he would eventually come to find would open a can of worms he's still dealing with today, still, Jane probably has it worse. Of course, hacking her phone meant he had access to her funds, through applicaitons mostly. He never stole from her, but he found it grand she had the heart to compensate him willingly for being so rude before, if acting a bit grudging about the whole affair. She signed up a verbal contract with him, and it was done, so he at least had that to enjoy, despite the relative fallout of his social life since had Jane pulled her stunt.
John looked around the parking lot to see not many cars at work this early, but that was typical. He took a breath of fresh air, rolled his shoulders, and gazed to the building where he would continue his office life while he stepped forward into a brisk walk. This was the war he waged, the was the battle he fought; he strove to be a success in spite of everything that had happened, if only to spite Jane and her friends. That was enough for him, he needed nothing more, friends he could find anywhere at any time if he were only to look, but for now there were other matters that required his undivided attention.

>>9605866
Prescient clarified the thought. Wasn't considering the content at that point.

>>9605493
The first part sounds like you are trying to emulate Homer, an inferior Homer. So in trying to emulate Homer, what bothers me first off is that the "Danaan" is a nameless person. Homer never left a man nameless, no matter how obscure the character. Second, the simile with the linen on the woman's shoulder is not Homeric at all. Homer's similes and metaphors have their connection to nature and animals, not women.

Besides those small points, it wasn't bad. I suggest rereading Homer.

>>9606120
Appreciate your feedback anon. I would reply that I am not trying to emulate Homer. Toward another end, I have swapped this type of content for that type of content, and am hopefully sending the narrative in a direction that applies Homer. In a sense, the way you read it to be similar but perverted makes me super happy. That is the point. I worry that it won't read that way though; that it will only read the way you read it...

Which means I am bad and should feel bad and buy rope. Thanks again, anon.

>>9606112
Thought is content.

The thought there was: correct weather report.
Not precognitive apocalypse oracle.

Prescient doesn't clarify. It adds in an extra and unnecessary element of fortune telling or divination. To a television weather report.

I'm surprised you're still defending it, as if your entire ego was bound up in your poor choice of words. Can't give even an inch, or you'll be humiliated in front of the entire classroom. What are you, twelve?

>>9606162
If I'm twelve then you must be a retard. Because I don't know if you read the story I read, but a lackluster clairvoyant of a weatherman was one of the more plausible statements made in there. Just stop; you want to pick on the namefags and you did, and it was pointless. Good job.

>>9606261
I'm not picking on you, Skylark. I'm sorry that you feel that way.

Okay, I guess I could see how the weatherman might be implied to be an oracle. That's a very special and imaginative way of looking at it. Yes, you did well.

>>9605981
Pretty good poem brother, I like it. I'd say maybe add a hyphen at the end of line 8, and that the second to last line reads a little odd at first. Going over it a few times I finally got the rhythm. But I had to search for it. Could just be me.
Still a great little piece.

>>9605981

I enjoy the tone of this piece and have a soft spot for the subject matter. The final line is a nice payoff and delivers what I believe is the desired chilling effect.

If I had to quibble over some things, it seems that the first stanza is noticeably more rigid than the second and third. I find this a little awkward because it creates an expectation in my mind that the following stanzas will follow the same structure. I have a few minor stylistic suggestions. If you are not committed to a particular structure, then I would separate the lines a little differently and change some articles. For instance I think the last full stanza would read better as:

"An enlightened breed
of alien birds
snuffed out by a single
cosmic cough
and fishlike beasts
who dreamed to fly
between the isles of stars
like beams"

This is my sentiment. I believe your piece would go nicely with a kind of terseness.

I very much enjoyed it.

>>9606294
Please retype to me the first line of the story. Does this mean nothing to the story then, and I'm supposed to drop all implications of a clearly stated part of his story? Did you forget that you told him to delete it, the fact remaining that it is still there, woven into his story regardless of intent?
Or why don't we bring up the last paragraph?
I'm the imaginative one?

Gotta drop this now man, sorry. Thanks for bumping the thread though.

Come down here.

Come down from flat tar roofs in the caldera of the city where patchworks of children sing over feral animal rhythms:

Fathers’ knuckles against mothers’ lips, all the marriages of depleted bottles to cratered drywall. The daughters of boredom and the sons of savagery and their haunts and perches by the rising pools of wastewater.

Come down, at midnight in wormy plumage and crooked tiara. I am your toy. Wind my key and leave my teeth to chatter in the vandalized alcoves and the graffitoed breezeways.

Down.

Carcass of a firebombed church, the scarred stone beneath the crumpled eaves, and among it, in open secret, the decomposers, the detritus eaters, the mattresses brown with rain and human filth. The splayed forms of the doomed escapists and the mortal implements of their escape about them, their fascinations.

The streetlamps peer through the breaks in the masonry and find them, bruised, prostrate, tongues lolling. The far wall went untouched by the fire somehow. The curling wallpaper is intermittent with small gold crosses. It must have touched a nerve with one of the transients because they overwrote it in pastel lipstick: “God forgot about me”.

When the rain passes it will fill organically-slogans and sigils and distress calls like the surfaces of a barroom bathroom stall, the white of the cast over a boy’s broken arm.

Come down here.

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Have Fun

>>9606320

Thank you. Please don't be bothered if people critique your critique. Crit is not a spectator sport. :)

>>9606329

I might play around more with the second and third stanzas, especially rearranging the internal rhymes and assonances to make them more in line with the first maybe.

The last verse originally read 'To the enlightened breed...', but then I dropped the To bit and was too lazy to change the article. Good shout.

>>9606559

Had a nice feeling about this piece until about halfway through. Felt like the verbosity was building to some kind of tongue in cheek moment or big dramatic moment.

As it stands, it feels a little overdone and could be pared down as it serves to introduce the character of Alonzo. Ends up feeling a little much.

The "The naked pixels..." part could be condensed for instance.

"The naked pixels of his body materialized from dust. Blue skies, white dunes, green pastels, stone shapes, forming...

The Kingdom of Amarathine dawning in..."

The raw emotion of the scene is fun and the voice I'm hearing is strong, but not totally consistent. Sections like:

"He didn't care for the earthly wiles of the pig sty beneath him..."

just kind of read as unnecessary and heavy. The sexually preoccupied language of the last parts is interesting, but maybe awkwardly stated. I am not a fan of the "The city was filled" paragraph.It just feels forced.

Overall, a scene where somebody is awakening from a fantasy into a different reality has been done many times, and IMO, if you use the scene, you have to do it in a novel way to make it effective.

>>9606645
Not bothered, just don't think the dude's wholly correct. Though to the point we were at it was mostly opinion anyway.

Third chapter of a story I'm working on:

A brilliantly feathered bird of prey flying through the afternoon savanna sky veers strongly against a surprise updraft before being impaled through the breast by a metal tipped arrow sporting matching feathers. A quick fall lands the bird near center of a clearing in a field of tan wild grasses surrounding narrow trees who's many tangled roots and elderly branches writhe under the sun.

Sweat dots the scalp and forehead of a man running. His steps light and careful as he skirts between shadows towards his kill. Approaching the bird, the black sinned man kneels low before it, softly speaking a prayer. When the prayer is finished he reaches for the wings and tail to pluck the largest flight bearing feathers still remaining intact after falling. The cousin fletchling finish their trajectory through the breast as the hunter pulls out and destroys the arrow. From a small leather pouch on his thigh the man pulls out and unfolds a larger bag. He stuffs the bird in the sack, which is just large enough to contain it. In the now empty smaller pouch he stores the bloody arrowhead.

Standing up, his brown eyes appear satisfied as they peer back to where he fired the impressive shot. Knowing the cover, he makes out the faint outline of another man crouching under shadow of tree roots. As he had done on his way to retrieve the bird, the man returns to the expectant figure.

"Right on the breast as it feigned! Ahmhuadu, did you see the accuracy?"

"I saw Nhllo's breath give rise to Thyoktk to bless your guidance!"

"You joke! He did breath, but as he always does--look! I even pulled seventeen feathers from Thyoktk; six from the wing's tip! Come now. Let me see your will compared to mine."

"You will see it, Cwahli. Let me show true accuracy. Regardless of blessing's divine."

(cont)

>>9606909
Ahmhuadu, under the tree's roots, carefully prepares an arrow using his own supplies and previously acquired Thyoktk feathers.

The Thyoktk are a large scavenging bird which feed off the less fortunate life attempting to survive the Bhagni's unforgiving stretch of savanna, known by the natives as Tsafhir. The creature does well, therefor often growing plump under its own avarice. Quick for their size -a healthy male weighing up to twenty-five pounds can boast a five-foot wingspan- and scouting in herds of three to six or seven, once the Thyoktk have chosen a carcass, even if the kill is owned by a killer, they may fight off the oppressor and claim right by dominance (given their number is large enough) or simply wait until they can clear up the scraps. Though a pack stealing prey is rare. They almost always choose the easiest prey when hunting. Also due to their success, the Thyoktk feathers have taken a pearlescent, emerald hue over the otherwise black color, which shimmers under the sun and intensifies as it progresses into the center of the feather. These feathers, and their generous meat, make these birds highly desirable by the tribal inhabitants of the Lesser Meliphroties.

With his equipment adequately prepared, Ahmhuadu moves for the edge of the roots so he may look clearly to the sky. Four additional Thyoktk circle lazily south of his position, near where the previous bird had been slain by Cwahli. Following a path laid out in his head, Ahmhuadu darts out and into patches of tall grass towards another nearby tree--only briefly exposing himself as he travels from each concealment. He soon reaches his target tree's roots, which will provide him a better angle lined south-west, and a more predictable wind for his approaching shot. Again taking sight of the birds, he this time sees three of the scavengers circling above. Ahmhuadu scans the heavens around him. The blue sky is mostly clear--white clouds, small and insignificant, wither occasionally with the trees below.

Assuming the bird has taken rest or cover, Ahmhuadu finds himself a sturdy position, preparing his bow and arrow to sight on the Thyoktk above. Patiently Ahmhuadu lies against the mass of roots supporting his arms with the weight of the bow. Patiently he watches the emerald glitter encircle above, feels the light and variable changes within the wind, and prays to Nhllo to guide his will true. The furthest Thyoktk begins its round toward Ahmhuadu. He fully draws the bow -holds his breath- and beads his sight above and right of the bird, accounting for distance, wind, and the creature's movements. As the fine silk begins to slip from under his curled fingertips, Cwahli's voice can be heard in the distance.

(cont)

>>9606918

From the roots opposite of Ahmhuadu's cover, the missing Thyoktk had even more patiently watched Ahmhuadu snake his way to his tree and underneath its roots. Even more patiently than Ahmhuadu's draw did the bird hobble silently to catch his hunter unaware. Too late did Cwahli notice the patient bird ambushing his friend. And too late did he draw the arrow he was crafting for after his friend's return, and fire at the bird. Striking and killing it only after its large, curved beak had gouged deep into Ahmhuadu's unaware throat.

