Practice

>>9858335
Villenalle

>>9858335
Prose

>>9858847
at a party, and you're just about to get caught talking shit behind someone's back

>>9859189
Like right behind their back? In front of other people as a joke?

>>9858847
high school teacher realizes he/she has been dosed with lsd

>>9859216
Aight, give me a few minutes.

File: image.png (240KB, 949x534px) Image search: [Google]

240KB, 949x534px

>>9859237
copy

>>9859268
Not really 'done' but here

Those little shits actually did it.

I came into work today thinking, knowing those Section 8 motherfuckers would make my day hell. The balding 40-something chemistry teacher always gets shit on. I expected them to ask me why I'm too pussy to make my own viagara, I expected them to 'accidentally' set one of the sinks on fire, I expected them to call me 'Mr. White'. I didn't expect them to evolve. I made the mistake of leaving my coffee on the workspace in the front of the room (side note: is there a proper word or term for a combination sink/bunson burner set up that the teacher would use to demonstrate?) where they all could get to it. They got me while I was reprimanding Warner for groping Tanya in class for the fourth time that week. I don't know if they had planned it before hand. I don't know if this was supposed to be their velvet revolution, or if maybe doing it to eachother got old. But I did know that my one asian student was turning weirder colours than I was used to seeing. He looked at me like I unbottoning my pants for him or something -it wasn't until after the fact that I learned that I was doing just that-.

>>9858335
I'll try writing some prose, don't get your expectations up too much.

Poetry

>>9859319
Someone's about to convert to Christianity after being non religious their whole life, but they feel extreme anxiety about committing them self principally.

>>9859309
Being eighty (born in 1930's) while your grandkid tries to show you his waifu on a smartphone

>>9859340
That's a pretty funny premise, on it.

>>9858339
I switch to prose, then.

>>9859346
>>9859340
(Part 1)

John laid in his old yellowed mattress, gradually awakening from a deep sleep. After up with a grunt and a moan, he burst into a coughing fit that left his throat burning. John was eighty and miserable most mornings, but this morning was different. This morning his beloved son was bringing his beloved grandson over, those two seemed to be the only things to bring John happiness anymore since his wife died at the age sixty seven. At the old age of eighty, John knew he was dying soon. For this reason he wanted to spend as much time with his grandson as possible.

Tim, John's grandson awoke from his sleep, also in pain. Tim however didn't feel pain because of his old age, as he was only sixteen. He instead felt pain because of the toll his three hundred and twenty pound body took on him. Tim didn't feel the excitement his grandfather felt, as he would've rather spent his time watching his favorite anime, "Cyber Ninja Training Academy".

Tim's father, David, drove Tim over to his grandfathers house. Before getting out of the car, David told Tim to be polite and that his grandfather looks forward to seeing them.

John smiled when he saw the car arrive. David and Tim got out of the car, and David waved to the window John looked out of, while Tim stood awkwardly in the heat. John was sad to see that Tim hadn't lose any weight. John reflected momentarily on how he was at his peak shape at sixteen while David and Tim walked up to the door. He would've gotten up from his chair to greet his son and grandson as they came in, but his legs gave him trouble.

>>9859390
(Part 2)

The door opened.
"Hi dad!" David said loudly as he opened the door.
"Hey Davey! Hey Timmy! Come on in, I'd get up but my legs aren't what they used to be! Please, take a seat!"

From there, David and his dad burst into conversation. David told about his new job, John talked about the TV shows he was watching, David talked about his first girlfriend since the divorce, and they both talked about politics and current issues. All the while Tim sat silently and awkwardly, occasionally smiling to himself about something or other. John diverted the attention.

"And Tim! What's new with you?" John asked.
"Oh, well not much. Last time we met I was really into video games but I've matured a little bit, now instead I'm getting really into anime and Japanese culture."
"Wow, it's great that you're taking interest in foreign culture, that sound very academic of you! But what's.. An-ee-may?"
"It's a form of animation very popular in Japan" Tim replied. He was now smiling, as he is always happy to talk about Japan and anime.
"How about friends? Have you gotten your first girlfriend yet? I remember I got my first girlfriend at your age, she was my first kiss."
Tim hesitated. "I don't have a girlfriend.. But I do have a crush on a girl".

John was happy to hear he at least had a crush. He seemed to be such a strange boy, but having a crush made him seem more normal. David however, looked down in shame.

"And what's this girl's name?" John asked with a smile.
"Akiko" replied Tim, also with a smile.

Prose pls

>>9859390
>>9859441
Not good mane, sorry. Banal and cliche. Like you took each word from the guys prompt and build each paragraph around it. No creative thought outside of the information you were given. You've gotta make a character, at least. Put them in places--let things happen. Don't give us flashcards with crayon drawings on them. Give us something real.

Prose Prompt:

While working on a yacht off the coast of Spain you find a man treading water with no other boats around. You pull him on board at the yacht owners request and you find he has no tongue (it was cut out, some time ago) and a plastic bag containing 10 grand and a brick of coke.

>>9859449
Defending a medieval castle wall as it's being besieged when you look over and watch several fellow guardsman begin to break rank and murder their and your fellow men in arms. You have only a bow and dagger, he has a shortsword and shield and chainmail on. The assaulting enemies is just about to break through.

>>9858339
What does that mean

>>9859331
Nine millimeters and seven Hail Mary's
for each ring I'll descend, in Dante's head.
A quick tear and two steps to pit

are the only other means to this end--
pretend the light of love does not shine
lightly against this mind by His end.

Else sterilize wicked wounds from mine
jagged tip of mind. Relief
from walking on glass when willingly blind.

