CRITIQUE REDHAT

Freud Writes Frankenstein (stitched together from various lines in a critique thread, none of which was mine)

Let it be said
the time has come for me to say hello:
The Queen is dead
by blackmagic melodies and mellow

Platonic fiends hovering over Tokyo
made from the clouds in your dream
atop the eons of which we roam
broken only after it seems

their faces, those of gods or dogs,
discarded cutlery in the trash,
planet, tiger captains, and frogs,
pig eating pigs plump with cash

murder my personality
without all the advantages
so take some hospitality
a tumble of shiny images

or not quite anyway, except
that isn't Toni Morrison, silly–
for the sake of what was left
we shiver in this chilly

room with the amusement park attraction;
as days crawl with the impatient impasse
that is probably muddled in abstraction
I watched her wilt as days did pass

like the columnated ruins, dominoed,
for the nuance or the yolk
but in schematic pseudocode
colliding with the herb smoke

reminding us of its presence
Güte gräbt ein tiefes Loch
It makes no difference,
set me up upon a rock

with ourselves at the other end
to say something pithy and smart,
though the view does ascend,
this is really easy to pick apart.

Two feet hang over a busy street;
They are inert, dancing softly to a wind
That sway the languet laces to a primal desire.
Between the sfumato of a green and a red
A sole is hung to haunt the streets of sin and desire.
>>9712938
Needs more grammatical tools. Colons and semicolons could make this a thousand times better.

>father and his ilk
so... you? Odd choice., Try again
>and I adrenaline rubs my belly
jesus christ man
>cereal bowl meter
??

Blah. In my worthless opinion it's too boring and I don't have any care of your message nor for your prose/poetry thing but I'm also pretty against prose poetry

In all honesty it'll probably be submitted by a modern mag or something. Just aim a bit lower

>>9712938
no bitch no

>>9712938
>critique thread dies with maybe 3 actual critiques
>again
>on fucking /lit/

>Elizabeth Ann Roberts

1960s women are the best women imo.

>>9712978
Well, I'll be here for a little bit if anyone wants a proper critique. I focus on prose, though, so I won't be able to help much with poetry besides telling you whether or not it's any good.

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>the columnated ruins, dominoed

You ain't PoMo, stop being a try hard hack.

Inside the quaint farmhouse a stovetop kettle began to boil and cried for the attention of a thin woman waiting nearby who promptly shifted it from the element. She was young[Redundant ], the same as Vaughn, and though she showed a few physical signs of wear from the stress that typically accompanied the upkeep of a homestead she seemed defiant and bubbly in it’s presence. The Devil lingered in the door way and surveyed the home after following Vaughn inside. A wall space dedicated to specimens of jams and homegrown foods preserved in jars stood as a centrepiece in the small wooden kitchen, looking like a homemade museum of the mundane. [Out of place?] Vaughn comfortably crossed the room and embraced his distracted and unknowing wife from behind. Surprised, she jolted but fell warmly into his embrace after turning around with recognition. The Devil stood awkwardly in the presence of their unpretentious [Right word?] affection. The woman’s gaze broke from her husband and scanned over to the king of hell. A welcoming smile grew on her face and she looked back at Vaughn for an introduction. Remembering his guest Vaughn snapped a friendly look at the Devil and introduced Cecilia to the man that had helped him home and explained to her that his traveling companion had been shot. She shot a concerned look at her husband who reassured her that they were safe and that he would recount the story after his friend’s wound received attention. The Devil limped forward and shook the hand of Cecilia Edward and was ushered to an old and comfortable fireside chair.

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>>9712938

She's easy on the eyes. . .

Namaste, Bazooka Joe,
how does it really go?
A-OK he says today,
but I think he means
he can't quite say.

I sensed his pain
I truly did–
clouds of rain
above the kid.

Come bowl with me
I said to him,
Let me be!
he said so grim.

I pleaded him to come–
and even invited Jane Gum–
but he denied and decried,
never wanting simple fun.

So I banged on the door
begging some more
but minutes I waited,
and waited some more.

Then came a pop!
And a big wet plop,
and I knew just then
Bazooka Joe was dead.

>>9712965
>worthless opinion
don be so hard on urself anon (its unbecoming(

i love when girls can manage to look slutty and wholesome at the same time.

>>9712938
Too many purple phrases; 'chariot of perplexing fortune', 'that precious creature' and 'I compose the dissonant chord-laced piece' are the biggest offenders. It'll do for a poetry class, but it's pretty bad otherwise.

>>9712963
Smooth the poem out, reading-wise. The fourth stanza is a mess, and hardly any lines go together outside of the rhyming. Could work, for something that ends with 'this is really easy to pick apart.'

The two addicts deliberate
soberly on what film to view.
The mosquitoes suck and such,
"I gotta shit," says the Texan.
But fallen fixtures say the same thing
when pressed to put out on prom night.
"Nostalgia for I don't know what,"
says the Swiss, secured in context
lost by those outside the joke.
"Amazon is better than Netflix," says brisket.
"They're just different," replies fondue.
Chores, the luxury of the able-minded:
bodies washed ashore with the jellyfish.
"My mother was an actuary for farmers."
And the other yodels a nod, remembering his own mother
whose humble narcissism he inherited
carries him towards the Andromedan sun.
"Let's just watch Schindler's List" they decide
lusting for the color red.

The power went out
and they listened to wax melt instead.

>>9713051
I'm this anon. Here's a fun one I never used.

Who me? Repeat? I’ll never, ever.
Adolescence makes us lose what’s clever,
and rhymes are dead except in Pop.
So Father Music eye me misanthrope
and He’ll not wrong, no He’ll not wrong:
he and they’d have me sing ‘Belong!’

Stubborn daffodil, so atavistic
and I say ‘no, a card, a mystic.’
In tone diseased, that’s dys and ease,
if wrongéd chord, there’s anti-freeze.

I aim for breath and miss for sense,
but a neurotic web’s no accident
and still I wonder who’s the spider.
Or was it what’s? That journey-rider,
white-line lit, a reflected glider
in a horse’s bit. Anon anachronism,
I suppose. I’ve thrice seen an ~ism,
but never so, close~d!

>>9712998
You picked one of the few decent lines

Dating is easy when you believe in things
like "all beautiful people are shallow.", and
you're not one of them,
and "I don't mind ugly children." Still,
sometimes it's difficult and you can find yourself thinking,
"ah Christ, not another zero-summer." It gets to you, and
you start to settle, lying on your back like a leaf in Autumn,
fetal and staring up at the sun like
all the others doing the same
in the pile. There,
you're part of something bigger -
society, even - and it's easy to feel
cozy but also
paranoid that some troubled youth might just
give in
to the urge of jumping
into things that are bigger than him
and just ruin everything. Anxiety
seeps in like the unwanted moisture
it is,
and you count off the ways
that it's biology's fault, mother nature's
responsibility, and not
yours.
Why, you weren't born fruit,
and when you fell off the tree there was no one there
to eat you. You are gravity's fruitless endeavor.
But it's nothing to get worked up over. Perish
the thought, while you make dry angels in the grass.
Sunny days
are over,
so you must settle,
in a way.

>>9713020
Try using dialogue to introduce your characters. And don't include so many actions, most can be implied. Stop using adverbs until you've improved as well.

>>9713033
This reads like what I would imagine a Soviet propaganda poem to be.

>>9713065
The dialogue does not follow.

Can /lit/ help me with something? I'm trying to write a rich-ass character who smokes ridiculously expensive, fine cigars.

Does anyone here know much about cigars? I'd like to know if this would be any good, and what kind of price it'd be per cigar, considering artisanship, the multiple types of thoroughly-aged tobacco, the size of the cigar, the infusions, and final aging.

>A blend of 10th century Mayan, 1907 Dominican, 1903 Cameroonian and 1834 Cuban tobacco, rolled into a cigar one inch in diameter and six in length, and infused with 1715 French cognac, aged Ecuadorian chocolate and Vietnamese coffee before aging for another 90 years.

>>9712938

Nice body, don't like the face too much, 7/10, but would fuck for sure

>>9713464
>Nice body, don't like the face too much
it's the opposite for me. nice face but meh body

Mark yawned and scratched at the hair of his stomach. The room was dark, dark and filled with the sound of static from the television on the counter. He was smoking a cigarette, and it had been dangerously close to dropping out of his hand and onto his skin. It was 4:18, and he was supposed to pick the girls up around 3. He wasn't about to jump to action, though, no sir. He finished his cigarette groggily, then went to put on his pants. They were loose on him now. He almost got into the car shirtless, but thought better of it at the last second. He started another cigarette while working to get the SUV going, then made his way out the driveway.

He pulled up to the park, irritated at the extra minute and a half he had to drive to pick them up now. They were sitting on a bench, watching ducks muck about in the pond. A few feet away a young man pushed a child in a swing, and a young woman cheered the child on. He couldn't see, but Mark could tell his girls were watching them from the corner of their eyes. If he had bread, he would've offered to let them feed the ducks, but he didn't.

"Let's go," he said, standing behind them. They turned and got up, ready to head home.

"Can we get dinner somewhere?" Mia asked while they walked.

"There's food at the house," Mark said, clutching a few scattered bills in his pockets.

"It's bad food though. Think we could get mom to cook for us tonight? It's been forever since she made taco salad. Think we could?"

"Your mom's out, don't know when she'll be back tonight." Mia pouted, puffing out her lower lip, and Mark had to bite back the urge to slap her face back in to place. His head was starting to hurt and his hands were starting to twitch. It would be a long ride home.

At least Alice wasn't mouthing off; she was reading some book. He tried to get a look at the title, but the girl's grip covered it up.

