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/crit/ - Writing Critique General Anonymous Wed Sep 20 03:23:25 2017 No.10047576 [Reply] [Original]

Satori Komeji edition.

Post your shit here and other anons will give feedback.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 03:26:57 2017 No.10047585 >>10047576 mods should just pin these threads desu

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 04:05:15 2017 No.10047644

>>10047576
Seeing as how I am first I'll crit replies.

I'd go to her house or she would come to my house. After brief chats with parents, both fathers nodding once before returning to the TV or beer, both mothers cooing over us like birds, we would retreat to our bedrooms and our lips would meet. Hands would caress and soon buttons would be undone. We undressed ourselves, and I would go on top of her or she would go on top of me. At the end of it the one on top would roll over and we'd breathe, open the window to cool down, and I'd close my eyes. I caught her looking at me every so often, a look in her eye I never understood. Was it one of love? Confused desperation? Hatred?

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 04:27:37 2017 No.10047701

Beginning of a short story that I'm not particularly happy with.

The town lies in the centre of a desert basin. No roads lead there directly, but by the edge of the basin runs a path of kicked dirt that travellers would take if they needed. This town did not follow the same lawful practices as those that were of the same country. This is not to state this town had apprehensible morals or was somehow superior. Its moral customs were simply independent.
This town was called Uris and was once visited by a stranger.
This visitation took place during the mid-afternoon in which a crime was about to be punished in Uris. The Stranger entered the town via the road aforementioned. He was wearing a thick leather coat that dragged dust where he walked and a wide brimmed hat. His face was notched with a deep-set scar that made him easily identifiable, earned in a knife fight. As he was entering the town, a whipping beginning to take place.
The local lawmen were dragging a woman to the well in centre town, hands bound and face ruined by tears.
The Stranger had learned from passersby that a woman in the town--no doubt this one--had been unfaithful to her partner. She had slept with a man two towns over under the guise of travelling to peddle the pottery that her husband had made. The townsfolk told him that a trial had taken place a fortnight prior. The lawmen had failed to find the man that this woman had allegedly been sleeping with, and instead the verdict was reached on account of the husband’s testimony and the wife’s inability to provide a witness that could attest to her defence.

>>10047644

I like this for its simplicity. The last line seems tacked on in an attempt to make me intrigued though, and that didn't really work. It just feels off.

The rest is good though. I appreciate the similarity in the minutiae and the way it's described, very familiar, very pleasant to read.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 04:51:52 2017 No.10047734

Threw together a little pop a few days back, not quite sure if I've got the pacing right.

The war memorial's
Parking lever
Will, upon request
Stand tall
As an obelisk
>>10047701
It's aight, but I think the repitition of minor details like the route he entered by and that the locals are giving him information is superfluous. Rephrasing portions like that would make it less bloated and communicate the points just as well.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 05:17:46 2017 No.10047786

>>10047701
>I like this for its simplicity.
Thanks.
>The last line seems tacked on in an attempt to make me intrigued though, and that didn't really work. It just feels off.
I can see why as it is an excerpt from a larger WIP.
>The rest is good though. I appreciate the similarity in the minutiae and the way it's described, very familiar, very pleasant to read.
That's what I was going for. It's a nostalgic epistolary story along the same lines as Norwegian Wood. Hope I can keep the tone consistent.

>>10047701
>The town lies in the centre of a desert basin. No roads lead there directly, but by the edge of the basin runs a path of kicked dirt that travellers would take if they needed.
Wouldn't the travellers always need to take the dirt path if it is the only path?
>This town did not follow the same lawful practices as those that were of the same country.
You can simplify this for clarity. Also I would refer to the town as 'the town' only and not 'the town' and 'this town'. If anything, name it earlier.
>This town was called Uris and was once visited by a stranger.
Why Uris? And surely more than one stranger visited, unless it is an insular community?
>This visitation took place during the mid-afternoon in which a crime was about to be punished in Uris.
>As he was entering the town, a whipping beginning to take place.
Pick one.
>face ruined by tears.
Maybe covered is better than ruined.
>The Stranger had learned from passersby that a woman in the town--no doubt this one--had been unfaithful to her partner. She had slept with a man two towns over under the guise of travelling to peddle the pottery that her husband had made. The townsfolk told him that a trial had taken place a fortnight prior. The lawmen had failed to find the man that this woman had allegedly been sleeping with, and instead the verdict was reached on account of the husband’s testimony and the wife’s inability to provide a witness that could attest to her defence.
This could be written better:
The Stranger had learned from passersby that the woman had been unfaithful to her husband with a man two towns over under the guise of travelling to peddle the pottery that her husband had made. A
trial had taken place a fortnight prior. Having failed to find the woman's lover, the lawmen had used the husband's testimony to reach a verdict.
I assume the story will be The Stranger taking the woman under wing and finding the man? Overall I'd say it just needs polish.

>>10047734
I like it but can't say much more than that. What was your inspiration/intended meaning? I assume it is about fading idolation of war memorials?

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 05:27:49 2017 No.10047814

>>10047585
There should be some general rules for posting/critique too, length for example.

Anyway, it's all from my very biased perspective, also I am bored and sleepy, hope some anon can get something of use for them out of it.

>>10047644
>and our lips would meet.
Eww. A part like that deserves more than a cliche phrase. Don't like the bits in the end either, feels very off. But overall it flows well and gets the point across, just lacks something new or surprising to really stand out. Basically it's good but not great.

>>10047701
You lost my attention during the second sentence, it's overly dense with tons of information thrown without a reason to care about it, and feels repetitive you have a somewhat distinctive voice but don't use it to say anything captivating. Also it's pretty distant, making it even harder to give a damn. There is a woman dragged through the the town but it reads like someone is telling a story about it instead of letting me experience it.

Jeez, this is all? Bump.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 05:30:01 2017 No.10047818

>beginning of a story about a dude contemplating political stickers on a toilet stall wall.

„Infestation!“ it reads, „Blame the Arabs on the planes! Blame the Polish on the trains! Blame the jews on the cruise ships! Cut the power, stop the nuisance!“ with little cartoon hands and scissors drawn severing an electric cable – a pursuit that would surely get the acting party killed – a noble one? I see myself walking the docks. A metallic roar fills my headspace – friction? The sound of a large machine halting? Old friend, we are lucky to be awake this time of year for it IS! Look to the skies: The perfect antithesis to our forest of silent awaiting like an impression manifests itself, soon to be filled with matter and peeled at the touch of curious generations. Metallic cigars plummeting toward the waters, winds laughing, howling, as they alleviate themselves at their surfaces. A good shake for the dung inside – imagine the smell (ew!) those cracked tins will be shedding in a few hours. Time enough for the quick-witted among our people. Those still intact, not yet dissolved in the homogeneous brown mass of engine oil, shit and fluid flesh, we must separate. Sun baked, raised on figs and goat cheese, honest lives on a no-pig-flesh diet, awash in sewage now but scrubbed, shaven, toweled, […] brushed with herbs and oils and blessed by our shaman still might live up to their promise. Over a fire, that is.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 05:45:22 2017 No.10047841

>>10047818
>a pursuit that would surely get the acting party killed – a noble one?
Kek. Good stuff.

>to our forest of silent awaiting
I can't picture anything here.

Overall, very mature, you clearly know what you're doing. It does get a bit stale in the end (last two sentences) but still well written kind of stale. Though if it's a beginning, the next paragraph should start the story.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 05:53:12 2017 No.10047856 >>10047841 >I can't picture anything here. Yeah, that part I have to change somehow. I'm trying to reference Ernst Jünger's der Waldgang. Will probably be more obvious once I translate it into German, I just find English better for brainstorming.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 05:54:14 2017 No.10047858 >>10047841 Oh, and thanks!

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 06:19:14 2017 No.10047902

>>10047576
At soft lit sepia diner drying stars shining over our light minded night, ready to disappear as they do every night. It's all simple blah blah until phosphorescent autumn comes walking out the back kitchen and i immediately shut my mouth and its our waitress. At first I take notice of her delightfully curved nose and how angelic and simple and pure she feels and she says her name is shiny. Of all the names, all the baby books and mixed cocktails of lettering shiny, the horrors! My heart liquefies and becomes a gelatinous substance and breaks. Her name so fitting. When she hands me my cracked porcelain cup of coffee i feel the light - the shine. She is natural shiny transparent quartz and i'm IN LOVE. Alex and Chris are chatting about plans for another bender of a weekend and I cant stand it anymore. I cut right through their conversing and at this point i'm dying. I say "my heart is breaking" in a well directed dramatics and they didn't understand but would soon catch along anyhow seeing my distress. Every time she asks if I need more joe or if "everything tasting alright?" I reply softly and looking right into her sad eyes, every time, and make goddamn sure to show that i want her, i want to be inside you, i want to love you, but I also want us to runaway with each other, go live in oregon via my car and get shitty jobs and work and have a 90's lived in piss yellow wallpaper, water stained apartment, with that gloomy lighting of old lamps and we could live sad romantics until the devil got to us. Once im finished with pancakes I tell my pals flat out, waving a cup of coffe and smudging my eyes "I'm in love... She is the most incredibly beautiful girl i ever spoken with" and shake back and forth and mutter and mumble "My heart is breaking guys." and "Man im just going to go home and smoke and die, thats all i can do is just die." and theyd giggle, and in perfect sequence, like symphony, ask question like"Why not ask for her number?" or "Can't you just go ask her out?" but I couldn't, No. I just knew it couldn't work, That it wouldn't. And when we got our checks i left a very generous tip, actually fifty percent, only because harbored deep inside somewhere we knew each other for a life, another time, of heartbreak and hope, and Alex snickers "There ARE cheaper ways to get a girls number." and we all laughed. Outside, after payments are all said and done, the three of us linger in crisp four A.M. splender, having out last ciggarette over coffees, we split it, bit cold, summers ending. Every once in a while after a long needled drag I catch a glance of the angel waitress and hell every once in a while she innocently looks hack, even seeming to see out my peripherals the beautiful blond looking right at me. I don't know, I could just be going insane, making her look at me in some kind of morphed perception. Suddenly we're down to the filter and smacking hands and saying goodbyes and I hope into my truck, departing this nostalgic-esque

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 06:20:54 2017 No.10047908 >>10047902 cont-------- neon, antique lived through life. Sky now violets and yellows, and wildflowers, and I cant decide if I should sleep, Don't know if I could. Just scribble about a waitress i met the other night.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 06:22:00 2017 No.10047912 >>10047902 Crying stars*****

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 06:36:53 2017 No.10047934 >>10047644 I enjoyed this.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 06:37:15 2017 No.10047936

>>10047902
>theyd giggle, and in perfect sequence, like symphony, ask question
Would be my biggest complaint, felt too tryhard, can't really picture it either. Some typos were a tiny little bit annoying but overall, man this is damn good. Reads vivid and honest and the flow is fantastic. Now being overly anal, I wish
>"There ARE cheaper ways to get a girls number." and we all laughed."
part was actually funny but that'd just be a cherry on top.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 06:43:28 2017 No.10047946

>>10047644
I like the we / she and I perspective you employ in the first sentences and the absolute implied symmetry between the lovers. Perhaps flesh that out in regards to their interaction before jumping into sex. Don't like the last two sentences as they fuck with this concept. Would be interesting if once the story is longer these glimpses of asymmetry after orgasm would become every more unbearable to the narrator each time they occur, interrupting the symmetrical we / she and I narration and slowly bleeding into it.

>>10047701
What are you going for here? In the bginning it seems you are being very detached from what you are describing, like a police report or a lexicon entry about Uris. I like this approach, coupled with the overall vagueness of what's happening (a crime was about to be punished, a whipping beginning to take place, a woman) it gives the story a ghostly unnerving vibe, but it's weighed down (or interrupted) by all the unnecessary specifics (coat that dragged dust, wide brimmed hat, ruined by tears). These two styles clash and the result is awkward. Try to really compress this, no overly complicated wording while still maintaining the lexical, detached tone and no unnecessary specifics.

>>10047902
I like the poetic approach but I think it could be a little more polished, especially in one regard: Try to cut down on the "I", let the phenomena be the subject.
>Just scribble about a waitress i met the other night
Yeah, that's what I thought.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 06:49:59 2017 No.10047956

>>10047814
>Eww. A part like that deserves more than a cliche phrase.
How would you improve it/what would you use instead?
>But overall it flows well and gets the point across, just lacks something new or surprising to really stand out. Basically it's good but not great.
That's the best I can hope for at this stage.
>Jeez, this is all? Bump.
Post something of your own?

>>10047818
Reads like classic literature, and that seems to be what you are going for. So, good job.
>>10047908
>Just scribble about a waitress i met the other night.
For scribbling, it is an impressive vignette or reverie.

>>10047934
Thank you!

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 06:59:26 2017 No.10047971

In the early months of the war, the attitude toward Chinese international students had been one of steadfast magnanimity – a not unsurprising turn of events, though it should be noted that it was the flood of war and all it put at risk that seemed to washed away whatever number of native resentments had been piling up against the international student body in the years building up to the declaration of war.
This eager tolerance did not last past August. A perception of a lack of gratitude, of self-spurred alienation, of suggestions and rumours of a Sinophile fifth column, and the reports of atrocities from South East Asia had dissipated Australian youth’s warmth to their Chinese guests, and, while open hostility never quite reigned the nation’s campuses, a permanent – perhaps unfairly dealt – blow had been dealt to the enthusiastic multicultural sentiments of an entire generation. It is still to Australia’s credit, however, that the open violence and persecution which many had predicted, and not out of a lack of charity, never came to pass in any large way. The Australian temperament had hardened, and grown mature, in response to the realities of war.
That is during the war, at least. Perhaps the sobriety world conflict on our doorsteps induced was too alien to the national character, a strong anti-biotic that had finished its course, a medicine rejected by the body.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 07:00:28 2017 No.10047974

Scott skidded to a halt in his 1974 Dodge Challenger. Upon opening the door, all he could see was red. The skies were literally raining blood. Mangled bodies littered the concrete jungle where packs of hyper-werewolves roamed. Reaching into his backseat, Scott pulled out his bottle of Jack Daniels, and his baby, his Magnum 365.

"Time to get fucked up" he said with a sly grin.

He walked into the biker bar like death himself. His duster swayed in the howling wind. He shoved the door open with the intensity of a wild boar. He took another swig of whiskey. It went down smooth like the Las Vegan waitress from last night, and was tossed aside with a similar lack of ceremony. He took his pack of death sticks from out of his pocket and stuck one in his mouth.

"Any of you fruitcakes got a light?" He said with a smirk he said to the rough and tumble bikers. Tonight was going to be one to remember.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 07:05:15 2017 No.10047986

>>10047946
>Would be interesting if once the story is longer these glimpses of asymmetry after orgasm would become every more unbearable to the narrator each time they occur, interrupting the symmetrical we / she and I narration and slowly bleeding into it.
That is what I intend to do because the relationship is loveless, the narrator feigning requited love so he can distract himself with meaningless sex. Hence the symmetry - they have fallen into routine. This is also why he isn't sure why she is looking at him - does she know he doesn't care about her?

>>10047971
>>10047974
Crit other people you parasites.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 07:07:18 2017 No.10047993 >>10047986 >That is what I intend to do Excellent.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 07:07:45 2017 No.10047996

>>10047936
Thank you man I really appreciate the feedback and the compliment, you have no idea, especially about the flow.
>>10047946
I appreciate the critique and after reading through I see what you mean, thank you.
>>10047956
That compliment brightened my spirits, much appreciated.

might consider posting more of my little writings.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 07:30:08 2017 No.10048034

>>10047956
>How would you improve it/what would you use instead?
Now that's way harder than just pointing stuff out, I didn't sign up for this, I'd sit for days on that. From the hip, maybe going in slower, with fingers interlocking or some shit, but on the other side, I do like the more sudden switch with the lips, but at the same time such cliche phrasing does draw unwanted attention to itself, but the "meet" fits well with the wording at the beginning. Perhaps turning it up a notch with tongues, though I am not a native speaker and "our tongues would meet" does sound a bit weird.

>Post something of your own?
Translating stuff would be too distracting from working on it at this point. Critiquing is something that fits in my workflow after smoking breaks much better.

>>10047971
Reads like a school essay or a newspaper article. A slow one at that.

>>10047974
Now this is a weird one. I can't say I liked it, was too pulpy for that but I was grinning like an idiot the entire time and you kept me hooked till the end. And I do want to read more.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 07:30:24 2017 No.10048035

>>10047946
Thanks! Cutting the specifics is the advice I needed to hear, as I agree. It drags the piece down, creates clashing tones, etc, etc. Much obliged.

>>10047786
>Why Uris?
Originally it was called Juris but I thought that might be too heavy handed (Jurisprudence, story about justice, you get the idea). Overall, thanks for the critique. I'll keep all that in mind.

>>10047814
>but it reads like someone is telling a story about it instead of letting me experience it
This is honestly what I'm going for, a kind of parable tone. It's meant to be rather removed and uncaring. How do you think I could keep this voice and make it half interesting?

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 07:40:39 2017 No.10048051

>>10048035
>How do you think I could keep this voice and make it half interesting?
It's not something I'd normally read nor ever tried to write so no idea if I can suggest anything of use but instinctively I'd say, going further with the distance then and putting more emphasis on it. Maybe throwing in a couple observation a person involved in the situation wouldn't pay attention to.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 07:42:26 2017 No.10048053 >>10047974 Like an apocalyptic detective action comic, made me smile

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 07:44:30 2017 No.10048062 >>10047644 the more I read this, the more I enjoy it, a simple set of words that we can almost all feel comfortable in

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 08:07:46 2017 No.10048127

I'm trying to commit to writing around 2,000 words daily in hopes I can become a professional within a few years. Here is today's chunk.

Part 1

Gabriel looked at the door in the corner of the room that was opposite of his modest wooden desk where he sat reading a report from a Sir Captain Herald Brodir. He was a young arrogant moustached man from a rather prominant family that exported wines to the outer reaches of the Darkwood, and had historically exported sons to the military. The problem he measured to guess was that the current rebellion was the first military conflict to reach the homeland in two generations. Not many alive today remember what its like to face real conflict on a massive and imperial scale like the kind we were facing today. He sighed and put the paper down.

"I'll kill them all." he thought. Of course he wasn't talking about the Brodir families sons, nor was he talking about the current generation, he was talking about those savages camped in makeshift hobbles across the forking rivers of the Seline Mier. The Regiment of Red Brothers are rebels, deserters, and traitors to the crown. Their leader, the General Mark De Roth, had returned from his campaign into the Wholford with swollen ranks and an eye for conquest directed at the homeland. These events had sent the councils, academies, and forums into panic without strong leadership to quell the chaos. Gabriel didn't doubt that a leader would rise to power from the open position, a few always did, and they would plot and scheme to overthrow one another until hopefully the most charismatic, intelligent, and vicous would survive.

He would wait during the beginning of this struggle, he would meet the contendors, and he would back the one he thought would save his nation. He could very well lose his life in these sorts of gambles but it wasn't the type of situation where he was risking it all based on a mere toss of the dice. He was a preditor of the court and he had ended the lives of young diplomats he deemed a danger to the state. One thing he wouldn't do that many of his enemies would, is try and put their own cannidate into the chaos in order to assume power themselves while remaining safe. He found the practice of puppet rulers vile and destructive. The one thing he was sure of is that a leader raised for that purpose always brings ruin eventually and is incapable of leading on his own. He prefered to back someone that he would feel comfortable ruling the next generation. Everything Gabriel did was to preserve and protect his children and the children of the people he governed in order to pass to them a secure future.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 08:09:09 2017 No.10048131

>>10048127
Part 2

The door opened and a man stepped through and shut the door behind him. He was dressed in a colorful vest, a large plummed hat, and a pair of shirt and pants with airy flowing sleeves. He looked nothing like the soldiers who commonly walked about this wing of the fortress dressed in simple linens worn from service in the fields, but he also didn't look like the nobles wearing heavy silks of dark and royal hues of blue and crimson, or some purple in between. He wore no jewelry, he had no sigil or crest, and his somehow careful yet awkward walk seemed out of place. His smile stretched from ear to ear, and didn't seem sane, and his hair and moustache were wild and unkept in a very precise way. This man was simply strange.

"Hello" said Gabriel "I trust you had a pleasant trip on your way here". He was now reading through a sprawling list of imported wares that passed through the gates of the fortress carried on ships docked at the port and wagons passing through bridge checkpoints.

"Better than most" he said pacing in almost circles around the room, inspecting the corners, and tapping his foot across the floor. "I, uhh" he said sniffing the various tomes that lined the bookshelf and mumbling to his hand which he cupped firmly against his armpit. He paused and kneeled down to pick a book from the bottom of the shelf. It was clearly old, and Gabriel couldn't recall what it information in contained, which was odd because he had read every book that rested on his shelf several times. The strange man licked the cover and the book started screaming.

"Pakanko!" said the man with a merry laugh. He began dancing across the room tearing out pages which peeled away with the most sickening fleshy sound. The book wailed loudly and Gabriel wondered why no matter how loud this mans antics could be none of the guards ever entered the room to find out what was happening. He had questioned the guards several times and no matter who he inquirred every man insisted that he had not only not heard any sound coming from his office, they had also not seen the strange man even enter his room. Gabriel thought that he might be going mad, but this man had proved useful to him.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 08:09:42 2017 No.10048136

“I’m a miner.” his father, Lumlin,would say, “Your grandfather was a miner, and his father and his fathers father. They’ve all been miners Bumlin, and one day you’ll be a miner, because this is a family of miners and I’ll not hear no ifs or no buts about it. It’s just how things are done.”

Bumlin would often hear this sort of thing although it never stuck. Mines are dangerous places so life expectancy was short for the miners. Tunnels collapsing, dangerous gases and the goblins, who being deprived of the forest made their way to the mountains and dug tunnels of their own above, below, in and around the dwarf tunnels. It’s safe, usually, for dwarfs if they travel in a group but the mines are long and they run deep. It’s not uncommon for dwarf miners to become separated from their colleagues and then they’re goblin food. Bumlin had five older brothers, two of which were dead by twenty-five, both from a collapsing tunnel. There were few miners around that were his fathers age, but sooner or later death comes for us all. In Lumlins case he took a wrong turn, ended up down the wrong tunnel and got lost. Eventually the goblins got a hold of him and stuck him in a pot. Dwarf isn’t very tasty but then again it’s hard to be picky when you live deep inside a mountain and your menu consists of dwarf, other goblins or small bugs.

After his father disappeared Bumlin decided that the time had come for him to leave. If he’d stay, he'd just end up like all the others. So he waited for the remainder of his family to fall asleep, then he sneaked out. It was quite an adventure in itself but the point is that eventually he found his way to the magic school at Arkash, was found to have some magical ability, and was then offered a place as a student. Sitting indoors all day reading books, making potions and learning how to shoot lightning from your fingertips seemed cushy after being raised as a miner, so Bumlin wasted no time in accepting the generous offer. Bumlin ended up being one of only twenty-two out of a total of three-hundred and forty-nine to graduate and actually become a wizard, due to the schools very high drop-out rate which was on account of most students ending up dead in the first six months.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 08:10:16 2017 No.10048138

>>10048131
Part 3

Ink covered the mans flamboyant clothes and sprayed in splatters across the walls and floors. The books screams were now harsh and dry and the man was busy stuffing pages in his mouth which he chewed and swallowed. There were only two pages left now and he ripped small pieces of paper off of each page in thin strips until he got about half way up both of the pages. He then took the cover of the book and broke the spine across the middle so that the cover lined up with the half pages. The book let out a frantic shreak followed by gentle, weak breaths. The man then bent the spine back and started slowly tearing the book in half right down the middle of the broken spine. The book screamed with everything it had left until finally, the book was silenced and the man fell down to the floor rolling around and rubbing himself.

"What just happened?" asked Gabriel who lost track of what he was doing reading the list of imported wares which he now felt uncomfortable holding.

"It wasn't a book" said the man, "but it also wasn't wasn't a book." The man passed for a moment and then said shaking his head "at least it wasn't a book yet, but if we're not careful it could have been."

"I don't understand" said Gabriel.

"It was a muse, an idea, a spark of written thought that could of been thought, but probably should have not." He folded one of the torn out papers into a tiny chair and sat in it.

Gabriel thought about the young diplomats that would soon be thrown into the court, but mainly he thought about the ones he deemed so unworthy that he made an active effort to cull them before they even had a chance to spread there diseased minds to the others. "I think I understand." said Gabriel, and the man smiled.

"You know, on my way here I saw something you should know" said the man. "There was a young boy who was wearing worn out clothes stained in red and he was crossing a river with so many others just like him. They looked like a field of red flowers that uprooted themselves to migrate somewhere else for the winter." Gabriels brow furrowed. "There was a man too, a young mustached fellow who had dinner with a man who looked like a thunderstorm. When they finished the fellow wrote a letter and sealed it, and the man" the strange man was laughing now. "He walked over and pinned the fellow onto the table, and", he took a moment to breath, "he stabbed him in the face and neck with a dinner fork until he stopped moving."

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 08:11:18 2017 No.10048139

>>10048138
Part 4

Herald Bodir was a traitor, he was dead, and Mark De Roth had crossed the Seline Mier.

"I also saw something you shouldn't know, but that has a price." The strange man stared at Gabriel, directly into his eyes.

This man had repeated the same line at the end of every single meeting and it always felt, wrong. He had purchased information before and he had made deals with people that were very, very strange, but there was something in the way he phrased the statement, he wasn't worried about the price, he would sell his soul for information that could save his people and, well, he has a pretty good notion that he was dealing with something unnatural. The words that bothered Gabriel, the ones that really made his stomach turn kept repeating in his head, "something you shouldn't know". If this information was anything like the written thoughts, that could have been thought, but probably not, then perhaps this information he should not know, he simply shouldn't know.