Abandoning his safety, Cwahli charges over to his wounded partner. Clearing the wretched creature's carcass out the way, Cwahli kneels over Ahmhuadu. Blood is spurting from his wound out over his legs. It flows from the gouge and his mouth down along his torso. Cwahli sees more crimson than his friend's ebony skin. He then notices only traces of Nhllo in Ahmhuadu's draining eyes--them staring off into a nearby dream where his shot had bested that of Cwahli's, and where they were returning with great feast in hand and memory to their awaiting tribe.

Angrily Cwahli tears apart the murderous bird beside him, sparing not even it's prized feathers nor meat from his passionate outburst of fruitless vengeance. Once calm again, he returns to his friend and begins a long series of intricate prayers. Using his cloth to bound the still bleeding would, he takes to the previous tree with Ahmhuadu's body. Attentively he grabs his equipment and kill, and begins to leave. Initiating the slow procession home while bearing the weight of his friend and of his kill. As he walks, Cwahli mutters long, heartfelt prayer. The sun lowers patiently into the rippling heat along the horizon beside him.

>>9606918

I think this is a miscue of many writers starting off.

Why doesn't Ahmhuadu shoot the Thyoktk while it *exhibits this behavior*?

"The Thyoktk chose its carcass"

I dunno, man. I applaud your vivid idea of what this particular creature does. But I am just bored reading about what it does. If it's so important to the audience to know what this bird does, show it in the action of being shot by your character.

That's my two cents.

>>9606909
I am now painfully aware that I misunderstood the meaning of feign and meant to say 'banked'. Let's keep that painless, yes?

>"Right on the breast as it banked!"

>>9606918

Here:

"The Thyoktk chose its carcass. It was owned by a killer, but the flock forced it off-

Six birds, maybe seven.

Avarice drives them. Twenty five pounds each and five foot wingtip to wingtip, but fast flyers somehow.

Not fast enough.

Sweat dots Ahmhuadu's scalp. His steps light and careful as he skirts between shadows towards his kill. He kneels low before it, softly speaking a prayer. Finished, he plucks the pearlescent feathers..."

I'm just saying, man, less is more.

>>9606952
The description of the thyoktk sets up a later scene where the tribes shaman betrays Cwahli by falsely accusing him of murdering his fellow hunter. Both are next in line to act as the tribes temporary king, which will then replace the shaman as is customary to the tribe. The information on the thyoktk is to allow the readers to understand this is a strange and unnatural behavior of the bird, making them understand it is impossible for Cwahli to defend himself to his tribe before he is banished to death in the dead city of gods named Bhlakgrat.

>>9606909

Samefag, the dialogue is nice though. Probably the strongest part of the whole piece.

>>9607004
Idk. I see what you're saying, but it feels so static when you write it like that. I'm sure I'm a little long winded, but I don't believe I need to gut half the imagery either. All I ask is to remember that this is an early chapter of a novel. The actions of the characters and how they present themselves, human or animal, are important to note at this early stage. As the story progresses, there will be much less descriptive imagery as such being that the character(s) will be well established.
Either way I will take this into consideration when I edit this again tomorrow. I'm sure I will find plenty of places I can cut some fat.

>>9607010

That is also an interesting plot point, but please understand I have no way of knowing that when I offer my opinion that the behavior of a certain bird (unless said behavior becomes another plot point or motif) is not something I feel is essential to know when reading this story.

>>9606909
>>9606918
>>9606925
Wow that's a long one. Definitely going to need my morning espresso before I tackle this.

>>9606559
Same for this. I'm hoping >>9606662 gave a reasonable enough crit. If they did, I will just note their post again and perhaps try and add something else.

Otherwise I'm gonna need a double shot.

>>9606375
I missed this one.

Is this supposed to be poetry or prose? Are you supposed to be setting a scene? Is this a complete thought?

The imagery is nice but it it doesn't feel like it's done in any way, it's just kind of standing on its own.

>>9607074
It's cool. I'm not pissed or defensive or anything. In fact I was prepared to have to explain some things to explain why it is a certain way. But by no means will I deny any sort of input that is clearly useful. As I even said, I will certainly consider what you said tomorrow when I edit this again. I already see a few areas I can trim fat, along with several grammar and punc errors I missed in my last edit.
Things can get tedious when you have five chapters totaling ~6k words. And I've only just begun.

>>9607099

Well, I think it's very interesting from a conceptual standpoint. Keep writing. Thumbs up.

Still, the river was so beautiful. Her street opened into an intersection of five main roads at the bridge. Uji Bridge. One thousand four hundred years old (said Megumi), for one thousand four hundred years it had spanned this same river, played host to the shogun Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who once had water drawn from the river upon the wooden protruding platform called San no Ma with which to brew tea, recorded and irrevocable in the history of the tea house "Tsu En" on the eastern riverbank across the bridge, the hosting entity that had drawn the water and brewed the tea, and indeed brewed tea in the selfsame piece of land from the year 1160; the upshot being that yearly now for Uji's Tea Festival (the first Sunday of October, falling neatly on October 1st in 2017) water is drawn from San no Ma precisely as had been done in Toyotomi's day and taken in procession to Kosho-ji Temple, also on the eastern riverbank, where with this year's new-picked leaves that have been sealed and prepared singularly for this day tea—is made, viewed, tasted, offered, taken in gratitude for the history that had primed Uji for such wonderful tea, taken in entreaty that today's tea-makers too may fall in line with their predecessors and put their children beneath the spotlights of the world for generations to come. One bridge, one river, the embodiment of a city's history.

"... and they lived happily ever after." June sighed while closing the book. Looking over at her son she couldn't help but feel pity, for the boy had been having night terrors for months on end and nothing seemed to help. Lying there eyes wide open with the nightlight radiating a warm glow around the room, the boy silently waited for the inevitable moment he would be transported into that world he hadn't dared speak a word of. June, exhausted and worried, tucked him in and gave a goodnight kiss for extra luck. A small thud followed by few barely discernible footsteps and then, nothing.
Wall clock kept ticking, giving the boy a notion that time was passing but ever so slightly. Focusing on the second hand of the clock, the boy could make the sound of gears turning inside of it, the slight snap before it ticks and the echo when the hand sets in place. Sounds of time passing were soon accompanied by unintelligible whispering and scratching. The boy refusing to close his eyes started to repeat a simple but comforting mantra he had taught himself "One, two, three, four" over and over, but the whispers grew closer and he could start to hear what they said. Still they made no sense, but were loud enough to drown out his own voice. His eyes began to turn misty while he fought for control of his body and finger by finger he started to become paralyzed, unable to move a muscle. Biting his teeth together and not willing to close his eyes, the whispers suddenly stopped. The boy still unable to move let out a sigh of relief, which was cut midway for he felt a warm blow in his ear and a voice he instantly recognized whispered "You're a strong boy, my brave warrior." His will shattered, he gave in to the comforting voice and closed his eyes, forcing the built up tears to trickle down the cheeks.


It's sand. The boy feels it shift under him as he stands up to take a better look at his surroundings. Nothing, only pitch-blackness greets his eyes. In an attempt to cast away the thought of being blind the boy rubs his eyes and just barely sees the outlines of his hands. Noticing an eerie silence alongside the darkness; no wind, rustling, or any other sign of life, he snaps his fingers to make sure the ears work.

> I was thinking of changing the writing from past tense to preset when the boy suddenly wakes up in the other world. Is it viable or should I scrap it?

>>9607238
>One thousand four hundred years old (said Megumi), for one thousand four hundred years it had spanned this same river, played host to the shogun Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who once had water drawn from the river upon the wooden protruding platform called San no Ma with which to brew tea, recorded and irrevocable in the history of the tea house "Tsu En" on the eastern riverbank across the bridge, the hosting entity that had drawn the water and brewed the tea, and indeed brewed tea in the selfsame piece of land from the year 1160; the upshot being that yearly now for Uji's Tea Festival (the first Sunday of October, falling neatly on October 1st in 2017) water is drawn from San no Ma precisely as had been done in Toyotomi's day and taken in procession to Kosho-ji Temple, also on the eastern riverbank, where with this year's new-picked leaves that have been sealed and prepared singularly for this day tea—is made, viewed, tasted, offered, taken in gratitude for the history that had primed Uji for such wonderful tea, taken in entreaty that today's tea-makers too may fall in line with their predecessors and put their children beneath the spotlights of the world for generations to come.

I mean, it's overall not bad. I like the information. But that is one overly convoluted sentence you have and which I quoted. That whole text should not be five sentences long, there are many points you'd benefit from a period instead of the commas, semicolon, and dashes you've used to muddle the thought within the 'sentence'.

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>>9599443
a continuation of >>9602264

i know im getting greedy with this thread and i apologize :3

the only reason im posting again is cause this is my firsy voyeur into any stream of consciousness writing, with the inner monologue of the father.

I'd mainly like feedback on that section, but on the whole thing would be appreciated as well

>>9607262
Prose is decent, but I would suggest you give it a read-through later on and cut out everything that you feel is repetitive (eg "became paralysed, unable to move a muscle"), because they pad out the action and stop you from achieving razorlike description.

I think you're missing something at the "You're a strong boy, my brave warrior" part. Why is this enough to move the boy to tears? There's evidently some history there, but because we don't know it, we can't feel the boy's emotion, so the scene comes off as emotionally rather bland.

The shift to present tense is okay. But if you were hoping to create some sort of impact with the switch, "It's sand" lacks impact and isn't the best sentence to use.

>>9607303
Thanks for the critique. I was trying to go for a Faulknerian long sentence; possibly it was still rather clumsy if you found it muddled.

Even in the dark he could meet the neck of the bottle with the lip of the glass. He didn’t know much of his father, but his mother always said they had that in common. She rarely spoke of the man who died of the bottle and left her to raise David and his brother, but he believed she loved the man long ago much like she now loved David – tolerably, but absolutely. Thinking of his father terrified David. It had been long since he believed he might meet his end in any way other than that of his father. He shuddered. He poured another drink in the dark. He waited on dawn or death.
Dawn came.
Soon, David would retire to his bedroom before the warm sun stretched across the sky and the house became unbearably hot. Familiar sounds penetrated his solace as his mother began to stir in the house built by his father and uncle – also dead of the bottle – two decades earlier. David wondered if his mother was happy in those times. She moved in that old, creaky house with the sure-footedness of a soldier and the light-footedness of a dancer. The smell of coffee began to inhabit the morning air. A near-daily ritual, David’s mother would prepare them both coffee and meet him out on the porch to drink it together, offering him a chance at another day. Often, they sat in silence. David supposed his mother knew it was his birthday, but he could not bring himself to meet her warm eyes and afford her the opportunity to speak with him.
She was inside again now, dutifully tidying the house of the boys’ carelessness. As she was preparing breakfast, David’s brother began to stir. Jacob was nine years his senior, the man of the house since David could remember. He felt obliged, maybe to his mother, to care for David, but he did not love him. His mother had witnessed the degeneration of their relationship over the years but she refused to allow herself to realise that the two were anything but brothers, in every sense of the word. The sun was high up in the sky now; David’s eyes began to tear.

