/lit/ - Literature

>>13993538

>>13993540

>>13993547

>>13993538
>Suffolk New College
I went there, this whole story is too real.

>>13993538
Draft:
Bedroom Intrusion

My chin aches under my skull’s weight.
Pressed against my mattress, prone,
I am staring in silence.

Through a black crack in the damp, peeling wall,
A slug seeks shelter from the rain.

I watch in curiosity, captivated,
Reminded of the snails that once lined my grandas garden wall.

The slug moves patiently,
Two stalks dance and flick in alien rhythms.

Like a grotesque muse,
The fat crawler curls lazily on the skirting top, carefree.

I know I should reach down and grab him.
Throw him out like the intruder he is.
And yet, guilt puts me on pause.

Like Christ, a slug is not born with sin.
He would love the little slug as a sibling.
Unlike Christ, I throw him down the bin.

He roosts when man and woman are
spread opened red
pushing against each other
hungrily looking for

that place beyond expression

He nests when they are at each other
like starving animals
biting snapping scratching
drenched in sweat and spit
reducing intricate linguistics
to grotesque groans

He perches there
right in that precise moment

when the room stinks like a butchers shop

when pleasure proves too much for the eyes
and they open up
like flowers
revealing the pupil’s black pitch

its there
within that inner darkness

thats where Crow lives

>>13993538
Much argumentation had ensued in the O’Connor household when Mary, the eldest daughter, received a letter from her Aunt Lydia offering her a job in the household of a certain Lord Maxwell. The letter detailed the dismissal of a wayward maid and spoke of the ‘friendly atmosphere’, the ‘collegial spirit’, and the various dignities associated with being a housemaid in the Maxwell House. Mary protested that she had aspirations beyond (her words) servicing fat-faced Englishmen who couldn’t tell bread from butter. “Besides,” she said, mimicking her father’s dinnertime speeches, “I’m not made for it. O’Connor used to be a great name in these lands; our ilk are not servants.”

Mary’s father was a stout gentleman with a rugged beard who was much friendlier than he looked. He loved his daughter very much, and his eyes betrayed him of it. “There’s a lot to be learned from service,” he told her. “Patience, humility, hard work. Do not discount these things on account of your pride.”

Mary grew infuriated at the suggestion that her refusal was borne on mere hubris. Her family had always been held in high regard within their community; to her mind it seemed like a preposterous suggestion that she should take up the role of a housemaid, bowing and grovelling at every turn. “Servility, slavishness, exhaustion. How about those venerable virtues you forget to mention? Are they also important for me to learn?”

Father cast her a look of paternal indignation. “Have you not read how our Lord humbled himself before his disciples, deigning to kneel down before them to wash their feet, a task reserved for the lowest of slaves? And what was his response when Saint Peter pleaded with him not to humiliate himself in such a way? ‘I came to serve, not be served.’
“And who are you, Miss O’Connor? A simple girl, daughter to farmers, confused and lost in your youthful inclinations, having not seventeen years ago to be nursed by your mother. You are too high and lofty to take up a respectable position offered to you by your aunt?
“You are my daughter, Mary. I will not compel you. But understand that this air of haughtiness you carry around with you is a thousand times less dignified than the work of any housemaid.”

>>13993563
not terrible. generally overwritten. tries too hard for "literary flourishes." frequently redundant. uses a swear outside of dialogue

>>13993617
Subtly humorous. I like it.

>>13993631
Inconsistent capitalisation and stylistically choosing not to use apostrophes where appropriate get on my nerves, but that's personal taste. Would "at that precise moment" sound better than "right in that precise moment"?

>>13993668
thanks man

>She had lied to herself all her life. She had acted as if she were repentant but she admired every curve of her flesh and loved its effect on others. They were to die for. They were a handful, just the right size. She knew what she did with her hands to the boy on the E. She knew the odor of that beast and how it made her feel. “Whore,” the lady had screamed at her. That was right. That’s exactly what she was.

>>13993654
Thanks; can you give an example or two of what you mean by "frequently redundant"?

>>13993686
>no time for second thoughts, no time for anything
alot of stuff like this where you add unnecesarry descriptions. you're writing a story, not writing writing

Experimenting with monologues and dialogue, feels like I'm missing something to bring some real soul to it
"Of course I hate the fucking crows! Stealing my trinkets and feasting on my harvest, waking me up in the middle of the night with their tapping and their cawing, looking at me with those beady eyes as if they're daring me to shoot at them knowing damn well that no matter how many times I try to kill them I can never get the job done... Do you realize that those fuckers have never been on their backs once in their fucking lives? They've lived it all perched on those branches, looking down at us while we work, like they're some sort of lord and we're all peasents knee deep in pig shit. All they know is how to steal, whether it'd be from us or some other beast risking it's neck hunting in the wild, they've never done a hard day's work in their lives. Evil little bastards... I bet each and every one of them know how to fly the second they hatch, a monster like that wouldn't even know what it feels like to be weighed down... one of these days I'm going to take some gas cans and light the entire forest on fire, maybe then I could get some sleep..."