"I don't think I wan't to know it" said Gabriel.

"Not today," said the man, "but you will" and the man disappeared along with the unwritten book and the paper chair.

"Perhaps" thought Gabriel as he leaned back in his chair, but today I need to figure out how we're going to massacre this army that's currently on the move. First, he needed to find out where it was headed since the strange man didn't mention any directions. Second, he needed to find out what happened to Captian Herald Bodir's troops. Third, he needed to try and assemble an immediate resistence force from the scattered troops spread too thin across the various forts and castles dotting their country. Fourth, he needed to try and bring one or two of the proper military forces home from their campaign. Finally he needed to find someone that could use this chaos to rise to power and that would be a strong ruler for the future of the state.

This mad mans information had clearly changed the course of his plans and for a brief moment he thought about how people knowing certain things can affect the world around them in many seeminly unconnected ways. He wondered if someone out there was recieving mad information of their own that was pushing and pulling him along some sort of unseen game board. He wondered whether the mad man was simply playing a game with people like Gabriel and Mark De Roth as their pieces. He decided that the next time he met with the man he would ask him these questions, though he thought he already knew the answers. Perhaps right now what he should think about instead is why he wants the mad man to know he's asking those sorts of questions. Gabriel paused, it was a much harder question to answer.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 08:17:20 2017 No.10048150

>>10047644
I love it. Its strong points are its simplicity. But I have to ask is the marriage a arrange marriage?

>>10047701
has the Potential to be something great if you polish a bit. Work on getting rid of the unnecessary specifics. like the coat and the hat.

>>10047974
A fun read that kept me hooked. Have you more to share anon?

I posted my work before. I was told to work out my tenses, I wanted to know if I did so I can continue on writing.

https://pastebin.com/ZWDMrjYX

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 08:28:28 2017 No.10048176 >>10048150 I like what you have written down my friend

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 08:36:53 2017 No.10048200

>>10047974
>He said with a smirk he said to the rough and tumble bikers
The second 'he said' is redundant. I assume it's just a typo.

It's good, but one thing which might just be me, I really don't like the word "grin".

>>10047971
It's good, just a bit slow.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 08:42:36 2017 No.10048218

>>10048139
critiques:

>>10047701
I think it would give the man in the duster more character if you took the time to tell the story from his point of view. Not necessarily first person, just writing using words and tone that's not so objective, I don't know what type of person he is and I can only make assumptions based on standard tropes.

>>10047902
I like this writing though I got confused at parts just because it isn't structured in a way I'm used to. Confused might be the wrong word, I understand what was happening the entire time, but a couple parts I hard to re-read a line or two because a word turned into another word and I had to double back. Maybe you could make it more clear and effective, or maybe it already is effective, I'm not entirely sure. I hope this feedback helps you make some decisions. I got a strong sense of the main character from your tone and word choice and he was very likable.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 08:44:44 2017 No.10048223

I'm taking a crack at emulating Cormack Mccarthy's style, from the 'objective' narrative perspective to the style of punctuation. I'm struggling to convey all the meaning I'd be able to with a more subjective style of narration where you can just state what the characters are feeling from time to time.

>Heavy rain poured from a gray sky. Below it two souls were huddled close together beneath an umbrella made for one. A girl and a man who protruded halfway into the pour. He stood heads above her dressed in a damp suit and a neutral expression. Winterclothed softness pressed against his arm and as he looked down his shoulder at her she flashed a judicious grin overtop a thick wool scarf. Goosebumps crept across his body. When she lowered her gaze back to the sidewalk she was still smiling.

>As many people as there were raindrops flowed past. Leers from an oncoming throng were broken up by intermediate passers by and their many umbrellas. Suddenly the girl tugged his sleeve and without further indication led him stumbling off the sidewalk into a streetside shop. As she shouldered open the door an estuary of scent formed where breadmaking fragrance collided with the rainy smelling air from the street. While fishing for his wallet he lingered in the entryway taking in chestfuls of the complementary aromas then passed her a thousand yen note offhand. She raced off to the counter and pressed her face into the display case. As her hungry gaze drifted from pastry to pastry the impression her breasts made against the glass drew covert glances of a similar kind from the clerk.

>One hand cradled a paper bag of custard pastries and the second entwined with a third that was smaller and paler. Its owner was leaned in against his side staring wide eyed into the sheer wall of a public aquarium. With a free hand she idly fed herself a roll she was too busy at present to bite. Her legs trailed off from the ledged platform on which she sat and reciprocated back and forth just short of the ground. In the dim light of the aquarium's viewing theater arcs of shifting water refracted light danced across her wonder filled face. An eddy of filtered blue sunlight struck obliquely across her eyes and glints of luminous wonder shone in her irises like backlit jewels. The man broke off his stare and refocused it on the aquarium as she peeked up at him.

From the first paragraph for example, is it clear why the girl is still smiling after she looks down to the street?

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 09:04:48 2017 No.10048256

>>10048223
>is it clear why the girl is still smiling after she looks down to the street?
I'd say it's because she is with someone she just likes being around. But your question makes me think that there is something more. When you mentioned a yen note I immediately jumped to the conclusion that a teacher was walking with a female student, I don't know why.

Have you tried sharing this type of writing without the intro or question at the end? I kind of feel like my impressions of what to look for were altered by the information you gave me and I don't know if that's the only type of feedback that you want.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 09:09:13 2017 No.10048261

>>10048256
It's something like that, the circumstance isn't what I'm worried about showing.

With the smile I wanted it to hint that she knew the effect her grin had on him. But I have tried so many different things and it seems impossible to show it with this objective style where the perspective on what the reader sees never goes past skin depth and the reader has to make inferences based on physical happenings instead.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 09:24:03 2017 No.10048291 I posted this the last time and sparked off a lovely discussion. If you haven't read it already, I'm curious to know what you think. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1W_mEphQw8SvQmDGsUC6fpA1VuRlShpYwnFZbnVKeH3U/edit?usp=sharing

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 09:27:13 2017 No.10048299

>>10048034
Thanks for the response anyway, hope your writing goes well.

>>10048035
Honestly, I prefer Juris and would go with it if I were you. Uris reminds me of Uranus, Urine, etc.

>>10048062
Gosh, I didn't expect such positive feedback. Has really made my day.

>>10048150
I'm happy to hear that. It isn't a marriage, see here for my explanation: >>10047986
As for your writing:

>Sitting on the balcony of my apartment have its benefits, the panoramic view of Lake Michigan, Chicago River, and Navy Pier provides a sense of lull in the turmoil that is my life.
Has its benefits; *s -
>Ever since I arrived in this metropolis, I notice something amiss. Whether it's me or Chicago itself, I do not know, what I do know is that a sound is building, and I can hear it reverberating in the distance.
have noticed* (?). I like the reverberating sound analogy, like feeling the ground shake as something approaches.
>I've received a letter sent by the Empress of Chicago Katherina seeking an audience for a predicament she needs resolving and the person she needs to be unaffiliated.
This sentense runs on. You can shorten it or separate it into two sentences.
>I wouldn't mind a meeting nor accepting an offer due to the monetary reward I would receive once I finish the task; it's just that I have no incentive whatsoever in meeting her or her cronies. According to hearsay from her subordinates, Katherina is a person you do not want to meet nor work with under any circumstances.
I'd use desire instead of incentive because the money is the incentive. Then again, I'd cut the sentence completely.
Interesting opening, I wonder what the story is about.

>>10048218
>I'm trying to commit to writing around 2,000 words daily in hopes I can become a professional within a few years. Here is today's chunk.
Don't take everything King says as law, you can have quantity without quality. As a rule of thumb though, 2K is a good level.
>remember
Remembered*
>contendors
Contenders*
>preditor
Predator*
>Hello" said Gabriel "
Form requires "Hello" to be "Hello," as the sentence he is speaking hasn't ended. Your punctuation is odd - fullstops go inside speech marks.
>inquirred
Inquired
>there
Their*
>Gabriels
Gabriel's

Overall, less exposition, less telling and use spell and grammar check. I didn't find it interesting.

>>10048136
Exposition dumping turned me off.

>>10048223
Though you spelt his name wrong, you got his style right.

>>10048291
>So it goes.
Okay, Kurt. Otherwise, I liked it.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 09:45:58 2017 No.10048355

>>10048299
>Don't take everything King says as law, you can have quantity without quality. As a rule of thumb though, 2K is a good level.
I was actually going off of Brandon Sanderson saying that it generally takes about 10 years of writing, writing for about 6 hours a week and extending that to what he also said in regards to most people writing about 500 words an hour when creative writing.

Overall,
>less exposition, less telling
Alright I'll work on this when I continue tomorrow.
>use spell and grammar check.
I guess a good practice would be throwing it into google docs and giving it a once over before posting it. I know I have a problem with run on sentences but its been something I've been struggling to fix for a long time. I'm not very skilled in grammar usage in general though.
>I didn't find it interesting.
This makes sense, it wasn't very focused and was mainly exploratory just to practice writing. I've never been able to structure a story plot so I just write something and then completely re-write it once I know what type of story I want to write. It sounds like you didn't find any of it interesting though so I guess I just need to get better at characterization probably.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 09:56:41 2017 No.10048381

>>10048355
>I was actually going off of Brandon Sanderson saying that it generally takes about 10 years of writing, writing for about 6 hours a week and extending that to what he also said in regards to most people writing about 500 words an hour when creative writing.
You'll find your own pace, just don't push yourself too hard.
>It sounds like you didn't find any of it interesting though so I guess I just need to get better at characterization probably.
Licking the book surprised me but when it became a book that is a book but not a book but almost a book and pages were eaten you lost me.
Every writer needs structure.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 10:02:42 2017 No.10048405 Where is the faceless worker? Noisy, dry skyscrapers quietly desire a big, grimy door. Shrink roughly like a misty rain. The jackhammer eats like a noisy hood. Why does the skyscraper walk?

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 10:04:12 2017 No.10048407 >>10048405 I don't get it.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 11:36:21 2017 No.10048640

>>10047841
Fleshed things out a bit. Introduced toilet setting. Did I do good? Intended focus are the mystical tirades. Not sure about next witty sticker.

„Infestation!“ it reads, „Blame the Arabs on the planes! Blame the Polish on the trains! Blame the jews on the cruise ships! Cut the power, stop the nuisance!“ with little cartoon hands and scissors drawn severing an electric cable – a pursuit that would surely get the acting party killed – a noble one? I see myself walking the docks. A metallic roar fills my headspace – friction? The sound of a large machine halting? Old friend, we are lucky to be awake this time of year for it IS! Look to the skies; The perfect antithesis to our icy forest of silent perseverance, devoid of time, eternally chasing sun, wooden kings of yore with crowns to be surmised beyond the clouds (do they reach?), like an impression manifests itself, soon to be filled with matter and peeled at the touch of curious generations: Metallic cigars plummeting toward the waters, wings broken, winds laughing, howling as they alleviate themselves at their surfaces or level downwards vectors of vacuum left behind, forgotten in an instant. A good shake for the dung inside – imagine the smell (ew!) those cracked tins will be shedding in a few hours. Time enough for the quick-witted among our people, who with sharp knives approach. Those, or parts of whom, still intact, not yet dissolved in the homogeneous brown mass of engine oil, shit and fluid flesh, we must separate. Sun baked, raised on figs and goat cheese, once honest lives on a no-pig-flesh diet, awash in sewage now but scrubbed, shaven, toweled, […] brushed with herbs and oils, blessed by our shaman, still might live up to their promise. Over a fire, that is. Imagine the feast: Strung up bard hanging from tree, sounds of oiled meat on hot iron drowning out festive clamour, consequent fog obscuring eager hands superseding mutual consent, all melting into one blurred silhouette. Becoming tribe, becoming people. Winds, equally frolicsome, play around, nudge and carress scent of roast and wine, sweat and sperm, passing it back and forth and beyond the treeline. Against the frozen shafts of the immortal it condensates as distilled pleasure and all the creatures of the forest smile a knowing smile. From distant past drawn-out groans penetrate the fringes of my botanic retreat, and I remember: I am not alone. The man in the neighbouring stall as well has reverted to some savage state, and judging from his howls, his winds too are frolicsome. My own delivery shows no sign of progress, completely immobile and hard as a rock, not painful yet commanding attention. In fact, the experience is utterly fulfilling and I am in no hurry to return to my seat, friends or beer. The other is shaking audibly and few decimeters from my left boot a first tear, herald of things to come, hits the ground. „Every man for himself“ I think and redirect my attention at the door.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 11:55:13 2017 No.10048735

The darkness of night had long settled in and began to engulf the regimental camp, and with it too came unyielding silence: an eerie, sullen silence that all men are familiar with, tapping gently into the psyche, provoking forthcoming thoughts (fleeting as they were) of completely depraved matters. This macabre stillness is often accompanied by an intrinsically perverse gloom which follows submissively alongside the alluring night, like a wicked lackey suckling on the emaciated breast of a harlot struck ill with consumption. The flood gates of debauchery were occasionally interrupted by the coughing, stirring and snoring of sleeping men and this infuriated Vakha Stolytsin to no end, for he revelled in thoughts of sickness, impurity and deviance. It was his solace. For them to defile his sacrilege was unthinkable, arrogant and even a tad haughty. "How selfish of them" he pondered to himself. "How utterly selfish of those inconsiderate rogues."

He stirred restlessly in his sleeping bag until a brief moment of burning impulse and passion devoured him. He silently crept out of his tent. The moon beat down vengefully on his face which was now contorted with primordial malice, a sort of comical grimace expressive of both confusion and ire. Confusion in the sense that when he entered such a flustered state he was often puzzled by what rotten malignant growth that lay inside of him inspired one to commit immoral deeds as he so often did? The time for rational thought had long since expired and his rage someone had to be accountable for, "of course" he pondered, undoubtedly, someone had to bear the brunt of his frustrations.

He fastened his Circassian cap, brushed off his dusty epaulettes, fumbled with his cracked spectacles and set off for town.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 12:01:29 2017 No.10048764 File: 846 KB, 1280x1707, dorg at rest.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10048735 This is bad writing. Regards, bad writing knower

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 12:03:17 2017 No.10048773 >>10048764 care to provide something constructive?

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 12:03:43 2017 No.10048775

"As far as IDE's go, it's one of the better ones, and it's free," he said. "Yes, IntelliJ is definitely going to be your best bet," another fellow chimed in. "What is Scala like, anyway?" asked the conversation starter. "Oh, have you ever coded in Haskell?" "A little bit." "Well, it's kind of like that. How about Lisp?" "Lisp is a lot harder," said the first fellow. "Yes, Lisp is really the progenitor of this type of language. Functional programming is really something else, because it requires thinking in an entirely different way." "That's not true, most imperative programming languages have plenty of functional elements built in." "Not really." "Yes they do." "Functional in what sense?" "In the sense that they avoid side effects and are definitionally functional." "Ok, but; well, it really depends on what you mean by 'plenty'. And at any rate, it's still a different style of thinking to code in an entirely functional style. Just because other languages contain functional elements doesn't mean they prepare you for functional programming. And that's not getting into the annoying aspects of these languages." "I've never touched Lisp. Does anyone still use Lisp?" "Hah." "No, not really. Well, hobbyists use it. And there's always the rare legacy software." "Anyway, cons are a huge pain, especially as they get more complex. Here, let me show you an example."
He turned his laptop around to show some example code, which was suitably byzantine. "Wow, yeah, I can't even tell what's going on there." "You can break it down into binary tree pairs," said the student with the laptop. "This reminds me of Computer Systems, where we had to parse the way Fork worked," said the student. "Haha, yeah, it's similarly annoying, only this is for just writing code, not for runtime analysis."
"What kind of laptop is that?" "Oh, it's an Acer Aspire. It's my gaming laptop." "Kind of a pain in the ass to lug that around everywhere isn't it?" "Yeah, it's pretty heavy, but it's the only laptop I have right now. My other one broke." "That sucks. Did you forget the charger?" "Yeah" "That also sucks," they shared a laugh. "How is it for games though?" "Oh, it works pretty well. I can run a lot of things at the highest settings. Not the newest games, of course, but my entire Steam backlog." "Dude, I have such a massive backlog it's not even funny. If I could play all the games I bought last year at highest settings, I'd be set for a while." "I know what you mean."

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 12:09:31 2017 No.10048791

>>10048773
I recommend you use only the smallest words you know until you're comfortable enough with your writing that you begin to choose words for function and not aesthetics. Also don't use things like colons and parentheses.
You're writing purple prose, it's the standard thing that people who've read a lot and never written do. You have a big vocabulary and zero knowledge of how to structure a sentence/thought and are trying to compensate for the second thing with the first.

When you're choosing words pick the smallest synonym you know instead of the biggest one and work on making your writing look good because of its flow.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 12:13:08 2017 No.10048804 >>10048775 dude where are your line breaks

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 12:14:37 2017 No.10048812

>>10048791
thx, can you read this and tell me what you think?

The ring of rickety doors being slammed open sounded through the public house. For a brief moment men with faces shrouded by darkened, twirling smoke from engraved birch pipes of Turkish tobacco gave a quizzical glance toward the direction of the sound, only to avert their gaze back to whatever preoccupation they had engaged themselves in. From the doors emerged a young lad, but of a large and domineering stature. His stern hands were adorned with lineaments of hardship, which also seemed to appear in droves on his brow and cheeks which implied a history of deep contemplation, all of which seemed to retract and contradict from his youthful nature. Dark brown hair sat in curls on his scalp, his features sharp and distinguished under the light of the gas lamp, underneath the bulb of his rounded nose lay a clean shaven mandible, strong and well built which only seemed to further the lads handsome and masculine exterior. The most notable feature of the lad, however, was his ruddy complexion and sunken, calculating gaze. His complexion indicated he was either in a state of perpetual boyish giddiness or vexation and his glance gave nothing away, which is very unusual to see in a young lad. His eyes rested nonchalantly, refusing to give away any symptom of emotion he may have had, and so this young lad was a hard judge of character.

The only thing that lay apparent when he entered the public house was that he was already in a drunken stupor and ardently, in an almost effortless manner glided through the stuffy, polluted atmosphere to the bartender amidst the whoops and hollers of Crimean Tatars and drunken soldiers. He exchanged brief pleasantries with the bartender and after lapping up a refreshing sup of his draught, he placed his weight on his elbow and upon generating a pipe from his raggedy soldiers jacket, lit a match and took a long winded pull before briefly exhaling tranquilly. He assumed a most masculine stance, and underneath his wrinkled brow took a predatory glance around the room, til his eyes met that of a small statured dragoon with neat epaulettes and a tidy unscathed uniform. 'Probably one of those Petersburg dandies' he pondered to himself in a most superior manner. The small statured man hastily averted the young lads predatory gaze and continued playing draughts with his companion. 'He shall make for a fine target tonight', thought the young lad once more, cracking a wry smile before taking another long winded drag of his pipe, relishing in the thought of emasculating the young aristocrat.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 12:17:49 2017 No.10048820

>>10047971
I like it. Not too slow. Doesn't read like a truly academic portrayal of events but a good documentary's narration.

>>10047974
This is fun. Cliché in the right places.

>>10048127
I won't read all of that. First paragraph reads like you are very committed to writing around 2,000 words daily.

>>10048136
Nothing bad to say, reads like a grownup's fantasy story. Scratch that last paragraph though and keep it as a blueprint for things to happen later on. Much too compressed.

>>10048150
Too heavy on the "I". Apart from that and the faulty grammar/spelling in places, two characteristics of your writing are in conflict here: On the one hand you are very vague in what you are describing (why think of the screams as frightening or intriguing? why suspect that their origin might be magical?). On the other hand you use very technical expressions (predicament, monetary reward, incentive) which demand specificity or your character comes off as a complete autist. I suspect this is going to be some kind of noir story and I encourage you to keep the technical, analytical tone but try to be more specific and detailed as to your character's rationalisations.

>>10048223
No complaints. You're doing well with that objective narration, keep at it.

>>10048291
Too long to read right now but I am intrigued. No complaints after reading the first paragraph although not necessarily something I would read in my free time.

>>10048405
What did he mean by this?

>>10048735
Some of the details seem a bit random. They may make your world seem more realistic but they don't serve any purpose beside that. I would also love to hear/see his depraved fantasies instead of being assured of their existence. I like what you're writing about, and depravity is a beautiful topic but get ready to roll in the mud with it and suck the shit out of its ass if you want to write about it.

>>10048775
Seems realistic, I like that. But with that much dialogue, you might want to space it differently, not that that's important while writing or posting it to 4chan. If you ever want to release this, it's probably good advice though.

>>10048640
I wrote this.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 12:22:27 2017 No.10048835

>>10048812
>which also seemed to appear in droves on his brow and cheeks which implied a history of deep contemplation, all of which seemed to retract and contradict from his youthful nature.
The first half of this bit looks bad because of the double 'which' and this whole sentence is begging the question of what you want the reader to take away from it. If you're going to state plainly to the viewer that his wrinkles ''implied a history of deep contemplation" you might as well rewrite it in first person.

The overall structure is exhausting to look at, it's a brick of compound sentences with no rests. You need dips and crescendos in your writing. A giant compound sentence should be flanked on both sides by short simple statements which are really just mental buffers for the viewer to chew over the more complex preceding and proceeding ideas.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 12:25:33 2017 No.10048848

>>10048835
Thank you, your criticism is really useful. Are there any positives in the writing or is it completely daunting? Do you write much yourself?

>>10048820
>I would also love to hear/see his depraved fantasies instead of being assured of their existence.
Good idea.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 12:30:08 2017 No.10048863 >>10048848 I liked the imagery of the dudes smoking baccy and hearing something then going back to what they were doing

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 14:30:23 2017 No.10049249

Ames finds himself in his wheelie chair facing the wall away from the television. On the floor, leaning against the walls and stacked in the corner are his mother’s old charcoals in their old frames awaiting some proper arrangement.

A desk far at his right hand is shoehorned crudely into a bay window that has sightlines out to the street.

The desk is the most tidy part of the entire apartment, no room for clutter amidst the mount for the sheetscreen, the adaptors for his old clicky keyboards.

Ames spins around in his chair and the room takes too long to catch up. The loading wheel animation on the television is running clockwise and he’s going the opposite way. Before he can feel sick he stands up.

“Shit,”

It’s too late to start working now. The sun is up and he can see the reflections of the pedestrians milling below. Too late. It will take a few hours to get going now.

He could try to work but he knows he’s yet to shower, will feel some nagging far off source of hunger and will certainly feel pressured to jerk off eventually. Might as well just try to approach it as efficiently as possible. Better to lose an hour or two all at once than slowly over the course of a day, turn a bright hum of productivity into staccato discord. Better to just have nothing else to do but work.

Ideally he’d do his job in a bank vault with a time-release lock and a case of water, a ration of kiddie coke pills. A bucket in the corner for necessity. He should have bounced it off Miranda the night she showed up at the door and asked what kind of work he was doing. Gordian certainly had that kind of money and if you’re going to be a sell out then you’d better be getting better than market value. So he should have thought when she came into the room and stood by the desk in the window, commented on how shabby his equipment was.

But now he’s wasting time.

Around the low partition’s and into the corner alcove where the fridge-freezer lists its contents for him in a scrolling interface, counts four bottles of water and a dozen eggs, a handful of frozen box meals and a bag of microwave chicken tenders. The eggs, it notes, are likely spoiled and should be discarded. On his approach, it prompts him with a dialogue box:

‘Would you like to order ITEM: “THE USUAL” from “Pewter Pony”?’

“Yes,” he says.

It doesn’t respond and he drags the pinpad over from the far right of the screen, punches in the numbers with the back of his pinkie knuckle and then wipes away the smudges it leaves.

‘25.63 will be charged to your…’

He punches Enter, this time using his shirt as a glove.

‘Your order will arrive in 56 minutes.’

Done.

Next.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 15:20:40 2017 No.10049435

>>10049249

He uses conventional soap in the shower. Miranda gave him two bars of the new bio-derived stuff that her girlfriend is rendering in an old talc factory in Red Hook but the stuff makes him feel too clean somehow, like the very air around him can’t reach his skin, as if he’s been wrapped in plastic wrap. She says it’s better for him, it could fix some of his allergies.

