Post writing here and get feedback from other /lit/erates.

If anyone would care to read what I deem my best short story so far, I would appreciate any thoughts or comments.

For convenience reasons, and because it is slightly too long to fit in a single post here, I got a link:

saunter.shaula.uberspace.de/overcast/

I have posted this in the last thread as well and excuse my sorry ass for double posting, but I only got one comment and that hasn't satisfied my self-concious mind.

>>9813302
I really tried and got to the part where you describe the protagonist as stomping like the hulk and call an attractive woman a "thing", and then I skimmed and eventually l stopped doing that. There's a chance I'm way off the mark about this being bad writing and I'm just hopelessly missing the point, like there's some joke I'm not entirely in on, but nonetheless I wasn't interested enough in what you were writing to figure that out. I thought your prose and dialog was trite and in your face and I was turned off almost immediately. I hope this is taken as constructive, because you're obviously, just considering technique, a totally fine writer, I just found this piece uninteresting/bad/cynical to the point of cringing.

>>9813447
>>9813302
And I found the postmodern gimmick your were employing in the beginning (at least that's what I was buckling in for) totally overplayed and just a gimmick at this point.

“It might be something I shouldn't say, but oh well. I'm a racist, always have been. Some races are inherently superior to other races, it's just science. To be honest, some races shouldn't even exist and are totally worthless. When's the last time someone chose to watch NASCAR over Formula 1? Never happens. It's the truth folks.”

Is that funny

>>9813490
No. /pol/ might think so, though.

>>9813501
Is it not funny or just not your type of humor?

>>9813447
Hey man, thanks for giving it a shot. I appreciate your critique. I have to admit that I never really thought about calling the girl a thing and that might be the best I take away from your comment. I can't decide yet whether I actually think it's a bad thing to do or not, but you got me thinking there.

Given that the story couldn't catch you, I'll wait for someone who actually reads through the whole thing before I take further conclusions.

Fast as feet will carry him
he runs the line between
a rising sun and setting night
to find, yet leave, reality.

Born between the sun and moon,
his shadow splits in two.
And from each shadow's point of view
the boy is crowned in heaven's hue.

Racing at his avid pace
blurs each place and face that pass.
But each their shadow's interact
in cosmic masquerade and dance--

Sharing each their stories
in their brief and fleeting meeting,

yet drifting right on by
the boy who's chasing for the sky.

>>9813529
Do you realize what a weird - not to say stupid - question that is?

>>9813529
It's just a little heavy-handed as satire and banal as a joke. It's not all that clever and honestly just reads like something you'd see on a shitpost. I'm not entirely sure what you're going for or which part is supposed to be funny.

>>9813535
It's just something I've noticed doing in my own writing multiple times and it started to come off as totally clichéd to me

>>9813543
why? people do that all the time, they say something is not funny, when in reality its just not their type of humor anon
>>9813552
oh so you saw the double entendre coming?

>>9813800
i think its because you can see the rest of the text before hand which ruins the punch line for speedy eyes. if i said it out loud and tightened the delivery it would be more surprising and effective

>>9813800
>>9813812
this is me btw

They were now all leaning out of respective hatches, lolling helmeted heads, lit cigarettes burning as Romance was speeding up the highway into a sinking sun.
“The Gship, it's a mind with engines, and a biosphere around it can drop you off at any time and place, as many times as you want, or just once.”
“What’s the difference?”
“When you’re actually riding it’s like what you are doing right now but in a non trivial number of universes, you don't notice the ship, it moves you faster than you can perceive.”
“That sounds fucking gay.”
Assistant said, “it's risky not to be scaled up.”
The tank drove wind through the cigarette smoke billowing out the other end.
“Is riskier on a ship or your place, earthboy?”
“No risk on Earths, but you won’t live.”
“Sounds like Blone.”
“Not quite.”
On Blone anyone could order a freshly printed gun from a weapons brokerage, then have bullets and equipment from bespoke smiths delivered. As disintegration accelerated, numerous entities and individuals who identified with the personal will to overthrow the government allocated funds to weapons and training then organized. They could control huge spaces using modern technology and logistics, based on the power of many people carrying masses of material, coordinated by comms. When Acorp started funding a large proportion of them, while still armed and locally autonomous, they became directed at a corps level from a small central source by an AI and executive team. Insurgent numbers swelled and they developed a basic social consciousness, members represented by the colour red.

Two NSA agents walk into a bar. The bartenders says hello gentleman, first time here? the men reply yes it is. The bartender says great, would you like to hear our specials. the agents go no thanks we heard them earlier.

File: short story.jpg (482KB, 2553x625px) Image search: [Google]

482KB, 2553x625px

>>9813288
This is from the beginning of a short story I have written. I will share the whole thing if anyone is interested.

The weird song I've put up as my alarm started blurting at it's designated time. I wake up and the thought of doing nothing crosses my mind like everyday. I shrug it off and proceed to look at my room. A place that looks like someone's there but not very lived in. Not much furniture just a closet and a desk. I go to the bathroom and contemplate existence in the shower. Then it's the usual feast. A cold piece of bread and few rushed gulps of water. I look at the time and well it's on my side right now. I put on fresh clothes ironed last night and proceed to walk to my institution. I never seem to remember my walks maybe because I'm either thinking during those or I'm looking down and miss anything interesting. I reach class 10 minutes early like a good boy. Everyone is settling in and I get to my usual seat. Proceed to waste 15 minutes of my life tinkering with my phone. And as I look up I remember exactly why I chose this seat. She seems as fragile as ever. With her slender figure making small movements when she laughs with her friends. She's smart, beautiful and the usual. But yet there's something unusual about her. She almost stops during her gossips and just stares down. Like thinking of something or someone. That thought crosses my mind like everyday and I leave her to be as I focus on the teacher's voice over the guy behind me who's trying to break the atoms of the chewing gum in his mouth.

File: DFvA2dQXkAA5qsZ.jpg (41KB, 800x482px) Image search: [Google]

41KB, 800x482px

>>9813288
The Tryst
Tragic Romanticism
3097
General impressions, criticism of style, all welcome.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Bq-fN2Zuhq7XguK3MnniD0IgYwAcG6s5lQ_yo5TGu8A/edit
Sample first paragraph: He arrived into the dimly lit foyer, the stench of alcohol on his lips. Solemnly and slowly he hung his dreary coat. 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 nor 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.