Thinking. I am a bear. An incarnation of terror and beige follicles. Here I sit in my French minimalist thinking habits contemplating the surrounding zoo. Ah, how I yearn to be free. Roaming the Arctics, lounging for foolish eskimos, and briefly acquiescing to the demands of an Arctic gal. The serenity of her in-domesticable angst. Of course, I am far too much of an intellectual to achieve such a lifestyle, but the sybaritic notion that I am more than a mere cluster of beige and blubber completes my aesthetic swoon. If I only could die or enjoy the sublimity of this colorful August day. The school children circumambulating, soon to forget this moment in entirety. Akin to a Pixar film, or one of those Dreamwork rip-offs, I yearn for an adventure. Instead, I shall sit meekly and bask in the comforts of a hedonistic worthless life. Ah, Ursidaeity.

>>13993820
absolutely adore this, any more?

>>13993631
>>13993668
I think its in the style of Ted Hughes' Crow

>>13993538
Feels like your trying too hard

>>13993918
Not yet, I wasn't sure if I should end it at that or actually make a story out of it. I wrote another short story about a middle-aged woman with a criminal record, but I'm trying to have that published, so I don't want to post. But thanks anon!

>>13993675
is this a translation of something?

>>13993820
I'm gonna disagree with the anon above me. You have a bit of an ear for the phrase, which is good. But it's hard to see if your sentences mean anything. Now, maybe you're just trying to string together nice sounding sentences. But if you're going for anything else. You need to rewrite.

>Of course, I am far too much of an intellectual to achieve such a lifestyle, but the sybaritic notion that I am more than a mere cluster of beige and blubber completes my aesthetic swoon.

wtf does the second part of this sentence communicate? This is emblematic of the greater flaw I perceive.

Sometimes when I walk home I feel lonely, I think.
The rain patters on the grey concrete, on the black asphalt, on my jacket.
The cars zooming by, they are too loud, and create mist with their tires
They place me in a cloud. A cold, wet, encapsulating haze.
To mark the time passing I look back.
The sun inside me shining out, my face radiating in a summer daze

My internal states never present themselves so clearly.
Shock accompanies others boldly proclaiming how they feel,
Jealously too. Everything always feels like too much.
Like the mist response to the car stimulus,
Like the dog bark to pavlov’s bell,
The rocket follows the libido’s trail.

I continually feel on the brink of coming of age.
One of these days, things will be steady.
But that sounds domestic and monotonous and post-industrial
in the worst way. How can I aspire to want something
that I don’t? Those stoic walks home.
Trains blaring, cars passing, the time is too, mist and foliage all around.

Consider when you are at home and your spouse calls you to ask if you want some fast food. You were in the middle of something, and when the phone rang you were slightly annoyed. When they mentioned food, you realized you were quite hungry, and so eagerly affirmed their inquiry. They will be back home within the half hour. You try to get back to what it is you were doing, but now you are thinking of being hungry, and an anxiety and anticipation builds related to the food and the end of your hunger (I hope they got my order right, not like last time, I hope they hurry up). You have completely stopped what it is you were doing before, essentially. As time goes on you begin thinking that they are taking too long, and it is annoying that you are kept waiting in hunger. They are probably doing something stupid that they do not need to, like making an extra stop which would result in the food becoming cold. Eventually you wonder if they are taking too long for some other reason. Maybe they are unconscious right now in a ruined car. Maybe they were robbed in the drive through – after all, drive-throughs are tactically disadvantageous positions. Maybe their car broke down and they need your help desperately, maybe they were arrested. Maybe the last thing they will hear you say is, with an annoyed voice ‘Get me the Bacon McDouble™ and a large fry – and don’t screw it up like last time.’ There is a knock on the door, and your heart leaps – halfways in anticipation of seeing a police officer asking you to verify a body. It is your spouse, struggling to carry everything in. You feel no hunger, but rush to get everything in. It now seems silly that your dearly beloved should struggle and delay their return home for such things. For a few brief moments, your anxiety is abated completely, and you cherish them truly. Your spouse is bemused but delighted that you are disproportionately affectionate – and yet you cannot really articulate what you just went through, why the change. They have died an infinite amount of times and experienced an eternity of suffering to deliver you a cheeseburger. An anxiety that you will again forget this creeps in.