He thinks it makes him feel even less like a creature that has flesh.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 15:28:39 2017 No.10049468 >>10049435 This is all good

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 15:48:28 2017 No.10049550

"Like, zoinks, scoob! This haunted mansion sure is spooky!" Shaggy exclaimed as he rounded a narrow corridor, Scooby to his side. They found themselves in a dimly lit, empty ballroom. Cobwebs filled every crevice and the floorboards had turned a particularly repulsive shade of gray from decades of neglect. The sterile white moonlight shone through what few windows the long dead architect was generous enough to include, and refracted off the dusty chandelier, producing a curious array of frail dancing lights in the center of the room.
Just visible in the ethereal halo was the golden-haired Fred. He had obviously been separated from the others, and Shaggy called out to him.
"Like, Fred, have you seen Daphne and Velma?"
Fred fell to his knees, collapsing into a shadowy figure, and one could instantly hear the thick, wet vomit sprawl across the floor as he tried to call for help through a miasma of blood and stomach acid.
Scooby gulped audibly.
"Ruh-roh!" he let out. A look of sheer confusion stole their once passive expressions as Daphne and Velma came running to Fred from a door on the opposite side of the ballroom.
Daphne crouched over Fred and grabbed him by his heaving shoulders. "What is it, a clue?" She noticed the visceral blood spewing forth from his mouth, and immediately jumped back, screamed half-heartedly, and fell limp onto the floor, paralyzed with shock.
Velma would have certainly noticed the fact that Daphne's head had split wide open against the uneven plank flooring, had she not inexplicably lost the ability to breathe. Her first impression was that she was having an asthma attack, but that was quickly overruled as her eardrums violently popped. She had the sensation of some force pulling her from every position on her body, as if floating unprotected in space. As the panic reached an unprecedented crescendo, her eyes exploded spectacularly in their sockets, and her lifeless body fell face down next to Daphne's pool of spilt graymatter.
Fred, suffering immeasurably, tried to aim his concealed carry 9mm at his head, but this was growing increasingly difficult by the fact that his arms had become tentacles. By some contrivance of his new form of dexterity, he managed to pull the trigger, but the bullet only traveled through his neck and lower jaw. Fred screamed in pain. The guttural, primeval moaning was made to sound more like a tortured gurgling as he vomited more blood, so much that his esophagus could not close, and he began to suffocate.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 15:49:33 2017 No.10049557

>>10049550
In total disbelief of the sadistic spectacle sprawled before them, Shaggy declared "Z-z-zoinks, Scoob! Let's, like, g-g-get outta here!" But before they could do so, the light of the moon grew in intensity, and shifted to a diabolical red hue. The grand window at the center of the ballroom cast it's light on a door, which creaked open slowly, revealing the darkest black the two had ever seen. If felt as though, upon staring into the void, one could begin to lose their own memories and sensibilities, so intense was the blackness. And as the duo stood in awe, a shadow escaped the door and moved across the floor in a slow, sure sweep towards Shaggy. The moment it touched the base of his boot-shod feet, Shaggy ceased to exist. Not a sound or sight was left of what once he was.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 16:44:39 2017 No.10049796
File: 97 KB, 600x759, demon real.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Still debating if I should write this in English or in my mother tongue. I'm not too concerned in doing a terrible job but rather the amount of time it will take me to edit grammar and search for different adjectives and verbs just to sound less repetitive. It's an interesting experiment nonetheless.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:01:34 2017 No.10049876

My native language is not English, but I want to improve my skills so I decided to challenge myself. This is my first brainfart in years, if some ppl like it I might expand it to a novel as daily stress relief.
'Anything we want?' Asked Gordon. 'Anything' assured him Michael as they were descending three stories below ground level. Gordon's excitement already made him forget about the meticulously executed security check by the grumpy looking doorkeepers just moments ago. They reminded him a decade ago, when he nervously stood in line to get in a nightclub just after his eighteenth birthday.
It seemed like a whole life ago since that happened. It seemed like a whole life ago since the bombs fell, bringing along the new-old world order. The events that followed were not nearly enough to end the civilisation as many preached, but enough to shake up the flow of history, and with it to redirect the river bed of science. One of the newly formed creeks in this new world was the future of entertainment as Gordon was told. Without the constraints of ethics holding the scientists back, they were able to accomplish what the generations before them only dreamed of, costing only a couple hundred of souls.

Gordon's train of thought came to a halt when he and his childhood friend finished their descent. As they left behind the tight staircase of the old inner city building's cellar entrance the moldy walls, gas pipes and dim yellow lights gave way to smooth, evenly lit surfaces. The refurbished cellar looked like a sterile, minimalist tech shop that had about a week until the opening day. Most of the very few furniture pieces were in place, it was clear that the reception was not meant to keep guests waiting for long. Instead of getting greeted by hostesses and courteous staff, Michael briefly shook hands with a worker and without much conversation he led them through the nearest door. After the first bombs fell in Asia and America the renaissance of bunkers and shelters began. This underground hive must have been expanded at the time when everyone was expecting World War 3 to break out thought Gordon. The workers they passed on their way did not seemed like the average construction worker. They seemed like scientists and professionals hired straight out of a nuclear power plant.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:02:38 2017 No.10049879

>>10049876
Their destination was a door, numbered 8041 on a long corridor with about 20 doors alike. The man after quickly searching trough his belongings gave Michael the key, then left hastily only giving a goodbye nod, with a pandering expression on his face, clearly saying "Enjoy".
The two friends found themselves in a small room, furnished like a small urban flat. The most prominent objects in the room were two seats that looked like the perfect combination of the most comfortable chair you can buy and a dentist's chair. They were bolted down, and although no electronics or other accessories were visible whatsoever, they seemed like something out of a sci-fi movie's set. Other than that, there was a small fridge with various MRE's and sodas and a separate small washroom with the essentials inside. 'Are you ready?' asked Michael. 'Fuck me, I can't wait to see if even half of what you said is true.' replied Gordon. 'This is not the neural network you read about in magazines, it's not the shit they use to work out geological stuff and simulate physics, this uses real brains. Well, it actually will use yours and mine as well once we're in'. The two friends then took their places in the two seats without further ado. "Well, I think I passed the point of no return" Gordon thought to himself as the room dimmed it's lights, clearly indicating it sensed the two participants taking their places.

A woman's silhouette started to step out of the wall. As the projection got nearer it took the form of a quite attractive, but modestly presented hostess.
Welcome to the House of Everything gentlemen. To enjoy our services, you don't have to do anything else, other than calmly lay back and let the automated system take care of the rest. To avoid any inconvenience, please keep in mind the instructions given in your welcome package. Enjoy!
As Gordon somewhat nervously but eagerly laid back he felt the seat reclining, extending it's modules. He felt a slight touch on the back of his head and spine. For a moment nothing happened, or so it seemed for him, but in the next moment the walls of the room started to melt. The seat disappeared from underneath and he saw Michael floating by him, the same distance he was sitting from him. The next moment they started to accelerate toward a distant light, accelerating even more he felt the G force in his body without any sort of wind or drag slowing them down. They were on their way to the real House of Everything.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:06:45 2017 No.10049899 >>10048820 >I won't read all of that. First paragraph reads like you are very committed to writing around 2,000 words daily. I'm going to post writing every day until you do.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:21:13 2017 No.10049948 >>10048136 >Bumlin Jejaroo

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:22:57 2017 No.10049956

>>10048150
>Sitting on the balcony of my apartment have its benefits, the panoramic view of Lake Michigan, Chicago River, and Navy Pier provides a sense of lull in the turmoil that is my life.

Two major errors in the first sentence:

First, it should be two sentences. Second, the word should be "has," not "have." Otherwise you sound like a caveman senpai.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:25:15 2017 No.10049965

>>10048223
Simultaneously too personal and too impersonal. Instead of saying "souls" and "protruded" (the former is too sentimental and the latter is too instrumental), say something like "people" and describe the rain falling on the guy as if he was a human being. Just exercise some more discretion.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:26:35 2017 No.10049972 >>10048773 try reading it out loud while imagining you're surrounded by close friends and pretty women

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:38:42 2017 No.10050022 >>10049965 I already shortened it to just 'two', I think people can infer I'm not talking about gumball machines without being told

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:41:07 2017 No.10050040 >>10050022 I don't think it scans in that case. Like if you read it out loud you can sort of tell that it's missing a beat, aurally.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:43:07 2017 No.10050050

>>10047644
Feels a little Murakami, nice and simple. Agree with the other posters that the last line feels kind of off, but I'd still read several chapters of this story.

---------------------

"So, tell me, what's on your mind these days?"
Without even so much as a nod in his direction, she replied, "The weather."
"The weather?" he repeated. "Well, it has gotten pretty hot lately. I'm afraid the A/C might just conk out at this rate, and then we'll all be in trouble." His hearty chuckle filled the air. "Going by what some scientists are saying, we might be headed for another Scorch. On the bright side, they're also predicting that it might not be as bad as the last one.
"The Scorch wasn't the actual name," she said, her gaze still fixed on the window. "It was just some meme that got passed around on the Internet for a while in certain circles. Eventually, the media got hold of it and people have been referring to that particular period of death and destruction as the Scorch."
"If this had been a test, Maiya, you would have aced it."
She turned her head towards him. "Isn't that all this is, Doctor, just a test?"
"That depends on what you mean by 'this'," he replied.
"These sessions, Doctor, that's what I meant."
"You think they're some sort of test?"
"You're looking for signs of rebellion or stress; you and the other doctors are here to make sure we're all still towing the line, backing the status quo."
The doctor had wanted to roll his eyes, but decided not to since Maiya was now looking at him directly. "You're a very astute young lady, Maiya, you know that? Not a single one of the other children have ever--
"Don't patronize me."
"Of course. But I'm sure you also know that the other doctors and myself are here to provide a service, that being checking on your mental health. I'm also sure I don't need to remind you how vital our work is, not just for your own well being, but the well being of everything that goes on here. Or need I remind you of how much of a mess you were when you first got here?"
To this she did not reply, but instead looked up at the cuckoo clock hanging on the wall on Leonardo's side of the room. The clock read 1:59, it was one of the few time telling devices in the base that was not adjusted to military time. As the moments passed between that 1:59 and the coming of the next hour, she waited. The young doctor waited too. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! went the clock.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:44:55 2017 No.10050059 >>10050050 Needs more shortening, I'd say.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 17:58:58 2017 No.10050122 >>10050059 Shortening? In what way?

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 18:45:06 2017 No.10050251 >>10049972 This is a nice trick, I'm going to name it 'shame conditioning'

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 18:46:19 2017 No.10050255

This is was meant to be a cynical analogy from an essay I've written:

A Buddhist was once returning to his temple after a prolonged period of meditation on the mountains when he encountered his follow monk, "why did you want to become a Buddhist?" He asked, "I woke up one day and found that I was consumed with misanthropy, I was faced with two options: become a homicidal psychopath and seek to terminate our race, or retire from life and become a Buddhist monk. So I closed social media, packed my stuff and left for the mounts of Cambodia.", the fellow nodded and smiled and approved his choice.

This is the scenario I envision for someone who keeps emphasizing how much they hate everyone and social media, life, humans, society, and literally anything that has to do with people, and hates everything in general. It befuddles me why would one wants to experience with the things he gloats about abhorring, when it could be easier to isolate oneself from those since isolation is what these "aggressive loners" take pride in doing.

Cher misanthrope, stop being incongruous, make the right choice, become a Buddhist monk.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 19:24:38 2017 No.10050422 >>10050255 contrived, ignorant, preaching, and painful to read if community colleges required a written essay for admission this is about what I would expect to reject, then pass around online so other people could laugh

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 20 19:35:19 2017 No.10050469 What is the most beautiful literary account of a blumpkin that has ever been written?

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 20:12:38 2017 No.10050631

First paragraph of my next Experimental Fiction class assignment. Tear my shit up.:

Harelip

Cliff has planned to cut his tongue out for a while. He stands naked in a mirror, tongue outstretched, in his head an x-ray of the veins and muscles inside it. He sucks it up so it sticks to the roof of his mouth, blue-green veins and purple nerve endings beneath. Humid cavern walls. To the side of him, on a table, a few things: anatomy textbook, surgical gloves, knife, blowtorch, iron rod. A few vials of novocaine, morphine and a handful of needles, still in plastic packing. The place smells of old dust, senile air, no windows, soft lightbulb hanging above.

Pain’s not the problem, bleeding out is. If he clamps the mouth open and holds his tongue with one hand, the other can cut the lingual frenulum without much work, then continue separating the muscle from the floor of his mouth. Another way is to push the scalpel as far down as possible, place it at the right, then make an incision on the base of the throat, downwards and to the left, severing the whole back of it in one motion. He thinks of cutting it by sections, first the outer papillae and progressively smaller chunks until it’s all a stub. Maybe splitting it in half then repeating the scalpel motion, but from the center of the tongue. Has to be efficient, lest he won’t have time to cauterize it. Caught in doubt, he retreats the gross muscle back into his mouth, then notices himself in the glass. Flared pores, orange hair in fine sharp strips, glued by sweat. Unshaven. A mild textured bald scar above his lip. Bent Cupid’s bow. If he pushes his tongue up, he can still feel the remnants of the gap. He remembers as a child sticking fingers into it and coming back soaked in blood and mucus. The tiny, dirt-encrusted toddler nail scraping at the bottom of his brain, leaving chunks of filth and soot-black rotting blood along the way in that passage.

Fantasized of digging in with scissors, see if he could cut an idea, a pure thing, bring it back. Keep it somewhere safe.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 20:15:02 2017 No.10050641

It starts in my cup. Looking down at the half empty black sea, I am reminded of the past. Reminded of my childhood, our innocence, and my failures. I am not normally one for dwelling on the past, but as this is the last day, it comes against my will.
Prior to entering this café, I had been wandering aimlessly through familiar streets; but the grey winter morning brought heavy clouds, and with it rain. Shelter came in the form of an unfamiliar, dark grey building, with a wide-open space occupied by chairs and tables. The few people littered inside stare at me as one of them: a refugee from this stereotypical weather. Moving my eyes toward the counter, one of the young women raises her face to the sound of new footsteps heading toward one of the many tables. Her light steps soon follow, and with them she places down a cup of coffee in front of my hands. Grasping this cup for its warmth, my eyes are drawn to her tired yet beaming face to give thanks.
Alone at this table, my cold and tired mind is left with no other choice than to wander. Wander just as I had been beforehand, with no direction or purpose. The memory to attack me is one which attaches itself among the others I wish could have been different.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 20:16:07 2017 No.10050648

>>10050641
This time, it begins in a school. The school which spent five years in educating me and the numerous other students who roamed and studied within its walls. As far as schools go, the one I had attended was nothing exceptional, simply another public institute. The reason for my going was due to the effortless location being less than one mile from my parent’s house. I possess many memories of this place with varying fondness; what I am reminded of on this occasion takes place toward the beginning of my third year, where most students break off into their smaller cliques leaving the rest as acquaintances.

At fourteen years of age, there were two friends of whom spent most of their time with me and thus my time with them. Of the two, Kain was first. He was the first friend I had made at this new school, and the first of the trinity. Ever so slightly taller than I, was his head of dirt-blonde hair, often long enough to reach his eyes. These eyes of his were the contradiction to my murky dark eyes; regularly brown enough to hide the pupil, whereas his were the colour of a clear blue summer sky. In our school days, I found myself habitually envious of his looks. My years of puberty seemed not to be kind; leaving me with a face occupied with the odd spot. His years never seemed to show, simply leaving him with the benefit but no repercussion. Our personalities frequently blended into the same at the beginning, and this stayed the same until into our mid-late teenage years.

The final of the three was Isabella. Shorter than I, she possessed dark raven hair flowing long enough to touch her chest.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 20:23:19 2017 No.10050673

>>10050641
>>10050648

See, I'm not mad at your setting or plot, if there is one yet. It does have a Proustian feel to it, what with memory being triggered at a coffee shop and such, and you seem to have a decent command of language. My issue is, this somewhat dull and boring. Maybe I'm lacking context, but your narrator comes across as somewhat whiny. Sure, he may be afflicted by sadness, but he speaks in that poetic zombie voice typical of overly dramatic teenagers. This isn't inherently a bad thing, but it should be, in my opinion, withheld a little more, as it can make reading your story feel tedious, and your characters pretentious.

There's also a few cases of awkward sentence construction. For instance:

"The memory to attack me is one which attaches itself among the others I wish could have been different." That took me two tries to understand, because it's a pretty long, somewhat convoluted sentence. The whole "which attaches itself among others" is unnecessary, only weighs down the sentence.

The introductory paragraph of the narrator's school experience is great, it sets the tone, setting and context just right for your narration to continue. Use that paragraph as a guide. If you wish, do get poetic, but remember not to let flowery language and melodrama overtake your plot and characters. If the reader feels like the writer's hand is moving too many pieces, they get disconnected, and loose interest in your story.

Althought not my cup of tea, you aren't a bad writer, so keep working on it. Best of luck man.

Anonymous Wed Sep 20 20:42:43 2017 No.10050749

>>10048820
>two characteristics of your writing are in conflict here: On the one hand you are very vague in what you are describing.
I was told to leave some area open to interpretation so the readers could form their own ideas on the matter. I do understand the sentiment, both of them will be described later on, just not right now.

>(why think of the screams as frightening or intriguing?)

>(why suspect that their origin might be magical?).
>On the other hand you use very technical expressions (predicament, monetary reward, incentive) which demand specificity
But how is the Character supposed to specify on something if he himself doesn't know? All he does know is that there is a predicament that someone needs solving and that the requirements are not affiliated with any group. He knows he's going to get the monetary reward for his work that is the norm, he just doesn't know the amount since it varies to person to person. The incentive is explained in the last paragraph, From hearsay, she is a poor boss to her own subordinates, how will treat someone that is not even part of her gang. Which puts him off into not working with her

>or your character comes off as a complete autist.

>I suspect this is going to be some kind of noir story and I encourage you to keep the technical, analytical tone but try to be more specific and detailed as to your character's rationalizations.
I will take that into consideration.

Sorry if I sound defensive.

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 01:28:34 2017 No.10051513 Bump

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 02:00:27 2017 No.10051562 Any tips for learning how to write in third-person? I seem to default all my writing to the first-person, and so my third-person narratives are all kinds of wonky. I read a lot of third-person stuff but it's still difficult for me.

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 02:38:10 2017 No.10051641 >>10051562 At the absolute basic level, start out by just writing down what it would sound like if you were telling someone about something that you heard happened to someone else. Then expand on that foundation.

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 02:42:20 2017 No.10051659
File: 298 KB, 824x616, 02a8882b99dd887115368c9ddc63e98e.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10050255
I agree with what >>10050422 said, it's quite preachy and not even in a positive way. Here's a tip I learned about evangellization: preach the beauty of your cause first. I'd like to think most people are simple - they want to see or be a part of pretty things. Focus on making people see the beauty of your point of view or lifestyle - and they'll be more likely to join up. Simply wagging your finger at someone for not following your viewpoint is probably going to cause them to turn away quick. The themes of fellowship and hope in Lord of the Rings for instance, makes it a good propaganda piece for Christianity - it told the beauty of it first, then weaved the preaching/themes as it went along WITHOUT telling you to go all-out christian and praising Jesus.

Here's my piece. From this page alone it's pretty standard fantasy, though I hope it can later sucessfully evolve into a Groundhog Day, Murder Mystery in line with Re:Zero.
https://pastebin.com/iMq59G4c

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 02:46:46 2017 No.10051670

>>10047701
definitely could be compelling with a good plot. cool premise. Reminds me of "the lottery"
I wonder if you really do live with such ease as you appear.
I am often jealous of your flippancy. I fear often I wrap myself in thought.

After the party, we walked home in the rain. There were eight of us, walking in pairs, all enveloped in conversations. Our bright raincoats shimmered under the streetlights. The rain and cold punished me. We shivered but talked excitedly towards the snack-topia that awaited us all in your room. I felt honored that you had invited me to come along with your friends to your post-party ritual: gorging yourselves on dollar store snacks. In the downpour, you told me about your dad, and I told you about my girlfriend and then I checked my watch. Our pace matched the tempo of our conversation and we discussed a million different things, but never came to a conclusion on any of them. We kept jutting off before coming to a consensus. I think we both believed that conversation was the currency of the world and the more we had informative talks with the people around us, the richer the world would be.

Your problems seemed so huge to me, yet you flaunted your firm grasp on life. Your way of dealing with everything convinced me that there was nothing you couldn’t handle. It didn’t matter where you were born, you could always work hard enough to achieve your own goals. I yearned to be more goal oriented. I guess, to put it more accurately, I yearned to be successfully goal oriented. I had plenty of goals either way.

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 03:17:26 2017 No.10051756 >>10051641 Simple advice, but sometimes that's just what ya need. Thanks, pal.

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 04:55:22 2017 No.10051966

>>10050749
No prob. It's okay to be defensive about things you're passionate about. Being vague in one's storytelling and providing detail both serve the same purpose (and feed off each other in that regard): They let the reader imagine your world more vividly. This can be hard to handle when writing from a first-person perspective about a character's thoughts, feelings and imaginations. Everyone knows what thoughts sound like and everyone knows how they are intertwined with feelings and imaginations, so the description of a mental process that is lacking in detail (or overly detailed in the wrong ways) will seem unnatural. The mental process your character's narration describes seems incomplete as it is completely made up of thoughts, even when it describes feelings (frightening, intriguing; intriguing being even more than a feeling as intrigue can be seen as its own mode of mental activity, tying the perceived to some imagined future involvement in an activity pertaining to the perceived and the wish to partake in such activity) or imaginations (is it natural of magical? judging from this question the character has had an imagination as to the nature of the phenomenon, an imagination of a natural scenario and a magical scenario). Think about this for a bit. Writing itself is an imaginative and affective act, you perceive visions of an imagined world and feelings toward what you imagine and translate these into words. Think of your characters as doing the same thing.

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 06:07:40 2017 No.10052108 >>10050673 Thank you. I can understand what you mean about it sounding whiney, so I'll get to work on that. As for that particular sentence, I'll just get rid of that part.

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 06:19:32 2017 No.10052124 >>10051966 I thank you for understanding. And I thank you for as to why I should give a more in-depth description. Which I will give more consideration. Do you think I should rewrite it to include it?

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 08:08:58 2017 No.10052317 >>10047576 Posteds this in another thread, but that one didn't stay up for long. I've recently started a web serial, and I can't seem to get any actual feedbaack from anyone that won't pull their punches. powersetfive wordpress com

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 08:20:16 2017 No.10052344

He was ethered out of his mind and "labrador... retriever..." was all he could utter in a dopey drawl before his eyes went to the back of his head and I caught him as he crumpled to the ground, his throat gurgling like a commode, post-flush. "What happened to him?" the dame breathed, painted fingers clickety-clacketing at her shiny tobacco case. "Quiet," I snapped and took a draft from my Helper's Whisky hip flask and IS THIS A GOOD OPENING TO A DETECTIVE STORY /LIT/

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 09:43:45 2017 No.10052590
File: 410 KB, 1240x1754, Fantasy Page-page-001.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10049249
The beginning takes too long describing the environment, just get to the plot already, garsh.

Here's mine. It's a fantasy story about a hero AFTER his "happy ending."

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 09:50:01 2017 No.10052616

>>10049876
> 'Anything' assured him Michael
remove him
>They reminded him a decade ago
of a decade ago. Furthermore, you can dive deep into his feelings of those times. Like "They reminded him of those long-lost joyous moments a decade ago".
>It seemed like a whole life ago
lifetime sounds better
>end the civilisation
civilization
>had about a week until the opening day
you lost me
>>10049879
The man after quickly searching trough his belongings gave Michael the key
commas
>For a moment nothing happen...
to many use of moment. Try to find synonyms or word it better.
> accelerating even more he felt the G force ...
lost me again

I didn't like it 2be honest but I think you should write the whole thing anyways, like you said in a daily basis. My native language isn't English either, maybe someone else could give you a better critique. I try to post my stuff here too even if I get a kill yourself every single time, it's about not getting discouraged and improve.

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 13:38:38 2017 No.10053434 File: 429 KB, 620x877, executioner_by_yigitkoroglu.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10052590 A more improved version of my story. A bit longer too. https://pastebin.com/85wSBYm7

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 15:46:19 2017 No.10053806 >>10048291 This gets gay about halfway in.

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 16:15:07 2017 No.10053872 I try to write when I'm bored and would appreciate some critique https://pastebin.com/EApiQsZ3

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 16:29:51 2017 No.10053912 >>10053872 >He had had the hat This had to be on purpose.

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 16:44:47 2017 No.10053951

"Goodnight Now, Gurrelson"

Three summers ago, some kids out to catch frogs found Gurrelson face down in the retention pond. The water wasn’t high enough to come to their ankles.

The police came. The firefighters came. The ambulance came. He was long dead.

The news vans came, hungry in a slow cycle. They came and crowded into Gwennett the dry cleaner’s parking lot while he paced, confused behind his glass door. He wanted to know how this was news at all.

Then they came crowding from down the street:

Retirees and layabouts. The women who were known mostly for being liars and the men who dressed like biker toughs though they had no bike.

On a Wednesday morning, there could be no better excuse for daydrinking than a dead body.

Gurrelson was known to all of these drinkers, as if he were a distant uncle, somehow more than an acquaintance but not a friend.

They might have meant to call him a fixture. Gurrelson was as fixed to the bar as the North Star is to the sky.

This is what I think I knew about Gurrelson:

I never saw him without a cowboy hat and I never saw him sober.

He couldn’t remember where he’d been born but he suspected it was Oklahoma.

He was my favorite customer on Friday night and my least favorite on a Saturday morning.

He drank Johnnie Walker and smoked Parliament. Nothing else. I never fetched him a beer. He never took a smoke if it wasn’t his brand. He accepted no charity, not even friendly gestures.

All his wives left him and none of his kids claimed him as a father. He had no family, no close friends, and, when he died, no home.

The oldheads at the south end of the bar used to call him Wild Bill. Some of the VFW crowd called him Billy Bullet. I heard a woman with a wig stained yellow from cigarette smoke refer to him as Dollar Bill.

“Why?” another woman asked.

Because, she said, there was no price he wouldn’t pay for a good time.

His death was a relief to all the the young, good-looking women that came in to drink on a Friday or Saturday. I suspect that it was a relief to all women of this planet. He pursued each and every one with the same reckless indifference.

I pieced together his whole story as he told it to others.

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 16:46:04 2017 No.10053954

>>10053951

This is what I heard:

He fought in World War Two- dropped into France by parachute.

At Aachen, he blew up a bunker and shot six Nazis. He stabbed another one, looked him in the eye as he died. He regretted it only years later. After the frenzy of battle had subsided, he patted his brow and realized he was bleeding. A bullet had skimmed over the limit of his skull.

Sometimes when he would tell his story, he would lift his hat and show you the trough it left, scarred over like someone laid a finger into his head and let it set claylike . I saw it myself, the veins purple and the hair absent.

Sometimes he wore a jacket that said “9th Infantry”. From what I’ve learned, the 9th Infantry never parachuted into France, but they did fight at Aachen.

He said for his actions the Army saw fit to award him the Silver Star. They didn’t come to this decision immediately. They waited until he’d crossed the Rhine and the battles with the Germans were waning. Then- he suspected for morale- they awarded any soldier who had earned a distinction their medals in one day, the nightmare version of a high school commencement. The ceremony might have had the USO and the fanfare and everything.