"So today we did the mile run. My time was... uh... nine and half minutes. Or something like that. I kept up with the fastest girls for a while. I was so tired afterwards I fell asleep in math. But math is easy anyway, right? Also the guy who sits next to me gives me answers."
..........................
Mia told dad how her day was every afternoon. It was her way of pretending that he asked.
..........................
"You shouldn't cheat," Alice said.

"It's just getting extra help. And does it matter if I get good grades?"

"It's wrong," Alice said, as though that was enough to finish the conversation. Mark should be parroting her, chastising Mia.But he had cheated his life, and maybe she should learn life's lessons the same way he had.

"Okay, well if you feel so strongly about it I guess I'll have to stop... telling you I'm doing it."

"Better be careful. If they catch you they'll make you stand in the corner."

"We're not six anym-"

"While they throw rocks at you. Sharp rocks."

"No, no, no," Mia said, sinking into her seat and covering her face in exaggeration.

[Continued from above post]

"Yes. You know Pat Bunter?"

"The one with the lisp?" Mia asked. Alice leaned over so that she was above Mia, crouched in the seat.

"Yeah. He got hit so hard with one of the rocks he bit a chunk out of his tongue, and that's why he has the lisp."

"I think I'd be cute with a lisp though." She sat back up. "Anyway, not much else happened today."

"Good for you. Both of you wait in the car," Mark said, pulling up in front of an unknown house. He got out of the car and went to the door and a man came out of the door, and some words and other things were exchanged. The door closed and Mark came back, and they went home. When they got there, Mark disappeared into the bathroom. Alice kept reading, and Mia listened to music on her CD player.

>>9713147
The line pacing felt a little odd and the beginning felt maybe a little edgy/cliche, but I'll be damned if this didn't get better as it went. I really like the last four lines, and how they echo back to the beginning of the poem with the concept of settling. I would try for another revision or two.

>>9713071
This poem is good and fun to read and full of jokes I don't get but know they're there. See that?

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>>9713982
If you think the thread is worth bumping, you should try and put something out there or critique something!

>>9713065
I think this is rad and would happily read a book of it and things like it.

>>9713065
I like this. Especially the last line and 'bodies washed ashore with the jellyfish'.

>>9713165
it's a poem. it doesn't need to linearly follow.

>>9712938
Sci-fi novel in the year 2086.

https://pastebin.com/pis247kz

Ghengis Caesar Richard Pizarro
led with plight death war and conquest,
to reign attain command and fight so
each could prove their right was best.

To disobey would born a slave,
torn from those they would obey,
to pave a way with shackled hands
while bleeding faith to dying lands.

Faithless on their hands and knees
drip their eyes to broken earth,
as soldier ants from cracks emerge
defending each their colonies.

What a sight to slave indeed
must these voluntary fighters be
that bite their prodding fingertips--
to die to fight god's hand who rips
their life long pits they call their home,
is cause a thrall has never known.

Crawling up their limb and skin
the insect burrows in their head.
Filling not with sorrow, dread,
but instead of voice of matron--

Serfs naked in the dirt exert
similar qualities to rats that
act in broods asserting
service to mother's dominance;
yet they're seen a shrimp-like-parasite
by their king's encroaching reich--

The lips which kiss their withered minds
then finds forgotten fealty
inside abandoned folds of thought
filled with love so motherly.

Suddenly their head is buzzing--
words in rhythm drumming
as a wasp-swarm war-march
stinging their passivity.

But as dirt will turn to sand -to dust-
must a slave forever know-- loveless
is the slave always,
even top their silver throne.

>>9712938

It's fedora based, I'll stick with Ubuntu thank you very much

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>>9712938
i've always found that type of shoe to be particularly sexy

Den Of Snakes
Beneath the world of Hell
lies the land of Salim,
homeland of the Chimeras.
A sickening race
of nefarious scum
who spread ruin
and decadence to all

They are an arrogant race
calling themselves the Chosen,
due to a covenant with their so called “God”.

Through shadow governments
they degenerate nations.
Through subversion
they fabricate wars.
Through secrecy
they control races.
Through subterfuge
they amass wealth.

They know nothing of Virtue
and scoff at Honor!
Its only natural
when their history shows
they are bred to scheme.
The only way to stop this race
is to cut the heads off these snakes!

>>9712938
shite poem mate

you will never be a poet

Sharpening Sticks


On bric-a-brac blocks
The old tinker piroquets
And falls

And grubbling at the mound
He grabs a piece of scrap
And smiles

There's no more watches to fix
Only piles of bricks

So the old tinker sits
And sharpens sticks

good writing is infiltration
from the start. there are walls to climb
in people, and before they can
dig in they must be tasting it prior, so
put it in the air. you must reach
the olfactory and do your dirty work
before they even notice the fingers
in their fringes, your hand
around their throats, and
before they know it
you've left already.
it isn't personal, but it seems,
so you leave a number...
but there's nothing to make of it
at that point. text tends to be dry, and
it leaves your mouth dryer; best to
just forget about it. still, know that
at times
she will raise her hand to her throat
in memory, staring off the same way a blind
dog does a window.

>>9713096
Plagiarized* from van dyke parks

>>9716155
Wow gay, literally 0 effort

remember when
holding hands
in the summer rain
and i finished my
ice cream first
so you asked me to wait
till you finished yours
and i waited
i waited my whole life
for you

>>9716294
ahahaha you pussy

>>9716294
rupi kaur nobody here wants to buy your book

>>9713033
The rhyming scheme really makes this work, it makes the poem's darkly comedic tone come through with great clarity.

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>>9716294
cut the last three lines and any careful reader will get the same message without being as annoyed as i am right now.

>>9716199
>good writing is infiltration
i don't disagree but i don't think this start is a good example

the theme could be handled better, but the last three lines are fucking great, i'd scrap everything but them. but god build them up.

>>9716155
neat, but a little too smirking

>>9715970
pls write something interesting

how do you guys feel about the Invocation to my longer work?

>>9716593

>>9712938
Attention to detail is key
to improving your
mediocre poetry;
fathoms are a measure of depth,
not of distance.

>>9716813
>fathoms are a measure of depth
poetry is 4D chess. checkmate.

This isn't mine, but I'd like to see your criticism for it.

-------

One mammoth-sized, fat, heavy guitar note blares at max volume from the tower of sunn amplifiers cementing shut the garage door in Erin Yagire’s house. Everything in the room is rattling from the intensity of this thunderous drone, and Erin stands affixed in a pose with her right arm to the sky, pick in hand, staring intently down at the vibrating strings on her beat-to-shit guitar--pulverized by as much metal thrashing as her tiny young body could muster in the seven years she’s had it. She waits until the blood has already largely rushed from her hand, and it’s just about to go numb in the same way that her ears have gone minutes ago, before finally and violently striking the pick over the strings once more, producing a blast of sound which shudders the very earth beneath her feet. She doesn’t even hear a small ceramic cup falling from the table in the neighboring room and shattering across the floor. There is no caution in her soul. She isn’t even wearing earplugs. She’s only twenty-two, and she’ll probably have tinnitus by the time she’s thirty, but she couldn’t possibly give less of a shit for now. This is the life that she’s chosen--the one that is meant for her. Reckless abandon into the pulsating sonic waves of pure drone overkill. And then, just when she’s about to strike those strings once more, to crush the air all over again, her drummer joins in.

The sheer force of Alexa Excellent’s kick, snare, and crash cymbal all blasting at once alongside the first droning bass chord from Beatrix Waifu’s down-under-tuned bass cracks one of the garage’s windows. All three girls have torn into their music so hard that the foundation of the house itself has cracked, and they will have long since skipped town by the time the landlord finally discovers structural damage beyond what he can explain or afford to deal with. If they played long enough, the Earth itself might just split and plummet them all straight to hell, where their rock-off against the devil will almost certainly end in their victory. These girls were drunk as hell and utterly unstoppable.

>>9715884
Enjoy your botnet.

>>9713033
I really like this kind of stuff, it's the only poetry that I can understand. the ending is too sad for me, though

>>9716294
:(

that was good anon

>>9716760
bad...!

>>9713165
>Stop using adverbs
not that dude, what's wrong with adverbs?

>>9716760
That was a short story I wrote for one a poetry class I took. I want to write prose poems similar to the Odyssey, but I'm not sure what I should do. College professors don't gave me much advice besides grammar changes or using different words.

https://pastebin.com/BkrtULNw

>>9717880
Adverbs aren't necessarily bad, but excessive use of adverbs is. In amateur writing, adverbs are usually used to qualify weak verbs instead of using a more evocative single verb.

For example, if you want to say someone "ran quickly", the single verb "sprinted" or "dashed" might work better.

It's not always the case though. Sometimes adverbs do add a lot to the prose. Knowing when to use them is a matter of experience unfortunately. There aren't any hard rules. When I try to write/edit and notice I'm using adverbs, I try to think if there is a single verb that accomplishes what I'm trying to say. Often it's better that way.

>>9718109
>https://pastebin.com/BkrtULNw

>The procedure did not excite him, but he could not afford to be absent.
Is there a way to show that the procedure did not excite the officer rather than saying it. Maybe showing him hesitant about leaving his cabin or worrying or something. If done properly, I think it could be more compelling than it is now.

>it was some hollowed shrine
I think you mean “hallowed shrine”

>gave up and with a grunt tossed the stick away
probably missing and as in “grunt and tossed the stick away”

>Not much was known of the mans background
man’s background

>to boo’ing
I think “booing” works fine

>(shivering against its steel embrace)
If I’m understanding this correctly, you are saying that the mast is made out of steel. Maybe that’s true, but I always thought wood would be more common.