To bring such lacks the very belief
I lack in faith to stop hating myself.
Yet here I sit, unrequited yet bequeathed.

Ready to return to the hearth of the Earth,
or lift these eyes from pits to help and love.

>>9859441
John became more inquisitive while David furthered a shameful look.
"Akiko.. That sounds foreign." commented John.
"Yeah, here's a picture of her!" Tim said excitedly and quickly pulled out his phone. It was exciting for him that someone was interested in his waifu for a change. Tim took his phone out his pocket, opened to one of his many pictures of Akiko, walked over to John's chair, and put the phone in front of his grandfather with a smug grin.

The picture showed a drawn asian woman with exaggerated large eyes and a smile, wearing a red skimpy bikini. The bikini revealed her pale skin, gigantic breasts, and hourglass shape.

John's face sunk. He reflected back to when he was sixteen. He'd end his work day at the factory exhausted and excited. He hated his job but needed it to support his family. The job he hated however, only made him more and more excited to see his first love at the end of the day. Marilyn was a beautiful blonde girl. She was five feet and five inches, built like a delicate twig. Every once in a while she would catch John staring at her tiny perky rear end, or small but firm breasts. She had the sweetest smile, and laughed like an angel. Her blue eyes radiated purity. At that age John was very physically fit, not by choice but rather as a product of manual labor. Him and his Marilyn made a beautiful and sweet couple. They'd do everything they could together, wether it be sitting on a porch with friends or going to church.

At the time, even if his family was poor John was happy. He was happy to have a roof over his head and some food to eat, not to mention the girl he loved so dearly. All this out weighed him having to work up a sweat at a factory, it seemed him praying every day had paid off.

He now thought about his son, sitting in his own filth watching cartoons and developing romantic feelings for an animated character. He had so many things John never had as a kid, yet he was such a poor excuse for a young man. John wondered how Tim could ever lose all that weight, as he looked like an acne ridden blob. John wondered how Tim had even gotten this fat. It must've taken years of sitting around doing nothing but playing video games and watching idiotic Japanese cartoons.

John thought about David now, this was clearly a result of David's parenting. John must not have been a good enough father, one must lead by example after all. The cruel reality sunk in that John had somehow failed as a father. He tried so hard, how could this happen? Tim was the last descendant of the Smithers bloodline. Oh god, what a nightmare this was for John. Tim would never have kids! Instead of having sex he would masturbate to cartoon characters! His bloodline was doomed and it was all his fault for not being a good enough parent.

A white light showed, and John more then happily escaped to it.

>>9859458
I read a decent amount, but this is my first time trying Prose (except for high school english class). It's a shame that I suck, probably shouldn't of put the effort in. ;_;

>>9859488
A poem in the form of Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. I think I switched an 'e' and an 'a' though. Villanelle*

>>9859494
Good stuff

>>9859467
>While working on a yacht off the coast of Spain you find a man treading water with no other boats around. You pull him on board at the yacht owners request and you find he has no tongue (it was cut out, some time ago) and a plastic bag containing 10 grand and a brick of coke.

"Senor! Look at what he has in his hand!" I said, pulling the man onto the boat.
"Por dios, por dios! I did not know that coke came in bricks," the yacht owner cried, snatching the bag away. "And look at his tongue! You man from the water, go lie down over there. Vamanos!"
"Senor, do you think we should report this to the policia? They could be looking for him."
"Don't be silly my servidor! You are not thinking clearly. This is worth thousands of euro! Thousands!" he said, waving the bag in my face.
"Well then," I took a step closer, "I believe I deserve a reward."
"A reward? Estas loco? For what? Pulling him out the water? Idiota this is my boat! Without me there is no pulling out of water. Your reward is you aren't fired."
I sighed in defeat and walked over to the man with no tongue. He was lying back on a chair breathing heavily. As he heard my footsteps nearing he sat up quickly and motioned for me to come near. I keeled on the ground next to him. He reached into his swimsuit, fishing around his crotch. He then pulled out what appeared to be a rubber tongue and shoved it onto the stump of his tongue. The dingy man pulled me closer and whispered in my ear with a rubbery lisp, "Thhhhe ghold. It ish hiddeshn in ststhe abanshoned housh on the ighland. you shaved my life! Take thhe gohld!"

>>9859467
didn't really know where i was going with this

He made the awkward sobbing of a deaf man after he warmed up. That morbid hum shook the grocery bag he clutched near his face till it sounded like flies circling over him. Mr. Jeffers came to speak and play hero, causing him to shrink further.

“Are you okay? I saw you out there and I was so worried! Goodness, you’re like a leaf!”

Jeffer’s pale hand reached out to him, or rather, reached for him and grasped the brown plastic. Shooting up like a geyser, he wailed inhumanly, tremoring while I saw why he didn’t speak. The floor of his mouth was cartoonish and flat, hedged by a spotty set of teeth. He growled more like a child than a wolf, with no tongue pressed behind his grin. He jerked back and the bag ripped open, flinging money all over the deck. With a thud and then a gulp, we all looked down at the white brick. Jeffer’s started stammering until he was as dumb as the man scrambling to recollect the money scattered.

>>9859516
To fight through the cold (winter), knowing that the warm (spring) is sure to soon follow.

>>9859542
That was good for the shitty prompt

>>9859568
The frost will find its way away from me.
The wind will calm itself and rain will fall,
as spring will thaw my earthly body free.

This shore of ice has shored against my key
to lock this ghastly winter in my call,
but frost will find its way away from me.

The scent remembered still of flowered tree
retraced this cooling path with trem’bling scrawl.
The spring will thaw my earthly body free

or stone or colder things. The honey bee
will wake from slumbering inside its wall,
for frost will find its way away from me.