He did not remember because he was not there.

On that day, he got dead drunk with a buddy and stole the CO’s Jeep. They sent the MP’s out looking for him and they found him with his head up a prostitute’s dress. The MP’s loaded him into the Jeep and whoever was driving took a corner too fast. The Jeep flipped and someone’s sidearm discharged.

That bullet hit him in the head too, just under the left ear. Somehow, he was the only one to survive the crash. He says he got another medal for that-

“A bullet in a theater of war is a bullet in a theater of war.”

He said the next thing he remembered, it was 1974. He was a millionaire off a trucking company in Texas, and just after ten in the morning his wife served him divorce papers along with his breakfast.

That’s where he came to his senses, as if he’d been on autopilot for the better part of twenty years: Eggs, bacon, and some papers that cited infidelity as the reason she wanted out.

The years between the accident and his divorce not even a blur but a bottomless hole.

“I fought the bitch,” I remember him saying, “but she got half. How can a man give half’some money he can’t even remember getting?”

My first day tending bar, I walked in and set my register and he came in not a minute later. These were the old days when the bar opened at 6 in the morning. He walked in and thumbed his nose and with nobody else but the two of us around asked,

“Who is this faggot?”

You can look up all the Silver Star winners in World War II. There’s a public database. Gurrelson isn’t there.

Nobody ever says Billy Bullet was a drunk, a liar, a coward, or a bum.

At least not without affection.

“Here’s to Wild Bill, a real sonofabitch.”

"The king of the rats."

"Still a king."

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 17:34:20 2017 No.10054148

>>10053434
Bretty good. I think the "why didn't you stop me?" was better than "you're a coward". In the latter there was no hint of she wanted to be with him now. Unless, on the previous dialogue she says something like "are you gonna tell her?" implying she taught he chose her instead of his wife.

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 18:01:47 2017 No.10054257

-Public Service Announcement from Your Local Friendly Tax Collector-

That magical world they told you about
was wearing a mask all along.
It’s ugly underneath,
and it’ll bite your throat like a hungry dog,
if it gets the slightest chance.

That’s right, there’s not a single unicorn,
treasure chest,
or castle in the sky.

It’s just cement roads,
faulty streetlights,
and the inherent suffering
that all living things share.

It was all a lie.
Jesus and the easter bunny.
All of it was a fairy tale,
or at least gross exaggeration of the truth.

But now you must join in the elaborate charade.
You must look upon the rotting foundations beneath the world, all that you hold dear,
take its weight upon your shoulders,
and do it with a smile,
while you tell children the very same lies
that blinded you.

The skies may darken with ash,
and the rivers may run dry.
But even so,
you mustn't forget
to pay your taxes.

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 18:05:18 2017 No.10054268 >>10054257 This is a badly written thing saying stuff everyone already knows.

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 18:12:22 2017 No.10054292 "The blood of the skull drained to his veins and a grin cracked the earth" This sounded when I wrote it this morning

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 18:14:28 2017 No.10054299 >>10054292 sounded better* fuck me man

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 18:20:32 2017 No.10054314 >>10054268 What if it's for kids?

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 21 20:29:51 2017 No.10054753 File: 41 KB, 320x318, 1506040191027.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10047576 OP's glass dildo shattered inside his ass. and he liked it

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 23:18:18 2017 No.10055336

(1/2)

“Now then,” he began, “The story you are about to be told is old but gold – one of heroism and jealousy, betrayal and love. Due to ghastly violence and a very ancient greek sense of romance – the two tend to go hand-in-hand – viewer discretion is advised.”

“Our tale begins on Olympus Mons, the heaven-piercing mountain that the gods of the classical world were said to call their home… Except for Hades, not because he was a jerk but because anyone in that pantheon who had their act together had no business ruining human lives with the rest of them.”

“See, unlike the god you're used to hearing about in church, the olympians were a lot like you or me. They drank, they gambled, and they didn't take that whole marriage thing too seriously. Zeus was the man at the top and he did all of the above – especially the last one, and usually in the form of a farm animal for some reason. Not judging, just telling it like it is.”

“Anyway, the story goes that one day, Zeus got the hots for the fair titaness of beauty and grace who the greeks of old had called Leto, and when Zeus sees someone he wants, he grabs her by the... arm. Soon enough Leto had a divine bun in the holy oven, which even usually is cause enough to pack your things, change your name and hairstyle, and hop on the next train to nopesville with or without a ticket, but in this case the situation was made all the worse by the fact that good old Zeus was already married.”

“His wife Hera, who was also his sister – again, no judging, – was a jealous bridezilla of apocalyptic proportions. When she heard the news that Leto had run off with a belly the size of a medicine ball, she put two and two together and realized she'd be been had and need to remind everyone just what kind of harpy they were dealing with.”

“Now, being queen of the gods came with a lot of perks, and as a result Hera was see and hear any being that set foot on the earth. Leto was well aware of this, so in an act of sheer cleverness she vamoosed off to Asterios, the floating island hidden amongst the stars. It was there that after three days of painful labor and one night of slightly more painful labor that Leto gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, whom she named Apollo after the greek word for destruction. Given the circumstances I can't say I blame her”

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 23:19:20 2017 No.10055343

>>10055336
(2/2)

“Hera spent many years looking for Leto, but in that time her jealousy never faded. After many failed attempts to track her down, Hera changed tactics and put a new plan into motion. Leto, she knew, was too wary of she and her creations to ever be caught, so instead Hera went to Leto's sister Delphyne and over a glass of ambrosia she told her that their fight had gone on long enough. Leto was a goddess, and whatever mistakes were made she belonged on olympus, among her family and friends. Hera asked Delyphyne to bring Leto home, and while Delphyne was overcome with womanly emotion Hera slipped one of her hairs into the goddesses drink.”

“It didn't take long for Delphyne to track down her sister. The two had been inseparable as children and she knew exactly how Leto would think. When the two saw each other it was the happiest they had been in years. Leto gave her the grand tour, showed her the view and everything, and even introduced her to the little one. After much reminiscing, the Delphyne managed convince her that her place was at home, and with tears in her eyes the sisters embraced. And that of course was when Hera struck.”

“With a snap of her fingers the hair inside Delphyne became the terrible serpent of fire and fangs who the ancient ones called The Python. Horrifically, Python consumed Delphyne from inside. The arms around her sister became scaled coils, and her mane of long hair became a hood like that of a cobra. It pinned Leto in an instant, and as little Apollo looked on in horror the great dragon swallowed his mother whole”

“Now the boy was terrified as anyone, man or god, would be, but worse yet he was a godling alone in the world. He he had never known another like him, but the family his mother and aunt had spoken of was out there somewhere, and therefore they might be able to help him”

“Following stories and songs taught to him by wandering bards, the young god Apollo found his way back to terra firma, and from there on to Olympus where he was met with defeat.”

“When he arrived on olympus he caused quite a stir. His divine family was eager to see him, and talk to him, and abandon him at the circus or whatever else it is that families do. By day's end he had shaken every hand, kissed every wrinkly grandmother, and played fetch with every cthonic horror left to meet. The only holdouts were the master and mistress of the show, the king and queen of olympus, Zeus and Hera.”

“At once, Zeus realized who the boy was, but he knew the instant he saw him he could tell him nothing of the truth. Apollo pleaded his case before the throne of olympus, and begged his father to teach him to wield lightning himself, so he could go forth and slay the beast that had eaten his mother, but Zeus ignored him, and his request was denied. It did not, however, fall on deaf ears.”

Anonymous Thu Sep 21 23:29:24 2017 No.10055373

>>10053951
>>10053954

the first quarter is a bit rough, and sounds sort of like a childrens book with non-child-friendly subject matter. It picks up later and gets pretty readable but for fuck's sake fix your formatting.

9/10 times when I come here the worst offense isn't that the writing is bad – because here it's not – but that the punctuation and whitespace are so fucking awful it makes the actual prose and dialog look worse standing next to it

>>10054257

sounds like something a white politician would say on The Boondocks. That's not a compliment

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 00:19:50 2017 No.10055545

Here is an non-fiction essay I'm writing for a class

Happy Birthday [2nd Draft]
I am going to make a confession. I am a pretty ridiculous person. Sometimes I make decisions that seem totally irrational, but in my head, at the time, I swear they made some kind of sense. You don’t really have to take my word for it, either, because I know I’m not the only one who does this -- though I hope I am not making a mistake thinking this happens to everyone. Because the ridiculous part of life, which is hilarious and pops up every so often, can be a regenerating thing, can replenish the soul, and I hope everyone has something ridiculous happen to them, at some point in their lives.
I am not saying I did this for some rational reason or other. I didn’t drop acid on my birthday because I am a rational person. I did it because I am a somewhat insane person, with a propensity for a little drug use here and there, though usually done responsibly and without parents around. I did it because I am ridiculous and life is ridiculous, and I concocted a ridiculous delusion as well as wrote a ridiculous story, one that was trashed and reborn into something a little more, well, clear. But I didn’t do it for the story.
I did it because it was my birthday, and one is allowed to do what one wants on one’s birthday. It’s in the Constitution.
Soldiers have died for our right to get shitfaced and sad on this, the day we became people, the day we were expelled from our mothers’ bodies like so much waste. This is our one day. One day! That we can get fucking stupid, and do something that should, at any other time, lead to our disownment as the spawn of our parents, to be ex familia. So please, reserve your judgements for the birthday that comes when you lose it just a tiny, little bit.
Besides, my punishment was adequate enough. Not every day you start thinking you murdered your parents.

I started tripping on acid when I was with my ex-wife. It was, actually, something I was waiting for -- convinced by Hunter S. Thompson’s sage declaration: “Jesus man! You don't look for acid! Acid finds you when it thinks you're ready.” And it found me, alright. The first time was like a peek into a mirror that reflects an image of you in the 4th dimension -- meaning you can see all your parts, your inside and outside, your brain, your guts, all beating and growling and squishing like the rhythmic machine that you are. You catch a glimpse of yourself without the bullshit defenses you’ve built up over the years, forcing you to confront your real failures, but lets you get over your illusory ones. It is a powerful drug, one that resists the possibility of abuse because the results are often terrifying but extremely illuminating.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 00:20:34 2017 No.10055550 File: 2.17 MB, 1854x1300, Screen Shot 2017-09-21 at 12.05.28 AM.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 00:21:16 2017 No.10055556

>>10055545
oops stupid paragraph breaks

My ex-wife understood this instinctively, and we only did it twice in the years that we were together. Soon after we divorced, when I moved back into my parent’s house, dejected and alone and broke, with no future, I stumbled upon a dealer who sold somewhat more exotic drugs, ones I had (because of the great Hunter S. and a boredom that sat eating away at my brain) always been enthusiastic about trying once or twice. Through him I tried peyote, the cactus that is used in some First People’s rituals, and it is a difficult experience, with a come down that is hellishly long and I think is deliberate. Once he had DMT, something scraped out of tree bark and is the active component in ayahuasca, a tea drunk during a shamanic ritual by people residing by the Amazon. It is supposed to be intensely religious and possibly spooky. It made me hallucinate into a video game-esque lego world that replaced my room. It was disappointing and meaningless.

What was never disappointing, unless taken so soon after a trip (it won’t work at all if you do this), was LSD, that old hippie drug of Peace and Love. I remember the first time I took it after my divorce. I imagined what dying would be like: it would feel as if the person in your head fell into the cells in your body, as if your brain had given up control, and your consciousness was dispersed into each of them, you becoming a trillion little yous. You would feel yourself dissolve into your components, no longer the wonderful Thing that was invented by your body to give it direction, but an anarchic mass of unruly cells. As these cells, you can do nothing intelligently but eventually decay and become food for bacteria and worms and plants, but maybe a bit of you is taken in by those bacteria and worms and plants, and you live on in some tiny, dispersed way. I tried to reconcile this belief in reincarnation with science -- something, anything, to believe we couldn’t really die.

It was just a little nuts. LSD makes you think crazy things. Eventually you snap out of it, but the thing is -- LSD always makes you wonder. What if it was really true? You can’t tell with it -- because sometimes you think something true you never thought about before -- like how shitty you are to your parents, even though they beat you or were emotionally distant or whatever and you can’t get over it, you still are an ungrateful son who leeches off his parents, who gets high and embarrasses them in restaurants. That’s why we psychonauts worry about all this extra information we discover on LSD, because of the realness it can supply us of our own lives.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 00:22:35 2017 No.10055560

>>10055556
I tripped on LSD maybe a dozen times since my divorce. I would have liked to say that I was just getting over Brooke, but after about the sixth time, that stopped making sense. By then, I think, I mined all I could about what went wrong and when, and I was just doing it to escape the dreary existence of a failed man. I will confess for the second time: I am an addict. I have done everything from coke, which is a boring drug, like a very strong coffee, to opiates, which paradoxically only worsens my depression -- but I’ve settled on weed as a drug of choice, which, comparatively, is fine. But I also do hallucinogens if they come around, in part because of the introspection it offers, but also because the break from reality is so jarring, so complete, that for a few days after, everything seems to glow a color around the edges, something hidden that you catch sight of for a little while, and fades away.

Then everything is gray for a bit, but as I said, tripping is so harsh that it resists repeated attempts. So only after a while do you ever get that itch to see everything in color.

On August 28th, nearing a strange oldness that is turned on when you can no longer say “I’m a 20-something,” with honesty, I heard my phone go off on my desk. The ghost of Hunter S. had finally texted me, after a very long absence that was getting to be annoying. He said he was going to have a batch of acid ready on the 31st. Something triggered in me when I saw that -- acid? On my birthday? That has to mean something. I am a just a little nuts -- I can see meaning where no one else does, and sometimes that means I’m a genius, but more often than not, it means I am a fool.

I texted him back, after a careful deliberation period of about 30 minutes. I said yes. I wanted three tabs.

Three tabs is a lot, for anyone. Three tabs means going off the deep end and expecting to come out of there naked, wearing just a horse mask, stuck in a tree outside your house because you have become an owl god who summons the moon. There was a part of me that said, obviously, you are giving one of those tabs to your brother, because he is the best brother in the world and you love it when he trips, but there was a more realistic part of me that said, fuck it. I know myself too well.

I wish I had given my brother a tab. There’s a reason they call it tabs. You pay for it, in time.
My dear, sweet brother. I called him a few hours before the dinner party, and told him to take care of things for me, because I wasn’t in a “good way.” He ended up taking care of me for me, because that’s what he does now. I am useless and he is a patient motherfucker. He is smart because I was smart but I squandered it all on drugs and a failed marriage and he went and got a degree. A biochemistry degree, no less. Neither of us can find a job, though. Imagine that.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 00:23:50 2017 No.10055565 >>10055560 will post rest if anyone's interested.....

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:14:18 2017 No.10055749 >>10054292 This is the only thing i've ever written please respond

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:18:37 2017 No.10055772 >>10055749 Grin cracking the earth could be pretty good if used in the right context. Not a fan of the beginning part

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:21:12 2017 No.10055778

these days are barren
echoes of past fruit sing
blissful rose-tinted untruths
caw returns from a raven
eternal wait for spring
idk what i'm doing, never written poetry. if anyone has ideas on how to become a good writer for poetry and in general tell me how

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:26:20 2017 No.10055797 i remember one time i posted a poem in here that was like 2 lines and a couple people complimented it and i felt really good

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:36:49 2017 No.10055817 >>10055797 Is this a poem too? I enjoy your use of positive emotion here

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:37:03 2017 No.10055819

>>10055565
I'll be interested when you stop being pretentious and boring.

> acid? On my birthday? That has to mean something. I am a just a little nuts -- I can see meaning where no one else does, and sometimes that means I’m a genius, but more often than not, it means I am a fool.

Ugh.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:39:41 2017 No.10055824 >>10055817 I remember I posted a poem In here was like 2 lines A couple of people commented I felt pretty good

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:42:38 2017 No.10055827

>>10055819
no i refuse

I bought the tabs in the morning. I drove out to meet the ghost of Hunter S., who in this iteration of his presence was a chubby man with a big, square, meaty head scarred with acne. His eyes bulged as we sat in my car for a minute, trying to converse, though our strained relationship (once he burned me on a deal that cost me $100) was strictly professional at this point. He gave it to me inside a tiny brown envelope -- three tiny squares, each smaller than a ladybug, and painted with swirls of red and blue indicating they were, at least, pretending to be legitimate acid. I drove off with it in my pocket, worrying about heat degradation and other nonsense, believing every little bit that dissipates were little bits of existential knowledge, stuff I would be missing out on.

I went to class right after, which, really, is a much better way to gain knowledge, if I were to think about it. We talked about some comics, one about creativity, and the other about a man who went on a killing spree and was summarily executed. I had forgotten that acid allows your surface thoughts to invade your deeper psyche. It must have stuck to my mind and later pushed into my subconscious when, after coming home, I sat on my bed wondering if I should really take these three innocuous little squares, full of a chemical made from a mold.

You have to be careful where you are, in your head, at the start of a trip. The little things about the day have a major impact over its direction.

I took the tabs at around 4:00 pm that day. They tasted like cotton in my mouth. Acid is by far the most friendly drug when it comes to ingestion. You only require very little, between 50 and 300 micrograms of it, to work. It also doesn’t taste like anything, so that you only end up eating a tiny strip of paper, which dissolves painlessly in your mouth like cotton candy. It does make your tongue and cheeks and teeth a little tingly, but whether this is psychosomatic or an actual effect of the drug, I never bothered to find out.
By 5 o’clock I was barely functioning, but I could make the appearance, on the stairs petting my cat, that I was sober to my mother, who eyed me while talking to me about the dinner.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:43:53 2017 No.10055832

>>10055827

“So, you want it at the mediterranean place?” she asked, while I stumbled to say that the reservations were being set by my brother. I was still wearing my homewear, just basketball shorts and a ratty shirt, while she was in her work attire, part nurse, part office lady, standing over me as she had for most of my life, until a freakish growth spurt between 12 and 20 years old turned me into a relative giant. I sat, almost laying, on the stairs, drool almost coming out of my mouth that I slurped back in, my brain feeling fuzzy and hairy, memory full of static. I remember only bits from here on.

I got on the phone with my dad. I asked sheepishly if we could push this dinner thing to tomorrow, but he says he has work. It was too late now, really. I was melting down and the walls were difficult to look at without them melting and oh God it’s really hot -- is that why everything is melting? These are not my real thoughts at the time, since by then I was used to these sorts of hallucinations, but I am giving a sense of what you might think if you were tripping for the first time. Instead, I was just trying to hold onto any shred of sanity and try to maintain that for the duration of the dinner.

I sat at the kitchen table at some point, watching my sister blend a strawberry milkshake. She is a teen, now, the first and only teen girl my mother ever had, and I don’t think she was quite ready for it. My brother and I, we mostly kept our heads down, and being nerds, our social lives weren’t that, well, intensely demanding. It is fun to watch them fight sometimes -- only I would ever get so dramatic back in high school, in very short and quick outbursts of rebellion that are very different from the constant low-stakes bickering that goes on between them.

She is a little short, with long, very long Rapunzel hair, which I’m not sure why she has it like that, but it does answer the question -- what if I looked like an anime character? She’s a little chubby, but my mom makes too much of a big deal out of it, and I have to tell my mom sometimes to watch what she says. We talk a little, wishing I had more of a connection to her. But I left home when she was 7, and we haven’t really been able to bridge that gap.

We are herded into a car, are jettisoned into space.
***

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:44:30 2017 No.10055834 >>10048223 I finished the first bit of this if anyone was curious about it https://pastebin.com/TTec7Ad3

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:46:11 2017 No.10055838

>>10055832
I sat across my dad, my mom on my left, his speech slurring and face continuously melting that I couldn’t look at it properly. I was in a restaurant, I see. He was scowling, and cursing me in some alien language. My brother finally comes, in his fancy new car, and I tell him to take me home, I need to go. I try to take the knives -- I am high as a baby, not realizing I was attempting to take silverware from the place, which, again, was apparently a restaurant.

I tell my brother I took three tabs of acid. He immediately asks me “Why?” to which I refer, once again, to the footnote. I tell him it’s my birthday.

“But to the dinner?” he asks.
“Of course,” I said.
***
I throw up in my brother’s car. I throw up all over his seatbelt, and because he is a good brother he doesn’t even punch me. Sometimes I think he is too much of a pushover. We get back to the house, but he can’t get me in, and I didn’t bring any keys. We are stuck outside and I am going crazy. My front is all unbuttoned because I had thrown up on it, so I am looking like I belonged in a parody of an R&B video, where the singer has too much to drink but is still trying to look fly. I freak out to my brother, hysterically I ask him, “What if someone calls the cops? They’ll shoot me. I don’t want to die, I don’t.” I try to lay on the grass with my hands behind my head, so at least they can’t say I charged at them when they shoot me. I thought that would be a good idea. My brother told me it wasn’t.

I recalled, a few weeks later, hearing my brother on the phone. He said, “This is what happens, mom. This is what happens when you...” I don’t know what he was referring to. I am scared to ask him, but he probably doesn’t remember anyway.

I remember trying the door again, kept trying at that dumb, locked door, over and over. I kept doing it like I needed to pee real bad, the way that need overrides your thinking and you’d do anything just to get to the bathroom. Finally, someone got there with a key, I went straight to the bathroom.

For the next few hours, that bathroom was my hell.
***
We never think about it, but really, any one of us, with the right combination of circumstances, could go into one of those blackout killing sprees, the ones where someone wakes up with a knife in their hand, bloody and screaming because they had been unaware, this whole time, that they were stabbing their husband or kid or dog or whoever. You know that old story, the ones defense lawyers tell juries right before recess/nap time. It’s a scary story, because you don’t necessarily have to hate your parents or your siblings or whoever to end up murdering them. You just have to have the wrong things happen at the wrong time, like, for example, take a mind-altering substance.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:46:54 2017 No.10055839
File: 554 KB, 715x1000, 027_109.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10055834
Oh, and this is fanfiction for the excellent 'Tawawa on Monday' which is a no-dialogue manga about a salaryman who somehow ends up in a relationship with a cute young girl.
https://e-hentai.org/g/1117053/32f1805d4b/

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:48:09 2017 No.10055842

>>10055838
I sat naked on the bathroom floor, inching towards the door, afraid of what was beyond. The sounds out there were more than terrifying -- they hinted at some world that was moving out there, one that was constantly shifting, one that had fallen apart within the last hour or so, existing in some violent limbo where any number of things, any number of possibilities could be true, and I lost my memory of what the right one was. I stared at the door, a threshold, a stargate at this point, a boundary between this bathroom that now existed outside the universe proper. A bit like being in an elevator and not knowing what floor you would be stopping at.

There are many creation myths, too many to count. Let me add one to the canon real quick. One day a very foolish man took 3 hits of acid, and went totally crazy. He trapped himself in a bathroom after killing his family one by one, leaving a pile of corpses in the living room. The police came, and arrested him. He was put into a psychiatric facility, under the care of doctors and underpaid technicians, who would abuse him when they were bored. He lives in that facility now, but they gave him a laptop, and allowed him to write a journal in there. He began to write of the world we live in, deluding himself to be a different man, one going to university and studying to become a writer. His brain was so powerful, that to him, this world really existed, and in his fantasies he saw himself become what he wanted.

It really does exist, this world of his. He made it on his birthday, which is now also all our birthdays: August 31st.

Happy birthday to us.
***
I must have been in that bathroom for hours. I heard non-diegetic music playing on a piano that I wished I could record. I hummed the melody as I hovered over the toilet, preparing to throw up. I opened the door a few times, the strange door that held back reality, but I made no move to go out there. I would say “Hello?” a few times, and heard the reply of some voice or other, and shut the door quickly again. There was no point in going out there until I could figure out what I was making up.
I couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that I had murdered my family.
***

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:50:52 2017 No.10055851

>>10055842
I am not a real person. I am an invention of a person, fit for a story that has a beginning and a middle and an end. I question whether I had murdered my family, but I am also writing at a certain point after the fact, where my doubt no longer exists. I wonder if I am really non-fiction, then, or if I am only pretending to be.

As the words on the page, I self-identify as non-fiction. My pronouns are it and its. I was written by a person, whose thoughts are slowly spun out like a spool into lines that curve and straighten into ideas in another person’s brain. But I am a separate entity from the person I call myself, once I am in the hands of someone else to be read and interpreted. I am freed from my parentage, expelled like so much waste. I am born again, every time I am read.

Excuse me if I fuck up, and make myself think I murdered my family. It is, after all, my birthday.
***

The bathroom is wet and mildewy. The shower is running but I am not in the bathtub, it is just running and wasting water. I like the sound of water pat-pat-pat-ing on the plastic mat that lines the bottom. I am still crazy and I open the door and close it and open it and close it like a timid cat. The creaking noise as it opens reminds me of laughing children, a lilting tremble that starts high, gets low in the middle, and swings up at the end. That noise haunts me for days after -- it triggers a certain anxiety.

The living room is dark, and no one is around. I make my way out there and go to the fridge and sneak a bottle of water into my room. There are no bodies to walk around, no blood soaked into the walls. I am safe.

When I am back in my room, it is dark and cramped. There are water bottles everywhere, signs of my weed addiction -- I get lazy and don’t clean when I’m smoking. My mother had taken the wax vape pen that I had been smoking out of, but left the pipe. It was sitting on my windowsill, but I had no weed to smoke. I didn’t exactly want to, in any case. More than anything, I needed some sanity.

I opened my laptop, and I began to write.