>many however next survived that far.
I don’t know what you’re trying to say. I think you might mean “many, however, didn’t survive that far” or something. Or maybe even “few survived that far.”

>his neck exploded all the deck
“his neck exploded all over the deck” probably makes more sense.

Your dialogue formatting is a bit off. No periods at the ends of sentences or commas outside the quotation marks. Also, there are a few grammatical errors: plurals instead of possessives and vice versa. A close reading will help eliminate those.

I found the story interesting. I like how you set the scene and mood. Some of the whipping scene stretches my believability though. I'm sure that being whipped is extremely painful and possibly even lethal, but your descriptions make me question the story. In particular when the whip takes out a chunk large and deep enough to reveal bone. Maybe I’m wrong, but that seems a bit more than a whip could do. I see that the point of that scene is to be gruesome, but I felt that was a bit much.

Take my comments with a grain of salt. I’m no expert.

>>9718454

thanks a lot.

Grammars my worst nightmare ngl because i usually get too caught up in the writing and dont pay too close attention

>>9713033
I really like the beginning of this. Really cool stuff.

Imo the rhythm gets butchered in the 4th and 5th stanza (in particular the "Jane Gum" line)

Last paragraph isn't bad though. Work on the middle some more and you'll have written something pretty good

Hm

>>9719747
i rly like this


The stairway to heaven
consists of 12 steps
the audience chants in unison.
Walter Kovacs to David Koresh,
with booze my breath stays fresh.
Laughter'll be my last breath,
the joker jokes—subduing a sense
of impending gloom. The tables turn
in the psychic's velvet parlor
as her niece tugs at the electricals
conjuring an apparition of confidence.
One may never know, Tootsie Pop
ads tell us as children, which wisemen
confirm later in life. Live the 8K experience
the producers of Survivor request
from their homes in Las Colinas.

The rain falls on us all equally
except those of us with roofs.

First paragraph and very rough draft of a story concept I have about a group of refugees fighting for survival against a force that wants to assimilate them and destroy diversity. Any criticism helps, whether it be on the idea or the writing itself.

The village was nestled on either side of a shallow which separated the thick gathering of forest trees. The river gave both the trees and the villagers life, like a vein streaming nourishing blood through a body. Here, in this shrouded paradise, birds chirped and flew in the trees and dogs barked and ran through grass and the villagers laughed and went about their days pretending that all was right in the world. The village was a beautiful lie that assured its inhabitants that, for at least one more day, they were safe from the danger that raged against their very existence. The villagers themselves were a medley of folk estranged from their original habitats. One villager had skin white like ivory with strong arms and a hairy chest and sat in a boat on the river holding a rod, tempting fish to their doom with the promise of a tasty snack. Another had skin of bronze and feathers in her thick hair and stewed the contents of a pot while she watched her three children play with the dogs that barked in the grass, each child with a different hue that reflected their mixed ancestry. A third villager had skin of iron, and he (if he could be called a he by any measure other than the being’s own self-declaration) sat by the river trying to mimic the beauty of nature onto a blank canvas as best he could. In truth, this villager was not a man or woman but was, like many of the other villagers, a robot. He and those of his kind represented the last of an endangered species and a lost age, where men and women and robot were alike in their freedom to live and to love.

>>9713071
Very good anon; do u have more? Send me a book full of these!

>>9712938
>>9712987
>Elizabeth Ann Roberts

>Elizabeth's pictorial was a significant one in the history of Playboy because she was only 16 at the time her photos were taken. She had arrived at the Playboy studio with her mother, who provided a written statement that she was 18. After it came out that Roberts was underage, Hefner was brought before a domestic relations court on a charge of contributing to the delinquency of a minor.[1][2] The charges were ultimately dropped on the grounds that Hefner in all likelihood did not know the girl's true age.[citation needed]

o shit is dis ceepee

>>9720962
John Green? Why do you always shitpost here man.

>>9712938
I wrote a story.
It is my first.

https://pastebin.com/sQ8PkPyH

>>9713281

well, I'm pretty sure nobody has thousand-year-old mayan tobacco so probably a billion dollars

why don't you just google "most expensive cigar in the world" and use it as inspiration

>>9721051


>John Green?

What did he mean by this?

>>9721112
Nice hidden Jew diversity feminist liberal agenda that you got going there boi

>>9721093

followed you over from your thread so I'll just post it here instead of there:

I have some nitpicks as I do with most things I read but although I was pretty sure going in that I wouldn't like it, by the end I wanted to read more

The main pitfalls seem to me to be the risk of entering either the realms of edgy randumness or blatant self-pity, but the excerpt manages to skirt both, albeit coming dangerously close here and there.

Nitpicks:
That name is really rough, consider using a contraction more frequently. As someone with a four-syllable name, I introduce myself by the two-syllable contraction even in formal or professional circumstances, only have to deal with the "weird" name on paperwork. (being referred to as "Genny" or something up until an institutional official reads out the full name would also be a cool little effect).

From a realism perspective, would a therapist really be such an asshole about it, making a threat like that? I've been to a couple but not for a real condition just muh mid-20s crisis shit. Also cops don't usually snap at each other in public, I guess you could argue that they think they're alone. Although I considered the possibility of the unreliable narrator reporting either or both of those things differently than they actually occurred.

tl;dr: write more, worry about editing later. Not sure where you're going with it but want to find out. Try not to miss the opportunities of the concept because you're so close to it that some things others might find interesting seem mundane to you.

>>9721124
>would a therapist really be such an asshole about it, making a threat like that?

that's funny actually
that part is based on some phone calls my therapist made to another patient while I was in the room. Then she fought with the cops for a bit on the phone and it wasted my whole appointment. Basically the part about terminating the professional relationship is verbatim.

thank you for your critique, I will remember what you said when I am writing. I totally think your name idea is great though.

>>9721093

I want more.

>>9721120

Okay fuck off I don't care to placate to your own conservative mindset, can you give me criticism on the writing itself?

>>9721131
>that part is based on some phone calls my therapist made to another patient while I was in the room. Then she fought with the cops for a bit on the phone and it wasted my whole appointment. Basically the part about terminating the professional relationship is verbatim.

that's why I put it like a question lol, I thought it might be personal experience but I also was assured by everybody and his brother that nobody would ever do anything like that, in order to convince me to go in the first place.

>>9721148
I want to also not sand the edges off of the psychiatric experience of patients who aren't considered "competent", you know?

>>9721135
I will try

>>9721139

Not that guy, but did you really introduce it as:
>a story concept I have about a group of refugees fighting for survival against a force that wants to assimilate them and destroy diversity.

And expect any other response? Trying to be as impartial as I can, the tone of the prose sounds a little Maya Angelou-y and pretentious (redundant, I know). Is florid description going to be the norm throughout, or just in the introductory phase?

If you are female and/or a POC I'm sure you could not only get published but win awards with this as is though, so don't change it at all. I'm 100% serious. Look at Yanagihara's "A Little Life" if you don't believe me. Try to get it finished by the end of the year and you could see it on the NYT best seller list by November 2018

>>9717992

Keep in mind that in the original Greek, the Odyssey and Iliad were metered. The meter is almost impossible to reproduce in English translation (you'd have to write a new poem to do it, and it's a meter that works better in Greek anyway).

If you haven't read Paradise Lost, then do so. It is an epic (prose) poem written in English, and not terribly archaic English at that. It's difficult to write metered prose without coming off as singsong, so it helps to see examples.

I read an interesting essay by some 18th century jack-of-all-trades intellectual (can't recall his name unfortunately) discussing the epic poem (Homer's in particular) in a temporal sense. In a "normal" or "modern" novel, time is whatever the author wants it to be. He can freeze in the middle of a scene, or brush over an uneventful week or month or year etc., cut to a flashback or skip forward to the future and back, etc.

In homer, these effects are achieved in different ways so that the current moment on the page never stops being the current moment in the narrative. A "flashback" is a character recounting narrating past events to another; the etchings on Achilles' shield are described *while Hephaestus is engraving them* so "time" never freezes or pauses for a description, it is always continuously moving forward (in other words, it isn't "There was a guy holding a sword etched on the shield" it is "then Hephaestus etched a guy, and then he etched his sword").

The 18th c. author considered this a conscious differentiation on the part of the Greeks between written/spoken art, as existing in constant and uninterrupted linear progression from beginning to end, and sculpted/painted art as a frozen moment in time. I can't recall if he noted it, but the fact that the Odyssey and Iliad were originally meant to be recited publicly from memory by a performer and not read privately by an individual probably has some impact on these devices as well (repetition, for example, being used as an enabler of memorization in the Iliad in particular).

I don't know if that mess helps at all

>>9721232

Actually, I still have the pdf of it that I read for my class, it was "Laocoon: An Essay on the Limits of Painting and Poetry" (1766) — Gotthold Ephraim Lessing

Writing unabashedly chuuni fiction, rate my context-less zinger

"But know this, Crimson King. When you march upon our gates, you will be beset by all that oppose you. When you traverse the cobbled streets, they will run red with the blood of all that can resist you. When you climb the steps of our palace, every person left will die for what they think right.
And what you sit upon that empty throne—
there will be no one left to kneel."

>>9721187

I actually didn't intend to pander to some Marxist/globalist agenda. It was just an idea that came to my head, and I realized after that some people (like 4chan) would get that message from it, but I'm sticking to it regardless for the sake of the story.

The writing is intentionally florid in my description of the village because it is supposed to reflect the temporary, quasi-paradise that the village is until its enemies find it. Once I get into the meat of the story, my writing will still be descriptive (because that is how I write), but it will be a bit more tempered and short for the sake of storytelling.