>>13994336
It says what it says. The bear is nothing more than mass and matter with intellect being a sensation or brain activity.

Waiting to finish work,
tea cooling beside me,
phone face down.

Manager out; smoking.

Empty round tables,
aligned: waiting.

Now I sit and sip,
watching cars fill up the lot.

Restaurant: just tidy enough.
I'm the one who cleans up the mess.

Then I go home and sleep.

I dont have any work but what programs do you use to write? I'm assuming Microsoft word is ultra pleb tier.

SAKURA PETALS,
THEY FALL SOFTLY TO THE GROUND,
WHEN HARSH WINTER COMES.

Note for people: forcing the use of big words really show you are an amateur. Jargon ruins writing. The big words don't make the story, only when it comes off as necessary.

>>13994382
What can other software possibly do that Word can't? It's about the words you write and their formatting, not how you write them.

To my father (critique as hard as you like):

I've been happy, alone and then dead for a decade
Endless decay gives my anger direction
If I'm weird to myself there's no need for connection
Baseless despair serves a sad consolation

Life ended short before I could experience
The fruits of the seeds laid down on grounds of hope
Among the trees of future growth
The big man is dead, the old trees are gone

He who lacks will is not virtuous, but lacking
Hacking away at impassible branches
Dreaming a grand plan, hoping in vain
The trees, bees and bushes will tell him the way

But bees do not care about me in the slightest
Trees grow and flourish around, unimpared
They know this sorrow is mine, mine alone
I will bring all of it back, dad, I swear

Enter stage left: a timid man wearing a stained shirt and considering every step carefully, frequently startled by the audience's jeering. He peeks nervously behind himself at the sound of something falling offstage, glances briefly outward, and again peers forward into darkness. Slowly the lights reveal a bawdy woman in a scant blue dress swaying gently towards the man. Her gaze is fixed just to the left of where he stands. The spotlight comes to rest but a foot towards the man from her pedestal. "Closer," he hears her croon, or perhaps not, his hearing lost in the movement of her lips. Upon reaching the spotlight he stops and stares direclty into her eyes, which still refuse to look into his.

What have you brought me today?

I have brought you a poem.

And how does it go?

Do you really wish to hear it?

Perhaps.

And he spoke her name " "

Who told you my name?

I promised them I would not tell you.

Uttering this she lowered the top of her dress, exposing her breast, upon which he placed his hand for the entirety of the intermission. At last she looked into his eyes. When he removed his hand she climbed down and cast off her dress, bidding him to follow her offstage right. Silently stammering, tears welled in his eyes, but he would not join her. The audience silenced itself in anticipation of weeping. But he did not mourn, instead walking slowly offstage left with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

>>13994412
The lack of memes on here is quite disturbing.

>>13994373
tfw
>aesthetic swoon

>>13994571
I think theres good emotions and word choice, not cringe, but one thing you can for sure work on is writing with a meter and some rhymes or poetic devices of that kind. It works for a short poem like this, but if I was going to read something three or four times the length I would need something to break up the monotony.
Craven Conflagration enlights the heads
Of disciples, as of grain, and of maize
Some ekpyrosis lit; 'till heavens split
Or 'till the time to tills will to unstill
'velops that which 'velopes the Earth on Earth
Stagnant slopes on which love elopes, indeed
Mans coveted ekpyrosis; kept out
Of sun-light, of moon-light; day-light, night-light
That that which is not man may have no share
Of that that makes man more man than some hare
Such ekpyrosees as these; swallow seas;
Leaves hollow trees; heave hapless rising pleas
(theres more, but theres a character limit, this is just the first of a book, I have already written about a fourth of it, this is about 1/18th of that fourth, but I want to know if stylistically, and most share this style, people resonate with it, or if the pretentious tone loses people.

>>13994756
The ekpyrosis of abyss is this:
Unknown, unfelt; unknowing, unfeeling
Confuse the confuse'd, insipid head
Such is the ekpyrosis of abyss
Such is unknown and is unfelt by man

The ekpyrosis of the skies here lies:
Untainted, untangible; here man lies
Unable, unadequate; to take skies
To beat low flies, to treat his pers 'nal eyes
To fathers firmament: that forsworn fire
To mothers matrimony: all mourn mire
bound, all honor confound, the holy height
th' eternal plight, insurmountable might
Such is the ekpyrosis of the skies
Such is forsworn and is mourn'ed by man