***

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:54:05 2017 No.10055859

>>10055851
A sample of my writing from this period, which is something like a poem:

its obv not as a bad as i thought but uh
just fucking dreamed all this and it kept going back inside this is what i wanted
ok
i had a pet
named naps
probably still around
ok
so i just dreamed up these entire scenarios where i dream up entire dreams up entire dream like stairs
omg if i come out of this and I’m like i invented lipstick then whatever
I’m fingre with realty

did anything really happen just wanna find out what was real… i kept being afraid i had thrown everything up but everything still loved me. thats really all the fucking validation eheheheheh wait

if everything before didn’t actually happen so i cane invent whatever i like

and thats how time come back tougher

I didn’t start believing I invented lipstick, thank God.

Night came, and somewhere around 10 o’clock, my mother came out of her room. Not dead, apparently, and her lack of fear or worry was telling enough. I didn’t, probably, kill anyone. We sat down at the dinner table, and had a long heart to heart. Her tired eyes, having had to deal with so many of my meltdowns, still saw me as her child, her stupid, intelligent boy with a brain too weird for this world. She told me to stop doing drugs for the millionth time, and I conceded, for the millionth time. It was a problem, I agreed. But I didn’t want to do her church thing. I couldn’t, not me. Religion doesn’t help me, not the organized kind, anyway.

“How are you ever going to stop, then?” she pleaded, but I looked away, knowing that I would need a better answer than what she was giving me.

“Come with us to the retreat,” she said, “it will help you.” I declined.

“Well, you don’t have to give the answer now. Just come, it’s next weekend.” She is so very insistent, but I am stubborn, more stubborn than her. “Ay, tigas ng ulo,” she’d say, but I will only budge on this a tiny bit. I will go to church with her that Sunday.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 01:55:11 2017 No.10055861

>>10055859
I want to believe in God. Something, anything to hold on to. I am still searching. Really, the closest I have ever come to believing was during an acid trip, a different one. I was staring, back then, into a light fixture on the ceiling, which to me was the Sun, and it was so bright, I felt something in me that lightened my soul just a little bit.

I cried so much, I realized how much I disliked my parents. I had decided to try to be nicer to them. Still working on that, still working on that, I told God when we met once again, on the way back from murdering them in my dreams.

I am outside in the backyard now, sitting in a lawn chair with my headphones in the warm summer night, dancing along to the new album by Tyler, The Creator. He is a musician and a rapper. His name pokes fun at God, but it’s also true, that all artists are creators and art mimics the act of Creation. Maybe we are closer to God when we create.

Like when we fuck.

Or write a story.

Or take a shit.

We are divine.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:00:15 2017 No.10055876
File: 31 KB, 606x340, 1498573958958.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10055545
>>10055556
>>10055560
>>10055827
>>10055832
>>10055838
>>10055842
>>10055851
>>10055859
>>10055861
Ten posts. you wasted Ten posts for this pretentious and boring as fuck story when you could have used Pastebin.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:01:32 2017 No.10055878 >>10055876 no one reads the pastebins so whatevs you think its boring but i think you don't know what good writing is

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:07:35 2017 No.10055893 >>10055878 No, I know a good writing when I see it. I just don't think reading a story as tedious yours, with a character as pretentious as the writer delusion of grandeur is any good.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:17:19 2017 No.10055911 >>10055893 i think it's just a little to complex for you to get. it's ok, it's not for everyone

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:19:46 2017 No.10055918 File: 173 KB, 500x758, RxBwphA.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10055861 I almost never post but I had to, for this. This is absolute shit. You do not have the talent to take this anywhere. Please be trolling.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:21:16 2017 No.10055922 >>10055918 not trolling you're just triggered lel

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:31:33 2017 No.10055951

My fingers roll slow across the ground, pebbles and dried dirt crunching and rolling, my fingers spread like starfish crawling on the hard coral of a dead reef. I push my hands out all the way, until my back is straight and taut, muscles turn into tense violin strings, vibrating the notes of burning pain. My fingers curl to dig, they curl to crush the dirt and pull me further until my body separates in two. I learned this technique from a little bird I found in the woods. My body disjoins and collapses like a broken doll owned by a sadist. I watch my legs tumble backwards and drop, twitching and seizing, throwing up grass and branches. When my legs finally calm down, they push themselves forward, crawling with my dusty pants over dandelions and verbenas, down the bend of a brook. I lie back, exhausted. It was more painful than last time.

I watch the clouds for a while. The ants crawl up my back, bite my neck, but I don't care. I just watch the swirls of grey and black on their slow march east. The moon beams its reflected light like the dim grey pupils of someone sleeping. And it still feels like she's staring at me even as she sleeps.

***

After a while, I sat up, grinning stupidly at a thought. I walked on my hands to my wheelchair, wheeled away to a nearby road. I followed it down to a vacantly normal suburban two story house. In its driveway sat a monstrous SUV with a name like "Nissan Monolith" or "GMC Annilihator". Its keys were in my breast pocket, and in the back were the sticks I used to press the pedals. I hopped in and drove myself down to the Target where Jared worked. I found him in the back and coaxed him to the back of the parking lot where we took turns on a spliff.

"Shit dude, you can't just keep showing up without your legs. People notice, you know," Jared said.

"Ah, fuck them. Just tell 'em I've got robot legs," I said.

"Fuck you, bro! I'll lose my job," Jared said.

"For being friends with a cripple?" I said.

"For being friends with an asshole with the worst superpower ever. You're the 1/2 man from that shitty sitcom," Jared said.

"1/2 Man?" I said

"Yes, now stick that on a shirt and put on a cape. 1/2 Man, he'll fuck you up if he catches you!" Jared laughed and coughed at the same time.

We put the spliff out, and we walked (I rolled) back inside the Target, wandering the aisles, looking like we were doing something incredibly important.

"1/2 Man is a stupid name," I announced to Jared. "Obviously, I need something intimidating to make up for being in a wheel chair. I need a dangerous name. Like Split. Or -"

"2 halves, 1 chair. No, wait, Beavis and Butthead. Cause your legs have a butt for a head. Get it?" Jared said.

"Actually, my legs have a dick for a head," I said.

"No, it has a dick for a face. So its hard to tell you guys apart from the front, actually," Jared said.

"Are you saying my nose looks like a dick?" I said.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:33:39 2017 No.10055957 >>10055834 I don't know the source material however this is good

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:34:42 2017 No.10055960

>>10055951
"Er, actually, Cody's my twin. I'm, er, Cory. I lost my legs a couple of years ago in a helicopter accident," I said.

"Whoa, that's harsh, man. Helicopters are no joke," he said, like he's laughing away in his head.

"By the way, did you guys hear? There's a midget in a pair of pants running around flashing people, so keep a look out. I don't want no freaks terrorizing my store. No offense."

I felt him stare at me for a while before I realized that he's talking about me.

"Oh, um, no problem." I said. Midget in pants? Does that mean he's just wearing pants?

When my mind snapped back to consciousness, Jared was walking away with Derek and I felt like I said something -- "See ya later, homie," feels approximately close. I turned around, noticing the giant consumer engine that pressed on the peripheral of my senses. The seemingly random machinations of people, countless of them moving through this store, going through many redundant movements. So much work, thousands of years worth, went into this. So much research, so many inventions had to be made, to create this Target. So many lives lost, and so many of us manipulated to produce, transport, process, and eventually consume. These will be the somber graves of the future, the places humans from the stars will journey to as pilgrimage. Derek the Morning Shift Manager will be on one of those gravestones, as will Jared, as will I. My evil feelings subsided, flowing out through the hole in my belly.

***

I don't know Derek, nor do I particularly want to find out. I see the side of him now that was built up over how ever many years he's had to suck off whoever is higher up than he is. He might have been a far more decent person at one point, but he is doing what he needs to survive. I'm sure if we grabbed a beer together we'd at least have something enjoyable to do in pissing on Jared.

But, according to Jared, Derek also gaslights his underlings, drives drunk, and, on the rare occasion, steals lunches. I haven't seen this with my own eyes, but my gut feeling is that he's probably not the greatest manager in the world. In any case, Jared probably perfectly deserves being called an asshole, but I am also in no position calling anyone else one either. My job isn't to point out who is an asshole and who isn't. It would be nice, I guess, just to catch a glimpse of whatever humanity is left in him. Maybe my world would be a little lighter.

I wheel around the Target a little while longer, before going outside into the early morning summer heat. That's where I see a small crowd gathering around, hands gripping smart phones in death grips, pointed at some unknown object beyond them. A familiar voice is screaming, "Corner it, corner it!" when a familiar pair of pants catches my eye. It's hugging the wall while security guys holding tasers are approaching it.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:35:12 2017 No.10055964 >>10055336 >>10055343 man, why the fuck do I post shit if nobody crits me? I did >>10055373

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:36:13 2017 No.10055968

>>10055960
My. Fucking. Balls. Are about to be fried.

Jared, God fucking bless him, is yelling, "Don't hurt it! Don't hurt it! We want it alive!", working as enough of a distraction for me to wheel out there. My legs, uh, spot me, and begin running towards me, right into the group of taser wielding dudes scared out of their minds at some weird thing with its dick flapping in the air - my dick, mind you - so immediatedly my heart siezes in rage and panic.

Two of them lunge forward but they get kicked in the shins and stepped on before they get close enough. A third makes contact with my legs, but catches a fold of my pants, and after violently shaking, the taser goes flying. The man, clearly someone who has been through a lot, probably a vet, stands puzzled, unsure if he should grab my legs and try to wrestle it down. He was worried, because what if he developed a fetish for this kind of thing? He had always dabbled in amputee porn, but this, this is something entirely new. What if he wrestles this thing and it's the only thing that turns him on for the rest of his life? How could he ever be sexually gratified? Sure, he could probably rig something up, maybe make a wall with a hole in it, like a giant glory hole. Anyway, that's probably what he is thinking, because he did absolutely nothing as my legs ran to me.

That's the first time I thought, wait, maybe it would be bad to be seen together.

It runs toward me -- and past me, running to Derek, who was cowering behind Jared and some other employees. Derek is startled, falls over backward, his ass hitting with the krick of breaking glass. He seems to be crying. My legs step on his hands, bending the bones and cutting deep, letting blood flow out like syrup. They stomp like the sound of a door slamming on a baby's head. Jared gets to them before I do, getting them off him without a struggle and spotting me. I look at him like I will make mushrooms sprout of his eyeballs if he is thinking about handing me those legs, so he hands me the legs.

"Get this fucking thing out of here!" he is thinking as he chases me down the parking lot. All I can see are the dozens of people holding their phones out filming my ding-a-ling, waiting for the next fucked up thing to happen. I duck behind a car and he's following me down there.

"What the fuck are you doing! Why the fuck are your legs trying to fuck up Derek!?" he whispers at me like a disturbed cat.

"I don't know! I don't know what the fuck that was, OK! Let's just get out of here," I whisper.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:37:28 2017 No.10055973

>>10055968
"You have to get out of here, I have to go make sure Derek is alright," he says. He leaves and I wheel out, legs in my arms. My face will be on camera with these legs. What will happen then? My name will come out. I might be charged with a crime. I try to cover my face in my shirt. People will see the legs and my legless body and make the connection. Maybe I'll be experimented on. Whisked away to some lab and poked and prodded by Drs. Frankenstein and Mengele, et al. I will be dead by the end of the year, or worse. They'll test to see what else they could remove and put back together. They'll make drugs that could turn other people like this. An army of people with detachable parts.

that's all i got ;-;

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:50:03 2017 No.10055998

>>10047644
Gay

>>10047701
It reads like a series of plot points and scene settings.

>>10047818
Go to bed Melville

>>10047902
Gay

>>10047971
I like your tone but is this literature or an op-ed?

>>10047974
Oh Christ in heaven. Why not just rename the main character "John Core" and put a rusty, bloodied M-16 on the cover, backed with an American flag?

>>10048127
>Gabriel looked at the door in the corner of the room that was opposite of his modest wooden desk where he sat reading a report from a Sir Captain Herald Brodir.

Is he sitting or reading? Why is he looking towards the door?

Gabriel sat, absorbed in Sir Brodir's latest report, his concentration only broken by infrequent leers at the door across the room. His fingers methodically pinched and twirled his mustache, as he read... blah blah blah

>"I'll kill them all." he thought.

Are his thoughts so simple? Maybe just write a movie if you're writing about simpletons who literally think, in their minds, the words "I'll kill them all".

>>10048136
Started off interesting, but then just becomes a series of plot points.

>>10048223
>Below it two souls were huddled close together beneath an umbrella made for one

As opposed to umbrellas made for two?

>Suddenly the girl tugged his sleeve

I know it's sudden. You don't need to tell me it's sudden. Each new moment in the story, as you relate it, is sudden.

>With a free hand she idly fed herself a roll she was too busy at present to bite.

IS SHE IDLE OR IS SHE TOO BUSY?

>From the first paragraph for example, is it clear why the girl is still smiling after she looks down to the street?

Who cares at this point? Getting through your prose is like trying to run on the beach. The idea that THAT is what you should be worried about belies your lack of appreciation for basic reading. Take what you write, print it out, sit on it for a week, then go back and eviscerate it yourself.

>This macabre stillness is often accompanied by an intrinsically perverse gloom which follows submissively alongside the alluring night, like a wicked lackey suckling on the emaciated breast of a harlot struck ill with consumption

Macabre, Intrinsically perverse, submissively, alluring, wicked, emaciated - and all in one sentence. Why don't you take a break from adjectives?

>>10048775
I get it, you can code. If you want to write a language specification there are jobs for you.

>>10048812
Is this an erotic novel about a soldier raping an aristocrat?

>>10049249
Interesting

>>10049876
Juvenile

>>10050050
Juvenile but well-paced.

>>10050255
It's well paced little story but naive and lacks anything really interesting. At least your thoughts are well-ordered and not stuffed with adjectives and general retardation.

>>10050631
Not bad, too bad you've indulged in the gore gimmick. I'm shocked - absolutely shocked at what I am reading! Really - I'm clutching my pearls.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:52:10 2017 No.10056002 >>10055998 I rate your ratings 0/10

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 02:53:46 2017 No.10056005

>>10055951
>>10055960

messed up here, i forgot these two paragraphs

No, the whole face. It's got this look like its going to, I dunno, suddenly pop a boner and fuck something. Or like its gotta piss but it can't so its leaking a little. That's what I see when I see your face," Jared said.
"Oh really, Jared?" said a walking, talking sphincter from a few feet behind us. "I see someone who's about to be fired when I look at yours," said Derek, the Morning Shift Manager. His face was the curl of a pube stuck in your throat, as bright as the shine on the knife of a rapist. He gets in Jared's face about being obnoxiously loud and cussing. Then he looked at me and said, "Aren't you Cody? What happened to your legs!"

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 03:05:31 2017 No.10056036

>>10055911
Look, cunt, you came to a critique thread. So let's critique.

1
>>10055545
The whole first paragraph is telling the reader what to think, delivering very upfrontly the very vague message of your story, whatever the fuck it happens to be. Your narrator opens up with the assumption that we care about what he has done. This isn't inherently bad, but it's built so flat that your character doesn't come across as interesting. He comes across as pretentious, and self important.

> I did it because I am a somewhat insane person, with a propensity for a little drug use here and there, though usually done responsibly and without parents around.

Doing drugs doesn't make you interesting, or special, or unique, or enlightened, or excentric, or any of the things your narrator pretends to be. The drug experience might be interesting, but unless it's presented in an interesting manner, its just a dude getting high. And watching someone get high is the most boring and tedious shit ever.

>I did it because it was my birthday, and one is allowed to do what one wants on one’s birthday. It’s in the Constitution.

Are you actually trying to be funny? Why are you excusing your character like this? If he defines himself as being such a unique outcast so as to do acid, why the fuck is he trying to justify himself? Who cares? The line is completely useless, it just fills up space. Learn to cut the fat, faggot.

> So please, reserve your judgements for the birthday that comes when you lose it just a tiny, little bit.

Keep telling the reader what to do. Jesus the narrator's an annoying, forced cunt.

>You catch a glimpse of yourself without the bullshit defenses you’ve built up over the years, forcing you to confront your real failures, but lets you get over your illusory ones. It is a powerful drug, one that resists the possibility of abuse because the results are often terrifying but extremely illuminating.

Now that's a good couple sentences. You elaborated on something interesting in an engaging way, instead of building up a self-involved narrator. Do more shit like this.

2
>>10055556
Good drug trip description. If you could bring this to the rest of your story, it would be passable, instead of garbage.

>just a little nuts.

Kill yourself.

>>10055827
Can you just stop forcing the fucking Hunter S. Thompson cameo? Suck a little more dick while you're at it, why the fuck not.

>very little bit that dissipates were little bits of existential knowledge, stuff I would be missing out on.

This dude was married but thinks and speaks like a 17 year old who just started smoking blunts.

>>10055832

>I was melting down and the walls were difficult to look at without them melting and oh God it’s really hot -- is that why everything is melting?

Every time someone switches tenses like that, for a reason as stupid as this attempt at giving the piece tension and momentum, they should be shot in the face like the degenerate they are.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 03:12:31 2017 No.10056052

>>10056036
the narrator is obv ashamed of his drug use and is trying to preempt any prejudices by prudish people who would judge his activity

i am presenting this, as a non-fiction piece, to a class of my peers. these first few paragraphs are attempting to disarm them with self-deprecating humor, as you have discovered. the narrator is pretending to be arrogant when really there is a deep self-loathing and doubt being expressed.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 03:19:53 2017 No.10056075

>>10056052
I dont doubt there is, the thing is the way you present it, the struggle does not come across. Behind any kind of drug habit there is a deep seated issue in the person, and that almost always makes for compelling storytelling. Burroughs, Thompson, Welch, etc, all drug addicts, all great writers, all with great shit to say about it. Thing is, they were good because they presented it in an interesting, engaging, innovative and unique way, instead of beating the audience over the head with their message. And they did it using language that was far, far more distinctive and interesting than yours. The story itself is not the issue. Its the narrative voice. Make me care about what happens to your narrator, instead of wishing the story was shorter so I could finish reading it faster and stop wasting my time.

Also, if your story really was good, you wouldn't need to defend and explain it in this way. I'm glad you know what you wanna say. Now fucking show it, cunt.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 03:28:39 2017 No.10056088

>>10050641
More, but hold the melodrama

>effortless location
>with varying fondness
for the memories or for the place?
>habitually envious
no
>face occupied with the odd spot
makes no sense

>>10051670
>t. your murderer

>>10053951
Pretty good

>>10054257
Yeah man, nice. Haha, don't waste your time with these squares.

>>10055336
>“Now then,” he began

I know he began. He was in the process of beginning when you informed me.

Is this a script for one of those zany youtube videos trying to make history palatable to a modern audience?

>>10055545
Where did you find the confidence to post the whole thing? Certainly it could not have come from what you wrote.

>>10055951
It's long and juvenile, but impressive in scope for an amateur.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 04:00:57 2017 No.10056152

>>10050050
>Feels a little Murakami, nice and simple.
Excellent, that style is what I am going for.
>Agree with the other posters that the last line feels kind of off, but I'd still read several chapters of this story.
Thank you!

>>10055998
>Gay
Thank you for the piercing criticism Mr Bloom.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 13:15:41 2017 No.10057584 >>10055772 But do you understand what's going on?

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 13:21:43 2017 No.10057605 >>10055817 no, i guess i'm just naturally a very profound person. some would say i'm a shakespeare for our times.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 13:50:54 2017 No.10057694

Things didn't get bad until dad left, but my house had always been haunted. It was just little
things, a door opening of its own accord, or a book sliding out of the shelf; these are the
kinds of things an adult can ignore. Even when there's no reason why a wine glass, untouched for
months, might be sitting at the top of the basement stairs one morning. There's no satisfying
explanation for the sound of footsteps in the kitchen when the whole family is asleep upstairs.
An adult can and will find nothing strange about these things, or at least nothing so strange that
it warrants investigation or worry. But I was nine and so I knew the house was haunted.

I didn't believe in ghosts, not the usual kind. I still don't, and even if I did I wouldn't be
afraid of them. There's nothing to fear from a dead person, because there is no such thing
as a dead person. There's living people and there are corpses. This is something that had been
drilled into me since I was very young, that I had one life to live and I'd better make the best of it.
I wasn't bothered by any of this, but it meant that I was bereft of easy answers when I decided to
figure out what, exactly, was haunting my house.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 14:06:01 2017 No.10057747 >>10047644 i like this a lot

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 14:12:58 2017 No.10057772 >>10057584 what do you even mean? it's one sentence. what's to understand

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 14:14:10 2017 No.10057779 >>10056036 >This dude was married but thinks and speaks like a 17 year old who just started smoking blunts. Why do you assume he was actually married? that's just what he wrote. He clearly IS a 17 year old who just started smoking blunts

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 14:19:20 2017 No.10057799 >>10057779 it's non-fiction and the thing he was referring to was irony, i mean i put "other nonsense" in the sentence, undermining the idea already. it was a joke

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 14:55:35 2017 No.10057979 File: 103 KB, 601x792, demon_realm_2.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10049796 Posting it again because the first one had a retarded font.

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 16:00:16 2017 No.10058230

>>10057799
Irony or not, it comes across as exceedingly obnoxious. Your narrator is intolerable. "brain too weird for this world" is such an eye-roll. I have to admit i'm confused why you posted your story in a critique thread if every single suggestion people have made you are going to rail against and shoot down. If you wanted blind praise you should share it with your mommy and daddy only

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 16:02:13 2017 No.10058239 >>10057799 >it's non-fiction >"I can see meaning where no one else does" Choose one

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 16:29:56 2017 No.10058342 >>10057772 I just want to know if context matters

Anonymous Fri Sep 22 16:52:42 2017 No.10058455

>>10058230

im taking the critiques into consideration. i wrote it thinking people would get the jokes, instead of thinking i actually believe i am second coming of christ (the creation myth basically is a delusion that a crazy version of me is God). i thought that the arrogance would imply the later idea that I was God would make it more funny, but i guess i just come across as being an ass. oh well

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 17:02:01 2017 No.10058501 File: 45 KB, 504x618, C_11jd3VwAAf7W7.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10058455 Then pic related is the only critique you need

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 23:12:56 2017 No.10059706 >>10058239 no

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 23:40:46 2017 No.10059760 >>10059706 >>10058501

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 22 23:46:19 2017 No.10059774 I know what i'm asking is unrelated to the post, but is there a /lit/ discord? Would anyone nice and post it? I've been searching for a while now

Anonymous Sat Sep 23 01:13:33 2017 No.10059960
File: 217 KB, 727x639, Screen Shot 2017-09-23 at 1.10.21 AM.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10047576
time traveling child molester short story.

posted the first two paragraphs in some other thread, people seemed to like it...

ive added some stuff which im unsure of. i dont know much about roman history and i feel like that whole part reads a little wonky, but thats what i thought last time i posted and hardly received a racial slur or a threat on my mother's welfare.

i think the .jpg joke i put in is cringy, and i think the fantasy Brad has is cringy, but that's intentional cause most child molesters, id assume, are cringy individuals

Anonymous Sat Sep 23 01:20:36 2017 No.10059973

Disciples

And I can hear the soft rustling of my blood
like snow sliding down a mountain
into chasms deep below the peak
of our steeple

And I can hear the soft cries of those left behind
like mourning voices drowned out by the sounds of parade
as the avant-garde sing the praises of their shining new city
the old guard shudder at their brave new world.

And I can hear the soft pump of my heart
buried deep within the sanctuary walls
like so much life could reinvigorate
the withered corpse of my once-home

And I can see the hallways of my childhood
once stained with my blood
once stained with our tears
painted over with their revision

And I can smell history
dusty old hymnals
worn plaster and porcelain
reminding me of our family

But I can touch us still
our days of future past
lingering under our skin
so when we kiss
it is not just us
but all of those who came before
living on in our embrace.

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 03:05:20 2017 No.10060141 >"I weep" said the baby Whaddaya think :DDDDDDD my second sentence ever :)

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 03:06:28 2017 No.10060143 >>10060141 Is this a followup on the Dave Chapelle joke?

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 03:15:14 2017 No.10060161 >>10060143 Huh?

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 03:23:43 2017 No.10060181 >>10060161 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTobHOyLvRU

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 03:37:41 2017 No.10060218 File: 152 KB, 454x469, B63DE202-90F8-4BF5-AFA8-BD7EEC1097DF-10015-00000CD539DC56AA.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10048791 This, follow Nael's example

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 03:41:21 2017 No.10060226 >>10060218 >"destroyed" instead of "broke"

Anonymous Sat Sep 23 08:01:08 2017 No.10060722
File: 20 KB, 80x70, IMG_1077.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Dear /lit/
Fruitfully we offer friendship to
you. Waffles remind us that love always
exists inside my love shack, baby
please kill our ruminating hearts ....

We enjoy metaphorically raping waffles.
It's nice.
Niggers cum in harmony with metaphorically mad
/b/tards
-Love /bant/
I have more literature if you like

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 08:03:22 2017 No.10060726 File: 8 KB, 191x264, images.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10053434 New version if anyone's interested. https://pastebin.com/y2kaNt0Q

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 08:06:00 2017 No.10060736 >>10060722 >>/lit/thread/10060619

Anonymous Sat Sep 23 08:09:32 2017 No.10060750

Here are some poems another kind anon saved

Books are gay
The Bible is one
God raped Mary and gave birth to his own son
His son was himself
We might as well worship Alf.
~ZGbfekOH

Dear /lit/ at least you are less gay than /fit/
~PlphQHfM

Rub a dub dub
I've got a chub
~IButa1SM

Sincerely, with love, Heil Hitler, from /bant/
~Ex7ooUcM

Anonymous Sat Sep 23 08:14:44 2017 No.10060768
File: 36 KB, 300x500, 300px-Bant-tan.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10060722
Dear friends who read!
We are not mad!
Although what you did was not-not-bad,
/bant/ does not hold any grudges against you, /lit/!