I am a POC, but I sincerely doubt this story as-is will be good enough to be published for the sake of the Marxist ideals it seems to promote or for the sake of my color, which I guess you think means I selected 'easy mode' on the road to authorship.

I'll keep trying to improve though, I appreciate your feedback genuinely.

>>9721315

Cliché, but not badly written.

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This next part i remember pretty well. When the bum releaesd the psychic hold i reached a point of clarity that could be described as euphoric. Enlightenment made easy. The kind of state of mind where you notice all the details. All those little pieces of the puzzle start matter and make sense.
He rubbedd the black hand threw his dirty locks, pulled his head back to a tilt. He relaxed.
Our connection is broken. My sloppy subconscious gains control over my body again. Spine curved i get back that natural slack in my posture. If you think my hunch is bad I've seen guys curled up and doubled over. Ive seen guys weighted down by the burdens of life and the descions theyve made. Like wearing a 200 pound pack on your shoulders for eternity. You can only carry that kind of weight and still look up at the world for so long before somebody throws on that last straw. I understand jesus and the crucifix now. I think its a metaphor.
Welcome to life. Welcome to the part we didnt choice but well agree to just keep doing. The here and now i guess. The moment.
He runs his hand threw his hair and points at me.
"Ill tell you what kid, since i like your style im gonna give you a taste test." He says taste test in the creppy animalistic double voice. He said , "a freebie"
One of those little dried up pieces of meat on a toothpick. Thats what i see in my head. The one thats been sitting out all day at the unnamed chinese resturant. Almost like beef jerky. The one that stays stuck in your tooth all night and makes your gums swell in the morning. Thats what hes offering me right now but i don't quite understand it yet.

a mouse is dropped into a garden
miniature, and around it are two Poindexters in
lab coats and conversation. "the mouse knows
to always head right for the apple
in the center of the maze. it's got a
remarkable ability to remember things and
has good spatial reasoning, like it's second
nature." "is that so?" "yes, and even when
I tell him not to he goes for it anyways. it's like
reverse psychology. I'm convinced that they even understand
sarcasm and wit these days. in any case, they are very much
enthused in the pursuit of the apples." "well
isn't that just great. they, I heard you say?"
"yes," he pushes up his glasses, "they
have been reproducing." the other 'dexter has a look
of mild amusement drawn on her face. "more trouble
than it's worth, isn't it?" the other looks away coolly, "well,
that's not up to us to decide. we are only concerned about
the data
on mice and apples and the pursuit of them.
everything else is secondary." "do you like
dropping mice and mice babies
into garden miniatures?" the look
of amusement is mirrored on the other
and he says, "well,
it's a living."

>>9721324
This reads like kind of a strange stream of consciousness. If I assume it's merely thoughts pouring out of a crack in somebody's skull, it actually kind of works. But it's not a coherent narration.

>>9721482
This is rather clever. I think I get it, anyway. Is it meant to be a prose poem?

>>9712938
The last time I posted this it was just an exercise but I like the ideas behind it. I wanna see if the tone itself is something worth building on.

The lights murmured a bit before settling on their usual discordant hum. Against their flicker, the room seemed less like a basement and more like a dungeon. If Mark squinted just right he could almost picture the scene. There would have been a picturesque panorama of the land on the east wall where his second grade art project hung. From the west wall there would be a tunnel leading further into endless caves. Rusted iron treasure chests, aged in the blood of travellers long fallen, would have been placed right about where the laundry machines sat now. And right above the broken down ceiling fan would have been the most wonderous tapestries, decorative works celebrating times and adventures nearly forgotton.

But where most dragon's lairs carried gilded treasures and intricate traps, Mark had storage boxes. Piles, piles, and more piles of storage boxes. Some already emptied, some untouched in over a decade. Mark dragged a trash bin behind him, nearly full of glass flasks. He was bent over, digging through a fantasy epic's worth of potion bottles. The whole box was the most obnoxious shade of green, bottle residue. These bottles were far brighter than they had any need to be. He wasn't sure why he had so many. There must have been a point. They had to have been remnants from some quest or another, but Mark couldn't quite place them. He examined the one in his hand Some of the markings on it seemed familiar, but the memory was almost completely clouded. It likely had something to do with an enchanted forest. That was about all he could remember about it.

Something else was there, buried between the bottles. It was jammed between the corners, where the eye wasn't quite so quick to look. It took a half minute of fidgety struggling, but soon enough he felt the grip of a handle. It was small. Mark pulled back. The sword dislodged from the junk with an unnerving degree of ease. He twirled the sword a bit. It reflected a bright yellow, a hue far more saturated than he expected. It clashed against the faded gray of his sweatshirt.

Mark raised the sword above his head. He swung the sword down in an arc. It still handled well. He laid it out flat again, between his hands, studying it like a sculptor would study a block of ice. His hands brushed over the cheap varnish. In the right hands, it could probably still be useful. It wasn't particularly sharp, but it could have been duller. In the right hands, it might cut through steel. It had in the past. In Marks hands now, both hands firmly gripping it with a strength Mark had thought long left him. And he broke it. Right down the middle. Snapped in two. And tossed aside with the other garish gold and evergreen things that could never match well with the more fashionable greys and off blues of the now.!

>>9721093
>5'11
stopped reading there
sorry but I don't read manlet manuscripts

>>9721532
The first paragraph seems a little amateurish to me. You can just say it resembles a dungeon in appearance, you don't have to go off on a tangent and spend the entirety of it describing each individual thing of note if it's not relevant to anything, the reader is supposed to be left to visualise it for themselves.

Again with the second paragraph I think you drag on the emphasise of the piles of boxes a little too long. Also, and I don't know if this is intended or not, but the transition straight into the fantasy similes is really jarring, and this is my main criticism, what's with all the allusions to fantasy? Is it supposed to be that way? As in like, some kinda scott pilgrim thing or something?

Other than that there's some grammatical errors and descriptions that are largely irrelevant as they're just there for the sake of being there I find. You also have a lot of unnecessarily broken and terse sentences:
>"And he broke it. Right down the middle. Snapped in two. And tossed aside"
Is the most glaring. Why is this so disjointed? It doesn't really make any sense--it's a mess in all honesty.

>>9721928
My critique

My story:

My father had owned land here and his father had so too. Percy, my grandfather, chiefly administered his land and periodically sold allotments to members of the family in increments tied to his health. Percy’s final acreage upon his death was bestowed to my father whom was renowned for his nonchalance in matters deigned to agriculture and the raising of livestock and swiftly burdened Henry, my brother, with the deed as was his wont with anything subjectively earmarked with responsibility not pertaining to his immediate achievability.
My brother, attuned with the imperialistic tendencies of an unmaintained familial bond, annexed the plots of land previously sold by Percy and centralised the powers of the family to his estate and his alone. I, through the same affliction, did not care, and my absence at the time lent me partially my indifference to the positively unabashed routing of my family. I nor Henry have spoken to them for some years and hardly few still inhabit the area.

>>9721232
>>9721259
Thanks for the advice! My main goal in writing is to write stories based off old European prose poems, such as the odyssey, aurthurian texts, and viking sagas.
Some problems with this are they don't teach classes on these subjects where I go to college. Also I have a hard time understanding the language of the poem without using sparknotes, Any advice for what I can do to fully understand ancient texts and write about them in a professional way?

>>9722633
>Also I have a hard time understanding the language of the poem without using sparknotes, Any advice for what I can do to fully understand ancient texts and write about them in a professional way?

College annotated (Norton critical, for example) editions can be extremely helpful because they are loaded with footnotes explaining what certain words or concepts meant to the author, as opposed to what they mean to a modern audience. They also tend to have thorough introductions. If youre reading something in archaic modern, middle or old English, they will give you a primer on the language and help with pronunciation and definitions through the text in footnotes. A cursory knowledge of modern German is very helpful to reading any earlier form of English, as well as feeling comfortable with nouns and pronunciation in translated Norse works (none of the above are identical to German, but sentence structure and letter sounds often have lots of parallels).

When buying a translation, say of the iliad or the eddas, read through Amazon reviews and you'll find people comparing any given translation to other translations. I look for the ones that do their best to simulate the tone and pace of the original. Puffin press tends to just use the driest, most turgid translation they can find, in my experience, and helpfully put their footnotes in the back so you won't want to keep flipping to read them.

Another benefit to a 1,000+ year old book is there are at least centuries of academic analysis available for them (like the 250 year old Lassing essay). If nobody at your university teaches it and you want to teach yourself, go to whatever academic database your school gives you access and just put the name of the work you want to study and search the titles of articles and essays for themes and ideas that interest you or seem relevant/helpful.

One of the key things I picked up in my classes was that every epic poem in the "western Canon" (which to an extent excludes Arthurian, Norse, Beowulf, Nibelungenlied, etc.) is in conversation with its predecessors. Virgil initiates the custom of imitating and building on Homer, and it goes on from there through Dante, Spencer, and Milton. All of them sprinkle their works with winkwink nudgenudge references to Homer and their predecessors (particularly Virgil). Milton spent his entire life preparing to write an epic poem, so he started out writing "pastorals" because this was how ancient authors customarily progressed their writing careers (iirc Spencer and maybe Dante did the same).

So, much like philosophical study, you can find yourself in a millennia-long chain of authors who are best understood when read in chronological order. That is a steep endeavor, so you may want to limit your scope, which is why an annotated edition might be an ideal compromise.