>>9607348
This doesn't seem to be finished yet. I like the rush of the father's internal thoughts, but it's needlessly broken by the capitalizations and odd lack of punctuation. Something feels odd about reading a piece done in that style.

[1/2]

it was just me and Daddy in our little trailer by the sticks and the piles of broken ceramic tiles and the big empty shape of the old glass factory.

i always kept the trailer dark for Daddy.

the light was very hard on him.

we had steel shutters over the windows and rubber along the edge of the doors so they sucked and slithered when they opened and let the dark become very heavy and quiet.

during the days that Daddy wanted to himself in his room i could do what i wanted so long as it made no noise. so i watched the old digital clock and made a game from the shapes of the numbers. what they were reversed. how many they added up to.

when Daddy felt up to sitting with me outside of his room we’d sit in the dark and see only the little blue lights in the dvd player we never used and he’d breathe very quietly and stay very still.

and on days when neither of those things occurred we received visits from strange men who put their foreheads to Daddy’s door and whispered to him.

and i would shut the door when they left and cover the clock and dvd player and everything that made even the slightest bit of light and sit on my knees with the shag carpeting tickling my feet and wait for the slithering sucking hiss of Daddy’s door.

and he’d come there with me on his hands and knees like a dog and i couldn’t see him but for the faintest sense that he was there breathing quietly, getting ready to say:
i have company tonight.
stay outside until it is quiet and still.
look at the stars and the moon instead.

and i said:
yes Daddy.

and he said nothing and we stayed like that for a long time until he shuffled to his room still on his hands and knees and shut the door behind him.

when it was nighttime the strange men came walking in a row and there were three of them now. they opened the door and even the night was blinding to me.

the man in the center of their row watched me blinking and smiled and said thank you but i did not know why.

so i left and sat in the dry fading heat of the night and saw our little trailer become a patch of emptiness, a silhouette against the face of the dark.

[2/2]

but i did not look longer than that because i remembered Daddy’s words and i stared up at the icy pinpricks of starlight that spangled the sky.

and felt small.

so instead i looked to the fingernail sized sliver of silvery moon left in the sky and wished i could go there and wished i could make a special suit for Daddy so he could go too and so the light wouldn’t hurt him anymore.

and i did not listen to the soft music being played or the muffled voices that rose and fell like an ecstatic tide. i kept my eyes up to the sky and sat still on my knees and shifted sand with my toes.

after some time the strange men came and there were two of them now and they were smiling and shivering even under the coats they wore.

they came to me and each kissed my hand and told me thank you but i still did not know why. and when they were gone and my neck and shoulders ached from staring up and the chill of the night made my fingers go numb i stepped quietly back to the trailer and shut the door behind me and locked it.

and i could hear nothing more than the hum of blood in my ears.

and i could smell a heavy thick coppery scent.

and i knew what it was but asked no questions. mine is not the place.

when i went to my room i heard, after a while, the sucking slithering hiss of Daddy’s door and heard the shuffling noise of his progress across the shag carpet and the resting of his forehead against my door.

he said:
you did good.

i said:
thank you Daddy.

and he stayed there and was silent but for the quiet slow rhythm of his breathing.

i said:
good night Daddy.

good night. he said. then was gone.

>>9607514
Thanks for the critique.
I'll try clarifying a few things and I hope they make sense.

>"You're a strong boy, my brave warrior"
This is supposed to be Junes voice which the whispering entity mimics. The boy had been through this before so I thought he might've built tolerance over the month. The voice didn't move him to tears, it was from the fight to keep control of his body.

The reason I thought to change the tense was because it was happening in his mind. Things processing more quickly and whatnot.

>"It's sand"
Thought to open the switch with that because this had been happening for a month, so that nonchalant way of describing it at the beginning kinda works with that in mind I think.

Is it too convoluted or chaotic? I was thinking of not telling everything outright and letting them be sort of "open to interpretation", but I can scrap that if it's a detriment to the story.

>>9607592
If the voice is suppose to mimic June, then
1. You should have June say it early on in the passage, so that the reader will recognise it as June's
2. You should make it clear that the boy gives up the will to fight because he thinks it is June (eg. "A familiar voice. He could let go.")
3. You should make it clear, maybe as early as immediately after he gives up the will to fight, that the voice isn't June's but the whispering entity's. Maybe the boy can realise it and that is why tears come out - tears of regret that he submitted, or something.
^Point 3 there carries more of my personal interpretation (that the tears are tears of regret). It's just there to make my point, so by all means don't take it as an imperative for how you should right.

>Sand
Then there's no problem here.

>Is it too chaotic?
The main issue to me seems to be that you describe the events but you don't explain in full the significances of the events to the reader, so that while you may understand them clearly and feel the emotion you intend the reader to feel, the reader, for not knowing those significances, does not feel much.

>>9607569
>>9607573
This is good. Clever use of deliberately innocent child's voice. You conceal enough that I'm left wondering: what happens in the trailer? Why is the father on all fours like a dog? Where did the third man go? What coppery smell? and so on. Do you have more?

>icy pinpricks of starlight that spangled the sky
Deliberate reference to America?

>>9606662
Thanks for the Critque, anon. If I should work on it the next time I get, I'll do my best to tone it down to an appropriate level.

>>9607082
Eh >>9606662 is enough good for me, but I can always use new critiques if you want.

Anthony put a hand over his heart and breathed. His lungs felt tight, like his chest was compressed, and the air left him panting.

Helen looked concerned. 'You alright, Anth?'

He shut his eyes and focused on breathing.

She poured him a glass of water. 'Uh, Richie?'

'Hm?' Richard was engrossed in his iPad.

'Your son is in pain.' She laughed in disbelief. 'Pay attention to him!'

'Oh?' He glanced up at Anthony. 'What's up?'

Anthony yawned, long and deep. Tears swelled in the corners of his eyes. 'Can't breathe properly, chest hurts.'

'Yeah? Why's that?'

'I copped an elbow to the ribs at footy.'

Richard returned to his screen and said nothing.

Helen poured a glass of wine and leaned on the counter, head in hand. She let out a long sigh. 'For god's sake, Richard.'

'What?’ Richard let go of the iPad and it smacked down on the marble. ‘What? What do you want?' He looked between them. ‘Well?’ His eyes fixed on Anthony, who sat in a chair in the corner of the room. The bar stool Richard sat on fell to the floor as he stormed over to his son and told him to stand up.

Anthony obliged.

Richard looked down at him. 'You smoke?'

Anthony tried to suppress his breathing and shook his head.

'You sure, boy? Your face is all red. You ashamed of something?'

Tears streamed down Anthony's cheeks. 'No, dad.'

Richard raised his hands. ‘Liar.’

Helen shrieked. ‘No!’

Anthony choked.

>>9607669

I actually read this because of how you spaced it and I'm lazy. Its pretty basic and you shouldn't space it like that, but otherwise its alright.

>Helen shrieked. ‘No!’

Anthony choked.

You should elaborate here. Its not clear what's going on, if you intended that all good but still its a flaw to me. I can't tell if he's being choked or if he's choking from the asthma he clearly has, and you did a good job of showing that without outwardly saying it, I might add.

It reminds me of another story, where a man asks another the same question: 'you ashamed of something?'
And the other man responded yes, he was. He was only ashamed that he had so many failings in his life that he had tried to correct, but he was even moreso ashamed that the people he held in high esteem, some of them his own family, were nothing more than morally bankrupt aristocratic opportunists.

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Should have posted this here first

Very short part of my book, how's it seem to you, non fiction

>>9604811
Thanks man. Apprieciate this

>>9604788
My bad with the errors. And i appreciate the help

>>9600643
Pretty cool.

>>9605981
The last line is by far my favourite. It just wraps it up nicely. Very dark and very cold.

>>9607786

Thanks. It's written like that at the moment because I'm just in the process of laying out the bare bones of the story. When the first draft is complete it will be fleshed out.

I like that story - more relevant to mine than you know. Thanks again!

QUESTION TO ALL

>>9606375
What are these literary devices called used to describe things in an almost metaphorical way (see below)

>all the marriages of depleted bottles to cratered drywall

> patchworks of children

>wormy plumage and crooked tiara

>>9608273
>>9608273
It's just being imaginative. I honestly believe they're just metaphors. That's the device.
----
Espresso is kicking in. Gonna knock off a few more pages of Steppenwolf then I'll burn through a few of these more recent posts.

>>9607095
I think the point is to paint an atmospheric picture which could then be followed by a story line. It's pretty fucking epic desu..

>>9606375
You really didn't need to post this here. If you wanted affirmation, well you've gotten it. This is good, you know what you're doing.

>>9606909
I agree with both what >>9607004 said and what you said here >>9607028. You've got to find a middle ground because right now it's a clear image and fairly well formed, but there are areas were you are overly verbose. The first place I found you could do this is:
>When the prayer is finished he reaches for the wings and tail to pluck the largest flight bearing feathers still remaining intact after falling.
You can make that:
>When finished he plucks the largest, intact flight bearing feathers from the wing and tail.
I really don't think you need to point out that the fall damaged the feathers. The way I reworded it still implies some are damaged with fairly less words. Give your readers a chance.

There are more than few instances where you can 'trim fat' as you say, as well as you have some typos and minor grammar and punc errors. Glad you pointed out your mistake with feign, yes, bank is the word you intended. Maneuvers would work also. Overall not bad though. You probably should have said this >>9607010 as a precursor to your post so we would have an idea what this was building towards. Heading that bit of information made the description of the bird a little more bearable. I'm sure people who enjoy fantasy worlds will appreciate the effort. It's not bad though. I fairly enjoyed the dialog and last two paragraphs. Would read on if it stayed on track and was tightened more.

>>9607519
Ah. I mean, I'm sure if I really took my time and slowed my roll to keep the flow that the sentence would be cohesive. May just be a stylistic preference on my end. But me as a reader don't want to jump back to the start of the sentence when I keep realizing that it goes on and on. At the very least I'd say change the semicolon to a period. Even just one full break in there will help, tough I personally would add a couple breaks in there.
As I said, it is interesting. Keep on going.

>>9607262
>Wall clock kept ticking...
There's not really a stylistic reason to omit 'the' before wall clock
>His eyes began to turn misty while he fought for control of his body and finger by finger he started to become paralyzed, unable to move a muscle.
Change while to as and change 'and' to while. It flows and forms the the image better. 'Began to turn' and 'Starting to become' are repetitions; just remove began to turn and make 'starting to become', 'became'. It reads much better as:
>His eyes turn misty as he fought for control of his body while finger by finger he became paralyzed, unable to move a muscle.
or, removing all redundancies:
>His pupils slowly evaporating as he fought for control of his body, while finger by finger, limb by limb he became paralyzed.
But at least take note of the first edit.
>The boy still unable to move let out a sigh of relief, which was cut midway for he felt a warm blow in his ear...
Change for to when or else add an additional comma after midway.