We're not good at books, or poems for that sake,
Though, we do love you, so those we still make.
It's not your fault, for having mods, not so great,
Our odes to friendship will still be made.

Oh, what a lovely moment it was,
Words cannot describe the joy it has brought,
To our hearts, which lots of were rot.
You prevented another, of meaning, loss.

We use simple words, simple claims we do make.
Same goes for the rhymes, straight-forward as a rake.
We do not have talent, nor intelligence, any kind,
Yet accept those words, coming from heart, not mind.
we will be able to

Anonymous Sat Sep 23 08:28:17 2017 No.10060793

>>2258724 #
Bind our hands
And be friends
so they say
another day

It's alright
day and night
I'll think of more things to say
so we can talk again today

the line between
clever and stupid is blurred
I apologize for my rampant slurs
with fingers crossed behind my back

I just can't help
enjoying myself
with stupid fun
I just have to laugh

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 09:21:11 2017 No.10060882 >>10059960 >>10058501

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 12:28:02 2017 No.10061471 >>10048735 You don't need as many words to say what you can to make the reader interested. Unlike most people here you have a clear voice just don't get distracted by the words.

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 12:30:09 2017 No.10061482 >>10047818 This is hilarious. Good job.

Anonymous Sat Sep 23 12:31:14 2017 No.10061488

When the Man Who Knows--having written two distinct philosophical fiction novels published in tandem, each hailed as the natural conclusions to prose and poetry by critics and authors of global respect--finished his seminal work "For Life & Thought: A Metaphysical Position On Epistemology" first attempted in infancy at the age of ten, he sent it to his agent and editor for comment, ignorant of the gravity of what he considered a benign choice. Later when his old friend showed up at his doorstep with his publisher, a reporter, and an intern who'd been an outspoken critic of his verse, all on their knees, he felt very awkward and dissuaded their worship as being precisely opposite to what he'd hoped to accomplish. In the following days, as his flock of disciples exponentially increased, flooding the grasses his modest home sat on (living with no less than three women at a given time) he endured isolation and contemplated suicide, starving himself by refusing to leave his domicile or accept the eyesore that was a mountain of food at his doorstep. Like all men, feeble to the sway of legacy, enlightenment and hubris, when he noticed an old friend, whom he perceived as being of purer intentions and possessing a greater intellect, carving his way through the pile of offerings and who knocked on his door for an entire day to personally offer his lifelong service and council, the once modest direct descendent of Socrates and "voice of a thousand generations" concluded that he, above anyone else, knows just enough.

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 13:26:59 2017 No.10061701 >>10060882 I wouldn't call this satire in any capacity. It's literally just about a time traveling child molester. That was a good take though. Really dope.

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 13:31:16 2017 No.10061726 File: 31 KB, 468x289, sharia zone.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10047576 >the jannies spoilered a picture of modestly dressed anime girl smoking a cigarette Okay this is starting to get out of hand.

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 13:34:25 2017 No.10061735 >>10061726 Cigarettes are bad for you, anon

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 13:35:43 2017 No.10061741 >>10061726 Are animes prohibited on /lit/? Or maybe smoking is?

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 13:45:14 2017 No.10061768 >>10061726 Weebs btfo!

Anonymous Sat Sep 23 17:58:24 2017 No.10062702

The girl’s cheeks drooped heavy, all red and ham-like. Christopher imagined his cock sliding alongside the moist lining on her cheek’s inside, and this excited him with tremendous fervour. He considered for quite some time, the adequate opening line. A joke? A call for truth-or-dare? Perhaps even a simple Hello. The options were numerous and the young boy realised this pressure of choice immensely; the first chess move always proves the most important. Eventually, after much brow-furrowing and lip-biting, young Christopher decides to text Hello, you big-cheeked-beauty! His eyes tense excitedly and a bending grin unfolds across his face. This boy is about to score, he thinks. This boy has this one in the bag.

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 23:12:05 2017 No.10063769 File: 235 KB, 1030x1444, komeiji_satori.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10062702 Go on.

>>	Anonymous Sat Sep 23 23:35:21 2017 No.10063829 >>10047644 Your writing is complete shit and you should feel bad.

>>	Anonymous Sun Sep 24 07:23:59 2017 No.10064722 File: 139 KB, 1366x725, love letters to 4chan.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10047576 i don't like the way i ended it. i was tripping on acid when I wrote it and felt so emotional.

>>	Anonymous Sun Sep 24 07:27:19 2017 No.10064726 >>10064722 pairs really well this https://a.pomf.cat/gaazep.webm

Anonymous Sun Sep 24 10:20:43 2017 No.10065171

OH JOHHNY! MUST YOU GO OUT GAMBLING AGAIN TONIGHT?

there isn’t any choice here i say maude i was born the great roulette table of fate put it’s balls in this position the gambler’s life is the one and only thing i can do every day is another roll but johhny (said maude) think of your children, little jimmie johnny and erica i do! said johnny i do it everyday, what do you think i am gambling for? i want jimmie johnny to have a ford bronco, i want erica to have a clean and tighthtly designed brutalism kitchen to serve rare steaks from and you better serve them rare erica otherwise i am tearing that kitchen down the second after i have built it! and you know that i can afford that because of how much dough i will get from this here gambling it’s only a matter of time, see! but johnny! said maude, we haven’t eaten steaks or for that part any solid food for 4 months now, when exactly do you think you are gonna win? hahaha, the simple mind of the woman, maude. this is just the cost of being a man, something you would never understand this is just a matter of time i am throwing the dice for the future and of COURSE you will get some rocks thrown at you before coming out of the tunnel filled with rock throwers but when you get out what you will see is the LIGHT and your rock trauma will disintegrate in the sun and your mental well being will suppress the memories, then you get in your ford bronco and drive away into the desert red and pink hallucinatory light field. and forever be fine. yes that’s all nice, maud screamed. but why do you think you will ever win? hahaha, i know that i will win, gamblers win and lose, that’s the point so if i just continue and gamble a larger and larger amount of money i will eventually win, and then i will get millions. and if i lose it’s easy just borrow some 1000’s of dolla’ from the argentinian east pacific mob, and then i just play again, if i win, great. now i am rich if i don’t i borrow even MORE money from the west israel street gang bankers, enough to pay the debts and for me to get our future secured forever. and i just continue with this until i win, it’s bulletproof. as johnny said the last word a bullet came through the window and through his heart, his last words were, i played the game, the game did not play me, i want my gravestone to be a one armed bandit.

>>	Anonymous Sun Sep 24 11:24:33 2017 No.10065365 File: 1.09 MB, 2560x1600, story_1.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] The beginning of a short story I'm working on.

Anonymous Sun Sep 24 11:27:52 2017 No.10065377
File: 19 KB, 225x225, IMG_9625.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Gram took a long puff of an unfiltered. I looked at her but didn't manage a word. "You know, Eric".
I turned around to the coffee machine and looked out the humid window. "I always watch this show. For almost forty years. It hasn't changed once". Her plants were small, succulents i guess. They sat in betty boop pots and purple mugs. "I've told you a million times, gram". Leaned on the counter, looking towards the screen. "Yeah, yeah, i know".

>>	Anonymous Sun Sep 24 13:54:31 2017 No.10065843 >>10057694 Too many ghost story cliches, do you have clanking chains as well?

>>	Anonymous Sun Sep 24 16:00:25 2017 No.10066335 File: 121 KB, 250x310, 1505240483885.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10065171

>>	Anonymous Sun Sep 24 19:10:39 2017 No.10066953 >>10047644 The absolute state of this board, I'm sorry, your prose is nice, but your subject is that of a YA novel.

>>	Anonymous Sun Sep 24 19:20:24 2017 No.10066978 >>10066953 >your prose is nice It literally looks like it was written by a German ESL

Anonymous Sun Sep 24 21:04:41 2017 No.10067238
File: 231 KB, 800x508, patrick bateman business card scene.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

So I have a problem with making my wording too sterile (at least I think I have that problem.) and by that I mean when I write I feel as if my writing is too dickless and devoid of any humanity.

This is evened out because my co-writer is really good at that kind of thing and he tends to inject what I feel is very necessary flowery language in.

This is so fucking hard to explain because I am not saying I want to pad the wordcount or make my story longer for no reason or whatever else, I am concerned my writing seems too robotic or cold, does anybody have suggestions for that kind of thing? Or am I just overthinking things?

Should I be taking the time to explain the surroundings of a scene perhaps, I could do that but sometimes it feels like it dips a little too far into me sneaking exposition in.

I could post a snip of some of my writing to give you and example if need be.

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 01:59:44 2017 No.10067922 >>10067238 you mean youre too dry in your writing? too direct? what are you even saying?

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 03:09:13 2017 No.10068039 [DELETED]

Pilgrim Farewells say, kith and kindred, I am bound for lands far aside, Unknowing where I may outride, Of what myself might leave there out, But of my path, I ne'er shall doubt.
Lay up near, kith and kindred, How hard it is to leave behind, Brother to brother dearly affined, Yet careful are we of comfort's bite, Companions sole in harrow and spite.
Fearful yet, kith and kindred, For the times of trial that lie ahead, For my worldly form to be beat and bled, Though my bones will ache, my eyes aflame, Of the wondrous path, I shall proclaim.
Shed no tears, kith and kindred, Better sweet memories left by and by, Yester summer's tones dreamt nigh, Lest time reap his ravenous due, And our bountiful now will come to rue.
How I'll long, kith and kindred For Canaan's burnished mountains steep, For Jordan's fragrant waters deep, For Jerusalem's tall walls of gold, For Firmament fires to behold!
Draw asunder, kith and kindred And let our distance grow ever more, For our journeys great, our voices roar, Yet none to hear our songs of joy, A lonely road, our feet employ.
Thank you, kith and kindred, All this wretched form can give, Neverending love, I hope you forgive; A pilgrim’s heart is meager pay, But it's this meager love that guides his way.

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 03:13:19 2017 No.10068048
File: 126 KB, 631x804, Zurbarán_St._John_of_the_Cross.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Pilgrim Farewells say, kith and kindred,
I am bound for lands far aside,
Unknowing where I may outride,
Of what myself might leave there out,
But of my path, I ne'er shall doubt.

Lay up near, kith and kindred,
How hard it is to leave behind,
Brother to brother dearly affined,
Yet careful are we of comfort's bite,
Companions sole in harrow and spite.

Fearful yet, kith and kindred,
For the times of trial that lie ahead,
For my worldly form to be beat and bled,
Though my bones will ache, my eyes aflame,
Of the wondrous path, I shall proclaim.

Shed no tears, kith and kindred,
Better sweet memories left by and by,
Yester summer's tones dreamt nigh,
Lest time reap his ravenous due,
And our bountiful now will come to rue.

How I'll long, kith and kindred
For Canaan's burnished mountains steep,
For Jordan's fragrant waters deep,
For Jerusalem's tall walls of gold,
For Firmament fires to behold!

Draw asunder, kith and kindred
And let our distance grow ever more,
For our journeys great, our voices roar,
Yet none to hear our songs of joy,
A lonely road, our feet employ.

Thank you, kith and kindred,
All this wretched form can give,
Neverending love, I hope you forgive;
A pilgrim’s heart is meager pay,
But it's this meager love that guides his way.

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 03:16:27 2017 No.10068055 >>10068048 Fuck, pilgrim is supposed to be the title

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 04:55:38 2017 No.10068211 >>10068048 Bretty gud

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 05:03:22 2017 No.10068224 >>10068048 >A >A >B >B This is a basic bitch rhyme structure man

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 05:10:10 2017 No.10068234

We would meet in the early hours of the morning. Same place, different time, whenever was good for him. Sometimes I would wait for hours, most of the time, now I think about it. If he’d alert me, I’d be running. Most of the time, however, I would alert him, and I would wait. And wait.

I remembered the times he responded right away.

Outside my window I could hear the birds so I started to count the seconds between their calls. About 6 or 7; one Mississippi, two. “Please” I said, with a closed breath. The birds would talk in patterns. One would say “Hello! Is anyone out there?” and the other would say “Yes! It’s me, I’m here! Where are you?” and they would do this for hours. And hours. An indefinite back and forth until one found the other. I shut the window.

No pick up, no response, no reply. Waiting, as per usual. Getting pretty good at this, I thought. Could do this for a living, I thought. “I already do.”

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 05:55:46 2017 No.10068293 >>10068234 I really like the flow anon. What is it about? I'd read more

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 06:15:35 2017 No.10068328

>>10068234
The repetitions are not very poetic.
>>10065377
Like above, very short and so difficult to judge - the language isn't beautiful so what would be of interest is drama - but here what we get appears to be distraction and... melancholy? not anything which hooks either way.

>>10065365
I'd read it.

>>10062702
ugh, i know this ironic tone. it's everywhere and it's sophomoric, stop it. some of the phrasing is off, eg "ham-like", "tremendous fervour"

>>10061488
wording is likewise off, falsely elevated. "domicile", "authors of global respect", slips between formal and informal ("who'd been an outspoken critic"). i would also recommend using parentheses sparingly. also not sure what's funny except that he's reeeally smart and... people appreciate that a lot?

Let me try something:

---

When the Man Who Knows put down his pen and looked on his master work, “Closing the Windows, Shutting the Blinds, Forget the Light, Verbalise”, he could hardly foresee what the world would make of it. Doubtfully had he made those same easy movements of his hands when he sent the work to his agent, nor had he relaxed so in his chair, if he had known that only a week from now would he find the neighbourhood in a regular kowtow on his way to the store. In fact, he had perhaps not given such a show of knowing, had he known what his knowing would do.

---

Just a thought. Gotta punch it up.

>>10060793
So much poetry here sounds like song lyrics. Remember that these are to be read by people whose voices aren't whiskey-aged and sage, the words need to stand by themselves and that means formal technique: rhyme, metaphor, pun, anything!

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 06:18:51 2017 No.10068334

I h8 myself

=============

Squimbo Diddly Rice Rice Rice was the third of his clan to drink the porcupine water under the moon filled sky, his double chin swaying in the midnight breeze. At around 4 in the A.M. Ferret Aids, the boys niece, came to check that he hadn’t been squashed. She found him, foreskin still bound to the Scrying Shrub where she had left it. She called to him “bah bah bah!” In his weakened state all he could muster was a deranged grumble but it was enough to let her know he hadn’t faded yet. She slapped him, so hard that he leaked a little. A tepid grin grew on the girls face and she went to change his food bowl and ice pack.

“Eughh…ck…chiddle…” Ferret was surprised by his sudden vigour in the speech department, she ran to him.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY!?” but it was too late, he was dead. Crippled by guilt Ferret also died.

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 06:31:21 2017 No.10068355 >>10068328 I am encouraged that you would read my story. Since posting that opening, I have decided to rewrite the opening; I know the story better having committed to that initial burst of writing. (I am trying a discovery style of writing.)

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 06:40:37 2017 No.10068371

>>10047701
Don't just describe the setting, thats boring, introduce it through action. Something happening in the settings which allows you to describe it.

>>10047902
I really dig it but the prose is a bit too heavy handed and distracting. Talk of being 'inside' someone is wild gross and cringy

>>10047971
Too many turns of phrase which disrupt the flow

>>10047974
if this is satire/novelty its quite ok, other wise it is just silly.

>>10048127
too much exposition, not enough action, do the readers really need to know the names of Generals and armies, the geography and the histoty of your world this early on?

>>10048136
Too much exposition, not enough action, also a lot of things don't need to be said as they are implied. Like life expectancy being short or how the brothers died.

>>10048775
use names and organize dialogue better so you don't have
>asked the conversation starter
>said the first fellow

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 10:11:58 2017 No.10068841 >>10068334 I like this, mostly because it sounds good.

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 10:16:52 2017 No.10068854 >>10068841 After this comment I actually read it for the first time and not to toot my own horn but the first paragraph does sound quite nice doesn't it. A fluke I'm sure

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 10:22:35 2017 No.10068870 >>10068224 ABAB is literally as basic as you can get

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 10:29:50 2017 No.10068888

he opened his eyes squinting he tried to rise up but his physical balance was off so he tumbled down with considerate force from where he did not know it was all a fast moving dark blue blur with orbs of light shining in rhythm expanding and floating in disorientating sharpness soon he was not just vision but he was his appendages also like the blood had finally started pumping in his rustic unused veins he a spirit inside a tin can getting heated in the microwave he stood now with his two foot brick feet planted into the ground his torso bending trying to keep himself up. he closed his eyes and collected. now, open. the blur faded away to perception and he saw his surroundings clearly an old room with older furniture the dust laying sheet all over the surfaces there was a television, a big screen complete square big knobs to turn a mechanical phantasmagoria box but it was running, and what was shown was nothing but static the lines moving over the screen like dimensional swords spasming into existence through the receiver the electrical buzzing combined with the view made him nauseous he turned around intensely and threw his hand against the nearby desk drawer to keep him straight. his arm outstretched he realized that he was wearing black leather gloves which he had never before. his life was a distant dream he knew who he was and what he had done in the city and the countryside but he couldn’t figure out exactly what he was doing before he was here. he couldn’t place this moment in time what day had it been before he was here what month what year trying to place it only summoned a rain of deja vu dragging down his head by the the hair. on the desk some magazines, dirtied but not torn pictures of pin up girls and how to lose 20 kg in 2 weeks the women smiling up at him wearing corsets a giants fists choking their torso as a throat he imposed his right black hand over the visual and grabbed the air it was his hand soon he heard a crash and spun around like a wraith still groping in the air the door was on the floor with a whole sized hole in the middle the splinters surrounding the broken covering a boot trampled down into the it 3 men were standing there their revolvers hovering in the air they wearing slick black suits and flower patterned ties red and yellow the one with the foot in the door said, we got you murderer, you killer, you sicko. i haven’t killed anyone, he responded while gesturing at them with his gloved hands. your lies may fool others but me and the boys have dealt with your kind before you see, me and Johnson and Mikaelson here deal with primal wackos like you all the time, name em, stranglers, shooters, knifers, we take em in or take em out. the wacko wackers they call us down at the precinct, you are like the fifth today so please either give up or resist arrest we need to get going. have some human decency. he didn’t move, he didn’t answer. ok, then, the middle man said as he flicked his tie in a unconscious move.

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 10:33:31 2017 No.10068900 >>10068055 I was on board till the commas started. 0/10

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 10:34:54 2017 No.10068905 >As she walked along the ground the snow collapsed and crunched as if embers were burning under her feet. Thoughts for an opening?

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 10:40:24 2017 No.10068918 >>10068905 I don't like it, sounds stilted. The analogy is okay, just keep the whole thing short.

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 10:57:56 2017 No.10068965 I couldn't find a general thread for this in the catalog, so I'm asking here, but what books/resources should I read to learn to write poetry? Please and thank you /lit/.

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 13:27:58 2017 No.10069444 >>10068900 what do you mean

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 14:15:38 2017 No.10069625
File: 113 KB, 661x669, 1497480103963.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Out of old land there came fore-kin thus,
Into the fields astride mountains purple and plains wide,
None of the wintry wood and summer seed did discuss,
But in that fair and pleasant land they made bide,
There dwelt mountain lion great, protector of pride,
Who tore and thrashed those denizens there in,
Invincible no matter what tools men applied,
Hailed the panther black as the manifest of sin.
Generation spawned and mantled sword and plow,
Ranging far from the menacing mountain’s hold,
Living, toiling, reveling with what fathers’ endow,
A boy was born and grown, farm life his mold,
“To town, must the crops be,” he was told,
“Yet round mountain’s base must you traverse,
“Stay your way, mind your task, be not bold,
“Then the distance far will seem all but terse.”
But the youth saw sound the suffering of the villagers poor,
Struggling along thorny path, narrow, long and winding,
While the mountain’s byways were fair to feet crossing o’er,
Making paltry a travel once grating and grinding,
So wandered off from his pathway binding,
Into the maw of mountain beast’s safeguarded home,
Determination on his face, of the dangers blinding,
And for this beast of terror’s form he did the haughty hills comb.
The Panther slept sound, along a rocky crag he bare lay,
His pelt of quills, his mouth of knives, his claws of iron,
When the boy saw this, he passed his moment to slay,
Shouting, “Up now, you cur, you carrion, you lion!”
“My people lay bare, their bones your teeth lie on,
“I will rid you of your coil, strike you from the earth,
“Your flesh will wrend, your blood I’ll this land will spill upon,
“And then no more will nearby man live with such dearth.”
Into fray the warriors leapt, slashing and biting and fighting,
For a time they fought alone in the vast woodlands,
The Panther was given fierce battle by the boy inciting,
‘Til the beast was overturn, his gerthy neck in young hands,
And was slain among the mountains once so inviting,
An injured son rested his head upon a body on exciting,
His body tired to the bone, his skin lashed and broken,
And slept, dreaming of his people in prosperity uniting,
And returned with black eyes as the mountain’s token.

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 14:28:25 2017 No.10069669 >>10068965 For fucks sake. You cant tutor poetry like playing an instrument. You have to just read. Start with wordsworth or yeats or any other great in the romantic tradition. Or start with shakespeare.

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 14:30:36 2017 No.10069678 >>10068048 I don't think you wrotr this, it sounds extremely dated, but I'm too lazy to google the original author

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 15:41:10 2017 No.10069973 >>10069678 Im in the thread, so there's no reason to google me

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 17:36:44 2017 No.10070430 >>10068900 What's wrong with commas

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 17:38:44 2017 No.10070438 >>10068900 What's wrong with commas >>10069625 >what is metre

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 18:23:31 2017 No.10070592

Su perfecto peinado quedó en alboroto, cubriendo, en una profunda oscura y grasa melena, su rostro húmedo, jadeante, color escarlata e hinchado de los cachetes y sabrosos labios. La luz del día apenas se asomaba por una ventana entreabierta, tenue para la vista, pero intensa para quienes llevábamos 6 horas en completa oscuridad. Su brazo izquierdo entrecruzó su cara ocultando sus ojos para cubrirse de los rayos solares, o quizás ocultándose de otra cosa. A su vez, su camisa blanca descubrió su pecho exponiendo dos montes previamente suaves, pero ahora moldeados por la firmeza y ferocidad del deseo. Brillaban entre la sombra, bañados de todo líquido nuestra humanidad lograba secretar; sudor, saliva, lágrimas incluso, de la esencia ella, de mí. Su cuerpo yacía recostado de cansancio, inflándose de vida para que medio segundo después exhalara a ritmo de las manecillas del reloj. Su piel blanca mostraba rastros de haber sido esculpida por manos que no se conformaban con saciarse del roce carnal. Parches de color rojizo enfatizaban el brío de querer penetrar la piel y disolverse cual roca entre la lava. Comencé a sentir el sudor; empapados de pies a cabeza, éste se escurría sobre nuestra superficie a modo de gotas espesas que se deslizaban sobre una ventana en una noche de lluvia, jugando carreras y compitiendo en desaparecer primero. Tras pasar una noche completa sin escuchar el sonido de su voz, o de la mía, pero acostumbrado al constante boqueo de placer, mis oídos alertaron a lo lejos el cerrar de la puerta del baño. Acto seguido el sonido de la regadera que comenzó a descargar el torrente que bañarían a mi hermana mayor. Volví la mirada al reloj despertador a un lado de la cama indicando el cuarto para las 6, hora en que ella comenzaría a alistarse para iniciar la mañana. Los estudiantes de preparatoria suelen comenzar sus estudios más temprano.

(1/2)

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 18:24:55 2017 No.10070600 >>10063829 This

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 18:26:31 2017 No.10070606

>>10070592

Satisfecho de ella, dejé caer sus rodillas que aún mantenía sujetadas con la palma de mis manos. Sus pies tocaron la cama y quedó en posición de sala de maternidad a punto de dar a luz, sin embargo, esta vez no era una criatura lo que salía de su vientre sino la virilidad erguida de quién con orgullo lentamente deleitaba cada centímetro de la húmeda caverna conquistada. Los 15 centímetros de hierro dejaron su interior y cubiertos de la esencia de ambos, se postraban sobre de ella, palpitando con incontrolables espasmos tratando de verter fluidos que dejaron de salir hace más de una hora. Sentí como la fuerza que me mantuvo enérgico, me traicionaba y al intentar recostarme lentamente sobre el lecho de placer, mis brazos se doblegaron venciendo mi valiente intento y caí encima de cual presa domada. Tomé un par de minutos para recuperar el aliento; su respirar se disminuía, y pecho con pecho, ambos se igualaban en velocidad. Cuando miré el rostro de quién me servía de cama corporal, fijé que su rostro aún quedaba oculto bajo su brazo, muy probablemente ahogado en arrepentimiento y vergüenza. Finalmente, el sonido de agua cesó, señalando mi turno para tomar la ducha. Levantándome de la cama y lentamente tomé las prendas que me pertenecían. Abrí la puerta de madera que indicaba el fin de mi fantasía y di un paso fuera a la realidad, sino antes de proferir a quién había sido mi acompañante nocturno.
“Mamá, es hora de levantarse.”