One helpful, if tedious, method I was taught for "absorbing" the tone of a work is to simply type a page or two of it verbatim into a word processor

A beam of orange sunlight focused between angled blinds momentarily dazzles John, exiting from the bathroom with his belt buckle and strap in hand. He raises one arm with finger-blinds shut to deflect the childish sun's magnified ray as he continues out the doorway, returning unsmouldered though unbuckled to the bar's dim and foggy lodgings. Passing through crowded highschool haunts, John then climbs top his bar stool with a huff.
"Ten minute wait to take a piss, what a shit-show!" he remarks over the loud music to a man sitting next to him.
"Yah, in't at ome it"
"What?"
"--Darts!" exclaims the man morosely.
"I've got no quar-"
Nathaniel was already making for the board. After a minute John waves down the bartender, asking for darts before receiving a shot--no darts--on the rocks.
"Seven-fifty."
"-Darts-!" barks John.
The bartender holds up a finger and turns away, pulling three darts from a plastic cup, and placing them next to an empty shot glass and ten dollars as John grasps them before shimmying with spirits for the dart board.

>>9721316

Well, then my follow up advice would be try to make sure the transition from the "descriptive mode" to the "narrative mode" isn't too abrupt, and feels natural. Off the top of my head, Dickens pulled this off pretty well if you'd like an example. Done right you can impart a cinematic quality, like the "descriptive" is a distant camera angle that gradually zeroes in on the target character(s)

>>9712965
>>9721482

Only good things in this thread. Everyone else should delete their work

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Where is the Nyen Cat story guy? I fuckin loved that story and I wanted to read more from him.

>>9722908
Also, who remembers the buddhist/smokey the bear crossover?

Those two stories were basically the only good stories I ever found here. Ok, the only stories I read that I liked.

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>>9722633
>My main goal in writing is to write stories based off old European prose poems, such as the odyssey, aurthurian texts, and viking sagas.

are you...are you me?

>>9713020
your sentences are too long, senpai

>>9723471
I always found European tales exciting when teachers explained them to us in high school/middle school.
Now that I'm starting to research these works I'm in awe over how wonderful they are. I'm inspired to write something just as good.

>>9713065
nice one.

>>9714468
you would? holy shit. maybe I'll keep writing my book then.

>>9712987
particularly their feet.

>>9721482
this is fun

>>9722875
I'm not sure the present tense really works out in this case. Something about the setting of the sun, the consigning of the scene to night, makes me feel as though this would be better off written in the past tense.

There's also something I don't like about the "childish sun" expression. It seems to me that here the sun assumes and older person's aspect, because insofar as it peeks in on John it seems to be criticizing him.

Overall, though, I like things set in pubs, so this wasn't bad.

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The two left the ongar's villa and descended to the lower echelon, where the filth dwell in darkness. The white glare of marble sanctums darkened to begrimed wattle and daubs of the poor and teetering cantinas where within wantons flirt and fences lurk.

Henceforth the two would go daily to the cultists' lair via a network of dusty, cobbled alleys and grottos behind the rammed earth edifices. How the crowded streets and the stink of offal and piss did remind Arash of home. But more so than there did the locals sanctify their higher castes and condemn their lesser as per a cosmic will he never did grasp. He knew not of such poverty in Eros amidst all his studies here. None should meddle with god's intent, it still pains you to see them from thy pulpit of privilege but know it's not of your making but Theirs. Theirs not theirs. Every alcove he passed loitered beggars or skulking muggers, in every grotto echoed the groans of the starving and cries of babies suckling dry their mothers' breasts. And the insane milled in their minds, for the quamites lived there among them.

Everywhere eyes followed them. Whereas women shrouded their faces as was law, men did not. Arash caressed his dagger's pommel beneath his coat as they walked, though he knew it would do little good here.

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Hello! I was in here more than a month ago running tests on a character and a style I'm experimenting with. My goal is eventually to take the character and the style and write a novel with them. Here's the latest test:

https://pastebin.com/mjCXV3az

>>9723757
I really enjoy how this sounds. Would read more.

>>9723779
I think.. you're disturbed

>>9723757
Garish purple bullshit. Put down the thesaurus and pick up an actual book once in a while

>>9723779
I was going to read this and critique it fairly, but then I saw the anime avatar and decided it was totally not even worth a passing glance

kys

>>9723782
>>9723804
Thanks a lot for the feedback.

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Cave Paintings

The cave paintings of my mind:
each trip a different animal,
a different man, a different tool,
painting upon the walls of my cave,
the walls of my mind,
gone once out.

The inner workings and principles of my own mind, and the understanding of the same,
carry to me the representation of eudaemonia.
And this manifestation of love, which flattens out the soon-to-be valley with its talons, says to me:
“There is a price to pay for the center.”
To which I nod and agree,
having understood the sacrifice to-come of a life,
closing my eyes and letting it bounce forward and free;
feeding off into the mind.
Sleep.

>>9722892
definitely the most thoughtful and thorough criticism in the thread. The ironic suggestion to delete (when the deleting period has passed for everyone to whom you're referring) was a v. nice touch

>>9723580
yeah never underestimate a) people's low standards and b) how atrocious most published works are

>>9723953
You're taking his post too seriously. I'm sure he hasn't even read everyone's writings

op its shit, stream of conscious free verse is a dead end

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>>9724005
>doesnt realize we're playing 4d chess
>doesnt realize i'm replying to myself
>doesnt realize the subtle art of daredevil advocacy
>doesnt realize who's taking what seriously when or why
>mfw

>>9724016
youre shit and you know it because nobody loves you

>>9724305
>doesn't realize autism

>>9722875
>protagonist is named John

Stop writing

>>9724311
do you not know how to use helping verbs?

>>9724351
i too selfish

34, still resents his RC helicopter mom—
normative normal Norman motelier—
when she asks to buy him a Leica case.
Praise December 4th, like Jay's moms,
and I'll remember the 5th of November,
the anniversary of my grandmother's first carriage.
May the force be with you
and also with you
on the Hallmark holiday when roses and violets
sport new colors through tetrachromatic eyes.
Kids have kids, the gainfully employ deny
and decry indecency in the House of Lord.
Deliver us from...the pizza store closed down,
the last domino in our small town of Synecdoche.
Carmen Electra flaunts her Oedipussy
while Bond repeats his last name smirking
praying to Mary for Christ's sake—
tabasco red, purchased on Spartan salaries.
Claustrophobics hate their mothers
(let's not dull the point Crowley crows)
for tight spaces remind of the primordial tomb
(dropped aplomb) the hug of the satin womb.

The road jags, geriatric Jerry curls distract,
all the while the cracks stepped on
rocket sciatica into a supple terminus
tickling the tail of the river's mouth
where the death of the kayaker starts
at a cellular snail's pace, outlasting the hare
with elastic love, incontrovertibly transparent
even when the three word lie
lands with reckless abandon
like friendly fire, or juvenile manslaughter.

The Million Dollar Man
is made of tin
wrought by Haephestus
and Athene.

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>>9724358

Here's a list of anagrams (by the ounce):
vole, the only monogamous rodent
and love, that wiggly slippy sticky doodad;
silent, self shattering stainless steel
and listen, the act of sonic information reception
(can you hear me now:
runaway, come home!)
Slaughter precedes its genetic cousin laughters,
especially when sinew slackens with wines
(can whiplash will eyewitnesses' neck?)
Redundancy arises strangely here, e.g.:
archery understandingly eases ere.
You will find nonsensical
in the canons isle.
An astronomer is a moon starer,
a dormitory a dirty room;
the eyes, they see,
here comes dots: the morse code:
colons, semi and full: confusions meld all.
The point here isn't mine to tell,
note it, it: replenishment hotel.
Snooze alarms: alas, no more Z's,
at the end (or beginning) of the day
eleven plus two
still equals
one plus twelve.

>>9724430
ur a fuq :)

Smoking pot on a school night
using my squat Mexican glass pipe
in bed blowing the smoke into my pillow
leaving leaf shaped stains on the cotton
watching Adult Swim (and movies galore)
is the comfiest thing my mind can muster.
Thinking about it again, the nostalgia breaks me,
so simply and deeply, it turns ordinary video
into a fractured slideshow of images
that now only show line after disjunct line
of cocaine, dandruff falling from my brain.

I'll never again seek refuge, cozy up in those moments
that gave me so much purest pleasure
and so little care: just one in the world
taking form only as the thrilling uncertainty
of being caught by my parents—
my lovely living parents—

puffing the reefer.

Completely insufficient
No way out
Act depressed
receive help
Don't want
Act chipper
the facade erodes me deeper
Can't take
Both roads lead to demolition
Take me there
to the silence
Take me home
(so I can escape
this despicably unoriginal
and sentimental
and disgustingly cliche
scum living in my skull)
Fuck.

At least there's relief in doom:
That feels nice to say.

Count F


A humble narcissist:
the Jainist serial killer.
A one-word list
oƒ letters that don't exist.

The phantom limbed genius
ƒorages ƒor truƒƒle ƒries.
The Taos Hum skipped town

and Snoopy dropped Pisa's tower
once leaning as prescribed.
The mayor puked outside the rusted barn,

Byron tumescent with midnight wax.
Baritone kazoo choirs,
parasitic clues track mud

into the ceilingless glass house
cohabited by Goliath and Dave,
the hood's token gay couple.

He only notices the electric hunger
aƒter the manhole cover ƒalls
and hits the ground running.

ƒamiliar ƒoreigners, longitudinal studies,
what in God's name (God)
is the meaning oƒ this? The boss yelling

zealous ƒor z reports, eyes Cheryl
ƒrom HR. The comet plods blithely
towards the Genie and his gypsies in Limbo.