Not bad overall. Just minor edits required as I've pointed out--there are still others as well. But it's interesting and fairly well written. I'd keep reading. Also, you said you're thinking about making the last graph present tense, but it is present. If you are asking if it's a good touch, I think it is and you should roll with it.

>>9607659
If you're happy with the other crit, then I'm going to leave it. This stuff is time consuming and I don't have all day--not that I don't want to help.

>>9608465
Auto-correct is a P.O.S.
In the second edit of the sleep paralysis line, I meant to say 'evaporate' not evaporating
>His pupils slowly evaporate as he fought for control of his body, while finger by finger, limb by limb he became paralyzed.

https://theprose.com/post/164823/a-parisian-bookshop Could someone do mine and I'll do theirs? Mine is 1000 words.

File: hahaha.png (55KB, 1506x304px) Image search: [Google]

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Read the opening sentences of my short story to feel better about your own writing.

>>9608665
Remove the comma after blossom tree. Also, optionally, specify what type of blossom tree (cherry fits well, if not cliche; this image is already fairly cliche though). You don't need an before ice-cream unless it's a type of ice cream ('she had a strawberry ice-cream' or 'she had an ice-cream cone'). Add with before petals falling and remove the comma after face; or add were after petals and replace the comma with as.
Otherwise it's a fine and clear image.

>>9607800
Well shit I'm heading to bed
Just pointing out my post, hopefully someone bothers with it
Good night /lit/

>1/2
The conveyor belt whizzed by me. Armaments, dolls, little round shells, bolts. It whirled all past me on the carapaces of the whirring black snake.
“Egg,” the boss-man called at me, albeit my name was actually Egon. “Work harder, Egg. You move like a robot, Egg.”
“Yes,” I said, quite absently.
“That’s better, Egg. That’s much, much better.”
I barely noticed myself nodding. As my hands folded round a smooth metallic thing, I wondered whether I was truly there at all. My body moved on its own volition. My feet shuffled to and fro. My hands assembled things quickly, without any thought whatsoever. No synapses were jolting. I was simply a husk. Husky, that’s what you can call me. The way I moved, or rather, the way I didn’t move – it wasn’t like normal muscle memory. I don’t know; I didn’t know; I wouldn’t know; I shouldn’t know. What was happening? I dunno.
Before the whistle blew, my eyes opened and I saw the bodies round me. Slinking little shadows. Co-workers, coughing occasionally, seemed relatively lifeless. The whistle blew. It sounded like the bullet train going past, all high-pitched, industrial and cold. Heads rose suddenly. The eyes were hidden under the greenish felt hats they wore.
“Milch,” one said hopefully, red-faced, as they detached their hat from the crown of their head, and then used it as a fan.
No one answered. Assembling themselves – as if they were stuck on a conveyer belt – into a single line, they waited quietly. The line of bodies began, as I knew it would, at the factory’s huge, embroidered doorway. I lined myself behind a tall fellow. I couldn’t see much from behind him. My head felt foggy. I shook it. Maybe there was a spider in my head, I thought, spinning cobwebs.
From the peripherals, I noticed the red-faced one move away from the line. He must have been behind the tall fellow. Others looked up at them, surprised too, but lost interest quickly. Red-face threw up the green hat, with a wrist-flick, trying to cool their sweating face. Curiously, they walked off. For a while, I don’t know where they went. I just focused on the line, and getting to the end of it. I’d gotten about four workers deep when I finally saw the Arm above the tall fellow’s head. It swivelled on a sort of sphere coming out of the wall, making little sound as it moved about. Like a circus act where an animal balances on a ball, the Arm dazzled us. We couldn’t keep our eyes off it, somehow. Just above the sphere, big letters spelled out: “BH54”
The tall fellow walked forward when it was his turn. He bowed his head in deep reverence, taking off his green cap, then held down his collar with sooty hands. The little slit on his neck showed, gleaming almost. Arcing up, the Arm dipped down quickly and entered the slit. I even heard the stuff inject. And it was all over. Just like that. The tall fellow walked off, fixing his collar and replacing his felt hat.

>2/2
Before I could walk forward I heard a commotion by the Arm that no one ever used. It was different in every way, apart from basic design. A robotic limb extended from a ball on the wall, which was placed under letters spelling “MILCH”. It was solid gold, with a pleasant embroidered finish, where our Arm was black, ugly and plain. Rubbing my eyes, I saw the commotion unfold.
“No Milch for you. You’ve got debts to pay.” The boss-man said, and pulled red-face away by their cleaner-than-most uniform.
“More work?” Red-face gasped, fanning with his hat even faster.
“Milchschuld. You’ve got Milchschuld.”
A group of coppers stumbled in eventually. Beat red-face over the head with their plastic sticks until he stopped fanning himself. With a wrist-flick, one copper picked up the green felt hat, and wore it over his black helmet as a joke. He said something like “Gimme milch,” in a funny voice. The others laughed as they all left an even redder red-face by the doorway.

“Egg, get a move on. Nothing to look at. You’re holding up the line.”
Red-face whimpered in the corner. His uniform was dirtied, covered in tears, blood and spittle. For a moment, I stared at him. The boss-man’s order – no, I mean, suggestion – went unnoticed to me. As though I didn’t hear it. The poor fellow in the corner tried to get up, tripping over his own fluids. A part of me tried to go help him. It’s quickly repressed, however, when the boss-man squeezes my arm tightly.
“Egg,” he said, with some quaver in his words. “Get a move on. Mush!”

Nods. Nods. Yessir. I walked up, then knelt for the Arm. Looking to one side, I saw the boss-man standing on the factory floor, ogling me. His arms folded, his mouth pursed bitterly, his pale eyes piercing. One hand laid on my left leg, bended over as I knelt, while the other pulled away my felt hat. My longish, flaxen hair fell well past my shoulders. So, I collected it as a bun and pulled it to one side. My silvery hole then revealed, the Arm erected with a loud retch, and swivelled into place. Diving with absolute precision into me, the Arm always does, it entered me. It’s only a slight push onto my neck, I barely felt anything. There’s an escape of air, or something, then the Arm whirled its syringe-end round. Glug. Glug. Then the filthy bog water went into me.
Immediately, I went drowsy. The spider in my head spun some more. Arachne weaving. It built a big web from behind my eyes, because I could then only see a small select of snippets of the world. Looking through the gaps of the spider-web, I rose with difficulty, stumbling to the doorway.

I can still hear those coppers laughing outside the doorway.

>>9609028
I'll probably get around to it sooner or later. It's just easier when it's not an image and actually typed out in a post. That way I can copy, edit, and read it all much clearer and easier.

>>9609038
I've gotta work in twenty min and this is just a bit long to read and crit in that time. If I'm not too tired tonight I'll get to it. Or else there's a good chance I will tomorrow morning (~20 hours from now).

>>9609101
Thanks, you're doing God's work responding to everyone. Take your time, though, no stress.

ladyslipper

Fuck around on the weekend. Ask myself:

Am I the weak end of our link?

Spring breaks and the lady's slippers,

pink and fragile, are lined up outside.

But you're still inside, waiting for rain

and a little something extra;

To help with the pain.

The burning sensation made him think of a film he saw once in college. What an occasion that night had been. It had been raining, pouring really— no, it was storming. He remembered right that time. Yes, it had been storming, so hard in fact that the windowpanes howled and rattled like they might get torn right off. He remembered what he had been thinking then— what a strange kid he was back then— he’d wondered, if the windows get ripped off of the dorm room during such a storm, will everything get sucked out, like in an airplane? Of course they wouldn’t really have been sucked out like in an airplane with a popped window, but what a time that all was. Maybe he really would have gotten sucked out of the room into the night way back then, and then all this could have been averted. He thought of the cliffs behind the house. So, so much could have been averted, had only that damn storm ripped off that rattling window and taken him right then and there.
Of course Hogan had been there. What kind of a name was Hogan anyway? Though, to be fair on the guy’s parents, who were probably dead by now (they were really old as he’d seen on dorm move in day,) he lived up to his name in a strange way. The slob couldn’t be bothered to keep his half of the room tidy in the slightest. Not even the slightest. Socks. An old yellowed jockstrap. All that sort of thing was just out on the floor. Of course, somehow he had the audacity to keep it on his side in a perfect line. It was as if every time he freed his sweaty blob-like feet and flung a yellowed sock on the floor, he had in mind some invisible line that had been drawn, so as not to disturb his roommate who was clearly just an anal son of a bitch for not wanting reeking clothes all over the dorm room, especially when he was expected to study in there. Study literature, no less. It was really very hard to make it through a book with any real thickness to it when Hogan was flinging his dirty socks and jockstrap turned yellow with the sweat made when sweaty balls rub on sweatier thighs. God, what a situation that whole situation had been. Nevermind that dumb little video game Hogan liked to play late into the night. He claimed to have the courtesy to turn down the volume on the television, but that didn’t matter, because he kept clicking away at the buttons on that rectangle of a toy.

Finally the doors. Two giant solid chunks of polished elm. Four metres tall, three metres wide. A true portal to the Gods. To the God. Engraved with black pearl and microsopic droplets of gold: Mr Wildside.
Nock. Enter. A ray of blinding light smothers the eyes, a pugnant stench of sulfer rapes the nostrils causing tears to stream down the cheek.
"MY FAVOURITE NEGRO!!" STEP INSIDE STEP IN SIDE!!" A thunderous roar issues, and you can do nothing but comply.
"Now look at this. Of course the first thing that comes to your mind when you see such a MARVELOUS example of fine suaave milky honey coated PIECE OFF ASS. Is FUCK YESS. I would fuck her! Would you fuck her?. You would fuck her. But you see, deep inside, there lies rooted in the very core of our underbrain. Righ there, understand?. A moral dilema. You see morality; as it is known and defined by the great thinkers of our time, doesn't really comply with the desire to put our junk in a sliver of meat. Never mind where it came from. We ARE instinctive animals. I believe this. And i do know what you're thinking now, that's no excuse to go against the principles of Neo-sexuality, desires are to be errased. Desires that go beyond the throughtless acts of adiction of course and rest in, may a dare say, principles of choice. I know i know, i suprise my self these days... But hell, does power not give one a God-like quality sometimes. When
you have in your hands my fine negro, the oportunity to pick a chose which way the weel of fortune should spin, you forget the fact that morality isn't something that can be escaped. Mortal men and Gods. We are only truly slaves to our morality, even a morality that we ourselves have constructed with our bare minds. But here lies the dilema; you have two options to hold in though. Casting aside the guilt THAT EATS AWAY, at the construct of what makes a man whole and strong and solid specimen of a God molded superhuman... Now or, put away the desire... Like that, and say "boy, you have several beautiful wifes. Which you can fuck at any time. Any given moment, no questions asked. If you get bored of them, you can just go down to the black houses and have a goddam orgy!", forgive my blasphemy, or look, these days if you are feeling particulary inventive have a clone made, and fuck yourself between the butt-tocks! THE MARVELS OF MODERN BIOTECHNOLOGY. But damm... And you notice the tear of regret that slides out of my eyeball like that?. What can one do against something stronger than man itself. Something that moves a man to commit such acts of anti-moral deeds! I mean look at this my fine negro! Look at this! Is it undeniably one marvelous example of a first class top of the mark -i could just lie my head on these two all day my negro i tell you- GODDAM.PIECE OF ASS. GAWD. DAAMM!!"