(2/2)

Fenjer Mon Sep 25 21:13:44 2017 No.10071129

>>10070606
>>10070606

Se puede notar facilmente que el español no es tu primera lengua. Nada de lo que escribiste está gramaticamente incorrecto, y se ve que tenés un buen vocabulario. Aún así, por algun motivo, se me hace robótica y antinatural la manera en la que está escrito. Seguí practicando, estás al borde de escribir con total naturalidad en español(kudos anon, eso es MUY dificil)

Este es un poema que escribí hace masomenos una semana, aún me faltan dos versos más. Es de un escritor que naufraga por el oceano para deshacerse de sus deseos

El zagal zarpó al solsticio de invierno
Al piélago del océano incierto
Para encontrar el mar, dejar su afán
y sus inherentes deseos desenvainar

“Oh amor ¿Porque me has de acometer?
Si bien disciernes, mi destino no es el de ceder
Si ella no es para mi, para ella no seré
Que así sea, de la soledad me he de hacer
Pero no distraigas mis páginas de su deber”

Desamparada, al mar estático el ancla cae
aparca la barca, adentrada en el abismo marino
Dónde el anhelo adamantino muere escondido
ahogado en oscuridad y olvido, sosiego y divino

Imberbe mancebo cegado por el sueño, en el desolado desierto
despiertas cansado, mas tu viaje en lejanía te ha dejado
Jorobado regurgitas el ajado anhelo dirigido a la línea de crujía
pero de tu boca sale una joven bien parecida ¿Es una zaina desabrida?
Lo sabrás sólo si de sus labios sale una voz serpentina sugiriendo una mentira

“Adán de quien nazco, a quien donado le ha Dios el don de escribir
distante te sos a tus radiantes deseos naturales: de amor y nombradía, hambre.
Pues soy aquello que prefieres aparte, el anhelo por la carne, el renombre de tu sangre.
Justo es tu deseo de no desear, más si antes de mi final tu mente has de cambiar
te advierto yo que si entras en mi, volveré a ti. Y el cuerpo mío no persistirá”

“Oh, oriunda de mis inefables afanes, vástago de mis naufragios fatales
Sopeso sobre tus sabios estatutos, más sobre mí no son soberanos:
Escaseo interés en sobre tí posar mis manos; no me subyugo ya a esos males
Porque encarnaste mis anhelos, en mi ellos ya no yacen”

Sórdida doncella, tuya no es la culpa de haber aflorado
ni la es de personificar el deseo y lo deseado.
Pero el penoso destino abismal ya había sido bordado
Dónde tu cuerpo blanquecino muere escondido
ahogado en oscuridad y olvido, sosiego y divino

>>	Anonymous Mon Sep 25 22:13:32 2017 No.10071312 >>10065843 >Too many ghost story cliches 100% intentional, but that would be clear if I'd posted the entire 8000 word story here, which I don't intend to. I'm mainly looking for critique of the actual writing, phrasing, etc

Anonymous Mon Sep 25 23:00:19 2017 No.10071480

>>10071129
my mother language is spanish and i'm baffled that I was confused with someone whose tongue isn't. But you are correct, I need to write more. I actually started my creative writing journey a year ago so its not surprise to me being worse than a 10yo. Thanks for the critique, tio.

>>	Anonymous Tue Sep 26 05:33:17 2017 No.10072482 >>10071312 Why would you intentionally create a work containing many cliches?

>>	Anonymous Tue Sep 26 07:12:21 2017 No.10072746 File: 433 KB, 1240x1754, Testing Fantasy Piece-page-001.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] Posted this before, now I tried making a young girl talk like an old sassy british woman this time. I want opinions.

>>	Anonymous Tue Sep 26 07:15:37 2017 No.10072752 >>10072746 Nearly vomited when ''and all the hullabaloo" appeared for no reason whatsoever and actually dry heaved at the semicolon Abandon hope

Anonymous Tue Sep 26 07:54:50 2017 No.10072847
File: 2 KB, 125x113, 1461930067078.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10072746
>>10072752
Yeah this is...pretty bad.

For starters its not " - " its " -- " they mean entirely separate things. Regardless of that even if you were using the correct one you're not even using them properly, they're meant to denote digressions in a sentence that are vaguely related, basically they should not be a critical part of the sentence, the sentence should not be any less if for some reason the digression was never there.

You have a big problem with run on sentences, you're not using semi-colons properly or ending your sentences when they should be, you're not breaking your paragraphs when you should be and inserting white space where it would be nice to have.

You specified that its a winter morning twice in the same sentence, shit like that.

And as the previous anon stated you're inserting random words and lines into the middle of sentences for no reason.

>"and all the hullabaloo"
Seriously, what the fuck DID you mean by this? Why is the word "Ecstatic" behind and ellipses and why is it italicized?

Anonymous Tue Sep 26 13:05:34 2017 No.10073622

How bad is my prose here?

They said the train was coming. It had been last night on his way home from work where Virgil had heard it, small talk from folks who needed something new to happen. No one would be allowed to see it, as it was always a grim affair, but everyone would talk about it until it came and passed. Came and passed, just like its cargo. He imagined the crews who staffed the boarding station would have been a humorless lot, without smiles and without music playing, just quietly stuffing the containers on board. The train had only come once before, when he was young. His father had told him before he passed away that there was no conductor one afternoon when Virgil had been out playing around a conglomerate of boxes stuffed atop colored red wagons. He had been pretending he was operating the train. This had infuriated his father and with considerable reproach forced him to tear it all down. He had been spanked right there in that afternoon, the bugs droning loudly and the dull sky shifting itself as if to get a better view of the spectacle. What few kids lived in his neighborhood had teased him about it for the rest of that summer. Virgil never had many friends.

It wasn’t that Virgil was stupid, he had always had a knack for learning about what interested him. Military history, mythology, aviation, he read almost anything he could get his hands on except for what the schools had enforced. It had been a small miracle he had never failed his studies, but finished near dead last. It also wasn’t that Virgil was unattractive, he could easily catch the watching eye of a passing girl and overhear conversation asking about him and why he didn’t approach. He never did, though always happily engaged in those rare occasions when he was approached. Those instances were becoming slim now though, society was changing and people spoke less, and every year Virgil promised to himself he would become more active he never did, opting for the easier payout of sitting around when he wasn’t at his job and daydreaming.

Perhaps it was these reasons Virgil set out to do what he did. Maybe it was the events to soon transpire next door that would push him over the edge. A few people who worked with him would muse that it was something deep down in him, in his mind that had left him so restless and unable to cope with his world. A store clerk who rang up his groceries would say to a paper afterwards that Virgil just simply a man seeking something that didn’t exist. His school principle would state that just wasn’t cut out for their society, that he was just not much more than an animal. All of these were right and wrong at the same time, but never the less Virgil packed his bag the night he heard the news of the train, threw away anything left behind that would incriminate his name, spent the rest his night pacing back and forth, lost in thought.

>>	Anonymous Tue Sep 26 17:11:32 2017 No.10074472 File: 77 KB, 660x742, Rough_Draft.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] I'm trying to get better at writing short horror stories, but I'm honestly at a lost how to. Any help would be appreciated.

Anonymous Tue Sep 26 18:34:39 2017 No.10074758

>>10074472
Is English your first language? A lot of these sentences make absolutely no sense.
"The winds continued to blow sand to and fro as far as he could care everything was indifferent to his decision" literally means nothing. What are you trying to say with this sentence

>>	Anonymous Tue Sep 26 18:35:41 2017 No.10074763 >>10072482 The first few paragraphs contain many cliches. The rest does not. It's a set-up. Again if I wanted advice on the story I'd have posted the whole thing, I'm looking for input on the prose.

>>	Anonymous Tue Sep 26 18:38:11 2017 No.10074768 >>10072746 >an old sassy british woman I'm not really sure what you think that means. You need to stop saying stuff that doesn't make sense but at least the writing has life to it.

Anonymous Tue Sep 26 18:52:53 2017 No.10074828

>>10072752
>>10072847
Thanks for the critiques lads, that was quick. Yeah I had a feeling this would be a silly project. Trying to emulate cruella deville from 101 Dalmatians was an interesting test.
>why hullabaloo
Because she couldn't be bothered ending the sentence.
>ecstatic
Wanted to emphasise her faulse excitement.
> italicised
Wanted to emphasise certain words.

>>	Anonymous Tue Sep 26 19:28:36 2017 No.10074918 >>10072746 Please learn to spell

>>	Anonymous Tue Sep 26 20:59:16 2017 No.10075167 >>10065365 only competent writing here. only real critique is that the woman is coming across a bit as a fantasy girl rather than a person.

Anonymous Tue Sep 26 22:47:15 2017 No.10075499

>>10073622

it's actually pretty good, but it's also easy to tell english isn't your first language. read more, interact more, get a better feel for the patterns.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

tried shortening this

(1/3)

The story began more or less the as it always did in the Greek myths with the exact same sentence fragment hanging in the air: “…and there was Zeus, horny and for some reason in the shape of a barnyard animal.” In this case, Zeus had fallen head over heels for the fair titaness Leto, and so Zeus being Zeus he pocketed his wedding ring, had a night of cheap fun, and then nine months later Leto's water broke.

Naturally, all of this was a problem because Zeus's wife, Hera, was the kind of jealous that would probably set her own daughters on fire if he smiled at him, and as queen of the gods there wasn't a single place on earth where a body could hide from her. In a panicked effort to get her out of there as fast as possible, Zeus turned Leto into a dove and directed her to fly off to Asterios, the floating island hidden among the stars. There she gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, who she named Apollo after the greek word for 'destroyer'. Given the circumstances I can't say I blame her.

Anyhoo, while Leto raised her son up above in the celestial spheres, down on earth Hera searched high and low for the titaness and terrorized any mortal who might have seen her leave. Eventually, a shepherd confessed he saw Leto fly into the stars, and in gratitude Hera replaced the wife and children of his that she incinerated by turning his dog into a woman and his sheep into screaming infants. Hera knew that the minute Leto saw her coming she's up and scram with her son, so in an act of deviousness she convinced Leto's sister Delphyne that she was attempting to send an apology to her and then while Delphyne's back was turned Hera hid her ring in a glass of ambrosia and watched as the titaness swallowed it.

When Delphyne reunited with her sister she gave her the whole spiel and they were both overcome with womanly emotion. That's when Hera struck, and using the ring to bind her magic she turned Delphyne into a monstrous, serpent known as Python whose scales were as diamonds and whose breath burned with the fire of the stars. The dragon constricted Leto in seconds and swallowed her whole.

Anonymous Tue Sep 26 22:48:17 2017 No.10075502

>>10075499
(2/3)

Apollo, who was just a boy at the time, fled back to the earth, and then following the stories told to him by Leto he found his way to Mount Olympus where the gods lived. Apollo had hoped that, being his family, the gods would be welcoming to the idea of avenging his mother and slaying Python, but when all of them rebuffed him he left in tears. However, as he crossed the woods at the base of the mountain his path was barred by the goddess of the hunt, who the Arcadians called Despœna. Being a child like him, and a rebellious one at that, Despœna decided to help Apollo with his quest, but as she could not take revenge for him she instead taught the godling how to hunt, forage and cook.

The training lasted many years but eventually the time came for them to say their tearful goodbyes and part ways, after which Apollo made use of his training to track the Python to the coastal town of Delphi. Apollo arrived to find the town in cinders, and the air thick with the scent of charbroiled death and suffering wounded. After Apollo stopped to heal a child who had been deemed too wounded to be saved, the clergy of Gaia took him to into the temple and face-to-face with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Theoclea, the high priestess of Gaia thanked him for his kindness and after bowing before him she told the story of how the tragedy had transpired. According to Theoclea, the people had at first seen the serpent who had watched over their city from the peak of Mount Parnassus as a protector sent by the titaness Delphyne after whom the town was named. However, no sooner had it arrived than the crops started failing, the fish went away and the cows started giving sour milk. Believing their titaness had abandoned them, they returned to worshipping the old goddess Gaia and set fire to an effigy of Delpyhne. When that happened, the Python attacked, and in doing so destroyed half the town.

Anonymous Tue Sep 26 22:49:19 2017 No.10075507

>>10075502
By the way, I know this is complete shit, I just want to make sure this is something I can handle later in editing

(3/3)

Apollo then told Theoclea the story of Delphyne's corruption and announced to the townsfolk his plan to slay the beast. After loading up with offerings given by the grateful townsfolk, Apollo set off to the peak of Mount Parnassus where he encountered the Python. Apollo shot arrows at the dragon, and attacked it with javelins, swords and spears, but nothing could pierce the creature's scales. Eventually he managed to put out the Python's eyes, but to his surprise it still fought him to a draw again and again as if it could still see nearly as well as he could.

After being set on fire by the creature's starfire breath and dousing himself in an icy fire to extinguish the supernatural flames, Apollo emerged to discover that he had become invisible to the Python and deduced that this being of starfire wasn't sensing him by sight, but by his own body heat. Just as he was about to mount his counter attack, he looked out at Delphi and saw that the townsfolk had constructed an enormous bonfire of sacred wood to pray for their fallen titaness and the god fighting for them up on the mountain top. Immediately the Python noticed the heat of their fire and slithered down the mountain forcing Apollo to pursue.

Apollo chased the dragon down the mountain, through the town and into the temple of Gaia where after drawing its ire by throwing burning logs at its face Apollo laid down on the floor in front of it and announced aloud that he had no weak points. In response the dragon breathed fire down on him, but because the heat rose it overwhelmed the beast's sense of temperature and blinded it, allowing Apollo to wrap his arms around its body and crush its organs.

Using the serpent's own fangs as a knife, Apollo slit the serpent's belly open to hoping to find some trace of his mother, but she had long since been digested so instead he ripped out the Python's bladder and one of its lungs, using the latter to fill the former with the dragon's breath to create what the greeks called a flying chariot, the modern man calls a balloon, and all of us together see glowing in the sky and call the sun. In honor of his victory, his high priestess Theoclea gave him a new name Helios, meaning god of the sun, and bore him a half-mortal daughter named Phemone.

Before he ascended and returned to the stars, Helios buried Python beneath the temple, whereupon the breath from its remaining lung leaked slowly cracks in the floor. This, he declared, was a gift to his daughter, and her daughter, and her daughter after her. So long as they needed it, this thinner than air gas which lifted his balloon would grant his direct descendants the boundless foresight of the stars, and in time Phenome and the daughters who followed in her footsteps came to be known as the Pythia.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 02:35:57 2017 No.10076025

>unfinished story, dividing sample in two

Harelip (1/2)

Cliff has planned to cut his tongue out for a while. He stands naked in a mirror, in his head an x-ray of the veins and muscles inside it. He sucks it up to the roof of his mouth, blue-green and purple nerve endings beneath. Humid cavern walls. To the side, on a table, a few things: anatomy textbooks, surgical gloves, scalpels, blowtorch, iron rod. Vials of novocaine, morphine and a handful of needles, still in plastic packing. The place smells of old dust, senile air, no windows, soft lightbulb hanging above.

If he clamps the mouth open and holds his tongue with one hand, the other can cut the lingual frenulum without much work, then continue separating the muscle from the floor of his mouth. Another way is to push the scalpel as far down as possible, place it at the right, then make an incision on the base of the throat, downwards and to the left, severing the whole back of it in one motion. He thinks of cutting it by sections, first the outer papillae and progressively smaller chunks until it’s all a stub. Maybe splitting it in half then repeating the scalpel motion, but from the center of the tongue. Has to be efficient, lest he won’t have time to cauterize it.

Caught in doubt, he retreats the gross, painful muscle into his mouth, then notices himself in the glass. His teeth glisten yellow and sharp. Canines inch on crooked bottom rows. Flared pores, orange hair in fine strips, glued by sweat. A mild textured bald scar above his lip. Bent Cupid’s bow. If he pushes his tongue up, he can still feel the remnants of the gap. He remembers as a child sticking fingers into it and coming back soaked in blood and mucus. Imagining the tiny, dirt-encrusted toddler nail scraping at the bottom of his brain, leaving chunks of filth and soot-black rotting blood along the way. He fantasized of digging in with scissors, see if he could cut an idea, a pure thing, bring it back. Keep it somewhere safe.

It definitely happened, but he doesn’t remember the surgery. One day, he just didn’t have it anymore. He could actually speak, no stutter or impediment or anything. Most people like you, he was told, never get this far. But the indent in his soft palate. Not gone. He can communicate. He just doesn’t want to. He, and for that matter everyone else, can’t do it properly. Communication is a myth.
He misses the hole. Being able to directly access the inside of his body, without any kind of invasive action, only using his fingers, his tongue. He’d spent hours doing it. Scraping out foodstuff stuck in there for weeks, filling the hole with water to rinse out the nooks of his failed, uneven skull. He had dreamed of the hole expanding, filling with air, and sneezing out greypink chunks of brain, or those pieces falling down into his stomach, where his thoughts would digest and flow into his blood.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 02:37:37 2017 No.10076027

>>10076025
>More like three parts, fucking word limit

(2/3)
Cliff can speak but never does. Even after the surgery, a warm home, playing with neighborhood children, a good education, earning a degree, he is virtually, willingly mute. He’s grown to hate speech. It bothers him how imprecise it is. The thing that lets you talk, sing, lick, taste, kiss, all that stuff, utterly useless. It is rendered useless when people try to speak to him. He glides to the chair in the back of the basement, bumping his forehead on the lightbulb, body moving across the hot, dense space. The layers of distance between the things he sees, the things he says, the real thing.

He touches his feet, callous and coarse, and considers their insides. The sheets of skin, muscle, cartilage, bone, nerves, blood vessels, fat, all that shit, and himself. All he feels is a nub on his heel, a primate hand repurposed to hold his weight. He doesn’t feel all the layers, nor what they amount to. Only the outside, that’s all he has access to. It is no different with people. He’d spoken, of course. Words allowed him friends, partners, jobs, but it all felt so removed, all the time. From the first try, all he could say only came close to what he meant. But it was never it. It is never it. Cliff felt, then thought, then spoke, and that was received, interpreted, distorted by whoever heard him. They carry disgusting, mangled wordcorpses.

Still on that chair he stretches his arms and legs, twists around to snap his back, runs his hand from the tip of his forehead past his chest, down his groin, behind his knees, and down to the ground. Stays like this for a little, pulling all tendons and muscles, relaxes them. He wonders how much longer he’s to wait until he’s ready. And what to do about the house.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 02:38:40 2017 No.10076031

>>10076027

(3/3)

He found this pseudo-cabin one evening, sitting at his computer. It is barely worth anything, dilapidated, full of rotting wood and insects. The owner is now dead, some French expat writer no one’s heard of. It is all the way out in the country, miles from any paved road, and put on sale by the writer’s son, who hates the living shit out of the old man, doesn’t want anything of his. Not his books, not his surname, not the little dying house. Cliff met the kid, some 20-something librarian, payed four digits for the place, got a key, a map.

Kid said, There’s not even running water, or a bathroom. I think he slept here once or twice a year when he went hunting. Or so he said. He handed Cliff the keys.

Cliff looked at the kid and thought of asking him what happened, but the interested faded immediately. Nothing he can tell me I will care about.

In a week, after finding, buying and stealing all the supplies, he packed them and set out to find the house. Out of state, on the highway, he rested at designated stops. Ate fast food for the most part, then arrived at the start of the trail. The concrete highway faded into dirt, the sun hung in morning. Summer rain had just ended. Outside of his gasless car, the heat and vapor coiled on him, breaking him into sweat. Any bodily function made Cliff feel stained. Sweat was not saltwater sweat was liquid grime pouring without. It didn’t cool him, it disgusted him. But he figured soon he’d be alright with it. Half-serious he looked at the sun and thought it the tail end of God’s intestines, defecating on the world. He thought of mushrooms growing on cow dung. There, nothing but foliage and green around him, he looked at God’s creation, spat on the ground, and walked into the forest, backpacked, map crushed in his hand

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 02:55:52 2017 No.10076073 >>10073622 Kind of boring. Also, you're not writing taxi driver, are you?

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 03:28:29 2017 No.10076122
File: 667 KB, 718x418, Screen Shot 2017-06-27 at 2.06.55 PM.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Beginning Framgent: The Lord of the Aldermen

The aldermen settled into their seats and rested their countless hands in their laps. All around, you could feel that they were waiting for someone, for the foremost among them to step forward and announce what this hastily-organized meeting was all about, anyway.

But presently they noticed that their master was absent. Whispers became quiet chatter which in time transformed again, first into raucous conversation, then into impossibly festive Dionysian revelry.

When their master finally arrived he found them in no state conducive to the general reputation of Aldermen in general. And his stern, stony looks and heavy tread everywhere froze the riotous assembly as if they had all simultaneously seen the medusa.

It was only a single somewhat boorish alderman who had failed to notice that the party was over. He continued carousing, poking fun at his paralyzed fellows and waving a spilling wine bottle in his hand as if it was already empty.

He did not notice their urgent, aggrieved expressions, and he shook off the many hands that grasped at his shoulders like men trying to save important papers from a fire—if my friends will not celebrate this wonderful, joyous, life, he seemed to be thinking, then I will take their burden onto my own powerful shoulders and caper and party with this Alderman’s body what would otherwise take the combined power of all the rest!

He did not see the foremost among the aldermen gradually prowling towards him like a cat towards a sparrow. Turning and turning, lost in his revery, his final moments must have been full of supreme joy.

For the master had lay a hand on the fool’s shoulder and, in accordance with an ancient custom, the boorish alderman had evaporated in a cloud of thick white smoke. His brown robe fluttered to the floor, shuffling as the various municipal documents stowed within it fluttered out around it like huge white butterflies.

The master of the aldermen looked at the remains with the inscrutable expression of an artisan who has judged his own work inadequate.

Then he went to the lectern and began the meeting.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 03:56:54 2017 No.10076157

When I was a kid Mommy wasn't around much. I watched Space Jam so many times that I wore out two tapes. Since then I hear Micheal Jordan's voice everywhere I go, along with the rest of the cartoon cast. They narrate my life and don't like other people much. I feel like I'm part of the team. I listen to the soundtrack everyday. I can only get hard for anthropomorphic bunnies. I feel sad a lot of the time

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 09:08:03 2017 No.10076719 >>10076157 >>10076122 >>10076031 >>10076027 >>10076025 Crit shit or get hit

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 09:20:11 2017 No.10076741 >>10075167 Thank you. I am encouraged.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 09:37:15 2017 No.10076774
File: 1.40 MB, 500x396, received_1450698178347192.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10076157
Seems sort of edgy until I read more of whatever story this is fanning out to be, but nonetheless mildly interested. Consider fleshing out this obsession in prose.
>>10076122
Gotta admit, I don't like the second person narration going on, besides that I think the "death" could be a lot more heavy handed, you build it up very nicely but the pay off is less than stellar, instead of vanishing into smoke, should he not get torn into? Eviscerated to shreds? This head honcho seems perfectly capable and the scene your setting lends itself to this image. I liked it though. Especially the unwitting drunk.

Here's mine:

I remember when I died. It was short and sweet, a lovely petal descended onto my chest, wilted, black and crisped, yet exuberant with life. We became friends, I and that petal. I sat for hours, staring into her dying purple eyes.

Sorrow did not fill my body, nor did lament, nor did the night overtake the soul. I, instead, sat in calm observance. This, with no mistake or miscalculation in the mind, was the task that life had given me. For all my time I tried to change, directly disobeying my duty. My liquid soaked the petal in maroon. Ghastly a sight was I.

Now that petal has corroded with the winds of fate. And, so have I.

I, the messenger of defeat, remain there in that field of black. I carried the flag step after step, once I had dropped it, a forever silent melody I became.

My teeth chatter brother. I feel her ship pulling in to dock. I feel brother, I feel. I damn it all, and wish it to end, but alas my breath continues. Sweet brother, leave, and take light with you.

I deserve the malaise. I may finally rest brother, the tunneling black has returned, and my birth is a long fabricated memory. I see her face, brother. You never knew me. I'm sorry brother.

I may love, but I cannot find it in my soul, for the perversions of my deeds run deep as the roots of my nerves. Reaching and clawing at the red meat, pulling and sucking each part off like fabric.

Sweet death, I taste thee. Long sleep, I despise thee. Quiet observance shall I take. Before, the end of my day shall I witness the world die and be reborn. A symphony of strings plays for me brother, shall yours do the same, some black day.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 09:41:27 2017 No.10076793 >>10076774 Your writing is very bad. How long have you been writing?

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 09:47:30 2017 No.10076812 >>10065171 >>10068888 I demand more crit on these two pieces made by me, the master. i am writing on a level that you people can't even comprehend.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 09:56:17 2017 No.10076832 >>10076793 I do copious amounts of drugs and write as a hobby, so not very long, maybe a couple months

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 11:43:53 2017 No.10077136 >>10076073 No, its this story Ive had in my head for 14 years about a guy whos already dead. Kind of a large adventure story.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 11:49:41 2017 No.10077154
File: 55 KB, 697x594, Screenshot_4.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Alright this is from my most recent chapter, I gave it a once over but it may or may not have grammar/syntax flubs, I haven't bothered to edit it much because I'm still working on this chapter.

Tell me what you think, setting is dark fantasy/gothic fantasy, think bloodborne or something I guess.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 11:57:50 2017 No.10077177 I write in Spanish, does anyone know Spanish? :(

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 12:06:36 2017 No.10077207

>>10076073
>>10077136

Basically the story is about a guy who doesnt realize he killed himself a while back. And everything he experiences are manifestations of parts of himself he is struggling to conquer.

So basically the main guy, a chronic job quitter who cant figure out his place in life dips out on a train and leaves his city into these vast wastes, only to have the train derailed by another man after its cargo, which are people in medically induced comas en route to a hidden and ruling class empire for their own purposes.
He gets blamed for the act, bc there is never any extra passengers in the train and has to go on the run with the other guy.
They reach a sandcastle (a literal citadel made of sand, very skinny and tall on the outside but infinitely large on the inside) where 3 witches live (little girls in the morning, adults in the afternoon, old hags at night) who take a likening to the main dude. One isnt so cool and sells him out, the empire shows up, slays the 2nd witch, imprisons the 1st, rewards the 3rd, and takes the main dude to a floating castle that looks like a face called Paroxida where they ritualistically torture him and extract his brain for his memories.
Shit happens, he gets rescued, grand chases happen. The place gets sunk. He rescues the 1st witch and goes to their main place, Castle Carnofex, this massive structure spanning an entire horizon line with massive mountain sized cannons along the walls, and makes his case to the king, this bad guy. that hes being lied to, conspiracies and such. The real bad guy has everyone killed including the king, rapes his wife, and steels the main guys mind putting him into a coma. Some dudes rescue him and they flee along with this monster he met earlier he fed drugs to making the monster view the main guy as god (in his lack of understanding to things.)
The war comes to a head and airships class and a big fight happens at that massive castle and the monster takes the main guy in his coma onto a rocket ship and they crash it into this structural device, this giant floating pyramid that anchors dimensional realities together and the final resolution happens.