Though cold and steely chains encumber me,
the lovely bloom will purchase winter’s thrall,
and spring will thaw my earthly body free.

Unless death come first and I never see
the sun grow warm and sun ‘come slow to fall,
the frost will find its way away from me,
as spring will thaw my earthly body free.


That was fun. Thanks

Poetry

>>9860223
A fishing pole lying in the water.

>>9860422
Nor the dude who you replied, but I'm gonna give this a shot

Stop voicing prompts in the second person you redditing faggots. "You" this, "You" that. These aren't real prompts. They offer only a singular direction and shoehorn a writer into fulfilling the author's expectation. Half of them tell the story on their own, serving as one-off jokes. They kill the exercise and destroy the medium. Seriously, fuck you people.

>>9860422
Some great old kingfisher, who skims
along rims of river water,
has left their rod and bait within
the currents which gently wander.

The plastic worm waves while hanging
sideways from it's transparent line--
cast unknowingly by meandering
waters with no purpose in mind.

Salmon, carp, and gar swim along
beds of stone which stir the river
to life through a trickling song;
crawfish hide while minnow quiver.

Murky water muddles the vision
of smallmouth hunters seeking feed.
Plastic worms may be mistaken
for the sustenance that they need.

In some forgotten, woodland steam,
at night while fishermen will dream,
a fish fights with forgotten bait
and the standstill reel of its fate.

>>9861029
You literally have no idea what your talking about.

This >>9859340 has just as much potential as this >>9859568. Sorry you have a narrow mind.

>>9861045
Passive aggressive, and burdened with poor grammar and worse opinions. You are the rotting mind of a generation.

prose ?

>>9861117
Active articulation for casual posting on 4cgan is a sign of autism. Taking clear-cut aggression as passive means you're quite closeted as well. Repelling from 'fact' to opinion has revealed your ignorance. Realize constraints don't hinder prompts, only those who aren't skilled or imaginative enough to work with them.

>>9861136
Seeing a severed bird wing but no body

>>9861144
Flaccid and defensive. An animal bites, a man reasons. Sometimes with himself.

>>9861187
>is it rabid?
>perhaps feral?
>why nip at itself then flash fang to me?
>is it blind?

I like to watch, but think I'll leave.

give me a poetic form and a prompt plz

>>9861225
>Sonnet

>a cold and lonely winter night

>>9861029
Careful, your 18 is showing

>>9861225
A sonnet about the oozing feling you get from a rotting corpse

>>9861245
whoop, whoop

As dark surrounds the fire and pressed the cold
against my back, a dusky mood took hold.
The only eyes around this night are stars,
and they are hung in air above and far
too far to reach. Yes, not an eye but them
or mine. Yes, not a light save mine they hem.
The pallored snow a sickly symbol shored
against the lively ash this fire poured,
but watch it melt! No eyes, but god the sky
is full of stars! A trillion gems to pry
from air and sell to better poets cheap.
My god the glories froze upon this heap
of solitude are sweeter than the flame
of kin’s or friend’s love by another name.

>>9861296
happy now?

The sores and pus, the scabs and rust of dead
unearthed by spade and vice are laid out flat.
Mucosal slickness shines around the head,
especially the nose and mouth. The gnats
surround inside the sticky air and flit
about this putrescence. What bitter luck!
For knife to press against the corpse and slit
a cove with which I can begin to fuck!
My moribund attempt to reconnect
my heart and duchess, prick and lover’s hold
would be unseemly should I press this wreck
I am against a warm I knew now cold.
Make no mistake what I know feel is lust,
so I carve out a putrid place to thrust.

>>9861371
>far too far
Dropped

>>9861796
Rude

>>9858335
This idea is brilliant OP, i've never seen posts with this thematic.

I hope I see more from now on.

Prose - a man with a fear of water is gifted a goldfish and was too polite not to accept

>>9861371
Not to side with the other guy, but you did swap tenses in the first sentence. That's like a 101 no-no.

>>9862549
Got tired of seeing the same shit for community writing. Got tired of hitting mental blocks. Figured this would make a good thread for both parties participating since writing for a prompt and coming up with one are each good creative exercises.

>>9862562
Gotta read the OP man. You can give someone a prompt, or post a medium you wish to write in, then receive a prompt. Not both in one.

>>9862932
whoops, didn't proofread thanks for pointing it out!

Poetry. Dealer's choice on specific kind.

I can't help but notice that you guise have become a bunch of cocksucking faggots during my absence. What happened to /lit/? Are there to many reddit dicks on the plate?

>>9862946
Ghazal on the loss of God

>>9862938
No prob. Given the time limit, it's honestly a tough exercise for up to moderate writers. Little edit and proofread time.

Give me prose

>>9863021
You're peeling an orange but a little bit of the juice squirts right into your eye

Prose? be back in an hour to write it

>>9862953
Never written in this form before. I think I got it right. I struggled desu.

Stars will drip off harvest moon.
Tears that slip in darkest gloom.

Doom does black this faithless night,
soon to weep all motes of light.

Bright will shine the hollow eye
Right center of dewy sky--

This glint from a distant sun
gives hint of false reflection.

Then, bleeding slow, forgotten,
them liquid suns, dropping,

will feed dirt the light of life.
Still tonight, I'll kick the earth

Birth may and will come again;
first my eyes must loose a sun.

>>9863076
Watching your child play with your favorite toy when you were a child

>>9863028
Lol.

Or...

>>9863021
Your best friends mother has just passed, and they seek utterly unphased by it.

>>9863100
That's more of a conventional rhyming couplet, but don't fret, the first time I tried to write one I thought every line had to rhyme with each other. A Ghazal only has one rhyme (the first couplet) and then repeats the final word/phrase of the second line at the end of the subsequent couplets. Thanks for running with it though, it was a fun read.