>>9611456
Mr Wildside is of course talking about his seventeen year old daughter, reached the age of legal consumtion just about three months ago, no less. Now to backtrack a little bit, there are two deviding categories that seperate the current society into two segments: The Creators and The Consumers. One can't exist without the other. Up until very receantly the Consumers had the option of Choice, of freethough which the human race deemed to be held at a incledibly high valiew. This gave birth to a paradox. The Creators although claiming otherwise where in fact slaves to the Consumers, in the sense that to a certain point everything had to be held to a standard which we call Adequate Consumtion. This meaning that, although the term was incredibly vague, the Creators had to come up with a product that would reach the satisfactory demands of the Consumer. And despite the great lengths at which they went to make the consumer eat dog shit like it was fine caviar, they found themselves against a barrier that was the fundation and also the bane of modern Capitol: Desire.
In the present day, the majority of people are keeped at stupidity levels where they can barely count to three. Useful assets (Canon Foder) are educated to excel in very specific areas. The rare individual who by chance, or genetics, are capable or reaching beyond the realms of the purpose that is designed for them i.e they are vocal with matters they consider to be unjust, illogical, inhuman (This rarely happens. The philosophy surrounding Capitol thought is crafted in a way that is too complicated, contradictory and daunting for the average man to understand or to aproach. Hell even White men rarely attempt to make sense of it these days. And those capable of pulling it apart prefer to keep quiet, to avoid almost definite humiliation) are taken away to Retard Centers where they are lobotomised and either spend the rest of their lives rotting in corners with dounce hats on the heads, or are in most cases taken to underground laboratories where they are experimented on in areas such as biochemikal research, pain psychology, sadistic philosophy etc etc.


If you made it this far...Introduction to my character Mr Wildside + some pseud wank. Is it too direct?

Bumpio

>>9609038

Clearly this is part of something larger. That's okay, I think you did a good job of making the reader want to find out what's going on in this world/society. Also thought it was a good moment for Egon to connect the conveyor belt he (?) works on with the one he finds himself standing in.

I would question some of your choices. For instance, I do not like

"It whirled all past me on the carapaces of the whirring black snake"

I would suggest "scales" over "carapaces", and perhaps eliminate "whirring". You have already described how the belt is in motion.

There are two times where you use the word "embroidered" for instance, but I would caution you that embroidery almost exclusively refers to patterning on fabric or cloth. So I would not use that word when referring to metal or stone in the case of a doorway or a metallic arm.

The action in the second part is a little confusing, and some of that confusion is because some of the details and wrinkles point one way while the action is pointing to itself. It makes everything happening muddy.

Overall, a lot of work needed, but at least a start.
Needs a lot of work overall

>>9610815

My biggest complaint is the semicolon at the end of line 6. Just totally unnecessary. Remove and make the next t lowercase.

"fragile" is just a word that I don't think works at all in its position. It doesn't contribute enough to justify its usage in a piece that's this short. I think "ask myself" falls under this as well.

How much do you lose between:

"Fuck around on the weekend. Ask myself:

Am I the weak end of our link?"

And

"Fuck around on the weekend,

am I the weak end of our link?"

>>9611458

I wouldn't say 'too direct' as too disjointed.

None of these parts seem to have anything to do with each other at all. I could perhaps understand that they connect in some kind of loose, thematic way but this is way too loose for me to derive anything significant, especially when it seems your characters are driving at some intellectual themes.

It would be ok if the characters themselves were engaging in a kind of longwinded psychobabble word salad thing, as is maybe happening in the second post.

It just feels like a mushy blowout in this incarnation, if there are more than one or two characters, I can't tell because of the way everything is is just chucked at the wall.

If the degradation of the quality/grammatical/etc. content of the piece is purpseful, it's not made clear enough to be effective and is just irritating.

If this is your own first look at this character, I would suggest you go back to your original point of inspiration for such a character and do a lot of condensing from this piece to cut away and separate what make the character you're introducing from the concepts I guess you or he is trying to express.

A dew window caked with glass put him in the spotlight. Down and under. Outside; cars full of responsibility and life. People, melting into puddles of colors of black and brown. The friezes of banks and courts had cast a spell of importance and order on the subjects of the buildings. And columns, those echoes from rome, spiraled about steps and rails, concrete trails, and the stations. All this from a window of time. And in the center of the square, with a shadow so clear, was the flag of those stars and stripes. Bending boughs had conducted the horns of cars through town, playing their anthems for America.
I pledge allegiance. . .
Elizabeth turned her head to the sound of his heels and made haste his way.
--Good morning, Mr. Arlington, and what a good morning!
Smiling he came to her shoulder and locked an arm, with a hint of chivalry and seamless work.
--A fine one. And a fine lady; what they call a good egg. Look at yourself, Elizabeth, and tell me your name is not that of the Queen of Spices? How royal and regal.
She dropped her jaw in dote and pursed her lips in retreat of words, laughing in feminine harmony with spoons. The two walked the lighted velvet carpet to twist and turn down flights of stairs. Ciarette smoke fogged and sank low to the floorboards around them. Arlington’s fingers wandered into his pocket to raise a cigar to the billows of smoke. He spoke:
--And where’s Elijah, the plump coon of cans, eh? Around 43rd street? Cumberland said he’d be back a couple days ago. A gold brick a dozen, that one. Bright young man, truly orthodox and lathered in wealth.

I am being compressed in this room. Hundreds of voices echo into my ears after bouncing off of the blank canvas these walls are, only to create a color in my mind. Windows place a beam of sunlight upon my face, highlighting the dust that is likely a formation of everyone’s dead skin.
I would not doubt that everybody in this room is dying. Here the faces rip mandibles with smiles and the greetings are recordings.
Situated upon Rufter’s Avenue, Locken’s Memorial Hospital is a grey palace for the ill. The town’s lively culture never seems to spill into this hospital, but hundreds of patients surely do every single day. The front desk will be faced with an array of customers: A broken arm? Check.
But hope?
Four confetti-poppers strike fly my way, and, walking past the balloons, I am welcomed to an assorted bunch of children who couldn’t care less about where they are.
Mrs. Fort came wobbling around the corner with a tray of cupcake, and the kids rose at once.
“You can only have one. This ones--”
She paused to take largest cupcake out of the plastic basket and with a large inhale approached me. “For the birthday man!”
I am nineteen years past having birthdays.
Lucas snickers in the corner and I flip him off. Mrs. Fort’s particular embonpoint moved my way to obscure my view once more. I went for the cupcake (which had already been licked, it would appear, by a kid or an animal). My family came into the room, followed by some friends of our household. I believe I am at a point in age where family seems like a loose concept. To be locked in what is essentially an adult daycare all day strips humanity from me. I can hear my mom’s voice, but I can’t feel it like I used to. Clyde came barreling towards me, and setting down my cupcake, I scooped him up with an arm and slung him over my shoulder. I walked around the room some while asking menial questions that every relative asks to seem like they’re busy:
“How’s second grade?”
“Good.”
“What are you learnin’”?
“Nothing.”

>>9614187

Acceptably weird. Usually I'm a little turned off by the kind of quirky-nonsensical dialogue because it feels gimmicky. This I'm okay with what you have, but I wouldn't overuse it if I were you because unless it's done really well it becomes tiresome really quickly.

If I'm supposed to have no idea where I'm going then you've done well. I kind of get the sense that that's the point. Like a weirdo, Monty Python vein direction. Not bad.

>>9614196

Do like how I get to know the speaker right away. Done well and quickly and interestingly.

However I find myself distracted by some of the lines right at the beginning like

"Hundreds of voices echo into my ears after bouncing off of the blank canvas these walls are, only to create a color in my mind."

Which is just super awkward and not well put together:

"A hundred voices bounce in color off the blank canvas of the walls"

maybe or something else that can make that same image without reading so clumsily.

I have never before encountered the word "embonpoint" so thank you for that, it is a very nice word that I will use in the future.

I don't think you need parentheses where you used them. I would have chosen to end the sentence at "cupcake", started a new sentence with "It had already..." and gone that way.

Other than that, I was good on this piece and hope you keep developing it.

>>9614597
I'm >>9614187

I appreciate the words. I can agree that it cannot keep going like that. How awkward do you think a shift in description and/or tone would be?

Multiple narratives, maybe I can use that to my advantage. Anyways, like a true scots, tell me which ones yours and I'll drop a skosh of old man advice.

File: blone3.png (634KB, 2550x3300px) Image search: [Google]

634KB, 2550x3300px

Angel Duster’s were colloquially named. As a common contemporary weapons tech, they demonstrated the fact that space combat was guided only by budget, and that nothing went faster than C. Power was exerted by leaving the material and coming back at around 0.999% of C. Then throwing something. Such as a pattern of AM pellets or just rocks. The Rock and Roll boosted they could Angel Dust a solar system, at a five nine standard, at least in their simulations.

>>9614624

Well, I suppose that depends on your goal for the characters and what kind of wants they have.

And of course tone. You might have the silly dialogue stand out against the serious political stuff that might be building from that first paragraph, as if a child is reacting to it. You can go satirical that way, or have it stand in juxtaposition if you want a darker tone.

Alright, I have something new and not finished yet, so I'd like advice on that.

"Fugitive"

So he went, in
brief explorations of carparks,
ejecting an empty at
the top of each K turn.

Old songs he remembered
some of, and wiped his lip
when he forgot the words,
till he wished he lived in London.

Not as himself, of course,
as the single man he would not
be again, unless Sandra died
or left or something.

See? he'd like to tell her
if your self is just a
story without a passenger
or a blinking camera

in the mouth of a drunken
bird you suspect is following
then it's easy enough to
dispose of when needed.

But the how can you say you live
in the best of all possible worlds
when you have to go to
work in the morning?

>>9600486
>so-called patrician of athens
>uses roman numerals

>>9614701

I actually enjoyed the basics of this a lot so I have to quibble.

No need for an apostrophe in "Duster's". Unless something belongs to said Duster. I would get rid of "Such as" in "Such as a pattern..."

Anyway, good fun.

>>9614701
Angel Dusters were colloquially named. As common contemporary weapons technology, they demonstrated the fact that space combat was guided only by budget. And that nothing went faster than C. Power was exerted by leaving the material, coming back at point-nine-nine-nine percent of C; then throwing something--such as a pattern of AM pellets, or even just rocks. Rock and Roll boosted, they could Angel Dust a solar system--at a five-nine standard--in their simulations.

To be honest I'm not 100% on how well I understood what you meant by some if the terminology. But I believe I've made this significantly better for you. Pretty interesting though. If you went more in depth as this progresses, I'd read it.

>>9614739
Thanks, nice catch.

>>9614823
I see your hyphens/written out numbers, my question for you is: would you read a whole story that writes almost all numbers with actual numbers?