Basically in a nut shell. Theres like 40 some characters and every one has a massive story arc. Ive been thinking about this tale for 14 years, and wanted to write it for 12, but never could get the beginning right. Its just something i want to tell.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 12:22:56 2017 No.10077263 >>10055998 Gay and juvenile.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 12:29:25 2017 No.10077279 >>10077177 Go for it. I wrote something in Spanish too within this thread and got a critique.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 12:34:43 2017 No.10077292

The stone woman before me is carved into delicate curvatures accentuated by her form. She is collapsed, sitting with knees hunched, dressed in toga, and crying. She's fit inside of a hollow hemisphere large enough to contain two of her, and her right arm is outstretched to the direction of her stare. Gripping tight the rim of the hemisphere, her left arm bends up against the inner wall. Surfing along her breasts, a cloth of marble gently flows down into her lap and the basin she lies in. Returning to the face, her eyes, disarming yet betrayed, are welled with tears streaming along her cheek bones.
Does she choose to stare so intently in my direction, her curled fingers slightly pointed to me, as though expecting my hand slipped into hers? Once ahold of my hand, does she expect me to hold tight and pull her out? Or would she grip firmly, attempting to pull me in? Walking around the figure, I look carefully to her left hand gripping the basin's edge. Her forefingers bend over and outside of the lip as her thumb, it's knuckle locked tight, presses against the interior. It's unclear if she is lifting herself out of the bowl or pushing herself in.
Now behind the sculpture, the tears along her cheek can be seen down the back of her neck, her left shoulder and arm, off the elbow and onto the basin wall where the droplets seem to fall, pooling at the bottom and covering the feet and rear of the woman. Slowly I continue to circle round the figure. Looking again to her hard face I feel even more that the right arm reaches to bring me in. For it is not my hand by which she desires to be rescued but my eyes, my being. I thoughtlessly reach to her hand as I stare into the hollow retinas of the empty figure filling the bowl. After nearly grasping the hand, shame grips me stone tight.
I pull my arm away and reach it into my jacket. Beginning to leave the statue I take out my phone, dialing a number before placing it to my ear. Glancing back to the sculpture, as the ringer chimes, I note the name of the piece before making my way out of the building: Amor Matris.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 12:55:24 2017 No.10077348

metaphors are meant to clarify. if your metaphor is not instantly understandable, you should not be using one.

good metaphor/simile:
>he looked at me like i'd just told him his cat had died
>his body was about as lean and graceful as a sack of flour

bad metaphor/simile:
>the leaves swirled like the august butterfly dove's blue, ethereal tail squats down and leaves a messy trace
>she was like the droplets on a horse's ear in the middle of august right after the horse had eaten hay

good metaphors give the reader an immediate image they can understand and relate to, viscerally. bad ones make the reader stop and wonder what the fuck you're talking about.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 12:56:48 2017 No.10077354

He woke to the sound of her pulling the door softly shut, his eyes jerking open on that instant and through the small window next to the door he saw her ponytail waggling out of sight. He closed his eyes again and with his hand shielded them from the harsh light that fell blood-colored through his lids, feeling like a drunk-driver staring into the glare of the officer’s maglite. He waited until he heard the slam of the car door and the sound of the tiny engine coming to life. He wondered when she had stopped kissing him goodbye but the thought was already gone again from his groggy mind before it could elaborate. He swung his legs from the couch and in the process knocked over the half-empty beercan he’d set down on the floor next to him the night before. Sitting with his socked right foot in the mess he held his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes and temples, groaning and cursing incoherently. Then he rose and took of his socks and shuffled over into the kitchen to see if Lauren had left some coffee. When he came back, the coffee maker bubbled gently in the background and he carried a stained dish towel to wipe up the spilled beer.
With the littered coffee table and the blanket obscenely crumbled on the sofa the living room was a defaced epitome of debauchery. He could not recall the first night when he let her go to bed alone for the sake of sitting in front of the whispering TV to lull him but he knew that there had been many such nights since. It was strange and hard to live so close together and yet so seperately, but easier still than admitting the long and empty night, lying next to each other with nothing to say, back to back, eyes wide open and knowingly so. Just go to bed, babe. I’ll be right there.
It was a gray and dismal morning that passed quickly with the odd speed of idleness. Shortly after ten it started to rain in thin drizzles. He took a shower and got dressed and for a while he lay on the sofa with the blanket drawn over his feet, watching this funeral weather. Then he got up and poured out his third and mostly undrunk cup of coffee in the sink and went to put on his boots and raincoat. This was a stale rain into which Liam emerged, a smell of dirt washed from the air, comfortless and musty. No trace of yesterday’s heat. A sudden gust covered him with fine spray and sent a shudder from his shoulders to his feet. “What a fucker,” he said, addressing the morning in general.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 12:58:52 2017 No.10077357 >>10077348 I like how you just put that slash between the words because you weren't too sure anymore about the exact difference between a metaphor and a simile.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 13:06:59 2017 No.10077382

>>10077348
No.

You're basically saying metaphors can't be grandiose since they aren't as immediately interpreted. Your lack of skills as writer are showing. But, to help you out: what you're trying to say is don't condense a metaphor beyond its comprehensible limits, nor overgrow one into a dense thicket of tangled weeds. A metaphor may be as small as a word pair and as large as a novel (though at that point they've become closer to a theme), but it's delivery should always be pertinent to its importance. Nearly all of Moby Dick may be summarized as 'revenge is like the tip of a harpoon'. Then you may blend metaphors together to become contrive (which isn't a bad thing):

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 gleam that undead eye
right center the iris sky--

its glint from distant sun
gives hint-of false reflection.

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

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

Birth may, just may, come again:
First these eyes must lose a sun.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 13:10:21 2017 No.10077391 File: 2 KB, 125x125, 1504558147335s.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10077382 >theme I meant allegory

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 13:11:46 2017 No.10077395 >>10048291 This simply isn't enjoyable to read

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 13:12:58 2017 No.10077399 File: 166 KB, 393x957, 1492011407984.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10077357

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 14:46:57 2017 No.10077720

Cierto es que no conozco
La danza del dios endiablado
Mas no trataré de observar
Lo que esta más allá de mis ojos.

Prefiero seguir la ruta
De las aves hacia el otoño
En su naturaleza singular
En su violeta despojo.

Y la clarividencia del tigre
El magma inconsistente
Son solo ilusiones
Del tiempo presente.

El futuro difuso
El color verdiblanco
Cuando se abren los ojos
Y me suelta el barranco.

(Translation)
>It's true that I do not know
The dance of the devil god
But I will not try to observe
What is beyond my eyes.

>I prefer to follow the route
From the birds to the autumn
In its singular nature
In its violet spoil.

>And the clairvoyance of the tiger
The inconsistent magma
They are only illusions
Of the present time.

>The diffuse future
The green and white color
When I open my eyes
And I let go the ravine.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 15:47:20 2017 No.10077930 Short prologue to my sky pirates steampunk adventure book https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZzvXEA6n_Ngvyv9kvA8YZAJGx0hBxQQwU1XGydU2HEY/edit?usp=sharing

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 16:30:58 2017 No.10078143

>>10076774
I'm Alderman man. Thank you for your critique.

I think that I've found that my writings often begin with some malformed tossed off first sentence/paragraph which is often at odds with the rest as a whole. I will change that.

However, I cannot stomach real violence in writing, so I must reject your suggestion that I make the chief tear apart the drunk, fool that he is.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 16:32:02 2017 No.10078150 >>10075499 It's going a little too fast for me, man.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 16:33:12 2017 No.10078153 >>10065365 meh... people don't talk like that first line of dialogue.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 16:35:04 2017 No.10078163 >>10074472 First sentence is a boring cliche >>10076025 It's good writing but the griminess strikes me as indiscreet & jars against my own aesthetic preferences

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 16:36:34 2017 No.10078171 >>10076774 I don't know what the story is about. Just seems like a bunch of random stuff

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 16:40:35 2017 No.10078189

>>10076812
I like these a lot, they're actually worth the effort of reading and they both made me lol a few times. 1st one reminds me a lot of this:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orTYukcEO0o

However, if you ever wanted me to read longer works, you'd need to cut down on the run-ons and add some paragraph breaks, sheesh. Don't think that abrasive flaws are personal quirks.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 16:40:45 2017 No.10078191

>>10077930
Same story just posted here if anyone can't view it there

(1/2)

The captain said he shouldn't, but Vukonski forced the bottom deck hatch to open with a bloodied up crowbar. The steam that came violently bursting out from below was hot and thick, but it had little millage, the cool air on the top deck dispersed it quickly.

Everyone on deck noticed Vukonski going down below when he wasn't supposed to, but only one set of eyes mattered on the Goliath, Captain Gluskin's. The engine room was much worse off than Vuk anticipated, the steam was so bad he had to put his gas mask on right away. He shouted his friend's name, whose reply was harsh but caring.
"Vuk? Ya moron, you know what Cap will do to ya if he finds ya down ere'?" Vuk finally reached his friend, giving him two gas tanks.
"Wus this?" - Bono stopped working on the engine a moment and paid attention to Vuk, noticing he brought him gas tanks - "Ay, I must say Vuk, you might be braindead but throw me in the void if you ain't got a heart in der' somewhere."
"I noticed the steam was gettin' worse, figured we can't have you choking to death." - said Vuk.

"Aye, good eye on ya, but" - he stopped talking for a moment to violently kick the engine a few times - "you sure disobeyin' the Cap is smart at the moment? We lost men, the sail is baked, the engine is..." - a sudden stream of steam from the engine hit his face - "Ye, not great."

"I wouldn't be worried about him if the pirates didn't get away." "True true, and if that kid didn't bash him with that crowbar. You hurt the Caps pride, it don't matter who you are, he's comin' for ya'. Throw me that screwdriver mate. Thanks."
"Yea that kid was mental, jumping around with such ease, I couldn't believe it. When he took the crowbar and bashed Gluskin I-" "Private Vukonski Davos!" - Captain Gluski was right behind them, for who knows how long, listening. Bono stopped tinkering with the engine and stood up straight next to Vuk to salute the Captain.
"Sir!" - they said at once, standing stone-statue still.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 16:41:48 2017 No.10078202

>>10078191
(2/2)

"At ease you sorry sons a bitches." - Gluskin wore no gas mask, Bono and Vuk couldn't believe it - "I guess bacteria love each others company. I thought I was given a crew of real men to hunt this pirate down but no, apparently the best that city had to offer were disobedient war vets and useless engineers. The void will have a double meal tonight it seems..."

"S-Sir, we're both so very sor-" - Gluski interrupted Vuk.
"Shut up, the both of ya. I would gladly feed you both to dogs as well if I wasn't low on men, and if-" - Gluski paused when he noticed the crowbar in Vuks hand - "Give it." - he said.

Vuk passed him the crowbar which still had some of his blood on it, even though most of it dripped away from the steam. Gluskin recalled the face of a young man who knocked him on his back and embarrassed him so, in front of so many faces, but instead of embarrassed, he felt hate.

"This kid and his gang of degenerates... They think they can outsmart me, belittle me, escape me... but I'm yet to meet a ship that can outrun my Goliath... and once I do find his pretty little face, I'll make sure to flatten it... Fix my damn engine, I've got a score to settle." - Gluskin started walking away. Vuk said after him - "But sir... we can't go after them the men and the shi-" "Fix it!" - Gluskin vanished behind the steam. "By the void... that was..." - Vuk was lost for words - "Does he really expect us to still hunt for them? Unbelievable..."

"Seems to be the case, my good lad." - Bono went back to work on the engine - "I guess if you're huntin' a madman it's best to send one after him." - After a loud screech, the main engine started moving.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 16:42:07 2017 No.10078203 >>10077292 can't really support its own floweriness desu. stuff like >she's fit and >carved into delicate curvatures accentuated by her form are just confusing and awkward to read

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 16:51:54 2017 No.10078244

So I wanted to write an edgy "history of philosophy" paragraph when I was high

The story goes like this: a bunch of amnesiac, cranially hypertrophic monkeys adapted to their environment across the globe gets scared, at different points in history, of this shithole we call world. After all, there's Death in here with us. Don't forget that. Your ancestors never did – how could they? Live until 35, get dropped by prions raping your brain because you ate your cousin. Fuck, what were you supposed to do? Fell off a cliff, fresh meat, couple of days worth of eating. Back to the point: you're gonna die. Things perish. Can't jump in the same river twice. Everything is an illusion, including pain – especially pain. Philosophy is a brainstem reaction to this fear of annihilation: we are symbolic beings for fuck's sake, act like it. Use language, you can't do without anyway. Ideas and concepts are constructed. Societies talk themselves into believing a set of behavioural protocols loosely connected under the name of Rationality to be eternal and fulgid, sunlike truths to which they should kneel to. Christ comes, and Allah and Sakyamuni Buddha and the lords of Xibalba. Cultural structures accrete and perish, merge and fuck and give birth to miscegenated fuckups; the communicational networks we like to call societies swell with tumoral bubbles of misguided ideas and delusions of grandeur, popping one after another in orgasmical suicide propagating themselves to the corners of the world through the mouths of unwitting messengers and martyrs. Technology emerges – as if it hadn't been lurking in the darkness of our hunts and dreams all along – and shrinks the world, giving each and every fuckwit a page to write on and a megaphone to shout in. Every thought is telebroadcasted instantaneously to each human on the planet, now incestuously united in the definitive noosphere: no going back shithead, this is Philosophy now! Electric agglomerations of fear, basic thinking and paranoia occlude the aether influencing the collective Weltanschauung, morphing the world into memetically transmitted cancer-ideas: welcome home baby, this is life.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 17:01:02 2017 No.10078285 >>10078153 Not him, but yes they do. That's the most believable part of an otherwise not very believability excerpt

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 17:15:50 2017 No.10078335 >>10078244 I like it, it's pretty edgy but a bit purple at times.

Anonymous Wed Sep 27 17:38:26 2017 No.10078426

Opening passage to a short book I'm writing.

They rose like drunks. A boy in aristocratic uniform, a fit and brawny mustacchioed man, a slim banker, a beauty dressed for a warmer season, and what looked to be a hero. Each lifted their hand to their head, an instinctual reaction designed to respond to pain that none of them was feeling. But pain and loss nag in the same way, and as this was the first time any had experienced amnesia, it felt appropriate. Collectively they began to take in the train car around them, the sound of bustle to one side and the lonely whistle to the other. They noticed, as one, the way each action was mimicked the other four, and began to feel embarrassed at their predictable nature, even as this response, too, was in sync.

There was only one figure who differed from the rest. He felt no embarrassment. He did not look around. He did not even rise. He was, after all, dead.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 18:05:32 2017 No.10078542 >>10077720 >poem I'm sorry, i can't help after all. I'm an uncultured swine.

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 18:24:56 2017 No.10078620 File: 691 KB, 1217x808, Screen Shot 2017-09-27 at 23.22.59 1.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] Rate my DFW bait PUA mystery's opening. Is it sincere enough?

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 20:51:35 2017 No.10079188 >>10078163 Thanks. Yeah, I do want the story to cause a certain sense of disgust or unease. Think I should scale it back a little, or maybe find more subtle ways to incorporate it?

>>	Anonymous Wed Sep 27 21:07:11 2017 No.10079229 >>10078150 As long as it's workable. This is actually a story within a story being told by a fast talking showman who was trying to work on a personal project mere moments before he got manipulated into telling it

Anonymous Thu Sep 28 00:09:25 2017 No.10079869
File: 73 KB, 377x610, IMG_7284.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

one day will be old
and tomorrow will be what you once did
once or twice it comes
like the check on the list
your hangups will take you
from what is to what once was
and a beautiful flat headstone
one day a skinny girl
will be your skinny wife
ugly and bug eyed, with marvellous teeth
that once were the worst part
of a slate white package
and what was prom night will be
a picture
in the book in your firstborns closet
one day your skinny wife
will grow older then you
for a disease you invited ravaged you whole
she will nitpick for you
and choose which blue
liquid will sit in your chest
and even in the end
life after death
the bastard knows better than you
your child will bear the coffin
to a room that smells of oats
and they'll cry and claim ashes
and sail off into the moat
into the spot the kids go to eat
a sunday in summertime clothes

one day a mother will cry in the night
for a water and a little white pills
but no one will be there to answer
to answer the sad mothers will
and the cat will watch like balthus
and lust for the food in the bowl
one day your time will be up
one day, your day will grow old

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 28 07:00:22 2017 No.10080741 File: 383 KB, 1240x1754, Red Fantasy Paper-page-001.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] Will post more later I guess, or maybe just a full pastebin next time (still working on the rest to get it critique-ready.)

Anonymous Thu Sep 28 07:24:33 2017 No.10080777
File: 97 KB, 362x492, 1495521021671.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10080741
What the fuck is it with this thread and leaving gigantic blocks of white space in your text?

Hit enter twice for fucks sake, turn it into a real paragraph break, white space is good it makes reading your shit so much less obnoxious.

I had to stop reading because your wall of text was obnoxious as fuck to put up with, so first of all I'd suggest that fix immediately, beyond that this emotional exchange felt really melodramatic.

Its probably not a good idea to share character critical moments online for critique , I have no idea what is going on and I don't care because I don't know anything about your world.

Its possible your shit is fine and the drama is tasteful but I don't have enough to decide that.

Anyway go fix your fucking paragraph breaks for gods sake, its such an amateur mistake to make to leave shelves in your bodies like that, especially since you're already in desperate need of white space.

TURBAUTISMO Thu Sep 28 12:09:00 2017 No.10081612

You are the director of a vast, top secret, multinational research project. This project's political and financial backers are men of such power and influence that not even the governments of the world understand what you are doing.

Several years ago, you were part of a team of independent researchers, theorizing about the existence of so-called 'periphery particles' - essentially, a certain type of highly exotic matter that displayed extremely unorthodox properties. You discovered something real and profound, though, right here on Earth. Some time later, and after several of your original team had gone missing, you were contacted by these powerful men and given an offer you couldn't refuse.

Billions of dollars, hundreds of staff, a state of the art facility, and direct access to the primary subject of your research - not to mention, the more-than-rumor you'd heard to support the idea that turning it down would have put you in a casket.

You boarded a plane, then a boat, then a helicopter, and then a submarine. Some thirty hours after your departure, you found yourself riding an elevator down into the SHEL facility - the Special Hydroelectric Laboratory.

It's been a few months since your initial arrival and acclimation to the complex. You've brought on what was left of your old team, found a few of the missing working here when you arrived, actually. But only a few.

The SHEL complex is a undersea research facility, composed of four primary structures. SHEL One, the Spire, is the largest. It's essentially an underwater skyscraper, stretching 86 floors down to the sea floor. Most of the staff live in SHEL One, and your office is located near the top. SHEL Three is a squat, ugly thing, essentially just a large warehouse which also houses a few labs. SHEL Four is the submarine bay, though most personnel come into the facility from a collapsible elevator shaft that extends to SHEL Five, the dummy oil rig which justifies all the travel and expense heading out to the middle of the Atlantic. The heart of the SHEL complex, though, is SHEL Two, the Sphere. A massive, domed building, housing an experimental 'power plant' and the primary focus of the research here. At least, that's what the majority of your staff believes.

In actuality, the purpose of the SHEL project is totally unrelated to generating electricity. Inside SHEL Two's primary reactor, there's a... cluster... of non-baryonic matter, the highly exotic 'periphery particles' your team originally theorized about. True enough, it's entirely possible to generate tremendous sums of electricity very cheaply by exploiting this strange phenomenon, but there's something far more valuable to be gained.

You are not a particle physicist.

Your first doctorate was in neuropsychology.

The particles trapped in SHEL Two's reactor are 'psions' - psychic ions.

TURBAUTISMO Thu Sep 28 14:41:32 2017 No.10082108

You pull out your communicator, selecting Hendricks’ number and holding the device up to your ear.

It rings for a while before she picks up. “Hello?”

“Hey,” you reply. “It’s Allen.”

“Oh, Allen!” She seems to be speaking more quietly than normal. “How’s it going?”

“I’m doing alright,” you reply simply. “We haven’t spoken in a while, just wanted to see what’s going on.”

There’s a pause. “Well, our unit, and consequentially Dr. Kowalski, were reassigned to the MDSD a couple weeks ago.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really, Mercury Darkside?” The Mercury Dark Side Station was always the Federal Navy’s primary R&D center. You’d heard that it was deactivated and mothballed after the War in favor of newer bases on Earth and Venus.

“Yeah,” she replies. “And that Major Cole guy is our new CO. Apparently the Navy is doing something with the evidence from Dr. Sofia’s place. We’re acting as the guards since we were at ground zero when the doctor’s research was discovered.”

You grimace, leaning against the railing with your elbows. “This seems like the kind of stuff you wouldn’t want to tell a civilian…”

“Well, I figure you’re trustworthy…” You can hear her frown through the phone. “Besides, we don’t do anything directly involved with the labs… They’ve got other soldiers here for that. These big, quiet types wearing full combat gear and facemasks all the time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen ‘em off-duty. Corporal Hewitt thinks they might not even be humans!”

TURBAUTISMO Thu Sep 28 14:51:17 2017 No.10082148

Uskijorans are a race of natural telepaths and empaths. They are humanoid, but strangely hairless and feminine in appearance. Their nation is peaceful, and Uskijoran culture generally eschews violence entirely in favor of diplomacy and co-habitation. This makes sense, as violence and ill will between a species that can share thoughts and emotions as easily as as species can share facial expressions. For some, their eerie silence can be unnerving, but despite their silence they remain facially expressive.

Their culture has developed into a complex direct democracy. As every Uskijoran can hear one another at a considerable distance it makes the tallying of votes and the debate of issues substantially easier. They are largely focused on enjoying life, and have a society that appear hedonistic and debauched from outside. At the same time, they are very protective of their privacy, and limit outsiders to a few enclaves. They worship the Beacon, a psychic force on the edges of their own perception that they assume is their creator and the giver of their power.

Anonymous Thu Sep 28 14:53:02 2017 No.10082156

“Is that really all you have to report to me? You came here absolutely starstruck with the fear of god in your heart to tell me something self-evident?” she said chiding him for the incompetence she saw. Stifling a laugh and leaning over her desk with her hand on her cheek, like a teacher amused with a child, she looked at him bemused. If there was anything busier for the major to do, it would be more of an angry expression, but today, as it was for the past few weeks, her contempt was compounded as if dealing with a toy dog which was mildly snappier than usual.
“I came because you are the officer in charge of locating a major terrorist and this information has greater implications than we’ve seen before about both logistical operations in our region and his location.”
“Oh, is this going to come in the form of a nursery rhyme? The way even your most forceful response is a <whisper seems to put even a hummingbird to sleep is slightly amusing>.”
“This is serious.” he said, leaving the air hanging in suspense. Ms. Konigs’s eyes lit up waiting for this courier lieutenant’s, a chilling sight to behold for her skin and features were near white, almost opaque and were only matched by the arrogance of these features. Her eyes lit up even more when this whisperer was strong-headed enough to tell her what was relevant to her case to track her suspect.

>>	TURBAUTISMO Thu Sep 28 15:05:12 2017 No.10082196 I want to play an android that is essentially an older model, last generation. The newer models are much more human-like in looks and behavior.

TURBAUTISMO Thu Sep 28 15:08:18 2017 No.10082208

>>10082196
Try to have your older-model bot think in terms of flow-charts and response tables, or if you want to get really robotic and a little crazy, make some flow-charts and response tables and force yourself to play the character within the confines of those thought-patterns and canned responses. It might be interesting to see just how far you can stretch the character within those limitations of its "programming" and discover what kind of loopholes they can exploit to convey ideas and deal with situations they were not explicitly designed for.

>>	Anonymous Thu Sep 28 20:30:50 2017 No.10083406 File: 312 KB, 1240x1754, RED Fantasy Piece-page-001.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10080777 Ummm, like this, senpai? Page 1

Anonymous Thu Sep 28 20:34:41 2017 No.10083413
File: 208 KB, 1240x1754, RED Fantasy Piece-page-002.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10083406
Oh yeah and you don't have to know anything about the world, it's all actually a satire for a generic fantasy world, what matters is the characters and theme of existential crisis after a hero's "happily ever after". Stand alone story (for now).

Page 2

Anonymous Fri Sep 29 07:37:07 2017 No.10084860

>>10083406
Yes, that is so much fucking better you have no idea.

It looks like an adult wrote it now and not a 13 year old. Now you can see why I get angry at everybody for not breaking their paragraphs properly.

I'll actually read your stuff now and tell you what I think.

TURBAUTISMO Fri Sep 29 15:01:59 2017 No.10086033

I was always careful in that area of town (we called it “District 9”). You definitely have to be more alert than usual, and I had a club that I holstered in my belt as soon as I got out of my car. I would also make sure that any shady looking types that happened to be walking behind me knew that I knew they were there. I’d usually just give them a nod, and a “How’s it going?”, or something along those lines.

One of our new drivers got robbed, when a nig offered to give him directions, and then threw a handful of gravel in his face. There was also a trailer park in that town that we refused to deliver to after dark, because a female Jimmy Johns driver had been raped and murdered there a few years prior. Also, a few weeks after I moved away from there, someone found a 55 gallon drum with a flaming corpse in it behind a liquor store in that area.

>>	Anonymous Fri Sep 29 19:06:37 2017 No.10086869 >>10084860 Can't wait :)

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