Spectographs to Jelly Bean™ ƒlavors
(spoiled milk or cut grass) to gravel
to Braille sonatas, oath sworn:

A deity's sorority oƒ textile quanta
neatly packaged as ƒabergé Humpty Dumpties
or a monsoon oƒ Eve's uncomsumed ƒruits oƒ loom.

The minstrel show ends at gunpoint,
the curtain ƒalls over pupils,
guns blazing away at ill-tempered windshields

in traditionally sunny Sunday weather.
Intermission, the buƒƒer warrants
something tangible to marmite yeasts

but neural nets cast behind broken ships
catch only mites in spider vein silk.
Then Valentine's X-Acto® exposes the ƒlesh.

Bullseye: necrotic sulƒide daydreams
incarcerated in gold-leaƒlets, grassroots garnishments,
and grandma's chocolate chip ash kisses.

However and ever, the territory's lost
along with the maps app.
Nowhere, here, ƒast at last.

How we sigh ƒor an Athenian astronomer's prints,
discovery in this rubber rubble rubbish and brush,
photos oƒ imperial ambergris and Lust's

six sisters sweetly named sin.
Iƒ only it were love I was in.

Shark–ƒin.

Title: The Cigarette Smoker
Genre: Coming of Age / Contemporary
Length: 1300 words
Feedback: Did you read to the end? Would you read more?

https://pastebin.com/HYPhdYpy

>>9712938
Trying to sound literary when writing about mundane shit in a less than heartfelt way reads badly.

>>9713020
When I read this can tell it word and sentence is calculated to be somewhat literary, but there's no substance to what is being written here. What is the point of what you've written? How am I supposed to feel? Because all I'm getting is a mechanic "this, and this, and this" throughout. It's dull but shows promise for better writing.

>>9713033
I found this tedious to read. I imagined a neckbeard reading this out loud, that's the vibe this gives.

>>9713065
Over-written. Probably because there ideas behind it are too weakly emphasised.

>>9713147
I liked this. Good job. Made me think about my own life in a nice way. Keep on improving anon.

>>9713583
This reads like a first draft where you're groping for meaning in your story. Each line should build from the last one. If you say the room is dark then what meaning does it have for the story? If its just imagery for imagery's sake then leave it out, doing this is like pouring too much water into gravy: you fuck up the consistency.

>>9715694
What made you want to write this? What's the point to it? It reads as flat words with shallow attempts at imagery. Try writing something more heartfelt.

>>9715970
What is it with this kind of half-baked poetry using imagery to bolster the complete lack of heart in them?

>>9716199
This reads like you started with a good idea and jumbled it in the process. Maybe try not overthinking it next time.

>>9717010
"And this, and this, and this" I could not give a shit about anything written there.

>>9720962
Some advice: think about your reader. You use lines like "tempting fish to their doom with a tasty snack" -- Who the fuck is this kind of writing for? Do you like it how its written? If you're not sure how you feel about it the reader will feel the same apathy.

>>9724757
>Did you read to the end?
>1300 words

lmao no

>>9724795
heh

>>9712938
>Nepotism wrote my resumé

Dunno why but I just like this line. I'll make a point of remembering this one

>>9712938
You can't hold a thought

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>>9722908
Aight cause you guys aren't feelin responsive I'm gonna post the story:

Before everyone knew her, Nyen Cat lived on Earth. She didn't have friends and didn't know her family. She lived alone in a ditch, underneath a suburban shed and everyone in town thought she was a stinky hobo. The other cats were very mean and bullied her.

Ceiling Cat saw this and said to himself "This is terrible, I should do something." He asked Hello Cat, the goddess of merchandising, to make a friend for Nyen Cat but she did not listen. She was to busy making dolls and keychains to notice or care. "I'll have to do it myself" Ceiling Cat said to himself. He asked Postal Cat, the unstable messenger of the gods, for help. "I will help you" Postal Cat said "but you must pay shipping and handling, or else!" Ceiling Cat agreed and received a magic pumpkin that he enchanted with Divine Magic and placed it inside a box. Ceiling Cat then paid for the shipping and handling, which was a whole can of tuna.

The next day Nyen Cat found a big box in front of her shed. At first she thought there was a mistake because no one liked her enough to send her a present but her name was clearly printed on it and the return address was from none other than the all-seeing Ceiling Cat. At first Nyen Cat thought it was an elaborate and cruel prank, "but who would impersonate the Gods?" Nyen Cat thought to herself and decided to open the box. As soon as she cut the packing tape, a cat with a pumpkin head burst out of the box sending a mess packing peanuts everywhere. "My name is Jack O' Cat." it said "let's be friends!"

Nyen Cat and Jack O' Cat played together every day. On some days Jack O' Cat's box was a submarine exploring the seafloor. (It was very fun until the first time it rained.) They chased each other through a neighbor's garden on sunny days and found a napping spot that had been claimed by other cats. Best of all, Jack O' Cat would chase away the bullies. Nyen Cat was finally happy and she wished these good times would never end.

However, she woke one day to find herself alone again. She looked all around the shed but only found a pumpkin that kind of looked like Jack O' Cat, but it wasn't him. Nyen Cat searched everywhere for her friend. She looked under the shed. She looked through the garden and even along the tracks where she found Monorail Cat. "Monorail Cat" Nyen Cat said "I can't find my friend!" Monorail Cat took her up into the sky to see Ceiling Cat.

"Ceiling Cat, Ceiling Cat" Nyan Cat cried, "I can't find my friend." Ceiling Cat knew the magic on the enchanted pumpkin wore off but he couldn't tell her the truth. "Jack O' Cat is lost in space" Ceiling Cat told her. He gave Nyen Cat a Pop Tart costume and said "as long as you wear this and think happy thoughts you can fly through space and look for your friend." Nyen Cat put on the costume and flew off past the Moon singing a happy song.

On some nights you can see her leaving a rainbow across the night sky.

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I heard angels singing

in roomless lands.

There were no stairs
or satchel-bands.

The sun was warm
the sky was blue.

they said they wonder
what became of you.

https://pastebin.com/cnS1yKm9

I don't know if I want anyone to be honest, but some is like this

He dropped the glass hard and as it hit a glint of light bounced from his window and leaped onto his shirt. It was suddenly clear what was behind his nipple's indent.

Water spilled. A bath silently drew, or so he heard. Earlier someone asked if it were okay to leave, like he knew. He didn’t know. It felt like an hour glass kind of waiting period with the crew finishing assembly and getting called. He had a complicit sense of when they’d be starting and so he felt free to drift. The light on the wall formed a shank and it freaked him out.

She was gauging her strength of character before deciding to drop on me and I took the moment before she did to hate her in a weird way. She does, and she shows me this emulate with a cockroach in it. I wish I had been tireder, but I had to ask, “you like cockroaches?” and she says, “it’s my stag”. The simulation had clearly failed by that point.

I asked one of the gaffers if he’d shine his light on us and he says, “this thing? it’s too big” without being wrong. This room was extra to the heart of the project. The residual lines of measurement on the laundry chute door were funny. On the ppt projector our names in Cambria displayed. Aliases, side by side, it made for a powerful epigram, a washed up looking artifact.

I blabababdlbud bloop doo

on like that
>>9724875
Oh my god

>>9724343
Names not staying John, it's a placeholder you mongol

>>9723696
Thanks for the tips, will definitely consider.

>>9724880
I like this. It flows well

>>9724866
sometimes not

>>9723960
I think my book might be unpublishable. but we'll see.

>>9724387
accessibility is not a bad thing, pop factor and marketability are not the devil's...

it's easier to sympathize with "difficult" people when the writing makes a point to at least meet the reader halfway... there are certainly many interesting ideas here; however, the form and flow leave much to be desired. there's no emotional hook, it's much too cerebral and thus flops dead. people don't wanna read that shit. your poetry lacks sensuality (and I don't mean taste touch sound etc). of course you can also just keep going in this direction without any regard and end up in a place that you can probably imagine rather well you fish fuck

Presume, for a moment that the world behind the veil is different. Presume that it is chaos itself changing the world out there.
Now suppose that you may accept the new world or reject it. Suppose it is your power. Your destiny.
Assume the veil everywhere - your memories, the space-time, all you have encountered, all you have learned. In-between the lines of your knowledge. Assume your position.

Where will you be?

It is human to see human in the savage. So human that it is necessary to see the savage in yourself, else you become something else.

It was dim below deck with the lone lamps quivering light. Long shadows were cast on the characters in the morgue, the officer, the captain and the doctor whose pure white uniform was scandalized with a single dark stain. The body lay in the dark, out of their sight. The hideous back had been covered in bandaging and the neck stitched. Not that it mattered he was to be fed to the sharks at dusk anyway. His work done and sensing the hostile glares of captain to officer the doctor made his exit.
“ You were supposed to be there”
The captain gave an unapologetic shrug, “It was early and frankly I find the affair unappealing
“Yet necessary” the officer hissed almost
“Yes...but necessary”
The officer paced around the room , brandishing a lit cigarette, “ I don’t want to be at the funeral.”
“Yet you will be”
“And will you ?”
“Of course not”
The officer sucked down to the last ash and flung it on the ground, not forgetting his salute he stomped out. Of course he’d be there and course he wouldn’t.

>>9715641
I assume that the name "2086" is temporary as a sci-fi novel named after a year in the future just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Will update you once I'm done.

>>9715641
>>9727486
Wasn't the worst thing I've ever read, but there wasn't anything to "wow" me. The scenery and the locales are described briskly and the dialogues aren't suffocating or obnoxious. Seems to be a story that gets better later on, though. So, is there more?