I made it a theme, with internal rules, so the rest looks like this selection.

>>9611243
pls respond

>>9614834
I suppose -I- would. I don't know about others. If the piece is heavy with numbers that are large it's understandable, and wouldn't personally bother me. But as far as internal reading goes, when I see .999 my first instinct is to read it as 'point nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine'. So spelling out decimals 'point-nine-nine-nine' may be more helpful to the flow of your prose, whether you believe it or not. You must consider how the reader will internalize a number when read, and understand how that will effect the overall readability. If you self publish, anything's possible. But trying to run it through a publisher and they'll probably shut you down if it's all numeric values and not their type expressions. Unless the piece is phenomenal, and you become one of those writers who's material is so good that it's exempt from literary standards.

>>9614729
That's the joke

Tried getting my worked critiqued on that shitty amino app. Don't know why I thought that was a good idea, all they do is just praise and praise. They don't know how to critique. So now I'm here. This is the first chapter in a book I'm writing, about the 2nd or 3rd draft. I call it: Eaglewood Creek
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 1
October 14th, 1983
Jack gripped the steering wheel of his gray honda accord, trying hard not to shake from the cold. He drove down the almost pitch black road, flying by the various pine trees that surrounded him, his windshield wipers made a squeaking sound as they desperately tried to wipe away the falling rain. He could faintly make out the road in front of him, for the lights on the front of his car were both broken. He knew it was dangerous, but all of his friends were busy and couldn’t give him a ride. He wasn’t too worried though, since he was going down a straight road that no one usually drove down at this time of night, except for truckers.
Even though it was late, Jack had decided to go out and get something to eat. He had been working on cars all day and couldn’t find time to stop and have a break for lunch. Every once in awhile, the place he worked at would have an unusually busy day where people would come in all day with stories of waking up and finding their car tires popped, headlights broken, and license plates ripped off.
Even with all this, Jack still felt like he was on top of the world. Just that day, he got an acceptance letter from the college he applied to, stating that he would be starting next year. The world ending at that very moment couldn’t even bring his spirits down. He started thinking of all the great things he would be doing to help people as a police officer. He had always liked helping people, and whenever he did it would always put him in a great mood for the rest of the day.
The car started to veer into the opposite lane from Jack’s daydreaming. The lights and honking of a car horn in the distance snapped him back into reality, and he quickly swerved back onto the correct lane. That was a problem he always had: he never stopped dreaming, whether it be how great or how bad the future was going to be. Sometimes he would think about how great the future was going to be, only to be disappointed later when that great future didn’t happen, and on the other hand, he would over exaggerate how bad a situation might get, making him get overly stressed about nothing.
The mutinous landscape of straight road and trees didn’t help him. Nothing interesting to look at kept causing his brain to wander off and think about different things rather than staying focused on the road. He couldn’t even tell how far away he was from the town. There were no hills, no bumps, no turns: there was no landmark he could look to and judge how far away he was from his destination, just an endless road of darkness and trees.

1/?

Jack started thinking of the fishing trip him and his friend would go on next week. They had gone fishing before, but never at night. They had always wanted to do a night fishing trip, but something always kept getting in the way and prevented the trip from happening. The first time they planned on doing the trip, {Jack’s friends name} was forced to go to a wedding for his uncle. The second time, Jack had to work overtime at his job. Another one of those unusually busy days. The third time it seemed like nothing could go wrong, for both of them had absolutely no plans that day. They packed up all their things and drove down to the pond, only to find the whole area closed off due to construction on the dock. But Jack was sure that it would happen next Friday. Currently, both of them had no plans for that day, and they learned that construction had just ended on the dock, so not only would they be able to actually do their trip, they would be doing it on a dock that didn’t feel like it was going to break at any moment.
The bright lights and sound of a car engine behind him made him jump, and he looked at his side view mirror to see the car from earlier race past him on the opposite lane, before it proceeded to drive into the darkness and out of view. He started to sweat with worry. For the past couple months, there has been a serial killer traveling through Washington, stopping at each town and killing off 1 to 2 people. Detectives weren’t sure, but they predicted the killer’s next stop would be the town Jack lived in. Because of this, local law enforcement and FBI were stationed all over the town, keeping watch for any suspicious activity: this of course put everyone on edge, including Jack. His mind started to go crazy with various ideas of how the killer could murder him. Maybe he’ll shoot out his tires, than stab him before he knows what to do. Or maybe he’ll be hiding in a tree, getting ready to shoot him with a sniper rifle. Maybe he planted bombs in the road.
Jack opened the car’s glove box and pulled out a revolver. Since he had always wanted to be a cop, he wanted to learn how to shoot a gun. After high school, his dad started taking him to shooting ranges to practice. Before he moved out of his parents and to Eaglewood Creek, his dad bought him a gun, stating to only use it for self defense.

2/?

Jack grabbed 3 bullets out of the glove box, loaded them into the chamber, and put the gun onto the passenger seat, making sure the barrel wasn’t facing him. The rest of the drive was a dread filled nightmare through an empty forest, and saw everything as a potential threat. He looked to his side and saw the shadow of something moving around in the woods, which caused his heart to drop and he started losing control of his car. He swerved back and forth between both lanes before he managed to regain control. Looking in front of him again, he saw the darkness get interrupted by the bright street lights of an intersection. A huge wave of relief went through him as he let out a giant sigh. He had made it to the town without dying.
He stopped at the intersection and looked to the right of him, where the road led down a small hill and into the harbor. The boats tied to the docks sat there patiently, waiting to be taken out to sea again. A long ways away, a storm was raging above the ocean, a bright flash of lightning illuminating the entire sky, thunder following soon after.
Jack took a left at the intersection, and started heading towards the gas station. More thunder could be heard as the entire road was lit up with another flash of light, but darkness soon blanketed the town again as the light quickly dissipated. As he pulled his car into the parking lot, he could see Inside the store where a man with long hair and a scruffy beard was sitting alone, watching the news on a tv sitting on the counter. Jack put his revolver into the glove box before getting out. The serial killer was only known to kill people who were by themselves, so it would be unlikely for the killer to try and strike him now, unless he wanted the gas station employee to see it.
The sound of a bell caused the bearded man to turn and notice Jack. The man nodded at him and put up his hand up into a peace sign as Jack nodded back. The gas station was filled with a wide assortment of snacks and drinks. He walked to the back of the store where the drinks were located, where he accidentally bumped into a man wearing a gray suit, tie, and hat.
“Will this be all for tonight?” the man asked.
“Yeah, that’ll be it.” Jack replied as he looked away from the man and at a news report that was happening on the tv.

3/?

“Welcome back to {name of news station}, we’re here to bring you an hourly update on the {name of killer}. Detectives predict that the next stop for the killer will be the small town of Eaglewood Creek. Residents are advised to stay indoors and to stay in groups if you can. If you have any information on the killer’s identity, you can call this-”
“Crazy shit huh?” The bearded man interrupted the news report.
“Yeah…” Jack responded, not really paying attention to the man.
“That’ll be $6.50 please.”
Jack snapped out of his tv induced trance, and handed the man the money. The man handed Jack his bag of food.
“Stay safe out there man.”
“Will do.”
Jack was about to leave, but a thought crossed his mind.
“Was there anybody in here recently before me?” Jack asked the man.
“Well, these two men came in here wearing giant black raincoats and dark sunglasses about 10 minutes ago. Why anyone would want to wear sunglasses at night is beyond me. Why do you ask?”
Jack waved his hand in dismissal.
“It’s nothing, I’m just being paranoid about the killings and everything, nothing to worry about.”
Jack waved to the man as he left.
“Stay safe.”
The rain outside was pouring harder at this point while thunder and lightning crashed in the distance. Jack ran to his car as fast as he could in a vain attempt to avoid the rain. He got in his car and sat there for a moment, watching the lightning illuminate the dark sky. The moment was almost surreal. The mysterious car, the thunderstorm, the man he had never seen before working at the gas station. He wondered if he had fallen asleep back at home and had dreamt up everything.
He leaned over and opened the glove box, desperately searching for a cassette tape hidden among a pile of junk. He was successful in his search and pulled out a tape labeled Run Like Hell. He popped the tape into the radio, and it made an audible click before playing the song. The sounds of the guitar coming through the speakers somehow fit the thunderstorm that was raging above the ocean perfectly, making the situation feel even more surreal.
The road back into the forest stood there menacingly. Jack sat there, considering the thought of just staying here and sleeping in his car. No, he thought to himself, there’s nothing to worry about. He had his gun on him, if anything were to happen he would have something to protect himself with. He drove out of the parking lot, through the intersection, and back into the dark forest.
Trees and darkness once again surrounded him from all sides. The sense of dread creeping through his body for a second time. He started to think about the acceptance letter and what he would do as a cop: thinking about this made him feel a little better. That was until he saw the shape of a car in the distance. As he drove closer, he saw the same car parked on the side of the road, two people sitting inside of it.

4/?

He parked his car on the side of the road, adjacent to the other car, and pulled his revolver out of the glove box. He gripped the gun in his hand tightly, ready for anything that might happen. The two men both turned and started to look back at him. For the next couple minutes, it was a suspense filled staring contest, each person waiting for the other person to do something. Even in the cold weather, Jack could feel the sweat going down his nose and falling onto the car seat. He could feel his heart beating out of his chest. The two men looked away, and the lights of the car flared on. Jack pointed the gun at the men as he rolled down his window. His arms felt like rubber, the rain dripping off the barrel of the gun. He could see one of the men point something at him, then a bright flashing light blinded him. He dropped the gun and covered his eyes as he could hear the car drive away into the distance. By the time he could see again, the car was gone.

5/5

>>9613630
Good critique and yes, there are lots of things that need cutting out and clearing up, which i've been doing in my second revision. More or less sounds how it should now, hopefully.

please be harsh, I'm new.


My sin is greed. The way I long to possess the immaterial values forced upon and lovingly gifted to others throughout their upbringing. A man living in childhood is no man, yet I cannot cure my sin of want. Encouragement and support seen to the end of an accomplishment. Guidance when hampered by new experience. Lectures of life and its lessons! Strength and intelligence demonstrated from my most trusted authority! Anything at all more than a buffet and roof surely would have been enough, but I can recall nothing. How sick I must be to keep returning to the past in my head, looking to place blame. Terrible that I, with my warm house and plentiful cupboards and piles of playthings, should be jealous of anyone. How depraved, to feel inklings of envy for the abused and the children of broken homes. Though at least they had some sort of experience! An evil test of their courage, a trauma to draw strength from as adults. Something to move forward from with head held high, proud of their ability to overcome! I envy them, for I wish for any sort of similar claim. I know in my heart that I would have traded the house for a true display of interest. I would have happily gone hungry for a week if it meant we would create something together. A man living in childhood is no man, yet I cannot escape it. No matter how much I read or run the past always pursues. I flounder through adulthood hoping to find some new feeling that will make me forget my sin and move on, but I fear this feeling will stay lost.