The ekpyrosis purgatory be:
Undone, undoing, undue, 'ternal be
Unbound: everbound by depths of depthless
The squawking squalor, and squeaking squires
The walking pyres, and reeking cott-collars
Life with subdued moo in leiu of two true
Beings such two proven true by story,
a winded yarn spun by purgatory,
yet fin and farm must wait for more to come
Such is: ekpyrosis purgatory
Such is subdued squawking, ever walking
Such is the pyres of king, keepings reeking

The ekpyrosis rot, forever caught:
Under undergrowth cramped, crooked caps do creak
Undignified nature, with composure
ever refined, ever decomposer
Tenacity abounds with broken binds
Momentum around with no equal kinds
Ever growth, ever rots; ever upward,
ever downward; ever never ever
Doth depress souls the weather let or net
Nourished are seeds from down from clouds creatures
Growth 'gainst man, rot 'gainst man, and seeds 'gainst man,
sprouts 'gainst man, roots 'gainst man, and clouds 'gainst man,
weather against man, forms 'gainst man, man 'gainst man,
yet all 'gainst are for resurgence of man
through all ekpyrosis: man is suff 'ring
through all adversity: man is growing
Growth for man, suff 'ring for man, all for man
Such are ekpyrosees; such is suff 'ring
Such is great Hell on Earth; such is ap'tite
of Flames of man

Mans ekpyrosis Love, brightest of all!
Man bears this flame within his heart of hearts
Man bears this game for this aim only. See
man through melted magma, stuck to his flesh
See man through fearful fire, how all consumes
His matter, mesh, and batter; 'scarded flesh
See mans immaterial, master mind
Above all else eternally high climb
See mans sole, sacred soul seep on coal
It afluence, and opulence, now hence
forth evermore, such hot coals melt, yielding
to might of mans sole ekypyrosis: love
Always burns bright within, his soul, his mind,
always for man, therein his might does find
Doubled, redoubled, might, for man, his plight!
Such is salvation! such is deliv 'rance!
Such an ekpyrosis of grace doth shine!
Radient raiment of rays of light of sun!
Such is love!, such salvation!, such the same!

>>13994375
up until the two last stanzas I really liked the style and the pacing was fantastic, it had a doestoyevky kinda existential narrator vibe, but the last two were just too cynical, and in a mean, piercing way, and it made the narrator hard to empathize with, instead I just wanted him to stop being edgy and realize (as he did in the previous half) There is virtue in the patience of suffering a poor job, as I know of, and surely did empathize with; but no one who is a wagie likes that one wagie that complains about being a wagie.

>>13993538
Underage self-inserting spotted

I sit here eating my Reese's fast break chocolate bar, far from the chicanery of my work as a cashier. The saccharine, soft and chewy combination of chocolate, peanut butter and nougat gently working the muscles in my mouth. Is this what it feels like to smile? It must certainly use the same muscles, I think, for such a divine experience offers nothing less than absolute bliss...and I guess that's enough to make one smile, at least.

>>13994707
Ok

>>13993617
it's okay. somewhat humorous, but shallow - do you have an actual meaning in mind here?
does, for instance, the reference to your grandma's garden wall have any symbolic weight?

>I am staring in silence.
cliche
>Like a grotesque muse,
maybe lose the "like," considering that it actually is performing the function of a muse, in relation to your writing of this poem

might be elevated by being put into a meter; you may as well try it.

>>13993650
i like this! might get a little straining to read a whole book in this style, i don't know

>betrayed him of it
sort of awkward phrasing

Tim squeezed the clumps of shit with his bare hand. His shirt tucked up over his nose and his eyes wet with hallucinations. There were seahorses in his belly. They were talking to him all day. But the Sprite he drank may have killed them. He wanted to be a father. Of course he knew that he was a man. But the mermaid that visited him in a dream a few nights back had taken him to a planet made entirely out of water, filled with humanlike water creatures. Tim knew this was the place he came from. These earth people were only fit for canals, not the deeper channels and underwater palaces that the mermaid took him to. So before she dropped him back off on his castaway planet, the mermaid took some of Tim's semen from him in her mouth and kissed it back into him. So, he had to save the gift the mermaid gave to him.

Someone knocked on the stall door.

"I'm in here," Tim replied, and continued to grasp for his lost children.

(Incomplete)

our love is like
a taxidermied hawk
casting shadows
like empty threats
twenty years later
you still fool me
in the dark

you're a predator
and an eyesore

scorch the earth,
implore it to change,
but still the stone
will remain the same

[so i wish i were] the tide,
the crashing waves
shaping the mountain range

i wish i had died before you grew bored of me

(screaming in a fight
i love to lose
tell me again
what you'll do)