>>9723796

this convinced me to give it a try

>>9723779

I wish clarissa was my dirty republican pothead gf desu senpai, also you don't smoke dudeweedlmao out of a freebase pipe that's for crack or meth. A "bowl" looks and works entirely differently.

As the plane rifled through the air, cutting the wisps of cloud and diving down with the last shouts of sun, Joseph pushed his head into his hands. The cabin was too small. The walls, bland or covered with illustrations of what to do in an emergency, squeezed in until they brushed the hairs on the back of his neck. He choked down bile. Thankfully, the other passengers hadn’t noticed his discontent. If they had it would have been that much worse. They seemed calm, distractedly reading or drinking wine out of plastic cups. One man caught his gaze, and, having held it for that awkward split second too long, looked away.
Joseph pushed up the hard plastic window covering and looked back towards home, or wherever he imagined home to be, but of course it was a thousand miles away now. Besides, it was dark outside. A few pinpricks of light jumped out from the black ground. Beacons. The nose of the plan slowly swiveled down to them. The intercom twice beeped, a preamble to the captain’s digitalized crackle which served to notify them that they were beginning their final descent. Joseph’s lungs expanded with less resistance now; whatever malevolent and arthritic hand had initially squeezed relaxed mercifully.
The bottle of pills weighed heavy in his pocket, pressing deep into his leg. Every time he stepped in the shower, he would look over his shoulder in the mirror for the angry red mark they etched into his skin. He wondered if it would ever become permanent, though he could of course have carried them in a bag or in a different pocket. Some tribes fletched slowly into the skin little stippled dots or obscure shapes or Radolarian recursions inscrutable to the sunburned anthropologist and this little red gluteal square could have been his. In a way the red mark was reassuring. He thoughtlessly patted the pocket with the pills, as you would an insistent dog, but did not reach for them. Instead he watched the old lady next to him. No need for those, just distract yourself.
The old lady, yes. She was perfectly at peace, asleep in a deathlike slumber; tiny white ringlets of hair cascaded over her wrinkles. Her mouth parted slightly and she offered up rasping breaths at concerningly large intervals.
How was she able to be so content? How could she so completely relax, give her life up to the pilots who may well be incompetent, or tired, or terrorists, vain, or suicidal? He could never do that. He could not even though he knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do were they to pursue a controlled flight into into terrain, or were they to die absurdly as the result of a bird strike, or were they to be blown apart as the metal of the plane grew tumescent with the swell of a bomb, and as the wings turned to confetti, and as the little pieces of the whole array floated lazily downward, glinting in the sun, save for a few rubicund chunks.

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>>9724391

Change
>Trumpian Regime
to
>Drumpfist Regime

>Hebrew nose
to
>Hebraic nose

>razor-sharp weapons of Leftist terror and rebellion
into
>diamond-edged lightsabers of RESISTance

>to massage his yoctopenis
to
>to fumble at the wreckage left by his botched circumcision

>throbbing erect meat
to
>throbbing-hot kosher beef sausage

>savoring the salty flavor
to
>savoring the sour-milk flavor of Seth's chunky white peanut butter

>in a filthy brownish plasma that smelled like Stalin's left thumb
to
>with a yellow-brown sludge that smelt like Lena Dunham's bathroom hamper

>seized up in pain and agonizingly grimaced as his testicles swelled up
to
>spasmed and grimaced in agony as the flinty shards and non-Euclidean pebbles of unknown and unknowable eldritch feastings sliced their way through the semitic comedian's tortured urethra, swelling his testicles with rancid filth, like hairy purple balloons, the many folds and wrinkles of Seth's mistreated scrotum stretching smooth with the strain of their new contents.

>Finally, as the inertia of Stephen's bowels ebbed, the Jew's tortured scrotum reasserted dominance. Seth emitted a guttural, ululating howl, like a thousand mothers of innocent youths wrongfully slain by racist police officers, crying in unison, so loudly that from the depths of George Soros' Axlotl tanks to the basement in which Hillary Clinton bathes beneath the blood of the innocent and also stores several classified documents on a flash-drive she got in a box of Frosted Flakes that is encased in a plastic shell shaped like Tony the Tiger, Meyers' passion was heard.

>As the unclean depths of Stephen's digestive tract blasted back into his gelatinous rectum, the late-nite talk show host was propelled into the air by the searing jet of shit-slurry; Stephen ejaculated time and again, his prostate pulverized by the jagged spire of his own fecal matter.
>The momentum created by the last gasp of Seth's now distended and permanently drooping scrotal sack launched Stephen through the wall of his L.A. home, up through the atmosphere, beyond Fort Gingrich on the Lunar surface, past Venus and Mercury (each of which, Stephen noted to himself, had been destroyed by man-made global warming many millennia ago, as revealed in the Tyson Gospels), on through the frozen depths until searing heat washed over him.
>As Colbert writhed.... etc.

>>9727730
Yeah, I admit to half-assing that bit. Part of it was a bit of inexperience with drugs on my part, and part of it was me not being able to make up my mind if she was smoking just weed or something stronger. I tried to allude to that towards the end, the idea that whatever she's smoking has her seriously fucked up. But it's a mistake I'll be sure to correct in the future.

>>9723471
That sounds very similar to my goal as well.

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>>9727912

there are things you can do to make it stronger. For example, "popcorn" is made from a "nugget" of the plant bud, dipped in cannabis resin, and then rolled in "kief", THC-laden powder caught in the trap of a grinder from preparing nuggets for use.

It's expensive to buy premade and time consuming to do yourself though

sometimes it can be sprayed by the seller with weird chemicals which can have effects ranging from mild to severe.

>>9726810
so what i'm hearing is that you liked it, is that correct?

Please RSVP:
Brenda's Birthday Bash
(actual age confidential)
at the beach house in the Antarctic
where we summer after Aspen.
Real Estate, where location isn't everything
when location is everywhere.
So please inquire within
about the banana peeler
and microwaved egg special
made by our maid Marion
who makes amazing Marcus Gravy.
My Thymus throbs for you baby
you put the ass in assisted living.
It might just be my neurosyphilitic dementia
but you're one supremely fuckable Georgia Peach,
your sister a Floridian Orange
who lives w/ me in God's Waiting Room.
23-skidoo.

It is a haunted house by the boneyard;
The shambled swamp of boards and plastic eaves
That flutter in the wind plumes of plushy cushion.
In the window there’s a painted picture,
A swab of white and grey on a dusted canvas,
That is milky and larthy.
It moves, changing face and eye color,
Until it retreats into the corners of the home.
I begin to relate but
I look at the clouds and
I know they birthed the pale pity.
I am haunted by Mother Earth in day
By a mother who has died to night.

My bath buddy the toaster
kissed my burnt lips searing
the underside of the woodwork
cascading truck horns
onto tar, feathers without wherewithal
clogging the plumb line
between Korea and Korea
I can't suspend disbelief
in this solipsistic nightmare
would be a terrible song lyric
unless Lorde farted it out
Love Her—Common's daydream
died in its sleep, wait for it,
it's about to come home
land on the driveway like a Syrian Drone
capitalistically sadistic but hermetic
entropic sundaes keep the kids coming
while orgiastic parents keep the church choir
under oath, Nancy that salacious minx
cut my throat with her Titanium teeth
and mittens sewn for Kevorkian
the stork's dad by day, mother by moonlight
and so he dips the quill back into the well
and discards of this string of switches
vomiting on his sweater vest
that his girlfriend borrowed once before she left
to Detroit to pick up his wallet shipped from El Segundo.
It's a male,
strum.

>>9728343
Yucky

Garbage.

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>>9728261
>It's a male,
>strum.

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>>9712963
>like the columnated ruins, dominoed

https://pastebin.com/y3emtw3Z

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>>9730961
so you liked it, you see the play on words? it's supposed to be a play off of maelstrom, like cacophony

>>9730956
too short

>>9728261
i didn't read it but it's trash

>>9728155
i didn't read it but i really liked the fifth line

>>9728152
>please rsvp
nah

>>9727872
interesting approach to the medium, but i don't think you fleshed out the ideas therein as thoroughly as possible

>>9727829
definitely my favorite piece in the thread. I especially liked the line
>Her mouth parted slightly and she offered up raping breaths at concernedly large intervals

>>9726908
>"Of course not"
nice touch, i like what you did there

>>9724880
yeah it's gonna be a no for me dog

>>9724791
>Over-written. Probably because there ideas behind it are too weakly *emphasized.
autologically sound

>>9724756
unironically i think this is great—you make me wanna write more. I particularly like the selfconsciously fauxcheesy lines
>six sisters sweetly named sin.
>Iƒ only it were love I was in.
>Shark–ƒin.

>9724688
i wrote this, it gave me dysentery

>9724489
this makes me sad, pic related

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Finished this first draft and haven't edited it yet

Please give me some criticism as I go through and fix it up

https://pastebin.com/vDc5Y7em

>>9732686
>hmm
>uh
>oh
Go fuck yourself.

I'm not the best writer out there, so to speak. I made this little snippet as sweeping backstory for a character that I will use to roleplay with.

https://pastebin.com/xSw7BxUQ

I appreciate all criticism, since I'm still pretty new to writing. I'm also not a native English speaker.

>>9732726
Nothing really to speak of note, just very plainly and by-the-book written I guess. It's solid, in other words

>>9712938
>The shop lies eleven fathoms north
left 4chan

>>9732907
>>9716835

>>9732686

too wordy and thesaurus-y desu senpai. tone it down a bit. less is more, look at each sentence and think "which words can I cut out of this without losing the meaning? is this relatively obscure word necessary to tone or content, or would a more common word get to the point faster?" then once you have something concise and punchy, you can think about putting back in a few thesaurus gems, sparingly, like a seasoning.