Here's a famous one

What will suffice for a true-love knot? Even the rain?
But he has bought grief’s lottery, bought even the rain.

“our glosses / wanting in this world” “Can you remember?”
Anyone! “when we thought / the poets taught” even the rain?

After we died--That was it!--God left us in the dark.
And as we forgot the dark, we forgot even the rain.

Drought was over. Where was I? Drinks were on the house.
For mixers, my love, you’d poured--what?--even the rain.

Of this pear-shaped orange’s perfumed twist, I will say:
Extract Vermouth from the bergamot, even the rain.

How did the Enemy love you--with earth? air? and fire?
He held just one thing back till he got even: the rain.

This is God’s site for a new house of executions?
You swear by the Bible, Despot, even the rain?

After the bones--those flowers--this was found in the urn:
The lost river, ashes from the ghat, even the rain.

What was I to prophesy if not the end of the world?
A salt pillar for the lonely lot, even the rain.

How the air raged, desperate, streaming the earth with flames--
to help burn down my house, Fire sought even the rain.

He would raze the mountains, he would level the waves,
he would, to smooth his epic plot, even the rain.

New York belongs at daybreak to only me, just me--
to make this claim Memory’s brought even the rain.

They’ve found the knife that killed you, but whose prints are these?
No one has such small hands, Shahid, not even the rain.

>>9863117
>>9863100

oh and the syllables before the refrain are supposed to rhyme

Bob Gold had never done a criminal thing in his life, nor had the idea of doing anything unlawful ever seriously occurred to him.

The wallet that lay beside his chair was not only full; it was literally stuffed. It lay on the floor near his feet where it had fallen.

His action was as purely automatic as an action can be. He let his Racing Form slip from his lap and cover the billfold. Then he sat very still, his heart pounding. The fat man who had dropped the wallet was talking to a friend on the far side of the box. As far as Gold could see, his own action had gone unobserved.

The horses were rounding into the home stretch, and when the crowd sprang to its feet, he got up, too. His mouth dry, he nudged the wallet with his foot off to his left. Blindly he stared out at the track. He was a thief... he had stolen money... how much?

Panic touched him suddenly. Suppose he had been seen? Perhaps he should leave, get away as quickly as possible.

Cool sanity pervaded him. No, that would never do. He must remain where he was, go through the motions of watching the races.

After the sixth race, several people got up to leave, and Gold followed suit. It was not until he was unlocking his car that he realized there was a man at his elbow.

He was a tall, dark-eyed handsome young man, too smoothly dressed, too--slick. And there was something sharply feral about his eyes. He was smiling unpleasantly.

"Nice work!" he said. "Very nice!" Now, how about a split?"

>>9863117
That actually seems like a lot of fun to write. Man I wasn't even close though. I think I'll practice one if these next time I write. That poem you shared is very good.

>>9863183
Which prompt is this for?

>>9863192
They are, talking about them made me want to write one to

>hat poem you shared is very good.
agreed, makes me sad how people how people discount contemporary (or in this case near-contemporary) verse

>>9863205
Modern generations have too much access to distractions and offhand knowledge. It's easy to discredit their artistic beliefs to those of old. Where lives were much more ingrained and isolated. While this also includes me, I do still believe gems such as this style and it's masters may yet be uncovered.

File: Boruch.jpg (46KB, 920x689px) Image search: [Google]

46KB, 920x689px

>>9863236
do you have any contemps you like?

pic-related's one that's been growing on me

the work that got me into her
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/92670/keats-is-coughing

>>9863262
Not particularly. I have very limited internet access, and hate reading a lot off my phone. What books I read (can afford) are usually collected works of past great poets. I like Eliot, Dante, Keats, Dickinson, Byron, and such. Like I said, not that I don't believe contemporary's aren't skilled; I just don't have easy access.

>>9863262
I dunno. I appreciate that poem, but don't admire it. It's clever, but drags on. Like a rambling thought rather than a rolling image. It was good at first. But by the time she defined undersong, I was fairly disinterested. I liked the Ghazal much more.

>>9863378
That's fair. I've mostly read older works myself, but the more I write, the more I want to look around me.

>>9863404
I can see why you'd say that, but I disagree pretty strongly with you're assessment. Strikes me more as patient than rambling.

>>9863425
Agree to disagree, brother. Nothing personnel.

>>9863110
>Watching your child play with your favorite toy when you were a child
"Oh look dad. It's one of your old toys," my daughter said as she pulled a wooden gun out of the cardboard box she was emptying. Her phone rang and she got up to leave the room, leaving the toy gun lying on the floor. "I'll be right back, you watch bobby for me."
I glared at her from my wheelchair as she left the room. I hated it when she talked to me as if I were still my old self, when I was able to move. I'm sure she knew how I hated her brat son. The little child crawled over to the toy gun. I loved that gun. When I was young I would shoot Indians and Germans. I carried it with me everywhere. Looking at it now, with all of its dents and scratches brought back many wonderful memories. All of which faded away when I saw little Bobby slobbering all over it. "Get your hands off of that!" I screamed in my head.
"Die grappa, argh!" the boy lisped, holding the barrel with his clumsy little fingers and hitting me in the knee with the gun.

prose

>>9864472
a young boy, naturally in awe with the world, begins an expedition of discovery whereupon the greeting of a talkative ghost is made, of which is opinionated towards a world the child doesn't understand but attempts to interpret

>tfw trying iambic pentameter
How do I git gud?

"He stood upon the shore and saw his ship
his pride descend and break against the reef
it broke like waves and surf against his feet."