>>9606044
>>9606048
Very sharp and smooth prose. Also to the point and forward moving with minimal fluff. Gave me a crime fiction feel, which you seem to have a voice for, even though the subject matter is teenager-y. But maybe that's a thing these days / what you were going for.

>>9615726
>very sharp and smooth prose
They have so many extra commas in that piece that I read the voice as having hiccups

>>9615744
I just reread the first two paragraphs and didn't notice a single comma I would classify as extra or unnecessary, nor do I think commas inhibit the sharpness or smoothness of prose. Other punctuation like the semicolon I recall was used correctly, writing seemed tight overall, and the voice was reminiscent of old school crime fiction.

Now, care to point me to your excerpt in here?

>>9599443
Hes not wrong tho

>>9615800
You and I have different stylistic preferences. But a fair chunk of those commas would benefit the voice as periods.

>You had to be a certain type of person to do what he was doing. The kid had guts. He'd make you think, 'Wow, I've never seen anything like this'--almost like Rocky in a way. People would often joke that he could 'go the distance'. I guess you could say what it really was is that he just plain believed in himself, in his own ability. And that's what was the most impressive about him.
He was going up against bad odds, very bad really. I would describe it as brazen and nothing less.

I believe that reads much smoother and much more cohesively.

>>9615841
And that's just without entirely touching up grammar either.

>>9615841
I half expected you to say the opposite.
>You and I have different stylistic preferences
Yeah, breaking streams of thought up into short sentences is overrated and amateurish in my opinion, but I've never subscribed to that Hemingway nonsense anyway. That's for women, kids, and HR drones, and people are taught to write like that because the intention is to dumb the public down. If the guy was ineffectively trying to construct long, complex sentences, I'd agree, but he didn't do anything of the sort, so this seems nit-picky.

>>9615997
Gonna just have to agree to disagree there brother. I don't like reading three independent clauses joined together by commas while minced with dependant clauses. At that point, you should using a period somewhere, a semicolon somewhere, or a hyphen somewhere. Not because I'm a bad reader, but because it removes any guesswork from a four comma and clause long sentence.

>>9611243

I passed over this one previously.

There are some awkward phrasings throughout, like in the first part where you seem to restate the idea of getting sucked out of the window three times, going back and forth on the phrasing. I think it could be made clear very quickly that the speaker is imagining being sucked out the room, knowing it's impossible:

"He remembered what a strange kid he was back then— wondering if the windows would get ripped off of the dorm room during such a storm. Would everything get sucked out, like in an airplane? No, of course they wouldn’t really have been sucked out like an airplane... but what a time that all was. Maybe he would be better off if that had somehow happened, torn out of the window into the night sky back then and then all this could have been averted."

The second part has some similarly awkward phrases I just don't like at all. The description of Hogan is actually not bad, I like the details that paint him very quickly.

But things like "jockstrap turned yellow with the sweat made when sweaty balls rub on sweatier thighs"

is better off as just

"jockstrap turned yellow from sweaty balls rubbing sweatier thighs"

"on that rectangle of a toy."

is just not necessary at all and doesn't add anything.

someone make a new thread! this one is dying! hurry, hurry! i want to read more writing. : )

>>9614890

I'll get to this soon, sorry, the length prohibits me from giving a decent review from work.

>>9615674

After reading this I don't feel I have too much cause to be harsh although I generally found the voice of the speaker to be a little stilted. That is probably something to be filed under personal preference, and though it turns me off it is not a symptom of bad writing.

That said, "The way I long to possess the immaterial values forced upon and lovingly gifted to others throughout their upbringing."

is a clumsy sentence. And the one that follows it is a little muddy. You mean to say the speaker thinks of himself as "a man living in childhood?"

"any sort of similar claim"

rubs me the wrong way. I would prefer something like

"I wish for anything like that,"

although the way I've phrased it is not anything like your speaker would say. Can't help you too much there.

Watch the exclamation points, using too many defeats their purpose.

"No matter how much I read or run the past always pursues"

I like consonance but this is overkill, it sounds too intentional to be elegant.

The theme is interesting, I again can't really say it's my bowl of soup, but I won't criticize you for going in that direction. I guess you're going for one of those Byron or Faust-types?

Just be careful if that's the case. It's hard to pull off that kind of character without becoming a caricature.

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Please critique my writing. Do you think it's good?

>>9617415

Depends. Is your name Han Kang?

>>9617481

It's my mission to promote Korean literature.

>>9617490

But it's not *yours* per se, because this was published already by somebody named Han Kang.

They burned them throughout the day, starting at first light, on through past lunch with barely a coffee break. They burned them in spite of the dwindling day and into the night where the bubbling yellow flame was their only light. They went to sleep with the smell of sulfur in their hair. They rose to repeat at first light. Nobody smoked, even though they all did, because the smoke was a part of them, and all of them felt like half men, like one good gust of wind would scatter them all. The wind never came. Even the scavengers stayed far enough away, their eyes burnt and teary from the choking pillars, an ashy tower of Babel, that crept up to the doorstep of the sky. Day in and day out, there was no cessation to their work. There was always more fuel. Trucks came caravan into the camp at all hours and left. The dust they dislodged joined the black pillar, obfuscated their comings and goings, but still the fire burned.

It took two strong men to toss the bags into the pit, and so the men of the camp had been paired up, each according to their skills, to aid in their great work. Mark Fletcher, an American like most of the camp had been paired with the Italian, Costante Rapone, his bunk mate. The two of them grabbed a white bag off the bed of the latest truck, one on each end and hauled it to the chasm of fire. They passed by other pairs on their way back as they carried their cargo towards its destination. Fletcher saw the sweat that soaked their blackened faces. There were no showers here, and the river had long since been defiled. The two heaved their bag into the fire like two parents swinging a child by its hands. It soared, and the flames reached out to swallow its prize. The two men had long since stopped looking; they turned and walked in step back to the truck
.
The next bag was heavier, and Rapone dropped his end with a curse. The bag moved. Something moved inside the bag. Fletcher wiped sweat onto the back of his dirty hand. Rapone swore and grabbed his hand, undeterred as the movement inside became frantic. Between the truck and the fire, they paused a few times to readjust, as the movement inside the bag kept them off balance. Then, at the mouth of the pit, they heaved their bag into the inferno like so many before. The bag screamed through the air, and then was drowned by the bubbling crackle. Rapone took off his shirt.

“Another?” he asked.

Fletcher allowed them a brief moment of breath, then nodded. “Another.”

Rapone spit onto the caked ground and reached for his canteen. The African sun was at her zenith, but the two men paid her no mind; the great flame had long since replaced the sun.

>>9617652

Overwritten and hackneyed. Redraft and post again.

>>9617663
They burned them throughout the day. There was always more fuel. It took two strong men to toss the bags into the pit. The two of them grabbed a white bag off the bed of the latest truck, one on each end and hauled it to the chasm of fire. The next bag was heavier. The bag screamed through the air, and then was drowned by the bubbling crackle. The African sun was at her zenith, but the two men paid her no mind; the great flame had long since replaced the sun.

>>9617744

Non-sensory and hackneyed. Redraft and post again.

>>9617754
The fire usurped the sun.

>>9617765

Non-sensory and hackneyed. Redraft and post again.

>>9617790
The fire!

Something I diddled in my notebook during the lazy part of work today. Going to do some crits later after a bit of a nap.

It's the death of mall rats, mall ninjas, and mall hangouts on Friday nights. A single letter, B, stays lit above a row of grimy automatic doors. BEACH MALL sat with its other letters broken and dark broadcasting its terminal state. The expanse of the barren parking lot sat like an old sun beaten face; faded white lines like teeth. Weeds grew through the cracks that rested like smile lines on the face of a mall that forgot how to smile.

Well I'm out for another spin,
Weeding out those who live by their sin.
Rip their coil, and watch their corpse spoil,
And my evening hunt surely begins.

Well I'm stalking deep in the west,
Soon I'll show the town what I do best.
My work is grand, and quite in demand.
For the righteous all cheer on my quest.

I hunt for the darkest of souls,
To hurry them down to the coals.
They spread their hate, So I will not wait.
My graveyard has many a hole.

When I hear a scream in the night,
I know the path I've chosen is right.
Run to the scene, watch moonlit blood gleam.
But the innocent had lost this fight.

I watch the murderer flee,
To my delight no one's escaped me.
And I give chase, the look on his face,
When he saw his end giggling with glee.

I pushed him onto the ground.
And sealed his mouth to muffle the sounds.
His rage to tears, embody his fears.
While I whisper prayers for the hellbound.

His whimpers echoed for a time,
No one's pain here is greater than mine.
While down this path, I'm poisoned by wrath.
For my onus has now reached it's prime.

A difficult path I now trudge,
What happens when the sinner must judge?
I run in fear, the demon now nears.
Who chases to fulfill his own grudge.

Haircuts. I hate getting haircuts.

It’s always the same cycle. I look in the mirror and see hair that isn’t styled as it should be. Too long? The fringe looks funny. Why is the back so poofy? 10 minutes of preening it reverts to an acceptable state. Maybe I don’t need a haircut.

I catch myself in a mirror. What happened? I thought I fixed this? Why is it doing this again? Why does my appearance change so drastically in the space of a few hours? Have I really been walking around like that?

The worst is when you see your reflection walking past a store. You can never brace yourself for those angles. At home I’m limited to a front, left and right profile glance. I don’t have the advantage of seeing my full form in diagonal glance. It’s unpleasant seeing yourself unprepared.

I could go on. How about the horror of those security cameras? Seeing yourself hanging from the ceiling on a mini plasma screen. Don’t get me started on how bad I look in those. Do they really have to show me the footage? Wouldn’t a camera suffice? I’m aware I’m being filmed, I don’t need to have the evidence displayed for the world to see. Is that really deterring burglars? I can’t imagine that’s going to make a difference. ‘’I was almost going to rob a store, but then I saw myself on tv’’. Maybe it does. I’m not dumb or desperate enough to relate to somebody who considers armed robbery an optimal source of income.

Questions torment and have no clear answers. A plague of banal inconveniences with no signs of stopping. They aren’t problems, they are perceptions. That’s the supposed solution money can buy. Throwing money at someone to make them listen to complaints sounds like a neat way to alleviate anxieties, but in my personal experience it’s an exercise in tedium. How do you really know they are interested? After all it’s just a job. I hate my job and I pretend to give a shit. Why would they be any different?

You are the job.

That’s something I thought of the other day. It doesn’t matter what you do, it’s how you do it. Yes you ‘’work’’ on the job, but you are always working on yourself. You right then and there doing something you are forced to do. You don’t have a choice, but you can choose how to perceive it. It’s always a choice. Have a good time or have a bad time. In the end, you are always choosing.

Too bad I can’t decide if I want a haircut. There’s such a difference between theory and practice. In theory, there’s nice ways of thinking and ways of observing problems that lead to healthy thought patterns. It’s pleasant to think of situations in this manner and they make you feel good. Practice however is completely different. When something negative occurs it’s exceptionally difficult to remain calm and consider the possibilities. Try looking on the bright side of life when there’s a thunderstorm.