>>9732726

similar criticism for you, but less so. Opening sentence should not be that long. "Frolick" is a word that it is difficult to use without sarcasm.

>The Circle of Faelorn was the dwelling of the druids, burrows and hovels near the ancient yew tree that lifted its peak far above the forests, the meadows and the riversprings below.
>The druids, folk that, if tales held truth, were attuned with nature such that it listened to their pleas, allowing them to shape it to their needs.
is an example of how you might clean it up.

Read more to write better is a general rule, if your main difficulty is with English, then read more in English. Read fairy tales and Victorian re-imaginings of fairy tales to absorb the kind of tone at which you are aiming. If you want to improve, that is.

For /tg/-tier writing, perfectly acceptable (save editing for clarity/vocabulary), for a novel not so much, so decide what you want to do with it.

i cant for the life of me
afford the cant life of me—
hehehe, the bearded dragon snorts
squirting blood from its eyes
and into the cistern
full of that holy water, stacks of cash.
They think it be like it is,
but do it really? Like for real,
such a simple simplistic touch of ish
and yet the problem remains horny, sticky, and slippery
like an old spinster hagfish stirring up methane at the bed of the bog
just to fuck with Nessie
who wants no more than a meagre $3.50
for a pack of Puerto Rican smokes to smoke hiding from paparazzi.

I considered ending the impromptupperware meal here
feeling a slight tug from the metronome
but the arpeggiator kicked in, catalytic converter catalyzed
a new Boca Raton Beach House driven riff.

(My drug dealer named Riff Raff
sometimes texts me, to see what's good
in the hood, "got dem blues."
And I respond, "I do too.")

heheh

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It's still a work in progress. It's for my sex novel.

--She unzips my pants, and my flaccid footlong unfurls upon her face. "Ooh yes, you like that dontcha?" I mutter. "No, it's not thick enough, this won't work!" This bitch proclaims. She must not know who I am. Maximillian Thor'us is the name, and many thots have been slain for insulting my girth. She is no different. The fingers on my left and right hands fuse together, giving me two blade like appendages. Neato. Time to get to work.

*Various metallic friction noises* suddenly ring into the air. Heh, tough luck thot.


Your thoughts?

>>9733660
id diligently wank my penis in public to this, occasionally eyeing elderly indian women walking by, smiling at them, revealing myself, ejaculating onto the crowd

>>9720962
Feels telematic at times--you start your first two sentences with "the."

>>9712938
He arrived into the dimly lit foyer, the stench of alcohol on his lips. Solemnly and slowly he hung his dreary coat on a hook next to the other slouched forms. It was badly in need of a cleaning. He grazed his hand across it. Rough, dry, bumpy with lint. This was no way to present himself. He had been lucky enough to be invited to such a distinguished event, and yet he still disappointed his peers. Appearance is everything; that is the law of business and even life itself. What does it matter to feel when you can fake it just as much? He wasn't a professional nor as suave as his peers. He imagined them now, at the backyard of the wide expanse that was this mansion, underneath the yellow lights, brows shaded and teeth gleaming, grinning at some obscure joke told in such elegant accents, their forms intermingling until they became indistinguishable and eternal. No, he wasn't professional or suave and he could not fake it. A woman should've dressed him, but he had no wife and he could not live with his mother at such an age.
First paragraph of short story, you can finish it
here.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Bq-fN2Zuhq7XguK3MnniD0IgYwAcG6s5lQ_yo5TGu8A/edit

Civil War is coming soon. Those thoughts were enough to send a shiver of terror down Gawain’s spine as he spread a map of the kingdom over the table. He lit the chamber’s cressets and hearth he took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the new source of light. He heard the wind howl as the door creaked opened. He turned to see it was the king and immediately got down to one knee.

“My King, M-my apologies, I-I have yet finished making the preparations for your council of war,” Gawain said in a murmur.

When he heard no response from the king, Gawain looked up to see the king waved him off and he hastily returned to his duties. As he checked to see if the flagons were filled with wine, his eyes wandered where the king stood, staring at the map pondering. Gawain wondered if he was trying through sheer force of will; make the map to reveal the locations of the rebels’ hideout. Were it so simple my king, thought Gawain. He had overheard of a failed attack of Castle Maetrine from the boasting son of Lord Jan of Ginbel.

Saturn

II (edit)

You're gonna carry that weight.
There's no one, nobody's gotta ask why,
because you're not made for happiness.
All the skies' beds'll drop your dream
since you're not made for happiness, Saturn.
Where off to, sunless, you've that jungle rain soul,
ain't no one who'll house a kink-in-a'-ring.
And you'll make be and move out forever.
You'll slingshoot the dark film, you'll be alone again.
Again and again.
And each second you'll be alone reminding yourself,
it'll be a cold forty-maybe years. Then?
There is no then.
You've got that load none's gonna ask you what for,
let the act yap tills it dries, do again do again.

And you're gonna carry that weight,
until there's no he or she left in the world to love.
Then you'll still carry on, loneliness ain't no less a vengeance.
And you'll die in sixteen languages,
but what does it matter, you'll sing till you're song,
even when you've no one to break the new day with in the morning,
even when you've no one to gaze at clouds with in the evening.
even when you've no one to warm the bed with in the night.
I'd rather be dead than do many things alone.

And you're gonna carry that weight alone,
until the black that bleeds through your white kills you slower.
That's because you aren't made for happiness,
otherwise I wouldn't send you so far away from here.
Day'll rain, does it. Day'll I come and drown it. Wrestle the canopy close and end it.
The sky'll press the dome in, malachite mad, and remedy this fault with open faucet.
With the calm dying, with the clothesline left drying, with snow and brazen thunder-glad
and the welterchildren whose syllables are now incomprehensibly sad, day'll thud on until
water and water can't fill me trying. Then, in ascending elan, drop the clouds name by name.
Adieu, butterflies. And adieu caterpillars, small in the consequence you are, I will not forget,
not the song of mice and bird, no little thing quits.

Is dark.
Is low.
The worst of it is it is.
I don't so much know what the feeling of her is.
And so much of her, so much good, that she deserves better than me.
I am content long as I make her happy.
World's between wonder, you say, and wander.
World between wonder and wander, I am alone.
Whirl on, though I'm alone to the World surround.
Wild, sophisticated, troubled, loud.
I can't hear out of the noise my self's music,
for, with every step, I lose it passo a passo, piu
piano. Only then do I remember, [X]!
I am all alone.
[X], I am alone.

You're gonna go, gonna carry that weight.
Time better hurry, best time not be late.
Time must not betray me.

And it'll be the end of you, Saturn.
No coffin can bear the weight of your ring.

first para
Every year around early December, the cold flows down from the Eastern Highlands and floods the Warrington Shire, creeping down from the hills like viscous lava. It’s always on some cloudless winter’s dusk, presaged by a rough gust which makes the gangling pines dance in that crazy way that reminds Dart of the airdancer outside the car wash on Jackson Street. Winter’s arrival is something Dart eagerly anticipates for no reason other than a desire for change—a change that he always bemoans in retrospect. As long summer days shrink and turn sad, Dart decides that the sting of hot bitumen is preferable to the bite of cold tiles, or worse yet, bed socks wet by a frigid kitchen puddle.

>>9738210

Trying not to be a jerk, but you need to edit for grammar

>(As?) He lit the chamber’s cressets and hearth(,) he took a moment

>He turned to see [it was] the king

> I-I have yet (to) finish[ed making] the preparations

>When he heard no response [from the king], Gawain looked up to see the king wav[ed] him off

>Gawain wondered if he was trying through sheer force of will[;] (to) make the map [to] reveal

>Were it (only) so simple(,) my king, thought Gawain.

>He had [over]heard talk of a failed attack (on? Against? From?) Castle Maetrine from the boasting son of Lord Jan of Ginbel.

[]=Cut, ()= add

>>9712938

Why do hermits live in the country?
The city is a safety net for the young ascetic
A collection of hiding spots, connected by long stretches of little eye contact
You can count the blocks and they will always add up to the same number
You can daydream the night away and the steady noise floor of hums and slams and curses
Keep you company and reassure you that you are not insane because you are not alone
You are never alone in the city and you never have to deal with anyone.

>>9738843

Are you the same guy who wrote about tourists at a lighthouse or something one time?

>>9739683
Perhaps

>>9741206
>gotta protect my anonymity on an anonymous website

>>9739683
no

>>9741206
this isn't me

I don't even know. Maybe it could turn into a Notes From the Underground/The Tunnel-type story. Who knows. Maybe the narrator could be a murderer. We'll see what I can think of and see how it works out

>All I’ve done is avoid it. Writing. Each day I think: /Maybe I’ll sit down, write a couple thousand words. Just let it all flow out/. This is my first attempt. I’m uneasy in all of this, not knowing whether what I’m typing is any good or not. I may never show this to anybody. Could become far too personal. Unless, that is, /these words/, together, as I put them, are well put together. Then this work could become something marketable.

>>9741538
fuck I realized I put together twice in a sentence

>>9712938
I KEEP SEEING THIS IMAGE EVERY TIME I OPEN THE CATALOG HNNNNG

>>9742675
this is a nsfw board!

>>9742832
I thought we were a blue board

>>9744381
not anymore, apparently!

>>9744560
There's no nips and no vag in that picture. It's safe for work, at least technically.

>>9744565
>It's safe for work, at least technically.
The best kind of correct

bumps

BUMPS

>>9728343
I liked the long sentences and how they created character by adding details, but some resumptions, I think, didn't fit in very well; were unnecessary.

>>9712938
not bad. however "dissonant chord-laced piece
of mind."
is too much.