How do I write a Greek epic?

Hopefully this time it won't fuck up my formatting.

>>9864761
What in general do you feel like you struggle with when you try to write it?

Poetry

>>9866022
Sense essay about erasing with a pencil too vigorously

Hard mode: iambic tetrameter in quatrains

>>9859515
Woah this is not the thing to take away from that criticism, my man. Trying is brave enough. You can always try to improve, if you care enough.

Here's a prompt: Pus landed on something precious, maybe it's contaminated now.

>>9866478
Alright. I've gotta get off work first. Can't invest in that in down time. Gimme an hour.

Play scene.

I just want some kind of conflict, not plot direction.

>>9866637
This.

>>9859458
If you wanna write, can't take heat personally. Just keep working at it until you develop a sense of what you're really trying to accomplish when you begin writing something. If you aren't naturally drawn to doing it, then maybe writing isn't for you. But you can't try once and give up when it isn't good.

>>9866703
A man who abuses his wife

>>9866710
I'm intrigued by how trite this conflict is. I hope to come up with something in time and share it with you!

prose

>>9866739
Getting something better than what was expected, but still being upset.

>>9858335
I made this post, still embarrassed about the awkward writing style desu

>>9866759
/lit/ seems to like it, congrats on some attention.

>>9858335
Prose

File: john lennon3.png (257KB, 444x733px) Image search: [Google]

257KB, 444x733px

>>9866710
Not him but I had to take this opportunity to wrong something about John Lennon. Did you know that he beat his wife?

----
John Lennon busted down his front door. It was four hours past midnight and alcohol surged through his veins like the Amazon river during wet season. He fumbled around the wall trying to find a light switch. After locating and almost breaking the switch, John swung his head around and directed his droopy eyes at his wife, Cynthia Lennon, who stood upright on the opposite side of the room.

Cynthia's facial expression had a clear sense of worry, though lacked any shred of surprise. This was the third time this week that John had army-crawled back home from the pub with enough alcohol in his system to kill a horse. Cynthia's worry was not for John's safety. The tiny hairs on her arms were raised and the goosebumps collected together like a colony of flesh-colored ants.

John, contending with the simple task of walking, inched closer to Cynthia. Her heart started to beat like John's whenever he insufflated a line of cocaine. One second she saw her husband stumbling towards her and the next she was on the floor. She saw the all-so-familiar red river flow on her kitchen tiles. Saltwater evacuated her eyes and mixed with the blood. She stared at her wedding band. That was all she could could stare at. She wouldn't dare make eye contact with John.

As Cynthia heard John's footsteps growing rumbling away further and further from her, she closed her eyes. As her mind began to drift off, she heard a baby's cry coming from upstairs.

>>9866782
A lone Spartan trying to survive a battle against 3 Persians so he can go back home and get his oneitis pregnant to continue his bloodline.

Poetry

>>9866840
The moon and it's beauty despite the surface imperfections

>>9866729
You don't have to write it; I could've given you a different one.

>>9866860
nah, it's a challenge worthy of taking on.

>>9859515
No way fucker, you're going to work harder. It's not going to be good because you want it to be: you're going to have to work at it. Nobody is good when they first start, even the greats obsessed over their masterpieces, sometimes for years, and still thought it could be better after it was released. Writing is hard, it sucks a lot of the time, but don't give up. The other anon is right, just putting the effort in skyrockets you above all the people who want to write but don't.

>>9866828
I'm about to dip but here's the first part

He wonders how large her belly is, he’s never seen a pregnant woman before. As a child he grew up thinking he’d only copulate with boys, he was the favourite of the teachers. His blood would never run cold when he was with his teachers, a fellating stallion. He was called Perseus.

>>9866854

Some days I lay at the ocean's periphery
and I wait on a word from you

Because I hate the long wait towards night
and I can tell when you shine through

That you long for me as I do for you
a vision draped in light blue

You appear where you shouldn't a phantom
in the daytime a gift too good to be true

And despite what some may call 'surface imperfections' its stunningly, perfectly you

>>9866637
>>9866705
>>9866892
Thanks fellas

>>9867255
Just passing by. I saw this on the front page while mashing F5 and I really liked it. I felt like I needed to drop into the thread to say well done, anon. Can you post some other poetry you've written?

>>9867270
Did you mean to quote him? That was the anon who was a clear beginner

I will be writing poetry, please prompt me.

>>9866900

This is an odd take on that prompt anon

>>9866936
Pretty decent but the last line sounds so forced it ruins the whole thing. I think you can do better than that.

>>9867382
It is raining while the sun is out

>>9861038
Shit was cash bruh

>>9868499
I agree. It may have worked better if I didn't know the prompt. It feels dropped in there; which may just be because time. Otherwise a few more lines of symbolism around the imperfections would've been better. I did like the imagery of describing the moon during the day though.

bumping this while I write my poem

>>9862953
I went back and tried this the right way. Still not exactly right. It is fun, but tough with a time limit. Here's what I got, and I will be continuing this, and editing this, outside this thread to touch up rhythm and form:

Wait. Wait and see, patiently.
See the sky: Sea of sky -wait-

si, a cloud. A cloud or two
adrift in sea of blue. Wait.

Too, see land. A sea-shore line.
Where green and blue combine. Wait.

A soft stream sky-sea flowing,
blowing over fir and -wait-

skin--waterfalling down to
horizontal land-lakes. Wait.

Taste the moon-sugar blending
with sky-river's kiss. Await

refreshing bliss from a sip
of lung this rushing rill. Wait--

unroot--de-weed floor of feet.
Carry up the current, wait,

and brave the deep which turns black.
Patiently, just see and wait.