1/2

Jobs. Mandatory things. I feel like life is just a mandatory task. Something you have no choice in doing. You don’t decide to come, like getting an invitation to something and somebody RSVP’s for you. Who does that? That would be a social calamity, yet life deems it acceptable. Whether it’s god or evolution either way it’s a dick move. Life’s a gift though. You don’t refuse a gift, it’s rude. Maybe I’m the rude one. Maybe I should be grateful for getting something for nothing. Eternally in debt for something I never asked for. Who do I pay back? My parents? Everybody?. Every day be thankful for everything. Gratitude. That’s the answer. That’s the cure all.

You know what I think is bullshit? Gratitude.

2/2

when the light uninvitedly decides to pour into your room
burning to the ground like coal that doesn't move
what was that thought, while laying in bed
the one you liked before you spilt the contents of your head
take me back to the things i’ve seen
to the things we see within a waking dream

>>9618787
your anus has reached it's prime?

>>9618787
It's like my little brother was reading The Dark Tower between playing Bloodborne and this is what he fantasized about.

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Here's the _beginning_ of a short story/flash fiction that I typed today. It'll most likely end up on the not-good-enough pile.

But at least I'm writing!

>>9617744
>>9617765
>>9617846
Do you know what non-sensory means? You're not evoking the senses in your writing. Your writing is all about what can be seen. Let's read about what can be interpreted by the other senses. Evoke the world!

[I am scared you don't know what sensory means. And you need to know what it means as a writer.]

>>9599443
R8 lads:

I awoke to the sound of gentle slurping and the feeling of a paper cone with erasers stuck to the interior rubbing up and down on my schlong. I opened my eyes and closed them again when I saw my nan bent over like a hobgoblin and slavering like a rabid dog over my peepee. 'What the fuck gran I told you not to do this again' I shouted and opened my eyes again to see her cackling so hard her jaw dislocated and started swinging about. She started capering about on my legs and whooping out of her mangled mouth and then reached up with two bony hands and smacked it back into place with a loud grunt, then resumed her feverish oral assault. I would have protested but the loud cracking noise her jaw made snapping back into place gave me war flashbacks and I drifted in and out of consciousness, reliving memories from years ago...

'Ere mate we gonna go and stick those fuckin japs or no'. The voice came from my fellow squad member, Private Willy 'Wiry Brush' Sykes, called that because he had a wiry physique and because he once unintentionally brushed his teeth with a loobrush in the dark. I yawned, pulling up my trousers and giving my body a good shake, muscles rippling like a lardass on a WBV machine at the gym. 'Sure thing mate, gies a sec will ye, got to bash one oot before I go'. Without further ado I unzipped the trousers which I'd just pulled up a minute ago and began to beat my pecker mercilessly like a man possessed. At that moment a cry went up of 'JAPS ARE COMING GET READY LADS' and there was widespread scrambling around me as men ran to their positions. I continued basting the ham because as per family tradition when I unsheathe my sword it never returns to its scabbard before it cries milk. The sound of gunfire echoed around the plain, accompanied by the mighty roar of cannons and the crackling as I opened a bag of doritos for a mid-mastur snack. Bodies were falling like rain around me, and there was a scream as Willy pitched backwards from the side of the trench and fell in front of my legs. 'Told you buffing the banana was good for you mate' I said, as I strode forward and wiped my leaky chode all over his twisted corpse. Straightening up, I turned just in time to see some chink leap over the side of the trench, bayonet poised to rip through my organs like a fart through the silence of a funeral...

>>9620165
'FUCK OFF YOU GOOK' I screamed as I threw a wild haymaker with all my considerable might. There was a sound like a cat being strangled and I looked up to see my gran flying backwards, tits like a snooker ball in a wet sock whirring through the air. 'Oh fuck me' I thought, 'She's fuckin dead now aint she'. I leaped off the bed and realised I'd miscalculated my trajectory as I landed on her prostrate form with a loud thump. There was the sound of cracking ribs and a sharp expulsion of breath as her wrinkled body bore the full weight of my sculpted, godlike body. The pleasurable symphony of pained wheezing filling the room was interrupted when she managed to gasp out 'get off my fuckin ribs you fuckin bam ye, yer da would be ashamed to see his son in this position'. This was a sufficiently sobering thought and I considered what to do.

Hefting her easily like a sack of potatoes you get for a tenner at tescos, I threw myself out the window, landing easily with a forward roll. I forgot she was on my back, and nearly shat myself when with a loud screech and the sound of someone getting stretched on the rack her spine snapped like a twig getting broken up for kindling. I chuckled for what seemed like an appropriate amount of time all things considered then lobbed her over my shoulder again and set off up the street, fleeing like a fucking madman. I knew there was a hospital somewhere near here, and I needed to get her there before she passed on, if only because she hadn't finished that abrasive gubby and I was loath to facefuck a still warm corpse in front of grieving bystanders.

It took about ten minutes to reach the hospital maintaining a steady, leisurely pace of 25mph, only stopping once when we got hit by a bus because the driver was busy talking to this fit piece o poon sitting behind him who was in the process of replacing her falsers. I took the hit like a champ, as I was swole as fuck, but my nan was sent flying off my shoulder into a nearby supermarket, her droopy dugs trailing behind her like milky white jet streams. I realised I'd forgot to put any clothes on her but it was too late now.

>>9620177
I burst into the supermarket, casting about wildly for a trace of her now undoubtedly mangled carapace, though the trail of devastation was easy enough to follow. Leaping over a few shelves that had been knocked over by the impetus of her subsonic flight, I passed a guy that had been beheaded by what I'm guessing was her shinbone. Pressing on, I heard loud voices and turned the corner into the fruit and veg aisle where a group of coons where arranged in a circle around something. Ignoring the catcalls and loud 'ayoooos' I pushed through them and found my gran lying on the floor looking a little the worse for wear. Sighing in relief I said 'Aww its okay now babycheeks I'm here for you', but I was interrupted by what was obviously the leader of this pack of primates. He shoved me back while I was still a bit off balance from seeing my delectable nan looking fine like a microwaved prune and I fell onto my firm but beautifully curvy asscheeks. 'Ohoh you'll regret that tyrone' said I, whistling the tune 'one love' by Dj dizzyscones, my gran's favourite. He replied by kicking me in the scrotum and saying 'the fuck you call me white boi? You aint going nowhere wit dis bitch. She's gonna get BLACKED'. His fellow chimps started dancing about throwing gang signs and chanting in swahili. After that one time I went on /pol and absorbed the meme culture this was too much for me, and I socked him one right in the jaw, shouting 'WELL IT'S TIME FOR YOU TO GET COLONISED JAMAL'. His friends scattered in panic as I seized a monstrous aubergine from a nearby stall and thrust it into my nan's reeking minge as she lay on the floor groaning. I picked her up with my massive meaty hands and positioned the now wilting fruit at the entrance to his gabber.

'Time to get to work' I chuckled and punched her in the back with all the force of a truck doing 180mph on the motorway. Didn't even have time to slip my now painfully erect one eyed sailor out my jeans as his head imploded and she was launched so fast she ripped apart the fabric of space time and opened a portal into another dimension. We were there for about five seconds but as soon as we exited through another portal we were followed by these wee alien things which were basically floating bawsacks with eyes and a mouth. I tried to punch one but it just sucked up the force of my blow and started to encompass my fist. 'The fuck, GRAN RUN'. For a pensioner with a broken spine, 4 cracked ribs, and multiple other as yet undiagnosed injuries she took off like a lear jet leaving a massive slipstream in her wake. I ran behind and caught her in my bulging roid monkey arms just before she hit the outer wall of the hospital. 'Huh that was handy' I mused, and took her in, passing off the destruction to her nubile, pert body as a football incident. After she recovered I got her to finish that gubby.

First sentence of a novel I've been working on for the past six months:

The wide, round rump straining against the purple lycra pants of the white woman in front of him in line at the corner shop stirred in D'Quan dim, dreamlike memories of the Serengeti buried in his blood, setting his heart pounding like a jungle drum and his long coal-black pestle nudging the fabric of his basketball shorts.

THE PIERCING PAIN IN MY ABDOMEN HAD ME HAUNCHED OVER MYSELF.
My gelled back locks of jet black hair were saturated with my own sweat.
"This is not fitting for a man as handsome as I" I lamented.
My leather shoes were kicking up sand as I dragged my feet across the concrete slabs.
My shirt, stained with my own bodily fluids.
"Why did it have to be like this!" was just one of the thoughts racing around my internal monologue - racing into dead ended alleyways desperately searching for a way out.
Thoughts of hope were taxed by an unrested fatigue constantly chipping away and transforming via decay into something new; I was giving up...
"Im too far out, I wont make it"
Funnily enough this recent narration brought feelings of calm with it.
"If I'm going to go I should go with some dignity".
And so in my haunched over state my biological waste had slipped through my anus,and in an accepting defeat I had shat myself.
"Ah..I feel much better now". I thought in relief.

>>9620528
>>9620548
*hunched

File: 1492315608273.jpg (9KB, 200x200px) Image search: [Google]

9KB, 200x200px

How do you format text into images of pages, like >>9619996 >>9617415
>>9607800 and >>9607348? It looks rad as fuck and I need to try it.

ESL here.
How can I get better in sentence structures?
Any tips that I should remember?

This is something I just wrote. Like the start to a story, I think.

I feel as though it's selfish to leave this without critique of others, but I don't think I know enough about proper writing to give useful feedback. Or maybe I do and will write some shit.

Memories aren’t history. But I like to think I’m accurate in how I remember him. Always energetic, darting around the place. Hair flattened down or fluffed up. His tiny shaking arms, his nervous tics. Upper lip twitching into an Elvis Presley snarl, flashing the braces on his teeth. He’d burst out with jokes at the worst times, with a nasal voice like he was trapped in a tin can. His head would swivel around to see his classmates’ reactions. Nobody looked at him; they looked at each other. But all he saw was their smiles, and he was made happy. He didn't get it.

He'd come out with the most controversial arguments, and fail to defend them. Teachers would chuckle him down, high on the laughter of the classroom. His brown Turkish skin would melt as he sweated with passion, getting angrier and angrier.

I was just beginning to find myself falling for him, finding myself strangely attracted. He was always too busy bounding in the direction of the nearest bimbo, falling over his own feet. Their eyes would stare mean from under drapes of hair and coats of concealer. And I would sit on the floor with my back slouched, my fat spilling out, stretching my shirts. My chapped lips, my bitten nails, my old scars.
I remember the morning he was arguing about whether homosexuality exists. There were the laughs, the gasps and the whispered insults as per tradition. The unshaven fuzz on the top of his lip moved up and down with his verbal circles. The substitute teacher with a shaven head stood above him, looking down, smirk burrowing into his neck. The bell rang.

He picked up his books, shoved them into his bag and sprung up to walk out the door before anyone else. He thanked the teacher and went home. That afternoon, Ahmet killed himself.