Blended sugar turns to salt
which glitters in the dark. Wait

through pain from salt-in-wound to
see the sun, and moon, await-

ing simultaneously
those patient to sit and wait.

>>9868948
Give up?

>>9858335
Prose

>>9858335
porno

>>9870711
Riding on a plane to a major city while sitting next to two pure-blood Arabic men wearing full customary attire, including turbans.

>>9870713
In late Middle School as a pre teen boy and a MILF teacher keeps you after class to punish you for bad behavior.

>>9870805
Boooring.

>>9870711
The new, just turned 18, waitress at your job has everyone turning heads. She's got that look in her eye where you know she can suck a mean dick, with long blonde hair and a black, braided choker. You steal glances and are certain she never notices. One night, after you finish closing the kitchen, she stands by your car--biting her lip as she watches you approach.

>>9870755
I already knew the plane ride was going to suck; I had the middle seat. But, ideally, I could put my headphones on, queue up my ambient playlist, shut my eyes before we hit 40,000, and sleep through the whole thing. So when boarding began I accepted my fate and took my seat. But, nearly the whole plane boarded, and I remained alone. Things were looking up. Maybe by some chance both my left and right friends missed boarding. Suddenly, the flow of traffic into the plane stopped. No one else was coming, and I was alone. I could hardly believe my luck. Nothing like this had ever happened to me. But just as I began my silent cheer, the peace was disturbed by loud yelling, in a language that was something other than English. Suddenly, two men, both tall, bulky, and hairy. They were yelling in Arabic as they lumbered down the aisle to the back of the plane, where I sat in astonishment. An airline employee was close behind, but her yells for attention were ignored by the men. They were making a beeline for my row. All of the joy I had just conjured disappeared. I knew my fate. The rear Arab stopped yelling at his friend and turned to the woman employee. "We payed for these tickets, and I'm getting to New York whether you want me to or not. Please let me take my seat." All eyes were on her now. Fine, she said.
"Please remain calm for the rest of the flight. "
"Calm? This is preposterous, all we've done is-". His companion cut him off, and beckoned right towards me. The rowdy one huffed in anger and continued towards my empty seats. I stood up to let one in. He nodded in appreciation. I was pretty sure the whole plane was looking at me. And all I wanted to do was sleep. So I closed my eyes and prayed I would wake up safely in New York.

I did not. They had snuck a bomb into their checked baggage, and detonated it right as we were in our final descent. Every single person on the plane died, and the wreckage injured 48 and killed 3 in Queens below. I should've known they were up to something, but there's nothing I really could've done about it. So that's how I died. In the middle seat, sleeping, on my way home from visiting my parents. There was nothing I could do about it is all I can ever tell myself now.

>>9870843
Eh.

I at least got a chuckle out of the whole 'thinking you've got the whole row to yourself when two, large Arabic men cram on either side of you' shtick.

But otherwise it felt like John Green trying to write a joke.

poeme

>>9868793
Water droplet forms
Earth bound it passes through air
Sunlight warms it there

>>9870888
Walking through the woods in early spring

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>>9870894

Prose but I'm a beginner so it'll probably suck

prose

>>9870909
You have no aesthetic appreciation pleb.

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2MB, 327x240px

>>9870941

>>9870916
A kid having a typical breakfast at home but the parents seem distant and distracted

>>9870903
I walk through the woods in early spring
The flowers are blossoming
Bees are buzzing
Birds are chirping
The trees have thick foliage
The sun is out
I'm gonna commit suicide
It's early spring

>>9870918
Walking home at night when someone ambushes you. They have a knife, and seem like they may be on PCP

>>9870955
niggerly baboon
posts a sniggering buffoon
protip: both are (You)

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>>9870974
Even the joke was trite

>>9870983
Honestly form was better here.
Still not a real haiku. Still one of the easier poetic forms. And you still can't get it right.

>>9871007
Tell me anon just how sharp are katanas?

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>>9859640
That was, actually, really pretty.

prose

>>9870980
Six inches of sharp steel separates me from his face. Sweaty forehead, dilated eyes, and blood in his teeth. We're alone outside Fry St., lit under the circle of a sodium vapor lamp, I'm pressed up against the back of the dumpster. Hot, humid breath fogs up the knife pressed against my cheek. It turns, a few drops of blood drip down my cheek onto my Hawaiian shirt.

"Just calm down. Back away."

Slowly, the point of the knife pulls away from my cheek, more blood now spilling down into droplets on the concrete before us. A few more steps back, he drops the knife to his side, keeping his eyes directly on me.

"Now I know why John Candy killed himself."

The car collision occurred just about five seconds after that. A dull, quick thud and then his corpse on ground, blood running from his head formed a puddle shaped kind of like Arkansas, his eyes still hadn't left mine.

>>9871078
A segregationist who isn't racist, but just has severe OCD.

>>9870885
fair enough, but can you expand on your criticism a little bit? I'm not really sure what you mean

prose

>>9871047
Much more than your poems.

>>9871084
Your approach was adolescent. You took the most obvious approach to the prompt, you chose a cliche narrative voice for Y.A., and you used a cliche device of having the narrator be dead. You essentially had one good joke which occupied a narrative stereotype borderline racist.

>>9871133
An American chef and US military veteran held captive in North Korea being forced to cook for Kim Jong Un at gunpoint. The North Koreans do not know he is a veteran.

>>9868499
>>9868899
Thanks for the feedback, I agree the ending is lame and sucks, but I wanted to fulfill the time requirement more than I wanted to think of an ending.

Poetry

>>9871317
The lingering anxiety and uncertainty after the gunfire falls silent at the end of a military engagement, from the perspective of a rifleman.

Poetry

>>9871297
Thank you, I appreciate the feedback. This is pretty much the first time I've written something and posted it publicly and I needed good criticism. Thanks.

>>9871341
Breath fogging in the air in the pre-dawn light of a hazy forest in late autumn.

Didn't realize there was a time limit, but here it is anyway.

>>9871083
At 9 PM precisely the doors will close. The steel will sound like the passing of a freight train and a lock will be fastened neatly at the bottom and he will run his fingers down the rivulets--the gentle waves--feeling a satisfaction born of complete routine. With all the automatic compulsion of a watch hand ticking its seconds.

Mr. Cleaver is not a niggerlover. He has nothing against the niggers, the spooks, the jungle bunnies, the coloreds, the blacks but he does not like them. He only likes to keep a clean shop. He wipes the counter every 10 minutes. He wipes the cash register every 17 minutes--the largest prime number before 20. Beyond 20 minutes is unthinkable. Beyond 20 minutes he begins to get antsy and picks at the dirt beneath his fingernails. Viciously. He has drawn blood before. He dusts and restocks the shelves every 15 minutes. There is a room in the back with various confectionery, big bars of chocolate, colorful bags of potato chips, clear glass bottles of soda pop, darker glass bottles of alcohol, beer, whiskey, wine, olive oil. All this is brought out of packaging and refrigeration and arranged on his shelves like bowling pins and attacked with a small, white duster--the kind used by the french maids in the movies. Mr. Cleaver is sometimes ashamed of this comparison, though it is purely internal, and then the fingernails will bleed. But he has trained himself not to think of it often.

His hands are clean. He frequents a small bathroom in the back. It has the dimensions of a closet. It has a small mirror that has a large diagonal crack breaking all the light it reflects. A small picture is tucked on the bottom left, black and white, a pale, delicate young woman, sitting beneath a tree, with a smile suggesting secrets, aligned perfectly with the mirror's corner. It has a porcelain sink with metal knobs and a steel, movable faucet. It has good water pressure. And Mr. Cleaver knows that the water is clean. He knows the right people. He calls the right people every 2 weeks. They know him by name. They know him by voice. They know him even before he calls, strictly 12:00 noon, every two weeks, a Tuesday. And in a way he is a comfort to them, as much as they are to him. He is a sign of simple order to the 17 people working in the water maintenance plant by Lake Dores. To them he is the patient regularity of sunshine and though they lie to him, or half-lie, they nonetheless speak with as much earnestness as though they were telling the absolute truth. Mr. Cleaver trusts them and his hands are under the water at least 3 dozen times during the course of the day. His eyes draw every time to the picture on the mirror. It's hard to tell the true numbers; some things Mr. Cleaver does not count.

1/2

poetry please and thank you

>>9871361
On the night of April 18th, 8:49 PM, two niggers pull into Mr. Cleaver's shop. Mr. Cleaver has nothing against niggers, but it is nearly closing time and his shop is mostly frequented by whites, people whose names he knows. Whose children's names he knows. The perturbation of the average, the metric mean, is calamitous. Mr. Cleaver starts to sweat. The two niggers are quiet. The tall one, with a long, horselike face and sideburns, whispers something to the other one. The shorter, squat one, with well-defined muscle tone, chuckles. They weave like cats between the shelves, brushing their hands against the cans of aerosol sprays and window cleaner that Mr. Cleaver has carefully arranged.

The niggers wear crisp business suits, ironed, well-maintained. They walk with the assurance of accomplished men. Each step with the weight and gravity of fully realized dreams.

They dally, making small talk, leaning against opposite shelves. The tall one pops open a bottle of cola, the squat one brings out a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lights one. 8:53 PM. Mr.Cleaver's fingernails seem suddenly soiled.

"We're closing." Mr. Cleaver's voice comes out hoarse and rigid. He hates himself and instantly the hatred is directed outward, like a beam of light bouncing off of water.
"What's that?" Says the tall one.
"We're closing." He points to the white clock standing above the frozen goods. He raises his eyebrows to compel them to look. They see. 8:56PM. The pressure is mounting inside his stomach like flood waters against a dam.
"We won't be a minute." Says the squat one. The tall one nods and the niggers return to their conversation. Mr. Cleaver can feel every blade of time sliced out by the clock. 8:57. 8:58. His fingers smell now, he is certain. He needs to wash. He needs to clean the nails. He needs to close the shop. He clears his throat. It doesn't work. He tries again, louder, intending to cut into their quiet conversation. They look at him with a dull, condescending stare.

He hates them now. The forefinger's nail digs savagely into the side of the left thumb, lifting its sheath until it becomes painful. There is a gun below the counter, a Mossberg 590. A 12 gauge. Black. Red and golden shells in an unopened white package right next to it. Dust over the whole thing, the gun and shells and the packaging. There were things Mr. Cleaver did not clean.

Unconsciously, with almost the same automaticity as his other routines, his hand reaches for the gun. It is cool despite the spring heat and despite the warmth of Mr.Cleaver's frail, sweating hands. 8:59 PM. Every millimeter the second hand spans is a pound of stone sinking his stomach. Slowly, his other hand fumbles for the white packaging, closing around a shell. Slowly the gun slides across its shelf. His other hand joins the first, shell between forefinger and thumb.

Slowly the niggers return to the counter. 9:01 PM.

>>9871386
a man smoking a cigarette on a rainy night in the city catches the eye of a woman doing the same on the other side of the street

>>9871361
Should be 19* minutes not 17

>>9871323

I've been told many times:
If I think the fighting is finished
I should not look away
I should not look to my superior
Its come up in training
I should keep my focus down the barrel of my gun
And look for the guy looking for his superior

When the last shot is fired, I'm not looking down the barrel of my rifle
I'm looking for my superior
But it feels different
It doesn't feel like training
It feels different because I'm alive and so is he
And he is looking for me and our eyes meet

When you get home the feeling stays with you
You're waiting for it all to start up
You start to itch when you've been waiting awhile
And all you want is for it to actually start
The one-in-million

>>9871361
>>9871388
I really liked this.

>>9871401
Thanks. Glad you liked it, I had fun writing it.

>>9871393

I light up;
I look up.

A wet day's paper washes by my boot.
I take a drag and hold it for a beat.

The rain was cold, sharp as a surgeons knife,
it made me wish that I had brought my coat.

I raise my eyes to look across the street
and see a woman waiting for the bus.

She lights up;
she looks up.
Was fun, i did my best to have the couplets be in pentameter

Some prose prompt thanks :)

>>9871350
Why I came here I don't know
To watch the early blue woods glow?
To hear the birds chirp, high and low?
To feel the chill of the gentle cold?
As I ponder and wonder my breath takes hold
I whisper the question for the answer untold
And in front of my nose does behold
The calming beauty of a gray breath's flow

t. beginner

>>9871453
Drop a before gray and it's a-okay, mate.

>>9871463
Thanks, I think I copied a little from Frost. But Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening is my favorite, and I don't know that much poetry.

>>9871300
Before I knew it I’m thrown in a stainless steel endowed room I’m not as familiar with as I should’ve been. This room resembled a kitchen, but to a cook it looked foreign. It was a cheap imitation of a kitchen, stainless steel paneling thrown here and there but none of it serving a purpose. Among a simple stove, refrigerator and sink was an out of place deep fryer and a dirty pair of tongs.
“Not really a lot to work wit—“
I was interrupted by the two-way doors behind me, the ones I was just thrown through, opening to another forced visitor. A disgruntled man in his mid 30s was laid out on the floor in front of me. He jumped up, immediately yelling, “YA SPEAK ENGLISH?”
“Y-yea,” I responded, struck by the man bellowing at me from an arm’s length away.
“THANK JESUS, SO WE COOKIN FOR EM?”
“That’s what I understood.”
“AIGHT,” he suddenly whispered, “now what I’m thinkin’ here is that the boss out there wants an American meal.”
“He does?”
“Just look he likes American things, so let’s get him an american meal, a cheeseburger maybe.”
“c-cheeseburger?”
I was lost for words, a five star chef was going to have to cook what’s essentially fast food for a dictator who hates America. I’d rather not but I got the feeling as though this man will beat the shit out of me if I refused his wishes, just like Kim in the other room.
Fearing time was a factor I rushed to the refrigerator to see what’s inside.
A duck. A duck’s inside.
“The fuck am I supposed to do with this?”
“CHEESEBURGER,” yelled the man, grabbing the poor dead animal by the neck, ripping it out of the refrigerator.
I sat in awe as the man rips the bird apart with his bare hands right in front of me. Fearing this man had totally lost his mind I took a step back.
“YOU DON’T WANT TO GET IN ON THIS?” he yelled, starting to beat the shit out of the bird with his bare fists, turning it into mincemeat.
[WAIT. HES GRINDING IT. This could work]
I took another look in the refrigerator to find there were actually some assorted cheeses and fruits in the bottom drawer, previously unseen due to meat-fists intrusion the first time.
A quick assessment showed that the only cheese that isn’t green or hairy is the mozzarella.
“This will have to do.”
Looking back I see the human meat grinder has rolled up his sleeves, I’d assume to make ground meat more effectively, which revealed a marine’s tattoo.
“Not surprising.” I said under my breath.
“HUH?” He screamed between breaths.
“YOU SHOULD PROBABLY COVER THAT UP!” I yelled, pointing at it.
[Why am I screaming now? Am I cracking under pressure?]
“RIGHT,” he screamed back, rolling down his sleeve.
The bird was effectively ground meat at this point. We quickly shoveled the floor meat onto the stove and cooked it the best we could into a patty. Scrounging together some bread meat man found in a cabinet we actually pulled off a half decent looking sandwich.

>>9871434
an action scene in a large pitch black room

>>9869290
Haha, This is much, much closer. You might be one of the good ones.

>>9871479
Too much redundancy. Let speech bear the whole brunt, there's no need to qualify.

e.g
>“Not really a lot to work wit—“
I was interrupted by the two-way doors behind me,

The dash makes it explicit you were interrupted. No need to repeat it.

>immediately yelling, “YA SPEAK ENGLISH?”
“Y-yea,” I responded, struck by the man bellowing at me from an arm’s length away.

You say he's yelling, then you put the words in all caps, then you say he's bellowing. Say it once.

That aside, I felt there wasn't a story, or any conflict. I also felt the prompt could have been tackled more creatively. And I didn't really find it funny either (might just be me though).

Keep trying. Watch this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OFneKWQCEME

>>9871427
I like this. Very self-aware in style and imagery. Well contained and enjoyable.

>>9871273
That makes about as much sense as your pleb judgement.

>>9859282
>Using colloquialisms and crude language in your prose.

ISHYGDDT.

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>>9859488
>
Ville is a finnish man's name. Nalle means 'teddy bear'.

>>9865051
Just making it good in general. The form itself is not that problematic.

He stood upon the shore and saw his ship,
his pride descend and break against the cliffs;
it broke like waves and surf against his feet.

He turned to John - McCarthy's son and said:
"For seven years we've sailed the seas and yet
I've nothing, not one bit to show for it.
How cruel must they be, every God above
that they should send such awful luck to me
already struck with grief and pain my ship
took with it all my hope and drowned my flame."

>>9871077
Thanks man!